CHAPTERXXVII

"Not very deeply," confessed Miss Leslie. "He is just a friend—a very old friend."

She sighed, rose from her seat, and held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Montagu," she said, "and thank you! I must be going now. It was good of you to have such a long talk."

"I say, don't go yet," said Montagu. "I mean—" He hesitated. He hardly knew what he did mean.

"I think I really must," replied Miss Leslie.

Montagu accompanied her silently to the door.

"You are going to take my advice, I trust?" he remarked as they stood upon the steps.

Jean Leslie pondered.

"I suppose so," she said slowly. "A man's logic and common sense are so invincible. Still, I owe you a grudge, all the same, for having deprived me of my one romance. I am not likely to have another, you see! Good-bye, Montagu, and thank you!"

She gave her counsellor a shy but grateful glance, and departed down the street—a well-dressed, well-carried, and well-bred figure.

Next morning Montagu Falconer, after a disturbed and introspective night, came down to breakfast at ten o'clock, and dismally surveyed Tite Street through the dining-room window. There was a piercing east wind, which penetrated through every nook and cranny. Peggy had breakfasted an hour ago.

Montagu rang the bell for his coffee, and shivered. He was feeling stiff in the joints this morning: could it be rheumatism? He would like to consult some one about this. But of course there was no one to consult. His daughter, naturally, was not at her post: she was downstairs ordering dinner, or something of that kind. Besides, it could not be rheumatism: rheumatism was an old man's complaint. Old man! Old men suggested thoughts of Adolphus Prince. He had some one to consult abouthistroubles: he could take them to Jean. Montagu consigned Adolphus to perdition. Who was Adolphus Prince, to monopolise—

Next moment Montagu, seized with a sudden idea, was at the telephone.

"Number, please?" said a haughty voice.

"I want seven-six-seven-one Chelsea, and I'm in a devil of a hurry," he replied frantically; "so put me on as quick—"

"Br-r-r-r-r-! Ch'k! Number engaged," announced the instrument dispassionately.

Montagu hung up the receiver, and swore. He was quite panic-stricken by this time. So Adolphus Prince rang her up at ten o'clock in the morning, did he? He would show the old dotard who was the better man!

Five minutes later he had secured his call, and was inviting Miss Leslie to lunch with him at the Ritz.

THE SECOND BEST

"Whereshall we go to-night?" enquired the insatiable Dumps.

"Bed," replied her exhausted papa, before any one else could speak.

The Joy-Week was nearly over. For five days and nights the newly emancipated Miss Sylvia Mablethorpe had been allowed a free hand. Each morning she had conducted her mother relentlessly to shops. Once or twice her devoted father had accompanied the expedition, but after being twice warned by an officious young policeman for loitering outside a modiste's in Dover Street, had excused himself from further attendance.

"They are a most amazing sex," he observed to Philip. "My precious pair actually spent an hour and a quarter in a hosiery establishment in Knightsbridge yesterday morning (into which my modesty prevented me from accompanying them), and when they came out neither of them could say for certain if she had bought anything or not. I wonder how they do it: if a mere man were to spend an hour and a quarter in a shop, he would by the end of that time either be lying dead on the floor or else equipped with several thousand pairs of everything. No! Henceforth they shop alone! I decline to run any further risk of contractingflat-foot through standing about on a hard pavement, or mental prostration from thinking out topics of conversation suitable to retired heroes who open carriage doors. To-morrow morning, Philip, I will give them one shilling each—they don't really need so much, for it costs nothing to have things dragged off high shelves and put back again; but they will probably require ices or some other poison about eleven—and you and I will get up an appetite for lunch by going for a ride."

At the present moment the party were taking tea at the Carlton, after a matinée.

"I think it would be nice," continued Sylvia in a far-away voice, entirely ignoring her male parent's suggestion, "if we went to a music-hall. I haven't been to one yet; and I am getting a bit tired of theatres." (Which was not altogether surprising, considering that Miss Sylvia and suite had visited seven in five days.) "Then you could smoke, daddy," she continued artfully. "You will come, won't you, Philip?"

"It may possibly have escaped your memory," Mr. Mablethorpe mentioned, "that we are engaged to dine to-night with Derek Rayner."

"Oh, bother!" said the ungrateful Dumps; "so we are. Has he invited you, Philip?"

"No," said Philip; and Mr. and Mrs. Mablethorpe exchanged glances.

"Well, I'll tell you what," announced Sylvia, who was not of an age to have any regard for the feelings of young men; "we will dine with Derek, and you must join us afterwards, and we will allgo to the Arena together. I hear it is the best place. Derek won't mind, will he?"

"I am sure the arrangement will meet with his entire approval," remarked Mr. Mablethorpe solemnly.

"In that case," continued Sylvia with great cheerfulness, having gained her point, "we had better telephone to him that we shall want dinner earlier. What time do music-halls begin?"

"The performance," said her father, "is timed to commence at eightP.M., but attendance during the earlier turns is not compulsory."

He spoke bravely, but without hope, for he knew his daughter.

"I insist," announced the voracious Dumps, "on being there when the curtain goes up. I shall tell Derek that we will dine at a quarter to seven. Do you think this hotel is on the telephone?"

"Possibly. If not, we can always climb to the top of the Haymarket and light a beacon-fire," replied the caustic Mr. Mablethorpe, still sore at the thought of yet another scrambled dinner.

His daughter ignored the pleasantry.

"Will you come and help me to find it, Philip?" she said.

Philip complied, and the pair went out to the hotel telephone exchange, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Mablethorpe to regard one another curiously.

"Poor Derek!" said Mrs. Mablethorpe.

"Poor Dumps!" said Mr. Mablethorpe, to himself.

Meanwhile, at the telephone, Sylvia was saying to Philip:—"It would never do to leave you out, Philip, on the last evening, would it?"

For a moment their eyes met. Then Sylvia's dropped quickly.

Philip dined in solitary state in his own flat. He still retained his holding therein, for his duties involved a good deal of travelling, and it was convenient to have apied-à-terrein London. Timothy was out, and he had the premises to himself, for which he was not altogether sorry. He had a good deal to occupy his mind just at present, and he wanted to think.

But his thoughts had made no appreciable progress when he arrived at the Arena Palace of Varieties at five minutes to eight.

