CHAPTER XXXIII

“Dearest Queenie”—the letter ran—“I am dreadfully upset not to find you at home, as I ’phoned up to you directly I knew that I should have to go away on most important business. I am just off to Paris. Just imagine my going to Paris without you, dearest! It seems preposterous. If I get my business through in a day or two, perhaps you will join me there? If I don’t get my business through, I may have to go on elsewhere, and I could not drag you about, on what may be a wild-goose chase, half over Europe. I could have given you an outline of the story if you had been at home, but I haven’t time to write it. When I think of myself, a respectable British householder, tearing off on this mad errand, I feel inclined to pinch myself to make sure that I am awake. Till we meet.—Your fond and devoted“Alfred.”

“Dearest Queenie”—the letter ran—“I am dreadfully upset not to find you at home, as I ’phoned up to you directly I knew that I should have to go away on most important business. I am just off to Paris. Just imagine my going to Paris without you, dearest! It seems preposterous. If I get my business through in a day or two, perhaps you will join me there? If I don’t get my business through, I may have to go on elsewhere, and I could not drag you about, on what may be a wild-goose chase, half over Europe. I could have given you an outline of the story if you had been at home, but I haven’t time to write it. When I think of myself, a respectable British householder, tearing off on this mad errand, I feel inclined to pinch myself to make sure that I am awake. Till we meet.—Your fond and devoted

“Alfred.”

Regina sat down and gasped. What did it mean? Surely the hussy was not at the bottom of this. Just then Julia came in, having run across the road to speak to one of the Marksby girls whom she had seenstanding at the gate as they came toward Ye Dene.

“What’s this Margaret says about daddy?” she asked.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” Regina rejoined, quite airily. “Your father has had to go away on business for a few days.”

“Oh, I thought, from Margaret’s demeanor, that daddy had gone away for good and all.”

“Julia!”

“Well, Margaret seemed to make such a mouthful of it.”

“He came home very much fussed not to find us at home, and I suppose Margaret imagined that something serious had happened. It’s nothing at all. Here, you can read the letter.”

“Paris!” said Julia, when she reached that point of information as she read her father’s good-by note.

“Well—how nice! If you do join him you will have a lovely time—a little honeymoon trip. Perhaps he will ask me to go, too—that would be lovely. How silly of Margaret to be so mysterious about it! Well, I’ll go and tidy for dinner.”

Mother and daughter were quite cheerful as they discussed the evening meal. At about nine o’clock there was a sound of electricity, and Julia lifted her head from her book.

“I believe that’s Harry and Maudie; it sounded like their brougham.”

Then there was a peal at the bell, and Julia ran out into the hall.

“Maudie, is it you?” she asked.

“Yes, we thought we would come out and see you. How’s mother?”

“Oh, all right. I thought you were going to a theatre?”

“Yes, we did think about it, but we changed our minds. Julia, has anything happened?”

“No—at least, only that daddy has gone to Paris for a few days. We came home and found he had been here, fussed because mother wasn’t in, packed his own bag, and left a note to say where he has gone and to say ‘good-by’ and—voilà tout.”

“But it isn’t all,” cried Maudie, “it’s only the beginning of it. My dear, daddy’s gone to Paris withher! It was by the merest chance we know. Harry was coming up the Strand—walking—he came up with a man in his cab as far as Charing Cross because they wanted to talk business; he got out at the corner of Villiers Street, and as he crossed over to the entrance of the station he saw daddy drive up in a cab with a portmanteau on the top. Immediately after, he saw a four-wheeled cab withherinside.”

“What—you mean the woman we saw at the Trocadero?”

“Yes—he was so struck by the coincidence of their both being at Charing Cross with luggage at the same time that he just walked quietly in and saw them both go off together.”

“Not together—Maudie!”

“Together—in the same carriage—a reserved compartment. And Harry says he bought a sheaf of papers and positively threw them at her.”

“It’s a mystery!” ejaculated Julia, blankly. “His letter to mother was everything that a letter could be. He laughs at himself ever so for going away on a mad errand, suggests that she should join him in a few days’ time, and signs himself, ‘till we meet, your fond and devoted Alfred.’”

“I tell you what it is, Ju,” said Maudie, dropping her young married woman air and becoming Maudie Whittaker once more, “I’m sorry to say it because he’s my father, but between you and me, daddy’s a regular bad lot.”

