AUNT OLIVE 
 IN BOHEMIA 
 
 LESLIE MOORE
 
 3971

 
 AUNT OLIVE 
 IN BOHEMIA 
 
 LESLIE MOORE 
 
 BNIf. Of CALIF. UBRAHY, I.OS ANftKLKS
 
 AUNT OLIVE IN 
 BOHEMIA 
 
 BY 
 
 LESLIE MOORE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE CLOAK OF CONVENTION" AND 
 "THE NOTCH IN THE STICK" 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1913 
 BY GEOBOK H. DORAX COMPAKT
 
 TO 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 2131390
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 II. ANCIENT HISTORY .... 
 
 III. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS 
 
 IV. THE COURTYARD ...... 
 
 V. IN BOHEMIA ..... 
 
 VI. THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN . 
 
 VII. THE Six ARTISTS OF THE COURTYARD . 
 
 VIII. A MAN'S CONSCIENCE .... 
 
 IX. VISITORS 
 
 X. THE CASA DI CORLEONE 
 
 XI. A MEETING 
 
 XII. PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES 
 
 XIII. AT THE WORLD'S END .... 
 
 XIV. VARIOUS MATTERS .... 
 XV. A QUESTION OF COLOUR 
 
 XVI. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS AGAIN 
 
 XVII. THE DUCHESSA ENTERS A KINGDOM 
 
 XVIII. BARNABAS SCHEMES WITH CUPID . 
 
 XIX. THE INTERFERENCE OF A FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 XX. THE HEART OF NATURE 
 
 XXI. THE RING OF EROS .... 
 
 XXII. AN OLD MAN IN A GARDEN . 
 
 XXIII. ANDREW MCANDREW .... 
 
 XXIV. THE CRUELTY OF THE FATES 
 
 XXV. IN YORKSHIRE 
 
 XXVI. PIPPA'S MOTHER 
 
 XXVII. MICHAEL MAKES Music . , 
 
 PAGE 
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 ISO 
 
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 259 
 279
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXVIII. THE PEACE OF THE RIVER 
 
 XXIX. SOME TWISTED THREADS 
 
 XXX. KNOTS UNTIED 
 
 XXXI. THE TUNE OF LOVE 
 
 XXXII. A WEDDING DAY . 
 
 XXXIII. A GIFT FROM THE DEAD 
 
 XXXIV. THE Music OF Two COURTYARDS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 284 
 
 287 
 
 292 
 
 299 
 304 
 
 308 
 
 313
 
 AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA
 
 AUNT OLIVE IN 
 BOHEMIA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 ONCE upon a time, as the fairy tales have it, 
 there was a certain country town. It was a 
 sleepy little town, where few things happened. It 
 was like a dog grown old and lazy with basking in 
 the sun, undisturbed by motor-cars and modern 
 rush. An occasional event like a fly, and as 
 small and insignificant as that insect, would settle 
 momentarily upon it. For an instant it would 
 be roused, shake itself, and promptly go to sleep 
 again. 
 
 The houses in the town were all alike small, 
 detached, and built of red brick. They were named 
 after the shrubs and trees that grew in their gardens. 
 There was the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, the Laurels, 
 the Yews, the Poplars, and many others. 
 
 One May morning, when the flowers on the 
 laburnum trees were hanging in a shower of golden 
 rain, and the pink and white blossoms of the haw- 
 thorn bushes were filling the air with a, sweet and, 
 
 ii
 
 12 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 
 sickly scent, a single cab, drawn by a horse as sleepy 
 
 as the town to which it belonged, drove up the 
 small, clean street, and turned in at the gate marked 
 the Poplars. 
 
 Two small children with satchels on their backs 
 paused to peep up the drive. They saw two black 
 boxes being hoisted by the driver on to the roof of 
 the cab. There was nothing, one would think, of 
 vital interest in the sight, but it proved more attrac- 
 tive than the thought of lesson books and school- 
 room benches. They remained to gaze. 
 
 In a couple of moments a woman came through 
 the front door. She was clad in a black cashmere 
 dress of ample folds, partly hidden by a black satin 
 jacket, with large, loose sleeves. A wide, white 
 linen collar adorned with a small black velvet bow 
 surrounded her neck ; a mushroom-shaped hat, also 
 black, was tied by broad strings beneath her chin. 
 In one hand she held a large and tightly rolled um- 
 brella, in the other was a black satin bag drawn up 
 by a cord. It bulged in a knobby fashion. It had 
 evidently been stuffed to the extent of its capacities. 
 
 The woman spoke to the driver, then got into the 
 cab. He climbed to the box, flicked his whip, turned 
 the horse's head, and drove once again through the 
 gate. 
 
 The children scuttled to one side, and the cab 
 drove up the street. 
 
 Its occupant sat upright within it, clutching tightly 
 at the umbrella and the black satin bag. Little
 
 The Beginning of the Fairy Tale 13 
 
 thrills of happiness were running through her. The 
 May wind blowing through the window fanned her 
 face, bringing with it great puffs of scent from the 
 hawthorn bushes. Sunshine sparkled on the roofs 
 of the houses, birds were singing in the gardens past 
 which she drove. It was a day alive with gladness, 
 warm with the breath of spring, fresh with the sense 
 of youth. And the woman within the cab, whose 
 heart, in spite of her sixty years, was as young as 
 the heart of a child, participated in the gladness. 
 
 She watched the people in the streets walking 
 leisurely in the sunshine. She saw the shops with 
 the tradesmen standing idle in the doorways. At 
 the fishmonger's only there was a little air of bustle, 
 where a maid in a neat print had run in to buy 
 a couple of soles for lunch. 
 
 The woman pulled out her watch a huge 
 affair in solid gold, attached to a black hair 
 chain. For a moment she glanced at it anxiously, 
 then returned it to its place with a little sigh of 
 relief. The horse still trotted on its slow un- 
 hurried way. More shops were passed, then more 
 houses. Finally the cab drew up with a little 
 jerk. 
 
 The driver got down and opened the cab door. 
 
 " Here we are, ma'am ; and twenty minutes to 
 spare. I'll call a porter." 
 
 While the boxes were being taken from the cab 
 Miss Mason opened the black satin bag. From it 
 she extracted a ten-shilling piece.
 
 14 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 The boxes were wheeled towards the platform. 
 
 " I've no change, ma'am," said the cabby. 
 
 " That's all right," said Miss Mason hurriedly. 
 
 The cabby stared. " You're very good, ma'am." 
 
 " It's all right," said Miss Mason again. 
 
 Ten shillings was a small amount to give a man 
 who had driven her a mile towards happiness. She 
 followed the porter on to the platform. 
 
 " Victoria, second class," she said to the man at 
 the ticket office. 
 
 " Return or single, ma'am ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Single," said Miss Mason firmly. 
 
 She took the little piece of cardboard from him 
 and thrust it up her glove. She loved the feeling 
 of it. It was her passport to freedom. 
 
 She watched the boxes being labelled. They 
 were new boxes and hitherto guiltless of station 
 labels. When she had seen them firmly attached, 
 and had been solemnly assured by the porter that 
 the paste was both strong and adhesive, she turned 
 her attention to the bookstall. After a few mo- 
 ments' survey she moved away hurriedly. The 
 pictures on the covers of some of the books dis- 
 tressed her, especially one of a young female with 
 red hair and very insufficient orange attire. For 
 a moment Miss Mason blushed. But she forgot 
 the objectionable book in looking along the shiny 
 rails in the direction from which the train must 
 arrive. 
 
 The sudden ringing of a bell made her jump.
 
 The Beginning of the Fairy Tale 15 
 
 "Train's signalled, ma'am," said the porter. 
 " She'll be here in five minutes now." 
 
 " You'll be sure and put in my boxes," said Miss 
 Mason. 
 
 " Sure, ma'am. Corner seat facing the engine, 
 did you say? " 
 
 "Y-yes; a seat somewhere," stammered Miss 
 Mason. The near approach of the train was mak- 
 ing her feel nervous. 
 
 " All right. I'll see to it. Second class I think 
 you said." 
 
 There was a distant whistle; next, the panting 
 as of some great beast, and an engine with its tail 
 of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up 
 slowly at the platform. 
 
 " Here y'are, ma'am. Carriage all to your- 
 self. Boxes will be in the front part of the train. 
 Thank you kindly, ma'am. Anything I can get 
 for you? Paper or anything? Window up or 
 down? Will put in the boxes myself. Good 
 morning, ma'am." 
 
 A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had 
 paid the cabby was responsible for this burst of 
 eloquence. 
 
 In spite of the porter's assurance that he would 
 see to the boxes himself, Miss Mason stood with 
 her head through the carriage window till she had 
 seen them actually deposited in the guard's van. 
 Then she sat down in the corner of the carriage. 
 
 The porter reappeared.
 
 1 6 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " They're in, ma'am. You're off now." 
 
 There was a gentle vibration through the train, 
 and the platform began to recede. The one woman 
 left on it a stout woman who had been seeing 
 her daughter off on her way to service waved 
 a large white pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering 
 was the last thing Miss Mason saw as the train left 
 the station. 
 
 She heaved a little sigh. 
 
 She found she was still clutching the large um- 
 brella. She laid it now upon the seat beside her. 
 She was almost too excited to think of the happi- 
 ness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It 
 was almost too overpowering. She would realize 
 it by degrees. At the moment there were a thou- 
 sand trivial delights around her. 
 
 She examined the carriage in which she was 
 seated. The number on the door was seven 
 hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a 
 secret partiality for certain numbers, seven being 
 her favourite. She was seven years old when she 
 had her first silk frock. It was a blue and white 
 check frock, and her hair Miss Mason at that 
 time wore it in two plaits had been tied with 
 blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up to date, the 
 happiest year of her life. But more of that year 
 anon. At twenty-seven she had been allowed 
 the entrance of Miss Stanhope's library. At 
 thirty-seven she had become the owner of a 
 kitten. At forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given
 
 The Beginning of the Fairy Tale 17 
 
 her the watch she now wore. At fifty-seven a 
 favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect 
 flowers. Trivial enough facts to form landmarks 
 in a life, yet they formed landmarks in Miss Ma- 
 son's. 
 
 She again looked approvingly at the number. 
 From it she turned to a contemplation of the 
 photographs which adorned the walls. They were 
 the usual kind of photographs found in railway 
 carriages seaside promenades, ruined castles, 
 lakes with mountains beyond. Miss Mason read 
 the names below them with interest. She looked 
 at the gas-globe in the roof of the carriage, with 
 its black cover which could be drawn over it if 
 the passengers found the light troublesome. She 
 looked at the emergency cord which was to be 
 pulled down to attract the attention of the guard 
 in case of accident. She noted that the penalty 
 for its improper use was five pounds. It seemed 
 to Miss Mason a large sum to pay merely for 
 pulling a little piece of string. She wondered if 
 anyone had ever been bold enough to pull it with- 
 out necessity. 
 
 After gazing at it for two minutes with a cer- 
 tain amount of awe, she put her arm through the 
 padded loop by the window, and looked out at the 
 scenery past which they were flying. 
 
 There were fields in which sheep and cows were 
 solemnly munching the fresh grass; there were 
 hedges covered with the fairy snow of the haw-
 
 1 8 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 thorn blossoms; there were woods of larches, oaks, 
 and beeches, and among them the darker green of 
 firs ; there were streams rippling golden-brown past 
 meadow banks and clumps of rushes; there were 
 children swinging on gates and waving cap or 
 handkerchief as the train rushed by. She saw 
 market carts and occasionally a dogcart on roads 
 running by the railway, and now and then a soli- 
 tary cyclist, all going at a snail's pace so it seemed 
 compared with the rate at which she herself was 
 travelling. They passed houses with trimly-kept 
 gardens alive with flowers; cottages with strips of 
 vegetable gardens where from lines attached to 
 posts stuck among the cabbages washing was hung 
 out to dry. The May breeze swung the clothing 
 to and fro, ballooning it momentarily to ridiculous 
 shapes, fluttering red petticoats, white table- 
 cloths, and blue blouses, like the waving of coloured 
 flags. 
 
 Again the joyous note of youth and gladness 
 sounded in Miss Mason's heart. She gave a queer 
 little gruff laugh. 
 
 "Wonderful!" she thought. "Like the fairy 
 tales I used to read when I was little. Now I'm 
 part of the fairy tale. Can hardly believe it. 
 Yet it's true."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ANCIENT HISTORY 
 
 OUTWARDLY Miss Mason was not unlike 
 certain pictures of the fairy godmother who 
 escorted Cinderella to the ball. Being a fairy 
 godmother, no doubt that old lady's heart was every 
 bit as young as Miss Mason's, so the similarity may 
 very likely have extended still further. 
 
 Of the fairy godmother's previous history there 
 is no known record. Miss Mason's history was 
 the public property of the little town in which she 
 lived. It is not unduly lengthy. It also cannot be 
 termed exciting. 
 
 Miss Mason became an orphan at the age of five. 
 Her mother had been a pretty Irish girl, only 
 daughter of a penniless Irish gentleman; and not 
 having had enough of poverty in her own home, 
 she gave her heart to one, Dick Mason, a struggling 
 painter, who was as ugly as he was gay and light- 
 hearted. In spite of poverty she had seven years 
 of such happiness as falls to the lot of few women. 
 Then Dick was killed riding a friend's young 
 unbroken mare, and a month later his wife fol- 
 lowed him ; dying if such a complaint truly ex- 
 ists of a broken heart. 
 
 19
 
 2O Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Their one child, Olive, was left penniless, and 
 with only one relation in the world a Miss 
 Stanhope, a wealthy and eccentric cousin of her 
 father's, who was at this time a maiden lady of 
 thirty. 
 
 A sense of duty as stern and uncompromising 
 as Miss Stanhope's own appearance induced her 
 to offer the child a home. Duty also prompted 
 her to look well after her physical welfare, and 
 educate her in a style befitting a young woman 
 of gentle birth. Miss Stanhope's views on educa- 
 tion were decided and not at all involved. Every 
 lady, she averred, should be able to speak French 
 fluently, make her own underclothes, and be 
 conversant with the writings of the best authors. 
 Music which she disliked was left outside the 
 category. She provided the child with a French 
 governess, who was a beautiful needlewoman. 
 The introduction to the authors would come later. 
 
 Olive remained under Madame Dupont's tuition 
 for twelve years. When she was seventeen she 
 was sent to " finish her education " at Miss 
 Talbot's select Academy for Young Ladies at 
 Brighton. This year was the happiest in Olive's 
 life. Not only was there a daily walk on the 
 esplanade, from whence she gazed for the first 
 time in her life at the marvel of the sea, but also 
 she was permitted to take drawing-lessons. She 
 had inherited three things from her father, the
 
 Ancient History 21 
 
 first being his plainness of feature, the second his 
 youthful heart, and the third his passion for 
 drawing. 
 
 An extremely inefficient but well-meaning young 
 man of impeachable character visited Miss Tal- 
 bot's Academy for Young Ladies twice a week, 
 and instructed the pupils in this art. Chalk 
 drawings from casts were the style in vogue. It 
 was considered an extremely advanced style. The 
 chalk was kept in small glass tubes, it was shaken 
 on to a pad, and applied to the paper with leather 
 stumps, in the manner known as stippling. The 
 poverty of the instruction, the horribly inartistic 
 results produced, were unrecognized by Miss Ma- 
 son. Chalk representations of plaster pears, apples, 
 and floreate designs were produced by her at the 
 rate of one a fortnight, and were laid carefully 
 away in a large portfolio with tissue paper between 
 to keep the chalk from rubbing. 
 
 Among the pupils at Miss Talbot's Academy 
 had been a girl one Peggy O'Hea. Her father 
 was a portrait painter of some note. Miss Talbot 
 had hesitated at introducing this girl; daughter 
 of a Bohemian all artists were Bohemian in 
 Miss Talbot's eyes into her select establish- 
 ment, but the fact that her father was a yearly 
 exhibitor at that most respectable institution the 
 Royal Academy, and that her uncle was a Dean, 
 induced Miss Talbot to overlook Bohemia. She
 
 22 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 kept, however, a strict guard over Miss O'Hea's 
 conversation with the other pupils, a guard Peggy 
 invariably evaded; and curled up on her bed in 
 her nightdress, her arms clasped round her knees, 
 she would hold forth in glowing terms regarding 
 her father's studio and the artists who frequented 
 it. She had in her secret heart a distinct contempt 
 for the chalk drawings ; but she was a generous lit- 
 tle soul, and refrained from putting her thoughts 
 into words. 
 
 From her glowing descriptions, the word studio 
 came to sound in Miss Mason's ears with a note 
 akin to magic, while no one guessed the dreams 
 of art and artists, of the mad sweet land of 
 Bohemia, cherished by the ugly girl who was 
 known in the school as " that awkward Olive Ma- 
 son." 
 
 At the end of the year Miss Mason returned 
 home, to find her presence almost hourly required 
 by Miss Stanhope, who had developed into what 
 is usually termed a malade imaginaire. Her only 
 recreations were gardening, and later when at 
 the age of twenty-seven she was allowed free ac- 
 cess to the library reading. In these two occu- 
 pations she was able to forget the monotony of 
 the days. 
 
 Children who peeped through the gate on sunny 
 mornings saw a small shrunken woman with a 
 thin peevish face sitting on the lawn or in the 
 veranda, according to the season, while Miss
 
 Ancient History 23 
 
 Mason was busy in the flower beds, her grey dress 
 tucked up over a black and white striped petti- 
 coat, goloshes on her feet, a large black hat tied 
 on her head, and gauntlet gloves covering her 
 hands. The progress of fashion being outside the 
 strictly limited circle of Miss Mason's life, she had 
 adopted a costume of her own device, which cos- 
 tume she found both warm and comfortable, and 
 it never varied. 
 
 The children who peeped through the gate grew 
 to be men and women; their children peeped in 
 like fashion, and still the same order of things 
 endured at the house named the Poplars. 
 
 During these years Miss Mason made one 
 friend. It was curious, though perhaps not out of 
 keeping with Miss Mason's character, which was 
 now almost as original as the garments she wore, 
 that the friend should be a child of ten years old. 
 She had come to live with her parents at the small 
 town in which Miss Stanhope resided. The child's 
 paternal grandmother had been a friend of Miss 
 Stanhope's youth. That statement in itself had 
 a flavour of respectability about it. Armed with 
 a letter of introduction from the grandmother 
 Mrs. Quarly the parents ventured to call upon 
 Miss Stanhope. She received them graciously 
 enough, and a week later Miss Mason was ordered 
 to return the visit. 
 
 It was then that she met little Sybil Quarly, 
 who promptly took an unaccountable, but very
 
 24 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 strong, liking to her. In a short time Sybil 
 learnt which were the hours spent by Miss Mason 
 in the garden, and from that moment those hours 
 saw a fair-haired child in short petticoats busy 
 in the flower beds with her. To an onlooker Miss 
 Mason's manner would have appeared almost 
 surly, but Sybil, with the infallible instinct of 
 childhood, recognized the tenderness beneath the 
 gruff exterior. The two became fast friends. 
 
 For seven years Sybil helped Miss Mason pull 
 up weeds, destroy slugs, bud roses, and take 
 cuttings of carnations. She called her " Granny," 
 and she confided all her childish woes and griefs 
 to her. Her parents were conventional people, 
 also they were somewhat strict and unsympathetic. 
 They did not in the least understand Sybil's timid 
 nature. Miss Mason saw, to her sorrow, that the 
 child was being driven to subterfuge and petty un- 
 truth by an overharsh system of treatment. But 
 she was powerless to do anything. Mrs. Quarly 
 would have resented the smallest interference. For 
 seven years Miss Mason gave the child all the ten- 
 derness at her disposal. At the end of that time 
 Sybil's parents left the little town and took her to 
 Pangbourne. 
 
 During the next three or four years Sybil and 
 Miss Mason kept up a fitful correspondence. 
 From much that the girl left unsaid Miss Mason 
 felt that she was not happy. Had she herself been 
 gifted with the pen of a ready writer, she might
 
 Ancient History 25 
 
 indirectly have sought the girl's confidence, but 
 neither written nor spoken words came easily to 
 her. There were times and those when she 
 most longed for the power of speech when she 
 felt herself possessed of a dumb dog. She wrote 
 and told Sybil that the roses were in bloom, that 
 she had pickled a hundred and fifty slugs in salt 
 and water after one shower of rain, that the 
 Shirley poppies they had planted one year were 
 spreading like weeds over the garden. She heard 
 from Sybil that she had made a few new friends, 
 among them one, Cecily Mainwaring, who lived in 
 London, and that she stayed with her occa- 
 sionally. Her letters, however, gave mere facts; 
 there was no hint as to her thoughts, or whether 
 she were happy in her new surroundings. And 
 Miss Mason longed to ask her, yet all the time she 
 could write of nothing but pickled slugs and the 
 blight on rose-trees. And after four years Sybil's 
 letters suddenly ceased. Miss Mason wrote three 
 times and received no answer. Then she, too, 
 stopped writing. And thus the years, as far as 
 Miss Mason was concerned, rolled on. 
 
 But, at last, one sunny morning when a boy 
 and girl approached the gate they saw no one in 
 the garden, and the blinds in the house pulled 
 down. Old Miss Stanhope had died quietly in 
 her sleep that morning, and after forty-three years 
 Miss Mason had deserted the flower-beds. She 
 was sitting in the desolate drawing-room, unable
 
 26 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 yet to grasp the meaning of the one really important 
 event which had occurred in her life since she was 
 five years old. 
 
 Four days later Miss Stanhope's will was read. 
 Miss Mason had been left sole heiress to an in- 
 come which amounted to something like fifteen 
 thousand a year. No one but Miss Stanhope her- 
 self and her trustees had had the smallest conception 
 of her wealth. The terms of the will, which ap- 
 peared in the local papers, had the effect of taking 
 every one's breath away. 
 
 Miss Mason spoke to the lawyer regarding it. 
 
 " Can't spend anything like that amount a 
 year," she said gruffly. " Don't know how Miss 
 Stanhope managed to. Much rather you gave me 
 one thousand and looked after the rest. Shan't 
 find it easy to spend one." 
 
 Mr. Davis stared for a moment. Then he sud- 
 denly realized and by a marvellous leap of in- 
 telligence on his part that Miss Mason was under 
 the impression that he would yearly press fifteen 
 thousand sovereigns into her palm. The question 
 of banks and cheque-books had not presented itself 
 to her mind. 
 
 During the next half -hour Henry Davis found 
 himself explaining matters to Miss Mason much 
 as he would have explained them to a child of 
 twelve. Miss Mason grasped the situation in- 
 stantly. 
 
 " Then before you go you'd better show me
 
 Ancient History 27 
 
 how to draw a cheque," she said. " Think that 
 was your expression. I'm not imbecile, though 
 when a woman of sixty doesn't know the first prin- 
 ciples of banks and cheque-books you might think 
 she was." 
 
 It was after Mr. Davis had left that Miss Mason 
 gradually began to realize what Miss Stanhope's 
 death and her newly-acquired wealth would mean. 
 She had lived so long in one groove that the pos- 
 sibility of change had never actually occurred to 
 her. At first she had felt almost stunned. But 
 suddenly, in a flash, she saw a new life before 
 her. Every dream of her seventeenth year could 
 be fulfilled. It found expression in one short sen- 
 tence : 
 
 " Shall go to London and take a studio."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS 
 
 MISS MASON was sitting in the lounge of 
 the Wilton Hotel. Mr. Davis the law- 
 yer had given her the name of this hotel, telling 
 her that it was both quiet and comfortable. 
 
 A tiny cloud had arisen in Miss Mason's mind. 
 It partially eclipsed the sunshine of her morning 
 mood. She knew vaguely what had caused it. 
 
 She had changed her dress on her arrival, don- 
 ning a black satin gown made in precisely the same 
 style as the cashmere. A lace collar took the place 
 of the linen one. A cameo brooch, large, and set 
 in gold as massive as her watch, superseded the 
 black bow. Miss Mason never wore jewellery ex- 
 cept in the evening. 
 
 She had dined excellently at a small table in a 
 room adorned with water-colour drawings. Be- 
 tween the courses she had found herself admiring 
 them. She was so intent on them that at first 
 she did not notice the covert smiles which two 
 girls were directing towards her table. When she 
 did, the smiles began to make her feel uncom- 
 fortable. At first she wondered if her cap were 
 crooked, or her brooch unpinned, but gradually it 
 
 28
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 29 
 
 dawned on her that it was just she herself who was 
 affording them amusement. 
 
 Miss Mason had finished the last morsels of 
 her gooseberry tart hurriedly, had swallowed her 
 glass of light wine, and gone out into the lounge. 
 She told herself that she was an old fool to worry 
 over the little incident, but it had caused a vague 
 anxiety in her mind. 
 
 She took up a number of the " Graphic " and 
 began turning the pages. The style of the ad- 
 vertisements displayed within its covers had made 
 her previously imagine the periodical to be ex- 
 clusively intended for feminine perusal. She had 
 been slightly alarmed before dinner to see a stout 
 elderly gentleman studying it profoundly. A mo- 
 mentary idea took possession of her as to whether 
 it was not her duty to go up to him and warn 
 him regarding the nature of some of the contents, 
 but as she saw it was the middle of the book he 
 was studying, she concluded that someone had al- 
 ready given him a delicate hint regarding the ad- 
 vertisement pages. All the same, she could not 
 imagine the editor of the paper to be a modest 
 man. 
 
 One or two people had come into the lounge 
 for coffee after dinner, but they had left it again, 
 and, at the moment, it was deserted save for Miss 
 Mason and one other woman. 
 
 There was something about the woman that 
 attracted her attention. It was not merely her
 
 30 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 beauty, but something in the graceful way in 
 which she was sitting in her chair, and in her 
 manner of speaking to the waiter who brought 
 her coffee. Miss Mason found herself watching 
 her. She liked the ivory whiteness of her skin, 
 the vivid red-brown of her hair, and the expres- 
 sion in her eyes. Her dress, too, which was a 
 curious deep blue, pleased her immensely. 
 
 Suddenly the woman looked up. She saw Miss 
 Mason's eyes fixed on her, and she smiled. There 
 was something so frank and spontaneous about 
 the smile that Miss Mason found herself smiling 
 too. 
 
 " We have the place to ourselves," said the 
 woman. " Every one else has departed for 
 different theatres. I should have gone myself 
 if I hadn't an appointment with a friend of 
 mine." 
 
 " Never been to a theatre in my life," said 
 Miss Mason. " Lack of opportunity, not preju- 
 dice." 
 
 " If you really care to have the opportunity it 
 is certain to present itself sooner or later," replied 
 the woman calmly. " It's only a question of the 
 intensity of wishing." 
 
 Miss Mason leant a little forward. 
 
 " Doesn't the opportunity sometimes arrive too 
 late?" 
 
 The question was put almost involuntarily. 
 It was one she had been asking herself for the
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 31 
 
 last three-quarters of an hour ever since her 
 somewhat hurried exit from the dining-room; and 
 the question did not refer merely to the oppor- 
 tunity of visiting the theatre. The woman under- 
 stood. 
 
 " That raises rather a fine point of question," 
 she replied. " Can it be fairly said that one has 
 been given the opportunity if it is truly impossible 
 to accept it, which I imagine ' too late ' would sig- 
 nify?" 
 
 Miss Mason did not reply at once. She wanted 
 to tell this woman about the little cloud which had 
 covered the brightness of her sun, the insiduous 
 little doubt which had crept into her mind. Yet 
 she hardly knew how to begin. 
 
 The w r oman waited. She was one of those to 
 whom confidences are given. If she had said any- 
 thing at that moment the sentence Miss Mason 
 was slowly preparing in her mind would never 
 have reached her lips. It came suddenly and 
 jerkily, it was spoken, too, almost below Miss Ma- 
 son's breath. 
 
 " Isn't one ever too old ? Have waited a long 
 time for the chance of happiness. Got it now. 
 But perhaps I am too old." A slow painful flush 
 had mounted in Miss Mason's face with the 
 words. 
 
 The younger woman turned quickly towards her. 
 
 " Too old for happiness ! " she cried, with a 
 little laugh. "Never! If happiness has come to
 
 32 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 you, welcome her with both hands; and with 
 every kiss she gives you years will roll away from 
 your heart. Happiness is like the spring, which 
 wakes the world to brightness after a dreary win- 
 ter." 
 
 Miss Mason gave a little choke. 
 
 " Felt like that myself in the train this morning. 
 Forgot I was sixty. Thought it was splendid to 
 be alive. Was going to enjoy myself. Was so 
 glad thinking about it thought everybody would 
 be glad too. Can't explain very well, but felt 
 quite young. Thought all the young things in the 
 world would let me watch their happiness, and 
 I'd be happy in my own happiness and theirs. 
 Didn't want to interfere with them, or try to mix 
 myself up with them. Just wanted to be a kind 
 of onlooker. Never thought they'd stop to laugh 
 at me make quiet fun of me, I mean. Made me 
 me feel very old. Silly nonsense, of course. 
 Oughtn't to care. Am old." 
 
 The woman looked up quickly. She had no- 
 ticed the little scene in the dining-room. 
 
 " Age has nothing to do with the matter," 
 she replied quietly. " There is no reason why 
 you should not enjoy yourself enormously. The 
 dullest person I know is a young man of twenty- 
 three, and one of the gayest is an aunt of mine 
 who is seventy- five. Happiness is a gift of the 
 gods, and is bestowed by them irrespective of age."
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 33 
 
 "Think so?" said Miss Mason. 
 
 " I am sure of it." 
 
 Again there was a silence. Then, quite suddenly, 
 Miss Mason began to tell the woman the story 
 of her life. She told it badly. For the last forty 
 years at least Miss Mason had talked little. Miss 
 Stanhope had never cared to encourage conver- 
 sation other than her own. A daily and minute 
 recital of her own imaginary ailments had sufficed 
 her. That had been a subject which had never 
 palled. 
 
 " And the summary of it all is," ended Miss 
 Mason, " that my life has been utterly narrow." 
 She stopped and looked at the woman. There was 
 something half humorous, half pathetic, in the ex- 
 pression in her eyes. 
 
 " I think," said the woman slowly, " that one 
 is too ready to use the term ' narrow ' for lives 
 and opinions which have not covered, as we im- 
 agine, a great deal of ground. Sometimes I 
 think ' concentrated ' would be a better word to 
 use for them. I know that people who have 
 darted hither and thither from one place to an- 
 other, and from one excitement to another, often 
 talk about * living ' and the broadness of their 
 lives. But I fancy that if one could go up in a 
 kind of mental aeroplane and look down upon those 
 lives, one might see that their grooves, though they 
 took an intricate pattern, were possibly narrower
 
 34 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 than some of those which have gone along one 
 straight and monotonous course." 
 
 " Think so ? " said Miss Mason again. Then 
 she smiled half -shamefacedly. " There's one thing 
 in spite of all the monotony, I've never 
 been able to get rid of my belief in kind of 
 fairy-tale happenings. Utterly ridiculous, of 
 course." 
 
 The woman laughed, a low clear laugh, which 
 pleased Miss Mason enormously. 
 
 " Now we're on ground with which I'm far 
 more familiar," she replied. " I was trying to get 
 hold of words and expressions before which were 
 rather outside my vocabulary, and I fear I sounded 
 a little stilted in consequence. But fairy tales! 
 Why life is a fairy tale. Bad fairies and wicked 
 magicians get mixed up in it of course, or it 
 wouldn't be one, but there are good fairies and all 
 kinds of unexpected and delicious happenings right 
 through it in spite of them. There's often, too, a 
 long journey through a wood. You've been 
 through yours. What do you hope to find on this 
 side?" 
 
 " A studio," said Miss Mason promptly. This 
 woman was making it extraordinarily easy for 
 her to tell her fairy tale. " Have wanted one 
 ever since I was seventeen, and I think almost 
 before that. Perhaps because my father was an 
 artist."
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 35 
 
 " And now you'll take one ? " 
 
 " Have come up to look for one," said Miss 
 Masoni " Am going to look at pictures too. 
 There's the National Gallery, the Tate Gallery, and 
 the Academy. Used to read about them. Later 
 I shall go abroad. Thought I'd better get used 
 to going about in England first. Have read a lot 
 about pictures. Used to take in a magazine called 
 ' The Studio.' Saw it advertised once and sent for 
 it. Miss Stanhope used to make me a small allow- 
 ance. She was kind really, though didn't always 
 understand." 
 
 " The kindest people don't always understand," 
 said the younger woman quickly.. " Are you going 
 to take an unfurnished studio? and will you have 
 some of the furniture sent up from your old 
 home?" 
 
 There is a curious luxury in speaking of the 
 details of a cherished scheme, and especially to 
 one who has never before found a sympathetic 
 audience. This the woman knew when she put the 
 question. 
 
 Miss Mason gave a little laugh. 
 
 " Wouldn't ask that if you'd seen the furniture. 
 Was so used to it it was a wonder I still went 
 on thinking it hideous. I think it was after I'd 
 been away from it for a year and came back to 
 it that I knew how terrible it was. After that 
 it remained terrible. It will all be sold. Have
 
 36 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 arranged for that. Couldn't stay with it any longer 
 than was necessary. Don't care what becomes of 
 it now." 
 
 Miss Mason was feeling so light-hearted again 
 she was almost reckless. 
 
 " Then you'll buy new things ? " asked the 
 woman. 
 
 " Yes. Soft colours blues and greens. Love 
 blue. Your dress is lovely." The words were 
 jerky but genuine. 
 
 " It's my favourite colour," said the woman. 
 
 Miss Mason looked in the direction of a mirror 
 near her. She could see both their figures re- 
 flected in it. Again a little wistful look crept into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I suppose," she said suddenly, " that it was my 
 dress those two girls were laughing at. Perhaps 
 it is queer. Never thought of that before. 
 Couldn't change now, any more than I could change 
 my skin." 
 
 She stopped, then looked directly at the woman. 
 
 " I suppose people will always laugh at me ? " 
 she queried. " I suppose those girls were right to 
 laugh. I am queer." 
 
 There was a moment's pause. Then the woman 
 in the blue dress spoke deliberately. 
 
 " I am going to ask you a question which may 
 sound rather conceited," she said. " Which would 
 you value most my opinion or the opinion of 
 those two girls? "
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 37 
 
 " Yours," said Miss Mason promptly. 
 
 " Then I am going to tell you exactly what I 
 think, and you must forgive me if what I say 
 sounds impertinent. I don't think you are the 
 least queer. I think you are quaint and original. 
 Any artist would infinitely prefer your method .of 
 dressing than the method chosen by the older 
 women of the present day. I think it quite possi- 
 ble that you will find a few people will laugh at 
 you, for, as I've already said, in this fairy-tale 
 world there are bad fairies, and, worse still, stupid 
 ones. But they don't count, because they aren't 
 worth consideration, at least not as regards their 
 opinion of our actions." She spoke the words 
 slowly and simply, almost as she would have spoken 
 them to a child. 
 
 Again there was a silence. 
 
 " Where will you take your studio ? " asked the 
 woman suddenly. 
 
 " Chelsea," said Miss Mason. " Whistler lived 
 there." 
 
 " Conclusive," laughed the woman. 
 
 " Want it to be a nice studio," said Miss Ma- 
 son. " Rent won't matter. Miss Stanhope left me 
 a lot of money. Can't spend it all." 
 
 " Now the fairy tale progresses," said the woman 
 joyfully. " Plenty of money and fairy-tale ideas 
 are the happiest of combinations." 
 
 Miss Mason laughed.
 
 38 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Glad I met you," she said. " Feel like I did 
 when I came up in the train this morning." 
 
 " Our meeting was evidently part of the fairy 
 tale," said the woman. " Now I must go and get 
 my cloak. It's five minutes to nine." 
 
 She went towards the stairs. Miss Mason 
 watched her ascending them. 
 
 A moment after she had left, a man came into 
 the lounge. He was wearing a thin dark grey 
 overcoat, and held a flat black hat in one hand. 
 Miss Mason had never before seen an opera hat. 
 She looked at it with interest. From it she looked 
 at the man. He was tall and distinctly aristocratic- 
 looking. Miss Mason noticed that he wore a small 
 moustache and imperial. 
 
 She heard a step on the stairs. The woman in 
 the blue dress was coming down again. She had 
 a black satin cloak round her. 
 
 "Christopher, darling," she cried, "is that you? 
 I'm beautifully punctual." 
 
 He went up to her and kissed her hand. There 
 was something charming in the courtliness of his 
 manner. Miss Mason, who had been momentarily 
 shocked by the " darling," felt it somehow ex- 
 plained by the subsequent action. 
 
 " One moment, and I'll come," said the woman. 
 
 She crossed to Miss Mason. The man waited 
 for her. 
 
 " I shan't be home till midnight," she said, " and 
 I'm leaving for Italy at an unearthly hour to-mor-
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress 39 
 
 row morning. But I am sure one day we shall 
 meet again. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Miss Mason. " Hope you'll 
 enjoy yourself." She longed to say something 
 more, but the words failed her. 
 
 She watched her rejoin the man and leave the 
 lounge. It seemed extraordinarily empty after her 
 departure. 
 
 " Don't suppose she'll ever lack friends," said 
 Miss Mason to herself, "but if ever she did need 
 one " She left the rest of the sentence un- 
 spoken in her mind, and finding the place a little 
 lonely went up to her own room. 
 
 It was not till she was in bed that she realized 
 that she had no idea of the woman's name. It also 
 never dawned on her to ask the hotel management 
 for it.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE COURTYARD 
 
 DAN OLDFIELD was standing in front of an 
 easel on which was a minute canvas. The 
 scene depicted thereon was a pastoral of Mesonnier- 
 like detail. At the moment Dan was engaged in 
 painting lilac flowers on a green and white dress. 
 The original dress was on a lay figure before him. 
 
 The studio in which he was working was one of 
 seven enclosed in a courtyard. Two of the studios 
 had small gardens in front. Standing in one of 
 the gardens it was easier to imagine oneself in the 
 depths of the country than in the midst of London. 
 The roll of the traffic in the King's Road was just 
 sufficiently remote to sound not unlike the roar of 
 the sea. 
 
 There were lilac bushes and laburnums in the 
 gardens. A thrush sang in one of the laburnum 
 trees in the spring, and a robin in the winter. The 
 robin was very tame. It had established a visiting 
 acquaintance with all seven studios. There was a 
 certain amount of jealousy among the inhabitants 
 when occasionally for a week at a time, it would 
 show a marked preference for one studio. On the 
 whole its affections were most deeply centred on 
 
 40
 
 The Courtyard 41 
 
 studio number seven. At the moment this studio 
 was empty. 
 
 Dan painted in the lilac flowers carefully, using 
 extremely small brushes. Every now and then he 
 stepped back from his work to judge of the effect. 
 Any onlooker uneducated in the mysteries of art 
 would have imagined the use of a magnifying glass 
 a more desirable method to study the effect. 
 Dan was evidently not of that opinion. He had 
 just finished painting in the yellow heart of the 
 thirteenth flower when the sound of the wheels of 
 some large vehicle entering the courtyard struck 
 upon his ears. 
 
 " What's that ! " he said carelessly, and he 
 crossed to the window. 
 
 A large pantechnicon had drawn up opposite 
 studio number seven. Men had already run round 
 to open the doors at the back of the van. It was 
 full of furniture. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " ejaculated Dan. 
 
 He put his palette and brushes down on a table, 
 and standing on a chair poked his head through the 
 upper part of the window. A large roll of blue 
 drugget and a dark oak easel were being carried up 
 the small garden path. Two men were hauling a 
 Chesterfield sofa from the van. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Dan again. 
 
 He withdrew his head from the window, de- 
 scended from the chair, and came out of his studio 
 into the courtyard. The sunshine, which was bril-
 
 42 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 liant, shone on his untidy red hair. He looked 
 like a slightly worried giant. 
 
 The Chesterfield was reposing momentarily on 
 the stones of the courtyard. The men were wiping 
 their foreheads. The day was warm. 
 
 "Studio let?" demanded Dan. 
 
 " Yes, sir," was the reply. " Bringing in the 
 furniture, sir. Nice day, but warm." 
 
 " Who's taken the studio ? " demanded Dan. 
 
 " Can't remember the lady's name at the mo- 
 ment, sir. Elderly lady with grey hair. Saw her 
 when " 
 
 " An old lady ! " interrupted Dan. His voice 
 held at least three notes of disgust. 
 
 "Yes, sir, she " 
 
 But Dan had vanished up the garden path of 
 studio number six, had banged on the door, and en- 
 tered without waiting for permission. 
 
 A man in his shirtsleeves was standing before 
 an easel. A nude model was half sitting, half 
 lying, on the platform. 
 
 " I say, Barnabas," he began. Then he saw the 
 model. " Morning, Tilly. Sorry I interrupted." 
 
 " Oh, it's all right," said the man addressed, 
 good-humouredly. " I thought it was your fairy 
 footfall before I heard the knock. What's the 
 trouble? Have you stuck the Messonnier painting 
 on an envelope in mistake for a postage stamp and 
 put it in the pillar-box? You'd better take a rest
 
 The Courtyard 43 
 
 now, Tilly, while Mr. Oldfield disburdens his 
 mind." 
 
 The girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like 
 fashion, and taking a faded purple dressing-gown 
 from the model stand flung it round herself. 
 
 " Studio number seven's let," said Dan. 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't it be?" said Barnabas im- 
 perturbably. " It's been vacant six months. It's 
 a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated, drains in 
 perfect condition, an ideal " 
 
 " Oh, shut up, Barnabas," said Dan. " It's let 
 to an old woman." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " An old woman," repeated Dan bitterly. 
 
 For a moment Barnabas looked utterly taken 
 aback. Then he shook his head. 
 
 " Bad news indeed, my child. For the last five 
 years at least we've been a pleasant little coterie 
 of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male sex. 
 Then Ashton left us. Why on earth didn't your 
 friend Shottover take the place? I thought you 
 said he was going to." 
 
 " So I thought," replied Dan gloomily. " He's 
 such a vacillating ass. I told him he'd lose it if 
 he didn't hurry and make up his mind. Now he 
 has lost it, and we've an old woman coming to 
 plant herself among us. It isn't that I dislike 
 women " 
 
 Barnabas grinned suddenly.
 
 44 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 "What's funny?" asked Dan. 
 
 " Your unnecessary statement, my child." 
 
 " Well, it's true." 
 
 " I know. There was so remarkably little need 
 to state the fact." 
 
 " But," went on Dan firmly, " I don't like old 
 women." 
 
 " There are exceptions," said Barnabas solemnly. 
 " My paternal grandmother 
 
 " Bother your paternal grandmother. I tell you 
 the studio's let to an old woman, and they're taking 
 in the furniture now." 
 
 Barnabas moved towards the door. 
 
 " Let's have a look at it," he said. " I wonder 
 what her taste in studio furniture is like." 
 
 He went out into his little garden, Dan following 
 him. A dark oak bookcase and an oak chest were 
 being removed from the van. 
 
 " By Jove, the ancient lady has got taste ! " said 
 Barnabas. " Genuine old stuff, or my name's not 
 John Kirby." 
 
 The two stood together in the garden on the 
 little gravel path, looking across a bed of forget- 
 me-nots and a small fence at the working men. 
 
 Barnabas his real name was John Kirby, but 
 he had first been nicknamed the Comforter, and 
 finally Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, by his 
 fellow-artists was a tall man who would have 
 looked even taller if it had not been for the huge 
 frame of the man beside him.
 
 The Courtyard 45 
 
 " I wouldn't mind that bit of furniture myself," 
 said Barnabas, as a beautiful corner cupboard was 
 unearthed from the van. "Hullo! what's this? 
 ' The Winged Victory,' by Jingo ! and a pedestal. 
 Here's art and no mistake. Pictures, too. Here, 
 you," he called to the two men who were carrying 
 them, " allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon 
 those treasures. Ye gods and little fishes! a Nich- 
 olson, a Pryde, two Sickerts, and a genuine Barto- 
 lozzi print. The ancient lady evidently possesses 
 not only taste but cash hard coin of the realm, 
 my child." 
 
 " Those old fogies always have tons of money," 
 grunted Dan. 
 
 Three large wooden packing-cases were now car- 
 ried -towards the studio. 
 
 " Be careful with the unpacking of those," said 
 the man who was evidently the chief in command. 
 " Old blue Worcester dinner service, sir," he ex- 
 plained in an aside to the two who were looking 
 over the fence. 
 
 Dan groaned. 
 
 " Pure swank on her part," said Barnabas sor- 
 rowfully. " What have the fleshpots of Egypt in 
 common with the earthenware and bread and cheese 
 of Bohemia. Why didn't she take up her abode 
 in the fashionable quarters of Kensington." 
 
 " Turn a Park Lane house into a studio," said 
 Dan. 
 
 " Have you any idea," asked Barnabas, address-
 
 46 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 ing himself to the man in command, " when the 
 fortunate possessor of these rare and valuable ar- 
 ticles intends to take up her residence in this charm- 
 ing domicile? in other words, when does the 
 elderly lady come in ? " 
 
 " To-night, sir, about seven o'clock, I think. 
 Our orders are to have everything ready before six, 
 even if we had to put on extra hands. But it will 
 be ready easily, bless you, even to the making of 
 the beds and final sweeping, which my wife's seeing 
 to. There's not above four or five hours' work 
 here. There ain't none of the little whatnots and 
 ornaments to unpack what ladies usually carries 
 about." 
 
 Barnabas looked at Dan. 
 
 " To-night ! " he said meaningly. " And you 
 have one of your famous parties on ! To-night the 
 old lady will sleep if she can lulled by the 
 sound of hilarious laughter, the twanging of 
 banjos, ribald songs, and all the other pleasant little 
 noises which are an invariable accompaniment to 
 one of your mad entertainments. Shall you be 
 busy to-morrow ? " he asked the man. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; we're moving a family into Elm Park 
 Gardens." 
 
 Barnabas shook his head. " That's unfortu- 
 nate. You'll doubtless be required here. The old 
 lady will be making a hasty exit. The old blue 
 Worcester dinner service will be repacked less care- 
 fully there won't be time for care the corner
 
 The Courtyard 47 
 
 cupboard and the Chesterfield sofa, to say nothing 
 of the Winged " 
 
 " Ass ! " said Dan. " What is the use of talking 
 rot about it. We shall have complaints from the 
 owner of the studios about the noise we make. I 
 know what it will be." 
 
