toe ittrr Series 
 
 Each iimo. Cloth, gilt top 
 
 WHILE CHARLIE WAS AWAY. 
 By Mrs. Poultney Bigclow. $0.75 
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. By 
 Elisa Armstrong Bengough. $1.25 
 
 THE STIRRUP CUP. By J. Aubrey 
 Tyson. $1.25 
 
 THE UNWELCOME MRS. HATCH. 
 By Mrs. Burton Harrison. $1.35 
 
 Others to Follow 
 
 Beto gorfc: 3D. ftppleton 
 
Cfwrlte 
 
Copyright, igoi, by 
 D. Appleton & Company 
 
 printing Compann 
 goch 
 
to JLorD 
 
 LETTER I 
 
 My dear Bill, 
 
 Why did you go and bury yourself in Ire- 
 land, and thus deprive me of my only safe- 
 ty-valve ? To be sure I still talk a great 
 deal, but when I seem to be most loqua- 
 cious I'm always keeping something back. 
 With you I told everything. Perhaps that 
 is why you went to Ireland. You thought 
 that " the price of peace " was to put that 
 stormy bit of water between us ! Lately I 
 have wondered why we gave up corre- 
 sponding, and I've begun to feel the want 
 of it terribly. Can't we begin again ? Do 
 you know, Bill, I've got to a time in my life 
 
 i 
 
, : g^fle c&atrlic 
 
 when I need support not only financial 
 (which I can't accept even from you), but a 
 kind of moral prop, which only my cousin 
 Bill can supply. The time of life I've got to 
 is horrid ; people don't talk about it much ; 
 I call it the pepper-and-salt stage that is, 
 the age when one's front hair begins not to 
 match one's back hair. I still look young in 
 the back ; my waist goes in beautifully, 
 thanks to a resolute meat diet during a por- 
 tion of every year. My toque (which is al- 
 ways a smart one you remember my taste 
 in hats ?) shows warm chestnut locks at the 
 back ; but in front isn't it disgusting ? 
 Nature has crimped my hair, but the early 
 snow of premature middle age has begun 
 to powder the waves. Men tell me it is 
 " fetching "the sort of men who swear 
 they love a pug nose unless they're talking 
 to a woman with a Grecian one ! Thank 
 Heaven you are all liars ! What should we 
 do if you told us the truth? Yes, Bill, I 
 
 2 
 
, jnarcl) to lot* 
 
 who was once Early English have become 
 medieval. Of course, hi my case inconven- 
 ient milestones are lacking I have no 
 children. I often wish I had had a baby or 
 two to snoozle their heads are so nice 
 to browse on. The softest things in the 
 world are horses' noses, the soles of new 
 boots, and babies' heads. Borrow a baby, 
 and see if I'm not right ; you've got horses 
 and boots. 
 
 What is so tiresome about me is that, as my 
 face grows older my heart grows younger. 
 All the blows which I've sustained during 
 my earthly pilgrimage have left my pow- 
 ers of credulity unimpaired. I am always 
 meeting somebody whom I think I could 
 love. The somebody always has a previous 
 attachment ; or else he sails for South Afri- 
 ca, or India, or the North Pole, a day or 
 two after I meet him. Charlie doesn't 
 count. What is the good of a husband 
 who's a sailor, and who lives principally on 
 
 3 
 
Charlie 
 
 the West Coast of Africa ? Charlie is, I 
 suppose, an able navigator and yet he ex- 
 pects plain sailing with me ! Well, nobody 
 has got a chart of my mental make up 
 but you, Bill. I've the most heavenly idea 
 of friendship, but men don't like it. They 
 either make love to me, or call on me once 
 in three months and talk politics. I want a 
 man who will run errands for me take me 
 to the play save me trouble at every turn 
 and dote upon me discreetly. Now I 
 find that if they dote they ain't discreet, 
 and if they're discreet they don't dote. It's 
 very discouraging. I tell Charlie that for 
 me he doesn't exist. If one day in a fit of 
 absence of mind I should marry somebody, 
 there isn't a judge in all England who 
 would convict me of bigamy. How can one 
 believe in a husband whom one never sees? 
 It would at once elevate a man to the level 
 of the divine ! and Charlie is not a bit God- 
 like. 
 
 4 
 
Jftarc^ to lorn 
 
 Ever since I was ten years old I have fan- 
 cied myself in love ; my heart has been al- 
 ways like a pneumatic tyre ; when punct- 
 ured it becomes empty. But soon the 
 breath of a fresh inspiration inflates it to its 
 normal dimensions and it rolls on trium- 
 phantly till it meets the next tack ! 
 You were my first love, Bill. You had been 
 abroad for years at school, and you came to 
 mamma's for the Easter holidays. Do you 
 remember? There was something about 
 you which bowled me over. That first 
 evening I was allowed to come down to 
 dessert. Nurse left me alone for a few min- 
 utes ; I stood before the glass, and tied a 
 blue ribbon amongst my curls. 
 "Ah ! " I sighed dramatically, to my image 
 in the mirror, " I have someone to dress for 
 now ! " 
 
 Wasn't that delicious? Ever since I've 
 been having "someone to dress for." I never 
 put on a low gown (my shoulders are still 
 
 5 
 
C^artfe 
 
 very good, people tell me) without a sense 
 of adventure, of expectancy. All my life 
 I've been on tiptoe to meet the romance 
 which hasn't come. Tragic, that ! 
 But this is tiresome. Tell me, dear Bill, 
 whether you are willing to be my father 
 confessor ? I shan't shock you much. My 
 sins are all potential. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 MARY. 
 
 P.S. Do you remember my telling you 
 that I was " hungry for love " ? I am still, 
 but I dare not say so. Hungry is a word 
 not to be used in public by a woman who 
 weighs nearly twelve stone ! It is only 
 Providence who sees the heart. 
 
to 
 
 LETTER I 
 
 My very dear Mary, 
 
 The sight of your handwriting at first 
 perplexed me, it was so familiar, yet so 
 strange. I had not seen it for two years. 
 What suddenly made you remember me ? 
 I bless the cause, whatever it was. Need I 
 tell you that I never have lost interest in 
 you never for a moment? My reason 
 for settling in Ireland was not, as you pre- 
 tend to think, for the purpose of getting 
 rid of my favourite cousin. When Uncle 
 Darraway died I was obliged to come. My 
 one virtue is that I'm a painstaking land- 
 lord, not an absentee, and fairly popular 
 with my tenants. Being a conscientious 
 Irish landlord is not all beer and skittles, 
 7 
 
C&atlie 
 
 as no doubt you know. And yet I love 
 my home. I am not the cockney that you 
 are. London grows very irksome to me 
 after a few weeks. 
 
 What you say about yourself is delight- 
 fully amusing. No one ever wrote or talked 
 like you, Mary ; but I can't imagine you 
 middle-aged. To me you are always the 
 auburn-haired, brown-eyed, clever, rather 
 hoydenish girl whom I used to see so 
 much of at one time. To this day I am 
 living on your witticisms. I fire them off 
 at dinner-parties ; but I always preface 
 them with, " As my cousin says," not only 
 because I am naturally honest, but be- 
 cause all my friends know me too well to 
 believe me capable of your jeux d esprit. 
 You tell me that you are " hungry for 
 love." That is a dangerous frame of mind. 
 There are plenty of unscrupulous men 
 going about who would be interested to 
 know this, and willing to profit by it. 
 8 
 
Lorti jEwratoa to 
 
 Your one fault was lack of reserve. Don't 
 be vexed with me, dear ; it must be ex- 
 ceedingly hard for such a brilliant woman 
 as you to keep a guard on her tongue, es- 
 pecially as everyone enjoys your conver- 
 sation, and urges you on to further reve- 
 lations. Few men are to be trusted. The 
 man who thinks lightly of a woman's hon- 
 our has very little of his own. Remem- 
 ber that. You are essentially pure and 
 straightforward, and your position is a 
 difficult one. Don't forget that there is 
 such a person as Charlie, though he is on 
 the West Coast, and that he believes in 
 you. You will say I ought to have been a 
 parson. Yes, I will be your confessor ; the 
 prospect doesn't terrify me. Do write 
 often, even if I send you only a scrap in 
 return. I'm a dull letter- writer ; but I'm 
 
 also 
 
 Your very affectionate 
 
 BILL. 
 
jttarc^ to lotto 
 
 LETTER II 
 
 Bill dear, 
 
 You've lived longer than I have ; and as 
 Charlie is always in West Africa, I simply 
 must have a nice man to advise me. Tell 
 me, Bill, what connection there is between 
 cabs and kisses? They don't even begin with 
 the same letter, though they sound as if 
 they did. What is there about hansoms 
 that makes one feel skittish ? One always 
 feels awfully correct in a four-wheeler. I 
 think a growler is festooned with associa- 
 tions of a domestic nature astral bath- 
 tubs and prams and nursery tin-boxes 
 cling to the roof long after the solid ob- 
 jective forms have left it. Whereas the 
 hansom suggests well, all sorts of de- 
 10 
 
to Lorti 
 
 lightful things : the orange lights of blue, 
 half-misty, nocturnal London ; theatres, 
 suppers ; pretty opera-cloaks with collars, 
 over which pretty women look at nice 
 clean men with beautiful shirt-fronts and 
 cigarettes. Yes, Mr. Hansom, in the place 
 of departed inventors, has much to answer 
 for. I don't care much about the little 
 lamps at the back. The light is trying to 
 a face over thirty (and you know, Bill, 
 mine is over thirty). I always get Val, or 
 George, or Willie, or any of my theatre- 
 men to put out the lamp, and then it 
 smells to heaven or, at least, to the roof 
 of the hansom. 
 
 Have you ever noticed that when you're 
 with a perfectly delightful man the horse 
 is very fleet and sound ? He arrives almost 
 before he starts ; whereas, when one's com- 
 panion is rather boresome, the poor old 
 animal limps on three legs. 
 Another thing worries me, Bill. Why does 
 
Charlie 
 
 no man try to make love to me unless he's 
 mad or drunk ? There was one poor thing 
 who wanted to kiss me in a four-wheeler, 
 too. I covered my head in my cloak and 
 threatened to call the police. Well, in a 
 few weeks that man was in an asylum rav- 
 ing mad. Whether he went mad because 
 he couldn't kiss me, or wanted to kiss me 
 because he was mad, I never knew. I hope 
 the former, but fear the latter. Men sane 
 ones won't take me seriously ; they think 
 me a flirt. Stephen a friend of mine who 
 tells me the truth about myself, in spite 
 of all I can do to prevent it says I have 
 " good eyes." Isn't that tiresome ? 
 I believe a Calvinistic bringing up always 
 gets the best of you. You smother it, and 
 think it's done for ; and it goes and sits 
 behind your eyes where you can't see it, 
 but everyone else can. It keeps people off. 
 Bill, I've heard men called devils ; they're 
 not. " Resist the devil, and he will flee from 
 12 
 
to 
 
 you." Dont resist a man, and he'll flee 
 quicker than any devil. You try ; but you 
 can't, not being a woman, you lucky creat- 
 ure ! 
 
 I once had a real declaration in a hansom. 
 It wasn't really very proper, except that I 
 didn't like the man, which made it all right 
 for me, if not for him. 
 He was an American. A man sent to me 
 by Beatrice. You remember that my sis- 
 ter Beatrice married an American and lives 
 in New York. She has a train of admirers 
 ranging in age from twenty to sixty. This 
 man was one he was about forty. Beat- 
 rice had been bored by him, and turned 
 him loose on me. He was very tall, and 
 looked rather like an American Indian. 
 He had a large nose, which he used a good 
 deal in talking. He asked me to go to the 
 play, and though I didn't want to go, I 
 hesitated to hurt his feelings by declining. 
 I meant to keep it dark ; but he at once 
 13 
 
Cfraflte gteg 
 
 told one of the secretaries of his Embassy 
 a most exclusive person who stands well 
 with the aristocracy and I really was 
 vexed. However, my motto is : " Don't do 
 anything you're ashamed of, or don't be 
 ashamed of anything you do." My strong 
 card is candour ; I tell everything about 
 myself before anybody has a chance to find 
 it out. Therefore, my friend came to dine, 
 and we went to the play in a hansom. 
 I never felt calmer in my life. I couldn't 
 have summoned up so much as a coquet- 
 tish look. The cab might as well have been 
 a bus I had lots of room. All went well. 
 We sat out the play, and I was more in- 
 terested in that than in my aboriginal gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 You have heard of " bolts from the blue." 
 I got one. Just as my swain was putting 
 on my cloak he whispered with some calm- 
 ness : " I have loved you ever since I first 
 saw you." 
 
 14 
 
to 
 
 For the first time I experienced a slight 
 thrill of interest in the Senator. I said only : 
 " Save the rest till we catch a cab." 
 When we were safely in I said: "Mr. 
 
 , you interest me. Go on." 
 I'm sorry that even the American pen- 
 holder which I am now using cannot en- 
 able me to reproduce his accent. You've 
 been in the States ; lay it on for yourself, 
 please. 
 
 " Mrs. March " (a Western r), " ever since 
 I saw you I felt your attraction. When I 
 saw you to-night it was all I could do not 
 to take you in my arms ! " 
 " Dear me ! How lucky you didn't ! I 
 should have been so surprised ! " 
 All this time he hugged nothing but his 
 side of the cab. He was not frivolous ; his 
 love-making was serious. I bubbled in- 
 wardly, feeling like a kettle just on the 
 boil ; but my face was, I think, calm. I did 
 wish Charlie had been there ; but then, of 
 15 
 
Charlie Was 
 
 course, nothing would have happened. I 
 thought of the virtuous indignation which 
 ought to be displayed by an insulted ma- 
 tron ; but somehow I couldn't feel it. I 
 couldn't stop him. I never was able to leave 
 the theatre before the end of the first act, 
 even when the play was improper. 
 " Now," continued Mr. -- , " I think you 
 are unhappy." 
 
 " There is a void in my life," I sighed mod- 
 estly. 
 
 " I knew it," said he. " You are a neglected 
 and unappreciated woman. " ( I sighed again. 
 This was too true.) " I want to make you 
 happy. I will be your friend, your confi- 
 dant, or your lover. It is for you to choose." 
 It was my first square offer. I pondered. 
 Then, in a silvery voice, I began. You 
 needn't hear all my speech. It was very 
 beautiful, very touching, very pure. I 
 partly meant it and partly I didn't. (You 
 know what humbugs we all are, really.) It 
 16 
 
to totfi 
 
 began : " Love has no place in my pro- 
 gramme," and it ended with remarks in 
 praise of goodness. Do you know, Bill, 
 if it hadn't amused me it would have made 
 me sick. And then a horrid little thought 
 reared its ugly head like a venomous lit- 
 tle snake : " Would you have answered 
 like that if it had been -- , or - , or 
 even - ? " Oh, we're all horrid, more 
 or less. 
 
 My admirer went on to say that it was a 
 sin to stifle one's emotions. You know the 
 sort of thing rather like a free-love tract, 
 I fancy, though I never read one. 
 I said, with a sudden wholesome sense of 
 amusement : " What should I get out of 
 this arrangement ? You told me your in- 
 come was precarious, and I don't love 
 you." 
 
 That was a poser ! He was silent till the 
 
 cab drew up at my little house. As he was 
 
 still speechless, I went on : "We can never 
 
 17 
 
go anywhere together again, Mr. . 
 
 You have betrayed my confidence ; you 
 have taken advantage of me." He began 
 to justify himself while I rang the bell (I 
 had no latch-key that night), and my vig- 
 ilant little maid Janet let me in before he 
 got through his first sentence. So offended 
 Virtue stalked into the house and slammed 
 the door on unsuccessful Vice. 
 Would you believe it ? He came to call 
 two days after, and got on to his knees, 
 asking me to kiss him good-bye ; and I 
 hauled him up just as Mrs. Brabazon was 
 announced 1 In the course of conversation 
 after he'd gone she said : " How carelessly 
 
 American politicians dress ! Mr. 's 
 
 knees were quite dusty ! " That was a nasty 
 one for for my housemaid ! 
 So thus, my dear Bill, ends my observa- 
 tions on the moral effect of the hansom 
 cab. I am, however, still collecting data. 
 
 M. M. 
 18 
 
to 
 
 LETTER II 
 
 My dear Mary, 
 
 Your letter about cabs has almost killed 
 me. I've got a stitch in my side still from 
 laughing. How naughty, how shameless 
 you are ! but how irresistible ! No wonder 
 that even growlers have no restraining in- 
 fluence on a man when he's in one with 
 you ! But I hope some day I shall have the 
 pleasure of punching your Yankee's head. 
 What an extraordinary woman you are ! 
 You experiment on these helpless creat- 
 ures, and yet you belong to the Anti- Viv- 
 isectionist Society ! I don't understand 
 philandering. I know love, and I know 
 friendship, but on the slippery debatable 
 land between I shall never set my feet. 
 19 
 
CWe 
 
 Constant coquetry is very unwholesome. 
 It is enervating to the mind, it takes off 
 the bloom of a woman's purity, and is as 
 pernicious as constant dram-drinking. I 
 very much fear that you are incapable of 
 friendship ; but Lord ! you are funny ! I 
 can't be hard on you when you write such 
 letters all for me. 
 
