IV"Luncheon is served," announced Liss."What is there?" asked Marjorie."The same as breakfast, with Willie and John thrown in. Also the rest of the day before yesterday's loaf. Pull up your chair, dear."As breakfast had consisted of nothing at all, the prodigality of this menu can be readily gauged. Willie and John, by the way, were the last two sardines in the tin."You take Willie," said Liss. "Here's your half of the bread. Oh my, but I'm hungry! Good-bye, John dear! Marjorie, what are we going to do next?"Marjorie bent her brows judicially."Let me see," she said. "I've tried the theatre, and they don't begin rehearsing the new piece for a fortnight. It was no use trying the canteen, because it isn't there any more—at least, nothing worth considering. And as it happens, I don't know anyone else in any other canteen.""We haven't got an account at any shop," continued Liss, "because we've always been to the cheap cash places. I don't know a living soul in London, except my family; and if I go back to Finchley I know I'll jolly well have to stay there for the duration.""And I," supplemented Marjorie, "know no one except Uncle Fred, in Dulwich. And I'd rather die than askhimfor help!""No one at all?" exclaimed Liss. "Do you and I mean to sit here and tell each other that we know no one in London, except the people at the theatre, and the people at your canteen, and one or two dud relations? Why not call on your old Lord Eskerley?"Marjorie hesitated."I don't think I can," she said. "I have no particular claim—""No claim? Didn't you drive his silly old car in all weathers for nearly a year? Didn't he tell you to come back and see him whenever you had time? It's no use being modest when you're starving. If you don't go and see him, I shall.""Then I may as well tell you, dear," announced Marjorie, "that I have been already.""Why didn't you say so before?""I didn't want to disappoint you.""Why? Were you chucked out?""No. He's away in Paris, on an indefinite mission. The butler was very nice about it, but he had no information as to when his lordship would be back. I hadn't been entirely forgotten, though. There was a message for me. It had been lying there for weeks.""What did it say?""It was just a scribbled note in an envelope with my motor licence, which I had left behind in the garage." Marjorie crossed the room to her little bureau. "Here it is! It says:My dear late lamented Habakkuk,—I enclose your licence, which you have inadvertently left on my premises. No doubt you will need it again some day.With kind regards,Yours sincerely—There's a postscript," she added:Apropos of motor licences, let me offer you a piece of advice. Always keep an adequate sum—say a pound or so—folded up and tucked away between the covers of the licence itself. This expedient, when you get held up in a police-trap, and the minion of the law examines your credentials, may obviate a public appearance before the local Beaks. Verb, sap.! Very useful. Don't say I told you.Marjorie laid down this characteristic effusion, and laughed."I don't think we are likely to tie up any capital in that way at present!" she said, finishing the last crumb of her bread. "We are down to fourpence now. We had better keep that for to-morrow, and go without supper to-night. No, we'll spend threepence on biscuits, and have a biscuit apiece at bed-time!""By golly, we do go it, don't we!" Liss looked round the room hungrily. "Isn't thereanythingleft that we can pop?""Nothing, I'm afraid. My jewellery is all at Netherby. I have my engagement-ring, of course—""That stays!" announced Liss firmly. "It was lucky," she went on with more cheerfulness, "that my little Leonard did not want his back! Not that we got much for it; I alwayssaidhe bought it at a stationer's! Now, if it had only been the one Reggie gave me, that would have been a different story; his was a beauty. But the little beast practically grabbed it back from me. Marjie, Ireallythink I'd better get engaged again. I could wire Toby, at—""You will do no such thing!" said Marjorie. "Besides, you can't send a wire for fourpence.""I suppose," continued Liss (whose motto in life was "Anything Once!") "it wouldn't do to go and sit about in a restaurant somewhere, and get taken out to dinner by an Australian, or somebody? All right, I was only joking! Well, we must just hang on till Saturday; then there will be lots of our nice boy friends in town for the week-end, and we can make up for lost time. Meanwhile, let's go round and see if we can't get a job directing envelopes, or something. Carry on, partner!"VTowards evening our two hungry sparrows forgathered again, footsore and faint, but still smiling. Liss, who ought by rights to have been in bed consuming chicken-broth, was as white as wax."What luck?" she enquired."Nothing doing!" sighed Marjorie. "They will take me on at an office in Holborn as soon as my arm is well enough to write, but they wouldn't give me an advance of pay. They just told me to report at nine o'clock on Monday.""And to-day's Thursday! Thank them for nothing!""Did you get anything?" asked Marjorie."No—except that I went round to the theatre again, and they are putting on the new show a little sooner. There's a call for rehearsal on Saturday. That doesn't mean any salary for a long while, but I ought to be able to borrow a shilling or two from the girls. Not that it will be easy: they all need the money themselves these days, poor things! I'm cold. Let's have our biscuit and go to bed.""I wonder what time it is?" said Marjorie, getting up from her chair."About eight, I should say." (Watches had been hypothecated long since.) "It's a bit early.""Qui dort, dine," quoted Marjorie."What does that mean?""It's what Lord Eskerley used to say when he'd been to the House of Lords. Let's go to bed; I'm comfortably tired. London's a big place to get about in—when one hasn't a bus fare!"They shared Marjorie's bed that night, for misery loves company."I say," suggested Liss suddenly, "couldn't we go round and get a meal from the Red Cross, or somebody?"Marjorie, who was just dropping off to sleep, replied with great firmness:"The Red Cross can only assist people who have been wounded in action. If they go beyond that, the Geneva Convention allows them to be fired on; and then Roy might—No, wecan'task the Red Cross—unless we get hit in another air-raid!" she added hopefully.Having no more suggestions to offer, Liss dropped off to sleep in her favourite attitude—with her head under the pillow. Marjorie lay awake for a long time, pondering many things in her heart—speculating mainly as to whether she could last out until Baby's flock of plutocratic second lieutenants came to town on Saturday. She decided immediately that she could, adding a mental rider condemning persons who, like herself, worried about their own personal comforts when there was a war on. She also wondered, again and again, what had become of Roy. She wondered whether he were hungry too. Presumably not. He had assured her that the British Army on the Western Front were grossly overfed—in fact, the inevitability with which the Army Service Corps got the rations up and through bordered on the uncanny. No, she need not worry about Roy's diet. His safety was another matter. Five weeks! She dropped into a troubled sleep.CHAPTER XVTHE EXPLORERMeanwhile, in a crowded street just off the Strand, in the fading light of a July evening, an elderly gentleman with a goat's beard, spectacles on nose, was diligently examining the framed photographs exhibited outside a very popular theatre. His attention was particularly directed to a large chorus group—an ensemble of attractive young women in costumes attuned to the economical spirit of wartime.Aware of a sudden interference with the not too abundant supply of light, the elderly investigator turned round, a little guiltily, to find that he was being assisted in his investigations by three hard-breathing members of His Majesty's Forces—an English Sapper, a Highlander, and a Canadian of enormous bulk."And very nice, too!" observed the Sapper. "But Grandpa, not at your time of life, you didn't ought to—reelly! 