 " A new set of regulations a la German," said 
 Barnabas. " No pianos before seven or after ten. 
 Lights out at eleven. We shall become a set of 
 model young men who will work quietly all the 
 week and go to church on Sundays. Hullo, here's 
 Jasper. Let's tell him the pleasing tidings." 
 
 The door of another studio had opened, and a 
 slight, dark man with a somewhat ascetic and rather 
 discontented-looking face came out in the sunshine. 
 
 "What's going on here? " he demanded. 
 
 " We're studying the preface to a little book 
 called ' From Wildness to Decorum,' " answered 
 Barnabas gravely. " The first chapter will no 
 doubt be named ' Hints from the Ancients to 
 Young Men on Deportment.' ' 
 
 "Do you ever talk sense?" asked Jasper. "I 
 suppose someone has taken this studio." 
 
 Dan imparted the information they had lately 
 received. 
 
 " So there's no more fun for us poor young fel- 
 lows, and we'll grow like the good artists grow," 
 chanted Barnabas. 
 
 " I don't see why you should imagine that be- 
 cause this lady has taken the studio that she should
 
 48 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 necessarily object to any of our amusements," said 
 Jasper seriously. " Besides, I hardly think it is 
 kind " 
 
 Barnabas gave a little chuckle of laughter. 
 
 " Dear child ! " he said patting Jasper gently on 
 the shoulder. " He's learnt the first chapter of 
 the little book by heart while we've been grizzling 
 in the garden. Entirely Dan's fault, my child. 
 He interrupted a busy morning, thereby causing me 
 to view the whole world, and old ladies in particu- 
 lar, in a pessimistic spirit. Let us be kind. We 
 will invite the old dame to your party, Dan. We'll 
 sing songs suited to the ears of age. We'll hire 
 a harmonium for the evening, and " 
 
 " I wish you would occasionally be serious," in- 
 terrupted Jasper half impatiently. " Of course we 
 should have preferred a man in the studio, but I 
 don't see wliy you and Dan need be so certain that 
 a woman's advent will interfere with us. Do the 
 others know ? " 
 
 " Lord, no, my child," said Barnabas. " It 
 would take an earthquake to induce the other three 
 to put nose beyond door or eye to window before 
 one o'clock. If Michael isn't at work on an illus- 
 tration of a starved child, he'll be writing an essay 
 on ' Humour Some more of its more cynical as- 
 pects.' Alan will be painting a burning cross in 
 the centre of a crimson rose, and would regard the 
 smallest interruption as the highest form of sacri- 
 lege, and Paul will be doing such genuine good
 
 The Courtyard 49 
 
 work that it would be sacrilege to interrupt him." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Jasper 
 spoke in the tone of one who has been giving a sub- 
 ject close consideration. 
 
 " You know, I don't think we ought to let the 
 fact that a woman has taken the studio arouse 
 feelings of animosity in us towards her. She is 
 bound to have a studio somewhere if she wants to 
 paint, and why not among us? I think we should 
 do our best to make her welcome." 
 
 Dan swore softly beneath his breath. Jasper 
 had moments of priggishness that were almost be- 
 yond the patience of man to endure. Except when 
 these moods were on him he was not such a bad 
 sort of fellow. 
 
 Barnabas choked down a little laughter and a 
 big bit of annoyance at a gulp. 
 
 " Right oh ! my child. And now I must return 
 to my studio, or Tilly will have smoked all my 
 cigarettes. I offered her one once, and henceforth 
 she has looked upon them all as her own especial 
 property. Worst of acting in a moment of ill-con- 
 sidered generosity. Dan, don't be boorish any 
 longer. I'll leave Jasper to read you a further 
 homily on the whole duty of man towards ancient 
 ladies. So long, my children. Don't trample 
 down my forget-me-nots in your ardour." 
 
 He gave them a cheerful nod and vanished 
 within the studio. 
 
 His departure left a curious blank. It gave
 
 So Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 something the impression felt when the sun retires 
 behind a cloud, or the sensation we experience the 
 first morning of work following a month's holiday. 
 People almost invariably felt this sensation when 
 Barnabas left them. 
 
 The two other men still stood a few moments 
 longer watching the unpacking of the van. Dan, 
 however, had ceased to find the same interest in 
 the proceedings. He could no longer grumble with 
 a free mind. In the presence of Jasper his utter- 
 ances would have taken on an air of seriousness he 
 was far from fully intending. Besides, his prox- 
 imity in this mood annoyed him. The minute lilac 
 flowers, too, required his attention. 
 
 Jasper remembered that he also had left a model 
 within his studio. Besides, his latest resolution - 
 among others was not to waste mornings un- 
 necessarily. 
 
 The two separated. The work of removing the 
 furniture from the van continued. 
 
 A thrush, unheeding the presence of the men, 
 settled in the laburnum tree and began to sing. 
 Perhaps it was an unconscious song of welcome 
 to the woman who would that evening enter the 
 castle of her dreams.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN BOHEMIA 
 
 IT was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and 
 through one of the windows of the newly-fur- 
 nished studio a shaft of sunlight had found its way. 
 It formed a patch of light on the blue drugget on 
 the floor, and caught the corner of an oak dresser 
 on which the old Worcester dinner service was ar- 
 ranged. 
 
 There were two figures in the studio, though to 
 the eyes of mortals the place would have seemed 
 empty. The one was in a robe of white and gold, 
 the other in a dress of dull grey. The white-robed 
 figure was sitting in a large chair near an oak chest, 
 on which was a Sevres bowl. She looked as if she 
 had come to stay. There was an irresolute appear- 
 ance about the grey-clad figure. 
 
 " I can't stay in this studio with you here," she 
 said. 
 
 " I know," said the white-robed figure. 
 
 " It is my prerogative to be here," went on the 
 grey-clad figure. " You don't belong to age." 
 
 The white-robed figure smiled. 
 
 " You sit there," said the grey-clad figure, " as 
 if the place belonged to you." 
 
 Si
 
 $2 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " It will," said the one in white. 
 
 " You will not be able to stay," said the grey- 
 clad figure warningly. 
 
 " I shall stay till I am asked to leave. Then you 
 can take my place." 
 
 " That will be soon," said the grey-clad figure. 
 
 " We shall see," said the figure in white. 
 
 " I shall come back again," said the grey-clad 
 figure, but the words lacked confidence. 
 
 " When you are asked," said the figure in white. 
 
 " I am going now," said the grey-clad figure. 
 " If I stay here any longer with you I shall lose 
 all my personality." 
 
 And Doubt flew through the window. She 
 hated passing through the shaft of sunlight, but 
 it was the only way out. But Joy remained in the 
 studio. 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. Its 
 note was like the bell of a miniature cathedral. 
 There was the sound of wheels in the courtyard. 
 They stopped. 
 
 The door opened and a woman in a black dress 
 and wide mushroom hat crossed the threshold. 
 She saw the shaft of sunlight, the oak dresser with 
 its array of blue plates, and she looked towards the 
 great chair by the chest. Being a mortal she did 
 not see the figure seated in it. 
 
 But Joy came forward to welcome her. 
 
 An hour later Miss Mason was eating a supper
 
 In Bohemia S3 
 
 of cold chicken, salad, bread and butter, tinned 
 peaches and cream. She was being waited on by 
 a little flower-faced girl in a blue print dress and 
 a quaint cap and apron. The little girl's name was 
 Sally. 
 
 She had been found through an advertisement, 
 after Miss Mason had visited registry offices in- 
 numerable, and interviewed cooks fat, cooks 
 scraggy, cooks superior, cooks untidy, cooks confi- 
 dent, and cooks deprecating, none of whom had 
 pleased her. The owners of the registry offices 
 had considered Miss Mason an impossible person. 
 
 Sally's sole references had been that of her 
 mother, the Sunday-school teacher, and her own 
 fresh little face. Miss Mason had fallen in love 
 with her on the spot. 
 
 She arrived with a parcel under her arm five 
 minutes after Miss Mason had entered the studio. 
 Her box was to come the next morning by the 
 carrier. 
 
 Miss Mason finished her supper and Sally cleared 
 the table. She then vanished into the minute 
 kitchen, out of which was an equally minute bed- 
 room. 
 
 Miss Mason got up from her chair and went 
 slowly round the studio. She had spent three 
 weeks of careful shopping. It was astonishing 
 how quickly she had found herself going from 
 place to place, aided by friendly policemen. Her 
 purchases had been sent to a furniture agent who
 
 54 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 was responsible for their arrangement in the stu- 
 dio. 
 
 It was all exactly as she had imagined it would 
 be. There were the brown walls with the few pic- 
 tures, the blue drugget on the floor, and the old 
 Persian rugs. There was the " Winged Victory " 
 on its straight pedestal in one corner. There was 
 the dresser against one wall, with the blue dinner 
 service on its shelves. There was the bookcase 
 filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. 
 There was the Chesterfield sofa standing at right 
 angles to the fire-place. There was the corner cup- 
 board, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in 
 which were a few bits of rare old china. There 
 was the easel. There were a few new canvases 
 against the wall. There was a box full of oil 
 paints. There were charcoal sticks in another box 
 Miss Mason had found that chalk in bottles was 
 not the correct thing nowadays. There was a 
 whole ream of white Michelet paper. There was 
 a sheaf of brushes in a green earthenware jar. 
 There was a large mahogany palette hanging on a 
 nail. It shone smooth and polished like a mirror. 
 
 When she had been the round of the studio she 
 sat down in the big chair and looked at the empty 
 Sevres bowl. 
 
 " Must buy pink roses for that to-morrow," she 
 said. 
 
 She leant back in the chair. The corners of her 
 mouth were relaxed in a little tender smile. Her
 
 In Bohemia 55 
 
 eyes were shining. She heard the voices of men 
 crossing the courtyard. They were laughing. 
 She laughed a little herself. And over and over 
 again in her heart the words of the lady in the 
 blue dress were sounding: 
 
 " If happiness comes to you welcome her with 
 both hands; and with every kiss she gives you 
 years will roll away from your heart. Happiness 
 is like the spring, which wakes the world to bright- 
 ness after a dreary winter." 
 
 Sally came back into the studio. 
 
 " Is there anything more I can do for you, 
 ma'am?" 
 
 "No, child. You'd better get to bed. Boiled 
 eggs for breakfast." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Good night." 
 
 " Good night." There was a moment's pause. 
 Sally had reached the door. 
 
 " Got a young man? " Miss Mason's voice was 
 so gruff that Sally's heart beat uncomfortably. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am; but " 
 
 "Does he live in London?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." Sally was trembling a little. 
 
 " Better write to-morrow and ask him to come 
 to tea on Sunday. Suppose there's room in that 
 ridiculous kitchen for you both ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am." Sally's voice was joyful. 
 
 " Better buy some cake to-morrow. Ginger- 
 bread, plum cake, anything you like. Don't loiter 
 now. Get to bed like a good girl."
 
 56 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 And Sally fled, feeling that Miss Mason was a 
 winged angel in an odd disguise. 
 
 Half an hour later Miss Mason herself went to 
 her bedroom. It was dainty and charming. The 
 curtains before the window were white muslin, 
 with outer curtains of white dimity and borders of 
 tiny pink rosebuds. The quilt covering the bed 
 was white like the curtains, it also had a border 
 of pink rosebuds. The carpet was cream-coloured, 
 the furniture Chippendale. 
 
 When Miss Mason was ready for bed she knelt 
 down, her hands folded on the rosebud-covered 
 quilt. The old petitions of childhood, still used 
 by the woman of sixty years, failed her for the 
 first time. 
 
 " God," said Miss Mason softly, " I am happy, 
 and I thank You." 
 
 That was all. 
 
 She got into bed. For a long time she lay gaz- 
 ing into the darkness with open eyes. She was 
 too happy to sleep. She had become aware of 
 sounds she had heard at intervals during the even- 
 ing almost without realizing them singing, the 
 twanging of banjos, the sound of laughter. Now 
 in the darkness she heard them clearly. Her old 
 eyes puckered at the corners into little delighted 
 wrinkles. 
 
 Then suddenly she heard the notes of a violin. 
 Miss Mason had no knowledge of music, but even
 
 In Bohemia 57 
 
 to her ignorant ears the hand was that of a mas- 
 ter. When it stopped there was silence. 
 
 Presently she dozed. Much later she was awak- 
 ened from a half -sleep by laughter, footsteps, and 
 louder singing. The words came to her distinctly. 
 
 She lay there smiling, a queer old figure in a 
 white nightcap, one rather bony hand beating time 
 softly on the quilt 
 
 " For he's a jolly good fellow, 
 For he's a jolly good fellow, 
 For he's a jolly good fe-el-low, 
 And so say all of we." 
 
 With a little sigh of supreme content Miss Ma- 
 son uttered the one word: 
 "Bohemia!"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN 
 
 BARNABAS came into his garden in the early 
 morning sunshine. His hair was still a little 
 wet, for he had only just had his bath. He was 
 wearing an old Turkish dressing-gown, purple bed- 
 room slippers, and was smoking a cigarette. 
 
 A light wind was blowing through the courtyard. 
 It scattered the pink petals of a too full-blown la 
 France rose upon the garden path. They chased 
 each other round in a little mad dance, first down 
 the path, then in circles at the foot of the statue of 
 a little faun playing on a long thin reed. The faun 
 looked at them with mocking, laughing eyes, while 
 he piped to their dancing. 
 
 A thrush in the laburnum tree looked at Barna- 
 bas for a moment, but as it had already got used to 
 the fact that he was neither a cat nor a boy with a 
 stone handy, it began to sing a sweet full-throated 
 song. 
 
 Barnabas fingered a la France rosebud. There 
 were half a dozen little green blights clinging to 
 the petals. He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke 
 round it. The blights smiled at him, so to speak. 
 It would require something stronger than cigarette 
 
 58
 
 The Faun in the Garden 59 
 
 smoke to remove them from their lodging. Barna- 
 bas let go his hold on the rosebud. 
 
 " Hang it all," he said. " I daresay they're en- 
 joying life and the sunshine as much as I am. 
 They don't seem to be hurting the roses, anyhow." 
 
 A couple of white butterflies flew into the gar- 
 den. One of them settled on the sleeve of his 
 dressing-gown. Barnabas looked at it. It did not 
 move, only its wings quivered a little. 
 
 "You morsel of life," said Barnabas, "you're 
 enjoying yourself too." 
 
 He felt a sudden odd remorse at the thought of 
 other butterflies he had long ago enclosed in wide- 
 topped bottles filled with camphor, and then pinned 
 down on to pieces of cork. The destructive age 
 had not lasted long with Barnabas. His love of 
 Nature was too whole-hearted and genuine. 
 
 The door of studio number seven suddenly 
 opened, and Sally came out in her blue print dress. 
 She held a duster in her hand which she flapped 
 two or three times. The butterfly flew away to 
 perch on the shoulder of the faun. 
 
 Sally paused for a moment to sniff the morning 
 air. She did not see Barnabas. She was feeling 
 very happy. She was seventeen, it was eight 
 o'clock on a June morning, and last night she had 
 written to her young man a stalwart coal-heaver. 
 The letter had been written with a stubby end of 
 pencil on a scrap of paper. The envelope into 
 which she had put it had not stuck well. It had
 
 60 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 required much pressure from Sally's thumb. The 
 cleanest thumb will leave a mark on an envelope if 
 it is much rubbed on it. The envelope had looked 
 a little dirty, and Sally had sighed. She felt, how- 
 ever, that the words it contained would more than 
 make up in Jim's eyes for the smear. Later she 
 would ask leave to go out and buy a stamp. 
 
 Then she saw Barnabas. Her work having lain 
 hitherto in the kitchen rather than in the upstair 
 regions, she was not used to the appearance of 
 young men in Turkish dressing-gowns, and she 
 blushed. 
 
 " Morning," said Barnabas pleasantly, smiling 
 at the girl. She made him think of a wild rose. 
 
 " Good morning, sir," said Sally, and she dropped 
 a curtsey. 
 
 Barnabas looked at her with approval. 
 
 "Where did you learn to make curtsies, child? 
 I thought they'd gone out of fashion with Bibles, 
 brown sugar on bread and butter, and old ladies." 
 
 Sally dropped another curtsey from pure nerv- 
 ousness. 
 
 " Please, sir, mother taught me, sir. She was 
 still-room maid in a big house before she married 
 father. She said born ladies curtseyed to the King 
 and Queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies 
 and gentlemen," she added. 
 
 " Then your mother, child, is not a Socialist," 
 said Barnabas. 
 
 " Please, sir, mother says," said Sally seriously,
 
 The Faun in the Garden 61 
 
 " that Socialism is a lot of silly talk among dis- 
 contented people who'd be discontented if they had 
 the moon to play with. She says Christ's social- 
 ism was love and respect." 
 
 Barnabas gave a low whistle. 
 
 " Your mother must be a very remarkable 
 woman," he said. 
 
 There was a moment's pause, while Sally looked 
 at him and at the white butterfly which had re- 
 turned to perch upon his sleeve. Then a sudden 
 spirit of mischief, born of the wind of the morning, 
 took possession of Barnabas. 
 
 " I hope we didn't disturb your mistress with our 
 singing last night," he said. There was a little 
 glint of gay devilry in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir," said Sally quickly. " I asked her 
 ten minutes ago, sir, and she said, ' Bless you, no, 
 child. Enjoyed it. They sounded so delightfully 
 young and happy. Like to have that kind of 
 lullaby every night.' ' 
 
 Sally was an unconscious mimic. Barnabas got 
 a sudden and not inaccurate mental image of Miss 
 Mason as she spoke the words. A little pang of 
 remorse, not unlike the pang he had experienced at 
 the thought of the butterflies, smote him as he re- 
 membered his half-joking conversation with Dan. 
 
 " Give your mistress my compliments, and tell 
 her I am glad we didn't disturb her. Also that I 
 shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon her at 
 no very distant date."
 
 62 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Sally, and she turned back to- 
 wards the studio. 
 
 " By the way," said Barnabas, " what is your 
 mistress's name?" 
 
 " Miss Mason, sir," said Sally. She dropped a 
 final curtsey and disappeared within the studio. 
 
 Barnabas lifted his arm with the butterfly on it, 
 and brushed its wings lightly against his lips. Ap- 
 parently it appreciated the treatment, for it re- 
 mained passive. 
 
 " Is it the influence of the morning, the wings 
 of a white butterfly, or the wild-rose face of that 
 child?" said Barnabas. 
 
 " I fancy I am going to fall in love with Miss 
 Mason."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SIX ARTISTS OF THE COURTYARD 
 
 THAT same afternoon the five other male oc- 
 cupants of the studios dropped in to tea with 
 Barnabas. They frequently did. They liked the 
 cakes he bought at a shop in the Fulham Road, 
 and, incidentally, they appreciated Barnabas him- 
 self. They had one and all announced their inten- 
 tion previously. 
 
 " Meaning me to buy cakes," said Barnabas. 
 And he had sent his man to the Fulham Road to 
 make the purchases. 
 
 Barnabas poured out the tea, which was drunk 
 out of cream-coloured cups with festoons of flow- 
 ers on them. There were not enough chairs, but 
 a couple of packing-cases had been pressed into 
 service, and they sat round an oak table gate- 
 legged. Barnabas had picked it up for a mere song 
 at a filthy little shop in a back street. He was very 
 proud of the bargain. 
 
 The six men were curiously dissimilar in appear- 
 ance and in character. One took in the outlines of 
 that, as one took in their appearance at the first 
 glance. 
 
 Next to Barnabas was Dan Oldfield, huge, red- 
 haired, and untidy-looking. He was one of a large 
 
 63
 
 64 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 family, and had begun his artistic career at a 
 suburban art school, where he had risen to the post 
 of pupil teacher, and later to that of assistant mas- 
 ter. At twenty-two he had been left three hundred 
 a year by an uncle, and had come to London to 
 study at the Slade Schools. He was now thirty, 
 and had never lost the idea of minute finish incul- 
 cated in him at the art school. It found expression 
 in his tiny pictures of almost miniature-like work, 
 pictures which the palm of one of his huge hands 
 would have covered. 
 
 Beside Dan was Jasper Merton, sallow, clean- 
 shaven, discontented in expression, his previous 
 history unknown to the six studios. He painted 
 altar pieces at low rates for high churches in poor 
 districts, which paintings were usually the gift of 
 benevolent and religiously-minded spinster ladies. 
 He looked as Barnabas had once said as if he 
 were wearing a hair shirt for the good of his soul, 
 and as if the shirt were an extra-prickly one. 
 
 Beyond him was Alan Farley, who, like David 
 of old, was " fair and of a ruddy countenance." 
 Nature had intended him for a cheerful soul, but 
 art of the ultra-mystic type had taken him prisoner. 
 He painted shadowy figures with silver stars on 
 their brows, non-petalled roses, and purple chalices ; 
 he read Swinburne and the poems of Fiona Mac- 
 leod, and talked about creative genius. 
 
 " Creative genius ! " Barnabas had said to him 
 one day. " Man, you don't understand the first
 
 The Six Artists of the Courtyard 65 
 
 principles of it. Your painting is pure slither. 
 Do you think creation is slither? It's travail, it's 
 agonizing. What does your work cost you? 
 Nothing. An airy fancy, half an hour's mental 
 indigestion, and there's a canvas covered with pur- 
 ples, greys, and greens. The colour's all right, but 
 what on earth is the thing worth ? I'm not talking 
 monetary jargon. You say that purple mass in 
 the corner is a veiled woman, and she's talking 
 through opal mists to a silver star. Who on 
 earth's going to find that out unless you go round 
 like a kind of animated catalogue to your own pic- 
 tures. Get hold of form, man. Study it. Draw 
 draw draw till you can express ideas tan- 
 gibly. Leave poetry alone for a bit till you're 
 honoured with the power of understanding it. 
 You're being mentally sensual and don't know it. 
 You talk of passion! Great Scot! You don't 
 understand the meaning of the word, nor the ABC 
 of nature." 
 
 And Alan had listened and taken the harangue 
 meekly, though it had had, apparently, little effect. 
 
 Next to Alan was Paul Trehern, seated on a 
 packing-case. He was a man well above the me- 
 dium height, and with a lean-limbed look about 
 him. He had grey eyes, sad-like his mouth, which 
 was partly hidden by a small moustache. Fate had 
 started him in an office, which he hated. Later she 
 had taken him abroad, where he had lived in a 
 tent and under the open sky, where he had experi-
 
 66 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 enced hardships few men of his class have known, 
 and where he had three times been face to face 
 with death. He had looked at sunsets across open 
 plains, and seen mountains bathed in gold and pur- 
 ple, and the crimson fire of tropical evenings. He 
 had seen the blue shadows of palm trees on yellow 
 sand ; he had seen the scarlet of pomegranate flow- 
 ers, the gold of oranges against azure skies, till his 
 whole being was saturated in colour. And lastly 
 he had returned to England at the age of twenty- 
 seven to find in the soft greys and lilacs of smoky 
 London an even more wonderful charm. He had 
 then an income of eight hundred a year, four of 
 which he gave to his widowed mother, who lived 
 in a little house in Hampshire. He was at last able 
 to turn to art, which he had always loved passion- 
 ately, and from his knowledge of character gained 
 through much experience of men and women, and 
 with his wonderful sense of colour, he took to por- 
 trait painting. He now, besides his invested in- 
 come, earned, at the age of thirty-seven, about six 
 hundred a year by his brush. He sang in an un- 
 trained mellow baritone in a way that brought tears 
 to one's eyes. 
 
 Between Paul and Barnabas was Michael Ches- 
 ter, a small man, one shoulder higher than the 
 other, and with one leg shrunken and twisted. He 
 had had a pencil in his hand since babyhood. In 
 illustration and line work he excelled, though his 
 choice of subjects was morbid. His paintings of
 
 The Six Artists of the Courtyard 67 
 
 the river and grey London streets were beautiful. 
 There was something almost Whistler-ish about 
 them. He had the heart of a true poet, and the 
 tongue of a cynic, and he played the violin like a 
 god. An ultra-morbidity regarding his own ap- 
 pearance had lost him to the world as a public 
 violinist Nothing would have induced him to 
 mount a platform or enter a crowded drawing- 
 room. The studios alone were given the benefit 
 of his talent. 
 
 And finally, master of the ceremonies, seated on 
 another packing-case was Barnabas tall, brown- 
 haired, green-eyed, and sunny hearted, outwardly 
 indolent, and beloved of his fellow-men. He fol- 
 lowed in the footsteps of Paul as a portrait painter, 
 though he was apt to say it was " the devil of a way 
 behind." 
 
 The conversation during tea had somehow 
 centred round a certain unconscious old lady, who 
 was at that moment cleaning oil paints from a large 
 mahogany palette, and looking with humorous dis- 
 gust at a canvas on which were large and unsteady 
 blobs of pink paint above a smear of green and 
 gold. They were intended to represent pink roses 
 in a Sevres bowl, but had failed horribly in the in- 
 tention. 
 
 The conversation had begun airily enough, five 
 of the men taking part in it, Barnabas alone being 
 silent. After about ten minutes it began to be 
 slightly strained, and three of the men had more or
 
 68 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 less dropped out of it. Dan had, however, con- 
 tinued to express his views somewhat clearly and 
 with a certain amount of gruffness. Jasper was 
 being annoyingly Christian-like in his attitude. 
 
 " I intend to call on the lady, at all events," he 
 said at last, with exasperating decision. " After 
 what you two fellows said yesterday I felt that I 
 at least " 
 
 " Not you only, my child," interrupted Barna- 
 bas good-humouredly, speaking for the first time. 
 " We're all going. We begin on Sunday." 
 
 " Won't the lady be a trifle overwhelmed ? " 
 asked Paul. 
 
 " I didn't mean all at the same time, or on the 
 same day," explained Barnabas. " I intended that 
 we should go in detachments. I thought Dan and 
 I could begin take the initial step, so to speak." 
 
 " And who next ? " asked Paul, smiling. 
 
 " Jasper and Alan, as Jasper's so keen about it," 
 said Barnabas. " Then you and Michael." 
 
 Michael looked at the tip of his cigarette through 
 half -closed eyes. 
 
 " You can leave me out of the little programme," 
 he said. " I don't pay calls." 
 
 " And I'm calling on my great aunt's step- 
 mother on Sunday," said Dan. " Sorry, Barna- 
 bas, but it's a prior engagement." 
 
 " You can send a wire to that purely fictitious 
 person if you know her address and put her 
 off," replied Barnabas.
 
 The Six Artists of the Courtyard 69 
 
 " I'll be damned " began Dan. 
 
 Jasper got up from his chair. " I will leave you 
 five to make your own arrangements," he said. 
 " I shall call upon Miss Mason at five o'clock on 
 Monday afternoon. If Alan comes with me I 
 shall be pleased. I've got an engagement now. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He left the studio. There was a very slight and 
 almost unconscious movement of relief among the 
 remaining men. 
 
 " Your language jarred on his nervous suscepti- 
 bilities, Dan," said Michael. " And he thinks our 
 attitude altogether unchristian." 
 
 "Wish he'd get himself fixed up in one of the 
 panels of his own altarpieces, and carried off to 
 the highest church in London," said Dan. " It 
 would be much the best place for him." 
 
 " I'll not call with him," said Alan firmly. " If 
 I do make a martyr of myself it will be by myself 
 or with one of you others." 
 
 There was a silence. Then quite suddenly 
 Barnabas told them of Miss Mason's little speech 
 to Sally. Somehow he had been unable to mention 
 it in Jasper's presence. 
 
 Again there was a pause. Then Dan laughed. 
 
 " You're confoundedly sentimental, Barnabas, 
 my son. I suppose I'll have to send that wire." 
 
 Michael smiled, a queer twisted smile. 
 
 " Barnabas has a curious faculty for keeping si- 
 lence till the crucial moment," he said. " He then
 
 70 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 makes some little trivial remark which invariably 
 manages to upset all our preconceived notions." 
 
 " He is," said Paul, " as Dan says, a pure sen- 
 timentalist." 
 
 The atmosphere had lightened. Jasper's depar- 
 ture and Barnabas' little speech had had a curious 
 effect upon it. A mental fog had previously crept 
 into the studio. It often found its way into the 
 rooms Jasper entered. Sometimes he seemed to 
 leave it behind, but it generally came to find him, 
 creeping thin and ghostlike through the keyhole, 
 through the cracks in the doors, through the chinks 
 in the windows, settling thickly round him, and cast- 
 ing its gloom over the room and the other occupants. 
 
 And the gods of Joy and Laughter, who cannot 
 breathe in such an atmosphere, would silently de- 
 part. Now, however, they had found their way back, 
 slipping easily and gladly into the place they loved. 
 
 When, half an hour later, Michael limped down 
 the garden path with Paul, he nodded in the di- 
 rection of studio number seven. 
 
 " Shall we say Tuesday afternoon for our call ? " 
 he asked carelessly: 
 
 Paul had a momentary feeling of surprise. He 
 did not show it. 
 
 " Right," he replied equally carelessly. 
 
 And the little faun laughed to hear them, and 
 piped a madder dance still to the rose-petals which 
 had whirled below his pedestal at intervals through- 
 out the day.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 'A MAN'S CONSCIENCE 
 
 JASPER MERTON was a man who had been 
 born with a curious kind of conscience. He 
 was perpetually looking at it, dusting it, and seeing 
 that it kept in what he considered perfect working 
 order. In reality it only worked spasmodically 
 and at unexpected intervals. He possessed, also, 
 an enormous amount of that quality which is gen- 
 erally termed artistic sensitiveness, but which is 
 most frequently a polite and pretty name for self- 
 ishness. He see-sawed between conscience and 
 it must be given its right name selfishness, in a 
 manner which made his life not only uncomfort- 
 able to himself, but almost equally uncomfortable 
 to others. 
 
 He had, too, a skeleton which he kept in a cup- 
 board, in other words, in a small a very small 
 house in Chiswick. That skeleton was a woman. 
 She was his wife, and a secret. 
 
 None of his fellow-artists had ever dreamt of 
 asking him if he were married. It never dawned 
 on them to ask a man, who was apparently a bach- 
 elor and who obviously disliked the company of 
 
 71
 
 72 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 women, such a question; and he had no near rela- 
 tions to trouble their heads about him. 
 
 He was twenty-three when he married her, and 
 she was eighteen. She was a slight, fair-haired 
 girl with blue eyes and a lovable nature. He had 
 worshipped her to the whole extent of his selfish 
 disposition. At the end of a year a child had been 
 born to them. It had lived two years a tod- 
 dling blue-eyed mite with fair hair like its mother. 
 It had little caressing ways and soft baby cooings 
 of laughter. 
 
 But one day the laughter had ceased, and from 
 the nursery had come sounds of a child in anguish. 
 A basin of boiling water had been left on the table 
 by a careless nurse, and pulled over by a pair of 
 small, clutching hands. A week of horror had fol- 
 lowed. The child had lived for four days in agony, 
 even drugs could not soothe its pain, or quiet the 
 terrible sobbing voice. Jasper had fled from the 
 house. 
 
 When he had returned his wife had met him 
 white and tearless. 
 
 " My baby's at peace, thank God," she had said. 
 And then she had laughed. She had not slept ex- 
 cept from momentary exhaustion for four nights 
 and days. 
 
 Later in the evening he had found her drunk in 
 the dead child's room. He had carried her from 
 it and locked the door. 
 
 In the morning she had come to him and had
 
 A Man's Conscience 73 
 
 tried to speak. His look of disgust had made 
 speech impossible. 
 
 " Jasper " she had said brokenly. 
 
 "I I can't say anything," he had stammered. 
 And he had gone from her. 
 
 When he had returned in the evening it was to 
 find her again drunk. This time in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 That was the beginning. He had never been 
 able to hide his disgust, his love had been killed. 
 Conscience, which held the word Duty before him, 
 spelling it with a capital, told him to make the best 
 of things; his sensitiveness shrank from the woman 
 as from something loathsome. 
 
 After the child's funeral she had pulled herself 
 partially together, and he had never found her 
 in the same condition again. But she had lost all 
 her old charm. She grew listless in manner, 
 slovenly and untidy in dress. Now and then she 
 would look at him with the eyes of a dumb thing 
 asking for help. He never saw her eyes. He had 
 avoided looking at them. The sight of her her 
 untidy hair, her neglected dress had offended his 
 sensitive taste. Little by little they had drifted 
 mentally further apart. Finally they had sep- 
 arated. Even the separation had been gradual. 
 First he had taken his small house in Chiswick 
 and the studio in Chelsea, living at home, and go- 
 ing daily to his work. She had known what the 
 outcome would be, but had said nothing. Later
 
 74 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 he had begun to sleep at the studio, returning only 
 for the week-end. He had spoken of the distance, 
 making it an excuse. 
 
 And now there was only occasional visits, 
 prompted entirely by conscience. He had left the 
 studio to pay one of these visits that afternoon. 
 An extraordinary priggishness of manner towards 
 his fellow-men was an invariable preface to them. 
 
 As the tram bore him into the suburbs he gave 
 a little shiver of disgust. The commonplace ugli- 
 ness of the houses was an eyesore to him. He 
 pictured the inhabitants as dull, well-meaning, ultra- 
 respectable leading a carpet-slipper, roast-beef, 
 little-music-in-the-evenings kind of life. He 
 thought of the men as all old and fat, or young 
 and conceited; of the women as thin and care- 
 worn, or flashy and bejewelled. His mental pic- 
 tures were either extremely commonplace or ex- 
 tremely tawdry. 
 
 Suddenly his conscience began to fidget. It was 
 becoming uncomfortable. What right had he to 
 feel like that, it said. They were every bit as good 
 as he was. Who was he to sit in judgment on his 
 fellow-men ? 
 
 He put the mental pictures aside. He said a lit- 
 tle prayer for charity. Then he looked at his con- 
 science again, and satisfied himself that he had 
 swept away the dust specks which had caused it a 
 momentary uneasiness. 
 
 But he never thought of the poetry that might
 
 A Man's Conscience 75 
 
 be hidden away in the lives passed within those ugly 
 walls, nor listened for the old, old tunes of love 
 and sorrow, hope and fear, birth and death, that 
 were played for them as they were played for those 
 who dwelt in infinitely more picturesque surround- 
 ings. And if he had heard the music he would 
 probably have said that the metre was out of time, 
 the notes old and cracked, or thin and tuneless. 
 
 At last he left the tram and turned up a side 
 street. The houses in it were small, red brick, and 
 each of a pattern exactly like the other. They 
 stood a little way back from the pavement, sep- 
 arated from it by a low brick wall on top of which 
 was an ugly iron railing. Each of the tiny plots 
 of ground in front of the houses was divided from 
 the neighbouring plot by more iron railings. Some 
 of the plots were merely gravel, others grass, while 
 a few had blossomed out into flower-beds gay with 
 flowers. 
 
 He turned into one of the gravel plots and went 
 up four steps to the front door. He rang the bell. 
 His face was perfectly expressionless. It was like 
 the face of a man who is self-hypnotized. 
 
 " Your mistress in ? " he said to the untidy 
 woman who answered the door. 
 
 ;< Yes, sir. Will you come into the sitting-room ? 
 I'll tell 'er." 
 
 Jasper went into the sitting-room. He stood on 
 the hearthrug in the attitude of a stranger. The 
 tea-things had not been cleared away, they were
 
 76 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 still on the table, which was covered with a white 
 cloth showing various grease spots. The tea- 
 things themselves were on a black tin tray with the 
 enamel scratched off in two or three places. There 
 was a loaf of bread on the table, a pat of soft- 
 looking butter on a plate, a pot of strawberry 
 jam from which the spoon had fallen making 
 a red smear on the cloth, and a remnant of stale 
 cake. 
 
 The furniture in the room was not ugly, but the 
 whole place had a desolate look. A French novel 
 in a yellow paper cover lay open face downwards 
 on a small table near the hearthrug. Jasper picked 
 it up, glanced at the title, and put it down again 
 with a little movement of disgust. 
 
 The door opened and a woman came in. She 
 w r as wearing a loose and rather shabby brown dress ; 
 her hair, which was really a beautiful pale gold, 
 looked unbrushed and uncared for. She wore it 
 parted and in an untidy knot at the nape of her 
 neck. The only neat thing about her were her 
 hands, which were small hands, the nails polished 
 and manicured. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, Jasper," she said, and she sat 
 down. She did not even offer to shake hands. 
 
 " How do you do, Bridget," he said gravely. 
 
 She laughed. " Is that a gentle reminder to me 
 of my manners, or a query as to my health? I'm 
 all right, thanks." 
 
 Jasper stood irresolute. This nonchalant atti-
 
 A Man's Conscience 77 
 
 tude of his wife pained him. She was usually 
 more apathetic. 
 
 " Won't you sit down," she said politely, " that 
 is if you wish to stay for your usual hour." 
 
 Jasper put his hat and stick on the sofa and sat 
 down on a chair near the table. His eye fell on 
 the tray. 
 
 " Why don't you get a new one," he said half 
 irritably, " or at least cover it with a tea-cloth ? I 
 hate these black, scratched things. I don't keep 
 you short of money." 
 
 She glanced towards the offending article. 
 
 " You don't often see it, do you? " she queried. 
 " I'm used to it ; besides, I haven't an artistic eye. 
 Emma shall take it away if it displeases you." 
 
 She rang the bell, and the woman who had opened 
 the front door appeared. 
 
 " Take away the tea-things," said Bridget care- 
 lessly. " Mr. Merton doesn't like to see them." 
 
 The woman piled the things on to the tray, and 
 gathered the cloth in a bundle under one arm. She 
 left the room with them. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " Well," said Bridget encouragingly, " five min- 
 utes of the hour have gone." 
 
 Jasper moved impatiently. " I don't know what 
 is the matter with you this evening, Bridget. I 
 don't know you in this mood." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows with a slightly mocking 
 expression.
 
 78 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Do you ever notice my moods ? That is 
 news to me. I was waiting for the usual lec- 
 tures." 
 
 Jasper frowned. " I don't want to lecture you. 
 I don't come here to lecture you. I have only 
 sometimes asked you to keep your hair tidy and 
 wear becoming dresses. There's nothing in the 
 way of a lecture about that." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. " It's hardly 
 worth while to trouble, is it? No one sees me 
 but you, and then only four times a year." 
 
 "Your own self-respect " he began. 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 " I lost that," she said quietly, " long ago." 
 
 " It is never too late," he said. There was now 
 a touch of priggishness in his manner. Conscience 
 had given him a little push. 
 
 "Isn't it?" she said. "I think it is. You 
 showed me that." 
 
 " I ? " Jasper was frankly amazed. 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 " I don't understand what you mean. I tried 
 to help you. I've begged you again and again 
 
 to dress decently, to care for your appearance, 
 j " 
 
 " You left me." The words were perfectly 
 quiet. They were the mere statement of a fact. 
 
 "I I Our life together was a misery," 
 
 he stammered. " I tried for two years to help 
 you. I "
 
 A Man's Conscience 79 
 
 " How did you try to help me ? " she asked. 
 " By talking calm platitudes through a kind of 
 moral disinfectant sheet which you held between 
 us, unable, for all your high faluting words, to 
 keep the disgust out of your voice, the loathing 
 out of your eyes. I had offended your fastidious 
 taste yes, I know I had seemed horrible, that I 
 was horrible; but how ten thousand times more 
 horrible do you think I felt to myself? And yet I 
 knew I had some excuse." 
 
 " Excuse," he said sternly, strong in his moral 
 self -righteousness, " excuse for lying drunk in 
 the room with our dead child." He shuddered. 
 The memory of the sight filled him with horror. 
 
 She put her hand over her eyes. It was shak- 
 ing. 
 
 " Listen," she said, " you shall have the truth 
 for once, though I am not speaking it in justifica- 
 tion of myself. Have you ever thought of those 
 four days and nights of torture, when every cry 
 of anguish my baby uttered was like a red-hot 
 needle piercing my heart and brain? Have you 
 thought that there were moments when I felt in 
 my wild misery that I must fly from the sound 
 of them, but that her baby-hands were seeking 
 mine, her voice calling in vain to me to help 
 her. You shudder? You shuddered then and 
 fled. The sensitiveness of your nature could 
 not stand the sight and sounds of agony. When 
 at last it ceased, and reason told me my baby
 
 8o Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 was at peace, I still heard her voice. The doctor 
 had sent me to bed. I could not rest. I got up. 
 I saw you. You went to your own room to weep. 
 I had gone through the agony alone. I was to 
 go through the grief alone. I was faint when I 
 took the brandy. I did not know it would affect 
 me as it did. I was worn out, and it went to my 
 head. I heard her voice again. I thought it real 
 that time. I stumbled upstairs to the room where 
 you found me. In the morning I remembered 
 what had happened. I loathed myself. I came to 
 you and saw the same loathing in your eyes. The 
 next few days I drank purposely to gain oblivion, 
 and I hated myself for doing it more than you can 
 ever have hated me. But one night I thought I 
 
 saw my baby " she paused. " I never took the 
 
 stuff again, though there were moments when I 
 longed for it. I wanted to ask your help, to tell 
 you what I had suffered. I could not. I saw the 
 look in your eyes. It kept awake in me the memory 
 of that that day. Only at night, in the darkness, 
 I forgot it. I could feel my baby in my arms, her 
 hair against my lips " 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 For a moment there was a dead silence: Jasper 
 broke it. 
 
 "I did not understand," he said. It. was an 
 admission on his part. At the time she did not 
 realize it. 
 
 " Of course you did not," she said, and a trace
 
 A Man's Conscience 81 
 
 of weariness had found its way into her voice. 
 " You would never understand what offended your 
 taste. For a crime alone you might find excuse, 
 provided it was sufficiently picturesque. For mere 
 sordidness there is none in your eyes. You said 
 it was not too late. I say it is. For years your 
 refinement and your conscience have been at war. 
 You have not had the moral courage to leave me, 
 nor the manhood to help me to help me to regain 
 the self-respect I lost seven years ago. I am tired 
 at last of you, tired of these perfunctory visits. 
 They can end." 
 
 " What do you mean? " asked Jasper. 
 
 " Simply that I don't want to see you again. 
 You can't get a divorce I have at least been faith- 
 ful to you ; there is not even cause for a legal sepa- 
 ration " 
 
 " Bridget ! " he cried, shocked. " I have never 
 wanted " 
 
 She held up her hand. 
 
 " Please don't protest, Jasper. Actions speak a 
 good deal louder than words. You have hated 
 these four yearly visits quite as much as I have. 
 Your conscience has ordered you to make them. 
 You have kept it quiet by a quarterly journey to 
 Chiswick. Your refinement has shrunk more each 
 time from the sight of me. The fact that Duty 
 alone was urging you to it has made it more diffi- 
 cult for you. Now it is I who say they must 
 cease."
 
 82 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " You are my wife," he said stubbornly. 
 
 She laughed. " You always had little sense of 
 humour, Jasper, and now I think that little must 
 have died. You don't understand what I mean? 
 That shows it is quite quite dead. I am now 
 going to take all responsibility off your shoulders 
 by refusing to see you again." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" 
 
 " Then I shall go away where you cannot find 
 me." 
 
 For a moment he was silent. 
 
 " How can you live if I don't know where you 
 are?" he asked. "You have no money of your 
 own. I must send you some." 
 
 " I know you have considered it your duty to 
 make me an allowance," she replied, " and in my 
 candid opinion that is still your duty. If, how- 
 ever, you persist in coming to see me I shall make 
 it impossible for you to send me money by going 
 away where you will be unable to find me. I can 
 work. It might be better for me to do so. You 
 can decide." 
 
 " I shall send you the money," he said stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 " And not attempt to see me you promise ? " 
 
 " You force me into giving the promise. I can't 
 let my wife work for her living, or starve." 
 
 She got up from her chair. 
 
 " Very well, then, that is understood. I've taken 
 you by surprise this afternoon. I think I have
 
 A Man's Conscience 83 
 
 surprised myself. At present you resent my in- 
 terference with your conscience. Later you will 
 feel the relief. Now, though your hour is not yet 
 up, it would be wiser if we said good-bye." 
 
 He got to his feet. The whole interview had 
 been so unexpected he was feeling a little dazed. 
 
 " Good-bye, Jasper." She held out her hand. 
 
 " Good-bye, Bridget." Then Conscience the 
 officious spoke. Jasper bent forward to kiss his 
 wife. 
 
 She drew back. 
 
 " Isn't that rather ridiculous ? " she asked, with a 
 hint of sarcasm in her voice. 
 
 Jasper flushed. He hated anything approaching 
 ridicule. He had taken her word-slashings quietly. 
 They had not yet even fully penetrated his plate- 
 armour of self-righteousness. 
 
 " Just as you like," he said. " I only thought 
 that as I was not seeing you again " 
 
 " Three months or a lifetime ! It doesn't make 
 much difference to us, does it? " 
 
 He met her eyes. Beneath the look in them his 
 own fell. For the first time in his life he experi- 
 enced something like genuine shame, not the little 
 meretricious prickings of conscience with which he 
 was wont to bewail his small or imaginary sins. 
 To his great short-comings he was blind. 
 
 " You hate me ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," she said shortly, " for a wonder, I don't. 
 Good-bye."
 
 84 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 He went to the door, opened it, and passed out. 
 A second later she heard the iron gate clang to, 
 and his receding steps on the pavement. 
 
 She stood for a moment listening, then turned 
 towards the hearth. She put her hand up to the 
 mantelpiece and gripped it hard. 
 
 "If only he had helped me," she said. " God, 
 why didn't you let me die with my baby ? "
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 VISITORS 
 
 MISS MASON was sitting in her studio at 
 four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. She 
 was reading a small, red-covered book, within 
 whose pages was enshrined a brief account of the 
 life and work of Whistler. 
 
 At intervals she looked up from her reading to 
 glance round the studio and smile. It was her 
 dream incarnate. She had waited forty-three 
 years for its birth. She realized now that she had 
 always wanted it, had always believed in it. 
 All through the old days in the rose-beds, when 
 she had pruned the trees, when she had grafted 
 new buds, when she had w r atched the flowers 
 expanding, she had dreamt of this studio. Only 
 at moments it had looked real; generally it was 
 far off and shadowy, but always it had been 
 before her, and something had whispered to her 
 heart, " Wait ; one day it will come." 
 
