She laughed softly at him.
"You foolish person," she murmured. "Father has been talking to me about it for hours at a time. You are taking it for granted that they will not be able to transmit the qualities of the bean into this new food, but father is sure that they will. Supposing they succeed, why should you object? Why should not the whole world share in this thing which has come to you?"
"I do not know," he answered, a little wearily, "and yet nothing seems to be able to alter the way I feel about it. It seems as though we were committing sacrilege. Your father and Mr. Bomford, and now this man Bunsome, are entirely engrossed in the commercial side of it. If it were to be a gift to the world, a real philanthropic enterprise, it would be different."
"The world wasn't made for philanthropists, dear," she reminded him. "We are only poor human beings, and in our days we have to eat and drink and love."
"If only Mr. Bomford—" he began—
She laid her fingers warningly upon his arm. Mr. Bomford was coming across the lawn towards them. "If you go off alone with him," Burton whispered, "I'll get back the beans and swamp the enterprise. I swear it."
"If you leave us alone together," she answered softly, "I'll never speak to you again."
She sprang lightly to her feet.
"Come," she declared, "it is chilly out here to-night. We are all going back into the drawing-room. I am going to make you listen while I sing."
Mr. Bomford looked dissatisfied. He was flushed with wine and he spoke a little thickly.
"If I could have five minutes—" he began.
Edith shook her head.
"I am much too cold," she objected. "Besides, I want to hear Mr. Bunsome talk about the new discovery. Have you found a title for the food yet?"
She walked rapidly on with Burton. Mr. Bomford followed them.
"We have decided," he said, "to call it Menatogen."
Burton gave a little start of surprise as he entered Mr. Waddington's office. Seated on the chair usually occupied by clients, was Ellen.
"My dear Burton," Mr. Waddington exclaimed, with an air of some relief, "your arrival is most opportune! Your wife has just paid me a visit. We were discussing your probable whereabouts only a moment ago."
"Rooms all shut up," Ellen declared, "and not a word left behind nor nothing, and little Alfred come down with a messenger boy, in such a mess as never was!"
"I hope he arrived safely?" Burton inquired. "I found it necessary to send him home."
"He arrived all right," Ellen announced.
"You found a change in him?" Burton asked.
"If you mean about his finicking ways, I do find a change," Ellen replied, "and a good job, too. He's playing with the other boys again and using those silly books to shoot at with a catapult, which to my mind is a sight more reasonable than poring over them all the time. I never did see a man," she continued, with a slow smile, "so taken aback as Mr. Denschem, when he came to take him to the museum yesterday. Little Alf wouldn't have nothing to do with him at any price."
Burton sighed.
"I am afraid," he said politely, "that you may have been inconvenienced by not hearing from me on Saturday."
"'Inconvenienced' is a good word," Ellen remarked. "I've managed to pay my way till now, thank you. What I came up to know about is this!" she went on, producing a copy of the Daily Press from her reticule and smoothing it out on her knee.
Burton groaned. He looked anxiously at Mr. Waddington.
"Have you read it, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Waddington shook his head.
"I make it a rule," he said, "to avoid the advertisement columns of all newspapers. These skilfully worded announcements only serve to remind us how a man may prostitute an aptitude, if not an art, for sheer purposes of gain. It is my theory, Mrs. Burton," he went on, addressing her, "that no one has a right to use his peculiar capacities for the production of any sort of work which is in the least unworthy; which does not aim—you follow me, I am sure?—at the ideal."
Ellen stared at him for a moment.
"I don't follow you," she declared, brusquely, "and I don't know as I want to. About that advertisement, is it you, Alfred, who's to be one of the directors of this Menatogen or whatever they call it? Are they your experiences that are given here?"
"They are!" Burton groaned.
Mr. Waddington, with a heavy frown, took the paper.
"What is this, Burton?" he demanded.
"You had better read it," Burton replied, sinking into a chair. "I mentioned it to you a little time ago. You see, the scheme has finally come to fruition."
Mr. Waddington read the advertisement through, word by word. One gathered that the greatest discovery for many thousands of years would shortly be announced to the world. A certified and unfailing tonic for the moral system was shortly to be placed upon the market. A large factory had been engaged for the manufacture of the new commodity, and distributing warehouses in a central neighborhood. First come, first served. Ten and sixpence a jar. The paper fluttered out of Mr. Waddington's fingers. He looked across at Burton. Burton sank forward in his chair, his head fell into his hands.
"What I want to know," Ellen continued, in a tone of some excitement, "is—what is there coming to us for this? I never did give you credit, Alfred—not in these days, at any rate—for so much common sense. I see they have made you a director. If there's anything in those rotten beans of yours, you've more in your head than I thought, to be trying to make a bit of use of them. What are you getting out of it?"
There was a dead silence. Mr. Waddington had the appearance of a man who has received a shock. Burton withdrew his hands from before his face. He was looking pale and miserable.
"I am getting money," he admitted slowly. "I am getting a great deal of money."
Ellen nodded. Her face betokened the liveliest interest. Mr. Waddington sat like a musician listening to an ill-played rendering of his favorite melody. Burton thrust his hand into his pocket.
"I failed to send you your three pounds on Saturday, Ellen," he said. "Here are thirty—three hundred, if you will. Take them and leave me for a little time."
It is not too much to say that Ellen grabbed at the notes. She counted them carefully and thrust them into her reticule. Her manner was indicating a change. The hard contempt had gone from her face. She looked at her husband with something like awe. After all, this was the signal and final proof of greatness—he had made money!
"Aren't you pleased about it?" she asked sharply. "Not that I ever thought you'd have the wits to turn anything like this into real, solid account!"
Burton set his teeth.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I cannot quite explain how I feel about it. There will be plenty of money for you—for some time, at any rate. You can buy the house, if you like, or buy one somewhere else."
"What about you?" she demanded. "Ain't you coming back?"
He did not move. She rose to her feet, raised her veil and came over to where he was sitting. He smelt the familiar odor of "Lily of the Valley" perfume, blended with the odor of cleaned gloves and benzine. The air around him was full of little violet specks from her boa. She laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"Come and be a man again, Alfred," she begged, a little awkwardly. "You've got good common sense at the bottom still, I am sure. Why don't you give up this tomfoolery and come home to me and the boy? Or shall I stay up," she went on, "and have a little evening in town? You've got the money. Why not let's go to a restaurant and a music-hall afterwards? We might ask the Johnsons. Little Alf would be all right, and I put on my best hat, in case."
