The ominous gunfire had ceased when he retired to his room that night after a lonely dinner, and even the more distant booming to which he was growing accustomed was not audible. The lantern of the moon hung above such a serene countryside that thoughts of war were all but impossible, and Paul likened the heavens to the jewelled dome of some vast mosque wherein were gathered together all the clashing creeds of mankind, their differences forgotten in a universal love.
The summer days slipped by, each morning bringing a letter from Yvonne, each night a longing that it might be the last of their separation. But the affairs of the late Sir Jacques' estate were not easily dismissed, and Paul, eager with the ardent eagerness of a poet to set to work upon his task, yet found himself chained to Lower Charleswood. The place itself enchanted his imagination, and had his mind been free (and if Sir Jacques had never occupied Hatton Towers and impressed his individuality upon the house) Paul might have been content to stay—with Yvonne for a companion. But London called him urgently and inaction grew irksome.
Flamby Duveen he never tired of studying; she fascinated him like some rare palimpsest or Pythagorean problem. But Flamby was going to London as soon as arrangements could be made for her mother and herself to leave Dovelands Cottage. Mrs. Duveen had raised no objection to the proposed change; Mrs. Duveen had never raised an objection to anything throughout the whole of her docile career; and already Paul was weaving this oddly assorted pair into the scheme of that book which he projected as a challenge to the latent good in man.
Some of his neighbours he met, willy nilly, but they took no place in his mental record of things, save perhaps the place of punctuation marks, commasand semicolons for the most part, rarely rising to the definite degree of a full point and never approaching the dramatic significance of an exclamation mark. Already he floated above the common world, looking down upon its tortured contours and half-defaced frontiers—for the true poet is a fakîr who quits his physical body at the beck of inspiration, to return laden with strange secrets.
Jules Thessaly's letter explaining his extraordinary breach of good behaviour had been characteristic of the man. For whilst it was couched in more or less conventional terms of apology, the writer obviously regarded his action as justified and assumed in Paul an understanding which rendered pique impossible. Paul's theory regarding Thessaly's sudden departure had been correct.
"The gods are all dead," ran one passage in the letter. "A shell, one of our own, fortunately imperfect, entered the upper storey of my house and rudely forced a passage through one floor and the outer wall. Some slight damage has been done to my collection"—etc.
The tangled details of Paul's legacy became disentangled at last, and he fixed a definite date for his departure. That same evening the weather broke and grey clouds veiled the stars. He was keenly susceptible to climatic changes, and this abrupt interruption of summer plunged him into a dark mood. Gone were the fairies from the meadows, gone the dryads from the woods. The birds grew mute and roses drooped their heads. He found himself alone facing a sorrowful world and sharing its sorrows. The shadow of the black hat in the dining-room portrait lay darkly on Hatton Towers.
When such a mood was upon him he would resign himself to it with all that spiritual and intellectual abandon of which he was capable, savagely goadinghimself to blacker despair and contemplating his own condition with the critical faculty of his mind, which at these times remained undisturbed. Whilst the rain beat upon the windows and draperies billowed eerily in the draught, he passed from the library into the study and unlocked that high black oak bureau which concealed the private collection of works artistic and literary which had informed him of the true character of his late uncle. He had caused a huge fire to be made up in the old open hearth in the dining-room and he proposed to spend the evening in building a pyre which should consume the memory of the secret Sir Jacques.
The books, many of them in handsome bindings, he glanced at, in order that no one worthy of life should be destroyed. The verdict pronounced he either laid the book aside or broke it up and threw it on to the great fire in the adjoining room. He worked for an hour, eagerly, savagely, his coat stripped off and his shirt sleeves rolled above the elbow. The collection, though valuable, was small, and within the hour the bulk of it was ashes. Paul the iconoclast then turned his attention to the portfolios of water-colours, etchings and photographs which occupied the lower and deeper shelves of the bureau.
Here he found exquisite reproductions of Pompeiian frescoes, illustrations in line and colour to divers works, as Pierre Louys'Aphrodite, theSatyriconof Petronius, and Ovid'sAmours. The crowning horror of the thing was the artistic skill which had been prostituted to such ends. Technically, many of the pictures were above criticism; morally all were beyond. He consigned the entire heap of them to the flames.
Only the photographs remained, and a glance at the first of these resulted in a journey to the dining-room with laden arms. By impish chance two large and tastefully mounted panels both representing asun-kissed nymph posed beside a pool slipped from the bundle and fell at his feet. Kicking the ash-stifled fire into a blaze, he stooped to recover them. So stooping he remained, staring down at the pictures on the floor. Then slowly, dazedly, he took them up, one in either hand. They were photographs of Flamby.
The fire roared up the brick chimney, the wind fought for entrance from above, rain beat dismally upon the high windows. The fire died down again, seeming to retire into the mound of grey ashes which it had created; and the photographs fell from Paul's grasp.
A wrought-iron poker hung from a rack in the hearth, and, his face set like a mask, Paul took the crude weapon in his hand, and slowly raised his head until he was looking up at the oil-painting above the mantelpiece. The sound of a dry and discreet cough close behind him drew his attention to the presence of Davison. He turned, a strange figure, something very menacing in his eyes. Davison glanced furtively under the gate-legged table.
"Mr. Thessaly has called, sir," he said, and held out a salver upon which lay a visiting-card.
"Where is he?"
"He is in the library, sir."
"Very good. I will join him there in a few moments."
The portrait of Sir Jacques had been spared to posterity by that admirable tradition which denies an English gentleman any display of emotion in the presence of a servant.
"I have seized the first opportunity," said Thessaly, as Paul, composure restored, entered the library, "of offering a personal explanation of my behaviour."
Paul took his extended hand, waiving the proferred explanation. "Except as regards the damage done to your property, I am not interested. Had your disappearance been dictated by nothing more than a sudden desire for solitude I should have understood. If I should ever be called upon to act as you did on that occasion I should know that a friend would understand. If he misunderstood he would not be a friend. I fear I am somewhat dusty. I have been destroying a portion of my legacy."
Jules Thessaly, dropping back into the padded arm-chair in which he had been seated, stared hard at Paul.
"Not the illustrations to that portion of Scheherazade's narrative invariably expunged from all respectable editions of theThousand and One Nights?"
Paul nodded, pushing a box of cigars across the table. "You know them?"
"I know that Sir Jacques possessed such pictures."
"I have destroyed them."
"Why?"
Paul selected a cigar ere looking up to meet the faintly amused glance of Thessaly. "They bore witness to a phase of his life which he chose to conceal from the world. I could do no less."