 It's a pity you were brought up a Calvin- 
 ist. The rebound in middle-age is gener- 
 ally appalling. I wish you would become a 
 Catholic, and have a real confessor. I sus- 
 pect you'll end up that way. 
 
 BILL. 
 
 \ 
 
 20 
 
to 
 
 LETTER III 
 
 My dear Bill, 
 
 Do you know Mrs. Bobby Brabazon? 
 a good-looking woman, ten years older 
 than I am, who looks ten years younger. I 
 hate women to be like that, don't you ? It's 
 so deceitful. Mrs. Bobby (as her intimates 
 call her) is a widow. She has three daugh- 
 ters concealed somewhere on the Conti- 
 nent, " learning languages," she says. Peo- 
 ple who don't like Mrs. B. say that the girls 
 have been there so long that they have 
 learned every available tongue, including 
 Russian, and that they sail next month 
 (with a governess) for Japan just in time 
 for the cherry-blossoms. Miss White says 
 21 
 
Charlie 
 
 the eldest daughter is married, and has a 
 baby ; but I don't believe that. Nobody 
 who knows Mrs. Bobby could think she 
 would ever allow anyone to make her a 
 grandmother. 
 
 Mrs. Bobby is very soft and sweet. She is 
 a kind of moral survival of the medieval 
 prisoners. She picks out a victim and dis- 
 tils little drops of calumny into his cup of 
 life, until she has killed his reputation, and 
 she purrs so gently all the time ! She has 
 large green eyes, quite lovely, and she fas- 
 tens them on your face, and what with 
 them and her rolls of beautiful golden 
 hairs, and her sweet little undulating gest- 
 ures, you are hypnotized, and find your- 
 self babbling the secrets of your soul ; and 
 next day you go out to tea and meet them 
 with trimmings. Mrs. Bobby tells all her 
 own secrets, too ; she doesn't spare herself ; 
 but somehow she tells them so nicely they 
 seem all right. If she were to say to you 
 22 
 
to lorn 
 
 that she had killed her late husband, you 
 would think : " Quite right ! No doubt he 
 deserved it," whereas, in point of fact, I 
 believe he killed himself. 
 Mrs. Brabazon went out to tea the other 
 day she haunts teas looking lovely and 
 disgustingly young in a big black hat, the 
 kind that kicks up and makes one side of 
 you look saucy, and drops down on the 
 other and gives your right cheek a senti- 
 mental retired air. She began talking to 
 me. 
 
 " Isn't it sad, dear Mrs. March, to think 
 that the truth has come out at last about 
 poor Jimmy Southcote ? " 
 " What about him ? " said I, girding on 
 the mental armour which I keep exclus- 
 ively for tilts with this lady. 
 "Why, he killed his grandmother, you 
 know ; that we all knew, but of course 
 one never liked to mention it. It was one 
 of those understood things which aren't 
 23 
 
C^arlfe Wag 
 
 said." (" I wish there were a few more," 
 thought I.) 
 
 "It was for the rubies, you know the 
 famous Southcote rubies. Poor Lord 
 Jimmy was in love with Ruby Montague 
 the girl with the high kick ; you've seen 
 her. She was always uppish (her papa 
 was a fishmonger), and she would wear 
 nothing but rubies, because of her name. 
 Rubies are scarce, you know." 
 " As scarce as truth," I acquiesced, with a 
 bite of muffin. 
 
 " Oh, scarcer. Well, Jimmy thought the 
 old lady had lived long enough eighty 
 years, really, are a pretty good innings ! 
 and he gave her insect-powder in her 
 barley-water. Unfortunately, the nurse 
 suspected it, and has now begun to talk 
 about it. Rather mean of her, I call it. I 
 suspect she got no legacy." 
 I could only gasp, accustomed as I am 
 to Mrs. Bobby ; but I had no time to 
 24 
 
to 
 
 speak. An elderly, frumpy lady, badly 
 dressed, pushed forward from behind us. 
 " Madam," said she in an awful voice, 
 " do you know that you are talking about 
 my son ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bobby didn't turn a hair. She looked 
 at the livid lady and cooed. 
 " Really ? " said she. " How deeply, deep- 
 ly interesting ! So you are Lady Cote- 
 worth?" 
 " I am, madam." 
 
 " So charmed ! Now, you can tell me 
 whether it was insect-powder or a disin- 
 fectant. And are the rubies really worth 
 aU that trouble ? " 
 
 " Madam," thundered the Marchioness (it 
 really was she), "let me tell you that, 
 first of all, my mother-in-law is not 
 dead ; and, secondly, she never had any 
 rubies ! " 
 
 " Good gracious!" said Mrs. Bobby. "How 
 malicious people are ! " 
 25 
 
Charlie 
 
 "But," proceeded Lady Coteworth, "thank 
 God there is a libel law!" and she marched 
 off, I think, to fetch a policeman. 
 But Mrs. Bobby left a few moments after 
 for the Clover Club, of which she is the 
 brightest ornament. 
 
 I hadn't done gasping when young Bankes 
 came up. (Valentine Bankes is a tall boy 
 with golden hair and a beautiful mouth. 
 His father was an actor, and so is he at 
 least he's on the stage.) 
 "What was the dear lady saying? Any- 
 thing about me?" he asked in his delicious 
 voice. (He is a dear lamb! I must cul- 
 tivate him.) 
 
 " No, dear child," said I. (I'm by way of 
 mothering Val, as he's an orphan.) "She 
 had no time for you. She was romping 
 about in the House of Lords." 
 " Well, you needn't snub me," said Val. 
 (He is six feet two, and so sweet !) " The 
 next House of Lords will be half Ameri- 
 26 
 
to Lorn 
 
 can and half theatrical. If there aren't any 
 actors there, there will at least be plenty 
 of actresses' sons." 
 
 " The actors," I observed, " are mostly in 
 the Commons." 
 
 " I'm so glad to see you ! " he sighed. 
 That was perfectly irrelevant, I thought. 
 "Don't look at me," saidl. "I'm getting old 
 and ugly." 
 
 "I hate young pretty women," said the 
 child. 
 
 (Oh, Bill ! what can you do with a boy like 
 that?) 
 
 " You're hopeless," I said. 
 " I wish you could make me less so." 
 (That wasn't bad for the lamb ; he's rather 
 inarticulate, like most very big men.) 
 "You won't do," I said. " I'm looking for 
 something to guide me to be a pole-star." 
 " Oh, let me be your pole-star ! " he said, 
 looking red and eager. 
 "You're all right for a pole, dear Val; 
 3 27 
 
C^arlfe 
 
 but I'm blest if you'll ever be a star!" 
 said I. 
 
 Wasn't that rather smart ? I did so enjoy 
 my own joke (you know, I always did) ; 
 but Val went off looking awfully sad, and I 
 saw him drinking three cups of poisonous 
 strong tea. I must see more of Val. 
 
 28 
 
to 
 
 LETTER IV 
 
 My dear Bill, 
 
 Do you like restaurants? Charlie never 
 will go to one. If I ever want to give the 
 maids a holiday, and propose a meal some- 
 where, he says : "Some bread and milk or 
 cold meat will do for me. I'm no trouble. 
 But I won't go to a restaurant." 
 No trouble, indeed ! As if that kind of a 
 man wasn't more troublesome than any 
 other kind ! One's own man is, of course, 
 the troublesome one; the others are de- 
 lightful sphinxes unsolved riddles. Hus- 
 bands are like conundrums with the an- 
 swers attached. No missing- word compe- 
 tition there ; one guesses the word too 
 quickly, and yet never gets the prize. 
 29 
 
Charlie 
 
 Instead of putting on a smart gown and 
 going off in a hansom to a warm, bright 
 place full of people, eating a good dinner 
 invented by somebody else (which is the 
 great thing) and drinking a little cham- 
 pagne as a treat, I sit down at home over 
 a gas-fire and eat horrible cold ham, while 
 Charlie munches bread - and - butter and 
 doesn't know the difference ; and after 
 feeding you can't call it eating he reads 
 Captain Mahan's sea-books till bedtime. 
 Well, Charlie, thanks be to the Admiralty, 
 is in West Africa. The Admiralty mayn't 
 be strong on tube- boilers, but it has re- 
 lieved me of Charlie. It serves him right 
 that there are no restaurants on the West 
 Coast. 
 
 These caustic remarks are a preface to the 
 statement that Herbert Forbes last week 
 asked me to dine at the Criterion in the 
 East Room, and go to his play. The lucky 
 creature has two plays running at once, 
 30 
 
to lot* 
 
 besides being one of the most celebrated 
 authors of the present day. Did you ever 
 meet Forbes? Of course, you know his 
 delightful books. Everyone loves them, ex- 
 cept rival authors, who are nearly dead of 
 envy because they didn't write them them- 
 selves. Herbert's a dear ! We don't often 
 meet, but when we do we are excellent 
 friends. He dines with me at least once a 
 year, and I generally go to a jolly restau- 
 rant luncheon with him every few months. 
 He is one of the men who, having got to 
 the top of the tree, find it unsatisfactory, 
 and look as if they want to jump down. 
 He looks ascetic and sacerdotal, but I 
 don't believe he is. As his fame grows 
 his baldness increases. His hot brain has 
 burned a hole in his hair. For six years I 
 have murmured to him at dinners be- 
 tween the courses such suggestive words 
 as " Rosemary water Koko Macassar," 
 but he has so little vanity that he contin- 
 
Cfrartf e gteg 
 
 ues to neglect his looks. His midnight oil 
 
 evidently isn't hair-oil. 
 
 I always feel awfully flattered by the 
 
 slightest attention from Bertie ; so when 
 
 he asked me whether we should dine 
 
 alone, or ask other people, my heart leaped 
 
 with pride. The invitation came when 
 
 Kate Vernon was with me. You don't 
 
 know Kate. She is the only person, except 
 
 Stephen, who always tells me the truth 
 
 and yet I'm fond of her. She is a moral, 
 
 soda-mint tablet. She cures mental indiges- 
 
 tion, only I won't always swallow her. 
 
 " Look here," said I : "am I old enough to 
 
 dine in the East Room with Bertie Forbes 
 
 alone?" 
 
 " Has he taken the whole room, then ? " 
 
 said she. " Dear me ! Bertie must be pros- 
 
 perous." 
 
 " Don't be silly 1 You know quite well 
 
 what I mean. We shall be alone at the 
 
 table." 
 
 32 
 
to Lotto 
 
 6 There'll be a waiter or two I suppose ? " 
 Kate maddens me 1 
 " Am I old enough to go ? " I roared. 
 " My dear, you are old enough for any- 
 thing even to settle down." 
 Wasn't that a stinger ? I nearly cried. 
 " Oh, Kate ! " I almost sobbed. " You are 
 horrid!" 
 
 " I've got a new name for you, Mary," said 
 she. 
 
 "Not * Forward, March'? I've heard 
 that." 
 
 " No. The Octopus." 
 " Why? That's a big devil-fish." 
 " I know ; and you've sometimes got more 
 devil in you than fish, I'll admit. But, like 
 the octopus, you are always reaching out. 
 You told me so yourself." 
 " Reaching out 1 Oh yes ; for sympathy 
 and love." 
 
 " Tell me, now, Mary, do you ever catch 
 anything ? Honour bright, now!" 
 33 
 
C&aflie 
 
 I was so angry that I smoked a whole 
 cigarette without speaking. Kate quietly 
 drank two cups of tea, then observed : 
 " There's another thing in which you re- 
 semble the octopus. You spatter your 
 whereabouts with floods of ink." 
 This was a malicious allusion to my letters 
 to you, Bill. 
 
 " Well," said I, " every author is in that 
 sense a devil-fish." 
 " Printer's devil," murmured Kate. 
 "He conceals his identity by means of 
 ink." 
 
 "Or advertises it like ' Here she 
 mentioned two of our really popular nov- 
 elists, missionaries to the servants' halls of 
 England. 
 
 " Do stop playing on words," said I. "Can 
 I go to dinner with Bertie ? " 
 " Of course. You meant to all along." 
 So I wrote a note of acceptance, and went 
 to the Burlington Arcade and bought a 
 34 
 
to lot* 
 
 pair of shoes. Shoes show so, getting in 
 and out of hansoms. They were black 
 satin, with little gilt buckles. My stock- 
 ings were open-work black silk. I also had 
 a lace-trimmed petticoat, which looks 
 creamy and foamy under my black gown. 
 My poor old black gown ! It's horrid to be 
 poor, Bill, unless you're a costermonger or 
 something in the East End. There's some 
 sense in it then. That old black satin holds 
 together wonderfully, and still looks re- 
 spectable at least, the skirt does. The 
 bodice hugs me demurely, except on the 
 shoulders, where it threatens to leave al- 
 together, but is coerced by black velvet 
 straps, on which I pin diamond sham- 
 rocks. They always make me think of you, 
 Bill, in Ireland. 
 
 I select my hair ornament according to 
 my feelings. On the evenings when I've 
 had a letter from Charlie and feel de- 
 pressed, I look old and haggard plumply 
 35 
 
Cfrartfc %?ag 
 
 haggard, which is too awful ; I wear a 
 moth-eaten old bow that I've had for ages. 
 When I feel chastened, but calmly hope- 
 ful, or IVe had a Turkish bath, I don a 
 wreath of violets. (Violets look discreet 
 and non-committal.) When, however, the 
 world has gone well with me, when the 
 bills are low, and my balance at the bank 
 rather higher than usual when, in short, 
 for the moment I ride on the crest of the 
 wave, I stick in my hair a tall pair of steel 
 wings that shine out boldly and challenge 
 high heaven with their tips. 
 For Bertie's dinner I wore the wings. 
 Though I arrived punctually I'm always 
 so punctual as to be ahead of time 
 Bertie was there. I sailed into the East 
 Room, and found him waiting. It was 
 nice to see him again, and he was very 
 cordial. I was in wild spirits. I wanted to 
 make a kind of innocent adventure of it. 
 I hoped that Bertie would pretend to 
 36 
 
to JLorD 
 
 like me a lot, just for the fun of that 
 verbal fencing in which you tell me I 
 am proficient. He is extremely witty, and 
 doesn't keep his coruscations for the pub- 
 lic alone. So many authors won't let their 
 clever things drop unless there is paper at 
 hand to catch them. 
 
 After we'd got through the common- 
 places of conventional greeting, I said : 
 " I'm going to call you ' Bertie ' this 
 evening, if you don't mind ; but not be- 
 fore people." 
 
 " Not before people, please," said Forbes, 
 devouring his hors dceuvre. 
 I refused to be chilled ; I said : 
 " I've simply dreamed of this evening. 
 It's such a pleasure ! " 
 "That's all right," said Bertie, going on 
 to soup. "I've ordered you an awfully 
 good dinner." 
 
 " I'm not very hungry. Do pretend to be 
 interested in me just for one evening." 
 37 
 
C^atlfe 
 
 " The truth is, I Ve got out of the habit of 
 
 falling in love and I'm awfully interested 
 
 in my new flat." 
 
 "Are love-making and flats incompat- 
 
 ible ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, they have been known 
 
 to do well in conjunction, but mine is a 
 
 highly moral flat." 
 
 " And you prefer this new interest to old 
 
 friends ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, but I'm mad just at pres- 
 
 ent on my Chippendale furniture." 
 
 " Ah," I sighed, " I can't compete ! I'm 
 
 not built on Chippendale lines." 
 
 Forbes did me the honour to laugh. 
 
 " You are delicious, irrespective of lines," 
 
 said he. " Try this sauce ; it's good. I'm 
 
 awfully hungry." 
 
 "So you seem. I love to see you so 
 
 healthy." 
 
 " I've been ill, you know heart all 
 
 wrong." 
 
 38 
 
jftarc^ to JLorD 
 
 " It's all right now, I imagine." 
 
 " Yes, thank goodness ! " 
 
 The sweetbread stopped his utterance. 
 
 Presently, " How's Charlie ? " asked he. 
 
 " Oh, just the same, I suppose." 
 
 " I'm rather sorry for Charlie." 
 
 " Why ? He doesn't see much of me ! " 
 
 Bertie bowed gaily, and appeared to mean 
 
 something flattering. 
 
 " You're hard on Charlie," he said. 
 
 That nearly touched me off, but I gulped 
 
 champagne, and the crisis was drowned 
 
 in the foam. Here I was, dining alone 
 
 with a famous author, and I wasn't en- 
 
 joying myself a bit. I looked round the 
 
 room, and saw several quite stupid, com- 
 
 mon men stockbrokers they looked 
 
 like - - making their companions quite 
 
 happy. 
 
 I could have cried. Bertie, between two 
 
 mouthfuls of poulet roti, observed my 
 
 sudden silence. 
 
