THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
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DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 G. B. STERN 
 
 NEW YORK ALFRED • A • KNOPF MCMXXI 
 
C30PYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 G. B. STERN 
 
 This book has been published and 
 copyriffhted in England under the 
 title "Children of No Man's Ixind" 
 
 Published, January, 1921 
 Second Printing, April, 1921 
 
 PRINTED IM THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
TO 
 
 H. G. WELLS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
' "What is love of one's land? . . . 
 
 I don't know very well. 
 It is something that sleeps for a year, for a day. 
 For a month, something that keeps 
 Very hidden and quiet and still, 
 And then takes 
 The quiet heart like a wave, 
 The quiet brain like a spell, 
 
 The quiet will 
 Like a tornado, and that shakes 
 The whole being and soul . . . 
 
 Aye, the whole of the soul." 
 
 Ford Madox Hueffer 
 
PART I 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 L" 
 
 <c"|" ET her go," said Ferdinand Marcus. " I want my 
 daughter to have a good time." 
 
 Aunt Stella assented. "Why shouldn't she go? 
 Anything for a change, when one is twenty-three. Anything 
 for excitement. And she can come to no harm. Besides, Rich- 
 ard is invited too." 
 
 " No harm," chirruped her brother. " Liberty for the 
 young! We have missed enough, Stella, you and I, through 
 old-fashioned prejudices." 
 
 Old Hermann Marcus did not join in the conversation. He 
 sat heavy and immovable; his faded blue eyes, under their 
 fierce ridges, travelling contemptuously from his son to his 
 daughter. Weaklings ! short-sighted weaklings, with their fool- 
 ish chatter of " Liberty for the young." Was this the way to 
 bring up one's children, with authority trailing like a slack 
 rope along the floor? What was to become of the old, if the 
 young were allowed to live for their own pleasure? Where 
 would he be now, he, Hermann Marcus, crippled with rheu- 
 matism, financially insolvent, approaching his eightieth birth- 
 day, if Ferdinand and Stella had not been trained, very care- 
 fully trained, to unquestioning obedience and duty? 
 
 He was impotent where Ferdinand's children were concerned. 
 His day of authority was over. But — " a good time," he mut- 
 tered. " They will see. . . ." He called loudly to Stella to 
 bring him at once the English papers, which would not arrive at 
 the Swiss hotel for fully an hour yet. Hermann Marcus was 
 perfectly aware of this. 
 
 3 
 
4 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 II 
 
 " But every one knows for a positive fact that Shakespeare is 
 the greatest writer of all. Why, who has ever heard of your 
 Goethe, outside Germany? " 
 
 "And who has ever read your Shakespeare, inside Eng- 
 land? " Lothar retorted, witli the horrid glee of a person who 
 has made a remark with an unpleasant amount of truth in it. 
 His spectacles gleamed, two round, triumphant dazzles in the 
 sunset which streamed through the closed windows of his study. 
 
 Richard repeated stubbornly, but without conviction: 
 " Every one knows Shakespeare is the greatest writer." His 
 defence of Shakespeare was strictly impersonal; he had no 
 vehement sentiments on the subject; the whole argument bored 
 him. But on principle, when a German boy asserts that 
 Goethe is greater than Shakespeare, the English boy can have 
 no option but to make reply that Shakespeare is greater than 
 Goethe. 
 
 " It shall be decided one day," Lothar grimaced ominously. 
 
 And Richard had an inspiration. " Shakespeare has been 
 translated into German, because you jolly well couldn't get on 
 without him. I've never seen Goethe properly put into Eng- 
 lish. That about proves I'm right." 
 
 " There was no Englander great enough to translate a man 
 so great. I do not say," Lothar explained conscientiously, 
 "that I have not of the works of your Shakespeare also with 
 much benefit an exhaustive study made. Let us converse on 
 them. Do you then prefer Macbess or Otello? " 
 
 " Macbeth," Richard muttered at a venture, and walked rest- 
 lessly to the window; fidgeted with the beaded blind-cord, to 
 signify that he expected better entertainment from his host 
 than this irritating controversy. He wished his sister had not 
 been so quick to accept Mrs. Koch's invitation to visit her at 
 Dorzheim. To be dragged away in the middle of the extra July 
 of smnmer holiday which an epidemic of scarlet fever at school 
 had procured him; dragged away from a jolly hotel in Switzer- 
 land, to this stupid, little, dead-and-alive German town; finally, 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 5 
 
 to be expected to chum up with Lothar von Relling, merely be- 
 cause they were " of the same age " — it was a bit thick! 
 
 Deb could quite well have come alone, if this was her idea of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 He wondered why Lothar was crossing and uncrossing his 
 legs in their bright striped stockings, and breathing heavily as 
 though about to unburden himself of a confidence. 
 
 " Have you a heart's dearest, you? " 
 
 Richard Marcus was fifteen. A normal boy, muscular, pug- 
 nacious, taciturn. The question drew from him a shout of 
 laughter. 
 
 " What should I do with one, if I had it? " 
 
 " You English boys are babies all," Lothar said, unexpect- 
 edly scornful. "You play always your stupid games, rather 
 than write verses to the loved one. Ach, but she . . ." he 
 whirled his hearer along an incoherent tide of description: " a 
 wonder, a dream, a night of scented dusk," that mysterious god- 
 dess who seemed but recently to have emerged from the nebu- 
 lous glamour which encircles all womanhood for the Teuton yet 
 in his teens. 
 
 "Are you engaged to her? " yawned Richard, who by the 
 merest fraction preferred these confidences to the Goethe- 
 Shakespeare debate. 
 
 " Betrothed ? But not possible. I am already betrothed to 
 Frieda-Marie. Our peoples betrothed us a great many years 
 
 ago. It is wearisome, but " Lothar shrugged his plump 
 
 shoulders — " it is suitable. We are of one faith. Her father, 
 the Herr Sanitats-Rath HaufFe, will withdraw his sanction if he 
 outfinds anything of my faithlessness." 
 
 Richard swung round and surveyed with disfavour Lothar's 
 vague features under their bush of upstanding tow. " Do you 
 mean there's really anything for him to find out about you 
 and the other girl, or are you swanking? " 
 
 " Only that I schwarm — I swarm with love for her. I 
 watch in the streets, and once I drop at her feet a fair rose cost- 
 ing fifty pfennig. She knows nothing of my passion. But 
 what goes me that on? It is more beautiful, more ideal, so." 
 
6 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Suddenly he slid from lofty altitudes. " One has also one's 
 emotions away from these. One is flesh. One is not altogether 
 air. . . ." He spattered a few inky hints regarding the de- 
 mands of his adolescence. From a pink, chubby face his spec- 
 tacles glittered knowingly, inviting his companion to betrayal 
 of like perplexities. But Richard preserved that admirable 
 stolidity for which his looks were so well adapted: powerful 
 jaw, big nose, dark head well thrust forward from the short 
 neck and broad shoulders; and, rather obscured by all these 
 pugnacities, a pair of pleasant, humorous light-grey eyes, from 
 which now, however, he had chased all expression save of blank 
 idiocy. Not likely he would give himself away to Master 
 Lothar! Richard wondered if there were a German boy good 
 form enough to know that Lothar was bad form, and to ostra- 
 cize him as such. Unlikely; the fellow would hardly be as 
 cocksure if he had once been put in his place. All this blither 
 about Goethe and girls. ..." Do you mean to marry this per- 
 son? " interrupting the other's critical appraisement of a lady 
 professionally well-known in Dorzheim, appraisement to which 
 Lothar had essayed to impart the personal note. 
 
 " I have explained," patiently, " I am plighted to Frieda- 
 Marie. She is a good Christian maiden. She learns cooking. 
 She has a respectable gift-along. Why do you smile? " 
 
 " Your English is so funny." 
 
 " I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing your German," 
 politely sarcastic. For Richard had felt in honour bound not 
 to reveal to Dorzheim that his knowledge of their tongue, 
 though faulty, was fluent enough, as was natural in a grandson 
 of Hermann Marcus of Munich. 
 
 " I will take me a wife when I am twenty-seven. First must 
 I be through with my examinations. Then do I perform my 
 military service. You also? No? " 
 
 " Oh, we don't have to fag with that sort of thing in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " It is for the Fatherland. Also one is attractive in uniform. 
 One dashes. One lives. Me, I must betray a several of maid- 
 ens before I can afford one to keep." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 7 
 
 Richard scowled discouragement. " You're not sixteen yet, 
 are you? " 
 
 "At sixteen one is no longer a child. One cannot go 
 mad . . ." To Richard's horror, Lothar suddenly buried his 
 head in his arms, shuddering violently. ..." That I were 
 dead ! that I were dead ! " he moaned. 
 
 The English boy stared at him. These outbursts of con- 
 fidence, alternately sentimental and morbid, seemed to empha- 
 size his growing sense of having been brought into a world 
 completely alien. He sent a swift thought to his chum, Gre- 
 ville Dunne, now on board a training-ship; wished old Greville 
 were here. Foreign kids were unbalanced, hysterical; they 
 read too much; brooded too much; talked too much. . . . 
 Lothar had no right to unburden himself to a stranger, of differ- 
 ent nationality and hostile outlook. Richard began to be 
 afraid he had given an impression of too ready sympathy. 
 
 Lothar raised his head and announced solemnly: " Swine- 
 hound that I am, believe that I preserve a reverence supreme 
 for my Loved One! " His eyes were swamped in facile tears. 
 " I have no father," he added, after an imcomfortable pause; 
 " and you, you have no mother, I hear." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right, thanks," Richard's shoulders were ex- 
 pressive of sullen embarrassment. " Got a stamp collection? " 
 
 " I will show you my botany-box." And Lothar littered the 
 blue and red check table-cloth with his specimens of pressed 
 leaves and flowers, neatly labelled. Presently he reverted to 
 the subject of Frieda-Marie. It appeared as though he were 
 trying unsuccessfully to tell Richard something. . . . 
 
 " Pity that she should be so blonde. The Ideal One is a bru- 
 nette. She is a witch; a black velvet pansy. Hark, I will de- 
 scribe her to you." 
 
 A full five minutes elapsed, however, before Richard awoke 
 to the fact that the concrete sum of Lothar's lyrical ecstasies 
 made up a personality closely resembling that of his sister. 
 
 "Good Lord! Deb!" 
 
 " But at last ! Since an hour have I tried to reach your un- 
 derstanding." 
 
8 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ** Couldn't you say straight out that you meant Deb, instead 
 of making an inventory of her? " 
 
 This was too great a strain on Lothar's English. " She was 
 mine from the first moment I saw her feet on the pavement my 
 window outside press," he breathed. 
 
 "Look here — d'you want to marry Deb? " 
 
 " You come me always with that ! " peevishly. " I tell you 
 I am betrothed to Frieda-Marie. I cannot marry your sister. 
 She is only a Jewess." 
 
 " I like your cheek! Then what's the good of you? " 
 
 " I can worship her." 
 
 "Umph!" 
 
 " You also, you admire her? " 
 
 " She's not so dusty." 
 
 Again Lothar had to confess himself vanquished. He lugged 
 down an English-German dictionary from the shelf, and con- 
 scientiously looked up " dusty." 
 
 " Nicht so staubig — ach ! . . . Hark, there is Mamma who 
 calls us. Doubtless you are fetched to go home." 
 
 They ran down the polished stairs, Richard grinning at the 
 notion of being " fetched." 
 
 In the drawing-room Felix Koch was apologizing profusely 
 for his wife's absence, while Frau von Relling plied him with 
 coffee and cream cakes and delicatessen sandwiches. 
 
 " You will be welcome whenever you come again to play with 
 my Lothar," she condescended to Richard. Then sighed heav- 
 ily : " My big boy ! " and took Lothar's hand and fondled it. 
 Lothar received the caress with an expression which was decor- 
 ously demure. "Smug little humbug! " reflected Richard. 
 
 " Indeed, Herr Koch, it is well that the dear Marianna did 
 not call to-day, as it is possible that your honoured Frau 
 Mamma might be drinking coffee with me presently." 
 
 " So? " Koch nodded gloomily. His wife and his mother 
 were not on speaking terms; and all the town knew why. He 
 had committed an unprecedented folly in marrying the pretty 
 daughter of a shopkeeper in Bingen. 
 
 Frau von Relling continued : " Doubtless the dear Marianna 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 9 
 
 is busy with the entertainment of the little English Miss." 
 Then eagerly: " Has she received any offers yet? " 
 
 " She has only been with us three days," Koch replied. And 
 added with a mysterious inflection, " But Salzmann has sent to 
 Frankfurt for his brother." 
 
 " And how many bouquets? " 
 
 " Eleven. And two chocolate-boxes." 
 
 "Has Herr Sigismund Koch shown her a little attention? " 
 
 The man bent upon his questioner a look of displeasure. 
 " Sigismund knows well he has no concern with any young Miss 
 who is my guest! " 
 
 For, though partners in the same bank, he and his younger 
 brother were not on speaking terms. They had quarrelled vio- 
 lently a little while before the death of their father, Emil Koch, 
 founder of the bank, who, with more sense of humour than 
 can usually be accredited to his nation, had left it to them as a 
 joint and firmly-knit inheritance. 
 
 Frau von Belling hastened to cover up her intentional piece 
 of malice. " Of course not, of course not. And the dear Mari- 
 anna will be arranging a Klatsch to introduce the beautiful Miss 
 to Dorzheim? " 
 
 " Next Thursday; you will honour us ? " 
 
 " Will Wanda be present? " Frau von Belling played nerv- 
 ously with her son's fingers, which she still retained. 
 
 " I believe your Fraulein sister-in-law has been invited, 
 but " 
 
 " In that case " Frau von Belling rose with dignity. 
 
 She was not on speaking terms with her sister-in-law : a question 
 of a funeral-wreath. . . . Amid such complications did the 
 society of Dorzheim walk precariously. 
 
 Felix gave a murmur which placed his sympathies definitely 
 on the side of Frau von Belling, and at the same time deplored 
 these needless feuds in an otherwise attached family. Then 
 with Bichard he took formal leave. 
 
 " We are the only Jews in Dorzheim with whom the von 
 Rellings have traffic," he remarked, as they walked home 
 through the little manufacturing town. " But you will count 
 
10 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 now how many hats are raised to me. The Kochs have ever 
 been deeply respected even among the Christians who bank 
 with us." He beamed with naive pleasure at each salutation; 
 and looked sharply at Richard to see if the latter were indeed 
 taking note. 
 
 Twilight in the streets; and the sky was a dark, thick blue. 
 Crowds of men were already jostling out of the workshops 
 where the cutting, polishing and setting of precious stones 
 formed the principal industry of Dorzheim. Swarthy giants 
 from some legend of forest and charcoal and red-glowing cav- 
 ern, they did not immediately disperse, but stood about mutter- 
 ing on the pavements, with a scowl for the passer-by who 
 brushed their group too closely. Somewhere a great brazen 
 bell was clanging. It was all rather unreal. . . . 
 
 " We shall shortly have trouble with these fellows," re- 
 marked the banker to Richard. " Those infernal socialists with 
 their talk " 
 
 Richard was again attacked by a melancholy sense of com- 
 plete isolation from his surroundings. What was he doing 
 here? He, Marcus, of the Winborough fifth — in this gabled, 
 German burgher town, grotesque to him as an old steel-en- 
 graving in a musty folio. Ring of sombre fir-shaggy hills 
 tipped against the sky; ornamental bridges like toys across the 
 river, which ran alongside the one broad street; warm aroma of 
 coff"ee from the shops, blending with a mournful resinous 
 fragrance that drifted down v»rith the wind from the woods; 
 clusters of people round the small iron tables dotted outside 
 the restaurants; and behind the large open windows of these, 
 dim groups sprawling through a dense smoke-heavy atmos- 
 phere; chatter and bellow and screech; gibberish which was 
 yet disconcertingly comprehensive to Richard. He revolted 
 against his very understanding of their language. They were 
 not his people; Lothar, with his flaxen hair and his botany-box 
 and his repellant morbidity; this trotting little man, counting 
 the hats that were raised — ah, there was another ! . . . and 
 another! . . . like clockwork, up went the hand to the brim. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 11 
 
 . . . Three elongated boys in capes, whistling " Die Wacht am 
 Rhein "— 
 
 "Lieb Vaterland, kannst ruhig sein. 
 Still steht und treu — " 
 
 No, these were not his people; this was not his land. Richard 
 stiffened himself against any insidious process of adaptation 
 to circumstances. Daisybanks, Lansdowne Terrace, London, 
 England — that was his address, when he was not at Winbor- 
 ough. Good enough for him. Switzerland was all right, of 
 course . . . the hotel was under English management, and one 
 just went about with one's own set, and behaved much as usual, 
 except that there were mountains. His spirit approved of a 
 Continent moulded on sternly British lines. 
 
 And then Deb had dragged him into — this ! 
 
 A question stirred in his mind ! Nationality — was it a fact 
 of any importance, then, to make so much difference when put 
 to the test? ... He shoved the question away again. Why 
 fuss? This sort of misery — for it was misery — would not 
 pursue him further than across the map of Germany. Let him 
 get back to his own folk; he was homesick, that was all. Eng- 
 land became above all desirable as a place where you were jolly 
 and ordinary; took things for granted; no need to think; — 
 there was a quality of purposeful concentration about these 
 German people that oppressed Richard uneasily; why were 
 they so absorbed and ponderous over the minutest detail? 
 
 Again Herr Koch jerked off his hat. " Did you see who 
 saluted me? No other than Sanitats-Rath Maximilian Hauffe. 
 He could quite well have pretended not to see me; there was 
 no lamp where he passed us. But I tell you the Kochs are es- 
 teemed in Dorzheim. That was his daughter Frieda-Marie 
 along with him." 
 
 Richard looked back, interested to catch a glimpse of Lo- 
 thar's betrothed. She looked back at the same time. ... A 
 plump rosy face; swing and dangle of two golden plaits. 
 
 Outside the door of their house they were joined by Mrs. 
 
.12 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Koch and Deborah. Felix inserted his latchkey and preceded 
 them into the hall. 
 
 " Na, was Frau Ladenberg amiable? Did you like her? " 
 he inquired of Deb. 
 
 " Not — not very much." 
 
 "Not? But she is English; she is your countrywoman." 
 
 With infinite pains and pride had this sole Englishwoman in 
 Dorzheim been excavated for the girl's benefit. Deb felt 
 acutely the reproach in his tones. The meeting ought to have 
 been at least as momentous as that of Stanley and Livingstone 
 in the desert. Deb herself, after only three days spfent in 
 thickly Teutonic company, had been quite excited at the pros- 
 pect of drinking coffee with Herr Ladenberg's wife from Man- 
 chester. She recognized now how unreasonable she had been 
 to have expected instant affinity merely on the negative grounds 
 that neither she nor Elly Ladenberg happened to be German. 
 
 At the same moment, Marianna was enquiring of Richard: 
 " Well, and have you made a great friendship with Lothar von 
 Belling? " 
 
 " No," said Richard, who invariably curtailed speech to its 
 utmost brevity. 
 
 " No ? But you are almost of the same age ! " 
 
 Richard grunted, and escaped to his room to dress for that 
 meal which, neither dinner, tea, nor supper, mingled the rich- 
 ness and biliousness of all three. 
 
 Felix went into the sitting-room and flung himself on the 
 sofa. Deb and his wife followed him in. The girl went 
 straight to the window, and with some difficulty succeeded in 
 opening it; the decent German window protesting loudly, as it 
 had every right to do. She leant out, cooling her hot cheeks. 
 She had behaved disgracefully that afternoon. . . . 
 
 Marianna Koch glanced at her. Then at Felix. An elusive 
 meanness flickered from her narrow light-brown eyes; at the 
 comers of her pretty, fretful mouth. She was very unlike the 
 accepted Saxon type of large blonde beauty. There had been a 
 scandalous babble of tongues in Dorzheim when Felix Koch 
 had first brought her back from a brief holiday he had spent 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 13 
 
 in Bingen. Little worldling that she was, she had yet contrived 
 to trap hir.1 in manner incongruously reminiscent of a Grimm's 
 fairy -tale. The broad window above the iron-monger's shop; 
 the wistful maiden, youngest of three sisters, who daily sta- 
 tioned herself there, hairbrush held in her hand, a light-brown, 
 feathery cloud surrounding her pale face. . . . He was cured 
 of his infatuation now, after two years' subjection, but could 
 still recall it with painful vividness at a thought flung back- 
 wards to that window and the magic it had framed for him. 
 Marianna! . . . but she was common and petty, and snobbish 
 and quarrelsome; she had married him solely because he was 
 a banker, a fine gentleman. He had a suspicion lately that 
 she would like to be rid of him; yes, now, when he had barely 
 placated a bitterly offended mother; when, with his reputation 
 for sobriety and prudence, he had made a fool of himself in 
 sight of all Dorzheim. If it had been Sigismund! ... It was 
 a constant smart to the vanity of Felix that Sigismund was still 
 highly eligible, whereas he 
 
 He was not even sure that his wife was not deceiving him. 
 
 In which case Sigismund would laugh. And Herr Sanitats- 
 Rath Hauffe would perhaps omit to raise his hat as punctil- 
 iously. 
 
 Koch's eyes wandered to Deb, in her bluish lilac crepe dress; 
 harem skirt that clung as though in well-cut adoration . . . 
 the nape of her neck showed astoundingly bare; in Dorzheim 
 it was considered smart to wear something called a jabot, and 
 to prop the chin and ears with a high erection of lace and 
 whalebone; in Dorzheim the dressmakers were commissioned 
 to destroy line, not create it — as in the case of a harem skirt. 
 She was obviously not quite " good class " this girl; probably 
 some sort of an artist, though he had gathered her people were 
 wealthy. "These English!" — one could account for every- 
 thing by that contemptuous phrase. . . . And Deb had im- 
 mensely gratified him that morning at breakfast by remarking: 
 " One might easily mistake you for an Englishman, Herr 
 Koch! "... Yes, he liked the girl; was quite glad that Mari- 
 anna had taken a fancy to her recently in Switzerland, and had 
 
14 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 insisted on bringing her back for a visit. It relieved the ten- 
 sion of their constant bickering; and it gave him a hearer on 
 whom to impress his status in Dorzheim. Then, too, one ac- 
 quired importance in the little town, when one had guests from 
 England. Relations from Frankfurt, yes — but guests from 
 England were almost unheard of. 
 
 And nobody need know that Marianna had practically run 
 away from him to Montreux. She was anaemic, needed a holi- 
 day; that sufficed for public explanation. He had recalled her 
 with a promise of a fur coat. He had not yet given her the 
 fur coat. 
 
 " I can smell Rindbraten," remarked Felix appreciatively, 
 from the sofa. " Do we have it for evening-eating? Stuffed? 
 There was some left over from mid-day, was there not? I 
 trust, Marianchen, that you made it clear to Emma it was not 
 for her? " 
 
 He was smitten with gloom at the thought of the servant 
 browsing over his Rindbraten. His wife reassured him. And 
 she added, with slow emphasis : " I tried on some sable coats at 
 Elly Ladenberg's. Her husband had sent for sample styles 
 from Koln. There was one — four thousand marks. It hung 
 well on me. The Ladenberg has already chosen another with 
 a fox collar. Mine has a brocade lining." 
 
 " Yours? " Felix chaffed her. " Ei, ei, how quickly we go. 
 It is now svunmer." 
 
 " That is the time for a good bargain in fur." 
 
 " Four thous£md marks is too much." 
 
 " Not for the best." 
 
 " My mother says " 
 
 "Your mother hates me. She would like to see me wear 
 cotton in a snowstorm. She would die of spite if she saw the 
 Frau Sanitats-Rath Maximilian Hauffe envying me my beauti- 
 ful sables." 
 
 She paused to see if her last artful thrust at his besetting 
 weakness had at all moved her husband. He thundered, to 
 hide his uneasiness : " I tell you, four thousand marks is too 
 much. You are beggaring me. You! " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 15 
 
 The woman's eyes grew larger and brighter. She smiled 
 at Deb, who was trying to slip from the room unperceived. 
 " But where are you going? Felix, the child is running away 
 because she thinks we are quarrelling." 
 
 Felix laughed unroariously at the notion. 
 
 " I was going to lie down before supper," Deb explained 
 quickly. " I'm rather tired." 
 
 " There is no couch in your room. Here, you had better 
 to rest beside my husband. Make room for her then, clumsy 
 bear! " She laughed a sharp little trill. "How shocked she 
 is! Heavens, what have I asked her to do? Surely with a re- 
 spectable old married man. . . . Come, Felix, be a little gal- 
 lant. Our English Miss is afraid of you. Na, she was bold 
 enough this afternoon, having a fine flirt with Meester von 
 Sittart." 
 
 " She thinks you are another jealous Huldah von Sittart, 
 Marianna. Did that old woman make ugly grimaces at you, 
 Fraulein Deb? We must be careful where there are handsome 
 husbands from America. But with old Felix Koch — Come, I 
 will be asleep, that will put you at your ease." He rolled 
 over with his face to the wall, and affected to snore loudly. 
 
 Marianna applauded the performance. Her teasing eyes 
 informed Deb that she was a stiff little fool, putting a wholly 
 idiotic construction on what was merely playful friendliness on 
 the part of her host and hostess. So Deb lay down beside 
 Felix. ... It struck her suddenly that the wife has the su- 
 preme advantage over the girl in almost any conjunction of 
 circumstances. 
 
 Frau Koch moved to the door. " Sleep well, dear chil- 
 dren 1 " It was uttered in the mock-solemn spirit of a benison. 
 But Deb was aware of malice in the woman's stealthy little 
 smile; more than malice — enmity. To her or to Felix? — 
 She would have sprung upright again, save for the feeling that 
 in lying down she had committed herself ... to what, she did 
 not know. But she did know very definitely, as the door 
 closed gently behind Marianna, that she had made a mistake, 
 and that it was useless to try and repair it. Deb was to suffer 
 
16 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 all her life from an illusion that one step backward would not 
 avail her after one step forward had already been taken. 
 
 . . . Felix had his back still turned to her. But he had 
 abandoned the farcical pretence of snoring. They could not 
 lie much longer in this absurd silence, back to back, solemn, 
 motionless. . . . Deb began to laugh softly. It was really 
 rather ridiculous, except — except that Marianna's face had 
 frightened her. 
 
 Should she jump up now — and run? No, that would give 
 alarming point to the situation. Probably Felix had no in- 
 tentions 
 
 He turned sharply, pulled her round towards him, kissed her 
 and kissed her. And he was thinking: " If this was what Ma- 
 
 rianna wanted, then there and there — and there " The 
 
 girl did not matter. She was not like a German Madchen who 
 has been nicely brought up and carefully guarded for matri- 
 mony. Her people had let her come here, to complete strang- 
 ers. And she wore collarless blouses and had flirted conspic- 
 uously with von Sittart. 
 
 . . . Her throat — how long and thick and dusky white . . . 
 what a firm column for that three-cornered, weary little face. 
 
 Marianna was, he felt sure, just outside the closed door. 
 What was her motive in all this? That when it came to it, 
 when he found her out, she should also have an accusing finger 
 to point? — " Can you wonder, my friends? First he does not 
 give me a fur coat, and then he makes shameless love to the 
 guest under my roof. . . ." 
 
 Felix Koch was pale with anger and humiliation. While 
 he had joined his wife in chaffing Deb, he had been inclined to 
 shout aloud: " Who is the man? Who is he? What do you 
 think I am made of, forcing this upon me? — After you have 
 been six weeks in Switzerland away from me — and yesterday 
 you were tired after the j ourney — too tired ! . . . and I — and 
 I. . . . Now, this insult! " 
 
 He had controlled himself, curious to see what she would 
 do next. He was not going to control himself any more. Let 
 Marianna, if indeed she stood poised on tiptoe, just outside, 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 17 
 
 her light eyes flickering spitefully, let Marianna realize how 
 little he cared for her rebuffs, last night, and the night before. 
 . . . Fur coats? Wives did not get fur coats unless they 
 earned them better. 
 
 Deb did not try to break away from the cramping pressure 
 of his arms. She recognized that she had been to blame; 
 had been — careless, somewhere, she was not quite sure where. 
 But she too had now a dim sense of Marianna's object in 
 inviting her, of Marianna's pinched smile outside the door. 
 
 . . . This man was rather handsome, viewed from the close 
 range which usually brings distortion of features. She tried to 
 laugh under his stinging kisses, to pick up the spirit of bur- 
 lesque where they had dropped it. . . . " Pretty child," he 
 muttered ; " pretty neck — no wonder she leaves it always un- 
 clothed." 
 
 " Herr Koch — you promised — I said I wanted to rest " 
 
 " Felix, then." 
 
 *' I want to rest, Felix " She took advantage of a mo- 
 mentary relaxation of his arms, to snuggle down into the 
 cushions, as a baby might; to close her eyes with a semblance 
 of trustful drowsiness . . . her lips were half parted, her 
 breathing regular; one curled-up fist pushed against her cheek. 
 At any moment she might just drop off to sleep. . . . 
 
 Would he leave her alone now? Was she safe under this 
 guise of silly, innocent confidence? Any sophisticated recog- 
 nition of his attempt to start a surreptitious affair with her, 
 would have been fatal. 
 
 Felix Koch, like all South Germans, was a sentimentalist. 
 Church spires by moonlight, or a slumbering infant, were 
 unfailing bell-pulls to his softer nature. Gently he touched 
 her hair with his fingers. " Sleep then, pretty child, there is 
 nothing to fear," he murmured, profoundly moved by this 
 self-evidence of the rake's reverence for purity. It was all 
 the easier to assume, since he did not really care for Deb. 
 
 Deb thought: "And so one must love a man, to like being 
 kissed by him? ... Or is it only because he is married that 
 I can't like it? " 
 
18 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 She had been in love, of course; not the conventional once 
 and once only, but twice. A glamorous episode with a young 
 Territorial Captain, Con Rothenburg, eldest son of her father's 
 partner. And later on, a man whose age doubled hers: the 
 doctor who had taken over the practice while the Marcus' old 
 family practitioner went round the world for his health. This 
 was a less complete attachment than with Con, for Doctor 
 Steele was not even aware of her tremulous passion; nor with 
 what conscientious honesty she prevented herself from deliber- 
 ately seeking to contract the ailments which would have ensured 
 his attendance. It had occurred to her, while his hand was 
 on her racing pulse: " How easy it would be for him just to 
 bend down and kiss me. So easy that it doesn't seem fair 
 he shouldn't. So easy — he could forget it at once; and I 
 should always remember. . . ." But Doctor Steele had re- 
 linquished his locum tenency, and disappeared, leaving Deb 
 with no such memory. 
 
 There had been other — minor adventures. A great many. 
 So irresistibly did she attract them, that one might fancy 
 her reincarnated from some famous harlot of old history. 
 And besides, she involuntarily invited them because she was 
 so plainly on the look-out. Yet she was on the look-out not 
 for minor adventures but for the big thing; the thing to 
 engross her existence; to dwarf its lesser trickiness; to drench 
 her quick nervous soul with peace; provide employment for 
 her restless, life-bitten brain. If Deb had been an artist, the 
 big thing had been easier to find. She was an artist, but in 
 appreciation only ; non-creative. Or if Deb had been religious. 
 . . . Religion attacked her imagination as little as the winged 
 Victory, rushing like wind down the steps of the Louvre. She 
 knew that the masterpiece was there; she had not seen it 
 herself; others had seen it; she hoped one day to see it. 
 Meanwhile — she could do without it, and not feel the loss. 
 
 So, a pilgrim without a staff, she had roamed. . . . 
 
 But this special incident ought not to have occurred. In- 
 stinct told her there was a certain type of girl to whom it 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 19 
 
 could not have occurred. She had always hoped she was this 
 girl; sheathed in a sort of hard, transparent whiteness from 
 which anything that was not the one big thing would infallibly 
 slide off, without giving the occupant of this convenient 
 armour the slightest trouble. 
 
 Of late, however, she had been growing suspicious of 
 her powers to ward oflf an accumulation of petty experi- 
 ences. 
 
 Experiences? — but she wanted experience. 
 
 She tried to trace back the initial carelessness — yes, care- 
 lessness was the only word for it — which had led to her present 
 plight. She ought to have gone to her room to lie down, in 
 spite of Marianna's sneers. Yet that would have seemed a 
 ridiculous affection of prudery, especially as that very after- 
 noon. . . . Ah, here the fault, then! . . . But she had not 
 really flirted with Ralph von Sittart; the ladies of Dorzheim 
 had misread that spurt of revolt which had suddenly lit her 
 to flame; revolt from their disapproval of her; revolt from 
 the stiff chairs on which each one stiffly sat, with her stiff 
 neck upheld in whalebone. . . . Rather than make one of 
 them, she had preferred to squat upon the bearskin in front 
 of the tall, white, frozen stove; bend down her unfettered 
 neck to rub her cheek caressingly against the animal's beautiful 
 head — Oh, it had been an exhibition of bad manners, cer- 
 tainly; even cheap bad manners . . . bearskins and tigerskins 
 were a bohemianism which London had long discarded; but 
 these German women could be shocked by nothing more subtle 
 than the effronteries of five seasons ago. And Deb had to 
 shock them, in the impish mood which possessed her, for which 
 EUy Ladenberg {nee Harrison) was perhaps primarily re- 
 sponsible. "You haven't brought your needle-work? " "I 
 haven't got any," laughed Deb. " Then you have finished 
 your present for Frau Koch? " in a discreet undertone. Deb 
 learnt that it was the sacred custom here for any young girl 
 staying with a married lady, to stitch a most elaborate piece of 
 embroidery as a thank-offering for her hostess. 
 
 The information depressed her. She enquired if it would 
 
20" DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 not be possible to obtain the same effect of overpowering 
 gratitude, by sending to an expensive shop in London. 
 
 " You can see for yourself that it would not do. The 
 sentiment would not be the same." 
 
 " Curse the sentiment," murmured Deb mournfully, disap- 
 pointed of an ally. 
 
 . . . The word was passed round that the English girl was, 
 to say the least of it, eccentric. Anything sensational might 
 be expected of her. 
 
 Deb responded flauntingly to their expectations. Impossible 
 anyway to efface herself from the conspicuous position she 
 occupied as " Frau Koch's visitor." Guests were rare in 
 Dorzheim; no jolly, casual happening, but a solemn event 
 which exacted a whole code of ceremonial. And even then 
 the visitors were usually somebody's relations. But all of a 
 sudden a strange girl — from that mad country — even Frau 
 Koch confessing to a minimum of previous acquaintance. . . . 
 " The poor Marianna tells me she had no idea that the father 
 would permit it." " Odd, very odd. Has she money, do 
 you know? " "Oh, surely; her dresses are of the best ma- 
 terial, even though they are fashioned in a style. . . . dearest 
 Frau Bergmann — that skirt! " 
 
 And then Ralph Von Sittart had strolled into the party; 
 handsome, middle-aged German-American, who propped up 
 his indolence by an elderly wife's income. And it had been 
 a well-nigh hysterical relief for Deb to hear English spoken. 
 . . . Frau von Sittart's face . . . the whispers . . . and all 
 the knitting-needles clacking. . . . 
 
 She had behaved outrageously. But only under the goad 
 of alert protest to her entire personality, to her slightest act. 
 She was in a false position from the start. She should not 
 have come. She had only come because of John Thorpe's 
 mother and the ear-trumpet. . . . 
 
 ra 
 
 At this stage of her attempts to track consequences to their 
 motive lair, Deb became aware that her feet were being plagued 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 21 
 
 by pins and needles, and that she most desperately desired to 
 wriggle. She judged that it would be safe now to awake from 
 slumber ... it must be a full half-hour that she and Felix 
 Koch were lying motionless side by side. She opened her 
 eyes, raised herself on one elbow, sighed deeply, as one who 
 yields up a pleasant dreamland. Then only did she perceive 
 that all this pantomime was unnecessary; her companion was 
 quite peacefully asleep. 
 
 Deb slithered off the couch, tip -toed to the door, closed it 
 soundlessly behind her. No one was in the hall. She ran 
 upstairs, and knocked at the door of her brother's room. 
 
 Richard, in his shirt-sleeves, was standing in front of the 
 looking-glass; and with a brush ferociously brandished in 
 either hand, was frustrating his hair's racial inclination to 
 curl. 
 
 "Are you dressing for supper? The others don't, you 
 know." 
 
 " No reason for me to be a barbarian, if they are, is it? " 
 
 "When in Rome " 
 
 " Do as the Romans dorCt — if they're Germans ! " 
 
 " Richard — we had awful trouble at home sometimes to 
 get you to dress in the evenings." 
 
 He grinned. "Had you? I shouldn't be surprised if you 
 had it again." After a pause, he enquired : " How long 
 d'you want to stop here. Deb? " 
 
 " In Dorzheim? Don't you like it? " 
 
 He considered a moment. "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Lots of reasons. Can't be bothered to think 'em all out." 
 
 " We ought to stay a fortnight, now they've invited us, 
 and we've come." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Deb sat down on the bed. Immediately the great inflated 
 pillow that acted as eiderdown almost submerged her in its 
 rising billows. She struck them down passionately — 
 
 " Richard." 
 
 " Um? " 
 
22 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Don't leave me alone with Felix Koch, if you can manage 
 it. . . ." 
 
 She was prepared for a brotherly outburst: " D'you mean 
 to say the fellow dared — " But Richard laid down his 
 brushes, and took up his collar, with a total absence of all 
 emotion. " Oh, all right." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A FEW days later, Felix Koch came back at an unwonted 
 hour, between dinner and supper, and beckoned his wife 
 to a private conference. Her luminous eyes, as she 
 went, testified to a hope that the mystery enveloped a fur cloak. 
 
 Presently Richard was summoned. 
 
 " Row about Lothar von Relling," he explained nonchal- 
 antly to Deb afterwards. 
 
 "Lothar?" 
 
 " Gloomy little beggar with the astonished hair who came 
 here once to tea. You ought to know. Deb. The whole shindy 
 concerns you. What have you been up to? " 
 
 She reflected a moment before confession. Prudence 
 prompted the query; " What do they say I've been up to? " 
 
 Richard chuckled — then became instantly solemn. "This 
 morning, Herr Sanitats-Rath Oberunterammergau von und 
 zu hellofarau Maximilian Hauffe called upon the honest and 
 respected banker, Felix Koch, to complain that his daughter 
 Frieda-Marie had been slighted and insulted by said daughter's 
 plighted husband-to-be, Lothar von Relling, who was seen 
 two evenings ago in the darkest portion of the Griinewald — 
 need I go on? " 
 
 " N-no," said Deb, " you needn't go on with that part of it. 
 Tell me what the Kochs are saying? " 
 
 Richard dropped into a creditable imitation of Felix Koch, 
 
 "So I say with dignity to Herr Hauffe: 'Herr Hauffe, tell 
 me only this: is your anger at what has occurred, is it because 
 my guest is a Jewess? because I myself am a Jew? If so, 
 I regret, but I will not move in the matter.' And he replied, 
 taking off his hat: ' Herr Koch, let me now assure you that 
 
 23 
 
24 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 there is no one in this town for whom I have a respect more 
 profound than for yourself; I am a broad-minded man, and 
 had your guest been a Christian lady, which she is not, I should 
 have still been obliged my present course in defence of my 
 daughter's honour to pursue.' At this I started up, and put 
 on my hat, and gave him my hand in friendship, and together 
 we went to Frau von Relling. Ei, but Dorzheim stared to 
 see us arm-in-arm; twenty-seven Catholics alone took off 
 their hats to us " 
 
 " Is there lots more about hats, Richard? " 
 
 " No, the rest is mostly about Lothar and you. The whole 
 town is simply ramping. You're a goose. Deb. 'Tisn't worth 
 it. Why, he's only six months older than I am — and a Ger- 
 man i " 
 
 " Do you suppose / got any fun out of it? " she flared. 
 
 But it was niggardly to grudge something that lay within 
 her power to give. Or wasn't it? . . . Chastity — the girl 
 in white armour. ... To give so easily, though — she remem- 
 bered Doctor Steele. And the gloomy little boy had thirsted 
 for that one kiss; too inarticulate to ask for it; too comic, 
 in his owl's spectacles and low collar and vertical crest of hair, 
 to make a silently romantic plea, he just sat on the pile of logs 
 looking up at her in dazed sickly reverie, as she came towards 
 him along the misty blue road that meandered among the fir 
 trees behind the town. She understood that by lightly drop- 
 ping her lips on to his, there, in that scene, at that hour, she 
 could give him an exquisite moment to carry through the 
 sentimental years into manhood. Why not, then? The girl 
 who withholds such chance gifts in her power, for the sake of 
 what was called her bloom, what was she, after all, but a 
 miser? 
 
 Deb's kiss was just an impulse of almsgiving. She did not 
 shatter the boy's ecstasy by speech. Hardly pausing in her 
 walk, she bent ... he had a vision of her serious mouth and 
 warmly glowing eyes . . . and she went swiftly on. 
 
 Frau Huldah von Sittart, who witnessed the idyll and re- 
 ported on it, could not have been expected to interpret its 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 25 
 
 psychology correct. But to Richard, Deb tried to explain. . . . 
 It was intolerable that he should suppose she enjoyed kissing 
 scrubby little schoolboys. 
 
 He listened, brows knitted severely: "But, my dear kid, 
 that sort of philanthropy is rather dangerous, isn't it, where 
 men in general are concerned? " 
 
 " It's just whether one is to be generous or stingy — oh, don't 
 you see? ... to give what matters so little to me, and so 
 tremendously much to them " 
 
 " Make a habit of it, you'll end by giving what means so 
 much to you and so precious little to them." 
 
 Richard's wisdom was a mere accident of repartee; and 
 Deb did not smile; she very rarely smiled; but her voice at 
 all times held a certain clear joyousness that was in startling 
 contrast to her tired little face; her voice was a child, years 
 younger than her lips or her eyes. So that Richard could only 
 dimly suspect her of hidden laughter as she said: " I esteem 
 your judgment, but — you're rather precocious, aren't you? " 
 
 " Good Lord, no ! " he shouted, appalled. " I'm sensible. 
 You can't walk about dropping kisses." 
 
 " Dropping magic," she corrected him gravely. " And if 
 I'm not the poorer, and am quite sure they will be the 
 richer. . . ." She tilted her head defiantly: "Richard, I'd 
 rather be royal than — good ! " 
 
 Richard pondered a moment over this. His sister watched 
 him with eyes that were half sorrowful, half impudent. Most 
 people would have been astonished that she could confide 
 such feminine subtleties in a brother eight years her junior. 
 But she had never yet been disappointed by a rebuff from 
 Richard that was sheer scoffing schoolboy and no more. He 
 possessed certain qualities she lacked, of uncompromising 
 fairness and sanity. Also, he was shock-proof; an imperturb- 
 able Mahomet to whom all mountains came, and were received 
 in a take-it-for-granted spirit. 
 
 Sometimes Deb wondered just where, in all this mass of 
 solidity, lay buried that mysterious streak of understanding — 
 kinship, perhaps — on which she relied. 
 
26 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Now he said : " Well, I wouldn't practise your theory of 
 magic-dropping in Dorzheim, if I were you. 'Tisn't the right 
 place for it. Too many Germans about. Germans take things 
 seriously." 
 
 Richard was right. Dorzheim did take this act of Deb's with 
 great and exceeding seriousness. They had primarily con- 
 sulted Richard, and begged him to reprimand his sister, in the 
 Teuton spirit that the male, in all emergencies, takes prece- 
 dence. 
 
 The pastor and the schoolmaster and Frau von Relling and 
 Herr Sanitats-Rath Hauffe and Huldah van Sittart and Felix 
 Koch paid one another a succession of formal calls. Then 
 suddenly Frau von Relling called no more upon the Kochs . . . 
 and small wonder, since Frieda-Marie Hauffe had been prom- 
 ised an exceptionally large dowry, and it was sheer madness 
 for Lothar to have imperilled this. True, Wanda von Rell- 
 ing still came to Marianna's At Home day; but this was merely 
 an act of defiance towards old Frau Koch (not on speaking 
 terms with Marianna) who had condoled with Frau von Relling 
 (not on speaking terms with Wanda) on her affliction for which 
 the younger Koch household was responsible. And anyhow, 
 all Dorzheim knew that Wanda had tried to get Sigismund Koch 
 and had failed ; so naturally and out of spite, she would choose 
 to continue visiting at the house of Felix (not on speaking terms 
 with Sigismund). . . . But all this led back to ancient history; 
 and Dorzheim, flushed and garrulous, was not to be diverted 
 from the delicious new scandal of the daughter of Herr Sani- 
 tats-Rath Hauffe insulted through the medium of the English 
 girl staying with the Felix Kochs. Well, and had she not 
 flirted with Ralph van Sittart as well? Half Dorzheim had 
 seen her do it. The other half of Dorzheim had noticed her 
 drinking coffee with Sigismund Koch; yes, actually setting her 
 cap at him, the buck of the town, the famous rake — Ach ! and 
 did Felix know? ..." And what was she doing walking alone 
 in the woods at that hour of evening? " demanded Frau Huldah 
 with relish: "Do modest maidens walk without escort? 
 Though to be sure I have heard her say she is already twenty- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 27 
 
 three; doubtless she is in fear she will be left sitting." " And 
 Lothar von Railing is a Protestant; has been confirmed only 
 half a year ago, with my Karl ; that comes of it, then, when one 
 permits oneself to be intimate with a Jewish family; I could 
 have told Frau von Relling. . . ." 
 
 The scandal threatened to broaden into religious controversy. 
 
 And Frieda-Marie, poor wormling, was, ach, inconsolable! 
 Hitherto in Dorzheim a betrothal was sacred. Others of our 
 sons may follow Lothar von Relling's example of insubordina- 
 tion. To prevent which calamity, Lothar was first expelled 
 from the Gymnasium; then locked into his bedroom; visited 
 alternately by the pastor and the schoolmaster; finally, ban- 
 ished to an aunt and uncle in Dresden. Lothar went, darkly 
 uplifted in his martyrdom; thrilling to a certain deathless mem- 
 ory; but wishing, nevertheless, that before going he might have 
 had a word or two with Frieda-Marie, of whom he was very 
 fond, and who was after all his betrothed. . . . 
 
 Still without a smile, Dorzheim settled down to see what Deb 
 would do. 
 
 Deb did quite a lot. She was heady with her first draught 
 of conspicuous unpopularity. Vivid and defiant and a little 
 frightened too. Never before had she found herself so the cen- 
 tre of animated disapproval. And as none of those who disap- 
 proved were of the people who mattered to her, she was not 
 hurt, nor cast down, but merely possessed by the mischievous 
 wish to do her worst on the propriety of Dorzheim; to avenge 
 their harsh dealings with inoffensive little Lothar von Relling; 
 to yield them more and more material for spiteful gossip. In 
 brief, to earn their condemnation — these folk, who would not, 
 could not, laugh. 
 
 She had plenty of social opportunity for exploiting her his- 
 trionic demon. For whatever Dorzheim's private opinion of 
 Deb, etiquette decreed that Frau Koch's guest should be shown 
 " attention," should be feted and entertained. Dorzheim did 
 its duty by Deb, and so considered itself free to censure her. 
 She was invited to attend numerous afternoon coffee-parties, 
 and one big dinner-party at which lawyers and doctors and 
 
28 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 their wives formed the majority, and Felix Koch was the only 
 banker, as he gleefully informed Deb. She learnt then for the 
 first time the exact ladder of snobbery, of which the apex is the 
 nobility; thence on a descending scale to the military — the 
 professionals — bankers — merchants — clergy and schoolmas- 
 ters — everybody heedful of their head among the feet on the 
 rung above; everybody ignoring the humbler position of their 
 own feet. Jews had their own parallel ladder of snobbery; 
 and actors and artists were not properly considered on any 
 ladder at all. 
 
 The great event of her stay was a Masonic entertainment, 
 where she was conspicuous in her dead-black crepe-de-chine 
 evening-dress. " An unmarried girl in black — Gott in Him- 
 mel! And brunette too; had she been a blonde, one might have 
 
 forgiven her, though even then " Most of the other ladies 
 
 wore afternoon toilet; and a few were in tartan blouses with 
 the neck ripped out, and dark skirts. At this party Deb made 
 the acquaintance of the owner of the largest jewel factory in 
 Dorzheim; who the next day formally conducted her over the 
 premises; into the cavernous underground workshops; dimness 
 speckled by small shaded red lights; at each separate table a 
 man in tinted blinkers intent on a heap of precious stones that 
 he would sift carelessly through his huge hairy fingers, before 
 selecting one for his mysterious tools. None of these men 
 looked up as their employer and his party passed among them. 
 Deb felt the sunless air choked up with hatred and menace; the 
 whirring of the thousand little machines oppressed her; it was 
 an evil place — and she remembered Koch's allusion to the 
 Socialist influence and possible trouble. . . . 
 
 Home-life did not exist for the Kochs; every evening, when 
 no set form of entertainment was offered, Felix and Marianna, 
 Deb and Richard, sat in the big restaurant in Lindenstrasse; sat 
 there for two or three hours, drinking coffee or syrups, eating 
 sweet cloying cakes; while the men roared their politics or 
 slammed the domino-cubes on the table, and slowly obliterated 
 their womenfolk in clouds of foul smoke. The group about 
 the Kochs was always a large one, and included the younger 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 29 
 
 brothers who had been hastily sent for from neighbouring 
 towns on rumour of Deb's enormous dowry. Deb was herself 
 responsible for this rumour. It was one of her first acts of 
 devilry. Actually it procured her three proposals . . . her ex- 
 cited fancy multiplied these to a grotesque figure out of all 
 proportion to the truth. The trio of smug-correct young men, 
 overwhelming her with staccato bows and wired nosegays and 
 compliments which an intelligent child of ten might have dis- 
 dained, made their offers of marriage almost simultaneously, 
 and were all three accepted, with meek surprise that they should 
 care for a portionless damsel ... at which they melted to the 
 limpness of three candles left in a strong sun, and melted out 
 of Deb's sight, and melted away from Dorzheim. And two of 
 them, because they had begun to love her, kept silence as to the 
 reason for their withdrawal. But Ludo Salzmann wrote vin- 
 dictively to the sister-in-law who had summoned him. And 
 Deb, compelled in self-respect to commit one villainy the more, 
 accepted Sigismund Koch's invitation to drink tea with him in 
 his rooms . . . "English fashion — yes, I have dwelt some 
 time in England." 
 
 He had been accidentally introduced to her at the Lodge en- 
 tertainment. And afterwards Felix remarked wrathfully, and 
 hardly in the spirit of Masonic or natural brotherhood: " You 
 are not to speak to that fine fellow. You understand? Not 
 witli my consent. Hundert-tausendteufel ! — and what did you 
 think of him?" 
 
 " He's very handsome," demurely. 
 
 " Ach, he is a scoundrel! And do you know what they call 
 him in the town, with his brown curly beard and pale face? 
 They call him Jesus Christus. That's a joke, you see." Felix 
 laughed uproariously, and Richard asked: " Why is it a joke, 
 sir? " "But can't you see? He, my brother, is a Jew . . . 
 and they called him Jesus Christus! " "But Jesus Christ was 
 a Jew," argued Richard stolidly. Koch stared at him. The 
 English had no sense of humour. He turned the conversation 
 from wit to politics: "What in your opinion are the present 
 aims of Mister Usskeess? " But Richard was unable to fit the 
 
30 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 name to any English statesman of his knowledge, so did not 
 take up the challenge. 
 
 With all his reputation of a fascinating rake, Sigismund be- 
 haved at his tea-party with exemplary decorum. Moreover, he 
 had invited his mother to be present. Deb liked him better 
 than any one she had met since her arrival in Germany. 
 
 " What are you doing in Dorzheim, for goodness' sake, 
 child? " This query he put when he was escorting her home. 
 
 Deb laughed. " I wish I knew. I ran away from a 
 scrape " 
 
 " To find yourself in worse scrapes here? " 
 
 " You've . . . heard something about me? " 
 
 His eyes twinkled. " Tongues wag in Dorzheim." 
 
 " May — may I come to you about it ... if things get 
 bad? " For in spite of bravado, she was becoming apprehen- 
 sive of the sly malice ever more apparent in Marianna's conver- 
 sation; of the enmity piling up against her; and of a vague, 
 more impersonal enmity which, strangely, seemed to loom 
 behind. 
 
 " Heaven protect me — and you too ! " exclaimed Sigismund 
 in mock horror. "And you suppose Dorzheim would regard 
 me, me of all people, as a suitable confessor for your sins? " 
 
 It was evident that Sigismund prided himself on his reputa- 
 tion as a " dangerous man." 
 
 " Where have you been this afternoon? " demanded Felix. 
 
 "To your brother's flat. It's — it's — a very pretty flat, 
 isn't it? " 
 
 The banker grew livid. " I tell you, Fraulein Deb, he is try- 
 ing to marry you for your money." 
 
 " He did not try anything of the sort! " indignantly. " And 
 I have no money. And your Frau Mamma was there." 
 
 " That was an arranged insult to me," Marianna declared. 
 
 Marianna was enraged because her well-planned intentions 
 with regard to her husband and Deb had miscarried. Yet more 
 enraged, because they had not quite miscarried. Moreover, 
 Sigismund happened to be the unknown rival whom Felix sus- 
 pected in the background. If this does not accord with his 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 31 
 
 care in providing an adequate chaperone for the little English 
 rebel who so indiscreetly accepted an invitation to his rooms, 
 let it be remembered that there is no element with whom the 
 true rake deals more circumspectly than with girlhood . . . 
 until he reaches the age when chastity becomes desirable in- 
 stead of formidable. 
 
 Marianna was further enraged because Felix had said he 
 could not afford visitors and fur cloaks. The von Rellings 
 had ceased to call. And now Deb was drinking tea with her 
 mother-in-law — and not even bothering to lie about it. 
 
 And yet, when Richard proposed abruptly, at supper, that 
 they ought to be thinking of departure, both his host and 
 hostess were unable to stem themselves in mechanical utterance 
 of their habitual code of protest and renewed hospitality: 
 " But certainly you must not dream of leaving us yet — we 
 shall not allow it — you have been with us so little time — it 
 is such a pleasure. No, no, indeed you must not go. . . ." 
 
 II 
 
 The next day, most of the workmen in the factories went on 
 strike. Those who refused were attacked as blacklegs. The 
 quaint, sunshiny streets were hideous with brawling. And Deb 
 could no longer with safety be allowed to take her solitary 
 walks, which were the only relief from the strain of Marianna's 
 perpetual smiling hatred. 
 
 By degrees, her feverish mood of excitement evaporated en- 
 tirely. She began to dread stumbling over the traces of her 
 own joyous misdemeanour. Was there no careless youth in 
 this tight, compressed little city of envious wranglings and 
 complicated feuds and bitter snobbery? It struck her with a 
 shock that Dorzheim seemed to contain no element between sub- 
 dued childhood, and ambitious or self-satisfied matrimony. 
 
 Something ominous was afoot; she was no longer the centre 
 of interest; men came and went on short journeys; men held 
 whispered conferences, excluding their womenfolk. Deb felt 
 ever more urgently the need for departure. But she was wait- 
 ing for a letter from her family to say when they intended leav- 
 
32 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ing Switzerland; and if she and Richard were to rejoin them at 
 Montreux, or at home in England. The letter was delayed; 
 morning after morning shfe expected it, and it did not come. It 
 ought to have contained money for the journey. . . . 
 
 Dorzheim was no longer a funny little German town, inhab- 
 ited mainly by caricatures. It was a place of horror. . . . She 
 was wakeful at nights and musing at her window, she saw, or 
 thought she saw, long phantom trains glide without shriek or 
 rumble over the railway-lines some half-mile distant. Black 
 shapes of trains, no single window lit . . . all night they were 
 creeping past in the darkness . . . and the next night . . . and 
 the next . . . every time she rose from her bed to look 
 again. . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Deb, you know Austria declared war on Servia the other 
 day? " 
 
 "Yes. Well?" 
 
 "Seen the papers lately? " 
 
 "German papers! " scornfully; good enough for Germans, 
 of course, but 
 
 "Russia has joined Servia, and Germany has declared war 
 on Russia, and — we're in Germany. They say that France 
 will have to join up with Russia, and perhaps England with 
 France. Then there's Holland and Belgium . . . doubtful if 
 they can keep out. . . . 
 
 With a sound like the rush of bursting waters, Deb's night- 
 mare ceased to be her private aflfair. . . . Bursting waters 
 . . . yes, a piece of music — Ravel, was it? She had heard it 
 before she left London — the Sorcerer's ignorant apprentice 
 left alone with the magic broom . . . trickle of water that he 
 summoned up . . . torrents of water . . . multiplying devour- 
 ing water ... it swamped the room and the corners of the 
 room and the street outside and the world beyond . . . gleeful 
 swirls of water, unrelenting, irresistible, that pursued and 
 flooded every inch of dry . . . every inch of dry . . . the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 33 
 
 music roared deafeningly in her head, drowning coherent 
 thought. . . . Somebody had touched the broom. . . . 
 
 She told Richard about the fantastic procession of trains. 
 
 " Troops, of course. Being hurried to the frontier. They 
 must have quenched all the lights. Didn't want us to know 
 they were prepared." 
 
 "Us? You and me?" 
 
 " England, you ass! " Richard grinned at the idea of a nation 
 plunged in darkness for the benefit of himself and Deb. Deb 
 — umph! he hunched his shoulders, and stared at her moodily. 
 He was responsible for Deb's safety. 
 
 " You wouldn't care to marry somebody here and settle down, 
 I suppose? It might come cheaper than hauling you along to 
 England. It would be sport getting through if I were 
 alone. . . ." 
 
 " I'm sorry. No, I'd rather not settle in Dorzheim for good. 
 But we could go home by two separate routes," 
 
 " Job enough to find one route, I should say. Stop ragging. 
 Deb; this isn't a joke." 
 
 " I'm sorry," she murmured again, all womanhood abject 
 before the gruff commonsense of all manhood. 
 
 " That idiot Koch ought to have warned us. He must have 
 known something. We should have left here a week ago, when 
 I suggested it. . . . If it's going to be a general flare-up, then 
 one jolly well wants to be in one's own country, and not in 
 somebody else's! " 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 PATRIOTISM, even more than bunting-deep, is largely a 
 matter of habit. Before August, nineteen-fourteen, 
 Richard had rather taken his country for granted. Now 
 he awoke to an England that in return for years of security and 
 a lazy pleasure at the sight of so many red patches on the 
 school-map, suddenly exacted service — fighting service. Rich- 
 ard cursed his age; welcomed any indication in the trend of 
 things " out there " that seemed to prophesy a minimum of 
 three years' activities. " If only the war holds out till I can 
 get to it! " He suffered from disturbing premonitions of a 
 peace signed and ratified just one day before his eighteenth 
 birthday. 
 
 War, as a pastime, a profession, an emotional outlet, fulfilled 
 every unspoken need of his temperament. He was a born pu- 
 gilist; he did not mind bodily discomfort; he was endowed 
 with splended physique; he kept cool in emergencies; he had 
 an infinite preference for male society; he was under a firm im- 
 pression that he was devoid of that cumbersome burden called 
 imagination; he lacked graceful accomplishments. What did 
 the future hold for a boy of such capacities and disqualifica- 
 tions? Nineteen-fourteen came like an answer to an obstinate 
 riddle. 
 
 And — confound it! — he was not yet sixteen. 
 
 Winborough had its Cadet Corps, which was a slight com- 
 pensation for the utter meaningless absurdity of Latin and 
 Greek — dead studies in a time of live history. At least, one 
 was preparing for a later share in the conflict. The ethics of 
 war and peace did not bother him. War suited him, as a 
 definite opportunity for concerted action; whereas peace ap- 
 
 34 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 35 
 
 peared a condition infinitely more difficult, more scattered and 
 involved and hesitant. Richard approved of the indubitable 
 simplicity of a nation at war: every mind thinking alike; every 
 effort directed towards the same end; loyalty accepted as a 
 predominant emotion, without need to fuss over lesser problems 
 of one's personal ego. He was animated as yet by no special 
 rancour towards the Germans. . . . Poor old Grandfather was 
 a German; rotten for him, these days! Pater was naturalized, 
 so he was all right (the yellow press was not circulated at 
 Winborough). . . . The natural conditions of war demanded 
 an enemy, and the Germans would do as well as any one else; 
 better, in fact; for they were powerful and well-prepared, so 
 that there was an excellent chance that hostilities would last 
 till Richard was eighteen 
 
 He always came back to that. 
 
 The Dunnes were both in the navy; Greville, just about to 
 join the Grand Fleet on H.M.S., Canada; young Frank, still 
 at Osborne. Richard spent this Christmas of Greville's final 
 leave at Mrs. Dunne's jolly, crowded cottage in Essex, on the 
 outskirts of a little country town that was just about the same 
 size as Dorzheim. . . . He amused the Dunnes exceedingly by 
 his accounts of that place, and of his headlong scramble home 
 with Deb. It was something of an exploit to have been caught 
 in enemy territory on the eve of war : " If we had started for 
 home two days later, we shouldn't have started at all; they'd 
 have kept us there for weeks, probably, and then goose-stepped 
 us over the frontier under strict official supervision." 
 
 " Deb, not you," Greville corrected. " I knew a chap of our 
 age who was at Dresden at the time, and they've interned him 
 over there." 
 
 "Lord, not really! That would have been a swizzle, miss- 
 ing all the fun, tucked away with a lot of rotten Germans " 
 
 " They'd be English, you ass, in a German internment camp." 
 
 " M'yes, so they would. Still, one would be horribly out of 
 it all ; not that Winborough's much better " — reverting to the 
 old grievance — " I wish I'd plumped for the navy when you 
 did." 
 
36 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Mrs. Dunne smiled rather wistfully. " I wonder if your 
 father shares that wish of yours, Richard." 
 
 " Dunno. Sha'n't see him till Easter, I expect. I was glad 
 to be away these hols, out of all the fuss of moving. We've 
 let our house, you know." 
 
 " You must have cheered when you got your hoof in England 
 again," Greville remarked, reverting to the journey from Dorz- 
 heim. 
 
 But instead of the " You bet ! " one might have expected, 
 Richard was silent. ... He was still shy of remembering the 
 rush of sentiment which had attacked him on arrival at Folke- 
 stone that second of August, after three chaotic days and nights 
 through a continent that was screaming mad with war. . . . 
 God bless these stolid English porters — these English engines 
 that knew reliably whither they were bearing the train — this 
 decent Sunday evening quiet everywhere. . . . Richard dug his 
 hands in his pockets and snapped his lips firmly as he strode 
 up the gangway of the boat; he was neither lunatic nor poet, 
 to shout aloud the paean : " England, my England ! " that was 
 tightening his throat and thrumming in his heart . . . but he 
 had vowed, nevertheless, as he stepped on shore, that he would 
 prove to the utmost stretch of his powers a good citizen, a loyal 
 patriot. He was definitely grateful to his country at this mo- 
 ment for its mere existence. 
 
 The emotion had died to a vague shame at having made 
 an exhibition of himself, even with himself as the only witness. 
 Yet now, as he bent forward to turn the chestnuts roasting over 
 the fire, and tossed a burnt one on to the lap of Molly Dunne, 
 Greville's flapper cousin, he experienced the kind of satisfaction 
 with his surroundings which can best be translated into a 
 heartfelt grunt. They were the conventionally right sort of 
 people: Mrs. Dunne, frail and pleasant; the two boys in their 
 blue and gold uniforms; Molly, tanned brown as her own 
 tangle of hair — an ugly kid, but good sport. A rough little 
 terrier lay on the hearthrug; everybody's skates, caked from 
 recent use, sprawled all over the shabby chintz furniture; and 
 the big holly-twined portrait of the late Commander Dunne 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 37 
 
 domineered the room from above the mantelpiece. Jolly things 
 strewn about, too; the model of a Chinese junk; bits of queer 
 distorted coral and stone and shell; fantastic weapons slung on 
 the walls; photographs of battleships and their crews — all 
 these evidences of a sailor family, and far lands, without in 
 the least influencing the typically English atmosphere of the 
 room. If the Dunnes had settled in Japan or Bulawayo, their 
 apartments would still have been as — Dunne-ish. These cu- 
 rios — they were just curios, neither more nor less; and as 
 such, were given their proper place. 
 
 Queer, reflected Richard, that before the spasm of homesick 
 misery which had thrust at him on a certain evening in the 
 streets of Dorzheim, he had never been consciously aware, as 
 at present, of a state of well-being. He supposed the contrast 
 had for good or for evil awakened him; and questioned glumly 
 whether it were altogether convenient to be at the mercy of per- 
 ceptions as sharpened and sensitive. 
 
 If this were Dorzheim, then the chestnuts would be ginger- 
 bread; Greville and Molly would be "betrothed" by arrange- 
 ment of their elders ; and Richard would be proudly noting the 
 fact that he was the one Jew with whom the Dunnes had 
 "traffic. . . ." 
 
 Thank goodness, in England you could be a Jew, and hardly 
 even know it. . . . 
 
 II 
 
 Jews . . . but the Marcus children were yearly allowed to 
 hunt for hidden Easter eggs in their garden. Dorothea, Fer- 
 dinand's wife, had been the mildest of Protestants, as he was 
 the most tolerant of Israelites; and there were times when 
 bacon and matsas had appeared simultaneously upon their 
 table, not from any unadjusted clash of orthodoxy, but merely 
 that Ferdinand insisted on the British national breakfast, and 
 Dorothea had an eccentric liking for unleavened bread when it 
 was " in season." Richard and Deb never learnt any Hebrew, 
 till the approach of the boy's " Barmitzfa " rendered neces- 
 sary in his case a certain knowledge of the language, easily 
 
38 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 forgotten. The occasion itself struck him as mainly remark- 
 able for the amount of presents he received. Deb considered 
 it distinctly unfair that boys should be able to put in such a 
 profitable extra birthday; she tried to get quits in hard value, 
 by accepting as often as offered the post of bridesmaid, whether 
 in church or in synagogue. Both religious ceremonies made 
 an equally profound impression upon her — for an hour. The 
 Marcuses did not keep up the Jewish feast-days and holidays, 
 and consequently the younger generation were rather hazy as 
 to their origin and significance. Ferdinand made a half- 
 hearted effort to keep them reminded of the most important of 
 these, so that they should not give offence to such of their 
 friends and relatives as were strict in observance, by a blank 
 stare of ignorance on receiving salutation: " Muzzeltoff ! " 
 They wished each other a Happy New Year quite impartially in 
 the autumn and on the first of January; and Christmas was a 
 jovial mingling of whatever customs were pleasantest of di- 
 verse creeds and countries. 
 
 Dorothea and Ferdinand had agreed that whatever children 
 might be born to them, should make their own choice of re- 
 ligion, or no religion, when they were old enough. Themselves 
 had endured much from despotic parents, and were eagerly and 
 insistently broad-minded in their educational intentions. 
 
 Old Hermann Marcus had sent his son to England on busi- 
 ness when the lad was barely twenty — a shy, plump, sweet- 
 faced little fellow, with bright brown eyes round with admira- 
 tion for England and England's ways. Peremptorily recalled 
 to Bavaria after two years of Paradise, he summoned all his 
 courage, and — from a safe distance — defied the tyrant . . . 
 somewhat tempering the grand effect of his rebellion by a dip- 
 lomatic postscript pointing out that in London he could be of 
 more service to the firm than in Munich; was rapidly gather- 
 ing custom; and hoped in a few years to be able to marry. 
 His father replied tersely that he was a thickhead, had always 
 been a thickhead, would always be a thickhead, and was there- 
 fore admirably adapted by nature to settle down in a nation 
 of thickheads — " but in that case, you will at once sever con- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 39 
 
 nection with my business." Ferdinand dutifully trotted back 
 to Germany; spent several wretched months in vain longings 
 for his adopted country; and finally, not being of that stuff of 
 which heroes are made, sneaked back to his Hampstead board- 
 ing-house, his tennis, his Sunday river-parties, and mysterious 
 November fogs, leaving his sister Stella to break the news to 
 old Marcus. The latter promptly cut his son out of his will. 
 Ferdinand perseveringly worked himself up to a sufficiently 
 good position on the Stock Exchange to be able, at the age of 
 twenty-seven, to rescue Dorothea Ladislov from an uncon- 
 genial home, and marry her romantically at the registrar's. 
 The pretty, black-haired girl was the daughter of an aristo- 
 cratic Czech family, which had settled in England before she 
 was born. She and Ferdinand had fallen in love over their 
 compared experiences of early years heavy and burdensome 
 with must-nots. Deb, directly she appeared on the scene, flitted 
 like a will-o'-the-wisp through dream-acres of sunshiny free- 
 dom planned for her by her parents, entirely from contrast 
 with their own rigidly enclosed childhood. Not all the present 
 bliss in the world could quite compensate for those best lost 
 years. Deb should live carelessly radiant from the very be- 
 ginning — "Not spoilt, Ferdie; that's different and hateful. 
 She must learn reasonable manners and control; obedience 
 even. Only there needn't be so very much to obey. And as 
 soon as she can think for herself " 
 
 "She shall dance to her own melodies. Ja, ja, it will be 
 pleasant to have a happy little daughter, not checked, not 
 afraid. And we must learn not to be shocked at her, as we 
 grow older. She shall know that we trust her. Indeed, yes, 
 it will be all right. When one is happy, one is also good. 
 Our parents never understood that." 
 
 " It will be all right," echoed Dorothea, her dark eyes tender 
 and luminous. " And we won't grumble, or ask questions, will 
 we? Papa was always grumbling, and Mamma asked so many 
 questions. . . . Ferdie, it would be terrible if we should for- 
 get, and wake up one morning to find we were only ordinary 
 parents." 
 
40 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 She gave a little gasp of horror. Her husband took her face 
 between his hands and kissed it. . . . 
 
 They made quite a pretty hobby out of extraordinary par- 
 enthood. 
 
 Then, as if to remind them that the other species still existed, 
 when Deb was a wilful little creature of seven, came an imperi- 
 ous summons from Ferdinand's father, who most inopportunely 
 had decided to forgive them. The old thraldom held; they 
 had no option but meekly to submit to forgiveness. This neces- 
 sitated a journey to Bavaria — a long stay in Munich. Stella 
 was so glad of them, so glad of this young, laughing sister- 
 in-law in the house. But Marcus defied all tradition of stern 
 grandfathers by refusing to succumb instantly to the pretty 
 fearless ways of his first grandchild ; in fact, he disapproved so 
 completely of Deb, her looks, her English education, her un- 
 rebuked chatter, her clothes, her nurse, her loose shower of 
 black hair, of everything that was Deb's, that she was kept as 
 much as possible out of his way. Sweet-natured and sub- 
 servient in all else, Ferdinand was implacable on the one point: 
 the old autocrat should not interfere with the happiness of one 
 more girl-child. Already he had doomed Stella to spinster- 
 hood; he forbade young men inside the house, and forbade 
 Stella outside the house. One conventional marriage arrange- 
 ment he had made for her with the parents of a sufficiently 
 wealthy suitor, who, however, turned from Stella to a larger 
 dowry. No father could be expected to do more in the way 
 of duty. An arrangement which Stella had the temerity to 
 make for herself, he countered by the simple Teutonic method 
 of locking her up, and shouting at her till she was tired. . . . 
 
 For Ferdinand, he had gained a slight respect. The boy 
 had at least managed to win some sort of commercial foot- 
 hold. "What do you reckon to make per annum, wass? " 
 "About six hundred to a thousand." Marcus was distinctly 
 impressed: " Ach! as little as that? " Ferdinand enquired after 
 the old firm. "The profits are excellent, sir; increasing 
 yearly. Bah, did you think we should go to pieces because you 
 left us? " sarcastically. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 41 
 
 The arrogant old merchant was lying. At Dorothea's death 
 he was thankful for an excuse to let Stella go to England and 
 take over the charge of her brother's household; thankful for 
 an excuse to cut down expenses . . . the business was rapidly 
 running downhill. He warded off bankruptcy for another 
 eleven years — then came the irrevocable crash. Ferdinand, 
 who could not rid himself of the filial habit, immediately wrote 
 and offered his father a home with them. So Hermann Marcus, 
 at the age of seventy-seven, came to England, to " Daisybanks," 
 in Lansdowne Terrace. He found himself instantly relegated 
 to a very comfortable back-seat among his children and grand- 
 children. Ferdie, though still timid in actual converse with 
 his father, yet proved stubbornly master in his own house; and 
 Stella had developed a brisk liveliness which was a true source 
 of grief to her father. The two now treated his attempts to 
 bully them, with a semi-humorous tolerance which the puzzled 
 despot could only ascribe to his loss of income — " Of course, 
 if I were swollen with money," — with grim common-sense he 
 designed himself to dependence and rheumatism; it comforted 
 him to suppose his loss of authority was due to material and 
 not to moral causes. 
 
 As for the third generation, he continued to disapprove of 
 Deb, but liked Richard infinitely better. "You've no eyes for 
 any one but the girl," he would growl at Ferdinand. " To my 
 two children I dispensed equal affection." Ferdinand smiled. 
 . . . When he smiled he more than ever resembled a cheerful 
 little troll, his small ripe face a web of intersecting spidery 
 wrinkles. It was true that Deb was his darling who could do 
 no wrong; it was for Deb that he and Dorothea had built up 
 so many defiant immature plans — beautiful plans. Dorothea 
 had died for Richard's life . . . she would have loved the boy 
 best, if she had lived; Ferdie guessed it, and conscientiously 
 tried to supply a double quantity of favouritism. But Richard 
 was undemonstrative; had started the schoolboy attitude even 
 while his nurse was hopefully striving against odds to turn him 
 into a pretty dear, a Fauntleroy. At three years old, his voice 
 was gruff, his knees scraped, his manner properly off-hand, his 
 
42 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 tastes independent; he called ladies and gentlemen by their 
 surnames, without prefix, when they bent to caress " dear little 
 Dickie." It was disconcerting to Ferdie's kindly-disposed part^ 
 ners, misled by the white suit and deep lace collar, to find heavy 
 brows bent upon them, while they were boomingly hailed as 
 " Nash " and " Rothenburg." Aunt Stella, wisely accepting the 
 inevitable, bought her nephew a couple of rough navy-blue jer- 
 seys, a pair of sturdy boots, and a Newmarket overcoat; Nurse 
 lamented that this latter article was not in white bunny-fur — 
 " Master Dickie looks such a darling in white." " He looks 
 something between a burglar and a prize-fighter in anything; 
 for the future, Nurse, he had better be known only as Richard." 
 "Oh, Madam, he's but a baby yet! " Richard overheard, and: 
 " I'm but a baby yet," he pleaded with dignity the next time 
 his father attempted to administer mild but well-deserved chas- 
 tisement. From sheer astonishment, Ferdie let him off. 
 
 And after that, he seemed to be always at school, or " knock- 
 ing round with other chaps." He fell into frequent scrapes, 
 and usually managed to fall out of them again without extran- 
 eous assistance. He stolidly kept a place in class a little above 
 half-way, without spurts or lapses. His philosophy was emi- 
 nently suited to practical needs; he kept his ugliness well 
 brushed and tubbed and free from eccentricity, and his slow 
 white grin had a bewildering fascination. 
 
 " Our young Richard, my dear," commented Aunt Stella to 
 Deb, "reminds me of the best quality of almond rock; you 
 take it home, and prepare for a treat, and then you find the 
 sweetshop girl has forgotten to break it up for you." She 
 spoke English perfectly, but with foreign vivacity and a strong 
 foreign accent. "Richard has never been broken up; he is 
 unwieldy ; he cannot be put in the mouth." 
 
 " But he is of the best quality," Deb quickly defended him; 
 and was silent for a r oment, thinking about Richard. She 
 adored the boy; was content to know that she came first with 
 him, though he rarely saw her, and still more rarely spoke to 
 her except in the ordinary way of younger-brother teasing. 
 
 " Aunt Stella, Richard isn't so stodgy as he likes to think he 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 43 
 
 is," she said suddenly. " Do you know, twice I've seen him 
 nearly hysterical." 
 
 " My child, you're dreaming." 
 
 " I'm not. Once was because a wasp was circling over his 
 plate, and wouldn't go away. And the other time was over 
 a book." 
 
 " Dear me, what book? " 
 
 But Deb was sorry now she had spoken so impulsively. 
 Stella Marcus had a disconcerting way of making every sub- 
 ject seem as a hollow ball with a tinkle inside, to be lightly 
 tossed, twice, thrice, and then let fall ... to roll away. 
 
 "What book?" 
 
 " ' A Tale of Two Cities.' " 
 
 " Oh, every little boy cries over that." 
 
 Deb had lied. It was not " The Tale of Two Cities," but an 
 account of the Dreyfus case. 
 
 This first war Christmas of nineteen-fourteen, the Marcuses 
 moved out of their house in Lansdowne Terrace. The Stock 
 Exchange was one of the definite places where a man of Ger- 
 man extraction could be made to feel uncomfortable; very un- 
 comfortable. Ferdinand Marcus did not complain of the cold- 
 shouldering he received. "It's natural, Stella; every time I 
 open my mouth they are bound to be reminded." But then 
 some arbitrary stockbroker accused him publicly of being a 
 spy and a traitor . . . and Marcus quickly resigned his part- 
 nership in the firm of Nash, Rothenburg and Marcus; and with- 
 drew to live as best he might on his income. The little man 
 was hurt and sorrowful; he loved England passionately — he 
 had renounced Germany and chosen England from motives of 
 pure love. Not all the sons of Germany are as violently at- 
 tached to the Fatherland as the Fatherland would like to make 
 out. Some among them have resented the prison-wall system, 
 the prevalent aggressive despotism that crushes out their hu- 
 man ways and wishes. So they had come to England, and 
 had found a difi"erence, and had stayed. ..." Especially we 
 Jews find the difference," Ferdinand explained to his sister, 
 Vfhen. he told her what had occurred on the Exchange. " They 
 
44 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 don't realize, over here, how the Jews are still treated in Ger- 
 many. And so they won't believe that our loyalty to a country 
 adopted is not hypocrisy, and that we can be truly glad if 
 England wins the war. Stella, I wish they would believe it; 
 I wish they would." His lips trembled with the pathos of a 
 child who has received an unmerited snubbing. " What ho ! 
 who cares? " he cried jerkily. Ferdie took pride in his col- 
 lection of English slang; a pride which dated back to his 
 enforced return to Germany, thirty-two years ago, with a few 
 typical samples of the period. Stella remembered how he 
 had kept up his forlorn spirits by use of such defiant oddments 
 as " By Jingo," " Here we are again," " It's all my eye and 
 Betty Martin," — " What's that? " thundered his father, over- 
 hearing. Ferdie, blushing crimson, tried to explain that Betty 
 Martin was the name of a lady — and — and the rest was 
 idiom. "You will hold your mouth," came the irritable 
 edict. . . . 
 
 Now — "What ho! who cares? " But he was miserable at 
 the necessity for leaving his home. He was at that ripe pippin 
 stage of the late forties when comfort, sentiment, and beaming 
 good-humour make a happy blend of man. His voice had loud- 
 ened to a hearty geniality. When he sat in a chair, he ex- 
 panded and filled it out. On the anniversaries of Dorothea's 
 death and of their wedding-day, he did not go to business, but 
 put white flowers under her portrait, and sobbed tenderly and 
 unashamedly over the memories aroused. He liked standing 
 with his carving-knife at the head of his own table, with a 
 well-roasted joint in front of him. He liked Christmas carols, 
 and happy faces, and giving presents to his family, and sur- 
 prises, and Deb's arms round his neck while she pleaded for 
 some special treat; and songs with a bloom of mellow sadness 
 over them; and a tame landscape with a sort of chubby frolic 
 to it — cottage-children or lambs in the sunshine; and well- 
 worn slippers, and moonlight. If he had continued to live in 
 South Germany, he would no doubt have liked Schumann and 
 beer, and the Lorelei and charcoal-burners and Grimms' Fairy- 
 tales. Perhaps these tastes still lingered on, unsuspected, in 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 45 
 
 his system, subservient to a solemn love for the river Thames; 
 he had given his heart to the Thames while he was still a strip- 
 ling, and no Rhine-memories could alter the preference. Rich- 
 ard certainly should go to Oxford; Ferdie looked forward to 
 visiting him there; to some mysterious festivity entitled Com- 
 mem. 
 
 Above all, perhaps, he loved the sight of lovers. Lovers 
 such as he and Dorothea had been: compounded of joy without 
 ecstasy; sadness without anguish; youthful, blushing lovers 
 who held hands, and could be teased and blessed. . . . And 
 later — " the bride was given away by her father." . , . And 
 later still: " — of a girl "... who would soon learn to blow 
 on his watch and crow when it flew open. 
 
 For of course he was thinking of Deb. 
 
 No parental coercion in her case; no prudent selection by 
 her elders. To that he was pledged ; had not he and Dorothea 
 planned that Deb should seek out her own true mate in her own 
 good time, and bring him home? 
 
 And bring him home. . . . But home was *' Daisybanks," 
 Lansdowne Terrace. Ferdie's pleasures were not of the scat- 
 tered order, but had associated themselves very closely with 
 just that click to the gate, announcing his home-coming every 
 evening; just that Virginia creeper, matting one side of the 
 house in red; and just that half-acre of garden at the back, 
 where the sweet-william and the canterbury bells repaid so 
 gratefully his careful watering every summer evening, though 
 the hose still leaked at that one faulty portion of rubber 
 tubing. 
 
 " We shall have to tell them about that leak, Stella," was all 
 he found courage to say, when his sister informed him that she 
 had already found a tenant to take over their expiring lease, 
 and to buy the furniture. 
 
 Stella was the practical person of the family. Stella had 
 beautiful white teeth, and a shrill excitable voice. Because she 
 rattled on incessantly, she was regarded by her contemporaries 
 as a wit; and her popular entrance into a room was usually 
 hailed uproariously, as though the assembled company had 
 
46 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 been awaiting its jester. Her secret horror was to be regarded 
 as the traditional narrow-minded and intolerant old maid; and 
 to avert this she harped facetiously on the topic. She owned 
 a unique collection of the sort of cayenne " good tale " which 
 can always be relied upon to raise at least one blush and one 
 protest; and so by repartee and impromptu, she managed to 
 achieve an enfant terrible reputation, of which she was as vain 
 as younger girls of their conquests. Men called her " a sport," 
 and would often drop into a chair by her side, with the latest 
 chuckle from Town Topics or the Pink 'JJn — " Nothing shocks 
 Stella Marcus, you know! "... and certainly, as far as any- 
 thing verbal was concerned, Stella fancied herself well in the 
 van of the New Movement. But she did not realize that lip- 
 service was no longer vassal to emancipation; and that: " Do 
 shocking things, not say them all day long," was the up-to- 
 date rendering of Kingsley's advice; did not realize, in fact, 
 that for all her breathless determination, she was not quite able 
 to catch up with Deb's generation. 
 
 Deb! ... of necessity she could not stand for a cipher in 
 Stella's emotions; was bound to arouse love or hatred . . . 
 perhaps the conflict was not yet finally decided. For Deb was 
 not only the daughter she might have borne — if Hermann 
 Marcus had not interposed his bulky will between Stella and 
 Stella's destiny, but also the girl she might have been — again 
 if Hermann had taken the same views of fatherhood as Ferdie, 
 Out of the non-fulfilment of Stella's existence had arisen Deb's 
 present Paradise of liberty; Stella herself perceived that: her- 
 self the ashes and Deb the gaily-plumaged phoenix. Ferdie, as 
 a father, needed the tragic example afforded him by his elder 
 sister unmarried — for marriage, when it is obviously a voca- 
 tion squ£uidered, is as true tragedy as the squandering of some 
 great gift. Stella by nature had been just such a girl as Deb 
 was now. . . . And she did not hate Deb, nor use her authority 
 to baulk the girl where herself had been baulked. To her 
 credit, she took instead a fierce, yet half-amused pride in 
 flaunting Deb's emancipation from control, before the grimly 
 disapproving glare of Deb's grandfather; it was revenge by 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 47 
 
 proxy. ..." You prevented me from acting thus — and thus 
 — and thus — You have no power here. Look — and look 
 again: this is what I should have been, this is what I should 
 have done. But all the spilt joy has been gathered into an- 
 other cup — and yours are no more the fingers at the handle! " 
 ... So Stella's long-shaped greenish eyes danced their word- 
 less triumph at her father; while Deb, innocent of interplay, 
 was frankly and chummily telling Ferdie about some success- 
 ful impertinence of girlhood. 
 
 She did not hate Deb. She did not love her either — at least, 
 not in any tender lullaby ways. If she exulted in Deb's hap- 
 piness, promoted it wherever possible, defended her against 
 aggressive comment, nevertheless she was curiously aware all 
 the time that the relations between herself and Deb had not 
 reached completion; were hovering on the verge of something 
 fundamental and savage of either love or hatred — she did not 
 know. Meanwhile Deb, in her lordly childishness, was heartily 
 fond of Aunt Stel; and people remarked how nice it was that 
 Miss Marcus and her niece were almost like sisters together ! 
 
 It was Stella who arranged that they should temporarily 
 move into a boarding-house till Mr. Marcus was able to ascer- 
 tain more exactly what his very reduced income was likely to 
 be. Some of his money was invested abroad, and nobody knew 
 how long the war would last. ... It was best not to enter upon 
 a definite mode of living just now; and she did not care about 
 house-keeping in apartments; their own house, or nothing. 
 
 Montagu Hall in South Kensington would do very well; she 
 and Deb were each to have a small single room; Ferdinand 
 shared a double bedroom with his father, who required a cer- 
 tain amount of attention and nursing. Richard was going to 
 spend Christmas with the Dunnes, and therefore need not be 
 considered till the Easter holidays; and perhaps by then. . . . 
 
 Stella Marcus, for all her caustic, jesting shrewdness, was 
 not aware that those who once acquire the boarding-house habit 
 will continue to say from season to season, from anniversary to 
 anniversary, from year to year: " Perhaps by then . . ."; will 
 never own that they have settled down to unsettlement. 
 
48 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 They drew up with all their baggage at about five o'clock on 
 the second of January. As the front door was opened to them, 
 a voice from the hall rasped out into the foggy air: 
 
 " — I like a dog to be a dog, not — Shut that door, can't 
 you? . . . Oh, I see " 
 
 Three men were standing about in the hall, smoking. The 
 owner of the rasp also possessed a long domed head, crude 
 pink where the hair had worn away on top, and a face of the 
 same nursery pink, ploughed by implacable lines of opinion 
 and ill-humour. He stopped his complaint, and stared with 
 curiosity at the newcomers passing through the hall. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 DEB knelt in front of the squat sturdy oil-stove with 
 " Cora " gold-lettered across its front, and began care- 
 fully to trickle a supply of kerosene into the tank. 
 Cora was essential to the evening's enjoyment of her three 
 votaries; their friendship grouped itself round her personality, 
 and Aunt Stella, whose wit ran fatally in the direction of pun- 
 ning, had even dared to nickname their union the Chorus. 
 
 Deb knelt, perplexed, musing, a vestal before the altar. . 
 
 Cora was six weeks old, and was just losing her first frag 
 ranee when Deb bought her. ..." Does any one want an oil 
 stove cheap? " she demanded, rushing like tragedy upon the as 
 sembled company in the lounge of Montagu Hall Hotel 
 " With saucepan, feeder, gallon-can, and all my illusions, com 
 plete for five-and-tenpence? " 
 
 " My dear child ! " cried Stella, " Cora has been yours for 
 exactly half a day." 
 
 Deb sank down despairingly on the fender-seat. " Five- 
 and-eightpence," she amended. Then, darkly: "To be bested 
 by a rotten little piece of ironmongery one foot by two ! " 
 
 "Does she smell?" Jenny Carew exclaimed impulsively; 
 "oh, then something must be wrong with her." (They com- 
 mented afterwards how queer it was that never for an instant 
 had Cora been "it" to any of them; always "her.") "Do 
 let me take her to pieces for you, and put her together again. 
 Do let me. Miss Marcus. I haven't had a thrill for ages. And 
 if I fail I'll buy the fragment for Bobby to play with. Dolph, 
 who did we last lend our screw-driver to? " 
 
 Her husband, morose and bearded, was not interested in 
 Cora. " Somebody who hasn't given it back." 
 
 49 
 
50 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " All right, Mrs. Carew ; and you can have the bits for Bobby 
 anyway, when you've thrilled long enough. / don't want the 
 little brute, whole or in pieces; I would have thrown her out 
 of the window, but just at that moment she threw me out at the 
 door. She certainly has character, and a perfumed soul, and 
 
 — and I was so happy, carrying her home in my arms this 
 morning." 
 
 Some one spoke indolently from the deepest armchair at the 
 best corner of the fire. " Miss Marcus, I'll buy your disillu- 
 sion for five-and-eightpence." 
 
 "Will you? Will you really? Do you want her? " Deb 
 looked across at him shyly. The soldier had not been long at 
 Montagu Hall; rarely spoke, except, lately, to Jenny; and gen- 
 erally did not give an impression that he could be stimulated 
 from a state of sunken lethargy for anybody on earth. 
 
 " Not for myself. Heaven forbid ! But my men are always 
 shouting for more stoves. Doubt if even Cora could throw half 
 a hundred lusty fusiliers out of their recreation room. I'll 
 have a look at her, if I may." 
 
 He and Jenny and Deb went up to the second floor to inspect 
 Cora. 
 
 " There she is already . . ." mourned Deb, on the first floor 
 landing. 
 
 Presently the three of them were standing with gaze fixed 
 in fascinated silence upon the object for purchase. There was 
 no other illumination in the room; Cora cast her spells in hard 
 blocks of white light and black shadow. . . . 
 
 A boarding-house — an oil-stove — the soldier — Jenny Ca- 
 rew — it struck Deb from what a bizarre rag-bag romance drew 
 its patchwork pieces. She stole a look at Burton Ames ; he was 
 old; possibly about forty-six; and had an air of being neglected 
 
 — neglectful: his khaki slouched over his chunky shoulders; 
 his hair, grizzled fawn, was disordered and ragged; the cor- 
 ners of his eyes gathered into wrinkles. Not young, not suc- 
 cessful, not handsome, and married . . . she had heard him 
 mention a wife somewhere in the West Country. . . . Prepos- 
 terous that even for five swift seconds she should have received 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 51 
 
 an impression that the big thing might be hidden here for her — 
 
 And then she saw that Jenny's charming little gamin face was 
 alive, and warm, and flickering as firelight; roguery achase 
 round her lips; tears on her brown, blunt lashes; promise and 
 mutiny and tenderness . . . what was the matter with Jenny? 
 Slowly the soldier's hand came out and closed tightly round 
 her arm, just above the elbow. . . . Deb, still watching, almost 
 winced at sight of the grip. . . . 
 
 And then Ames let go; and flung himself down in the arm- 
 chair close at hand; and said, with the content of a man who 
 unexpectedly finds sanctuary: " Let's stop up here. We don't 
 want other people. I'm sick of the trail of other people lit- 
 tering the house. I like it up here." 
 
 Yes — but where was the place for Deb, in Deb's room? 
 
 She had no need of married people; took it for granted that 
 the married man cannot lead by splendid sun-beaten ways to 
 finality; that a married woman has ever the advantage over 
 a maid, by won tranquillity of experience. She had no need 
 of these two. Then why did they leave it lying about under 
 her notice . . . whatever it was they had found? The at- 
 mosphere was neither amorous nor exotic; but Deb had an 
 impression as though the eternal man and woman had just 
 come home; and that at any moment he might commit some 
 little commonplace act — slip off his coat and hand it to 
 Jenny to be mended, to make significant the fact that they were 
 man and woman come home — 
 
 — In her room. Petulantly she turned away from sight of 
 Jenny's face . . . could she reach the door and get out before 
 Jenny's lidded emotions brimmed over into action? — Too 
 late! . . . Jenny's arms were strangling Deb, Jenny's scorching 
 lips were on Deb's cheek and neck, Jenny's half -sobbing half- 
 laughing runs and murmurings of incoherence were thrown 
 upon the unnatural silence ..." You darling — darling — 
 darling! I've wanted to hug you like this since the first night 
 you crept into the lounge. You're such a beautiful little thing 
 . . . isn't she? Isn't she? Oh, I'm so happy you're here — 
 do let's all three be pals — I hate every one else in this beastly 
 
62 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 place . . . little funny, sorrowful, creamy kid, I like you — I 
 like you " 
 
 And all the while her eyes were on the soldier. And all this 
 boundless slippery exuberance was for the soldier — at the 
 soldier — it did not matter upon what pretext it vented itself. 
 Warmth and excitement to spare for Deb too . . . Deb felt 
 this, or she would have torn herself away from the embrace 
 . . . but Jenny was wholly unconscious that she was making 
 love to a man with a girl as the intermediary; she was no 
 self-analyst. But the soldier and Deb, in one look exchanged, 
 established that mental kinship which exists between those who 
 see things alike introspectively and from the outside view; with 
 meaning duplicated and tripled; made grotesque by circum- 
 stance or contrast; backwards from the future, and twisted this 
 way and that by imps of irony; kinship of those who can see 
 with the chill impersonality of gods on Olympus, and also with 
 pointed application to their own tiny scheme of things ; restless 
 subtle kinship of those who dream and those who question. 
 
