OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES
 
 DOLF
 
 D O L F 
 
 BY 
 
 F. E. BAILY 
 
 BONI AND LIVERIGHT 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 DOLF 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 
 BOXI AND LlVERIGHT 
 
 Second Printing 
 
 Printed in- the United States of America
 
 DOLF 
 
 2128647
 
 DOLF 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ON a breathless morning of late July, Dolf sat on the edge 
 of a counter in the dress department of her father's shop, 
 clasping one knee with her slender hands, and gazed dreamily 
 at the pink frock in the window. 
 
 Nothing stirred. The children had clattered by on their 
 way to school ; the "hoof -beats of a passing horse clip-clopped 
 away into the distance. Sunlight transmuted Avonbridge 
 high street into a magician's dream of gold and grey; not a 
 leaf fluttered on any tree and the lazy call of birds came softly 
 as the cooing of a bride. 
 
 With a sigh almost of agony, Dolf slipped down to the floor 
 and stood straight as truth, slender as a sword, listening to 
 the silence. Little aching thrills of lovely pain ran through 
 her veins, cravings she barely understood, yet longed to 
 satisfy, tore at her heart. She only knew she was seventeen, 
 and a whole beautiful world lay laughing in the sun, a play- 
 ground for love, full of splendid lovers. It was a morning 
 when the grass seemed to grow and the buds open before her 
 very eyes; with a sudden smarting of tears Dolf knew she had 
 no lover, that the pink frock would never be hers, that no 
 fairy piping calls a little girl from a country drapery to meet 
 her wonder-sweetheart in the greenwood. 
 
 She paused for a moment, a slight, fair-haired creature, with 
 the short, straight nose and tender, provocative mouth that 
 send an instant wave of desire through four men in every 
 five. Then, with a movement of half-comic resignation, she 
 
 7
 
 8 DOLF 
 
 crossed the worn oak floor and climbed into the window, lifting 
 a short flight of steps after her. At any rate she could fondle 
 the pink frock, dream over it, arrange its soft linen lines to 
 better advantage. Dolf prepared for the task in the spirit of 
 one who attires some indifferent sister to wed the only man she 
 herself can ever love. 
 
 As she stood gazing, Tom Wainwright came out of his 
 father's grocery opposite with all the bustle and importance of 
 the smart young salesman, to criticise his own window-dressing. 
 
 Dolf hesitated. Her calculating glance took in his round, 
 boyish face with its already purposeful mouth. She lost no 
 value in all his composition the smooth, carefully-oiled hair, 
 the dashing green tie, the snowy apron fastened at the back 
 with one of those heart-shaped pins all good grocers seem to 
 wear. Dolf knew Tom Wainwright by heart; she recognised 
 success in every line of him. 
 
 She saw him as in a vision piling up capftal slowly and 
 surely, coaxing business away from other people. There was 
 not a speck of romance in all his body and soul, but Mrs. 
 Tom Wainwright would always be an enviable person. Her 
 clothes would be sound and prosperous, her children fat and 
 healthy, her husband looked up to with approval. Tom knew 
 his value; he always patronised a girl very faintly yet con- 
 sciously. And she knew she interested Tom, and she knew 
 Tom's wife would always live in Avonbridge and be dull and 
 respectable and domestic and housewifely. On the other hand, 
 Tom's wife would never be poor, always be envied. . . . 
 
 From the expression of his back she knew he was aware of 
 her. He would be too proud to turn round yet. Without 
 looking at him she stood upon the lowest step of the flight 
 and set her right foot on the next step but one higher. Reach- 
 ing up to the rail on which it hung, she began slowly to re- 
 drape the pink frock. Her pose, graceful, kind to every line 
 of her slight figure, exhibited quite twelve inches of slender left 
 ankle in the contour of which Dolf had perfect confidence.
 
 DOLF 9 
 
 Tom Wainwright turned immediately. For a second Dolf 
 held the pose. Then, glancing across the street, she met his 
 eyes; immediately she drew up the left foot to the right, sat 
 on the top step and pulled her short skirt anklewards with 
 that gesture every girl knows. It was at once maidenly and 
 reproving. A fleeting smile rewarded the wave of Tom's hand; 
 then gathering the pink frock in her arms, Dolf ran down the 
 steps into the shop out of sight. For some reason her eyes 
 danced as they had not danced previously. Joyfully she felt 
 her power; somehow it made the world seem a better place 
 for a girl to live in. 
 
 Into the shop on slow, unenthusiastic feet, listless with 
 treading a path they never chose of their own free will, came 
 Dolf's mother. Her years numbered thirty-seven and she 
 might equally well have been fifty or five hundred. For all 
 the reality in her existence she was a dead woman. She had 
 long travelled from the sentient into the automatic. Young 
 unmarried girls might well shudder when she passed by. She 
 represented not so much the ashes of a dead love as the rot- 
 ting wood, the decayed paper and the damp coal of a fire laid 
 long years ago in an uninhabited house and never lighted. 
 Otherwise she was an older edition of Dolf. 
 
 "We're out of baking powder," she said with a sort of dull 
 irritation against fate. "You might run across to Wain- 
 wright's and get some. Your father won't like it if I don't 
 make a tart out of those plums." 
 
 "All right, mother," replied Dolf, half reluctantly. Out of 
 habit she patted her hair and smoothed the collar of her frock 
 with instinctive touches. Her mother watched, grimly critical. 
 
 "You're at the silly age still," she commented. "I don't 
 know why you think such a lot of your looks. Looks won't 
 help you much, my girl. They don't last long and they only 
 bring trouble while they do." 
 
 But Dolf had fled out of the shop with a longing to put her 
 fingers in her ears. She told herself her mother was old
 
 io DOLF 
 
 and quite wrong, with a horrible fear that she must inevitably 
 be right. Mother was married, tired, finished. But of course 
 nowadays things were different. People used to manage so 
 badly, and father was very old older than mother. . . . 
 
 She passed Tom, still intent on his window. Within old 
 Wainwright leant forward over the counter and leered at her 
 behind his pointed white beard, and carefully clipped mous- 
 tache, much as a satyr might ogle a confiding wood-nymph. 
 To Dolf he seemed faintly ridiculous as old men do when they 
 strut for the benefit of young girls. 
 
 "And what can we do for you this beautiful morning?" he 
 inquired playfully, his moist underlip thrust a little forward. 
 "Pretty as a picture as ever, Miss Dolf breaking all the young 
 fellows' hearts and the old ones' too. I'll warrant my rascal 
 of a son'll be dancing attendance in a minute trying to cut 
 out his own father." 
 
 "You are dreadful, Mr. Wainwright," murmured Dolf with 
 the large charity of her youth and sex. "Mother wants some 
 baking powder, please. I'm sure Tom never even troubled to 
 look at me." As a matter of fact, she had felt his eyes all 
 over her back, and even then he was peeping through the 
 window. 
 
 Old Wainwright hastened, smirking, to serve her. He placed 
 the packet on the counter as though it were a diamond neck- 
 lace at least. His greedy old eyes devoured her slender beauty 
 so patently that he would have distressed her if she had been 
 less amused. These ancient flirts always made her laugh. 
 On the way back Tom stood in her path. 
 
 "Good morning," he said meaningly. 
 
 "Good morning," returned Dolf, looked straight rt him and 
 then lowered her eyelids. 
 
 "You don't take much notice of a chap these days." He 
 was, as ever, the sultan casting favour on a pretty favourite. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean. I haven't been rude, have
 
 DOLF ii 
 
 I? Not that it would matter to you if I were, I expect, 
 would it?" 
 
 For a second she smiled into his irresolute eyes. Then, with 
 a distracting flutter of dainty ankles she was gone. As she 
 entered her father's shop, drab and repellent even in the July 
 sunshine, Dolf smiled again. Yet again that morning the vic- 
 torious thrill ran in her blood. It was a season for kisses, 
 and, there being no one in the wide world to kiss, she stooped 
 and laid her lips lovingly against the breast of the pink 
 frock. 
 
 Across the street old Wainwright called to his son. The 
 smirk had vanished from his face, leaving it hard and re- 
 lentless. Tom came sheepishly, conscious of unknown guilt. 
 
 "Listen to me, my lad," said old Wainwright. "Don't go 
 making a fool of yourself over that little bit of pink and 
 white. I've got eyes in my head, remember. Your business 
 is to stick to my business. I've got the whip-hand here. 
 You have to look to me for every penny for your green ties 
 and brown boots. I'll see about a wife for you when the time 
 comes. Understand me?" 
 
 For a moment father and son glared at each other. Between 
 them the sex jealousy of the male burnt with a most vehement 
 flame. Then, silently, sulkily, the younger turned away. 
 
 All the morning Dolf measured yards of material and pre- 
 tended interest in other people's clothes with increasing bore- 
 dom. The sunlight had got into her bones; she wanted to 
 play, to laugh, to be admired. Instead she endured the faint 
 stuffy smell of the shop and had her dreams darkened by its 
 gloom. Midday dinner only added to her depression. 
 
 Dolf, helping a tired, resigned mother to dish up, hated her 
 world witlf bitter hatred. She loathed the dreary room behind 
 the shop, the stained table-cloth, the odd, cracked crockery, 
 the black-handled steel forks. She hated the subdued quar- 
 relling and scuffling of her twelve-year-old brother and her 
 two younger sisters. She hated the boiled rabbit; her father,
 
 12 DOLF 
 
 elderly, stout, cold, maddened her with his coarse table man- 
 ners and a certain sanctimonious air. 
 
 "George," he commanded, tucking a table napkin into his 
 collar, "stop your noise and ask a blessing." 
 
 The children bowed their heads in outward reverence, while 
 George gabbled a grace. Mrs. Farmer helped everyone to the 
 steaming rabbit. An odour of onion filled the room. They 
 fed in silence, cowed by the austere severity of the father. 
 Dolf, conjuring up mentally a long sequence of similar meals 
 past and meals to come, felt a pitiful longing to scream. She 
 wanted a little joy so badly. Desperately she resolved to make 
 a heroic effort. 
 
 When the children had scurried out she approached the 
 silent figure of her father bent over his newspaper. 
 
 "Father " she began. 
 
 He looked up coldly over his glasses, out of a hard-lined, 
 unsympathetic face. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Dolf twisted nervous hands, fidgetting one foot restlessly 
 on the linoleum. 
 
 "Father, please may I have the pink frock?" 
 
 Emotion vitalised the cold features at last a wave of 
 angry contempt. 
 
 "You must be mad, girl. Do you suppose I'm made of 
 money, with four of you to keep, and your mother? Don't 
 I give you enough clothes as it is? and precious little I get 
 in return. You think of nothing but gadding about dressed 
 up like a hussy. Where's your religion you've been taught? 
 Don't we pray for our daughters to be like the polished cor- 
 ners of the Temple, not hussies smothered in finery? Be- 
 sides, that's a dress for a young lady, not you." 
 
 Dolf, squeezing her hands tighter, still persisted. 
 
 "But, Daddy, Bank Holiday '11 be here soon, and sports, 
 and a fair, and everything. And it's my birthday next month, 
 and I thought you generally give me something. I could
 
 DOLF 13 
 
 pay for it partly. I've got a little pocket-money saved up." 
 
 Her father's face flushed with rage. 
 
 "You'll not have the dress. Go away and leave me in 
 peace!" he thundered. "Try and have a little modesty if you 
 can. That skirt you've got on's disgracefully short." 
 
 There were angry tears in Dolf's eyes as she turned away. 
 Her heart felt hard and bitter. He had been unreasonable, 
 insulting, she thought passionately. Well, if he asked for 
 rebellion he should have it. When the shop closed for the day 
 at seven o'clock, she went to her mother. 
 
 "I want to go out, mother. My head aches. I must have 
 some fresh air. I don't want any supper. Can you manage?" 
 
 Mrs. Fanner considered her daughter with dull, expression- 
 less eyes. Whatever she thought lay unrevealed. 
 
 "Very well," she answered. 
 
 Dolf fled to her room like a mad girl. She tore off her black 
 frock, flung it on the bed and put on one of cool blue linen. 
 She hunted out imitation blue silk stockings and a pair of lit- 
 tle white canvas shoes, cheap yet effective. She brushed 
 out her shining mane of fair hair and put it up most patiently, 
 setting on it a soft, wide-brimmed straw hat, bent craftily 
 to aid the charm of her face. Then she stole down to the 
 empty kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. As she swal- 
 lowed it her mother came in and stood watching her for a 
 moment. Whatever she thought, she said nothing. 
 
 A sudden gust of pity for her tired, loveless mother came 
 over Dolf. For a second she flung two passionate arms 
 round Mrs. Farmer's neck and pressed her young mouth to 
 the sallow cheek. Then she turned and fled. 
 
 In the street, on the other side, Tom Wainwright was shut- 
 ting his father's door behind him. Dolf half glanced at him 
 under her long lashes. She strolled slowly, without taking 
 further notice, in the direction of the river. Tom hesitated, 
 glanced doubtfully up and down the street, and followed. 
 
 In his office, a space divided from the shop by a wooden
 
 i 4 DOLF 
 
 partition panelled with frosted glass, George Farmer re- 
 viewed broodingly the day's business. In a sense his office 
 might be called a sacred edifice, for none of his family dared 
 disturb him there. He looked up fiercely, therefore, at the 
 apparition of his wife, and smoothed the anger from his face 
 as she announced old Wainwright and left the two men alone. 
 
 "Not intruding, I hope, George?" inquired Wainwright, 
 almost obsequiously. 
 
 "No, John; an old friend's always welcome. I was just 
 running through the day-book." 
 
 Wainwright seated himself thoughtfully on a high stool. 
 He seemed preoccupied. Then he came straight to the point. 
 
 "We're old friends, as you say, George. I think we under- 
 stand one another pretty well. We must have sung in the 
 choir together over thirty years. It's fifteen since my poor 
 wife died. I'm a lonely man compared to you, with your 
 family around you." 
 
 "Perhaps so. Man was not meant to live alone. I wonder 
 you never took a second wife, John. You're a fine healthy 
 man still." 
 
 The two looked at one another meaningly, the male instinct 
 lurking in their eyes. Beneath their words they did indeed 
 understand each other pretty well. John Wainwright knew 
 George Farmer meant: "Why voluntarily do yourself out of 
 pleasures you can afford? You're not past them by any 
 means." 
 
 "What should you say if I'd come here courting?" he went 
 on. "There's no use mincing one's words. How would you 
 like me for a son-in-law, George?" 
 
 "You?" 
 
 For a second George Farmer started. Then a peculiar smile 
 stole over his face. "You mean Dolf," he went on. 
 