 And now it was no faint shadowy dream, but 
 a living reality, and it would bring more glorious 
 realities in its train. Nothing could be too 
 wonderful to happen in the castle of her dreams. 
 
 Again she looked round the studio, and again 
 85
 
 86 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 she smiled. She would have liked to sing for 
 happiness, only her voice was too gruff and 
 cracked. She would have liked to dance for joy, 
 only her old legs were too stiff. But she minded 
 neither of these things, for her heart was beating 
 to a little gay secret tune in which joy and thank- 
 fulness were woven in delicious harmony. 
 
 From behind the door that led to the tiny 
 kitchen she heard murmured sounds and an occa- 
 sional deep laugh. Sally's scrappy little note 
 had been answered by the appearance of Jim 
 in his Sunday-best, shining from the washtub, 
 redolent of yellow soap, every trace of his black 
 weekday occupation removed. They were now 
 cooing like a pair of young turtle-doves in a 
 cage. 
 
 Suddenly Miss Mason was startled by a knock. 
 
 A moment later the door which led from the 
 studio to the little vestibule opened, and Sally 
 announced : 
 
 " Mr. Kirby and Mr. Oldfield." 
 
 Miss Mason's heart fluttered. It is an odd 
 emotion, and now nearly out of fashion. It 
 belonged to the days of " Cranford," " Evelina," 
 and Sense and Sensibility. Now all emotions are 
 big and passionate, or calm and well-controlled. 
 There are few gentle excitements left. 
 
 In spite of the fluttering, Miss Mason rose to her 
 feet, a quiet dignified old figure. 
 
 " I am very pleased to see you," she said, and
 
 Visitors 87 
 
 she gave them each her hand with the air of a 
 queen. " Sally," she said, " bring tea." 
 
 She sat down again. There was a little pink 
 flush in her cheeks. For forty-three years she 
 had spoken to no man of her own class except 
 the vicar and doctor. The interview with Mr. 
 Davis being purely on business did not count. 
 
 Barnabas and Dan put their caps on the oak 
 chest beside the Sevres bowl which was filled with 
 the pink roses with whose portraiture Miss Mason 
 had so sadly failed. Then they sat down. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. Even Barnabas' 
 mental picture of Miss Mason a picture supplied 
 by Sally's unconscious imitation of her had 
 not quite come up to the quaintness of the reality. 
 He felt that he had suddenly stepped back at 
 least a century. There was about the atmosphere 
 a hint of potpourri and long-ago half -forgotten 
 days that are laid up in lavender. There was a 
 completeness about the whole thing from the oak 
 dresser with its blue plates, the Sevres bowl and 
 the pink roses, to the woman in her voluminous 
 black dress, wide white collar, and abundant 
 grey hair covered with the finest of old lace caps 
 a completeness that only an artist could fully 
 realize, though most people would have felt. 
 
 She was so extraordinarily ugly too. No 
 ordinary commonplace plainness of feature, but 
 downright ugliness, yet without the smallest 
 trace of repulsiveness in it. It was a fascinating
 
 88 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 kind of ugliness, and the eyes in the ugly face 
 they alone were really beautiful shone like bits 
 of red-brown amber. It is a colour rarely seen. 
 
 Barnabas broke the silence. 
 
 " Your studio," he said, " is charming. Dan 
 and I watched the furniture coming in on Thurs- 
 day morning. If it is not impertinent of me, may 
 I congratulate you on it ? " 
 
 "Glad you like it," said Miss Mason. "It's 
 the first studio I've ever seen, but it's the kind 
 I always wanted. Have always pictured studios 
 in my mind like this one." 
 
 " You're lucky in your mental images," said 
 
 Dan. " If you saw ours " he broke off and 
 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " But perhaps," said Miss Mason anxiously, 
 " yours is the real thing, and mine " 
 
 " Yours," said Barnabas, " is the dream to 
 which we aspire, and to which we cannot achieve. 
 When you see ours and we hope you will honour 
 us with your presence you will realize how very 
 far short of our aspirations they must fall." 
 
 " But," said Miss Mason almost wistfully, 
 " you paint real pictures in them." 
 
 " Try to do so," said Dan gruffly, " and a few 
 of us succeed. Even in that most of us fail as we 
 fail in our furniture. Paul and Michael are our 
 geniuses." 
 
 " Paul and Michael ? " queried Miss Mason. 
 
 " Mr. Treherne and Mr. Chester," explained
 
 Visitors 89 
 
 Barnabas. " They live in studios numbers one 
 and three respectively. Jasper Merton has number 
 five, Alan Farley number four, Dan number two, 
 and mine is number six, next door to you." 
 
 " The garden with the faun," said Miss Mason. 
 
 " The garden with the faun," replied Barnabas. 
 And then he got up to move a table for Sally, 
 who had come in with the tea-things, blue willow 
 china on a tray covered with the daintiest of 
 damask cloths. She brought in more dishes with 
 cakes and bread and butter, and a copper kettle 
 which was singing its heart out on a little spirit 
 lamp. Then she left the room. 
 
 Miss Mason warmed the teapot and the tea- 
 cups, measured the tea, and filled the teapot with 
 boiling water. Then she took up the sugar- 
 tongs. 
 
 " Sugar ? " she asked. 
 
 " One lump each," said Barnabas. 
 
 She put the little cubes into the cups, poured 
 in milk and tea, and handed the cups to the men. 
 
 " Help yourselves," she said. Then she looked 
 up and smiled. 
 
 "Am quite delighted to see you," she said, 
 " but you'll have to do the talking. Don't 
 suppose I've spoken more than six words a day 
 for the last twenty years, till the last three 
 weeks. Then it has been entirely about furniture. 
 I've got out of the way of conversation." 
 
 " Barnabas will supply the need," said Dan.
 
 90 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " He has the biggest flow of conversation I've 
 ever met. Only it's largely nonsense." 
 
 " Should like nonsense," said Miss Mason. 
 " Never talked nonsense in my life." 
 
 "No?" queried Barnabas politely, his eyes 
 twinkling. 
 
 Then they all three laughed. And in the laugh 
 Miss Mason forgot that she was trying to hide 
 her shyness, for it suddenly disappeared, and there 
 was nothing left to hide. She forgot that she 
 had never set eyes on the men till ten minutes 
 ago. She was no longer a hostess trying to feel 
 at ease with strangers. She was just a happy 
 woman talking to two happy men, the difference 
 in age forgotten. Such a magic god is laughter. 
 
 And before an hour was over Miss Mason felt 
 that she knew all about them. Not the things 
 in which some people consider the knowledge of 
 their fellow-men to consist their father's pro- 
 fession, their mother's family, their relationship 
 to various grandees, the towns in which they have 
 lived, the schools at which they have been 
 educated, the number of their brothers and their 
 sisters, all of which, if you come to think of it, 
 are pure accidents, and have nothing to do with 
 the man himself. 
 
 It was none of these things Miss Mason learnt. 
 She found out that Barnabas had a universal 
 love for nature and his fellow-men, in fact, for 
 everything alive; and that his heart was as
 
 Visitors 91 
 
 sunny as his laugh. And that Dan's rather gruff 
 manner hid a heart as tender as a woman's. 
 There were a thousand minor characteristics she 
 would discover by and by, but these were the 
 salient facts, and showed the true man. 
 
 When they said good-bye it was with a promise 
 from her to visit their studios, and with an 
 assurance from them that the other four men 
 were going to call on her. 
 
 They did Jasper Merton the next day alone ; 
 Paul, Alan, and Michael on the Tuesday. Barna- 
 bas and Dan had broken the ice for her, and Miss 
 Mason received them with little trepidation. 
 Having come once they came again. 
 
 And not one of them guessed in what a curious 
 way the influence of the quaint old lady was to 
 be woven into the lives of at least three of them. 
 For the Three Fates, who sit all day long spinning 
 in three great black chairs, are strange and 
 ancient dames, and they saw in Miss Mason a 
 kindred spirit. In fact, they laughed to think 
 of her likeness to them as she sat in the carved 
 oak chair in her studio with her knitting in her 
 hands. 
 
 And Miss Mason took one and all of the six 
 artists of the courtyard to her heart and loved 
 them spontaneously as a mother loves her sons. 
 But Jasper she guessed was unhappy, and she 
 was sorry for him, and she was a tiny bit afraid 
 of Michael's tongue and Alan she did not quite
 
 92 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 understand, and Paul she was as proud of as if he 
 were truly her son, and Dan gave her a delightful 
 feeling of being protected, he was so big, but 
 Barnabas though she loved them all took the 
 first place in her heart.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE CASA DI CORLEONE 
 
 HRISTOPHER, darling," said the 
 Duchessa di Corleone in honeyed accents, 
 " I want you to find an artist for me." 
 
 " By all means," replied Christopher. " Where 
 did you lose him?" 
 
 " My dear Christopher," said the Duchessa, 
 " he is not lost, because he has never been found. 
 You are to find him a pleasant, clever, in- 
 teresting artist." 
 
 She was sitting in the drawing-room of her 
 house on the Embankment. The windows looked 
 on to the river which she loved. The room was 
 full of flowers which she also loved. She ar- 
 ranged them herself in a room off the dining- 
 room, and carried them upstairs in her arms 
 like children. Every one who loves and arranges 
 flowers knows that in their transit from one 
 place to another the whole carefully-careless 
 effect of their arrangement may be spoiled. 
 Therefore from the moment of entering the 
 strings that tied the great bundles fresh from 
 Covent Garden, to the moment of placing the 
 vases in the drawing-room, no hand but the 
 
 93
 
 94 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Duchessa's touched the flowers. And there was 
 no flower in existence whose colour could jar in 
 the room which was a harmony in pale lavender. 
 To have to exclude a flower on account of its 
 colour would have been to Sara di Corleone like 
 shutting the door on a child because its face 
 was ugly. And being the very essence of woman- 
 hood she could have done neither. 
 
 " And when the artist is found," queried 
 Christopher, "may I ask what are your intentions 
 towards him? I have a conscience, Sara, though 
 you may not realize the fact, and if you wish to 
 inmesh the young man in your silken toils 
 merely for the pleasure of seeing him wriggle, 
 then I fear duty will oblige me to refrain from 
 helping you in your search." 
 
 Sara smiled. " I want him," she said, " to 
 paint my portrait." 
 
 " It sounds dangerous for the artist," said 
 Christopher. " May I further ask to whom the 
 portrait is to be presented ? " 
 
 " To the Casa di Corleone on the banks of 
 Lake Como," said Sara quietly. 
 
 Christopher looked enquiring. 
 
 ;t You have never seen the place," said Sara, 
 " but I have told you about it." 
 
 " You have," said Christopher. 
 
 " One day," pursued Sara, " you must come 
 with me to see it. Then I think you will under- 
 stand. I want you to see the courtyard with its
 
 The Casa di Corleone 95 
 
 orange trees and fountains, the little naked 
 marble fauns and the nymphs who stand among 
 them glistening in the sunlight. I want you to 
 see the rooms full of shadows and great patches 
 of sunshine; and the gallery with its pictured 
 men and women of the house of Corleone, the 
 dark-eyed haughty women beauties every one 
 of them the gay young men and the courtly 
 old ones. I want my portrait to be among them." 
 
 " Yes," said Christopher. 
 
 " It isn't conceit," said Sara. " At least I don't 
 think it is. I love that place, Christopher. It 
 seems as if it belongs to me had always belonged 
 to me; I mean, long before I new Giuseppe. I 
 want to think that in the years to come my 
 picture will be hanging there, looking down into 
 the old hall, and that when the door is open I 
 shall catch a glimpse of the courtyard bathed in 
 sunlight, see the gleam of golden oranges and 
 white marble figures, and hear the plashing of 
 the fountain. It's just a fancy." 
 
 " A fancy," said Christopher, with a little 
 gesture, " as charming as yourself." 
 
 Sara laughed. " Christopher, I love you. And 
 you ought to have lived in the days of Queen 
 Elizabeth, or, better still, at the Court of France." 
 
 " I appreciate your affection," said Christopher. 
 " One day when we are both in a mad mood we 
 will run away together, and pick oranges from 
 the trees in the courtyard of Casa di Corleone.
 
 96 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 And we will play at ball with them across the 
 fountain golden balls tossed through a shower 
 of silver. The idea appeals to me." 
 
 " I am glad Casa di Corleone is mine," said 
 Sara, " though mine with reservations." 
 
 " There was no entail on the estate ? " asked 
 Christopher. 
 
 " No; I don't understand the ins and outs of 
 the matter, but it was my husband's to do with 
 as he pleased." 
 
 " It was thoughtful of the Duca to leave it to 
 you," said Christopher. " He might have turned 
 it into a home for stray dogs. There are a good 
 many in Italy, aren't there ? " 
 
 Sara had scarcely heard him. 
 
 " I liked Giuseppe," she said pensively. " But," 
 she added, " better when he was alive. I feel 
 slightly irritable now when I think of him. I 
 dislike feeling irritable. It is a prickly sensation 
 and doesn't suit me." 
 
 " The will ? " asked Christopher. 
 
 " Exactly. The will." 
 
 " But," asked Christopher, " you are not 
 thinking of again entering the holy bonds of 
 matrimony ? " 
 
 " Nothing," Sara assured him, " is further 
 from my thoughts. But if I wanted to! 
 Think of it, Christopher! I lose every centesimo 
 every single centesimo and Casa di Corleone.
 
 The Casa di Corleone 97 
 
 Fancy parting with it! Besides, there is that 
 ridiculous letter." 
 
 She looked at him, mock-tragedy in her eyes. 
 
 " I never heard of any letter," said Christo- 
 pher. 
 
 "Didn't you?" she asked. "It was almost 
 the most provoking thing Giuseppe did. It 
 roused my curiosity I am curious, Christopher 
 with one hand, and took away every possibility 
 of my satisfying it with the other. I can quote 
 the last phrases of the will verbatim." 
 
 She leant back in her chair, her eyes half 
 closed, and spoke slowly. 
 
 ' And I further decree that if my wife Sara 
 Mary di Corleone, nee de Courcy, shall again enter 
 the married state, that she shall immediately 
 forfeit all the money and estates herein willed 
 to her, and shall have no further claim upon them 
 whatsoever. And that they shall, in the case of 
 her marriage, pass into the possession of my 
 nephew, Antonio di Corleone. And I leave in 
 the hands of my executors before herein named 
 a letter, sealed and addressed to my wife the 
 above Sara Mary di Corleone, nee de Courcy, 
 which letter, in the event of her marriage, shall 
 be given into her hands one hour precisely after 
 the ceremony has taken place. In the event of 
 her demise without re-marriage, the said letter 
 shall be destroyed unopened by and in the
 
 98 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 presence of the executors above-named. Written 
 by me this fourteenth day of January," etc., etc. 
 
 Sara opened her eyes and sat up again. 
 
 " It was all signed and witnessed just a year 
 before he died. It's all horribly correct. Fixed 
 up as firmly as yards of red tape can tie it. And 
 if I marry I lose every centesimo and my beloved 
 Casa di Corleone, and if I don't marry I shall 
 never see the inside of that letter. Did you ever 
 know such a trying situation for a luxury-loving 
 and curious woman in your life?" 
 
 "I fancy," said Christopher, "that the 
 curiosity does not trouble you greatly." 
 
 " It does not," she confessed. " But the 
 will! You must allow that is annoying. It puts 
 my mind and my affections in a kind of mental 
 strait- jacket. Every time I see a charming 
 
 man 
 
 
 Me, for instance," said Christopher. 
 
 " No, mercifully not you," said Sara. " We 
 are one of the few exceptions that prove the 
 generally accepted rule of the non-existence of 
 platonic friendship between men and women. 
 You are the most delightful combination of 
 friend and father-confessor that ever existed, 
 without Heaven be praised a trace of the 
 lover. Where was I before you interrupted ? " 
 
 " Looking at a charming man," said Chris- 
 topher. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Whenever I see a charming man
 
 The Casa di Corleone 99 
 
 I have to tell myself to be careful, to run no risk 
 of my heart getting in the smallest degree 
 involved. I call up mental pictures of coffers 
 upon coffers thousands of them crammed with 
 centesimi. I shut my eyes and see the courtyard, 
 the oranges, and the marble fauns, then I open 
 them and look at the charming man and feel 
 more secure. But I daren't run the tiniest risk 
 for fear of the consequences. I can't " she 
 almost wailed the words, " I can't even flirt." 
 
 "As your father-confessor," said Christopher, 
 " I am glad to hear it." 
 
 " But think," she protested, " what I lose." 
 
 " I think," said Christopher, " what the man 
 would lose, and have a fellow-feeling for him." 
 
 " You're very unsympathetic," said Sara. 
 
 " On the contrary, I am very sympathetic 
 towards the man, who, but for the late Duca'a 
 will, might be wriggling, as I said before, in your 
 silken toils." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " Christopher," said Sara, suddenly and quite 
 seriously, " do you think I shall ever marry 
 again ? " 
 
 " I most certainly hope you will," replied 
 Christopher. 
 
 "And lose Casa di Corleone and the coffers of 
 centesimi ! " she exclaimed. Then again she was 
 back to the serious mood. " Why do you hope 
 so, Christopher ? "
 
 ioo Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 For a moment Christopher was silent. Then 
 he spoke. 
 
 "Because, my dear, I know you and your 
 capabilities. One day you will realize the gift 
 you have in your possession, and in giving it away 
 you will be one of the happiest women on God's 
 earth." 
 
 She looked at the fire. 
 
 " I wonder," she mused. " I didn't give very 
 much to Giuseppe." 
 
 " You liked him," smiled Christopher. 
 
 " He was a dear," said Sara. " He was extraor- 
 dinarily considerate, and we were always beautifully 
 polite to each other. But " 
 
 "Exactly," said Christopher. "But One 
 
 day a force will take you prisoner. Gifts will be 
 showered on you, and you will shower gifts, and 
 that little word of three letters, which stands for 
 so much, will have no place in your vocabu- 
 lary." 
 
 " And I shall give up everything? " she queried 
 below her breath. 
 
 " You will give up everything, because you 
 will have gained everything," he said. 
 
 " How do you know all this? " she asked. 
 
 Christopher lifted his shoulders the tiniest 
 fraction. 
 
 " There is some knowledge," he said, " which 
 is born in one, and of which one need no experi- 
 ence in this incarnation. Probably I brought
 
 The Casa di Corleone 101 
 
 mine with me from the experience of ages long 
 ago." 
 
 Again there was a silence. 
 
 Outside there was a clack of horses' hoofs, the 
 roll of carriages, the hoot of taxis, all the sounds 
 of London to which one grows so accustomed 
 that one hears them even less than one hears the 
 humming of insects in a sunny garden. And 
 away below the window was the river, gliding 
 grey and noiseless to the sea. 
 
 It was a November day with a hint of fog in 
 the atmosphere. A fire was burning in the room 
 in which the two were sitting, and great yellow 
 chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight were in 
 bowls set on the tables. 
 
 And in the silence the woman was looking 
 almost for the first time into her heart with a 
 kind of wonder for what she might find hidden 
 there. And the man, whose nature was one of 
 queer self -analysis, was marvelling that his feeling 
 towards the woman near him held nothing but 
 strong affection and a curious interest in her 
 vivid and unusual personality. Perhaps the cause 
 lay in the fact that he had known her from child- 
 hood, and seen her gradual development. She 
 had never flashed unexpected and meteor-like 
 across his path. 
 
 Suddenly she looked up at him with one of her 
 individual smiles a smile that lit up her eyes 
 before it found its way to her lips.
 
 102 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " We have wandered a long way from my 
 request," she said. 
 
 " To find an artist for you ? " said Christopher. 
 " Oh, I know a man." 
 
 "Yes?" she asked, all interest. "What is 
 he like?" 
 
 " Clever," said Christopher, " pleasant, and - 
 yes, I think you'll find him interesting. I think 
 those were your three requirements." 
 
 " What is his name ? " 
 
 " His name," said Christopher, " is Paul 
 Treherne, and he lives at a studio about ten 
 minutes' walk from here." 
 
 " Paul Treherne," she said slowly, dwelling on 
 the words. " I like that name. Is he as nice as 
 his name ? " 
 
 " I shall leave you to judge," replied Chris- 
 topher. 
 
 " You had better bring him to see me," she 
 said. " To-morrow at tea-time will do. You 
 can ring me up in the morning and tell me if he 
 is coming." 
 
 " Very well." He glanced towards the clock 
 on the mantelpiece, a beautiful little French clock. 
 The hands pointed to half -past three. 
 
 " I must go," he said. " I've an appointment 
 at my club. I'll go round to the studio first." He 
 got up from his chair. 
 
 " Then you can telephone from the club,"
 
 The Casa di Corleone 103 
 
 said Sara. " I am not going out again till this 
 evening." 
 
 " Very well." He held out his hand. 
 
 " I hope he will be able to come," said Sara. 
 " I like his name." 
 
 " You are not to fall in love with him," said 
 Christopher warningly, " or let him fall in love 
 with you." 
 
 " I wonder," said Sara. 
 
 " Remember Casa di Corleone and the golden 
 oranges." 
 
 Sara smiled. 
 
 " I thought," she said, " that one day I was to 
 forget them."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A MEETING 
 
 THERE comes a day in the lives of some of 
 us when everything appears as if it were 
 pursuing its ordinary and normal course. We get 
 up in the morning and go through the usual 
 routine bath, dressing, breakfast, all the little 
 accustomed trivialities which have happened thou- 
 sands of times in our lives already, and which will 
 doubtless happen thousands of times again. We 
 feel gay or dull as we have felt thousands of times 
 before, and we think, or we don't think, of the 
 various occupations that will go to make up our 
 day, and we never guess that before sunset we 
 shall have our hand on a door a door that when 
 opened is to lead the way into clouds of sorrow, 
 or gild our life suddenly with the radiant light of 
 joy. So silently do the fates work, so secret do 
 they keep their intentions from us. 
 
 Paul got up that morning as usual at seven 
 o'clock. He had his usual cold bath, which most 
 people would have found uncomfortably chilly on 
 a November morning, but in which Paul found 
 merely a refreshing sting. He rubbed himself dry 
 
 104
 
 A Meeting 105 
 
 while humming an air from " The Arcadians," and 
 then put on his clothes. He went into his studio 
 and found his usual breakfast of coffee and rolls 
 ready for him. While he eat it he looked into a 
 neat brown pocket-book to refresh his memory as 
 to his engagements for the day. 
 
 A small girl was coming to sit for him at ten 
 o'clock. Her name was Marjorie Arnold. She 
 was possessed of personality and a fascinating dim- 
 ple. He had caught the personality, but the dim- 
 ple had hitherto eluded him. It was extremely 
 fleeting in its appearance. He hoped to catch it 
 and place it on canvas that morning. 
 
 There was only one other entry for the day 
 "4.15. C.C." It meant that Christopher Charl- 
 ton was coming for him that afternoon, and would 
 take him to call on the Duchessa di Corleone, who 
 desired to have her portrait painted. 
 
 He felt a certain amount of interest as to the 
 Duchessa's appearance, but it was only an interest 
 he had felt dozens of times before concerning possi- 
 ble commissions. Christopher had said she was 
 good-looking. So were a good many people who 
 were no use to Paul as subjects. He painted only 
 those who interested him. From the others and 
 there were many he politely evaded accepting 
 commissions. He was very much an artist, was 
 Paul. And for this reason partly his income was 
 considerably below the amount his genius war- 
 ranted. The other reason was that there were
 
 io6 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 many people who did not consider his portraits to 
 be likenesses. 
 
 At ten o'clock the child appeared with the nurse, 
 who was dismissed for a couple of hours, and 
 armed with brushes and palette Paul set to work 
 to catch the fleeting dimple. 
 
 The child she was five years old was in a 
 solemn mood. Smiles, and with them the dimple, 
 had temporarily vanished. She was a quaint little 
 thing with red hair and freckles, and a fascinating 
 ugliness generally termed the beaute de diable. 
 
 Paul told her half a dozen stories, including The 
 Three Bears, The Frog Prince, and Rudyard Kip- 
 ling's " Stute Little Fish." But neither the squeak- 
 iness of the little bear, the faithlessness of the 
 princess, nor the sufferings of the whale when the 
 shipwrecked mariner danced hornpipes in his in- 
 side had any effect on the dimple. 
 
 " Suppose," said Paul at last, " that you tell me 
 a story." 
 
 The face was even more solemn. 
 
 " I don't know one." 
 
 " Make up one," suggested Paul. 
 
 There was the ghost of a smile, then solemnity. 
 The flash of hope Paul had experienced died away. 
 
 " Onst upon a time," she began gravely, " vere 
 was a little dog an' a little duck. An' vey grewed 
 wings, an' vey flewed up an' up an' up to heaven 
 to God." 
 
 There was a pause for effect.
 
 A Meeting 107 
 
 " What a height," said Paul admiringly, watch- 
 ing her face. "What happened next?" 
 
 " When vey got vere," went on the voice sol- 
 emnly, " you bet vey wanted to see round. But 
 God said, ' Not to-day, I guess I'm busy. It's my 
 last day up here.' It was. 'Cos ve next day 
 God died. Isn't vat a nice story ? " 
 
 No trace of a dimple. Paul was exasperated. 
 
 " Not a bit a nice story," he said sternly. " And 
 God couldn't die." 
 
 She put her head on one side and looked at him. 
 
 " Well, not weally, of course. But ve little dog 
 an' ve little duck had never seen anybody die, an' 
 vey wanted to. So God showed them." She was 
 laughing at him now in childish triumph, a very imp 
 of mischief. 
 
 " Eureka ! " cried Paul. And his brush flew to 
 the canvas. Such are the trials and triumphs of 
 portrait painters. 
 
 " Come and look at it," said Paul after ten min- 
 utes. 
 
 She scrambled down from the chair and plat- 
 form and came round. A small mocking face of 
 pure wickedness looked at her from the canvas. 
 Her own. 
 
 " Do you see it? " said Paul, pointing at it with 
 his brush. " And but for your profane little story 
 there would never have been exactly that expres- 
 sion on your face. We wait for our moments, we 
 artists, and we catch them sometimes. And
 
 io8 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 now," he continued, " you can have a stick of choc- 
 olate and brown your face up to the eyebrows with 
 it. I have finished your portrait, and therefore 
 done with you. I don't care what happens to you 
 now." 
 
 That was Paul. During the time of painting he 
 sought for intimate knowledge of his subjects. 
 Every tiniest characteristic, every fleeting expres- 
 sion, were noted and stored up in his memory. He 
 could almost have told you their life history from 
 his minute observation of faces. He knew his sub- 
 jects as few of their intimate friends knew them. 
 He guessed their hidden secrets with a power that 
 was almost uncanny secrets known only to their 
 own souls and put the secrets on his canvas. 
 And it was for this reason that many people did 
 not consider the portraits to be likenesses. He 
 painted the real person, not merely the mask they 
 wore to the world at large. 
 
 This fact had been particularly emphasized in 
 his portrait of a certain statesman one Lord St. 
 Aubyn. The statesman has nothing to do with the 
 rest of this story, but the incident as far as Paul is 
 concerned is interesting. 
 
 St. Aubyn was a man who was much before the 
 public, and no less than five portraits of him had 
 been commissioned by different societies as a token 
 of their personal gratitude. Four of these, but for 
 the individuality of technique, might have been rep-
 
 A Meeting 109 
 
 licas one of the other, and gave instant satisfaction 
 alike to donors and public. 
 
 They showed a man with regular features and 
 deep-set eyes, leaning to the accepted military type, 
 a resolute mouth, and a certain air of distinction 
 and command. One felt that a sculptor of the 
 " classic convention " would have expressed the 
 type even more admirably. Reserve was there, but 
 with no hint of mystery or evasion; intellectuality, 
 but little imagination. 
 
 The fifth portrait by Paul was, one would have 
 said, of another man. It was a picture that seemed 
 alive with a strange and slightly repellent mag- 
 netism, for the eyes smiled at a stranger with a 
 baffling mockery ; they seemed to invite and yet defy 
 his judgment to taunt him with his impotence 
 and read the soul behind them. 
 
 It had been received on exhibition with a storm 
 of outspoken criticism; while the Benevolent 
 Trustees who had commissioned it, though refrain- 
 ing from audible dissatisfaction, had maintained so 
 eloquent a silence at their private view, glancing at 
 each other with liftings of eyebrows and pursing of 
 lips, that Paul had flung round upon them and re- 
 lieved their embarrassment by declaring the con- 
 tract to be null and void. No reasons were asked 
 for or given ; the action was taken as a tacit admis- 
 sion of failure. Yet Paul himself had seemed not 
 ill-satisfied, and had met the chaff which had
 
 no Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 greeted him from many of his circle with equanim- 
 ity. 
 
 Landor, one of the circle, whose portrait of St. 
 Aubyn in the previous Academy had been hailed 
 as a most masterly piece of work, had ventured a 
 serious protest. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he had said one evening, 
 "you're letting your imagination play tricks with 
 you. It's becoming an absolute disease. I made 
 a most careful study of the man made him give 
 me innumerable sittings, and I pledge you my word 
 that I put everything into the face that I could find. 
 You had three sittings, and God only knows what 
 you've put there." 
 
 Paul had smoked for a few moments in silence. 
 
 " Perhaps you've hit it," he had said. " I've 
 nothing to say against your ' Portrait of a rising 
 Statesman.' It's a fine piece of work. But you 
 know all about the Factories Sanitation Amend- 
 ment Act, and I can read Sub-section Ten in your 
 handling of the chin. Now I don't read the papers, 
 and I know nothing of the man. I tried to get at 
 him and he shut the door in my face. Yet some- 
 thing came through the keyhole and the cracks by 
 the hinges, and I have painted that. And, as you 
 say, God only knows what I've put in his face; I 
 don't. And in spite of that or perhaps because 
 of it what I've put there happens to be the 
 truth."
 
 A Meeting in 
 
 "But what have you done with the picture?" 
 Landor had asked. " The Benevolent refused it, 
 didn't they?" 
 
 " Now you're getting coarse," had been Paul's 
 reply. " We agreed to differ as to its suitability." 
 
 "Then where is it?" 
 
 " In St. Aubyn's study, I believe," had been the 
 careless reply. 
 
 "He bought it, then?" 
 
 " I gave it to him." 
 
 Landor had looked at Paul, and had refrained 
 from putting further questions. There had been 
 an expression in Paul's face which might have made 
 them appear an impertinence. 
 
 The gift of the picture had come about in rather 
 a curious way. 
 
 Paul never let his sitters see unfinished work, 
 and St. Aubyn had left town immediately after the 
 third sitting, and had not returned till the exhibi- 
 tion was over. Then he had gone to Paul's studio 
 and had seen the picture. He had made one re- 
 mark, but that was eloquent. 
 
 "How did you find out?" he had said. 
 
 Paul had looked at him, and the next moment 
 the mask had been on again, and he had been talk- 
 ing business. 
 
 " You've sold this portrait, haven't you ? " he 
 had asked. 
 
 "Unfortunately not," Paul had replied. "It
 
 H2 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 seems to give offence to your numerous admirers." 
 
 " Then, if you will allow me, I should like to 
 become the purchaser," had been the reply. 
 
 Paul had looked at him. 
 
 " It's not for sale," he had said. 
 
 St. Aubyn had bowed and taken up his hat with 
 out so much as looking disappointed. 
 
 " But I'll send it round to your house to-mor- 
 row," Paul had said. 
 
 St. Aubyn had refused. He had talked polite 
 platitudes regarding the value of the work. 
 
 " Now you're talking Stock Exchange," Paul had 
 told him. " The latest marked quotation is abso- 
 lutely nil. No one will look at it. As a piece of 
 
 property it is worthless. As a revelation " he 
 
 had stopped. 
 
 St. Aubyn had smiled. " I deal in revelations 
 professionally," he said. 
 
 That had told Paul the secret he had already 
 guessed. 
 
 " What a head-line for the evening papers," 
 he had said whimsically. " * A Peer's Secret ! 
 Threatened Exposure by Eminent Artist ! ' But 
 I'm not a blackmailer, and I don't take hush-money. 
 The picture is yours or no one's." 
 
 They had argued a little more. At last St. 
 Aubyn had taken it. 
 
 " And about the inscription ? " It had been 
 Paul's parting shot. " From a painter to 
 a ?"
 
 A Meeting 113 
 
 St. Aubyn had shaken his head. 
 
 " Experience is against endorsements, however 
 cryptic, on secret documents," he had said. 
 " Sooner or later the cipher is sure to be read." 
 
 And he had gone away, leaving Paul the sole 
 possessor of his secret, a secret which Paul had 
 summed up in one brief sentence addressed to a 
 Chinese idol on his mantelpiece. 
 
 " The man, God help him, is a poet." 
 
 A month later he had received a small volume of 
 poems addressed in a hand in which he had already 
 received three short notes agreeing to sittings. 
 The verses true poetry were written under a 
 nom de plume. What St. Aubyn's reason was for 
 keeping his poetical talent a secret from the world 
 Paul never knew. The volume came to him in si- 
 lence from the author; he respected the silence, 
 attempting no word of thanks. And the secret his 
 insight had wrested from the man went with other 
 secrets somewhere away in the hidden recesses of 
 his mind, while his work alone absorbed him. 
 
 He never pursued his knowledge of men and 
 women further. It sufficed or seemed to suffice 
 him to portray that knowledge on canvas, and 
 leave it for those to read who had the heart to do 
 so. As he had passed before among men and 
 women of varied nationalities, making no real 
 friends, so he passed now among varied types, 
 noting them, painting them, and dismissing them, 
 still making no friend. The lonely reserve he had
 
 ii4 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 gained in his wanderings pursued him now. He 
 could not throw it off. Barnabas and Dan were 
 nearer true friendship with him than any, and more 
 because they had silently accepted him for their 
 friend than from any advance on his part. It 
 seemed that he could make none. The solitude of 
 the plains, the loneliness of big spaces, seemed to 
 have claimed his spirit. 
 
 And so he painted portraits, from statesmen to 
 small girls, gaining intimate knowledge of them, 
 while no one yet had learnt to know the real Paul. 
 
 It was very much later in the day, long after 
 Majorie had departed led by an indignant nurse 
 muttering to herself regarding the carelessness of 
 "them artists," for not only Majorie's face, but 
 her best white dress was covered with various 
 smears of brown chocolate it was long after this 
 that Paul looked once more at his pocket-book. He 
 looked at it to make sure that the hour Christopher 
 would arrive for him was four-fifteen, and not 
 four o'clock. The former was there plainly in- 
 scribed, written by Paul with a small gold pencil. 
 
 There were just two entries for that day Fri- 
 day, November 27th, " M.A. 10 o'clock " and 
 "4.15 o'clock. C.C" Little did Paul think as he 
 looked at it that he would treasure that small page 
 as one would treasure one's passage to heaven. 
 
 Christopher arrived at the studio punctually to 
 the second, and found Paul ready for him. The
 
 A Meeting 115 
 
 two turned into Oakley Street and came down to- 
 wards the Embankment. It was already past sun- 
 set, and the houses and river were shrouded in a 
 soft mist. They reached the house near Swan 
 Walk and went up the steps. 
 
 " The Duchessa di Corleone at home ? " asked 
 Christopher of the footman who opened the door. 
 
 " Will you come this way, sir," was the answer, 
 and he led them up the wide shallow stairs. He 
 threw open a door. 
 
 Paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the 
 chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight. A 
 woman rose from a chair by the fire and came for- 
 ward to greet them. The window was behind her 
 as she came forward, and the room being in twilight 
 he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw the 
 outlines of her graceful figure, and caught the glint 
 of her red-brown hair. 
 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 " It is very charming of you to come and see me, 
 Mr. Treherne," she said. " Pietro, the lights." 
 
 Paul heard the sound of three or four tiny click- 
 ings near the door, and the room became full of a 
 soft mellow light. Had the light been a trifle 
 brighter, or her voice a shade less natural, the whole 
 thing might have verged on the theatrical. As it 
 was, it was simply a revelation to Paul as, for the 
 first time, he saw the Duchessa di Corleone. 
 
 She stood before him smiling a smile that just 
 lit up her eyes and trembled on her mouth. He
 
 n6 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 saw that her skin was smooth like ivory, that her 
 lips were crimson like wine beneath oiled silk, that 
 her hair was the colour of a chestnut newly wrested 
 from its sheath. 
 
 All this Paul saw almost without realizing it. 
 For suddenly his heart heard a tune one that is 
 played silently throughout the ages, and to most of 
 us the hearing of the tune comes slowly and grad- 
 ually, a note at a time. But to a few as to Paul 
 it comes suddenly, played in full melody. He 
 felt vaguely that he had been waiting for that tune 
 all his life, listening for it on the plains, in the si- 
 lence of the night under the stars. 
 
 But he merely bowed and said in the most ordi- 
 nary and conventional voice in the world: 
 
 " It was very good of you to ask me to come 
 and see you." 
 
 For Paul did not yet know the meaning of the 
 tune. In his lonely life he had never before even 
 heard an imitation of it. And because the music 
 was very strange and very beautiful he listened to 
 it with something like awe. 
 
 And then he heard Christopher's voice. 
 
 " I ought to have told you, Sara, that Mr. 
 Treherne is an artist of strange moods, and that 
 sometimes he refuses in the most polite and dip- 
 lomatic way, of course to accept commissions." 
 
 The Duchessa looked at Paul. 
 
 " I don't think Mr. Treherne will refuse to paint 
 my portrait. At least I hope not."
 
 A Meeting 117 
 
 " I shall be honoured to paint it," Paul replied. 
 
 The words were conventional. Since he in- 
 tended to accept the commission it was very nearly 
 the only phrase he could have used, yet there was 
 something in his utterance of the words that seemed 
 just to lift them from the commonplace. Perhaps 
 it was the direct way in which he spoke them. 
 Paul had generally a very direct manner of speech. 
 
 Anyhow, Sara glanced at him, and an indefinable 
 something in his eyes caused an odd little movement 
 in her heart. The room in which they were sitting 
 seemed suddenly brighter, the chrysanthemums a 
 more beautiful colour, the logs on the fire more 
 than usually crackly and pleasant. For so it is 
 that two people who are complete strangers to each 
 other sometimes meet, and in some subtle way, and 
 without realizing it at the time, the whole world 
 has altered for them. And the invisible gods 
 laughed softly, and the grim old fates smiled, and 
 drew two threads of their weaving, which had 
 hitherto had nothing to do with each other, a little 
 closer together. 
 
 Before Paul left the house on the Embankment 
 it was arranged that the Duchessa should come to 
 his studio the following morning at eleven o'clock 
 for her first sitting.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES 
 
 MISS MASON threw a large shovelful of coal 
 on to the fire, then turned to Barnabas, who 
 was sitting astride on a chair, his arms resting on 
 its back, and looking at her with a slight twinkle 
 of amusement in his eyes. 
 
 " It's all very well for you to smile, Barnabas," 
 she said energetically, " but if my model hadn't 
 failed me, do you suppose for one moment that I 
 should allow you to be sitting there wasting my 
 morning, and incidentally wasting your own ? " 
 
 " No waste, dear Aunt Olive," said Barnabas 
 imperturbably. He had calmly given her the title 
 one day, and it had been adopted by the five other 
 artists of the courtyard. It had pleased Miss Ma- 
 son immensely, though she occasionally pretended 
 to look upon it as an impertinence. " No waste, 
 dear Aunt Olive. The enormous benefit I in- 
 variably derive from your conversation is of incal- 
 culably greater advantage to me than the time I 
 should otherwise spend in dabbing paint on canvas. 
 The canvas is always destroyed at the end of two 
 hours, unless the subject happens to be a commis- 
 
 118
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 119 
 
 sion. Your conversation abides for ever engraven 
 on my memory." 
 
 " Barnabas, you're a fool," retorted Miss Mason. 
 " Besides, if you were not here I should paint a 
 still life." 
 
 " Oranges against a green or blue earthenware 
 jar I know," said Barnabas sorrowfully. " Dear 
 aunt, cuv bonof You have dozens of oranges al- 
 ready on canvas, to say nothing of the blue and 
 green jars. You could paint them in your sleep. 
 Why make another representation of them?" 
 
 " Don't mock at my work," said Miss Mason se- 
 verely. " You have a lifetime before you, and 
 can afford to waste mornings. I cannot. Remem- 
 ber my age." 
 
 " I'll try to do so, since you wish it," returned 
 Barnabas. " It is, however, the one thing I in- 
 variably forget." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Miss Mason. " However, if 
 you won't go, where is my knitting? I can't sit 
 entirely idle." 
 
 She took a bundle of white woolwork from a 
 side table. Two steel knitting-needles were stuck 
 into it. She sat down in the big oak chair by the 
 fire, and in a moment the needles were clicking 
 busily. She looked more like one of the three 
 Fates than ever. And somewhere away in a back 
 street a scrap of humanity must have heard the 
 clicking needles, and a thread of white wool must 
 have stretched out invisibly to draw it towards the
 
 120 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 hands that held them. Though at the moment 
 Miss Mason knitted serenely unconscious of the 
 fact. 
 
 Barnabas watched her in silence. 
 
 "For the poor?" he asked politely, after a cou- 
 ple of minutes. 
 
 " Babies," said Miss Mason shortly. " They 
 get little enough welcome, poor mites ; but knowing 
 that a white jacket with a bit of blue ribbon run 
 through it is waiting for them, helps the mothers 
 to look forward to their advent with a certain 
 degree of pleasure. It's curious, the effect of little 
 things." 
 
 " I should hardly have thought " began 
 
 Barnabas. 
 
 " Of course you wouldn't," interrupted Miss 
 Mason. " You've never had a baby. Neither have 
 I, for the matter of that." 
 
 She looked up and caught Barnabas's eyes fixed 
 on her. 
 
 " Barnabas, you're disgraceful ! " she exclaimed. 
 " I never know what I say when I begin to talk 
 to you." 
 
 " Therein lies the charm of your conversation," 
 he assured her. " It is always so unpremeditated." 
 
 " Huh ! " said Miss Mason, and she returned to 
 her knitting. 
 
 She looked exactly the same as she had looked 
 six months previously, except that there was a new 
 and curious radiance about her eyes. They looked
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 121 
 
 as if they were absorbing happiness, and giving it 
 forth again in actual light. Also her black dress 
 had given place to a grey one. 
 
 The style being unprocurable at any modern 
 shop, she had engaged a sewing-woman to make it 
 for her. The woman was firmly persuaded that 
 Miss Mason was quite mad, but finding her an ex- 
 tremely generous customer, she was perfectly ready 
 to seam grey cashmere into any pattern Miss Ma- 
 son might require. She had once gone so far as 
 to announce that the costume was picturesque. 
 Something in her manner as she made the state- 
 ment had annoyed Miss Mason. 
 
 "Picturesque! Nothing of the kind!" Miss 
 Mason had retorted. " It is serviceable and com- 
 fortable, and suited to a woman of my age. Some 
 women of sixty make fools of themselves in a 
 couple of yards of silk nineteen inches wide. I 
 make a fool of myself in twelve yards of cashmere 
 forty inches wide. That's all the difference. But 
 I prefer my own folly." And the sewing- woman 
 had retired crestfallen. 
 
 " I saw Paul yesterday," remarked Barnabas 
 after a moment. 
 
 " I like him," said Miss Mason succinctly. 
 
 " So do I," returned Barnabas. " He is so re- 
 freshingly clean. He always looks as if he had 
 just completed a toilette in which baths, aromatic 
 soap, and hair-brushes had played an important 
 part."
 
 122 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Yet he manages to escape looking shiny," said 
 Miss Mason. 
 
 " We all take baths," went on Barnabas thought- 
 fully; "at least, I hope so. But with the majority 
 of people one has to take the fact of their scrupu- 
 lous cleanliness more on faith than by sight. With 
 Paul it is so extraordinarily apparent." 
 
 " What is he doing at the moment? " asked Miss 
 Mason. 
 
 " Painting the portrait of a certain Duchessa di 
 Corleone. I happened to see the lady leaving the 
 studio. She is remarkably beautiful. Paul has 
 the devil's own luck. I have to spend my time 
 painting middle-aged women with hair groomed by 
 their maids till they look like barbers' blocks, or 
 pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual smile." 
 
 " Don't paint them if you dislike doing it," said 
 Miss Mason. 
 
 " Dear Aunt Olive, I must." 
 
 " No such thing. You have an excellent private 
 income." 
 
 " I grant you that. It is, however, not the point. 
 I am a portrait painter. It is my metier. To be 
 a portrait painter one must paint portraits. The 
 two things are inseparable." 
 
 " Paint models, then," said Miss Mason. 
 " Choose your subject." 
 
 " It is not the same thing," replied Barnabas 
 gravely. " A model who is paid for sitting does 
 not rank with a creature who pays one to immor-
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 123 
 
 talize their material features on canvas. To say I 
 have a model coming to sit for me this morning is 
 nothing. To say the Lady Mayoress of So-and-So 
 comes to my study at eleven o'clock this morning is 
 quite another matter. At first your fellow-artists 
 say, ' Pure swank on his part.' But when eleven 
 o'clock arrives, and with it the Lady Mayoress in 
 a gold coach with four horses and velvet-breeched 
 lackeys with cocked hats why, then the whole 
 thing assumes totally different proportions. I am 
 regarded in a new light. I become a person of im- 
 portance among my fellow-men. I gaze upon a 
 double chin, boot-button eyes, and a smile that won't 
 come off, enduring mental torture thereby, in order 
 that later I may strut from my studio with an air of 
 swagger, and hear myself spoken of as ' John Kirby, 
 the portrait painter.' And once more I ask you, 
 how can one attain to the distinction of portrait 
 painter if one does not paint portraits?" 
 
 " Barnabas, you're ridiculous," said Miss Mason. 
 " You talk of nothing seriously, not even your art 
 which you love. But if you could be serious for 
 ten minutes, I'd like to ask you about a scheme I 
 have in my mind." 
 
 There was a little hesitancy in the last words. 
 Barnabas looked up quickly. 
 
 " I'm attending," he said gravely. 
 