 And even as they silently hailed each other, he smiling a 
 little under his fair drawn eyebrows, and she very serious; 
 hailed each other through the froth and tumble of Jenny's 
 excited talk, the white light which rayed the ceilings and walls 
 of the room, was sucked into soft inky chokiness. . . . 
 
 " Little beast has gone out," commented the soldier, in dis- 
 respectful reference to Cora. " Light her again, and let's sit 
 round and be comfortable." 
 
 II 
 
 Of course Deb did not sell Cora. 
 
 Round Cora they hacked a sort of intimate privacy, with 
 privileges for their trio alone. Cora was their excuse, the 
 ostentatious cause of their withdrawal from the rest of the 
 boarding-house: they were going to smoke a cigarette with 
 Cora; they were going to fry potatoes on Cora; Cora was de- 
 pressed, and needed the instalment of a fresh wick. Perhaps 
 they rather overdid Cora; but the intangible need binding them 
 together needed to solve itself into tangible expression. Cora, 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 53 
 
 whether as an exaggerated joke or a temperamental goddess, 
 was . . . convenient. " Are you coming home to Cora to- 
 night? " or " I saw Cora was lit, so I walked in! " Deb was 
 High Priestess of the Oil-can; Jenny, principal engineer and 
 mechanic; and the soldier serenely enjoyed results, as was 
 typical of him. 
 
 And then Stella Marcus crystallized their dependence on the 
 Cora legend into a pun. They took up the nickname — " The 
 Chorus meets tonight!" — schoolgirlish methods of allusion 
 . . . but Jenny and the soldier had been battered by realities, 
 and welcomed the silliness of their present relapse. And Deb, 
 her soul a responsive barometer, sank alternately to the sol- 
 dier's semi-humorous apathy of nothing-worth-while, and leapt 
 again to Jenny's soaring irresponsibility. 
 
 The soldier had been thus labelled by Deb in the spirit of 
 irony, when he told her that he had been twenty-three years in 
 the army, and was not, as she had at first imagined, one of that 
 gallant mushroom crop raised by the call of war. He had been 
 in India and South Africa, Aden, Singapore, Malta and Gib- 
 raltar. It was diflScult to conceive of any one less of the ac- 
 cepted military type: an individualist of the let-me-alone order; 
 an atheist; a keen but destructive logician; a hopelessly roman- 
 tic pessimist; he could not understand ready-made standards 
 of conduct, of honour, of conviviality; would not conform to 
 the prevalent disposition to flock together, pray together, stand 
 or fall together. A soldier, even a good soldier, without esprit 
 de corps, was a deplorable spectacle; hardly likely to prove an 
 acquisition to the mess. His fellow-officers, after a perplexed 
 interval of acquaintance, were wont to pronounce him a rum 
 beast. To which, very occasionally, was made the resentful 
 addition : " Tries to be funny " — when Burton Ames un- 
 leashed his weary but mordant form of humour. He was more 
 popular with his men, who appreciated the eccentric interest 
 he was prone to waste on them singly and as persons, how- 
 ever much he depreciated them collectively. 
 
 Fitly, he should have been apprenticed to some trade or pro- 
 fession which combined the essentials of a sailor, an explorer. 
 
54 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 a landed proprietor, a heniiit and a carpenter. The career of 
 Robinson Crusoe answered all requisites to perfection. . . . 
 
 Out of Deb's little crowded room, made vivid by her own 
 books and pictures, he created for himself a sort of amateur 
 desert island, away from the gregarious herd in the smoking- 
 room and lounge and drawing-room downstairs. His own 
 room was bare and uncomfortable, as only a soldier's can be 
 who has many times shifted camp, and without a woman to 
 look after him. And Jenny's larger room was liable to intru- 
 sions from Dolph and Bobby. But in Deb's room he hung cur- 
 tains, and fiddled with Cora, and altered furniture, and smoked 
 his pipe, and examined books, and listened to Deb's wicked 
 imitations of their fellow-boarders, and cooked potatoes by his 
 own home-made method of so many heart-beats to the moment 
 and so many moments to the boil, and confided in Deb and 
 Jenny his love of complete solitude, with ever-deepening tran- 
 quillity of mood. Sometimes they all went out together on 
 some impromptu ramble leading to Hampstead Heath or a cin- 
 ema or a coffee-stall. But usually they were to be found in a 
 careless group roimd Cora; Burton Ames lumbering in the only 
 armchair; one figure a-sprawl on the bed; the other flopped 
 on the floor; accommodation of the soldier's huge inert limbs 
 reducing to nil the already limited space. A clammy Febru- 
 ary and bleak March urged a desire to huddle, morally and 
 actually. It was scarcely possible for one of them to make a 
 movement without brushing against one of the others. . . . 
 Sometimes Dolph would meander into the room in funereal 
 quest of his wife; and sometimes Aunt Stella left her rubber 
 of bridge to exchange a few jokes with Major Ames. But for 
 the most part they were tacitly left alone, or unjustly alluded 
 to as a " noisy gang " by Mr. Gryce, whose room was below 
 theirs. 
 
 Ferdie Marcus was far too glad that Deb was occupied and 
 amused to question the propriety of this bedroom intimacy. 
 If all had gone well, if there had been no war, the poor child 
 would have continued in possession of her own sitting-room in 
 " Daisybanks," where she had formerly received her friends — 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 55 
 
 " ragged " with her friends was the mysterious term applied — 
 Ferdie had, of course, appropriated it to his own use: " Na, 
 my darling, did you have a good rag this evening? "... He 
 gathered she was having a "rag" now; it was natural to her 
 age; but everything that Deb did, he whittled to fit this assump- 
 tion of nature — only natural that the child should want to be 
 out — only natural that the child should want to be at home — 
 "Leave them alone, Stella; Jenny Carew is always present; it 
 is only natural that Deb likes the company of young folk. 
 Forty-six, is he? All the belter, then; a harmless fogey, almost 
 as old as I am; it livens him up to be with Deb and the pretty 
 little Carew — tells them tales of war ... ho! ho! the new 
 Othello. Only, Stella . . . Papa need not know what is go- 
 ing on — wass? He would not understand." 
 
 Harmless? Certainly Burton Ames intended to be harm- 
 less. He did not believe himself in love with either Deb or 
 Jenny. He valued them for their companionship, for their 
 interest in himself, for their distinct and unique personalities. 
 They were a stimulating find among the heterogeneous nomads 
 of boarding-houses. He thought he liked them as two charm- 
 ing boys. With his scorn for platitudes and for platitudinous 
 happenings, he underrated the dangers of propinquity. If one 
 were careful . . . his careful attitude was his undoing; it 
 goaded Jenny and Deb out of shelter. They knew well enough 
 that from their reliance on — well, on Cora, was sure to arise 
 this equation of danger ; they courted it, hunted it, even. Ames 
 was such an insistently masculine factor in that room; a girl's 
 room. The very rough feel of his sleeve — Jenny knew . . . 
 every time she moved. . . . And she was a restless creature, 
 for ever thrilling her wings. 
 
 Jenny was just an atom of life-force, twinkling wildly, all the 
 time, in every direction; jostling to be noticed, petted, admired; 
 a gyrating dizzy mote in the sunslant; a savage little brown 
 bundle of sexual impulses. That was primarily Jenny. Fun- 
 nily opposed to this, some of her instincts and education and 
 ways of speech were those of the typical suburban sparrow: 
 
56' DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 she was suspicious of people who could correctly pronounce 
 foreign languages ; scoffed at what she called " high-brow 
 stuff." What else was Jenny than this? Most of all, perhaps, 
 an insatiable mother; wearing herself out in service to any 
 one sick or bothered; proud of these calls on her reputation 
 for quick practical efficiency. Cooking, bandaging, scrub- 
 bing — she had five brains on each hand. Her notion of spoil- 
 ing a beloved person was by virtue of touch ... a smother of 
 kisses . . . chair and cushions and fire . . . healing contact 
 of warm flesh upon flesh . . . cosseting ways that were all 
 the realities she knew or cared about. " That sort of rubbish 
 never did any one a bit of good! " she would interrupt with 
 almost shrewish impatience, when Deb and the soldier were 
 astray in realms ethical or fantastic. Life was four walls and 
 a roof — babies within, and the smell of dinner, and sacrifice, 
 and somebody crying, and body's pain. ... A little fun to 
 be squeezed in at the cracks; fun that was substantial, and never 
 ethereal; fun that was crowds and a pretty dress, a waltz, 
 chocolates, a bottle of wine, a ride in a motor-car. . . . 
 
 And love was just touch again — for Jenny. 
 
 Jenny had no reserves and no discrimination ; she could has- 
 tily damn a stranger to perdition without any attempt at sane 
 reasoning — and a week later one would find her impenitently 
 ensconced at the other extreme of judgment. She was not ac- 
 tually beautiful: a small, round head, and a small round chin; 
 brown sloe eyes tilted at the outer corners; round the eyes and 
 mouth a crinkling resemblance, mirthful, mournful, to a baby 
 monkey; Bobby, her young son, had inherited this. But her 
 eyebrows were delicate umber sickles on the low white forehead. 
 And she could look all things in a second's space of time. 
 
 Jenny had been given sordid tragedy for her lot on earth: 
 poverty of the shoddiest kind; illness that had brought her three 
 times gaspingly close to death. And she had come out well in 
 the test . . . better, perhaps, than a schooled philosopher. 
 Loyal to Dolph, competent in the bread-struggle, plucky in the 
 very extremities of pain. To Deb and the soldier she was a 
 sort of Complete Home on tour. He, especially, seemed to rely 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 57 
 
 on her for the daily wants of an ordinary man adrift and ill. 
 For he was already a victim of the war; shell-shock and neuras- 
 thenia had left him incompetent for any more strenuous job 
 than his present light ordnance duties. Jenny rejoiced in the 
 very egoism which brought him to her at all times with some 
 slow ponderous helplessness to confide: "Look here — what 
 am I to do? " — She gave prodigally, without thought of bar- 
 ter. And as between her husband and Ames existed that casual 
 masculine friendship which blooms mainly on the borrowing 
 and lending of matches, she was able, under cover of this, to 
 cosset him to her heart's content; run into his room with soup 
 and custards when he was laid up, ask for his clothes to patch 
 and darn — all the little real things . . . advantages of a mar- 
 ried woman again. . . . Deb fretted against her own disabili- 
 ties. It seemed that Jenny, without cheapening herself in the 
 soldier's esteem, could softly trail her fingers across his fur- 
 rowed brows . . . murmur: "Darling, how hot your head 
 is! " . . . Deb's modesty bled in scarlet on her cheeks and 
 neck. Jenny, how can you? how can you? . . . and oh, if I 
 could only do the same! But she was still dream-crusted with 
 the convention that a man shall avow, and a girl deny or con- 
 cede; could not force herself to reverse the process, even though 
 Jenny scored — scored all the time. . . . The soldier's head lay 
 for an instant drawn back against Jenny's shoulder. Jenny, 
 magically stilled by the contact, was crooning a song that the 
 sea might have composed to the beloved vessel at last in har- 
 bour. Deb, wistful of the other's frank facility in wooing, 
 redly ashamed lest the soldier should despise it, hating Jenny 
 for giving him cause to despise it, mutinous at her own in- 
 stinctive adherence to girlhood's creed. Deb whispered to her- 
 self in promise for this empty moment: "When I am mar- 
 ried. . . ." 
 
 Ill 
 
 " When I am married " — and marriage is found with love 
 as surely as the picture-coupon in the opened packet of ciga- 
 rettes, inessential but inevitable. Yet here she had fallen in 
 
58 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 love where no ultimate together-being was possible; even no 
 passionate response forthcoming. Then was this love at all? 
 — hitherto accepted as a divided flame burning to some splen- 
 did fulfilment. 
 
 Deb knelt in front of Cora, perplexed, musing; a vestal be- 
 fore the altar. What if she had envisioned the altar of ro- 
 mance as a mountain-peak in the sunset? Here it was a mat 
 before an oil-stove. An altar, nevertheless, where she made 
 painful sacrifice of illusion. For love was complete in itself, 
 without past or future. She might not put eager question, be- 
 fore admitting love: is he young? is he free? does he care? 
 does it hold chance of the final happiness? But she must ac- 
 cept it, barren and bitter and an unshared burden, a journey 
 without ultimate lure of rest. Love was the big thing — the 
 conviction remained. Only she had thought it conditional. 
 And it was absolute. 
 
 . . . Slowly she lit a match, and applied it to the wick. 
 From the mirrors and walls of the many-cornered room, a 
 dozen Debs rendered variation of her dense black hair, her 
 thick storm-grey eyes, and lustreless ivory skin. For Deb's 
 looks were of that mutable type which inspired every fourth- 
 rate art faddist to paint her Holding a Melon; or in a Blue 
 Jacket; or with head flung back against their favourite bit of 
 Chinese drapery; or absorbed in the contents of a dust-bin 
 (symbolic realism) ; or as a figure on an Egyptian frieze; or as 
 Mary Magdalene; or as a Wood-nymph pursued by Silenus; or 
 as a coster girl dancing to a barrel organ by naphtha-lights; or 
 merely as " Deborah, an Impression " — till the sight of Deb 
 herself was a repose from these fantastic and distorted relics 
 of pre-war art-phases. 
 
 Deb as Reverie of a Girl, was so absorbed that she let the 
 match burn down to her fingers before she was recalled to ac- 
 tualities. Quickly she let it drop; and at the same moment 
 Jenny rushed in : 
 
 "The Chorus is off^ for tonight. Deb; isn't it a shame? 
 Mad'm lloraine is giving a squawking party in her room, and 
 you and I have been specially invited." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 59 
 
 This was catastrophe. 
 
 "Oh Jenny — must we? Hasn't she invited the soldier? " 
 
 " Out of compliment to us two, yes. But she can't stick 
 him, really, because he doesn't jimap about opening doors like 
 a foreign monkey-on-a-stick." 
 
 " I wish he would open some doors — tonight. I know ex- 
 actly what will happen, Jenny: La llorraine will say: 'Come, 
 now we will be truly cosy ! ' — and immediately block all forms 
 of ventilation. And then she'll sing as if she were let loose 
 again in the Paris opera-house, and I sha'n't know if it's my 
 head bursting, or the walls and ceiling, or her voice. Old 
 Gryce will object, and so will grandpapa, but they won't take 
 any steps, because each one will be afraid of putting a stop to 
 something that is annoying the other more than himself " 
 
 " Darling idiot, why did you ever say you wished you could 
 hear her sing? " 
 
 Deb wailed : " I didn't know that it meant a prima-donna's 
 powerful mezzo-soprano in a bed-sittingroom already contain- 
 ing two suites of Louis Quinze furniture, and forty-two cases 
 of fur cloaks, and a permanent dog with permanent asthma, 
 and an anthracite stove fire, and a grand piano, and compli- 
 cated domestic arrangements for producing food at a moment's 
 notice, and a clothes-line, and litter from their last year's va- 
 riety entertainment, and My Child My Solace complete with 
 curls " 
 
 Jenny stopped laughing as the last item was catalogued. 
 " Dolph's potty about her. . , ." 
 
 "About Manon . . ." Deb nodded gravely. She and 
 everybody else had noticed what was so blatantly happening. 
 She cuddled on the floor beside Jenny's knees, and leant her 
 cheek against the other's dangling hand; then she slid her lips 
 along the smooth warm arm the whole way up to the elbow. 
 . . . One comforted Jenny by Jenny's own methods. 
 
 For the coming of La lloraine and her daughter to the sec- 
 ond floor of Montagu Hall Hotel had made a difference to the 
 Chorus. It was not so tight-fitting. A rival cluster of in- 
 timacy had been established by the newcomers, Stella Marcus, 
 
60 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 and Dolph Carew; and Jenny was perforce drawn into it from 
 time to time . . . Dolph was insistent that she should be kind 
 to Manon, aged sixteen. And La llorraine, with her over- 
 powering conviviality, had sought to make an undivided bohe- 
 mian settlement out of the bedroom inhabitants of the second 
 floor; all doors open at all times, and a general pooling of 
 minor difficulties. ..." Now Stella, my dee-urr, will you be 
 kind and count me that washing while Manon play with Bobby 
 Carew and I buy a von-deriul cream cheese for the Countess 
 who dejeuners with me in my room today. Then need I say, 
 my dee-urr, that I expect you to com' in and share." And 
 Stella, who took delight in La llorraine, replied: " Chere 
 Madame, you are as generous with your Countess as with 
 your cheese." 
 
 La llorraine stood for the Continent, as the Continent ached 
 in the memory of those who had loved it before 1914. Not 
 for any one country or another, but for all the gay cities: Paris, 
 Vienna, Berlin, Rome, St. Petersburg . . . irrespective of the 
 distinctions of war. Actually, she was born in some small town 
 on the divisions of Russia and Poland. Her present appella- 
 tion, which covered stage and private use, could, in its initial 
 eccentricity, only be explained by the admiration awakened in 
 her on first encounter with floulkes, ffolliott, and ffrench. . . . 
 " My dee-urr, but what an advertisement! Bah — I know how 
 to catch that public by the ear. They are swine, I tell you . . . 
 but this will br-r-ring them in millions. You will see! " So 
 she became La llorraine. And as La llorraine, she stood for 
 every aspect of continental life; garret, and hotel and court; 
 grande dame, and then third-rate mummer; the popular artiste, 
 or the good thrifty woman who can cook succulent dishes for 
 her household. Physically, she was built on a magnificent 
 scale, and always wore plain and expensive black — save for 
 breakfast, when she horrified the boarding-house by appearing 
 in a soiled dressing-gown, red-and-gold Turkish slippers, and a 
 knitted blue woollen shawl over the short dyed yellow hair 
 which formed such a crazy mop to her clear-cut aristocratic 
 face, long and pale, with kind eyes and delicate, sneering 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 61 
 
 mouth. There was no adventure of the demi-monde too lurid 
 for imagination to cast her as heroine; and against that she 
 could whisper mysterious tales of court intrigue, and call 
 Grand-Dukes by their pet names, with an air that betrayed her 
 a careless participant of their intimate revels. 
 
 Fiercely she adored Manon, whose hair hung in streaked 
 yellow curls over her shoulders, and from whose red, greedy 
 little wolf's mouth one could envisage the dart of a red pointed 
 Jittle tongue. Manon fulfilled all expectations as the foreign 
 ingenue: soft, lisping voice, demure eyelids. In a frequent 
 spasm of recollection, La llorraine would dismiss her from the 
 room when the conversation was too adult for due preservation 
 of a maiden's bloom; but on those occasions that her mother 
 forgot to dismiss her, no doubt Manon picked up much val- 
 uable information. . . . Certainly, whether from innocence or 
 art, she managed Dolph Carew exquisitely, never seeming aware 
 of an infatuation so blatant that it shrieked itself aloud at every 
 moment; yielding not a dewdrop of her freshness to his im- 
 portunity; and at the same time contriving to keep him at- 
 tached and useful. " My dee-urr," La llorraine declaimed to 
 Stella Marcus, "such a clown for my Manon? — not for any- 
 thing in that world. I have . . . plans for her! "... a 
 queer impression stealing on the heels of her remark, that 
 Manon was designed to be mistress of a third-rate illegitimate 
 royalty of a fourth-rate kingdom. ... A faded Louis drawing- 
 room in vieux-rose — an old roue bowing his entrance . . . 
 waxed moustache and imperial . . . careful buttonhole. . . . 
 " I have sent for my little daughter ! " regally from La llor- 
 raine. 
 
 Grumbling prophecies were afloat in Montagu Hall, that 
 some catastrophe was bound soon to happen among that sec- 
 ond-floor crowd — the Carews, the Marcuses, Burton Ames and 
 — with vindictive inflexion — those disreputable mummers! 
 It was really getting insupportable; and fancy Mrs. Carew tak- 
 ing no steps about her husband's ridiculous behaviour with that 
 nasty little thing in ringlets, but to be instead for ever run- 
 
62 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ning after Major Ames, who isn't my idea of an officer — not 
 at all well-set-up — and the noise — and in and out of the bed- 
 rooms — how Mr. Marcus can allow his daughter . . . but it 
 isn't as if they were English, no, nor Dutch either, although they 
 never said they were. Did you know that they dressed up on 
 Christmas Eve, all the lot of them, and had a procession up 
 and down the stairs, and the — girl — wore — tights? 
 
 Thus Deb mimicked with diabolical accuracy, the existing 
 Drawing-room Opinion. 
 
 "And very attractive you looked in 'em, darling! " 
 
 " Jenny, I believe when our gang was singled out for influ- 
 enza last month, they looked on it as an awful visitation of 
 justice; a sort of plague of Egypt." 
 
 " Perhaps it was. Every one in the house escaped it except 
 our landing. Do you remember the day I had bolted five 
 aspirin, and the soldier sauntered in, and looked at me, and 
 thought I was dying, and gasped out: 'Oh, I w-won't detain 
 you'? Ass! — but I think it saved my life, I laughed so. 
 And the night I was so awfully bad that Dolph specially got 
 up out of bed to make a cup of Bovril for Manong? " 
 
 " Don't, Jenny ! I ... I hated him, that time." 
 
 "Ah, well, I've had some jolly enough razzles with old 
 Dolph; he can't help it when he gets taken this way." Into 
 Jenny's tones had crept that note of possessive defence that one 
 hears from the woman in the police-court, shrewishly denying 
 the black eye given her by her " man." " Poor old boy ! he's 
 gloomier than ever; but then I married him because he re- 
 minded me so of Martin Harvey. Dolph says that Manong 
 makes him feel pure again, which is out of my line as I for- 
 feited my purity in his sight by having married him. It sounds 
 a bit mixed up, and I don't quite see where I come in — with 
 the washing on Saturday morning, I s'pose. Only I'm hanged 
 if I don't have my little fling too." 
 
 " Does Dolph mind the soldier? " 
 
 "Lately he does; haven't you noticed? yellow with jeal- 
 ousy; tries to keep both eyes on his wife, and not lift them off 
 Manong; wants to confide his woes in me, and take the high 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 63 
 
 moral stride as well. Can't be done, my lad ! But it was quite 
 a rag during the 'flue, Deb; we were all able to take patterns 
 of each other's dressing-gowns, weren't we? La llorraine in 
 ermine and her head tied up in a duster was a treat. She and 
 your aunt can tell some smoke-room stories when they get 
 started — my word! Dolph was shocked — afraid Manong 
 would hear." 
 
 " The soldier was bad that one week." 
 
 " Wasn't he? And wouldn't let me do much for him either, 
 worse luck. I almost wondered if I should have wired for his 
 wife, off my own bat. But he'd have been so furious." 
 
 "•Why? doesn't he like her? " 
 
 " Child — don't you know? he's crazy about her. . . ." 
 
 " Oh. . . ." 
 
 *' Didn't you know? Why else do you suppose he's so pre- 
 cious backward with us? Hang it. Deb, we're not exactly un- 
 attractive. The chances he's had. . . . Another man would 
 have worn my throat away with his lips at it, before now! " 
 Jenny clenched her hands passionately. " Deb, haven't you no- 
 ticed that he's never kissed either of us? " 
 
 "Yes. I had noticed." 
 
 " He told me the whole story, mooching about the streets in 
 a fog one night. He had fooled about with some chit, not 
 caring for her a tuppenny curse — as he might have fooled 
 with us. Some one told his wife; and she just gave him notice 
 to quit — ' I'll send for you when I can bear the sight of you 
 again! ' . . . that was four years ago. God! she must be 
 made of ice. With a war on, too. Can't she guess that the 
 man wants looking after; and that if her fingers don't sew 
 his buttons on, some one else will volunteer for the job. Not 
 that I've had much from him, except thanks, for trying to buck 
 him up and brush him up ... a more dejected-looking object 
 I've never seen than when he first slouched in here. Thanks? 
 oh yes, he thanked me then, in the fog, for having listened to 
 his drivellings; as if I could have helped myself, with his hand 
 grabbing my elbow; I was bored stiff. That was before you 
 came in with us, kid." 
 
64 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " I'll drop out again. . . . You're married, Jenny, and so is 
 he, and you can fit each other with what's left over. But I 
 want something whole " 
 
 "Yes; you've got everything to give. But you and I might 
 just as well go on being pals, darling, — he doesn't care a rap 
 for either of us. And he'd be terrified of me without you, 
 Deb; or of you without me. I've never struck such a Cautious 
 Willy. When he's left alone with one of us he goes to fetch 
 his pipe — till the other comes back. I tell you, it works up 
 all the devil in me. . . ." 
 
 "And in me. . . ." 
 
 " Deb, he's a real man, or I shouldn't care like this. He's 
 been perfectly sweet to me once or twice. Perfectly . . . 
 dear. He can be, when he likes. Have you ever felt the 
 nuscles of his arm? Ever bent it back? like iron. Deb — I'm 
 sure he's sworn some gimcrack oath to himself, not to ever let 
 it reach a kiss — with us, I mean." 
 
 " Because of her." 
 
 " Why shouldn't we set ourselves to break it down ? After 
 all, she must be a beast. And she should have kept him while 
 she had him. It's our innings. Deb, I bet you a gallon of oil 
 for Cora that one or the other of us gets a kiss from him to- 
 night. I'm mad tonight — mad — game for anything! . . . 
 There! I forgot that blooming party next door. Mad'm's got 
 a pal in to play her accompaniments; she won't let us off; 
 not just for a Chorus meeting." 
 
 A conspirator's rap at the door; the soldier thrust his head 
 stealthily round the corner; ascertained with relief that both 
 members of the Chorus were present; and entered, pulling 
 from his pocket a smoked haddock by its tail. 
 
 "I've brought a present for Cora; two presents," from the 
 other pocket he extracted a tin of asparagus. " Shall we 
 revel up here tonight, as a thanksgiving? I don't know for 
 what; but I'm in the mood." His brick-coloured face was im- 
 passive; his voice slow and toneless; his entire personality 
 redolent of beef decently roasted and eaten at the proper time 
 at a proper table. Any one more obviously opposed to riotous 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 65 
 
 revels, or to moods of any kind, it would be hard to imagine. 
 
 " H'm ... I believe we shall have to divide the haddock be- 
 fore we cook it," Jenny speculated with a dubious eye on Cora's 
 limitations, while Deb ruefully explained their evening's en- 
 gagement. 
 
 " Damn," said the soldier gently. " Am I invited? I won't 
 go. I have to sit at attention when I hear music, or else I 
 don't look as if I were listening. And that's so tiring. Look 
 here, I can't endure an evening without you two; honestly I 
 can't. Why not pretend to be ill, one of you? " Hastily he 
 amended : " Both of you." 
 
 " / can ; I've been feeling frightfully rotten on and off lately, 
 since the 'flue. My heart's gone funny from too many opera- 
 tions, or too many aspirin, or something. We could go in 
 next door for about ten minutes, and then I'll pretend I'm taken 
 suddenly bad, and slip out in a I-hope-nobody-will-notice-or- 
 make-a-fuss manner! and Deb will naturally follow me out, 
 looking — what's the word, you high-brows? sol — ? sol — ? 
 something to do with lawyers." 
 
 "Looking solicitous. Right then; I'll skulk about on the 
 landing till I hear you. Say I'm out for the evening. That's 
 settled. We can always throw Jenny on the bed, and me under 
 it, if anybody knocks to enquire. You'd better put the haddock 
 in your wash-basin for the present. Deb." 
 
 "And please, where am I to wash? " 
 
 Ames thought it over. He bestowed on every question, 
 great or small, exactly the same amount of stolid phlegm. " In 
 Jenny's room." 
 
 " Not available. Dolph and Manong are spooning in there." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " Oh, you bet Mad'm or Miss Marcus or Bobby is with them. 
 Our precious flapper mayn't go a second unchaperoned. It's 
 hard luck on Dolph." 
 
 " Dear Jenny, your point of view as Dolph's wife is rather 
 a novel one." 
 
 " Excuse me, but is Jenny here? " A very aggrieved Carew 
 stood on the threshold, glaring at his wife through an enmuf- 
 
66 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 fling tangle of beard and eyebrow. He was incredibly like the 
 popular notion of a bushranger. Actually he had been travel- 
 ler for a wholesale tobacco firm in the City. And was now out 
 of work. 
 
 " Jenny, you might think of a fellow sometimes, I must say. 
 Bobby keeps on running out of the room, and I've always got 
 to haul him back. And you know quite well what Mad'm is 
 like about Manong. Why don't you sit with us and do some 
 sewing till Bobby's bed -time? You're so selfish." 
 
 Another ferocious glare — and Dolph was gone. 
 
 " Charming fellow, isn't he? " remarked Jenny lightly. 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and followed him out. 
 
 The soldier looked at Deb expressively: "Bit thick, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "I hate Dolph Carew!" 
 
 " He doesn't count. But she — she's the pluckiest little soul 
 in England. One can't interfere, that's the worst of it." 
 
 "Why can't one? Because one might compromise one- 
 self? " 
 
 He smiled a little at her passionate scorn, accepting the 
 implication calmly. "Yes. Partly that." 
 
 "Mostly that." 
 
 "You admire rash impulse, and headlong defiance, and all 
 those virtues that make a muddle in the world, don't you? " — 
 From teasing Deb, he awoke to awful realization that he was 
 alone with her. "I say — I must be off! " 
 
 " Yes, hurry ! — a whole half-minute." Daringly she chal- 
 lenged his unspoken thought. 
 
 " Ridiculous child. Remember to put the haddock in the 
 basin." He just touched her shoulder ... all his warmer 
 marks of aflfection were reserved for the times when the Chorus 
 was present in full membership . . . and went out. 
 
 IV 
 
 Deb crossed straight to the long mirror, and made the dis- 
 covery that she had not been looking beautiful enough to say 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 67 
 
 what she had said. She began to dress for the evening with a 
 sort of revengeful deliberation. The deliberation was neces- 
 sary to ensure good result. No wise woman can fly, with spirit 
 aflame, into her clothes, and then hope to prove seductive. 
 The dash was in her spirit, nevertheless. She was angry with 
 the big thing for not proving the mellow, englamoured sanctu- 
 ary she had every right to expect. This evolution of a dream 
 into fact was futile; worse than that — destructive — to herself. 
 A stupid, lop-sided business! Deb was not glad of love now it 
 had come. Only a troublesome but intelligent honesty kept her 
 from repudiating it altogether as the big thing; returning to 
 her former state of silver-misty anticipation. ..." One can 
 pretend, I suppose? " — pretend that the soldier was a mere 
 wayside incident. Only she knew too much about wayside 
 incidents, to commit that error. 
 
 — Well then, since she was so sure, were not the issues worth 
 a forced initiative on her part? Could she compete with 
 Jenny's boldness — if she chose? For with Deb, as with 
 Jenny, the soldier's steady, profiting self-control had become a 
 nightmare which had to be exchanged at all costs, even for his 
 scorn, even for self-destruction, even for evil. . . . 
 
 Her temper resolved itself into action. There was mischief 
 in her selection of the pure ivory taff^eta dress, the golden shoes, 
 and cobwebby gold stockings that the supple fancy could con- 
 tinue on limbs straight and slender inside the blown white cup 
 of her skirts. Deb could wear white and pearl and dove-tints 
 without fear of looking miss-ish; by contrast with her deep 
 colours, they enhanced her vivid grace more than the traditional 
 purple or flame. Sufficient of purple in her sombre twilight 
 eyes; flame enough in her lips. Her hair she turned inwards, 
 concealing its masses so skilfully, that, sleek on top and bulg- 
 ing rhythmically into a smooth pear-shape round the cheeks 
 and the nape of the neck, it gave her somewhat the appear- 
 ance of the knave of clubs as pictured in a pack of cards. 
 
 Then she went back to the mirror, and scrutinized her looks 
 long and earnestly, and thought — like all heroines in every 
 
68 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 crisis of each love-afifair — how queer it was that just these 
 curves and colours should have been the haphazard outward 
 accessories to — her soul ? . . . no, souls were mawkish 
 things ! — to her essential Deb-ness. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE girl who was playing the accompaniments to La llor- 
 raine's singing glanced aside once or twice from Deb to 
 Jenny, contrasting mystery and mobility. Jenny at- 
 tracted her the most ; she made up her mind to speak to Jenny 
 directly the song was over. . . . And then she saw Jenny bite 
 her lip, clutch tightly at the arm of the chair . . . after a min- 
 ute or two of apparent bodily agony, rise and grope an unsteady 
 way through the edges and corners of furniture, to the door. 
 Antonia Verity went on with the Aria from " Samson et Delila." 
 She had seen a swift look interchanged between Deb and Jenny, 
 just before the spasm of pain which drove the latter from the 
 room. Also, in the instant's silence before the prima-donna 
 had begun to let herself go in " Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," 
 Antonia fancied she had detected a scraping sound and heavy 
 breathing outside the door. 
 
 Stella had also remarked Jenny's symptoms, and half rose to 
 follow her out without interrupting the singing; but Deb mur- 
 mured: "All right. Auntie, I'll go " . . . and slipped noise- 
 lessly in Jenny's wake. Dolph was wrapt up in Manon, who 
 was wrapt up in her own indifference to Dolph. And La llor- 
 raine was back in the Paris opera-house, eyes uplifted to the 
 imaginary tiers of packed faces, voice soaring resonantly to a 
 non-existent acoustic. . . . Antonia wondered if the drum of 
 her left ear were being shattered; she also wondered a little 
 what was afoot outside the door. 
 
 II 
 
 "Did you hear me sleuthing? " queried Ames, contentedly 
 lopping the haddock to lit Cora's limitations. 
 
 " Is that what you were doing? Of course we heard." The 
 
 69 
 
70 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 three had been recently present at a cinema film which por- 
 trayed a quantity of flickering doors, set in a flickering corridor, 
 down which a flickering procession of waiters, detectives and 
 gentlemen burglars — all impartially in evening dress — por- 
 trayed the diverting art of sleuthing: they skulked along close 
 to the wall, one arm shielding their eye to avoid observation, 
 and at every bedroom door they bent and applied an ear to the 
 keyhole — then started erect, confirmed in their worst sus- 
 picion, and went to the next keyhole. . . . 
 
 " I sleuthed all over the house, till I sleuthed outside Miss 
 Lamb's door " he stopped abruptly. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Then I stopped sleuthing. It's an ignoble pastime. Get 
 me my screw-driver; something's wrong with Cora." A min- 
 ute later he was completely happy, surrounded by Cora in 
 eleven fragments; while Jenny, very excitable and talkative, 
 enacted to him exactly how she had been " taken ill " during 
 La llorraine's song. 
 
 "—There. Now she'll do." 
 
 " There was nothing wrong with Cora; you wanted an excuse 
 to pull her to bits," Deb accused him. 
 
 " A man is only a child ; he must play." 
 
 " Fiddling at things? " 
 
 " Tinkering with things. Pottering over things. That's a 
 mercy! " as Delila, on the other side of the wall, died to silence. 
 "Our invalid had better be hoisted on to the bed; they'll be 
 coming in to enquire." 
 
 Just in time Jenny hurled herself among the pillows, and 
 drew the quilt up to her flushed cheeks. A knock at the door. 
 The soldier eliminated himself against the wall. Deb went 
 softly to the threshold: " Is that you, Manon? . . . Yes, she's 
 in here. . . . No, I wouldn't come in; she . . ." Deb backed 
 the unseen visitor onto the landing. The other two, listening 
 breathlessly, heard her low, capable, reassuring explanations: 
 ". . . be all right presently . . . room too hot . . . strain of 
 the last few weeks . . . might do her good . . . tell them not 
 to worry. . . ." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 71 
 
 Jenny inserted a moan of corroboration. 
 
 " I'm so vairry sorry " from Manon. 
 
 Deb returned to the room, closing the door. And Jenny 
 cried : 
 
 " Little humbug! much she cares! " 
 
 " Well, nurse, shall we operate? " demanded Ames cheerily. 
 He stood at the bedside, assuming a professional manner, one 
 finger on the patient's pulse. " Um. Um. This is excellent. 
 We shall soon be all right. Up today and down tomorrow and 
 dead the next day. A great improvement here, nurse. I 
 should give her . . ." he drew the pseudo-nurse aside to a lit- 
 tle distance, dropping his voice to a grave imdertone. Jenny 
 burst out laughing at the foolery — then shuddered — and 
 laughed again: 
 
 " Bravo ! It's the real thing. God — how often I've seen 
 'em do just that at the hospitals and nursing-homes. I've been 
 turned inside out and put on the table so often, I wonder there's 
 any of me left kicking. Like poor old Cora over there — the 
 doctors had all the fun, tinkering and fiddling." 
 
 " It sounds fun, when you put it like that," Ames said ap- 
 preciatively. And drew a clumsy penknife from his pocket. 
 " Where will you have it? " he demanded considerately, throw- 
 ing off his coat and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 " Deb ! Deb ! " shrieked Jenny, in hysterical appeal. 
 
 Deb flung herself to the rescue. She and the soldier sleuthed 
 each other malevolently round the room, he with the penknife 
 and she with the screw-driver, till they ended up with a neat 
 little burlesque of a murder in the middle of the carpet; La 
 llorraine, next door, supplying unconscious atmosphere by the 
 torture scene from " Tosca." 
 
 "Die! "said Deb lightly. 
 
 " With my fingers buried in your raven tresses! " 
 
 "Miscreant! " 
 
 " Don't call me names. I'm not." 
 
 " You are." 
 
 " I'm not! " he tried to hoist himself up by the coarse black 
 ropes of her loosened hair. Deb resisted fiercely. Jenny, toss- 
 
72 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ing from one side to another, called out petulantly that she was 
 forgotten — it was her party! — and w£is half off the bed, be- 
 fore another knock sent her flying back to the shelter of the 
 coverlid. The soldier lurched into his special arm-chair and 
 took up the screw-driver — " for a disguise," he murmured. 
 And Deb, wildly dishevelled, clutched after her expression of 
 calm but anxious best friend to the invalid. 
 
 Antonia Verity entered, with a glass of tea and a slice of 
 lemon. 
 
 " They thought this might do you good," to Jenny, who ex- 
 tended a feeble hand, took the glass, raised it shakily to her 
 lips, spilt a few drops, smiled bravely — then, with a sudden 
 gesture of repugnance, handed it to Deb. " Presently, dear 
 . . . not now." 
 
 Deb was surprised that she did it so well. Usually Jenny 
 was prone to over-act. 
 
 After a single look bestowed upon the perplexing and unex- 
 plained presence of a gentleman in shirt-sleeves cooking as- 
 paragus over an oil-stove, Antonia's eyes returned to Jenny : 
 
 " I thought you were shamming just now, in the next room. 
 But I was wrong. I'm sorry." 
 
 She lingered a moment, seemingly in expectation. But the 
 atmosphere was feverish and hostile. " I'm sorry," she re- 
 peated; and went. 
 
 " Jenny, you're a genius ! that bit of bye-play with the glass 
 was magnificent." 
 
 " I am, I am, aren't I ? — ' I thought you were shamming, 
 but I was wrong,' " she mimicked triumphantly. " — Oh 
 Hell! " and burrowed her face sharply into the pillow. 
 
 " What is it? " alarmed. Deb sprang forward. 
 
 "You taken in too? " Jenny, without lifting her head, broke 
 into shrill peals of laughter which she seemed unable to repress. 
 " Oh — oh — oh — I've taken you in too ! . . . Dearest — " 
 this in response to the soldier's fingers roaming at the nape of 
 her neck — " Don't pull your hand away — don't — it's heav- 
 enly — it soothes me. . . . What does it matter? we're all play- 
 ing the fool; Dolph is playing the idiot in the other room; 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 73 
 
 we're all mixed up, anyway. Deb, give me that tea — I'm 
 crazy with thirst," she snatched the glass; gulped down the 
 contents. "What about those asparagus? " 
 
 " They ought to be done enough now ; you shall have some 
 if you're good. What do you think, nurse? one or two? and 
 the rest for us." 
 
 Deb nodded professionally. But it struck her that Jenny 
 was rather making capital out of the privileges of her present 
 role. Why had she not thought to be herself the one who was 
 ill? But Jenny was really ill so often — it was less likely to 
 cause suspicion. 
 
 The soldier removed the tin of asparagus from Cora; and 
 seating himself on the edge of the bed, began to curl them 
 slowly, tantalizingly, into Jenny's mouth. " I've never seen 
 you look quite so healthy; in case any more of the neighbours 
 drop in to enquire, we may as well cast a dissembling shadow 
 on that blooming cheek, those brilliant brown eyes. Deb, put 
 out the light." 
 
 Deb obeyed. The asparagus were finished, one by one. A 
 crash of discordances, as though some one had suddenly sat on 
 the keys of the piano, sounded from the adjoining room; and 
 La llorraine's wild, deep laughter. Jenny lay as though ex- 
 hausted, nuzzling against Burton Ames' shoulder. 
 
 " What is it? " he whispered. 
 
 " So miserable . . . and I'm tired of going on." 
 
 " I am, too. Never mind — it's not so bad being miserable 
 together," 
 
 " You're rather nice " — then lower still — " kiss me. . . ." 
 
 He laid his cheek down against hers — no more. But she 
 seemed content . . . and Deb turned away; stood, forlornly 
 enough, with her back to the bed, looking down at Cora. . . . 
 " I'm miserable too," she whispered. But Jenny heard : 
 
 " Deb ! — Deb, come over here — come over to me at once. 
 How dare you not come . . . feeling like that? Deb! " 
 
 Deb crouched beside the bed, with Jenny's arms tightly 
 wound about her shoulders. The soldier's knee, hard as gran- 
 ite, pressed against her side. They were all three very near 
 
74 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 together ... a magnetic sense of rest was born in this close 
 contact — Jenny's hot skin, Deb's tumble of hair, harsh feel of 
 the soldier's frayed tweed coat. . . . There was no other illum- 
 ination in the room, and Cora cast her spells in hard blocks of 
 white light and black shadow. 
 
 " Good old Chorus," breathed Jenny. 
 
 "You're a really-and-truly person, Jenny, aren't you? " 
 
 "Sweetheart, what do you mean? " 
 
 "I used to ask about people in stories: are they really- 
 and-truly real? Somehow I always know that you are; at 
 least you, if nobody else." 
 
 "Of course she is," grunted Ames; "considering she's a 
 Christian, quite remarkably real." 
 
 " Hush ! " quickly Jenny laid her fingers over his mouth ; 
 " you must leave me that at least — my religion." 
 
 " Child, child, religion is a man-made door, blocking all 
 hope of vistas beyond." 
 
 " Faith is a crystal window," whispered Jenny, her brown 
 eyes steadfast. 
 
 " Maybe. Nothing so opaque as crystal." 
 
 Deb said reproachfully: "What can you give her to hang 
 on to, for what you take away? " 
 
 " Herself. The courage and pride in her. It's much more 
 comforting really than a vague hope that God will come to 
 the rescue in extremes. You can be definitely certain of the 
 measure of your own powers; but God is at best a gamble." 
 
 Jenny's eyes strayed fearfully ceilingward. . . . 
 
 " Looking for the thunderbolt that will destroy the blas- 
 phemer? " 
 
 " I remember looking up in just that way, the first time I 
 said damn," Deb murmured reminiscently. 
 
 " It's what we learn at our mother's knee. We've all got 
 mother's knees in our system — Jenny here worst of all — and 
 till we learn to see through it " 
 
 " Your metaphor is in peril, as well as your soul." 
 
 " S. 0. S.," he laughed. 
 
 But at this tendency of the conversation to become high- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 75 
 
 brow, Jenny's mood, as usual, flickered to restlessness. " I 
 ought to go and see if Bobby's all right; I haven't been in all 
 the evening." 
 
 " You forget that you're in a highly critical condition, and 
 mustn't be seen dancing about the corridors. I'll go." 
 
 And Deb wondered, as she closed the door behind her, if, 
 in her absence, Jenny would contrive to win the gallon of oil 
 for Cora. . . . 
 
 Bobby was soundly asleep in his cot; his round, monkey 
 face, so comically a replica of Jenny's, snuggled half under 
 the bed-clothes to meet his huddled-up knees. Deb was com- 
 pelled to bend and lightly kiss him, for the sake of her private 
 fondness for all small boys. A night-light floating on the 
 table beside him was suddenly quenched. Deb turned to 
 grope her way out of the room. She heard a groan behind 
 her — and, for Bobby's sake, bit back a sharp scream of 
 terror — 
 
 " It's only me," came Dolph's despondent reassurance. 
 
 "You? But I thought you were with — with the others." 
 
 *' They don't want me." 
 
 She hung about uncomfortably, her hand on the door-knob. 
 
 " Jenny's better," she volunteered at last. 
 
 "Is she?" quite indifferent. Then he burst out: "Deb, 
 d'you know that I'll be rich one day, when my uncle dies. 
 Rich. People will treat me differently then. I tell you. Deb, 
 money does everything with some people. Not with a young 
 girl, of course — but with their mothers. I'm nobody now. 
 Any one can insult me, give me the sack. I wish I was dead 
 and buried. . . . Bobby oughtn't to be left the whole evening 
 alone; tell Jenny I said so. That's why I'm in here; that's 
 why; the only reason," he mumbled. "Else why shouldn't 
 I be with the others? " 
 
 Apparently some shattering of the next-door alliance had 
 occurred on this evening of happenings. 
 
 "Send Jenny in to me. I won't sit alone. Why should I? 
 She's always shut away with you and Ames, when I want her. 
 — Deb, I'm so wretched." 
 
76 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Yes . . . but I don't like you one bit," reflected Deb. 
 Aloud she said: " I expect it'll be all right tomorrow, Dolph; 
 La llorraine has sudden moods, like all artists." 
 
 It was queer, this all-round tacit acceptance of unofficial 
 affections, on the second floor landing at Montagu Hall. 
 
 Carew merely groaned again; which Deb interpreted as 
 welcome dismissal. 
 
 Ill 
 
 . . . Had Jenny won that kiss in her absence? — Deb slid 
 open the door, in a bewilderment of dread and curiosity. Had 
 Jenny 
 
 Impossible to say. For La lloraine was sitting on the bed, 
 eclipsing by gesticulation and oratory, a helplessly recumbent 
 invalid. The soldier was calmly smoking and reading in the 
 armchair at the farther end of the room, his back to the bed, 
 Cora among his feet. His presence in the room seemed almost 
 part of the general acceptance. How funny. Deb thought, if 
 they all suddenly started questioning and sorting and clearing 
 up. . . . 
 
 It appeared that Nadya lloraine, at least, was doing some- 
 thing of the sort. 
 
 " My dee-urr, now listen to me. I tell you how to win back 
 that husband of yours. I have said to me: it is enough now, 
 it shall end! Jenny, see how you lie here, wizout a manicure, 
 your hair in a puzzle, a blouse that has no seduction. . . . 
 And he, that fool, that booby, — shall I tell you vat vill hap- 
 pen? he falls into the hands of adventuresses! My dee-urr, 
 they snap him up from you . . ." Sincerity of pity for the 
 abandoned wife dominated any personal asssociation with the 
 said adventuresses. " They snap him up — and spit him out! " 
 La lloraine dignified the process by accompanying pantomime, 
 grotesquely mimicked by the enormous shadow cast on the 
 wall behind her. " I will tell you that secret, Jenny, my 
 dee-urr, which I 'ave learn : you must be a woman to him as well 
 as wife. . . ." She grasped Jenny's wrist, swooped forward, 
 and lowered her tones to a key of thrilling confidence. She 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 77 
 
 breathed in Jenny's face. She took possession of Jenny. 
 
 Deb and the soldier were cut off to a complete isolation. 
 
 "What have you got? " she bent over his shoulder to see 
 the title of the book he held. "Oh, that's not fair! " indig- 
 nantly. For the Chorus had been half-reading half-acting 
 Shaw's " Pygmalion " for their mutual amusement ; and he 
 had anticipated that portion of the play to which Deb had 
 been secretly straining forward. 
 
 " You wanted to make sure of being Eliza in that bit where 
 she throws the slippers, of course. You're a shocking savage, 
 Deb. And anyway, the part isn't for any gentlewoman, and 
 naturally falls to me. You can be Higgins." 
 
 " I won't be Higgins. I'll be Eliza. You — you tempt 
 slippers." 
 
 " M'yes — I daresay I do. Slippers are mild. I'll lend you 
 my trench boots." 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 " Why do you hate me so, Deb? " lazily he threw back one 
 hand to where she was still leaning over his chair, and grasped 
 some of her hanging hair. 
 
 She was exultant at having at last urged him to a personal 
 reflection. " Because you don't take enough notice of me," 
 she replied, in a freakish impulse of candour. 
 
 " Dear Eliza, isn't my step bent straight for this room, 
 when I enter the house? " 
 
 " That's because of — Cora. Because we make you com- 
 fortable." 
 
 " I suppose it is. Funny hair you've got, Eliza; like a 
 strong, stormy black sea. I thought women's hair was always 
 fluffy and soft." 
 
 "As one woman's was? . . ." flitted through Deb's mind. 
 But she did not say it. 
 
 He still examined with minute interest the thick tress 
 which lay across the palm of his hand. " To a man of in- 
 genuity and resource, it would be useful for all sorts of things 
 if one were wrecked on an island; Eliza, I wish I could be 
 stranded on a desert island with your hair." 
 
78 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "With . . . only my hair?" She was breaking through 
 it now, that nameless barrier which her nameless creed had 
 set up; useless barrier, Jenny had shown her. . . . Yes, but 
 Jenny was different. Because she was married? — well, be- 
 cause she was different. Because she let her passions bubble 
 over when and where and how she chose . . . unruly, undisci- 
 plined Jenny. But Deb had promised herself to compete with 
 Jenny this time. ... A pulse ticked in each wrist — two 
 frantic little clocks. On the other side of the wall some one — 
 Antonia probably — was playing Debussy . . . mournful, 
 soul-flattening discordances ... La lloraine's rush of inaudi- 
 ble speech still expounded man and the ways of man: 
 
 " And I say to 'im, that minute ago even, my dee-urr : ' You 
 should kneel to your wife like a thief to a goddess, for you 'ave 
 r-r-robbed 'er of all 'er gifts! ' Ha! 'e did not like that, 
 Jenny, I tell you. He sulks now in his room, the booby " 
 
 " Well, it was rude, considering he was your guest," from 
 Jenny, in shrill defence of her male property. 
 
 ..." What should I do with the rest of you, Eliza? " 
 
 "Would another man ask that? " 
 
 Deb was on a false trail, her manner hectic and unnatural. 
 She dragged her reluctance to the gap in the last barrier — 
 plunged through — bent her mouth to his up-turned, sleepy 
 face 
 
 And suddenly she remembered little Lothar von Belling 
 . . . and pleaded to whatever Justice might be presiding 
 somewhere, that she had been generous then, had given ar- 
 dently for a boy's pleasure. . . . Would Justice please choose 
 this moment to reward her? 
 
 . . . His fingers slowly loosened grip of her hair ; it dropped 
 heavily against his shoulders. And in swift reaction at see- 
 ing it there. Deb flung back her head, stood upright, pale and 
 ashamed, . . . over his head their eyes met in the mirror 
 which topped the fireplace in front of them. Reaction . . . 
 she had had enough of this cramped, stuffy room, and all 
 their cramped, stuffy passions; stupefaction of every one's 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 79 
 
 moral sense; a sort of frowsiness; smoke and shut windows, 
 and unaired emotions. . . . She wanted, at once and instantly, 
 a wind blown in with the running tide; sanity and humour 
 and keenness. Oh, anything but this room, at this moment, 
 and the necessity of meeting the mirrored gaze of a man to 
 ■whom she had just given herself away. 
 
 . . . The moment stretched, an interminable grey length. 
 Then the music next door trickled away to silence, and it 
 seemed as though the unsupported moment would have to 
 trickle away with it. . . . 
 
 " I'm only human ! " — thus to himself the soldier stifled a 
 protesting loyalty. Heavily he shifted round in his chair 
 towards the girl, standing now so stiffly and primly erect be- 
 hind him 
 
 " Deb "... 
 
 A rap at the door. The evening had been punctuated by 
 such staccato interruptions. This time it was Aunt Stella. 
 
 " Is Major Ames here? Yes? You're wanted on the 
 'phone; trunk call, the page said. They came to look for 
 you next door. Well, how's the patient? " as Jenny emerged 
 wanly from the clutch of La lloraine's overpowering person- 
 ality. " My dear child, surely you would be better inside 
 your own bed than outside some one else's. Off with you! 
 Make your husband attend to the hot-water bottle ... fill 
 it with his burning tears, if he likes. Deb, being your prying 
 spinster aunt, it is my duty to inform you that this room has 
 a horribly dissipated smell of fish and stove-oil and smoke, 
 and one doesn't put one's hair down for the evening till all the 
 visitors have left ; I ought to fetch your grandpapa — only 
 he'd have a stroke. Madame, Miss Verity threatens to go 
 already, and wants to say good-bye." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Burton Ames, as he lumbered downstairs, was angry with 
 himself for being angry at the interruption. It was much bet- 
 ter; if he once budged from his safe resolve, the Chorus would 
 become quite impossible. And he would miss it — would miss 
 
80 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 them — quite intensely. They had obviously set out to try 
 him pretty severely this evening. Why? Sheer mischief? 
 Deb was the more dangerous of the two. One could feel 
 tenderly, an absurd, almost pathetic tenderness, for Jenny 
 out-of-bounds . . . passionate, ill-used little urchin. But 
 Deb . . . Damn this 'phone call! 
 "Hello!" . . . 
 
 IV 
 
 Deb and Jenny were alone. 
 " Deb — I saw." 
 
 " Saw what? " said Deb absently. 
 
 " When you bent his head back . . . just now. And then 
 Mad'm came between. Deb — did he? " 
 
 Deb did not answer. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands 
 clasped round her knees, ears straining, straining for his re- 
 turning tread, she examined her behaviour of a moment ago, 
 and decided that self-verdict must wait on subsequent events. 
 If only he made it worth while. . . . 
 
 The room had grown unaccountably darker. Jenny shud- 
 dered ; propped herself up on one elbow : 
 
 " Deb, old girl, it's a fool's game to pretend one is ill when 
 
 one isn't, because " 
 
 " There he is! " burst from Deb's lips, oblivious of Jenny. 
 Burton Ames swung into the room, rejuvenated. 
 " Jenny — Deb — I'm off tonight." 
 
 His voice was still quiet and controlled; but the weary 
 inflexion to which they were accustomed from him had been 
 replaced by tense virility; his bent shoulders were squarely 
 flung back; his eyes snapped and tingled with bright blue fire 
 under the grizzled jutting eyebrows. 
 " I'm oflf tonight." 
 
 " She . . . your wife . . . she wants you again," Jenny 
 gasped. 
 
 " Yes. I spoke to her on the 'phone. She has taken a 
 house in London; Campden Hill; just moved in. I'm joining 
 her at once; she has invited me," with a quick, whimsical 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 81 
 
 smile. " I wish it hadn't occurred to you to be * taken ill ' 
 just tonight, Jenny dear; you could have helped me pack. 
 Deb's disqualified, of course; good little girls mayn't pass 
 tlie ogre's threshold, according to Mother's-Knee. Never mind, 
 I'll send my orderly down in the morning; can't wait now. I 
 say, look at Cora! " 
 
 Simultaneously the three turned and stared at the altar of 
 their union; the line of flame was slowly narrowing, and the 
 walls and ceiling and furniture, and the faces of the three 
 grouped round and on the bed, hitherto sharply defined in 
 black and white, were already smudged to a mere dimness. 
 
 " Cheap irony — oh, very inexpensive indeed ! " scoff^ed Deb. 
 And she was grateful to Cora . . . deeply grateful. 
 
 " On the contrary, a histrionic sense of the fitness of things. 
 When did you last fill the oil-tank. Deb? " 
 
 " Before dinner — no, though, I didn't — I remember now, 
 Jenny came in and distracted me. That explains it." 
 
 Nevertheless, the gradual ebbing of the light, coincident 
 with the silence succeeding the waves of noise and music next 
 door, wrought eerily upon the nerves of the two of the Chorus 
 who had not received their call of " all's right with the world." 
 Even Ames was touched to a cheery sentimentality : " I 
 shall miss you both tremendously; you've been so awfully 
 good to me." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure you've been very welcome," said Deb lightly. 
 " You're in a hurry — don't let these obsequies delay you. 
 We bury Jenny the day after tomorrow, at two o'clock, if 
 you care to attend." 
 
 "As I was responsible for her death-bed scene, I suppose 
 I must. But it's been worth it, hasn't it, Jermy beloved, to 
 have had this last fling together? " 
 
 Jenny played up. " Oh, it has ! it has ! I've lived my life 
 down to the very dregs! And now, as the light slowly 
 
 fades " 
 
 " And the music dies away " supplemented Deb. 
 
 " And the asparagi have been trickled one by one down that 
 dark and narrow path that engorges all asparagi " 
 
82 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 *' So that young life, too, throbbed to silence. Whistling, 
 he went on his way, and never knew till afterwards " 
 
 "I can't whistle," the soldier interrupted Deb. "But I'll 
 do all the rest of the stunts. Good-bye, Jenny, my darling; 
 I've been a fearful rotter . . ." his voice broke in mock pathos. 
 Secretly he was rather glad of this burlesque which covered 
 any necessity for real pathos; because he was so happy, he 
 just could not pretend otherwise. 
 
 "I'm — not — in — pain!" gasped Jenny. "See — I'm 
 smiling . . . quite a beautiful smile, isn't it? Perhaps I shall 
 be well . . . tomorrow. No, I sha'n't !" she screamed. "No 
 tomorrow for me. Soldier . . . don't — don't go. . . . Wait 
 till . . . I . . ." 
 
 "Sweetheart, I can't; you might be ever so long about it, 
 and I really must be off. Good-bye, Jenny; good-bye, Deb "; 
 he lingered a moment still, though it was evident that every 
 nerve in him was chafing at the delay. "You've been so 
 awfully decent to me," he repeated, sincerely this time. And 
 he kissed first Jenny and then Deb, in boyish, spontaneous 
 gratitude. 
 
 So they gained, quite without effort, what they had set out 
 to gain, that evening. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " the door slammed behind him in sheer ex- 
 uberance of high spirits. Then repetition of the same business 
 with his bedroom door. Then silence. And the room a black 
 pall now, with just a last faint quaver of light — suddenly 
 quenched. 
 
 It was unnecessary. Deb reflected, that he should have 
 shown himself to them in this new splendour of recovered 
 buoyancy. ... It was bad enough before. . . . Her fancy, 
 feverishly active, followed his taxi along the streets, followed 
 him up the steps and past the front door of the house in 
 Campden Hill — into the room where a woman waited 
 
 Fancy was jesked to a standstill here; he would utter her 
 name; what was it? — Cicely? — Irene? — Eleanor? . . . 
 Yes, she could hear his voice speaking any of these . . . very 
 low and taut ..." Eleanor "... 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 83 
 
 Then of course he would kiss her. Well. . . . 
 
 And for the girl who sat on the edge of the bed, the knowl- 
 edge of having made — rather an exhibition of herself. It did 
 not help much that he seemed to have forgotten the incident. 
 The main thing was that she remembered it. Would always 
 remember it. 
 
 She thought she heard a little sigh from the bed. Jenny! 
 . . . quick and warm came to Deb realization of the blessed 
 solace of a companion in suffering. Jenny would just under- 
 stand, as she never failed to understand the simple everyday 
 things such as hunger and pain and the loss of love. Jenny 
 would heal her with that wonderful touch of hand and cheek 
 that was like balm. . . . Deb felt shivery and childish and 
 desolate. . . . She laid her head down on Jenny's breast, 
 and lay for several moments quite still, waiting for comfort to 
 steal into her. She was glad that Jenny did not attempt to 
 talk about what had happened. 
 
 Suddenly Deb started away, wildly frightened. Why — 
 Jenny's heart was not beating. . . . 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 RICHARD found his Easter holidays dull. Montagu Hall 
 was not a satisfactory substitute for Daisybanks, where 
 he had owned his own carpentering shed in the garden, 
 in which he might rampage as he pleased. Ferdie had been 
 an understanding father in supplying Richard and Deb with 
 full facilities to rag and to rampage. Now Richard passed 
 most of his time reading books that dealt with the practical 
 side of the war, and keeping fit in preparation for when he was 
 eighteen. Perhaps he could squeeze himself in next year 
 already by misstating his age . . . there was always the dread- 
 ful possibility that the war might suddenly come to an end, 
 and leave him what it had found him, a Winborough fifth form 
 boy. 
 
 He was glad when the last week of the holidays came round; 
 Deb was always with some girl — Antonia Verity; and most 
 of his chums being older than himself, were scattered about 
 the country in training, or else in the trenches. David Roth- 
 enburg, of course, was about the same age; but Rothenburg 
 was a moony sort of chap, especially lately. More from 
 boredom than affection, Richard spent an afternoon at Bertie 
 Eraser's home in the south-west of London. The news of the 
 torpedoing of the Lusitania had come through a couple of 
 days before; and the two boys vented some of their hot in- 
 dignation by experiments with a model submarine which should 
 " damn well teach the blackguards not to mess about with 
 our passenger liners! " 
 
 " I'll put you on your way," Eraser volunteered, when 
 Richard had to go. 
 
 They turned from the quiet street of houses into a mews; 
 
 84 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 85 
 
 then through a slum displaying barrows with highly-coloured 
 wares, gaudy with small shops gustily illuminated, raucous 
 with slatternly women calling from the upper windows to 
 their offspring in the gutters. 
 
 " Short cut to the trams," explained Eraser. " Hullo, what's 
 the row? " 
 
 A woman was huddled on a doorstep, wailing loudly, openly, 
 without any pretence of hiding her stark grief. Her wisps of 
 grey hair were blown by the wind flat across her distorted face, 
 which she neither burrowed in her arms nor covered with a 
 handkerchief. For she had just received tidings that her 
 daughter had gone down in the steerage of the Lusitania, and 
 she wanted God and man to know it. 
 
 A knot of sympathizers, neighbours and casual passers-by, 
 stood dumbly around her, listening to the saga of Ethel Ann's 
 childhood, and Ethel Ann's adolescence, and Ethel Ann en- 
 visioned powerfully but crudely as a human livid face, strug- 
 gling, gulping, pleading for help . . . help refused. . . . 
 " They pushed 'em back into the water ! " screamed the old 
 crone. " My little 'un. Curse the Germans ! — Curse 'em ! 
 They watched 'er drowning, and they laughed. A-a-aaah . . ." 
 articulation trailed away into a long-drawn-out cry of rage 
 and mourning and hate. She strained her skinny arms in a 
 tight line upward, as though in one gesture could be uttered 
 all that her tongue had failed to say. 
 
 Richard felt it was impossible just to stand still and look on 
 at this. He glowered about him in a spirit of desperate trucu- 
 lence. The others of the group were in exactly the same case, 
 their eyes roaming stupidly up and down the narrow street, 
 as though in search of some immediate measures. A carter 
 leaning against his dray drawn up to the kerb opposite, spoke 
 out fiercely: 
 
 "Ay. 'Uns. That's the sort they are. Wish I 'ad one or 
 two under my fist now. I'd show 'em what for." 
 
 " You have got 'em under your fist now — plenty — if you 
 know where to look! " A lantern-jawed man with the hollow 
 eyes of a fanatic, sprang onto the tail-board of the dray. 
 
86 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 At once he formed a vortex for all the loose and aimless emo- 
 tions adrift in that street. Richard and Eraser found them- 
 selves in a wedge of men and women, women predominating, 
 swaying with that sort of concerted drunken rhythm peculiar 
 to all crowds. Even the mother of the drowned girl stopped 
 her wails, and stared fixedly at the demagogue. 
 
 " Germans everywhere in this country — millions of 'em, 
 laughing up their sleeves because we're such ruddy softs as 
 not to chuck 'em out. Laughing now, I expect, over our women 
 and children pushed back into the icy water; English women 
 and children. Yes, it's a good joke, ain't it? First-class! 
 ... I 'ad a pal on the Lusitania — well, never mind that — 
 there's some 'ere as 'ad more than pals. Are we going to stand 
 it — that's what I want to know? Are we going on trading 
 with murderers and cowards, living cheek by jowl with 'em, 
 buying our very bread from 'em . . . poisoned bread! I tell 
 you, there are Germans in the next street, in this street, and in 
 a thousand other streets in England, with their dirty names 
 over the shop-windows. Ask the Government ! — ah ! the Gov- 
 ernment'll do something about it, per'aps, by and by. Ask 
 'em — they'll say they've took the proper measures of precau- 
 tion. We don't want precaution, thank yer all the same. We 
 want revenge on the foul scum what sank the Lusitania! We 
 want revenge — not by and by, but now! We want revenge — 
 and by the dying agonies of our children, and for the sake of 
 those they've left, we'll have it! " 
 
 His hearers had been like empty bottles offering no resistance 
 to the fiery liquid he poured into them. Yes — they wanted 
 instant revenge; that was what they had sought by their 
 vacant stares. With a scattered nowl, from which the human 
 element seemed long since to have been drained, they swirled 
 up the street. Richard was borne along by the impetus of 
 their fury. He had lost sight of Eraser, who, missing him, 
 had probably returned home; it did not matter; this was 
 rather a lark — one of the Lusitania riots; they had been break- 
 ing out all over London since the news had come through. 
 No — not exactly a lark ... it swelled into something more 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 87 
 
 formidable and animated by a spirit of deeper satisfaction 
 than warranted by the schoolboy description: this was action; 
 this was war; he was in direct contact with it at last. A gang 
 of men in an ugly temper, running in a set direction ... he 
 could feel purpose behind the lurching, staggering passage 
 of the mob. . . . They were on their way to punish the Ger- 
 mans — coarse hulking giants who could laugh at Ethel Ann's 
 drenched face helpless in a green tumble of breakers. . . . 
 Brutes! damned brutes! we'll show them ! . . . 
 
 This was all the jerky elated comments his brain could 
 register during the headlong stampede up the cramped alley; 
 that — and a confused impression of the women's faces here 
 and there patching the rest: streaming hair, with the iron pins 
 still clumsily caught in it; mouths open and awry; damp red 
 skins. Mob-women — they were hideous. . . . 
 
 The lantern -jawed man, still leader, halted abruptly in 
 front of a small baker's shop. " What about that? " denun- 
 ciatory forefinger thrown out to indicate the name painted 
 over the window: Gottlieb Schnabel. The crowd replied by 
 another exultant howl ... it was beginning to merge its 
 separate identities into the Demos-beast, at once frightful yet 
 silly; incapable alike of retreat or initiative; a beast that 
 uttered meaningless sounds; could be deflected hither and 
 thither; a beast without logic or coherence; but a beast that 
 was out, very obstinately, to maul somebody . . . the Ger- 
 mans. . . . 
 
 "What about that?" 
 
 Those in the van swerved so sharply into the little doorway 
 of the shop, that their comrades immediately behind them 
 could not restrain themselves from reeling past it by weight 
 of impetus; then turned, and pressed back, with a violent 
 impact jamming the rearmost in the narrow aperture; so 
 that it seemed that dark menacing figures were springing out 
 of the shadows from all sides and directions, into the pallid 
 flare of the gas-jets singing forlornly over the counter. 
 
 The shop was deserted. Violent hands ripped down the 
 curtains that divided oflf the back-parlour, and about a dozen 
 
88 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 roughs hurled themselves up the stairs, chanting: " Schnabel: 
 Schnabel! " in hideous sing-song. Their feet could be heard 
 trampling the upper premises in search of the owner: " Come 
 aht of it, yer bloody funk! Wot abaht the Lusitania? "... 
 The shop-door swung backwards and forwards in the draughts 
 of wind which blew down the street; and at each oscillation, 
 a little bell tinkled the warning of customers — an innocent 
 tinkle, like a distant sheep-bell . . . inadequate tinkle that 
 recurred thinly through all the chaos of heavier sound: 
 Crash of splintered glass, as the scales and weights were sent 
 flying through the front window of the shop. The majority 
 of avengers were working off their blood-lust by hullabaloo 
 and wreckage; tossing about the buns and cakes; swinging and 
 smashing the rows of big sweet-bottles; sending a hurricane 
 of piled-up bread-baskets over the floor. It had been a neat 
 little interior, three minutes before . . . ! 
 
 But Richard was impatient of all this mere monkey de- 
 struction; his imagination was a-sweat to vent itself upon 
 Germans, not upon rolls and doughnuts. He raced up the 
 back stairs — and down again; no Germans there; and the 
 rioters engaged in the same stupid business of destruction. 
 But the Germans . . . pointed steel helmets, puff'ed-out cheeks, 
 and thick sensual lips — where had they contrived to stow 
 themselves away? The notion had got started that they were 
 here . . . somewhere . . . the excited boy did not stop to 
 reason it out. He wanted to batter with his fists against a 
 fat resisting carcase. Here? — of course they were; somebody 
 had said so. Dodging the volley of loaves, he bolted out of 
 the shop, and round the corner to the tiny yard at the back, 
 unheeding whether he were alone or followed. The bake- 
 house! — must be one under the shop. Yes — beneath this 
 wooden flap. Guided by the hot good smell of bread in the 
 oven, he wrenched at the hinges; and rashly taking the ladder 
 for granted, plunged into the gaping black space. Fragments 
 of tales relating the Lusitania horrors were flying loosely 
 about in his mind, like the loaves in the shop: sickening 
 details gasped out by the dazed survivors, and written up for 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 89 
 
 the public in lurid journalese. Fighting — was that the Hun 
 idea of fighting? — swine! cheats! butchers! — his turn to 
 show them now. . . . 
 
 Richard bumped his feet on level ground; he blinked an 
 instant in the red dimness of his surroundings . . . then, 
 gradually, a face swam into his consciousness — a face over 
 there, by the barrels — a face smeared in flour, and channelled 
 by the drip of perspiration — a face that would have been 
 ludicrous, were it not for its expression of deadly shivering 
 fear . . . trapped fear. . . . 
 
 With knowledge of utter helplessness in his fascinated gaze, 
 he confronted Richard. Beside him, a plump woman and two 
 or three children crouched in a shadowy lump. 
 
 No army of Germans here. Only the little baker, Gottlieb 
 Schnabel, and his family. 
 
 He stared at Richard. Richard stared back. And then his 
 swollen illusion was pricked and shrivelled. So this was the 
 reality of what he had been vengefully hounding down, he and 
 the bawlers overhead? this one peaked, unhappy little face, 
 white with dabs of flour, white in the last dumb extremity of 
 panic. 
 
 Schnabel's dry lips moved convulsively. . . . "Ach, bitte," 
 he babbled; then, with an eflfort: " Can — I — help — for — 
 it? "... 
 
 Richard just caught the words. He recoiled; turned and 
 stumbled up the ladder. . . . One must get away from that 
 face. . . . Not so easy — some of the crowd had followed him 
 after all, were swarming round the entrance to the bakehouse. 
 " There's no-one there," muttered Richard ; " no-one there " 
 ... his voice was choked as though in a thick fog ..." no- 
 one there " But the main thing was to get out, into the 
 
 street, before they began to do things — no, that did not mat- 
 ter, — but before he could hear them doing things. They were 
 pressing him back again, down again. ..." There's no one 
 there, I tell you! " Blindly he buff'eted right and left the 
 heads which blocked his passage. Some of them, believing 
 him, gave way . . . melted out of reach from his hard fists 
 
90 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 and powerful driving shoulders. Others went shuffling and 
 clattering past him, down the wooden rungs. " Schnabel ! 
 Schnabel ! " — and a sharp scream. One must get away, 
 quickly. . . . 
 
 A great surge of bodies in the yard. Thrusting forward, 
 with his head low down, through a rank smell of boots and 
 corduroys and rusty skirts, Richard got clear at last. Round 
 the corner — into the street — a number of people running in 
 his direction — three or four policemen. " There's no-one 
 there! " — half -sobbing, he dodged through a mews into a 
 wider street; again that loud trample of feet beating towards 
 him — would they never let him escape? he wanted to be free 
 of mobs. What did this mob want? Schnabel? . . . No, 
 it was only a helter-skelter of gnome-like urchins, shrieking 
 hoarsely their late editions. He paused to draw breath; leant 
 up against an adjacent wall; his cap had gone long ago, and 
 the wind blew in hard, fresh gusts through his hair. 
 
 Presently he walked on again, slowly. Hysteria had evap- 
 orated, and was replaced by the usual shame. Now he came 
 to think over the matter coolly, what had so upset him? The 
 little rat of a baker had been in a funk, certainly; probably 
 justified; probably the rabble had handled him fairly roughly. 
 What of that? Ethel Ann, equally innocent, equally help- 
 less, had met with an infinitely worse fate. 
 
 Oh, he was not going to take part in the baiting himself. 
 No sport in it. The wisest course to pursue had been to depart 
 from the scene, as he had done. Had he " departed from the 
 scene " or made an exit rather less dignified than that in- 
 ferred? Well, he could hardly be expected to stay and look 
 on. Nor could he have protected Schnabel — hang it! the 
 man was a German. Not " the Germans " — but still a Ger- 
 man. Richard, impatiently, classified the whole experience 
 as " quite a decent scrum " ; and as such, stuck it up on a 
 shelf in his memory, like a book with several pages safely 
 gummed together. He proved to be in a completely strange 
 neighbourhood; and devoted all his present faculties in dis- 
 covering the whereabouts of Montagu Hall. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 91 
 
 u 
 
 " Richard, is that you? " 
 
 "Yes, Pater; I've just come in." 
 
 " I want to speak to you, my boy." 
 
 "Right-o! " Richard turned on the stairs, interrogatively. 
 
 " Not here. In my room." 
 
 Old Hermann Marcus looked up with a queer gleam in his 
 eyes, as Richard and Ferdie entered. Almost as though he 
 were sorry for the boy — and yet secretly and maliciously 
 triumphant. 
 
 "How are you getting on at Winborough? " Ferdinand 
 asked jerkily, after a pause. 
 
 "Same as usual: excellent all-round ability, but no out- 
 standing merit, as old Skeffington says. I say, dad, would 
 you have any objection if I joined up next year already? " 
 since his father had seemingly nothing of any importance to 
 impart, Richard thought he might as well use the formal inter- 
 view for his own purpose. 
 
 "Joined up what? " 
 
 "The army, of course. Royal Flying Corps, for choice; 
 I'm fit enough to stand the medical test. And lots of fellows 
 are passing themselves off as older than their age. Only I'm 
 not very tall . . ." his tone implied reproach for his father's 
 lack of inches. There was silence for a moment; he felt the 
 two men were not attending to his requests as they should; so 
 he went on in further explanation: "It's rotten to be just 
 under age for enlisting. Different if you're a kid, and out of 
 it altogether. Rogers — you remember him? he was head boy 
 at Winborough — Rogers is only eighteen months older than 
 I am, and he's in the thick of it. And today more than 
 ever " he stopped dead. 
 
 "Why today more than ever? " Ferdinand enquired, very 
 gently. 
 
 Richard was not quite sure why: except that today he had 
 expended a lot of heat and energy on a cause which had 
 repaid him neither in vigorous defence nor in ultimate satis- 
 
92 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 faction; and he wanted an experience of real, substantial war 
 and real, substantial Germans to make up for the futile civilian 
 imitation. But he was unwilling to explain all this about 
 Germans in front of his grandfather, or even to his father, 
 who might be subject to occasional sensitive twinges on that 
 score. So he swerved from the direct question: 
 
 " Quite frankly, dad, I mean to enlist next year, with or 
 without permission. But I thought I'd like to hear if you 
 have £my special objection; good of me, isn't it? " laughing. 
 
 " Certainly I should be proud and glad if you could fight 
 
 for England, but " Ferdie evidently found an increasing 
 
 difficulty in going on. He took up an evening paper from the 
 table: "Have you seen the late editions, Richard? " 
 
 "No. Any news? Not — not a defeat? " 
 
 " The Prime Minister has made certain promises . . . there 
 have been more anti-German riots over this Lusitania busi- 
 ness " 
 
 " Conceited fools, who haven't the brains to win a victory 
 at the Front, think themselves patriots if they break a few 
 shop-windows," growled Marcus from his corner. 
 
 Richard flushed darkly, and his hands clenched in his 
 pockets : " They'd be doing the same, and much worse, to 
 us in Germany, if we'd established ourselves all over the place 
 there, as they have here. And the sinking of the Lusitania 
 was a foul, cowardly afi^air; no wonder we've lost control of 
 our tempers, hearing about it." 
 
 " We? " echoed the old Bavarian, with a sarcastic inflexion; 
 " and you as German as I, my boy ! You won't be allowed 
 to forget it as easily, in the future." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Richard shortly. He had no desire to 
 quarrel with his grandfather, who, as a lonely but unyielding 
 unit in enemy country, demanded a certain chivalry of treat- 
 ment. — But no fellow was going to stand being called a Ger- 
 man, nowadays! "Have you done with me, dad? I'm sorry 
 about the fuss in the papers, but it will all blow off^ presently. 
 I don't think they'll do anything to the naturalized Germans, 
 anyway; not to those who have been settled in England as 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 93 
 
 long as you." He sauntered towards the door; then halted 
 to add in a sudden inspiration of diplomacy: "The sooner 
 I'm fighting, dad, the better for you, all of you. A son in the 
 army makes a huge difference to public feeling." 
 
 " That depends on which army . . ." threw in Hermann 
 Marcus. And Ferdie said, with a stupendous effort : "You 
 can't fight for England in this war, Richard. I'm sorry, as 
 you are so dead nuts on it," carefully negotiating the idiom. 
 " But they will not take you. You are a German." 
 
 Richard burst into a great shout of laughter. "What rot, 
 dad! How can I be a German? I'm as English as they 
 make 'em." 
 
 "You were born in Germany. And I was not naturalized 
 at that date." 
 
 " Born — in — Germany? " 
 
 " You see," Ferdie apologized, miserably avoiding his son's 
 eyes, " your grandfather invited us to pay him a long visit 
 to Munich. I and Deb — and your dear mother, of course. 
 He had never seen little Deb . . . she was seven years 
 old " 
 
 " A quite abominable pest of a child ! " from the depths of 
 the armchair in the corner. 
 
 "And so we all went over. And you were born there. 
 Your poor mother died of it . . ." he cleared his throat, and 
 blew his nose. " That, perhaps, is why it was never mentioned 
 to you." 
 
 Ferdie was right. He had felt the loss of Dorothea so keenly 
 that sentiment demanded of the household that her death 
 should never be alluded to. Whence followed that Richard's 
 birth was likewise hushed up, being intimately linked with 
 the bereavement and all its tragic circumstances. He had 
 never bothered about the matter, taking it for granted that, 
 like Deb, he was born at Daisybanks. 
 
 " But, father, I can't be a German. I — I don't like Ger- 
 mans. I can't stick them at any price." His tone was sharp 
 with the first agonized belief that some truth might lurk in the 
 altogether staggering accusation that these two were bringing 
 
94 DEBATABLE GROUNP 
 
 against him. " I don't like Germans. And we're fighting 
 them. I'm English — like other chaps. You can't make a 
 fellow German by saying he is," replied commonsense, assert- 
 ing itself over a frame of mind which was almost babyish in its 
 reliance on the repetition: " I don't like Germans! " 
 
 And then, a criminal before the sternest of judges, Ferdinand 
 Marcus made his confession: 
 
 " You see — when I was naturalized afterwards, you — you 
 were not naturalized at the same time. I wanted you to 
 choose for yourself when you came of age; to be free to make 
 your own choice for one country or another — for any country. 
 I, as a boy, had never been consulted what were my private 
 wishes " His father here gave utterance to a grunt preg- 
 nant with rich opinions of the unimportance of Ferdie's wishes, 
 whatever they might have been. " — It should be different 
 for you, I said. Who knows if you would want to find your- 
 self a British subject, in twenty-one years? Time enough 
 then. So I left it till you should be old enough " 
 
 " It didn't strike you, I suppose, that a war might break 
 out in the meantime? " 
 
 " It did not strike a great many other people, Richard." 
 
 "Doch! every one but an idiot; an idiot and a bungler 
 . . . with your prate of ' my children's rights,' and ' my chil- 
 dren's opinions ' and ' my children's liberty.' ... A bungler 
 with your children, like with everything else, you are bring- 
 ing one of them to an internment camp; we will see to what 
 fine end you bring the other." 
 
 Richard faced roimd sharply : " Is that what it means for 
 me?" 
 
 " We cannot tell for certain ; I will make an appeal on your 
 behalf " 
 
 " Damn ! I don't want any appeals. It's not a felony to 
 be born in one place instead of another. What's the law? " 
 
 " By pre-war law, you took your father's nationality while 
 you were a minor — but all that has been altered " Fer- 
 dinand took up the paper: "They've been lenient so far; 
 but all this agitation — the Home Secretary has had to make 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 95 
 
 concessions to the public. They are rounding up enemy 
 aliens of military age; that does not concern you at present. 
 You will have to register under the Five-Mile Act imtil — 
 until " 
 
 " Until I'm old enough to have enlisted," muttered the boy. 
 "And Deb?" 
 
 "Deb is all right; she was born in England. At least — I 
 must see: there is still some confusion under these new con- 
 ditions as to whether you are what your father is, or where 
 you were born. And they alter the law every five minutes. 
 But I think she is all right." 
 
 " Good," with a breath of relief. "And you, dad? " 
 
 " They are not persecuting the naturalized, so far. There 
 
 is an outcry from the extreme party, but " Ferdie shrugged 
 
 his shoulders, " I am a British subject." 
 
 " And grandfather? And Aunt Stella? " 
 
 " They are repatriating the old people and the women and 
 children. But exemptions are to be made in special cases; 
 Stella has been a resident here for so many years " 
 
 " And I, being a cripple of nearly eighty, your English may 
 have the kindness to allow me to die under a flag which I 
 have certainly no wish to live under." 
 
 " Cut all that ! " his grandson silenced him roughly. " It's 
 rank pro-German " 
 
 " German," Hermann methodically corrected him. " / at 
 least know what I am." 
 
 "And Richard and I also know what we are, too," Ferdie 
 shouted warmly, clapping his hand on Richard's broad, and 
 at that moment exceedingly forbidding shoulder ; " our senti- 
 ments for this country of ours are loyal as any Britishers'; 
 we cheer their victories. We continue to salute the Union 
 Jack with pride in our hearts " 
 
 " Whatever such foolishness you may commit, liebe Ferdi- 
 nand, you remain only half an Englishman." 
 
 Ferdie's resolute bellow gained strength with every caustic 
 interruption from his parent. " We will cheerfully give help 
 where we are permitted '* 
 
96 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Richard broke in: " — And cheerfully let ourselves be 
 hoofed out where we're not? No, I'm not going to hang round 
 the edges of patriotism like a beggar. Why wasn't I told of 
 all this till now? " 
 
 It struck Ferdie that Richard was at times disconcertingly 
 like his grandfather. " Why should you have been made 
 worried and uncomfortable at school, while there was still no 
 need? And before the war, what did it matter where you 
 were born? " 
 
 "And now, what else matters in all the world? " the first 
 numbness of shock had passed, and Richard's innermost being 
 was plunging in every direction like a tortured bull caught 
 inside the ring-fence. " You've robbed me of my nationality 
 — professing to be so keen on my happiness. Born in Ger- 
 many, and lugged over to England; educated in England, 
 and allowed to take it for granted I was English, and all the 
 while a German subject — in God's name, where do I belong? 
 what am I? who can claim me? Oh, yes, you've been jolly 
 good to me, I don't deny that; you've spoilt me; you've given 
 me everything — except a country. But to shove a fellow in 
 a position where an outbreak of war leaves him with his senti- 
 ments in one place, and his birth-certificate in emother, is 
 rather overdoing the freedom-of-choice stunt. You might have 
 known all along I'd care to be rooted somewhere. Citizen- 
 ship doesn't go for nothing, even in peace " 
 
 " Nonsense, Richard ; be honest ; how much did you trouble 
 your head about citizenship, before nineteen-f ourteen ? " 
 
 " I thought I was English," Richard said. And repeated, 
 with a sort of dazed pugnacious idiocy : " I thought I was 
 English." Then he flared out again, " You didn't think at 
 all. You were just careless. Why on earth did you want to 
 take me to Germany to be born ? " 
 
 " I have told you ; your grandfather sent for us." 
 
 " It wouldn't have hurt him to wait a year or two. Much 
 he cared if he never saw any of you again. You were all 
 afraid to say no to him. I thought myself so lucky to be bom 
 in these times. What's the good of the war now? " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 97 
 
 His father could not forbear from a smile at the savage 
 young egoism. The boy saw it, and raged on : " It would 
 have been better if I'd died when my mother died " 
 
 " Hush, hush, my son." 
 
 . . . Richard crashed his weight on to a chair, head butted 
 down on his arms along the back rail. And the two men 
 watched him in silence; one of them thinking with a slow, 
 grudging, resentment how good a moment it might have been 
 for him to have seen this youngster in an officer's light-blue 
 uniform, come clanging and jangling into a certain house in 
 Munich, to bid good-bye before his departure to win glory for 
 the Vaterland. And the other was vainly groping round for 
 what comfort he could give his only son in trouble; Dorothea 
 would have so known what little tender thing to do or say 
 . . . his eyes filled with tears, and in his over-anxious en- 
 deavour to play mother at this juncture, he blundered dis- 
 mally: 
 
 " Come, come, my boy — buck up ! You who are usually 
 so sensible. It isn't such a tragedy, even if it should end, 
 at the worst, by internment. You will be safe, and with 
 friends " 
 
 Richard slowly lifted his head. He looked rather old for 
 sixteen, and his voice dragged like tired footsteps on a heavy 
 road: 
 
 " Sorry if I was rude, dad. Yes, of course I'll be safe. 
 Much safer than in the Flying Corps. I didn't think of that. 
 I'm going to bed now. Good-night." 
 
 Half-way across the room, he came back for the evening 
 paper. Then he went out. 
 
 Ill 
 
 . . . Strange that his brain should have shot right away 
 from the main catastrophe on to this tangent question of 
 reprisals! There, out in mid-ocean, a liner sunk; here, in a 
 London slum, a baker's shop raided. Where was the con- 
 nection? A Gottlieb for an Ethel Ann. . . . "Yes, but is 
 it quite fair — revenge by proxy? it wasn't Schnabel who 
 
98 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 drowned Ethel Ann; it was another German; Schnabel was 
 all the while harmlessly selling loaves. Why should he have 
 to pay? " Were they thinking of that, the mad herd who had 
 rushed up the street, brandishing their crowbars and axes and 
 pokers? "Was I thinking of it? To relieve one's feelings 
 . . . biting on the tooth — yes, but it's got to be that especial 
 nervous tooth — and you should want to hit the same German, 
 not any old German, or the next-best German. If Ethel Ann's 
 mother could have got in on one of the torpedo crew ... I 
 suppose one can't expect a crowd to reason that way. But 
 I might have saved him. . . . Damn it, why should I? he's 
 a German! " 
 
 And so am I — and so am I — knocked the meaningless 
 hammer refrain from the walls and ceiling of his room, from 
 every corner and cranny; in the wind that fitfully rattled 
 the blind; in the creak of the chair; and from the rumble 
 of trafiSc far below. ... So am I — so am I — everywhere but 
 inside his brain, where the mere statement might have been 
 quickened to torturing realization — but it seemed unable to 
 force an entrance, pushed out by a fantastic jumble of odd- 
 ments he had never thought out before, never bothered to 
 think out. 
 
 — Naturalized . . . what exactly did that stand for? A 
 paper which was given in payment of some small sum, stating 
 that you were no more of one nationality, but of another. . . . 
 But surely nationality was no surface matter, to be dealt with 
 in this arbitrary fashion? it went deeper: your own country, 
 your own soil. " ' Breathes there a man with soul so dead! ' 
 how Eraser ranted that, last term when they were doing Scott. 
 Beastly showing-off ! . . . What will they say at Winborough 
 when I tell them? — No, hang! that wasn't it. . . . National- 
 ity — the place where you were born " 
 
 A dead halt in the onrush of thought. Richard stared 
 blankly around him. . . . Then it began again, mental ma- 
 chinery that whirled ever faster, grinding, minutely grinding, 
 at all that stray lumpy stuff. . . . 
 
 "Nothing to do with where you were born. I can swear 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 99 
 
 to that. That's accidental. And your father's nationality — 
 accidental too, as far as you're concerned; can't be tacked on 
 to it as a matter of course. 
 
 " What is it, then? The land that holds a meaning for 
 you; it might be a question of habitation, or tradition, or 
 convenience — herd instinct with the people you live among. 
 Or — or imagination. 
 
 " No — it digs further down than that even. 
 
 " It ought to be the sum of where you were bom, and where 
 your father was bom as well, and his father; where you have 
 always lived, and always hope to live." 
 
 But people move about. Cross over. Get mixed. You can- 
 not actually fasten down humanity as neatly as on a map; 
 a line here, and a line there, and this side is English, and this 
 side German. During all these years of peace, little separate 
 individuals busily and happily intermarrying and begetting 
 children; becoming entangled in trade and in friendship; 
 by a million amenities of commerce and art and amusement 
 and family, semi-obliterating the sharp boundary outlines 
 
 " People drift about. And then a war happens. Like a 
 ripping of canvas. No — like two lines of trenches. ... A 
 scramble apart to either trench — lucky beggars who know 
 quite distinctly where they belong. And No Man's Land be- 
 tween. And some stranded in No Man's Land. . . . 
 
 "To be officially of No Man's Land — that's one thing; 
 can't be helped; penalty of carelessness beforehand. But is 
 it possible, I wonder, to feel yourself not for one country nor 
 another? neither mattering? neither victory mattering? 
 
 " Socialism — international socialism. But then one must 
 care principally for all humanity — in a lump. And that's 
 patriotism too, on the largest scale of all. Just like a man 
 crazy only on his own duck-pond is a patriot — a local patriot. 
 All Man's Land . . . One Man's Land. . . . 
 
 " Not for me, thanks. If I had been twenty-one before 
 all this shindy, I'd have been naturalized English! " 
 
 Naturalized! Was that only an official cover again? And 
 under the covers, what were those people actually thinking? 
 
100 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 The Rothenburgs and thousands like them — the half-and-half 
 people. . . . 
 
 " I like a German to be a German !"...*' Naturalized or 
 unnaturalized, it's all the same to me! " . . . " Can a leopard 
 change his spots? "... 
 
 Memory offered him these stray phrases perpetually uttered 
 and repeated in a penetrating rasp — where? ... in the hall 
 downstairs, and at — at breakfast, surely? (memory struggled) 
 — Oh yes! old Gryce. Behind the voice a crude pink face 
 materialized, with an ugly sag of line at the corners of the 
 mouth and a wisp of white beard wagging from the chin. 
 Old Gryce was always ejecting that type of remark. 
 
 " Intern them all ! ... We didn't ask them to settle over 
 here. We don't want them. . . ." 
 
 The boy paced up and down the room, head bent, hands 
 locked behind him, brows heavily knit, thinking it out: 
 
 Naturalization was, after all, a promise — well, a bargain 
 then; what was a bargain but a mutual promise? A whole 
 community had learnt to rely securely on such a promise; had 
 confidently forfeited the protection and advantages of their 
 native land, in favour of an adopted country. And now if 
 their security were repudiated on excuse of war 
 
 " Is there any stipulating clause in the naturalization con- 
 tract, making it void in the event of war, I wonder? Because 
 if not 
 
 " But we can't leave enemy blood loose about the country 
 during war-time. It isn't safe. They might all be spies. 
 Some of them are. And spying is the worst thing of all — 
 abuse of hospitality. No wonder the thought of it drives peo- 
 ple to a sort of madness " 
 
 He took up the evening edition — flung it down again; too 
 dark to read anything but the headlines: " More Anti-German 
 Riots" 
 
 . . . Some one crouching low in the comer by the cupboard. 
 A patch of white. A face — mad-frightened. . . . "Ach, 
 bitte " . . . The little German baker. — Or ... no — the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 101 
 
 face had changed — it was Richard himself, staring panic- 
 stricken, yet reproachfully, at that other Richard who was 
 leading against him a hostile mob: 
 
 "He's a German!" 
 
 " And so am I — and so am I " 
 
 It had stabbed through to the brain at last. 
 
 " I 'm not a German. It 's a lie. I 'm not. I hate the Ger- 
 mans. They have drowned Ethel Ann . . . Ethel Ann . . ." 
 
 How had she looked? had she brown or fair hair? — but 
 all hair is the same in the water . . . dank seaweed round a 
 discoloured pulp. . . . 
 
 "Swine! Swine! " — he was pacing again with rapid, de- 
 mented step. " That's not the game as it should be played, as 
 it was arranged to be played. It's a breach of the rules. 
 Women and children and non-combatants excluded, and every 
 man with a chance of self-defence. The conventions of 
 war " 
 
 And suddenly Richard stood still and began to laugh. And 
 what chance of defence had a man standing beside a bursting 
 bomb thrown by an unseen hand from fifty yards away? 
 Little silly, fretful rules — with death and destruction and de- 
 cay streaming wide over one country after another; whirring 
 in the very air above God's churches; throbbing in the sea xmder 
 the millionaire's pleasure-ship; each individual helplessly in- 
 volved with their bodies or with their goods or with their 
 hearts. Then, what the devil is the use of some abstract gabble 
 about the conventions of a game? . . . All that was for five 
 hundred years ago, when one soldier had it out with another 
 soldier according to the laws of chivalry. But in this whole- 
 sale welter. . . . All that fuss about two or three isolated lives 
 sacrificed against the rules, as compared to the thousands ac- 
 cording to rule; agony outside the rules, and agony according 
 to rule. When it comes to it, what's the difference? Ludi- 
 crous to reason in the old way — the ravings of an idiot ; we 
 have ramped so far round in the circle of civilization that we 
 are miles behind again. . . . 
 