'Op it—there's a good boy!""Awa' hame!" added the Scot severely—"or I'll tell on ye tae Grandmaw!"Bitterly ashamed at having his motives thus misconstrued, Uncle Fred hurried away. His course now took him westward along the Strand, which was packed from end to end with seekers after diversion—mostly soldiers and their adherents. He plodded steadily through the press, with the air of a man who has a definite goal before him. This was the second week of his search for Marjorie, but he had considerably modified the plan of action laid down for him by his elder brother. His attempts to call upon the theatrical managers of London,seriatim, for the purpose of compelling them to disgorge his niece, had resulted in a sequence of humiliating reverses at the hands of stunted but precocious children in the outer office. Uncle Fred had now evolved a plan of his own. He had observed that theatres were accustomed to stimulate the appetites of their patrons by displaying samples of their wares—in the form of large framed photographs—outside the entrance to the theatre. Good! He would resolve himself into an investigating committee of one, visit each theatre in turn, and examine photographs until he had located Marjorie. After that, the stronghold itself must be penetrated. A somewhat hazardous enterprise, he decided, but not without its romantic side. As already noted, there was the making of a man-about-town in Uncle Fred.His self-imposed quest had been in progress for several evenings, and, as yet, had borne no fruit. Uncle Fred was not familiar with the life of the West End—his knowledge of social life in London, like that of too many Members of Parliament, was limited to the tea-room of the House of Commons—and he had wasted a good deal of time hunting for photographs outside establishments where chorus girls are not usually to be found—Maskelyne and Cook's, for instance, and the Polytechnic. Also, it required expert knowledge to distinguish the humble home of the Drama from the palace of the Movie Queen. But he was learning rapidly. Assisted by the advertisements in the daily press and a District Railway map of London, he had now charted out the whole of theatre-land, and had very nearly completed a most methodical survey thereof. He knew the name of every revue and musical comedy in London, and could have given points, in his familiarity with the features of professional beauty, to the average Flying Corps subaltern.He crossed Trafalgar Square, and headed for the Shaftesbury Avenue district. A hurried reference to the map, in a quiet corner behind the National Gallery, confirmed him in his bearings. Presently he found himself before another theatre. It was nearly nine o'clock; but, thanks to the Summer Time Act, it was still daylight. The name of the current attraction of the house, as stated on the bill-boards outside, wasToo Many Girls. Diagonally across each bill-board was pasted a printed slip which said, a little ambiguously, "Last Week.""That's a pity," mused Uncle Fred. "But I can slip inside and find out what they are doing this week and next. There's some sort of entertainment going on: I can hear it."Thrusting his beard well forward, Uncle Fred marched boldly into the vestibule of the theatre. The framed photographs had been taken in for the night, and were ranged round the wall on easels. Uncle Fred set his spectacles in position, and began his usual methodical tour of inspection, at his regulation range of six inches.A stout lady, confined in a gilded cage in one of the walls, engaged in counting change, suspended operations to watch him. She caught the eye of the commissionnaire who stood at the swing-door leading to the stalls, and coughed delicately. Certainly Uncle Fred, in his semi-ecclesiastical frock-coat and Heath Robinson tall hat, crouching astride his umbrella in a strained endeavour to scrutinise the very lowest row in a large photographic group of chorus girls, fairly invited comment."Boys will be boys!" observed the commissionnaire, to no one in particular; and the siren in the cage giggled.Suddenly Uncle Fred came to a dead point opposite the very last photograph in the last row. Feverishly reinforcing his spectacles with a pair of eye-glasses, he made a confirmatory examination, and then rose to an upright position—looking as Stanley may have looked when he found Livingstone. Then, for the first time, he became aware that he was not alone."Naughty, naughty!" said a wheezy feminine voice."Haw, haw, haw!" roared the commissionnaire."I'm ashamed of you, little brighteyes!" declared the accusing angel in the cage."Outside!" added the commissionnaire, recalled to a sense of duty by the appearance at the swing-door of an authoritative-looking person in a dinner jacket.Uncle Fred, shamefully misunderstood and deeply wounded, hurried out. In the street he hesitated."Those people might have given me some useful information," he reflected. "But I won't go back now, to be insulted! I think, after all, it would be best to see the caretaker at the stage door. I suppose that will be somewhere at the back."A voyage of circumnavigation brought him to the dingy portal which early training and settled conviction had always represented to him as giving direct access to the Infernal Regions. With a guilty thrill he crossed the threshold, and found himself confronted by an unshaven man slumbering in a glass box. Uncle Fred coughed nervously. The man opened his eyes, and pushed open a glass shutter."Well?" he enquired."I want to ask a favour," began Uncle Fred. But the man cut him short."What is it? Temperance, or Christian Science? You can't put up no notices on our call-board. Management don't allow it.""I have reason to believe," pursued Uncle Fred, with feeble dignity, "that a young woman is employed here—""We employ thirty-six of 'em," said the stage-door man."I have just seen her likeness—in a group—round there"—explained Uncle Fred, waving his umbrella vaguely towards the front of the house."It very often starts that way," remarked the stage-door man. "But why not pay for a seat, like a little gentleman, and go in front and see the gel?""She's my niece," explained Uncle Fred."They always are," said the stage-door man. "Or else cousins! Good night, Tirpitz!"He shut the little glass shutter in the investigator's face, and recomposed his features to slumber. But Uncle Fred, though not a dashing person, possessed some elements of the dogged persistence of the Clegg family. He rapped on the window-pane. The stage-door man opened it again."Now, you run away!" he said. "'Op it! Sling yer 'ook, or I'll set the cat on you!""Is my niece here to-night?" asked Uncle Fred, employing the handle of his umbrella as a lever of the third order. "I am very anxious to have a few words with her, on a domestic matter. I see a notice outside, saying that the present entertainment concluded last week. But it has occurred to me that it is still possible—"The stage-door man slid from his stool, came out of his den, and laid a heavy hand, not unkindly, on the orator's shoulder."What you want to do, ole friend," he said, "is to 'ire the Albert 'All, and make a night of it! That'll get it out of your system nicely. Good-bye!" He gently impelled his guest in the direction of the street."I want my niece's address," gasped Uncle Fred, clinging like a limpet to the door-post."Go along, you silly old sinner!" said the stage-door man, disengaging him. "I'm ashamed of you.""I will pay you!" said Uncle Fred desperately.The stage-door man relaxed at once."Now you'retalking!" he announced.Five minutes later, after a sordid commercial wrangle, Uncle Fred emerged from the stage door with a slip of paper in his hand. He walked straight into the arms of three members of His Majesty's Forces. They recognised him, and drew back in affected horror."What, again?" cried the Canadian. "My God, he's a Mormon! Come along, boys!"CHAPTER XVITHE GREAT PRETEND"And the sweet?" enquired Marjorie, pencil poised."Méringues!" said Liss firmly."Well, I would say chocolatesouffléevery time—with whipped cream, of course!" replied Marjorie. "But have it your own way. Now for the savoury!""We don't want a savoury," said Liss."Remember," Marjorie reminded her, "that there will be gentlemen present.""I was forgetting the gentlemen. Well—what?""Mygentleman friend," said Marjorie, "is very fond of angels-on-horseback.""All right! You can put them down if you like; only don't ask me to eat them: I expect I shall be stodged by that time, anyhow. Oh Marjie, if only it were true!" Liss hugged her hungry little self, longingly."There, that's the completemenu," said Marjorie. She laid down her pencil, took up the writing pad, and began to read:"Oysters!" She took up her pencil again. "By the way, we can't have oysters.""Why not?""You can only have oysters when there's an R in the month.""Well, it's August!" said Liss. "And as they aren't going to be there anyhow, they may as well stay in!""No," said Marjorie. "This dinner is going to be things we would order here and now—just supposing we could. So don't let us spoil it by putting down impossible things."Liss at once recognised the logical consistency of this view."All right!" she said. "No oysters!Hors d'oeuvres, instead. Then nice hot soup!""Yes—Potage à la reine.""It sounds a bit watery; but I don't mind, so long as it's hot. Oh, howlovelyit would be!""Sole meunière. That's Roy's favourite.""Oh—Roy's to be there? That's your pretend, is it?"Marjorie nodded over her hypothetical menu."That's a good idea. Who shall I pretend my man is? Toby?""All right.""In that case, we shall want more than one bottle of champagne. You know what that child is! But never mind that just now! Read out some more food.""Duckling—""And green peas, of course?""Of course!""What then?""That brings us to theméringues.""Good! That should be enough. We will have coffee andcrème de mentheafterwards, of course?""We will have cognac as well. You see, Roy—Oh, Liss!" For a moment Marjorie's fortitude forsook her. Her face sank into her friend's fluffy hair."Liss, dear," she murmured, "ifonlyI knew!""It's Friday afternoon now," said Liss cheerfully. "We'll get lots to eat to-morrow, when the boys come up to town.""I wasn't thinking of food," said Marjorie—"just then!""Well, I was! Oh, mydear, I'm hungry! I didn't know it was possible to be so hungry. What time is it?""About five, I think.""Well, let's have a nice drink of water, and eat a couple of biscuits, and go to bed. It's the best way.""Very well," said Marjorie listlessly. She was the more exhausted of the two; for Liss was of the ethereal type that seems to thrive on a diet of next-to-nothing. Neither girl had touched food, except a few biscuits, since the previous evening. This afternoon they had endeavoured to maintainmoraleby indulging in one of the oldest pastimes known to children of the world—the game of "Let's pretend!"