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 :.mmimm.
 
 BERTRAND SMITHS 
 ACRES Of- BOOK-S 
 140 FACIFIC AVENUE 
 LONG BEACH CALIF.
 
 'MANDERS BEGAN SINGING" (See page
 
 Special 3LimiitJ 
 
 of 
 
 BY 
 
 ELWYN BARRON 
 
 JKEitfj JFnmtttptecr 
 
 BY 
 T. SPICER SIMSON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 INTERNATIONAL BOOK AND PUBLISHING CO. 
 1900
 
 Copyright, fSyy 
 BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY 
 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 All rights reserved
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Ma 
 
 CHAPTER I .. 1 
 
 CHAPTER II ...... 19 
 
 CHAPTEB HI . . . . . ,35 
 
 CHAPTER IV 67 
 
 CHAPTEB V . . .70 
 
 CHAPTER VI . . .86 
 
 CHAPTER VII ...... 101 
 
 CHAPTER VIH ...... 108 
 
 CHAPTER IX 119 
 
 CHAPTER X 132 
 
 CHAPTER XI . . . . . .141 
 
 CHAPTER XII . . . . . .164 
 
 CHAPTER XIII ...... 168 
 
 CHAPTER XIV .188 
 
 2061769
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FAQ* 
 
 CHAPTER XV 199 
 
 CHAPTER XVI ...... 908 
 
 CHAPTER XVII ...... 224 
 
 CHAPTER XVIH ..... 237 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 247 
 
 CHAPTER XX 262 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXHI ..... 313 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV . . . 823
 
 MANDERS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WHEN Handera began life he was eight years old. 
 This statement does not warrant the inference that 
 he had put off being born until he was ready for 
 string-top and jack-knife. Mandera conformed to 
 the conventionalities at birth, and devoted the usual 
 time to clamorous and practical opposition to those 
 demands of life and infantage which seem to strike 
 incipient men and women as so many absurd devices 
 for their discomfort and annoyance. 
 
 Doubtless, were it left to the choice of the average 
 boy, there would be a prompt reformation of natal 
 conditions, and man would be born of woman as 
 Minerva sprang from Jove, fully equipped for the 
 moral and physical arena, where his energies are to 
 be tried and defied. The human economy, indeed, 
 already demands of science some such improvement 
 upon the principal methods of the race in the matter 
 of its self-multiplication. Some savants hold the 
 opinion that the full fruits of civilisation are not 
 
 A
 
 MANDERS 
 
 likely to be gathered into the store-house of per- 
 fection until it has been uniformly and successively 
 demonstrated that full growth and mental com- 
 pleteness at birth are really the natural ordering. 
 In support of this intelligent theory they have the 
 most incontestable authority, the Scriptural exposi- 
 tion of Man's origin and establishment on the earth. 
 Adam began the active work of husbandman within 
 twelve hours after he had become a sentient being. 
 His botanical, zoological and other information was 
 plenary from the beginning. He was able at once 
 to separate, classify and specifically name the animal, 
 vegetable and mineral life with which his extensive 
 estates were abundantly stocked and enriched. 
 
 Were it not that the confusion of biographies is 
 something to be avoided, some confirmatory facts from 
 modern experimentation might be offered here. There 
 are the well-known but generally disregarded con- 
 ditions of Standish Woolverton's attested birth and 
 career. These circumstances afford the most conclu- 
 sive proof that our ancient belief, that infancy and 
 youth must precede manhood and maturity, is as 
 much the outcome of ignorance and superstition as 
 the one-time faith in centaurs and griffins, or the 
 modern notions of heredity. Dr Spenlow's trust- 
 worthy history of "Physical Abnormities" includes 
 all that is of physiological or psychological value in 
 this peculiar case. Dr Spenlow, who was himself the 
 attending physician, says Woolverton was five feet 
 tall, and had a full beard thirty minutes after his 
 
 a
 
 MANDERS 
 
 birth. In the morning of the next day he rode to 
 hounds at the invitation of Lord Pondlewaite- 
 Etherton. It was only two years later that he wrote 
 the famous brochure on "Protoplasmic Detritus," 
 which Professor Huxley confessed nullified all his 
 own laboriously elaborated theories of life and nature. 
 We all know how Woolverton fell a victim in 1873 
 to the demonstration of his theory that a raindrop 
 falling through a vacuum of a thousand feet would 
 acquire the fatal force of a bullet discharged from a 
 gun. He was eight years old at the time just the 
 age at which Manders began life, but in that coin- 
 cidence lies all the resemblance between the two 
 histories. 
 
 Manders, I repeat, was born in the old, illogical, 
 ridiculous and infantile way; so the declaration 
 relative to the age at which he began life must be 
 understood to mean the time when he found himself 
 dependent upon his own unaided exertions as a bread- 
 winner. Manders had had some parents of a careless, 
 irresponsible pattern, and such ideas as they had 
 inculcated in his prattlehood would hardly serve any 
 but the most energetic of resolute minds as baits 
 to a success of any appreciable kind. 
 
 The paternal Manders had gone through with 
 a gentlemanly fortune in an ungentlemanlike way, 
 the final sovereigns of it having disappeared before 
 the real Manders, my Manders, was well rid of his 
 swaddling bands. Having nothing more to spend, 
 and wanting the aptitude to acquire the means of 
 
 3
 
 MANDERS 
 
 continuing an easy existence, Manders pdre, thoroughly 
 emmied of an empty life, one star-blazed evening 
 in the waning of summer, wrote a letter or two, 
 strolled down to the Quai de Malaquais, threw the 
 butt of his cigarette into the river and dived after it. 
 When Madame Manders heard of this exceptional 
 exercise of determination on her husband's part, her 
 pretty face lost its colour, she wept in an irresolute, 
 repining sort of way, and, not quite certain of her- 
 self, gathered Manders into her lap and kissed him. 
 
 " Tu n'as pas' un fader-r, mon pauvre ; mon petit 
 poor Edouard ! " 
 
 She said this a great many times, sitting there 
 swaying back and forth, as unresourceful as her 
 child. There were about her the faded and worn 
 remainders of a once artistic room for Manders pere 
 had had taste of a kind, although he did scandalise 
 and estrange his English family by really marrying 
 a Quartier Latin grisette, suspected of posing for 
 artists who were unable to paint draperies and 
 despised landscapes. There are no tyrants like 
 our artificial sensibilities. 
 
 Madame Manders never saw the something that 
 had been her husband, which they got back from 
 the care - soothing, shame - quenching, emotionless 
 friend of humanity, the serpentine river, murmurous 
 as the cooing of doves, as it rolls down to the sea. 
 
 " I cannot look upon him that way," she whimpered, 
 dropping tears upon the cheek of the wonder-stricken 
 Manders. " He would come that way into iny dreams, 
 
 4
 
 MANDERS 
 
 They say dead people stare at you so. I should die 
 of terror." She shivered, and the child patted her 
 throat, which was smooth and round and ivory tinted. 
 It was a caress she liked. She always kissed him for 
 it. She did now, and just the herald of a smile 
 touched her tear-wet lips. 
 
 "Don't cry," said Manders ; "if my papa is dead, 
 we are going to have a ride in a carriage." 
 
 Two men came over from London in personal 
 response to one of the letters written by Manders 
 pere. They took the long box back with them. 
 Madame Manders went down to the Gare St Lazare. 
 She had an instinctive clinging to the something in 
 the long box. She would rather it were not taken 
 away into that gloomy England. But, then, she did 
 not know. The men were his brothers, they told 
 her. Perhaps they had the better right to him ; only 
 it seemed to her that the box had in it the best days 
 and nights of her girlhood; some memories, some 
 hopes, some loves that belonged only to her. As 
 she stood there in an absent way fingering one of the 
 wreaths of flowers, a thought of some vague talk 
 she had had with Manders pere about the future of 
 their child came into her uncertain mind. For the 
 moment maternity spoke within her. Not very 
 distinctly, not with any authority, but like the echo 
 of a once dear voice, imperfectly recalled with still 
 a note of sweetness in it She pushed the child 
 hesitatingly forward a step or two. There was the 
 faint shadow of an anxious hope in her face the 
 
 5
 
 MANDERS 
 
 hope that is already a disappointment. She spoke 
 in English. It seemed more respectful to the still 
 friend there in the long box, that friend whose 
 French always made her laugh except, except when 
 it made her sigh. The smooth-faced, but older 
 brother was nearer to her the one with something 
 so stern, so forbidding in his eyes. 
 
 " Monsieur, this is his boy ! His name is Edward, 
 too!" 
 
 The brother looked coldly at her, without so 
 much as glancing at the child. 
 
 " It is your child, madame." 
 
 "And his," pointing a trembling finger toward the 
 box. 
 
 " We do not know that, madame." 
 
 She shrank away. She was not hurt. Her heart 
 felt no resentment. She only understood that she 
 and her boy had nothing in common with these grim 
 men. She had never dreamed of money for herself ; 
 besides, she had known well enough that the Edward 
 she had loved in an undeveloped way was the heir 
 to nothing lord of not a sou more than the money 
 he had squandered in his idle fashion as they drifted 
 from city to city until, in the year the Republic 
 triumphed, the birth of the little one arrested them 
 in Paris. But she had some dim, half -fearful, half- 
 alluring notion of an English adoption for him, of 
 an English education at the hands of those formid- 
 able rich relatives of whom Manders p&re had 
 babbled over his boy's cradle in those hours of
 
 MANDERS 
 
 half repentance, when he caught serious glimpses 
 of his disordered life. She would like to have had 
 her boy a gentleman ; but, as it was not to be eh 
 bien ; so much the better, perhaps. 
 
 The train began crawling out of the station. 
 Madame Manders looked after it with a dumb long- 
 ing that was succeeded by a dull sense of desolation 
 as the last carriage quite disappeared from her view. 
 She stood in the same attitude some moments, her 
 eyes, not even misty now, staring ahead as if she 
 still saw something that was strangely beyond her 
 comprehension, and which held her gaze without 
 occupying her thought. The child pulled at her 
 gown. 
 
 "Mamma!" 
 
 " Oui, mon petit," she answered unconsciously, her 
 eyes still on that distant, baffling vision. 
 
 " Aliens, chez papa," said the child insistently. 
 
 " Oui, allons done, mon pauvre." She turned un- 
 emotionally as he tugged at her hand, and they went 
 out of the station, she walking through a dream. 
 
 Paris is a forgetful city. It knows only the 
 present hour, and the passing event. It laughs or 
 sobs, or shrieks, or roars in turn, under the breath of 
 the moment, indifferent utterly to the thing it was 
 doing the moment before. That is why everything 
 is improbable, and nothing impossible in the future 
 of France. Madame Manders, walking with her 
 fatherless boy towards the 'bus stand, was partly 
 aware of this unmindfulness. An hour before, when 
 
 7
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the hearse, and the two mourning carriages passed 
 along the streets, all eyes were turned upon it. 
 Madame Manders had felt a sort of personal pride 
 in her grief, as she saw hats lifted reverently while 
 that velvet-covered, flower-decked long box, with its 
 careless sleeper, went past She had noted gratefully 
 the thousand pitying looks directed towards her and 
 the child by her side. Her bereavement was not 
 without its distinction. Now no one heeded her, 
 unless it was to peer into her face with that curious 
 scrutiny which betrays an insolent admiration. This 
 indifference to her affliction, this calm reduction of 
 widowhood and orphanage to the commonplace, 
 making them mere threads in the warp and woof 
 of experience, grievously affected Madame Manders. 
 All sympathy seemed suddenly withdrawn from her 
 She felt alone, abandoned. As she took her place in 
 the 'bus she had a sense of fearing people which hei 
 common sense chided ; but she sank into a corner and 
 lifted her boy on to her lap, as if he should serve her 
 as <* shield. Then she felt an inclination to laugh, 
 and drew the unbecoming black veil more closely 
 about her face. But tears came instead of the laugh, 
 so versatile is the human heart. 
 
 Manders was unconcerned. Nearly six years of 
 age was Manders now, but he still knew very well 
 the gross folly of being much disturbed by such irra- 
 tional things as death and the hodge-podge of mortal 
 uneducation. The pity of it is that children, in spite 
 of their instinctive rebellion, come in their turn, 
 
 ft
 
 MANDERS 
 
 through enforced imitation and study of their elders, 
 to be uneducated, too, exchanging the wisdom of the 
 eternities for the fantastic knowledge of a ludicrous 
 ephemeral existence. Perhaps, if we were not at 
 such pains to uneducate our children, cramming them 
 into uniform mind factories, and applauding their 
 progress in the obliteration of individualism, we 
 might come, in time, to know a little of God's pur- 
 pose in creating the world in which wo antic. We 
 never stop to consider how wonderful is the wisdom 
 of a new-born babe uttering a vigorous protest 
 against the cheat of mortality. 
 
 Manders, cuddled on his mother's lap, cast a look 
 around, saw that, with the exception of himself, the 
 'bus was filled with self -created, self -deluded im- 
 beciles, and so tucked his head down comfortably 
 under the maternal arm and went to sleep. The 
 rattle and roar of the heavy wheels grinding over 
 the granite pavements could not reach into the 
 region where his soul refreshed itself. 
 
 Once again, that evening, as he had on the four 
 preceding evenings, Manders asked. 
 
 " Where is my papa ? " 
 
 And Madame Manders answered as she had before 
 answered, only this time without tears. 
 
 "He has gone for a long visit, my little one. 
 Sometime we shall go to him. He will never come 
 back to us." 
 
 Manders never asked the question again. Philo- 
 sophy restrained him, no doubt ; possibly it was only 
 
 9
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the force of circumstances ; for Madame Manders had 
 the chance to sublet her roomy apartment in the Rue 
 d'Assas, and straightway took a snug little triolet of 
 rooms five dingy flights up in the dirty and crooked, 
 if picturesque, Rue St Jacques, the oldest street in 
 Paris, and comfortless, but adapted to the practice 
 of economy. New associations begetting new ideas, 
 Manders seemed to forget that he had ever had 
 the responsibility of a father. 
 
 The English brothers had given Madame Manders 
 a purse on the day of the going away, after she had 
 signed some little paper the exact purport of which 
 she did not attempt to grasp. The purse contained 
 one thousand francs, and that sum made her 
 tranquilly indifferent to the contents of the paper; 
 but, had he been carefully consulted, Manders might 
 reasonably have interposed an objection to so cheap 
 a relinquishment of what really constituted his title 
 of gentility, a claim on the Manders' family. At the 
 same time one thousand francs immediately in hand 
 are rather to be thought of than things remote 
 and hardly contingent. With this money Madame 
 Manders felt secure to indulge the mournful sweets 
 of new widowhood without troubling her pretty 
 little head with the problems of destiny indefinitely 
 put off The day after the funeral one of these 
 problems offered to obtrude itself. 
 
 "Will you go back to posing?" garrulous old 
 Mere Pugens had asked her. Mother Pugens had 
 a little " tabac " and paper shop, and was sage-femme
 
 MANDERS 
 
 as well. It was she who had ushered Manders into 
 the world. 
 
 " How should one know what one is to do ? " she 
 answered, adding somewhat irrelevantly, maybe, "I 
 hadn't had a baby then." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mere Pugens, glancing about the room 
 indifferently. " Ah ! my dear, once a model always 
 a model or worse, is what they say. You are 
 young and pretty you have to do something, I 
 suppose. Well, there are only three things for one 
 like you who can't so much as make a chemise; 
 posing, re-marriage, or well, you know what my 
 girl Lisette has done for herself. But then Lisette 
 was clever. Lord! lord! Lisette saw where the 
 future hid its berries before she had quit wearing 
 short stockings. She used to say, with a toss of her 
 head in contempt of the shop, ' I'll be a marquise one 
 day ! ' Eh bien ! It is amusing. He isn't a 
 marquis no; but she rides in her carriage just 
 the same. I saw her in the Bois last Sunday. She 
 threw me a kiss, my dear. A good girl is Lisette, 
 but no longer a child. She's forty, my dear but 
 she has had twenty years of it, and without having 
 gone begging twice in the time. An estimable 
 record, eb ? And never ashamed of her old mother. 
 That is the best of it. Now if you have a mind to 
 consult Lisette " 
 
 "Not at all, Mere Pugens," Madame Manders 
 hastened to interrupt. 
 
 " As for that matter," said the old woman with a
 
 MANDERS 
 
 curious smile that pursed her hairy lips, "I don't 
 know that you need look as if I had spat in the 
 holy water. Is it any worse than being a 
 model? Lisette was a model for a while; she says 
 it's a dog's life the hardest work there is, and far 
 from respectable. It is better to be a lady, my dear. 
 And think what you could do for the boy. You 
 can't do much for him now, I think; and as for 
 the pay a model gets bah! You'd much better 
 roast chestnuts." 
 
 But one evening, three months after Manders had 
 ceased to ask for his papa, Madame Manders was 
 accosted by an old artist just as she turned into the 
 Rue Sufflot on her way home. 
 
 " Is it you, Marie ? " 
 
 " Yes, M. Monier, it is I." 
 
 Both were well pleased with the meeting, and 
 they shook hands like old comrades, smiling frankly. 
 
 They could afford to be frank. When a woman 
 is less than twenty-five and man is more than 
 sixty such a thing as candid friendship is possible 
 between them. 
 
 M. Monier fondled the hand he held in both his 
 own in an affectionately paternal way. "It has 
 been so long since I saw you last I was not quite 
 sure. You have changed but not much. A little 
 rounder than you were, Marie. Just a suspicion. 
 Possibly an improvement, eh* But you are in 
 mourning ! " 
 
 "My husband, monsieur."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Oh, yes; i remember. You left us to get 
 married. So it is over V Humph ! Are you sorry ? " 
 
 " Oil, yes, M. Monier. He was good to me nearly 
 always. Sometimes we saw things in two ways; 
 but he used to kiss me afterwards." It was as if 
 she were addressing her father, attempting to clear 
 his vision of a prejudicial mist. M. Monier quite 
 understood. He gave her hand a final stroke ae he 
 let it slip from his clasp. 
 
 " And when did he die ? " 
 
 "Three months ago. You know they found him 
 in the river." 
 
 He knew nothing whatever of this. He looked 
 into her eyes. He had forgotten that they were 
 blue, that delicate blue which is perplexingly akin 
 to grey, but he remembered them honest and child- 
 like. He saw that same direct simplicity in them 
 now, and he pulled at the grizzled tufts of his beard 
 to hide a smile. He was amused by her unmind- 
 fulness that " found in the river " is not descriptive 
 of an orthodox solution of the large problem. 
 
 " Then you are alone ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, monsieur, I have my little one." There 
 was no mistaking that sudden lighting up of her 
 face, and he was touched by it 
 
 "And you live?" 
 
 " For the present, monsieur." 
 
 " And after a while ? " 
 
 "I don't know, monsieur. Something will come. 
 I do not trouble myself." Madame Maudera had a 
 
 n
 
 MANDERS 
 
 dimple in her chin and a mouth like a Cupid's bow. 
 What have these things to do with troubling or 
 being troubled? 
 
 M. Monier shook his head. 
 
 " Then you don't care to come back to me now ? *' 
 
 " I don't know, monsieur. Why not ? " 
 
 " There are not many models like you, Marie. My 
 school needs you. Come, let us make a bargain." 
 
 " As you please, monsieur." 
 
 " Good. When can you come ? * 
 
 "To-morrow?" 
 
 "Why not to-night? I have an evening class 
 charcoal idiots who can't draw with a brush." He 
 flourished his hand eloquently. 
 
 " You are so droll, M. Monien But I cannot leave 
 my little one at night. He can be with a neighbour 
 part of the day I pay her ten sous but she wouldn't 
 keep him at night. Besides, I like to have him then 
 myself. He is pretty, monsieur." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it. I see where he gets it." 
 He chucked the dimpled chin, and the eyes above it 
 laughed. " To-morrow, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "At nine?" 
 
 * At nine, monsieur." 
 
 There was much that was agreeable to Madame 
 Manders in the idea of reviving a professional rela- 
 tionship in which she formerly prided herself. She 
 had heard it said that hers was the best figure in the 
 Latin Quarter, and she had never thought herself 
 
 4
 
 MANDERS 
 
 called upon to disclaim the fact. It did not disturb 
 her a great deal that some of the more exacting 
 students had declared her head and body to be of 
 no kinship, the one having been designed for a doll 
 at the Bon Marche, the other having been fashioned 
 after the Eurydice of Nanteuil. She had taken it 
 upon herself to examine this admirable treasure of 
 the Luxembourg, a figure in which the roundness 
 of maturity and the seductive charm of youth were 
 wonderfully balanced. Therefore the criticism con- 
 veyed only a compliment to her by no means logical 
 little mind, for she knew very well the advantage of 
 being a young Venus in an art quarter where good 
 heads are in a great majority over shapely bodies. 
 This reflection made it possible for her to reply to 
 her critics with amiability, " If my head offends you, 
 you should never look above my bust." 
 
 But quite as persuasive as the whisperings of a 
 gentle vanity was an inexplicable yearning to escape 
 the portentous dignity of her r6le as Madame Manders. 
 Her husband had been precise and formal in this 
 particular. In the presence of others he always 
 addressed her, referred to her, as Madame Manders, 
 and the indulgent world took up the cue, so that 
 every fibre of the poor creature's body stiffened into 
 a responsive dignity that kept her on the rack. It 
 never occurred to her to interpose an objection, but 
 she so hungered for the old familiar name and the 
 frank, Bohemian life under the reign of the ateliers 
 that it is probable the prospect of being called Marie 
 
 '5
 
 MANDERS 
 
 by the students had as much to do with her ready 
 agreement with M. Monier as the desire to hear 
 praises of her charms. This na'ive trait of a simple 
 temperament may be accounted for in the fact that 
 Madame Manders was, notwithstanding the opinion 
 of the insular family Manders, a woman of so genuine 
 a virtue that marriage and maternity had not pro- 
 faned the maidenliness of her character. The idea 
 here so imperfectly defined was comprehensively ex- 
 pressed by Pointin the first time he saw her posed 
 for Roder's Eve. After eyeing her in pleasurable 
 silence for some moments, he said, in a half serious 
 way, " You should make a faithful likeness and call 
 it 'Aphrodite Exempt de Pe'ehe''!" A very charm- 
 ing compliment if you will analyse it ; certainly an 
 extraordinary tribute to a professional model for the 
 nude in the Quartier Latin. 
 
 When she stepped out of her apartment to go to 
 the studio on the morning after her agreement with 
 M. Monier, Marie left Madame Manders behind, and 
 tripped into the street as coquettish a model as any 
 that ever danced her heart and reputation away at 
 a Bullier ball. She felt deliciously animating thrills 
 in the thought of her return to a productive inde- 
 pendence. She was pleased with the expectation 
 of her welome at the school, an expectation more 
 than realised, for everybody was enthusiastic. It was 
 a day of agreeable sensations, and the evening retro- 
 spect was a triumphant renewal of the day's experi- 
 ances. She had lifted Manders to her shoulders aud 
 
 16
 
 MANDERS 
 
 mounted the stairs with him in a gale of merriment, 
 on her return from the studio. 
 
 " Houp-la ! " 
 
 Manders was very well content. Marie had 
 revived. She had put off her mourning garments 
 in obedience to professional demands, and in some 
 indefinable way the mourning had gone out of her 
 heart at the same time. It must not be supposed 
 that Marie had not loved her husband. She loved 
 him very much in her way, and as long as his fine 
 person and indolent affection had their direct influence 
 upon her. But Marie had never been fully awakened, 
 and she was as incapable of a self -sustained emotion 
 as little Manders himself, and the dead Edward was 
 as far away from her as from the child, and for 
 precisely the same reason. After all, we too often 
 mistake a constitutional dolorousness for elegiac 
 fidelity, and confound with levity and insincerity the 
 amiability and graciousness which attest a good heart 
 and a generous soul. Prolonged grief argues a dis- 
 turbed conscience. Marie's conscience was as clear 
 and untroubled as the water in the great basin of the 
 Luxembourg gardens under the blue of a still June 
 morning before the children have come down with 
 their boats. Being thus tranquil of soul, she could 
 be no other than light of heart. She was soon done 
 with weeping ; " the maman who smiles," as Manders 
 named her, came again, and she and her boy were 
 children together, the toys of the one being the 
 
 amusement of the other. One looking in upon the 
 
 B
 
 MANDERS 
 
 cosy, well-ordered, really pretty little room which 
 Marie called salon, and seeing the two innocents at 
 play upon the floor in the candle-light, might have 
 been tempted to think that Manders pere did rather 
 a good thing when he threw that cigarette butt into 
 the Seine. 
 
 Of course, Marie had liked the champagne suppers 
 and the curious assemblies in which strangely assorted 
 reputations, male and female, showed their native 
 hues through the tobacco smoke, and where jests 
 were laughed at less for their wit than for another 
 sort of pointedness. But then, too, she had liked 
 before that the beer which sans gene students had 
 paid for in the dim cafe's; she smoked their bad 
 cigarettes with a sense of exquisite indulgence, and 
 she listened to their droll stories in an abandonment 
 of easy mirth. The fact is, Marie was one of those 
 truants from Arcadia who live in the passing hour, 
 and who have little to do with hopes, and nothing 
 whatever to do with repinings. Child of the moment, 
 she honoured her paternity. Earth makes flowers 
 roses and lilies, violets and daisies, all the fragrant 
 and delicate blossoms and blooms that rejoice the 
 desolate world out of the smiling women who fall 
 asleep in her arms. I wonder what Marie will be ? 
 Some gossamer-petalled orchid, no doubt, whose 
 very spots shall perfect its scheme of beauty and 
 refine its purity.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN M. Monier's day class, for which Marie posed, was 
 a young Virginian whose success in figure drawing 
 was in inverse ratio to the intensity of his 
 application. He could do very well with a pencil, 
 but his colour was invariably as flat as the canvas. 
 M. Monier had a fine contempt for what he styled 
 " charcoal draughtsmen." He would say to his pupils, 
 M If you can't learn to draw as you paint, you are in 
 the wrong school. You may do very well as an 
 architect; you will be of no earthly good as an 
 artist." Those who persisted in the belief that it 
 is necessary to learn to draw with a pencil, were 
 compelled to choose between the night class and 
 some other school. "I won't teach mechanics by 
 sunlight," growled the old artist doggedly. As it 
 was esteemed an advantage to belong to the Monier 
 school, which was limited in numbers, and had the 
 constant care of its honoured founder, the even- 
 ing class was full despite the opprobrium attached 
 to it. Walter Blakemore, perhaps induced by that 
 spirit of chivalry which makes a Virginian think 
 that he must choose the more trying of any two 
 
 19
 
 MANDERS 
 
 courses, elected to stay with the day class, despite 
 frequent admonitions from his derisive fellow students 
 " to go and join the charcoal burners." His inability 
 to master the tones and shades that simulated the 
 hills and valleys and plateaus of the microcosm had 
 become a class legend. When one student borrowed 
 a trifle of another, the bond offered was some such 
 jest as, "I'll repay you when Blakemore learns to 
 draw," a phrase that came to stand for any indefinite 
 duration of time. Blakemore at first had the indis- 
 cretion to resent these mockeries of his talent, and 
 made frequent and rash offers to " clean out the class," 
 offers at which his fellows railed exasperatingly, 
 declaring that the only fearful thing about him was 
 his brush. But one morning when the badgering 
 was more than commonly persistent Blakemore had 
 withstood it with a composure that was most dis- 
 concerting to the others. " I'll beat you fellows yet," 
 he said with so much calmness that it sounded very 
 like the declaration of one quite able to carry 
 determination into effect. There was a roar of 
 mockery to be sure, but M. Monier, who entered in 
 time to hear the prophetic menace, exclaimed heartily, 
 " It wouldn't surprise me in the least, my boy. The 
 spirit is everything. Application, resolution, courage, 
 patience that is all there is to genius you'll find 
 genius in those words if you look for it, and you 
 cannot get hold of the real article without them, 
 Well, young gentlemen," he said with a sudden 
 change of manner, and rubbing his hands together 
 
 23
 
 MANDERS 
 
 in sort of self felicitation, " I've some pretty news 
 for you. We are not to have Antony this morning. 
 "No, you shall have a new model if you will, and 
 Antony may go to the night class, eh ? " 
 
 There were some murmurs. Antony was a shaggy 
 ruffian who might have been one of the mountain 
 bandits of his native Italy before this reverend 
 whiteness got into his hair and beard; several of 
 the students were eager to try their hand at his 
 strong features and rugged torso. 
 
 " Very well," said Monier, " you shall choose." He 
 made a sign to the massier and Marie was ushered in. 
 
 " If you please, M'am'selle," bowing, and pointing to 
 the curtain behind which Marie retired. M. Monier 
 seemed very well satisfied with himself. He moved 
 about humming unrelated fragments of operas, saying 
 now and then to one or another of the grumblers, 
 " You shall choose ! Antony, if you will ! " with the 
 manner of being quite convinced that there could be 
 no choice in the matter. 
 
 Presently Marie emerged from the curtained corner. 
 With the utmost gravity M. Monier, suppressing 
 every external sign of exultation for what he read in 
 the students' faces, conducted Marie to the shade. 
 "Gentlemen, this is Roder's Eve, will you take 
 that pose, M'am'selle?" 
 
 Marie, smiling a little proudly, assumed the desired 
 attitude. 
 
 "You recognise it, gentlemen?" M. Monier spoke 
 with an assumption of indifference that perhaps 
 
 81
 
 MANDERS 
 
 deceived no one but himself, for the hum of admira- 
 tion and the exclamations of artistic appreciation 
 left him no doubt that Antony would become the 
 prey of the charcoal burners. 
 
 It was in this way that Marie resumed herself, 
 and felt again the flow of nature through her veins. 
 There was a rebound of vitality. No longer feeling 
 herself under constraints of a semi-conventional life, 
 she imagined herself restored to the impulsive girl- 
 hood from which marriage had too unwisely snatched 
 her. Forms and conditions and a reason for things 
 were swept away from the province of her being, 
 and she was no more to be held to account than 
 were the sparrows which fed on her window ledge, 
 when she broke crumbs to them to please Manders. 
 And Marie grew younger, and prettier, and gayer 
 under a happiness that she took in as unconsciously 
 as she breathed the air. She radiated so much cheer 
 that all the class partook of it, and the painting 
 lessons became labours of love, even Blakemore 
 coming under the influence of the enthusiasm 
 sufficiently to establish a respectable relation be- 
 tween the thing aimed at and the thing performed. 
 
 Marie came to feel a sympathy with the young 
 student who seemed to her bent upon achieving 
 success in a pursuit for which he had the least 
 aptitude. He was but little more than her own age, 
 and she thought him an exceptionally good example 
 of his sex, tall, broad-shouldered, fair, proud in a 
 way, but with a smile that was the key to any heart 
 
 22
 
 MANDERS 
 
 he cared to unlock. He had, moreover, an air of 
 gentility that made its impression upon her, so that 
 to her sympathy was added a great deal of respect. 
 After two or three mornings Marie found herself 
 looking with increasing interest upon his canvas as 
 she passed it on her way to and from the estrade. 
 She began to hope that he would get on ; but 
 generally she experienced a penitential regret as if 
 she herself were in some way to blame for his slow 
 advancement. 
 
 This mood was heavily upon her one day when he 
 seemed to be more than usually earnest and less than 
 ever productive. It was near the end of her third 
 week. " Poor Monsieur Blakemore ! " she murmured 
 to herself as she dressed behind the curtain. Then 
 by degrees, a little with each garment she put on, 
 the idea came into her slow little brain that, perhaps, 
 she might help him. There was a pleasant stimulus 
 to her fancy in the thought She knew very well 
 that Blakemore nursed a sort of dejected ambition to 
 have his work recognised in the class exhibition, and 
 her thought was that there really might be a pos- 
 sibility if only he could have more time than the 
 others at his work. She decided to give him the 
 opportunity. That is why she lingered behind the 
 evergreens of the little cafe* across from the gare Mt. 
 Parnasse, waiting until Blakemore should come along. 
 He appeared after a time, and Marie, free from the 
 affectations of coquetry, yet not without reserve, came 
 forward to meet him. There were no words wasted
 
 MANDERS 
 
 in needless preliminaries. Models and students are 
 not stupefied by conventions. Marie smiled and held 
 out her hand. Marie could smile like the Madonna 
 Dolorosa, if any one can understand what I mean by 
 that. A smile that at once pities and assuages the 
 grief of humanity. Marie imagined there was a 
 necessity in the present instance to pour out this 
 balm of healing and refreshment. Blakemore under- 
 stood something of this when he looked into her face, 
 and he answered her smile before she had spoken 
 a word. 
 
 " This is mighty nice of you, Marie. By George ! 
 I believe you read my thoughts in the class this 
 morning." He spoke laughingly, taking her by the 
 arm and moving up the boulevard with her. " Then 
 you don't think me quite hopeless ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur Walter ! " 
 
 The reproachfulness of her tone was lost in the 
 comical turn she always gave his name, which she 
 pronounced "Voltaire," with a sustained rising in- 
 flection on the final syllable. Marie spoke very good, 
 that is to say fairly grammatical, English queerly. 
 Her words fell into order in general accord with 
 rules, the result of her six years' fidelity to the 
 exactions of an English husband, but it was some- 
 times necessary to make a reflective analysis of un- 
 accustomed sounds before one could be certain of 
 many of her words. But there was an artless charm 
 in her speech that went very far toward persuading 
 a masculine hearer that expression could not be
 
 MANDERS 
 
 better. Blakemore was much gratified by the friend- 
 liness of her reproachful exclamation. 
 
 "Then you don't despise me for the way I am 
 doing you?" 
 
 "I suppose I should be very angry with anyone 
 who makes me look 'muddy'" she said, peeping 
 up at him archly. "But one has to learn, is it 
 not so, Monsieur Walter? And I thought that, 
 perhaps, if you had more time I mean more 
 time with the model you might eh, Monsieur 
 Walter?" 
 
 " Clear you up a bit ? that never occurred to me ! 
 And will you do it?" he inquired, with eagerness. 
 " Will you give me the time ? I'd be sure to come 
 out all right ! And I'd pay you better than they do 
 at the school, tool" 
 
 " Oh, as for that " she began with a pretty 
 protesting flirt of the hand. But Blakemore inter- 
 rupted with the rush of one anxious to conclude an 
 advantageous bargain. 
 
 "When can I have you?" 
 
 " Oh ! every afternoon." 
 
 "But I can't come in the afternoons that is to 
 say seldom. How about the evenings ? " 
 
 Her superior knowledge of art rebuked his uncal- 
 culating ardour. "But you can't paint at night, 
 Monsieur Walter ! Think of your colours ! " 
 
 "Hang the colours, Marie! The bother with me 
 is form. Besides it's all nonsense this raving about 
 daylight. I would just as lief have the effects got 
 
 25
 
 MANDERS 
 
 by gaslight. Fm going in to be original, anyway. 
 Let us say evening, eh ? " 
 
 " Very well," she assented, a little amused. 
 
 "Then it's settled. Yon know where my rooms 
 are?" 
 
 " Oh ! but yon must come to ma I cannot leave 
 my little one." 
 
 She said this with an air of comical importance. 
 It rather pleased her to make conditions. It gave 
 her a feeling of authority to which she was not 
 used. 
 
 " You may come to-night." 
 
 "But to-night I have an engagement! I could 
 come after ten, though. How would that suit 
 you ? " 
 
 " The hour is nothing to me. One time or another 
 as you please." 
 
 " To-night, then. I'll begin at ten. Do you know, 
 Marie, you are a deucedly accommodating, nice girl ? 
 I'm awfully obliged to you. I'll beat those fellows 
 yet! See if I don't. By George! I'll make you a 
 handsome present if I da You can have anything 
 you ask for I" 
 
 "You'd better not promise that," she said with 
 a sagely warning shake of the head. " I have been 
 thinking of a little house with a garden!" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She laughed at him. He walked with her as far 
 as the observatory, and their special bargain was 
 made, for Blakemore viewed the matter in a strictly 
 
 36
 
 MANDERS 
 
 commercial light as far as Marie's services were con- 
 cerned. She was to have forty francs a week, 
 considerably more than she got at the school, for 
 the time she might pose for him. She would have 
 preferred to give her services to help this handsome, 
 inept student to success; but as Blakemore had 
 plenty of this world's goods he could see no virtue 
 in Marie's vague scheme of useless self-devotion. 
 She sighed as she consented. In her precious 
 shallow pate she had set up a glowing shrine 
 sacrificial to a pretty heroism, and it disappointed 
 her that Blakemore turned out to be prodigal 
 rather than impecunious. 
 
 Manders was snugly in bed and serenely asleep 
 when Blakemore came to begin his strategic labours 
 that night As the two conspirators were thoroughly 
 in earnest there was no time wasted in idle formali- 
 ties. Blakemore set up his easel and arranged his 
 paints and brushes, a new outfit procured for the 
 occasion, while Marie prepared to repeat her pose 
 of the morning. The subject was a somewhat 
 whimsical treatment of the " Desolate Ariadne " pros- 
 trate upon the sea-shore. Marie's sommier served 
 imperfectly to typify the wave-serried sands upon 
 which she curved in delicate nudity. The pose was 
 an easy one to keep for any reasonable length of 
 time, but Blakemore, utterly absorbed in his work, 
 quite forgot the running minutes, and the period 
 for rest came and passed and came again without 
 admonishing him. Marie was not disposed to inter- 
 
 27
 
 MANDERS 
 
 rapt him. They had scarcely spoken since he first 
 moistened his brush. This young man was, in spite 
 of a certain moral variableness, one of those strenuous 
 creatures who have a way of getting quite inside 
 their occupation; "the conquerors" some absurd 
 philosopher has styled them. Marie could see the 
 expression of increasing satisfaction in his face as he 
 applied himself in freedom from critical or satirical 
 comment, and it pleased her. Considerably after an 
 hour of this concentrated work Blakemore uttered 
 an exclamation of self-appreciation. 
 
 " I am getting it, Marie ! " 
 
 " I am happy, monsieur." 
 
 He pushed back in his chair in contemplative way, 
 his brush poised hi readiness for any sudden inspira- 
 tion. " That is going to be something like." 
 
 Marie rose under the influence of his enthusiasm, 
 and came to look over his shoulder. Really the 
 result wasn't so bad. There was chance for an en 
 couraging word. 
 
 "Oh! it is beautiful !" 
 
 "Not just that, Marie. That is a little strong. 
 But it is coming on ! I'll show those fellows yet ! 
 You are a brick, Marie." He looked up. Recollec- 
 tion seized him. " By George ! I've been a brute. 
 I've let the fire go down ! I've kept you at it a beast 
 of a time ! Why didn't you throw something at me ? 
 Are you cold ? Wrap this blanket around you. I'll 
 rebuild the fire." 
 
 M Oh 1 I am not cold ; not tired," she had been pro- 
 a8
 
 MANDERS 
 
 testing during his self-reproaches and hurried move- 
 ments. " I am so happy that I am really helping 
 you. Come ; let us go on ! " 
 
 " No," he said, as if he were mastering a great 
 temptation, "I am not ruffian enough for that. 
 Besides, I'm very well satisfied. I have reached a 
 point and I've caught a trick ! Do you see the 
 curve on that shoulder? Monier could not do 
 better 1 That itself is good enough for one night. 
 It was an inspiration you proposing this plan to me. 
 It's going to be the making of me ; I'm certain of it. 
 I'm going to kiss you for it. There ! Well, shall I 
 help you to dress ? " 
 
 " No," she said, smiling at the idea of anyone help- 
 ing her to dress ; and then a pensive look stole away 
 the smile as she remembered that Manders pere had 
 liked to help her in the days of the honeymoon, 
 and before he was Manders pere. Possibly there 
 was just the tinge of sadness in her voice as she 
 added, " I shall not dress. I shall just put on my 
 night-gown and slippers unless you will let me get 
 you something to eat ? " 
 
 " No, I'll get something to eat at Petitfour's. By 
 the way, why not come along with me ? It ia early 
 yet. Everybody will be there." 
 
 " But I cannot leave my little one." 
 
 " You should have a 'bonne." 
 
 ' Oh, no. I like it better to take care of him my- 
 self. We are such good friends, and he is so wise ! 
 Ah ! as for that, sometimes I'm much afraid of him, 
 
 29
 
 MANDERS 
 
 he is so wise and I so foolish." She said this in a 
 deprecating way, but laughed as well. 
 
 " Manders is a jolly little chap, and you are a good 
 girl, Marie. I'm going to be interested in you both, 
 I see that." 
 
 " But you don't know my little one." 
 
 " I'm going to, though. And you forget that I have 
 been introduced to him. You know he knocked his 
 ball into me in the gardens one afternoon." 
 
 This was an amusing reminder to Marie, and an 
 agreeable one as well, of an incident that occurred the 
 third day after she had returned to posing for M. 
 Monier's class. It was this petty accident that had 
 fixed her notice upon Blakemore. She had taken 
 Manders into the Luxembourg gardens for a romp, 
 and their ball tossing, in happy disregard of persons 
 passing, had been to the injury of Blakemore's 
 radiant silk hat. He was so gracious about it and 
 patted the abashed Manders so comfortingly on 
 the shoulder, and said so flatteringly to Marie, " Oh, 
 you are our pretty new model, aren't you?" that 
 -larie could not help exploring the class for him 
 next day. That is how her sympathy with him 
 began. 
 
 " You were droll," she said, " but very nice ! " 
 
 "Yes, a man is always comical with his hat 
 knocked off." 
 
 He had got the fire going and Marie, in gown 
 and slippers, seated herself before the cheering 
 flame. 
 
 30
 
 MANDERS 
 
 * This is good, she said. " Won't you sit down, 
 too?" 
 
 " Yes, long enough to safe-guard this wet paint a 
 little, then I'll bundle it up and be off. I'm going to 
 leave my easel and paints here." 
 
 " Of course," she assented. 
 
 Soon after, Blakemore went away, but instead 
 of going to Petitfour's he stopped at an unfre- 
 quented place and had a bit of supper. He was not 
 in the vein for the conversation of revellers and 
 idlers. Ideals were spinning their illusions through 
 his brain. He could not just decide why, but he felt 
 a confidence in himself nothing had awakened before. 
 He had done his first hour of really absorbing work, 
 work that was shadowed by no self-consciousness, no 
 sensitive dread of disparagement, and the result 
 struck him as good. He was very grateful to Marie. 
 It was all due to her. She had given him the right 
 impulsion. He had a jubilant sense of the end to 
 which it would carry him, for he had in this felicit- 
 ous way got hold of the clue that should guide him 
 out of the maze in which he had been groping for 
 more than a year. He had laid hands on himself, 
 so to speak. He strolled home in the light of the 
 low-hung stars, and thought them larger and more 
 brilliant, and the texture of the purple-black curtain 
 behind them richer in velvet bloom than he had ever 
 seen them before. Very sweet are the first sips from 
 the poisoned chalice that Ambition holds smilingly 
 to the lips of the credulous ! Blakemore went home
 
 MANDERS 
 
 to lie down to rosy dreams in the clear perspective 
 of which was a salon picture hung on the line. 
 
 He was early at Marie's the next night. The table 
 had just been cleared, and Manders was marshalling 
 his tin soldiers under the lamp's light. Manders came 
 forward to have his head patted and to make an 
 apologetic little speech relative to the incident of the 
 misdirected ball. Blakemore gave the boy's cheek a 
 friendly pinch. 
 
 "I think it was iny hat that got in the way, 
 Manders." 
 
 "Oh, I knew that all the time, monsieur. Well, 
 I'm just going to kill some Germans." 
 
 "Take care they don't kill you," laughed Blake- 
 more. 
 
 "Oh, they can't do thatl Je suis Anglais," 
 declared Manders conclusively, as he went back to 
 his play. 
 
 " He is his father's child, Marie." 
 
 "Oh! yeslj" she smiled sweetly. "I am quite 
 afraid of him. He is so wise." 
 
 " He is all right. Well, shall we get to work ! " 
 
 " I shall be ready as soon as you, monsieur." 
 
 Soon Blakemore was engrossed in his work, and 
 Manders was no less attentive to his battles. War 
 is a very absorbing pastime. It is even more 
 peremptory than painting, and the child, directing 
 the prodigies of fate, was wholly oblivious to what 
 passed behind him, although Blakemore was full 
 of talkative ardour this evening. At length, when
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the victory which he foresaw was complete, Manders 
 turned with an exultant shout. 
 
 " They are all dead, maman ! " 
 
 His glance took in the painter and his model before 
 he had done speaking, and the last word was almost 
 lost from the sentence, muffled as if there were not 
 breath to utter it- distinctly. The boy stood trans- 
 fixed for a moment. The laughter drifted away 
 from his face, and a curious infantine look of 
 surprise came in the place of it. A gradual intelli- 
 gence took hold upon him. Something he did not 
 understand began to master him in the clenching of 
 his little fists, in the clouding of his curl-draped face. 
 The blood left his cheeks, and the gust of a ghostly 
 tragedy touched and froze his heart till the pain of 
 it hurt him, and he cried out a cry so sharp, so 
 savage, so unlike the cry of a child, that the others 
 were startled by it; but before they were aware 
 what it meant, the little man had rushed against 
 the easel, beating it down with his fists, and had 
 flung himself shelteringly upon the nude breast of 
 his mother. 
 
 Blakemore, amazed, imagining that some accident 
 had happened, came towards the child, who was 
 pouring out an unintelligible jargon of furious sounds. 
 As Blakemore approached inquiringly, Manders turned 
 upon him fiercely and shouted, 
 
 "Don't touch my maman! Don't dare to touch 
 my maman ! " Words the more menacing for being 
 spoken in French. 
 
 O
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Singularly enough, Blakemore had no inclination 
 to laugh. On the contrary, he looked in arrested 
 wonderment at the child, and then his eyes turned in 
 appeal to the mother; but Marie, holding Manders 
 with one arm close against her breast, was trying in 
 vain to draw protectingly about her the cover of the 
 couch, her face scarlet with shame, her hot tears 
 raining down upon the curls of her boy. 
 
 Blakemore understood. Eve had become conscious 
 of her nakedness. A well-fortified man of the world, 
 or even one who had reached the cynical stage of the 
 sexual cult, would have seen the humour of the 
 situation. But Blakemore had the misfortune to be 
 a youth in earnest. He felt a ridiculous tightness 
 in his throat, and recognised his helplessness as he 
 gazed upon these two children, the one quivering in 
 the defence of an idol assailed, the other tremulous 
 in unmerited self-abasement. Knowing nothing better 
 to do, Blakemore took up his hat and stole softly out 
 of the room.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WHEN, next morning, M. Monier, observing a fixed 
 rule, came into the atelier an hour after the time at 
 which the class- work should have begun, he found the 
 students, twenty in number, standing or lounging idly 
 about, with their canvases untouched. The unwonted 
 noise he heard as he came up the stairs had fore- 
 warned him of something amiss, but he was none the 
 less surprised to see his usually industrious pupils 
 unemployed. 
 
 " Why are you not at work ? " he asked, as he 
 surveyed the groups from the doorway. 
 
 "That is what we would like to know," came in 
 responsive chorus. "What have you done with 
 Marie?" There was so much concert unanimity in 
 the demand that M. Monier suspected a reheaual, 
 and to forestall any planned impertinence, he put 
 himself into a rage of remonstrance. He could storm 
 very well, and with so much suitability of savage 
 aspect that the most familiar of his pupils never 
 doubted the genuineness of his wrath. He alone 
 knew the hypocrisy of it. In the confessional of his 
 private emotions, M. Monier pitifully admitted that 
 
 35
 
 MANDERS 
 
 his heart had been beaten to a pulp by human 
 sympathies, and was no longer capable of resistance 
 to the plaints of frailty. The contradictory weaknesses 
 of his character were known, however, in more than 
 one squalid abode in the poor districts through which 
 he prowled of an afternoon, " looking for material," as 
 he said to any chance-met acquaintance, but in reality 
 putting into practice some crude notions of com- 
 munism he had imbibed with his mother's milk. It is 
 not, perhaps, a pleasant commentary on the prejudices 
 of our modern society that one should be ashamed of 
 one's philanthropy and try to conceal its donative 
 phases. But man born of the flesh must take note 
 of the conceits of the flesh, and we have made it 
 axiomatic that he who giveth openly hath an axe 
 that needeth an edge. The spirit of diplomacy 
 which led M. Monier to mask his benevolence with 
 a niggardliness in personal expenditure, taught him 
 to hide his sentimental infirmities under a brusquerie 
 of speech and a severity of manner that had at least 
 the virtue of keeping in subjection those of his pupils 
 who subordinated the exactions of art to the blandish- 
 ments of pleasure. 
 
 Therefore, imagining that the show of idleness 
 argued a purpose to frolic that might involve a 
 joke at his expense, M. Monier launched into such 
 a flood of invective and abuse as temporarily 
 stunned the students into silence. " Paresseux I " 
 with a finely ironical prolongation of the final 
 syllable, was the most complimentary term dis- 
 
 36
 
 MANDERS 
 
 charged through the shaggy moustache that 
 ambushed his kindly modelled lips. He strode to 
 the platform, which he mounted, gesticulating and 
 volleying as he went, and continued his harangue 
 until he had but breath enough to order the students 
 to set to work. 
 
 Seizing upon the advantage which exhausted 
 nature gave into their hands, the students with one 
 accord, and at the top of their voices, repeated their 
 salutatory demand, 
 
 " What have you done with Marie ? " 
 
 For the first time M. Monier noticed the absence 
 of the model. He looked about him. She could not 
 be in hiding; there was no place for concealment, 
 the curtain of the dressing corner being looped up 
 and the barrel near by offering too snug a retreat 
 for Marie's by no means diminutive body. Besides, 
 a calmer regard of the faces before him convinced 
 the master that he had been theatrical without 
 reason, and a touch of chagrin subdued him into 
 apologetic mildness. He felt, too, some anxiety on 
 Marie's account. She was punctuality's self. Her 
 custom was to be in waiting as the class assembled. 
 She had not been late a morning. Most certainly 
 Marie was ill 
 
 "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I am to blame 
 for scolding you. But if we cannot have one model, 
 we must do with another. I saw an old woman in 
 the passage. Call her in, someone." 
 
 The mossier retired, and presently returned ac-
 
 MANDERS 
 
 companied by Mere Pugens, who carried under her 
 arm a square frame half covered by a copy of the 
 Figaro. 
 
 "Make haste, my good woman, get ready," said 
 M. Monier. Then, turning a wry face to the students, 
 he added, " We must content ourselves with charcoal 
 this morning. No time to get new canvases ready." 
 
 This solemn announcement was received with a 
 roar of derisive laughter. 
 
 "We don't want to draw spheres," said someone. 
 
 M. Monier himself smiled. Mere Pugens was 
 rather round. It was difficult to say where one 
 curve left off and another began, the geometrical 
 progression was so carelessly defined. 
 
 Interpreting the amusement of the class in her 
 own way, Mere Pugens, addressing herself to the 
 master, said with some little asperity, 
 
 "Oh! you may laugh at the old woman now, M. 
 Monier, but I remember very well the time when 
 you thought Ernestine Naquet quite a tidy figure 
 on the platform ! You were a student yourself in 
 those days, M. Monier, and not above taking liberties, 
 as I am alive to swear. Oh ! mon Dieu, yes ! I could 
 tell these pretty gentlemen that you used to smile 
 in quite another way when this same Mere Pugens 
 who wasn't Mere Pugens then came to pose in 
 the lamplight two flights up in the dirty alley off 
 the Rue de Sevres. Not so very long ago, neither, 
 if thirty years are half a lifetime ! And let me tell 
 you, gentlemen, it was not posing that gave me up ; 
 
 38
 
 MANDERS 
 
 it was I that gave up posing, I, myself! And do 
 you think I have brought my respectability here 
 n\w to be painted after I have established myself 
 in . k -he world? Not at all, M. Monier! That is 
 what I come for, M. Blakemore," thrusting the 
 package she carried into Blakemore's unwilling 
 hands, "and to tell you, M. Monier, that Madame 
 Manders is done with posing, too. I might have 
 said it as prettily as she told me if I had found 
 pretty people to say it to but a service soonest done 
 is best done. Good morning ! " 
 
 Mere Pugens, drawing her undulations into such 
 dignity of carriage as she might, turned herself 
 toward the door, singularly rosy of countenance. 
 
 " And is it really you, Ernestine ? " M. Monier 
 called after her laughingly, yet not unblushingly. 
 
 " Not at all ! not at all ! Only a fat old woman, 
 at your service ! " responded good Mere Pugens, as she 
 went out, leaving the door open behind her. It is 
 a fact in natural philosophy that ponderous persons 
 never slam doors. That variety of emotional ex- 
 pression is reserved to the lymphatic temperament. 
 
 If M. Monier had any misgivings as to the effect of 
 Mere Pugens' somewhat imaginative revelations on 
 the minds and spirits of his pupils, they were soon 
 dispelled. Those young gentlemen, unmindful of him, 
 were expectantly interested in the tell-tale counten- 
 ance and abashed manner of Walter Blakemore. His 
 awkward attempt to secrete the unmistakable pack- 
 age by thrusting it down between his knees attracted 
 
 39
 
 MANDERS 
 
 a curious attention to it. He was surrounded by a 
 crowd of chaffers slangily bantering him on the 
 conquest of a brobdingnagian Phyllis with a chin 
 beard, and demanding to see her portrait. 
 
 Tom Milsom, who, by reason of his diminutive 
 stature, was the admitted bully of the class, and 
 engineered most of its mischief, made a sudden dive 
 for the frame, upsetting Blakemore in his eagerness, 
 and tore away the covering as he raised his prize to 
 view. 
 
