MADAM 
 
MADAM 
 
 BY 
 
 ETHEL SIDGWICK 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Copyright, 1921, 
 
 BY SMALL, MAYNAKD & COMPANY 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 
To 
 AMERICA 
 
 If she will accept so poor a thing 
 
 in memory and in gratitude 
 
 Spring, 1921 
 
 438712 
 
MADAM 
 
 PROLOGUE 3 
 
 I LONDON IS BEWITCHED 13 
 
 II LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 103 
 
 III PENNY ROSES 221 
 
 FINIS 336 
 
MADAM 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 ERITH FLEMING saw Mott first in the golden 
 days, before the world lost its innocence. She 
 was staying, as often, at Wicken Lodge, and went 
 riding with Henry Wicken, to whom she was 
 then engaged. A boy with a freckled face, and 
 intelligent, rather sly grey eyes, held the horses 
 as they came forth. 
 
 "Hullo, Mott!" said Henry, and put her up. 
 Mott's eyes, objectively observant, moved across 
 Erith as she mounted. There was a young lady, 
 said Mott's eyes; more, there was the young 
 lady, his choice, a clinker of course. The look 
 then passed on, with sedate indifference, to the 
 landscape. Nor did he salute or nod in answer 
 to Henry's recognition. His smile itself was in- 
 visible: a slight increase of intelligence in his 
 glance, which was really charming. He had a 
 clean flannel collar, pink ears, and was every- 
 thing that the son of a submerged family coach- 
 man, retired, and a notably pious mother, ought 
 to be. Only, he did not touch a forelock to 
 
 3 
 
Henry, nephew and heir of the house: merely 
 beamed at him obscurely, much as it were Mr. 
 Wicken's oldest friend. 
 
 "Who was that boy?" said Erith, after the 
 necessary interlude for dignity: for she was still 
 young. 
 
 "Mott Lane," said Henry. "That's Chris's 
 younger brother. You know the beautiful 
 Chris?" 
 
 Of course Miss Fleming did: and she all but 
 forgot Mott at once: Chris, lengthening to the 
 verge of manhood, was so much more interesting. 
 She had long had to conceal a perfectly natural 
 girlish curiosity as to Christopher. He was the 
 upper stable-boy at the Wickens' : on the verge 
 of becoming a sub-groom, or whatever is the next 
 degree: and owing his status, of course, to the 
 coachman already mentioned, that poor official 
 who was already sinking out of history. Chris 
 was a dancer and a gallivant, the whispered cau- 
 tion of a naturally correct family, who sat in a 
 long row at church. Terrible tales were afloat 
 of Chris, always beginning with a billiard- 
 saloon at Wandsley. Henry often asked why he 
 could play billiards badly and keep his charac- 
 ter, while the devil was taking Chris Lane, who 
 
PROLOGUE 5 
 
 played them well. Miss Wicken, a delicate and 
 artistic lady of the old school, did not answer 
 him : she merely told her brother almost weekly 
 that, poor old Lane notwithstanding, they would 
 have to get rid of Chris. 
 
 "Oh, Lanes," drawled Erith. "Ye-es. What 
 an endless family they are. I thought you told 
 me Chris himself was the fifth son." 
 
 "And Mott the sixth," said Henry, "not to 
 mention Maudie. Can't have too much of a good 
 thing, it's a long lane that has no turning, per- 
 haps Mrs. Lane will turn in time." 
 
 Erith looked serious, partly to reprove him: 
 partly that she generally was serious when Henry 
 was witty, since she was a wit herself. "It's 
 really awful," was her irritable comment. 
 "However can a man like Lane bring them up?" 
 
 "They're smart," replied Henry. "Chris is a 
 real devil of smartness, wasted smartness: 
 there's nothing he can't do. Mott, though prop- 
 erer, Mrs. Lane prays for him less, is, I be- 
 lieve, just as brainy. Just." 
 
 "Perhaps he'll go to Oxford," said Erith, her 
 lip curled. "He looks suitable." 
 
 "Why?" asked Henry. 
 
 "Oh, his nice eyes and his pious origin. He'd 
 
6 MADAM 
 
 probably go straight into the Church. I mean, in 
 any country less snobbish than ours." 
 
 "I think not," said Henry. "I think you mis- 
 judge Dermot I mean, his respect for his 
 mother, Mrs. Lane instigates respect, in in- 
 fancy, is only equalled by his admiration for 
 Chris. I admire Chris myself, in spite of Auntie, 
 but Mott beats me. He would let Chris walk 
 orer him, or horsewhip him, and, as you see, he 
 does Chris's work for him on Saturday after- 
 noon. Chris is now at billiards with the bank- 
 manager's son, and Mott is longing to mark for 
 him, simply longing, but he holds your horse." 
 
 "What a lot you know about them," said Erith, 
 suddenly scornful from another angle. 
 
 "I thought you were interested," said Henry, 
 who had quite good manners. Even when Erith, 
 next year, ceased being engaged to him, she ad- 
 mitted that. 
 
 She was engaged (though not yet formally) to 
 a friend of Henry's, Nicholas Glover, when she 
 next ran across the Lane family, in a newspaper. 
 
 "I hope those are not Henry's Lanes," said 
 Erith in public, flushed a little: because she 
 hoped they were. They were mentioned, with 
 
PROLOGUE 7 
 
 unction, on a popular page, as comprising a rec- 
 ord number of casualties. Six sons and a daugh- 
 ter, of whom, five sons cut off. 
 
 "Cut off" would be Mrs. Lane's word, thought 
 Erith, her eye dwelling curiously on the list : for 
 she soon guessed, since Wandsley was mentioned, 
 what Lanes they were. Captains and what not 
 they had done well, as Henry predicted, once 
 the dice-box of the world was shaken, and the 
 chance came. Why, Nichol Glover was no more 
 than Captain, though of course in a super- 
 exquisite regiment. Artillery, Air Force, 
 there they were: medals, too; she wondered 
 which was Christopher, or whether he survived. 
 Mott, from her mind, had been all but obliter- 
 ated: but Chris could never be, such power 
 young Pan hath still in the world. Whichever 
 of the Lanes was the survivor, at least he survived 
 whole, not maimed, like Henry; otherwise the 
 newspaper of unction must have mentioned him. 
 One more wound or limb missing would have 
 been considered an asset to the reading public, in 
 a record like this. 
 
 "How absolutely ghoulish these rags are," said 
 Erith, having read the paragraph with still at- 
 tention. "Burnt to death, charred, and still liv- 
 
8 MADAM 
 
 ing when he reached the ground, how they can 
 tell such things! Fancy the mother reading it!" 
 
 "It's much worse," remarked Glover, "for the 
 men who are on the spot." 
 
 "Oh, Nichol!" said his sisters: while his 
 mother sat with clasped hands, her look awing 
 him to silence. But Lady Glover did not awe 
 Erith. 
 
 "Nichol means," she said, "that people with- 
 out a grain of imagination, as even some mothers 
 are, can read those things with their eyes and 
 tongues, and keep their spirit right away. It is 
 one of the strange effects of print on the half- 
 educated mind. But seeing it can knock a man 
 right out, even a common soldier, can't it, 
 Nichol?" 
 
 He nodded, his eyes dwelling on her face, for 
 he was in love with her. Even when she was en- 
 gaged to Henry, in the golden era, he had loved 
 Erith: he could hardly credit his fortune now. 
 She had a wonderful power of picking up his 
 thought and putting it into words for him, with 
 just the tone and accent he liked. She was sim- 
 ply the most sympathetic girl he knew, as well as 
 the loveliest; others of his friends assured him 
 
PROLOGUE 9 
 
 of it; she guessed their feelings singly, not in the 
 mass. 
 
 "It is so," wrote Henry, in answer to Erith's 
 question. "It is a long time since they moved 
 away from Wicken to Wandsley; but my aunt 
 hears from Mrs. Lane, at the period of the yearly 
 pension, regularly. We knew of course that all 
 the lads were in the army, and all but Mott in 
 France. Mrs. Lane, we gathered, prayed for 
 them all but Chris, who was in the most danger- 
 ous place and work. Chris was a devil as usual, 
 I use the word in its best sense. He did a num- 
 ber of things, was decorated and so on, and got 
 himself burnt to death for no reason but that (I 
 believe) he was drunk. But then we were all 
 that, I should not think of blaming him. The 
 eye-witness we met told self and uncle that he 
 cursed God and died, small wonder. In her 
 last letter Mrs. Lane talked of dear Christopher, 
 in with the rest, for the first time. My uncle, 
 being something innocent, was amazed. I sug- 
 gested that he had gone to heaven by way of the 
 newspapers : but even so, Uncle was disturbed. 
 He thought the widow's brain must be slightly 
 turned by misfortune: no sons left, you see, but 
 Mott. But it is not so. Asses of correspondents 
 
io MADAM 
 
 have called on Mrs. Lane. Chris has gone to 
 heaven, and Mott is lost to grace. Mrs. Lane ex- 
 plains, in Biblical diction, which fits the subject 
 admirably, that Mott has gone on the rampage 
 with Chris's best girl. You can use your Sibyl- 
 line powers, Erith, over that." 
 
 To Nichol Henry wrote: 
 
 "My aunt was horrified that I wept over Chris 
 Lane. But then, I used to bathe with him in the 
 old days. I hope, Nichol, when nothing but 
 memories are left to console me, I shall see him 
 again like that, wet and wonderful: not the 
 charred thing crawling away those eye-witnesses 
 depicted. Life is wicked, especially now: but 
 not so baleful as to make the human mind prefer, 
 to the end, a picture like that." 
 
PART I 
 
I 
 
 LONDON IS BEWITCHED 
 
 Miss ASTLEY was shopping, necessarily at the 
 most crowded hour of the day: because, during 
 all the other hours, she was either working, going 
 towards her work, or going home. 
 
 She was one of the cloud of girls with des- 
 patch-cases who throng the murky streets and 
 mid-day restaurants of London. Caroline was 
 her name, Lina (accent long) she was called at 
 home, but she was "Miss" to such a preponderat- 
 ing section of her acquaintance, everywhere, that 
 she must step as Miss Astley upon these pages. 
 Miss Fleming flung about life and society as 
 Erith, so also did girls in a 'grade just below 
 Caroline's; but Miss Astley, with C. E. A. upon 
 a despatch-case, kept her quality most delicately 
 distinct from theirs. 
 
 She had two crowded hours for shopping to 
 choose from : either before work, when the shops 
 were languid and stupid: or after work when 
 they were just closing, hurried and cross. There 
 
 13 
 
i 4 MADAM 
 
 was also the luncheon-hour, from which she pre- 
 ferred not to abstract any portion, though she 
 frequently had to do so. On her Sundays and 
 Saturday afternoons, the stores were of course 
 shut, and the "young ladies" of the shop-depart- 
 ments were butterflies, free as air about the 
 pleasure-houses and the causeways. That was as 
 it should be, Miss Astley did not complain of 
 that; but it meant long and harassing struggles 
 to get herself small necessities, at the possible 
 hours, and the price within her means. For pov- 
 erty, as the poor know, is itself a waste of time 
 and nerve-power; no small crease in the petals 
 of life but is smoothed at once for a full purse. 
 
 Thus she was engaged one evening in the 
 battle for buttons ; necessary buttons, of the kind 
 that cheap washerwomen most delight to tear 
 and dislocate : when she heard a man at her side 
 demanding "woollen thread." It was such a de- 
 mand, to a woman's ear, and he was such a young 
 man, that the attention not only of the local 
 young lady, but that of all the other young ladies, 
 including Caroline's, was gapingly drawn in his 
 direction. He was one of three, as such gentle- 
 men generally are : for Gratiano is nothing with- 
 out his following. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 15 
 
 "Thread for mending, was it, sir?" said the 
 girl with sympathy. 
 
 "That's right," said the young man, in the 
 idiom of the day. "For a coat." 
 
 "A tear in cloth, sir? That would be wool- 
 mendin' ? Khaki, is it?" She looked at the boy's 
 costume. 
 
 "Blue," said the youth. "A kind of darkish- 
 blue. Isn't that what the Force wears? You 
 know best." 
 
 Here the girl giggled: and "drop it, 
 Mousie," said one of Gratiano's group behind. 
 
 "Here, now, clear out, sir," said a secretly- 
 smiling shop-walker. 
 
 "Can you match that button?" said Mousie. 
 The button presented was one of his Majesty's 
 police-force, beyond the smallest mistake. 
 
 "You send that back where it belongs, and 
 clear," said the shop-walker. All the girls were 
 now in an ecstatic bunch : the fearful tension of 
 the worst hour of the day so delightfully re- 
 lieved, that even Miss Astley, herself hurried and 
 harassed, could scarce forbear to smile. 
 
 "Before who it belongs to comes after you," 
 added the shop-walker, in a shy mutter, with- 
 drawing ; for a real lady, a lovely young creature 
 
16 MADAM 
 
 clad in some chic uniform or other, claimed his 
 attention. 
 
 "No remnants, Madam, no. Last year? very 
 possibly, Madam: they don't make that line 
 now, they was finished abroad. Yes, I fear so, 
 Madam. Well, Madam, we could show you lace 
 ones, though as for wearing, ah, we can't 
 guarantee that." 
 
 "Lace ones," mimicked the young man called 
 Mousie, and turned his eyes a moment on the 
 young lady's face. He then turned them rapidly 
 away again. "Is that my wool-mending? 
 Thanks." He laid hands on Miss Astley's 
 parcel, and before she could make a movement 
 or utter a protesting cry, was obliterated in the 
 moving throng. 
 
 "Stop him!" said the shop-girl, as well as she 
 could for laughing. "That was the lady's little 
 lot, buttons and such " She clutched the neigh- 
 bouring young lady, and they rocked together: 
 it was all as good as a pantomime, the latter part. 
 "Oh, stop him, Mr. Wilton, would you mind? 
 They really are!" 
 
 "Did he take your parcel?" said the girl in 
 uniform to Miss Astley. "Where's his? Look 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 17 
 
 here, I'll catch him, shall I? He'll never get out 
 in this crush." 
 
 "He hadn't got a parcel, Madam," chimed the 
 girls. "It was silliness he was asking for, and 
 out for too!" 
 
 "I daresay he'd had a drop," said the sour- 
 faced forewoman. "Quiet now, down there, 
 please, Mr. Wilton'll see to it. Don't you trou- 
 ble, Madam." 
 
 This, be it observed, not to Miss Astley, de- 
 prived of her property: but to uniformed Mad- 
 am, who, conscious of her standing, vigor, and 
 unhampered legs, had offered to play gendarme. 
 
 "She's off!" whispered girl to girl. "I say, 
 suppose she knew him! he looked at her, 
 what say?" 
 
 "Not his sort," said the next girl/ with utter 
 confidence. "Can't you tell that? She's a toff." 
 
 "Hush sh sh !" breathed forewoman. 
 "What for you, Madam? Oh, you're the lady as 
 the parcel's was." (Grammar gets a little 
 ragged at these hours.) "You might wait, 
 but" 
 
 "I'd better have some more," said Miss Astley, 
 looking from her slender purse to the distant 
 shop-walker. One might, of course, make a com- 
 
i8 MADAM 
 
 motion it was the shop's affair; but Miss Ast- 
 leys who live by their elegance can so seldom 
 afford to. 
 
 "It was a mistake, I daresay," confided the 
 forewoman : kind, since the customer was pur- 
 chasing again. "Just their fun. Happy they are, 
 on leave, it's excusable." 
 
 "Not very honest fun," said Miss Astley. 
 
 "That's true, when it comes to property." 
 Later she said "If the the gentleman finds his 
 mistake and deposits it, we'd refund, naturally, 
 should you care to call." 
 
 "I will call," said Miss Astley, "but I don't 
 imagine he will think of it." 
 
 Nor, by the rule, should she have thought 
 again of the little loss, the small sacrifice to her 
 country's boasted cause, and beardless cham- 
 pions ; but all day long, she could not forget that 
 boy's face. It was his expression, as he looked 
 round at the girl in uniform, that she remem- 
 bered. His bright eyes did not look tipsy, pre- 
 cisely, at that moment, they were far too keen; 
 but they looked chilled, cruel, and in some meas- 
 ure unearthly or unattached. 
 
 "I wonder if he has been ill," thought Miss 
 Astley. She pondered on what she had heard of 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 19 
 
 kleptomania, and had thoughts of questioning 
 her employer upon the point; but though she 
 often had questions she longed to ask her em- 
 ployer, it never came to it. Though she had 
 served him regularly for three years, she did not 
 know him to chat with ; and granted his nature 
 and hers, she probably never would. 
 
II 
 
 MlSS ASTLEY was secretary, typist, and general 
 prompter on the home-stage, to Mr. Forrest of 
 Harley Street, the noted surgeon. Mr. Forrest, 
 had Miss Astley ever deserted him, would have 
 been afloat and drifting, a black-jawed derelict; 
 but Miss Astley was never ill. She was eternally 
 pallid, spruce and gentle: appearing with the 
 same smile behind the same desk to Mr. Forrest 
 when, at a fixed hour, he looked into his front 
 room. That was all he wanted to see her; 
 Miss Astley did the rest. 
 
 She knew all about him, and his tricks, and his 
 telephone, as any man-secretary would have 
 done; but she also knew all about his household. 
 Mr. Forrest was a woman-hater, or rather de- 
 spiser, by conviction, and presumed to govern 
 alone; consequently the cook and Miss Astley 
 did most of it for him. They were in league; 
 and Caroline considered even ten minutes not 
 wasted, while the cook poured forth to her the 
 lamentable tale of how the "doctor" had brought 
 in four gentlemen to dinner, instead of the one he 
 
 20 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 21 
 
 had promised, two of them foreigners who 
 crossed their forks; and of how they would talk 
 of the most awful things in front of the new 
 "girl," who had been hard enough to find as Miss 
 Astley knew, and would never settle in such ac- 
 curately scientific surroundings, unless, of 
 course, Miss Astley would "do a bit of explain- 
 ing to her, on her own account." 
 
 So Miss Astley (on anything but her own ac- 
 count) would then spare another ten minutes of 
 her priceless morning to "explain" medical so- 
 ciety to the new "girl" : who was paid all but her 
 own salary for merely nominal work, and showed 
 it in her head-dresses : who despised Miss Astley 
 on sight, until the above tete-a-tete took place: 
 after which she preferred to adore her, call her 
 everywhere a "real lady," and pant helpfully 
 round corners at awkward moments, such as 
 when Miss Astley was shewing out a titled ap- 
 plicant for the surgeon's art. 
 
 For Mr. Forrest was very, very skilful, a vir- 
 tuoso of his craft; and foreign parts admired 
 him to such an extent that Caroline had to spend 
 all her odd time at home improving her French. 
 When the hour came, and the world lost its in- 
 nocence, Mr. Forrest went forth to war, his 
 
22 MADAM 
 
 war, and legitimately in the highest spirits; 
 then the acquired French became yet more use- 
 ful, for he sent both articles and people home to 
 her to be translated: and told her to "go to 
 Ashwin" if she got tied in knots over the etiquette 
 or the tongue. 
 
 Dr. Ashwin, living nearly opposite, was Mr. 
 Forrest's intimate friend and only critic, and was, 
 so long as he lasted in London, most kind and 
 helpful to Caroline, whose pretty figure in a dark 
 costume might at times be seen crossing the way. 
 Unfortunately he went to the war as well, equally 
 on the greater crusade, equally with that holiday- 
 air of undreamed-of release Caroline knew so 
 well in all the doctors. After that second depar- 
 ture, she was indeed alone. 
 
 Tales of adventure, male and female, hummed 
 and buzzed about Caroline, in streets and restau- 
 rants, for a year; but for all they troubled her 
 life, they might have been pictured on a "movie" 
 or in a magazine. Then Mr. Forrest, for reasons 
 she could have enumerated under headings, be- 
 came more wanted in London than he was in 
 France, and returned fuming: for he had en- 
 joyed himself hugely, investigating along a 
 certain favourite line. Some tyrant, better un- 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 23 
 
 named, bade him serve Britain in a manner he 
 enjoyed far less. Mr. Forrest, who would have 
 sent Britain to the devil for science, refused to 
 be consoled by the most fashionable decoration 
 his overlords could find for him ; and made Miss 
 Astley's life simply not worth living, for more 
 than a month, by persistent and violent ill- 
 temper. His wrath was increased by a bad diges- 
 tion, and by the fact that he had been revelling 
 in French food, which was calculated, as he told 
 his cook, to feed you, as well as to look decent 
 upon the dish. He simply could not bear the 
 aspect of potatoes and parsnips, plain-boiled; 
 and yet could not for his life explain to the 
 woman what he wanted improved. The cook 
 wept: the latest "girl" who was anaemic, went 
 about as white as the vegetable dish she carried : 
 and Mr. Forrest's patients began to whisper 
 fears that he was "one of the people whom the 
 War seemed to have hardened beyond recall." 
 
 But Miss Astley bought a French cookery- 
 book, practised a thing or two at home, and told 
 the cook, who had tearfully given notice, that 
 they were quite easy if she liked to try. A week 
 later, Mr. Forrest brought three foreigners home 
 to dinner, unwarned, because (he said) "the 
 
24 MADAM 
 
 woman he had could manage, not too badly." 
 They all crossed their forks, and talked more ac- 
 curately and awfully than ever, before the ane- 
 mic "girl": but in French, so she survived it. 
 The cook withdrew her notice, without Mr. For- 
 rest being ever aware that it had been presented. 
 The household settled to its pre-war ways, with 
 the exception of the friendly resource in the 
 Ashwin mansion, which remained in the East, 
 inexorably. That house fell under female occu- 
 pation, and was shunned, in consequence, by Mr. 
 Forrest, with the most uncivil determination (for 
 he knew both Dr. Ashwin's wife and his married 
 daughter perfectly well). He had news of his 
 friend, chiefly through the public press, grap- 
 pling with grisly diseases, in the most insanitary 
 circumstances and climates; and swore, at such 
 times, that Ashwin had all the luck. But, on the 
 whole, having mislaid his decoration, he became 
 reconciled to London life, placated; and it was 
 largely the sight of Miss Astley, settling morn- 
 ing after morning with her despatch-case, behind 
 her habitual desk, that reconciled him. Had all 
 women behaved, and looked, like Miss Astley, 
 Mr. Forrest could have tolerated the sex, with 
 ease. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 25 
 
 The fact was, that Miss Astley, pale and thin 
 as she now was, perpetually hungry, sleepy, 
 foreboding and overdriven as was every woman 
 of decent activity and feeling, at the period in 
 question, was nice to look at. Of this, proba- 
 bly, Mr. Forrest had no idea. 
 
 "I see your young lady has not deserted you," 
 said an amiable because grateful marchioness. 
 "For government work, I mean. Perhaps she 
 might be fatter if she did I" 
 
 Mr. Forrest, not versed in the fashionable 
 jokes, did not smile. 
 
 "I suppose she's asked you for a rise," said the 
 lady. 
 
 "I give her what she's worth," said Mr. For- 
 rest; because, honestly, he thought he did. 
 
 "Not engaged, either? No soldiers? Oh, 
 you're in luck indeed ! If you knew what house- 
 holds are now " 
 
 "I do," said Mr. Forrest: who really thought 
 he knew. "I believe," he said, "that my young 
 lady, as you call her, is one of the chosen few who 
 are uninterested in army men, as such." 
 
 "Impossible," said the lady. 
 
 "Why should she be?" said Mr. Forrest 
 
26 MADAM 
 
 "That has nothing to do with it. Oh, Man! 
 to ask why, of a woman !" 
 
 "I think," said Mr. Forrest, "that she is one of 
 the women, of whom I could ask, and expect, an 
 intelligible answer." 
 
 The lady thought this too rude, and said good- 
 bye without offending further; but her unhal- 
 lowed interference with his fixed establishment, 
 his fated and permanent train of secretary, cook, 
 and "girl," for he never noticed that the latter 
 altered, hurt Mr. Forrest in his digestion, all 
 that day. 
 
Ill 
 
 THAT Miss Astley belonged to any world but 
 theirs hardly occurred to the Harley Street cen- 
 tre : but of course she did : girls must. She had 
 a model family at Clapham : a father, mother, 
 and sister: and would probably have a sister's 
 suitor, pretty soon. 
 
 She was sitting one day (Sunday, of course) 
 on a seat in the park with her sister Lu. They 
 had not been to church, because Lu had a head- 
 ache: she had been singing rather late, for the 
 soldiers, the night before. 
 
 Lu was now in a hospital, Voluntary Aid, and 
 wore the dress, but she had had a season's essay 
 as a singer, first. Fancy Farrell was the name 
 she had selected for herself, and Miss Astley dis- 
 liked it: she could not see why Lucy Astley 
 should not do. Lu was still very young, and as 
 pretty as a peeping spring flower : wherefore the 
 Astley household, as on a pivot, turned about Lu. 
 She was to be cherished, counselled, fed on the 
 daintiest, helped towards the marriage that 
 
 mother and sister had romantically devised. It 
 
 27 
 
28 MADAM 
 
 was a real relief to them, when she ceased to be 
 Fancy Farrell, with hair a trifle over-curled on 
 the right eyebrow; and went into a hospital in a 
 neat dark blue costume. 
 
 Even as it was, Lu knew soldiers, many sol- 
 diers: and some she introduced to mother and 
 sister, but many she did not. She was watching 
 them this afternoon, and they at times were 
 watching her; though she talked soberly enough 
 to "Lina" about their common affairs. 
 
 Suddenly, as a fresh group passed, she saw it 
 held up, completely. She had felt her sister 
 move, and almost at the same instant, the tallest 
 of the bunch, whose careless eyes had been slink- 
 ing towards Lu, stood still. 
 
 "It is," said he. "Me preserver," and 
 clutched a comrade to either side. 
 
 "Which, the little one?" said the comrade. 
 "She's light to tackle you, Mouse." Their mirth 
 was much. 
 
 But the young man was very carefully extract- 
 ing a torn and crumpled parcel from the pocket 
 of his coat. He balanced it, and its half-visible 
 contents, on a hand, and held it out to Miss Ast- 
 Icy. 
 
 "Your lot, Madam," said he. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 29 
 
 "Well, I never!" said Lu, colouring. Of 
 course, in the hospital, one never tolerated 
 "cheek" like this. But her sister surprised her. 
 
 "How did you remember?" Miss Astley said. 
 She was utterly perplexed how, in that crowd, 
 and wild as he had been, his eyes had picked her 
 up. It must have been, as it were, unconsciously 
 to himself: it could not have been by any inten- 
 tion to remember her. 
 
 "Found you out!" His brow cleared. "You 
 don't get off, any of you. Oh, Lord !" 
 
 "What the devil are you doing, Mousie?" said 
 an amiable friend. None of the group, granted 
 Lu, objected to stopping: but here was their 
 leader engaged by the wrong girl. 
 
 "The relief!"" he cried. "Each of them 
 weighing on me, nightly, a dozen and a half. 
 Useless for the stunt, too," he added. "It was - 
 an oversight." 
 
 "It was not," said Miss Astley, low. 
 
 "She says it wasn't, Eric. Is it is it too late?" 
 His strange eyes were on her, inciting, urging her 
 to something. What was it? 
 
 "Do laugh," he said, hardly audible. 
 
 Miss Astley laughed, though she flushed as 
 well. No man in the world had ever so looked at 
 
30 MADAM 
 
 her, still less hustled her into laughing against 
 her will. The sensation was extraordinary. But 
 stronger than anything was the need to protect 
 Lu from these young carnivallers ; that being no 
 more than her sisterly habit, or office, she turned 
 about. 
 
 So looking, she saw that Lu had found a 
 friend, or at least an acquaintance, in the skirts 
 of the band; for other stragglers had come up, 
 now, all more or less annexed to Mousie. Lu's 
 acquaintance, carrying the convalescent's band 
 of blue on his brown arm, looked faintly sheep- 
 ish, while she exchanged with him the well- 
 judged chaff of a perfect hospital; for our 
 Voluntary Aids were nothing if not dignified, on 
 principle. 
 
 Mousie's gaze also slunk towards Lu, consid- 
 ering her; he completed, as it were, the glance 
 he had originally begun. What Mousie's own 
 garb was, Miss Astley never noticed, any more 
 than she had on the first occasion. She had then 
 had the general impression of trimness that 
 marks the airman, and this she had still. It was 
 Lu who informed her later that all the company 
 were wearing private's khaki, as it were, indis- 
 tinguishable; and Lu was not a person who 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 31 
 
 could be doubted, her bright eyes being unfail- 
 ing for the smaller things. Almost as soon as 
 Mousie glanced in her direction, Lu became con- 
 scious of it. 
 
 "Well, have you finished?" she said, with faint 
 satire, addressing her sister, though her eyes 
 passed across him. 
 
 "It is not too late," said Mousie. 
 
 "She bought some more buttons, if that's what 
 you mean." 
 
 He looked startled. "No!" 
 
 "They are things," said Miss Astley, as his 
 fingers reached his pocket, "that are always nec- 
 essary." 
 
 "To the end of life," said Mousie. "Then I 
 need not " 
 
 "No. And please, now, go on with your 
 walk." 
 
 He went on, immediately, to Lucy's secret cha- 
 grin : drawing, as Gratiano must, his escort along 
 with him. 
 
 "Well, I'd like to know if he thinks himself a 
 gentleman," said Lu, composing herself upon the 
 seat, "because I don't." 
 
 "No," said Miss Astley, doubtful: his accent 
 was so good. 
 
32 MADAM 
 
 "Fancy mentioning. buttons in that way, and 
 emphasising one's private shopping. I don't 
 think it's nice." 
 
 "He wanted to restore them," said Caroline. 
 
 "Oh yes ! He wanted to make a little more stir 
 about it, openly." 
 
 "But he needn't have seen me," said Miss Ast- 
 ley: driven somehow to defend Mousie. 
 
 Secretly Lu thought "It was me he saw." 
 
 "Such a name, too," was all she said aloud. 
 
 "It's a nickname." 
 
 "I mean Lancaster. That's what they call 
 him, Mouse Lancaster. I've heard his name 
 before this, some of our lot know him." 
 
 There was rather a long interval, Miss Astley 
 startled by the aristocratic ring of it. "Perhaps 
 it's a stage name," she said at last. 
 
 "Like mine? You never let mine alone. I 
 don't believe he's been on the boards, though. 
 Some kind of motor-engineering, since he left 
 the Air Force, Foote said. He's never been out." 
 
 Out to France, Lu meant, of course. "Was he 
 in the Air Force?" her sister asked. 
 
 Lu nodded. "Lost his nerve, and that 
 
 Ask me, and I'd say he'd nerve enough," added 
 Lucy. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 33 
 
 "Oh, was he ill?" 
 
 "No," she drawled. "More like a coward. 
 They turned him down." 
 
 "But nerves aren't cowardice. Don't you re- 
 member " 
 
 Lu cut through, rather crossly. "Oh, Lord, 
 yes, have it your own way. I'd not have a man 
 I cared for fooling about London in his off-time, 
 anyhow. Sure as anything he'd disgrace you, 
 that sort. Foote said he'd done things the po- 
 lice would be in the right of it, if they ran him 
 in" 
 
 "I hope he'll never be in prison," thought Miss 
 Astley, "with eyes like that." 
 
 She almost prayed it, since it was Sunday, and 
 such a sweet spring day. That ache-of-the-times 
 was in her, which, re-awakening every war- 
 spring, lasted till the following one, for the youth 
 of the world in thrall. What were they doing, 
 boys of that sort, and boys worse occupied 
 
 For at least Mousie had restored her buttons 
 to her: she clung to that. 
 
IV 
 
 "NlCHOL," said Erith, at a restaurant before the 
 theatre, "I saw such a weird man to-day." She 
 related the story of the stolen parcel very clev- 
 erly. "He made me think of somebody, that's 
 the odd part. I wish I could remember who." 
 
 "I hope you don't know many thieves," said 
 Captain Glover, now an openly-engaged man, 
 and very contented. "Has despatch-riding 
 brought you down to that?" 
 
 "Oh, stealing was the least of it: it was his 
 wicked look. Just as though he knew me, and 
 had known me ages. It haunts me somehow, 
 how dared he?" 
 
 "What kind of a lad was he?" said Nichol. 
 
 "No gentleman, if you mean that. One of the 
 new kind, plain wood polished, lacquered " 
 
 "A whited sepulchre," said Glover. "But I 
 say : some of that lot are first class." 
 
 "They're not, because they're pretentious. 
 They're deceptive. They raise your hopes for a 
 minute, and then by a word, or a way of looking 
 at things, ugh ! This man would have taken in 
 
 34 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 35 
 
 lots of people, I daresay. The shopwalker was 
 'sirring' him, and the girls! But what I felt 
 most about him, listen, Nichol, was that he 
 was dangerous : a danger to the community. He 
 was out to hurt, as well as to hustle. His jokes 
 would have a point in them, if possible, meant 
 to make himself felt." 
 
 "Well, he seems to have done so. I don't say 
 I'm jealous, but 
 
 "Oh, you needn't be! He didn't dare take a 
 shot at me. It was the other girl he injured. 
 Flat stealing, wasn't it?" She seemed eager. 
 
 ''M." said Nichol. "Some of the lads, you 
 know, are pretty wild. We've bred'm for it, 
 we oughtn't much to complain. What I mean is, 
 some of 'em want to pay back society for what 
 they have suffered : it takes them that way." 
 
 "Hasn't everybody suffered?" said Erith. 
 
 "M." Nichol looked at her again. She was 
 clad in biscuit-coloured silk, which made her 
 black hair look blacker, her soft skin more ut- 
 terly white. Her lips were tinted to a faint shade 
 of the same scarlet as the flowers he had given 
 her. She was tasting olives, daintily, they hap- 
 pened to be hard to procure. The amber-tinted 
 wine in her glass was costly also. 
 
36 MADAM 
 
 "Why," asked Erith, "should he turn on me? 
 I've done my duty." 
 
 "Were you in uniform? Perhaps he barred 
 that." 
 
 "Nichol!" Round were her grey eyes. "Do 
 you mean they think women oughtn't? boys like 
 that? Or do you mean a sort of jealousy?" 
 
 Glover laughed. When she asked why he 
 laughed, he shook his head, putting her off. "I 
 daresay," he said, comforting, "he was a beast of 
 
 a man." 
 
 "But he wasn't," said Erith. "He wanted 
 punishing, I thought. I hated him rather, but 
 I didn't despise him as I would a beast. He had 
 been ragging a policeman, and I daresay might 
 get himself a month's hard. That's what I 
 should really like. When he came out, he might 
 be quite nice to talk to, in his place, and clev- 
 erer than you." 
 
 "Oh," said Nichol. He ate for a time. "But 
 look here, Erith : why punish, suppose it's pun- 
 ishing made him what he is?" 
 
 "Because when people are nasty, they must be 
 punished," said Erith, wilfully. "And it may be 
 spoiling made him what he is, much more like- 
 ly. How can you know?" 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 37 
 
 "I couldn't, without seeing him," said Nichol. 
 "I don't think many people in the world are suf- 
 fering from spoiling, though," he added. 
 
 "Aren't you?" 
 
 "Oh, I might be." 
 
 "Nichol, you are funny, agreeing like that! 
 That's rather quick of you. I'll tell you someone 
 who is spoilt, Henry." 
 
 "God! Excuse me, Erith: you were joking." 
 
 "I wasn't. You were swearing. Nichol, lis- 
 ten: do you think Henry is jealous of you?" 
 
 Glover said nothing, though he seemed to be 
 groping for an answer. 
 
 "Do you think I was unkind?" She looked her 
 sweetest. 
 
 "No, no." He was troubled. "You are too 
 kind, to all of us." 
 
 "Do you think I'm doing what's best for my- 
 self?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no," said Nichol, recovering. 
 "I'm not going to let you stop forgetting yourself, 
 though, at present, Erith. Not till May." 
 
 "All right. You mean to chivy me in some- 
 how, don't you? Look out!" 
 
 "I'm looking," said Glover, confidently. "I've 
 taken note of the last man." 
 
3 8 MADAM 
 
 After a long pause "What do you mean?" 
 said Erith, coldly. He ceased smiling, and asked 
 her pardon in haste: which was the least a man 
 and a lover could do. 
 
V. 
 
 "I'D look after that gentleman-friend of yours," 
 said Lu suddenly, at supper. "He's taking to 
 bad ways." 
 
 "Lucy!" exclaimed her father; and her 
 mother, a pretty woman, turned pale. 
 
 The idea of her elder daughter with a gentle- 
 man-friend unknown to her, was enough to shake 
 Mrs. Astley, who, since she hung upon Lina at 
 all times, thought she was deep in her confidence. 
 To have little Lu knowing and talking about 
 "bad ways" was still worse: she could not im- 
 agine how such a condition of things had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 Mrs. Astley was very attractive, because she 
 always imagined, for others, the best and hap- 
 piest things. It led of course, frequently, to her 
 complete delusion: yet that hardly mattered, 
 since she was more contented so. For instance, 
 when Lina became secretary to a master-sur- 
 geon, and spent long days away from her, she set 
 to work and evolved a kind of intimate convic- 
 tion, improved by not seeing Mr. Forrest, that 
 
 39 
 
40 MADAM 
 
 he was "nice." She was sure things must be very 
 happy for Lina, because she was such a dear girl. 
 In the same way, Lu must be living in a kind of 
 cherubs' Paradise at the City Hospital, because 
 she was Lucy, and had such pretty curly hair. 
 As though anyone could be less than perfect to 
 her Lucy! 
 
 This being the way her mother's mind worked, 
 Lu's strong desire to throw bombs was perfectly 
 comprehensible. To have one's parents believ- 
 ing that one is living in a cherubs' paradise, in 
 war-time, at the age of nineteen so she threw 
 one : at Lina. 
 
 "What friend?" said Lina. 
 
 "Mister Lancaster," said Lu, emphasising the 
 first word. "He's a fair caution, the way he goes 
 on. I saw him at the pictures with somebody, 
 well, she was old enough to be his mother, to 
 begin with, and painted, and scent, sicken- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Did he see you?" said Miss Astley. 
 
 "I hardly know: he may have." She bridled. 
 
 "Who were you with ?" It was her father, this 
 time. 
 
 "There were a lot of us," said Lu: meaning 
 girls. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 41 
 
 "I wish you had all come away at once," said 
 Mrs. Astley: getting an impression of a bevy of 
 Lus in danger. 
 
 "Oh, Mother! As if you can't go to the pic- 
 tures! However," proceeded Lu, "if you think 
 I would be seen with him again, after such an 
 exhibition now I'll tell you, Father! This is 
 as true as I live." 
 
 "Go on, my dear," said Mr. Astley, flattered 
 by notice. He added, seeing his wife's face, 
 "If you must." 
 
 "I couldn't have believed my eyes," said Lucy. 
 "He sat down, through 'God save the King,' with 
 his hand over his face, and of course everybody 
 thought he was wounded. I did myself, for a 
 minute, I mean, you could hardly think any- 
 thing worse without evidence, could you? 
 Then, just at the last line, he got up, and limped 
 most awfully, right along the line, going out. 
 Then, really I'm ashamed " 
 
 "Don't, darling," from Mrs. Astley. 
 
 "He leant his hand on a chair, and leapt right 
 over it, feet together, like a like a well, a flea 
 is the only thing I can think of. And out he 
 pranced, as happy as you please, everybody gap- 
 ing, and the creature in fits." 
 
42 MADAM 
 
 "Your father," said Mrs. Astley wondering, 
 "seems amused." 
 
 "No, no," said Mr. Astley. "Who is this ath- 
 lete? A friend of Lina's, did you say?" He 
 lifted a humorous eyebrow at Lina: about 
 whom, of course, he was not going to believe any- 
 thing, on Lu's evidence; although, like every- 
 one, he spoilt Lu. 
 
 "I don't know him the least," said Miss Astley, 
 rather pale. "I'm afraid he must be a Socialist, 
 Father." 
 
 "It looks like it," said Mr. Astley. 
 
 "I never noticed a tie," said Lu, pensive. 
 "Still, of course, if he is, it accounts for the girl 
 and everything." She arose. "Well, all I hope 
 is," said Lu to the table, "I may never have the 
 pleasure of his company again." She set her 
 chair with precision, and departed, effectively. 
 
 Really, Lina hoped so too. She was deeply 
 distressed. Mousie had pulled a string of her at 
 first meeting: but now other strings, well rooted, 
 were jarring discordantly. She allowed for the 
 strength of her spoiled sister's colouring in the 
 tale, instinctively; but the woman and the scent 
 and the Socialism were all there, terrible things 
 to one of Miss Astley's upbringing. There was 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 43 
 
 a ribald touch in this latest story, which reached 
 her the more as she thought it over; to scout 
 Majesty, to ape the wounded, to leap "like a 
 flea" over a chair, amid bad women's laughter, 
 how could he? How could Mousie? he must 
 have been drunk. And to have him look at Lu 
 into the bargain, their Lu! 'for of course he 
 had done so. 
 
 "Did he speak to you?" she said later: as sis- 
 ter bound. 
 
 Lu coloured. "He said 'And how's Mad- 
 am?' I'm sure I don't know what he meant." 
 
 "You didn't answer, of course." 
 
 "What do you take me for?" 
 
 But the girl had: for eyes had answered, and 
 pretty bridling lips. She had not really, as she 
 implied, discouraged Mousie. She admired him 
 far too much. 
 
VI 
 
 FOOTE, Lu's former acquaintance at the hospital, 
 was now discharged from medical care, though 
 still unfit for service. He was seeking some 
 work in London, aided by a certain "Eric," 
 whose name Lucy had heard that day in the 
 Park. Eric was one of the lucky ones, she was 
 told, who had made pots of money in a pleasant 
 job of army horse-dealing, but who yet deigned 
 to call Foote "friend." Eric called Lancaster 
 "friend" also ; but despite Euclid's vaunted max- 
 ims, Foote knew little or nothing of Lancaster. 
 He could not say where the "Mouse" was work- 
 ing or training, beyond that it was in the London 
 area. He talked of his feats on holiday, as re- 
 lated by Eric, that is, when Lu encouraged 
 him. Foote would have done almost anything in 
 the world, at this period, in order to win a smile 
 from Lu. 
 
 Lu kept all these facts in her neat little mind, 
 not excepting the last one, amid various inter- 
 vening duties at the City Hospital. What she 
 noted especially was that Foote-Eric-Mousie, 
 
 44 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 45 
 
 as it were, completed a chain, of which she, in 
 amiable Foote, held one extremity. It is a won- 
 derful spur to dull and rather degrading work 
 to have glittering chains, such as Foote-Eric- 
 Mousie, festooning your week's end; it is even 
 better than Patriotism, which is supposed to hold 
 you up. 
 
 "I suppose you don't go to these Labour Meet- 
 ings," said Lu, on a Saturday, passing a poster 
 near the Albert Hall. Foote was her companion 
 that afternoon, and the remark fell naturally. 
 
 "Not me! not to say specially. Lancaster 
 does." Foote fell into the trap at once. He was 
 simply the most easily manipulated material 
 Miss Lu had ever met. It was the principal 
 thing against him, indeed, for her light wits 
 loved practice. 
 
 "What does he go for? Fun?" 
 
 "Oh, what does he do anything for?" said 
 Foote, cautious. "He'll get himself lagged, some 
 day, lays himself out for it. Those lads don't go 
 fast enough, not for him." 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 Foote nodded towards the poster. "So Eric 
 says. Eric doesn't encourage him, not in that 
 line," he added. 
 
46 MADAM 
 
 "What's the point of it?" said Lu, disapprov- 
 ing Labour. 
 
