"I've devoted them solely to supervising your daughter's education, Mr. Wellgood."
"Oh yes!" he chuckled. He liked impudence from a woman; to primitive man—Wellgood had a good leaven of the primitive—it is an agreeable provocation.
"I'll bet you," she said—with her challenging indolence that seemed to say "Disturb me if you can!"—"I'll bet you we hear of the engagement in ten minutes."
"You know a lot about it! What'll you bet me?"
"Anything you like—from a quarter's salary downwards!" said Isobel. She sat facing the path from the west wood. On it she saw two figures, arm in arm. Wellgood had his back turned that way. The situation was favourable for Isobel's bet.
A light hand in flirtation could not be expected from a man to whom the heavy hand—the strongdecisive grip—was gospel in matters public and private. Besides, he had grown impatient; his affair waited on Harry's.
"From a quarter's salary downwards? Will you bet me a kiss?"
"Yes," she smiled, "if losing means the kiss. Because I know I shall win, Mr. Wellgood."
Harry and Vivien came near, still exalted in dreams, the new man and the girl transformed. Wellgood had not noticed them, perhaps would have forgotten them anyhow.
"If winning meant the kiss?" he said.
"I don't bet as high as that, except on a certainty," smiled Isobel. "Another cup?"
"No, but I tell you, Isobel—" He leant over the table towards her.
"Don't tell me, and don't touch me! They're just behind you, Mr. Wellgood."
He swore under his breath. A plaguy mean trick this of women's—defying just when they are safe! He had to play the father—and the father-in-law to be; to seem calm, wise, benevolent, paternally affectionate, patronizing to young love from the sage eminence of years that he was just, a second ago, forgetting.
Since she had come into his house, to be Vivien's companion and exemplar, a year ago, they had had many of these rough defiant flirtations. He wasnot easily snubbed, she not readily frightened. They had worked together over Vivien's rather severe training in a matter-of-fact way; but there had been this diversion for hours of leisure. Why not? Flirtation of this order was not the conventional thing between the girl's father and the girl's companion. No matter! They were both vigorously self-confident people; the flirtation suited the taste of at least one of them, and served the ends of both.
The near approach of the lovers—the imminence of a declared engagement—made a change. Wellgood advanced more openly; Isobel challenged and repelled more impudently. The moment for which he had waited seemed near at hand; she suffered under an instinctive impulse to prove that she too had her woman's power and could use it. But, deep down in her mind, the proof was more for Harry's enlightenment than for Wellgood's subjugation. She had an overwhelming desire not to appear, in Harry's conquering eyes, a negligible neglected woman. She mocked the Meriton standard—but shared it.
"Look round!"
He obeyed her.
"Arm in arm!"
He started, and glowered at the approaching couple. Vivien hastily dropped Harry's arm.
"Oh, that's nothing—she's just afraid! It's settled all the same. And within my ten minutes!"
"Aye, you're a—!" He smiled in grim fierce admiration.
"Shall I take three months' notice, Mr. Wellgood?" She was lying back in her chair again, insolent and serenely defiant. "I might have betted after all, and been quite safe," she said.
Harry victorious in conquest, Vivien with her more precious conquest in surrender, were at Wellgood's elbow. He had to wrench himself away from his own devices.
"Well, what have you got to say, Vivien?" he asked his daughter rather sharply. She was looking more than usually timid. What was there to be frightened at?
"She hasn't got anything to say," Harry interposed gaily. "I'm going to do the talking. Are you feeling romantic to-day, Mr. Wellgood?"
Wellgood smiled sourly. "You know better than to try that on me, Master Harry."
"Yes! Well, I'll cut that, but I just want to mention—as a matter of business, which may affect your arrangements—that Vivien has promised to marry me."
Vivien had stolen up to her father and now laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. He looked ather with a kindly sneer, then patted her hand. "You like the fellow, do you, Vivien?"
"Yes, father."
"Then I daresay we can fix matters up. Shake hands, Harry."
Vivien kissed his forehead; the two men shook hands.
"I daresay you're not exactly taken by surprise," said Harry, laughing. "I've been calling rather often!"
"It had struck me that something was up."
Wellgood was almost genial; he was really highly pleased. The match was an excellent one for his daughter; he liked Harry, despite a lurking suspicion that he was "soft;" and the way now lay open for his own plan.
"You haven't asked me for my congratulations, Vivien," said Isobel.
Vivien went over to her and kissed her, then sat down by the table, her eyes fixed on Harry. She was very quiet in her happiness; she felt so peaceful, so secure. Such was the efficacy of those wonderful words!
"And I wish you all happiness too, Mr. Harry," Isobel went on with a smile. "Perhaps you'll forgive me if I say that I'm not altogether taken by surprise either?"
Harry did not quite like her smile; there seemedto be a touch of ridicule about it. It covertly reminded him of their talk before tea, before he went to the west wood.
"I never had much hope of blinding your eyes, so I didn't even try, Miss Vintry."
"I was thinking it must come to a head soon," she remarked.
Harry flushed ever so slightly. She was hinting at the laggard in love again; it almost seemed as if she were hinting that she had brought the affair to a head. In the west wood he had forgotten her subtle taunt; he had thought of nothing but his passion, and how impatient it was. Now he remembered, and knew that he was being derided, even in his hour of triumph. He felt another impulse of anger against her. This time it took the form of a desire to show her that he was no fool, not a man a woman could play with as she chose. He would like to show her what a dangerous game that was. He was glad when, having shot her tiny sharp-pointed dart, she rose and went into the house. "You'll want to talk it all over with Mr. Wellgood!" He did not want to think of her; only of Vivien.
"Poor Isobel!" said Vivien. "She's very nice about it, isn't she? Because she can't really be pleased."
Both men looked rather surprised; each wasroused from his train of thought. Both had been thinking about Isobel, but the thoughts of neither consorted well with Vivien's "Poor Isobel!"
"Why not?" asked Harry.
"It means the loss of her situation, Harry."
"Of course! I never thought of that."
"Don't you young people be in too great a hurry," said Wellgood, with the satisfied smile of a man with a secret. "You're not going to be married the day after to-morrow! There's lots of time for something to turn up for Isobel. She needn't be pitied. Perhaps she may be tired of you and your ways, young woman, and glad to be rid of her job!"
"Lucky there's somebody ready to take her place, then, isn't it?" laughed Harry.
Wellgood laughed too as he rose. "It seems very lucky all round," he said, smiling again as he left them. He was quite secure that they would spend no time in thinking about good luck other than their own.