He found the party already assembled in thefoyer, under the radiant direction of Sylvia and the thundercloud escort of Mr. Derek Rayner, who greeted Philip gloomily but politely. A mincing damsel in a lace tucker conducted them to their seats, which were situated in the fourth row of an unpeopled desert of stalls.

"It's lucky we got here in time," mused Mr. Mablethorpe, surveying the Sahara around them. "We might have had to stand."

"If people," remarked Sylvia with asperity, "think it grand not to come to a heavenly place like this till ten o'clock, so much the worse for them!"

She sank down luxuriously in the armchair which called itself a stall, and commanded Philip and Rayner to dispose themselves upon either sideof her, leaving her parents to shift for themselves. Rayner, with the air of a conjuror who is a little doubtful as to whether his audience are not getting slightly tired of this trick, produced a box of chocolates out of his hat, and the party settled down to enjoy the performance.

The ladies and gentlemen who figured in the earlier portion of the programme were obviously surprised and pleased to find the stalls inhabited. Accustomed to shout across an ocean of blue plush to an audience of pigmies situated upon the distant horizon, their gratification at finding human beings within a few yards of them was extreme. More than one of the comedians worked an allusion to the fact into his "patter."

About a quarter to nine the ranks of the stallholders were stiffened by the arrival of a magnificent gentleman in evening dress, with a gardenia in his buttonhole. He took a seat in the front row.

"I told you there would be lots of people soon," announced Sylvia.

But alas! her triumph was premature. Shortly after the arrival of the gentleman with the gardenia the drop-curtains ascended upon Turn Number Five—Professor Boko, the Man of Mystery, assisted by a stout lady in mauve tights. The Professor, speaking with a French accent which had plainly served an apprenticeship in New York, opened the proceedings by appealing to the audience to send up an impartial and unbiased body of gentlemen upon the stage, to act—why, Heaven knows—as "Committee."

"You go, dad!" said Sylvia.

"I expect the Man of Mystery has made his own arrangements," replied Mr. Mablethorpe.

And sure enough, almost before he had spoken, the gentleman with the gardenia left his seat and scrambled up a pair of plush-covered steps to the stage.

He must have repented bitterly of his public-spirited precipitancy; for instead of being treated with respect due to a Committee,—no one else had come forward,—he was subjected by the Professor to a series of humiliating and embarrassing experiences. Showers of playing-cards were squeezed from his nose; flapping goldfish were extracted from his ears; bullets were fired point-blank into his shirt-front and discovered (by the lady in tights) in his coat-tail pockets. His silk hat was turned into a coffee-urn. His very gardenia was snatched from him and shaken out into a Union Jack. Still, he maintained a heroic attitude throughout, smiling woodenly at each successive outrage, and loudly proclaiming his entire satisfaction with the genuineness of the performance before resuming his seat. However, it was plain that the strain had been too great for him; for presently he put on his hat, stole quietly away, and was no more seen.

"Poor thing! I wonder where he has gone to," said the sympathetic Sylvia.

Derek Rayner, who was at the age for which the drama has no secrets, explained that this gentleman was now probably travelling in the same cab with the Man of Mystery and the lady in tights to undergo further humiliations at another music-hall.

Presently the stalls began to fill up in real earnest, and turns came thick and fast. Some were sentimental, some were funny, a few were vulgar, and some were merely idiotic. Once or twice Mr. Mablethorpe held his head and said his brain was going; but on the whole they enjoyed themselves greatly, especially that unspoiled child of nature, Miss Sylvia.

Sylvia was particularly pleased with Mr. Arthur Mow, Comedian. When that gentleman's number went up there was a round of applause, and the orchestra dashed into a merry tune.

There came a pause. Then the tune was played again. Then another pause. Slight uneasiness among the audience.

"He hasn't turned up," remarked the worldly-wise Rayner. "These chaps do four Halls a night. He's probably on the other side of London, in a broken-down taxi."

The band played its prelude once more, and then some one—presumably the manager—appeared upon the stage and offered an apology for Mr. Mow's absence.

"He was here a moment ago, ladies and gentlemen," he declared.

"Rats!" observed a disappointed lady in the gallery.

The manager redoubled his assurances. They had searched high and low, he said, but could not find Mr. Mow anywhere. Would the audience—

His speech was interrupted by the conductor of the orchestra.

"If Arfur Mow reelly 'asn't arrived," heannounced, rising to his feet, "I'll give you a turn meself."

And bounding upon the stage, the conductor turned and faced the audience with a flourish. He was none other than the missing Arfur Mow! Having chased his apologist into the wings amid shouts of delight, the great man proceeded to the serious work of the evening—a ditty entitled:—"A Glorious Death; or, How I was Drowned in the Brewery."

"What is the next item?" enquired Mr. Mablethorpe in a hollow voice, after the audience and Mr. Mow had taken a reluctant farewell of one another. "The thumbscrew, or boiling oil?"

"'High Jinks in a Parisian Café,'" announced Sylvia with great satisfaction.

Mr. Mablethorpe coughed.

"Be prepared to read your programmes sedulously until further notice," he said to his wife and daughter.

But his fears were groundless.

The only occupant of the café when the curtain rose was a waiter of melancholy aspect. To him entered a lady and gentleman in evening dress, arm-in-arm,—the gentleman carrying an umbrella and smoking an unlighted cigar,—who intimated in pantomime that they required an abundant and satisfying meal. The waiter responded by stepping forward and bowing so low that he fell right over on to the back of his neck, coming up again to a standing position after one complete revolution. With a deeply injured expression he went down upon his hands and knees and began to search forthe obstacle over which he had tripped. Presently he found it. It was so minute as to be quite invisible to the audience, but when thrown into the wings it fell with a reverberating crash.

Any further doubts as to the nature of the entertainment were now dissipated by the gentleman in evening dress, who, instead of hanging up his opera hat in the orthodox fashion, gave his head a backward jerk which sent the hat flying backwards on to an adjacent gas-bracket. He next removed his evening coat, and having lighted his cigar from a candle upon the table, proceeded to give a juggling exhibition with the candle, the cigar, and his umbrella.