 "Ah," said Foote, with a wag of head: ap- 
 proving her attitude. 
 
 "You don't see girls there, I suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, some. Not many like you." This was 
 flattery. 
 
 "I'd like to talk to him," said Lu, thoughtful. 
 As Churchwoman and patriot, she meant, she 
 would like to talk to Mousie. Foote took her 
 right. 
 
 "He'd not have many of your sort interested," 
 he said vaguely. Lu was serious, for a time. 
 
 "You mean he knows others?" 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder. Take care, sister." 
 They crossed the road. 
 
 "Now I'll tell you," said Lu. "I did see him 
 with somebody once, I couldn't believe it. I'd 
 not mention it, but for your speaking of this." 
 
 That was perfectly understood, by Foote. He 
 made a vast effort, with his whole being, to rise 
 to little "sister's" needs. 
 
 "It's as though there were layers," he said. Lu 
 nodded, though she did not the least understand 
 what he meant. "Some's bad, some aren't," he 
 proceeded; and she began to look grave. "That 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 47 
 
 was his brother's girl, Eric says," proceeded the 
 ill-fated Foote. He coloured. "She's fond of 
 him, you know that will happen 
 
 "I think," said Lucy, "I had better leave you 
 now. Good afternoon." 
 
 She spoke brightly, looking him in the eyes as 
 she shook hands: Foote was terribly cast down. 
 They were kittle cattle, these young "sisters," to 
 deal with; looking pretty, sympathetic and con- 
 descending, they would suddenly shoot up, and 
 advance the womanly right arm. "Thus far !" 
 Foote, no hand at his native language, and addi- 
 tionally weak with admiring Lucy (at a rapid 
 rate of increase) was reproved. 
 
 "I meant nothing " That was how he should 
 have started again, but he never got it out. It 
 was a facer for him, to begin with, her interest in 
 another: for of course she did not deceive him; 
 men in love, in these matters, are not so easily 
 deceived. On the other hand, Foote himself was 
 interested, all but fascinated, by the "kid" Lan- 
 caster, for, leader though he appeared, Mousie 
 was younger than either Foote or Eric, who had 
 been his brother's friend. Foote held certain 
 hints on the case from Eric, which, stagger- 
 ing, yet had to be believed. A man, dealing with 
 
48 MADAM 
 
 a girl, could hardly lay tongue to Mousie's trag- 
 edy, such as it was whispered among them. 
 Wiseacres "in the know," like Poote, watched his 
 doings daily, almost as those of a lost soul. 
 
 There were other ideas adrift, needless to say, 
 connected with the person Lu had noticed with 
 him at the pictures: but none that Foote could 
 begin to sketch to a girl of Lucy's sort. They 
 were all of the matter of life, of the nature of 
 elemental man and woman. One did not need 
 to talk of those, as daily, in this new-old world of 
 London, one felt them there. 
 
VII 
 
 PEACE came, so-called peace : it was arriving. 
 Colonel and Miss Wicken, both now rather de- 
 crepit, came to town. 
 
 Henry was dragged up too, because they told 
 one another, he was growing shy and "odd." 
 Proud was what Henry was, really: he shrank 
 in spirit from meeting his old friends. He could 
 not bear pity : and a man with his health wrecked 
 and a useless hand, and that his right, could 
 hardly avoid it in society: especially a musical 
 man. In the country he could read, and romance 
 (he loved talking) and ride, granted the picked 
 person to ride with. The Colonel, robust him- 
 self till lately, and stiff with almost awkward 
 horror at his nephew's fate, had given him a 
 priceless horse; but Henry often had to let 
 others exercise it, for his health and spirits were 
 up and down. 
 
 The main consolation in being dragged up to 
 town, for Henry, was London: not the popula- 
 tion, but the place. He had a theory of London, 
 passionately elaborated at intervals, that it was 
 
 49 
 
50 MADAM 
 
 the sweetest, maddest, most elf-like and elusive 
 little city that ever fairy-tale had invented, or 
 troubadour hymned. London, like Ys, was a 
 kind of legend; you could not always (in a fog) 
 see that it was there. London was like Camelot, 
 a haunt of heroes. People, when Henry said this 
 in war-time, agreed with him earnestly: but he 
 thought he meant a better sort of hero than that. 
 Something more ancient however, it was not of 
 the least use to say so : so he smiled patriotically, 
 and left those people alone. 
 
 The second consolation, in coming to town, 
 was Nichol. Nichol and he were old-time com- 
 rades, and had no more need of mutual study and 
 consideration than brothers have. There was 
 Erith, of course: but not between them. Further 
 than this, there was Nichol's nature, known. He 
 was a simpler soul than Henry, and had more 
 fixed prejudices, which comes to the same thing. 
 He was unmusical, and devout. Further, he was 
 fat, rather: and worse since the war; but Henry 
 knew about all these drawbacks. As a rider, for 
 all his weight, he trusted Nichol : and he let him 
 exercise Titus, the horse. 
 
 Now Titus, like many people, had taken to 
 Henry. He did not much care for Nichol's 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 51 
 
 cavalry-seat instead. He would sooner (he told 
 the next horse, Erith's) have waited a while, till 
 his man felt like a joy-ride again: twelve-stone 
 professional handling made him nervous. He 
 could not answer, Titus said to Amabel (Erith's 
 horse) for what would happen if it went on: and 
 he whisked his tail, whimsically. 
 
 The result was, one fine morning, for Nichol, 
 by early rising, was trying to reduce his weight, 
 a long step-dance, on Titus' part, on a freshly 
 gravelled avenue in the Park, with Nichol and a 
 steam-roller acting as assistants in the ballet, and 
 Titus in the premier role. Nichol controlled a 
 little too much, the steam-roller, for its part, was 
 too expansive. At the critical moment, Erith 
 uttered a little shriek of laughter, a mistake of 
 hers : and the steam-roller, which had been pant- 
 ing shyly for its entree, emitted, from the depths 
 of its individuality, a cough. 
 
 "Howk!" said the steam-roller. "Huck, 
 huck!" 
 
 "Would you?" said Nichol. 
 
 "Sorry," said Titus. "That pudding is really 
 too tempting," and Nichol lay prone on the 
 mushy yellow ground. 
 
 There was confusion, after that, for a time; 
 
52 MADAM 
 
 but luckily the hour was early, and London the 
 laziest town on earth. 
 
 "Where's Titus?" said Henry, when they all 
 came home, Nichol, still very golden, in a taxi- 
 cab, Erith, haughty and remote, on horseback. 
 
 "They'll get him," said Nichol, dreamily. 
 "Police and so on, very helpful. How many 
 steps are there?" 
 
 "Four," said Henry, helping with his only 
 hand. "Lie down, old boy. These little sur- 
 prises get you, afterwards. I ought to have 
 warned you that Titus was fresh, Gates is his 
 
 other name, you know Erith, you weren't 
 
 frightened?" 
 
 "Oh no," drawled Erith, sitting down. Henry 
 was breakfasting alone, luckily, after the family. 
 "I might have foreseen it too, by Amabel's gig- 
 gling. All the way along, Titus was telling 
 Amabel what he meant to do, and where, and 
 why. If girls didn't giggle, men would never do 
 these things. It's exactly like that incident in 
 the shop I referred to, Nichol. I said that man 
 wanted punishing. So does Titus, worse." 
 
 "But where is he?" said Henry, naturally 
 curious : though he loved to hear Erith talk. 
 
 "I should say about at Hampstead, by this 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 53 
 
 time. It all depends where the man who caught 
 him likes to stop him, you know." 
 
 "It doesn't the least depend on that," mur- 
 mured Nichol, whose hand was over his face. 
 
 "He was caught, then," said Henry, naturally 
 relieved. 
 
 Erith nodded gravely. "Rather well, I think: 
 and mounted. In the soft spring vistas of the 
 Park we saw it all occur. And the man who 
 mounted waved his arm to us. Only, instead of 
 riding Titus to us, as you would have expected, 
 he rode the other way." 
 
 "Could you see who he was?" said Henry: 
 thinking over all his acquaintance, and their hu- 
 morous ways. 
 
 "No. He might possibly have thought we 
 were in the other direction ; because Titus, when 
 caught, was waltzing ably " 
 
 "He really should be warned," murmured 
 Nichol, "it's out of date." , 
 
 "Hush," said Henry. "Erith, you interest me 
 extremely. Where is the man, then, the clever 
 fellow who caught my horse?" 
 
 "Harrow?" hazarded Erith. Then she broke 
 down. "Oh, oh, oh, that policeman's facel 
 
54 MADAM 
 
 And the roller-man, not the engineer, but the 
 one who makes the puddings! Poor Henry!" 
 
 Henry smiled too : but it was serious, for him. 
 He said that London, larky always, had evidently 
 not been caught napping, even at that early hour ; 
 arrd they must pretend that Titus had died, tem- 
 porarily; but wits as they were, they could not 
 long disguise the facts. Also, Nichol, when he 
 recovered, came to life serious about it, very. 
 
 They went into it, with the policeman. 
 
 The policeman, most active and interested, 
 called about twelve o'clock. The steam-roller 
 man, and the municipal authorities, wanted rea- 
 son given for the hole Nichol had made in the 
 freshly-puddled road. The long step-dance, 
 also, had mixed things. Further than this, there 
 was the question of the gentleman's horse oh, 
 certainly! But that would soon be settled, being 
 a joke 
 
 "A joke?" said Henry. "No joke to me, of- 
 ficer. I'm out of pocket, at present, to the tune 
 of five hundred pounds." 
 
 "Indeed, sir. Indeed. It wasn't one of the 
 gentleman's friends as was having a little" 
 
 "No," said Henry. "That is, I think not." 
 
 "I think not/' said Nichol, more earnestly. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 55 
 
 "He has no friends like that," said Erith. 
 
 "If we could have been certain of that, Miss, 
 he mounted so helpful and so ready " 
 
 "Exactly," said Henry. "Your hesitation, and 
 that of the public in the park, was natural. It 
 must have looked as though the young man was 
 he young? was trying hard to help somebody. 
 The question is, who?" 
 
 "Whom?" corrected Erith. They all gazed 
 at the police-officer. Suddenly, the noble official 
 gave way. 
 
 "Well, I am Do you take him for a " 
 
 "Case? Certainly. We are bound to, until he 
 turns out to be Captain Glover's oldest friend. 
 Or mine. But even viewed as a friendly act, it 
 looks oddly. It was careless, I mean." 
 
 "I tried to let him know where we were," mur- 
 mured Erith. "Perhaps the horse-hoofs " 
 
 "There are queer fish about," whispered the 
 policeman. "Sometimes I think, these days, 
 London is bewitched." 
 
 "Do you really?" said Henry. He loved po- 
 licemen. Being London's henchmen, something 
 of London's mystic charm was naturally cast 
 upon them. He was not the least surprised, in 
 
56 MADAM 
 
 consequence, to find this one agreeing with his 
 own theory : but it filled him with secret joy. 
 
 However, after that, the interview was official, 
 purely; and, since Colonel Wicken had an ex- 
 cellent name and standing, all went well. 
 
 "Nichol," said Erith, when he was quite clean 
 again, and they were private. "Don't bother 
 Henry: but I can't help thinking it is the same 
 
 man." 
 
 "What man?" said Nichol. He had to be re- 
 minded at length. 
 
 "You were riding with me," explained Erith. 
 
 "So I was; but why quarrel with me for 
 that?" 
 
 "He might have known about us, somehow," 
 said Erith. She added, before he spoke "He 
 wouldn't attack me, myself. I told you so. He 
 didn't before." 
 
 "Too respectful." Glover looked in front of 
 him. One could not love Erith, and not know 
 her egoism. If she wished to persuade herself 
 that this was an unknown lover, playing pranks, 
 she would do so. But, not being in the walk of 
 life that visits cinemas, Nichol could not per- 
 suade himself it was the least probable. Beauti- 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 57 
 
 ful horseflesh came far too near beautiful woman, 
 in his own world, as parallel attractions : could 
 it not be the former, that had urged the stranger's 
 performance, equally well? 
 
 He offended Erith by saying so. "Titus is a 
 beauty; and it's clear the sweep knew about 
 that." 
 
 "You don't believe me, then," pouted Erith. 
 
 "I'll reckon it into the chances," said Nichol, 
 kindly, "every little helps." 
 
 He was deeply troubled, of course, about 
 Titus; and presumed Erith would help him. 
 She was really wasting her intellect on theories, 
 such as the above. It mattered not the least, who 
 the man was: the point was, to catch the 
 "sweep," and annex the horse. That was all 
 Nichol cared for, she discovered. She thought 
 him less lover-like than he used to be: he would 
 not even play at jealousy, now. 
 
VIII 
 
 HENRY called, without an appointment, on Mr. 
 Forrest, and Mr. Forrest failed to appear, and 
 he sat some time, kicking his heels, in the pa- 
 tient's parlour (which was his name) . It would 
 have been dull : only his aunt kept ringing him 
 up, to know how he was prospering, and what he 
 was feeling like; a habit, nowadays, of Miss 
 Wicken's : she thought it kind. 
 
 Each time Henry went to the telephone, in the 
 other room, and said "No, he's not come yet, 
 quite well, thanks," and things like that. Miss 
 Astley, guessing the circumstances exactly (only 
 guessing, for some reason, that it was his fussy 
 mother) thought his pleasantness and patience 
 wonderful, and longed to help. The third time 
 he hung the receiver up, he caught her eye. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Miss Astley. "I 
 could not help hearing, but if it is a consulta- 
 tion" 
 
 "I should be wiser to make an appointment," 
 Henry supplied. "I know I should be, but it 
 isn't. My aunt thinks it is, since she heard me 
 
 58 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 59 
 
 give the cabman the fatal name of your street." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Miss Astley, smiling faintly. 
 She prepared to return to her work again. But 
 Henry did not return to the other room. Why 
 should he? 
 
 "I wanted to see Mr. Forrest," he said, "to ask 
 him a question, an absolutely lay question, since 
 he is the only surgeon I ever met in society. I 
 met him at Ashwin's, opposite. The question, 
 for my own man, would be too silly, and might 
 be offensive. Ashwin, if he were in London, 
 would answer it; but as he isn't, your man comes 
 up in my mind." 
 
 "Dr. Ashwin is very helpful," said Miss Ast- 
 ley, thinking of the French dilemmas. 
 
 "Do you know him?" The girl bowed. 
 Down sat Henry on the table. "He's a queer 
 man, I never knew a doctor so little doctorial. 
 Except, no doubt, Mr. Forrest, who struck me as 
 the same make." 
 
 "Oh," said Miss Astley, "but you saw him 
 with Dr. Ashwin. It makes a difference." She 
 looked faintly mischievous. It struck Henry she 
 was a nice girl, and London personified. 
 
 "Ah," he said. "Friends." He thought for a 
 time, and then jumped at her, in his nervous way. 
 
60 MADAM 
 
 "Then Forrest's doctorial and daunting, is he?" 
 
 "Some people find him so." 
 
 "Fate. Then I simply can't ask him my silly 
 question. I was a fool to come," said Henry, 
 gloomy. 
 
 "Is it," asked Miss Astley, "about your hand?" 
 
 "It's connected with it," said Henry, his colour 
 changing. He really had hoped, this time, his 
 useless state had not been perceived. 
 
 "Then I think you may. I mean, he's not a 
 surgeon only, he's a scientist. A savant " She 
 blushed at the French word. 
 
 "Say a scholar, it's so nice," said Henry. "I'm 
 afraid I'm disturbing you Miss Astley." She 
 supplied, and he repeated it. "It's awfully kind 
 of you to reassure me. Even when you're not 
 going under ether, there's a something-or-other 
 about a surgeon's room." 
 
 "You know them," thought Miss Astley, look- 
 ing at his pale face. She had less scruple, at 
 once, about keeping him from returning to the 
 patient's parlour. The concentrated essence of 
 agony and anxiety haunted it, he was better 
 here. "We had a young man here the other 
 day," she said, settling her typewriter-carriage 
 with one pretty hand, "who came like you to ask 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 61 
 
 a question: whether he might have a perfectly 
 sound arm, of which he had lost the use of four 
 fingers, cut off." 
 
 "Cut off?" said Henry. 
 
 "Yes : and an artificial one substituted. They 
 make artificial hands so well." 
 
 "What was he?" said Henry. 
 
 "Something in the country, a bee-keeper, I 
 believe." 
 
 "A bee-keeper?" Long interval. "Have you 
 a notion, Miss Astley, what bee-keepers have to 
 do?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Wicken." He supplied, and she 
 repeated it. 
 
 "Why do we not know these things?" said 
 Henry, very absent. Suddenly with a jump he 
 said "I suppose the surgeon refused." 
 
 "Yes. But kindly. For Mr. Forrest, he was 
 extremely kind." 
 
 "Because he was sorry for the man." 
 
 "No," said Miss Astley rather slowly. "He 
 was too kind for that. When Mr. Forrest is 
 sorry he is rough, as a rule: rough in manner." 
 
 "Oh," said Henry. He took an observation of 
 Miss Astley, so answering him. Was she sorry 
 for him? He suspected it. "Why was Mr. For- 
 
62 MADAM 
 
 rest kind to the bee-keeper? Because he wanted 
 a comb?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wicken I" The demure girl smiled. 
 "No : because he thought the idea showed clev- 
 erness, and so on. Courage, he must have 
 thought it out." 
 
 "Nights," said Henry. "And having thought 
 went ahead and is doing so combing with a 
 single prong, or two, was it?" After a very 
 long pause, pondering, he got up. "I don't think 
 I'll wait, Miss Astley. I was an ass to come." 
 
 "Would you like an appointment?" 
 
 "No. I'll er write to him. Perhaps you 
 will tell him," added Henry, seeing her enquir- 
 ing face, "nothing at all." 
 
 Miss Astley, much surprised by him, was left 
 standing: for she did not see single gentlemen 
 out, her code was otherwise. Henry left the 
 house: and the telephone-bell rang about ten 
 minutes after his departure. 
 
 "That will be the aunt," thought Miss Astley, 
 going to the receiver; but it was not the aunt, it 
 was Henry. 
 
 Sorry to disturb her, Henry was : but would 
 she give him the address of that bee-keeper? 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 63 
 
 "Who the DEVIL," said Mr. Forrest, fright- 
 fully loud, considering the new "girl," "is Henry 
 Wicken?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Miss Astley. She 
 looked at the cable he passed her, "See Henry 
 Wicken," it said. She knew by the signature, if 
 she had not already known by Mr. Forrest's vio- 
 lence, that it was from Dr. Ashwin, in Egypt. 
 
 "A gentleman of that name called," said Miss 
 Astley, "hoping to see you, but he left no mes- 
 sage. He said he had a question to ask." 
 
 "Why the er, why did he not make an ap- 
 pointment?" said Mr. Forrest, and went on, by 
 degrees : "Were you there? Who are they? Do 
 I know them? Has he seen me? Why has he 
 never written, then?" 
 
 "Perhaps he found he wasn't able. His 
 hand" 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Forrest, calm and surgical. 
 "Well, I'll write to him." He immediately dic- 
 tated a perfectly polite letter in ten words; and 
 Miss Astley was secure Henry's silly question, if 
 it should be asked, would be asked in complete 
 privacy, and the most comfortable conditions. 
 She could not help being pleased, for Henry; 
 
64 MADAM 
 
 though she very much wondered, granted two 
 such "sudden" people, what would come of it. 
 
 Harmony came of it: Henry came also, to 
 lunch: and there also came, by degrees, as ac- 
 quaintance improved, the story of the horse, 
 Titus. Henry was now telling Titus, regularly: 
 and he was told to Mr. Forrest in expert style. 
 
 Mr. Forrest, being asked to trace a moral to 
 Titus, said, he would have thought the moral 
 was, ride your animals yourself. 
 
 "But Glover's a better rider than I am," said 
 Henry. "I could hardly have escaped his fate." 
 This assured the surgeon that Henry was riding, 
 which was what he wanted, one of the things. 
 
 "I suppose you like your horses to get the bet- 
 ter of you, nowadays. Shows spirit in the brutes, 
 initiative, just as in the 'bus-men to come 
 out." 
 
 "Or in the patients to kick," said Henry. "I 
 never aspired to master Titus : I hoped to be his 
 best pal. But that's enough of me: can't you 
 give me a diagnosis of the other man? I had ex- 
 pected great things of you." 
 
 "Why?" said Mr. Forrest: who had no hope 
 now of getting Henry's real question, his first: 
 so he listened to others. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 65 
 
 "Because I thought there must be a theory of 
 him, up to date." 
 
 "What, a criminal? They're always with us." 
 
 "Now, more than usual?" hinted Henry. 
 "Any special sort? I merely ask," he proceeded, 
 "because when I tell Titus to people, as I have 
 now done for days, neither he, nor I, nor Glover, 
 succeed in being the hero: that is always the 
 other man: for women especially." 
 
 "I thought you meant women," gloomed Mr. 
 Forrest. "Society women, eh? Languishers." 
 
 "Not languishes," said Henry. "Strong- 
 minded landwomen, and earnest elderly agita- 
 tors," 
 
 "Lord," said Mr. Forrest, frightened, "what 
 are landwomen?" 
 
 "The deep-diggers," said Henry. "The 
 trenchers and ploughers and inspectors of asy- 
 lums, all that sort. They pretend to be severe, 
 through their spectacles. They plan retribution 
 for him according to the latest ladies' fashions in 
 Penal Reform ; but they all want to meet the lad, 
 a tete-a-tete." 
 
 "Secret languishes," said Mr. Forrest, more 
 gloomily still. "Oh, the land's rotten with ro- 
 manucism. So's America, worse." 
 
66 MADAM 
 
 "So was Germany, worst of all," said Henry. 
 "But we have cured her." He hoped for an ex- 
 plosion from Mr. Forrest, who had lately been 
 in Germany, but nothing came. 
 
 "There are few women of balance," he an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "There are lots!" said Henry hotly. He 
 calmed. "Your young lady downstairs, now, 
 Miss er " 
 
 "Astley," said Mr. Forrest. "Sit still, now. 
 Don't you go disturbing her mind. Not that you 
 would manage it." 
 
 "Do you mean you would trust her opinion? 
 Truly? Do you mean she does not go on Satur- 
 day to see the latest play called the 'Beloved 
 Burglar/ or the 'Back Staircase passes by'?" 
 
 "I believe she goes, and sits it out, and says it 
 is rubbish afterwards." 
 
 "I bet you she couldn't stand Titus!" cried 
 Henry. "I say, have her up!" 
 
 Mr. Forrest would not : he would not think of 
 it: he said it was a bad principle. Besides, he 
 added presently, the girl was at lunch. 
 
 "Where does Miss Astley lunch?" said 
 Henry, when he was shaking hands. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 67 
 
 "Where you'd expect," said Mr. Forrest. 
 "Have you seen her?" He seemed suspicious. 
 
 "I have. I saw her when I called the other 
 day, wasted her time." He and Mr. Forrest 
 looked at one another, hard. "I don't propose to 
 deprive you of her, merely to tell her a story." 
 
 "Now I'll tell you what," said Mr. Forrest, 
 hands on hips, a hospital attitude. "Girls like 
 that have story enough on their persons, or at 
 home. There's penny-plain in the world, Mr. 
 Henry Wicken, and there's two-pence coloured, 
 she's penny-plain. Those people are making 
 the romances, as a rule, that others read and gas 
 about. My hospitals are full of penny-plain: 
 and any of their tales, told straight, would knock 
 your gentleman-adventurers and five-hundred- 
 pound horses all to rags. I don't believe there's 
 a grain of real stuff even in the facts of your story, 
 not a grain." 
 
 "'In my story, as told by me, still less," said 
 Henry, sadly. But he was looking curiously at 
 Mr. Forrest. 
 
 "In your story, as told by you, still less." 
 
 "I'll prove you wrong," cried Henry, pointing 
 a finger (left-hand) at Mr. Forrest, "and I'll 
 
68 MADAM 
 
 make you say so ! There are elements in my story 
 of interest. Permanent!" 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Forrest, quite calm, when he 
 had gone, "there's you." 
 
 For he found Henry's case (in spite of the fact 
 that Ashwin recommended it) interesting. He 
 had no objection, for once, to keeping such a case 
 talking, even talking with his young lady Miss 
 Astley, if he could find her, it did them good. 
 
IX 
 
 HENRY did not find Miss Astley, in any of the 
 penny-plain restaurants, into which he looked. 
 He was sure he would know her hat, if it were 
 there, even though he had not seen her in it; but 
 no such hat appeared. It depressed him a little, 
 because he longed to see her again, and tell her 
 Titus. There was nothing particular in her, of 
 course; but the world had been all right, for a 
 time, while he talked to her, instead of a little 
 askew: instead of giving you that frightening 
 just-out sense of a face in a fever, or a room in an 
 earthquake, when all the objects lean a trifle the 
 wrong way. Girls like Miss Astley made him 
 feel less giddy, put it that way. It might be 
 either her despatch-case, or her voice. 
 
 But as for Mr. Forrest's theory of a non- 
 romantic or penny-plain exterior to London, 
 Henry's London that was knocked utterly out 
 the same afternoon. It simply was not so : Lon- 
 don, in the larky season, was standing on its head. 
 Not giddily either: quite in another scheme of 
 things. It was doing it amusingly, like Titus. 
 
 69 
 
TO MADAM 
 
 Henry came home, after an interlude with 
 friends, to dinner; and he found his aunt, Miss 
 Wicken, in an unusually expansive mood; she 
 was one of the mild and retiring people, gen- 
 erally. 
 
 She and dear Robert, it seemed, dear Robert 
 was the Colonel, had been to see dear Erith's 
 wedding-presents, privately, in Kensington 
 Square. 
 
 "Really?" said Henry. "Some jolly things, I 
 expect." 
 
 Erith's family were very exquisite, and so was 
 the house she lived in. She had sheaves of 
 friends, all of the very finest taste, so Henry's as- 
 sumption was natural. Indeed, Henry had seen 
 some examples of their taste, on an earlier occa- 
 sion ; but this somewhat delicate coincidence was 
 tided over artfully, for dear Henry, by his aunt. 
 
 The Colonel (dear Robert) had been grufT at 
 going; he said bluntly that he had seen the 
 beastly things before. Miss Wicken said that to 
 send the same twice would be in execrable taste. 
 Dear Robert hinted that the proceeding they 
 celebrated might be execrable also. However, 
 eventually he hobbled away with his sister, to do 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 71 
 
 the proper thing, by Erith. He knew, really, 
 that it had to be done. 
 
 "And we saw yours, dear Henry," said Miss 
 Wicken. "Too lovely, so wonderfully well- 
 set. It was the setting I loved even more than 
 the lovely, lovely and fancy! Earrings! How 
 naughty!" 
 
 "She's one of the few girls earbobs really 
 suit," said Henry. "I know she has been hanker- 
 ing for ages, but hanging fire, because she 
 thought they might be a little well, what you 
 call naughty, no doubt. Common." 
 
 "Erith couldn't look common, I will say that 
 for her," said Miss Wicken. "Still, opinion on 
 the subject is certainly unfixed. For I asked a 
 nice little girl who was there, such a crush 
 there was, considering a private party, what she 
 thought of them; and she said anything in the 
 ears was out of date. 
 
 "How dared she?" said Henry, sharply. 
 "My earbobs ! What was her nasty little name?" 
 
 "I didn't hear it, in nurse's dress, she was: 
 one of those V.A.D. girls. She was brought, 
 though, by a man who said he knew you, Mr. 
 Lancaster." 
 
72 MADAM 
 
 "Lancaster?" Henry considered. "Never 
 heard the name." 
 
 "Oh, you must have, dear! He had stayed 
 with us." 
 
 "Stayed with us? AtWicken?" 
 
 "Why, yes, he knew it quite well." 
 
 "I never had a Lancaster to stay with me," said 
 Henry. "Langridge, perhaps. What kind of a 
 Lancaster was he? Young?" 
 
 "Quite young," said Miss Wicken, "and a dear 
 boy. It was he who warned me there was such a 
 crush in the wedding-present room, and took me 
 round. He looked healthy, which is so I mean, 
 and he admired yours so much." 
 
 "Oh," said Henry. "I was on the point of ask- 
 ing if his taste was good." 
 
 "Oh, you could see it would be : every remark 
 he made : knew what he liked, too, not gushy. 
 One gets so tired, at weddings, of that. He 
 stopped short at yours, quite struck, and gazed 
 for ever so long. So I told him you were the 
 greatest friend. I hope that was right, dear?" 
 
 "Quite right," said Henry, steady without, 
 though he was shrinking inwardly. There were 
 so many people, first and last, who knew his pri- 
 vate affairs. Of course this healthy fellow (curse 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 73 
 
 him) was one of them, the old lot He could 
 hardly listen to Miss Wicken, for puzzling who 
 he could be. 
 
 "I can't quite like the card, dear," said Miss 
 Wicken. "It looks awkward, I mean, with that 
 lovely gift. With congratulation.' Should 
 there not be an V on it, anyhow?" 
 
 "No," said Henry. He burst out. "What else 
 should I put? I do congratulate her on Nichol. 
 It's what I feel chiefly, if you want to know. I'll 
 change it to love, if you like " He was getting 
 feverish. 
 
 "No, no, no," said Miss Wicken, terribly sorry 
 she had touched the subject. She was most ten- 
 der over Henry, rather too much so. There 
 ensued a trifle of an awkward pause. 
 
 "Bother Lancaster," said Henry at last. "I 
 can't place him. My memory's off it. He must 
 be a friend's friend, you know how rottenly 
 friends choose their friends, don't you, Auntie? 
 Now look here, Auntie," he took her hand. 
 "Whatever is the use of being an artist, if you 
 can't describe Lancaster? What was he besides 
 a dear? Fair? Dark? Devilish?" 
 
 "Not the least?" cried Miss Wicken. "Ever 
 so nice, and gentle." 
 
74 MADAM 
 
 "Oh, gentle." Henry tried some more, but it 
 was useless. Miss Wicken had been captivated, 
 but she could not say why. "What was the little 
 girl like, then?" 
 
 "Oh, prettyish: but rather cross, I thought. 
 Perhaps overworked," said Miss Wicken, kind- 
 ly. "Not the very, very nicest sort of manners." 
 
 "The worst, to abuse my earbobs, Erith's ear- 
 bobs. They're made for Erith. I never," said 
 Henry, "saw a girl turn rosy all over, as she did 
 when she opened the box. She had been hanker- 
 ing, you see, like any common girl, and hanging 
 back from asking. Thought it beneath her " 
 
 "Such a lovely wild-rose, isn't it?" said Miss 
 Wicken: who, as artist, could have described 
 Erith Fleming fast enough. She glanced fur- 
 tively at Henry, dreaming 
 
 "Did Erith know Lancaster?" said Henry 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, well, now, Erith came late. She was 
 rather bored by all the people. Did Erith see 
 Mr. Lancaster, Robert?" The Colonel had en- 
 tered. "She was talking to the girl, certainly." 
 
 "Then I'll ask Erith about them," said Henry 
 finally: (for his uncle was useless) : and he 
 made a note. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 75 
 
 a By the way, Lancaster," said Henry : remem- 
 bering again, with terrible suddenness, next day. 
 His remembering made a whole row of people 
 start : for it was at a League-of-Nations meeting. 
 
 Henry went to League-of-Nations meetings, 
 though he had a taste for something stronger, 
 which he never betrayed. He did once say that 
 League-of-Nations seemed to him like Malt Ex- 
 tract when you wanted an emetic: but he 
 shocked even Erith so dreadfully, that he had 
 been careful to turn up at the gatherings since. 
 
 "Hush ush ush," said several people, of 
 Liberal persuasion, at Lancaster's loud name. 
 Henry calmed down, for an hour or two, and 
 guarded Lancaster. When they were all at tea in 
 a penny-plain restaurant, because not even he 
 and Glover combined could discover a twopence- 
 coloured for the ladies in the quarter where the 
 meeting was, he trotted him forth again. 
 
 Nichol, eating eagerly, knew no such man. 
 That was straightforward, of Nichol. Erith, in 
 her prettiest way, said "Put a face to him." 
 
 "Just," said Henry, "what I can't do. Auntie 
 can, but she won't, because little Lancaster made 
 sheep's-eyes at her. She liked him awfully, 
 yes, Auntie; and my uncle approved of him too. 
 
76 MADAM 
 
 He remembered the stable at Wicken. Come 
 now, Erith!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear Henry, think of the millions of 
 men! Partners alone, all lovely, all black- 
 legged, generally jealous, lost in dreams! It's 
 years since I thought of partners." 
 
 "Give me the next and the next," said Henry, 
 mechanically. "Nichol is beginning to loathe 
 Lancaster. But you saw him, Erith. At least, 
 you saw the girl. Come, come !" 
 
 "I did not see him." It struck Henry she was 
 rather pale. Had League-of-Nations had, so to 
 speak, the wrong effect on her? They all talked 
 a little about Lancaster, Miss Wicken eager, 
 Mrs. Fleming tentative, Colonel Wicken down- 
 right approving. Even Nichol recalled some- 
 thing, vaguely. 
 
 "Oh, do you mean that tall boy?" said Erith 
 at last. "I met him, just going out." 
 
 "Thank you," said Henry. "Thanks for meet- 
 ing Lancaster, my oldest friend. Now put a face 
 to him, Erith." 
 
 "Oh, I can't!" 
 
 "Mrs. Fleming!" 
 
 "Well, I liked him," said Mrs. Fleming, still 
 tentative. "The little girl was quite nice. They 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 77 
 
 just called, and he introduced himself as know- 
 ing you. Was that all right?" 
 
 "Perfectly," said Henry. Erith looked at him 
 sharply, once. 
 
 "You had asked him to call, then?" her mother 
 said. 
 
 "If I had known him, I certainly should." 
 
 "Henry, are you mad? Are we all mad? 
 Who was he?" 
 
 "It's only," said Henry, "the natural state of 
 hallucination, consequent upon a League-of- 
 Nations meeting. We are all in our senses, quite. 
 Calm yourself, Auntie. Did you miss anything, 
 Mrs. Fleming, after Lancaster and the nice little 
 girl called?" 
 
 "Miss anything?" said Mrs. Fleming, per- 
 fectly horror-struck. Her house was full of such 
 treasures, so small, so unique, so dear, since 
 they were merely a tasteful family, not a rich 
 one. "Oh, Erith, dearest!" 
 
 "I could have told you it was an assumed 
 name," said Erith; a flame in her face. "The 
 very sound of it, beastly ! Let's go home at once 
 and look, Mother, because really Of course I 
 know that the wedding-presents are all there. I 
 went through them." 
 
78 MADAM 
 
 "Did you?" said Henry. "Thank goodness, 
 I was thinking of my earbobs. Don't look so 
 emotional, Erith, they're not gone, you saw 
 them. They're at home, in a pretty little box. 
 There may be a Lancaster after all, I was only 
 joking. How can we, can we remember " 
 
 But it was clear, from that moment, that Erith 
 wanted to be nowhere, except at home. 
 
 It did strike Henry once, that Erith had, ac- 
 tually, recognised Lancaster as a partner out of 
 the old days. But of course she might not want 
 to say so before Nichol. Poor Erith! 
 
"HE'S taken her out/' said Eric. "Don't tell at 
 the hospital. It's only on trial, if it's that." 
 
 "Who?" saidFoote. 
 
 "Sister Louie, isn't it? That little curly with 
 the pretty eyes." 
 
 "He shouldn't then," said Foote. "He really 
 shouldn't. What on earth put him on it?" 
 
 "She did." 
 
 "Oh, come!" 
 
 "Ay, just made a dead set at him," said 
 Mousie's friend. "He didn't ask for her, special, 
 as you can guess. He went on visiting day to see 
 one of his brother's pals: George, that is, none 
 of the brothers he was keen on. Still, he went. 
 He didn't mind a look at Sister, by the way, but 
 well ! There she was, after him, friendly first, 
 then missionising. ToMousie!" 
 
 "Ah, I guessed so." Foote was wise. 
 
 "She was at Mona. Someone's been letting on 
 about them. Was it you ?" 
 
 "I never got to telling," said Foote. "You 
 can't, near, with a kid like that." 
 
 79 
 
8o MADAM 
 
 "Well, anyhow, she touched Chris, that's 
 what set him off, turned him wicked. So then he 
 took her out, after that, and treated her, cham- 
 pagne and such, and played the toff to better her, 
 and took her to an afternoon party." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Ah, you shouldn't have let on about Mona. 
 He told me he got thinking what was the place 
 for kind ladies, and remembered some friends of 
 his living at Kensington. Oh, by George, you 
 should hear him tell it! And her, too, little, 
 silly, sniggering" 
 
 "Oh come now ! No harm in her." 
 
 "Not for you and me. But he's a cut over, 
 now, isn't he? He will have sense, Chris was 
 just the same. She tried him on politics, too, a 
 gal out of a hospital. If she had asked him, now, 
 sensibly!" 
 
 Mousie's admirers were silent, gazing down at 
 the glasses before them. 
 
 "He shouldn't have done it," said Foote, ear- 
 nestly. "They're nice people, she belongs to. 
 There's a sister of hers, getting I don't know what 
 a week. Some classy surgeon, she works for: 
 that's their style." 
 
 "Next thing'll be," said Eric, quite unaware 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 81 
 
 how he was hurting Foote's feelings, "he'll get 
 me to take Curly on. I know him. He gets fed 
 up so quick, in all cases, and, as I say, it's a 
 chance if he wanted her at all. He wanted a 
 look, peacefully : sitting alongside George's pal's 
 bed. Why can't a man have a look, but he 
 can't." 
 
 "That's right," said Foote. "He can't." 
 There was another quite religious silence. That 
 is, Eric was religious, and Foote, though sadly 
 hurt, was watching him. Eric was rather an 
 overdressed young man, all his attributes crying 
 wealth, war-gotten. But he was a perfect fol- 
 lower, and more: the more he was, when he 
 talked of Mr. Lancaster, was quite visible. 
 
 "Tell us about the party," suggested Foote. 
 "Which of the viscounts was it? He really is/" 
 
 "No viscount at all. Mousie's fed up with 
 viscounts. No style in 'em, and bad horses, he 
 says. Besides, where he goes out, he likes feed- 
 ing, he says : and the aristocracy, just now, has 
 to set an example." 
 
 "Their servants' halls don't," said Foote. 
 
 "No, but he's done with servants' halls. First 
 thing to go to hell, will be the good servants of 
 the good masters. He's sure of that." 
 
82 MADAM 
 
 "But wasn't Chris " 
 
 "You must leave talking of Chris! He was 
 never anyone's good servant; he was off duty, 
 half the time. First an d last, he taught Mouse 
 all he knows. Mouse is Chris, Mona says, and 
 she ought to know " 
 
 "Is he in Chris's place, then?" Endless pause. 
 "I don't see why, me to you, we shouldn't ask." 
 
 "Would you blame him if he was?" chal- 
 lenged Eric. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't," said Foote, after painful 
 thought. 
 
 "Well, shut it off, then," said the young man 
 Eric, with curious sombreness. "You can't judge 
 and I can't, though I might more, having 
 known them. But I don't go gassing to strange 
 gals of it " 
 
 "All right," said poor Freddy. "She isn't 
 strange, though, Eric. I'm, as it were, getting 
 fond of her " 
 
 "Eh? oh!" said Eric, his mouth opening. 
 "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 
 
 But he seemed vexed, and Foote was over- 
 humble: so the conversation closed soon after 
 that. 
 
XI 
 
 MISS ASTLEY was very, very worried. The 
 whole of her other life, the home at Clapham, 
 was upset and agley. Her mother was ill, or 
 thought she was, which is rather worse; her 
 father was soberly perturbed; the reason, of 
 course, being Lucy. 
 
 Lu was breaking their hearts. She wanted to 
 drop the hospital, and take to singing again. 
 After all, the war was over, she said, and she was 
 fairly fed-up, a frightful expression. Who 
 could she have picked it up from? She unlearnt 
 all her nice manners, curled her hair more over 
 her right eyebrow than ever she had done, and 
 "went with men." There was one quite nice man 
 all ready for her: but Lucy would have none of 
 Freddy Foote. She went with others, and gig- 
 gled at his melancholy virtue. She learnt that he 
 was called "truthful Freddy," and giggled at 
 that, Foote could not see why it was offensive. 
 
 The hospital lodged a complaint, after many 
 complaints had been suppressed. Somebody in 
 its walls, whom Lu pretended to hate and despise, 
 
 83 
 
84 MADAM 
 
 had "spoken to her." Their Lu had been 
 "spoken to" by a matron : just like any of those 
 terrible sham "sisters" that had made Mrs. Ast- 
 ley shudder so often : the veiled skeletons of the 
 first year of the war. 
 
 Lina was appealed to, of course, wildly, 
 frantically; with every moment of her day en- 
 gaged, she must take the matter on. Patiently 
 she tried to get facts out of Lu ; then she tried 
 Fred, hoping she was not a traitor; and Fred, 
 very shy and very cryptic, sought to let Miss Lina 
 know the kind of thing. 
 
 "That man," she said, rather pink. "Is he 
 playing with her?" 
 
 "I don't think so," Foote said. "He dropped 
 her again, you know, and let Eric. That's their 
 way. Eric likes her a bit, but there's nothing in 
 it. Nothing to matter. It's as it were quite 
 all right." 
 
 "You mean, she is doing it." 
 
 "I don't know, Sister, Miss Lina, I mean. 
 She's too young for their sort, so to say " 
 
 "Too innocent, you mean." 
 
 "Oh, now, don't!" said Fred, unhappily. He 
 could not decide whom to defend. "She amuses 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 85 
 
 them, singing and all, they'd let her go if you 
 liked" 
 
 "If/ liked?" 
 
 "If you asked them, I mean. Serious." 
 
 "If /asked them?" 
 
 "Ay, they mean no harm. Not to her, anyhow. 
 It's just the way things happen," said melancholy 
 Fred. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Astley, pink. "If you live, 
 taking what comes." 
 
 "That's right," said Foote, meekly. He 
 fancied, though, he had got his meaning through 
 to her, more or less: she was such a wise little 
 sister-to-be. 
 
 That evening, during a sad and solitary eve- 
 ning ramble, a thing occurred to Fred that hap- 
 pened rarely. He met Mousie Lancaster. 
 
 Mousie, in civilian working-garb, but smart 
 as ever, was driving one of the autos of his 
 American firm. He was consequently alone, and 
 threatening to break the speed-limit, simply from 
 ennui, when Foote turned up. Foote still walked 
 with a faint limp : so a voice hailing him from a 
 car was natural. In he got: quite sure now that 
 Lancaster was in the right of it and always had 
 
86 MADAM 
 
 been; because melancholy Fred was tired with 
 tramping it, to tell the truth. 
 
 He grew surer and surer for some time, as the 
 conversation proceeded; for Mousie, giving a 
 pal a lift in the twilight, was pleasant. 
 
 "Got hold of your girl the other evening," said 
 Mousie. "An oversight. Eric informed me." 
 
 He never said anything was a mistake : over- 
 sight was a word he favoured. It implied he had 
 his eye on such a number of things, that occa- 
 sionally he missed a minor one. Fred was im- 
 pressed. 
 
 "You couldn't have known," he said. 
 
 "Couldn't I ? Why not? Kind of her to come 
 round with me, anyway. I just gave her a turn." 
 
 "I heard," said Foote. He ached, having the 
 chance, to get the tale from headquarters; but 
 his situation with Lu, demanding a rigid dignity, 
 forbade it. "You oughtn't, really," he explained, 
 "because of her family. That's a fact. You've 
 excited her. Her sister, she was talking to me 
 this evening. You know her sister, don't you?" 
 