 There was a hoot of disappointment from the 
 others. Instead of new sport for a merry morning, 
 here was only the "study" upon which Blakemore 
 had been labouring under their eyes for the past 
 week, a study they already had gibed at to their 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " But wait a minute, boys ! " said Milsom, squaring 
 the canvas on to an easel, " there is something amus- 
 ing about it. Don't you see ! " He turned with an 
 expansive smile to catch the expressions of his fellows 
 and to enjoy the confusion of Blakemore. " Isn't it 
 amusing? Eh? He has been painting by lamp- 
 light! You can hear the colours howling. I told 
 you Blakemore was an original, didn't I ? He's going 
 to get into the salon, aren't you, Walter ? You ought 
 to have your colours better labelled, my dear. But I 
 daresay it doesn't much matter. We are getting 
 some queer notions in art. It's all in the way you 
 see things. Eh, M. Monier?" 
 
 M. Monier had approached the group, and was 
 
 40
 
 MANDERS 
 
 looking at Blakemore's work with a seriousness that 
 arrested Milsom's nonsense. He came nearer and 
 took up the canvas. 
 
 "Humph! Yon worked on this last night, M. 
 Blakemore ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Blakemore, simply enough, but it 
 seemed to amuse his friends, for they laughed. 
 
 "Then Marie is not ill?" said M. Monier, as he 
 returned the canvas to its place, a shrewd gleam in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "How should I know, M. Monier? I have not 
 seen her since the early part of last evening." At 
 the same time there was a guilt-offering of blushes 
 in Blakemore's cheeks, and his eye wanted its 
 habitual pride of candour. Remarks of the various 
 kinds that rather admit of hearing than of repetition, 
 but which lose quality when paraphrased, were good- 
 humouredly hurled at him. 
 
 " Young men will be young men, and women will 
 be women," sagely reasoned M. Monier, running his 
 fingers through his beard and looking in reproachful 
 indulgence upon Blakemore; "but you should not 
 have stolen our favourite model. You should have 
 robbed some other studio. Professional ethics, you 
 know. However, you have shown taste in your 
 selection. We can all testify that your mistress is 
 well to look upon." 
 
 M. Monier imagined that he had foreseen some 
 such termination to the exceptional devotion of the 
 class to this one model for whom they voted with
 
 MANDERS 
 
 scandalous regularity week after week, except when 
 Marie had demanded a week or two for her own 
 pleasant uses. His suspicion had not rested on 
 Blakemore, however, and it did not altogether 
 surprise, though it mystified him, when Blakemore, 
 in chivalrous resentment of things said around him, 
 hotly exclaimed, 
 
 " You are a lot of beasts, who don't know a virtuous 
 woman from a cart-horse " 
 
 " Nor a boudoir from a billiard table," volunteered a 
 withered youth, in plum-coloured velvet suit, from 
 beneath a white beret that overspread him like a 
 sunshade. " That is the sort of not-particular people 
 we are." 
 
 " You are not getting mad, Blakie ? " queried 
 Milsom, giving an impish twist to the ends of his 
 promissory moustache. " Don't, my dear. I daresay 
 you are quite welcome to her you can have my share ; 
 but you might have let us finish out with her here." 
 
 " Yes, Blakemore, let us have her for the rest of 
 the week ; don't be a pig." This was said with that 
 drawling deliberateness which seems to be a protest 
 against the necessity of speech, an almost comical 
 characteristic of Nelson Parker, an Englishman of 
 Blakemore's age, and unintentionally a close com- 
 petitor with Blakemore for the booby prize in 
 drawing. 
 
 " Quite right, Blakemore ; Parker's claims are as 
 good as yours, don't forget," cried out someone, 
 provoking a general volley that, through its very 
 
 4*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 excesses, restored Blakemore to hie good-humoured 
 equilibrium. His gusts of temper were commonly 
 followed by more than compensating bursts of sunni- 
 ness. He clambered on to one of the stools, smiled 
 charitably, waved his hand tranquillisingly up and 
 down, right and left, and secured something akin to 
 attentive silence. 
 
 M. Monier, who was in the doorway, took advan- 
 tage of the lull to say, 
 
 "We won't do anything until after dejeuner. 
 Afternoon as usual." 
 
 A shout of "Long live Monier" followed the re- 
 tiring master, and Blakemore was invited to begin 
 his confession. 
 
 Blakemore's voice was peculiarly melodious in 
 speech, and the rich tones gave an interest to his 
 commonplaces. "He never says anything; it is the 
 way he says it," was a sufficiently descriptive Hiber- 
 nianism of Milsom's to account for the readiness to 
 listen to the young Virginian in an oratorical mood. 
 
 "I want to tell you fellows something," began 
 Blakemore, knocking the ash from his cigarette and 
 expelling a cloud from his lungs. 
 
 "Put it in 'nigger,' old man," advised the youth 
 under the white beret. 
 
 This was an allusion to the excellence with which 
 Blakemore imitated the delightful dialect of the 
 Southern negro, a dialect much abused by persons 
 who know it only as they learn it from the carica- 
 ture of negroes seen and heard on the minstrel stage. 
 
 43
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "No, I want to be serious with you," answered 
 Blakemore. " I'm not going to make a speech, either. 
 But I want you to understand me. I am not a 
 moralist." (Interruptions more or less derisive.) 
 "My admiration for Joseph has its iimits, and I 
 never took much stock in St Anthony ; but there 
 are varieties and modifications of virtue which I 
 very much respect." 
 
 " The more modified the better," interposed Milsom. 
 
 "It may be the fault of my early education," 
 continued Blakemore, not heeding the laughter at 
 Milsom 's sally, "but it is my rule to believe every 
 woman imocent until she prove herself guilty." 
 
 " You should go out more," said Milsom, borrowing 
 a light from his neighbour. 
 
 " You fellows have a notion, it seems to me, that 
 every girl who has to work for her living is herself 
 an article of merchandise." 
 
 " Experientia docet is a very respectable maxim," 
 remarked Milsom. 
 
 " If you put on the ' stultos,' yes," retorted Blake- 
 more, "but clear- witted chaps get some values out 
 of their own centres of conscience." (Cries of " Oh ! 
 oh!" and "What are you getting at?") "I just 
 want to say this as pleasantly and as inoffensively 
 as the circumstances will permit ; when I see a 
 man who takes it for granted that every unpro- 
 tected woman is a cocotte, I suspect that he is a 
 blackguard who is doubtful of his own paternity." 
 
 "Oh, come, I say now! That's putting too much 
 
 44
 
 MANDERS 
 
 bitters in the sherry," remonstrated the white beret. 
 Others echoed him. 
 
 "Now, just one word about the girl you think I 
 have taken for a mistress," said Blakemore, insist- 
 ently, when the commotion had subsided somewhat. 
 Simply, but with persuasive earnestness, he told of 
 Marie's offer to aid him in his work, and, with a 
 sensibility that surprised himself, described the in- 
 cident of the evening before. The picture of the 
 moral drama in the modest little home in the Rue 
 St Jacques perhaps took too much colour from his 
 own emotions, but it was so effectively drawn that 
 even Milsom smoked in silence, letting pass more 
 than one opportunity for the discharge of a cynicism. 
 
 "Three cheers for little Manders," said the white 
 beret, when Blakemore pointed the climax of his 
 story by getting down from the stool. 
 
 " And three cheers for Marie," said Parker. " She's 
 all right" 
 
 Having the morning at his disposal, and no definite 
 plan to occupy the time, Blakemore determined to 
 start out with his sketch-book for a walk along the 
 quaia. Bathed in the luminous colours of a June 
 morning, the rich green of the overhanging trees, 
 and the opalescent lights of the craft-ruffled river 
 tempering the vivid flame to a harmony with the 
 grey of the houses and the blue of the sky, he 
 thought there could be no place in the world to 
 offer more inspiration to -an appreciative painter than 
 the busy, life-thronged quais of Paris. Here was 
 
 45
 
 MANDERS 
 
 everything but altitude and distance to fill full the 
 measure of desire. Character in all its variations; 
 riches and poverty in all their degrees; happiness 
 and misery in their extremes ; romance and mechan- 
 ism ; poetry and materialism ; infancy and age ; here 
 gathered in the comforting warmth of the benches, 
 or under the shelter of the stately, carefully-tended 
 trees, or on the breast of the waters, or in the crowd 
 of the streets, quiescent or in motion, the world cen- 
 tralised, types of the nations in juxtaposition, life 
 epitome ! Yet the artists of Paris housed them- 
 selves in studios in vain strivings to vitalise the 
 nude! 
 
 Blakemore, who reasoned with himself in this wise, 
 did not yet see clearly enough the obstacles to the 
 carrying out of the plan for artistic reformation he 
 had formed for himself in this particular. He was to 
 awaken artists to a realisation of the possibilities 
 of the quais, possibilities which he thought were too 
 much disregarded, and it had become a habit prepara- 
 tory to this mission that, in idle hours, he should take 
 his sketch-book and pocket box of colours and go 
 down to some chosen spot on the river to make the 
 little aquarelles which were to authorise his future 
 canvases. If there were no foolish enthusiasms in 
 youth, there would be no noble achievements in 
 maturity ; and the world owes much to the zeal that 
 breaks in pieces on the rocks of its own uncovering. 
 
 Going a little out of his way, guided by an 
 attraction of which he was unconscious, Blakemon 
 
 46
 
 MANDERS 
 
 trolled into the Luxembourg Gardens. There was 
 the customary swarm of children of all ages noisily 
 engaged in their various sports, and he recalled the 
 afternoon in the first days of spring when the ball 
 thrown by Manders had knocked off his hat. Doubt- 
 less Marie and Manders were somewhere in the 
 Gardens now, though they were in none of the 
 groups he could examine about him. There was a 
 crowd about the empty bandstand, however. He 
 loitered there for a while. He hoped he might 
 catch sight of them, and yet was not altogether 
 sorry not to come upon them. He was not quite 
 sure of his ground. He had not wholly rid himself 
 of a sense of guiltiness that magnified Manders into 
 a formidable person whose dignity of soul had been 
 greatly outraged. Blakemore did not like the idea 
 of being abashed by the gaze of a child to whom 
 he could not explain things. This reflection grew 
 in importance with each failure to identify some 
 woman and boy with the objects of his half-evasive 
 search, until finally he got into retreat before it and 
 went on in the direction of the north-east gate. 
 When he came opposite the De Medici fountain, 
 with new thoughts in his mind and anxiety sub- 
 dued, an urchin in blue blouse, over the shoulders 
 of which danced a profusion of golden-brown curls, 
 came running across the walk resolutely calling, 
 
 " Monsieur Bla'ino' ! Monsieur Bla'mo' ! " 
 
 Blakemore stopped. 
 
 "Yes, Manders." He smiled in a propitiatory 
 
 47
 
 MANDERS 
 
 way and put out his hand hesitatingly. He had 
 an amused recognition of the fact that he was 
 afraid the boy might not shake hands with him. 
 
 But Manders was a peace messenger, and he 
 promptly thrust his own into the outstretched hand. 
 
 "And how are you this morning?" There was 
 gratitude in Blakemore's tone. 
 
 Without replying to the question, Manders, who 
 spoke either English or French very prettily as 
 occasion required, though he commonly mixed them, 
 proceeded immediately to declare the reason of the 
 arrest 
 
 "My maman says I am to tell you that I am 
 very sorry that I was not genteel last night." 
 
 "Well, are you?" with a quizzical smile. 
 
 "I don't know. I don't like being rude," was 
 the diplomatic answer. 
 
 "You were not rude. You were a very manly 
 little fellow. But you didn't understand. Do you 
 understand now?" 
 
 "Maman told me, Monsieur Bla'mo'." He said 
 this with a great deal of gravity, looking frankly 
 into Blakemore's eyes, and without offering to 
 withdraw the hand Blakemore still held in a self- 
 defensive way. 
 
 * And what did your mamma say ? " 
 
 "She said it is never to be again." Manders 
 certainly did have a disturbingly wise way for one 
 of his years. He spoke quite as if the decision were 
 of his own ordering. 
 
 48
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " No ; it is never to be again," assented Blakemore, 
 with a final pressure of the sturdy little hand. "And 
 you and I are we to be good, warm friends ? " 
 
 " Mam an says you are a very nice man, and that I 
 must be very nice to you." 
 
 "Where is your mamma?" 
 
 "Over by the fountain. There, you can see her 
 leaning over the railing, by the last urn. She saw 
 you coming along the walk. She sent me to you. 
 But I should have come anyhow if I had seen you 
 myself." 
 
 " Come, then, let us go to her." 
 
 It was easy enough to meet Marie now. Indeed, 
 he thought it rather strange that Marie should blush 
 as he came up, and be so eager to bend over Manders, 
 kissing him repeatedly as if he had returned after 
 a long absence, forgetting to offer her hand, and 
 babbling hurried nothings which Blakemore converted 
 into apologies for her folly of the evening past. He 
 was aware of a pleasingly aggressive kind of happi- 
 ness. The soft air of the morning, the splashes of 
 sunshine, the moss-burnished, time-darkened stones of 
 the fountain, and these two figures in the immediate 
 foreground, conspired to strike the note of truancy 
 in his spirit. He had lost his morning; why not 
 make a day of it ? The idea saved him from any 
 embarrassment over Marie's unintelligible murmurs ; 
 he cheerily disregarded her want of reserve. 
 
 " I am awfully glad I happened to run on to you, 
 Marie. I was just going to take a boat down the 
 
 D
 
 MANDERS 
 
 river, it is such a jolly day for an outing. Come 
 along with me. Let's go to St Cloud for breakfast." 
 
 He spoke with such frank heartiness that she 
 suddenly forgot that she had some reason for 
 diffidence in the presence of these two, the man 
 towering above her, and the child in her embrace. 
 All feeling of that sort vanished before the welcome 
 vision of a day of festivity in the country for 
 everything outside the fortifications was country to 
 Marie. She looked up eagerly, her face radiating an 
 infantine delight that almost immediately went into 
 cloud as she looked ruefully from Blakemore to 
 Manders. 
 
 " But you see I have the little one. I told Mother 
 Pugens she would not have him to-day, and " 
 
 "Nonsense! We don't want to leave Manders 
 with any Mother Pugens. He is going with us ; eh, 
 Manders ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur Bla'mo', I love a ride on the 
 river ! " 
 
 " Come, then, away we go \ " 
 
 And away they went, Manders between the two, 
 holding a hand of each, frolic in their eyes and 
 pleasure in their hearts, for a holiday, such as this 
 promised to be, went into their red-letter souvenirs. 
 
 They were not the only ones to whom the charms 
 of the river appealed, for the boat on to which they 
 pushed their way at the Pont Royal pier was 
 crowded with pleasure-seekers. They could only 
 find standing room on the forward deck, but it wa 
 
 So
 
 MANDERS 
 
 all one to them whether they stood or sat. To 
 be on the gay river, the waters slipping under the 
 swift little steamer, the banks of masonry, the 
 busy wharfs, historical memorials, quaint scenes, a 
 rich panoramic variety on either side gliding by 
 them, earth, water, sky and all that moved in them 
 seeming to rejoice in the full animation of the young 
 summer, was so stimulating to the three friends that 
 physical discomfort could not so much as threaten 
 them. It was an additional pleasure to be jostled 
 and crowded by eager fellow-excursionists who made 
 every inconvenience the occasion of a friendly com- 
 pliment. French crowds radiate amiability, when 
 their mood is sunny, as no other crowd can. 
 
 When the boat arrived at St Cloud it proved to 
 be the destination of the majority of the passengers. 
 There is no resort more favoured by Parisians than 
 the former residence of the vanished kings and 
 emperors of the inconstant French. Blakemore, 
 Marie and Manders had a numerous company to 
 attend them up the hill. It was one of those days, 
 too, in which St Cloud abandons itself to wedding 
 breakfasts or early dinners, the scene being one of 
 white-robed festivity about the principal restaurant 
 to which Blakemore led his guests. 
 
 " Oh ! but there is a crowd ! " said Marie, her eyes 
 sparkling and her cheeks flushed by the agreeable 
 excitement of her easily stirred emotions. "We 
 sha'n't be able to find a table ! " 
 
 "We'll find something," Blakemore declared con- 
 Si
 
 MANDERS 
 
 fidently, and presently they were seated comfortably 
 at the edge of the terrace under the cooling branches 
 of a wide-leaved sycamore. 
 
 There was plenty of time to reflect upon what 
 they should have for breakfast. Service is tardy 
 at St Cloud, as it is at most holiday resorts, but 
 then eating is the least important incident of these 
 merry gatherings; laughter and the babble of 
 pleasantries are the vital considerations. An occa- 
 sional admonitory "Gargon!" answered by a pro- 
 pitiatory " Voila ! " may indicate the proper bounds 
 of quiet forbearance, but the course of events is 
 in no wise affected by these casual interjections. 
 
 Blakemore hardly looked to Marie for intellectual 
 interest. What it was that attracted him more than 
 her physical beauty and magnetism he would have 
 found it difficult to say, but that there was more 
 than a sensuous charm he very well understood. He 
 revolved the delicate problem as he rolled a cigarette, 
 listening to her joyous prattle, watching the play of 
 gladness in her grey-blue eyes, and the coming and 
 going of smiles that matched so well with the deep 
 dimple in her chin. 
 
 "She is so deliciously feminine," he thought, but 
 was unaware how fully the words defined the artless 
 creature in pink and white across the table from him. 
 Man in general cares very much less for woman than 
 for femininity ; Blakemore was especially susceptible 
 to that type of the feminine which politeness names 
 medieval, and which strongmindedness terms imbecile,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 The more seriously man has to battle with the con 
 ditions of life, the more positively he has to discipline 
 and operate his mental forces, the more he is inclined 
 to seek recreation and refreshment in the society that 
 offers the lightest resistance to the repose of intellect- 
 ual energy. 
 
 " What a hore it would be," Blakemore continued, 
 reasoning with himself, " to come to St Cloud for an 
 afternoon with a woman who has studied history in 
 order to talk politics, and whose acquaintance with 
 art and literature is made an excuse for a jargon of 
 critical platitudes." 
 
 Impulsive gratitude for present freedom from such 
 tyranny of foolish learning caused him to give the 
 convenient ear of Manders a friendly twist as he 
 asked, 
 
 " Well, what are you going to have, my boy ? " 
 
 "Cake," replied Manders, with the alertness of a 
 well-prepared mind. 
 
 " Of course," laughed Blakemore ; " but what else ? " 
 
 "Beer," said Manders, again speaking a part 
 rehearsed. They were served in time, and gave a 
 leisurely attention to the things set before them 
 in order, making altogether a very cheerful and 
 memorable breakfast. 
 
 It rather surprised Blakemore that, in spite of 
 himself and the incessant sounds and scenes of 
 frivolity about them, he and Marie drifted into a 
 discussion of a subject as serious as the education of 
 Manders. His father had taught the lad to read 
 
 S3
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and he could scrawl a succession of curiously spelled 
 words in the pretence of letter writing, but Marie 
 confessed that she had given little or no thought to 
 his further advancement. She imagined him too 
 young for school, and opened her eyes with rebuking 
 incredulity when Blakemore insisted that he could 
 read Latin when he was at the age of Manders. 
 
 "Then why are you not a priest?" she asked, 
 Latin and the Church being inseparably united as 
 cause and effect in her philosophy. But persuaded 
 finally of a maternal obligation to equip Manders 
 with better arms for the human warfare than could 
 be got at the domestic fireside, a conclusion which 
 inclined her to tears, Marie confessed that she was 
 rather too poor of purse to indulge these somewhat 
 eccentric notions of Blakemore. 
 
 " Well, then, look here, Marie," said Blakemore, 
 lighting the brandy he had poured over the sugar 
 lump in his coffee spoon, " let's make a bargain. I've 
 got plenty of money and no one in particular to spend 
 it on. I've been over here studying art for two 
 years, and old Monier says my ideas of colour and 
 drawing are altogether too original for me to hope 
 for any great success in undraped figure work. He 
 says I'd better go in for clothes and landscapes in 
 which bad lines can be tolerably well concealed, and 
 which admit of some caprices in colour. He is a 
 fool, but I'm thinking of following his advice. Now, 
 you have made up your mind not to pose any more 
 in the old way, and yet you have got to live in some 
 
 54
 
 MANDERS 
 
 way. What I propose is this, you become my model 
 for indoor and outdoor work dressed, Manders, 
 always dressed, you know pose for me and for no 
 one else, and I'll give you double studio wages and 
 start Manders on the road to education. What do 
 you say ? " He sipped his coffee, looking at her over 
 the rim of his cup. 
 
 Marie laughed in an unsettled sort of way. The 
 plan rather appealed to her, but she had an idea that 
 it was Manders who should decide the question. She 
 looked at him, but that young gentleman was busy 
 getting the last particles of custard from one of the 
 baffling little pots invented to discourage the eating 
 of that tempting delicacy. She spoke to him. 
 
 " What do you say, mon petit ? Shall I send you 
 totheLyce'e?" 
 
 " All right," responded Manders, without lifting his 
 eyes ; " but I suppose they'll make me fight." 
 
 In this way it was agreed, and Blakemore took it 
 upon himself to enter Manders at the cole Alsacienne, 
 but a short distance from Marie's home, on the coming 
 Monday. The three friends felt in their several ways 
 that a matter of moment had been the outcome of 
 that dejeuner under the trees, and the older two 
 realised as well that they had made for themselves 
 a bond of union closer and stronger than that of 
 mere material interests. In Marie's absurd little brain 
 Blakemore was transfigured as a hero ; in Blake- 
 more's contemplation Marie was a defenceless, help- 
 less mignonne brought under responsible protection, 
 
 55
 
 MANDERS 
 
 a protection that seemed to him wholly philanthropic 
 and dispassionate. As for Manders, the prospect of 
 coming into self-reliant contact, hi the mysteries of 
 school life, with strange boys filled his fancy with 
 alluring enterprises, and he began to think Monday 
 a long way off. 
 
 As a finish to their day, they took the charming 
 walk from St Cloud to Versailles through the Bois de 
 Fausse Reposes, the sun having slipped below the 
 far rim of the world to give the scene the glory of 
 the after-glow as they arrived tired but well content 
 at the station in time to catch the express for Paris. 
 What a day it had been! Youth is the only 
 alchemist. 
 
 They had a compartment to themselves, and 
 presently, weary of the gradually darkening view 
 from the window, Manders, in a proprietary way, 
 settled down, and went to sleep with his head 
 pillowed against the breast of "Monsieur Bla'mo'." 
 
 "You see, we are going to be excellent friends," 
 said Blakemore, smiling at Marie across the way, and 
 patting Manders softly on the shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Monsieur Walter, very good friends 
 all three, is it not ? "
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BLAKEMORE lost no time in putting his agreement 
 with Marie into operation. He had a studio and 
 suite of rooms rez-de-chaussde in the Rue Danfert 
 Rochereau, the side door of his salon opening upon 
 a miniature garden, the vine-draped walls of which 
 enclosed with great privacy a broken fountain and 
 a decrepit tree. A splash of sunshine in the early 
 afternoon warmed the petty square into a glow of 
 beauty, and filled Blakemore's mind with fanciful 
 notions of what might be done with a pretty woman 
 well posed in relation to the nymph of the fountain. 
 In this exclusive space he might experiment in 
 colours to his heart's content unabashed and unscrupu- 
 lous. Failure should be his teacher, and what success 
 he might chance upon would have a double sweetness. 
 Out of the art talk he had heard in the two years 
 of his student's life one bit of advice from a great 
 painter had been chosen as his oracular guide, 
 "Never be afraid of spoiling your canvas. A 
 hundred failures weigh nothing against one success." 
 He spoiled canvas profitably if not to himself, 
 certainly to M. Foinet, the benevolent dealer in the 
 Rue Notre Dame des Champs. 
 
 S7
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " I am not coining in the afternoons for a while," 
 he had said to M. Monier the day after the excursion 
 to St Cloud, which declaration in some occult way 
 amused M. Monier. 
 
 " Eh, well ! Treat her well," said the old painter. 
 
 " It isn't that at all," answered Blakemore, rather 
 irritated. 
 
 "Of course not, of course not," chuckled M. 
 Monier. "It never is." 
 
 Misjudged, as the disinterested always are, Blake- 
 more had the sense to waste no words in self -vindica- 
 tion. He carried himself off with all the dignity of 
 his proportioned six feet, and some hours later began 
 transferring to canvas his impressions of a young 
 woman in a yellow gown of the Directoire style. 
 Very contenting work he found it, and very agree- 
 able was the half -hour of rest, when he and Marie 
 sat in the somewhat luxuriously furnished salon, 
 sipping wine from their glasses and nibbling petite 
 gdteaux. 
 
 The day in the country had brought about wonders 
 of understanding between them. Marie thought that 
 she had never before known anyone quite so well as 
 she seemed to know this considerate yet familiarly 
 intimate young American, who had become the 
 patron of Manders and her own benefactor. Under 
 the influence of emotions she might not have been 
 able to define, she revealed phases of character and 
 qualities of mind which gave Blakemore a better 
 opinion of her intelligence, and a clearer insight into 
 
 58
 
 MANDERS 
 
 her nature than before. He perceived ft womanliness at 
 the back of ner ingenuousness that might, under stress 
 of the right circumstances, develop into a force, equal 
 on the one hand to an heroic martyrdom, or on the 
 other, capable of tragic abandonment. He caught 
 himself following a train of possibilities in either of 
 these opposed directions, curiously balancing chances, 
 noting the changes taking place in the hypothetical 
 Marie, pursuing step by step a succession of im- 
 perative incidents to the inevitable denouement. 
 He became so interested that for the space of ten 
 minutes he said nothing to Marie, his eyes fixed 
 dreamily upon her face as if he read in its sweetly 
 placid expression the index of his fancies. A casual 
 remark of hers had seemed to him the key to her as 
 yet unlocked character. A showy demi-Tnondaine, no 
 older than Marie, a table or two beyond them on the 
 terrace at St Cloud, had attracted their attention, 
 and given rise to some worldly conversation between 
 them. 
 
 " I should not want to be bad," Marie had said, 
 " but has a woman any choice, Monsieur Walter ? It 
 depends on so many things beyond her control 
 whether a woman shall be good or bad. You see, the 
 world has been made by men for men. We women," 
 she made a pretty flourish with her hand as she 
 laughingly looked up into the sweep of branches over 
 her head, " we women are like the leaves on the 
 tree tell me, which one, when the wind blows, will 
 fall and which one will cling to the stem ? * 
 
 59
 
 MANDERS 
 
 This was an astonishingly sage observation to come 
 from the red lips of blue-eyed, dimpled-chinned 
 Marie, and Blakemore was without a ready answer 
 to it. He had laughed at her and said, 
 
 " It is the nature of leaves to tumble, you know. 
 They cannot argue the point, and they don't know 
 the difference between the tree-top and the mire. 
 You haven't offered a very good illustration. Try 
 again." He lightly struck a leaf from the branch 
 with his stick as he spoke. 
 
 "Eh, well, Monsieur Walter, it is all the same to 
 you men. You knock the leaves from the trees, and 
 you trample on them when they have fallen. But 
 it doesn't matter. Leaf or woman, they are in the 
 world for man's pleasure." She smiled, but there 
 was just a shadow of seriousness in her eyes as she 
 looked at him, seeming to invite a negative response. 
 
 His reply was banal enough. 
 
 "Yes, good women are here for man's pleasure, 
 Marie ; and it is only with good women that we find 
 real pleasure. Only a few of us, after all, are asses 
 enough not to know this." 
 
 " Do you know some of the good women, Monsieur 
 Walter?" 
 
 He looked at her intently a moment before answer- 
 ing. The question was sincere. There was no mis- 
 taking the wistful, straightforward eyes. 
 
 " Yes, a good many, Marie." 
 
 " I should like to know a really good woman." 
 
 " You are one yourself, Marie." 
 
 69
 
 MANDERS 
 
 He said this with much earnestness. She looked 
 at him in eager thankfulness. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Monsieur Walter," she exclaimed, 
 and then turned with such ill-concealed pride to give 
 the curls of Handera a caressing stroke that Blake- 
 more thought nothing could be more touchingly in- 
 fantine. Then it was she made the remark which 
 Blakemore received as the key to her perplexing 
 personality. 
 
 "I don't dare believe you, Monsieur Walter. It 
 appears to me that I have always been asleep inside, 
 and that if I should ever wake up it would terrify 
 me. And sometimes it seems as if I were just going 
 to wake up, and my heart stops beating. You know, 
 I think there are two or three Maries besides myself ? 
 Am I not a fool, Monsieur Blakemore ? " 
 
 " Two or three Maries besides herself ! " What sort 
 of creatures were they ? 
 
 It was the train of events shaping the lives of 
 these several Maries out of the possibilities of the 
 innocent in the yellow gown that bore Blakemore 
 so far into unconsciousness of the Marie before him. 
 
 "Have you forgotten me?" asked the embodied 
 Marie finally, knocking the ash from his cigarette 
 playfully with her fan. "Isn't it time we got to 
 work ? You will lose the sun." 
 
 " Yes, come. You see how easily I get lazy with 
 half a chance. I daresay you will have to brace me 
 up a lot. You are a straightaway sort of chap, 
 aren't you ? You will keep me at it, eh ? " 
 
 II
 
 MANDERS 
 
 She, laughing, looked up at him as he came beside 
 her. "Yes, if you do not work very, very hard, I 
 shall stop posing." 
 
 " And serve me right, too." He kissed her cheek, 
 and they returned into the garden, to be sober- 
 minded. 
 
 Marie's sober-mindedness had a vermilion tone that 
 betrayed itself in her cheeks. Blakemore's frank kiss, 
 though bestowed in a careless, incidental manner, as 
 unemotionally as he might have filliped a particle of 
 ash from the lapel of his coat, had been by no means 
 as lightly and as indifferently received. The tele- 
 grapher may unconsciously touch his finger to the 
 key of his instrument, but he sets in vibration a 
 current of warm vitality that runs on to the end 
 of time. Marie was one of those sensitive creatures 
 to whom a caress is never without significance, with 
 whom every familiarity is put under special inter- 
 pretation, no allowance being made for the casual 
 impulses by which so considerable a part of average 
 conduct is ruled. In the estimation of such women, 
 a kiss is either an injury or a beneficence, something 
 that in either case readjusts former relations a new 
 element entering into the problem of values. 
 
 Marie rather mused upon than reasoned from the 
 incident, but her musings were at once satisfactory 
 to herself, and not uncomplimentary to Blakemore. 
 
 " He is not like the rest. We are going to be very 
 happy, Manders and Walter and L" 
 
 There was no more a " Monsieur " Walter for her ; 
 62
 
 MANDERS 
 
 that slight barrier of frivolous reserve had been 
 whiffed away in the twinkling of an eye. She did 
 not send her thoughts very far into the future. It 
 was not her way. Sufficient unto the day is the 
 pleasure thereof, was her principle of being. What 
 might come was a thought much too vain. "If we 
 cannot tell what will happen to-morrow, why vex 
 our heads about it ? " she had a demure way of ask- 
 ing, and her life with the morally flaccid father of 
 Manders had not tended to develop her small sense 
 of personal responsibility. But as Blakemore always 
 had an eye to the future, expending his energies 
 upon plans for days that were to follow to-morrow, 
 Marie could but be influenced to some extent by the 
 work of which she was an inactive but important 
 part, and in the fragmentary visions that carried 
 Blakemore to success, in her fancy she caught 
 glimpses of herself revolving in the orbit of his 
 happiness. Being useful, and therefore helpful, to 
 this young man was a present joy to her. It did 
 not occur to her to consider a possible time when 
 she would no longer be necessary to him. 
 
 In the course of the third sitting, the afternoon of 
 the day in which Manders valiantly entered into his 
 campaign against primary education, old Fanchette, 
 the shrivelled bonne in charge of Blakemore's 
 menage, came into the garden babbling apologies 
 and holding a note in her hand. 
 
 If Monsieur pleased, there was a servant at the 
 door Baiting to take Monsieur's answer. 
 
 fi
 
 MANDERS 
 
 The note came from an address in the Avenue 
 Marceau, and Blakemore, who did not at once 
 recognise the handwriting, uttered an exclamation 
 of surprise as he glanced at the signature. Marie 
 watched him curiously as he read it, and she 
 imagined he had rather a kindly feeling for the 
 writer, who she had no doubt was a woman, one 
 of those good women, perhaps the good woman. 
 
 " A good joke on you, Marie ! I'll laugh at you over 
 it when I come back. I must go and write an answer." 
 
 He tossed the letter on to the stool and ran 
 into the house, followed by old Fanchette, who 
 cackled away cheerfully, notwithstanding no atten- 
 tion was given to what she said. 
 
 Marie, not well schooled in mere fashionable scruples, 
 and feeling perfectly free to partake of any merri- 
 ment of which she was the object, innocently took up 
 the note and spread it open. As her acquaintance with 
 written English was distinctly formal, she read with 
 some difficulty the angular script that was then 
 much affected by young ladies who studied modes 
 in handwriting as they followed fashions in dress. 
 
 " DEAR MR BLAKEMORE, What a time I have had 
 finding out where you live ! And how astonished you 
 v? ill be that I can afford to spare a moment from my 
 very first week in Paris to any young gentleman who 
 makes himself difficult to find. 
 
 " We arrived, mamma and I, just a week ago. Our 
 second 'outing' was at St Cloud the day you were 
 
 64
 
 MANUERS 
 
 there. You may resent our not making ourselves 
 known to you, but the fact is we were just the least 
 tiny bit afraid that the young woman with you (it 
 was she who drew my attention to you) was not 
 too respectable, and mamma has the bad taste to 
 be particular about such things. I should not have 
 minded it myself. Fancy having to be as circum- 
 spect in Paris as one is at home ! It is like burning 
 candles by daylight. If I had imagined what a needle- 
 in-the-haystack hunt I was to have for you, I should 
 have defied mamma and taken my chances on the 
 aforesaid young woman. 
 
 " However, our amiable consul happened to know 
 enough about you to give me your address though 
 I haven't the remotest idea where this ridiculously 
 hyphenated street is and I proceed to lay hands 
 on you. Are you free for Tuesday afternoon ? If so, 
 will you come over at three o'clock and go with us 
 for a drive ? And we might go to one of those 
 wicked restaurants I've heard so much about for 
 something to eat afterward. (N.B. I hope you will 
 have the grace not to say that / suggested anything 
 so indecorous!) 
 
 " Do come ! I have quantities of Washington and 
 Baltimore gossip for you, besides a scrap or two 
 picked up in New York. 
 
 "Mamma sends her compliments or she would 
 if she knew I were writing to you. Sincerely 
 youre. 
 
 "FLORENCE STOREY. 
 *
 
 MANDERS 
 
 P.S. There may be *- young Englishman in our 
 party, a Mr Mendenhall, with whom we got ac- 
 quainted on the boat. Mamma thinks him stunning. 
 I don't. He is so intensely respectable that he is 
 positively dull." 
 
 Marie read this note with some inquietude, and 
 was going through it a second time when Blakemore 
 reappeared. She saw in this Miss Storey an inter- 
 ruption to the serious work to which Blakemore had 
 set himself, and she hoped he would decline an 
 invitation so prophetic of disaster. " One can go to 
 the devil very easily in Paris," she had heard Manders 
 pere say more than once, "wine and women are so 
 cheap." 
 
 This easy slipping down the smooth Avernian 
 way was, it seemed to her limited judgment, made 
 doubly facile by drives in the Bois, followed by 
 something to eat and drink in those gay restaurants 
 where laughter holds carnival through the night. 
 It was not at all the moral side of the problem 
 with which she concerned herself. Marie's ethical 
 code was not a digest of social ordinances. The 
 odourless flower of Puritanism is not native to the 
 Latin Quarter. Her solicitude in Blakemore's behalf 
 had respect entirely of material conditions. So far 
 as she had been able to observe, wine, women and 
 song were the seductive commissionaires of Failure, 
 allies of the river into which they led the tired 
 revellers whose purses they had emptied. 
 
 66
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " This isn't one of the good women," she concluded, 
 after reading the letter, taking the French view of 
 feminine unreserve. Therefore, when Blakemore 
 came to interrupt her she looked up with so much 
 that was apprehensive in her smile that he laughed 
 at her question, 
 
 "You will not go, Walter?" 
 
 "Oh! but I must go, Marie. These are old 
 friends, family friends, you know, friends of my 
 mother's." 
 
 She brightened a little. 
 
 " Then this Miss Storey is not " she hesitated. 
 
 "Not what?" 
 
 " Is she very nice ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes; I think people find her tolerably 
 nice." 
 
 " And and good ? " 
 
 " Decidedly." 
 
 She looked down at the letter, read a sentence 
 over, and then asked dubiously, 
 
 " ' Wicked ' is ' me'chant,' is it not ? " 
 
 "Yes," he answered, amused. 
 
 She handed the letter to him with her finger on 
 the word. "Do 'good' American girls write like 
 that to young men ? " she asked gravely. 
 
 He frowned on finding that she had read the 
 letter, but, at once understanding and excusing her, 
 he answered, laughingly, 
 
 " My dear Marie, you can never understand us, 
 can you ? But you see Miss Storey did not under- 
 
 69
 
 MANDERS 
 
 stand you either. She suspected that you were not 
 'too respectable' only because you are French and 
 were out with a young fellow for a holiday. But 
 she would be very greatly shocked if she could 
 imagine that anybody suspects her. Miss Storey 
 is what you call gai, but thoroughly comme il faut. 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand. Then I am not to come 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Why not? Come and bring Manders with you. 
 There are books and pictures and the piano to 
 amuse you, and Manders can play here in the garden. 
 You can have dinner here. I'll tell Fanchette. You 
 can be mistress of the house, and be very jolly about 
 it. And you might make Fanchette set things round 
 a little. She is not the tidiest of housekeepers. And 
 look here, if you want to be awfully nice you can 
 sew some buttons on this jacket." 
 
 " Eh, well 1 But have you any buttons ? " 
 
 "No, you'll have to buy some. But take your 
 position. You've got to give me an extra half -hour 
 or so. I can't have to-morrow afternoon a dead loss, 
 you know." 
 
 "I am going to get you very large buttons," she 
 said, smiling and adjusting her gown into the right 
 folds, "so large that they won't go through the 
 buttonholes." 
 
 "So I won't wear them off, eh?" 
 
 "Yes; you look better with your jacket open, 
 also. You have a very good what do you say ? " 
 
 II
 
 MANDERS 
 
 illustrating her meaning with an upward sweep of 
 her hand. 
 
 "Chest?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have noticed it." 
 
 Admiration of strength bespeaks the normal woman
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS STOREY, as the wife of a cotton broker who 
 operated successfully in New Orleans, thought it 
 her privilege to take advantage of fortune without 
 paying too much deference to economy. If this 
 amiable disposition made a bachelor life for Mr 
 Storey, and relieved him of the necessity of worry- 
 ing over a steadily increasing bank account, it secured 
 to Mrs Storey and her daughter innumerable benefits 
 of travel, and the blessings of a frequent change of 
 society. Now and then by letter Mr Storey would 
 offer an apologetic remonstrance against what he 
 feared bore some resemblance to a "ruinous ex- 
 travagance," but a marked paragraph in a foreign 
 paper relative to the wife and daughter of the 
 "American Cotton King" abashed him into a 
 generous silence and a renewed energy of specula- 
 tion. The more harried the commercial slave, the 
 deeper is his pride in the social triumphs of his 
 feminine representatives. He will toil along the 
 flinty road to bankruptcy with the ineffable calm 
 of relished martyrdom if he may be cheered by 
 a vision of his "women folks" enviably radiant 
 in purple and fine linen. Mrs Storey was not an 
 
 70
 
 MANDERS 
 
 entirely selfish woman, and she really found pleasure 
 in giving her laboriously money-grubbing husband 
 the comfort of knowing that the drafts he sent over 
 with exact regularity were ungrudgingly used to the 
 establishment of his European credit. "One must 
 have an eye to appearances" was her social maxim 
 and moral palladium. Facts could be left to take 
 care of themselves. It is only just to say that Mrs 
 Storey was fully of the opinion that facts could and 
 would take care of themselves nicely and genteelly in 
 her case. Once, when Mr Storey, finding the balance 
 in the wrong column of the year's account, ventured 
 to ask what they would do if there should come a 
 crash, the estimable and sure-minded Mrs Storey 
 tapped his knuckles with her shapely fingers, and 
 said, with definite rebuke, 
 
 " My dear Henry, you never have crashed 1 Why 
 in the world are you at so much pains to crash in 
 imagination? If the worst comes to the worst, as 
 I grant you things do sometimes happen that 
 way, you will be no worse off than you were when 
 I married you twenty-six years ago. We could go 
 back to the little Mississippi plantation, and live as 
 we used to live before you took it into your head 
 to get rich." 
 
 " But Florence " Mr Storey began, with an argu- 
 mentative inflection. 
 
 "Florence is my affair," interrupted Mrs Storey, 
 with good-natured decision. "My sole object in 
 life is to do you credit as a wife and to provide 
 
 n
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Florence with a husband who will do you credit 
 as a son-in-law. What more can a reasonable man 
 ask of his family?" 
 
 "Well, why don't you encourage Walter Blake- 
 more ? He is the sort of man I'd like to see 
 Florrie marry. He is just like his father as I 
 knew him at college, and he promises to be as 
 fine a man as his father is now. I believe they 
 like each other, and if you would just let Florrie 
 alone" 
 
 " Really, Henry," Mrs Storey interposed, with that 
 smile of mixed indulgence and reproof with which 
 superior minds correct our follies, "I can't let you 
 run on in that absurd way. Your romantic notion 
 of wanting to marry your daughter to the son of 
 an old schoolmate and army comrade is an eight- 
 teenth century sentiment not at all in accord with 
 the practical intelligence of our times. New social 
 conditions are making in this country, and it is 
 necessary that one be in the movement if one does 
 not want to be overwhelmed by it. I have ambitions 
 for Florence. I am investing your fortune in a 
 social speculation. Now, don't meddle. I understand 
 Florence perfectly. You have $500,000 well invested 
 in her name which she is to have as a wedding 
 portion " 
 
 "A? we don't go to pot before." 
 
 "Don't interrupt. With that amount of money 
 and her appearance besides, she isn't a fool I 
 expect to do very much better than surrender to 
 
 7
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Walter Blakemore, excellent young man that he is. 
 There is no place in the world where a title counts 
 for as much as it does in the United States and a 
 pretty girl with $500,000 can pick up a very respect- 
 able title in the money markets of Europe." 
 
 " Pooh ! I don't believe Florrie cares a damn for a 
 title," said Mr Storey, bluntly. 
 
 "I am glad you have so early introduced man's 
 substitute for argument, my dear. I can conclude 
 that the subject is settled between us, and we need 
 say no more about it. You concede a point with 
 charming candour. Shall we get ready for dinner ? " 
 
 The characters of the parents having been thus 
 generalised, there need be no attempt to analyse the 
 disposition of the daughter, who, taking something 
 from the natures of the two, grew to womanhood 
 under the exclusively maternal direction. 
 
 There had not been a great deal to justify Mr 
 Storey in his idea of bestowing Florence upon Walter 
 Blakemore. An intimate childhood, modified by 
 several years of separation on the removal of the 
 Storeys from Virginia to Mississippi, a subsequent 
 renewal of friendship when Blakemore came out of 
 college and profited socially by his father's judicial 
 position in Washington, Florence being then little 
 more than sixteen and Blakemore not yet twenty- 
 two, some further increase of interest by brief seasons 
 in Baltimore, at the seashore and in New York, and 
 then Blakemore's running away to Paris with a 
 sudden resolve to fashion himself into an artist 
 
 73
 
 MANDERS 
 
 these were the too unsubstantial foundations upon 
 which Mr Storey builded his unauthorised romance 
 of paternal providence. 
 
 It had been three years since their last meeting, and 
 Blakemore .wondered if the change of address from 
 "Dear Walter" to the "Dear Mr Blakemore" of the 
 note in his pocket argued a corresponding change in 
 the sentiments of Florence, and meant to inform him 
 that their friendship was to be conducted upon a 
 more strictly formal basis. As the fiacre began the 
 ascent of the Avenue Marceau at what seemed to him 
 an unwonted speed, his thoughts, which had been 
 composed enough until then, got into an abominable 
 panic. He could not recall a like experience of 
 humiliating fear. Coming opposite to the fatal 
 number, he had a strong inclination to tell the cabman 
 to drive on, and as he climbed the heavily carpeted 
 stairs towards the second floor, they seemed to give 
 way beneath his feet. The expostulatory phrases he 
 addressed to himself were not sufficiently reassuring, 
 and he hesitated some moments in moist anxiety 
 before he mustered courage to pull the bell-rope. 
 Five minutes afterwards be marvelled what it was 
 had made him such a poltroon. 
 
 Florence came alone into the salon to welcome him, 
 calling out to him as she entered a greeting of such 
 frank pleasure that he hardly noticed how much 
 addition of personal distinction the last three matur- 
 ing years had given her, and only recognised the 
 friend to whom he had said good-bye on the sands 
 
 74
 
 MANDERS 
 
 at Long Branch when the stars were shining. Old 
 acquaintances who, after some years of separation, 
 meet in Paris for the first time are not ceremonious. 
 The atmosphere of that city is a different chemical 
 combination altogether from that of any other, and it 
 acts upon foreign systems so instantly and so radically 
 that victims of it are unconscious of the alterations 
 they undergo. Blakemore, who had been long enough 
 resident in the vivid capital to have recovered some- 
 thing of the normal balance that returns when reason 
 has had time to strip the life of its artificial gilding, 
 recognised the familiar symptoms in the feverish 
 vivacity of Miss Storey's conversation. He was not 
 at all surprised nor much shocked when, in answer 
 to his conventional question as to how she liked 
 Paris, she said, with a comical impulsiveness that 
 took off the edge of her words, 
 
 "It makes me feel as if I were full of the 
 devil!" 
 
 "You will get over that," he said, laughingly. 
 
 " Oh ! I should hope so. But I am afraid it is 
 going to be so slow a process that I'll be burned to 
 a cinder before the season is over. Why, when we 
 came down the Champs Elysee yesterday, swinging 
 along through that brilliant crowd, I had a mad wish 
 to tumble the coachman off the box and take the 
 reins myself. I'd give anything to drive full head 
 down that splendid avenue just for the sensation 
 of it. But as that is out of the question mother 
 is becoming villainously prudish you've got to
 
 MANDERS 
 
 find me a vent for my excited state of mind, which 
 is dangerously high pressure." 
 
 There was not much that was serious in the 
 mischievous eyes into which Blakemore looked, but 
 he thought there was the shadow of more than banter 
 in her words. "Why the deuce will girls talk in 
 this way?" was his mental comment, but he said 
 aloud in her own vein, 
 
 "Well, what would you like to do?" 
 
 "Something wicked something desperately wicked! 
 What is there one can do ? Something to remember 
 and blush about when one is old and axiomatic ? " 
 
 " You shouldn't expect that sort of thing in Paris. 
 There is nothing wicked here. Everything is con- 
 ventional, even suicide. You cannot do anything 
 to shock the Parisians." 
 
 " But, you stupid fellow, it is not the Parisians I 
 wish to shock ; it is myself ! " 
 
 " Very well ; I'll think of something." 
 
 Mrs Storey came in, several degrees gayer in dress 
 than Florence, and appearing not so many years 
 older. The lady had so far improved upon nature 
 in the matter of complexion as to have secured a 
 youthful bloom and smoothness of skin which 
 seemed the fresher for the contrast of her grey- 
 threaded black hair. Always faultlessly dressed, 
 and thoroughly skilled in the art of wearing 
 garments as if they were integral parts of the 
 body, Mrs Storey was altogether an agreeable object 
 upon which to rest the eye. 
 
 16
 
 MANDERS 
 
 She was very affable to Blakemore, but with the 
 patronising affability which holds one stationary 
 at the arm's length of friendship, tacitly forbid- 
 ding a closer intimacy. Had she possessed force 
 of character equal to her reserve of manner, Mrs 
 Storey would have been a remarkable woman. 
 Unfortunately for Florence, Mrs Storey was pre- 
 cisely the sort of woman to whom the responsibility 
 of rearing & daughter should never be confided. 
 Blakemore, divining without analysing her moral 
 and mental deficiencies, saw in her one of those 
 chaperons who shield rather than restrain the 
 impulsive tendencies of a too ardent protigfo. It 
 was very evident that Florence was quite accustomed 
 to having her own way, notwithstanding the habit 
 of appealing to her mother for approval of an 
 opinion or assent to a plan. The outward flourish 
 of deference was mere diplomacy by which the 
 mother was deceived into the belief that her 
 judgment governed the conduct of the daughter. 
 It was an amusing little comedy, because both the 
 players in it were so earnest in their respective rdlea, 
 and Blakemore was in doubt whether Florence 
 was not in some measure self-deceived by the filial 
 candour she affected with such address. 
 
 " We must apologise to you," Mrs Storey said, " for 
 the absence of Mr Mendenhall, who expected to be 
 of our party. But," turning to Florence, "didn't 
 you arrange that he should join us somewhere or 
 other?" 
 
 17
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "It was your own arrangement, mamma. We 
 were to take him up at the Madrid at five o'clock. 
 Don't you think it fascinating at the Madrid ? " she 
 asked of Blakemore with an eager smile. 
 
 " One sees ' all Paris ' there, surely the good and 
 the bad, democratically mixed," he assented, glanc- 
 ing inquisitively at Mrs Storey. 
 
 " That is the charm of it," said Florence. " There 
 is such an exhilarating sense of impropriety in hob- 
 nobbing with ' all Paris,' as you call it. To be in it 
 without exactly being of it " 
 
 " My dear Florence ! " expostulated Mrs Storey, 
 "don't give Mr Blakemore the impression that we 
 are frequenters or a place we have visited but once." 
 
 "Oh, I assure you, Mrs Storey, to frequent the 
 Madrid is quite a matter of course with the gay 
 world of Paris. Not to be seen there of an after- 
 noon is to lose a day out of the calendar of pleasure." 
 
 " Is that your practice ? " Florence asked, with a 
 peculiarly expressive glance sideways at him. 
 
 " No. Unluckily I have got out of the butterfly 
 and gone back into the grub state. I'm a student, 
 you know." 
 
 " And do you stick at it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; hard at it." 
 
 " How are you coming on ? " asked Mrs Storey, as 
 if persuaded of her qualification to pass judgment 
 on artistic progress. 
 
 " Very badly, I'm afraid. Old Monier says my feet 
 look like gigote."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Good heaven! what have your feet to do with 
 painting ? " Mrs Storey exclaimed, at the same time 
 taking in the trim set of Blakemore's patent leather 
 boots. 
 
 Florence laughed irreverently, making a gesture 
 of despair. 
 
 " Mamma ! How innocent you are ! My mother is 
 a literalist, Walter, so you must be very careful how 
 you talk about spades." 
 
 This inadvertent use of his first name was grati- 
 fying to Blakemore, who thought it as cordial as 
 it was spontaneous, a chance note from other days 
 that set a whole harmony in vibration. He saw, 
 too, that she was aware of the slip, and he knew 
 that the fictitious formality she had introduced 
 between them was dismissed from that moment. 
 Some minutes later Florence proved the justness of 
 his conclusion by asking of her mother in a tone of 
 surprise, as if but then noting the fact, 
 
 " But why do you address him as ' Mr Blakemore ' ? 
 That gives us no claim on him whatever; whereas 
 I propose to make very free use of him as long as we 
 stop in Paris. May I not, Walter ? " 
 
 Mrs Storey was properly vexed. When Florence 
 had announced her intention of writing Blakemore 
 a note of summons, there had been a careful discus- 
 sion of the relations Mrs Storey would permit. A 
 polite friendliness should instruct the young gentle- 
 man how great are the sentimental differences 
 between the two points of a three years' social hiatus. 
 
 79
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Besides," contended the estimable lady with the 
 dogmatism of an experienced campaigner, "nathing 
 could be more bizcvrre than going through the trouble 
 and cost of European culture if you are to end by 
 marrying a provincial nobody." 
 
 That Florence should so imprudently set at nought 
 the solemnities of a sage conference was quite enough 
 to justify a rebuke, the right wording of which Mrs 
 Storey was casting about in her mind to find when 
 a servant entered to announce that madame's carriage 
 was in readiness. 
 
 The ladies had only to give to hair and toilet those 
 mysterious final pats and thrusts before a mirror, 
 which to the masculine perception are entirely with- 
 out result, and in ten minutes' time they were seated 
 in the smart carriage, with liveried coachman and 
 footman, which Mrs Storey had hired ensemble for 
 the rest of the season. 
 
 After a drive of an hour or more, during which 
 joyous excitement Florence had a comforting number 
 of bows from friends and acquaintances, they went to 
 keep their appointment at the Madrid. Mr Menden- 
 hall had been thoughtful enough to reserve a table, 
 at which he sat in isolated sovereignty an they 
 drove up. 
 
 Blakemore saw in Mr John Mendenhall an average 
 well-bred English gentleman, some years older than 
 himself, neither more nor less interesting than the 
 majority of his class, such a man as he could 
 denominate " a good fellow," and certainly not more 
 
 80
 
 MANDERS 
 
 dull than need be. Indeed, he presently began to 
 suspect the sincerity of Florence's postscript to her 
 note, and to attach some importance to her casual 
 remark in the carriage that Mr Mendenhall had only 
 an old man, an invalid, his uncle, between him and 
 a baronage, so that he was in danger of one day 
 becoming a peer. He thought her far too willing to 
 show this heir-conditional the amiabilities of her 
 temper, and was more annoyed than he should have 
 been when she suddenly asked, with a malicious 
 twinkle, it seemed to him, " Who was the pretty girl 
 to whom you were so devoted at St Cloud the other 
 day ? Was that a genuine studio grisette ? " 
 
 " Oh ! that genus of grisettes has been extinct 
 these many years," he said, conscious of more than a 
 becoming colour in his face, and glad that Menden- 
 hall was talking to Mrs Storey at the moment; 
 "that was Madame Manders." 
 
 "Ah!" said Florence, with the air of one having 
 been fully enlightened. "Then that was her little 
 boy with you ? " 
 
 "Yes, that was Manders." 
 