 Wainwright nodded. A flush stained the skin above his 
 cheek-bones, and his breath quickened. 
 
 "I don't see why not. I'm barely fifty. A girl's safer with
 
 DOLF 15 
 
 a man of mature years than with these boys. You know what 
 I mean, George. She'd never want for anything, as you're 
 aware. I've prospered in the things of this world. I'm willing 
 to make settlements. There's her brother, a promising lad 
 who could come into the business if you saw fit. And that 
 little block of gas shares you rather fancy we wouldn't quar- 
 rel over the price, George. They pay twelve per cent." 
 
 Dolf's father mused, still smiling his peculiar smile. Fancy 
 John, of all people! Still, she was a pretty girl, and John 
 would be lucky to get her. Sound, too, from the girl's point of 
 view. 
 
 At last he stretched out a friendly hand. 
 
 "Of course I must talk it over with her mother; it's a mat- 
 ter for counsel, and prayer for guidance. But I've no personal 
 objection, John. You are my oldest friend and she'll be a 
 lucky girl." 
 
 With a sigh of satisfaction old Wainwright gave a hearty 
 grip. He had made his bargain. Few men could brighten 
 their later life with such a pretty toy, just when the average 
 man's wife was absolutely unattractive. 
 
 "I'll see you never regret this, George," he exclaimed. 
 "My old friend's daughter will be doubly precious. Perhaps 
 I'd better leave you to break it to Mrs. Farmer. Good night 
 to you!" 
 
 Outside he chuckled. A lot Mrs. Farmer had to do with it! 
 He knew George pretty well! 
 
 As he let himself into his house, George Farmer was say- 
 ing to Dolf's mother: "John Wainwright wants to marry 
 Dolf. I gave him my permission. The girl's settled for life 
 now. It's a very suitable marriage." 
 
 For once Dolf's mother rose above her usual apathy. She 
 was a drudge cowed by neglect and bullying, but even as a 
 worked-out slug of a horse will leap into some sort of pace 
 if only the whip is pitiless enough, she turned on her hus- 
 band as contemptuously as a young, pretty woman might do.
 
 1 6 DOLF 
 
 "How dare you suggest giving a young girl to that old 
 man and you that's religious too!" she demanded savagely. 
 Just for a moment her own departed youth came and stood 
 before her mental vision, side by side with a picture of Dolf 
 in the kitchen with her blue eyes and her blue frock. But 
 George Farmer stood no nonsense. 
 
 "I'm your husband and her father, and I know best," he 
 said coldly. "I don't want any foolishness. Remember I 
 married you when you were in trouble over another man. 
 Dolf's just as flighty as you were; like mother, like daughter. 
 She'll be quieter married to a steady man. Better be safe 
 than sorry." 
 
 There are some weapons a woman cannot face in the hands 
 of such as care to use them. In silence Mrs. Farmer covered 
 her shamed face with her ordinary mask of apathy. 
 
 Dolf stepped delicately along the river path perfectly aware 
 of Tom's pursuit. Her knowledge of being the dedicated prey 
 gave her a subtle allurement, like -the swagger of a crack 
 regiment out on a forlorn hope, or the exulting renunciation of 
 an enthusiastic martyr. She swayed a little as she walked; she 
 seemed fragrant with some ineffable perfume. Back from the 
 river bank stood a wooden seat hidden behind a clump of 
 willows. Here Dolf came to rest, and here Tom Wainwright 
 found her. 
 
 He had become a victim to as much emotion as falls to not 
 over-imaginative young men. His eyes were a little bright, 
 his cheeks flushed, he had small difficulties with his voice, 
 and his hands shook slightly. He came up, raised his cap, 
 and sat down beside Dolf. 
 
 "What have I done? What are you running away for?" 
 he asked rather complainingly, and Dolf answered: 
 
 "Fm not running away. Why should I? I came out for 
 a walk because my head aches. If you aren't going to be 
 kind to me, please go away. I put up with enough from 
 father."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 His arms longed to enfold her. The summer twilight 
 deepened; there was no sound but the lap of water and the 
 occasional cry of a sleepy moor-hen. The slenderness of 
 Dolf's ankles, the curve of her neck, the sheen of her hair 
 overcame him. Her face, turned away, barely showed her 
 little straight nose and appealing, provocative mouth. 
 
 Suddenly she felt herself clasped in his arms. Her whole 
 body seemed to soften and become blended with his. The 
 wide straw hat slipped to the ground as he turned her re- 
 sisting head towards him and kissed her passionately with 
 great masterful, overwhelming kisses on her lips and throat. 
 For a moment it was sheer shock and pain; then a great 
 happiness stole over Dolf. She ceased to resist; she nestled 
 gently against his shoulder and gave herself up to the dreamy 
 delight of being kissed. 
 
 Her mind wandered far away into a sort of fairy story; 
 this, then, was the beautiful world that lay laughing in the 
 sun, the playground of splendid lovers, and kisses were the 
 magic keys. Who kissed you mattered little; she did not 
 love Tom and she knew he did not love her even if he thought 
 he did. It was not so much who kissed you as the emotion 
 of being kissed, the strength and mastery of it all, which made 
 you feel such a little girl. 
 
 She, being a girl, cool-headed and in absolute control of the 
 situation, let his passion run its course, exhaust itself and 
 become articulate. 
 
 "I love you," he sighed at last. "You're the prettiest girl 
 in Avonbridge. Any man'd feel proud to walk out with you. 
 Be my sweetheart, Dolf do! I want you. I don't want any 
 
 17
 
 X 8 DOLF 
 
 other girl. Father'll hate it, but I don't care. Will you? 
 Say you will, Dolf, please!" 
 
 "We mustn't make your father angry," murmured Dolf, 
 playing with her happiness, her head on his breast. 
 
 "Oh, to blazes with that! You've got to. I'll make you. 
 I won't let you go till you promise. Now!" 
 
 His arm tightened round her slight figure until the embrace 
 was sweet agony. 
 
 "All right," gasped Dolf, "p'raps if you're very good. 
 Now you mustn't kiss me any more. Look at my hair!" 
 
 She drew away, and he tasted the joy of watching her put 
 it up with swift, accustomed fingers. As they stood up to go 
 homeward she held her mouth just for a second, offering it, 
 waiting. It was the golden climax of an almost perfect idyll. 
 
 It is the law that happiness must be bought with un- 
 happiness, generally on the extended payment system. Dolf 
 reached home faintly pink, intoxicated with new joy. In the 
 drab living-room she encountered her parents. Her mother 
 sewed in silence; her father read his trade paper, aloof and 
 forbidding. He radiated that tyranny of the husband and 
 male parent which chills and wet-blankets so many homes. 
 He was the everlasting potential grumbler and complainer. 
 He looked up at Dolf as she entered, a long, appraising look, 
 like a dealer summing up the points of a horse. 
 
 "Come here," he said, "I've got some news for you, now 
 you've finished gadding about the streets." 
 
 Dolf went and stood before him. She had a cold certainty 
 that the news could not be good. The joy faded drearily 
 out of her blood, and her face wore the expressionless mask of 
 the child before its parent. 
 
 "John Wainwright has been here," he went on. "He's 
 asked my permission to marry you. I don't call you a good 
 wife for an upright, God-fearing man, Dolf. You're too 
 flighty and sinful. On the other hand, his example and guid- 
 ance would be the best things for you. Your mother was much
 
 DOLF 19 
 
 the same at your age, but marriage has formed her character. 
 I gave John my consent. No doubt he'll speak to you him- 
 self. You're a lucky girl. Try and make him a good wife." 
 
 Something incredibly fierce rose up in Dolf's heart, the reck- 
 less courage of the wild thing at bay. For the first time in her 
 life she looked her father fearlessly in the face and defied him. 
 
 "You must be mad, father!" she cried scornfully. "Me 
 marry John Wainwright? Why, he's old as old as you are. 
 You can't possibly mean what you say. He was an old man 
 when I was a little girl." 
 
 "Nonsense," retorted George Farmer harshly. "You don't 
 know what you're talking about. He's a worthy husband for 
 any girl, and as for being old, he's barely fifty, with an estab- 
 lished business, able to give you everything you want. I 
 know far more about these things than you do. Your head's 
 full of romantic nonsense." 
 
 "Mother," exclaimed Dolf, turning to the silent figure, 
 "you're a woman, and you were a girl like me once. Do you 
 approve of this? Would you like me to marry John Wain- 
 wright?" 
 
 Marriage had formed Mrs. Farmer's character. She looked 
 up with her expressionless face and said, without any obvious 
 emotion: "Your father knows best, Dolf. He's promised Mr. 
 Wainwright. You must be a good girl and obey your father." 
 
 Into one hour Nature can crowd the normal development 
 of years. Yesterday Dolf might have acquiesced. To-day she 
 had tasted the unknown sweets of kisses young kisses. She 
 turned to her father, a burning spot of passion on either cheek. 
 
 "I'll never marry him. I'll kill myself first," she said in 
 tensely low, bitter tones. "You'll never make me do it, 
 father. You can't." 
 
 Over George Farmer's consciousness stole a hitherto un- 
 known foreboding of defeat. Outwardly he merely scowled. 
 A year or two earlier, he reflected, he would have beaten her 
 for this.
 
 20 DOLF 
 
 "Go to your room," he said coldly. "I'll give you a fortnight 
 to get used to the idea before John Wainwright speaks to you, 
 and that's more than you deserve. The Scriptures tell you to 
 honour your father and your mother, but you've nothing more 
 than rebellion to offer us." He felt rather pleased at impli- 
 cating Dolf's mother. "Go away and pray for an obedient 
 heart." 
 
 Dolf crept up to her little room. For a long time she 
 crouched by her window, gazing into the warm silent night, 
 looking up at the pitying remote stars. Then she undressed, and 
 for a moment studied her young prettiness searchingly in her 
 looking-glass. A sudden thought of John Wainwright crossed 
 her mind. With a shiver she crept into bed, blew out the 
 candle, and pulled the clothes over her head. 
 
 Every day a wider sea of silent bitterness rolled between Dolf 
 and her father. She had arrived at a pitch when necessity 
 knows no law, and anywhere is a port in a storm. She lived 
 keyed up for a crisis due in a fortnight, so that when Bank 
 Holiday came, a week after the vicarious wooing of John Wain- 
 wright, Dolf, casting about for some emotional safety-valve, 
 determined to borrow the pink frock. 
 
 Very early in the morning she stole down and smuggled it 
 from the shop. She folded it lovingly and hid it in her room. At 
 mid-day she locked the door and put it on with delighted, 
 trembling fingers. She was reckless of consequences; after all, 
 what could he do to her? Nothing worse than give her to old 
 John Wainwright, and she had said openly death was prefer- 
 able to that. 
 
 Dolf slipped downstairs like a fallen angel, shrouded in her 
 raincoat. She passed her mother in the hall. 
 
 "What've you got on that coat for in the middle of summer?" 
 asked Mrs. Farmer apathetically. 
 
 "To to keep my frock clean, mother. Mr. Hanway half- 
 promised me a lift down to the river in his van he's doing the
 
 DOLF 2i 
 
 refreshments and I don't want to get crumpled," lied Dolf 
 hastily. 
 
 She ran eagerly along the passage and the street door 
 slammed behind her. On the river bank the obliging Mr. Han- 
 way took care of the coat for her in his refreshment tent. Dolf 
 shook out the folds of her frock and the wings of her soul, and 
 wandered into the sunshine. 
 
 It is much, much better to be first in a little Iberian village 
 than second in Rome! Dolf knew herself the prettiest girl 
 available dressed in the prettiest frock. Young gentlemen far 
 above her social standing gave her languishing glances; per- 
 fectly reckless, being a victim and an outlaw, she let the Vicar's 
 nephew, a sub-lieutenant in the Navy, give her tea and hold 
 her hand. He was very beautiful, but impermanent, so that 
 when at sunset Tom Wainwright, in his best suit, arrived scowl- 
 ing after prodigious athletic feats at the sports to lay his vic- 
 tories in the dust before her, she dismissed her sub-lieutenant 
 gently and stood with hands clasped behind her back, looking 
 up into Tom's face like a very good little girl indeed. 
 
 "But he only took me to tea, and you weren't here, and I 
 couldn't have you even if I wanted," she murmured. 
 
 "I'll take it out in kisses," announced Tom grimly. He looked 
 round with haggard eyes for the necessary shelter. Every- 
 where joyful crowds covered the landscape. 
 
 "You can't kiss me here," objected Dolf. "It's frightfully 
 crowded. Let's go away. There's the cart-shed in your father's 
 field. Nobody'd see us there and we can stay a long time 
 because it's near home. I needn't go in till nine." 
 
 "Ten you mean. All right, come on. We shall have to dodge 
 the back window of the house or else father'll see us. Anyway, 
 it's getting dark." 
 
 John Wainright, sitting with his back to the window they 
 escaped indeed, but the keen eye of George Farmer, dropping in 
 for a drink and a smoke, perceived the two figures slink along
 
 22 DOLF 
 
 the cart road, go through the field gate and glide along the 
 hedge to the shed at the far corner of the field. 
 
 "John," he said, "there go your son and my girl. This will 
 never do. I told you she flared up at the idea of marrying you, 
 and I spoke to her pretty straight. You must do your part 
 with the lad, you know. It doesn't give me a chance other- 
 wise. Put your foot down, John." 
 
 Wainwright's face darkened. 
 
 "I've put it down once. The next time I'll kick him out," he 
 snarled. "I've given him every chance, the ungrateful whelp. 
 I'll " 
 
 "Steady, John. No need to lose your temper. You've got a 
 key to the shed, I suppose? They've shut the door because I 
 can see it from here. I've good eyesight, John. We can slip 
 down and lock them in. Then in an hour we'll return and let 
 them out. He'll have made her look a fool, and she won't 
 forgive that. Besides, it'll be a very compromising affair, a girl 
 alone with a young man. We'll pretend we never knew they 
 were inside. I think this is going to help on your courtship 
 a good deal, John." 
 
 Within the shed Tom had flung a cart cushion on a couple of 
 boxes, sat down and taken Dolf into his arms. 
 
 "Now you shall pay me for going off with that officer fel- 
 low," he said, half seriously, half in earnest. Dolf let herself 
 be drawn, resisting, on to his knee, while her slight body in his 
 embrace and her lips under his kisses made expiation. It was 
 part of her philosophy, the system on which she had been 
 brought up, that girls were always naughty or faithless, or 
 clumsy, or forgetful and had to pay for their faults. A man 
 never paid, he took payment. 
 