 Richard did not attempt to turn his feverish, dishevelled re- 
 
102 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 flections into coherence; but he could not force his mind from 
 fastening with this queer new tenacity on aspects to which, un- 
 til now, it had been muffled to a remote indifference. The war 
 and all its immense and tendril complexities — how could he 
 ever have viewed it just as a matter of dealing blows? 
 
 " It's because I was to have had an active part in it. I 
 was going to join up. The only way to avoid war-horror is to 
 take part in it. What will it look like from the internment 
 camp ? " 
 
 Imagination pierced — and recoiled from the threatened 
 nausea of stagnation. Internment . . . why, he and Deb had 
 joked about it ("Yes, Deb's all right; I'm glad Deb's all 
 right! ") — Concentration camps; potted Germans — " Did you 
 know, Richard, Gustav Fiirth was potted yesterday? "... 
 Jokes! — What were they like, these camps? the prisoners were 
 well-treated, he had heard; but what did you do? . . . Vision 
 of two fattish young Teutons sleepy over their game of dom- 
 inoes. This for him, while out there, out there, was the scrum 
 and the sacrifice. This for Richard, who was a fighter . . . 
 "Oh God! let the war be over before I'm eighteen! " 
 
PART II 
 
T 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 6i"J"T was your pal I wanted really — not you," Antonia Ver- 
 ity informed Deb, when their friendship was sturdy 
 enough to withstand such frankness, " I didn't like you." 
 Jenny? — Yes, she was worth fifty of me." 
 
 "And yet you're not really humble," the other laughed. 
 " Ring for tea. Deb. I'm tired of seeing you brooding like a 
 sphinx. The pleasure grows monotonous. I suppose you 
 can't brood while you eat macaroons? " 
 
 "Easily; they're quite dry and manageable." 
 
 " Tea, please, and a poached egg for Miss Marcus," Antonia 
 commanded of the servant. " I can't help it if you don't want 
 it. Deb — you must be cured of that inscrutable habit. I just 
 can't bear it. How many men have called you Sphinx in your 
 exotic career? " 
 
 " All, except one or two. It's very popular. So is Serpent 
 of the Nile and Cleopatra and little Princess of Egypt. When 
 I am moved to cry ' Yah, chestnut! ' to these endearments, they 
 offer to strangle me in my own hair." 
 
 " Which usually hangs down in readiness. You're the only 
 person I've met outside fiction whose hair naturally gravitates 
 towards your heels. Even on the night we first met " 
 
 "Yes. The soldier and I had been fooling. . . . Antonia, 
 you guessed, didn't you, that time — about Jenny?" 
 
 " I saw that she was really ill when I came into your room. 
 And I was puzzled, because I had been quite sure before, that 
 you and she were in some plot to escape from La llorraine. 
 But I doubt if she knew herself, in that semi-hysterical condi- 
 tion, when sham ended and the real began. What did she ac- 
 tually die of? " 
 
 105 
 
106 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Heart failure. She was weakened by a lot of 'flu, and 
 aspirin, and operations, and nursing other people. I ought to 
 have known the difference. But she was always wildly emo- 
 tional, and almost as often in pain, and then that evening's ex- 
 citement " Deb broke off. It was four months now since 
 
 the night when Cora had lowered her flame in sympathy with 
 the break-up of the Chorus. Four months — and Jenny dead 
 was so very dead. . . . Her memory did not abide as linger- 
 ingly as in the case of a more spiritual or more intellectual 
 personality. A warm quick reality of everyday little touches 
 and eager practical services . . . these things die with the 
 flesh. Deb just knew that neither Cora nor the room nor the 
 soldier nor her own family had stood for home-always-on-the- 
 tap on the second floor landing, as Jenny did. And the little 
 group of people surrounding Jenny seemed mechanically to 
 flop away in different directions, after that evening. Dolph 
 took Bobby away to his people. La llorraine and Manon left 
 Montagu Hall in a whirlwind of rage, because Mr. Gryce had 
 complained of Madame's breakfast costume; the Turkish slip- 
 pers seemed particularly to offend him. Of the Soldier no 
 more had been heard. And even Deb's room in which it had 
 all happened, was abandoned. " D'you mind if we share a 
 double-room. Deb? " Aunt Stella had asked rather anxiously, 
 about a month later. " Now that Richard is coming back for 
 the Easter holidays and will want a den of his own, I suggested 
 it might be a saving for your father if we don't scatter quite so 
 much. But he says you must be asked first if you'll consent 
 to sleep with a soured old maid," with that tinkling laugh that 
 never sounded quite as mirthful as the spirit it accompanied. 
 
 Deb was quite glad of the change. The associations of her 
 old bed were rather poignant. Stella could not bear the smell 
 of Cora, who was henceforth packed away in a boxroom. And 
 Deb began to wonder if all her life would be a succession of 
 disjointed episodes, each with its full complement of cast and 
 scenery, and each when it was over to be slipped as easily as a 
 bead off a string. Daisybanks, in the careless life before the 
 war: what was known as the " Portman Rooms set " of wealthy 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 107 
 
 semi-artistic young Israelites — dances — the river — frequent 
 companionship of Hedvig and Lenchen Rothenburg. That 
 bead slipped. Dorzheim, and its marionette figures: Felix 
 and Marianna Koch, Sigismund who looked like Jesus Christ, 
 Ralph and Huldah van Sittart, Elly Ladenberg from Manches- 
 ter, clearest of all, perhaps, the upturned face of Lothar von 
 Relling . . . They existed now and performed their parts, hid- 
 den away behind a thick black curtain . . . what matter if it 
 were never raised again. Then the Chorus. . . . 
 
 What next? 
 
 After a pause, Antonia Verity answered that question, An- 
 tonia, following up a whim, came to Montagu Hall to see 
 Jenny. Not finding Jenny, she knocked at the door of Deb's 
 former bedroom. Deb was just moving — that is to say she 
 was sitting dreamily on an overturned drawer, in the midst of 
 a scrum of her possessions, reading a mid-Victorian novel en- 
 titled " Anna Lee, Maiden, Wife and Mother." 
 
 " Come and listen to this," she bade Antonia without further 
 greeting. 
 
 They became intimate over " Anna Lee." 
 
 In Antonia Verity, Deb recognized with mixed feelings the 
 temperament she had always most coveted, most desired to find 
 in herself. The natural Artemis, Artemis from no simpering 
 prudery nor actual coldness of disposition — but that Artemis 
 who instinctively runs from the pursuer; Artemis in love with 
 her own chastity. Her eyes, changing from hazel to green, 
 deepest in shadow and drooping at the corners, were at per- 
 petual war with the pure scissored curves of her mouth. Deb 
 was aware that Antonia could never deal in fragments where 
 her love-affairs were concerned; and that she rather wondered 
 at those who did. It seemed therefore a foregone conclusion 
 to Deb, whose mind was prone to run on lines of fairy-tale 
 justice, that life must hold for Antonia the eventual big thing; 
 bank in which this guarded stored-up treasure would ultimately 
 find safe deposit. It remained a miracle to her how Antonia 
 managed not to fritter the treasure. She never saw that trifles 
 simply did not happen to the other girl. Men . . . knew. 
 
108 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 They liked her peacefully, but some fundamental quality in 
 her gave them their cue for decent behaviour as a matter of 
 course. As a same matter of course, they embarked on amor- 
 ous experiment with Deb ; could not leave her alone. And this, 
 though Deb longed for Antonia's secret to attract the better 
 treatment; more than ever admired her ideal of a girl clad in 
 a sort of symbolic moonwhite armour, now that it had become 
 incarnate. Though she had been often to Antonia's studio, she 
 had never yet succeeded in probing a certain aloofness in her 
 friend. . . . 
 
 Jenny — and then Antonia. Jenny whom one touched . . . 
 a fervent cosiness of friendship punctuated throughout by touch 
 — it was impossible to conceive of friendship with Antonia 
 thus emphasized. Antonia was good to look at — delicate, 
 clean lines — no mess; her mind clearly braced to all encoun- 
 ter, whether of laughter or argument. But it was unthinkable 
 that one should touch Antonia, nor seek touch from her; An- 
 tonia guarded something ... as yet inviolable. 
 
 "Who was the man in the room? " Antonia enquired sud- 
 denly, at work upon her portrait of Deb. 
 
 " Oh — he was — a — a man." 
 
 " Yes, I gathered that with the naked eye." 
 
 " Incredible, Holmes — it passes human understanding." 
 
 " It passes human understanding what that gentleman in 
 shirt sleeves was doing, cooking asparagus in your room." 
 
 "No scandal about asparagus, I hope? " 
 
 "They reeked of it — that night." 
 
 Deb moved restlessly. " Don't be priggish, Antonia." 
 
 " It isn't priggishness. Oh, do understand that. It's — 
 decency. Not towards other people, but towards one's self. I 
 don't care about conventions. . . . Yes, I do — they prevent 
 litter and disorder — and they can't really get deep enough to 
 handicap the emotions. Wliat I mean was that I don't care 
 about opinion. / do as I like." 
 
 " Well then ... So do I." 
 
 " No. A man in your bedroom for an hour or two, just to 
 talk to . . . and then good-night — that's not doing as you 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 109 
 
 like. He shouldn't have been there at all. Taking you and 
 your room for granted. And your lips." 
 
 " He never kissed me," said Deb in a very low voice. 
 
 " I said he took your lips for granted — and the possibility 
 of them. His decision is beside the point. Deb, how I wish 
 you wouldn't! " 
 
 After a pause the other girl said, "I won't ask 'what'? 
 because I suppose I know. . . . And I agree with you. We 
 ought to save it all up for the one man " 
 
 " No, no, no. That's merely commercial. To keep one's 
 market value uncorrupted. . . . Manon llorraine's standards. 
 Horrid little ingenue. She reckoned every look thrown to that 
 poor begging man Carew as so much profitless waste of virgin 
 stock." 
 
 " I must say, you took in rather a lot, that one hectic evening 
 at Montagu Hall." 
 
 Antonia rushed on : " Not to save all up for the one man — 
 but . . . isn't maidenhood in itself rather a splendid thing? 
 I wish that didn't sound so affected. This isn't the Suffrage 
 standard. I don't hate the other sex — not a bit. I like them. 
 But . . . just to be proud, and not slovenly." 
 
 " You think I'm slovenly? " 
 
 " I've never seen you for more than a minute in male com- 
 pany. But I fancy, if I had, I should have wanted to cry out 
 every minute: ' don't — oh don't! ' " 
 
 "As bad as that? " lightly Deb had to feign amusement, 
 for her Artemis girl was flickering her well on the raw. She 
 remembered how she had experienced just that desire to cry 
 out " don't " when Jenny 
 
 So she stood half-way between Antonia and Jenny. But 
 Jenny had been married — and Antonia said " isn't maidenhood 
 in itself rather a splendid thing? " 
 
 A chill white dawn faintly shot with gold . . . for Antonia? 
 for herself and Antonia? But surely such divine hesitancy 
 and glamour were for the girl of eighteen, seventeen, sixteen 
 . . . wide eyes, intent on vision, tremulous childish lips, " no 
 gne shall kiss me imtil he comes. . . ." And the end of the 
 
no DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 legend was that he came, and kissed her — just before she was 
 tired of waiting — at twenty, say; or twenty-one. That an- 
 swered the riddle so easily for young Artemis. But if the leg- 
 end missed its obvious conclusion? . . . She was now twenty- 
 four, and Antonia twenty-six . . . Antonia's austere demands 
 were rather a strain on passion unsatisfied in the late twenties 
 — rather a strain on the chill-white-dawn ideal. Antonia at 
 sixteen, tingling from hot indignant scorn at anything which 
 ran counter to her unshaken, unshakeable school-girl principles 
 of what was " right " — Antonia at sixteen, not unlike Deb at 
 sixteen; dreaming in a walled garden of lilacs. They had out- 
 grown it 
 
 What now? 
 
 Some sort of a compromise ... a dream semi-yielded, semi- 
 cherished. . . . Oh, just chance it! A separate code of rules 
 for every transient episode — or none at all — or trust to the 
 moment's inspiration — take love haphazard — compromise. 
 . . . Burton Ames had left her possessed by the very despera- 
 tion of restlessness. And it was easier now to give lightly, 
 since striving to compete with Jenny, she had once broken 
 bounds. Jenny had died, without getting what she wanted; 
 Jenny had shown how easy, how frighteningly easy, it was to 
 die . . . slip away. So cram in something at all costs, lest it 
 should happen to you like that. . . . 
 
 " Here you are! " Antonia threw her the sketch on which she 
 had the last half hour been working. It was a startlingly 
 clever study in crayons. Underneath it was scrawled " Girl 
 of the Transition Period." 
 
 Petulantly Deb flicked it away. " ' It's pretty — but is it 
 art? ' " she quoted. 
 
 " No. It's psychology." 
 
 " Resume of our conversation. And yet my people allow me 
 to do what I please, say what I please, go where I please, with 
 whom I please — they're awfully broad-minded." 
 
 " That's just why your career is so precarious, my wee one. 
 You're up against nothing — except your own extremely hazy 
 sense of self-respect. If your father and your Aunt Stella 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 111 
 
 were saying ' don't ' all the time, and locking you in your 
 room, and forbidding men the house, and intercepting letters, 
 and generally behaving as we've been taught the Best Parents 
 ought to behave, you'd be kept busy defying them, which is a 
 quite healthy occupation. At the worst, in a mood of superla- 
 tive defiance, you'd go right over the wall . . . well, that's 
 at least honest. All this laxness and let-her-do-as-she-likes, 
 and ' I'm sure young men are to be trusted now-a-days ' . . . 
 But parents are not to be trusted. I don't know what parents 
 are coming to. My mother — it's her sorrow that I haven't 
 yet formed a Bold Free Union for her to countenance and en- 
 courage " 
 
 "And you would never consent to do it; have no desire to 
 do it. It's a sad waste of an indulgent parent, Antonia. Thou- 
 sands of girls get cursed and kicked out of home for just that 
 boldness and freeness which your mother pines to find in y6u." 
 
 " The darling ! — it's only theoretical pining. Any vivid de- 
 tails of a Bold and Free Union would shock her beyond words. 
 I suppose the truth is that parents are thinking too much — 
 and not enough. It's still only surface lenience. They'd 
 howl quite as loudly, and break their hearts quite as vehemently 
 as the old-fashioned parent, if we really transgressed." 
 
 " Father would, of course, which puts it out of the question." 
 
 " You being financially dependent on him? " 
 
 " Not only that. I happen to be fond of him." 
 
 Antonia smiled, a sweet slow warmth and kindling of her 
 wonted frostiness. " Is there that much grace in you, 
 woman? " 
 
 " Though you didn't allow for it in the sketch — yes, there 
 is." 
 
 " I won't exhibit the sketch, I promise you." 
 
 " Antonia, dear " Mrs. Verity stood, with one hand 
 
 pushing aside the dark blue and green portiere of the studio. 
 A neat little figure in a black dress with white collar and cuffs; 
 a precise little spinster, one would say, from a novel of Jane 
 Austen or Mrs. Gaskell. Manners of superlative delicacy; 
 speech in which each separate syllable was clearly articulated; 
 
112 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 a habit of mind which seized on the most trivial utterance of 
 others, and smoothed it out flat for earnest consideration. Mrs. 
 Verity's personality was such as to make it quite credible that 
 Antonia was found in a gooseberry bush. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Miss Marcus. Are you quite well ? Yes? 
 Really? I am so pleased. It is delightful to find you here 
 with Antonia. I wonder if I might ask for a cup of tea? Not 
 if it is at all inconvenient, Antonia. I can order it in the 
 dining-room, indeed I can. Do you not think the parks are 
 
 looking lovely? I wonder if But I interrupted you, 
 
 Miss Marcus." 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing," said Deb, who had only begun an aflGirma- 
 tive: " Yes, aren't they? " in reference to the parks. 
 
 " Oh, but please, please say what you were going to say. It 
 was unpardonably rude of me to cut you so short." 
 
 " It wasn't anything worth repeating, Mrs. Verity. Do go on 
 with what you were going to say — ' I wonder if ' " 
 
 " No, indeed, that can quite well wait till you say what you 
 were going to say." 
 
 " But really — I've forgotten it," cried Deb, by now hysteri- 
 cally incapable of the " Yes, aren't they? " of her original 
 intention. 
 
 " My fault; how could I " 
 
 " Here's your tea, mother ; " Antonia smiled mischievously 
 down on the punctilious little lady's distress. 
 
 Deb stretched her limbs lazily, without displaying, however, 
 much determination to move. She was rather hoping that An- 
 tonia would invite her to stay. But: 
 
 " I have to be going out presently, but in an opposite direc- 
 tion, or I'd ask you to wait for me." 
 
 "Are you supping with Gillian? I thought you told me 
 you expected her here; Miss Marcus, do you not agree with 
 me that Gillian Sherwood is quite a remarkable character? " 
 
 An almost imperceptible contradiction of Antonia's brows ex- 
 pressed impatience. " What was the lecture like? " she asked. 
 Deb pondered on the unknown Gillian, hardly hearing Mrs. 
 Verity's painstaking description. This was one of the mo- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 113 
 
 ments when she was convinced of mystery in the background of 
 Antonia's life. Why had she never mentioned a Gillian who 
 had a remarkable character, with whom she was on terms of 
 supper? Why did she apparently object so strongly to her 
 mother's introduction of the name? Why was she on certain 
 occasions so anxious to rid herself of Deb's company? Why 
 was she so vague and elusive as to the manner in which she had 
 spent the foregoing day, or intended to spend the morrow? 
 Why had she once said casually " Don't drop in here without 
 letting me know. Deb. Always 'phone. I'm out such a lot, it's 
 hardly worth your while to chance it. . . ." Antonia herself 
 was always " chemcing it " at Montagu Hall. 
 
 A second door in the studio led to a small garden. Beyond 
 the panes a tall yoxmg man suddenly loomed, and rapped three 
 times, as might a conspirator. 
 
 " It's Cliffe Kennedy," remarked Mrs. Verity, and nodded 
 cheerfully to him. Immediately, as though at some signal he 
 opened the door, strolled in, and immediately burst forth: 
 " I've just told a man that his wife was an abominable female! 
 Yes, an abominable female! and he didn't know whether to 
 agree with me or not. Antonia, one doesn't put tea away when 
 a visitor comes. One brings it out. — I think people ought to 
 know their own minds about that sort of thing, don't you, Mrs. 
 Verity? " 
 
 Mrs. Verity, as was her wont, gave the matter her weightiest 
 consideration of puckered brow and clasped fingers. " It cer- 
 tainly seems to me of the utmost importance that a man should 
 be aware of his exact state of harmony or disharmony towards 
 the woman in whose company he is compelled to pass at least 
 two-thirds of his normal existence," she pronounced. " But 
 perhaps he hesitated to express his opinion to you in the fear 
 that it might by some means be carried back to his wife? " 
 
 " Not the slightest fear of that — she was there, my dear 
 lady, beside him at the very moment when I said ' Your wife is 
 an abominable female ' — did I say abominable or loathsome? 
 I forget! — 'And all your old pals including myself consider 
 you've ruined yourself by marrying her. Throw her off, man. 
 
ia4 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 throw her off! ' That was the time for him to agree and get rid 
 of her. Permanently. No woman of spirit could stop with 
 a man aware of the opinion of his pals. But he's ruined, I 
 tell you. His pluck is broken. He just sniggered and moved 
 away backwards conciliatingly ; and She, the hag, the doll, 
 the curly hypocrite, murmured: * Come along, Bertie!' — 
 I ask you ! ' Come along, Bertie ! ' . . . Antonia, who's that 
 Florentine page lying over there among the cushions wonder- 
 ing about the handsome young man with hair like the village 
 idiot? " 
 
 Deb started at this accurate guess at her reflections, and Cliflfe 
 Kennedy grinned at her in excellent fellowship. 
 
 Mrs. Verity exclaimed : " Forgive me, I have been exceed- 
 ingly remiss. I should have introduced you before, indeed I 
 should. How could I have neglected to do so? " — though it 
 was hard to say at which point of Mr. Kennedy's speech she 
 could have effected the introduction. 
 
 " This is Antonia's great friend, Deb Marcus. Miss Marcus, 
 Mr. Cliffe Kennedy. Cliffe, I will think about the problem of 
 your friend and his wife. I am sure you meant to do good by 
 your intercession. It seems to me a great pity under the cir- 
 cumstances that they should be definitely and not merely ex- 
 perimentally married. And now, since we may not meet again 
 
 today " She bade good-bye to Deb and Kennedy, patted 
 
 her daughter's shoulder, and slipped unobtrusively away. 
 
 " Well," flung out Kennedy to Deb, " was I right about the 
 village idiot? " 
 
 She glanced at his golden shock-head, and parried to save 
 herself. " I see no straws spiking in every direction in your 
 hair." 
 
 "And you can't make village idiots without straw. Good. 
 Nor can you break camels' backs. Nor tell which way the wind 
 is blowing." 
 
 " Nor eat ice-cream sodas." 
 
 "The straw is a useful animal. Awful dearth of village 
 idiots because Selfridge's have made a corner in straws for 
 their soda fountain. Species practically extinct. Sole surviv- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 115 
 
 ing specimen, C. Kennedy, Esq., fireman, pageant-maker and 
 pork-butcher. Pageants and pork while you pause. Prepos- 
 terous prices! Antonia, you remember my inspiration for a 
 grand historical pageant of barques up the Thames in com- 
 memoration of the death of Ethelred the Unready? " 
 
 " I remember a few rough suggestions you threw out, of a 
 sort of Lord Mayor's show," laughed Antonia, " presenting 
 every sort of special occasion on which the English people were 
 notoriously unready, headed by Ethelred himself, refusing to 
 get up on his wedding-morning because he had overtired him- 
 self the night before, taking cinema films of a tortoise " 
 
 "And ending with a symbolic presentment of the proverb 
 * Always lock the stable door after the horse has got away; it 
 does no harm and amuses the horse ' — tableau of same, with 
 horse smiling happily over the adjoining hedge. Would you 
 believe it, Antonia, that when I approached the Lord Mayor 
 on the subject, and put it to him that this was the undoubted 
 moment for the Educational Value of such a moral lesson upon 
 the psychology of the gritty-nosed board-school child, and 
 would he lend me some of the comic costumes and coachmen he 
 must have lying about from his own piffling show — Antonia, 
 he said : ' Young man, are you aware that this country is at 
 war? ' and handed me a white feather torn from the hindmost 
 of a flock of geese who happened to be waddling across the haU. 
 I didn't lose my temper, Antonia. I put it into my buttonhole, 
 and said very calmly, ' Thank you — that's the second present 
 I've had today,' and turning back the coat lapel on the other 
 side, I showed him my V.C. where the King had pinned it. 
 Then all the geese rose on their hind legs and cheered " 
 
 Deb's childish peals of laughter broke oflf his narration. Till 
 the last episode recounted, she had been in bewilderment try- 
 ing to sift fantasy from fact; with such vivid conviction did 
 the speaker present each succeeding picture: the smiling horse, 
 the mayor bending for the feather, the proud young V.C. . . . 
 but that incident at least might quite well be true 
 
 "^re you a V.C?" 
 
 He gave her rather a queer look from his candid forget-me- 
 
116 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 not blue eyes. And he put down his cup and walked sharply 
 to the window, and remarked in a very matter-of-fact tone: 
 " No. I've been medically rejected for the Army. You see, 
 I've only been given another year to live, and I suppose they 
 thought it a pity to reduce the allowance." 
 
 " Never mind, ClifFe," said Antonia gently — and Deb, the 
 tears choking in her throat, waited for the message of divine 
 womanly consolation that was doubtless on its way — " A well- 
 meaning man can tell an enormous quantity of lies even in 
 one year. Don't give up. Look at him well, Deb — he has 
 a wrinkle in his face for every lie his lips have spoken." 
 
 The man turned round to give the entire benefit of his long 
 face, webbed and wrinkled by a thousand evidences of inac- 
 curate statement. Sombrely he looked at Deb: 
 
 " Shall I tell you how I was cured of my habit of lying, in 
 spite of Antonia? Yes, cured, by God, and by pretty drastic 
 means. . . ." He bent his chin on to his hands. Deb knew 
 instinctively that on this one occasion, if never again, out of a 
 fever of imaginative falsehood was emerging a simple and 
 rather poignant piece of truth 
 
 "Never mind the details," he broke out abruptly — "just 
 take it that there was a woman, and she loved me — I never 
 knew how much. She was responsive to my moods as a field 
 of barley to the wind — rustling to shadow and waving back 
 to pure light. A field of barley, I tell you! " he cried fiercely, 
 striking the table with his fist. ..." I was miserably de- 
 pressed over something or other — again a detail — and she 
 tried to laugh it off. That irritated me — she wasn't taking the 
 tragedy seriously enough. My tragedy ! ' Ring me up tomor- 
 row, Cliffe, between seven and eight, and let me hear the 
 worst,' and again that forced silly little laugh. I replied with 
 an inflexion of mocking composure — intensely dramatic: 
 ' Very well, dear. If I haven't rung up by five minutes to eight, 
 you'll know I've put a bullet through my head.' And left it 
 at that." 
 
 He brooded a moment. 
 
 " I rang up at two minutes past eight. And it was she who 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 117 
 
 had put a bullet through her head. . . . Couldn't endure the 
 prospect of life without me. Oh, no, I hadn't waited delib- 
 erately; I was merely rather rushed, and I'd forgotten the terms 
 of my farewell the evening before. And she had waited . . . 
 at the other end . . . fifty-five minutes of slow agony. . . ." 
 
 " Well, you can understand it cured me of the habit of the 
 effective lie." 
 
 The girls were both silent. The light was fading from the 
 studio. Antonia's voice spoke with a quiver of laughing accu- 
 sation : " ClifFe, dear, do I spy another and very recent 
 wrinkle? " 
 
 Deb cried in sharp distress, " Oh, Antonia . . ." for either 
 the other had trodden with profane feet on sacred ground, or 
 . . . She appealed to Cliff e. " It was true? " 
 
 " It depends what you mean by true," he replied with the 
 air of a man slowly descending to earth by parachute. " I 
 think that somewhere or other, and for the reason I have told 
 you, a woman must have sat listening through fifty-five moments 
 for the tinkle of a telephone bell to release her — or how could 
 I know it all so vividly? They say the human imagination 
 is incapable of conceiving outside reality. That the man was 
 not myself? — an accident. Or perhaps it was indeed myself, 
 and I have forgotten it, and in telling you this as a mere tale 
 I'm calling truth itself a lie. . . ." 
 
 " I must go," said Deb politely. " Good-bye." 
 
 " I'll see you home, wherever it is." Cliffe lounged to his 
 feet. 
 
 " No, thanks," coldly. 
 
 " But I want to. You're angry with me. And I must put 
 myself right " 
 
 " By another lie? " A flame of indignation in the grey 
 eyes that accused him of rousing her emotions by false pre- 
 tences. Deb had been profoundly moved by the climax of the 
 tale. 
 
 Cliffe argued good-humouredly: " For goodness' sake, why 
 all this arbitrary distinction between what I invent and what 
 God invents. Of course I'll see you home." 
 
118 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Deb's stopping to supper with me," Antonia struck in. 
 " She 's dying to ask me all about you, and my account will be 
 just as picturesque and much more reliable than yours." 
 
 " But, Antonia, I thought you were supping out — with Gil- 
 lian somebody? " 
 
 " Mother said so. I didn't. I'm supposed to go to some 
 very dull people and I've decided to 'phone them off." 
 
 " What do you think of our Gillian? " Cliffe asked of Deb. 
 
 " I don't know her." 
 
 " Don't know her — but she's always here or at Zoe's." 
 
 " Who's Zoe? " 
 
 Kennedy turned excitedly to Antonia: " I say, they must 
 meet, mustn't they? I believe she and Gillian would hit it off 
 frightfully well. And Zoe's a whole music-hall entertainment 
 in herself, though I abominate the Spanish Jew of a shoemaker 
 she's walking out with now. Let's 'phone to them to come 
 round here tonight. And Winny too " 
 
 " This isn't a branch of the Y.W.C.A., Cliffe," Antonia tried 
 amusedly to check his exuberant overflow of conviviality. But 
 Cliffe ran on. 
 
 " No — let me see — Zoe shows off best in her own Palais 
 Royale flat — she needs all the doors and cupboards to be 
 really at her best. I'll give a tea-party there next Saturday. 
 Blair Stevenson may be up on leave, and has asked me to let 
 him meet that singer woman I told him about, with hair just 
 like mine! You must meet her too, Miss Marcus — you posi- 
 tively must." 
 
 " You mean La llorraine — oh, I know her well." Deb was 
 glad to have found one name familiar among all these patter- 
 ing new names. 
 
 " Good. You'll come to the tea-party? Antonia will bring 
 you — it's in a street rather tricky to find. I'm keen on back- 
 ing Zoe against La llorraine for sheer verbal energy. Take the 
 field bar none. For this evening we'll just have Gillian and 
 Winifred and Theo. Shall I 'phone them, Antonia, or will 
 you? " 
 
 " You can,*' said Antonia. " No — bother ! Gillian is away 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 119 
 
 till Tuesday, and Winny without her sends me to sleep. And 
 Theo Pandos is a bounder — Deb wouldn't care about him." 
 
 " That brings the party down to the present three. At least, 
 I suppose I can stop to supper, Antonia, as you're not going out 
 after all? You haven't invited me yet." 
 
 " Of course you can. Don't you know that a studio girl 
 always keeps a stray tin of sardines in the cupboard? " 
 
 '^And a black and emerald cushion on the divan. Curse it, 
 what I've had to suffer dodging the lure of the generic studio 
 cushion. But yours is hardly the generic studio, Antonia. 
 You actually use it for the quaint and unusual purpose of 
 painting pictures in it. The girl of nowadays rents a studio 
 to picnic in by moonlight, or because it has such a ducksome 
 musician's gallery to sleep in, or a parquet floor for fox-trot- 
 ting, or an acoustic. Have you a studio. Miss Marcus? Ex- 
 cuse me not calling you by your Christian name for a few 
 weeks, but the whimsical Bohemian vagabond, a species whom 
 I abhor, always uses Christian names within three minutes of 
 introduction." 
 
 " Or else a charming invented name," Deb supplemented. 
 " I'll call you ' Big-Brother-Man ' and you shall call me ' All- 
 Alone-Girl." 
 
 " Or you call me ' Daddy Longlegs ' and I'll call you ' Peg 
 o' my Heart.' " 
 
 "May I? Oh, may I really? And will you? Will you 
 really? " 
 
 "Antonia, I'm rather taken with this new person. Where 
 did you pick her up? " 
 
 " In a boarding-house. Go on appreciating her, while I 
 'phone up my hostess for this evening and tell her I have tooth- 
 ache." Antonia ran up the two steps to the door which led 
 to the house; and stood an instant poised on the topmost, sur- 
 veying Deb and Cliffe with a provocative smile: " It makes 
 me so happy to think that the two beings whom I love most on 
 earth may also grow to love each other. . . ." 
 
 She vanished. And Cliffe murmured: "And she doesn't 
 care a snap of the fingers for either of us." 
 
120 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "No. More than any one else I've met, Antonia is abso- 
 lutely sufficient unto herself." 
 
 " Yet one can't leave her alone. She's always the indifferent 
 centre of a swarm of nibblers. What's the attraction, I won- 
 der." 
 
 " Have you ever caressed a crystal or a lump of jade, or 
 an ornament in soapstone, something with a surface perfectly 
 smooth and cool — something hard and cut and clear, without 
 fuss or anything except its own polish and beauty? . . . that's 
 the beauty of Antonia, and her fascination." 
 
 " An exquisite statuette in green bronze, standing high up on 
 the mantelpiece. Psyche with the lamp." 
 
 "Artemis. Psyche is too human — too curious." 
 
 " More in your line — eh? " 
 
 Deb shook her head. And on pretext of needing to do her 
 hair afresh for supper, she followed Antonia into the house. 
 She required to snatch some general information from Antonia 
 about this long, thin beaky-nosed Cliffe Kennedy, with the 
 sunny, forget-me-not blue eyes, and outrageously nimble 
 tongue, before she presented him with the confidences for which 
 he was angling. As she emerged from the garden passage into 
 the hall, she heard Antonia speaking in that peculiarly distinct 
 voice one reserves for the telephone: "No, I want Gillian — 
 Oh, isn't she? — Well, listen, Winny — Say I simply must go 
 out tonight. I muddled the days — I expect her tomorrow 
 night instead. . . ." 
 
 Deb walked slowly through the hall and up the stairs. She 
 was puzzled. . . . 
 
 Antonia had not seen her. A moment later she came into 
 the bedroom. 
 
 " Oh, was Cliffe too much for you? " 
 
 "You said you would tell me about him." 
 
 " Certainly," said Antonia obligingly, sitting on the edge of 
 the bed and clasping her hands round her knees. " He's a 
 rich subject — Cliffe Kennedy, aged twenty-nine — only son of 
 a perfectly sweet old mother. He's a completely harmless- 
 uncle type, from the sex point of view; and also the most dan- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 121 
 
 gerous and mischievous person that ever walked this earth, be- 
 cause he attracts all confidences and secrets, and then betrays 
 them lavishly as the freakish impulse takes him." 
 
 " But forewarned " 
 
 " Is not forearmed — with Cliffe. He has a magnetic and 
 fatal lure, that draws and draws you. . . . You seek comfort 
 each time by an instinctive self-assurance that just this once 
 and only this once Cliffe is to be trusted; and when he is relat- 
 ing one of his best impromptus, your instinct equally assures 
 you that just this once and only this once Cliffe is telling the 
 truth. Yes, you needn't flush quite so hotly. Deb; which one 
 was it you believed? The episode which cured him of lying? 
 Why, he lies by mechanism. He keeps a sort of stock-pot, into 
 which he throws the bare bones of every dramatic incident 
 which takes his fancy, and fishes it up again meated with per- 
 sonal application. He's everybody's best friend and every- 
 body's worst enemy in succession, and gyrates from one extreme 
 to the other so quickly that you may be unburdening your in- 
 most heart to him under an entirely false impression that you 
 are still on the friendly category. There's the gong, Deb. 
 Any more questions, before the Court rises? " 
 
 " Why isn't your best boy in khaki? " laughed Deb. 
 
 "He has been medically rejected. That bit of information 
 happened to be correct. It's those dotted fragments of truth 
 which make the whole so perilous. It can't be altogether dis- 
 carded." 
 
 " And has he really only a year to live? Oh, Antonia " 
 
 " Bless your tears of sympathy, little girl. Cliffe will prob- 
 ably be a hale old man of eighty. Come along. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Verity detained Deb after supper on some pretext, while 
 Cliffe and Antonia returned to the studio. In any normal 
 mother, this piece of manoeuvring could easily be interpreted 
 as a wish to further a favourable " match " for Antonia ; and 
 Mrs. Verity's intentions were similar and yet startlingly dis- 
 similar; she was benignly hopeful that a free union with that 
 
122 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 charming Mr. Kennedy would be that step in the wrong direc- 
 tion, which she so earnestly desired for Antonia's good. 
 
 "Antonia is the sweetest of companions, and also deserves 
 my supreme respect as an artist," she told Deb. " But some- 
 times. Miss Marcus, and oh, I trust indeed that I may be mis- 
 taken, sometimes she strikes me as being just a trifle narrow- 
 minded. She seems too content to accept those illogical con- 
 ventions which have been fetishes since countless years. It 
 would grieve me inexpressibly if Antonia should miss some of 
 the Fulness of life. Do you not agree with me. Miss Marcus, 
 and pray, if you do not agree, do not hesitate to contradict me 
 — do not hesitate to call me unreasonable, but do you not 
 think " — mittened hands fervently clasped in her lap — " that 
 it is Antonia's duty to the Age to be a little more abandoned in 
 her conduct? " 
 
 If one could judge by Kennedy's conversation during the 
 rest of the evening, Antonia's friends at least were certainly 
 not to be complained of in that respect. Cliffe slaughtered 
 their presimiable confidences with as little ruth as a butcher 
 slaughters lambs, and then disported himself merrily among the 
 mangled heaps. A certain Theo Pandos, after completely 
 maiming the glorious genius of Gillian Sherwood, was flirting 
 shamefully with " Winifred," who, it seemed, was found in dire 
 need by Gillian on her doorstep, and taken in and clothed and 
 fed. " And I tell you, Antonia, and this is Gospel truth, that 
 sticky, white-slug girl has done the doorstep trick before. . . . 
 Blair Stevenson knows a man who swears for a fact he met her 
 at Tom Maryon's, the dramatist, three years ago, under the 
 very same conditions. He made Blair take his oath never to 
 breathe one word about it, for fear of making mischief. One 
 doorstep? — she's lain on twenty-seven doorsteps." 
 
 From " Winifred," Cliffe went on to " Zoe " and " Blair," 
 and was equally startling in his revelations. There was noth- 
 ing of vindictive or paltry gossip in Clifi'e's stupendous on- 
 slaughts upon the truth. He committed mortality on lines 
 that waxed from merely generous to colossal, breath-taking. 
 He flung about reputations and caught them, as deftly as a 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 123 
 
 juggler his plates; or dropped them with magnificent disre- 
 gard of the smash. Treachery was here conducted on as opu- 
 lent a scale of grandeur as falsehood. Coincidence was blown 
 out to a lusty, full-bellied creature triumphant over those mea- 
 gre, lean-throated sisters of accuracy and consistency. No hu- 
 man being could have survived one day of life under such a 
 stress of superlative achievement, such haphazard of occur- 
 rence, such complicated interplay of motives, actions, and re- 
 actions. 
 
 Antonia did not interrupt Mr. ClifFe Kennedy's entertain- 
 ment. It was a very fine one-man performance, and lasted un- 
 til eleven o'clock. Then he relapsed into moody depression, 
 and said he would go mad unless he could be solitary . . . 
 but would kindly see Deb home first, if she promised not to 
 talk. 
 
 And he hovered a moment on tip-toe, taller even than nature 
 had made him, looking down at Antonia with a wry smile; 
 where she lay dreamily back in her chair, with hands clasped 
 behind the beautiful, delicate shape of her head. Then he 
 bent, and took that head between his long, thin, brown fingers, 
 as though she were a holy saint, and reverently touched her 
 forehead with his lips, and put her from him, and swimg out 
 of the studio. 
 
 Deb understood that it was a kiss of renunciation. And 
 that his passion for Antonia was very real and very hope- 
 less. . . . 
 
 Did Antonia know of it? 
 
 Antonia telephoned early the next morning to make amused 
 enquiry how much of her inmost soul Deb had been lured to 
 commit to Kennedy's precarious keeping during the homeward 
 walk. 
 
 Deb faltered an evasive reply, ashamed to confess that she 
 had inexplicably delivered up to this persuasive highwayman 
 of secrets the complete comedy and tragedy of the Chorus. 
 
 " Did he say anything about me? " Antonia questioned her 
 further. 
 
124 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Again Deb faltered an evasive reply . . . whilst in her eeirs 
 rang a guilty echo of Cliffe's peroration to the bizarre history 
 of Charlotte Verity's bold infatuation for a now defunct Arctic 
 explorer who was Cliffe's own father (" twenty-nine years ago. 
 And all this time neither she nor I have dared to tell Antonia 
 that she's my own half-sister and a child of love" . . .). 
 
 " No, nothing, Antonia." 
 
 " What did he talk about, then? Well ^ whom did he talk 
 about? " 
 
 " His m-mother." 
 
 " Deb, I can positively hear you squirming. Own up. Why 
 are you shielding him? " 
 
 " I'm not," protested Deb unhappily. 
 
 Antonia let her ofi". " What are you doing today? " 
 
 " I think I'll go to Hampstead and ask myself to tea with 
 the Rothenburgs — the Redburys, I mean. Nell was the kiddy 
 I introduced to you last week; you liked her, didn't you? " 
 
 "Yes — I've just rung her up to invite her to the show of 
 etchings at the Leicester Galleries." 
 
 " Never mind. I can see her another time." 
 
 " Sure you don't mind? " 
 
 " Not a bit. Any message for La llorraine? I'll pay them 
 a visit this afternoon, instead of the Redburys." 
 
 "Will you? Then I shall probably come on there after 
 the show — if you don't object." 
 
 " Why should I object? I'm very happy in your company." 
 
 " I accept your act of homage," serenely. 
 
 " 'Tisn't anything of the sort," Deb repudiated the suggestion 
 with extreme indignation. 
 
 " Very well, dear. Ask your Aunt Stella if she'll lunch with 
 me tomorrow." 
 
 "Me too?" 
 
 *' The perfect hostess never mixes her generations." 
 
 " That's an excuse not to give me lunch." 
 
 " You may come to supper the day after, if you bring your 
 brother, as you once promised." 
 
 "And my grandfather? " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 125 
 
 " The old Hun? Certainly. I prefer him to the oh-so-Eng- 
 lish Mr. Otto Redbury, anyway." 
 
 " Does the oh-so-English Herr Otto Rothenburg go and sit 
 in the bathroom and sulk when you are there? because it hon- 
 ours you too highly if he appears, and you might get conceited 
 about it." 
 
 " On the contrary, he entertains me with his most irreproach- 
 able Jingo sentiments — rather loudly, in case a policeman is 
 posted outside the door." 
 
 " An old lady has been posted outside this door for a good 
 twenty minutes, waiting to wash her hands. Shall I let her 
 
 m 
 
 9 " 
 
 " I don't quite follow." 
 
 "The 'phone and the wash-basin live together at Montagu 
 Hall. Good-bye, Antonia — do you like me? " 
 " Moderately. Good-bye, child." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE Redburys were at Saturday dinner. Their numbers 
 indicated a party, but in reality no one but the intimate 
 family was present. Mr. and Mrs. Redbury, their sons 
 Hardy emd David; Hardy's wife Beatrice, and her brother 
 Sampson Phillips; the two daughters of the house, Hedda and 
 Nell; and Miss Swinley, the strictly English governess. Four 
 members were missing from the company: Con, the eldest 
 Redbury, since several months at the Front; Wilhelmina, the 
 infant child of Hardy and Beatrice, who had annoyed her 
 grandfather and been banished to the nursery; Hedda's hus- 
 band, Gustav Furth, interned in England for being a German; 
 and Max, the boy who came between Hardy and David, interned 
 in Germany for being an Englishman. 
 
 The international situation round the table was one of ex- 
 tremes! delicacy. Otto Rothenburg had settled in England for 
 business purposes, and was naturalized directly after his mar- 
 riage with Trudchen Wagner. But he made no secret of his 
 dislike of the English, and his contempt of the semi-English; 
 and had always petulantly insisted that his household should be 
 conducted on sound and hearty Teuton principles, of which the 
 main points were a diet of rich sufficiency for the elders, and 
 no nonsense and no discrimination for the tribe of children. 
 Though the quantity of these — six alive and two dead — indi- 
 cated that he did not confine his German ideas wholly to the 
 table. Each of the six played a chosen musical instrument — 
 chosen by Herr Rothenburg himself, be it remarked. The two 
 girls had frequently been burdened by plaid frocks; German 
 was the language spoken as a matter of course at meals; filial 
 obedience and tlie good-night kiss were insisted upon ; and there 
 
 126 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 127 
 
 was a frequent coming and going of relatives scattered over 
 Germany and Austria, with large gay packets of gingerbread 
 tied up in silver paper; or of polite unknowns bearing letters 
 of introduction from the Rothenburg relatives abroad; and very 
 eager to be invited to a meal. 
 
 When Hedvig, at eighteen, was wedded to a German, her 
 father was delighted. Hedvig herself had never been consulted 
 on the match. When Gerhardt, at twenty-four, had displayed 
 unexpected initiative and engaged himself to Beatrice Phillips, 
 Rothenburg fretted and objected and sulked, and locked him- 
 self in the bathroom, and came out again when it was least 
 desirable that he should do so; and during a full six months 
 rendered the lives of all about him wholly unbearable. He 
 was finally only reconciled to the bride's English birth and 
 parentage by her large settlements. Max, two years younger 
 than Gerhardt, was, however, immediately despatched out of 
 danger to his Uncle Karl in Hanover, there to learn the busi- 
 ness and eventually to marry his Uncle Karl's daughter Klara. 
 Konrad's enthusiasm for territorial drill — well, with a stretch 
 of the imagination, that could be ascribed to his German blood 
 revealing itself in a wistful passion for the obligatory military 
 service which could never be his; therefore, Konrad, who of 
 all the brood was his mother's darling, was grudgingly per- 
 mitted to remain in London and read for the Bar. David, sent 
 to a day-school, was destined later for Heidelberg University, 
 as a corrective to any ultra-English notions which St. Cris- 
 pin's may have put into his head. 
 
 And then had occurred this most inconvenient war. 
 
 Herr Otto Rothenburg did not wait to be subtle about his 
 change of front. Immediately he scuttled for cover. He be- 
 came in name, in sentiment and in habit what he already was 
 by law — a fine old English gentleman. His household was 
 revolutionized ; he turned livid at the sound of a single German 
 word spoken; he clung to such English acquaintances as were 
 his, with a limpet-like fervour of affection which no coldness 
 could disconcert. He forbade all communication with rela- 
 tives abroad ; and all mention of them. In short, Mr. Otto Red- 
 
128 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 bury was afraid. To their mother's utter bewilderment, Hed- 
 vig, Lenchen, Konrad and Gerhardt were metamorphosed to 
 Hedda, Nell, Con and Hardy. His fever reached its zenith 
 when Gustav Furth, an unnaturalized German of military age, 
 was arrested and interned. And his daughter Hedda, penni- 
 less and unprotected, but in the highest spirits, returned to the 
 parental roof, with the obvious and natural intention of re- 
 maining where she was for the duration of the war. Once 
 supremely her father's good girl, Hedda was not at all popular 
 in this crisis. It was difficult airily to disavow all enemy con- 
 nection, with concerned enquiries emanating from all quarters 
 as to Furth's whereabouts and treatment. Supposing, too, that 
 when she came to the house, Beatrice should be offended at 
 Hedda's presence there . . . Beatrice, that never-to-be-suffi- 
 ciently appreciated link with solid British stock! 
 
 Beyond a little astonished realization at finding herself en- 
 circled by alien enemies — her attitude conveyed that she had 
 never noticed before that the Rothenburgs were German — 
 Beatrice had a nature too well-bred and womanly — gentle- 
 womanly, David was wont to call it — to have expressed as yet 
 any sort of resentment. She was very nice and tactful to Hedda 
 about " poor Gustav." It was a miracle that Hardy could have 
 been sensible and far-seeing enough as to have married so suc- 
 cessfully. Mr. Redbury propitiated her with a determination 
 and unction that — again to quote David — " fair gives one the 
 sicks." But then Mr. Redbury was desperately afraid. 
 
 " Bodadoes, Beatty, mein Schatz? " enquired Mrs. Redbury, 
 dumpy and apple-cheeked and very harassed by her husband's 
 perpetual amendment of her accent, and by the awful trinity of 
 Briton's representatives present in the dining-room. 
 
 And Beatrice blushed faintly and glanced apologetically at 
 her brother Samson, who looked as wooden as though a toast 
 of the King had just been proposed. Miss Swinley coughed, a 
 delicate and pensive cough ; something had annoyed Miss Swin- 
 ley that morning, and she was ripe for revenge. 
 
 " I met a vellow in de Zity dis morning," said Mr. Redbury, 
 glaring at his wife, " who vould by no means pelieve dat I vos 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 129 
 
 bartly a voreigner, 'Vot — you? — go on! all dese years I 
 dake you for a bure-plooded Priton! ' He roared with laugh- 
 ter ven I told him my selige father was porn in Amsterdam. 
 He vouldn't pelieve me. ' Your vife,' he said, ' she speaks wiz 
 a slight aggsent. But you are von of us, Redbury, old man.' 
 
 He couldnt pelieve me " himself roaring with laughter 
 
 but still glaring at Trudchen. 
 
 " And when I told him how beautiful you were," sang Hedda 
 — David kicked her to shut up. He could not bear it when 
 the old man made an ass of himself. 
 
 " He wouldn't believe me . . ." Hedda chirrupped irrepress- 
 ibly. The world bereft of Gustav was so full of radiant possi- 
 bilities that she could not refrain from bursting out. For her, 
 at least, the war was not entirely an evil thing. 
 
 Mr. Redbury spoke quite correct English, but his accent was 
 not so irreproachable as to justify the complete good faith of 
 the " vellow in the Zity." And that " selige " had slipped in 
 by mistake; and would prevent him from being quite so pri- 
 vately nasty to his wife about " mein Schatz " as he had antici- 
 pated. 
 
 A joint appeared on the table simultaneously with the post. 
 One letter bearing the " opened by Censor " label, black letters 
 on white pasted across the slit of the envelope, was handed by 
 the servant to Mrs. Redbury. 
 
 "Ach Gott! von der liebsten besten Anna! " as a second 
 letter was revealed under cover of the first. 
 
 Mr. Redbury hissed out a venomous " Put it away ! " which 
 his wife, fumbling and tearful over this communication from 
 her beloved elder sister in Berlin, neither heard nor heeded. 
 Mr. Redbury dared not insist, in front of Rhoda, the parlour- 
 maid — not to mention Beatrice, Samson Phillips and Miss 
 Swinley. Besides, though his sway might be peevishly un- 
 pleasant, it never exacted the awed obedience yielded to a true 
 despot. He quivered with horror at the present predicament, 
 as it dawned upon him that his wife intended to read aloud 
 the letter from Germany, in little bursts and snatches of joy. 
 David was encouraging her by eager questions — that boy had 
 
130 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 no sense whatever. Mr. Redbury began to talk very loud and 
 fast. 
 
 " It makes me proud to see all the ghagi round my table " 
 — he looked unutterable compliments at Samson Phillips' cap- 
 tain's uniform, then possessively at Hardy, who was short- 
 sighted and had only been admitted to Home Service; and at 
 David, a public-school cadet. " If only Con vere here, to gom- 
 blete our number; did I tell you. Captain Villips, zat my eldest 
 boy has been mentioned in disbatches for hotting four Huns wiz 
 his own rifle? " 
 
 "Glad to hear Con has a sense of property! " muttered 
 David. 
 
 "Ei, die Arme! " cried Mrs. Redbury, weeping. "Franz 
 has been shot. You remember little Franz, Otto? Ach ver- 
 zeihen Sie — forgive me, Captain Villips. Such a dear little 
 boy, my sister's youngest. He stayed with us for a whole year, 
 and learnt his lessons wiz Nell." 
 
 Vindictively Mr. Redbury carved all the gristle for Hedda, 
 who had a German husband. It was a vent to his feelings. 
 He showed a nice discrimination in reserving the juiciest bits 
 for Beatrice; Miss Swinley, he judged correctly, was past all 
 such caressing treatment; one could safely anticipate her 
 month's notice the very next morning. Not that she was really 
 necessary any longer to superintend Nell's studies. Nell was 
 seventeen, and in the ordinary course of events, would have 
 been " out " next year. But Miss Swinley would spread a re- 
 port that her principles would not permit her to remain in a 
 household so pronouncedly pro-German. ... To Mr. Red- 
 bury's jaundiced fancy, the tread of the policeman sounded 
 nearer. And he was never far away — that mythical police- 
 man. 
 
 " Oh, Mother, is there anything about Max? " asked Nell, 
 her dark liquid eyes wistful with anxiety for her favourite 
 brother. 
 
 Mrs. Redbury fluttered the thin foreign pages, crossed with 
 pointed scribble. " But yes — Max is well as can be hoped, 
 and his Uncle Karl makes enquiries that he is gomfortable. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 131 
 
 That good Karl ! And — ach, unglaublich ! — his own 
 nephew, Otto Salinger, is in a gonfinement camp over here, and 
 Karl asks if we, in return, vill find him out and be nice to him? 
 But yes, indeed; perhaps ze poor young man vould like some 
 of my Dampfnudeln; he vill surely be homesick. Otto, do you 
 hear?" 
 
 Miss Swinley repeated her pensive cough. And Mr. Red- 
 bury, wrathfully ignoring the question of his unfortunate name- 
 sake, addressed himself again to Captain Phillips. 
 
 " Ven do you think we shall knock them out definitely? " 
 His loud tones drowning Trudchen's agitated twitter. " I 
 have had a tip to lay in yards and yards and yards of punting." 
 
 Samson Phillips' handsome, heavy features expressed be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 "Punting?" 
 
 "Rather overdone the bunting today, haven't you, father?" 
 David suggested impertinently. It was flag-day for one of the 
 minor Balkan states, and Mr. Redbury wore his expensive 
 trophies duplicated and tripled, with the air of a General be- 
 spattered with honourable medals. 
 
 Mr. Redbury told an acedote of the titled lady who had dec- 
 orated him. And then Beatrice asked: 
 
 "Do you really think we shall win the war so soon? It's 
 almost too good to be true, isn't it? " her pleasant, well-bred 
 English voice was a relief after so much duologue from her 
 parents-in-law. " But I don't think it's very nice of the Ger- 
 mans to use liquid fire, do you? " 
 
 Hardy beamed at her fondly through his glasses. " Not 
 very nice of them, no. Not drawing-room manners, is it, 
 darling? " He was a man of quaint appearance, a startlingly 
 fair replica of Nell and David, who had the dark melancholy 
 eyes, aquiline cast of feature, and sensitive lips that stamped 
 them true Hebrew. But Hardy, with his light eyes, light hair, 
 light skin, and enormous nose, gave somewhat the impression 
 of a Jew who had been well bleached. Hedda's colouring lay 
 between the two extremes. Con enjoyed the good looks of the 
 family; blue eyes always afire with mirth; tall, athletic figure; 
 
132 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 incarnate good-nature and high spirits, he was adored by his 
 men, and well-liked by his superior ofi&cers. As for his mother 
 — not Max nor Hardy nor David, nor Hedda nor Nell, could 
 in sum equal her love for this miracle of an eldest-born, now 
 in the trenches. 
 
 " Are you laughing at me? " Beatrice remained quite serene. 
 "Yes, please; I will have some cream." 
 
 " Die Anna writes zat zere is only a wee-little milk for 
 each child in Berlin; not enough to keep zem alive, she say." 
 
 "Let zem die! " cried Mr. Redbury, with a ferocity that was 
 really foreign to his nature — only he was afraid. "All the 
 better. Let zem all die. Zey only grow up to be Cherman sol- 
 diers fighting against humanity." 
 
 Nell flashed out: "Oh, father, how can you? — little soft 
 babies " and suddenly plunged back into silence, marvel- 
 ling at her own temerity. 
 
 David as usual supported her in rebellion. " Not all Ger- 
 man babies grow up to be German soldiers. Some grow up to 
 be English soldiers "... his ironic downward glance at his 
 own uniform emphasized the remark. 
 
 " If Con were here, young 'un, he'd lick you for that," and 
 Hardy sent a message of strong disapproval over his glasses 
 at his cadet brother. 
 
 " Con's different. However keen he may be on his regiment 
 and England and all that, he never talks fatuous drivel about 
 wanting all the German babies to die." 
 
 " Vatuous trivel . . ." shouted Mr. Redbury. 
 
 " Dear me," murmured Miss Swinley. 
 
 " I'm sure David doesn't mean to be rude, father," Beatrice 
 put in mildly. " We none of us want babies to die, but of 
 course it's nicer if it isn't English babies." 
 
 David laughed. And his father ordered him from the table. 
 Nell immediately slipped from her seat and joined him at the 
 door. 
 
 " Ach Lenchen ! " sobbed Mrs. Redbury. " And you haf not 
 touched the pie on your blate! " 
 
 " Gora back! " roared Mr. Redbury. For there was always 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 133 
 
 a possibility that she might find favour in the eyes of Samson 
 Phillips. He had noticed with pleasure that a secret under- 
 standing seemed to exist between them; frequently they whis- 
 pered together. ..." My son-in-law a Captain in ze Zap- 
 pers ! " . . . Another link with safety. One might almost defy 
 the policeman then. 
 
 n 
 
 The parlour-maid accosted David at the foot of the stairs. 
 "Young Mr. Marcus is in the schoolroom, sir. He said he 
 would wait for you there." 
 
 " Oh — thanks, Rhoda." 
 
 " Hullo, Marcus. Not end of the term yet, is it? Scarlet 
 fever again? " 
 
 "No. I've chucked Winborough." Richard was lounging 
 on the shabby fender-seat, drumming with one heel against the 
 side of the fireplace. He was not lookirg well; dark marks un- 
 der his eyes and a rather drawn expression round the mouth 
 caused David, who was observant, to scrutinize him with some 
 attention. He was rather surprised at this visit. On the whole 
 Richard was not wont to seek out his society with overmuch 
 enthusiasm. Richard's friends were mostly sturdy athletes of 
 the Greville Dunne order, who summed up David as " sloppy " 
 because he played the cello, and hated games. 
 
 " Chucked Winborough? That's pretty casual. What does 
 your guv'nor say? " 
 
 " Said I could do as I liked about it." 
 
 " Good Lord ! mine would bellow the house down. He's 
 just slung me out of the dining-room over some nonsense about 
 German and English babies." 
 
 David threw himself disconsolately in the battered old 
 armchair. The other boy glanced up with sudden interest. 
 
 "What's your family's attitude towards the war? " 
 
 " We're all at sixes and sevens. Father's more English 
 than the English; and mother sits and worries in alternate lay- 
 ers over Con and her own people in Germany. Does not men- 
 tion them, of course. Hardy is a genuine patriot, I believe, 
 
134 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 without making much row about it. Of course being married 
 to Beatrice has influenced him. We hang the fact of Beatrice 
 out in the front garden like the clean washing. . . . Sickening. 
 And all the while there's Max interned over there — and Gus- 
 tavo interned over here — also unmentionable . . . not that 
 Hedda minds much. But father. . . . You should see his face 
 when visitors enquire after ' poor Mr. Furth ' — and they do it 
 as if they were treading on egg-shells. The etiquette of intern- 
 ment is as yet very precarious. One isn't at all sure if Gustavo 
 is to be exalted as a martyr or mysteriously hushed up as 
 though he were a convict — I say, what's the matter? " 
 
 " Nothing. I'm in for it too, that's all." 
 
 "Internment? You, Marcus? I — I'm sorry. I'd no 
 idea. . . ." 
 
 "All right. You needn't do the egg-shell trick. I was 
 born in Germany, and father didn't have me naturalized, that's 
 all." 
 
 David was silent a moment, thoughtfully staring at his 
 boots. " Has he appealed? " 
 
 " Yes. No good. The Government has condoned too many 
 cases, and the Anti-German section are beginning to protest. 
 So they've had to tighten up again. We 've got a let-ofif from 
 deportation for grandfather and Aunt Stella. Can't expect 
 more, with all these spy cases about." 
 
 He went on in a very matter-of-fact voice: " I couldn't stick 
 Winborough this term. Just knowing. — It's absurd — I was as 
 keen to lick the Germans as ever — but how could / join in 
 when the fellows jawed about Huns and wiping 'em off the face 
 of the earth. ... I felt crimson inside — beastly — as though 
 I were there on false pretences. And all the chaps of my age 
 were preparing to join up next year . . . last term I was still 
 one of them. They couldn't understand why. ... It had to 
 come out at last — the Head knew all along, naturally. But 
 we were playing the Meltonians in their own field, twelve miles 
 away — and I had to register and get permission, show my pho- 
 tograph — all that mush. Like a ticket-of -leave man. The fel- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 135 
 
 lows were awfully decent. They didn't even cut me. Harri- 
 son, speaking for the majority, went so far as to say it was 
 rough luck, and they knew I couldn't help it " — Richard's un- 
 derlip twisted sardonically. " But they weren't quite sure, 
 after that, what ought to be said in front of me . . . dead 
 pauses when I strolled up to one group or another. ... I 
 came home at half-term, last Monday, and I'm not going back." 
 
 " So you're out of it,"- whispered David, still staring as 
 though fascinated at his boots. " Out of the fighting, and the 
 need of fighting, and the need to choose . . . you lucky beggar. 
 Oh, you lucky beggar. . . ." 
 
 " I realize the fact that I'm out of it, thanks. But I don't 
 quite follow your congratulations." 
 
 " It's that . . . I've been in Germany, two or three times, 
 once for six months, and — Oh, Richard, what has happened to 
 the old Germany, the Germany we knew, to change it so? I 
 simply cant realize that they conmiit atrocities in Belgium and 
 sink hospital ships and mutilate children, and are bragging and 
 swaggering and blood-letting all over Europe. ... I can only 
 remember the little things — the silly, comfortable little things. 
 . . . You follow the stream, and in a clearing in the heart of 
 the great blue pinewood you come bang on the sturdy old 
 forest-house, with antlers branching over the wooden doorway, 
 and the coat-of-arms of some royalty . . . perhaps you may 
 catch a glimpse of him in his green hunting-coat . . . tables 
 with check blue and red cloths, and saucers of wood-strawber- 
 ries like tiny drops of blood — do you know the smell and 
 flavour of wood-strawberries? — and a flaxen peasant child 
 who watches you with enormous solemn eyes while you eat, 
 and curtseys by clockwork for hours after you've left her. . . . 
 And all over the country the ridiculous wooden signposts that 
 say on one arm ' Zum Biergarten,' and on the other ' Zum Aus- 
 sichtspunkt,' and never get tired of it — and you never get tired 
 of it either. Or of leaning out of your window in the early 
 morning to hear them play the Chorale, slow and pure and 
 stately — and the ground is a mist of blue bilberries — emd 
 
136 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 the Rhine legends jostle each other on your excursion, and you 
 send oflF postcards on which everybody signs their names — and 
 every one says good-day — and every one is musical." 
 
 " Good God, how awful," was Richard's sotto voce comment 
 on this list of blisses. 
 
 David heard, and said rather impatiently : " You've been to 
 Germany, haven't you? Can't you understand what I mean? " 
 
 Richard ransacked his memory for a single incident or aspect 
 of Dorzheim which had found tender home in his heart, and 
 discovered not one. 
 
 "All the little things . . ." David murmured again, hands 
 clasped behind his head, and eyes mournfully brooding on the 
 past. " Oh, I know I'm a sentimental idiot, but I can't shake 
 it all oflf to command. Not at once." 
 
 " If you feel like that, I don't honestly see why you need join 
 up. 'Tisn't compulsory." 
 
 " I've got to . . . there'd be such a fuss with father — and 
 he would never forgive me. Max can't, and Hardy's married. 
 . . . There's only Con and me. Con — well, you know him — 
 he rings British wherever you sound him. . . . I've seen mother 
 look at him as though wondering how he could ever have hap- 
 pened to be her son. I don't want Con to despise me — he's 
 always been ripping to us younger ones. And then — oh, 
 just because there's a doubt about us all, we can't afford, as a 
 family, to have a slacker about. If our name had always been 
 Redbury " — again that melancholy smile and shrug of the 
 shoulders, so typically Jewish. 
 
 " Have you changed it? " 
 
 " Dear old man, you didn't commit the horrible error of 
 asking our parlour-maid for Mr. David Rothenburg? " 
 
 " Yes, I did. Sorry. I believe Deb warned me, but I forgot. 
 Does it matter? " 
 
 " She may give notice tomorrow ... we live uncomfortably 
 on a tight-rope nowadays, and some of us haven't learnt how to 
 walk it yet. Poor mother, for instance — she's always side- 
 slipping. Rhoda is fairly new, and father deludes himself that 
 she doesn't know our guilty secret. I say, you remember Mis^ 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 137 
 
 Swinley? " The mischievous school-boy was uppermost in 
 David now — " and how proud she was of being descended from 
 the Hereford Swinleys? Well, now it's got round to her how 
 some one said publicly that of course she's really a German and 
 everybody knows her real name is Schweinthal ! " 
 
 Richard threw back his head and filled the room with his 
 guffaws. 
 
 " Schweinthal — Swine-valley . . . Swinley ! Oh, that's top- 
 hole! She was always so jolly full of swank and backbone. 
 But all the same, Redbury, I'm all at sea with these swarms 
 of English county people that have magically cropped up in 
 our set during the last few weeks. No offence meant to you, 
 but who the deuce are the Lanes and the Silvertons and the 
 Mounts and the Gordons and the Meadowes? " 
 
 " All old familiar faces really. And I can tell you who the 
 Mounts and the Meadowes are, anyhow . . . they're each one- 
 half of my cousins, the Wiesenbergs. The elder and younger 
 branch of the family have long been at daggers drawn, and 
 they've hailed the opportunity to split into two. And the 
 Mounts know nothing of the Meadowes, nor shall the Meadowes 
 ever go to meet the Mounts. My other cousin, whose father 
 changed his name about forty years ago, swears that he'll 
 change it back again from Holmes to Hohenheim by way of 
 protest to all the funk and flurry." 
 
 " Quite a pleasing moment at our boarding-house last week, 
 when two Scandinavian ladies were introduced to each other 
 and neither knew the language," 
 
 "But both broke into floods of delighted German? That's 
 what happens these days when Swede meets Swede." 
 
 "Aunt Stella says speaking German nowadays is as good 
 a thrill as the invention of a new sin, and far superior to 
 secret drinking or smoking or swearing. . . . You do it in a 
 dark room, under your breath, looking over your shoulder." 
 
 " And in public you carefully mispronounce German towns 
 and Generals, in case it should be suspected that you pronounce 
 them not wisely but too well. Father's getting quite a dab 
 at throwing off his little jokes eibout the Kayzer. Comic birth- 
 
138 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 places are the fashion as well; two of the Ladenbach girls, 
 when the question crops up, have been instructed to say they 
 were born in a wagon-lit; and the boy Julius, on the steps of 
 the Venezuelan Consulate. . . ." 
 
 " Looks as if Frau Ladenbach had dropped 'em about rather 
 carelessly," chuckled Richard. He was glad he had come this 
 afternoon. It was years since he had been at all intimate with 
 David Rothenburg, and the impulse to seek him out had been 
 the result of a strange weariness of all his other friends who 
 could not be taken for granted as understanding, without 
 elaborate foreword and explanation, all these present chaotic 
 conditions of Germans and semi-Germans. . . . 
 
 " Come out," David suggested. " It's stuffy in here, and 
 I want to take a parcel of books round to — to some people 
 quite near. . . . You can help me carry 'em." 
 
 In the hall Nell and Samson Phillips were talking in an 
 earnest whisper. Nell wore heavy golden furs flopping over 
 her thick brown outdoor coat, and a wide-brimmed golden hat. 
 She was a very decorative figure in all shades from sallow 
 through ivory to rich umber; her thick skin, the cream-dusky 
 colour of honeysuckle, could certainly never flush to any shade 
 of pink; only when she was moved, her eyes glowed deeper. 
 They glowed now, at the sight of the two boys descending the 
 staircase. 
 
 " Oh, Richard, where is Deb this afternoon? She said 
 something about coming here? " 
 
 " Did she? I believe she's gone to that Russian singing 
 woman, La lloraine. Anyway, you're going out, aren't you? " 
 
 " Yes. Oh yes. Antonia Verity has invited me to a picture- 
 show. I'm waiting for her to call for me. But I thought if 
 
 Deb came . . . but it doesn't matter " She glanced 
 
 swiftly corner-wise at Samson Phillips, and her look said 
 plainly " I'm sorry." . . . Then Mr. Redbury came out of the 
 smoking-room into the hall. 
 
 " Veil, yong beople " — he beamed approval on Nell and 
 Phillips — " I like to see yong beople enchoying zemselves 
 togezzer. How is your fazer, Marcus? Vun doesn't see 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 139 
 
 much of him lately." But he quickly changed the subject, 
 for Ferdinand Marcus was hardly more English than Mr. Otto 
 Redbury himself, and therefore at present socially useless as 
 an asset. " Ven are you going to put on ghagi, hein? You're 
 ze same age as David, aren't you? " 
 
 " Nearly," said Richard. 
 
 " David vos so keen — ah, veil, we can't all be as keen. . . . 
 Vish I vos a poy, and could choin up. Hey, Phillips, vill you 
 take me a regruit in your rechiment? Vere are you two off 
 to, Nell?" 
 
 " Pictures, father." 
 
 " To ze bictures? Good. Enchoy yourselves. Look veil 
 after her, Phillips. She's my only girl left, you see." 
 
 "Your eldest daughter is living with you for the present, 
 isn't she, Mr. Redbury? " enquired the hoped-for son-in-law. 
 
 The prospectively bereaved father did not look grateful for 
 the proffered consolation of Hedda. " Run away to ze bictures, 
 yong beople," and prepared to re-enter the smoking-room. 
 
 " Pictures, father, not the pictures," Nell explained, speaking 
 as she always did, like a shy but rapid cascade, perpetually 
 dammed. " Miss Verity has invited me — she is fetching me. 
 
 Not " She dared not let him continue in the belief that 
 
 she was to be escorted by Samson. 
 
 " Two girls vun vay and two boys anuzzer, and leave an old 
 fogey like me to entertain the Gaptain? No, no, that's a 
 foolish arranchment. Vait for your friend, Nell, and all go 
 to the bictures togezzer." 
 
 " Pictures, father. Not the pictures. And I'm not sure if 
 Antonia " 
 
 "All be cholly togezzer," her father commanded her, peev- 
 ish at her second attempt at protest. 
 
 " Gom in veneffer you get leave, Phillips. Always velcome. 
 Good-pye, yong Marcus. I hope to see you in ghagi next 
 time; " and went into the smoking-room, irascibly slamming 
 the door after him. 
 
 " I'm hanged, if I'll be convivial to order," said David. 
 " 'Bye, Nell ! " he nodded carelessly to Phillips. *' Come 
 
14« DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 along, Marcus." On the steps they passed Antonia Verity on 
 her way to fetch Nell. 
 
 "Are you waiting for me, Nell? good child! " She rested 
 her calm lingering regard on Samson Phillips, who, stolidly 
 planted against the umbrella-stand, did not budge. 
 
 Nell wished she could run away, wished she were dead; 
 anything to be drastically removed from this awful predica- 
 ment between two people who did not know each other, of one 
 of whom she was still deadly shy, the other commanded by her 
 father to be their escort. . . . What was she to do? How 
 long could they all stand like this glaring at one another? The 
 simple expedient of introducing Samson to Antonia never 
 occurred to Nell, who was very childish for her seventeen 
 years. She just stood with interlocked fingers, suffering. . . . 
 " Perhaps if we wait long enough, Captain Phillips will go 
 away. ... Is that how things, dreadful things, come to an 
 end? '* 
 
 III 
 
 "Wonder he didn't give me a white feather?" growled 
 Richard, as they walked up the street. 
 
 David's eyes were blazing in his thin brown face. 
 
 " Hanging on to anything, anybody, English ; Beatrice — 
 Con at the Front . . . old Con. — And now he wants Samson 
 Phillips; wants to shove Nell into the fellow's arms. . . It's 
 so cursedly undignified, this crawling round the feet of a coun- 
 try that stands about with folded arms, not wanting you." 
 
 Richard was about to agree, when a peculiar thing happened 
 to him. He was made aware of the Soul of Otto Redbury. . . . 
 He saw it very clearly, small twitching pink nose of a rabbit — 
 not at all unlike the Soul of Gottlieb Schnabel, the little baker. 
 Alongside of these two, his own soul was an instant laid, then 
 snatched away again . . . queer company for the soul of 
 Richard Marcus; he found Redbury objectionable, and despised 
 Schnabel, but — he understood. Funny that David, who was 
 supposed to be an imaginative womanish creature, thrilling 
 quickly to response, a nature artistic and intuitive and all that 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 141 
 
 sort of thing, should reveal himself in certain cases so hard and 
 blunt. 
 
 Richard said slowly : " It's such a beastly position for all 
 of them — all of us," he amended; but it still seemed a gro- 
 tesque nightmare that he should be one of the band whom he 
 was unwillingly compelled to understand and defend. 
 
 " It's all very well to be down on your pater, Redbury, and 
 of course one rags about the change of names, and Swiss wait- 
 ers and so on — but it's so utterly unnatural to have no coun- 
 try when your country is the one thing in all the world that 
 matters. As good patriots as any are drifting about loose with 
 nowhere to dump their load of patriotism. Oh, I know the 
 stock argument — they should have stuck to the place where 
 they were born. Well, a few thousands, a few tens of thou- 
 sands haven't done so; it's no good pretending that it was as 
 important before nineteen-fourteen as now." 
 
 " I suppose the English didn't overflow and get stranded on 
 No Man's Land in such numbers, because they could always 
 colonize," David conjectured. 
 
 " And now this war ; we scramble for cover. And the safe 
 people who have settled for generations in one place, of one 
 country, of unmixed blood, laugh at us for scuttling. Do they 
 ever think how easy it is — no merit, but, God! how easy, to 
 be born in England, wholly English, when they say of the half 
 and half brigade: 'Let 'em get back to their own country — 
 we don't want 'em! '? But they might have said that before 
 1914, to have given them a chance to get back. They can't 
 get back now. Their own so-called country doesn't want 'em 
 either. . . . Won't have them; calls them renegades, who 
 have severed all ties, all obligations. And there they are, 
 absolutely helpless between the two. Belonging to both — no 
 — belonging to neither. Can claim protection from neither. 
 They're frightened, I tell you, David. All this frantic jabber 
 of the Hidden Hand — why, there have been practically no 
 cases where the naturalized German has been proved guilty 
 of plotting against England in the interests of the Hun. One 
 )r two, perhaps, among thousands. But rejected by Germany, 
 
142 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 rejected by England, dashed from one to the other — how can 
 they help all those little acts that revolt you as being ridiculous 
 or — what do you call it? undignified? — ostentatiously 
 planking down their names on subscription lists, kow-towing 
 to the English servants, change of name, and pretending to be 
 Dutch, and pitiful swanking of their English friends; even 
 grabbing at Samson Phillips to get him in the family at all 
 costs. — All that isn't treachery, but ordinary childish human 
 funk." 
 
 " Why, at the worst, what can be done to them? " 
 
 " Nothing very bad. Nothing at all compared with what 
 the men at the Front have to go through; think I don't know 
 that? " Richard questioned fiercely. "And yet they wouldn't 
 be funking if they belonged to a country, and had a united 
 cause to fight for. It's not being able to shout with the rest. 
 It's the bitter desolation, nowadays, of fighting for one's own 
 hand. . . ." 
 
 He became aware of David's slow quizzical smile. 
 
 " The miracle of the Sleeping Beauty awakened," he com- 
 mented softly. " If nothing else, the Great War has at least 
 done this for one Richard Marcus. Rather a drastic kiss, but 
 astoundingly effective." 
 
 " Shut up ! " Richard kicked at a stone in the roadway. 
 Head bent, hands clenched in his pockets — as if he wanted 
 to think. As if he welcomed this disconcerting upheaval of 
 his imagination ... to be able to understand Otto Redbury — 
 what next? To stick up for a lot of rotten Germans — Marcus 
 of Winborough, champion half-back of the footer team — 
 Greville Dunne's pal — average at his work, but a decent or- 
 dinary all-round fellow, and no end keen on a commission in 
 the R. F. C. Never again, for him. Never again. Something 
 had happened. . . . Richard walked along savagely mourning 
 for the self that had once fitted him so easily. . . . Never 
 again ! 
 
 David noticed his dejection — and amusement softened into 
 something resembling tenderness for this strong bull-necked 
 fellow, helpless in the grip of his first individual problem. It 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 143 
 
 must have been a bad shock so to have galvanized him from 
 matter-of-course unthinking acceptance of a scheme of life 
 which had been hitherto fair enough and good enough . . . 
 tread of many feet all marching in the same direction . . . and 
 now — No Man's Land. 
 
 There was little for David himself to learn about the by- 
 ways and customs of this nebulous territory — from his earliest 
 childhood he had wandered there. And he realized that it was 
 not to the habitual thinkers that the war and what it involved 
 had made such a shattering difference — but to those who had 
 never thought before. . . . Poor old Richard ... all those 
 tmnbled we's and they's of his utterance ... he hardly knew 
 yet where he belonged — too doggedly proud to include him- 
 self with the nation who did not want him — yet jibbing at 
 classification with the despised alien enemy. Poor old Rich- 
 ard, it was rather a shame. 
 
 "At any rate, we're both in the same boat," David ex- 
 claimed, carried away by a quick impulse to solace. Immedi- 
 ately his companion, in a manner of speaking, toppled him out 
 of the boat. 
 
 *' No, we're not. You're born over here. You're all right. 
 You'd be English if you weren't a pro-German." 
 
 " Damn it! I'm not a pro-German. I'm a Jew." 
 
 " What the " Richard in his astonishment stopped dead 
 
 (Ml the pavement. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " What has being a Jew got to do with it? It's a question 
 of nationality, not a religion." 
 
 " The Jews are a nation. If it were only a theological dif- 
 ference, why should that have affected such a very marked 
 distinction of feature and temperament? Going to Synagogue 
 instead of to Church doesn't alter the curve of a nose. Of 
 course we're a nation apart, apart and scattered — but racially 
 the most united in the world. And that's another of my pri- 
 vate reasons for wearing khaki — because the English have 
 been good to the Jews, have given them sanctuary and treated 
 them as equals. They have a claim on our services. While 
 
144 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Germany has always behaved like a swine to Judea. . . . I'm 
 not a pro-German, Marcus, but there's a kinship between 
 English Jews and German Jews and Russian Jews and Italian 
 and American and Polish and Roumanian and Austrian Jews, 
 that no war ever waged can entirely destroy. I don't want to 
 see a Jew hurt — and, oh God ! I don't want to hurt another 
 Jew. We're a race of artists and financiers and wanderers — 
 not of fighters." 
 
 " I. don't know about that. Jehovah was a God of din and 
 battle, wasn't He? I'm a bit foggy about the Old Testament, 
 but I seem to remember that they were always at it, hammer 
 and tongs. And pater says that Jews are ardent patriots by 
 temperament." 
 
 " Yes — with nowhere to put it. All countries, and no 
 countries, and the countries from which we've been driven, 
 and the countries where we hope to go back. . . . I'm sorry 
 we can't change over, you and I, Richard. The feeling of per- 
 secution isn't new to me. . . . I've got the sense of it in my 
 very bones. . . . I've been hounded with my ancestors from 
 the East through Russia . . . through Central Europe. . . ." 
 
 "Good Lord," Richard broke in: "I believe you enjoy 
 feeling like that." 
 
 And David laughed : " I believe I do. It's our heritage — 
 this succulent style of melancholy, like seaweed swelling richly 
 under water, compared with which all other sorrow is like sea- 
 weed, hard and stale and crackly, on the dry sand." 
 
 " Can't say that either is my style. I just get damned sick 
 about things. I'm damned sick at not being able to join up 
 in the Flying Corps." 
 
 " You're only a semi- Jew, Marcus, in spite of the rich promise 
 of your face." 
 
 " I am only a semi- Jew; my mother was a Christian. And 
 what's wrong with my face? " Richard demanded truculently. 
 " I say — where are you taking me? " as David swerved into 
 a narrow street of tall dingy-looking buildings. 
 
 " It's all right. I just want to bring them these books." 
 He ran up some steps of a house with the " To Let " board 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 145 
 
 forlornly plastering the windows; and as the bell dangled 
 broken from its socket, and no knocker was in evidence, banged 
 with his fist on the panels of the front door. 
 
 " Rum," thought Richard. 
 
 A tall, heavy-featured girl opened the door, and in silence 
 led them to an unfurnished room littered with books and pack- 
 ing-cases and piles of tinned food. A babble of tongues struck 
 harshly upon the ear. . . For a second's space of time Richard 
 was walking up the wide twilit streets of Dorzheim — a dado 
 of pines lowering blackly on the horizon — crowds brushing 
 past, chattering — noisy guttural chatter from the pavements 
 and cafes. . . . "You will see how many take off their hats 
 to me. . . ." 
 
 " This is my pal," Redbury explained carelessly to the room 
 at large. " He's one of us " 
 
 All Richard's being uprose in a growl of contradiction. 
 "One of us? " Why, these people were Germans — talking 
 German, the whole gang of them — about eight or nine. . . . 
 If he had been a tom-cat, he would have stiffened his fur and 
 spat. As it was, he responded churlishly to salutations, and 
 retired to a window-seat in the corner, from there to watch 
 from beneath humped eyebrows the mysterious proceedings 
 of these friends of David. 
 
 The atmosphere oppressed him with the memory of all the 
 rumours circulated about German spies . . . German Secret 
 Service. . . . England honeycombed with treachery. . . . 
 What were they doing, in this empty house, talking German 
 with the passionate zest of tongues let loose from hours of 
 irksome restraint? . . . What was in those tins and cases? 
 . . . How had they got hold of the German newspapers and 
 pamphlets lying about? . . . One of the group was reading 
 aloud a German letter now, and all listened tensely, some still 
 kneeling on the dusty boards with their arms full of books — 
 all except David and the heavy-looking girl and a boy with a 
 flowing tie and thick lips and incredibly close shaven head, who 
 were engrossed in some private discussion. . . . The girl pro- 
 duced a pile of music and their heads bent closer over the score. 
 
146 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Confounded insolence this, in the very heart of London! 
 Richard's mood wavered from indignation to a queer sort of 
 panic at being thus associated. He wondered if he ought to 
 give information? No, he could hardly do that, brought here 
 in all good faith by David. But even supposing that these 
 people were bent on no actual harm — and commonsense as- 
 serted that they were merely packing hampers for the German 
 prisoners, and the same time enjoying a little licence of their 
 native speech — even then, how dared David suppose that he 
 was " One of us " among these — these Huns. Not a fibre of 
 kinship in him stretched to meet them. He was as utterly 
 an alien here as . . . 
 
 As he had been at Winborough, this last term. 
 
 A sudden ache asserted itself for Greville Dunne's grey eyes 
 looking straight from under the rim of his midshipman's cap; 
 for Greville's English voice, and divine lack of understanding 
 for all things save what was usual and fitting a young Britisher 
 of eighteen should understand; ache for Mrs. Dunne and for 
 the Dunnes' cottage home in Kent — for Molly's tom-boy ex- 
 uberance, and young Frank dashing into the chintz sitting- 
 room with his toboggan. 
 
 Only of course they would be blank to the badgering per- 
 plexities which David Rothenburg 
 
 In an effort to escape from the linked chain of thought, 
 Richard took up a journal lying on the ground near his feet. 
 It was a month-old copy of the Tageblatt. In little separate 
 squares outlined in black were the names of those who had 
 fallen in action : " Thomas Spalding — Gef alien, 14ten Juni 
 1915." . . . What was this palpably English name doing 
 among the list of German officers? Thomas Spalding? Rich- 
 ard speculated idly on the anomaly, till fancy quickened to 
 realization that this Thomas Spalding was his own equivalent 
 on the other side — over there a boy of English parentage 
 brought up in Germany, enlisted in the German army, with his 
 sympathies . . . where? Over here, Richard Marcus, of Ger- 
 man parentage, brought up in England — Ah well, Thomas 
 Spalding had more luck than he. They had taken him in the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 147 
 
 army and he had been killed in action. Nevertheless, who 
 knows what he may have had to endure first, from taunts and 
 coldness and suspicion, outcast emotions pushed this way and 
 that. Inevitably the lot of those who are not entirely sons of 
 the soil on which they fight . . . die ..." Thomas Spalding, 
 Gefallen." . . . Richard stared at the brief announcement till 
 a sting of tears rushed to his eyes. He wished he could have 
 had just one talk, one grip of the hand with his unknown 
 comrade, suddenly nearer and more vivid to him than either 
 Greville or David. 
 
 You and I, Thomas Spalding. . . . 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 SAMSON PHILLIPS was first and foremost a man of 
 tenacious disposition. He heard Antonia mention that 
 Deb was to be found that Saturday afternoon with a 
 certain person of the name of lloraine, and that she intended 
 a visit to the same person, on her way home after the picture- 
 show. Therefore, by doggedly attaching himself to Nell and 
 her friend during the picture-show, as he was well able to do 
 after Otto's admonition to conviviality; by dint of an after- 
 noon's complete boredom and stiff discomfort; and by stead- 
 fast repetition of "Well — where do we go now? " at every 
 projected flight on the part of Antonia and Nell, when circum- 
 stances offered a break in the concerted programme, as outside 
 the Redburys' front door, or after the complete and lingering 
 tour of the Leicester Galleries: "No, I don't care much for 
 this kind of picture." Or after half an hour spent in some 
 neighbouring and drearily respectable tea-rooms; in fact, by 
 simple dint of " hanging on," Samson presently found himself 
 being welcomed by La lloraine, after the manner of a Royal 
 Mistress of the Robes receiving the Royal Master of the Stag- 
 hounds. . . . She was in one of her " legitimate " moods; 
 wit and not coarseness was the passport for innuendo. They 
 had rented a rambling underground flat off Elgin Avenue, 
 where their furniture had at last a chance to spread itself; the 
 vast drawing-room, lit by candelabra night and day, was thick- 
 carpeted and sparsely furnished by a Louis couch and chair, 
 a piano, and a table that held some delicate simpering minia- 
 tures. Manon moved about the dim spaces, a solitary unchild- 
 like little princess with wide skirts and golden hair that was 
 brushed high off her forehead and piled into stiflF curls. , . . 
 
 U8 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 149 
 
 Obviously, the more disreputable phase of peroxide, clothes- 
 line, and variety entertainment, was for the moment in abey- 
 ance. 
 
 Samson awkwardly approached Deb and Clifife Kennedy, 
 who were talking together by the window. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Miss Marcus." 
 
 "You? How funny! " Deb began to laugh. 
 
 Samson was funny, in juxtaposition with La lloraine and 
 Cliffe Kennedy. He was so unplastic. 
 
 " Who brought you here? Antonia? " 
 
 " I came to see Miss Verity home." 
 
 " But she has only just come." 
 
 He held to his point. She would some time or other be 
 obliged to make a departure, and then his services as an escort 
 would naturally be required. A girl should not traverse the 
 dark streets unaccompanied. A girl should be aware of perils 
 besetting her, though ignorant of their nature. 
 
 Samson enquired how Deb proposed to reach home. " This 
 is the worst end of Elgin Avenue," he hinted darkly, and looked 
 with suspicion at Cliffe Kennedy, who passed his hand across 
 his eyes as though brushing away a hideous memory, and said 
 abruptly: "I've never spoken to you of my little sister — 
 have I?" 
 
 Deb knew that he was an only child. But she also knew 
 by now his marvellous talent for fitting every subject that came 
 up with local interest of personal experience. What she did 
 not know was exactly how real was the momentary belief which 
 inflated his account of the lovely and cherished little sister — 
 Beth, her name — whom Cliffe had once been requisitioned to 
 fetch from an evening party. There had been a woman — 
 he had not gone. " Some one else will see the Babe home." 
 . . . Beth, tired of delay, having refused all other escort — 
 " I'm waiting for my brother, thanks," with childlike pride — 
 had at last started off by herself. . . . 
 
 " It was months before we gave up the search. And it 
 killed my mother — spiritually," Cliffe amended, recollecting 
 that Deb had frequently lunched with Mrs. Kennedy. " Her 
 
150 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 hair went snow-white during those months " mournful eyes 
 
 fixed on Samson's aghast, attentive face. His gaze wandered 
 to Deb's, read there a gentle reminder of the dear old lady's 
 almost unpowdered dark brown coronal; and without the 
 slightest perceptible break in the narrative, sank his voice to 
 the supplementary explanation : " Yes — she dyed it for my 
 sake. I simply couldn't bear it. My fault — damnable ego- 
 ridden slothful beast! — and the perpetual sight of that 
 piled-up silveriness never let me forget for a moment what she 
 had suffered — what we all suffered . . . she guessed it was 
 driving me to madness — Other women condemned what she 
 did — called it preposterous vanity ... at her age. God ! one 
 of the divinest impulses of pure love " 
 
 By now, Cliffe was so swathed about in self -spun illusion of 
 tender maternal sacrifice and a lost little sister, that Samson 
 may have been pardoned for horrified credulity: 
 
 "And you never heard anything — no news — no 
 clue ?" 
 
 " I spend regularly four nights a week in brothels," Cliffe 
 replied with exquisite simplicity — and Samson checked a stern 
 protest at use of a word which, after all, Deb could not pos- 
 sibly understand. 
 
 " But I'm making you melancholy with all this. A chance 
 word reminded me — I'll see you home tonight, Deb; but I 
 hope you're not relying on me to pay your bus-fares; you still 
 seem to cling to the outworn tradition that gentlemen, beauti- 
 ful glossy eligible gentlemen who live in Kensington Palace 
 Gardens, always pay the fare of the young lady they're walking- 
 out with — or rather riding-out with. I've noticed a semi- 
 diffident, semi-expectant look that you always direct towards 
 me when the conductor comes round, and you pull out your 
 modest little purse — and I'm hypnotically compelled to the 
 low rapid pained yet masterful and at the same time un- 
 obtrusive utterance: ' No — please — allow me — I insist.' 
 . . . And I can't afford it, Deb. I'll see you home tonight, 
 but you must pay your own fares." 
 
 Samson favoured the speaker with a look so expressive of 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 151 
 
 the " beautiful glossy eligible gentleman who lived in Kensing- 
 ton Palace Gardens " that Deb's eyes, encountering Kennedy's, 
 were an elves' dance of green and grey merriment. 
 
 " I will accompany Miss Marcus home, if she allows me." 
 
 "Are you pledged to see Nell home as well? Antonia and 
 Nell and I all live in different directions, you know." 
 
 " David Redbury is calling for his sister." Samson stationed 
 himself in an uncomfortable attitude beside the lounging in- 
 timate pair, and remained there unbudgingly on guard, de- 
 clining to be drawn into their conversation; nor yet to be be- 
 guiled away by any inducement of refreshment or music. 
 
 Meanwhile, La lloraine was making Nell welcome. 
 
 " My dee-urr, you are that friend I have been wanting always 
 for my Manon . . . she grows too old, too staid — She is with 
 me and the Countess and Stella Marcus and Mrs. Verity — she 
 hears us talk — it is not always well that she should hear us 
 talk. The Countess has a most tragic business on the carpet, 
 my dee-urr . . . wait, I will tell you — or when we have more 
 time, perhaps. But my Manon — you shall see her every day 
 — all day — so she will grow a child again — healthy, romp- 
 ing children, you and she. . . . You can eat your dejeuner 
 here, and slie her dinner with you — ideal ! — it shall be 
 planned . . . for listen: " She sank her voice to the confi- 
 dential pitch, holding Nell inexorably captive with one hand, 
 and with the other sweeping wide descriptive circles. "At 
 present she muses too much of marriage and what it brings. 
 She sleeps badly. She put me questions — soch questions 
 . . . Wait, I will tell you my plans. . . . That marriage, when 
 it koms — ah, it will be somesing! superb! you see. But it is 
 essential she shall be fresh and unconscious and blooming. . . . 
 Those girls, Antonia, Deb, they are no more early-morning, 
 . . . They dream not . . . they laugh at love. My dee-urr, it 
 YDS vonderful you should been brought here for my Manon! 
 
 "Now tell me, my dee-urr, are you trobbled inside about 
 that question of a hosband? Or your mother? " 
 
 " I don't know ... I mean — I haven't any. . . ." And 
 then, from the midst of confusion, Nell pushed out a courage- 
 
152 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ous: " I think it's horrid to talk about husbands and that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 La lloraine was switched off at the main. And Antonia, 
 overhearing, smiled at Nell encouragingly. She and Deb 
 agreed that it took weeks of hard labour to pierce young Nell's 
 dreamy layers of impenetrability. As one put out a tamer's 
 hand, swiftly her fugitive spirit darted away, in a tremor of 
 shadows and dreams; thoughts that frightened her, so like 
 couchant, half-slumbering beasts they seemed. Sweeter 
 thoughts that slipped from chill grey to silvery sheen — aspen- 
 leaves stirred by a wind from nowhere, and hushed again. It 
 amused Antonia not a little that La lloraine should in public 
 and within the first five minutes of meeting, demand an outburst 
 of articulate confidence on the subject of Nell's troubled inside 
 on tliat question of a husband. 
 
 Nell and Manon, swept imperiously together by the opera- 
 singer's enthusiasm, and expected to begin romping without 
 delay, eyed each other in furtive dislike . . . till Manon's de- 
 mure sang-froid relieved the situation. 
 
 " Would you like to see my canary? " 
 
 " No," said Nell, in a passion of pity for the artificial life 
 any bird must lead, in that hectic twilight atmosphere. 
 
 After a pause Manon tried again. " The young man who 
 has just entered the drawing-room has beautiful eyes. Do you 
 not think so? " 
 
 " He's my brother David. And he's only a boy. He's the 
 youngest of us.'' 
 