 "Manders! Is that his Christian name?** 
 
 " No," he laughed ; " his name is Edouard, but his 
 father, who was also an Edward, always called him 
 ' Manders ' to prevent confusion in the manage. The 
 name seems to fit him ; he is an odd little chap." 
 
 "And is Monsieur Manders one of your inti- 
 mates?" 
 
 "I never had the pleasure of knowing Monsieur
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Manders. He got through with life before I made 
 the acquaintance of his family." 
 
 "A widow, then! that makes it more interesting, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 "I wonder if you are talking of Edward Manders 
 who drowned himself five or six months ago ? " asked 
 Mr Mendenhall. 
 
 "Drowned himself!" exclaimed Florence. "How 
 romantic! What an uncommonly fortunate fellow 
 you are, Walter!" 
 
 "Yes," said Blakemore, answering Mr Mendenhal.l 
 " Did you know him ? " 
 
 " We were at Cambridge together. Poor devil ! He 
 went to the dogs in a hurry. One of the sort money 
 ruins, you know. Plenty of good qualities, but no 
 balance. Made a bad go of it over here, and the 
 family shut the doors on him. Took up with a 
 Latin Quarter danseuse, or something of the kind 
 I don't know the particulars who helped him 
 on his way to the bow-wows." 
 
 "You have been misinformed," Blakemore inter- 
 rupted warmly ; " he married a most estimable girl, 
 one worthy of any man's respect." 
 
 " Yes, Mr Blakemore knows the widow intimately," 
 Florence explained, smiling significantly at Blake- 
 more. 
 
 " Keally I " said Mrs Storey, as if she doubted that 
 the intimacy was conclusive proof of the widow's 
 respectability. " I daresay Mr Blakemore has a some- 
 what general acquaintance." 
 
 8a
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Then you know Mrs Manders?" Mr Mendenhall 
 nsked, with deferential politeness. 
 
 "Quite well," assented Blakemore. 
 
 "And she is not what the family believes her to 
 be?" 
 
 14 She is a thoroughly good woman," said Blake- 
 more, with a dignity that allowed no doubt of his 
 sincerity. 
 
 Mr Mendenhall slightly raised his eyebrows in 
 disagreement with the nod of acquiescence he gave 
 to Blakemore's statement as he asked, 
 
 "Don't you think it strange, then, that she 
 should sign a paper declaring that her child had 
 no claim whatever on the Manders family?" 
 
 " She signed such a paper ? " Blakemore asked 
 incredulously. 
 
 "Mark Manders, Ned's younger brother, told me 
 so at the club one night not long afterwards." 
 
 "Marie Madame Manders says her husband's 
 brothers were unkind to her and terrified her. If 
 she signed any such paper " 
 
 "I hardly think they would do anything like 
 that," said Mr Mendenhall, quietly, anticipating 
 Blakemore's accusation and disposing of it. 
 
 The check was timely. It brought Blakemore to 
 a consciousness of symptoms of rising temper in his 
 blood, and gave him opportunity to modify his pro- 
 posed remark. 
 
 " I was only going to say," he continued, in matter- 
 of-fact tone, but with a deprecatory look at Florence,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "that if Madame Manders signed such a paper, she 
 did not realise the importance of her act." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mr Mendenhall, shrugging his 
 shoulders. Then he added, looking over his wine 
 glass at Blakemore, and smiling as only worldly- 
 minded men have learned to smile when they speak 
 of indifferent women, "But it really doesn't matter, 
 I suppose. We waste a lot of time with our ridi- 
 culous prejudices in this higgledy-piggledy world of 
 ours. Don't you think so, Miss Storey?" 
 
 " I can't say," replied that young lady ; " I haven't 
 a prejudice of any sort, unless an objection to sitting 
 too long in one place amounts to a prejudice. I 
 should love to walk about a little. Can't we?" 
 
 Mr Mendenhall had taken a box for the theatre for 
 that night. Got was to play. Blakemore was per- 
 suaded, much too easily, Mrs Storey thought, to 
 join the party after dinner, he having declared it 
 impossible that he should dress and return in time 
 to dine with them. 
 
 " You look well enough to come along as you are," 
 Florence had urged. " The French are indifferent to 
 evening dress, you know." 
 
 " But I am afraid Mr Mendenhall isn't," Blakemore 
 replied good-humouredly, but quite resolved not to go. 
 
 "I confess," Mr Mendenhall admitted smilingly, 
 "that I think a morning coat quite capable of dis- 
 turbing the unities of a box-party. Still " 
 
 Blakemore found the shaded lamp burning on the 
 table of his salon when he returned to his apart- 
 
 84
 
 MANDERS 
 
 merits, the rosy light falling on the white square of 
 a note Marie had left for him. Fanchette came in 
 to direct his attention to it, and to babble her super- 
 fluous opinions of the merits of the " tres gentille 
 fille" and her "sage petit garden," who had gone 
 away scarcely half an hour before. 
 
 Marie's penmanship did not proclaim an adept in 
 writing, but Blakemore thought the sentiment of the 
 large scrawled words sufficiently excused the want 
 of skill 
 
 " We have been very happy here to-day, only not 
 as happy as we would have been if you had come 
 home to dinner. I put on the yellow gown and sat 
 as I would have sat for you, and Manders looked at 
 me a long time and then he said, ' You are a very 
 pretty maman.' Is he not only a silly little boy ? 
 Shall I come to-morrow ? or has the nice young lady 
 taken my painter away from me ? " 
 
 Blakemore folded up the note and put it in his 
 pocket, without exactly knowing why.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 NOT only did the work in the little garden 
 suffer many interruptions, but Blakemore's morning 
 absences from the school, or " Academy," as M. Monier 
 preferred to hear it named, began also to be the 
 subject of more or less complimentary gossip. Tom 
 Milsom declared with an affectation of grave solici- 
 tude that their fellow student was "going it," an 
 ambiguous judgment, but one to which the others 
 deferred as if "going it" definitely described a 
 catalogued human infirmity. That it was a re- 
 mediable infirmity they recognised by appointing a 
 committee of remonstrance, with Milsom as chairman, 
 and there was much grave talk directed against the 
 peccant Blakemore during the " rest " in the morning 
 of his next appearance. There was an intimation 
 that continued negligence of the sort complained 
 of might lead to the offender's being hung up 
 and painted, a punitive measure only applied, in 
 the natural order of things, to an objectionable 
 "nouveau." Blakemore did not present the appear- 
 ance of one greatly intimidated, and there was not 
 that amendment of conduct which argues a penitent 
 spirit. Nor did the negative chidings of Marie, who 
 
 86
 
 MANDERS 
 
 asked if it was in any way her fault that the girl in 
 yellow came on so slowly, have a more corrective 
 influence. She came regularly every afternoon at 
 the appointed hour, obedient to a punctilious sense 
 of obligation, though with increasing regularity 
 Fanchette announced, 
 
 "Monsieur will not be here to-day." 
 
 Marie was usually accompanied by Manders now. 
 The child, released from scholastic discipline at four 
 o'clock, had begun to have a repugnance to the 
 society of Mother Pugens and the slip-shod girl 
 who came to fetch him from the school. He did not 
 make his objections very clear to Marie, but the fact 
 was Mother Pugens had a fondness for insinuating 
 bits of curious philosophy into her affable chats 
 with Manders, and he got from them an indistinct 
 impression of a skeleton which Mother Pugens 
 supposed Marie to have hidden away somewhere. 
 Her generalisations were tending rapidly toward 
 particulars. 
 
 "It's a pity," she said one day, "but you will 
 know sometime, and for my part I think you are old 
 enough to be told now. You will be coming upon 
 the skeleton as a surprise some fine evening, and then 
 what will that silly maman of yours have to say, 
 I should like to know, you poor dear!" Then the 
 good soul patted the child comfortingly on the head 
 and asked, " Hadn't I better tell you, my dear ? " 
 
 Manders, his eyes more eloquent than his lips, 
 looked frowningly up at her, and declared with 
 
 87
 
 MANDERS 
 
 energy, " If you tell me anything my mama.n won't 
 tell me, I shall hate you ! " 
 
 But his mind got into troublesome wonderment, 
 nevertheless, and Mother Pugens, whose bon-bons 
 and little cakes one time gave sweetness to her 
 really good-natured countenance, was transformed by 
 degrees into an ogre in Manders' sight, her benevolent 
 smile narrowing into a malignant leer, her terms of 
 endearment becoming abominable seductions. In the 
 degree that the loose-tongued shopwoman diminished 
 in his regard, Marie became more and more the 
 worthy object of his passionate devotion ; and when at 
 last she yielded to his entreaties to come to the school 
 for him herself, it only needed that she should make 
 him the companion of her walk to Blakemore's, 
 where he was permitted to make free with the estab- 
 lishment, to fill up and make overflow his liberal 
 cup of happiness. These were pleasant days for 
 Manders, and he did not at all share with Marie her 
 concern for the artistic laxity of the master of the 
 well-appointed rooms and the pleasant garden. In- 
 deed, there was some gain to him from these absences, 
 for Marie, whom Manders pere had taught some 
 things, made use of the piano and sang little songs 
 with mellow, sweet voice in a way to enchant 
 Manders, whose love of music was not, of course, 
 tinctured by the critical acid. He would lean against 
 the instrument in a position to see her face, and 
 never wearied of listening to her. Sometimes there 
 were tears in his eyes, and he would come nearer to
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Ins mother, stealing an arm about her waist, as if the 
 melody had in it a premonition that the singer would 
 not always be here within hand touch. One song in 
 particular affected him, the air of which was so simple 
 that he had caught it, and he knew without under- 
 standing one of the verses that sang itself in his 
 memory often when he lay waiting in his cot for 
 tardy sleep. 
 
 If the light should go and the roses fade, 
 And earth grow cold and the birds not sing, 
 
 My heart should not be the least afraid, 
 For love of you makes eternal spring ! 
 
 But should we miss love, you and I, 
 
 Though death were life my soul would did 1 
 
 The song was for him, and Marie was the giver of 
 the spring so full of gladness. He dreamed some- 
 times that they two had lost the love from which life 
 and brightness and happiness arose, and that Marie 
 had gone a long journey in the darkness m quest of 
 it. Waked from sleep by his own sobbing, he would 
 go, trembling with forebodings, to caress with his 
 finger tips the warm cheek of the sleeper, so happily 
 unconscious of his fears. These dreams and peturba- 
 tions were his own secret, which he never thought of 
 confiding to Marie; but the remembrance of them 
 came vividly into his mind whenever she sang this 
 song, and his arm was put out to keep her from 
 gliding away from him into that desolate and haunted 
 darkness. 
 
 The child was BO much stronger than the woman. 
 ft)
 
 MANDERS 
 
 June was drawing to a close, and the Storeys were 
 preparing to go to Switzerland. Mrs Storey had 
 made many vain flutterings to hasten the departure. 
 Her reason for such eagerness to quit a scene in 
 which she found the fullest gratification of what she 
 was pleased to term her hedonic tastes, was expressed 
 in a contemptuous paragraph in one of her letters to 
 Mr Storey. " Florence is irritating the life out of 
 me. The girl has your vulgar want of decent ambi- 
 tion, and persists in fooling away her time and 
 opportunities with this stupid Walter Blakemore, who 
 seems more drearily commonplace than ever. She 
 has picked up some of your prattle about men who 
 achieve their own distinction, and talks of Blakemore's 
 artistic genius as if a mere picture painter could ever 
 compare with an hereditary peer of England for I 
 have told you that Mr Mendenhall is entitled, or 
 some day will be entitled, to sit in the House of Lords. 
 I suppose you cannot see any choice between plain 
 Mrs and LADY, but that is only because you haven't 
 an idea beyond the balancing of your ledger. Mr 
 Mendenhall will go to Geneva with us if I can ever 
 bring Florence to be reasonable enough to let her 
 trunks be packed, but she is now gushing Blake- 
 more's idiocy about the charms of Paris in July ! At 
 the same time I do not believe she cares a row 
 of pins for Blakemore. And I can't see why she 
 should." 
 
 Florence and Blakemore seemed to have arrived 
 at a contrary conclusion in the course of the three 
 
 90
 
 MANDERS 
 
 weeks in which the young lady had contrived, despite 
 a great amount of social excitement, more than once 
 to make excursions of a restful character in Blake- 
 more's company free from the maternal surveillance. 
 It is true these fruitful escapades were masked by 
 the pretence of shopping, devotional pilgrimages, or 
 any easy deception that would serve to answer Mrs 
 Storey's unsuspicious and too careless questions, but 
 subtleties of this sort are elementary to forbidden 
 friendships. The ethics of the situation did not 
 trouble Blakemore, for the simple reason that they 
 did not occur to him, it being his opinion that Mrs 
 Storey was one of those irreconcilable dogmatists in 
 the friendships of the sexes whom it is the duty of 
 every purposeful young gentleman to oppose with 
 artifice. Florence was equally free from pricks of 
 conscience. The deceptions she practised upon her 
 mother were, she thought, no more than the necessary 
 diplomacies of a girl whose rightful independence of 
 thought and action was capriciously abridged. She 
 knew herself perfectly capable of governing her own 
 conduct within the limits of discretion as she under- 
 stood, discretion, and did not admit the right of 
 foreign prejudices to place a fretful restraint upon 
 the " sensible liberties of our American system, which 
 recognises woman as an intelligent and responsible 
 being." 
 
 Their first adventure together was a drive to one 
 of the environs, to which the greater part of the day 
 was devoted. When Florence proposed it, Blakemore,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 with a momentary deference to Parisian convention, 
 was for taking Mrs Storey with them. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " Florence replied, with an emphasis 
 that made Blakemore ashamed of his nice scruples. 
 " I hate being chaperoned as if I were an invalid or 
 an idiot. I think there is nothing so immoral as this 
 odious European custom of branding every girl as a 
 creature not fit to be trusted alone. Propriety ? There 
 is no propriety about it ; it is downright indecency. 
 It is an advertisement of society's belief that a girl 
 between the age of fifteen and matrimony is a 
 natural reprobate longing for an abyss in which to 
 fling herself. It is detestable. It makes my blood 
 boil. I won't submit to it. There is nothing would 
 send me to Old Nick faster than a chaperon con- 
 tinually prodding me in the back with maxima If 
 you have any wish to see me lead a respectable life, 
 do help me to preserve my independence/' 
 
 Assaulted in this determined fashion, Blakemore's 
 argumentative barriers were beaten into particles, 
 and he made an unconditional surrender to every 
 sprightly whim of a girl whose self-assured spirit 
 had in it so many elements of dangerous fascination. 
 Further experience convinced him that Florence had 
 made a sufficiently thorough diagnosis of the half- 
 dozen motives to human conduct to be fortified 
 against surprise in any direction, and that the course 
 of action to which she might commit herself would be 
 deliberately chosen. The question he began to ask 
 himself was whether her choice would be love or
 
 MANDERS 
 
 ambition ; and the egotism which is the reservoir of 
 energy in every healthy mind determined him to 
 educate her choice favourably to himself. He became 
 so much engrossed in the self-imposed tutorage that 
 he was not aware of the extent of Florence's invasion 
 of his own reserve until it was nearly time to return 
 to the Avenue Marceau from the last of their stolen 
 outings. Then he learned from the turbulence in his 
 breast how recklessly he had played the pedagogue 
 without taking account of the progress of his pupil. 
 
 They were sitting on a bench below the fortifi- 
 cations at the edge of the Bois de Vincennes, that 
 grandfather of the parks of Paris so dear to the 
 bourgeoisie and the holiday rabble. They had spent 
 the morning on the banks of the Marae, one of the 
 loveliest and most capricious rivers of France, where, 
 in the soft days of the young summer, the artists and 
 the dreamers went to find ravishing bits of shade and 
 colour as they lounged on the turf beneath trees that 
 overhung the water, busy mills, picturesque farm- 
 houses, cosy vine-embowered cottages, and even a 
 shepherdess here and there to quicken the scene that 
 lends itself so charmingly to romance. They had 
 rambled about and through the old chateau, now a 
 garrison, in which the ghosts of royal history still 
 keep their revels or repeat to the imagination the 
 grim terrors of old tragedies like that of the Due 
 d'Enghien, fusilladed in the dry moat; they had 
 strolled along the little paths like aisles in the forest, 
 once the haunt of deer and the wild boar preserved 
 
 93
 
 M ANDERS 
 
 for the royal hunt, but now effeminated to childish 
 recreations and promenades of the careless ; and they 
 had come, on their way to the stand of the voitures, 
 to this isolated rustic bench with just a ribbon of 
 sunlight in the branches above it. 
 
 " And this is our last day together alone ? " asked 
 Blakemore, as if there were any doubt of the fact. 
 
 "Unless you make up your mind to go to 
 Switzerland with us," she answered, her smile having 
 something of a challenge in it. 
 
 "I can't do that." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No. I'm not a gentleman of leisure like Mr 
 Mendenhall." 
 
 " Keally ? I have seen no evidence to the con- 
 trary." 
 
 " Ah f That is true. You have made an idler of 
 me." 
 
 "And you reproach me for it. That's a man's 
 way." 
 
 "You know what I think about it. You know 
 what these days with you have meant to me. You 
 know what your going away means to me." He took 
 her hand as he spoke, but she laughingly drew it 
 away and checked his movement toward her with an 
 admonitory shake of the head. 
 
 " Now, you must not spoil the day by a splash of 
 personal sentiment. I don't want you to say some- 
 thing that will sound foolish to you when you recall 
 it after I am gone. You have kept your head so well 
 
 94
 
 MANDERS 
 
 in our little jaunts and frolics that I have quite a 
 good opinion of your common sense. But what shall 
 I think of you if you do as all the rest of them do ? " 
 
 " But I am in earnest, Florence ! " 
 
 "So am I, Walter, as I shall prove to you by 
 talking with what the story books would call un- 
 maidenly franknesa You think you love me, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " I don't think it, I know it," he answered ardently, 
 and seizing once more upon her hand, this time in a 
 more secure grasp. 
 
 "Very well, then, you know it," she assented, 
 making no effort to release her hand nor to prevent 
 his kissing it. "Now, then, let us see what would 
 be the consequences of a corresponding weakness on 
 my part. You are an artist at the beginning of a 
 career " 
 
 "I'm a duffer with no prospect of a career," he 
 interrupted, promptly pushing aside the first obstacle. 
 
 " And do you think I would marry a ' duffer ' ? " she 
 asked mischievously. "But you are not a 'duffer,' 
 and I am sure you have all the requisites of success, 
 if you don't make a fool of yourself by marrying 
 some girl without an atom of sympathy in her 
 make-up, and who would lead you a dance of 
 despair." 
 
 " You are not that sort of girl," he urged stoutly. 
 
 "But you have no business to marry at all," she 
 insisted, "until you have got up the hill where you 
 won't mind a weight being hung round your neck. 
 
 95
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Besides, I am not ready to think of becoming a 
 bond-slave to a man yet of being labelled as 
 someone's private property from which trespassers 
 are warned. That amuses you, doesn't it ? Then I 
 must tell you cold-bloodedly that the man I will 
 consent to marry must offer me a substantial equiva- 
 lent for my liberty. Love isn't enough. That is the 
 cheapest merchandise in the market. Money is but 
 a little more considerable, for a very rich man may 
 be a mere beast; besides, I shall have plenty of 
 money. I should hesitate a long time before refus- 
 ing a sounding title provided the creature that went 
 with it were not intolerably odious. If it were a 
 choice between these three things only I might be 
 persuaded to make n initial experiment in love. 
 But there is another consideration greater than 
 these that I think embraces them all I mean 
 Fame, real fame, fame gained by the patient exer- 
 cise of a commanding talent. I could adore a great 
 man ; I haven't much use for the other kind." 
 
 She said all this so good-humouredly that Blake- 
 more was not dismayed by it. It rather gave him 
 courage to set himself before her in the favourable 
 light of one not unlikely to meet her requirements 
 if she would give him time and a sustaining promise 
 Men became, he declared with unreasoning enthusi- 
 asm, whatever women chose to make of them, so 
 great was man's need of an inspiring motive such 
 as love for woman alone could give him. Sha 
 listened to his ardent and insistent eloquence, 
 
 96
 
 MANDERS 
 
 smiling to note the increased confidence with 
 which he rounded each uninterrupted period, but 
 giving no sign that his words were other than 
 vain beatings at her ears. He imagined that he 
 bad routed her pretended objections, and inter- 
 preted her silence to suit his wishes, and was 
 already beginning to have a sense of possession, 
 when she said naively, 
 
 "These seem to be very well-rehearsed ideas of 
 yours ; are you sure I am the first one to whom you 
 have addressed this persuasive speech? I wouldn't 
 be at all surprised if you had practised on that 
 pretty Madame Manders. Confess, now." 
 
 "Be serious, Florence; dont torment a fellow. 
 Give me an honest answer. Will you ? " 
 
 "Yes, the honestest I have at hand. I like yon 
 as well as I like any man I know, perhaps a little 
 better. I have let you buy me a lot of presents that 
 I didn't really want, and only one of two things 
 could be inferred from that under ordinary condi- 
 tions, either that I am your fiance'e, or that I am a 
 girl without well, say principle. Now, I am neither 
 the one nor the other I am simply a young lady 
 who claims the privilege of acting in accordance 
 with her own ideas of right and wrong, and with- 
 out caring a great deal for any notions Mrs Qrundy 
 may have on the subject. I meant pretty nearly all 
 I said a while ago, but there is a modification or two. 
 Perhaps if I were to fall in love with * man I should 
 not stop to consider whether he were a fishmonger
 
 MANDERS 
 
 or a maharajah, but would marry him at the first 
 asking. But I'm not in love, and I don't even 
 recognise any symptomatic tendencies in that direc- 
 tion. Wait, wait, wait! I'll make a bargain with 
 you. Why, you looked as if you were going into 
 a temper ! Ill make this bargain with you ; we will 
 go our respective ways in a two years' further experi- 
 ment with life. If in the course of that time I get 
 into an entanglement with anybody else, I'll send 
 these presents back to you ; if you find that your 
 affection for me is merely a midsummer madness, 
 and Paris madness at that, you will demand the 
 return of your property; but if at the end of the 
 two years we are still freebooters well, we will 
 meet somewhere and have another talk on this 
 subject. Do you agree?" 
 
 He laughed a little dubiously, having less assur- 
 ance than before, and not quite certain just how he 
 should understand the unorthodox utterance of this 
 girl of twenty who talked like a disappointed widow. 
 He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew forth 
 a tiny morocco case. 
 
 " I'll agree if you. will wear an engagement ring I 
 have here." 
 
 "So you came prepared? You did take me for 
 granted, didn't you? You are a veritable country 
 swain, an Augusta Evans sort of youth. Let me 
 see it." 
 
 He opened the case and handed her the ring. She 
 took it with an exclamation of pleasure. 
 
 98
 
 MANDERS 
 
 a i" approve your taste. It is very pretty rich 
 but not showy. Well, I'll wear it if you want me 
 to but not as an engagement ring. I detest engage- 
 ments; they are coo much like paying a deposit on 
 goods to be called for. I don't propose to give you 
 or anyone the right to tyrannise over my conduct. 
 Shall I wear it under those conditions?" 
 
 "Under any conditions you please." 
 
 "It means absolutely nothing in the way of an 
 engagement ? " 
 
 " Absolutely nothing." 
 
 " You would have no right to complain if I should 
 marry Mr Mendenhall next week ? " 
 
 None whatever." 
 
 "Then I'll put it on. Of course I allow you the 
 same freedom that I claim for myself." 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, Florence 
 rearranging her rings to give the new one a becom- 
 ing place, Blakemore nervously revolving an idea he 
 thought appropriate to the occasion. 
 
 At last he said hesitatingly, 
 
 " There is generally a seal put upon a ceremony of 
 this kind." 
 
 " But, my dear Walter, we have distinctly declared 
 that there is no ceremony about it." She resolutely 
 shook her head. "Come, the sun has gone down; 
 I'll barely get home in time to dress for dinner." 
 
 She rose as she spoke. Blakemore sprang to his 
 feet There was no one in view. He clasped her 
 
 99
 
 MANDERS 
 
 passionately in his arms and kissed her full on 
 the lips. 
 
 "Well, you are impulsive!" she exclaimed, sur- 
 prised by the suddenness of the attack, and pushing 
 him from her. " And really, do you know, I hadn't 
 noticed before that you have raised a moustache ? 
 It's rather becoming." 
 
 She stood regarding him at arm's length for a 
 moment, the amused smile on her lips taking the 
 shadow of a seriousness in her eyes. 
 
 "But a moustache is supposed to be a certificate 
 that one has attained years of discretion, and I must 
 request you to play no more schoolboy pranks with 
 me. I think I rather admire reserve in a man. 
 Keep your impulses from getting the better of you. 
 You might fall out of my favour. There is an empty 
 cab crawling along the road ; shall we take it ? "
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AFTER the departure of the Storeys, accompanied by 
 Mr Mendenhall, Blakemore very gladly withdrew 
 from the social dissipations of which he had been 
 the too willing victim, vigorously declining the 
 invitations, still numerous enough notwithstanding 
 the end of the fashionable season. He applied 
 himself to work with a diligence, both in the 
 school and in the garden, that promised to make 
 up the lost time. Not only increased zeal, but a 
 new spirit also animated him. All the perplexities, 
 the hindrances, the obtuseness of his three years 
 persistence in the Monier academy suddenly re- 
 solved themselves into nothingness, leaving him 
 clear - visioned, perceptive, competently executive. 
 The sureness with which he now applied principles 
 which M. Monier had despaired of teaching him gave 
 the master a gratifying surprise, and bewildered the 
 students, who knew so much less of these instant 
 awakenings than did the old master, who had seen 
 genius break its shell of dulness before this. Mil- 
 som, in his irreverent way explaining the pheno- 
 menon in Blakemore's absence, declared 
 
 101
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "The cuss hasn't been loafing as we thought.; he 
 has been sneaking it in some other school." 
 
 " That is true," said old M. Monier, with a chuckle ; 
 "the school of hearts." 
 
 But M. Monier was thinking of Marie. 
 
 Marie made no attempt to conceal the delight 
 with which the change in Blakemore filled her. 
 She knew well enough to what it was attributable, 
 and was grateful to the American girl ; it made 
 small difference to her what had brought about a 
 result so admirable. She was conscious of no other 
 feeling than sincere pleasure that the " creation " was 
 going on, going on well, and that Blakemore was 
 getting the habit of humming fragments of song 
 by way of approving his work when he paused to 
 inspect it. Her heart sang songs, too, and she 
 accounted to herself for these bubblings of happi- 
 ness by saying, "He is going to arrive some day. 
 He is going to be a great artist after all. And I, 
 too, am helping him ! " Manders came in for his 
 share of her raptures raptures that demanded an 
 outward expansion. 
 
 " You like M .Blakemore very, very much, do you 
 not, cheri?" 
 
 "Yes, I like M. Bla'mo'. But I call him M. 
 Walter, now." 
 
 "And you are right, cheri," hugging him as if 
 by that means to confirm the privilege; "and M. 
 Walter is so much nicer than M. Blakemore, eh, 
 mon enfant?"
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "It is easier to say," assented Manders, unemo- 
 tionally. 
 
 "But you like M. Walter himself more than 
 you used to like M. Biakemore, do you not?" 
 
 "You are a funny maman, I think. Don't you 
 know it is the same thing? M. Walter and M. 
 Bla'mo' are both one; how am I able to like one 
 better than the other?" 
 
 No cleverness of speech could have amused her 
 more. Manders was laughing at her, she saw plainly. 
 She had learned to interpret that extra stolidity of 
 countenance with which he masked his lapses into 
 humorousness. But she liked being laughed at by 
 Manders. She thought it so wise in him. 
 
 " You are right ; how, indeed ! " 
 
 She gave him a final caress, that ended in a playful 
 pull at his ear and a ruffling of his curls, for Marie 
 had no doubt whatever of the nature of Manders' 
 feeling for Biakemore. If she had only understood 
 herself half as well, she might have distrusted this 
 exuberance of happiness. There is nothing quite so 
 dangerous among the casualties of life as the careless 
 joy of a generous heart. Selfishness is the moral 
 preservative. Marie had not enough selfishness for 
 the simplest demands of self-protection where her 
 affections were engaged. And what matter ? After 
 all, we aphides on the leaves of time vex our precious 
 brains overmuch with the machinery of the universe, 
 which goes on grinding planets to powder, mindless to 
 the fact that a myriad of us perish with every throb 
 
 103
 
 MANDERS 
 
 of the stupendous engines. What if an aphis find 
 the tip of a rose leaf sweetened in the sun a 
 whole world of contentment ? Why should the aphis 
 quarrel with the stars? Better to go on drinking 
 the refreshing juices of the plant while the sun 
 permits it to be green. That would have been Marie's 
 conclusion if she had thought about the problem 
 at all. 
 
 Stopping to dine with Blakemore was becoming 
 the evening habit of Marie and Manders now. Some- 
 times after the dinner there was music, for Blake- 
 more was a virtuoso of the 'cello, and under his 
 instruction Marie began to play accompaniments 
 with a fair degree of merit in the performance. 
 They sang together also, and whether they played or 
 sang, Manders would sit in rapt attention, his fancies 
 bearing him into such far reaches of wonder-glowing 
 regions that the sudden coming back when the music 
 ceased was a pain to him, and he took tears with him 
 into the street for the home-going. Under these 
 influences, Manders began a curious development, a 
 nervous quickening which both Marie and Blakemore 
 set down to the credit of his mornings in the Ecole 
 Alsacienne. " He is learning rapidly," they said, but 
 the knowledge coming to him was not of the things 
 gathered drily into school-books. There are other 
 islands than Patmos, and other seers than John, and 
 the heavens may part as a scroll that is rolled 
 together for the eyes of a little child. What else 
 meant that confession to Marie as they walked home 
 
 KM
 
 MANDERS 
 
 one night when she teased him affectionately about 
 his tears and his wlence? What was the matter? 
 she asked. Should they have no more of the music 
 that disturbed him so much ? 
 
 He answered her almost fiercely, vehemently pro- 
 testing against what he declared to be a wicked, 
 wicked thought. He frightened her with the pas- 
 sionate incoherence of his rebellion against the idea 
 she had playfully suggested. She soothed him with 
 genuine penitence, and with the ardour of her own 
 sympathies coaxed him into confidences that much 
 perplexed her. He talked excitedly, with an 
 astonishing flow of words, gesticulating in a way 
 unusual with him, finally pushing her toward a 
 bench on which they sat in the starlight as he 
 continued impetuously, 
 
 " Do you know where I was to-night ? In a great 
 house filled with ever so many people, more than I 
 ever saw before ! Lights brighter than that," point- 
 ing to a street light, " everywhere ! And the people 
 were wonderfully dressed all white and shining, and 
 so happy 1 And I was on a great platform in a sort 
 of room all alone ! But I wasn't little, I was a man, 
 and I was singing, and there were men down below 
 me playing on all kinds of instruments such as you 
 never saw ! And while I was singing the music 
 stopped and a great noise arose, all the people in the 
 crowd making it with their hands and their voices ! 
 and all of them looking at me and smiling ! but some 
 of them were crying, too. They made so much noiae 
 
 IOC
 
 MANDERS 
 
 that I stopped singing, for I couldn't hear myself 
 singing ! and then and then the lights all went out ! 
 Ah! why did the lights go out to leave me sitting 
 in M. Walter's room crying?" 
 
 A superstitious awe came upon Marie with the 
 recital. She could only murmur some words 
 of endearment and hurry Manders home, com- 
 forting him with the repeated assurance that 
 she was a very naughty maman to have teased 
 him. 
 
 She faithfully reported the incident to Blake- 
 more the next afternoon, adding, in a flutter of 
 eagerness, to convince him that it was all very 
 curious, 
 
 "And you know he has never been in a theatre, 
 so he was not remembering something he had seen 
 really ! " 
 
 "I'll tell you what well have to do, Marie, we'll 
 have to teach Manders music. He has it in him; 
 we'll bring it out." 
 
 Marie put out her hand gratefully, with the light 
 laughter of a gratified child, exclaiming, 
 
 "How good you are, Walter! You are like the 
 fairies who bring the flowers and the sunshine and 
 the soft rains you make everyone happy." Then 
 after a moment her face clouded. "But I don't 
 know enough to teach him, and you cannot spare 
 the time." 
 
 "Never mind," he answered, striking his finger 
 lightly against her dimpled chin, "he shall have a 
 
 106
 
 MANDERS 
 
 teacher who shall come here while you are posing, 
 and we'll take an hour of playtime away from him. 
 He won't mind that." 
 
 " Oh ! he will be so happy ! and I 111 be so happy, 
 too!"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BLAKEMORE, having made careful inquiry among 
 his friends, got the address of a Miss Warley, the 
 daughter of an English officer retired on half-pay 
 who had come with his family to live in Paris for 
 economic reasons. He had a son at Harrow, and 
 the daughter, recommended as a thorough musician, 
 helped out the slender resources by giving a few 
 lessons in a strictly private way. Miss Warley called 
 by appointment at Blakemore's apartments, accom- 
 panied by the captain an unwarlike, amiable gentle- 
 man, who was at nice pains to impress Blakemore 
 with the fact that the necessity to earn one's daily 
 bread was not incompatible with gentility and the 
 traditions of a family that had excellent reasons for 
 holding its head respectably high. He made lead- 
 ing inquiries about the prospective pupil, and in 
 answer to one of these Blakemore betrayed the fact 
 that Madame Manders was a professional model. 
 
 Instantly, as if operated by a common spring, 
 the captain and Miss Warley rose to their feet, 
 their affable smiles disappearing behind an aspect of 
 offended yet polite dignity. 
 
 "In that case" the captain began, giving his 
 108
 
 MANDERS 
 
 cane a definitive thrust against the floor, at the 
 same time crooking his elbow in a formal invitation 
 to the cotton-gloved hand of his daughter, " I think 
 we need take up no more of your time, sir." 
 
 Blakemore hastened to interpose some pacifying 
 explanations. Madame Manders was a woman of the 
 most exemplary character, and not at all a model in 
 the ordinary sense of the word. Besides, the captain 
 doubtless knew the family to which Madame Manders 
 had the honour to belong, as it was the venerable 
 and aristocratic Kentish family whose great wealth 
 was its least proud distinction. It was true that 
 the late Mr Edward Manders had fallen under the 
 disfavour of his family and died estranged from them, 
 but that did not in the least detract from the respect- 
 ability of his son. As for Madame Manders herself, 
 " You yourself said but a moment ago, Captain 
 Warley, that the necessity of earning one's livelihood 
 is not incompatible with gentility. Madame Manders 
 follows honourably an honourable vocation, a neces- 
 sary vocation if art is to have its noblest expression ; 
 and I think, sir, we owe it to art and humanity to 
 make the profession of the model as respectable 
 at least as the models themselves are willing to 
 have it" 
 
 Captain Warley and bis daughter exchanged 
 glances. The captain cleared his throat and released 
 a button of his coat. Miss Warley withdrew her 
 hand from her father's arm. There was a moment 
 ol silence, during which Blakemore stood expectant. 
 
 I1Q
 
 MANDERS 
 
 u Well, Captain Warley ? " 
 
 "Well, daughter?" asked the captain, a little 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "As you please, father," replied the young lady, with 
 the air of one resigned to an alternative. Blakemore 
 thought Miss Warley of an age and a plainness quite 
 equal to the guardianship of her austere virtue. 
 
 "Well, my dear, perhaps Mr Blakemore is right 
 There is no reason why we should not be as charit- 
 able as our neighbours, and I daresay the boy will 
 not be any the less musical because his mother is a 
 model. We may as well make the experiment." 
 
 So the music lessons began, Miss Warley coming 
 three times a week, to the intense happiness of the 
 eager Manders, and presently to her own satisfac- 
 tion, for she told her father that the boy was a 
 prodigy so easy to teach that he even anticipated 
 instruction. 
 
 The summer passed, and the autumn was drifting 
 away from its purple and golden-leafed splendour 
 into the grey nakedness of the early winter. Blake- 
 more was well along with his second picture, one 
 he intended to submit to the next year's salon, it 
 offered so much in character and " quality." Letters 
 from Miss Storey in St Petersburg announced the 
 intention of Mrs Storey to pass the winter in Rome 
 and the southern parts of Italy, and Blakemore had 
 in mind a plan to join them to make some study of 
 the Italian masters as the final throwing off of the 
 student's beret before entering formally the respon- 
 
 no
 
 MANDERS 
 
 sible life of the veritable artist. Manders had 
 already advanced to the triumphant stage of " read- 
 ing music," though Miss Warley, with a sensibleness 
 not common to her class, bewailed the fact that she 
 could not " keep him back enough. He reads so well 
 that he wants to go at pieces I am not ready to have 
 him take." And she distressed herself, too, over the 
 passion he had for singing. 
 
 " But he has a sweet voice," Blakemore laughingly 
 objected. " I love to hear it." 
 
 " Of course you do," Miss Warley assented, in the 
 tone she would have used to rebuke a misdemeanour. 
 "And so do I. That is the very reason he should 
 not be allowed to open his mouth for at least ten 
 years." 
 
 But he only sang the songs Marie was used to sing, 
 little songs a linnet might have piped from the 
 hedge; and most of all the one he wept to hear 
 when i* first came to him in his mother's winningly 
 melodious but untrained voice, 
 
 If the light should go and the roses fade, 
 Aad earth grow cold and the birds not sing. 
 
 But Marie had never sung it so. Marie's soul only 
 sunned itself in the shallows of emotion. 
 
 One day Manders came listless from the school to 
 his music lesson. He sat inert at the piano, going 
 through his task in such a lifeless, perfunctory way 
 that Miss Warley chided him rather sharply for an 
 indolence that surprised her. Blakemore, painting 
 
 in
 
 MANDERS 
 
 in the garden, was saying to Marie, "A few more 
 days and we'll call this done," Marie smiling con- 
 tent, when Miss Warley oame to the salon door and 
 called to Blakemore. 
 
 "I'm afraid Manders MJ going to be ill," she said 
 anxiously, as Blakemore came to her. Marie heard, 
 her heart bounding with a great fear as she ran 
 forward, white -faced and trembling. She was 
 beside the corner divan, where Manders lay with 
 closed eyes, before the others. She took his hands, 
 covering them and his cheeks with kisses as she 
 breathed out her fearful endearments, blaming him 
 for trying to frighten her. Manders smiled, and 
 put his arm about her neck. 
 
 " I'm just sleepy, maman ; that is all," he said. 
 
 But it was not all, as the doctor, who came an hour 
 later, told them. "Typhus,* he said to Blakemore, 
 and forbade the child's removal from the house. 
 Blakemore gave up his own room, a large and airy 
 one, to Manders and Marie, and prepared, with 
 Fanchette's help, a sommier for himself in the 
 studio. After a night or two a nurse came in, and 
 the dressing-room was made to serve Marie's pur- 
 pose, the door opening into the room where Manders 
 burned in his music-haunted delirium. 
 
 Mother Pugens brought such things as were re- 
 quired from Marie's rooms in the Rue St Jacques, 
 and evinced so great a solicitude to be helpful that 
 now and then she was allowed to sit in the sick-room 
 for an hour or two, watching and serving the " pauvre
 
 MANDERS 
 
 petit " she had brought into the world, as she assured 
 the nurse a thousand times. 
 
 The case did not turn out as bad as the doctor 
 feared it would. 
 
 " It is only typhoid," he cheerily informed Blake- 
 more one morning, without making it clear just how 
 many degrees of favourable difference were reckoned 
 between a disease and its likeness, but his tone and 
 manner persuaded Blakemore that the difference was 
 worth a thank-offering. And Manders, too, was a 
 stout lad, showing, with his curls shorn away, 
 even manlier on his pillow than he had in the 
 activities of health, so that there was a visible 
 something to substantiate the medical man's opinion 
 that the lad would be " pulled through with colours 
 
 Pull him through they did, though they were five 
 weeks in the doing. There were dancing feathers 
 of snow in the keen air when Manders the nurse 
 and the doctor dismissed a week before came down 
 into the warm, fire- flushed salon for the first after- 
 noon jubilee over his convalescence. Manders was 
 enthroned upon cushions, and from every advan- 
 tageous place and corner fresh flowers and green 
 plants sent him greetings, to which his smiles 
 made answer. A merry-making, indeed, with Miss 
 Warley end the captain coming in for a part of 
 it. 
 
 "I should have brought Mrs Warley along," said 
 the captain, semi-confidentially, to Blakemore, a but 
 
 H
 
 MANDERS 
 
 really she wasn't equal to the exertion." Then, in 
 a lower tone still, he added, "Peculiar woman, Mrs 
 Warley; most estimable, but peculiar. Proud, Mr 
 Blakemore, proud as Lucifer. It is style or nothing 
 with Mrs Warley, so we quit London to live among 
 these jabbering barbarians for pride's sake, Mr Blake- 
 more. Ah ! well, sir, a man who has been one of 
 Her Majesty's officers owes something to his family. 
 Sacrifices are salt for the best of us, Mr Blakemore 
 but one doesn't want to become too salty." 
 
 The captain laughed heartily at this little joke. It 
 was a favourite with him, because it always sent his 
 spirit up where numberless good things were stored 
 for repetition ; and once well started, the captain was 
 no end of a jolly fellow. Manders found him im- 
 mensely amusing, he had so many droll stories of 
 army life, of which he made himself the victim. 
 Anecdotes at the expense of the narrator are so 
 much more comical than others, that the captain did 
 not hesitate to reverse the order of facts if by so 
 doing he could produce a more resonant explosion of 
 mirth. Manders rewarded the captain prodigally, and 
 the others were so ready with their small pence of 
 chuckles and titterings that the sunny old war-dog 
 was encouraged to monopolise the occasion, and- was 
 inclined to resent it as an infringement of personal 
 privilege when Miss Warley arose with the remark 
 that it was time for them to go. He flourished his 
 hand with an airy gaiety and declared there was 
 plenty of time, protesting that his best stories were 
 
 "4
 
 MANDERS 
 
 to come. He was willing to accept Blakemore's 
 invitation to dinner. 
 
 " You know what mother will say if we are late to 
 our dinner," Miss Warley reminded him, smiling, and 
 giving an eloquent side inclination to her head. 
 
 "Ah! Mr Blakemore," said the captain, in mock 
 dolour as he reluctantly got to his feet, " I used to be 
 foolish enough to pity a galley slave. But being 
 chained to the rowlocks is freedom freedom, Mr 
 Blakemore compared with the tyranny of a six- 
 o'clock dinner, served in one course. Well, come 
 along, Matilda, since we must be slaves." 
 
 Though he felt some slight reaction after the 
 captain had gone, Manders was by no means ready 
 to retire to his room. He insisted on having his light 
 dinner at the table with Blakemore and Marie, and 
 afterward there must be some music, it had been so 
 long since he had heard any. When at last he con- 
 fessed himself tired and sleepy, Blakemore carried 
 him up the few steps that led to the half floor where 
 were the studio and sleeping-rooms, and Marie put 
 him to bed. 
 
 " Don't stop the music," he pleaded, after he had 
 been tucked into his bed. "I should love to go to 
 sleep with the music in my ears." 
 
 Fanchette closed up the house and went up to 
 her place in the attic while they were playing and 
 singing together. Some strange spell was in the 
 music to-night. There were whispers and touches 
 and soft, seductive laughter in the air, a mysterious 
 
 "5
 
 MANDERS 
 
 breath from the flowers, and an eerie murmur in 
 mischievous winds beating lightly at the casements. 
 Once Marie looked from the piano at Blakemore, 
 who was playing the 'cello absently, his eyes in- 
 tently fixed on her. 
 
 "Yon are not playing in time with me," she said 
 laughingly. 
 
 "I wasn't thinking," said Blakemore, hurriedly, 
 drawing the 'cello closer between his knees. "Let 
 us begin again." 
 
 She turned back a page, and felt her cheeks flush, 
 wondering what caused it ; and her fingers seemed 
 to touch the keys tremulously as she played, falter- 
 ing presently and striking false notes. She stopped 
 at length, saying, as she smiled half -apologetically, 
 half-shyly, 
 
 *I don't believe I can play any more." 
 
 * You are tired," he said, placing the 'cello in the 
 corner against the piano. 
 
 " No, I don't feel tired," she answered. 
 
 "Nervous, perhaps." 
 
 "You know I haven't any nerves," she smiled. 
 "I think it is happiness. Happiness is very dis- 
 turbing sometimes, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," he assented, something like a sigh in his 
 voice, yet something of eagerness too. "There is 
 nothing so disturbing as happiness, sometimes. Why 
 do you feel so happy ? " 
 
 41 Because Manders is well again, I suppose. 
 Doesn't that make you happy too ? " 
 
 116
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Yes, that makes me happy too." 
 
 He stood beside her. A lock of her hair, slipped 
 from the coil, curled forward along her neck. He 
 took it between his fingers, but with a little laugh 
 she pulled away from him and tucked it in place 
 again, saying that was a sign of bedtime. It 
 seemed to him that she had never been so pretty. 
 
 "Isn't it getting late?" she asked. 
 
 "Not yet eleven," he answered, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 "Oh! but that is late for us, nowadays, you 
 know." 
 
 They lighted their candles and turned out the 
 salon lights, going up the steps together. He 
 went in with her to look at Manders, who slept 
 soundly, a smile on his lips, one hand just above 
 the cover holding the rose he had taken to bed 
 with him. 
 
 They stood regarding the child for a moment, 
 Blakemore with his hand on Marie's shoulder. She 
 looked up into the face above her, whispering, 
 
 "Is he not beautiful?" 
 
 Blakemore drew her a little toward the door, then 
 paused irresolutely. He held out his hand to her. 
 
 " Good-night ! " he said, in a low tone. 
 
 " Good-night 1 " she responded, putting her hand in 
 his. He held her hand, making no movement to go. 
 His clasp seemed feverish to her. She looked at him 
 inquiringly. He was strange to her to-night 
 
 What is it ? " she asked. 
 "I
 
 MANDERS 
 
 He made no response, but, still holding her hand, 
 he led the way across the hall to the studio door. 
 He paused after taking hold of the knob. 
 
 "Are you sleepy?" he asked, as if seeking an 
 excuse for himself. 
 
 " No," she said. " Why ? Are you going to work 
 at this hour ? " 
 
 " No ; I want to talk to you," he said heavily. 
 
 They entered the studio, he closing the door behind 
 them. 
 
 An hour later Manders cried out in his sleep a 
 cry of terror. 
 
 " Maman ! " 
 
 Marie heard him, and, frightened, came running 
 from the studio, a robe caught hastily around her 
 shoulders. 
 
 She flung herself upon her knees at the bedside 
 of the sleeping child, her tears raining upon his 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, Edouard, my little one ! Forgive 
 me! forgive me!" she sobbed, reaching to press his 
 cheek with her hand. The child awoke, knew her, 
 and put out an arm to clasp her neck. 
 
 "Oh, maman," he exclaimed, "I have had such a 
 dream! A great river was bearing you away from 
 me a great, swift river, and you were in the midst 
 of it! But I ran along on the side calling to you, 
 and I knew you must hear me and come back I It 
 was a foolish dream, was it not, maman ? " 
 
 But Marie wept for the realness of the dream. 
 til
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BLAKEMORE came down to his coffee in a travelling 
 suit next morning, and bearing a hand-bag. 
 
 " Is monsieur going away ? " asked Fanchette, 
 marked disapproval in her tone. She was accus- 
 tomed to forewarning of these goings, and she thought 
 coffee and rolls an insufficient foundation for a rail- 
 way journey, however short. 
 
 "Yes; I am going to London for three or four 
 days. Send the concierge for a fiacre" 
 
 " But shall I fry an egg for monsieur ? or make an 
 omelette ? It is very indiscreet to tempt Providence 
 with an empty stomach when one journeys by train, 
 but to go to sea that way is unheard of, monsieur." 
 
 "I shall breakfast at Calais, Fanchette. I want 
 nothing now." 
 
 Fanchette started, grumbling, toward the door to 
 order the cab. As she was going out, Blakemore 
 called to her, 
 
 " Have you seen madame this morning ? " 
 
 "In her room, monsieur. She had me serve her 
 coffee there." Then, coming nearer to him and speak- 
 ing in a tone of querulous concern, she added,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " I don't believe the poor dear remembered to put 
 herself to bed at all last night Her bed had not been 
 touched, and I found her on the floor with her head 
 on the little one's bed. It is all very well, monsieur, 
 for mothers to be happy when their little ones get well 
 after a battle with death, but when it comes to" 
 
 " Never mind, Fanchette, do as I bade you." 
 
 Fanchette became suspicious of her eara It was 
 something new for Monsieur Blakemore to speak 
 irritably but to lapse from compassion at the same 
 time ! The old domestic stared at him. She had not 
 heard aright. 
 
 " Monsieur has said ? " 
 
 " Send the concierge for the fiacre." 
 
 Fanchette went out bewildered. 
 
 When, at the end of a quarter of an hour she 
 returned, to say that the cab was waiting, Blakemore 
 handed her a note. 
 
 "Give that to madame," he said, rather more 
 gently than he had spoken before, Fanchette thought, 
 " and you are to take orders from her in my absence. 
 I'll be back before the end of the week." 
 
 He went out, carrying the bag, and Fanchette 
 followed him to the pavement, vainly ransacking 
 her feeble old brain for some reasonable explanation 
 of the master's unwonted behaviour. 
 
 Marie kept her room until the afternoon and then 
 came down into the salon with Manders, and seemed 
 to cling to the child as if she were the one in need of 
 comforting and reviving attention. She demanded 
 
 120
 
 MANDERS 
 
 of the child & thousand reassurances of his love for 
 her. She seemed fearful of being a moment beyond 
 touch of him, and if he fell into one of the grave 
 reveries so habitual with him, she interpreted his 
 silence into a reproach, and with an extravagance of 
 half-tearful follies won him back to babbling tender- 
 ness. When he stroked his hand over her face 
 and called her "good little maman" in a quaintly 
 patronising way, she overwhelmed him with grateful 
 caresses, smiling at him through tears that she told 
 him were only the words of happiness which her 
 tongue didn't know how to speak. 
 
 " My heart is so full, Edouard, that it would burst 
 if I couldn't cry a little full of love for you, 
 dearie ! There isn't anything there but love, dearie ! 
 There isn't room for anything else. You couldn't 
 think me wicked, could you, little one? You 
 wouldn't believe that I could be wicked! Eh, my 
 child ? You couldn't believe it if I should tell you so 
 myself ! Could you, dearie ? Could you, could you, 
 little one ? " 
 
 He laughed, and struck her cheek with his open 
 hand, playfully punishing her. 
 
 " Que tu es be"te ! " was his reply. " One must not 
 cry when one is happy ; that is for the sad to do. 
 I will not hav my pretty maman's eyes like fish 
 ponds." He dried away her tears with the ends of 
 the silk scarf loosely knotted at her throat, amused 
 by the performance, telling her it served her right 
 if he had spoiled her finery. 
 
 121
 
 MANDERS 
 
 He wished her to sing for him. Not to-day, she 
 said. And so the next day, and the day following, 
 and the day after that. Then a letter came for 
 Blakemore, postmarked Florence, the superscription 
 having that angular irregularity which Marie had 
 already learned to identify with Miss Storey's writing. 
 Several letters addressed in this way had come in the 
 course of the past six months, one or two while 
 Manders was ill, and Marie had felt no sort of interest 
 in them, save for the pleasure Blakemore seemed 
 to get from reading them. But she held this one 
 long in her hand, her eyes studying the address 
 through a mist of tears, as if some vital import were 
 in each separate letter. She put it on the table at 
 last, address downward, and placed beside it a small 
 vase, in the slender stem of which she put a single 
 rose, choosing a white one. She brushed the mist 
 from her eyes with her finger tips, and though a sigh 
 trembled from her lips, a smile that was hardly a 
 smile came with it. Manders was half lying on the 
 divan, looking at the pictures of a comic paper Miss 
 Warley had brought him. Marie went to him, and 
 pulling down the paper behind which his face was 
 hidden, smiled at him. 
 
 " Shall I sing for you now ? " she asked. 
 
 " Will you ? " cried Manders, springing up. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She kissed him, but not in the impassioned way of 
 these past few days, and went to the piano. Manders 
 was too pleased to notice that there was something
 
 MANDERS 
 
 new, something strangely prophetic in the firmer 
 tones of her voice to-night. 
 
 " You are the old maman again," he said approv- 
 ingly, as they went up the stairs to bed. She made 
 no response, knowing it otherwise. 
 
 " Sit down by me," he urged, after he had got into 
 bed. " I want to tell you something." 
 
 She complied, sitting on the edge of the bed, 
 holding one of his hands in hers. 
 
 " Do you know what I was thinking while you 
 were singing ? That is what I am going to tell you ; 
 but I'm sure I can't tell you as it was. Isn't it droll 
 that you think so many things that you don't know 
 how to say ? It isn't because I am little, is it ? You 
 think things that way, too, don't you, maman? 
 I knew you did. I suppose God makes it that way 
 on purpose. Don't you ? Well, I was thinking that 
 there was a little bird singing in a cage with the 
 door open. And the little bird, singing all the time, 
 would hop down to the door of its cage, and sit on 
 the place that goes across under the door, you know, 
 but it wouldn't go out of the cage, though the trees 
 were just beyond, with other birds calling among the 
 branches. When I was listening I knew what the bird 
 was singing, but I don't remember it now. That is very 
 funny, too, for I thought all the time how interesting 
 it was. By-and-by the little bird went back to the 
 swinging ring in the top of its cage, and then someone 
 came and held up his hand before the door of the cage 
 and coaxed the bird. But it went on singing and
 
 MANDE3S 
 
 didn't come down. Then the hand reached into the 
 cage and took the bird, very gently. But it 
 frightened the bird so that it stopped singing and 
 crouched down in the hand, trembling, and with 
 its mouth open. The hand held the bird for a long 
 time; and the man talked to the bird, and put it 
 against his cheek, and closed its little mouth with 
 his lips, and the bird stopped trembling and was 
 very still Then the hand put the bird back into 
 the cage, but it didn't sing ; it just tucked its head 
 down into its feathers, and sat still, very still. And 
 do you know what I was thinking ? I was thinking 
 what a pity it would be if the little bird never sang 
 again. Don't you think it would be a pity ? " 
 
 "Yes, it would be a pity, dearie. J am sure the 
 little bird will sing again. It will not do for the 
 birds to stop singing ; the world needs all its music. 
 Sleep, dearie, and dream that the little bird has sung." 
 