 They did not hear John Wainwright creep up and turn the 
 key silently in the lock. Dolf, suffering her sweetheart's crude 
 and violent love-making, spun a web of dreams in her quick 
 brain. Already the first honey of kisses had passed. She was 
 comparing her sub-lieutenant with Tom. The sub-lieutenant
 
 DOLF 23 
 
 had certainly eclipsed Tom, and made her want to be a neater, 
 sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land. Her quick percep- 
 tion already realised there was something finer, more spiritual 
 than mere village amours. Ten strokes from the church clock 
 woke her to reality. 
 
 "Oh, Tom, we must go. It's awfully late. And look at my 
 frock." 
 
 The tragedy of her borrowed glory, crumpled and creased 
 beyond all hope, sank deep into her young mind. There would 
 be a bitter reckoning for this play day. A muttered curse from 
 Tom fell on her ears. He fumbled in vain with the door. 
 
 "Someone's locked it. We can't get out. What on earth 
 are we to do?" he exclaimed fretfully. "A nice thing to be 
 found here together in the morning. This is your doing, Miss 
 Dolf!" 
 
 "But I never locked it, and you wanted to come here, Tom!" 
 
 Outside old Wainwright and George Farmer, sitting smoking 
 on a roller, heard the subdued creak of the door, and glanced 
 at one another. Five minutes later Wainwright got up, walked 
 slowly to the shed and unlocked the door with great delibera- 
 tion. He started back in affected horror at the sight of Tom 
 and Dolf, clearly silhouetted in the moonlight. 
 
 "What's this? What are you doing here? Who's that girl 
 with you? Not George Farmer's daughter? God bless my 
 soul! So it's come to this, Tom, and with the daughter of 
 my oldest friend. What have you to say for yourself?" 
 
 He turned on George Farmer a shocked, pious face. 
 
 "George, will you speak to your girl? She's here with Tom, 
 late at night, locked in my shed. Things look very black in- 
 deed." 
 
 George Farmer drew close to Dolf. Anger came easily to 
 him; he would always rather blame than praise. But the 
 pink frock flung down the scale against her. She was hurting 
 his pocket as well as his pride. 
 
 "You Jezebel!" he snarled. "What are you doing here at
 
 24 DOLF 
 
 night with a young man? What are you doing in that dress? 
 Must you add thieving to your other sins? You're no daughter 
 of mine. Here's an upright man; he's asked you in marriage, 
 and this is how you repay him, by luring his son to destruction. 
 What am I to say to him? How can I hide my shame in you?" 
 
 John Wainright raised his hand. 
 
 "No, George, the fault is my son's. He's older than your 
 girl. He knows my wishes, for I've made them plain. He 
 chooses to defy me. You'd better go," he went on, turning 
 to Tom, who stood shame-faced and sulky. "I'll speak to you 
 in the morning when I've slept on this. Leave us." 
 
 Sullenly the young man slunk away. He felt unutterably 
 foolish, and that is purgatory to young men. 
 
 "Your father's told you my hopes concerning you, Miss 
 Dolf," went on old Wainwright more gently. "I don't say this 
 makes any difference. I believe it was just silliness. All I 
 ask is that you'll not refuse this marriage I've set my heart 
 on. I'll undertake that your father will forgive you, too. I've 
 a great love for you that you'll realise easier later on." 
 
 Dolf saw him as he was, with desire in his eyes and covetous- 
 ness in his heart, an old man longing for a young plaything, a 
 despoiler of her youth. She stood straight and defiant in the 
 moonlight and her voice rang with scorn. 
 
 "You want me, but you'll never have me. I'd rather do any- 
 thing anything, you understand. Father can't make me, no 
 one can. I belong to myself and no one else. I won't marry 
 you, I hate you! I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 She paused, panting with emotion and a wild frenzy of in- 
 dependence. Then, in a reaction of terror, she fled home with- 
 out looking back and locked herself in her room. 
 
 Furtively, in sheer animal terror, she undressed and wrapped 
 herself in a coat. She dared not go to bed. She heard her 
 father return with heavy footsteps. His loud voice below filled 
 her with new dread. She feared even physical violence. Grad- 
 ually the sounds died away, her parents went up to bed, the
 
 DOLF 25 
 
 house became still. But to Dolf the stillness brought no calm. 
 She could not rest. To-morrow, day after day, would bring new 
 horrors, revilings, persuasions. She could not face it. She 
 lacked confidence in her own will. One day, sooner or later, she 
 would give before the storm, consent, be married to old John 
 Wainwright. 
 
 "No!" gasped Dolf. "No! No! No!" 
 
 Quietly, sweating with fright, she stole from her room, down 
 the stairs, into the kitchen. Holding her breath to still a leap- 
 ing heart, she unlocked the back door and crept out along the 
 lane, stealing from shadow to shadow until she found herself 
 at the back of Wainwright's house, beneath Tom's window. 
 Then she flung pebble after pebble until the raised sash showed 
 his astonished face. 
 
 "Come down," breathed Dolf. "You must come down and 
 hear what I've got to say. Oh, Tom, you must! I'm so alone, 
 so helpless. Everybody's against me and I'm frightened. Do 
 come." 
 
 He felt a man's nausea at a woman's gambling on her help- 
 lessness when she knows he can do nothing. With a shrug of 
 disgust he turned away, dragged on a raincoat and tiptoed 
 down into the moonlight. 
 
 "You little fool," he said in bitter fury. "Go home. Haven't 
 you done harm enough? Father'll kick me out in the morning. 
 Do you s'pose you're worth being chucked into the gutter for? 
 Why aren't you in bed?" 
 
 The coat fell away from Dolf. She stood a pathetic figure 
 in her nightgown, with tears slowly welling out and rolling down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "I can't!" she gasped. "I can't go home. It's father he's 
 horrible, ghastly. He'd give me to your father." She shud- 
 dered. "Come away with me, Tom. We can get married later, 
 somehow. I don't want to go alone. A girl wants someone 
 just one person in the world. I wouldn't be a bother, and
 
 2 6 DOLF 
 
 I'd do everything you wanted. Do help me, Tom. You said 
 you loved me. I I love you, too." 
 
 Over Tom's face came man's smirk of propriety peculiar 
 to those circumstances when it is an advantage to him. 
 
 "You're a wicked girl," he said solemnly. "I really believe 
 you are wicked. You're not dressed either, not decent. Go 
 back home and try to do better. I'm ashamed of you!" 
 
 Dolf saw him and, in him, Man as a species, with an awful 
 clarity of vision. She marked his unkempt hair, his face al- 
 ready noticeably unshaved, his untidy slippered feet, all the 
 crude unattractiveness of the male in the raw, sleep-ridden 
 state. Then and there her last illusion, the ultimate remnant 
 of a love-tinted fairyland, fled. Bitterly she turned away. 
 
 In the shelter of her room she dressed slowly, methodically 
 in her best blue coat and skirt. To the pink frock she pinned 
 this briefest of farewell notes: "I've gone. I shall not come 
 back. Don't try and make me. Dolf." Then, taking her 
 entire savings, barely five pounds, she started to walk to the 
 next village, four miles away. There was an early train to 
 London at five a. m. And in London there lived her one rela- 
 tive likely to sympathize, her mother's sister, widow of a 
 traveller in the drapery trade, keeper of a cheap boarding house. 
 
 She tramped on automatically, her heart one dull, sick ache. 
 But as the distance lengthened between her and home, life 
 came into her step, her chin lifted insensibly. Youth is so 
 easily intoxicated with the wine of adventure. 
 
 On the station a porter whistled cheerfully. He opened the 
 carriage door for her and waved as the train left. He always 
 waved to pretty girls. 
 
 Dolf leaned out of her carriage window and sighed. A hush 
 brooded over the earth; in the east a pink flush stained the 
 fleecy clouds. She filled her lungs with the sweet morning air 
 and was no longer afraid of the terror by night. Instead, she 
 smiled, and in sudden promise of victory the risen sun flung a 
 golden pathway across the blue desert of the sky.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MRS. BAINBRIDGE leant back in the rep-covered armchair be- 
 fore the cheery fire, her hands folded in a comfortable lap, bless- 
 ing her niece with a fat smile. Above her basement bed-sitting- 
 room her boarders drowsed, sunk in Sunday afternoon reflec- 
 tion. Tea and buttered toast stood on a round mahogany table; 
 the stuffed birds over the mantelpiece gazed fixedly at the 
 plaque of Queen Victoria opposite. The what-not and the chif- 
 fonier lent dignity to an apartment that enshrined the defunct 
 splendour of Mrs. Bainbridge's married life. 
 
 "What I says is, you're in good 'ands," observed that lady 
 complacently. "You take after your mother and my poor 
 'usband that's gone. I say nothing against your father ex- 
 cept that the Farmers never was no good. Your father's led 
 your mother a life, my dear, and you, too. Now you've come 
 to me, your aunt by marriage, and your auntie'll look after 
 you. 'Ave another cup of tea, dearie, and don't be afraid of 
 the toast." 
 
 Dolf, curled up in the other rep-covered armchair, stared at 
 her aunt with eyes like wood-violets. Seventeen has many long 
 thoughts. This Tallentyre Square boarding-house seemed a 
 cross between Heaven and Buckingham Palace after drudging 
 in a country drapery. 
 
 The fat, complacent voice of Mrs. Bainbridge continued to 
 break dreamily on her consciousness. 
 
 "You've got the looks and by and by you'll have the savvy. 
 You ought to do well, my dear, in an establishment like Hoi- 
 bridge & Sellingbourne's, where your auntie's influence 'as got 
 you. It's a mercy my pore 'usband was respected in the 
 drapery business. A girl gets a good many chances in them 
 
 27
 
 28 DOLF 
 
 places, and you can always look the lady. If you can't get the 
 style at the best drapers in London, then there ain't any style 
 to be 'ad. And as you're under my roof all I say is, I don't 
 ask you to be good, but be careful. Remember, it's only a 
 plain girl that need 'ave any trouble. It's your business to take 
 everything and give nothink. You must 'andle the gentlemen, 
 'andle them. It soon comes easy, and the more you puts it over 
 them the more they thinks of you." 
 
 Dolf 's mouth trembled into a smile. 
 
 "I love men," she said dreamily, "nice men. Common men 
 want to order you about, but nice men just look after you. I 
 only knew one. He was a naval officer." 
 
 "You'll see all sorts in London," prophesied Mrs. Bain- 
 bridge, pouring tea thoughtfully from her cup into her saucer. 
 "But if 'e's no money, leave 'im. You wants someone to pay 
 your theatres and chocolates. There's a Mr. Senlake in this 
 very boardin'-'ouse, as nice a gentleman as you could wish, but 
 he owes me four weeks, and 'e'll have to go. Pretty manners 
 won't pay no board bills, though he is that attractive. There 
 have been women 'ere fair mad on 'im one used almost to 
 waylay 'im in the 'all. I keeps my eyes shut, but she 'ad to 
 go. She worried the other boarders, and one of the two 'ad to 
 leave, so I told her her room was bespoke." 
 
 "Why the girl, auntie?" queried Dolf. "You said Mr. Sen- 
 lake couldn't pay. And you wouldn't let a girl run into debt; 
 nobody would." 
 
 "Mr. Senlake has the drawing-room floor bedroom and full 
 board," replied Mrs. Bainbridge crushingly. " 'E's a gentle- 
 man and don't do no work and can afford to owe. They've 
 always got relations who stump up. She 'ad an attic and her 
 breakfast, and paid reg'lar. You can't teach me my business 
 at my time of life, dearie." 
 
 Dolf stretched her feet towards the fire with a little dreamy 
 sigh, like a luxurious cat full of cream and content. Life with 
 a very large L beckoned, and life never beckons in vain to
 
 DOLF 2$ 
 
 pretty seventeen. She divined, as in a vision, glorious golden 
 adventures with really nice men having the charm and protec- 
 tive instincts of naval officers. She smiled across at her aunt 
 as one houri to another, and her aunt nodded back. 
 
 "I been a handful in me time," she confessed, "and I don't 
 say even now I'm past a cuddle if the right gentleman chances 
 along. It'd 'a' bin a dull life since my pore 'usband was killed 
 in the railway accident if I was. You take after me, and men's 
 your lay right enough. But they must be rich. A pore man's 
 no man at all for a pretty girl worse, for 'e simply gets in 'er 
 way. Remember, dearie " 
 
 Sitting by her fire, through a whole Sabbath evening, Mrs. 
 Bainbridge, a widow woman, developed her favourite theme of 
 men. 
 
 Next day, in their dressing-room at Holbridge & Selling- 
 bourne's Dolf stood shyly amongst a score of girls in various 
 stages of disrobing. It was the hour when they put off in- 
 dividual fancies in garments and merged themselves in the cal- 
 culated black silk effect of their House of Business. Little light- 
 hearted Rosamund or Doris lay on the floor, so to speak, amid 
 the street suit of liberty, while a sort or neutral person stood 
 clad in the underclothes of her choice before putting on with 
 her business uniform the responsibilities, the manner, even the 
 voice and intonation of Miss Smith or Miss Robinson of the 
 haberdashery or the millinery. 
 
 Dolf's future lay in the gowns department. Her mission in 
 life for the moment would be to hold pins, scissors and tape- 
 measure, while the Supreme Being of the place moulded silken 
 miracles around the acquiescent form of Moddam or My Lady. 
 Being but a door-keeper in the House, they had chosen for her a 
 meek and simple frock with a low collar very kind to her 
 fair throat, and an innocent style of hair-dressing. With cold 
 excited fingers she put on these disguises as she had been told 
 to do, drawing frantic gasps of courage from the loving lines 
 of the frock and her long black silk legs.
 
 30 DOLF 
 
 A tall dark beautiful girl with a perfect figure lounged up 
 to Dolf , surveying her with an appraising eye. This person en- 
 joyed a sort of calm effrontery and self-confidence that seemed 
 good enough to carry her anywhere she cared to choose in a 
 hostile world. She leant against the back of a chair and smiled. 
 
 "New," she asserted rather than asked; "strange, frightened 
 to death and doesn't want to show it. You're the new kid in 
 our department, I guess. Well, nobody's going to eat you un- 
 less you're a fool. Old Ma Richards, the boss woman's a good 
 sort. My dear, you're like a little ghost. Come here!" 
 
 The goddess took a lip-stick and ran it wisely across Dolf's 
 mouth. She applied a very little rouge to the pale cheeks so 
 that it looked very nearly lifelike. She dusted powder over the 
 face with the lightness of a falling snowflake, and gave a hinted 
 curve to the eyebrows with a cunning finger tip. She examined 
 Dolf's nails, frowned slightly, and did a little deft work with 
 nail polish and a pad. 
 