“It does seem so,” said Julia, “and the curious part of it is that he looks so respectable. Mother won’t believe it, you know. I was talking to her only to-day, she won’t believe a word against him.”

“Well, so much the better for her, that’s what Harry says, but we came to tell her—”

“Not to tell her—?”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t tell her for the world. Let her go on believing in him as long as she can; the awakening will come soon enough.”

“Then what did you come for?” asked Julia, practical as usual.

“My dear, I thought if daddy had gone off and perhaps left mother a letter to say that he was never coming back, she would want somebody to stand by her—and Harry and I are prepared to do that.”

“And where do I come in?” asked Julia, a little scornfully.

“Oh, Ju, darling, you are always the practical common-sense one, you are a tower of strength, and many are the times I have leaned upon you; but ifthe worst had happened you might have been too stunned yourself to help mother very much. I think a woman needs a man at such a crisis of her life.”

“There isn’t going to be any crisis,” said Julia, quite prosaically, “there isn’t going to be any crisis. But it was nice of you to come, and I do think you and Harry are two dear things. There’s an explanation to all this. There’s nothing of the real bad lot about daddy, and as for mother—there’s no doubt about it, he worships her. Don’t tell me that when a man is tired of a woman he brings home dark sables without so much as a hint that they will be welcome—it isn’t human nature, at all events it isn’t man nature.”

There is a wide difference between grasping your nettle and rushing in where angels fear to tread.

There is a wide difference between grasping your nettle and rushing in where angels fear to tread.

Several days had gone by and still the anxiously-looked-for summons had not arrived from Alfred Whittaker to his wife. To outward seeming Regina was as calm in the face of this new development of events as if no trace of cloud had ever arisen to come between her and her noble Alfred, but in her heart of hearts she watched every post with an anxiety that was absolutely at fever heat. At night, poor soul, she seemed to have given up sleeping, and Regina was a woman who needed, and had always taken, a fixed amount of time in bed—when I say that I mean of actual, sound, solid sleep. She was one of those persons who, docked of sleep, show the signs of wear and tear with fatal rapidity.

During the greater part of the week she did not go out of the Park, but left word with the sympathetic Margaret, who was perfectly aware that something out of the common was on foot, that in case of a telegram she was to be fetched from such and such a house. Then Maudie came gliding along in her motor brougham, full of sympathy, and, I must confess,at the same time, full of anxiety as to her mother’s condition.

“How is it you are coming to the Park every day now?” Mrs. Whittaker asked on the sixth morning when Maudie arrived about lunch time.

“I was anxious about you, I thought you were not looking very well,” Maudie remarked.

“I am perfectly well.”

“Are you, dear? I fancied you were not quite yourself.”

Julia was safely out of the road, or perhaps young Mrs. Marksby would not have said so much.

“I do wish, dear, you would get out of this depressing neighborhood. I assure you I feel quite a different woman since I was married and got away from this depressing place.”

“One generally does when one gets married,” said Regina, with a slight smile.

“Yes, I know, dear, but it takes a month of Sundays to get here even with a motor. I wish you would persuade daddy to come and live in the West End.”

“It is not at all unlikely that we may do so, dear, a little later on. Oh—what’s that?”

“That” was nothing more important than the knock of the postman.

“I will go,” said Maudie, and Maudie did go. “Two letters for Julia and four for you.”

“One from your father?” said Mrs. Whittaker, with an eagerness which, for the life of her, she could not suppress.

“Nothing in daddy’s handwriting,” said Maudie.“Mother dear, have you heard from daddy since he left home?”

“Oh yes, darling.”

“Every day?”

“Not every day,” said Regina, “no, not every day.”

“Before I was married,” said Maudie in her most severe tone, “on the few occasions when daddy went away without you, he made a rule of writing every day.”

“He’s on business,” said Regina, feebly.

“Yes, darling, but he was on business then. Youhaveheard from him?”

“I have,” said Regina.

“Oh, mother—I may as well tell you what’s in my mind.”

“I think you had better not,” said Regina faintly.

“I’m sure I ought to do so. I can’t bear to go on deceiving you any longer.”

“Deceiving me?” said Regina. Her tone was feeble but questioning.

“Yes, deceiving you,” cried Maudie. “Daddy—daddy’s not gone away in an ordinary manner on business—oh yes, he calls it business, but he’s gone away with that woman.”

“Maud!”