At this his lady friend withdrew, possibly in search of a less eccentric host. The waiter, instead of serving supper, remained a fascinated spectator of the gentleman's performance. Presently, fired with a spirit of emulation, he took a plate and a raw egg from the table,—with the exception of a property chicken the egg was the only edible thing in the restaurant,—and having thrown the egg into the air endeavoured to catch it upon the plate. He succeeded. While he was wiping his face, the lady made an unexpected reappearance. She had left her opera cloak and evening gown in the cloak-room, and was now attired in what looked like a bathing-suit of tight pink silk. Evidently having abandoned all hope of supper, she had good-naturedly decided to come and lend a hand with the juggling exhibition. She incited her companion to further enterprises. At her instigation he took the table by one leg and balancedit upon his forehead,—fortunately the chicken appeared to be clamped to the dish and the dish to the table,—keeping three plates in the air with one hand and a fourth spinning horizontally upon the ferrule of his umbrella with the other.

The waiter, discouraged and fatigued by his want of success with the egg, here opened an ingenious little door in his own stomach, revealing a small cupboard; and taking out a bottle and glass, proceeded to refresh himself in the usual manner. Then, catching the eye of the lady, who was regarding this somewhat unusual arrangement of nature with pardonable astonishment, he hastily returned the bottle and glass to their place and shut the little door. But feminine curiosity is not easily allayed. As soon as her companion had completed this performance with the table, the lady drew his attention to the phenomenon which she had just witnessed. The gentleman promptly stepped behind the shrinking waiter, and holding him firmly by the elbows, invited the lady by a nod to investigate the mystery for herself. This she did. But the opening of the door only revealed a tiny venetian blind, drawn down and bearing the legend, BAR CLOSED.

"I wonder how theythinkof such things!" said Sylvia rapturously.

"They do that to give the juggler a rest," explained the undeceived Mr. Rayner.

After this the band played louder and faster, and the gentleman took all the furniture within reach and proceeded to hurl it into the air, keeping it there with incredible ease through the whole of afrenzied rendering of "Il Bacio." His lady friend, quite carried away by her enthusiasm, skipped about the stage clapping her hands and uttering shrill whoops. The waiter, roused to a final effort, rushed off into the wings, to reappear with a perfect mountain of plates. These he hurled hysterically heavenward. They descended in all directions, splintering into fragments amid appreciative yells from the audience. Having caught exactly one plate out of the avalanche, the waiter displayed it to the house with great pride; and then (evidently afraid of spoiling the ship for want of a ha'porth of tar) produced a small coal-hammer from his pocket and smashed it to atoms. The performances concluded with a general mêlée, in which the gentleman and lady combined to bombard the waiter with all the plates they could lay their hands on. But he caught them, every one of them, two at a time; and then, once more unlocking the door in his waistcoat and pulling up the venetian blind, was seen generously offering liquid refreshment to his discomfited assailants as the curtain fell.

By this time the majority of Sylvia's party were enjoying themselves thoroughly. Sylvia herself was bubbling over; Julius Mablethorpe was shouting like a child, and his wife, weak with laughter, was wiping her eyes. Mr. Derek Rayner was in the seventh heaven, for his young hostess had devoted her entire attention to him and had hardly given her other companion so much as a look.

"Perhaps the chap is just a family friend, after all," he said to himself optimistically.

Philip alone was preoccupied. That morning he had received a letter from his firm, offering him what was practically a year's holiday. Sometime previously the representative of a great industrial corporation in the United States had visited England as the guest of the Britannia Company. He had been royally entertained; several excellent understandings had been reached, and an important commercial alliance cemented. Now Philip was invited to represent the Company on a return visit. It was a signal honour and a tempting prospect. He would encounter fresh people and new ideas; he would be able to enlarge his technical knowledge, for he would go everywhere and be shown everything; and—well, he might be able to get a little further away from his thoughts. He was suffering at present from a satiety of thought, and the morning's letter had brought matters to a crisis. Numerous forces were at war within him.

Chivalry said: "If you may not live with her, live for her; go your own way as far as you must, but do not go too far: she may need you."

Common sense said: "Why sigh after a girl who does not care for you, and never did? You are nothing to her: why offer her what you do not owe and what she cannot take?"

To-night a third voice had joined in the debate. It said: "Love is not entirely a matter of twin souls and divine passion: it has a very material side. Life is short; we live but once: it is given to few to encounter their affinity in this world: it is foolish to waste one's youth waiting for a thing which may not exist. Why not be practical? Whynot cut the Gordian knot? Marry some nice pretty girl, with no nonsense about her, and have done with it. Then you will have a comfortable home and a loyal mate, and be able to turn out some decent work."

Thousands of men, and tens of thousands of women, have debated this problem in their time; but Philip did not know this. We are apt to think that our own human experiences are unique.

Suddenly Sylvia turned to him. Her dark eyes were full of reproach.

"Philip, you are not listening a bit. This next song ought to be lovely."

Philip, apologetically conning the programme, recognised therein the name of a great singer—the latest recruit to the variety stage—who, having achieved a European reputation as the leading operatic baritone of his day, had abandoned that strenuous calling in the zenith of his drawing powers in order to earn an ambassadorial income by singing selections from his repertoire—which means the hackneyed ballads beloved of the British Public—for some fifteen minutesper diem.

Presently the great man appeared. He began with the Toreador's song from "Carmen," which set heads nodding and toes beating time. Then came "O Star of Eve"; and last of all, "I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby."

Struck by an unwonted stillness at his side, Philip glanced at Sylvia. Her effervescence was gone. With a child's instant susceptibility to external influences her mood had changed: she wasraptly drinking in the limpid notes that came floating to her through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the Arena Palace of Varieties. A humorous remark from Derek Rayner fell upon unheeding ears. Her eyes shone, her breath came quickly; her flower-like face was alight with tender enthusiasm.

"And all my song shall strive to wakeSweet wonder in thine eyes!"

crooned the singer. Certainly he had achieved his purpose in one case, Philip thought.

"To cheat thee of a sigh!To charm thee to a tear!"

The words died away to nothingness in the absolute stillness of the great audience. Then, after a brief interval, came the applause, in mighty gusts. But during that interval Philip had had time to hear the sound of a long tremulous sigh close beside him.

"My reason has been saved at the eleventh hour," said Mr. Mablethorpe gratefully. "Talking of the eleventh hour, shall we go home? Nothing but the cinematograph now!"