 Her prospective friend shrugged plump shoulders semi-bare 
 in her quaint early Victorian frock. " Too young for me, bien 
 entendu. Doubtless he will be infatuated with Mamma. The 
 men of her age who visit her, take no notice of Mamma, comma 
 femme, you understand, but try always to play with me. And 
 they pretend it is as a child that they make a pet of me, and I 
 pretend too, and Mamma. But we all know it is not so," she 
 nodded wisely. Certainly, if Nell were to attempt the task of 
 preserving Manon's early-morning dreaminess, here was an 
 excellent opportunity to start. Instead, she sped across the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 153 
 
 room to David; pulled imperiously, desperately at his arm. 
 " David, I'm ready to go home with you. Quite ready." 
 
 But David was not to be beguiled. He had found in La 
 llorraine what had been so poignantly missing from his life 
 since the outbreak of war. He had re-found his Continent. 
 She embodied all the thraldom of a tour abroad; all the lost 
 delights he had described to Richard. Her looks, her voice, 
 her setting, her clothes and perfume even; the outflung move- 
 ments of her long white ringed hands, her bits of richly sug- 
 gestive reminiscences, with ejaculations given in all languages. 
 Sudden familiarities; her exhaustive and professional acquaint- 
 ances with foreign music, foreign artists and their very ques- 
 tionable careers; of foreign cities — their opera-houses and 
 their royalties; gossip, garlic-spiced and succulent, or else 
 melodramatic and sonorous — her whole attitude towards life, 
 towards the ingenue, towards David himself 
 
 He vowed afterwards to Antonia, in ecstatic gratitude for her 
 share in bringing him hither, that never again while he had the 
 freedom of the flat near Elgin Avenue, would he fret at island 
 limitations. " She's simply incredible. When she talks, I 
 can smell hot coffee and those jolly bright brown lengths of 
 bread that one plunged for at the buffet, arriving at Boulogne 
 or Dieppe. . . ." 
 
 " I'm glad you're happy, at least. My other two introduc- 
 tions to the party look simply sodden with misery. I think 
 we must be unselfish, and get them away." 
 
 She indicated Nell and Samson, the former still being enter- 
 tained by Manon ; the other, an obstinate misfit in the company 
 of Deb and Kennedy. 
 
 Antonia Verity was Cliffe's only fixed territory; his spiritual 
 headquarters. He returned to Antonia after all his zig-zagging 
 spurts of enthusiasm. But Deb was his present caprice. He 
 took Deb with him everywhere; displayed her proudly to such 
 fragments of his circle as were handy; told her all the stories 
 of all his loves; telephoned her before and after meals; wrote 
 her long and blasphemously witty letters, or postcards that 
 were the scandal of Montagu Hall ; made her free of his home 
 
154 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 and his books and his mother, teased her and argued with her 
 and shocked her and bullied her and — did not make love to 
 her. 
 
 It was an enervating existence — for Deb. There was a pe- 
 culiarly flattering quality to Cliffe Kennedy's absorption in 
 her, even in its impermanence. Other queens had reigned 
 . . . other queens would reign. 
 
 She was not in the least infatuated by Kennedy, in spite of 
 occasional efforts to believe this the cause of the diffused 
 glamour on all her days and nights. His personality was not 
 quite that of a real man ... it was a vivid tricky personality 
 — wantonly elusive — wantonly exacting. He had to be for- 
 given half a hundred lapses of manners — even of humanity — 
 per instant. He was a veritable lob of mischief-making, un- 
 trustworthy, with not even that one point of reliable consistency 
 of being a law unto himself. No one could ever hope to pin 
 him down to any statement or opinion. Yet, with these traits, 
 there was nothing womanish about Cliffe Kennedy. His tastes 
 were masculine; his language forcible; his brain elastic but 
 brilliant. Other men — ordinary men — liked and sought his 
 company, while deploring his fantastic appearance, the leathery 
 spider-webbed face and the two bits of blue inset with the 
 vividly light effect of a chimney-sweeper's eyes among the 
 soot; his abandonment of yellow hair; his wild sad thin legs 
 that were like that kind of poem which having no end or be- 
 ginning, straggles on and on in various shapeless forms of in- 
 coherence. It was a pity, with those legs, that he should 
 favour so strongly the tweed knickerbocker style of clothing. 
 He would have been better suited by a jester's motley of red 
 and yellow, or a picturesque costume of fluttering rags and 
 slouch hat and knotted staff. He resembled that sort of con- 
 centrated allegory in pedestrian form which a few years ago 
 meandered variously through novel and drama as the Wan- 
 derer, the Pilgrim, the Minstrel, the Fiddler, the Vagabond, 
 the Gypsy, the Tramp, the Pedlar, the Just-Outsider, the Never- 
 Coming-Quite-in-er. He was the vanguard of that type with 
 which Deb was presently to become so familiar — the young 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 155 
 
 male of the transition period, who, perhaps in self-defence, 
 rose to match the half-and-half girl; young male who required 
 neither extreme of mistress nor wife, but accepted, in a spir- 
 itual sense only, the semi-privileges accorded him — the licence 
 of speech confidential or witty; and temporary rights of ap- 
 propriation — by unspoken avowal that he might be trusted 
 in all situations not to transgress limits; but in return it must 
 be clearly understood that he was on his guard against the 
 responsibilities of wedlock: 
 
 "Shouldn't we be miserable together, Deb?" And she 
 wondered what reply etiquette dictated to this ardent declara- 
 tion of no-marriage in the various forms it was offered her. 
 *' Please, I wasn't even trying . . ." occurred to her as the 
 likeliest. 
 
 Amongst the tricks of this twentieth-century style of liaison 
 was a totally unembarrassed delight in hoodwinking such of 
 the older generation who still took propinquity at its face 
 value, to the belief that the two concerned were indeed formally 
 engaged ; wantonly depositing raw material for scandal, where 
 it would be easiest picked up by the person for whom intended. 
 
 Cliffe was enchanted when Deb reported to him grandfather's 
 indelicate enquires re that young Kennedy's prospects and 
 declarations; or sentimental Trudchen Redbury's eagerness 
 to discover when congratulations might be allowed to cast off 
 their decent veilings, and appear on the doorstep in the form 
 of a large basket of flowers, white and pink. He even insisted 
 on propping up all such suspicion by escorting Deb to a formal 
 Sunday afternoon call at the Redburys. " Und nun," Trudchen 
 babbled to her husband, as Cliffe's decorous top-hat passed 
 up the street in devoted juxtaposition with Deb's best white 
 fox furs — " it may at any moment . . . how happy the dear 
 Stella will be!" 
 
 Ferdie and Stella, true to resolve, put no direct questions to 
 Deb. The child was enjoying herself . . . she was always 
 out — that affirmed enjoyment. Stella was as rapacious of 
 Deb's conquests as though her own sterile girlhood were thus 
 being avenged. ... A gleam of triumph shot from her narrow 
 
156 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 dark eyes in the direction of Hermann Marcus, as Deb indif- 
 ferently thwarted his industrious research. Here, at all events, 
 the despot had no powers of destruction. Ferdie's lenience 
 rose from different motives. He prided himself on his lack 
 of insistence that each succeeding episode should result in an 
 eventual son-in-law. Plenty of time — plenty of time. His 
 little Deb was flirting . . . only natural! The younger gen- 
 eration governed themselves by new laws; how imlawful these 
 laws Ferdie was happily ignorant. According to him, if " it 
 did not come off," then either ope of the pair was indifferent 
 to the other's love, or else they were " just good friends, nothing 
 more " — no reason why a man and a girl should not be com- 
 rades, in these enlightened days. But that any working ar- 
 rangement could exist whereby passion was deliberately and 
 even verbally harnessed with comradeship, and held in check, 
 and given rein, and expelled again — no, that certainly never 
 occurred to Ferdie Marcus. His outlook was just half a gen- 
 eration ahead of his own; half a generation behind his daugh- 
 ter's. Deb, in a sort of wilful despair at her vain search 
 for control and supervision either from the authority she 
 would have been quick enough to defy, or by some innermost 
 spiritual compass she lacked. Deb went where she pleased, 
 in what company she pleased, at what hours she pleased; 
 rubbed her spirit in pioneer literature, pioneer drama and 
 pioneer discussion, till it was mournfully sterile of glamour or 
 amazement; and for some inexplicable reason, played up to 
 all assumptions on the part of the Studio gang, that she was 
 even as they were in experience of sin . . . only it was not 
 the fashion to call it sin, except when the term was used 
 humorously. Not one of them, girl or man, would have be- 
 lieved Deb, had she chosen suddenly to discard her pose of 
 sophistication. She had experimented just enough for this — 
 no more. Her passionate little face, poised on its thick column 
 of neck; the heavy lids that were never quite drawn back 
 from her eyes; slow-smiling mouth, the rich blood veiled by 
 skin crinkled and transparent as poppy-petals in the sun-rays; 
 above all, a quality in each supple movement she made, which 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 157 
 
 a dancer once defined as " limb-consciousness " — combined to 
 uphold that lie which vanity in her had started. 
 
 "What can it matter — my life is my own affair! " thus 
 Deb, who hoped hers was a wayward soul, and knew it was 
 merely slipshod. . . . 
 
 What can it matter? — why, nothing had mattered much 
 since she had kissed Burton Ames . . . and he had been called 
 away to the telephone. She had broken bounds then . . . 
 entered on forbidden country. Of what avail afterwards to 
 turn arid crawl tamely back through the gap, resume an exist- 
 ence where girls did not cheapen themselves? 
 
 If he had made it worth while ... he had not made it 
 worth while, or worth anything. One had heard of girls who, 
 disappointed in love, had flung themselves headlong " to the 
 bad." Deb did not do that. She merely meandered bad- 
 wards; her steps, like those of a very intricate dance, advancing 
 and retreating with sideway darts and curvetings and inex- 
 plicable rushes for cover and sudden boldness ... all the 
 haphazard eff^ect, to an onlooker, of a dance without the ac- 
 companying inspiration of music. But the onlooker could not 
 have guessed that Deb had seen Jenny die with all the eager- 
 ness of her being unfulfilled, baulked. . . . 
 
 *' I never knew it was so easy to die — while one still wanted 
 things as much. One must take — take — and take quickly ! " 
 
 She was wont to tell Clifi'e of her adventures and escapes 
 on Debatable Ground. He listened with proprietary zest, and 
 many oaths of secrecy. And then betrayed her to Antonia 
 or Zoe or Timothy — whomever the object of his next mo- 
 mentary death-or-nothing spasm of intimacy. Deb, following 
 after, cleared up the litter of her character, agreed with An- 
 tonia or Zoe or Timothy that Cliffe was simply impossible 
 and deserved to be forthwith discarded . . . and then went off 
 with him for the week-end to his country cottage near Wycombe. 
 
 No — that was how Kennedy himself would have described 
 the incident. As a matter of fact she went with him for the 
 Saturday, as she had often done before, and they were to 
 return in time for supper at Zoe's flat, where Deb had arranged 
 
158 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 to stay for what was left of the night, because it was easier 
 just to roll over on to the sofa in the sitting-room, than to 
 worry about busses or trains to South Kensington. She was 
 shedding the fundamental home-instinct that the black hours 
 must necessarily be spent in one's bedroom with all accom- 
 panying accessories of property. Really, once the sacred cus- 
 tom was broken, one could tumble to sleep anywhere; at an 
 inn, or on a divan with two or three other girls, or — in hot 
 weather — out of doors. . . . Yes, she had grown lax over 
 the geography of her nights. It was easy enough to 'phone 
 Aimt Stella and say: "I'm staying with so-and-so till to- 
 morrow." "Very well, child — have a good time." Stella 
 supposed that so-and-so had a spare bedroom, and could lend 
 Deb a nightgown. Gradually Deb trained them not to worry 
 even if she omitted to 'phone her whereabouts; a 'phone was 
 not always handy — " You'll know I'm all right." 
 
 And all this — for nothing at all. The girl's behaviour, 
 submitted to the essential interrogation, was as orthodox as 
 her circumstances might be the reverse. That night at Sea- 
 view for instance — the sea was entirely a matter of fiction, 
 but Cliffe insisted that such a name must shed a disguise of 
 Philistine respectability over any dwelling. It was not even 
 the dramatically inevitable outcome of a swiftly discovered 
 passion setting them aflame and beyond all reason and remem- 
 brance; or else to be explained by a set of automatic coinci- 
 dences, such as misunderstanding with the rest of the party, 
 or a faulty time-table or a fog. Certainly it was raining rather 
 drearily; and Cliffe declared that the prospect of Zoe and her 
 surrounding aura of Soho waiters and impresarios and maca- 
 roni-merchants rendered him faint with boredom . . . and 
 they were having rather a jolly talk about something-or-other 
 . . . and there was plenty of cold-stuff supper in the larder. 
 . . . And Deb was in a sort of fancy dress — she had discarded 
 her wet and muddy tweed skirt for a pair of white knickers of 
 Cliffe's, which, with her own loose red-bordered white serge 
 sailor smock, gave her the look of a trim and dashing principal 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 159 
 
 boy in pantomime. She disliked the bother of resuming her 
 skirt again. 
 
 " Oh, well, let's stop on here," said ClifFe impatiently. 
 " Why do I pay a high rent if not to be able to talk quietly 
 with a pal now and then, without interruption? " 
 
 " Five-and-six a week, isn't it? " Deb indolently let lapse 
 the question of their imminent return. 
 
 " Six-and-six. And cheap at that." 
 
 " I suppose the baby-farm next door reduces the price. 
 They do seem to make more noise than ordinary home-babies." 
 
 ClifTe grinned. " The landlord tried to argue that out as a 
 special convenience . . . ' So handy just to drop it over the 
 wall!'" 
 
 " When you first mentioned your country cottage to me, 
 ClifFe, I pictured it with a thatched roof and an orchard and 
 roses round the door." 
 
 " ' Make me love mother more,' " he hummed. " Curious 
 psychological effect some vegetation seems to have! But what 
 a hopelessly conventional imagination is yours, Deborah. Is 
 it likely I'd be found dead in one of those old-fashioned traps 
 for sentiment and earwigs? Seaview is a futurist conception 
 of what a country cottage ought to be, in its stark, splendid 
 ugliness." 
 
 Seaview was a yellow-brick workman's house, standing in a 
 row with five others of the same build . . . bare of ornamenta- 
 tion, and with the straight road to High Wycombe directly 
 outside the door. 
 
 Deb balanced one bare tan leg across the knee of the other, 
 clasped her slim ankle caressingly, and dangled a caked and 
 clammy stocking near the fire, which, with the reckless squan- 
 dering of much paraflSn, Cliffe had at last wheedled to a ruddy 
 pyramid. 
 
 " I wish you hadn't tramped me through all the sploshiest 
 fields, Cliflfe." 
 
 "'Where there are cows there is dung! ' — simple Russian 
 proverb," he replied sententiously. " I'm compiling a book 
 
160 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 of them. Besides, you shouldn't have forgotten your um- 
 brella." 
 
 " I've never had an umbrella. . . . Think of it — never a 
 little umbrella of my own — and sometimes my arms are empty 
 — oh, so empty. ... I have to watch other women dandling 
 their umbrellas . . . and wonder why such happiness should 
 have been denied just to me. Sometimes, at night, I dream 
 that I have, after all, one dear little golden-headed umbrella 
 . . . and then I wake up to find it all a dream — all a dream — 
 perhaps I shall never have an lunbrella now . . ." Mourn- 
 fully she wriggled her toes down into the foot of her stocking. 
 He watched her from his sprawling, posture on the horsehair 
 sofa, and smiled. . . . 
 
 " Highly improper conversation. . . . Wonder if Samson 
 Phillips would approve of it? Does he still write you those 
 compromising letters about running brooks and Ella Wheeler 
 Wilcox? " 
 
 " Every Friday. Ella Wheeler Wilcox sounds like an oath, 
 the way you say it." 
 
 He swung himself upright, striking the pillow-sausage with 
 his fist. " It is an oath. Yes, I might have been a good man 
 if some confiding aunt hadn't roused my worst passions by a 
 gift of those eleven white, innocent-looking vellum volumes. 
 . . . 'And they were wed on a horsehair bed, and the dying 
 day was their priest.' Deb, would Samson Philips consider 
 the dying day an adequate priest for you and me? " 
 
 " I'll ask him if you like. I'm a privileged person with 
 Samson; he used to kiss-in-the-ring with me at children's 
 parties — a very serious young man unbending to play with the 
 little ones — and acquired a taste for me that way." 
 Cliffe hummed : 
 
 " Now that you're married we wish you joy 
 First a girl and then a boy — 
 Seven years after comes son and daughter — 
 Come, young couple, and kiss one another." 
 
 He repeated the last line softly . . . and a funny little 
 smile pranced at the corners of his mouth. " Is the game 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 161 
 
 old-fashioned, Deb, for present company? Here you are, 
 
 hopelessly compromised — entirely at my mercy " 
 
 She shook her head. " Much too old-fashioned ! " but was 
 nevertheless not quite sure how far the jocund spirit held sway. 
 . . . There was an element of primitive commonplace in man 
 which baffled all her utmost powers of histrionics — and she 
 knew it; expecting its most unexpected appearances. When 
 the invariable happened, she had hitherto been able to cope 
 with it in all its forms so triumphantly as to surprise even 
 herself — using alternatively the weapons of pure wonderment, 
 appeal to good comradeship, elfin irony, pathos of reminis- 
 cence. ... So far, she had had better luck than she deserved. 
 But each averted peril left her a little wearier of wayside 
 incident, a little more restless for the good thing which brought 
 rest. 
 
 And now — Cliffe. Or was it merely her fancy that his eyes 
 threatened? Even Cliffe, whose apparently happy sexlessness 
 had been a subject of such absorbing debate between herself 
 and Antonia and Zoe. Cliffe — even Cliffe — God's under- 
 study, who brought lovers together for his whimsy and parted 
 them for caprice; and whom no girl of them had caught in 
 lover mood himself — Even Cliffe — but he was a stranger to 
 her now, as they all were, the friendliest, when this thing 
 touched to life some fundamental antagonism. 
 
 " Behind the times, am I? Well, try the new way, then. 
 Advanced theory, and all that, . . . We don't love each other, 
 but let us experiment in life's stuff. We may . . . please 
 each other without loving. Why not? The Youth of today 
 refuses to squander itself in unsubstantial dreamings. Here 
 am I — here are you — brilliant young intellectuals. Eugenics 
 — and all that! Likewise, we are quite crudely frank about 
 our respective pasts; and render it fully clear that we have 
 no intention of making claims on sentiment or responsibility 
 beyond the present hour. And I am cynically epigrammatic 
 about marriage, and you are fairly amusing about chastity. 
 And then, let me see — yes — then we become serious and 
 rather subtle; introspective psychology — passion and its ef- 
 
162 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 feet on the individual temperament. — God! deliver me from 
 this modern fashion of erotic promiscuity masquerading as 
 Repertory Ethics! Give me instead the old-fashioned black- 
 guard and the out-of-date village maiden — and they'll play me 
 a decenter scene than ever achieved by all this twentieth- 
 century tangle-talk. Deb — I know a man and a girl who 
 consented to humour the State and get married for no better 
 reason than because they had saved up the price of a divorce, 
 to put in the bank — a sort of emergency exit. And they asked 
 me to admire their hideous sanity. * We'll take each other for 
 better,' the man sniggered — ' but why insist that two human 
 beings should take each other for worse? ' smug fool — as 
 though his beastly Marriage on a Reasonable Basis were worth 
 while, anticipating dreariness and weariness and satiety. To 
 go in for it gallantly, with hope and a ray of idealism — that's 
 marriage on a reasonable basis. But this fellow asked me to 
 admire him. . . ." 
 
 "Now, I wonder what you said to him to dispel that illu- 
 sion? " Deb was quite serene and comfortable again now that 
 ClifFe was making speeches. He could be reckoned to go on 
 for hours, his out-thrust chin propped on his clenched fists. 
 She suspected he might be equally wrathful and eloquent 
 had he chosen to hold forth in defence instead of in condemna- 
 tion of his subject. But still . . . 
 
 " People think, because there's a war on, it ought to reduce 
 the human psychology to a state of beautiful rustic Big Sim- 
 plicity. . . . ' We have no time for minute dissections of idea 
 
 in these times when ' Idiots! Windbags! As if war 
 
 itself — now — were a beautiful rustic simple Big thing. 
 Everything's complex to a verge of lunacy — it's the tendency 
 of evolution — war and peace and character and morality — 
 The war hasn't made a halfpenny-worth of difference — only 
 a khaki embrace gives a fictitious impression of bluff man- 
 liness. . . . Complexity is raging everywhere beneath the sur- 
 face layer of uniform, just the same — just the same. We're 
 all victims to it — you. Deb, and I, Deb. And the immediate 
 tormenting question of me and you ... we don't love each 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 163 
 
 other, do we? You who know too much and have done too 
 little? — do we?" 
 
 He rose to his gaunt height, and pressed his large hands on 
 her shoulders, and stood looking down upon her . . . she 
 wriggled a trifle uneasily. There was monotony in this pro- 
 cession of negative wooings, and she would have welcomed a 
 change. It might perhaps have been possible to care for 
 ClifTe — if he had not damped her ardour by presupposing the 
 contrary. If he had made love to her . . . love, like the 
 threshold of a dim yet familiar garden fresh with the night- 
 breath of drenched petals 
 
 And instead they were ruling her round with geometrical 
 lines and angles — theories! She raised her dragging white 
 eyelids and looked up at him with an intimate appeal for the 
 garden . . . the garden back again. . . . 
 
 His face grew suddenly stern. 
 
 " Go up to bed, child — I'm going for a walk on the Com- 
 mon " 
 
 But he did not remove his hands — till, swooping, he kissed 
 her gently on the forehead. And strode abruptly out of the 
 front door into the dark dripping road. 
 
 An uncanny familiarity about his action ... a detached 
 feeling of having once been the spectator — then Deb re- 
 membered. She had seen Cliffe treat Antonia in exactly the 
 same way. It was his celebrated Kiss of Renunciation, as 
 performed before all the Crowned Heads of Europe. . . . 
 
w 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ^' ^ ^ 7"HY didn't you turn up last night? " demanded Zoe 
 Dene-Cresswell, stepping in and out of her tiny 
 kitchen in a whirlwind effort to prepare dinner 
 for Pinto, keep " Quelle Vie," the King Charles spaniel, from 
 the sitting-room cushions, entertain Antonia Verity with an 
 account of her latest incredible adventure, and illustrate how 
 she would play her new part for the Andrea Film Co. There 
 was some reason — connected with the King Charles, or per- 
 haps with keeping the draught from the stove, or it was it an 
 amorous Italian gas-fitter who was not to know she was at 
 home? — which rendered it imperative that doors should be 
 perpetually opened and shut as she dashed from room to 
 room; and as there were more doors than sanity could find 
 reason for in the fourth floor flat in Soho, Deb was inhospitably 
 received by a gale of three separate slams, and was compelled 
 to make an informal entrance through the bedroom. All the 
 rooms led into one another, like a flat in farce; and, like a flat 
 in farce, the frequent cupboard doors were constructed suffi- 
 ciently like the others to trap a headlong fugitive into enforced 
 concealment; and most parts of the wall disconcertingly flew 
 open at a touch. 
 
 " It's all right, Zoe — only Deb," Antonia called into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " What did you do with Cliff e last night? " Zoe piped shrilly. 
 ** Such a perfectly awful thing happened here — I must tell 
 you " 
 
 " We stayed on at Seaview, and only came up this morning 
 — down, Quelle Vie! — Zoe, she's eating the radishes! " 
 
 " Shove her into the bathroom," indistinctly from Zoe, en- 
 
 164 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 165 
 
 veloped in a cloud of steam. " My dear, a simply awful thing 
 — I was just telling Antonia " 
 
 " Here, you bulgy -eyed little brute " 
 
 With a squeal Zoe darted out of the kitchen mists and 
 stopped Deb and the spaniel at the very threshold of the bath- 
 room. 
 
 " Come away — I forgot. Benvenuto's in there — little 
 Carlo from the ' Napoli ' — you know. He's having a bath." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "How should I knew why? — he looked fairly all right 
 from the top — but the poor little fellow begged me with the 
 tears in his eyes — he hasn't got one in his flat — and they're 
 so particular at the Napoli — I couldn't refuse him, could I, 
 Deb? He might lose his job. Besides, he's such a little gen- 
 tleman at heart — listen to him splashing so that he shouldn't 
 have to hear what I'm saying? I like that, don't you, Deb? It 
 shows nice feeling. And of course, he couldn't lock the door 
 because it doesn't lock. You might have walked right in and 
 how would he have felt then? The landlord never left me the 
 key, and I can't ask him for special favours because he's so 
 crazy about me he might take advantage — common little sand- 
 worm — I was just telling Antonia " 
 
 " I would hardly call it a special favour to ask for the key 
 of your bathroom door." Antonia's voice, soft and amused, 
 dropped like cool respite in Zoe's loud insistent gabble. 
 
 Zoe's conversational ability was a Juggernaut to her friends ; 
 it rolled on and on, destroying in its eternal passage those rash 
 victims who hurled themselves beneath the wheels. Nothing 
 could stop its course, not night nor anguish, nor the kettle 
 boiling over, nor the tailor's family doing murder on the land- 
 ing below. It could not be ignored, nor suffered as accom- 
 paniment to other deeds. It claimed hypnotized attention, 
 and by a perpetual insertion of "didn't I? " " well, don't you 
 agree? " "What do you think? " exacted response, and ex- 
 acting, passed over and crushed it. 
 
 And yet she was such a jolly little person, with a wide-eyed 
 tip-tilted air of a seraphim just introduced into the Cafe Royal 
 
166 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 and anxious to get the hang of the place; tumbled silvery curls; 
 and sleeves now rolled up to show a plump allure of forearm 
 and elbow. 
 
 " Pinto is coming to supper, we've got to make up a quarrel, 
 which means that he'll throw the furniture about, especially 
 if his crab salad isn't just right, so I simply can't come in and 
 talk to you, girls, but I can hear you quite well, so do go on 
 telling about ClifFe, Deb; was he almost human? I mean, 
 did he make love to you? don't say he did ... I like having 
 ClifFe about the flat to remind myself that a man exists who 
 can walk, breathe and eat and wash himself quite nicely, like 
 other men — and yet not want to kiss me. He doesn't, you 
 know — it's so funny, isn't it, Antonia? It never seems to 
 strike him. I've sat on the arm of his chair and pouted at him, 
 and stroked his head, and told him how lonely and miserable 
 I was, and how Pinto had left me for good and it's so hard 
 for a girl alone, and I've rubbed off all the lip salve because 
 he doesn't like it, and drawn his attention to the fact — and 
 still it doesn't seem to strike him. Sometimes I wonder if some- 
 thing is broken inside him — No, I don't mean ' Wear one of 
 Our Belts and lift the Grand Piano ' sort of thing — I meant 
 a kind of moral spring. Because even the post-office man 
 round the corner — it's perfectly awful — he's simply crazy 
 about me, and I don't know what to do, because one must have 
 stamps, mustn't one? I never dreamt he felt like that about 
 me till yesterday when I went in to phone, and he pretended 
 the penny-box was out of order, and came in to help me, and 
 — well, tliere I was in the dark alone with him, and he was 
 whispering in one ear about every part of me separately — 
 really appreciative, I must say — and Timothy Fawcett bawling 
 * Hello ' from the other end into my right ear — What was I 
 to do? I didn't know men were like that, did you. Deb? " 
 
 " There was no marked change for the worse in Cliffe's 
 behaviour," Deb replied to Zoe's question of ten minutes ago. 
 " In fact, it was depressingly like spending the night with one's 
 great-aunt. He sent me up to bed at a quarter to ten, and then 
 went for a short walk in the rain " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 167 
 
 " Wrestling with his evil passions, I hope — oh, Deb, do say 
 he was wrestling, and that his better self prevailed in the 
 end." 
 
 " It must have, because I saw no more of him till he banged 
 at my door with a morning carol, and no hot water. And I 
 didn't know men were like that, did you, Zoe? . . ." 
 
 Antonia said : " ClifFe will revise the episode, bind it, and 
 illustrate it, with a preface, and additional notes, and altera- 
 tions in the original text " 
 
 " Oh, I'm prepared to meet it again, looking like Ophelia 
 dressed by Paquin for the mad-scene. He'll boom it for a 
 fortnight, and then forget it. Cliffe never bothers to prop up 
 his lies, once he's tired of them ; he lets them crawl about and 
 go bad." 
 
 "And then sometimes he remembers, and picks them up 
 again in a very enfeebled condition, and coaxes them to take 
 a little nourishment." 
 
 " What I want to know," Zoe clattered in with an assortment 
 of plates, knives and forks, " is how much he believes in them 
 himself? " 
 
 Antonia expressed her opinion that he believed in them 
 altogether; was possessed of an illimitable imagination which 
 did not timidly boggle at fact or possibility, but soared in 
 ascending spirals of ecstasy to a heaven wherein as he spoke 
 them all things were. 
 
 " Well, what I say is that it's all very well when he's just 
 creating people that don't exist, to fill a gap in the conversation, 
 or to point a moral, or draw attention to himself. But he's 
 dangerous when he prods about for material about his friends. 
 The things he's said about me. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, you, Zoe ! " Antonia affectionately ruffled the other 
 girl's hair. " You outstep even Cliff e's genius ! Have the 
 good people on these premises been warned about the curse 
 you bring? " 
 
 For Zoe carried about with her an atmosphere of sensational 
 happenings — police-court happenings. When she moved into 
 new quarters, they were bound presently to be the scene of a 
 
168 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 murder with some novel attendant features; or a burglary on 
 a particularly large scale; or a police-raid would reveal the 
 premises to be a house of lurid ill-fame; or a criminal would 
 be found taking refuge. . . . And in all these violent happen- 
 ings, Zoe, wide-eyed as ever and volubly innocent, somehow 
 contrived to take the stage as a central figure; she it was who 
 all unsuspecting had inspired the Polish barrow-vendor with 
 the passion which had aroused his wife's homicidal frenzy; 
 she who had detained the master-burglar — God only knows 
 how! — while the police were being stealthily summoned; she 
 whom the procureuse on the first floor had essayed to tempt 
 into white slavery. ..." My dear, she thought I was only 
 seventeen and knew nothing! " and afterwards testified the 
 same to a genial and admiring magistrate; she in whose flat 
 the criminal was discovered in hiding — " poor fellow — you 
 simply should have seen how he looked at me! " 
 
 So, like a Banshee visiting a parvenu Irish family who didn't 
 even know they had one, Zoe was now dwelling above a 
 gradation of Jewish tailors — a tailor and his family to each 
 floor — all in feud with one another. Clifi^e Kennedy foretold 
 an imminent pogrom as being novel and appropriate to her 
 present surroundings. Zoe's subsequent description of events 
 were always a delight to her audiences — and to herself; for 
 though she pretended to extreme indignation at her victimage, 
 yet no doubt but that her vanity was elated at being so con- 
 spicuously selected for the limelight. 
 
 It was during these narratives, animated by a complete 
 pantomime of imitation, that a quality in Zoe which usually 
 puzzled by its intangibility was washed broadly to the surface 
 — a quality of eighteenth-century coarse heartiness, a fleshy 
 stridency recalling the pictures of Hogarth. . . . 
 
 Zoe read mostly of the Smollett, Fielding, Richardson and 
 Sterne period. She had an odd liking for Dr. Johnson and also 
 for Dan Chaucer. The latter's robust sensuality appealed to 
 her. Though she often aped the loveable baby, she was a 
 shrewd little body, well qualified to look after herself and to 
 deal with her swarming adorers, of whom at least half as many 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 169 
 
 existed in reality as in her rollicking fancy. Competent, too, 
 at cooking and housekeeping — Pinto had seen to that. 
 
 Pinto was a bad-tempered and highly respectable Portuguese 
 gentleman of means, who was engaged to marry Zoe. They 
 had been engaged four years already, and although Zoe did 
 not allow his formal proprietorship to interfere with her more 
 enjoyable activities, yet the inexplicable freak of her love for 
 Pinto admitted of no contradiction. He bullied her, and she 
 was abject; he sulked, and she wooed him with succulent 
 dishes; he shouted at her, and she was silent; he had tooth- 
 ache, and she wept. Her life was a perpetual scamper to clear 
 her premises of their illegitimate riff-raff before the arrival of 
 Pinto; for she was essentially "bonne gosse," and could no 
 more have refused one man her kiss, and another her company, 
 than now her bathroom to Benvenuto the oboe-player. 
 
 Pinto was not a favourite among Zoe's friends; and hearing 
 that he was momentarily expected. Deb and Antonia rose to go. 
 
 " Come any time you like to spend a night here. Deb, to make 
 up for yesterday. I love to have you, and you know the sofa 
 is comfy enough. Antonia, you look such a darling in your 
 khaki, I've half a mind to throw up the movies and become a 
 General's chauffeuse myself. I'm sure the dear old doddery 
 thing would simply adore me, don't you think he would? I 
 could perch on his knee and pull his whiskers when I wasn't 
 driving him to Headquarters. I've really thought lately of 
 doing war-work, haven't you. Deb? I know some one who 
 said he could get me a job at the Admiralty." 
 
 "Heaven forbid! " Antonia cried in horror; "Do remem- 
 ber that as a nation we rely above all on our command of the 
 seas. To have the Admiralty demoralized into a Palais Royale 
 burlesque of banging doors and everybody helter-skelter after 
 everybody else. . . . Prove your patriotism and stop where 
 you are, Zoe! it's safer. And I won't have my Major-General 
 tampered with either," she added demurely; "He's not much 
 over forty and very good-looking." 
 
 Zoe sighed: "You are lucky; there's nothing you couldn't 
 do with that irresistible peak to your cap. . . . But 1 really 
 
170 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 should be sorry to chuck up the part I'm rehearsing; it's a 
 tremendously fascinating plot, and so simple. I must tell you : 
 The boyish hero Jim falls in love with Dolores, a wild Spanish- 
 gipsy sort of woman much older than he is, and mar- 
 ries her. She gets tired of him, and runs away with some- 
 thing debonair called Raoul, and they have a child and 
 Dolores dies. Seventeen years later Jim meets the child and 
 adopts her and loves her and marries her — and she gets 
 tired of him, and runs away with something debonair called 
 Rene, and they have a child, and then get killed in a circus. 
 Years later Jim meets the child and adopts her, loves her and 
 marries her, and she gets tired of him, ... it goes on like that 
 for generations, until dear old Jim gets a little silver-powdery 
 at the temples, but even that doesn't seem to stop him. I 
 play the child each time." 
 
 "And always the same Jim? The film ought to be called 
 * The Recurring Decimal,' " laughed Deb. " We must go and 
 see it when it comes on. 'Bye, Zoe, I hear Pinto's step on the 
 ground-floor, and Benvenuto's bath-water running away." 
 
 Zoe flew to smother the incriminating oboe-player ; and Deb, 
 and Antonia departed. On the dark stairs they encountered 
 Pinto, puffing noisily, and carrying a large jar of olives. 
 
 II 
 
 " She will be pleased with the olives," Pinto complacently 
 informed himself. Then he tripped over a basin of some 
 peculiarly odorous fish soaking in water, which the First Tail- 
 or's children had left on the landing. His temper changed. 
 
 " She will be overjoyed — it may be she thought I had left 
 her for always. Now I return and I bring her olives. It is 
 good of me. . . ." 
 
 Zoe did not care for olives, but Pinto had overlooked this 
 fact. He happened to have a taste for them himself. . . . 
 
 A black figure shot past him and downstairs as though dis- 
 charged from a catapult. It was Benvenuto the oboe-player. 
 
 On the next landing, the children of the Second Tailor came 
 out and drove a hoop at Pinto's legs, under the impression that 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 171 
 
 he was a kind gentleman. He disabused them of the notion, 
 and scowling heavily and panting more than ever, toiled on. 
 It was deepest ingratitude on the part of Zoe to live on the 
 fourth floor. 
 
 The children of the Third Tailor merely blocked his way, 
 snuffling heavily. Their sombre eyes and unspoken speech was 
 that of Maeterlinckian drama: "We have seen him be- 
 fore. . . ." " We have seen him a great many times. . . ." 
 " He is seeking the princess in the tower-room. . . ." " What 
 is it that he holds in his hand — I cannot tell — it is so 
 dark. . . ." " Hush — draw closer. . . ." 
 
 Pinto had now reached the topmost flat, and handing Zoe 
 the olives, coldly awaited her answering burst of enthusiasm. 
 Unfortunately he had so often reprimanded her for displays 
 of undue effervescence, that Zoe limited her gratitude to a 
 meek " Thank you very much, Pinto." 
 
 Pinto was aggrieved. He shrugged his shoulders — de- 
 manded his dinner ; reproved Zoe for having her sleeves tucked 
 up — ("You look like an ill-bred cook! ") — conmaented un- 
 favourably on the sort of household which lacked a corkscrew 
 — ("When I take trouble to bring you a jar of olives! ") — 
 and finally broke the news that he was going to Paris on busi- 
 ness for a month. 
 
 Zoe, smarting under the charge of a lack of feeling, flung 
 herself into Pinto's arms, wailing aloud her grief; he was 
 horribly jarred by her piteous want of control, but shutting 
 his eyes, suffered it uncomplainingly for a moment; then 
 condescendingly pulled her ear, and remarked that he expected 
 her behaviour during his absence to be circumspect, discreet 
 and loyal. 
 
 Zoe promised. 
 
 in 
 
 "Coming home with me for dinner. Deb? " 
 
 "Yes. Antonia " 
 
 "Well?" They had walked along in silence for a little 
 while, after quitting Zoe's flat. 
 
172 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " You're thinking that I ought not to have stayed down at 
 Seaview with Cliffe." 
 
 " Why should you suppose I'm a prig who can't mind her 
 own business, Deb? " 
 
 " There was no harm in it," Deb pleaded, as though Antonia 
 had condemned her. 
 
 "That's just it"— slowly. Then: "No, Deb, don't make 
 me — please " 
 
 " I know. I know. The same whatever I do. No harm in 
 it, but you wouldn't have done it yourself." 
 
 " Not with Cliffe." 
 
 Deb assented in anxious self-defence: " One might as well 
 be staying under the roof of a nice old lady." 
 
 " Then — is it worth breaking the rules for — that? " 
 
 " You believe in rules. I don't. I'm a rebel." 
 
 " Half a rebel. Or you wouldn't be justifying yourself 
 quite so hotly." 
 
 " And you're wholly a saint ! " Deb flared, rather unreason- 
 ably, as she had pushed the other girl to attack. 
 
 " Because I don't stay under the roof of nice old ladies? 
 
 It's futile. When two people care like Gillian and Theo " 
 
 she stopped short, as though she had not meant to let slip the 
 names. 
 
 " I'm always hearing of Gillian and Theo. Are they mar- 
 ried? " 
 
 "No. Theo Pandos has got a wife somewhere. He's a 
 Greek. Clever — but a cad." 
 
 " And Gillian Sherwood is a celebrity, isn't she? " 
 
 " In her own line she's supposed to be unique. Bacteriology. 
 . . . She did a rather wonderful piece of research, and all 
 the hoary professors of science and medicine bent before her 
 and kowtowed. It's a shame she should squander herself on 
 
 Theo, j ust as it's a shame " Passionately she renewed her 
 
 attack on Deb: "You've betrayed us all. . . . Cliffe will sup- 
 pose that any girl — I — I hate him to think so. Why can't 
 you run away from them — instead of towards them? " 
 
 " I don't," whispered Deb piteously. " I stop where I am." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 173 
 
 "Then — run!" with an imperious stamp of the strapped 
 and booted foot. "You little Oriental! " 
 
 "As if they were our natural enemies? perpetual hunters? 
 It seems so silly and self-conscious." Nevertheless she recog- 
 nized Antonia's spirit poised for flight, and applauded it — the 
 spirit of a juvenile athlete. ... It really had been a pro- 
 ceeding rather without purpose, to remain at Seaview. Antonia 
 never did things without purpose. " I love you in gauntlets 
 and puttees, Antonia." 
 
 The General's chauffeuse laughed at the flattery. " By the 
 way, did Zoe say Timothy had been 'phoning her? " 
 
 "Little Tim Fawcett? Yes, I believe she mentioned him — 
 it was rather swamped in a lurid story about a post-office clerk." 
 
 " Take on Timothy — yes, you. I'm not keen on Zoe's in- 
 fluence there. He's such a serious baby, and he'll idealize her." 
 
 " He might also idealize me. Besides, I'm not going to 
 * take on ' anybody. You've just been bullying me about it. 
 My soul henceforth shall pace apart among narrow aisles of 
 lilies " 
 
 "Tiger-lilies?" 
 
 They were at the door of the house in St. John's Wood now. 
 The maid admitted them, and Antonia, passing her, called out: 
 " Come straight through into the studio. Deb." 
 
 " Please, Miss Antonia, Miss Sherwood is there, waiting for 
 you." 
 
 " Gillian ! " Antonia stopped short. She looked at the 
 maid — then at Deb. A variety of baffling expressions flitted 
 across her face. ..." Has she been there long? " 
 
 " Oh yes. Miss, nearly an hour." The maid disappeared. 
 
 " I'm so glad — I wanted to meet her." Deb was frankly 
 eager for the long-deferred encounter . . . but Antonia was 
 behaving strangely; standing rigid and immobile, her slender 
 eyebrows contracted as in some desperate effort to rally a final 
 expedient against fate. With a little sigh she let her clenched 
 hands fall open in surrender. . . . 
 
 "Come along," and moved towards the passage which led 
 down the garden towards the studio. 
 
174 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 The large sky-lit spaces were empty. A scrawled note lay 
 on the box of oil-tubes: "Sorry — couldn't wait any longer. 
 Come on Tuesday evening if you can. G. M. S." Antonia 
 read aloud. The suspended colour had flooded back to her 
 face drowning it in carmine. She crumpled the paper into a 
 ball and flung it towards the waste-paper basket. Her aim just 
 missed. 
 
 " Take oflF your hat, Deb," she cried cheerfully. 
 
 " Let's see the celebrity's handwriting." Deb picked up 
 Gillian's note and read: "Sorry, couldn't wait any longer. 
 Come on Tuesday evening if you can, and bring Deb Marcus. 
 CliflFe says I'd like her. G. M. S." 
 
 "Antonia!" 
 
 " Yes? " Antonia's back was turned. She was apparently 
 absorbed in scraping a palette. 
 
 " Why did you — Antonia, I want to know Gillian Sherwood. 
 Why don't you let me? " 
 
 *' And the good angel and the bad shall fight together for this 
 man's soul," murmured Antonia. Then she dropped the 
 palette, and faced round, all her delicate pearliness broken up 
 to passion — the passion of the earnest priestess for a convert 
 in danger : " Yes, you're right. Deb — I have been working 
 to keep you and Gillian apart, now, and before now, and I've 
 not given in yet. Accident has backed me up this time.'* 
 
 "But why? Antonia — why? Not just jealousy?" 
 
 " No, child — not just jealousy. But Gillian Sherwood is on 
 her way to do what yoU must be prevented from doing. And 
 I don't trust her influence. If Jill cares for Theo, and gives 
 herself to Theo — it's a splendid person thrown away, but not 
 frittered away. But you," scornfully, " you'd be all over the 
 place — once you started. You shan't start." 
 
 Again Deb asked " Why? " 
 
 Antonia flashed her a smile which was a radiant appeal to 
 good comradeship: "Because . . . you're such a little 
 goose! " 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 CLIFFE KENNEDY, entering the Tube at Charing Cross, 
 caught sight of Mr. Otto Redbury between the bobbing 
 hats and swaying bodies that crowded up the carriage; 
 and immediately pushed his way to a strap which directly 
 overhung that gentleman's head. 
 
 Cliffe always asserted that on the occasion Deb took him to 
 call, he had discovered a tricky fascination about Mr. Redbury; 
 this was clearly an opportunity to refresh the emotion. 
 
 Otto waved the evening paper at him, in jubilant greeting. 
 
 " Anozzer vamous fictory! " 
 
 " The little grandchild Wilhelmine has made the phrase 
 immortal," murmured Cliffe. " How lucky for her that she 
 rhymed with village green." 
 
 Otto looked uneasy; not comprehending the reference, but 
 wishing that somebody had informed the young man that the 
 Redbury grandchild was better referred to in public as Minnie. 
 He changed the subject. 
 
 " You live somevere on zis line, Mr. Gennedy? I get out at 
 Pelzize Bark." 
 
 " Oooo . . . nice! " gurgled Cliffe. Otto looked interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 Cliffe serenely covered his lapse from manners. " Hamp- 
 stead is my station. Our house is on the Heath itself. You 
 must come and make friends with my mother, Mr. Redbury. 
 She'd like you so much. Come to lunch one day. Come on 
 Saturday." 
 
 Mr. Redbury beamed and puffed out his meagre chest, an- 
 ticipating the conquest of Mrs. Kennedy. This was undoubt- 
 edly a very pleasant and discriminating young man. ..." But 
 I always vind blenty in gommon viz English people — the 
 
 175 
 
176 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 good old shtock; " — sentiment reserved for the after benefit 
 of Trudchen ; and to impress Beatrice. 
 
 " Yoo-stone ! " bawled the guard. A number of passengers 
 squeezed their way out; and Cliffe dropped lightly on to the 
 vacated seat beside Otto. 
 
 " My dear mother's a widow, so don't bring your wife. She 
 was deeply attached to my poor father, and can't bear the sight 
 of any woman less fortunate in a husband alive." 
 
 Otto, groping after what was complimentary in this out- 
 burst, came to the conclusion that the clang of the gates had 
 obliterated its part meaning. 
 
 " Besides," Cliffe ran on, in a rapid confidential undertone, 
 " why be for ever bound by the conventions? — Look at all the 
 
 jaded joyless faces " A rubicund Jack Tar opposite 
 
 grinned broadly, thrust his tongue in his cheek, his arm round 
 his girl beside him, and rolled an expressive eye in Cliffe's 
 direction. " The day's routine, and the jolting train, and a 
 dreary little home in Camden Town, and the evening paper, 
 and another day — and another, and yet another. . . . What 
 those faces want, Mr. Redbury, and I see you agree with me, is 
 Paganism — joie de vivre — a gallop with the centaurs! " 
 
 His companion, who would have turned peevish and retired 
 into his bathroom stronghold at the very first encounter with 
 a centaur, nodded sagely. . . . 
 
 "0 glorious Life! " rhapsodized Cliffe, stretching forth his 
 arms, oblivious of his neighbours' discomfort and astonishment. 
 
 " Wass-vot? who vere you viz last night? " chuckled Otto, 
 his eyes mere slits of lewd curiosity. 
 
 "Last night . . . last night . . ." ecstatically — then came 
 an imperceptible halt, as Cliffe discarded a comparatively 
 innocent evening spent at home with Philip Gibbs' " Soul of 
 the War," in favour of his almost equally harmless adventure 
 with .Deb at Seaview the week-end before. This would serve, 
 touched up with scarlet and purple; it was additionally spiced 
 by the reflection of how Otto's whetted tongue would loll out, 
 metaphorically speaking, if he knew that the heroine of this 
 presented drama of Real Life as it isn't, was Deb Marcus, his 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 177 
 
 late partner's daughter, and a friend of his own daughter Nell. 
 
 " Two of us — and the great scented common rolling away 
 from our doors to a star-stabbed sky. Two of us — for when 
 the little Dryad so long immersed in the oak-tree of tradition, 
 sprang out at last into my arms, her hair wildly ablow, and 
 with lips red as blood, then all the pettier issues of the Philis- 
 tines were trampled, I say trampled, Mr. Redbury, under the 
 wings which sprang godlike from our exultant shoulder blades ! 
 . . . (Oh God! what a sentence! . , .)" 
 
 " Camden Town ! " 
 
 The morbidly interested school-girl on Cliffe's left was re- 
 luctant to alight — but that happened to be her station, and 
 she dared not be late for supper. 
 
 Otto, as the train gathered speed again, turned to Cliffe 
 expectantly, as a hint that confidences might be resumed. Of 
 course he disapproved of these casual rollicking nights spent 
 unchaperoned save by the rolling common . . . disapproved 
 and was biliously envious: but — but — his look was akin to a 
 nudge in the ribs — and Kennedy, always obliging, discarded 
 poetic eloquence in favour of the one-dog-to-another style 
 obviously more suited to the temperament of Mr. Redbury. 
 He was thoroughly enjoying his own pose of the young- 
 Bohemian type he most abominated in practice. 
 
 " You know how it is " was sufficient to sound the new 
 
 note of waggishness. "You've heard the old joke about hang- 
 ing pictures, Mr. Redbury — I bet you have " 
 
 "Ho! ho! ho! "from Otto. 
 
 " We were — hanging pictures . . . and missed the train 
 home — the last train but one " 
 
 " And the last drain of all vent too late, eh? " 
 
 " Well — there it is, you see — you can't bring a girl home 
 at any hour — especially if her father's at all particular — as 
 fathers sometimes are — as fathers sometimes are, Mr. Red- 
 bury." 
 
 And Otto chuckled and winked and coughed and cleared his 
 throat, and settled his cuffs, and chuckled again, as though 
 the lives of Hedda and Nell were never rendered a burden to 
 
178 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 them by the paternal injunction: " Home by nine o'clock, and 
 bed at ten " — and interposed a swaggering if somewhat la- 
 boured anecdote of his own secret unorthodoxy — " We dake it 
 for granted this is between you and me, yong vellow ! " 
 
 "Belsipark! " The doors flew ajar. 
 
 Cliffe replied with a corresponding drop into gravity : " I 
 trust equally in your discretion regarding the confidence I have 
 placed in you, Mr. Redbury " 
 
 ". . . Of course he'll prattle — but I mentioned no names," 
 as Otto, trotting up the platform towards the exit, cast through 
 the window of the compartment a look of unutterable fraternity 
 and knowingness. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 OCTOBER brought Samson Phillips to town for six weeks 
 of special signalling instruction. Quite suddenly, from 
 lethargic standing about in the vicinity of Deb, as he 
 had done since her kiss-in-the-ring days, some imseen goad 
 prodded him into courtship. The old-fashioned word exactly 
 expressed the flavour of his proceedings. Perhaps he was 
 afraid she would sink too deeply into the mire of Bohemianism, 
 as exemplified by La lloraine and Cliffe Kennedy, in whose 
 company he had found her on his previous leave. At all 
 events, without quite knowing how it came about. Deb perceived 
 the handsome sapper to be a prominent factor in her daily 
 life. He rang her up on the 'phone regularly every morning, 
 and was alternately facetious or reproachfully tender in claim- 
 ing her for the theatre, or a jaunt in the country, or dinner 
 with his people. The play or the restaurant was always se- 
 lected by him with due care for her innocence and not her 
 preference. He loaded her with gifts that were a compromise 
 between the generosity of an Eastern potentate in the wooing 
 of a rapacious slave-girl, and such restraint as decorum de- 
 mands before an engagement be a sealed fact: books of poetry, 
 principally Spencer's " Faerie Queen," flowers, chocolates, crys- 
 tallized fruits — gloves ... he was not quite sure about the 
 gloves, and consulted his sister Beatrice, who said she thought 
 a slight touch of unconventionality might be pleasing to Deb; 
 — and war-trophies, which of course were " different." 
 
 The Phillips men always conducted a courtship with their 
 entire family rolling up behind them, wave after wave, and 
 ready with a hearty benison instantly the signal for readiness 
 should be given. A man with honest intentions need make 
 
 179 
 
180 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 no secret of them, Samson sturdily contended. Not only the 
 Phillips' mother and grandparents and sisters and three 
 younger brothers with their wives, but also, by virtue of Bea- 
 trice's marriage, the whole Redbury family assisted at the 
 pretty spectacle of a dark-haired Jewish maiden wooed and won 
 by a son of the same tribe. Deb told Antonia it was like being 
 courted in the Arena at Olympia on a day when thrown open 
 to the general public. Her set also were amused, though less 
 ostentatiously, by the progress of the affair ; it was of a species 
 new to them, and Zoe and Cliffe, in particular, were clamorous 
 for details; puzzled that Deb withheld these. For in spite of 
 her exasperation with the Phillips en masse, she was loyal 
 enough Jewess to protect her own clan from the levity of the 
 Gentile. She confided in Antonia; Antonia knew when to con- 
 trol mere ribaldry; and to consider Samson as a human being, 
 instead of an entertainment. 
 
 The whole wooing was not so incongruous to Deb's tempera- 
 ment as the Studio Gang believed it. They made no account 
 of her fundamental racial instincts responsive to just such a 
 reaction from truancy, nor to the first twenty years of her life, 
 spent in an atmosphere where Samson's methods would have 
 seemed wholly normal and pleasing. The incongruity only 
 appeared when contrasted with more recent imprints on her 
 development. These were responsible for her first careless 
 acceptance of Samson's appropriation; she forgot, until too 
 deeply committed for withdrawal, that his actions and her 
 acquiescence were here expressive of more ponderous signifi- 
 cance than in the case of Cliff^e Kennedy, for instance. She 
 forgot, in fact, at the outset of the event, that the Samsons of 
 this world do not lend themselves to wayside incident. 
 
 Apprehension faintly stirred in her only when she saw escape 
 everywhere blocked, by the solemnly joyful expectation of 
 Samson's mother and grandparents who had so long and pa- 
 tiently waited for the eldest son to make his choice; by the 
 already-one-of-the-family chaff of his younger brothers and 
 their wives (Samson shorn of his strength by Delilah was a 
 recurringly favourite joke with them) ; by her own folly in 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 181 
 
 having yielded whenever he petitioned for her company; 
 mainly, by Samson's propensity to propose to her in the form 
 of an arithmetical allegory in which Cliffe Kennedy hazily 
 figured — " Supposing one Man were to have known one Girl 
 for sixteen years, and she had known another Man for three 
 and a half months, while the first Man was away; and the first 
 Man came home again for six weeks, how long ought he to wait 
 before taking the Girl to drink from the Singing Stream? " 
 
 The Singing Stream was not a public-house. It was Sam- 
 son's way of alluding to pure love. He was obsessed by the 
 notion that if you take a girl to the water, she cannot help but 
 be freshened and purified by mere sight of its freshness and 
 purity. 
 
 Bohemia to him meant dancing and carnival and riot in hot 
 studios; it meant glaring lights and stifling air and glittering 
 evening dress. All the nineteenth-century rigmarole: the flash, 
 and gleam of bare limbs; the dark hectic red of spilt wine; 
 exotic music, and the stage, and doubtful witticisms and free 
 love — free love as opposed to real love. It was his fixed idea 
 that literally to remove Deb from the fetid atmosphere and 
 take her to where a stream babbled and gurgled and splashed 
 over the stones and between green banks, was then and there 
 bound to react upon her system in the way that he so desired. 
 
 It did not take Deb long to perceive his motive for these day- 
 long jaunts into the country; and mischief urged her to play 
 up; to dabble her fingers among the slippery shallows — it was 
 fortunately a warm October — and to sigh . . . once or twice 
 
 . . . and murmur " I wish " and be wistfully silent again 
 
 . . . and dabble a bit more . . . was quite sufficient to make 
 Samson preen himself, owning the stream, her thoughts, the 
 crude blue sky, and the entire healing balm of Nature. He 
 wished her to be convinced of her folly in lingering to gaze at 
 Vanity Fair, when she might have been weaving willow gar- 
 lands. It was inconceivable that she had done more than 
 gaze with childish long-lashed eyes . . . not knowing what she 
 saw. . . . 
 
 As though in complete sympathy with the cause of reform, 
 
182 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 running water seemed to follow him about automatically. 
 Whatever haphazard portion of country they rambled, the 
 persistent brook appeared like an obedient servant on com- 
 mand. Deb began to wish her education were completed; the 
 weather might any day turn chill and dreary. With this in 
 mind, she perched upon a couple of rickety boards which 
 roughly bridged a sparkle of narrow river, and shamelessly 
 determined to put forth her powers to exact forthwith the 
 inevitable proposal, and thus be through with it. 
 
 She had not the same compunction in dealing with Samson 
 Phillips that might have wrung her had he been the good- 
 natured, faithful type of fool she had at first imagined him. 
 The man had revealed himself a fanatic, whose gospel was 
 Simple Goodness; but who in preaching it materialized its 
 intangible fragrance as of garnered apples, into a quality of 
 cold iron; forbidding, repellant. High-principled he cer- 
 tainly was, but intolerantly throned and totally without forgive- 
 ness. He would have made martyrs where he could not make 
 converts. He destroyed Simple Goodness, in his harsh ad- 
 vocacy, as he had destroyed the beauty of running water, by 
 letting it serve as object-lesson. 
 
 On this berry and bronze morning of October, Deb opposed 
 to him a dancing elfin mood that was far more nimbly in accord 
 with the tags of fluttering colour blown from the trees into the 
 eddies of writhing silver, with the jolly boisterous hedges, all 
 aflame and a-prickle, a blaze of hips and haws webbed in the 
 powdery tangle of old-man's-beard — Deb was more wickedly 
 and wantonly a part of such a morning as this, kicking her legs 
 to and fro from the plank which spanned the water, than Sam- 
 son with all his most complacent hopes for her betterment 
 and cure could have deemed possible. 
 
 " This is how I like to see you looking," he said, lying full 
 length on the bank, and smiling lazily across at her. " Come, 
 now, isn't it better than studios? " 
 
 " Supposing a girl should marry a man " — (" and I don't see 
 why he shouldn't do some mathematics for a change," reflected 
 Deb) — " Supposing a girl should marry a man, and the man 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 183 
 
 had different tastes from the girl, about studios and nature, 
 
 you know, and they had two children " Samson turned 
 
 his head away, and nibbled grass — " and both had the same 
 tastes as either one of the parents, ought the other to give up 
 his or her own feelings about things or force them on the 
 children, supposing he or she to be sure his or her ways were 
 the best? " 
 
 And she waited solemnly for him to work it out. 
 
 He won respect by neither flinching nor compromising. " A 
 man should never allow his children to be brought up away 
 from Nature, whatever they may want themselves." 
 
 " Yes " — straddling the plank so as to face him — " but isrCt 
 what they want themselves. Nature? And if it isn't natural for 
 them to want Nature " 
 
 " Then they are unnatural children," said Samson, stamping 
 with firm boots on his mythical offspring. 
 
 Deb's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Fancy had quickened 
 into momentary life a pair of baby creatures like herself, 
 eager for bright, useless toys, perversely breaking them at each 
 fresh disappointment . . . her children, pressed and wrenched 
 into the pattern their inflexible father judged best for them. . . . 
 
 The might-have-been faded, and was replaced by an exultant 
 sense of escape. Thank God, these children — hers and Sam- 
 son's — need never live and be sorrowful; thank God, she was 
 still free to scamper away and play. 
 
 " Deb " he pulled the peak of his cap down over his 
 
 eyes; and his words were pumped out with extreme difficulty. 
 " Deb, will you marry me? " 
 
 " No — oh, no " — reaction was still too violent to admit of 
 polite temporizing. 
 
 A long silence while Samson assimilated her refusal. An 
 interminable silence. Was he wondering what his family 
 would say? They were in such a crucial condition of expect- 
 ancy that he would have to tell them when he got home — the 
 telling would not be easy. . . . Deb rebelliously tried to jerk 
 pity aside; it was his own fault. The right sort of man would 
 have been decently uncommunicative till his desire was an 
 
184 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 accomplished fact; so typically Jewish to drag in the entire 
 household! Or else he should have chosen a maiden more suit- 
 able to be the object of his benevolent chivalry. She had not 
 deliberately hoodwinked him into belief that she was this 
 maiden, so unlettered in life as his obstinacy chose to assert. 
 The accordion stretches or shrinks according to the player. 
 She hummed a tag of verse: 
 
 " He made a plaster image and he put it on a shelf 
 With a few assorted virtues that he didn't want himself." 
 
 — Outburst of romping spirits muted quickly at recollection 
 of the figure lying motionless and with back turned towards 
 her. . . . He was the only man who had ever spoken the 
 actual words to her: " Will you marry me? " Funny! Years 
 ago, before they quarrelled, she and Con were canoeing in a 
 sort of hazy dreamland when it was taken for granted between 
 them that they would canoe thus into all eternity; and the 
 other men. . . . What on earth had led Samson to such a 
 mistake in selection? From the outside, of course, she ap- 
 peared to have most of the requisites: same faith, decent family, 
 right age (a year or two older than perfection, perhaps, but 
 nothing to fuss about!) good looks, good health, good man- 
 ners — the presence of his mother had always petrified her 
 into gentle orthodoxy . . . but surely, surely, he must have 
 sensed behind these layers, something wrong — Well, not 
 exactly wrong, but different. Perhaps he did realize it now, 
 and was relieved ... he hardly looked relieved — furtively 
 her eyes peeped towards him, and then quickly away again . . . 
 an almost stricken expression to his recumbent lines. Surely 
 she could not be responsible for that? What possible thread 
 of affinity was taut and silken between her and Samson that 
 any act of hers could reach him and hurt him? He should 
 have been sensible — Deb kicked petulantly at a low bough 
 near her foot — the suitable kind of girl would have accepted 
 him joyfully; would be nestling her head against his shoulder 
 by now; causing him to feel so strong and brave and protec- 
 tive; and he could have taken her home, and proudly trumpeted 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 185 
 
 his engagement, and the united family could have poured out 
 lavish blessings . . . quite wonderful, in its Suitable way, this 
 Suitable dream; she could see that; only it did not fit her, or 
 else she did not fit it ... a dream going begging! 
 
 Still silent? Another glimmering look from between her 
 lashes, two black fans, long in the centre, dwindling at either 
 corner. He must be badly hurt . . . grace touched her to pen- 
 itence again. After all, he had wanted just her — so there 
 must be a particle of her very self, apart from all miscon- 
 ception, which had tugged him to love and to pain. 
 
 Yes — but can't he look after himself? Need I? need I? 
 No one looked after me when the Soldier. . . . Need one be 
 nice to grown-up men ? Because even when it's only a boy — 
 even when it's Lothar von Relling, nobody understands that 
 you're just " trying to be nice." . . . She had been waiting over 
 a year for a little heavenly approbation for that act. Neverthe- 
 less, she ought to have said something softening in answer to 
 Samson's avowal, besides the bald and honest: "Oh no" 
 . . . Manners! — What did one say? " Believe me. Sir, I am 
 deeply sensible of the honour you have done me, though all 
 unworthy of it," — Deb could not suppress a joyous gurgle of 
 laughter — she was free — free — light of heel and of heart. 
 No more arithmetical allegories; nor deriving of solid moral 
 benefit from the sight of running water; nor suffocation under 
 the possessive approval of a good Jewish family; nor quaking 
 in apprehension of the proposal to come. She was free to re- 
 turn to the set of wild young heretics who knew her as she was 
 — or a little worse — in place of these others who thought her 
 so much better, and to whom her real self would have been a 
 mystifying disaster. 
 
 Samson stirred at the sound of her laugh. " Come along, 
 we shall miss our train," he said curtly. The peak of his cap 
 stood between them all the way home. To avoid being alone 
 with her, he chose a crowded compartment for their journey 
 home, and completed it in a motor omnibus, instead of a taxi- 
 cab according to custom. Deb submitted meekly, feeling as 
 though she were being punished for naughtiness. It was her 
 
186 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 nature to cling affectionately even to unpleasant conditions, 
 directly they had established any claims of habit; so that it 
 was with a pang of kindliness that from the steps of Montagu 
 Hall she saw Samson salute her and stride away: 
 " And now I shall never see him again ! " 
 
 II 
 
 She saw him again three evenings afterwards. His mother 
 wrote, cordially bidding her to dinner. Deb, with every in- 
 clination to behave like a coward and refuse, yet felt it incum- 
 bent upon her to " face the music." . . . She had eaten at the 
 Phillips' table every day and sometimes twice a day, for a 
 fortnight. But she could not help considering the invitation a 
 mistake in tactics — What more could they want of her, now? 
 
 She consulted Richard: "D'you think I need go? It'll be 
 like a funeral. I feel I ought to bring a wreath." 
 
 " Sure you don't want him? " asked Richard gravely. 
 
 " No — no — no. I should have to go to Synagogue, and 
 dine with the whole family at Mrs. Phillips' every single night 
 — they never seem, any of them, to dine at their own houses. 
 And have a Visitors' Day. And do good works; not good 
 work, but good works. And never read anything except the 
 Faerie Queen and Rosa Nouchette Carey, and the newspaper 
 leaders. And give up all my pals, because they're a bad lot. 
 And be accountable to a man for my freaks." 
 
 " Well — that's just being married, isn't it? " 
 
 " It's just being married to Samson Phillips — and that's be- 
 ing married three times thick. I say — I do believe you're 
 in favour of it." 
 
 Richard said he did not want to force her inclinations. He 
 was perfectly serious about it; these lapses overtook him at 
 times. 
 
 She curled her arms round the balustrade post — their con- 
 versation took place at the foot of the Montagu Hall main 
 staircase — and put her chin down on her arms and said: 
 "Dear old boy, I warn you that you and father and Aunt 
 Stella would be taken over by the Phillips family-life, and be 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 187 
 
 absorbed like ink into blotting-paper. I daresay grandfather 
 would manage to stand out. . . ." 
 
 " He's a Major in the Sappers, isn't he? " 
 
 "Samson? No, only Captain. Why? " 
 
 " Nothing. ... I mean the family are known to be tre- 
 mendously patriotic and all that sort of thing, aren't they? " 
 
 " I suppose so. Rotting apart, Richard, d'you think I need 
 go tonight? " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 So Deb went, a shy, prim creature in flowered silk and fichu; 
 all her troll mood of October dried into apprehension of spend- 
 ing three awful hours in the awful company of an awful family 
 hating her because she had flouted it. More than ever did she 
 quake at the sound of her unnecessarily loud and nervous peal 
 at the bell, and wished that the Phillips would conduct their 
 love afi^airs in solo, and not in the bulk. 
 
 By the end of dinner, she was, metaphorically, rubbing her 
 eyes and wondering if she had dreamt the whole matter of 
 Samson's proposal and her rejection of it. The cicatrice of her 
 infliction showed not a trace' on the smooth firm skin of the 
 Phillips' complacency. The Phillips' grandparents still made 
 a fuss of the dear little girl, such a well-mannered little girl, 
 and (in brackets) our Samson's little girl. Mrs. Phillips and 
 Beatrice still included her in all their plans, and consulted her 
 with pleasant humorous allowance for her immaturity. While 
 Herbert and Abe, the two younger brothers — Joseph was at 
 the Front — and their wives Martha and Gwendolen — Flor- 
 ence was not yet allowed to be up more than an hour a day, 
 although little Fanny was a miraculously good baby — contin- 
 ued their chaffs as though the situation were at exactly the 
 same stage as last time Deb had dined there. Abe even made 
 reference to the threadbare matter of Delilah and clipped 
 locks. . . . 
 
 Only Samson was imperceptibly more silent than usual; 
 but he was never talkative. "Can't he have told them?" 
 but of course he had told them. They were probably informed 
 beforehand of the exact hour he had meant to propose. Then 
 
188 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 . . . what was the psychology of their present behaviour? 
 Deb was helpless, rebellious, wholly perplexed, and disliking 
 her company more than ever before, because she had imagined 
 she was definitely rid of it; that she would never again sit 
 amongst flashes of white teeth — they were a handsome healthy 
 family and had married handsome healthy girls — and hear 
 the curiously robust conversation about Florence and her baby. 
 When a married pair was in question, they knew no reticence; 
 it was right and seemly that open discussion should take place, 
 even in the presence of a young girl; no harm at all — had 
 not Abe and Florence been enjoined in the Synagogue, within 
 hearing of all, to wax fruitful? . . . But all jokes concern- 
 ing love unsanctioned by the Rabbi were strictly prohibited by 
 the Phillips' men until they were in smoking-room seclusion. 
 This was their code. The code of the Jewish male. 
 
 "I — I did say ' no,' didn't I? I couldn't have said ' yes ' 
 by mistake? " Deb racked her brains — and recognized with 
 horror that her favourite pudding had been provided — a 
 pudding she hated. She had told Mrs. Phillips once that it 
 was her favourite, because that lady was distressing herself 
 over an imaginary poorness of fare; and ever since then it 
 was carefully ordered for her, and beamingly heaped on to 
 her plate. Tonight the necessity for a second helping was 
 worse than ever, because bewilderment had robbed her of 
 appetite, especially for coals of fire. 
 
 Once or twice it seemed to her morbidly excited fancy as 
 though the wedding had taken place already — while she was 
 asleep or hynotized or under drugs — and already she was a 
 Phillips, doomed to dine at this seat at this table in this room 
 for ever and ever, till she was as old as Grandmother Phillips; 
 until she died and all the male Phillips followed her corpse to 
 its cremation, and were reluctant even then to scatter abroad 
 the ashes. . . . "Yes, Mrs. Phillips? " She started from her 
 trance, to find the ladies had risen from their seats, and that 
 she was being markedly beckoned upstairs by a would-be 
 mother-in-law into her bedroom to see the corals purchased for 
 little Fanny. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 189 
 
 Df^b thought : " It's coming now. . . ." 
 
 It came. 
 
 The explanation was simple after all: Samson, it appeared, 
 according to his mother, did not understand girls. He had 
 never taken any notice of them — till Deb. He was that sort 
 of man. So when Deb in her first confusion and surprise had 
 stammered " no " to his offer, he had believed she meant 
 " no " . . . He had come home in a terrible state — dear silly 
 fellow! — till they had all assured him it was all right, and that 
 he had only to press for a different answer to get it. . . . 
 " Girls aren't as downright as men," Beatrice had assured 
 him — "just the plain question, without even taking her hand? 
 — and then you shut up completely? Oh, Samson, you old 
 goose — you don't deserve her! " To which her brother an- 
 swered gloomily: "How can I take her hand before she has 
 accepted me? " 
 
 " You know, little Deb " — Mrs. Phillips wound up her re- 
 cital, " Samson is so upright " 
 
 Downright . . . and upright . . . yes, all that, but she 
 did not want him. How to make these people aware that it was 
 more than maidenly bashfulness which had prompted her to 
 let drop the stupendous good fortune deposited in the palms 
 of her hands. 
 
 Duly chastened, she sat quietly on a small pouffe, her head 
 bent, her hands linked in her lap, while Mrs. Phillips apolo- 
 gized for Samson's remissness in not urging his suit to tri- 
 umphant conclusion that afternoon on the bridge; and betrayed 
 at the same time her stern pride in the rigid sense of honour 
 which had forbidden her son to speak to the girl of his great 
 love for her at the same time as he proposed marriage. 
 " He argued that he didn't want to influence you, dear. So I 
 promised to put that right for him. He's so absurdly chival- 
 rous, that big boy of mine. All his brothers have had their 
 little flirtations. Abe was quite a social success, as I daresay 
 you are aware. But Samson, of course, is the eldest of the 
 four; and his grandmother's favourite; and that is quite im- 
 portant, as I daresay you know. He always refused to let a 
 
190 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 girl believe that he meant something serious when he didn't. 
 And I think, my child, that he was secretly waiting for you 
 to grow up." 
 
 " I'm twenty-five," whispered Deb inadequately. 
 
 "My dear — not really? I thought you were at least three 
 years younger than that. And you have never been in love un- 
 til now? " 
 
 How Cliffe Kennedy would have let his hoyden invention 
 romp at this juncture! But Deb was too aghast at the slow 
 process which was ringing her in, for even the memory of Cliffe 
 — somewhere in the world — to bring comfort. 
 
 " I'm not in love with your son," she cried desperately. 
 
 "That does not matter at all." Mrs. Phillips spoke with 
 imyielding decision. " Samson has a very high ideal of wife- 
 hood. He naturally will not require you to love him before 
 you are married." 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Deb. . . . The point of view was discon- 
 certing; but Mrs. Phillips' apparent certainty of the wedding 
 was worse than disconcerting — it was terrifying ! " I, De- 
 borah, take thee, Samson " it sounded like two Bible leg- 
 ends badly mixed up. . . . She rallied her forces for another 
 thrust at the Phillips' illusion; it was perfectly awful to know 
 that it was still there; that she had done nothing as yet that 
 counted towards damaging it. " Mrs. Phillips — please — I — 
 I did mean to say ' no.' I'm not worthy of your Samson, in- 
 deed I'm not." 
 
 The imperturbable dark-skinned surface of Mrs. Phillips' 
 face broke into a gleaming smile. 
 
 " Now I wonder who's the best judge of that, you or he? " 
 Then more solemnly: " I assure you, my dear little girl, all 
 that matters is that you should make him happy." 
 
 Deb's rebellion shot up to hollyhock height as she reflected: 
 " They take it for granted that he'll make me happy. . . . 
 Oh, but he would, if I were the Suitable Sort. All the hateful- 
 ness of refusing him over again. . . ." 
 
 "Do you mind, Deborah, if I make a remark on the way 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 191 
 
 you do your hair? It is, forgive me if I am rude — so very 
 unbecoming. A young girl should always strive to make the 
 best of herself, you know. Beatrice," — as her daughter came 
 in with an enquiring air of is-it-all-right-now — "I was just 
 telling Deborah how we all wish she would change her style 
 of hairdressing." 
 
 Mrs. Phillips' inflexion of the word " all " crushed Deb back 
 again on to the pouffe, whence she had deprecatingly risen. 
 All . . . she heard the entire Phillips family owning her, re- 
 modelling her, chanting as in chorus: "How we wish Deb 
 would change her style of hairdressing! " 
 
 " Let me try how she looks with it done like mine," ex- 
 claimed Beatrice brightly. " May I, Deb — just for fun? I'm 
 supposed to have a way with hair " — she began to pull out the 
 hairpins. " Oh, what masses — look, mother. I think it's de- 
 lightfully quaint the way you tuck it under like a boy, but it 
 seems rather a shame that nobody should guess what a quantity 
 you have, doesn't it? Hardy says a woman's crown of 
 glory is her hair." 
 
 " No, Samson said that," Deb corrected dreamily. She knew 
 that Hardy Redbury spoke rarely, but with a certain caustic 
 originality. 
 
 " I believe it was Samson ! " Beatrice and her mother ex- 
 changed meaning glances of delight. So Deb recognized the 
 utterances of the beloved! 
 
 "There — what do you say to that? " and Beatrice stepped 
 back a pace or two while Mrs. Phillips hovered round the vic- 
 tim. ..." A little more off the forehead and ears," she pro- 
 nounced ; " she has such nice little ears ; so why not show 
 them? " 
 
 Deb, accustomed to the thick tumble of hair to her eyebrows, 
 and its warm cluster round her cheeks, stared aghast at her 
 scalped and naked renaissance in the hand-glass Beatrice held 
 up for her benefit. She might have cried with the famous sav- 
 age who was asked why he did not feel the stress of the weather 
 upon his person : " Me all face! " 
 
192 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Doesn't she look sweet? " Beatrice cried. And Mrs. Phil- 
 lips assented with less of majesty than usual : " It does indeed 
 make a difference." 
 
 " Come down and let Sa the others see ! " Deb was 
 
 urged to the door and down the stairs, and pushed into the 
 drawing-room, where by now the whole party were assembled. 
 
 " How do you like her? " 
 
 Truly abashed, head hanging, cheeks a crimson blaze, the 
 girl stood just inside the doorway, while the expected chorus 
 smote her unmuffled hearing: 
 
 " Hullo . . . Beatrice at her old games. ... By Jove, what 
 a change! So she has got ears, has she? I often wondered. 
 . . . Greedy little Delilah! all that hair, and then wanting Sam- 
 son's into the bargain ! . . . Turn round — no, slowly. . . . 
 It does suit you. Deb — you must always wear it like that. . . ." 
 
 "Do you consider it an improvement, Samson? " enquired 
 Samson's mother. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She could feel his eyes upon her — eyes of hot proprietor- 
 ship — and knew all the sensations of the slave-girl exploited 
 in the market-place for critical appraisement. The veiling had 
 been ripped from large tracts of her person, leaving them bare 
 — bare. . . . Deb, who could be quite happily unembarrassed, 
 even unconscious, when the delicious cream-white slenderness 
 of her limbs was exposed to view, who would not have minded 
 a whit any haphazard spectator of her evening bath, cheek 
 rubbed contentedly against her own satiny damp shoulder, 
 loving the huddled contact. Deb now underwent sheer agony at 
 the novelty of stark forehead, ears, and nape of the neck. The 
 erection on top of her head felt rickety, top-heavy; all the 
 separate hairs dragged the wrong way, as hair is prone to do 
 when forced out of its groove; the Phillips' went on exclaim- 
 ing, suggesting, twisting her about and around, trying the 
 effects of her hat on the new coiffure. . . . And it was not so 
 difficult to refuse Samson when, on the way home, he proposed 
 to her for the second time. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 193 
 
 m 
 
 " And now I shall never see him again." 
 
 A week later came a formal invitation from Mrs. Phillips 
 bidding Deb to dinner. 
 
 Nightmare . . . and really nightmare, this. One lops ofif 
 a head and it promptly grows again; or hits out ever so many 
 times at a malignant beast-face and hits . . . past it. And it 
 pushes itself nearer. . . . What was the good of refusing 
 Samson, if something in his temperament was blank to re- 
 fusals? And she could not stay away, with the knowledge 
 that in Sussex Gardens the Phillips' illusion was still large 
 and benign and unmutilated . . . illusion that she and Samson 
 were to be married. A smooth, shiny illusion, like a forehead 
 bared of its tumble of fringe. . . . 
 
 Something drastic had to be done to it. She would have to 
 accept the invitation to dinner, and sit at that seat at that table 
 in that room . . . and watch the teeth flashing and gleaming 
 . . . hear again the joke about Samson shorn of his strength 
 by Delilah ... be approved as one of the family by Mrs. 
 Phillips . . . and feel Samson's eyes of fanatic proprietorship 
 fixed upon her while she gulped down her favourite pudding. 
 She would have to go, because the worse alternative was to 
 remain in ignorance of just how much she was still engaged 
 to Samson. And perhaps after dinner she would find another 
 way of beating in her cry of freedom upon his unreceptive- 
 ness. But she was not very hopeful of this. . . . She was 
 ifrightened. . . . The Phillips were altogether too much for her. 
 
 However, the nightmare did not precisely repeat itself. 
 There was no flash and gleam of white teeth round the table; 
 but instead long sombre faces; Samson the centre of commiser- 
 ating solicitude. An oppressive atmosphere of reproach di- 
 rected towards Deb; the second refusal could not be thrown ofl" 
 as lightly as the first. Ultimate results, no doubt, would be the 
 same . . . inconceivable that the eldest son of the tribe should 
 not have the maiden of his choice. But meanwhile the maiden 
 
194 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 was giving trouble . . . how dared she? Mrs. Phillips had 
 much ado to keep the hatred from her eyes every time she 
 brooded down the table at Deb. What better match could she 
 want than Samson? Samson, with his splendid looks, and his 
 grandmother's fortune, and his loyal unwavering affection. 
 The affection of a good Jew who would give her a comfortable 
 home. . . . Obviously the girl was coquetting — testing her 
 power — and making Samson suffer. She deserved to be 
 whipped . . . making Samson suffer. And a mother in such 
 a crisis must control her primitive longings to use force upon 
 stubborn opposition — to take Deb and throw her imder Sam- 
 son's feet — " There — to do what you like with. . . . And 
 now, sleep again and eat again and smile again . . . my son 
 . . . my son. . . ." 
 
 Deb understood all this, understood and was passionately 
 sorry for the irritable disappointed heart that craved for Sam- 
 son's babies to worship as none of the grandchildren had ever 
 yet been worshipped, and cursed her for her perverseness in 
 refusing birth to this small dark-skinned Samson. She wished 
 she did not understand quite so well. Had she been wholly an 
 outsider, she could have dealt her wound, and jigged away. 
 Or had she been wholly in spirit one of these people, then 
 what romance in the prospect of just such a home and babies! 
 But betwixt and between ... a laughing vagabond soul who 
 could ache in every fibre for the sorrows of a Jewish mother; 
 light flying heels that yet lingered for their owner to look 
 back regretf uly on anchorage — a very unsatisfactory blend 
 . . . and, oh, what was going to happen after the interminable 
 dinner? 
 
 After dinner, a series of weighty manoeuvres left Deb alone 
 with Samson in the small boudoir. 
 
 "What I want to know — what I feel you ought to tell me 
 — is why won't you marry me? " The question lifted itself 
 from his glucose despondency. 
 
 Could he be made to see? — "Because — because — oh, 
 Samson, we're so utterly different." 
 
 " Is that reason one? Look at Abe and Martha — how 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 195 
 
 quiet she is, and he's such a lively fellow, and yet they couldn't 
 be happier." 
 
 " But they belong to the same world — their code, their 
 creed — and we don't. Quiet and lively is only on top. You 
 think things wrong that I think right, and the other way about." 
 
 "There is no such thing as thinking things right or wrong, 
 Deb. They are right or wrong." 
 
 "Well — there you are!" eagerly. Perhaps by patient 
 wriggling she could twist her way out of this earth-tunnel, in- 
 stead of by one volcanic eruption. " I'd be frightened to be- 
 lieve that. It's too simple. . . ." 
 
 " Well, what do you believe right which I believe wrong? " 
 
 She could not tabulate. And remained silent. 
 
 *' There, you see! " conclusively. 
 
 " If you married me," he persisted, " I'd give you every sin- 
 gle thing you wanted "— with a mental reservation that his 
 promise naturally did not include the things that were unfit for 
 her. 
 
 She twisted in another direction. "You don't like my 
 friends." 
 
 " No. They're not real. Deb. And you won't like them 
 either when you learn that they're not real. Nothing unwhole- 
 some can be real. I don't care how clever they are — I've no 
 respect for cleverness or art " 
 
 " Not the ' Faerie Queene '? " innocently. 
 
 " That's wholesome. It has a sound moral. But your Bo- 
 hemians . . . they're not good. Not good or kind. That's all 
 that matters — goodness and kindness." 
 
 " They are," obstreperously. " Bohemians are notoriously 
 kinder-hearted and more generous than Philistines." 
 
 The man smiled. " Yes, call me a Philistine. I'm proud 
 of it. But you don't understand. Deb. How much time does 
 an artist give her husband or her children or her home? " 
 
 " Her temperament needs variety, I suppose." 
 
 Samson closed his mouth firmly ; he was not going to discuss 
 temperament with Deb, who mercifully did not know what she 
 was talking about. 
 
196 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " I wouldn't let you be dull, little girl, if that's what you're 
 afraid of. We could travel." 
 
 " Together or separately? " 
 
 He laughed at the joke. " And you wouldn't want to see so 
 much of your friends . . . we're a very united family, you 
 know, and Beatrice and Flo and Martha are always together." 
 
 A very united family — God, yes ! 
 
 "So we've disposed of obstacle number one"; Samson's 
 spirits were rising rapidly. (But how have we disposed of it? 
 thought Deb.) " Come now, what's obstacle number two? " 
 
 " It's because you're such a united family " — she struggled 
 hard to find expressive words — " that you owe it to them to 
 put the right sort of girl in the spare place. Don't you see, 
 oh, don't you see, Samson, that I should spoil the cantata." 
 
 " But they like you tremendously, little girl ; mother and 
 Beatrice are awfully fond of you. And when you get to know 
 Flo and Martha and Gwen " 
 
 " It's no good. I should make you wretched. Oh — why 
 do you want . . . just me? " 
 
 " You are the embodiment of the qualities I most admire in 
 a woman." 
 
 And he believed it, too. And was unaware that it was some 
 elusive pixie element about the girl — a subtle swing of move- 
 ment, a freshness thrilling in her voice, some fleeting curving 
 trick of her lip and eyelids, a scornful daintiness which were 
 magic to his manhood, and which would haunt him and escape 
 him, trip up his senses and beckon him on again . . . that it 
 was this which, subconsciously, kept him persistent for just 
 Deb, and no other girl. But he was sincere enough, talking 
 rubbish about embodiment of qualities. This was her pixiness, 
 translated into Samsonese. 
 
 Deb sighed. " One would suppose you wanted to be tor- 
 mented for all the rest of your life." 
 
 " In what special ways are you so determined to torment 
 me? " he teased her. 
 
 " Everything can't be drawn up in lists. ... I should get 
 restless moods, and want to do all sorts of things that you'd 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 197 
 
 think funny or mad or imprudent — or unnecessary, and I 
 should want to do them there and then and at once . . . with- 
 out thinking them over. And I shall hate being asked ques- 
 tions, and turn sulky over answering them. And I'd go away 
 without you, and forget to write. And ask for a latch-key. 
 And invite people to see me whom you aren't sure are the right 
 sort, and discuss topics that you're quite sure are the wrong 
 sort. And shock your mother by not taking enough interest 
 in little Fanny. And get furiously excited over a book or a pic- 
 ture or a bit of verse or a face or — or . . . the way a 
 studio is arranged, or the first summer day in March, before 
 any one expected it . . . the first day that one can fling one's 
 self down on to warm green grass and lie there . . . and lie 
 there dreaming. . . ." 
 
 The byway of argument was fatal. She had forgotten that 
 Samson had a corner in Nature. 
 
 At once he rushed into enthusiastic confirmation; ignoring 
 the former part of her speech except for a soothing remark to 
 the effect that she'd be bound to settle down — as soon as she 
 had a household of her own. 
 
 " I'd rather die than settle down," breathed Deb — to the 
 defiant youth in her. Samson did not hear. 
 
 " You're quite good enough for me, little girl," thinking 
 she had been sufficiently chaffed, and the moment had come to 
 strike a more serious note. " Quite good enough. Run your- 
 self down as much as you please, nothing you can say will make 
 any difference! " 
 
 No, nothing she could say would make any difference, or rid 
 him of the supposition that she was merely deprecating — a 
 prey to modesty. . . . 
 
 " I'm different — not worse nor better. We can't either of 
 us be too good or too bad for each other if we're different." 
 
 " Very well, then, you're right, we're different. Don't let's 
 
 say another word about it " He smothered her uprising 
 
 vehemence with a genial pretence of humouring her. " I give 
 in. I'm entirely wrong. Have it your own way. We're as 
 different as you please. And now, shall I call mother and the 
 
198 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 others, and tell her it's all right, and that we've made it up? " 
 
 " No, please don't," she whispered. Her vitality was worn 
 out from the struggle. 
 
 He turned back from the door, disappointed. " Deb — is 
 there another man? " 
 
 " No," again. K only there had been some one, that she 
 could have rung out a triumphant yes. 
 
 Phillips was relieved; but knitted his brows anew over the 
 problem of her obduracy. Then he asked her if she would 
 marry him (a) " If I win the V.C. at the Front? (6) " K I knew 
 more about pictures? (c) " If I were more lively? " 
 
 She shook her head at each tabulated item. But how queer, 
 how pitifully queer that he should dream he could be persever- 
 ingly refitted for her love as for a suit of clothes which re- 
 quired slight alteration. 
 
 " I've never cared for any one but you. Deb. Never. Other 
 fellows might say that and not mean it — but it's true in my 
 case. You can ask Beatrice, or mother. Or Abe — he always 
 used to chaff me for not letting myself be plagued with girls. 
 So you needn't be jealous — you're my first love, and I'm 
 thirty-one." 
 
 Calf-love, then. ... No wonder he blundered at every move. 
 But he ought to have got that phase over long ago. Calf-love, 
 moon-love . . . pretty enough from a lad of twenty-one; but 
 from thirty-one you expect a man's defter handling. " You 
 needn't be jealous." Should she tell him her fervent wish that 
 some suave brilliant woman had indeed shaped him for present 
 enlightenment? Deb had no ambition to be instructress. . . . 
 But he would not believe her . . . impregnated as he was with 
 his theory of female psychology. 
 
 "All girls say *no' when they mean *yes'; all girls like 
 to pretend they're not worthy; all girls are jealous of the 
 
 other woman in a fellow's past; all girls " Deb was too 
 
 tired to combat the " all-girls " convention. 
 
 She stood up : "I want to go home, Samson." And he 
 stood directly facing her. ... A presentiment seized her that 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 199 
 
 he was going to crush her in his arms. Perhaps, if he did — 
 but no. 
 
 " I shall always be waiting for you when you want me, little 
 girl. I don't change, you know. Hope and wait — that's go- 
 ing to be my motto! " He straightened his shoulders and 
 pulled down his tunic and smiled at her. 
 
 Her hands flew up as though to push away a suffocating 
 pressure. A past that held her only, the encompassing present 
 — and now he claimed the future as well. ..." It's so heavy," 
 murmured Deb. He must not be allowed to wait for her — 
 he must not. Could no word, no act of hers shrivel the Phil- 
 lips' illusion? Besides . . . there were moods which might 
 assail her, driven, persecuted moods that cried for anchorage; 
 soft drowsy Oriental moods, when for sheer languor one might 
 yield — neither of these moods ought to be open to the peril 
 of a Samson waiting and hoping. 
 
 " It's no good, Samson," with ebbing conviction. And she 
 hated his persistence — until she saw his eyes, dogged with 
 misery, eager with the want of her. 
 
 " Then may I — I wonder if you would grant me a last 
 favour? The victim at the block, you know," stumbling over 
 a laugh. 
 
 She knew what was coming. . . . 
 
 " I wonder — if you will let me kiss you — just once? " 
 
 And because she had hurt him, and could make no other 
 amends, and because she was ashamed it was such a trifle in 
 importance to her; and because Deb could never bear to be 
 avaricious of her chastity, she said : " Yes, if you like." 
 
 He was very deliberate and careful about it, with continual 
 sideway glances at her, as though in fear permission would be 
 retracted. The kiss itself . . . well, it was quite obvious that 
 Samson had been speaking truth when he asserted that Deb 
 was his first love. She clenched her hands tightly and endured 
 ... it was soon over! But a curious change had come over 
 Samson. Metaphorically, he began to strut. 
 
 *' Ah ! I feel I've advanced a step — now." 
 
200 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Deb turned upon him in a blinding scatter of rage. 
 
 " Because I've allowed you to kiss me? Do you imagine, 
 in your fatuous smug conceit, that it makes a difference, except 
 to make me quite, quite sure — surer even than I was before — 
 that you're the wrong man? You and your strictly honour- 
 able intentions, countenanced by the whole family! Why, do 
 you suppose the man I loved would have had to ask formal 
 permission for that kiss? — and that I would measure him out 
 just one at arm's length as a dole? I, who know what kisses 
 can be. . . . Oh, yes, I'm sick of pretending to be the Una 
 of your private Faerie Queene. It's men like you, with minds 
 like yours, who make girls mean and haggling and nigglesome. 
 What makes you imagine that if I hold out a piece of my 
 face towards you . . . just because . . . because ..." a sob 
 of sheer anger gulping up between the words ..." because 
 you asked, and I wanted to be decent, and didn't care much 
 one way or another, what makes you dare to feel that you've 
 ' advanced a step '? You haven't! — not a quarter of one! " 
 
 " Very well — I haven't — we'll say I haven't — I give in — 
 you're quite right — I haven't advanced — are you satisfied 
 now? " Again that futile pretence of placating her. But: 
 "Kisses . . ." she whispered, dreamily, unheeding him, 
 "kisses . . . like a shower of stars on my lips. Stars that 
 burn. . . ." 
 
 Unconvinced of his error, he stated pompously : " I treated 
 you with the respect which is due to a good girl, Deb." 
 
 Her smile subtly mocked him. " Ah, but you see, I have — 
 not — been — good." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 BUT ClifFe Kennedy was indubitably to blame. No one 
 could spend so much time with ClifFe as Deb had done 
 of late, without echoing his tendency to achieve a climax 
 at whatever cost. His sense of dramatic effect abhorred a 
 vacuum. Deb had caught the trick, that was all. She was al- 
 ways impressionable. " I have treated you with the respect 
 due to a good girl . . ." and then the pause — and, spoken al- 
 most mechanically, her curtain line. 
 
 "Well — he asked for it!" 
 
 The drawback to these histrionic displays in ordinary life, 
 however, is lack of the aforesaid curtain. Certainly it should 
 have fallen at that juncture: " You see, I have not been 
 good . . ." and Act III a fortnight later. . . . Meanwhile, Deb 
 and Samson remained looking at one another, in Mrs. Phillips' 
 boudoir, her head proudly tilted, so that the little three-cor- 
 nered face was fore-shortened to an upcurling of black eye- 
 lashes, and mouth a mutinous half-crescent, the corners trem- 
 bling to a smile sternly chidden back again — " This is seri- 
 ous! " — but the irrepressible desire persisted. , . . Samson's 
 expression was such a marvel of Pharisaic indignation and 
 disgust. 
 
 " So much for the charity of a good man's love! Why, 
 supposing it had been true and I wanted him to forgive me? " 
 
 In Samson Phillips' mind was no doubt of the statement 
 which had shattered his rock-embedded belief in the immac- 
 ulate chastity of a well brought up Jewish girl of his own set. 
 . . . The argument: " Why should she say such a thing if it 
 weren't true? " was too obviously undeniable for admittance. 
 And Deb could have explained to him neither the contagious 
 
 201 
 
202 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 peculiarity of Mr. Cliffe Kennedy, nor the fact that the Phillips' 
 family and the thrice persistent proposal had rendered her 
 hysterical. 
 
 Well — now at least she was free. Samson would never 
 again desire her for his wife. Mrs. Phillips would never again 
 invite her to dinner. Although Deb had chosen a drastic 
 method of dealing with undesirable invitations to dinner or to 
 the altar — " do they have altars in a Synagogue? I forget 
 . . . but oh, I wish he would speak before I laugh! " 
 
 But Samson's principles, against which in sheer despair she 
 had flung her falsehood, stood rigid and undamaged, like so 
 many spear-tipped railings. Henceforth, Deb was to him an 
 outcast. He looked at her . . . and then he went to the door 
 and called his mother, and told her Deb was not feeling very 
 well and wanted to return home at once. 
 