 39 
 
Charlie 
 
 " What's the matter ? " he asked genially. 
 " My dear girl, you're not eating ? " 
 " I'm not a girl, nor dear, nor yours, Mr. 
 Forbes ! " I snapped. 
 Bertie laughed his peculiar drawly laugh. 
 He can be so fascinating ! 
 " Don't be vexed, Mrs. Charlie," he said 
 sweetly. " I shan't bore you long. We 
 shall be at the theatre in a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 And so we were. We had the Royal box, 
 and a jolly little room at the back where 
 we smoked between the acts. It would 
 have been charming if Bertie had cared 
 whether I lived or died. But he didn't. 
 I thought I'd ask him in when he took 
 me home, and give him a whisky-and- 
 soda. What do you think he did ? He put 
 me into a cab and said : " You won't think 
 me rude, Mrs. March, will you, if I don't 
 take you home ? I've been very seedy, and 
 my doctor forbids late hours." 
 40 
 
Jttarclj to JLorH 
 
 "Of course not," I said fervently; "I 
 much prefer to go alone! Good-night! 
 It's been such a pleasure. Thanks aw- 
 fully ---- " 
 New shoes just for that ! 
 
to 
 
 LETTER III 
 
 Dear Mary, 
 
 Your two letters came together, so I shall 
 answer them at once. I'm a sort of running 
 commentary on your cleverness like the 
 Gilbert and Sullivan choruses, rather. 
 Your pictures of London society make me 
 love my empty old house. Women like 
 Mrs. B. B. ought to be tarred and feath- 
 ered, or ducked, as gossips and slanderers 
 were in the good old days. Do spare poor 
 young Bankes ! and don't tell him he has 
 got a lovely mouth. You are too original 
 to say what every other woman has said 
 already. It's bad enough for a boy to be 
 handsome and on the stage, without his 
 hearing about his mouth. 
 42 
 
Lorn ^armtoai? to jttt& 
 
 Your account of your dinner with Her- 
 bert Forbes was delightful. But why should 
 you buy new shoes on his account ? You 
 are angry because he wouldn't flirt with 
 you. My dear, you are too good for this 
 nonsense. Do try to take an interest in 
 something ! Sometimes I think I shall have 
 to come to London, simply to look after 
 you ; but I can't get away. . . . Perhaps 
 you would make me as silly as all the rest. 
 Your affectionate, but disapproving, 
 
 BILL. 
 
 43 
 
to lord 
 
 LETTER V 
 
 EVERY soul is born twins two separate 
 entities Christian and Pagan, Cavalier 
 and Puritan, Fool and Sage. All life is a 
 sort of tug-of-war ; after each bout one of 
 them falls over, and lets the other have 
 the rope. The Pagan luxuriates in the ma- 
 terial, the Christian stands by making sour 
 faces at him. The Cavalier rides off on 
 pleasure bent, the Puritan looks after him, 
 and shakes an austere finger. The Fool be- 
 haves according to his folly, and the Sage 
 sits on the fence gravely taking notes, 
 which he means to read aloud to his part- 
 ner at some future time. 
 Isn't that deep ? I thought of it yesterday, 
 and I thought : "Bill will be surprised if I 
 44 
 
to JLorfc 
 
 drop my colloquial manner, and rise to 
 such literary heights !" Aren't you? Your 
 last letter was sterner than I deserve. You 
 hint that I'm incurably frivolous, and ask 
 what my shoes have to do with Herbert 
 Forbes. Nothing ; he didn't even see them. 
 I am not frivolous ; I am only an experi- 
 menter. The Bible and even you must 
 respect that authority says : " Prove all 
 things ; cleave to that which is good." 
 Now, when I really find something good, 
 I shall cleave like a bulldog ! I'll send 
 you a postcard. 
 
 Please read once more the above able 
 paragraph relative to our dual nature. 
 One of my natures has done something 
 rather awful irrevocable. I can see you 
 jump. " That wretched Mary ! " you say. 
 " What is she up to now ? " 
 It happened like this. I spent Easter with 
 my dear friend Kate Vernon, the truth- 
 teller. She has a delightful cottage near 
 45 
 
C&srtfe Etejs 
 
 Godalming with a heavenly garden. Oh, 
 how I love that garden ! What is it about 
 the spring of a daffodil that melts me so ? 
 Daffodils make me want to be good ; I 
 don't dare look at them much, for there's 
 no use in trying that sort of thing unless 
 one means to really go in for it. 
 Kate is a widow, and doesn't care much 
 for men. Isn't it curious ? She has dozens 
 of men friends who like her extremely, 
 and think her a good fellow. She hates to 
 be loved ; likes to be treated like a man. 
 The word " sex " makes her almost as 
 angry as it did Tolstoi after he'd had a 
 dozen children. Kate has no children, and 
 regrets it. She longs to have girls to bring 
 up sensibly that is, without sentiment. 
 Well, we were a hen-party ; not a man in 
 the place ! Fancy me ! Kate said I needed 
 a week in which to think, and find out 
 whether I had a soul. She is a rude old 
 dear ! 
 
 46 
 
jftarclj to lotfl 
 
 She began by a serious conversation. 
 Here is a resume : 
 
 "You are quite good-looking, full of 
 talent, extremely attractive, and not 
 nearly so mad as you like to appear; 
 but you have a grave fault. You must 
 stop 'reaching out.' The more you go 
 bleating about, saying that you want to 
 be loved, the more nobody will love you. 
 Besides, you dont want to be loved. 
 You'd be frightened to death if a man 
 really loved you. You give every- 
 one a false impression ; you're a perfectly 
 proper goose, and I hate to see you waste 
 yourself on such nonsense. Buck up, and 
 do something ! There are other things in 
 life besides love in fact, there's no such 
 thing as love." 
 
 Here I gasped. That seemed like a nega- 
 tion of the sun in the sky. 
 " No," proceeded Kate, " love to be real 
 must be quite unmixed with self, A man 
 47 
 
says he loves you ; he means he wants 
 something that you can give him : it may 
 be your life, yourself, or only a comfort- 
 able meal ; but they all want something. 
 What men call love has nothing celestial 
 in it. You were not born yesterday ; look 
 the world in the face, as I do." 
 " I prefer the world's face veiled," said I. 
 " It will look all the uglier when the veil 
 comes off, which it will, sooner or later. 
 For Heaven's sake," she ended up, " dont 
 bleat." 
 
 Next morning, after my early tea, I 
 wrote the following gem : 
 
 "BLEATS. 
 
 "On the grass the lambkins lie, 
 Bleating at each passer-by ; 
 When they're lonely, or would eat, 
 It is proper they should bleat ; 
 They can make their wishes known 
 Only in that plaintive tone. 
 
 48 
 
jHarcIj to JLotD 
 
 " But a woman (although cracked) 
 Must employ a finer tact. 
 When a lady, far from thin, 
 Putting on a double chin, 
 Reaches out, below, above, 
 Right and left, in search of love, 
 Heartless laughs are apt to greet 
 Every amorous sigh and bleat. 
 
 " MORAL. 
 
 t Ladies weighing thirteen stone 
 Must contrive to pine alone " 
 
 only, of course, I don't weigh thirteen 
 stone. " Eleven " would have spoiled the 
 metre. 
 
 All this time, Bill, you've been chafing 
 terribly, and breaking out : " What's the 
 awful thing Mary has done ? " I love to 
 make you fume you're so respectable; 
 yet I love you, Bill you know that. Well, 
 this is the thing I've done. Stopping with 
 Kate was a really lovely woman, a Mrs. 
 Trapper. She has a camellia skin and ma- 
 49 
 
C^aflfe 2ais 
 
 hogany hair. She was good enough to 
 take an interest in me. ... I don't 
 think she's like Kate and Tolstoi. She 
 doesn't altogether disapprove of men, and 
 I fancy they admire her. She told me I 
 was too young to be going about with 
 streaky front hair. In two days' time she 
 had given me face massage it's delicious. 
 I must tell you about it. They say Chris- 
 tian Science is wonderful for the skin ; if 
 you try it, though, don't neglect the mas- 
 sage. First Mrs. Trapper steamed my face 
 till it was hot and wet. Then with lovely 
 coaxing fingers she rubbed into the pores 
 a sort of cream which smelt of verbena. 
 Then she dashed hazeline on me, and 
 finally sponged my face all over with a 
 mixture of pinkish powder and rose- 
 water. I declare, Bill, I looked ten years 
 nearer the age that my heart is ! Only 
 the streaky hair spoilt it. Mrs. Trapper 
 then told me that I simply must go to 
 So 
 
j&arcty to JLotft 
 
 her place and get my hair " touched up." 
 "Touched up " sounds so much pleasanter 
 than dyed, doesn't it ? 
 I promised to think it over. There was a 
 Christian Scientist at Kate's, who said that 
 if I gave her time she could turn me 
 brown again without dye ; but I told her 
 that time was the one thing I hadn't got 
 to give, as I was on the highroad to forty. 
 Then, besides, how did I know that she 
 would get the right shade ? You couldn't 
 say : " Just evolve me from your inner 
 consciousness, please, a shade or two for 
 hair, so I can choose ! " You see the para- 
 phernalia of the Christian Scientist is in- 
 visible. I looked all through the book 
 which Mrs. Gulling had, but couldn't find 
 one word about the complexion. I think 
 a new religion which leaves out such an 
 important subject can't amount to much. 
 Even the Old Testament notices that 
 David and Absalom were good-looking 
 Si 
 
chaps, and David was " ruddy " ; so I 
 think Christian Science can afford to take 
 an interest in skins. It does seem hard 
 that, when such nasty beasts as snakes get 
 a new skin every year, pretty women have 
 to wear the same one all their lives. 
 How joyfully would I wriggle out of 
 mine ! . . . 
 
 Next week I shall try Christian Science. 
 But, meanwhile, hold your breath, Bill; 
 here comes the long-expected shock Tve 
 dyed my hair ! At least a Frenchman in 
 Buckingham Palace Road has. I went 
 quickly before I had time to think. I felt 
 as fluttered as if I had been going to a 
 rendezvous. It was a terrible job ! I little 
 thought, when I saw actresses with lovely 
 dyed hair, what fatigue the poor things 
 had suffered to secure the effect. I was at 
 that place three mortal hours. First they 
 shampooed me, then they rubbed ammo- 
 nia into my scalp till I nearly screamed. 
 52 
 
to lota 
 
 The man knew no English, and, unfortu- 
 nately, of late years my French comes 
 out German. Next some stuff was literally 
 combed into my hair ; that took ages. 
 Next another stuff; and oh, Bill, when 
 the first spongeful of colour was put on, 
 I experienced what the barber called des 
 emotions! I can hardly explain what I 
 felt. ... I shut my eyes and almost 
 prayed. . . . Well, it was too late. My 
 hair was a divine chestnut! Ten years 
 more taken off! head and heart ap- 
 proaching each other chronologically ! I 
 wasn't sorry then, Bill. After suffering 
 another shampoo, my nice Frenchman, 
 who had murmured to me frequently to 
 be calm, dressed my lovely ruddy mane to 
 perfection, with the wickedest part on one 
 side. . . . I'm like a child ever since ! 
 I'm dying to know, though, whether dyed 
 hair has any moral effect ; I must wait 
 and see. That afternoon I met Val Bankes. 
 53 
 
Charlie 
 
 He stared at me and opened his beauti- 
 
 ful mouth till he nearly showed his wisdom 
 
 teeth. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Charlie, what have you done ? " 
 
 he gasped. 
 
 " Made myself nearer your age, dear boy," 
 
 said I. " I was tired of being taken for 
 
 your mother." 
 
 " Oh, your lovely gray hair ! " he wailed. 
 
 " You've spoiled yourself ! " 
 
 " You're a disagreeable boy," I said, and 
 
 left him. When I looked back his mouth 
 
 was still open. But I don't live or dye 
 
 (what a pun !) to please Val Bankes. Pm 
 
 perfectly delighted. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 54 
 
to 
 
 LETTER IV 
 
 MARY, Mary! What have you done? That 
 clever, entertaining letter was simply to 
 lead up to the odious, vulgar, damnable 
 fact that you've dyed your hair 1 Now, in- 
 deed, I begin to lose hope. Charlie had 
 better chuck the navy, and come home. 
 Do you realize, I wonder, how common, 
 how low it is for a respectable woman of 
 your age for I believe you are still re- 
 spectable to make up like this ? Couldn't 
 you realize that those who love you don't 
 care whether you're getting gray or not ? 
 What would it be to me if, when I met 
 you, I should see that you had aged that 
 you were fading and losing the beauty of 
 youth ? You would still be my Mary the 
 55 
 
Charlie EtejS 
 
 only woman. . . . Well, I can't write 
 about it. / am quite gray. Shall I make 
 myself golden or red ? Which would you 
 like best ? And will " Val " teach me to 
 make up, do you think ? By Jove ! I never 
 was so angry with you ! Stop and think, 
 and repent of this hideous foolishness, and 
 try to remember that you're a lady ! 
 
 DARRAWAY. 
 
to JLotfl 
 
 LETTER VI 
 
 BILL, I'm having a beastly time ! First, I 
 get your outrageous letter about my hair. 
 I declare I'd never write to you again if 
 it were not for the fact that I look upon 
 these letters as a safety-valve, and I must 
 send them to somebody. In future I shall 
 consider you in the light of a post-office 
 nothing more. 
 
 Your disagreeable letter wasn't all. When 
 I got home I found that my new hair 
 spoilt the whole house. You don't know 
 my dear little house ? I love it, and often 
 deny myself clothes so that I may keep it 
 clean and pretty. And now I'm so dis- 
 couraged that I want to go and live some- 
 where far away* Burmah appeals to me 
 57 
 
Cfraflfe %?ag 
 
 most; it is full of pagodas and divorces 
 . . . but I'm not quite calm enough yet 
 to take up with Buddhism. 
 Red, you know, is my favomlte colour. 
 My drawing-room is red was red. When 
 I got home I went straight to a ducky old 
 mirror in the drawing-room. It was awful ! 
 I mean / looked awful. The room swore 
 at my hair and my hair simply cursed at 
 the room ! What could I do ? Hair-dye is 
 more or less a fixture. ... I had never 
 thought of the paper. There was my 
 grandfather-chair, where I always sit when 
 men come to tea. How often I've been 
 told that my gray hair looked charming 
 against that dull-red background ! Now 
 it was hideous. I fetched a hand-glass and 
 looked. I tell you I had more " emotions" 
 . . . And the season is beginning, and 
 I'm awfully hard up, as usual, and the 
 British workman is a snail only when he 
 stops with you he doesn't bring his own 
 
 58 
 
to JLorti 
 
 house, but takes possession of yours ! I 
 cried bitterly ; and then, of course, my eyes 
 were red a third shade and everything 
 was worse than ever ! 
 In the middle of all this, when Janet was 
 trying to console me (she thought at first 
 Charlie was dead ! As if that ), well, 
 in came my Irish friend, Brian L'Estrange. 
 You know Mr. L'Estrange ! a mad, 
 handsome creature, who shoots all over 
 the earth to any place where there's a 
 scrimmage, and when you think he's in Pe- 
 kin or South Africa you see him at Prince's. 
 He was looking quite lovely. He sat down 
 by me, and said in his warm, South Irish 
 voice : "My dear girl, whatever's the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 "With me or my hair? "I asked, still 
 dewy about the eyes. 
 
 " Your hair ? " said he, looking at it. "I'm 
 blowed ! " he exclaimed, with perfect sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 5 59 
 
C^aflfe 
 
 " Is it awful ? " I asked, cringing. 
 His beautiful, deep-blue, black-lashed eyes 
 rested on my side-parting for several sec- 
 onds. 
 
 " It has," said he, " the colour of the au- 
 tumn leaf, before the frost has touched it." 
 I was so encouraged. How is it that an 
 Irishman always says the right thing ? 
 " But," proceeded Brian, " my dear girl, 
 youVe inverted the order of Nature. You 
 let the frost get there first." 
 " You, too ! " I almost wailed. " Val hates 
 it too ! " 
 
 " If Val hates it," said he solemnly, " it 
 must be changed at once." 
 Then he became practical. We tried my 
 hair against everything in the room ex- 
 cept Brian's waistcoat, as he said. 
 " The paper must go, that's certain," was 
 his verdict. " So must that red brocade 
 and these lamp-shades. In fact, there are 
 precious few things that can stay in the 
 60 
 
to Horn 
 
 room with your hair. I hope, now," said 
 he, " I'm one of the things ! " 
 He is a good sort, and I did enjoy seeing 
 him again. 
 
 We settled on green for the new dec- 
 orations dull green, not emerald. That 
 would make me look like a geranium. 
 " Are you goin' to make up a bit now ? " 
 asked Brian, when we'd arranged about 
 the furniture. 
 " Must I ? " I quavered. 
 " I think, dear child, you must. But ask Val 
 to come and experiment upon you. He'll 
 know far more about grease-paint than I 
 do." (Brian has a maddening complexion !) 
 " Mr. L'Estrange," said I, as he was 
 going, " do you think my new hair will 
 make me any giddier ? " 
 He showed his brilliant teeth, and said in a 
 voice fit to open an oyster without violence : 
 " If it does, it's aU right ; I'm here. Ill 
 help you to live up to your hair." 
 61 
 
Charlie 
 
 No sooner had Brian L'Estrange gone 
 
 than Mrs. Brabazon came in. She must 
 
 have passed Brian on the stairs. She was 
 
 as full of coos as a wood-pigeon. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Charlie," she began, " you 
 
 look as if you'd had a scene ! Has Mr. 
 