"You speak with contempt."
"The hypocrite is contemptible. A frank libertine may be an amusing fellow. If we do not think so, we can avoid him."
"I agree with you up to a point. But in justice remember that every man has pages in his history which are never displayed to the world."
"Very likely. But every man does not pose as a saint. Those who seek the company of a professed rake do so at their own peril. But the disguised satyr is a menace to the innocent."
"I would suggest that some specific 'innocent' occurs to your mind?"
"The adder does not bite itself. Were there no stories?"
"A few. But Sir Jacques was a model of discretion; as an under-secretary he would have glittered in the political firmament. There was a pretty village girl who promised at one time to provide the district with agreeable table-talk, but unfortunately for Miss Kingsbury and company the affair apparently fell through."
"He was, as you say, a model of discretion."
"Ah. There are records? Well, you were justified in destroying them."
"It is hard to understand."
"To understand whom—Sir Jacques or the girl? You cannot mean the girl. A man who reaches the age of thirty without understanding women is like a bluebottle who devotes a summer morning to an endeavour to fly through a pane of glass."
"You speak like an early Roman."
"What more admirable model? Consider the Roman institutions; perfect sanitation and slavery. We abolish one and adopt the other, with the result that a healthy democracy has swallowed us up. The early Romans were sages."
"You have no sympathy for Sir Jacques' victims?"
"Except where the chivalrous warriors of Prussia are concerned, and with other rare exceptions, I never think of women as victims, Mr. Mario."
"Not even in the case of an aged hypocrite who probably posed as the Platonic friend?"
"Platonic friendship is impossible up to sixty-five. The most ignorant girl knows it to be so, for every woman has hereditary memory."
"Your creed is a harsh one. You take no count of snares and pitfalls."
"Snares and pitfalls cannot be set upon the highroad."
"And how should you define this highroad?"
"As the path selected by our unspoiled instincts. It is ignorance posing as education that first blunts those instincts, dogma disguised as religion and hypocrisy misnamed 'good behaviour.'"
"You would allow instinct to go unfettered?"
"Provided it remains unspoiled. But first I would sweep the world of lies."
"Then you think the world ready for the truth?"
"I know that the world waits for it."
"Do you think the world will recognise it?"
"In part the world has already recognised it. We lived in an age which was eternally demanding 'proofs'—and which rejected them when they were offered. But the great catastrophe which has overwhelmed us has adjusted our perspective. Few of us to-daydareto doubt the immortality of the soul. We failed to recognise joy as a proof of our survival after death, but we cannot reject the teaching of sorrow."
"Love and friendship, of course, are proofs not only of immortality, but of pre-existence and the survival of the individual."
"And can you make the disciples of the clap-trap which passes for religion believe this, Mr. Mario?"
"I propose to try. But the task is hard. There are pieces difficult to fit into the scheme."
"You agree with me that the war, which was born of ignorance, will bear the fruit of truth?"
"I agree that it will bear the fruit of truth, but I do not agree that it was born of ignorance. Men did not cause the war. It is a visitation from higher powers, and therefore has a grand purpose. There are no accidents in the scheme of the universe."
"You think those higher powers are powers of good?"
"Wherever the powers of darkness walk the Powers of Light stand arrayed before them."
There was a muffled crash in the adjoining room, which brought Paul, startled, to his feet. He crossedthe library and entered the panelled dining-room. The portrait of Sir Jacques had fallen from its place above the mantelpiece, breaking a number of ornaments as it fell. Davison was already on the spot and stood surveying the wreckage.
"The 'eat of the extraordinary fire, no doubt, sir," he said. "The 'ook is loosened, as you observe."
Paul stared at the man with unseeing eyes; he was striving to grasp the symbolic significance of the incident, but it eluded him, and presently he returned to the library, where Jules Thessaly was glancing at a book which he had taken from a shelf apparently at random.
"An accident?"
"Yes. A picture has fallen. Nothing serious."
"Ah. Do you know this war-writer?" Thessaly held up the book in his hand—"Rudolf Kjellèn."
"By name," replied Paul, absently. "Does he understand?"
"Up to a point. His thesis is that a great and inevitable world-drama is being played and that he who seeks its cause in mere human plotting and diplomacy is a fool. States are superhuman but living biological personalities, dynamic, and moving toward inevitable ends beyond human control."
"He is mad. All the German propagandists are mad. The insanity of Germany is part of the scheme of the world-change through which we are passing. He recognises the superhuman forces at work and in the same breath babbles of 'states.' There is only one earthly State and to that State all humanity belongs."
Jules Thessaly returned Kjellèn's work to its place. "If I do not misunderstand you," he said, fixing his gaze upon Paul, "you contemplate telling the world that the churches have misinterpreted Revelation and that Christ as well as the other Masters actually revealed reincarnation as the secret of heaven and hell?"
"That is my intention."
"Your audience is a vast one, Mr. Mario. No man for many generations has been granted the power to sway thought, which nature has bestowed upon you. Your word may well prevail against all things—even in time against Rome. You recognise that you are about to take up a mighty weapon?"
"I do. Publicity is the lever of which Archimedes dreamed; and I confess that I tremble. You think the churches will oppose me?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"I fear you are right, yet they should be my allies, not my enemies. In the spectacle of a world in arms the churches must surely recognise the evidence of failure. If they would survive they must open their doors to reform."
"And what is the nature of the reform you would suggest?"
"Conversion from nineteen centuries of error to the simple creed of their Founder."
"Impossible. Churches, like Russian securities, may be destroyed but never converted."
"Yet in their secret hearts millions of professed churchmen believe as I believe——"
"——That heaven and hell are within every man's own soul and that the state in which he is born is the state for which he has fitted himself by the acts of his pre-existence?"
Paul inclined his head. "No other belief is possible to-day."
"There are higher planets than Earth, perhaps lower. The ultimate deep is Hell, the ultimate height Heaven. The universe is a ladder which every soul must climb."
From a catechism Jules Thessaly's words had developed into a profession of faith, and Paul, who stood watching the speaker, grew suddenly aware—a phenomenon which all have experienced—that such a profession had been made to him before, that he hadstood thus on some other occasion and had heard the same words spoken. He knew what Jules Thessaly was about to say.
"The knowledge which is yours is innate knowledge beyond human power to acquire in one short span of life; it is the result of many lives devoted to study. For the task you are about to take up you have been preparing since the world was young. All is ordained, even your presence in this room to-night—and mine. Where last did we meet—where first? Perhaps in Rome, perhaps Atlantis; but assuredly we met and we meet again to fulfil a compact made in the dawn of time. I, too, am a student of the recondite, and it may be that some of the fragments of truth which I have collected will help you to force recognition of the light from a world plunged in darkness."