 " You know," said Miss Mason quietly, " that 
 for a woman who spends as little as I do I am very 
 rich."
 
 124 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Barnabas nodded. " I thought you must have 
 a good bit of money," he said, glancing round the 
 studio. 
 
 Miss Mason followed the direction of his glance. 
 
 " That was rather what you would call a 
 splurge on my part," said Miss Mason. " Fact 
 is, I have about fifteen thousand a year. If I spend 
 two in the year it will be all I shall do." 
 
 " Yes," said Barnabas gravely. 
 
 "Of course," went on Miss Mason, growing 
 gruffer as she became more in earnest, " I've told 
 you how much I care for art. Suppose I inherited 
 the love of it from my father. See now, it's little 
 use loving it if one doesn't get the chance to work 
 when one's young I mean as far as one's own 
 creation is concerned. Get a lot of pleasure dab- 
 bing paint on canvas, making pictures of oranges, 
 and drawing charcoal heads. But the time's past 
 for me to do anything serious in that line. Glad 
 you're honest enough not to contradict me. Been 
 thinking, though, that there must be others who 
 would like the chance. Care so much myself, would 
 like to help them." She stopped. 
 
 " A ripping idea," said Barnabas warmly. 
 
 " Thought," went on Miss Mason, " that if five 
 thousand pounds a year went for that purpose it'd 
 be something give twenty would-be artists the 
 chance, anyhow. Each would-be artist to have an 
 income of two hundred and fifty pounds for five
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 125 
 
 years while they are studying longer if you 
 thought well. Then another to take their place. 
 Want them to be people who'd really care. Love 
 the work. Want you to help me. Don't rush the 
 matter. If you can find the right people let me 
 know. You're a young man. Would like to ap- 
 point you as my executor in the scheme. You 
 could carry on the work. Would like, though, to 
 see it started." Miss Mason looked anxiously at 
 Barnabas. The little speech had cost her a great 
 effort. It was the outcome of the thought of many 
 weeks. 
 
 Barnabas met her look. " There's nothing I 
 should like better than to help you in the scheme," 
 he said warmly. "It's fine. By Jingo! Twenty 
 men to have their chance every five years. Think 
 of it!" 
 
 " Am ready to include women too," said Miss 
 Mason, " as long as " she continued, getting 
 gruffer than ever " they aren't giving up other 
 duties to it. Might find some women glad to have 
 a chance too. Would have liked it myself. You 
 go about among people. Can let me know later. 
 Don't rush it." 
 
 " It's fine," said Barnabas again. " Aunt Olive, 
 you're a brick ! " 
 
 The boyish compliment brought the colour to 
 Miss Mason's cheeks. 
 
 " Glad you like the idea," she said.
 
 126 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 A sudden gust of wind tore round the studio, 
 and a torrential shower, half of sleet, half of hail, 
 beat down upon the skylight. 
 
 " Abominable weather ! " said Miss Mason, click- 
 ing her knitting-needles furiously. She did not 
 even now guess how near to her the scrap of hu- 
 manity had been drawn by the thread of white wool. 
 
 " We have much for which to be thankful," be- 
 gan Barnabas piously, " a blazing fire, a roof " 
 
 His further reflections were interrupted by a 
 knock on the door. 
 
 " See who it is, will you ? " said Miss Mason. 
 " Sally is busy. If it is a beggar send him or her 
 away. I don't encourage them." 
 
 Barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth 
 of the statement. He heaved himself off the chair 
 and went towards the door. 
 
 There was a moment's parley. Then he re- 
 turned, followed by a small and weird figure. Its 
 sex was indistinguishable. A man's coat frayed 
 and torn reached to the top of a pair of patched 
 boots many sizes too large for the feet they cov- 
 ered, a man's slouched hat hid nearly the whole of 
 the face. 
 
 " It says it is a model," announced Barnabas. 
 " It's language is a mixture of French and broken 
 English." 
 
 Miss Mason let her knitting fall. 
 
 " A model ! " she exclaimed, looking at the odd 
 creature.
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 127 
 
 The figure in the old coat saw the fire. It made 
 an instant dart towards it. 
 
 "Ah!" The sigh was one of intense satisfac- 
 tion. The hands, hidden by the frayed coat- 
 sleeves, were held out towards the leaping flames. 
 
 " You're cold ? " asked Miss Mason quickly. 
 
 The figure nodded its head. 
 
 " Who sent you to me? " she demanded. 
 
 " Personne. But I know Keetie Jenkins 'as been 
 model for you. She tell me you ask 'er when you 
 bring ze baby ze white jacket. Mrs. Jenkins 'as 
 taken Keetie away, so I tink I do instead of Keetie." 
 
 " Huh," grunted Miss Mason. " Haven't seen 
 you yet. So the Jenkinses have gone, have they? 
 That accounts for Kitty failing me this morning. 
 They might have taken the trouble to let me know." 
 
 The small figure by the fire raised its head quickly. 
 Miss Mason and Barnabas had a glimpse of a 
 pointed chin and a scarlet mouth. 
 
 " Mrs. Jenkins she is too un'appy. You see 
 Georgie 'e is dead." 
 
 " Georgie ! Never heard of him. Who was 
 he?" demanded Miss Mason. 
 
 " 'Er little boy." The reply came seriously. 
 " 'E die of doing too many lessons. Mrs. Jenkins 
 say Keetie not die zat way. She 'as gone to ze 
 country, where ze 'specters not so 'ticular, she say." 
 
 " A unique death," remarked Barnabas gravely. 
 " I don't fancy many little boys die of that com- 
 plaint. Have you ever posed before?"
 
 128 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Mais, oui." The head was nodded vigorously. 
 " Sail I pose for you? " 
 
 " Don't know what you're like yet," said Miss 
 Mason. 
 
 " There is a proverb, O infant," supplemented 
 Barnabas, " which instructs one never to buy a pig 
 in a poke. Acting on that principle, it is impossible 
 for us to decide on a model attired as you are. 
 Therefore " he broke off. 
 
 " Oh, my tings," she nodded gravely. " I take 
 zem off." 
 
 The figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. 
 It was followed by the coat and the boots, which 
 later were kicked off, disclosing bare feet small and 
 well-arched. 
 
 There stood before them a slip of a girl-child, 
 in a faded green frock, black hair cut square on the 
 forehead and at the nape of the neck, after the fash- 
 ion of some mediaeval page, the face white, with 
 pointed chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes 
 grey with pupils large and very black. She might 
 have been about nine years old. 
 
 She raised her hands to the back of her neck, un- 
 fastening mysterious strings. Before Miss Mason 
 was aware of her intention, she slid suddenly out of 
 her clothes and stood on the hearthrug before them, 
 naked as the day on which she was born. 
 
 " Bien? " she queried. 
 
 Miss Mason gave a faint shriek. 
 
 " Barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 129 
 
 at once. I never paint a nude model. It is against 
 all my principles to do so. Put on your clothes 
 again at once, child. Barnabas, stop laughing. I 
 know you're perfectly brazen on the subject. Re- 
 member, in spite of my age, I'm an unmarried 
 woman." 
 
 Barnabas picked up a piece of scarlet silk drapery 
 from the model-stand and flung it round the child, 
 who was looking from him to Miss Mason in aston- 
 ishment. When she was enveloped in its folds he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Miss Mason, my child, is not used to seeing little 
 girls in their birthday attire. It surprised her. She 
 has a penchant for petticoats and frocks, to say 
 nothing of stockings. She might, however, be per- 
 suaded to paint you draped as you now are. You 
 look, by the way, uncommonly like a scarlet poppy." 
 
 The child looked gravely at Barnabas. 
 
 " She not paint se altogezzer? " she demanded. 
 
 " Precisely. She does not paint what the immor- 
 tal Trilby termed ' the altogether,' which phrase you 
 have just made your own." 
 
 The child nodded her head. 
 
 " Mais, oui. Some peoples zey do not. I hear 
 Monsieur Thiery say one time it tonte a fait ex- 
 traordinaire zat some peoples 'shamed to look at ze 
 greatest 'andiwork of God. I did not know, me, 
 zat ze peoples who live in ze vrais ateliers zey tink 
 it shame." 
 
 " We all have our little prejudices," said Barna-
 
 130 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 has lightly. " Naked little girls is apparently one 
 of Miss Mason's." 
 
 He smiled whimsically at that lady. 
 
 "Shall we paint this infant?" he asked her. 
 " Can the woolly jackets be put on one side, and 
 may I fetch my palette ? " 
 
 " If you like," said Miss Mason shortly. " It's 
 nice of you not to laugh at my prejudices, Barna- 
 bas." 
 
 " There are moments when I rather like them," 
 he assured her. And he vanished from the studio. 
 
 When he returned it was to find Miss Mason 
 kneeling by a low chair on which the child was 
 seated. The re.d silk was off the shoulders, and 
 Miss Mason was sponging an ugly bruise on the 
 child's back. She turned her head as Barnabas en- 
 tered. 
 
 " Look at this," she said in a low, indignant voice. 
 
 "Who did it?" asked Barnabas. 
 
 " Some brute she calls Mrs. Higgins." Miss Ma- 
 son's voice augured ill for that lady, had she been 
 at hand. 
 
 " Mrs. 'iggins drunk," said the child patiently. 
 " She often drunk. Ver' drunk last night." 
 
 Miss Mason put some ointment on the bruise, and 
 covered it with a piece of soft linen. Then she 
 wrapped the red silk again round the child. She sat 
 down in the big chair and drew the child to her. 
 
 " Now, little one," she said, speaking in French, 
 " tell us all about it."
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 131 
 
 " Oh ! " cried the child rapturously, " you speak 
 French." Her face had gone crimson with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Tell us everything," said Miss Mason. 
 
 It came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. 
 Her name was Pippa. She had lived in Paris with 
 Madame Barbin. Madame Barbin washed clothes 
 till they were white oh, but very white. Pippa 
 had posed for artists. She loved Madame Barbin, 
 but she had died a year, perhaps two years, ago. 
 Madame Fournier had taken care of her then. She 
 did not like Madame Fournier, who was cross. 
 Then Madame Fournier had brought her in a ship 
 to England. Perhaps that was a year ago. Any- 
 how, it was cold weather. They had lived in dif- 
 ferent houses, and finally at Mrs. Higgins' house, 
 and Pippa had posed for different artists in London. 
 Some time in the summer, Madame Fournier had 
 gone away, leaving Pippa with Mrs. Higgins. She 
 had not come back. Mrs. Higgins was angry 
 very angry, according to Pippa. She beat her oc- 
 casionally, but not always very badly. Bruises were 
 likely to be seen on one who poses for " the alto- 
 gether." Lately, however, Mrs. Higgins had been 
 too angry to remember that fact. Hence the bruises 
 of the previous evening. In reply to further ques- 
 tioning it was found that Pippa knew no one she 
 had ever called father or mother. There were only 
 Madame Barbin, Madame Fournier, Mrs. Higgins, 
 and the names of quite a good many well-known ar-
 
 1 32 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 tists for whom she had posed. She also stated that 
 she washed herself every morning, though Mrs. 
 Higgins said it was " un'ealthy." And she washed 
 and dried her underclothes when Mrs. Higgins was 
 away at the public-houses, where she spent most of 
 her time. 
 
 "Yes," Miss Mason nodded. "The child is 
 clean, at all events." 
 
 And then suddenly at the end of the recital, Pippa 
 swayed a little sideways, and if Barnabas had not 
 sprung forward she would have fallen on the hearth- 
 rug. As it was, she lay in his arms, her face dead 
 white against the scarlet folds of silk. In a word, 
 Pippa had fainted. 
 
 Barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and 
 opened the door and windows. Miss Mason fetched 
 brandy and a large cut-glass bottle of smelling-salts, 
 which she held to the child's nose, making a curious 
 clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting 
 that there were no feathers handy to burn. But 
 presently, in spite of the lack of feathers, Pippa 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 Then Barnabas put a question. 
 
 " When did you last have food ? " he asked, 
 watching her. 
 
 Pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and 
 pushed back the dark hair. 
 
 " Yesterday," she said feebly. " Bread and 
 treacle " she rolled the r's in a funny way " at 
 dinner-time."
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 133 
 
 " And nothing since then ! " cried Miss Mason 
 in horror. " Oh ! that Mrs. Higgins ! " 
 
 But Barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing 
 commands to Sally. 
 
 " Bread, Sally, quick. Cut it in small pieces and 
 put them in a saucepan with lots of milk. Is there 
 a good fire? Yes. Ever made bread and milk in 
 your life before?" And Sally flew round. 
 
 Ten minutes later Barnabas and Miss Mason were 
 feeding a small famished girl, who was looking at 
 them as if they were gods from another world, and 
 at the bread and milk as if it were the nectar and 
 ambrosia they had brought with them. 
 
 And when the blue basin was empty Barnabas 
 lifted Pippa in his arms, and guided by Miss Mason, 
 carried her into the inner room, and laid her like a 
 little broken poppy in Miss Mason's bed. Together 
 they tucked her in, and saw the white eyelids close 
 slowly over the great grey eyes. 
 
 Then they went out into the studio. And Barna- 
 bas threw the man's coat and hat, and the old boots 
 into a corner. The other garments he put on the 
 model stand. 
 
 " I shall come back by and by," he said, " and 
 see how the small creature is getting on." 
 
 He looked in twice during the day to find that 
 she was still asleep. It was after sunset when he 
 came the third time, and it was to find her sitting 
 near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and slices 
 of bread and butter, while Miss Mason was telling
 
 134 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 her that most entrancing of fairy tales " The 
 Sleeping Beauty." 
 
 Barnabas sat down and waited. Every now and 
 then he looked at the child with a puzzled expression 
 in his eyes. Suddenly he threw back his head. He 
 very nearly whistled. Something that had eluded 
 him had been discovered. 
 
 The egg and the story were finished. There 
 came a silence. 
 
 The child's eyes wandered round the studio. 
 They lighted on the faded green dress lying on the 
 model stand. A queer little look of sadness that 
 should be foreign to a child's face crept back into 
 her eyes. 
 
 She slid down from her chair, and stood sol- 
 emnly before Miss Mason. 
 
 " I tank you bof ver' much," she said, with a 
 quaint air of courtesy. " But now I put on zem 
 tings and go back to Mrs. 'iggins." 
 
 She smiled a brave little smile, sadder than any 
 tears or protests. 
 
 Barnabas felt a sudden odd grip at his throat. 
 Miss Mason spoke suddenly and firmly. 
 
 " No," she said, " you are not going back to Mrs. 
 Higgins." 
 
 The child looked at her with wondering eyes. 
 
 "You mean ?" she said. 
 
 * That you are going to stay here with me," said 
 Miss Mason decisively. " Barnabas, you must help 
 me to arrange -it."
 
 Princess Pippa Awakes 135 
 
 The child's face quivered. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, with a laugh that held a sob, 
 " I tink I like dat Princess. She sleep and sleep, 
 and she wake up when ze Prince kiss her, and ze 
 world all ver' 'appy. And I so 'appy just all ze 
 same, wisout no Prince kiss me." 
 
 And then Barnabas did a queer thing. He put 
 his arm round the child and kissed her lips.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 AT THE WORLD'S END 
 
 BARELY half an hour after Miss Mason's sud- 
 den decision Barnabas set out for a small and 
 rather unwholesome street somewhere in the direc- 
 tion of the World's End. It was given by Pippa as 
 the locality in which Mrs. Higgins had her resi- 
 dence. 
 
 It was not entirely on Miss Mason's account that 
 Barnabas was anxious to make further enquiries 
 regarding the child. As he walked along the King's 
 Road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from 
 the feet of many passers-by, his mind travelled back 
 to memories which Pippa's face had awakened in 
 him. 
 
 They were memories some fourteen or fifteen 
 years old, of the time when he was a young art stu- 
 dent. A scene he had almost forgotten came clearly 
 back to him. He saw a big class-room full of 
 easels and men working and smoking. He saw 
 himself, very young, very full of enthusiasm, yet at 
 the moment very full of despair. He saw himself 
 looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble 
 attempt to reproduce on canvas the figure of the 
 nude model who was standing on the platform be- 
 
 136
 
 At the World's End 137 
 
 fore him. He saw the master coming near, and 
 heard his words. They were few but sarcastic. 
 He had felt that the whole room was listening to 
 them. First an insane desire to sink into the floor 
 had overwhelmed him, then a feeling that he had 
 better take his canvas and brushes and fling them 
 into the river. It had been mere presumption on 
 his part to dream of art as a career. He had seen 
 the other figures in the room through a kind of 
 hazy blur. The voice of the master as he went 
 from easel to easel had come to him as through 
 cotton-wool. He did not notice that almost equally 
 sarcastic remarks were being levelled at the other 
 canvases, and were being received by their owners 
 with indifference or with good-humoured laughter. 
 He had heard the door close presently as the master 
 left the room. Then he heard a voice at his elbow 
 a curiously musical voice : 
 
 " It's a pity Saltby looks upon sarcasm in the 
 light of instruction in art. He can paint quite de- 
 cently himself, but he has no more notion of teach- 
 ing than a torn cat." 
 
 Barnabas remembered that he had turned to look 
 at the speaker, and had seen a dark foreign-looking 
 man standing beside him. The man had looked at 
 him sharply. 
 
 ' That fellow has worried you," he said. 
 ' They're just calling rest. Come along out and 
 have a smoke." 
 
 Barnabas remembered following him into the cor-
 
 138 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 ridor. He remembered the curious feeling of rest- 
 ful strength the man had given him as they walked 
 up and down together. 
 
 " I'm going to give you a bit of advice," he had 
 said suddenly. " Remember this, that the opinion 
 of one man, even if he happens to be your master, 
 counts for nothing. The moment you touch any 
 art painting, sculpture, music, or literature 
 you're laying yourself open to criticism, and you'll 
 find any amount of it adverse. Don't let it dis- 
 courage you. If you've got the inner conviction 
 that you can do something, forge ahead and do it. 
 Don't be damped by adverse criticism. If you can 
 learn from it, learn; but don't let it kill the germ 
 of belief in yourself." 
 
 " But can't one be mistaken in the belief that one 
 can do something?" Barnabas remembered asking. 
 
 "If you are mistaken you'll find it out for your- 
 self," the man had replied earnestly. " My dear 
 boy, the men who can't, and never will, do anything 
 are those who are so cocksure of themselves that 
 they are impervious to sarcasm and every adverse 
 criticism under the sun. It simply doesn't hurt 
 them. It does hurt us. It touches us on the raw. 
 But we've got to go on. You felt like chucking 
 the whole thing just now. I'll be bound it wasn't 
 exactly that your self-vanity was wounded, but be- 
 cause you felt that it had been utterly presumptuous 
 of you ever to have attempted to lift your eyes to 
 the Immortal Goddess. My dear boy, she loves,
 
 At the World's End 139 
 
 men to look at her and worship her, from however 
 far off. It's those who say they are paying her 
 homage, but who all the time are looking at and 
 worshipping themselves, for whom she has no use. 
 Go on worshipping her. Keep big ideas before you 
 and one day you may get near the foot of her 
 throne. It's not given to many to touch her knees. 
 But to worship at the foot of the throne is some- 
 thing. Why, even to look at her from afar is worth 
 years of struggle. Saltby keeps one eye on her I 
 grant, but he keeps the other on himself, and it 
 makes him the damned conceited and sarcastic ass 
 he is. . . ." 
 
 Barnabas seemed to hear the voice distinctly, to 
 feel the magnetism of the man vyho had spoken the 
 words so many years ago. 
 
 He remembered later in the evening hearing two 
 students speaking of the man. 
 
 " Kostolitz is a weird chap," one had said ; " mad 
 as a hatter." 
 
 " Spends half his time like a tramp," said the 
 other, " going around the country and writing 
 poetry, and the other half in sculpting. Every now 
 and then he takes it into his head to come in here 
 and draw a bit. He says it freshens him up to see 
 beginners on their way to fame." 
 
 Barnabas remembered that Kostolitz had come 
 to him at the end of the morning and had suggested 
 their walking back to Chelsea together. It had been 
 the beginning of their friendship.
 
 140 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 The man's face came persistently before him 
 this evening as he pursued his way towards the 
 World's End. 
 
 Other little speeches of his returned to his mind. 
 " I love colour," he seemed to hear him saying, 
 " but I can't work in paints. They aren't my 
 medium. I want to get to the solid. Give me a 
 lump of clay and I'm happy. It's nonsense to say 
 there's only colour in actual coloured things. 
 There is colour in everything words, music, 
 thoughts the world's steeped in colour if you can 
 only see it. Why, man, it may seem odd to you, 
 but people even give me the sense of colour. Per- 
 haps it's the old Eastern idea of auras, I don't 
 know. Anyhow, that idea is too mixed up with 
 spiritualism and closed rooms to appeal to me. 
 Give me the open air, the sunshine, flowers, and 
 singing birds. I can believe in fairies, gnomes, the 
 People of the Wind, and the People of the Trees, 
 anything that is of the Spirit of Nature. There 
 they sit together Nature and Art the two 
 great goddesses, bless them; and men try to sepa- 
 rate Art from Nature. They can't, man, I tell you 
 they can't." 
 
 Barnabas could almost see the man's eyes pas- 
 sionate grey eyes fixed on him as he remembered 
 the words. And it was the memory of those eyes 
 that Pippa's eyes had awakened in him, and with 
 their memory had brought the other scenes before 
 him. The memory had awakened as he had
 
 At the World's End 141 
 
 watched her listening entranced to the story of 
 " The Sleeping Beauty." He had seen the eyes of 
 his friend Kostolitz looking at him from the small 
 pale face, and suddenly he had seen the whole won- 
 derful likeness the child bore to the man. Kosto- 
 litz was dead, had been dead now many years. Had 
 he left behind him this scrap of humanity, holding 
 perhaps a spirit as poetical and intense as his own, 
 to battle with the world? If it were so, for the 
 sake of that friendship, it must be protected. And 
 something told Barnabas that he was not mistaken 
 in his belief. 
 
 He turned now into the small dark street. He 
 found the house whose number Pippa had given 
 him, and knocked on the door. It was opened by 
 a large, slatternly woman with a watery eye. 
 
 " That you, Pippa? " she exclaimed. " 'Ere, you 
 come in, and I'll give you somethink staying hout 
 like this." 
 
 Then she saw Barnabas. Visions of N.S.P.C.C. 
 inspectors rose suddenly before her mind. Mrs. 
 Higgins quailed inwardly. 
 
 " Well ? " she asked, and her voice was truculent 
 because her spirit was quaking, " and wot can I do 
 for you, sir? " 
 
 " Am I," asked Barnabas suavely, " addressing 
 Mrs. Higgins? " 
 
 " That's my nime," replied the lady, arms 
 akimbo. 
 
 " I believe," continued Barnabas, still suavely,
 
 142 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " that you have had charge of a child a little 
 girl named Pippa." 
 
 " I 'ave," said Mrs. Higgins defiantly, " and a 
 more hungrateful, huntruthful, little baggage I 
 hain't never set heyes on. Hif you 'ave hanythink 
 to say about 'er, per'aps you'll kindly step hinside." 
 
 Barnabas stepped into the small passage. It was 
 ill-smelling, redolent of dirt and boiled cabbage. 
 Mrs. Higgins herself breathed gin. She was, how- 
 ever, at the moment tolerably sober. 
 
 " I understand," said Barnabas, " that she came 
 here with a Madame Fournier." 
 
 Mrs. Higgins blazed. " She did. A French 
 'uzzy wot took and disappeared last June, leaving 
 me with 'er child. Friend's child she called it. I 
 know them gimes. Just about as much a friend's 
 child as Madame 'ad a right to 'er title or 'er ring 
 wot she wore so conspikus, I'll be bound. Leaving 
 me with the child on me 'ands, wot I kep' from 
 charity, and never so much has a penny piece to 
 pay for 'er keep but wot she gets from them hartists 
 as she goes to." 
 
 " Then the child," asked Barnabas, " is no rela- 
 tion of yours? " 
 
 " Relation of mine ! " cried Mrs. Higgins indig- 
 nantly and virtuously. " Do yer think hif she be- 
 longed to me as I'd allow 'er to be standing naked 
 fer men to look at. I'm a respectable woman, I am, 
 I thanks the Halmighty." Mrs. Higgins ended 
 with a loud sniff.
 
 At the World's End 143 
 
 Barnabas suddenly felt a sensation of almost 
 physical nausea. He seemed to hear Kostolitz's 
 voice begging him to leave the place, to get away 
 from the filth of the atmosphere, and above all 
 never to let the child return to it. 
 
 " Then," said Barnabas decisively, " you will no 
 doubt be glad to be relieved from the burden of 
 maintaining her. She will not return here, and she 
 will be provided for." 
 
 Mrs. Higgins gasped at the suddenness of the 
 statement She felt something like dismay. She 
 saw Pippa's earnings, which had added largely to 
 her weekly income, disappearing in the distance. 
 
 " And 'ow about the hexpense I've been put 
 to ! " she exclaimed. " Yer don't feed a growing 
 child for six months fer nothink, and me as kind 
 to 'er as hif I'd been 'er own mother." Mrs. Hig- 
 gins began to sob here, moved to tears by the mem- 
 ory of her own tenderness. 
 
 Barnabas' mouth set grimly. 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Higgins," he remarked, " that the 
 less you say about your treatment of the child 
 the better. As far as her keep is concerned her 
 own earnings have no doubt paid you more than 
 adequately for the food you have given her. As 
 however you will lose them in the future " 
 
 He pulled two sovereigns from his pocket. 
 
 ' Take these," he said briefly, " and good 
 evening." 
 
 He turned from the house leaving Mrs. Higgins
 
 144 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 gaping and astonished. It is a mercy when the 
 Mrs. Higginses of the world can be thus easily 
 disposed of. 
 
 Barnabas walked away down the street, marvel- 
 ling at the fact that man had originally been created 
 by God in His own image. 
 
 He went straight back to studio number seven, 
 where he found Miss Mason anxiously awaiting 
 him. He sat down and gave her a brief account 
 of his search and its results, omitting, however, 
 a description of the dirt and smells. 
 
 " And so," he ended, smiling, " you mean to keep 
 this waif?" 
 
 " I couldn't let her go," said Miss Mason. " Did 
 you see her eyes ? " 
 
 Barnabas had. But the look in them had hurt 
 him too much for him to care to think about it. 
 So he merely said lightly : 
 
 " Where is she now ? " 
 
 " Asleep on half a dozen cushions and among 
 blankets on the floor of my room. She has had 
 a bath and been wrapped again in that red silk. 
 She'll have to live in it till I can get her some more 
 clothes. I've burnt the others, and put the hat, 
 coat, and boots in the dust hole. In spite of her 
 poor little attempts at cleanliness, one never knows." 
 
 " One does not," said Barnabas grimly, thinking 
 of the house she had come from. " May I smoke ? " 
 he asked.
 
 At the World's End 145 
 
 " Certainly," said Miss Mason. She liked the 
 scent of tobacco in her studio. She felt it to be 
 part and parcel of Bohemia. 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 Miss Mason was thinking of the child lying 
 asleep in the next room. She had an odd feeling 
 that the Fates had sent Pippa directly to her that 
 she might in a way atone to herself for her own 
 lonely childhood by making this morsel of human- 
 ity happy. She had already begun to weave the 
 dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers. 
 
 And Barnabas' thoughts had again travelled back 
 to his friend Kostolitz, and the thoughts made his 
 eyes grave and a little sad. 
 
 " I am going over to Paris to-morrow," he said 
 suddenly, breaking the silence. 
 
 " Yes ? " queried Miss Mason. 
 
 " You know that oil-portrait that hangs by my 
 mantelpiece?" he asked. " Doesn't a likeness 
 strike you? " 
 
 Miss Mason looked up. She felt suddenly a 
 little anxious. 
 
 "Of course," she said slowly. " I never thought 
 of it before. It's the image of Pippa." 
 
 Barnabas nodded. 
 
 " I saw it when I came back into the studio and 
 found her at tea." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Who is the portrait ? " asked Miss Mason. 
 
 " A man I knew long ago," said Barnabas.
 
 146 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " His name was Philippe Kostolitz. He was a 
 strange man an Hungarian. He was a true 
 vagabond, yet certainly of good birth. I knew 
 nothing of his people, if he had any. He was half 
 gipsy and wholly artist. The statue of the little 
 faun in my garden is his work. He gave it to me. 
 We were great friends." 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Mason softly. " And where is 
 he now ? " 
 
 Barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. He 
 had been baptized a Catholic, and in spite of his 
 present rather Pagan views regarding life he had 
 retained this beautiful custom. There was an in- 
 nate instinct of reverence in Barnabas. 
 
 " In Paradise I hope. He was killed nine years 
 ago in a railway accident. It was a horribly pro- 
 saic ending for a man whose whole nature was 
 the essence of poetry." 
 
 Miss Mason was silent. After a moment she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Then you think that Pippa " she broke off. 
 
 She was looking straight at Barnabas. 
 
 " I don't know," he said bluntly. " The likeness 
 is extraordinary. In Paris I might find out some- 
 thing from the artists for whom she posed. I know 
 one or two of them personally." 
 
 " Thank yon," said Miss Mason. " The journey, 
 of course, will be my affair." 
 
 " That," said Barnabas, " is pure nonsense. If 
 Pippa you see, Kostolitz was my friend."
 
 At the World's End 147 
 
 " But I wish it," said Miss Mason. And some- 
 thing in her voice made Barnabas give way. 
 
 Ten minutes or so later he left the studio. 
 
 Before Miss Mason put out her light that night 
 she went across to the heap of cushions and blankets 
 and looked at Pippa. She touched her cheek 
 gently with one wrinkled hand. It was long before 
 Miss Mason slept. She lay awake listening to the 
 regular sound of the child's breathing. 
 
 The morning, with the variability of English 
 weather, broke still and sunny, a touch of frost in 
 the air. 
 
 Barnabas looked in at Miss Mason's studio be- 
 fore he left for Paris. 
 
 He found that lady sitting in her chair knitting. 
 Pippa was curled up on the hearthrug, the red silk 
 tightly swathing her slim body. A pair of shoes 
 and stockings of Sally's, many sizes too big for 
 her, covered her feet. She was watching Miss 
 Mason with the eyes of an adoring puppy. 
 
 She scrambled to her feet as she saw Barnabas. 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried, a note of great pleasure in her 
 voice. " It is ze so sunny Monsieur. I wis you 
 good morning." 
 
 Barnabas came over and stood on the hearthrug. 
 
 " I'm just off," he said. 
 
 " I knew you'd look in," said Miss Mason. " I 
 waited for you before going out to buy garments." 
 
 "Going away?" asked Pippa, looking at him
 
 148 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 with troubled eyes. She had had experience of 
 people who went away and did not return. 
 
 " Only for a few days, and mainly on business 
 which concerns you, little one," he replied. 
 
 Pippa gave a relieved sigh. 
 
 " Come back ver' quick," she said. And then 
 suddenly : " What is your name ? " 
 
 He laughed. " You must call me Barnabas," he 
 said. 
 
 She nodded her head. " Monsieur Barnabas," 
 she said slowly. Then she turned to Miss Mason. 
 " What sail I call you ? " she asked. 
 
 A sudden little tender thought sprang into Miss 
 Mason's mind. She put it aside. 
 
 " You can call me," she said rather gruffly, 
 " Aunt Olive." 
 
 Again the child nodded her head. " Aunt Oleeve 
 and Monsieur Barnabas, c'est bon." She looked an 
 odd little elfin figure as she stood there watching 
 them. 
 
 " I must be off," said Barnabas. " I've no time 
 to lose." 
 
 Pippa came to the door with him. 
 
 " Bon voyage," she cried, waving her hand. 
 And then suddenly she saw the marble faun in the 
 next garden. 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried. " Quel beau petit gargon ! " 
 She darted down one path and up another. 
 
 The last thing Barnabas saw, as he looked back 
 before leaving the courtyard, was a poppy-coloured
 
 At the World's End 149 
 
 figure standing in the wintry sunshine beside a 
 white marble faun. The child had her arms fa- 
 miliarly round the faun's neck. 
 
 He painted that picture later when the days were 
 warmer. It was a picture that was to travel far 
 away from England, and it was to keep alive in 
 the heart of a woman the memory of a secret a 
 secret of three weeks of glorious happiness and 
 a strange regret a secret known only to herself 
 and to three other living people.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 VARIOUS MATTERS 
 
 AND so Barnabas departed to Paris in the at- 
 tempt to find some clue regarding the scrap of 
 humanity which the Fates had led to Miss Mason's 
 studio. It was not that Miss Mason cared in the 
 smallest degree what her parentage was. She was 
 just a lonely little soul needing love, and so Miss 
 Mason had taken her into her arms and into her 
 big heart. Dan had once said of Miss Mason, and 
 only shortly after making her acquaintance : 
 
 " I veritably believe that woman has the biggest 
 hands, the biggest feet, and the biggest heart of 
 any woman in Christendom." And the more he 
 knew of her the more convinced he felt of the truth 
 of his statement. 
 
 But even a big heart is not entirely sufficient 
 guarantee for taking possession of a small girl. 
 One can no more pick one up and keep it than one 
 can pick up a valuable ornament and place it on 
 one's mantelpiece. At any rate, if one did there 
 would always be the uncomfortable feeling that the 
 rightful owner might one day walk casually up to 
 it and say : 
 
 " That is mine." 
 
 150
 
 Various Matters 151 
 
 Barnabas understood this, and therefore he had 
 gone off to Paris to see if there were any likelihood 
 of a rightful owner turning up one day to claim 
 Pippa. It was wiser that Miss Mason should not 
 get too attached to her possession before he had 
 made sure on that point. Also there was the 
 memory of Philippe Kostolitz. 
 
 But while he was gone Miss Mason petted the 
 child to her heart's content, bought dainty under- 
 garments and charming frocks, and played that de- 
 lightful game of " mother," which is a game all 
 women have played throughout eternity at some 
 time in their lives, even if it is only played with a 
 rag doll wrapped in a shawl. 
 
 And while she was playing, and while Pippa 
 was enjoying the game almost as much as she was 
 and revelling in frilly petticoats, long black 
 stockings, buckled shoes, and soft green frocks 
 green seemed to belong to her, for some reason, 
 as a matter of course the other five artists of the 
 courtyard were living their lives, painting their 
 pictures, smoking their pipes, and being happy or 
 miserable according to their moods. 
 
 And it is perhaps safe to say, though a great pity 
 to have to say it, that Jasper's mood of the last 
 six months had been one of utter depression. 
 
 At first, when he had walked away from the 
 ugly little house in Chiswick, he had felt in spite 
 of the shock he had received at Bridget's unex- 
 pected attitude towards him a certain exultation
 
 1 52 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 in the thought that duty would never compel him 
 to take that route again. He told himself that he 
 rejoiced in his freedom, but after a day or so he 
 had found it necessary to emphasize that point 
 to himself with a certain degree of insistence. 
 Phrases she had used began to return to his mind 
 at odd moments. In the midst of painting an 
 angel's wing, or trying to concentrate on the 
 beatific expression of some saint's face, he would 
 suddenly hear her voice : 
 
 " I wanted to ask your help, to tell you what 
 I had suffered. I could not." 
 
 And again, when painting some piece of flame- 
 coloured drapery, he would hear the words: 
 
 " How did you try to help me ? By talking 
 calm platitudes through a kind of moral disin- 
 fectant sheet which you held between us " 
 
 And yet again, as he tried for the strength of 
 courage in the face of the warrior angel, he would 
 hear her saying: 
 
 " You have not had the manhood to help me." 
 
 It angered him that she should come between 
 him and his work. He had loved it. He had felt 
 a kind of mystical joy in it, in the knowledge 
 that his work would adorn the houses of God, 
 and that the saints he painted would look down 
 upon the altar where the priest commemorated 
 the Great Sacrifice. Sometimes in his more 
 intense moments he had fancied himself an 
 incarnation of one of the old painters who
 
 Various Matters 153 
 
 portrayed for sheer love of God dancing saints 
 garlanded with flowers. He did not know that 
 his own work lacked that child-like joy, and that 
 its asceticism was hard and cold. 
 
 But now the memory of the house in Chiswick, 
 which he used to banish easily from his thoughts, 
 came again and again before his mind to prevent 
 him working. He began to leave his studio and 
 go for long walks, only returning when it was too 
 dark to paint. And his fellow-artists wondered 
 what possessed him, and would have welcomed 
 one of his priggish speeches rather than this 
 moody silence. 
 
 And Alan Farley, the other artist who fancied 
 himself a mystic, painted a few pictures when the 
 inspiration was upon him, pictures which re- 
 mained to adorn his own studio walls, as they 
 were incomprehensible to any one but himself 
 and to one other a girl, Aurora Castleton, in 
 whom Alan found a kindred soul. They fre- 
 quented each other's studios, and talked of " the 
 true spirit," and " the deeper meaning," and " the 
 virtue of symbolism," and lamented that the public 
 were too blind to realize the inner beauty 
 which they were kindly interpreting for them on 
 canvas. They found, however, a great deal of 
 consolation and pleasure in each other's society. 
 And a Small Boy with drooping wings sat mourn- 
 fully in a corner and heard them talk, knowing 
 that he alone could give them the true key to the
 
 154 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 meaning of Beauty a key that the most ignorant 
 could understand. But they refused to look at 
 him. Even his arrows were useless, for the cloak 
 of High Art with which the two had surrounded 
 themselves seems to be the one thing that is 
 impervious to them. 
 
 And Dan plodded on with his Messonier-like 
 paintings and missed Barnabas a good deal, in 
 spite of the fact that he had been gone barely 
 three days. And Michael did wonderful line 
 work, and wrote little cynical essays for a small 
 magazine that scoffed at love as sentimental. 
 
 But Paul was absorbed in his portrait of the 
 Duchessa, and in the wonderful music his heart 
 heard, the meaning of which was beginning to 
 dawn on his soul. 
 
 The Duchessa had given him her own ideas 
 regarding the portrait the first morning she had 
 come to the studio. She had told him about the 
 Cassa di Corleone, and the courtyard with the 
 golden oranges and marble fauns and nymphs, 
 and the gallery where her portrait was to hang. 
 
 "I want it," she had said, "to be a wee bit 
 just the weest bit in the world flaunting. The 
 women of the House of Corleone are haughty and 
 disdainful. They are too proud to show their 
 feelings. If they ever loved the courtyard and the 
 sunshine, they would have scorned to show it. 
 They have scorned me often for loving it. I 
 have seen you may laugh at me if you like
 
 Various Matters 155 
 
 their lips curl when my heart has danced for joy 
 as I have stood in the gallery and watched the 
 sunlight stream through the big hall door. 
 I can't hang there meekly accepting their scorn. 
 I want to defy them. They may think the place 
 theirs, and be calmly satisfied in their possession 
 of it, and they may look upon me as an alien. 
 But it is mine, mine, mine. I want them to know 
 it not aggressively, you realize but with just 
 the tiniest bit of assurance that there's no mis- 
 take at all." 
 
 And Paul had responded to her mood as a 
 violin responds to the master-hand that draws the 
 bow across its strings. He had sketched her in on 
 the canvas almost as she had spoken the words, 
 standing there with her head just a trifle thrown 
 back, a little gleam of fascinating devilry in her 
 eyes. 
 
 They had nearly come to loggerheads regarding 
 her dress, however. She wished it to be scarlet, 
 in contrast to the black dresses and sombre 
 colours of the haughty ladies already in the 
 gallery. Paul wished it to be blue. In the end 
 she had had her will. It was not often that Sara, 
 Duchessa di Corleone, failed in accomplishing it. 
 , Perhaps the most noticeable characteristic of 
 Sara was her vivid magnetism. Every separate 
 burnished hair of her head seemed to possess it. 
 Her eyes possessed it, her smile possessed it, her 
 voice a low contralto possessed it. Her pres-
 
 156 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 ence dominated a room the moment she entered 
 it, even if she did not speak a word, and Sara 
 possessed a curious gift for silences. They were 
 sudden and unaccountable silences, more dis- 
 concerting and full of magnetism than speech. 
 She lapsed into them often with Paul. They 
 came as a sudden and odd interruption to her 
 flow of sparkling talk. She had a trick of making 
 the most ordinary words sparkle. Water, after 
 all, is only water, but it can look very different in 
 sunshine from beneath a grey sky. 
 
 And perhaps for the first time Paul found 
 himself at a loss to read the character she pre- 
 sented to him. Probably because he could not 
 appreciate it sufficiently calmly. The music in 
 his heart distracted him, and the tune was clearer 
 and sweeter when she was near. He knew its 
 meaning now, and it filled him with happiness 
 and pain happiness because it is the most 
 beautiful music in the world to those who hear 
 it, and pain because it somehow seemed to 
 emphasize his own loneliness. And because he 
 had always been lonely a certain feeling had come 
 to him of being not wanted. It was not exactly 
 diffidence, not the outcome of shyness, but merely 
 a certainty that he made no difference to the 
 scheme of happiness in others; in fact, that it 
 probably worked more easily without him. 
 He could not imagine himself as essential to 
 anyone, and never in his wildest dreams could he
 
 Various Matters 157 
 
 have imagined himself as essential to the woman 
 who had suddenly become the centre of his 
 universe. 
 
 One evening Barnabas returned and walked into 
 Miss Mason's studio. He came right over to the 
 fire and sat down. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, looking at him very 
 anxiously. The game of " mother " can gain an 
 extraordinary fascination in a very few days. 
 
 " I have found out one thing," said Barnabas, 
 " that is a curious coincidence at all events. The 
 child's real name is Philippa." 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Mason slowly. 
 
 " I went to different studios," went on Bar- 
 nabas, " but the artists knew nothing beyond the 
 fact that the child had lived with Madame Barbin. 
 Then I went to the houses she had tenanted. 
 The neighbours told me she was a kind old soul, 
 and two of them at least averred that they re- 
 membered the advent of Pippa to the house when 
 a baby of a few weeks old. They declare that 
 an English lady brought her to Madame Barbin, 
 and that Madame Barbin received money for the 
 child's keep. Madame Fournier was a relation of 
 Madame Barbin's a niece, they believed. They 
 did not know where her home was beyond that 
 it was somewhere in Brittany. She came occa- 
 sionally to visit Madame Barbin, and was with her 
 when she died. Their theory is that Madame
 
 158 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Fournier took possession of the child in order to 
 receive the allowance made for her. It was 
 sent to Madame Barbin, and she returned a 
 receipt and statement that the child was alive 
 and well. That, at least, is the neighbour's story. 
 But they had no notion from whom the money 
 came. The people who sent it must certainly 
 have trusted Madame Barbin implicitly. Accord- 
 ing to the neighbours, she deserved the trust. 
 Madame Fournier no doubt took on the job 
 and abandoned the child as soon as she could 
 conveniently do so. To receive the money 
 without having to provide for the child has 
 evidently appealed to her mind as a method of 
 procedure more advantageous to herself." 
 
 Barnabas stopped. 
 
 " And how did you find out that the child's real 
 name was Philippa?" asked Miss Mason. 
 
 " A woman named Madame Paulet volunteered 
 the information," said Barnabas. " She told me 
 that Madame Barbin had said that the child had 
 first been christened Philippa according to the 
 rites of the English Church. But being a devout 
 Catholic, Madame Barbin evidently didn't trust to 
 an English baptism. She had the child re-baptized. 
 I saw the priest who performed the ceremony. 
 She was then, he said, about two months old. 
 Madame Barbin had told him that she did not 
 know the name of the child's parents. She
 
 Various Matters 159 
 
 received money quarterly for her maintenance. 
 She did tell him the name of the woman who sent 
 it, but as it was told under the seal of confession 
 he couldn't have given it to me even if he had 
 remembered it. But he had forgotten." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 " Then," said Mason slowly, " Pippa is a 
 Catholic. 
 
 " Yes," said Barnabas. " You are sorry ? " 
 
 " I am old-fashioned," said Miss Mason. " But 
 after all it is the same God we worship." 
 
 " And if," said Barnabas, " she is Philippe's 
 child, as I believe, he would be glad. He was a 
 devout Catholic with a strange mixture of Pagan- 
 ism. I believe that for him the altars of Pan and 
 Christ were built side by side." 
 
 Miss Mason looked at Barnabas with a little 
 twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 " You'll have to take her to church," she 
 said. 
 
 Barnabas laughed. " You think that after all 
 there may be some advantage in her baptism ? " 
 
 Again there was a silence. Then Barnabas 
 spoke. 
 
 " If Philippe were her father, and I can't help 
 feeling sure of it, he must have died some months 
 before her birth. Possibly before he knew that 
 she was even thought of." 
 
 And then Miss Mason put a question, one
 
 160 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 which had been in the minds of both of them 
 throughout that conversation at least, but, being a 
 woman, it was she who voiced it. 
 
 " I wonder," she said quietly, " who was her 
 mother?" 
 
 " Exactly," said Barnabas. 
 
 And because he had loved Philippe Kostolitz 
 he said no more. But his eyes again grew sad. 
 For Barnabas held very straight views on some 
 subjects, and he dreaded lest the whiteness of his 
 friend's honour had been in the smallest degree 
 smirched.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A QUESTION OF COLOUR 
 
 PIPPA became part of the life of the six artists 
 of the courtyard, and they all wondered, if 
 they ever thought about the matter at all, however 
 they had managed to get on without her. 
 
 She seemed to belong in some special way to 
 Barnabas. That fact was one of mutual recogni- 
 tion. Michael found himself stopping suddenly 
 in the middle of his cynical little speeches when 
 she was present. It is impossible to be cynical 
 with a child's eyes fixed on one, drinking in every 
 word. Dan kept her supplied with chocolates, 
 and gave her a grey kitten. Jasper painted her 
 a picture of the Blessed Virgin. It was the first 
 painting he had done for weeks past without the 
 memory of the house in Chiswick coming as an 
 interruption to his thoughts. The picture, too, 
 held a tenderness not seen in his previous paint- 
 ings. Paul, for a wonder, allowed her to see his 
 unfinished work, and found amusement in her 
 naive criticisms. One criticism to be related 
 presently was somewhat of a revelation. Alan 
 studied her deeply, saying that the innocent 
 unfolding of a child's mind was one of the greatest 
 
 161
 
 1 62 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 marvels of creation. Her remarks on colour 
 honestly interested him. And in them Barnabas 
 felt more than ever convinced that she was the 
 child of his friend Philippe Kostolitz. 
 