 In the morning there was a telegram from Blake- 
 more, answer paid ; it asked the simple question, 
 
 " Shall we go on with the picture ? " 
 
 Marie answered, " Yes." 
 
 But after Fanchette had gone to the bureau with 
 the message, Marie went up to her room and began 
 getting Manders's and her things in readiness to be 
 carried back to the Rue St Jacques. Manders came 
 in when the work was nearly done. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " he asked, a look of dis- 
 may coming into his face, for he saw very well what 
 was doing. 
 
 184
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Getting ready to go home," she replied cheerily. 
 " Won't you be glad to be in our own little place 
 again ? " 
 
 " No," he answered conclusively, u I am not ready 
 to go. L like it better here ; besides, I'm not all well 
 yet, and I need the piano." 
 
 Marie argued with him, using as persuasive allies 
 of her imperfect reasoning a world of blandishments 
 and caresses, for Manders was obstinately opposed 
 to a course that seemed to him much too capricious. 
 To her suggestion that they had no right to impose 
 on Mr Blakemore's kindness now that Manders was 
 quite able to be about again, the lad retorted with 
 liveliness, 
 
 " ML Walter likes us very much. He likes to have 
 us here ; and it isn't right to go away and leave him 
 when he isn't here." 
 
 For a moment she hesitated, he was so deeply 
 disturbed by the thought of quitting surroundings 
 so much more delightful than any he remembered 
 to have known. After all, was not her cup in the 
 child's hands ? Should she not drink of its waters 
 for his sake, be they sweet or bitter to the taste ? 
 Was not his happiness and well-being to be her chief 
 consideration ? She had a dim perception of self- 
 surrender as the victory of maternity, even if it had 
 to do with sackcloth and ashes. There might have 
 been an end to the packing, for she was saying to 
 herself, " It would be for Edouard's sake. I must 
 not take anything away from him." But Mandera,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 thinking he had triumphed over her, that she yielded 
 to his will as always she had yielded, put his arm 
 about her neck and said with quaintly patronising 
 playfulness, 
 
 " And you want to stay, too, don't you ? For you 
 love M. Walter just as much as I do, is it not so, 
 pretty laaman ? " 
 
 She took his face between her two hands, looking 
 into his eyes so pleadingly that he felt a fear as if 
 in some way she needed his protection. 
 
 "You love maman very much, do you not, my 
 dearie? Better than you love anyone else in all 
 the world ? " 
 
 " You know I do ! " he cried ; " better than all the 
 world!" 
 
 "It is for my sake, then, that I would go back to 
 our own little place. Shall we go, my child ? " 
 
 " Come, let us go now, maman ! " 
 
 Blakemore returned the next evening. He had 
 gone away in a somewhat Quixotic spirit, inspired 
 by the possibly fallacious theory that certain pro- 
 blems work out best when left to themselves. Once 
 in London, with no definite object to occupy his 
 attention, he began to reproach himself with hav- 
 ing taken the most cowardly course open to him. 
 He had not thought of his action in that light. 
 It is probable he would have taken the next train 
 back had he not met Mr Mendenhall in a theatre 
 lobby between the acts of the play. They went 
 up to the smoking-room and sat on one of the 
 
 126
 
 MANDERS 
 
 lounges, willing to miss an act of a familiar 
 tragedy. Mr Mendenhal! had gone to Russia with 
 the Storeys, but had been compelled to return to 
 England just as they were starting for Italy. He 
 had half promised to rejoin them in Rome, and 
 keenly regretted that family affairs were keeping 
 him in London at a time when the town was so 
 beastly dull and the weather so nasty. Mr Menden- 
 hall was clearly in ignorance of the fact that Blake- 
 more had any claim upon the special consideration of 
 Miss Storey, of whom he spoke in terms of such easy 
 familiarity as to convince Blakemore that Mrs Storey 
 at least had been zealous to give definite colour to the 
 friendship. 
 
 " You know they have been in Venice for the past 
 three weeks and have just gone to Florence." 
 
 No, Blakemore did not know it, and he secretly 
 rebelled against the better information of this well- 
 appearing gentleman, who complacently sipped his 
 wine with such an air of unconscious superiority. 
 
 " Yes, I have been invited to join them in Italy," he 
 said equivocally. 
 
 " Perhaps we can go together, if you are not going 
 immediately. Have you fixed on a time ? " 
 
 "No, not definitely." Indeed, he had not very 
 seriously considered the matter. He had intended 
 keeping at work until his picture should be finished. 
 Though he had not been idle in other matters, the six 
 weeks' interruption of a zealous particular ambition 
 made a serious difference with him. The complet- 
 
 127
 
 MANDERS 
 
 ing of the painting was problematic, now that days 
 with the necessary sunshine were to be few and 
 uncertain. He had an eagerness to tell Florence 
 that the thing was done and well done, too. He 
 felt that this was in some manner vital to his 
 relations with her. But his mind entertained a 
 disturbing premonition on Marie's account. He 
 fancied, without having clearly reasoned the ques- 
 tion, that she might not care to pose for him any 
 more. Women, he thought, have an awkward way 
 of making unreasonable decisions at inopportune 
 times. But would such a decision on her part be 
 altogether unreasonable? 
 
 "I think I could get away in a fortnight," said 
 Mendenhall, breaking in upon Blakemore's thoughts. 
 " How would that suit you ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you in a day or two. I'll have to write 
 to Paris. You see I am in the midst of some work 
 that I ought to finish," he said, half-apologetic- 
 ally, thinking of his quandary. 
 
 He began a letter to Marie the next day, but was 
 dissatisfied with the wording of it He was not in the 
 mood, and he wasted several days without getting 
 into the mood. London is not without its diversions 
 for an idle man. At last he took refuge from the 
 perplexities of composition in the convenience of the 
 telegraph, and wired his question to Marie. Her 
 prompt affirmative reply caused a revulsion of his 
 sentiments, such is the fatuity of man's moral nature. 
 He had felt that he owed reparation to Marie in a 
 
 128
 
 MANDERS 
 
 self -devoted sort of way. He had arraigned himself 
 before a stern judgment, that found him culpable 
 without extenuating circumstances; but now, with 
 this submissive telegram in his hand, he began to 
 persuade himself that an offence so readily condoned 
 was not an offence at all, that he had given undue 
 importance to a commonplace incident, and he con- 
 cluded with a sense of disappointment that there 
 was really nothing to prevent his going to Italy as 
 soon as Mr HendenhaJl pleased. He sent a note to 
 that effect to Mendenhall's club, and booked for the 
 morning expresa 
 
 It was in this restored and philosophical peace of 
 mind that he returned to Paris, and drove to the 
 Rue Denfert-Rochereau, prepared for an indulgent if 
 tearful welcome. He let himself into the house, and 
 found old Fanchette pottering about the rooms in a 
 final supervision before taking herself off to bed. He 
 asked for Marie. 
 
 "Ah, la! Madame has been gone these thirty 
 hours. Bundled up to the last shred and ran away 
 as soon as she thought monsieur was coming. Mon 
 Dieu ! I haven't an idea why. It was not the way 
 we did in the days when I was worth a sweetheart. 
 You wouldn't have caught me running away from 
 Antoine, I can tell yoa ! I always took my mass 
 with a pinch of the devil, and I'm sixty-eight if I 
 have lived a minute and I hope monsieur does not 
 think that my bones creak yet." 
 
 Marie gone made a difference in his reflections. 
 I
 
 MANDERS 
 
 i 
 
 He rather resented being cheated of the opportunity 
 to go through with the scene he had rehearsed in the 
 cab on the way from the station. He had pictured 
 himself in the flattering attitude of a consoling 
 guardian, but this unforeseen stratagem, for so he 
 regarded it, at once disconcerted and irritated him, 
 throwing him again on the defensive, and at a dis- 
 advantage. He sat down to a bite of something to 
 eat with a sense of injury done him, and his reflec- 
 tions were not simplified when he discovered Miss 
 Storey's letter, left face downward on the salon card- 
 table, with a withered rose sentry-like above it. He 
 fumbled with the letter some moments, turning it 
 over and over, restrained from opening it by an 
 annoying sense of unworthiness, and finally put it in 
 his pocket without breaking the seal. He took the 
 rose from the vase, some of its petals falling as he did 
 BO, smelled of it, found it unf ragrant, made a movement 
 to throw it into the fire, and then impulsively thrust 
 it into the pocket with the letter. The imbecility of 
 this action struck him and he laughed at himself, but 
 he left the rose leaves where they were. It had been 
 his habit when restless or troubled to comfort him- 
 self with his 'cello. He reached for the instrument, 
 and, turning off the gas, began playing in the fire- 
 light. Soon he drifted unconsciously into the ballet 
 music of Gluck's "Orphe"e," one of the most ex- 
 quisite gems of elegy in the range of passionate 
 music, a veritable balsam to melancholy. The 
 strains entered into his soul and possessed it The 
 
 130
 
 MANDERS 
 
 notes took words, and he seemed to hear Orpheus 
 singing: 
 
 M O toi, doux objet de ma flamme, 
 Toi seule 7 peux calmer le trouble de mon ame ! " 
 
 He stopped in the midst of his playing, put on his 
 hat and coat, and went out, following the winding 
 way to the apartment in the Rue St Jacques. The 
 concierge had not yet closed the door, and he mounted 
 without question to Marie's ttage. He pulled the 
 bell-rope and waited. Presently Marie came and 
 spoke through the closed door. 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 "It is I Walter." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and he took hold of 
 the knob expectantly. 
 
 " I cannot see you to-night," she said then quietly. 
 
 M But I must speak with you 1 I have something 
 to say to you ! " he urged. 
 
 " Come in the morning. Good-night ! " 
 
 He heard her retiring footsteps, and tapped on the 
 panel, pleading for just a word ; but an inner door 
 closed, and he knew that Marie had shut herself into 
 the room where she and Manders slept.
 
 MOTHEB PUGENS, taught by varied experience and a 
 certain shrewdness of observation to measure and 
 weigh practical values with worldly accuracy, did not 
 by any means approve Marie's flouting 01 Providence 
 in the guise of fortune. Her tenet of being was to 
 " take the goods the gods provide ye " without argu- 
 ment, a doctrine of belief neither original with nor 
 confined to Mother Pugens and her class. In her 
 opinion, as in ifiat of others who have found that 
 scruples of conscience but poorly offset ease of circam- 
 etances, fine gold was much more to be desired than 
 the judgments of the Lord, an opinion she fortified 
 with the excellent proverb that a bird in the hand is 
 more precious than several in the bush. She had con- 
 templated with many approving nods of the head, and 
 some sound, if homely, scraps of philosophy, what she 
 believed to be Marie's progressive steps in wisdom, 
 for of course Mother Pugens had not been credulous 
 enough to think the recent manage in the Rue 
 Denfert-Bochereau a study in Platonism. It was 
 therefore something much akin to chagrin that 
 oppressed her spirit when Marie and Manders came 
 trooping back, bag and baggage, to the miserable 
 
 13*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 conditions, comparatively speaking, of the Rue St 
 Jacques. Dismay and solicitude expressed themselves 
 in all the convolutions of her generous person, and it 
 is only proper to say that she had a genuine sense 
 of. compassion for the folly which could so blind 
 itself to opportunity. She renewed with enlarge- 
 ments the wholesome advice she had given Mane in 
 the first, days of her widowhood, only her advice now 
 took the form of remonstrance. It was a thing 
 greatly to be censured that a young woman, with her 
 own and a child's future to think of, should de- 
 liberately throw away the advantages she had been 
 lucky enough to secure. 
 
 "For my part, I don't know what you can be 
 thinking of ! You are much to blame, my dear, for 
 snatching the bread out of your boy's mouth, to say 
 nothing of tearing the clothes off your own back. 
 Fruit does not always hang on the branches that are 
 right within reach, let me tell you. Ill not deny 
 that a pretty young thing like you may find apples 
 for the picking ; but my girl Lizette knew very well 
 what she was talking about when she said it is not 
 wise to let go of one thing until you have got your 
 other hand on something better. Young people will 
 have their quarrels, my dear, but don't be a fool. 
 Make up your difference with a good grace, say I, 
 and let the Old Nick get the worst of it Take a 
 friend's advice, my dear go back before he knows 
 you have run away." 
 
 Marie made no offer to interrupt. She shrank 
 133
 
 MANDERS 
 
 into silence tinder the consciousness that she had 
 abandoned the right to rebuke Mother Pugens or 
 to recoil from comparison with Lizette. When, how- 
 ever, the old woman, believing that she had made an 
 irresistible plea, asked beamingly, 
 
 " Well, what do you say, my dear ? " 
 
 Marie answered, 
 
 "There has been no quarrel, Mother Pugens. 
 There has been nothing to quarrel about. Edouard 
 was sick, and I stayed where I could care for him. 
 He is well now, and we have come home. That is 
 all there is to it." 
 
 "Then the more fool you, my dear," said the 
 other, with a sceptical wobbling of the head, and 
 took herself off, wisely muttering. 
 
 Blakemore called half an hour after one of these 
 missionary visits of Mother Pugens. Marie received 
 him in a manner so friendly and frank that he was at 
 once reassured. She suffered him to kiss her cheek, 
 and was passive to the caress of his arm about her 
 shoulder, but she made no responsive gesture. 
 
 " You forgive me ? " he whispered, lest Manders 
 should hear him in the other room. 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive," she answered, her 
 eyes calmly looking into his. 
 
 "Then you do love me a little?" he asked, 
 betrayed into the question by his surprise. 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; I love you. I love you." Just a 
 tremble in the voice, as if a sigh or a sob had started 
 and been mastered ; just a quiver of the eyelids, as if
 
 MANDERS 
 
 they were of a mind to close down over the calm, 
 grey-blue eyes ; otherwise a very placid, emotionless 
 answer. 
 
 "Then why did you leave me? " 
 
 She pointed to the other room, the door between 
 being closed. 
 
 " For his sake and for yours." 
 
 "It is for both our aakes that you should have 
 stayed." 
 
 She smiled, going from him, and moving a chair 
 forward for him. She sat down on the sommier. 
 
 "I have told Edouard you were coming. He is 
 waiting in there till I call him. I wanted to talk 
 with you first. I shall not say easily what I want 
 to say, for you know I am not wise. But I have 
 been thinking it over and over, and perhaps you will 
 be able to understand me. But you must not say 
 anything while I am trying to tell you, or I shall get 
 confused, and then it would all go from me and you 
 would not know what I so much want you to know." 
 
 He made a movement toward her. 
 
 "No need of saying anything, Marie; we under- 
 stand each other as it ia" 
 
 She checked him with the uplifting of her hand. 
 
 a You must wait until I have told you." 
 
 "Yes, I'll let you tell me." He sat back in the 
 chair. 
 
 There was a brief pause, as if she were getting her 
 thoughts in order, not quite sure of their beginning 
 or sequence. For all she seemed so self-possessed, 
 
 135
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Blakcmore felt that she had never been quite BO 
 much in need of the comforting touch of a friendly 
 hand. But he would first let her have her way in 
 this tender little comedy of troubled love. There 
 should be self-upbraidings and tears, and reproaches 
 too ; and then, strong arms and consolation. 
 
 " What do you call dbdnist ? " she asked presently. 
 
 " Cabinet-maker," answered Blakemore. 
 
 " My father was a cabinet-maker in Marseilles, and 
 we were very poor." She spoke as if she were con- 
 tinuing a story well begun. " That is why my mother 
 took me for a model to the artists when I was not so 
 old as Edouard. I have always been a model. That 
 is why I know so little. I was always a model for 
 the nude. That is why I never thought it anything 
 until until Edouard made me think of it. My 
 mother died, and after a time my father. Then an 
 artist brought me to Paris. I was not twelve yet, 
 Everyone took care of me. When I was sixteen I 
 was a favourite model in the schools. M. Manders 
 came with a friend to the Monier Academy one day 
 and saw me. I didn't care for him at first, and never 
 listened to him. But after a time we were married. 
 For a long time, two years, three years, I don't 
 know, I did not know what I had done he was too 
 kind to tell me but Mother Pugens told me. He 
 was a gentleman, and I had disgraced him, ruined 
 him. I was a model. I don't know why that made 
 a difference, but because he married me his family 
 disowned him, and then you know what happened." 
 
 136
 
 Her hands were over her face, arid tears trickled 
 between her fingers. 
 
 " It was no fault of yours," Blakemore cried, 
 going co her and taking her hands in his. "Why 
 do you blame yourself for the idiocy of others? 
 Come, let us think no more of these things. They 
 are past and done with. I am going to be your 
 friend now yours and Manders'." 
 
 The mere shadow of a smile played over her lips, 
 moist with tears. 
 
 "Don't you understand what I have been saying 
 to you?" she asked. "I have been telling you of 
 a mistake I have made a great mistake, a mistake 
 that I am myself jusb coming to understand. Do 
 you think I am wicked enough to make the same 
 mistake again ? " 
 
 " What do you mean, Marie ? What mistake ? " 
 
 "You see, all that I intended to say to you has 
 gone away from me. It was all thought out, but 
 it is not clear now. This is clear to me, though ; 
 I am not the kind of woman you should marry." 
 
 Blakemore started at the word. Marie noted the 
 slight movement, and, comprehending its significance, 
 hesitated a little and then went on in a lower 
 voice, "You could not marry me; I would not let 
 another man ruin his life for me ; and, for my boy's 
 sake, I will never be any man's mistress." 
 
 She spoke these last words with such quiet dignity 
 with such simple unaflectedness that Blakemore 
 was impressed by the firmnesa of the purpose be- 
 
 137
 
 MANDERS 
 
 hind them. He saw her in quite a new light, and 
 felt humbled by the calm gaze of the eyes, in 
 which there was the softness of a love which was 
 not all maternal. He knew he held the heart of this 
 woman ; and he knew, too, that an insuperable barrier 
 was raised between them by the mere poise of a 
 character he had supposed to be weakly submissive. 
 He held her hands in silence, not knowing what to 
 say. He felt that he owed her reparation in some 
 way, but he was at the same time aware that she 
 had closed all ways against him. He was oppressed 
 by the sense of their separation. This was their 
 going apart, their farewell He knew it instinctively, 
 though his heart beat rebelliously against the 
 thought, and he felt a passionate yearning to take 
 her consolingly in his arms, crying down with a 
 pitiful love all her objections, overcoming by the 
 ardour of his own emotions those self-denying scruples 
 that would do her such grievous wrong. A remem- 
 brance of Florence and the day at Vincennes irritated 
 him strangely. He knew that Marie had thought 
 of this more fortunate woman, this woman in every 
 way qualified to be tho wife of a gentleman, and 
 he was certain that this thought had magnified in 
 her mind her own unworthiness. He wished to 
 reassure her, to make her understand how little weight 
 conditions had with him, how thoroughly deserv- 
 ing she was of his best esteem, his sincerest devotion. 
 But these very reflections proved to him that it 
 was compassion, pity, repentance which moved in 
 
 138
 
 MANDERS 
 
 his sentiments for Marie, that love was something 
 other, for his pulses quickened under these thoughts 
 of Florence, irritating though they were as pricks to 
 conscience. 
 
 "Well, Marie?" he said at length, looking down 
 at the hands impassive in his own. 
 
 She sighed, as if suddenly aroused from a reverie, 
 and stood up, gently releasing her hands from his 
 clasp as she did so. 
 
 " If you wish," she said, " I will pose for you until 
 the picture is finished." 
 
 " And then ? " he asked, knowing very well what 
 her answer would be. 
 
 u Then we will say good-bye." 
 
 " No, Marie, not that ! We can always be good 
 friends." 
 
 " Yes, we can always be good friends," she assented. 
 
 " And work together ! " he urged. 
 
 She shook her head, smiling in a half -sad way, the 
 mist gathering in her eyes. There was no need of 
 words. But he protested still 
 
 "Manders must be thought of, you know. His 
 education must be looked to. You cannot do that as 
 well as I. For Manders' sake, Marie ! " 
 
 Again she shook her head. 
 
 " He will go to school There are those where it 
 costs but little. I can earn enough." 
 
 " In the old way ? " he asked. 
 
 " In some way," she answered. 
 
 " You won't let me help ? " 
 139
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Yes, you can help ; think well of me.* She pat 
 out her hand, half-humorously but much in earnest, 
 too. 
 
 "Oh! Marie!" He would have kissed her lips, 
 but she turned aside her head, preventing him. 
 
 "Shall we go on with the picture?" she asked. 
 
 "No," he said, "I shall not finish the picture 
 now." There was a long silence, their clasped hands 
 saying all there was to say. 
 
 " Good-bye, Walter i " she said at last, 
 
 " Good-bye, Marie ! " 
 
 "Shall I call Edouard?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 He took up his hat and stood twirling it in his 
 hands for some moments. Then, suddenly, and 
 thinking only of their parting, 
 
 "I am going to Italy in a few days." 
 
 She remembered the letter postmarked Florence. 
 
 " Yes ; that is right/' she said,
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 EVEN a rigid economy and an exemplary practice of 
 all the personal and domestic virtues will not enable a 
 man with a wife, two daughters, and a son at Harrow, 
 to out much of a figure in the world if he have no 
 more income than a captain's half-pay. Indeed, there 
 were times in the experience of Captain Warley when 
 the question of a no-longer-to-be-averted new frock 
 for a growing daughter was as formidable a financial 
 problem as the negotiation of a governmental loan. 
 Fortunately for her own peace of mind, Mrs Warley 
 had an aversion to Society, so that one carefully- 
 guarded black satin gown and a mantilla shawl, or 
 cloak, originally the property of her grandmother, 
 served her triumphantly on occasions when she 
 recognised the necessity of making an appearance. 
 The captain, by an equal attentiveuess to the folds 
 and creases of a neatly-fitting if no longer fashionable 
 walking suit, could transform himself from morning 
 threadbareness into afternoon gentility with com- 
 paratively little effort. Miss Warley, by reason of 
 her vocation, might have enjoyed a respectable, well- 
 dressed independence if she had not been troubled 
 by some primitive ideas of filial responsibility that 
 
 141
 
 MANDERS 
 
 urged her to give the moiety of her slender earnings 
 into the household treasury. Nevertheless, her 
 spinster angularities were becomingly enough draped 
 in garments befitting the semi-social character of 
 her professional relations. Miss Polly was at that 
 uncomfortable and dispiriting age for girls of an 
 economic menage when the length of skirts becomes 
 a subject of feeling debate. Her daily battle with 
 the vanities of fortune had to do with the distance 
 between her boot-tops and the hem of her garments, 
 and she thought life injuriously beset by hardships. 
 The young gentleman at Harrow had much the best of 
 it, as the representative at large of the family dignity ; 
 and if he was inappreciative of the sacrifices made in 
 his behalf, the household cheered itself to new de- 
 privations by the reflection that a clever lad must be 
 allowed some latitude in the matter of self-develop- 
 ment. Altogether a fairly united family, with no 
 more dissension and bickering than the circumstances 
 warranted. To be sure, Mrs Warley had a some- 
 what acidulated temper, that effervesced without 
 much provocation and sometimes put the captain to 
 the necessity of preparing the family dinner; but 
 the captain admitted to himself that perhaps his 
 cynicisms were rather " rasping " at times, though he 
 meant to be perfectly amiable in uttering them. In- 
 deed, nothing amused or surprised him more than the 
 twists of meaning Mrs Warley could give to a simple 
 and, as he supposed, unoffending speech. He thought 
 she had a special genius for perverting his casual and 
 
 142
 
 MANDERS 
 
 innocent remarks into personal affronts when her 
 moods were cloudy, and the long intimacy of their 
 union had not fitted him to read the signs that might 
 have served as warnings to a less optimistic faith 
 than his own. 
 
 It was early candle-light, and the four members of 
 the family were seated in the sparely-furnished room 
 that served the double uses of drawing and dining- 
 room. The captain and Miss Polly were absorbed 
 in the intricate game of draughts, which was the 
 favourite pastime of the old soldier, who found a 
 serious campaigning interest in routing the forces 
 of the enemy. Miss Warley was occupied in re- 
 arranging the feathers of her hat, and Mrs Warley 
 was considering the ever-vexatious problem of what 
 should be served for dinner. This tranquillity was 
 disturbed by a ring at the door-bell extraordinary 
 phenomenon for the hour. There was a general 
 exclamation of surprise, an exchange of inquiring 
 glances, but no one evinced an intention to answer 
 the bell. 
 
 " I suppose," said the captain, finally, jumping two 
 of Miss Polly's men as he spoke, " that we might as 
 well see who is there." 
 
 Thus urged, Miss Warley went to the door and let 
 in Blakemore. 
 
 His reception was so cordial, and in a few minutes 
 he was so much an old, familiar friend, he was re- 
 luctant to make it known that business rather than 
 courtesy had prompted his first visit He followed 
 
 143
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the captain's conversational lead so deferentially that 
 the delighted veteran was tempted to mount, in turn, 
 all the hobbies of his intellectual stable, and in 
 showering his opinions upon Blakemore imagined he 
 was enjoying the play of his guest's resourceful 
 fancies. He took more for granted than was justified 
 by Blakemore's admissions, and Mrs Warley was 
 moved to object once in a while, 
 
 "But that is not what Mr Blakemore said, Leonard.' 
 " It amounts to the same thing," the captain would 
 respond cheerily. " Men of intelligence hold much the 
 same opinions, though they differ sometimes in their 
 modes of expression. Mr Blakemore says he finds a 
 good many things to admire in the French, which 
 does not at all dispute my opinion that they are an 
 abominable people. He thinks them highly artistic, 
 but that is not to deny that they are morally de- 
 praved and hopelessly degenerate. He says he likes 
 to live among them, but that is not to say that he 
 does not thank God for having escaped the infamy 
 of being born a Frenchman. I find we are very well 
 agreed, my dear. We see the same thing from 
 slightly different points of view; and you must not 
 forget, my dear, that Mr Blakemore, in addition to 
 being young and an enthusiast, is an American, and 
 the Americans are only now reading the introductory 
 pages of socio-political history. They are not as old 
 as their mother yet," he concluded, with merry 
 thrust at Blakemore with the end of ft goose-quill he 
 had picked up from the table. 
 
 144
 
 Blakemore soon after found a chance to say, "I 
 fear I have overstayed my time without having 
 mentioned one of the chief reasons for my call." 
 
 "Overstayed your time!" exclaimed the captain. 
 "Nothing of the kind; you are going to honour us 
 by stopping to dinner." 
 
 The captain shot a glance at Mrs Warley, and 
 repented him. But having hoisted the flag of hos- 
 pitality he determined to keep it floating, despite 
 the threatenings that Blakemore was not in a 
 position to see. 
 
 " I say dinner," continued the captain, with re- 
 doubled cheeriness, "as a mere figure of speech, 
 for the fact is we have surrendered to one of the 
 barbarisms of the Quarter and take our principal 
 meal at one o'clock. As we all go to bed early, we 
 have got into the way of making our evening 
 repast a mere excuse for good-night conversation. 
 We believe in light eating for sound sleeping. I'm 
 sure you won't mind sharing what scraps we may 
 find in the larder." 
 
 Blakemore declared himself flattered to be received 
 so informally into the family circle. 
 
 "Don't make any extra preparation," said the 
 captain, with a benevolent flourish, as Mrs Warley 
 started for the kitchen. "Air Blakemore would 
 rather we wouldn't make company of him. I dare- 
 say he hates fuss and feathers. I do, God knows ! " 
 
 Miss Warley went out, ostensibly to assist her 
 mother, but really to make a flank movement on
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the neighbouring dpicerie. But this stratagem Mrs 
 Warley positively forbade. 
 
 " If your father will invite people to dinner when 
 there is not enough in the house to feed a cat, let 
 him take the consequences. I can see no sense in 
 our slaving our lives away economising in this miser- 
 able hole, if your father is going to indulge his 
 extravagant caprices in this fashion. I haven't the 
 least idea what there is." 
 
 An inventory revealed three slices of ham, a quantity 
 of bread, a jug of milk, a bottle and a half of beer, 
 and enough chicoree for a modest salad. 
 
 "Quite enough," said Mrs Warley, emphatically, 
 when Miss Warley once more proposed to move upon 
 the grocer. "It will teach your father a lesson. I 
 only hope he will be sufficiently ashamed of himself." 
 
 " I am afraid he won't," said Miss Warley, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " No, of course not. The fact that he has put me 
 to a lot of embarrassment would keep him good- 
 humoured through a famine. Nothing gives him so 
 much pleasure as putting me out of temper." 
 
 "I didn't mean that, you know, mother," Miss 
 Warley said, in a suave tone, and busying herself 
 with the salad. 
 
 "Oh, I know who has your sympathies," Mrs 
 Warley petulantly retorted. "Your father has turned 
 all my children against me. He has taught you all 
 to laugh at me and despise me ; but I have no doubt 
 he will reap his reward, in this world or the next 
 
 146
 
 MANDERS 
 
 I should not like to have to suffer his punishment 
 for him ! I think you are putting entirely too much 
 oil in that salad. Oil is expensive, and our bills were 
 something frightful last month." 
 
 Miss Polly had laid the table, Blakemore assisting 
 her, to the captain's delight ; and the veteran, radiat- 
 ing amity and loving-kindness, rashly plunged into 
 the kitchen to help to fetch the things. He returned 
 presently, his gaiety now a mere veneer extravagantly 
 laid on, bearing the beer bottles, the milk jug and 
 the salad. Miss Warley followed with the bread and 
 ham, Mrs Warley bringing up the rear, a glacial smile 
 upon her lips and a grim satisfaction sparkling in 
 her dark brown eyes. The captain's despairing query, 
 "Is this all there is?" as he surveyed the kitchen 
 supply had gone far toward restoring Mrs Warley to 
 her occasional sweetness of humour. 
 
 " Here we are, Blakemore ! " exclaimed the captain, 
 as he re-entered. "Pull up your chair and let us 
 make merry. No form, no airs, you know. It is 
 always Liberty Hall with the Warleys. Look at 
 that! Is that not a salad, eh? What more does a 
 man want with a bottle of beer and a loaf of bread ? 
 What have you got there, Matilda, my dear ? Ham ! 
 Lord bless us, we nev or eat meat at night 1 Oh, for 
 Mr Blakemore ! Very well, set it in front of his 
 place. But a bad practice, Blakemore, a bad practice, 
 my dear fellow I Nothing so bad for the stomach as 
 meat at night Bad for the digestion and damnable 
 for dreams. Don't you find it so ? But you are young 
 
 147
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and tough. I was just as reckless at your age ; but 
 we learn, my dear boy, we learn. There is a bottle 
 of beer for you, and here is one for me. The ladies, 
 sensible creatures, never drink anything but milk at 
 this hour, though they don't object to a little wine 
 earlier in the day. We don't care much for French 
 wines as you find them in Paris ; not the sort of stuff 
 we have at home. London is the only place in the 
 world for good wine. That's the market ! As for 
 the Frenchman's cigars the less said about them 
 the better. Their good ones are pretty bad, and their 
 bad ones are only fairly good. Really, the French 
 have nothing worth speaking of but pastry and we 
 don't like that" 
 
 Cheerily running on, the captain diffused such a 
 glow of good-fellowship, and imparted to the forced 
 economy of his table such a character of hygienic 
 wisdom, that by degrees the party became as jovial 
 as if Barmecide feasts were the true productive centres 
 of conviviality. Mrs Warley relaxed so much the 
 early austerity of her manner that she undertook to 
 vie with the captain in the discharge of pleasantries, 
 and Blakemore found her a woman of the lively in- 
 telligence which allies itself to wit. It was surpris- 
 ing, too, how great a transformation was made in 
 the appearance of Miss Warley, whose plain features 
 assumed a sort of beauty under the spell of sunny 
 gaiety to which she surrendered herself. Kind hearts 
 are wonderful illuminators, and perhaps there are no 
 hearts kinder than those which beat under the prim
 
 MANDERS 
 
 bodices and formal waistcoats of English tipper middle* 
 class conservatism. Even Miss Polly, still at an age 
 when it becomes one to be seen rather than heard, 
 could not resist the levities of the occasion, but be- 
 haved over her milk as if it had been an intoxicant. 
 Altogether, Blakemore thought he had never sat so 
 agreeably at table, and laid down his napkin with 
 the consciousness of having dined to satisfaction. He 
 gave frank expression to his contentment, his remark 
 calling from the captain the wholesome generalisation 
 that hospitality consists not in the things one dis- 
 penses but wholly in the spirit of dispensation. As 
 there was no room to which the ladies could retire, 
 the captain, with a deferential wave of the hand in 
 the direction of Mrs Warley, accorded Blakemore the 
 privilege of smoking as they sat, if he was in the habit 
 of smoking after dinner. The captain himself had 
 rather gotten out of the habit, because, as he said, bad 
 tobacco made him ill, and he found it difficult to keep 
 himself supplied with good weeds from abroad. He 
 might have explained that his abstinence was the 
 result of many lectures by Mrs Warley upon the 
 selfish extravagance of buying cigars to waste in 
 nasty smoke when she was doing without & servant 
 in order that the family might wear whole stockings. 
 It was grateful to see, however, the sybaritic gleam 
 in the captain's eyes as he deprecatingly took the 
 undeniably good cigar Blakemore offered him from 
 his pocket-case. 
 
 * Merely to be sociable," he said, and, blowing 
 49
 
 MANDERS 
 
 rapturous clouds above the gently wavering candle 
 flames, he added, with a sigh, "It seems a pity to 
 burn such virtuous tobacco. Do you know, I think 
 that is what was the matter with Cain ; he grubbed 
 up a lot of tobacco plants in his ignorance and made 
 a bonfire of them strong evidence of the theory that 
 the original Garden of Eden was in America." 
 
 This irreverent conceit was a favourite pleasantry 
 with the captain, the more cherished for the shock it 
 gave Mrs Warley. He laughed immoderately at her 
 remonstrance, an invariable " Why, Leonard ! " and 
 disclaimed responsibility by declaring he had first 
 heard it from General Lord Something-or-other in 
 India, a noble authority for any quotation. 
 
 Not until the evening was well advanced, and Miss 
 Polly had retired dutifully to bed at a nod from 
 her mother, did Blakemore find a suitable opening 
 for an explanation of his coming so unceremoni- 
 ously to the Warleys. He wished to interest them 
 in Manders. 
 
 " My daughter thinks him an uncommonly bright 
 boy," the captain said, when the subject was intro- 
 duced, " and already feels a deep degree of hopeful in- 
 terest in him. She thinks the trouble is going to be in 
 keeping him back, eh, Matilda, my dear ? " 
 
 Miss Warley concurred so feelingly that Blakemore 
 felt relieved of embarrassment as to what he should 
 say on Marie's account. He proceeded at once to 
 state his object. He was going away for a time. 
 Madame Manders was not a woman who would 
 
 150
 
 MANDERS 
 
 consent to receive benefits from him or anyone to 
 whom she could not make compensation, and, being no 
 longer in his employment, so to speak, she would 
 naturally be disinclined to accept favours at his 
 hands, and he feared she might not be able to afford 
 to give Manders a music teacher. But if it could be 
 made to appear that Miss Warley was enough in- 
 terested in the boy to give him lessons gratuitously 
 rather than lose so promising a pupil, why, he, Blake- 
 more, would be only too happy to pay the tuition. 
 Madame Manders would be none the worse for the 
 innocent deception from which Manders would derive 
 so much good. " And," continued Blakemore, bestow- 
 ing upon the captain an argumentative smile as he 
 knocked off his cigar ash, " I should have the satis- 
 faction of knowing that some of my money was being 
 put to a worthy use." 
 
 "I understand you perfectly," said the captain, 
 nodding his head sagely, " and I commend your desire 
 thoroughly. My dear young sir, if every man of 
 means would take it upon himself to look out for 
 the future of some deserving poor lad, we could soon 
 close up our prisons and alms-houses, and reorganise 
 society on a decent basis. What we need in this 
 blessed world of ours is the recognition of the fact 
 that no man has a right to be happy who is not in- 
 telligently and persistently contributing to the happi- 
 ness of those who are less fortunate than himself. 
 But we are blackguards blackguards, the most of us, 
 my dear Blakemore, and we scramble for the front
 
 ZANDERS 
 
 seats without caring a rap what we trample on. I 
 honour your intention, and I am sure my daughter 
 will cheerfully waive any scruple of conscience that 
 might stand in the way of furthering what you so 
 sensibly term an innocent deception. Am I not right, 
 Matilda, my dear ? Don't you fully agree with me, 
 Mrs Warley ? Shall we not oblige our young friend ? 
 You see it is settled. There is my hand, with the 
 guaranty that my daughter will look after the boy 
 as carefully as if he were her own." 
 
 There was some dispute about terms, Blakemore 
 wishing to be generous, the captain insisting upon 
 exact equity and scorning the idea of possible extras, 
 
 " There are no extras under an agreement between 
 gentlemen," he declared, with an emphatic shake of 
 the head, and, consulting Miss Wariey as to her terms, 
 figured out with mathematical precision that the first 
 quarter, for which Blakemore insisted on paying in 
 advance, would come to just one hundred and thirty- 
 five francs, the amount being at once given into Miss 
 Warley's hands. 
 
 " A deuced fine fellow, eh, girls ? " said the captain, 
 addressing his wife and daughter, when Blakemore 
 had gone. 
 
 " Oh ! I suppose there are worse men in the world," 
 Mrs Warley admitted ; " but it seems to me he takes 
 rather a curious interest in this Madame Menders, as 
 you call her." 
 
 "Suspicious, my dear, always suspicious! It is 
 devilish strange how little faith women have in one 
 
 left
 
 MANDERS 
 
 another. One would imagine that you don't believe 
 in any such thing as " 
 
 "Come, Leonard, don't be a fool. It is bed time. 
 You have talked enough for one night"
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 As the atmosphere and life of Paris stimulate and set 
 in play the sensuous fibres of animal being, so the 
 atmosphere and life of Home animate the nobler 
 emotions and the finer sentiments of impressionable 
 natures. Sensibility can have no surer re- baptism 
 into moral grace than comes of passing with con- 
 sciousness from the ever modern and febrile French 
 capital to the tradition-haunted dignity of the first 
 of Italian cities. Vice itself puts on the garment of 
 reserve, and though Hetaira drive along the Corso 
 with her retinue, as her custom is, when the world 
 is gay, the air, heavy with the ghostly memories of 
 two thousand years, softens her laughter into the 
 counterfeit of modesty. It is the extravagance of 
 paradoxy that a city, indelibly stained by excesses in 
 all the crimes and infamies of history, should breathe 
 out the spirit of loftiest inspiration, and quicken in 
 the alien soul all the elements that make for loveliness 
 and virtue. There are squalor and viciousness enough 
 in Rome to eat out the heart of any other city ; but 
 the canker may not touch the vitality of Rome while 
 the miraculous dome of St Peter's towers in bene- 
 diction over the people of the Seven Hills, or the
 
 MANDERS 
 
 battered columns of the Forum are respected witnesses 
 to the solemnity of a glorious past. 
 
 This is seldom a first impression. Disappointment 
 is heavy upon the spirit in the initial days. Modernity 
 gives to expectant enthusiasm a humiliating blow that 
 makes appreciation slow, and Miss Storey, just come 
 from Florence, a city instantly responsive to one's 
 preconceived ideal, felt the change grievously and 
 wished at once to re-arrange their winter plan. But 
 by the time Blakemore and Mr Mendenhall arrived, 
 the place had, as she expressed it, begun to lay hold 
 on her, and the sympathies of these two young men, 
 affectionately acquainted with Rome, speedily brought 
 her to a complete surrender, so that by the end of an 
 exceptionally benignant January, she was, as Mrs 
 Storey declared, " a Roman fanatic." 
 
 Blakemore had joined the Storeys with a wavering 
 sense of proprietory right over Florence in his mind, 
 and was disposed to attach a special importance to 
 some trifling incidents of their Paris leave-taking. 
 He contrived visits to galleries and churches that 
 should exclude the other and dispensable members of 
 the quartette, sentimental projects in which Florence 
 showed an acquiescent interest, but of which Mr 
 Mendenhall was always mysteriously aware in time 
 to give them his personal attention. Mrs Storey's 
 intuitions seemed to be almost equally fine, and 
 Blakemore began to take argumentative note of the 
 fact that whenever the chances of sight - seeing 
 separated the party, it was his invariable fortune to
 
 MANDERS 
 
 be left in the charge of this peremptorily vivacious 
 lady. Of coarse he took occasion to tax Florence With 
 duplicity* adding to his plaint a certain amount of 
 mild reprobation. Looking at him with an affectation 
 of surprise, in which lay a good deal of mischievous 
 malice, she exclaimed, " And do you think, my dear 
 Walter, that I dare trust myself alone with you after" 
 the way you behaved the last time we were together 
 without guardians? Besides, I like being with Mr 
 Mendenhall. He has ideas; and he isn't always 
 trying to stop me in front of pictures with cupids in 
 them. He actually knows the history of the things 
 and places we see, and can tell me about them, and do 
 it without making me feel my ignorance. On the 
 other hand, mamma is getting to like you very well, 
 and thinks you quite a respectable cicerone. I should 
 suppose you would see the advantages of the arrange- 
 ment without an elaborate explanation. But since 
 you are unreasonable enough to want to limit my 
 pleasures, do you mind telling me upon what grounds 
 you base your claim to my obedience ? " 
 
 "I thought an engagement conferred some privi- 
 leges on a fellow," said Blakemore, smiling, but not 
 entirely confident. 
 
 "That is something I know nothing about," she 
 replied complacently. "I suppose an engagement 
 allows of a certain amount of freedom, but I have 
 never felt the need of it I have always been at 
 perfect liberty to do as I pleased, and I never could 
 see that an engagement would enlarge my scope of 
 
 i*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 action. When I find myself hampered, 111 think 
 about it. In the meantime, please bear in mind that 
 your only right in me is the right to have a serious 
 talk with me some eighteen months from now if I am 
 then inclined to listen to you." 
 
 " But your letters to me " urged Blakemore. 
 
 " Mere compositions, my dear Walter. It is the 
 duty of every self-respecting woman to advance her- 
 self in the art of letter-writing. She never knows 
 when it may become useful. That is all that ever made 
 Madame de SeVigne or Jane Carlyle anything more 
 than domestic appendages. You are not bigot enough 
 to deny one some latitude in that field of invention, 
 I hope ? I must have someone on whom to practise I 
 Why are men so ridiculously given to making logical 
 deductions from simple casualties ? " 
 
 Indeed, Blakemore smoked many a good-night 
 cigar that lost flavour in the bitterness of his reflec- 
 tions upon the fretful deficiencies and irritating 
 overpluses of this particular season in Rome, the least 
 satisfying of the several he had passed in the hitherto 
 favoured city. Mrs Storey, who professed an abhor- 
 rence of hotels, and a detestation of pensions, had 
 taken a small but comfortable house just beyond the 
 Porto del Popolo in the embrace of the Pincian hill, 
 where she entertained with sue.h incessant energy 
 that Florence seemed to revolve in the inner eddies 
 of an ever-widening social swirl which kept Blake- 
 more in its outward expansion. Necessarily there 
 was ai* increasing number of reciprocal parties and 
 
 157
 
 MANDERS 
 
 dinners of a limited character, to which neither 
 Blakemore nor Mr Mendenhall was invited, and they 
 found opportunities to indulge in those employments 
 precious to the hearts of men which are exclusive of 
 the frivolously feminine. It was on one of these 
 occasions that, as they idled over their coffee and 
 cognac in the smoke - room of their hotel, Mr 
 Mendenhall suddenly asked, 
 
 " Do you ever play ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, once in a way ; though I am not much 
 good at it except for the other fellows," Blakemore 
 answered, laughingly. " Why ? Are you much in 
 that way?" 
 
 " Well, I have not done much at it since I tried a 
 ' system ' at Monte Carlo last season. But I feel in 
 the mood for a turn at it to-night What do you 
 say?" 
 
 " I don't mind a lira or two," Blakemore assented. 
 " I haven't looked at a card for a year. But I should 
 prefer a quiet little game of poker to baccarat. One 
 loses so much more intelligently when he holds the 
 cards himself." 
 
 "You Americans have such a passion for 'bluff.' 
 Do you know Orteviti's ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I'll introduce you. A quiet sort of place. A 
 kind of club, you know, where you only meet the 
 right sort. You can lose your money without 
 suspicion. Your gentleman Italian is the most re- 
 fined gamester in the world, and takes your purse in 
 
 158
 
 MANDERS 
 
 a way that does you honour. Come along. We'll 
 go to the ballet for half an hour or so and get to 
 Orteviti's in the thick of it Orteviti, you know, 
 belongs to a splendid old family, and had a doge or 
 two, and half a dozen senators for his ancestors. 
 Poor as the devil now, but has to keep up appear- 
 ances. Lives at Venice in the summer, and puts gilt 
 on the family traditions with his winter earnings. 
 Most pathetic thing, the old Italian nobility. Rags 
 and pride makes a deucedly uncomfortable combina- 
 tion ; but the beggars have really got something to 
 be proud of. I don't know but they've got the best 
 of it after all. There is something great about a 
 nation that will starve to death rather than part 
 with its art treasures. Some of our commercial idiots 
 will tell you that the Italians hang on to their pictures 
 and things merely as a bait to money-spending 
 tourists. Rot ! without a yard of canvas or a foot of 
 statuary, Italy would have attraction enough to draw 
 the world into her sunshine. Why, just to lie in a 
 gondola and see the sun go down, or the moon come 
 up behind the domes of Venice ; or to chuck coppers 
 at the naked little brats swimming in the Bay of 
 Naples ; or to watch the washerwomen on the banks 
 of the Arno; or to fish in the mud of old Tiber, 
 here, is worth all the damned nonsense of our pomp- 
 ous modernism, with its trade arrogance and its 
 gold -clinking vulgarities. I always feel like an ass 
 swaggering through the church parade in Hyde Park, 
 or gasping in the crush of some ostentatious reception,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 or bolting the dishes of & deadly ceremonious dinner ; 
 but when I get under the skies of Italy, where you 
 can reach up and touch the blue, and see spread 
 around you every tone and shade and form and con- 
 dition that enters into the perfection of beauty, I feel 
 like a son of God, and I'm devilish glad to be alive. 
 What are you laughing at? Come along; I am 
 dangerously in the way of saying something. It is 
 lucky they have ballets and things in Italy, or we 
 would all be writing Childe Harolds, Casa Guidi 
 windows and stuff of that sort. There is enough of 
 the earth and the flesh here to keep the average man 
 normal. But I should think you painters would go 
 stark mad." 
 
 The ballet was "Excelsior," a great rage at the 
 time, and the two friends were familiar enough with 
 it to time its best effects and escape the ennwi of its 
 Jess interesting features. The ballet, as the worldling 
 knows, is a form of mental dissipation most enjoy- 
 able when taken in small allowances and standing. 
 Nothing is as destructive of the aesthetic values of 
 the divertissement as a fatigued eye or an indolent 
 posture of body. Blakemore and Mendenhall drifted 
 about, giving the stage a critical attention from 
 different points of view, gossiping with acquaint- 
 ances, exchanging glances with would-be indulgent 
 signorinas, until the Triumph of Light reminded them 
 of Orteviti and the real purpose of their evening. 
 
 The places at table were taken, with one exception, 
 and MendenhaJl sat in this, Blakemore playing 
 
 if*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 his shoulder, in an incidental way, that permitted 
 him to look about. The spacious room was charm- 
 ingly furnished, and presented so little the appear- 
 ance of a gambling establishment, that one might 
 have supposed that a gracefully luxurious drawing- 
 room had been temporarily surrendered to the pleas- 
 ure of a purely social card party. At one of the 
 further tables were several young women in the 
 light splendour of evening dress, who played with 
 an intent silence which betrayed the entirely practical 
 purpose of the gathering. In the course of an hour 
 the new arrivals were numerous enough to make the 
 standing players as many as those who were seated, 
 and Mendenhall was having such a run of luck that 
 several players were following his lead. One of these 
 was a nervously impulsive man, prematurely grey, 
 and wearing a decoration, who stood immediately 
 at the left of Blakemore, and placed his bets or 
 recovered his winnings with exclamations of such 
 personal aplomb that one might have thought his 
 volition alone determined the run of the cards. 
 After a time Mendenhall lost several plays in succes- 
 sion, and on the last of these the nervous gentleman 
 so far forgot himself as to tap Mendenhall on the 
 shoulder as he said irritably, 
 
 "Sir, you are playing without discretion." 
 Mendenhall looked up, saying with good humour, 
 " Then it is very foolish of you to follow me." 
 " I do not follow you, sir ! " 
 " Then be good enough not to comment on my play." 
 
 L
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " You are insolent, sir." 
 " And you impertinent." 
 
 " Make your play, gentlemen," said the croupier, in 
 his perfunctory way. 
 
 Mendenhall prepared to place his billets. 
 "My card," said the nervous gentleman, thrusting 
 the article in front of Mendenhall. 
 
 " Thank you ; I have no use for it at present," said 
 Mendenhall, imperturbably. 
 
 " Will you oblige me with yours ? " demanded the 
 other. 
 
 "With pleasure," Mendenhall answered, taking a 
 card from his case and handing it up over his shoulder 
 without looking at the angry gentleman, who took 
 it very ceremoniously, but saying satirically, 
 " It lacks an address, sir." 
 
 Mendeuhall named his hotel, whereupon the gentle- 
 man, declaring that he had the honour to bid his 
 adversary good-night, withdrew with much dignity 
 to another position at the table, where he carefully 
 inscribed the address on the card. 
 
 No one besides Blakemore gave any attention to 
 the incident or seemed to lift eyes from the cloth. 
 The gaming-table is the one arc of the sociological 
 circle at which the gathered particles preserve an 
 incurious individuality. To mind one's own business 
 is the exclusive occupation of this the only practicable 
 democracy. But Blakemore was seriously disturbed, 
 perhaps owing to an insufficient interest in the game, 
 and in deference to his solicitude, Mendenhall soon 
 
 162
 
 MANDERS 
 
 after arose, not much the gainer by the evening's 
 industry. As they were putting on their overcoats, 
 Blakemore said, lapsing into a southernism, 
 " Well, I reckon you are in for it." 
 " Oh ! I don't know," Mendenhall answered, smil- 
 ing; "that was Count Vasselli. He has a mania for 
 collecting cards, I believe. If he doesn't forget the 
 episode by morning he will probably send me an 
 apology, accompanied by an invitation to eat spa- 
 ghette with him. In any event, you needn't have 
 any concern on my account. I fence rather well" 
 When they got into the street there were no cabs 
 in sight, but being in the vein for a smart walk to 
 the hotel, they pushed along with little better light 
 than the paling fires of the morning stars. They 
 were crossing into one of the narrow, winding, dark 
 streets running at right angles with the Corso, when, 
 experience common enough to belated pedestrians 
 through the meaner quarters of Home, they were 
 suddenly set upon by a half-dozen zealous but un- 
 reasoning ruffians, unlearned in the hitting power 
 of two physically-trained Anglo-Saxons with a pre- 
 judice against highway robbery. Several minutes of 
 persistent demonstration were necessary to convince 
 the thoughtless aggressors of their want of judgment, 
 but even then it was the chance appearance of two of 
 the constabulary rather than the force of blows that 
 determined their flight. 
 
 " Rather lively, eh ? " said Mendenhall, laughing, as 
 their assailants made away. 
 
 163
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Yes. Did you get hurt ? " 
 
 " No, I think not, though one of them gave me a 
 sharp thump in the side that I felt for a moment." 
 
 The officers were less disposed to pursue the fugi- 
 tives than to question suspiciously the victims of the 
 assault. In the midst of answering their excited 
 inquiries, Mendenhall grasped Blakemore's shoulder, 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " By George, old fellow ! I've got a queerish sen- 
 sation! You would better take hold of me." 
 
 And not only Blakemore had need to take hold of 
 him, for, with some jocular protests against being 
 made the butt of a peculiarly feminine artifice he 
 presently slipped into unconsciousness ; and the officers 
 became aware that they had neglected a rare chance 
 to distinguish themselves in a chase after assassins. 
 
 " Well, doctor ? " Blakemore asked anxiously at the 
 hotel half an hour later, as the surgeon turned from 
 dressing Mendenhall's wound. 
 
 "A serious case," replied the doctor, shaking his 
 head. "But I think it will be all right. Any re- 
 latives any women here?" 
 
 " No." But he thought of Mrs Storey and Florence. 
 The idea of either of them in a sickroom struck him 
 as being painfully grotesque. 
 
 But ministering angels are to be had for hire 
 in these forward days of systematised pursuits, and 
 there was no danger that Mendenhall would lack 
 for suitable care. 
 
 Mendenhall himself said to the surgeon,
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Is there any hope of pulling me through?" 
 
 " Every hope," was the answer. 
 
 " Then send no word to my family as long as you 
 have a hope." 
 
 Happily, hope is a virtue easy to be entreated, and 
 there came no need for the message home. Menden- 
 hall had a constitutional right to recovery, which 
 he exercised with heroism, and mended apace. After 
 the crisis was past there came flowers and messages 
 from the Storeys, and then came the Storeys 
 themselves. 
 
 "I don't care what people say," Miss Florence 
 urged against her mother's conventional objections. 
 " People's opinions are much too silly for one to 
 bother oneself about. Mr Mendenhall is a friend and 
 among strangers. If by reading to him or talking 
 with him an hour or two a day I can help along his 
 getting well, it is my duty to do it ; and I'll make it 
 my pleasure, too." 
 