"In utter darkness," murmured Paul. And clearly before him—so clearly as almost to constitute hallucination—arose a vision of Flamby Duveen as she appeared in the secret photographs.
"You have definitely set your hand to the plough?"
"Definitely."
Jules Thessaly advanced, leaning forward across the table. He stared fixedly at Paul. "To-night," he said, "a new Star is born in the West and an hour will come when the eyes of all men must be raised to it."
On a raw winter's morning some six months later Don Courtier walked briskly out of St. Pancras station, valise in hand, and surveyed a misty yellow London with friendly eyes. A taxi-driver, hitherto plunged in unfathomable gloom, met this genial glance and recovered courage. He volunteered almost cheerfully to drive Don to any spot which he might desire to visit, an offer which Don accepted in an equally cordial spirit.
Depositing his valise at the Services Club in Stratford Place, his modest abode when on leave in London, Don directed the cabman to drive him to Paul Mario's house in Chelsea.
"Go a long way round," he said; "through Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and up the Mall. I want to see the sights of London Town."
Lying back in the cab he lighted a cigarette and resigned himself to those pleasant reflections which belong to the holiday mood. For the Capital of a threatened empire, London looked disappointingly ordinary, he thought. There seemed to be thousands of pretty women, exquisitely dressed, thronging the West End thoroughfares; but Don had learned from experience that this delusion was a symptom associated with leave. Long absence from feminine society blunts a man's critical faculties, and Robinson Crusoe must have thought all women beautiful.
There were not so many posters on the hoardings, which deprived the streets of a characteristic note ofcolour, but there were conspicuous encomiums of economy displayed at Oxford Circus which the shopping crowds along Oxford Street and Regent Street seemed nevertheless to have overlooked. A large majority of the male population appeared to be in khaki. The negligible minority not in khaki appeared to be in extremis or second childhood. Don had heard much of "slackers" but the spectacle afforded by the street of shops set him wondering where they were all hiding. With the exception of a number of octogenarians and cripples, the men in Regent Street wore uniform. They were all accompanied by lovely women; it was extraordinary, but Don knew that it would wear off. At Piccadilly Circus he found the usual congestion of traffic and more than the usual gala atmosphere for which this spot is peculiar.
People at Piccadilly Circus never appear to be there on business. They are eitherau rendezvousor bound for a restaurant or going shopping or booking theatre seats; and although Don had every reason for believing that a war was in progress, Piccadilly Circus brazenly refused to care. The doors of the London Pavilion were opened hospitably and even at that early hour the tables in Scott's windows were occupied by lobster fanciers. A newsboy armed with copies of an evening paper (which oddly enough came out in the morning) was shouting at the top of his voice that there had been a naval engagement in the Channel, but he did not succeed in attracting anything like the same attention as that freely bestowed upon a well known actress who was standing outside the Criterion and not shouting at all. It was very restful after the worry at the front. In Derbyshire, too, people had talked about nothing but the war.
There were attractive posters upon the plinth of Nelson's Monument, and the Square seemed to be full of Colonial troops. The reputation of TrafalgarSquare ranks next to that of the Strand in the British Colonies. A party of Grenadier Guards, led by a band and accompanied by policemen and small boys, marched along the Mall. A phrase of the march haunted Don all the way to Chelsea.
Yvonne Mario in white décolleté blouse and simple blue skirt, made a very charming picture indeed. Her beauty was that of exquisite colouring and freshness; her hair seemed to have captured and retained the summer sunlight, and her eyes were of that violet hue which so rarely survives childhood. Patrician languor revealed itself in every movement of her slim figure. Don's smile betrayed his admiration.
"Do you know, Yvonne," he said, "I have been thinking coming along that there were thousands of pretty girls in London. I see now that I was wrong."
"You are making me blush!" said Yvonne, which was not true, for her graceful composure seldom deserted her. "I shall tell Paul that you have been paying me compliments."
"I wish you would. I don't believe he thinks I appreciate you as highly as I do."
"He does," replied Yvonne naively; "he regards you as a connoisseur of good looks!"
"Oh!" cried Don. "Oh! listen to her! Yvonne, you are growing vain."
"A woman without vanity is not appreciated."
"A woman without vanity is not human."
"If you are going to say cynical things I won't talk to you. You want a whisky-and-soda."
"I don't."
"You do. The first thing to offer a man on leave is whisky-and-soda."
"It is a ritual, then?"
"It is the law. Sit down there and resign yourself to it. Do you really mean to tell me that you did not know Paul was in France?"
"It must be a dreadful blow to your self-esteem,Yvonne, but I really came here expecting to see him. When does he return?"
Yvonne rose as a maid entered with a tray bearing decanter and syphon. "On Tuesday morning if the Channel is clear. Will you help yourself or shall I pour out until you say 'When'?"
"Please help me. You cannot imagine how delightful it is to be waited upon by a nice girl after grubbing over there."
"When do you have to go back, Don?"
"I have a clear week yet. When! How is Paul progressing with the book, Yvonne?"
"He has been collecting material for months, and of course his present visit to France is for material, too. I think he has practically completed the first part, but I have no idea what form it is finally to take."
"His article in theReviewmade a stir."
"Wasn't it extraordinary!" cried Yvonne, seating herself beside Don on the low window-seat and pressing the cushions with her hands. "We were simply snowed under with letters from all sorts of people, and quite a number of them called in person, even after Paul had left London."
"Did you let them in?"
"No; some of them quite frightened me. There was one old clergyman who seemed very suspicious when Eustace told him that Paul was abroad. He stood outside the house for quite a long time, banging his stick on the pavement and coughing in a nasty barking fashion. I was watching him through the curtains of an upstairs window. He left a tract behind calledThe Path is Straight but Narrow."
"Did he wear whiskers?"
"Yes; long ones."
"A soft black hat, a polo collar and a ready-for-use black tie?"
"I believe he did."
"I am glad you did not let him in."
Through the narrow-panelled windows of the charming morning-room Don could see the old sundial. He remembered that in the summer the miniature rock-garden endued a mantle of simple flowers, and that sweet scents were borne into the room by every passing breeze. A great Victorian painter had lived in this house, which now was destined to figure again in history as the home of the greater Paul Mario. He glanced around the cosy room, in which there were many bowls and vases holding tulips, those chalices of tears beloved of Hafiz, and he suppressed a little sigh.