Burton looked wearily up.
"Ellen," he said, "I am afraid I can't make you understand. It is true that I shall probably be rich, but I hate the thought of it. I only want to be left alone. I have made a mistake, and yet, Heaven knows, it was hard for me to escape! Before very long," he added, his voice sinking a little lower, "it is quite likely that you will recognize me again completely. I dare say then I shall be very glad to go to the theatre with you and to meet the Johnsons. Just now I—I can't."
Ellen began to tremble.
"Before long you'll be very glad, eh?" she exclaimed. "Well, we'll see about that! I'm sick of this begging and praying of you to behave like a reasonable person. If there's another woman who's come along, why, out with it and let me know?"
"You don't understand," Mr. Waddington interrupted, gently. "Your husband and I have both come under the influence of these—these beans. It is not possible for us to live as we have been accustomed to live."
"Well, I like that!" Ellen declared. "Do you mean to say this is going on?"
Burton looked up.
"On the contrary," he announced, "it is coming to an end—with me, at any rate. Until it does come to an end, it will be kinder of you, and better for both of us, for you to keep away."
She stood for a moment quite still. Her back was turned to them, her shoulders were moving. When she spoke, however, her tone was still hard and unsympathetic.
"Very well," she said, "I'll get back to Garden Green. But mind you, my man," she went on, "none of your sneaking back home just when you're ready for it! Next time it shall be as I choose. I'm no wishy-washy creature, to be your wife one moment and something you can't bear even to look at, the next. No, I don't want none of your monkey tricks, opening the door!" she went on angrily, as Burton rose to see her out. "Stay where you are. I can find my way out of the place."
She departed, slamming the door after her. Mr. Waddington came and sat down by his former clerk's side.
"Tell me, Burton," he asked kindly, "how did you come to do this thing?"
"It was the professor and the girl," he murmured. "They made it seem so reasonable."
"It is always the girl," Mr. Waddington reflected. "The girl with the blue eyes, I suppose, whom you told me about? The girl of the garden?"
Burton nodded.
"Her father is a scientific man," he explained. "He wants money badly to go on with some excavations in Assyria. Between them all, I consented. Waddington," he went on, looking up, "I was beginning to get terrified. I had only two beans left. I have parted with them. They could have lasted me only a few months. I thought if I had to go back, I would go back free from any anxieties of work in an office. Wealth must help one somehow. If I can travel, surround myself with books, live in the country, I can't ever be so bad, I can't fall back where I was before. What do you think, Mr. Waddington? You must have this on your mind sometimes. You yourself have only six or seven months left."
Mr. Waddington sighed.
"Do you think that it isn't a nightmare for me, too?" he said gently. "Only I am afraid that wealth will not help you. The most vulgar and ignorant people I know are among the wealthiest. There is a more genuine simplicity and naturalness among the contented and competent poor than any other class. You were wrong, Burton. Riches breed idleness, riches tempt one to the purchase of false pleasure. You would have been better back upon your stool in my office."
"It is too late," Burton declared, a little doggedly. "I came to ask you if you wanted to join? For two more beans they would make you, too, a director, and give you five thousand shares."
Mr. Waddington shook his head.
"Thank you, Burton," he said, "I would sooner retain my beans. I have no interest in your enterprise. I think it hateful and abominable. I cannot conceive," he went on, "how you, Burton, in your sane mind, could have stooped so low as to associate yourself in any way with the thing."
"You don't know what my temptations were!" Burton groaned.
"And therefore," Mr. Waddington replied, "I will not judge you. Yet do not think that I should ever allow myself to consider your proposition, even for a moment. Tell me, you say you've parted with your last bean—"
"And my time is almost up!" Burton interrupted, beating the table before him. "Only this morning, for an instant, I was afraid!"
"Try and keep your thoughts away from it," Mr. Waddington advised. "Let me show you these new prints. By the bye, where is your wonderful little boy?"
"Gone—back to his mother!" Burton answered grimly. "Didn't you hear us mention him? I left him in my rooms one night and when I came back the whole place was in disorder. He was in a filthy state and sobbing for his home."
"My poor fellow!" Mr. Waddington murmured. "Come, I will take you with me to lunch. We can spend the afternoon in my library. I have some new treasures to show you. We will lose ourselves. For a short time, at least, you shall forget."
Mr. Waddington turned his head away quickly and glanced half guiltily towards his companion. To his amazement, Burton had been gazing in the same direction. Their eyes met. Burton coughed.
"A remarkably fine woman, that," Mr. Waddington declared.
Burton looked at him in astonishment.
"My dear Mr. Waddington!" he exclaimed. "You cannot really think so!"
They both turned their heads once more. The woman in question was standing upon the doorstep of a milliner's shop, waiting for a taxicab. In appearance she was certainly somewhat striking, but her hair was flagrantly dyed, her eyebrows darkened, her costume daring, her type obvious.
"A very fine woman indeed, I call her," Mr. Waddington repeated."Shouldn't mind taking her to lunch. Good mind to ask her."
Burton hesitated for a moment. Then a curious change came into his own face.
"She is rather fetching," he admitted.
The woman suddenly smiled. Mr. Waddington pulled himself together.
"It serves us right," he said, a little severely, and hastening his companion on. "I was looking at her only as a curiosity."
Burton glanced behind and move on reluctantly.
"I call her jolly good-looking," he declared.
Mr. Waddington pretended not to hear. They turned into Jermyn Street.
"There are some vases here, at this small shop round the corner, which I want you particularly to notice, Burton," he continued. "They are perfect models of old Etruscan ware. Did you ever see a more beautiful curve? Isn't it a dream? One could look at a curve like that and it has something the same effect upon one as a line of poetry or a single exquisite thought."
Burton glanced into the window and looked back again over his shoulder.The lady, however, had disappeared.
"Hm!" he remarked. "Very nice vase. Let's get on to lunch. I'm hungry."
Mr. Waddington stopped short upon the pavement and gripped his companion's arm.
"Burton," he said, a trifle hesitatingly, "you don't think—you don't imagine—"
"Not a bit of it!" Burton interrupted, savagely. "One must be a little human now and then. By Jove, old man, there are some ties, if you like! I always did think a yellow one would suit me."
Mr. Waddington pressed him gently along.
"I am not sure," he muttered, "that we are quite in the mood to buy ties. I want to ask you a question, Burton."
"Go ahead."
"You were telling me about this wonderful scheme of your friend the professor's, to make—Menatogen, I think you said. Did you part with both your beans?"