—sturdily endeavouring to hold a fire in their hands by thinking on the frosty Caucasus.Suddenly there came a tapping on the outer door. Both girls started up."Who on earth can that be?" said Marjorie, hurrying automatically to the mirror above the mantelpiece."I wonder if it is anybody with any money!" remarked Liss, hastily removing herself from the couch, where she had been stifling the pangs of hunger by lying on her front."Go and see!" commanded Marjorie, busy at the mirror.Liss went out into the little vestibule, and reappeared, followed by a visitor. Her face was a study."This gentleman wants to see you, dear," she said solemnly. "I will leave you together!"Marjorie turned hastily round."No—stay!" she commanded. "How do you do, Uncle Fred?""I am very well, thank you," said Uncle Fred in a low voice. Apprehension was written upon his features, and his large, weak mouth trembled. This adventure was trying him high. To penetrate into the boudoir of an actress—two actresses, apparently—was practically equivalent to visiting a theatre dressing-room, which he knew to be the last station before perdition.Marjorie shook hands."Sit down," she said. "I am afraid we are not quite dressed for callers. Do you mind?"Uncle Fred shook his head feebly, guiltily conscious that he did not mind enough. His niece was dressed in a very simple blue serge frock, with touches of scarlet at her waist and wrists. She was thinner and paler than when he had last seen her. Late suppers, of course. She had done something theatrical but undeniably becoming to her hair, which, instead of being discreetly piled upon her head, framed her face in a sort of aureole. In order to shake hands with him she had deposited upon the mantelpiece, without any attempt at concealment, a small powder-puff, with which she had obviously been tampering with that infallible symbol of respectability, a shiny nose. She wore very thin black silk stockings and patent leather shoes, with dangerously high heels. One of the shoes had a hole in the sole, but Marjorie kept that sole glued to the floor throughout the interview. The silk stockings had lisle tops, but naturally Uncle Fred did not know this. Blinking feebly, he turned his attention to Marjorie's companion. In the obscurity of the vestibule he had not particularly noticed her. He did so now. His pale blue eyes bulged.Before him he beheld a small, fluffy creature in a flimsy garment which she would have called anegligée, but which to Uncle Fred looked suspiciously like a nightgown. On her feet were padded pink satin bedroom slippers. Her lips were bright red, and were directing a dazzling smile upon him. There were dark hollows under her large grey eyes. Uncle Fred resolutely averted his gaze, and turned again to his niece."This is Miss Lyle," announced Marjorie. "We share the flat. Liss, dear, this is my uncle, Mr. Clegg. Well, Uncle Fred, how are you? I'm sorry we can't offer you tea, but we—we have practically all our meals at a restaurant. Don't we, Liss?""We simply live there!" affirmed Liss."Will you have a cigarette?" continued Marjorie, offering a box. "Don't mind about that being the last one! There are plenty more.""I do not smoke," replied Uncle Fred coldly."Throw it to me, Marjorie!" chirped the vision in thenegligée. A moment later, genuinely oblivious of the sensation she was causing, Liss was lying back in the arm-chair, blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.Marjorie proceeded to make conversation."Have you been at Netherby lately?" she asked. "I haven't heard a word from anybody there since I left. I wrote to father and mother, but neither of them answered, so I gave it up. I was sorry, all the same. I hear from Joe, of course. Have they conscripted Amos yet? How are the children?"This was neither the tone nor the temper that Uncle Fred had anticipated from the prodigal. He had expected either flamboyant defiance or broken-hearted contrition—most probably the latter. This resolute, cheery, ladylike—yes, he had to admit it, ladylike—bonhomie was making his mission more difficult than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat."I was at Netherby during July," he began. "Your father and mother are well, though borne down with sorrow, over—over—""Over what?"Uncle Fred, who had meant to improve the occasion, baulked at his first fence."Over this wicked war," he substituted."Well, they haven't much to worry about," said Marjorie composedly. "Joe tells me that he's in no particular danger, except from odd long-range shells. Amos—I suppose he has kept out of it all right?""Your brother is in Glasgow," said Uncle Fred, "doing civilian war work of national importance.""I thought so," said Marjorie. "Trust Amos!""Your father," continued Uncle Fred, "commissioned me to ascertain your whereabouts in London—""Howdidyou find us, by the way?" asked Marjorie. "It was rather clever of you.""I set an investigation on foot," replied Uncle Fred with a not very successful assumption of grandeur."Quite a little Sherlock Holmes!" remarked an approving voice.Despite himself, Uncle Fred looked round. The small siren in the arm-chair was regarding him with obvious interest. Doubtless she was taking his moral measure, with a view to ultimate conquest. As a matter of fact, Liss was wondering whether it would be feasible to borrow five shillings from him."Howdidyou set about it?" Marjorie continued."I decided not to question the police. We were anxious to have as little scandal as possible—"Marjorie rose with some deliberation, and took her stand upon the hearthrug exactly opposite her diplomatic relative."What did you do?" she asked."I began by instituting inquiries among the London theatrical managers.""Then you knew I was working on the stage?""Yes. Your mother recognised your likeness in some periodical."Marjorie nodded her head."So that was why father stopped my allowance!" she said. "I was wondering. Well, go on. Father has sent you to see me? What for?"Uncle Fred had carefully rehearsed the little address which he proposed to deliver to his errant niece. Marjorie's point-blank query gave him as good an opening as he appeared likely to get."Your father," he began, settling down to work, "is a just man—""Yes; I think you're right there," agreed Marjorie. "He tries to be, anyhow; but he's too ignorant and narrow to succeed. That was why I left home. Go on!""Your father," reiterated Uncle Fred, who was of that brand of orator which finds it easier, when interrupted, to go right back to the beginning, "is a just man—""Yes; I know. You said that before," said Marjorie."No Encores, by Request!" added Liss."Your father suggested that when I returned to London I should institute inquiries as to your whereabouts. He was anxious to know if you had been spared during these years, and—""That was very kind of him," said Marjorie. "No!"—as Uncle Fred took another breath—"don't go back to the beginning again! 'If I had been spared'—yes?""And, if so, what your circumstances were.""Why?""Your father said he would not like to feel that you were in actual destitution, and—""Oh!And?""I was to tell him if you were.""And if I were?""He did not say; but he practically gave me to understand that if you would send him your assurance that you were truly and humbly repentant, and would endeavour in future, by Divine Grace, to raise yourself from your present condition"—Uncle Fred was settling comfortably down now to his pulpit manner—"he was prepared on his part, to temper justice with mercy. You would be provided for. Of course, you would never be permitted to return home. There are the children to think of—"Next moment, Uncle Fred had the surprise of his blameless and dreary existence. A small figure in a tempestuousnegligéewhirled into his field of vision, and Liss—white-faced, stammering, passionate—stood over him."What do you mean?" she screamed. "You silly old blear-eyed devil, what do you mean by it? What do you mean by crowding into this flat where you weren't invited, and insulting my Marjie? Howdareyou! Get out before we throw you out—do you hear? You psalm-singing old nanny-goat, for two pins I'd pull your rotten little beard off!" She flew to Marjorie, and threw an arm round her shoulders. "And to think that real men are dying in this war every minute—and the finest women in the world killing themselves with overwork—just to keep insects like youalive! Why, I—Oh!" She choked.Marjorie restored her small, hysterical, half-famished champion to the arm-chair."That's all right, Baby," she said placidly. "He means well, but he's had the same upbringing as father—poor old man! Sit down! Sit down too, Uncle Fred!" (The dazed ambassador was groping for the door.) "I want