"May I light a pipe before I go, Yvonne?" he asked. "I am one of those depraved beings who promenade the streets smoking huge briars, to the delight of Continental comic artists."
"I know you are. But you are not going to promenade the streets until you have had lunch."
"Really, Yvonne, thanks all the same, but I must go. Honestly, I have an appointment."
Yvonne smiled in his face and her violet eyes held a query.
"No," replied Don—"no such luck. The Pauls are the lucky dogs. All the nice girls are married. I am going to lunch with a solicitor!"
"Oh, how unromantic! And you are on leave!"
"Painful, I admit, but I am a stodgy old fogey. When the war is over I am going to buy a velvet coat and a little red pork-pie cap, with a green tassel. Is that old Odin I can hear barking?"
"Yes. He has heard your voice."
"I must really say 'How d'you do' to Odin. When I have lighted my pipe may I go out?"
"Of course. Odin would never forgive you if you didn't. Let me strike a match for you."
"You are spoiling me, Yvonne."
Don, his pipe well alight, stood up and went out into the garden where a wolf-hound was making an excited demonstration in the little yard before the door of his kennel.
"Hullo, Odin!" cried Don, as the great hound leapt at him joyfully, resting both paws upon his shoulders. "How is old Odin? Not looking forward to compulsory rationing, I dare swear."
He pulled the dog's ears affectionately and scratched his shapely head in that manner which is so gratifying to the canine species. Then from the pocket of his "British-warm" he produced a large sweet biscuit, whereupon Odin immediately assumed a correct mendicant posture and sat with drooping forepaws and upraised eyes. Don balanced the big biscuit upon the dog's nose. "When I say 'Three,' Odin. One!" Odin did not stir. "Two!" Odin remained still as a dog of stone. "Three!" The biscuit disappeared, and Don laughed as loudly as though the familiar performance had been an entire novelty. "Good morning, old fellow," he said, and returned to the house.
Yvonne was awaiting him in the hall. "What time shall you come on Tuesday?" she asked. "Paul should be home to lunch."
"You will want Paul all to yourself for awhile, Yvonne. I shall look in later in the afternoon." He shook hands with his pretty hostess, put on his cap and set off for the offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin.
The offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin were of that dusty, gloomy and obsolete fashion which inspires such confidence in the would-be litigant. Large and raggedly bound volumes, which apparently had been acquired from the twopenny boxes outside second-hand bookshops, lined the shelves of the outer office, and the chairs were of an early-Victorian horsehair variety. Respectability had run to seed in those chambers. Mr. Jacob Nevin, the senior partner, to whose decorous sanctum Don presently penetrated, also had a second-hand appearance. Don had always suspected him of secret snuff-taking.
"Ah, Captain Courtier," he said; "very sad about Miss Duveen's second bereavement, very sad."
"Yes. Fate has dealt unkindly with the poor girl. I understand that Mrs. Duveen died more than two months ago; but I only learned of her death quite recently. I wrote to Miss Duveen directly I knew that I was coming to England, and I was horrified to hear of her mother's death. You have got the affairs well in hand now?"
"Since receiving your instructions, Captain Courtier, I have pushed the matter on with every possible expedition—every expedition possible. The absence of Mr. Paul Mario in France had somewhat tied my hands, you see."
"I will consult Mrs. Chumley, my aunt, and arrange, if possible, for Miss Duveen to live at The Hostel. I have already written to her upon the subject. If it can be managed I shall 'phone you later to-day, and perhaps you would be good enough to wire to Miss Duveen requesting her to come to London immediately. Don't mention my name, you understand? But let me know at the Club by what train she is arriving and I shall endeavour to meet her. We cannot expect Mario to attend to these details; he has a duty to the world, which only a man of his genius could perform."
Mr. Nevin adjusted his pince-nez. "Very remarkable, Captain Courtier," he said gravely; "a very strange and strong personality—Mr. Paul Mario. As my client his wishes are mine, but as a staunch churchman I find myself in disagreement with much of his paper,Le Bateleur—in disagreement, but remarkable, very."
Don laughed. "You are not alone in this respect, Mr. Nevin. He is destined to divide the civilised world into two camps, and already I, who encouraged him to the task, begin to tremble for its outcome."
Flamby arrived at London Bridge Station in a profoundly dejected condition. However happy one may be, London Bridge Station possesses the qualities of a sovereign joy-killer, and would have inclined the thoughts of Mark Tapley toward the darker things of life; but to Flamby, alone in a world which she did not expect to find sympathetic, it seemed a particularly hopeless place. She was dressed in black, and black did not suit her, and all the wisdom of your old philosophers must fail to solace a woman who knows that she is not looking her best.
Her worldly belongings were contained in a split-cane grip and the wraith of a cabin-trunk, whose substance had belonged to her father; her available capital was stuffed in a small leather purse. When the train with a final weary snort ceased its struggles and rested beside the platform, that murk so characteristic of London draped the grimy structure of the station, and a fine drizzle was falling. London had endued no holiday garments to greet Flamby, but, homely fashion, had elected to receive her in its everyday winter guise. A pathetic little figure, she stepped out of the carriage. Something in the contrast between this joyless gloom and the sun-gay hills she had known and loved brought a sudden mist before Flamby's eyes, so that she remained unaware of the presence of a certain genial officer until a voice which was vaguely familiar said: "Your train was late, Miss Duveen."
Flamby started, stared, and found Donald Courtier standing smiling at her. Although she had seen him only once before she knew him immediately because she had often studied the photograph which was inside the famous silver cigarette-case. The mistiness of vision troubled her anew as she held out her black-gloved hand. "Oh," she said huskily, "how good of you."
The last word was almost inaudible, and whilst Don grasped her hand between both his own and pressed it reassuringly, Flamby stared through the mist at three golden stars on the left shoulder of his topcoat.
"Now," cried Don cheerily, "what about our baggage?"
"There's only one old trunk," said Flamby, "except this funny thing."
"Give me the funny thing," replied Don briskly, "and here is a comic porter who will dig out the trunk. Porter!"
Linking his left arm in Flamby's right, Don, taking up the cane grip, moved along the platform in the direction of the guard's van, which was apparently laden with an incredible number of empty and resonant milk cans. The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably have posed for Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully.
"'Ow many?" he inquired. "Got the ticket?"
He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby's black glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance. That it was an authentic relic of Duveen's earlier days was testified by the faded labels, which still clung to it and which presented an illustrated itinerary of travels extending from Paris to New Orleans, Moscow to Shanghai. The new label, "London Bridge," offered a shocking anti-climax. Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which they were bound.