But Sylvia insisted upon seeing the programme out. Accordingly the party sat on, what time such of the audience as still remained were plunged into darkness and a flickering travesty of life in the American backwoods was thrown upon the screen.

First came the announcement:—

"I love you," says the Sheriff to the pretty Station Mistress.

There followed a picture of the Station Mistress at home. The only visible furniture was a writing-table, but technical detail was supplied by a lever standing up in the middle of the floor evidently designed to control the railway traffic of the district. The only other notable feature of this interior was a strong breeze. Presently the Sheriff, a theatrical-looking young man in a slouch hat and trousers like a pair of door-mats, sidled in at the door; and an interpolated line of explanatory matter enquired:—

"Will you come riding with me?"

Apparently the lady was willing, for next moment she was discovered in a stable-yard blowing a whistle. Instantly a horse appeared, saddled and bridled, and after performing several tricks with obvious reluctance, consented to allow itself to be mounted, and departed at full gallop, apparently to join the Sheriff.

"I guarantee that we shall meet that animal again," prophesied Mr. Mablethorpe.

Meanwhile the plot began to obtrude. As a direct result of the Station Mistress's culpable negligence in leaving the railway traffic to direct itself, the way was now open for an attempt to hold up the "bullion express." This enterprise was engineered by a gentleman called "Mexican Steve," assisted by a gang of six. Being apparently familiar with the unbusinesslike habits of the Station Mistress, Mexican Steve very sensibly selected the Station Office as a suitable place wherein to confer with his associates. The conferencetook place forthwith, the members thereof huddling close together in order to keep within the picture.

"The express does not stop here; we must flag her,"

said the next line of print.

"What does that mean?" enquired Sylvia.

"I fancy it means that they are going to put the signal at danger, and so stop the train," said Philip.

This, as it turned out, was a correct surmise; but much had to happen first. As the audience had fully expected, the symposium in the Station House was now interrupted by the intrusion of the Station Mistress herself, whose horror and astonishment at finding her home in the possession of Mexican Steve and party was a little unreasonable, considering that she had been absent some hours and had left the door unlocked. The ensuing mêlée was not depicted, the screen being suddenly changed to a railway track, with a train approaching in the distance. There was a signal-post at the side of the line. The signal suddenly rose to danger, after which the scene was switched back to the Station Office, where Mexican Steve had just finished pulling over the lever. The Station Mistress, it is regrettable to have to add, was sitting bound hand and foot to her own table. The rest of the gang disappeared, doubtless to hold up the train. Before joining them, Mexican Steve addressed his victim:—

"Now, Maimie Matterson, escape if you can!"

"And she will!" remarked Mr. Mablethorpe with conviction.

"Hush!" said Sylvia under her breath. "Don't spoil it!" She was on tenterhooks: it was all real to her.

Any doubts as to Miss Matterson's ability to escape from her present predicament were at once set at rest. With a few convulsive wriggles she succeeded in getting her lips to the horse-whistle which hung round her neck.

"Thank Heaven, we can't hear her!" said Mr. Mablethorpe to his wife, as the lady's cheeks distended themselves in a resounding blast.

Next moment the door was kicked down, and Maimie's performing horse entered the room and pawed the floor politely. Sylvia clapped her hands.

"I knew it!" remarked Mr. Mablethorpe resignedly.

In obedience to a frenzied signal from his mistress the sagacious animal first proceeded to operate the lever in the middle of the floor, pulling it back (presumably) to safety. This feat accomplished, he set to work, amid thunders of applause, to unpick with his teeth the knots which kept Maimie Matterson bound to the table. He was rewarded for his gallantry by being promptly mounted and ridden at full gallop across a heartbreaking line of country, apparently for a distance of about twenty miles.

Then for the last time the scene changed to the railway track. The train, which had covered quite two hundred yards in the last quarter of an hour, was now close to the post, and Mexican Steve andhis friends were crouching by the line armed with six-shooters. Above their heads the signal-arm still stood at danger. Suddenly it dropped.

"Who did that?"

inquired an indignant line of print.

"That was the dear horse!" replied Sylvia triumphantly.

The train, which had been exhibiting signs of indecision, suddenly quickened its pace and shot past, to the discomfiture of the desperadoes, who childishly fired a volley at the wheels. Next moment an armed band, headed by the Sheriff and Miss Maimie Matterson,—they must have covered forty miles in something like fifteen seconds,—dashed out of an adjacent wood. After a perfunctory struggle the incompetent criminals were duly taken into custody and marched off by their captors. The Sheriff, having got rid of his posse, seized the opportunity to indulge in an exchange of tender endearments with Miss Matterson.

"We will find the preacher-man, right now!"

he declared.

Miss Matterson's reply was not recorded in print, but to judge from the last few yards of the film, it was of an encouraging nature.

As the Sheriff's arms closed round the unresisting form of his athletic bride, Philip was conscious of a gentle movement beside him. Then a small, warm, gloved hand was slipped into his own in the darkness. He made no sign: he merely allowed the hand to rest where it lay. Presently it was withdrawnas softly as it came. It was a brief, almost momentary episode, but it settled the course of Philip's life for him.

The lights went up; a blurred and bearded figure was thrown upon the screen; and the band, rising to its feet, offered a hurried tribute of loyalty.

"Supper?" suggested Mr. Mablethorpe to the company in general.

"You must all be my guests to-night," said Philip. "I may not have another opportunity."

At supper he told them that he was going to America for a year at least.

"I presume," said Mr. Mablethorpe, as they sat alone together after Sylvia and her mother had gone to bed, "that when you do return from your travels we must not expect to see—quite so much of you as hitherto?"

"No, I think not," replied Philip. Then he added awkwardly, "You understand the situation?"

Julius Mablethorpe nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I do, and I know you are right. There is a power of difference between giving one's best and one's second best. You can't compromise over the really big things of life: with them it must be everything or nothing. You are doing the right thing. But we shall miss you, my son Philip,—all of us!"

So our knight rode away, exceeding sorrowful. His departure was mourned by many, notably one,—but not by Mr. Derek Rayner.