 "Ne-ow." A Colonial drawl. "Yep, I saw 
 her once. What of it? Down on me, is she?" 
 He skinned a corner neatly, and flagrantly. 
 He was on the wrong side. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 87 
 
 "That," said Foote soon, of something else, "is 
 against the law." 
 
 "So it is." Mousie made it perfectly impossi- 
 ble to talk of the Astleys for ten minutes : "furi- 
 ous" was not the word for him. 
 
 "Look here, why Jo you do it?" said Foote, 
 after an interval of making sure he was alive. 
 They were toddling prettily, and a policeman in 
 sight. 
 
 "Why? Well, I suppose because I dam-don't 
 care. Can I drop you anywhere? The Carl ton? 
 Or were you running down to Surrey to-night?" 
 
 " Why do you do it?" repeated Foote. "That's 
 what that girl asked. That's what happens, she 
 says to me, if you live taking what comes." 
 
 "She'd heard of my taking a horse, then?" said 
 Mousie, casual. 
 
 "A what?" Foote turned pale. 
 
 "Tell everyone you know about it, won't you? 
 You seem to be tell-tale in chief." 
 
 "Mousie!" 
 
 "Don't call me that." 
 
 "I see," said Foote, after a groping pause. 
 What with the giddiness of the drive, and the 
 giddiness of Mousie's conversation however, 
 he gathered his manhood. "Look here, stop all 
 
88 MADAM 
 
 this racket, if you can for a moment, and let us 
 talk straight For Lord's sake, Lancaster. I I 
 care for Miss Astley, you see." 
 
 He slackened down, slowly. "All right. I'll 
 come to the wedding at Clapham. When'll it 
 be?" He drew his bright eyes slowly out of 
 vacancy, they were slightly bloodshot, to 
 Foote's face. 
 
 "It's not come to it yet, may never. Not if 
 you You took her out on purpose, did you? 
 Paying me back ? Let me know the rights of it. I 
 did tell her a bit, but it was only trying to square 
 things for you, put you right. Miss Astley was 
 down on you, see? She's seen you in company 
 at the movies, see? See?" Foote was perspiring, 
 for all the chill of the night-air, so great was the 
 strain of this explanation. 
 
 "All ri' " said Mousie, with an awful 
 drawl. He worked daily, Foote knew, amid 
 Transatlantics at his motor-place, and had all 
 kinds of accents at call, as well as his Mayfair 
 accent. "I won't bring company to the wedding 
 at Clapham. See?" He mimicked. "I won't 
 come either, among the kind ladies, and the con- 
 fettori " He paused over this. "Better with- 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 89 
 
 I 
 
 out me, anyway. Get out if you want to." He 
 stopped the car. Foote got out. 
 
 "Which one are you marrying?" said Mousie, 
 then. 
 
 "Lu." 
 
 "You said Miss Astley. She isn't. Habits of 
 society, upper-cut. Both seem pretty kind." 
 
 "Wouldn't you have women kindp" said 
 Foote, deeply reproachful. 
 
 "No." He swore an oath. "They've rotted 
 the whole business, being it. You go and talk to 
 Mona. We want something else." 
 
 "Great George !" thought Foote, profoundly 
 impressed, watching Mousie's car, at a pretty and 
 decorous pace, go paddling away in the twilight. 
 "Sending me to talk to Mona, that light-o'-love! 
 And about women's kindness ! There never was 
 anything like that kid of Eric's, for sheer 
 starts!" 
 
XII 
 
 NEXT day, about one o'clock, Mr. Lancaster, 
 having an hour off, drove to the point where 
 Harley Street debouches into Cavendish Square, 
 and rested there, reading a newspaper. 
 
 Various drivers of various carriages, in that 
 quietly busy quarter of old-fashionable London, 
 came by his corner, and looked at the newspaper 
 Mr. Lancaster was reading, with disapproval ; it 
 was not their shade of politics. Also, he looked 
 so healthy and masterful and young, that he an- 
 noyed them : they wished, visibly, to know what 
 he thought he was doing there. Mr. Lancaster, 
 turning the paper under their gaze, did not in- 
 form them, he was too well occupied. His eyes 
 were crawling sidelong beyond the newspaper at 
 intervals: and he whistled softly the innocent 
 bucolic air of the "Red Flag." Mousie loved 
 that tune: the more since somebody had assured 
 him it was German. He wondered a little him- 
 self why he felt so contented: but supposed it 
 was the effects of Eric's late cigar. 
 
 One, half-past one, nobody. 
 
 90 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 91 
 
 At two, Mr. Forrest's door, up the street, 
 emitted a tired-looking girl. She was very late, 
 and must hurry: and she hated hurrying, espe- 
 cially to-day, there was such a weight upon her 
 feet. 
 
 Storms at home and storms at school were Miss 
 Astley's portion. Mr. Forrest had had a day of 
 misfitting appointments, and an unmanageable 
 time-table; nothing would wrest the clock, or 
 the world, or even a human digestion to its re- 
 quirements. Within and without the great sur- 
 geon, everything was amiss; and Miss Astley, 
 with a mother believing herself ill, and thinking 
 herself sleepless, had had an interrupted night. 
 She was a girl who needed her nights and her 
 food also. Now she desired nothing so much, the 
 human part of her, as to drag herself away into 
 the Spring sun, somewhere, and sleep. 
 
 So she barely saw a young man in a car, barely 
 heard the "Red Flag" break short, barely noted 
 his glance slink along the lines of print they were 
 reading, further, and in her direction. 
 
 "I say, Madam/' he said: low enough, only 
 it reached her. Mousie's voice, clever like all 
 the rest of him, reached where it liked. 
 
92 MADAM 
 
 Miss Astley hesitated, stopped, and a pink tint 
 flew in her face. It was! 
 
 He saw quite well that she meant to go on 
 again, unheeding. Still sitting where he was, he 
 set his will against it, and his jaw hardened, just 
 visibly. He was not going to be "cut," publicly, 
 at any rate. She might say what she would to 
 him later. 
 
 Miss Astley had a will as well : she was not a 
 weak girl. His way of addressing her was weak- 
 ening, though, the restraint of it. And that 
 queer name he had chosen ! Why did he? 
 
 Mousie had no idea. She was Madam. He 
 had his unique way of viewing everybody, high 
 and low, in London town, and beyond it. A girl 
 who drudged at a surgeon's, and trudged in Har- 
 ley Street, while he rode royally, was Madam if 
 he so wished. 
 
 After hesitating a moment, she came back. 
 "Did you want me?" 
 
 "D'you want a drive?" He seemed sulky. 
 
 "I am afraid I've no time. I am going to 
 lunch." 
 
 "Come a drive," said Mousie. After an inter- 
 lude he added, still sitting in his nonchalant atti- 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 93 
 
 tude "I'll put you down anywhere. You 
 needn't lunch here." 
 
 Now the fact was that Miss Astley wanted any 
 excuse to avoid looking at a penny-plain restau- 
 rant lunch-table. She had all the feelings that 
 girls have after a wakeful night and a feverish 
 morning; and, having looked on at Mr. Forrest 
 lunching ill-temperedly, felt as though she had 
 eaten that meal of his with Dead Sea salt super- 
 added. 
 
 On the other hand, a drive in the spring sun 
 was so desirable as to be almost wicked. Sliding 
 along the sun-warmed asphalt, under frivolous 
 light-green boughs, and in a young man's com- 
 pany, ah, there it was! 
 
 For he was a bad young man, one of the kind 
 that would give Mrs. Astley jumps if she even 
 dreamed, during her so-called troubled nights, 
 of the waft of his borrowed cigars. He haunted 
 with loose women, shop-girls called him tipsy, 
 he had tempted little Lucy, shaken her off the 
 path of duty into his own devious, his fearfully 
 devious ways : much like the little walks in the 
 London parks, winding under the opening leaf- 
 age. His bright eyes, scanning the passing girls, 
 held too much knowledge, surely. 
 
94 MADAM 
 
 "Come a drive," he said again. "I came to 
 fetch you." 
 
 "I really can't." The girl gave a sob to her 
 own surprise. Down came Mousie's brows : he 
 looked tired. 
 
 "All right, I'm going. Tell me where I could 
 see you, any time." 
 
 "You want to talk to me?" 
 
 "What else?" He still looked weary, to Caro- 
 line's eyes, he was holding in his temper, really. 
 She wavered a moment, and then gathered her 
 skirts and got up beside him. His flash of relief, 
 open-eyed, in her direction, was very curious. 
 
 "Thanks," he observed : and they purred away 
 together. 
 
 "I wonder if I ought," said Miss Astley after 
 a time: but she was almost smiling. She had 
 never guessed what it was to drive in a good car, 
 under good handling, at a gracefully easy pace 
 through the balmy April air. One does not guess 
 without trying it: and even then some grow in- 
 different, it is said. Mr. Lancaster looked at his 
 machinery, as though the one thing in life he was 
 afraid of, was to go faster than the requisite pace. 
 Now, as a rule, Mr. Lancaster's fear was just the 
 opposite. However, the technique of his trade 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 95 
 
 was a mere accompaniment to his other inten- 
 tions : he spoke soon. 
 
 "I'll put you down where you want: youVe 
 on'y to say." Interval. "You don't like me, 
 your people." 
 
 "No, we don't." 
 
 "Why's that?" He looked indifferent. "I'm 
 not a slacker. Did you think I was." 
 
 "I thought you might be slack, yes, in some 
 ways." Miss Astley bit her lip. "Need you ask 
 me?" 
 
 "Course I must." The answer seemed to hurt 
 her, somewhere. 
 
 "If I wanted Curly, your sister, couldn't I 
 have her?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why's that? Cause I've got somebody? 
 Aren't two allowed, in your parts? There are 
 places," he nodded away vaguely "where 
 two's reckoned short." 
 
 "I don't think you're serious," said Miss Ast- 
 ley faintly. 
 
 Silence on Mousie's part, for a long time. "Is 
 this too fast for you?" 
 
 "No. If I cry, it's not the wind." She shook 
 her head as though to shake the tears off. 
 
96 MADAM 
 
 "Why is it, then? I oughtn't to have fetched 
 you, ought I? You had a bad time?" 
 
 She tried to conquer the tears, most incon- 
 venient, humiliating, and strange. She could not 
 understand her crying. She had a bad time! 
 She! How could a man so make her feel trag- 
 edy, again : for she had known it, essentially, 
 the very first time they met. 
 
 "Do you think I am an ass, the things I do? 
 Taking horses and so on?" 
 
 "You've not taken a horse." 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 "Give it back immediately," said Miss Astley, 
 with a silly little sob. 
 
 "I don't know who it belongs to, didn't ask. 
 I wanted it, I'm a rider." He suddenly looked 
 at her. 
 
 "All right, I believe it," said Miss Astley. 
 
 "Yes, but you think I'm boasting, when I say 
 it. I tell you, I'm thinking of joining a circus 
 
 soon." 
 
 "Nonsense," she said, but she was getting 
 better ; the rush of air, or something, was helping 
 her headache enormously, headache is the best 
 reason for tears that exists, for working-girls. 
 
LONDON IS BEWITCHED 97 
 
 "Oh, look here, you're cutting me off! I've 
 got to earn my screw, haven't I?" 
 
 "Not on another person's horse." 
 
 "This is another person's car. I'll ride it for 
 them a bit," said Mousie, glinting. "What 
 lunch-place do you like? That's a good one." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't possibly, any of these." Miss 
 Astley was frightened ; for they were in the land 
 of twopence-coloured, what do I say? Of six- 
 pence cut-out-mounted-and-lit-up : they were in 
 Piccadilly, to which he had brought her by in- 
 sidious back ways. 
 
 Mousie laughed. "Try it: I'll take you." He 
 was actually drawing up. 
 
 "No, Indeed. Please take me up home imme- 
 diately. To Harley Street." 
 
 "But I want you to have something. Some- 
 thing hot. Tea, now." 
 
 "I never," said Miss Astley, "have tea." At 
 lunch, she meant. She was prim, for it was prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 "Don't you? I thought girls did." Reluc- 
 tantly he moved the car. "My girl does, I sup- 
 pose it's that. She and I have been here." 
 
 "Who is your girl?" said Caroline very gent- 
 ly. They were now purring up Regent Street, 
 
98 MADAM 
 
 reckless, for Mousie : some of his dear friends 
 were certain to be about. 
 
 "My girl's Mona. Mona Faraday, she's 
 called. I think," he said, "it's her real name." 
 
 "It's pretty," said Miss Astley, with a fearful 
 effort. Her cheek was flushed, her lips trem- 
 bling. All her mother's "pretty" nature within 
 her protested against his speaking to her of this. 
 But there was something else in Caroline. 
 
 "Yep, it's a pretty name. I like girls' names. 
 What's yours?" 
 
 She told him, and he repeated it. 
 
 "Caroline. I had an aunt called that. Lina, 
 we called her." He pronounced it long. 
 
 "They call me Lina. Have you brothers and 
 sisters then? You said 'we,' " she added, as he 
 was silent, apparently surprised. 
 
 "We, I said. That's me and Maudie, my sis- 
 ter." 
 
 "Is she a nice sister?" 
 
 "I don't know, Madam. She's ill." 
 
 "111?" He nodded. 
 
 "So they say. I've not seen her lately." 
 
 "Don't they like you, at home?" 
 
 "Maudie might. But she's forgotten me. 
 She'd have to start liking me over again." 
 
LONDON IS J 'B,WIXCjajEP; . 99 
 
 "Is it so long " She ceased, and was silent. 
 It seemed as though, whatever she asked, she 
 dragged the truth out, though hurting him. 
 Consequently, she must be careful. 
 
 "Mr. Lancaster." 
 
 "Madam." 
 
 "Will you give me your promise not to come 
 near my sister Lucy. Or or let Eric." 
 
 "If you'll not cut me off, I will." 
 
 "Oh, what do you mean ? You've got the other 
 girl, Mona." 
 
 "She isn't a girl. I mean, she's a got a kid 
 oh, damn!" He flung a fierce taunt back to a 
 carman who abused him. "Sorry," he said to 
 Caroline. "They will do it. De-ownt know 
 their place," he drawled. 
 
 "Will you put me down here? I'd rather not 
 go nearer," was her next remark, after what 
 seemed like an endless age. She did not want to 
 be seen with him now. He stopped, sulky: and 
 put her down in a quiet by-way. Miss Astley, 
 parting with him, had not the least wish to cry. 
 She wondered she had ever cried, she must 
 have been tired. His eyes, crawling about with 
 a sly look, made her very angry, and frantic. 
 
 "Look here, she's from our parts. Will you 
 come and meet her?" 
 
ioo t ' c ti. : *r#y^| MAD AM 
 
 "How dare you ask me?" 
 
 "Saying that's as bad as swearing for me. 
 We're quits," said Mousie. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "It's common." 
 
 "There are some common things that are the 
 right things," said Miss Astley. "And some very 
 old ones, good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye Hold on, I've not said 
 
 what I came for. Do you know what it is?" 
 
 "I can't wait." She set her lips, desperate. 
 
 "Curly." She was actually starting, but the 
 sulky murmur reached her. It was meant to 
 reach. Swiftly she shot round. 
 
 "You are not," she directed haughtily, "to call 
 my sister that." 
 
 "Right-o, Madam. Made you listen, though. 
 Come nearer. I'm sorry I fooled with her, put 
 your back up. Maybe that foolin' 's played out, 
 -the kids do it. That's all." 
 
 Their eyes met : she went on slowly up Harley 
 Street. He had called for her, in somebody 
 else's car, simply to apologise : and had been too 
 shy or something to do so till the last. And he 
 volunteered, for her reassurance, that only kids, 
 nowadays, played the fool. But he was one! 
 
PART II 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 
 
 MONA FARADAY was "out" against society: a 
 real, rabid red-cap : Mousie was not. He was a 
 reformer born, and in training: though he went 
 "mad" at times. The world was still captivating, 
 in other people's cars, to Mousie, at intervals ; to 
 Mona it was rubbish, and, but for her baby, she 
 would willingly have cast it away. 
 
 She argued it with Mouse (it had been Chris's 
 name for him, and Mona kept it) but she could 
 not argue ; she had the wit in plenty, but not the 
 wisdom, or the words. He was long-suffering 
 with her, used to being treated as a boy, which 
 was Mona's invariable treatment her ail-but 
 invariable treatment of Mousie. He had been 
 that, contemptibly, when she first knew him. 
 Nowadays, there were lapses: consequent, no 
 doubt, on her being unable to help kissing him 
 when he looked like Chris. 
 
 She really had loved Chris, passionately and 
 long (for Mona) ; but he was becoming a leg- 
 
 103 
 
io 4 MADAM 
 
 end, as things for such women, whose whole 
 power of thought must be spoken, to be thought 
 at all, will do. She had never been unfaithful 
 to Chris, nor let her thoughts wander from him, 
 in his life-time; Chris had been unfaithful to 
 her, but that was another story. But brothers, 
 their looks and movements, are confusing to a 
 weakened intellect. It was becoming easier to 
 remember Chris, when Chris's brother was 
 about: that was all. 
 
 Mona's intellect had not always been feeble, 
 or Chris would never have chosen her: it had 
 been weakened by worry and want, during the 
 war-years ; and such want and worry were a true 
 indication of her exact standing, in the "layers" 
 of society Fred Foote had mentioned. There 
 were "kind ladies" galore, during the war-years, 
 most eager to help Mona, and Mona's child ; but 
 she loathed kind ladies: she would none of 
 them: her eyes were wicked when they came 
 near. Innumerable kind ladies and "sisters" 
 could not bear her, she said such things to them, 
 scraps' of Chris. Chris had taught it to her, 
 and he had worked in willing material: he had 
 taught her, and she believed, that it was the 
 whole scheme of things that was wrong. She 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 105 
 
 was "out" against society, plus charity, and espe- 
 cially plus war-charity of the ultra-British make : 
 that was what led to Mona's all but starving in a 
 garret, in the months following Chris's death: 
 for Chris's money owing to one of the compli- 
 cated muddles that other kind ladies, with pens, 
 were trying to solve never came her way. It is 
 true, the baby absorbed her, and there were 
 others quicker to claim. Mona did not mind: 
 she would not take anybody's money, but 
 Mousie's; of course, at the worst, she took that. 
 
 Because she loved him, as Chris had done, 
 and as most people did, if it came to that. Chris, 
 from youth up, together with three brothers, had 
 bullied and petted and played with Mousie, 
 taken his services, "kidded" him with their su- 
 perior knowledge, and stood him treat. Love 
 was in all this, warm affection, though things 
 never get called by their names in small-town 
 circles. Mousie returned it, whatever-it-was, in 
 kind, to the four brothers, especially to Chris. 
 He excepted George, the fifth, from whatever- 
 it-was, though he was friendly George-ward. 
 Chris-ward he had always been silent and ador- 
 ing: when Chris bullied him painfully, the most. 
 
 His support of Mona was the most natural, the 
 
io6 MADAM 
 
 most elemental thing: the thing that it stirred, 
 ail-but inspired Foote and company merely to 
 think of : and which quite forbade their speak- 
 ing much. But the strange thing was that Mona 
 rose to it. She rose simply, as he did, met him 
 exactly, and loved him little-brother-like for 
 ever so long. He was saving her child, which 
 made all easy: or should have done, in the an- 
 cient, golden world. 
 
 There are lovely things that are ancient as hu- 
 manity: very-old things. They are all penny- 
 plain, though poetry, of course, feels after them. 
 Science, such as Mr. Forrest's, feels after them 
 too. Mona was no sort of girl, she was a pro- 
 vincial light-of-love, living by the senses, slackly : 
 for her political passion was really of the senses 
 too. The boy had ploughed through the dregs of 
 the aviation-camps, much like others: healthy, 
 and so better than most. He guessed, with won- 
 derful art, that the thing was to keep Mona 
 healthy, by any means; for, unlike her, he re- 
 membered, acted out, and added to his brother's 
 philosophy. He erred, therefore, on the side of 
 spoiling her; he thought one must, when there 
 were babies about. He read much, and occa- 
 sionally even the ladies' leaflets on the sly; but 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 107 
 
 his own sense, and administrative instinct, build- 
 ing upon Christopher's wild and wasted clever- 
 ness, was at the back, really, of all he did. 
 
 Only this a matter-of-course, with such as 
 Mona, was but the beginning of the tale. 
 Mousie was wrestling with the sequel now, and 
 he not infrequently fell out with her. Mona was 
 not (for all Lu) quite old enough to be his 
 mother, and she was, or had been, a lovely coun- 
 try girl. Further, she did silly things with the 
 baby, at times, indulging it. Society, looking on 
 and assuming the worst, after the manner of the 
 headless many-headed, hypnotised him, too fre- 
 quently: it was apt to make him "mad" as his 
 American motor-place would say. 
 
 True, Mousie might have been mad in any 
 case; it was conceivable; for he had exactly 
 Henry's sensation at times of a leering, lop-sided 
 world. The nightmare just behind, for a 
 straight spirit, had to be looked at. The thought 
 of Chris, and Chris's treatment by the family, 
 turned him "sick" and reckless still. The 
 thought of the others, and George, George 
 dutiful, filled up the balance of bitterness and 
 overflowed it; perhaps it was George who over- 
 flowed. George had been an awkward kind of 
 
io8 MADAM 
 
 ass, and his legs and arms went sprawling over 
 the tragic balance: all of them went sprawling, 
 slackly, come to that, the trim brothers he had 
 known. Their faces, and Chris's face . 
 
 Well, about there, you try to make the other 
 men laugh by breaking the speed-limit; and you 
 go to the greatest, rowdiest, most impassioned 
 Red Flag meetings, to dip your soul at eventide 
 in music, and to keep you straight. 
 
 Mousie loved the "Red Flag," and whistled it, 
 much as his mother, in old time, sang softly over 
 her children's washing, the Evening Hymn. 
 
 There was a new time coming, "sure," when 
 such as Mona, beautiful with her baby, and such 
 as Chris, rough and irregular, but loved and lov- 
 ing, and such as Mousie, fierce to learn, and 
 unable to find fodder, and such as Maudie, 
 Christian, would have their chance, on equal 
 terms : not in a Golden City with glass streets, that 
 was hymn-book rubbish, but somewhere. Sure! 
 
 There was a new time coming, when such as 
 Miss Erith Fleming, and such as Mousie's 
 mother (he much feared) would be in hell. 
 
 And when such as George would not matter, 
 any more than at present, or formerly. He liked 
 old George. 
 
II 
 
 MOUSIE fell out with Mona, and called her a 
 fool, and would not take her to the pictures, and 
 spent a long Sunday in the country with Eric in- 
 stead, to look at the horse. Also, alas, to take the 
 horse home, because he had found out whom 
 Titus belonged to; an "oversight," the taking of 
 Titus had been. Some of Mousie's good genie, 
 even as Wireless whispering on the masterless 
 airs, had failed to let him know all he should 
 have known, that happy morning. He should 
 have known, merely by looking at Titus, natu- 
 rally; only he thought he belonged to a smart, 
 fat officer of the old school, with whom "fooling" 
 was, as it were, legitimate. An oversight. 
 
 When Mousie had trotted out Titus to Eric's 
 stable in the country, he had been a little silly, 
 Eric observed: that is, over and above the silli- 
 ness that such a cracked proceeding implied. 
 This was Titus' fault, it dawned upon Eric 
 slowly: and now, on the Sunday in question, he 
 became convinced of it, quite. To pretend that 
 Titus was his own, for a long day's length, and 
 
 109 
 
no MADAM 
 
 that the Sabbath, appealed to Mousie. He tried 
 all his paces, got off, and wandered round him, 
 investigating "points" and what not; and he 
 made love to Titus, face to face, in Eric's stable, 
 really foolishly, as youths with a dash of Irish 
 blood in them will do. 
 
 The odd thing was, that the "new man" as evi- 
 dently appealed to Titus. Titus' game, which 
 had crossed Captain Glover's idea of humour so 
 completely, was Mousie's game as well. The 
 ballets they danced, in concert, in the new field 
 behind Eric's new stable, ended in the conquer- 
 ing posture not for Titus. The new man never 
 once tried the floor, as the old one had done (to 
 Titus' astonishment) as a change from sitting 
 erect. 
 
 It was therefore a bitter rite, and a moment of 
 mourning for all parties except Eric, who was 
 relieved when both of them bade farewell to 
 his horses and (highly-unwilling) hospitality, 
 and Titus, in the lemon-coloured evening light, 
 was conducted home. 
 
 It was easily done, though. Mr. Lancaster 
 trotted into the Wicken stable-yard, clad in khaki 
 (most of him), and with about five-sevenths of 
 an American accent, very well assumed. When 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF in 
 
 there, and dismounted, he looked round him till 
 somebody came. Then he said wonderful things 
 about the British po-leece to the open-mouthed 
 groom in charge, who had of course heard the 
 Titus-saga from Mr. Wicken's end. 
 
 "Not much the worse, is he?" said Mr. Lan- 
 caster, patting Titus, who was, indeed, infi- 
 nitely the better for a week of hard exercise and 
 wise feeding, not to mention company he liked. 
 "You'll see it in the press to-morrow, sure," said 
 Mousie. "Say, you're Mr. Chase, aren't you? 
 Mr. Wicken said I should give you his card." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the groom, bemused. 
 
 "Between ourselves," said Mousie, handing 
 the card, "I think Mr. Wicken wants to avoid 
 bales of goods like that Glover ridin' him. 
 That's half why he sent him down. You cairn't 
 exactly, in his position, refuse a mount to a 
 friend." 
 
 "No, sir," said Chase, looking at the card. He 
 was glad to have it. It was wonderfully kind, 
 and reassuring, of Henry, to send a card by this 
 nice-looking young Colonial: and such a card! 
 So flattering in the mere fact of it, and in what 
 was written below. 
 
ii2 MADAM 
 
 "Mr. Henry Wicken" was printed, of course, 
 upon it; and scrawled above in Henry's own 
 writing was a "from"': and beneath, the words 
 "with congratulation." 
 
Ill 
 
 THE exchange between Henry's Mr. Lancaster, 
 and Henry's Miss Fleming, at the "at home" on 
 which the former had intruded, was as follows : 
 it is time it was set down. 
 
 "How dare you come here?" said Erith, in her 
 manner. 
 
 "Aren't Wicken's friends allowed?" said 
 Mousie, in his. 
 
 It might not seem to many people intolerable : 
 nor calculated to drive Miss Fleming right off 
 her bearings with rage. It was class-rage, really, 
 which in our era can be horrible: it was the 
 "Wicken" that did it, more than the rest. A 
 beastly, common little soldier-boy, someone 
 who had jumped to attention when Henry was 
 in the army, probably! And that she, Erith 
 Fleming, should be so addressed, and that with 
 the air and accent, intolerably imitated, of a 
 
 knight and a gentleman! That she had 
 
 been rude to him first, of course, never occurred 
 to her. She had not been rude, she had been 
 crushing to an upstart, quite another thing. 
 
ii4 MADAM 
 
 But there was more in her rage : and the more 
 was, that Erith was actually regretting Henry, 
 though she intended to marry Nichol, of course. 
 She was slipping, in the matter of Nichol, 
 though she did not say so : she dated it from the 
 day when he had lain in the golden mud. She, 
 Erith, had been given away, on that occasion, as 
 Henry, she was sure, would never have given 
 her. 
 
 High-strung, hair-tuned girls such as Erith 
 are much to be pitied; they seldom, or never, 
 know their own minds. From youth up she had 
 melted, temporarily, into everyone she met; and 
 while she was tilting, prettily, had taken their 
 soul-temperature, and the colour of their views. 
 She then suited herself with views and feelings 
 which, she thought, became her: much as she 
 suited herself with the outline of a hat. 
 
 Exquisiteness became Erith, obviously: ear- 
 rings were seized upon by the same grasping 
 fancy, innate, she thought: long before they 
 were adjudged to her by Henry's divination. 
 Henry himself had suited this self of hers, pretty 
 well: but then she had broken from him on a 
 whim, and an equally becoming dignity had pre- 
 vented her returning on her ways. Since her en- 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 115 
 
 gagement, she had been taking opinions, on all 
 sides, concerning Nichol: and the last result 
 was, that she was not so sure, she was not quite 
 so sure. 
 
 And then that little outsider had knocked the 
 impression home, oh! 
 
 Mousie and Erith were enemies, at maturity, 
 on sight, that was the penny-plain fact of it. All 
 he most wished for, worked for, Erith and her 
 like would infallibly and for ever obstruct. She 
 loathed his pretension, the fact that he was "on 
 the make" ; he loathed hers, and the fact that she 
 was well over the top, and on the down-grade, 
 decadent. They hated one another otherwise, 
 vigorously: just as any young man and maiden 
 may hate. But her hatred, having the spur of 
 "languishing" was the more vicious. It ex- 
 pressed itself to Nichol in the wish that he might 
 be "punished," and get a month's "hard." That 
 would very greatly have contented her: and the 
 more, the night of the above insufferable speech. 
 
 That night, collecting and reckoning up her 
 wedding-presents, she discovered that the card 
 on Henry's gift was gone, and guessed where it 
 had gone. She wished with all her soul that he 
 had taken the earbobs as well. However, there 
 
n6 MADAM 
 
 was always the chance, a still better one, that it 
 was he who had stolen Henry's horse. Concern- 
 ing that she had visions, very pleasing ones, in 
 which he was brought up, trapped, humiliated. 
 After that, she could forgive him always : they 
 were very vague scenes. 
 
 "Hooray!" said Henry, like a boy, arriving on 
 a battlefield (though he knew it not) in Lady 
 Glover's drawing-room. "Erith Nichol 
 Lancaster is all I thought him, mine eternally! 
 Titus has come back!" 
 
 "What?" said Nichol. Erith said nothing. 
 
 "I knew my dear old friend Lancaster was to 
 be trusted," said Henry. "He did his best to 
 stop Titus, Nichol; but he couldn't, under a 
 week." 
 
 "We-ell," said Captain Glover, stretching 
 himself. "I'd like to get at him with my 
 hunting-crop. However, thank the Lord!" 
 
 "Thank the Lancaster," said Henry. He 
 shook hands with Nichol, left-handed: as men 
 with horses do. 
 
 "Which of them would you like to get at?" 
 said Erith, to Nichol. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 117 
 
 "The man," said Nichol, simply. It was the 
 expression of his great relief. 
 
 "You shall," said Henry, warmly. "You shall, 
 when I have taken both of them to my heart. 
 Oh, he is a darlin', Aunt is right. Listen now! 
 He sent him back with a card, no, no, excuse 
 me, Lancaster took him. Listen, here is Chase, 
 on a postcard." Henry read aloud. " 'Titus ar- 
 rived, sir, quite in good condition, better than 
 seen him lately' note that, better than Chase 
 seen him 'and Card noted, many thanks, Mr. 
 Henry, we had greatly grieved.' ' 
 
 "Card," said Nichol. "What card on earth?" 
 
 "Ay, what card?" said Henry, happily. He 
 was hugging the postcard. After all, he was a 
 man with a horse. 
 
 "Must have been yours, if Chase is at all what 
 you take him for," said Nichol. "He'd have 
 been on the look-out." 
 
 Henry looked at him vaguely for a minute. 
 Then he said "You are right. It must have 
 been mine I shall go down," Henry sud- 
 denly announced, "to Wicken this evening. Say 
 nothing, anybody : I shall go." 
 
 "Can I come?" said Nichol. "It really is the 
 
n8 MADAM 
 
 limit. The cheek of it. I say, who is the young 
 ass?" 
 
 "Nevermind, I shall solve it," nodded Henry. 
 "Now, Erith, do help me to write to that police- 
 man; you know the one I mean. How do you 
 address a, policeman? Dear Officer X Y Z, 
 that sounds like a Lear Nonsense-rhyme. You 
 remember?" 
 
 "I think you had better wait," said Erith. 
 
 "How do you mean, wait? You don't mean 
 Titus is not there?" Henry's pen (left-handed) 
 paused, and he looked anxious, even nervous, a 
 trifle. Had he dreamed it all? 
 
 "Of course he is there," said Erith. "But a 
 man who would do that, a thing like that, there 
 must be worse." 
 
 "Oh, do you think so?" Both men looked at 
 her. "Is anything the matter, Erith?" said 
 Henry, after a pause. 
 
 "I hate telling you, Henry." 
 
 "What do you hate telling me ?" He repeated, 
 mechanically. "Not He arose, pale and 
 grave. "Have you been scrapping? Nichol, it's 
 your fault." 
 
 "Not more than we shall do for the next ten 
 years," said Erith. "I have warned him." 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 119 
 
 Henry breathed again. So also, of course, did 
 Nichol. "All my fault," he said. 
 
 "Ugh!" thought Erith, inward: and tried not 
 to feel a loathing for his tasteless piety. "Sit 
 down, Henry: it's nothing as bad as that. It is 
 
 nasty, though You remember asking in 
 
 fun, on the League of Nations night, if we had 
 missed anything, after the party! Well, I have." 
 
 "Erith!" said both. 
 
 "I did not want to tell anybody, even Mother, 
 least of all you, Henry, until I had looked 
 and looked." 
 
 "It's the earbobs," said Henry, divining. "My 
 dear little girl, don't look so distressed. I'll 
 give you lots more, twice as many, all you have 
 ears for w r hat could it matter, anyhow, com- 
 pared " 
 
 "You compared it. I didn't." She became 
 her usual charming self. "I thought it so stupid 
 of us, Henry, and you might mind. To have a 
 private view at all, without a detective ! They 
 were tiny little things, so easily taken " 
 
 "And easily lost," reminded Nichol. 
 
 "I think not, dear," said Erith patiently. 
 "The box was there, they were gone, smoke 
 that a little, will you? I am afraid it is 
 
120 MADAM 
 
 those people, one of them, Henry. One of the 
 two. I am afraid we ought to follow the man, 
 oughtn't we? Wouldn't your policeman, for in- 
 stance?" 
 
 The die was cast. Both the men, after a tenta- 
 tive glance at one another, gave their minds to it. 
 
 "If it is Lancaster, he will send them back," 
 began Henry. 
 
 "If he does, he should be planked in a lunatic 
 asylum," said Nichol, with equal defmiteness. 
 
 "Agreed. Poor Lancaster, I believe lunatic 
 asylums are the most frightful places," said 
 Henry, recollecting one of his feminine elderly 
 agitators, who had told him so. "I should like to 
 consult that surgeon again about this, I really 
 should. Why should Lancaster want earbobs?" 
 
 "Perhaps for the girl," said Nichol. 
 
 "Wait," said Henry. "My aunt, an excellent 
 reporter, said that the girl told her they were out 
 of date. There, Erith! On the other hand, I 
 admit she said that Lancaster himself admired 
 them greatly, and remained looking at them a 
 long time. But then, so should I have done." 
 
 "I suppose the servants are to be trusted," said 
 Nichol. 
 
 "Of course," said Erith, bored. Somehow, the 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 121 
 
 Fleming servants shared the superiority of the 
 Fleming household. They were utterly above 
 everything, always. 
 
 "There were other guests," said Henry. 
 
 "We know the other guests," said Erith. 
 
 "Yes, yes. And we don't know Lan " 
 
 "Stop using his name," said Erith, sharply. 
 "I hate it. It's not a real one, couldn't be. Any- 
 how, what was he doing there?" 
 
 "There is that," said Nichol. "Anyone may 
 call, though," he added, as a happy idea. 
 
 "And we might know him," pleaded Henry. 
 "On my honour, Erith, my memory now goes 
 back such a little way. So does yours, Glover. 
 Think of it! There was once a time, before all 
 this happened, any of it " 
 
 He put his hands over his face. 
 
IV 
 
 PRESENTLY, they bade Erith go home and look 
 again, just as though she were a little girl; and 
 then the friends walked out together. 
 
 While they walked out, Nichol told Henry 
 that Erith had met the man somewhere, that the 
 man had reminded her of somebody, and had 
 frightened her. He put it like that. 
 
 "Oh, sorry I fooled, then," said Henry, pen- 
 sive. 
 
 "That's all right," said Nichol, kindly. 
 
 He went on, and told Henry that Erith had 
 already identified the man in the shop women's 
 quickness with the horse-thief: that she had, 
 certainly, seen him again at the party: and that 
 she had rather "got him on the brain." The 
 man, Nichol thought, might be "out" to worry 
 her: to tease her, personally. How was that? 
 
 "Low," said Henry, very absent. 
 
 Well, Erith thought he was that: she was a 
 pretty good judge. "She used the word 'danger- 
 ous,' the first time," said Nichol, ruminating. 
 
 122 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 123 
 
 He was an awfully good witness, steady: 
 better than Henry's aunt. 
 
 "Did you see him?" said Henry. 
 
 "Oh, just looked over the lad, the way you do. 
 I thought him pretty fair, I must say. And he's 
 a a ghastly good rider," added Nichol. 
 
 "You think he is the same man, then?" 
 
 They agreed that it was likely. 
 
 "Well now, if he's out to frighten Erith, he 
 deserves anything." 
 
 "Anything," said Nichol: but "something" 
 was evidently in his mind. 
 
 "Erith's sort is not easily frightened," they 
 presently said simultaneously. 
 
 "Go and find little Lancaster for me, would 
 you?" said Henry, at parting. "I want to 
 thank him, for Titus; I am just going down 
 there to see about it all, to-night." 
 
 Henry went "down there," to Wicken, where 
 he was always pleased to go, and got a very good 
 portrait of the criminal out of Chase. Chase had 
 also come to the conclusion that it was the crim- 
 inal, but rather late. Chase did all things late, 
 being Berkshire, but he was an excellent groom 
 and a good witness, like Nichol. Henry learnt 
 
124 MADAM 
 
 that the young stranger had "walked about the 
 stable as if he had known it" : also that he had 
 hung about as though he wanted to be looked at, 
 rather than the other way. "That may have been 
 'is actin'," said Chase, gravely. But his ruminat- 
 ing Berkshire eyes, expectant of a solution, were 
 on Henry. He was a very good witness indeed. 
 
 Finally, Mr. Wicken was shown his own card, 
 at which he smiled, thoughtfully. He knew it so 
 well. He had debated so long, before he had 
 written it 
 
 "That's the very ticket," he said, frivolously, 
 pocketing it: Chase saw the joke, as he thought, 
 and laughed at it, about an hour afterwards. 
 They all knew, of course, that Mr. Henry was a 
 funny one : but, as they would have to bear with 
 it, for ages to come, they put up with it. 
 
 After that, Henry had a long, close, intimate 
 and earnest talk with Titus: and this was the 
 most productive proceeding, of anything he did. 
 
 It occurred in a clean, dark stable, with a little 
 loophole to the sky, inspiring. It was the old 
 stable, too, pre-war: the one, in his gay and gal- 
 lant days, that Henry had known. 
 
 He wondered, he said to Titus, how he could 
 lark about with a person like Nichol, who was 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 125 
 
 in love with, and about to be married to, the love- 
 liest girl in the world. He knew, he said, that 
 Nichol was a little heavy, and a trifle tempting, 
 when it came to rolling, since that shape rolled 
 so easily. But it was a shame to "rouler" him in 
 the French sense, Henry told Titus, all the same. 
 It was too easily done, with a man of that sort, 
 if Titus understood Henry: anyone, anywhere, 
 could so easily take him in. He wanted life to be 
 made plain, straightforward riding, for Nichol : 
 and he wanted that girl, Erith, to ride by him 
 and make his happiness, just as she had done that 
 day. 
 
 "Humph!" said Titus. 
 
 "Will you see to it, next time?" said Henry, 
 fingering him lef t-handedly. 
 
 "Gr-umph 1" said Titus, with very bright eyes. 
 "Men like that call for it, ever so. Gr-umph I" 
 
 "But girls don't," said Henry. 
 
 "Whisht in your ear, one minute," said Titus. 
 "She enjoyed it. Saw her! So did Amabel. 
 They laughed. They enjoyed the other man too, 
 thought it splendid." 
 
 "So she would," said Henry. "So they would, 
 the darlings. It was damned neat, wasn't it, 
 Titus? I say, what did you think of the thief?" 
 
126 MADAM 
 
 "Hh-rrumph!" said Titus, and whisked his 
 tail: his head balancing like a cork on the 
 waters: his eyes gleaming in the shadow, like 
 gems. 
 
 "Two hands, hadn't he?" whispered Henry. 
 
 Oh well: Titus could not remember if the 
 other man had two hands. He could not remem- 
 ber hands at all, come to that. The rest was all 
 right. 
 
 "What was his name?" whispered Henry. 
 
 "Lancaster, he says," whispered Titus. 
 
 "Rubbish!" returned Henry, laying his head 
 down foolishly on Titus' neck. "Oh, my beloved 
 Chris!" 
 
V 
 
 FRIGHTFUL things were happening in Mrs. Ast- 
 ley's model family: really frightful things. 
 Lu's corruption by evil elements, never to be 
 named between polite people, was bad enough, 
 sufficiently shattering to Mrs. Astley's pretty 
 world : but now Lina, her own Lina, her faith- 
 ful attendant and confidante (Mrs. Astley being 
 the confider) was being drawn within the whirl- 
 pool, so Lu said. 
 
 Mrs. Astley had thought, at least, the dear 
 girls could be friendly, while she was so ill. She 
 had not slept for a week: that-is-to-say, she had 
 heard the birds begin to sing, every morning. It 
 was certainly the lark, and not the nightingale, 
 that Mrs. Astley had heard: for the reason that 
 Lina crept in and out of her room constantly, 
 during nightingale-time: and on each occasion, 
 her mother was deep-breathing, peacefully. 
 
 However, in the morning, Mrs. Astley, for 
 very fear, looked exactly as though she had 
 watched with the nightingales : and it was rather 
 
 127 
 
128 MADAM 
 
 hard on her, at such a time, that the dear girls 
 could not keep friends. 
 
 Meanwhile, the dumb battle, that of all is the 
 cruellest, raged between the girls. Their father, 
 a sensible man, was very greatly distressed by 
 what he caught of it. He saw that Lu was almost 
 enjoying herself, with Foote constantly at her 
 elbow, as her standard-in-warfare, so to speak: 
 and that Lina was the sufferer. He thought that 
 Lu was both pert and cruel to her sister, consid- 
 ering all that Lina had done for her, in the past 
 
 Why should not little Lina, who worked so 
 hard, be taken a drive? 
 
 "Oh, of course, if a friend likes to take her!" 
 said Lu, sarcastic: she had a splendidly strong 
 case. It was unlucky that Lancaster's doings so 
 rapidly became public property. He had merely 
 taken a girl for a midday ride, in an off-time, and 
 it was noised about London. At least it reached 
 Lu, who was on the watch, quite easily. 
 
 "And after she had spoken to me about him," 
 said Lu, "so carefully!" She laughed. 
 
 "Who is the man?" said Mr. Astley to Fred 
 Foote, since his wife would not act. 
 
 Fred, thankful to be speaking to a gentleman, 
 told him freely. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 129 
 
 "Motors?" said Mr. Astley, considering. 
 "Paish's place, did you say? Do you think he 
 cares for one of the girls?" 
 
 "I think he was telling Miss Lina he didn't, 
 probably," said the earnest Foote. 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Astley, and adjusted himself. 
 He had practically accepted Mr. Foote as a son- 
 in-law, but he would have liked better, to tell the 
 truth, even for Lucy. Not but what Freddy was 
 a very good sort. You could not, at least, find 
 anything even ebullitions and oversights 
 against him : he was all sad propriety. 
 