"Mr. Nevin selected The Hostel as an ideal spot,"he said, "where you would be free from interference and able to live your own life. He was influenced, too, by the fact that I have an aunt living there, a Mrs. Chumley, one of the most delightful old souls you could wish to meet."
Flamby was watching him all the time, and presently she spoke. "Are you quite sure, Captain Courtier, that the money from the War Office will be enough to pay for all this?"
Don waved his hand carelessly. "Ample," he declared. "The idea of The Hostel, which was founded by Lady Something-or-other, is to afford a residence for folks placed just as you are; not overburdened with means—you see? Of course, some of the tenants are queer fish, and as respectable as those dear old ladies who live amongst the ghosts at Hampton Court. But there are a number of women writers and students, and so forth: you will be quite at home in no time."
Flamby glanced down at the black dress, which she had made, and had made tastefully and well, but which to its critical creator looked painfully unfinished. "I feel a freak," she said. "Dad didn't believe in mourning, but they would have burned me alive at Lower Charleswood if I hadn't gone into black. Do you believe in mourning?"
"Well," replied Don, "to me it seems essentially a concession to popular opinion. I must admit that it strikes me as an advertisement of grief and about on a par with the wailing of the East. I don't see why we should go about inviting the world to weep. Our sorrows are our own affairs, after all, like our joys. We might quite as reasonably dress in white when a son and heir is born to us."
"Oh, I'm so glad you think so," said Flamby, and her voice was rather tremulous. "I loved mother more than anything in the world, but I hate to be reminded that she is dead by everybody who looks at me."
Don grasped her hand and tucked it confidently under his arm. "Your father was a wise man. Never be ashamed of following his advice, Flamby. May I call you Flamby? You seem so very grown-up, with your hair all tucked away under that black hat."
"I'm nearly eighteen, but I should hate you to call me Miss Duveen. Nobody ever calls me Miss Duveen, except people who don't like me."
"They must be very few."
"Not so few," said Flamby thoughtfully. "I think it's my hair that does it."
"That makes people dislike you?"
"Yes. Other women hate my hair."
"That is a compliment, Flamby."
"But isn't it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man."
Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby's hand more firmly under his arm. "You would have made a deuce of a boy," he said. "I wonder if we should have been friends."
"I don't think so," replied Flamby pensively.
"Eh!" cried Don, turning to her—"why not?"
"Well you treat women so kindly, and if I were a man I should treat them so differently."
"How do you know that I treat women kindly?"
"You are very kind to me."
"Ha!" laughed Don. "You call yourself a woman? Why you are only a kid!"
"But I'm a wise kid," replied Flamby saucily, the old elfin light in her eyes. "I know what beasts women are to one another, and I often hate myself because I'm a little beast, too."
"I don't believe it."
"That's because you are one of those nice men who deserve to know better."
Don leaned back in the cab and laughed until tears came to his eyes. He had encouraged this conversation with the purpose of diverting Flamby'smind from her sorrow, and he was glad to have succeeded so well. "Do men hate you, too," he asked.
"No, I get on much better with men. There are some fearful rotters, of course, but most men are honest enough if you are honest with them."
"Honi soit qui mal y pense," murmured Don, slowly recovering from his fit of laughter.
"Ipsissima verba," said Flamby.
Don, who was drying his eyes, turned slowly and regarded her. Flamby blushed rosily.
"What did you say?" asked Don.
"Nothing. I was thinking out loud."
"Do you habitually think in Latin?"
"No. It was just a trick of dad's. I wish you could have heard him swear in Latin."
Don's eyes began to sparkle again. "No doubt I should have found the experience of great educational value," he said; "but did he often swear in Latin?"
"Not often; only when he wasverydrunk."
"What was his favourite tongue when he was merely moderately so?"
Flamby's expression underwent a faint change, and looking down she bit her under-lip. Instantly Don saw that he had wounded her, and he cursed the clumsiness, of which Paul could never have been guilty, that had led him to touch this girl's acute sensibilities. She was bewildering, of course, and he realised that he must step warily in future. He reached across and grasped her other hand hard. "Please forgive me," he said. "No man had better reason for loving your father than I."
Flamby looked up at him doubtfully, read sincerity in the grey eyes, and smiled again at once. "Hewouldn't have minded a bit," she explained, "but I'm only a woman after all, and women are daft."
"I cannot allow you to be a woman yet, Flamby.You are only a girl, and I want you to think of me——"
Flamby's pretty lips assumed a mischievous curve and a tiny dimple appeared in her cheek. "Don't say as a big brother," she cried, "or you will make me feel like a penny novelette!"
"I cannot believe that you ever read a penny novelette."
"No; I didn't. But mother read them, and dad used to tear pages out to light his pipe before mother had finished. Then she would explain the plot to me up to the torn pages, and we would try to work out what had happened to the girl in the missing parts."
"A delightful literary exercise. And was the principal character always a girl?"
"Always a girl—yes; a poor girl cast upon the world; very often a poor governess."
"And she had two suitors."
"Yes. Sometimes three. She seemed inclined to marry the wrong one, but mother always read the end first to make sure it came out all right. I never knew one that didn't."
"No; it would have been too daring for publication. So your mother read these stories? Romance is indeed a hardy shrub."
The cab drew up before the door of The Hostel, a low, half-timbered building upon Jacobean lines which closely resembled an old coaching inn. The windows looking out upon the flower-bordered lawn had leaded panes, the gabled roof was red-tiled, and over the arched entrance admitting one to the rectangular courtyard around which The Hostel was constructed hung a wrought-iron lamp of delightfully mediaeval appearance.
Don opened the gate and walked beside Flamby under the arch and into the courtyard. Here the resemblance to an inn grew even more marked. A gallery surrounded the courtyard and upon it openedthe doors of numerous suites situated upon the upper floor. There was a tiny rock garden, too, and altogether the place had a charming old-world atmosphere that was attractive and homely. The brasswork of the many doors was brightly polished and all the visible appointments of the miniature suites spoke of refined good taste.
"It's very quiet," said Flamby.
"Yes. You see most of the people who live here are out during the day."
"Please where do I live?"
"This way," cried Don cheerily, conducting her up the tiled steps to the gallery. "Number twenty-three."
His good cheer was infectious, and Flamby found herself to be succumbing to a sort of pleasant excitement as she passed along by the rows of well-groomed doors, each of which bore a number and a neat name-plate. Some of the quaint leaded lattices were open, revealing vases of flowers upon the ledges within, and the tiny casement curtains afforded an index to the characters of the various occupants, which made quite fascinating study. There was Mrs. Lawrence Pooney whose curtains were wedgwood blue with a cream border; Miss Hook, whose curtains were plain dark green; Miss Aldrington Beech, whose curtains were lemon coloured with a Chinese pattern; and Mrs. Marion de Lisle, whose curtains were of the hue of the passion flower.