A BRAND FROM THE BURNING

Theliner Bosphorus, after a comfortable nap of some eight days in the Mersey, was making a reluctant effort to tear herself from the land of her birth and face an unfriendly ocean upon her seventy-eighth voyage to New York. Motive power for the time being was supplied by four fussy tugboats, three of which were endeavouring to speed the parting guest by valiant pushings in the neighbourhood of her rudder, while the fourth initiated a turning movement at her starboard bow. An occasional rumble from the engine-room announced that the tugs would soon have no excuse for further officiousness.

The cabin passengers were leaning over the rails of the upper deck, surveying the busy landing-stage. They were chiefly males—their wives were down below, engaged in the unprofitable task of endeavouring to intimidate stewardesses—and were for the most part Americans. Philip stood apart, watching the variegated farewells of the crowd.

The etiquette of valediction at the sailing of a great ship varies with the three classes of passenger. The friends of cabin passengers accept a final drink, say good-bye, leave the ship, and are no more seen. The friends and relations of the secondclass—and they areallthere—line up along the landing-stage and maintain a running fire of chaff and invective until the ship has been warped out into the stream and the engines begin to run. The steerage and their friends, being mainly aliens and knowing no better, weep and howl.

Philip knew that the second-class passengers were on the deck below him; but as he could not see them (though he could hear them) his attention wandered to the throng which was engaging them in conversation. They were of many types. There were people who shouted cheerfully, "Well, send us a line when you get there!" and then, after a laborious attempt to discover another topic, cried despairingly, "Well, don't forget to write!" And so on. "Give my love to Milly when you see her," commanded a stout matron in bugles, "and say I hope her cold is better."

Farther along, a girl with tears raining down her cheeks was more than holding her own in an exchange of biting personalities with a grimy gentleman at a porthole—apparently herfiancé—whom she had come to see off. A comic man, mistaking a blast upon the siren for a definite indication that the moment of departure had arrived, took out a dirty pocket-handkerchief and wept loudly, periodically squeezing the handkerchief dry and beginning again. But it was a false alarm: the ship did not move; and his performance, which was to have been the crowning effort of a strenuously humorous morning, continued perforce to halt lamely along for another ten minutes. Finally, in response to an urgent appeal from amatter-of-fact lady friend that he would not act the goat, the unfortunate gentleman, submitting to the fate of all those whose enterprises are born out of due time, put his handkerchief sheepishly in his pocket and took no further part in the proceedings.

At last the Bosphorus swung clear. There was a jingle of bells deep down in the engine-room, followed by a responsive throb of life throughout the hitherto inert mass of the great vessel. The voyage had begun.

The crowd on the landing-stage broke into a cheer, which was answered from all parts of the ship. As the sound died away a girl stepped forward and waved her handkerchief for the last time. She was a short girl, with a pleasant face, and wore glasses.

"Good-bye, Lil, dear!" she cried.

There was an answering flutter from directly below where Philip stood, and a clear voice replied:—

"Good-bye, May, darling!"

Philip scrutinised the girl on the landing-stage.

"Who on earth is that?" he said to himself. Then he remembered. It was Miss May Jennings, sister of Miss Lil Jennings, typist at the office in Oxford Street.

Having taken part, with distinction, in the free fight round the person of the second steward which our great steamship companies regard as the only possible agency through which seats at table can be booked for a voyage, and having further secured a position for his chair and rug from thedeck-steward, Philip took stock of his surroundings.

Transatlantic ship's company is never very interesting. The trip is too short to make it possible for the pleasant people to get to know one another: only the bores and thrusters have time to make their presence felt. On this occasion the saloon appeared to be divided fairly evenly between music-hall artistes and commercial travellers of Semitic origin; so Philip, wrapped up in a rug, addressed himself to the task of overtaking some of the arrears of sleep due to him after the recently completed Joy-Week.

Next morning, experiencing a desire for society, Philip descended a deck upon a visit to the second class, feeling tolerably certain that here, at least, he would find a friend.

He was right. Miss Jennings was sitting by herself under the lee of the boiler casing, perusing a novel.

"Yes," she said, after an exchange of greetings, "I dare say you are a bit surprised to see me. I'm a trifle that way myself. I only settled to do it a week ago."

"I did not even know you had left the Britannia Company," said Philip, sitting down. "Tell me about it."

"Well," explained Miss Jennings, "there isn't much to tell. I got tired of Oxford Street. It didn't seem to be leading to much, and I wasn't getting any younger; and just about six months ago I had had a letter from a girl friend of mine who had settled in New York, saying that a goodstenographer could do twice as well there as in London. So I decided to go—if only for a bit of a change."

"What about your mother and sister?" asked Philip.

"Oh, you haven't heard. Poor Mother died over a year ago, when you were away at Coventry. I'm just out of black for her now. May is married. I have been living with her and Tom for some time back. I didn't like it much. Makes you feel inferior-like, living in a house belonging to a married sister that's plainer than yourself. That's all about me. I hope you are very well, Mr. Meldrum. You are out on the Company's business, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Philip. He explained the nature of his trip.

"They were saying at Oxford Street," pursued Miss Jennings, with the air of one who is anxious to avoid all appearance of asking for information, "that you were going to be made a partner."

"It was talked about," said Philip, "but nothing at all came of it. They wanted me to risk rather more capital in the business than I happen to possess."

"Don't you worry about capital, Mr. Meldrum," said Miss Jennings. "It's your brains they're after. Bob Br—a gentleman I know told me that he had heard from some one behind the scenes that they don't mean to let you go at any price. They can't afford to have your inventions taken up by other people. It was just a try-on, telling you you must put a lot of money into the business. Next timethey mention the matter, you name your terms andstickto them!"

Philip thanked her.

"Of course I've no call," admitted Miss Jennings, "to be giving you advice. But I wasn't born with my mouth sewn up, and you never were one to put yourself forward, were you?"

Philip admitted that possibly this was true, and the conversation passed to the inevitable topic of old times and old friends.

"How is Brand, by the way?" asked Philip. "He was an admirer of yours, I believe?"

"Brand?" said Miss Jennings carelessly. "Oh—the mechanic? I believe he is getting on very well. First foreman, then manager of the garage; and now that you are gone he and Mr. Rendle pretty well own the earth between them, so I gather. Brand is quite the gentleman now. I hear he has given up making a spectacle of himself in the Park of a Sunday. Mr. Rendle is the same as ever. He misses you at the flat, though."