“Harry saw them go away together, and you are watching for letters that never come—my poor, crushed darling,” Maudie cried.

“Harry saw them go? Them? You mean that person, that creature we saw dining with daddy at the Trocadero?”

Then Maudie burst forth with the entire story as she had told it to Julia.

“And that is why I come every day. I knew you would want some support, and as I am a married woman, I knew I should be more support than Julia, although sheisso farseeing. It’s a bitter blow, darling, but bear it like the martyr you are. Of course, Harry will be awfully angry with me; he says you never ought to interfere between husband and wife, even when they are your own father and mother.”

“I would rather know the worst,” said Regina; “it is no kindness to keep a woman of my calibre in the dark. I can’t discuss it, Maudie darling, even with you. If your father has really left me for that other person I will bear the blow and face the world with what dignity I can. You—you had better not tell Harry that you have told me the truth, we will keep it a little secret between ourselves. I shouldn’t like to feel that because of your sense of justice to me the first little rift had come between yourself and your husband. You are lunching with me to-day, dear?”

She turned the conversation into a conventional channel with a skill which was truly admirable, and Maudie, who was inclined to take her color from another, took her cue on that occasion from her mother and answered in the same strain.

“No, I’m lunching with Harry’s mother. I’d rather stay here with you, darling, but if I don’t go now and again without Harry the old lady is inclined to be a bit cranky, and I want to keep in with her, you know.”

“Certainly! Most wise of you! By all means keep in with your husband’s people; there is nothing to be gained by not doing so,” said Regina. “Then you and I will say no more just now, darling. You will come across before you go back?”

“Yes, mother dear, I will. I have ordered the brougham for four o’clock.”

“Engagements in town?” said Regina.

“Yes, one or two things on,” Maudie answered. She talked as if their conversation had been all along of a most unimportant and trivial character.

“Then I shall see you again,” said Regina. “Good-by, dearest.”

She sat just where Maudie had left her for some little time after young Mrs. Marksby had disappeared into the ancestral mansion across the road, a dozen schemes revolving in her active brain. What should she do? Should she sit down meekly and tamely under this new revelation, and let Alfred deal with their lives as he would, or should she make a determined step and meet disaster face to face? “Grasp your nettle” had ever been a favorite saying with Regina, and she felt very much like grasping her nettle now. Then Margaret came in and told her that luncheon was served, and Regina went into the dining-room and thoughtfully helped herself. Appetite she had none. Now, let me tell you, when Regina’s appetite failed her, then indeed she was in a distinctly bad way.

“Something has happened in this ’ere house,” said Margaret in the confidential atmosphere of the kitchen. “Missus have had no lunch to-day, not enough tokeep a fly alive. Just look at this plate, and that little dish you tossed up is one of her favorites. Why, she hasn’t even picked the mushrooms out of it.”

“Lor’! she must be bad,” said the faithful cook. “Poor missus! I wonder if it’s true what they be saying, that master’s gone away for good and all. Six days he’s been away and only one post-card has he sent home. Why, generally he writes home every day and sometimes twice. Ah, men! they’re all alike, not a pin to choose between ’em. Now the last place that I was in, I only stayed my month, for the lady she had fifteen servants in one year and she only kept two, so you can guess what sort of a place I had lighted on. Master, he carried on something shameful, not that I blame him, for a man what comes home and can’t get his meals regular and never knows whether missus will be in or out and everything else in the same way—well, you can’t expect a house to be run what you can call comfortable, at least it never is, and this was a poor, feckless thing that didn’t understand how to order a dinner for a gentleman, and didn’t understand how to let the cook make a suggestion. All the same, the way that man carried on was fair disgraceful. Now, master here has kept his doings dark, and indeed if it hadn’t been for what you overheard Miss Maudie that was tell Miss Julia, I don’t know that we should have been any wiser than we were before. But there, men are all alike. Look at Bill Jackson, he kept company with Annie Hodgkinson for five years and a half, and then he up and fair jilts her for the sake of a little bit of a girl that doesn’t know one end of a ham from the other. Ofcourse he’s miserable and he doesn’t deserve to be anything else.”

“For the matter of that,” retorted the fair Margaret, “neither does she; she knew well enough what she was doing when she set her cap at Bill Jackson. Don’t tell me that those innocent eyes don’t see more than they pretend to, nasty little hussy! I’m sure, whatever happens in this house, missus has my profoundest sympathy, and that’s more than I’d say for any missus, and as for master, he’s like all the rest of them—fair disgraceful, I call it.”