"Both," Burton replied, almost fiercely. "But I've another fortnight or so yet. It can't come before—it shan't!"
"You expect, I suppose, to make a great deal of money?" Mr. Waddington continued.
"We shall make piles," Burton declared. "I have had a large sum already for the beans. My pockets are full of money. Queer how light-hearted it makes you feel to have plenty of money. It's a dull world, you know, after all, and we are dull fellows. Think what one could do, now, with some of the notes I have in my pocket! Hire a motor-car, go to some bright place like theMetropoleat Brighton—a bright, cheerful, sociable place, I mean, where people who look interesting aren't above talking to you. And then a little dinner, and perhaps a music-hall afterwards, and some supper, and plenty to eat and drink—"
"Burton!" Mr. Waddington gasped. "Stop! Stop at once!"
"Why the dickens should I stop?" Burton demanded.
Mr. Waddington was looking shocked and pained. "You don't mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that this is your idea of a good time? That you would go to a hotel like theMetropoleand mix with the people whom you might meet there, and eat and drink too much, and call it enjoyment? Burton, what has come to you?"
Burton was looking a little sullen.
"It's all very well," he grumbled. "We're too jolly careful of ourselves. We don't get much fun. Here's your poky little restaurant. Let's see what it looks like inside."
They entered, and amaitre d'hôtelcame hurrying to meet them. Burton, however, shook his head.
"This place is no good, Waddington," he decided. "Only about half-a-dozen stodgy old people here, no music, and nothing to look at. Let's go where there's some life. I'll take you. My lunch. Come along."
Mr. Waddington protested but faintly. He murmured a word of apology to themaitre d'hôtel, whom he knew, but Burton had already gone on ahead and was whistling for a taxi. With a groan, Mr. Waddington noticed that his hat had slipped a little on one side. There was a distinct return of his rakish manner.
"TheMilan!" Burton ordered. "Get along as quick as you can. We are hungry."
The two men sat side by side in the taxicab. Mr. Waddington watched his companion in half-pained eagerness. Burton certainly was looking much more alert than earlier in the morning.
"I tell you money's a great thing," the latter went on, producing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "I don't know why I should have worried about this little business adventure. I call it a first-class idea. I'd like to be able to take taxies whenever I wanted them, and go round to the big restaurants and sit and watch the people. Come to a music-hall one night, Mr. Waddington, won't you? I haven't seen anything really funny for a long time."
"I'm afraid I should like to," Mr. Waddington began,—"I mean I should be delighted."
"What are you afraid about?" Burton asked quickly.
Mr. Waddington mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Burton," he said hoarsely, "I think it's coming on! I'm glad we are going to theMilan. I wish we could go to a music-hall to-night. That woman was attractive!"
Burton set his teeth.
"I can't help it," he muttered. "I can't help anything. Here goes for a good time!"
He dismissed the taxi and entered the Milan, swaggering just a little. They lunched together and neither showed their usual discrimination in the selection of the meal. In place of the light wine which Mr. Waddington generally chose, they had champagne. They drank Benedictine with their coffee and smoked cigars instead of cigarettes. Their conversation was a trifle jerky and Mr. Waddington kept on returning to the subject of the Menatogen Company.
"You know, I've three beans left, Burton," he explained, towards the end of the meal. "I don't know why I should keep them. They'd only last a matter of seven months, anyway. I've got to go back sometime. Do you think I could get in with you in the company?"
"We'll go and—Why, there is Mr. Bunsome!" Burton exclaimed. "Mr.Bunsome!"
The company promoter was just passing their table. He turned around at the sound of his name. For a moment he failed to recognize Burton. There was very little likeness between the pale, contemptuous young man with the dreamy eyes, who had sat opposite to him at the professor's dinner table a few nights ago, and this flushed young man who had just attracted his attention, and who had evidently been lunching exceedingly well. It was part of his business, however, to remember faces, and his natural aptitude came to his assistance.
"How do you do, Mr. Burton?" he said. "Glad to meet you again.Spending some of the Menatogen profits, eh?"
"Friend of mine here—Mr. Waddington," Burton explained. "Mr. Cowper knows all about him. He owns the rest of the beans, you know."
Mr. Bunsome was at once interested.
"I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Waddington!" he declared, holding out his hand. "Indirectly, you are connected with one of the most marvelous discoveries of modern days."
"I should like to make it 'directly,'" Mr. Waddington said. "Do you think my three beans would get me in on the ground floor?"
Mr. Bunsome was a little surprised.
"I understood from the professor," he remarked, "that your friend was not likely to care about entering into this?"
Burton, for a moment, half closed his eyes.
"I remember," he said. "Last night I didn't think he would care about it. I find I was mistaken."
Mr. Bunsome looked at his watch.
"I am meeting Mr. Cowper this afternoon," he said, "and Mr. Bomford. I know that the greatest difficulty that we have to face at present is the very minute specimens of this wonderful—er—vegetable, from which we have to prepare the food. I should think it very likely that we might be able to offer you an interest in return for your beans. Will you call at my office, Mr. Waddington, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning—number 17, Norfolk Street?"
"With pleasure," Mr. Waddington assented. "Have a drink?"
Mr. Bunsome did not hesitate—it was not his custom to refuse any offer of the sort! He sat down at their table and ordered a sherry and bitters. Mr. Waddington seemed to have expanded. He did not mention the subject of architecture. More than once Mr. Bunsome glanced with some surprise at Burton. The young man completely puzzled him. They talked about Menatogen and its possibilities, and Burton kept harking back to the subject of profits. Mr. Bunsome at last could contain his curiosity no longer.
"Say," he remarked, "you had a headache or something the other night, I think? Seemed as quiet as they make 'em down at the old professor's. I tell you I shouldn't have known you again."
Burton was suddenly white. Mr. Waddington plunged in.
"Dry old stick, the professor, anyway, from what I've heard," he said. "Now don't you forget, Mr. Bunsome. I shall be round at your office at ten o'clock sharp to-morrow, and I expect to be let into the company. Three beans I've got, and remember they're worth something. They took that old Egyptian Johnny—him and his family, of course—a matter of a thousand years to grow, and there's no one else on to them. Why, they're unique, and they do the trick, too—that I can speak for. Paid the bill, Burton?"
Burton nodded. The two men shook hands with Mr. Bunsome and prepared to leave. They walked out into the Strand.