 L'Estrange been very naughty ? " 
 
 I settled my countenance. 
 
 " When are you going to publish your 
 
 novel ? " I asked. 
 
 " My novel ? " said she. " I'm not writ- 
 ing one." 
 
 " But you're talking one all day long. It's 
 a shame you don't write it," 1 replied. 
 " I have been told I could write." 
 " You have so much invention." 
 " I haven't time to try." 
 " Don't try ; it does itself." 
 All this time her eyes were glued to my 
 hair. 
 
 " How young you look ! " she presently 
 
 breathed gently. " Do you know, I think 
 
 62 
 
Jftarc^ to JLorD 
 
 youth is infectious. Now, you go about so 
 much with young people that you seem 
 younger every day." (" Young people " 
 meant Valentine Bankes. She hates him 
 because he won't let her coo at him.) 
 " Nobody gets old nowadays," said I 
 courageously. " This is the day of the 
 woman of forty. In Balzac's time the dan- 
 gerous lady was thirty ; soon she will be 
 fifty. Twenty years from now the hero- 
 ines will wear wigs and plumpers." 
 " It is freedom which keeps us young," 
 said Mrs. Bobby. " I am a widow, and 
 you are practically one, too. Husbands 
 are very wearing on the nerves." 
 " Yes," said I dryly. " I'm not quite so 
 much a widow as you are ; my husband 
 comes back." 
 
 " Mine doesn't," said she ; " or if he does 
 I don't know it. Since his death I have 
 avoided stances." 
 
 That set me off into fits of laughter. I 
 63 
 
C^aflfe 
 
 was almost hysterical. Meanwhile Mrs. 
 Bobby was drinking tea, which had ar- 
 rived. She had one eye on my hair. 
 " I think," said she, " we are wise to pre- 
 serve the appearance of youth as long as 
 possible ; and one should feel young one's 
 self. That hypnotizes other people into 
 believing it." 
 I could no longer resist. 
 " Well," I said, " like Swift, I've com- 
 menced to dye at the top." 
 She never winced. 
 
 " It's awfully well done, except one lock 
 just behind the ear. You must have that 
 touched up." 
 
 It really made me like the woman. 
 " You are clever ! " I said. " You saw it 
 all the time." 
 
 " Why clever? It's as plain as a sunset." 
 " Well, now, is it a mistake ? " 
 " That depends on what you mean to do." 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 64 
 
jftattilj to JLort) 
 
 "I suppose you know it's the colour of 
 late suppers and divorces." 
 " Good heavens ! " 
 
 " Yes. Didn't you know it ? In some cases 
 the dye comes first, then the divorce ; in 
 others the divorce leaves the coast clear 
 for the dye." 
 
 " But I'm not going to have a divorce." 
 " It isn't necessary. You never see Captain 
 March as it is. What will he say ? " 
 " He won't see it." 
 
 " I thought there were no short-sighted 
 men allowed in the navy ? " 
 " He isn't short-sighted. He can see a 
 ship miles off. He's only blind when he 
 looks at me." 
 
 "What a convenient man! Away for 
 three years, and blind the rest of the 
 time." 
 
 There was a pause, then Mrs. Bobby said : 
 " How's your little friend Val ? I'm afraid 
 you've been treating him badly." 
 65 
 
C^artie 
 
 66 He's all right. I'm a mother to him." 
 
 " He has several other mothers. Mrs. 
 
 Willie Breton is one. By the way, she's a 
 
 great friend of Mr. L'Estrange." 
 
 " So I believe." 
 
 " You know I never believe ill of anyone ; 
 
 but they say that Willie Breton leaves 
 
 the house as soon as L'Estrange comes 
 
 into it." 
 
 " Well," said I, " this is the age of con- 
 
 siderate husbands." 
 
 " Val Bankes is an innocent-looking boy ; 
 
 but don't trust him too far. He hates me 
 
 now because I had to snub him horribly 
 
 the other day." 
 
 This was more than I could bear. Mrs. 
 
 Brabazon had risen, and was drawing her 
 
 chiffon ruffle around her neck. 
 
 " Don't go," I said. " Do stay and tell 
 
 me about my other friends. There's my 
 
 cousin, Bill Darraway. What's the matter 
 
 with him ? " 
 
 66 
 
jttarclj to lorD 
 
 I felt catlike at that moment. 
 
 " Lord Darraway is charming. I wonder 
 
 you're not in love with him," said she. 
 
 " I am, " said I, " and have been since I 
 
 was six years old." 
 
 " How wise of him to live in Ireland ! " 
 
 she said as she kissed me. At the door she 
 
 turned a moment. " I like your new hair, 
 
 dear; it goes awfully well with your 
 
 freckles." 
 
 As the door closed I threw myself on 
 
 to the Chesterfield and chewed a red 
 
 cushion. 
 
 Oh, Bill, why aren't you here ? I enclose 
 
 a lock of my hair. 
 
 MARY O 
 
jftarclj to lorti 
 
 LETTER VII 
 
 D AURA WAY ! I've had a galling week 
 simply killing. I wish you would not write 
 to me any more. I've cried and cried 
 every minute, except when I've been with 
 Mr. L'Estrange in furniture shops, or 
 having tea with Val in Bond Street, or at 
 the play with Gilbert Lee. (He's a new 
 one.) If you want me to bury myself, why 
 don't you ask me to Ireland ? I can't think 
 why you never do. How can you expect 
 me to stay at home and knit and read 
 tracts ? You know I'm perfectly good, and 
 I think your remarks and warnings are 
 absolutely insulting. Yes, my lord ! You 
 have ceased to be " Bill " to me. And yet 
 somehow I can't stop writing to you. 
 68 
 
jftarclj to lotti 
 
 It's one of those bad habits you say I have 
 contracted. 
 
 But you are right about one thing. My 
 old aunt (she was a Nonconformist) used 
 to wag her head and say, " She who liveth 
 in pleasure is dead while she liveth." That's 
 one of those cheerful old texts that come 
 to you when you have indigestion, and 
 your best young man has wired you in- 
 stead of coming to tea. What you're 
 right about is that there isn't much fun in 
 trying to have a good time. There are 
 weeks when every single thing goes wrong, 
 and this has been one of the weeks. I be- 
 lieve I'm a Jonah, without even a whale 
 to swallow me. 
 
 You may think how low I feel when I 
 tell you that I have worn that old black 
 bow, which is losing its sequins, every 
 evening. All the plays I've seen are either 
 dull, indecent, harrowing, or all three. In 
 one of them there were a lot of smart 
 69 
 
Cfraflfe g?ag 
 
 women glittering with paillettes, sitting in 
 a row like white female Christy Minstrels. 
 They said clever things in turn all the way 
 down the row, and then began again at 
 the top. Nothing happened but paillettes 
 and epigrams. I couldn't write a play it's 
 one of my negative virtues that I don't 
 try but I have a sort of idea what it 
 ought to be. An epigram should spring 
 from a situation, like a lily from the bulb. 
 All these smart sayings are sewn on like 
 sequins ; they glitter, but you see the 
 stitch. In that sort of play the butler 
 would be as witty as the duchess. The 
 characters are the masks through which 
 the author shoots off his observations on 
 society. This isn't psychology. It has the 
 inorganic life of a crystal which forms ac- 
 cretions outside, not the vitality of the 
 flower which expands from within. 
 The next play I tried was all about the fash- 
 ionable subject two women fighting over 
 70 
 
to Lotto 
 
 one man. I suppose when a few more hun- 
 dred men have died in South Africa, those 
 who stop at home will be obliged to in- 
 crease their precautions against what was 
 once considered the gentler sex. 
 I felt quite sorry the other night for the 
 hero ; he looked so little and defenceless, 
 with two of the tallest women in Lon- 
 don slanging one another over his unpro- 
 tected head, exactly like a toy-terrier be- 
 tween two angry mastiffs. 
 I came away depressed. Then next day, 
 after waking and feeling rather yellow, I 
 found that Harrod's book had come in, 
 and I saw that I had had more people to 
 dinner and luncheon than I could afford. 
 Everything to do with money makes me 
 feel hollow in the waist. Do you know the 
 feeling? It's a kind of hollowness that 
 goes all the way to your boots. That made 
 me cry a little. Then I got your hateful 
 letter, and that made me cry more. I had 
 
an engagement at eleven to go with 
 L'Estrange and select the green for the 
 drawing-room. I wanted to cry off, and 
 tell him I couldn't afford to get anything 
 new, but I hadn't the courage. He was so 
 nice that he made me forget my poverty. 
 He came home to luncheon, and there 
 was nothing decent to eat, and that 
 plunged me again into despair. Isn't it 
 awful to be so sensitive ? I believe I don't 
 walk enough; I shall do Whitely exer- 
 cises in my room. ... I wish I had an 
 object in life ! There are the poor, of 
 course, but there are lots of people worry- 
 ing them already, and I don't know why 
 I should add a terror to poverty by calling 
 upon them. It would be so hard to know 
 what to say. I'm sure I should find myself 
 asking, " Were you at the first night at 
 the St. James's ? " habit is so strong ! 
 When Brian was gone, Mrs. Gulling ar- 
 rived. She is the Christian Scientist I met 
 72 
 
jttawl) to lord 
 
 at Kate's. She noticed my hair, and asked 
 me whether it was C. S. or dye. I told her 
 I couldn't wait to " get on to ' the teach- 
 ing,' " as they say in America. 
 She related wonderful things. One day she 
 was in a hansom ; the horse fell, and a 
 big dray was nearly on his neck. With her 
 mind she held the heavy wheel where it 
 was, and it went no further ; so the horse 
 wasn't hurt at all. I expect if the horse 
 had known what saved him, he would 
 have been converted to Christian Science. 
 Mrs. Gulling says she can be exactly what 
 she wants to ; she evidently doesn't want 
 to be good-looking. 
 
 Perhaps this is what I've been wanting. 
 All my life I've wanted something. I've 
 gone in for various religions, theosophy, 
 crystal-gazing, spiritualism, but not for 
 this. 
 
 Do you remember when I was little my 
 
 faith was so strong that when I was out 
 
 73 
 
Charlie 
 
 at tea, and wanted to stop longer, even 
 when I saw nurse waiting for me in the 
 hall, I used to retire to an empty room, 
 flop down on my knees, and pray that 
 she wouldn't come. If I could get that 
 faith back, it ought to carry me far. . . . 
 Yesterday I stopped writing because I 
 had a sore throat. I thought I would try 
 C. S. on it, so I shut myself up quite 
 alone, and said out loud : "There is no such 
 thing as pain." Then I swallowed hard, 
 and it hurt just as much. Then I said : 
 " I have no sore throat ; it is only mortal 
 mind." But it still hurt. Then I said very 
 firmly : " I have no throat." But I could 
 feel all the time that I did have a throat, 
 for I was talking with it. So I only made 
 myself a liar, and kept my sore throat. 
 That night I went to a C. S. meeting. 
 Mrs. Gulling was there. She got up and 
 said the same things over and over. It 
 was very soothing, and I dropped off and 
 74 
 
jttawlj to Horn 
 
 had a little nap. When I woke a man was 
 telling how he rid the house " the 'ouse," 
 he said of black-beetles by gently reason- 
 ing with them. He said it was cheaper 
 than borax or Keating. They were a very 
 civil, superior sort of black-beetles, and 
 they didn't come back. When I saw the 
 man, I wasn't surprised that they didn't. 
 
 But I still have a sore throat. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 75 
 
to lorti 
 
 LETTER VIII 
 
 I HAVE just come back from a wedding- 
 Mr. L'Estrange's sister and young Sir 
 Harry Bruce. It has made me very sad ; 
 the girl promised all sorts of things she 
 knew nothing about, and the groom knew 
 so many things that he was rash to make 
 any promises at all. She is seventeen, and 
 looks like an apple-blossom. He is thirty, 
 and has eaten a good many apples out 
 of other people's orchards. I almost hoped 
 that she would have the courage to change 
 her mind at the altar rail, but on the con- 
 trary she looked sickeningly in love with 
 Sir Harry, who is at least handsome. I al- 
 ways remember hearing of a girl who left 
 her young man at the altar before the par- 
 
 76 
 
to Hotfl 
 
 son began, because he stepped on her 
 dress and said " Damn ! " What a pity it 
 is that more bridegrooms don't get nervous 
 and say " Damn ! " It would choke off 
 the apple-blossom sort of girl, and prevent 
 lots of matrimonial failures. Not that say- 
 ing " Damn 1 " shows that a man's heart 
 is bad. It means that his nerves require 
 hypophosphates. In this neurotic age 
 people should be judged leniently. Charlie 
 is a very trying husband (when I see him), 
 but I never heard him swear. If he were 
 more violent, he would be less tiresome. 
 Marriages are terrible things. The Voice 
 that breathed o'er Eden breathes over a 
 Gehenna very often before the year is out, 
 and then where are you ? Isn't it prepos- 
 terous to expect that two persons who 
 have been brought up quite differently 
 should ever settle down harmoniously to- 
 gether ? Why should they ? Then add the 
 fact that they know nothing about each 
 77 
 
Cfrartte 8?ag 
 
 other, and you've got very pretty material 
 for a tragedy a tragedy that lasts longer 
 than a Chinese play, and has comic ele- 
 ments which add to its sordid horror. 
 You are saying, " That's all nonsense. I 
 know lots of happy couples." 
 So do I if you call it happy. It's the kind 
 of happiness a cow has chewing her cud 
 the same thing over and over or the res- 
 ignation of a man with a life-sentence, or 
 else the reasonable contentment of two 
 people who agree to differ and keep out 
 of each other's way. 
 
 I quite believe that the average woman 
 has a genius for fidelity. Give her a man 
 who is fond of her, will support her, and 
 not hit her, and you'll find that she never 
 looks at another man any harder than she 
 does at a cabby or a policeman. 
 When I married Charlie I was as ductile 
 as wax. And what has he made me ? He's 
 left me to be run into any mould that 
 78 
 
j&arclj to Lord 
 
 came along. I sometimes ask myself why 
 I'm as good as I am. One reason is, I be- 
 lieve in a God ; and the other, I honestly 
 think, is because far off, tucked away on a 
 boggy green spot across the Irish Chan- 
 nel, is a disagreeable, crusty, truth-telling, 
 quixotic old dear named Bill, who likes 
 me to be good. 
 
 Bertie Forbes said I was hard on Charlie. 
 Now, once and for ever, I'm going to re- 
 fute that statement. When I met Charlie 
 March I was four-and-twenty. I had had 
 a dozen offers (that would make a funny 
 book !), and I was tired of it all. I wanted 
 to settle down. I had the most exalted 
 ideals, though I'd been a bit of a flirt. 
 (Kate says I shall flirt with the man who 
 cremates at Woking !) But no man had 
 ever kissed me except you, Bill that 
 day. . . . Do you remember the gorse? 
 It smelt like pine-apples and wine ; and 
 there were larks singing oh, so high 
 79 
 
Charlie 
 
 in the blue. You only kissed me once. 
 Why, Bill ? We were cousins. . . . Well, 
 you went away to Africa, long before 
 Africa was the fashion, and before it be- 
 came the fashion to die there ; and then I 
 met Charlie March. He was like plenty 
 of other clean-shaven, keen-eyed young 
 naval officers. I seemed to dazzle him, and 
 he thought me clever ; and somehow when 
 he proposed I said " Yes ! " I don't know 
 why ; but I think it was because I wanted 
 love the great cruel, gnawing want of 
 my life, Bill! and you weren't here to 
 tell me what to do and so we mar- 
 ried. . . . 
 
 Bill, he never made love to me ! 
 The third day after we were engaged he 
 read Macaulay to me ! I shall never forget 
 it. I sat on one end of the sofa, dying to 
 be kissed, and he read me about the 
 Bloody Assizes. I wanted to lay my head 
 on his shoulder, and he kept telling me 
 80 
 
to Lotto 
 
 how Monmouth laid his on the block ! I 
 couldrit say, " Kiss me ! Kiss me ! I've a 
 great seething heartful of love and pas- 
 sion ! Make it yours ! " When we'd buried 
 Monmouth, he proposed " a brisk walk." 
 Bill, do you believe Adam, when he first 
 saw Eve, said : " Come for a turn in the 
 garden, my dear. It is good for your 
 liver ? " . . . But I suppose they lived on 
 salad and grass, and had no livers. 
 When Charlie and I married, he was nice 
 enough ; but I knew that I was nothing 
 at all to him compared to his profession. 
 How often I've wished I were a binnacle, 
 or a barnacle, or some of those queer 
 nautical things I don't know the names 
 of ! The height of Charlie's ambition, out- 
 side of his career, was to see me darn 
 stockings. I did seventeen one night, 
 while he read to me (Froude on the Span- 
 ish Armada), and I have never stuck a 
 needle into one since. 
 81 
 
Then he went away for three years, and 
 expected me to sit sewing till he came 
 back. But I was no Penelope. When I 
 spin, it is over the ground in a hansom 
 on the way to the play ; when I weave, 
 it is impossible romances of what never 
 was and never can be. 
 When Charlie writes to me, he ends with : 
 "Do weigh your letters. The last two 
 were overweight." Or else : " Try to keep 
 down the expenses, and be more particu- 
 lar about the front stairs. When I was 
 last at home I thought they looked 
 dusty." . . . Dusty ! It makes me want 
 to be dusty just a clean pinch of pow- 
 der in a little urn on your mantelpiece, 
 Bill ! . . . I believe I'm crying. ... I 
 wonder why ? 
 