The lovers sat on beside the water till twilight fell, talking of a thousand things, yet always of one thing—of one thing through which they saw all the thousand other things, and saw them transfigured with the radiance of the one. Even the bright hues of Harry's future grew a hundredfold brighter when beheld through this enchantedmedium, while Vivien's simple ideal of life seemed heaven realized. Visions were their only facts, and dreams alone their truth. Neither from without nor from within could aught harm the airy fabric that they built—Vivien out of ignorance, Harry by help of that fine oblivion of his.
For a long while Isobel Vintry—fled to her room lest Wellgood should seek her—watched them from her window with envious eyes. For them the dreams; for her, most uninspiring reality! At last she turned away with a weary impatient shrug.
"Well, it's a good thing to have it over and done with, anyhow!" she exclaimed, and smiled once more to think how she had stung Harry Belfield with her insinuations and her "Meriton ideal." If we cannot be happy ourselves, it is a temptation to make happy people a little uncomfortable. In that lies an evidence of power consolatory to the otherwise unfortunate.
Settling the question of the butcher's shop had seemed to Andy Hayes like a final solution of life's problems. Therein he showed the quality of his mind. One thing at a time, settle that. As he had learnt to say 'on the other side,' "Don't look for trouble!" He had yet to realize what the man of imagination knows instinctively—that the problems of life end only with life itself.
An eight-ten train to town is not, however, favourable to such a large and leisurely survey as a consideration of life in its totality. It involved a half-hour's race for the station. And this morning the Bird—standing at the door of his father's hostelry—delayed a hard-pressed man who had absolutely no time to stop.
"Heard the news about Mr. Harry?" cried the Bird across the street.
Andy slowed down. "About Harry?"
"Engaged to Miss Wellgood!" shouted the Bird.
"No, is he?" yelled Andy in reply. "Hurrah!"
It was but two days after the great event had happened. Recently Andy had seen nothing of his Meriton friends. He had been working early and late in town; down at seven-thirty, up to work again at eight-ten. He had been a very draught-horse, straining at a load which would not move—straining at it on a slippery slope. Business was so "quiet." Could not work command success? At present he had to be content with the meagre consolation proffered to Sempronius. He must be at the office not a second later than nine. If the American letters came in, replies could get off by the same day's mail.
Yet the news of the engagement—he wished he could have had it from Harry's own lips—cut clean across his personal preoccupations. How right! How splendid! Dear old Harry! And how he would like to congratulate Miss Vivien! All that on Saturday afternoon or Sunday. Andy was one of the world's toilers; for them works of charity, friendship, and love have for the most part to wait for Saturday afternoon or Sunday; the other five days and a half—it's the struggle for life, grimly individual.
He loved Harry Belfield, and stored up untoldenthusiasm for Saturday afternoon or Sunday—those altruistic hours when we have time to consider our own souls and other people's fortunes. But to-day was only Thursday; Thursday is well in the zone of the struggle. Andy's timber business was—just turning the corner! So many businesses always are. Shops expensively installed, hotels over-built, newspapers—above all, newspapers—started with a mighty flourish of heavy dividends combined with national regeneration—they are all so often just turning the corner. The phrase signifies that you hope you are going to lose next year rather less than you lost last year. If somebody will go on supplying the deficit—in that sanguine spirit which is the strength of a commercial nation—or can succeed in inducing others to supply it in a similar spirit, the corner may in the end be turned. If not, you stay this side of the magical corner of success, and presently find yourself in another—to be described as "tight." A life-long experience of questions—of problems and riddles—was not, for Andy Hayes, to stop short at the felicitous solution of the puzzle about Jack Rock's butcher's shop in Meriton High Street.
Andy had to postpone reflection on Harry Belfield's happiness and Vivien's emancipation. Yet he had a passing appreciation of the end ofordeals—of Curly, cross-country rides, and the like. Would the mail from Montreal bring a remittance for the rent of the London office? The other business men in the fast morning train were grumpy. Money was tight, the bank rate stiff, times bad. No moment to launch out! There were sounded all the familiar jeremiads of the City train. What could you expect with a Liberal Government in office? The stars in their courses fought against business. Nobody would trust anybody. It was not that nobody had the money—nobody ever has—but hardly anybody was believed to be able, in the last resort, to get it. That impression spells collapse. The men in the first-class carriage—Andy had decided that it was on the whole "good business" to stand himself a first-class "season"—seemed well-fed, affluent, possessed of good cigars; yet they were profoundly depressed, anticipative of little less than imminent starvation. One of them explicitly declared his envy of a platelayer whom the train passed on the line.
"Twenty-two bob a week certain," he said. "Better than losing a couple of hundred pounds, Jack. Not much longer hours either, and an open-air life!"
"Well, take it on," Jack, who had a cynical turn of humour, advised. "He (the platelayerhe meant) couldn't very well lose more than you do; and you'll never make more than he does. Swap!"
The first speaker retired behind theTelegraphin some disgust. It is hard to meet a rival wit as early as eight-thirty in the morning.
The American mail was not in when Andy reached Dowgate Hill, in which important locality he occupied an insignificant attic. A fog off the coast of Ireland accounted for the delay. But on his table, as indicated by the small boy who constituted his staff—the staff would, of course, be larger when that corner was turned—lay a cable. There was no other correspondence. Things were quiet. Andy could not suppress a reflection that a rather later train would have done as well. Still there was a cable; no doubt it advised the remittance. The remittance was a matter of peremptory necessity, unless Andy were to empty his private pocket.
"Incontestable—Incubation—Ineffective." So ran the cable.
Andy scratched his nose and reached for the code.
If ever a digression were allowable, if expatiation on human fortune and vicissitudes were still the fashion, what a text lies in the cable code! This cold-blooded provision for all emergencies, thisbusiness-like abbreviation of tragedy! "Asbestos" means "Cannot remit." "Despairing" signifies "If you think it best." (Could despair sound more despairing?) "Patriotic—Who are the heaviest creditors?" Passing to other fields of life: "Risible—Doctor gives up hope." "Refreshing—Sinking steadily; prepare for the worst." "Resurrection—There is no hope of recovery." "Resurgam—Realization of estate proceeding satisfactorily."
The cable code is a masterly epitome of life.
However Andy Hayes was not given to digression or to expatiation. Patiently he turned the leaves to find the interpretation of his own three mystic words.
The result was not encouraging.
"Incontestable—Incubation—Ineffective."
Which being interpreted ran: "Most essential to retrench all unnecessary expense. Cannot see prospects of your branch becoming paying proposition. Advise you to close up and return as soon as possible."
There was a fourth word. The "operator"—Andy still chose in his mind the transatlantic term—had squeezed it into a corner, so that it did not at first catch the reader's notice. "Infusoria." Andy turned up "Infusoria." It was a hideously uncompromising word, as the code rendered it;the code makes a wonderful effort sometimes. "Infusoria" meant: "We expect you to act on this advice at once, and we cannot be responsible for expenditure beyond what is strictly necessary to wind up."