to talk to you."The symposium resumed its session. Uncle Fred was so benumbed by his recent experience that when his late assailant deliberately renovated the scarlet of her lips in his presence he made no protest at all. How quickly a man can become aroué, even at fifty-nine!"You can tell father," announced Marjorie, "that you gave me his message, and that I know him well enough to understand his point of view. In a way, there's something rather fine about it. I have seen enough of life in the last year or two to know that this world would be none the worse for a touch of good old-fashioned, Old Testament, discipline. Also, that many of my sex aren't to be trusted with a latch-key. But you can remind him, from me, that I am his daughter—and quite capable of taking care of myself!" She sat down again."Now, I will tell you exactly what I have been doing during the last two years. Like every decent, able-bodied person in this land, I have been doing what I could in the way of war work. I wasn't able to do as much as I wanted, because my education had been completely neglected; also, as most war work is unpaid, I had to work for my living at the same time. That was why I went on the stage. By working at night I had my days free to serve in a canteen. I have been in the canteen for more than a year now. I am not working at present, because I had a slight accident to my arm. I have also driven a motor-car, for a cabinet minister, liberating a man for active service. That was why I bobbed my hair, so that I could put my service-cap on and off my head easily. Most of us have done it; no one has time to waste over doing hair these days. We girl chauffeurs and munition makers have set quite a fashion. But, of course, you aren't interested in fashions. Besides, bobbed hair doesn't really prove anything. What you want is some direct evidence of what I have been doing." She thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what—I'll show you my motor-driver's licence. I know I put it away somewhere."She crossed to the bureau, and took the licence out of a drawer."Here it is," she said, unfolding it. "You will notice it hasn't been renewed. That was because—"Her voice died away. Liss glanced up, saw that her friend had turned white, and was swaying on her feet. She ran impulsively to her aid; but in a moment Marjorie had recovered herself, walked across to her flinching relative, and proffered the licence."There—you see!" she said. "I drove a car during all that time. It was war work, all right."Uncle Fred examined the document mechanically, and handed it back."That seems quite in order," he muttered."Father is a business man, I know," continued Marjorie, with a cheery smile; "and I know business men like to see evidence in black and white. You can keep that licence, if you like, and send it to him from me, as a certificate of character, and tell him that I am very well—andbusy—andhappy—andrespectable—and don't require providing for in any way whatever. And you can give my love to mother."Uncle Fred rose to his feet, and held out his hand hesitatingly. Down in his puny soul he dimly felt himself in the presence of something rather unusually big."I will tell your father I have seen you," he said, "and what you have told me. And I'm—I'm sorry, if—"Marjorie cut him short."That's all right!" she said, with great cheerfulness. "It was a difficult mission for you, I know, and I'm not surprised you made a mess of it. Now," she added briskly, "I feel terribly inhospitable at not having given you any tea. Liss and I are just going out to dinner. It's—it's—rather a special occasion with us, and we are going to have an extra good one. Won't you join us?"She crossed to the bureau again, and picked up the writing-pad."We are going," she announced, resolutely avoiding the bulging eyes of Miss Elizabeth Lyle, "to havePotage à la reine, Sole meunière, Duckling, Méringues—"But Uncle Fred was down and out."I can't accept," he replied, almost piteously. "I must be off to Dulwich. But thank you kindly!" He moved to the door. "I will write to your father. Good-bye, my girl!" He nodded nervously towards Liss. "Good-evening, all!"Next moment the vestibule door had clicked behind him, and the girls were alone.Liss threw her arms round Marjorie's neck."O magnificent, wonderful angel! How you stood up to that silly old Nosey Parker! How you put him in his place! How you bluffed him! But, darling, what a risk! Supposing he had accepted—what then?""What then?" Marjorie laughed unsteadily. "We would have taken him round the corner to Savroni's, andgivenhim his dinner—every bit of it—that's all!"Liss looked timidly up into her idol's face."Dearest," she enquired apprehensively, "are you feelingfunny, at all? I don't like the way your fist is clenched. Relax!""I'm not feeling funny," Marjorie assured her, relaxing the fist in question. "Unless it's funny to be rich!" She held out her hand. "Look! Look what I found inside the pocket of my motor licence! I might have guessed, after that message. Dear, kind old man! I might have guessed—bless him!"In her upturned palm lay a neatly folded bank-note.Liss's eyes goggled."How much?" she whispered."We'll see." Marjorie unfolded the rustling treasure-trove. "Ten pounds! Now wasn't I right not to put down oysters? Oh, Baby, if only, only, only we had the guests!"But Fortune, once she veers round, seldom does things by halves. There came a knock on the outer door."Hallo!" cried Liss. "Surely it's not that old Nanny back again?"It was not. It was a soldier—or rather, an elderly civilian in uniform. He saluted, with all the elaboration of the newly initiated. Both girls surveyed him in perplexity. Then Liss screamed:"It's Uncle Ga-Ga!" and embraced him forthwith.Uncle Ga-Ga it was. With his hair dyed a new and awe-inspiring colour, and an almost convincing set of false teeth, he did not look a day over forty-five. He held his old head proudly erect, and offered a hand to each of the girls, with a gallant gesture."Yes, ladies," he said; "I have the great happiness to inform you that I have this day been accepted as a member of His Majesty's Forces. I wear the uniform of King George the Fifth." His right hand went to the salute. "The King—God bless him! I have only just put it on, and I came round here at once to show myself to you—my two kind friends and unfailing supporters! There were some of my colleagues"—his mild eyes flashed—"men who should have known better—who derided my pretensions—who said that the King had no need of my services! But not you, ladies! You knew the King better than they did! Now, behold me! It is a common triumph for us all!""And we are going to celebrate it!" announced Liss. "You are coming straight out to dinner with us—isn't he, Marjorie?""Most certainly he is!" said Marjorie."We are going," proclaimed Liss, "to havePotage à la reine; Sole meunière—"Uncle Ga-Ga laid his hand upon his heart, and made a courtly bow."Ladies," he announced, "you overwhelm me! But before I accede to your most hospitable invitation, pray read this: it may affect your immediate plans. I found it lying thrust under your outer door."He proffered an orange-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Marjorie.Telegrams in war-time take tense priority over everything else. Marjorie seized the envelope, ripped open the flap with one feverish movement, took out the message, and carried it to the window to read. Then, very deliberately, for the first and only time in her life, she slid down upon the floor, with her head on the window-seat, in a dead faint.""Oh, God!" cried Liss, running to her—"it must be something about Roy!"They carried her to the sofa, and laid her down. Her eyes were closed, but began to flutter again almost immediately."The telegram—should we read it? Would it be right?" asked Uncle Ga-Ga."Oh, yes!" said Liss: "I'd forgotten about it." She turned back Marjorie's closed fingers, extracted the crumpled message, and smoothed it out. Then she gave a little sudden chuckling sob."Listen!" she said; and read the message aloud...."Sent off from Folkestone," she added breathlessly, "at four-forty. What time is it now?""About half-past six, I think.""Then he will be here any minute!" cried Liss, in sudden panic. "We must get her to for him," she added, in the mysterious syntax of her kind. "Help me, Uncle!""A lovely face!" observed Uncle Ga-Ga, respectfully, as he assisted Liss in administering to Marjorie what they both firmly believed to be First Aid—"but pale, and thin!" He sighed gently. "It is rather beautiful to think that people can still swoon for joy.""Not joy," said Liss, panting—"starvation! But she'll have her guest at dinner, after all. (She's coming to now.) It's been a great pretend! (Darling, lean your head on me.) She'll be as right as rain to-morrow. In fact, she's jolly well got to be. It's her wedding day!"
IV
"Luncheon is served," announced Liss.
"What is there?" asked Marjorie.
"The same as breakfast, with Willie and John thrown in. Also the rest of the day before yesterday's loaf. Pull up your chair, dear."
As breakfast had consisted of nothing at all, the prodigality of this menu can be readily gauged. Willie and John, by the way, were the last two sardines in the tin.