 "Very well," Mrs Storey assented at last, shrug- 
 ging her shoulders, but consoling herself with the 
 possibility that "something may come of it." The 
 fact that an able-bodied and youngish heir to great 
 expectations had been so suddenly and so vulgarly 
 brought near to the end of things instructed her 
 anew that time is measured by incidents rather 
 than by duration, and that it is the part of wisdom 
 to make hay when the sun shines. This vein of 
 philosophical reflection led her to the conclusion 
 that the accident to Mendenhall was a providential 
 
 I6S
 
 MANDERS 
 
 interposition that promised to correct that obliquity 
 of mind in Florence which seemed to prefer a 
 commonplace dabbler in oils to a prospective peer. 
 She found it convenient to superintend the daily 
 visits that were drawing nigh unto intimacy, and 
 imagined that she detected symptoms altogether 
 flattering to her hopes. If it were not for the 
 unbalancing presence of Blakemore, she thought 
 there could be no reasonable doubt as to the out- 
 come of relations so romantically fostered. Perhaps, 
 within the circumstances, it was in a measure pardon- 
 able if her maternal sentiments gave an exultant 
 bound when, the morning after Mendenhall's first 
 venture out for a carriage ride, Blakemore came 
 agitatedly to tell her and Florence that he was off 
 to catch the first American steamer, a cable message 
 having notified him of his father's probably fatal 
 illness. Judge Blakemore, being an estimable gentle- 
 man and one of the justices of the Supreme Court of 
 her country, had always enjoyed Mrs Storey's respect 
 and admiration, and perhaps had been allowed some 
 share in her sincere regard ; but she felt that he had 
 never done anything so graceful as timing his demise 
 to suit her purposes, so there was a good deal of 
 genuineness in the sympathetic tears with which 
 she bade the son good-bye. Walter was one of the 
 surviving examples of that perhaps fortunately 
 almost extinct species of young gentlemen who sub- 
 missively reverenced and loved their begetters, and 
 grief at parting with Florence was not the chief 
 
 166
 
 MANDERS 
 
 burden of his heart. The young lady easily dis- 
 cerned her disadvantage at the moment, but, 
 strangely enough, she put it under most favourable 
 interpretation. He parted from her in Mrs Storey's 
 presence, and the only sign between them was that 
 Florence held out to him the hand on which sparkled 
 the ring he had given her.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 As he was leaving the hotel, after having tipped in 
 the proper mathematical ratio the army of servants 
 summoned to witness his departure, Blakemore was 
 handed a letter from Miss Warley. No one, perhaps, 
 has attempted to ascertain why spinsters who ap- 
 proach middle age are so much more conscientious 
 than the rest of the world, though every one is 
 pleasantly or painfully, according to conditions, 
 aware of the fact. Miss Warley was even 
 punctilious, and she conceived it to be her duty, 
 as a beneficiary of Blakemore's bounty, to make 
 and forward a monthly memorandum of whatever 
 concerned the musical progress or personal welfare 
 of Manders. These reports were mere memoranda, 
 for Miss Warley was restrained by a nice sense of 
 feminine propriety from entering into anything in 
 the nature of a friendly correspondence with a 
 young man who might be equal to the misinter- 
 pretation of purely disinterested motives. Blake- 
 more opened the letter as he drove to the station, 
 and read the usual approbation of Manders, there 
 
 being nothing in the report itself to justify the 
 1 68
 
 MANDERS 
 
 writing. A postscript, however, interested him in 
 one of its sentences. 
 
 "I have done aa you requested about the piano. 
 I got a very suitable one for four hundred francs. 
 I told Madame Manders it was one I got at a 
 bargain, and begged her to take care of it for me. 
 She, by the way, coughs in a way I don't like. She 
 caught a cold two or three months ago, that hangs on 
 most stubbornly. She laughs when I speak about it, 
 and says it doesn't trouble her at all Perhaps it 
 is nothing." 
 
 The pulling up of the cab at the station roused 
 Blakemore from a reverie, and he smiled to remember 
 the absurdity of it. He had been building all sorts 
 of inconsequential fancies around that cough of 
 Marie's, as if a cough were something new under 
 the sun. And Marie might pose for the goddess 
 Hygeia herself. 
 
 Someone called to him. Mendenhall was sitting in 
 a cab at the opposite end of the platform. 
 
 "You didn't expect to see me here? I drove 
 out as far as the tomb of Cecilia Metella after 
 bidding you good-bye, when I recollected that I 
 hadn't paid you off as nurse. I want you to 
 wear this." 
 
 He took a pin from his cravat as he spoke and 
 gave it to Blakemore. It was a moonstone in an 
 old-fashioned, curious setting with small diamonds, 
 
 "My grandfather picked it up somewhere in 
 India, I believe it belonged to a rajah who 
 
 ife
 
 MANDERS 
 
 afterwards died some sort of death. There is no 
 end of bad luck goes with a moonstone. Every- 
 body who has anything to do with one is bound 
 to die soon or late. I hope you are thoroughly 
 superstitious ? " 
 
 " I am," said Blakemore, as he put the pin in his 
 own cravat, "so I'll have to buy the point of this, 
 you know. There is your money," giving Menden- 
 hall a two lire piece. 
 
 Mendenhall thought him rather serious. 
 
 " By George ! I believe you are superstitious 1 " 
 he said, laughing. 
 
 Blakemore smiled. " I'll take my chances," he 
 said. 
 
 But he imagined that he had excellent reason to 
 be disturbed in mind by this simple and apparently 
 very friendly incident. This pin and a ring were 
 the only ornaments worn by Mendenhall, and the 
 one was as much identified with him as the other. 
 Blakemore now recalled a remark made by Florence 
 in commenting upon Mendenhall's evident fondness 
 for the pin. 
 
 "I could never many a man who owned a 
 moonstone." 
 
 He thought it singular that this disfavoured 
 object should be made a gift to him at this par- 
 ticular time, and he argued from it to conclusions 
 not in the least agreeable. He could not see i.n it 
 the chance offering of an amiable spirit; he recog- 
 nised only a purpose on Mendenhall's part to get 
 
 170
 
 MANDERS 
 
 rid of something to which Florence affected an 
 aversion. Clearly enough Florence had expressed 
 her prejudices to Mendenhall himself. The question 
 in Blakemore's mind was of MendenhalPs motive in 
 giving the pin to him. Was it the act of a con- 
 scious rival who supposed his purpose could not be 
 suspected, or was Mendenhall deceived by a belief 
 that he occupied a preferred place in Florence's 
 esteem? Blakemore was not long in forming the 
 opinion that Mendenhall was a man incapable of 
 duplicity in his professed friendships with men; and 
 this conviction forced him to the inference that 
 Florence was not above playing fast-and-loose with 
 more than one heart at a time. Yet Florence was 
 audacious in her candour. And had she given him 
 any right to feel an exclusive^' claim to her devo- 
 tion? Was not the understanding between them 
 one that left them both free to form such attach- 
 ments as should best please them in the course of 
 two years? He ended by acquitting both Menden- 
 hall and Florence, without greatly consoling himself. 
 
 " I've half a mind to make a trip to your country 
 myself," said Mendenhall, as they parted "Don't 
 be surprised if I walk in on you some fine morning." 
 He had left the cab, and, leaning on a stick, was 
 walking beside Blakemore, not much the worse for 
 his illness." 
 
 " You will always find the latch-string outside the 
 door," Blakemore responded warmly. " And I think 
 you owe it to yourself to come. A man cannot
 
 MANDERS 
 
 appreciate civilisation until he has visited the United 
 States." 
 
 " One can take that remark either way," Menden- 
 hall said, laughingly. 
 
 " Take it the right way," laughed Blakemore. 
 
 They talked purposelessly until the voyagers were 
 requested to take their places. 
 
 "Any final message for the ladies?" Mendenhall 
 asked, as the guard closed the carriage door. Blake- 
 more considered a moment. 
 
 " Yes, tell Miss Storey that you have given me your 
 moonstone," he said, with a droll expression not easy 
 to interpret. 
 
 w A singular message ! " Mendenhall thought, watch- 
 ing the train pull away. "I wonder if he knows? 
 Rather awkward if he does. What the deuce 
 prompted me to give it him ? Perhaps he and 
 Florence^ By George, I'll find out ! " 
 
 He returned to his cab, giving the driver the 
 address of the Storeys. 
 
 Mrs Storey and Florence were engaged in one of 
 those largely one-sided talks which Mrs Storey styled 
 " a little friendly conversation," consisting of maternal 
 views oratorically declaimed and filial interruptions 
 not always reverential. Naturally enough, Mrs Storey 
 was relieving her mind of the burden of thoughts 
 which sprang spontaneously out of her satisfaction in 
 being delivered of Blakemore's depressing presence. 
 She was a firm believer in the curative power of 
 absence over the disorders of the feminine heart, but
 
 MANDERS 
 
 did not attach enough importance to the contributory 
 virtues of a still tongue. In her moral pharmacopoeia 
 insistence was everything, and to " hammer away " at 
 a given idea was to ensure its efficacy. Florence 
 evidently was predisposed to think too well of Blake- 
 more. The remedy, then, lay in the urgency of 
 Blakemore's special and general demerits. Mrs Storey 
 had been inspired to describe him as " a flaccid young 
 man," and the phrase seemed to her so apposite that 
 she coddled it in all the variations of the thesaurus. 
 Florence was trifling with the keys of the piano, 
 rather more interested in the graceful use of her 
 fingers than conscious of the piece she was slighting, 
 and not strictly attentive to her mother. Her peace* 
 fnl acceptance of the eloquence in depreciation of the 
 supposed object of her inclination was gratifying to 
 Mrs Storey as the evidence of a successful treatment, 
 and the amiable lady was encouraged to emphasise 
 her criticisms. 
 
 " The long and short of it is," she said, " that he 
 lacks intellectual stamina." 
 
 " That, is not it," interrupted Florence ; " he has too 
 much sensibility. He has not yet got rid of all of his 
 conscientious scruples." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! " exclaimed Mrs Storey. " He is an 
 emotional weather-vane, that whirls from one senti- 
 mental point of the compass to another with every 
 change of circumstance. He has neither stability of 
 purpose nor fixity of idea, and no more intelligent 
 ambition than a caterpillar. I don't believe he will 
 
 73
 
 MANDERS 
 
 ever amount to a row of pins. He is one of the men 
 you can lead about by the nose as they do donkeys." 
 
 "An excellent quality in a husband, don't you 
 think, mamma? You have had a pleasant experi- 
 ence, I should say." 
 
 " You are unkind, Florence, to twit me with your 
 father's infirmities ! I didn't make the man ! But 
 though I have learned to make the best of a difficult 
 position, I have no wish to see you subjected to the 
 like conditions. I am giving you the benefit of my 
 experience in advising you how to avoid my mistakes. 
 Nothing could grieve me so much as seeing you married 
 to one of those domestic animals who think their 
 petty orbit makes the circumference of the universe." 
 
 " Then you don't think Mr Mendenhall is a ' domestic 
 animal ' ? " 
 
 " Not of the ruminating variety. But I don't see 
 why you need be frivolous. I am not thinking of 
 men as mere men. I suppose in that respect one is 
 as good or as bad as another. But I am thinking of 
 them in their relation to Society as units or ciphers, 
 and I positively revolt against the idea of being made 
 the mother-in-law of a cipher. Walter Blakemore is 
 not only a cipher ; he has the minus sign in front of 
 him as well. Mr Mendenhall fills the eye quite as 
 commandingly, and has a place in the world already 
 prepared for him. He is somebody. There is no 
 comparison between them. One is scarcely a possi- 
 bility, the other is a fact; one is a gentleman by 
 sufferance, the other by an ancestral patent of 
 
 174
 
 MANDERS 
 
 nobility; one may get so far as to be a tolerable 
 painter of miniatures, the other will in all probability 
 be a peer and able to hire painters as he needs them ; 
 one can keep you struggling in the social crush, the 
 other would lift you above the mob; but I don't 
 insist on Mr Mendenhall, if you are able to do better. 
 I don't care to pick out the man ; I only stipulate for 
 position." 
 
 " And happiness, mamma ? " 
 
 " Bah ! the happy woman is the envied woman. I 
 wish you would study life instead of reading novels. 
 The sentimental twaddlers who write books are 
 responsible for nine-tenths of the married misery. 
 They stuff foolish heads full of insipid romance, and 
 make girls believe that marriage is a sort of Virginia 
 reel, in which one is always grinning at her partner. 
 Marriage should be an exact science based on careful 
 calculation, and the happy marriages are practical 
 ones, in which sentiment is an after consideration or 
 no consideration at all." 
 
 Florence rose from the piano with a laugh as the 
 bell rang. 
 
 " You are delicious, mamma ! What a pity you are 
 not at the head of a girls' boarding-school ! What 
 sport you could have with the affinities. And I 
 suppose you would end by becoming an advocate of 
 polyandry. What a triumph for woman when she 
 can have an assortment of variously distinguished 
 husbands, ranging from a dissipated duke to a rising 
 theologian." 
 
 US
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Sometimes, Florence, you* ideas ate positively 
 indecent," said Mrs Storey, severely. 
 
 Mendenhall was shown in, to the surprise of both 
 ladies, who thought it imprudent of him to be driving 
 out alone so soon after being set free of the doctor's 
 care. 
 
 "I ato quite myself again," he insisted. "In fact 
 I was kept in a week longer than was necessary. 
 These Italian doctors don't know much about English 
 Constitutions. I only carry a stick to oblige the old 
 medico, who would feel chagrined if I made the case 
 less serious than he thought it was." 
 
 "It is so strange they don't catch the scoundrels 
 who did it," Mrs Storey ventured. 
 
 " I am not so sure they haven't caught them," said 
 Mendenhall, smiling. " I was pretty certain of one of 
 the chaps they brought in for me to look at the other 
 day; but I've known so many cases of mistaken 
 identity that I gave the poor devil the benefit of the 
 doubt, and they let him go." 
 
 "To do better next time, with & longer knife," 
 Florence suggested. 
 
 " You are uncommonly tender-hearted, Mr Menden- 
 hall," Mrs Storey said, bestowing a look of benevolent 
 approval upon him. 
 
 " I'm afraid not," Mendenhall answered, giving an 
 emphatic though slight side jerk of the head to in- 
 dicate his seriousness. " I am of rather a vindictive 
 turn of mind. I find a great deal of keen pleasure 
 in getting the better of my enemies, and I have no 
 
 if*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 objection whatever to grinding my heel into the 
 head of a reptile that may get in my path. Bat J 
 do not believe that every man with criminal apti- 
 tudes is really a criminal, or that every hang^dog- 
 looking ruffian is necessarily an assassin. Then, 
 to be candid with you, I hate the tedious processes 
 and lingering stupidities of French and Italian courts 
 of law, and I would rather my assailant should 
 go scot-free than that I should have to go through 
 the worry of the prosecution. As it is, the police 
 seem to be acting on the theory that I am the 
 guilty party, and Mr Blakemore, in going away, is 
 really a fugitive from justice." 
 
 They laughed with him, and presently Mrs Storey, 
 chattering something about wine and biscuit for an 
 invalid, went out to give some orders, forgetting, 
 perhaps, that a bell-rope dangled within reach of 
 the chair in which she had been sitting. 
 
 "1 came to have a talk with you alone," Menden- 
 hall said promptly as the door closed after Mrs 
 Storey. 
 
 "That was very nice of you," Florence said, 
 smiling, and taking a chair nearer to him. * Have 
 you anything especially interesting to say?" 
 
 "That depends upon how you take it, I am 
 going to be very blunt about it." His manner was 
 more earnest than she thought it needed to be. 
 
 "You usually are. What you say has the merit 
 of being easily understood," 
 
 He came to the point at once. 
 M
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "I want to know if there is anything between 
 you and Mr Blakemore ? " He leaned forward a 
 little, his forearm on his knee. 
 
 "Decidedly you are blunt about it! and just a 
 bit impudent, too, aren't you ? Suppose I decline 
 to admit your right to ask me such a question?" 
 
 " That would be n sufficient answer," he said, 
 sitting erect again. 
 
 Florence laughed. He was allowing her a glimpse 
 of an unsuspected amusing side of his character. 
 Jealousy in a strong, well-balanced man of the world 
 was an entertaining abnormity. She had not fore- 
 seen anything so interesting in the make-up of one 
 whom she had always found self-contained and 
 complacent. She deployed those feminine artifices 
 of attitude and look which are supposed to put 
 the reasoning masculine mind at ft disadvantage. 
 The attack seductive is a manoeuvre to be counter- 
 acted only when amour-propre is conscious of a 
 social obligation to be respected. Merely personal 
 defences amount to nothing, for the man most griev- 
 ously abused or most indignantly fired by feminine 
 disloyalty or caprice is as wax to flame under the 
 propitiatory blandishments of a beloved strategist. 
 
 Florence, quite ignorant of the provocation, felt a 
 pleasure in the lowering look with which Menden- 
 hall regarded her, and prepared for an agreeable 
 skirmish that should make her undisputed mistress 
 of the situation. She had not before given much 
 thought to the conquest of Mendenhall. 
 
 178
 
 MANDERS 
 
 * Why do you ask 1 " she asked, looking sidewise at 
 him and toying with a flower in her belt. 
 
 " Because I am not the sort of man to use a friend 
 as a shuttlecock ! " 
 
 Not at all the answer expected. It lacked the 
 necessary element of personal grievance, and Florence 
 was taken aback. She raised her head and her smile 
 gave way to a serious, possibly a resentful expression. 
 She realised at once that the case was not one of 
 simple jealous and corrective pastime. 
 
 " I don't think I understand you," she said. " Be 
 good enough to explain your meaning." 
 
 "Will you tell me if Mr Blakemore is anything 
 more to you than a family friend ? " 
 
 " Will you tell me how that question concerns you?" 
 
 " I gave Blakemore my moonstone at the station ! " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 She raised her eyebrows, looking at him, surprised 
 and expectant. She seemed in no way overwhelmed. 
 There were no indications of detected guiltiness. If 
 there was anything more than bewilderment in her 
 eyes, it was a glint of sarcasm that seemed to convict 
 him of some folly. Nothing more exasperates a man 
 than a suspicion that he has made a fool of himself in 
 a woman's eyes at the moment when he thought to 
 be most commanding. Mendenhall felt that he had 
 made a mistake. 
 
 "Perhaps I haven't begun in the right way," he 
 said, unwilling to yield, yet speaking in an apologetic 
 tone. " I may have given importance to a trifle, but 
 
 179
 
 MANDE;RS 
 
 I came here believing that you had ^well, made it 
 possible fop me to to insult Mr Blakemore." 
 
 Florence rose, looked at him an instant and turned 
 toward the door. Mendenhall sprang up, stepped 
 ahead of her, and held his hand out deprecatingly. 
 
 "Don't go. Not until I have made myself clear. 
 You needn't forgive me, but &t least understand me. 
 I can make it plain in a word I love you." 
 
 He ade no offer to touch her. There was quite 
 enough passionate earnestness in his voice, quite 
 enpugh eagerness in his face, but Blakemore and he 
 had become friends, and the incident at the station 
 was npt yet explained. 
 
 " That justifies everything, of course." She smiled 
 as she spoke, and turned back to the chair on which 
 she had been sitting. " Well, what is the offence for 
 which you wish to chastise me ? I believe you said 
 something about a shuttlecock. Am I one of the 
 battledores, or have I been one of the players ? And 
 what is the great solemnity attached to the giving 
 away of a moonstone ? And please sit down ; I don't 
 like looking up so high." 
 
 He did as she directed, saying, as he seated himself, 
 " I remember your saying to me that yon would never 
 marry a man with a moonstone." 
 
 w Oh ! I say no end of silly things, Mr Mendenhall. 
 I hope you are not ungenerous enough to keep a 
 record of them." 
 
 "And you must have said the same thing to Mr 
 Blak0more." 
 
 ife
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Possibly. I can't always be original in my 
 remarks. You know there are no new ideas, and 
 we must content ourselves with rearrangements of 
 old ones. Probably I did not say it to Mr Blakemore 
 in precisely the same way as I said it to you." 
 
 " I took that for granted, for you were jesting with 
 me, but Blakemore's expression, when I gave him the 
 pin, leads me to believe that you have been in earnest 
 with him. Have you ? " 
 
 " And if I have, what then ?" 
 
 " I shall quit Rome to-morrow and send a telegram 
 to Blakemore's boat telling him of the fact." 
 
 " How moyen age ! And if I have been no more in 
 earnest with him than with you ? " 
 
 " I should not think it necessary to go." 
 
 " You may as well stay, if you have no other reason 
 for going." 
 
 Her smile was perplexing, but he put an interpre- 
 tation on it, and made an impulsive movement to 
 take her hand. 
 
 "Do you mean " he began, but she stood up 
 laughingly, and keeping her hand from him. 
 
 " Don't let your habit of taking things for granted 
 mislead you again, Mr Mendenhall. I have not bid 
 you stop in Rome." 
 
 " But I have told you that I love you. If you are 
 free, if Blakemore has no claim upon you " He was 
 standing in front of her, and held out his arms as if 
 to clasp them about her. 
 
 "Really, Mr Mendenhall," she said, stepping back 
 tat
 
 MANDERS 
 
 from him, " your solicitude for Mr Blakemore seems 
 to allow me but a poor place in your opinion. One 
 can hardly be flattered by a love that is subordinate 
 to a friendship for another man." 
 
 " You wouldn't care for a love that took no account 
 of honour," he said urgently, coming nearer to her. 
 
 " I should doubt the genuineness of a love that took 
 account of consequences," she replied, something of a 
 challenge in her eyes. " I think you are better fitted 
 to play the rdle of a friend than that of the lover." 
 
 "Florence!" He caught her impetuously by the 
 arms. 
 
 " I hear my mother," she said, releasing herself, and 
 moving away from him. 
 
 The door opened and Mrs Storey entered. Her 
 quick, calculating eyes took in the situation at a 
 glance. Florence was self-possessed and ready; 
 Mendenhall was disconcerted and awkward. 
 
 " I have come a little too soon," Mrs Storey com- 
 plained to herself. 
 
 SM
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AN opportunity to renew the conversation so un- 
 timely interrupted did not soon present itself ; more 
 accurately speaking, Florence carefully avoided or 
 nullified the occasions with which fortune and Mrs 
 Storey were disposed to favour MendenhalL If the 
 two were left alone together, as inevitably happened 
 now and again, Florence launched into such imper- 
 tinent talk as would have made the introduction 
 of a sentimental subject ridiculous from Mendenhall's 
 point of view. In his opinion, love-making with a 
 matrimonial objective was a momentous affair. 
 Light-witted campaigning he reserved for quite 
 another phase of the passion, and he would have 
 imagined himself wanting in delicacy were he to 
 arrest mental frivolity with a heart emotion. He 
 lent himself wholly to Florence's moods, but at the 
 same time he assured himself that he was making 
 progress with her, and that circumstances would 
 fashion a suitable hour for the reward of his 
 patience. Satisfied that he was obliged to no 
 chivalrous restraint in Blakemore's behalf, he was 
 in no haste to have his own amatory status defined, 
 finding a peculiar pleasure in the torments of un-
 
 MANDERS 
 
 certainty. Florence, as a problem in possibilities, 
 had, for him, a stimulating fascination that he 
 feared might disappear with the establishment of 
 a positive understanding between them; so he 
 continued on "dawdling," as Mrs Storey said to 
 herself with some irritation. 
 
 Blakemore had been gone six weeks, and spring 
 had come in with a rush that had splashed the young 
 verdure of Rome with great patches of white and 
 yellow and purple blossom, and filled the soft air 
 with the rich perfume of the great stone pines. The 
 three had come for a morning stroll through the 
 extensive and picturesquely beautiful grounds of the 
 Villa Borghese, animated by hundreds of people 
 joyous in the sunshine or in the already welcome 
 shadows of the trees. There is a secluded fountain 
 with great circular stone basin, whose moss-grown rim 
 rises waist-high above the ground, its water, dark 
 under the shading trees, seeming to have an un- 
 fathomable depth. Centuries were necessary, one 
 would imagine, to give the fountain its appearance 
 of solemn antiquity, but Mendenhall, leaning over 
 the basin and swishing his stick in the water, said, 
 
 " How like the Italians ! Having destroyed pretty 
 much everything that was really old in Rome, they 
 construct these shams to trick the imagination." 
 
 "But they are not shams," insisted Florence. 
 M What difference does it make how old or how new 
 they are, if they fill the purpose of beauty and fit in 
 with the romance of the scene? I've no patience 
 
 184
 
 MANDERS 
 
 with you stupid people who get all your enthusiasms 
 out of dates, and affect such a precious scorn of the 
 modern. Your enthusiasms are not enthusiasms at 
 all, but gushing echoes of somebody else's worked-up 
 extravagances." 
 
 " Then I suppose the Coliseum " Mendenhall began 
 smilingly. 
 
 " That isn't the same sort of thing at all," Florence 
 interrupted. " It is the imposing, awful majesty of 
 the thing itself, plus our knowledge of the fearful and 
 splendid uses to which it was put, and not its age, that 
 inspire and thrill us. If it were a question of age, 
 you would better fall down and worship the hill 
 behind it, which I dare say is some thousands of yeare 
 older. Do you love the Venus of Milo because it is 
 old and battered, or because it is incomparably 
 beautiful in spite of being old and battered?" 
 
 " Well, for a little of both, I think. I am not sure, but 
 I think age is the greatest painter of the beautiful." 
 
 " Now that is a platitude. How deep do you think 
 this water is ? " 
 
 I don't know ; I'll see." 
 
 He put down his stick until his hand was wrist- 
 deep in the water. 
 
 " There is more of it than I thought," he laughed ; 
 " I'll have to undo my cuff." He began fumbling at 
 the links. " Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing it for 
 me?" 
 
 He held out his dripping hand to her. Mrs Storey 
 had wandered some distance beyond them and sat 
 
 185
 
 MANDERS 
 
 watching a group of picturesquely ragged children 
 capering for coppers. 
 
 " You needn't take that trouble about it ; let me 
 try ; my sleeve is loose." She shoved her sleeve 
 above her elbow and reached for the stick. The arm 
 was white and round and good to look upon. 
 
 " The water is a little chilly," he said, still retaining 
 his hold upon the stick. 
 
 " So much the better ; getting angry with you has 
 made me warm." 
 
 " I didn't know you were angry." 
 
 "That is because you are not penetrating. It 
 always makes me angry when I have to defend my 
 opinions." 
 
 She thrust the stick into the basin and began 
 groping for the bottom. 
 
 " Mercy ! there is no bottom to it ! Pull my sleeve 
 up higher clear to the shoulder. That will do- 
 Ooh ! how delightful it is ! I'd like to plunge in all 
 over. What a good thing it must have been to be a 
 nymph. This fountain was undoubtedly made for 
 nymphs. That is why there is no bottom to it; if 
 there is, I can't reach it. Is your arm much longer 
 than mine ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I would better find you a longer stick." 
 
 " Do. Will it matter if I lose hold of your stick ? 
 I came near doing so." 
 
 " It will come to the top if you do." 
 
 He went off to find a suitable rod, and she began 
 amusing herself thrusting the stick down an4 letting
 
 MANDERS 
 
 it shoot up of its own buoyancy, becoming childishly 
 absorbed in a pastime to which excitement was 
 added by the wilful attempts of the stick to come 
 up beyond her reach. 
 
 Mendenhall came back with a handful of long 
 grasses. " Here we are," he said, putting them down 
 on the rim of the basin. 
 
 " What in the world is that for ? " 
 
 " I'll tie these blades of grass together, make a line, 
 and with a pebble at the end we'll have a first-class 
 plummet." 
 
 " Really, I believe you are clever." 
 
 "Well, you'd better stop playing in that water. 
 Take my handkerchief and dry your arm." 
 
 " I suppose mamma would have a fit if she saw me." 
 
 She took the handkerchief he held to her and 
 began drying her arm as he set about making his 
 sounding-line. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation 
 of alarm. Mendenhall looked up. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " 
 
 "I have lost one of my rings the one Walter 
 gave me." 
 
 " The one ' Walter ' gave you ! " he repeated, stop- 
 ping still and looking hard at her. 
 
 She had spoken unconsciously, but his manner 
 restored her balance. 
 
 " I should have said lent me ; it is his, not mine," 
 she replied easily, but there was more than the usual 
 colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were looking on the 
 finger where the ring had been. "And I was just 
 
 187
 
 MANDERS 
 
 going to send it back to him." She laughed a little 
 nervously, pulling down her sleeve. 
 
 " So you were engaged to Walter Blakemore ? " he 
 said, with his teeth set, speaking his thoughts aloud 
 rather than addressing the words to her. 
 
 She looked up indignantly, but his face frightened 
 her. She had never seen that sort of anger in a 
 man's face before. 
 
 " You have dared to trifle with me, tempting me to 
 play the part of a blackguard ! " he went on brutally, 
 judging her. " What kind of woman are you, then ? 
 There is your mother; you do not need an escort." 
 He was turning away. 
 
 Her eyes blazed. An any;er as great as his own 
 flamed and paled in her face. His stick lay on the 
 basin ledge. She snatched it up. 
 
 " You coward ! " she exclaimed, and struck him over 
 the shoulder. Instantly the stick fell from her hand, 
 and shame took the place of anger in her cheeks. She 
 covered her face with her hands and leaned down 
 against the wall of the fountain, silent, but trembl- 
 ing with the intensity of her emotions. 
 
 Nothing could have appealed to Mendenhall as did 
 that impulsively, passionately-struck but forceless 
 blow. The fact that it outraged all his ideas of 
 feminine character and reserve made the piteousness 
 of it the only thing upon which his mind could take 
 hold, and he was conscious of a rush of penitent 
 sympathy with the girl whom his savage contempt 
 had beaten down in this way. He looked about him. 
 
 HI
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Fortunately there were no spectators of the incident 
 The nearest and only visible persons were Mrs Storey 
 on the distant bench, and the children she was watch- 
 ing. He, was glad of that for her sake. He hesitat- 
 ingly, timidly put his hand upon her arm. 
 
 " Don't touch me," she said, but as if the touch 
 were a physical hurt rather than an indignity. 
 
 He withdrew his hand, saying in a low voice and 
 pleadingly, 
 
 " If I did not love you I could not so have insulted 
 you." 
 
 She made no response, and he stood looking down 
 upon her, waiting until she should lift her head. He 
 entered upon a self-arraignment. What particular 
 virtue in him gave him the right to judge this woman 
 harshly? How came it that he assumed to have 
 standards of honour and responsibility so much above 
 those of men in general ? Was it, after all, loyalty 
 to principle and not a phase of egotism that made him 
 resent her " trifling " with him ? Was not his anger 
 due to disappointed love more than to shock to 
 those nice scruples concerning man's obligation to 
 man which he had always imagined he possessed in 
 eminent degree ? Love was a free agent ; and if love 
 came to him, what business was it of his to inquire 
 if someone else were the loser ? Did the fact that 
 another man loved this woman constitute an in- 
 violable claim upon her before she had really sur- 
 rendered her freedom of choice ? What was an 
 engagement more than an agreement to consider the 
 
 ife
 
 MANDERS 
 
 advisability of entering into a formal and definite 
 contract? Why should he ascribe sanctity to that 
 which the rest of the world regarded merely as a con- 
 ditional convenience ? Why should he not strive for 
 a prize that was still a challenge to fair competition ? 
 Quixotisms had nothing to do with real men and 
 women, with the actualities of practical life and 
 love was to seize upon its own wherever and when- 
 ever it could. 
 
 " I was a fool," he said suddenly, bending over her. 
 " I was mad with jealousy. Punish me, but forgive 
 me." 
 
 She raised her head, drawing her hands down over 
 her cheeks to dry away the traces of tears, and stood 
 before him, no longer either ashamed or angry, but 
 calm, and he thought he read in the pallid and pained 
 expression of her face an admission that gave him heart. 
 
 " You ask what kind of woman I am," she began. 
 
 " Don't speak of that," he interrupted protestingly. 
 "Nothing you can say can make me feel more like 
 a cad. I was a beast. Forgive me." 
 
 "I will tell you," she went on, as if he had not 
 spoken. " I was in no way bound to Walter Blake- 
 more. We were not engaged. That ring had no 
 such significance. You have made it a betrothal 
 ring. Get it for me." 
 
 She turned away and went in the direction of her 
 mother, leaving him disconcerted and blank, because 
 of her manner rather than her words. 
 
 He watched her crossing the space between him 
 190
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and Mrs Storey, now in the sunlight, now in the 
 shadow, and thought how little the careless grace of 
 her movements indicated any perturbation of heart or 
 mind. He saw by her actions when she joined her 
 mother that she was telling of the loss of the ring, 
 explaining why he remained at the fountain. Mrs 
 Storey seemed of a mind to come to him, but Florence 
 dissuaded her. Mrs Storey fluttered her handker- 
 chief at him encouragingly, and the two went down 
 the little path to the road as Mendenhall whistled 
 and held up his stick to signal the playing children. 
 Several boys came running to him. 
 
 " Can any of you dive ? " he asked. 
 
 The boys exchanged glances of much inquisitive- 
 ness, the question struck them so oddly. Foreign 
 visitors to Rome, especially English and American 
 ones, are always enigmatical to the young bandits 
 of the streets, they seem to have such peculiar ideas 
 of entertainment It was like this big, blond man to 
 want to see them tumbling in this fountain against 
 which he was leaning. 
 
 "Yes," said the tallest and slimmest of the boys, 
 M we can all dive, but we are not going to not in 
 there," grinning sagaciously and pointing into the 
 fountain. 
 
 " But I have dropped a ring in here, and I'll give 
 you a gold piece if you get it." 
 
 "They would arrest me," said the boy,- tempted by 
 the offer, yet reluctant to let cupidity lead him into 
 danger.
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "A whole twenty lire piece," urged Mendenhall, 
 showing the coin. 
 
 Two or three began flinging off their rags, but the 
 tall boy was the first to climb upon the rim of the 
 huge basin and plunge in where Mendenhall directed. 
 After a number of unsuccessful efforts, during which 
 the others clamoured to be let into competition, the 
 ring was brought up with a handful of leafy deposit 
 and triumphantly held out to Mendenhall. 
 
 Later in the day Florence received the jewel with 
 the message, " When may I see you ? " 
 
 The messenger brought back the answer, 
 
 "When I send for you; but I thank you for re- 
 covering my ring." 
 
 " My ring ! " he repeated, emphasising the pronoun 
 in an unamiable way. " That is the end of it, then ! 
 I am to be sent for when I am wanted ! Oh ! very 
 well ! very well ! " 
 
 But he sat down at his table and began writing. 
 At the end of the four pages he stopped to read over 
 what he had written. He then tore the paper into 
 ribbons, kicked over his chair and lighted a cigar. A 
 few inhalations helped him to an orderly train of 
 thought, and he planted himself before one of the 
 windows overlooking the street to follow it out. 
 
 It was not a very pleasant train of thought, but he 
 was greatly annoyed when a knock at the door inter- 
 rupted it. A valet came in to say that a gentleman 
 had called to see the signer, and had sent up his 
 card.
 
 MANDERS 
 
 14 1 am not in to any one," said MendenhalL 
 But he glanced at the card the valet had handed 
 him. It bore the name of the Count Vasselli. 
 " Humph. You may show the gentleman up." 
 He smiled as he recalled the incident at Orteviti's 
 in the night when he and Blakemore had been way- 
 laid. 
 
 "What brings the old imbecile around at this 
 late day?" 
 
 Count Vasselli came in with a curious mingling 
 of dignity and affability that cautiously polite 
 manner in which one greets an acquaintance of 
 whose identity he is uncertain. 
 
 Mendenhall received him good-humouredly. 
 "You are quite well again, Mr Mendenhall?* 
 "Quite well, I thank you, Count." 
 "They tell me you had a very serious affair?" 
 " Oh ! it could easily have been worse." 
 "Do you know, sir, I was much amused when 
 my friends came back from your hotel to tell me 
 you were dying, the morning I sent them to you 
 with my compliments?" 
 
 " Does a man's dying always amuse you, Count ? " 
 " Oh ! Maria, not at all ! not at all ! It was the 
 idea of sending a challenge to a dead man that I 
 found so comical. It put me into such a good 
 humour that I immediately wrote you out an in- 
 vitation to dine with me ; but just as I was hand- 
 ing it to my servant, I remembered that it was no 
 easier for a dead man to eat than to fight, and I
 
 MANDERS 
 
 had another good laugh. I have to thank you for 
 two of the pleasantest half hours I have had in 
 years two of the very pleasantest in years." 
 
 "I am sure I am very glad if I have been able 
 to drift a little sunlight into your life, Count. 
 And in what way can I contribute to your further 
 happiness ? " 
 
 "I should have called upon you before, but I've 
 been in Naples. I returned only yesterday morn- 
 ing. In the first instance, I wish to tell you that 
 I forgive you." 
 
 Mendenhall bowed with impressiveness. 
 
 " A gracious act, worthy of your nobility, Count" 
 
 " In the second instance, I wish you to dine with 
 me to meet some friends on Thursday night." 
 
 "I am very sorry that it is impossible; but I 
 leave Rome to-morrow." 
 
 "Leave Rome to-morrow! Not to be thought 
 of ! You must postpone your going until after 
 my dinner!" 
 
 "I cannot do that." 
 
 "You mean you won't do that!" said the 
 Count rising, half disposed to be irritated by the 
 decision of Mendenhall's tone. "Shall I take your 
 answer as a renewal of the affront you put upon 
 me?" 
 
 Mendenhall rose gravely, and said, with a 
 deferential gesture, and looking down to hide the 
 smile in his eyes, 
 
 "I do not believe you will do that, my dear 
 194
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Count Vasselli, when I tell you that the interests 
 of a lady are involved." 
 
 The Count was pacified at once. He bowed 
 pormissively. 
 
 "That gives the matter quite another aspect. I 
 excuse you, but regretfully. However, my carriage 
 is at the door. You must drive with me. You 
 cannot refuse me that satisfaction." 
 
 "It will be an honour as well as a pleasure, 
 Count." 
 
 "Much pleasanter than being run through with 
 a sword, eh, Mr Mendenhall?" 
 
 The Count, in excellent agreement with himself, 
 perked his head jauntily, and regarded Mendenhall 
 with a smile of good-natured indulgence. 
 
 "I am persuaded, Count, that you would be a 
 most chivalrous adversary. I have been told that 
 your courtesy is so much greater than your resent- 
 ments, that, though you have been principal in a 
 score of duels, you have invariably forgiven rather 
 than injure your opponent." 
 
 "I am peppery, Mr Mendenhall, and take offence 
 easily, but I am charitable, and if I am quick in 
 wrath, I am not slow to make allowance for the 
 imperfections of my fellows. Besides, as soon as 
 I find that a man will fight, I know that he is 
 worth having as a friend." 
 
 Count Vasselli was, indeed, a jest of the clubs, 
 for the headlong excitability of temper that hurried 
 him into difficulties, that, threatening to terminate in
 
 MANDERS 
 
 bloodshed, were usually dissolved in champagne. He 
 had exchanged cards with half his acquaintances, 
 but had never got beyond striking sparks from a 
 rapier. 
 
 They took their places in the Count's open landau 
 and were soon in the going and coming stream of 
 carriages, which every afternoon moves leisurely 
 along the Corso, and up into the Villa Borghese and 
 back again in fashionable monotony. The Count, 
 who was incessantly bowing, seemed vastly pleased 
 that Mendenhall was fairly active in that respect, 
 and took the trouble to felicitate him upon having 
 dwelt so profitably in Rome. When the Queen 
 drove by, the Count arose to his feet to bow with 
 becoming ceremony, but he was not wholly inatten- 
 tive to his companion. Resuming his seat he stared 
 at Mendenhall in angry surprise. 
 
 "You did not salute her majesty!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Mendenhall had not seen the Queen. His eyes 
 had been occupied with the occupants of the second 
 carriage beyond. His mind was engaged with 
 thoughts of Florence, and he had recognised her 
 and her mother some distance away, so the royal 
 carriage passed as an unimportant factor of the 
 procession. His gaze was eagerly fixed on Florence's 
 face. He saw her look in his direction, but she 
 gave no sign of recognition. When they came nearer, 
 just when the Queen was passing the Count's carriage, 
 she looked at him a second time, and his hand 
 went instinctively to his hat, but before he could
 
 MANDERS 
 
 lift it, her eyes were turned in the opposite direc- 
 tion. A moment after the Count was railing at him, 
 and she was passing by within reach of his hand 
 should he stretch it out. Mrs Storey bobbed her 
 head and smiled, and pantomimed to say that 
 Mendenhall should be in the carriage with them. 
 
 "Don't get into a passion, my dear Count, I'll 
 make amends. When we pass her majesty again 
 I'll stand up with you." 
 
 The Count beamed upon him, and laid a hand 
 familiarly upon his knee. 
 
 " You noticed it, eh ? " They laugh at me a good 
 deal for that But I can't help it. It is automatic. 
 / don't do it I've found out what does it, though 
 it is the combination I You know queens hardly 
 ever look like queens: Margherita does. And then 
 you seldom see a really beautiful queen or princess. 
 Margherita is beautiful There you have it; it is 
 the union of Queen and Beauty to which I rise ; 
 and I assure you, my dear gentleman, it is altogether 
 outside of my control Absolutely! And I'm glad 
 of it!" 
 
 Mendenhall went to a concert that evening to 
 "think it out." He cared little for music, and 
 could scarcely distinguish between a Chopin nocturne 
 and a Hungarian rhapsody, being as indifferent to 
 one as to the other. Music was for him, he said, a 
 besom to clear the cob-webs out of his mind and give 
 thought a chance. Like Tennyson's girl with the 
 water-jug, he "heard and not heard," his thoughts 
 
 97
 
 MANDERS 
 
 having nothing to do with the sound of over-flow. 
 He fancied his ideas were something like the acrobats 
 at a varieties hall, who can only be brought into 
 action by a flourish of fiddles. At any rate, he could 
 never pull himself together, intellectually, half so well 
 as when sitting under the influence of a good 
 orchestra; and if he left the place ignorant of any 
 and every feature of the programme, it was at least 
 with his mind made up what to do in the matter 
 debated. 
 
 Returned to his hotel he wrote a number of notes, 
 one to Mrs Storey, packed his belongings, and by 
 noon the next day was whirling along, if that may 
 be said of Italian railway locomotion, on his way 
 to London. 
 
 And that day Florence said to her mother, 
 "Don't you think Rome is getting to be a bore?" 
 
 its
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 " MONTE CARLO, April 5. 
 
 "DEAR WALTER, We are, as you may see, inching 
 our way back to Paris, though we haven't any idea 
 when we shall get there. For my own part, I am in 
 no hurry to quit this place. It is enchanting, and I 
 am only sorry that you have been here, for I feel 
 quite equal to a descriptive rhapsody that would stun 
 you. But you need not conclude that it is the pris- 
 matic wickedness of the life here to which I have 
 fallen an eager victim. It is the scene; though, of 
 course, people are necessary to the perfection of a 
 scene, and, of course, at Monte Carlo one must dance 
 to the pipers, and that means a soupcon of some kind 
 of naughtiness. Naturally one does not slight the 
 Casino. We have become habitues of the most de- 
 termined order, though we do not always play it 
 is so expensive. 
 
 "Mamma had what they call a run of luck the 
 other day, and at one time was about 4000 francs 
 ahead of the game (I believe that is the proper 
 phrase). She had, however, some of that vaulting 
 ambition which overleaps itself (a Shakespearianism 
 which I never could understand), and came to grief
 
 MANDERS 
 
 in her efforts to win 10,000. Between as we lost 
 1500 francs, though mamma insists that it was a 
 loss of 5500 francs, for she will count in the 4000 
 she had for a little while. Now we are economizing 
 to make up that extra. Isn't that like mamma ? 
 
 " You ask me a great many questions in your letters. 
 Questions requiring an answer are not legitimate to 
 a friendly correspondence. They impose an annoy- 
 ing responsibility upon one of having the letters at 
 hand to be consulted every time one has finished 
 writing a paragraph. It is an abuse of good-nature 
 A correspondence does not mean answering letters, 
 it means exchanging them; otherwise it is in the 
 nature of a business transaction, I don't keep your 
 letters about me ; indeed, 1 don't keep them at all. 
 They charge for every pound of luggage in Italy, and 
 they allow but little in France. I remember two of 
 your last questions, however, and don't mind answer- 
 ing them. Mr Mendenhall is not with us. He has 
 not been for some time. I don't know where he is. 
 He probably has a reason for not having answered 
 your letter. I should think you would express your 
 wonder to him and not to me. That is the more 
 sensible thing to do, isn't it? 
 
 "The other question is not so easily answered, 
 because it has suspicious elements. I see no reason 
 for calling on the Warleys or the Manderses if I 
 'stop long enough in Paris.' Your interest in them 
 may be commendable without being weighty, as a 
 reason for my being interested in them. I daresay 
 
 800
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the Manders's boy merits all you say of him, and he 
 may be the paragon of prodigies for anything I know 
 to the contrary; but as I am a woman, I claim t 
 woman's privilege of suspecting that it is the mother 
 rather than the child from which your zeal draws 
 tire. Don't imagine that I object in the least to that 
 phase of it. I have no false notions as to the pre- 
 ponderance of Josephs in the social economy. To be 
 downright candid with you, I've no great opinion of 
 Josephs. But I do very decidedly object to being 
 used as an instrument for stirring other people's 
 chestnuts about over the coals. You need not feel 
 called upon to reiterate your eulogies of the saintli- 
 ness of Madame Manders. I take all that for granted. 
 I allow that she is the one unblemished sheep in the 
 Parisian fold, and that I might do well to bear 
 frankincense and myrrh to her and her boy ; but I 
 am a Pharisee, and attach a great deal of importance 
 tK> appearance, confessing my inability to grasp the 
 spirit of things. I might nave been content with 
 giving you a simpler reason for answering your 
 question in the negative, for, as a matter of fact, we 
 are not to stop in Paris at all ; but I don't care to 
 have you entertain an erroneous idea as to the ex- 
 tent of my gullibility. A timely correction of your 
 opinion may save you from future embarrassments, 
 it being my observation that men are not what you 
 might call geometrically exact liars. Their terms 
 do not observe a common ratio of progression, and 
 they are always betrayed by an excesa
 
 MANDERS 
 
 M No ; we shall not stop in Paris more than a fort- 
 night We are going straight to London, where we 
 expect to arrive about the middle of May. We 
 shall stop there until the 23d of June, and then 
 you are the first to receive this important and 
 really momentous intelligence we are to sail for 
 home! You are probably not as much surprised 
 as you ought to be, for papa wrote in his last 
 letter (a desperately private one, which I have not 
 yet shown to mamma) that he had told you of his 
 intention to urge me to persuade mamma to come 
 home. My persuasion consisted in declaring the 
 fact of my determination to sail in June even if I 
 had to hire a chaperon. You see I do have spasms 
 of filial sober-mindedness which might answer for 
 sympathy with the dear, stupid man; and I 
 authorise you to soothe him with this bit of in- 
 formation, for I shall not have time to write two 
 letters this week. 
 
 "Perhaps I should tell you before winding up 
 this jumble of nonsense that I have committed 
 what you may think an unpardonable indiscretion. 
 Circumstances, which I do not think it necessary 
 to recount, have made it advantageous for me to 
 call your ring a betrothal ring. Though, as I 
 have let you know before this, I look upon engage- 
 ments as a kind of impeachment of a woman's 
 character, marking her off as something set aside 
 for future consideration, or taken on trial, I am 
 willing to let you hold an option on me until we 
 
 202
 
 MANDERS 
 
 have a chance to talk the matter over. This gives 
 you a fine opportunity to 'decline with thanks/ 
 but if you do anything so unimaginative and pro- 
 vincial, I shall have too much pity for you to be 
 angry. I understand well enough that this amounts 
 to a proposal for your hand, but as I have not the 
 remotest idea of marrying you, you may put any 
 construction you please upon my desire to make a 
 temporary convenience of you. 
 
 "Papa says you are having a great deal of 
 trouble settling up your father's estate, and that 
 times are hard. Well, that may give you a taste 
 for practical affairs, and cure you of your passion 
 for dabbling in oils. After looking upon miles and 
 miles of canvases painted by nobody but cataloguers 
 knows who, I have come to the conclusion that the 
 painting industry is overdone; and I would like to 
 see you take up with something in which you could 
 amount to something. Why don't you go in for 
 politics ? It isn't the most reputable business in the 
 world, I believe, but it does admit of quick personal 
 distinction, if one has an accommodating conscience. 
 But you, I fear, belong to the accountable type of 
 men. Good-bye. FLORENCE." 
 
 " PARIS, May S. 
 
 " DEAB MR BLAKEMORE, Is your arithmetic bad ? 
 or have you forgotten my terms ? Your last cheque 
 was for 200 francs too much, and I return you 
 
 203
 
 MANDERS 
 
 that amount enclosed. It is true you wrote of 
 extras; but there are no extras. 
 
 " I believe there is a good deal that I ought to 
 write about to you, but I am such a wretched 
 letter writer, it is very likely I won't know how to 
 say it. In the first place, Manders is doing so well, 
 that I begin to think he needs a better teacher. 
 He takes to music as most boys take to mischief. 
 I cannot keep him restrained, and he makes me feel 
 that I am not up to him. He is not like a boy of 
 eight at all. He seems twelve at least. His tech- 
 nique, of course, is not good, and he does not read 
 new music very well, but he can play almost any- 
 thing he hears played, and you will hardly credit 
 me when I say that he improvises wonderfully. 
 The objection is, that he prefers 'playing out of 
 his head,' as he puts it. It is amusing to see how 
 much in awe of him Mrs Manders has come to be. 
 She does a great deal of sewing now, and she 
 always sits in the room with her work when I 
 am giving him his lesson, but I notice that her 
 work stops, and she sits listening to him with a 
 mixture of tears and smiles, as if she were afraid 
 of something, and yet happy too. 
 
 " I wrote to you, did I not, that Mrs Manders has a 
 troublesome cough ? In my opinion it is even worse 
 than it was, but when I suggest that she ought to see 
 a doctor, she laughs and declares that it is nothing 
 but a tickling in her throat, and that doctors are 
 only a foolish luxury like carriages and lap-dogs 
 
 204
 
 MANDERS 
 
 To be sure I don't think it is anything seriotis 
 myself, but it is just as well to stop a cough in 
 time. I have come to have a great respect for Mrs 
 Manders. I never knew anyone so sweet-tempered 
 and so always sunny. And she is the most industri- 
 ous creature. There is never a sign of disorder in 
 her rooms, and she keeps herself and Manders always 
 en dimancM, as the French say. I don't know how 
 she manages, for I cannot believe she is earning a 
 great deal now, though she does some posing in 
 addition to her sewing. She has changed my ideas 
 about models. I used to think that none of them 
 were respectable, and I sometimes doubted, in spite 
 of what you said to my father, if Mrs Manders could 
 be strictly proper. I know better now, and perhaps 
 I should apologise to you and to her for ever having 
 had opinions without some facts to go with them. 
 
 "This morning we had a call 'from Miss Florence 
 Storey, who said she came at your request to ask 
 about Mrs Manders and Manders. I offered to take 
 her with me to see them, but she said she only had a 
 few minutes to spare, and her mother was waiting 
 outside in the carriage. I liked Miss Storey very 
 much, and my father quite lost his heart to her. I 
 told her everything I could about Mrs Manders, and 
 finally she said, ' If it isn't very far, possibly I have 
 got time to go with you to see them.' So they took 
 me with them in the carriage, but I got the impres- 
 sion that Mrs Storey was not pleased. She stayed in 
 
 the carriage. 
 
 Of
 
 MANDERS 
 
 I thought at first that Miss Storey had rather a 
 cold and patronising way with Mrs Manders, but it 
 did not last long. Mrs Manders seemed to know all 
 about Miss Storey, and was so pleased with the call 
 that she seemed a new being. You must not smile 
 at me when I say that I thought she seemed grateful, 
 though I don't know why she should have been. I 
 am not a very intelligent observer. At first the two 
 women regarded each other as curiosities, as it struck 
 me, but I am sure they had good opinions of one 
 another when they parted. I stopped to give Manders 
 his lesson and let Miss Storey go down alone. After 
 she had gone Mrs Manders, with more gaiety than 
 I have ever seen in her, said to Manders, 
 
 " ' Come, my little one, before you begin your lesson 
 we'll sing one of our old songs together,' and sat 
 down at the piano. Do you know that Mrs Manders 
 would sing well if she had some lessons? But she 
 stopped in the very midst of the second verse and 
 turned suddenly to me, saying, 
 
 "'Is it really true, Miss Warley, that you are 
 teaching Manders just for the love of it?' 
 
 "I am finding it very hard to keep up these 
 deceptions, Mr Blakemore, and some day I am 
 going to be found out, I know. I don't see any 
 reason for them. Mrs Manders is sensible enough, 
 I am sure, to appreciate what it means to Manders 
 to have educational advantages which she cannot 
 afford to give him, and I don't think she is too proud 
 to accept benefits that Manders may some day be 
 
 206
 
 MANDERS 
 
 able to repay with interest. Really now, w there 
 any reason for this secrecy ? 
 
 " I haven't written such a long letter since I was a 
 schoolgirl, and I daresay I have left out everything 
 that I started out to tell you. You must make 
 allowances for me. Sincerely, 
 
 "MATILDA WABLEY." 
 
 ao?
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "YoUB father has lost his senses! It is madness, 
 downright madness, to think of wanting us to come 
 back to New Orleans in the blaze of summer! And 
 who knows what we might have accomplished this 
 season in London ! Everything was in your favour ! 
 And yet you were as obstinate as he was imbecile ! 
 As if you didn't know that your father's perpetual 
 whining about hard times and the tightness of the 
 money market is only so much professional cant! 
 And here we are blistering, and the air getting 
 hotter and hotter with every turn of the engine 
 wheels. I shouldn't be at all surprised if we were 
 running headlong into yellow fever or the cholera! 
 And I should not object in the least. It would 
 serve him right!" 
 