 She used to announce quite gravely that people 
 were like colours. Miss Mason she designated as 
 "couleur de rose." Barnabas himself she said 
 was gold " all sparkling like sunshine." Paul 
 she insisted was like the purple light that fell 
 across the river at night. Dan was green like the 
 leaves of chrysanthemum foliage. Alan was the 
 colour of the sea. Michael was grey and red. 
 And she refused to assign any colour to Jasper. 
 But when coaxed by Barnabas she confessed it 
 was because he was quite grey, and no pretty colour 
 at all. 
 
 One day about the middle of February Pippa 
 lunched with Paul. He announced that he 
 wished her to see the portrait of the Duchessa di 
 Corleone. The Duchessa herself, who had been 
 away since Christmas, was coming for what would 
 probably be a last sitting at two o'clock that 
 afternoon. 
 
 "Well?" said Paul, standing near the luncheon 
 table while Pippa gazed upon the portrait, "what 
 do you think of it? " 
 
 Pippa wrinkled up her forehead. 
 
 " I don't know," she said slowly, and she came 
 across to the table looking at Paul with perplexed 
 eyes.
 
 A Question of Colour 163 
 
 " Evidently," said Paul, a trifle disappointed, 
 " it doesn't meet with your approval." 
 
 " I don't know," said Pippa again, still looking 
 puzzled. And then she saw the luncheon-table. 
 " Chicken and meringues " she rolled the " r " 
 in her funny way " how lovely ! " 
 
 " The lunch," said Paul, " unquestionably appeals 
 to you far more than the portrait." 
 
 Pippa did not reply. But during the meal she 
 kept looking from the portrait to Paul, as if she 
 might find in his face some explanation of her 
 perplexity. 
 
 They were drinking their coffee, which Pippa 
 loved, when Paul's man announced the Duch- 
 essa. 
 
 The whole atmosphere of the studio seemed 
 suddenly to sparkle with her entrance. Paul 
 sprang to his feet. There was a light in his eyes 
 of which the meanest intelligence might have 
 recognized the interpretation. 
 
 " I am punctual to the moment," she said. 
 " And how are you ? It is six weeks since we've 
 met." Then she saw Pippa. 
 
 " And who," she asked, " is this? " 
 
 " Pippa," said Paul gravely, " may I introduce 
 you to the Duchessa di Corleone." 
 
 Pippa held out her hand. 
 
 " Pippa ? " queried the Duchessa, with the tiniest 
 and most adorable lift of her eyebrows. 
 
 " Just Pippa," said Paul.
 
 164 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Sara sat down. " Finish your coffee," she said. 
 " And may I have a cup? " 
 
 Paul seized the kettle. It was the first time 
 she would have partaken of food or drink in his 
 studio. It marked, in his mind, an epoch. 
 
 " Don't make fresh coffee," she begged. 
 
 " It is a pleasure," he said. " It is one of the 
 few achievements of which I am justly proud." 
 
 Pippa was gazing at the Duchessa with wide 
 grey eyes. The perplexity in them had vanished. 
 
 " Well, Pippa," asked Sara, " and what do you 
 think of my portrait?" 
 
 " I know now," said Pippa firmly. " Ze colour 
 is wrong." 
 
 Paul, who was stirring the coffee in a jug, 
 paused a moment to look at her. 
 
 " The colour ? " he queried. 
 
 Pippa nodded. " The picture," she said, " is 
 red. She " Pippa looked at the Duchessa 
 " is blue. Oh, but very blue, like like zat." 
 She pointed towards a sapphire vase on Paul's 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 Paul and Sara looked at each other. There 
 was the tiniest just the very tiniest look of 
 triumph in Paul's eyes. 
 
 Sara laughed outright. " Mr. Treherne," she 
 said, " aren't you longing to say * I told you 
 so'?" 
 
 " I think," replied Paul, " Pippa has said it for 
 me."
 
 A Question of Colour 165 
 
 Sara turned to Pippa. 
 
 " Then," she said, " it is the colour of the dress 
 that is wrong?" 
 
 Again Pippa nodded. 
 
 " Sometimes ze dresses zey not matter," she 
 said thoughtfully, " but for you ze real oh, but 
 it hurt." She clasped her hands against her heart 
 with a little tragic gesture. 
 
 " What's to be done ? " asked Sara as Paul 
 handed her the coffee. 
 
 " Re-paint the dress, and the whole portrait if 
 necessary," he replied promptly. 
 
 "Oh, but the time, and your trouble!" cried 
 Sara. " I couldn't think of it. Besides, it was 
 my own fault," she added contritely. 
 
 It struck neither of them as odd that they 
 should so implicitly accept Pippa's criticism. 
 
 " I shall only," said Paul, " be doing what I 
 originally wished to do, if you will forgive me for 
 saying so. The question is whether you will be 
 too bored with further sittings?" 
 
 A faint rose-colour stole over the ivory of the 
 Duchessa's face. 
 
 " On the contrary," she said lightly, " I shall 
 be very happy. I have " she paused the 
 merest fraction of a second " not been bored at 
 all." 
 
 She drank her coffee and put down the cup. 
 Pippa got up from her chair. She knew the 
 moment to make herself scarce. Long acquaint-
 
 1 66 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 ance with studios and the work of artists had 
 taught her. 
 
 She held out her hand to the Duchessa. 
 
 " I like you," she said. " I like you ver' much. 
 Please come to tea wis me one day you and 
 Monsieur Paul." 
 
 " But," said the Duchessa, " Christopher is 
 coming for me at half-past three." 
 
 Paul's face, which had been very gay, fell 
 suddenly. Christopher's name troubled him. He 
 was on such delightfully for him easy terms 
 with the Duchessa. 
 
 " But bring Monsieur Christopher too," said 
 Pippa calmly. 
 
 The Duchessa looked at Paul. 
 
 "But where does she live?" she asked. 
 "And may we accept this invitation wholesale?" 
 
 " By all means," Paul assured her. " Pippa 
 lives in studio number seven with Miss Mason, 
 don't you, Pippa? And we all invade that studio 
 at any hour. Miss Mason ties up cuts, finds new 
 servants for us when our old ones get out of hand, 
 administers hot concoctions of her own brewing 
 when any of us have colds, in short, mothers us 
 all round. And Pippa gives us excellent advice as 
 to the colour of our socks and ties. We really 
 don't care to think of what we were before Aunt 
 Olive and Pippa took us in hand." 
 
 " So you will come ? " said Pippa, standing near 
 the door.
 
 A Question of Colour 167 
 
 Paul went over to open it for her. 
 
 " Yes, we'll come," he said. 
 
 " The Duchessa, you, and Monsieur Chris- 
 topher," said Pippa gaily. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Paul, an odd inflexion in his 
 voice, " no doubt Monsieur Christopher will come 
 too." 
 
 He held the door open, and Pippa went out. 
 
 Then he came back to the Duchessa. She had 
 heard the inflexion in his voice, and a little light 
 of comprehension had sprung to her eyes. 
 
 "Ah!" she breathed softly to herself. Then 
 she looked up at Paul. 
 
 " And now," she said, " are you ready for the 
 metamorphosis to re-paint me as a blue lady ? "
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS AGAIN 
 
 AND so it was that Pippa's impulsive invita- 
 tion brought the lady of the blue dress once 
 more into Miss Mason's surroundings. 
 
 And with her advent came one of the brightest 
 threads which the Fates were using to weave into 
 the hitherto sombre pattern of her life. For 
 there is never any knowing what the Fates will 
 do. For years the woof of their weaving may be 
 utterly grey, but if the warp has kept firm and 
 strong they may suddenly take the brightest 
 colours a very crazy patchwork of them and 
 weave them into the most intricate and curious 
 pattern imaginable. And because the strength 
 of the warp of this life pleased them, they were 
 now choosing the most fantastically coloured 
 threads in the weaving of the woof. 
 
 Pippa told Miss Mason of the invitation she had 
 issued, and then went to wash her hands and 
 brush her hair. There was no need to change her 
 dress. She had already put on her prettiest frock 
 to lunch with Paul. 
 
 Just before half-past three there was a knock at 
 the door. Pippa looked up expectant. But it was 
 only Barnabas. 
 
 168
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress Again 169 
 
 " Hullo ! " he said, coming in and seeing the 
 tea-things on the table Sally would be occupied 
 with hot cakes at the last moment " you're 
 expecting company." 
 
 " The Duchessa di Corleone, Monsieur Paul, and 
 Monsieur Christopher," Pippa told him. 
 
 " Shall I be in the way ? " asked Barnabas, 
 looking at Miss Mason, " or may I stay ? " 
 
 " You are never in the way," said Miss Mason 
 decisively. 
 
 Pippa sat down near him and slid one hand into 
 his. And Miss Mason looked at them, and thought 
 that only a year ago, and perhaps at that very 
 hour, she had been sitting in a stiff drawing-room 
 furnished with hideous chairs and ornamented 
 with wax flowers under glass shades, listening to 
 a long and minute account of Miss Stanhope's ill- 
 health, sleeplessness, and want of appetite. And 
 because the contrast was so very great, her eyes 
 grew a trifle misty with unshed happy tears, and 
 she said a little prayer, that was certainly more 
 Catholic than her distinctly Broad Church views 
 realized, for Miss Stanhope's present welfare. 
 
 And then suddenly voices were heard outside the 
 studio, a woman's voice which Miss Mason seemed 
 to recognize, and a man laughing. 
 
 The next moment Sally opened the door. Her 
 eyes were round with awe. 
 
 " The Duchess " the next words were 
 
 indistinguishable " Mr. Charlton, and Mr. Tre-
 
 170 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 herne," she gasped. Already in her mind she was 
 telling Jim that she had had the honour of usher- 
 ing a real live Duchess into the studio. 
 
 The Duchessa di Corleone came into the room. 
 Then she gave a little exclamation of astonishment 
 and went forwards with outstretched hands. 
 
 " My fairy godmother ! " she cried. And she 
 was nearer truth than she had any idea as she spoke 
 the words. 
 
 " The lady in the blue dress ! " said Miss Mason, 
 her face radiant with pleasure. 
 
 " So you two know each other," said Paul. 
 
 " We met when was it last May ? " said 
 Sara. " May I introduce Mr. Charlton." And 
 the man whom Miss Mason had seen in the lounge 
 of the Wilton Hotel bowed. 
 
 " It is," said the Duchessa when she was seated, 
 and after Barnabas had been introduced, " quite 
 the most unexpected and delightful meeting. 
 It was not till I was on my way to Italy that I 
 remembered I had never asked your name." 
 And then she told the others of their first meeting. 
 
 " And has it all," she asked, " been just as 
 delightful as I prophesied?" 
 
 " More delightful," said Miss Mason promptly. 
 She was looking at Christopher. She remembered 
 the " Christopher, darling," and her mind, woman- 
 like, was keen on the secret of a romance. 
 
 Sara saw her glance. By a flash of intuition 
 she guessed something of what was passing in
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress Again 171 
 
 Miss Mason's mind. It gave her an opportunity 
 she had been looking for during the last hour and 
 a half. 
 
 " Christopher came to fetch me that evening to 
 take me to an At Home, I remember. He is an 
 extraordinarily useful person. I have known him 
 since I was ten years old." 
 
 The words were addressed to Miss Mason. They 
 were intended for another occupant of the studio. 
 
 " I remember," said Christopher, " our first 
 meeting. It was, I think, unique." 
 
 " In what way? " asked Paul. 
 
 " The Duchessa and her parents," said Chris- 
 topher, "had taken a house in Devonshire, at 
 Salcombe, as a matter of fact, where I then lived. 
 My mother, being of a hospitable turn of mind, 
 and also of opinion that young men should make 
 themselves generally useful, sent me across the 
 road to enquire of Captain and Mrs. de Courcy 
 if I could be of any assistance to them. I went. 
 I found the Duchessa seated on the veranda on 
 an overturned flower-pot. She was engaged in 
 teaching " nap " to three small boys who had come 
 in from the next door garden, also with hospitable 
 intentions. I found Mrs. de Courcy disentangling 
 silver forks from among her evening frocks; they 
 had been packed among them for safety . " 
 
 " Mamma was always under the impression 
 that everybody was going to steal everything," 
 interjected the 1 Duchessa.
 
 172 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Captain de Courcy," went on Christopher, 
 " was extracting tin-tacks from the kitchen coal- 
 scuttle, into which they had been upset by the 
 Duchessa in her frantic questing for playing- 
 cards." 
 
 " And did you," asked Miss Mason grimly, 
 "assist him?" 
 
 " I extracted two tacks," continued Christopher 
 reminiscently. " Then I heard the Duchessa 
 laugh. Have you ever heard her? I went out 
 on to the veranda. First I looked at her, then 
 I turned another flower-pot upside down and sat 
 upon it. I tried to instruct her in a few of the 
 correct rules of ' nap.' She cheated, I remember, 
 abominably. She has, in fact, cheated throughout 
 her life." 
 
 " Indeed, I have not," said Sara indignantly. 
 There was a dimple at the corner of her mouth. 
 
 " You have," said Christopher calmly. " You 
 have cheated the Fates every time they dealt the 
 cards of fortune against you. It's a trick many 
 of us would give our eyes to learn. They deal 
 her black cards, heigh presto! the Duchessa has 
 changed them to red ones. They deal her low 
 dull cards the Duchessa holds aces and Kings, 
 particularly," ended Christopher severely, 
 "Kings!" 
 
 " Christopher," said Sara sweetly, " is given to 
 exaggeration." She was first the tiniest bit 
 annoyed. Christopher's last word savoured
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress Again 173 
 
 somewhat of an accusation of flirting. No woman 
 cares to be accused of that pastime before a man in 
 whom she is feeling well, certainly more than 
 just a careless interest. Besides, the music Paul 
 had been hearing during the last ten weeks had 
 begun to reach the Duchessa's ears, though as 
 yet quite faintly. The slight implication of flirting 
 came as a discord to the tune it was playing. 
 
 " The late Duca di Corleone might certainly 
 be termed a King," protested Christopher, " while 
 the Casa di Corleone and the coffers of centesimi 
 are most assuredly many aces." 
 
 " Yes," agreed the Duchessa. " You, however, 
 said * particularly Kings.' ' 
 
 " My mistake," said Christopher politely. " I 
 should have said particularly aces." 
 
 The Duchessa made a little gracious gesture of 
 forgiveness. Paul had been stroking a small grey 
 kitten gift of Dan to Pippa during the little 
 conversation, and was apparently entirely engrossed 
 in the kitten. But he had heard every word, and 
 Christopher's intimacy with the Duchessa was seen 
 by him in a new and far more satisfactory light. 
 
 " But now," said the Duchessa, addressing 
 herself to Miss Mason, " I want to hear everything 
 you have been doing since last May." 
 
 Miss Mason glanced around the studio. 
 
 " Got a studio," she said. 
 
 " And also," said Barnabas, " she has adopted 
 six nephews and one niece."
 
 174 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Me," said Pippa, who was gazing at the 
 Duchessa with fascinated eyes. 
 
 Sara smiled. She looked at Paul and Barnabas. 
 
 " I imagine," she said, " that these are two of 
 the nephews. Where are the others ? " 
 
 " In their studios," said Barnabas. " Aunt 
 Olive doesn't keep all her nephews on the premises. 
 They are the six artists of the courtyard." 
 
 " Oh," said Sara, with a low laugh, " then you, 
 too, have a magic courtyard." 
 
 " Where is yours ? " asked Pippa. 
 
 And the Duchess told her, bringing the sunshine 
 of Italy and the gleam of golden oranges into the 
 studio, bathing it in their light and colour. And 
 Paul listened as he listened always when she spoke, 
 loving the sound of her voice and the magic of her 
 words. 
 
 Suddenly as she ended they heard the sound of 
 a violin. It came from across the courtyard and 
 through the partly open window. 
 
 "Hush!" said the Duchessa, and she raised her 
 head listening. 
 
 When the last sad notes had died away, she 
 looked across at Paul. 
 
 " Who is it ? " she asked softly, her eyes full 
 of tears, for the sad bitterness of a troubled hea r t 
 had wailed through the music. 
 
 " Michael Chester," said Paul quietly. 
 
 " And why," asked the Duchessa, " is he not 
 taking London by storm ? "
 
 The Lady of the Blue Dress Again 175 
 
 " Because," said Paul, " he is a cripple." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the Duchessa. She had no need 
 to ask more, for the music had told her the rest. 
 
 After a time she left, promising to come again. 
 As she went into the courtyard with Paul and 
 Christopher she looked towards the window from 
 whence the sounds of the violin had proceeded. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " if one day he will play 
 for me."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE DUCHESSA ENTERS A KINGDOM 
 
 FEBRUARY gave place to a stormy March, 
 which ushered itself in angry and tempestuous. 
 By the end of the month it was tired of its anger, 
 and throughout April was like a child promising 
 with smiles and tears to be good. In May it ful- 
 filled its promise. The month was all sunshine, 
 with soft winds and blue skies. The parks were 
 alive with flowers, women donned their brightest 
 dresses, and London looked like a great living 
 nosegay. 
 
 And with the spring the Music of the Heart was 
 playing so loudly for the Duchessa that she 
 wondered Paul could not hear it too, and many 
 times she longed to bid him listen. 
 
 The portrait was finished, and was in her 
 drawing-room till later in the year when she would 
 take it with her to Italy, where it would hang in 
 the gallery like a great glowing sapphire among 
 the sombre and haughty ladies of the House of 
 Corleone. 
 
 She saw Paul from time to time. He came to 
 her flat, and she went to his studio. And Michael 
 had been persuaded to come and play for her. 
 
 176
 
 The Duchessa Enters a Kingdom 177 
 
 And having come once he was ready to come again. 
 He made music sad and gay, and in her presence 
 it lost much of its bitterness. Only when he was 
 alone bitterness returned, and with it a desperate 
 and pathetic note of yearning. For with the 
 beauty of the Duchessa Michael realized more 
 terribly that he was not as other men, though with 
 the curious instinct possessed by the man-creature 
 of hurting himself, he loved to be near her and look 
 at her. And in his heart he laughed cynically at 
 Paul, seeing that he had but to put out his hand 
 and grasp the wonderful jewel of her love. But 
 having been lonely all his own life he understood 
 better than anyone Paul's hesitation, even while he 
 laughed. 
 
 And one day when the morning sunshine was 
 more radiant than ever, and the whole earth 
 seemed singing the Benedicite, Sara wandered 
 across one of the bridges that span the river and 
 found herself in Battersea Park. And the lilacs 
 were a mass of purple flowers, and the laburnums 
 hanging in showers of golden rain, and the tulips 
 were flaunting their gaudy colours, and the birds 
 singing full-throated songs of joy. 
 
 She sat down on a bench near a great bed of 
 golden tulips and looked at them. And the colour 
 took her back to Italy, and the courtyard of Casa 
 di Corleone and the golden oranges, and she knew 
 now the truth of Christopher's statement that 
 one day she would be ready to forget them. And
 
 178 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 a little prayer rose up in her heart, a prayer that 
 perhaps hundreds of women were praying at that 
 moment before flower-decked altars, but which 
 Sara addressed to the bed of golden tulips. 
 
 " Ah, Madonna Santa," she prayed, in the lan- 
 guage she had learned to love, " let him tell me." 
 
 And then she looked up and saw Paul coming 
 towards her. 
 
 " I knew I should find you here," he said 
 quietly, and he sat down beside her. 
 
 And the tulips became a mass of blurred gold, 
 and the Music of the Heart rang so loudly in her 
 ears that for the moment the song of the birds 
 was drowned. 
 
 " I have waited a long time," said Paul, " but 
 I cannot wait any longer. I love you, Sara." 
 
 She turned towards him, and there was an 
 adorable little sob of happiness in her voice. 
 
 " But, Paul, dear," she said, " why didn't you 
 tell me long ago ? " 
 
 And Paul put both his arms round her, and 
 knew that his loneliness was ended. 
 
 There are some hours which pass like moments, 
 so swiftly are they borne on the wings of joy. 
 And in those hours Paul and Sara told each other 
 a hundred little things they had quite possibly 
 said many times before, but which had suddenly 
 taken on a new meaning and a great tenderness. 
 But for the most part they were silent, listening
 
 The Duchessa Enters a Kingdom 179 
 
 to the Music of the Heart, which was playing now 
 in the completest harmony. 
 
 At last, however, they grew alive to the fact that 
 the morning was very far advanced, and that they 
 were both hungry. For, with joy be it said, both 
 Paul and Sara were most delightfully human. 
 
 As she got up from the bench Sara looked at the 
 bed of tulips. 
 
 " I want one of those," she said. 
 
 Regardless of the little square board which 
 forbade the foot of man to desecrate the grass with 
 his tread, Paul went across to the flower-bed. He 
 returned with a great golden tulip on a long pale 
 green stem. He gave it to her. She looked down 
 into the shining petal-chalice. 
 
 " I shall always love yellow tulips now," she 
 said. 
 
 Together they set off homewards, the Duchessa 
 carrying the flower like a queen carrying a golden- 
 headed sceptre. 
 
 And verily she was a queen, for she had that 
 morning entered her kingdom the kingdom of a 
 man's heart. 
 
 Of course, she went back to lunch with him at 
 the studio, and equally, of course, there happened 
 to be no food but bread and cheese and tomatoes. 
 She refused to be taken to a restaurant, and 
 Paul's man was sent out to buy spaghetti, with
 
 i8o Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 which and the tomatoes and cheese Sara made a 
 true Italian dish, cooking it on a gas stove. 
 
 And it was when they had eaten that and were 
 drinking their coffee, in the making of which Paul 
 excelled, that Sara suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 " Now I shall know what is in the letter." 
 
 And then she had to tell Paul about the late 
 Duca's will and the letter. Paul listened. 
 
 " But, dearest," he said, when she had ended, 
 " do you realize what you are giving up? I am a 
 poor man, and you will lose everything." 
 
 But Sara replied in the words of Christopher: 
 
 " On the contrary, Paul, dear, I gain every- 
 thing." 
 
 And Paul took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 After that they talked about the future. No 
 one was to be told of their happiness yet, except 
 Christopher and Paul's mother. They would keep 
 it a secret known only to those four. In June Sara 
 was going to Italy, when she would take her portrait 
 and leave it in the gallery. In July she would 
 return for Paul to claim her completely. 
 
 "But at least I shall know," she ended, "that 
 my portrait is in the gallery, and that I love the 
 place ten thousand times more than those haughty 
 ladies who will now, I suppose, look upon it as 
 entirely their own." 
 
 "And loving it like that you give it up?" said 
 Paul. 
 
 " For you," answered the Duchessa softly.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 BARNABAS SCHEMES WITH CUPID 
 
 AND while the Music of the Heart was 
 making incessant melody for Paul and the 
 Duchessa, the Small Boy with drooping wings was 
 still sitting disconsolate in the corner of Aurora's 
 studio. His arrows being useless he had tried 
 whispering secrets to her, but delightful whispers of 
 flower-scented nights, country lanes aglow with 
 wild roses, kisses, and even cuddling babies fell on 
 deaf ears. She heard nothing but the call of the 
 false goddess whom she had erected in the place 
 of the glorious goddess who sits so near to Nature. 
 
 One day early in June Aurora was in a par- 
 ticularly dissatisfied mood. The model, Tilly, who 
 posed not only for Barnabas, but for many 
 other studios, had been distinctly rude that 
 afternoon. 
 
 Aurora had found inspiration lacking, and had 
 told Tilly she could go. It had been the signal 
 for a tirade on Tilly's part. She had spoken her 
 mind freely, with contemptuous words regarding 
 artists who achieved nothing, and whose pictures, 
 even when completed, were so incomprehensible 
 that they could find no place in any gallery. 
 
 18:
 
 1 82 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Aurora had told Tilly not to come near her studio 
 again. But her words had held a sting which hurt. 
 Aurora was near tears. 
 
 Then she remembered that Alan was coming to 
 tea that afternoon and bringing Barnabas with 
 him. She dried her tears on her painting-apron 
 and put the kettle on the hob. 
 
 And perhaps it was the suspicion of tears that 
 Barnabas saw when he and Alan arrived, or perhaps 
 it was an imploring whisper from the discordant 
 Boy, or perhaps it was merely the sunshine and his 
 own exuberant spirits, but, at any rate, he had, 
 what the Boy considered, a heaven-born inspiration. 
 
 " I think," he said suddenly, addressing himself 
 to the square patch of blue seen through skylight, 
 " that studios are distinctly stuffy this weather. 
 Let's all go and paint out of doors a bit be 
 vagabond artists." The thought of Kostolitz came 
 into his mind with the words. 
 
 "Permanently?" asked Alan, "or by the 
 day?" 
 
 " Oh, for about three weeks or so," said 
 Barnabas. " You, Aurora, Dan, and me. I'll 
 make Dan come too. I'll hire a coster cart and 
 donkey to carry our painting materials, a few 
 provisions, and a small tent for Aurora to sleep 
 in. We three can sleep in the open. Let's," 
 ended Barnabas slyly, " study Art in Nature." 
 
 " The symbolism of Nature," murmured Alan 
 dreamily.
 
 Barnabas Schemes with Cupid 183 
 
 " Or Nature without the symbolism," said 
 Aurora. " I'm tired of symbolism." Her voice 
 was almost petulant. 
 
 The Small Boy in the corner perked up. 
 Barnabas grinned gently. . 
 
 " To-day," he announced, " is Tuesday. Let us 
 start on Thursday." 
 
 " Yes," said Aurora firmly, " I want to get 
 away from everything." Her eyes took in the 
 studio and her own High Art productions in a 
 comprehensive sweep. " For a time," she added, 
 seeing that Alan was looking reproachful. 
 
 Barnabas promulgated a few further ideas on 
 the subject, and they all three studied a large 
 cycling map of Aurora's which had small country 
 lanes plainly marked on it. 
 
 " Bring the map," said Barnabas, as he rose to 
 take his leave. " And Thursday, remember, at 
 my studio, at ten o'clock." 
 
 He went round to see Miss Mason that evening to 
 tell her of the plan. Pippa, in a purple dressing- 
 gown, listened entranced. She had been given a 
 quarter of an hour's grace from bed on account of 
 Barnabas' arrival. 
 
 " So," ended Barnabas, " on Thursday at ten 
 o'clock we start off to study Nature. I've already 
 hired a donkey and cart. To-morrow I buy a tent 
 and a few other things." 
 
 Pippa gave a huge sigh. 
 
 "How lovely!" she said. "Just you, and
 
 1 84 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Monsieur Dan, and Monsieur Alan, and Made- 
 moiselle Aurora. Just you four. I s'pose ze tent 
 will be quite tiny. Only just big enough for 
 Mademoiselle Aurora. Not a teeny bit more room 
 in it. Not even enough room for Mimsi " 
 Mimsi was the grey kitten " and most cer- 
 tainly not enough room for for me." 
 
 Barnabas laughed. He looked at Miss Mason. 
 The idea conveyed by Pippa in this flagrant hint 
 had occurred to him. 
 
 Pippa heard something in the laugh that made 
 her heart beat hopefully. 
 
 " I am," she said reflectively, " not very big. 
 Or," she continued, " a cart would be a very nice 
 ting to sleep in. I wonder what it feels like to 
 sleep in a cart." 
 
 " Time you went to bed," said Miss Mason 
 grimly. 
 
 Pippa got up reluctantly. " Bon soir, Monsieur 
 Barnabas," she said, with a little sigh. " I wonder 
 if Mademoiselle Aurora can darn holes in men's 
 socks. Madame Barbin taught me to darn oh, 
 but to darn very beautifully. Much walking will 
 no doubt make many holes." 
 
 Barnabas telegraphed a question to Miss Mason. 
 
 " You'd get tired walking," said Miss Mason 
 gruffly. 
 
 Pippa looked dubious. " I am not ver' 'eavy. 
 I could perhaps ride in ze cart just sometimes.
 
 Barnabas Schemes with Cupid 185 
 
 Besides," she ended hopefully, " it is ver' good to 
 be tired. One sleep well at night." 
 
 " Well, go to bed and sleep well now," said 
 Miss Mason. 
 
 Pippa sighed again heavily. 
 
 " Good night, Aunt Oleeve, good night, Mon- 
 sieur Barnabas." She went away sorrowfully. 
 
 " Do you think she might come ? " said Barna- 
 bas. " I'd take great care of her." 
 
 " You'll tire her out, and she'll be a trouble to 
 you," said Miss Mason. She was hating the 
 thought of parting with the child. 
 
 " Not a bit," said Barnabas. " The question is, 
 will you spare her?" 
 
 Miss Mason laughed. 
 
 " You've a genius for hitting the truth full on the 
 head, Barnabas. I suppose I must. She'd adore 
 it, and the open-air life would be excellent for 
 her." 
 
 And so it was arranged. And the tour in the 
 donkey-cart was to be fraught with a curious little 
 incident which was to lead infinitely further than 
 anyone could imagine. 
 
 Thursday dawned bright and sunny under a 
 cloudless sky. 
 
 The donkey-cart was outside Barnabas' studio, 
 and Pippa in a green dress and rough straw hat 
 trimmed with daisies was feeding the animal with
 
 1 86 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 sugar. She had instantly christened him Pegasus, 
 for though he was not a winged horse he was most 
 unquestionably a magic steed. 
 
 Painting materials, a hamper of provisions, and 
 the tent were packed into the cart. Pippa climbed 
 in. Seated on the luggage she held the reins. 
 Barnabas took hold of the bridle. 
 
 The men were in tweed knickerbocker suits and 
 soft felt hats. Aurora was in a blue serge skirt, 
 a white blouse, scarlet tie, and a blue sun-bonnet. 
 She felt that the attire was suited to the part of a 
 vagabond. 
 
 The other three artists of the courtyard were 
 there watching them and offering advice. Paul, 
 in his own happiness, felt in entire sympathy with 
 their gaiety. Jasper and Michael felt somehow 
 rather out of things. 
 
 " You ought to have had the cart meet you 
 somewhere," said Miss Mason. " You'll be 
 mobbed." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Barnabas cheerfully. 
 " Dan's size is protection enough for the lot of 
 us. Good-bye, Aunt Olive. Ta-ta, you fellows. 
 We're off to study Nature. We'll write our com- 
 ments to you and post the letters at country post 
 offices." 
 
 Pippa flicked the whip and Pegasus walked 
 gravely out of the courtyard. And the little faun 
 in the garden played a gay tune on his pipe. The
 
 Barnabas Schemes with Cupid 187 
 
 youthful spirits of the departing cavalcade appealed 
 to him. 
 
 And Miss Mason went back to her studio, and 
 for the first time since a year ago she felt a little 
 lonely, for both Barnabas and Pippa had gone, and 
 the Duchessa di Corleone was on her way to Italy 
 with the portrait. 
 
 But the Fates had another thread in readiness, 
 and she was not to feel lonely long.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE INTERFERENCE OF A FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 PIPPA had been wont to haunt Jasper's studio 
 a good deal. His pictured saints appealed to 
 her imagination. She loved the brilliance of their 
 robes and the gold of their backgrounds. 
 
 Colour appealed to her, as already seen, 
 enormously, though she had no power with brush 
 or pencil herself. If she was ever to find expres- 
 sion for the thoughts and fancies which filled her 
 brain she would possibly one day find it in writing. 
 Beauty of language already moved her profoundly, 
 and she would listen by the hour to anyone reading 
 poetry aloud. 
 
 Jasper missed the child almost more than Miss 
 Mason did. He seemed to have nothing to fill up 
 the gap she left in his life, and his old restlessness 
 in a measure returned. He took to dropping in 
 at Miss Mason's studio at odd hours, in order, 
 so it seemed, to talk about Pippa, though he would 
 often sit moody and silent. He would stare at the 
 picture of Pippa wrapped in scarlet silk, her arms 
 round the faun's neck, which picture Barnabas had 
 painted about a month previously, and which now 
 hung in Miss Mason's studio. 
 
 188
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 189 
 
 And one evening after looking at it for a long 
 time he made a sudden remark a remark that 
 seemed forced from him. 
 
 "If Stella had lived she would have been nearly 
 the same age as Pippa." 
 
 Miss Mason looked up quickly. 
 
 "Who," she asked, "was Stella?" 
 
 " My little girl," said Jasper shortly. 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Mason. And then she added 
 quietly, " and your wife died too? " 
 
 " No," said Jasper, " she is alive." 
 
 There was a silence. The studio window was 
 wide open, and the evening sunlight was stream- 
 ing in. From one of the trees in the garden a 
 thrush was singing a song of love and happiness. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Miss Mason suddenly, " you 
 would care to tell me about it." 
 
 And Jasper told her. He told her the whole 
 story, omitting nothing; though, wonderful to 
 relate, making no excuses for himself. 
 
 " I suppose," he ended, " that Bridget lost all 
 interest in life, and I was always wanting her to 
 be something she had lost the power of being. And 
 I got disheartened because she could not adapt 
 herself to my pattern." 
 
 For a moment Miss Mason did not reply. She 
 did not care to say that it had been largely Jasper's 
 fault that his wife had lost interest in life. After 
 a moment she spoke slowly. 
 
 " I think," she said, " it is always dangerous to
 
 19 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 try and cut people to our own pattern. We are 
 so terribly apt to cut the cords of love first." 
 
 " I know," said Jasper, " and now it is, as she 
 said, too late." 
 
 " It is never too late," said Miss Mason ener- 
 getically. " Why don't you go and see her ? " 
 
 " I gave her my word of honour that I would 
 not." 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Miss Mason. " It is sometimes 
 infinitely more honourable to break one's word 
 than to keep it. This is a case in point. Do you 
 still care for your wife? " 
 
 Jasper hesitated. " I care for my memory of 
 her as she was when I first married her before 
 the child died. I know after that at first I was 
 disgusted. But that passed, especially later when 
 I saw less of her. Then at the bottom of my 
 heart I wanted to get back to the old footing. 
 Somehow it seemed impossible. Before I saw her 
 I felt I loved her, but the sight of her untidiness 
 and the sordidness of the surroundings killed it. 
 It would be killed again if I saw her now. It's no 
 use pretending otherwise." 
 
 " Why don't you take her out of her surround- 
 ings then ? " asked Miss Mason. 
 
 Jasper looked up quickly. "It's no use," he 
 said. " I love her now, but if I went down there 
 the feeling would die away. When I see her 
 slovenly and untidy it seems to kill my affection. 
 I can't help it. Even when I was a child I could
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 191 
 
 not eat the food I most liked if it were served in a 
 careless fashion. I have honestly tried to fight 
 the feeling. It is, however, part of my physical 
 nature, and I can't rid myself of it." Jasper's voice 
 was quite humble and genuine. 
 
 Miss Mason's brain was working rapidly. " I 
 suppose Chiswick is rather a commonplace 
 neighbourhood," she remarked. " Foolish of you 
 to choose it in the first instance. Where did you 
 say the house was?" The question was put 
 indifferently. 
 
 Jasper mentioned the street and number. Miss 
 Mason appeared hardly V* have heard it. She 
 seemed engrossed in her own thoughts. 
 
 Jasper stayed a little longer in the studio. It 
 was, in a sense, a comfort to have spoken of the 
 story, and yet it had brought the memory of the 
 last seven years almost too vividly before his 
 mind. 
 
 When he got up to go Miss Mason held out her 
 hand. 
 
 "Good night," she said. "Don't feel too 
 miserable. Things often turn out better than one 
 expects." 
 
 And when he had gone she sat a long time in 
 her big chair, her brain full of the wildest and 
 most exciting plans, in which she was establishing 
 herself as proxy to the Fates. And the Fates 
 laughed, and gave the threads of two lives 
 temporarily into her hands for her own weaving.
 
 192 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 The next morning Miss Mason told Sally to 
 order a taxi to be at the studio at eleven o'clock. 
 
 "If I'm not taken there quickly," she said to 
 herself, " my courage will fail me, and I shall come 
 home again." 
 
 And she went over in her mind many sentences 
 she had been carefully preparing during the long 
 hours of a sleepless night. 
 
 One of them began rather like an old-fashioned 
 letter. " My dear Mrs. Merton, I have ventured 
 to call upon you in order to discuss a matter I 
 am sure you must have very much at heart, 
 namely, the welfare,--^of your husband Jasper 
 Merton." She had repeated it a good many times 
 to make sure she had it verbatim. 
 
 There were other phrases such as, " Pardon 
 what may appear an unwarrantable interference 
 on my part." And, " The mutual interest we both 
 must feel in one for whom you have a wifely love, 
 and I the affection of friendship." 
 
 She felt she had them all glibly on her tongue, 
 when the hoot of the taxi outside the studio warned 
 her of its arrival. 
 
 " If I am not back to lunch, Sally," said Miss 
 Mason, with the air of one embarking on some 
 dangerous enterprise from which she might never 
 return, " run out and buy a chop for yourself, and 
 we can have the steak this evening. And give 
 Mimsie a piece of boiled whiting and a saucerful 
 of milk."
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 193 
 
 She got into the taxi, tightly clutching her 
 black satin bag, and sat down in one corner. It 
 was the first time she had driven in a taxi, and 
 she felt a trifle nervous. But for her desire to 
 arrive at her destination before she had time to 
 change her mind about going, she would un- 
 doubtedly have taken a four-wheeler. 
 
 The speed of the vehicle seemed excessive, but 
 as other taxis passed them going at an even greater 
 rate, she made up her mind to hope for the best. 
 She did, however, put up a small mental prayer 
 for safety. 
 
 In spite of the rate at which they were travelling 
 they seemed a long time in getting to their 
 destination. At last Miss Mason began to feel 
 uneasy. She had heard of people being kidnapped 
 and murdered on account of their money, and 
 though she had only put ten shillings worth of 
 silver and one sovereign in her purse, the chauffeur 
 might think her worth infinitely more. 
 
 She decided to ask him how much further they 
 had to go. She noticed a long tube hanging from 
 the front window. It was no doubt a whistle. 
 She took it up and blew gently down it. There 
 was no sound. She collected the whole force of 
 her lungs and blew violently. The chauffeur, 
 feeling a sudden and unpleasant draught at the 
 back of his neck, looked round. He saw Miss 
 Mason purple in the face from her efforts, and
 
 194 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 the speaking tube at her lips. Fearing apoplexy 
 he stopped the taxi and came to the door. 
 
 " Wot is it, mum ? " he asked. 
 
 " I only wanted to know if we were near the 
 address I gave you ? " she said breathlessly. 
 " I think this whistle must be out of order, I can't 
 make it sound." 
 
 The chauffeur grunted. " That ain't no bloomin' 
 whistle-pipe. That there's a speakin' toob," he 
 remarked scornfully. " Be at Oxford Road in 
 five minutes now." 
 
 He shut the door with a bang and climbed back 
 to his seat. 
 
 "Whistle!" he said to himself. "Whistle! 
 Thought there was a bloomin' draught. The old 
 party must 'ave fair busted 'erself." 
 
 Miss Mason sank back in her corner and began 
 to repeat the sentences in a rapid whisper. 
 
 In less than five minutes the taxi stopped before 
 a small house divided from the pavement by a 
 gravel plot. 
 
 The chauffeur got down and opened the taxi 
 door. 
 
 " 'Ere y'are, mum," he said. 
 
 Miss Mason got out, paid the man, crossed the 
 gravel plot, and mounted the steps. Her heart was 
 beating uncomfortably fast. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Merton at home ? " she asked of 
 Emma, who opened the door.
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 195 
 
 " Yes'm. Will you come inside'm?" She 
 showed Miss Mason into the dismal little parlour. 
 " What name shall I say, 'm ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Merton won't know my name," said 
 Miss Mason desperately. " But ask her if she will 
 speak to me for a few moments." 
 
 Emma left the room breathing heavily as she 
 moved, and Miss Mason sat very upright on the 
 little sofa, her hands still clutching the black 
 satin bag. Her eyes took in the whole room. 
 She saw the dingy and torn tablecloth, the rather 
 dirty chintz covers to the chairs, and the dis- 
 tinctly dirty muslin curtains to the windows. 
 A mantel-border which covered the chimney- 
 piece had come unnailed at one side, and was 
 hanging in an untidy festoon. The carpet was 
 faded, and crumbs scattered from the last meal 
 were below one of the chairs. There was a large 
 Japanese fan in the fender before the empty 
 grate; its edges were broken and torn. It was 
 also considerably fly-marked. Miss Mason could 
 understand Jasper's feelings very well. She saw 
 what the place must mean to a man of his 
 fastidious instincts. It might be that he was 
 largely to blame that it had ever reached such a 
 state, but having reached it it was almost un- 
 avoidable that he should shrink from it. 
 
 A step on the stairs made her start. She 
 clutched more tightly at the bag and began
 
 196 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 murmuring " unwarrantable intrusion," " mutual 
 .nterest," in a spasmodic fashion, her eyes fixed on 
 the door. 
 
 Suddenly it opened, and a woman in a rather 
 soiled white dress came into the room. She made 
 Miss Mason think of a faded lily. 
 
 The woman looked with something like amaze- 
 ment at the odd figure in the mushroom hat, grey 
 dress, and wide white linen collar, seated on the 
 sofa clutching a black satin bag. 
 
 Miss Mason got to her feet. " My dear," she 
 began, but the rest of the sentence was lost. " I'm 
 downright nervous," said Miss Mason, with one 
 of her gruff little laughs, " and you'll think me an 
 interfering old fool, but I was bound to come." 
 
 Bridget looked at her. " There isn't," she said 
 with a note of anxiety in her voice, " anything 
 wrong with Jasper?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Miss Mason quickly, " but I was 
 talking to him last night." 
 
 "Ah!" said Bridget. 
 
 " And " said Miss Mason, and stopped. It 
 
 seemed entirely impossible now to put her ideas 
 into words. It is one thing to have marvellous 
 and fairy-tale schemes in one's mind, and plan all 
 kinds of wonderful arrangements during the magic 
 hours of the night. It is quite another to find 
 words for them in broad daylight and in a rather 
 sordid little parlour, especially when they seemed 
 to resolve themselves into the rather impertinent
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 197 
 
 statement that Jasper would love his wife if she 
 brushed her hair. It is hardly a suggestion one 
 can make in cold blood to a complete stranger. " I 
 just came," ended Miss Mason helplessly. 
 
 She looked through the window wondering how 
 she could best make her escape, and wishing with 
 all her heart that she had kept the taxi. 
 
 It was Bridget herself who came to the rescue. 
 
 " I suppose," she said slowly, " that Jasper told 
 you our story it's a sordid little story, isn't it 
 and you wanted to help? " 
 
 Miss Mason nodded. Something in Bridget's 
 eyes made her own fill with tears. She forgot her 
 desire to run away. She felt that she was near a 
 dumb animal in pain. 
 
 "Tell me," said Bridget, "what Jasper told 
 you?" 
 
 Very stumblingly Miss Mason gave her some 
 idea of the conversation. She wanted her to 
 know the truth, yet dreaded to hurt her more than 
 necessary. 
 
 "Then Jasper does care a little," said Bridget 
 
 wonderingly. " But all this " She looked 
 
 round the dingy room. " What was your idea 
 when you came to me ? " she asked simply. 
 
 " Great interference on my part, no doubt," 
 said Miss Mason gruffly. " Began to make up a 
 plan. Thought if he was to see you again in a 
 pretty room and a pretty frock " she stopped. 
 
 Bridget glanced down at her own dress.
 
 198 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Yes ? " she said again. She had reddened 
 slightly. 
 
 " Can tell me to go if you like," said Miss 
 Mason. " Had no business to come. But thought 
 
 My dear, I just planned to take you to a 
 
 pretty room and bring Jasper to you." 
 
 Bridget looked at her. " I don't know who you 
 are," she said impulsively, " nor anything about 
 you. But you are a dear." 
 
 "Then you're not angry?" asked Miss Mason. 
 
 " I want," said Bridget, in a muffled voice, " to 
 cry. But I'm not going to. What were your 
 plans? I'm sure you'd made some." 
 
 And then Miss Mason unfolded all the schemes 
 she had planned during the night hours. They 
 were of a little flat somewhere in Chelsea not too 
 far from the studios. The drawing-room was to 
 be furnished in shades of brown and cream, and 
 it was to be rilled with roses in slender glass vases 
 and china bowls. And there was to be a woman 
 among the flowers, and Jasper coming in to find 
 her. 
 
 " But I haven't the money for that," said 
 Bridget. " And I can't ask Jasper for any more." 
 
 " But I have," said Miss Mason bluntly. " My 
 dear, I'm an old woman. Is it worth while to you, 
 for your husband's sake, to give me the pleasure of 
 arranging it? " 
 
 Bridget bit her lip. She tried to speak, but no 
 words would come.
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 199 
 
 " Don't try to say anything," said Miss Mason 
 
 "I I " began Bridget. And, somehow, 
 
 the next moment she was down on her knees by 
 Miss Mason, who was soothing her with little odd 
 articulations and pattings as she had soothed Pippa 
 one night when she had awakened from a bad 
 dream. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Bridget at last, sitting up and 
 pushing back her hair from her face, " but it's all 
 been so lonely. At times I've felt that just for 
 something to do I could be bad really bad, you 
 know. Anything for excitement, and to forget my 
 own thoughts. At first I used to hate myself. 
 Then I tried to hate Jasper, but I didn't I didn't. 
 I I loved him all the time. You see, he gave me 
 my baby. But I was so lonely and miserable I 
 wanted to be wicked, only I remembered my baby, 
 and " 
 
 " I know, my dear," said Miss Mason. 
 
 " Have you been lonely ? " asked Bridget. 
 
 " Utterly lonely, my dear, for fifty-five years 
 at least, ever since my parents died. And only 
 women can understand the loneliness of women. 
 Men have their pipes, and they can always swear 
 a little, which must at times be an enormous help." 
 
 " But you're not lonely now ? " asked Bridget. 
 
 Miss Mason smiled, a little glad smile. " My 
 dear, I am so utterly happy now that I long for 
 every one else to be happy. It was that that made 
 me so sorry for you and Jasper, and made me
 
 2oo Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 want to come and see you. And now I want you 
 to come and have some luncheon with me some- 
 where you'll have to tell me where and then 
 we'll go and look at flats." 
 