"You take Willie," said Liss. "Here's your half of the bread. Oh my, but I'm hungry! Good-bye, John dear! Marjorie, what are we going to do next?"
Marjorie bent her brows judicially.
"Let me see," she said. "I've tried the theatre, and they don't begin rehearsing the new piece for a fortnight. It was no use trying the canteen, because it isn't there any more—at least, nothing worth considering. And as it happens, I don't know anyone else in any other canteen."
"We haven't got an account at any shop," continued Liss, "because we've always been to the cheap cash places. I don't know a living soul in London, except my family; and if I go back to Finchley I know I'll jolly well have to stay there for the duration."
"And I," supplemented Marjorie, "know no one except Uncle Fred, in Dulwich. And I'd rather die than askhimfor help!"
"No one at all?" exclaimed Liss. "Do you and I mean to sit here and tell each other that we know no one in London, except the people at the theatre, and the people at your canteen, and one or two dud relations? Why not call on your old Lord Eskerley?"
Marjorie hesitated.
"I don't think I can," she said. "I have no particular claim—"
"No claim? Didn't you drive his silly old car in all weathers for nearly a year? Didn't he tell you to come back and see him whenever you had time? It's no use being modest when you're starving. If you don't go and see him, I shall."
"Then I may as well tell you, dear," announced Marjorie, "that I have been already."
"Why didn't you say so before?"
"I didn't want to disappoint you."
"Why? Were you chucked out?"
"No. He's away in Paris, on an indefinite mission. The butler was very nice about it, but he had no information as to when his lordship would be back. I hadn't been entirely forgotten, though. There was a message for me. It had been lying there for weeks."
"What did it say?"
"It was just a scribbled note in an envelope with my motor licence, which I had left behind in the garage." Marjorie crossed the room to her little bureau. "Here it is! It says:
My dear late lamented Habakkuk,—I enclose your licence, which you have inadvertently left on my premises. No doubt you will need it again some day.
Yours sincerely—
There's a postscript," she added:
Apropos of motor licences, let me offer you a piece of advice. Always keep an adequate sum—say a pound or so—folded up and tucked away between the covers of the licence itself. This expedient, when you get held up in a police-trap, and the minion of the law examines your credentials, may obviate a public appearance before the local Beaks. Verb, sap.! Very useful. Don't say I told you.
Marjorie laid down this characteristic effusion, and laughed.
"I don't think we are likely to tie up any capital in that way at present!" she said, finishing the last crumb of her bread. "We are down to fourpence now. We had better keep that for to-morrow, and go without supper to-night. No, we'll spend threepence on biscuits, and have a biscuit apiece at bed-time!"
"By golly, we do go it, don't we!" Liss looked round the room hungrily. "Isn't thereanythingleft that we can pop?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. My jewellery is all at Netherby. I have my engagement-ring, of course—"
"That stays!" announced Liss firmly. "It was lucky," she went on with more cheerfulness, "that my little Leonard did not want his back! Not that we got much for it; I alwayssaidhe bought it at a stationer's! Now, if it had only been the one Reggie gave me, that would have been a different story; his was a beauty. But the little beast practically grabbed it back from me. Marjie, Ireallythink I'd better get engaged again. I could wire Toby, at—"
"You will do no such thing!" said Marjorie. "Besides, you can't send a wire for fourpence."
"I suppose," continued Liss (whose motto in life was "Anything Once!") "it wouldn't do to go and sit about in a restaurant somewhere, and get taken out to dinner by an Australian, or somebody? All right, I was only joking! Well, we must just hang on till Saturday; then there will be lots of our nice boy friends in town for the week-end, and we can make up for lost time. Meanwhile, let's go round and see if we can't get a job directing envelopes, or something. Carry on, partner!"
V
Towards evening our two hungry sparrows forgathered again, footsore and faint, but still smiling. Liss, who ought by rights to have been in bed consuming chicken-broth, was as white as wax.
"What luck?" she enquired.
"Nothing doing!" sighed Marjorie. "They will take me on at an office in Holborn as soon as my arm is well enough to write, but they wouldn't give me an advance of pay. They just told me to report at nine o'clock on Monday."
"And to-day's Thursday! Thank them for nothing!"
"Did you get anything?" asked Marjorie.
"No—except that I went round to the theatre again, and they are putting on the new show a little sooner. There's a call for rehearsal on Saturday. That doesn't mean any salary for a long while, but I ought to be able to borrow a shilling or two from the girls. Not that it will be easy: they all need the money themselves these days, poor things! I'm cold. Let's have our biscuit and go to bed."
"I wonder what time it is?" said Marjorie, getting up from her chair.
"About eight, I should say." (Watches had been hypothecated long since.) "It's a bit early."
"Qui dort, dine," quoted Marjorie.
"What does that mean?"
"It's what Lord Eskerley used to say when he'd been to the House of Lords. Let's go to bed; I'm comfortably tired. London's a big place to get about in—when one hasn't a bus fare!"
They shared Marjorie's bed that night, for misery loves company.
"I say," suggested Liss suddenly, "couldn't we go round and get a meal from the Red Cross, or somebody?"
Marjorie, who was just dropping off to sleep, replied with great firmness:
"The Red Cross can only assist people who have been wounded in action. If they go beyond that, the Geneva Convention allows them to be fired on; and then Roy might—No, wecan'task the Red Cross—unless we get hit in another air-raid!" she added hopefully.
Having no more suggestions to offer, Liss dropped off to sleep in her favourite attitude—with her head under the pillow. Marjorie lay awake for a long time, pondering many things in her heart—speculating mainly as to whether she could last out until Baby's flock of plutocratic second lieutenants came to town on Saturday. She decided immediately that she could, adding a mental rider condemning persons who, like herself, worried about their own personal comforts when there was a war on. She also wondered, again and again, what had become of Roy. She wondered whether he were hungry too. Presumably not. He had assured her that the British Army on the Western Front were grossly overfed—in fact, the inevitability with which the Army Service Corps got the rations up and through bordered on the uncanny. No, she need not worry about Roy's diet. His safety was another matter. Five weeks! She dropped into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER XV
THE EXPLORER
Meanwhile, in a crowded street just off the Strand, in the fading light of a July evening, an elderly gentleman with a goat's beard, spectacles on nose, was diligently examining the framed photographs exhibited outside a very popular theatre. His attention was particularly directed to a large chorus group—an ensemble of attractive young women in costumes attuned to the economical spirit of wartime.
Aware of a sudden interference with the not too abundant supply of light, the elderly investigator turned round, a little guiltily, to find that he was being assisted in his investigations by three hard-breathing members of His Majesty's Forces—an English Sapper, a Highlander, and a Canadian of enormous bulk.
"And very nice, too!" observed the Sapper. "But Grandpa, not at your time of life, you didn't ought to—reelly! 'Op it—there's a good boy!"
"Awa' hame!" added the Scot severely—"or I'll tell on ye tae Grandmaw!"
Bitterly ashamed at having his motives thus misconstrued, Uncle Fred hurried away. His course now took him westward along the Strand, which was packed from end to end with seekers after diversion—mostly soldiers and their adherents. He plodded steadily through the press, with the air of a man who has a definite goal before him. This was the second week of his search for Marjorie, but he had considerably modified the plan of action laid down for him by his elder brother. His attempts to call upon the theatrical managers of London,seriatim, for the purpose of compelling them to disgorge his niece, had resulted in a sequence of humiliating reverses at the hands of stunted but precocious children in the outer office. Uncle Fred had now evolved a plan of his own. He had observed that theatres were accustomed to stimulate the appetites of their patrons by displaying samples of their wares—in the form of large framed photographs—outside the entrance to the theatre. Good! He would resolve himself into an investigating committee of one, visit each theatre in turn, and examine photographs until he had located Marjorie. After that, the stronghold itself must be penetrated. A somewhat hazardous enterprise, he decided, but not without its romantic side. As already noted, there was the making of a man-about-town in Uncle Fred.