"Got anything to do this afternoon particular?" Mr. Waddington asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"Not a thing," Burton replied, puffing at his cigar and unconsciously altering slightly the angle of his hat.
"Wouldn't care about a game of billiards at the Golden Lion, I suppose?"Mr. Waddington suggested.
"Rather!" Burton assented. "Let's buy the girls some flowers and take a taxi down. Go down in style, eh? I'll pay."
Mr. Waddington looked at his companion—watched him, indeed, hail the taxi—and groaned. A sudden wave of half-ashamed regret swept through him. It was gone, then, this brief peep into a wonderful world! His own fall was imminent. The click of the balls was in his ears, the taste of strong drink was inviting him. The hard laugh and playful familiarities of the buxom young lady were calling to him. He sighed and took his place by his companion's side.
With his hat at a very distinct angle indeed, with a fourpenny cigar, ornamented by a gold band, in his mouth, Burton sat before a hard-toned piano and vamped.
"Pretty music, The Chocolate Soldier," he remarked, with an air of complete satisfaction in his performance.
Miss Maud, who was standing by his side with her hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, assented vigorously.
"And you do play it so nicely, Mr. Burton," she said. "It makes me long to see it again. I haven't been to the theatre for heaven knows how long!"
Burton turned round in his stool. "What are you doing to-night?" he asked. "Nothing," the young lady replied, eagerly. "Take me to the theatre, there's a dear."
"Righto!" he declared. "I expect I can manage it."
Miss Maud waltzed playfully around the room, her hands above her head.She put her head out of the door and called into the bar.
"Milly, Mr. Burton's taking me to the theatre to-night. Why don't you get Mr. Waddington to come along? We can both get a night off if you make up to the governor for a bit."
"I'll try," was the eager reply,—"that is, if Mr. Waddington's agreeable."
Maud came back to her place by the piano. She was a plump young lady with a pink and white complexion, which suffered slightly from lack of exercise and fresh air and over-use of powder. Her hair was yellower than her friend's, but it also owed some part of its beauty to artificial means. In business hours she was attired in an exceedingly tight-fitting black dress, disfigured in many places by the accidents of her profession.
"You are a dear, Mr. Burton," she declared. "I wonder what your wife would say, though?" she added, a little coyly.
"Not seeing much of Ellen just lately," Burton replied. "I'm living up in town alone."
"Oh!" she remarked. "Mr. Burton, I'm ashamed of you! What does that mean, I wonder? You men!" she went on, with a sigh. "One has to be so careful. You are such deceivers, you know! What's the attraction?"
"You!" he whispered.
"What a caution you are!" she exclaimed. "I like that, too, after not coming near me for months! What are you looking so scared about, all of a sudden?"
Burton was looking through the garishly papered walls of the public-house sitting-room, out into the world. He was certainly a little paler.
"Haven't I been in for months?" he asked softly.
She stared at him.
"Well, I suppose you know!" she retorted. "Pretty shabby I thought it of you, too, after coming in and making such a fuss as you used to pretty well every afternoon. I don't like friends that treat you like that. Makes you careful when they come round again. I'd like to know what you've been doing?"
"Ah!" he said, "you will never know that. Perhaps I myself shall never know that really again. Get me a whiskey and soda, Maud. I want a drink."
"I should say you did!" the young woman declared, pertly. "Sitting there, looking struck all of a heap! Some woman, I expect, you've been gone on. You men are all the same. I've no patience with you—not a bit. If it wasn't," she added, taking down the whiskey bottle from the shelf, "that life's so precious dull without you, I wouldn't have a thing to say to you—no, not me nor Milly either! We were both talking about you and Mr. Waddington only a few nights ago, and of the two I'm not sure that he's not the worst. A man at his age ought to know his mind. Special Scotch—there you are, Mr. Burton. Hope it will do you good."
Burton drank his whiskey and soda as though he needed it. He was suddenly pale, and his fingers were idle upon the keys of the pianoforte. The girl looked at him curiously.
"Not quite yourself, are you?" she inquired. "Don't get chippy before this evening. I don't think I'll give you anything else to drink. When a gentleman takes me out, I like him to be at his best."
Burton came back. It was a long journey from the little corner of the world into which his thoughts had strayed, to the ornate, artificial-looking parlor, with the Turkey-carpet upon the floor and framed advertisements upon the walls.
"I am sorry," he said. "I had forgotten. I can't take you out to-night—I've got an engagement. How I shall keep it I don't know," he went on, half reminiscently, "but I've got to."
The young woman looked at him with rising color. "Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "You're a nice one, you are! You come in for the first time for Lord knows how long, you agree to take me out this evening, and then, all of a sudden, back out of it! I've had enough of you, Mr. Burton. You can hook it as soon as you like."
Burton rose slowly to his feet.
"I am sorry," he said simply. "I suppose I am not quite myself to-day. I was just thinking how jolly it would be to take you out and have a little supper afterwards, when I remembered—I remembered—that engagement. I've got to go through with it."
"Another girl, I suppose?" she demanded, turning away to look at herself in the mirror.
He shivered. He was in a curious state of mind but there seemed to him something heretical in placing Edith among the same sex.
"It is an engagement I can't very well break," he confessed. "I'll come in again."
"You needn't," she declared, curtly. "When I say a thing, I mean it.I've done with you."
Burton crossed the threshold into the smaller room, where Mr.Waddington appeared to be deriving a certain amount of beatificsatisfaction from sitting in an easy-chair and having his hand held byMiss Milly. They both looked at him, as he entered, in some surprise.
"What have you two been going on about?" the young lady asked. "I heardMaud speaking up at you. Some lovers' quarrel, I suppose?"
The moment was passing. Burton laughed—a little hardly, perhaps, but boisterously.
"Maud's mad with me," he explained. "I thought I could take her out to-night. Remembered afterwards I couldn't. Say, old man, you're going it a bit, aren't you?" he continued, shaking his head at his late employer.
Mr. Waddington held his companion's hand more tenderly than ever.
"At your age," he remarked, severely, "you shouldn't notice such things.Milly and I are old friends, aren't we?" he added, drawing her to him.
"Well, it's taken a bit of making up my mind to forgive you," the young lady admitted. "What a pity you can't bring Maud along to-night!" she went on, addressing Burton. "We're going to Frascati's to dinner and into the Oxford afterwards. Get along back and make it up with her. You can easily break your other engagement."
Burton swaggered back to the threshold of the other room.
"Hi! Come along, Maudie!" he said. "I can't take you out to-night but I'll take you to-morrow night, and I'll stand a bottle of champagne now to make up for it."