 "Now hold your chin up and don't choke with nerves and 
 you'll do," she ended, and laughed with such genuine amuse- 
 ment that Dolf broke into a shaky smile. 
 
 "I'm Netta Blatchley. I'm head mannequin and wear the 
 most 'spensive gowns in the way that makes fat old women 
 buy them. Like this! " 
 
 She threw up her head in a haughty stare, curved her beauti- 
 ful body into a faintly arrogant pose, and drifted past Dolf as 
 if hers were the earth and everything that's in it. 
 
 "Gets them every time," she explained casually. "What's 
 your name?" 
 
 "Dolf. Dolf Farmer." 
 
 "You look like Dolf. It suits you. Just a little more buck, 
 and you'll be leading a devil of a life. Have you got a boy?" 
 
 "No," murmured Dolf with her faint smile. "I've only 
 just come to London. I don't know anybody." 
 
 "You must have a boy," insisted Netta with emphasis. "You 
 want someone to pay for your good times. A girl can't keep
 
 DOLF 31 
 
 alive without good times and we can't afford them ourselves on 
 our screws. Besides, you can't have a good time without a man. 
 Leave it to me, and I'll get you off. It's very important to get 
 the right kind of boy, especially for a kid like you. You don't 
 want some experienced old brute who'll scare you to death and 
 then chuck you 'cos you don't know the ropes. You want a 
 boy who'll kiss you and take care of you for a bit, anyway. 
 Boys are like lambs they grow up awful quick." 
 
 She laughed again. Dolf silently admired her big brown 
 eyes, perfectly kept teeth and irresistible atmosphere of cour- 
 age and vitality. 
 
 "I needn't ask if you've got a boy," she said in open ad- 
 miration. 
 
 A swift shadow flickered over the eyes of the elder girl. She 
 glanced round to see if they could be overheard. 
 
 "Oh, I run to a friend and a flat," she retorted carelessly. 
 "D'you know what that means, or are you too young?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know. Even country girls know about men," 
 explained Dolf with gentle contempt. "Is he good to you?" 
 
 "Oh, Billy's not a bad sort as men go. He's away just now. 
 But I want Ronnie Mainwaring for you. He'll come in with 
 Mrs. Bertie, his mother he always does. She's got a fitting 
 this morning. Ronnie's a nice kid, just over twenty and he 
 loves girls and any girl could have him on a string. He's got 
 what he calls ideals, and that makes him easy. He was keen 
 on me, but he didn't suit my book. I'm not a baby-snatcher, 
 and, anyway, Ronnie lives at home and Mrs. Bertie knows too 
 much. Come on, or else we'll be late." 
 
 Dolf followed her rejoicing into a land where it was always 
 afternoon, a paradise of salons in brown, white and gold, peo- 
 pled with attendant peris who spoke in hushed reverential voices 
 of the celestial robes that were their care. Life went to a music 
 of soft, amorous silken garments always priced in guineas and 
 those not a few. Wayward, expensively-shod feet glided over 
 thick carpets, as women curved their pampered bodies into bro-
 
 32 DOLF 
 
 caded chairs and ransacked the treasures of the place to enjoy, 
 if possible, a new thrill. In some cases they oppressed the at- 
 tendants, but these, from long experience, worked on their souls 
 with cunning suggestions and always prevailed. 
 
 Again and again Dolf watched Netta trail past some society 
 woman whose greedy eyes envied her perfect young body, chin 
 tilted, satin shoulders innocent even of a shoulder strap, every 
 lovely line triumphant under its thin silken sheath. Or again 
 she would patter up and down with the quick, eager step proper 
 to the occasion and show the paces of a walking-suit set off 
 to perfection by exactly the right hat, shoes and stockings 
 and Netta. Afterwards the client, having bought only the 
 suit, would wonder pettishly why it looked differently on her. 
 
 At half past eleven, warned by certain secret information se- 
 cretly conveyed, Netta drifted across to Dolf. 
 
 "They're coming," she murmured through still lips, "Mrs. 
 Bertie Mainwaring and Ronnie. Don't do a thing till I tell 
 you. Don't even look at him. Go and pretend to brush those 
 hats on that stand."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THERE entered the salon a typical modern woman of forty, 
 faultlessly attired, her cool stare and faint suggestion of bore- 
 dom scarcely revealing the fact that she fought the passing 
 years desperately with bomb and bayonet, horse foot and guns, 
 from the rising of the sun till the going down thereof. In the 
 evening an armistice took place because artificial light is kind. 
 
 Accompanying her came a boy of twenty or so, evidently her 
 son, the kind of boy only England produces. His carefully de- 
 vised sports had given his slight figure athletic development, his 
 clothes came from the right places, his manners were charming, 
 his intelligence rudimentary and his experience nil. Of respon- 
 sibilities he knew and understood nothing. He had achieved 
 precisely the art of captaining a cricket eleven, and he would 
 rather have died than dine with a coloured handkerchief tucked 
 into the V of his dress waistcoat. 
 
 Mrs. Bertie Mainwaring passed into the fitting chamber; 
 her son remained outside to wait for her. 
 
 It became evident that Netta and he were acquaintances. 
 He strolled across to the small collection of hats and fingered 
 one dubiously. Then he glanced interrogatively at Netta. With 
 a smile suggesting humble gratitude at being noticed she writhed 
 towards him. They entered into conversation, obviously con- 
 cerning the hat, for Netta placed it coquettishly on her dark, 
 wavy head and posed submissively for Man's inspection. Ron- 
 nie's glance wandered discreetly to Dolf, meekly brushing al- 
 ready immaculate headgear. Desirous worship appeared in his 
 eyes; her slender, appealing beauty smote him with its ten- 
 derness and helplessness. 
 
 33
 
 34 DOLF 
 
 "Miss Farmuh!" called Netta's business drawl, "bring the 
 saxe panne beret, and the mettle rose picture hat, please." 
 
 Dolf came, bringing her treasures, her eyes not less velvet 
 than the saxe panne. Ronnie extended a hand for the picture 
 hat and his fingers touched hers. A faint colour ran into Dolf's 
 cheeks ; she dropped her eyelids with their long fair lashes. 
 
 "If you would excuse me one moment, sir," murmured Netta. 
 "These are just a few specimens. I believe we have what you 
 wish in the millinery." 
 
 She curved away in professional humility with one swift, 
 wicked glance at Ronnie. 
 
 Dolf stood waiting like Esther before Ahasuerus, and in her 
 case also the king extended his golden sceptre. 
 
 "Netta told me about you," he whispered, still making play 
 with the hat. "I asked her I had to. You're such a dear. 
 I want to know you awf'ly, I do, really. Won't you come out 
 with me on Saturday? I've got a ripping sidecar outfit. We 
 could go out into the country and have tea somewhere if you've 
 nothing better to do. It's a scarlet sidecar, streamline, and 
 she'll do fifty easy. Do come. My name's Ronnie Main- 
 waring. What's yours?" 
 
 Dolf told him, casting anxious eyes where Netta kept watch 
 in the offing. Inwardly she smiled at his eagerness. Didn't 
 he realise motoring and tea were hardly to be refused by con- 
 trast with stuffy loneliness in a cheap boarding-house? She 
 could almost see him quivering at the effect of her youth and 
 fairness. 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured after a pause, during which 
 Ronnie's heart sank with uncertainty. "I'd love to come. Will 
 you pick me up at Marble Arch, please? Will half-past two 
 do?" 
 
 Even as he assented eagerly came Netta's warning voice from 
 the distance. 
 
 "Miss Farmuh wanted in the fitting-room, please. Miss Beres- 
 ford, will you show the gentleman hats?"
 
 DOLF 35 
 
 All that week Dolf woke in the morning with the divine sen- 
 sation that something nice would happen soon. Pushing the 
 fair hair out of her eyes as she dragged herself back to con- 
 sciousness from the gates of sleep she knew the something nice 
 to be Saturday and Ronnie. 
 
 "You must grab him from the beginning and hold him tight," 
 repeated Netta again and again. "You've got the chance of 
 a lifetime. He might even marry you. He's young enough 
 and dotty enough to do anything. At the worst it means a 
 jolly good time for you as long as you can make it last." 
 
 Dolf smiled, the calmjsmile of perfect content. These plot- 
 tings and schemings left her untouched. All she knew was that 
 to be with Ronnie was to be near a white-hot flame. She loved 
 the idea of playing with fire. 
 
 "I wish I'd got anything to go with the sidecar, Netta. He 
 said it was scarlet. I've nothing but dark blue." 
 
 "I'll lend you something a skirt and a jumper, the loveliest 
 scarlet you can think of, I used to wear roller-skating last win- 
 ter. We can alter it to fit you in no time, and you can wear 
 black silk stockings and a little black velvet hat. Nothing sets 
 off a girl's legs like black silk. Come round to the flat after 
 business and we'll fix you up." 
 
 Day by day Dolf learnt many things. The wisdom of this 
 world came to her in the dressing-room chatter. She was pop- 
 ular and the girls talked of their boys, their adventures, their 
 hopes and escapes. All day she breathed the scented sensuous 
 atmosphere of clothes and learnt from the well-bred indolent 
 women who bought them. There were more creams and pow- 
 ders and puffs and manicure tools on her attic dressing-table 
 than she ever dreamt of in the old life at home. 
 
 On one of those evenings lying between her and Saturday, 
 Dolf wandered with faintly lagging footsteps along the gray 
 street to her Bloomsbury boarding-house. The sweet lassi- 
 tude of the air intoxicated her. A sigh seemed to go up 
 from London lying breathless in the pale gold sunshine like
 
 3 6 DOLF 
 
 a woman, rapturous in the discovery that she is not yet old, 
 waiting for her lover. The nesting birds twittered from every 
 roof, a daffodil-seller at a street corner was vending yellow glory 
 at sixpence a bunch, and from nowhere in particular a boy in 
 a grey suit came swinging toward her with worship in his 
 eyes. 
 
 His light clothes, his young swift movement, his good looks 
 matched all the rest and his sudden almost astounded admira- 
 tion was for her only a crowning glory of a perfect day. She 
 smiled faintly. She would have been neither surprised nor 
 annoyed if he had stopped and spoken. But Ronnie held her 
 thoughts just then and the boy in grey passed on. Yet out 
 of her haze of dreamy content she knew that he went more 
 slowly than he came, and that once he halted outright, as if 
 looking back. 
 
 On Saturday Ronnie Mainwaring, checking his eleven horse- 
 power twin-cylinder motorcycle at the curb-edge opposite the 
 Marble Arch, caught his breath at the sight of a slight, scarlet 
 figure with long black silk legs ending in small patent shoes. 
 He swung down beside her and raised a be-goggled cap. Dolf, 
 outwardly shy and sweet, inwardly calm and interested, ad- 
 mired under lowered lids his beautiful breeches and gaiters, 
 double-breasted waterproof and great gloves. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Dolf, darling." 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Mainwaring." 
 
 "Say Ronnie!" 
 
 "Ronnie, then." 
 
 She smiled and looked full at him. His hands trembled as 
 he helped her into the sidecar, buttoned the apron over her and 
 adjusted the windscreen. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" he asked breathlessly. 
 
 "Anywhere you like," murmured Dolf, to whom all roads 
 were one. She took for granted his ability to drive, to find the 
 right place, to look after her generally with the pathetic faith 
 with which all girls are born.
 
 DOLF 37 
 
 "Let's make it Buckinghamshire, then, and picnic. I've got 
 a tea-basket on the luggage grid. We can dine somewhere when 
 we get back." 
 
 He got into the saddle, started the engine and introduced 
 Dolf to the vice of speed. Ronnie could drive; the scarlet out- 
 fit seemed alive in his hands. He threaded a deft path through 
 the traffic and outside town the big engine shook off the miles 
 without an effort. Dolf lay back in a dream, watching the 
 boyish figure beside her juggle with his toy. Only once he 
 slowed a little in the quiet of the country to lean over and kiss 
 her once, desperately, straight on the mouth. Dreamily she 
 tilted her head and let him. After all, there is only one life to 
 live . . . 
 
 At last they turned from the main road and climbed up and 
 up a narrow lane on second gear. The lane gave place to green 
 hillside; finally Ronnie halted at a little patch of wood below 
 the crest of the hill. 
 
 "Here," he said simply. 
 
 He lifted Dolf out of her seat and stood her on the ground 
 beside him. His left arm went behind her head and he kissed 
 her with long, breathless kisses, until his passion spent itself a 
 little. Dolf let him; he could never shake her inward calm, 
 but she loved the sensation of maddening this big handsome 
 boy. 
 
 "You mustn't!" she half whispered when he paused. "I 
 must," he returned unsteadily. "You're the darlingest thing 
 and I love you. Let's sit down." 
 
 He spread a rug on the grass and side by side in the sun- 
 shine of early summer they fed one another on Ronnie's choco- 
 lates. He delighted to poise them on her lips or take them from 
 her manicured fingertips. 
 
 "You're a brick," he murmured, drawing her to him so that 
 her head nestled against his tweed shoulder. Her hat had fallen 
 to the ground, and the fair hair strayed in wavy confusion. 
 "And you're a mysterious witch, too, because you're as cool
 
 38 DOLF 
 
 as ice and I can't make your heart beat a shade faster, and 
 mine's thumping like blazes." 
 
 "I'm a girl, you see. Boys are more silly than girls. Are 
 kisses so frightfully exciting? Haven't you ever kissed a girl 
 before?" 
 
 The little slow drawl maddened him still more than the feel 
 of her in his arms, or the dainty profile turned towards him. 
 Her left hand played idly with the leather buttons of his coat. 
 Suddenly she laughed softly, triumphantly, half tenderly, and 
 pressed her face against his heart. It was her moment; she had 
 conquered, by herself, of her own power. 
 
 "Silly!" she crooned. "You are a baby over girls, Ronnie 
 a nice baby, though. Aren't you?" 
 
 "P'rhaps," came his voice, half muffled, his lips against her 
 bent head. He leant forward and stroked one ankle. 
 
 "You've got the loveliest legs, Dolf simply heavenly. 
 Haven't you?" 
 
 Dolf was not shocked; from her earliest years, partly from 
 instinct, partly from experience, men had been an open book 
 to her. Nevertheless she knew what is expedient. 
 
 "Don't," she said in a small cold voice, and drew away from 
 him. 
 
 "Why not?" he pleaded. "You're the prettiest thing, Dolf, 
 and you said yourself I'm only a baby. Where's the harm?" 
 