Andy did not often smoke in his office in business hours, but he had a cigarette now.
"Well, that's pretty straight," he thought. The instructions were certainly free from ambiguity. "Made a failure of it!" The cigarette tended to resignation. "Needed a cleverer fellow than I am to make it go." This was his usual sobriety of judgment. "Rather glad to be out of it." That was the draught-horse's instinctive cry of joy at being released from a hopeless effort. They were right on the other side—it was not a "paying proposition." He was good at seeing facts; they did not offend him. So many people are offended at facts—really a useless touchiness.
"All right!" said Andy, flinging the end of the cigarette into the grate, and taking up that fateful code again.
"Passionately" met his need: "Will act on instructions received without delay and with all possible saving of expense."
"Yes," said Andy, his stylograph moving in mid-air. He turned over the pages again, seeking another word, thinking very hardwhether he should send that other word when he found it.
The word was "Interjection." It meant: "My personal movements uncertain. Will advise you of them at the earliest moment possible."
To cable "Interjection" would mean an admission of considerable import, both to his principals in Montreal and to himself. It would imply that he was thinking of cutting adrift. Andy was thinking terribly hard about it. It might cause his principals to consider that he was taking too much on himself. Andy was not a partner; he was only on a salary, with a small contingent profit from commissions. It seemed complimentary—and delusive—now to call the profit contingent; the salary was all he had in the world. Such an independently minded word as "Interjection" incurred a risk. Before he had done thinking about cutting adrift, he might find himself cut adrift. The principals were peremptory men. In view of his failure to make the London branch a "paying proposition," perhaps he was lucky in that he had not been cut adrift already. There was a code word for that—"Seltzer." It meant, "We shall be able to dispense with your services on the —— prox."
"Seltzer thirtieth" would have thrown—and might still throw—Andy on the mercy of theworld. Turning up the code (if you are not thoroughly familiar with it) may be interesting work—"as exciting as any novel," as reviewers kindly say of books of travel.
Andy had suddenly, and with some surprise, become aware how very much he wished not to go back to Montreal, pleasant city as it is. When he was puzzling about the Meriton shop, Canada had stood for freedom, scope, and opportunity. Why should it not stand for them still, just as well as, or better than, London? Canada and London had ranked together then, in sharp opposition to the narrow limits of his native town. Nobody could deny the scope and the opportunities of Canada. But Andy did not want to go back. He was profoundly apologetic to himself about the feeling; he would not have ventured to justify it; it was wrong. But, after his long exile, his native land had laid hold on him—England with her ripe rich sweetness, London baited with a thousand lures. He had no pluck, no grit, no go; so he said to himself. There were fortunes to be made over there—a mighty nation to help in building up. That was all true, but he did not want to go. The stylograph hung longingly over the cable form; it wanted to write "Interjection."
The fog had apparently been very persistent in the Irish Channel, for no mail came; the principalsin Montreal seemed quite right about the London branch, for no business offered. At half-past twelve Andy determined to go out for lunch and a walk. By the time he got back the mail might have come—and he might have made up his mind whether or not to cable "Interjection."
A man who has it in mind to risk his livelihood often decides that he may as well treat himself liberally at lunch or dinner. Monte Carlo is a terribly expensive place to stay at if you do not gamble; if you do, it costs nothing—at least, what it costs does not matter, which comes to the same thing. Andy decided that, having two hours off, he would go west for lunch. His thoughts were on the great restaurant by the river. If he were really leaving London in a week (obedient to "Infusoria"), it would be interesting to go there once again.
Entering the grill-room, on his left as he came in from the Strand (at the last moment the main restaurant had struck him as absurd for his chop), he was impressed by the air of habituality worn by his fellow-guests. What was humdrum to them was a treat to him, their routine his adventure. They knew the waiters, knew the maître d'hôtel, and inquired after the cook. They knew one another too, marking who was there to-day, who was an absentee. Andy ate his chop, withhis mouth healthily hungry, with his eyes voracious of what passed about him.
He sat near a glass screen some six or seven feet high, dividing the room in two. Suddenly from the other side of it came a voice:
"Hallo, is that you, Hayes? Come and have your coffee with us. Where have you been all this time?"
There they sat—and there they might have been sitting ever since Andy parted from them, so much at home they looked—Billy Foot, the Nun, and Miss Dutton. Another young man was with them, completing the party. He was plump, while Billy was thin—placid, while Billy always suggested a reserve of excitement; but he had a likeness to Billy all the same.
"Oh, I say, may I come?" cried Andy, boyishly loud; but the luck of meeting these friends again was too extraordinary. He trotted round the glass screen with his tumbler in his hand; he had not quite finished his lager beer.
"Chair and coffee for Mr. Hayes," said Billy Foot. "You remember him, girls? My brother, Hayes—Gilly, Mr. Hayes. How did you leave Harry?"
"How awfully funny I should meet you!" gasped Andy.
"It's not funny if you ever come here," observedMiss Dutton; "because we come here nearly every day—with somebody." She was more sardonic than ever.
The Nun—she was not, by the way, a Nun any longer, but a Quaker girl ("All in the same line," her manager said, with a fine indifference to the smaller theological distinctions), and now sang of how, owing to her having to wear sombre garments (expressed by a charming dove-tinted costume that sent the stalls mad), she had lost her first and only love—the Nun smiled at Andy in a most friendly fashion.
"I'd quite forgotten you," she remarked, "but I'm glad to see you again. Let's see, you're—?"
"Harry Belfield's friend."
"Yes, you're Mr. Hayes. Oh, I remember you quite well. Been away since?"
"No, I've been here. I mean—at work, and so on."
"Oh, well!" sighed the Nun (Andy ventured to call her the Nun in his thoughts, though she had changed her persuasion). She seemed to express a gentle resignation to not being able to keep track of people; she met so many, coming every day to the restaurant.
"I ask five, I want four, but with just the right fellow I'd take three," said Billy's brother Gilly, apparently continuing a conversation which seemedto interest nobody but himself; for the Nun was looking at neighbouring hats, Miss Dutton had relapsed into gloomy abstraction, and Billy was thoughtfully revolving a small quantity of old brandy round a very large glass. Gilly had an old brandy too, but his attitude towards it was one of studied neglect. His favourite vintage had given out the year before, so his life was rather desolate.
"Harry's engaged," Andy volunteered to the Nun, glad to possess a remark of such commanding interest.
"To a girl?" asked the Nun, absently and without turning her face towards him.
"Well, of course!" said Andy. What else could one be engaged to?
"Everybody comes to it," said Billy Foot. "Take three, if you must, Gilly."
"At a push," said his brother sadly.