 Oh, if husbands would take half the 
 trouble to keep our love that other men 
 take to try to get it, how few scandals 
 and tragedies and tears there would be 
 82 
 
. ;fttar$ to Lot* 
 
 in the world! . . . I'm not funny to- 
 day, Bill, am I ? People like me only 
 when I am funny. " Mary March was the 
 life of the party," they say. Nobody sees 
 the face that I see in the little cab-mirror, 
 on the way home. Isn't it terrible to be 
 middle-aged and sentimental ? 
 Certainly I need an occupation. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 MARY. 
 P.S. Forgive these " bleats " ! 
 
to ;flfct& 
 
 LETTER V 
 
 My dear, dear Mary, 
 I didn't suppose that at my age I should 
 ever come near crying again ; but, then, I 
 had not bargained for the effect your let- 
 ters would have upon me. Your letter 
 about marriage has caused me more pain 
 than I thought I could suffer. It has 
 made me feel that you are a mass of mag- 
 nificent material wasted. It is not you 
 alone whom I pity. Poor Charlie, out on 
 the God-forsaken West Coast doing his 
 duty, blissfully unconscious that he has 
 thrown away the cleverest, warmest- 
 hearted woman in England thafs a pict- 
 ure which makes me sad, quite indepen- 
 dent of your sorrows. You were born to 
 84 
 
to 
 
 be unhappy predestined, as your Calvin- 
 ist aunt would say. No modern, neurotic, 
 brilliant woman is easily satisfied. In 
 thinking of you, in summing up your 
 qualities, I doubt sometimes whether any 
 kind of husband would have seemed satis- 
 factory to you in the long-run. Your rest- 
 less mind is like the sea sometimes in 
 wild disorder, sometimes glittering and 
 rippling in the sun, but always with the 
 long, deep swell underneath. 
 Do you think because I do humdrum, 
 useful, unamusing things all day that I 
 don't understand you? Why, it always 
 seemed to me that we were two halves of 
 something which Fate had sundered. I 
 believe that Fate does that, or that Some- 
 thing higher than Fate, which we all be- 
 lieve in and worship in one way or another. 
 One's affinity, to use a very hackneyed 
 word, generally belongs to somebody else. 
 That's a fact which must be faced. To stand 
 85 
 
Charlie gfos 
 
 firm, to walk straight, to look Life in the 
 face a cruel stepmother face she shows 
 to most of us ! are the only ways of bear- 
 ing our burden. 
 
 You ask me why I went to Africa, Mary. 
 No one but my uncle, who stood in the 
 place of my dead father, knew at that 
 time that I was threatened with consump- 
 tion. A man who has a chance of dying 
 of that disease must not seek to form any 
 ties. You only knew that I was not quite 
 robust, and that I went away for three 
 years. When I returned my health was 
 established and you were married. There 
 is the explanation in a nutshell. 
 I have always been glad that March was 
 a gentleman. I wish he might have stayed 
 with you, and given you all the love and 
 care due to such a woman as you ; but I 
 feel that everything might have been 
 worse. When you were a girl you once 
 said to me, when I was quoting exhorta- 
 86 
 
Horn ^arratoai? to 
 
 tions from Marcus Aurelius : " Hang 
 Marcus Aurelius ! I wish he were alive, so 
 that I might kill him ! " That was one of 
 the days when you were not resigned. 
 . . . Yes, I remember the gorse. I never 
 see it without remembering. Only death 
 can rob us of the beauty of the spring ; 
 and every year its blossoms and its birds 
 speak to me of that long gone day. There 
 is one friend who will never fail you, Mary, 
 whom nothing can ever estrange. I love 
 to think that you care for my good opin- 
 ion ; but, as a matter of fact, no opinion 
 of mine about you could ever be bad. 
 It would be a very dull, blind person who 
 could fail to catch a glimpse of your white 
 soul of the real Mary. ... I could 
 write much more, but it would all be the 
 same thing that I am inalienably 
 
 Your devoted 
 
 BILL. 
 
to ILorD 
 
 LETTER IX 
 
 Dearest Bill, 
 
 What a brick you are ! Why are you the 
 only nice man alive? and why is my other 
 half divorced from me by miles of land 
 and water? ... So that is why you 
 went. Well, things are inscrutable. I 
 mean to live a few thousand years some- 
 where, where everything is better man- 
 aged. Perhaps we shall hit upon the same 
 star, but I doubt it. I never have any luck 
 where there's a male in the case. If I had 
 an engagement with a tom-cat or a 
 cockadoodle-doo I should come to grief 
 over it. 
 
 Keep on liking me ! I'm not worth it ; but 
 
 when I see myself through your eyes, I 
 
 88 
 
to Lorti 
 
 feel proud for a week. I throw out my 
 chest like a pouter pigeon, and walk as if 
 I owned the whole street. 
 
 Your loving 
 MARY. 
 
 89 
 
to lot* 
 
 LETTER X 
 
 VALENTINE BANKES has been rather tire- 
 some. He chooses to think that he is desper- 
 ately in love with me, and glowers at every 
 man who talks to me. That sort of thing 
 is amusing for a little while, but this is 
 going too far. He follows me about, and 
 you can't have a boy as tall as Cleopatra's 
 Needle following you about unobserved. 
 He is very well-born his mother was an 
 Honourable and he has been well edu- 
 cated, but he isn't amusing. A handsome, 
 brainless man always makes me think of 
 a Dresden clock without works. Young 
 actors are great fun up to a certain point ; 
 they always want you to admire their 
 waistcoats. Val wears charming ones. It 
 90 
 
jttarclj to JLorD 
 
 isn't that the boy is conceited exactly ; he 
 only takes an interest in himself. We all 
 do, only some of us have the sense not to 
 show it. I'm sure if I were as good-look- 
 ing as Val I should fancy myself far more 
 than he does. 
 
 As a rule, I don't cultivate " the profes- 
 sion." I've known a good many actors, and 
 I always think that when the Creator 
 was dealing out consciences He had a spe- 
 cial sort of property ones for the people 
 behind the footlights. Of course there are 
 plenty of bad consciences " in front " too. 
 How easily one drops into the jargon of 
 the theatre ! and how fashionable these 
 people are ! I remember when I was a 
 young girl my mother wouldn't have an 
 actor in the house, and now, if one is 
 lucky enough to dine at their houses, one 
 slinks in last, behind duchesses ! 
 Val, as I say, is becoming oppressive. He's 
 a dear boy, and I like him, but I don't 
 7 91 
 
Charlie W&& 
 
 want his young affections, nor do I desire 
 to blight them, so I have decided on a de- 
 lightful plan. Val, as I say, has youth, 
 beauty, and breeding, but next to no 
 money; so I've determined to marry him 
 off. The first steps are already taken. 
 Charlie has a young cousin a girl of 
 twenty, who lives down in Cornwall. 
 About a year ago her father died her 
 mother had been dead a long time and 
 left this child something like 40,000. 
 She has lived all her life near Falmouth 
 with an old aunt as duenna. This spring 
 she sent me some violets, which reminded 
 me of her existence. It suddenly occurred 
 to me : What a wife for Val ! 
 I wrote to her aunt and asked if the girl 
 might pay me a visit, and the aunt con- 
 sented. I have a dear little spare room, 
 and Janet and I made a fresh pink nest of 
 it. I felt quite motherly as I made a new 
 pin-cushion all myself. Then 1 asked Val 
 92 
 
to JLorD 
 
 to luncheon two days before I expected 
 the girl. 
 
 He was in radiant looks, with that un- 
 quiet spark in his blue eyes which I don't 
 want to see there, unless someone other 
 than myself kindles it, and he wore a 
 new waistcoat ! I should like to see that 
 boy's tailor's bills ! I wonder if he ever pays 
 them. He began to say pretty things to 
 me before luncheon, which is too early. 
 Compliments, like champagne, should be 
 administered only in the evening. 
 " Let us stick to the claret of common- 
 place," said I, having expounded my the- 
 ory. " I want to ask you a favour." 
 He murmured that anything that / asked, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Oh, it isn't much," said I ; " only I want 
 you to be civil to a girl who is coming 
 here this week Geraldine Treherne, Char- 
 lie's Cornish cousin." 
 Val twisted his beautiful mouth. 
 93 
 
 V 
 
Charlie 
 
 " A girl" he said. 
 
 " Yes, a girl, not a hippopotamus ! Don't 
 
 look like that ; it destroys your looks." 
 
 He instantly smoothed himself out. 
 
 " And what on earth can I do with a 
 
 girl ? " he asked quite guilelessly. 
 
 " Help me to amuse her." 
 
 " But you always tell me I'm not amus- 
 
 ing." 
 
 " You're not to me ; but you might be 
 
 to a creature half my age, who has lived 
 
 all her life on the Cornish coast." 
 
 " Is she pretty ? " 
 
 " I haven't an idea." 
 
 " Has she money ? " 
 
 " What's that to you ? She wouldn't think 
 
 of marrying you ! " (Wasn't that artful ?) 
 
 It piqued Val. 
 
 " I'm not dreaming of marrying," said he. 
 
 " You of all women ought to know that 
 
 while I care for someone who is not 
 
 free . . ." 
 
 94 
 
to JLorti 
 
 " I left off pinafores and turned up my hair 
 about the year you were born, Val. What 
 a dear little golden- haired creature you 
 must have been ! " I observed. 
 " It's beastly to have golden hair. People 
 never let you forget it. Why don't you 
 say you are old enough to be my mother, 
 Mrs. Charlie ? " 
 He looked quite savage. 
 " Because it isn't true, Val. I'm only old 
 enough to be your godmother. But now 
 about Geraldine ; you must be pleasant, 
 but not too pleasant. She mustn't fall in 
 love with you on any account." 
 Val smiled whimsically. 
 " If you see she's in danger, bring her to 
 see me play. That'll put her off I " 
 " She's too ignorant to know how bad you 
 are, my dear," said I ; but I sweetened the 
 insult with my best smile. 
 Before Bankes went I had made him quite 
 curious to see Geraldine. 
 95 
 
Charlie 
 
 Two days after she came. 
 My dear Bill, are there no dressmakers in 
 Cornwall ? I saw in a moment that she 
 must be totally reconstructed. Her sleeves 
 were much too large ; her skirt hung bad- 
 ly ; her bodice wrinkled. Even her stays 
 were all wrong but, then, no Anglo- 
 Saxon, it appears, can make stays. I've 
 had six failures in two years, all because I 
 was too poor to go to Paris, and I'm as 
 much out of pocket as if I'd gone, and 
 nothing to show for it but the fact (made 
 obvious by London stays) that I weigh 
 twelve stone. The child has a charming 
 face, and what a complexion ! If I could 
 hate anyone, I should hate her ; I covet 
 her skin so. But her hair was dragged back 
 so tight that it fairly lifted her eyebrows. 
 There were masses of it quite straight 
 and glossy, nut-brown hair, well-cared for, 
 but absolutely unfashionable. 
 " You won't mind if I pull you to pieces, 
 96 
 
to lorti 
 
 will you, dear ? " I asked when she had 
 
 had her tea. 
 
 She looked alarmed, and her divine com- 
 
 plexion changed colour. 
 
 " Don't be frightened ; I only mean you 
 
 must be dressed. At present you're only 
 
 covered." 
 
 " I believe I'm not very smart," she fal- 
 tered. " Aunt Hester doesn't know much 
 about clothes." 
 
 " I suppose you've all the money you 
 want ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " said Gerry. " I can't spend it 
 all." 
 
 That made me envious. My bills for the 
 drawing-room will soon be coming in. 
 " Well," I said, " to-morrow we'll have a 
 heavenly day in the West End shops, and 
 in the evening we'll go to the theatre." 
 She clasped her hands. 
 "Oh, the theatre!" she gasped. "I've 
 never been to the play ! " 
 97 
 
l)arltc 
 
 She made me feel a hundred, and yet 
 there was a kind of hawthorny sweetness 
 and freshness about her that did me good. 
 I felt glad, Bill, that I was only frivolous. 
 Next day we bustled about to some pur- 
 pose. By dinner-time she was a different 
 girl. I had bought her a gown that re- 
 vealed instead of deforming her lithe 
 young figure. Her hair had been dressed 
 and waved by my Buckingham Palace 
 Road artist, and she wore a big bunch of 
 violets at her breast and a small one in 
 her head. 
 
 Val had sent us a box for the one of Bertie 
 Forbes's plays in which he's acting, and 
 after a neat little dinner we rolled off lux- 
 uriously in a brougham, for which Gerry 
 paid. 
 
 Val looked simply god-like in a Charles 
 II. costume so beautiful that even I 
 forgot his pump-handle style of love- 
 making. His pretty voice, too, was melt- 
 98 
 
to tori) 
 
 ing. He could scarcely speak his lines, he 
 was so interested in our box. Geraldine 
 glowed like a rose. After the first act she 
 said to me very shyly : 
 " I thought Mr. Mr. Bankes " here she 
 consulted her play-bill " smiled at us ; 
 but I must have been mistaken." 
 " Not at all," I said calmly ; " Valentine 
 Bankes is one of my dearest friends." 
 She drew a long breath. 
 " Does he ever come to your house ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Four days a week, dear. But I shan't 
 let him come much while you're there ; 
 he's too attractive," 
 " Isn't he a nice person ? " 
 " Oh, unexceptional ; but he's an actor ! 
 Perhaps your aunt wouldn't approve of 
 your knowing him." 
 
 She drew herself up with very pretty 
 dignity. 
 
 " I'm my own mistress, Cousin Mary." 
 99 
 
C^artfe Bteg 
 
 " Knock off the ' Cousin,' Gerry. It makes 
 me feel a thousand," said I. 
 I went to bed full of joy. Gerry was quiet, 
 but I could see that she likes the pump- 
 handle style. . . . 
 
 Yesterday Val lunched here. I asked the 
 plainest, most uninteresting man I know 
 as a foil a good, middle-aged person, 
 who wants to make everybody happy but 
 himself. Strange to say, this line of con- 
 duct has made him perfectly serene. He is 
 immensely Val's superior ; but it is a sad 
 fact that a perfect figure, yellow hair, and 
 a dazzling smile make more surely for 
 worldly success than a sallow complex- 
 ion, joined with an altruistic ideal. It is 
 unjust, but such is the case. Mr. Darnwell 
 was perfectly unconscious that he was 
 living up to his unselfish standards by 
 setting off the attractions of a selfish 
 young actor, whose adopted mother was 
 bent on getting him a rich wife. It is 
 100 
 
ffitarcfr to 
 
 never wise to introduce several attractive 
 men at once to a girl: it only confuses 
 her. Brian L 'Estrange would have spoilt 
 the whole thing, for he has charm as well 
 as beauty, and would have made Val ap- 
 pear about as magnetic as a pillar-box 
 or, rather, a lamp-post, for, after all, a 
 pillar-box does woo our letters from us. 
 I didn't tell Geraldine till the last moment 
 that Bankes was coming : it would have 
 spoilt her complexion. As it was, when 
 she entered the drawing-room (which is 
 by this time green) the sight of the young 
 man standing on the hearthrug in all the 
 pride of his manly loveliness was nearly 
 too much for the Cornish maiden. 
 I never saw Val so keen ; he actually 
 changed colour. He's very English, and 
 stood there with nothing to say. Presently 
 he faltered : 
 
 " I think we're going to have spring at 
 last." 
 
 101 
 
3WE Carlie 
 
 " Don't think if you can't do better than 
 
 that," said I tartly. 
 
 Gerry looked shocked at my want of 
 
 reverence. 
 
 Then Mr. Darnwell entered, beginning 
 
 on the threshold to fizzle with his phil- 
 
 anthropic schemes. Through the torrent 
 
 of his eloquence shot little sprays of 
 
 the conversation which was going on 
 
 between those two absurd children. I 
 
 gazed soulfully at Darnwell right in 
 
 the eyes, and stretched my ears back- 
 
 ward to catch what the two sillies 
 
 were saying. It sounded somewhat like 
 
 this : 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Mrs. March, there is no 
 
 doubt about it, if we seek happiness, we 
 
 do not find it ! " 
 
 " How true, Mr. Darnwell, how true 1 " 
 
 " I hope you liked the play, Miss Tre- 
 
 herne, and didn't think me too awfully 
 
 bad. . . ." 
 
 102 
 
jttarcty to Lot* 
 
 " Bad ! Mr. Bankes ! I never saw any- 
 one so good." 
 