 "We have never," said Mr. Astley, smiling 
 faintly, "been used to do anything but trust Lina. 
 It would be hard to change." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Foote, glowing with the un- 
 speakable warmth of his feelings. If only, he 
 often thought, Miss Lina was pretty too. She 
 'was good-looking: she was ever such a good- 
 looking girl, at times, on Sundays; but often, 
 during the week, she was too "hipped" and pale. 
 
 "You leave her alone," said Foote, assuming 
 some possession, to Lucy. "She has her plans, 
 and her thoughts for you. It's ingratitude, to my 
 thinking, not to believe that." 
 
 "She cares for him," said Lu sharply. 
 
i 3 o MADAM 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "I know she does: only she's so sly, showing 
 it. She must have done, even when she was at 
 
 me." 
 
 "She may, for me," said Foote. 
 
 "He wouldn't look at her. She she ought to 
 know it." 
 
 "Maybe she does," said Foote, quietly. He 
 wished Lu would speak lower, since it was a 
 small house. Besides, there was her mother so 
 ill 
 
 "Much more likely she showed and then he 
 tried to make her think so. / know his ways," 
 said Lu, with wasp-like scorn. 
 
 "I wonder now, if you do, Miss," thought 
 Foote. Out loud he said "All they w r ant is for 
 you to be happy, Curly-noddle," which was 
 weak. 
 
VI 
 
 OF course Henry told about the card that had 
 come with Titus: he could not help it, for com- 
 edy's sake: and then found himself "landed" by 
 Erith. To his real disturbance, she considered 
 that it proved her suspicion, and the guilt of the 
 accused. Whoever had the card, had the ear- 
 bobs. Was it not patent? 
 
 "Oh really, I don't think so," said Henry. 
 
 He was much troubled by Erith, by her looks, 
 their feverishness, and their hardness too. Why 
 should she be so utterly determined to fix the 
 blame on the man? The girl might equally well 
 have annexed the jewels, if suspicions were about 
 at all. 
 
 "Better have him up," thought Henry, in his 
 private depths, and a lucid interval. "How find 
 him, though?" He pondered. The problem 
 was really a bad one, since of course he had cut 
 off the police. 
 
 "Unless he chooses to come my way again," 
 thought Henry. "Lord, I wish he would!" 
 
 He tried, quietly and tentatively, in his own 
 
 131 
 
132 MADAM 
 
 house, and at Mrs. Fleming's. What was the 
 girl's name? Nobody knew: Lancaster had 
 slurred it over, in introducing her. What was 
 her hospital ? Nobody knew. She had not men- 
 tioned it, though she had mentioned her work. 
 
 Henry gave up the girl. Every time he 
 walked the streets of London, his elfish and en- 
 chanted city, he gave her up more completely. 
 There were at least ten girls to every man he met, 
 the statistics must be out, he noted. Five out 
 of every ten had hair over the right eyebrow, and 
 were in a neat dark blue costume. And they 
 called this Peace, oh, bother! Henry hated 
 hospitals. 
 
 Would Lancaster write, then, he wondered? 
 Would he haunt the Wicken stable? He did 
 neither thing : he erased himself. 
 
 Henry left it, suddenly. London might stand 
 on its head again, if left quite to itself, he 
 
 thought Still, nothing of the sort ever 
 
 occurred: the streets were vertical, fairly. 
 
 After an interlude, the wedding was put off, 
 since Erith was seedy, Dr. Ashwin came home 
 from foreign parts, and Henry went down joy- 
 fully to see him. Miss Wicken jumped, when 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 133 
 
 she heard the fatal name of Harley Street given 
 to the taxicab-driver: but, hearing that of Dr. 
 Ashwin superadded, went peacefully back to the 
 planting of pink hyacinths in blue pots again. 
 She sent her love to Dr. Ashwin's daughter, if 
 Henry should happen to see her. 
 
 "I hope I shan't," called Henry from the cab. 
 "I want to play with him alone." 
 
 But alas, what should occur? Mr. Forrest was 
 playing with Dr. Ashwin. The doctor, that is to 
 say, was opposite-but-one, lunching with Mr. 
 Forrest: so the Irish Ashwin servant informed 
 Henry. 
 
 Henry went opposite-but-one, and found Miss 
 Astley, dressed as usual, in her usual place. He 
 supposed she had been there, intermittently, 
 since he had seen her. She looked poorly, he was 
 sorry to see; he did not much like her appear- 
 ance. She smiled, however, at the question he 
 asked : it reminded her of his former visit. 
 
 "They are at lunch, I am afraid," said Miss 
 Astley. "They have so much to talk about." 
 
 "Frightfully doctorial?" asked Henry, sitting 
 on the table. 
 
 "Frightfully." 
 
 "I won't disturb him," said Henry nobly. "I 
 
134 MADAM 
 
 daresay his daughter is opposite-but-one. I'll go 
 
 over and call on her. Shall I?" 
 
 
 
 Miss Astley, still smiling, allowed it. Henry 
 sat on the table a little longer, thinking. 
 
 "I did," he said dreamily, "so want to tell him 
 Titus : but she will do." 
 
 He went over and called: but Dr. Ashwin's 
 daughter was missing: in her own house, for she 
 was married. Issuing depressed, Henry saw 
 Miss Astley also issuing, presumably for her 
 lunch. At once he had a saving idea, and in- 
 stantly acted on it. 
 
 "Miss Astley," he said, when he had caught 
 her up, "do you mind my telling you Titus? 
 He's a story of mine. He's better, since Mr. 
 Forrest heard him, and even then I threatened 
 to tell you because Mr. Forrest was so ungrate- 
 ful." 
 
 Miss Astley agreed, with the same smile he 
 had expected; she was an awfully jolly girl, 
 and London personified. She had just the hat 
 Henry would have thought of her, last time he 
 was on her traces : which was really not so very 
 long ago. 
 
 "Did anyone ever take you out to lunch like 
 this?" asked Henry, presently. "I begyourpar- 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 135 
 
 don, what an impudent question! I am afraid I 
 shall bore you." He was silent for a long time, 
 while Miss Astley decided on her lunch. 
 
 Presently, as Miss Astley ate, wisely, he no- 
 ticed, but not too well, he began Titus. To his 
 delight, she was amused. Branching out a little, 
 he proceeded with Titus, and she began to look 
 graver: she even glanced at him once or twice, 
 Henry noticed, as though to see if he were telling 
 the truth. Girding himself, (while she took to 
 cheese) he began the last part of the Tale of 
 Titus, entitled, of course, "How Titus Came 
 Home." 
 
 "Did you tell Mr. Forrest all this?" asked 
 Miss Astley quite gaily, at this point. Henry 
 noted that she drank coffee, not tea. 
 
 "No," said Henry. "None ever heard the fol- 
 lowing but you, Miss Astley. Aren't you ex- 
 cited?" 
 
 "Yes, but I wish you would eat something," 
 said this surprising girl. 
 
 So he told the end of Titus, including by the 
 way Chase's able portrait of the man. He did 
 not rest on that, as unimportant : but somehow it 
 came through, as Henry remembered Chase's 
 countenance, and his Berkshire jargon, which 
 
I 3 6 MADAM 
 
 had been so great a change from London, and 
 especially Oxford Circus, that you could find 
 nothing more opposite : so he said. It was really 
 rather amusing, even to himself. His technique 
 in talking, by this time, and in Titus especially, 
 was uncommonly good. 
 
 She did not laugh, as he hoped, at the wedding- 
 card ; she had again turned a little grave, above 
 her coffee. Henry, with a sudden idea, ordered 
 her a liqueur. 
 
 "Oh, really, I never do," said Miss Astley, ter- 
 ribly startled. Her gray eyes, not unlike Erith's, 
 reached his face. 
 
 "You are simply beastly tired," said Henry, 
 leaning forward. "Why ever do you allow me 
 to go on gassing like this?" 
 
 "I like it," she said. "I love it, Mr. Wicken. 
 It's wonderful to have somebody to tell stories, 
 at dinner. It's like the Arabian Nights." 
 
 Oh, she called it dinner 
 
 "Would you mind telling me," said Henry, 
 very humbly, "what you think of the hero? 
 Wait a minute. I don't mean myself, or my 
 friend, or Titus : I mean the other man." 
 
 "I think," she said, "I know him." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Astley 1" Immediately, and 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 137 
 
 without hesitation, for Henry, London stood 
 upon its head. But he kept control of himself. 
 "I say," he snapped to the attendant, "why don't 
 you bring that brandy?" 
 
 She said she might be wrong. Henry was sure 
 she was not. He was morally certain she was 
 never wrong, in anything. 
 
 "Could you put a face to him for me?" he en- 
 treated. 
 
 She tried hard, but she could not: that was 
 evident. It ,was a most wonderful thing, to 
 Henry, to see the light from beyond that love 
 brought to this London girl's face. Of course it 
 was that: nothing else in the world, Henry con- 
 ceived, could make a clever girl so stupid. It 
 was true, Erith had never been stupid like this, 
 still 
 
 "He went out a little with my sister," she said, 
 "if it is the same. But it must be. He told me, 
 in joke, he had taken a horse." 
 
 "Oh, isn't it wonderful?" said Henry. "I 
 
 think, Miss Astley, we were born to meet 
 
 But it wasn't a joke. He did, seriously, take 
 Titus." 
 
 "He told me he was a rider." 
 
138 MADAM 
 
 "Of course he is. Titus, also, told me so." 
 
 "He drives cars," she supplied. 
 
 "By George! what a waste of him! Please 
 go on, if you can, possibly." But he had to wait. 
 
 "I think he is very clever, and rather 
 naughty! I am afraid he is rather an anarchist. 
 Isn't that the word?" 
 
 "He doesn't go to League-of-Nations meet- 
 ings," said Henry. "Wretched fellow! Can 
 you tell me where he lives?" 
 
 She could not. "But I could find out. Shall 
 I find out for you?" said Caroline. 
 
 "Rather! Make a note of it. Do let me see," 
 said Henry, leaning over, "how you make a 
 note." 
 
 She laughed, and let him look. It relieved 
 her wonderfully, he could see, to take a note- 
 book and pencil in hand. She wrote down 
 "Mousie." 
 
 "That's what they call him. I like it better 
 than the other name, because, you know, I don't 
 think that is real." 
 
 "I know it is not," thought Henry. He did 
 not say so, because why should he? Things, in 
 this happy atmosphere of penny-plain London, 
 did themselves. There was a long interlude 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 139 
 
 while Henry thought, gazing upon Miss Astley, 
 who was finishing her liqueur. Somebody had 
 found it, though it was not, it appeared, on the 
 premises. Everyone in this place, including the 
 girl at the desk, was interested and touched by 
 his attitude, leaning forward, hands clasped be- 
 neath his chin. In one of Henry's places, where 
 liqueurs are commoner, nobody would have no- 
 ticed, probably. 
 
 "Do you admire him for these tricks," he 
 asked, with frightful suddenness. 
 
 "No, I wish he wouldn't," she said. 
 
 "You're the first woman I've told it to, who 
 doesn't admire him," said Henry. "It's one to 
 the surgeon, Miss Astley. He guessed you 
 wouldn't admire the silly young devil. He 
 thinks such a fearful lot of you." 
 
 "Mr. Forrest does?" She coloured pink with 
 pleasure, and when they were talking about the 
 other man! Henry thought her the most won- 
 derful girl. He exaggerated, ridiculously, as in 
 a roseate mist, everything about her, but that 
 was natural. She was London personified : and 
 London is such a rosy-misted, fairy-like, frolic- 
 some little town. Clashing bells in the City 
 spires Camelot itself was nothing to London; 
 
140 MADAM 
 
 or rather, it was London, probably, in the days 
 when the lovely Thames and little more was visi- 
 ble. The valley-mists, of course, always 
 
 "I am infinitely, infinitely obliged to you, Miss 
 Astley," said Henry, rising. "You have done 
 more for me even than Dr. Ashwin would. 
 Coming from the East, you see, he might have 
 liked Titus, undoctorially; but he couldn't have 
 
 put his finger on the man At least, I 
 
 don't think he could." 
 
 "I shouldn't be too sure of it," smiled Miss 
 Astley. (Much the better for the liqueur, she 
 was.) "Oh, I wish you had seen him to-day, 
 he is so nice!" 
 
 "I prefer," said Henry, as he swept up the bill 
 by sleight-of-hand, "my Lancaster." 
 
VII 
 
 MlSS ASTLEY, with her note of Mr. Wicken's 
 wants in hand, applied to Fred Foote, of course, 
 the end of the chain that led to Mousie. 
 
 "Well," said melancholy Foote, "there's where 
 he lives, and where he works : they're different." 
 
 "Exactly," she said. 
 
 "Where he works I can tell you," said Foote. 
 It proved to be "Paish's place": that is, a very 
 smart West-end automobile and aeroplane- 
 centre, an excellent reference in itself. 
 
 "Can you tell me where he lives?" she said. 
 
 "Well," said Foote again : and looked at her. 
 Straightway Miss Astley met his eyes. "To say 
 truth, Lina," he called her now by her name, 
 "it's a poorish place. A low quarter, to say 
 truth : I mean, for the likes of him." 
 
 "Not respectable?" 
 
 "Oh well, come to that, that depends how you 
 live, doesn't it? It's one of those lodging-houses, 
 Eric says. I'm not," added careful Freddy, "an- 
 swering you on my own experience, I ought to 
 
 141 
 
i 4 2 MADAM 
 
 say." For of course he saw, by Lina's manner 
 and her notebook, that this was business. 
 
 "No," said Miss Astley, her head lowered. 
 "Has Mr. Eric been there?" 
 
 "Oh yes, oh yes! Eric'd back him, any- 
 where : though he's not of his way of thinking, 
 actually. Eric," proceeded Foote, cheering, 
 "has got a good place in the country, and that. 
 His father is rich." 
 
 "Mr. Lancaster is not rich, then?" 
 
 Again, Foote was silent. Once he had been 
 accused of being a tell-tale, nay twice, since 
 Eric also had hinted it; and that is a painful 
 charge for a melancholy man. 
 
 "Shall I put you onto Eric, Lina?" he said. 
 
 Miss Astley, with her instinct for the first- 
 hand, as distinct from all the other hands, in 
 business, said that it might be best. 
 
 She was put "onto" Eric, not by telephone: 
 Foote's image was misleading. She was put onto 
 him by post. Eric (whose name proved to be 
 Lester) replied from his country place, also in 
 business-style, that he regretted to have to en- 
 quire who it was that wanted his friend's ad- 
 dress: because Mr. Lancaster interviewed at the 
 office, usually: Foote reassured him, somehow: 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 143 
 
 and Eric replied forthwith with the requisite 
 place, number, and street in London. He told 
 Foote, however, who told Lina, that if it was 
 ladies and such, they had better not go down 
 there. Mouse was easily fed-up with it: and as 
 for 'tother, she had had too much of that sort of 
 thing, already. 
 
 Miss Astley thought long; she thought for 
 Mousie, which was a thing she often did, almost 
 unconsciously, nowadays. Then she gave Mr. 
 Wicken the official address, only: with a gentle 
 apology. Then she made a secret determination, 
 with set teeth, that she would go down to that 
 lodging-house, whatever it was, and see the girl 
 herself. Had he not asked her to do so, long 
 since? If now, she was turned out, on arrival, it 
 was no more than she deserved. 
 
 She could do nothing, in any matter, till the 
 week's end ; but the resolution, strengthening her 
 soul, helped her wonderfully. The real Mousie 
 seemed such a different figure to her, from the 
 hero in Henry's tale. It was the real one she 
 cared for: the one who had answered her ques- 
 tions, with his fixed brows, and blood-shot eyes, 
 in the car. Not the other, that was nothing: 
 that might even be Mr. Wicken's imagination, 
 
144 MADAM 
 
 largely. One always allowed for the jesting of 
 leisured people, they had the time. 
 
 Henry, simply delighted, applied to Paish's. 
 
 Paish's Autos and Aeroplanes, a go-ahead firm 
 patronised by half Henry's friends, and which he 
 had visited countless times with his colleagues, 
 how dreamlike! knew Lancaster. He was 
 not "around" on the day when Henry called, that 
 was all. Paish's were rather sulky on the subject 
 of Lancaster, referring to him in snaps, and then 
 shutting their jaw. He had been twice warned 
 of late for furious driving, and was inclined to 
 vex the firm by what the firm called "buying" 
 them, what Henry translated as "airs." In- 
 deed, considering all that Paish's, in quite a short 
 time, said and implied about this "hand" of 
 theirs, it was rather marvellous that they kept 
 him on; but for a supposition which Henry was 
 convinced was the key to Paish's, that he was 
 a simply topping workman. 
 
 Of course, Henry had always known that 
 young Lancaster would be. 
 
 "How did he come to you?" said Henry, hav- 
 ing the chance. 
 
 "Lost his nerve in the Air Force." 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 145 
 
 i 
 
 "How was that?" 
 
 "Trouble, I guess." 
 
 "I presoom," said Henry, involuntarily, "he 
 shows no lack of nerve, nowadays?" 
 
 "Well!" said the firm with finality. They 
 clamped their jaw. Whence Henry derived an 
 odd impression that, to Paish's all-seeing eye, 
 little Lancaster was a thought nervous. 
 
 They were altogether a wonderful composite 
 personality, Paish's; they were also cleaner, 
 more courtly, and more creased in the legs than 
 anything Henry had ever seen, far from Lon- 
 don personified, anything but it. They would 
 buy Britain, and Europe, he was convinced, in 
 no time: and he left them impressed and hum- 
 bled ; but he seemed to be no nearer to Lancaster. 
 
 Miss Astley, firm in her resolve, applied to the 
 other address that Eric had given her: but not 
 before something had happened that everybody 
 might have guessed. 
 
 But even Henry, with all his instinctive knowl- 
 edge of London's little tricks upon her citizens, 
 did not think of it. 
 
VIII 
 
 "MY own boy!" said Mona, being at leisure. 
 
 Mona had complained that Mousie was de- 
 serting her, that she was useless to all men, and 
 society at large, and suggested several unoriginal 
 ways to end her life. 
 
 Wherefore he came and read in her room, 
 when he returned from work: and then she was 
 more tiresome than ever. She left the baby, 
 which generally interested her, and hung about 
 his neck, and addressed him as above-mentioned ; 
 presumably, when he was reading Chris's litera- 
 ture, he looked like Chris. How to reconcile 
 study and Mona would have been a problem even 
 to the long-experienced ; it had begun to look, to 
 Mousie, uncommonly like choosing between 
 them once for all, when the baby fell ill. 
 
 This solved part of the problem, temporarily: 
 but he had not long the leisure to read. She 
 made a fearful fuss, as he might have expected. 
 Jock, Mona's son, was healthy like Mona, and 
 the gods, in any of her lives, had never sent her 
 such a wicked affliction before. 
 
 146 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 147 
 
 Mousie got her a doctor, and so on ; but Mona, 
 greatly delighted to see the doctor, proceeded to 
 do nothing that he recommended. She was a lit- 
 tle like Caroline's mother, in loving a doctor's 
 visit, simply for its importance, and the reassur- 
 ance it presented that the patient (Mrs. Astley) 
 was not about to die. Charmed to hear that Jock 
 (in Mona's case) was not dying, but behaving 
 like multitudes of babies previously, she man- 
 aged to forget most of the doctor's instructions, 
 and to ignore his medicines, beyond enthusias- 
 tically applying the first dose. Of this Jock, who 
 had all Chris's spirit, emitted the greater part; 
 whence Mona argued to Mousie that it must be 
 bad for him. She could hardly be persuaded by 
 Mousie (who, like Christopher himself, had 
 been educated) that this was not so. He sought 
 to see that the child had the medicine at the 
 proper times; because, in the army, doctors' 
 orders are regarded : and also, it was down in his 
 books. Whenever he interfered with Jock, 
 Mona pulled him about and made faces at him: 
 not however, in the original way. She forgot 
 that he was her "own boy," utterly: and treated 
 him like a cross between an excellent errand-boy, 
 and a rather hard-worked husband. He was 
 
i 4 8 MADAM 
 
 quite used to this, and had played the part even 
 in Christopher's lifetime; merely as errand-boy, 
 Mousie, with five elder brothers, most of them 
 heavy-handed, could give any self-conscious lit- 
 tle Scout in London points. 
 
 But just when Mona's cruel cross, owing to 
 doctor and little brother together, was crushing 
 her rather less, she was again most wickedly in- 
 jured; for her little brother himself was reft 
 from her. The police came 
 
 The sort of thing, in Mona's experience, was 
 not undreamt of: still, the police were the po- 
 lice; she was rather ashamed of Mousie when 
 she heard. She heard, merely, because the police 
 came to his lodging, which was not hers: and at 
 an hour when they were sure of finding him, 
 which was also the hour when she was putting 
 Jock to sleep. Before Mona, loyal though ag- 
 grieved, had made up her mind to leave her baby 
 to its fate, and go and abuse the arm of justice, 
 the arm had gone away again, Mousie in its em- 
 brace. He left a note to say he would probably 
 come back to her, shortly. 
 
 Returning breathless from her short excursion, 
 Mona found the neighbours inquisitive, Jock 
 rending the atmosphere with screams, and 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 149 
 
 Mousie not there to walk about with him, over 
 one shoulder, while he studied one of Chris's 
 books in the other hand. He did not return to 
 her all night; and Mona, easily moved, began to 
 be sorry that she had flouted his views about the 
 baby; because first, Jock, so screaming persist- 
 ently, would probably die, for want of a dose 
 that he would agree to take, in the proper quan- 
 tity, at the right time; and secondly, of course! 
 she loved Mousie; not as her "own boy," nor 
 as her hardworked husband, nor as anything of 
 that sort: but as Chris's little brother, who had 
 first come to her with a message in the country, 
 and been kissed for it, at twelve years old. 
 
 The result of all this was that Mona, who had 
 had little sleep, owing to real motherly misery 
 and anxiety, both for Mousie and Jock, and for 
 herself a recurrence of haunting dread, was in a 
 terribly bad temper when the kind lady called, 
 and very nearly turned her out again, on sight. 
 The kind lady asserted that she had been sent by 
 Mr. Lancaster, but this Mona did Mousie the 
 justice of not believing. Mona never believed 
 more than half anything that a kind lady, even 
 such a young, simple and pale one, said. One 
 has, in these things, to make a principle. 
 
IX 
 
 MlSS ASTLEY and Mr. Wicken each had a mes- 
 sage from the central Police-Station, on the same 
 day. Miss Astley's coming to Harley Street, ran 
 as follows : blotted a bit but quite legible. (He 
 did not use the word "police," of course: it 
 would have been rash, with employers about, and 
 he took care of that.) 
 
 "Dear Madam. Our force have got me, but 
 am allowed to write. Cannot say what it is 
 about, but think I will make good all right. 
 Could you call on Miss Faraday, Court, 
 Street, St. Pancras, soonish, if you are free that 
 is. The child is seedy, no danger. Hope your 
 sister all right, sorry. Sincerely yours, D. Lan- 
 caster." 
 
 Even in her shock, which was considerable, 
 since nothing is more awful to Miss Astley than 
 the police, she noted in reading, not only the di- 
 rections, but the D. Perhaps she had lately, in 
 her odd hours, and the nightingale-watches of 
 the night, been trying to fit a name to him; one 
 
 150 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 151 
 
 really could not quite answer for Miss Astley, 
 out of worktime. 
 
 To Henry, Mousie sent a gentlemanly mes- 
 sage, thoroughly gentlemanly, right up in 
 Erith's realm of the exquisite : of the sort Henry 
 had received dozens of, in and since his Uni- 
 versity day, in war and out of war, from his 
 upper-cut acquaintance, ladies too. 
 
 It consisted of the following: 
 
 "Would you mind bailing me? Lancaster- 
 Lane." 
 
X 
 
 "MOTT, you little ass!" said Henry. 
 
 Mr. Lancaster's police-court cell was not par- 
 ticularly inspiring: he had got through with it, 
 all that was best of it, some time before. He had 
 often longed (ideally) to be lagged, in order to 
 see what these places are like, such are our re- 
 formers : and he thought, during the first hour 
 or two after the authorities had snubbed him, of 
 heaps of possible improvements in central police- 
 court cells and premises, during the Coming 
 Time. 
 
 But Mousie, a quick thinker, got through with 
 that part, and a worse time came, far worse. 
 He loathed confinement: it wrecked him; and 
 it might be in front of him, for all he knew. The 
 blind face of authority, turned to his questions, 
 haunted the fancy. Other discomforting shapes 
 arose, striking sparks out of his brain, when 
 he shut his eyes against the heavy blackness: 
 Mona, with the child, and the medicine un- 
 guarded Paish, trap-jawed, "on the 
 
 make," like himself, very well!.... Miss 
 
 152 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 153 
 
 Erith Fleming, settled in the saddle by a lover's 
 hands, where had he seen her? Oh, bother 
 
 it! Foote, the harlequin, defending Lu, 
 
 attacked, no, it was really intolerable! Lina 
 swam about his sickening senses, but he dared 
 not clutch at her. He ventured not to think of 
 Henry Wicken either, till he came. 
 
 When he came, Mousie lifted his head: for it 
 had been hanging lower and lower during the 
 long hours that no nightingale relieved for him: 
 and had at last collapsed upon his arms. 
 
 But he had not expected, cautious though he 
 was, the effect that Henry, in the flesh, would 
 have upon him. All the world in front, for 
 which he planned, fell aside and vanished: and 
 all the sights, sounds and smells of the Wicken 
 grounds and stable, before anything had hap- 
 pened, came back. The smell of a stable-yard 
 in the hot springtime, the unspeakable smell: 
 the pigeons in the straw with their silly lurch, 
 and croon, and self-conscious bridling: the 
 horses' kind faces above the half-doors : and 
 
 Chris Instantly, behind Henry, came 
 
 Chris: behind him, along with him, pushing to 
 his elbow; Mousie, who had been wanting a 
 brother considerably during the night-watches, 
 
154 MADAM 
 
 (for nothing ever replaces a brother) broke 
 down. 
 
 "Of all the people in the world I have most 
 wanted to meet," said Henry. "You have been 
 avoiding me, Mott." 
 
 Mott supposed so, sheepish: for he did not 
 like crying. He had been forced to cry when 
 Christopher bullied him, in the old days, at 
 times ; Chris was never really, thoroughly kind 
 to him again, until he had. 
 
 "Tell me about this," said Henry, presently. 
 Henry's penny-plain manner was perfect; of 
 course, all his real acquaintance knew it to be so. 
 Also, he was much older than Mott, older than 
 Chris, even: so that such authority was the most 
 natural thing in the world. 
 
 Mott told, what he could : at least, he sketched 
 to Henry the charge ; it was not furious driving, 
 it was not relics of Titus, nor an aristocratic 
 drinking-bout with window-breaking attached; 
 it was not anything Henry had thought it possi- 
 bly could be, in the case ; it was something Mott 
 was supposed to have "picked up" in a private 
 house: stolen, he added. 
 
 "What house?" said Henry, stirring. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 155 
 
 "Miss Fleming's," said Mott. His lids 
 dropped, "I looked her up, on a Sunday out " 
 
 "You were," announced Henry, "an awfully 
 silly young ass." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" asked Mott. 
 
 "I don't know, the least," said Henry. "Heaps 
 of people call on Mrs. Fleming, utterly un- 
 known, whom she wishes at the end of the earth. 
 Now, you were popular. My aunt called you a 
 dear boy." Mott did not smile, but he gleamed, 
 in just the old way: Henry remembered it. H 
 had, once, been a sedate, clean-collared boy, with 
 a pious mother, who instigated respect in all her 
 sons, from infancy. They did not always respect 
 her, Henry remembered, (with the exception of 
 George) but she instigated, hard. 
 
 "What did you take?" said Henry. "I mean, 
 except my horse: of course I know you took 
 that." 
 
 "Yes," said Mott: flat confession in a word: 
 Henry signed with it Titus' document. "I took 
 nothing else I can remember, except a liberty." 
 
 "You did take something else," said Henry. 
 "Think!" 
 
 "Oh," said Mott, looking tired. "I took a 
 card." 
 
156 MADAM 
 
 "Why did you take the card?" said Henry. 
 
 "Hadn't liked the look of it," explained Mott. 
 
 "But my aunt hadn't liked the look of it: and 
 she left it there, since Mrs. Fleming's hand had 
 placed it on the the earrings. Had you remem- 
 bered what it lay on, Mr. Lancaster?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mott. "I remember them, I 
 liked them a bit. I didn't take them," he added. 
 
 "Did you want them, for anybody?" asked 
 Henry. "Never mind, I was born impertinent. 
 At least you didn't take them, hey?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Mott!" said Henry reproachfully. Again 
 Mott gleamed. Neither he, nor Chris, had ever 
 called Henry "sir," except in public. In public 
 they did it beautifully, both of them : especially 
 Chris. 
 
 "Well, you're examining me," pointed out 
 Mott. "I'd like to have taken them, along with 
 the card: that's a fact. You're welcome to it." 
 
 "Thank you," said Henry. "Now I shan't ask 
 you why, because I believe I know. You can't 
 stand my giving things to Miss Fleming. The 
 card you considered a lie, or else derogatory to 
 my manly dignity. Didn't you? I know you, 
 Mott." 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 157 
 
 "Derogatory," trotted through Mott's sleepy 
 mind, syllable by syllable. He admired Henry's 
 language, and had always taken notes. 
 
 "But who the devil put the police on you?" 
 thought Henry, watching him, his brow bent. 
 "It was a rotten shame to put the police on you, 
 keep you mewed up here for a night, Chris's 
 
 brother " He forgot that he had himself, 
 
 for a week, put the police on Mott. "Hadn't you 
 a girl with you?" he said aloud. "What girl 
 was it?" 
 
 "She couldn't have taken anything," said 
 Mott. "She's a silly, but she's quite straight. 
 Decent family. I hope to the Lord they won't 
 be worried " His brow fixed. 
 
 "They shan't be," said Henry, confident. 
 "Leave that and think of the main things. It'll 
 lose you your place." 
 
 Mott assented, easily or slackly. He could get 
 another, he said. 
 
 "Sure?" said Henry. 
 
 Mott, of course, was not so certain he was sure. 
 Still, he had thought all that out during the night 
 past, naturally. He let it slide now) 
 
 "Have you been a good boy, in your place?" 
 said Henry. 
 
158 MADAM 
 
 "I've kept it," said Mott. 
 
 "So you have. That's what I noticed I went 
 there." 
 
 "Did you? Looking me up?" 
 
 Oceans of troubles, thought Henry, still 
 watching him. How on earth to get at them, 
 though? for it was no longer, really, the little 
 Mott of the stable-yard. 
 
 "Do you ever see your mother? Sister? 
 Couldn't you call on Maudie?" 
 
 "She's ill." 
 
 "I'm sorry for that. But wouldn't she the 
 more like to see you?" 
 
 Mott saw it would have to come. He was too 
 slack to resist: Henry's interest too utterly un- 
 feigned to be resistible. 
 
 "I guess I'm too bad an egg, in their eyes. 
 She's been brought up straight and pious, you 
 see. Not Mother's sort, Maudie never was, but 
 still" 
 
 "What you'd expect," said Henry. "Poor 
 Maudie! Pretty girl, wasn't she?" 
 
 Mott lifted his brows: her brothers had 
 thought so, fairly. It suggested the next step to 
 Henry. 
 
 "Have you got a girl, Mott?" Shake of head. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 159 
 
 "Aren't you living with somebody?" Shake of 
 head. "Who's the girl your mother told us you 
 were living with?" 
 
 "Mona. You remember Mona Faraday, 
 market-days? Oh, perhaps you don't." 
 
 Henry came to remember her, though, as Mott 
 sketched the points in. Mona had been known 
 less for her own beauty, than for Chris's patron- 
 age. Chris had shown her about, marked her 
 out The past unfolded itself, remade it- 
 self leaf by leaf, before his vision ; and having so 
 unfolded, as the leaf-sheathes of the branches do 
 in springtime, it presently disclosed a flower: 
 and within, that perfect shy presence of immor- 
 tality that every flower holds. Henry was sensi- 
 tive, so he felt it more elegantly: but not more 
 fully, of course, than Eric and Foote. 
 
 "Chris's child! Oh, Mott, not a little 
 Chris!" 
 
 "Rather. If you saw him, you wouldn't have 
 much doubt." He smiled sidelong. 
 
 "Good God! Do you mean you have been 
 keeping them?" He had risen to his feet. "You 
 
 oughtn't, it's unheard-of! You oughtn't, 
 
 Mott." 
 
 Mott said the State ought. 
 
i6o MADAM 
 
 Henry said the State had been doing so, but 
 then, it was not Mott's State. He recollected 
 Christopher, and more leaves came out. Mott 
 di'd not trust the State, as manifested during the 
 recent years: nor the State's hideous reason for 
 preserving children such as Chris's : nor the per- 
 sons who worked under such a philosophic 
 scheme, Red Cross, kind ladies, or no. He had 
 all these little ideas, and sheaves more : but he 
 did not need to discourse on them to Henry. 
 Henry, looking down at him, and with the single 
 remark about the State to work upon, could make 
 it out. 
 
 "And your mother and sister cast you out for 
 that? Curse them!" He turned aside. "Oh, 
 curse piety " 
 
 "Don't curse Maudie's," said Mott. "Girl 
 couldn't guess a thing, not Mother's girl. 
 She'd have it all top-sided." 
 
 "I don't, I beg your pardon. Tell me, for 
 Maudie's sake if you like, what to do for you?" 
 
 "Bail me out," said Mott promptly. "I want 
 to go back. Kid's ill, and that. Do you mind?" 
 
 Henry did not mind, and he bailed Mott out, 
 being a person of great influence, when he 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 161 
 
 walked amid policemen. He loved policemen 
 of all kinds, they were such gentle beings, he 
 said : and were all best to be seen taking a cup of 
 tea, it suited them. To see a helmet bending over 
 a cup of tea, the steam half-obscuring the august 
 head-dress, flashed the feeling of London all 
 through Henry, the feeling of Old England, it 
 gave him, and the larger citizenship, patriot- 
 ism, probably. He told Mott. 
 
 "Don't be too earnest, Mott," he said, when 
 Mott had nothing whatever to answer, looking 
 about the open street. Open, that was the point 
 of it; though trouble was still ahead. 
 
 "Miss Fleming once said you ought to go to 
 Oxford. Don't, for heaven's sake, remind me of 
 that." 
 
 "Was it her set the police on me?" said Mott, 
 low. He could not get upsides with the thing. 
 
 "Don't press me," said Henry, equally low. 
 "We'll see you through this, anyhow. They've 
 got nothing against you, it's farcical. I'll for- 
 swear myself pea-green about Titus, if neces- 
 sary." 
 
 "Thanks: I guess I'll see myself through, 
 though," said Mott, as he shook hands. 
 
i62 MADAM 
 
 "He won't admit that I, as Wicken, can do a 
 thing," thought Henry, depressed, as he de- 
 parted. "Though of course I can, and of course 
 he knows I can. Blooming little idealist!" 
 
XI 
 
 MONA was at her worst, when Miss Astley 
 called, for she could be charming; she was 
 pretty enough outwardly, but within in a horri- 
 bly bad mood. She simply put off believing a 
 word Miss Astley said, until she had looked her 
 over, and through and through, and behaved 
 with that blank show of dulness, absolutely baf- 
 fling, which is a phase of sensuality, and almost 
 as alarming, to the uninitiate, as the other limit 
 of contortions and screams. Mona, in either 
 phase, was mistress of herself really, and could 
 be stopped by Mousie or anybody who knew. 
 But it needed a man, really, to stop her and turn 
 her human again ; women were less effective, and 
 as for ladies 
 
 However, the central object of Miss Astley's 
 call was accomplished on sight; for she saw she 
 would be able to tell him, even from her own 
 slight experience, that the "child" was practi- 
 cally well. Jock had a violent temper, nothing 
 else: his behaviour was ear-splitting. Mona, 
 afterwards, boasted to Mousie about Jock's early 
 
 163 
 
i6 4 MADAM 
 
 intelligence in half-deafening the kind visitor: 
 and made him sure, sardonically, from all her 
 references, that Miss Astley had had a thor- 
 oughly jolly time. 
 
 Him she abused, to the other side, over- 
 familiarly: since Mona was jealous, this was a 
 matter of course. Yet she could not help her 
 habits, and these betrayed her, "brother," she 
 called him. She said slack things about him, 
 things Miss Astley shrank from recalling after- 
 wards: but she repeated brother, brother, quite 
 cuckoo-like: to the visitor's endless surprise. 
 
 How could Mousie be her brother? The baby 
 was like him, a little (when it u'ncrumpled its 
 face) : but that, to her groping, seemed no guide 
 at all. 
 
 That he lived, not even in the house, became 
 clear to her at the outset; for the house, and even 
 the street, were different from the house and 
 street Eric had named. She guessed he was near, 
 by Mona's talk, and by certain male properties 
 in the room; but his quarters were spoken of as 
 superior; Mousie made a lot of money nowa- 
 days, the visitor heard. 
 
 The inference, not intended for the visitor to 
 draw, but noted by her in her collected memory, 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 165 
 
 was that Mousie ought to give a great deal more 
 to Mona's housekeeping, than he did. He ought 
 not to live so gloriously, and have so many and 
 such distinguished parties of friends. Persons 
 of great note visited Mona's "brother," Miss Ast- 
 ley was surprised to hear: people politically 
 very lofty in life. None of them, nor the jour- 
 nalists attached to them, had Miss Astley ever 
 heard of; and yet she read a very nice little 
 paper, every day. 
 
 Here was a new view of Mousie! Amazing! 
 She had never for a moment thought of him as a 
 serious political student; though she had called 
 him anarchist tentatively to Henry, and though 
 she recollected too well how he had sat down, at 
 the pictures, during "God save the King." By a 
 brilliant inspiration, she related this incident to 
 Mona. It was by far her greatest success, for the 
 girl lost her sulks, for a fleeting instant, and 
 laughed. 
 
 "You tell me that! Why, I was there, I re- 
 member it." Mona did not so easily remember 
 past things, so it was triumph, in part, that 
 awaked her. "He's a lot of them," she informed 
 Caroline, "but that's one of his best stunts, play- 
 ing a leg off. I've seen him do it better once, not 
 
1 66 MADAM 
 
 that time. Oh, girls, how we shrieked!" She 
 clutched the cradle. 
 
 "I don't like it," said Miss Astley calmly. 
 
 " Why not, then?" 
 
 "I don't like mimicking the wounded, when he 
 is well and strong. He's one of the few," said 
 Miss Astley. 
 
 "I'll tell him, from you," sulked Mona: but 
 she saw the point: it was sentimental. Then she 
 also saw another thing, that Mousie's courage 
 was called in question : and flamed up. 
 
 "He'd dare to do it without that, I'll tell you. 
 He's got himself hissed before now, not when 
 I was there, though." She looked down at her 
 baby's face. 
 
 "Oh," said Miss Astley, and took it in. "But 
 wouldn't you get yourself hissed with him, if 
 necessary, Miss Faraday?" 
 
 "Yes, sure." But her eyes were uncertain. 
 "Oh, he's a scream, though," she murmured. "I 
 wish he'd come home." 
 
 The light died out of her face that had been 
 born there ; gleams of what she had been once, 
 gay and dauntless, vanished, and she turned surly 
 again. She pretended to believe that her visitor 
 had been sent by the police to ferret, and worry 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 167 
 
 her: they would do that, she said. Then she 
 forgot she had believed the above, and grumbled, 
 throwing things about, as she tidied the room. 
 Whatever Mona would do, for the next six 
 months, was the burden of her grumbling: and 
 painfully, Miss Astley again arrived at what she 
 believed. 
 
 She believed in her fashion her brother 
 had been "run in" for having revolutionary tend- 
 encies; for knowing this person, and that per- 
 son, for going here and for attending there : and 
 her personal knowledge of past cases was consid- 
 erable. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no," said Miss Astley, very much 
 disturbed, though illuminated. "We are in Eng- 
 land, Miss Faraday! We are at Peace now, it 
 isn't possible." 
 
 She tried to explain how, by no conceivable 
 means in a free country, could Mousie's sin be 
 that. 
 
 "Don't know how you're so sure," muttered 
 Mona. "You don't know all I know." 
 
 Indeed, it was abundantly clear that Miss Ast- 
 ley did not; she was shockingly ignorant of a 
 whole side of life, beside this former merry red- 
 cap, Miss Faraday. She was shockingly igno- 
 
1 68 MADAM 
 
 rant, and she was ignorantly shocked. She 
 wished she knew more things about all things, 
 constantly; but then she had so very little time. 
 
 She very well guessed that he, the absent, 
 would have been disgusted with Mona, for talk- 
 ing with her at all of such matters ; she thought 
 for him, and of him, a great deal, travelling 
 home. (To be sure, she had a long way to go, 
 from this crowded quarter of life, to her roomy 
 suburb.) The holy light of her love was quite 
 unvexed or unshaded by these later critical feel- 
 ings. Like Lu, she would have liked to "talk to" 
 Mousie the rebel, that was what it came to ; but 
 in her case, largely for the pleasure of hearing 
 his answers back. 
 
 And he was that beautiful girl's brother, 
 brother to her, could it be? He had called her 
 "his girl" on the day of the drive : but oh, he was 
 so naughty! Slippery, hopeless, whoever had 
 given him that name of "mouse" knew a thing or 
 two, thought Miss Astley. Only, that he should 
 try to hide from her, from her, that was the 
 odd part. Why should he, ever? 
 
 The thought of him knocked her to and fro, 
 like the wind on the top of the omnibus ; for, to 
 get home quickly to her mother from Mona, 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 169 
 
 Miss Astley had clambered "outside" on a gusty 
 night, quite reckless of her well-trimmed hat. 
 
 Never had her native town, nor the path to the 
 suburbs (which certainly, as a typical Elfin-way, 
 is deceptive) seemed so wonderful to her as this 
 night of nights, and he in prison, probably! 
 Knocked to and fro by a first passion, the girl did 
 not know herself or her whereabouts: but she 
 knew him ! 
 
 How he had thus come to her, complete in ab- 
 sence, she could not have guessed : unless, per- 
 haps, by a certain occasional, level stare of 
 interest in Mona Faraday's eyes. 
 
 Miss Astley was right enough, too, her apt lit- 
 tle business senses not at fault, in this matter of 
 Mona and Mousie; for Mona thought her little 
 brother-in-law a very great person at times. Nor 
 did she really think him like Chris, her "own 
 boy," when closely looked at; only, while sedu- 
 lously engaged in getting that close vision of 
 Mousie, Mona slopped, and called him so. 
 
XII 
 
 THE police had not found Miss Fleming's jew- 
 ellery in Mott's room, nor upon him; they had 
 found in the room, though, a great deal of very 
 exciting and unfavourable literature. Stacks of 
 it, Mott possessed. He had all Chris's library, 
 plus his own, plus things dear friends, all un- 
 aware, had dumped upon him; and he had a 
 simply endless procession of dear and slightly 
 prejudicial friends. 
 
 "My sakes, you are a character," murmured 
 Henry, at the hearing, in a low tone. "I'm 
 ashamed of undertaking you ; I go to League-of- 
 Nations meetings, myself." 
 
 Mott gleamed, but he was anxious: and he 
 had reason to be. The world was not clear of the 
 war-clouds yet. The new world with the glass 
 streets was not anywhere shining, nor the faintest 
 fair promise of the Coming Time. There was 
 nothing, over all Europe, except perhaps in 
 one most beautiful remote city, but dull, dirty 
 gloom. Matters being so, Mott had often men- 
 tioned, to this and that friend, when accepting 
 
 170 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 171 
 
 their favours, what, in inviting any police-visit 
 to his room, he risked. And he had it now; he 
 had risked it, shaved it close. 
 