“Me too,” said the cook, “me too.”

Meanwhile Regina was sitting pecking, I can call it nothing else, at a dainty little pudding. Her thoughts were very bitter and her heart was full of a stern resolve. Yes, she would grasp her nettle, she would remain in doubt not a single day longer. She would just take a handbag, as Alfred had done, and she would leave a note for Julia, and she would go off to Paris by the night boat. She would grasp her nettle; she would, at least, learn the worst. If Alfred were no longer hers—well, she would shape her life accordingly. There should be no half measures, it should be all or nothing. Truly she had given all that she had to give freely. She had, as she believed, accepted and valued the whole of her husband’s love. There should be no betwixt and between, it should be her or the other one, Regina or the hussy. And then Regina remembered that to carry out her scheme she must at once put on her things and go to the bank and get some money.

When months of doubt have been crystallized into one simple question how easy the way seems!

When months of doubt have been crystallized into one simple question how easy the way seems!

Mrs. Whittaker laid her plans for leaving Ye Dene with the skill of a diplomat and the secrecy of a detective. She determined that she would take nobody into her confidence. If there was going to be a hideous scene with Alfred when she got to the end of her journey, she preferred to have it without witnesses, especially either of her own children. She went down to the bank and drew out sufficient money to cover all expenses and a little over, and then returned home in order to prepare for her journey. She chose her plainest frock, a rough brown tweed, tailor built, according to the advice and under the direction of Madame d’Estelle, who did not make tailor gowns herself, but introduced clients to a gentleman in that line, and generally supervised the taste of her customers. On her carefully arranged coiffure she wore a toque to match her dress—when I say “to match her dress” I mean it was a creation of brown velvet, with a strip of sable, some gold buckles and a twist of yellowish lace. Over her shoulders she put the dark sables which Alfred had given her, took themuff upon her arm, and then she went down to her own desk, where she wrote a letter to Julia:—

“Dearest”—she wrote—“I am going to join your father in Paris. I leave you ten pounds; if you want more money than this before I return, which is not very likely, here are a couple of signed cheeks for you to use. I know that you won’t mind being left alone for a few days. If you do, you might go and stay with Maudie. I am leaving by the Calais-Dover route and will let you know as soon as I arrive in Paris.—Your fond and loving“Mother.”

“Dearest”—she wrote—“I am going to join your father in Paris. I leave you ten pounds; if you want more money than this before I return, which is not very likely, here are a couple of signed cheeks for you to use. I know that you won’t mind being left alone for a few days. If you do, you might go and stay with Maudie. I am leaving by the Calais-Dover route and will let you know as soon as I arrive in Paris.—Your fond and loving

“Mother.”

Then Mrs. Whittaker called the servants in one by one, paid their wages, told them to look after Miss Julia, and said that she was going to Paris to join the master for a few days.

“Which it’s very funny,” remarked the cook to Margaret, a few minutes after Mrs. Whittaker and her small portmanteau had gone off in a cab to the station, “which it’s very funny. Missus have had no letter from master since the day after he went away, when she had a post-card which I took in myself and likewise read, saying, ‘Arrived safe. Hope all well at home. Writing later.’ Which he never have written later. There was no telegram for missus to-day?”

“No,” said Margaret, “there’s no telegram come to this house to-day.”

“Then, you know, missus might have been rung up on the telephone from the office.”

“She might, but I’ve not heard her on the telephone all day, and I’ve not heard the telephone go once. Anyway, missus she have gone to Paris to joinmaster, and I’m sure, poor lady, I hope she won’t find a pretty to-do when she gets there.”

It was barely half an hour later when Maudie Marksby’s motor brougham came spinning up to the door of the house opposite.

“There’s Mrs. Marksby’s carriage,” said Margaret, craning her head over the muslin blinds that shrouded the doings of the kitchen from the passers-by. “I wonder if missus told her she was going to Paris. Oh, here she comes.”

Maudie herself, with her gait of swimming importance, came mincing across the road. Margaret went down to the outer porch to meet her.

“Is my mother in, Margaret?”

“Lor’! Mrs. Marksby, missus have gone away!”

“Away! Where?”

“She’s gone to Paris to join master.”

“Did she have a telegram?”

“No, miss—I beg your pardon, I mean ma’am.”