 Smiling inwardly Dolf turned a haughty face to him. She 
 knew her power drawn from her girl's reserve of sanity that 
 never fails. 
 
 "Because I don't like that sort of thing. We're out here 
 alone and I expect you to behave decently. How would you 
 like some man to take your sister, if you've got one, out 
 motoring and not play fair?" 
 
 What wonderful instinct guides little girls along their 
 chequered path? No words could have touched Ronnie more 
 deeply than those two "play fair." He had been playing
 
 DOLF 39 
 
 games all his life. A shamed flush broke over his face and 
 spread to his very throat. 
 
 "My God, Dolf, I am a brute!" he exclaimed. "I'm not 
 fit to kiss your hand, let alone you. I don't know what I was 
 thinking of. I ought to have known and you just a kid earn- 
 ing your own living in London. Say you forgive me! I'll be 
 as good as gold f'r ever 'n ever. I promise." 
 
 He took her face between his hands and gazed into her eyes. 
 
 "Forgive me?" 
 
 "Ye-es." 
 
 Very gently he put his lips to hers. 
 
 "You dear," he murmured. 
 
 Through all Dolf's veins little joy-devils rioted. She had 
 used her power again and won. First it had maddened him, 
 then when the foreseen obvious happened, it had broken him. 
 
 There were no devils left in Ronnie. The whirlwind of his 
 passion had passed, leaving a soft spring south wind of boy 
 worship. He overwhelmed her with a myriad little tendernesses, 
 pretty nothings of butterfly kisses for her eyes and framing her 
 face in a setting of her hair crossed beneath her chin. It was 
 Ronnie who made tea, who packed up, who lifted her gently 
 back into the sidecar and kissed her good night because he 
 couldn't later. They dined at a little quiet restaurant where 
 his clothes didn't matter. 
 
 "It's been a heavenly day," sighed Ronnie. "I love you. 
 When can you meet me to-morrow?" 
 
 Dolf, playing with a glass of red wine, which she didn't like 
 very much, but chose because it looked so pretty, laughed softly 
 and happily. 
 
 "Do you want me very much to-morrow, Ronnie?" 
 
 "You know I do." 
 
 His foot found hers beneath the table and she responded 
 gently to the pressure. 
 
 "Will you take me to tea somewhere where they have music?" 
 
 "The Carlton," said Ronnie, instantly.
 
 40 DOLF 
 
 "Not there. I haven't a frock for the Carlton." 
 
 "The Waldorf, then. We can have a table hidden in a clump 
 of palms. May I call for you?" 
 
 "Ye-es." She felt that a Bloomsbury boarding-house would 
 frighten him no longer. It was safe now. "And will you take 
 me home, please? I'm getting so sleepy." 
 
 She snuggled down happily in the sidecar. Outside her Tal- 
 lentyre Square caravanserai he kissed her swiftly. His last im- 
 pression was a slender scarlet figure waving a hand behind a 
 closing door. Ronnie sighed gustily. Then he tore fiercely 
 through the quiet streets and stayed the vague sick feeling of 
 new love with two large whiskies and sodas.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN the pitch dark of the drawing-room floor landing, Dolf 
 stumbled over a pair of legs. The faint glow of a cigarette 
 revealed the presence of a male, judging from the legs, seated 
 on a plush settee with which the proprietress suggested addi- 
 tional richness to the squatters of that opulent level. 
 
 "I beg your parden," murmured a quiet, lazy voice. "Prop- 
 erly speaking, I should be in bed and asleep. I sit on this 
 piece of furniture occasionally, simply, as it were, to get my 
 money's worth. Do forgive me." 
 
 Dolf laughed softly. 
 
 "I've just come in. My room's one of the attics. I s'pose 
 you're Mr. Senlake if you live on this floor. I forgive you, if 
 there's anything to forgive. Why do you sit in the dark?" 
 
 "Cos' it's after eleven o'clock and they put out the lights at 
 eleven. Where have you been, fair lady? I like not these late 
 wanderings. You sound too young and beautiful to risk them. 
 Confess!" 
 
 She came to rest on the arm of the settee next to him; he 
 became conscious of a faint odour of violets, Egyptian ciga- 
 rettes, face powder and Girl. 
 
 "You've been out with a boy," he accused. 
 
 "Yes, I have the dearest boy, with a ripping sidecar, and 
 we had tea in the country and dined in town." 
 
 "And he kissed you and said he loved you, and was chival- 
 rous and knightly and you're going out again to-morrow and 
 every evening until the crash comes. It's very young and 
 energetic of you." 
 
 "What'll be the crash?" queried Dolf, playing with her gloves. 
 
 "Why ask? One day he'll want more than you care to give, 
 
 41
 
 42 DOLF 
 
 or else you'll give it, and then he'll get fed-up. Take an old 
 sinner's advice always keep a man guessing unless you marry 
 him." 
 
 "And if I marry him?" 
 
 His delayed answer came in a tone unexpectedly bitter. 
 
 "Oh, keep on keeping him guessing. But you'll do that of 
 your own accord. What's your name?" 
 
 "Dolf. What's yours?" 
 
 "Guy Henry de Blancheforet Senlake, generally Guy to the 
 nicest little girls. Now you must go to bed. You're keeping 
 me up." 
 
 Dolf laughed again. She was a different Dolf with this 
 strange attractive person a frank unaffected girl without a 
 hint of pose. 
 
 "Good night," she murmured, holding out her hand in the 
 dark. He took it and held it. 
 
 "Listen," he commanded. "You sound quite pretty and new 
 to this village. Don't run past yourself, even if you do have 
 every chance." 
 
 "Thank you for the advice," she laughed. "If I get bothered 
 by any man you shall kill him for me. And why did you call 
 yourself old? You aren't old?" 
 
 "I hope," he said thoughtfully, "that thirty will seem nicer 
 to you than it does to me. Night-night, Dolf, dear." 
 
 "Night-night," she responded thoughtfully, adding, after a 
 pause, "Guy!" 
 
 Up in her attic room she smiled vaguely as she undressed. 
 
 She had learnt a new lesson. Here was another man, more 
 experienced, more interesting than Ronnie, with whom she 
 could be candid because he was out of the hunt. With Ronnie 
 she knew herself the quarry whether he did or not; Guy she 
 could trust because some other chase engrossed him. 
 
 "Evidently a man can't be your friend and your lover at 
 the same time. Wonder which is nicer?" murmured Dolf as 
 she drifted into oblivion.
 
 DOL* 43 
 
 The weeks passed like a rainbow dream dominated by Ron- 
 nie. He monopolised every spare moment of her life. His flow- 
 ers strewed her dressing table, his gold wristlet watch en- 
 circled her left arm, his platinum pendant lay gently on her 
 breast beneath the prosaic business gown of every day. Almost 
 every night she dined with him somewhere in the pink evening 
 gown that was a birthday present from him a tender, clinging 
 thing that accentuated her fair slightness into an animate heart- 
 break. 
 
 Netta, Dolf's hostess for a week, exulted openly. 
 
 "He's mad on you, dear. He told me so, and anyone 
 can see it. Of course he'll marry you we must make him. 
 You're pretty enough and clever enough to manage anybody. 
 Only he'll have to be wangled into it because Ronnie's a young 
 man who'll go on and on as long as he's happy and not give a 
 damn for the future. That's all right for a man, but a girl 
 can't afford it." 
 
 "No," murmured Dolf, taking one of Ronnie's cigarettes out 
 of her mouth and putting one of his chocolates in. "But it's 
 lovely for a bit, Netta. I'm awf'ly happy." 
 
 Netta stood brushing out her dark hair, staring at Dolf 
 curled up on the bed. 
 
 "If he only saw you in that nfghtie he'd never rest until 
 he'd got a marriage license in his pocket," she said. "You're 
 the loveliest kid I've ever seen, Dolf. We're a bit of a con- 
 trast, you and I, aren't we?" 
 
 Dolf looked up, her blue eyes faintly clouded. She saw her- 
 self slender and virginal, with the subtle untellable appeal of 
 innocence emanating from her; Netta stood confessed, though 
 perfect in every line, radiantly beautiful, armed at all points 
 against the world, a girl who had sold her reputation for a song, 
 golden though it might be, and sung in beautiful surroundings. 
 
 In her heart of hearts Netta waited for the inevitable change 
 of key from major to minor, when Love's anthem should modu- 
 late into Love's funeral march.
 
 44 DOLF 
 
 "One just chooses," Dolf said finally. 
 
 "One does," echoed Netta with grim emphasis, "and you'll 
 choose marriage. Now, look here; you'd better invite Ronnie 
 here to dinner and I'll dine out. Let it be the day after to- 
 morrow. After dinner you'll look seedy and go to bed. As a 
 great favour you'll let him come in and say good night before 
 he goes and tuck you up. Arrange the scene for nine-thirty, and 
 I'll come in just then and assume you've fixed it up and are 
 engaged. That'll give him just the shove in the right direction 
 he needs. Get me?" 
 
 Dolf shook her fair head. 
 
 "I don't like the idea. It seems like a trick," she objected. 
 
 "And men never trick girls, do they? A glass or so of wine 
 too much, a little something in the coffee 7 know. My dear, 
 every girl's an outlaw and all men are against her. Don't be a 
 little fool." 
 
 She sat on the bed and put her arms round Dolf. "I don't 
 want to seem hard, but I do know. And, anyway, it can't do 
 any harm. Promise?" 
 
 "Right-ho. I promise," said Dolf after a pause. 
 
 The next day, when Ronnie met her as usual after business, 
 she invited him to Netta's flat at the back of Oxford Street, 
 her arm linked through Minnie Harding's. With Minnie Hard- 
 ing she went home to supper by special invitation. 
 
 Minnie was good and plain and lived in a bed-sitting-room 
 in Pimlico. She exhibited the bright eternal courage and con- 
 tentment with her lot that are the privilege of the good and 
 plain. No boy comforted her and caressed her because none 
 desired her; it was Minnie's joy to reveal that she cared for 
 none of these things, that she had what she wanted and wanted 
 what she had. 
 
 Dolf roamed vaguely round Minnie's little realm, despising 
 inwardly, with her newly-found in? : stcnce on these things, the 
 lack of unguents and aids to beauty, the dull clothes, the scanty 
 amenities of all kinds that distinguished Minnie, who was cook-
 
 DOLF 45 
 
 ing something female and nasty on an oil stove. In her travels 
 she came upon the photograph of a man, bland and blase, 
 standing in a place of honour and said nothing. Presently they 
 fell to on a meal of sardines, scone and margarine, tinned 
 peaches and muddy coffee. Later Minnie refused a cigarette 
 and sat beaming all over her shiny face. She was having a great 
 time. 
 
 "Minnie," exclaimed Dolf at last, "why do you do it? Why 
 don't you get a boy? Why d'you grub along with stuffy clothes 
 arid oil-stove teas when you could be taken out to dinner and 
 given frocks and things. Where's the attraction?" 
 
 Minnie shook her head and smiled. She always smiled. 
 
 "I have my independence," she said in her little precise 
 fashion. "I don't think a nice girl wants to feel she's frittered 
 away her heart in empty flirting when Mr. Right comes along. 
 She would feel unworthy," Minnie blushed, "to be the mother 
 of his children. I rather wish, Dolf, I could persuade you to 
 be a little more serious. You're such a nice girl." 
 
 She glanced reprovingly at Dolf's smart, frivolous clothes, 
 cigarette and carefully designed complexion. Dolf sniffed. 
 
 "Unfortunately this sort of thing doesn't attract Mr. Right, 
 Minnie, nor even Mr. Wrong. He likes a smart girl to take out. 
 If no one ever takes you out you'll never be the mother of his 
 children unless that's Mr. Right over there." She jerked 
 the cigarette towards the photo on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "That," replied Minnie primly, "is a very dear friend, whom 
 I once thought would be my fairy prince. Ours was a very 
 beautiful friendship, Dolf, but it will never be anything more. 
 Love is like that sometimes, and it's a girl's privilege to give. It 
 was all very sweet and lovely. I could never turn from the 
 memory of those days to mere frivolling." 
 
 "Well, Minnie, I take men as I find them. They're all 
 out for what they can get, and we have to be the same. You're 
 a juggins, but it's your affair. I don't s'pose you approve of
 
 46 DOLF 
 
 me, but I'd rather be me than you. At any rate, I enjoy 
 myself." 
 
 Dolf stifled a yawn and took her leave. She walked away 
 from Pimlico with gay, fastidious steps, hugging the joy of silk 
 stockings and a neat town suit. 
 
 "Netta's right. I'll play up to Ronnie for all I'm worth. 
 Any thing's better than being a Minnie Harding," she mur- 
 mured. A great, gleaming motor 'bus thundered along and Dolf 
 sprang on the step as if she fled from some tangible pursuing 
 horrors. 
 
 After Dolf had gone, Minnie stood gazing long and earnestly 
 at the photo on the mantelpiece. Then she opened a drawer 
 in her dressing-table and took out a little box. It contained a 
 wedding ring and this also she considered with pathetic in- 
 tensity. 
 
 " 'A beautiful friendship that will never be anything more,' " 
 she quoted ironically. "And Dolf thinks she knows, and hurries 
 forward, another poor fool, to give herself to some man who'll 
 despise her." 
 
 She put away the ring and shut the drawer. 
 
 "Better an oil-stove tea and your own soul than the Ritz 
 and a heartache," she concluded scornfully. "I've tried both, 
 and I know best." 
 
 The silk facings of Ronnie's dinner jacket gleamed less softly 
 than the white bare arms and shoulders of Dolf opposite him. 
 There were flowers on Netta's tiny dining-table, and red wine 
 in their glasses. The smoke of Dolf's cigarette curled upward 
 dreamily and her eyes seemed deeper than ever. She raised 
 them and smiled at him unfathomably. 
 
 "Do you love me still, Ronnie?" 
 
 "Love you? My God!" 
 
 His voice shook. He stretched out his hand, took hers, and 
 laid his cheek against it in absolute surrender. 
 
 Dolf pushed back the fair hair from her brow and sighed 
 wearily.
 
 DOLF 47 
 
 "Do you mind if I'm a sleepy girl and go to bed early? I'm 
 rather tired to-night. I'd have put off this joy-evening only I 
 thought p'raps you'd be disappointed. If you'll promise to be 
 very good, you may brush my hair for me, if you like; will 
 you?" 
 
 The incipient passion faded from Ronnie's eyes. At once 
 he was all protecting and careful, as she had calculated. The 
 risks of the game disappeared. 
 