His self-imposed quest had been in progress for several evenings, and, as yet, had borne no fruit. Uncle Fred was not familiar with the life of the West End—his knowledge of social life in London, like that of too many Members of Parliament, was limited to the tea-room of the House of Commons—and he had wasted a good deal of time hunting for photographs outside establishments where chorus girls are not usually to be found—Maskelyne and Cook's, for instance, and the Polytechnic. Also, it required expert knowledge to distinguish the humble home of the Drama from the palace of the Movie Queen. But he was learning rapidly. Assisted by the advertisements in the daily press and a District Railway map of London, he had now charted out the whole of theatre-land, and had very nearly completed a most methodical survey thereof. He knew the name of every revue and musical comedy in London, and could have given points, in his familiarity with the features of professional beauty, to the average Flying Corps subaltern.
He crossed Trafalgar Square, and headed for the Shaftesbury Avenue district. A hurried reference to the map, in a quiet corner behind the National Gallery, confirmed him in his bearings. Presently he found himself before another theatre. It was nearly nine o'clock; but, thanks to the Summer Time Act, it was still daylight. The name of the current attraction of the house, as stated on the bill-boards outside, wasToo Many Girls. Diagonally across each bill-board was pasted a printed slip which said, a little ambiguously, "Last Week."
"That's a pity," mused Uncle Fred. "But I can slip inside and find out what they are doing this week and next. There's some sort of entertainment going on: I can hear it."
Thrusting his beard well forward, Uncle Fred marched boldly into the vestibule of the theatre. The framed photographs had been taken in for the night, and were ranged round the wall on easels. Uncle Fred set his spectacles in position, and began his usual methodical tour of inspection, at his regulation range of six inches.
A stout lady, confined in a gilded cage in one of the walls, engaged in counting change, suspended operations to watch him. She caught the eye of the commissionnaire who stood at the swing-door leading to the stalls, and coughed delicately. Certainly Uncle Fred, in his semi-ecclesiastical frock-coat and Heath Robinson tall hat, crouching astride his umbrella in a strained endeavour to scrutinise the very lowest row in a large photographic group of chorus girls, fairly invited comment.
"Boys will be boys!" observed the commissionnaire, to no one in particular; and the siren in the cage giggled.
Suddenly Uncle Fred came to a dead point opposite the very last photograph in the last row. Feverishly reinforcing his spectacles with a pair of eye-glasses, he made a confirmatory examination, and then rose to an upright position—looking as Stanley may have looked when he found Livingstone. Then, for the first time, he became aware that he was not alone.
"Naughty, naughty!" said a wheezy feminine voice.
"Haw, haw, haw!" roared the commissionnaire.
"I'm ashamed of you, little brighteyes!" declared the accusing angel in the cage.
"Outside!" added the commissionnaire, recalled to a sense of duty by the appearance at the swing-door of an authoritative-looking person in a dinner jacket.
Uncle Fred, shamefully misunderstood and deeply wounded, hurried out. In the street he hesitated.
"Those people might have given me some useful information," he reflected. "But I won't go back now, to be insulted! I think, after all, it would be best to see the caretaker at the stage door. I suppose that will be somewhere at the back."
A voyage of circumnavigation brought him to the dingy portal which early training and settled conviction had always represented to him as giving direct access to the Infernal Regions. With a guilty thrill he crossed the threshold, and found himself confronted by an unshaven man slumbering in a glass box. Uncle Fred coughed nervously. The man opened his eyes, and pushed open a glass shutter.
"Well?" he enquired.
"I want to ask a favour," began Uncle Fred. But the man cut him short.
"What is it? Temperance, or Christian Science? You can't put up no notices on our call-board. Management don't allow it."
"I have reason to believe," pursued Uncle Fred, with feeble dignity, "that a young woman is employed here—"
"We employ thirty-six of 'em," said the stage-door man.
"I have just seen her likeness—in a group—round there"—explained Uncle Fred, waving his umbrella vaguely towards the front of the house.
"It very often starts that way," remarked the stage-door man. "But why not pay for a seat, like a little gentleman, and go in front and see the gel?"
"She's my niece," explained Uncle Fred.
"They always are," said the stage-door man. "Or else cousins! Good night, Tirpitz!"
He shut the little glass shutter in the investigator's face, and recomposed his features to slumber. But Uncle Fred, though not a dashing person, possessed some elements of the dogged persistence of the Clegg family. He rapped on the window-pane. The stage-door man opened it again.
"Now, you run away!" he said. "'Op it! Sling yer 'ook, or I'll set the cat on you!"
"Is my niece here to-night?" asked Uncle Fred, employing the handle of his umbrella as a lever of the third order. "I am very anxious to have a few words with her, on a domestic matter. I see a notice outside, saying that the present entertainment concluded last week. But it has occurred to me that it is still possible—"
The stage-door man slid from his stool, came out of his den, and laid a heavy hand, not unkindly, on the orator's shoulder.
"What you want to do, ole friend," he said, "is to 'ire the Albert 'All, and make a night of it! That'll get it out of your system nicely. Good-bye!" He gently impelled his guest in the direction of the street.
"I want my niece's address," gasped Uncle Fred, clinging like a limpet to the door-post.
"Go along, you silly old sinner!" said the stage-door man, disengaging him. "I'm ashamed of you."
"I will pay you!" said Uncle Fred desperately.
The stage-door man relaxed at once.
"Now you'retalking!" he announced.
Five minutes later, after a sordid commercial wrangle, Uncle Fred emerged from the stage door with a slip of paper in his hand. He walked straight into the arms of three members of His Majesty's Forces. They recognised him, and drew back in affected horror.
"What, again?" cried the Canadian. "My God, he's a Mormon! Come along, boys!"
CHAPTER XVI
THE GREAT PRETEND
"And the sweet?" enquired Marjorie, pencil poised.
"Méringues!" said Liss firmly.
"Well, I would say chocolatesouffléevery time—with whipped cream, of course!" replied Marjorie. "But have it your own way. Now for the savoury!"
"We don't want a savoury," said Liss.
"Remember," Marjorie reminded her, "that there will be gentlemen present."
"I was forgetting the gentlemen. Well—what?"
"Mygentleman friend," said Marjorie, "is very fond of angels-on-horseback."
"All right! You can put them down if you like; only don't ask me to eat them: I expect I shall be stodged by that time, anyhow. Oh Marjie, if only it were true!" Liss hugged her hungry little self, longingly.
"There, that's the completemenu," said Marjorie. She laid down her pencil, took up the writing pad, and began to read:
"Oysters!" She took up her pencil again. "By the way, we can't have oysters."
"Why not?"
"You can only have oysters when there's an R in the month."
"Well, it's August!" said Liss. "And as they aren't going to be there anyhow, they may as well stay in!"
"No," said Marjorie. "This dinner is going to be things we would order here and now—just supposing we could. So don't let us spoil it by putting down impossible things."
Liss at once recognised the logical consistency of this view.
"All right!" she said. "No oysters!Hors d'oeuvres, instead. Then nice hot soup!"
"Yes—Potage à la reine."
"It sounds a bit watery; but I don't mind, so long as it's hot. Oh, howlovelyit would be!"
"Sole meunière. That's Roy's favourite."
"Oh—Roy's to be there? That's your pretend, is it?"
Marjorie nodded over her hypothetical menu.
"That's a good idea. Who shall I pretend my man is? Toby?"
"All right."
"In that case, we shall want more than one bottle of champagne. You know what that child is! But never mind that just now! Read out some more food."
"Duckling—"
"And green peas, of course?"
"Of course!"
"What then?"
"That brings us to theméringues."
"Good! That should be enough. We will have coffee andcrème de mentheafterwards, of course?"
"We will have cognac as well. You see, Roy—Oh, Liss!" For a moment Marjorie's fortitude forsook her. Her face sank into her friend's fluffy hair.
"Liss, dear," she murmured, "ifonlyI knew!"
"It's Friday afternoon now," said Liss cheerfully. "We'll get lots to eat to-morrow, when the boys come up to town."
"I wasn't thinking of food," said Marjorie—"just then!"
"Well, I was! Oh, mydear, I'm hungry! I didn't know it was possible to be so hungry. What time is it?"