“Oh—oh—she’s gone to Paris, has she? Well, it’s no use my waiting then, is it?”

“What did she look like?” said the cook.

“She looked struck all of a heap,” said Margaret. “It’s my opinion that missus has taken French leave, and she’s going to steal a march on them both.”

Meanwhile, Regina, full of her stern resolve, was already on her way to Dover, not being minded to wait for the regular boat train, and perhaps risk a scene from one or other of her daughters, finding her on the platform and attempting to dissuade her from taking the fatal step.

“I must be firm, I must be resolute, I must knowexactly what I’m going to do,” she told herself as the luxurious train whizzed past the suburbs. “I will have a good dinner when I get to Dover; I wish to arrive in Paris as calm and unmoved as a rock.”

Now, take it all round, this was extremely sensible advice to give herself. Regina had a cup of tea on board the train. She made a valiant effort to read one or two magazines which she had with her, and arrived at Dover, she went on board the steamer, chose her berth, and then went into the town to seek a suitable place for dinner. I feel that it is much to her credit that she chose the best hotel in the town. And yet it was a very haggard and sad-eyed Regina who reached the terminus at Paris. Still, she never turned from her resolve. She chartered herfiacre, and involuntarily, as they drove down the Rue Amsterdam, her eyes turned to the wonderful bazaar in which in former days she and Alfred had spent some money and a certain amount of time, experiencing at a very small cost the delirious joy of shopping in Paris. So on, through the bright Paris streets, already teeming with life, and down into the heart of the city where was situate the hotel from which Alfred had written. It was not one at which Regina had ever stayed herself—no, it was small and unpretentious, with a quaint little courtyard adorned by a few shrubs in square wooden boxes painted a brighter green than the leaves.

“Yes, M. Vittequere, he is staying in the hotel,” so the handsome and voluble landlady informed her.

“With a lady?” Regina asked.

“Well,” she admitted, there was a lady, but she wasnot staying in the hotel; she was not Mr. Whittaker’s wife; on the contrary, she was a client, and madame had found her an excellent lodging in an adjacent house—one, in fact, belonging to the mother of madame herself. “And she is a Frenchwoman; she knows her Paris well.”

“A Frenchwoman?” Regina echoed. “And monsieur, he is risen?”

“If monsieur has risen he is but just descended from his bedchamber.”

She called to a passing waiter, and demanded to know whether M. Whittaker,numéro treize, was yet descended.

“Monsieur is at breakfast with madame,” was the man’s reply.

The Frenchwoman, who had taken in the situation at a glance, and knew from Regina’s general appearance, and perhaps especially from her sables, that this was the legitimate Madame Whittaker, frowned at the man, who, as Regina plainly saw, cast about mentally for a way of retrieving his mistake.

“Show me the way,” said Regina. “No, it is not necessary to warn monsieur; I know him extremely well. Ah, in thesalle? I will go by myself.”

“Polisson—bête,” hissed the Frenchwoman in the waiter’s ear. But abuse was worse than useless, for Regina was already sailing, head up, in the direction of the dining-room. She made her entrance without being perceived. Alfred was, indeed, turned three-parts away from the door by which she had entered, and he was leaning over the table studying some papers. Knowing him so well, she perceived by hisattitude that he was thoroughly engrossed by business. His companion, who wore a hat, and who was much smarter and more Parisian in appearance than when Regina saw her at the Trocadero, was steadily eating her breakfast. At last, Alfred Whittaker put the sheet he was reading down on several others like it, and patted his hand upon it as much as to say, “That is settled and done with,” upon which Regina went forward. She gently laid her hand upon her husband’s shoulder.

“Alfred,” she said in a very quiet tone. I am bound to confess that Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin.

“My God! Queenie, is that you? Oh, my dear, what a turn you gave me. I’d no idea you were within a hundred miles of me. What’s the matter?” He sprang out of his chair and held her by both her elbows. “If anything’s the matter tell me at once; don’t break it to me.”

“Nothing’s the matter; I will explain it to you afterwards—I wanted to come to Paris, and I thought I might as well join you. Who is this lady?”

The noble Alfred drew a long breath of relief, gripped his wife’s elbows very hard indeed, and then bent forward and touched her lightly on either cheek.

“This lady is a client of the firm,” he said. “Let me make her known to you—Madame Raumonier.”