 " 'Course I will, darling. Who wouldn't be good to you. 
 Will you come back when you're ready?" 
 
 Dolf wandered away on lagging feet. In Netta's bedroom 
 she smiled at her reflection, dusted her face and neck with a 
 powder-puff and undressed slowly. It would be well to keep 
 him waiting. She crept lovingly into a silk, beribboned night- 
 gown of Netta's, put on over it a long pink silk dress-wrap fas- 
 tened high at the throat, picked up a brush and comb, and saun- 
 tered back. Ronnie stood in speechless rapture at the sight 
 of the long fair hair and tiny slippered feet. 
 
 "You look about fifteen," he murmured. "Do I brush it 
 like this? Am I hurting? It seems an awful stiff brush for a 
 little girl's head." 
 
 When she had plaited the little girl's hair in two long plaits 
 and tied them with pink bows, she glanced up. 
 
 "I'm ready. Will you tuck me up and say good night?" She 
 glanced at the clock. It pointed exactly to 9.25. 
 
 Ronnie followed her. He experienced that feeling of delicious 
 awe at seeing for the first time a young girl's bedroom. Typi- 
 cally enough, he discounted Netta entirely. Slowly Dolf slid 
 out of the dressing-wrap. 
 
 "Turn away and shut your eyes a moment," she commanded. 
 Ronnie turned. He heard a quick scuffle behind him. A soft 
 voice said: "Now you may look." 
 
 He stood. He saw her sitting up in bed with only her 
 bare arms and shoulders visible. She looked so good and pure 
 and little he could almost have wept. Something in his eyes
 
 48 DOLF 
 
 almost made Dolf ashamed to be loved so much, for a faint 
 pink stole into her cheeks. She held up her mouth innocently as 
 a child. 
 
 "Good night, Ronnie." 
 
 He knelt on the edge of the bed and kissed her very gently. 
 Her arms stole around his neck. 
 
 "You are a dear to me," she whispered. 
 
 "Who wouldn't be?" 
 
 Breaking on his words came the click of the hall door. Netta 
 stepped across the brief hall humming something about coming 
 back to the shack, and entered her bedroom without knocking. 
 She found Ronnie standing by the bed, a little confused, a little 
 defiant. 
 
 "My godfathers and godmothers " she began, and then 
 
 revelation seemed to illumine her mind. "I s'pose you've fixed 
 it up at last then? But you really can't begin your honeymoon 
 at once, in my flat, young man. Kindly pull yourself together 
 just a little." 
 
 Ronnie almost staggered. Had he crossed the Rubicon? Was 
 it irrevocable? Must he? Then his eyes returned to Dolf, 
 looking like a snowflake in the first flush of dawn. 
 
 "We haven't, but it's not my fault. Will you, Dolf, darling? 
 Could you? Do you like me enough?" 
 
 "What for, Ronnie?" 
 
 "To marry me," ended Ronnie, getting out the horrid word 
 like a man. 
 
 Dolf lowered her eyelids as a regiment lowers its colours to 
 a King. 
 
 "If you really want me to." 
 
 Ronnie walked all the way home thinking mainly of his aris- 
 tocratic mother, his allowance, their many friends. Then the 
 flaming optimism of youth caught and overwhelmed him. 
 
 "She's a darling! I love her. I don't care a damn!" he ex- 
 claimed. Vaguely, however, he wished he did not have to tell 
 himself so.
 
 DOLF 49 
 
 Dolf, returning Bloomsburywards after her visit to Netta, 
 encountered Senlake sitting on the plush settee, smoking a pen- 
 sive cigarette. 
 
 "Salaam," he observed solemnly. "Tarry awhile, and tell me 
 the news. You look as if something had happened." 
 
 "I'm engaged," she explained, resting as usual on the arm 
 of the settee. "It's rather exciting, isn't it?" 
 
 "To whom? The young man of the motorcycle? What's 
 his name?" 
 
 "Ronnie Mainwaring. His mother's Mrs. Bertie Mainwar- 
 ing, and they live in Park Street." 
 
 "I congratulate you," murmured Senlake thoughtfully. "I 
 seem to know the name. Think you'll both be happy?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Ah! There you have me. Now I envy him your youth 
 and beauty. Look here, to-morrow's Sunday. Come for a 
 walk after breakfast and tell me all about it unless you're 
 going out with him. Will you?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Ronnie can't see me till tea-time. I'd like to. Thanks. 
 Cheerio!" 
 
 "Why should I bother?" murmured Senlake after she had 
 gone. "Let her find out for herself and suffer." He lit a ciga- 
 rette fretfully. "And yet it's rotten, to make a kid pay for 
 the wickedness of a woman she doesn't even know. She isn't 
 like my wife, either; she looks as if she'd be square with a 
 man." 
 
 He wandered out to a telephone box and looked up the Main- 
 warings' number. 
 
 "Is Mr. Mainwaring in? Who are you? His servant? This 
 is er ah Sir Vincent Coventry speaking. No, I can't ring 
 up again, I'm dining out. Where will Mr. Mainwaring be to- 
 morrow morning about eleven? I see riding in the park with 
 his cousin, Lady Victoria Kerr. Thank you. I shall probably 
 see him there. No, no message. Good-bye."
 
 50 DOLF 
 
 "The enemy seems delivered into my hands," murmured Sen- 
 lake, strolling back to his boarding-house. In the morning 
 he said, "Let's go and see life in the park." 
 
 Sitting next to Dolf in her Sunday best on a green chair in 
 the second rank while a Sabbath sun bathed the Row in gold, 
 he conversed with a honeyed tongue. 
 
 "It's a good match for you, Dolf, my friend. I congratu- 
 late you. The Mainwarings are bloated aristocrats. Ronnie's 
 s'posed to be marrying Lady Victoria Kerr. What does his 
 mother say?" 
 
 "Don't know. That's his affair." 
 
 "How about the girl. Think it's fair on her?" 
 
 "She had a better chance than me. Let her take it." 
 
 Senlake laughed. 
 
 "I agree. And you love Ronnie?" 
 
 'Course I do." 
 
 "Think you're doing him a good turn?" 
 
 "Why are you so down on my marrying him?" she asked 
 bluntly. "You don't want me to marry you" 
 
 "Hardly, dear thing. I have a wife already." He saw her 
 surprise. "Ah, you wonder why I live alone, and in Tallentyre 
 Square. But that's not a pleasant story, so let's leave it." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said after a pause. "Was she beastly to 
 you?" 
 
 "She has other interests, or lovers, or whatever you like to 
 call them." 
 
 "But you still care for her, don't you? Men always do." 
 
 He laughed bitterly. 
 
 "I s'pose so, and she knows it. Still I had some pride 
 enough to leave her, anyhow. Some day I shall pluck up 
 enough courage to be free altogether." 
 
 "You belong to this life here," asserted Dolf, indicating the 
 beautifully dressed women and clean-cut men strolling past. 
 "And you've spent all you have on her and she gives you noth- 
 ing in return. Oh, she must be horribly wicked."
 
 DOLF 51 
 
 He shook his head gently. 
 
 "She's my wife at present anyway, so let's leave it at that. 
 I don't respect myself particularly and some day I may alter. 
 Again, I mayn't. What difference does it make?" 
 
 He kept his eyes on the riders, watching for the pair he hoped 
 would not fail him. Meanwhile Dolf, though she was touched 
 by his loneliness, had more concern for her own affairs. 
 
 "But, Guy, I'd not be that sort of a wife, so I don't see 
 why 
 
 He interrupted her. His eyes, constantly alert, had perceived 
 a couple of riders enter by the Hyde Park Corner gate. 
 
 "Are you still going to marry Ronnie?" he asked softly. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "But look!" 
 
 She looked. She saw Ronnie and a girl go past at a walk, 
 both perfectly mounted, perfectly turned out. The girl riding 
 astride in immaculate kit was thoroughbred from boot to hat. 
 She rode as one rides who had ridden from babyhood. Dolf 
 saw a new Ronnie, a stranger to her the Ronnie of Park Street 
 and all it implies. The riders passed on with a jingle of bit and 
 stirrup-iron, engrossed in one another. Dolf turned to Sen- 
 lake with pale face and blazing eyes. 
 
 "I hate you!" she stormed. "But for you I'd have married 
 him and been happy for a time, anyway. Ob, how I loathe 
 you!" 
 
 "But Ronnie wouldn't be happy. You've got on the wrong 
 hat and you're showing too much stocking. They notice these 
 things in Park Street," murmured Senlake, who knew when 
 cruelty is kindness. 
 
 "Let me think. Wait here while I make up my mind," she 
 insisted, and he acquiesced. 
 
 Behind them stood a cluster of trees. Thither Dolf took her 
 problem and the pain at her heart. The trees grew but fifty 
 yards away, yet Senlake's case emptied itself completely as he 
 lit one cigarette after another and stared idly at the passing
 
 52 DOLF 
 
 throng. He had this much pity he would not intrude even 
 by so much as a glance on the bitterness of her struggle. 
 
 At last, aware of a movement at his side, he looked up and 
 saw her, white- faced and scornful, looking down at him in fury. 
 
 "You've won but I never want to speak to you again," she 
 said coldly, and was turning away when Senlake's touch de 
 tained her. 
 
 Her gaze went from his pale face to a cantering couple on 
 whom he had swiftly turned his back, a superb auburn-haired 
 woman whose delicacy of colouring almost surpassed Dolf's 
 own, though she must have been nearly thirty, and with her a 
 tall man, insolent-eyed, handsome. 
 
 "Your wife!" Dolf gasped with prophetic insight. 
 
 Senlake nodded. On his lips hovered a twisted smile. 
 
 "And you let me know because ?" 
 
 "Because now we're like two street beggars, who, in an idle 
 moment, show each other their empty pockets." 
 
 He left her to her pain, going away to be alone with his. 
 And she realised slowly what it had cost him to bring her here. 
 
 Dolf chose as a scene for her renunciation the sitting-room 
 which boarders might hire wherein to entertain friends. To 
 Ronnie she knew it would be a dreadful place, and the dinner 
 a vile dinner. She took care her face should be over-made-up, 
 her skirt too short, her blouse too decollete, and her jewellery 
 too obviously false. Her role was the common little girl and 
 she played it admirably. 
 
 She saw with bitter amusement Ronnie's thinly disguised hor- 
 ror at the surroundings. Everything she could do that jarred 
 on his nerves she did. Finally, sending a cloud of cigarette 
 smoke ceilingwards, she asked: 
 
 "Do you still love me, Ronnie?" 
 
 "Of course," he answered with an effort. 
 
 "Better than the girl you were riding with yesterday in the 
 Park?" 
 
 Ronnie flushed.
 
 DOLF 53 
 
 "We can leave her out of it. She hardly comes into the 
 question." 
 
 "No," retorted Dolf. "You can leave me out of it. She 
 comes into it more than I do." 
 
 "What d'you mean?" 
 
 Dolf got up, sat on the edge of the table and swung a far 
 too obvious leg. , 
 
 "I mean this. As far as you're concerned I'm a joy-girl. 
 We've done nothing wrong, but that's your attitude. You'd 
 never have asked me to marry you, only Netta made you. Your 
 people'll fight me like cats, and if we were married they'd ignore 
 me, and you, too, as much as they could. That's not good 
 enough for me. You're not the only man in the world. I'm 
 only seventeen. I don't love you, and I don't want you at 
 that price. See?" 
 
 She took off a diamond ring and gave it to him. 
 
 "If you could deny all this, I'd listen, but you can't, so don't 
 try. Let's say good-bye and end it." 
 
 Ronnie got up and stood looking at her. His lips framed 
 noble and contradictory words, but the leaping of his heart in 
 sheer relief choked him. A picture formed itself in his mind 
 the picture of the girl before him meeting his mother, for the 
 fitting of whose gowns, in the ordinary way, she held pins. 
 
 "If that's how you feel," he said, and strove to look injured, 
 "why, good-bye. If you ever need a friend . . ." 
 
 "I doubt it," she answered very clearly and distantly. "This 
 is good-bye, Ronnie. Don't make any mistake about it." 
 
 Alone in her attic bedroom, Dolf brooded forlornly on life and 
 its bitterness till her eyes drowned themselves in a rush 
 of tears. She went slowly to the window and gazed up at the 
 stars for comfort, as in her bad moments she always did. They 
 seemed to her so remote, impartial, compassionate. 
 
 Far below the street door slammed. Looking down she be- 
 held Senlake, in Harris tweed, an ash stick in his hand, stroll 
 away none knew whither.
 
 54 DOLF 
 
 Somehow the sight comforted Dolf. She was not alone in 
 misfortune; there went another down and out, worse off than 
 herself. He was married, broken, a failure; she had fallen 
 merely to rise again, free as air with none to gainsay her. 
 
 Dolf heaved a great sigh over the mystery and adventure of 
 life. Then she crawled into bed and slept, being very weary.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 YET when days, a week passed and she never encountered Sen- 
 lake she began to wonder where he was. Now that she thought 
 of it there had been finality in the sound of that slammed door. 
 But if he had gone her aunt would have told her. 
 
 That was exactly what her aunt did tell her almost imme- 
 diately. Senlake had called, paid his rent in full, and taken 
 away his things, leaving no address. 
 
 "How did he look?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Bainbridge cast back into a fertile memory. 
 
 "Sort of cheered up, I'd say new suit not that he 'asn't 
 always been a credit to my place, I'll say that for him, and a 
 very 'andsome present 'e left, too. But his sort always does 
 what's right and proper by a widow lady. A very nice gentle- 
 man. But there, 'e's gone and I suppose that's the last of him. 
 You should 'ave got to know 'im better, my dearie; even if 
 he 'adn't 'ad much money to spend on you, 'e might 'ave done 
 you a friendly turn now and then." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Dolf softly. Then she threw up her head. 
 "But as you say, he's gone and probably that's the last of him." 
 And with a shrug that hid wounded pride, a vague regret, she 
 left the eloquent atmosphere of her aunt. "I must forget him," 
 she told herself. "It oughtn't to be hard in London." 
 
 As long as a girl is pretty and intelligent adventure always 
 beckons. It beckoned now through the Boy in Grey. 
 
 Whether a week or a thousand ages had passed since she first 
 met him, Dolf neither knew nor cared. She saw him come 
 swinging up the same street and at once she remembered that 
 evening when he had all but stopped in her path, and she, 
 absorbed with Ronnie, had gone on and forgotten. 
 
 55
 
 56 DOLF 
 
 But the boy had not forgotten this girl with the eyes like 
 violets. And now as they approached each other, he so eagerly, 
 she with smiling recognition, the ineffable call went out from 
 him to her and was answered, so that if he had walked up to 
 her and kissed her she would have felt neither surprise nor 
 anger. 
 