 Erith, in court, was extraordinary. She was so 
 ultra-clever, quiet, intent, and all to his disadvan- 
 tage. With a dainty brush, carefully wielded, 
 she blackened the man. Since they wanted an 
 enemy of society, she gave them one. She hyp- 
 notised her mother in her interest : she threw out 
 Henry's scheme of Titus by her bitterness, say- 
 ing that she had already twice seen him steal. 
 
 The magistrate and other officers looked at her 
 closely, though respectfully, of course; with 
 Erith, that went without saying. The boy's sulky 
 grace was just as extraordinary as her dry de- 
 termination. It was perfectly plain to all real 
 soul-observers, that she would have hounded him 
 into prison if she could. 
 
 But she could not: she built on air, and she 
 built in ignorance profound, of how little mere 
 ill-will can accomplish, even nowadays. She was 
 too late: a year sooner, she would have had him 
 more surely, so Henry thought. Henry, ex- 
 ceedingly self- restrained over Titus, was helpful. 
 Eric, neatly presenting the Titus-rag from an- 
 other angle, known himself to the racing nog, 
 
172 MADAM 
 
 was very cunning indeed. Henry approved 
 of Eric, except his socks and his tie, which were 
 abominable. But what helped Mott really, and 
 freed him ultimately, was the record of his fam- 
 ily, the war- record: such is Fate. 
 
 "Five brothers, and five fallen," said the mag- 
 istrate, looking at Mott. "The last survivor." 
 
 Mott, into the hush in court, said he had a sis- 
 ter. What do sisters matter? The magistrate 
 ventured on a gentle jest, women being so funny; 
 but the effect of his former remark had not been 
 lost, and he smiled. 
 
 When Justice smiles, all is over. It was a pity 
 the brother of all that should read such literature 
 in the evening; that it was the direct conse- 
 quence of "all that" never occurred to them at all. 
 Henry, gracefully, lent a hand to justice over the 
 formalities ; he had a gift for it, and would make 
 a good magistrate himself one day. He took 
 leave of his police, being for the moment some- 
 what out of love with them, since they had lis- 
 tened with a certain look to Erith's self-betrayal : 
 and then hurried Mott away. He thought he 
 had had about enough, and he was right. 
 
 "You'd better go home and look again, Erith," 
 he said, rather sternly. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 173 
 
 Erith went home, but she never found the ear- 
 bobs. She never wore them, anyhow. And if 
 she had owned, or owned to them, honestly, she 
 must have worn. They were so lovely, lovely, 
 lovely, et cetera. 
 
XIII 
 
 HENRY did nothing in the matter of wielding 
 Wicken influence with Mott's employers, be- 
 cause, granted on the one hand Mott, and on the 
 other Paish's Autos and Aeroplanes, whom he 
 had studied, he thought it better left alone. 
 There was also himself, as Wicken, to be reck- 
 oned in. Henry was as perceptive, really, in his 
 dealings, as Erith : possibly more so where Lan- 
 caster was concerned; and he had a strong idea, 
 painful, growing on him, that Mott would never 
 have appealed to him for bail, if he could have 
 appealed to Paish's, for instance. But he sup- 
 posed that one does not, in Mott's position, ap- 
 peal to one's employer for bail; since by doing 
 so, one appeals simultaneously to be kicked over 
 the nearest hedge. 
 
 Henry, very thoughtful over all this, had leis- 
 ure for thought, because he fell ill. Being 
 Henry, he fell rather badly ill, after the strain of, 
 as it were, defending Lancaster from Titus ; and 
 a doctor who was not Dr. Ashwin, consequently 
 
 174 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 175 
 
 cracked in his conceptions, bade him lie full- 
 length on a sofa for a number of days. 
 
 During all these days, while people fussed 
 about Henry, and his aunt brought teacups, Lan- 
 caster seized the opportunity to vanish : he was 
 lost to Henry again. And there he was, he bit- 
 terly reflected, with nothing but his working ad- 
 dress! Why did he never remember, when he 
 saw people whom he had loved long since, as 
 Mrs. Lane would say, to get their addresses? 
 Miss Astley would ! 
 
 Dear Henry improved: so his aunt told 
 Nichol. Promptly Nichol, for all he was to be 
 married next week, came to his elbow. Was 
 there anything, he asked Henry, that he and 
 Erith could do? 
 
 There were lots and lots of things : whole lists 
 that Henry's active spirit, during the tea-cups, 
 had compiled; but, he said, Nichol had his call- 
 ing and his hunting. 
 
 House-hunting, Henry meant; because he 
 knew all Nichol and Erith's little amusements. 
 They were in the same case as most couples in 
 London ; they had no furnishing to trouble with, 
 because they had no house. Henry loved the 
 thought of it, sometimes, because it looked like 
 
176 MADAM 
 
 one of London's little games. That coy little 
 city, all built of houses, simply had not one for 
 Nichol to snatch. All the same, he felt for 
 Nichol's anxiety and Erith's fury. The only re- 
 lief to their daily torment, was that they were 
 looking simultaneously for a car, oh, heaven on 
 earth! 
 
 Paish, in this connection, had of course oc- 
 curred to Henry, Paish, trap-jawed and transat- 
 lantic; but he had not yet seen how to work the 
 thing. Nichol had not met Lancaster, to call 
 meeting, though Henry could, of course, intro- 
 duce them from a distance; Erith and Lancas- 
 ter, to put it simply, did not seem to get on. To 
 proceed with Lancaster, if Henry sent Nichol 
 alone to Mott for cars, the little ass would think 
 he was being patronised. Finally and convinc- 
 ingly, if Mott had cars to dispose of, secretly, the 
 right sort, he would have given them all to his 
 innumerable prejudicial friends. That flashy 
 Eric, whom Henry had seen in court, probably 
 had heaps of them. 
 
 So Henry waited, as usual : the world was not 
 so very evil, since he had found Titus : and he 
 bade Nichol, with his blessing, go hunting: but 
 call again. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 177 
 
 Nichol called and called, but Henry had no 
 leading; no light, as Mott's mother would have 
 said. Then, behold light came from the very 
 place The fountain-head 
 
 Miss Wicken had a letter from Mrs. Lane, 
 beautifully blackbordered, and neatly written: 
 smelling of cedar, having been kept in the tea- 
 chest : exactly like a dozen other letters that had 
 come before it, celebrating the day of her dear 
 husband's burial, when first the pension had been 
 paid. Perhaps, if possible, a little more Bib- 
 lical than usual ; since Colonel Wicken, unbid- 
 den, had raised the pension to suit the expensive 
 times. 
 
 "She mentions Dermot," said Miss Wicken, to 
 dear Henry on the sofa. 
 
 "Does she really, aunt? Can I look?" He 
 seized it. 
 
 "Mott, I hear," wrote Mrs. Lane, right at the 
 end, "is living in sin at Epsom." 
 
 "Epsom?" said Henry. "What's he doing 
 there?" He bent his brow, and longed at once 
 for Nichol ; for the one thing he could never do 
 (though she fagged and fagged) was to fag his 
 aunt. "He has been sacked, then, bother it! 
 Serve him right," pondered Henry. 
 
178 MADAM 
 
 "In sin," said Miss Wicken, sadly. 
 
 "Aunt," said Henry, "the word Epsom, with 
 those people, is enough for that." He read all 
 the letter, and threw it aside. "Curse the woman, 
 why can't she help them? She has a fat pen- 
 sion, hasn't she? Aunt, I shall dock it, one of 
 these days ! Why can't I know what it is like to 
 need money, Aunt?" 
 
 "I hope you never will, dear," said Miss 
 Wicken, tenderly finishing a butterfly. She was 
 embroidering the most beautiful silken curtains 
 for Henry's room. 
 
 "So do I," said Henry. "Oh, Lord, give me 
 the Telephone-book!" 
 
 His aunt (not the Lord) gave it to him ; it was 
 rather bulky for his situation. He was dreaming 
 over the Telephone-book, full, as it were, of 
 faint far echoes of his London, when Nichol 
 occurred once more. 
 
 "Nichol, this is Erith's fault. You have got to 
 do a little work for me. Ring up Forrest, in 
 Harley Street, would you mind? And get them 
 to enquire from Paish's Aeros and Autoplanes, 
 what's become of little Lane." 
 
 "No such thing as an Autoplane," said Nichol. 
 "And why ring up Forrest? He's a " 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 179 
 
 "Do what I tell you," implored Henry. "I 
 have thought it all out. Ask them to use their 
 influence, at Paish's, and find out for self about 
 Lancaster, please do!" 
 
 Nichol, having a great capacity, did it all 
 beautifully. Henry could hardly have done it 
 better himself. 
 
 "The girl says " he began, when twenty min- 
 utes had elapsed. 
 
 "Come on," said Henry. "Sit down. Isn't 
 she a topping girl?" 
 
 "Aw, well, I don't know," said Nichol. "She 
 has a head, as it seems. She says the party you 
 want has been transferred to Epsom " 
 
 "Transferred?" 
 
 "M," said Nichol, "to a what-do-you-call-it 
 motor-place. Pinker, she says, that's Paish's 
 son-in-law. He has a branch down there." 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh, the old thief ! I mean the efficient 
 Yankee sportsman! Do you see?" Nichol did 
 not, the least, nor want to ; but he attended will- 
 ingly, and what was more, he took it in. Henry, 
 having time, explained to him at length how 
 Paish, being what he was, had got "onto" all the 
 facts their wiliness, and Lane's, had endeavoured 
 to keep from him : how Lane had been sacked 
 
i8o MADAM 
 
 from their great west-end centre, in dark dis- 
 grace: since the right society, in the person of 
 Erith, had been black-balling him. But, mark 
 this ! he had been flung away by Paish's right 
 hand, only to be neatly caught by Paish's left 
 hand at Epsom; which was an infinitely promis- 
 ing left hand, go-ahead, like Henry's : a hum- 
 ming, whirring, flashing gold-mine, Henry 
 conceived : for he had seen it at work. 
 
 "All right," said Nichol, calming him. Per- 
 sonally Nichol, about Lancaster, was very calm. 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if Mott is manager," said 
 Henry, "since the son-in-law would have a bijou 
 house near the race-course. Unless he's too 
 
 young But I don't believe that matters, 
 
 to Paish's. I think our friend, that is our As- 
 sociate Paish, believes in youth. I marked it in 
 his eyes, while he was speaking angrily of him. 
 Pepper is the thing Mott has." 
 
 "Ginger," suggested Nichol. 
 
 "Pepper," said Henry. "It's as good as gin- 
 ger, any day, and more amusing. Paish has an 
 eye for it, oh, bother Paish!" 
 
 "Why?" said Nichol. 
 
 "Because I want him well, leave it! You go 
 back to the telephone, do you mind? and ask 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 181 
 
 Miss Mr. Forrest where Miss Faraday is. 
 Miss Mona Faraday. Never mind if she he 
 can't tell you, it won't matter the least." 
 
 "Mona er Faraday?" said Nichol, evi- 
 dently pleased with the name, but perfectly busi- 
 ness-like. "Am I to enquire from you?" 
 
 "Not from me, just enquire generally: for 
 
 yourself, if you like Apologise," called 
 
 Henry after him, "to Forrest for using his 'phone 
 for such rotten " Nichol, grunting merely, was 
 gone long before he had finished : he was an ad- 
 mirable agent. 
 
 After merely ten minutes he came back again. 
 He seemed now to be really interested in Mott's 
 case, not pretending it, for the sake of Henry: 
 withal, he ceased pitying Henry on the sofa, 
 simultaneously, which was all to the good. 
 
 "Miss er Faraday is also at Epsom," said 
 Nichol. "What's-his-name has found her a cot- 
 tage there, curse him!" 
 
 "Nichol!" cried Henry, amazed and ap- 
 palled Then he saw what it was. Mott 
 
 and his Mona had been "hunting" too, just like 
 Nichol and Erith; but Mott, possessing pepper, 
 had "found," poor Nichol! 
 
 Henry did not even srnile at him: it was too 
 
182 MADAM 
 
 serious. "Better not hunt houses at Epsom, for 
 
 Erith," he observed. "It's a naughty place 
 
 Was there any more, about this Miss Faraday?" 
 
 Nichol, sweeping his hands over his face, to 
 aid accuracy, recited how Miss Faraday, the 
 other girl wished Henry to know, had been 
 obliged to change quarters lately, owing to pub- 
 lic opinion. 
 
 "Public opinion?" said Henry, interested. 
 "Really? How?" 
 
 Well, she had been banned there, wherever it 
 was, Nichol explained quite clearly. She had 
 been boycotted, as attached to a probable crimi- 
 nal, of the worst sort. 
 
 "Of the worst sort?" said Henry. "Meaning 
 the lad's opinions? Well, I never! How aw- 
 fully interesting that is, isn't it?" 
 
 Well, how could Nichol know how interesting 
 it was, without knowing Miss Faraday? How- 
 ever, he was kindly to Henry. "He does seem to 
 be a bit of a what-do-you-call-it, Red," he said. 
 Nichol, be it mentioned, had not been in court. 
 Henry, considering Erith, had sedulously kept 
 him out of it: it was really not a pretty show. 
 
 "Do you gather," asked Henry, "that Miss 
 er Forrest thinks so?" 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 183 
 
 "Thinks he's a Red?" said Nichol. "Oh, I 
 don't know. Forrest's girl only gave me facts. 
 And, by the way, Wicken, she said she feared she 
 must finish, if we don't mind. Of course one 
 ought not to fag her at her employer's telephone 
 over one's private affairs. I mean, girl would 
 have scruples, and so on." 
 
 Nichol, Henry thought, was a marvellous 
 judge of character: he had made out all this, 
 doubtless, by the tone of Miss Astley's voice. 
 Her telephone-voice, which was more! a mira- 
 cle. 
 
 "It is cool of us," he assented dreamily. "Cool 
 indeed. I wonder what she my word, what a 
 girl! What a girl, Nichol!" 
 
 "Which of them?" said Nichol. Henry was 
 ashamed of him! 
 
 "You go to Erith," he said, very severely, "or 
 I'll never tell you a scrap more of my private 
 affairs, and Miss Faraday. I'm working up 
 Miss Faraday, and I shall tell her one day, bet- 
 ter than Titus, and bring the house down. Un- 
 less Mott will " 
 
 Still Nicholas eyes lingered, old thief! but 
 he went. Henry, recollecting, called his thanks 
 very nicely after him. His aunt appeared with 
 
1 84 MADAM 
 
 a teacup, and he gave her, in exchange the tele- 
 phone-book. Miss Wicken kissed him 
 
 It had been, after all, thanks to her and Miss 
 Astley (sweet women both) a capital morning's 
 work. 
 
XIV 
 
 LANCASTER was ensnared, on a Sunday, of course, 
 and drank tea with the Wicken family. He 
 called on them, as on Miss Fleming; possibly 
 his attitude to his present hostess was not quite 
 the same. 
 
 "This is the man who took Titus," said Henry, 
 presenting him to Nichol, from the background ; 
 for the fool who was not Dr. Ashwin was ob- 
 durate on the sofa-subject, still. 
 
 It was confusing for Nichol, who liked things 
 to wear their accustomed aspects, in life: not to 
 go rocking sideways, or to turn themselves up- 
 side-down. For a minute he did not even know 
 if he were expected to shake hands with the 
 "sweep" ; however, with the experience of an of- 
 ficer of the New Army behind him, he just man- 
 aged the contingency: so did Mott. 
 
 Titus, though confusing to Nichol, was not the 
 least confusing to Mott. Taking things as they 
 came, that habit of his that Miss Astley deplored, 
 had included the taking of Titus. Just now, to- 
 day, he would not have taken Titus, being too 
 
 185 
 
1 86 MADAM 
 
 slack even to ride; but to-morrow he might 
 again, easily. "Demain, c'est I'eclair dans le 
 
 voile" the lightning, even in Mott's eyes, 
 
 was veiled at present. But dear only knew 
 (thought Henry) when it might not flash forth 
 again. 
 
 "You had something for him, I think," said 
 Henry to Nichol. (Erith was not there.) 
 
 "I?" said Nichol. "What? oh, ahem! 
 well" 
 
 "He'd better go home and get it from his 
 mother," said Henry, mainly to stir Mott. Use- 
 less: he could not find a spark in him. 
 
 "I hope er your mother is well?" said 
 Nichol: really put to it to make conversation 
 with this mute young man. 
 
 Mott said she was pretty well. Henry got 
 tired of it. 
 
 "Auntie will tell her about this. It's right she 
 should know of it, isn't it, Auntie?" 
 
 "I am not sure it is not, Mott," said Miss 
 Wicken : always led by Henry, as it were by her 
 delicate pale nose. 
 
 Mott drooped expressively: Miss Wicken 
 would do as she liked, about all things. He 
 looked at his teacup, and wanted more sugar; 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 187 
 
 but (that being all he could do for her) did not 
 ask. 
 
 "It might help things, at home, for Mott," said 
 Henry, "if you told Mrs. Lane we were taking 
 him on in our stable, for Titus." 
 
 Hullo ! The lightning. He had it now. 
 
 "What's up?" said Nichol, mildly. 
 
 Mott put his teacup down, because he intended 
 to hurt no one's fine china; then he rose. He 
 was a lovely figure of a youth, so like the lost 
 Chris in outline, that Henry longed for him in 
 the stable, frantically; he did not see how he 
 could do without him, in Titus's education; he 
 wished to heaven his uncle had been there to 
 drive the matter home. As it was, Henry had 
 carte blanche, and he had hoped he had hit on 
 exactly the fashion, in public, of breaking it to 
 Mott how he was required, claimed 
 
 "No, thanks," he said simply, having risen. 
 Then he dusted his mouth with a handkerchief, 
 like a nicely brought-up boy, in a well-behaved 
 village: and tucked it away in his sleeve. Miss 
 Wicken remembered him in Church, so well ; it 
 really made her melancholy to think of him, and 
 Chris, and all those young faces, looking so 
 saintly, while in their hearts they thought upon 
 
i88 MADAM 
 
 ferrets in the afternoon. Where were they gone? 
 wondered Miss Wicken: whose thoughts were 
 always mild and beautiful: something like Mrs. 
 Astley's, but better, delicate and old-worldly, 
 dusted with faded rose-leaves, like her room. 
 Aloud she said kindly 
 
 "You'll come to us, Mott." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Mott. "The fact is, I 
 couldn't. Lost the trick of it." He stopped. 
 
 "Oh, no, you haven't, sir," said Nichol, loud. 
 
 Everybody turned and gazed at Nichol. He 
 was heated, having taken a great deal of tea. 
 "You may think you have, but you're as good as 
 ever you were, ever, I mean, could have 
 been" 
 
 Mott's mouth had opened slightly: then he 
 closed it. "Seat, you're alluding to? Thanks, 
 I didn't mean that." He glanced protest at 
 Henry, who was shrieking with laughter on the 
 sofa, openly, overcome by the testimony from St. 
 Nicholas in his golden bath. Mott, of course, 
 had not seen Nichol in the mud, in detail; he 
 had been too remote in the Spring vistas of the 
 park. Perhaps he had no imagination, any- 
 how, he either could not, or would not, picture it. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 189 
 
 He advanced to Miss Wicken, and looked down 
 at her. 
 
 "There are things you can't do," he said, "and 
 that's one. I've been on my own quite a time, 
 now, and there are others depending " 
 
 "Are you married, dear?" She spoke quietly. 
 
 "I might be, I don't know." 
 
 "Oh, do be," said Miss Wicken. "For your 
 mother's sake." Henry had begun to listen 
 closely, interested. His aunt knew quite a lot of 
 facts. Miss Wicken did not "paw" him, or any- 
 thing; she was not a very "kind lady"; but of 
 course she had to be a little, having seen him so 
 often in Church. 
 
 "I'd not marry that one, she's my brother's. 
 There's another I think of " But how bewil- 
 deringly clear! Miss Wicken, hands clasped in 
 her lap, looked at him silently. "Only I don't 
 want my mother to meet her," said Mott. 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "Neither. Tell Mother anything else, horse 
 and so on " At this point Mott suddenly re- 
 membered that his mother had told him, once, 
 always to call, and think of, Miss Wicken as 
 "Miss." She had told him with great emphasis, 
 
MADAM 
 
 too, because he had neglected it, in her hear- 
 ing He decided to confess a little. 
 
 "I meant to take the horse, might ha' kept him ; 
 I'd easily have got to thinking he was mine. 
 That's the devil in me, Mother'd say, no fault 
 of hers." He waited. 
 
 "Why were you called Dermot, Mott?" said 
 Henry dreamily. 
 
 "I never heard." He put a hand to his head. 
 "I guess I could have cut the police as well, 
 they're not very able. If ever I get into trou- 
 ble, bad trouble, it'll be over horses, that's sure. 
 Mother prayed solidly, always, to keep both of 
 us from the races, she was right. But my job 
 is other " He lifted his eyes, slightly bloodshot 
 with the dust of the roads, above her. 
 
 "Motors?" He shook his head. 
 
 "Aeroplanes," said Nichol, positive. Every- 
 body did aeroplanes. Mott disappointed him. 
 
 "No." He glanced at Nichol. "Nothing 
 you'd care to hear. I'll do, with the girls to 
 
 help And there's the infant," said Mott 
 
 gravely. "He'll help in time." 
 
 "A Baby!" cried Miss Wicken, electrified. 
 "Henry! What next?" 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 191 
 
 "Chris's baby, aunt." Henry in the back- 
 ground was helpful. "He's talking politics." 
 
 "But what on earth," said Miss Wicken, pite- 
 ously roseleaf, looking at both of them, "has a 
 Baby to do with politics?" 
 
 "It's everything to do with it " 
 
 Mott broke off. Had he been preaching to 
 her? Horror! Her whom, emphatically, he 
 was always to call, and think of, as Miss? 
 
 "He thinks we're a gone generation," cried 
 Henry. "Don't you, Mott? Say it!" 
 
 "You may be. I'm not." He swerved and 
 stood stoutly, under their teasing; for of course 
 they teased, he had laid himself out for it. They 
 made him sit down again, when he had said his 
 say (Oxford sanctimony, Henry called it) and 
 even resume his fragile teacup, but he would not 
 stay with them, not he ! They saw the back of 
 him far too soon, since they all, disillusioned and 
 weary, found his clever innocence most desira- 
 ble ; and ached, whatever treason he chose to lay 
 tongue to, to make him talk. 
 
 "He thinks we're a prison," groaned Henry, 
 coming back from the door, whither he had gone, 
 despite doctor's orders. "Oh, my fellow-prison- 
 ers, aren't we?" He sat down. 
 
192 MADAM 
 
 "It's he should be shut up," said Nichol, rest- 
 lessly: suspicious of something, somewhere, that 
 he could not catch. Dangerous ! Had not Erith 
 said it? 
 
 "Oh, no, let it out, let it out!" Henry was 
 passionate. "Mustn't we, Auntie?" 
 
 "What there is to let." 
 
 They looked round. Miss Wicken rose under 
 their gaze, and went slowly from the room, 
 touching one of her little spindly tables by the 
 door to help herself. The tears were raining 
 down 
 
 Henry said it was that Baby, and woman's way, 
 and what not ; but he knew it was nothing of the 
 sort Miss Wicken was an artist, and that helps, 
 in the little matter of the liberty of the spirit, a 
 great deal. She, who had known Tennyson in 
 her youth, could mark through the clatter of 
 war's tin trumpets, its dying clamour, the 
 modern Galahad. She guessed, though things 
 change their faces, their characters, their names, 
 their names above all! that right through the 
 generations, the rose of hope, the heart of the 
 flower, is always the same. 
 
 After that, they were caught, one and all, in 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 193 
 
 the whirlpool of the wedding, which drew them 
 very slowly, twisting and turning, enough to 
 make Henry, at least, very giddy, to the smash 
 of the fatal day. 
 
 On her wedding-day, Henry gave up Erith, 
 calmly. It is simply ridiculous to covet your best 
 friend's wife for a lifetime: only Henry, being 
 ridiculous, would certainly have done it, but for 
 her behaviour over the earbobs; and but (there 
 is no doubt of it) for the chance of his having 
 met Miss Astley, "Forrest's girl," and talked to 
 her at an Oxford Street luncheon-table. He still 
 remembered that table: every dubiously ex- 
 punged stain on its all-but-immaculate marble. 
 He remembered Miss Astley's face as well, white 
 and almost fainting, while she answered his ques- 
 tions feebly, and fixed him with Erith's grey eyes. 
 
 He looked at Erith, now, immaculate 
 enough, with the sunlight bathing her, in the 
 smart western church's broad aisle. And he 
 looked at Nichol beside her: and still, sitting by 
 his aunt, while others stood, his hand in hers 
 secretly, since Miss Wicken insisted, he won- 
 dered, wondered. Henry wondered, obstinately, 
 as none should do at a smart wedding, with 
 
194 MADAM 
 
 goodly music, where kind congregations of the 
 right class go to weep. 
 
 Sweet the music was, luscious the lily-scent, 
 most appropriate the sunshine, great the vision 
 of the .noble pair; for Nichol, despite their 
 laughing, in his war-trappings and love-trans- 
 figuration looked fine enough. Exquisite above 
 all was Erith, translucent, as it were, with her 
 shimmer falling round her; only deep in her 
 former lover's heart the shimmer of Fleming su- 
 perfinery had really been eclipsed. 
 
 The eclipse had begun, certainly, with her 
 savagery in a police-court; but it finished itself, 
 retrospectively, at a marble-topped restaurant- 
 table : penny-plain, "common" marble, with but 
 dubiously-effaced food-stains. 
 
XV 
 
 IT was a great affliction, or Cross, to Mott, that, 
 down at Epsom (though the place was pretty 
 good) he had no car on Sundays. So sure as 
 Sunday came round, he wanted one, for his pri- 
 vate purposes. For he liked society: and the 
 society he most cared for was in town. 
 
 There was the railway, of course, he had 
 been driven to that, to call on Henry; or taking 
 a horse, which was hard at Epsom, where they 
 take care of their horses; but beyond these, his 
 best chance for social intercourse was to sit tight 
 with Chris's family, and have folks come and see 
 him : which limited Mott, of course, to men. 
 
 Not but what there were plenty of men in the 
 world, all very ready to see him, indeed he 
 could hardly keep Eric away. Eric had cars and 
 cars, at his country-place, as Henry had guessed 
 of him; but on the further side of London. It 
 might be the thing to get Eric to bring one of 
 them to Epsom, fetch Mott for a Sunday out, and 
 include in the programme the paying of a duty- 
 call. 
 
 195 
 
196 MADAM 
 
 For he owed her one, naturally. 
 
 Mott Lane's formalities, in life, were all very 
 neat; perhaps he had learnt it, like some of his 
 language, with the Transatlantics at Paish's. 
 But quite apart from American manners, the na- 
 tive trimness of the Lane lads, had often been 
 remarked upon by Colonel Wicken in the old 
 days : he said it was brains. He had put off dis- 
 missing Chris, for long, because of it; even after 
 his worst carouses, Chris, bringing out the horses 
 (if not titivated) was always perfectly dressed. 
 Mott was not, like his brother, a professional and 
 provincial gallivant; he never wore primroses, 
 either in his teeth or his buttonhole, as Chris, in 
 the merry Spring-time, was wont to do; he 
 merely trimmed his performances, criminal or 
 otherwise, aux quatre eplngles. Mr. Paish, who 
 knew everything, microscopically, about every 
 man and boy on his London premises, would 
 have put this into Mott's character, offered to 
 Henry, could his trap-like jaw have emitted the 
 French words. It was how Mott "made good," 
 with Paish's, even after a course of police-cells 
 and road-hogging, most probably. 
 
 Consequently, a slave to etiquette, he turned the 
 matter over a great deal, by day and night, specu- 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 197 
 
 lating about the other Astleys. How, exactly, 
 would they regard a Sunday visit from him and 
 Eric? One of them he was sure of, fairly, 
 what would the others say? Might there not be 
 an irate Lu's father, with a horsewhip, on the 
 threshold: considering how uncommonly fine 
 Mott had run it, in the matter of Lu? 
 
 Mott had dwelt upon Curly, as he called her, 
 a good deal in these latter days; because, if any- 
 thing really had happened to Curly, in his 
 charge, it would have smashed him, probably, 
 once for all; all round, even with Curly's sister. 
 Thus Mott whistled the "Red Flag" rather anx- 
 iously, during the week-time, while he played 
 with other people's cars. 
 
 Then he cast, as it were, at large: and sum- 
 moned Freddy Foote to him; of course a dead 
 waste of a Sunday, Mott did not really think 
 much of Freddy Foote. Eric's aberration in 
 
 calling him friend was astonishing Still, 
 
 he supposed it was the next thing, and he always 
 did that, with determination. There was a meet- 
 ing that he yearned for, of his favourite kind, in 
 London, the same evening; but since Foote must 
 be treated civilly, that would have to be sacri- 
 ficed, at need. 
 
198 MADAM 
 
 In order to be alone with Foote, and to spare 
 Foote's purse, and leg, he proposed bicycles to 
 him. They should, on the Sunday in question, 
 start at the same hour, and ride opposite ways. 
 About half way between Epsom and Charing 
 Cross, it was probable, in the nature of roads or 
 the billiard-table, that they would "click." 
 There they would alight, and eat, and talk; and 
 according to Freddy's account of things, Mott 
 would return to Epsom, or go forward, he 
 hoped for that. He had a strong idea (perhaps 
 a mouse-like instinct) that a late hour might be 
 good for paying his call ; anyhow, he hated the 
 look of a London Sunday in daylight, without 
 knowing that he hated it, like many of his kind. 
 At Wicken, at least, there had been fields and 
 ferrets 
 
 As Mott proposed, things arranged them- 
 selves : it was really a very smart plan. Foote, 
 perfectly faithful, despite his Lu, came down to 
 meet him. They "clicked" far nearer to Charing 
 Cross than to Epsom, which was interesting; but 
 there was still something resembling grass to lie 
 on, by the high road. Mott and Freddy sat 
 down, and shared their rations, of the rations, 
 Freddy's were by far the best. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 199 
 
 "How are you?" said Footc. 
 
 "Fine," said Mott, and looked it: he was 
 freckled with the country air. 
 
 Then, lending an ear while he fed, he heard 
 the tale of Lucy out; all told, it relieved him; 
 luck was somewhere about the world, since Lu 
 had got off scot-free. "Someone" had visited her 
 hospital, among other hospitals : but the matron, 
 hitherto her worst enemy, had held the someone 
 at bay. The matron had alarmed the someone 
 thoroughly, by her free-born English attitude. 
 On principle, the matron said, she never asked to 
 know anything about the girls in their free hours, 
 which was flat mendacity. Lu had been hide- 
 ously frightened, that was all, poor little 
 "Curly," when the matron had her up after- 
 wards, and told her about the case. 
 
 It "finished" Lu, who tucked some of her hair 
 into durance the same afternoon; and shortly 
 afterwards, became affianced to Freddy; but it 
 did not, naturally, finish her indignation with 
 Lina and "that awful man." 
 
 She had cried, from the sheer backwash of ter- 
 ror, for several nights. She had told her sister 
 that Mott was like Satan, and she could not think 
 
200 MADAM 
 
 how Lina could look at him, but this Foote did 
 not betray. 
 
 "I am afraid she dislikes you," said Foote to 
 Satan, sitting beside him on the grass. 
 
 Mott did not enquire which disliked him, but 
 he hoped it was Curly. He could stand Curly 
 
 cutting him off Then he enquired about 
 
 the elder Astleys. 
 
 All right, the father: that was something to 
 hear, since, in the long run, he matters most. He 
 lay down flat on the grass, hands over eyes, while 
 Foote proceeded to unfold Mrs. Astley, to un- 
 wrap her coverings, with almost religious care. 
 Deep in Mott's soul was an awe, profound, of 
 mothers. Mrs. Lane had instigated it, in child- 
 hood : with six sons, most of them handsome, you 
 simply must. 
 
 However, it began well. 
 
 Mrs. Astley was "pretty" and "like Lina." 
 She was gentle with the girls, that was better 
 still. "They're so fond of her," said Foote, "lit- 
 tle jokes, and that." Yes, barring the jokes, that 
 sounded like Maudie Lane; Maudie was de- 
 voted, and dying of it, probably. "Get on," said 
 Mott. 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 201 
 
 Well, she was a good mother, "cared for noth- 
 ing outside her family but for Church things." 
 Mott's eyes roamed the heavens : that was very 
 like Mrs. Lane. She had divided her afTections, 
 and powers, up into eight parts, Lane and young 
 Lanes: till Chris disappointed her. Nothing 
 but the Church for her, certainly, stood outside. 
 Even while she beat them, she clung to her Bible 
 with the other hand. 
 
 "She seems to play at everything," proceeded 
 the devout Freddy, sweating slightly. "Very 
 gentle-like and faded: not of a nature to take 
 things hard." 
 
 To play at everything! Mott laughed, in the 
 grass: here was a difference! Mrs. Lane did 
 not play at education, specially. 
 
 "I expect she's always been let to," explained 
 Freddy. "Pretty little woman: with girls, you 
 can always shunt the worries if you want. Lina, 
 now, she's nicely worried. Not seen her face to- 
 day, below-stairs, and it's Sunday. I see to Lu, 
 of course." 
 
 Mott said "Quite right," and blinked at the 
 heavens ; but he did not laugh again. 
 
 "Wouldn't it do her good to worry a bit?" he 
 asked presently. 
 
202 MADAM 
 
 "The mother? We-ell " Foote grew a little 
 anxious, looking at Mousie in the grass : he still 
 thought of him as Mousie. He had not seen, or 
 heard of him in the part of late, still, "Don't 
 do anything hasty, now; I daresay I oughtn't to 
 
 have said it Don't expect me to back 
 
 you, anyway," he added presently. Mousie was 
 silent. Hoping that he had calmed, Foote grew 
 thoughtful. "Odd, you should want that one," 
 he reflected aloud. "On my word, ask me, I'd 
 have given you Lu " 
 
 "Right-o. Every little helps," said Mott. 
 Suddenly he rose, seized his bicycle, and cast it 
 in the grass beside him. "Look there," he said to 
 Foote, snicking something. "Old iron, lent 
 me. That'll never last out." 
 
 "What," said the amiable Foote, "are you in- 
 tending to do, then? You're longer from home 
 than I am, and the rain coming on." 
 
 So it was. Mott, a country boy, threw a glance 
 across the heavens. "Got the time?" he asked 
 Freddy. "I've smashed my watch." 
 
 He did not inform Foote how he had smashed 
 it. He might have broken it when he injured the 
 bicycle so fatally, scorching; and be suffering 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 203 
 
 himself from giddiness, or concussion: his look 
 was decidedly strange. 
 
 "Summer-Time," said Mott. A plop of rain, 
 with the words, fell on to Foote's nose. He swal- 
 lowed it. Something was coming, coming 
 
 "What's that? An auto? What's the number, 
 can you see?" 
 
 The number, glimpsed as the vehicle passed 
 them, was no way striking: that of a local car, 
 making for London. Incontinently, Mott sent a 
 whistle in its wake. He had not the least idea 
 himself what he was going to do, not the slight- 
 est. , 
 
XVI 
 
 THE car contained a stout, hoarse, elderly gentle- 
 man: who drew himself up with indignation, 
 and looked round upon the two. 
 
 "What's the matter now?" he said, irascible. 
 
 "I want a lift, do you mind?" said Mott. 
 
 "What the eternal are you drunk?" 
 
 "No chance. I want to get to London, safe, by 
 six. You look as if you could do it." He gazed, 
 not at the elderly gentleman, but at the car. The 
 latter looked him up and down. 
 
 "Are you his keeper?" he said to Fred. "Take 
 your hand off the car, sir." 
 
 Mott did so, and threw the hand up. 
 
 "I have a Word that must be spoken to-night," 
 he said. "I have promised." The tone was not 
 loud at all, but penetrating. He looked full at 
 the old gentleman with his singular eyes. 
 
 "Are you saved?" he enquired. 
 
 "Oh!" said the old gentleman, realising it. 
 England, on certain days, is full of this sort of 
 thing. So, of course, is America. "Er, no, and 
 
 204 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 205 
 
 I don't want to be. To be sure, yes, this is 
 Sunday." 
 
 "Ah. Maybe you'd forgotten," said Mott 
 
 His tone was milder. It struck him, the raging 
 religious lion, with an already raging old gentle- 
 man, might be a mistake. Why not try Mrs. 
 Astley, or something quieter? 
 
 "Anything wrong with him?" said the old 
 gentleman, Foote-ward. Fred had an inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 "He lost five brothers in the War," he said. 
 
 "Oh, poor lad !" He looked round : but Mott, 
 who had leapt into the car, was stationary. The 
 veiled lightning, which had broken forth in him, 
 had now all faded out. 
 
 "Don't lie, for my benefit," he drawled. "I'm 
 done. It was a bet, sir." He climbed slowly out 
 of the car. 
 
 "A bet?" swore the old gentleman. "It was a 
 first-class bit of acting. Just come along and talk 
 to me, you! Are you a Canadian? Been on the 
 boards?" 
 
 "No, sir. It was rottin', came on me." He 
 was utterly cast down. He obeyed the stranger's 
 peremptory sign so far as to mount the car again : 
 
206 MADAM 
 
 but he lay there slackly, looking aside: "done," 
 as he said. 
 
 Foote was amazed at him, quite utterly 
 amazed. Many of Mousie's "stunts" had he 
 seen, but none to match it. For here was the 
 hoarse old stranger, more attracted every mo- 
 ment, leaning over Mott. 
 
 "I had such a lot of it in youth," said Mott, 
 with shut eyes. "Too much. I suppose it soaked 
 into me, or some other way. I've thought at 
 times I cud preach." 
 
 "D the preachers," said the strange old gen- 
 tleman- "Have you spoken in public?" Shake 
 of head. "Do you want to?" Silence from 
 Mott. 
 
 "Come in, you," said the old gentleman, to 
 Freddy. "Lift the bikes up, we can take them. 
 Was it true about your brothers, my boy?" Si- 
 lence from Mott, with shut eyes. He was swear- 
 ing, by all his gods, never to speak to Freddy 
 Foote again. 
 
 "Can you drive a car?" 
 
 "Fairly." He moved. 
 
 "Then you can relieve me; Sunday, I'm de- 
 prived of my man. Will you drive the car, drop 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 207 
 
 me at Hornside Lodge, beyond Wimbledon, and 
 then have a joy-ride, for your pay?" 
 
 "Yep," said Mott, casual. Things were turn- 
 ing up, but he was tired. His spirit was sick 
 within him, temporarily. He dropped himself 
 into the driving-seat, and took charge. 
 
 "No doubt you would like," said the humor- 
 ous old gentleman, hoarsely, "to go to evening 
 service in it, before you bring it back. Because 
 I allow you." 
 
 "Right," said Mott. "I let myself in for that." 
 
 "Do you mean you will, you blackguard?" 
 
 "If I can choose the Church. There's a meet- 
 ing I'd like" 
 
 "Quaker Meeting?" The old lad was amused, 
 chiefly by himself. "All right, go to your meet- 
 ing." 
 
 "Can I take a friend?" said Mott. His eyes 
 were on his machinery, attentive: but his jaw 
 was fixed. It was a mighty fine car. 
 
 "Which sex friend?" said the unspeakable old 
 gentleman. "Oh, Lord, look out!" 
 
 He said this at intervals, as they approached 
 the metropolis, until he realised the sort of thing 
 that was driving him. Then his look suggested 
 
2o8 MADAM 
 
 "Professional?" to Freddy: and Freddy nodded 
 "Sure." 
 
 When they got to Hornside Lodge, he had 
 changed his tactics. "You can have the car, 
 boys," he said, in the genial war-manner, "for 
 whatever you like, till ten: and then bring it 
 back for me. I am going to trust you. Don't get 
 tipsy, will you? Where do you live, you? 
 Epsom? That's near enough. Great Gad alive, 
 you shall drive me home." 
 
 "Well, of all luck!" said truthful Freddy, 
 rolling in luxury. He really thought it was luck 
 that had done this thing. 
 
 "Get out," said Mott. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Get out!' The car drew up. "I'm done 
 with you. That's the railway. Marry Curly or 
 anyone silly. I'm fair sick of the sight o' 
 your face." 
 
XVII 
 
 "I'VE till ten," said Mott, in somebody else's 
 lordly car, looking before him. 
 
 "I can't, I can't really," said Miss Astley, 
 just as before. 
 
 London was turning somersaults, for her, with 
 a vengeance. Such a rainy spring evening, so 
 grey, so hopeless: her only day of rest, which 
 had been a day of anything else, was drawing to 
 a close. Her Sunday headache, that horror 
 known to working-girls, created from fear of it- 
 self, was racking her. She was still, of course, 
 very anxious about her mother, not about Lu. 
 Lu was all right, she had meant to reassure 
 him, and would have written. She had just 
 slipped out, to evening Church, needing to bathe 
 her spirit, howsoever weary: Mott had known 
 she would. 
 
 He found the Church easily, rendezvous, since 
 its voice was raised. He waited for her, patient: 
 one car among many cars: but he thought he 
 would not be missed. Such a very observant, 
 
 209 
 
210 MADAM 
 
 well-trained little surgeon's typist was Miss 
 Astley. 
 
 "I can't, dear," she said, at his eyes. "Oh, can't 
 you see?" 
 
 "Come along up," said Mott. Had he come 
 thus far, and played the ass on the Epsom Road, 
 and kicked away Fred Foote the harlequin, 
 merely for this? 
 
 The churchgoers, nice people, were looking at 
 them: peering through the rain, at the man and 
 girl, not unkindly. All about London, penny- 
 plain men and girls were meeting, sweetly: it is 
 their only day. Even supposing they should, just 
 for once, ignore the church-bells Evi- 
 dently he was tempting her, for she had her little 
 black case in her hand, with C. E. A. A sweet 
 girl, modestly dressed, with pretty eyes rather 
 harassed, raised. 
 
 Men looked at the car, also, sharply : and Mott 
 saw them looking. Did they take him for a 
 thief? 
 
 "Oh, what a lovely car," said Lina, mechan- 
 ically. "Not very far, dear. Please, you mustn't. 
 Mother, after Church, will be wanting me back." 
 
 "I want to take you to mine," he said huskily. 
 "We've time enough for the opening, hymns, 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 211 
 
 that is. Guess we can do a bit of it." He looked 
 at her watch, his being broken : his arm about 
 her, his hand on her little wrist as she leant on 
 him. 
 
 "Will you?" said Mott, grasping her wrist 
 with gentle fingers. "I won't let you in. It's just 
 a way of looking 
 
 "I'll come anywhere. I can't bear it." Oh, 
 Mrs. Astley! 
 
 A wind arose, tossing them, out of the tender- 
 smelling night beyond. Night and summer, not 
 yet, but striding softly upon them 
 
 "Can't bear what? I always wanted you, 
 thought of you. Didn't you know it?" 
 
 "I think I did last time. I think I did." 
 
 "Do you know what my name is?" He said it, 
 and she repeated. "Dermot Lane. They call me 
 Mott, at home, Maudie does. And what's 
 yours?" She shook her head, as he looked in her 
 eyes; hopeless of speaking, but her lips moved. 
 "Madam," said Mott gravely. "That's right. 
 Now we're onto one another, sure. Give us a 
 kiss." She did so. "Darling. He's quite all 
 right about that girl, you know, his girl. Will 
 you come to Church with me?" 
 