"Don't want your champagne," the young lady began;—"leastways," she added, remembering that, after all, business was supposed to be her first concern, "I won't say 'no' to a glass of wine with you, but you mustn't take it that you can come in here and do just as you please. I may go out with you some other evening, and I may not. I don't think I shall. To-night just happens to suit me."
With a last admiring glance at herself in the mirror, she came into the room. Burton patted her on the arm and waved the wine list away.
"The best is good enough," he declared,—"the best in the house. Just what you like yourself. Price don't matter just now."
He counted a roll of notes which he drew from his trousers pocket. The two girls looked at him in amazement. He threw one upon the table.
"Backed a horse?" Maud asked. "Legacy?" Milly inquired. Burton, with some difficulty, relit the stump of his cigar.
"Bit of an advance I've just received from a company I'm connected with," he explained. "Would insist on my being a director. I'm trying to get Waddington here into it," he added, condescendingly. "Jolly good thing for him if I succeed, I can tell you."
Miss Maud moved away in a chastened manner. She took the opportunity to slip upstairs and powder her face and put on clean white cuffs. Presently she returned, carrying the wine on a silver tray, with the best glasses that could be procured.
"Here's luck!" Burton exclaimed, jauntily. "Can't drink much myself. This bubbly stuff never did agree with me and I had a good go at it last night."
Maud filled up his glass, nevertheless, touched it with her own, and drank, looking at him all the time with an expression in her eyes upon which she was wont to rely.
"Take me out to-night, dear," she whispered. "I feel just like having a good time to-night. Do!"
Burton suddenly threw his glass upon the floor. The wine ran across the carpet in a little stream. Splinters of the glass lay about in all directions. They all three looked at him, transfixed.
"I am sorry," he said.
He turned and walked out of the room. They were all too astonished to stop him. They heard him cross the bar-room and they heard the door close as he passed into the street.
"Of all the extraordinary things!" Maud declared.
"Well, I never!" Milly gasped.
"If Mr. Burton calls that behaving like a gentleman—" Maud continued, in a heated manner—Mr. Waddington patted her on the shoulder.
"Hush, hush, my dear!" he said. "Between ourselves, Burton has been going it a bit lately. There's no doubt that he's had a drop too much to drink this afternoon. Don't take any notice of him. He'll come round all right. I can understand what's the matter with him. You mark my words, in two or three days he'll be just his old self."
"Has he come into a fortune, or what?" Maud demanded. "He's left you, hasn't he?"
Mr. Waddington nodded.
"He's found a better job," he admitted. "Kind of queer in his health, though. I've been taken a little like it myself, but those sort of things pass off—they pass off."
Milly looked at him curiously. He was suddenly quiet.
"Why, you're looking just like Mr. Burton did a few minutes ago!" she declared. "What's the matter with you? Can you see ghosts?" Mr. Waddington sat quite still. "Yes," he muttered, "I see ghosts!"
They looked at him in a puzzled manner. Then Milly leaned towards him and filled his glass with Wine. She touched his glass with her own, she even suffered her arm to rest upon his shoulder. For a single moment Mr. Waddington appeared to feel some instinct of aversion. He seemed almost about to draw away. Then the mood passed. He drew her towards him with a little burst of laughter, and raised his glass to his lips.
"Here's fun!" he exclaimed. "Poor old Burton!"
Edith slipped out of her evening cloak and came into the foyer of the Opera House, a spotless vision of white. For a moment she looked at her cavalier in something like amazement. It did not need the red handkerchief, a corner of which was creeping out from behind his waistcoat, to convince her that some extraordinary change had taken place in Burton. He was looking pale and confused, and his quiet naturalness of manner had altogether disappeared. He came towards her awkwardly, swinging a pair of white kid gloves in his hand.
"Bit late, aren't you?" he remarked.
"I am afraid I am a few minutes late," she admitted. "Until the last moment father said he was coming. We shall have to go in very quietly."
"Come along, then," he said. "I don't know the way. I suppose one of these fellows will tell us."
His inquiry, loud-voiced and not entirely coherent, received at first scant attention from the usher to whom he addressed himself. They were directed to their places at last, however. The house was in darkness, and with the music Edith forgot, for a time, the slight shock which she had received. The opera was Samson et Dalila, and a very famous tenor was making his reappearance after a long absence. Edith gave herself up to complete enjoyment of the music. Then suddenly she was startled by a yawn at her side. Burton was sitting back, his hands in his pockets, his mouth wide-open.
"Mr. Burton!" she exclaimed softly. He had the grace to sit up."Long-winded sort of stuff, this," he pronounced, in an audible whisper.
She felt a cold shiver of apprehension. As she saw him lounging there beside her, her thoughts seemed to go back to the day when she had looked with scornful disdain at that miserable picnic-party of trippers, who drank beer out of stone jugs, and formed a blot upon the landscape. Once more she saw the man who stood a little apart, in his loud clothes and common cloth cap, saw him looking into the garden. She began to tremble. What had she done—so nearly done! In spite of herself, the music drew her away again. She even found herself turning towards him once for sympathy.
"Isn't it exquisite?" she murmured.
He laughed shortly.
"Give me The Chocolate Soldier," he declared. "Worth a dozen of this!"
Suddenly she realized what had happened. Her anger and resentment faded away. For the first time she wholly and entirely believed his story. For the first time she felt that this miracle had come to pass. She was no longer ashamed of him. She no longer harbored any small feelings of resentment at his ill-bred attitude. A profound sympathy swept up from her heart—sympathy for him, sympathy, too, for herself. When they passed out together she was as sweet to him as possible, though he put on a black bowler hat some time before it was necessary, and though his red handkerchief became very much in evidence.
"You will drive me down to Chelsea, won't you?" she begged.
"Righto!" he replied. "I'll get one of these chaps to fetch a taxi."
He succeeded in obtaining one, gleeful because he had outwitted some prior applicant to whom the cab properly belonged.
"Couldn't stop somewhere and have a little supper, could we?" he asked.
"I am afraid not," she answered. "It wouldn't be quite the thing."
He tried to take her hand. After a moment's hesitation she permitted it.
"Mr. Burton," she said softly, "do answer me one question. Did you part with all your beans?"
His hand went up to his forehead for a moment.
"Yes," he replied, "both of them. I only had two, and it didn't seem worth while keeping one. Got my pockets full of money, too, and they are going to make me a director of Menatogen."
"Do you feel any different?" she asked him.