"You seem to know all about our domestic arrangements," said Philip, much amused.

"Nobody that wasn't born deaf-and-dumb," said Miss Jennings with decision, "could see Mr. Rendle six hours a day for six days a week without knowing every blessed thing about him, and a jolly sight more, from his own lips. His young ladies, and everything! He brought one to Oxford Street, the other day. He told me afterwards—"

"What was she like?" asked Philip instantly.

"I didn't notice her particularly. She was inthe show-room looking at motors most of the time, and only stepped into the office for a minute. She was quite simply dressed, it being the morning, but her clothes were good all through. I picked up two or three ideas for myself straight off. Shoes, for one thing. Hers were the neatest I ever saw—brownsuèdewith silver buckles. No cheap American ready-mades, or anything of that kind. As for her coat and skirt, you could see they'd been cut by a tailor, and her hat was one of these simple little things that fit close to the head and look as if they could be put together for half-nothing; but I know better. It came out of—"

"What was she like?" repeated a patient voice.

"I'm trying to tell you," replied Miss Jennings, a little offended.

"Yes, but her appearance? Not her clothes."

Miss Jennings pondered.

"I didn't really have time to notice her appearance," she said at length; "but she was what I should call a middling blonde. She was wearing one of those new blouses, with a V-shaped—"

"I think it must have been Miss Falconer," said Philip, with an air of great detachment.

"Yes, that was the name," replied Miss Jennings. "Mr. Rendle told me he was very sorry for her. He said thousands of gentlemen were in love with her—you know the silly way he talks—"

"Yes," said Philip, with a gulp. "Well?"

"But she could never marry any of them."

"Why, I wonder?"

"Because of her father," explained the everready Miss Jennings. "She won't ever leave him,him being a widower, and very peculiar in his manner, and unable to look after himself. A bit silly-like, from all accounts. Seems to me to be asking a good lot of a girl, to stay at home to look after an old image like that. That's only supposing, of course, that shewantsto marry one of these thousands of hers. She's welcome to the lot, so far as I'm concerned."

"Yes, rather!" agreed Philip absently.

Sothatwas the reason! And he had never guessed. Well, it made his own chances no brighter, but it took a load from his mind. Peggy was back on a higher pedestal than ever, and her silent knight could now worship her without reservation. She was acquitted for all time of the charge of being hard, or callous, or unfeminine.

The Bosphorus was rolling heavily when Philip rose next morning, but his sea-legs were good, and he proceeded to his toilet with no particular pangs save those of hunger. After shaving he put on a dressing-gown and staggered along an alleyway in search of a bath. Presently an illuminated sign informed him that he had reached his destination. He turned into the first empty bathroom, where a man in a white jacket was tidying up after the last occupant.

"Bath, please," said Philip. "Chill just off."

The man turned his back and set going a spouting cataract, and the bath was half-full of salt water in less than a minute. There are no corporation restrictions or half-inch pipes in oceanic bathrooms: you simply open a sluice and let in as muchof the Atlantic as you require. The man next lowered a long hinged pipe into the bottom of the bath, and gave a twist to a little valve-wheel on the wall. Straightway a violent subaqueous crackling announced that live steam from the boilers was performing its allotted task of taking the chill off.

"That will do, thank you," said Philip presently.

The bath-steward turned off the valve, and the crackling ceased. Philip sat down upon the edge of the bath.

"Well, Brand," he said, "how does the Bosphorus compare with Oxford Street?"

He held out his hand, and Mr. Brand, having overcome his surprise, shook it resentfully.

"I suppose you are surprised to come across me here," he remarked defiantly.

"Not altogether," replied Philip, thinking of the second class; "but I did not expect to find you swabbing bathrooms."

"I wasn't going to waste good money travelling as a passenger," said Brand sullenly. "I tried to get taken on in the engine-room, but they wouldn't look at me without marine engineering experience; so I had to be content with this. It's only for a week."

"You aren't coming back, then?"

"It depends," said Brand shortly. "Not at present."

"Have you given up the Britannia Company?"

"Yes: handed in me resignation Friday afternoon."

"What on earth for? You were climbing to the top of the tree there."

"I preferred to be on the ground," said Brand oracularly.

Philip decided not to press for information.

"Still, I'm sorry," he said.

"Why? I wasn't fired, if that's what you mean," said Brand swiftly.

At this moment another passenger came tacking down the alleyway, and Brand departed in the further execution of his official duties.

There are no facilities upon ocean liners for promoting social intercourse between bath-stewards and cabin passengers, so Philip did not see Brand again until the same hour the following morning.

"By the way, Brand," he said, as he waited for the proper adjustment of the bath's temperature, "there is a mutual friend of ours on board, travelling second class. Did you know?"

"Yes," said Brand thickly, "I did."

He swung the steam-pipe savagely back into its clip, flung two hot towels down on a seat, and departed, banging the door behind him. That was the beginning and end of the second day's conversation.

Philip saw nothing of Miss Jennings during the next few days, for the weather continued to be boisterous, and that lady—unlike other and less considerate members of the ship's company—preferred to endure the pangs ofmal-de-merin the seclusion of her own cabin. It was not until the fourth day out that he saw her again. She wasreclining languidly in a chair, convalescent, but obviously disinclined for conversation. Philip passed her by.

The fifth day broke bright and sunny, and the Bosphorus, clear of the Newfoundland Banks, with their accompanying fogs and ground-swell, became a centre of social activity. Vigorous couples tramped up and down, snuffing the breeze. Unpleasant children ran shrieking round the deck, galloping over the same sets of toes at regular intervals. Elderly gentlemen played interminable games of deck-quoits and bull-board. In the smoking-room enthusiastic alcoholists gathered, to splice the main brace and bid in the auction sweep-stake on the day's run. New York was only twenty-four hours away.

Philip, descending to his cabin for a book, passed Citizen Brand, polishing cabin doorhandles with fierce energy. He paused.

"Brand," he said, "I want to have a palaver with you. Can you come and see me in my cabin this evening?"

Brand considered.

"I shall get a telling-off from the second steward if I do," he said. "Regular Cossack, he is. This ship's full of rotten rules and red-tape. Still, after all, he can only sack me, which will save me the trouble of deserting. All right: I'll come."