 Mrs. Phillips gathered from his expression that " that girl '* 
 had flouted him again. Deb was sent home in a taximeter and 
 an atmosphere of black disgrace. Samson's one look had re- 
 minded her of a Roundhead soldier — Oliver Cromwell him- 
 self. What a fate to have escaped — Cromwell's wife, Crom- 
 well's family. And a Jewish Cromwell into the bargain! 
 
 " But will he tell — anybody? " 
 
 "What does it matter! " 
 
 An impulse of sheer mischief — then swift contrition — in- 
 tense relief — and the usual shoulder-shrug. This was the 
 wheel of Deb's psychology. Several days later she told An- 
 tonia of the debacle. Antonia had meanwhile been out of town, 
 driving her Major-General. 
 
 "Samson would never have done for you, of course. But 
 you encouraged him, Deb. Why? " 
 
 "I didn't," sunnily; " I just wanted to try if I could make 
 myself good enough. And I pulled it oflf — for a fortnight." 
 
 " And then, in one well-chosen lie — Deb, I love you very 
 dearly, but your creed is beyond all following. It seems to 
 me to consist mainly of a lot of trouble for nothing." 
 
 " I just wanted to try," Deb repeated. " I might have been 
 good enough, you know. And if the clock had struck while 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 203 
 
 I was pulling that face, I'd have stopped like that. So Nurse 
 used to say." 
 
 " Meaning — if you had fallen in love with a good man at 
 the psychological moment of trying to be good. You're too 
 accommodating altogether, my child. Suppose it were a bad 
 man, and the clock struck while you were pulling that face? " 
 
 Deb went to the mirror, and tried on the two faces, one 
 after another. "Which becomes me best?" she demanded 
 anxiously, " Puritan or rogue? Oh, Antonia, it was such fun 
 busting the Phillips' illusion. I shall never have such fun 
 again." 
 
 Samson was sent to the Front shortly afterwards. And 
 Beatrice confided in her mother-in-law, Trudchen Redbury, 
 her amazement that any girl could so far lose her reason as 
 thrice to refuse a match like Samson Phillips : " She must have 
 said something to upset him badly, that last time — but he 
 won't say what; he seemed heart-broken, poor fellow . . . and 
 going off like that, too, without any hope. How could she? " 
 
 Trudchen also wondered how Deb possibly could . . . and 
 discussed the matter with Otto, who was thus at last brought 
 face to face with the failure of his cherished notion of a mar- 
 riage between his little daughter Nell, and an officer in the Brit- 
 ish army: " He vanted Ferdinand's Teporah? Ach wass! but 
 
 I thought she and that yong Gennedy " He remembered 
 
 how the insolent pair had " called " on the Redburys one 
 Sunday afternoon, for all the world as though they were en- 
 gaged. And then had followed Cliffe's confidence in the train 
 . . . the name left chivalrously blank . . . and not feeling at 
 all friendly towards Deb, who had robbed him of an English 
 son-in-law, Otto, by sudden malignant inspiration, inserted her 
 name into the blank, and was instantly convinced of the cor- 
 rectness of his guess : " So ! and zat vos vy she refused Vil- 
 lips! " 
 
 Otto sucked at his lips, very gravely . . . genuinely shocked 
 and bufifeted by the revelation that a maiden of the same race 
 
204 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 and class and upbringing as his own daughter, could so step 
 aside from virtue. But then he ceased sucking, blew out his 
 cheeks . . . and ruminated. . . . 
 
 That poor Ferdinand: with all his eccentric notions of 
 rearing a young girl, one must yet be sorry for him. His 
 daughter was no better than a — than a — Otto hesitated be- 
 tween a rich selection of epithets in two languages. 
 
 One must be sorry for Ferdinand. But it was a pity that 
 he should not know that there was a cause why one was sorry 
 for him — (Ferdie had always been the successful partner in 
 the days when Nash, Marcus and Rothenburg had still existed 
 as a firm) .... Bread and water and a locked room would do 
 the minx good. 
 
 And in addition to all this. Otto was sufiSciently akin in 
 spirit to both Cliffe and Deb to relish the notion of dramatic 
 tidings — himself as a sort of Messenger in Greek drama. 
 
 " If I do not tell Ferdinand Marcus, then zertainly another 
 will do so " 
 
 Which again would be a pity. Otto decided not to risk fore- 
 stalment. 
 
 HI 
 
 At the first shiver of Autumn, grandfather had a bad bron- 
 chial cold, which meant the luxury of a fire in his bedroom. 
 During such a period all the Marcuses were usually to be 
 found in enjoyment of this available private warmth, as a rest 
 from the perpetual conviviality of the lounge or drawing-room 
 fires. True, it meant that grandfather's company was thrown 
 in with the fire — but Stella and Ferdie were used to him, and 
 Deb and Richard thought him rather funny. 
 
 Otto, when he paid his visit, was received by the three gen- 
 erations of male Marcus. He requested that Richard be 
 ejected, with that lack of ceremony towards his juniors which 
 was so deplorable in the old-fashioned relative. 
 
 " All right, Uncle Otto — I wasn't going to stay, anyway. 
 Where's David? " 
 
 David was in a training-camp. And : " Has that boy of 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 205 
 
 your's nossing to do but pite his head off all day long, Mar- 
 cus? " when the door had slammed on Richard. 
 
 " As much to do as your son-in-law Fiirth," shouted Hermann 
 with irascible emphasis. " Or perhaps you do not visit him 
 often enough to ascertain his occupations? Herr Je! Rothen- 
 burg, he was a good enough Schiddach for your daughter Hed- 
 vig five years ago. . . ." 
 
 Otto did not like being addressed as Rothenburg. Especially 
 as a door behind the cupboard communicated with another 
 bedroom. He glanced uneasily that way. . . . 
 
 "There is no policeman there," his host reassured him. 
 " Our neighbour is a rabbit who calls himself a Special Con- 
 stable, that is all. And I am convinced, lieber Rothenburg, 
 that your naturalization papers are ready on your person and 
 in complete order. Or — let me see — you are one of those 
 that have changed their names . . . Redbury, is it? " the old 
 scoundrel chuckled hoarsely. " Redbury ! — poor old Fritzie 
 Rothenburg of Nuremburg — your late uncle and my friend — 
 that would have amused him — Redbury! But you must cor- 
 rect me if I forget." 
 
 And all this, in vengeance for the implied belittling of 
 Richard, 
 
 The S.C. could be heard moving about among his furniture 
 . . . and Otto's manner had not that repose which stamps the 
 caste of Vere de Vere — he accompanied the old man's loud 
 discourse by an agonized hushing, which Hermann heeded no 
 more than a drone of a bluebottle. From offensive English he 
 lapsed into friendly — too friendly — German, enquiring af- 
 fectionately after all Otto's relatives in Berlin, Mainz, Koln and 
 Frankfurt, mentioning each person by name and address. And 
 when Otto affected ignorance of the existence of these, he 
 laughed and coughed, and coughed so much that he was per- 
 force reduced to gasping watery-eyed silence, which gave Ottc 
 his chance at last for a patriotic panegyric which he trusted 
 would reach the " S.C," and so nullify any evil effects of Her- 
 mann's malice. " — My son is in the drenches, and my pones 
 will one day lie in English ground. My money I give for 
 
206 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 England, and England, I bray, may still find a use for an old 
 man's services, isn't it? " 
 
 "Ach wass! " impatiently interrupting the peroration. 
 "You have been learning by heart the recruiting posters. I 
 would advise a little less noise about patriotism, lieber Freund. 
 You look like an enemy spy who has yet to learn not to overdo 
 his business. It may bring you into awkward situations." 
 Otto turned yellow and his fingers twitched. " Besides, a man 
 who cannot be loyal to his own country " 
 
 " England is my country ! " cried Otto hysterically. 
 
 " Stuss ! " and Hermann subsided contemptuously. While 
 Ferdie broke in : " You have neither of you any sense at all. 
 It is quite possible, papa, not only to be from prudence, but 
 also in thought and from afi"ection, loyal to an adopted coun- 
 try, where one has lived, and planted one's hopes, and brought 
 up one's children. Would one bring up one's children to serve 
 England before even war was in sight — if still one cared about 
 Germany? But to shout it about — that is tactless nowadays. 
 They do not love the sound of our voices — unpleasant — yes, 
 certainly — but natural. Let us then rather keep quiet, you 
 and I, Redbury. Papa I respect for making no professions 
 where he cannot honestly feel them — but he also should keep 
 quiet. You are discourteous to a country of whom you are 
 the guest. And also you make things very uncomfortable for 
 us your family." 
 
 "I have no fear," snapped the old autocrat, sitting very 
 upright. 
 
 " But I have then, for Stella and Deb and Richard. So when 
 I feel pessimist, when my opinion is not likely to be a popular 
 opinion, I keep it to myself. For the difference between us 
 and the British-born is this: there is, alas, no bias on our 
 judgments. That pleasant happy bias! ah, it must be repose- 
 ful to let one's judgment roll with the bias; but the bias is 
 lodged in the nature, and the nature springs from the soil, and 
 the soil of England is not ours — we who belong to no coun- 
 try, and are therefore doomed to see things exactly as they 
 are. I tell you, Redbury, I would give ten years of my life 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 207 
 
 to possess that cheery confidence that stupidly, and oh, how 
 splendidly, through the blackest reverses, through the silliest 
 muddles and incompetence, still goes on with their eternal 
 Britannia rules the waves and Britons never, never, never shall 
 be slaves. ..." 
 
 " If you had a son in the drenches," repeated Otto virtuously. 
 
 And Ferdie sighed and said no more. In spite of all the 
 daily suspense and anxiety, how he envied the Redburys their 
 possession of Con. He had not yet forgiven himself the mis- 
 take which resulted in Richard's present mooching, slouching 
 existence, not keen to go back to school — not worth while to 
 enter a profession — waiting for his eighteenth birthday to 
 bring him behind barbed wire. 
 
 " Ferdinand," said Otto Redbury, interrupting the other 
 man's reverie, " I have gom on a very serious errand. . . ." 
 
 IV 
 
 When Stella and Deb came in to boil the kettle for tea, half- 
 an-hour later, the Messenger was gone. Ferdie was staring into 
 the fire, his fuzzy grey head bent down almost to his knees. 
 And Hermann's thin lips wore a cynical smile ... he had 
 waited for these results of Deb's upbringing, since a spoilt 
 grandchild of eight years was first brought to Munich for his 
 inspection. 
 
 " Deb — come here! " 
 
 Deb looked astonished. She could scarcely ever remember 
 her father shouting at her. But to Stella the sound was fa- 
 miliar. The Teuton disciplinarian always begins by losing 
 control of his voice. Ferdie, in supreme emotion, was reverting 
 to type. . . . 
 
 " Did you spend a night " he choked — then started off 
 
 again : " Did you spend a night with that man Kennedy at 
 his cottage in the country? — Yes or no? " 
 
 "What's the fuss about?" asked Deb, in Richard's most 
 casual manner. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets 
 of her lilac jersey, tilted back her chin . . . and wished de- 
 voutly she could run away. 
 
208 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Yes or no? " roared her father. 
 
 "There was no harm in it." 
 
 " Yes or no? " 
 
 "No. . . ." 
 
 Sheer whimpering terror, this ; not of the bellow which shook 
 the very furniture, but of the blaze in Ferdie's wontedly mild 
 brown eyes. 
 
 " You did not? " the relief was so overwhelming, his instant 
 trust in her word so pathetic, that Deb for very shame quickly 
 revoked her lie. 
 
 " Not in the way you mean. Why are you so ready to be- 
 lieve . . . girls and men in our set — the look of things doesn't 
 matter so tremendously any more . . . doesn't matter at all — 
 
 No, do listen to me " She was honestly fighting down an 
 
 inclination to sulk — a defiant silence, she would have inter- 
 preted the attitude — " I do know what it looks like to you, that 
 I stopped down there with ClifFe that night — but really and 
 truly," with an appealing little smile — " I'm still Daddy's 
 good girl? " 
 
 " Then why," asked Ferdie, avoiding her smile — " why did 
 you encourage and then refuse Captain Phillips? " 
 
 " Oh " Deb stared mentally at these two bits of her — 
 
 yes, her silliness, which entangled produced such a formidable 
 appearance against her. Could she put herself right again? 
 Not without help. She turned with quick confidence to her 
 aunt. 
 
 " Auntie Stel " and stopped as though at a shock. 
 
 " I suppose you had just enough decency left not to deceive 
 an honest man ! " Stella's voice sounded as though it had been 
 filed. She crossed from Deb's side to her brother, the action 
 clearly defining where her support was ranged. 
 
 " Ferdie," she whispered, for he had sunk back to a despon- 
 dent, shrunken heap in the arm-chair; and his knees shook as 
 she laid her hand on them — " Ferdie, old boy. . . ." 
 
 " Little Deb . . ." he murmured. Well, Ferdie had always 
 been a sentimentalist. And the girl, hearing, would have flung 
 herself at him, even then, her arms tightly round his neck, to 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 209 
 
 cajole and explain, explain by familiar hugs and kisses . . . 
 but Stella was between them. And grandfather, still with 
 that wooden smile jerking up the ends of his moustache. One 
 expected it from grandfather, but Auntie Stel, always so young 
 and jolly — Not quite the words — "juvenile and vivacious" 
 expressed it better, somehow: "Run along and enjoy your- 
 selves, kiddies. . . ." Why was Stella's look at her now like 
 the sting of a wasp? . . . that came of treating a grown-up 
 chummily, and as an equal. Never again. After all, she was 
 only a maiden aunt . . . couldn't tell her so . . . even in 
 extremes one couldn't say the beastliest thing of all — evi- 
 dently they could, though — no code of honour . . . Grown 
 ups! 
 
 Deb hunched her shoulders in moody exasperation. Even if 
 she had . . . done it, she never dreamt of this rasping encoun- 
 ter with authority. She, who had even honoured her immedi- 
 ate family by bragging about their tolerance and general amia- 
 bility: "Dad's an old darling and Auntie Stel a sport, and 
 nobody minds grandfather. . . ." 
 
 She said : " Samson Phillips was a prig.'* 
 
 "You will not quickly find another man for husband, 
 my dear Deborah," Hermann Marcus rumbled menacingly. 
 " You would have been wiser to strive to please Captain 
 Phillips." 
 
 Stella turned and sprang, buried her claws in his words. 
 " Husband ! — do you suppose she wants a husband? She's 
 had what she wants. Look at her ! " 
 
 This, then, was what had lain in waiting all these years be- 
 tween herself and Deb — what extreme of love or hatred. That 
 Deb should have her good time — that was well enough; Stella 
 did not grudge it her; Stella helped her to it. But that Deb 
 should stand there, in triumphant insolent knowledge of — the 
 thing itself — the older woman could not bear that. Her 
 starved senses yapped their rage and envy. Into Deb's very 
 poise as she remained silent and aloof in the middle of the 
 room, Stella thought to read pity of her, the virgin, virgin by 
 fate and by tyranny, by cowardice even, not by desire. . . . 
 
210 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Deb, little Deb the child, Ferdie's baby daughter, had trodden 
 strange ground, and by reason of this she was altered, baffling, 
 mysterious, immune from scolding, forbearing to taunt because 
 she could afford forbearance — what did she want with Aunt 
 Stella's partisanship? she had taken what Axmt Stella had not 
 dared to take. ... 
 
 "Look at her!" 
 
 " Is there any reason," grandfather demanded impatiently, 
 " why I should sacrifice my tea to look at an extremely badly- 
 brought-up, dishonourable and wicked young lady who ought 
 to have been married and out of the way long ago if she had 
 owned a father who could properly attend to her interests? 
 You cannot reproach me, lieber Ferdinand, that I have not 
 warned you, over and over again, what would be the result of 
 your loose and wicked lack of discipline " 
 
 " Well, you didn't do so very much better with your daughter, 
 did you? " cried Deb, resenting the attack on her father's easy 
 kindness, but forgetting that her defence of him involved a slur 
 on Stella. 
 
 " I've kept my good name at least, thank you, Deb; you've 
 disgraced yourself and us, running to lick the hand of any man 
 who chose to call. I hope your father will put a stop to it for 
 the future, anyhow." 
 
 "He?" Hermann Marcus laughed, and Ferdinand, per- 
 forming the proverbial action of shutting the stable door, went 
 further and slammed it with all his force. 
 
 "You will attend to me. Deb, yes? I have made a mistake 
 in trusting you. I let you do as you please, go where you 
 please, without asking questions, without interfering. I hoped 
 so to make you happy. For the future all that will be changed. 
 You will not go out in the evenings, nor to stay with your 
 friends. You will account for your time spent to me or to your 
 Aunt Stella. I will see to it that you take lessons in some- 
 thing, to occupy you usefully. Less pocket-money and no 
 latchkey — perhaps so we can bring you back to a sense of self- 
 respect. Also I will ask to examine your correspondence. Be 
 sure that it is not with pleasure that I give these orders " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 211 
 
 He halted, hearing a poignantly mocking echo of his old 
 prophecy to Dorothea: "It will be all right — When one is 
 happy, one is also good " 
 
 " I have made the worst mistake with you," he concluded 
 harshly. 
 
 " Then I won't pay for it. I'll run away — I'm not going to 
 be spied on and treated like a baby now, after you've let me 
 do just exactly as I like for years. Why weren't you strict all 
 along? I thought you were really broad-minded — that you 
 really thought a girl had wants and claims . . . that a girl is 
 human . . . and the marrying her off business is extinct, and 
 that going wrong doesn't matter so much, after all." She was 
 half -crying now, but gulped fiercely, and went on: "You let 
 me suppose that you'd understand if I did — anything. But 
 you're just exactly the same when it comes to it — the old- 
 fashioned parent, ready with the old-fashioned curse. Well, 
 then, you should have looked after me in the old-fashioned way. 
 You should have done before all that you say you'll do now — 
 examined my letters and disapproved of my friends and ques- 
 tioned my comings and goings. What do you suppose sud- 
 denly jerks a girl back, when she has read everything, discussed 
 
 everything, seen everything ? Books and plays, jabber, 
 
 and other people's example — answerable to nobody. Why, 
 they're only preparation for — for . . . the rest! It wasn't as 
 if I was answerable to anybody; you never bothered. I'd 
 rather have been kept ignorant and innocent — much rather, 
 dad. It isn't fair to bring me up in the new way, and then ex- 
 pect me to be good in the old way." 
 
 "And it is not fair to be for ever instructed by one's chil- 
 dren how one should rightly have behaved towards them! " 
 Ferdinand was now at the end of his patience. " First Richard 
 and then you: ' Why didn't you do this? Why didn't you do 
 that? ' God in Heaven, is the parent a beast of burden that all 
 your troubles and wrongdoings should be piled on to his back? 
 And supposing I had scolded and worried you and forbidden 
 
 — then it would have been again : ' You have ruined my life 
 
 — a little more liberty, and I need not have been driven to — 
 
212 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 to — behave like a street-girl ! ' Always the parent's fault — 
 you are shirkers, you who are so proud to call yourselves a New 
 Generation — putting all responsibility on heredity, education, 
 pre-natal influence — I know not what, so long as you safely 
 escape self-reproach — so long as you safely escape the crying 
 of your own conscience." 
 
 " Conscience is religion. I'm not religious. If I were — 
 but you never bothered about that either. I'm not Jewess nor 
 Christian — I'm nothing at all — nothing — you never both- 
 ered." 
 
 " We did bother; yes indeed, but we were afraid of bothering 
 too much. We wanted you to feel free." 
 
 "Well then — why? — now? " wavering to a softer mood. 
 When her father spoke with just that fondness . . . turning 
 aside her head to blink back the tears, she caught sight of his 
 old silk handkerchief, plum and navy-blue dabbed together, 
 knotted round the bed-post in the same way as he was wont to 
 knot it round his neck, as long as she could remember. . . . 
 And suddenly Ferdie was dead — and she saw that loop with 
 the dangling ends, and it struck her painfully that she would 
 never again see it round Ferdie's neck, plum and blue stem to 
 that genial rubicund face with the kind eyes . . . Dad was dead 
 . . . everybody dies. . . . 
 
 Whether she had been vouchsafed a swift keyhole peep at an 
 inevitable future, or if the vision were merely a childish drench 
 of sentiment — whichever it was, it sent Deb straight past 
 grandfather's sarcastic smile and Aunt Stella's antagonism, to 
 her knees beside Ferdie's chair — snuggled up against him — 
 Thank God, he was not dead yet! 
 
 " Dad — mayn't I explain? " 
 
 He just touched her black urchin head so near his hand, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 " It's . . . men," Deb began. Such a maze of by-ways and 
 turnings, and no centre. Could she ever hope to drag his un- 
 derstanding in the wake of her intricate journey ings . . . and 
 with the others present? " It was the same in our old set be- 
 fore we gave up Daisybanks, before the war. ihere were al- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 213 
 
 ways men about, then; when they took me on the river in the 
 evenings, in a narrow punt, or in taxis — or behind screens on 
 the landings at dances . . . screens put there generally by the 
 hostess — what are they put there for? 'Enjoy yourselves, 
 children! ' — Dad, what did you think then? You can't pos- 
 sibly have imagined they all wanted to marry me, that they 
 each wanted to marry every girl they took behind screens or 
 up dark corridors — in the Empress Rooms or the Portman 
 Rooms or the Grafton Galleries or Princes? But you must 
 have thought something! " 
 
 But the trend of Ferdie's ideas had always run on generaliza- 
 tions . . . and generalizations would not suffice now to content 
 this daughter of his, turning up to him such a glowing, inquis- 
 itive little face. 
 
 " I was pleased that you should have admirers " slowly 
 
 — " Flirtation is only natural to a young girl." 
 
 " Admirers ! flirtation ! that, yes, but they — they used to 
 kiss us — they said things — when they got excited. . . . They 
 
 — Oh " she rummaged desperately after words — " You — 
 
 you grown-ups of today, you took away the chaperon and put 
 up a screen on the landing instead. — It all means something — 
 leads somewhere — and then you lose your tempers when you 
 hear — when we. . . . And I didn't ! I didn't do anything — 
 this time. . . . But I must have something to go by; you must 
 spell us out the rules once and for all. You're broad-minded, 
 you encourage us — expose us; and at the end of it all, last 
 century's row comes tumbling on our heads. If grandfather 
 
 was a beast to Auntie Stel " a darted sun-flash of mischief 
 
 at the gathering storm on the opposite side of the fireplace — 
 " at least he was a consistent beast; allowed her to know noth- 
 ing and do nothing. You've stuck half-way — you let me 
 know everything and do nothing. One day, I suppose, a girl 
 will be allowed to know everything and do everything — 
 lucky her! " 
 
 The storm on the opposite side of the mantelpiece broke into 
 thunder: "Klatsch! klatsch! klatsch! talk! talk! talk! — 
 Had it been Stella to be found out in shame " 
 
214 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Leave me out of it, papa. And you too, Deb," Stella 
 threw in curtly, without turning from the window where she 
 stood looking out into the dripping dusk. " I'm not ambitious 
 to figure as an edifying example." 
 
 " Had it been Stella," Hermann persisted, not in the least 
 heeding her protest, "my first business, as her father, would 
 be to interview the young man and see to it that he is made 
 aware of his immediate duty towards her. But that, of course, 
 does not strike Ferdinand. He prefers to sit like an old maid 
 at a tea-party and discuss the so happy occasion ! " 
 
 Ferdie, rather dazed, passed a hand across his forehead, wet 
 with perspiration. " True — yes — I must see him at once," 
 he muttered. For a few moments he had forgotten the inde- 
 structible fact of Deb's dishonour. 
 
 "See — Cliffe? Ask him to marry me? Dad — dad, you 
 can't. . . . He'd laugh . . . they'd all laugh. It — it isn't 
 done, in our set. We — I've told you — I thought you believed 
 me — no earthly possible reason why he should marry me. 
 That night at the cottage . . . dad, I've told you — there was 
 nothing. You mustn't go to Clifi"e," in a sheer panic at the 
 ridiculous situation thus threatened, she scrambled up from 
 her knees, and confronted Ferdinand, also on his feet by now 
 — " You sha'n't go to Cliffe. There was nothing ! " she re- 
 peated doggedly. " Don't you believe me? " 
 
 " You did stop at his cottage that night — alone with him? " 
 The Inquisition commenced anew. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Why — what for — if there was nothing? " 
 
 " I don't know. No special reason. One does — nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " ' Nowadays ' has as broad a back as the parent, it seems," 
 wearily. " ' Nowadays ' must shoulder everything. But only 
 not human nature. Deb. I have had experience of human na- 
 ture, that even ' nowadays ' cannot alter." 
 
 Thoroughly exasperated. Deb wrenched herself away from 
 all hope of convincing them. ..." I haven't — I didn't — 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 215 
 
 but I might as well have, and I wish I had! " was her sobbed- 
 out threshold defiance. 
 
 ... "My tea," grandfather reminded Stella, after a long 
 silence. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ""I" AM writing to you, my dear Zoe, from the Cafe Roman- 
 ico. But indeed the talk all round me is so loud, I can 
 hardly collect my thoughts. My finger is better, but 
 I have a pain in my neck. I do not know what it can be, for 
 as you know I do not squander money on doctor's bills, which 
 reminds me, my dear Zoe, that it is quite impossible that you 
 can already have spent the ten pounds I gave you on leav- 
 mg. . . 
 
 Suddenly Pinto looked up. Across the babel of sound, a 
 familiar name struck his ear. ..." Little Zoe Dene-Cresswell 
 — si, si, I know her — I should have known her better but she 
 was occupied — Oh, very occupied ... all the day and most 
 of the " 
 
 " For shame, Gian. ..." 
 
 Here the laughing voices became for the moment inaudible. 
 Pinto knew the first speaker by sight. It was a friend of his 
 friend Marchetti, who had arrived the day before from England 
 to perform his military service. The other man, a stranger, 
 wore the R.F.C. badge. They were at a table behind him, and 
 doubtless had not recognized him. Without turning his head 
 he strained his ears to hear more. The English boy was read- 
 ing aloud from a letter. 
 
 ". . . ' With the face of an orang-outang and the temper of 
 a Patagonian savage! ' . . . How she can put up with him, I 
 don't know — and Cliffe says she actually seems fond of the 
 horrid coarse brute. . . ." 
 
 Pinto had heard enough. He rose and stalked out of the 
 cafe. He was amazed, staggered by this proof of Zoe's hypoc- 
 risy and infidelity. The world swam in yellow and green be- 
 fore his bilious gaze. So Zoe could write him every day those 
 
 216 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 217 
 
 pretty little letters, sympathizing, yes, daring to sympathize 
 with the many discomforts of his enforced trip, and all the 
 while she was in the arms of another lover — a horrid coarse 
 brute with a face like an orang-outang and the temper of a 
 Patagonian savage. . . . Pinto thought he could have borne it 
 better, had his rival been a worthier man — in which supposi- 
 tion Pinto was entirely wrong. 
 
 In the first throes of his jealousy he decided never to see 
 Zoe again, never to write to her explaining his desertion. Let 
 her wonder at it as much as she pleased! He had been be- 
 trayed, he had been fooled, he who had always been so good to 
 her! Even now the thought of the ten pounds rankled. How 
 she must have rejoiced at the necessity for this business-trip! 
 How she must have laughed in her sleeve during their fare- 
 wells. . . . After all, she was a common little thing, this Zoe! 
 He had tried to educate her taste, but she was evidently glad to 
 sink again to the type of male with whom she was most at her 
 ease. In time she would learn the difference. . . . Pinto 
 preened himself. He had done with Zoe. 
 
 But a month later, when his business-affairs were concluded, 
 and it was time to return to England, he decided that it was 
 very dull, cutting people off for ever without seeing the effect 
 upon them of this treatment; also he wanted his big row with 
 Zoe; also he had discovered that no French girls could cook 
 macaroni like a certain English girl. . . . He did not see why 
 he should deprive himself of the relief of telling Zoe just ex- 
 actly what he thought of her. His nerves were in a state of 
 suppressed irritation for lack of a victim. Yes, most decidedly 
 he would go to Zoe and have a grand scene with her, and then 
 never see her again. Perhaps he would throw something at 
 her; perhaps even, he would challenge his unknown rival. But 
 this he resolved not to do, in case the challenge should be 
 taken up. 
 
 n 
 
 **Antonia dear, Miss Stella Marcus has just spoken to me 
 on the telephone. She asked for you. Perhaps I did wrong 
 
218 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 in not calling you, but she was kind enough to say that I was 
 not to trouble. She seems to be in deep distress of mind, 
 causelessly I should say, but of course I am in no position to 
 judge." 
 
 " Why, mother? " Antonia and Cliff e were engrossed over a 
 portfolio of Cubist pictures by an aspirant for their candid 
 criticism, when Mrs. Verity came to the door of the studio. 
 
 " Deb has eloped, with very commendable independence of 
 spirit, I thought, but I did not say so to Miss Marcus, who 
 seemed in deep distress of mind. Forgive me if I repeat my- 
 self, Antonia dear. Cliffe, do, I beg you, forgive me if I re- 
 peat myself, but it is all so surprising." 
 
 " Eloped! Deb! but she's never said a word to me! " An- 
 tonia sprang to her feet, scattering the drawings over the floor. 
 " Whom has she eloped with? " 
 
 " Miss Marcus said . . . but I really and truly doubt if she 
 can be accurate, so perhaps I ought not to report her words — 
 it is so very, very difficult to know what is tactful and prudent 
 under such circumstances — but Miss Marcus said her niece had 
 unfortunately eloped this afternoon with Mr. Cliffe Kennedy ! " 
 
 Antonia raised quizzical eyebrows in Cliffe's direction. 
 " Present appearances are in your favour, Cliffe — but 
 still " 
 
 Kennedy protested heatedly: "I have most emphatically 
 not eloped with Deb! Do I look as though I'd eloped with 
 any one this aftenoon? What nasty people those Marcuses are, 
 taking away a fellow's character ! " 
 
 "Perhaps they did not mean it uncharitably, Cliffe; I trust 
 indeed that if you or any one were to elope with a daughter of 
 mine, that I should approve heartily — though certainly elope 
 has an old-fashioned sound. The Marcuses are slightly old- 
 fashioned people; charming — I mean nothing to their detri- 
 ment, but laggards in emancipation. Young people do not 
 elope nowadays — they walk straight out of the dusty temple 
 of convention on to the open heath. But pray do not allow 
 me to be a bore; I merely wanted to assure you, Cliffe, that in 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 219 
 
 repeating Miss Marcus' comment, I in no way attach any blame 
 to your possible complicity." 
 
 Cliffe bent and kissed her hand in its black silk mitten. 
 
 " I regret to state, dear lady, that I've frequently invited a 
 daughter of yours — I may say the daughter of yours, to step 
 with me on to the open heath, but, deplorably archaic in her 
 principles, she has always rigidly insisted on the prior formal- 
 ity of a registrar's ofiSce." 
 
 Mrs. Verity shuddered slightly. It was one of her troubles 
 that the late Mr. Verity had succeeded in imposing upon her the 
 legal right to bear his name, before she knew enough of life, 
 or the New Movement, to resent it. 
 
 " Mother, you're being selfish. I want to know about Deb? " 
 
 " Oh, dear," full of contrition. " And you have been so 
 patient with me. Now let me try and be accurate: I gathered 
 from Miss Marcus that violent argument had taken place this 
 afternoon between little Deb and her father, in which he cen- 
 sured her, most unwisely, if I may be permitted to say so, for 
 a too passionately independent spirit, and threatened her with 
 closer guardianship for the future. The brave child, refusing 
 to submit, has been seen leaving Montagu Hall at teatime — 
 no, a little after, with a suit-case, but without a word of explan- 
 ation. They are anxious to discover her whereabouts. The 
 object of the telephone call was to enquire if Antonia knew 
 anything." 
 
 "But where do I come in?" demanded Kennedy in ag- 
 grieved innocence. 
 
 " Miss Marcus seemed to think it possible that you were 
 involved in the flight, but she did not give me her reasons for 
 supposing so. I mentioned indeed that you were here, but . . . 
 Cliffe, if you have an appointment with Deb tonight," Mrs. 
 Verity glanced at her neat wrist-watch — " it is precisely a quar- 
 ter to nine," she said anxiously. " You ought not to be late — 
 if she has taken this step for your sake — I truly have no desire 
 to be meddlesome, but " 
 
 Clifife turned sulky, asserted that he knew nothing about Deb, 
 
220 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 that she had probably gone for a walk, and that he and Antonia 
 were due at Gillian Sherwood's at nine o'clock. 
 
 " People don't go out for walks lugging a suit-case. Don't 
 be inhuman, Cliffe. Deb's such an impetuous little goose. . . . 
 Oh, probably she has gone to La llorraine — or to Zoe. . . . 
 Yes, I remember Zoe offered her a spare bed whenever she liked 
 to drop in. I wish she had a 'phone." Antonia fidgetted 
 irresolutely with an easel-peg, popping it in and out of its hole. 
 
 " I'll run round to Zoe," she exclaimed suddenly. " Explain 
 to Gillian for me, will you, Cliffe? I shan't rest till I find out 
 — it puzzles me why Deb doesn't come here. . . ." 
 
 After Antonia had quitted the studio, and Cliffe and Mrs. 
 Verity had enjoyed a little desultory chatter on Reconstruction 
 of Sexual Morality in Conformity with the New Era of Woman- 
 hood, and what a pity it was that darling Antonia was so in- 
 tolerant, he departed for Bayswater, where he found Winifred 
 Potter lolloping in plump content on the horse-hair sofa, with a 
 penny novelette. 
 
 "Hullo, Winnie, where's Gillian? " 
 
 " Hullo, Cliffe. I believe she's out. Or she may be in her 
 room. Just look. . . ." She was of the pretty unremarkable 
 type of suburban girl, who wears beads round a podgy white 
 neck, and never moves save under compulsion. 
 
 " Not in there, Cliffe," as he opened the door of the bedroom 
 adjoining; "We've changed over, so tliat I needn't do the 
 stairs so much. Jill sleeps on the third floor now. Wasn't it 
 sweet of her to change? " 
 
 Cliffe grunted and ran up to the third floor, then down 
 again. 
 
 " Not a sign of her. At least — no — the whole bally floor 
 is littered with signs of her, but that's all. Is she out? She 
 expected me and Antonia tonight to go to the Vermillion Club, 
 but that's nothing; no inconvenience. Winnie, do wake up — 
 you've grown fatter." 
 
 " Theo says I've grown thinner," said Winnie unperturbed. 
 
 " Theo was pulling your leg, my dear." 
 
 "Was he? Yes, he often does. He w a caution. . . ." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 221 
 
 "Where's Gillian?" shouted Cliffe, whom, strangely, this 
 placid young woman could always irritate to a frenzy — ("If 
 you poke her mind you only dimple the suet " — he complained 
 to Antonia) . " Where's Gillian? She invited Antonia and me 
 to supper." 
 
 " I expect she forgot," lazily, " anyway, Antonia hasn't come, 
 so it doesn't matter." 
 
 "I've come, haven't I?" 
 
 " Yes," Winnie sighed, and fingered her novelette. 
 
 " Well — I'm off again. Can't waste a moment. Tell Gil- 
 lian that we're in a terrible state; Antonia has had to run round 
 to Zoe — Deb Marcus is missing from home since yesterday — 
 no ; the day before — since days " he paused, for sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 " How perfectly awful. But I expect she'll come back," 
 yawned Winnie. 
 
 It had become more essential to Cliffe than anything else 
 in the whole world, that Winifred Potter should be made to 
 display some rending emotion. 
 
 " No. She won't come back. I . . . happen to know she 
 won't come back, you see." 
 
 Winnie dangled her bare braceletted arm over the side of 
 the sofa and picked up a cushion which had slid to the ground. 
 
 " Why? Do you know where she is? " 
 
 " No. Only where she isn't. Only where she isn't, Winnie. 
 And that's on earth." 
 
 . . . After all, it was merely the question of the novelette. 
 Now that Cliffe had really produced a thrill which out-rivalled 
 even " The Sin of Lady Jacynth " by Coronal, Winnie immedi- 
 ately yielded him what he coveted in the way of attention all 
 agape. She was personally acquainted with neither Deb nor 
 Lady Jacynth, but Cliffe had proved himself a better author 
 than Coronal. 
 
 " — Dead?'' 
 
 He nodded curtly, and stood for a moment with eyes fixed 
 on the carpet . . . then bent and cut off a loose strand absently 
 with his penknife . . . seemed on the verge of speaking . . , 
 
222 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 thought better of it. Winifred watched him; her light blue 
 eyes were circles of horror and fascination. 
 
 " She's not dead," abruptly ; " forget that I said it. I ought 
 not — Ought I ? — I don't know. . . . Upon my soul, I don't 
 know . . ." he began to stalk the room, hair falling shaggily 
 over his frowning forehead, as he jerked his head in acute 
 mental conflict. 
 
 Winifred was rapacious for detail : " Did any one treat her 
 badly? " she whispered, with healthy gloating. "Any man, 
 I mean? " 
 
 And one man stood stock-still as though he had been shot. 
 
 " What makes you ask me that? " 
 
 " Was it you? " queried Winifred, very naturally. 
 
 And then he unburdened himself. He had by this time safely 
 crossed that precarious borderland stage in the Life of a Lie, 
 by Cliffe Kennedy, when that lie, from being artistically per- 
 ceived, created and approved by his own consciousness, is 
 slowly and mysteriously merged, as far as he was concerned, 
 into genuine and independent existence, the self-supplied 
 ground- work entirely obliterated from his memory. 
 
 He was mostly worried, it seemed, as to whether he ought to 
 tell Deb's people . . . what he knew. Directly he heard that 
 she was missing, her threat of suicide had scorched like fire 
 into his mind. . . . Why, that night on the open common . . . 
 black blown space, and Deb's wild hair swept straight out like 
 a drenched black banner by the wind; and Deb's mood black 
 as night itself, and as passionate, declaring that she meant 
 to die — that she was tired of fighting God — " tired of fight- 
 ing Him for you, Cliffe. . . . And sometimes it's easier to die 
 
 than to live " He had no very clear notion of what the 
 
 fuss was about, but he saw her face, a grey blur, save where her 
 eyes and mouth were wet and black . . . and knew it was 
 best for him to turn and go; her ragged sobbing followed him 
 through the swish of the rain, black slanting stripes of 
 rain. ... 
 
 So the man's racing sense of what was fitly beautiful and 
 tragic caught the scene and flashed it into being; so his infall- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 223 
 
 ible ear caught the sounds, . . . and so he described it to Win- 
 nie Potter — till the complete vision was broken all into bits 
 — like the Cubist pictures which he had last seen strewing the 
 floor of Antonia's studio. 
 
 . . . Mrs. Verity's recent remarks, a certain conversation 
 with Otto Redbury in the Tube, the actual Saturday to Sunday 
 spent at Seaview, telepathic oddments from Winifred's con- 
 ventional expectation, suggestion from the cover -picture illus- 
 trating " The Sin of Lady Jacynth," were all stirred and flung 
 pell-mell into the descending spiral vortex of Cliffe's pris- 
 matic imagination. 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Winifred at the end of the recital, " but I do 
 think you ought to tell them, Cliff"e, even if you're not sure — 
 they might want to drag the river, or something. . . . Any- 
 way, they've got a right to know." 
 
 "Granted that — have I the right to tell them? The Aunt 
 mentioned me as being mixed up in the whole horrible busi- 
 ness, when she 'phoned Mrs. Verity. Am I the person to tell 
 them? . . . when it may not even be true . . . when I may be 
 only the victim of my cursedly morbid imagination — And 
 yet — I wish to Heaven, Winnie, that some one would take the 
 decision out of my hands. I can't stand it much longer — 
 holding the secret alone — it gnaws . . . like the fox — Spar- 
 tan boy — you know ! . . . I hold it tight, and it gnaws. What 
 do you suppose my nights are like? " turning with ferocity 
 on to his hearer, who replied simply : " What things you do 
 say, Cliff"e!" 
 
 " Ought I " he hacked anew at indecision. The puzzle 
 
 existed for him as surely as though it were wrought in bits of 
 metal, and sold in a box for fourpence-halfpenny. Deb was 
 missing; his name was mixed up in it; ought the Marcuses to 
 be told what he knew about that night — (hiatus) — at Sea- 
 view? Was he the right person to tell them? These were all 
 facts. The hiatus was slurred over unperceived. ... it was 
 such a tiny hiatus. Winifred Potter was responsible for it, by 
 being fat, and yawning, and talking in that slow flaccid way 
 of hers. . . . But it was an absorbing problem! And under- 
 
224 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 neath a top layer of recently-manufactured tragedy, Cliffe's 
 genuine nature was genuinely concerned about Deb, and the 
 circumstances which attended her flight from home, and his own 
 possible share in the matter. Was any course of action ex- 
 pected of him — not officially by her family, but in the way of 
 ordinary decency? An offer of marriage? Surely not! but 
 he ought to go and look for her 
 
 In the river? 
 
 Who said she was in the river? truculently. Winifred Potter. 
 She had talked about dragging it . . . nasty idea! Anyway, 
 how did she know? She was too fat to know anything — just 
 a mischief-maker — And then again — ought the Redburys to 
 be told? . . . Would it be worse for them to wait from hour 
 to hour and from week to week, hope slowly drained away 
 — or be dealt the sudden blow? 
 
 Not by him in any case. Not by the man who ought to have 
 married Deb. 
 
 His entranced mind, pacing the hiatus like a bridge between 
 fact and fancy, took him out of the house and half-way down 
 the street before he even realized that he had left the room. 
 And he had completely forgotten to say good-bye to Winifred. 
 
 . . . Presently she picked irresolutely at the edges of " The 
 Sin of Lady Jacynth." She wondered if it would be wrong to 
 finish it; like — like raising the blinds too soon after a funeral. 
 But — it was not as if she had known Deb any better than 
 Jacynth. And the solution to that lady's sin was so handy . . . 
 one did not have to go out and drag for it, or even move from 
 the sofa. . . . 
 
 Winifred did not move from the sofa, not when the front- 
 door bell was violently pealed — again — and several times 
 again. She went on reading. After about six minutes, the 
 lodger on the third floor, who had previously admitted Cliffe, 
 came tramping wearily down the stairs again to let in Gillian 
 Sherwood. 
 
 "So you are at home, you lazy young pug. And awake? " 
 
 " Have you lost your key again ? " Winnie reprimanded her. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 225 
 
 " Yes — no — here it is, in the ash-tray. I remembered sud- 
 denly that Cliffe and Antonia were supposed to turn up tonight, 
 and flew home." Gillian, yielding to natural tendencies, scat- 
 tered widely her hat and gloves and coat in various portions 
 of the room. Then chased them and retrieved them and draped 
 them tidily on one chair, remembering that if she did not do so, 
 nobody would. It was on understanding of the performance of 
 this and like jobs that Winifred had been enlisted as her room- 
 mate. Thus Gillian would be left free to be a genius. Winnie 
 was glad to leave her own chaotic home of exacting parents 
 and brothers. She ensconced herself tranquilly and for good 
 on the sofa of Gillian's furnished apartments. Having natur- 
 ally a sweet disposition, she did not complain because it was 
 a horsehair sofa and very slippery. And Gillian, having nat- 
 urally a sweet disposition, enlivened by humour, continued to 
 make brilliant effective dashes at domesticity, in the between- 
 while of her other work; with the sole difference that now she 
 cleared up for Winifred as well as for herself. She had grown 
 fond of the plump little parasite; and took the same sort of 
 freakish delight in her as Cliffe in Otto Redbury. And Wini- 
 fred was mulishly averse from returning home; she was hap- 
 pier with Gillian; Gillian gave her more pocket-money than 
 ever father did. And Gillian was famous — a personage. . . . 
 It was all very nice. She was never going to leave Gillian. 
 
 Gillian began to hurl supper on to the table, smashing three 
 plates and a jam-jar, confidently indifferent as a conjuror who 
 smashes a watch in the knowledge that he can produce it whole 
 again out of the top-hat of the Gentleman in the Back Row. 
 Winifred watched her listlessly for a few moments, till it 
 dawned upon her that knives and forks were being laid for four. 
 
 "Cliffe and Antonia aren't coming. Didn't I tell you? 
 Cliffe has been here already, and he says that Deb Marcus has 
 killed herself! " 
 
 " Then she probably has a cold in the head," Gillian com- 
 mented, with the perfect serenity of one who has often sampled 
 the output from the Kennedy factory. 
 
 Winifred was indignant; and even roused herself to convince 
 
226 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Gillian ; who presently admitted that there " might be some- 
 thing in the story! " 
 
 " — Anyhow, Cliffe oughtn't to be allowed to walk about 
 with such a dynamo joggling loose in his pocket. Did you say 
 he did or did not intend to explode it on the Marcus family? 
 Because if the girl is really missing, it may frighten them." 
 
 " He wasn't sure. Never mind. We don't know any of 
 them." And Winifred rolled off the sofa and established her- 
 self comfortably at the table. 
 
 Gillian's eyes twinkled at her — narrow green-grey eyes set 
 askew in an odd, thin, freckled face. Gillian's body was also 
 thin and small-boned to a degree. And her hair, which, by 
 all the rights of compensation should have been a gloriously 
 redeeming feature, was short and mouse-coloured and ragged 
 
 — short with the round pudding-basin effect. The man who 
 loved her could say that she had pretty wrists and ankles, and 
 enormous fascination. Then, lacking material, he must per- 
 force cease from hyperbole. 
 
 (" Go on, Theo — what next? " and he could never be quite 
 sure if she were wilfully plaguing him, or else blind to her own 
 shortcomings. " Theo, do you know a bit in Browning about 
 * Mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs ' ? . . . Jolly line, 
 isn't it? ... Or d'you admire the slender type more? I — I 
 suppose you would call me slender, wouldn't you? . . . Not 
 exactly the right word? — Well, svelte then? . . . like ladies 
 in the corset advertisements. No? Theo, not — not scraggy 
 
 — Oh, you wouldn't call me scraggy, would you? . . ." 
 Then, after a pause, still persistent: "Theo — would you 
 
 call me scraggy? Do tell! " 
 
 " You're just the squeak of a mouse made concrete, Gillian." 
 
 " That's not such a good line as Browning's," she sighed. 
 And he, being a sensual epicure, sighed also, thinking of the 
 great smooth marbly limbs — and for the thousandth time 
 racked his brains for what attracted him so mightily and des- 
 perately in this exasperating bit of a creature with — with 
 
 " Well, Theo? " expectantly. 
 
 " With remarkably pretty wrists and ankles.'* 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 227 
 
 And : " Go on, Theo," in complacent appreciation of these. 
 "What next?") 
 
 " Where's the blanc-mange? " enquired Winnie, whose fa- 
 vourite pudding it was. 
 
 Gillian pushed her hands backwards through her hair, in 
 an effort of memory; "I believe I turned it out on the wash- 
 stand in your room. You'll find it there when you want it." 
 
 " Why, are you going out again? " as the other rose im- 
 petuously from supper. 
 
 " I'm not happy about that Deb Marcus kid. . . . Not my 
 business, but Cliffe is such an irresponsible lunatic — and if 
 even Antonia doesn't know what he's saying about it all " 
 
 " Nobody knows but me and him," said Winifred impor- 
 tantly. " It's a secret." 
 
 Gillian bestowed on her a quick mobile grin. " Mind you 
 keep it, then. Did you say Antonia had gone round to 
 Zoe? " 
 
 Winnie nodded, her mouth full, of salad. 
 
 "Right. 'Night, Winnie. — Lord, I'd nearly forgotten that 
 key again. Why didn't you remind me? Think of the na- 
 tional calamity if I'd called you up out of bed." 
 
 Winifred assented, but reflected no doubt that there was 
 always the lodger on the third floor. . . . "You might give 
 me the blanc-mange, Jill, as you're up." 
 
 Ill 
 
 " I say, is my sister here? " 
 
 Zoe opened her eyes very wide: " Are you Seul au Monde? " 
 she whispered cautiously, bending from the threshold towards 
 Richard till her rumple of primrose curls fell forward over the 
 shoulders of her frilly white dressing- jacket. 
 
 He stepped back a pace. 
 
 " Because if you are " — with a gurgle of laughter — " then 
 I'm Petite Sceur — but you're not half as French as I thought 
 you, and why aren't you in your nice uniform? Never mind 
 — are you hungry? Did you cross today? Do you think 
 you're going to like me as much as you supposed? ' 
 
228 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Well, honestly, you're awfully jolly and all that — but you 
 see we're a bit bothered about Deb just at present. Is she 
 here? " 
 
 " Deb — oh, then you're her brother. Mr, Richard Marcus, 
 isn't it? " Zoe immediately adapted herself to the change of 
 notion, and all the possibilities it in its turn entailed. " D'you 
 know who I thought you were? My unknown correspondent 
 at the Front — I answered his Ad. in the Vie Parisienne; there 
 was no harm in it, was there? He wrote back such a darling 
 letter — and promised to come here on his next leave. So of 
 course I thought. . . . But it doesn't matter one bit, so do 
 come in. I'm really rather glad you've come, between our- 
 selves, because my landlord's called on me and he's perfectly 
 awful when he starts." 
 
 " What a beast ! " rather hazy, nevertheless, as to what it 
 was the landlord started. Possibly the poor kid was behind- 
 hand with the rent, and he was trying to cart away her furni- 
 ture. " I say, is Deb here? " 
 
 " No, but I daresay if she told you to meet her here, she'll 
 turn up presently, so you might as well wait. I've often won- 
 dered what you were like . . ." with a serious intimate scrutiny 
 from under drawn brows, which she always found " went " 
 well with under seventeen and over sixty. " Come into the 
 sitting-room. You'll excuse these clothes, but I was just dress- 
 ing for tonight when he came " — with a nod towards the room 
 — " and you won't believe me, but I've had to be perfectly hor- 
 rid to him ... to counteract the effort of my hair down, 
 you know. I suppose he has the kind of wife who keeps hers 
 always in iron curlers — shouldn't you think he has? So, poor 
 man, one would expect a little agitation. But there are limits, 
 aren't there? I mean from one's landlord. So you really are 
 a godsend ... a sort of guardian angel. Isn't it curious, but 
 I've always, even when I was a kiddie, wanted to see my Guar- 
 dian Angel in the flesh — at least in his clothes — you know 
 what I mean? Because I was always quite sure he was a man 
 — it didn't seem right that he shouldn't be, somehow." 
 
 " Bet you could have made a man of him, anyway," said 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 229 
 
 Richard in blind admiration. And he was right; Zoe could be 
 relied on to rouse the sex element from any substance in her 
 vicinity, even a guardian angel. 
 
 Delighted with his tribute, and still gabbling, she preceded 
 him into the sitting-room, and prettily introduced him to the 
 landlord, a very low man, but genial, and obviously with no 
 evil intentions on the furniture. The difficult point at issue 
 seemed to be that he desired to pay for the new carpet; and 
 Zoe, wriggling coyly on the edge of temptation, would yet not 
 quite yield to it. "Though if spitting on a carpet makes it 
 yours, I'm sure I've no more claims at all, Mr. Wright! " with 
 a look of coquetry that mellowed her unexpectedly frank re- 
 buke. 
 
 Richard was enjoying it — enjoying her immensely. There 
 was no real cause for alarm about Deb; only the family were 
 fussing. And he was flattered by Zoe's skill in making him 
 feel essential to her being, while dimly recognizing that the 
 flattery was somewhat impaired by its too even distribution 
 between himself and the landlord. Zoe was not in the least 
 Richard's ideal. But Zoe was — well, rather a rag! And she 
 bespoke applause by the zest and candour with which she de- 
 manded it, retailed it, invented it . . . her existence might 
 present a surface appearance of muddle, but perhaps more than 
 other girls she could hail herself as a success. Zoe knew how 
 to unwind unlimited quantities of what makes you happy, and 
 how to be made happy by a material of which unlimited quan- 
 tities exist for the unwinding. 
 
 " I'm going to be taken out this evening by a Cavalry giant 
 who clanks and jangles the whole way up the stairs, and calls 
 me 'You dear little thing! fancy livin' all alone with no one 
 to look after you — it's a shame! ' — and brings me presents. 
 He's about forty and thinks I'm not quite seventeen; and 
 when I perch winsomely on his knee and turn his pockets inside- 
 out to find what he's got for me, he's just as pleased as a little 
 child. Really he is! And then I spread out all my presents 
 on the table to make them look more, and dance roimd them 
 and skip and clap my hands with glee. Oh, he loves it when 
 
230 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 I clap my hands with glee. You shall both see me do it if 
 you wait long enough. Isn't it funny what things please some 
 men? Sometimes I say 'What have you brought me? ' and 
 he says ' nothing at all ' to tease me, and I pout — like this — 
 look — look, Mr. Marcus! — and he can't bear to see me so dis- 
 appointed and pulls an enormous painted chocolate-box from 
 behind his back! That sort of treatment is wonderfully re- 
 juvenating, you wouldn't believe it; tons better than massage. 
 There he is, and I'm not dressed yet! " She scuttled into her 
 room as a door banged down on the street level; then popped 
 her head in again to say : " You'll keep him entertained, won't 
 you, till I'm ready? He's quite easy! " 
 
 " Would he rather have me or Mr. Wright to perch on his 
 knee? " laughed Richard. 
 
 "Ef it's fur turnin' aht 'is pawkits, it'ull be me!" the 
 landlord remarked with a facetious wink. 
 
 As the footsteps were heard, though without any of the per- 
 ceptible clank and jangle foretold, Zoe again appeared, with 
 comb tugging at her curls. 
 
 " I wonder if the sight of you two would upset him. . . . 
 I've told him that I had no friends in the world except him 
 and one old lady who's kind to the lonely little girl " — she 
 eyed the landlord dubiously — " Oh, you could pretend to be 
 the broker," with a quick spurt of inspiration. " Will you, Mr. 
 Wright? It might make him feel generous, mightn't it? And 
 you " — even in the extremity of haste and peril she checked 
 herself from a tactless decision that maybe Richard was too 
 young to matter much — " You — behind the curtain. No — 
 your boots will show. Get into the cupboard — Quick! " She 
 banged the door on him, and banged her bedroom door, just as 
 the front-door of the flat, left open at Richard's entrance, 
 banged shakily behind the entering newcomer. 
 
 " Like a bally old farce," Richard reflected ; he did not know 
 that people ever really hid in cupboards. Though in Zoe's 
 flat such behaviour seemed not only free from eccentricity, but 
 rhythmically correct. 
 
 He knew the flat quite well. . . . Richard's imagination was 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 231 
 
 not the choked-up affair of a year ago. This was the flat where 
 comic misunderstandings took place, and false identities, where 
 an incriminating glove was left in the corner, and where screens 
 fell down at the wrong moment; it was the flat for runaway 
 wives; the flat where the husband is made to look a fool. It 
 was jolly, now, actually to be in such a flat, actually to be the 
 Man in the Cupboard; Richard chuckled silently . . . then 
 grew impatient, till, after seemingly endless waiting in muffled 
 darkness the fourth wall against which he pressed his weight 
 gave way, and he stumbled forward into a room full of people. 
 ..." Fancy, I forgot you for the moment," laughed Zoe, who 
 had released him. " Why didn't you bang or shout? Here's 
 Antonia come to find Deb. I'm sure I don't know why all Lon- 
 don is running here this evening to enquire after that sister of 
 yours. Isn't it funny — she and Monsieur le Caporal met on 
 the stairs, and he thought she was Petite Soeur, didn't you? — 
 just like I took Mr. Marcus for Seul au Monde! " 
 
 A young man in uniform, with round red cheeks and a tassel 
 dangling from his cap, stood adoring Zoe with an embarrassed 
 smile, obviously not understanding a word of her harangue. 
 There are two types of Belgian soldier — the stolid peasant who 
 is shy, and the dapper townsman who is bold. Zoe unfortu- 
 nately had hooked one of the former species. Undaunted, she 
 turned her welcome into French with morsels of pidgin English 
 inserted for the benefit of Mr. Sam Wright, that he might not 
 feel left out of the conversation; Richard over by the window, 
 was explaining to Antonia about Deb. 
 
 It was Mr. Wright who discovered that the Belgian had had 
 nothing to eat for fourteen hours. " 'Old on. Missy — the 
 young chap's guts is fair yawning for a bit o' something solid. 
 This is my treat — see — and you go an' cook a steak for 'im. 
 Veev la Belgium! " and the Corporal, understanding, stood 
 at attention — and then bowed gratefully to Mr. Wright, to 
 Antonia, and Richard, and Zoe, in turn, while the tassel from 
 his cap bobbed absurdly. . . . 
 
 Zoe, interrupted in a rapid resume of her own intimate his- 
 tory, calculated to set the intruder at his ease, took up the 
 
232 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 threads again while she ran in and out of the kitchen, laying 
 the table and grilling the steak. 
 
 " Isn't it a good thing I've still got some wine in the house — 
 this is the last bottle, but I expect more tomorrow — it's a 
 present. Oh, not from Captain Braithwaite — I wonder why 
 he's so late, by the way? — but there's an Italian wine-and- 
 macaroni shop just around the corner, and the owner is simply 
 crazy about me ... an atrocious old man with black teeth, 
 but he does stock good wines, and so cheap. . . . His wife 
 caught him out ogling me over the counter one day, and now 
 she won't leave the shop, so the old demon comes round here, 
 and brings me Chianti on the sly, hoping to melt me. There's 
 not the slightest chance that I shall be melted, but you don't 
 think it's wrong of me to accept the wine, do you? I mean 
 he takes the risk of losing all and gaining nothing, doesn't he? 
 ... Of course I daren't let him into the flat, besides, I wouldn't 
 do such a thing! No, I wouldn't, because I don't honestly 
 think it's right, if his wife feels like that about me, do you, 
 Mr. Wright? So I half open the door and tell him to leave 
 the bottles outside and go away quietly for both our sakes! 
 He supposes I've got a jealous husband — the Italian bandit 
 kind, with ribbons and daggers all the way up their legs. . . . 
 And just fancy, once he had the cheek to come round without 
 any wine at all, and said — well, I didn't know men were like 
 that, did you, Antonia? But I sent him home to fetch some 
 pretty quick. Wouldn't you have? " appealing to the Cor- 
 poral, who murmured " Mais out, certainement ! " and sat down 
 to his steak as to a serious business. He shovelled up the food 
 strangely, and thought how beautiful was Zoe, in her white 
 frilly dressing- jacket, clouded with yellow curls. . . . 
 
 " Why not go round to La lloraine? — Deb might be there," 
 Antonia suggested. And reluctantly Richard stood up. Deb 
 was a nuisance — of course she was all right. He disliked La 
 lloraine and Manon; but Zoe and her doors and her landlord 
 and her Belgian and her spaniel and her lovers and her stories, 
 had a unique flavour of attraction. Any further develop- 
 ments, comic or ridiculous, might occur at any moment, in 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 233 
 
 this atmosphere. . . . Sure enough, a door banged four flights 
 of stairs away . . . scuffle of many feet approaching — and: 
 
 "Why, it's Captain Braithwaite," cried Zoe, in a clear, 
 childish treble of astonishment. "And did you find little 
 Becky and Mark and Joey on the stairs? What's the matter, 
 Becky? broken your scooter? . . . never mind, let me give 
 you a ginger-snap — two ginger-snaps are better than one 
 scooter, aren't they? What a pretty drawing of a thermometer, 
 Joey? Is it for me? Now that is sweet of you." 
 
 " Mother theyth I'm to athk you to 'ave a look at me thore 
 throat, Mith! " The children of the Second Jewish Tailor, 
 whom the good-natured Cavalry officer had gathered and 
 brought in from the landing, were grouping themselves round 
 Zoe's Barrie-like representation of the lonely little mother to 
 whom all the children bring their troubles, as spontaneously 
 and efficiently as tliough they had been rehearsed for week^. 
 Zoe really had been very good to them in different ways at 
 different times, and their present adhesion round her knees, 
 in full view of a beaming Captain Braithwaite, was her reward. 
 
 Antonia, in an aside to Richard, anxiously questioned her 
 own grotesque fancy that yet another set of doors had just 
 banged, and yet more footsteps were scuffling and clattering 
 up the stairs : " This flat is haunted by a delusion of banging 
 doors — listen ! " 
 
 " Listen ! " echoed Zoe, smashed into sudden silence — " It's 
 Pinto! " she whispered, all her gay resourcefulness paralysed. 
 
 "She hears it too," Antonia sighed with relief; "I don't 
 mind so much if we're all raving together! " And indeed it 
 was obviously incredible that the corpulent whiskered person 
 who was projected squealing into the sitting-room, by an 
 image of bony yellow ferocity, could be otherwise than chimera. 
 The wine-bottles which the pursued swung in impotent ara- 
 besques from either hand, erased the last touch of credibility. 
 
 " Face — like — an — orang-outang — temper — Patagonian 
 savage ..." were the only words distinguishable from the 
 yapping, snapping medley of limbs and bottles and vitupera- 
 tion. 
 
234 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 There was a crash of splintered glass, and ruddy liquid 
 poured into pools on the carpet, and Zoe cried out to Captain 
 Braithwaite, who flung his big form on top of the belligerents 
 and wrenched them apart. The ensuing sequence of events 
 was rather too nimble for disentanglement. The Italian wine- 
 and-macaroni merchant from round the corner collapsed pant- 
 ing — then rallied his faculties and bolted for the door. Zoe 
 darted in his wake, and returned triumphant, a few seconds 
 afterwards, carrying the second and undamaged flask of Chi- 
 anti. Meanwhile Pinto had vented his spleen upon the Cav- 
 alry oflScer, the landlord, the round-eyed Belgian, and Richard, 
 on whom each in turn he fastened his saga of " face like an 
 orang-outang — tempaire of a P-P-Patagonian savage! "... 
 The return of Zoe he greeted by a violent and uncomprehensible 
 outbreak of what was certainly bad language and probably 
 Portuguese; informed her that he knew all about it, and was 
 done with her for ever . . . caught up a chair and wrenched 
 it into fragments . . . glared viciously at the innocent amaze- 
 ment of Monsieur le Caporal; jabbed an accusing finger at him 
 — " You — yes, it is you — you may have her — she is worth 
 nothing, I tell you — stop eating and take her — take her — 
 take her! " lifting the remains of the steak from the plate and 
 flinging it across to the window, where it narrowly missed An- 
 tonia — "Here — just you stop that!" Richard ejaculated, 
 doubling fists truculently. 
 
 " Leave 'im alone. Sonny — 'e dunno wot 'e's doing ! " 
 
 The finger travelled instantly round to the pacifist — " Whose 
 is this house, you ? " 
 
 "Mine!" the landlord retorted, putting up his boots on 
 the sofa as a sign of ownership. " Nah shut up, do — ladies 
 present! " 
 
 " It is then you with the face and the temper? " 
 
 " Face and temper yourself! " from Mr. Sam Wright, which 
 retort, though merely made in the way of casual repartee, was, 
 had the assembled company only known it, the full explanation 
 of the scene so astounding them. 
 
 But Pinto's suspicions made a last leap at Captain Raymond 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 235 
 
 Braithwaite. " Take her " — flourishing with both arms in 
 Zoe's direction. "She is ungrateful, unloyal. True affection 
 is not to be found in her nature. She lies and thieves; she is 
 untidy in her clothing; she has betrayed me and will betray 
 you. Take her — perhaps your temper like a Patagonian sav- 
 age will keep her in order. Take her emd beat her if you 
 please. Who am I to have a claim? , . ." He recapitulated 
 the entire list of Zoe's crimes, linked to the benefits which his 
 easy-going generosity had showered upon her ; shed tears at the 
 recollection of his own innocent confiding trust and little ten- 
 der ways; surpassed himself in an ebullition of Portuguese and 
 English blended into one final expanding monstrous, wall- 
 cracking, hair-stiffening execration, anathema, and blight 
 
 Antonia stepped forward, and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " You're not behaving at all nicely, and we're tired of you," 
 she said gently but distinctly. 
 
 Pinto, checked in his onrush of epithet, rolled round at her 
 a pair of livid, yellow eyeballs; spluttered; made a few in- 
 articulate sounds in his throat — and departed. 
 
 No one could deny that his visit, though short, had been 
 full of lively colour. 
 
 " Ma f oi ! " said the Belgian poilu, still gaping stupidly after 
 his steak. 
 
 Richard burst into a shout of laughter, and went on laughing 
 boyishly, irresistibly. It was infectious . . . presently Sam 
 Wright joined in, and Capteiin Braithwaite, and Antonia, and 
 even the Belgian. Zoe, on the verge of tears, was the last to 
 succumb. ... "At least, we've got some wine now," she 
 gurgled, divided between sobs and hysterical mirth. "And 
 we'd better drink it — it's g-good wine and so cheap! I'm 
 glad I remembered just in time to nip it." She darted away 
 for glasses — " But honestly, I haven't the faintest idea what 
 Pinto was so cross and unkind about, have any of you? " 
 
 "He did seem a bit annoyed: what?" guffawed Captain 
 Braithwaite, " Here's to his good recovery ! " They all drank 
 Pinto's health in excellent Chianti. ... A bell tinkled from 
 below. 
 
236 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Oh dear! he must have jammed the downstairs front door 
 in going out, and now people can't push it open. I do think 
 he ought to control himself a little bit better than that, don't 
 you? I mean, it's so horrid when one has visitors." The 
 bell tinkled again impatiently. "Will one of you go down? " 
 
 IV 
 
 Deb dawdled along the street, painfully carrying a suit-case. 
 La lloraine had insisted on keeping her to supper, but the 
 Countess was occupying the only vacant room in the house 
 . . . anyway, you could always rely on a bed at Zoe's when- 
 ever you turned up — time enough tomorrow to think things 
 over. . . . 
 
 Somebody was already on the doorstep pealing at the bell: 
 " The door usually stands open, but it must have got jammed. 
 ... Do you want tailor Moses, tailor Jacob, or tailor Isaac? " 
 
 **I don't want a tailor at all, thanks. Not tonight, any- 
 how. I want Zoe Dene-Cresswell? I wonder if she's in." 
 
 Again Gillian tugged at the bell. " You look as if you ought 
 to be Deb Marcus." 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " I'm Gillian Sherwood. Put down your suit-case and shake 
 hands. I'll carry it up for you, if ever they admit us." 
 
 Gillian at last! Deb was first conscious of triumph — 
 followed by a quick pang of guilt. She had not sought out 
 this meeting ; it was purely accidental — but what would An- 
 tonia say? 
 
 Antonia opened the door to them. 
 
PART III 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 DEB was living with La llorraine. She indignantly re- 
 fused to return home on the understanding that she was 
 to be partially forgiven for an offence she had never 
 committed; on the other hand, her affection for Ferdie caused 
 her a pang of acute misery when she saw how the belief in her 
 sins had stripped him of a certain chubby contentment which 
 even the war and its complications had hitherto left unimpaired. 
 For of course her swift dramatic rupture with her family top- 
 pled to an anti-climax. Richard took home the tidings of her 
 whereabouts ; and a day after her flight, Aunt Stella appeared at 
 Zoe's for a parley. The tolerance of the period did not permit 
 an erring daughter to be blasted with a parent's curse and left 
 to suicide — or worse — in the dark cold streets of London. 
 The tolerance of the period sanctioned some natural anxiety 
 over the said daughter's material welfare, tentative negotiations, 
 and a return home to a great deal of nagging and an atmos- 
 phere of reproachful discomfort. Perhaps Deb foresaw the 
 final item; perhaps also, her passionate self-persuasion that 
 she could not bear continual witnessing of Ferdie's sighs and 
 worried forehead, was the outcome of a guilty suspicion that 
 it was more by haphazard than by virtue that she was able to 
 mount her pedestal and stand aggrieved upon it. 
 
 " It's the fault of my very lax upbringing," she argued with 
 the guilty suspicion. 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 " It's lucky that I have a certain fundamental standpoint 
 of moral decency," with crushing pomposity. 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 The yes-buts had it. 
 
 239 
 
240 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " I can't live at home with Aunt Stella hating me like this," 
 weakly. 
 
 And here she was right. Even Ferdie recognized that his 
 sister and his daughter were henceforth not likely to dwell 
 together in a state of affectionate harmony. Stella had been 
 queer about Deb ever since discovery that Deb was — initiated. 
 What was to be done? And then La llorraine appeared at 
 Montagu House, an emissary from Deb. 
 
 " My dee-urr — leave it to me." 
 
 La llorraine was magnificent, she was Miladi, she was Jose- 
 phine Beauharnais, and Madame de Maintenon and Louise de 
 Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth, and every other intrigu- 
 ante of foreign history, entrusted with dispatches and a car- 
 dinal's secret, a go-between from one royal court to another. 
 She wore filmy black, a huge black hat cast a mysterious 
 shadow over her eyes; she wore all her sables, and Parma 
 violets; and fingered them meaningly with her long thin white 
 hands as though they were a symbol of a lost cause. She 
 flattered, cajoled and hinted, and laid down her cards and 
 picked them up again; and her speech was worldly and witty 
 and wise, and her smile was maternal, or suggestive, or discreet, 
 and she overwhelmed Ferdie Marcus with dupery and diplo- 
 macy, and left him quite dazed, but convinced that the arrange- 
 ment made was the only one possible in view of the subtleties 
 involved; and that moreover it had emanated straight from him. 
 
 " So, my dee-urr, you join us in our humble little apparte- 
 ment, and your father will put you in possession of your own 
 income. Have I done well? " 
 
 " — Turned out of home plus a cheque-book? — that's what 
 I call an eviction de luxe," laughed Antonia, when Deb told 
 her of the new arrangement, while re-packing her suit-case to 
 quit Zoe's flat five days after her weary arrival. Zoe was out 
 at rehearsal. 
 
 " What are you going to pay La llorraine per week for board 
 and lodging? " 
 
 " My-dee-urr," Deb imitated the grand manner and the large 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 241 
 
 gesture by which her future landlady had dismissed the ques- 
 tion — " Zat — between us? it shall arrange itself " 
 
 Antonia looked enigmatic, and warned Deb that the first 
 time she arrived at the appartement, and found her breakfasting 
 at eleven o'clock in a dirty wrapper and curl-papers, in the 
 Venetian drawing-room, on stale mayonnaise, with La Uorraine 
 practising scales, and Manon being demure with the fishmonger 
 because the canaille wanted to be paid, she would intunediately 
 haul her ofi^ to an environment less pictorial but more hy- 
 gienic. 
 
 " Fishmonger, indeed ! " Deb turned Quelle Vie out of the 
 suit-case, " when we want fish, La Uorraine, pale and haughty, 
 kisses Manon on the brow and goes out to pawn the Crown 
 Jewels; then she brings home the fish and chips in a piece of 
 newspaper, and we sit down to enjoy it while she tells us 
 sniggering anecdotes of fifth-rate music halls." 
 
 " Look here," demanded Cliffe, striding into the room, " I've 
 been interviewing your brother. Deb, and he says that little 
 bit of mange who calls himself Otto Redbury is responsible 
 for our good name dragged in the mud. He says that vermin- 
 ous Dutchman called on your father full of a * brivate peesi- 
 ness ' just before the row. What I want to know is, who told 
 him? And a rumour has got about that you committed suicide 
 last Friday night. That's not exactly funny, is it? We've got 
 to track those scandals to their sources. You don't seem to 
 realize how serious it is. Our honour is at stake! " 
 
 " It's so good of you to include mine," Deb said meekly. 
 " Sit down, Cliffe, and don't rave. I suppose I started them 
 myself! " And she related her dramatic confession to Samson 
 Phillips. And Cliffe listened, frowning. 
 
 " But this is all hypothesis. You mentioned no names to 
 Phillips. You didn't actually specify that night at Seaview. 
 I'm not reproaching you for the lie itself. Deb — that wag 
 merely silly; feminine boasting. But Otto must have got his 
 definite facts from some one else, and I've written him an im- 
 perative letter on the subject. It begins: * Sir '" 
 
242 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " That's not highly striking or original in itself, ClifFe. Why 
 not 'Honey'?" 
 
 Antonia laughed. "Tell us Otto's answer when you get it, 
 Cliff e. I respect you for taking a strong line! " But Cliffe 
 did not show them the reply he received from Otto ; he studied 
 it in solitude and bewildered indignation. What could the 
 man mean by reminding him of a certain conversation in the 
 Tube? He recalled, with an effort, having once travelled in 
 Otto's company, and having talked a great deal of fantastic 
 rubbish for Otto's benefit, but he was quite sure that not the 
 veriest scavenger could have picked Deb's name from among 
 the rubbish-heap — " I've always been very careful over 
 names. . . ." 
 
 II 
 
 Deb, taking her present emancipation as a vantage-point for 
 a survey of her past, as a whole and in segments and phases, 
 arrived at a conclusion that the general inadequacy on the 
 amorous side was due to foolish compromise. She made up 
 her mind, therefore, to reform, and be bad — thoroughly bad. 
 In the episode with Samson she had proved to herself that 
 she was no longer fit for the conventional extreme of respectful 
 love and sheltered marriage. Her dilatory sense of daring 
 must therefore be flogged to that other far extreme — " I hate 
 betwixts and betweens! " 
 
 A little balm of self-deception had to be applied. Hitherto 
 she had been more or less under home supervision; not strin- 
 gent supervision, certainly; but a background of loving trust 
 was a hindrance in itself. Now the trust had been withdrawn 
 — and the background. Now she was on her own — free — 
 disillusioned — slightly embittered — (Deb prodded the em- 
 bitterment anxiously — yes, it was still there. . . .) Now she 
 was twenty-five and at the cross-roads 
 
 Deb did not realize the truism that even as every woman's 
 life holds material for one novel, so that generic novel may 
 generically and with perfect application bear the title: 
 " Cross-roads." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 243 
 
 She had been on the lookout for the hero to her heroine, 
 and he had failed in the appointment. Now she was in search 
 for the villain to her adventures, and it seemed at first as 
 though he would prove equally elusive. A series of minor 
 experiments left her seriously convinced that in choice of a 
 villain, a young girl cannot be too careful. ..." He must 
 
 make it worth while " Perhaps after all she was still on 
 
 the same old quest translated into different terms. 
 
 Meanwhile, the winter passed; and early spring woke her 
 slightly bilious soul to fretfulness. Her habits had slackened 
 to harmony with her environment of cosmopolitan bohemian- 
 ism; but whereas a bed erected in the Venetian drawing-room 
 and covered by day with a priceless piece of embroidery, 
 seemed to La llorraine all that was necessary in the way of a 
 tiring-room — " My dee-urr, you can use Manon's mirror as 
 
 your own — it goes without saying " yet Deb was not 
 
 quite happy at the general sloppiness of tea-gowns and mys- 
 terious foreigners and rich meals at all hours — or at no 
 hours — Carmen for breakfast, Tosca for supper, and out-of- 
 season dishes in between — music-hall managers strolling in to 
 slap " my good llorraine " familiarly between the shoulders, 
 and look avariciously at Manon, who, however, a child of 
 mummers and motley, was interrogated with a strictness which 
 Deb, daughter of strictest Israel, would never for a moment 
 have suffered. But La llorraine knew more of her world and 
 was wiser in education than Ferdinand Marcus; La llorraine, 
 who sometimes put on enormous horn spectacles and sat knit- 
 ting by the fire; and sometimes rose up like a prophetess and 
 tossed a pair of desperate arms to Heaven, in denunciation 
 of that war which prevented return to a beloved continent 
 which knew something of good music; La llorraine was equally 
 genuine and lovable in either mood; and Deb grew to be sin- 
 cerely fond of her. But Manon was another matter; Manon, 
 at eighteen, held to her pose of exiled princess, a slender 
 figure in the vast loneliness of the drawing-room — a lonely 
 little heart mysteriously unsoiled by contact with aforesaid 
 mummers and motley. She listened charmingly when Deb 
 
244 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 scattered ethics of rebellion; she appeared slightly shocked 
 when decorum demanded that she should be shocked — and 
 yet — and yet — for all the demureness of reproving eyelash 
 
 and " Oh, but, Deb " in the pretty lisping accent, Deb 
 
 could not be rid of an impression that when it came to it, 
 Manon would go further and fare a great deal better than her- 
 self. Manon had hitched her wagon to a fixed star, whereas 
 it looked as though Deb had hitched hers to a travelling circus. 
 
 *' We've had enough of this," exclaimed Antonia, an unex- 
 pected visitor after a tour in the car which had lasted the whole 
 of February — " Not dressed yet? and it's nearly twelve o'clock; 
 sluggish appetite? — no wonder, if you smoke scented ciga- 
 rettes with your coffee and eggs. Even as I prophesied! " 
 
 " Don't be hard on me," Deb pleaded ; " I'm not entirely 
 dead to better things — really, Antonia. I feel the call of 
 Spring urging me out and out. . . . Let's go to a cinema, shall 
 we?" 
 
 " On the contrary, we shall gird up our loins and do war- 
 work, my child," grimly. " We shall speak to our mothers 
 and ask them what particular niche is vacant for one willing 
 but ignorant daughter of pleasure, and we shall send word 
 of the result by this evening latest. And meanwhile, we will 
 withdraw our plaits that writhe like blue-black serpents among 
 the exquisite but macabre foliage of last year's tablecloth, and 
 put away the dregs of green chartreuse, and sit up and comb 
 ourselves out, and try to be a credit to a nation at war." 
 
 Deb laughed and said she was quite willing to do war-work, 
 and had meant to enrol herself for some time, but had thought 
 it too late. . . . 
 
 " Oh, I think the war may be trusted to last another month 
 or two." 
 
 " I meant," in fractious explanation, " that it always seems 
 to me too late to do something afterwards which one hasn't 
 done before." 
 
 " Lazy little Oriental. . . . You will visit my mother at 6 
 p. M. precisely this evening and receive your instructions," 
 with which Antonia departed. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 245 
 
 " Blair Stevenson is said to be coming back to the Foreign 
 Office " was the sub-conscious wriggle of motive underlying her 
 sincere belief that Deb would be the better for a more strenuous 
 existence. 
 
 For Blair Stevenson, in the Diplomatic Service, was Gillian's 
 friend; Antonia liked him, appreciating to the full his supple 
 wit and undeniably perfect breeding; his pursuit of her was 
 ardent enough for her to enjoy keenly the sensation of flying 
 ... he never drew near, and presently the pursuit slackened; 
 he was sent abroad — British Resident of some West African 
 province; and when he returned, fell easily into place as one 
 of her group — an excellent occasional. Antonia was aware 
 that he was still on good terms with Gillian . . . and that if 
 accidentally he met Deb there — " What does it matter? " But 
 the fierce desire persisted to keep the child . . . pure. 
 
 The eventful climax of the meeting between Gillian and Deb 
 on Zoe's doorstep, Antonia accepted quietly and almost with 
 relief. It had happened, and there was no more to be done — 
 by her at least. A week afterwards she was forced to leave 
 London — her Major-General was perpetually touring and in- 
 specting and dashing hither and thither. Deb in her letters 
 had spoken no further word of Gillian (Deb was afraid, as a 
 matter of fact, knowing Antonia's probable state of mind), but 
 Gillian, in divine unconsciousness, dashed off a hasty postcard 
 on which " dear Deb," struck out, was replaced by " dear 
 Antonia." It was probably the only card Gillian could find 
 amongst the frenzied litter on a desk which Winifred ought 
 to have kept tidy . . . but it told Antonia all she wanted to 
 know — all that she did not want to know: Deb and Gillian 
 were getting on nicely. . . . 
 
 And now Blair was returning. For all her liking of Blair's 
 society, she infinitely preferred him in Greece, where he was at 
 least safe from the result of Cliffe's parties or Gillian's intro- 
 ductions. . . . Antonia could not be for ever vigilant . . . 
 the Major-General was beckoning once more 
 
 And then came that sunny letter from Cliffe Kennedy in- 
 forming her of a marvellous studio party he had arranged. 
 
246 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " I borrowed your studio as usual, and you can have Seaview 
 in the summer whenever you want it. These are little eddies 
 of communal brotherhood that one day will unite to a surging 
 river that will sweep away, etc. " 
 
 Antonia skipped a page or two till the names she sought, 
 dreading to find, sure to find, sprang at her from the page — 
 " Blair Stevenson — Deb. . . ." 
 
 ..." I had a sort of presentiment that something was 
 bound to happen if I brought those two together. . . . And 
 again, Antonia, my experimental nerve had twitched to some 
 purpose. Bet you a copy of the Omar Khayyam (I've got 
 seventy-two) that this fusion of personalities will have Results 
 — dramatic or beautiful or horrid. . . . Do come home and 
 join the audience — I'm so excited." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Deb, entirely absorbed in her canteen work, had given up 
 scanning the horizon for the villain of the piece; so that it 
 was with a shock that she looked up and found him standing 
 quite close to her, waiting for his cue. . . . Almost she hoped 
 that he would prove not worth while. . . . Those nights under 
 the gaunt station roof, watching the restless watchers for the 
 leave train, watching the grimy burdened soldiers tumble with 
 dazed eyes out of their compartments on to the platform . . . 
 till roused to the necessity for rapid mechanical dole of coffee 
 and sandwiches — wash up — start afresh — hour after hour. 
 . . . These nights had become more real than the arrange- 
 ment and re-arrangement of her own temperament. 
 
 But Blair was so definitely worth while that Deb dared 
 not refuse him as a prospective — what? The old dream was 
 dead, of course . . . dream of the big thing — husband who 
 knew of all her past idiocies, and called her a goose and 
 laughed at her, and understood; small sturdy boy in a dark 
 blue jersey and rimipled hair several shades too light for such 
 a brown skin. ..." You are being not only sentimental, but 
 also futile! " she informed herself. " Next there will be pretty 
 fancies all about a dream-garden " — and straightway there 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 247 
 
 was the garden, at the magical hour of after-tea when the grass 
 looks as though it had been freshly painted emd the canterbury 
 bells are adrip from recent watering. . . . 
 
 Sternly Deb removed husband, child and gardai by the 
 dream-scruff of their dream-necks, — she sought for some deli- 
 cate means to enlighten Blair Stevenson of her willingness 
 to — to 
 
 Self-communion slurred over the verbal expression of good 
 — or bad — intent. For it refused to present itself with more 
 elegeuice than " to go the whole hog " — and such blatant slang 
 did not associate itself readily with Blair's personality. 
 
 " To fulfil my womanhood," — but that sounded priggish. 
 *' To tread the primrose path " was affectation. " To take a 
 lover " was the final selection — but still imperfect. She chose 
 it for the sake of the word " lover " which still hummed to her 
 on that deep sonorous note of wind along the wires . . . 
 " lover." 
 
 Meanwhile, her watchfulness lay in ambush for that splendid 
 flare of passion which was to be her impetus and justification. 
 She had a passionate temperament. . . . How could it be 
 otherwise, with those eyelids and that mouth? Men and 
 women alike had accused her of hot Eastern blood; insisted 
 upon it; warned her, laughing or in envy, of the penalties. 
 She accepted this established version of herself in an un- 
 questioning spirit. 
 
 " Child, you'd lead a man to hell ! " a victim had once fore- 
 told. Now she waited for a man to lead her to hell. She 
 could at least be assured that Blair Stevenson would instinct- 
 ively and unostentatiously choose quite the least travelled 
 and the most refined and expensive route thither. He was 
 that kind of man; with a reputation, but not a vulgar one, 
 for success with women. Deb, seeking to express crudely the 
 sense he aroused of having dipped to her class from that elusive 
 class which lies midway between the upper middle-class and 
 the aristocracy, told herself in confidence that he made her 
 feel not unlike a housemaid being took notice of by one of the 
 quality. Hitherto, most of the men with whom she had come 
 
248 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 in contact, could be tabulated as solid business or professional 
 — like Samson or her own father; or else urged by the preva- 
 lent rebellion to type, into the artist or vagabond pose — like 
 Cliffe Kennedy. 
 
 Blair Stevenson was of such excellent family that he never 
 mentioned his family; probably most of it was extinct, and 
 the rest knew better than to encircle him save at a distance. 
 He had travelled extensively both in cities and in the wilds, 
 so that he combined cosmopolitan ease with the British knack 
 of being able to cope with emergencies. Although he was 
 not much more than thirty-five, the Foreign Office had already 
 recognized his perfect tact and suavity, combined with knowl- 
 edge of languages, to be extremely useful to them; so that 
 he was accounted one of those mysterious beings " in the 
 know"; "behind the scenes"; one of the men who "pulled 
 strings." . . . He had been entrusted with a rather tricky 
 mission to the Balkans, prior to his present leave. His natural 
 appendages and equipments one would assume to be a faithful 
 valet in his town chambers, a faithful maitre d'hotel in every 
 capital, and a faithful mistress no one knows where; because 
 Stevenson, though ardent, was discreet where women were 
 concerned; but certainly the carriage of her head proclaimed 
 her exquisite breeding, and she cost him a great deal of 
 money. . . . 
 
 And all this about him, speculative and positive, did not 
 quite convey why Deb was not always sure (metaphorically) 
 how to use her knives and forks in his presence. Easy to make 
 mistakes — tiny, silly mistakes of conduct or subtlety — and 
 read in his eyes a dawning recognition that she was not quite 
 " it " after all, or his amusement perhaps at her quaint lapses 
 from sophistication : " Am I an amateur compared with 
 what he's accustomed to? " Then angrily: "Oh, he swanks, 
 and I'm a snob ! " which was inaccurate. He took " form " 
 for granted, and she was shaky about it. Blair Stevenson 
 could be relied on for good manners; not so much the surface 
 good manners connected with the graceful opening of doors 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 249 
 
 for the lady's exit, but the more fundamental good manners 
 which broke a heart as a heart would most wish to be broken. 
 
 W 
 
 " I've waited long enough," said Deb. 
 
 It suddenly frightened her that again she was hesitating too 
 long; that decision was wearing thin and threadbare with 
 the days. . . . Perhaps Blair had not realized ... it must 
 be puzzling for a man nowadays to differentiate between the 
 merely good; the frankly bad; the good trying to be bad; and 
 the bad resolved to be good. 
 
 " I suppose he needs what Aunt Trudchen used to call ' a 
 little encouragement,' " Deb reflected. 
 
 Then by what sign could she convey to him that her inten- 
 tions were dishonourable? They had, of course, dispassion- 
 ately talked of sex, which is the weather-subject of today's 
 men and girls. . . . Deb was afraid, standing on tiptoe to 
 the clubman and the cosmopolitan, that she might have given 
 an excessive impression of sophistication; and that he was 
 inwardly astonished, now, that she delayed to pass him some 
 customary code-word or countersign necessary to his advance- 
 ment. She had not the faintest idea what was expected of 
 her, so she essayed a semi-confidence in La llorraine. 
 
 That royal veteran of a more clear-headed period, when 
 courtesans were expected to know their alphabet, could not 
 fail to be good-humouredly contemptuous at the spectacle of 
 these children playing their variations of an old game with 
 such quaint and ponderous seriousness; and getting so very 
 little out of it in the way of genuine passion, genuine fun, and 
 ermine cloaks. 
 
 Out of the question, certainly, that Manon should join these 
 games. But Deb was six years older and had " made a muff 
 from her chances," as Manon would never be permitted to do. 
 Moreover, Deb was not La llorraine's own daughter. ... So 
 La llorraine shrugged her shoulders, and gave her the neces- 
 sary tip. 
 
250 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Deb was on her way to call upon Blair Stevenson unex- 
 pectedly at his rooms in Jermyn Street. It was a quarter 
 past ten in the evening, and because she had just been relieved 
 from duty at Victoria Station, she was wearing a long disguising 
 cloak over silk garments that slip on the skin with a suggestion 
 of suave fingers. Blair was at home — she had telephoned 
 during the day, and, preserving an incognito, had asked the 
 valet what would be the best time to telephone again? The 
 valet said: "I believe that ten o'clock tonight will be most 
 likely to find Mr. Stevenson." . . . Bleiir would realize the 
 significance of her visit; and — and once lifted to response, 
 her fatal temperament could be relied upon to do the rest. 
 
 " I've waited long enough. Oh, suppose I waited till nobody 
 wanted me any more, and then I wanted it more than any- 
 thing else. . . ." 
 
 She leant against the door for a pause of short, quick breath- 
 ing. The neighbourhood, the steps and passage, the windows, 
 were all discreet good form, world of the clubman, the cosmo- 
 politan, the man who knows . . . utterly alien world to the 
 forlorn little virgin, who stands, suddenly erect and stiff and 
 pearly-white; thumb pressed firmly on the bell-button of 
 No. 14lB. 
 
 " It's now. . . ." 
 
 Queer — never before had she realized the present so vividly; 
 " it has been a minute ago," " it will be the day after to-mor- 
 row "... but " It's now," as Blair, with a smile and a 
 subtle look, threw away his half-smoked cigar, took the half- 
 finished cup of coffee from her hands. 
 
 " Now — now " 
 
 She was one pulse that beat for initiation. Her cheap 
 artist feuicy had always decorated the temple of initiation so 
 heavily with incense and tiger-skins and divans and rose-leaves, 
 all the crude stock and properties of rapture, that the reality 
 of this ordinary room, big leather arm-chairs and a few prints 
 on the plain dark walls, and a bookcase, and several ash-trays 
 scattered about, this so essentially a man-room, left her dis- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 251 
 
 appointed. Had she relied too much upon the trappings? 
 . . . but — Blair had taken her in his arms, now. . . . 
 
 And still no response from that — that most damnably slug- 
 gish temperament. 
 
 Very precisely and dispassionately she noticed for the first 
 time that one of his lids lay over the eye with a heavier slouch 
 than the other. She was pleased with the behaviour of his 
 face under stress of emotion ... it did not grow hot nor red 
 nor damp; the veins did not bulge; his breath was under 
 control. She had been right in her selection of Blair Stevenson 
 — but — but 
 
 The ungrateful temperament, which she had provided with 
 the best advantages, was failing her utterly. . . . 
 
 She kissed his exacting lips with as much of faked ecstasy 
 as she could coax to her aid, and then wondered, supposing 
 she laughed, — the word ecstasy always made her want to 
 laugh — if that indecorum could be passed ofif as further 
 ecstasy? 
 
 And all this time she did Stevenson the injustice of believing 
 him imperceptive. 
 
 " Deb . . . my dear. . . ." 
 
 He had from the beginning philosophically summed her up 
 as incapable of extremes. But it was not as though he were 
 dependent. ... He did not love Deb; he was a little bit in 
 love with her; and she was elfish, delicate, captivating, freshly 
 surprising at each encounter, like in June the first strawberry 
 whose unremembered flavour one has taken for granted through 
 the winter months. Yes, she was charming. And he was 
 wrong in his estimate of her. After all, she had come to 
 him 
 
 One tiny gesture of his — and Deb's histrionics lay shat- 
 tered like a wave into foam. . . . 
 
 " No ... no ... no — not now. . . . Oh, please! " 
 
 A moment later, and Blair said, from the other end of the 
 room : " There was no need for that ' please,' dear. The 
 first ' no ' would have been enough." 
 
252 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 She lay angrily sobbing, hair not even disordered, her drap- 
 ings of pale ninon shamefully untumbled. The desperate en- 
 counter had yielded her one scrap of self-knowledge — nothing 
 else: That she was not in the least passionate by nature, and 
 that only love could raise her nature to passion; that she had 
 been misled all her life by a mere illusion deduced by herself 
 and others from her face and her way of moving, and her reck- 
 lessness of speech and her Jewish pliability. ... To her 
 mother who was a Gentile, was due this slight chilliness, blown 
 like a hoar-frost over what might otherwise have been an exotic 
 blossoming. 
 
 And the man by the window murmured: "'To play at 
 half a love with half a lover,' ... is that what you wanted, 
 child, and couldn't express? I didn't understand. Well " 
 
 He crossed again to the couch and stood looking down upon 
 her, hands clasped behind his back, mouth bent to a whimsical 
 smile — " Well — It's not too late, is it? " 
 
 For that explanation both solved the enigma of her visit, 
 and coincided with his former conception of her. The surprise 
 had been her acquiescence, not her rebuff. 
 
 She looked up at him pitifully, and shook her head. . . . 
 His mouth grew hard: if not mistress, nor demi-maid, then 
 what did she expect he would make of her? Surely she could 
 not be hoping. . . . Blair Stevenson's wife, if ever materialized 
 from wraithdom, would not be the sort of girl who came to 
 his rooms alone at 10:15 p.m. Nor would his mistress — 
 she not at all a wraith — plead to leave them again after a 
 futile half-hour of compromise. No, Deb (and he still thought 
 her charming) was qualified not for chastity nor for fierce 
 desire. . . . What did she want of him? 
 
 Her intuition leapt to what was passing in his mind; and 
 in stinging agony that he should behold in her a huntress for 
 a likely husband, she said quickly — " I did — I did want to 
 play — only to play. But — you frightened me. . . ." 
 
 " Forget that. I'm getting old and dense. And all men 
 try . . . once, you know. But it's all right. Deb. . . ." 
 
 It was all right — now; at the demi-price of her demi-virtue, 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 253 
 
 she had saved at least that tattered beggar-maid she still called 
 her pride. " I believe you thought I had come with a matri- 
 monial lasso coiled up in my hand," she taunted him. 
 