"About five, I think."
"Well, let's have a nice drink of water, and eat a couple of biscuits, and go to bed. It's the best way."
"Very well," said Marjorie listlessly. She was the more exhausted of the two; for Liss was of the ethereal type that seems to thrive on a diet of next-to-nothing. Neither girl had touched food, except a few biscuits, since the previous evening. This afternoon they had endeavoured to maintainmoraleby indulging in one of the oldest pastimes known to children of the world—the game of "Let's pretend!"—sturdily endeavouring to hold a fire in their hands by thinking on the frosty Caucasus.
Suddenly there came a tapping on the outer door. Both girls started up.
"Who on earth can that be?" said Marjorie, hurrying automatically to the mirror above the mantelpiece.
"I wonder if it is anybody with any money!" remarked Liss, hastily removing herself from the couch, where she had been stifling the pangs of hunger by lying on her front.
"Go and see!" commanded Marjorie, busy at the mirror.
Liss went out into the little vestibule, and reappeared, followed by a visitor. Her face was a study.
"This gentleman wants to see you, dear," she said solemnly. "I will leave you together!"
Marjorie turned hastily round.
"No—stay!" she commanded. "How do you do, Uncle Fred?"
"I am very well, thank you," said Uncle Fred in a low voice. Apprehension was written upon his features, and his large, weak mouth trembled. This adventure was trying him high. To penetrate into the boudoir of an actress—two actresses, apparently—was practically equivalent to visiting a theatre dressing-room, which he knew to be the last station before perdition.
Marjorie shook hands.
"Sit down," she said. "I am afraid we are not quite dressed for callers. Do you mind?"
Uncle Fred shook his head feebly, guiltily conscious that he did not mind enough. His niece was dressed in a very simple blue serge frock, with touches of scarlet at her waist and wrists. She was thinner and paler than when he had last seen her. Late suppers, of course. She had done something theatrical but undeniably becoming to her hair, which, instead of being discreetly piled upon her head, framed her face in a sort of aureole. In order to shake hands with him she had deposited upon the mantelpiece, without any attempt at concealment, a small powder-puff, with which she had obviously been tampering with that infallible symbol of respectability, a shiny nose. She wore very thin black silk stockings and patent leather shoes, with dangerously high heels. One of the shoes had a hole in the sole, but Marjorie kept that sole glued to the floor throughout the interview. The silk stockings had lisle tops, but naturally Uncle Fred did not know this. Blinking feebly, he turned his attention to Marjorie's companion. In the obscurity of the vestibule he had not particularly noticed her. He did so now. His pale blue eyes bulged.
Before him he beheld a small, fluffy creature in a flimsy garment which she would have called anegligée, but which to Uncle Fred looked suspiciously like a nightgown. On her feet were padded pink satin bedroom slippers. Her lips were bright red, and were directing a dazzling smile upon him. There were dark hollows under her large grey eyes. Uncle Fred resolutely averted his gaze, and turned again to his niece.
"This is Miss Lyle," announced Marjorie. "We share the flat. Liss, dear, this is my uncle, Mr. Clegg. Well, Uncle Fred, how are you? I'm sorry we can't offer you tea, but we—we have practically all our meals at a restaurant. Don't we, Liss?"
"We simply live there!" affirmed Liss.
"Will you have a cigarette?" continued Marjorie, offering a box. "Don't mind about that being the last one! There are plenty more."
"I do not smoke," replied Uncle Fred coldly.
"Throw it to me, Marjorie!" chirped the vision in thenegligée. A moment later, genuinely oblivious of the sensation she was causing, Liss was lying back in the arm-chair, blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.
Marjorie proceeded to make conversation.
"Have you been at Netherby lately?" she asked. "I haven't heard a word from anybody there since I left. I wrote to father and mother, but neither of them answered, so I gave it up. I was sorry, all the same. I hear from Joe, of course. Have they conscripted Amos yet? How are the children?"
This was neither the tone nor the temper that Uncle Fred had anticipated from the prodigal. He had expected either flamboyant defiance or broken-hearted contrition—most probably the latter. This resolute, cheery, ladylike—yes, he had to admit it, ladylike—bonhomie was making his mission more difficult than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat.
"I was at Netherby during July," he began. "Your father and mother are well, though borne down with sorrow, over—over—"
"Over what?"
Uncle Fred, who had meant to improve the occasion, baulked at his first fence.
"Over this wicked war," he substituted.
"Well, they haven't much to worry about," said Marjorie composedly. "Joe tells me that he's in no particular danger, except from odd long-range shells. Amos—I suppose he has kept out of it all right?"
"Your brother is in Glasgow," said Uncle Fred, "doing civilian war work of national importance."
"I thought so," said Marjorie. "Trust Amos!"
"Your father," continued Uncle Fred, "commissioned me to ascertain your whereabouts in London—"
"Howdidyou find us, by the way?" asked Marjorie. "It was rather clever of you."
"I set an investigation on foot," replied Uncle Fred with a not very successful assumption of grandeur.
"Quite a little Sherlock Holmes!" remarked an approving voice.
Despite himself, Uncle Fred looked round. The small siren in the arm-chair was regarding him with obvious interest. Doubtless she was taking his moral measure, with a view to ultimate conquest. As a matter of fact, Liss was wondering whether it would be feasible to borrow five shillings from him.
"Howdidyou set about it?" Marjorie continued.
"I decided not to question the police. We were anxious to have as little scandal as possible—"
Marjorie rose with some deliberation, and took her stand upon the hearthrug exactly opposite her diplomatic relative.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I began by instituting inquiries among the London theatrical managers."
"Then you knew I was working on the stage?"
"Yes. Your mother recognised your likeness in some periodical."
Marjorie nodded her head.
"So that was why father stopped my allowance!" she said. "I was wondering. Well, go on. Father has sent you to see me? What for?"
Uncle Fred had carefully rehearsed the little address which he proposed to deliver to his errant niece. Marjorie's point-blank query gave him as good an opening as he appeared likely to get.
"Your father," he began, settling down to work, "is a just man—"
"Yes; I think you're right there," agreed Marjorie. "He tries to be, anyhow; but he's too ignorant and narrow to succeed. That was why I left home. Go on!"
"Your father," reiterated Uncle Fred, who was of that brand of orator which finds it easier, when interrupted, to go right back to the beginning, "is a just man—"
"Yes; I know. You said that before," said Marjorie.
"No Encores, by Request!" added Liss.
"Your father suggested that when I returned to London I should institute inquiries as to your whereabouts. He was anxious to know if you had been spared during these years, and—"
"That was very kind of him," said Marjorie. "No!"—as Uncle Fred took another breath—"don't go back to the beginning again! 'If I had been spared'—yes?"
"And, if so, what your circumstances were."
"Why?"
"Your father said he would not like to feel that you were in actual destitution, and—"
"Oh!And?"
"I was to tell him if you were."
"And if I were?"
"He did not say; but he practically gave me to understand that if you would send him your assurance that you were truly and humbly repentant, and would endeavour in future, by Divine Grace, to raise yourself from your present condition"—Uncle Fred was settling comfortably down now to his pulpit manner—"he was prepared on his part, to temper justice with mercy. You would be provided for. Of course, you would never be permitted to return home. There are the children to think of—"
Next moment, Uncle Fred had the surprise of his blameless and dreary existence. A small figure in a tempestuousnegligéewhirled into his field of vision, and Liss—white-faced, stammering, passionate—stood over him.
"What do you mean?" she screamed. "You silly old blear-eyed devil, what do you mean by it? What do you mean by crowding into this flat where you weren't invited, and insulting my Marjie? Howdareyou! Get out before we throw you out—do you hear? You psalm-singing old nanny-goat, for two pins I'd pull your rotten little beard off!" She flew to Marjorie, and threw an arm round her shoulders. "And to think that real men are dying in this war every minute—and the finest women in the world killing themselves with overwork—just to keep insects like youalive! Why, I—Oh!" She choked.
Marjorie restored her small, hysterical, half-famished champion to the arm-chair.