He appeared in Philip's cabin at ten o'clock that night, and consented to drink whiskey-and-water out of a tooth-glass.

"Well," enquired Philip, lighting his pipe, "what are your prospects in the States. Got a berth?"

"Not yet," said Brand.

"I am going on a visit to some of the big establishments out there. If I come across anything that would suit you, shall I put it in your way?"

Brand thanked him gruffly, and said:—

"I don't know. I don't know what to say. The fact is, I don't know where I shall have to live yet."

"Have to live?"

"Yes, have to live. I can't settle anything. I—Oh, damn it, I don't know! Leave me alone!"

He sat staring savagely at the floor, with his head in his hands.

"Brand, my friend," remarked Philip, puffing at his pipe, "you and I have been acquainted for a considerable time now, haven't we?"

Brand nodded, and Philip continued:—

"I'm going to assume the privilege of an old friend, and enquire into your private affairs."

"Fat lot of information you'll get," was the gracious reply.

"Very well, then," said Philip cheerfully. "I won't enquire: I'll assume. Having assumed that everything I meant to ask about is as I think it is, I'll tell you something. It's this: you are a pretty good chap."

Brand's gloomy eyes turned upon Philip suspiciously.

"What do you mean?" he snarled.

"I mean this. You have done a pretty fine thing. If the information interests you, I may tell you that you have taught me a lesson; but that's beside the point. Last Friday you were in a comfortableberth, doing well, and rising rapidly. To-day you are a bath-steward, without any status or prospects. Why?"

"Because I'm a blasted fool," replied Brand.

"No, I don't think so," continued Philip, "I prefer to look at it differently. You have sacrificed everything, and staked your whole future—on what? On an Idea—a single Idea. I call that a pretty fine thing."

"What Idea?" snapped Brand.

"A very pretty little Idea," said Philip. "She is now sleeping peacefully two decks below this."

Brand sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing.

"And why not?" he demanded. "Do you deny my right to follow her, and look after her, and see she comes to no harm, whatever she may think of me or do to me? I love her! Do you understand what that means? I love her! Gentlemen like you and Rendle, you don't know the meanin' of the word. With you it's just: 'Fine girl, what? Come and have supper at the Savoy to-night!' That's what you call love!" Brand's arms were waving: he was rapidly lapsing into his old Hyde Park manner. "When you've finished with one girl, or the girl's finished with you, what do you do? Kiss your 'and and get another! Bah!"

"And what do you do, Brand," enquired Philip imperturbably, "when a lady gives you up?"

"I give up my job: I give up everything, so as to be free; and I follow her. That's what I do. She's a child: she's not able to look after herself."

"Now, my impression of Miss Jennings's character," said Philip, "is exactly the opposite. I haverarely met a woman who seemed to me so well-balanced and self-possessed."

"Up to a point, and in a manner of speaking," agreed Brand, conversing more rationally now, "you are right. But that's a woman all over. She may keep her head for months at a time, and snap her fingers at man after man; and then one fine day a fellow comes along that's no better than fifty others she's turned down—and what does she do? She goes potty! She crumples up! She crawls round him and eats out of his hand! Why is it? In God's name, sir, why is it?"

His head dropped into his hands again.

"When did this happen?" asked Philip gently. He felt strangely awed in the presence of this elemental soul.

"I'll tell you," said Brand. "It'll do me good. She and I had been getting on pretty well of late. We weren't exactly engaged, but she allowed no other man near her but me. I gave up a lot to please her. I gave up speaking in the Park, because she said it wasn't gentlemanly. I joined the Church of England—me that's been a Freethinker ever since I could think! I gave up being a Socialist, because she said it was low. I cut my wings, and clamped myself down, and dressed myself up like a Guy Fawkes—all to please her. I let her order me about, and I liked it! I liked it! That's pretty degrading, ain't it? I felt degraded and in love at the same time, if you know what I mean. That's a rotten state to be in, I don't think!"

Philip was listening intently. Somewhere in theback of his mind he felt that he had heard this story before. Then he remembered Uncle Joseph, and realised that all human experience appears to run upon much the same lines.

"Well, we were happy enough," continued Brand, "for a matter of two years or so. The only trouble was that when I suggested marriage she said she was very comfortable as she was and did not want to lose her independence. (They're all for independence nowadays: I don't know what causes it: Board Schools, perhaps.) In her company I was too pleased with life ever to argue about anything, so I didn't press it. But there was one big risk that I overlooked, and that was the risk of another man butting in. And that's just what happened. A feller came along. He had everything that I hadn't—fine manners and plenty of silly talk, and nasty little love-making ways. He put the come-hither on Lil. As I told you in a fortnight she was eating out of his hand. I'm not the man to take that sort of thing lying down. I asked her straight what she meant by it. She flared up, and asked when I had been appointed her keeper. I said we was engaged. She said we was no such thing. I said if we wasn't it was about time, considering all things, that we was. She asked what I meant by that. I said if she had any sort of notion of fair play she would know. After that she told me she never wanted to see me again. I said she was only anticipating my own wishes; and we parted. We ain't spoke since. That was six weeks ago."

"What became of the other man?" asked Philip.

Brand smiled grimly.

"Him? I went to him next day, and told him if ever he spoke to Lil again I'd push his face in."

"What did he say to that?"

"He was most gentlemanly about it. Oh,mostgentlemanly!" Brand assumed the mincing accent which he reserved for his impersonations of the aristocracy. "Told me he had no desire to come between an honest working-man and his future wife. Said he was notpermanentlyinterested in the lady! He got no further than that, because that was where Ididpush his face in. He was a nasty sight when I'd finished with him. He never went near Lil again, though,—the rabbit! Since than not a word has passed between her and me, except when business required. Then, last Friday, I saw her going round the office and garage saying good-bye to everybody—except me, of course—and telling them she was going to America. I waited till the dinner-hour; then wrote to headquarters, resigned my job, and went straight to Liverpool, where I managed to get signed on aboard this boat. That's all."

"What are you going to do when you get to New York?" asked Philip.

"I don't know. It depends on what Lil does," replied single-minded Citizen Brand.

"Well, how do you like the prospect of New York to-morrow, Miss Jennings?" asked Philip.

They were leaning over the taffrail in the calm darkness, watching the phosphorescent wake of the great propellers.