The door of Number 23 proved to be open, and Flamby, passing in, stood looking around her and trying to realise that this was the stage upon which the next act of her life story should be played. She found herself in a rather small rectangular room, lighted by one large casement window and a smaller latticed one, both of them overlooking the courtyard. The woodwork was oaken and the walls were distempered a discreet and restful shade of blue. There were a central electric fitting and another for areading-lamp, a fireplace of the latest slow-combustion pattern and a door communicating with an inner chamber.
"Oh!" cried Flamby. "What a dear little place!"
Don, who had been watching her anxiously, saw that she was really delighted and he entered into the spirit of the thing immediately. "I think it is simply terrific," he said. "I have often envied the Aunt her abode and wished I were an eligible spinster or widow. You have not seen the inner sanctuary yet; it is delightfully like a state-room."
Flamby passed through the doorway into the bedroom, which indeed was not much larger than a steamer cabin and was fitted with all those space-saving devices which one finds at sea; a bureau that was really a wash-basin, and a hidden wardrobe.
"There is a communal kitchen," explained Don, "with up-to-date appointments, also a general laundry, and there are bathrooms on both floors. I don't mean perpendicular bathrooms, so I should perhaps have said on either floor. In that cunning little alcove in the sitting-room is a small gas-stove, so that you will have no occasion to visit the kitchen unless you are preparing a banquet. You enjoy the use of the telephone, which is in the reading-room over the main entrance—and what more could one desire?"
"It's just great," declared Flamby, "and I can never hope to thank you for being so good to me. But I am wondering how I am going to afford it."
"My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich, and there you are."
"I was thinking about the furniture," said Flamby.
"Eh!" cried Don—"furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature consideration I perceive distinctlythat some few items of that kind will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so."
"You hadn't thought of that?"
"No—I admit it had slipped my memory. The question of furniture does not bulk largely in the mind of one used to billeting troops, but of course it must be attended to. Now, how about the furniture of What's-the-name Cottage?"
Flamby shook her head. "We had hardly any. Dad used to make things out of orange boxes; he was very clever at it. He didn't like real furniture. As fast as poor mother saved up and bought some he broke it, so after a while she stopped. I've brought the clock."
"Ah!" cried Don gaily—"the clock. Good. That's a start. You will at least know at what time to rise in the morning."
"I shall," agreed Flamby—"from the floor!"
The fascinating dimple reappeared in her cheek and she burst into peals of most musical laughter. Don laughed, too; so that presently they became quite breathless but perfectly happy.
"I vote," said Don, "that we consult the Aunt. She resides at Number Nineteen on this floor, and her guidance in such a matter as furnishing would be experienced and reliable."
"Right-oh," replied Flamby buoyantly. "I have a little money saved up."
"Don't worry about money. The pension has been finally settled between Mr. Nevin and the Government people, and it dates from the time——"
"Of dad's death? But mother used to draw that."
"I am speaking of the special pension," explained Don hurriedly, as they walked along the gallery, "which Mr. Nevin has been trying to arrange. This ante-dates, and the first sum will be quite a substantial one; ample for the purpose of furnishing. Here is the Aunt's."
Pausing before a door numbered 19, and bearing a brass plate inscribed "Mrs. Chumley," Don pressed the bell. Whilst they waited, Flamby studied the Aunt's curtains (which were snowy white) with critical eyes and tried to make up her mind whether she liked or disliked the sound of "Mrs. Chumley."
"The Aunt is apparently not at home," said Don, as no one responded to the ringing. "Let us return to Number 23 and summon Reuben, who will possibly know where she has gone."
Accordingly they returned to the empty suite and rang a bell which summoned the janitor. Following a brief interval came a sound resembling that of a drinking horse and there entered a red-whiskered old man with a neatly pimpled nose, introducing an odour of rum. He was a small man, but he wore a large green apron, and he touched the brim of his bowler hat very respectfully.
"Excuse me breathin' 'eavy, sir," he said, "but it's thehahsma. The place is hall ready for the young madam, sir, to move 'er furniture in, and Mrs. Chumley she's in the readin'-room."
"Ah, very good, Reuben," replied Don. "Will you get the trunk and basket in from the taxi, and you might pay the man. The fare was four and something-or-other. Here are two half-crowns and sixpence."
"Yes, sir," responded Reuben; "and what time am I to expect the other things?"
"Miss Duveen is not quite sure, Reuben, when they will arrive. As a matter of fact, she has several purchases to make. But probably the bulk of it will arrive to-morrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir," said Reuben, and departed respiring noisily. As he made his exit Flamby carefully closed the door, and—"Oh," she cried, "what a funny old man! Whatever did he mean byhahsma?"
"I have been struggling with the same problem,"declared Don, "and I have come to the conclusion that he referred to asthma."
"Oh," said Flamby breathlessly. "I hope he won't mind me laughing at him."
"I am sure he won't. He is a genial soul and generally liked in spite of his spirituous aroma. Now for the Aunt."
They walked around two angles of the gallery and entered a large room the windows of which overlooked the front lawn. It was furnished cosily as a library, and a cheerful fire burned in the big open grate. From the centre window an excellent view might be obtained of Reuben struggling with the cabin-trunk, which the placid taxi-driver had unstrapped and lowered on to the janitor's shoulders without vacating his seat.
"I hope he won't break the clock," said Flamby,sotto voce. She turned as Don went up to a little table at which a round old lady, the only occupant of the room, was seated writing. This old lady had a very round red face and very round wide-open surprised blue eyes. Her figure was round, too; she was quite remarkably circular.
"Ha, the Aunt!" cried Don, placing his hands affectionately upon her plump shoulders. "Here is our country squirrel come to town."
Mrs. Chumley laid down her pen and turned the surprised eyes upon Don. Being met with a smile, she smiled in response—and her smile was oddly like that of her nephew. Flamby knew in a moment that Mrs. Chumley was a sweet old lady, and that hers was one of those rare natures whose possessors see ill in no one, but good in all.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Chumley, in a surprised silvery voice, a voice peculiarly restful and soothing, "it is Don." She stood up. "Yes, it is Don, and this is Flamby. Come here, dear, and let me look at you."
Flamby advanced swiftly, holding out her hand,which Mrs. Chumley took, and the other as well, drawing her close and kissing her on the cheek in the simple, natural manner of a mother. Then Mrs. Chumley held her at arms' length, surveying her, and began to muse aloud.