He looked at her in a puzzled way and, striking a match, lit a cigarette without her permission.
"Odd you should ask that," he remarked. "I do feel sort of queer to-night—as though I'd been ill, or something of the sort. There are so many things I can only half remember—at least I remember the things themselves, but the part I took in them seems so odd. Kind of feeling as though I'd been masquerading in another chap's clothes," he added, with an uneasy little laugh. "I don't half like it."
"Tell me," she persisted, "did you really find the music tiresome?"
He nodded.
"Rather," he confessed. "The Chocolate Soldier is my idea of music. I like something with a tune in it. There's been no one to beat Gilbert and Sullivan. I don't know who wrote this Samson and Delilah, but he was a dismal sort of beggar, wasn't he? I like something cheerful. Don't you want to come and have some supper, Edith? I know a place where they play all the popular music."
"No, thank you," she told him gravely.
"You seem so cold and sort of stand-offish to-night," he complained, coming a little closer to her. "Some of those nights down at your place—can't remember 'em very well but I am jolly sure you were different. What's happened? Mayn't I hold your fingers, even?"
His arm would have been around her waist, but she evaded it firmly.
"Don't you know what has happened?" she demanded, earnestly. "Don't you really know?"
"Can't say that I do," he admitted. "I've got a sort of feeling as though I'd been all tied-up like, lately. Haven't been able to enjoy myself properly, and gone mooning about after shadows. To-night I feel just as though I were coming into my own again a bit. I say," he added, admiringly, "you do look stunning! Come and have some supper—no one will know—and let me drive you home afterwards. Do!"
She shook her head.
"I don't think you must talk to me quite like this," she said kindly."You have a wife, you know, and I am engaged to be married."
He laughed, quite easily.
"Never seen Ellen, have you?" he remarked. "She's a fine woman, you know, although she isn't quite your style. She'd think you sort of pale and colorless, I expect—no kind of go or dash about you."
"Is that what you think?" Edith asked him, smiling.
"You aren't exactly the style I've always admired," he confessed, "but there's something about you," he added, in a puzzled manner,—"I don't know what it is but I remember it from a year ago—something that seemed to catch hold of me. I expect I must be a sentimental sort of Johnny underneath. However, I do admire you, Edith, immensely. I only wish—"
Again she evaded him.
"Please do not forget Mr. Bomford," she begged.
"That silly old ass!" Burton exclaimed. "Looks as though he'd swallowed a poker! You're never going to marry him!"
"I think that I shall," she replied. "At any rate, at present I am engaged to him. Therefore, if you please, you must keep just a little further away. I don't like to mention it, but I think—haven't you been smoking rather too much?"
He laughed, without a trace of sensitiveness. "I have been having rather a day of it," he admitted. "But I say, Edith, if you won't come to supper, I think you might let a fellow—"
She drew back into her corner.
"Mr. Burton," she said, "you must please not come near me."
"But I want a kiss," he protested. "You'd have given me one the other night. You'd have given me as many as I'd liked. You almost clung to me—that night under the cedar tree."
Her eyes for a moment were half closed.
"It was a different world then," she whispered softly. "It was a different Mr. Burton. You see, since then a curtain has come down. We are starting a fresh act and I don't think I know you quite so well as I did."
"Sounds like tommyrot," he grumbled.
The taxicab came to a standstill. The man got down and opened the door.Burton half sulkily stepped out on to the pavement.
"Well, here you are," he announced. "Can't say that I think much of you this evening."
She held out her hand. They were standing on the pavement now, in the light of a gas-lamp, and with the chauffeur close at hand. She was not in the least afraid but there was a lump in her throat. He looked so very common, so far away from those little memories with which she must grapple!
"Mr. Burton," she said, "good-night! I want to thank you for this evening and I want to ask you to promise that if ever you are sorry because I persuaded you to sell those little beans, you will forgive me. It was a very wonderful thing, you know, and I didn't understand. Perhaps I was wrong."
"Don't you worry," he answered, cheerfully. "That's all right, anyway. It's jolly well the best thing I ever did in my life. Got my pockets full of money already, and I mean to have a thundering good time with it. No fear of my ever blaming you. Good-night, Miss Edith! My regards to the governor and tell him I am all on for Menatogen."
He gave his hat a little twist and stepped back into the taxi.
"I will give my father your message," she told him, as the door opened to receive her.
"Righto!" Burton replied. "Leicester Square, cabby!"
There was considerable excitement in Laurence Avenue when a few mornings later Mr. Alfred Burton, in a perfectly appointed motor-car, drew up before the door of Clematis Villa. In a very leisurely manner he descended and stood looking around him for a moment in the front garden.
"Poky little place," he said half to himself, having completed a disparaging survey. "Hullo, Johnson! How are you?"
Mr. Johnson, who, with a little bag in his hand, had just trudged a mile to save a penny, looked with something like amazement at the apparition which confronted him. Mr. Alfred Burton was arrayed in town clothes of the most pronounced cut. His tail coat was exactly the right length; his trousers, although the pattern was a little loud, were exceedingly well cut. He wore patent boots with white gaiters, a carefully brushed silk hat, and he carried in his hand a pair of yellow kid gloves. He had a malacca cane with a gold top under his arm, and a cigar at the usual angle in the corner of his mouth. No wonder that Mr. Johnson, who was, it must be confessed, exceedingly shabby, took his pipe from his mouth and stared at his quondam friend in amazement.
"Hullo, Burton, you back again?" he exclaimed weakly.
"I am back again just to settle up here," Mr. Burton explained, with a wave of the hand. "Just run down in the car to take the missis out a little way."
Mr. Johnson held on to the railing tightly.
"Your car?"
"My car," Mr. Burton admitted, modestly. "Take you for a ride some day, if you like. How's the wife?"
"First-class, thanks," Mr. Johnson replied. "First-class, thank you,Mr. Burton."
Burton protested mildly.
"No need to 'Mr. Burton' me, Johnson, old fellow! It shall never be said of me that a great and wonderful rise in the world altered my feelings towards those with whom I was once on terms of intimacy. I shall always be glad to know you, Johnson. Thursday evening, isn't it? What are you and the wife doing?"
"I don't know," Johnson confessed, "that we are doing anything particular. We shall turn up at the band, I suppose."
"Good!" Mr. Burton said. "It will be our last Thursday evening in these parts, I expect, but after I have taken the wife for a little spin we'll walk round the band-stand ourselves. Perhaps we shall be able to induce you and Mrs. Johnson to come back and take a little supper with us?"