"That's all right, Baby," she said placidly. "He means well, but he's had the same upbringing as father—poor old man! Sit down! Sit down too, Uncle Fred!" (The dazed ambassador was groping for the door.) "I want to talk to you."
The symposium resumed its session. Uncle Fred was so benumbed by his recent experience that when his late assailant deliberately renovated the scarlet of her lips in his presence he made no protest at all. How quickly a man can become aroué, even at fifty-nine!
"You can tell father," announced Marjorie, "that you gave me his message, and that I know him well enough to understand his point of view. In a way, there's something rather fine about it. I have seen enough of life in the last year or two to know that this world would be none the worse for a touch of good old-fashioned, Old Testament, discipline. Also, that many of my sex aren't to be trusted with a latch-key. But you can remind him, from me, that I am his daughter—and quite capable of taking care of myself!" She sat down again.
"Now, I will tell you exactly what I have been doing during the last two years. Like every decent, able-bodied person in this land, I have been doing what I could in the way of war work. I wasn't able to do as much as I wanted, because my education had been completely neglected; also, as most war work is unpaid, I had to work for my living at the same time. That was why I went on the stage. By working at night I had my days free to serve in a canteen. I have been in the canteen for more than a year now. I am not working at present, because I had a slight accident to my arm. I have also driven a motor-car, for a cabinet minister, liberating a man for active service. That was why I bobbed my hair, so that I could put my service-cap on and off my head easily. Most of us have done it; no one has time to waste over doing hair these days. We girl chauffeurs and munition makers have set quite a fashion. But, of course, you aren't interested in fashions. Besides, bobbed hair doesn't really prove anything. What you want is some direct evidence of what I have been doing." She thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what—I'll show you my motor-driver's licence. I know I put it away somewhere."
She crossed to the bureau, and took the licence out of a drawer.
"Here it is," she said, unfolding it. "You will notice it hasn't been renewed. That was because—"
Her voice died away. Liss glanced up, saw that her friend had turned white, and was swaying on her feet. She ran impulsively to her aid; but in a moment Marjorie had recovered herself, walked across to her flinching relative, and proffered the licence.
"There—you see!" she said. "I drove a car during all that time. It was war work, all right."
Uncle Fred examined the document mechanically, and handed it back.
"That seems quite in order," he muttered.
"Father is a business man, I know," continued Marjorie, with a cheery smile; "and I know business men like to see evidence in black and white. You can keep that licence, if you like, and send it to him from me, as a certificate of character, and tell him that I am very well—andbusy—andhappy—andrespectable—and don't require providing for in any way whatever. And you can give my love to mother."
Uncle Fred rose to his feet, and held out his hand hesitatingly. Down in his puny soul he dimly felt himself in the presence of something rather unusually big.
"I will tell your father I have seen you," he said, "and what you have told me. And I'm—I'm sorry, if—"
Marjorie cut him short.
"That's all right!" she said, with great cheerfulness. "It was a difficult mission for you, I know, and I'm not surprised you made a mess of it. Now," she added briskly, "I feel terribly inhospitable at not having given you any tea. Liss and I are just going out to dinner. It's—it's—rather a special occasion with us, and we are going to have an extra good one. Won't you join us?"
She crossed to the bureau again, and picked up the writing-pad.
"We are going," she announced, resolutely avoiding the bulging eyes of Miss Elizabeth Lyle, "to havePotage à la reine, Sole meunière, Duckling, Méringues—"
But Uncle Fred was down and out.
"I can't accept," he replied, almost piteously. "I must be off to Dulwich. But thank you kindly!" He moved to the door. "I will write to your father. Good-bye, my girl!" He nodded nervously towards Liss. "Good-evening, all!"
Next moment the vestibule door had clicked behind him, and the girls were alone.
Liss threw her arms round Marjorie's neck.
"O magnificent, wonderful angel! How you stood up to that silly old Nosey Parker! How you put him in his place! How you bluffed him! But, darling, what a risk! Supposing he had accepted—what then?"
"What then?" Marjorie laughed unsteadily. "We would have taken him round the corner to Savroni's, andgivenhim his dinner—every bit of it—that's all!"
Liss looked timidly up into her idol's face.
"Dearest," she enquired apprehensively, "are you feelingfunny, at all? I don't like the way your fist is clenched. Relax!"
"I'm not feeling funny," Marjorie assured her, relaxing the fist in question. "Unless it's funny to be rich!" She held out her hand. "Look! Look what I found inside the pocket of my motor licence! I might have guessed, after that message. Dear, kind old man! I might have guessed—bless him!"
In her upturned palm lay a neatly folded bank-note.
Liss's eyes goggled.
"How much?" she whispered.
"We'll see." Marjorie unfolded the rustling treasure-trove. "Ten pounds! Now wasn't I right not to put down oysters? Oh, Baby, if only, only, only we had the guests!"
But Fortune, once she veers round, seldom does things by halves. There came a knock on the outer door.
"Hallo!" cried Liss. "Surely it's not that old Nanny back again?"
It was not. It was a soldier—or rather, an elderly civilian in uniform. He saluted, with all the elaboration of the newly initiated. Both girls surveyed him in perplexity. Then Liss screamed:
"It's Uncle Ga-Ga!" and embraced him forthwith.
Uncle Ga-Ga it was. With his hair dyed a new and awe-inspiring colour, and an almost convincing set of false teeth, he did not look a day over forty-five. He held his old head proudly erect, and offered a hand to each of the girls, with a gallant gesture.
"Yes, ladies," he said; "I have the great happiness to inform you that I have this day been accepted as a member of His Majesty's Forces. I wear the uniform of King George the Fifth." His right hand went to the salute. "The King—God bless him! I have only just put it on, and I came round here at once to show myself to you—my two kind friends and unfailing supporters! There were some of my colleagues"—his mild eyes flashed—"men who should have known better—who derided my pretensions—who said that the King had no need of my services! But not you, ladies! You knew the King better than they did! Now, behold me! It is a common triumph for us all!"
"And we are going to celebrate it!" announced Liss. "You are coming straight out to dinner with us—isn't he, Marjorie?"
"Most certainly he is!" said Marjorie.
"We are going," proclaimed Liss, "to havePotage à la reine; Sole meunière—"
Uncle Ga-Ga laid his hand upon his heart, and made a courtly bow.
"Ladies," he announced, "you overwhelm me! But before I accede to your most hospitable invitation, pray read this: it may affect your immediate plans. I found it lying thrust under your outer door."
He proffered an orange-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Marjorie.
Telegrams in war-time take tense priority over everything else. Marjorie seized the envelope, ripped open the flap with one feverish movement, took out the message, and carried it to the window to read. Then, very deliberately, for the first and only time in her life, she slid down upon the floor, with her head on the window-seat, in a dead faint."
"Oh, God!" cried Liss, running to her—"it must be something about Roy!"
They carried her to the sofa, and laid her down. Her eyes were closed, but began to flutter again almost immediately.
"The telegram—should we read it? Would it be right?" asked Uncle Ga-Ga.
"Oh, yes!" said Liss: "I'd forgotten about it." She turned back Marjorie's closed fingers, extracted the crumpled message, and smoothed it out. Then she gave a little sudden chuckling sob.
"Listen!" she said; and read the message aloud....
"Sent off from Folkestone," she added breathlessly, "at four-forty. What time is it now?"
"About half-past six, I think."
"Then he will be here any minute!" cried Liss, in sudden panic. "We must get her to for him," she added, in the mysterious syntax of her kind. "Help me, Uncle!"
"A lovely face!" observed Uncle Ga-Ga, respectfully, as he assisted Liss in administering to Marjorie what they both firmly believed to be First Aid—"but pale, and thin!" He sighed gently. "It is rather beautiful to think that people can still swoon for joy."
"Not joy," said Liss, panting—"starvation! But she'll have her guest at dinner, after all. (She's coming to now.) It's been a great pretend! (Darling, lean your head on me.) She'll be as right as rain to-morrow. In fact, she's jolly well got to be. It's her wedding day!"