212 MADAM 
 
 Lina was terribly late. 
 
 Not really late, of course, because he had to 
 reach the hoarse gentleman by ten, and by no 
 earthly nor heavenly means could he miss the ap- 
 pointment; but terribly late for Mrs. Astley, 
 who had been yearning: trusting that Lina had 
 not been walking with somebody, after Church. 
 
 Of course, if it were a really nice man, tall, 
 not titled, but gentlemanly, who had come as a 
 patient to Mr. Forrest's, with a war-injury that 
 was interesting, but easily cured, that would be 
 beautiful. Dear Lina! she deserved it: and 
 Mrs. Astley tried hard, during the waiting-time, 
 to picture that it was the case. 
 
 But she did not believe it, really: any more 
 than she really believed Lina would ever desert 
 her. And in any event, and with whoever it was, 
 she need not have lingered so terribly late. 
 
 When she came in, she was as wet as possible : 
 but that, fortunately, was kept from Mrs. Ast- 
 ley's view. 
 
 Lucy was cross about Fred. Fred had turned 
 up to supper, after they had all finished (except 
 Lina, still at Church), and thoroughly tired. 
 What had his stupid business in the country 
 been? Why had he ever tried to bicycle, he 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 213 
 
 was not fit to ride. No blessed man in this 
 blessed country was fit for anything, in hospi- 
 tal-Lu's estimation, without looking like an elon- 
 gated turnip afterwards, rather a clammy tur- 
 nip : it was raining outside. 
 
 Lina's hat, a nice one, was half-ruined. What 
 had she been doing with herself? Had she, Lu 
 wondered artlessly, been to Church at all? 
 
 "Yes," said Lina, looking well! 
 
 Well, as even Lucy admitted, that settled it 
 But it was more than evident, even to a quite in- 
 curious sister, that she had been doing other 
 things. She came from the "Tube," for instance. 
 And was she possibly aware that, going or com- 
 ing, her umbrella had never been opened at all? 
 It was still rolled up neatly, her hat a sight, her 
 hair rather loosened and frisky also. And she 
 who was everlastingly complaining of Lucy's 
 hair. 
 
 "I never did, dear," said Lina, settling hers. 
 Her fingers were still trembling, everything 
 rocking under her with rapture : yet she had to 
 get through. 
 
 "Well, it was somebody else, then," said Lucy. 
 She noted, in a flash of the eyelashes, that her sis- 
 ter's cheeks were pink. Lina! She made poor 
 
214 MADAM 
 
 Fred hurry inordinately over his supper, and 
 he needed it, having had nothing but sandwiches 
 for dinner, owing to Mott. Lu's object, of 
 course, was to get him away, into the kitchen, and 
 talk to him well. Lina would be with her 
 mother upstairs, helping her : Father in the front 
 room, smoking, in slippers. The servant was 
 out. 
 
 Fred came into the kitchen and helped with 
 the supper-dishes. Lu was quite competent, at 
 such things : and he having done it in the Army, 
 was apt to be an able help. To-night his ringers 
 were all thumbs, and Lu was impatient with him. 
 
 "Oh, give them to me and sit down, if smoke 
 you must. Now, what has happened to Lina, I 
 will know!" 
 
 "Well, can't you guess?" said Freddy. Be- 
 tween sympathy for Lina, and misery at his own 
 mismanagement with Mousie, he was all but in 
 tears. Why could he do nothing but tell truth, 
 in life, where it was not wanted? 
 
 He whispered the history, in the kitchen si- 
 lences. Then there was a pause. During the 
 pause, the clock went tack, tack, tack, on the wall 
 above them. A kitchen clock, just wound for 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 215 
 
 the week, is so virtuous: regular and sad, like 
 Freddy. 
 
 Curly had left her washing. She laid a round 
 plate, half dried, upon the table. She thrust at 
 her hair, absent, with a damp left hand, and it 
 dropped upon her right eye. Her pretty mouth 
 opened, her eyes (one but just visible) looked 
 out a thought haggardly upon Freddy. 
 
 "He didn't! Boarded it? And made good?" 
 
 "He always makes good," moaned Freddy. 
 "But / put my foot in it, bless you !" 
 
 "You always do," said faithless Curly. "You 
 were born for that." 
 
 "Oh, look here, now! I had a time of it. He 
 turned me out " 
 
 "Quite right too." 
 
 "In the blinking road. I walked a mile to a 
 station. Raining it was." 
 
 "Serve you well right," said Curly. "Why 
 couldn't you help him? Fancy Lina! You 
 know, she cares for him, really." 
 
 "You told me so." 
 
 "But she said she went to Church," said Lu 
 presently, sitting on Fred's knee, the china be- 
 ing still unfinished. She whispered "I say, is 
 he doing it already?" with awe. 
 
216 MADAM 
 
 "That's right," whispered Foote. "He's 
 Satan, you know." 
 
 "I always rather liked Satan. Don't tell 
 Mother. Fancy Lina ! I wish he wouldn't make 
 her tell stories, though. D'you think she did?" 
 
 The virtuous clock went tack, tack, tack, in the 
 silence above them. "There's something about 
 love " began melancholy Fred. 
 
 Tack, tack, tack, it went on; his manly breast 
 heaved under Curly's light breathing. There 
 was something about Love, in that penny-plain 
 house, on that London-Sunday evening: so 
 Foote's sentence hung unfinished, and the china 
 remained unwashed. 
 
 That is, till Miss Astley came down, well after 
 eleven, and washed it. Her mother had but just 
 got to sleep, she trusted permanently. She dried 
 the plates, and put them up quickly in the rack, 
 with pretty movements; thus her pulses must 
 have been steady again, for plates are slippery 
 things. After that she looked up at the clock of 
 virtue, holding, or guarding, something between 
 her hands. 
 
 She had to be at Mr. Forrest's, Harley Street, 
 
 the next morning at nine-thirty; and Mott must 
 
 \ 
 
LONDON RIGHTS ITSELF 217 
 
 be on view even earlier at Paish's son-in-law's 
 place, and had broken his watch. So she had 
 strapped her own little watch to his wrist, just at 
 leaving : for it kept, she assured him, perfectly 
 correct time. Time, in this world, going time, is 
 so very important: and that excellent clock, in 
 the Astley kitchen was hurrying on. That was 
 why Lina looked up at it. 
 
 His watch she took, in order to get it mended, 
 properly, in her own centre-of-London : and in 
 order to keep it clutched in her curved hands, 
 and under her cheek, like Time itself at a 
 standstill, all night. 
 
PART III 
 
PENNY ROSES 
 
 BUT it was a long courtship, or probation : most 
 unlike the upper-cut lovers' rosy time. It was a 
 lean, hard period, this in which the Lancaster- 
 epic was cast, but we remember it 
 
 She had looped him, one solitary rider in the 
 rout: they had happened on one another; but it 
 swept by them still, rout of a whole world's orgy, 
 dogged by a primitive spectre of want, jostling 
 them jealously; and they were not out of it, 
 never for more than a moment: he could not be. 
 
 Nothing, not even love, could divert him long 
 from his fellowship with the dead, his secret 
 service to the future; and she learnt or guessed 
 him rapidly, as she had in the rain that first night, 
 creeping under his cloak. Of one thing there 
 could be no doubt, they were made for part- 
 ners. She watched and followed, very quietly, 
 her eyes suddenly open upon a realm, a religion 
 she had never dreamt of. Yet she would not 
 often in those early times (for all his urgency 
 
 221 
 
222 MADAM 
 
 after the "hymn"-singing) tell him what she 
 thought. 
 
 Once she volunteered for him that women 
 were persuaded (she thought) by big feelings, 
 but by one person, not always a man, she added 
 hastily. He laughed and let it be, though he 
 "gave her better," privately. She amused him, 
 on the public tack, but he never played with her : 
 on the contrary, he carried her to the feet of his 
 own heroes, one by one, with great simplicity. 
 
 His own scope of knowledge and reading 
 amazed her. Lina had always thought she and 
 Lu were well-educated, having been to a nice 
 school. He was chary of display, and before her 
 circles especially; even alone with her, he 
 showed most unsure of himself ; but that he was 
 constantly testing his store of facts, in whatever 
 society, she felt. The never-wasted passion for 
 pure truth was in him: it was right at the root 
 of him, lending him dignity; whence, no doubt, 
 Mott numbered among his mixed acquaintance 
 not a few very able men. 
 
 But that was his other world that Mona knew 
 of; and Miss Astley could not often enter it, for 
 all her opening curiosity. It had to wait, like 
 everything But meanwhile, she felt her 
 
PENNY ROSES . 223 
 
 way to him cautiously in the world's havoc: 
 watched for him in the Clapham turret, met his 
 sly glance in company or in the crowd: desper- 
 ate, full-fed of maiden glory, utterly patient, 
 such is the penny rose-time. 
 
 And very, very decorous, by upper-cut stand- 
 ards : for, since it is long and frequently endless, 
 penny-plain courtship has to be. 
 
 Lina's family was the easier, superficially. 
 Mr. Astley accepted Mott at once, and liked 
 him; it was a vast relief, after Foote, to have 
 someone fit to talk to, that was largely Mr. Ast- 
 ley's feeling: but he also thought his "friend- 
 ship" would be good for Lina, and wake her up : 
 and he told his wife so. 
 
 Mrs. Astley did not know where to begin, in 
 answering him : simply did not know where to 
 begin. 
 
 Lina's Mr. Lane was certainly tallish and 
 rather fine-looking: handsome if you were not 
 particular, as of course Mrs. Astley was. If he 
 did not "drive his own carriage," he drove other 
 people's, in dashing style, and with a disregard 
 for details of the law that would have befitted 
 any marquis ; but he was barely a gentleman, and 
 
224 MADAM 
 
 not (alas!) an officer; worst of all, he had never 
 been to France, a feat that could be credited even 
 to Freddy Foote. Finally, and inferior to Foote 
 again, he had never been wounded ; only shelved 
 for a somewhat vague indisposition, which Mrs. 
 Astley hoped need not be qualified by a harsher 
 name. 
 
 True, Mr. Lane was young: as young as Lina. 
 Still, younger than he, Mrs. Astley had read in 
 veracious newspapers, had got themselves by 
 fair or foul means into the front line, and had 
 even been medalled, mentioned, and knocked 
 about. Since Mott never spoke of his brothers, 
 Mrs. Astley never heard about them, which was 
 a pity; but it is doubtful if she would even have 
 accepted Chris, a Captain and hero, for Lina: 
 he was not Christian enough. George she might 
 have accepted, only George was the single Lane, 
 but Mott, who had never soared from the ranks, 
 and Mott would have remedied the oversight, 
 given another half-year. Consequently, and all 
 told, Lina ought never have looked towards such 
 a family, visibly and vulgarly constructing its 
 fortunes; but rather have chosen the entirely 
 imaginary smart patient of Mr. Forrest's, of 
 whom Mrs. Astley dreamed. 
 
PENNY ROSES 225 
 
 However, she let things go, prettily in her 
 manner, assuming a long far-niente, or "nothing 
 doing," as the age said, ere Lina's fate was sealed. 
 Her husband's brow was bent a little, when he 
 alluded to the financial page, that was hopeful. 
 There were, she gathered, encumbrances on the 
 young man's side, of what kind she carefully 
 refused to know, though Lina several times at- 
 tempted to tell her. If there were such en- 
 cumbrances, Mr. Lane must evidently wait till 
 Nature, or God, removed them. Mrs. Astley 
 did not mind which, so long as he did not crowd 
 upon her the grosser details; and so long as she 
 had her own darling's devotion and services in 
 the meantime. While Nature, or Providence 
 were thus engaged in Mrs. Astley's interest, Lina 
 would naturally go on working for Mr. Forrest, 
 and the tall, smart patient might quite possibly 
 turn up. 
 
 It was like dealing with a vast fluffiness, to 
 Mott: reminding him vividly of a lady's feather 
 mantle, or scarf, a thing heavy with lightness 
 which he had once picked up in a theatre cloak- 
 room; and which his soul loathed because there 
 was nothing in it anywhere to grasp. Not, of 
 course, that his soul loathed Mrs. Astley: she 
 
226 MADAM 
 
 was a sweet woman, and like Lina : Foote was 
 perfectly right. She had many of Lina's little 
 ways, movements and intonations, eminently 
 upper-cut, purer style possibly than her daugh- 
 ters : only Mott liked "Madam" best. 
 
 He even preferred his own mother to deal 
 with, his own mother bearing not the faintest 
 resemblance to a feather mantle, or anything 
 feathery. Far from that 
 
II 
 
 HENRY "took on" Mrs. Lane, or at least pre- 
 pared himself to do so, with the Colonel's assist- 
 ance. It happened in the following wise. 
 
 When Henry, that summer, got down to 
 Wicken, whither his kind relations had long pre- 
 ceded him, and returned to the arms of Titus and 
 Chase, he found Lancaster-facts quite thick on 
 the ground. His own solitary fact, concerning 
 the engagement, which he had perhaps hastily 
 regarded as signing and sealing the Lancaster- 
 document, was stale to the homeland: even to 
 Chase, and certainly to Titus. They hardly took 
 it to be conclusive, or climactical, at all, aston- 
 ishing! Of course, in the Wicken and Wandsley 
 neighbourhood, there already existed an epic of 
 sorts, since the long Lane family was known 
 there. Henry had forgotten that, he had for- 
 gotten everything However, he made up 
 
 by strides, sitting at the feet of the home-people, 
 whom he loved, and standing at the nose of Titus. 
 It was simply wonderful (Erith being safely 
 
 227 
 
228 MADAM 
 
 married, and his mind relieved of her) to be at 
 home again. It prompted dreams. 
 
 He shut his eyes, r.nd let them talk to him. He 
 
 had never told tales himself in his life 
 
 His uncle, for instance, had been down during 
 Race Week to Epsom, and interviewed Mott: 
 his aunt had had a letter from Maudie. 
 
 Why had it never struck Henry that the Col- 
 onel (dear Robert) was simply bound to go to 
 Epsom, this year that England, peaceful, took to 
 her more serious pursuits again? Or that Miss 
 Wicken, hanging Henry's silk-embroidered 
 curtains, in the country, for Henry's good, had 
 every excuse for hearing about Maudie, since 
 Maud had been a shining light of her extra- 
 special Kultur-classes, of old, in the village 
 school? 
 
 He knew all that, and yet he had forgotten, 
 strangely. It all belonged to the other part, the 
 golden time: which the war had muddied and 
 smirched, for him, but which was now, oh, so 
 
 gently! cleansing itself and coming back 
 
 He listened. 
 
 Colonel Wicken had happened upon the "boy 
 Lane" on the Epsom downs, sitting as usual silent 
 
PENNY ROSES 229 
 
 upon a car, with a newspaper of the wrong sort, 
 only he was not reading it. His eyes looked tired 
 and his posture languid, that is, considering 
 Lancaster's reputation. He was not wrestling 
 with fate, nor risking anything, even upon the 
 race-course. He had to wait for Pinker, by 
 Tinker's orders, and he was too far off to see the 
 horses. It struck the Colonel as pathetic, being 
 the boy he was ; and he stopped to converse with 
 him, kindly. 
 
 "I asked if he had been betting," said the Col- 
 onel to Henry, after dinner. "And he told me he 
 couldn't risk it. So of course I asked who the 
 lady was, and when was the happy day." 
 
 He blinked wisely at Henry across the board. 
 The pair were lingering late in the good old 
 Wicken dining room, on this his nephew's first 
 night at home. 
 
 "You knew already!" challenged Henry. 
 
 "Well, the girl told us he was in love," said the 
 Colonel. 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 "The Lane girl, Maud." 
 
 "Oh." At this point, Henry took Maudie into 
 his scheme of things : he had rather overlooked 
 
230 MADAM 
 
 her, previously. "Please go on, Uncle," he said 
 politely. 
 
 "I spoke to the boy of his sister, of course : her 
 state, and so on." 
 
 "Just so. But surely he did not need remind- 
 ing?" 
 
 "No, no. It struck me," said the Colonel, 
 smoking, "that her state had rather upset the boy. 
 No doubt, in the circumstances, he felt a bit re- 
 sponsible." 
 
 "Maudie's state, sir? But had Mott seen 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes, yes: he went down there. Has your 
 aunt not told you?" 
 
 "I've hardly seen Auntie. He went home, did 
 he? Did you gather when?" 
 
 The Colonel had evidently not gathered, but 
 Henry did. It became sufficiently clear to him, 
 as his uncle pieced his information, that Mott 
 had, in his usual manner, raided his mother's 
 house in her absence, most probably the same 
 night that he took Titus home. To be sure he 
 had, so soon as Henry got wind of it, it gave 
 him the sense of the clean inevitable of all that 
 Lancaster did. He had returned the stolen steed 
 to the stable of his fathers, piously: and picked 
 
PENNY ROSES 231 
 
 up pious little Maud en passant, to get her 
 prayers 
 
 "She's a good girl," the Colonel was saying, 
 when Henry came to earth again from this ex- 
 cursion. "She forgave him." 
 
 "Forgave her brother? That's right 
 
 I'm glad," said Henry, gazing at his uncle across 
 the board, and feeling for the manorial attitude, 
 "that Lane went in person. It's doing the 
 straight thing." 
 
 "The straight thing," said dear Robert rather 
 gravely, "would have been to face the music, that 
 is his mother, and have it out. If Maud forgave 
 him, how much more eh?" 
 
 He blinked, for a time, peacefully. Henry 
 was silent. Next, dear Robert blinked at him, 
 and took in his disagreement, being a canny old 
 warrior. Of course he had not so far troubled 
 to go into the finer shades, about the Lane affairs. 
 He judged them on certain broad principles, 
 plain to roughness, though kind. His nephew's 
 titivating amused him, though he never gave way 
 to it seriously. He trusted Henry would not titi- 
 vate the estate, over-whimsically, when he was 
 gone. 
 
 "She's a hard woman," noted the Colonel. "I 
 
232 MADAM 
 
 thought, when I was last at Wandsley, the girl 
 had a life." 
 
 "She's as hard as nails," said Henry, "or pig- 
 iron. I think, Uncle, pig-iron is the thing. What 
 
 is it, by the way? Uncle, I have wanted 
 
 for some time to talk to you about the Lanes. 
 You know, I regard them as friends of mine." 
 
 "Very good lads," said the Colonel. "Yes, I 
 know that's your way of talking: but they were 
 very good lads. Of course, Chris was a thought 
 still, I must say I liked him. He was a keen 
 lad. His principles " 
 
 "His principles were odd, rather than non- 
 existent," said Henry. 
 
 "A bit off the lines," said dear Robert. "Lived 
 hard, and so on: went the pace shockin'ly, I 
 mean, for a boy in that class. It hardly affected 
 his work, though, which is of course the great 
 thing" 
 
 "Uncle!" 
 
 The Colonel blinked at him, in a manner hint- 
 ing a rebellion against women's judgment in gen- 
 eral, had Henry encouraged him; but of course 
 Henry, with his aunt upstairs in mind, did not. 
 It carried him straight back into the old days, 
 this conversation, in this place, and that look 
 
PENNY ROSES 233 
 
 upon the Colonel's countenance : days when the 
 battle was waged weekly over Chris's handsome 
 head. "Really, Robert, he ought to go," he 
 could hear her rose-leaf accents of reproba- 
 tion Henry smiled: and, faintly, so did 
 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "I remember the day I dismissed him," he 
 said, drooping reflective. "I said I was sorry in 
 
 many ways And Chris says to me, he 
 
 was too." 
 
 "Did he really, Uncle? What cheek!" 
 
 "Well," said the Colonel, "it was pert, young 
 rooster: still, I felt pleased I remem- 
 ber, I shook hands with him : I shall always be 
 
 glad, poor lad, that I shook hands He 
 
 kept the horses as never before or since, that's the 
 fact of it. You remember poor Dinah, Henry, 
 how he kept her, cared for her too. I used often 
 to say to Chris, I'd recommend him anywhere as 
 a lady's maid." 
 
 "Probably Mott's work," commented Henry, 
 head down, like his uncle. "Chris, in those days, 
 was always getting kudos for Mott. He used to 
 recite me his ill-gotten testimonials, grinning, 
 hey, dear!" He raised his head. "Uncle Rob- 
 ert!" 
 
234 MADAM 
 
 "Yes, my boy?" 
 
 "Was Mott sorry about Maudie?" 
 
 ^"Sorry? Why yes, I was telling you. Boy 
 had nothing to call manners on him, but I knew 
 what it meant. Her state vexed him, reproached 
 him, and he had to leave her. Of course he had 
 to, Sunday evening, last train to town " 
 
 Henry nodded. "Lancaster regretting his im- 
 pulses," he murmured. "O God, what an inter- 
 view!" 
 
 The Colonel stared at him, slow, but getting it. 
 
 "Wonderful of you," said Henry, looking at 
 him full and cordially, "to find it out. Lanes are 
 not easy to get at, on family affairs: I know 
 that." 
 
 "Very affectionate," commented the Colonel, 
 picking up impressions as they rose. "Of course 
 I knew it, having seen the little girl. Cecy had 
 the letter too." (Cecy was Miss Wicken.) 
 "Those big broods often rub together well, sur- 
 prisingly: learn to put up, living on top of one 
 another, hey?" 
 
 "I can't tell you, Uncle, being solus," said 
 Henry. "I'd have thought you know, it would 
 act the other way. I should say it was health 
 kept them friendly, if you asked me; they were 
 
PENNY ROSES 235 
 
 all such jolly good feeders, and so fond of life. 
 
 Anyhow, it's the fact: I know Mott's 
 
 been grieving, for Maudie. The only two left, 
 you see : and he had not seen her since." 
 
 "Eh?" The Colonel, whose glance had 
 strayed, eyed him afresh, with that momentary 
 fixity of age, blank almost, registering resistance 
 to a shock renewed. "Not since the only two 
 
 I had forgotten But, Lord save us!" he 
 
 broke out. "They should be together, the girl 
 and boy, sister and brother, last two left on earth! 
 
 What on earth separates them now? 
 
 What, because he took a roll in the mire, after 
 all that, and got mixed with his brother's mis- 
 tresses? Why, it's out of reason " puffed dear 
 Robert. 
 
 "Out of reason," echoed Henry, "and utterly 
 unjust." He echoed it not loud, but with a par- 
 ticular emphasis. He did not try to alter the 
 manorial attitude opposite, but only to add to it. 
 It was very wise. 
 
 The old man looked at him close and sharp a 
 moment: then his flash of interest faded, his 
 worn mind, well-guarded on the last lap of life, 
 retreated again. Still, the vivid emotion had 
 been there, and Henry's ready response had 
 
236 MADAM 
 
 stamped it; now, at any time, it might be re- 
 newed, and turned to account. 
 
 For Henry felt, that in the matter of the Lanes, 
 he had really neglected both his uncle's interest 
 and his influence. Why, the Colonel could 
 knock Widow Lane to pieces at need: hammer 
 pig-iron (whatever it was) to suit her own do- 
 mestic uses, or rather, those of Maudie and Mott. 
 Who, Henry suddenly wondered, had got Chris's 
 money, medals, properties? Probably Mrs. 
 Lane, every penny of it. Most of her other sons 
 were married. Really, she needed a little knock- 
 ing into shape! 
 
Ill 
 
 THUS ruminating, Henry left his uncle sitting 
 in contemplation, and went on to the drawing 
 room. 
 
 Miss Wicken, by candle-light in the gloaming, 
 like any one of her ancestresses, was doing 
 needle-work; for Henry's chairs now, his cur- 
 tains being hung. The silken curtains, in his 
 turret room, with their bright, clear colours, as 
 of light through glass, were a joy for ever; and 
 Henry, naturally, was horrified by the amouat of 
 work displayed, when they came to be unrolled. 
 He had only seen the butterflies piecemeal, pre- 
 viously; now he saw them in the curtain-scheme, 
 with the several roses they attended and sipped, 
 wonderful ! His aunt was greater than he had 
 thought her: she was great as well as good. 
 Convinced of this, he sat at her feet upon a cush- 
 ion, and read Maudie's letter, which was waiting 
 for him in Miss Wicken's workbasket. 
 
 "I was keeping it for you, dear, since she men- 
 tions Dermot," soothed Miss Wicken. "She 
 
 237 
 
238 MADAM 
 
 writes very well-formed letters; always one of 
 the best children, the very best." 
 
 Miss Wicken, in her Kultur-classes for the 
 elder girls at the village school, had been used 
 to instil, not only new principles of drawing, but 
 of writing too. It threw out all existing educa- 
 tional standards, which proved her to be at heart 
 a revolutionary, and a dangerous female. But, 
 though frequently warned of this, by Henry, 
 Miss Wicken pursued her wicked way. 
 
 "Why doesn't she date it?" said Henry, hop- 
 ing to catch his aunt out, as instructress. 
 
 "She does, dear, at the end." 
 
 "Why does she date it at the end?" said 
 Henry. 
 
 "It looks better on the page," said Miss 
 Wicken. 
 
 "Aunt, how ridiculous! Why" said 
 
 Henry, severely, looking at the date of Maudie's 
 letter, "have I not heard of this before?" 
 
 "I am sorry, dear. I have heaps of her letters, 
 poor child. This one had been waiting for me, 
 here, for some time, when I got back." 
 
 Henry sighed, and settled to Maudie. He 
 hated pious things 
 
PENNY ROSES 239 
 
 "8 Market Street, Wandsley, 
 "Dear Miss," wrote Maudie, 
 
 "Mott came to see me in Mother's absence, 
 but I could not refuse him, since it was God's 
 will he came. I did not expect him, having 
 only asked for that. He told me he had taken 
 Mr. Henry's horse, and that, but returned it, 
 thinking better, and I might tell you he was 
 sorry if I liked. O, I hope you will forgive 
 him! It is wildness in him, but no harm. He 
 held me till I promised to forgive him all 
 things. I could not help it he is grown so 
 strong and like the others, and would be mar- 
 ried, Miss, he says. A young lady, he says, 
 earning well, and it seemed to me, while he 
 went on, Mother might not dislike her. I 
 think it was too hard for Mott, the boys going 
 and all, so he strayed for a time. This War 
 was too much for us through trial to be per- 
 fected, which is one way. He and I are very, 
 very far. I told him I was as bad in heart, and 
 I made it harder for him weakly when he had 
 to go, for I thought he would stay a bit and 
 seen Mother, but he would not. I was to tell 
 her if I saw fit, but then I left it, she spoke so 
 of him when I told her his prospects, or hopes 
 
240 MADAM 
 
 of them, which was all I said. She wrote him 
 that night to keep off from us, with his women. 
 I fear I made it worse for Mott, unmeaning: 
 but I thought, for all George's children in the 
 house at present, we might have made room." 
 
 "I see what she means," said Miss Wicken, 
 leaning over helpfully, when Henry still sat sta- 
 tionary studying this. There was a little more at 
 the end, apparently about embroidery; and an- 
 other still smaller department of proper mes- 
 sages: but the parts were compact and divided, 
 as is most rare in these documents; and Henry 
 had noted without trouble which was meant for 
 him. 
 
 "Means? It is clear as day," he exclaimed, 
 "and as bright. Maudie is as brainy, evidently, 
 as all the rest. She prayed for God's will, rather 
 than Mother's, and Mott came; and so she did 
 not vex her blessed conscience further, but had a 
 good time. That's the purest logic, quite worthy 
 of Lancaster's sister. George's children in the 
 house, make room for him, she'd make room 
 for anybody, little angel ! What's her age ?" 
 
 "Seventeen, I suppose," Miss Wicken reck- 
 oned. 
 
PENNY ROSES 241 
 
 "Jolly good hand she writes, like yours, 
 Auntie. Is she a pretty girl?" 
 
 "Well, dear, she was always a nice little thing. 
 Surely you remember?" 
 
 "No, I don't. I remember nothing 
 
 Yes, I remember Chris carrying something, with 
 the usual cheeks and eyes, and pretending to 
 chuck it into the river on the foot-bridge, des- 
 perately dangerous, but she shrieked with de- 
 light. She's spunk too, probably Oh, 
 
 she must be pretty, Aunt! Why, Chris would 
 never have played with her otherwise. Would 
 he?" 
 
 "All those rough brothers," soothed Miss 
 Wicken, stroking a silk rose with her needle. "I 
 used to be sorry for the poor little thing." 
 
 "Aunt, you are obstinate! I am pointing out 
 to you that the poor little thing revelled in it: 
 that she must be a spunky, brainy little thing by 
 rights, a Queen of the Prairies, like those cinema- 
 darlings with sun-hats and rolling eyes, and long, 
 strong legs " 
 
 "Why don't you go and see her, dear?" asked 
 Miss Wicken, after one of Henry's sudden 
 pauses. 
 
 "Because I won't," said Henry. "I've no taste 
 
242 MADAM 
 
 for Biblical invalids: I might any day be one 
 
 myself Aunt, listen! I shall write and 
 
 tell Mott to really raid, and carry Maudie off: 
 I shall ! He'd fall into cinema-style fast enough, 
 he'd even find the costume, " 
 
 "Don't dear, please don't!" said Miss 
 Wicken, really nervous. "She's not fit for any 
 excitement, Dr. Farrar was saying " 
 
 "But that's why she would love it," said Henry, 
 barring doctors with a hand. "Look down here, 
 how she dwells on his having 'grown so strong 
 and like the others,' in youth, you see, he was 
 next to her, so she probably liked him least." 
 
 "But how could Dermot look after her, with 
 the other girl already?" pleaded Miss Wicken, 
 sweetly reasonable. 
 
 "The two other girls," corrected Henry. "Oh, 
 dash it! I guess Dermot'd manage, Aunt. He'd 
 hustle around, for Maudie. He'd hunt an- 
 other house " 
 
 "Don't guess things, dear, it's so American," 
 was Miss Wicken's final effort: absent, though, 
 because the rose absorbed her. It was broaden- 
 ing, flushing as it broadened, towards the but- 
 terfly-to-be 
 
PENNY ROSES 243 
 
 Henry ceased guessing, about Lancaster : after 
 all, guessing, with such characters is singularly 
 little use. Instead, he dreamed and dreamed of 
 the raid of Maudie: thrown over a horse, oddly 
 of Titus' allure and dimensions. Titus would do 
 cinema perfectly: he was fidgetting for it, down 
 in Henry's stable : and with Mott in the saddle 
 for choice. And Mrs. Lane calling vengeance in 
 the background, perhaps with a birch-broom, 
 futile, better than any cinema of the lot of 
 them ! It was a picture he loved. 
 
 Only he knew, of course, that it was impossi- 
 ble; that Paish's Lane, the other one, the penny- 
 plain workman, had entertained the whole of it, 
 including Titus, probably: and abandoned it 
 as ricketty, as fluffy, as worthy only of wealthy 
 idlers, long ago. 
 
IV 
 
 MONA told Mott that she would go out on to the 
 race-course, with Jock, while the horses were 
 running, and beautifully end her life. Some 
 woman or other had done that once, Eric had 
 told her: and the natural splendour of it stuck 
 in her memory. 
 
 She told her brother this in his new room, at 
 Epsom, which she had not seen previously; and 
 its smallness and dulness affected her while she 
 talked. She had herself been out on the downs 
 all day with Eric, and felt grand, physically; 
 only somewhere, lurking within her, she felt 
 miserable too; so she wished to make Mousie 
 feel as bad, which was mere habit, in Mona. 
 The first method that prompted itself was to 
 threaten self-extinction; especially as she was 
 not at all sure she did not mean to accomplish it, 
 this time. 
 
 "Do it without the kid, can't you?" said Mott, 
 a hand shading his eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean, you ?" cried Mona, 
 outraged in her maternal feelings. Was Jock 
 
 244 
 
PENNY ROSES 245 
 
 not her property, and could she not use him as 
 she saw fit? 
 
 "Well, wait and ask him," said Mott. "He 
 might not want to be kicked to death, just to 
 make a flare-up for you." 
 
 "You're drunk, Mouse," said Mona, looking 
 at him aghast, as he sat there writing. Kicked to 
 death? How dared he? She turned lachry- 
 mose. "It's not to make a flare-up, it isn't," she 
 wailed. 
 
 "Why is it then?" He threw his pen down. 
 "Let's hear." He thought it had better come, 
 since he was interrupted already. He knew she 
 had been simply spoiling for a scene, for days. 
 
 Mott had hoped that a week of racing and 
 bracing in the open air would set Mona up and 
 keep her quiet, especially with Eric and his purse 
 to help. His own hours were longer than ever, 
 in the giddy season: but Eric, an old acquaint- 
 ance of both, had volunteered to take her out, in 
 preference to newer girls: very kind of him. 
 As a fact, Mona was more beautiful than most of 
 the newer girls; she had recovered much of her 
 life and force, and the place and country sur- 
 roundings suited her. It was what she had been 
 born to ; though her present cottage was inferior, 
 
246 MADAM 
 
 a mere hovel: cheap. Mona's parents at Wands- 
 ley had lived in far better style : that she rarely, 
 in her comments on life, let her brother forget. 
 As a rule he laughed at her, but he could not al- 
 ways : the problem of the future, now-a-days, ab- 
 sorbed him too much. 
 
 Recently she had relieved, and rather sur- 
 prised him, by going of her own accord out to 
 work, and earning a little for the beautifying of 
 herself and baby, most of it she wasted, but the 
 effort was good. Mona was living at Epsom as a 
 war-widow, and had not at present altered that 
 effective course to suit anyone who asked her. 
 She liked being a war-widow: everybody 
 seemed to admire it, in her new surroundings, 
 and Jock was finer by degrees than any of the 
 neighbour's children, thanks to "Mouse." She 
 admitted that Mouse had something to do with 
 it. With a little work and plenty of fun, she 
 really led an excellent life; and had small wish 
 to change it, at any rate for the Epsom men. 
 And then came along Eric, in Mouse's absence, 
 old Eric, about whom Mona knew most things, 
 and indeed a good deal too much, and while 
 pretending to treat and amuse her, blasted her 
 prospects, and cut her to the heart. 
 
PENNY ROSES 247 
 
 Mona had been desperately miserable, owing 
 to Eric, for two days. Could words be bad 
 enough for him? She used them all. 
 
 "There's a darling boy," said Mona, to Mouse, 
 charmed by his change of aspect. "You love me, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "All you need," said Mott. But he smiled. 
 
 "You do love me !" triumphed Mona. "I told 
 that you did!" 
 
 "Eric? Look here, draw up a bit, 
 
 Mona. What's Eric been saying about me?" 
 
 "Said you were tired of me." Mona added 
 some ornate detail : she had been much moved. 
 "You're not, are you, Mouse? Look at me." 
 
 He looked, in a fashion she believed. Always, 
 on these occasions, he reassured her first, for it 
 was most necessary. Mona frightened was 
 Mona fiendish. He rather supposed Eric had 
 frightened her, and he did not thank Eric. He 
 wondered a little what Eric's stunt was, proba- 
 bly well-meant, but not necessarily wise. Eric, 
 Chris's first friend, or rather boon-companion, 
 was not always a wise person ; and Mona, as Eric 
 ought to know, was ticklish material. 
 
 "Now then," he said, when she had fussed 
 about him a little. "How much have you lost?" 
 
248 MADAM 
 
 "Lost?" 
 
 "I love you enough, anyway, to pay your 
 debts." 
 
 "You don't, then !" triumphed Mona. "Debts, 
 he says ! Look here " she sat on the table, to the 
 dread disarrangement of his papers : also to her 
 own danger, for it was ricketty. "You go and 
 grouse to him that I'm an expense to you." 
 
 "Oh," thought Mott. He dropped his money 
 thoughtfully into his pocket again. 
 
 "And you sit here," said Mona to the Heavens, 
 "swanking at your silly writing, and thinking of 
 someone else." 
 
 "Oh," thought Mott. 
 
 "With the room in a state," said Mona, "books 
 and rubbish all over the floor, and never ask me 
 to come and tidy them." 
 
 "You leave those things alone," said Mott. 
 "Mona, listen, listen here, and let those things 
 alone. Mona, Eric lied. You go back to Jock 
 and let me study. See? I'll I'll think of you 
 instead, for a bit, if you go." 
 
 "Will you?" 
 
 "Honest." 
 
 "Instead of that nasty pale thing?" 
 
 "Right o." 
 
PENNY ROSES 249 
 
 "Look at me," ordered Mona. He did so, 
 shyly, with an effort. "You think you're blessed 
 clever," she said slowly. "All you lads do. That 
 
 dirty does, I shouldn't wonder You're 
 
 a little silly, Mouse. Aren't you?" She put her 
 hands to either side of his face a moment, quite 
 gently. "Oh, my God !" With a groan-like sigh 
 she slipped from her seat, turned round, and sim- 
 ply obeyed him : went languidly from the room. 
 
 "Now, what's Eric been after?" thought 
 Mott, when he recovered. He did not like to be 
 called a little silly, by Mona, naturally; he re- 
 jected the charge: but still 
 
 "He's wasted my evening, anyway," he 
 thought, when twelve struck. 
 
ERIC and Mona had had a political argument. 
 That was all that had happened. 
 
 It occurred a day or two previous to the above 
 dialogue, and by her own fireside. Mona's hovel 
 was not half a bad little cottage, really, and, 
 though a casual housekeeper, she had learnt to 
 keep it straight. Jock, now-a-days talkative, had 
 been silenced for the occasion with sticky cake. 
 Jock, with a brand-new hat on, bought by Eric, 
 and rakishly bestowed, was regarding them 
 under supercilious eyelids at intervals, while the 
 political "stunt" went on. It hardly did for Eric 
 to look at him, he was too eerily like Chris, his 
 old companion; still, it gave him nerve, for his 
 present effort in Chris's cause: for that was 
 really what it amounted to. 
 
 Mona had had a very pleasant outing: Eric 
 had paid up every penny she had lost, with the 
 most cheerful generosity, and her luck had been 
 vile. Then, after a magnificent tea, most of 
 which he also provided, he started his "stunt," 
 just as though the rest had been mere insidious 
 
 250 
 
PENNY ROSES 251 
 
 preparation. No wonder, when Mona came to 
 think it over, she called him awful names. 
 
 The link between the pair was loose and odd, 
 but not unfriendly ; Chris's death had solved any 
 difficult element their intercourse contained. 
 Once, in the golden days, and their native town, 
 they had been more than friendly; but Chris's 
 great glory had knocked Eric out. There had 
 been bitterness for a time, until the son of the 
 bank, rapidly prospering, had discovered other 
 interests. The War came, and the world turned 
 round. 
 
 Now Mona genuinely did not want Eric, for 
 all his cars and horses: largely because of that, 
 she was a strange girl. She scorned Eric's 
 war-wealthiness, or said she did. Her allusions 
 to his "blood-money" had been free, during the 
 outing just over, though she relieved him of it 
 as freely. Eric was useful, in short, and at times 
 pleasant: but he would not do in Chris's place: 
 there was a proportion in things. Eric, on his 
 side, did not want Mona ; not exactly that he de- 
 spised her in return, but that there were fresher 
 interests. He would, however, willingly have 
 supported her, for Mouse's sake, to relieve his 
 finances. This was the somewhat complicated 
 
252 MADAM 
 
 attitude of Eric, sentimentally, that Mona, with 
 her fiendish female instinct, ferretted out. Hav- 
 ing haunted her intelligence during the day, 
 owing to his allusions, it came to her suddenly at 
 tea, while he was talking. The whole of it came 
 to her: she showed it by colouring scarlet, and 
 gazing at Eric, stiffly and hard. 
 
 So that was how she was regarded, by these 
 daily men of hers! Suicide occurred to her in- 
 stantly, instantly 
 
 "I should have thought you could have paid 
 the house, if that's all," she said contemptuously. 
 "You've money enough." 
 
 "He won't have it." 
 
 "Meaning you've tried?" 
 
 "I've suggested it, yes. Now don't, Mona!" 
 
 "Meaning he doesn't care for me?" 
 
 "Oh, he's fond of you, right enough, and you 
 know it. Of course he wants to marry, now. 
 Don't!" 
 
 She fell into heart-broken tears. "Get out," 
 she said to Eric at last. "You've done me, if 
 
 that's all I tell you, he's earning well, at 
 
 the works, he told me. I'm earning too." 
 
 "He's not your servant," said Eric, desperate. 
 
 "He'd have done it for Chris," sobbed Mona, 
 
PENNY ROSES 253 
 
 retreating upon Jock as defence, and knocking 
 his hat a little more sideways. 
 
 Eric reflected a little. "You talk of Chris 
 pretty easy, Mona," he said presently. "Do you 
 remember him?" 
 
 "Get out," sobbed Mona, making herself 
 sticky with Jock. 
 
 "Chris says to me once of Mousie 'He's stuff 
 in him. He's slower than me, but more stuff,' he 
 says. 'He'll go far, given his chance,' given 
 his chance, mark that!" said Eric excitably 
 ''What chance has he at the present time? Have 
 you seen his new room?" 
 
 "He can come and live here," sulked Mona. 
 
 "Oh, that's your game, is it?" thought Eric, on 
 the hearth-rug, getting the ash off his cigarette. 
 
 "I'd take care of him better than those women 
 he has." (She meant landladies.) 
 
 "Ah Does he see it?" 
 
 "You go to hell," said Mona, sulky. She put 
 Jock's hat straight. "I know what I know. 
 He'd have done it for Chris." 
 
 "Done what? Look here, Mona, you're 
 
 muddled. Pull it straight. I'm telling you 
 Chris cared for him. See?" 
 
 "I can see a haystack," said Mona. "And hear 
 
254 MADAM 
 
 it too. What about this?" She clung to Jock, 
 her best argument. "Didn't Chris care for this 
 as much as that young ?" 
 
 "No, he didn't," thought Eric; he did not as- 
 sert it openly, for fear of the elements. 
 
 Besides, Mona knew just how much, and how 
 little, Christopher had cared for Jock, or the 
 prospect of Jock. He would have cared for him 
 grown, doubtless; as soon as he talked, and had 
 sense and devilry; as it was, he certainly pre- 
 ferred Mousie : certainly. Mousie he could talk 
 to, rant to, and ride over when necessary. He 
 could score off him, hurt his feelings rather 
 badly, and then make it up by ten minutes' Olym- 
 pian fun and benignity. Eric had never seen a 
 boy so played upon, every fibre of him, as Mouse 
 had been by Chris during the Wandsley period; 
 but that Chris cared for him, that he was proud 
 of him at private moments, why, it took Mona 
 in her worst mood to doubt that. 
 
 "I'll keep Jock going, I tell you," said Eric. 
 "Haven't I given him that hat?" 
 
 Mona looked at the hat, dull-eyed. Lately she 
 
 had liked it so "He'd have done it for 
 
 Chris," she said, obstinate and stupid. Eric let 
 
 go- 
 
PENNY ROSES 255 
 
 "You can't be bound by the dead," he said, ris- 
 ing and pacing the cottage floor. "He can't, any- 
 way: he's made to go forward. Look here, 
 suppose he was to be something, and you're ham- 
 pering, and you'd be sorry some day. Well, 
 couldn't you have me then?" 
 
 "Have you? After this? There, Jock, 
 there's your pretty father!" Her scorn was 
 fierce. 
 
 "And you pretend to care for the world!" 
 flashed back Eric, magnificent. . "For progress, 
 don't you? Hanging like that on a man who 
 
 could help It's jealousy. You don't 
 
 want him to marry. You'd keep him slave if you 
 could, servant. And that's your blessed Social- 
 ism!" cried Eric. 
 