 After that, inevitably each night and morning they looked for 
 each other; inevitably sooner or later the complete expression 
 of a look would pass into the incomplete expression of words 
 and they would begin a new friendship not quite so wonder- 
 ful yet very dear. In perfect faith Dolf waited. 
 
 The Boy in Grey halted at the flower-seller's corner and 
 bought a great bunch of daffodils. Then he moved away, and 
 as Dolf came up raised his hat and smiled into her eyes. He 
 held out the flowers, flushing from an overwhelming mixture 
 of pride, shyness, determination and sheer youth. 
 
 "Aren't they simply darling?" he said, almost reverently. 
 "Won't you please keep them for me because it's spring and 
 they're rather like you, and I want you to so very much?" 
 
 She stood there with his flowers in her arms, her hair th. 
 colour of the soft petals, herself like one of them swayed by a 
 south wind. 
 
 "Thank you, awfully," she murmured. "I love them, ano, 
 it's very dear of you. But why should you buy me flower? 
 when I'm an absolute stranger?" 
 
 He stood looking at her as if he would never let her go, and 
 the worship deepened in his eyes. 
 
 " 'And since, till girls go maying, 
 
 You find the primrose still, 
 
 And find the wind-flower playing 
 
 With every wind at will, 
 
 But not the daffodil, 
 " 'Take baskets now, and sally 
 
 Upon the spring's array, 
 
 And bear from hill and valley 
 
 The daffodil away, 
 
 That dies on Easter Day,' " 
 
 he quoted softly.
 
 DOLF 57 
 
 The tired sun dipped below the horizon, but another more 
 arrogant gold broke over the grey street as they turned away 
 together. 
 
 In early summer the Park is very heavenly for young 
 lovers, so Dolf and the Boy in Grey sat there on a green gar- 
 den seat, which is free, while green chairs cost twopence each. 
 Through the mercy of Providence they had the seat to them- 
 selves. 
 
 All the trees were shyly putting on their new dress of green, 
 the young grass pushed up lustily at their feet, and the smoky 
 haze of twilight hung in the air like fairy mist. 
 
 The boy stroked the fingers of Dolf's left hand with that 
 worshipful reverence that only comes once in life, if at all, and 
 that very early. 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful?" he said softly, with an adoring lilt in 
 his voice. "And I don't even know your name yet. Tell me, 
 dear, please." 
 
 "Dolf Dolf Farmer." 
 
 "Dolf!" he muttered slowly as though it were the one per- 
 fect name in the world. "Mine's Gerald Heritage. Do you 
 like me, Dolf even if it's only a little? Do you mind my 
 asking? Don't think me a fool, but it's frightfully important 
 to me. Honestly, I think I should die if you didn't." 
 
 She looked at him smiling, half-maternal, taking in the broad 
 brow, sensitive mouth and dark hair with a suggestion of curl 
 in it. He seemed to her, who had known other men, a sweet, 
 adorable child, something not quite of this world. She knew 
 so well that men are not over-likely to die of love. 
 
 "I do like you rather, Gerald dear. You're awf'ly nice to 
 me. I love being taken great care of." 
 
 His voice deepened, and his hand clasped hers more firmly. 
 
 "Men are such brutes as a rule. Their love's such a low 
 thing. Most of us are little better than animals. Look at all 
 these unfortunate girls one sees about London every one is
 
 58 DOLF 
 
 someone's daughter or sister, and it's men who've made them 
 what they are. One feels ashamed to be a man." 
 
 "But you aren't like those men, Gerald," she said gently. 
 He was so young, so unaware of his passions, she hardly knew 
 how to reply. "I know you'd never be unkind to any girl 
 you're much too decent. I feel frightfully safe and looked-after 
 with you." 
 
 He smiled at her with a sort of austere purity that almost 
 made her afraid for him. 
 
 "I love you, Dolf," he murmured, his young voice quivering 
 with exaltation. "I'm not fit for even your little feet to rest 
 on, but I'll be very, very good to you. I wouldn't so much 
 as kiss you it would be sacrilege; and, besides, I don't want 
 anything from you. I want just to give up things for you, to 
 cut out all the selfish side and simply love you as a girl like you 
 ought to be loved. You'd rather it were like that, wouldn't 
 you?" 
 
 "I'd like you to like me just as nicely as you know how," 
 she answered with the tactful instinct inherited from genera- 
 tions of women before her. "One always wants the best there 
 is in a man. ^ell me about yourself, won't you? What do 
 you do all day? I only know you go out in the morning and 
 come back the same time as I do." 
 
 "I'm a journalist," he said proudly. "We've got the finest 
 paper in London The Eclectic Weekly. It isn't popular, but 
 it does run to ideals. Jefferson runs it A. B. Jefferson, you 
 know, the man who wrote Byways in Babylon and Lyrics of 
 Lost Soids. He's the greatest man in England. I'm only the 
 sub-editor, but I get three pounds a week, and it's an inspira- 
 tion to work under a fellow like Jefferson. I wouldn't change 
 with the Editor of the Times." 
 
 Dolf gazed at him in sheer awe. She had never heard of 
 Mr. Jefferson, nor The Eclectic Weekly, let alone that genius' 
 more personal works. She thought Henry Ainley the greatest 
 man in England, and even the Times was to her only a legend.
 
 DOLF 59 
 
 The last time a man-pal of Netta's took her out to dinner they 
 had had a table at the Savoy and the evening's entertainment 
 would have left very little out of a fortnight's salary for Gerald. 
 
 "I work at Holbridge and Sellingbourne's, in the gown de- 
 partment," she explained a little nervously. "I get two pounds 
 ten a week nothing like so much as you but I've an awfully 
 decent girl pal, Netta Blatchley, who asks me to her flat some- 
 times, and I've met one or two rather jolly men there." 
 
 "And I s'pose the shop-walker tries to flirt with you, you poor 
 little thing." 
 
 Dolf fought down a laugh. 
 
 "Oh, no, the head of our department's a woman, and Netta 
 takes care of me, and she's very wise. She introduced me to 
 Ralph because he's a hardened sinner, and she says girls are 
 always safer with them. He gave me a topping dinner last 
 week." 
 
 She glanced up and caught the look of horror on Gerald's 
 young face. 
 
 "But of course I don't love him," she added hastily, "and 
 he's very old. He must be nearly fifty." 
 
 "Poor little Dolf! Fancy being the guest of an old rouS 
 of fifty," he exclaimed compassionately. "Thank God I've 
 found you in time. You know so little of the world; I'll lend 
 you Byways in Babylon the copy Jefferson gave me himself, 
 autographed. It's hardly the thing I'd like you to read one 
 always longs to keep the ugly side of life from a girl but 
 you're so alone that it wouldn't be fair not to warn you. Promise 
 me you'll never go out with that man again." 
 
 "I'd rather go out with you, Gerald," she replied evasively. 
 
 "Well, you're dining with me to-night. Shall we wander 
 along now? I'll take you to Giulio's if you'd like that. One 
 gets a fairly decent meal there." 
 
 Giulio's is in Soho, and he caters for that large class of people 
 who like a five-course dinner for three and sixpence. In the 
 stuffy little room, Dolf consumed watery soup, macaroni, a
 
 60 DOLF 
 
 mysterious entree, an egg-powder sweet, and rather demoral- 
 ised-looking fruit, accompanied by thin red wine. But youth 
 triumphs over anything, and youth was looking at her across 
 the tiny table with proud, adoring eyes. Gerald woke in her 
 the dormant mother instinct, and dessert might have been the 
 ineffable fruits of Paradise. She had quite forgotten Ralph 
 and the Savoy, and Gerald had never known that excellent 
 restaurant. 
 
 On the doorstep of her boarding-house they paused to say 
 good night. It was a spot haunted by the ghosts of many 
 kisses, of which Dolf had had her share. But Gerald, baring 
 his exalted head, merely took her hand in his and pressed it in 
 a reverential clasp. 
 
 "Good night, Dolf, darling, you've made me so happy. Sleep 
 well, and God bless you," he murmured. 
 
 As she brushed her fair hair Dolf brooded over her conquest. 
 In a sense he annoyed her, for he was so good he almost made 
 her feel wicked and she knew she was not. Finally the magnifi- 
 cence of Youth triumphed over this also. 
 
 "He's awfully soft, but he means well. And he's so good- 
 looking. I like him," she told herself defiantly, and so fell 
 asleep. 
 
 On Sunday night by special invitation Dolf found herself in 
 the scented, chintzy and pretentious sitting-room of Netta's 
 little flat in High Street, Marylepad. Netta merely nodded 
 from the hearth rug where she sat on a nightmare-hued pouffe, 
 deep in conversation with something that could only have been 
 an actor. A big, ugly man of forty-seven, with a square, pleas- 
 ant face, whose thickset body looked as permanent as the ever- 
 lasting hills, got up as she came in and smiled. 
 
 "Now I'm happy," he said convincingly. "Sit down and tell 
 me about it. I've an idea you've been kissed and you're cer- 
 tainly in love or trying to be. Have a cigarette. There's some 
 so-called coffee, too, if you want it. I have to do the honours 
 because Netta's away off with Cyril over there. They live in
 
 DOLF 61 
 
 another world from common people like me, but you're com- 
 paratively human." 
 
 Dolf chose a cigarette out of his gold case and leaned to- 
 wards the match he held for her. 
 
 "Hullo, Ralph!" she answered, and sighed the comfortable 
 sigh of a girl provided with a completely wise, wicked, reliable 
 man. "You look very pleased with life. What makes you say 
 I'm in love?" 
 
 Ralph Jenings lay back in a wicker chair that looked foolishly 
 inadequate. 
 
 "Your eyes, dearie. Sick dogs, children with half a box of 
 sweets left when another one would make them ill, and women 
 in love all look the same. It's a disease, but you'll get over 
 it. Tell me about him, keeping the adjectives as low as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "Well," she began, curling up on one of those synthetic divans 
 beloved of bachelor girls, all made by kindness, a hammer and 
 nails, and several packing cases, "he's very young and fright- 
 fully good-looking. He doesn't know anything about women, 
 he puts them on a pedestal and worships them, and he'll never 
 kiss me because I'm too sacred. It's wonderful to be loved 
 like that, isn't it?" 
 
 "Ah!" said Jenings, and sighed in utter satisfaction. "Really 
 it couldn't be better from my point of view. I was afraid you'd 
 soon be telling your old friend me to go to the devil. As it is, 
 a fortnight, maybe a week, will see Mr. Boy either in the 
 river or taking to drink, and you and I will be dining some- 
 where to celebrate over his remains. Who is the infant?" 
 
 "He's Gerald Heritage, and he sub-edits The EC Eclectic 
 Weekly, one of the greatest papers in England." 
 
 "I don't think," observed Jenings in sublime scorn. "Cir- 
 culation about fifteen hundred copies a week. Read by boys 
 and near- women in garden suburbs. Run at a loss on money 
 put up by duck-witted old maids who could never attract a 
 man and don't care for religion. Some rag! "
 
 62 DOLF 
 
 "But Gerald says he wouldn't change with the editor of the 
 Times. The paper has ideals, and it's edited by the greatest 
 man in England, a Mr. A. B. Jefferson." 
 
 "I never heard of him. That ends Mr. A. B. Jefferson." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Ralph Jennings turned and looked at her with the sort of 
 look seen on the face of a one-ton bomb before it explodes. 
 
 "I own twelve London and provincial dailies read by fifteen 
 million people every day, and I've never heard of him. There- 
 fore, he's nothing on a plate, nothing with a capital N. He's 
 just space with a rail round it to make it look emptier than if 
 the rail wasn't there. See?" 
 
 "But it's the ideals that Gerald says " 
 
 "Damn his ideals! I know 'em! He has macaroni for 
 breakfast because Charlotte Bronte did, and a quilt on his 
 bed exactly the same size as Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's. 
 He thinks Kipling's vulgar and has a lot of pretty little calf- 
 bound poetry books written by men who couldn't look a steak 
 and a pint of beer in the face without feeling faint. / had 
 ideals when I was his age. I was editor, ad-canvasser, leader- 
 writer and helping hand at the printer's of a little local paper. 
 Our leading features were ploughing matches and market day. 
 
 "My ideal was Henry Dobbs. Henry Dobbs owned a Sun- 
 day paper you never heard of, read by every working-man 
 in the country in bed on Sunday morning. Henry ran it on the 
 most artisically done crime ever written, the racing page and 
 the women's page. He never tipped a winner in his life, but he 
 got away with it so well that his public swore by him and sim- 
 ply blamed the horses for losing. He did the women's page 
 himself because he understood women better than any woman 
 used to tell 'em how to feed babies, and make a chemise out 
 of last year's curtains. Pity he died. And my ideal has got 
 me where I am, but Gerald's won't carry him further than eat- 
 ing squirrel food in an almshouse. Go on! Tell me some 
 more."
 
 DOLF 63 
 
 "Did Charlotte Bronte eat macaroni for breakfast?" mused 
 Dolf, staring through a haze of smoke into nothing. 
 
 "How do I know? I pay Cambridge graduates five or six 
 pounds a week to tell the public these things. What made you 
 take to this boy?" 
 
 "Well, he's rather a darling. He's sorry for street-girls, and 
 warns me against shopwalkers, and says men are brutes to 
 women and so they are. You aren't to me you're rather nice 
 but you probably have been to some woman. He makes me feel 
 I want to be good, and one ought to feel like that. I know 
 he'll bore me at times, but that's because he's good and I'm 
 not, and I oughtn't to be bored really. He's lent me books 
 to read, and I'm so ignorant I don't understand them and they 
 make my head ache, but I will try. I'm going to have my 
 skirts lengthened, too, and dress more quietly. Gerald says it 
 isn't fair to men to wear clothes that put wrong thoughts into 
 their heads. What's the matter?" 
 
 A sort of strangled choke escaped from Jenings. 
 
 "My God," he murmured, "what a world it is! Go on, 
 Dolf." 
 
 You're awfully nice, you know," continued Dolf dreamily, 
 "and I like you, but you aren't good. For instance you're mar- 
 ried, and yet you're here with Netta and me. You ought to be 
 at home with your wife. Why aren't you?" 
 