 This was the frame of mind in which Mrs Storey 
 returned to her spouse, and which they may excuse 
 who have approached New Orleans by train under 
 the mid-day glare of a July sun. Railway service 
 in the South at that time was far from ideal, the 
 coaches being uncomfortable and " stufiy," and ill- 
 protected against sifting cinders and penetrating 
 dust by badly-cased windows. The managers of 
 
 ft*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 roads were apparently governed by the opinion 
 that their mission in life was to do what they 
 could for the annoyance of their not too numerous 
 patrons. It was as if the train service were an 
 additional punishment imposed upon the Southerners 
 for having allowed themselves to be whipped out in 
 the war, and reduced to a degree of poverty to which 
 anything above the merest decencies of travel would 
 be a criminal pampering. Negro equality, a legal 
 fact though a practical myth, had its influence upon 
 the governing orders, and before "through trains" 
 between the North and the South came into use in 
 obedience to the demands of in-rushing Northern 
 enterprise, the aristocrat of the plantation days 
 was forced to support his impoverished dignity by 
 placarding one half of a common coach: "This 
 portion reserved for whites." 
 
 Conditions had not so greatly improved for Mrs 
 Storey's benefit that she could be much blamed if 
 a sleepless night and an early morning change to a 
 comfortless and hot day coach had prepared her 
 temper for the mid-day eruption. Florence herself was 
 dispirited enough to offer no defence of her father. 
 She even sighed a little wearily as she said, 
 
 " Well, please don't add anything to the heat, 
 mamma. If we must be martyrs, let us try to be 
 Christians." 
 
 But New Orleans was not as intolerable as they 
 had anticipated. The Gulf breezes, taking account 
 of Mrs Storey's coming, had blown in one of those
 
 MANDERS 
 
 sudden downpours of purifying rain which turn 
 the streets into temporary rivers and cool the air 
 deliciously. The water runs knee deep while the 
 downpour continues, but five minutes after it ceases 
 there is nothing but the moist stones and the fresh, 
 sweet air to tell of the sudden flood. 
 
 The carriage span of large black mules still reeked 
 of their drenching as Mrs Storey and Florence 
 were handed into the old-fashioned barouche that 
 had been the family carriage as long as Florence 
 could remember, but the rain had stopped and the 
 sky was blue. Released from the train, and joy- 
 ously welcomed by her agreeably deferential hus- 
 band, and fanned by a breeze that smelled of wet 
 roses, Mrs Storey was enough appeased to be 
 amiable. She even held out her hand to the coach- 
 man, who had been a "born slave" of Mr Storey's 
 father, and had wisely refused to avail himself of 
 the freedom he did not know how to use. 
 
 "We are back again, you see, Uncle Jerry," she 
 said, as he took her hand in the proprietory way 
 common to the old family servants in the South. 
 
 " Lawd ! I can't believe ye, Miss Leshy ! But I'se 
 right glad you is ! An' Miss Flaw'nce, how you do 
 look, honey ! Them furrin parts agrees wi* you folks, 
 Miss Leshy dey do, indeed ! " 
 
 Mrs Storey's name was Felicia, and she was " Miss 
 Leshy " to the blacks, from pickaninnies to ancients of 
 Jerry's years. 
 
 In the drive to the house in St Charles Street, 
 
 2IO
 
 MANDERS 
 
 there were exchanges of glances between Florence 
 and her father that conveyed no small amount of 
 intelligence from one to the other. Mr Storey was 
 saying in this way all that the lively and voluble 
 presence of Mrs Storey prevented him putting into 
 articulate speech. Interpreted, the conversation was 
 to this effect, 
 
 " I believe we perfectly understand each other, my 
 dear?" 
 
 "Perfectly," Florence replied. 
 
 "You had some trouble to bring it about, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "Well, rather." 
 
 " I'm ever so much obliged to you. It meant some 
 sacrifice on your part, too, didn't it, my girl ? " 
 
 " That is hardly worth mentioning." 
 
 "I'm afraid this good nature of your mother's 
 doesn't go very deep." 
 
 u I wouldn't put too much confidence in it." 
 
 " I dread thinking of my first hour alone with her." 
 
 "You ought to be pretty well used to it by this 
 time." 
 
 "Can't you manage to stick by me? I'd rather 
 have it out in your presence." 
 
 " I'll do what I can for you." 
 
 " The fact, is my dear Flo, I had to do it Things 
 are worse than you think." 
 
 Florence found that she had accumulated a large 
 reserve of sympathy with her father in the drive 
 home, and when she got into the house she did what
 
 MANDERS 
 
 she had neglected to do at the station threw her 
 arms around his neck and kissed him. 
 
 " Thank you, Flo," he whispered in her ear, " I was 
 feeling the need of that." 
 
 It was not until the evening, an hour after dinner, 
 that the interview, for which Mr Storey had been 
 fortifying himself apprehensively during a month, 
 was unlimbered against him. Left to himself, and 
 cheered by the delusion that the ladies would busy 
 themselves with unpacking, Mr Storey stretched 
 himself on the leather-covered lounge in the library, 
 his stone jar of crumbed Virginia leaf on the table 
 beside him, his mahogany-coloured, long-stemmed 
 meerschaum pipe alight in his mouth, a well-fed 
 calm shining from his half-closed eyes, a canopy 
 of blue-grey film wavering in soothing assurance 
 above his head. As the tranquillising influence of 
 the tobacco increased, his thoughts, less and less 
 anxious, drifted into a languorous reverie which 
 was very like unto sleep when Mrs Storey came 
 briskly into the room. 
 
 " Oh ! here you are. I thought you had gone out 
 Am I disturbing you ? " 
 
 "Not in the least, Felicia," Mr Storey responded, 
 as cordially as one sharply aroused from drowsiness 
 may. " I am only too glad to see you," rising to a 
 sitting posture as he spoke. :i Sit down by me and 
 tell me what you've been doing since the last time 
 we had a chat together." 
 
 "I am not in the reminiscent vein this evening, 
 
 817
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Henry. My interest now is in finding ont what 
 you meant by breaking up my plans at the very time 
 they looked the most promising." 
 
 " Your plans for what, my dear ? " 
 
 "Don't play the ingdnu, Henry. But 111 spare 
 you the necessity of floundering about among your 
 pitiable subterfuges. My eyes were opened when 
 that basket of flowers came from Walter Blakemore 
 this afternoon. So you entered into a conspiracy 
 with that young gentleman to play upon Florence's 
 sympathies and make a fool of me? Exactly like 
 you ! I only wonder that I was too stupid to see 
 through your miserable scheme in time to defeat it. 
 But your triumph shall be short-lived, that I promise 
 you ; and if Walter Blakemore comes here to-night " 
 
 " He is not in New Orleans." 
 
 "But the flowers?" 
 
 "Telegraphed. Come now, Felicia, let's have a 
 sensible talk. You are on the wrong track entirely. 
 The whole thing in a nutshell is that we've got to 
 retrench." 
 
 "Retrench! I hate the word, Henry. It is ill- 
 sounding and ill - meaning and mean - spirited. I 
 never knew a babbler about retrenchment who had 
 anything to retrench. That is the cant phrase of 
 cheap politicians who are struggling to get their 
 hands into the public purse." 
 
 "My dear," Mr Storey broke in with more than 
 his usual firmness, and putting his pipe on the table, 
 "you may choose your own words, but here are the 
 
 "3
 
 MANDERS 
 
 facts. Everything has gone against me this year, 
 both here and in New York. I*m a million out, and I 
 have reached bed rock. I haven't five thousand left 
 in bank, and unless there comes a turn in the New 
 York wheat market pretty soon I'm a ruined man." 
 
 " Ruined ! " cried Mrs Storey, aghast. " Does that 
 mean that you have lost Florence's fortune, too ? " 
 
 Mr Storey looked at his wife wonderingly, a pained 
 smile coming slowly to his lips. Use Florence's 
 money in speculation ? Cheat the girl whose future 
 security and happiness were his only ambition ? He 
 picked up his pipe and relighted it without replying. 
 
 Mrs Storey quite understood, and was in a measure 
 comforted. There was nothing so very dreadful to 
 fear as long as Florence had half a million. Her 
 asperity returned upon her. 
 
 " What business had you fooling around the New 
 York wheat markets? You were a cotton and 
 tobacco broker, and knew what you were about as 
 long as you stuck to your proper vocation! Why 
 couldn't you let good enough alone?" 
 
 " I should have been very glad to do that if you 
 had been satisfied with ' good enough,' my dear 
 Felicia. But you can't keep a house in Washington, 
 a villa at Newport, and do the fashionable in Europe 
 on a cotton broker's income. You made speculation 
 necessary, my dear." 
 
 " / made it necessary I I beg of you not to try to 
 put the responsibility for your business shortcomings 
 upon my shoulders, Mr Storey. If you were weak 
 
 *I4
 
 MANDERS 
 
 enough to make a fool of yourself, do have the manli- 
 ness to bear the blame of it. / am not the head of 
 the family!" 
 
 " It cost us one hundred and ten thousand dollars 
 to live last year, and I made less than fifty thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I am going to keep our living inside of my income 
 after this." 
 
 " And that means ? " 
 
 "The sale of the Washington and Newport 
 properties, and economy at home." 
 
 Florence appeared in the doorway. 
 
 " May I come in ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs Storey; " I think we need your 
 advice." 
 
 A family conference ensued, the first of the kind 
 in which Florence had part. The situation was 
 reviewed in detail, and the embarrassed condition of 
 Mr Storey's affairs made clear. 
 
 " I am glad of it," Florence said at the conclusion 
 of the summing up. "It is going to give us the 
 chance to show some common sense and live like 
 intelligent people. I am tired enough of trotting 
 around like a prize animal looking for the highest 
 bidder, and I welcome the opportunity to get out of 
 the cattle market I shouldn't be at all sorry if 
 you went quite to smash, papa. We might live 
 happily together then, and we would at least know 
 what sort of friends we have." 
 
 215
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Deserted by Florence in this way, Mrs Storey, 
 crowding back the rebellious tears sent up by 
 humiliated pride, confessed to having lived in vain, 
 and avowed that mothers who give thought and 
 heart-beats solely to the consummation of brilliant 
 plans for a daughter's future are typified in history 
 by Niobe, whom grief turned to stone after an access 
 of maternal disappointment. 
 
 In reality Mrs Storey was not an unreasonable 
 woman, and though she held to the opinion that Mr 
 Storey was altogether too radical and arbitrary in 
 his calculations of things necessary to be done, she 
 acquiesced in the plans for the future with a certain 
 grace when she was convinced that Florence was in 
 earnest about wanting to settle down quietly for a 
 time. It was agreed that the Washington and 
 Newport places should be disposed of, that the 
 Charles Street house should be kept for the winter 
 residence, and that this summer should be passed 
 quietly at one of the Gulf coast towns to which New 
 Orleans people resorted in the hot months. 
 
 In the course of a week they decided on Balouis, and 
 selected an old-fashioned, one-storey, rambling plant- 
 ation house backed by a grove of live oaks, having a 
 rose garden of rich variety at one side, the climbing 
 roses embowering one wing of the house, and with a 
 close line of tall flowering oleanders screening the 
 front lawn from the road which followed the wind- 
 ings of the bay. Florence had chosen the house, be- 
 ing curiously attracted to it by the name " Waldmeer " 
 
 Ml
 
 MANDERS 
 
 done in white-painted horseshoes diagonally across 
 the street gate, and it was her privilege to furnish it 
 from town in accordance with her own ideas, which 
 made much of white muslin curtains, cool yellow 
 mattings, rattan chairs and divans, plentifully 
 supplied with light cushions, white-framed, delicate 
 water-colours, and hammocks swung across the 
 porches or between neighbourly trees that over- 
 shadowed the house. 
 
 "Where did you get such notions of virginal 
 simplicity ? " Mrs Storey asked a little satirically 
 but not too much displeased. 
 
 " Well, this is the first time I've felt at home in ten 
 years," Mr Storey declared heartily on his first even- 
 ing in the house after it was " settled." 
 
 Mr Storey came the fifty miles from New Orleans 
 by the late afternoon train every day, being met at 
 the station by the ladies with the mules and carriage, 
 for the drive over the smooth, shell road, along the fine 
 sweep of the bay, was the evening recreation of the 
 fortunate summer residents of the village, who insisted 
 on a picturesquely showy display in that delightful 
 period of the day, when the sun was just lazing down 
 behind the tops of the pine woods, and the breezes 
 were chasing in from the blue reaches of the gulf. 
 The nights, their large-starred, velvet-like sky seem- 
 ing but a little more than arm's length above the 
 head, offered peculiar charms to loiterers on the 
 beach or on the long, bench-equipped private piers 
 that extended a thousand or more feet into the tide 
 
 217
 
 MANDERS 
 
 waters of the bay. When the tide went out, bare- 
 legged and half-clad bronzed men and girls and 
 boys Italian and French and " Creole" waded in the 
 shallows, holding aloft cressets of flaming " fat pine," 
 picking up the soft shell crabs or spearing flounders 
 for the morning sales from house to house, making a 
 weirdly fascinating spectacle Florence never wearied 
 of watching. There was moonlight boating and early 
 morning fishing, and afternoon haunting of woods, 
 diversion enough of many kinds besides the inevit- 
 able social phases of idling life in a select resort, so 
 that Mrs Storey soon came to a poise of mind which 
 persuaded her that simple gowns and roses for jewels 
 are not incompatible with happiness. Mr Storey, 
 who had riot known such wholesome recreation from 
 the cares of business in years, began to get round of 
 face and elastic of step, undergoing such a process of 
 rejuvenescence that he fell into a sort of temerity of 
 conduct towards Mrs Storey, and picked up his long- 
 abandoned habit of calling her " Leshy," after the 
 fashion of the negroes. 
 
 Several hundred yards back of the house proper, 
 in a semi-clearing in the oak grove, was a quaint 
 cottage which Florence fitted up as a " bachelors' rest," 
 for the accommodation of her gentlemen friends who 
 might from time to time come out to stop with them 
 from Saturday to Monday, a spirit of hospitality that 
 did not go unrewarded. Blakemore, who had already 
 taken a studio in New York and was waiting to 
 begin work when the affairs of his father's estate, 
 
 il
 
 MANDERS 
 
 which was not as large as had been imagined, should 
 be settled, came down from New York for a fort- 
 night. Mr Storey would nos hear of his going to the 
 hotel as he had intended, but insisted on installing 
 him in the " bachelors' rest," to the secret annoyance 
 of Mrs Storey, who, however, put on the outward 
 show of friendliness. 
 
 Blakemore had come to Waldmeer prepared to 
 exercise over Florence those indefinable rights of 
 possession which every " engaged " young gentleman 
 believes to be guaranteed him upon his entrance into 
 the probationary state of bliss. Florence seemed to 
 have an altogether erroneous view of the situation, 
 and adopted tactics that made another Tantalus of 
 him, dangling the sweets of intercourse just safely out 
 of his reach, and keeping him in expectant uncertainty 
 as to the turn her caprices of mind were likely to take. 
 He resolved to make a virtue of boldness. After a 
 thoughtful pause in one of their purposeless conver- 
 sations at the end of the pier, he asked abruptly, 
 
 " When are we going to be married ? " 
 
 "Not until you amount to something," she an- 
 swered promptly, in matter-of-fact way. 
 
 " You believe in perpetual engagements, then ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! I don't think you are without possibilities," 
 she said seriously, not following his humorous lead ; 
 " but I am not so sure that you will develop them. 
 I am certain you would not if you wait to set about 
 it until you are married." 
 
 M|
 
 MANDERS 
 
 u Why do you say that ? Marriage is the thing to 
 bring a man to himself." 
 
 * That, of course, depends on the man." 
 
 " Or on the woman," he urged in amendment. 
 
 " Not at all," she answered decisively, " at least not 
 in the sense you mean. It is true a woman may be 
 a hindrance or an assistance to the man she marries, 
 but she can be an assistance only when the man is 
 the really dominant force and capable of going ahead 
 in spite of the woman. In a case of that kind 
 the woman, if she Las character enough to be self- 
 denying, and devotion enough to identify herself 
 intelligently with her husband's ambition, can un- 
 doubtedly strengthen his purpose, and that is all she 
 can do. But if the man be naturally irresolute or 
 only half in earnest, an average woman would simply 
 close the door of possibilities against him, for an 
 average woman is merely a dependence, and therefore 
 an encumbrance that makes for the commonplace." 
 
 " I don't agree with you. But if it were so, what 
 has that to do with you and me ? " 
 
 " Shall I answer you frankly ? " 
 
 Of course. Why not ? " 
 
 " Well, then, to be candid with you, I don't think, as 
 between you and me, that you are the really domin- 
 ant force. I think I am the stronger of the two." 
 
 He laughed. "Well, I am perfectly willing you 
 should be ; but what makes you think you are ? " 
 
 "Observation, my dear Walter, and some experi- 
 ence with you. You are a planner, an undertaker, 
 
 220
 
 MANDERS 
 
 a beginner ; yon are not a finisher. Yon are one of 
 those easy, good-natured men who find it difficult to 
 realise that concentration and a certain element of 
 exclusive selfishness are necessary to any kind of 
 success that is worth while. If you had a wife you 
 would be domestic, and be without enough ambition 
 to command your energies, especially as you are in 
 no danger of having to work for your living." 
 
 " You misjudge me, Florence." 
 
 "I don't think so. Are you going to stick to 
 painting ? " 
 
 " Why, yes ; I think so. That seems to be my 
 avocation." 
 
 " There are no avocations. A man determines his 
 own vocation. But I'm beginning to doubt that even 
 painting has any very strong hold upon you." 
 
 " Come, now, Florence ? Why do you say that ? 
 I am passionately fond of painting. God knows, I've 
 worked hard enough to get hold of it ! " 
 
 " Well, I can't find out that you have ever finished 
 anything " 
 
 " But I have ! " he interrupted eagerly. " I have 
 just finished something that I believe is worth while." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " A portrait." 
 
 " Something you began in Paris? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 * A lady ? Madame Manders, I suppose t " 
 
 " She posed for it ; but it is your face." 
 
 " Ah ! you make such combinations, do you ? "
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " I think it really a striking likeness. I am sure 
 you will like it." 
 
 "I am not so sure. Don't you think it time we 
 were going in ? Father will be coming down with a 
 lantern in the moonlight to look for us presently. It 
 is funny how little confidence papa has in the moon." 
 
 He was conscious of a forced lightness in her 
 manner, but could not account for it. He under- 
 stood, however, that she had warned him off a too 
 personal ground, and they walked up the pier in 
 silence. When they had crossed the road she paused 
 with her hand on the gate -latch. 
 
 " Do you know, it has been a disappointment to me 
 that you should be here nearly two weeks without 
 once seeming to have been struck with the artistic 
 values of Waldmeer ? That is one thing that makes 
 me doubt your having the true artist temperament." 
 
 " But I have been struck with them, and if I had 
 the time I should make some studies of several effec- 
 tive bits, possibly with you somewhere in the scene." 
 
 " Then why not take the time ? " looking saucily at 
 him. 
 
 " I shall when I return in September." 
 
 " Oh ! you are coming back then ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you are to be here." 
 
 " And why not before ? " 
 
 "I have accepted commissions to paint two por- 
 traits." 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 " Yes ; and I am to have good pay for them too."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Indeed! Well, perhaps yon are going to change 
 my opinion of you." 
 
 " I hope not altogether," he said, following her in 
 through the gateway.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ' IT is my opinion," said Mere Pugens, discontentedly, 
 to a neighbour with whom she was gossiping over a 
 friendly glass of absinthe in her favourite cabaret, 
 " It is my opinion Paris has not such another fool as 
 our Marie Manders." 
 
 " You think so, Mere Pugens ? " 
 
 " I do, neighbour. She is starving on pease porridge 
 at ten francs a week when she might as well have a 
 hotel in the fashionable quarter, like my Lizette, and 
 enjoy the comforts of a gentlewoman. If she hasn't 
 any ambition for herself she owes something to the 
 boy. It is true she gives everything to him and keeps 
 nothing for herself ; but what of that when she holds 
 from him so much that he might have ! And what is 
 it all for ? Ask her if you care to laugh. ' I wish to 
 live respectable for my boy's sake ! ' Was ever such 
 idiocy ? As if there could be anything as respectable 
 as plenty of money and the things that go with it ! 
 I feel sorry for the little imbecile, and have offered a 
 thousand times since her lover ran away and left her 
 to take her to Lizette, who is just now beginning to 
 feel the need of having a young face to take about 
 with her. Not that I am thinking of Lizette. 
 
 324
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Heaven be praised, she needs no meddling from 
 me. I don't know where she got her wisdom. 
 Pugens was a sot, and my brains were none too 
 lively ; but Lizette Lord bless you ! she used to stop 
 nursing to laugh at things she thought of. She 
 would make a woman of Marie in a fortnight. But 
 I'm afraid, neighbour, the poor child will go on being 
 a fool to the end, and I'm thinking the end is not so 
 far away. It is pitiful the way she has gone off in 
 the past year." 
 
 Mere Pugens sighed, shook her head dolorously, 
 and sought relief of feeling in several extra sips of 
 absinthe. 
 
 Back of her ill-directed thought there was a 
 genuine and well-meaning sympathy. Her coarse 
 nature had many kindly fibres, which vibrated 
 tenderly when Marie was in her mind, especially now 
 that she saw Marie making an unequal battle against 
 conditions which she, Mere Pugens, thought had no 
 sort of right to exist. 
 
 Marie had gone to M. Monier to offer her services 
 again as a mode) The old master eagerly welcomed 
 the offer, but when she stipulated that she should not 
 be asked to pose for the nude he supposed she jested, 
 and good-humouredly railed at her. 
 
 " Oh ! dearie, dearie ! hide such a figure and make 
 us do with that pretty doll's head, as if we were all 
 Correggios doing infants ? That would never do in 
 the world, my child ! Come, come, you have no reason 
 yet to be ashamed of your figure, my beauty."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Finding her in earnest, he seriously undertook to 
 dissuade her from sacrificing art to artificial scruples, 
 proposing, if she objected to class work, to get her 
 excellent engagements for private posing. But Marie, 
 with such a smile as he could not understand, shook 
 her head, declining to engage for anything but 
 costume work. She began to realise now that those 
 old jests of the students which she had treated so 
 lightly were not jests at all Dimpled chins and 
 infantine eyes have no great value in mature art 
 schemes. Some employment she found, indeed, but, 
 clothed and in her right mind, her field of usefulness 
 was necessarily limited ; yet if they had looked more 
 attentively, looking through the surface into the 
 deeps below it, they would have seen as the days 
 went by that something was coming up into the doll 
 face to counteract its dimple, something that would 
 make it worth while to paint. But he is a great man 
 whose brush dips below the surface; it requires a 
 Velasquez or a Murillo to see mystery in the serene 
 face of a child. Marie's lot was cast with the 
 moderns, moderns who paint the nude for its naked- 
 ness, leaving it as naked as they find it, and her fifty 
 and forty francs a week went down to thirty and 
 twenty and ten before a year was done, and plain 
 sewing for cheap shops became a supplementary ill- 
 paid labour. 
 
 Manders was kept for a long time in ignorance of 
 any change in their material affairs, so artful was 
 Marie in her economies. He was aware, however, 
 
 226
 
 MANDERS 
 
 of an increased devotion on her part, and though 
 he was unable to analyse the character of this tender- 
 ness, he felt the influence of a new dignity, a poise, a 
 precision in her maternal attitude, and to his adora- 
 tion of her was added a respect, as he somehow 
 realised that she, rather than he, was the stronger 
 now. Marie was hardly conscious of the transitions 
 in herself at which Manders vaguely wondered. She 
 did not know that the pressure of maternal responsi- 
 bility within circumstances of privation and self- 
 denial was fashioning her anew ; but she did know 
 that a strange contentment nearly akin to happiness 
 grew out of this battling to keep Manders well clad, 
 well fed and happily ignorant of the hardships with 
 which she had to contend. Mere Pugens saw only the 
 struggles ; she was blind to the rewards, and therefore 
 could not understand that Marie was far from being 
 an object of pity. But the old woman was alive to 
 the growing gravity of the face in which she thought 
 she discerned a wearing sorrow, and, though not 
 appreciating, confessed the womanliness, the intelli- 
 gent positiveness which were taking the place of 
 the one-time helpless ingenuousness. Mere Pugens 
 believed she knew the very hour that set the change 
 
 o 
 
 in motion. It was a year ago. Blakemore, whose 
 father had just died, wrote to Captain War'ey author- 
 ising him to dispose of such effects in the apartment 
 in the Rue Danfert-Rochereau as were not to be sent 
 to America. In this letter he said it was doubtful if 
 he would be in Paris for several years to come, as the 
 
 227
 
 MANDERS 
 
 settling of his father's estate, the invalidism of his 
 mother, and his formal setting up as an artist " with 
 something serious to do" made it desirable that he 
 stop at home. He gave particular directions for the 
 packing and forwarding of the nearly-finished paint- 
 ing of Marie, on which he had been so hopefully 
 engaged, and which he was resolved to finish as a 
 masterpiece, playfully underscoring the word with 
 several strong lines. 
 
 Marie had taken Manders to the first day's sale 
 of the household goods at auction, and Mere Pugens, 
 who stood by, observed, with many self-satisfied 
 waggings of the head, that Marie more than once 
 furtively dried her eyes, and, when she learned that 
 the picture was not to be sold, slipped away, leaving 
 Manders with Mere Pugens. No cleverness is re- 
 quired to put two and two together to make a 
 sum of four, and the good shopwoman fancied she 
 knew the signs of a bleeding heart as well as any 
 woman in Paris. Her indignation rose against Blake- 
 more, and she was unwilling that others should live 
 in ignorance of her opinions concerning him, par- 
 ticularly Marie. She climbed Marie's stairs that 
 evening to deliver a tirade against a sex to whose 
 perfidy the world owes all its abominations. She 
 was dumfounded, therefore, when Marie said, with 
 unaccustomed firmness, 
 
 "You must never speak to me in this way about 
 M. Blakemore. He is the best friend I have." 
 
 But as the months went by Mere Pugens was
 
 MANDERS 
 
 less and leas disposed to find truth in the declara- 
 tion. This day, then, when the talk with her 
 neighbour over their absinthe had, as she imagined, 
 fortified her mind with incontrovertible arguments, 
 Mere Pugens went determinedly to Marie, and, un- 
 mindful of opposition, summed up the situation to 
 the reproach of Marie. 
 
 "It is a shame for you to be slaving your life 
 away in this beggerly manner because a miserable 
 thing of a man that you ought to despise has aban- 
 doned you to poverty." 
 
 This was the gist of her loquacious wrath, and 
 Manders, forgotten in the room beyond, heard and 
 understood her. He sat very still, some toys clutched 
 in his hand, his face pale, his lips quivering, as he 
 listened; and he sat so for many minutes after 
 Mere Pugens had gone, listening to something that 
 sounded like stifled sobs in the other room. When 
 these sounds were silenced, and he heard Marie 
 moving about again, he went to her, holding out 
 to her the toys. 
 
 "You may put these away, maman," he said; "I 
 am not going to play with them any more." 
 
 " Not play with them any more I Why, my little 
 one?" 
 
 "I am not a baby now," he said. 
 
 She stooped and kissed him. The little lips were 
 very cold, she thought, and something of fear touched 
 her. She offered to take him on her lap. There was 
 someone singing and playing u> the street*
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "No," he said, "I am going down to hear the 
 music." 
 
 He put his arms about her waist. His head came 
 up to her breast. He laughed a little. 
 
 "You see I am almost as big as you are," he said, 
 kissed her, and ran out of the door. 
 
 He knew these street musicians. They were 
 familiars of the neighbourhood, the man's voice a 
 well-trained but broken baritone that had been 
 heard, no doubt, long ago otherwhere than in the 
 streets, the woman's voice a quavering soprano, that 
 seemed to have its memories, too, of better days. 
 Marie and Manders had loved to listen to them, 
 thinking they sang right well, and had thrown 
 down sous to them from the high window grate- 
 fully. Their accompanying instrument was an ac- 
 cordion, somewhat pleasantly subdued by age. They 
 had moved further along the street when Manders 
 got to them, and he followed them in their second 
 remove, waiting until they were again ready to move 
 on. Then, giving a two-sou piece to the man as 
 they walked along, he said, 
 
 "I can sing, too, monsieur." 
 
 " Ha ! and better than I can, I daresay, my little 
 man, eh?" 
 
 "Perhaps," Manders answered, looking up and 
 smiling frankly. 
 
 "Do you hear him, wife?" the man said, greatly 
 pleased, "Is he not a pretty braggart? And who 
 taught you to sing, my master?" 
 
 330
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " God, monsieur." 
 
 " Then, in God's name, sing, my boy, and I'll play 
 for you." 
 
 The woman laughed, but the man was serious. 
 He put his hand on the lad's head. 
 
 " You are right to say that ; it is God who teaches 
 the true singer. Well, come, let us hear if you are 
 one of His children. Sing ; I'll follow you." 
 
 Manders began singing, the man accompanying him. 
 The people passing paused with the crowd of children. 
 The narrow street was soon blockaded, and Manders 
 was singing alone, for the man had stopped playing. 
 When the song was ended Manders looked up at the 
 man in surprise. 
 
 " But you. were not playing, monsieur." 
 
 " No, I was not playing, monsieur," said the man, 
 with singular respect 
 
 There was applause, "bravos" and "encores," as 
 well as the clapping of hands, the woman passing 
 through the crowd holding out her cup for the sous. 
 
 " Will you sing again, monsieur ? " asked the man 
 at last 
 
 M If you wish," Manders replied, smiling. 
 
 " Un petit Mario," said the man to the crowd when 
 Manders had finished his second song, and taking the 
 coin of the two collections he poured it into the lad's 
 cap, saying, 
 
 " They are all yours, monsieur. I would not keep 
 a sou of them if J were famishing, and, praise God, 
 I do not lack."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "But I want to sing again with you to-morrow, 
 and the next day, and the day after," Manders 
 objected, offering to return the money. 
 
 "And so you shall, and whenever you please. 
 That we may arrange for when you come again ; but 
 to-night, monsieur, you are my guest," spoken with 
 a bow and a grace of manner surely not learned in 
 the streets. 
 
 The crowd very much approved, and Manders sang 
 again before closing his cap like a purse about his 
 earnings and speeding back to Marie, who would have 
 begun to wonder at his absence. 
 
 Entering the room where she was sewing, Manders 
 thrust his heavily- weighted cap into her lap with an 
 affectation of solemn indifference that did not wholly 
 deceive her as to his excited state of mind. 
 
 " There is something for you," he said carelessly. 
 
 She held apart the sides of the cap, looking in 
 curiously, and exclaiming with half -fearful astonish- 
 ment, 
 
 " Money I What have you been doing ? ' 
 
 "Singing." 
 
 In spite of him a triumphant note leaped out with 
 the word. He knew himself betrayed. No good of 
 further pretence. He flung his arms round her neck 
 and abandoned himself to his joy. He gave her no 
 time to ask questions or interpose objections until he 
 had run through the experience of the hour and given 
 it an enthusiastic application to the possibilities of 
 their future.
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " 111 make you rich, maman ! They are going to 
 love to hear me sing ! And when I sing they'll pay ! 
 Old Antoine said so i " 
 
 She shared none ot this enthusiasm. Terror 
 played with her heart-strings. 
 
 " You have been singing in the streets ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I'm going to do it regularly now." 
 
 He grew smaller and smaller in her eyes. It was 
 her baby-boy again, and he singing in the streets! 
 The streets, with their perils, their many perils and 
 dangers; and he going here and there throughout 
 them, threatened by their dangers, touched by their 
 vicel 
 
 " I cannot let you do this," she said ; " I am very 
 angry with you." But her anger was pitifully near 
 to tears. 
 
 "Then count the sous," he replied gaily, taking 
 up a handful and beginning to count them himself, 
 noisily, that he might not hear her remonstrancea 
 
 He put the sous in heaps of twenties, saying now 
 and then, "I can't count if you talk, maman," but 
 keeping on industriously until his task was done and 
 verified. 
 
 " Look there, maman i a hundred sous and a half 
 franc piece I Five francs and a half in an hour 1 
 And you scolding 1 You should be dancing about 
 and clapping your hands! You ought to be very 
 glad and proud that I can earn so much money so 
 easily!" 
 
 "I ain proud and glad that you have A voice 
 33
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the people love so well to hear. But, my boy, my 
 pretty little boy, must not sing in the streets, and I do 
 not need to have him earn money for me. I can earn 
 for both. By-and-by, when he is big, he may earn 
 for me." 
 
 She stroked the curls back from his forehead, 
 smiling to see what seemed to her a look of dis- 
 appointment in his eyes. It was not disappoint- 
 ment, however, as she understood when, steadily 
 gazing into her face, he said, the tremor of mastered 
 feeling in his voice, 
 
 " I heard what Mere Pugens said to you a while ago." 
 A drooping of the head by ever so little and a lower- 
 ing of the eyelids on Marie's part. She said nothing. 
 She knew there was an end of protest. The question 
 was settled. Manders was master. Manders knew it 
 as well as she, and he relented. He put up his arms 
 to caress her, saying consolingly, 
 
 " Only in the evenings, maman, when I have come 
 home from school. I shall tell old Antoine that. And 
 you know old Antoine will take good care of me. It 
 is going to be great fun." 
 
 So Manders became a street minstrel, finding it not 
 all fun, for there were foot-weariness and cold and 
 rain and a tightness in the throat sometimes, and 
 there were seldom five francs to his portion when the 
 last song was sung in the street below Marie's windows. 
 But none of the heartaches or weariness came home 
 to Marie. He brought laughter and gladness and 
 triumph to her, rattling his sous down upon the table 
 
 834
 
 MANDERS 
 
 with so much satisfaction, counting them over with 
 such pride of doing that Marie came by degrees to be as 
 merry and as happy as he over their evening accounts, 
 and to call him proudly "Monsieur le pourvoyeur." 
 And she was so gay with nim, he did not notice, as 
 the winter wore on, that the roses and the roundness 
 were going from her cheeks ; he could not imagine 
 that in her lonely hours she sometimes put aside her 
 work through lassitude and lay upon her bed languor- 
 ously waiting to hear his steps upon the stair to 
 revive her energy. The welcome he expected was 
 never wanting. The smile he loved to see as he came 
 into the candle-light was always on her lips. Her 
 words were never without the tender lightness that 
 filled his heart with contentment. He knew nothing 
 
 o 
 
 of ebbing vitalities. He had not learned yet that the 
 smile of summer is the burning out of the year's life. 
 All is well where laughter is, in a child's philosophy ; 
 and where was sweeter laughter than Marie's ? 
 
 But Mere Pugens and Miss Warley, too, saw with 
 worldlier eyes, and the one was angry and the other 
 sighed. Down there in the Midi was the breath of 
 regeneration, if, as the one argued, folly were not a 
 self-willed blindness, if, as the other thought, poverty 
 were not a tyrant. 
 
 And one day in the mid-April this clear-sighted- 
 ness came to Manders in the sunshine of the Luxem- 
 bourg. The chestnuts were just spreading out the 
 delicate green folds of their fan-like leaves, and the 
 garden was thronged with children and their elders 
 
 35
 
 MANDERS 
 
 rejoicing in the soft freshness of the warm air. It 
 was the end of the Easter holidays, and Marie, find- 
 ing no good excuse to plead, had consented to come 
 down in the morning for a frolic among the re- 
 appearing beauties of the garden. Manders rebuked 
 her want of animation, and laughed at her when she 
 sank down on to the first bench they came to, profess- 
 ing herself tired. 
 
 " It is so warm walking, dearie," she said, with a 
 strange little smile of apology. 
 
 But he humoured her, and sat beside her, watching 
 the children at their games. 
 
 Presently she drew her cape closely about her, 
 coughed, and said faintly, with a shiver, 
 
 "I am so cold." 
 
 The sun blazed hot upon them. 
 
 He looked up into her face to laugh at her, but a 
 chill went through him. 
 
 " Oh 1 " he said in scarcely more than a whisper.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PUQENS had hardly got her shop open the 
 following morning and her papers ranged on the 
 exterior shelves under the window when Manders, 
 haggard as one who had kept a long, hard vigil, 
 came hurrying in, too preoccupied with a fixed idea 
 to think of greeting her. 
 
 " Who is the best doctor, Mere Pugens ? " 
 
 "Has anything happened?" she asked, rising 
 anxiously. 
 
 " No," he answered to her great comfort. 
 
 Then she went on in her usual way, thinking to 
 soothe his childish fears, 
 
 "Bless your heart, little one, there are many of 
 them. And the best doctors are not always the ones 
 that do the most good. One doctor is as good as 
 another for some things, for there are some things for 
 which none of them are any good at all except for 
 their cheapness. Now there is Monsieur Wimphen 
 just round the corner " 
 
 " But who is the best ? " interrupted Manders im- 
 patiently, and turning toward the door. 
 
 " Well, there is Monsieur Besnard, in the Boulevarde 
 St Germaine, near the Rue de Bac, who, everybody 
 knows, was called into the Louvre at the time" 
 
 237
 
 MANDERS 
 
 But Manders had only waited for the name and 
 address, and was down the street at a run before 
 Mere Pugens had come to the end of her sentence. 
 He abated nothing of his pace until he arrived at the 
 Rue de Bac and breathless inquired of a footman 
 which was the residence of the Doctor Besnard. He 
 rang the bell of the mansion and entered into a court 
 as the door opened as if automatically, and stood 
 there waiting, uncertain which way to go. A servant 
 appeared and demanded his business, smiling in a 
 superior way when Manders declared his wish to 
 see the doctor. Doctor Besnard was hardly at the 
 call of unknown urchins who came panting in from 
 the streets. 
 
 " Who sent you ? " 
 
 "I came myself," said Manders; "it is necessary 
 that I see Doctor Besnard myself," he continued 
 insistently. 
 
 "He has no time. You must go, unless you tell 
 me who it is wants the doctor." The man put his 
 hand on Manders's shoulder and moved him toward 
 the door. 
 
 Manders, with a quick movement, slipped from 
 the servant's grasp and ran back into the centre 
 of the court, looking up at the windows and call- 
 ing out desperately with all the power of his 
 lungs, 
 
 "Doctor Besnard! Doctor Besnard!" 
 
 The servant followed angrily to retake him, clutched 
 him by the arm, and was dragging him, struggling 
 
 238
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and still calling, toward the door when Doctor 
 Besnard looked out from a first floor window. 
 
 "What is it, Joseph?" he demanded. 
 
 "Let me speak to Doctor Besnard," called out 
 Manders, pitifully, addressing himself to the bene- 
 volent face at the window. 
 
 " Bring the boy up, Joseph," said the doctor, and 
 retired into the room. 
 
 " What is it you wish ? " asked the doctor, kindly, 
 when Manders came before him. 
 
 "My maman is ill. You must come to see her 
 right away." 
 
 The child's manner pleased him. 
 
 "And who is your maman, my lad? Where 
 does she live. 
 
 "Madame Manders. She lives in the Rue St 
 Jacques, the fourth floor, to the right; I'll show 
 you the way." 
 
 "And who is to pay me?" an amused smile on 
 the lips of the doctor not used to seeking patients 
 in the Rue St Jacques. 
 
 "I shall pay you, monsieur." 
 
 The doctor looked into the young firm face up- 
 raised to his so confidently. It was not a face to 
 laugh into, and the smile went away from his lips. 
 But he said again, 
 
 "I haven't the time, my lad. I'll send you to 
 someone who will do as well, and who will not 
 charge you so much. You know they say I rob 
 my patients, and I should not want to rob you." 
 
 239
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "But I have the money to give you. You will 
 not have to rob me. It is all yours if you will 
 make my maman well Here it is ten francs, 
 monsieur." 
 
 He took from his pockets the sous and silver 
 pieces that were his earnings for the last four 
 days and heaped them on the table. 
 
 "You may count them. There are quite ten 
 francs." 
 
 " Ah ! ten francs is a good deal of money, my boy. 
 I should not want as much as that. I'll take my 
 share." 
 
 He gravely counted out two francs hi sous, shov- 
 ing the rest toward Manders, and rang the bell 
 Joseph appeared. 
 
 " At what hour is my first engagement this morn- 
 ing, Joseph?" 
 
 "Eleven o'clock, monsieur." 
 
 " Plenty of time. Order the carriage. Ill go with 
 you to see your maman, my lad." 
 
 When they entered her room, Marie, who had risen 
 to meet Manders, fixed a startled, half-terrified look 
 upon the doctor, and sank down, trembling, upon her 
 bed. She realised that Manders had found out her 
 secret. Doctor Besnard had no need to ask questions. 
 His experienced eye diagnosed the case at once. 
 
 "Madame, your boy thinks that I should have a 
 talk with you, and scold you a little, perhaps. Well, 
 run away, my child, for half an hour. Then I'll tell 
 you what we must do." 
 
 940
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Handera went down the stairs. Doctor Besnard 
 drew up a chair beside Marie, in whose eyes the tears 
 were gathering, and took her hand. Very gentle 
 and paternal and comforting of presence was Doctor 
 Besnard. 
 
 " And yon know, madame ? " he asked after a time. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," she answered, the tears falling, 
 though there was a faint smile on the lips. 
 
 "And you know what brought it about?" She 
 cast down her eyes, making no answer. " I am your 
 physician, you know. You must be frank with me." 
 
 " In the winter, a year ago, I passed a whole night 
 on the quais " She hesitated. 
 
 " Thinking of the water ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 * But remembering your boy f " 
 
 "Oh! yes, yes, monsieur remembering my boy!" 
 covering her face with her hands and weeping un- 
 restrainedly. 
 
 " And then the cough began I* 
 
 " Then the cough began." 
 
 He studied her in silence for some time, then 
 said, 
 
 " There is something besides the cough. Are you in 
 sorrow ? Are you grieving ? " 
 
 " No, monsieur." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 "There is nothing, monsieur only only the 
 thought of leaving my boy." 
 
 " No ; that thought would make for health. It is
 
 MANDERS 
 
 not that. There is a disappointment? A heart- 
 hunger, madame ? " 
 
 "No, nothing like that." But her hand warmed 
 in his clasp. 
 
 "I thought so," he said to himself, but he knew 
 she would make no admission, and he felt his help- 
 lessness. 
 
 "A happy heart and a peaceful mind," he said, 
 "would do more for you than all the medicines in 
 the world." 
 
 Manders had not returned when the doctor rose 
 to go. 
 
 " I'll come to see you again," he said, bidding her 
 good-bye. And going down the stairs, which seemed 
 to him steep and dismal, he said, "I'll come for 
 the boy's sake. I'll earn my two francs but it is 
 robbery after all" 
 
 Manders was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 
 He looked up mutely into the doctor's face. 
 
 "It is all right, my little man," said the doctor, 
 cheerily. " But you must be very happy where she 
 is. Make her laugh all you can. But she mustn't 
 go up and down these stairs for a while. Yet you 
 must live. Ten francs won't last for ever. How 
 will you get any more if the maman cannot work ? " 
 
 "I can earn plenty, monsieur." 
 
 "And how old are you, my lad?" 
 
 "I shall be eight next month." 
 
 " Eight 1 And what can you do to earn BO much 
 money ? " 
 
 242
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Sing, monsieur." 
 
 Doctor Besnard's thumb and finger were on a gold 
 piece in his waistcoat pocket as he looked at the lad, 
 but he did not draw it forth. He put out his hand 
 instead as man to man, and said, as Manders took it, 
 
 " Sometime I should like to hear you sing." 
 
 That afternoon, when Manders met Antoine and his 
 old wife at the appointed place, he said, 
 
 " I am not going to sing with you any more after 
 to-day. w 
 
 "You are to stop singing I" exclaimed Antoine, 
 protestingly. 
 
 " No, I'm not to stop singing, but I'm going to sing 
 alone. I want to make all the money I can for 
 myself." 
 
 Antoine gazed at him stupefied. The old woman 
 laughed jeeringly. 
 
 " I knew how it would be," she said, " the little 
 egotist ! I've seen his airs ! Never smiling when 
 the people applauded. Tears in his eyes sometimes, 
 too. Spiteful because there were not sous enough ! It 
 is a thousand pities when the soul of a miser gets into 
 a child ! Good riddance ! good riddance ! let him go 
 now, Antoine 1 He has spoiled our trade as it is. " 
 
 " Have we been unfair with you ? " Antoine asked, 
 troubled. 
 
 "You have been fair. You have been more than 
 fair, you have been kind. I'll come to you again 
 when maman is well It is for her sake now. She 
 is too ill to work. I must earn for both." 
 
 243
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "But the three of us draw larger crowds than 
 would come for one ; and it is the size of the crowd 
 that decides the size of the purse." 
 
 "I've been thinking it over," said Manders, with 
 a gravity which even Antoine smiled to see, " and I 
 think this, Monsieur Antoine, when I am with you 
 and madanie the people think I belong to you and 
 that you take care of me, and they are not so ready 
 with their sous and fifty-centime pieces. But if 
 I sang all alone " 
 
 "They would sympathise with you more?** 
 Antoine interrupted. 
 
 "It is not that," Monsieur Antoine, Manders an- 
 swered, a tinge of something like resentment in his 
 voice ; " but if they saw me alone they would know I 
 was working for someone not able to work for herself, 
 and they would be glad to pay me all my songs were 
 worth to them." 
 
 Antoine was not so sure of the soundness of the 
 reasoning, but he put his large hand on the boy's 
 shoulder in a way at once forgiving and encouraging 
 as he said, 
 
 " I understand you, my boy. You are a fine little 
 chap, and I see that you are not deserting friends. 
 Go your way. If all goes well with you so much the 
 better. If not, you can always find old Antoine, as 
 long as he keeps out of the Morgue." 
 
 So Manders began the life of self-reliance, and hope 
 was ashamed to mock him. He soon learned to go 
 where the crowds were gayest and freest, crossing to 
 
 044
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the right bank, making long pilgrimages along the 
 grand boulevards and into the Champs filyse'es, re- 
 turning foot-weary but heart-light to sing his last 
 song below the window where Marie sat waiting his 
 coming waiting his coming but always fearing that 
 he would not come. 
 
 For some months the music lessons had been given 
 in Marie's salon, Miss Warley having ordered in a 
 small upright piano, the explanations concerning 
 which had never been very clear to Marie, though 
 she got the impression that Miss Warley had it at a 
 bargain but could not give it room in her own house, 
 where there was "already one piano too many." 
 When Manders became aware of Marie's illness and 
 feebleness, he wished to stop the music lessons, as he 
 stopped the going to school, in order to devote all the 
 time not claimed by his professional duties to caring 
 for her. But Marie found pleasure in these lessons, 
 over the results of which Miss Warley was so enthusi- 
 astic, and Manders went on with them for her sake. 
 They became the daily important features of the 
 morning, and for some reason Miss Warley and 
 Manders seemed to grow happier and happier over 
 them, so that Marie would often come in to be happy 
 with them, sometimes humming through the air as 
 Manders played, and joining with him in one of the 
 little songs he sang to tempt her. And he began to 
 imagine that after all Marie was not so very ill, fixing 
 a great faith on Doctor Besnard's low answer to his 
 low question one day. 
 
 245
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " She won't be ill much longer." 
 
 His nights were troubled, however, and he wondered 
 how it was that he could never catch her sleeping. 
 He would steal into her room when she had been 
 silent a longer time than usual, but he could not be 
 so noiseless that she would not ask, 
 
 " What is it, dearie ? " 
 
 One night, though, she waked him with her moan- 
 ing and talking. He ran to her, affrighted, and knelt 
 beside the bed, whispering, 
 
 " You want me, maman ? I am here." 
 
 But she was sleeping, her thoughts not taking 
 account of him at all. He waited, not daring to 
 wake her. It was of "Walter" she was dreaming, 
 and she was calling to him, " Shall I never see you 
 again?" and her cheeks were wet to his trembling, 
 light touch. He knelt there until the talking sub- 
 sided into a murmur and silence came with a sigh. 
 And he knelt there still when the grey light stole in 
 through the curtained window, thinking that his 
 prayers were bringing her this calm and restful sleep. 
 
 Manders met Miss Warley at the top of the stairs 
 when she came for the morning lesson. 
 
 " Do you know where M. Blakemore is ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," answered Miss Warley, wondering. 
 
 " Tell him my maman wants him."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE maples were decking themselves in their October 
 finery, setting the mocking birds mad again, when 
 Blakemore found himself once more installed in the 
 grove cottage at Waldmeer. He was making good use 
 of his time in the matter of doing the " effective bits," 
 which seemed to multiply under Florence's direction. 
 Monsieur Monier would hardly have been ashamed 
 of his former pupil in these days, for Blakemore 
 had overcome the obduracies of his brush to an 
 astonishing extent and produced results that seemed 
 to Florence indicative of a very considerable talent 
 The work in hand now was a dilapidated well-house, 
 long ago abandoned as a water supply, but alive 
 enough for artistic purposes. Florence, in white, was 
 posed on the steps, her back against one of the 
 decaying, lichen-covered posts which supported the 
 tumbling roof, and Re'ne' Papi, an Italian-negro half- 
 bred who insisted on calling himself a French Creole, 
 was in the act of drawing a bucket of water. The 
 forenoon was systematically devoted to work on this 
 exacting subject, which increased the expense by 
 some few dimes, as Rene, notorious throughout the 
 village of indolence for his loyalty to idleness, de- 
 
 247
 
 MANDERS 
 
 clared, with innumerable apologetic gestures and 
 cajoling smiles, that his "mos* busy time happen 
 always in the morning as a sure fac', an' 'bliged to 
 charge for the loss of his own work." 
 
 Re'ne' was fisherman, boatman, carpenter, driver, 
 gardener, as circumstances dictated when he could 
 allow himself the luxury of doing anything at all. 
 He had got through forty years of life with so little 
 anxiety of mind and such small waste of energy that 
 he seemed no more than thirty-two or three, and was 
 not an unattractive figure, with his long, black hair 
 never combed, his well-managed moustache, half- 
 concealing a sensuous but smiling mouth, his loose 
 cotton shirt, innocent of buttons and rolling open 
 half-way to his belt, showing a brown expanse of 
 vigorous chest, his bare arms testifying to a suf- 
 ficiency of mysteriously-acquired muscle. Blakemore 
 had first seen him helping to unload an oyster boat 
 at one of the market piers. He went about what he 
 was doing in such a leisurely, indifferent way, and 
 seemed so much readier to talk than to get his 
 barrow from the boat to the oyster stalls, that 
 Blakemore, after watching him some time, spoke 
 to him. 
 
 "You are paid by the day, I suppose?" he said 
 inquiringly. 
 
 " Oh, no, suh, I only works by job," Re*ne* answered, 
 laughing, and promptly setting down his empty 
 barrow to relieve his arms of strain during con- 
 versatioa 
 
 248
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "You don't seem to be in any hurry to get 
 through." 
 
 "Oh! I don* want a git rich all at once. Plenty 
 time for that." 
 
 "You expect to be rich, then?" 
 
 " Bime-by. Mebbe. Who knows ? But not much 
 use being rich. When I has money I has to spend it. 
 Ain't no sense working for what you has to git rid o' 
 right away. Ain't that yo' idee, boss ? " 
 
 "Can you sib still in one position long?" 
 
 " That 'pends what I'm sittin' on." R4n<$ chuckled 
 in appreciation of his own humour. 
 
 " Oh ! on something comfortable enough." 
 
 "That's my stronghold, boss," Re*n said with a 
 freer chuckle. 
 
 " Well, I want to hire you to sit still for me." 
 
 Ren4 prepared to take up his barrow. 
 
 " I see you likes to have yo' fun, suh. You is jes' 
 like me that-a-way. But I mus' be gittin' on. Hope 
 I'll see you some mo' ? " 
 
 Blakemore explained his object and the bargain 
 was made, Re'ne* stipulating for M fou' bits" as the 
 reward of his sacrifice of serious labour in the pro- 
 fitable hours of the morning, though this was a sum 
 that represented the highest day's earnings in his 
 most industrious periods. 
 
 Re*n^ had all the characteristics of a mulatto, but 
 as he spoke the bastard French of the region he felt 
 warranted in classifying himself with the Creoles, 
 and indignantly repudiated his negro moiety, uud, 
 
 249
 
 MANDERS 
 
 preferring a French to an Italian begetting, avowed 
 that his father was French and his mother Indian, 
 generally adding to the statement the gratuity, 
 
 " An' to judge by the way I feel, my mer' was one 
 them princes." 
 
 At any rate, Re'ne fitted beautifully into the picture 
 of which Florence was the conspicuous figure, and 
 Blakemore began to think that the investment was 
 one happily directed to the making of a picture in 
 which he imagined he was putting a great deal of 
 meaning. 
 
 " Ain't yo' been a heap longer this mawnin' ? " said 
 Re'ne', some days after posing had ceased to be a 
 novelty and had grown into a dismaying resemblance 
 to hard work. "My back gittin' tired leaning over 
 this-a-way. Feels like it ready break in two." 
 
 " Yes, we'll stop, Re'ne'," Blakemore said, with a 
 smile, but giving the canvas some further touches. 
 "You'd better -come here and see how you look, 
 though." 
 
 Re*n obeyed eagerly. Indeed, he was being kept 
 in service now by an increasing vanity rather than 
 by the pay which he was beginning to think small 
 reward for so much exertion. From the day he could 
 detect the coming likeness to himself in the figure at 
 the well, he had become inflated with self-opinion, 
 and his impatience to see his portrait finished made 
 him dissatisfied with the greater attention Blakemore 
 was giving to that of Florence. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of it ? " Blakemore asked 
 350
 
 MANDERS 
 
 when Re'ne' had some time regarded the picture to the 
 amusement of the others. 
 
 " I think, suh, that yo' gittin* that chest o' mine too 
 flat, and that's a sure fac'," said Re'ne' in an aggrieved 
 voice, and giving a confirmatory thump to his own 
 firm front " They ain't 'nother chest like this in 
 Balouis, an' I hates to see it spiled." 
 