 " Really ? How charming ! I suppose 
 you've seen Irving and Waller, and Forbes- 
 Robertson, and all the swells ? . . ." 
 "Oh no. I never was in a theatre before!" 
 I was dying to see Val's face, but Mr. 
 Darnwell was droning along, occasionally 
 breaking out into a more denunciatory 
 tone. I saw that he was getting to the 
 windmill stage, when his arms shoot out 
 so long that he threatens the Dresden 
 china, and one needs a sofa-cushion as a 
 buffer. Luncheon was announced before 
 any damage was done. It was a nice little 
 meal several dainty courses and the 
 table looked charming, thanks to pink 
 tulips. 
 
 Everything suggests altruism to Mr. Darn- 
 well. I'd forgotten that he was not only a 
 total abstainer and an anti-vivisectionist, 
 but a vegetarian. He heroically declined 
 103 
 
Cfrattte 
 
 cutlets in aspic (they looked so nice, with 
 little curly cuffs on lying in a bed of 
 lettuce), chicken everything till the 
 sweet came. He began telling me about 
 the cruelties of the slaughter-house till 
 I thought I should faint, and all the 
 time he sacrificed thousands of innocent 
 lives by drinking quantities of Thames 
 water. 
 
 Meanwhile Gerry and Val had got deep 
 into conversation. She was telling him 
 about the beautiful rocky coast of Corn- 
 wall, and he was wishing he might see it 
 he who will hardly leave town even in 
 summer to go further than to Ranelagh ! 
 She was waxing tender ; by the time the 
 mayonnaise arrived she had got to the 
 pitying stage. 
 
 "Isn't the life of an actor awfully 
 hard ? " she asked, with divine compas- 
 sion. 
 Val looked sad. 
 
 104 
 
jttarcty to Lord 
 
 " Oh, awfully hard ! " he acquiesced. 
 "It is when you dance all night, and 
 go to tea-parties all the afternoon," I 
 cut in. Darnwell was getting on my 
 nerves. 
 
 Val gave me a reproving glance. 
 "It is a curious profession," said Darnwell, 
 rilling in the chinks with his dinner-roll ; 
 "for a grown man, the heir of all the 
 ages, made in the image of God, to strut 
 before the public in a character not his 
 own and for hire. . . . It is very 
 strange." 
 
 Val appeared abashed and rather angry. 
 " Surely," said I, " one often wishes that 
 people would wear characters not their 
 own. Any change would be for the 
 better." 
 
 Darnwell waved me down, and in so 
 doing swished one of my Venetian glasses 
 off the table. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, with a cursory 
 105 
 
C&artfe 3ajs 
 
 glance at the remnants. " What I wish to 
 say is that surely there is work to be done 
 in the world which should engross all the 
 powers which men fritter away behind the 
 footlights." 
 
 " But the world must be amused," said I. 
 " We can't all be so earnest and as devoid 
 of humour as 
 
 Geraldine broke in eagerly : "I'm sure 
 there are hundreds of good actors." 
 " Morally perhaps, not artistically ! " I 
 snapped. I was still thinking about my 
 Venetian glass. * 
 
 The discussion raged all the way upstairs. 
 I was growing cross, and silently offered 
 Darnwell a cigarette. 
 "Thanks," he said, "I give way to no 
 appetites. Drink, love, tobacco all are 
 harmful to the higher life." 
 I lit up, just to occupy my mouth, which 
 sheltered an unruly tongue at the mo- 
 ment, and took Val off in a corner, 
 106 
 
to JLorti 
 
 leaving Geraldine to tackle the philan- 
 
 thropist. 
 
 "Where on earth did you get that?" 
 
 asked Bankes, indicating the gentleman 
 
 without appetites. 
 
 " Never mind ; it's going in a minute. 
 
 Look here, Val, you're not to flirt with 
 
 my cousin. It's awfully good of you to 
 
 hide your real feelings, you know ; for, of 
 
 course, you hate girls. But I can't go on 
 
 demanding the sacrifice." 
 
 Val's countenance changed. 
 
 " Don't mention it," he said ; " I don't 
 
 dislike her at all in fact. . . ." 
 
 I made eyes at him. 
 
 " Dear Val," I said, " / know whom you 
 
 love ! though I should pretend not 
 
 to. . . ." 
 
 He grew still more uncomfortable. 
 
 "You have always discouraged me so," 
 
 he murmured. 
 
 " What could I do ? " I asked. " You are 
 
 8 107 
 
Charlie 
 
 one of my dearest friends, and that is 
 something. But you must not make Gerry 
 like you. Even if you cared for her, her 
 people wouldn't hear of it. ..." 
 And yet, Bill, you used to say I wouldn't 
 do for diplomacy ! 
 
 108 
 
to lLotti 
 
 LETTER XI 
 
 Dear Bill, 
 
 Lazy as I am, I do hate doing things 
 which are too easy. I had arranged a long 
 amusing campaign, and, behold, in less 
 than a month the fun is all over ! It was 
 not long before Gerry exhibited unmistak- 
 able signs of being in love. She has been 
 brought up on curates, and of course Val 
 Bankes is a revelation. He doesn't bore 
 her! But then she isn't cursed with my 
 exigent sense of humour. She has what I 
 never will have common-sense, which 
 will be in abeyance only during the first 
 rosy weeks of courtship. First she began 
 to lose her appetite. One evening I re- 
 proved her for not eating. In the middle 
 109 
 
gfljtte Charlie 
 
 of it all she turned a wan face upon me, 
 and said : 
 
 " Mary, have you ever seen Mr. Bankes's 
 cigarette-case ? " 
 
 I dissembled, as I had given it to him 
 myself. It sometimes worries me to re- 
 member how many men there are going 
 about full of gun-metal for which I 
 paid 1 
 
 "Which case is that, Gerry?" I asked. 
 "Val has several." 
 
 " A gun-metal one studded with tur- 
 quoises," said she. " It has ' Val ' writ- 
 ten across it in a woman's handwriting." 
 " Oh, that one yes. You know, actors are 
 awfully lucky about getting presents from 
 people." 
 
 " I wish I knew something about that 
 case. . . ." 
 " You should ask him." 
 " Well, he saw me looking at it, and he 
 did say it was from a woman ... * an 
 no 
 
to Lorti 
 
 awfully good sort,' he said, * but quite 
 middle-aged.' . . ." 
 
 (These are the moments, Bill, which Prov- 
 idence invents for us as skids to clog our 
 downward course !) 
 
 I am acquiring command of my facial 
 muscles, so I only said : 
 " Val has lots of nice elderly women 
 friends. You see, he's an orphan, which 
 makes us all want to be kind to him." 
 Why should I bore you with the rest of 
 this siUy affair? I will skip the prelimi- 
 naries you can invent them for yourself 
 and come to the day when Val formally 
 demanded to see me alone. Considering 
 that he has been seeing me alone for 
 several years past, this demand failed 
 to impress me. As soon as he came in 
 I saw that he had become a real man. 
 His eyes burned, and his face was almost 
 as pale as the marble god whom he re- 
 sembles. 
 
 in 
 
C^atlf e 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Charlie Mary dear," he burst 
 
 out at once, " do help me ! " 
 
 The "quite middle-aged lady" feigned 
 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Why, Val, you startle me 1 What's the 
 
 matter?" 
 
 "Oh, I never thought I could feel like 
 
 this ! It's awful it's really awful ! " 
 
 "Don't be so wild, Val. You frighten 
 
 me." 
 
 "You don't know what love is! Lucky 
 for you." 
 
 " I don't ! Tell me, then, if it makes you 
 feel better?" (I was dying to tease him, 
 but upon my word I hadn't the heart to!) 
 He tore up and down the room of 
 course, he'll never look like that on the 
 stage, or he would make his fortune. 
 " Oh, it just takes you by the throat and 
 it clutches your heart and you lie awake 
 all night and you're never hungry, and 
 can't even smoke ; and all the other women 
 
 112 
 
to Lot* 
 
 are no more to you than Dutch dolls. . . . 
 
 It's awful!" 
 
 I sat there thanking God that I had never 
 
 loved the boy. 
 
 " I tell you, Mary, if she won't marry me, 
 
 111 111 be a Trappist, by Jove ! " 
 
 " Oh no, you won't, Val," I said quietly. 
 
 "It would ruin your nails to dig your 
 
 own grave ; and one's own coffin is a ter- 
 
 ribly tight fit to sleep in." 
 
 "Then," said he, with unconscious hu- 
 
 mour, " I'll sleep in another fellow's." 
 
 " Perhaps you won't have to proceed to 
 
 extremities. Who is the woman ? " 
 
 "Why, can't you see? Geraldine, of 
 
 course. . . . Do help me, Mary ! " We 
 
 shall be poor, of course, but I feel I can 
 
 work like a demon for her." 
 
 " You shock me, Val and I may say you 
 
 pain me. Only a fortnight ago you said 
 
 you loved me? and I hid a smile with my 
 
 hand. 
 
Val was past shame. 
 
 "Oh, you know how much that sort of 
 thing is worth. Of course, I do like you 
 awfully ; I shall love to be your cousin." 
 (Bill, is this my punishment for the many 
 occasions on which I've offered to be a 
 man's sister ?) 
 
 " Come and sit down by me, Val," I said, 
 " and be sensible. Do you really care for 
 Geraldine ? " 
 
 " Of course I do ! Don't you see how sweet 
 she is? like hawthorn after poppies ; like 
 a fresh breeze after oh, you know what 
 I mean ! I'm so used to spouting other 
 chaps' ideas, I can't express my own. Do 
 help me, Mary. ..." 
 The long and short of it was that after a 
 very serious talk with Val, I fetched down 
 Gerry, and left the two creatures alone 
 for an hour. 
 
 Isn't it curious that, though I never had 
 
 the slightest tenderness for Val, I retired 
 
 114 
 
to lorn 
 
 to my bedroom and cried till I was all the 
 
 colours of the rainbow ? 
 
 I know that Love is a bird of passage ; 
 
 but oh, Bill, isn't he sweet and dear while 
 
 he perches ? . . . 
 
 We have been through an ordeal with 
 
 Aunt Hester. Geraldine is really her own 
 
 mistress or will be in a few weeks, as 
 
 her twenty-first birthday is nearly here ; 
 
 but she is very fond of Miss Treherne, 
 
 who has been a mother to her all these 
 
 years. 
 
 Of course, we wrote and invited Aunt 
 
 Hester to come up and inspect Val. I had 
 
 no room for her, so I engaged rooms for 
 
 her at the nearest hotel. She arrived look- 
 
 ing very grim. Her bonnet was a triumph 
 
 of Truro millinery, and her mantle was of 
 
 the jetty kind which one meets only in 
 
 buses. 
 
 Geraldine let me receive her alone, while 
 
 she huddled on the upper staircase. 
 
Ggatlfe Wag 
 
 "Well," said Miss Treherne, "you are 
 taking a great responsibility, Mrs. March." 
 " Perhaps," said I ; " but I've known Mr. 
 Bankes for years." 
 " What is his occupation ? " 
 " His grandfather was an earl." 
 " That in itself hardly constitutes an oc- 
 cupation." 
 
 " Some people live handsomely on it, but 
 Mr. Bankes has a profession." 
 This was the rock on which there was 
 danger of splitting, and I paused to gain 
 courage. 
 
 " Of late years," I said, " numbers of the 
 aristocracy have er gone on the stage 
 er become artists ... in fact, if peers 
 did not occasionally remove actresses to 
 another sphere, there would hardly he 
 room for the ladies of good position who 
 wish to embrace an artistic career - : 
 " I know nothing about that," said Aunt 
 Hester. " It sounds interesting, but it 
 116 
 
to 
 
 seems to have no bearing on Geraldine's 
 affairs." 
 
 " On the contrary," I answered, " it has ; 
 I was coming to that. Mr. Bankes is er 
 -an artist." (That's the first He I ever 
 told.) 
 
 " Oh, one of those painter fellows ? We 
 get a good many in Cornwall in the sum- 
 
 mer." 
 
 " No, Mr. Bankes does not paint that is 
 to say, paints the manners of the 
 "Look here, Mrs. March," said Aunt 
 Hester, politely but firmly, " what does 
 Mr. Bankes do ? " 
 I plunged. 
 " He's an actor." 
 
 The effect was instantaneous. Miss Tre- 
 herne threw up her hands. 
 "Lord help us!" she ejaculated. Then, 
 after a pause : " This won't do at all." 
 I heard a gasp at the keyhole. Gerry had 
 evidently left the stairs. 
 117 
 
Charlie 
 
 "Oh," I said hastily, "you will simply 
 love Val. He's so handsome, so well-bred, 
 and such a favourite ; and then, you know, 
 he doesn't act much I mean he isn't 
 really an actor. Anyone can see that 
 he's a gentleman first and an actor after- 
 wards. ..." 
 
 The old girl is terribly shrewd. 
 " Then," says she, " am I to understand 
 that he is not even a good actor ? . . ." 
 That was a facer. By this time I was per- 
 spiring. I was thankful enough when the 
 door burst open, and Gerry sank palpitat- 
 ing on top of Aunt Hester. I meanly de- 
 serted. They talked for an hour, while I 
 lay down trying to collect my scattered 
 senses. 
 
 Next morning Val came to be inter- 
 viewed. It was worse than a first night, 
 he says. Thank goodness, Aunt Hes- 
 ter requested me to remain in the 
 room. 
 
 118 
 
to Horn 
 
 " I understand, sir," said Miss Treherne, 
 " that you are an actor." 
 " There are several opinions about that," 
 said Val, glancing at me. Nervousness had 
 suddenly endowed him with a power of 
 repartee. 
 
 Miss Treherne looked stern. 
 "Do not be flippant," said she. "You 
 wish to marry my niece. I must ask you 
 several questions which may be painful to 
 us both." 
 
 " I am ready," said Val nobly. 
 The old lady looked him over with grudg- 
 ing admiration. 
 
 " First of all," said she, " are you aware 
 that my niece has 40,000 ? " 
 Val was staggered. 
 
 " I never dreamed of such a thing," he 
 said simply. 
 
 Miss Treherne looked towards me. 
 " He did not know it," I said. 
 At that she softened. 
 119 
 
C^artfe Etas 
 
 " There are a few more questions I must 
 ask you," said she. " Are you in the habit 
 of falling in love ? " 
 Val appealed to me. 
 " Am I, Mrs. Charlie ? " he asked. 
 Wretched boy ! He knew I was loyal. 
 " He has no bad habits, Miss Treherne," 
 I answered. 
 
 " Do you feel," proceeded Madame Tor- 
 quemada, "that you care for Geraldine 
 more than you ever have for anyone 
 else?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Val, with conviction. 
 " It's quite a different feeling ; I've never 
 had it before." 
 
 " I suppose," said Miss Treherne, " you 
 have been obliged to er kiss a great 
 many women ? " 
 Val blushed. 
 
 " Well, not exactly obliged. . . ." 
 " On the stage, I mean." 
 " Oh, that. We very seldom kiss 'em, you 
 1 20 
 
to 
 
 know. We make a dive at a girl's ear, and 
 the audience don't see that it doesn't land 
 anywhere." 
 
 All was doing well. I breathed freely. 
 " It must be a life of great temptation," 
 said Miss Treherne solemnly. 
 " I think," said Val, with an amount of 
 good sense which startled me, "no one 
 life has more temptations than another. 
 If a chap wants to be a blackguard, he 
 doesn't have to go on the stage in order 
 to be one." 
 
 " You may be right," said Aunt Hester. 
 "At the same time I should be glad if 
 you could make up your mind to leave 
 the stage." 
 
 "Don't be selfish, Val," I murmured. 
 " Give the others a chance." 
 " I'm not particularly keen about it," said 
 Val ; " only I shouldn't like Geraldine to 
 support me." 
 
 " Surely, with your connections," sug- 
 121 
 
Charlie 
 
 gested Aunt Hester, "you could get 
 something? Private secretary, now, to 
 some Member of Parliament. ..." 
 "You see, I can't spell very well," an- 
 swered the modest boy. 
 They went on for some time like that, 
 and the extraordinary end of the matter 
 was that Val went away engaged, having 
 kissed not only me, but Aunt Hester. 
 The dear old thing actually blushed ! 
 "A handsome creature," she remarked. 
 " No wonder Gerry fell in love with him." 
 I knew the hair and the smile would do 
 the business. 
 
 So there goes one of my warmest ad- 
 mirers. I wonder who will carry off the 
 
 rest. 
 
 M. 
 
 122 
 
to Lotti 
 
 LETTER XII 
 
 Dear Bill, 
 
 Mrs. Brabazon is horrid about Val's en- 
 gagement. I met her the other day at 
 a woman's luncheon a function which 
 ruins the digestions of the women pres- 
 ent, and the reputations of those who are 
 absent. I suppose eating too much makes 
 us all so uncomfortable that we long to 
 blame somebody hence scandal-monger- 
 ing. It was the Americans, I believe, who 
 invented hen-parties not, if I can judge 
 from those Yankees I've seen, that they 
 are indifferent to males ; but their men, 
 poor dears, are all day grubbing " down- 
 town," wherever that is, so if women 
 want to give luncheons on week-days, 
 
 9 123 
 
le Cfraflte Wag 
 
 they must do without their men. Beatrice 
 says her husband is so busy that he rushes 
 out and consumes his mid-day meal in 
 ten minutes ; it is almost always tomato- 
 soup and peach-pie, whatever that is. It 
 sounds ghastly. I can't imagine you eating 
 " peach-pie " ! 
 