 And Blair was deceived, for all his penetration. How was 
 he to know, indeed, that daringly as she had repudiated his 
 suspicion, in a little backwater of thought trembled still an 
 eddy from old times and old traditions: " It — would — have 
 
 — been — rather nice . . . to marry him. . . ." But you have 
 just proved you are not in love with him. "Oh — that kind 
 of thing — wouldn't matter. I believe it would grow of itself 
 ... if he were looking after me." Her set smile curved into 
 real merriment as it struck her how Samson would approve 
 of these sentiments. Perhaps she and Samson were kindred 
 souls, after all! 
 
 But Samson would most certainly not have approved of her 
 present abandonment to a demi-lover. She lay with an apa- 
 thetic hand straying over his hair and eyebrows, wondering a 
 little at the hard cheek pressed close to hers, wondering a 
 little . . . how soon she could say it was time to go, whether 
 there were any letters waiting for her at home, if that pale 
 young lance-corporal who had fainted as she put the coffee- 
 cup into his hands, had recovered yet; wondering a little, as 
 Blair shifted their positions, and drew her head down to where 
 his shirt opened on to his heart — Did Blair really enjoy this? 
 ought she not to say she was uncomfortable and had a crick 
 in her neck? Whether she were now what is called a sinner? 
 
 — pecheresse in French ... or was it pecheuse? one of them 
 meant the " fisherman's wife " — she remembered that from 
 school — yes, pecheuse, surely — they were taught to tell the 
 difference by the resemblance of the circumflex to the roof of 
 the fisherman's hut. The other has an accent aigii — but Deb 
 had never been quite able to disentangle a vague notion that a 
 fisherman's wife was also a sinner. Pecheuse — pecher* 
 esse . . . 
 
 She wondered anew if that monstrosity on the wall opposite 
 were a Hogarth? if her watch would be mended by tomorrow, 
 as the man at the shop had faithfully promised? . . . 
 
254 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Are you happy, you small white Deb? " 
 She sighed "Yes. . . ." 
 
 " You must come to me often now we understand each 
 other. . . ." 
 And again: "Yes . . . often. ..." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ANTONIA stood in the empty room in Bayswater, reading 
 a scrawl of explanation which Gillian had left behind 
 for her on the dusty mantelpiece. The floor was lit- 
 tered with bits of straw and string, a broken teacup, some 
 torn-up MSS., an old stocking and a tin of Bluebell polish 
 . . . her foot struck against the latter, and it rolled towards 
 the tin fender and stopped with a forlorn clank. . . . 
 
 " My dear — I've decided to go and live with Theo — why 
 not? You'll find me here if you come this afternoon, 54 
 Middle Inn Gardens. I'm leaving behind a bottle of Elliman's 
 Embrocation, because I haven't room for it. Bring it along, 
 and anything else you see lying about. Yours, Jill." 
 
 " So she's done it at last." Slowly Antonia left the house, 
 came back for the Embrocation, could not find it, and went on 
 to Middle Inn Square with the Bluebell polish as a substitute. 
 With an air more than ever slim and defiant and passion-free, 
 she swung into Gillian's presence 
 
 "Jill!" 
 
 " It was — this — or sharing him with fifty others," the cul- 
 prit explained coolly. She did not look in the least like the 
 famous bacteriologist, as she sat astride a wooden packing-case, 
 tugging with giant pincers at a refractory nail ; hair rakish from 
 the frequent tumbling of her fingers ; eyes two greenish slits of 
 roguery; cigarette tilted well upwards from the corner of her 
 mouth. She did not look like a heroine of passion either. . . . 
 Her blouse was open and her sleeves rolled up, and her short 
 navy-blue skirt was smeared with white where she had leant 
 against some wet paint. 
 
 "You can help me unpack while you disapprove. That 
 
 255 
 
256 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 lazy little cat Winnie has gone off to spend the day with 
 Camellia." 
 
 " Winnie? She's still with you? " 
 
 " My dear, what was I to do with her? I couldn't send her 
 home again just because of a whim of mine. It wouldn't be 
 fair. She isn't happy at home " 
 
 Antonia sat down helplessly. " A year ago Deb gets turned 
 out of home, plus an income. Now you elope, plus Winifred 
 Potter. You're a pair to make any friend of yours hysteri- 
 cal. . . ." 
 
 "A little more, and I'd have despatched Winifred labelled 
 right-side-up as a farewell present to you," Gillian retorted 
 grimly. " But she'll do for Theo to flirt with in his lighter 
 moments." 
 
 "Theo's are mostly lighter moments, aren't they? Jill, I 
 wouldn't have minded the sacrifice; I wouldn't have said a 
 single word ... if he'd been worthy." She was ice-white 
 with the conviction of his unworthiness. 
 
 Gillian said nothing for a minute or two. She still sat bent 
 over the packing-case, one leg on either side of it wrenching 
 at the wood. Then : " Much need for sacrifice with a man 
 who's worthy! " 
 
 " Then you admit he isn't? " Antonia sprang up. " Oh, 
 Gillian, if you must try a theory " 
 
 "Theory? Good Lord! Nothing of that sort. It's just 
 that Theo isn't big enough or good enough, if you like, to re- 
 main faithful and decent and honourable to a woman who's 
 only his spiritual love. Why pretend? — we all know what 
 Theo is! " she shrugged her thin shoulders and flashed a wide 
 smile up at her friend — " He's clever — with a sort of mali- 
 cious destructive cleverness. Otherwise just an amorous gut- 
 ter-snipe, who can't resist anything of the other sex — a Zoe 
 in male. His reputation is a joke — I've heard scores of peo- 
 ple chuckling over the latest Theo Pandos story." 
 
 " You know this — and still " 
 
 " I know it — and because. He won't do without the others 
 — but he can't do without me. Look here, you blooming 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 257 
 
 Artemis, I justify myself to you just this once and never again. 
 Understand this. That little rotter is my . . . completion, 
 if you like; the answer to my special quantity of X. It's a 
 pity, I'm sure, that it didn't happen to be some one grand and 
 distinguished and austere, who'd spend all day long renouncing 
 me, and all night long being nobly glad that he did so. 
 Can you see Theo being glad he's renounced any one, ever? " 
 again the swift joyous grin. . . . Antonia could not help re- 
 turning it. 
 
 " Theo's got a wife, I believe? " 
 
 " Oh, curse her, yes. A Spanish Catholic who won't divorce 
 him. A dark flashing thing who looks all passion and Carmen 
 and castanets. She's no earthly use to him." 
 
 "Gillian, you're a thoroughly immoral creature! " 
 
 " I'm not going to be one of a crowd. 'Tisn't good for the 
 self-respect. And it isn't good for Theo — Oh, I've no illu- 
 sions about my young man. ... It amounts to this — I'm 
 fed up with the type of woman who can't sling sex out of her 
 mind. The mind isn't the proper place for sex. I want my 
 mind for my work. Enforced virginity, not chosen, mind you, 
 but enforced, is unbalancing; it hangs about and takes up more 
 room than it ought to. . . . My work has got to come to 
 fruition sooner or later . . . and all this has got to be cleared 
 out of the way, somehow, first. Theo is thoroughly unsuitable, 
 he's younger than I am, he's married, he's fast and horrid . . . 
 granted ! — but Theo is a factor that can't be slung out. So 
 he's got to stay — with as little fuss as possible. I thought 
 about it all hard, and when last night I'd decided, I packed, 
 and I came. Poor old Theo . . ." and she chuckled softly 
 as at some memory of the preceding evening — but her brows 
 were contracted with pain. 
 
 " Wasn't he terrifically glad, at least? " 
 
 "Oh — glad enough. But just last night ... it was — 
 awkward. I ought to have 'phoned him beforehand — See? 
 Antonia, you're shrinking like bad material in the wash! " 
 
 " Bad material perhaps — but not in the wash ... at the 
 present moment! " 
 
258 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Cue for a wince from the fallen woman ! Frankly, are my 
 affairs as unsavoury as all that? " 
 
 " Not you, Jill. Never you, but Theo. He's your demon." 
 
 " Not much demon about him when he hung from the left 
 foot on to the right at his front door last night, and I sat 
 demurely on my trunk outside. ... If the Bacteriological 
 Society could have seen me — I'm lecturing there next week! 
 I'm what Theo had been waiting and longing for since three 
 and a half years, and coming just then — for once even he 
 wasn't able to carry it off. Zoe would have chucked the in- 
 cubus through a door, or into a cupboard, or under the bed, and 
 turned up smiling — Theo just stood staring at me with the 
 tears streaming down his face. . . . My beloved little cad! 
 ... So I went home again, and returned this morning — 
 Antonia, you're not to look like that! " in a spasm of fury. 
 " Didn't I know he'd get rid of her not ten minutes after I 
 left. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose he said he had," scornfully. 
 
 Gillian raged more. " You'd have sheered off and never 
 looked at him again. ' For better, for worse ' . , . Without 
 the marriage service read over me, I can keep to it as well as 
 any of you. It's Theo as he is — not Theo transformed by 
 Maskelyne and Devant into a young bride's dream. We shall 
 live together quite openly; of course, without any blaze of 
 trimipets — but concealment means a flurry again, and a fur- 
 tive askew-over-your-shoulder look that I don't approve of. 
 Thank goodness, my private life, as I choose to hack it out, 
 can't interfere with my especial career. If I'd been a doctor, 
 as I intended " 
 
 " Then you would have had to give up Theo." 
 
 " I've just spent twenty minutes patiently explaining — I 
 s'pose you weren't listening — that if I gave up Theo, he'd take 
 up far too much of my time and thought and vitality and 
 saneness. To live with him is the only way of getting rid of 
 him — mentally." 
 
 " It's such a twisted, new-fashioned way of arguing." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 259 
 
 "New-fashioned? because I want my man in my home — " 
 for an instant Gillian was wrapped in swift strong beauty. 
 
 "And — my child, too?" 
 
 "No," softly. "Not that. One is just decent enough, I 
 hope, to consider the possible preference of the child to remain 
 unborn — Hullo, Theo! " as that gentleman stood on the 
 threshold of a room demoralized by Gillian's advent to an 
 imitation of a charity bazaar after three days' vending. 
 
 " We have all heard of the magic womanly touch which 
 brings divine order into a bachelor's dreary untidy chambers," 
 he pattered impudently, " But the reality is beyond all ex- 
 pectation. For pity's sake, Gillian, let us go to a hotel for the 
 rest of our lives. What have you done with my poor Sil- 
 vester?" 
 
 "Your valet, adoring me with every breath he draws, has 
 gone out to pick some wild flowers for me to arrange on our 
 dinner table. . . . You shall have your Patmore angel-in-the- 
 house all right! Going, Antonia? " 
 
 " Miss Verity is hating me too much for perfect comfort,** 
 murmured Pandos with hiunorous resignation. 
 
 She flashed him back look for look, and went out. 
 
 . . . Then the man crossed the room and knelt beside the 
 packing-case and thrust his head in Gillian's lap ... his dark 
 sloe eyes worshipped her ; his nerves, of matted vibrating wires, 
 were lulled to perfect rest — perfect content. ... No strain 
 between these two, of pretence or concealment or fear — Gillian 
 bsd taken him for what he was. 
 
T 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ''"pF it gets any hotter, I shall be found melted down in one 
 of my own crucibles," Gillian wailed, to the accidental 
 party of Deb, Nell and Antonia, who had flopped in to 
 see her after a succession of stifling days at the latter end of 
 July. 
 
 Antonia was temporarily freed from service by an attack of 
 malaria on the part of her General. And Deb explained that 
 for a couple of weeks Nell was working as her fag at the sta- 
 tion canteen whence they had just come. 
 
 " Winifred, I wish you'd try for all our sakes to get a little 
 thinner; the mere sight of you in weather like this is trying — 
 especially since you spell your name with such a lot of extra 
 letters." 
 
 " Why, what diff"erence can that make? " from Winnie, quite 
 happy on the divan. 
 
 Gillian demanded sympathy from the company: " It's that 
 Camellia woman puts morbid ideas into her head. She's told 
 her that Winifred is a degeneration of a beautiful old Saxon 
 name, and we're gradually Saxonizing it back again to its 
 original condition. We spell it Wynnefrwdde now." 
 
 " It's unrecognizable," Deb laughed. " I'll take to the divan 
 on the strength of it. . . . I'm exhausted — we had an awful 
 hustle up at the canteen." She carelessly rolled the astonished 
 Winifred on to the floor, and took her place among Theo's 
 treasured purple and peacock cushions — " Don't you know, 
 Winnie, that if we were in Germany, you, as an unimportant 
 spinster, would have no right at all to the sofa, which is strictly 
 reserved for the matron? " 
 
 " Well, but you're not married either," the victim of the 
 
 260 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 261 
 
 evacuation argued slowly. " We none of us are except Gillian, 
 and she isn't really." 
 
 Gillian twinkled across at Deb: "Well, how would the 
 Germans cope with the problem of somebody who isn't married 
 really? Would they give me the sofa? " 
 
 "They'd give you the boot; and me too. There are no 
 fine semi-shades abroad. A girl is good till she is slightly 
 bad, and then she's accepted as completely bad and damned 
 everlastingly. Here, a girl can be badder and badder, if she 
 doesn't break the last rule of all — and then be accepted as 
 completely good again at any time she wants to — like Manon. 
 She's engaged to Dolph Carew, you know. He's been left pots 
 of money by his uncle. . . ." 
 
 Antonia said contemptuously: "Manon is the epitome of 
 the saying; 'If you can't be good, be careful! ' She's been 
 careful and she's got her reward. ..." 
 
 "And she's enjoyed her nineteen years into the bargain. 
 But maidenhood has a market value, and Manon has known 
 that from the cradle. Not from La llorraine; she's no ready 
 reckoner — much too generous." 
 
 Gillian asked: " Carew has been married before, hasn't he? 
 What was his first wife like? " 
 
 And Antonia and Deb exchanged a long glance. Then the 
 latter spoke softly. " Jenny was good — but not careful. . . . 
 I've been thinking about her rather a lot, lately. . . ." 
 
 " She was too good by a thousand miles to be Manon's 
 predecessor," murmured Antonia. 
 
 Gillian, suddenly standing up, flung away her jersey, reveal- 
 ing only a camisole beneath. Then she unfastened the safety- 
 pin that clipped her skirt together. " That's better. I believe 
 scraggy people feel the heat more than fat ones — I do really. 
 It seems to get so quickly at our bones and grill them. Which 
 is hotter, sizzled flesh or grilled bones? Winnie, I appeal to 
 you? " 
 
 " I was just wondering. . . ." Winnie began, as usual ten 
 minutes behind in the conversation — " what Deb meant 
 by " 
 
262 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 A violent peal at the bell stopped her. 
 
 " I can't be bothered to dress all over again for that. An- 
 swer it, Deb! " 
 
 " Let me," pleaded Nell. She had been lumped on the floor, 
 somewhere near Gillian's feet, gazing steadily upwards at that 
 young woman's face. Now, in an agony lest some one not 
 herself should have this chance of doing service to her goddess, 
 she scrambled up, threw a look of fierce dark reproach in Deb's 
 direction, and rushed to the front door, colliding with Sil- 
 vester's dignified progress through the hall. 
 
 " Oh " they heard Nell's affrighted gasp, " do forgive 
 
 me — I — I — didn't know ! " 
 
 " Lord," whispered Gillian — " I forgot we have a staff. I'm 
 always forgetting. Poor Nell, this is enough to put her out of 
 gear for a fortnight " 
 
 " It doesn't matter at all, Miss," graciously from the valet. 
 
 " Not a bit — I mean thanks awfully," Nell's assent came in 
 a gasping torrent. Then she darted back into the room, back 
 to her place on the rug, and sat glowering. Nobody dared 
 speak . . . 
 
 II 
 
 It had been several months before Nell would consent at all 
 to meet the illustrious Gillian Sherwood : " She won't want to 
 meet me — I'm too stupid — I shall hate her — I hate people 
 who ask me questions. . . ." 
 
 "But why sl.ould she ask you questions, for goodness' 
 sake? " Deb had retorted, exasperated. " She's not a County 
 Council examiner." 
 
 " She will, I know she will. She knows all sorts of brilliant 
 people and she discovers diseases for the papers, so she can't 
 want me so dreadfully badly." 
 
 " But people needn't want each other dreadfully badly to 
 just meet in the ordinary way." 
 
 " I hate meeting any one in the ordinary way," perversely. 
 And Antonia, who was present, had laughed, and told Deb 
 to leave the shy baby alone. So that it was a shock of astonish- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 263 
 
 ment to Antonia when Gillian, after a recent accidental en- 
 counter, was straightway enthroned as Nell's deity. . . . 
 
 " She's a sweet kid, but she wrings one dry," was the deity's 
 confidential version to Deb. " She writes to me every day, 
 long unpunctuated letters all about whether certain people 
 make you feel certain feelings, and other feelings make you see 
 certain colours, and certain people make you see red. . . . 
 And then she comes to see me, and says ,' I didn't want to come 
 really — You didn't want me, did you? ' And I have to be 
 hectic " 
 
 "And she says: *Yes, but you don't say that as if it was 
 real,' " Deb guessed. 
 
 " Oh, Deb, what shall I do with her? One can almost love 
 the child and one wouldn't hurt her for worlds, but we sit in 
 long heavy muffled impenetrable silences like slow sinking into 
 a feather bed . . . and then she shoots out at me ' You're 
 different today somehow, aren't you? ' And I guiltily try to 
 be the same, but I don't know what to be the same as. And 
 I get a swift brown look and: ' What are you thinking of? ' 
 — When ten to one I'm not thinking of anything worth while — 
 well, I mean nothing she'd like me to be thinking of. So I 
 say, ' One can't always tell one's thoughts and feelings, can 
 one? ' * No — but one would like to, wouldn't one? At 
 least I suppose mine aren't up to much. . . . But I won- 
 der '" 
 
 " And you say ' What? ' and she says ' Nothing ' — and then 
 it begins all over again. I'm sorry, Jill; I let you in for 
 this." 
 
 " Don't blame yourself. She saps my strength rather, but 
 I'm fond of young Nell, and she's lovely to look at — as Tim- 
 othy Fawcett seems to have found out." 
 
 "They never get any forrarder though, do they? " 
 
 "Bless him — and bless them both. They can afford to 
 waste three or four years in being shy. Theo and I did." 
 
 Deb laughed outright at the comparison of the two wooings. 
 , . . "I wonder " 
 
 '*Wh3t?" 
 
264 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 "You're as bad as Nell!" 
 
 But Deb was wondering what effect Gillian's pioneer bold- 
 ness might have on the psychology of her disciple. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Nell sat glowering . . . and the other three girls were sym- 
 pathetically silent, listening the while to Zoe's voice hailing 
 Silvester as " Bob " and eagerly enlightening him as to the 
 adventures and whereabouts of a certain " Guiseppi " who was 
 evidently an intimate acquaintance of a mutual past. . . . 
 
 " She's the Socialist in sex par excellence," murmured Gil- 
 lian, " a reproof to all us snobs. . . ." And then Zoe bubbled 
 into the room. 
 
 " Gillian, isn't it too funny for words, I used to know your 
 man quite well — at least I suppose he's your husband's man — 
 at least I suppose he isn't your husband — but that isn't what 
 I came to tell you. . . ." 
 
 " Anyway, I was aware of it already," Gillian laughed. 
 
 "What — about Pinto? My dear, how could you be — 
 unless, of course, Cliffe told Antonia, and she told you? You 
 know, Antonia, I never like to say anything and I'm very 
 fond of Cliffe, but I do think he talks too much. . . . You 
 remember that evening when Pinto went mad in my flat last 
 year? " 
 
 "Will I ever forget it? and will your brother ever forget it, 
 Deb; and will Captain Braithwaite and Mr. Sam Wright and 
 the little Belgian corporal ever forget it? Oh, and the maca- 
 roni merchant from round the corner — he had most cause to 
 remember it, hadn't he? Did he ever get damages, by the 
 way? " 
 
 "Well, you can say what you like, Antonia, but though I 
 was very angry with Pinto for the moment, I do honestly 
 think he was perfectly right — in his own way. And I must 
 say, I do like a man to assert himself. I mean, it's a sort of 
 test, isn't it, Gillian, how much he really respects you, if it 
 annoys him to find your room full of other men? especially — : 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 265 
 
 but that was what I was going to tell you." She unpinned the 
 veil from her slanting sailor hat and adjusted the belt of her 
 trim jacket . . . pulled forward a kiss-curl or two, dumped 
 Quelle Vie into Nell's lap, whipped out some lurid red lip- 
 salve and delicately outlined the curves of her mouth, and 
 spun a provocative glance downwards at her flaunted silk 
 ankles, as though they were another's, and she coveted them. 
 
 "Never mind all that, Zoe — Theo won't be in for ages. 
 Tell us your news first." 
 
 Zoe opened her eyes. " Well, I must say, Jill, it's not like 
 you to be spiteful. No, it isn't, and I'm disappointed. If 
 Deb had made that remark, I wouldn't have been. . . ." 
 
 " Thanks," from a drowsy but grateful Deb on the divan. 
 While Gillian, in whose wide frankness had lurked not a germ 
 of spite, gazed helplessly at the ruffled little soubrette; and 
 then, suddenly understanding, apologized. 
 
 Zoe kissed her. " All right, dear. ' The mind knoweth not 
 its own cattiness.' Well, about Pinto " 
 
 She described at length how a very contrite Pinto had yes- 
 terday turned up at the flat, tendering his usual olive-branch — 
 a jar of olives — with the explanation of the occasion when 
 he had overheard, in a cafe in Paris, two subalterns discussing 
 his fiancee by name, over a letter presumably from Cliffe, con- 
 taining the advice to think about her no more, for she was 
 being kept by a man with the face of an orang-outang and the 
 temper of a Patagonian savage. . . . 
 
 " And I do think it's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard, 
 don't you, Antonia? — that the poor darling never recognized 
 himself, but thought I was being untrue to him with another 
 man while he was away. Yes, I really do think it justifies his 
 annoyance that time. ... I like a man to have a spirit of his 
 own, whatever you may say. And now he's at last had it out 
 with Cliffe, and we're engaged again, and I've promised him 
 all sorts of things, I forget what " 
 
 " I'd try and remember, if I were you. One of them might 
 be important." 
 
 " Deb, you've got a perfectly horrid mind. . . . I've prom- 
 
266 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ised him, of course, not to answer advertisements in the * Vie 
 Parisienne,' nor to accept wine — little things like that. And 
 I think he's right, in a way, don't you? — because one never 
 knows what may happen — though I do think Cliflfe ought to 
 think twice before he gossips about being ' kept,' because it's 
 not a nice thing to say about one's friends, is it? I wonder if 
 I shall ever meet those two subalterns — wouldn't you say 
 they must have seen me somehow, and been rather smitten, for 
 ClifFe to write like that and warn them off? But it was a 
 funny coincidence, wasn't it, that Pinto should just have been 
 sitting at the same time in the same cafe, so near their table? 
 And I believe, though he didn't say so, that one of them was 
 that perfectly dear lamb, Timothy Fawcett." 
 
 Antonia, to spare Nell's obvious confusion, asked: "Are 
 you going to marry Pinto at last? " 
 
 " Good heavens, no! Marry a man with a temper like that? 
 Quelle vie! — no, I wasn't talking to you, love! " as the span- 
 iel sat up and barked. " But I'm used to being engaged to 
 Pinto, and one misses it — besides, it's a sort of protection 
 now I'm at the War OflSce. My dears, just listen. . . ." 
 
 They listened for about twenty minutes. And then Gilliem 
 said she might as well be suitably employed during the enter- 
 tainment; and darted into the adjoining bedroom, whence she 
 returned with an enormous pile of snowy but ragged under- 
 clothing and a cigar-box full of cottons. 
 
 And then even Zoe was silent and attentive before the 
 spectacle of Gillian sewing. She had no scissors and no thim- 
 ble, so she jabbed the needle on her knee to prick it through the 
 more resisting portions of material or lace, and left a length 
 of thread hanging or else pulled at it — and pulled out the 
 previous ten minutes' toil. She held her needle poised over 
 an exquisite bit of embroidery, like a spade over a potato 
 allotment — and then dug at it with grim energy. And she 
 sighed and she swore and she struggled, and assaulted the 
 tatters of fine lawn and crepe-de-chine, till Antonia was moved 
 to exclaim : " And these are the fingers that are noted for the 
 most delicate experimental work in the entire Institute " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 267 
 
 Gillian spread out and ruefully surveyed the ten pricked and 
 discoloured victims of her combined career as a woman and 
 a professor of scientific research. 
 
 " One can't always be getting fresh underwear. It's such 
 a fag. These were very expensive when I bought them; it's 
 not so long ago — but I can never feel I'm in harmony with 
 this sort of work. It's got to be done, though," and she thrust 
 the eye of the needle anew towards the thread poised in her 
 other hand. 
 
 Nell had been taught by her mother to sew beautifully, and 
 sat wishing bashfully she had the courage to tender her gift 
 at Gillian's shrine. She was, however, unable to articulate 
 her ardent desire; and Winnie, whose plain purport in the 
 house was solely to spare Gillian the present endurances, sat 
 likewise passively watching the warfare in which the animate 
 seemed likely to be defeated by the inanimate; advising at 
 last: "Try holding them a different way, Jill. No, not the 
 needle — them." 
 
 "Like this? " Gillian made an awkward bunch of the ma- 
 terial in her fist. " But it feels all wrong now." 
 
 " Better give it up, Jill — throw it over to Winnie, she'll do 
 it for you." 
 
 Winifred disregarded the hint. And Nell opened impulsive 
 lips, made a sound in her throat, and thickened again to 
 silence. 
 
 " I won't give up " — putting in stitches that were like a 
 giant straddling from one edge of the rent to the other. " It's a 
 nuisance, but I've got to learn," ferociously obstinate. 
 
 " Cleanliness is next to ungodliness," Antonia discovered 
 with her aloof air of mingled amusement and disdain. 
 
 " Oh, cleanliness matters even in one's godly days. And 
 softness. But when it comes to wheat-coloured or pale lilac 
 ribbons drawn through, and the cling of faint scent, and em- 
 broidered butterflies put on over the heart, — well, I do con- 
 sider Theo's extras take up rather a lot of time." And Gillian 
 added with mournful honesty: " I never used to mind a hole 
 or two! " 
 
268 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Winnie put in : " It doesn't matter in places that don't 
 show. . . ." 
 
 " You never can be sure, though, can you, Winnie? " Deb 
 teased her. 
 
 " Of course you can." 
 
 "Winnie, are all your flirtations strictly spiritual? " 
 
 "Don't be silly. One doesn't flirt with men who can't 
 behave." 
 
 " Even the best behaved of men are liable to be carried away 
 by their feelings." 
 
 Deb was naughtily poking up that layer of suburban respect- 
 ability which was spread just underneath Winnie's ordinary 
 girlish tendency for what she termed " larking about." 
 
 " A nice girl can always keep them in order," complacently. 
 " I'm sure I'm fond enough of a bit of fun, nobody can call me 
 a prude, but I always make a rule ' so far and no further.' " 
 
 Deb and Zoe joyously hurled themselves on the phrase: 
 "How far is so far? — that's just it! define the limits of 
 virtue, Winnie. How far before they mayn't go any further? " 
 
 And in spite of Winifred's indignant dodges and subter- 
 fuges, they succeeded in pinning her down at last to a hesitant 
 declaration of principle. She affirmed that the parts which 
 civilized raiment left exposed were for caresses — no harm in 
 that: the face, the V of the neck, the arms below the elbow, 
 hands and wrists. . . . 
 
 "And anything beyond is violation of neutral territory? " 
 
 Winnie wriggled ambiguously. " Of course, as soon as a 
 fellow starts pulling you about, you know." 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 " What he's after." 
 
 "What is he after?" Deb's voice was the perfection of 
 innocent inquiry. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. . . . You do worry. Deb. I've got 
 along all right till now." Winnie's eyes were very round and 
 puzzled. For the code of her class was not for analysis; a 
 jumble of puritanism and prejudice and incurious sensuality. 
 "But of course one has to put a stop to it somewhere; mother 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 269 
 
 wanted me to have a good time, and never bothered me much, 
 but she did say that a chap, when he marries a girl, likes to 
 feel that he's the first. . . . Mother'd be shocked at you, Deb, I 
 really do believe you've let a fellow " — her voice died away. 
 And Deb said quickly, with averted head: "You believe I'd 
 let a fellow go so far — and further, is that it? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by ' further,' " Winifred 
 retorted, pestered into a desire to get some of her own back. 
 " You're so close about your love-affairs." 
 
 "Winnie, there was a time when I was a pure young girl, 
 like you are now . . . and then something happened . . . 
 in my life . . . and I've never been the same since, Winifred. 
 I wonder if you'd understand if I told you." 
 
 " Oh, do ! " gasped Winnie, her prudery delightedly offering 
 itself to be shocked. 
 
 Zoe's voice was heard in the distance shrilling a duet of 
 deathless memories with Silvester in the pantry. 
 
 " You couldn't do it if she were in the room — she wouldn't 
 give you the chance," Gillian said, letting her lingerie fall from 
 her lap in despair. " But as it is. Deb, I officially invite you 
 to tell Winnie the Unofficial Story of your Life — it may widen 
 her outlook. . . . We'll keep quite still, Antonia, Nell and I." 
 
 Deb began, hands clasped behind her head, eyes contracted 
 as in dreamy contemplation of small figures specking a curly, 
 dusty road: 
 
 " For the moment I can only remember John Thorpe and his 
 mother's ear-trumpet, I was wildly infatuated with John 
 Thorpe, so I used to ingratiate myself with his mother through 
 her ear-trumpet. Not many people in the hotel would bother 
 with that ear-trumpet, but I thought it was a short cut to 
 Paradise. . . . Once I heard him bellowing to her in the strict- 
 est confidence that Ellaline had accepted him the night before. 
 And I had to go on ingratiating myself down the ear-trumpet, 
 because he and everybody would have noticed it if I'd suddenly 
 left off. One has one's pride. ... At the end of eleven days 
 my throat was as sore as my soul ... so I went to Germany 
 on a visit and the war broke out. . . . 
 
270 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " And that was for me the dawn of love. . . . 
 
 " I can't keep to any chronological order, of course. 
 
 " The next thing that stands out is three minutes — well, it 
 can hardly have been that. I'd gone to bed with a headache 
 — not a very bad one; and when I heard Phil's voice in the 
 hall — he'd motored over with a party — I wished I hadn't 
 pretended it was too bad to stay up. I heard him say: 
 ' Where's my wife? ' — he always called me his wife. . . . They 
 answered laughing, ' first floor, second door on the right ' — the 
 thud of his feet on the stairs. Then he was on the bed and had 
 me and the quilt and pillow all swept up and smothered 
 up together in his arms. ... I was simply dazed with his 
 kisses — and with the hot tingling feel of his hands. He rushed 
 downstairs again and I heard him explaining lightly to the 
 others that he'd popped in his head at the door. He went 
 abroad a little while after. . . . 
 
 " And I sometimes think that was for me the dawn of love." 
 
 "You let him come into your bedroom? " panted Winnie. 
 "You let a strange fellow sit — on — your bed? " 
 
 Deb went on as though she had not heard. 
 
 " When Louis Halliwell — yes, the music-hall song-and-pat- 
 ter star — motored me to the Kingston Empire that night of 
 nights " 
 
 " The same night? " from Winnie, incredulously. 
 
 " Six years before — he promised me I should see life from 
 behind the scenes. He kept his promise. I spent the evening 
 in his dressing-room, watched him make up, heard him chaff 
 with other ' turns ' who drifted in and out. He drove me 
 round to the digs of the Twin Acrobats, after the show, and 
 they filled up a tumbler with port, and he told me in a whisper 
 it was expected of bohemian palliness I should toss it off. . . . 
 So I was half asleep coming hdme in the car, but I just remem- 
 ber he put my arm at the back of his waist and said it helped 
 him drive if I kept it there. So I kept it there. On the 
 doorstep he put his hands on my shoulders and said ringingly: 
 " You're one of us now. Deb ! " — and kissed me. once, on the 
 middle of my mouth. . . . 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 271 
 
 " That kiss was, for me, the dawn of love." 
 
 Winifred was so congealed to a solid state of astonishment, 
 that when she said " Not again? " it sounded quite calm. 
 
 " For cherry jam I'd do anything. That must be my excuse. 
 For when Colville came back to me, married, and said I'd been 
 his ideal on and off for seven years, and perhaps his wife would 
 die, although he had a tendency to appendicitis, I thought I'd 
 better discourage him. If he had died in my arms, Gillian, 
 and there'd been an inquest, she couldn't have divorced him 
 any more, could she? But she might have got a Decree of 
 the High Courts to haul in the cherry jam supposing he'd 
 made a will in my favour. Colville said : " I paid 4s. 3d. a 
 pound for it, Deb. I don't mind paying for what I want 
 most. . . .' He looked meaning, and I looked far-away and 
 said : * There's — somebody — else — now. There wouldn't 
 have been if you'd come last Tuesday.' He groaned and asked 
 me for a glove — as if one spoils a pair these days! So I laid 
 my cheek for a brief -fleeting-space-of -time against the back of 
 his hand, instead. It did just as well — but I do think he 
 might have sent me a pot of the jam. But he said he couldn't 
 get any out of the cellar without her seeing, even in a 
 shrimping-net. He said he had thirty-seven pounds of it in 
 the cellar. 
 
 " And that was, for me, the dawn of love. . . ." 
 
 Deb sighed. 
 
 " Pass over Padraic, the Sorrowful Celt, who used to keen 
 and croon and lilt and lament rhythmically over the misery 
 which would surely be my lot, till I felt like my own corpse 
 privileged to attend my own wake. He would tell me long 
 melancholy Irish stories about his long melancholy Irish 
 friends, and they all sounded to me the same friend," Deb's 
 voice rose and fell with the cadences of waves on the shore — 
 "till at the very last, did I not hear myself fading to un- 
 reality as a legend of Eire, long and melancholy, re-told by 
 him in the future to other friends, who would also become 
 legends, who would all become the same harrowing, hopeless 
 legend. ... 
 
272 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " ' But,' he said — * if I could only look up and look across 
 
 the room, Rosaleen ' " 
 
 " Who was Rosaleen ? " 
 
 " Me," briefly. " ' As I sit mourning o' nights solitary at 
 my window — if I could only look up and see yourself in the 
 doorway, grave as Mary among the lilies — in your simple 
 white shift, Rosaleen. . . .'" 
 
 " What's a shift? " Winnie was galvanized anew by curi- 
 osity. 
 
 "An animal only to be found in Ireland. The skin of the 
 shift is used for coats. . . ." 
 
 " But why did he want you to come to his room in a white 
 fur coat? " completely mystified. 
 
 " Men do," Deb explained lightly. " There was Monna 
 Vanna, you know. . . ." 
 
 "And you went? Well, you are! What did he do? " her 
 appetite was growing by what Deb gave it to feed upon. 
 
 Scornful of her expectation, and without removing her eyes 
 from that visionary road specked by the little black figures of 
 men, Deb answered her: "He smiled mournfully, without 
 moving from where he sat solitary at his window, and mur- 
 mured : ' This does not make a man feel good, Rosaleen ' 
 
 Perhaps those words were, for me, the dawn of love. Per- 
 haps — who knows. . . ." 
 
 " But what happened? " goggled Winnie. 
 " The landlord came in with the watering-pot," Deb snubbed 
 her, brutally. " And we all played French rounders together." 
 " Memoirs of a Courtesan, by Lewis Carroll. Deb, I don't 
 think Winnie can stand many more dawns." 
 
 " Olaf was romantic. Olaf was fair and blue-eyed and white 
 of skin, and just twenty; and he came from the northern for- 
 ests of Sweden. Nothing was too stock sentimental for him. 
 . . . When I set out to gather roses in a basket from my gar- 
 den before breakfast, he followed me about saying how beauti- 
 ful it was to see me gather roses in a basket from my garden 
 before breakfast. ... He dreamt of a day when he should be 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 273 
 
 standing in the doorway of his hut among the snow carelessly 
 rubbing up his ski and shielding his eyes from the Aurora Bor- 
 ealis, and I, a weary little dark-haired princess dressed all in 
 white " 
 
 " That shift might come in useful again." 
 
 " — Would come plodding towards him through the storm 
 like — like a weary little dark-haired princess. Then I told 
 him what I really looked like in really cold weather. . . . And 
 so his dawn of love was shattered in the bud " 
 
 Antonia groaned at the metaphor. And Deb, who was get- 
 ting tired, even of the expression in Winifred's eyes, grew even 
 briefer and more inconsequent in her memoirs. 
 
 " Tremayne said quickly : ' You can trust me. Deb — You 
 needn't be afraid. . . .' And then looked like a sulky steam- 
 roller when I cried back, 'I'm not afraid . . . I'm hurt! ' — 
 And I told him he ought to take a few lessons in comparative 
 anatomy — and then he sulked again. What is comparative 
 anatomy, Jill? Would it mean comparing one girl with an- 
 other, in his case? Anyhow he's not as deft as that dear old 
 coachman who was sixty-four and wanted me to come out with 
 him to Canada and make a fresh start with him there. But he'd 
 always driven the Brighton coaches, so I was sure he'd feel 
 the change and I wouldn't be able to make up to him for it. 
 . . . He was just a year younger than Grandfather Mackenzie, 
 whom I'd always snuggled up to and curled my little hand con- 
 fidingly in his big shaggy paw. That was before I learnt that 
 sixty-four was no age at all, though his wife had looked at me 
 queerly once or twice . . . and when I met Etienne Dalison at 
 their garden-party, and grandfather said : ' Is he your fairy 
 prince? ' I laughed saucily up at his whiskers: 'Why not? ' 
 * Because I want you all to myself^ and jumped at me — Lord! 
 how I ran! 
 
 " Etienne Dalison was the velvet hand inside the iron glove — 
 and he never forgot it. * Certainly you may go,' with a sort 
 of deadly quiet. That was in his house at midnight — or it 
 might have been a quarter to eleven. ' Is it likely I would 
 
274 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 detain you? ' And courteously and quietly he helped me on 
 with my cloak the instant I requested it. That was his quiet 
 courtesy. . . . 
 
 " And he opened the door for me, and quietly stood aside to 
 let me pass, saying quietly : * You will telephone when you are 
 ready.' He knew I would. 
 
 "And I didn't. 
 
 *' He did, though. He rang up twice, just to make sure that 
 I understood his silence was a tense controlled silence, the 
 silence of quiet strength ... it would have been too terrible 
 for words if I had thought it just ordinary silence! 
 
 "But he had an awfully voluptuous house; aesthetic and 
 luxurious and barbaric — you know the style — all mosaics 
 and art treasures and rose-leaves floating in the blood-red 
 finger-bowls, and silken hangings and richly crocheted antima- 
 cassars, and Moorish fretwork and poker-work . . . oh, I 
 forget what else. An invisible flutist or a lutist during meals 
 to whip up your senses like cream . . . and an inner apart- 
 ment with Louis the sixteenth's own bed standing encanopied 
 in gold on an ivory platform, and an expensive little negligee 
 thrown lightly for your use across the towel-horse, in case love 
 dawns " 
 
 Gillian sprang up abruptly from her chair, kicked away the 
 surrounding billows of underwear, and walked firmly across 
 to the couch; stood looking down with an unusual air of stern- 
 ness: 
 
 " Deborah, I don't know if Winifred is shocked or not. 
 The point is, / am. Your revelations have ceased to be funny 
 — they're merely pitiful. I take it, by the way, that they're 
 mostly true? " 
 
 " I'm not a novelist," responded Deb, shifting rather uneasily 
 imder Gillian Sherwood's censure. "What's up, Jill? Do 
 you imagine I've sinned with all these heroes in turn? " 
 
 "No, I don't. That's just it. All this dabbling — it isn't 
 worth while. You know much too much — you know every- 
 thing. You've got a rotten name — as bad as mine. And 
 nothing to show for it. You're smothered with dust from the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 275 
 
 arena — but you never ride. Deb, Deb, a little honest sin, for 
 Heaven's sake! I'm not keen on this demi-game! " 
 
 " A little honest sin — or a little honest chastity " An- 
 
 tonia took up her stand by Gillian's side, and put one arm about 
 her shoulders. . . . 
 
 " Two of you ! " Deb raised herself on one elbow and pre- 
 pared for battle; " les extremes se touchent! " 
 
 " What does that mean ? " laboriously from Winifred. 
 
 " Look next time there's a fried whiting on your plate. Yes, 
 — two of us, Deb — we've been meaning to pitch into you for 
 some time, Antonia and L What are you doing with Blair 
 Stevenson? " 
 
 " What's Blair Stevenson doing with you? " Antonia 
 amended. 
 
 Their victim protested. " I could tell you better if you 
 wouldn't both hover over me in that menacing way. Do, 
 please, go back to your seats. Pair of bullies! " 
 
 They humoured her in that, but Deb saw there was no escape 
 from their quiet persistence of enquiry. 
 
 " Did I tell you about a man in the train " she began. 
 
 " We were asking you about Blair Stevenson, Deb." 
 
 " Yes, but the man in the train bears on the question — he 
 does, honestly. And I'm sure Winnie would like to hear about 
 him — it raises an interesting point of etiquette. . . . Well, 
 once upon a time," in a great hurry, for she saw that Antonia 
 and Gillian would immediately blockade any gap she exposed 
 to them — " I was travelling, and there were lots of people in 
 the carriage, and one quite nice-looking man, and presently all 
 the other people got out, and we both had a sort of feeling of 
 release ... at least, I had, and I knew he had too. He asked 
 if I minded whether he smoked, and I said I didn't a bit, so he 
 offered me a cigarette, and I took it and thanked him nicely. 
 Well, it would have been so ridiculous to have glared at him 
 and been porcupiny all over, and to have sat there consciously 
 and conspicuously hugging my virtue as though I suspected 
 from the very first moment that he had designs upon it. I 
 made some remark about having to hurry with the cigarette 
 
276 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 as I got out at the next station — ' Oh, then we haven't got very 
 much time, have we? ' " 
 
 Deb broke off. Her hands were hotly clenched, and her 
 eyes a sombre, crepuscular blue. . . . 
 
 " Jill — I fought for it like a — a — devil-cat, for what I had 
 — God knows why — but I had guarded it by flight and by cun- 
 ning and by instinct, for years and years — since the very be- 
 ginning. . . . And now this perfectly casual stranger takes it 
 for granted it was his for the asking. I was up against it — 
 and I fought — so that he was astonished — let me go. I 
 walked to the other end of the carriage and sat there, looking 
 out. Presently he said in a different way altogether — not 
 ashamed of himself and perfectly cool, but different: ' You 
 can come back to your seat opposite me. It's all right,' and I 
 came back and said slowly: 'Not exactly playing the game, 
 was it? ' You see, he was sure to have been a public-school 
 boy, and if he had winced, I'd have gone on to say something 
 about how would he like it if his sister. . . ." 
 
 " Deb — is nothing sacred to you? " 
 
 "That's what / was going to ask him. But he proved a 
 fairly unusual type. He speculated a moment, and then shook 
 his head, smiling: 'Yes — but you shouldn't have taken the 
 cigarette. That's an accepted cue, you know — or if you 
 didn't know, you ought to have.' It struck me for the very first 
 time that there is something in it when our mothers and aunts 
 warn us not to let unknown young men talk to us." 
 
 " Yes, but they ought to tell us why and they never do," in 
 one long breath from Nell, whom the other girls had forgot- 
 ten was present. 
 
 " Our aunts and mothers, most of them, have Weldon's- 
 Paper-Pattern still in their systems, however tolerant and lax 
 they may appear on the surface." 
 
 " Then no wonder we get into messes, scrabbling about for 
 wisdom. Our aunts and mothers weren't allowed to scrabble 
 by their aunts and mothers. . . , And our children won't need 
 to scrabble," 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 277 
 
 " Our children," murmured Jill, and her hand touched Nell's 
 hair regretfully. . . . Nell was such a bahy still! 
 
 " We're at the transition period — do you remember that 
 sketch I did of you, Deb? And the transition period has to 
 pay, always." 
 
 " Then is there a male of the transition period — to match 
 the girl? or are we transitting alone? " 
 
 " Same old male — the one I met in the train. And ex- 
 periment clashed with habit. That's what I've been trying 
 to tell about." 
 
 Winnie roused herself to make contribution to the chorus: 
 " It was awful of you to have gone on letting him talk to you 
 after he had insulted you." 
 
 " Why ? I was curious what he had done it for. It can't 
 have been passion, romance — not even the dawn of love, Win- 
 nie — for any stray girl in a railway carriage. I had just 
 wanted to be friendly. And I was frightened out of being 
 friendly, by . . . well, the male habit, /'d had no desire to 
 spring upon him the moment we were alone. I told him so." 
 
 " You didn't! Deb, you are! What did he say? " 
 
 " Grinned and said : ' You're an odd kid. Here's your sta- 
 tion, isn't it? Good-bye and good luck.' He helped me out, 
 and I asked if I might finish the cigarette or if under the cir- 
 cumstances it was etiquette to throw it away? . . . Oh, the 
 incident was nothing; the whole moral of it is, that it wouldn't 
 have happened to Antonia, so it's no good lecturing me accord- 
 ing to the Antonian standard. Or the Gillian standard either 
 — great loves don't come to such as me." 
 
 " Because you experiment in small loves," Gillian lit a 
 cigarette and planted both feet on the mantelpiece, " small 
 loves and small loaves and half loaves " 
 
 " Better than no bread." 
 
 " Wrong again. You must have learnt by now that it's 
 either Heaven ... or always the same." 
 
 "Men always the same? — indeed they're not! " Zoe had 
 returned mentally refreshed from pantry society. "// they 
 
278 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 were always the same, we needn't bother so to keep on changing 
 them, need we? It's the different ways of approach that are 
 so perfectly fascinating; and the different idea each one has 
 of the same identical you; and how long each is going to take, 
 and what sort of places they choose, and their pasts, and their 
 way of holding you — I do like to be nicely held, don't you, 
 Antonia? — Oh no, I forgot, you don't! There are dozens 
 and thousands of diflferences, and each has to be managed dif- 
 ferently; and what encourages one kind, puts another right off 
 . . . even what they prefer to eat, and if they like their kisses 
 hard or soft — I say, doesn't that sound like eggs? Oh, I do 
 think, I really do, that variety is most of the fun; and seeing 
 how they get to the point. They bore me when they're within 
 shouting distance. . . . Besides, I get so specially interested 
 in what each new man is going to give me. You would soon 
 get to know that, if you always kept to the same. Pinto, for 
 instance ... he gives me olives, and I hate them. You don't 
 think me greedy, do you? I'd hate to be greedy, but I do 
 like presents! " 
 
 " I believe you're the demi-maid by temperament," Gillian 
 said, smiling at her, while she reflected that as fast as that 
 greedy right hand of Zoe plundered, the generous left hand of 
 Zoe gave. " Deb isn't. And that's why Deb has to be spoken 
 to seriously by her pals. We're waiting to hear about Blair." 
 
 " What about Blair? " Deb seemed inclined to sulk. 
 "Throw me a cig, Winnie. And a match. And the box to 
 strike it on — thanks. What about Blair? He's the demi- 
 man, if you like, as far as I'm concerned. I was wrong when 
 I said the male of the transition period didn't exist. The 
 Male who Pursues has ceased to exist. Nowadays he implies, 
 more or less delicately, that he has no wish to make you his 
 wife and you needn't think it ; but being your own mistress — 
 well, will you? And you imply equally delicately: ' Yes, but 
 not yours, so you needn't think it! ' Then you both know 
 where you are. The rest is on debatable ground." 
 
 Zoe cried, appalled at Deb's elasticity of speech, " Well, I 
 must say, Deb, I think you're horrid. I do, really. I'm not 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 279 
 
 a prig, but I don't think you're a bit nice. I suppose I'm old- 
 fashioned. And I'm not at all surprised at Winnie. , . ." who, 
 with a crimson face at the word " mistress," had marched out of 
 the room. 
 
 " That doesn't matter," Gillian defended Deb, with that odd 
 incongruous air of casual authority which was unconsciously 
 based on her years of vital work and clear thinking and swift 
 unerring sense of values; on a courageous judgment that 
 hummed through the air like an arrow, and stuck quivering in 
 the gold; on the deference she received from her equals, men 
 with good brains and of good quality; men of genius, even, 
 who had deferred to her in her own line. " Winnie does quite 
 a good deal of what one might call ' spooning ' . . . ' adventur- 
 ing on debatable ground ' . . . ' half-a-loafing ' . . . whatever 
 you like. But it's just that she can't bear — the labels. While 
 one is vague about the name of a thing, it's all right, according 
 to Winnie. She's not a conscious humbug; belongs to a type. 
 And she enjoys the half-loaf — like Zoe. Well, call it her 
 quarter-loaf. The point is — do you enjoy yours, Deb? I 
 don't believe you do. And if you don't, it's not worth it. In 
 the case of Blair Stevenson, for instance? " 
 
 Deb made a desperate attempt to shed all her psycho- 
 entanglements, and be honest — because it was Jill who asked. 
 And this, even though she had long ago discovered that the self 
 one pretends to is much more convincing to the hearer, than 
 the self nearer to reality. A detached attitude helps expression. 
 
 " It pleases him and it doesn't hurt me," she simimcd up 
 slowly. 
 
 " And what's the object of pleasing him? " Antonia enquired, 
 in scorn of the masculine claim. 
 
 " That it doesn't hurt me." 
 
 " It has hurt you. It has hurt all of us — through you." 
 Her lower lip quivered; proudly she fastened it to composure 
 with her teeth. 
 
 "Well? " Deb flung at Gillian; and thoughtfully came the 
 answer : 
 
 " I'm not sitting in judgment. Deb. Whom am I, etc. Bu 
 
280 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 it seems to me the natural thing to draw such pleasure from 
 the touch of a man, that contact becomes beautiful and there- 
 fore true. Or else to be so repelled by it . . . that you sit up 
 and behave. But what possible reason you can have to lie 
 there and merely suffer it without joy or fulfilment " 
 
 " It does become annoying at times to think he's having 
 so much more fun than I," flippantly. She pushed her hands 
 impatiently through the hot thick masses of her hair. " Oh, 
 I'm tired of being a girl, anyway. I'll cut my hair short for a 
 start, and be a boy. Have you got some big scissors, Jill? " 
 
 " Nail-scissors, curved ; in the shape of a stork." 
 
 " Don't be an idiot, Deb — your glorious mane. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Deb " 
 
 But in spite of the protests of Antonia, Nell and Zoe — Gil- 
 lian sat silent, probably thinking any distraction good for Deb's 
 soul at the moment — she unpinned her hair and let it fall in 
 a dense blue-black web over her face; her voice came in 
 muffled jerks from the improvised tent: 
 
 " It's that once started ... it seems so silly to stop. So 
 silly and affected. Anyway, they won't believe you — once 
 you've let them start. And I want to be appreciated just a 
 little . . . I'm twenty-five; and — and — how — how are you 
 to know it's coming to be the real thing at last, unless you let 
 them begin? ... Or even a bit of the real thing? Or even 
 one single thrill. ... I don't know what's the matter with me 
 that I never thrill. I — I'd go back to be chaste and white if I 
 could. But I've had too much tolerance, and my moral sense 
 has got slack and messy. And men know — the sort of thing 
 you allow. It gets about: Blair knew. . . . One might as 
 well live up to it." All this confession, while the scissors had 
 been snip-snipping; an occasional soft swish of her hair falling 
 to the carpet — disconcerting sound, that made young Nell 
 suddenly wince and cover her ears. 
 
 " But you can go on — if you can't go back." 
 
 " This from you, vestal ! " Deb shook back her ragged 
 curtain, and scissors suspended, gazed in sheer surprise at 
 Antonia. " Or was it Jill speaking in Antonia's voice? " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 281 
 
 "The whole way — or no way. The last, for me. But 
 you've proved that it's impossible for you, now. So the whole 
 way. I despise — debatable ground." 
 
 " It's too late for the whole way, too. Yes, I'm quite logical. 
 You either rush headlong from chastity to wantonness — 
 forgive me, Jill, it's the wrong word, but I can't think of 
 another — or else into matrimony. Debatable ground is for 
 those who hesitate. And hesitation makes the demi-maid! " 
 She gripped a long strand of hair, held it out and slashed at it 
 savagely. 
 
 " And it's queer," she went on, " but I've still got the 
 inborn conviction that wantonness gets the worst of it. I 
 seem to see a little woodcut, like the illustration of a very 
 familiar old book, of a man forsaking the girl he has betrayed, 
 to die or drag on in squalor and shame and bitterness, while 
 he returns to his wife, the sheltered woman, the law-sanctified 
 mother of his children. I may be all wrong — but that's how 
 it comes to me." 
 
 " It comes to me in exactly opposite form," Gillian laughed. 
 " Not from personal motives, but from the same sense as Deb, 
 of a familiar picture. . . . The wife forsaken, worn and weep- 
 ing, face downwards on a sofa, while the man hurries away 
 to the woman who is free, insolent and triumphant. The 
 wanton scores — and that's why I've always avoided being the 
 wife." 
 
 " The wife scores — and that's why I've always dreaded be- 
 ing the wanton." 
 
 Gillian laughed again. " I don't mind if you call 
 me a wanton, as long as you don't call me a pioneer. 
 And " 
 
 " Oh, Jill," cried Zoe in clamorous distress, " I thought 
 you'd prefer it, I did really; or I should never have — but 
 whenever I found people talking about you, I always excused 
 you by saying you were a Pioneer of the New Era of Woman- 
 hood. . . ." 
 
 " God ! . . ." murmured the victim thus mislabelled. 
 
 "But aren't you? I mean, don't you believe that this is 
 
282 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 the beginning of a sort of New Era when we shall be as free 
 
 as men 
 
 ? " 
 
 " I don't ! " Antonia cut in clearly. " I hope it's rather the 
 beginning of a New Era (as you call it) when men shall be as 
 self-controlled as us. Why on earth should development 
 always seem to be along the lines of licence? Girls nowadays 
 will run wild all over the place for a bit, just to prove they've 
 got their money and their independence and the vote and a 
 special prerogative and a latitude and a longitude ... all 
 that. And then they'll get a sense of responsibility and cool 
 down and settle down, and ask for limitations — and with 
 that, a new phase, and perhaps a finer one, will begin. Your 
 Era is nine times out of ten only a phase. I hold by the 
 law — the old social law of monogamy. It has made itself 
 out of the instinctive need of it, and it recurs again and 
 again down the whole cycle of civilization — out of the in- 
 stinctive need for it. There have been maidens, wives and 
 harlots through all the ages — surely there's no genuine need 
 to muddle them all up? no need for free love, except for the 
 exceptions from the herd ? — and the exceptions can always 
 be trusted to look out for themselves." 
 
 " But it isn't monogamy that Gillian & Co. are opposing," 
 Zoe contested — with the air of a wise little Bubbles, sitting on 
 a footstool, with primrose curls haloed in lamplight — " it's 
 marriage." 
 
 " Marriage is quite a good institution, for those who want 
 it. You arid Intellectuals never see that where two people 
 need a symbolic or a religious or even a civic recognition that 
 they belong together, they should be allowed to have it." 
 
 " But the million of cases where it has turned out badly " 
 
 "Would have turned out just as badly if the couple had 
 been living together in free love." 
 
 " But, Antonia, then they could just have walked away 
 from each other! " 
 
 " It's very rare that it's a simultaneous walk-away. The 
 one walks . . . and the other suffers. And this wrench 
 would occur in any case. The legal wrench is a bit of a bother 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 283 
 
 — and I grant you that the divorce laws might be reformed — 
 but the human wrench is inevitable, in spite of all progress 
 and propagandists and pioneers! " 
 
 Antonia was in battle mood, and Gillian gave her battle. 
 They confronted each other not unlike a pair of splendid boys, 
 the one erect with her back to the peacock window-curtains, 
 hands clasped behind her, her head, a red-brown oval, slewed 
 defiantly upwards; while the other rested her arms and chin 
 along the back of a precariously tilted chair, which she 
 vehemently bumped forward again to safety at the allitera- 
 tive peroration of Antonia's speech. 
 
 "Propagandists and pioneers — no! By heaven, you're 
 unjust! — do you suppose we're out to be as intolerant of the 
 Merely Married, as they have hitherto been of us? Look 
 here — I loathe theoretical talk — I just claim a right to do 
 what my own circumstances dictate, without being preached at 
 and interfered with. There's no such thing as Gillian & Co. — 
 if I and my like are accidentally in the van of progress, we 
 advance separately, each to her own peril. And if we're only 
 freaks and exceptions, lawbreakers and wantons — then again, 
 each to her own peril. But what I do resent, savagely, is 
 that Theo and I can't have a child, without raising a stinging 
 pestering swarm of minor considerations — servants, land- 
 ladies, schoolmistresses, tradesmen — once there's a family 
 there's got to be a permanent home, and that translates into all 
 this sordid beastliness of prying and inspection, gossiping and 
 blackmail, deceiving and finding-out, and the intolerant official- 
 dom you're so keen on, Antonia. And I daresay the kid would 
 have to pay too, somehow, sometime. Well — we're not going 
 to give all this a chance. But I maintain that the arid Intel- 
 lectuals are finer, truer stuff than the Herd, because they don't 
 bother the Herd, and the Herd will never stop bothering us. 
 Never. They're bothering now because Theo has a wife living. 
 It doesn't matter to them that I'm doing far better work and 
 he's a far better man, because we live together. The mind of 
 the Herd can't stretch to individual demand. It can't be 
 tender or intuitive — it just fusses. So — yes — call me a 
 
284 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 pioneer if you like; not of any glucose Movement to link people 
 together for a common cause and so forth — there's too much 
 of that — but for the right to unlink oneself and to unlink one's 
 thoughts from other people's thoughts — the right of detach- 
 ment." 
 
 " Oh dear ! " exclaimed Zoe. " Isn't it funny, how people 
 who used to just talk, ever since the war have talked as though 
 they were making speeches? " 
 
 Antonia and Gillian looked guiltily at one another. " I'm 
 afraid she's right," Antonia sighed. " Sorry, Zoe. As a 
 matter of fact, it's perfectly ridiculous to be discussing the sex 
 problem at all, since the war. Ancient cobwebs which the 
 great broom has still left clinging. . . ." 
 
 Again Gillian leapt to the assault. " The ' sex problem,' 
 as you call it — a horrid phrase which suggests pamphlets and 
 tracts — has survived a million wars and even caused one or 
 two. So there's no earthly reason why we shouldn't be dis- 
 cussing it. Here we sit in proof of my statement — five girls 
 who are all employed on war work (good thing Winnie's out 
 of the room for this reckoning), who still find some difficulty 
 in sexually disposing of themselves — I mean, in the abstract. 
 If Deb and Nell weren't at the canteen, and Antonia a chauf- 
 feuse, and Zoe an affliction to the War Office, and I in my labora- 
 tory spying out new diseases that resent bitterly not being al- 
 lowed to keep themselves to themselves; if we were just mooch- 
 ing and flirting and grumbling, and prodding our emotions, 
 people might be justified in saying we were all in an unhealthy 
 frame of mind from lack of topical co-operation. But as it is, 
 the war goes on, and sex goes on, quite self-reliantly. You 
 can't cancel one against the other. It's false mathematics." 
 
 " My dear Jill, you can't state in that arbitrary fashion that 
 war isn't going to affect the sex problem — it's all right, Zoe, 
 I'm not going to speak for long; take up the 'Tatler' in the 
 meanwhile! — It will aff^ect it in every possible way: lack of 
 men; abnormal conditions; economic liberty for girls hitherto 
 dependent " 
 
 "I'm wrong. Oh, I'm totally wrong! . . . Deb, come out 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 285 
 
 of what's left of your hair and save me! I don't want to 
 hear about economic conditions. The off-side is yards shorter 
 than the other." 
 
 "Wait one minute," murmured Deb, industriously and 
 wholly absorbed in her labours. 
 
 Antonia continued, in serene mockery of Gillian : " And I, 
 for one, am not in the least difficulty, thanks, over how to 
 dispose of myself sexually in the abstract. And I shouldn't 
 imagine from external evidence that you were either, Jill. 
 Zoe, are you at all puzzled how to dispose of yourself sexually 
 in the abstract? Henceforth and hereafter there's always 
 Pinto, isn't there, when the supply of other friendly aliens is 
 exhausted? " 
 
 " You may laugh," cried that young person in eager defence 
 of her continental tastes — " but it doesn't seem natural to me 
 to be made love to in English — it doesn't really! I always 
 have to turn it into French or Italian or Portuguese in my head, 
 because it becomes decent somehow. Isn't it funny? but it's 
 quite true. I suppose it's a habit." 
 
 " Nell is a minor and an adolescent, and, like Jill's more 
 obscure diseases, prefers to keep herself to herself," Antonia 
 went on, " so there's no need to include her in our enquiry. 
 Winifred lives mainly in a state of mental sloth, and is not, I 
 think, wrestling very furiously with the sexual problem." 
 
 "As long as she's only kissed at the extremities," Zoe 
 threw in. 
 
 " Manon is, we hear, formally and decorously engaged to 
 be married. So there really remains only Deb, of the whole 
 group, who might be said to be in difficulties over the disposal 
 of herself sexually in the abstract. And Deb is a goose." 
 
 " And Deb is a goose ! " echoed Zoe and Gillian in affirmative 
 chorus. 
 
 Deb gave a final snip, flung the scissors down, and faced the 
 company. " How do you like me? " 
 
 " Well," remarked Gillian, after they had all stared in 
 solemn criticism for several minutes, " I hardly think the 
 shears have disposed of the problem. . . ." 
 
286 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 It was, indeed, a quaint enough perversity that Deb's present 
 flying mop of short black hair caused her to look even more 
 girlish than hitherto; perhaps it was the pure beautiful -curve 
 of her throat, now visible from every angle. Her little round 
 head was the head of a child-saint; her slim body, lightly- 
 poised and undeveloped, was pathetic anomaly to eyes and 
 mouth which revealed a mind that had heard of all sin, and 
 was blunt to all sin, and weary of all sin . . . victim of the 
 transition period. 
 
 " Don't you like it? " disappointed at the silence of her 
 comrades, broken only by Gillian's one caustic comment. " I 
 shall have to get it properly trimmed and trained at a hair- 
 dresser's, of course. But I think it suits me, rather. . . ." 
 
 " What are you going to do with your shorn femininity? " 
 Gillian pointed to the showers of long hair lying about the 
 carpet. " You can't leave it here, you know — Theo's so aw- 
 fully impressionable." 
 
 "My shorn femininity," said Deb, gathering it up in her 
 arms, " shall go into a brown paper parcel and be sold for the 
 benefit of the Red Cross — ' And nothing in life became it like 
 its death!'" 
 
 IV 
 
 For a space of time parallel to this discussion, four men were 
 sitting in Blair Stevenson's library, drinking whisky and soda, 
 and lazily depreciating the first-night play they had just wit- 
 nessed, and of which Theo Pandos had to supply a dramatic 
 criticism for " The Dawn." He was dashing down his copy 
 now, and occasionally pleading with Cliffe Kennedy to hold 
 back his comic reminiscences about the Censorship, for just a 
 few minutes longer. 
 
 " Why they don't sack you ! " 
 
 " I'm a highly useful servant of the State," ClifFe rejoined. 
 " And I've never before had as big a private mail as I liked. 
 I used to read my own letters and my mother's, and my little 
 sister Bath's; and the letters of any stray guest who happened 
 to be in the house, and the servants' letters — and even then 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 287 
 
 I wasn't satisfied. Now I can glut myself opening letters." 
 He told a few more incredible and very delightful tales of these 
 same letters. And then Pandos flung down the fountain-pen, 
 to intimate he had finished a column of the " death-by-a- 
 thousand-slices," for which he had made a name, took up 
 his glass of whisky and soda; and the conversation, as was 
 usual directly he touched it, pivoted round to the subject of 
 women. . . . 
 
 " I don't understand girls nowadays," confessed the fourth 
 of the quartette, who was little Timothy Fawcett of the Royal 
 Flying Corps. Having been a whole year on continuous active 
 service in France, he was now stationed at Hendon for a few 
 months' respite of light home duty. 
 
 Timothy was rather a nice boy. He was fair and shy and 
 solemn, with those soft cherub curves to his mouth that remind 
 one of dewy sleep and of a mother fondly shading the candle 
 from the eyes of her baby son in his cradle. And his innocent 
 appearance did not call for the conventional corollary that it 
 masked the biggest dare-devil in the squadron. His appearance 
 coincided exactly with his disposition. Timothy was un- 
 doubtedly both shy and solemn, with wits that moved but 
 slowly, and nerves and courage as steady as his steady ques- 
 tioning blue eyes. 
 
 " I don't understand women nowadays," he began. And 
 Blair, with whom he was rather a favourite, said encourag- 
 ingly: 
 
 " Go on. Sonny! " 
 
 Timothy loosened his Sam Browne, and stared at his puttees; 
 then, by an inspiration, emptied his glass; and thus fortified, 
 was able to continue : 
 
 "What I mean is — there used to be the girls you met in 
 your own set, and they went about with your sisters, and there 
 was no harm if you kissed 'em on the river, bat of course you 
 took jolly good care what you talked about to 'em. Sometimes 
 you married 'em." 
 
 " Exactly," Kennedy commented. " Sometimes you married 
 'em. Proceed, Timothy." 
 
288 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "And then — there was the other kind." Timothy came to 
 a full stop. 
 
 And the little Greek, his eyes vivid with mischief, took up 
 the sequel of events: 
 
 " And these you kissed also . . . and not only on the river. 
 And you told them those droll stories that could not be told 
 to the girls you married sometimes. And they laughed with 
 flattering appreciation." 
 
 " What I mean," Timothy began anew, with obstinate deter- 
 mination to finish up the subject in as few words as possible, 
 " is that a fellow used to be able to tell the two sorts apart in 
 half a jiflF, and now they've gone and got themselves so muddled 
 up . . . you take out one of the first kind, thoroughly nice 
 girl and all that — and she talks about — well — dash it — 
 about — about " 
 
 " — The second kind," suggested Stevenson. 
 
 " And she wants you to take her to a night-club, and laughs 
 at you for bein' shocked, an' argues about it — no end know- 
 ing! And so one takes the cue and follows up — and then half 
 times out of ten she turns on the freezin' tap, and quite right 
 too, only she ought to have done it from the beginning. And 
 they've got quite pally, too, with — well — the other sort. It's 
 so rum. You meet 'em with their arms round each other's 
 waists. . . . It's all a mix-up an' you never know where you 
 are or what you're safe to say, or who knows who or how much 
 you're let in for " 
 
 " Tim likes to know where a good woman ends and a bad 
 one begins — that's the trouble in brief, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes," Timothy answered his host. And drew a long 
 breath . . . waiting for enlightenment. 
 
 " Keep 'em divided in your own mind, Tim, and it will be 
 all right. The shuffle is mostly intellectual, and needn't con- 
 cern you. Youc nice girl, because she knows rather more than 
 she used to, believes she can compete with professionals. Mais 
 ce Tiest pas son metier — and she'll discover that in time. 
 Meanwhile, we know where to find our wives and where to find 
 our mistresses; and those who wish to be met on half-way 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 289 
 
 ground, let us meet them on half-way ground. It's not for 
 us to be pushing them back into innocence or toppling them 
 forward into guilt." Stevenson lay back with arms crossed 
 behind his head, in his wonted state of unruffled good-humour. 
 
 Kennedy, greatly excited, contested this bland point of view: 
 " I object to half-way ground. Strongly. Besides, it's a form 
 of blacklegging. Give me sharp division — sand and rock. 
 Confound it, I don't want my wife, when I get her, to be able 
 to chatter like a frank comrade about all the ins and outs of 
 my squalid existence before I met her. I hate frank comrades. 
 They're too — too reasonable altogether. I hate an intellectual 
 mate, and a pure white friend of my little sister Beth, and 
 almost a harlot, all combined, like one of those beastly mechan- 
 ical book-cases and step-ladder and kitchen-table patent ar- 
 rangements . . . and pull out whichever you want. Conven- 
 iences bore me. Subtleties bore me still more. And you 
 can never tell, with these new-fangled girls, just how many 
 degrees they're still good and how many they're prepared to 
 be bad. Oh, Lord! — give me another one, stiff, Pandos." 
 
 " And yet," remarked Theo Pandos, complying, " I gathered 
 that you were on very excellent terms with our special little 
 group of — what do you call them? — new-fangled girls? " 
 
 ClifTe's features puckered to a gnome-like grin: "Ask 'em. 
 I'm dear old Cliff e — just dear old CI iff e — quite sexless 
 y'know — never been known to love — in — er — that way. 
 It's funny, but I don't believe he could. . . ." 
 
 Blair Stevenson shrugged his shoulders composedly. " I'm 
 of a grateful nature. What God sends me, I take. And what 
 He refuses me, I refuse to desire. Some people are always 
 returning a gift with requests for alteration." 
 
 Timothy sat listening; his eyes rested seriously on first one 
 speaker and then the other. " Yes," he said at last ; " But 
 what's it all about? I mean — what are they up to, those 
 girls? " 
 
c 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 « /CAPTAIN ROTHENBURG — killed in action. Rothen- 
 burg — Rothenburg — that's a German name. What 
 was he doing in an English command, I'd like to 
 know? Ought to have been interned." 
 
 Richard sprang up, knuckles white with the clench of his 
 hands on the rim of the breakfast-table, his brows a lowering 
 black ridge of anger. He and Mr. Gryce confronted one an- 
 other across a space of half the dining-room. The other vis- 
 itors sprinkled at the various tables looked up expectant, con- 
 scious of latent antagonism spurting at last into visibility. The 
 old man's eyes bulged like pale marbles over the top of his 
 newspaper. ..." Ought to have been interned," he repeated 
 ostentatiously to his neighbours. 
 
 " Sit down, Richard," his father commanded quietly. And 
 as though with a physical effort, the wrestling look was un- 
 locked; the boy sat down, head turned away from the de- 
 testable civilian who had dared sneer away Con's glory. As if 
 Con wasn't as thumpingly keen a soldier as any of the purest 
 British descent! Con, the splendid sixth-form hero of Rich- 
 ard's earliest Winborough days. And now ... to make out 
 he had given his life to no effect because his name happened 
 to be German. . . . 
 
 Richard was still shaking from the harsh shock of the news, 
 and from a sort of desperate hatred which almost approached 
 fear. " Is it true? " he asked Ferdie, who was searching 
 through The Telegraph. 
 
 ** I'm afraid so. Ah, yes, here: On May 15th . . . etc. I 
 suppose his parents can only just have heard. Nearly a week, 
 
 290 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 291 
 
 isn't it? Poor Con, he was a nice fellow. Otto will be upset 
 — his eldest boy." 
 
 " But why do they print the name Rothenburg? " Stella 
 questioned in a low voice, inaudible to Mr. Gryce. 
 
 " I expect the young man had the good sense not to be 
 ashamed of his father's birthplace," rumbled Hermann Marcus, 
 in an aggressive voice distinctly audible to Mr. Gryce, who 
 muttered : " Damned old Hun ! " amid a murmur of surround- 
 ing sympathy. 
 
 Richard explained : " David told me Con held out when the 
 rest of them changed their name; he was a Territorial ages 
 before the war, and his men knew him as Rothenburg — good 
 enough for them! " with a defiant scowl in the direction of Mr. 
 Gryce. The latter, sending out his plate for more bacon: 
 "I've had nothing but fat and gristle!" remarked further 
 to the young lady at the table beside him: " They're not half 
 strict enough over this alien business. I like a German to be a 
 German; if they want to fight, can't they stick to their own 
 side? " 
 
 " Though I'm not surprised some of them are ashamed to," 
 he creaked on, pulling his tuft of beard irascibly. 
 
 " No more, thanks." Richard escaped from the room. He 
 very rarely finished a meal nowadays. . . . Aunt Stella fol- 
 lowed him out, and waylaid him in the empty hall: 
 
 " Richard, you must take care what you say in the dining- 
 room. You shouldn't have jumped up like that. Everybody 
 saw." 
 
 " And Con died so that — so that he could have his second 
 helping of bacon," Richard exploded. 
 
 " Yes, but you know in our position we've got to be careful. 
 You especially." 
 
 " It's so unfair. So beastly unfair. If I thought he only 
 said it to get my back up — but he believes it. He oughtn't 
 to be let believe it. I want to hammer it into him that old Con 
 wasn't even conscripted — was ready at the very first shove-off. 
 Oh, it's mean to do him out of the credit. Not that he would 
 have cared, but " 
 
292 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Stella was surprised. Her nephew's extreme taciturnity 
 was one of her stock subjects for jest. 
 
 "You'll have to go and condole with the Rothenburgs to- 
 day." 
 
 Richard immediately lapsed into surly schoolboyhood: 
 "Lord! Must I?" 
 
 " David is your friend. And as he happens to be at 
 
 home Your father and I will be going after lunch. Or 
 
 you can call by yourself this morning if you prefer it." 
 
 " Call ! " he grumbled. " As if David wanted people mooch- 
 ing about and saying they were sorry." 
 
 " Saying? Aren't you sorry? " 
 
 . . . Funny, how aunts were apt to say silly platitudes in 
 a silly, ready-made voice, just when one was paying them the 
 compliment of treating them like humans. It showed how 
 careful you ought to be, Richard reflected glumly, on his way 
 to Hampstead. 
 
 How on earth did one " condole "? He knew right enough 
 just how David had cared about Con, and what a swollen 
 sensation attacked his own throat to think of any one so cheery 
 and keen on his job and altogether decent as his late school- 
 captain, part of a heap of flung-together mixed-up limbs and 
 mud and stained khaki, here and there twitching still. . . . 
 
 But all this was well set apart from official condolence. All 
 this led to silence, not to speech. Richard, deliberately taking 
 the longest way round to Fairwarne Gardens, became ever more 
 acutely uncomfortable over his mission. Besides 
 
 " You ought to have had it out with Mr. Gryce." 
 
 The phrase spoke itself clearly in his mind, and with such 
 detached emphasis, that he started, almost glanced over his 
 shoulder for the speaker. 
 
 It was quite true; his father had made a mistake in hushing 
 him: he himself had made a mistake in surrender. Mr. Gryce 
 had had the best of the encounter; and probably never again 
 would Richard be whipped to such a stinging fury of indig- 
 nation. An ingredient of fear might well creep in . . . fear 
 such as had twanged deep down in his consciousness when Aunt 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 293 
 
 Stella said : " You especially. . . ." The owner of those 
 light-blue bulging eyes would not hesitate to use the advantage 
 of an adversary's birthplace. 
 
 Richard perceived uneasily how fatal it would be to live 
 enslaved by the notion that he had lost all right to resent. 
 Undoubtedly he ought to have had it out with old Gryce there 
 and then at the breakfast table. Too late now. . . . 
 
 And here was the Redburys' house with blinds all lowered. 
 He rang the bell; and waiting on the doorstep, tried to break 
 up his face every time it stiffened into a set shape appropriate 
 to the business in hand. 
 
 "Is Mr. David in?" 
 
 David, in second-lieutenant's khaki sobered by a black 
 mourning band on the sleeve, hardly looked up from his put- 
 tees at Richard's entrance; and when the first apathetic 
 " Hullo ! " was over, there seemed nothing more to be said. 
 The room was in semi-darkness, and the very slant of sunshine 
 tlirough the chinks was furtive. 
 
 "What on earth have you come for? " David burst out at 
 last irritably. " To express your sincere sympathy with me 
 in my great bereavement? Then for the Lord's sake, express 
 it — if you can — and get it over, and be natural. You make 
 me nervous, standing about as though you had changed into 
 a black tie before coming out, which I wonder you haven't! " 
 
 Richard in his turn got thoroughly bad-tempered. The walk 
 had been hot and dusty, and there was the episode of Mr. 
 Gryce that morning, and — and Con was dead. And now 
 David merely jeered at him. 
 
 "All right — I'm going; you needn't worry. I didn't come 
 here for fun, they made me." 
 
 David laughed uproariously. "That's better; that's more 
 the little Richard we know and love! " 
 
 Richard grunted, and banged himself into a chair. He un- 
 derstood now. . . . David's noisy laughter had shown him. 
 
 " When did you get your commission? " 
 
 " Only last week. Samson worked it for me — through his 
 cousin, Sir Ephraim Phillips. Did you know Samson was back 
 
294 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 from the Front? — trench -feet. Pater's still trying to rope him 
 into the family, with Nell as a lasso; but I don't believe he's 
 having any; still keen on Deb." 
 
 " So you'll be going to France, perhaps. . . ." 
 
 "Yes, in about six months I shall be able to avenge Con 
 by killing the Hun who killed him." 
 
 " Does — would that — help ? " Richard asked awkwardly. 
 Then met David's ironic eyes — 
 
 " It ought to be the attitude, oughtn't it? Beatrice supplied 
 me with it, and the family have taken up the chorus. It's 
 so natural and picturesque and primitive: the younger brother 
 belting on his sword and going forth to slay for the sake of the 
 slain. Old Grandmother Phillips, who approves of me because 
 she thinks I take my religion seriously, even added the Old 
 Testament touch : an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. . . . 
 
 " No, Richard, it doesn't help at all. If I could land home 
 on the one actual and definite German who was responsible 
 for Con, it would be different. I believe in fighting — for love 
 of a cause. As Con did. Oh, Con never said much, but he 
 was a patriot down to bedrock fundamental; he was a pre- 
 war patriot, which was pretty rare. And now he's dead, I 
 can't possibly stand out. Because of my people. It would 
 explode all that he's done for them. ' My son who was killed 
 in action ' would be see-sawed out of all usefulness by ' My 
 son who conscientiously objected.' They wouldn't be able to 
 say the words ' My son ' at all. I can't play them or Con a 
 shabby trick like that; after all, patriotism begins at home — 
 loyalty to one's family is a local form of patriotism, I suppose. 
 If the Redburys were properly entrenched, but 
 
 U ( 
 
 In our position.' . . ." Richard quoted softly. 
 
 And David added with very unboyish bitterness : " Pater's 
 awfully upset now — but I can already foresee what a magnifi- 
 cent asset Con's death is going to be — ' in our position,' as you 
 say. Pater will run it for all he's worth. Marcus, there's a 
 kink wrong in civilization when a father's got to swank for 
 safety on a son's death." 
 
 " Swank? " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 295 
 
 " There are letters to show, from the Colonel, from brother- 
 officers, from his men. It seems that long after he was 
 wounded, he held that bit of trench with one machine-gun to 
 cover a retreat. Oh, the stock tale of heroism! " 
 
 Richard was badly jarred by the last words. It struck him 
 that David was carrying flippant detachment rather too far; 
 one might well be glad of a brother who was guilty of the 
 stock heroism. " Con jolly well deserves a medal for that," 
 he remarked on an aggressive note. 
 
 And David said : " He's been recommended for the D. S. 0." 
 — and suddenly he jerked up his head and went crimson. . . . 
 Richard turned his eyes away from that surge of hot red pride. 
 Funny, how one never knew, with David ! 
 
 Trudchen Redbury popped in her head, as though in search 
 of some one. 
 
 " Ach, Davidchen " she nodded kindly to the two boys, 
 
 but still did not appear to have found what — or who — she 
 wanted. Her comfortable fat little face was rough and scrapy 
 with long crying — the kind of crying that goes on and on, and 
 stops for a bit, and smiles and talks and gives the orders in the 
 kitchen, and then meanders on again. . . . 
 
 Trudchen had none of the Spartan courage recommended 
 to mothers nowadays. 
 
 " Hullo, Mums! " — David sprang up and laid his arm round 
 her dumpy shoulders and gently put his lips to her cheek — 
 (Yes, he was a dear fellow, her youngest boy, and so much 
 more considerate than Con, who had always nearly knocked her 
 down with his violent hugs. . . . " Mein Konrad! ") 
 
 " Na, Richard, how goes your Aunt Stella? " 
 
 " She's coming this afternoon." And Richard growled 
 something in which the word " sorry " vaguely occurred. 
 
 "David, vot do you sink? — if I write to liebe Anna now, 
 it vill gewiss reach her in the neighbourhood of the sixtieth 
 birthday when there vill be rejoicings — what one can rejoice 
 
 these days " she shrugged resignedly. " Our Con more 
 
 than you or Max your Aunt's loveling ever was. Vot do you 
 sink, David?" — for the second time; "shall I vait before 
 
296 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 I write to Berlin — a month perhaps? One does not wish to 
 spoil a birthday." 
 
 But beyond a queer look shot towards Richard, David made 
 no comment. And presently Trudchen went on, with a sort of 
 chirrupy perplexity: 
 
 "And you know how angry Papa is when I ask him at all 
 about Anna and Karl, though he used to love and eat largely 
 of her Pflaumentorte and vex me by naming it better than mine. 
 And yet not even a letter from me for the sixtieth birthday — 
 vot vill she think? And she and I wiz ever only a year between 
 . . . but how can one write and say nothing about our Con . . . 
 though it will surely remind her again of the armer seligen 
 Fritz — since how little while is he too . . . my eldest and her 
 
 youngest " she sighed. " Perhaps — no — I will not tell 
 
 zem — now." And yet again: "Vot do you sink, David? " 
 
 " There's Max," he reminded her. " We've written to Max 
 — and if he sees Uncle Karl " 
 
 " Ne, Schatz, not now they have moved him to that camp 
 so far away. . . . And one does not know vot to believe or not; 
 they say — Otto says the Chermans do such terrible sings to 
 the English prisoners — and the Phillips tell me too — it is 
 almost unthinkbar — to cut off both the hands at the 
 wrist " 
 
 "Mums, Mums, when you've had letters through in Max's 
 own writing " 
 
 "As if the dear boy would worry me by telling it in a 
 letter . . ." sobbed Trudchen. 
 
 Richard emphatically felt the need of departure. And the 
 Lord spared him an encounter with Otto in the hall. 
 
 He lunched, and then sauntered into the afternoon show 
 at a music-hall, thinking to get rid of himself by plunging into 
 a mass of people and a rattle of sound. But the dress-circle 
 was filled with an atmosphere unusually attentive to the 
 performers on the stage; and when the lights were raised 
 during the interval, he perceived that the seats were mainly 
 occupied by a large detachment from St. Dunstan's: men who 
 had been blinded in the war; men who had been chosen hap- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 297 
 
 hazard for the greatest sacrifice of all. Richard wondered 
 whether a single one of them had anticipated such a calamity 
 as this; and whether, knowing, they would still have willingly 
 exposed themselves; he had heard so many soldiers bound 
 for the Front, half-jokingly phophesy their own death, or a 
 broken nose, or a wooden leg; but — no, he had never heard 
 the possibility of blindness joked about. Was this the secret 
 fear they all carried in their hearts when they volun- 
 teered ? 
 
 " Not a bad show," he remarked to his neighbour, who 
 immediately turned on him one immense rolling eye and a 
 tiny glass one, and became confidential. He was a comical 
 little chap, small and square, with a wide mouth, a skyward 
 nose, and a knowing air that was enhanced by the appearance 
 of a fixed wink. He informed Richard that he was the third 
 of a trio; that he was his mother's favourite, and his father's 
 favourite and the favourite of his two brothers; that one of 
 his brothers had married a shrew and the other a slattern, and 
 he alone had the perfect wife; and that the less fortunate 
 twain were wont to say to him: " Jock, wish I 'ad yer luck! " 
 . . . Moreover, he was the secret favourite of both the slattern 
 and the shrew, and he ought by rights to have won the waltzing 
 competition up at St. Dunstan's on Monday night, but his 
 partner had fouled his chances by treading three times on his 
 toe, and it was bluggy well the last time he was going to lug 
 her round the room! . . , 
 
 " You brick! " muttered Richard in his heart, over and over 
 again. Not only to be jolly and normal, but actually keen 
 about things still — prizes, and your brother's wife! not, as 
 one instinctively imagined these martyrs of the war, pensive 
 and resigned and uncannily patient, with a sort of pale up- 
 liftedness. . . . 
 
 The jovial rowdiness in that portion of the auditorium was 
 hushed as the curtain went up on a troupe of acrobats and 
 dancers kissing amorous hands to the audience, from various 
 inverted positions on the trapeze. 
 
 "Wot's that?" demanded Richard's neighbour. Then; 
 
298 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " ' R — I see, said the blind man ! ' ackerbats — lot o' use to 
 us blindies, that. Funny idea o' givin' us pleasure some people 
 'ave: one old geezer, she came ter take me out fer the day 
 in a kerridge an' all. ' Wot-o ! ' sez I to myself. An' — are 
 you listenin', you? " — with a nudge — " an' she took me three 
 times to Church afore she brought me back in the evenin' ! " 
 
 Richard ducked his head in a smother of laughter; the 
 enormous eye rolled mournfully in his direction, had been so 
 pregnant of disgust. 
 
 " Three times to Church, an' no lollies. An' me 'elpless. 
 Some people " words failed him. He fumbled precari- 
 ously with a cigarette and a lighted match, quite matter-of-fact 
 over his handicap. " That all right? " shaking the match to 
 and fro and dropping it still alight; Richard's foot shot out, 
 stealthily. ..." 'Ave one? they give us plenty. Yus, when 
 she come again, I was in 'iding, betcherlife. Scout warned 
 me. 'That pore well-be'aved young man anywhere about? ' 
 sez she to Sister; but Sister was a sport and didn't let on. 
 So she just took a look round at me pals: 'Are they all 
 quite blind? ' sez she; 'Yus, but they ain't deaf,' sez Sister, 
 quick as 'ell. 'R well, s'pose 'er idea of 'appiness aint mine; 
 she did 'er best." 
 
 " What does make you happy? " 
 
 The reply was brief and to the point: " Taxis an' cuddlin'." 
 ... It was not until the last turn of all, a Chinese con- 
 juror, that Richard found his companion's attention sufficiently 
 astray from the stage to permit him to put a question that had 
 lately nagged for an answer from its source. " I say — what 
 made you join up? " 
 
 " Looked as though 'Is Majesty wos invitin' specially me 
 to a private picnic. An' I sez: With pleasure! . . . Yus, 
 an' then I woke up, an' found one of my eyes gone West, an' 
 t'other deaf-an'-dumb. Well, I'm not saying nuffing to that; 
 wot's done is done, an' 'ad ter be done by some one, an' Gov- 
 ernment's paying me 'ansome for the rest o' my life; but when 
 
 it comes to putting me to a job " again a large disgusted 
 
 eye appealed to Richard for sympathy. "Work? not 'alf! 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 299 
 
 And the other chaps is that keen they makes an awkward 
 president." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " President. Same as setting an example, only not quite. 
 But you just see what me mother thinks abaht it." He fumbled 
 in his pockets, pulled out two or three crumpled letters, and 
 thrust them into Richard's hand. " Read 'em." 
 
 The main point of the letters was clear : Harold's old mother 
 passionately advised Harold not to work — thank God there 
 was plenty while she and father could live and work for him; 
 plenty afterwards too — " I will see to that, son, so don't you 
 bother to learn a trade. Well, son, never mind about your 
 sight, that don't matter to us ; at any rate you're not one as had 
 cold feet. There'll always be plenty for you, so don't you let 
 them make you learn nothing you don't want, darling " 
 
 " Thank you," said Richard gently, passing the letters back. 
 Most of the last pages were filled up with pencil crosses; he 
 wondered if Harold knew. ... 
 
 The music was holding its breath while Li Hung Wang sur- 
 passed himself in a last effort of magic; resulting in a terrific 
 display of flags; and the curtains swaying together, back 
 again, and once more together to the opening chords of " Land 
 of Hope and Glory." 
 
 Immediately the men of St. Dunstan's shuffled to their feet 
 and stood at attention while they sang the first verse of 
 Elgar's anthem, till the whole risen audience, enthusiastically 
 joining in, swamped their voices in a volume of louder, fresher 
 sound. . . . 
 
 And Richard carried out in the Strand the blurred vision 
 of uneven rows of weedy, shambling figures in their ill-fitting 
 mufti, the ephemeral vanity of khaki shed now for good, 
 ordinary men in ordinary casual clothes, heads tilted stiffly 
 backwards: 
 
 "Land of Hope and Glory, 
 Mother of the Free — " 
 
 And he knew that though the picture of Trudchen Redbury 
 perplexed over the question whether tidings of Con's deatli 
 
300 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 in the English trenches should he sent to spoil the birthday 
 of her sister Anna in Berlin, might and did symbolize an inter- 
 national predicament — yet that other picture was indeed war 
 and the splendour of war and beyond war; was patriotism 
 itself, the urge and reason for patriotism, the ultimate answer 
 to all niggling private issues; he knew that before war and 
 after war, war may be averted; but during war ours is to 
 shut both eyes and stand by the blind and follow the dead. 
 
 And then, in all the forgetful semi-hysterical jubilance of 
 the pride of belonging, he was brought to a standstill as though 
 by a pounding blow on the forehead, confronted with a placard 
 of a weekly journal just out: 
 
 " Enemy Aliens. Intern them all." 
 
 As surely a personal message for him, as a Salvationist's 
 shouted text goes straight home to the heart of a sinner. 
 
 "What's the good? they don't want me. . . ." 
 
 He seemed to be repeating vaguely some childish experience 
 of disappointment, when his eagerly proffered help was turned 
 away with the same superciliousness of uncomprehending re- 
 buff. 
 
 " They don't want me. Well — I don't want them either! " 
 ... he was not so very much older now, after all. 
 
 " I don't want to be English! " 
 
 No, Richard? Not even for the sake of those rows of eyes, 
 bandaged and gutted and black-spectacled? Not even for 
 the right to join in as those men stood at attention, and chanted 
 in the queer flat strains peculiar to the blind: 
 
 " How can we extol thee 
 Who are bom of thee? "... 
 
 Not even to be one of them, Richard? 
 
 "Well, I wasn't born in England, so what does it matter? " 
 But he was aware, in a positive flash of knowledge, that had 
 he been permitted to go into the trenches and fight, it would 
 have been bang there, between the eyes, that his bullet would 
 have caught and shattered him . . . there, where the insult 
 of the placard seemed first to have struck. He had not been 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 301 
 
 allowed the choice of which blow ; so how could he ever prove 
 to this coldly, carelessly exclusive England, how the choice 
 would unquestioningly have swung? 
 
 Half-an-hour later, as he stormed through the hall of Mon- 
 tagu House, he was greeted by the menace of Mr. Gryce's voice, 
 creaking, creaking. . . . 
 
 " Naturalized or unnaturalized, it's all the same — the 
 leopard can't change his spots! " 
 
 And the day was rounded to a perfect circle. 
 
 II 
 
 And after that, Mr. Gryce's voice miked itself up with pretty 
 well everything; but particularly with Richard's three meals 
 a day in the dining-room of Montagu Hall. He would like 
 to have disappointed Mr. Gryce by occasional absences from 
 meals — taking it for granted that the Inquisitor does feel a 
 certain disappointment at the absence of his victims from the 
 rack; but, remembering David's remarks on patriotism locally 
 applied, he forced himself to be present for his father's sake; 
 forced his taciturnity to voluble talk, throwing up a screen 
 between Ferdie and the enemy; or, if that failed, at least 
 grandfather could sometimes be diverted from the muttered 
 arrogance of patriotism — German patriotism — which might 
 at any moment, via Mr. Gryce's hearing, provoke a public 
 scene. Richard dreaded a scene now as much as he had sought 
 it at the incident of Con Rothenburg's death; it was as though 
 his pugnacity had been wounded, and would not heal, and 
 was raw-sensitive. . . . 
 
 Especially raw-sensitive to Mr. Gryce; his pores were all 
 open to Mr. Gryce, who from merely ignoring the Marcus 
 family, was suddenly subjecting them to active nagging per- 
 secution. The recent loss of the Hampshire, with Lord 
 Kitchener aboard, had resulted in another wave of anti-German 
 feeling sweeping over the country. Richard hardly wondered 
 at it; he was furiously resentful, furiously suspicious himself 
 Qver the happening — but that did not prevent him from equal 
 
302 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 wrath when Mr. Gryce considered himself patriotically entitled 
 thereby to bang doors in Aunt Stella's face. 
 
 The truth was that Richard and Mr. Gryce were both afflicted 
 with the same obsession — the internment of enemy aliens ; to 
 each of them the war centred entirely on this point, radiating 
 thence on spokes of lesser interest. But Mr. Gryce was on his 
 own territory. 
 
 Three meals a day! They met in the hall; they met on 
 the stairs and landings; in the streets round about the house 
 . . . but they passed with quickening step, averted eyes, and 
 a twitching sense of the other's nearness. But those three 
 meals a day had to be stolidly endured. Breakfast was worst, 
 for then Mr. Gryce read aloud the papers to his neighbours, and 
 delivered his opinions — all at the Marcus table, for he never 
 spoke to them directly. Richard tried being earlier than 
 Mr. Gryce at breakfast . . . but then he had to see the pink 
 head and the wisp of white beard travel down the room, sit 
 down at the table, and with a certain vmctuous deliberation, 
 imfold the paper; watch him . . . and then wait, with a cold 
 sickness of anticipation, for the first rusty creak: "What 
 
 do you think the Germans have been doing now? " How 
 
 many thousand times more would he have to hear Mr. Gryce's 
 vicious inflexion of the word: Germans — (" He doesn't mean 
 the fighting Germans, the Germans out there; he means us; 
 he means me. . . .") 
 