"At the present moment," confessed Miss Jennings frankly, "I don't like it at all. It's a way things have when you get right up against them. They don't look so nice as they did at a distance."

"You are not in your usual spirits to-night."

"No," said the girl, "and that's a fact. I'm not. Worst of being a woman is that you can't trust yourself to be sensible all the time. You do a thing, and you know you're doing right, and you go on knowing it was right for weeks on end; and then, just when you want to feel that you were right most especially, you go and feel that you've been wrong all the time. Silly, I call it! Sometimes I want to shake myself."

"You feel you wish you had not left London? Is that the trouble?"

"Ye—es," said Miss Jennings reluctantly.

"I'm surprised," said Philip, cautiously opening fire, "that you were ever allowed to forsake your native land."

"Who by?" enquired Miss Jennings swiftly.

"Well, there are a good many thousand young men there, you know. It doesn't show much enterprise on their part—"

"Mr. Meldrum," remarked Miss Jennings frankly, "if you start making pretty speeches, the end of the world must be coming. A good many thousand young men, indeed!"

"Well," persisted the abashed but pertinacious Philip, "let us say one young man. Surely there was just one?"

Miss Jennings was silent for a moment. Then she replied:—

"Yes, there was one."

"More than one?"

"No. At least, there was only one that I really fancied. It was a queer thing that I should have cared for him at all. (It's all over now, so there's no harm in my telling you about it.) We were always having words one way and another. We had nothing in common, really. Very stuck on his opinions he was, and always laying down the law. His ideas weren't very gentlemanly, either. He was a Socialist, and didn't belong to the Church; but I cured him of that. I must say I improved him wonderfully."

"Was he grateful?" asked Philip.

"He was, and he wasn't. He would do anything I asked him; but if it went against the grain with him to do it he would say so before he did it—sometimes all the time he was doing it; and that rather spoils your pleasure, doesn't it?"

"I should have thought it would increase it," said Philip. "It would show your great power over him, that you should be able to compel him to do things against his will."

Miss Jennings deliberated.

"Perhaps you are right," she said at last. "I hadn't thought of it that way. Still, his back-chat used to worry me to death. And his temper! It was so fierce, I was frightened of him. He was fierce, too, in the way he loved me. He would carry on something dreadful at times."

"In what way?"

"Well, supposing I made an appointment with him, and changed my mind and didn't go—"

"Did you do that often?"

"Oh, yes, sometimes. It's a good thing to do," explained the experienced Miss Jennings. "If you don't act like that sometimes—promise to meet him somewhere and then forget—a man begins to think he's engaged to you. If a girl doesn't respect herself, who else will? That's what I say. Then his jealousy—my word!"

For a moment Miss Jennings's cheerful little Cockney voice grew quite shrill. Then came an expressive silence, which Philip construed as an aposiopetic allusion to this young gentleman whose face had been pushed in.

"Still," he persisted gently, "you were fond of him?"

Miss Jennings did not answer immediately.

"I suppose I was," she admitted at last. "But I think I was more sorry for him, if you know what I mean. He didn't know how to look after himself: he was like a child: he wanted a nurse. But if ever I did try to do anything for him, he took it up wrong. He thought I was getting soft on him, and before you could turn round he was trying to lord it over me. No, this affair never came to anything. It never could: we were made too different, both of us. Forget it!"

Miss Jennings ceased, and surveyed the long moonlit streak of foam astern rather wistfully. To-night the land she knew and the man she had been sorry for seemed to have receded to infinity: over the bow of the ship the unknown was creeping, hand over hand, inexorably. She sighed, and then shivered. She was realising the truth of her owndictum on the subject of a woman's inability to be sensible all the time.

Then the voice of Philip broke the silence, expounding the simple philosophy of his simple life.

"Do you know," he said, "I think that all things are possible to two people who are prepared to make allowances for one another? You and the man you speak of both possess strong natures. You both wanted to be master. You both hated conceding anything. He regarded the acts of worship that a woman expects of the man who loves her as a form of humiliation; he was content to make good by material homage—presents, theatres, and so on. You on your part felt that in accepting these things from him you were weakening your own independence and laying yourself under an obligation to him. So he, when he made actual love to you, did so reluctantly and half-heartedly—didn't he?"

"I should think he did!" affirmed the epicurean Miss Jennings.

"—While you could never accept his gifts and his arrangements for your entertainment without just a little—what shall we say?—a dash of vinegar?"

The girl nodded.

"That's it," she said.

"Now," proceeded Philip, too much immersed in his subject to be surprised at his own fluency, "when two people who love one another reach that stage, they must get over it at once, or there will be friction, and finally disaster. Each must learn at once to consider things from the other'spoint of view—make allowances, in fact. Brand ought to—"

"Who?" enquired a sharp voice at his side.

"—Brand. It was Brand, wasn't it?"

Miss Jennings nodded.

"Yes," she said simply, "it was Brand. Go on."

"Brand," continued Philip, "ought to have remembered that you were a woman, with all a woman's reserve and instinct of self-defence; and that you could not be expected to wear your heart upon your sleeve."

"Yes, he ought to have remembered that," agreed Miss Jennings. "But what about me? What should I have remembered?" She appeared almost anxious to be scolded.

"This," said Philip—"that Brand was a proud, passionate man, of very humble birth, terrified of showing you his heart and being laughed at for his pains—"

The girl nodded again.

"Yes," she said, "you are right. I ought to have remembered that. I forgot his feelings sometimes. Poor Bob!" she added pensively.

"So you see," concluded Philip, thankful to feel that his homily was almost delivered, "if only you two could get accustomed to regarding one another in that light, the barrier would be down for ever. A barrier can never stand for a moment when it is attacked from both sides. Make allowances, Miss Jennings! Make allowances! Get to know one another; study one another; appreciate one another! Then Brand can pour out for you all that shy, inarticulate worship of his, withoutfear of indifference or ridicule, and you can surrender with all the honours of war. Will you try?"

"Will I try?" echoed Miss Jennings wonderingly. "Isn't it a little late in the day?"

"Well—would you try?"

"Would I?" Miss Jennings's voice suddenly broke. "What's the use of my trying?" she demanded tearfully. "Bob's on the other side of the world now—taken up with another girl as likely as not. What's the good of asking me what I would do when I can't do it?"

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