 It was, to Mona, electrifying. She only saw 
 the point, intellectually, for two seconds, and she 
 could never have argued it out again. (Nor 
 could Eric, probably.) She sent him packing, 
 on the spot, sulked at him publicly for two days, 
 and had a fine scene, detailed, with Mott, as soon 
 as fate and temper gave her the opportunity; but 
 the point got through : to her heart of course. 
 
256 MADAM 
 
 There was nothing else, even politically, in 
 Mona, for it to penetrate. 
 
 Two days later again, she called on "Mouse" 
 in his new room, early morning this time, and 
 kissed him, and straightened it for him as she 
 could, and gave him at parting a little kettle- 
 holder towards his housekeeping, which she had 
 worked with her own hands. A little blessing it 
 was, from the oldest of all worlds, Eve's world, 
 for the work he had done. 
 
 "And you say she's no sense," said Mott, deep- 
 ly moved, dwelling on this to Eric. "I tell you, 
 she feels things all through her. Truth she 
 does!" 
 
 Eric, silent, looking showy and stupid, never 
 confessed the part he had played. 
 
VI 
 
 PROBABLY because, howsoever truly felt Eric's 
 "stunt" was, he could not find words for it; he 
 had not Henry's gift of conversation. To Mott, 
 and to "Miss Lina," the two persons Mona's 
 problem most concerned, Eric could talk least, 
 though he worked as above in their interest. 
 How Mott solved in prospect the problem under 
 his daily gaze, as he sat in his chosen hole, Eric 
 never knew, though he knew it absorbed him. 
 As for Miss Astley, Eric had been introduced to 
 her, and so forth, correctly, and had conducted 
 her for a motor-outing, once; but talk to such a 
 girl or write to her He had tried to write to 
 Miss Lina about six times. 
 
 Then, of course, not being Henry, he dropped 
 it, and spoke to Foote, whom he still patronised. 
 With Foote he got so far as to sketch something 
 of his theories, and his scheme. 
 
 "My idea is," sketched Eric, "she'll not let me 
 take her on, or anyone else, till he's married, 
 see? Fair married, she'll fall in, as like as not, 
 easy. There'd be no troubling the family, either 
 
 257 
 
258 MADAM 
 
 his, or hers: all that's stage-fancy. That you 
 could let them know, anyhow." Fred looked 
 doubtful. "He's got to get married/' added 
 Eric, to make all clear. 
 
 "Easy saying, get married, these days!" for 
 of course poor Fred was trying, hard. "You go 
 and try yourself!" said Fred: but Eric was not 
 thinking of his small affairs. 
 
 "Well, that's my way of it," he resumed. "As 
 I see it, she's on to Mouse not so much for him- 
 self, as for his being one of that lot, it's natu- 
 ral." Fred tried to follow. "She likes to look at 
 him," explained Eric. "It's much more that, 
 
 than that she wants him, personally 
 
 Though of course she does." 
 
 "Would you have me tell the girl that?" 
 moaned Fred. "Or her mother? You've no 
 notion what they are, never heard talk of such 
 things, probably." 
 
 Eric despaired, and resorted to drink for as- 
 sistance. Foote sat and looked complacent at 
 joining such a family as Mrs. Astley's: one that 
 had never "heard talk" of anything at all. 
 
 "She knows Mona," ventured Eric, at last. 
 
 "What? Lina?" 
 
 "Well, unless Mousie's a liar, she does." 
 
PENNY ROSES 259 
 
 Foote gaped simply : for this was proof. Eric 
 regained force, before his fish-like countenance. 
 
 "There's probably more in her than you know 
 of," he triumphed. "In both of them, Mona too, 
 as to that. I tell you, they take to the right girls, 
 not silly little wasters " He ceased : it did not 
 do to hint that Foote was marrying a silly too 
 often, though both he and Mott had a time of it, 
 not to do so. Mott foresaw, in Eric's private ear 
 (the other one) that Curly would grow up much 
 like her mother, unless Foote took a stronger 
 line, a weighty judgment. Eric, who had tried 
 Curly in his time, and in spite of admiring her 
 playfully, agreed. There ensued, in conse- 
 quence, a fresh pause in this already difficult 
 conversation. Eric simply longed to get the 
 facts of Mona "through" to Miss Lina: espe- 
 cially since he knew Mott would never tell her, 
 Mouse would die of Mona's demands on him, 
 first. More, Eric was certain he had discovered, 
 and held, a solution, but here was Foote, such 
 a wretched medium, and looking such a singular 
 
 ass! It might come, even now, to Eric's 
 
 tackling the girl herself: for his business- 
 instincts approved her, smart and quiet, this girl 
 of Mousie's. Eric had watched her, keen-eyed, 
 
260 MADAM 
 
 throughout the little kinks and contretemps of 
 the outing alluded to : and he thought she might 
 swallow the facts of Mona, if he could but 
 well! 
 
 "Put it like this," he said at last. "She feels 
 safer, with him at hand. It's safe she feels, I 
 tell you it's natural for the girl, he saved her 
 once That's the way a woman is," mor- 
 alised Eric, "she'll drown a man, clinging on to 
 him, and meaning no earthly harm. Mona 
 
 means none Now my idea of Miss Lina 
 
 is different." 
 
 "Ah," glowed Freddy, following, "Lina 
 wouldn't drown a man, not either of them 
 wouldn't, for that matter, Eric, " Eric's aptness 
 in illustration, and critical power, seemed to 
 Freddy quite excellent, ponderable afterwards 
 during his lonely walks. As Eric to Foote, so 
 Mousie to Eric, their self-made chain was 
 singularly symmetrical 
 
 Finally Foote said he would get in a word, 
 with Lina, if he saw a chance: but of course he 
 never did see one. It was sheer pity he did not, 
 too, for Miss Astley would have understood and 
 met him, more readily and cleverly than ever be- 
 fore in her gentle life. She was discovering such 
 wonders of life, now, and weekly 
 
PENNY ROSES 261 
 
 Above all would she have understood the lat- 
 ter part, Eric's finishing effort, as to Mona feel- 
 ing "safe." Did she not herself feel safe, when 
 he was in the driving-seat? how much more 
 Mona! Where a good head, heart and hand are 
 to be found, there is the nest a poor girl makes 
 for; and that Lanes had, for all their wildness; 
 and that even a Mona will miss, and go seeking 
 again, once found. She was no silly drab, in 
 origin: she was weak enough, but she was 
 neither a social problem, nor a mere woman 
 (there are none) : she was a girl with her own 
 possession of a sweet past in her: a girl whom 
 once, in a rapture of her own rose-time, fade- 
 less and unforfeitable, Chris, pound-wise and 
 penny-foolish, had picked out for her "sense." 
 
 That was a little of what Eric knew : that was 
 what he tried to get through to Lina, by all means 
 of whispering Wireless at his command. Mona 
 would never harm her consciously, she could 
 
 not Perhaps, somehow, when Miss Ast- 
 
 ley met Eric's eyes in society, and her heart went 
 timidly towards that old friend, the wireless harp 
 sang faintly, and carried something. For daily, 
 despite our impossible socks and ties it does so : 
 the miracle of Love in a mute world be thanked. 
 
VII 
 
 "Dear Miss Astley," wrote Henry, rather 
 tardily, 
 
 "I am delighted to hear of your engage- 
 ment. I knew something of Mr. D. Lane in 
 youth, and am doing what I can to renew the 
 acquaintance. He has a kind of nasty pride, 
 hasn't he? I hope you will see your way to 
 curing him of it, and get him to come and visit 
 me. You can recommend me, can't you? as 
 decent and mild. There is a horse here, whose 
 upsetting qualities are known to him pretty 
 well already. He might just as well educate 
 him, when I can't, which is frequently. 
 
 "I wish you could anyhow get to know his 
 sister, late of 8 Market Street, Wandsley, 
 she seems such a nice little thing. I say 'late,' 
 because Miss Lane is at present in Wandsley 
 Hospital, which seems a bit of a chance, 
 doesn't it? A day from town would do it, if 
 you did not stop with us, but I wish you 
 
 would." 
 
 262 
 
PENNY ROSES 263 
 
 Here this surprising letter finished, with a 
 plain signature. It was on smart paper, and 
 headed "Wicken Lodge." Miss Astley read it 
 ever so many times, and marvelled at it, espe- 
 cially the first part. What struck her most was 
 that it looked so plain, and was so smart, 
 "smart" being the only word (except sudden) 
 that Lina could find for Henry. The last para- 
 graph looked like business, addresses and times 
 being mentioned, so she could manage it better; 
 but even so, "stopping" at Wicken Lodge! It 
 gave her an absolute start, concerning her ward- 
 robe: before she dismissed it as one of Mr. 
 Wicken's jokes. 
 
 But there was sense in the suggestion it con- 
 tained, and it suited her. She knew Mott had 
 fallen out with his family. He was reticent 
 about home affairs, as he was about how the War 
 had affected him: still, he had spoken to her of 
 that little sister, more than once. Could she help 
 him at such a juncture, she wondered. Could 
 she make peace? 
 
 Miss Astley's turn for making and keeping 
 the peace was a considerable one : it had affected 
 some people's opinion of her, during the War. 
 Even in Mr. Forrest's domain, with cook and 
 
364 MADAM 
 
 "girl" she had pacified; and as to his patients at 
 the telephone, translating his intemperate in- 
 structions into sweet, cool business language, 
 with just a little feminine craft intermingled, 
 but Mr. Forrest, of course, never guessed the 
 evangelist she was. 
 
 Now, here was a more essential domain than 
 Mr. Forrest's, nearer to her. Would Mott, for 
 instance, be offended if she tried? On the 
 August Bank Holiday, for instance? It did not 
 seem to occur to Mr. Wicken that she had not 
 many days to spare for country excursions : but 
 her "doctor" had given her that day, promised 
 her it beforehand, with unusual kindness. Mr. 
 Forrest had even told her to go to the country 
 with a friend if she could find one, meaning 
 feminine, of course, since no other could occur to 
 his mind. 
 
 Of course Miss Astley had hoped, and 
 planned, to spend that holiday with a "friend"; 
 he, at least, would have it granted him, after the 
 season's slavery. Only, when she proposed a 
 country jaunt to him, just as a first step, on a nice 
 little postcard, she had a line from him in return 
 that disturbed her. It seemed, he could not. 
 There was some kind of a "turn-up," said Mott, 
 
PENNY ROSES 265 
 
 at Tinker's; and he had got to come up and see 
 the old boss about it, that was Paish. Miss 
 Astley, of course, knew about Paish and Pinker; 
 Mott had ideas about them both which were a 
 little different from her ideas about Mr. Forrest: 
 call them campaigning-ideas. An employer, to 
 Mott, suggested campaign, at once, not so to 
 Miss Astley. He had never precisely informed 
 her that the first to go to Hell would be the good 
 servants of the good masters : but she guessed it 
 in his equipment, somehow. Most matters about 
 Mott's inner equipment she guessed. 
 
 Well, were they going to sack him, now, after 
 all his hard work? This is the sort of query that 
 disturbs the roseate maiden dreams of Miss Ast- 
 leys: and keeps them awake, wondering and 
 worrying, all night. 
 
 She read Mott's letter again, several times. 
 He wrote that he would come on to tea with her 
 at six, if he could, and give her the latest from 
 the front; but he could not promise. Paish 
 would take some handling, he said pleasantly, 
 and if he got on to politics That gave Miss 
 Astley some notion of what the "turn-up" was, 
 and she was not exactly reassured, though she 
 tried to be so. Anyhow she hated Paish for spoil- 
 
266 MADAM 
 
 ing his holiday: that was legitimate; employers 
 who interviewed on holiday were odious. 
 
 Still, it was a letter. Mott's letters were him- 
 self in a quite remarkable degree. He wrote 
 easily, for a boy from an Elementary School; 
 Miss Astley's father, who had also had some 
 specimens he approved from him, said of his use 
 of words that he must have practised. This one 
 began "Darling," and finished, "Yours, Madam, 
 D. L.," like all the others. Very like him, in- 
 deed, both conventional, and obstinate : keeping 
 his ideas, regardless of people's protests; Caro- 
 line put it away in a box. 
 
 His hour of six gave her time, it gave her the 
 day's length. She decided, thoughtfully as she 
 decided all things, to go to Wandsley and not to 
 tell him (since he was worried) until her return. 
 She would try her hand, on his problematic rela- 
 tions. She could not make things worse, and she 
 might improve them: what better fashion of 
 spending one's solitary free day? 
 
 As for staying at the Lodge However, 
 
 in thanking Mr. Wicken for his kind note of con- 
 gratulation, she mentioned that she had written 
 to Miss Lane and hoped to see her on the Mon- 
 day, if it proved, for the hospital, a suitable day. 
 
PENNY ROSES 267 
 
 Having so written, she supposed to herself 
 every proceeding it might induce in Mr. Wicken, 
 except the one it did induce. He met the train, 
 and took her 
 
 Anyone in Miss Astley's layer of society, since 
 she was an engaged girl, and alone by mischance, 
 would have done this; Foote and Lu, for in- 
 stance, had been very sorry for her; but she had 
 not supposed, somehow, that the heir of Wicken 
 Lodge would see it like that. The general "sud- 
 denness" of his character, from the first, had 
 disturbed her. So, of course, did his opening 
 remark. 
 
 "Isn't this a rag?" said Henry, happily. "I 
 say, does he know?" 
 
 Well, then Miss Astley explained at length 
 just why he did not know, and made out an intel- 
 ligible case, for herself and him, under head- 
 lines. That Henry expected of her. What he 
 did not expect was, that she was much less 
 London-personified than he had ever seen her. 
 That aerial city would hardly have recognised 
 her as its property, Henry feared. Of course it 
 was summer season, and holiday, and horribly 
 hot weather, even in the country. It must, 
 
268 MADAM 
 
 Henry suggested, walking beside Miss Astley up 
 the platform, be infernal in town. 
 
 "It is, rather," said Miss Astley, lifting a little 
 eyebrow at the sun outside. She put a neat shoe 
 on the fresh-watered Wandsley pavement, which 
 was country cobbles, and so a treat in itself. 
 Then she shook out her dark-blue parasol, cheap 
 a bargain 
 
 What a very, very pretty girl she was ! Henry 
 had never noticed it, that was the weird part; he 
 had thought her agreeable, but quite ordinary, in 
 her chrysalis city-clothes. Was it the absence of 
 the despatch-case, and the presence, instead, of a 
 bunch of roses (penny ones) for Maudie? Was 
 it that her fore-arms, and her front neck, were 
 bare a little to-day, like all the other girls, the 
 nine-out-of-ten whom she did not resemble? 
 Was it the nice colour she wore, sashed rather 
 above the waist, in the mad way that girls have, 
 as though anyone did not know that their waist 
 was there? Her hair was curly a little, just in 
 the right places, lucky dog, Mott ! Good Lord, 
 what eyes the sweep had! He had seen straight 
 through London's misty arts and artifices, while 
 Henry, a life-long student of them, had been did- 
 dled and deceived. 
 
PENNY ROSES 269 
 
 "What's he doing?" said Henry. 
 
 "He has business," she said. "I think with 
 Mr. Paish." 
 
 Henry whistled. "What's Paish's up to? I 
 know them! I wouldn't trust them a square 
 inch, Associates or no." Here he noticed a line 
 in her brow, and bethought himself. "But he'll 
 get the better of them, sure, Miss Astley." 
 
 "Will he?" 
 
 "Rather, he's bound to. He's been too much 
 
 for them once I say, it's beastly for you 
 
 not to have him down here, seems wrong some- 
 how." He mutely indicated Wandsley High 
 Street, which was an object to tourists. When 
 she had admired, "Don't often get a day out, 
 do you?" he said. 
 
 "I had several out at Easter," said Miss Astley. 
 
 Easter! What time of the year did she think 
 it was? Where was May with thirty days, and 
 
 June with thirty-one and It will be seen 
 
 that the world was rocking a little, for Henry; 
 or swimming, perhaps, with the August mirage 
 on the Wandsley "objects," it was so hot! He 
 had walked out, against orders 
 
 "It's a rotten time of year," said Henry 
 thoughtfully. "Nothing but grouse." 
 
270 MADAM 
 
 "Oh, I think the country's beautiful," said 
 Lina surprised. 
 
 "Don't you grouse?" She laughed and looked 
 at him. Rot about Erith's eyes, hers were ten 
 times nicer! "Hey dear, my poor Aunt," 
 thought Henry. "I shall be in love before the 
 end of this day." He sighed, and sought for 
 matter of ingratiation. 
 
 "Miss Astley, I'll tell you something against 
 Dermot " 
 
 "Oh, do!" she said beaming. "When he was 
 young?" 
 
 "No, he was proper, when he was young: 
 properish. It's only grown-up he's been lost to 
 grace, now listen! He doesn't believe in 
 League of Nations. You do, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes." Pensive and earnest, she was : she had 
 been pondering it, reading it up, 
 
 "Thank heaven," said Henry. "The world is 
 
 saved Miss Astley, have you argued 
 
 with him? Lots? Now, look here; you must 
 argue about our League of Nations, yours and 
 mine. You will, won't you? I'll tell you what 
 to say, and you can make notes, and write to me 
 if you get in difficulties, won't you? Say you 
 will!" 
 
PENNY ROSES 271 
 
 "Oh, but, Mr. Wicken " She thought he 
 was flirting. Yes, she did, Henry was certain of 
 it, she had turned pinkish. 
 
 "Is that the hospital ?" she said gravely : snub- 
 bing him. Delightful girl ! 
 
 "That is the hospital," said Henry, snubbed. 
 "Now you go up those steps, and ask for Maudie. 
 By the way, you know everything about the long 
 Lane family, don't you?" 
 
 "Everything." She laughed. "Nothing at 
 all." 
 
 "Don't you know about Chris?" He looked 
 at her, face to face; for they had stopped on the 
 cobbled pavement. 
 
 "N not yet. I think he will, some time." 
 
 "But, Miss Astley, you do know, or you 
 
 wouldn't talk like that Excuse me," 
 
 turned aside, "awful form : I don't mean to ex- 
 amine you. I see you do know, all that matters. 
 Chris is all that matters, between him and his 
 mother, you can let the rest for ever slide." He 
 stopped, bowing his head: she liked him. She 
 liked that serious style of his, recurrent in his 
 careless conversation. She thought him pretty 
 pale, too, now she was facing him, a kind of man- 
 ghost in the fierce sunshine. "They were good 
 
272 MADAM 
 
 lads, all of them," said Henry, "but Chris was 
 almost great, and Mott is in Chris's image. 
 Now, if I said that to his mother, Miss Astley, 
 she would think it very wicked indeed. But 
 Chris was god-like, really; he took his ease on 
 earth, no, I can't tell you the effect it had. 
 Love simply came to him, he didn't have to 
 turn round for it, to get his fill, it bored him 
 rather. Because he liked fighting for the good 
 things of earth, Mott's the same, isn't he?" 
 
 She looked on him with her brows a little bent. 
 "But I thought his mother didn't love him? You 
 say love came." 
 
 "Chris? Miss Astley, between our- 
 selves, I believe the old lady was darned proud. 
 Women, as women, simply adore a man of that 
 sort, and when it is your own production, and 
 sets the country alight and the town by the ears 
 and the churches burning candles and the com- 
 mandments staggering and the employers hop- 
 ping as Chris did at twenty, you jolly well 
 think in your heart you have accomplished a 
 marvellous thing. Especially after five others, 
 don't you, Miss Astley?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Well, I do." She laughed. "I believe 
 
PENNY ROSES 273 
 
 Chris's mother adored him, upside-down: just 
 because she cursed him and banned him the 
 house. I believe she would adore Mott now, if I 
 could once get in and tell her Titus. If you 
 could represent Mott, Miss Astley, as preemi- 
 nently piratical and perfectly shuddersome, and 
 give her all the ladies' scalps he has collected 
 because she probably hates girls with six sons 
 she's bound to " 
 
 "But, Mr. Wicken, what a look-out for mel 
 If she hates girls." 
 
 "Are you going to see her?" Henry gaped. 
 
 "Well, I don't know. I thought perhaps, with 
 her daughter in hospital she would be rather 
 helpless, and that I might " 
 
 "Just so, just so. You thought that, of your 
 
 mother-in-law Tell her who you are, 
 
 and she'll tear you limb from limb. You know 
 that?" 
 
 "But of course I shall tell her who I am! 
 What would be the good of my coming, other- 
 wise?" 
 
 "Oh, Miss Astley, you are spunky! Look 
 here, what'li Forrest say to-morrow if there's 
 only half of you? Only two arms and a fountain 
 pen? No, really, don't do it! She hates 
 
274 MADAM 
 
 your feller rather nastily now. She was always 
 pretty hard on him for some reason, couldn't 
 stand his shadowing Chris. Perhaps she was 
 jealous. Perhaps she wanted to scruff him her- 
 self for the Episcopacy " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wicken! Episcopacy!" 
 
 "Well, isn't he a Churchman?" 
 
 "He'd tell you he was." 
 
 "Never! Would he? Why? Don't 
 
 look so elfish, Miss Astley. You're as bad as 
 Oxford Street." 
 
 Once more she laughed merrily. Nobody had 
 so often laughed at Henry's remarks. Perhaps 
 that was why he approved of her Any- 
 how he laughed too. 
 
 "Well, now you've got to go to that hospital : 
 large door, right turn. Excuse me, won't you? 
 I hate hospitals. Will you come out to lunch 
 with us afterwards?" 
 
 "Oh no, thank you. I'll I'll go on. The 
 train's so early." Her colour was pink. "It's 
 very, very kind of you, Mr. Wicken." 
 
 Henry, snubbed flat, said it was no kindness at 
 all. He went home, looking pallid and darkly 
 depressed. He stopped three times, walking 
 home, to say to the landscape that Forrest was in 
 
PENNY ROSES 275 
 
 the right of it, a girl like that was a walking 
 fairy-tale, and he would never tell anybody Ara- 
 bian Nights again. Never, never 
 
 Then he reached home, and told Miss Astley 
 to the lunch-table, exquisitely: tinted to admira- 
 tion. He chiefly did it to prove to himself that 
 he was not in love with her. He did prove it to 
 himself, but not to his Aunt Miss Wicken, who 
 was terrified. A typist! 
 
VIII 
 
 MlSS ASTLEY, at the hospital, was blasted by the 
 precisians on their own ground, Maudie could 
 not see her. It was not that she would not, but 
 that she could not; she was not permitted to do 
 so by the unseen disposer of her fate at present, 
 the pure and perfect woman who spoke to Miss 
 Astley on the second floor. 
 
 "I had warned Miss Lane, had an appoint- 
 ment." (She thought first it might be fuss.) 
 "She begged me to come." 
 
 The pure and perfect regretted. "It is Miss 
 Wicken's visitor, is it not?" 
 
 Lina calmly said she was Miss Wicken's vis- 
 itor. She would have been anybody's visitor, to 
 see Maudie. Then she gathered that Miss 
 Wicken, at this hospital, was patroness-in-chief. 
 She was also, in a special way, attached to the 
 Lane girl, Maudie. Consequently, if her visitor 
 was rejected, 
 
 "I see," said Miss Astley. She thought it over. 
 "Will you give her these flowers, and my love? 
 I hope to marry her brother, presently." 
 
 276 
 
PENNY ROSES 277 
 
 "Indeed?" For an instant, Perfection showed 
 a gleam of curiosity. 
 
 "I am afraid she is very ill," said Lina, still 
 thinking. "Could I see the doctor." 
 
 He was at his own house. 
 
 "Would it be of any use for her brother to 
 come. He could get away if " 
 
 "Well, it is her mother's strong wish apart 
 from the doctor's, that she should see nobody." 
 
 "I see But if she wants him herself? 
 
 Does it matter what her mother wants?" 
 
 The pure and perfect cleared her throat. 
 "Mr. Lane might try, later, perhaps: but he 
 must warn us. It is a heart-case. Any shock is 
 bad." 
 
 "The shock of love hurts nobody." Her grey 
 eyes were full. "You are a Sister, war, too, 
 aren't you? You must know that." 
 
 "I have seen deaths from it," said the pure and 
 perfect, frigidly. To be sure, she had been 
 through the war; its order was on her blameless 
 breast; perhaps for that reason, pity was long 
 
 past, for her "I have seen deaths from 
 
 it," she said. 
 
 "Where was its sting, then?" said Caroline. 
 She turned and went, in her pretty flowered 
 
278 MADAM 
 
 dress, through a chequer-work of sunbeams from 
 large plain windows, and the usual antiseptic 
 atmosphere which, in Lu's hospital, she knew so 
 
 well. She liked it, it was cleanly The 
 
 perfect woman gazed after her. 
 
 That marry Mott Lane? 
 
 Because of course she had known Mott and 
 Chris, like most of Wandsley: and George and 
 Frank and Dan and David, and knew all the tale 
 of the two younger in the mother's version, con- 
 tinually circulating, with the tireless repetition 
 
 of real drama in a stagnant community 
 
 That marry Mott Lane? 
 
 But she wished she had admitted her, all the 
 same, to Maudie; she was the right sort, and so 
 might have seen the girl. Nevertheless Perfec- 
 tion was fully justified in setting her face against 
 her, on the chance; because in heart-cases the 
 right sort is one, and the wrong ninety-nine, in 
 the visiting statistics. 
 
 Meantime Miss Astley, though disheartened, 
 started for the doctor, having noted the time by 
 her correct little watch. She would get facts for 
 him anyhow: before she caught the train that 
 
PENNY ROSES 279 
 
 was to take her back to him in person, at six 
 o'clock. ^ 
 
 She started for the doctor, and then, seeing the 
 name "Market Street" suddenly diverted. Why 
 not see Maudie's old mother first? 
 
 Henry would have said that Miss Astley, 
 otherwise Fair London, was getting corrupted, 
 in Lancaster's unconscionable society. She had 
 never been used to be impulsive, nor to take what 
 came, like this. 
 
IX 
 
 PAISH'S, that composite and capacious person- 
 ality, had learnt from Tinker's, at Epsom, that 
 Pinker was dissatisfied with young Lane. 
 
 Now, Paish was dissatisfied with Pinker, but 
 he could not say so, ever. You cannot, even if 
 you are Paish, "fire," nor "sack" nor "shoot" 
 your son-in-law, whatever the expression you 
 use about it happens to be. You have to tolerate 
 him. The only thing you do, if you are Paish, is 
 to go to your daughter for the facts, in the event 
 of difficulties. 
 
 This Paish did: that is to say, he let Mrs. 
 Pinker talk to him, and listened with American 
 courtesy, which, especially in the case of women, 
 is polished. Dolly Pinker said that Syd (who 
 was Pinker) wanting a reliable chauffeur for the 
 automobile, particular and private, which con- 
 tained her own person and clothes, had picked 
 out that new little boy as smart-looking. He had 
 refused. Mrs. Pinker, urged by Syd, had tried 
 herself; and had been refused for the same rea- 
 son, which, as a freeborn American citizen, was 
 
 280 
 
PENNY ROSES 281 
 
 a pain to her. For why should a nice young man 
 refuse "help" (not service) to a freeborn citizen 
 who was also a lovely woman? Mrs. Pinker 
 could not see it, and Syd still less. Syd had suf- 
 fered by some of the young man's remarks, in his 
 interview, separately; Mrs. Pinker surmising to 
 her father that the fur had flown. 
 
 Further than this, mere soap-sud details, 
 he was said to read rather subversive literature, 
 while he waited for the firm about the world, to 
 keep women to whom he was not married, 
 (Paish, when Dolly uttered this, looked pained) 
 and to have "gotten," in consequence, into the 
 hands of the Jews. 
 
 "Who told you that?" said Paish: his gimlet 
 eye on the last detail ; the rest could wait. 
 
 "Why, one of the other hands had told Syd." 
 
 "Consult one hand about another?" snapped 
 Paish. 
 
 "Why, what do you do, Father?" said Dolly, 
 artless. She added that Syd was so nervous of 
 "trouble" in the season; but if he wanted it, he 
 had best go on the way he was going. It was a 
 sad and singular thing, but every one of the 
 hands she had happened to converse with, down 
 at the works, was cross. 
 
282 MADAM 
 
 "That's bad," said Paish, solemn. He thought 
 worlds of his daughter as diplomat. "Say, does 
 Syd regard that as Lane's fault?" 
 
 Syd regarded everything as Lane's fault, tem- 
 porarily: just a way he had, when he took an 
 aversion. He had ever such good places, or 
 plums, for that little boy, added Mrs. Pinker, if 
 he behaved. 
 
 "Is that so?" said Pinker, noting Dolly's crit- 
 ical expression. "What does Syd pay him?" 
 
 She gave him the figure, in a snap like his own. 
 Paish remarked that he had started at that. 
 Dolly returned that he had started at more than 
 that, given the fall in the value of money during 
 the interval. She would be sorry to see Syd do 
 on it, even unmarried, put in Paish, or even 
 half-married, shot back Dolly. 
 
 All the while, during this snappy conversation, 
 Paish was inspecting Dolly and her clothes, and 
 guessing (guessing was a certainty, with Paish) 
 that Pinker was prospering. If he had the sense 
 to make his wife manager, he would prosper yet 
 better; but that was an affair which (greatly to 
 Paish's sorrow) was Syd's. 
 
 "Cann't you rope him for us, Father?" coaxed 
 Dolly. "If he came out to us, privately, Syd 
 
PENNY ROSES 283 
 
 would feel happier at the works: that's about 
 what it comes to. And I'd keep him tidy!" 
 
 Paish, as a courteous parent, did not doubt it: 
 but "Chances are, I cann't," he mused. "And 
 here's why, he's turned down a better private 
 offer already. I happen to know." 
 
 "Is he all there?" wondered Dolly, after an 
 interval, long, for a Paish : about a second and 
 a half. 
 
 "Well!" said Paish's, with their customary 
 finality. Paish's really had a strong idea that the 
 party in question was all there, and perhaps a lit- 
 tle too much of him for Pinker. But Paish's was 
 far too regardful of Mrs. Pinker's married dig- 
 nity to tell her so : even if it were necessary. 
 
 But Mott, no time at all afterwards, got a 
 trunk-call. He was to come up and see Paish's, 
 such a time, such a train, on the holiday, no 
 chance for him. Inwardly cursing, since he 
 guessed a row, and could in no sense afford it, he 
 made the necessary arrangements, wrote to Lina, 
 and, on the same morning that she went down to 
 Wandsley, went up himself to town. 
 
X 
 
 IT was "inf ernal" in town, as Henry said : a hot, 
 veiled August morning : the kind of day that, in 
 London, is tired before it begins. Paish's, how- 
 ever, did not appear fatigued, either commer- 
 cially or personally. Living, no doubt, on iced 
 soda-water, like all sensible people, they looked 
 very brisk and cool, and ironed to admiration. 
 
 "Morning, Mr. Lane," said Paish in person, 
 most politely. "You not giving satisfaction, on 
 the outskirts?" He eyed the young man. 
 
 "I supposed you got me the job," said Mott, 
 holding his head up. 
 
 Oddly enough, for all it was not the country, it 
 pleased him to be back at Paish's; it even con- 
 tented him to be under the principal's needle-like 
 eye again. Here was life, anyhow: things stir- 
 ring along, not stagnant. At Epsom, the staff 
 was most dull and behindhand, Mott feared: 
 though he had not explored them in all their de- 
 partments exhaustively; he could not get a rise 
 out of one of them, anyhow, on political affairs. 
 Mott was rather fed-up with Pinker's: though 
 
 284 
 
PENNY ROSES 285 
 
 he had, of course, in the present state of his pros- 
 pects, to keep on. 
 
 "You're not drinking, anyway," reflected Paish 
 the while. "Smoking overmuch, maybe " 
 
 Paish's enigmatic and trap-jawed expression 
 was unalterable through cloud and sunshine; it 
 was the same, exactly, in the last rather painful 
 interview they had had together, when Mott had 
 been "fired" from the principal's presence, ap- 
 parently to all eternity, in dark disgrace. 
 
 Having preluded, as above, in the line of gen- 
 eral observation, he opened at once on the main 
 theme of his daughter's report. He had, in the 
 past, known this "hand" of his pretty well, 
 picked up a few facts of him, as genuine as he 
 could get them, amid the legendary colouring 
 that clung to Mott: and, needless to say, forgot- 
 ten nothing. Paish had even, during the Epsom 
 interval, kept himself up to date. He had 
 handed young Lane, under the rose, to Pinker's 
 branch, taking note by the way of the temptations 
 of that "locality" to a lad of this kind, horse- 
 mad, as everybody informed him; and had him- 
 self considered it a toss-up whether, in such 
 surroundings, he would sink or swim. Paish was 
 ready, being a born administrator, to consider it 
 
286 MADAM 
 
 a test as well: no harm in testing: such was his 
 attitude. 
 
 Thus, like the Colonel, he started 
 
 "You been betting?" Shake of head. "Jews 
 on to you?" 
 
 "I've cleared it." 
 
 "Cleared it fairly?" 
 
 "I'm in debt," growled Mott, "to a friend." 
 
 "Friend you trust, sir?" (Paish frequently 
 did this, when he was digging, in this fashion; it 
 was instinct, rather than that he found it paid.) 
 
 "Well, I shud hope so," said Mott, natural at 
 once. "I've known him always. He's he's 
 standing surety." 
 
 "William Shakespeare," said Paish. 
 
 He had always noticed that this boy read, 
 never mind what: it could in no case be against 
 him. Paish himself read, in his odd times, and 
 would have been ashamed, in spite of his advanc- 
 ing age and humming business, to be really out 
 of one of the movements of the day. His politics 
 were very safe, though : extremes being unrelia- 
 ble; to adopt extremes was like building on a 
 ricketty platform, sticking out beyond the strong 
 hillside. To be sure the young fellows were al- 
 ways doing it 
 
PENNY ROSES 287 
 
 "Mrs. Pinker," was his next remark, "thought 
 you would feel like helping her." 
 
 "So I would," said Mott, "the-or-etically." 
 
 He did not smile, since Paish did not. Paish's 
 style was very catching, that was the fact. Mott 
 could never help picking up the manner, in this 
 society. He was still undecided as to whether 
 Wicken, or Paish, was the best permanent 
 model ; and took them alternately, until he had 
 made up his mind. 
 
 "What stuff do you read?" said Paish. 
 "Shakespeare, is it?" 
 
 "I'll lend you some, if you like," said Mott. 
 He turned on Paish's in a manner that really 
 alarmed that firm ; and for an instant they with- 
 drew the gimlet-eye. 
 
 "Sit down, Mr. Lane," was his next proceed- 
 ing. It marked a stage in their intercourse. 
 Still, Paish had another reason, for he thought 
 the boy looked "done" remarkably. It might, of 
 course, be the hot morning: or it might be other 
 things, such as the midnight oil; he had rather 
 laid by, on inspection, the racing-stable idea. 
 That Mott was frightened of dismissal did not 
 occur to him at present; though it was not long 
 
288 MADAM 
 
 before he began to take that chance into account 
 as well. 
 
 "Well now," he said, "do you care to come to 
 town again, anyway? More chance of study 
 here." 
 
 "Less time," said Mott, looking tired. 
 
 "Not if you save," said Paish. "Money's time, 
 at the far end. I daresay you know that." 
 
 The boy's brow cleared remarkably: only 
 half, though. He regarded the "old boss" cau- 
 tiously beneath his eyelids. 
 
 "Then you'd have me wait to learn anything 
 till the far end?" he enquired. 
 
 "That's what we do," said Paish. 
 
 "Not good enough," drawled Mott. "I'll 
 stick to the outskirts, if that's all." 
 
 "No, you won't, my lad," thought Paish. He 
 opened his proposal out a little, by stages: he 
 had meant to, anyhow, only his nature was to 
 open as slowly as an oyster, which Mott knew. 
 To give a lad a chance to study, for his job, was 
 a commonplace, his side of the water; but to 
 give him a chance to flourish around it, and pick 
 up explosives to play with, that was where 
 matter of campaign came in. The "boss," of 
 
PENNY ROSES 289 
 
 course, did not like his opinions: he made no 
 secret of it 
 
 "Well now," he said at last "There it is. I'll 
 listen, if you care to make remarks." 
 
 Mott did not care, for the moment. He had 
 realised that Paish's wanted him ; and it is some- 
 thing to be wanted, in working-life; only well, 
 he would sooner have had time to reflect, and 
 weigh : but Paish's never gave him that, by any 
 chance, such was their own velocity. 
 
 "It's lodging's the trouble, see?" he said at 
 last. "I'd fixed my family outside, for the sum- 
 
 mer." 
 
 "Regular family?" said Paish. 
 
 "I'll leave her there, if necessary: but " 
 
 "Other folk's errors," suggested Paish. 
 
 "No error in question " But he blushed 
 scarlet. One really cannot, in life, be prepared 
 for everything. Omniscience, of Paish's sort, 
 should be put down. He sought to go on, also to 
 get up, for they were seated: but he failed, and 
 stammered. He was "done" by Paish's, over- 
 played. 
 
 To add to everything, a bell rang fiercely, al- 
 most at his ear : at which Mott swore, simply. 
 
 "You sit awhile," advised Paish, arising, "and 
 
290 MADAM 
 
 not violate the Commandments. Your nerves 
 aren't straight yet, that's the worst." 
 
 "I'll get over it," growled Mott, fighting an 
 inner demon that he knew familiarly. It was 
 small consolation that hundreds of other men in 
 England knew it too. 
 
 "There you are," said Paish's, giving him a 
 cigarette, and becoming an angelic visitant, in- 
 stantly. He added, just before he left the room 
 about his business, "You're short of food." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 But Paish was gone. Mott, who really had 
 risen, that time, and stood staring after him, 
 dropped back on his seat. 
 
 Foodl 
 
 Would it be the remotest use, when Paish re- 
 turned, to tell him he was a liar? That he fed 
 himself in the cleverest possible manner, and 
 Mona and Jock still more brilliantly? That at 
 the worst, in these times of profit-prices, he could 
 always steal something, or call on a toff who was 
 not a viscount, when he needed a square meal? 
 Or even accept an invite to a servant's hall, or a 
 housekeeper's room, where the rations were 
 squarest of all? 
 
PENNY ROSES 291 
 
 There were heaps of ways, still left to Mott, of 
 managing, without Yankee outsiders (whose 
 views of good living were really overdone, 
 though delightful) chipping in, and making a 
 noise about it. Did Paish take him for a fool? 
 
XI 
 
 PAISH did not. He proved it conclusively, on 
 his return, by showing that his suspicions of Lan- 
 caster were still awake. He wanted to know of 
 Mr. Lane smoking viciously with half-closed 
 eyes, as a man does who really needs it, why he 
 had come to him originally under an assoomed 
 name? 
 
 Well, so did "Curly" Astley want to know 
 that, and so did Curly's sister, probably. Paish 
 was in very good company. Miss Fleming, for 
 instance, and the London police, had hardly left 
 the point alone, on a certain memorable occasion. 
 Eric had told them, in court, it was a stage-name, 
 and perjured himself, because of course Eric 
 knew 
 
 Mott, looking sulky with the cigarette (which, 
 since it was excellent, he would have preferred 
 to enjoy in peace) considered whether he could 
 explain Lancaster in any fashion conceivable to 
 such as Paish. Paish waited for him, willingly 
 now. Every minute that passed, Paish was more 
 
 292 
 
PENNY ROSES 293 
 
 certain Syd Pinker was a fool, and that what he 
 was looking on was wasted material. 
 
 "Well, it was the newspapers " he began at 
 last. The fox awoke. 
 
 "They'd been knocking our name about, as it 
 happens. Brought it into the limelight, at a time 
 when" 
 
 Paish gimletted him, fixedly. "When we were 
 in darkness," was of course the end of the phrase. 
 Not that the words occurred to Paish's: they 
 could not, since his mind was mechanical, not 
 rhythmical. Yet something hovered, over the 
 facts he knew; and he was at least interested, 
 and all but amused. 
 
 "Is that so?" was his way of proving it. 
 "Why now, that's singular, Mr. Lane. I'd fig- 
 ured out several ways of it, possible, but I'd 
 never fixed on that. No, sir, I'd not have 
 thought your press could kill anyone alive, " 
 
 "Fools read it," said Mott. 
 
 "And you made out, that way, to avoid fools' 
 remarks? Run under other colours, for a time? 
 Was that after you came out of the Army?" 
 
 "Before that, among friends," said Mott. 
 
 "You mentioned an old friend " 
 
 "He fell in, I asked him saw the 
 
294 MADAM 
 
 point," added Mott. Interval, while Paish bent 
 his intellect on Lancaster and his story, visibly. 
 Then he said 
 
 "Your family name is a common one, if you 
 will excuse my saying so." 
 
 "Fairly. I daresay I was a fool myself 
 
 If you place me, you've a right to hear, though. 
 I was cuttin' loose, pretty well, all round. I 
 had to. I'd so to say got the word." 
 
 "Alluding to the Almighty?" said Paish. 
 
 "Not far off," said Mott. His peculiar eyes 
 studied the "boss" a moment. "Let be," he said, 
 "I was a fool, and that's all about it." He added, 
 pensive with the cigarette, "It was a rotten 
 
 name." 
 
 "Did you try this story on the British police, 
 now?" said Paish. Shake of head. "Didn't 
 
 bother them? Gee," thought Paish, "if 
 
 you're not the quaintest kind of criminal out!" 
 
 But he enjoyed it, in his soul; any kind of 
 humour or comicality an Associate like Paish is 
 safe for: not that it pays exactly, but that it 
 lightens the burden of life. 
 
 He badly needed, of course, to know every- 
 thing, (though he did not suppose he would get 
 it, in this quarter) because it is not worth while 
 
PENNY ROSES 295 
 
 analysing, in life, unless Nature offers you things 
 to analyse. Paish's fine and feverish brain had 
 room for more, much more, than Autos and 
 Aeroplanes. Men were the thing next interest- 
 ing to Paish's, and boys for choice. Mott's youth 
 was very strongly in his favour, here, as Henry 
 divined : the fact that he was just-made, shin- 
 ing, barely finished in parts. When Paish saw 
 such, he naturally wanted to have the finishing 
 and polishing, and to make them pay. He did 
 not mind in fact he approved their paying 
 themselves en route. 
 
 That was where Syd Pinker, English-born, 
 had gone so badly wrong: really wrong, and 
 Paish was pained with Pinker. This "hand's" 
 strained look, and the fact, patent to the eye re- 
 garding, that he had lost weight, fairly shocked 
 him. That, with such good mechanism, and 
 power behind, was all wrong and ought to be 
 remedied. 
 
 Further, it ought to be remedied "right now," 
 only Paish was not master of Pinker's firm, 
 that was the worst of it! 
 
 During the ten minutes of his absence lately, 
 Paish had thought of a number of things: in- 
 cluding (since he was a scientist) four different 
 
296 MADAM 
 
 kinds of feeding and a rest-cure. But his cure, 
 in any form, did not include Lane's accepting 
 Tinker's private post: for Dolly would work 
 him to death in a twinkling, and pamper him too. 
 Dolly went too fast even for her father, at times : 
 and Paish's pace, for all his years, could finish 
 the youngsters, quite easily. 
 
 Women, however, did come into Paish's no- 
 tions, because, into those of a free-born citizen 
 of the New World, they always do : Woman and 
 Man, to that primitive community, appearing as 
 equal entities, both human (though one adora- 
 ble) and matched to make a perfect whole. 
 Paish guessed that it would take women to com- 
 plete Mr. Lane, even if there were not several 
 competitors at the task already. For in Old 
 England (unlike more primitive countries) he 
 noticed that this was usually the case. 
 