"I hate that hat on that woman," said the Nun with a sudden vehemence, nodding her head at a fat woman in a large purple erection. Hats moved the Nun perhaps more than anything else in the world.
"Rot, Doris," commented Miss Dutton. "It's what they're wearing."
"But they aren't all as fat as that," the Nun objected.
"Flourishing, Hayes?" asked Billy Foot.
"Well, I rather think I've just lost my job," said Andy.
"If you're looking out for a really sound way of investing five thousand pounds—" Gilly began.
"Four to a gentleman," said Billy.
"Three to a friend," corrected the Nun.
"Oh, what the devil's the good of trying to talk business here?" cried Gilly in vexation. "Only a chance is a chance, you know."
Billy Foot saw that Andy was puzzled. "Gilly—my brother, you know—I suppose I introduced you?—has unfortunately come here with a problem on his mind. I didn't know he had one, or I wouldn't have asked him, because problems bore the girls."
"No, they don't. It interests me to see you trying to think." This, of course, from Miss Dutton. The Nun, now imbibing an iced green fluid through a straw, was sublimely abstracted.
"My brother," Billy resumed, with a glance of protest towards his interruptor, "has, for some reason or another, become a publisher. That's all right. Not being an author, I don't complain. Having done pretty badly—"
"The public's no good," said Gilly gloomily.
"He wants to drag in some unfortunate person to be his partner. I understand, Gilly, that, ifreally well recommended, your accepted partner can lose his time, and the rest of his money, for no more than three thousand pounds—paid down on the nail without discount?"
"You've a charming way of recommending the project to Mr. Hayes' consideration," said Gilly, in reproachful resignation.
"To my consideration," Andy exclaimed, laughing. "What's it got to do with me?"
"It's a real chance," Gilly persisted. "And if you're out of a job, and happen to be able to lay your hands on five—"
"Three!" whispered Billy.
"—thousand pounds, you might do worse than look into it. Now, I must go," and with no more than a nod to serve as farewell to all the party he rose and sauntered slowly away. He had not touched his brandy; his brother reached over thoughtfully and appropriated it. "I may as well, as I'm going to pay for it," he remarked.
Suddenly Andy found himself telling the Nun all about his cable and his affairs. The other two listened; all three were very friendly and sympathetic; even Miss Dutton forbore to sneer. Andy expanded in the kindly atmosphere of interest. "I don't want to go back, you know," he said with a smile that appealed for understanding. "But I must, unless something turns up."
"Well, why not talk to Gilly?" the Nun suggested.
"Yes, you go round and talk to Gilly," agreed Billy. "Rotting apart, he's got a nice little business, and one or two very good schemes on, but he wants a bit more capital, as well as somebody to help him. He doesn't look clever, but in five years he's built up—yes, a tidy little business. You wouldn't come to grief with Gilly."
"But I haven't got the money, or anything like it. I've got nothing."
The Nun and Billy exchanged glances. The Nun nodded to Billy, but he shook his head. Miss Dutton watched them for a moment, then she smiled scornfully.
"I don't mind saying it," she observed, and to Andy's astonishment she asked him, "What about your old friend the butcher?"
"How did you hear of that?"
"Harry Belfield was up one day last week lunching here, and—"
"We were awfully amused," the Nun interrupted, with her pretty rare gurgle. "If you'd done it, we were all coming down to buy chops and give you a splendid send-off. I rather wish you had." The imagined scene amused the Nun very much.
"Jack Rock? Oh, I couldn't possibly ask him, after refusing his offer!"
"What did you say his name was?" the Nun inquired.
Andy repeated the name, and the Nun nodded, smiling still. Andy became portentously thoughtful.
"We have sown a seed!" said Billy Foot. "I'll drop a word to Gilly to keep the offer open. Now you must go, girls, because I've got some work to do in the world, though you never seem to believe it."
"Heavens, I must go too!" cried Andy, with a horrified look at his watch.
"All right, you go," said Miss Dutton. "We promised to meet a man here at half-past three and go motoring."
"Did we? I don't believe we did," objected the Nun. "I don't think I want to go."
"Then don't," said Miss Dutton. "I shall go anyhow."
"Well, I'll wait and see the car," the Nun conceded. She did not appear to have any curiosity about its owner. "You really must come and see me—and don't go back to Canada!" she called after Andy. Then, when she was alone with her friend, she said, "No, I shan't come motoring, Sally, I shall go home and write a letter. So much trouble is caused in this world by people being afraid to do the obvious thing. Now I'm never afraid to do the obvious thing."
"That's just what you said the night you found me—and took me home with you," said Miss Dutton. She spoke very low, and her voice was strangely soft.
"It was the obvious thing to do, and I did it," the Nun pursued, shaking her head at Sally in mild rebuke of an uncalled-for touch of sentiment. "I shall do the obvious thing now. I shall write to Mr. Jack Rock."
"You'll get yourself into a row, meddling with other people's business."
"Oh no, I shan't," said the Nun serenely. "I shall insist on a personal interview before my action is condemned. I generally come out of personal interviews all right."
"Arts and tricks!" said Sally scornfully.
"Just an innocent and appealing manner," smiled the Nun. "At any rate, this very afternoon I write to Mr. Rock. He'll produce three thousand pounds, Gilly will get a good partner, Andy Hayes can stay in England, I shall feel I've done a sensible thing. All that just by a letter!" A thought struck her. "I may as well write it here." She called a waiter and asked for notepaper and the A B C railway guide. "Don't wait for me, Sally. This letter will take some time to write."
"Not going to take it down yourself, are you?" asked Sally, pointing to the A B C.
"Oh no. Messenger boy. With any luck, it'll get there before Andy Hayes does. Rather fun if Jack Rock plays up to me properly!"—and she allowed herself the second gurgle of the afternoon.
Sally stood looking at her with an apparently unwilling smile. She loved her better than anybody in the world, and would have died for her at that or any other moment; but nothing of that sort was ever said between them. They were almost unsentimental enough to please Mark Wellgood himself. Only the Nun did like her little plans to be appreciated. Sally gave her all she wanted—a sharp little bark of a laugh in answer to the gurgle—before she walked away. The Nun settled to her task in demure serenity, seeming (yet not being) entirely unconscious of the extreme slowness with which most of the young men passed her table as they went out.
Billy Foot had walked with Andy as far as the Temple and had reasoned with him. Yet Billy himself admitted that there was great difficulty in the case. Asked whether he himself would do what he advised, he was forced to admit that he would hesitate. Still he would not give up the idea; he would see Gilly about it; perhaps the payment could be "spread."
"It would have to be spread very thin before I could pay it," smiled Andy ruefully. He gaveBilly Foot's hand a hearty squeeze when they parted. "It's so awfully good of you to be so interested—and of those nice girls too."