 Mrs. Bobby was as fascinating as ever. 
 She sat opposite to me, and seemed to be 
 thinking, between the courses, what she 
 could say to irritate me. I don't know 
 why, except that I've seen a good deal of 
 Brian L'Estrange lately. Of course, all the 
 women who knew Val were taken up with 
 his engagement. Mrs. Trapper was very 
 decent about it ; she has too many inter- 
 esting important affairs on hand to waste 
 time over Val. She seems pretty genuine 
 except her hair and I can't afford to 
 say much about that. She spoke very 
 pleasantly about Geraldine, and appeared 
 to think the match charming. 
 124 
 
to 
 
 Mrs. Ivor grew more and more vexed. No 
 
 one else noticed it, but / know a sort of 
 
 white look round the nostrils which she 
 
 gets when she is angry. True to her meth- 
 
 ods, she clawed Val under pretence of pat- 
 
 ting him. 
 
 " I never understood," she said, in her soft 
 
 voice, " why Valentine Bankes has so few 
 
 friends amongst men. / don't believe him 
 
 to be particularly vicious." 
 
 " Vicious ! " said Dolly Trapper. " Why, 
 
 Val is one of the sanest, cleanest, quietest 
 
 boys I ever knew ! " 
 
 " You think so ? " said Mrs. Ivor. " Well, 
 
 you ought to know." 
 
 Her face was peaceful as a summer day. 
 
 " Of course," said Dolly, " I make it a rule 
 
 never to contest a point with a person 
 
 older than myself, or one who has had far 
 
 more experience ; but I must stand up for 
 
 Val. I think he's a good, dear, stupid 
 
 ladi" 
 
 125 
 
Charlie %?ag 
 
 "And he has such a lovely mouth and 
 teeth ! " murmured an unmarried girl. 
 " And his hair waves naturally," said an- 
 other. 
 
 " All aids to virtue," said Mrs. Ivor with 
 sweet irony. 
 
 " I don't ask if a man's virtuous," said 
 Lady Bloxton; "I ask, Is he amusing? If 
 he ain't, somebody else may have him." 
 Mrs. Frant, a disciple of Mrs. Gulling, ob- 
 served : 
 
 " I imagine they are amusing, and then 
 they seem so." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mrs. Trapper softly to 
 me, " her standard isn't a high one. She 
 looks stupid." 
 
 " I have taken Valentine Bankes's part," 
 said Mrs. Ivor. " The other day I was told 
 that he had had six serious affairs in a 
 year. Now, I happen to know that it was 
 only five, and I said so." 
 " How can you know about more than 
 126 
 
jttarc^ to Hoit) 
 
 one of them?" asked Dolly with deadly 
 intent. 
 
 The hostess was so frightened that she 
 rose, while Mrs. Bobby still held a straw- 
 berry between her finger and thumb, and 
 for once Mrs. B. did something hastily 
 she popped the strawberry into her mouth, 
 consequently her utterance was blocked as 
 she left the room, and Dolly glided away 
 to keep some interesting engagement ; so 
 peace was preserved. 
 
 Why do any of you have anything to do 
 with Mrs. Brabazon? No doubt you ask 
 yourself that question, and would like to 
 ask us. So do we. The answer, I think, is 
 that we are all afraid to be anything but 
 charming to her. Val says it doesn't mat- 
 ter how you treat her ; she stabs her friends 
 in the back as often as she does her ene- 
 mies. 
 
 But rather a curious thing has happened 
 to her. I must tell you about it. 
 127 
 
Charlie 
 
 Mrs. B. gave a luncheon two days ago 
 not a hen one, but mixed and I, to my 
 shame be it said, went. Brian L 'Estrange 
 was there. She put him as far away from 
 me at the table as she could, with a large 
 clump of irises and peonies between us. 
 Though low table decorations are the 
 fashion with Mrs. Bobby, spite must be in- 
 dulged, though smartness be sacrificed. 
 Her little house in Belgravia is the pretti- 
 est thing of the kind I ever saw white 
 outside and in, everything in it white, ex- 
 cept its owner. It goes by the name of 
 the White Sepulchre, and certainly it is 
 in one sense a mausoleum, where are 
 bleaching the bones of many a nice robust 
 reputation. Who but Mrs. Brabazon would 
 have had the courage to attempt a white 
 drawing-room in London? The curtains 
 are of cream brocade, the walls panelled, 
 and the rugs on the parquet floor of white 
 fur. On the day of the party there were 
 128 
 
to lotft 
 
 masses of azaleas, tulips and peonies, all 
 rose-pink, in the corners, on the mantel- 
 piece, and on the white piano ; and Mrs. 
 Bobby received us wearing a white Lib- 
 erty satin, and a cluster of Mermet roses 
 at her waist. It is the reward of the wicked 
 and unsympathetic to look young long af- 
 ter they are middle-aged. No tears shed for 
 the sorrows of others have worn channels 
 on Mrs. Ivor's cheeks ; and though her 
 libellous insinuations turn the hair of her 
 listeners gray, her own waving locks are 
 as sunny as they were when she was 
 twenty sunny without the ministrations 
 of the French artist in Buckingham Palace 
 Road. 
 
 Dolly Trapper was not there. I fancy the 
 breach between her and Mrs. B. B. is so 
 wide that they can't invite each other any 
 more. There was a smart peeress, two ac- 
 tresses, and two women whom I didn't 
 know. The peeress tried to behave like 
 129 
 
Charlie 
 
 the actresses, and the other women aimed 
 apparently at a judicious mixture of 
 both styles. Miss Roland, the famous 
 leading lady, has acquired the repose of 
 a Vere de Vere, while Lady Boxhill 
 cultivates a habit of gesticulation. I 
 heard them talking with almost fever- 
 ish interest. 
 
 " How I envy you your new part, Miss 
 Roland ! " sighed her ladyship. 
 "You'd soon be tired of it," said the 
 actress. "/ long for privacy and re- 
 pose." 
 
 " I wish I could change with you. Will 
 you go down to the country and amuse 
 Boxhill, while I play your role and have 
 Sanderson make love to me ? " She 
 simpered charmingly. 
 " Sanderson and I don't speak off the 
 stage," said Miss Roland with a venomous 
 look. " I hate him ! " 
 " I've been told I had a talent for the 
 130 
 
to Horn 3^ar ratoa? 
 
 stage. Two palmists say so," said Lady 
 Boxhill. 
 
 Miss Roland looked as if she knew those 
 palmists. Just then in rustled Mrs. San- 
 derson. She is more dressed in the day- 
 time and less dressed in the evening than 
 any actor-manageress in London. 
 " I'm so sorry, dear ! " she murmured, 
 kissing Mrs. Brabazon. " Paquin kept me 
 three hours." 
 
 " No one who sees the result can grudge 
 the time," cooed Mrs. Bobby. 
 She was inwardly ravening, I know, for 
 her luncheon was being ruined. 
 The men were Brian L'Estrange, a big 
 Guardsman, two of Mrs. Bobby's infant 
 school sweet boys, who worship for the 
 most part silently an old baronet, Bertie 
 Forbes and young Lord Leatherhead. 
 How seldom a name is so happily descrip- 
 tive ! Luncheon was announced. I was on 
 the other side of Leatherhead, and Mrs. 
 131 
 
Charlie 
 
 Bobby scarcely spoke to him. Brian had 
 Lady Boxhill next to him, and, as I told 
 you, a bank of flowers quite cut off my 
 view of him. 
 
 Lord Leatherhead is serious. Picture a 
 serious marquess of five-and-twenty at 
 2 p.m. on a warm day. It is my proud 
 boast that I can talk to most men and 
 make them laugh. But I think this young 
 man must belong to a race where the heir, 
 when he comes of age, is taken into the 
 secret chamber and introduced to the 
 family bogie. He never smiles again. 
 After a few minutes I began to wish 
 that he had remained in the secret cham- 
 ber and sent the family bogie to entertain 
 me. All I could elicit (he ate conscien- 
 tiously) was that he was writing a life of 
 Bossuet, and had hopes of regenerating 
 the Tory party. When the third course 
 came on I gave him up. I had made one 
 or two sprightly remarks, and he had re- 
 132 
 
to lord 
 
 plied, Ah ! " Oh ! " Really ! " Don't 
 say so ! " with about the animation of a 
 prawn after it's boiled. 
 Bertie Forbes was saying witty things in 
 his low, drawly voice ; L 'Estrange was 
 racketing along with his delicious brogue ; 
 Mrs. Bobby was flaying one of " her 
 dearest friends " ; and / was reduced to 
 Leatherhead and the quiet boy next me. 
 I saw revenge in all this. Mrs. B. hates 
 everyone who isn't absolutely unsuccess- 
 ful ; and she likes L'Estrange. The tide of 
 talk swelled about me like the sea, and I 
 sat on my desert isle, high and dry. So I 
 took notes. 
 
 How overheated and greedy people look 
 at a summer luncheon ! Some of the 
 women got redder and redder. Lady Box- 
 hill was on her third round of moselle- 
 cup, and her voice, as well as her senti- 
 ments, made it plain why her lord prefers 
 to remain in the country. Miss Roland 
 133 
 
stuck to iced tea, and kept both her com- 
 plexion and her dulcet tones. It was al- 
 most pathetic to see how Mrs. Sanderson 
 fawned on her husband's leading lady. All 
 the world should know that she wasn't 
 jealous. A good many of her beautiful 
 clothes would have to be gone without if 
 she should quarrel with Olive Roland, for 
 the public comes to see her more than 
 Sanderson. 
 
 Mrs. Bobby was in her element. She had 
 hobbled me and gagged me with a mar- 
 quess. The game was in her own hands. 
 At last it was over. As we passed into the 
 drawing-room, she said affectionately : " I 
 haven't heard your voice, dear Mrs. Charlie. 
 I hope you're not ill ? " 
 " On the contrary," said I, " I never felt 
 fresher. I've just had a rest-cure." 
 We were all allowed to smoke in the 
 white drawing-room. Lady Boxhill pa- 
 raded her coroneted cigarette-case a gold 
 134 
 
to 
 
 one with turquoise small-pox and told 
 us that she dared not smoke unless 
 " Jack " were in the country. As if any- 
 one cared ! She wanted the men to chaff 
 her. Brian L 'Estrange saw it, and came 
 to the rescue, like a nice, kind Irishman 
 as he is. 
 
 " I'll bet you, now," said he, " that Box- 
 hill didn't give you that cigarette-case." 
 She was perfectly happy, as it is the aim 
 of her life to appear improper and eman- 
 cipated. As a fact, she's as dull as ditch- 
 water and perfectly respectable ; I sup- 
 pose it's easy to be so when one looks 
 rather like a horse. 
 
 Everybody compared cases. The Guards- 
 man had one with this cynical inscrip- 
 tion : 
 
 " Love is at best a tragic joke ; 
 Begun in flame, it ends in smoke ; 
 But he who takes to cigarettes, 
 Has soothing joys without regrets." 
 
 135 
 
Charlie 
 
 Brian's had : " Where there is so much 
 smoke there must be some fire." 
 Miss Roland doesn't smoke. She says her 
 teeth are a large part of her stock-in-trade, 
 and she is afraid of spoiling them. 
 Mrs. Bobby hasn't yet finished with Val. 
 She had a finishing anecdote to tell of 
 him. She says that Mrs. Willie Breton 
 was so in love with him that he was 
 always afraid she might kiss him ; so 
 whenever he went there to supper he left 
 some of his make-up on, thinking it might 
 put her off. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Bobby in conclusion, 
 " Fanny Breton loves the taste of grease 
 paint." 
 
 L'Estrange looked angry Mrs. Breton 
 is one of his friends but he had no time 
 to speak. 
 
 The parlourmaid flung open the door, and 
 
 said something inarticulate. In came a 
 
 pretty young woman and a handsome 
 
 136 
 
to JLotfl 
 
 young man. She was the image of Mrs. 
 Brabazon, and the man had Austrian 
 cavalry-man written all over him, from his 
 tight trousers to his splendid fair mous- 
 tache. 
 
 The lady looked a little confused by the 
 sight of so many people, hesitated a little, 
 then, blushing deeply, sprang forward and 
 clasped Mrs. Brabazon in her arms. 
 " Mamma ! " she cried. 
 I longed for a Kodak. Every jaw in the 
 room dropped. I thought Lord Leather- 
 head would never get his again. There 
 was an intense silence. The young lady 
 released Mrs. Bobby. 
 
 " This," she said, turning to the young 
 man, "is Toni." 
 
 "Toni" advanced a very gallant figure 
 and kissed Mrs. Bobby's hand. 
 Mrs. Toni hovered near. Presently she 
 said in a half- fearful undertone : 
 "The baby is outside." 
 137 
 
Charlie 
 
 Every eye turned to the door. There stood 
 a dark-faced, smiling Bohemian nounou, 
 holding an infant fastened to a stechkissen. 
 You know the things that foreign babies 
 are tied to they look like cocoons. 
 Mrs. Brabazon was magnificent. I dis- 
 covered afterwards that she hadn't seen 
 her daughter for five years. But she ral- 
 lied her forces and said : " My dear J 
 Why didn't you wire ? When did you 
 arrive?" 
 
 The nurse brought in the baby a perfect 
 cherub and Mrs. Bobbys grandchild. 
 Consider that. The guests rose. I think 
 they were all afraid to witness the meet- 
 ing between the baby and grandmamma. 
 Mrs. Bobby was nearly as white as her 
 drawing-room. She bent over the baby 
 and kissed it. 
 
 I don't think Nelson at Trafalgar was 
 
 finer then she was at that moment. She 
 
 was mortally wounded, and she deserved 
 
 138 
 
jftarc^ to Hott) 
 
 Westminster Abbey or a, peerage, or 
 both, 
 
 " Isn't it a darling ! " she said, with dry 
 lips. 
 
 She called the people up to look at the 
 child, and presented them to her daugh- 
 ter. I took pity on the poor Count (all 
 well-bred Austrians are Counts), who 
 couldn't speak any English. When he 
 found that I knew German and had lived 
 in Austria, he flooded me with explana- 
 tions unhampered by reserve. His ma-in- 
 law knew no German, so he let himself go. 
 He and his Charlotte had been married 
 for two years, but never would the in- 
 human mother let her child come to Eng- 
 land. It seems the bugbear of Mrs. Braba- 
 zon's life was to be a grandmother. Clever 
 as she is, however, she couldn't prevent 
 that. At last Charlotte decided on a sort 
 of coup d'etat. So she came. It was awk- 
 ward, of course, with all this company 
 
 10 139 
 
CDarltc 
 
 " Toni " waved his hand comprehensively 
 but there was no way of bringing 
 " Schwieger mama " to her senses. 
 The Countess looked a charming girl 
 awfully afraid of her mother. We left, 
 however, feeling that " Toni " would pro- 
 tect his family. 
 
 Later. 
 
 Mrs. Brabazon has got rid of the family 
 by going to take a rest-cure in Wimpole 
 Street. 
 
 140 
 
to JLotti 
 
 LETTER XIII 
 
 I HAVEN'T written for ages, Bill dear. I've 
 been racketing, and am tired to death. 
 Dolly Trapper and I have become great 
 friends. She is such a broad-minded 
 woman, who really enjoys life. She says 
 she never had a single Calvinistic ances- 
 tor, and that is why she has a good time. 
 She is a friend of Brian L'Estrange ; that 
 is, he isn't one of her admirers ; at least, 
 they don't flirt ; they're just good pals ; so 
 we go about together. Lord Leatherhead 
 is her newest young man. I can't think 
 how she stands him. To be sure, he's 
 good-looking, but he seldom speaks, and 
 when he does he's so boring that nobody 
 listens. 
 
 141 
 
Cfrarlte 
 
 We four had a day of it yesterday ! We 
 began with the Academy, just to steady 
 us. Dolly asked us to have a happy day 
 with her, and so we met at Burlington 
 House at 11.30. No need to describe the 
 Academy. There are fewer babies and 
 puppies and kittens than usual this year. 
 The taste for maturity has even invaded 
 the studies. The nudes were skied, and 
 looked awfully ashamed of themselves, 
 as they always do, somehow, under 
 a British skylight. They seem always 
 apologizing and begging for Turkish 
 towels. 
 
 There were wonderful portraits by the 
 Kitchener of Art. If I tell you who he is 
 he may sue me for libel or paint my 
 portrait for nothing, which would enable 
 me to turn the tables. He is cruel, but 
 wonderful ! 
 