The Frenchwoman sprang to her feet, looking the very image of guilty surprise. “This is madame your wife?” she said, speaking excellent English.

“This is Mrs. Whittaker, my wife. Sit down,Queenie.Garçon, garçon, breakfast for madame. They make an excellentomelette aux fines herbeshere, Queenie. Fresh coffee for madame. Sit down, Madame Raumonier, sit down.”

“You would like to be alone with madame your wife?”

“Not at all; I shall be alone with her presently, when you have finished breakfast.” He turned back to Regina. “Queenie,” he said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. This just concludes the business which brought me over to Paris. I’ve had the greatest difficulty and trouble to get things settled. It’s such a disadvantage to a man in my position not to speak French well, and I am in the position of not speaking French at all, so I have had to do everything by means of madame’s translations, and she does not see the legal aspect as I should if I could read French as well as she can. I was going to telegraph to you this very day to beg you to come over. Some wave thought must have warned you that I was thinking of it.”

“No,” said Regina, deliberately sitting down by the table, and beginning carefully to peel the gloves off her hands. “No, Alfred, I do not think it was a wave thought. I wanted to come to Paris, and I came.”

“They are all well at home? You brought Julia with you?”

“No, I did not bring Julia; she can come across in a few days by herself.”

“Ah, yes, we can talk of that later.”

Then Madame Raumonier made another effort to escape.

“I am sure you would like to be alone with madame, your wife. I have quite finished breakfast. If you wish to see me will you intimate through madame the landlady? May I wish you good morning, madame?”

Regina rose and ceremoniously shook hands with the Frenchwoman; Alfred bowed, followed her across the room, stayed a moment talking, bowed again, rubbed his hands, and came back with that curious air of a conqueror with which a man meets a woman who is much to him on all occasions after a parting.

“Queenie, my darling, thank God that woman’s gone. I must apologize to you,” and here he put his hand over hers and held it very close, “I must apologize to you for having, of necessity, made her known to you. She is not a person for you to know; she’s—she’s a woman with a history.”

“Then, Alfred,” said Regina, not moving her hand, but looking at him with eyes which were like the eyes of the angel with the naming sword. “Then, Alfred, if she is not fit for me to know, what does she do here with you?”

A woman who can prove herself generous and wide-minded is the woman who gets the greatest advantage in every circumstance of life.

A woman who can prove herself generous and wide-minded is the woman who gets the greatest advantage in every circumstance of life.

“How is it,” said Regina, “that she is here with you?”

The words dropped out one by one. There was a world of torture and suffering, tinged with reproach and bitterness, in Mrs. Whittaker’s tones. Alfred Whittaker gave a great start, and drew his wife down to her seat.

“Queenie,” he said, “you haven’t had it in your mind that that creature is anything to me?”

“I’m afraid I have,” said Regina, and under the comfort of the word “creature” her voice took a softer tone.

“That mixture of fire and vulgarity! Oh, my dear!—Come, come, you’ve been traveling all night, you must have your breakfast. Here is the finest omelette in Paris. I say, waiter,garçon, try if you can’t get madame a few strawberries to follow thebifteck Chateaubriand.—I’m sure, Queenie,” he went on as the waiter whisked the cover off and betook himself away, “that a good breakfast is more important to you at this moment than even the state ofmy morals. You see, I’ve had my breakfast, so you can hear all about Madame Raumonier while you are taking yours. Now, what could have put it into your head, since you knew I was over here on her business—”

“But I didn’t,” said Regina.

“Then what made you come?”

The omelette was good and hot, and Regina took two mouthfuls before she answered.

“Alfred,” she said, “this has been going on for a long time. I know everything.”

“Then you are a clever woman. Now, what do you know?”

“You bought her a bracelet.”

“I? I’ve never bought a bracelet for anyone but you in my life.”

“Well, Templeton told me so.”

At this Alfred Whittaker burst out laughing. “I did buy a bracelet, you are quite right, but it was for Mrs. Chamberlain.”

“You gave a bracelet to Mrs. Chamberlain?” said Regina.

“No, no, no, I didn’t do anything of the kind. I bought the bracelet for Chamberlain to give his wife. Chamberlain had been in an extremely ugly corner for some time past. I didn’t tell you anything about it, because I thought it more than likely that Mrs. Chamberlain might come round pumping you. If you didn’t know anything, I felt you wouldn’t be able to tell her anything.”

“Surely you might have trusted me?”