"She is very pretty, Don," she said. "You told me she was pretty, I remember. She is a sweet little girl, but I don't think black suits her. Do you think black suits her?"
"Any old thing suits her," replied Don, "but she looks a picture in white."
"Quite agree, Don, she would. Couldn't you dress in white, dear?"
"If nobody thought it too awful I would. Dad never believed in mourning."
"Quite agree. Most peculiar that I should agree with him, but I do. Don does not believe in mourning, either. I should be most annoyed if he wore mourning. Was your mother pretty? Don't tell me if it makes you cry. What beautiful hair you have. Hasn't she beautiful hair, Don? May I take your hat off, dear?"
"Of course," said Flamby, taking off her hat immediately, whereupon the mop of unruly hair all coppery waves and gold-flecked foam came tumbling about her face.
"Dear me," continued Mrs. Chumley, whilst Don stood behind her watching the scene amusedly, "itisremarkable hair." Indeed the sight of Flamby's hair seemed almost to have stupefied her. "She is really very pretty. I like you awfully, dear. I am glad you are going to live near me. What did you call her, Don?"
"What did I call her, Aunt?"
"When you first came in. Oh, yes—a squirrel." She placed her arm around Flamby and gave her a little hug. "Quite agree; sheisa squirrel. You are a country squirrel, dear. Do you mind?"
"Of course not," said Flamby, laughing. "You couldn't pay me a nicer compliment."
"No," replied Mrs. Chumley, lapsing into thoughtful mood. "I suppose I couldn't. Squirrels are very pretty. I am afraid I was never like a squirrel. How many inches are you round the waist?"
"I don't know. About twenty," replied Flamby, suddenly stricken with shyness; "but I'm only little."
"Are you little, dear? I should not have called you little. You are taller than I am."
Since Mrs. Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but Flamby accepted it without demur. "I'm wearing high heels," she said. "I am no taller than you, really."
"I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels. They are so smart. It's a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them. Don't you think men hate them, Don?"
"The consensus of modern masculine opinion probably admits distaste for flat-heeled womanhood, in spite of classic tradition."
"Dear me, that might be Paul Mario. Do you like Paul Mario, dear?"—turning again to Flamby and repeating the little hug.
Flamby lowered her head quickly. "Yes," she replied.
"I thought you would. He's so handsome. Don't you think him handsome?"
"Yes."
"He is astonishingly clever, too. Everybody is talking about what they call his New Gospel. Do you believe in his New Gospel, dear?"
"I don't know what it is."
"I'm not quite sure that I do. What is his New Gospel, Don?"
"That he alone can explain, Aunt. But it is going to stir up the world. Paul is a genius—the only true genius of the age."
"Quite agree. I don't know that it isn't just as well. Don't you think it may be just as well, dear?"
"I don't know," said Flamby, looking up slowly.
"I'm not quite sure that I do. Has your furniture arrived, dear?"
"Not yet, Aunt," replied Don on Flamby's behalf. "Most of it will have to be purchased, and I thought you might give Flamby some sort of a notion what to buy. Then we could trot off up town and get things."
"How delightful. I should have loved to join you, but I have promised to lunch with Mrs. Pooney, and I couldn't disappoint her. She is downstairs now, cooking a chicken. Someone sent her a chicken. Wasn't that nice?"
"Very decent of someone. I hope it is a tender chicken. And now, Aunt, could Flamby take a peep at your place and perhaps make a sort of list. Some of the things we could get to-day, and perhaps to-morrow you could run along with her and complete the purchases."
"I should love it. Dear me!" Into the round blue eyes came suddenly tears of laughter, and Mrs. Chumley became convulsed with silent merriment, glancing helplessly from Don to Flamby. This merriment was contagious; so that ere long all three were behaving quite ridiculously.
"Whatever is the Aunt laughing about?" inquired Don.
"Dear me!" gasped Mrs. Chumley, struggling to regain composure—"poor child! Of course you have nowhere to sleep to-night. How ridiculous—a squirrel without a nest." She hugged Flamby affectionately. "You will stay with me, dear, won't you?"
"Oh, but really—may I? Have you room?"
"Certainly, dear. Friends often stay with me. I have a queer thing in my sitting-room that looks like a bookcase, but is really a bed. You can stay with me just as long as you like. There is no hurry to get your own place ready, is there? There isn't any hurry, is there, Don?"
"No particular hurry, Aunt. But, naturally, Flamby will get things in order as soon as possible."
"Thank you so much," said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her sight.
"Not at all, dear. I'm glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be. What an absurd word—gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely, Don?"
"More glad would perhaps be preferable, Aunt."
Mrs. Chumley immediately succumbed to silent merriment for a time. "How absurd!" she said presently. "Gladder! I don't believe there is such a word in the dictionary. Do you believe there is such a word in the dictionary, dear?"
"I don't think there is," replied Flamby.
"No, I expect there isn't. I don't know that it may not be just as well. Come along, dear. You can come, too, if you like, Don, or you might prefer to look at your own drawings in theCourier. If I drew I should love to look at my own drawings. You may smoke here, Don, of course. A number of the residents smoke. Do you smoke, Flamby?"
"No, but I think I should like it."
"Quite agree. Itissoothing. You will wait here, then, Don? Come along, dear."
An hour later when Flamby and Don came out of The Hostel, the rain clouds were breaking, and sunlight—somewhat feeble, but sunlight withal—was seeking bravely to disperse the gloom. Flamby was conscious of an altered outlook; the world after all was not utterly grey; such was the healing influence of a sympathetic soul.
"You know," said Don, as they passed through the gateway, "I am delighted with the way you have taken to the dear old Aunt. She is so often misunderstood, and it makes me writhe to see people laugh at her—unkindly, I mean. Ofcourse her method of conversation is ridiculously funny, I know; but a woman who can suffer the misfortunes which have befallen the Aunt and come out with the heart of a child is worth studying, I think. Personally, I always feel a lot better after a chat with her. She is a perfect well of sympathy."
"I think she is the sweetest woman I have ever met," declared Flamby earnestly. "How could anyone help loving her?"
"People don't or won't understand her, you see, and misunderstanding is the mother of intolerance. Ah! there is a taxi on the rank."
"Oh," cried Flamby quickly—"please don't get another cab for me."
"Eh? No cab?"
"I cannot afford it and I could not think of allowing you to pay for everything."