 When our heads swam, and we were too 
 
 tired to stand, we went across to Prince's 
 
 142 
 
to JLorD 
 
 for luncheon. You know how I love res- 
 taurants ! Yet I couldn't eat, somehow. 
 Leatherhead was hungry, and he did not 
 add to the gaiety of nations. Brian talked 
 a lot. I wish he hadn't dark-blue eyes with 
 curly black lashes. They worry me, some- 
 how. Dolly isn't a bit catty ; she's so 
 young and lovely, she can afford to give 
 plainer women a chance. 
 I couldn't help thinking, as I looked at 
 L'Estrange and the marquess, that Eng- 
 land was ill-judged in pouring out Irish 
 blood in South Africa. It is needed for 
 transfusion at home. The operation is so 
 well understood now that nothing would 
 be easier. Brian, for instance, has more 
 blood than he needs. He might be im- 
 proved by losing a little. What more sen- 
 sible than to put some of it into Lord 
 Leatherhead ? In a few moments after the 
 operation the peer would make a joke ; 
 Brian, on the other hand, would be less 
 MS 
 
Charlie 
 
 flighty ; and both would, by a simple proc- 
 ess, attain the juste milieu. 
 After luncheon we rode about on a bus 
 for some time. If we had been forced to 
 do it we should have been furious. You 
 should have seen people look at Dolly. 
 She was hi pale gray, encrusted with cream 
 guipure, and her mahogany hair had just 
 had a fresh coat. I think Leatherhead is 
 in love with her. His mother will be in a 
 wax if he marries her. She is divorced, you 
 know. I forget who got it nobody re- 
 members now. She is so popular. 
 I love buses, and the conductor always 
 understands me. Let no woman pose as a 
 femme incomprise till she's tried the kind- 
 ness of a bus-conductor. They sometimes 
 offer to " send me up " things when they 
 get down at the end of the route. 
 In England, the end as well as the begin- 
 ning of everything is a public-house, so 
 I'm afraid the offer means gin. Still, it is 
 144 
 
to lord 
 
 very kind of any man to offer you what 
 he cares for most himself. 
 Brian was delightful. The seats are rather 
 small, but we sat close. 
 When we'd bussed enough, we all went 
 to Bond Street for tea. By that time my 
 nose needed powdering, and we retired to 
 our respective homes. 
 We met at Dolly's for early dinner, and 
 went to the play, which was funny, and 
 made Lord Leatherhead laugh once. I 
 never saw his teeth before, which is a pity, 
 as they are beautiful. If Dolly marries 
 him, it will be because she wants to know 
 the family bogie. Perhaps they'll fetch 
 him out for best man. They say he wails 
 all night in his turret chamber when one 
 of the family is about to marry, which 
 shows that he is a discriminating bogie 
 for a bachelor. 
 
 We finished at the Berkleton. I am sorry 
 
 that you're a man, Bill, for you can never 
 
 145 
 
Charlie gteg 
 
 see the ladies' dressing-room at the Ber- 
 kleton. It is small. Women walk up the 
 back of your gown, especially if it is 
 made of ancestral lace, as mine was. 
 When, after patiently flattening myself 
 against the wall for ten minutes, I secured 
 a hand-glass, a woman came up and smil- 
 ingly took it out of my hand. 
 I got into a corner and looked on. The 
 glare of electric-light is pitifully trying to 
 middle-aged town complexions. Out of 
 twenty women, two put black on their 
 eye-brows, five drew the pink pencil over 
 their lips ; but all powdered themselves. 
 This mingling one's microbes with those 
 of strangers is not a nice idea. But I wish 
 beauty were catching ! Nothing nice is 
 except love. 
 
 The attendants look harried. Oh, my dear, 
 what opera-cloaks ! They made me sick ! 
 Mine cost 3 12s. 6d. in Kensington High 
 Street, and isn't paid for. 
 146 
 
to lott 
 
 Dolly looked a dream. I felt sure that 
 Lord Leatherhead would propose on the 
 way home. We meant to go two by two 
 the sociable four-wheeler is Dolly's aver- 
 sion. 
 
 The waiters made me rather sad ; they 
 looked depressed. They seemed to be say- 
 ing : " Oh, the same bare backs, the same 
 powdered noses, the same shiny gowns ! 
 Take us away and give us a rest." 
 We had not been long at supper before 
 Brian whispered to me : 
 " Do you see Dolly's ex-husband at the 
 next table ? " 
 
 I felt hot and cold at once one of those 
 vicarious chills which altruistic natures 
 suffer, and which help to age them. I 
 looked, and saw a big, rather stout man, 
 sitting fortunately just where Dolly 
 couldn't see him. His face had the regula- 
 tion Berkleton bloom something between 
 a mulberry and a cherry, with a bluish 
 147 
 
Charlie 
 
 glaze. His eyes were like a dead cod-fish's. 
 When I saw him I began to understand 
 how Dolly could endure Lord Leather- 
 head, who is well-set-up, clean-skinned, 
 clear-eyed, and altogether a decent mem- 
 ber of society. 
 
 Dolly prattled on, quite unconscious that 
 her ivory shoulder was almost in contact 
 with the horrid being she has luckily got 
 rid of. What a curious feeling it must give 
 one to casually meet as a stranger, or 
 worse, as an enemy, the man who once 
 swore to love and cherish one ! 
 Poor Charlie hasn't got Mr. Trapper's 
 complexion, at all events. . . . 
 This sight of Dolly's ex-husband made me 
 unhappy somehow; and yet surely surely 
 a woman who has been badly treated 
 ought to have another chance ? . . . 
 In their usual engaging manner the 
 powers that be turned out half the lights 
 before we had come to the coffee. This 
 148 
 
Jttarclj to lorD 
 
 delicate hint that it was time to go home 
 was very slowly taken by the pleasure- 
 seekers at the tables. 
 
 "What happens when all the lights are 
 out ? " asked Dolly coquettishly, ignorant 
 of the mulberry man at her elbow. 
 " This," said Brian, as she turned away, 
 slipping his hand under the table and 
 seizing mine. 
 
 It was weak of me, but I couldn't draw 
 away. I felt suddenly cold and homeless 
 and alone in that terrible crowd of half- 
 clad women and hook-nosed men. Brian's 
 hand was warm and consolatory. . . . And 
 then we had to go. Brian took me home 
 in a hansom. ... I forget the rest. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 MARY, 
 
 149 
 
LETTER XIV 
 
 I AM writing this letter to please myself, 
 because if I don't I shall go to pieces. 
 I don't know whether I am happy or mis- 
 erable. I don't know whether I am good 
 or bad, or what I am going to do. My 
 two selves are at it hammer and tongs, 
 and I myselj (which makes a third per- 
 son !) am looking on with half-closed eyes 
 like a person half-chloroformed, caring not 
 at all which of the combatants gets the 
 best of it. 
 
 It all comes from loneliness. When I 
 think of the years more than I dare 
 count that I've been going on, going on, 
 trying to do without what I wanted most 
 trying to smother the strong cry of my 
 soul, as one drowns a squealing kitten 
 150 
 
C^arlfc 
 
 then I wonder how I've lived. Always to 
 see other women loved and cherished and 
 happy and to be alone ! Always to be 
 bright and witty and lively and to come 
 home alone. Well, there comes a time 
 when a woman can't bear it any longer. If 
 I had a daughter it might be different. 
 Perhaps I could grow old more gracefully 
 garland my middle-age with the flowers 
 of her fragrant youth ; I know I should 
 have loved that fair daughter who has 
 never come. But now I feel only that I 
 have never lived. It is not only youth that 
 won't endure middle-age glides unno- 
 ticed into age, into a time when all the 
 hair-dye in the world can't disguise us, 
 when pink powder falls into wrinkles and 
 hollows, when we have no more hope of 
 being loved that, perhaps, is the horror 
 of age, in a nut-shell. And yet my best 
 self knows and feels how small, how piti- 
 ful this view of life is. I am sitting to-day 
 
CDarKc gteg 
 
 before a lighted stage. On it my two 
 selves are holding a dialogue the black 
 spirit and the white, which somehow, 
 merged in one, make that strange gray 
 personality which goes by the name of 
 Mary March. 
 
 The white spirit says : " Life is not 
 made for self-seeking. While there are 
 millions of miserable creatures coming 
 and going, is there nothing to do but to 
 sit still, smiling, stretching out selfish 
 hands for love ? " 
 
 The black spirit answers : " Let those 
 other creatures take care of themselves ? 
 There is a God who is responsible for 
 them as He is for me. Am I less misera- 
 ble? My hands are not selfish they are 
 only empty ! " 
 
 And I sit meanwhile in the theatre half 
 dazed, and listen unbiassed to these 
 two warning spirits ; and so the play 
 goes on. 
 
 152 
 
C&atlt'e 
 
 Something holds me back from the 
 abyss. It is less the thought of Charlie 
 than the consciousness that Bill loves me 
 Bill, the strongest, tenderest, manliest, 
 most womanly being I've ever known. 
 But Bill is far away ; he won't come to 
 me he will never tell me that he loves 
 me. . . . Once in Canada I was on a 
 long toboggan whizzing down a frozen 
 hillside. I believed that I was going to 
 meet death at the foot of the hill, but I 
 wouldn't have stopped for anything in 
 the world. The exhilaration was so mar- 
 vellous. . . . What is waiting at the 
 foot of this hill? Who knows. Perhaps 
 the wrong person is steering me ; or, per- 
 haps, like the mad, reckless, casual creat- 
 ure he is, he is not steering at all. He 
 knows that the broken bones will be 
 mine. . . . Masculine bones don't break 
 nor masculine hearts either. When a man 
 stumbles over a commandment, it's the 
 
CDartfe 
 
 commandment that goes to pieces, not 
 the man. 
 
 Why do I think I love Brian ? Is it be- 
 cause he is handsome ? I don't believe it 
 many ugly men are charming. What is his 
 charm ? I go on analyzing, analyzing I 
 shall analyze my sensations on my death- 
 bed, if I die in bed. . . . 
 I have never kissed any man but Bill and 
 Charlie Bill only once in a cousinly way, 
 and Charlie so seldom in the last five years 
 that I could count the times; but last 
 week I kissed Brian. I suppose people who 
 know how much I go about with men, 
 and how freely I talk about them, think 
 I'm on kissing terms with all of them. But 
 I'm not I never have been. I hate that 
 sort of thing. I've never even fancied I 
 really loved anyone till now. The misery 
 of it is that I don't trust Brian. He 
 seems to me the sort of man who would 
 passionately implore a woman to elope 
 154 
 
Charlie 
 
 with him, and forget to meet her at the 
 train. 
 
 If there's one quality one must demand 
 in a lover, it is trustworthiness a clumsy 
 word for a very necessary thing. 
 When a woman begins to think about a 
 man when he is away, she had better not 
 see him any more. I know a dozen men 
 whom I am always delighted to see, but 
 when the door closes upon them, I experi- 
 ence no regret. Those are the comfortable 
 men to have about one. 
 This other feeling is awful. I remember , 
 ,1 now, how he walked up and down 
 id held forth on the subject of love. He 
 said it was awful. So it is. It robs you of 
 sleep it makes you sick of everything. 
 Each hour is a straining, wearing longing 
 to see that one person who has mysteri- 
 ously become the one figure in your land- 
 scape the one solid fact of your life. 
 When you see him, he alone is real, tan- 
 11 155 
 
Cfraflie %?ag 
 
 gible. The world is a shifting mist, or a 
 tossing sea, where there is only one small 
 bit of earth to which you can cling. ... Is 
 this love, or only passion ? Which is 
 which ? Is this Nature's revenge for all the 
 years during which I have crushed down 
 these feelings ? Who shall tell ? I can't go 
 to anyone. I shrink from sharing my 
 wonderful secret. Brian is no help to me. 
 He only smiles his sweet, brilliant smile, 
 and says : " I believe you do love me, little 
 woman ! " And I say : " But, oh, Brian, do 
 you love me ? " He says : " You know I 
 do. I'm awfully fond of you ! " 
 " Awfully fond ! " But / am tragic. I can't 
 take it lightly. I have lived to be eight- 
 and-thirty without this terrible disease, 
 and that is why it is half killing me. 
 I feel that Brian is not serious in this, or 
 in anything. How many women has he 
 kissed ? I should hate to know ! Do men 
 ever realize will they ever learn that 
 
Cfraflfe 
 
 what is an episode to them is a sacrament 
 to us ? They kiss and ride away. That has 
 not happened to me let me be profoundly 
 thankful. But it happens to other women 
 every day. I had a friend once who wor- 
 shipped and trusted a man. I saw her on 
 the day when he left her for another 
 woman, and I don't want to see anything 
 like it again. 
 
 Bill says that "the man who thinks 
 lightly of a woman's honour has very 
 little of his own." . . . Dear Bill ! How 
 different my life would have been if he 
 had not gone to South Africa ! . . . 
 Geraldine Treherne and her aunt have 
 asked Brian down to Cornwall for the 
 wedding and I am going unless. . . . 
 How heavenly to be there by the sea with 
 Brian ! What will he seem like there, in 
 the pure, beautiful country, I wonder ? 
 Oh, this London this London! I can't 
 breathe here any more. 
 157 
 
Charlie 3ajs atoa? 
 
 I shall try to be calm to decide whether 
 I am going to Falmouth. I must decide 
 alone not with Brian near me. I can't 
 think when he is there. . . , 
 This letter must be destroyed ; this pitiful 
 letter to myself, not meant for Bill. There 
 is another one on my desk for him a 
 poor, deceitful thing meant to reassure his 
 kind heart. 
 
 158 
 
Celegram from Lotto 2Dat*atDat to 
 
 Do nothing till you hear from me. I am 
 
 coming. 
 
 BILL. 
 
 159 
 
lot* ^arratoat to 
 
 LETTER VI 
 
 You have had my wire. I meant to leave 
 for London the day I sent it, but was 
 taken suddenly ill, and have literally not 
 the strength to leave my room. Oh, Mary, 
 Mary ! for God's sake don't see that man 
 again ! Your letter came to me by mis- 
 take. I read spellbound until the end, 
 never dreaming that it was not meant for 
 me. You must forgive me, for I trans- 
 gressed innocently. This is no time for 
 phrases. How can I implore you, how 
 persuade you, to break with L'Estrange ? 
 I know him. He will fling you aside like 
 a soiled glove ; he will forget that he ever 
 knew you. He can't love ; he doesn't know 
 what it means. You force me to tell you 
 160 
 
Hot* jDarratoa to 
 
 what I had meant never to say : / love 
 you, my dear, dear Mary, with the love 
 that has grown with my life, which is 
 a part of me, and cannot change. But it 
 is a love which asks nothing. The sacrifice 
 must be mine, not yours. I will come to 
 you ; I am trying to be strong only, 
 only, oh, Mary, for God's sake don't see 
 L'Estrange! How can I make you un- 
 derstand ? I feel like a hysterical woman. 
 . . . Promise me, my own dear love, that 
 you will not see him. I am coming. 
 
 BILL. 
 
 161 
 
Celegram from $h% fl$at$ to 
 lorn 
 
 CHARLIE died of fever last Thursday. 
 
 MARYc 
 
 162 
 
to ftortt 
 
 LETTER XV 
 
 As you are still too ill to come, I must 
 write to you. The first agony of grief is 
 past yes, agony. Is it not strange that I 
 should feel it so ? It is, in a way, grief for 
 being unable to grieve. Now that he is 
 gone, I feel that I should have tried to be 
 more to him. Poor Charlie dead ! far away 
 in that far land. I thank God he never 
 knew what a mistake we had made ; he 
 was not analytical. I can't pretend oh, 
 let us have done with pretence ! that his 
 death robs me of anything. But it has 
 sobered me ; his death and your letter 
 have shown me what I am, what I might 
 be. You were right: the dream is past. Let 
 me tell you once for all, and then let us 
 163 
 
Cfraflie 
 
 never mention his name again, how L'Es- 
 trange has treated me. I sent him a tele- 
 gram at once, telling him of Charlie's 
 death. He did not answer, and yesterday I 
 heard that he has returned to Africa. That 
 was his love. . . . Are there many men 
 like that, do you think ? 
 Dear Bill, if you can bear the sight of me, 
 come and help me. I feel very broken and 
 very much alone ; and there is a good deal 
 to be done. 
 
 I don't weary you with all that I feel ? I 
 am bitter against myself oh, so humble, 
 so ashamed ! so hoping that you will still 
 be my friend. It is through no virtue of 
 mine that my case is less pitiable than it 
 might be. Let my life, what is left of it, 
 
 show my repentance. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 164 
 
lorn ^arratoat to 
 
 LETTER VII 
 
 Dearest Mary my Mary, 
 I can't realize that it is a year ago since I 
 went to you, and found you a poor, pale, 
 sad, changed Mary, who met me with 
 downcast eyes. Why were you afraid of 
 me ? Did you think I should not love you 
 because you were human ? because a light, 
 plausible scoundrel had tried to take ad- 
 vantage of you, and failed ? That is my 
 last word about the past. Since then the 
 gorse has again grown golden, and now 
 the heather will soon cover the land with 
 royal robes of purple. And I shall come 
 and fetch you, and years of blessed peace 
 shall teach us the true meaning of life. 
 The gorse has faded, Mary, but the larks 
 165 
 
Charlie gteg 
 
 are still singing. And so, my dear, my 
 dear ! though our spring has past, it has 
 not taken with it all the music of life. 
 When St. Martin's summer smiles upon 
 us, it shall not find us without melody. 
 
 Yours always, 
 BILL. 
 
 (2) 
 
 THE END 
 
 1 66