"Well, old chap, if we can help a pal!" said Billy with a laugh. "Besides, it's good business for Gilly too."
Andy went back to Dowgate Hill and climbed up to his attic. The staff reported no callers in his absence; the baleful cable lay still in possession of the table. But Andy refused to be depressed. His lunch had done him good. Steady and sober as his mind was, yet he was a little infected by the gay confidence that had reigned among his company. They seemed all so sure that something would turn up, that what they wanted would get itself done somehow. Spoilt children of fate, the brothers Foot and the Nun! Things they wanted had come easily to them; they expected them to come easily to their friends. The Nun in particular appeared to treat fortune absolutely as a slave; she was not even grateful; it was all too much a matter of course that things should happen in the way she wanted. He did not appreciate yet the way in which the Nun assisted the course of events sometimes.
Well, his reply to the cable must go. He took up the form and read "Passionately." It was significant of his changed mood—of what theatmosphere of the lunch-party had done for him—that he hesitated hardly more than one minute before he added the possibly fateful "Interjection," and sent off the despatch before he had time again to waver.
"If they choose to take offence—well, I can make a living somehow, I suppose."
Andy's confidence in himself was slowly but steadily ripening.
Old Jack Rock was, in his own phrase, "fair tickled to death" at the whole thing. The messenger boy reached him soon after five, just as he was having his tea. It was not long before the boy was having tea too—such a tea as seldom came his way. Butter and jam together—why, jam on cake, if he liked—and cream in his tea! Something in that letter pleased the old gentleman uncommon, thought the boy, as he watched Jack chuckling over it, his forgotten bread-and-butter half-way between plate and mouth.
"Doris Flower! Well now, that's a pretty name," murmured Jack. "And I'll lay she's a pretty girl!" He asked the boy whether she was a pretty girl.
"'Er? Why, they're all mad about 'er," the boy told him. "She's out o' sight, she is!"
"Writes a pretty letter too," said Jack, andstarted to read it all afresh. It was, indeed, a persuasive letter:—
"Dear Mr. Rock,—I have heard so much that is nice about you from our friends Harry Belfield and your nephew (isn't he?) Mr. Hayes, that I feel quite sure you will not mind my writing to you. I know it is rather an unusual thing to do, but I don't mind doing unusual things when they're sensible, do you? Mr. Hayes was lunching with us to-day, and he told us that something had gone wrong with his business, and that he would have to go back to Canada. I'm sure you don't want him to go back to Canada any more than we do. We like him so much, and you must be very fond of him, aren't you? Well, by the most wonderful chance, Billy Foot's brother (you know Billy, don't you? He has been down to Meriton, I know) was at lunch too—Gilly Foot. Gilly has got a most tremendously good business as a publisher, and he wants a partner. Wasn't it lucky? Just as Mr. Hayes wants a new business, Gilly Foot wants a partner! It might have been arranged on purpose, mightn't it? And they took to one another directly. I'm sure Gilly will be delighted to take Mr. Hayes (That does sound stiff—I think I shall say 'Andy'), and Andy (!) would be delighted to join Gilly. There's onlyone thing—Gilly must have a partner with some money, and Andy says he hasn't got any. We knew about you and all you had wanted to do for him, so of course we said he must ask you to give it to him or lend it to him; but he said he couldn't possibly, as he had refused your previous offer. But I'm sure you don't feel like that about it, do you? I'm sure you would like to help him. And then we could keep him here instead of his going back to Canada; we should all be so pleased with that, and so would you, wouldn't you? Do please do it, dear Mr. Rock!"I wonder if you know who I am. Perhaps you've seen my picture in the papers? I'm generally done as a Nun. Have you? I wonder if you would ever care to hear me sing? If you would,dolet me know when you can come, and I will send you a box. And you won't forget to come round and see me in my dressing-room afterwards, will you? It is so pleasant to see one's friends afterwards; and I'll sing, oh, ever so much better than usual for you!"I told the boy to wait—just in case you wanted to send an answer. I'm very excited and anxious! It's three thousand pounds Gilly wants. It seems to me an awful lot, but I don't know much about publishing. Do forgive me, dear Mr. Rock, but I was sure you would like to know, and I don'tbelieve Andy would have told you himself. Mind, when you come to town—don't forget!—I am, dear Mr. Rock, yours very sincerely,"Doris Flower.P.S.—Some day soon, when I'm out motoring, I may stop and see you—if you've been nice!"
"Dear Mr. Rock,—I have heard so much that is nice about you from our friends Harry Belfield and your nephew (isn't he?) Mr. Hayes, that I feel quite sure you will not mind my writing to you. I know it is rather an unusual thing to do, but I don't mind doing unusual things when they're sensible, do you? Mr. Hayes was lunching with us to-day, and he told us that something had gone wrong with his business, and that he would have to go back to Canada. I'm sure you don't want him to go back to Canada any more than we do. We like him so much, and you must be very fond of him, aren't you? Well, by the most wonderful chance, Billy Foot's brother (you know Billy, don't you? He has been down to Meriton, I know) was at lunch too—Gilly Foot. Gilly has got a most tremendously good business as a publisher, and he wants a partner. Wasn't it lucky? Just as Mr. Hayes wants a new business, Gilly Foot wants a partner! It might have been arranged on purpose, mightn't it? And they took to one another directly. I'm sure Gilly will be delighted to take Mr. Hayes (That does sound stiff—I think I shall say 'Andy'), and Andy (!) would be delighted to join Gilly. There's onlyone thing—Gilly must have a partner with some money, and Andy says he hasn't got any. We knew about you and all you had wanted to do for him, so of course we said he must ask you to give it to him or lend it to him; but he said he couldn't possibly, as he had refused your previous offer. But I'm sure you don't feel like that about it, do you? I'm sure you would like to help him. And then we could keep him here instead of his going back to Canada; we should all be so pleased with that, and so would you, wouldn't you? Do please do it, dear Mr. Rock!
"I wonder if you know who I am. Perhaps you've seen my picture in the papers? I'm generally done as a Nun. Have you? I wonder if you would ever care to hear me sing? If you would,dolet me know when you can come, and I will send you a box. And you won't forget to come round and see me in my dressing-room afterwards, will you? It is so pleasant to see one's friends afterwards; and I'll sing, oh, ever so much better than usual for you!
"I told the boy to wait—just in case you wanted to send an answer. I'm very excited and anxious! It's three thousand pounds Gilly wants. It seems to me an awful lot, but I don't know much about publishing. Do forgive me, dear Mr. Rock, but I was sure you would like to know, and I don'tbelieve Andy would have told you himself. Mind, when you come to town—don't forget!—I am, dear Mr. Rock, yours very sincerely,
"Doris Flower.