 Presently it seemed to Richard that the creak of the voice 
 and the pinkness of the head was mixing itself in with the very 
 food he swallowed, poisoning it. . . . 
 
 For the boy had reached that state where he felt himself 
 acutely and personally responsible for every atrocity commit- 
 ted by the Hun enemy; his nerves shrank and cowered from 
 each newly-printed horror or treachery or brutality, as from a 
 thong laid across his bare shoulders. And there was always 
 something — hospital ships sunk — English prisoners tortured 
 — liner passengers drowned — poison gas — Zepp raids on 
 non-combatants — wanton violation again and again of the 
 code of decent warfare. Richard, tired out from the long day- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 303 
 
 to-day strain, only wanted the Germans for pity's sake to stop 
 — if but for a little while, to stop. . . . All England had dwin- 
 dled to Mr. Gryce, and there was no one but Richard himself 
 to stand forward and answer for all Germany's accumulating 
 reproach ! 
 
 He put up a gallant enough struggle to retain his fairness 
 of vision. And presently his imagination, up to all sorts of 
 tricks in these days, was able to see himself and his personality 
 on the nerves of Mr. Gryce, in exact replica of Mr. Gryce on 
 the nerves of Richard Marcus . . . saw the irritation in the 
 curve of his own stolid ill-tempered shoulders — the antag- 
 onism aroused by his out-thrust underlip and the butting car- 
 riage of his head. . . . "Always that boy! and a loyal Eng- 
 lishman has no option but to live in the same house, breathing 
 the same air, eat and sit in the same room, tread the same 
 carpet — it's a disgrace! " Richard was so detachedly aware 
 of this point of view that at certain hysterical moments of 
 encounter he was not sure if he were driven out of the smoking- 
 room by sight of that inevitable pink head, or whether he were 
 banging the door with the hand of Mr. Gryce's fury because 
 those Marcus shoulders were discovered himiping in the arm- 
 chair by the window. 
 
 He mistrusted an imagination as flexible. But the more 
 he denied it and resented it, the more uncannily it functioned. 
 Marcus of Winborough two years ago would have cut the 
 present Marcus dead, dubbing him a freak ... he saw that 
 too. 
 
 He was far from desire to defend the Germans. He exam- 
 ined their conduct generally, their methods of warfare, with 
 that new impartiality of his; gave them their due of victory, 
 resource, consistency and stubborn devotion to their country; 
 and nevertheless came to a conclusion that whereas a decent 
 German might be almost as decent as a decent Briton, a rotten 
 German is immeasurably rottener than the rottenest Briton. 
 The sinking of hospital ships, for instance; wantonly to plunge 
 into icy death the broken suff"ering bodies of men who had once 
 already, perilously and with infinite care, been dragged back 
 
304 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 to life, and only asked now to be let rest with their own 
 people again in their own land. Nothing could condone the 
 sinking of hospital ships . . . and Richard had to clench his 
 teeth on the longing to join hotly in the chorus of condemna- 
 tion; as he had also to grind down the impulse to join the 
 shouting when the news was good and glorious — " What have 
 either of tliese to do with you? " 
 
 By unspoken pact, the Marcuses remained silent on these 
 subjects, when in public; they did not gain much by the 
 attitude, for people commented in whispers: "Have you no- 
 ticed that they never have anything to say on our victories, 
 or about the atrocities? Bound to have sympathies with the 
 other side; wonder what they say among themselves? " On 
 the other hand, if they expressed their perfectly spontaneous 
 pleasure over an English feat of arms, and their quite imaf- 
 fected indignation over a Hun outrage, they were instantly ac- 
 cused of hypocrisy and over-acting, and Mr. Gryce said : " I 
 like a German at least to be a German ! " 
 
 It was a diflScult problem, but on the whole, perhaps, silence 
 solved it best. And Ferdie tried to impart to his son some of 
 that placid philosophy which formed a firm basis to his more 
 surface characteristics. 
 
 " My dear boy, what do you expect? — that in times like 
 these the English will cherish us for our Greman origin? On 
 the whole, they are lenient and fair-minded " 
 
 " Yes, but they promised you — promised without reserva- 
 tion, that you should be as good as an Englishman, equal to any 
 Englishman. And because it was the English who promised, 
 we — you — we all thought it was all right . . ." his tone 
 was heavy with reproach for the country which of all coim- 
 tries had a reputation for welcoming and sheltering those 
 refugees from harsher lands and laws. 
 
 For Richard, in want of occupation, had begun to read 
 lately; hoping to find in history the companionship of other 
 children of No Man's Land; common-sense told him that in 
 every war must have been a few examples of betwixt and 
 between, belonging to both sides and therefore outcast from 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 305 
 
 either side. He was comforted, in an odd sort of way, by this 
 hunt through old tomes and chronicles, for precedent to his 
 own position. Precedent that he could quote authoritatively 
 to Ferdie, less well-informed. 
 
 " Be patient," said Ferdinand Marcus. " One day the war 
 will be over, and all will be forgotten." 
 
 "Not it. Never. No foreigner will ever feel safe in Eng- 
 land again." 
 
 " Why not? we suffer from inconvenience, not from 
 tyranny." 
 
 " But in their heart of hearts they've chucked us out for 
 good. . . . Haven't you heard old Gryce swear he'll never 
 shake hands with a German again? " 
 
 Ferdie weighed the question of old Gryce with solemn 
 deliberation, and then summed up: "Yes, he has the mania 
 to persecute. One can imdersland — but one wishes he would 
 not insult your aunt. But perhaps he has lost a son." 
 
 "Oh — is this Regent Street or Tuesday?" impatiently. 
 "No forgivable link of cause and effect. Besides, he hasn't 
 lost a son. He's not even married. It's just that he has 
 nothing better to do. You never hear a fellow who's back 
 from the Front, using himself up in anti-alien agitation. But 
 old Gryce talks big about brave little Belgium — and then 
 raises hell if the Belgians get served with the pudding before 
 him at dinner. I'm not unreasonable. Dad; I can understand 
 perfectly well that while the Germans are murdering our men 
 and women it's natural that the relations of our murdered 
 men and women find it painful to meet us, even though we're 
 not the same Germans. That's why the internment penalty 
 is a just penalty, I suppose; at any rate, I don't see how it 
 could be avoided. But petty nagging is different. There'd 
 be some sense in the not-shaking-hands business if one could 
 strike away a hand that was the concentrated essence of all 
 that was foul in Germany " 
 
 " I wonder," said Ferdinand slowly, " if you have any idea 
 of all that is foul in Germany? — of what drove a whole colony 
 to England in 1848? — the Acht-und-vierzigers, as they call 
 
306 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 themselves, those few who are still alive and whose sons are 
 now part and parcel of the British Empire, bleeding for it. . . ." 
 
 "Eighteen-forty-eight? — that was a democratic revolt 
 against the domination of Prussia over the smaller states, 
 wasn't it? " 
 
 "Yes; the only way we could protest; we could hardly 
 enter into Civil War — we who wanted only peace. The early 
 socialists. So we escaped to England, and we are glad we 
 escaped. We — well, I was not bom yet; my turn came later, 
 and was more solitary. But there lies the root of our antag- 
 onism to the fatherland that bore us; and that is what the Eng- 
 lish find so hard to understand in us now. They argue by 
 analogy : because no Englishman can ever feel anything but an 
 Englishman, so no German — etc. But the English nature is 
 different . . . and besides, it has had no need for discontent; 
 no need to exchange their own • country for another. They 
 think we still love Germany. But are we not here because we 
 hate Germany? I have no wish to make speeches or to give 
 you a history-lesson, Richard; but I sometimes wish, when I 
 see you angry with me for — how did you once put it? — 
 shoving you in a position with your feelings in one pocket and 
 your birth-certificate in the other, I sometimes wish you real- 
 ized a little better how you would have rebelled against 
 German education and drill system and forced Imperialism; 
 rebelled, or — worse still — submitted. You have noticed 
 your grandfather, even now that he is old and ill and in a 
 strange land, how rudely he still speaks, how dogmatically he 
 thinks, how arbitrary are his judgments, and how he con- 
 siders nobody. That is all military Germany embodied. 
 There is another side to Germany, certainly, but it is crushed 
 during war-time. Perhaps it will flower softly again after- 
 wards " 
 
 "Afterwards? Oh, father, will there ever be an after- 
 wards? Will it be over by next year, do you think? " 
 
 (Next Autumn he would be eighteen. . . .) 
 
 The elder Marcus looked doubtful: " Who can tell? Have 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 307 
 
 you seen in today's paper? — there have been peace nego- 
 tiations " 
 
 " Anything real? " 
 
 And again: " Who can tell? You had better see for your- 
 self. Here." 
 
 But Richard only made a pretext of seeing for himself. 
 He dreaded reading the papers; made any sort of excuse not 
 to do so. The papers were always full of allusions, direct or 
 indirect, to naturalized and unnaturalized Germans, to spies 
 in our midst, reproaches to the Government for laxness, in- 
 citements to reprisals, leagues for the future exclusion of Ger- 
 mans or semi-Germans, root and branch, from all association 
 with civilized countries. Even if one hunted through the 
 whole paper with ever-growing relief at one day, one issue, 
 free from barbed reproach ... at the last, a small paragraph 
 would surely catch the eye and destroy the momentary security. 
 So Richard read no papers. The posters were bad enough, 
 blatant or mysterious from the kerbstone; you could not avoid 
 those, except by never stirring from the house . . . and in 
 the house was Mr. Gryce. Besides, there is no escape when 
 the mind is spread like a net to catch all stray matter that has 
 bearing on the morbid obsession. Even when it is a question 
 of going round the corner to have a pair of Aunt Stella's boots 
 soled and heeled. . . . 
 
 In the little street were rival cobblers; one with the name: 
 Marshall, obviously re-painted over a name possibly less 
 pleasing to his customers; the other displaying a large placard 
 in the window: " No German Taint Here! " 
 
 "Yes, but it's rather mean to make an advertisement out 
 of it! " and Richard, against express orders, carried Aunt 
 Stella's boots to Mr. Marshall. The latter was a lank sad- 
 faced individual with a slight cockney accent; he confided in 
 Richard that he had unfortunately been born in Germany of a 
 
 German father " but p'raps I oughtn't to be tellin' you 
 
 this, sir? " "It's all right," gruffly. "Brought up over 'ere 
 with me aunt and uncle who put me in the army — the reg'lar 
 
308 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 army, that is. Yes, oh, yes, I wos a Tommy years before 
 the war, an' went through all the Gallipoli part of it. 'Ot 
 stuff! — I wos shipped home nearly dead from an explodin' 
 shell. They discharged me out o' hospital at last, an' dis- 
 charged me from the army; an' I took over me late uncle's job 
 'ere. No, I'm not partial to cobblin'; I tried most other 
 things, but they won't 'ave me nowhere, being so to speak, a 
 German, sir. They ask very particular, you see, nowadays. 
 And this isn't payin', neither . . . not by any manner of 
 means. Customers remember the name. Fact is, sir, I'm 
 afraid I shall 'ave to be quick with these 'ere boots — I'm 
 wantin' to oblige you, since you brought 'em 'ere, but I'm 
 obliged to shut up shop next week." 
 
 "What will you do?" 
 
 "Nothing for me to do but ask 'em to intern me, sir. A 
 man can't starve. Wot I'm fearin' rather, is that them in 
 the internment camp won't make me over welcome neither, me 
 havin' fought against 'em, and bein' mostly English in my 
 ways." 
 
 Richard whistled . . . "What an old muddle it is! I'm 
 in the same box," he added, envying the man his Gallipoli 
 experience, exploding shell and all. 
 
 " Yes, I know, sir; or I wouldn't 'ave been so bold " 
 
 "Know? How do you know? " God! there surely could 
 not be anything German in his appearance . . . horrible 
 thought! 
 
 " It's talked about among the folks in the neighbourhood, 
 sir; there's a gentleman at Montagu 'All as isn't too friendly 
 to you, I believe ; an' 'e seems to have told the policeman at the 
 corner to keep a sharp eye " 
 
 " I see. Thanks. Good-day." 
 
 Mr. Gryce. And tlie mythical policeman of Otto Rothen- 
 burg's dread, materialised at last. Not that it mattered; 
 there was nothing for him to find out. " May as well make 
 up my mind to the fact that I'm a criminal," muttered Richard 
 with a grim smile. It was part of the nightmare that his 
 absolute belief that the foimdations of things were " all right," 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 309 
 
 solid ground upon which the foot might solidly tread, had now 
 been shaken to this . . . this ricketiness. " I cant be a Ger- 
 man — I don't like the Germans! " his cry of a year ago, had 
 been incredulous of a state of the world in which such things 
 could happen. Now: " I haven't done anything! " — but his 
 tone was acceptance that such things did happen, and there- 
 fore anything could happen, and go on happening . . . who 
 or what was left to stand security? 
 
 " When will the boots be ready? " Aunt Stella enquired. 
 
 " Early next week." 
 
 "As soon as that? " 
 
 Richard explained. 
 
 " I told you to take them to the other man," displeased. 
 
 " Thought poor old Marshall needed encouragement." 
 
 " Then leave encouragement to people in a different position. 
 I've warned you before that we must be careful." 
 
 Stella was certainly careful; the most careful of the family. 
 She would have nothing to do with the lady who recently 
 came to Montagu Hall and who gave Richard one moment of 
 sardonic happiness by demanding of Mr. Gryce, in innocent 
 and guttural friendliness : " Haf you got a dable-dime, my 
 Sir? " 
 
 Mr. Gryce, more successful with her than with the Marcuses 
 — perhaps her credentials were less unimpeachable — had her 
 removed within a week ; but not before she had thrice beamingly 
 tried to attach herself to Stella, under the false impression that 
 here at least she was bound to find kindly compatriotism and 
 shelter, and thrice had suffered a chilling snub delivered with- 
 out consideration for her possible feelings, " She's ever so 
 much more German than we are," Stella expained to the other 
 members of her family; "we really can't risk it — in our po- 
 sition! Just as well that old Gryce is getting rid of her." 
 
 Richard thought: " It'll be us next. . . ." 
 
 He did not say so. After his one outburst to Ferdie, he 
 never mentioned Mr. Gryce to him again . . . could not, some- 
 how, get the name past a thickness in his throat. The three 
 Marcuses imagined that Richard did not notice Mr. Gryce and 
 
310 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 his malignant attitude — ("Richard was never observant! ") 
 . . . He was glad for them to believe it. Mr. Gryce had taken 
 it upon himself, of late, to warn every fresh arrival at Montagu 
 Hall, of the deadly growth in their midst. Richard watched 
 him do it once, from the other end of the long drawing-room; 
 he could have strode out, certainly; but, for discipline of that 
 unruly sense of fear, he forced himself deliberately to witness 
 the give-away; one did not surrender to fear without a struggle. 
 But . . . Mr. Gryce worked himself into his sleep, now, and 
 made it hideous. He dreamt wildly of scenes with Mr. Gryce, 
 in which, instead of hurling at him all the wounding, tearing 
 speeches repressed during the day — which might have been 
 some relief — he was compelled instead to follow him about, 
 pleading his case, over and over again : " Don't you — can^t 
 you understand — it isn't my fault? It's nobody's fault. You 
 can't stop yourself from hating us, but you couldn't have 
 stopped yourself from being born in Germany either — oh, do 
 try and see that. . . ." It was perfectly damnable to have to 
 plead with Mr. Gryce, even in sleep, and to be helpless in pre- 
 venting the subconscious self from these humiliating displays. 
 "Can — I — help — for — it?" . . . Why, that was what 
 Gottlieb Schnabel had gasped. . . . Mixed up with his dreams, 
 the old sick dream of a flour-smeared face cowering from his 
 pursuers — from Richard — from Richard himself. . , . 
 
 His punishment, these slow fear-bitten months; punishment 
 for his previous denseness of imagination. Yes, yes, but it 
 has gone on so long, and there seems no end to it, and I'm 
 tired and frightened and beaten — beaten to my knees. You 
 who send punishment and You who can stay it, let it be over 
 now. . . . 
 
 m 
 
 " Are you alone? " 
 
 "Richard!" 
 
 Deb shrank with a cold sense of shock at sight of his face, 
 from which all fleshiness had contracted to a drawn covering 
 of the bony structure; hollows in the cheeks; hard mouth; 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 311 
 
 and eyes that had known persecution. ..." Richard, what 
 is it ? I haven't seen you for about six weeks. Have you been 
 ill? " 
 
 " No. I say, are you alone? " 
 
 "Yes; La llorraine and Manon won't be in for ages." 
 
 " You — you — you've got to marry Samson Phillips." 
 
 " I mean. ... I want you to," when he saw her choking 
 bewilderment. 
 
 Deb perceived that he was in extremes. " I'll do anything, 
 Richard." She just touched him with her hand. And he' 
 stumbled forward and put his head down in her lap and began 
 to cry. 
 
 " Richard . . . dear old boy . . ." she was athrill with 
 terror now. It was horrible to hear him, with the knowledge 
 how his normal self, the self which for seventeen years had 
 stood for all that was chunky and gruff and pugnacious, was 
 abhorring, or would presently return to abhor, this sudden 
 utter breakdown of all control. " Tell me — oh, do tell me," 
 Deb pleaded to the hunched suffering curve of his shoulders. 
 
 " They won't leave us alone . . . the pink heads. Deb — 
 rows of pink heads everywhere — you can see them from the 
 top — yes, sitting round tables ... all over England : ' Intern 
 the Alien Enemy.' But it isn't that so much; I'm getting 
 used to the thought of it, for me; one year — not quite — and 
 I shall be interned. . . . What's the word make you feel? — 
 cold iron and damp black earth. But it isn't that " 
 
 "What is it then, dear?" 
 
 " Deb, d'you know why England and Germany are fighting? 
 Such a silly reason ! — to find out if Goethe or Shakespeare was 
 the greatest. Lothar said so." 
 
 " We're fighting to keep England a free country," Deb spoke 
 clearly and simply as to a child . . . her young brother was 
 even less than a child in his shaken hysterical outpourings. 
 
 "Are we? I've been thinking too much, thinking all the 
 time, and all round. ... I want to stop thinking, but I don't 
 know where to begin to stop, or why I ever started to think. 
 , . . Sometliing happened to Gottlieb Schnabel and he 
 
312 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 screamed — but it was quite right, Deb, he was a German ; he 
 shouldn't have left Germany; perhaps his father brought him 
 here and didn't have him naturalized; if he'd stopped over 
 there he might have fought for his country — tho' he'd have 
 been a rotten fighter. Anyway, the Germans wouldn't have 
 him now. They wouldn't have me." 
 
 " But even if — you'd never ? . . . Richard \ '^ 
 
 He was silent, too tired to attempt to tell her of all the 
 bludgeonings his spirit had received since that evening in the 
 May of 1915. " But I'd still knock down the fellow who hinted 
 that I cared a curse for any country except England . . . 
 England. . . ." 
 
 But England had informed him fifty times a day, and by 
 fifty different methods, subtle and brutal, that she had no need 
 of him, no use for him, preferred to do without him, doubted 
 and despised him. . . . Loyalty crept shivering into a corner 
 at last . . . loyalty was apathetic, numb 
 
 "What's the good? It just has to be like this. They'd 
 persecute me in Germany for being English, worse than in 
 England for being German. And the neutral countries are 
 all getting sucked in one side or the other. ... I thought once 
 we could all go to America. What's the good! everybody's 
 fighting for something they believe in! everybody's got their 
 back to the wall . . . there's not even a wall for us; only 
 dropping spaces. . . . No Man's Land. ... I dream of it 
 when I fall asleep — nowhere to go — and reeling pushes from 
 all sides — you spin round and round, and your brain spins 
 round and round — nowhere to go and nowhere to rest — for 
 Thomas Spalding and me. . . . You hope it's going to end, 
 but it doesn't, and they hate us worse every day . . . they 
 hate us worse than they hate the real Germans. ... I don't 
 know why, I don't know what we've done — except perhaps 
 that we're here and near at hand; it's more fun to hate some- 
 thing that's near, isn't it? We hang on and try to prove that 
 we're loyal and all right . . . the hate seems to be receding 
 . , . and then something happens — and naturally it all rolls 
 up agpin- Deb, it's a double treachery when one of our lot 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 313 
 
 betrays England to Germany — they betray us to England at 
 the same time . . . and you can see the pink heads bob- 
 bing " 
 
 " The war will be over one day." 
 
 The boy lifted his face; showed her the eyes of a fighter 
 crucified to inaction: 
 
 " And what sort of a world do you suppose it will be, after 
 the war, for men who haven't fought in the war? The others 
 will talk and remember — and I'll be shut outside their talk 
 and memories. They'll have suffered, and lost their pals, and 
 helped their pals through with it — I shall have suffered noth- 
 ing and lost nothing and helped no one. I — oh, I was kept 
 safe ... in cold storage! God! the meanest little whelp of 
 a Servian or Bulgarian, German, Turk, or Belgian — it doesn't 
 matter what side, when you're in the scrum, heart and soul — 
 he will have taken a risk denied to me. I'm funking life after 
 the war, worse even than today and tomorrow and next week — 
 and next Autumn. Didn't know I was a funk, did you, Deb ? " 
 
 She asked slowly: "Will it really do you any good, if I 
 marry Samson Phillips? " 
 
 And Richard got up, frowning. "No. What makes you 
 ask that? " 
 
 " You said — when you came in " 
 
 " Did I? " he muttered. " I didn't know — didn't mean to. 
 I'm all in bits; don't take any notice." He dug his hands 
 into his pockets, and walked away to the window. 
 
 It was significant that he growled out no apologies for hav- 
 ing cried. That he should be capable of such a thing was 
 accepted, wearily, with the other horrors. 
 
 Queer how the very bend of his neck made his sister feel sore 
 with tenderness . . . she must help him butt through his bad 
 hour. And she reproached herself for neglecting him all this 
 while — Richard, whom she loved better than any other. 
 
 " Is Samson in England again? " 
 
 "Yes. In hospital. Trench feet. David told me. Said 
 that Uncle Otto still wants him for Nell. Somebody English 
 in the family, to grab on to." 
 
314 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Oh — Uncle Otto! " Deb's tone rang scornfully. 
 
 " Yes — I used to laugh at him, too. I don't now. We — 
 ■we come down to that, Deb, when we're in a panic." 
 
 " Was that what you meant, what you hoped, when you told 
 me I must marry Samson? Somebody to grab on to? " 
 
 Richard nodded. " Yes. But never mind. You don't care 
 enough for him, do you? " 
 
 " How could he help you? " 
 
 " He's solid English through and through; have you noticed 
 how people imagine that every Jew must be a German — or 
 every German a Jew — I forget which. But Phillips' cousin 
 is Sir Ephraim Phillips; David seemed to think he was going 
 to "be useful over Furth, get a permit for Hedda to see him 
 oftener — only David says Hedda doesn't want to. If he were 
 to vouch for me, perhaps — they listen to a man who has en- 
 listed from the very beginning, and got the M. C." A long 
 pause . . . and then Richard whispered under his breath, with 
 the reverence of a pilgrim who speaks of his Mecca: " He 
 might perhaps have got me into the trenches. . . ." 
 
 Presently he jerked out, in his roughest manner: "Look 
 here. Deb, old girl — forget all this. Perfect rot, really. 
 Don't suppose he could do anything — much. I was simply 
 mooching about — and — and a poster or something got on my 
 nerves and sent me pelting down here. I wouldn't for worlds 
 have you bother about Phillips when you're not keen on him. 
 Not fair on him, either." 
 
 " I was wondering how you guessed, that's all . . ." Deb's 
 head was turned away from him; he stared incredulously at the 
 wavy black mop of hair — what had she done to her hair? . . . 
 
 "Guessed?" 
 
 " That — I made such a fool of myself. . . . Oh, Richard ! 
 that I chucked away everything last year — just for a bit of 
 fun." 
 
 " When you put him off by — Deb, you — you're not bluff- 
 ing? you've cared all this while? " 
 
 "Yes. . . . And now you tell me he's back, I wonder if I 
 could put things right again — I do wonder. . . ." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 315 
 
 " But you told me at the time that you were laughing, 
 pulling his leg . . ."• Richard hardly dared believe in this 
 secret of his sister's which synchronized so marvellously with 
 his own petition. 
 
 She stamped a petulant foot at him. " I was laughing — 
 because I was too ashamed to own up that I'd hurt myself by 
 teasing him with that idiot lie of mine about Cliffe. I thought 
 you would have guessed — I thought you had guessed, when 
 you first lugged in Samson's name, and were only pretending 
 that bit about Uncle Otto and yourself and influence, for — for 
 cover; to cover me. I thought it was so nice of you. Rich- 
 ard " — she walked straight up to him, and put her arms round 
 his neck, looking steadily at his eyes, those sombre, tortured 
 eyes which were beginning already to lighten hopefully and 
 lose some of their strain — "Richard, own up; it was that, 
 wasn't it? " 
 
 Play-acting. But she had done it so long and inconse- 
 quently and for no one's sake at all, surely now she was 
 justified in play-acting to the tip of her powers, at Richard, 
 and for Richard's sake. . . . 
 
 "Wasn't it?" 
 
 "No. No, Deb. It was sheer selfishness. But if you 
 can ... if you honestly do love him. . . ." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 DEB, before Richard came to her, was afflicted with the 
 hump. A sort of diffused hump. The hump of all the 
 world. The hump that says: "What's the good?" 
 
 and "It isn't fair! " and "I wish " and "Everything's so 
 
 hateful! " It arose from a blurred medley of causes: the dry 
 heat which seemed to spring from the pavements and sap all 
 vitality. Then Con's death; Con had been her first love, and 
 his death stabbed her with a quick and poignant memory of 
 eight years ago when they had nuzzled each other like two 
 affectionate and sportive young foals — " dear little Deb." 
 " Con — I do love you. Con ! " " For always, Deb ? " " Yes, 
 for — I say, look how the conkers are bumping down in this 
 wind . . . let's collect them and have a battle, shall we? " 
 "Rather! " and the headlong scamper of boy and girl up the 
 hill towards the group of tattered, wind-buffeted chestnuts. 
 Such glorious fun, collecting into your own separate pile the 
 vivid russet pebbles that every fresh gust thudded and bounced 
 on to the grass; or even, while you knelt and scrambled, on to 
 the flat of your back. Such fun, sweeping aside the drifts of 
 mottled yellow leaves to discover where they hid. Such fun, 
 to shout aloud to Con a find of the embedded conker, red and 
 plump and shining in its dull white pillow and prickly burr. 
 Such fun, the after battle, swooping to gather fresh handfuls 
 from your accumulated store of ammunition. She could be 
 quite sure, always, that Con would never direct his bullets to 
 hit her anywhere except in places that didn't hurt. Con was 
 a dear . . . and never such a dear as on that wind-rushed, 
 sun-flashing afternoon in October, when the Battle of the 
 
 316 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 317 
 
 Conkers having been decided in her favour, they flung them- 
 selves down on the dry protesting rustle of the dead-leaf 
 carpet, flushed and tingling and ever so pleased with them- 
 selves; the clouds swirling apart over their heads to show such 
 vivid rollicking patches of blue. " Deb, darling — will — 
 will you let me kiss you just once? " "No, Con — please — 
 I don't think you ought. . . ." 
 
 Well, Con was dead. But that memory was more excellent 
 to look back upon, than the long, slow-moving hours spent with 
 Blair Stevenson in his rooms. . . . 
 
 It was not Blair's fault. She recognized that. He was al- 
 ways charming, always interesting, even whimsically fond of 
 his demi-maid. He was a great deal better than she deserved, 
 really. Only — only 
 
 "I'm sick of it! " with a spurt of impetuous dissatisfaction. 
 Sick of it, and did not know how to wriggle clear of it. Per- 
 haps the Foreign Office would soon send him abroad again. 
 Deb was prone to hang about, hoping for some lucky mechani- 
 cal chance to terminate her mistakes, rather than herself make 
 abrupt severance. Stevenson was indeed sent on an important 
 mission to America that July of 1916. And Deb did not alto- 
 gether like that either. She missed him. He was, at least, 
 aware of her. The old dejected sensation of waste enveloped 
 her again. 
 
 The endless procession of khaki spectres through the great 
 dim stations, on their way to the Front, wound like a drab cat- 
 erpillar through her days and nights. She had loved being on 
 duty at the canteen when the leave trains came in; but this new 
 job was different — it was horrible. They were sucked back 
 to the Front where Con had been killed. And the world was 
 left full of women — women and girls and old women. The 
 world was rather like that great dim station, with hollow sounds 
 clanging and echoing far up in the roof, and trains that came 
 in and trains that went out, nobody quite knew when; and wait- 
 ing, drearily, up and down the platform; and an old, old time^ 
 table that offered no guidance in this later chaos, flapping from 
 the walls. . . , 
 
318 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 What guidance was there, moral or religious or traditional? 
 Women took their cues and rules from one another, propped 
 one another up by new and hastily-made standards; pointed 
 out solitary examples — solitary pioneers. Dimly-lit melan- 
 choly world of women, invertebrate at first, learning how to 
 walk and run, learning how to do without their men. Bits of a 
 new code, and bits of an old tradition. A great deal of talk 
 . . . women's voices. . . . 
 
 Women, and women, and women. One got nauseated by 
 one's own sex. They did their best — they did splendidly — 
 but oh, the man's deeper, calmer note, and more logical author- 
 ity, and firm hand outstretched! 
 
 The home with La llorraine and Manon was hardly as satis- 
 factory as it had seemed. The ingenue engaged, required kick- 
 ing — not from jealousy, but because of her demeanour which 
 implied that everything good comes to the good girl. And 
 Dolph Carew, whom Deb hated, was always in the flat. Wed- 
 ding preparations were in full swing. And La llorraine, the 
 sails of her content wide and voluptuously full with a fair wind, 
 treated Deb in the confidential manner of one battered old 
 rouette to another — inviting her perpetually to look and re- 
 joice at the spectacle of the two innocent young things so happy. 
 "You and I, my dee-urr, have long since outgrown such milk 
 and roses." ... It galled Deb, not unreasonably, to be identi- 
 fied with La llorraine as a rouette of fifty years ago. Manon 
 was to marry Dolph Carew . . . inevitably Deb's thoughts 
 drifted back to Jenny — lingered there ... all that wish and 
 desire and beat for life wasted . . . and that charming little 
 face, mournful or roguish as a monkey's. " But Bobby's left; 
 Bobby with the same crinkle in his eyes and mouth and heart. 
 ... If I were to die, wanting things like Jenny did, there would 
 not even be Bobby to remind people. . . ." 
 
 Yes — she had the hump. The hump of all the world. And 
 then Richard came. 
 
 At once life lost its sullen taste; and was sharp with the 
 savour of brine. Something to do — and that not too easy. 
 Something to be won — and that not for herself, but for Rich- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 310 
 
 ard. Something to sacrifice — and that was contemplation of 
 the future; fatal to brood upon a future inhabited principally 
 by Phillipses. Something here which demanded subtle manip- 
 ulation, probably histrionics . . . but this was Deb's talent. 
 She set out to re-conquer Samson Phillips in a spirit which 
 was brewed in equal parts of roguery and swagger and trepida- 
 tion. Could she or could she not obliterate her senseless fib 
 of last autumn? It all depended, really, on how much Samson 
 cared for her, and of what enduring fibre was his passion. And 
 here Deb had confidence; she could not forget that he had asked 
 her to marry him — so few men had asked her that, down all 
 that long, dusty highway speckled with men. . . . 
 
 " If it can be wangled, it shall be wangled," she promised 
 Richard in her heart. She was not very considerate of Samson 
 in the matter; but you cannot be too scrupulous of one man 
 when you wish supremely to serve another. 
 
 From Nell Redbury she obtain Captain Phillips' temporary 
 address, and also the exact ailment from which he was sufi^er- 
 ing. It would not do to make a mistake in that. Then she 
 composed a letter that in its simple idiocy and clear grasp of 
 Samson's psychology, was quite a little masterpiece of guile: 
 
 "Dear Captain Phillips, 
 
 " I hear that you are back again and in hospital, 
 with trench-feet. I'm so very sorry. Though I'm afraid you 
 won't care much if I'm sorry or not. And yet — this letter is 
 really to ask if you'll let me come and see you, just once? Of 
 course, I know it's my fault that we're not good friends. But 
 please, please don't snub me. It does hurt so to be snubbed. 
 Is tliere anything special you would like me to bring you, in 
 case you say I may come? Flowers I know you love best, but 
 flowers are nicest when they are wild in the fields, aren't they? 
 I wish you could have seen our little brook near Market St. 
 Bryan last month; its banks were a blue heaven of forget-me- 
 nots. Do you ever think about it, I wonder? 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 "Deb Marcus." 
 
320 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 She re-read this epistle, and crossed out the last sentence. 
 "It won't do to frighten him; I wish I could work in a little 
 old-world touch of dignity." She mused; then unable to sup- 
 ply this, sent it off as it was. 
 
 She had not miscalculated the durance of Samson's affection. 
 He was a stubborn man, and he had deliberately selected Deb. 
 Deb had dealt his sense of righteousness a hard buffet; but 
 he had not succeeded in forgetting her. Her letter struck ex- 
 actly the right note — diffident yet impetuous; just the same 
 dear, warm-hearted, half-shy, half-wild little girl . . . surely 
 she must have been led astray by some scoundrel. After all, 
 she had been honest at the time; honest enough to forfeit his 
 regard and all it entailed, by that confession of her sin. The 
 sin could not be minimized — but here she was, obviously pen- 
 itent — he could not resist the delicious act of magnanimity. 
 
 So he replied stiffly, saying he would be delighted if she were 
 to pay him a visit at the hospital between three and four on 
 the following Wednesday. He had made arrangements with 
 his sister-in-law, Nell Redbury, to be present. . . . 
 
 This last, with that insistence on a rigorous and formal 
 respect necessary in such painful cases where respect could 
 not any more be taken for granted as the lady's due. 
 
 Deb smiled when she received it. " Nell can easily be 
 shunted. Is white muslin too obvious? I s'pose so. It had 
 better be my spotted pink, which is a bad fit. And the Leghorn 
 hat with the spray of Alexandra roses that doesn't match the 
 dress. Surely no girl would wear two mouldy shades of pink 
 unless she were a reformed character. Good Lord! my hair! 
 How am I to account for it? " 
 
 She fingered a temptation to dare the risk of winning him 
 back by means he most disapproved of — peacock and gold 
 jumper of the wickedest cut; conversation to match, all a-flicker 
 with brilliant unconventionality; the siren method? It would 
 be infinitely more fun; and a personal triumph if she suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 But no. Richard's peace of mind hung on the issue; she 
 must take the safest way. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 321 
 
 II 
 
 Ten days later, Samson for the fourth time proposed to her. 
 She accepted him. 
 
 After the first interview, it was easy. She had only to be 
 passive; or to smooth down any little creases in her texture 
 that she perceived could still cause him uneasiness. That first 
 interview was her greatest performance. She blended timid 
 womanly solicitude with that type of earnest frankness in big 
 and little things, which was to be interpreted — by him — as 
 the outcome of an inner consciousness of once having failed 
 greatly in moral steadfastness and the resolve never again to be 
 betrayed into so doing. She thought his intelligence could be 
 trusted to perceive that much subtlety, unaided. He did per- 
 ceive it. And approved. He approved also of her confusion 
 at his jocular reference to the forget-me-not stream. " Don't 
 tell me you went down there alone to pick forget-me-nots? " 
 
 " Oh, but I did. I wouldn't " she stopped. And hastily 
 
 asked him how he liked his tea. " Wouldn't go with any other 
 man." . . . Samson smiled under his moustache. So that spe- 
 cial glide of silver beneath the plank bridge, had associations 
 for her, too. Good! he liked sentiment in girls. He was a 
 sentimental chap himself, but in his case it was sheathed in 
 sternness. He was a soldier — and she was a sinner. . . . 
 Never let him forget that. 
 
 She never let him forget it. Not once in the prescribed hour. 
 Intuition pointed out that it was labour lost to try and make 
 him forget. Therefore he must be brought to forgive. 
 
 "So Delilah has been shorn instead of Samson? That's 
 poetic justice, isn't it?" Then, chaffing no more: "What 
 made you cut your hair. Deb? I don't like it. It's like those 
 artist-model girls you see about. I hoped you'd go on arrang- 
 ing it the way Beattie did it for you, once. It suited you." 
 
 " But it took so long," Deb explained. And further, in an 
 outburst of confidence: "It was stupid of me — I'm sorry 
 now. But — it was just a mood — one evening, when I had to 
 dash off to the canteen — and it would keep on flopping down 
 
322 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 after I'd pinned it up . . . and it seemed to me there was so 
 much to do in the world just now, besides one's hair — so 
 much to do and so little time to do it in — And ... oh, I 
 lost my temper with and just sheared it off. Does it look 
 hideous? " 
 
 He studied her in silence. And his face turned red and his 
 eyes slowly kindled. . . . 
 
 " Not that it matters. Vanity is rather futile since the war, 
 isn't it? But one can't help minding being a fright. . . ." 
 
 " You're not a fright, little girl," said Samson Phillips. 
 
 And then Nell slipped back inconspicuously into the room, 
 and said it was time to go. 
 
 Otto Redbury had rubbed his hands with pleasure when 
 Samson, via Beatrice, had made known his wish for Nell's at- 
 tendance at the hospital between three and four on Wednesday 
 afternoon. 
 
 "So! it gomes to something, then! " and he inspected Nell 
 before her departure, and gave her five shillings for a taxi, 
 that she might arrive unhealed and unruffled. The taxi had 
 stopped at La llorraine's, to pick up Deb, but this Otto did not 
 know. Deb was very glad to arrive at the hospital unhealed 
 and unruffled. And Nell was very glad to spend the stray half- 
 hour walking beside Timothy, whom Deb had notified to be 
 accidentally outside the gates at that hour of the day. This 
 Otto did not know either. Not that he could have gained 
 much by prying on their dialogue, for the pair were still in 
 that stage of dreamy ecstasy which prefers not to speak, in addi- 
 tion to their handicap of excessive shyness. 
 
 " Soon, zere vill be a vedding at the Synagogue," Otto 
 prophesied to Trudchen. But Trudchen, who had lost one of 
 her boys, had no happiness for the moment in either of her 
 girls. 
 
 Otto was right in form but not in detail. A wedding did 
 indeed take place on October the 12th, and Nell was brides- 
 maid; and the bride was given away by her father; and Otto 
 for the look of things had to be coaxed out of the bathroom 
 by his united family, and coaxed into a frock-coat, and coaxed 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 323 
 
 into attendance as a guest. Otto's soul was very bilious, and 
 he objected to paying for a present, and made several quite 
 snappy and spiteful remarks concerning the folly of men who 
 married a girl whose certificate of chastity bore a black mark 
 and the scrawled name of Mr. Cliffe Kennedy. . . . 
 
 "Ach, Otto!" 
 
 Samson was aware of the enormity of such a choice. Aware, 
 too, that he would have great difficulty with his family, who 
 were still huffy with Deb for having dared to refuse Samson 
 on three previous occasions. So he did an unprecedented thing 
 — he proposed first, and consulted his family afterwards. Per- 
 haps " proposed " is not the term which exactly sets forth his 
 proceedings. He announced to Deb that he was willing to 
 make her his wife — nay, that he considered it his duty to draw 
 her from the gutter back to the pavement. Deb — who in spite 
 of some deep inner scoldings that she was again behaving dis- 
 gracefully towards Samson, and this time worse even than be- 
 fore — Deb stood before him with eyes downcast and folded 
 hands, meek and wan — and wildly exhilarated by her success. 
 She had, to quote La llorraine: "Made a muff from her 
 chances " so often and so disastrously that a great deal of pre- 
 vious anxiety was inevitable. Anxiety was now allayed. She 
 stood before her master, meek and wan, and exceedingly desir- 
 able: Israelite maiden in the slave-market. . . . Samson kissed 
 her very carefully to show that his respect had suffered no di- 
 minishment. (He was so continually showing her this in all 
 sorts of unobtrusive ways that Deb only now realized to what 
 extent her lie of last year had earned his undying censure.) 
 Samson kissed her carefully — and said, " My family will be 
 pleased about this. Deb." 
 
 For which she rather liked him. 
 
 The family, of course, reminded him in an appalled chorus 
 that Deb was — somewhat disreputable. Had she not run 
 away from home, to live with that opera-woman? Samson 
 replied inflexibly that they, by their contempt and reproach, 
 might be responsible for driving a poor little girl to worse 
 things. 
 
324 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " What worse things are there? " his grandmother demanded, 
 for the rest of them. 
 
 Samson merely shrugged; and opposition perceived that the 
 eldest son of the house of Phillips had chosen, and would not 
 be swerved from his choice. His glucose fidelity was impres- 
 sive. Samson was the Phillips' fetish, and Samson's wish the 
 Phillips' law. Moreover, there remained still the Phillips' illu- 
 sion that Deb had always loved Samson, had loved him all 
 through his three proposals last Autumn, and must — poor 
 child — have suffered terribly, refusing him. Certainly she de- 
 served to suffer. But by this chance of making Samson happy, 
 she might expiate her foolishness, and expiate it still more in 
 giving Samson a fine healthy son. ... So the many counsels 
 in the dining-room of Mrs. Phillips resolved at last on a pro- 
 gram of bounteous welcome, forgive and forget. 
 
 Deb, foreseeing complications, made more than one faltering 
 attempt to explain privately to her fiance exactly how the quaint 
 mistake about her premature initiation had occurred. . . . But 
 it was an impossible task. At each successive essay, Samson 
 interrupted at the very start and in his well-known style: " I 
 don't want to hear a word about it. Deb. It's all over and it's 
 all forgotten. Let's turn over a fresh leaf and agree never to 
 mention it again. I love you, and you know it, and nothing 
 makes any difference, and I simply don't want to hear another 
 word about it." 
 
 So she gave in. She was the flame, he was the extinguisher 
 that stands beside the candle. However ardent her whim to 
 burn, he could always put her out. 
 
 Ferdie Marcus was enraptured at the betrothal. It was 
 what he had always desired for his little daughter — every one 
 was prefixing Deb with " little" just now — a good protector; 
 a Jew; a husband in a solid position, both financially and — 
 nowadays this was important — in point of nationality. He 
 would never be quite healed of the unlooked-for wound dealt 
 him by this same little daughter, last year; and he was rather 
 puzzled as to how that affair had been glossed over where 
 Samson was concerned. Did Samson know? But he hid both 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 325 
 
 the scar and the perplexity; and without any formal reconcilia- 
 tion, it was understood that she had slipped into re-occupation 
 of her old place in the home — home in the abstract and not 
 literal sense; for she did not return to live at Montagu Hall. 
 Neither Grandfather nor Aunt Stella were sufficiently cordial 
 at the prospect; and Samson did not care either about the 
 boarding-house. For the present he made special arrangement 
 that she should stay with the Redburys — Beattie and Hardy. 
 She should be married from his mother's house, and as he was 
 to be discharged from hospital in a month's time, the wedding 
 could quite well be arranged for October. In fact (" I'm a 
 sentimental chap! ") he asked Deb, with a twinkle of meaning 
 in his eye, whether October the 12th would suit her? Just in 
 time to prevent her features from slipping into utter blankness, 
 she remembered that this might be the anniversary of the sil- 
 very-stream business, and replied with a pretty smile, that she 
 thought October the 12th would be . . . nice. 
 
 " Will there be time to let your hair grow before then? " 
 he teased her. " We can't have a bride with short hair. . . ." 
 
 The whole Phillips family had pounced, jabbering and 
 shrieking and with white teeth all aflash in their olive faces, on 
 the discovery that Delilah and not Samson had been shorn. 
 Deb was prepared for this, and constant repetition of the joke 
 did not afflict her in the measure of last year. The Phillips 
 were themselves a joke, and her engagement, and Samson, and 
 Otto Redbury sulking in the bathroom on the occasion of her 
 formal visit on the arm of her fiance; and the fact that she 
 must ostentatiously refuse ever to meet Cliffe Kennedy again 
 ... all a joke! That was her mood, and it was not once 
 interpierced. She saw very little of her old set during her 
 engagement — very little of Gillian and Antonia and Zoe. All 
 that had dropped away like a whirl of sparks in the forgotten 
 night. 
 
 The sense of a hilarious joke followed her to the very porch 
 of the Synagogue, pursued her through the ceremony, with its 
 gabble of Hebrew and wonderful song. It prodded her mid- 
 way in the fatherly old Rabbi's personal benediction, when he 
 
326 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 solemnly addressed Samson in these terms: " You are bearing 
 away to a typically Jewish home a typically Jewish treasure. 
 . . ." Deb felt irresistibly impelled to drop her eyelids and 
 murmur deprecatingly : " Oh, no . . ." and Samson patted her 
 arm reassuringly. . . . 
 
 And then the joke faded . . . for the old man spoke directly 
 to her, and made her feel suddenly that at last she belonged; 
 that this was her faith, and these her people; and that standing 
 here under the white canopy, she was really fulfilling her des- 
 tiny at last — the destiny for which Deb Marcus had been pri- 
 marily shaped and intended. After all, she had not been able 
 to achieve free adventure — and compromise was a poor sub- 
 stitute. It was kind of Jehovah to have guided her from 
 debatable ground to safety. 
 
 And she would cease from baffling and bamboozling Samson, 
 who was high-principled and faithful. What had she made out 
 of her loose-jointed set of values, to enable her to scoff at his? 
 Deb was now full to the brim of her being with contrition and 
 clear sweetness and gratitude. ... A few yards away Ferdie 
 was beaming happily — Dear old dad — and she had been such 
 a beast, blaming him for all her own freakish behaviour. And 
 there was Richard, scowling a little self-consciously in his en- 
 deavour to appear absolutely at ease — all Samson's brothers 
 were already married and ineligible for the office of best man, 
 which devolved therefore upon Richard . . . brows hunched 
 over eyes that were wonderfully at peace. Six weeks ago, he 
 had looked like a man of thirty; now he looked what he was — 
 a sturdy well-blocked-out pugnacious youngster of seventeen. 
 It was all right — Deb had spoken to Samson about him, and 
 Samson had spoken to his cousin Sir Ephraim Phillips, who 
 had promised when the time of internment drew actually near, 
 to interest himself, not only to the extent of (certainly) getting 
 Richard off, but furthermore to get him (perhaps) into the 
 fighting line somewhere. So Richard's state was that of a 
 parched creature who had sighted water to slake his thirst. . . . 
 
 All the same, it was no joke being responsible for the ring 
 and the fees — and the carriages and — and half-a-dozen other 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 327 
 
 things. It rendered a properly nonchalant bearing impossible. 
 And he had made a bad beginning by the reverent removal 
 of a sleek silk hat from a sleek bullet head, directly on en- 
 trance . . . five bearded gentlemen draped in black had made 
 a rush at him and besought him to replace his hat upon his 
 head. 
 
 His eyes met his sister's in a swift comprehending glance. 
 " Sure it's all right, Deb — for you, I mean? " " Quite, quite 
 sure, old boy! " the unspoken question and answer between 
 them. 
 
 The glass was set in the neighbourhood of Samson's foot, and 
 he ground it vindictively into powder. His mother at the re- 
 ception afterwards, called all her friends and relatives to bear 
 witness with what spirit he had performed this part of the 
 ritual. It was fortunate that she did not overhear David Red- 
 bury's remark to the effect that Samson had not only used all 
 the energy which his great prototype had expended on the 
 pillars of the temple, to crush one small wine-glass; but had 
 then further deviated from Biblical history by inviting the 
 Philistines home with him to champagne and iced cake. . . . 
 
 " Oh, hush, David! " from Nell. 
 
 " Well — look at us ! " Israel was indeed enormously repre- 
 sented. The rooms glimmered and glittered with the clan 
 Phillips. Already they owned Deb (" little Deb ") ; swarmed 
 about her in heavy, jocular proprietorship; bore her triiunph- 
 antly away to be robed for the honeymoon journey. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Samson Phillips left at 4.30, en route for 
 Torquay. 
 
 *' Why did you ever tell me that falsehood? " 
 
 "I — I don't know, Samson. What falsehood? " 
 
 " You do know. Deb." 
 
 " I don't know why I told it, Samson." 
 
 " You've always been a good girl." It was a statement, not 
 a query. A statement weighted with perplexity. 
 
 And: "Yes . . ." she assented, "I've always been a good 
 girl." 
 
328 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 He was not so joyfully illuminated as might have been ex- 
 pected. Indeed, he was conscious of being defrauded of an 
 essential occupation. He had married Deb, forgiving her. 
 He had meant to go on forgiving her. He would never stop 
 forgiving her. Now, in place of these anticipations, was a 
 vacuum. ... 
 
PART IV 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 NELL and Timothy lay among thick buttercups. Here 
 and there the shimmering, glazed yellow lifted to cir- 
 cles of pale cowslips. Nell's russet silk jersey was a 
 splash of deeper colour in all the gold; the spilt pollen trem- 
 bled on her loosened plaits of hair, the lustreless heavy brown 
 of water densely overhung. Timothy thought he had never 
 seen any one more beautiful . . . and he was flying over to 
 France the next day. 
 
 « Nell " 
 
 " Wait a minute, Tim. . . . I'm thinking." She dared order 
 him to wait, this fair young hero of hers. Because she had 
 learnt to believe, through a year of wonder, and hesitation, 
 and ignorance shaken into discernment, that he was indeed 
 hers. And with belief came power — oh, what strange new 
 power in her deep look . . . young Nell knew everything now 
 — all about feelings and life and colour . . . she knew what 
 feelings were when Timothy's hand lay on her bare arm; and 
 life was — Oh, but she mustn't tell . . . not yet . . . you 
 wouldn't understand, because it's all got to do with Timothy. 
 And colour was what happened to Timothy if near to him she 
 stirred or brushed his khaki sleeve. . . . 
 
 She lay on her back among the buttercups; staring into the 
 sky, and thinking. 
 
 " You see," at last, " it's such a Great Responsibility." 
 
 He nodded, and echoed her phrase: " Yes — it's No End of 
 a Responsibility! " 
 
 He said this whenever they discussed the subject, and with a 
 more profound air of worry each time. And they had dis- 
 cussed it so often. That New Generation! it really gave a 
 fellow a terrific lot to think about. 
 
 " It isn't as if it were just you and me, Tim. That would be 
 
 331 
 
332 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 so easy to settle. But — it's all the others. Just think, Tim- 
 othy, how many are being beaten down to be miserable just 
 because they dare not walk away, be happy — like Gillian! " 
 
 " It's awful ! " Timothy's eyes were round and solemn. 
 . . . He was not frightfully keen on the New Generation. Had 
 he been a rollicking youngster, he would have puffed it away 
 in a laugh. But he followed laboriously where Nell led . . . 
 and thus got his answer, from the lips of the acolyte and the 
 disciple, to the question he had once put to Blair Stevenson; 
 "Yes, but what's it all about? What are they up to, these 
 girls? " 
 
 "Look here, Nell. ... I do so want to — to marry you. 
 I've told you billions of times. Darling . . ." he dropped to 
 a whisper; " Darling, I could get a special licence; wont you? 
 now that ." He meant to say " Now that I'm off tomor- 
 row," but bit back the words, holding to an unspoken pact 
 among the young men who go into the fighting line, that the 
 " last-day-of-all " leverage is not a fair one to use in the shift 
 of a girl's will. 
 
 " I cant marry you, Tim. How could I ever look Gillian 
 in the face again? After she's been so brave and wonderful 
 . . . just to show us all the way . . . it's simply nothing to 
 follow, after some one else has gone first! " 
 
 " But " Timothy stopped, his light thick eyebrows were 
 
 drawn to a puzzled frown. Then he started off again — " I 
 don't see what harm, it does any one, us being married ? " 
 
 " Marriage — is — obsolete," said Nell, with absolute dead 
 certainty. " And we owe it to the future, Timothy." 
 
 " Owe what? " 
 
 " Not to give in." 
 
 Nell was resolved not to give in. And hers was a nature of 
 such thick obstinacy as Timothy had not even begun to suspect. 
 There was little of Deb's pliability about young Nell. Impres- 
 sionable she was, unexpectedly, as in the case of her unswerv- 
 ing, unquestioning devotion to Gillian Sherwood, but she could 
 not be readily diverted this way and that, as could Deb. This 
 way — but not that. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 333 
 
 " If we gave in and got married in the old stupid fashion, 
 then dozens of other twos might do it because we did." 
 
 " Would that matter? " Timothy asked unhappily. 
 
 She flashed: " Oh, if you'd rather be just anybody instead 
 
 of Pioneers " Then reproachfully, " You pretended to 
 
 agree last time we talked about it. You oughtn't to pretend, 
 Timothy, because it makes me sort of step on something which 
 I'm quite sure is there but isn't — like that funny, hateful feel- 
 ing when you go up one stair too much in the dark — d'you 
 know? " 
 
 " Yes. But it's not so bad as when you don't come down one 
 stair enough." 
 
 " Yes, it is. It's worse. Your way only makes one fall and 
 hurt oneself . . . it's quite ordinary. But the other way gives 
 you a — an inside feeling . . . oh, I don't know — like a 
 shock! " 
 
 " Well, anyway," said Tim, trying to regain forfeited ground, 
 " I wasn't pretending. Of course the idea is wonderful about 
 being pioneers, and not minding — and — and going first to 
 clear away the rubbish for the others. And of course I think it 
 no end plucky of Gillian to go and live with the fellow she 
 loves, nor bother a cuss about being married or anything. 
 But — need we?" He added: "You're different, Nell . . . 
 that's what I mean." 
 
 It was not quite all he meant. But how could he express his 
 sense of her harebell frailty; and his great desire — heritage of 
 two thousand years and more years behind — to act the male, 
 and protect her, and mightily build her round with protection 
 that not a whistleful of cold air could pierce one chink of his 
 protection on to one inch of her sensitive soul. 
 
 Nell loved Timothy. On the second of April (she remem- 
 bered the day) he had kissed her slowly and reverently — and 
 then suddenly, with queer eyes, and cherub's mouth grimly 
 puckered and set, had strangled her body in his arms till she 
 wondered. ... Be sure a girl loves the boy in whose eyes she 
 first sees that special queer look called up by her. 
 
 But Gillian still claimed her worship. Gillian she still ideal- 
 
334 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ized from footstool vantage. Gillian was a genius, and Gillian 
 was brave, and Gillian had taken careless notice of her, and 
 sometimes even been whimsically tender; Gillian had never 
 laughed at her — the least she could do in gratitude was to reg- 
 ulate her conduct by Gillian's; to trust and follow her chosen 
 pilot; not let the sacrifice be in vain. . . . Why, supposing 
 after Gillian had risked her very soul in daring initiative, all 
 her disciples had scuttled backwards from her example . . . 
 and . . . and got married! Nell's face burnt with the shame 
 of it; she pressed her hot cheek down among the cool stems. 
 . . . Funny, how enormous the thicket of buttercups looked 
 above her, viewed right down here amongst their beginnings 
 . . . flicker of green and shadow of gold and minute fragments 
 of notched fern and leaf, of weed and moss and wee scurry- 
 ing insects . . . the polished petals bulged close to her eyelids, 
 a bright blue beetle swung like a jewel from the tip of a blade 
 of grass . . . below all this stir and hurry and colour — what 
 else was there? Could she get deeper down into it? Deeper 
 and deeper? If she lay quite quite still, would the earth-life 
 fold her up and cover her over with its smell and its hum . . . 
 drowse — that was an earth-word. . . . Nell repeated it softly 
 ..." drowse . . . drowse . . ." 
 
 *' Billy Dawson's number has gone up," Timothy's voice, 
 startlingly near and loud, split the little circle of hush she had 
 woven about her. " Saw it in the paper today. Poor old Billy 
 — he was one of the best. Brought down three Boches first 
 and then Archie got him. Rotten luck — I liked old Bill. 
 This was his second time out there . . ." 
 
 And all not quite as irrelevant as it appeared. Timothy felt 
 urgently the need of now or never making some special appeal 
 to Nell, a thrust to penetrate all her spiritual mufflers. Be- 
 cause it so literally might be never — after today. But he 
 could not say this — there was the bother of it! It simply 
 wasn't done in the Flying Corps — of course not. But maybe 
 if he just insinuated into her perception that airmen do occa- 
 sionally get killed — other airmen — especially when for the 
 second time out there — well, no harm in that, surely? Tim- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 335 
 
 othy, whose natural blunt honesty did not often lead him into 
 strategy, now viewed himself as a very Machiavelli of subtle 
 craft. He watched her closely for a wash of deeper colour in 
 her neck and cheeks. But Nell rarely flushed . . . and he 
 could not see her eyes . . . 
 
 A wind trembled over the top of the buttercups, swayed 
 them from misty gold to a brilliant shining sea of light. . . . 
 
 "Oh! " and Nell sprang upright, "I want to get closer to 
 them — oh, how does one get closer and closer. ... I thought 
 to lie in among them, but it doesn't help a bit. . . ." She be- 
 gan to gather up whole masses of buttercups, not picking each 
 one singly from the stem, but tearing riotously, indiscrim- 
 inately, an armful at a time, as though she were quenching a 
 thirst. . . . Timothy, his gaze round with amazement, won- 
 dered what was the secret spring of this outburst of passion, 
 venting itself on buttercups, millions of buttercups ... al- 
 ready she had wrenched away more than she could carry; they 
 tumbled from her fingers, and unheeding she stepped on them 
 and grasped for more . . . the long stems clung about her 
 ankles — tripped her to her knees. Timothy leapt forward 
 and clutched her as she fell against him — saw her and held her 
 and kissed her through the sharp-edged little petals — brushed 
 them impatiently away. ..." Closer — and closer ! " he 
 sobbed — 
 
 "Tim — I oughtn't! We oughtn't! . . ." 
 
 " It's right — you said so. . . ." (Timothy had no idea he 
 was being funny ! ) 
 
 The meadow, before these human babes stepped into it, was 
 scooped with the rhythm of a perfect yellow bowl. But now 
 the buttercups which had escaped the handling of Nell's fever- 
 fury, stood away, aloof and delicate, from those other marred 
 and trampled patches . . . buttercups wilting . . . buttercups 
 dead. 
 
D 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 " I \EB? — oh, she'll be all right in December," said Mrs. 
 Phillips to Beatrice, and Beatrice to Trudchen Red- 
 bury, and Herbert and Abe to Samson, and Samson 
 to Grandmother Phillips, and Grandmother Phillips to Flo and 
 Martha and Gwendolen. " All right in December. . . ." 
 
 "Poor Deb!" 
 
 " I think Samson is simply too sweet with her. I've never 
 seen any one so devoted." 
 
 " Of course it's wonderful luck for Deb that he should be 
 employed at the arsenal, so that he can get home every 
 evening." 
 
 " I don't believe he's missed a single evening since they were 
 married — how long is it now? Eight months." 
 
 " It's such a pity she wasn't well enough to come to Grand- 
 ma's birthday party, I can't help thinking. You know, it's 
 important for Samson — Grandma's so fond of him — always 
 has been — the eldest . . . and Deb's rather extravagant. 
 Well, of course, she's not used to managing yet — she does her 
 best." 
 
 " I'm afraid you're right, Beattie. Because if she helped in 
 the garden, the gardener twice a week would have been suf- 
 ficient. But they have Mills on Mondays, Wednesdays, and 
 Fridays. I asked him. And snipping off dead blooms is noth- 
 ing really ... if you care about flowers. My son's favour- 
 ite hobby, too . . . one would have thought that Deb — of 
 course, I'm always there to instruct her how I manage about 
 my seeds, but — " 
 
 " Gwen and I have promised her to go in every morning for 
 
 33G 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 337 
 
 two hours' sewing. I still have the patterns we had for little 
 Fanny's things. . . . Oh, she'll be all right in December! " 
 
 This was early June. ... In December Samson's son was 
 to be born. Samson's son — no misgiving in the minds of the 
 Phillips that Deb might be just the sort of girl to present him 
 with a daughter instead. . . . They trusted her to do her best 
 for the family. " I believe that trusting people is half the 
 battle," said Beatrice brightly. 
 
 Samson had not yet recovered sufficiently from his bewilder- 
 ment at the discovery that Deb was a liar but no sinner, to 
 spread out the matter clearly in words before her, and ask for 
 enlightenment. Instead, he brooded. . . . What could have 
 been her possible object, wilfully to blacken her character in 
 his sight? And at that crucial period of her life, too, while 
 he was proposing to her? — " it might have put me right 
 off. . . ." 
 
 The magnanimous husband was uneasy whenever he thought 
 about it all. He felt like Falstaff among the lobs and gnomes 
 on midsummer night; a sensation of trickery somewhere; some- 
 where, somebody laughing; an elusive tweak at his nose. . . . 
 Why had Deb said: "I have not been good"? Why, as it 
 was palpably not true? Why had she afterwards pleaded for 
 his forgiveness? Why . . . Samson hated things he could not 
 understand. He went about his home heavily, suspicious that 
 at any instamt another such perplexity might pop up to con- 
 front him. . . . He had taken Mab, Queen of the Pixies, for 
 wife. . . . 
 
 They had settled down in Hampstead, to be near the rest 
 of the family. He had asked his family to see a lot of Deb, 
 adjudging their influence to be of solid benefit. His " little 
 girl " would have no time to fret after her clever (and im- 
 moral) Bohemian friends, if she had always some one with 
 whom to chat; she would probably take to Flo most — Flo was 
 so lively! Really, almost a Bohemian herself (only moral). 
 
 And every night they all dined with Mrs. Phillips and the 
 Phillips' grandparents, or else with Hardy and Beatrice, or 
 with Abe and Martha, or with Florence and Gwendolen, who 
 
338 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 were living together now their husbands were at the Front; 
 or else Mrs. Phillips and the Phillips' grandparents and Hardy 
 and Beatrice and Abe and Martha and Florence and Gwendolen 
 came to dine with Deb and Samson. ..." We're a very united 
 family, you know, Deb." ... 
 
 Deb, as hostess, used to combat boredom by a sinister little 
 game especially invented by herself for those occasions. She 
 used to pretend that one dish of the meal — only one dish — 
 was poisoned, by her express orders. It was quite amusing to 
 note which members of the family would eat of it, and which 
 would escape; and which only partially escape by helping 
 themselves very moderately. . . . Curious that Abe, her spe- 
 cial aversion, by some twist of luck, always passed over what- 
 ever dish it was that Deb had fixed as lethal. . . . She realized 
 that it would be hard indeed to kill Abe! 
 
 If the Phillips were being particularly exasperating, then 
 Deb's fancy would carry on the drama through the subsequent 
 stages of her sudden casual pronouncement of the impending 
 doom : " I think it only right to tell you all — forgive me for 
 interrupting you, Grandma — that the curry was poisoned, and 
 you've none of you more than a quarter of an hour to live." 
 
 Oh, it was a childish game! Deb, aged twenty-six, wife of 
 Samson Phillips, prospective mother of a Phillips' heir, mis- 
 tress of a fair-sized house and garden and two well-trained 
 servants and the gardener three times a week. Deb, anchored in 
 harbour at last, ought to have known better than to divert her- 
 self thus idiotically. But — those Phillipses! 
 
 It was not as though they disapproved of her. That would 
 have been quite stimulating — to have been the object of vio- 
 lent disapproval, perpetual scoldings and perpetual defiance, 
 hers the slightly supercilious attitude of the bomb which ex- 
 plodes sensationally in a cabbage field . . . after all, under 
 such conditions, the bomb is the centre of attention! 
 
 But the Phillipses took it so heartily for granted that Deb 
 was one of them; that their cheerful intelligent interests were 
 her interests; their alert and wholesome outlook, her outlook. 
 They were so unaware that other interests or outlook existed; 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 339 
 
 or, existing, that it could possibly claim a Phillips. For they 
 had taken her to the Phillips' bosom — no, worse, they had 
 absorbed her into the Phillips' bosom; wrapt her densely round 
 with warm affection and inquisitive solicitude; what Deb did 
 was right; and if it were not quite right yet, that did not mat- 
 ter either, because Deb was doing her best. Inconceivable to 
 them that she should not be doing her best, trying hard, where 
 Samson and the family and the household and the future heir 
 was concerned. Even as they would believe to the end of all 
 time that chocolate pudding was her favourite pudding, so 
 not a doubt existed but that Deb was all right — except when 
 it was natural she should not be all right — and that would be 
 all right in December. . . . 
 
 Therefore Deb poisoned them, one by one, and was not even 
 sorry. It was a pity only that there was no one in whom to 
 confide these illicit prancings of her imagination. Samson 
 would certainly not have seen the joke. Besides, she was rather 
 afraid of Samson. He read the Faerie Queene aloud to her 
 on Sunday afternoons, sitting in the garden, with a rug over 
 her knees and cushions at her back; and sometimes he paused 
 to interpret the more difficult parts of the allegory; and often, 
 playfully, he called her Una — yes, he could do so now, be- 
 cause she was a pure girl, though he still did not understand 
 why. . . . 
 
 There was compensation in her life when Ferdie came round 
 towards six o'clock on dry evenings; exultantly dragged out the 
 hose; and solemnly, but with a kind of red beam shining be- 
 hind the solemnity, watered the two long flower-beds and the 
 one short one which bounded their half -acre of garden; which 
 was not at all unlike their old garden at Daisybanks, with its 
 one shady tree over the tea-table, and the earwiggy arbour; only 
 the Virginia creeper over the back of the house was lacking; 
 the mat of dark polished ivy was not one-quarter as lovable as 
 the clinging tendrils and late crimson she tenderly remembered. 
 
 " Richard is so happy nowadays," Ferdie would confide in 
 his daughter, perhaps with a wistful plea for reassurance that 
 he had not been the cause of Richard's year of wretchedness. 
 
340 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " He reads of military history and air tactics all day long. . . . 
 I believe he thinks himself already a captain in the R.F.C." 
 
 And this also was good to hear. 
 
 Of her previous gang of friends, Deb saw only Antonia. 
 Cliffe was forbidden; Zoe — obviously one could never be 
 quite sure what Zoe would say! Her blend of Palais Royale 
 adventure and eighteenth-century interpretation thereof, was 
 perilous, in the presence of Samson or Mrs. Phillips or Martha. 
 
 And they had all heard of Gillian and her achievements in 
 science, and had heard a vague report, too, that there was 
 something " not quite nice " about her. Celebrities were often 
 like that, of course, and one did not mind a bit; but then — 
 one did not come in social contact with celebrities. They were 
 both too good and not good enough for the Phillips' standard. 
 Perhaps anyway for the moment it was better that little Deb — 
 "What do you think, Samson? " "I don't want her to be 
 lonely, but you see a lot of her, don't you, Beattie? you and the 
 girls and mother? I don't want her to mope! " 
 
 " Oh, we'll see that Deb isn't much alone," promised Beattie, 
 laughing ; " I expect she'll almost wish us away some- 
 times. . . ." 
 
 La llorraine was an impossible visitor. Manon, on the other 
 hand, as Mrs. Dolph Carew, was welcomed by the Phillips, who 
 thought her " quite a sweet little thing " and admired her de- 
 mure manners and prim foreign enunciation; and chaffed her 
 for her perfectly conventional point of view — for the Phil- 
 lipses considered themselves too intelligent to be altogether 
 conventional. Morals were different . . . morals could be 
 taken for granted, like Deb's allegiance to the family, and Syn- 
 agogues on Saturday, and clean white kid gloves, and a joint on 
 Sundays, and England through thick and thin, and the windows 
 always a little open in the children's nurseries, and other mat- 
 ters of unalterable standing. 
 
 Nell Redbury had entirely taken over Deb's canteen job, so 
 she was seldom available for companionship. The other Red- 
 burys came and went, linked by Beatrice to the Phillipses; 
 Otto, still offended with Deb for her marriage, peevishly for- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 341 
 
 bade Trudchen to instruct her in private succulent recipes for 
 Samson's delectation. Hedda was not very interesting — per- 
 haps because she tried so hard to be interesting. She pro- 
 nounced " temperament " with a far-away look and an accent 
 on the last syllable; and lamented how wild and free a demi- 
 maid she might have been had not Gustav Fiirth unfortunately 
 made her his wife before she had even time to get properly 
 started. She capped conversation persistently with the two 
 phrases " Je n'en vois pas la necessite," and " Ca n'empeche 
 pas les sentiments," which really, uttered with the right air of 
 esprit and diablerie, could be made to impart an indecent 
 flavour to almost any subject. Hedda was . . . rather super- 
 fluous. It was not as though she were definitely musical, like 
 David, or definitely beautiful, like young Nell; or possessed the 
 quaint wit of Hardy; or the charm and vitality of Con. Deb 
 did not care about Hedda. Deb was becoming desperate with 
 boredom . . . her condition made boredom not lethargic but 
 a restless agony; the poisoning game had lost any power to re- 
 lieve those long family dinners, and appeared merely futile; 
 the Phillipses were growing ever fonder and more fond of her. 
 She felt her ego to be a tiny object lost inside an enormous 
 parcel, to which everybody had wrapped round yet another 
 layer, till the Phillipses had put on the final brown paper and 
 string. And Samson abandoned the title of Una, and proudly 
 took to calling her " little Mother." . . . 
 
 This was an inadequate excuse for her visit to Blair Steven- 
 son's rooms. But ..." He might have waited at least an- 
 other six months . . . till December. But I know they are all 
 going to be facetious about that baby! " 
 
 Her boredom was solely of the mind. Physically, she was 
 feeling brilliantly well, abnormally vital. Her vitality was not 
 allowed to be idle. . . . Samson, like so many rigid Puritans, 
 was also a sensualist. And Deb, tired of the game itself reit- 
 erated, longed once more for the demi-game which was so much 
 a play of the mind ... a play of two minds; entraining imag- 
 ination and nimble fantasy and fear and danger ... all the 
 fine shades. Promiscuous adventure had become with her too 
 
342 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 much a habit to break off with one wrench. The first thought 
 of Blair was an inevitable reaction from " being good." In- 
 evitably, also, she englamoured her final experience before 
 Samson acquired her as his legal possession, and forgot that 
 Blair had not given great satisfaction, either, in the matter of 
 . . . well, ecstasy. Remembered only that he was her kindred 
 in mind; that he had the light twist of humour she so missed; 
 the faculty to play; and to play up . . . sometimes a visionist, 
 sometimes a kindly cynic, always the man of deep and great 
 experience . . . she was never dull with Blair. And if the 
 missing thrill had been her fault, not his, then perhaps now she 
 was married, things would be different. . . . 
 
 Anyway, she was only going to look at his rooms, from the 
 outside . . . because he was still away, still in America. She 
 was only going to steal from her cosy dug-out back again to 
 No Man's Land, so that at dinner with the Phillipses tomorrow, 
 she might console herself deliciously by the thought that she 
 was a secret rebel to that irksome old Phillips' Illusion. Cer- 
 tainly Blair was still away, or — or Antonia would have men- 
 tioned it (would Antonia?). So the expedition on to forbid- 
 den territory had the merit of being also perfectly safe. 
 
 And yet she might not have gone . . . had not general con- 
 ditions grouped themselves in a way so absurdly conventional 
 that she could not refuse to attend to her obvious stage direc- 
 tions. For duty obliged Samson to stay away for a night; and 
 this fact he paraded with so much pomp and formality and 
 vexation, made such vigilant arrangements for the disposal of 
 his little wife's loneliness, and reassured her so often as to his 
 certain return the following night, that the comedy of the de- 
 ceived husband suggested itself automatically — to any one 
 whose brain worked like Deb's. And then Abe rang up from a 
 call-office to say that Martha (whom Samson's care had ensured 
 as a companion for Deb that night) had a bilious attack, and 
 did not want to go out, and would Deb come to her instead, or 
 should they let Florence know to go round? Deb herself, be- 
 ing at that moment in the bath, did not answer the telephone, 
 but received the information from a breathless housemaid, who 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 343 
 
 thought the telephone " a nasty thing," liable at any moment to 
 explode, so that she never listened long enough to receive and 
 deliver a message as it was given. Deb did not bother to turn 
 off the taps, but called back carelessly through the rush and 
 splutter, that she'd expect Florence and would run round to 
 see how Martha fared in the morning. She repeated this twice; 
 and turning off the water a moment later, heard afar off the 
 voice of the housemaid explaining that Mrs. Samson Phillips 
 would go round to Mrs. Abe Phillips, and expect to see Mrs. 
 Herbert Phillips in the morning. . . . 
 
 "Muddler! " reflected Deb. And then she smiled ... all 
 the banal mechanism was so absurdly in her favour — husband 
 away — a muddle on the telephone — suppose she assumed 
 that her bath-water had run on a minute or two longer, swamp- 
 ing all sound, then she would apparently be justified in her late 
 appearance at Martha's by an after explanation that she had 
 remained at home waiting for Flo, according to arrangement. 
 It seemed a pity to waste all this most excellent clockwork on 
 an appointment with last year's shadows in Jermyn Street. 
 But still, even Blair's wraith might be more amusing than a 
 surfeit of Abe or Flo. . . . Deb never bothered to resist the 
 guidance of external circumstances. . . . 
 
 Straight to Jermyn Street . . . the servants would believe 
 she had gone round to Martha. . . . Then an hour later she 
 would appear at Martha's, saying reproachfully that she had 
 been waiting all the time for Flo. . . . Nobody would bother 
 to verify the discrepancy in time; the loss of an hour. . . . 
 
 So — straight to Jermyn Street . . . just for the fun of it! 
 Just for the fun of huddling herself in a disguising cloak, and 
 once again creeping with awed feet along that silent, mysterious 
 avenue where " men of the world " abode ... for the fun of 
 gazing wistfully up at the imperturbable stone frontage behind 
 which playtime lay forgotten ... for the fun of being once 
 more in mischief, dreading discovery, thrilling at her own dar- 
 ing .. . for the fun of flouting the Phillips' Illusion! 
 
 " He is still in America," for his windows showed sombre. 
 But she remembered that in these days of air-raids, the erring 
 
344 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 woman, creeping back to her past, could no longer expect to 
 see the welcoming gleam from her lover's lamp — or candle — 
 or electric light. ... It was still possible that Blair was at 
 home. . . . 
 
 But of course he was in America ! 
 
 Crouching against the pillar at the foot of the steps, it struck 
 her how in picture she resembled her private and particular 
 horror as she had once described it to Gillian — the wanton 
 always and inevitably " left," outcast in the rain and the cold, 
 while inside husband and wife contentedly read aloud the 
 Faerie Queene. . . . 
 
 *' I only need the baby under my shawl. . . ." 
 
 And suddenly she flushed crimson, there to herself in the 
 dusk; and in secret shame sprang quickly to her feet, " Fm 
 going home — to Flo, I mean — " 
 
 And banality, stage-manager till the end, at that moment 
 smartly brought up Blair Stevenson to the foot of the steps; 
 and suggested he should switch on his torch to aid his search 
 for the keyhole — the flare of light swept across Deb's face. 
 
 II 
 
 Deb arrived at Martha's, wondering if any one so virtuous as 
 herself had ever inhabited Hampstead or the universe. The 
 scene with Blair had been a most astonishing one. Not only 
 did he subtly convey to her his refusal to meet her on the old 
 terms of play, but he rather more directly than usual put to 
 her the choice of being extremely good or — or extremely bad. 
 Blair — who of all men had seemed to acquiesce in the demi- 
 game for the demi-maid! Blair, who was practically the in- 
 ventor of fine shades. ..." Quite so, my dear — but now — " 
 he lightly touched the wedding ring on her finger. 
 
 " Does that make a difference? '* 
 
 The slice from the cut loaf. . . . 
 
 Almost crude, from Blair! 
 
 " Don't look so taken aback, child. . . . Deb, what did you 
 expect? Come, let's talk it out, you and I." 
 
 So they sat on the narrow stone balcony jutting over the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 345 
 
 street — and side by side, without a touch between them, had 
 talked . . . about touch, and about play, and marriage, and 
 good old times, and loaves, and the demi-game, and the point 
 of view of the man. . . . 
 
 " You can't go all the way, and then half way back. Deb. 
 Nor will you find a partner to step that dance with you. Our 
 old instinctive obeisance before the maiden doesn't hold good 
 before the wife, so why should I — or any man — be content 
 with half? " 
 
 " I thought you had enjoyed it . . ." whispered Deb. 
 
 " You were always . . . quite charming, dear. But — put 
 it like this: supposing there had been no one else for me, dur- 
 ing our friendship, do you think then, that our friendship as it 
 was would have been enough? " 
 
 "Forme!" 
 
 "Forme?" 
 
 " Then there was — some one all the time? " 
 
 " Indeed there was . . ." his smile entered her into his con- 
 fidence. 
 
 " I don't mind . . ." said Deb imcertainly. 
 
 " Of course you don't. But — now, there's no reason, is 
 there, why you shouldn't be that somebody yourself? " 
 
 She shook a doubtful head. 
 
 " I love your mop of hair. Deb — I'm glad you cut it." 
 
 " I wanted to look like a boy — " 
 
 " You look the most girlish creature that ever plagued a 
 man with promises." 
 
 She interrupted with a quick: " I never promised anything." 
 
 " Not with your mouth. Deb. Not with speech, rather. . . . 
 How am I now to wind the thick black tresses round your 
 throat, Deborah? " 
 
 " You'll have to abandon that pretty old-world pastime — " 
 flippantly. " Or take the bell-rope." 
 
 " Will I have to abandon pastime altogether? " 
 
 " It's for you to say." 
 
 " For you to choose — all or nothing . . . dearest." 
 
 She said petulantly: " I didn't come here for these ponder- 
 
346 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 ous life-or-death choosings — I came for . . . for Japanese 
 lanterns dancing in the tree-tops." 
 " That sort of thing. Yes — " 
 
 'A tinkering with the lute of love 
 By a nervous hand in a padded glove.'" 
 
 He broke off, shrugged his shoulders, gesture which conveyed 
 without insult : " Ca ennui, a la fin. . . ." 
 
 Then still without touching her: "Well — is it to be the 
 faithful wife? " 
 
 "I think so," said Deb, and added politely: "But thank 
 you very much indeed for having been so kind to me in the 
 past." 
 
 " — Or may I have the privilege of loving you as much as 
 I have never dared to love you? " he continued, unheeding her 
 reply. 
 
 Deb slowly turned her head to look at him. A very wan 
 moon shivering through the darkness, helped her scrutiny. . . . 
 She laughed softly : " You don't love me one bit, Blair. Nor 
 are you likely to." 
 
 " If I told you how much," murmured the diplomat, " I 
 should influence your choice unfairly." 
 
 " That's exactly what Samson said when he wouldn't take 
 my hand before proposing to me. Oh dear — I suppose it will 
 have to be Samson — and everlasting virtue — and dinner with 
 my mother-in-law tomorrow. There is no choice, Blair — as 
 things are . . ." and she sighed, thinking of December. " If it 
 weren't for family claims, I might ask you to be godfather, 
 Blair. . . ." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 Abruptly he stood up. 
 
 " If you don't intend to burn your boats — then it's too late 
 and too dark for you to be sitting alone with me here. Run 
 home, little mother — silly child, you need a lot of looking 
 after, don't you? " 
 
 He thrust such whimsical tenderness into the inflexion " silly 
 child " that she forgave him " little mother," as she would 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 347 
 
 never forgive Samson. But she wished she had been the first 
 to think of going home. . . . 
 
 " We part good friends, Deb? " 
 
 And she, demurely: "My At Home day is on second Sun- 
 days." 
 
 And they laughed into each other's eyes — excellent friends. 
 
 Ill 
 
 So perhaps for the first time in her life. Deb had definitely 
 underlined a previous decision, instead of cancelling it. In 
 marrying Samson, she was "being good"; in her refusal to 
 lapse from fidelity, she was still " being good "... Incred- 
 ible! Her pleased and proud astonishment had hardly sub- 
 sided, when her husband returned late the following afternoon. 
 
 " I rang up last night, trimk call, just to see if the little 
 woman was all right without me," he remarked fondly, over the 
 fish; "it was about nine o'clock, but the line must have been 
 out of order — I couldn't get a reply." 
 
 " I daresay the line was all right, but cook was out, and I 
 simply can't get Annie to realize that the 'phone isn't a wild 
 beast. She was probably cowering under the kitchen table, 
 while it rang." 
 
 " But you would have answered it if it had rung? " 
 
 "No — I was at Marty's." 
 
 " Not at nine o'clock. I dropped in just now to see Abe on 
 business, and he said you didn't turn up till twenty-five minutes 
 past ten, because of some mistake in a message. If you were 
 at home and didn't hear the 'phone bell yourself, you shouldn't 
 be so quick to blame Annie. I believe in being just with serv- 
 ants. Deb. Or — weren't you at home? " 
 
 She lost her bearings. " Oh ... I don't know . . ." 
 
 The phrase irritated him — reminded him of a previous occa- 
 sion when she had used it ... a dialogue on their wedding 
 night. ... If Deb were altogether to be trusted ... he was 
 not the man to ask questions when once he trusted his wife. 
 But Deb — Deb had not been like other girls. So Deb was 
 not like other wives. And now, the minute he left her — 
 
348 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Stale type of suspicious husband, Samson glowered, pulled 
 his moustache, meditated, decided to pass over the incident, 
 changed his mind — and broke out: 
 
 " Look here, Deborah — I'm sick of all this shifting about. 
 It all goes back further than last night. I'm going to get to 
 the bottom of the matter. You've got to give me a plain answer 
 to a plain question. Why did you tell me a year before I mar- 
 ried you, that you weren't a good girl ? " 
 
 Beat back through all that undergrowth? back and back — 
 tangled motive, and reaction, and example, the example of 
 Jenny Carew, once — but that was all over ... a word read 
 at a critical moment . . . moods, and the love of whirlwind dis- 
 guises . . . mischief — boredom . . . Yes, yes, further back 
 still . . . influence, of course — the influence of ClifTe Kennedy, 
 of Gillian. . . . Well, but that was recent — and behind that? 
 The undergrowth thicker, thickening . . . her innate recoil 
 from stinginess ; the girl who will not give. ... To and fro her 
 mind rushed and stumbled with a snapping of twigs in the un- 
 dergrowth . . . trying, obediently trying, to find out wky she 
 had told that silly, senseless lie . . . the Phillips family — 
 fear of being sucked into respectability — fear of the fate of 
 the wanton — fear of wasting, of not being wanted. . . . Aunt 
 Stella. . . . And the scene with Ferdie. ... If they did not 
 believe her good, she would at least be bad. . . . That look in 
 Blair's eyes when he thought — no, that was afterwards. . . . 
 Women, everywhere women . . . and chastity which was end- 
 less vigil. . . . Richard crying with his head in her lap. . . . 
 So she married Samson, yes, and meant to be decent to him — 
 if she could not be bad, she would at least be good — good — 
 good. ... So she married Samson, now confronting her in 
 the attitude of fanatic orthodoxy, waiting to " get to the bot- 
 tom of it " — of what? Of all her life, and the lives stretch- 
 ing behind her, and the Cosmos that had shaped her — the 
 entire matted web of cause and effect? All this? How could 
 she hope to drag his understanding in her wake? His under- 
 standing that was such a thoroughly awkward shape — un- 
 pliable, granite-hewn, rigid corners and lumps, bits of lichen 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 349 
 
 in all the crannies. . . . Why, she could not even push through 
 the labyrinth herself, with all her squirrel facility. . . . 
 
 " Give me plain answer — " 
 
 Plain answer? And suddenly Deb realized the impossibil- 
 ity of even trying; she was too weary; weary of muddle, weary 
 of herself. There was no plain answer to anything • — in her 
 language; no answer that was not plain — in Samson's. So 
 again she just said, replying to his question: "I — don't — 
 know." 
 
 " But you must know." 
 
 " I mean — you wouldn't understand, even if I told you." 
 
 " There ought not to be anything to tell. A good wife has 
 nothing to tell her husband. . . ." 
 
 Deb laughed ironically — " Well, and I've nothing to tell 
 you, so it's all right." 
 
 " And we had such a jolly talk — and laughed — and sat side 
 by side — and no harm at all," she whispered to her memory 
 of the half-hour on the balcony with Blair. " And I meant 
 to be so nice to Samson ever afterwards." . . . But how would 
 Samson interpret a confession that she had not heard him tele- 
 phoning, because she was at that moment visiting Blair Steven- 
 son? It would be rather fun to hear him thunder the inevit- 
 able accusations. And yet — and yet — Deb was conscious 
 that she had rather outgrown this sort of cheap fun — out- 
 grown masquerade — outgrown rebellion. She wanted her 
 child, Samson's child, to be born in this harbourage of com- 
 fort and tenderness and soft wrappings and people to make 
 things easy — yes, even the Phillips family. After all, it 
 would be a Phillips' infant; and they were kind — always kind. 
 She could not face the shawl-and-cold-stone-step business, with 
 a baby to be born in December. Deb looked at Samson, her 
 eyes very dark and grave. . . . Should she propitiate him? 
 If this time — then for always. Can you do it, Deb? Kick 
 away indecision and folly and petulance, little passions and the 
 big passion? ..." Suppose I went to Blair altogether, as he 
 has asked me to come? "... And for the kiddie — what? 
 No Man's Land again, a thousand times worse than her own 
 
350 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 experience of the between-region; the outer edge of things; 
 no established identity. . . . What was the old game they used 
 to play at Daisybanks? She and Richard and the Rothenburg 
 children? — Touch Wood . . . Touch Wood . . . and (tri- 
 umphantly) "Home! "... But oh, the awful dogged exhaus- 
 tion of being chased without a blessed knowledge of " home " 
 to be gained at a dash. 
 
 Deb made up her mind. 
 
 Then she crossed the room to her husband, and put both her 
 arms round his neck — he was looking more than ever like Oli- 
 ver Cromwell, with his features set into those harsh lines — and 
 propitiated him. Whispered futile childish explanations of 
 her conduct the night before . . . dawdling about in her room 
 till late — knew she was naughty to dawdle — didn't care! — 
 heard the 'phone bell and was too lazy to go down to answer 
 it. . . . "Didn't know it was you, Samson . . . please! 
 Thought it was Marty being cross at the other end 'cos I was 
 keeping them all waiting . . . Sorry! very sorry . . . Oh, do 
 pull out those furrows on each side of your mouth — one could 
 grow potatoes in them. . . . Samson, don't you believe me? " 
 Head snuggling and rubbing his cheek 
 
 It was so much less bother this way — the way of least resist- 
 ance. Anyhow, she had started all wrong, years ago, from 
 the very beginning. Let others beat out the pioneer track — 
 hers to make " home " for the little daughter. " Touch Wood," 
 " Touch Wood " — and already Samson was smiling at her, 
 fondling her ear. ... He did not quite believe her; he would 
 recur to his suspicions later on; but for the moment Deb's 
 sweet ways had placated him. He thought: "She is grow- 
 ing ever so much more tractable, with happiness. . . ." 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ''"JP'VE come to say good-bye," David Redbury explained 
 jubilantly to La llorraine; " the Jewish regiment sails to- 
 morrow, and I've dragged this fellow out to see me 
 through my farewell visits," indicating Richard, who leant in 
 the doorway of the drawing-room with " buck-up-and-get-it- 
 over " expressed in every reluctant line of his figure. 
 
 " He's steadier than I am, you know, and one is liable to 
 make such wild strange promises on these occasions. Suppos- 
 ing, for instance, Madame, that I were to send for you the 
 minute the war is over, and I pitch my tent by the shores of 
 Jordan . . . would you come? " 
 
 " I say to you, my dee-urr," and the prima-donna, in an 
 incongruously correct sports-shirt, collar and tie, smiled whim- 
 sically over her owlish spectacles at his gallantry; "I say to 
 you vot I zay to zat ozzer little fellow I see last night at the 
 Tube corner — ah, he was a beauty, that one, with the skin of 
 a peach . . . and he watch me a little, I, in my black gown 
 and my black hat, very tall, very femme du monde — you 
 see it? And he say to himself — ' It is for the first time I ad- 
 venture — perhaps one wiz experience? — I learn somsing — 
 Better so. Vot should I wit a pretty flapper, and she so inno- 
 cent and I so ignorant — Awful! A desperate affair.' So I 
 watch him make that reflection. And presently he move closer 
 sideways, and he make his little proposition. . . . And I put 
 my two hands on his shoulders, surprising him. And I say: 
 ' My boy — you are moch too yoimg — and I am moch too old 
 ... is it not so? ' " 
 Her deep, hearty laugh rang infectiously. Even Richard 
 
 351 
 
352 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 joined in, and Manon, albeit not quite sure whether the mother 
 of Mrs. Dolph Carew ought not to recoil with more dignity 
 from these trifling incidentals of dusk and Tube corners. As 
 for David, he vowed she was adorable. 
 
 "Ah, but the Comtesse — there is one! Vonderful! You 
 vait and see her? Yes? She lonch with me today — her 
 birthday. ... I tell you, a great affair. We all lunch to- 
 gether? And you, who lof that Continent of ours, you shall 
 
 eat " She whispered to David, her arm encircling his 
 
 khaki; his thin face vivid with appreciative reminiscence, as she 
 reeled off the names of what Richard emphatically, but in 
 silence, registered as " foreign muck." 
 
 The Comtesse arrived, and La llorraine, shedding all bour- 
 geoise preoccupation with the menu, welcomed her as an exiled 
 ambassadress welcomes exiled royalty. 
 
 The two ladies kissed a great many times, with rapid inter- 
 change of cheeks, and uttering staccato exclamations; and 
 then held each other a short way off for mutual and admiring 
 survey. 
 
 The Comtesse was large, and wore a black picture hat on her 
 crude vermilion chevelure; a mustard-coloured coat and skirt, 
 and a pink ninon blouse crossed by a spray of limp cotton 
 poppies that looked as though they had passed their lives 
 pressed close to a stiff shirt-front. She exhausted so much 
 space in her vicinity, magnetically as well as materially, that 
 her fellow-beings were wont to move some distance away to 
 avoid being absorbed by suction. 
 
 " My dee-urr," said La llorraine solemnly. " Never — never 
 — never haf I seen you looking so well as in that blouse. . . ." 
 
 She introduced David and Richard with a great deal of 
 ceremonial; and the Comtesse put her hand to her heart and 
 gasped that they both reminded her of Antoine, mon fits. 
 " That one, in particular," indicating David, " is his living 
 image. I vow, he might be his brother," 
 
 " I rejoice that is not the case, Madame, since it would deny 
 the possibility of any more gallant relationship between you 
 and me." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 353 
 
 " Mon Dieu — quel gargon! " the Comtesse delightedly 
 flicked him across the cheek. And Richard marvelled at his 
 friend's fluent impudence. But this was the atmosphere in 
 which David revelled. 
 
 The company sat down to lunch, and La llorraine apologized 
 with sad dignity for her so humble apartment and for inade- 
 quacy of service. Generously the Comtesse reassured her that 
 where loyally and ancient friendship existed, the third footman 
 might quite well be lacking. Then reverting to the question 
 of the blouse — 
 
 " I am broken-heart," the Comtesse announced dramatically; 
 " I can wear it not. It is over — done — finish. Behold ! I 
 throw it away! " 
 
 " Tell me," La llorraine spoke in deep sympathy, but re- 
 straining the outflung hand from more positive operation in the 
 direction of the ninon blouse — " what is it, then, has hap- 
 pened? " 
 
 " It shows the camisole — you see — it show it everywhere. 
 Elsewhere but in this country what do I care? But my durr- 
 ling, I have a lowndress " — and the Comtesse dropped her 
 voice to a curdling whisper — " a lowndress? — -No. She is a 
 vipere . . ." 
 
 "Ha! " The other prima donna sprang to her feet, gal- 
 vanized into opposition melodrama by the word " laundress " — 
 "You say lowndress? — Look hee-urr! " — Oblivious of 
 Manon, David, and Richard, she wrenched open her blouse, as 
 Cleopatra might have done to reveal the bite of the asp. The 
 Comtesse leant forward: "And look! " She was holding out 
 her blouse tautly from her bosom, leaving a gap, down which 
 La llorraine peered. ..." Ah-h-h . . . yes, it is so . . . they 
 are in a conspiracy — I say it ! ... they destroy — they have 
 no reverence for lace — for embroidery — for the terruly artis- 
 tic lingerie ! — to zem it is all calico wiz — what is it the jeune 
 fille wear in this England? — calico wiz edging — advertised 
 'durable!'" Scorn quivered to a climax, and slowly sub- 
 sided; La llorraine and the Comtesse sank back into their sep- 
 arate chairs, and looked about them, gently smiling. 
 
354 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " This sauce is of an excellence," said the Comtesse. 
 
 " Oh, my dee-urr," La llorraine deprecated. 
 
 " My pauvre Antoine desires in his last letter to be remem- 
 bered to you and to Mademoiselle votre fille," the Comtesse 
 recollected, sinking into melancholy over the message to 
 Manon; Antoine, it might be gleaned by the exchange of looks 
 between the two elder ladies, cherished a hopeless but entirely 
 respectful passion for the erstwhile ingenue. He was nineteen, 
 decadent and penniless . . . nevertheless. La llorraine had 
 long regarded him as a factor in her " plans " for the safe 
 bestowal of her daughter into matrimony; plans only relegated 
 into hasty obscurity by Dolph's sudden accession to his uncle's 
 wealth. 
 