“It isn’t that I couldn’t trust you, for I can andalways have done. As it happened, Mrs. Chamberlain was, as you know, by way of being an heiress, and Chamberlain was ridiculously in love.”

“Can a man be ridiculously in love?” put in Regina.

“Yes, very much so. When I married you I told you everything that had happened to me, good, bad and indifferent—Chamberlain didn’t, and Mrs. Chamberlain is possessed of a demon of jealousy. She got fixed in her silly little head that Chamberlain had been a sort of King Arthur until she met him. A moment’s reflection would have told the silly little fool that the less she inquired into her husband’s past the better, and Chamberlain was so much in love with her, and in such a hurry to catch the little heiress, that he did not completely sever ties that he had contracted previously, and trusted to luck to go on shelling out to this Frenchwoman who had had an affair with him lasting some years before his marriage. The French lady did not like being put on short commons, still less did she like being pensioned off, and she began to make herself unpleasant. Poor old Chamberlain got himself into an awful muddle, and confided everything to me. I thought him a fool, and I told him so very plainly; but he’s my partner, and I couldn’t refuse to help him out. The day that I went to Templeton’s and bought that bracelet, Chamberlain went in quite a different direction to have an interview with Madame Raumonier and try to bring her to reason. At that time Mrs. Chamberlain used to make stringent inquiries as to how he had spent every moment of his time. As a matter offact she had come to the office for him that very day, and was told that he had already gone. When he got home she was told some necessary and harmless lies to the effect that he had been to Templeton’s to buy her a bracelet. Heaven only knows what would have happened if she had found out that Chamberlain had never been near Templeton’s.”

“But why were you dragged into it?”

“Oh, I was trying to get a settlement.”

“Why did you bring her to Paris?”

“Well, it was like this. Chamberlain and I finally agreed between ourselves that the only way to get a settlement of the affair was to provide Madame Raumonier with an income sufficient to live upon for the rest of her life. He didn’t grudge that, he’s not a mean man, and he offered to settle five pounds a week upon her on one condition: that she cleared out of England and never crossed the Channel again.”

“Oh, I see. But why did you have to come to Paris to settle that?”

“My dear child, Madame Raumonier is no fool. She had no notion of being cut adrift from Chamberlain and left stranded at her age—she must be at least five-and-thirty—without the certainty of a provision being made for her. I took her out to dinner one night—dined at the Trocadero—”

“Yes, I saw you,” said Regina.

“What!”

“I was there.”

“You were dining at the Trocadero the night I took Madame Raumonier there?”

“I was.”

“And you never told me!”

“No, Alfred, I never told you.” Regina finished the last bit of omelette with relish, and sat back in her chair and waited for the rest of the story.

“You never told me!” repeated Alfred. “You cooked it up—you mean to tell me that you thought I was dining with her on my own account?”

“What else was I to think?”

“Who were you dining with?”

“I was not dining with a gentleman, at least not by myself,” said Regina. “Julia and I were dining with Maudie and Harry.”

“And they saw—?”

“They did.”

“And they thought—?”

“They did.”

“That I was dining on my own with that creature! I never felt so insulted in my life.”

“Insulted, Alfred?”

“Insulted, Queenie. When I take to dining ladies on my own, they shall be women who are something to look at. Damn it all!” he went on, “I’ve been accustomed to taking a smart woman about. This creature wasn’t even amusing, and what’s more, she’s the least French of any Frenchwoman I ever came across in my life.”

“Well, go on. You were telling me—?”

“Oh, I don’t know what I was telling you—I don’t know what I was telling you. Oh, well, I know, I was telling you about dining her at the Trocadero. Yes, she was willing enough to have the settlement, she was willing enough to go back to her belovedFrance; she hated London and everything in it—didn’t know why she ever left sunny France. But like all Frenchwomen, she was a woman of business, and she didn’t mean to leave go her hold upon poor old Chamberlain unless her settlement was perfectly secure. My dear, if she had been a lawyer fifty times over she couldn’t have been sharper at her job.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Regina, “I never blame a woman for getting the better of a man.”