 Bridget got up from the floor. 
 
 " It's all too wonderful," she said, " and I 
 don't know that I've the right to let you help 
 me." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Miss Mason gruffly. " Might 
 just as well say I've no right to ask you to give 
 me the pleasure of doing a little thing like this; 
 but I'm going to ask you, all the same. Now go 
 and put on a hat." 
 
 Bridget left the room. In a few moments she 
 came down in a dark blue linen coat and skirt, and 
 a black straw hat swathed with rose-coloured silk. 
 She had brushed her hair and looked a different 
 being. 
 
 "Can we get a four-wheeler?" asked Miss 
 Mason. " Came in a taxi, but didn't enjoy it." 
 
 " There's a train and an omnibus," said Bridget, 
 "that will take us to Netting Hill Gate, and we 
 can get any amount of cabs from there." 
 
 So for the first time in her life Miss Mason 
 mounted to the top of an omnibus and thoroughly 
 enjoyed it. She peered over garden walls as they 
 passed, and did her best to look through windows, 
 and made up a good many quite fascinating stories 
 about the inhabitants of the houses stories very 
 different from the mental pictures of the very
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 201 
 
 same lives that Jasper had been wont to paint. 
 In Miss Mason's stories there was always a 
 mother a mother clasping the downy head of a 
 new-born baby to her heart; a mother watching 
 the first toddling steps of a tiny child; a mother 
 hearing a little white-nightgowned figure lisp a 
 childish prayer. The father in these stories of 
 course there was a father took an extraordinarily 
 back seat. 
 
 Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a 
 question from Bridget. 
 
 " How did Jasper come to tell you our story ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " We were looking at a picture of Pippa," 
 replied Miss Mason quietly, " and he said that 
 little Stella would have been nearly the same age." 
 
 Bridget nodded. For a moment she was silent. 
 Then she spoke again. " Who," she asked, " is 
 Pippa?" 
 
 " My little girl," said Miss Mason promptly. 
 " At least, she came to me out of the Nowhere last 
 December, and now she's mine." 
 
 " A Christmas gift," said Bridget. 
 
 Miss Mason nodded. " I like to hear you say 
 that," she said. " I gave Pippa her first Christmas 
 tree. It was my first for the matter of that." 
 
 And then they fell to talking about Pippa and 
 Stella, after the fashion of women who love 
 children, each capping the other with a new 
 anecdote. But after a time Miss Mason was left
 
 202 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 to do most of the talking, for Bridget suddenly 
 found her voice fail her. 
 
 " Pippa," said Miss Mason, " has true inventive 
 genius. One night last January I told her to say 
 her prayers before she got into bed. She an- 
 nounced that she'd already said them. 'Where?' 
 I asked. ' In my baf ,' she replied, ' much warmer.' 
 I couldn't help feeling there was a good deal to be 
 said in favour of the bathroom on a cold winter's 
 night. But all the same, I told her she was 
 irreverent to say her prayers lying down. I knew 
 she'd said them that way. She always ends her 
 ablutions with lying full length in the water. 
 Whereupon she remarked in an aggrieved voice, 
 4 Turned over on my front, anyhow.' ' 
 
 " True prostration in prayer," laughed Bridget. 
 " I shall love Pippa." 
 
 Already it was almost impossible to believe 
 Bridget to be the same apathetic woman who, 
 slovenly and untidy, had entered the dingy little 
 parlour barely two hours previously. After lunch 
 and on the way to some flats in Beaufort Street 
 she was almost radiant. 
 
 " We will put things through as quickly as we 
 can," said Miss Mason. " I hate loitering when 
 one has set out on a piece of business." And in 
 her heart she was longing to get Bridget away 
 from the dismal surroundings of her present 
 home without a moment's delay. She would have 
 liked to take her to her own studio, only there was.
 
 Interference of a Fairy Godmother 203 
 
 no second bedroom, and also Jasper would have 
 seen her. 
 
 After a little search Miss Mason decided on a 
 flat she thought would do. It was on the third 
 floor, and consisted of a dining-room, a drawing- 
 room, four bedrooms, a servant's room, a bath- 
 room, and kitchen. 
 
 " What do you think of it ? " asked Miss Mason. 
 " It's for you to say as you'll be living in it." 
 
 " It's heavenly," said Bridget ecstatically, " but 
 really there are an unnecessary number of rooms." 
 
 " Not at all," said Miss Mason firmly. " I hope 
 you'll be here a long time, and one never 
 knows," she ended significantly. Which little 
 speech caused Bridget to blush crimson. 
 
 " The rent," said Miss Mason, " is my affair for 
 the first year, at all events, till you've got rid of 
 the house in Chiswick. And the furniture will 
 be my wedding present, as I didn't happen to 
 know you when the ceremony took place." 
 
 And Bridget, her eyes full of happy tears, put 
 her arms round Miss Mason and kissed her.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE HEART OF NATURE 
 
 DURING the next three weeks the two con- 
 spirators were wildly busy. Money is a key 
 which smooths many difficulties, and the path 
 before them was triumphantly easy. 
 
 Jasper found Miss Mason a little hard to under- 
 stand during these days. She had a way of 
 looking at him and then giving vent to odd little 
 chuckles of laughter. He hoped she was not 
 becoming childish. 
 
 She received several letters from the donkey 
 tourists. One, received about the tenth day, told 
 her that another of her schemes was on the way to 
 be started. 
 
 " We are," wrote Barnabas, " enjoying our- 
 selves immensely. The weather is glorious, and 
 Pegasus a model of well-behaved donkeyness. 
 He certainly deserves wings, even though he 
 hasn't got them. But I heard Pippa telling him 
 in a consoling voice the other day that when he 
 reached heaven he'd be provided with a pair of 
 beautiful white ones. I fancy she sees in herself 
 a female Belerophon soaring aloft and through 
 golden streets on a grey donkey. If the golden 
 
 204
 
 The Heart of Nature 205 
 
 streets are anything like as beautiful as the 
 country lanes through which we are driving we 
 shall be happy. I wish you could see them the 
 lanes, I mean. They are a bower of fairy delight. 
 Wild roses, honeysuckle, and meadow-sweet 
 seem to vie with each other in filling the warm 
 air with perfume. Larks I never knew before 
 that the world held so many sing to us from 
 heaven, the sweetest feathered choristers. Last 
 night a nightingale sang to us in the light of a full 
 moon. It was the first Pippa had heard. There 
 was something almost terrifying in her rapture. 
 She feels almost too keenly. She is, however, 
 absolutely in her element, and if I had ever felt 
 any real doubt about her being the child of 
 Kostolitz I should only have needed to see her 
 out here to convince me. At times she finds the 
 most adorable bits of language in which to 
 express her emotions. But then it is always 
 some little thing like the colour of a flower-chalice 
 or the glint of the kingfisher's blue. We saw one 
 the other day. It skimmed up a bit of transparent 
 water and perched on a piece of stick in mid- 
 stream. Pippa and I watched it, holding our 
 breath. All at once something I don't know 
 what startled it. There was a streak of iri- 
 descent colour and it had gone. But it left us 
 both with the joyous feeling of discovery. The 
 bird is too rare and too beautiful to leave one 
 entirely unmoved. Pippa could talk of that
 
 206 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 incident. It is the bigger aspects of Nature that 
 hold her dumb. We came to a wood one evening 
 pines, straight and solemn as the aisles of a 
 cathedral, the setting sun slanting down the 
 long spaces. Pippa's face was a marvel. She 
 just put her hand up to her throat and held it 
 there as if it ached with the beauty of the thing, 
 and then she made the sign of the Cross. It was 
 holy ground, though there had been no priestly 
 ceremonial to proclaim it so. Only the wind was 
 there to whisper a benediction, and the trees 
 themselves were like priests scattering the incense 
 of their fragrant breath. The very memory of it 
 brings thoughts of poetry to my mind. But again 
 to Pippa. She's yours, and I want you to know 
 her as I'm seeing her now, for it's the essence of 
 her the spirit of Kostolitz I'm seeing. A long 
 line of cawing rooks, whether at sunset or against 
 the blue sky, affects her strangely. It seems to 
 make her unutterably sad. Temporarily only, 
 I am glad to say, for she is the gayest of children, 
 and delights in the smallest of pleasures namely, 
 a pennyworth of bull's-eyes and sticks of pink- 
 and-white striped stuff which we buy from 
 extremely minute shops, whose windows are 
 crammed below with apples foreign, of course 
 and nuts. Above the apples and nuts are rows 
 of glass bottles full of pear-drops, lemon-drops, 
 peppermints, and barley-sugar, also sugar candy 
 the real article, rough and scrunchly on a string.
 
 The Heart of Nature 207 
 
 And somewhere in the window, very incon- 
 spicuous, is a slit through which one can drop 
 letters the sweetstuff shop is always the post 
 office. But sweets evidently take decided pre- 
 cedence over such minor considerations as letters 
 and postage stamps. There is always a garden 
 leading up to the shop, and it is always crammed 
 with flowers, the stiff old-fashioned kind sweet- 
 williams, stocks, marigolds, mignonette, asters, 
 and such-like. There are bushes, too, of lavender, 
 and lad's-love. I painted one of them, but some- 
 how did not hit it off. I've made another sketch, 
 though, of a pond, a willow, meadow-sweet, and 
 blue hills, which pleases me quite a lot. In fact, 
 I was so absorbed in it that I lost Pippa. You 
 needn't be anxious, because she is found again, 
 and with her something you wanted, namely, 
 the first candidate for your School of a Wonderful 
 Chance. I had just finished my sketch, and 
 having come back to the practicalities of life 
 realized that Pippa had been absent for two hours. 
 When lo! and behold she appeared, and with her a 
 loose-limbed fellow of about twenty. When he 
 fills out he will rival Dan in size but that is 
 beside the mark. 
 
 " ' Barnabas,' she cried ceremony and with 
 it the Monsieur has lapsed into disuse in the open 
 air * do look at ze lovely little figure 'e 'as made. 
 'Is name is Andrew McAndrew.' And she rolled 
 her r's with gusto. Well, it is pleasant to think
 
 208 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 that Pippa should be the one to find your first 
 candidate, and it is curious to think it is one who, 
 if I am not much mistaken, will one day be a great 
 sculptor. The little figure of a young girl, made 
 from the clay of the river, was to my mind simply 
 a marvel. I learnt his story. I'll not give it in 
 the broad Scotch in which he told it, for it would 
 take you your whole time to make it out. He 
 lived in London Bayswater way with a 
 widowed mother, whom he supports by typing 
 in a stuffy little office which he loathes, though 
 he has not been without hope that ' Aiblins the 
 gud Lorrd would find a way out for him one o' 
 these days.' Whenever he has any spare time 
 he models in clay, which mercifully is an in- 
 expensive material. He has at the moment a 
 week's holiday, during which he is tramping the 
 country, sleeping under a hedge or at the foot of 
 a hayrick, eating bread and cheese like any tramp, 
 and enjoying himself finely as we are. Pippa, 
 it appears, watched him at work, herself hidden, 
 like the fairy she is, in a mass of meadow-sweet. 
 Suddenly she appeared from among it, and they 
 entered into a conversation which must have been 
 curious, conducted in a broad Scotch on his side, 
 and in broken English on hers though her 
 English is progressing rapidly. Anyhow, she 
 made him understand she was out with a party 
 of artists. He was all agog to meet us, and she
 
 The Heart of Nature 209 
 
 brought him along. He will join us for the next 
 three days, instead of making his way again in 
 the direction of London as he had intended, and 
 we've arranged between us to send him back by 
 train. As soon as I'm at my studio again he will 
 look me up, and I'll bring him along to see you. 
 I've given him no inkling of the Wonderful 
 Chance before him. That is for you to do. But 
 he's one of the right ones for it and no mistake. 
 You won't mind if we keep on the tour till the 
 end of June, will you? Cupid is sitting gaily in 
 the donkey-cart alongside Pippa, and though 
 Aurora and Alan don't quite realize his presence 
 yet, they soon will discover him, and will no 
 doubt bring him back as a permanent guest to 
 London. That, of course, was my main idea 
 when I proposed the tour. High Art, thank 
 goodness, is getting wan and pale. She had 
 almost her death-blow the other day when Aurora 
 made a daisy-chain with which she adorned 
 Alan, and he fell into a pond dabbling after 
 tadpoles for Pippa. We fished him out and 
 wrapped him in a rug, while we spread his 
 clothes in a buttercup field to dry. The warmth 
 of their gold was enough to dry them, let alone 
 the sun. I heard Cupid chuckling, the rogue! 
 We miss you a lot, and the best thing we 
 have to look forward to on our return is your 
 welcome . ."
 
 2io Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Miss Mason put down the letter with a little 
 sigh of happiness. Her heart felt nearly as warm 
 and sunny as the buttercup field. 
 
 Then she set out to meet Bridget at Storey's 
 in Kensington High Street. 
 
 Exactly three weeks after Miss Mason's pere- 
 grination to Chiswick she put a request to Jas- 
 per. 
 
 " I want," she said, in as careless a voice as she 
 could assume, " to call on a friend of mine this 
 afternoon, and I want you to come with me." 
 
 Jasper looked dismayed. " I should be 
 delighted," he said mendaciously, " only calling 
 isn't a bit in my line." 
 
 " It's quite near at hand," said Miss Mason ; 
 " only at a flat in Beaufort Street, and I particu- 
 larly want you to meet my friend." 
 
 " Very well," said Jasper, suppressing a sigh. 
 
 "We'll start," said Miss Mason, "at half-past 
 three." 
 
 At the hour appointed Jasper appeared. 
 
 " You had better call a taxi," said Miss Mason. 
 She felt it impossible to walk. She would have 
 run all the way, a proceeding which would have 
 undoubtedly have astonished Jasper. 
 
 As the taxi drew up at the door of a block of 
 flats in Beaufort Street, a woman looked for a 
 moment from a window. As she saw the two 
 figures get out she drew back into the room. Her
 
 The Heart of Nature 211 
 
 heart was beating so loudly she could almost hear it. 
 
 Miss Mason rang the bell of the flat. 
 
 " Your mistress at home? " she said to the dapper 
 little maid who opened the door. 
 
 "Yes 'm. What name 'm?" 
 
 " Miss Mason and Mr. Merton," said Miss 
 Mason firmly. 
 
 They went into the bright little passage, and 
 the maid threw open the door of the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " Miss Mason and Mr. Merton/' she announced. 
 
 A woman in a pale green dress came forward to 
 meet them. 
 
 Jasper stared. 
 
 " Jasper," she said, with a little shaky laugh, and 
 she held out both her hands. 
 
 " Bride ! " he exclaimed, and it was nearly seven 
 years since she had heard that name. 
 
 Miss Mason went quickly from the room, and 
 closed the door softly behind her. 
 
 It was nearly an hour before they realized her 
 absence. Then Bridget started up from the sofa. 
 
 " Aunt Olive ! " she exclaimed. " Oh, Jasper, 
 isn't she a dear! I must go round and find her." 
 
 " She'll be back at her studio by now," said 
 Jasper calmly. 
 
 " I'd quite forgotten her," said Bridget con- 
 tritely. " Oughtn't we to go " 
 
 " Presently," said Jasper. " Come back to me 
 now. I want you. Aunt Olive will understand."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE RING OF EROS 
 
 FAR away from London Pippa was swinging on 
 a gate. Her dress had become rather faded 
 from much sunshine, and her straw hat had been 
 baked quite brown. She had it well pulled down 
 to shade her eyes, so that it hid the upper part 
 of her face. 
 
 An hour ago Pippa had been crying, and for 
 the reason that the purple-shadowed landscape 
 had refused to be interpreted on canvas through 
 the medium of paints and brushes and her own 
 little brown right hand. Barnabas at her earnest 
 request had lent her the materials. It was not 
 the first time she had tried with them. He had 
 watched her in silence as she messed away with 
 the paints. Suddenly she flung the canvas face 
 downwards on the grass and burst into tears. 
 
 " What is it, Kiddy ? " asked Barnabas, putting 
 his arm round her. 
 
 " It's all out vere," she said, nodding towards 
 the sunny landscape, " and I can see it, and I 
 want to tell it to myself and ozzer peoples, like 
 you tell your pictures, and I can't oh, I can't." 
 
 212
 
 The Ring of Eros 213 
 
 She rubbed her tear-stained face up and down on 
 Barnabas' coat sleeve in an access of despair. 
 
 " But, childie," expostulated Barnabas, " one 
 can't ' tell pictures,' as you say, all in a moment. 
 One has to learn." 
 
 Pippa shook her head. " Not me," she said. 
 "I shall never learn. I can't ever tell pictures. 
 And it's all here," she put her hand to her heart, 
 " and I want to say it so badly." 
 
 For a minute Barnabas was silent. Then he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Once," he said, " there was a boy who saw 
 that the world was very beautiful and he wanted 
 to tell his own beautiful thoughts about it to 
 himself and to other people. One day he heard 
 a man playing the violin. And the man made 
 the violin speak so that in its music it said the 
 most wonderful things. It told about the moon 
 shining on a sleeping sea, and the secrets the 
 little waves whispered to the shore. It told of 
 silver streams whose banks were starred with 
 primroses, and it told of great forests where the 
 trees were standing dark and still in the purple 
 night waiting for the first rosy flush of dawn. It 
 told of the laughter of little children, and the 
 songs young mothers sing to their babies. All 
 these things the music of the violin told, and the 
 boy listened, and said to himself, ' I will play the 
 violin, for I know now the way I can .tell my 
 thoughts to the world.' '
 
 214 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Pippa was listening entranced. " Had he got a 
 violin?" she asked. 
 
 " No," said Barnabas, " but someone gave 
 him a violin, and he had lessons, and he practised 
 for many hours, but the violin would not speak 
 his thoughts in the way he wished it to. And one 
 day the great violinist he had first heard play 
 came to the house. He listened to the boy playing 
 but he didn't say very much. You see, he was a 
 big man, and the big men never discourage the 
 little men. Remember that, Pippa, my child. 
 Well, when the boy had finished playing, the 
 Master just wagged his shaggy great head to and 
 fro and said, ' Um, urn, urn. The lad's got some- 
 thing to say, but ' and then he went away. 
 
 But he came again to see the boy. And that time 
 he didn't ask him to play, but he just sat talking 
 to him. And while he talked the boy was playing 
 with a piece of clay, for he was very fond of 
 making figures out of it." 
 
 " Like Andrew," said Pippa. 
 
 " Yes, like Andrew. Well, while the Master 
 talked the boy went on doing something with 
 the clay, and suddenly the Master saw that it 
 was a likeness of himself the boy had made. 
 ' Let's have a look at that, boy,' he said. The 
 boy, feeling very shy and crimson, pushed it over 
 to him. The Master stared at it for a minute, then 
 he thumped his hand down on the table. * Du 
 lieber Gott ! ' he exclaimed in a huge big voice
 
 The Ring of Eros 215 
 
 that made the boy tremble, ' I knew the boy had 
 something to say, and behold,' he pointed at the 
 clay, ' here is the language in which he shall say 
 it. My son,' he went on, ' you have the ear to 
 hear the language of music, and you have the 
 heart to understand it, but you have not the 
 hand to make it speak yourself. In it you under- 
 stand the thoughts of others, but in this earth 
 you shall tell your own. If you live you will be 
 a great man.' And he held out his hand to the 
 boy, who took it and kissed it, because he was 
 so very happy. It's a true story," ended Barna- 
 bas, " because the boy himself told me, only he 
 was a man when he told the story." 
 
 Pippa nodded her head up and down. " I like 
 dat," she said. " One day p'raps I find a language. 
 What was ze boy's name ? " 
 
 " The boy's name," said Barnabas, " was 
 Philippe Kostolitz, and he made the little faun 
 which you love, and which is in my garden." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Pippa, with a delighted sigh. Her 
 tears were completely forgotten. Twenty minutes 
 later she was swinging on the gate. 
 
 Barnabas was sitting in the shadow of a hedge 
 near her, painting a buttercup field and a copse 
 of birches beyond. Dan was lying flat on his back 
 smoking. Andrew had gone back to London. 
 And Aurora and Alan were off on some business 
 of their own. Pegasus, tethered to a long rope, 
 was contentedly eating thistles.
 
 216 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Pippa watched the birds and butterflies, which 
 were many, and the by-passers, which were few, 
 as she swung. An old man passed and called 
 good afternoon in a cheery voice. A trap with a 
 hard-worked young doctor in it drove by, and 
 he smiled as he saw Pippa. Then there came a 
 cart driven by a man, and with a boy of about 
 fifteen sitting on the tail-board, his legs swinging. 
 He made a grimace at Pippa as he passed, and 
 Pippa be it told with sorrow put out her 
 tongue at him. There was something of the 
 gamin about Pippa which was never wholly 
 eradicated. And after the boy there passed a 
 young gipsy woman carrying a baby. Pippa gave 
 her a three-penny bit. The woman looked hard at 
 her. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " there's some of our blood in 
 your veins, and you have the sad eyes and the 
 lucky smile of those who are born to many 
 happenings. The Lord keep you, little lady." 
 And she passed on her way. And after she had 
 gone there were only the birds and butterflies for 
 quite a long time. 
 
 Suddenly Pippa heard the distant hoot of a 
 motor-car. Barnabas, who had finished his 
 painting, came to the gate and leant over it with 
 her. The motor hove in sight, a great crimson 
 Mercedes, travelling fast. 
 
 Pippa waved her hand as it passed. The 
 occupants of the car, a man and a woman, saw
 
 The Ring of Eros 217 
 
 the child, and the gaiety of the sunshine being in 
 their hearts they waved in response. The woman, 
 who was swathed in a purple motor veil, waved 
 an ungloved hand. Pippa saw the flash of 
 diamonds on it. Also as she waved something fell, 
 but the car rounded a bend in the lane and was out 
 of sight almost before Pippa and Barnabas realized 
 it. 
 
 Pippa scrambled over the gate. There was 
 something lying in the dust, which she picked up. 
 She came back slowly to Barnabas. 
 
 " Look," she said, " what a queer, pretty ring." 
 
 A ruby was set in it, on which was engraved a 
 little figure of Eros holding a circle and trident. 
 The stone and its setting was undoubtedly very 
 ancient. The ring itself probably Georgian. 
 
 She held it out to Barnabas. He took it from 
 her. 
 
 " Ah," he said slowly, and he looked from it in 
 the direction the car had vanished. 
 
 He had seen the ring before on the hand of 
 Philippe Kostolitz. 
 
 "May I keep it?" asked Pippa. 
 
 " No, little thief," said Barnabas. " The owner 
 will miss it and perhaps come back for it. In any 
 case we shall have to try and find out who she is, 
 and return it." 
 
 And he slipped the ring into his coat-pocket.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 AN OLD MAN IN A GARDEN 
 
 IT is strange how a name long unspoken and 
 unheard, once coming again within one's ken, 
 comes again and again before one, and in the most 
 unlikely and unexpected ways. 
 
 For over nine years Barnabas had not chanced 
 to hear his friend's name mentioned, and now 
 there was first Pippa and her wonderful likeness 
 to him, and then the incident of the ring, both 
 of which had served to remind him vividly and 
 bring the name before him. But the third inci- 
 dent was to be a good deal stranger, in fact it 
 was to savour somewhat of the " Arabian Nights' 
 Entertainments." 
 
 They stopped for their noon halt one day in 
 the shade of a small coppice. A little beyond it 
 they could see the roof and chimneys of a house 
 surrounded by a high wall. Before settling down 
 to lunch Barnabas strolled towards it and walked 
 round the wall. There was no means of seeing 
 over, and the only entrance was through a small 
 green wooden door, which was shut. Ivy grew 
 up the wall outside, and had Barnabas felt 
 disposed he might have climbed up by it and 
 
 218
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 219 
 
 peered over. It was, however, too hot for such 
 exertion. Also if there were anyone in the garden 
 and he were seen, his position would have been, 
 to say the least of it, undignified. He strolled 
 back to the copse and to the lunch which the others 
 had unpacked. 
 
 " Where 'ave you been ? " asked Pippa. 
 
 Barnabas nodded in the direction of the house. 
 " Down there," he said. 
 
 " What's inside ? " demanded Pippa. 
 
 " Don't know," said Barnabas, attacking the leg 
 of a chicken ; " couldn't see over." 
 
 Pippa's eyes became far off and dreamy. 
 " Qucl damage! You couldn't climb, ze wall ver' 
 much to 'igh ? " 
 
 " It wasn't the question of the height of the 
 wall, but my dignity," returned Barnabas. 
 " What would I have looked like if I'd been 
 caught?" 
 
 " Funny," smiled Pippa, her eyes dancing with 
 amusement. 
 
 " I've no desire to look funny," said Barnabas. 
 " Toss me over that bottle of cider, like a good 
 child, and look out for flying corks. I do my best, 
 but this weather makes the stuff too fizzy for 
 anything." 
 
 Pippa tossed the bottle and retired gravely behind 
 Barnabas while he manipulated the cork. Then 
 she returned to her seat near him. 
 
 " I do wonder what's inside," she said.
 
 22O Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Cider," said Barnabas, pouring it into a 
 glass. 
 
 " Not the bottle, me chant, the wall," announced 
 Pippa. 
 
 " Oh, the wall ! I don't know ; nothing, I 
 daresay." 
 
 " An Ogre," said Aurora. She and Alan and 
 Dan had been too busy feeding to enter into the 
 conversation before. 
 
 Pippa elevated her chin. " Je ne suis pas une 
 bebee, moi. I know, but quite well, vere are no 
 Ogres." 
 
 "Lions, then, Miss Curiosity," suggested Alan. 
 
 Pippa turned her shoulder towards him. 
 " Imbecile, it is not a menagerie, but I have no 
 interest in it, moi. If you wish to discover you 
 can go and look for yourself." And she proceeded 
 to eat chicken delicately and haughtily with her 
 fingers, disdaining further mention of the house 
 within the wall. 
 
 After lunch they all lay down in the shade of 
 the trees and went to sleep, lulled by the sleepy, 
 liquid note of the wood-pigeons, and the humming 
 of bees. 
 
 Barnabas was the first to awaken. When he 
 did he discovered that Pippa was absent. He 
 came out of the copse and looked down the little 
 lane that ran between the trees on one side and 
 a stretch of moorland on the other. To the left
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 221 
 
 it would come out on the main road, to the right 
 it led to the wall-enclosed house. 
 
 Seeing no sign of the child, and not caring to 
 coo-ee to her on account of disturbing the 
 sleepers, he went down towards the house, 
 thinking it more than likely, from her remarks 
 at lunch, that she had gone to investigate the place 
 herself. 
 
 " Daughter of Eve," said Barnabas to himself, 
 as he strolled down the sunny lane, watching the 
 butterflies flitting over the moorland. 
 
 He reached the garden wall and had strolled 
 round two sides of it when he suddenly came to a 
 standstill, arrested by the sound of Pippa's voice 
 from inside the garden. 
 
 He paused to listen. He could hear her words 
 distinctly. She was narrating to some one the 
 story of Philippe Kostolitz which he had told her 
 only a couple of days previously. 
 
 " And so," Pippa ended, in her clear voice, " I 
 am looking for my language. What is yours ? " 
 There was a note of shameless coaxing in the 
 words. 
 
 " That," returned a deep voice. 
 
 " What, ze garden ? " came Pippa's reply. 
 
 Barnabas put one foot on a stout branch of 
 ivy, and clinging to another branch above him, 
 heaved himself noiselessly to the top of the 
 wall.
 
 222 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Then he saw Pippa. She was seated on a 
 garden bench, her hat in her hands, and on the 
 bench beside her was an old man. His beard, 
 long and snow-white, reached almost to his waist. 
 His hair, also snow-white and very thick, glistened 
 in the sunlight, for his head was uncovered. 
 His clothes, Barnabas, saw were dark and well-cut, 
 and his voice was peculiarly melodious and refined. 
 
 "Well, upon my word!" ejaculated Barnabas, 
 quite forgetting that he was speaking aloud. 
 
 The old man looked up. " Ah," he said, with 
 a quaint smile, " so you, too, have found the ivy 
 route." 
 
 " You don't mean to say Pippa climbed up 
 here?" exclaimed Barnabas, absolutely forgetful 
 of his own rather curious position. 
 
 " But I did," cried Pippa joyfully, " and he saw 
 me, and asked me to come in and see ze garden. 
 But did you ever see such a garden ? " 
 
 " Never ! " said Barnabas enthusiastically, 
 surveying it from his post of vantage. 
 
 Smooth lawns with close-clipped edges, and 
 flower-beds a mass of colour met his eye. There 
 were larkspurs tall and slender, from sapphire 
 blue to turquoise. There were great tree lupins, 
 there were roses of every shade and shape im- 
 aginable. There were crimson and blue salvias, 
 scarlet and white phloxes, borders of African 
 marigolds a blaze of orange ; and there was a 
 great bed of hollyhocks, among whose silken
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 223 
 
 flowers butterflies innumerable were hovering. 
 In the middle of the lawn was a marble basin 
 full of crystal water, on whose edge white pigeons 
 were preening themselves, and a couple of gor- 
 geous peacocks spread tails of waking eyes to the 
 sun. 
 
 " Will you not," said the old man courteously, 
 " follow Pippa's example and enter the garden by 
 the door? You will find it unfastened." 
 
 Barnabas slithered down off the wall and came 
 round to the green door. He felt as if he were 
 suddenly walking into a fairy-tale garden in 
 which nothing that might happen would surprise 
 him. 
 
 The old man came forward to meet him. 
 
 " I hope," he said courteously, " that the child's 
 absence has not caused you anxiety. I found a 
 pleasure in her conversation, and forgot that time 
 was passing." 
 
 " Not at all," Barnabas assured him. " I had 
 only just missed her. I came to look for her, and 
 heard her voice. Forgive my unceremonious 
 appearance." 
 
 The old man smiled. " It was as delightful as 
 her own," he said. 
 
 There was a little silence. Barnabas looked 
 towards the house. It was Elizabethan in 
 structure, with walls stained to a variety of 
 different colours by wind, sun, rain, and time. 
 Roses wreathed the latticed windows, and up one
 
 224 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 side of the house a great wistaria climbed, covering 
 part of the roof and losing itself among the 
 chimney-stacks. 
 
 "Will you come inside?" said the old man. 
 " There is something I would like the child to 
 see." 
 
 Barnabas assented. The three sleepers in the 
 coppice were forgotten. The fascination of the 
 place and the old man's strange and courtly 
 personality was upon him. 
 
 The old man had led the way into the house. 
 They went into a square hall, dark and cool. 
 The floor was of inlaid wood highly polished, 
 the walls oak and hung with pictures. They 
 passed through the hall, and the old man led the 
 way through an arched doorway and down two 
 steps into a room which to the mind of Barnabas 
 belonged most assuredly to the ancient stories 
 of the " Arabian Nights." In shape it was 
 circular, and hung with draperies of a curious 
 deep blue, like the colour of the sky at night. 
 The floor was also polished and covered with a 
 few old Persian rugs. There was an oak table at 
 the far side of the room, three large oak chairs, 
 and a kind of divan covered in sapphire-blue 
 silk and worked with tiny crescent moons and 
 stars. 
 
 But the arresting note of the room lay in a 
 marble statue on a pedestal. It would be hard 
 to say wherein exactly the extraordinary fascina-
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 225 
 
 tion of it lay. But Barnabas looked at it almost 
 spellbound. The old man motioned to them to sit 
 down, and seated himself. 
 
 " That statue," he said, " was given me by a 
 friend of mine. He used to pass many months 
 with me at a time. He loved the quietude of 
 these surroundings as I love them. At the back 
 of the house I had a studio built for him where he 
 worked. When he was not working he sat in the 
 garden. He loved it. He used to say he loved 
 the flowers both in sunlight and in moonlight, or 
 drenched in tears of rain. He said the Spirit of 
 the Garden moved among them. That was the 
 Figure he made of Her. Look at it well," he 
 went on, with a grave earnestness. " Is it not 
 wonderful ? " 
 
 " Wonderful ! " echoed Barnabas from his heart. 
 
 " It is to me," said the old man quietly, " a 
 perfect embodiment of an inspiration. So much 
 is often lost. First the inspiration-flash has to 
 become articulate to be shaped in the brain 
 before the hand even starts to fashion it. It 
 loses enormously in the process. To me that is 
 one of the few things that has not lost. It is the 
 first inspiration-flash embodied in marble. It 
 has never been exhibited. My friend had a curious 
 dislike to exhibiting his work. He was a strange 
 man." 
 
 He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Pippa 
 was lying back in her chair, her hands tucked
 
 226 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 under her chin a usual attitude of hers. She 
 was gazing at the statue with wide grey eyes. 
 Barnabas had a certain presentiment of a name 
 that would shortly be mentioned. 
 
 " Would you like to see the place where he 
 worked ? " asked the old man suddenly. 
 
 Barnabas got up from his chair. Pippa came 
 across to him and slid her hand into his. Her 
 imagination was vividly at work. 
 
 They left the circular room and went down a 
 passage. The old man took a key from his pocket 
 and unlocked a door. 
 
 " This is the place," he said. 
 
 It was a large room, well lighted. There were 
 plaster casts of heads on various shelves, and 
 several plaster plaques hanging on the walls. At 
 one side of the studio Barnabas saw the plaster 
 figure of a little faun. It was the same as the 
 marble faun in his garden. Pippa did not notice 
 it. She was gazing at a figure, enveloped in an 
 old sheet, which was on a stand in the middle of 
 the room. 
 
 " It was the last piece of work he started 
 here," said the old man, pointing to it. " It has 
 remained just as he left it. Nothing has been 
 moved. I dust the place myself. No one ever 
 entered it but my friend and I and the workmen 
 he employed. They were always foreigners, and 
 came from a distance. But now no one enters 
 but I. You are the first to come into the place."
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 227 
 
 " And," said Barnabas, speaking in a low voice, 
 "you brought us in here because of Pippa? " 
 
 Pippa had wandered to the far side of the room. 
 
 " How did you know ? " asked the old man. 
 
 " Because Philippe Kostolitz was also my 
 friend." 
 
 "Ah!" said the old man softly. "And 
 where," he asked, " did you find the child? " 
 
 " She came to us," said Barnabas, " out of the 
 Nowhere." 
 
 The old man smiled. " Planted there I fancy 
 by Philippe." Then their eyes met. " So you saw 
 the likeness too?" 
 
 " I did," said Barnabas. 
 
 " That was the reason," said the old man, " that 
 I liked to talk to her. She reminded me of him. 
 He came and went from here as he chose. It 
 was on one of his tramps that he wandered in. 
 The door in the wall is never locked. I found 
 him looking at the butterflies among my holly- 
 hocks. He was a lad of twenty at that time. It 
 is twenty-five years ago." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Barnabas. 
 
 " Pippa's voice," went on the old man, " is 
 charming. I liked to hear it. She has a way of 
 looking up at one when she talks that reminds me 
 of our friend. She told me a delightful little story 
 about a sculptor." 
 
 " The story," said Barnabas, " was true. And 
 the sculptor was Philippe Kostolitz."
 
 228 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " Truly," said the old man, " I might have 
 guessed it." 
 
 And again he lapsed into silence. Suddenly he 
 roused himself. 
 
 " But you will have fruit and cake and some- 
 thing to drink," he said. " I was forgetting my 
 manners." 
 
 " We have only just lunched," said Barnabas. 
 
 " But fruit," the old man insisted, " at least 
 fruit. I hold the Eastern ideas of hospitality. 
 Those to whom I feel friendly must eat in my 
 house." 
 
 He led the way back into the hall and signed 
 to them to sit down. Then he clapped his hands 
 three times. An Indian, brown as mahogany, in 
 loose trousers, white shirt, and turban, answered 
 the summons. He salaamed, his face as impassive 
 as a mask. 
 
 The old man said something to him in a language 
 neither Barnabas nor Pippa understood, though 
 Barnabas guessed it to be Hindustanee. 
 
 " He has served me," said the old man, " for 
 fifteen years. He is faithful as a dog." 
 
 " Do you live here always ? " asked Barnabas. 
 
 " I have lived here," said the old man, " for 
 thirty years. Up till the age of forty I travelled 
 far. Then I came here to peace my thoughts, 
 my flowers, and my books. I have a few friends 
 who come to see me, and they are always 
 welcome."
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 229 
 
 He mentioned three or four names. Among 
 them Barnabas recognized the name of a famous 
 statesmen and a well-known singer. 
 
 The Indian returned with a tray, on which was 
 a dish of strawberries, some wafer biscuits, a glass 
 of milk, and two empty tumblers, and three small 
 decanters, which he placed on a table. 
 
 The old man helped Pippa to strawberries and 
 gave her the glass of milk. Then from the three 
 decanters he mixed a drink for Barnabas and 
 himself. 
 
 " Excellent ! " said Barnabas as he tasted it. 
 
 " My own brewing," said the old man. 
 
 While they ate the fruit he talked to them of 
 his travels. Each little narrative he told was well- 
 turned and concise, the language he chose was 
 poetical. 
 
 All at once he got up and went into an inner 
 room. He came back with the most exquisite 
 little Russian icon. He gave it to Pippa. 
 
 " Will you have it," he asked, " in memory of 
 your visit here ? " 
 
 Pippa was covered with rosy blushes of delight. 
 
 "Mais, je vous remerce mille fois" she said. 
 " Barnabas, isn't it beautiful, but, oh, very 
 beautiful?" 
 
 " It's very good of you," said Barnabas. 
 
 ' You've given a great deal of pleasure." And 
 
 then quite suddenly, and for the first time, he 
 
 remembered the three sleepers in the wood, who
 
 230 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 doubtless had long ago awakened. He signed to 
 Pippa, who got up. The old man took them into 
 the garden. At the green door he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Will you come again and see me?" he said. 
 " I live, as you see, alone among my flowers. Ali 
 looks after my bodily needs, and I have a man who 
 helps me in my garden. I do not, as a rule, see 
 people beyond the few friends I mentioned to 
 you. But it would give me great pleasure if you 
 will come. My name is Adam Gray, and my 
 house is called The Close." 
 
 And Barnabas promised that one day they would 
 come again. 
 
 So they left the enchanted garden and went up 
 the lane among the butterflies. 
 
 " I feel as if I'd been dreaming," said Pippa 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Exactly, my dear," said Barnabas. " It's 
 what we've both been doing dreaming a very 
 fantastic Arabian Night's dream, which nobody 
 would believe if we told it to them." 
 
 And then from afar an extremely wakeful Dan 
 saw them and hailed them in wrathful accents. 
 
 " Where on earth have you two been ? " he 
 cried. " We've been hunting for you for the last 
 hour and a half." 
 
 " We've been in a fairy-tale," said Barnabas, 
 as he reached him, " where clocks and watches 
 are not admitted, and where turbaned Indians
 
 An Old Man in a Garden 231 
 
 bring red, white, and green drinks in cut-glass 
 decanters, which when mixed together is drink fit 
 for the gods. Now let me help you to harness 
 Pegasus. And if you'll leave off staring I'll tell 
 you about it, only Pippa knows you won't believe 
 it." 
 
 Miss Mason, in her studio in London, received 
 a registered packet from Barnabas. She opened 
 it, and found inside a letter and a curious signet 
 ring. 
 
 " We are on our way home," wrote Barnabas. 
 " Cupid has triumphed and is holding the reins 
 of Pegasus. Pippa, Dan, and I are taking back 
 seats. Kisses and moonlight there's a full 
 moon predominate, and I saw Aurora hugging 
 a rosy-cheeked baby in a cottage garden. High 
 Art gave one groan and expired. She has never, 
 never moved again. The call of wedding bells is 
 bringing us back to London. You may expect 
 us on Friday. I am enclosing a ring which was 
 dropped from a passing motor-car. Fortunately 
 I saw the number. It was a London car. I am 
 advertising for the owner of the ring in various 
 London papers, and have given your studio as 
 the address to which to apply, though I gave my 
 own name. Therefore I send you the ring. You 
 will, of course, take the name and address of the 
 claimant. Dan and I will be glad to be home 
 again. Though Nature in her present sunny
 
 232 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 mood is extraordinarily entrancing, there is a 
 good deal to be said in favour of spring mat- 
 tresses . . ." 
 
 Miss Mason looked at the ring, turning it 
 curiously in her hand. Then she put it away in a 
 little carved box which she locked.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ANDREW MCANDREW 
 
 4CT FEEL," said Barnabas, "that some one 
 
 JL ought to pat me on the back. I set out to 
 do something, and I did it. It is a pleasant 
 sensation." 
 
 " Unaccustomed ? " asked Miss Mason, with 
 mock sarcasm. 
 
 They were both in her studio the day following 
 the return of the donkey-party. They were 
 awaiting the appearance of Andrew McAndrew, to 
 whom Barnabas had written to come to the studio 
 at four o'clock. Pippa had been taken by Jasper 
 to call upon his wife. 
 
 Miss Mason had announced Bridget's advent to 
 Beaufort Street to the assembled party the previous 
 evening. They had taken the announcement 
 without undue surprise. Their minds were too big 
 and straightforward to dream of questioning. 
 Since Jasper had chosen to keep the fact of his 
 marriage secret it was entirely his own affair. 
 They merely rejoiced that he was now, as Miss 
 Mason told them, unfeignedly happy. 
 
 " Aurora," continued Barnabas, " has gone 
 down to stay with her own people for three weeks, 
 
 233
 
 234 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 while the banns are being called. She left this 
 morning, and Alan is writing to her at the moment. 
 Their pet names for each other are Sweetest and 
 Boysie. I suppose the pendulum was bound to 
 swing pretty far in the direction of rank senti- 
 mentality. It'll steady again presently." 
 
 " You swung it," said Miss Mason dryly. 
 
 " And I'm proud of the fact," said Barnabas. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "If that's Mr. McAndrew," said Miss Mason, 
 relapsing into her gruffest manner, "you'll have to 
 do the talking, because I can't." 
 
 " Mr. McAndrew," said Sally, opening the door. 
 
 Andrew came in, a great loose-limbed fellow, 
 with mouse-coloured hair, and oddly earnest eyes 
 in a snub-nosed, wide-mouthed face. 
 
 "Awfully glad to see you, McAndrew," said 
 Barnabas warmly. "Let me introduce you to 
 Miss Mason." 
 
 The two shook hands and Andrew sat down. 
 His glance wandered round the studio till it 
 reached the " Winged Victory." His eyes rested 
 on it with pleasure as on some familiar friend. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " but yon's a fine bit o' wor-rk." 
 
 " You're fond of sculpture," said Miss Mason 
 shortly. 
 
 " 'Deed," said Andrew, " I like it weel." 
 
 "Do you do anything yourself in that way?" 
 asked Miss Mason. 
 
 Andrew shook his head. " I'll no be havin' the
 
 Andrew Me Andrew 235 
 
 time," he said, " for mair than juist dabblin' wi' 
 a bit o' clay." 
 
 " Would you like to give your time to the 
 work ? " asked Miss Mason. 
 
 " 'Deed an' I wad." There was a simple 
 earnestness about the words infinitely more con- 
 vincing than any lengthy assurance of the fact. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Mason gruffly, " let's have 
 some tea." 
 
 During the meal Barnabas did most of the 
 talking, Andrew replying in short sentences. Miss 
 Mason was practically silent. When it was finished 
 Miss Mason looked across at Barnabas. 
 
 " Better tell Mr. McAndrew our idea," she said. 
 
 So, very straightforwardly, Barnabas told An- 
 drew Miss Mason's scheme for the Wonderful 
 Chance. When he had ended Andrew looked at 
 him with an expression of dumb happiness in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "You'll be meanin' ?" he said. "You 
 
 were thinkin' to offer the chance to me?" 
 
 "If you care to take it," said Barnabas. " What 
 do you think?" 
 
 " I'm maist obleeged," said Andrew, and he 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 " Very well, then," said Miss Mason gruffly, 
 " it's settled. Air. Kirby will make all arrange- 
 ments with you." And she too became silent. 
 
 It was not at all the kind of interview Barnabas 
 had intended. He felt Miss Mason to be almost
 
 236 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 tiresomely gruff, and his protege almost ungrateful. 
 
 At last Andrew heaved himself out of his chair. 
 
 " I'll be leavin'," he said. He held out his hand 
 to Miss Mason. " I'm maist obleeged," he said 
 again. 
 
 " That's all right," said Miss Mason gruffly. 
 
 Barnabas went out into the little garden with 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Miss Mason doesn't mean to be abrupt," he 
 said. " It's merely her manner. She finds it diffi- 
 cult to express " 
 
 Andrew turned on him. " Man, d'ye think I 
 dinna ken. D'ye think ' I'm maist obleeged ' told 
 juist all that was in ma heart. I cud e'en ha' knelt 
 an' ha' kissed the hem o' her skir-rt. An' gin I 
 had I'd ha' been sobbin' like a wee bit wean." An- 
 drew swallowed once or twice fiercely. 
 
 Then he saw the little faun. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " yon's bonny. I wad like fine 
 to make a figure to stand in t' auld lady's garden, 
 but aiblins she like it a wee bit draipit." 
 
 " Charity," laughed Barnabas, " colossal and in 
 many robes." 
 
 " Huh ! " said Andrew scornfully, " it's ha' gran' 
 figure o' Charity I was thinkin' o', but juist a wee 
 figure o' smilin' Love wi' his hands held oot to 
 draw folk to his hearrt." 
 
 And a year later such a little figure did stand 
 not in the garden but in a corner of Miss 
 Mason's studio.
 
 Andrew McAndrew 237 
 
 When Andrew had gone Barnabas went back into 
 the studio. 
 
 " We disappointed you," said Miss Mason. 
 " That boy's no more good at expressing his feel- 
 ings than I am." 
 
 " I understand," said Barnabas lightly. " He 
 managed though to say a bit more in the garden. 
 By the way," he went on, " no one has called to 
 claim the ring yet, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No," replied Miss Mason. " It's a queer 
 ring." 
 