Mr. Johnson pulled himself together.
"Very kind of you, old cocky," he declared, tremulously. "Been striking it thick, haven't you?"
Burton nodded.
"Dropped across a little thing in the city," he remarked, flicking the dust from the sleeve of his coat. "Jolly good spec it turned out. They made me a director. It's this new Menatogen Company. Heard of it?"
"God bless my soul, of course I have!" Johnson exclaimed. "Millions in it, they say. The shares went from par to four premium in half an hour. I know a man who had a call of a hundred. He's cleared four hundred pounds."
Mr. Burton nodded in a most condescending manner.
"That so?" he remarked. "I've a matter of ten thousand myself, besides some further calls, but I'm not selling just yet. If your friend's got any left, you can tell him from me—and I ought to know as I'm a director—that the shares will be at nine before long. Shouldn't wonder if they didn't go to twenty. It's a grand invention. Best thing I ever touched in my life."
Johnson had been finding it chilly a short time ago but he took off his hat now and mopped his forehead.
"Haven't been home lately, have you?" he remarked.
"To tell you the truth," Mr. Burton explained, puffing at his cigar, "this little affair has been taking up every minute of my time. I had to take chambers in town to keep up with my work. Well, so long, Johnson! See you later at the band-stand. Don't forget we shall be expecting you this evening. May run you up to the west-end, perhaps, if the missis feels like it."
He nodded and proceeded on his way to the front door of his domicile. Mr. Johnson, narrowly escaping an impulse to take off his hat, proceeded on his homeward way.
"Any one at home?" Mr. Burton inquired, letting himself in.
There was no reply. Mr. Burton knocked with his gold-headed cane upon the side of the wall. The door at the end of the passage opened abruptly. Ellen appeared.
"What are you doing there, knocking all the plaster down?" she demanded, sharply. "If you want to come in, why can't you ring the bell? Standing there with your hat on as though the place belonged to you!"
Burton was a little taken aback. He recovered himself, however, secure in the splendid consciousness of his irreproachable clothes and the waiting motor-car. He threw open the door of the parlor.
"Step this way a moment, Ellen," he said. She followed him reluctantly into the room. He put his hand upon her shoulder to lead her to the window. She shook herself free at once.
"Hands off!" she ordered. "What is it you want?"
He pointed out of the window to the magnificent memorial of his success.She looked at it disparagingly.
"What's that? Your taxicab?" she asked. "What did you keep him for?You can get another one at the corner."
Burton gasped.
"Taxicab!" he exclaimed. "Taxicab, indeed! Look at it again. That's a motor-car—my own motor-car. Do you hear that? Bought and paid for!"
"Well, run away and play with it, then!" she retorted, turning as though to leave the room. "I don't want you fooling about here. I'm just getting Alfred's supper." Burton dropped his cigar upon the carpet. Even when he had picked it up, he stood looking at her with his mouth a little open.
"You don't seem to understand, Ellen," he said. "Listen. I've come back home. A share of that motor-car is yours."
"Come back home," Ellen repeated slowly.
"Exactly," he admitted, complacently. "I am afraid this is rather a shock for you, but good news never kills, you know. We'll motor up to the band presently and I've asked the Johnsons to supper. If you've nothing in the house, we'll all go up to the west-end somewhere. . . . What's the matter with you?"
Ellen was looking at that moment positively handsome. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes ablaze.
"Alfred Burton," she declared, "the last few times I've seen you, I've put you down as being dotty. Now I am sure of it. The sooner you're out of this, the better, before I lose my temper."
"But, my dear Ellen," he protested, soothingly, "I can assure you that what I am telling you is the truth! I have become unexpectedly rich. A fortunate stroke of business—the Menatogen Company, you know—has completely altered our lives. You are naturally overcome—"
"Naturally over-fiddlesticks!" Ellen interrupted. "Look here, my man, I've had about enough of this. You come down here, thinking because you've come to your senses, and because you've got new clothes and a motor-car, that you can just sit down as though nothing had happened. Just let me tell you this—you can't do it! You can leave your wife because she can't stop you. You can stay away from her because she can't drag you back. But you can't come and put on a new suit of clothes and bring a motor-car and say 'I've come back,' and sit down at your usual place and find everything just as you've left it. You can't do that, Alfred Burton, and you must be a bigger fool even than you look to imagine that you can!"
"Ellen," he faltered, "don't you want me back?"
"Not I!" she replied, fiercely. "Not you nor your motor-car nor your money nor any part of you. Come swaggering in, dropping your cigar ash over the place, and behaving as though you'd been a respectable person all your life!" she continued, indignantly. "What right have you got to think that your wife was made to be your slave or your trained dog, to beg when you hold out a piece of biscuit, and go and lie down alone when you don't want her. Send your three pounds a week and get out of it. That's all I want to hear of you! You know the way, don't you?"
Her outstretched forefinger pointed to the door. Burton had never felt so pitifully short of words in his life.
"I—I've asked the Johnsons to supper," he stammered, as he took up his hat.
"Take them to your west-end, then!" Ellen cried, scornfully. "Take them riding in your motor-car. Why don't you tell the man to drive up and down the avenue, that every one may see how fine you are! Would you like to know just what I think of you?"
Burton looked into her face and felt a singular reluctance to listen to the torrent of words which he felt was ready to break upon his head. He tried to hold himself a little more upright.
"You will be sorry for this, Ellen," he said, with some attempt at dignity.
She laughed scornfully.
"One isn't sorry at getting rid of such as you," she answered, and slammed the door behind him.
Burton walked with hesitating footsteps down the footpath. This was not in the least the triumphal return he had intended to make! He stood for a moment upon the pavement, considering. It was curious, but his motor-car no longer seemed to him a glorious vehicle. He was distinctly dissatisfied with the cut of his clothes, the glossiness of his silk hat, his general appearance. The thought of his bank balance failed to bring him any satisfaction whatever. He seemed suddenly, as clearly as though he were looking into a mirror, to see himself with eyes. He recognized even the blatant stupidity of his return, and he admired Ellen more than he had ever admired her in his life.
"Where to, sir?" his brand-new chauffeur asked.
Burton pitched away his cigar.
"Wait a moment," he said, and turning round, walked with firm footsteps back to the house. He tried the door and opened it, looked into the parlor and found it empty. He walked down the passage and pushed open the door of the kitchen. Little Alfred's meal was ready on a tray, the room was spotless and shining, but Ellen, with her head buried in her hands, was leaning forward in her chair, sobbing. He suddenly fell on his knees by her side.