P.S.—Some day soon, when I'm out motoring, I may stop and see you—if you've been nice!"
Jack Rock's heart was very soft; his vanity was also tickled. "Excited and anxious, is she? Bless her! There'll be a rare talk in Meriton if she comes to see old Jack!" He chuckled. "Me go and sit in a box, and hear her sing! Asked to her dressing-room too!"
The novel picture of himself was altogether too much for Jack.
"As soon as you've done your tea, my lad, you can take an answer."
Jack's epistolary style was of a highly polite but rather unpractised order. He struggled between his punctilious recognition of his own station and the temptation of the Nun's friendliness—also (perhaps by consequence) between the third, second, and first grammatical persons:—
"Mr. John Rock presents his respectful compliments to Miss Doris Flower. Mr. Rock has the matter of which Miss Flower is good enough to write under his careful consideration. Mr. Rockbegs to assure you that he will do his best to meet Miss Flower's wishes. There is nothing I would not do for Andy, and I am sure that the boy will prove himself deserving of Miss Flower's kind interest. When next visiting London, Mr. Rock will feel himself highly honoured by availing himself of Miss Flower's much-esteemed invitation. If Miss Flower should visit Meriton, he would be very proud to welcome you at his house, next door to the shop in High Street—anybody in Meriton knows where that is; and I beg to remain, dear madam, your most obedient servant to command,John Rock."
"Mr. John Rock presents his respectful compliments to Miss Doris Flower. Mr. Rock has the matter of which Miss Flower is good enough to write under his careful consideration. Mr. Rockbegs to assure you that he will do his best to meet Miss Flower's wishes. There is nothing I would not do for Andy, and I am sure that the boy will prove himself deserving of Miss Flower's kind interest. When next visiting London, Mr. Rock will feel himself highly honoured by availing himself of Miss Flower's much-esteemed invitation. If Miss Flower should visit Meriton, he would be very proud to welcome you at his house, next door to the shop in High Street—anybody in Meriton knows where that is; and I beg to remain, dear madam, your most obedient servant to command,John Rock."
"You can take it," said Jack to the messenger boy. "And here's half a crown for yourself."
The messenger boy was a London boy; his professional belt was tight with tea; and half a crown for himself! He put on his cap and stood on the threshold. Escape was easy; he indulged his native humour.
"From this"—he exhibited the half-crown—"and your looks, gov'nor," he said, "I gather that she's accepted ye! My best wishes for yer 'appiness!"
"Damn the boy!" said Jack, charging for the door in an explosion of laughter. The boy was already half-way down the street. "Hope myletter was all right," Jack reflected, as he came back, baulked of his prey. "May stop and see me, may she! Bless her heart!"
Jack Rock felt that he had the chance of his life. He also felt that he would like to obliterate what, in his humility, he now declared to have been a sad blunder—the offer of his butcher's shop. A man like Andy, a lad with friends like that—Mr. Harry Belfield, Mr. Foot, M.P., Mr. and Miss Wellgood, above all this dazzling Miss Doris Flower—to be the Meriton butcher! Perish the thought! Publishing was a gentleman's business. Aye, and his Andy should not go back to Canada. If he did, old Jack felt that the best part of his own life would be carried far away across the seas.
The thing should be done dramatically. "I'd like Andy to have a story to tell her!" It was not at all doubtful whom he meant by "her."
Nearly six—the bank was shut long ago. But George Croton was a friend as well as a bank manager; he would just have had tea. Jack crossed the street and dropped in.
"Why, of course I can, Jack," said Mr. Croton, wiping his bald head with a red handkerchief. "You've securities lodged with us that more than cover it. Draw your cheque. We won't wrong you over the interest till you adjust the account. Going to buy a Derby winner?"
"I ain't so sure I'm not goin' to enter one," said Jack. He wrote his cheque. "That'll be all right to-morrow morning?"
"Unless our shutters are up, it will, Jack," Mr. Croton jestingly replied.
"Thank God I've been a careful man," thought old Jack. "One that knows a horse too! Her talkin' about 'Andy'!" The Nun continued to amuse and delight him immensely. Why, he'd seen her picture on the hoardings last time he went up to Tattersall's, to sell that bay filly! Lord, not to have thought of that! That was her—the Nun! He thought much more about Miss Flower than about Andy as he took his way to Andy's lodgings.
Andy was at home; he had been back from town nearly an hour. But his own concerns were quite out of his head. Harry Belfield had been waiting for him—actually waiting, Harry the Great!—and had hailed him with "I had to come and tell you all about it myself, old fellow!"
In Andy's great devotion to Harry there was mingled an element which seemed to himself absurd, but which held its place obstinately—dim and denied, yet always there. It was a sense of something compassionate, something protective, not diminishing his admiration but qualifying it; making him not only believe that all would, butalso urgently pray that all might, go well with Harry, that Harry might have everything that he wished, possibly that Harry might wish the things that he ought to have, though Andy's conscious analysis of the feeling did not reach as far as this. He would not only set his hero on a pedestal, he would have the pedestal securely fenced round, barricaded against danger, ensured against bombs; even a screen against strong and sudden winds might be useful to the statue.
The statue, it now appeared, had taken all these precautions for itself. Vivien Wellgood was each and all of these things—fence, screen, and barricade. And many other things besides, such as an ideal, an incentive, an inspiration. It was among Harry's attractions that he was not in the least ashamed of his emotions or shy about them.
"With the girls one meets in town it's a bargain," said Harry. "With her—oh, I can talk to you, old man!—it really does seem a sort of sacrament."
"I know. I mean I can imagine."
"Not things a fellow can talk about to everybody," Harry pursued. "Too—well, sacred, you know. But when for absolutely the first time in your life you feel the real thing, you know the difference. The pater told me not to be in a hurry about it; but a thing like that's justthe same now or a thousand years hence. It's there—and that's all about it!"
Andy felt a little out of his depth. He had had one fancy himself, but it had been nothing like so wonderful as this. It was Harry's privilege to be able to feel things in that marvellous way. Andy was not equal even to commenting on them.
"When are you going to be married?" he asked, sticking to a matter-of-fact line of sympathy.
"Going to wait till October—rather a bore! But here it's nearly July, and I've got my tour of the Division fixed for September. After all, things aren't so bad as they might be. And when I'm through with the campaign—a honeymoon in Italy! Pretty good, Andy?"
"Sounds all right," laughed Andy. "I expect I shall have to send you my blessing from Montreal."
"From Montreal? What—you're not going back?"
"The business is a frost in London, Harry; and I've nothing else to look to."
"Lord, now, what a pity! Well, I'm sorry. We shall miss you, Andy. Still, it's a ripping fine country, isn't it? Mind you cable us congratulations!"