 Blakemore laughingly reassured him and sent him 
 off to other and more congenial labours, those in 
 which he could " shift " his position once in a while. 
 
 " I sympathise with Re'ne'," Florence said. " I 
 always feel after one of these ordeals that I'd like to 
 get on a horse astride and go tearing down the road 
 to find myself. It is the most exasperating, tedious 
 thing I ever did. Nothing could induce me to pose 
 for another picture." 
 
 " How do you like the way it is coming on ? " 
 
 "Very well. But I don't think Rent's objection 
 applies to my case. It is rather the other way, isn't 
 it? I think you will have to subdue that a little. 
 A trifle less fulness, I should say." 
 
 " A touch or two will make that right. Though I 
 don't think it so much amiss." 
 
 " Of course we have a different point of view," she 
 said ; " but if that is true to life, please exercise a 
 modifying license. My actual measure is thirty-two 
 inches. That looks forty." 
 
 He painted for a few minutes, she looking on 
 critically, marvelling to see how great a change a 
 simple brush-stroke could make in a general effect. 
 
 251
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " How is that ? " he finally asked. 
 
 " Better. Much better. I breathe freely again. I 
 can eat my luncheon with a clearer conscience. And 
 isn't it luncheon time ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Gather up your traps. I'll carry the stool." 
 
 She strolled on to the cottage, leaving him to 
 follow at his convenience. She was sitting on the 
 porch steps, waiting, when Jerry came from the house 
 with some letters in his hand. 
 
 " Jes' come f um de pos' office, Miss Flaw'nce, an' I 
 thought yo' might like to have me fetch yo' these 
 here. One is for Mr Blakemore, Miss Leshy say. 
 Which is his'n, Miss Flaw'nce, an' wha' is he?" 
 
 "I'll give it to him, Uncle Jerry." 
 
 " I 'spec' I kin trus' yo' to do dat, Miss Flaw'nce," 
 said Jerry, with a broad, meaningful grin, as he 
 handed her the letters. " Has yo' got any orders for 
 me, Miss Flaw'nce ? ' 
 
 " No, Uncle Jerry," she answered, looking over the 
 three or four letters. 
 
 " 'Bleeged to you, Miss Flaw'nce," Jerry said, with a 
 pull at his hat and turning back to the house. 
 
 The letter for Blakemore was postmarked Paris, 
 and had been forwarded from his New York address. 
 She laid it on the porch and opened one of her 
 own letters. Blakemore came up before she had 
 finished it. 
 
 " Here is a letter for you," she said, holding it out 
 to him.
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Thank you. Um. It's from Miss Warley. You 
 don't mind my looking at it ? Queer sort of straight 
 up-and-down woman, didn't you think? Writes to 
 me regularly without having anything to say that 
 is worth while. That is what conscientiousness does 
 for one." 
 
 " Do read your letter and let me finish mine ! You 
 are a regular chatter-box." She squared around, 
 leaning her elbow on one of the top steps, and pro- 
 ceeded to forget him in the interest of her letter. 
 
 Blakemore opened his letter indifferently, and yet, 
 too, with enough curiosity to wish that Miss Warley 
 might be more communicative than usual about 
 someone besides Mandera. Her last two letters had 
 said nothing whatever of Marie, which was more 
 disquieting than the one or two vague references to 
 Marie's illness, which Miss Warley had made in her 
 cautious way. In one of these letters, the last one, 
 there was something not very clear about Manders 
 having joined a band of street singers, though Blake- 
 more imagined this was no more than a neighbour- 
 hood pastime, one of the boy's strange caprices. He 
 had no idea of the real conditions, not the shadow 
 of a suspicion that anything serious was the matter 
 with Marie. He was therefore shocked and passion- 
 ately grieved by the unusual letter now in his hand, 
 and which was blurred by unmistakable tear-stains. 
 
 " Madame Manders is ill, very ill. I haven't wanted 
 to tell you so long as I could believe that there was 
 any hope. Three days ago, when she seemed brighter 
 
 253
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and better than she had been for some weeks, I 
 spoke cheerfully to Doctor Besnard who has been a 
 noble friend about her. He shook his head. " Poor 
 child ! " he said. " When the leaves begin falling 
 well, she will be one of them." Still I put off writing. 
 But this morning Manders came to me with a look 
 in his face that made my heart bleed, and he said 
 to me, " Tell Mr Blakemore that my maman wants 
 him." I send you his message. It was in her sleep 
 she called to you. She talked a great deal, Manders 
 said, but he told me nothing. I have never heard 
 her speak of you, but if she talks of you in her dreams 
 she must think of you. Forgive me for beginning 
 to think that she has a reason." A sigh that was 
 like a groan escaped him, and Florence looked up, 
 startled. His face was pale and troubled. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " she asked. " Bad news ? " 
 
 He > -nded the letter to her silently. She read 
 it, folded it, and drew the nails of her thumb and 
 finger sharply along the edges, creasing the paper 
 more tightly, again unfolded it and read over again 
 the message from Manders and Miss Warley's com- 
 ment, then handed the letter back to Blakemore. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" she asked in her 
 usual even voice. 
 
 "You understand?" 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 " And and you are not angry ? n 
 
 " Angry 1 why should I be angry ? I have known 
 it since the day I saw you with her at St Cloud." 
 
 254
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "No," he said, earnestly protesting, "it wasn't so 
 then. You misjudge her you misunderstand, She 
 has never been " he hesitated. 
 
 She looked up at him with a curious change of 
 expression, a quick transition from indifference to 
 interest. She realised instinctively what was im- 
 plied by his hesitation and the guilty eagerness of 
 his look. 
 
 " It was not a liaison ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, no ! a thousand times no ! She was not 
 a woman of that sort. She was not to blame. The 
 blame rests on me alone. I wronged her." 
 
 "She loved you? She believed that you loved 
 her ? Well ? You abandoned her ? " 
 
 "No, I was willing to do anything I could. It 
 was she who decided." 
 
 " You let her decide ? " 
 
 " I could not do otherwise." 
 
 "And you compromised by agreeing to educate 
 her boy. You are paying your debt that way ? " 
 
 "She knows nothing of that. She never would 
 have agreed to such a thing." 
 
 Florence looked steadily at him for some moments 
 in silence, a barely perceptible smile on her lips. 
 
 "I understand it now," she said at length. "I 
 can put a new interpretation on her manner with 
 me the day I called on her. She did not give 
 herself to a chance lover; she was betrayed by 
 an ideal. Well, what are you going to do?" 
 
 "What can I do?"
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Must I fcell you? Go back to this woman. 
 Pay your debt. There is no debt an honourable 
 man is so much bound to pay as the debt he owes 
 to the woman who has trusted him. Good-bye. I 
 shall not see you again before you go." She held 
 out her hand. "You may take your ring." 
 
 "You are turning me off?" he cried, clasping 
 her hand in both of his. 
 
 "I am sending you back to the woman who has 
 the right to you. Pay your debt." 
 
 "You can't mean that, Florence! You are right 
 to be angry with me, for I have done you a wrong " 
 
 "Don't mistake me," she interrupted, "I am not 
 angry in the least. If your relations with her had 
 been of the common sort well, I take the world 
 as I find it I should not have condemned you for 
 that which society encourages, fosters, and secretly 
 applauds in men. But this is quite another matter. 
 You once declared to me that Madame Manders was 
 a good woman. I can believe she was. If she was 
 a good woman she has a claim on you that I re- 
 cognise. I can only repeat to you, 'Pay your 
 debt' " 
 
 She passed him, walking in the direction of the 
 house. He followed beside her, speaking with plead- 
 ing intensity. 
 
 " Why should you send me away ? Why should 
 I do this unheard-of thing? I am in no way 
 bound! I owe no debt! How do I differ from 
 other men that I should be held accountable for a
 
 MANDERS 
 
 fault that others commit with impunity? Am I 
 worse or more responsible than they ? Am I alone 
 to b sacrificed to a moral scruple " 
 
 She turned towards him, stopping in the path, 
 her eyes flashing the indignation of her impassioned 
 speech. 
 
 "I was not thinking of you! I was not think- 
 ing of morals ! I have nothing to do with them ! 
 I said nothing about sacrifice ! There is no sacri- 
 fice in duty ! I care nothing for your usages and 
 your customs, and your contemptible code of worldly 
 honour ! I don't care whether you are worse or 
 better than other men! I see you only as a man 
 on whom another woman has a claim that I choose 
 to respect. It is of that other woman I am think- 
 ing selfishly thinking, if you will ! I am thinking 
 of myself in her place. If I had given myself to 
 a man in love, and I were dying and my heart 
 called for him, I should feel that he was mine, and 
 that I had a right to summon him from the world's 
 end ! If I summoned him, I should expect him to 
 come ! And if he were a man worthy of a woman's 
 trust he would come! This woman is calling for 
 you 1 Your place is by her side ! Go to her ! " 
 
 She thrust the ring which she had taken from 
 her finger into his hand and went hurriedly along 
 the path to the house, hiding in her own room the 
 emotion that could find no relief in tears. 
 
 Blakemore, stunned by the force of her unex- 
 pected outburst, stood for some minutes where she 
 
 B
 
 MANDERS 
 
 left him, staring blankly in the direction in which 
 Florence had gone among the oaks, and then entered 
 the cottage and mechanically set about getting his 
 trunk in order to send by the afternoon train. 
 
 He did not hear the luncheon bell, and. after a 
 time Jerry came for him. 
 
 " Lawd ! Mr Blakemore, yo' ain't lost yo' ears, is 
 yo'? I done ring de clapper out de bell tryin' to 
 make yo' hear. Lunch is ready, an' dey's a fine mess 
 o' fresh ketched shrimps to tickle yo' taste comin' in 
 cole f um de ice. Bettah make has'e ; Miss Flaw'nce 
 is powahful fond o' shrimps." 
 
 " Excuse me to Mrs Storey, Uncle Jerry, and tell 
 her I'm packing up for the afternoon train to New 
 Orleans, as I have got to catch the train for New 
 York to-night" 
 
 " Plenty time f er dat an' lunch, too, Mr Blakemore. 
 It's bad luck to travel on a empty stomach." 
 
 "I'll get supper in New Orleans. Come for the 
 trunk in an hour, Uncle Jerry. I'll see the ladies 
 then." 
 
 " Yo' knows bes', Mr Blakemore ; but yo' is missin* 
 a mighty fine mess o' shrimps, I'm tellin' yo' dat f er 
 yo' comfort. Shrimps don' come round evah day to 
 be cotch this time o' year." 
 
 Jerry reported to Mrs Storey just as Florence, as 
 composed as usual, came into the dining-room. 
 
 " Going to New York I " exclaimed Mrs Storey, 
 looking at Florence somewhat suspiciously, "Isn't 
 he rather sudden about it?" 
 
 258
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Yes," Florence answered quietly, taking her place 
 at the table. "He has just received a letter that 
 makes it necessary for him to start at once for Paris." 
 
 " For Paris ? Really ! " said Mrs Storey, giving her 
 voice a plaintive inflexion. "I was just beginning 
 to find him endurable. Who were your letters from, 
 Florence ? " 
 
 " One of them was from Cousin Minnie. I haven't 
 opened the others." 
 
 "Well, for pity's sake, do! How can you be so 
 lacking in curiosity ? " 
 
 Florence opened the letter, the writing on the 
 envelope of which piqued her interest, because it 
 was familiar in spite of her inability to identify it 
 She glanced at the signature, lifted her eyebrows 
 and read the few lines with an enigmatical smile that 
 got no further than the corners of her mouth. The 
 letter was written from the Fifth Avenue Hotel, New 
 York, and was signed " John MendenhalL" She thought 
 it terse enough, yet was conscious of a satisfaction that 
 there was nothing of a propitiatory character about it 
 
 " DEAR Miss STOREY, I have been in New York 
 for nearly a month, but have only now succeeded in 
 getting your address. New Orleans is one of the 
 American cities I most desire to visit. Balouis, I 
 am told, is almost a suburb of that city. May I 
 have the honour of calling upon your parents and 
 you when I come ? Most sincerely, 
 
 " JOHN MENDENHALL."
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Florence tossed the letter across the cable to 
 mother after reading it, and, without comment, 
 opened one of the others. 
 
 Mrs Storey made no concealment of her pleasure 
 that Mendeuhall should have written. 
 
 " How opportune 1 " she exclaimed, without explain- 
 ing with what she associated the timeliness. " Now 
 I hope you are not going to be silly, Flo 1 You will 
 invite him down, of course. Don't act as if a foolish 
 love-quarrel could stop the motion of the spheres. 
 Try to discover in yourself an average amount of 
 common sense, and send him a favourable answer. 
 I don't ask you to be urgent, but as least bo in- 
 dulgent. Will you ? " 
 
 " What would be the object?" 
 
 " Object ! Why should there be any object ? If 
 you have no other reason for doing it, do it to please 
 me. I have no antipathies to Mr MendenhalL" 
 
 " Nor have I. I have no feeling toward him one 
 way or another." 
 
 " So much the more reason for being civil to him. 
 Will you invite him down? " 
 
 " I'll send him permission to call, if you wish it." 
 
 " Permission 1 I do wish you could get a sensible 
 view of life into that eccentric head of yours. Mr 
 Mendenhall is one man picked out of a thousand, to 
 say nothing of his prospects. You have been seeking 
 such a chance for years " 
 
 " I have been seeking, mamma ? " 
 
 " Well, I have, which amounts to the same thing 
 ft
 
 MANDERS 
 
 and now that the chance has come seeking yon, to 
 talk of ' permission ' ID that irritating way. It ia too 
 provoking, Flo ! " 
 
 Thanks to Mrs Storey's urgency, an indulgently- 
 worded permit was despatched that night ; so it was 
 no extraordinary coincidence if, on the day that 
 Blakemore sailed out of New York bay headed for 
 France, Mr John Mendenhall (now in reality Lord 
 Kentmoor, Baron of Kentmoor) was sitting con- 
 tentedly in the corner of a smoking-room in the 
 limited train speeding toward New Orleans. 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THOUGH Mendenhall had, soon after his return to 
 England from Rome, succeeded to the baronage held 
 over-long by his invalid uncle, he imagined that he 
 had particular reasons personal to himself for wish- 
 ing to keep the fact concealed during at least a part 
 of his American tour. He had the delicacy to think, 
 among other things, that his title would effectually 
 bar the way to a reconciliation with Florence, whose 
 pride he rightly gauged, and he persuaded himself 
 that her friendliness had become an object of increased 
 importance to him. Memories of her seemed to have 
 secreted themselves in every possible hiding-place of 
 his mind for the purpose of rising up unexpectedly 
 to pommel his egoism with regrets; memories of 
 things of which he had taken no notice at the time 
 her habit of tugging at the top of her glove; of 
 kicking the tip of her elegantly-booted foot beyond 
 her dress skirt at intervals when she sat in animated 
 conversation ; of drawing up the right eyebrow when 
 she was on the point of dissenting from something 
 being said; the faintly distinguishable perfume of 
 violets which the air caught from her handkerchiefs ; 
 a thousand trifles, which more than beauty of face 
 
 263
 
 MANDERS 
 
 i 
 
 or grace of mind charm a man into unconscious 
 
 bondage to woman, and allure him back from the 
 illusions of freedom. The empty clubs and summer 
 dulness of London made him especially susceptible 
 to these insidious attacks, and after some futile 
 vagabondage in Switzerland he resolved to try the 
 curative expedient of a trans-Atlantic voyage. He 
 booked on a Cunarder as John Mendenhall, and as 
 John Mendenhall he made the acquaintance of 
 Waldmeer. 
 
 He was quite prepared for the reception Mrs 
 Storey extended to him, but he was disconcerted 
 by the way in which Florence received him. He 
 thought he knew how as well as anyone to adapt 
 himself to the frigid courtesy of a young lady who 
 has condescended to overlook, without forgetting, a 
 real or fancied indignity, and his plan of procedure 
 with Florence had been so minutely and carefully 
 thought out, that he felt no sort of uneasiness in 
 the anticipation of his meeting with her. But 
 Florence had done some planning on her own 
 account, based on the stupidity of presenting a 
 chill reserve to the man one has invited to come 
 a thousand miles to visit one. She welcomed 
 Mendenhall with such frank cordiality, with so 
 much more friendliness than she had ever before 
 shown him, even coming down the brick walk to 
 meet him at the gate, that he promptly fell into 
 confusion, and babbled such incoherencies as made 
 him wonder what had become of his poise. This 
 
 063
 
 MANDERS 
 
 liberal manner said to him as plainly as if Florence 
 had expressed her conditions in words, 
 
 "You are come as a friend of the family, as a 
 free guest in the house ; but don't make the mistake 
 ot supposing that you will be allowed to exercise 
 any extraordinary privileges. You are warned off." 
 
 In accepting the warning, however, Mendenhall 
 had no intention of being ruled by it. Having a 
 distinct recollection of everything said between them 
 in their last conversation, he found much to en- 
 courage him now in two things Florence had said 
 about that mischievous ring; first, the remark to 
 the effect that she was just on the point of returning 
 it ; second, her defiant declaration, " You have made 
 it a betrothal ring!" Without abating anything 
 of his loyalty to principle, he had reached the 
 conclusion, after arguing with himself all the points 
 suggested by conscience, that Blakemore was really 
 entitled to no more consideration than any other 
 general aspirant to a reward which Florence was 
 still at liberty to bestow where she would. A man 
 very much in love ceases to be able to discriminate 
 impartially between the respective properties of 
 mewm, et tuum, and is very apt to discover a divine 
 virtue in the theory that everything is fair in love 
 and in war. Mendenhall overcame his scruples as to 
 the obligation a man is under to regard his friend's 
 fiancde as a preserve upon which there must be no 
 trespassing, by contending that an engagement 
 which has not even been declared to relatives or 
 
 364
 
 MANDERS 
 
 intimate friends is no engagement at all, rising 
 hardly above the dignity of a special flirtation, and 
 equally liable to an abrupt and unregarded termina- 
 tion. If there was no engagement, there could be 
 no discredit in cutting in ahead of Blakemore, if 
 it could be done with no greater employment of 
 artifice than Dime out of mind has been allowed 
 in the rivalries of love. Any lingering doubt he 
 had as to his perfect freedom to act as self-interest 
 dictated waa whipped away with the glance which 
 acquainted him of the fact that Florence had put 
 oif Blakemore's ring. Perhaps she had not worn 
 it since the day it fell into the fountain ! But, be 
 that as it might be, its absence from her finger 
 now permitted him to assume that whatever reason 
 she haa had ior wearing iti before had ceased to 
 exist. The thing to be overcome, then, was not 
 Florence's preference for someone else, but her in- 
 difference to him for indifference only, he thought, 
 could bccount for the unreserved friendliness of her 
 manner towards him, a manner so opposed to the 
 attitude of mind which invites penitential extra- 
 vagances and vows of reformation, or which even 
 admits of a recurrence to past misunderstandings. 
 
 Mendenhall was of the well-fibred breed of men 
 whose energies increase as difficulties multiply; and 
 though he found this indifference where he had 
 expected to encounter only an obstinate pique, he 
 quickly recovered his fighting courage, and before 
 he was seated with Mrs Storey and Florence under 
 
 a6 5
 
 MANDERS 
 
 one of the giant live oaks, had begun to felicitate 
 himself that the situation was precisely the one to 
 quicken most agreeably the spirit of enterprise. 
 
 "I am afraid, Mr Mendenhall," Mrs Storey said 
 after the exchange of information touching their 
 respective adventures since the parting in Rome, 
 "I am afraid you will not find it very interesting 
 with us here. You see it is too early for the 
 beginning of the season in New Orleans, and it is 
 late for even the pretence at gaiety we have been 
 making in Balouis. I don't know how we are 
 going to keep you from being bored to death." 
 
 "My interest is already keenly excited," Menden- 
 hall answered, glancing at Florence. " You can't 
 imagine what a relief I find it to get well away 
 from cities. Besides, I think the place is full of 
 charm. It is quite a new type to me. I was 
 struck with the view along the drive from the hotel." 
 
 " Have you pleasant rooms at the hotel ? I'm 
 sorry we can't put you up here. But we haven't 
 room to turn round in in the house; and the 
 cottage " 
 
 "Mr Mendenhall would hardly care to give up 
 his independence, even if we could take him in," 
 Florence suggested. 
 
 "No," Mendenhall said laughingly, "I like to be 
 where I can break things when the ancient Briton 
 rises up in me; and heredity is never so rebellious 
 in me as when I am imprisoned in a guest-chamber 
 of a private house." 
 
 366
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Florence objected to being made the victim of 
 banter. " You would do well to follow the example 
 of one of our native savages, who, finding himself 
 unfit for civilised restraints, moved over to that 
 island you can see across the bay yonder, where he 
 has everything to himself." 
 
 " A hermit ? 1 should like to make his acquaint- 
 ance. Suppose we sail over some morning ? " 
 
 " He is rather ill-natured, they say," Mrs Storey 
 objected. " He doesn't approve of visitors." 
 
 " So much the more reason for visiting him ; he 
 is probably a character," Mendenhall said. 
 
 " I should say he shows a want of character. 
 Men who run away from disagreeable situations are 
 not generally overcharged with character, are they ? " 
 
 Mendenhall was willing to believe that Florence 
 intended this speech to reflect upon his own conduct 
 in a certain emergency ; but her smile was much 
 too bland to hide a subtlety, and he perceived how 
 little use there was to make note of the remark for 
 future consideration. 
 
 " No," he answered, " they are generally very poor 
 cattle; though I believe there is a good deal of 
 virtue in getting quite alone with Nature now and 
 then, if one has the right sort of stuff in him. It 
 takes some of the egotism out of a man." 
 
 " Have you ever tried it ? " Mrs Storey asked in 
 entire innocence. 
 
 " Yes ; but I daresay the coarse was npt thorough," 
 
 Mendenhall laughed. 
 
 267
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Or the stuff may not have been of the right sort," 
 Florence said, smiling. 
 
 " You are laughing at my expense, I see," Mrs 
 Storey said, rising and straightening out the folds 
 of her dress. "I always take that as a signal for 
 retreat. I am going into the house to see if I think 
 it worth while to ask you to stay for dinner. I 
 didn't remember about you when the market people 
 came this morning, and there is no getting anything 
 after eleven o'clock. Florence, do take Mr Menden- 
 hall through the rose garden. I know of nothing 
 better calculated to depress English egotism than a 
 Southern rose garden. The English are so provok- 
 ingly opinionated about their roses." 
 
 Mendenhall did stop to dinner, and made himself 
 better acquainted with Mr Storey, upon whom he 
 had made a call in New Orleans the day before, and 
 by whom he had been taken about the levees and 
 through the French market. 
 
 " There are no airs about Mendenhall," Mr Storey 
 had declared approvingly to bis wife that night. 
 
 And Mendenhall had made a mental memorandum 
 to the effect that Mr Storey was not to be regarded 
 in any sense as an insurmountable obstacle. He 
 had, indeed, found Florence's father an easy-going, 
 amiable man, who did not concern himself with many 
 ideas apart from business, and yet was not so much 
 absorbed in commercial pursuits as to be careless cf 
 those genuine courtesies of life, on the observance of 
 which the Southern gentleman prides himself.
 
 MANDERS 
 
 When the time came to say good-night, Mr Storey 
 proposed to walk to the hotel with Mendendall, pro- 
 fessing to be able to enjoy his cigar better in a stroll, 
 as, in his opinion, a pipe " with enough stem to let 
 you look down into the glowing tobacco" was the 
 true companion of blissful indolence. 
 
 " There is a moon, Florence ; suppose we go with 
 them ? " Mrs Storey proposed. " I think I'd like to 
 stretch myself." 
 
 But Florence pleaded the necessity of fortifying 
 herself for the fatigues of a trip to Pass Christian 
 with Mendenhall, to which she had committed her- 
 self for the early morning. 
 
 "You can go anyhow, if you want to, my dear," 
 Mr Storey said, addressing Mrs Storey in a patronis- 
 ingly affectionate way. 
 
 " No, no, *' said the lady ; " I don't believe much 
 in moonlight trios. Conversation is too difficult I 
 
 o 
 
 can content myself with a run up and down the pier." 
 After the men had gone, Mrs Storey came up to 
 Florence, and putting her arm around her waist, quite 
 as if they were girls together, urged her along, 
 saying, 
 
 " Come, we'll go down to the end of the pier and 
 sit till your father returns, and have a real con- 
 fidential talk about a lot of things. You are not 
 any more ready for bed than I am. But I under- 
 stand ; you did not want to appear too precipitate. 
 And perhaps it is just as well. Men are so easily 
 spoiled. Though I don't think you have any occasion 
 
 209
 
 MANDERS 
 
 to employ tactics in this case. The advantages are 
 obviously all with you. And I must say I was 
 charmed with you to-day, and really I am grateful 
 to you for your exercise of good sense, Flo, grateful 
 and delighted, dear." 
 
 " Whatever in the world are you talking about, 
 mamma?" Florence interrupted, laughing. "What 
 has happened to you ? You can't say it is the moon, 
 for it isn't strong enough, and the wine was ever so 
 long ago." 
 
 Mrs Storey withdrew her arm from her daughter's 
 waist. "That is one of your malignant laughs! 
 Then you are not going to take me into your con- 
 fidence ? " 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 " About what ? As if there was any question about 
 what! You don't mean to pretend that the affair 
 stands between you and Mr Mendenhall as it did 
 before I left you alone with him ? " 
 
 "Precisely. And it will stand just there, if you 
 will ask about it, when Mr Mendenhall's visit has 
 come to an end." 
 
 " I don't believe you. You have a vicious spirit 
 of torment in you, and you delight in vexing me. 
 Instead of a sisterly candour with me, you have an 
 impish impudence, and I cannot even have the 
 authority of a mother respected. Authority, indeed ! 
 A precious lot of authority parents have over children 
 nowadays ! And as for mothers, I can see no use 
 for them after they have performed the functions of 
 
 270
 
 MANDERS 
 
 maternity ! Advisers ! counsellors ! guides ! friends ! 
 Humph! those words are no longer even figures of 
 speech in the filial vocabulary as applied to mothers ; 
 <md the time probably is not far distant " 
 
 "You are wasting energy, mamma," interrupted 
 Florence, in her turn putting an arm about Mrs 
 Storey, at the same time giving a little steadying 
 shake with her thumb and finger to Mrs Storey's un- 
 duly elevated chin. " You are quite on the wrong tack. 
 If you thought you detected in me to-day a sign of 
 happy satisfaction, it was not because I had come to 
 an understanding with Mr Mendenhall, but because 
 I am getting to an understanding with myself. I 
 am working out a little problem of personal arith- 
 metic, and I'll tell you all about it when I get the 
 answer. For the present I can only say that it is not 
 a sum in church addition, by which one plus one 
 equals one. Now, let's talk about something else." 
 
 "Blakemore, for example." Mrs Storey exploded 
 the name in much the same way that one puffs out 
 an obstinate candle. 
 
 "Not of men at all, but of missiona" 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed Mrs Storey, " men are women's 
 only missions, no matter what names you use to 
 designate them. You have woman's this associations, 
 woman's that societies, and woman's clubs coming up, 
 religious, social and political ; but at one end of them 
 all is the kitchen, and at the other end is the drawing- 
 room, and man is on a pedestal mid-way between 
 
 the two. I get very tired hearing about woman's 
 
 271
 
 MANDERS 
 
 mission, and finding that it always resolves itself 
 into a struggle to annihilate everything that is not 
 of the masculine gender. You will find that a female 
 reformer is generally the result of Nature's indecision 
 whether to make a man or a woman, and compromis- 
 ing in a neuter, mentally speaking, of course." 
 
 " You have given me the key to the riddle, mamma, 
 and helped me tremendously. The way is clear before 
 me. I know my strength henceforth. I am one of 
 those mental neuters." 
 
 " Well, don't try to rob me of actual grand-children, 
 if you do make an imbecile of yourself in other 
 directions. And if you were as wise as you pretend 
 to be, you would let me pick out the father. I find 
 it chilly out here without a wrap." 
 
 " Shall I get you one ? " 
 
 "No; you are not interesting enough to make it 
 worth while. I'm gomg in." 
 
 " What do you think Mendenhall asked me to- 
 night ? " Mr Storey asked of Mrs Storey when they 
 were alone. 
 
 " I suppose he asked you if he could have Florence," 
 Mrs Storey replied complacently. 
 
 " You have marvellous intuitions, Leshy ! He did." 
 
 " And what did you say to him ? " 
 
 "I told him, of course, that that was a question 
 with which I had nothing whatever to do, and I 
 referred him to Florence." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Then he wanted to know if I gave him leave to 
 272
 
 MANDERS 
 
 pay his addresses to Florence. I'm glad it was dark 
 enough to hide a grin, Leshy, for I'm sure one spread 
 itself all over my face. But I gave him leave just 
 the same ! Imagine one of our boys asking leave to 
 court a girl ! Much they or the girls either care what 
 the old man thinks, eh, Leshy? But I rather like 
 Mendenhall. He is clean-cut and straightforward. 
 He is about as nice as Walter, I should reckon, though 
 they're not much alike ; but Walter has one enormous 
 advantage in my eyes, he lives on the right side of 
 the ocean. I must send word to Walter that there is 
 a rival in the field." 
 
 " You must do nothing of the sort." 
 
 "Not warn him that I have given another man 
 permission " 
 
 "Certainly not! Don't meddle in what doesn't 
 concern you. They are all quite capable of taking 
 care of themselves. Besides, everything will be settled 
 before you could get word to Blakemore if you should 
 be ninny enough to write." 
 
 "You think so?" Mr Storey asked, a troubled 
 look coming into his face. 
 
 " Why, yes. I think this excursion to Pass 
 Christian in the morning quite favourable to a 
 definite settlement." 
 
 Mr Storey gave a rather deep-drawn sigh and 
 stroked his bald spot reflectively. 
 
 "It seems so plaguey treacherous. But I sup- 
 pose it is all right. Women seem to have rules 
 of their own for the management of this sort of 
 
 8
 
 MANDERS 
 
 affair. If they were both here, though, I'd bet on 
 Walter." 
 
 " And, if I know orange blossoms when I see them, 
 you would lose." 
 
 "Maybe," Mr Storey said musingly, and fondling 
 the top of his head anew. "I remember my father 
 saying to me one time when we were at the races in 
 Mobile, ' If you ever have anything to do with race- 
 courses, Henry, make it a rule never to bet on fillies ; 
 they are not to be depended on.' " 
 
 " I must confess that I don't see the application of 
 that remark to our present subject of conversation." 
 
 " There isn't any, my dear ; none whatever. I was 
 only thinking that there is a right smart resemblance 
 between girls and fillies. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 "I think you are odious. Good-night," and Mrs 
 Storey turned the angle of her cheek to receive 
 the tributory kiss which she nightly exacted of 
 Mr Storey as an evidence of continued conjugal 
 submission.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IP the day at Pass Christian offered favourable 
 opportunities, Mendenhall was not injudicious enough 
 to take advantage of them. His object seemed to 
 be to persuade Florence of the entire disinterested- 
 ness of his motives in consenting to appropriate to 
 himself so large a share of her time and society. 
 He exerted himself to be agreeable without over- 
 stepping the bounds of reserve she defined for him, 
 and was so careful to avoid anything like a reference 
 to past incidents of a personal nature that Florence 
 began to doubt, as the day wore along, if she had 
 any good reason for the guards she had posted at 
 every avenue of conversational approach. Such is 
 the perversity of human nature, the more steadily 
 Mendenhall bore away from the one subject she had 
 determined should not be discussed between them, 
 the more desirous Florence became that he should 
 venture toward it. She even felt a sense of defeat 
 and humiliation that evening when Mrs Storey, her 
 eyes eager and her smile expectant, came to her 
 with a meaningful " Well ? " to which she had to 
 respond with cheery mendacity, "I haven't an idea 
 what you mean." 
 
 75
 
 "I mean is it settled?" 
 
 " Don't be a goose, mamma. I have told you there 
 is nothing to settle." 
 
 There were many occasions in the next half-dozen 
 days perfectly adapted to emotional lapses, of which 
 Mendenhall showed an irritating unconsciousness. 
 There were aimless drif tings through the pine woods, 
 over the deep carpet of fallen needles ; drives along 
 the shadowy palm-dressed road that led to the old 
 mill on the river, a spot Arcadian in its invitations 
 to romance; idlings in a boat anchored over the 
 channel, where Florence, under a sunshade, read 
 aloud as Mendenhall patiently fished, with no more 
 sportsmanlike reward than the hooking of catfish 
 not gamey enough to struggle against captivity, or 
 lashing " stingerees " that were dangerous to get 
 off the line; strolls at sundown along the beach, 
 grass-grown to the water's edge; opportunities so 
 neglected by Mendenhall that Florence came to have 
 an irritable resentment of that perpetual mark of 
 interrogation in Mrs Storey's eyes. Resolved as she 
 was what to say should Mendenhall presume to get 
 sentimental, she was becoming impatient for the 
 chance to say it, and there were times when she 
 was almost irresistibly impelled to begin the attack 
 herself. 
 
 " His complacency is coming to be positively 
 insulting," she thought. "I shall die of chagrin if 
 he doesn't get out of it." 
 
 And it happened that Mendenhall chose what
 
 MANDERS 
 
 might be thought the least suitable, the least pro- 
 pitious of all possible times, were it not that love 
 has no eyes for the incongruous and no sense of 
 untimeliness. 
 
 It was the outcome of an interrupted sail. 
 
 Re'ne', whose repinings over the wanton abandon- 
 ment of work on his picture Florence had soothed 
 by various friendly employments, had rigged his 
 cumbersome fishing-boat into quite a respectable 
 sailing craft for their benefit, and with its aid Florence 
 and Mendenhall had made explorations of remote 
 points of the bay. Mendenhall was an excellent 
 sailor, and finding the boat a good and tractable 
 traveller, had proposed one morning that they 
 provision themselves for the day and put out into 
 the Gulf and " shake off the land for a while." Mrs 
 Storey had accepted MendenhalPs invitation to go 
 with them, and entered into the enterprise with such 
 vivacity of spirit that even Florence was surprised 
 when, at the last moment, Mrs Storey suddenly and 
 dramatically declared, 
 
 "There! it is the most provoking thing in the 
 world, but do you know, Flo, I forgot all about 
 having promised that wretched father of yours 
 to meet him in New Orleans this afternoon ! I've 
 got to sign something or other, heaven knows what ! 
 I can't go with you, but don't give up your sail Go 
 and have a good time. It is a splendid day for it. 
 I envy you ! I was pining for a lungful of open sea 
 air. Take care not to get drowned, Mr Menuenhall. 
 
 377
 
 MANDERS 
 
 I daresay it would be highly poetic, but don't do 
 it. You know we have a bezique party for to- 
 morrow night." 
 
 They put out under a fine breeze blown fragrant 
 from the pine woods and made straight for the open 
 sea, concerning themselves not at all with that patch 
 of umber which spotted the eastern horizon as the 
 cloud which Gehazi discovered after repeated clamber- 
 ings to the mountain top. 
 
 Storms, like other forces in the South, gather with 
 leisurely deliberation and generally with apparent 
 irresolution, the clouds shifting and clearing, and 
 remassing and dispersing, in such a purposeless 
 fashion, that often befooled humanity gets into the 
 way of despising the signs of the heavens and goes 
 its way reckless of consequences. Florence, better 
 acquainted than Mendenhall with the caprices of her 
 native skies, saw nothing to excite her anxiety in 
 the aspect that Mendenhall thought ominous, when, 
 considerably after noon, they found themselves in 
 the open waters, land indistinguishable, and giant 
 spectres of white, and yellow, and purple, and black, 
 making a majestic array against the sun. Far 
 away, too, the white -caps were beginning to sport. 
 
 " What if we do get caught ? " Florence cried 
 with enthusiasm. " I could get under the tarpaulin, 
 and you are not made of sugar or salt ! These 
 storms never amount to anything at this time of 
 year. You would only have to keep the boat before 
 th wind. It would be grand sport. The only fear 
 
 278
 
 MANDERS 
 
 is that these clouds are making fun of us and don't 
 intend to make things lively at all." 
 
 " Well, if we don't have a ' good one,' you have 
 got a special system of meteorology in this country," 
 said Mendenhall. " My opinion is that we ought to 
 make for shore with airspeed." 
 
 " Are you afraid ? " Florence laughed. 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid. I am always afraid of a tub 
 like this when there is a woman on board with that 
 sort of thing coming up." 
 
 ** I thought Englishmen were afraid of nothing." 
 
 " So they are ; very much afraid of it." 
 
 " You think I would cut up badly have hysterics, 
 and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " I think you would act like a woman." 
 
 "Try me." 
 
 " I have a mind to," Mendenhall said, smiling, and 
 letting the sail belly out a little more to the stiffening 
 breeze. 
 
 He kept the boat head-on for the white-caps that 
 were beginning to break a few boat-lengths beyond 
 them, and as the little craft careened as if to take in 
 sea, Florence splashed her hand into the water with 
 the delight of a child, and laughed with unrestrained 
 pleasure when the boat dashed into the rising billows 
 and sent the salt spray flying over them. 
 
 But a reinforcement of clouds had come up from 
 the west and south-west, shutting out the sun, and 
 Mendenhall presently realised that there was no time 
 for larking. The shore was a long way off, and the 
 
 79
 
 MANDERS 
 
 storm, having done with trifling, was preparing to 
 be very much in earnest. He gradually veered the 
 boat round, until, before Florence was aware of any 
 change of direction, they were bowling along before 
 a steadily-increasing blow, that threatened to make 
 it necessary to take in the sail if they were to escape 
 foundering among waves that were becoming turbu- 
 lent under conflicting winds. 
 
 " Wasn't it worth while ? " Florence cried out 
 jubilantly, just at the moment when Mendenhall 
 thought the sail was getting away from him and 
 was making prodigious efforts to recover control. 
 
 " Decidedly worth while," he answered, giving the 
 stay-rope an extra hitch around the pin. " But you 
 must be jolly well wet." 
 
 "It is not worth mentioning. Salt water never 
 hurts one. It's a tonic." 
 
 "Are you chilly?" 
 
 " No ; it is delicious. Do you mind t * 
 
 " I am just beginning to enjoy it." 
 
 The rain held off considerately until Mendenhall 
 saw land a short run ahead, when there came a 
 scattering discharge of big drops. 
 
 "We are getting to shore. We may find shelter 
 before the rain falls. We must have made a lively 
 run of it. I didn't think we were so near." 
 
 Florence looked over her shoulder and took their 
 bearings. 
 
 " That isn't the shore," she said, laughing. " That 
 
 is the hermit's island. We won't find any shelter 
 
 280
 
 MANDERS 
 
 there, I can tell you. The shore is a mile and a half 
 beyond that" 
 
 " We'll run in there until the storm passes any 
 way," said Hendenhall, heading for a break in the tree 
 line that seemed to offer a landing point. 
 
 The bow of the boat ground into the sand and 
 gravel and came to a stop with a lurch several feet 
 from the shore line. Mendenhall leaped into the 
 water and made the painter fast to the trunk of a 
 sapling, and then waded back for the tarpaulin, which 
 he took up, saying to Florence, 
 
 " Wait a minute ; I'll have to carry you." 
 
 He carried the tarpaulin to the foot of a huge elm, 
 whose wide-spreading and compact branches promised 
 shelter, and hurried back for Florence, as the rain was 
 falling heavily now. 
 
 " Don't come for me," she cried, standing up in the 
 rocking boat with her skirts grasped in both hands. 
 " It isn't deep. I've nothing to spoil And I should 
 like wading. Do look the other way." 
 
 But- he came stubbornly on. 
 
 " I am going to carry you," he said, and as he took 
 her in his arms, lifting her to his shoulders, she 
 wondered why she had never noticed that he was a 
 man built for uncommon strength. She felt very 
 like a child in his assured grasp. He did not put 
 her down until they were under the tree. 
 
 "There!" he said with satisfaction. "Sit down; 
 the ground is dry yet ; and I'll fix this tarpaulin over 
 
 you. Now," he said, when he had ai-ranged a tent- 
 
 atfi
 
 MANDERS 
 
 like protection for her, " if it rains cats and dogs you 
 won't suffer." 
 
 "There is plenty of room for you," she said. 
 " Aren't you going to come under ? " 
 
 " Rather," he said, taking a seat beside her. " Do 
 you mind my smoking?" feeling in his waistcoat 
 pocket for a cigar. 
 
 " No ; if you have a cigarette I'll join you." 
 
 " I didn't know you smoked ! " 
 
 " I don't ; but I can and this is one of the occa- 
 sions when I'd like to." 
 
 He offered her his case, and, lighting a match, held it 
 to her. 
 
 " Light your cigar first ; I'll take a light from that ; 
 it is more sociable." 
 
 " If we had those things out of the locker now," he 
 said presently, " we might have a picnic. Shall I get 
 them ? " 
 
 " Wait till the rain stops, i suppose you haven't a 
 dry thread on you as it is. You must be cold." 
 
 "Not in the least. This isn't my first wetting. 
 And, as you say, one can stand a lot of salt water." 
 
 "I suppose this sort of thing would scandalise 
 all the women of your London set if they knew 
 about it." 
 
 " I don't know. Why ? " 
 
 " You English are so tediously conventional and so 
 stupidly proper ! Your bible is a book of etiquette 
 which, by the way, is like your constitution, un- 
 written and you have compressed the ten command- 
 
 282
 
 MANDERS 
 
 raents into two, 'Thou shalt not be natural;' and 
 ' Thou shalt have no other God but Form.' " 
 
 " But we are beginning to make allowances for 
 Americans," he said, smiling impudently, as he looked 
 at her through his cigar smoke. 
 
 " You mean we are beginning to educate you." 
 
 Mendenhall laughed. 
 
 " No doubt that is the Yankee way of looking at it. 
 Children are always sending their grandparents to 
 school." 
 
 A crash of thunder, followed by a torrential down- 
 pour, to which the elm offered no resistance, made 
 them huddle together and draw the folds of the 
 tarpaulin closer about them. They could hear 
 through the roar of the storm the beat of heavy 
 breakers, and knew that the tempest had reached 
 the height of its violence, and must soon subside. 
 Within twenty minutes the rain had stopped, though 
 the drops from the leaves were still falling on their 
 canvas roof in lively tattoo. The wind had spent 
 its force, too, and the waves were tossing only with 
 the energy of their own momentum. Mendenhall 
 pushed aside one end of the tarpaulin, and got upon 
 his feet. 
 
 " I'll look after the boat. A little of that wine and 
 a biscuit or two will do us no harm just now, I think. 
 Hello ! " he exclaimed a moment later, " where ia the 
 boat? It's gone!" 
 
 Through the breaking clouds the sun shone brightly 
 on the bay, illuminating it to the horizon. Several
 
 MANDERS 
 
 hundred yards away, the boat was drifting with the 
 waves and tide, flapping its loose sail in the breeze, 
 as if waving them a mocking good-bye. 
 
 Florence came to his side and looked as he pointed. 
 
 " There it goes ! " he said dismally. 
 
 "What a joke on you!" she laughed "That 
 shows how securely you can tie up a boat." 
 
 " I tied it securely enough, you see," pointing to a 
 coil of the painter about the sapling. " The confounded 
 rope was rotten. What are we to do ? How are we 
 going to get across the bay ? " 
 
 " How woebegone you look ! One would think 
 you had a mind to cry about it ! I think it is a jolly 
 lark ! It is like being shipwrecked on a desert island. 
 We can pretend we are the Swiss Family Robinson. 
 What are you so solemn about ? " 
 
 " You don't seem to see that there is a solemn side 
 to this," he said earnestly. " In the first place, as the 
 tide is coming in, the boat will drift to shore soon or 
 late, and they'll think that we have been drowned." 
 
 "Well, that won't drown us, will it?" 
 
 " But what about your mother and your father ? " 
 
 "How painfully serious you are? As the storm 
 has ceased, the boat will drift in right side up, so that 
 the stupidest fisher-boy will know we haven't been 
 capsized. They will naturally conclude that we were 
 out of the boat when it got away from us. A little 
 common sense will teach them that we are safe on 
 dry land, and they will probably think of looking for 
 us in the right place,"
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " But the boat may go miles out of way, and not be 
 picked up before morning 1 " 
 
 " So much the merrier," said Florence. 
 
 Mendenhall looked gravely into her face as he said 
 slowly, 
 
 " Would you mind being left on the island alone for 
 a few hours ? " 
 
 " Afraid ? No ; what should I be afraid of ? " 
 
 " Well, I am going to swim across." 
 
 " Swim across ! Why it is a mile and a half ! You 
 would drown before you got half-way." 
 
 " That would be better than for me to stop here all 
 night." 
 
 " Don't be silly," said Florence, taking his meaning, 
 and changing her manner. "You haven't any need 
 to do the heroic, though I compliment your readiness. 
 All we have to do is to walk to the other end of the 
 island and borrow a boat from the hermit or buy it 
 if he won't lend it." 
 
 Mendenhall thrust his hands into his jacket pockets 
 and laughed, rather a foolish laugh, like that of a boy 
 whose shrewdness has been tricked by his schoolfellows. 
 
 "I had forgotten the hermit," he said. "You 
 were laughing at me. Isn't it strange how easily 
 a man can make an ass of himself? I'm rather 
 given to that sort of thing; it has got to be a 
 second habit with me. Well, I'll go and hunt the 
 hermit. There is no good of your going. You 
 stop here. You might as well keep your feet dry. 
 I'll pull the boat round here for you." 
 
 185
 
 MANDERS 
 
 There are conditions precedent to pulling a boat 
 as there are to cooking a hare, as Mendenhall 
 admitted when he found no hermit in the house 
 and no boat in the slip provided for it. Half sub- 
 merged in the sand and water was the rotting shell 
 of a skiff, which yielded itself in pieces as Menden- 
 hall tugged at it, but this was the only thing in the 
 way of water-craft that rewarded his search. 
 
 " We are monarchs of all we survey," he declaimed 
 as he rejoined Florence, " and our right there is none 
 to dispute, for the hermit has gone and taken his 
 boat with him." 
 
 " He couldn't very well go without it. i suppose 
 there is nothing for us but to wait his return. Is 
 his house open?" 
 
 "Yes; but I don't think you would care to go 
 inside." 
 
 " Probably not, but we could fetch out a chair or 
 something to sit on that is dry. It is clearing off 
 beautifully. Come along; we sha'n't find it so 
 difficult to endure our captivity." 
 
 As they pushed along through the wet under- 
 brush and the tangles of rank grass, Mendenhall, 
 while talking animatedly enough with Florence, was 
 taking counsel of himself in widely different direc- 
 tions of thought. What surprised him was that 
 this inner talk should take the character of a 
 debate in which pros and cons were argued with 
 calm force on the one side, and a reckless fervidity 
 on the other. The surprise was due to the fact 
 
 286
 
 MANDERS 
 
 that he seemed to be making the acquaintance of a 
 new personality come up from the domain of his 
 sub-conscious self. He looked upon it with the 
 curiosity that he would have given to the casual 
 inspection of any material lusua naturoB for the 
 first time brought before his eyes. But as the sun 
 sank below the forest horizon, with no sign of the 
 homing hermit, Mendenhall awoke to the con- 
 sciousness that the arguments were becoming) more 
 and more confused, and the new personality more 
 and more distinct and interesting. 
 
 "Suppose the hermit shouldn't come back to- 
 night ? " he asked suddenly. 
 
 "That hadn't occurred to me," Florence replied, 
 a tinge of anxiety for the time troubling her fancy. 
 "That would be dreadful! And do you know it is 
 not at all improbable, for I've heard that he some- 
 times works all night in the oyster beds!" 
 
 " If he hasn't come by moonrise I shall make for 
 the shore," said Mendenhall, with as much emphasis 
 as if he were combating opposition. The prospect 
 alarmed her. 
 
 " You couldn't do that. The distance is too great." 
 
 " Not at all. I can do it easily enough." 
 
 " But there is really no necessity for you to take 
 the risk. If worst come to the worst, we could wait 
 here until morning." 
 
 The new personality concurred in the opinion. 
 But Mendenhall answered, 
 
 "Yes, if we had only ourselves and your parents 
 287
 
 MANDERS 
 
 to deal with. Unfortunately, there is a community 
 of gossips to consider." 
 
 "Well, what could they say?*' 
 
 "What could they not say? They would have 
 the right to say what they pleased. And there 
 would be only one way to stop their tongues." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " You would have to marry me. Agree to become 
 my wife, and " 
 
 He had reached out his arms to take her, but she 
 sprang aside with such a merry burst of laughter 
 that he felt a momentary anger. He was not in 
 a frame of mind to be mocked. 
 
 " And do you think," she asked, enjoying his vexa- 
 tion, "that I would agree to marry a man to save 
 appearances ? Give myself away because, otherwise, 
 a lot of people, for whom I don't care a snap of my 
 fingers, might clack their scandalous tongues ? No, 
 I thank you ! You needn't fall into any notions of 
 knight-errantry on my account, my dear Mr Menden- 
 hall. As long as I know myself worthy of peoples' 
 respect it doesn't make a particle of difference to me 
 into what errors of judgment they may tumble. I 
 care very little what people think. It isn't worth 
 while." 
 
 "If you think that way, there is all the more 
 reason why I should take care to protect you against 
 your own indifference." 
 
 "You have been reading Don Quixote without 
 understanding it," she said, smiling at him. 
 
 288
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Mendenhali said no more on the subject, but when 
 the moon had pencilled off his course shoreward 
 across the now gently undulating waters of the bay, 
 he threw off his coat and waistcoat and began un- 
 lacing hie boots. 
 
 " Are you really going to do it ? " she asked. 
 
 " Of course I am," he answered. 
 
 " Luckily I am not heavily dressed," she said. 
 
 4< What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I am going with you." 
 
 The idea was refreshingly comical to him. It put 
 him in high humour. His spleen went out in a guffaw. 
 
 " So you are mermaid, then, among other things ! 
 Perhaps you are Undine herself ! That explains your 
 oddity ! A mile and a half of water is a mere prom- 
 enade to you. Or do you count on riding a dolphin ? 
 They say they are slippery, sharp-spined beasts how 
 do you find them ? " 
 
 " I am quite at home in the water, and I shouldn't 
 be surprised if I could swim as well and as far as you 
 can. But I don't intend to swim, and I haven't got 
 a dolphin ; but if you go I am going with you we 
 are going to end our adventure together." 
 
 " How are you to manage it ? Is your parasol a 
 fairy wand ? " Mendenhali was pleased with the tone 
 of sarcasm he got into the speech. 
 
 Florence was complacently matter-of-fact. 
 
 " There is a square piece of timbor by the side of 
 the house. It is big enough to support us in the 
 water as we swim, or to rest us when we are tired. 
 
 T
 
 MANDERS 
 
 You are to do up the things we don't wear in your 
 coat, and tie the bundle on to the log. If necessary, 
 the log would hold me too." 
 
 " Ridiculous ! " exclaimed Mendenhall, finding her 
 serious. " The thing is not to be thought of." 
 
 " It has been thought of, and that is what we shall 
 do unless we stay on the island." 
 
 Mendenhall protested, reasoned and ridiculed in 
 vain; and from having regarded the scheme as an 
 alternative, Florence came to urge it as a positive 
 necessity, with the final result that Meudenhall got 
 the timber down into the water while she was getting 
 herself in readiness for the exploit. 
 
 When everything was in readiness and Florence 
 was on the point of wading into the shallows, 
 Mendenhall caught her by the hand. 
 
 "Stop! It is a foolish and dangerous undertak- 
 ing. You were right in the first place. We'll wait 
 here until morning." 
 
 " I like danger, and I like folly," Florence an- 
 swered. " I'm in the vein, and I'm going. You can 
 come or stay as you please." She broke from him, 
 plunging into the water and giving the log a shove 
 as she did so. 
 
 Mendenhall followed. He admired her pluck. Men 
 who are themselves brave admire courageous women, 
 and he wished, now that they were really launched 
 into the adventure, that the sea were a little rougher, 
 the element of danger a little greater ; he thought he 
 should like to see her battle. 
 
 290
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Are you cold ? " he asked, after they had been 
 swimming some time. 
 
 " It was chilly at first ; but I'm warm now." 
 
 " It will take us about an hour. Are you good for 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think so. It's jolly." 
 
 " You swim well." 
 
 " It is my chief accomplishment." 
 
 " One of them. You have many chief accomplish- 
 ments." 
 
 " Most of them tabooed." 
 
 " Not by the elect. Shall we rest ? " 
 
 " If you are tired." She climbed half-way on to 
 the log, and he swam to the opposite side, holding on 
 by his left arm. 
 
 " Florence." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " You know that I love you." 
 
 " Shall we swim on ? " 
 
 She slipped back into the water. He had thought 
 her singularly beautiful as she sat in the clear moon- 
 light, the wet garments that clung about her glisten- 
 ing with the movements of her body, and her action 
 disappointed him. 
 
 " Won't you listen to me ? You are not indifferent 
 to me, are you ? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " I won't believe it ! You once cared for me." 
 
 "I was beginning to. But that is past. We 
 
 needn't talk of it." 
 
 291
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " We must talk of it. If you ever cared for me 
 you care for me now. I love you, and I want your 
 love in return." 
 
 " You had your chance and you threw it away. If 
 you had fought it out with me that time in Rome, 
 perhaps I might have given in to you. But you ran 
 away." 
 
 " You sent me away ! " 
 
 " The man I should think it worth while to marry 
 could not be sent away." 
 
 " But I have come back ! " 
 
 " Too late. You did not think me worth the -win- 
 ning at the right time. That is the one thing a 
 woman can't forgive." 
 
 He swam around to come beside her. 
 
 " You shall not send me away again. You shall 
 be mine in spite of yourself. I love you. I love you. 
 No one else shall have you." 
 
 He grasped the log and put his free arm about 
 her. 
 
 "Let me go!" 
 
 " Promise to be my wife ! " 
 
 " Let me go ! " 
 
 " Not until you have promised me I " 
 
 She released her hold on the log and thrust against 
 it, struggling to free herself from him. But he held 
 her firmly. 
 