"Now let us have a thorough understanding, Flamby," said Don, standing facing her, that sunny rejuvenating smile making his tanned face look almost boyish. "You remember what I said on the subject of misunderstanding? Listen, then: I am on leave and my money is burning a hole in my pocket; money always does. If I had a sister—I have but she is married and lives at Harrogate—I should ask her to take pity upon me and spend a few days in my company. An exchange of views with some nice girl who understands things is imperative after one has been out of touch with everything feminine for months and months. It is a natural desire which must be satisfied, otherwise it leads a man to resort to desperate measures in the quest for sympathy. Because of your father you are more to me than a sister, Flamby, and if you will consent to my treating you as one you will be performing an act of charity above price. The Aunt quite understands and approves. Isn't that good enough?"
Flamby met his gaze honestly and was satisfied. "Yes," she replied. "Myself and what is mine toyou and yours is now converted." The end of the quotation was almost inaudible, for it had leapt from Flamby's tongue unbidden. The idea that Don might suspect her of seeking to impress him with her learning was hateful to her. But Don on the contrary was quite frankly delighted.
"Hullo!" he cried—"is that Portia?"
"Yes, but please don't take any notice if I say funny things. I don't mean to. Dad lovedThe Merchant of Venice, and I know quite a lot of lines by heart."
"How perfectly delightful to meet a girl who wears neither sensible boots nor spectacles but who appreciates Shakespeare! Lud! I thought such treasures were mythical. Flamby, I have a great idea. If you love Portia you will love Ellen Terry. I suppose her Portia is no more than a memory of the old Lyceum days, but it is a golden memory, Flamby. Ellen Terry is at the Coliseum. Shall we go to-night? Perhaps the Aunt would join us."
"Oh!" said Flamby, her eyes alight with excitement; but the one word was sufficient.
"Right!" cried Don. "Now for Liberty's."
They entered the cab, and as it moved off, "What is Liberty's?" asked Flamby.
"The place for rummy furniture," explained Don. "Nobody else could possibly provide the things for your den. The Aunt once had a cottage in Devon furnished by Liberty and it was the most perfect gem of a cottage one could imagine."
"Was she very well off once?"
"The Aunt? Why the dear old lady ought to be worth thousands. Her husband left her no end of money and property. She has travelled nearly all over the civilised world, Flamby, and now is tied to that one tiny room at The Hostel."
"But how is it? Did she lose her money?"
"She gave it away and let everybody rob her.The world unfortunately is full of Dick Turpins and Jack Sheppards, not to mention their lady friends."
"Ah," said Flamby and sat silent for some time studying the panorama of the busy London streets. "Is Liberty's dear?" she inquired presently.
"Not at all; most reasonable."
"I'm glad," replied Flamby. "I have got seven pounds ten saved. Will that be enough?"
Don held his breath. Flamby's extraordinary erudition and inherent cleverness had not prepared him for this childish ignorance of the value of money. But he realised immediately that it was no more than natural after all and that he might have anticipated it; and secretly he was delighted because of the opportunity which it offered him of repaying in part, or of trying to repay, the debt which he owed to Michael Duveen. Moreover he had found that to give pleasure to Flamby was a gracious task.
"It may not cover everything," he said casually, "but the sum held by Mr. Nevin will more than do so. Think no more about it. I will see that your expenditures do not exceed your means."
They alighted near that window of Messrs. Liberty's which is devoted to the display of velvet robes—of those simple, unadorned creations which Golders Green may view unmoved but which stir the æsthetic soul of Chelsea. In the centre of the window, cunningly draped before an oak-pannelled background, hung a dress of grey velvet which was the apogee and culmination of Flamby's dreams. For not all the precepts of the Painted Portico can quench in the female bosom woman's innate love of adornment. Assuredly Eve wore flowers in her hair.
"Oh," whispered Flamby, "do you think it is very dear?"
Don having paid the cabman, had joined her where she stood. "Which one?" he inquired with masculine innocence.
"The grey one. There is nothing on it at all. I have seen dresses in Dale's at home with yards of embroidery that were only four pounds."
"I don't suppose so," said Don cheerfully. "Let us go in and try it on.Youtry it on, I mean."
"Oh, I daren't! I didn't dream ofbuyingit," cried Flamby, flushing hotly. "I was only admiring it."
"And because you admire it you don't dream of buying it? That is odd. And surely grey is what is known as 'half-mourning' too, is it not? Absolutely correct form."
"But it may be frightfully dear. I will ask the price when Mrs. Chumley is with me." Flamby was weakening.
Don grasped her firmly by the arm and led her vastly perturbed into the shop, where a smiling saleswoman accosted them. "This lady wishes to see the grey gown you have in the window," he said. He drew the woman aside and added, "Don't tell her the price! You understand? If she insists upon knowing take your cue from me." He could say no more as Flamby had drawn near.
"How much is it?" she inquired naively.
"I don't know yet," replied Don. "Won't you look at it first?"
"The dress is a model, madam," said the puzzled modiste. "Probably we should have to alter it to fit you."
"Would that be extra?" asked Flamby.
"Only a trifle," Don assured her, "if you really like it."
"How much is it please?" Flamby asked.
Don, standing just behind her became troubled with a tickling in the throat, and the woman, hesitating, looked up and detected his urgent glance. He raised three fingers furtively. She could scarcely conceal her amazement, but an emphatic nod from Don left her in no doubt respecting his meaning.
"I believe it is—three guineas, madam," she replied in a forced and unnatural voice. She was wondering what would become of her if this very eccentric officer played her false.
Flamby turned thoughtfully to Don. "That's expensive isn't it?" she said.
The saleswoman's amazement increased; words failed her entirely, and to cover her embarrassment she opened the screen at the back of the window and took out the grey gown. Flamby's eyes sparkled.
"But isn't it sweet," she whispered. "Where do I go to try it on?"
"This way, madam," said the woman, darting an imploring glance at Don to which he was unable to respond as Flamby was looking in his direction.
Flamby disappeared into a fitting-room and Don sat down to consider the question of how far he could hope to pursue his plot without being unmasked.
He lighted a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection on the point. When presently Flamby came out, radiant, followed by the troubled attendant carrying the grey gown, he was prepared for her.
"I'm going to have it!" she said. "Am I frightfully extravagant?"
"Not at all," Don assured her; and as she took out her purse. "No," he added, "you must not pay cash, Flamby. It would confuse Nevin's books. I will write a cheque and charge it to your account together with the other purchases."
He withdrew with the saleswoman, leaving Flamby seated looking at the velvet frock draped across a chair. Having proceeded to a discreet distance—"What is the price of the dress, please?" he asked.