 " I have brought his letter." His mother read aloud a few 
 sentences that breathed such fervent affection for herself, and 
 such rapt adoration for la patrie, that Richard turned crimson 
 at the young Frenchman's lack of churlish restraint, and David, 
 catching sight of his agony, chuckled evilly. ..." What's the 
 matter, Marcus? " 
 
 Manon subtly gave the mother of Antoine to understand that 
 she would not object at any opportunity that offered, to renew 
 her acquaintance with the young man, from a purely matronly 
 standpoint ..." perhaps I may be of use to him. . . ." 
 
 The mother of Antoine, with equal subtlety, gave Manon to 
 understand that the young man realized he would find her more 
 accessible — and of more use to him — now than as a strictly 
 chaperoned ingenue; and would therefore pay his respects to 
 her on his very first leave, if, of course, agreeable to Monsieur 
 Dolph Carew. . . . 
 
 And La llorraine twinklingly sanctioned this appointmerrt. 
 Had not Manon skilfully piloted herself into marriage, at an 
 early age? thereby proving herself far more discreet and com- 
 petent than any of these English girls, sailing chartless through 
 their late twenties. Manon could be trusted to handle such 
 agreeable little interludes in matrimony as Antoine might pro- 
 vide. " It is only natural zat my child should now vant that 
 good time," reflected La llorraine, in exact reversal of the argu- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 355 
 
 ment of Ferdinand Marcus — but virtue before marriage, and a 
 good time after, was Continental fashion. 
 
 A small joint of veal appeared on the table. Veal was 
 scarce at this time, and the hostess received as no more than 
 her due the anticipatory smiles of the Comtesse. " But what 
 success," she murmured. The first slice was carved . . . and 
 tragedy fell like a dark mantle upon the scene. 
 
 " It is almost raw," exclaimed Manon, shaping prevalent 
 conviction at last into speech. 
 
 " I know it," said her mother in a tone ominously quiet, 
 
 "But what matter! " cried the Comtesse hectically. 
 
 La llorraine stood looking down upon the pink flesh among 
 the gravy. She held the carvers in her hand, which suddenly 
 she upraised in denunciation towards the ceiling. 
 
 "That woman! That char-r-r! I swear it — we part, she 
 and I — but at once. In this house she shall not eat again. 
 Heart-breaking; unthinkable. I have been good to her. . . . 
 Ven her fourth durrty baby had ze pebbles — Bah, one does 
 not speak of these trifles! I ask her in return: Prepare me 
 this little loin of veal with care. Let it be just brown . . . 
 with stuffing — so ! — the stuffing I made with my own hands. 
 My dee-urr, should I be ashamed of it ! I who thought to make 
 you pleasure. . . . You who spoke to me of how difficult to 
 buy veal. . . . Ah! I remember — and I bring it home zis 
 morning, I smile, I am a little triumphant — why not? it is 
 after all an occasion, that you come to eat here in my poor 
 apartments — I desire to do you honour — And that woman — 
 she spoil it all. She shall fly. Raw meat! My dee-urr, it is 
 an insult to you, my guest. . . ." 
 
 The Comtesse strove to calm her, to rally her from ferocious 
 gloom. 
 
 " Durr-ling, see — eet is not so bad. I eat some . . . wiz 
 pleasure. True that I cannot bear the meat underdone, I shud- 
 der at it — but your thought of me was everything. It brings 
 the tears. See, I eat some more of it. . . . We haf had to put 
 up with moch, by this c-r-ruel war. Sit down then, chere llor- 
 raine, and today in a week you shall dejeuner with me in my lit- 
 
356 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 tie flat — my chef, Ludovici, shall be specially instructed — he 
 fails me never, Ludovici — so devoted is he. Cherie, you 
 should keep men, rather than these char-rr-women. I say it 
 to you. It is shame to spoil good veal. . . . But," after a 
 pause, and with forced sprightly enthusiasm, "how excellent 
 are the potatoes! " 
 
 " It is from your noble heart that you speak," cried La 
 llorraine. And embraced her friend. 
 
 n 
 
 "Aren't they luscious? " David chuckled, as he and Rich- 
 ard walked down Edgware Road. 
 
 " 'Um. You like these rum people, don't you? It struck 
 me the two old women kicked up a lot of silly fuss about the 
 veal, that's all." 
 
 "And what sort of people does your Unappreciative High- 
 ness consider an improvement on La llorraine and the Com- 
 tesse? " 
 
 "The sensible sort — like the Dunnes. I'm going to stay 
 Tvith 'em next week. Grev's home, training for the R.N.A.S. 
 And young Frank's just out of Osborne." 
 
 " Here — get on this Oxford Circus bus — I want to buy 
 presents for everybody this afternoon, to love me by when I'm 
 gone. You can help me choose — you have such taste and or- 
 iginality, dear Richard! " 
 
 "Feeling lively, aren't you?" grunted Richard, as they 
 climbed to the top of the bus. A shower of rain had washed 
 the two rows of seats empty for them. 
 
 " So would you be, if you'd got rid of a nightmare like 
 mine. . . ." 
 
 " 'M yes — I know something about getting rid of night- 
 mares." This was the black September of his eighteenth birth- 
 day, but Deb had saved him. ... At any moment now, he 
 might expect to hear from Samson that he was exempt from 
 internment, and eligible to enlist. So Richard was in high 
 spirits as well, though they did not leap and exult and fling 
 themselves about and glitter into speech as uncontrollably as 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 357 
 
 did David's. David was in quicksilver mood on the eve of his 
 embarkation for Palestine. 
 
 " Just not to be ordered to kill Jews. Men with faces like 
 mine, and exquisitely humorous noses like mine. ... I used 
 to lie awake and think of it . . . the rush into the opposite 
 trench, and my rifle in the stomach of another Jew, tugging at 
 it to get it out — get it out . . . while he looked at me — with 
 my own eyes. . . . Well, thank God, I shall be spared that, at 
 least! " 
 
 " I don't suppose they'd have massed all the German Jews 
 there are, in the bit of trench opposite yours," Richard argued. 
 
 " One would have been enough, thanks," grimly. " I 
 wouldn't have minded laying in among those swaggering Prus- 
 sian crop-heads who have always shoved the Jews ofif the pave- 
 ment . . . but it does make a difference in war whom one 
 fights." 
 
 " Don't see it." 
 
 David laughed : " I might have known that even Richard 
 the Second has his limitations! " and indeed Richard's later- 
 born understanding of things below the surface had thickened 
 somewhat again during his past year of reprieve. 
 
 The conductor came round ; and David said, " I'll stand the 
 ice-cream if you'll stand the fares." 
 
 " Right. Lend me some coppers then, till I change a quid." 
 
 David had only half-a-crown, and the conductor handed 
 Richard back two and fourpence. David eyed the coins mourn- 
 fully. . . . "And 'e didn't pay for ze tr-ram fares," he sang, 
 in imitation of a music-hall Hebrew comedian. *' I foresee 
 much trouble hereafter over these reckonings. Look ! " with a 
 sudden wild lurch to starboard — "No — not there, you ass! 
 Chalked on the pavement ! " 
 
 "'British troops across the Jordan' — that's good going! " 
 
 " And he says ' that's good going ! ' He says it stolidly, as 
 though it were British troops across the Regent's Canal — 
 Man, man, where's your imagination? The names — the an- 
 cient names — don't they fire you at all? Jerusalem! Beer- 
 sheba! Gaza! Mount Sinai! The Red Sea! . . . Why 
 
358 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 they're our history — ours. They call like trumpets. And to 
 think I shall be out there among it all in a few weeks. Deal- 
 ing blows for my own land ! Richard, it — it drives me 
 crazy. . . ." 
 
 David's eyes were a blaze of bright brown; his mouth 
 trembled — " Doesn't it excite you that the Jews are going to 
 win back the Holy Land for the Jews? — it must excite you," 
 he pleaded. 
 
 " I didn't know you were a Zionist." 
 
 " I am — and this war ought to have made you a Zionist as 
 well. — Come along, we get off at this corner. — Hasn't it proved 
 incontestably that you've got to have some place to be patriotic 
 about, if you're to be patriotic at all? The English have had 
 one spasm of illumination by which they saw that; and so the 
 Jewish regiment was foimed, and so they're going to give us 
 back Palestine, after the war. . . . Israel for the Israelites — 
 and our gratitude to England. . . ." David leapt on to the 
 pavement, walked along for a few moments in silence, and then 
 said in his most matter-of-fact voice — " They shall learn that 
 the Jew can give his pound of flesh as well as claim it." 
 
 " They want to get rid of you — and that's the whole spasm," 
 Richard chaffed the enthusiastic young Zionist — " Fed up with 
 the Chosen Race — too clever by half." 
 
 But David was in too radiant a humour to be baited. He 
 merely declaimed in answer to the taunt: 
 
 " A Prince without a sword, 
 A Ruler without a Throne; 
 Israel follows her quesL 
 In every land a guest. 
 Of many lands a lord. 
 In no land King is he. 
 But the fifth Great River keeps 
 The secret of her deeps 
 For Israel alone, 
 As it was ordered tb be. . . ." 
 
 " Not a gleam of response? Not one? " staring at his com- 
 panion's impassive features. " That's Kipling, you know. 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 359 
 
 You ought to be chockful of him — Shall we have ice-cream 
 sodas at Fuller's now, or shop first? " 
 
 " Fuller's now," briefly emphatic. And they marched in. 
 
 " Yes, Kipling ought to be the god of your budding manli- 
 ness: burly and brutal and blustering, and hit-the-bloody-nail- 
 on-its-blasted-head ... all that. I expect you've got ' If ' 
 pinned up over your washstand, haven't you? " 
 
 "Not keen. (Raspberry, please . . .) Some poetry's not 
 bad. I like Rupert Brooke." 
 
 " Not never you don't? You are a little bundle of sur- 
 prises. . . . 
 
 "Here am I, sweating, sick and hot, 
 And there the shadowed waters fresh 
 Lean up to embrace the naked flesh. 
 
 Temperamentvoll German Jews — 
 
 Drink beer around." — 
 
 Yes, he's a poet right enough. How he makes one feel all 
 his ache for the cool glimmer of an English stream — his loath- 
 ing of fat bodies, and the wheezy moist voices and the sun flash- 
 ing on the curve of their beaks? " 
 
 "Can you understand that bit? Good Lord, how funny! 
 Should have thought " 
 
 " What? " David's eyes, brimful of suppressed amusement, 
 met Richard's over the rim of his glass. 
 
 " Should have thought it would have ofi"ended you. What 
 the deuce are you laughing at no\\r, Redbury? I'm glad you 
 don't sail for Palestine every tomorrow. . . . You're all over 
 the place; like Deb used to be before a party. Here — no — " 
 as the bill was laid beside them; " I want change for a pound 
 to pay you back for the 'bus. You can square with me over 
 this afterwards." 
 
 The change was brought; eighteen shillings. Richard gave 
 the waitress fourpence in coppers. ..." Come along." 
 
 " That was my fourpence," said David. " You had no cop- 
 pers in your pocket. It was over from the half-crown I lent 
 you on the 'bus to stand me my fare. This is going to be a 
 
360 DEBATABLE GROUTMD 
 
 serious business in settling up, Marcus. It ought to be at- 
 tended to at once." 
 
 " Quite simple; if I borrowed half-a-crown, as you say " 
 
 "If? You did." 
 
 " And I pay your penny fare as well as my own, then I owe 
 you two and f ourpence " 
 
 " No, you don't. You owe me two and six. No, two and 
 eight. My own original half-crown and twopence for the 
 fares." 
 
 " Why should I pay you twopence for the fares — you're not 
 the 'bus conductor? Two-and-four I owe you. I can't give 
 you the f ourpence — I've just given it away, and I've no more 
 small change. Here's two bob and I owe you fourpence." 
 
 " You're all wrong, my lad. Think you can teach a Jew? 
 I'll argue my rights to the last half-penny, if I have to take you 
 along to Palestine to do it." 
 
 " Argue away," grinned Richard. 
 
 " You were to pay the 'bus fares, and I the ice-cream sodas. 
 That was the bond. A confoundedly generous bond, consider- 
 ing you wolfed two, and they're eightpence now." 
 
 " The quantity was not nominated in the bond. Go on." 
 
 " If you pay the 'bus twopence, mine and yours, out of your 
 own money, then it's palpably unjust to deduct it from the half- 
 crown I lent you, and only pay me back two shillings and owe 
 the fourpence. See that? " 
 
 " But you lent it to me to pay with." Richard did mistily 
 perceive the point David was belabouring, but could not bother 
 to focus it sharply. 
 
 " Only till you got some change of your own. You've got 
 it now." 
 
 " Well, but . . . then you owe me for the ice-cream sodas, 
 they were to be your affair." 
 
 " Granted. Two shillings, and subtract the twopence and 
 the half-crown and fourpence for the waitress that you owe me 
 — leaves " 
 
 " Hi — hold on ! We halve the waitress. Might as well do 
 things properly now we're at it." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 361 
 
 "Twopence for your share of the waitress; add that to my 
 fourpence you gave her. . . ." 
 
 " Why? " 
 
 "Why what?" 
 
 "That makes sixpence. We didn't give her sixpence. 
 You're trying to swindle me, Redbury, because my wits are 
 slower than yours . . ." 
 
 " When are the wits of the Gentile not slower than ours? " 
 laughed David. " The Gentile must pay." 
 
 " Don't forget that this is only half a Gentile. Where were 
 we? Let's begin all over again. You owe me two and two- 
 pence for ice-cream sodas and a bit of waitress: that clear? " 
 
 " Hang on to it. Then you owe me half-a-crown, and two- 
 pence for fares, and twopence for a bit of waitress, and four- 
 pence more." 
 
 " It's that fourpence always cropping up. I don't see where 
 it comes from." 
 
 " You took it from my half-crown to pay the waitress." 
 
 Richard looked so worried that David burst out laughing. 
 
 " ' Shylock, shall we have moneys? ' Come on, don't give 
 in; this is rather sport." 
 
 " Sport ! . . . Look here, let's leave it all where it is, we're 
 neither of us much out of pocket." 
 
 " Leave it all where it is ! " scornfully. " Small wonder the 
 Hebrew wearieth of the slack and foolish stranger, and desires 
 greatly a nation of his own kith and blood." 
 
 " You'll get jolly well fed up with your own kith and blood, 
 when you can't cheat 'em like the slack and foolish stranger." 
 
 " We'll have to import a few of you for the express pur- 
 pose." 
 
 It struck Richard that though David in this wrangle was call- 
 ing attention to his own racial characteristic only to buffoon 
 it, yet there was a sub-stratum of seriousness too, in his laugh- 
 ing persistence. 
 
 " I suggest," said David, " that as we are sadly incapable of 
 adjusting the matter in our head — after eight years' public 
 school instruction in higher mathematics — that we reconstruct 
 
362 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 as we go along, passing the money to and fro till we get it 
 right. Now . . . we're on the 'bus again. You pay ! " 
 
 " Lend me half-a-crown," said Richard obediently. 
 
 *' Give me back my half-crown to lend you, then." 
 
 " That didn't come in, on the 'bus." 
 
 " It's coming in now ! " David made a grab for Richard's 
 pocket and extracted the coin. " There you are," giving it to 
 him; while Piccadilly looked on astonished, at the two youths 
 absorbedly passing money to and fro as they strolled along the 
 pavement. " Now you give it back to me unbroken and two- 
 pence for the fares . . . that's right, isn't it? You agreed to 
 pay the fares. And then we settle up my little debt." 
 
 Slowly Richard passed back the half-crown; and two cop- 
 pers. . . . Thought hard for a moment — then, with a yell, 
 pounced on his companion, wrenched his fingers open, and 
 extracted the pence. . . . 
 
 " Got it! " he gasped. " So that's where you were cheating 
 me, was it? Well, I'm damned! I pay for your fares, yes, 
 but I don't pay them to you, no. Or I'd be paying 'em twice 
 over. Got you, David Redbury! " 
 
 "Trustful little lad, aren't you?" David mocked him de- 
 lightedly. " How long did it take your homely wits? Twenty 
 minutes. And we're miles past the shop I wanted. Here's 
 the two and twopence I owe you. ' La commedia e finita ! ' " 
 he sang lustily in his beautiful tenor. 
 
 " Shut up ! Don't you see the sandwichmen are shying." 
 
 " I've got to get farewell presents for everybody, you in- 
 cluded, Marcus. What would you like? An Old Testament 
 to revive your slothful patriotism for the tribes of Israel? — 
 Burst of gratitude ! In here, then." He dragged Richard into 
 Hatchard's ; bought the Old Testament, and forthwith presented 
 it to him; chose also a richly-embossed W. B. Yeats for Nell; 
 and was with difficulty dissuaded from a selection of Carlyle's 
 " Frederick the Great " as a tactful gift for his father. Then, 
 in a different shop, he bought a rich piece of Chinese embroid- 
 ery to form a window curtain for one of Beatrice's rooms, and 
 a scarf for Hedda. Richard was amazed at his certainty of 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 363 
 
 choice among the vivid colours and luxurious sheeny textures; 
 as well as his delight in them. His personality was as surely 
 at home among the rich Oriental fabrics, as were Richard and 
 the vendor obviously incidental. 
 
 " ' Not Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like unto 
 these,' " murmured David, as the shopman departed with the 
 bill and a five-pound note. " Ever heard the story of the kid 
 in a Jewish school? They read him that chapter, and then 
 asked him : ' What did Solomon say when the Queen of Sheba 
 tumbled down her treasures before him? ' ' Pleath, teacher — 
 he thed: * Vot do you vant for de lot? ' " 
 
 No one could tell a Jewish story with such perfect inflexion 
 and gesture and look, as David; and Richard's appreciation 
 echoed through the department. 
 
 " Do you think I might offer the Comtesse a little tribute in 
 vermilion, to match her hair? She had glorious hair, that 
 woman. In two long plaits and a pitcher balanced on her 
 head. ... I shall probably send for her when I'm established 
 out there — the time will come when I shall long for the relief 
 of a snub profile to gaze at, as Rupert Brooke longed for Grant- 
 chester. She shall be a wife to me " 
 
 " A wife? " 
 
 " The wife shall be Rachel, and her hair will be dusky, not 
 vermilion; and her throat golden-brown. And she shall walk 
 on the gold-brown sand so that the pitcher of water be not spilt 
 of a single drop. You know, Richard, most of our lady 
 friends in Hampstead and Maida Vale and Bayswater have 
 grown waddlesome with generations of menials to attend them, 
 so that they'll have to practise an awful lot with a sort of wire- 
 frame arrangement on their heads, before they can balance their 
 pitchers properly." 
 
 " Don't believe they'll come at all. A lot of Zionists I've 
 heard of are in a blue funk that they'll be grabbed against 
 their will and carried kicking aboard the Good Ship Jeru- 
 salem." 
 
 " Set upon by a press-gang, and made to fag for us; for me, 
 David, King of Zion " 
 
364 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 "King, eh? You're going it! " 
 
 " You shall come and be my Grand Vizier, Richard." 
 
 " That's the Arabian Nights. Getting mixed, aren't you? " 
 
 " The deadly habit of accuracy is notably confined to the un- 
 imaginative." 
 
 Richard grunted. 
 
 " With you beside me is like taking a stroll with a portable 
 farmyard." 
 
 " You haven't bought anything for your mother yet." 
 
 " I must get some large-sized silver frames. I was photo- 
 graphed to surprise her about a month ago — they've turned 
 out rather well. Beastly nuisance — but she fretted so, having 
 none of Con. He never would let himself be taken. ... So 
 she shall have me in half a dozen different positions, bless her, 
 just in case — not that she'll care about the whole lot like the 
 one rotten little snapshot of Con that she's always poring over 
 ... but still. . . ." 
 
 His exuberance was for a moment dulled. 
 
 " She's having such a rotten time. The Guv'nor has put his 
 foot down over any more correspondence with Aunt Anna, 
 this last year — just as if it would affect nations if two sisters 
 wrote their pathetic loving little letters to tell each other of 
 their sons killed and the hardship of getting good servants 
 nowadays. . . . But the black curtain is down between Hamp- 
 stead and Berlin now — and Mum's wondering always what is 
 going on behind it." He was silent a moment, then burst out 
 indignantly, " What harm can he possibly suppose it would 
 
 do " and left the sentence unfinished. But Richard, under 
 
 " he " was flashed a complete picture of Otto, very bilious, very 
 Jingo, in the art of disciplining Trudchen. . . . 
 
 " People are queer nowadays . . ." was all he found to say. 
 
 " Queer the other way round, too," David said thoughtfully. 
 " Would any country in all the world but England ensure that 
 her prisoners of war be fed on the fat of the land, while her own 
 people want? It's a sort of splendid crack-brained chivalry 
 — The German fellows don't understand it; makes 'era laugh. 
 It is highly comic when you come to think of it. ... ' For 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 365 
 
 Allah created the English mad, the maddest of all mankind ! ' " 
 
 " It's the old-established tradition of chivalry still upheld 
 by officialdom. I doubt if it's in the blood of the people any 
 more; they grumble about it — call it treachery, not chivalry." 
 
 " Those are only the people left over, not the fighters. One 
 learns bad habits if one is left over. . . . I'm glad we're both 
 for the thick of it now, Richard." 
 
 "Yes. . . ." 
 
 " Is it all right for you? I mean, you're sure " 
 
 " Phillips promised. I haven't heard yet. . . ." But he 
 was so sure that he said quickly: "Of course I may be let 
 down any moment, in fact, I suppose I've no earthly 
 chance " 
 
 David smiled at the unconsciously Jewish trait revealed in 
 the semi-Jew: the instinct that is afraid to trust its own luck 
 — aloud ; instinct that has learnt to fear the duration of good 
 luck, and thinks to propitiate Jehovah by an affectation of in- 
 credulity. David himself had behaved in this fashion since 
 his earliest babyhood. Victims of persecution — was it perse- 
 cution or justice now meted out to Richard and his like? — 
 children of No Man's Land. ..." Persecution is for being 
 something wrong; justice for doing something wrong," came 
 to David in a flash of insight. Nobody could help being — all 
 down the ages . . . Jews — niggers — slaves — Huguenots — 
 early Christians — Saxon serfs. . . . 
 
 " I'm going to take a taxi home; these parcels are too much 
 for me. You go quite a different way, don't you? " 
 
 "Yes. G'bye." 
 
 Richard turned quickly and walked away in the direction 
 of Hyde Park Corner. He was suddenly aware of David 
 as a very complete element in his life; and David was now 
 withdrawn, perhaps for ever, in all his lithe embodiments of 
 radiance and melancholy, of profound thought and mischievous 
 ragging; David suffering in front of the camera because he 
 understood how his mother fretted for a likeness of Con; David 
 reeling out names off the map of Palestine in drunken ecstasy 
 at their associations; David savagely ironic over his father's 
 
366 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Jingo attitude; David playing the fool over twopence in the 
 middle of Piccadilly. . . . Richard wished he could have been 
 called up at the same time as David, and thus have slurred over 
 the present acute sense of loneliness. ..." I'm glad we're 
 both for the thick of it now, Richard " — and David would un- 
 derstand why he had not lingered over leave-taking. David 
 could be relied upon to understand — always. 
 
 He found a letter from his brother-in-law, Samson Phillips, 
 awaiting him at Montagu Hall. It related briefly that Sir 
 Ephraim Phillips had done his utmost in the matter of exemp- 
 tion from internment in Richard's case; but in view of the fact 
 that he was German-born, with father not at that period natur- 
 alized, could do no more than procure the alternative that he 
 should be called up to serve in the Labour Battalion 
 
 "No, by God!" 
 
 Richard crumpled up the sheet in his hands, and flung it 
 violently against the wall. The Labour Battalion! Soldiers 
 who were not allowed to carry weapons? Soldiers who were 
 sent to the Front and not permitted to fight? The compro- 
 mise was ignominious. . . . And David had said: "I'm glad 
 we're both for the thick of it, now, Richard . . ." 
 
 It was all right for David, wholly a Jew. " I'm not going to 
 be half a soldier," muttered Richard. Rather internment than 
 be tantalized by the wear of khaki, maddened by audible gun- 
 thunder. Rather internment than that — and in a fortnight 
 he would be eighteen. 
 
A" 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 <' j^ ND would it he indelicate to ask," said Gillian, 
 why I'm suddenly invited to take tea with you, on 
 lawns of sheer respectability? I'm touched, Deb, 
 really I am; I even left some jolly little fellows from the 
 trenches to look after themselves, while I toddled off here; and 
 I bought a new hat on the way — d'you like it? " 
 
 " It's a monstrosity," Deb replied frankly. " Take it off at 
 once, somebody might see you in it; that's better. Why didn't 
 you bring your wounded soldiers? " 
 
 Gillian looked puzzled, and Antonia explained laughing: 
 "The jolly little fellows from the trenches are not what you 
 think, Deb; and I doubt if your in-laws would approve of their 
 presence here at tea — it's enough for a start, that you should 
 be allowed to invite Gillian, without a cortege of bacillian 
 satellites. How was she finally admitted? I'm curious, too." 
 
 " My husband met an eminent titled specialist, who hap- 
 pened to mention that a pamphlet with a perfectly ghastly 
 name, published last month by one Gillian Sherwood, revealed 
 one of the most brilliant pieces of research of modern times; 
 and that the whole medical and scientific world were in a state 
 of thrilled awe — that true, Gillian? " 
 
 " I believe so," modestly. " But it's nice of your husband 
 to overlook my little aside from virtue, Deb." 
 
 " He didn't exactly overlook it, you know. Samson doesn't 
 possess the art of overlooking. He walked all round it, breath- 
 ing hard, for nearly a year; and then hung a label on it: ' Ec- 
 centricity of Genius. Not to be confounded with Fallen 
 Woman. So please don't spit! '" 
 
 "Ass! "chuckled Gillian. 
 
 "Lest you should grow proud, I may mention that Mrs. 
 
 367 
 
368 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 Dolph Carew, likewise invited to tea this afternoon, has been 
 and gone, that she might not have to meet you, Jill, I gather 
 that she's having a demure affair on the Q.T. with a certain 
 Count Antoine . . . but some women flaunt their affairs so 
 shamelessly in the face of the world, that r-r-really, my dee-urr, 
 one can't possibly be associated with them. One is shocked, 
 sorry — so ter-r-ribly sorry . . . but the good Mrs. Dolph Ca- 
 rew comes to tea early with the good Mrs. Samson Phillips — 
 oh, but very early " 
 
 " I'm not having an ' affaire,' " protested Gillian. " Does 
 that little careful beast Manon imagine that I'm a cheap French 
 novel? Deb, Deb darling, did you tell her that a multitude of 
 hoary professors are always to be found squatting at my feet? " 
 
 " Yes. ' We are not impressed.' . . . Hoary professors 
 aren't Society, after all." 
 
 Antonia meditated : " We might put Cliffe on to the story 
 of the French Count " 
 
 " Too busy with Winnie to understudy the God of Vengeance 
 just at present." 
 
 " Winnie? " 
 
 " Cliffe? " 
 
 Gillian nodded. " 'M. Last night. Quaint, isn't it? You 
 know, she always had a queer fascination for him . . . she was 
 so placid and plump — and he so gaunt and impetuous ... he 
 used to try and try and try to rouse her to some display of emo- 
 tion, till he went gibbering mad with failure . . . and she 
 just lay on the sofa. I used to watch them. So at last, in a 
 sort of frenzy, he proposed to marry her — and she really was 
 surprised. Rather surprised, not awfully. She said: 'Fancy. 
 Did you ever. What things you do say, Cliffe! '" Gillian 
 mimicked the slow, fat speech of Winifred with a fidelity that 
 stirred both her companions to mirth . . . though Antonia was 
 very white; and Deb's lips were ruefully curved: If Cliffe 
 were at all inclined to marry ..." then why not me — at the 
 time? " half laughing, yet wondering a little how Winifred 
 Potter had succeeded with Cliffe where all the rest of them had 
 failed, and separately summed him up as sexless — dear old 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 369 
 
 Cliffe — the Uncle type — a flying comet through their lives. — 
 " And he's exuberantly, fantastically happy in his choice," Gil- 
 lian added, innocent of sub-currents ; " so am I and Theo — 
 No — so are I and Theo. . . . That doesn't sound right either, 
 does it? Theo did all the flirting he could with her, in about 
 a couple of hours ... So far and no further, you remember? 
 
 — and then it bored him to have her always about the home. 
 And it made a lot of extra work for me — I'm not complaining 
 
 — but just mentioning it, now it's over. Of course we couldn't 
 turn her out, but we're speeding up the nuptials with enthus- 
 iasm. And then we two shall be alone together . . ." softly. 
 And no one, seeing her eyes and her mouth, could have doubted 
 the success of her pioneer experiment with the audacious but 
 unworthy Greek. 
 
 " Does Zoe know? " 
 
 "About ClifTe and Winnie? I don't think so. I expected 
 she'd be here this afternoon." 
 
 " No, she's indispensable to the War Office on Monday after- 
 noons — not a couple of loafers like you — you're lucky in 
 your Major-General, Antonia, he always seems to be having 
 bilious attacks ! — I received a very Zoe-esque letter, hinting at 
 a fruitful episode in a cinema, where she carelessly put her 
 foot up on the seat in front of her and accidentally left it 
 there even when some one sat down, and it came back with 
 a note inside — the shoe, I mean — saying he was follement 
 eperdu of the pretty ankle, and would the owner meet him, etc." 
 
 " A typical Zoe adventure, French and all. ' Men may come 
 and men may go,' but there will always be enough for our 
 Zoe! even nowadays." 
 
 " After all, she only needs as many as there are doors to her 
 flat, and one over. What is it, Antonia? " 
 
 Antonia said, "There's young Nell — and she looks . . . 
 queer.'* 
 
 n 
 
 Nell Redbury walked slowly across the lawn towards the tea- 
 table under the yellowing chestnut tree. Arrived there, she 
 
370 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 stood, mutely awaiting interrogation; her gaze full on Gillian. 
 . . . Nobody spoke; the three elder girls felt as though nipped 
 and held in the pincers of tragedy, and each one was afraid. . . . 
 
 " I'm going to have a baby," said Nell at last, in the stupid 
 voice of a child repeating a lesson she has not quite under- 
 stood. " The doctor said so. Mums cried. And father said 
 I was not to come home any more." 
 
 "Is that all! " Gillian almost laughed in her relief. "Oh, 
 you lucky little devil — no, I don't mean that — you're only 
 a kid still yourself, and it's rather rough luck, but still — Who 
 and where's the infant husband? I suppose it's Timothy? " 
 
 "Yes," Nell answered gravely, but still standing a little 
 aloof from the tea-table. " But he's not my husband. We — 
 I — thought you would be pleased." 
 
 " Because I did it myself? " Her goddess became suddenly 
 stern. 
 
 " Yes." And once more the refrain, " I thought you would 
 be pleased. You said . . . you all said. . . . I've forgotten 
 what you said," with sudden droop to weariness. 
 
 " Whatever I said and whatever I did, wasn't for a baby 
 like you," Gillian brutally informed her, in a double effort to 
 vitalize the girl's apathy and to knock her own conscience 
 insensible. " I may have said that where marriage is im- 
 possible, it's better to do the other thing than to brood and 
 mope . . . but in your case marriage is possible; possible 
 and natural and inevitable. Especially now. . . . There's no 
 earthly or heavenly reason, young Nell, why you and Timothy 
 should put yourselves to the inconvenience of being not mar- 
 ried, and you're jolly well going to be shoved through the 
 ceremony the very first moment he can wangle leave and come 
 back." 
 
 " Yes," Nell acquiesced again. And, after a pause : " But 
 he won't come back. It was in the paper to-day. . . . They've 
 killed him." 
 
 She still stood a little way off from the group at the tea- 
 table, staring with mournful enquiry at Gillian, who had 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 371 
 
 broken down in a fit of wild sobbing. Then, lest she had not 
 been understood, she repeated: "The doctor says I'm going 
 to have a baby. And Mums cried. And father said " 
 
 " You needn't go home, my dear, my dear. . . . You're com- 
 ing to my home with me. It's all right — nothing to be fright- 
 ened of — I'm going to look after you . . . yes, both of 
 you " It was Antonia who swept to Nell's side by an irre- 
 sistible impulse, had gathered her strongly in her arms, and 
 faced round on the other two with a look that challenged 
 while it scorched. 
 
 " You're neither of you going to meddle any more where Nell 
 is concerned — haven't you done enough harm? with your talk 
 and your example and rubbish? — No one's business but your 
 own what you do with your life, is it, Gillian? — is it? I knew 
 somebody would have to suffer — ancient law — on those who 
 break the laws — and you go scot free, and this poor kiddie. 
 . . . Oh, damn your splendid freedom, and your new era, and 
 your mix-up and mess-up of everything that's clear and right — 
 time-tested. Progress — is this your statue of progress?" 
 She pointed to Nell Redbury, now crumpled forlornly against 
 the older girl's tense erect body. . . . 
 
 "No use ranting at me, Antonia; I'm terribly responsible in 
 this case," Gillian acknowledged. " And of course it's my 
 business, not yours, to take Nell home and look after 
 her " 
 
 " With Theo about the place? " 
 
 Gillian was silent. And Deb interposed: "She's better 
 
 with Antonia, Jill. / can't give her shelter, worse luck " 
 
 Samson, she knew, would show no mercy in this crisis. 
 
 Gillian said softly, " If Theo can help. . . ." She found it 
 difficult to put into words her conviction that Nell was only 
 eighteen, and it might be warmth to her frozen emotions to 
 have it conveyed — even by Theo Pandos — that men were still 
 in the world and still desiring her ... a wintry gleam of 
 promise for the future. 
 
 But it was heartless to translate her meaning in front of 
 Nell, whose chubby serious young lover was only just dead. 
 
372 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 . . . And Antonia's wrath swept out again like a banner in the 
 wind: 
 
 " Theo — help? isn't he as promiscuous as the rest of you — 
 as Deb, as Cliffe . . . with your love-making all over the place 
 . . . sex discussed just for the fun of it. . . . Deb prattling 
 about the waste of her young limbs — we haven't forgotten 
 that talk, Nell and I. . . . Nell hasn't forgotten it to some 
 purpose. . . . Let's all live our own lives — let's all live some- 
 body else's. . . . Well, it's been a merry puddle-party while 
 it lasted! Come on, Nell," her voice sank to inexpressible 
 tenderness. Without a backward glance, she supported the 
 quivering, clinging form of the younger girl across the lawn 
 and through the garden gate. " Taxi ! " they heard her clear 
 call. And the responding grate of wheels against the kerb. 
 
 Their departure was one little aspect of the war: woman 
 perforce dependent upon the manlier woman . . . while out 
 in France the fatal shrapnel bullets ripped through the stagger- 
 ing 'planes. . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Deb," Gillian lifted an appalled white face from burial in 
 her palms ; " Deb, she's right. Antonia's right. I'm to blame 
 for this little tragedy." 
 
 " So am L We all talked — and forgot that Nell listened 
 and did not quite understand." 
 
 " I did more than talk . . . with the result that Nell is 
 to have the baby I wanted and denied myself. ... It seems 
 that I couldn't save that poor little love-child from birth, 
 after all! But surely I must have had the sense to say there 
 should be above all a case and a reason before girls chucked 
 marriage to the winds. . . . What possible reason could those 
 children have had to play the fool? " 
 
 " The individual exception is beyond Nell. What you did 
 was good — to her. She took the example and grafted it 
 promiscuously." 
 
 "Antonia called us all fatally promiscuous . . . but An- 
 tonia " Gillian hesitated. " Artemis on the turn," she re- 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND ^73 
 
 marked presently. " Deb — there's a time when virginity in- 
 evitably becomes spinsterhood. It's rather a dangerous time. 
 . . . Antonia has kept fiercely pure " 
 
 " Out of a sort of protest to us. . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " What a muddle we're in, Jill, every one of us, since we've 
 left the old track " 
 
 " We're beating onwards into the open, no doubt of it. But 
 the transition period can't be skipped, like a dull bit of history. 
 There's bound to be a generation of martyrs between the old 
 and the new. In whatever context of development. Educa- 
 tion — and sex — and religion — and nationality " she de- 
 bated silently for a pause of time. " Yes — it fits in each 
 case. . . ." 
 
 Nationality. . . . Deb's thoughts flew to her brother. She 
 was anxious, not having heard from him or seen him since 
 Samson had written that letter suggesting the compromise of 
 the Labour Battalion, more than a fortnight ago. And to- 
 morrow was Richard's eighteenth birthday. . . . 
 
 " It will be all right for the next generation. Our lot are 
 not sure yet — stumble forwards and backwards in the twilight 
 — let go of established tradition before they've grasped at an 
 equivalent to support them. And some of us must be sacri- 
 ficed down the wrong paths to prove them wrong. . . ." 
 
 " Not my child, anyway," Deb cried with sudden vehemence. 
 " She sha'n't be a victim to neither-nor. One of us is enough." 
 
 " You'll bring her up in the old way? " 
 
 "As strictly as I can, right and wrong, good and bad . . . 
 signposts wherever she may stop and wonder. I'm going to 
 superintend her morals; I'm going to say 'don't,' and I'm 
 going to ask questions, and forbid her things. And be shocked 
 whenever it's necessary I should be shocked " 
 
 " You little reactionary ! " 
 
 " Yes ... I know. Don't mistake me, Gillian — I believe 
 it best to be first thoughtful and then courageous — as you've 
 been. But my daughter Naomi — I'm quite sure it is to be a 
 daughter — will be partly a Phillips; handicapped from the 
 
374 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 start. Samson is at least a generation behind even the transi- 
 tion period. He's almost extinct. And he'll be her father." 
 
 "Meaning that if you marry the jailer of a prison, it saves 
 trouble to bring up the child as a convict? " 
 
 " If Naomi rebels, she'll be up against it. ... I want her 
 to be happy. Oh, I couldn't bear to see her muddling and ex- 
 perimenting as I've muddled and experimented; a failure as 
 I've failed. She must learn to please the Phillips family, and 
 conform to Phillips' standards. For her, there's only happi- 
 ness in conformity." 
 
 "And for you?" 
 
 " Yes — and for me. That's partly racial, you know. The 
 Jewish girl isn't meant to be a pioneer of freedom." 
 
 "Nell " 
 
 "Nell, I honestly do believe for your greater rest tonight, 
 Gillian, would have succumbed anyhow. She's really deep 
 down passionate — not only a surface affair. ... I say, isn't 
 it curious how we've always deplored the waste of Charlotte 
 Verity's fanatical tolerance on Antonia who doesn't need it? — 
 It fits in splendidly now for Nell. She'll make a heroine of 
 Nell, and simply love having her there." 
 
 " The pattern preconceived . . ." Gillian murmured. 
 " Then was it also decreed since the first evolution from chaos, 
 Deborah, that you should fit into the Phillips' scheme at 
 last? " 
 
 " It seems like it," not altogether ruefully. " When I tried 
 to play the old game, just once, just for fun, it politely in- 
 ormed me that it had no further use for my services," and on an 
 impulse she confided in Gillian her expedition to Jermyn Street, 
 three months ago. 
 
 " Blair — behaved quite well," was Gillian's sole comment. 
 
 " Oh yes. Blair is a man of experience. There's a mellow- 
 ness about him — Had it been a chivalrous hot-headed young 
 knight to whom I had flown in distressed rebellion, he would 
 have urged me to abandon my home and husband, and trust 
 my future to him — and we'd have been unhappy ever after." 
 
 " Is Samson still suspicious? " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 375 
 
 "Yes — up till the hour of going to press; on and off. But 
 I can counter it." 
 
 " With what do you counter it? " 
 
 " Fascination," admitted Deb simply. 
 
 Gillian laughed, but would not explain her laughter. From 
 the tone in which Deb had said, " I can counter it," it was 
 delightfully evident that Samson was providing his wife with 
 a new game, the game of re-conquest. ..." It keeps the child 
 occupied and amused," reflected Gillian; " and of course she'll 
 coax down his suspicions in the end, especially " 
 
 " It'll be all right in December," she prophesied to Deb, who 
 in her turn gurgled mirthfully and refused to say why. 
 
 " ' The Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady 
 Are sisters under their skins.' 
 
 — you representing Judy in this instance, with the entire bulk 
 of tlie Phillips' Illusion in the role of the Colonel's lady." 
 
 " Define the Phillips' Illusion. It crops up in your conver- 
 sation like King Charles' head." 
 
 "The Illusion is that any girl would love Samson; that I 
 love Samson; that I am happy; that I am doing my best to 
 make Samson happy; that we are all happy together; that we 
 are a united family. Amen. In the end the Illusion will be- 
 come fact. It will overpower me . . . it's already much 
 stronger than I am." 
 
 "You're by nature — adaptable, aren't you. Deb? " 
 
 " Horribly so . . . yes, and that fits in, too, Jill, for if I'd 
 been very emphatically myself, all cornery and defiant, I'd 
 have rebelled and gone on rebelling and urged Naomi to rebel 
 . . . and we'd have been uncomfortable for the rest of our 
 lives. But for me as I am — the most pliable, accommodat- 
 ing, imitative creature on earth — I do see, oh, . . . tolerable 
 comfort and resignation ahead." 
 
 " Intolerable discomfort and rebellion are better things for 
 the soul. Deb. They stimulate it." 
 
 But Deb only said : " The Phillips' Illusion is too much for 
 me " 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 ALL this year of hope and reprieve, Richard had just 
 dimly realized the continuation of Mr. Gryce's attacks; 
 but they had slithered more or less harmlessly off the 
 conviction that in the September of 1917 would come his own 
 chance to prove to Englishmen whether or no he be an English- 
 man. Now . . . Mr. Gryce had not improved with keeping; 
 and Richard was again exposed, without shield, to the old pes- 
 tered agony of responsibility . . . Ae had committed atrocities; 
 he did not fight fairly; he was a German, the Germans. . . . 
 No place for him during the war — no place afterwards. 
 Where was he bom? Where reared? where legally belonging? 
 Where his sympathies? . . . All over the place — nowhere — 
 anywhere. What country wanted him? What country 
 claimed him? For what country and in what cause had he 
 suffered during the Great War? — Jew, then, at least? Or 
 Socialist — Conscientious Objector? 
 
 But he had no convictions — doubting even his own stubborn 
 loyalty of schoolboyhood. He was no more a schoolboy. He 
 was a man — a man with nerves. His nerves gave Richard no 
 rest. 
 
 He did not regret, in the week that followed Samson's letter, 
 his refusal to serve in the Labour Battalion. Morally, he con- 
 sidered the evasion despicable — for him; though a good 
 enough solution for those who really were indifferent for the 
 fight, and impartial as to the issues. He did not regret it; 
 nevertheless, his loathing towards internment swelled again 
 to a morbid obsession. He positively could not bear the sound 
 or sight of the word. And then Mr. Gryce began to flaunt a 
 button with " Intern them all " displayed thereon — Richard 
 
 376 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 377 
 
 went down to stay with the Dunnes for his last week of liberty. 
 He remembered affectionately and with a sense of far-off cool- 
 ness and repose, that chintz sitting-room in the cottage; its 
 portrait of Commander Antony Dunne over the mantelpiece; 
 its atmosphere so casually, indubitably English; remembered 
 too how naturally in those Christmas holidays of 1914 he had 
 fitted himself into this room and what it stood for. Perhaps 
 here was peace from the demons plaguing him; reassurance, 
 also, as to where in spirit he belonged. If he were " all right " 
 among the Dunnes, he was — all right. 
 
 The chintz sitting-room, speaking for the Dunnes, repudiated 
 Richard Marcus; bluff and careless Antony Dunne was defi- 
 nitely antagonistic towards him — and Antony Dunne domi- 
 nated his family still, from the encircling oak frame. Richard 
 had anticipated gratefully the room, the pictures, the model 
 of a man-of-war, the curios from the Pacific Islands and Japan 
 and the Malay; the albums with Greville and Frank in their 
 different stages of allegiance to naval tradition, the battered 
 boys' books on the shelf, all yarning about the sea and sea- 
 fights and sea-heroes; the view of low-lying fields beyond the 
 windows; he had anticipated all these — and forgotten he was 
 no longer careless participant. The room informed him now 
 very definitely that he was an outsider; guilty in his birth- 
 place; the room quietly but grimly imposed its personality 
 upon Richard, as symbolizing all from which he wa^ excluded. 
 The Dunnes had lived in Essex, in Market Cottage, for five 
 generations; the Dunnes had always been naval stock — dedi- 
 cated to England's sea-service long before any question of 
 war; their patriotic allegiance need not even be mentioned — 
 could be taken absolutely for granted; it stood — as this room 
 stood. That the Dunnes should ever go messing about the 
 Continent and having their sons in the wrong places . . . the 
 room was lazily scornful at the mere idea. The Dunnes were 
 quite, quite certain beforehand where they were to be born and 
 where buried. One of them had settled in another county, and 
 one — Molly's father — had married a London girl ; these were 
 their utmost excursions abroad. And one Dunne had learnt 
 
378 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 how to speak a foreign language, Spanish, fluently ... it was 
 a great joke among the other Dunnes, And when their pro- 
 fession took them across wide seas and into strange ports and 
 islands, these seas and ports and islands became, at a touch, 
 English ... or English to them, which was the same thing. 
 They were simply uninfluenced by what was not English; just 
 as the room absorbed no outlandish flavour from the scattered 
 lumps of stone and coral, weapons and embroideries. These 
 were vivid and interesting enough — but only vivid and inter- 
 esting on suff^erance ; the real thing was the chintz, the view, the 
 album. 
 
 Richard grew to hate that room. 
 
 Next, he grew to hate Frank. Frank was a talkative lad of 
 fourteen, who had met Richard with the pony-trap on arrival 
 at the station of the nearest town ; it was necessary, before driv- 
 ing out to Market Cottage, four miles away, that Richard should 
 call at the police-station, and exhibit his papers and photograph 
 and so forth; and answer the official's searching questions. 
 Frank's curiosity had insisted on accompanying Richard inside, 
 even to the lengths of bestowing pennies on an urchin to hold 
 the pony; he thought the whole proceedings " rum"; no previ- 
 ous guest of the Dunnes had ever been subjected to all this 
 Ifuss. . . . Frank asked the object of the fuss a great many ques- 
 tions about registration — recurred to it all through supper, in 
 fact: "Five-mile limit — what does that mean? That you 
 can't go any further from here without special permit? Good 
 Lord! Grev, did you hear that? Then you can't come with 
 us to the meet on Thursday. What rot for you ! don't you hate 
 it! I say, show the Mater your photograph, won't you? — 
 the one you showed up at the Station. I suppose they think 
 you're a spy! Do you have to exhibit your thumb-prints too? 
 Like a bally old convict, isn't it? . . ." 
 
 Richard could not bring himself to be chatty or informative 
 on the subject of registration; and Frank, incensed by his 
 surliness, came to the conclusion that Richard was a spy, and 
 as such ought to be tabooed from intimacy, and watched. 
 
 The situation worried Greville, the more so as he could not 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 379 
 
 quite whole-heartedly champion Richard — " You see, Mater, 
 he's not a bit like he used to be. I mean, he was quite a jolly 
 old bean last time he was here, wasn't he? But now — he goes 
 red as fire when Frank rags him about the police and so 
 on " 
 
 " We must just tell Frank to leave off, if it makes Richard 
 uncomfortable. He's our guest, after all." 
 
 " Yes — but Mater — if — if " 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 " If Richard felt as — as loyal — well, as other chaps, he'd 
 laugh, wouldn't he, when Frank . . ." The handsome young 
 naval sub-lieutenant was no psychologist. " You don't sup- 
 pose there's anything in it, do you, Mater? I'd never have 
 dreamt of such a thing if Richard hadn't changed so from 
 when he was at Winborough. And Frank is always going on 
 at this child for chumming up with a German. I punch his 
 head, of course, pretty often; but why does he shy like an old 
 cart-horse when we talk about the war? Richard, I mean? " 
 
 Mrs. Dunne smiled : " I don't think Richard is a spy in the 
 German pay, Grev, if that's what is on your mind." 
 
 " Oh, nor do I," very quickly. 
 
 His mother waited ; there were obviously more skeins of per- 
 plexity to be unwound. 
 
 " One doesn't have anything to do with a German," Greville 
 blurted out. " But what's one to do if he's your pal before- 
 hand? " 
 
 " I wonder. . . ." Mrs. Dunne thought it out, thou^ 
 hardly realizing that this was the predicament of a great many 
 of her fellow English. 
 
 Greville was not the type of boy who would ever of his own 
 volition commit any act that was in the least degree complex 
 or eccentric. Richard had been as normal and sturdy a dis- 
 ciple of take-it-for-granted as himself, when they had first 
 paired off as inseparables. So that the shatterment of Rich- 
 ard's normal world, of necessity involved a twitch where it 
 joined Greville's. 
 
 " I think you owe something to old friendship, my boy." 
 
380 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Oh, this child isn't going to be a perishing deserter, betcher- 
 life. . . ." In proof of which, Greville summoned Richard 
 for a long tramp through the slowly russeting country. They 
 swung along for the most part in silence, as they had always 
 been wont to do; but previously it was the silence which sig- 
 nified " all's well," whereas now it was lumpish — a case of 
 nothing to say. For Greville's natural disposition was for anec- 
 dotes of the gunroom — joyous narrative of the day when they 
 "bagged a Fritz," or technical details of his present training 
 for the R.N.A.S. — his companion's set face and monosyllabic 
 appreciation was discouraging on such themes. Even had 
 Greville realized that the other was sick with envy, and not, as 
 he thought, bored, it would hardly have rendered matters more 
 comfortable. Mutual memories of Winborough were safe 
 enough, and recurred in spasms, but Greville's interest had been 
 superseded by fresher, more vital stuff; and Richard's occa- 
 sional starts on an abstract subject were, curiously, addressed 
 more to an absent Dgvid than to Greville : — " Have you ever 
 noticed how nearly all the popular songs they sing have some- 
 thing in 'em about a long long way or long long trails? " he re- 
 marked once, as a chorus from a khaki group in the distance 
 floated to them in wind-borne snatches. " A long, long road 
 in Flanders or France, straight and planted with poplars . . . 
 tired men dragging on and on with a sense of endlessness like 
 in a Nevinson picture — but it's queer that it should have 
 worked its way into the very songs." 
 
 Greville knew little of roads and cared less. 
 
 They were at the moment on the outskirts of a neighbouring 
 town; a road of detached houses, picturesque and gabled: 
 each so fretfully and laboriously different, and all so drearily 
 alike. All of these bore their names painted on the gates; 
 and one was " Heimat." Richard's lower lip twisted sardon- 
 ically. ..." Heimat " — home — after three years of war 
 with Germany! Who in their simplicity had dared leave such 
 a name displayed? A wistful group of exiles from the 
 Vaterland, who still clung to their own tongue, wore plaid, and 
 basket plaits, and striped socks, drank coffee for breakfast, and 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 381 
 
 sang in chorus round the piano after dinner? — No — they 
 would have called their house Omdurman or the Cedars or Ken- 
 ilworth; was it likely that a second Otto Redbury would have 
 the temerity to dwell behind a gate with " Heimat " painted 
 boldly upon it — "In our position — "? Heimat probably 
 sheltered a serenely unconscious English family, who accepted 
 the rum name they found when they moved in, and pronounced 
 it wrong — and who could with safety have dwelt in a house 
 called " Kaiser Wilhelm " and still not meet with suspicion. 
 Perhaps they had an ancient German governess whom they 
 tolerated and sheltered for pre-war sake, and she guarded in 
 her sentimental old rag-bag of a heart the secret understanding 
 of " Heimat," and found comfort in it. . . . 
 
 Greville, who had not noticed the house called Heimat, 
 interrupted his companion's musings: " I say, did you hear 
 old Rogers has had both his legs shot away? " 
 
 " Bad luck ! We beat Dumfield by an innings when he was 
 captain." 
 
 " Yes ; he wasn't a patch on Rothenburg, though. D'you 
 remember Rothenburg? " 
 
 Yes — Richard remembered Con. 
 
 " German name, wasn't it? What happened to him? '* 
 
 " D.S.O. and killed at Vimy," briefly. He wondered if Gre- 
 ville, like Mr. Gryce, was going to say "ought to have been 
 interned "? Even the subject of Winborough was perilous, 
 might lead to . . . the admission they all sought to drag 
 from his sensitive reluctance. 
 
 For this was the latest result of Richard's nerves, that he 
 imagined a conspiracy on the part of the Dunne household 
 to make him utter aloud — scream aloud — the fact that he was 
 a German. Therefore he set stern watch upon his speech, 
 though never doubting they would win their point in the end. 
 . . . "Morose beggar! " commented young Frank. "Molly's 
 coming tomorrow — we'll see if she wakes him up a bit! " 
 
 " Frank, I don't want you to tell Molly about Richard." 
 
 "What — not that he's a blooming " 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
382 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 " Why, Mater? Strikes me Molly ought to be put on guard. 
 She might want to marry him. Nice old fizzle that 'ud be." 
 
 Mrs. Dunne seriously replied that he might trust her to be 
 responsible for the safeguarding of Molly (aged fifteen) from 
 contraction of an alliance with the enemy. 
 
 "Are you going in the R.F.C., Richard? " asked Molly, on 
 her first morning. 
 
 They were in the orchard, and her mouth was stained a deep 
 plum-purple. 
 
 " No" 
 
 " You said last year — no, the year before that, wasn't it? — 
 that you weren't keen on anything except a commission in the 
 Flying Corps. And I was going to work the wings and ' per 
 ardua ad astra ' on a silk handkerchief for you. Lucky I 
 didn't." 
 
 " Plenty of chaps you could have given it to." 
 
 Molly fastened strong pointed teeth into the downy blue 
 of yet another plum; and then asked: "Are you going into 
 theR.E.?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Gunner, then?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What are you going to be when you join up? " 
 
 " I'm not joining up." 
 
 "White feather! " she flashed at him. She had been in- 
 clined to regard Richard as her especial property, whenever 
 they had met at Market Cottage. Though he had teased her 
 a lot, he was always rather more gentle in action where she 
 w!as concerned, than Greville and Frank. So that she was not 
 prepared now, when in a fit of passion he seized her by the 
 shoulders and shook her — shook her — " You little beast " 
 
 His fingers dug deep into her shoulders; she tried with a 
 sudden jerk to twist out of his grasp . . . could not. . . . 
 Then with quite a good exhibition of resource, tore an over- 
 ripe plum from a bough near at hand and flung it in Richard's 
 face— "Hun!" 
 
 " That's right," he said coolly, releasing her. " Traitor if 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 383 
 
 you like — spy and coward," and he grinned at her mute 
 amazement. Suddenly, in a queer, vicious sort of way he was 
 enjoying the scene. "You've guessed it, Molly. Only a Hun 
 would grab a girl and shake her. I'd be happy dropping 
 bombs on babies, too; and shooting a half -drowned non- 
 combatant in the water. We're all like that. And I'd be 
 
 happy " he stopped, and looked at the girl; a shifting 
 
 ray of sun through the leaves struck her across the face; across 
 the half-parted plum-stained lips; showed him the angry gold 
 freckling her big brown eyes. A tomboy in blue serge with 
 rough chestnut hair . . . yes, but a promise of more than that 
 . . . for him. 
 
 He moved towards her — and quickly she plucked another 
 dark mauve globule. 
 
 " Drop that." 
 
 " Hun ! Hun ! Hun ! " she taunted him. 
 
 " There are things one can't help, Molly — and there are also 
 too many things you don't even begin to understand, Molly — 
 That's why you're no good to me, just as present. One day, 
 when I've time, I may bother to make you understand. Or 
 
 I may not. Meanwhile " His arm sprang up against the 
 
 whizzing plum, averted it, dragged her into his arms and kissed 
 her roughly . . . then more tenderly. . . . She was passive, 
 recognizing with wonder that this was suddenly not an uncouth 
 bullying schoolboy, but a man dogged and fierce and rather 
 unwilling, who had captured her defiance and stilled it. 
 
 But what rubbish! Richard! Why, he was only eighteen; 
 younger than Grev — and Grev was certainly not yet a man, 
 though he had fought. . . . Richard had not even fought — 
 the colour stung her brown skin into red, as she recalled his 
 contempt : " There are too many things you don't even begin 
 to understand, Molly " 
 
 " I don't care! I don't care! " she raged in a whisper. 
 
 " I don't care either," came the answer in that cool man- 
 voice, which reason could hardly yet accept as belonging to 
 Richard; "but if I ever do care, Molly, then I'll damned well 
 marry you, and you'll have a Hun for a husband whether 
 
384 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 you want it or not — so you'd better be more polite 
 now. . . ." 
 
 " I won't — you sha'n't — never — let me go, Richard ! " 
 
 " Kiss me first, then. I like your kisses though I don't like 
 you." 
 
 In a final twist for liberty, she slewed her head backwards 
 . . . and saw his eyes, sad light eyes narrowed under their 
 bending ridges — something like a tumbler pigeon turned 
 wildly over and over in her breast. . . . With a gasp, she of- 
 fered him her childish fruit-stained lips . . . and darted away 
 between the orchard trees. 
 
 Richard pressed his two clenched fists against his fore- 
 head. . . . 
 
 "What did I say to her? — looks as though I were going 
 mad. ..." A portion of himself seemed to slide coldly away 
 from the rest — and then be jerked again into its place . . . 
 it was a nasty sensation; and so was the shame with which 
 he submitted to the fact that he had no control whatever 
 over any juggling tricks his brain and body in goblin collabo- 
 ration might choose to play him. 
 
 A conviction, for instance, that a number of people in 
 assembly held a threat and a menace for him . . . slow horror 
 which the mind communicated to the flesh — he could not keep 
 still between walls and floor and ceiling, with people crushing 
 him round and stifling him, blocking his exit — with people's 
 voices droning like wasps . . . the heavy persistent circling 
 motion of wasps over food . . . yes, he had to get away, if 
 he was to breathe, if he was to live . . . his head, his eyes, 
 his ears and neck, his wrists and finger-tips and knees, each 
 held their separate hammering pulse — how could he sit quietly 
 in a chair, at a table, with all these fever-pulses dinning and 
 throbbing in unequal measure, and that one great pulse in his 
 left side swinging dominion over the others — he must get into 
 the open, or die, there, before them all, before Greville's be- 
 wilderment, and Frank's loud disdain, and Molly crying, 
 ** Hun ! Hun ! Hun ! "... he preferred to die alone. 
 
 " I ought to go home " but home was more meals in 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 385 
 
 public, and Mr. Gryce, and trafl5c, and pavements a-swirl with 
 people. Only a few days more now — only tomorrow and the 
 day after — only tomorrow — and horror itself would be there, 
 in place of horror anticipated. How would it be when he 
 needed to run — and ran up against barbed wire — and was 
 turned back . . . enclosed and ringed by barbed wire? Sense- 
 less barbed wire — had it been enemy fencing, you might cut it, 
 break through and into enemy trench, bring a rifle smash- 
 ing down on a fat pink head . . . Prussian head . . . 
 pink head . . . mud and filth and the swarm of lice, and oozy, 
 sticky blood, and cold, wet cold. . . . This was France — war 
 
 — his birthright — birthright of everybody growing from 1914 
 into manhood. Oh, damn . . . that hot swollen feeling round 
 his temples again — no, not inside — round the outside . . . 
 and why did they try so hard to hypnotize him into declaring 
 aloud that he was a German? even Mrs. Dunne, even Greville 
 . . . and Frank of course, with Molly now his partner and 
 confederate. They were all jolly and serene and happy enough 
 
 — couldn't they leave him alone? They and the chintz sit- 
 ting-room and that — that stranger dining with them this Sun- 
 day after church. Who was it? The local doctor? Dr. Grey- 
 son? He had not brought his wife . . . apologized, said she 
 had a cold ; Richard knew — he did not care to bring her into 
 a house where a German was staying; she might have to shake 
 hands with him, and she had vowed not to shake hands with a 
 German again — so she had preferred to stay at home. The 
 Dunnes had talked of asking a Mr. Rhodes and his son and 
 daughter — very decent people, Richard remembered them 
 from last time . . . and then the question of inviting them had 
 suddenly been abandoned, with a great show of tact on Mrs. 
 Dunne's part — " perhaps they would not care to come out so 
 soon after poor Hal's death " — but again Richard suspected 
 the confidential after-discussion between Greville and his 
 mother. " Better not, Mater, while Richard's here; he's going 
 tomorrow. But they're the sort who'd mind. . . ." 
 
 . . . Would Frank never stop eating pudding? apple suet 
 pudding — two helpings already, and now a third. Frank did 
 
386 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 it on purpose — fiendishly — he knew Richard was mad to get 
 up and out of the cramped cramping space. ... 
 
 " Coffee in the sitting-room, I think," Mrs. Dunne proposed 
 at last; "such a pity it's raining, or we might have sat out- 
 side." 
 
 They all moved together, glucose in conviviality, towards 
 the room which held the portrait of Commander Dunne. Gre- 
 ville, in his simple, eager way was explaining some aviation 
 technicality to Doctor Greyson, who listened respectfully. 
 
 "These youngsters — they're showing us all the way! " he 
 smiled at Frank in his blue and gold, at Molly wearing her Girl 
 Guide uniform — his eye swept over Richard blankly — he 
 knew then? They had told him, or he must have remarked on 
 all that square muscularity clothed in mufti. . . . Voices like 
 persistent wasps . . . the pursuing threat was in the room with 
 him now ... it was always worst in here . . . with the pic- 
 ture of Commander Antony Dunne. What was the Doctor say- 
 ing? something about the German prisoners employed to work 
 on a farm in the neighbourhood . . . but that was part of the 
 plot, to goad him into his declaration — to lead the talk that 
 way , . . part of the plot. . . . 
 
 " They're lazy swine, you know ! won't do a stroke of work 
 when the overseer's back is turned " 
 
 "Why should they? " demanded Richard. 
 
 The wasp-drone hushed now; faces all turned towards him, 
 curious to hear — the plot was working as anticipated. 
 
 Fool! why had he spoken? . . . that cursed new trick of 
 seeing things all round and from the other side. But he went 
 on, doggedly: "Do you suppose that if I were an English 
 prisoner in Germany that Fd do one more stroke of work on 
 their damned alien soil than would be forced out of me? " 
 
 Molly and Frank exchanged a quick look. And Greville 
 frowned uneasily. Then Dr. Greyson said, with perfect cour- 
 tesy: " It 's rather difficult, I imagine, for any one who is not 
 entirely one of us to appreciate our point of view. For you're 
 not quite English, are you, Mr. Marcus? " 
 
 He knew! ... he knew well enough — he only put the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 387 
 
 question to drag out his answer — he should have it then ! . . . 
 Frank smiled meaningly at Molly. . . . Richard saw him — 
 and the room, the little chintz sitting-room which was all Eng- 
 land, was glad, glad, glad at his impending humiliation. . . . 
 Nerves drawn tighter and tighter — then they twanged apart, 
 burst strings — " You're not quite English, are you, Mr. Mar- 
 cus? " 
 
 " No," Richard screamed suddenly, " I'm a German. And 
 I hate the English — I hate them " 
 
 It was not true. As he rushed for the door, and down the 
 passage and out into the garden, all that was left sane in him 
 denied the cry ; he did not hate the English — loved them — 
 wanted to be like them — wanted to belong to them — fight for 
 them. But they had pushed him into the lie. And now he 
 could not live, having said it . . . the sea was somewhere . . . 
 he would run till he got to the sea. ... 
 
 The pad of footsteps in his rear ... he plunged forward, 
 slipping on the soaked ground, . . . More footsteps, louder — 
 only let him get away — if there were no shock of barbed wire 
 ahead to stay him ... he would escape the barbed wire, es- 
 cape the mob that for two and a half years had been hound- 
 ing behind him . . . never so close as now. ..." Schnabel ! 
 Schnabel! " soft rain blowing across his face . . . head down, 
 arms pressed against his sides, breath sobbing fiercely, he ran 
 on in a blind panic. . . . 
 
 " I can't catch up with the beggar," said Greville, returning 
 to the sitting-room. " I called him, too. ... I s'pose he'U 
 come back all right? " 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHY had he not thought of suicide before this? 
 Looked upon calmly and dispassionately, from a 
 merely business aspect, it was the only course for 
 him — lacking the vital sustenance which men drew nowadays 
 from love of their own land. It annoyed Richard that even 
 though he had reached the sea, the sea was nowhere in sight — 
 lost behind wide flats of mud. He leant against the rail which 
 divided the path beside the railway from a strip of coarse sand, 
 sullenly determined not to plunge across all that marsh till he 
 found deep enough water to drown him; even suicide, it seemed, 
 was to be a diflSculty and a favour; — well, the sea could come 
 to him — he would wait for the returning tide. 
 
 He must have run more than five miles; that was all he knew 
 of his whereabouts. For when he registered, it was made clear 
 that for him the Essex coast was prohibited area. Leigh was 
 evidently the name of this little estuary town he had struck 
 haphazard. There would be half a column in the local paper: 
 " Enemy alien drowns himself." . . . Perhaps two lines in the 
 London Press, amongst other minor items of news. 
 
 Richard stared horizon-wards where might be the dilatory 
 tide of his desire. He was now peaceful, almost numb in 
 mind and body, caring little for recent turmoil, where so soon 
 blankness was to be. He wondered dispassionately as to the 
 time? About six o'clock, to judge by the western pyramid of 
 opaque storm-grey cloud, a pale yellow sun breaking its peak 
 into fragments and spilling itself in shaft after shaft of dim 
 light down the triangle and on to the illimitable green and 
 brown and fawn, burnishing it to a glimmering fantasy like the 
 hues of a mackerel. Patches of blue sky were reflected in 
 
 388 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 389 
 
 purple pools. And areas of mud were almost invisible for 
 ships, their keels deeply embedded, as though a whole lurching 
 fleet had suddenly flung themselves on their sides and were im- 
 potent . . . ropes and nets and sails and tackle, old tubs and 
 steamers and hulks. The scene was packed and spiked with 
 masts. Behind the station, and its creak and flap of signals 
 and gates and coal-trucks, a purple gasometer seemed to have 
 entangled itself beyond redemption into the mournful land- 
 scape; and from an out jutting breakwater, the black finger of 
 a donkey-engine pointed darkly, accusingly against the sky. 
 The tide had turned, somewhere far out there; and in monot- 
 onous procession up a narrow flowing squiggle of silvery grey, 
 the fishing-boats came in; their unclothed masts still gauntly 
 upright; small dark figures of men hauling with ropes on 
 either side, or gently paddling from the stem; small, dark fig- 
 ures, penguin-height, standing patiently in rows on the mud, 
 to receive the loads of fish. Round each dwindling bend an- 
 other boat could be sighted; they might come in thus for ever, 
 with nothing to break their soundless even progress. The sky 
 was all grey now, and the grey and brown of the marshes 
 hardly touched to pearliness. A throb in the air loudened, as 
 a grey steel airship came pounding, slow and enormous, across 
 the foreground. Dagon, god of fish . . . god significant of 
 grey steel wars. . . . 
 
 From lethargic contemplation, Richard was being imper- 
 ceptibly hypnotized by the subtle rhythmic excitement that per- 
 vades and hangs about an estuary; estuary which is not quite 
 the sea; which leads to the sea; which opens out so wildly and 
 generously from the mere width of a river. The fishing-hauls 
 were in, and the men had vanished from the marsh ; but to him 
 it was still as though boat after boat were following the curve 
 of the inflowing stream . . . but dimly visible now . . . the 
 air was full of windless dusk, and a quiver shook the keels of 
 the mud-locked fleet; soon they would begin to stir and lift. . . . 
 
390 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 u 
 
 The scream of a siren punctured the calm. Another one, 
 from much nearer at hand, pressed down and swallowed the 
 first long raucous shock of sound. 
 
 Richard knew the two blasts were signals of an air-raid 
 impending. He had heard the Dunnes discussing the possi- 
 bility of several during this week of harvest moon. A few 
 lingering footsteps pattered to sudden quickness and silence. 
 In the little town at his back, and all along the coast, he was 
 aware of no panic, but of every person on the defensive; 
 sucked back behind walls and shutters and curtains; braced 
 to sturdy sensible resistance of the chance-monster and its 
 grim selection. In the morning the population would emerge 
 and stand about and gossip clamorously, with frequent repe- 
 tition of the phrase: "Well, I was just " "Yes, and I 
 
 was just " But now, all activity withdrawn and wait- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 Richard waited too, a few moments. Then, impatient of im- 
 mobility, strolled along the path on his right. He was im- 
 pressed by the absence of fuss on the part of the civil popula- 
 tion. All very well for him who had no more fastenings on 
 life; but these ordinary people appeared to take it so for 
 granted that they should be disturbed in the midst of their daily 
 business, to an encounter with such grotesque apparition as 
 bombs and shrapnel and aerial torpedoes. . . . Their be- 
 haviour roused him to the same queer beating tenderness as 
 when the blind discharged soldiers at the music-hall had been 
 " still keen on things." Some people were rather fine. . . . 
 English people . . . but he had declared out loud that he hated 
 the English . . . and so he had to die. 
 
 He went past the gas-works, and along the sea-wall which 
 meandered through the marshes. Open country all around 
 him now, and no noise but the swish of rushes, far-off gurgle 
 and squirt of water, occasional plop of some small animal into 
 the spreading pools. Was there always this black gaping rent 
 of silence between the signal and the first gun-mutterings? It 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 391 
 
 was Richard's unique experience of an air-raid outside London ; 
 and an air-raid in London he had considered was altogether 
 a second-rate affair. 
 
 " First line of defence," he remembered Greville had called 
 the belt of fortresses — Sheerness, Shoeburyness, Canvey Is- 
 land, Tilbury and Gravesend. He strained his eyes towards 
 the angles of crouching coast-line opposite him, in vain effort 
 to distinguish them. First line of defence, he repeated once 
 or twice exultantly — before he pulled himself up as a fool. 
 What did such trivialities concern him now? 
 
 Hallo — was that firing out there? No. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Or a dog barking? 
 
 Richard told himself persistently it was only a dog barking, 
 to smother the quality of vital contentment newborn in him 
 and uprising with the nearer and yet nearer sound of the guns. 
 
 The darkness was lit with sinking star-shells ; and through the 
 thin white light which the rising half-moon spread over the 
 estuary, the inland Hight of little winged machines was clearly 
 and delicately visible. 
 
 Richard stood stock-still, staring at these, till, in a surge of 
 wild indignation, he found himself starkly confronted with the 
 fact that they were the Gothas, and that they were over an 
 English river, carrying death to an English city. 
 
 " Damn their insolence ! " he shouted into the sky. " It's our 
 land " 
 
 Our land, fizzing in a nightmare of flame; drowned in great 
 gun-thunders. And these small black figures busy with their 
 evening's haul of fish not an hour ago, our fisherfolk — could 
 we prevent them from being torn and hurt? 
 
 " Oh, Christ — that's good ! " as the barrage crashed from 
 every side at once; and the giant gun on Canvey Island mouthed 
 and reverberated above all the rest. Our barrage! ... To 
 Hell with these invaders. . . . 
 
 Richard was all right. His at last, that blessed bias on the 
 vision which he had forfeited, and so desperately sought. He 
 was, thank God, incapable now of reason or justice or sanity — 
 
392 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 unconscious of himself and his position, oblivious of an enemy 
 point of view. Just English for all he was worth. One man 
 for one land. A patriot . . . and — in it! ... He forgot 
 that he was alone; the rending chaos all about him gave him 
 the illusion of being a central participant; so his solitary 
 figure jigged and capered on the flat sea-wall with incoherent 
 vocal splutter of encouragement and fury and a very delirium . 
 of pleasure. 
 
 A shape of yellowish drab came scuttling along the wall, 
 arms thrown up to shield the face. ..." Hallo — look 
 ahead! " Richard called warningly — then threw out his hand 
 and clutched at the slipping figure. " You were nearly down 
 then — I say, what's the matter with you? " for the little sol- 
 dier was clinging to him in a very frenzy of terror, with prayer 
 and sob and blasphemy mingled. . . . 
 
 " Oo — er — Jesus, the blarsted noise again . . . don't let 
 'em — don't lemme go — I ain't a coward, sir, 'streuth I'm not 
 — bin two years in the trenches — but them guns fair do some- 
 fink to the inside of me 'ead. . . . Ow — er " he fell 
 
 writhing and vomiting to the ground beside Richard, as the 
 barrage appeared to have enclosed a stray Gotha, and shook 
 the four sides of the world with triumphant yelps and rum- 
 blings. 
 
 " Shell-shock," muttered Richard. " Corporal by his stripes 
 and — by Jove! Military Medal " — as a twist of khaki tunic 
 into the moonlight revealed a strip of ribbon sewn on to the 
 man's meagre chest. 
 
 He was suddenly guilty and ashamed of his own arrogance 
 of calm. This sort of wreck was what the war made of some 
 of its heroes; "this is what the war ought to have made of 
 me "... he should have been blind with the St. Dunstan's 
 men : broken like the little cockney soldier from France, cower- 
 ing here beside him. His mind and body and five senses whole 
 and immune, were dishonour. 
 
 Richard knelt and took firm grip of the twitching wrists. 
 " It's all right," gruffly. " Listen — they're getting away to- 
 wards London; we shall have quiet for a bit." 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 393 
 
 "Till they come back," sobbed the man, but he trembled 
 less violently, and presently drew himself up to a sitting pos- 
 ture. 
 
 " Discharged ' fit ' from 'orspital larst week," he whispered, 
 lips trembling to a rueful smile. His peaked, freckled face was 
 glistening with sweat, and his fingers still tore at the grass; 
 but he was making an effort at control. " Doc told me I 
 shouldn't get another o' these 'ere attacks, but — I dunno — it's 
 the s'noise wot did it. I was walkin' over quiet-like from Ben- 
 fleet — luvly evenin' an' all — when that bloomin' siren went 
 and gave me fits an' I begun to run." His voice conveyed 
 apology, and Richard flushed crimson. 
 
 " It's all right," he repeated awkwardly ; " where do you 
 want to get? " 
 
 " H'under cover," said the Corporal with distinct emphasis. 
 "We're nearer Leigh, I b'lieve, dian Benfleet; might make a 
 dash for 'ome sweet 'ome before. . . . Oh, Gawd! don't, don't," 
 as a fresh growling outbreak from the Sheerness guns signified 
 the approach up the Thames of a second batch of raiders. 
 
 Cover? Richard looked round the landscape; it was en- 
 tirely exposed; not even a tree; nothing humped from the flat 
 marshes except a few old derelict boats reversed in the mud; 
 one of them at the foot of the slope where now they lay. 
 
 " Better than nothing ! " It might at least be suggestive 
 of shelter to his companion, even if of no actual protection from 
 shapnel. Richard leapt down from the wall, and plunged 
 up to his knees in mud, tugged at the boat with all his welded 
 strength of shoulder and muscle. 
 
 "'Ere — you're not gawn? " he heard whimpered during a 
 lull in the barrage. And " Rather not ! " he shouted back, re- 
 assuringly; and succeeded in tilting the half -rotten boards so 
 that the bows rested against the slope while the stern remained 
 still embedded; thus the concave bottom of the boat roofed a 
 small dark space — an amateur dug-out. 
 
 Meanwhile, the second raiders were not suffered to pursue 
 their leaders to London; the barrage waxed fiercer, shutting 
 them in, driving them from point to point; a few bombs were 
 
394 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 dropped, and exploded with a dull concussion of sound quite 
 distinct from gun-fire; and all along the Kent and Essex coast 
 the shrapnel flew screaming. 
 
 " Hot stuff ! " laughed Richard, as a moaning hoot snicked 
 past his ears; he sprang up the bank again, and found the Cor- 
 poral crying in a quiet agony, too exhausted to budge. With- 
 out explanation he lifted him gently; placed him "under 
 cover " as he had desired. Then he blocked the aperture at 
 the tilt of the boat with his own square stocky build. " Shut 
 your ears with your arms, you won't know anything more about 
 it till the morning," he shouted through the din. 
 
 Presently his companion said: "I've just remembered me 
 name — it's Plunkett — Ted Plunkett." 
 
 " Oh — yes? " Richard was rather surprised at the formal- 
 ity in the midst of shell-shock during air-raid. 
 
 A pause. Then : " Well — ain't you goin' to tell me your 
 name now I've told you mine? " reproachfully. 
 
 " Richard Marcus." 
 
 " R! Got some pluck, 'aven't you, Sonny Richard Marcus? " 
 
 And amusement twinkled in Richard's deep-set eyes, as he 
 reflected on the quality of pluck needful under bomb-fire by 
 a person out for the express purpose of drowning himself. 
 
 "Ever heard the comic story of the servant who had never 
 seen the sea? " he replied with seeming irrelevance, but think- 
 ing how the tide had temporarily baulked his intentions. 
 " She was so dead keen on seeing it that she stole her mistress' 
 jewels to pay for the fare to Southend — and then they arrested 
 her while she was waiting for the tide to come up." 
 
 " Fair did 'er in ! " commented Corporal Plunkett, laughing 
 weakly. " Less row now, ain't it? " 
 
 " Some of our chaps gone up, I should say. Yes — listen ! " 
 as a succession of quick staccato bangs were knocked out 
 directly overhead, then echoed a little farther off. 
 
 The Corporal subsided, crouching his dazed tormented head 
 deep into his arms. And Richard, with his hands clasped 
 round his knees, waited through the ensuing drawn-out silence 
 for the distant inland throb which would easily mean the 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 395 
 
 return of the first batch of raiders from London. He longed 
 with eagerness for tlie renewed sound of gun-firing; it definitely 
 slaked a thirst in him that had craved for such satisfaction 
 for three years. Well — he had not been able to go to the 
 war, but a little bit of the war had come to him. . . . God was 
 — not so bad, after all! He was happy, sitting there waiting. 
 
 "There they are! " And at the same moment he felt a 
 warm trickle down his neck. " Cheerio ! wounded in action ! " 
 That bit of shrapnel which had scraped so close to his ear, must 
 have scraped closer than he had noticed at the time. 
 
 " Yes, there they are — with a vengeance ! " 
 
 ... In the subsequent transformation of earth, sky, air 
 and water into sheer noise, he faintly heard his comrade ejacu- 
 lating " Hell " between intervals of violent sickness. He 
 thrust a stealthy hand into the aperture; it was grabbed and 
 twisted by wet chilly fingers. 
 
 "It's all right, y'know," said Richard gruffly. "Quite all 
 right " 
 
 The last Gotha was chased from the mouth of the Thames 
 out to sea. The last mutter of guns died away. 
 
 " I daresay it's h'over now." Plunkett emerged cautiously 
 into the moonlight some ten minutes later. " May as well get 
 'ome," and he staggered to his feet. "The Missus '11 be 
 wondering." 
 
 "You think it is all over? " Richard was reluctant to be- 
 lieve it. That one nerve in him was still twanging irritably 
 for the relief of gun-fire. 
 
 The Corporal nodded. " It'll be 'alf-an-'our or more afore 
 they give the signal. Can't wait for that. You comin'? " 
 
 " Where? Back to Leigh? — No, not for the moment. Can 
 you get along by yourself? It isn't far." 
 
 " Fit as a fiddle," the other declared. He held out his hand 
 to Richard — " Thank yer. Sonny. . . ." 
 
 The boy blurted out, at a reminding prick of the old goad: 
 " I was born in Germany, you know. . . ." 
 
 Corporal Plunkett, M. M., was astonished at the inconsequent 
 confession . . . some divine impulse prompted him to the 
 
396 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 speech that healed. "Lord, sir — that don't matter. You're 
 one of us all right! " 
 
 m 
 
 . . . The obsession was lifted. Corporal Plunkett had done 
 it. Corporal Plunkett had atoned for Mr. Gryce. Never again 
 would Richard turn hot and miserable at the mention of Ger- 
 man frightfulness ... he had no connection with the things 
 the Germans did. Bom in Germany, yes, but — " You're one 
 of us all right," the cockney soldier had said. The awful 
 crazed obsession of responsibility was rolled away; and in 
 utt«r thankfulness Richard lay on the sea-wall that first night 
 of the September air-raids, half-dreaming, content to have 
 heard the guns, content. . . . 
 
 He was not going to drown himself. Suicide was surrender 
 without a fighting chance. Richard's sturdier business instinct 
 rejected the proposition. Suicide was stupid — a refuge for 
 weaklings and decadents — he could wrench out better terms 
 for himself. Now that his spirit was fixed for one land and 
 one people, the fact of continued official ostracism hardly 
 counted. He would have to submit to that as to a fact and 
 a nuisance, but in no way vital. . . . Internment? That also 
 was only official — " I'll just have to get through with it." 
 Richard scowled healthily at the annoying prospect. 
 
 But he was out of No Man's Land at last ... it had been 
 dreary fog-sodden territory, and he was glad, a thousand times 
 glad to be qyit of it. Not once again need he set foot there; 
 his love of England was sanctuary. He would love England, 
 not as before, in exacting casual certainty, but with the fierce 
 beating love of a man for the woman who has no love for him, 
 who will never return his love. He would love England in 
 spite of herself, and with a love steadily cognizant of its own 
 hopelessness. And he thought of fireside happiness where 
 passion was mutual and easy . . . and rejoiced, in new-found 
 defiance, that his body should stand outside, pressed against 
 hard rains and hard storms and hard swerve of the hills. 
 
 " But I'll make her take me somehow — in the end " 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 397 
 
 A man must have a country to call his own. To know his 
 own. So much the war had taught him. Other lessons it 
 might have held for others; but for him this special groping 
 agony of nowhere belonging. 
 
 Internationalism . . . brotherhood . . . that was all very 
 well ! men had hailed it, and believed in it ; had let the careful 
 drawing of boundary be slurred; had forgotten to set stern 
 limits to their sense of humanity . . . had merged the sig- 
 nificance of birthplace to freer, more casual interpretation: 
 The world is my birthplace. . . . Men had wandered, drifted, 
 flung themselves down in alien places. Why not? The sub- 
 conscious trust in the brotherhood of nations had urged them 
 to such courses. 
 
 And Internationalism had failed them. Each country was 
 tightly puckered again to self-sufl5ciency. Internationalism 
 had no country to give her devotees during the European 
 war. No country but No Man's Land . . . desolate sodden 
 track without end or beginning, neither land nor sea ... to 
 Richard, almost asleep, came a vision of the estuary echoed 
 omewhere in space and in deeper shadow . . . greyer fog . . . 
 shapes stumbling about it, hunting for cover, some wailing 
 loudly, some silent and bewildered. . . . He was himself a 
 wraith, one of the betrayed . . . and there were others vaguely 
 familiar. . . . 
 
 Voices calling, and receiving no answer, calling again and 
 again . . . red-cheeked waiters, vaguely seen in pre-war days, 
 vaguely disappeared after 1914 — they were all here, paler 
 now. . . . And here the cobbler to whom Richard had given 
 Aunt Stella's shoes . . . and Trudchen and her sister Anna, 
 seeking each other, missing each other. . . Otto Rothenburg 
 squealing loudly that he was British. . . . And now Richard, 
 in his travellings, bumped up against Gottlieb Schnabel, who 
 shrank from him and shrank away into the murky gloom . . . 
 and turned into Captain Dreyfus — "I wonder why? " That 
 legendary soldier who had killed his own brother on the op- 
 posite side — he was native of No Man's Land; and his brother, 
 the sticky brown gouts dripping from both his shot arms — 
 
398 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 And: "You here too?" said Thomas Spalding to Richard, 
 and held out a hand. ... A cloud of fog seemed to roll be- 
 tween them. . . . Thomas Spalding was lost again. 
 
 Children of No Man's Land — of Denmark and Norway and 
 Sweden and Spain and Holland, entangled haphazard in one 
 belligerent country or another, condemned haphazard as pro- 
 German, pro-English. . . . Their bewildered avowals disbe- 
 lieved and mocked. . . . "Who are the neutrals? there are 
 no neutrals — the world is at war. . . ." Born in one place, 
 reared in another, married in a third — " which is your coun- 
 try? " No Man's Land is their country ... we shall meet 
 them in No Man's Land. ..." An artist has no country " — 
 artists without nvunber groping their way through No Man's 
 Land, thinking they are walking straight ahead and out of it, 
 not knowing that in the darkness and the smiting din they are 
 walking round and round in circles. . . . 
 
 " I have no son! " voice sombre and deep from the shadows; 
 a proud old man, this, naturalized English, hating Germany, 
 eighteen-forty-eight refugee. . . . He sent his son to be killed 
 at Gallipoli, and now they are interrogating his loyalty — 
 "Have you a son at the Front? " "I have no son! " He 
 will be accepted at his own word and valuation, or not at all. 
 The dead boy is too dear to stand for mere pledge and se- 
 curity. . . . 
 
 Little distracted figures plunging hither and thither, some 
 of them frantically waving a sheet of paper — " Look — 
 Look," but there is no escape from No Man's Land by 
 naturalization ... in despair the papers are thrown away — 
 flutter whitely in the gloom " like a paper-chase," Richard 
 thinks. 
 
 He is hunting for David, in frantic need of comradeship. 
 " Is it you? Or you? " thrusting away each white distorted 
 face as it looms towards him. But David is not here — David 
 was once of No Man's Land, but now no more. . . . Zion has 
 him, wholly and completely. David is a Jew, and the Jews 
 have been granted a cause and a kingdom. ... Of no avail 
 to seek for David in these grey spectral fogs. The noise is 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 399 
 
 louder and louder — no definite sound, but an intensified cos- 
 mic thudding which can be heard when body and soul are 
 alone and listening. . . . Richard is aware of loneliness 
 drenching him like vast breakers — must he stay here for ever? 
 " Lord, sir — that don't matter . . . you're one of us all 
 right! " It is Corporal Plunkett's voice which bursts the 
 nightmare vision . . . and drags him back to the sea-wall by 
 the estuary. . . . 
 
 One day men would dare to weinder again, and dare to pitch 
 their tents in strange places . . . but not those who had once 
 been victims; not Richard Marcus, nor his sons, nor his sons' 
 sons, he vowed grimly. . . . 
 
 And with that came the idea to dig himself in. And with 
 the idea, determination. 
 
 He would marry — Molly, perhaps. ... A sort of quick 
 ripple seemed to pass over the world when he thought of 
 Molly and of his savage outburst with her in the orchard. He 
 would marry her — as he had said then, whether she liked it 
 or not — and their son should be born in England, brought up 
 in England, owning land in England; he should be reared 
 to no ideas that were not purely insular; and he in his turn 
 should marry an English girl, and their son — would he be 
 enough Englishman, yet to be allowed to tolerate foreigners? 
 Or must that safer, easier attitude wait for the son of his son's 
 son? How many generations did it take to plant a man 
 securely, son of the soil? 
 
 Retrogressive, all this. The result of the war. Who could 
 afford, after such drastic teaching, again to omit patriotism 
 from fundamental need? 
 
 Richard began to muse on just how fundamental was the 
 need; and how much slapped on from the surface, by sugges- 
 tion? What was patriotism? He had first asked himself 
 this on a certain evening of shock, three years ago; and had 
 since only succeeded in discovering, very thoroughly, what was 
 the lack of it. 
 
 Sense of property, to start with . . . but that presupposed 
 
400 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 actual ownership; that a farmer, a landed proprietor, was 
 more directly inspired to fight for England, than — oh, than 
 cockney Corporal Plunkett, who was probably serving in a 
 shop before the call came. 
 
 Birthplace, then? — But Richard himself could answer the 
 question of how much that mattered to the soul. . . . The 
 law was surely overstressing topography. . . . The law was 
 polishing a hollow shell of sentimentality. David — David was 
 nearer truth when he defined patriotism as the sense of family: 
 son of our house; thence to local fanaticism: sons of our 
 village — and sons of our country, which was patriotism . . . 
 but it must stop there. . . . Sons of our five continents . . . 
 it sounded chilly, expanded so far. Internationalism again — 
 Richard denying it, yet could not prevent thought from crash- 
 ing up against it from time to time. . . . One day, yes — but 
 the soul must first catch cold in the pursuit of it. 
 
 What was patriotism? unity of pride in the nation's slow- 
 born history and tradition? Impetus of divine fury which 
 springs from sanctuary violated? . . . He remembered his 
 rage as the Gothas headed their insolent course straight up 
 the Thames — " My Thames "... he looked down the es- 
 tuary towards the sea . . . loving it . . . looked up the river 
 past Benfleet . . . good British name that, pungent with jolly 
 naval tradition . . . his inward sight followed the dwindling 
 stream through London, a draped lady stepping delicately 
 beneath crossed blades of silver, searchlights that protected 
 her . . . and still farther up lay the Thames valley, noon- 
 tide of green and gold drowsing gardens, and the glory of 
 ancient woods. . . . "My Thames! " 
 
 Suddenly Richard flung back his head and laughed, heartily 
 and with no trace of bitterness, at the mere idea that he could 
 love it less because his mother happened to be somewhere 
 else than here at the hour of his birth. It was — so entirely 
 ridiculous! Screaming little red-faced atom . . . what pos- 
 sible difference could it make to him, sucking at his bottle, 
 if Hun-land or home-land were beyond the windows? . . . 
 A world constructed on the arbitrary basis that each person 
 
DEBATABLE GROUND 401 
 
 must be screwed down solemnly and with ritual, in residence 
 and in feeling, to the consecrated spot in which he was bom, 
 was really not unlike a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. 
 
 Of course there was the old argument of " blood tells." 
 Did it? His sudden rushing worship of the river-god dis- 
 proved the argument wholly. For if he were no individual 
 person, but the compound of his ancestors' emotions, the 
 Thames would bore him, and the thought of the Rhine stir 
 him to unutterable paeans. 
 
 Thus Richard — he not knowing how a little shy German 
 boy had once crossed to England, and worn a blazer, and 
 sculled in a queer ecstasy from Bray to Cookham. Richard's 
 love of the Thames was a heritage from Ferdie. . . . 
 
 " I can't get hold of it — quite " the boy decided at 
 
 last, abandoning his question for patriotism defined. " But 
 
 it's there " There, elusively, tormentingly woven into 
 
 the fabric itself; distinct from patriotism exploited, talked 
 about, and sung about, and worked up into posters and pic- 
 tures . . . till it tasted like wood in the mouth. " Can't a man 
 serve his land unquestioningly, without all this cant? " But 
 no emotion could be left deep-hid and dimly private — not 
 love of art, nor love of child, nor love of man for woman . . . 
 patriotism must be thumbed with the rest, till its name was 
 Jingoism. " A patriot for lost causes, and a Jingo after vic- 
 tory — that's the difference. . . ." Had David said so? It 
 sounded like David. . . . Richard had not quite realized as 
 yet how awakened by circumstances was his own powerful, 
 slow-moving brain. 
 
 The suck of water startlingly near. . . . He raised himself 
 on one elbow, then sprang to his feet, and saw the tide was up, 
 flowing in clear, liuninous black over the marshes, oozing 
 greedily into each hole and inlet, lapping at the very foot of 
 the sea-wall. The bump of lifted boats was audible in the 
 moonless night. 
 
 Richard reflected, not without humour, that the sea had 
 emerged from obscurity rather too late to be of any practical 
 value — to him. 
 
402 DEBATABLE GROUND 
 
 He looked at his watch — ten minutes after midnight. Then 
 
 — he was eighteen to-day! . . . and the dreaded evening would 
 see him in prison — " Rum sort of birthday ! " — But horror 
 had all been drained out of the coming ordeal, leaving it, well 
 
 — a nuisance, nothing more odious nor festering. A con- 
 founded nuisance — but inevitable; neither the fault of those 
 interned nor of those who interned them; just a happening 
 out of greater happenings. 
 
 The last London train from Leigh would have gone by now; 
 he might catch an early morning workmen's train. He did not 
 want to go back to the Dunnes — grimaced slightly at the mere 
 idea of encounter, with his burst of madness so very recent in 
 their minds. Why — he had come rushing oui minus even his 
 cap; they could pack his bag and send it up to Montagu 
 Hall . . . not that he would need anything much for the next 
 year or two ... or for however long this dreary war was 
 going to last. 
 
 And after the war ? 
 
 " Let 'em go back to their own country — we don't want 'em 
 here." But, "This is my country. . . ." Richard stood on 
 the sea-wall, an obstinate figure, black against the dim flat 
 wash of water. He was smiling a little ironically at the thought 
 of Mr. Gryce . . . voice creaking in the hall as he came in: 
 " Intern 'em all ! " — and how he would exult in hearing 
 the next day that one more enemy alien had indeed been 
 interned! ... 
 
 Suddenly, and with an unexpected tearing at the heart, 
 three long-drawn-out hoots of the siren shrieked across the 
 swamp, a pause between each, as though the deliverer were 
 holding his breath. Then, all along the English coast, the 
 pent-up tension relaxed, and " We can go* to bed," said the 
 English people. " That's the All Clear! " 
 
 . . . The boy threw himself full length on the coarse grass; 
 lay with bare head pillowed on his arm; the same faint smile 
 still twisting his underlip: 
 
 *' May as well get some sleep now," said Richard, 
 
 THE END 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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 JUL 1 8 1951 i 
 
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