 " Yes," said Barnabas. But for some reason he 
 still did not say where and when he had first 
 seen it.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE CRUELTY OF THE FATES 
 
 THE Duchessa di Corleone was on her way 
 back from Italy. She had said good-bye 
 with a little pang to the gallery, and to the court- 
 yard with its golden oranges and marble statues, 
 but once on her way to England the thought of 
 Paul completely obliterated any trace of sorrow. 
 She was joyfully ready to give up everything 
 the Casa di Corleone, her house on the Embank- 
 ment, and her thousands a year for the man who 
 had taken her heart into his keeping. 
 
 Throughout the journey her heart sang little 
 songs of happiness, which had as their refrain the 
 one word, " Paul." The express train rushing 
 across the country bathed in the July sun could 
 hardly carry her with sufficient swiftness. When, 
 at last, Calais was reached and she was on board 
 the boat she felt happier. 
 
 With the cliffs of Dover in sight her heart was 
 singing a Te Deum. Till that moment she had 
 felt that some accident might happen to prevent 
 her getting to him. Now, in less than four hours 
 she would be in his studio. 
 
 She had written to tell him not to meet her at 
 238
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 239 
 
 the station. She wanted their first meeting to be 
 alone, without the eyes of curious porters upon 
 them. 
 
 " Just you and I together, my darling," she 
 wrote. " I can see the room in my mind, and you 
 coming forward to meet me. There has not been 
 a moment day and night when you have been ab- 
 sent from my thoughts. Our love transfigures 
 everything for me. Life has become a magic book 
 on every page of which your name is written. . . ." 
 
 That letter had reached Paul in his studio the 
 morning of the day Sara would arrive. And now, 
 an hour before her arrival, he was sitting with it 
 crumpled tightly in his hand, his eyes staring 
 blankly before him. 
 
 The Fates had struck suddenly, dealing sorrow 
 as they had dealt joy, silently and swiftly. That 
 very morning he had heard of the complete failure 
 of the Mexican bank in which his money was 
 invested. 
 
 At first the news had stunned him. In the 
 afternoon he had gone down to a friend in the 
 city to make fuller enquiries. He found his worst 
 fears realized. His income, which altogether had 
 amounted to about fourteen hundred a year, had 
 been suddenly reduced to less than half. In fact, 
 to merely the six hundred or so he earned by his 
 painting. 
 
 Paul went back to his studio and sat down
 
 240 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 trying to realize what it would mean. And 
 because he was a man whose steady grey eyes 
 had always looked facts clearly in the face, he 
 even took pencil and paper and jotted down certain 
 figures. But the sum total always remained the 
 same his marriage with Sara had become 
 impossible. 
 
 He never for an instant did her the wrong of 
 thinking that his loss of income would make any 
 difference to her love for him. He believed in her 
 love as implicitly as he believed in his own. 
 That, however, did not alter the one fact that 
 marriage was out of the question. Even if he 
 reduced his mother's allowance by a hundred a 
 year which, however, he had no intention of 
 doing the three hundred left him would not 
 justify him taking any woman to wife, and 
 assuredly not a woman like the Duchessa di 
 Corleone. He knew the impossibility of trans- 
 planting a hot-house flower to the open air of a 
 wintry garden. The thing could not be done. No 
 amount of care could save it ; it must die. 
 
 And with the irony of fate, this news had 
 reached him by the very same post as her let- 
 ter. 
 
 He took it again from his pocket and re-read it. 
 A spasm of pain that was almost physical pierced 
 him. His hand tightened on the paper till it was 
 crumpled and twisted. And in less than an hour- 
 she would be in the studio with him.
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 241 
 
 " My God," said Paul to himself, " the Fates are 
 very cruel ! " 
 
 And then because throughout the day his first 
 thought had been of Sara he began to plan how 
 best to break the news to her. He determined 
 that for a few hours at least she should not know. 
 She should have the complete joy of the meeting 
 unmarred. They were going out to dine together. 
 When they returned to the studio it would be time 
 enough to tell her. With the decision all the old 
 quiet endurance he had learnt through days and 
 nights of hardship came back to Paul. He would 
 hide the knowledge of their parting in his own 
 heart. Till he bade her good-bye that evening she 
 should never guess what the world would really 
 mean to them both. 
 
 Something caught at his throat and a mist swam 
 before his eyes. He got up and began to walk 
 quickly up and down the room. Every now and 
 then his hand, still holding the letter, clenched 
 tightly. 
 
 Suddenly he realized what he held. He stopped 
 in his walk and put the letter on the table. He 
 smoothed it out tenderly, as if it had been some 
 living thing he had injured. He folded it and put 
 it in his pocket-book. And once more he began his 
 walk. 
 
 The whole place seemed full of her presence. 
 Everything reminded him of her, the chair in 
 which she sat, the glass at which she had been
 
 242 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 wont to arrange her hat when she was sitting for 
 him, the vases on a bookshelf, for which she 
 insisted that he should buy flowers. There were 
 flowers in them to-day, real crimson roses 
 General Jacqueminot, with its sweet old-fashioned 
 scent. For the future they would remain empty. 
 It would be useless to buy flowers if she was not 
 to see them. It seemed to him as if his whole life 
 he had been doing everything for her, and that 
 now nothing would seem worth while. He caught 
 at his underlip with his teeth, biting it hard. It 
 seemed as if he were being asked to bear more than 
 human strength could endure. Then all at once 
 he stopped in his walk, for the hoot of a taxi near 
 at hand struck on his ears. 
 
 A moment later he heard a light step crossing 
 the courtyard. The door opened. She was in the 
 doorway radiant, living. 
 
 " Paul." 
 
 " My beloved." 
 
 She was in his arms. He was holding her as if 
 he would never let her go. 
 
 Love, so say the chroniclers and wrongly is 
 blind. It is keen-sighted as an eagle, which from 
 afar discerns objects invisible to the sight of man. 
 
 When Paul at last held Sara away from him, 
 she looked into his eyes, and though he had hidden 
 his sorrow deep down in his heart she saw sud- 
 denly into the depths, and her own heart momen-
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 243 
 
 tarily stood still. But also with her love and her 
 quick woman's instinct she saw that it was some- 
 thing he wished to keep hidden, and so she did not 
 ask him then what it was he was hiding from her, 
 but smiled at him, and in her turn hid what she had 
 guessed. 
 
 So throughout the evening the two played a 
 game of pretence, she knowing that they both were 
 playing it, and he man-like believing that he 
 was the sole performer. 
 
 They went to an hotel together and dined, and 
 listened to a band which was making music, and 
 they talked nonsenically about the food they were 
 eating and the people they saw, and all the time her 
 heart was crying to him to drop the terrible mask 
 of gaiety and tell her his sorrow. But as she saw 
 he meant to play the game she told him of her 
 journey, and the portrait that was hanging in the 
 gallery, and she said that she had kissed the fauns 
 good-bye. And then quite suddenly she stopped, 
 because she saw a look of such pain come into his 
 eyes that for the moment she was dumb, and 
 pretence seemed useless. But almost at once he 
 laughed and made some little light speech; and she 
 laughed too, and bravely, because she knew he 
 wished it. 
 
 But when at last they were back in the studio 
 she could play the terrible little game no longer. 
 And he too knew that the moment had come for it 
 to cease.
 
 244 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 "Paul," she said steadily, "what is it?" 
 
 " You guessed? " he asked. 
 
 " My dear," she said, with a sad laugh, " I knew 
 at once." 
 
 " Then the harlequin game has been no good," 
 he said. And so he told her. And when he had 
 ended there was a long silence. 
 
 Sara was the first to break it. 
 
 " There is no need for me to tell you," she 
 said, " that this makes no difference to our 
 love." 
 
 " But," said Paul, and in spite of himself his 
 voice was bitter, " it does to our marriage. There 
 is no way out." 
 
 And with the words silence again fell. And 
 in the silence Sara felt a slow hatred of Giuseppe 
 creep into her heart. He could have made this 
 happiness possible to her, and he had made it 
 impossible. 
 
 She did not dream of suggesting that they 
 should marry in spite of everything. She knew 
 it would be mere mockery to do so. But her heart 
 rebelled fiercely against fate and against the late 
 Duca di Corleone. It was the arrant selfishness 
 of his deed that angered her. She had been his 
 wife faithful and courteous when he was living, 
 and in return he claimed her life when he was dead, 
 or made a pauper of her. 
 
 She got up from her chair and began to move 
 about the room. In mind and body she felt like
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 245 
 
 a caged animal beating against the bars which kept 
 it from freedom. 
 
 She paused near the window. Paul saw her 
 figure silhouetted against the night sky. He 
 watched her. And suddenly her love for Paul and 
 every fighting instinct within her rose up against 
 the injustice of the Fates. Defiance of their decree 
 and intense love overwhelmed her. 
 
 " There is a way," she said slowly. She did 
 not turn her head. Paul saw her profile immov- 
 able against the square of grey-blue window. 
 
 He got up from his chair and came across to her. 
 He took her hand and held it hard against his 
 lips. 
 
 " You honour me, Beloved," he said. " But it 
 cannot be." 
 
 She turned towards him then. 
 
 "Why not?" she cried almost fiercely. "We 
 love each other. Is not that enough ? Let us defy 
 Giuseppe. Do you think I care what the world 
 would say of me ? " 
 
 " But I care," said Paul simply. 
 
 " More than you care for me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Beloved," said Paul huskily, " it is because I 
 love you because you are more than the whole 
 world to me that I cannot let there be the smallest 
 stain upon your honour. I my God, how I 
 worship you ! " The words came from him like a 
 cry. 
 
 " Ah, Paul." The bitterness in her heart had
 
 246 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 melted, and with it her strength. He held her in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Was was I horrible ? " she asked. 
 
 He kissed her lips fiercely. " You were wonder- 
 ful, my darling. God knows the generosity of 
 women. But there are some sacrifices a man cannot 
 accept." 
 
 " It would have been none," she whispered. 
 
 He held her closer. " You think not now, my 
 
 darling. But later Dearest, I could not bear 
 
 to see your whiteness stained by the mud the world 
 would throw at you." He kissed her eyes and 
 hair. 
 
 "What is to be the end of it?" she asked. 
 "What must we do?" 
 
 He laughed sadly. " There is only one thing left 
 for us to do we must say good-bye." 
 
 She put her arms round him. " Ah, not that, 
 Paul not that." 
 
 " But listen, dearest," he said. " We've got 
 to look at things as they are. There is no pro- 
 fession open to me in which I am likely to make 
 more than I can by my painting. I have lost 
 every penny of capital. God! how sordid it 
 seems that the lack of money should keep us 
 apart. But there it is. It may be years before 
 I make more, though Heaven knows I'd paint 
 every commonplace creature in creation in return 
 for shekels now. I hate my own fastidiousness. 
 I've lost dozens of commissions and made not a
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 247 
 
 few enemies. It will take ages to make up for 
 my folly. At the best it must be years before I 
 have anything like a decent income." He stopped. 
 He had loathed having to speak the bare common- 
 place facts. 
 
 " I will wait," she said. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, and his voice was shaking, 
 " it would not be fair to let you. There will be 
 other men, rich, who " 
 
 She interrupted by a gesture. 
 
 "Do you count my love as little as that?" she 
 said. " Cannot you understand that there is 
 nothing in the world for me but my love for you 
 and your love for me. If you believe as I do that 
 we belong to each other for time and eternity, then 
 
 how can you ?" She could get no further. 
 
 He stopped her with such kisses that she was 
 frightened at his vehemence. 
 
 " Enough," he said. " We belong to each other. 
 One day I will claim you." 
 
 "And till then?" she asked. 
 
 " For a time," he said steadily, " we must not 
 meet. It is wiser not." 
 
 " Because of what I said ? " she asked. The 
 crimson colour had covered her face and neck. 
 
 " No," he answered quietly, " but because I am 
 only a man, and very human." 
 
 And there was something in his voice that told 
 her not to gainsay him. 
 
 " But at least we will write," she said.
 
 248 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " It would be ' almost the same as seeing you. 
 There would come a day when the sight of your 
 writing would shake my resolve. You, if you 
 wrote, could only tell me all that was in your heart. 
 What use else to write? I should hear your heart 
 calling mine, as mine will call to you. And then 
 one day my resolution would fail. And if it did 
 I should hate myself, and count myself unworthy 
 to come near you again." 
 
 " Then never, dear heart," she whispered. 
 
 And there was a little silence too sad for words 
 or tears. It was Sara who broke it. 
 
 . " Christopher used to say," she said, with a little 
 shaky laugh, " that I could cheat the Fates. This 
 time I cannot. They have dealt me a hand full of 
 little spades, and every one of them is digging the 
 grave of my happiness." 
 
 " Ah, my dearest," he said. 
 
 She disengaged herself gently from him. 
 
 " And since for a time at least we both must 
 die," she said, " we had better die at once. A 
 lingering death is so painful." Her voice shook. 
 " Good-bye, Paul. Don't come with me. I want 
 to go home alone." 
 
 " Good-bye, Beloved." 
 
 Again their eyes met. And he caught her to 
 him. She felt his body shaking. 
 
 " Paul," she whispered.
 
 The Cruelty of the Fates 249 
 
 " Beloved." 
 
 And then he took her to the door and held it 
 open for her. She went out through the court- 
 yard in the twilight of the summer evening. 
 
 And the little faun, holding his pipe to his lips, 
 made no sound, for he knew at that moment no 
 music however tender could bring comfort to her 
 heart.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN YORKSHIRE 
 
 AWAY in Yorkshire, on a fell-side, a woman 
 was sitting on a grey stone and looking at the 
 landscape before her. 
 
 Below her, some couple of hundred feet, ran a 
 little brown stream, on the banks of which a man 
 in tweed clothes was walking. He held a fishing- 
 rod, and every now and then he paused to cast a 
 fly upon the water with a light and dexterous 
 hand. 
 
 The woman watched him idly. Later he would 
 join her by a clump of trees near the stream, and 
 they would have luncheon together. The man's 
 name was Luke Preston, and he was her husband. 
 They had been married exactly a fortnight 
 previously, and were now spending part of their 
 honeymoon in Yorkshire. 
 
 The landscape, and particularly the sight of 
 the distant figure by the stream, gave her a great 
 sense of rest. In some ways Luke was like the 
 fells around her she thought very big, very 
 silent, and very enduring. It was the unwavering 
 assurance of Luke that had first attracted him 
 to her. There was something so unswerving about 
 
 250
 
 In Yorkshire 251 
 
 his point of view. It was so direct. There were 
 never more than two ways in his mind the right 
 and the wrong ; never more than two colours 
 black and white. There were no little chance by- 
 paths, and no shades of grey admissible. Because 
 of this some people found Luke lacking in 
 subtlety, but to the woman he had married it 
 constituted a strength which she found very 
 pleasant. 
 
 All her life she had been swayed by varying 
 moods. Actions seldom appeared to her in a light 
 of her own opinion. They became black, white, or 
 various shades of lighter or darker grey as they 
 were presented to her by the minds of others. 
 There was one episode only in her life in which she 
 had resolutely adhered to her own determination. 
 And that episode was one she wished to forget, or 
 to remember only as a dream, and not as a time 
 connected with her own waking self. 
 
 It had all happened a good many years ago, and 
 some people have a curious faculty for disconnect- 
 ing themselves mentally from their own past 
 actions. Sybil Preston was one of these. During 
 the years that had elapsed since the episode she had 
 had one thing only to remind her of it a quaint 
 signet ring, with which she had never had the 
 courage to part. 
 
 On the way up to Yorkshire, the very day of 
 her wedding, she had lost it. She fancied it must 
 have slipped from her finger as she had waved
 
 252 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 to a small girl swinging on a gate. But she had 
 not discovered her loss till the evening when they 
 had stopped for the night at an hotel. In a sense 
 she regretted the loss, yet on the other hand she 
 could not help feeling it a relief. She regarded it 
 in a way as a kind of omen a sign that the past 
 was banished forever, especially as the loss had 
 occurred on the very day she had entered her new 
 life. 
 
 The episode was known only to herself and to 
 one other living person a woman friend of hers. 
 She had no smallest fear but that Cecily Main- 
 waring had kept silence regarding it would 
 always keep silence. She was a woman with 
 extraordinary strength of character and great 
 reserve. She had always been a staunch friend 
 of Sybil's. Sybil herself had sometimes marvelled 
 that in this matter she had been able to stand 
 firm against Cecily's opinion ; in fact, to persuade 
 her to her own point of view regarding it. 
 Though, to be strictly truthful, Cecily had never 
 adopted Sybil's point of view, she had acted 
 contrary to her own judgment, and purely from 
 her unswerving friendship to Sybil. They had 
 never again referred to the matter. Sybil had seen 
 considerably less of Cecily after it. She had never 
 felt entirely comfortable in her presence. Cecily's 
 eyes were too terribly truthful. They were not 
 unlike Luke's eyes.
 
 In Yorkshire 253 
 
 Sybil, sitting up on the moorland, heaved an 
 enormous sigh of relief at the thought that he 
 could never have the smallest suspicion of that 
 episode. She knew that deceit of any kind was 
 the one thing Luke could never forgive. She 
 knew, however, that she was perfectly safe. She 
 would soon be safe herself from all memory of 
 it. To-morrow they were returning to London, 
 and a month hence they were sailing for India. 
 Luke was in the Indian Civil Service, and would 
 be returning after a year's leave. For some years 
 at least they would be out of England, and there 
 would be no chance of meeting Cecily, who just 
 served to remind her of things she now wanted to 
 forget entirely. 
 
 And then she saw her husband winding in his 
 line and waving to her. She got up and went down 
 the side of the fell towards him. 
 
 " Been lonely, little girl ? " he asked, putting his 
 arm round her. " I've got five beauties. We'll 
 have them for supper to-night. Now come along 
 and have some lunch. I'm simply ravenous." 
 
 " So am I," laughed Sybil. " What a glorious 
 place it is, and how delicious the air is, and how 
 utterly happy I am." 
 
 " Darling," he said, and bent to kiss her. 
 
 They walked towards the clump of trees where 
 Luke had left a knapsack containing various 
 eatables. They were simple enough a couple of
 
 254 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 packets of sandwiches, a couple of pieces of cake, 
 and a flask of claret. He was not the man to 
 burden himself with unnecessary food. 
 
 Sybil sat down on the grass, leaning back against 
 a tree-trunk. 
 
 " I wish we could stay on here," she said. " It 
 would be infinitely pleasanter than going back to 
 town." 
 
 " Infinitely," said Luke, taking a great bite of 
 chicken sandwich. 
 
 " Then why not write and tell your people that 
 we can't come, and that we're staying on here." 
 
 Luke laughed. " Because, darling, there is no 
 earthly reason beyond our own inclination to 
 prevent us going back to London. And I promised 
 my parents that we would come to them during the 
 last part of July. They go down to Henley in 
 August, and their cottage is too small to take us 
 in there." 
 
 Sybil pouted. " Can't you get out of it, 
 though ? " she said. " I could sprain my ankle, or 
 break my leg, or something, and be unable to 
 travel." 
 
 Luke frowned. " I don't like to hear you say 
 that, Sybil. Of course you don't mean it, but that 
 you should even suggest in fun that you could make 
 an untrue statement " 
 
 Sybil interrupted him quickly. "Of course I 
 didn't mean it, Luke darling. It was only rather 
 a stupid bit of nonsense. I wouldn't break our
 
 In Yorkshire 255 
 
 promise for worlds, and you know I love your 
 people. It was just the thought of this heavenly 
 place that tempted me. Besides, I have you to 
 myself up here. I'm not sharing you with any- 
 one." 
 
 The last two sentences were the outcome of 
 genuine affection on Sybil's part. She was 
 honestly devoted to her big husband. And 
 though at times she would have preferred him to 
 be a little less literal, his strength and assurance 
 of purpose, as already mentioned, appealed to her 
 enormously. 
 
 Her last two sentences, in fact her whole speech, 
 pleased Luke. He patted her hand and looked at 
 her with tender eyes. He loved her from the very 
 bottom of his extremely truthful heart. He had 
 placed her carefully on a little pedestal of his own 
 building, and her first remark had distressed him, 
 as it had caused her to sway a trifle unsteadily on 
 the same pedestal. 
 
 As soon as they had finished lunch he returned 
 to his fishing, and she strolled across some fields to 
 a little pond in a bit of heathery moorland, where 
 she found some sundew and a bog violet. 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock before they went 
 back to the little white cottage in the small village. 
 They found that the evening post had come in, and 
 with it a couple of letters and a London paper. 
 
 " Wonder why this has been sent ? " asked Luke, 
 opening it. " We've been eschewing London
 
 256 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 papers since we've been up here. The ' Yorkshire 
 Post ' is quite good enough on a holiday." He 
 turned the pages. " Oh, it's Talbot's wedding " 
 Talbot had been his best man. " Ah, well, 
 that kind of rigmarole will interest you far more 
 than me. I've no use for other people's weddings. 
 I'm quite satisfied with my own. Eh! little 
 girl?" 
 
 Sybil laughed, returned his kiss, and went up- 
 stairs to take off her hat. 
 
 Later in the evening she took up the paper, and 
 because she had nothing else to read she studied 
 the pages rather carefully. Suddenly an advertise- 
 ment caught her eye. She read it slowly, then put 
 down the paper. It told her that her ring had been 
 found, and that she could get it by applying at a 
 certain address. 
 
 For a moment she decided that she would take 
 no notice of the advertisement. Then it occurred 
 to her that there might be the smallest element 
 of risk in leaving the ring in other hands. It was 
 certainly unique, and once seen not likely to be 
 forgotten. No doubt other people had seen and 
 observed it long before it had come into her 
 hands people who had known its previous 
 owner. 
 
 They were going back to London to-morrow. 
 If Luke saw the advertisement he would at once 
 recognize it as a description of the ring she had 
 worn. She had told him that Cecily had given
 
 In Yorkshire 257 
 
 it to her. He had mentioned it once to Cecily as 
 her gift to Sybil. Sybil remembered the tiny trace 
 of scorn in Cecily's eyes at the lie, though she had 
 not contradicted the statement. 
 
 If Luke saw the advertisement he would 
 promptly go and fetch the ring for her, and then 
 there was no knowing whether he would not learn 
 something of its previous history. She knew it 
 was ridiculous to imagine such a thing, and yet she 
 felt that she dared run no tiniest risk. 
 
 Whoever had found the ring was advertising 
 the fact assiduously, for the loss was now a fort- 
 night old. They might continue to advertise. 
 The moment she got back to London she would 
 go to the address given by Mr. Kirby and claim 
 the ring. And perhaps on the way out to India 
 she would drop it overboard. She wanted to 
 forget. Whatever Sybil's faults and weaknesses 
 she was genuinely in love with Luke. 
 
 She crumpled the paper in her hand, managing 
 to tear the advertisement. She would run no risk. 
 
 Luke looked up with a big yawn. 
 
 "Read the account of the wedding?" he asked. 
 " They were going to Biarritz, weren't they? " 
 
 " Yes," said Sybil. 
 
 " Ah, well, I want all I can get out of old 
 England. I don't have too much of her. And 
 now, little girl, how about bed ? " He heaved 
 himself out of his chair. 
 
 " By the way," he said suddenly, " did you read
 
 258 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 the account of the exhibition of pictures at the 
 Grafton Galleries? I see there's a portrait ex- 
 hibited there by a fellow named John Kirby." 
 
 Sybil thought of the advertisement and her heart 
 stood suddenly still, then began to race furiously, 
 though she had no real notion why it was doing so. 
 
 " Do you know the man ? " she asked care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " We were at school together," said Luke. 
 " I've seen him occasionally since then. He took 
 up painting. I haven't looked him up this time 
 or let him know I was in England don't know 
 why. If I've time I might look him up before I 
 leave." 
 
 The simple statement troubled Sybil. She 
 felt that she must get the ring from Mr. Kirby 
 before her husband should see him. She had no 
 reason for feeling this, but the idea was strong upon 
 her, though she told herself it was entirely absurd. 
 
 " You're looking tired, little girl," said Luke 
 solicitously. " Hope you didn't overwalk to-day ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," she said lightly. " I'm sleepy, that's 
 all. I'll go up now and leave you to have your 
 last pipe in the garden." 
 
 She left the room and Luke strolled into the 
 garden, where he smoked under the quiet stars, and 
 sniffed the night air, and watched the light in 
 Sybil's room with a feeling of great content. The 
 world, in his opinion, was an extraordinarily 
 pleasant place.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 PIPPA'S MOTHER 
 
 MISS MASON was in her studio having tea. 
 Barnabas was with her. He invariably 
 dropped in at tea-time unless he was giving a tea- 
 party on his own account. 
 
 Pippa had gone with Alan to look at flats. The 
 occupation was an intense joy to her. If he had 
 decided on all the flats on which she had set her 
 heart he would have taken at least a dozen, and he 
 and Aurora would have lived in one at a time 
 during each of the twelve months of the year. 
 Hitherto, notwithstanding Pippa's enthusiasm 
 regarding them, he had not found one that quite 
 came up to his requirements. Tea being finished, 
 Barnabas lit a cigarette. 
 
 " I must take you to call on Mrs. McAndrew 
 soon," said Barnabas. " She and Andrew have 
 got a minute flat quite close to his studio. She's 
 a delightful old lady. You will like her, and her 
 Scotch is, if anything, broader than Andrew's. 
 I've never seen a fellow so gloriously happy as he 
 is. We look upon you, Aunt Olive, as a kind of 
 fairy-godmother, who has only to touch people's 
 
 259
 
 260 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 lives with a magic wand to ensure their happi- 
 ness." 
 
 Miss Mason laughed gruffly. 
 
 " That," she said, " is quite the nicest thing I've 
 ever had said to me. I know my own life has been 
 a kind of glorious fairy-tale lately." 
 
 " Life," said Barnabas, " is a fairy-tale, if only 
 one can believe it." 
 
 " But," said Aunt Olive, " one comes in touch 
 with bad fairies on occasions." 
 
 " I know," nodded Barnabas gravely. " But 
 I fancy there are some people who have the magic 
 wand that can transform them into good ones." 
 
 " It's a comfortable belief," said Miss Mason. 
 
 Sally opened the studio door. 
 
 " A lady to see Mr. Kirby, ma'am," she said. 
 " She says she has come about an advertisement of 
 a ring." 
 
 " At last," said Barnabas, and he got up. 
 
 " Show her in," said Miss Mason. And the next 
 minute Sybil Preston entered the studio. Half- 
 way into the room she stopped. 
 
 " Granny ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Miss Mason got up from her chair. 
 
 " Bless me ! " she said in an excited voice, " it's 
 little Sybil Quarly. Sally, bring fresh tea at 
 once." 
 
 Sybil sat down by the table in a chair put for her 
 by Barnabas. 
 
 " Of all the extraordinary things," she laughed,
 
 Pippa's Mother 261 
 
 " that I should walk quietly into this studio and 
 find you. It must be fifteen years since we met." 
 
 " And eleven since I heard from you," said Miss 
 Mason. 
 
 Sybil flushed faintly. " I'm a shocking letter 
 writer," she said. " I never write letters. But 
 indeed I had not forgotten you." 
 
 " Of course not," said Miss Mason. " So the 
 ring is yours. Just fancy that through your 
 losing it, and Mr. Kirby's advertisement, we should 
 meet again. I've got it quite safely for you." 
 She got up and took it from a small box. " Here 
 it is." 
 
 Sybil held out her hand for it. Suddenly she 
 became aware that Barnabas was watching her. 
 
 " I believe," she said to him, with a little 
 nervous laugh, " that you know my husband, Luke 
 Preston. He was speaking of you only the other 
 day, and saying that he must look you up." 
 
 Barnabas smiled. "What, old Luke!" he 
 exclaimed. "Of course I knew him. We were at 
 school together." 
 
 " Then you are married ? " said Miss Mason. 
 
 " Barely three weeks ago. We went to York- 
 shire for part of our honeymoon. It was on the 
 way up I lost my ring. We were quite rural up 
 there, and saw no papers but the ' Yorkshire 
 Post.' It was only by chance that a London paper 
 was sent us, and I saw the advertisement, so 
 I "
 
 262 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 She broke off. She had suddenly seen the 
 picture of Pippa standing by the faun. Both 
 figures were life-size. 
 
 " Who," she asked, " is that? " Her eyes were 
 dilated, her breath coming quickly. 
 
 " That is Pippa," said Miss Mason ; " a little girl 
 I have adopted." 
 
 Barnabas was again watching Sybil. 
 
 " She is," he said quietly, " extraordinarily like 
 a man I once knew, a great friend of mine 
 Philippe Kostolitz." 
 
 Sybil stared at him with wide eyes. There was 
 a trace of fear in them. 
 
 " You knew Philippe ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes," said Barnabas, still quietly. 
 
 Miss Mason's keen old eyes looked from one to 
 the other of them. 
 
 " And what, my dear," she said, " did you know 
 of him?" 
 
 Sybil gave a little sob. " He he was my 
 husband," she said. 
 
 There was a dead silence in the room. Then 
 Miss Mason put a question. It seemed forced from 
 her: 
 
 " Did you have a child? " 
 
 Sybil bowed her head. 
 
 " Shall I go away ? " asked Barnabas. 
 
 " No, stay," said Sybil. " I suppose you guessed 
 something the moment I came to claim the ring. 
 Since you knew Philippe you must have known it
 
 Pippa's Mother 263 
 
 belonged to him. You had better hear the story. 
 God knows what I am going to do now." Her lips 
 quivered. She looked like a piteous, frightened 
 child. 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Mason gently, " if there 
 is any way in which we can help you, we will. Tell 
 us as much as you can." 
 
 Sybil drew a long breath. She looked at Miss 
 Mason. She tried to forget that Barnabas was 
 present, though she wished him to remain. 
 
 " You know," she began, " that we went to live 
 at Pangbourne. A year after we went there I 
 met Philippe. He was staying with some friends 
 near us. We saw a good bit of each other one way 
 and another, and and we began to care. . . . 
 
 " My mother must have guessed it, for she 
 suddenly began to prevent my seeing him. But 
 one day he came straight to my father and said 
 he loved me. . . . My father was furious. He 
 said he would never hear of his daughter marrying 
 a vagabond artist, a man who spent half his life 
 on the roads like any tramp, and the other half 
 in a studio messing with common clay. You 
 know my father never did like art, and he looked 
 on all artists with contempt. He never believed 
 that they were gentlemen. You know, he never 
 believed that anyone who did anything for their 
 livelihood was one. And he couldn't conceive it 
 possible that the love of the work and not money 
 was Philippe's motive in his art. At any rate, he^
 
 264 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 sent Philippe away. I was quite miserable, but 
 hadn't the courage to gainsay him, and my mother 
 was quite as bad. . . . 
 
 " Six months later I was staying with some 
 friends in Hampshire for a fortnight. I was to go 
 on from there to another friend Cecily Main- 
 waring for a month. Cecily lives in London. 
 One day while I was in Hampshire I was out for a 
 walk alone, when I met Philippe. . . . 
 
 " Oh, it's no use my trying to tell you how 
 glad I was to see him. When he knew I was stay- 
 ing at Andover he remained in the neighbourhood, 
 and we used to meet almost daily. I'd always 
 gone for long walks alone. We used to spend 
 hours together in Harewood Forest, and he used 
 to make all kinds of plans. First he wanted me 
 to defy my parents and run away with him and 
 marry him. But I hadn't the courage. I said 
 that perhaps in time they'd consent. Then he 
 thought of another plan and begged me to consent 
 to it. We were to be married and keep it a secret 
 from my people. I was to spend a month with 
 him in some little country place instead of staying 
 with Cecily. Then I was to go home, and he was 
 to come down and use all his influence with my 
 parents, and if it failed we would have to tell 
 them. He begged me so that at last I consented. 
 At the back of my mind I thought that if my 
 parents were still obdurate I could persuade 
 Philippe not to tell them. At least I'd have a
 
 Pippa's Mother 265 
 
 month with him. I wasn't nineteen, and I never 
 though of what what might happen. . . ." She 
 stopped, her face crimson. 
 
 "Yes, dear?" said Miss Mason gently. 
 
 " Philippe went away then to make arrange- 
 ments, and I stayed on three days longer with 
 my friends. I left them ostensibly to go to Cecily. 
 I met Philippe instead. . . . We were married 
 at a tiny church. He had got a special license. 
 He didn't like it not being his own church, but 
 as I was a Catholic it would have been difficult 
 to arrange that. At all events, the marriage was 
 legal, and he thought that perhaps we'd be 
 married again in his own church when my parents 
 knew. But of course that didn't trouble me. We 
 went to Wales together, to a little village there. 
 Any letters that might be written to me went to 
 Cecily. I wrote to her and told her I was on a 
 motor tour with friends and my visit to her must 
 be postponed ; that I wasn't sure when I could come 
 home to her. And I asked her to keep any letters 
 for me till I came. Cecily was quite unsuspecting, 
 and did so. 
 
 " I was gloriously happy with Philippe. Occa- 
 sionally I was frightened at what I had done, 
 but when he was with me I only thought about 
 him and my happiness. One day he went into 
 Shrewsbury by train. ... I was going with him, 
 but I had such a bad headache that at the last 
 moment I persuaded him to go alone. He was
 
 266 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 to have come back at seven o'clock in the evening. 
 . . . He didn't come, and I got uneasy. I went 
 down towards the station. . . . Then I heard 
 there had been a frightful railway accident only 
 three miles outside the station. ... I went to 
 the place. ... I don't know how I got there. 
 Ever so many people were going. . . . They 
 carried the people from the train to cottages and 
 barns. ... I found Philippe in one of them. . . ." 
 Sybil's voice shook and she stopped. 
 
 " We know, dear," said Miss Mason. " Don't 
 try to tell us." 
 
 There was a little silence. At last Sybil went 
 on: 
 
 " When I saw that he was dead I suddenly 
 realized what I had done. I knew there was no 
 one to stand between me and my parents' anger. 
 . . . And then men came who began to ask ques- 
 tions of the people present . . . wanting them to 
 identify. . . ." Again Sybil stopped. 
 
 " I ran away," she went on pitifully. " I 
 couldn't bear to be asked anything. I thought 
 perhaps no one would ever know. I thought it 
 would be so much easier if they didn't. ... I 
 got back to the cottage and packed a few things. 
 . . . All the people were out at at the place. 
 We had given them an assumed name. I thought 
 they'd never know who we were. . . . Of course, 
 afterwards they knew about Philippe, I suppose, 
 when he was identified. I saw in the papers
 
 Pippa's Mother 267 
 
 that letters were found on him. . . . Someone 
 went there, a friend of his. I've forgotten the 
 name. . . ." 
 
 " I went," said Barnabas. " It is strange that 
 there was no mention of you. I suppose the people 
 at the rooms where you stayed wished to keep out 
 of being questioned, so did not come forward. 
 However, that's no matter now." 
 
 " I left money to pay for our lodging," went 
 on Sybil, " and just ran away. I walked a long 
 distance to another little station and took a train 
 to Hereford. From there I went to London. I 
 got there in the early morning. I waited about 
 in the station till nearly lunch-time. Then I 
 drove to Cecily's flat. I had sent my luggage 
 at least most of it to her from Andover. I'd 
 only taken a little box and a handbag to Wales. 
 I left the box behind at the rooms. There was 
 nothing in it that could betray my name. I took 
 the handbag away with me. When I saw Cecily 
 I just said that the tour had ended unexpectedly, 
 and that I hadn't been well. I stayed with her a 
 week. That week and the three weeks in Wales 
 just made up the month I was supposed to be with 
 her. Then I went home. . . . 
 
 " It's no use trying to explain what I thought, 
 nor how wretched I was. I don't think I quite 
 knew myself. It didn't seem I who was acting, 
 but just something or somebody outside myself. 
 If I really thought of anything it was only that
 
 268 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 I could never face my parents' anger. So all the 
 time I was planning and thinking how best to be- 
 have that they should never know. It sounds 
 dreadful now, but then it didn't seem fair that I 
 should only have three weeks' happiness, and for 
 that bear the whole brunt of their anger alone. I 
 soon found that I need not fear them guessing. 
 They never suspected that I had not been with 
 Cecily the whole time. ... As the weeks passed I 
 began to think myself that everything that had hap- 
 pened had been a dream. ... It wasn't exactly 
 that I forgot Philippe, only I tried to pretend it 
 had never been a reality. . . . And then all at once 
 I realized that it wasn't a dream . . . that it never 
 had been . . . and no amount of thinking could 
 turn it into one. ... I used to pass whole nights 
 of terror wondering what I could do. ... If I had 
 only told my parents at once it would have been so 
 much easier. . . . Even though they would have 
 been terribly angry, at least I was married to 
 Philippe. . . . But now I felt I could never tell 
 them. . . . 
 
 " At last I thought of Cecily. I wrote to ask 
 her to let me stay with her. I went; and then I 
 told her everything. . . . Cecily was very good to 
 me. She begged and implored me to tell my people, 
 but I wouldn't, and I cried so much she thought 
 I'd be ill, and at last she promised to help me and 
 do everything I wanted. . . . We went over to
 
 Pippa's Mother 269 
 
 France. My father was quite willing for me to 
 travel about with Cecily, and kept me well supplied 
 with money. We were in France moving about in 
 different places the whole winter. In March we 
 took rooms at St. Germain. . . . It it was there 
 the child was born. ... I wouldn't see it. ... I 
 didn't even want to know if it were a boy or a 
 girl. . . . but Cecily would tell me. She had it 
 christened Philippa. ... I didn't want to see it be- 
 cause I didn't want to get fond of it. The nurse 
 thought it was just queerness on my part because I 
 was so weak. Cecily arranged everything. Just 
 after the nurse left, and when I was well enough to 
 travel, she took the baby away. ... I was so glad 
 when it went. Its crying always reminded me that 
 it was there. It made me remember, and I wanted 
 so dreadfully to forget. . . . 
 
 "When Cecily came back to me alone I told 
 her we'd never speak of it again. . . . We never 
 have. ... I sent her money. . . . My father al- 
 ways gave me a good dress allowance. Out of 
 that I paid for the child. ... I wanted it to be in 
 France. I couldn't bear to think of it speaking 
 with a common English accent. . . ." 
 
 Barnabas, who had been looking on the ground 
 during most of the recital, now looked up quickly. 
 What an extraordinary anomaly the woman was. 
 She could banish from her mind all memory of 
 the man she had loved, she could forsake the child
 
 270 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 he had given her, and yet she could not bear the 
 thought of its learning to speak with a common 
 accent. 
 
 " Have you," asked Miss Mason, " any idea 
 where the child was left?" 
 
 " In Paris," said Sybil quickly. " Cecily told 
 me the name of the woman when she came back. 
 I didn't want to know, but I wasn't able to stop 
 her. It was Madame Barbin." 
 
 Miss Mason sighed. " Then," she said, " there 
 is no question but that the child who came to my 
 studio last December is your daughter." 
 
 Sybil looked at the picture. " She is exactly 
 like Philippe," she said. " Tell me how she came 
 to you." 
 
 So Miss Mason told the story. 
 
 " I must write to Cecily and tell her to stop send- 
 ing money to Madame Fournier," said Sybil when 
 she had ended. 
 
 Again there was a long silence. It was broken 
 by Sybil. 
 
 "What am I to do?" she said. "I never told 
 Luke I'd been married before. He knows nothing. 
 And now for the first time in my life I want my 
 little girl. It's odd, isn't it? " 
 
 Miss Mason looked straight before her. Her 
 face had paled a little, and her voice was not quite 
 steady as she answered: 
 
 " You must tell him now." 
 
 Sybil drew in her breath quickly. " I can't do
 
 Pippa's Mother 271 
 
 that. You don't know Luke. He'd never for- 
 give me never. And I love him." 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Mason quietly, " are you 
 sure he wouldn't? Remember, he loves you, and 
 love " 
 
 "Ah," said Sybil, with a little laugh that was 
 almost a sob, "you're a woman. Men aren't like 
 that. At least, Luke isn't. If he knew I had de- 
 ceived him he wouldn't love me any more." 
 
 Miss Mason looked at Barnabas. Perhaps a 
 man's judgment in the matter would be of use. 
 
 " Mrs. Preston is right," said Barnabas. " If 
 she had told him before she married him it would 
 
 have been different. Now You see, I know 
 
 her husband." 
 
 " But " said Miss Mason, and stopped. 
 
 She did not know what to say. For her own sake 
 she wanted silence. Yet to her candid mind fur- 
 ther deceit was terribly distressing. 
 
 Sybil looked from one to the other of them. 
 She felt almost as if she were in the presence of a 
 jury awaiting their verdict. 
 
 " May I," said Barnabas, " say just how the 
 situation strikes me ? " 
 
 " Please do," said Sybil quietly. She leant back 
 a little in her chair. 
 
 " It seems to me," said Barnabas, " that you 
 cannot only look at the right or wrong of the mat- 
 ter entirely from your own point of view. There 
 are two other people to be considered your hus-
 
 272 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 band and the child. Knowing Luke I fear it is a 
 matter in which he would not forgive the deceit. 
 He is not a man who would see any extenuating 
 circumstances in the case. He would not even 
 understand your having been first persuaded into a 
 secret marriage." 
 
 " Can you understand it ? " asked Sybil quickly. 
 There was a little flush of colour in her face. 
 
 " I can," said Barnabas. " I can see the whole 
 situation very clearly your fear of your parents' 
 anger and Philippe's persuasions. It would not be 
 easy for a woman who loved Philippe to withstand 
 him. I, who knew him, can understand that. 
 Luke did not know him? " 
 
 " Yes ? " said Sybil as he stopped. She looked 
 at him intently. " But," she went on, " you don't 
 understand the rest of my action?" 
 
 " Frankly, no," said Barnabas. " I can't under- 
 stand your silence afterwards when it came to your 
 desertion of his child. I have, though, no right 
 to sit in judgment on anyone; and please under- 
 stand that I'm not judging you. But I am quite 
 sure that Luke would not take a lenient view. If 
 he forgave at all and I honestly doubt his for- 
 giveness duty would make him offer the child 
 a home. In fact, he would probably insist on your 
 having the child with you. But," and Barnabas' 
 voice was firm, "he would never, forget. And, 
 however strong his sense of duty, there would al- 
 ways be a barrier between him and the child. It
 
 Pippa's Mother 273 
 
 would not be good for her. Also there re no ques- 
 tion but that your husband's confidence and happi- 
 ness would be destroyed. He stopped. He felt 
 every word he had said. He was sorry for the 
 woman, but Luke and Pippa could not be sacri- 
 ficed, and to speak now would mean the sacrifice 
 of both their lives. 
 
 "Then ?" asked Sybil, her eyes upon the 
 
 ground. 
 
 " In my opinion," said Barnabas, " having kept 
 silence, you owe it to your husband to keep silence 
 still ; in fact, for ever. The child has a home now, 
 and one who cares for her. For her sake, too, I 
 do not think you should run the risk of taking her 
 to a home where she would be unwelcome. She is 
 extraordinarily sensitive. She would feel it now, 
 and more as she grows older." 
 
 Sybil looked towards the picture. It showed the 
 child in three-quarter face. " But I want her 
 now," she said. " She looks such a darling." 
 
 Barnabas suppressed a slight movement of impa- 
 tience. Sybil's sole thought was of herself and 
 her own wants. 
 
 " Then you are prepared," he asked, " to tell 
 your husband everything? To lose his confidence 
 and his love, and kill his happiness, and, quite 
 possibly, have. him to go away from you, merely 
 making you an allowance. For he is quite as likely 
 and I believe more likely to do that than ac- 
 cept the charge of the child. Which do you want
 
 274 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 most your child whom you have never seen of 
 your husband ? " 
 
 "Oh, I want Luke," said Sybil quickly. "At 
 least, I think so." 
 
 Barnabas felt considerably like shaking her. He 
 was determined that if he could prevent it she 
 should not spoil two lives. He had no belief in 
 weak and tardy confessions that advantage no one. 
 He made an appeal to her better self if it ex- 
 isted. 
 
 " Then," he said, " have the strength and cour- 
 age to keep silence. Even if you do want your 
 child now, have the pluck to renounce her for her 
 sake and Luke's. Remember, that payment of 
 some kind is always demanded sooner or later for 
 any debt we owe. This is your payment." 
 
 Sybil looked silently towards Miss Mason. 
 
 " He's right," said Miss Mason. " I hadn't seen 
 things quite in that light. Also, I was afraid of 
 having my judgment biassed by my desire to keep 
 the child." 
 
 Curiously enough throughout the conversation 
 neither Miss Mason nor Barnabas had spoken of 
 Pippa by name. Instinctively they both felt that 
 to do so would be to suggest an intimacy to which 
 Sybil was not entitled. 
 
 Sybil looked at the floor for a few moments 
 without speaking. Then she raised her head. 
 
 "Very well," she said, "I will not tell Luke. 
 He may come to see you, Mr. Kirby. If he does
 
 Pippa's Mother 275 
 
 please don't tell him of my visit here. But of 
 course you won't. And," she went on, with a lit- 
 tle pleading note in her voice, " please, you two, 
 don't despise me more than you can help. Some 
 people seem born strong and not afraid. I've al- 
 ways been a coward. I think perhaps if my father 
 and mother had been a little more lenient with me 
 when I was a child it would have been different. 
 But I was timid, and dreaded being shut up in the 
 dark. So I used to fib to get out of punishment. 
 And after a time I thought nothing of not speaking 
 the truth to them. But I suppose you can't under- 
 stand that." 
 
 " I can understand very well," said Miss Mason. 
 She had known the parents. 
 
 And Barnabas felt a sudden pity for the woman, 
 who in spite of her thirty-two years looked little 
 more than a girl. She was of the fragile flower- 
 like beauty that would no doubt appeal to a man 
 of the strength of Kostolitz. At the moment 
 Barnabas himself would have protected her rather 
 than have blamed her. 
 
 All at once Sybil spoke timidly. " Where is 
 she ? " she asked, nodding towards the picture. 
 " Could I see her for a moment ? " 
 
 Miss Mason hesitated, doubtful of the wisdom of 
 the proceeding. " She's out now," she said. 
 
 Sybil gave a tiny sigh. " Well, perhaps it's bet- 
 ter not," she said. " I'd have promised not to tell 
 her. Of course, I don't suppose anyone would
 
 276 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 trust me very easily who knew everything. But 
 truly she shall never know about me. And I'll 
 never tell Luke either. I see that you are right. 
 I owe it to him now to keep silence. I'll try to 
 make him very happy. And and I'll take want- 
 ing my little girl as a punishment. I know I de- 
 serve to lose her, and I see that it is impossible for 
 me to have her and keep Luke's confidence. I 
 should quite spoil his life and his belief in every 
 one. If only I had been brave long ago I might 
 have had my little girl and Luke too. But I will 
 keep my word now." She said it all like a child 
 promising to be good. 
 