XII 
 
 MOTT, back from Paish's, was sitting thinking in 
 the late hot twilight: "Summer Time," so that 
 the light hung on the heavens still, though not 
 much of it could penetrate into his small attic 
 room. He had not been to Lina, for reasons ; he 
 had to turn things over, after the surprise of the 
 day, before talking to her, that was one reason. 
 Paish's, for all his quick defence, had managed 
 to hustle him, almost to knock him off his bear- 
 ings; Paish's knew a thing or two, in life, that 
 he did not know, wiser perhaps to admit that 
 at once, and be done. 
 
 It was dinner time, even by the most upper- 
 cut standards ; but he had, as yet, made no tea. 
 Earlier on, he had tried to work at the pile of 
 things that he had (as we all do) prepared for 
 holiday, but that also fell through, slackly. 
 There was no light in the rotten room, the word 
 was applicable. No afterglow even, thunder 
 was looming; it was an altogether over-power- 
 ing day. 
 
 It was "all right," he guessed so. The first 
 297 
 
298 MADAM 
 
 long breaths he had drawn, an hour since, in this 
 his own chair, had been those of conscious relief. 
 His funds were not increased for the moment; 
 Paish, that sly organiser, meant to educate him 
 foremost, to finish his engineering education that 
 war-jobbing had knocked to bits; then, even- 
 tually, in a better line of business, to launch him 
 and make him pay. Make him pay Paish, of 
 course, only he might venture himself to extract 
 
 emolument Oh, blast Paish and all these 
 
 bosses ! Mott would so much have loved to man- 
 age alone! Only you cannot, in a great com- 
 munity; and to get leisure for real learning he 
 would sacrifice much, even liberty, since he 
 would have to. Paish would contribute to sup- 
 port him while he studied, cannily contribute, 
 enough and not too much in a ruinously expen- 
 sive era, oh, blast Paish! 
 
 Twenty-one, that meant time in front: the 
 good years still before him : not like half the men 
 he knew, older men, with the best of life lopped 
 off at the outset; not like Wicken, either, his 
 fashioning-hand reft from him, he should be 
 thankful. He stretched, and clenched, his right 
 hand out on the table, while he dreamed. 
 
 What if he threw all up, and emigrated? He 
 
PENNY ROSES 299 
 
 and Chris had often thought of it: even lately 
 he had, while Paish was talking, in his well- 
 measured, oyster-like way. What if he threw 
 
 the new plans in Paish's teeth, and cleared ? 
 
 unworkable. 
 
 Paish had shewn him plans, at length, of a 
 place he eventually might manage, when he had 
 swept up the skill. They were very good plans, 
 cut the ground from under most of the kind he 
 had heard of, lately: all for the works of peace, 
 and beautifully drafted. They came from the 
 other side of the water, where Capital threw sops 
 to workmen, lottery prizes of such richness and 
 variety, that the work was good. Mott's scheme 
 
 of the world was different, a trifle Paish 
 
 had suggested his fixing in New York, and he 
 had refused point-blank, though he guessed he 
 would have to go there; but not yet, and not for 
 good, for the home-problems, now at their thick- 
 est, absorbed him. Not only in England, even : 
 in France, Italy, in the broken lands, Rus- 
 sia At the dear name his eyes slipped to 
 
 his papers. If a man could but put a hand to 
 these halting plough-shares, these problems of 
 staggering Europe, Paish, doubtless, knowing 
 
300 MADAM 
 
 he wanted money enough to marry on, thought 
 him a fool. 
 
 Lina, she had been ousted. He had tried to 
 'phone to her, but the Astleys had no number. 
 What was Lina doing with no number, just 
 when he wanted her? when Lancaster had 
 kept a girl wearing and waiting for him, he liked 
 to explain. She might, of course, 'phone to the 
 office, when he did not appear, he meant to go 
 there on the off-chance, presently. Her voice 
 
 would be something, even at that distance 
 
 Oh, devil take science, and Paish! 
 
 He thought it was not science that he wanted, 
 precisely: not for a sick and staggering world. 
 There were other things, there was better, some- 
 where 
 
 The Corning Time had dawned, a little, faint 
 streak on his dulness, when he heard a foot on the 
 staircase. Never! Impossible, quite im- 
 possible, yet he knew it was. That step he 
 knew quite well, and had always known it: 
 guessed it in the golden years, with Chris on the 
 river-bank: recognised the quick little heels tap- 
 ping down Harley Street, some time before she 
 came alongside, though his back was turned. 
 
PENNY ROSES 3i 
 
 "Mott! Oh, it is!" She had been uncertain, 
 to the last, of her unparalleled venture. "Why 
 didn't you come, dear?" She was pink. 
 
 He simply gazed, at sea. Was he deluded? 
 The light was sinking (Summer Time), yetLina 
 it was, herself, in a new dress. He had to believe 
 she had really come, to this his mousehole, where 
 he had so often thought of her. It was so unlike 
 Lina to come, unless 
 
 "Trouble?" His face changed. 
 
 "No, no, justice," she said proudly. "Mott, 
 are you vexed? You're not, are you? I just 
 ran down, you know: busy to-morrow. Had 
 you bad news?" 
 
 "No, no," he said, in his turn, rousing. 
 "Pretty good I tried to 'phone. He kept me, 
 and that, you were worrying, o' course. I was 
 writing, see?" He indicated the table. 
 
 She saw : a sheet of paper. He had not writ- 
 ten much. Then she glanced once round the 
 
 room, with a woman's quick eye. Just so 
 
 She gathered her forces. 
 
 "Look here, Mott," she said. She knelt down 
 at his side, in the twilight, since there was noth- 
 ing to sit on, he was occupying the only chair; 
 and she held out her two hands, curved in a cup. 
 
302 MADAM 
 
 Two little objects were in them. He picked up 
 one, a little case, with a medal on a ribbon when 
 open, shut and dropped it. Silence fell. 
 
 "You'd better look again," she said, in a 
 woman's most coaxing utterance. "The other's 
 yours." 
 
 "I can't," he said huskily. "Oh, great no, 
 
 not that You been down there?" She 
 
 nodded. 
 
 "Of course I guessed the things were there, 
 better at home, better in the old place. I told 
 Mother." 
 
 "But this is yours. It is, and she knew it, it 
 was staring at her. I stole it," said Miss Astley, 
 "and I slapped her." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I did. I slapped your Mother. She'll never 
 look at me again." 
 
 She gasped. Mott gazed at her a minute, to 
 be sure he was not dreaming. Much otherwise: 
 she was more real and lovely than usual. Then 
 he picked up the second object, the lesser, and 
 went over with it to the waning light : throbbing 
 out of the summer sky. Summer Time, it was 
 after nine. . 
 
PENNY ROSES 303 
 
 After an interval, she came up to him, and he 
 winced. 
 
 "What is it? you're not afraid of me?" The 
 instinct of mother in all women came through. 
 He was shuddering from head to foot, as he 
 stood, leaning against the ragged, faded curtain. 
 
 "Aren't you well, Mott?" 
 
 "Not over. It's been stuffy these last days. 
 
 All right, little girl, it's right you 
 
 should see, since you fetched it me. Come in, 
 come on. Look there, Lina." 
 
 "I saw that," she said: her head under his 
 chin. 
 
 What he held was a small booklet of common 
 leather, worn and scratched with constant, care- 
 less pocket-use. He held it open with a finger at 
 the first page, where it was called War-notes, 
 infinitely valuable, even to his daylight re- 
 searches, the jottings that crude searching in- 
 tellect, in the spirit of sardonic comedy, had 
 made. Under that heading stood the words, 
 hastily written and blotted, but legible perfectly: 
 "For Mouse, in case of H. F." 
 
 "What's that?" she asked, of the symbols. 
 
 He told her. "Hell fire," it seemed, was 
 Christopher's term for the life beyond, his latter 
 
304 MADAM 
 
 end. It was a quotation from his mother, who 
 had frequently defined it for him, in youth. 
 
 "That enough?" asked Mott, eying her. 
 "Now then, there's worse. Look here." 
 
 Then she saw that what his finger was under- 
 lining was not the title, nor the dedication, but 
 a faint brown mark, increasingly brown to a 
 wrinkled edge. She was puzzled. 
 
 "Was it burnt?" 
 
 "I guess so, scorched." Still watching her, he 
 licked his lips. "H. F.," he said. 
 
 "What then?" But she stammered, for horror 
 snatched her, simply from his appearance. "Oh, 
 was it on him?" 
 
 "On him, that's right. I thought I'd go mad, 
 at first. I'd better tell you, only you're a girl." 
 
 "Go on." She reached after the book. "You 
 can't possibly read, you'll ruin your eyes, dear, 
 really. Better tell." 
 
 He told enough, when she had him again in 
 his chair. He was a worse teller than Henry, but 
 Lina simply cried, on his shoulder. He was ter- 
 ribly touched by her crying, and gathered her in. 
 
 "Don't, Lina, don't, darling. I shouldn't 
 have let you know, it's too bad. I tried not, 
 but there's something about you " 
 
PENNY ROSES 35 
 
 There was. Just having her now, made all his 
 day, with its best and worst, worth while. He 
 kissed her half-bare arms, moist a little with the 
 day's heat: and herself: and she lay loving it, 
 since she loved him. She gave him her wet gray 
 eyes, and he gave her his strange ones, with the 
 wild and high things he had for her, some time, 
 when life was kinder 
 
 "That's all IVe done, make you go through 
 it again," she sobbed. "And slapping her " 
 
 "Listen : you've done me the best turn woman 
 can do. I'd never have got it out of her, never. 
 She'd think it blaspheming to Church and State, 
 half he says here, probably. It's a wonder she 
 hasn't burnt it before this, a real wonder. It 
 proves something " He was clasping, finger- 
 ing the little book left-handed, high up on his 
 chest, near to the eyes that could not see. "I 
 daresay it's all here, all I've been trying to say, 
 since he was through it. It's what I was want- 
 ing, getting at, not knowing I did." 
 
 He stopped, done up. "And it's mine," he 
 added lamely. 
 
 "That's right," said the girl at his side. "Your 
 own. He wrote it, thinking of you." 
 
 She knew from her Bible, of course, that man 
 
306 MADAM 
 
 and man can love. Superexquisite people may 
 sniff at it, but there is the Bible for them, very 
 common reading: full of penny plain facts. 
 
 She herself was guarding the little war- 
 honour, wistfully; for to bring it, to offer it to 
 him, had been one of her own little instincts of 
 poetry. Only he passed it by. 
 
 She had yet to learn the "Mouse," most of him. 
 It struck her wondering that the book should be 
 so much to him, the medal nothing. Perhaps 
 this powerful brother of his, godlike-ungodly, 
 had despised war-honours, while he won them, 
 thought Lina; or perhaps there was a way of 
 looking, as he said 
 
 Decidedly Miss Astley was being corrupted 
 fast, warped from the ways of her parents ; but 
 it was not Lancaster who was doing it, as they 
 crouched there together, clasped in the twilight; 
 the wizard was love. 
 
XIII 
 
 "TELL me how you got it," he said at last. 
 
 "Well now, listen," said Lina, slipping to the 
 floor, but keeping his hand. "Mr. Wicken asked 
 me down, and you couldn't come. Do you like 
 him?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I daresay," said Mott. He was tired. 
 
 "Daresay! So of course I had to dress 
 
 nicely for it. Do you like my dress?" 
 
 "Yep," he did not look at her again. "Why 
 had you to ?" He was jealous. 
 
 "Oh well, he's so awfully smart, isn't he? Too 
 grand to talk anything but nonsense. It takes a 
 gentleman to " 
 
 "Be a fool/ I've fooled a bit." Pause. "He 
 does it well, though," granted Mott. "Did you 
 go there?" 
 
 "To Wicken? No, dear. He asked me, only 
 well, I didn't. I'd like to have seen your 
 house, if it's still there." He did not answer, 
 tired. She went on. "Your sister couldn't see 
 me." He glanced at her then. "A bad day, I 
 suppose: nothing to be anxious about, imme- 
 
 307 
 
3o8 MADAM 
 
 diately. I saw the doctor, after, your mother 
 sent me across, and got a few notes for you " 
 
 He looked at her shorthand notes, and pock- 
 eted them. 
 
 "You can't read them, can you?" 
 
 "I think so, I'll write her." He meant 
 Maudie : Mott was saving time. It was new to 
 Lina that he could read shorthand, there he 
 was again, hiding from her on her own ground, 
 too, 
 
 "You walked on to Mother's, did you?" 
 
 "Yes, I did, well?" She looked at him. 
 "Mr. Wicken seemed to think it a bold step. He 
 said she'd tear me to bits." 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 "No : she was in bed. She's rather old." 
 
 "Oh," said Mott. He said nothing further, 
 fingering his little book. Miss Astley began to 
 wonder if he wished her gone; his attitude 
 looked like it, a little drawn sidelong. She set- 
 tled, with her arms about her knees. 
 
 "The front room hadn't been done for days, 
 so I did it." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "You're not laughing at me, are you? I can't 
 see your face." She leant near, but he was still 
 
PENNY ROSES 309 
 
 rigid. "You won't laugh long. She had all the 
 boys in there, men, I mean. They looked 
 young enough." 
 
 "Photos? I know she has. It's the thing to." 
 
 "Mott, she's your mother She had the 
 
 Bible too." 
 
 "Did she read you some? She used to, while 
 she thrashed me, in between." 
 
 "Mott, is that true?" No answer. "She 
 didn't read to me, I read to her: New Testa- 
 ment. Then I got your brothers wrong, when I 
 tried to guess them. I thought the handsomest 
 was Chris, Mr. Wicken had been talking. But 
 he wasn't, he was George." 
 
 "Handsomest photo," explained Mott. Pause : 
 then he was just to George "He wasn't bad- 
 looking." 
 
 "He must have been very handsome," said 
 Lina, mildly. "I thought you a most wonderful 
 family, and I told her so." 
 
 "So did the Harmsworth Press," said Mott. 
 Being freed, he stretched a little. "Say, had she 
 the cuttings?" 
 
 "Of course! I shouldn't have thought any- 
 thing of her if she hadn't shewn them." 
 
 "Shewn them you?" He stared, with his arms 
 
310 MADAM 
 
 stretched out: then he dropped them. "Lina, I 
 say, did she know who you were?" 
 
 "Not then. She thought I was a friend of 
 Maudie's, one she had sent. I'm afraid I let 
 her think it," said Lina. "Soon, after I had 
 been to the doctor's and that, she began to have 
 suspicions. Then she asked me right out, when 
 I was looking at the medals and things. So I 
 said yes, I was." 
 
 "Was what?" 
 
 "Yours." 
 
 "Are you?" Interval she went on. 
 
 "So she turned shaky all over, ordered me 
 out, and so on. She is quite old, Mott Then I 
 saw that book, in the drawer where the medals 
 were. And I looked at it, and she clawed it 
 away, and I clawed it back. And I slapped 
 her, oh!" (Tragedy.) 
 
 "Hard?" 
 
 "I don't know Mott, you oughtn't! 
 
 You are not to!" 
 
 She caught at his wrist: he was a silent 
 laugher, always. Lina began to be afraid he had 
 deserved all he got with the Bible. 
 
 "I call it common, clawing." He was husky. 
 
PENNY ROSES 311 
 
 "Well, it was. I've felt common all day: Mr. 
 Wicken, he simply makes you. Doesn't he?" 
 
 "Maybe he does. Mind if I smoke?" lighting 
 a match for the purpose, he glanced at his watch. 
 "You'll have to get to the station, darling ; train's 
 in twenty minutes." 
 
 "The train?" 
 
 Silence. She had never really thought how 
 she would get back, having found him. One 
 does not, on holiday: that is the man's work. 
 More, he knew it was; she had seen the lines of 
 his face, working for her, as he always would: 
 would to the death But a train ! 
 
 She gasped "Mott, I've been married to you 
 for ages." 
 
 "Yes, I know you have. I was feeling so, 
 lately. I think we were married when I met you 
 first, pretty well. Mind that shop?" 
 
 "I mind it." 
 
 "I was mad, fairly I remembered you 
 
 afterwards." 
 
 "I see, not at the time." 
 
 "Didn't notice, specially. Miss Fleming's 
 fault, damn her! chipping in " 
 
 "I thought you knew that girl," said Lina, 
 awed. 
 
312 MADAM 
 
 Silence again. He got up, and went to the 
 window. Miss Astley immediately laid her 
 head, and arms, in his chair. 
 
 "Can you see the time better there?" she asked, 
 in this attitude. "Mott, what's wrong with the 
 League of Nations?" 
 
 "Wrong with it?" 
 
 "With the idea." 
 
 "Oh, nothing. It's all right." 
 
 "Why can't it work, then, instantly?" 
 
 "Well, I'll trouble you for the Nations " 
 he began, half-turned to her: and stopped. 
 What was she after? 
 
 "Oh I'll tell that to Mr. Wicken- 
 
 shalll?" 
 
 "Tell him what? He knows all I know, may 
 play he doesn't, but he does. Good style to play 
 
 he doesn't Say, do you want to miss the 
 
 train, because " 
 
 Silence. Very slowly she got up. 
 
 "I I think I'm mad to-night, as mad as you 
 were when I first met you. N-naughty. It's a 
 naughty day, slapping her, and teasing you " 
 He moved. "I'm going, don't come! Don't 
 come, or I'll I shall catch it all right. It's ex- 
 traordinary how the light goes, isn't it? I 
 
PENNY ROSES 313 
 
 thought Summer Time would be good enough, 
 somehow. I'll write you to-morrow from the 
 surgery " 
 "Ring me up." 
 
 "No, I'll write you. Outside calls are so " 
 "Silly," was the word he seemed to hear. Her 
 footsteps died away, losing themselves to his lis- 
 tening ear, as they had come. The door snicked 
 sharp below, and he heard them tap the pave- 
 ment, running almost. She had rua away fright- 
 ened, not offering to kiss him, nor he her, how 
 could they? And she had long, long been mar- 
 ried to him: in sympathy of every fibre, in 
 thought, in that lovely unlikeness of two na- 
 tures that must make one........ Silly, silly, 
 
 silly _._.; 
 
XIV 
 
 HE let go, when she had gone ; and came over to 
 the chair where she had been lying. Nothing 
 there: she did not leave things about, scented 
 things, a decent, tidy girl. 
 
 And she had slapped his mother ! His mother! 
 Astonishing 
 
 Mott sat down in the chair of blessing, where 
 Madam had lain, to write to Maudie. But he 
 remained for half-an-hour staring at the sheet 
 before him, instead of doing so. 
 
 "Darling," it began 
 
 After that, he went on with that sheet, fra- 
 ternally, to Maudie. Well, why shouldn't the 
 child have it, anyway? Mott did not waste note- 
 paper, in needy times: and he had written her 
 "darling" before. 
 
 When that was accomplished, he remembered 
 that he had eaten nothing, for hours : and insti- 
 tuted a search for food. Not so easy. He un- 
 earthed a bit of bread and a bit of cheese, both 
 affected by the climate, one to drought and one 
 to oiliness. These he consumed, disappointing 
 
 314 
 
PENNY ROSES 315 
 
 the mice, his namesakes; but Mott was not a 
 mouse, larger, and there was still within him 
 an aching void. 
 
 He looked out of his high window, wistfully. 
 Fool he was, and the shops shut: even the beer- 
 houses, never was there such a place for beer- 
 houses ; stars of them filled the earth as many as 
 colder stars the sky. 
 
 Well, how could he face the battle with his lit- 
 tle book, his dear possession, and the towering 
 emotions or hopes it might induce or awaken, 
 with a chasm within him? Was that not exactly 
 the problem of staggering Europe, War, Peace, 
 Coming Time, League of Nations, Mott, re- 
 membering Lina, smiled as he stood. What the 
 deuce had Lina been at with her League of Na- 
 tions? To be sure he might have guessed she 
 would be on to that. 
 
 Then his new landlady, the kind Mona did not 
 care for, tapped at his door and brought him a 
 cup-o'-tea, because he might be glad of it. 
 Landladies spoiled Mott. They also combine 
 with cup-o'-teas, even at the least common times, 
 as excellently as policemen. It was a large cup, 
 and fell well into the aching cavity, and there 
 was a biscuit in the saucer. It was sopped with 
 
316 MADAM 
 
 chilly tea, still, Mott ate it: he would have 
 eaten twenty such. 
 
 Of course, the landlady had really come to see 
 if the lady was still there: the lady who had 
 come so late, so prettily dressed, bringing a mes- 
 sage concerning his sister, in hospital. One must 
 keep one's eye on these occurrences and stories. 
 Finding her attic lodger alone, she retired again, 
 with a letter he had requested her to post, rather 
 shyly. It was directed to his sister, in hospital, 
 penny-plain evidence of the best, since there 
 was a stamp on it. 
 
 He was a nice young gentleman. 
 
XV 
 
 "YOU are late, my dear," said Mr. Astley, shut- 
 ting and bolting the Clapham front door behind 
 his elder daughter: it was some little time since 
 Lu and Fred had come in. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sorry, Father. Have you been 
 waiting up?" She followed him into the front- 
 room, where he had been smoking, (for he also 
 was on holiday) and watched him while he lit 
 the candles. He was so kind, so regular, so rea- 
 sonable, always. She could not bear to think 
 that she would ever have to leave him, with her 
 mother, alone: unaided, with her mother; Lina 
 often thought about that. 
 
 "I ran down to Epsom," she confessed, lip bit- 
 ten. Then, when he did not comment, for he 
 trusted her "Had to see him, about something. 
 I went to his room." 
 
 Mr. Astley turned and looked at her, over his 
 spectacles, and above the candles. "Well, my 
 dear?" 
 
 "Rather awful, wasn't it? But I had to see him, 
 317 
 
3i8 MADAM 
 
 I had to ; I hadn't all day. He has only one 
 room, Father." 
 
 "I shouldn't have supposed, with the calls on 
 him, he had more," said Mr. Astley, surprising 
 her. 
 
 "But did you know he was like that, so poor? 
 He he dresses so nicely." 
 
 "I knew he was proud," said Mr. Astley. "It's 
 about the same thing. He has, as a fact, been 
 very frank with me, for your sake, no doubt. 
 
 But he is young, isn't he?" Again he 
 
 glanced, cautious. She was standing by the fire- 
 place, her back turned. 
 
 "Not inexperienced. So clever, Father, 
 brave, good to me. I love him so." 
 
 "Yes, my dear." Mr. Astley was troubled. "I 
 wish I could help you. Before the war, I would 
 have done my best, to settle you as well as Lucy. 
 Make it nice for both of you : now poor Fred " 
 
 "I know, he can't earn much. Poor Fred! 
 I'm silly, Father." 
 
 "To them that have health," said Mr. Astley, 
 and ceased. "It's often the strong who suffer, I 
 think, in this life. You for instance, and Lucy, 
 you are the stronger. We have depended on 
 you, even on your earnings " 
 
PENNY ROSES 319 
 
 "I won't stop earning, Father dear." She was 
 up to his side. "I never meant to, married or no. 
 Times are so awfully hard, aren't they? We 
 can't afford it, not even women " 
 
 "Work for everybody," mused Mr. Astlcy. 
 "You are right." That her mother was some- 
 where, haunting this conversation, Lina guessed; 
 of father and mother, it was the strong who had 
 always suffered, certainly. That she should ever, 
 ever hang on Mott like that . 
 
 "But there is one thing, all the same, that we 
 shall not bear," said Mr. Astley, "neither I nor 
 Dermot." She looked at him surprised. "And 
 that is, that when you are married, newly- 
 married, you should work. In the house, yes : 
 but not outside it. He is going to put his foot 
 down, when that time comes, my child, it shall 
 be your rest." 
 
 "Dear Father." His arms were round her 
 now, as her lover's had been: only they were 
 standing, over the lighted candles. "But how 
 can anybody rest?" she said, dreamily. 
 
 "He will not, you will for him. Can you see 
 it that way?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, oh, yes : of course Did he 
 
320 MADAM 
 
 say that? Father, have you talked to him? Are 
 you friends?" 
 
 She was shy and eager. Astleys, of course, a 
 model family, respected their parents, but did 
 not confide in them often, though in this case 
 there was mutual trust. 
 
 "Well, I hope so. So far as age and youth can 
 be that." He smiled. "But it was wild to go to 
 his rooms, my dear: your mother could not 
 approve it. It was even a little unkind, 
 did it strike you? when he is trying to drive 
 straight " 
 
 "Drive! Oh, you do know him Fa- 
 ther, listen: I did have something to tell him, 
 urgent. I sort of spun it out. I was 
 naughty. I wanted to p-prove that he really did, 
 because he's careful, you know." Mr. Astley 
 laughed, and she grasped him hard. 
 
 "Father, didn't I deserve anything? It was 
 
 the devil, I'm sure You see, he thinks 
 
 he's not quite my class oh, of course he doesn't 
 think he thinks it, but he does! He calls me " 
 she bit her lip, " 'Madam,' will do it! So 
 I have to give it him, haven't I? You must." 
 
 Mr. Astley laughed again, was this Lina? 
 "Holiday," he suggested. She had succumbed, 
 
PENNY ROSES 321 
 
 he meant, to a holiday-mood. After all, she had 
 so few of them, and twenty-one years is not so 
 very old, even for one of the props of a model 
 family. She looked wonderfully sweet, too, as 
 she stood, in the candle-light, in a flowery dress, 
 much as her mother in rose-time had once been, 
 outwardly 
 
 Miss Astley fled light- foot upstairs to her attic- 
 bedroom, forgiven, kissed, and straight with 
 everybody. With him, too, probably, it was 
 fun to lease him. Delicious 
 
 Presently she said her prayers. 
 
XVI 
 
 IT was hunting-time again in the English coun- 
 try; better than grouse; Henry did not grouse, 
 particularly. Captain and Mrs. Glover, she 
 lovelier and he fatter than ever, came down to 
 Wicken Lodge, where the Colonel had hunting- 
 matter for them, for the first time since the new 
 arrangement: Erith's new arrangement, that is, 
 of Henry's life. Miss Wicken feared it might 
 be a delicate occasion, and prepared to be ultra- 
 delicate to match it, fruitlessly. She lost her 
 labour of love. 
 
 "How are you, Erith?" said Henry, on the 
 Wandsley platform. 
 
 She knew, then and there, that she had lost 
 him, why, she could not think: but it did not 
 matter. Henry was always queer, and her power 
 over Nichol was pronounced, reinforced, he 
 would slave for her. So she was sweet to Henry, 
 all along the Wandsley platform, and out to the 
 carriage in the cobbled roadway: not her very 
 sweetest, but sweet. 
 
 She had super-exquisite clothes on, and she 
 322 
 
PENNY ROSES 323 
 
 enjoyed being at Wicken again : liked the mild 
 sentiment of it, and quite reconquered the Col- 
 onel. Nichol thought Henry looking terribly 
 ill, but Erith did not notice it; he was peaky at 
 all times, and he poured forth nonsense as he had 
 always done, entertaining them. The trio went 
 round the grounds exhaustively, inspected in the 
 stable the hunters they were to ride next morn- 
 ing, by the Colonel's direction: and called in 
 force upon Titus. 
 
 "Hullo, Miss!" said Titus to Erith, with a 
 wink to Henry, utterly disrespectful. Erith was 
 a picture with him, petting and canoodling, 
 showing how all horses took to her, and remem- 
 bered her, Titus above all. But she did not see 
 the wink: it was on the off-side, Henry's, since 
 Titus was gentlemanly. 
 
 "How's that young what's-his-name?" said 
 Captain Glover, looking over Titus in detail. 
 "Lane, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Hullo!" said Titus, in a new tone, and 
 pricked his ears. 
 
 "Hh-rrumph!" said Titus. "Clear out, girl, 
 I want to listen to this." He took a step or two, 
 much as a clever dancer shapes a figure, from a 
 scene half- remembered.. 
 
324 MADAM 
 
 "Look out, for Lord's sake, darling!" said 
 Nichol. "I say, Wicken, the brute's not broken 
 yet" 
 
 "Nichol," said Henry. "Do you really want 
 to know?" 
 
 Nichol wished earnestly, before long, that he 
 had not asked: it had been careless of him. Of 
 course it was incredible that so many things 
 could really happen to one fellow, as Henry 
 hinted; still, Nichol might have recollected his 
 insanity on the subject, if there had not been a 
 house-find and a honeymoon between. But these 
 things, second above all, put you out as much 
 as a World-war; more, when your partner is an 
 angel such as Erith. Her sympathy with him, 
 during their idyll abroad, could not be equalled : 
 her clothes were a dream: she was making him 
 very happy indeed, with the closest attention: 
 and that (as Henry told Titus) was the great 
 thing. 
 
 "Right-o," said Titus, nosing him kindly. 
 "Now go on about the other man, would you? 
 Tell them lots, and I'll help with the high 
 lights" 
 
PENNY ROSES 325 
 
 Henry told them Lancaster was in love. 
 
 When they did not seem excited enough, he 
 added that he was attached to a simply topping 
 girl, a surgeon's typist: name, Forrest, in Har- 
 ley Street 
 
 "Oh," said Nichol, remembering, very vague- 
 ly. Presently he said, in a pause of Henry 
 "Has she money? He'd none, if I remember 
 right." 
 
 "What a wonderful brain you have, Nichol," 
 said Henry. "That is, and was, and will be the 
 difficulty. Money, poor devils I Erith, isn't it 
 absurd?" 
 
 "Can't he earn some?" said Erith. 
 
 "Mean the lad can't get married?" said 
 Nichol. 
 
 Henry's eyes met his : he had, for Lancaster, 
 Nichol's full sympathy: none, for Miss Astley, 
 from Erith. None, none. 
 
 Very well: he decided, then and there, to 
 leave the Glovers to their calling and hunting 
 (only this time he hunted with them) and to keep 
 the tale of Miss Astley, in its final edition, for 
 Nichol's private ear. It was a little hard to dis- 
 entwine Nichol from Erith, nowadays: still, he 
 
326 MADAM 
 
 abode the opportunity. How nice it would be, 
 he thought, wandering alone, while they wan- 
 dered together, if he could entrap that surgeon, 
 with Nichol, to a little lunch-party: and so kill 
 two birds with one recital. 
 
 Because he simply longed to kill Mr. Forrest 
 with Miss Astley, last edition. The poor old 
 surgeon really thought he knew her, that was 
 the creamy part. She was probably sitting, every 
 day, with her despatch-case, under his eye, just 
 as usual ; even though Lancaster had kissed her, 
 and she had 
 
 No: it must be laid up in lavender for For- 
 rest; for Miss Astley, final edition, was simply 
 the sequel of all the other tales. Tell one, and 
 you found yourself telling the others, inevitably, 
 wherever you were : it all followed on. 
 
 "Where do you lunch on Wednesdays?" said 
 Henry over a public wire to Mr. Forrest "Be- 
 cause Glover and I are coming to lunch with 
 you." 
 
 "I lunch at home," responded Mr. Forrest, 
 after an interval. "She says the house is all right, 
 though: you can come along." 
 
 "She?" pondered Henry. Could there be 
 
PENNY ROSES 327 
 
 other than one she? Did Miss Astley keep Mr. 
 Forrest's cook for him, as well as his accounts 
 and his clientele? What a woman! How ever, 
 ever, would the poor brute be able to spare her, 
 when the crash came? 
 
 "Now, Nichol," said Henry, "you are going to 
 see the most wonderful girl in the world." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," said Nichol. All the same he 
 could not quite fathom Henry, about this other 
 girl: he had been used to think of Erith, su- 
 premely, it was queer. 
 
 "She may or may not be married to Forrest," 
 said Henry. "I hope she is not, for Lane's sake; 
 but she keeps his cook for him." 
 
 "Oh, come!" said Nichol, patient. "Look 
 here, is it the same I talked to for you that " 
 
 "It's the same," said Henry. 
 
 "She won't come to luncheon, if she's typist 
 and so on," said Nichol, presently. 
 
 "No," said Henry, depressed. "Unless she's 
 Mrs. Forrest " It seemed a bad look-out for 
 somebody, either way. He had rather counted 
 on seeing Miss Astley, this visit, like all the other 
 visits : perhaps he was unwise to count. 
 
 He was, as it proved. There was no sign of 
 Miss Astley, in the room that was not the pa- 
 
32S MADAM 
 
 tients' parlour, when Henry peered in. Or 
 
 rather, there was a sign the despatch-case, on 
 
 the table, with C. E. A. 
 
 "Do shut up," said Nichol; for the latest 
 "She isn't Mrs. Forrest," said Henry, happily. 
 
 "girl," who was rubicund, was looking round. 
 
 Dr. Ashwin was with Mr. Forrest. 
 
 "Hul-/o/" said Henry, delighted; and forgot 
 all about Lancaster, and his tales male and fe- 
 male, and everybody else, including present com- 
 pany, in order to converse with him, undoctori- 
 ally. 
 
 Consequently, Mr. Forrest and Nichol con- 
 versed alone, after luncheon; for nothing would 
 detach Henry from his post, or nest, beside Dr. 
 Ashwin, on the fireside seat. Such was the stern 
 division of the party, by Henry's single choice, 
 that the war-Captain and war-surgeon grew 
 quite intimate : they had, as it were, met one an- 
 other by dozens, before. 
 
 Well, how should Nichol, in these comforta- 
 ble circumstances, know what Forrest knew, or 
 what he did not know, of Henry's nonsense? He 
 had that slow retentive brain that stores facts, 
 that never lets go a fact (of sense) that you put 
 
PENNY ROSES 329 
 
 into it. Also Henry, though not intending to tell 
 him Miss Astley, had told him plenty of things. 
 Further, Nichol happened to know of a nice 
 young typist, really a charming girl, a pensioner 
 of his mother's, looking for a decent post, like 
 Forrest's, when it should happen to fall vacant. 
 What this state of mind and conscience, in 
 Nichol, led to in tete-a-tete, may be conceived. 
 
XVII 
 
 "MARRIED? Who said she was going to be mar- 
 ried?" said Mr. Forrest, frightfully loud. 
 Henry, rooted and nested in undoctorial inter- 
 course, simply had to hear. 
 
 "Oh, Nichol, you ass!" he groaned. "Excuse 
 
 me, Ashwin, this is important She really 
 
 has been proposed to, surgeon. I happen to 
 know." 
 
 "Proposed to? What's that? Some people 
 spend their lives in proposing, specially late- 
 ly." (Mr. Forrest spoke of it as though a symp- 
 tom of some fell disease.) "I thought she looked 
 queer, when I told her to go out with a friend on 
 Bank Holiday," said Mr. Forrest, fussing dread- 
 fully. "Now I suppose he's done it " 
 
 "Yes, he did." 
 
 "I suppose she took a languisher, eh? some 
 seedy convalescent, not in his proper senses " 
 
 "She did," said Henry, excited. "What an 
 imagination you have, Forrest, but you're on it 
 exactly. She took me." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 330 
 
PENNY ROSES 33i 
 
 "A seedy convalescent," triumphed Henry, 
 
 "not in his proper senses Oh, Forrest, let 
 
 me show you him, shall I?" 
 
 Mr. Forrest walked to the end of the room 
 and back, stopping by Henry's side. 
 
 "Do you mean you are going to marry her, 
 Wicken?" he said quietly. "Because " 
 
 "I wish I could !" 
 
 "Good Lord, Wicken !" This was Nichol, Dr. 
 Ashwin was watching them all, blinking, in a 
 corner of the fireside seat. He seemed attentive. 
 He had not, of course, the smallest idea what 
 woman they were talking of; but that his friend 
 Forrest should be talking about a woman at all 
 showed advance in life, a sensible gain. 
 
 "You're a waster," said Mr. Forrest, "and a 
 weakling. Do you suppose " 
 
 "A girl would want to marry me? No, that's 
 the worst of it. She doesn't." 
 
 "I er beg your pardon, Wicken." 
 
 "I er beg yours," said Henry. "Fact is, we 
 haven't either of us a chance " 
 
 "Who is this maiden?" said Dr. Ashwin, in a 
 soft tone. Nobody heard him. 
 
 "Marriage is for fools," said Mr. Forrest 
 thoughtfully. 
 
332 MADAM 
 
 "Oh, Forrest!" said Henry, outraged, "only 
 when you can get something else for nothing, as 
 you do." 
 
 "Libel," said Nichol, now shaking quietly. 
 Nichol had wanted to floor Mr. Forrest, when 
 he called Henry names : now he saw they were 
 fairly matched. He had always thought Henry 
 one of the funniest people in the world: with 
 this surgeon he was topping, so truthful. 
 
 "I don't get her for nothing," said Mr. For- 
 rest. "I give her" 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 "What she's worth," said Mr. Forrest with an 
 effort. He looked a little hangdog, glancing at 
 his friend. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Astley!" said Dr. Ashwin, and 
 all was clear and comfortable. Opposite-but- 
 one ? they were acquainted with Miss Astley. He 
 leant back. 
 
 "Wicken, see here," said Mr. Forrest, calm- 
 ing. "Call a truce, and sit down. Your excite- 
 ment is er symptomatic. Who is the sweep?" 
 
 "He is a man," said Henry, "called Lancas- 
 
 ter"- 
 
 "Lane!" said Nichol, sharply. 
 They all sat down. 
 
PENNY ROSES 333 
 
 "I don't believe a thing of it," said Mr. For- 
 rest presently. "I don't believe even the " 
 
 "Facts," swept in Henry. "You said that be- 
 fore. Ashwin, please, do you believe it?" 
 
 "Allowing for the personal equation," said Dr. 
 Ashwin, "I do." 
 
 "Thank God Now, then, surgeon: 
 
 what don't you believe?" 
 
 "I believe you took her to the hospital, and I 
 credit they refused to admit her to the case, a 
 silly girl." Henry merely looked shocked. "I 
 do not believe she and what's-his-name's mother 
 fought. She couldn't fight, she's no fight in 
 her. And a bedridden old woman, of the kind 
 you describe, I mean, in the situation " 
 
 "What kind? what situation?" said Henry. 
 
 "Tellement eprouvee," murmured Dr. Ash- 
 win, smoking. 
 
 "Ashwin! She isn't eprouvee, the least. She's 
 having the time of her life, showing off the 
 
 medals, whacking her grandchildren 
 
 But I'm thankful to tell you, on my aunt's evi- 
 dence, they're none of them so fine as her sons 
 
 were " 
 
 "3," murmured Nichol, watching Henry. 
 
334 MADAM 
 
 What did he mean? Pleased at the race going 
 down? He could not be serious ! 
 
 "She's a beastly old woman, Church or no. I 
 can't tell you her last proceeding it breaks my 
 heart" 
 
 "Dying," remarked Dr. Ashwin, "will be the 
 last of all, so I've noticed." 
 
 "Oh, thank heaven for doctors!" Henry 
 turned. "It's the sole solution. Could you en- 
 courage it? There's a rotten man down 
 
 there, like you, who is keeping her alive. She's 
 alone now, the little girl dead, she probably 
 killed her" 
 
 "Oh, come," said Nichol, gently. 
 
 "I won't She's alone in her glory, 
 
 but she'll live to a hundred, and keep that pen- 
 sion, every penny of it, all the time. Forrest, 
 Miss Astley will be forty-six by then, still top- 
 ping, of course, and Lancaster will be Lord, 
 arithmetic I" 
 
 "Can't Colonel Wicken split the pension?" 
 said Mr. Forrest, now interested and quiet. 
 
 "No, he can't. The Harmsworth Press would 
 be down on him." 
 
 "Does that matter?" 
 
 "To my uncle, Ashwin No, the Col- 
 
PENNY ROSES 335 
 
 onel's played his stunt, walked into her all he 
 knows, but it's hopeless. She's too old and 
 eprouvee. Not for all her stocking-savings, it 
 can't be done. He'd refuse it, too, that's an- 
 other story What's the solution?" 
 
 "I am afraid," said Dr. Ashwin, dreamy, 
 
 "they'll have to wait We're all doing 
 
 that." 
 
FINIS 
 
 THEY waited, since the world did. 
 
 They will be married, of course, finally, 
 were married, shall we say, for the sake of the 
 tales? Is that Future, frowning ahead of us, so 
 much unlike the past, O ye of little faith? Bet- 
 ter, of course, more wonderful, we should die 
 else! but watch, and you will see the old prim- 
 roses, in the old places, and the tales, twenty 
 times told to loving ears, come true again 
 
 So they were married: rather soon, probably, 
 after Paish made Lina's acquaintance, Ameri- 
 cans are so perfect, to women. Her employer, 
 her mother, her sister, did not lose her services to 
 the last, nor her father the light of her counte- 
 nance. But there will come there came a 
 time, too dear for description, when she carried 
 all these things to Mott: and after that he kept 
 them, because he saw to it. Mrs. Dermot Lane 
 will not work, we are told, after marriage : ex- 
 cept shorthand notes for her husband of the more 
 interesting meetings; though he will probably 
 
 336 
 
FINIS 337 
 
 let her give an eye to Curly and the Clapham 
 menage, now and then. 
 
 And Nicholas mother's nice girl had Mr. For- 
 rest's post, because Nichol never forgot about it. 
 
 And Mrs. Lane never stirred a fraction of an 
 inch, for all the Colonel : Henry was quite right. 
 The tale of Mrs. Lane is too long even for Henry 
 to tell, having no turning (as he says) : but the 
 short facts that broke his heart were these: 
 
 He primed the Colonel, fed him gently with 
 what his sister had guessed, Jock's story, that 
 is, the littlest and prettiest of all. He told it un- 
 adorned in the simplest diction, but the old man 
 "rose" like anything. 
 
 He wrote Mrs. Lane a finer letter than Henry 
 could have conceived, a true manorial letter, in 
 the old-Country-Squire style. He said the least 
 she could do, if she were proud of Christopher 
 as she pretended, was to support the girl (Mona) 
 and let the youngster marry; and he said, any 
 other mother on earth would be proud of Mott. 
 True, he had never gone beyond England, said 
 the Colonel : but he had fought a few battles on 
 the home-field; and as for his opinions, they 
 could hardly blow up society, while he slaved so 
 
338 MADAM 
 
 hard. He had thought the tenets of religion 
 made room for charity, said the Colonel: and 
 referred, with chapter and verse, to certain parts 
 of Testament history where persons of Mona's 
 kind had been at least allowed 
 
 It was useless: Mrs. Lane was too far gone, 
 even for her Squire's light to turn her; she had 
 hypnotised herself, by persistent selfish praying 
 into an utterly unmanageable frame of mind. 
 When Mott (which was the tale untold) went to 
 his sister's funeral, Mrs. Lane made him a pub- 
 lic scandal in Wandsley, and shut the door in his 
 face. He came back to Henry, broken by grief, 
 of course, but quite determined. 
 
 The odd thing was, that it came to Henry in 
 dreams, then and long afterwards, as little Lane 
 made his way in the world, that he (Mott) was 
 very like her. They each had a theory of life, 
 passionately and devoutly held, that precluded 
 all other theories. The only point to be regretted 
 was, that one of these conceptions, for such a pair 
 to live in the same house or town, or perchance 
 nation, would have to knock the other out. 
 
 Consequently Mrs. Lane was (will be) over- 
 whelmed, she and her faith, by Mott mounting, 
 with all his peers, upon the rising tide. There is 
 
FINIS 339 
 
 no hope for her : she is old, and he is young, and 
 the world oh, Mrs. Lane is ashamed of it, when 
 whispers reach her! It is bad, bad, bad 
 
 And Erith's is lovely, lovely 
 
 And Mott's? 
 
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