"Please forgive me, Ellen!" he cried, almost sobbing himself. "Please forgive me for being such a rotter. I'll never—I promise that I'll never do anything of the sort again."
She looked up. He ventured to put his arm around her waist. She shook herself free, very weakly. He tried again and with success.
"I know I've made an idiot of myself," he went on. "I'd no right to come down here like that. I just want you to forgive me now, that's all. I didn't mean to swagger about being rich. I'm not enjoying it a bit till you come along."
Ellen raised her head once more. Her lips were' quivering, half with a smile, although the tears were still in her eyes.
"Sure you mean it?" she asked softly.
"Absolutely!" he insisted. "Go and put on your hat with the feathers and we'll meet the Johnsons and take them for a ride."
"You don't like the one with the feathers," she said, doubtfully.
"I like it now," he assured her heartily. "I'm fonder of you at this moment, Ellen, than any one in the world. I always have been, really."
"Stupid!" she declared. "I shall wear my hat with the wing and we will call around at Saunders' and I can buy a motor veil. I always did think that a motor veil would suit me. We'd better call at Mrs. Cross's, too, and have her come in and cook the supper. Don't get into mischief while I'm upstairs."
"I'll come, too—and see little Alfred," he added, hastily.
"Carry the tray, then, and mind where you're going," Ellen ordered.
The half-yearly directors' meeting of the Menatogen Company had just been held. One by one, those who had attended it were taking their leave. The auditor, with a bundle of papers under his arm, shook hands cordially with the chairman—Alfred Burton, Esquire—and Mr. Waddington, and Mr. Bomford, who, during the absence of the professor in Assyria, represented the financial interests of the company.
"A most wonderful report, gentlemen," the auditor pronounced,—"a business, I should consider, without its equal in the world."
"And still developing," Mr. Waddington remarked, impressively.
"And still developing," the auditor agreed. "Another three years like the last and I shall have the pleasure of numbering at least three millionaires among my acquaintances."
"Shall we—?" Mr. Burton suggested, glancing towards Waddington.
Mr. Waddington nodded, but Mr. Bomford took up his hat. He was dressed in the height of subdued fashion. His clothes and manners would have graced a Cabinet Minister. He had, as a matter of fact, just entered Parliament.
"You will excuse me, gentlemen," he said. "I make it a rule never to take anything at all in the middle of the day."
He took his leave with the auditor.
"Pompous old ass!" Mr. Waddington murmured. "A snob!" Mr. AlfredBurton declared,—"that's what I call him! Got his eye on a place inSociety. Saw his name in the paper the other day a guest at LadySomebody's reception. Here goes, old chap—success to Menatogen!"
Waddington drained his glass.
"They say it's his wife who pushes him on so," he remarked.
Mr. Burton's wine went suddenly flat. He drank it but without enjoyment. Then he rose to his feet.
"Well, so long, Waddington, old chap," he said. "I expect the missis is waiting for me."
Mrs. Burton was certainly waiting for her husband. She was sitting back among the cushions of her Sixty horse-power Daimler, wrapped in a motoring coat of the latest fashion, her somewhat brilliant coloring only partially obscured by the silver-gray veil which drooped from her motor bonnet. Burton took his place beside her almost in silence, and they glided off. She looked at him curiously.
"Meeting go off all right?" she asked, a little sharply.
"Top hole," Mr. Burton replied.
"Then what are you so glum about?" she demanded, suspiciously. "You've got nothing to worry about that I can see."
"Nothing at all," Mr. Burton admitted.
"Very good report of Alfred came second post," Mrs. Burton continued. "They say he'll be fit to enter Harrow next year. And an invitation to dine, too, with Lady Goldstein. We're getting on, Alfred. The only thing now is that country house. I wish we could find something to suit us."
"If we keep on looking," Burton remarked, "we are bound to come across something sooner or later. If not, I must build."
"I'm all for building," Mrs. Burton declared. "I don't care for mouldy old ruins, with ivy and damp places upon the walls. I like something fine and spick and span and handsome, with a tower to it, and a long straight drive that you can see down to the road; plenty of stone work about the windows, and good square rooms. As for the garden, well, let that come. We can plant a lot of small trees about, and lay down a lawn. I don't care about other folks' leavings in houses, and a lot of trees around a place always did put me off. Have you told him where to go to?"
Burton shook his head.
"I just told him to drive about thirty or forty miles into the country," he said. "It doesn't matter in what direction, does it? We may see something that will suit us."
The car, with its splendid easy motion, sped noiselessly through the suburbs and out into the country. It seemed to Mr. Burton that he must have dozed. He had been up late the night before, and for several nights before that. He was a little puffy about the cheeks and his eyes were not so bright as they had been. He had developed a habit of dozing off in odd places. When he awoke, he sat up with a start. He had been dreaming. Surely this was a part of the dream! The car was going very slowly indeed. On one side of him was a common, with bushes of flaming gorse and clumps of heather, and little ragged plantations of pine trees; and on his right, a low, old-fashioned house, a lawn of velvet, and a great cedar tree; a walled garden with straight, box-bordered paths, a garden full of old-fashioned flowers whose perfume seemed suddenly to be tearing at some newly-awakened part of the man. He sat up. He stared at the little seat among the rose bushes. Surely he was back again, back again in that strange world, where the flavor of existence was a different thing, where his head had touched the clouds, where all the gross cares and pleasures of his everyday life had fallen away! Was it the perfume of the roses, of the stocks, which had suddenly appealed to some dormant sense of beauty? Or had he indeed passed back for a moment into that world concerning which he had sometimes strange, half doubtful thoughts? He leaned forward, and his eyes wandered feverishly among the hidden places of the garden. The seat was empty. Propped up against the hedge was a notice board: "This House to Let."
"What on earth are you staring at?" Mrs. Burton demanded, with some acerbity. "A silly little place like that would be no use to us. I don't know what the people who've been living there could have been thinking about, to let the garden get into such a state. Fancy a nasty dark tree like that, too, keeping all the sun away from the house! I'd have it cut down if it were mine. What on earth are you looking at, Alfred Burton?"
He turned towards her, heavy-eyed.
"Somewhere under that cedar tree," he said, "a man's soul was buried. I was wondering if its ghost ever walked!"
Mrs. Burton lifted the speaking-tube to her lips.
"You can take the next turning home, John," she ordered.