 " You are mad," she cried. 
 
 "Yes, with love for you. I care for nothing but 
 you. You are my world, my life! If I lost you 
 
 292
 
 MANDERS 
 
 once, I shall not lose you again. You have laughed 
 at me, despised me! You shall not laugh at or 
 despise me again ! You are mine ! I mean to have 
 you ! " 
 
 "Do you think this is the way to make me love 
 you ? " renewing her vain struggle to free herself. 
 " You are a brute ! a coward ! " 
 
 " Yes, both, since I am strong enough to hold you, 
 and since i am afraid to live without you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " looking for the first time 
 into his face, and startled by what she saw there. 
 
 " You know what I mean," he answered. 
 
 She looked at him fixedly, ceasing to struggle 
 against him. 
 
 " You would do that ? " she asked, a curious eager- 
 ness in her voice. 
 
 " I would do that," he said determinedly. 
 
 " You think you can frighten me ! " 
 
 " I do not wish to frighten you. If we go ashore 
 it shall be as affianced lovera" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " And you would trust a promise got in that way ? " 
 
 " I can trust you." 
 
 " And you would take an enforced wife ? " 
 
 "You love me." 
 
 " I shall not give you the promise," 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 He let go his hold on the log, clasping her tightly 
 in his arms and pressing his lips to hers passionately 
 
 293
 
 MANDERS 
 
 as they sank into the water. But Florence did not 
 struggle. Instead, she clasped her arms about his 
 neck responsively, it seemed to him, and fearlessly, 
 her lips still held against his own. He was uncertain 
 of this for a moment, and the waters above his head 
 seemed to beat his thoughts into disorder, but under- 
 standing came to him with a rush of overwhelming 
 emotion and he released his clasp from her, making a 
 joyous sweep of his arms, forcing his way upward 
 unmindful of the burden clinging so closely to his 
 neck. 
 
 He swam for the log, drawing her with him, and 
 clutched at it, holding to its edge, while with the 
 other arm he lifted her so that her head came clear 
 of the water. She drew a deep breath and looked 
 up into his face with a smile. 
 
 " You arc a strange wooer," she said. 
 
 94
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MANDERS was unwilling to leave Marie this morning. 
 Something seemed to keep him, as he confessed to 
 her when she warned him playfully that he was 
 wasting time. 
 
 " Every time I start for the door it is the same as 
 if someone said, ' Wait a while, Manders,' and I can't 
 go out. You are sure you are feeling all right ? " 
 
 " You foolish boy ! don't you see how well I am ? 
 Don't you see how much better I am ? Doctor Besnard 
 is a wonderful man, almost as wonderful a man as 
 you are, dearie ; and between you I am getting ever 
 so well" 
 
 Manders had learned the trick of smiling with the 
 lips without taking counsel of his heart, and he 
 looked brightly into Marie's face ; but something 
 wrenched more fiercely than usual within his breast, 
 and the lips paled as they smiled. The remarkable 
 clearness and transparency of her face and throat 
 made him think of those exquisite lilies of the Easter, 
 which are so delicate your thumb and finger pressed 
 upon a petal bruise it to perishing. And in her 
 cheeks he saw the thumb and finger pinch of an 
 
 295
 
 MANDERS 
 
 invisible cruel hand, and it seemed to him so much 
 more vividly distinct this morning. 
 
 Marie, bending over her work, had only noted the 
 smile, and she drew comfort from it, for she had come 
 to regard every firm, cheery word of the doctor's and 
 every sunny look of Manders as evidence that her 
 improvement was not a delusion of her own imagina- 
 tion merely. To strengthen her self-confidence Doctor 
 Besnard encouraged her industry with the needle, 
 and Miss Warley had given her hints in embroidery, 
 so that Marie had come to think herself rather an 
 artistic as well as expert needlewoman. Pride in 
 what had become really high-class work gave her 
 the energy to its accomplishment, and the good 
 doctor declared more than once to Miss Warley, 
 
 " It beats all my experience ; but the work she 
 is doing is her medicine. I suppose it is because 
 it keeps her mind active in a useful employment. I 
 must experiment along that line. Keep her busy; 
 there is no danger of her overdoing." 
 
 So Marie had the habit of early rising to begin 
 her work in the freshness of the warm sunshine, 
 and though she rested many, many times in the 
 course of the day, it surprised them all what 
 quantities of sewing she managed to do in a week's 
 time. 
 
 It was not altogether in jest, then, that she said 
 to Manders this morning, 
 
 "Now, you must not stand around to make me 
 talk to you, for that hinders my work. Away with 
 
 296
 
 MANDERS 
 
 you. And, Handera, I sha'n't scold if you bring me 
 an orange when you coma" 
 
 But when he had gone down into the street he 
 lingered about the doorway, undecided and reluctant 
 He went as far as the corner and returned, thinking 
 he would better go up to Marie again, but could find 
 no excuse. Then he remembered what she had said 
 about an orange. He would take one up to her 
 now. He ran to the dpicerie two turnings along the 
 street. The grocer's wife was in charge. 
 
 " How much for your best oranges, madame ? " 
 "Four sous each, mon joli garpon. How many 
 will you have?" 
 
 " One six. But I shall pay you for them this 
 evening; I have not made my money yet" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! one would say you had dealings at 
 the Bourse ! Eh ! well ; there are your oranges, 
 and if you sing in front of my door this evening, 
 I shall not mind the odd four sous." 
 
 " Thank you, madame ; but I never get less than 
 ten sous for a song," said Manders, taking his bag of 
 oranges, and throwing her a pleasantly impudent 
 glance. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! the little droll ! You might own Paris 
 at that rate one of these days." 
 
 As Manders approached his number, he saw a cab 
 stop before the entrance and a. man get out The 
 figure was too familiar to him to permit of an 
 instant's doubt or mistake, and Manders stopped 
 still as he recognised Blakemore. 
 
 H|
 
 MANDERS 
 
 His face paled and flushed by turns, and his heart 
 beat violently as he recalled the words Marie had 
 babbled and moaned in her sleep as he knelt by 
 her bedside. One thing she had said which pierced 
 him through, and for that he hated this man for 
 whom his mother had called so piteously. 
 
 Blakemore had paid his fare and entered the 
 house before Manders could get possession of him- 
 self. Blakemore was going rapidly up the third 
 flight when Manders overtook him. 
 
 "Wait!" Manders called in a low voice. 
 
 " Is it you, Manders ? " Blakemore asked, stopping 
 and looking into the semi-darkness behind him. 
 
 "Yes. You must let me go first. You mustn't 
 come until I tell you." 
 
 He spoke authoritatively, going by without greet- 
 ing Blakemore and running swiftly up the stairs to 
 the door, where he stopped, panting for breath, but 
 entered the room before Blakemore could come up 
 to him, singing as he entered, as he always did on 
 coming home to Marie. 
 
 "Why have you come back so soon?" Marie 
 asked chidingly yet gratefully, too, he was so 
 precious to her eyes. 
 
 "I bring you oranges!" 
 
 " So many ! I only dreamed of one. This is 
 wicked extravagance. You must take the others 
 back." 
 
 " On the contrary, you must eat them all. They 
 are magic oranges. They are not two-sou affairs 
 
 298
 
 MANDERS 
 
 such as Mere Pugens brings to you once in a while. 
 Look at that one, now ! Do you know what will 
 happen when you eat it, if you put the seeds in a 
 circle and make a wish for something no, that 
 isn't right oh, yes, you must make a wish to see 
 someone that is it and if there are as many 
 seeds as there are letters in the name, you will 
 see the person that very day. Miss Warley told me 
 all about it" 
 
 " How wonderful ! " said Marie, smiling. 
 
 "You mustn't laugh; it's true.. Let's try it now. 
 It won't take two minutes. And who will you 
 think of ? Who would you like to see ? Captain 
 Warley? He hasn't been here in a long time. 
 But, then, he is too old to be interesting, isn't he? 
 So is M. Monier. You used to have a lot of friends 
 you don't see any more. Isn't there one of them 
 you can think of?" 
 
 Marie was amused by the way he rattled on, 
 with an air of mock gravity and taking the 
 seeds from her, as if each one were big with 
 destiny. 
 
 " You are to find out from the orange seeds who 
 it is I'm going to see." 
 
 There was one seed more than he wanted, and he 
 rid himself of it secretly, arranging and rearranging 
 the others in a perplexed way, trying a variety of 
 names, finally, as if by an inspiration, crying out 
 with the energy of triumph, 
 
 " Blakemore 1 That name fits 1 You are going 
 299
 
 MANDERS 
 
 to see Monsieur Blakemore! What an odd thing 
 that would be! He'll have to cross the ocean." 
 
 He professed to think he was having rare fun at 
 his game, pretending not to see the convulsive way 
 in which Marie's hand was pressed against her side, 
 or the sudden flush that came into her face; and 
 he went on with his chatter until he saw her com- 
 posure returning. Then suddenly looking up at her, 
 his face smiling, he exclaimed, 
 
 " If you really want to see him, you shall ! Shall 
 I get him ? You don't believe I can ? Youll see ! " 
 and before she realised what was passing, Blakemore 
 had entered the room. 
 
 He had advanced to within a few steps of her 
 before he saw her clearly, and he stopped short as 
 if a powerful blow had been struck in his face. 
 This woman, rising so unsteadily to her feet, with 
 half -outstretched arms, a mysterious smile of tremu- 
 lous hope on the thin lips and shining through 
 the transparent face, this was not Marie? 
 
 In the same instant a realisation of the other's 
 thoughts came to each of them. The smile and the 
 joy vanished from Marie's face, a shiver seemed to 
 pass over her, her arms drooped down to her sides, 
 and she would have fallen, but that Blakemore, a 
 pitiful tenderness swelling in his breast, sprang 
 forward with his arms outheld to receive her. 
 
 Manders stole out into the hall, closing the door 
 behind him, and crouched down in the angle of the 
 staircase where it was darkest, his face between his 
 
 300
 
 MANDERS 
 
 knees and his hands clasped at the back of his head. 
 He was holding himself down in a struggle. Jacob 
 wrestled through the night no more desperately 
 against the force that opposed him than Manders 
 wrestled with his temptation in the dark corner of 
 the stairs. The agony of loss and desolation had 
 pierced him in the tone of Marie's voice when she 
 cried out at the sight of Blakemore. The cry came 
 back to him, articulate, intelligible, addressing itself 
 directly to him. "I don't need you any more. 
 Manders ! " it was saying to him. " I don't need 
 your love, your care, your protection any more. 
 My heart has come back to me ! I can get well 
 now!" His soul was bruised with the sound of 
 it, and his thoughts were bitter with the bitterness 
 of jealousy and death, not good fruits of the infant 
 mind. This jealousy was more than the passion of 
 supplanted love; it was the anguish of superseded 
 devotion. The very essence and life of his happi- 
 ness was the fact that he was Marie's champion, 
 defender, provider, that she had become dependent 
 upon him, and that he was equal to the obligation. 
 The idol of his love was the helpless object of his 
 care, and the rapture of his song was the pride of 
 his faith. If he were no longer needed for this 
 service, if she no longer looked to him as her prop 
 and stay, what need for him at all? She had 
 needed him until Blakemore came ; she would need 
 him again if Blakemore Why had he come? 
 What right had he to come? Why should lie be 
 
 301
 
 MANDERS 
 
 here now? A dull memory of bis own words to 
 Miss Warley came as an answer to him. " Tell him 
 my maman wants him." Yes; Blakemore had not 
 come unbidden. That much was clear. But there 
 was no reason for his staying. " He must not stay ! 
 He sha'n't stay ! " And the cry seemed to say to 
 him anew, " My heart has come back to me ! I can 
 get well now ! " Over and over the words repeated 
 themselves, "I can get well now; I can get well 
 now!" until Manders began to use them as a 
 weapon for his own defence, beating down with 
 them the spirit of violence striving to master him. 
 The victory came at last, came with a flood of tears 
 and a convulsion of sobs that seemed to rack his 
 very being, but which, subsiding, permitted him to 
 see his angel of Peniel. 
 
 Presently there was the sound of footsteps ascend- 
 ing the stairs. It was Doctor Besnard coming for his 
 regular semi-weekly visit. Manders dried his eyes, 
 but drew closer into the angle, holding his breath 
 as the doctor passed. Though he had mastered 
 himself, he was unwilling that any friendly eye 
 should see the signs of the struggle. He watched 
 the doctor enter as Blakemore held open the door, 
 and it puzzled him that Doctor Besnard seemed in 
 nowise surprised to be greeted by this stranger. It 
 did not come within the range of his knowledge 
 that an experienced physician allows nothing to 
 surprise him, and therefore he concluded that Doctor 
 Besnard knew all about Blakemore, and was pre- 
 
 302
 
 MANDERS 
 
 pared for his appearance. When the door closed he 
 felt shut out. For the first time in his life he 
 caught a sympathetic sense of what it means to be 
 alone in the world. He had thought of others 
 being alone, and had been sorry for them, looking 
 especially with a curious pity upon the school pro- 
 cession of coarsely-uniformed children who were 
 named orphans; but he had never had the thing 
 brought home to him along the way of kindred 
 emotions until now, and it terrified him. He thought 
 he must run to beat at the door, calling out that he 
 was there; but he remembered that there was no 
 need of that the door would open to his touch, 
 and there were kisses and love and friendliness 
 beyond it ready for his taking. No; there was 
 no need of anything from him but to go down 
 the stairs and into the streets to the beginning of 
 his labours. There was still the need of being, of 
 holding life in a firm grip, fearlessly. If Marie no 
 longer required his services, he still had duties to 
 perform, and chief of these was to do the best 
 that was in him to do. He had need of himself! 
 
 As he walked along, going in the direction of the 
 river, his thoughts buffeted helpless to and fro be- 
 tween mysteries he was just beginning to discern, it 
 occurred to him to tell Mere Pugens of Blakemore's 
 arrival. He did not choose that she should find it 
 out for herself ; he did not choose to have her think 
 that Marie had anything to do with the coming. His 
 reasons were not well-defined, but he was sure of his 
 
 303
 
 MANDERS 
 
 conclusions, and he went at once to the shop. Happily 
 Mere Pugens was occupied with a patron for whom 
 she was weighing out some tobacco. He took advan- 
 tage of the situation to call to her from the door, 
 
 " Monsieur Blakemore has come ! I sent for him ! 
 Maman didn't know ! " 
 
 He was off before Mere Pugens had fully grasped 
 what he was saying. Having told this woman because 
 he thought in that way to shield Marie from the 
 effects of surprise in the garrulous and too inquisitive 
 dame, Manders felt that it would be a sort of treason 
 not to tell Miss Warley. He recollected, too, that 
 to-morrow was lesson day, and Miss Warley would 
 come expecting him to play and sing. It was neces- 
 sary, therefore, to let her know in time that there 
 were to be no more lessons ; not for the present at 
 least certainly not in the rooms in the Rue St 
 Jacques where Blakemore was likely to come. 
 
 " And is he to take her away ? " Miss Warley asked 
 when Manders had finished. 
 
 "Take her away!" he cried, becoming rigid and 
 looking fiercely at Miss Warley. "No!" Then in- 
 terpreting the surprise of her eyes, he fell into a 
 tremble, looked down, fumbling with his cap, and 
 saying, in such a humbled way that she put her hand 
 tenderly upon his head, " I don't know. They haven't 
 talked to me. I came away because because I have 
 my work to do. What makes you think he is going 
 to take her away ? " 
 
 M Because I think it would be good for her. Come; 
 304
 
 MANDERS 
 
 it is not a thing to make you unhappy you would 
 go with them. She wouldn't go away and leave 
 you." 
 
 "Yes; she is going away to leave me. i know 
 that well enough. I have known that a long time 
 but I didn't think anyone could take her from me 
 anyone but God." 
 
 "No one but God can take her from you, dear. 
 Come ; you are not fit for your work to-day. Don't 
 go. Stay with aae, and after a while I'll go with you 
 to see your maman and Mr Blakemore. You can't 
 sing to-day." 
 
 "I don't have to be happy to sing. I sing best 
 when it pains here," pressing his clenched hand 
 against his breast "They'll pay me well for my 
 songs to-day." 
 
 Blakemore thought as Miss Warley thought, and 
 about the time she was talking on the subject with 
 Manders he was asking Doctor Besnard as to the 
 advisability of taking Marie away. He had followed 
 the doctor to the door. 
 
 " Don't you think a change of scene would be bene- 
 ficial?" 
 
 " Oh ! changes help for a little while sometimes, 
 as long as they tonic the mind. I should not expect 
 much from it in this case. You are better than a 
 change of scene. I'm going to speak frankly to you. 
 Madame Manders, who was a woman of exceptional 
 constitution, would never have fallen a victim to this 
 disease if she had not been pining that is the right 
 
 U
 
 MANDERS 
 
 word, Monsieur Blakemore if she had not been 
 pining for a love that was for some reason denied 
 her." 
 
 w Refused by her, doctor." 
 
 " I do not quarrel with terms. I had some idea of 
 the kind from the first, and in spite of her reticence 
 I gathered enough from subsequent conversations 
 with her to confirm my opinion. When I entered 
 her room half an hour ago and observed the way she 
 looked at you the case was perfectly clear to me. If 
 you had come six months ago I should not have had 
 to tell you as I tell you now you have come too 
 late." 
 
 " I did not know. Can nothing be done ? " 
 
 "Nothing. The only question is as to how long 
 you personally by your presence, by your manner, 
 by your devotion, can avert the inevitable. The mind 
 prolongs life, and I am not so sure that it couldn't 
 save life if we only knew how to use it, and used it 
 in time." 
 
 "I was thinking of going by boat to the south 
 coast ? " 
 
 "A delightful trip but wait a few days." The 
 doctor spoke kindly, not encouragingly. "You see 
 her stronger than she really is. She is sustained 
 by an extraordinary excitement to-day. Wait until 
 I can judge how far the reaction is likely to take 
 her." 
 
 " Why should there be any reaction ? Why do you 
 expect it ? " 
 
 306
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " Because we doctors don't know any better." 
 
 The door of the inner room opened and Marie 
 appeared, leaning against the frame as she said 
 smilingly, 
 
 " I am afraid you two are talking behind my back. 
 I tried to hear you but couldn't. It isn't polite of 
 you to leave me alone while you gossip about I don't 
 know what." 
 
 " You are right/' said the doctor, cheerily ; " we 
 were conspiring against you. We were planning a 
 river excursion all the way to the Mediterranean by 
 boat How would you like that ? " 
 
 " Charming, doctor ! But, alas ! you are always 
 talking to me of doing things I can't afford." 
 
 " Well, be a good girl for a week and maybe one 
 of the saints will drop a purse in your lap. Here, 
 don't go back in there to lie down. Put a shawl 
 around you and sit out on the balcony. There isn't 
 any better sunshine than that this side of Kingdom 
 Come, and it's criminal to waste it. Keep her out in it, 
 Monsieur Blakemore, as long as it lasts. I must be off 
 I can't waste all my time here with you, my girl, for 
 I have people who are really sick to look after. Good- 
 bye. I've got to make a call up this way to-morrow 
 morning. Maybe I'll have time to drop in here for a 
 moment, but don't expect me." 
 
 " What a humbug you are, doctor ! " 
 
 He had fairly carried her into the tiny balcony in 
 front of the two long porte-windows of the back 
 room, the windows opening on to it at a level with 
 
 307
 
 MANDERS 
 
 the floor. He wrapped her up lightly and, jesting 
 that she only clung to this affectation of sickness 
 because she liked his attentions, shook a finger at her 
 
 o 
 
 rebukingly, and left her to Blakemore. 
 
 There was not room for two chairs on the balcony, 
 and Blakemore sat just behind Marie and within the 
 room. 
 
 " That makes it easy for you to use me as a cushion," 
 he said, inducing her to lean against him. 
 
 " It seems to me that we have sat this way before, 
 and that you said just those same words to me. Indeed, 
 all the time since you came, everything has been like 
 a repetition of something said or done in the same 
 way before. Don't you think it very queer ? I mean 
 the way one's fancies play tricks with one ? " 
 
 "You know some people believe that we are not 
 having new experiences in this life but are only 
 living over old ones." 
 
 "You and I are not silly enough to believe that, 
 are we ? But tell me why you came back to Paris ? " 
 
 " To be with you." 
 
 " That is what you said a while ago, and I didn't 
 scold you because it pleased me. I let myself think 
 for a little time that you really had come back to be 
 with me. But I am asking you seriously now. Have 
 you come to work ? Have you done great work since 
 I saw you ? And the picture did you ever finish it ? 
 I am foolish to ask so many questions. I don't know 
 how it is, but you seem to answer them as fast as I 
 ask them, or else they answer themselves. My mind 
 
 308
 
 MANDERS 
 
 behaves strangely when I haven't got ray sewing. I 
 think you'd better hand it to me from the table in the 
 other room, I haven't taken a stitch since you came. 
 You must not make an idler of me." 
 
 " I should like to see you idling on the seashore ! 
 I want you to be well enough to start by the end of 
 the week. We'll have a jolly trip down the river in 
 a boat of our own you and Manders, and Miss Warley, 
 perhaps, and I. And when we come to the sea " 
 
 She interrupted him with a purring sort of laugh. 
 
 " You remind me of the way my father told fairy 
 stories when I was a little girl. He was always 
 sending ships to sea, and I used to sail away in them 
 to wonderful countries. Our fairy tales never come 
 true, do they ? " 
 
 " But this is not a fairy story it is going to be sure 
 enough." 
 
 She smiled, looking into the blue distances and 
 shaking her head. 
 
 "No; I'm never going away from these little 
 rooms. I've only been waiting for you, Walter, 
 Now that you have come, there is but one thing more 
 to wait for just the one thing, Walter." 
 
 There was a stir among the leaves of a tree that 
 hung over the roof of a low house opposite them, and 
 he drew the wrap closer about her throat, holding it 
 in place. 
 
 " You are not to talk in that way. All that is past. 
 We are to be happy together ; I'll have to scold you 
 in my turn, if you don't keep that in mind." 
 
 309
 
 MANDERS 
 
 She pub up her hand to stroke his cheek and press 
 his head against her own. 
 
 " Yes, we are to be happy together but here where 
 I knew you first. They wanted me to go away long 
 ago, but I would not. I never told them why, but they 
 seemed to understand that it was best to let me have 
 my way. It was best, too. I could not have waited 
 for you so long anywhere else." 
 
 " But you will go with me ! We can be so much 
 happier if you will do as I wish! It is so much 
 pleasanter away from the cities at this time of the 
 year ! You would like to see Marseilles again ? " 
 
 " For me there is no place pleasanter than this. I 
 am content. I am happy. There is only one thing 
 to make me sorrowful now but I have wept all my 
 tears away over it my boy, my poor Edward, my 
 Manders what is to become of him ? " 
 
 "He will be cared for, Marie you yourself will 
 care for him, and then and then he shall come 
 to me." 
 
 " Ah ! Walter, you are good ! Love my boy ! I 
 know he is to be something in the world, but a little 
 child cannot fight his way alone. And he will miss 
 me so. It is worth while dying if you will take my 
 place. You cannot help but love him. I haven't 
 failed of my duty altogether if I leave him such a 
 friend as you. What a foolish thing my life has 
 been. I wonder why God plays with us ? " 
 
 " Marie ! We are not going to talk any more in this 
 way. I have a multitude of things to tell you <" 
 
 310
 
 MANDERS 
 
 "Yes and tell me first about Miss Storey. I 
 thought you would be married by this time. When 
 is it to be?" 
 
 " It is not to be, Marie." 
 
 "Not to be? Why?" 
 
 " Because she has found out that I am not the kind 
 of man that she can love." 
 
 " Not the kind of man ! Ha ! you are jesting with 
 me!" She put up her hand and gave his cheek a 
 reproving pinch. 
 
 " No ; she was right, Marie. I am too easily swayed 
 by circumstances to suit a woman who demands that 
 her husband be the master of his own destiny, a 
 governor of forces." 
 
 " But you are an artist an artist with something 
 of the poet in him! What is greater than a great 
 artist ? She doesn't love you, then ? ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Poor Walter ! They say the heart wears out that 
 loves without having love in return." 
 
 "Let me console myself in loving you, Marie!" 
 He put his arms about her. 
 
 " You pity me," she said, closing her eyes, her lips 
 quivering as she spoke. 
 
 " No, I pity myself. My chance of happiness came 
 and dwelt with me and I turned aside from it, not 
 knowing. I am being punished through you, Marie, 
 who should have been my inspiration and my reward. 
 It was such a love as yours that I needed to make my 
 life complete." 
 
 311
 
 MANDERS 
 
 She made no reply, and her arm slipped from the 
 support of the chair and hung down, limp and motion- 
 less. She was as still as if life had left her ; but there 
 was a faint, sweet smile on her lips and the lashes of 
 her eyes were wet with tears. Her face was turned a 
 little toward him, her head resting against his arm on 
 the top of the chair. He regarded her for some time 
 in silence, marvelling at the serene and noble beauty 
 of the white, thin face. It was not the face he had 
 painted. He looked at the chin ; the dimple was no 
 longer there. He bent to kiss the spot where it had 
 been.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 NOTHING further was said about going away. M There 
 is nothing to gain by going," Doctor Besnard said to 
 Blakemore, with a shake of the head the next day, 
 and the headshake conveyed more than the words 
 declared. Besides, had Marie been readier for the 
 excursion proposed, there really was no reason for 
 wishing to quit Paris just now. The city had put 
 on more than its customary charm of autumnal 
 beauty and softness, and the air of the mornings 
 and afternoons and evenings was like a caress. No 
 place could be better tempered to the delicate needs 
 of an invalid, and Marie one of those misguided 
 creatures who imagine that absence from Paris is 
 exile thought no scene could be BO lovely or so 
 delight-giving. In her opinion, a drive in the Bois 
 far exceeded in lively interest and wholesome bene- 
 fit any possible driftings by river or rockings by sea, 
 for her nature was exclusively terrestrial. So there 
 were drives in the Bois, Marie being carried up 
 and down the stairs, to and from the carriage, in the 
 arms of Blakemore, a portage which had an agree- 
 ably perilous excitement for her. Usually Miss 
 Warley went with them, and sometimes the captain 
 
 313
 
 MANDERS 
 
 lent his amiable presence to the party; hut neither 
 Marie nor Blakemore noticed that Manders managed 
 not to he about when neither of the Warleys were 
 to go for the drive, though Marie unconsciously 
 missed something of value from the benefits of the 
 outings when Manders was not in his favoured place 
 on the box with the coachman. Nor did anyone 
 notice as the drives were gradually discontinued and 
 finally given up altogether, that dark lines were 
 coming under the boy's eyes, and that there was a 
 drawing down at the corners of the mouth, such as 
 suffering makes in faces below which beat resisting 
 hearts. These signs seemed to vanish mysteriously 
 Tinder Marie's eyes, and she comforted herself with 
 saying, " He doesn't know ; " but he might have told 
 her of clairvoyant nights and of visions by day had 
 he not come to know that some prophecies are sacred 
 alone to the mind that shapes them. Shutting these 
 experiences for they were realities to him within 
 the silences of his own thought had matured his 
 faculties to such an extent that there was little 
 more of the child left in him than the anxiously 
 adoring love of Marie that had always filled his 
 heart. He was readier than she would have be- 
 lieved for the hour when he should no longer have 
 to look into her face with a smile while he fought 
 down the wish to clasp his arms about her neck 
 and pour out his agony in tears. 
 
 When the drives were abandoned, and Marie con- 
 tented herself with the recreation of sitting on the
 
 MANDERS 
 
 balcony, or lying near the open window while Blake- 
 more read from one of the few books she cared for, 
 Manders got into the way of keeping to the streets 
 of the neighbourhood, returning to the house at in- 
 tervals to climb the stairs and listen at the door, or 
 peer in if there seemed to be too great a silence. 
 Expectancy of an invisible coming makes the heart 
 afraid. Manders feared not to be there when the 
 Comer arrived. Yesterday, however, he had crossed 
 the river to the boulevards, and though a marvellous 
 chance had come to him, terror seized him and fled 
 with him to his home only to mock him with the 
 tranquillity he found there. But the memory of 
 that terror kept him at home to-day ; and then, too, 
 he had something to tell Marie. 
 
 " Can you believe," he said, smiling to her when 
 they were alone, " that I forgot you for a little time 
 yesterday ? " 
 
 " No, I won't believe it ; but tell me about it." 
 
 "Did you ever feel yourself pulled along, as if 
 you had to go where you didn't want to ? " 
 
 " Yes ; everybody feels that way sometimes." 
 
 "I do often, and I always let it pull me, because I 
 sometimes think it's God. .It might be, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 Who knows ? " 
 
 " Well, yesterday it was that way, and I went on 
 until I found myself at the Madeleine as the people 
 were coming out from a mass. I thought what a 
 fine crowd to sing for and I began singing. But 
 
 3>5
 
 MANDERS 
 
 they didn't stop to listen not many. I only got 
 twelve sous out of all that crowd. Then, do you 
 know what I thought? I thought God didn't pull 
 me that time ! " 
 
 "Ah, people coming out of church are not the 
 people to sing to," said Marie, with playful serious- 
 ness. 
 
 "I found that out and started np the boulevard. 
 When I came to the Grand Hotel, I stopped under 
 the arch and looked into the court. There were a 
 good many ladies and gentlemen sitting about, and I 
 just felt as if I must go in and sing to them. I was 
 never in there before, but I went in and walked up 
 to the wide steps that go all the way across one side. 
 You know, don't you 1 Well, I put one foot on the 
 bottom step, took off my cap, and before anybody 
 knew what I was about I began singing. Right 
 away a man with a uniform on came towards me 
 waving his hand for me to go away, and calling to 
 me to stop. But a lady with white hair I shouldn't 
 be surprised if she is a queen somewhere held 
 up her hand and said, 'No, no, let him sing; he is 
 a pretty child and has a sweet voice,' and others 
 said so, too, and the man didn't drive me away, and 
 I sang, and they gave me silver pieces, more than 
 I've ever earned before." 
 
 "That was beautiful," Marie said, a loving hand 
 on his head, a happy light in her eyes. 
 
 " But that was not the best of it ! " exclaimed 
 Manders, struggling to repress the excitement that
 
 MANDERS 
 
 was getting the better of his dignity. "They were 
 very nice to me, to be sure, but it was when I was 
 going away that the big thing happened 1 " 
 
 " Something happened 1 " 
 
 u I should say so ! A gentleman followed me out, 
 and on the street he said he would like to talk with 
 me ; so I went into the cafe on the corner with him. 
 He asked me all kinds of questions about myself, 
 about you, about my singing, and if I could read and 
 write and then and then what do you think he 
 said ? Oh ! you needn't squeeze your brows together ! 
 You could never guess. I'm going to tell you. He 
 said he wanted me for a children's opera company 
 that he was going to have in the United States, and 
 he said are you listening ? that he would give me 
 one hundred francs a week and take care of me I " 
 
 There was an expression on Marie's face that 
 turned all his triumph into despair, and he cried 
 out, 
 
 " But I told him I wouldn't leave you for all the 
 money in the world." 
 
 "No, dear," she said, smiling now, "you would 
 never leave me; I wasn't afraid of that. I was 
 thinking that this may be a friend God has sent 
 to you just when you may need a friend. And 
 you don't know who he is." 
 
 "Yes, he gave me his card." 
 
 " Keep it, little one. Who knows what may come 
 of it. Monsieur Walter perhaps can tell you if this 
 is a worthy man." 
 
 3*7
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Manders took one of his mother's hands, stroking 
 it in a way that always indicated to her hit* em- 
 barrassed but negative state of mind. 
 
 "If you please, maman," he said, "I don't want 
 M. Walters to know about it not yet not till I 
 tell him myself." 
 
 "What a man yon are getting to be! Eh, well! 
 manage your own affairs! 1 shall not tell him, 
 monsieur ! But you might be condescending enough 
 to kiss me for keeping your secret." 
 
 She seemed so proud of him, was so elated by the 
 incident of the " manager " for that was the distinc- 
 tive word on the card and entered so heartily into 
 fancies and predictions of what his future should be, 
 that Manders rose into such a glow of spirit as he 
 had not known in months, and Miss Warley thought 
 them very much too animated when she came in for 
 the afternoon, it being one of her half-holidays. 
 
 " Never mind," Marie said in reply to Miss Warley's 
 chidings, " you mustn't blame Manders, and there is 
 no use scolding me, you know. As for taking a 
 nap, Walter is coming to read to me presently ; that 
 always puts me to sleep, he reads so well." 
 
 When Blakemore came, Manders, his apprehensions 
 calmed by the joyous hour with Marie, felt privileged 
 to make a short tour in the quarter of the Luxem- 
 bourg. "I don't have to earn much; I'm rich to- 
 day; I won't be long away," he laughed to Miss 
 Warley as he went out the door. 
 
 "Shall I go on with 'The Idyls of the King?'" 
 318
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Blakemore asked, reaching down the Tennyson from 
 the tiny shelf at the right of the window. 
 
 M Yes, I suppose so, only " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 " I wonder if you two will laugh at me ! But I've 
 been thinking that I'd like to hear you read some- 
 thing out of the Bible? Would you? looking at 
 him wistfully yet diffidently. 
 
 " Why not ? It is one of the best reading books in 
 the world. Where is your Bible?" 
 
 " In my room, under the pillow. Will you get it, 
 Miss Warley ? I've been reading it a little to myself 
 every day, I don't know why ; I never used to care 
 for it I'm so glad you don't laugh at me, Walter." 
 
 " Laugh at you, Marie ! I believe in the Bible." 
 
 " Ah," she sighed in a satisfied way, " then read to 
 me the ninth chapter of Acts. That seems to me most 
 wonderful Paul so strangely converted and able to 
 raise the dead to life." 
 
 When he had done reading she asked, " Don't you 
 think we, too, could heal the sick, and bring the dead 
 to life again, if we really believed in Christ and His 
 teachings ? " 
 
 He looked at her curiously, smiling, but making 
 no answer. He wondered if there were any real 
 believers in Christ and the Word, if the Christian 
 religion were anything more in these days than a 
 carefully-guarded scabbard for the sword of political 
 power. Marie thought the smile was at the expense 
 of her credulity. 
 
 3'9
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " I suppose I am foolish," she admitted. " Read me 
 something else." 
 
 He turned here and there in the book, reading 
 
 * O 
 
 chapters chosen at random until he saw that she 
 slept, lying easily in the invalid's chair, stretched 
 before the open window. He sat watching her for 
 sometime, and Miss Warley brought a light wrap 
 to lay across her shoulders. 
 
 "I think she has been too excited to-day," she 
 whispered. " I hope she will have a good, restful sleep." 
 
 Blakemore put down the book and rose saying, 
 
 "Yes. I'll go down and finish some letters. I'll 
 eome back at six o'clock, though if she should wake 
 and want me, I'll be ready at any time. Would you 
 call me ? I'm on the first floor, left, you know." 
 
 That she might not disturb Marie, Miss Warley 
 took her chair and embroidery into the other room 
 when Blakemore had gone. After an hour she looked 
 in upon Marie, who was still in that serene sleep, and in 
 the same posture as before, save that one arm was now 
 curved above her head. Miss Warley smiled and resumed 
 her work. Another hour and there was the sound of 
 careful footsteps ascending the oak stairs. Manders was 
 coming. Miss Warley went quickly to the door, and 
 opened it softly as Manders stepped upon the landing. 
 
 " Sh ! " she said, putting her finger on her lips, and 
 as he tiptoed in, she added, " She is sleeping beauti- 
 fully, and has been for the last two hours." 
 
 " That is good for her, is it not ? " said Manders. 
 
 "Very good. She doesn't often have such un- 
 320
 
 MANDERS 
 
 broken sleep for BO long a time, I know right well 
 Now that you have come, I think I'll go, Mr Blake- 
 more is coming at six. What time does the woman 
 come ? " 
 
 " At seven." 
 
 " And stays until morning ? " 
 
 " Yes, she gets coffee for us. " 
 
 " I'll come in at noon to-morrow. Can I do any- 
 thing for you before I go ? " 
 
 "No, I thank you." 
 
 "You look tired." 
 
 "But I am not I'll sit here, where I can watch 
 her through the doorway, and wait till she wakea 
 I've something to tell her, something to amuse her. 
 I wish you could be here." 
 
 " Don't wake her up with wanting to amuse her," 
 shaking a warning finger at him as she whispered. 
 
 " I sha'n't wake her," he whispered. 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 He closed the door behind her, and carae to take up 
 his post of watching just where through the doorway 
 he could look into Marie's face, the smile on which he 
 could just distinguish in the shadow thrown by her 
 arm curved above her head. He thought as he 
 watched how still and calm she slept; he was hardly 
 sure whether there was any motion of the light 
 covering above her breast as she breathed, and he 
 seemed to be trying to breathe as gently himself, as 
 if a sigh too rude might break the peaceful spell that 
 sleep had laid lovingly upon her. 
 
 X
 
 MANDERS 
 
 Blakemore looked up from his writing to the clock 
 on his mantelpiece, and found that it was a quarter 
 of an hour after the time he had told Miss Warley he 
 would return. He arose at once and started up the 
 stairs. As he came near to Marie's door, he heard 
 Manders singing, a weirdness in his voice that made 
 it almost strange, and he stopped to listen, doubting 
 if he had rightly located the sound. He had not been 
 mistaken, and he recognised the song, the quaint, sad- 
 tuned trifle Manders used to love so much to have Marie 
 sing while he stood weeping by her side. He remem- 
 bered the words, and could follow the singing though 
 the words were hardly distinguishable 
 
 ** If the light should go and the roses fade, 
 
 And earth grow cold and the birds not sing, 
 
 My heart should not be the least afraid, 
 For love of you makes eternal spring 1 
 
 But should we miss love, you and I, 
 
 Though death were life, my soul would die." 
 
 He opened the door and went quickly into the 
 inner room. Manders was on his knees beside Marie, 
 his arms clasped about her, holding her close to his 
 breast, rocking to and fro with her as he sang, his 
 cheek pressed against hers, his eyes shut and tear- 
 less. Marie's arms hung limply down; she gave no 
 response to his caresses. Hearing someone enter, he 
 stopped his song and opened his eyes, and seeing 
 Blakemore, said slowly, as he still rocked to and fro, 
 cradling the dreamless sleeper, 
 
 " She is mine now mine ! Don't touch her 1" 
 / 322
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 " WHERE is Manders ? " Captain Warley asked when 
 they were ready to come away from that walled-in 
 city in which Marie is waiting for the new day. 
 
 The four of them, Manders, Blakemore and the 
 Warleys, had gone in the same carriage, and now that 
 the mission was ended, the others suddenly missed the 
 desolated object of their common sympathies. The 
 man looked about anxiously, but Miss Warley, better 
 understanding the boy than the others could, said 
 presently, 
 
 " Let us not try to find him. He can take care of 
 himself." 
 
 " Yes," said the captain, " Matilda is right. He ia 
 an odd little chap. We wouldn't know how to com- 
 fort him." Then a little while later, as they drove 
 along, he asked feelingly, " What is to become of the 
 boy?" 
 
 " If he will come with me," said Blakemore, " I will 
 do with him as if he were my own." 
 
 "A generous purpose, Mr Blakemore. There is 
 nothing else that he can do. I'm sure he will be 
 glad to go with you. But hasn't he any relatives ? " 
 
 323
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " His father had some brothers in England, but I 
 believe he has nothing to hope for from them." 
 
 " Hasn't he any rights ? " 
 
 "I think not" 
 
 ** Well, it doesn't matter if he has such a man as 
 you to look out for him. Besides, it isn't such a hard 
 fate for a boy with the right sort of stuff in him to 
 have to take hold of the world for himself. I think 
 * expectations ' have been the ruin of more lads than 
 have ever been benefited by them. Almost every 
 man who has been worth a pinch of salt in the 
 affairs of the world has had to battle his way up 
 single-handed from most unfavourable beginnings. 
 It takes fighting to bring the best qualities into 
 development, to give force to character. I am the 
 bankrupt of a prodigal youth myself. My father did 
 me the incalculable injury of leaving me twenty 
 thousand pounds, without having taught me how to 
 spend it. Luckily, I had sense enough to use the 
 dregs to buy a small commission in the army, and I 
 was able to patch together the shreds of manhood 
 well enough to make a fairly decent showing as a 
 soldier. The devil 1 if it were not for the asylum 
 the army offers them thousands of decent young 
 men would go bag and baggage to the dogs in Eng- 
 land, because we have made it rather a discreditable, 
 if not dishonourable, thing for a gentleman to be 
 self-supporting through his own industry. That is 
 where you Americans are a generation or two ahead 
 of us. You are civilised enough to appreciate the 
 
 324
 
 MANDERS 
 
 V 
 
 dignity of labour. Give the boy a chance, Mr 
 Blakeinore, but prepare him to be self-reliant and 
 independent Make him understand that he has 
 got to hew out his own path. Do you know, sir, 
 that the thing for which I most honour the Prince of 
 Wales is the fact that he knows how to make a pair 
 of shoes ? That is something he can do for himself ; 
 he had nothing o do with being born heir to a 
 throne! Teach Manders to make shoes, horseshoes 
 if necessary, but don't cram a silver spoon down his 
 throat to choke him to death." 
 
 Blakemore saw nothing more of Manders that 
 day, but the following morning there was a knock 
 at his door, and in answer to his " Entrez," Manders 
 came in. 
 
 " I want to talk with you," he said 
 
 " And I with you, Manders," Blakemore said kindly, 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 Manders, who stood just inside the door, made no 
 responsive movement, though his face was unclouded, 
 and his eyes looked frankly, calmly toward Blake- 
 more. 
 
 " You and I should be the best of friends, Mandera 
 I am your friend with all my heart Why are you 
 not mine ? What has changed you ? You used to be 
 fond of me. Why are you not now ? " 
 
 Standing as he was, and with no change of the 
 placid expression that seemed so unnatural to Blake- 
 more, Manders said, without a tremor of feeling, 
 
 "One night my maman said things in her sleep 
 32$
 
 MANDERS 
 
 that no one else but yon should have ever heard 
 Should I shake hands with you ? " 
 
 Blakemore felt his own go down under the gaze of 
 the boy's clear eyes. He had risen and gone toward 
 Manders, but he returned to his desk and sat down. 
 
 " When you are older, Manders, you will know that 
 we sometimes do the things that we would give our 
 lives to have undone again. Well, lad ? " 
 
 " I want to know how much you have paid out in 
 these weeks ? " 
 
 If Manders had crossed over and struck his fist 
 into Blakemore's face, the effect upon the man would 
 not have been different from that produced by these 
 words. 
 
 " Manders, my boy," looking with steady reproach 
 at him, but speaking with gentleness, "don't forget 
 that I too was loved!" 
 
 There was a momentary loosening of the boy's lips 
 and a quivering of the eyelids, and then the calm 
 again. He had thought of all this. He had con- 
 sidered everything. He was prepared for just this 
 reminder. 
 
 " That is why I sent for you," he said. " But that 
 is over now. There is nothing for you to do for her. 
 I have everything to do for her. I must live my life 
 for her. I hated you when you came ; I don't hate 
 you now. Shall I tell you why ? Mere Pugens has 
 talked to me. She told me what my papa was and 
 how he died. It's an awful thing to die that way. 
 And MSre Pugens told me other things so that I 
 
 326
 
 MANDERS 
 
 might understand ; but I don't understand all ; I 
 only know that I have got to live BO that my 
 maman need not be ashamed. She must not blame 
 herself for me. I must begin in the right way. 
 How much have you paid out? And Mere Pugens 
 says that you must have paid Miss Warley, too. 
 How much is it all?" 
 
 " I do not know ; I have no account." 
 
 " You are a man ; men always know these things ; 
 tell me." 
 
 Blakemore felt himself at a question of honour 
 with this boy in whom there was so little boyish- 
 ness. He could not trifle with him; he could not 
 humble a dignity that did not need years to make 
 it admirable. He figured with his pencil for * 
 minute or so, and gravely handed Manders a slip 
 of paper on which the approximate total was 
 given. 
 
 "Those figures will cover everything," he said. 
 "And now let us talk a little of your future, 
 Handera. I want to help you." 
 
 "I cannot stop now. I have to be on the other 
 side of the river at noon. Good-bye, M. Blake- 
 more." 
 
 "Thin afternoon or to-morrow morning, then," 
 Blakemore said, as Manders opened the door. 
 
 " Good-bye, M. Blakemore," Manders repeated, going 
 out and shutting the door behind him. 
 
 The next morning Blakemore found this letter 
 
 C7 
 
 thrust under his door, the envelope unaddressed: 
 
 327
 
 MANDERS 
 
 " M. BLAKEMORE, This will Tell you that i oh you 
 1,800 francs and That I Will pay you. i dont no 
 when but I know i. will, i shall send It to you as 
 fast as i urn it. i Am going awa, and not see you 
 ani more. I have taking all my things in the little 
 trunk that is mine and som things that are maman's. 
 i leave all the rest of the rooms as they are. if there 
 is ani thing in them you want it is yours, i Have 
 taking maman's pillow tho. the piano is Miss Warleya 
 the concierge has got the key. i dont Hate you ani 
 more, i think Im sorry for you. Good Bye. 
 
 "EDOUARD MANDEKS." 
 
 THE END
 
 It may come as a pUasant surprise to many of 
 our readers to learn that the young American who 
 made so great an impression as Siegfried at Covent 
 Garden on Tuesday night is only adoptively an 
 American. Mr Edward Manders, though a native 
 of Paris, is really an Englishman, his father having 
 been a member of the well-known Devonshire family, 
 of which Mr Mark Manders, M.P., is now the honoured 
 and distinguished head. This, however, is his first 
 visit to England. Young Manders is said to have 
 made a professional beginning at the age of eight 
 years, when he sang as a principal in one of the 
 juvenile opera companies with which the Americans 
 amuse'd themselves for several seasons eighteen or 
 twenty years ago. After that experience, he suffered 
 the vicissitudes that unprotected youth must under- 
 go in the battle for existence, but he may feel an 
 excusable pride in the fact that he made his own 
 way to success, though he was not without friends 
 who were willing to aid him. We believe Lady 
 Kentmoor was one of these early friends whose 
 gracious offers were declined in a perhaps laudable 
 spirit of independence. Last evening Mr Manders, 
 who will be heard for the second time as Siegfried 
 to-morrow night, occupied a seat in the box with 
 Lord and Lady Kentmoor and their lovely daughter 
 the Lady Florence. Extract from the ST JAMES'S 
 GAZETTE.
 
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 i vol., cloth, illustrated, gilt top . . . $1.35 
 
 The Works of Gabriel d'Annunzio. 
 
 The Triumph of Death. 
 The Intruder; 
 
 The flaidens of the Rocks. 
 The Child of Pleasure. 
 
 Each, i vol., lib. I2mo, cloth . . . $1.50 
 
 "The writer of the greatest promise to-day in Italy, and perhaps one of the most 
 unique figures in contemporary literature, is Gabriel d'Annuniio, the poet-novelist.'' 
 The Bookman. 
 
 " This book is realistic. Some say that it is brutally so. But the realism is that of 
 Flaubert and not of Zola. There is no plain speaking for the sake of plain speaking. 
 Every detail is justified in the fact that it illuminates either the motives or the actions 
 of the man and woman who here strjid revealed. It is deadly true. The author holds 
 the mirror up to nature, and the reader, as he sees his own experiences duplicated hi 
 passage after passage, has something of the same sensation as all of us know on the 
 first reading of George Meredith's ' Egoist.' Reading these page* is like being oat in 
 the country on a dark night in a storm. Suddenly a flash of lightning com** amd every 
 detail of your surroundings U revealed." Rnirni of tkt Trtumfk of Dtatk, in Mr 
 tfew York Evening Sun.
 
 12 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY S 
 
 Mademoiselle de Berny. 
 
 A Story of Valley Forge. By PAULINE BRADFORD 
 MACKIE. With five full-page photogravures from 
 drawings by Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 Printed on deckle-edged paper, with gilt top, and 
 bound in cloth. 272 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 " The charm of ' Mademoiselle de Berny ' lies in its singular sweetness." 
 Boston Herald. 
 
 " One of the very few choice American historical stories." Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Real romance . . . admirably written." Washington Post. 
 
 " A stirring romance, full of life and action from start to finish." Toledo Daily 
 Blade. 
 
 " Of the many romances in which Washington is made to figure, this is one of the 
 most fascinating, one of the best." Boston Courier, 
 
 Ye Lyttle Salem Maide. 
 
 A Story of Witchcraft. By PAULINE BRADFORD 
 MACKIE, with four full-page photogravures from draw- 
 ings by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 
 Printed on deckle-edged paper, with gilt top, and 
 bound in cloth. 321 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 A tale of the days of the reign of superstition in New England, 
 and of a brave " lyttle maide," of Salem Town, whose faith and hope 
 and unyielding adherence to her word of honor form the basis of a 
 most attractive story. Several historical characters are introduced, 
 including the Rev. Cotton Mather and Governor and Lady Phipps, 
 and a very convincing picture is drawn of Puritan life during the latter 
 part of the seventeenth century. An especial interest is added to the 
 book by the illustrations, reproduced by the photogravure process 
 from originals by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 
 In Guiana Wilds. 
 
 A Study of Two Women. By JAMES RODWAY, 
 author of " In the Guiana Forest," etc. Illustrated. 
 i vol., library I2mo, cloth, decorative cover, 250 
 pages ........ $1.25 
 
 " In Guiana Wilds " may be described as an ethnological romance. 
 A typical young Scotchman becomes, by the force of circumstances, 
 decivilized, and mates with a native woman. 
 
 It is a psychological study of great power and ability. , . _
 
 LIST OF FICTION. 13 
 
 Vivian of Virginia. 
 
 Being the Memoirs of Our First Rebellion, by John 
 Vivian, Esq., of Middle Plantation, Virginia. By HUL- 
 BERT FULLER. With ten full-page illustrations by 
 Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 i vol., library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, deckle-edge 
 paper ....... $1.50 
 
 " A stirring and accurate account of the famous Bacon rebellion." Lot A ngtlt* 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 " We shall have to search far to find a better colonial story than this." Denver- 
 Republican. , 
 
 " A well-conceived, well-plotted romance, full of life and adventure." Chicago 
 Inter-Ocean. 
 
 " A story abounding in exciting incidents and well-told conversations." Boston 
 Journal. 
 
 " Mr. Fuller will find a large circle of readers for his romance who will not be dis- 
 appointed in their pleasant expectations." Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Instead of using history as a background for the exploits of the hero, the author 
 used the hero to bring out history and the interesting events of those early days in 
 Virginia. The author has preserved the language and customs of the tiroes admir- 
 ably." Philadelphia Telegram. 
 
 The Gray House of the Quarries. 
 
 By MARY HARRIOTT NORRIS. With a frontispiece 
 etching by Edmund H. Garrett. 
 i vol., 8vo, cloth, 500 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 " The peculiar genre, for which, in a literary sense, all must acknowledge obliga- 
 tion to the author of a new type, is the Dutch - American species. The church-goings, 
 the courtings, the pleasures and sorrows of a primitive people, their lives and < 
 weddings, suicides, births and burials, are Rembrandt and Rubens pictures on a fresh 
 canvas. Boston Transcript. 
 
 " The fine ideal of womanhood in a person never once physically described will 
 gratify the highest tone of the period, and is an ennobling conception." Ttmt mmd 
 The fffur, Boston, 
 
 A Hypocritical Romance AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 By CAROLINE TICKNOR. Illustrated by J. W. Ken- 
 nedy, 
 i vol., large i6mo, cloth $1.00 
 
 Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the 
 younger school of American \v . iters, has never done better work than 
 in the majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful comedy 
 vein.
 
 14 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY S 
 
 A Man=at=Arms. 
 
 A Romance of the days of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, 
 the Great Viper. By CLINTON SCOLLARD, author of 
 " Skenandoa," etc. With six full-page illustrations 
 and title-page by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 i vol., library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, deckle-edge 
 paper . . . . . . . $1.50 
 
 The scene of the story is laid in Italy, in the latter part of the 
 fourteenth century. The hero, Luigi della Verria, unable to bear 
 the restrictions of home or to reconcile himself to the profession of 
 law, as desired by his father, leaves his family and, as the result of 
 , chance, becomes a man-at-arms in the service of Gian Galeazzo Vis- 
 conti, the cunning and unscrupulous Lord of Pavia, known as the 
 Great Viper. Thenceforward the vicissitudes and adventures, both 
 in love and war, of Delia Verria, are told in a way to incite the in- 
 terest to the highest point ; and a strong picture is drawn of Italian 
 life at this period, with its petty vendettas, family broils, and the un- 
 principled methods employed by the heads of noble families to gain 
 their personal ends. 
 
 An individual value is added to the book by the illustrations and 
 title-page, drawn by Mr. E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 
 " The style is admirable, simple, direct, fluent, and sometimes eloquent ; and the 
 Story moves with rapidity from start to finish." The Bookman. 
 u A good story." N. Y. Commercial A dvertiser, 
 It is a triumph in style." Utica Herald. 
 
 Cyrano de Bergerac. 
 
 A Heroic Comedy from the French of Edward Ros- 
 stand, as accepted and played by Richard Mansfield. 
 Translated by HOWARD THAYER KINGSBURY. 
 i vol., cloth decorative, with a photogravure frontis- 
 piece $1.00 
 
 I vol., paper boards -5<> 
 
 The immediate and prolonged success of "Cyrano de Bergerac," in 
 Paris, has been paralleled by Mr. Mansfield's success with an English 
 version, dating from its first night at the Garden Theatre, New York, 
 October 3, 1898. 
 
 As a literary work, the original form of Rostand took high rank ; 
 and the preference of Mr. Mansfield for Mr. Kingsbury's new trans- 
 lation implies its superior merit.
 
 DC SOUTHERN REGOtAl. U8R*m FAOUTY 
 
 A 000 036 391 1