"I'm not quite certain about going yet," said Andy. He felt rather like being seen off by the train—very kindly.
"Oh, well, I hope you won't have to, old chap, I really do. But it'll be better than the shop! I say—I told Billy and the girls about that. They roared."
"I know they did—I met them at lunch to-day."
"Had they heard about me?" Harry asked rather eagerly. "Or did you tell them? What did they say?"
"Oh—er—awfully pleased," said Andy, rather confused. It seemed strange to remember how very little had been said on the wonderful topic. Somehow they had wandered off to other things.
"I must give them all one more dinner," said Harry, smiling, "before I settle down."
"Foot's brother was there—Gilly Foot—and—"
"Did they ask what she was like?"
"I—I don't quite remember—everybody was talking. Gilly Foot—"
"I expect they were a bit surprised, weren't they?"
"Oh yes, they seemed surprised." Andy was really trying to remember. "Yes, they did."
"I don't think I've got the character of a marrying man," smiled Harry. "I hope you told them I meant business?" Harry rose to his feet with a laugh. "They used to rot a lot, you know."
Harry was not to be got off the engrossing subjectof himself, his past, and his future; evidently he could not imagine that the lunch-party had kept off these subjects either. With a smile Andy made up his mind not to trouble him with the matter of Gilly Foot.
"I'll walk back with you as far as Halton gates," he said.
"No, you won't, old chap," laughed Harry. "Vivien's been in the town and is going to call for me here, and I'm going to walk with her as far as Nutley gates—at least."
Voices came from outside. "Wish you good evenin', miss!"—and a very timid "Good evening, Mr. Rock." Vivien and Jack! How was Vivien bearing the encounter?
"There she is!" cried Harry, and ran out of the house, Andy following.
"Ah, Jack, how are you? Why, you're looking like a two-year-old!"
Jack indeed looked radiant as he made bold to offer his congratulations. He gave Harry his hand and a hearty squeeze, then looked at Vivien tentatively. She blushed, pulled herself together, and offered Jack her hand. The feat accomplished, she glanced quickly at Andy, blushing yet more deeply. He knew what was in her mind, and nodded his head at her in applause. In Harry's cause she had touched a butcher.
"I like to see young folks happy. I like to see 'em get what they want, Mr. Harry."
"You see before you one at least who has, Jack. I wonder if I may say two, Vivien? And I wish I could say three, Andy."
"Maybe you wouldn't be so far wrong, Mr. Harry," chuckled Jack. "But that's neither here nor there, and I mustn't be keepin' you and your young lady."
With blithe salutations the lovers went off. Andy watched them; they were good to see. He felt himself their friend—Vivien's as well as Harry's, for Vivien trusted him with her shy confidences. They were hard to leave—even as were the delights of London with its lunch-parties and the like.
"Going for a walk, Jack?"
"No, I want a talk with you, Andy." He led the way in, and sat down at the table. "I've been thinkin' a bit about you, Andy; so have some others, I reckon. Mr. Belfield—he speaks high of you—and there's others. There's no reason you shouldn't take your part with the best of 'em. Why, they feel that—they make you one of themselves. So you shall be. I can't make you a rich man, not as they reckon money, but I can help a bit."
"O Jack, you're always at it," Andy groaned affectionately.
The old fellow's eyes twinkled as he drew out a cheque and pushed it across the table.
"Put that in your pocket, and go and talk to Mr. Foot's brother," he said.
Andy's start was almost a jump; old Jack's pent-up mirth broke out explosively.
"But this—this is supernatural!" cried Andy.
"Looks like it, don't it? How did I find out about that? Well, it shows, Andy, that it's no use you thinkin' of tryin' not to keep a certain promise you made to me—because I find you out!"
"Dear old Jack!" Andy was standing by him now, his hand on his shoulder. "I don't believe I could have kept the promise in this case. I think I should have gone back—since the thing's no go in London."
"Yes, you'd have gone back—just like your obstinate ways. But I found out. I've my correspondents."
"But there's been no time! Well, you are one too many for me, Jack!"
Jack's pride in his cunning was even greater than his delight in his benevolence. "Perhaps I've had a wireless telegram?" he suggested, wagging his head. "Or a carrier pigeon? Who knows?"
"But who was it told you?"
"You've got some friends I didn't know of, up there in London. Havin' your fling, are you, Andy? That's right. And very good taste you seem to have too." He nodded approvingly.
"Oh, I give it up," said Andy. "You're a wizard, Jack."
"If you talk about a witch, you'll be a bit nearer the point, I reckon. Not meanin' me, I need hardly say! Well, I must let you into the secret." With enormous pride he produced Miss Doris Flower's letter. "Read that, my lad."
"The Nun!" cried Andy, as his eye fell on the signature. "Who'd have thought of that?"
He read the letter; he listened to Jack's enraptured story of how it had arrived. "And you're not goin' to shame her by refusin' the money now, are you?" asked cunning Jack. "If you do, you'll make her feel she's been meddlin'. Nice thing to make her feel that!"
Andy saw through this little device, but he only patted Jack's shoulder again, saying quietly, "I'll take the money, Jack." All the kindness made his heart very full—whether it came from old-time friends or these new friends from a new world who made his cause theirs with so ready a sympathy.
"You're launched now, lad—fair launched! And I know you'll float," said old Jack, grave at last, as he took his leave, his precious letter mostcarefully stowed away in his breast-pocket. It had been a great day for Jack, great for what he had done, great for the way in which his doing it had come about.
Within less than twenty-four hours Montreal had been written to, Gilly Foot had been written to—and Andy was at the Nun's door.
She dwelt with Miss Dutton in a big block of flats near Sloane Street, very high up. Her sitting-room was small and cosy, presenting, however, one marked peculiarity. On two of the walls the paper was red, on the other two green. Seeing Andy's eyes attracted by this phenomenon, the Nun explained: "We quarrelled over the colour to such an extent that at last I lost my temper, and, when Sally was away for a day, had it done like this—to spite her. Now she won't let me alter it, because it's a perpetual warning to me not to lose my temper. But it does look a little queer, doesn't it?"
She had received him with her usual composure. "I knew you'd come, because I knew Mr. Jack Rock would do as I wanted, and I was sure he couldn't keep the letter to himself. Well, that's all right! It was only that the obvious thing wanted doing."
"But I don't see—well, I don't see why you should care."
She looked at him, a lurking laugh in her eye.
"Oh, you needn't suppose that it was life and death to me! It was rather fun, just on its own account. You'll like Gilly; he's a good sort, though he's rather greedy. Did you notice that? Billy's really my friend. I'm very fond of Billy. Are you ambitious? Billy's very ambitious."
"No, I don't think I am."
The Nun lay back on a long chair; she was certainly wonderfully pretty as she smiled lazily at Andy.