“Yes, I know, my dear, you always held that opinion. But the long and the short of it was that she would accept nothing but a definite settlement in Paris, and I can tell you, even when you come over with the money in your hand, it’s not such a simple matter as it would seem to arrange a bit of business in this land of liberty, equality and brotherhood. From the way these people have spun it out one would have thought that I was getting something out of them, instead of making an ample settlement on one of their countrywomen. And the funniest part of the whole thing has been that every one of them thinks that Chamberlain and I are one and the same person. Gad! You thought so too! My dear,” putting his hand on the papers again, “this is the final note; this will be signed this afternoon; I shall hand Madame Raumonier bank-notes for a hundred pounds, and then I shall wash my hands of her altogether for good and all.”

For a moment Regina did not speak, but applied her attention entirely to the very excellentbifteckonher plate. Then she looked up at her husband with penitent eyes.

“Alfred,” she said, “I really feel I ought to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?” said Alfred, “apologize? Nay, if any apology is needed it is from me to you for having apparently given you cause for uneasiness; but, thank God! Queenie, there is no need of apology on either side. There’s been a little misapprehension, but it’s all over now, and we are as much together again as we were when we set out on our honeymoon. Did it make you very miserable, Queenie?” He laid his hand on hers as he spoke, and Regina looked up at him with shining eyes.

“I’ve been so miserable, Alfred,” she said, “that I almost wished I could die, and I think I should have died or put myself out of the road—or something—if I hadn’t resolved to win you back at any cost.”

“But you are satisfied now?”

“Satisfied! Oh, I’m so happy—so happy. I’ll never let such a cloud come between us—next time I’ll tell you the very first suspicion that crosses my mind.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” said Alfred. “Poor old Chamberlain! he’s come to the end of his tether now.”

“Alfred,” said Regina, after a long pause, “I don’t think I would waste any pity on ‘poor old Chamberlain’; it seems to me that he has met with more than his deserts. If I have any feeling of pity for any of the three it is for the unfortunate Frenchwoman who trusted him where he was not fitto be trusted. These people in the hotel thought I was going to spring a mine upon you; I saw the landlady frown at the waiter when he said you were breakfasting together. I have always been a wide-minded woman, Alfred, and I am a very happy one this morning. Let us ask Madame Raumonier to join us to-night by way of celebrating the settlement of her affairs.”

For a moment Alfred did not—indeed, could not—speak.

“Queenie,” he said, “I have always admired you, I have always loved you, but this morning, at this moment, I feel that, compared with you in your benevolence, your real wide-mindedness, I am a mere worm.”

“My noble Alfred!” said Regina, “my noble Alfred!”

LOVE AND THESOUL HUNTERSBy John Oliver HobbesAuthor of“The Gods, Some Morals, and Lord Wickenham”,“The Herb Moon,” “Schools for Saints”,“Robert Grange,”etc., etc.In this new novel Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes) has made, according to her own statement, the great effort of her life. It is the most brilliant creation of an author whose talent and versatility have surprised readers and critics in both Europe and America for several years. It treats of unique examples of human nature as they are, and not merely as they ought to be. Swayed by complex motives, they are always attractive, but often do what is least expected of them. The story is graphically told, and is full of action. Each personage is distinctively drawn to the life.“There is much that is worth remembering in her writings.”—Mail and Express, New York.“More than any other woman who is now writing, Mrs. Craigie is, in the true manly sense, a woman of letters. She is not a woman with a few personal emotions to express: she is what a woman so rarely is—an artist.”—The Star, London.“Few English writers have so lapidarian a style of writing as Mrs. Craigie, and few such a capacity for writing epigrams.”—The Toronto Globe.12mo, Cloth. $1.50FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON

Author of“The Gods, Some Morals, and Lord Wickenham”,“The Herb Moon,” “Schools for Saints”,“Robert Grange,”etc., etc.

In this new novel Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes) has made, according to her own statement, the great effort of her life. It is the most brilliant creation of an author whose talent and versatility have surprised readers and critics in both Europe and America for several years. It treats of unique examples of human nature as they are, and not merely as they ought to be. Swayed by complex motives, they are always attractive, but often do what is least expected of them. The story is graphically told, and is full of action. Each personage is distinctively drawn to the life.

“There is much that is worth remembering in her writings.”—Mail and Express, New York.

“More than any other woman who is now writing, Mrs. Craigie is, in the true manly sense, a woman of letters. She is not a woman with a few personal emotions to express: she is what a woman so rarely is—an artist.”—The Star, London.

“Few English writers have so lapidarian a style of writing as Mrs. Craigie, and few such a capacity for writing epigrams.”—The Toronto Globe.

12mo, Cloth. $1.50

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