 " I know you will, my dear," said Miss Mason 
 gently. She was desperately sorry for Sybil, and 
 terribly grieved at the whole situation. Yet she 
 too saw that silence was now the only possible 
 thing for them all. And in the end it would be 
 happier for Sybil too. Possibly she would always 
 now wish for her child and regret her loss. But 
 it would be a tender regret, though sad. And she 
 would keep Luke's love. 
 
 And then suddenly from the courtyard they heard 
 a child's voice. Sybil flushed and looked at Miss 
 Mason with pleading eyes. 
 
 " I'll bring her," said Barnabas. Wisdom or 
 not, he could not have resisted Sybil's face. 
 
 " We've found a flat, really and truly," she cried, 
 as she met Barnabas in the garden. " It is beau- 
 tiful, but quite beautiful."
 
 Pippa's Mother 277 
 
 "More beautiful than the others?" laughed 
 Barnabas. " But come in now and behave pretty. 
 Aunt Olive has a lady to tea with her." 
 
 Pippa came into the room. Her extraordinary 
 likeness to Kostolitz made Sybil catch her breath. 
 For a moment she did not trust herself to 
 speak. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Pippa, with quick recognition. 
 " It is ze lady of ze car. Did you give her ze 
 ring?" 
 
 Sybil held out her hand. " Yes, dear," she said, 
 " I've got it. I'm glad you found it and kept it 
 for me." She held the child's hand tight. Pippa 
 looked at her with her great grey eyes, so like the 
 dead sculptor's. Memories rushed over Sybil. 
 The days in the forest, the days in the little Welsh 
 village crowded back to her mind. She could al- 
 most hear Kostolitz's voice, hear his gay laugh, 
 and his words of passionate love. Her throat con- 
 tracted and tears filled her eyes. Suddenly she 
 got up. 
 
 " I'd better go now," she said. Her voice shook 
 a little. Then an impulse moved her. She held 
 out the ring to Pippa. " Will you have it ? " she 
 said. " I'd like you to keep it." 
 
 " For me ? " said Pippa, her face crimson. 
 
 " May she ? " said Sybil to Miss Mason. 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Mason. 
 
 Sybil looked again at the picture of the child. 
 
 " I suppose I oughtn't to ask," she said, " but it
 
 278 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 would remind me. I don't want to forget now. 
 Not that I ever shall." 
 
 " I'll send it to you," said Miss Mason. " Bar- 
 nabas won't mind, will you, Barnabas? Just a 
 gift from an old friend, you know." 
 
 Sybil's eyes filled with tears. " Thank you," 
 she said. Then she bent and kissed Pippa. 
 " Good-bye, little one." 
 
 Barnabas went to the door with her. 
 
 " I couldn't stay any longer," she said. " Good- 
 bye." 
 
 And she went away in the sunshine, past the 
 little faun in the next garden, and so out of the 
 courtyard, and out of the lives she had momen- 
 tarily entered. 
 
 When she had disappeared Barnabas looked at 
 the little faun. 
 
 " It was the only way," he said. And his heart 
 was sad for the man who had been forgotten by 
 the woman he had loved. And he wondered if he 
 knew everything now. If he did he would prob- 
 ably understand so fully that he would forgive 
 fully. And then Barnabas went back into the 
 studio.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 MICHAEL MAKES MUSIC 
 
 DURING August Miss Mason took Pippa down 
 to a little seaside place in Devonshire. She 
 chose it because its name Hope appealed to 
 her. 
 
 Pippa adored it. She loved the quaint cottages, 
 and the beach with the tarred nets spread out to 
 dry, and the kindly fishermen who took her out in 
 their boats, and who talked to her in a dialect she 
 could hardly understand. But she understood their 
 kindness, and they understood her smiles, so they 
 got on very well together. 
 
 Barnabas came down for a fortnight, and Pippa 
 met him at the station, a thin slip of a child, her 
 face bronzed with the sun and sea air, and her 
 eyes holding the hint of mystery he had seen in 
 the eyes of Kostolitz. 
 
 They bathed together, they caught prawns in 
 seaweedy pools in the rocks, they sat in the 
 shadow of the cliffs and watched the sea-gulls and 
 the white-sailed boats on the blue water. 
 
 And during these days Barnabas found in Pippa 
 something that he had not found before not 
 even during the June days when they had wandered 
 
 279
 
 280 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 through the lanes with Pegasus. He found in her 
 Woman and Companion. She ceased to be merely 
 Child. He saw the spirit of Kostolitz in her mys- 
 terious eyes. She showed it to him in a hundred 
 ways in her clear joyous love of Nature, in her 
 fanciful imaginings and delicate thoughts, in her 
 quick insight into everything that was beautiful. 
 And with it all she was a child, too, with a child- 
 like simple faith and trust that was to be her her- 
 itage throughout her life. And because there was 
 this trait also in Barnabas they found in each other 
 the most perfect companionship. 
 
 Miss Mason watched them together, helped them 
 prawn, and was radiantly happy. She cared not 
 at all for the occasional smiles her quaint figure 
 and costume provoked from other visitors to the 
 place. And because Pippa was enjoying herself 
 enormously she remained at Hope throughout Sep- 
 tember as well. 
 
 The Duchessa di Corleone too had left London 
 during August. She wandered from place to 
 place trying to find forget fulness and not succeed- 
 ing. 
 
 In September she returned to town. She never 
 went near the studios now, but Michael came often 
 to see her, and used to make music for her. In it 
 she found some consolation. And Michael loved 
 to come to her house, though the sight of her always 
 gave him pain. 
 
 One day after he had been playing to her, and
 
 Michael Makes Music 281 
 
 they were having tea together, he suddenly looked 
 up at a picture of St. Michael that hung in her 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Queer," he said, with a little twisted smile, 
 " that my people should have chosen to name me 
 after the warrior angel." And he glanced from 
 the strength of the pictured figure at his own 
 shrunken limbs. His voice was so bitter that Sara 
 could find no reply. 
 
 " Just a moment's carelessness on the part of a 
 nursemaid," went on Michael. " She dropped me 
 when I was a baby. You see the result. It makes 
 it difficult to believe in an over-ruling Providence, 
 doesn't it? My guardian angel must have been 
 peculiarly inattentive at the moment." 
 
 " I think," said Sara slowly, " that there are 
 times in the life of every one when it is very diffi- 
 cult to have faith. Yet, if one loses it one loses all 
 happiness." 
 
 " I lost both long ago," said Michael. " It's an 
 irony of fate to be born with an acute sense of the 
 beautiful, and to see one's own repulsive- 
 ness." 
 
 Sara looked up quickly. 
 
 " But you are not repulsive," she said. 
 
 " Bah ! " said Michael. " Look at me ! Women 
 are only kind to me out of pity." 
 
 Sarah looked straight at him. " There you are 
 quite wrong," she said decisively. " I don't feel 
 the smallest pity for you in the sense you mean.
 
 282 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 Your face is quite beautiful, and your music " 
 
 she stopped. 
 
 " But my body," he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Sara calmly, " I grant you that it is 
 extremely trying for you to be lame, and you must 
 often wish to be strong and big. But you need 
 not think it makes the smallest difference in our 
 affection for you." She again looked steadily at 
 him as she spoke. 
 
 Michael looked away from her. " But no 
 woman could love me they would shrink from 
 me," he said. And his face flushed hotly. 
 
 " Not at all," said Sara. " There again you are 
 quite wrong. I grant that there is a certain type 
 of woman who is entirely attracted by sinews and 
 muscles in a man. But most assuredly there are 
 others." 
 
 There was a silence. Then Michael spoke again. 
 His voice was very low. 
 
 "You you could never care?" he said. 
 
 Sara's eyes filled with quick tears. " Not in the 
 way you mean," she said gently ; " but not because 
 of the morbid reason you have suggested. I I 
 love some one else." 
 
 "Paul?" he asked. 
 
 Sara bowed her head. 
 
 Michael was silent. " But if you did not," he 
 asked suddenly, " would you have thought it horri- 
 ble of me to tell you that I love you not quietly 
 and calmly, but but as a man loves a woman ? "
 
 Michael Makes Music 283 
 
 " I should have been honoured to hear it from 
 you," said Sara. 
 
 Michael looked across at her with a strange smile. 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "I shall not tell you 
 how though you know it. Nor shall I ever tell 
 any other woman what I have told you. You will 
 still let me come and see you ? " 
 
 " You must come," said Sara quickly. " I 
 should miss you dreadfully if you didn't. During 
 these last weeks your visits have been my greatest 
 pleasure. When I hear the front door bell ring 
 I listen. And when I hear the pad of your crutch 
 on the stairs I am happy, and I say to myself, * It 
 is Michael.' " 
 
 It was the first time she had used his name. 
 For a few moments Michael did not trust himself 
 to speak. When he did his voice was light. 
 
 " I shall hate my crutch no longer," he said, 
 " since its sound has given you happiness. Do 
 you know you have quite suddenly brought back 
 faith to me. I thought it was dead. Now I will 
 play for you again."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE PEACE OF THE RIVER 
 
 AFTER Michael had left, Sara went to the win- 
 dow and stood looking out at the trees on the 
 Embankment. The heat of the summer had al- 
 ready caused their leaves to turn yellow. 
 
 Beyond them she could see the river. It always 
 held a note of peace for her. Rivers and lakes had 
 the power to speak to her. She loved their calm 
 quietude, though she had seen lakes lashed to fury 
 by the wind. But it was a different kind of anger 
 from the anger of the sea. The cruelty of the sea 
 hurt her its restlessness, its turmoil, its never- 
 ceasing demand for lives. Even when it was quiet 
 it was treacherous. Its smiling surface was noth- 
 ing but a lure, for it held terrible secrets in its 
 heart. 
 
 But the quiet of the river always soothed her. 
 She knew it in all its moods under grey skies, 
 and under blue skies, in the crimson and purple of 
 sunset, in the amber grey and rose of dawn. She 
 knew it at the full flood of its waters, and at ebbing 
 tide. In all its moods she loved it, and she loved 
 her house, yet she felt that she could not stay there 
 much longer. 
 
 284
 
 The Peace of the River 285 
 
 With the end of October she would go away to 
 Italy for the winter. Everything here reminded 
 her of Paul. She did not want to forget him, yet 
 the sight of the streets in which they had walked 
 together, the hotels at which they had dined, the 
 theatres to which they had been, only served to 
 emphasize her present loneliness. 
 
 Christopher was the only person who, till to-day, 
 had known of her unhappiness. Ever since he first 
 knew her, when she was ten and he was two-and- 
 twenty, she had come to him with her joys and 
 griefs. There was a curious faculty for sympathy 
 in Christopher. It made him the popular barrister 
 he was, especially with women. It was easy to tell 
 him things. Had he been a priest he would un- 
 doubtedly have been much sought in confession. 
 Ht had heard many stories, both sordid and piti- 
 ful. Somehow he seemed always able to separate 
 the sin from the sinner. One knew instinctively 
 that he had no scorn for the latter, any more than 
 a doctor scorns a patient who comes to him with a 
 disease to be cured. He had, too, been instrumental 
 in preventing several divorces, and in giving men 
 convicted of theft a second chance without the 
 stigma of prison attaching to them. And curiously 
 enough he had never been disappointed in those 
 for whom he had pleaded for leniency. There was 
 nothing weak about Christopher. There had been 
 certain cases he had refused to accept cases in 
 which he knew the guilt to be a fact, and in which
 
 286 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 justice could only be avoided by a direct wandering 
 from the truth, even though he knew that by one 
 of his impassioned speeches he could most probably 
 have saved the victim from the law, and have es- 
 tablished a great reputation for himself. In spite 
 of his sympathy, he took a strangely impersonal 
 view of things in general, and his sympathy, though 
 very real, was never allowed to bias his judgment. 
 
 He agreed fully with Paul's decision that he and 
 Sara should not meet, and he offered a silent sym- 
 pathy which Sara found very comforting. After 
 she had once told him about the parting she had 
 not again spoken directly of it. She could not 
 talk of it. She could only try to live her life as 
 best she might in the hope that one day . . . 
 
 But that day seemed very far off and dim. 
 
 And in his studio Paul was working with a grim, 
 dogged determination. And every week he wrote 
 cheerful letters to his mother, in one of which he 
 had just said that his marriage was postponed for 
 a time; and he never for a moment let her guess 
 the trick fate had played him. 
 
 And so September passed, and it drew on to- 
 wards the middle of October.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SOME TWISTED THREADS 
 
 U "DARN ABAS," said Miss Mason one day 
 IJ it was the fourteenth of October " what's 
 the matter with Paul ? " 
 
 She was in Barnabas' studio when she put the 
 question. 
 
 " Ah," said Barnabas, " you've seen it too." 
 
 " One must be blind not to see it," said Miss 
 Mason. " I felt something was wrong before I 
 went away, and since I've been back I've been sure 
 of it." 
 
 For a moment Barnabas did not reply. " I know 
 part," he said after a minute, " and the rest I can 
 guess. You know he has lost a good bit of 
 money ? " 
 
 " Humpt ! " said Miss Mason. " I didn't know. 
 So that's the trouble." 
 
 "Partly," said Barnabas. "I think the other 
 part is the Duchessa." 
 
 "You mean ?" said Miss Mason. 
 
 " Paul was in love with her," said Barnabas. 
 
 Miss Mason looked at him. Then she nodded 
 her head two or three times. She suddenly real- 
 ized that the Duchessa, who used frequently to 
 
 287
 
 288 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 come to the courtyard, had not been there during 
 the last three weeks of July, nor during this first 
 fortnight in October. Of August and September 
 she had, of course, no record. 
 
 " I see," she said. 
 
 " I think," went on Barnabas, " that if this 
 money loss had not intervened they would have 
 followed the example of Aurora and Alan." 
 
 " She cared for him then? " asked Miss Mason. 
 
 " I have never seen two people more in love with 
 each other," said Barnabas. " They evidently did 
 not wish, at the moment, to make the fact public. 
 But seeing them together, as I occasionally did, one 
 must have been blind not to have realized it." 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Mason. " Then she is un- 
 happy, too ? " 
 
 " I have happened to meet her twice," said Bar- 
 nabas. " She acts very well. But the spring of 
 life has gone." 
 
 " But she has money," said Miss Mason. 
 " Surely " 
 
 "If she marries again she loses every penny," 
 said Barnabas. " I learned that quite by chance 
 one day from Charlton." 
 
 Miss Mason made a curious sound with her 
 tongue. It can only be described as clucking. 
 
 " The world," she said, " can be curiously con- 
 trary at times. I'm very glad I asked you." 
 
 Then she went back to her studio and sat down 
 for a long time in her big arm-chair to think.
 
 Some Twisted Threads 289 
 
 And the Three Fates watched her. For when 
 Miss Mason sat in her chair with just that par- 
 ticular expression on her face, it meant that she 
 was not over-pleased with their weaving, and that 
 she wished to unravel and re-weave their latest 
 pattern to a fashion more according to their mind. 
 And the Three Fates looked at each other, and 
 they nodded their three old heads, and waited with 
 amusement in their eyes to see what she would do. 
 As a matter of fact they had made this particular 
 bit of muddle in their weaving on purpose that she 
 might have the pleasure of putting it straight. 
 
 But it was a bit of straightening about which 
 Miss Mason felt a trifle nervous. Her fingers 
 itched to be at the threads, unravelling and un- 
 twisting the knots, yet somehow she felt a little 
 frightened to begin. 
 
 It was quite three hours before she made up her 
 mind. Then she suddenly crossed to her writing- 
 table and wrote a letter to Mr. Davis who had 
 rooms in Gray's Inn. In the letter she stated that 
 she wished to see him at eleven o'clock precisely 
 the following morning on urgent business. 
 
 And as she folded and sealed the letter the 
 Three Fates laughed. For Miss Mason had put 
 her fingers on the first knot. 
 
 " It is," said Mr. Davis, " a most unusual pro- 
 ceeding." 
 
 It was twelve o'clock on the following morning.
 
 290 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 He had been talking to Miss Mason for an hour, 
 or rather she had been talking, and it was the 
 third time that he had made the above statement. 
 
 " All the same," said Miss Mason firmly, " it 
 is my wish. And I understand that I have abso- 
 lute control over my capital." 
 
 " Absolute," said Mr. Davis regretfully, looking 
 at her with a kind of mild protest through his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Very well, then," she went on, " have the deeds, 
 or whatever you call them, drawn up immediately. 
 I will come down to your office the day after to- 
 morrow to sign them. I shall bring them away 
 with me, and post them to you the moment I wish 
 the matter put in full train. Is everything perfectly 
 clear?" 
 
 " Perfectly," said Mr. Davis. "Of course, if 
 there had been trustees " 
 
 " But there aren't, thank goodness," said Miss 
 Mason. " Remember, ten o'clock Friday morning 
 I'll be with you." 
 
 Mr. Davis found himself dismissed; and he left 
 the studio wondering how a woman who eighteen 
 months ago did not know how to fill up a cheque 
 should suddenly have become so remarkably de- 
 cided regarding business matters, and utterly refuse 
 to listen to common-sense statements on his part. 
 
 As soon as he had gone Miss Mason wrote to 
 Sara. 
 
 " My dear Duchessa," she wrote, " will you do
 
 Some Twisted Threads 291 
 
 an old woman a favour and come to tea with her 
 on Friday next at four o'clock. I want to see you 
 on a particular matter. If you are engaged on 
 Friday will you very kindly appoint some other 
 hour on which you can come to see me. 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " OLIVE MASON." 
 
 She serjt the note by Sally, telling her to wait 
 for an answer. In half an hour Sally returned 
 with it. Miss Mason opened it with fingers a little 
 shaky from anxiety. She read it slowly. 
 
 " My dear Aunt Olive. Thank you for your let- 
 ter. I will be with you on Friday next at four 
 o'clock. My love to you and Pippa. I hope you 
 both enjoyed your holiday in Devonshire. 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " SARA DI CORLEONE." 
 
 It had cost Sara something to write that letter. 
 It would bring back memories of joy and pain for 
 her again to enter the courtyard.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 KNOTS UNTIED 
 
 ON Friday afternoon at half -past two Barnabas 
 took Pippa to feed the monkeys and other 
 animals at the Zoological Gardens. It was by 
 Miss Mason's special request. 
 
 During the time that elapsed between their de- 
 parture and four o'clock Miss Mason was distinctly 
 restless. She began to sew at some fine white 
 cambric into which she was putting her most beau- 
 tiful stitches. When she had returned from Hope, 
 Bridget had told her of a Secret that was to arrive 
 in the spring a secret which if it was a boy was 
 to be called Oliver, but Bridget hoped it would be 
 Olive. She and Jasper were beamingly happy. 
 
 Miss Mason put in a few stitches, but she found 
 it impossible to sit still. She dropped the work 
 into a basket, got up from her chair, and began to 
 walk up and down the room. Then she would sud- 
 denly sit down and begin to sew again. 
 
 " I'm an old fool," she said. " I can no more 
 help interfering than I can help breathing, and yet 
 I'm as nervous as a cat." And she began to watch 
 the clock anxiously. 
 
 292
 
 Knots Untied 293 
 
 It had just chimed the hour in its silvery tone 
 when Sally opened the door. 
 
 " The Duchessa di Corleone," she said. She had 
 learnt the name by now. 
 
 Sara came into the room. She was in a dark 
 blue dress, and because the day was keen, though 
 bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs. 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Mason, " I am quite de- 
 lighted to see you. Sally, bring tea." 
 
 Sara sat down and loosened her furs. Miss Ma- 
 son looked at her. Her face was paler than even 
 its usual worry warranted. It had lost the under- 
 glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad. 
 
 " Did you have a good time in Devonshire ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Delightful," said Miss Mason. " A few peo- 
 ple grinned fatuously when they saw my old figure 
 skipping over the rocks. But I said to myself, 
 ' The Duchessa wouldn't see anything to laugh at/ 
 and so I didn't care." 
 
 Sara smiled. " You still remember our conver- 
 sation long ago? " 
 
 " I've never forgotten it," said Miss Mason em- 
 phatically. " I fancy if I had not seen you that 
 evening I should have given up all my dreams and 
 have gone back to the old house for the rest of my 
 life. And what a lot I should have missed if I 
 had." 
 
 " And what a lot a great many people would 
 have missed," said Sara. " You've woven your-
 
 294 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 self into a good many lives. Why, dozens of ba- 
 bies would have been minus white woolly jackets, 
 while several bigger babies would have lost a good 
 deal of happiness." 
 
 " Nice of you to say so," said Miss Mason. And 
 she began to pour out tea. 
 
 For the next twenty minutes they talked of little 
 things the visit to Devonshire, the donkey-tour, 
 the flat Aurora and Alan had taken, and Pippa at 
 present feeding the animals at the Zoo. Sara 
 talked lightly and even gaily. As Barnabas had 
 said, she was a good actress. It was not till the 
 meal was finished, then Miss Mason spoke on the 
 subject of her heart. 
 
 " My dear," she then said suddenly, " what is 
 the matter?" 
 
 Sara flushed. " I can't talk about it," she said. 
 She made no attempt at denial. 
 
 " I don't really want you to tell me," said Miss 
 Mason, " because I know. But I think I can find 
 a way out of the difficulty." 
 
 Sara gave a little sad laugh. "If you can you 
 are clever. I've thought and thought, and can see 
 none." 
 
 Miss Mason coughed. " It's all perfectly sim- 
 ple, really," she said, " only I don't quite know how 
 to begin to tell you. It seems to me that money is 
 the most difficult thing in the world to talk about." 
 She took two envelopes from the table. " Will
 
 Knots Untied 295 
 
 you, my dear, read the contents of those. It seems 
 to me the simplest way." 
 
 Sara took the envelopes long ones and 
 drew out the parchment contents. She read 
 slowly. At first she could hardly grasp their mean- 
 ing, it had been so unexpectedly presented to her. 
 
 At last she looked up. Her face was quivering. 
 
 "But but I simply couldn't " 
 
 " But, my dear, why not ? " said Miss Mason. 
 " Will you look at the whole thing reasonably. If 
 I chose to bequeath certain sums of money to you 
 and Paul at my death I presume you would not 
 feel it encumbent on you to refuse them. .Why 
 shouldn't you accept them now ? " 
 
 " But " began Sara again. And she 
 
 stopped, looking from the documents she held to 
 Miss Mason. 
 
 " I know," said Miss Mason, " that people often 
 feel a kind of pride about accepting money, though 
 why on earth they should calmly take it from dead 
 people and refuse to accept it from living ones, I 
 can't imagine. Of course their argument might 
 be that dead people can't use it themselves. That 
 would be true. But then this special living person 
 can't use all hers. Let me just put things clearly 
 to you. I have a capital that brings me in fifteen 
 thousand a year. Five thousand a year I am de- 
 voting to a certain scheme in which Barnabas is 
 helping me. I wish to make over sufficient capital
 
 296 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 to you and Paul to bring you in two thousand five 
 hundred a year each. That will leave me with five 
 thousand a year for my own use. My dear, I 
 don't even spend that." 
 
 " But charities " began Sara vaguely. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Miss Mason. " I'm sick of them. 
 If you'd written as many charitable letters as I 
 have you'd have had enough of charities. I wrote 
 hundreds for Miss Stanhope. She always filled in 
 the amount she gave herself. I never knew what 
 it was. But I can give to all the charities I want 
 out of five thousand. Now, my dear, will you 
 agree. Will you give me the pleasure of your ac- 
 ceptance and allow me a few more years on this 
 extremely pleasant planet in which I can see your 
 happiness, instead of waiting till I'm dead and com- 
 ing then to drop a few grateful tears and white 
 flowers on my grave. I'd infinitely prefer the 
 former I assure you." 
 
 Sara gave a little half-laughing sob. " I accept 
 with all my heart," she said, " and I don't know 
 how ever I am to thank you." 
 
 Miss Mason grunted. " Now there's another 
 thing," she said, " please don't try. Do think if 
 you can that the money just happened into the bank 
 without any human agency. If you're going to 
 keep an eternal feeling of gratitude before your 
 mind it will spoil everything. I want to be able to 
 quarrel with you and Paul and scold you as much 
 as I like, and if I felt that gratitude was preventing
 
 Knots Untied 297 
 
 you from answering me back it would destroy my 
 whole pleasure in the proceeding. Besides, my 
 dear, if there is any debt owing it is I who owe it. 
 I've never forgotten the hope you gave me the first 
 evening we met." 
 
 Sara stretched out her hands with a little laugh 
 of pure happiness. It was the first time she had 
 laughed like that for three months. 
 
 " And I tried to sermonize a little," she cried. 
 " And then we got on to fairy-tales, and I was 
 happier. Oh, isn't life a fairy-tale! And if we 
 told all the dull, prosaic people of the truly delight- 
 ful and unexpected things that happen wouldn't 
 they say that it was all make-up, and far-fetched, 
 and things like that. When it is just that they are 
 too stupid to see the happenings, and too heavy and 
 dull to look over the wall in which they have en- 
 closed themselves. I can't tell you how happy I 
 am. And will you think me a pig if I run away 
 for a little while and tell Paul? " 
 
 She got up from her chair, radiant, vital, as she 
 had been on the day she had first entered the studio. 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Mason, " if you hadn't 
 said you were going I should have sent you." 
 
 Sara held out both her hands. " It seems," she 
 said, " as if I were taking it too quietly, and as if I 
 ought to have protested more. But after every- 
 thing you said I really couldn't. It was all so ab- 
 solutely true. And we'd both so much rather have 
 you here seeing our happiness in your wonderful
 
 298 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 legacy, than that we should go to a grave to thank 
 you, and lay that white flower tenderly o'n the 
 grass." 
 
 Miss Mason gave a gruff laugh. " You can't 
 conceive," she said, " what pleasure you've given 
 me." Then quite suddenly she took Sara in her 
 arms and kissed her. 
 
 " Now, my dear," she said as she released her, 
 " do, for goodness' sake, go and make that poor 
 Paul happy."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE TUNE OF LOVE 
 
 PAUL had gone on bravely with his life. He 
 knew that when Sara had gone out of his studio 
 into the summer night she had taken something 
 away with her, the something that was the best 
 part of himself. But with what remained to him 
 he had set himself to face the lonely months ahead 
 of him. Each morning as he woke he told himself 
 that he would work for her. It was the only thing 
 that made work possible to him. 
 
 His joy in art had been sufficient for him until 
 he met her. Her coming had increased it ten- 
 thousandfold, as it had increased his whole joy in 
 life and in beauty, giving it a meaning he had 
 never before realized. And when she went she had 
 taken it away, leaving him with nothing but the 
 husk. 
 
 In spite of his courage, loneliness at times seemed 
 as if it must overwhelm him, for now it was unlike 
 his former loneliness. Before, he had not known 
 what it was to have the perfect companionship of 
 a woman. Now he had known it and lost it. And 
 the years before him stretched very grey. He 
 tried to see a gleam of gold in the future, but it 
 
 299
 
 300 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 was too far off for him to perceive it by sight; he 
 could only tell himself in faith that one day it 
 would dawn through the greyness. But however 
 strong the spirit may be to have faith, the flesh 
 after all is human and weak, and his loneliness 
 pressed hard upon him. During the last weeks, 
 too, he had had only one commission an unin- 
 teresting one, which he had nevertheless accepted. 
 He would now, as he had said, have painted anyone 
 however commonplace. But the work had not 
 taken him in any degree out of himself. 
 
 On the afternoon of the fourteenth of October 
 he was sitting alone in his studio. It had been a 
 bad day for him one of the days that come to all 
 artists when hand and brain alike refuse to work, 
 when inspiration is lacking, and it seems as if her 
 light had departed for ever. 
 
 He looked round the room. There was rather 
 a neglected appearance about it. He had given up 
 his man as an extravagance he could not possibly 
 afford, and he was on the look-out for a tenant for 
 his studio, meaning to move into something much 
 smaller. Yet, in spite of the neglected look of the 
 studio, Paul himself was as well groomed as ever. 
 Personal cleanliness was an ingrained characteris- 
 tic of him. It belonged to him as much as it be- 
 longed to the French aristocrats who manicured 
 their nails while waiting in the Bastille for the 
 tumbrils that would take them to the scaffold and 
 the embrace of the guillotine.
 
 The Tune of Love 301 
 
 After a time he got up from his chair, and taking 
 the kettle from the stove, he made some tea. As 
 he did so he thought of the many times Sara had 
 had tea with him since the day in Battersea Park. 
 
 Everything he did or thought reminded him of 
 her. The tiniest and most trivial details recalled 
 her even a thing as insignificant as the crack in 
 the table. He remembered seeing her run her fin- 
 ger along it one day when she had been sitting in 
 the chair opposite to him, which chair was now 
 empty. The tea-cups reminded him. He had 
 bought them specially for her. Before that he had 
 only possessed two cracked ones and a tumbler. 
 Even one of the cracked ones was precious, because 
 from it she had drunk a cup of coffee the day 
 Pippa had lunched with him and he had decided 
 to repaint her dress. 
 
 "My God!" said Paul to himself, "joy was so 
 near me, and now I must pass, at the best, years of 
 my life alone." 
 
 He looked across at the vases on the book-shelf. 
 They had never held flowers since the day thirteen 
 weeks ago when they had been full of crimson 
 roses. They and the blue vase on the mantelpiece, 
 to the colour of which Pippa had likened Sara, 
 were covered with dust. Paul felt suddenly as if, 
 in spite of his efforts, dust were settling on his 
 heart. 
 
 And then all at once he heard a slight sound. 
 It was a woman's step in the courtyard. Paul
 
 302 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 caught hold of the arm of his chair and gripped it 
 hard. His face had gone quite white. 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 " Paul," said a voice. 
 
 The next moment she was in his arms and he 
 was sobbing like a child. 
 
 " Don't, dear heart, don't," said Sara, her voice 
 shaking. 
 
 He put her in a chair and sat down by the table. 
 
 " You shouldn't have come," he said brokenly. 
 
 She went over to him and knelt beside him. 
 
 " But, dearest, listen," she said, taking both his 
 hands, " I have come to tell you of joy." 
 
 Paul stared at her half bewildered. " What do 
 you mean ? " he said. 
 
 " Listen," she said. " It's all so wonderful I 
 can hardly believe it myself. But it's all true 
 true true ! " 
 
 "Tell me, quickly," said Paul, putting his arms 
 round her. 
 
 And as many weeks ago he had had to tell her 
 bad news, so she now told him news of joy. She 
 told him everything, all Miss Mason's quaint and 
 excellent reasons for their acceptance of this hap- 
 piness with no thought of false pride to intervene. 
 
 " You will accept, Paul ? " said Sara, as she fin- 
 ished. 
 
 Again the man's eyes were full of tears. " Be- 
 loved, I must. My love for you would sweep away 
 all pride. But I think with a gift offered in that
 
 The Tune of Love 303 
 
 way one need have none. My God, it's won- 
 derful ! " 
 
 And so she still knelt beside him, and he held her 
 in a kind of dumb ecstasy, as if he feared to move 
 and find it was only a dream. And the music of 
 the Heart which had long held such a throb of 
 pain now rose loud and glorious, filling the whole 
 studio. 
 
 " Beloved," said Paul at last, " let us go to- 
 gether and find Aunt Olive." 
 
 So they went out into the purple dusk, in which 
 a light wind was scattering the last few golden 
 leaves from the trees, letting them float gently to 
 the courtyard. 
 
 And the little faun saw them coming, and the 
 tune he played to welcome them was the sweetest, 
 purest Tune of Love.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A WEDDING DAY 
 
 AND so the knots the Fates had twisted were 
 unravelled, and the threads re-woven into the 
 beautiful pattern of joy and gladness, love and 
 friendship. 
 
 One day Paul took Sara down to Hampshire to 
 see his mother, a white-haired old lady with a wrin- 
 kled face and a peaceful mouth, and eyes like Paul's. 
 She took Sara at once to her heart. 
 
 " Dearie," she said, " my boy has had a lonely 
 life, and I thank God he has found a woman like 
 you to fill it." 
 
 And Sara in her turn loved the old lady, not 
 only for Paul's sake, but for her own. And she 
 loved the little cottage where she lived, and she 
 loved the old-fashioned garden with its box-edged 
 paths, and flower-beds in which a few late autumn 
 flowers still lingered. The rooms in the cottage 
 were small, but all as dainty and clean as porce- 
 lain, and fragrant with the scent of lavender and 
 pot-pourri. She showed Sara the bedrooms with 
 their old chintz curtains before the casement win- 
 dows, and the frilly dressing-tables, and white- 
 valanced beds. They had each the effect of a 
 
 304
 
 A Wedding Day 305 
 
 Dresden china Shepherdess the tiniest bit stiff, 
 but extraordinarily dainty. She showed her her 
 store cupboard with its pots of jam, marmalade, 
 and pickles, and she promised her a recipe for 
 curing hams and another for making oat- 
 cake. 
 
 And Sara told her how to make spaghetti, and 
 told her it was the first dish she had ever cooked 
 for Paul. And in the evening when they went 
 away she took with her a great bunch of Michael- 
 mas daisies. And Mrs. Treherne kissed her and 
 blessed her, for she knew that the next day she 
 was to be Paul's wife. 
 
 The reception was to be held in Miss Mason's 
 studio by special request from Paul and Sara. 
 Sara felt that already the house on the Embank- 
 ment was hers no longer. 
 
 There were to be few guests at the wedding 
 only the other artists of the courtyard, Bridget, 
 Christopher, Andrew, and the two executors of 
 Giuseppe's will, who would bring with them the 
 important letter whose secret would be at last dis- 
 closed. The journey and the fatigue of the cere- 
 mony, however quiet, would have been too much 
 for Mrs. Treherne. Sara's own father and mother 
 had been dead several years. Christopher was to 
 give away the bride, and Barnabas was to be best 
 man. 
 
 And so the day dawned, a still, November day
 
 306 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 of soft mists and a pale blue sky a tender day 
 full of peace and happiness. 
 
 Christopher went to the house on the Embank- 
 ment to fetch Sara. She was waiting in the draw- 
 ing-room for him, in a sapphire blue dress, a large 
 black hat, and her soft sable' furs. 
 
 " Ready ? " said Christopher, smiling. And they 
 went down the stairs together. 
 
 Pietro was in the hall. His face was radiant 
 with pleasure. Paul and Sara had arranged to 
 keep him in their service. 
 
 "Good-bye," said Sara. "We'll let you know 
 when we return to London. You will of course 
 hand over the keys of the house to the executors 
 when they ask for them." 
 
 " Yes, Your Grace. Good fortune and happi- 
 ness to your Grace." 
 
 " Thank you, Pietro," said Sara. And then she 
 passed through the door he held open for her, and 
 went down the steps to the taxi, Christopher fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 " Christopher," said Sara a moment or two after 
 they had started, " you've been a very good friend 
 to me, and I'd like to thank you." 
 
 " No occasion to do so," said Christopher im- 
 perturbably. " The friendship has been mutual, 
 and I hope will still continue." 
 
 " Of course," said Sara. " That was one thing 
 I wanted to say to you. My love for Paul doesn't 
 make the least difference in my friendship for you.
 
 A Wedding Day 307 
 
 You will be exactly the same to me, as I shall be, 
 I hope, to you." 
 
 " Agreed," said Christopher, holding out his 
 hand with a smile. But he knew that it never 
 would be quite the same again. Her marriage with 
 Guiseppe had made no difference, her marriage 
 with Paul would. And with the knowledge Chris- 
 topher had suddenly realized what he was losing. 
 He was like a man who had had a jewel in a box, 
 looking at it always in one position, and it was not 
 till he took it in his hand to give it to another that 
 it suddenly flashed upon him in a new light, and 
 he saw colours and depths in it hitherto unper- 
 ceived, and a longing to keep it took possession of 
 him. But the deed was already virtually signed 
 and witnessed, the power to keep it lost, and so he 
 hid what he was feeling, and his manner towards 
 her held nothing but his old courtliness, his old 
 friendship. The pain the new knowledge had 
 brought him must be his alone. 
 
 And as the taxi stopped at the door of the church 
 he helped Sara to alight, and gave her his arm to 
 lead her up the steps, and up the aisle to the other 
 man who was waiting for her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A GIFT FROM THE DEAD 
 
 SIGNOR BERNARDO CIGNOLESI took his 
 watch from his pocket and looked at Signer 
 Manfredi Guido. 
 
 " It is, I think, the exact hour," he said. 
 
 They were small and dapper Italians, these two, 
 who had been appointed by the late Duca di Cor- 
 leone as the executors of his will and the keepers 
 of the letter. 
 
 The whole party was assembled in Miss Mason's 
 studio. The wedding was over. Paul and Sara 
 had plighted their troth. The blessing upon them 
 had been pronounced. And when the last words 
 of it had died away the church had been suddenly 
 filled with music, the notes of a violin joyous and 
 sweet, a wedding song for the two, a song that had 
 never before been played. 
 
 It was Michael's tribute to them both. The 
 organist alone had been taken into the secret, and 
 the man, who was a very true musician, listened to 
 the song with his eyes full of tears. 
 
 " It is Michael," Sara had whispered. And no 
 one had moved till the music had ceased. 
 
 But now they were all in the studio, eating wed- 
 308
 
 A Gift from the Dead 
 
 ding cake and drinking champagne, which Pippa 
 had never tasted before and which made her gasp. 
 She was wearing a little pendant Paul had given 
 her. It was gold and shaped like a tulip, and it 
 held in its chalice a blue sapphire. 
 
 And it was exactly an hour from the time the 
 blessing had been pronounced that Signor Bernardo 
 Cignolesi said to Signor Manfredi Guido: 
 
 " I think it is the exact hour." 
 
 And Signor Manfredi Guido took a sealed en- 
 velope from his pocket, and holding it in his hand 
 the two crossed together to Sara, who was standing 
 by Paul, her radiance and magnetism filling the 
 whole place. 
 
 "Allow us," said Signor Guido, speaking for 
 himself and his co-executor, " to give into your 
 possession the letter addressed to you by the late 
 Duca di Corleone. And now permit me to kiss 
 your hand and wish you all happiness, thanking 
 you at the same time for your hospitality." He 
 raised her hand to his lips, and Signor Cignolesi 
 followed his example. Then bowing and smiling 
 the two dapper little men returned to their glasses 
 of champagne. 
 
 Sara broke the seal of the envelope and drew out 
 the paper it contained. It was a letter in the late 
 Duca's handwriting, and addressed to herself. 
 
 She crossed slowly to Miss Mason's large oak 
 chair and sat down while she read it. 
 
 " My dear," the letter began, " if ever you read
 
 310 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 this letter it will be on the day that you have given 
 yourself into the keeping of the man you love. 
 Therefore, will you permit me, from the regions of 
 the peaceful dead, to offer to you my felicitations? 
 
 " It is possible that since my death there have 
 been moments when you have thought of me, if 
 not with anger, at least with vexation. I knew I 
 ran the risk of incurring this sentiment on your 
 part when I drew up my will. 
 
 " May I now give you my reasons and my ex- 
 cuse for my action? I will be as brief as possible: 
 
 " When you married me, my dear, you were able 
 to bring me a certain quiet affection, a very true 
 courtliness, and an entire faithfulness. Love had 
 not entered your life. You did not, then, know its 
 meaning. I was not the man to teach you. I 
 knew it, and yet I was selfish enough to take you. 
 My excuse is simply that I loved you. You gave 
 me what you had then to give, and it made me 
 happy. If I longed for more I knew it was not 
 withheld, but simply, at the time, non-existent. 
 
 " I realized, however, what one day you would 
 have it in your power to give. And knowing that, 
 I determined that the best should come to you and 
 be asked of you. Hence my will. Total surren- 
 der of all worldly possessions for love. Love seek- 
 ing you for your sake alone. My dear, was I 
 wrong? I may have been. I leave it now for you 
 to judge me. I wanted you, because I loved you, 
 to have the gift of love in your life.
 
 A Gift from the Dead 3 11 
 
 " And now that you have it I, from the quiet 
 regions to which I shall have attained, send my 
 offering to you and the man of your choice. 
 Signer Cignolesi will give you another packet. In 
 it you will find a deed leaving you the whole and 
 sole possessor of the Casa di Corleone on the banks 
 of Lake Como. 
 
 " You loved it, and I loved to see you there. If 
 the spirits of the departed are allowed to return to 
 earth, mine will come there to see you in your hap- 
 piness. And remember, my dear, that in it I shall 
 rejoice, for I believe that the only thing that could 
 mar the peace to which, please God, I shall attain, 
 would be your sorrow. 
 
 "Therefore, my dear, live joyously in the Casa 
 di Corleone. And when on sunny days you sit 
 in the shadow of the orange trees, and your chil- 
 dren come running to you across the courtyard, 
 God grant that my spirit may be there to see 
 it. 
 
 " And may His Blessing be upon you ; and the 
 Blessed Virgin and all the Saints have you in their 
 keeping, 
 
 " GIUSEPPE DI CORLEONE." 
 
 Sara looked up. Her eyes were misty. She 
 signed to Paul to come to her. 
 
 "" Read it," she said. " Giuseppe was a gener- 
 ous man, and a very true courtier." 
 
 And when Paul had read it he kissed Sara's
 
 312 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 hand. Then he came back to the table and every 
 one saw that he had something to say. 
 
 " My wife," he said simply, " has just received 
 a gift from one who we know is at peace. It is 
 the gift of a home she loves the Casa di Corleone. 
 And the offering comes from the Duca di Cor- 
 leone." 
 
 He bowed his head gravely, as did all the other 
 occupants of the studio, while Sara, Pippa, Barna- 
 bas, and the two dapper little Italians, made the sign 
 of the cross. And so they all for a moment paid 
 tribute to the memory of a true and generous man. 
 
 Then, of course, came a babel of congratulations, 
 and Paul was called upon for a speech. 
 
 " Speeches," said Paul smiling, " are not very 
 much in my line. My wife and I thank you all very 
 much for being here to-day, and we know that 
 throughout our lives we can count on the true friend- 
 ship of all present. There is one toast, ladies and 
 gentlemen, I would like to propose. It is to one 
 who has been, and is, the best friend of many of 
 us. Ladies and gentlemen let us drink to Aunt 
 Olive in Bohemia." 
 
 And everybody got to their feet, and there was 
 a good deal of applause, and a good deal of laughter, 
 but the eyes of some of them were a little dim, 
 as were the eyes of the old lady who sat there smil- 
 ing, and thanking God in her heart for His wonder- 
 ful gifts of Love and Happiness.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE MUSIC OF TWO COURTYARDS 
 
 AND so it was that Paul and Sara did not spend 
 their honeymoon in Paris as they had at first 
 intended, but travelled direct through without stop- 
 ping to the Casa di Corleone on the banks of Lake 
 Como. 
 
 It was in the purple and crimson of a sunset that 
 Paul first saw the courtyard, and the golden 
 oranges among their dark green leaves, and the 
 marble fauns and nymphs, and heard the plashing 
 of the fountain. The crimson light from the sky 
 was touching the white marble of the figures, trans- 
 forming them momentarily to the warm flush of life. 
 Sara and Paul passed between them and up the steps 
 of the old house into the great hall where the smiling 
 Italian servants were ready to greet them, and where 
 from the gallery above the haughty ladies of the 
 house of Corleone looked down upon the two, and 
 where from among them the portrait of the now true 
 owner of the place glowed like a great blue sapphire. 
 
 And a couple of hours later they came into the 
 dining-room, where shaded lamps filled the place 
 with a soft mellow light, and shed their glow on the 
 white damask cloth, on the shining glass and silver, 
 
 313
 
 314 Aunt Olive in Bohemia 
 
 on decanters of red wine, and on dishes of golden 
 oranges. Soft-footed low-voiced servants waited 
 on them. It was a magic scene, over which the 
 gods of Love and Joy reigned supreme. 
 
 And later still, the moon rose in the night sky, 
 bathing the lake in silver, touching the marble 
 statues to unearthly whiteness, and finding its way 
 through a great window where two figures stood to- 
 gether looking at its light upon the sleeping lake. 
 Behind them the room was full of flickering lights 
 and shadows from a fire of fir-cones burning on the 
 hearth. 
 
 And at last Sara turned from the strange beauty 
 of the scene, and saw Paul's eyes upon her. 
 
 " Are you content ? " she asked. 
 
 " Beloved of my heart," he said, and his arms 
 closed round her. 
 
 And so the Music of the Heart again filled the 
 room, playing in glorious and most perfect harmony 
 for the two whom the Gods had blessed. 
 
 And far away in England, in a studio in another 
 courtyard, Aunt Olive was putting a question to 
 Barnabas, while Pippa was lying asleep in the 
 inner room. 
 
 " Now that Paul and Sara will have reached the 
 Casa di Corleone," she said, " and Alan and Aurora 
 are cooing together, and Jasper and Bridget have 
 found happiness, I wonder what is going to become 
 of you and Dan and Michael."
 
 The Music of Two Courtyards 315 
 
 " You want to wind us up tidily, too," said 
 Barnabas, smiling. 
 
 " I was just wondering," she said. 
 
 " Well," said Barnabas, " Michael has his music 
 and his drawing, and, at last, an ideal which will 
 be his throughout his life. Dan will always be 
 what he is now big, silent, making harmless love 
 to all women (he has been flirting disgracefully 
 with Bridget, and Jasper has been quite refreshingly 
 jealous), and always he will be a staunch friend 
 of those who need him. And I, for the next few 
 years, will turn my whole attention to your candi- 
 dates for the School of a Wonderful Chance, and 
 later " he stopped. 
 
 "And later?" asked Aunt Olive. 
 
 " And later," said Barnabas, " I hope to ask you 
 for Pippa." 
 
 And through the half-open window the little 
 faun heard the words. And under the stars he 
 piped a tune of the fairy-tale of life, a tune of love 
 and laughter, whose notes reached the soul of the 
 sculptor who had fashioned him, and hearing the 
 music he was glad. 
 
 THE END
 
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