"You look a size too large for the room," she remarked. "Yes, Billy's ambitious. He'd like to marry me, only he's ambitious. It doesn't make any difference to me, because I'm not in love with him; but I'm afraid it's an awfully uncomfortable state of affairs for poor Billy."
"Well, if he'd have no chance anyhow, couldn't you sort of let him know that?" Andy suggested, much amused at an innocent malice which marked her description of Billy's conflict of feeling.
"No use at all. I've tried. But he's quite sure he could persuade me. In fact I don't think he believes I should refuse if it came to the point. So there he is, always just pulling up on the brink! He can't like it, but he goes on. Oh, but tell me all about Harry Belfield. Now I've got you off" my mind, I'm awfully interested about that."
Andy was not very ready at description. She assisted him by a detailed and skilful cross-examination, directed to eliciting full information about Vivien Wellgood's appearance, habits, and character—how old she was, where she had been, what she had seen. When the picture of Vivien had thus emerged—of Vivien's youth and secluded life, how she had been nowhere and seen nothing, how she was timid and shy, innocent and trustful, above all, how she idolized Harry—the Nun considered it for a moment in silence.
"Poor girl!" she said at last. Andy looked sharply at her. She smiled. "Oh yes, you worship Harry, don't you? Well, he's a very charming man. I was rather inclined to fall in love with him once myself. Luckily for me I didn't."
"I'm sure he'd have responded," Andy laughed.
"Yes, that's just it; he would have! When did you say they were going to be married?"
"October, I think Harry said."
"Four months! And he dotes on her?"
"I should think so. You should just hear him!"
"I daresay I shall. He always likes talking to one girl about how much he's in love with another."
The Nun's matter-of-fact way of speaking mayhave contributed to the effect, but in the end the effect of what she said was to give the impression that she regarded Harry Belfield's present passion as one of a series—far from the first, not at all likely to be the last. The inflection of tone with which she had exclaimed "Four months!" implied that it was a very long while to wait.
"You'd understand it better if you saw them together," said Andy, eager, as always, to champion his friend.
"You're very enthusiastic about her, anyhow," smiled the Nun. "It almost sounds as if you were a little in love with her yourself."
"Such a thing never occurred to me." Then he laughed, for the Nun was laughing at him. "Well, she would make every man want to—well, sort of want to take care of her, you know."
"Well, there's no harm in your doing that—in moderation; and she may come to want it. Have you ever been in love yourself?"
"Yes, once," he confessed; "a long while ago, just before I left South Africa."
"Got over it?" she inquired anxiously.
"Yes, of course I have, long ago. It wasn't very fatal."
"Fickle creature!"
Andy gave one of his bursts of hearty laughter to hear himself thus described.
"I like you," she said; "and I'm glad you're going in with Gilly, because we shall often see you at lunch-time."
"Oh, but I can't afford to lunch at that place every day!"
"You'll have to—with Gilly; because lunch is the only time he ever gets ideas—he always says so—and unless he can tell somebody else he forgets them again, and they're lost beyond recall. He used to tell them to me, but I always forgot them too. Now he'll tell you; so you'll have to be at lunch, and put it down as office expenses."
Andy had risen to go. The Nun sat up. "I can only tell you once again how grateful I am for all your kindness," he said.
She gave him a whimsically humorous look. "It's really time somebody told you," she said; "and as I feel rather responsible for you, after my letter to Mr. Jack Rock, I expect I'm the proper person to do it. If you're not told, you may go about doing a lot of mischief without knowing anything about it. Prepare for a surprise. You're attractive! Yes, you are. You're attractive to women, moreover. People don't do things for you out of mere kindness, as they might be kind to a little boy in the street or to a lost dog. They do them because you're attractive, because it gives them pleasure to please you.That sort of thing will go on happening to you; very likely it'll help you a good deal." She nodded at him wisely, then broke suddenly into her gurgle. "Oh, dear me, you do look so much astonished, and if you only knew how red you've got!"
"Oh, I feel the redness all right; I know that's there," muttered Andy, whose confusion was indeed lamentable. "But when a—a person like you says that sort of thing to me—"
"A person, like me?" She lifted her brows. "What am I? I'm the fashion for three or four seasons—that's what I am. Nobody knows where I come from; nobody knows where I'm going to; and nobody cares. I don't know myself, and I'm not sure I care. My small opinion doesn't count for much. Only, in this case, it happens to be true."
"Where do you come from?" asked Andy, in a sudden impulse of great friendliness.
She looked him straight in the face. "Nobody knows. Nobody must ask."
"I've got no people belonging to me either. Even Jack Rock's no relation—or only a 'step.'"
Her eyes grew a little clouded. "You mustn't make me silly. Only we're friends now, aren't we? We don't do what we can for one another out of kindness, but for love?" She daintily blewhim a kiss, and smiled again. "And because we're both very attractive—aren't we?"
"Oh, I'll accept the word if I'm promoted to share it with you. But I can't say I've got over the surprise yet."
"You've stopped blushing, anyhow. That's something. Good-bye. I shall see you at lunch, I expect, to-morrow."
Andy was very glad that she liked him, but he was glad of it because he liked her. His head was not turned by her assurance that he was attractive in a general sense: in the first place, because he remained distinctly sceptical as to the correctness of her opinion, sincere as it obviously was; in the second, because the matter did not appear to be one of much moment. No doubt folks sometimes did one a good turn for love's sake, but, taking the world broadly, a man had to make his way without relying on such help as that. That sort of help had given him a fair start now. He was not going to expect any more of it. It seemed to him that Jack Rock—or Jack and the Nun between them?—had already given him more than his share. It was curious to associate her with Jack Rock in the work; a queer freak of chance that she had come into it! But she had come into it—by chance and her own wilful fancy. Odd her share in it certainly was, but it was not unpleasantto him. He felt that he had gained a friend, as well as an opening in Gilly Foot's publishing house.
"But I wish," he found himself reflecting as he travelled back in the Underground, "that she understood Harry better."
Here he fell into an error unusual with him; he overrated his own judgment, led thereto by old love and admiration. The Nun had clear eyes; she had seen much of Harry Belfield, and no small amount of life. She had had to dodge many dangers. She knew what she was talking about. In all the side of things she knew so well, Andy, with his one attachment before he left South Africa long ago, was an innocent. Perhaps it was some dim consciousness of this, some half-realized feeling that he was on strange ground where she was on familiar, which made him find it difficult to get what she had said or hinted out of his head. It was apt to come back to him when he saw Vivien Wellgood; an unlooked-for association in his mind of people who seemed far remote from one another. Thus the Nun had come into the old circle of his thoughts; henceforward she too belonged, in a way, to the world of Meriton.