 "Because," said Jenings, remaining calm with a great effort, 
 "I feel more at home here. My wife will probably have a lot 
 of fashionable friends who talk the same sort of condemned 
 muck your Gerald does. They eat my food and smoke my ciga- 
 rettes and despise me because I produce the low daily papers 
 that they all subscribe to and enjoy. I'm very busy, and in my 
 little spare time I love to be understood and feel at rest. That's 
 why power's such a blessing. I've got power, so I can give 
 my wife a wonderful museum of a house in Hampstead to en- 
 tertain her nice friends in. I can also see that Netta gets the 
 best job in her department of your shop. If she doesn't they
 
 64 DOLF 
 
 know I'll refuse their advertisements. I can also please my- 
 self." 
 
 Dolf held out a slim hand for his cigarette case. 
 
 "You have to be ruthless and cruel to get power, anyway. 
 It's all very well to do things for people when you've got it, 
 but how about the getting?" 
 
 Jenings laughed, and his big ugly face lit up. 
 
 "I'd rather be ruthless than have other people ruthless to me. 
 You're only throwing second-hand Gerald at me now. Women 
 are the most ruthless creatures in the world. A man can go 
 to hell directly they cease to want him whether he wants them 
 or not. And if he complains, my word! But can't I do 
 something for you? Why not let me make a man of Gerald 
 for you? Several of the fellows who run my papers are first- 
 class man-breakers." 
 
 "You'd spoil him," she protested, like a mother protecting 
 her young. "Just now he's full of beautiful ideals, and I've 
 never met anyone like him before, and I love him." 
 
 "What do they pay him on this high-brow sheet?" 
 
 "Three pounds a week," she said, rather defiantly. Jenings 
 laughed. 
 
 "I don't want him to starve himself for you, or give you a 
 rotten time merely for want of money. May I see what I can 
 do for him?" 
 
 Dolf smiled gratefully. 
 
 "You are decent. But you'll be very careful and you won't 
 break him? He's a frightfully nice kid, as you'll see." 
 
 "Me? / shan't see him. I'll ring someone up about him 
 and give a hint what he's to do. And it's getting late and 
 you ought to go to bed." 
 
 Netta and the palpable actor returned to earth. The two 
 couples became a supper party of four. Jenings, without 
 putting himself forward in any way was the life and soul of 
 the gathering, obviously happy himself and so making others 
 happy. Silently Dolf compared him to Gerald, and hated to
 
 DOLF 65 
 
 see Gerald smaller, inferior. But this man had made good, 
 and Gerald was in the transition stage. One day he might 
 be even greater. Yet she could not help remembering that 
 Jenings, who could be presumed to know, had never told her 
 what she ought to do, whereas Gerald, out of his inexperience, 
 had told her many times. 
 
 Finally the guests departed. Jenings laid a hand in half- 
 serious affection on Dolf's golden head. 
 
 "Don't get too badly in love," he warned her. "Keep me 
 a little corner of your heart if you can. I won't forget 
 about the beautiful youth. Good-bye!" 
 
 Dolf, who was staying the night, discussed him almost fret- 
 fully over their hair-brushing. 
 
 "I like Ralph awf'ly, Netta, but he's so sure of himself 
 and sure he's right, in a quite nice way, and the worst of it 
 is he always is right! I hated him laughing at Gerald, and 
 then he didn't laugh any more and offered to help him. What 
 can you do with a person like that? He's got you either 
 way." 
 
 Netta smiled yawningly. 
 
 "He's a big man, and big men are always like that. They 
 may be brutes, but they're never narrow, and it takes a nar- 
 row man to be really cruel. Besides, he likes you and he 
 knows a boy of twenty-three hasn't a look in beside him. 
 He can afford to wait. Boys are always narrow and gen- 
 erally cruel, consciously or unconsciously." 
 
 "Are they?" murmured Dolf absently. She was thinking 
 of one boy in particular, coming towards her with a south 
 wind blowing through his wavy hair and daffodils in^his 
 arms. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jenings talked to the editor of the Daily Wire 
 on the telephone. 
 
 "Oh, Greene, get hold of a man named Gerald Heritage, 
 who sub-edits the Eclectic Weekly and try him out, will 
 you? Sorry to saddle you with a pup he's on'y twenty
 
 66 DOLF 
 
 but I've my private reasons. Give him six pounds a week. 
 I hear he's very pure, so you might run a crusade about Lon- 
 don's morals and turn him on to it. It hasn't been done 
 for at least three weeks, and the Bishops lap it up. G'bye." 
 In his boarding-house bedroom, Gerald Heritage laid aside 
 the works of Christina Rossetti, and fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE supreme happiness of youth consists in being able to 
 say to-day the exact opposite of what one said yesterday, and 
 feel utterly consistent. For this reason young girls prefer 
 middle-aged men and young men middle-aged women. Other- 
 wise life becomes too much a jazz. 
 
 Some such thought occurred to Dolf when Gerald Heritage 
 ambushed her homing footsteps to reveal the great news of 
 his transfer from the Eclectic Weekly to the Daily Wire. 
 
 "But you said you wouldn't change with the editor of the 
 Times, Gerald," she reminded him, with woman's poisonously 
 long memory for the inessential. 
 
 "That was quite different. Here I'm carrying the spirit of 
 the Eclectic into daily journalism. I preach the same ideals 
 to a wider congregation. I'm doing a crusade against Lon- 
 don's morals. It's great!" 
 
 The sub-editors of the Wire scarcely thought so. They 
 swore, not with the discursive, wasteful profanity of the av- 
 erage man, but the apposite, antiseptic curses of those born 
 and bred up in a newspaper office, hoicked out the classical 
 allusions, translated the stuff into journalese, and let it go. 
 
 Gerald was neither to have nor to hold. He resembled a 
 wilderness blossoming as the rose. He rode his hobby in and 
 out of season, tyrannising superbly over Dolf's mind, her 
 clothes, her food, her recreation. He took her to classical 
 concerts, and dismal Stage-Society productions for the good 
 of her soul. Thanks to him her clothes became dull and re- 
 spectable. He gave her still more books to make her head 
 ache, but for the wonder and splendour of his youth she en- 
 
 67
 
 68 DOLF 
 
 dured it all. It was more than she could bear to disappoint 
 him. 
 
 In these trying days Ralph Jenings, who saw all things 
 and was merely giving Gerald enough rope wherewith to 
 hang himself, tempered the wind to the shorn lamb from time 
 to time. It was he who sent Dolf theatre tickets for the lighter 
 shows such as she loved. He took her to dinner once by 
 stealth, and again, one week-end when a chill laid Gerald 
 low, he motored her down to the sea and back, and amused 
 her for the whole evening in Netta's little flat. 
 
 "After all, I couldn't have gone to see Gerald. He's in 
 bed and he wouldn't let me," murmured Dolf to excuse her- 
 self. 
 
 "And yet he has more clothes on in bed than ever he wears 
 in the street," commented Jenings dryly. "Probably he hasn't 
 shaved for three days and doesn't want you to know it. Any- 
 way the rest will do you good. This high mental altitude 
 must be a fearful strain." 
 
 Being in love to a certain extent and unbalanced in conse- 
 quence, she confessed these little pleasures to Gerald when 
 he recovered, and he smote her with a lover's pitiless hand. 
 
 "You must give up meeting that fellow, Dolf. I don't 
 approve of him nor his papers. He doesn't get on very well 
 with his wife, and there's all sorts of gossip about him. He 
 simply commercialises literature to pay dividends. Look at 
 the half-educated people on his papers, and the gutter-rags 
 they are!" 
 
 "But you work on one of them yourself now, Gerald." 
 
 "That's different. I'm doing what I can to uplift it, and 
 tackling a subject that needs greater publicity than a weekly 
 can give it. Look what the Bishop of Battersea said about 
 my articles the other day. And I do write English when 
 the sub-editor'll let me." 
 
 Dolf, knowing the secret history of Gerald's new position,
 
 DOLF 69 
 
 was silent. But once again the little devil of doubt whispered 
 in her ear. 
 
 Nevertheless a man who loves is forgiven many things by 
 the woman who loves him, so that when August came, bring- 
 ing holidays in its train, and Gerald suggested spending 
 them together in a Sussex seaside village, Dolf smiled very 
 happily and agreed. They took rooms at separate age-old 
 cottages, and their respective landladies exchanged details and 
 opinions over Sunday cups of tea. 
 
 Ralph Jenings, when he discovered the arrangement in his 
 unobtrusive way, leaned back in Netta's wicker armchair 
 and smiled a mellow smile that forgives much because the 
 owner has sinned much. 
 
 "Splendid!" he said. "Nothing like a quiet holiday for 
 getting to know one another, especially if it's wet. Bring 
 me back some shells, Dolf, and send me a post card of the 
 ruined abbey. I've got a filthy taste in art." 
 
 But Dolf's eyes were dreamy with anticipation. Mentally 
 she remodelled and redecorated Gerald until he became the 
 perfect lover, a thing no man ever is nor ever will be. 
 
 He met her at the station in the twilight of a summer evening, 
 a new Gerald in holiday flannels with bared head, and a 
 straight briar pipe in place of the urban cigarette. Grey- 
 sands lay a mysterious blue-grey blur between earth and sky. 
 Further off the aaah! aaah! of little waves breaking foolishly 
 on a sandy shore came faintly. They stood hand in hand, 
 scarcely breathing, drunk with the half-sick ecstasy of loving 
 one another, the magic of contact and solitude. There seemed 
 no one in the world but themselves and God, Who had created 
 it solely for them. 
 
 "Come, darling," he said at last. "You must be fright- 
 fully tired and hungry. Give me your suit-case, and I'll take 
 you to your cottage and see that they look after you." 
 
 Then wandered away along the pathway to the stars that 
 mere clods called the High Street, and Gerald introduced her
 
 ,70 DOLF 
 
 to Woodbine Cottage. He waited in Mrs. Miggs' repulsive 
 sitting-room, crowded with unutterable furniture, and never 
 saw the antimacassars, the wax fruit, nor the picture of Welling- 
 ton meeting Blucher, while Dolf tidied her hair and powdered 
 her face. He brooded over her like a guardian angel when 
 she ate, pressing food on her, waiting on her, stroking the 
 wonder of her hair. And Dolf, smiling, accepting all this 
 worship, thought: 
 
 "He's a dear boy. Ralph would never do all this for me. 
 We should be at the Palace Hotel, and he wouldn't move 
 an eyelash, but somehow every waiter in the place would fly 
 around for us, and we should have everything even if other 
 people had to go without, and he'd know exactly when I 
 was bored and go away and play billiards with the marker 
 or someone. But of course Gerald's so young and such a 
 darling, he never realises I ever could be bored. And a boy 
 is dreadfully thrilly, but a man always knows what you want, 
 even if you don't know yourself." So, being a woman and 
 very wise, she let him love her, which is a great secret some 
 women know. They realise that love exists to be given, and 
 if they refuse it it may be squandered on someone less 
 worthy, and that would be inexpressibly sad. 
 
 Finally they smoked a goodnight cigarette, and at last he 
 left, with a long, silent pressure of her hands. He did not 
 kiss her because she was too sacred, and only the common 
 lovers of this life kiss. When he had gone she stifled a little 
 yawn and went dreamily up to her bedroom. There were a 
 million stars in the sky and every one seemed her friend. 
 
 Love never stands still; it either progresses, or dies of 
 innutrition, or else one lover stands guard over it and the 
 other murders it before his or her despairing eyes. In all 
 that wonder- fortnight Gerald reached up to heaven with rash 
 hands to import something more wonderful into his first, 
 miraculous love-affair than wise, tried men had ever achieved
 
 DOLF 71 
 
 before him, and failed, as most men fay, because he lacked 
 humbleness of heart. 
 
 "I do love you," he told her night after night when they 
 sat alone on a great rock watching the waves break at 
 their feet. "I'm going to do big things because of you. 
 You'll be proud of me when every paper in London wants my 
 stuff, won't you, Dolf? I'll give you the finest car in exist- 
 ence, and you shall have a house in the country, and you'll 
 be waiting there for me when I come home with my pockets 
 full of cheques for you." 
 
 He stroked her hair with caressing fingers. He had perfect, 
 sensitive hands and she became dreamy from their soothing 
 passage. But her mind worked very clearly. 
 
 "He's going to do great things," she told herself, "but can 
 he? And all I do is to wait at home. I don't help, I don't 
 share. I just fall into his arms, and then wait at home. 
 And he hasn't even kissed me yet!" 
 
 She felt like some indistinct figure in a dream, and life 
 had taught her reality. 
 
 In the morning two letters came. One from Ralph Jenings; 
 the other from Guy Senlake. 
 
 She opened Ralph's first, because he seemed the more 
 familiar, the more vivid and recent. Senlake was incalculable, 
 a man of whom she knew very much while understanding very 
 little, whose letter was a mystery to her, something to approach 
 by itself. 
 
 Jenings wrote: 
 
 "Dear little girl, I hope you're having a good time. There is an 
 ancient person who misses you rather, and I'm he. But I don't care 
 so long as you're soaking in bliss and being filled with beautiful moon- 
 shine by that boy of yours. If you can spare me an hour or two's 
 talk when you come back I want to ask you to help me over a job 
 of work. Any old time that suits you will suit me. 
 
 "Netta's nourishing and I'm not too dusty. If you'll say when you 
 reach town I'd love to meet you and motor you home unless Gerald's 
 doing it. Cheerio, 
 
 "RALPH JENINGS."
 
 72 DOLF 
 
 Dolf folded the letter thoughtfully and pushed it down the 
 V of her silk shirt. 
 
 "He's made good and he wants me to help him, although 
 he knows I can't," she murmured. Then slowly, with intense 
 curiosity she opened Senlake's note. 
 
 "... I called at your shop and your handsome Netta gave me your 
 address. . . . This time you can see I'm not interfering. I wouldn't in 
 any case, but more particularly because I want to keep your friend- 
 ship, if I haven't lost it already. You're such a nice kid, you refresh 
 a world-weary person like me. When you return will you if Romance 
 spares you time for a remembrance of me let me hunt you up some 
 day, and if the gods are good we'll dine somewhere cheap and you 
 shall tell me why you have the power over me not to make me 
 forget, but to make me forget that I remember. 
 
 "Yours uselessly but faithfully, 
 
 "Guv SENLAKE." 
 
 "Still another man who wants my help," she mused, and 
 thinking of Gerald sighed profoundly. Then, fearing to be 
 critical or unjust she shrank from further comparison. 
 
 That night Gerald asked her to marry him. 
 
 "You know I love you. You're the dearest thing in the 
 world. May I kiss you, Dolf?" he said in a voice shaky with 
 earnestness. And in that moment she saw him plainly a 
 nice enough boy whom spring, summer, and her own longing 
 to be loved had endowed with a sort of artificial magic. 
 
 "Gerald, dear, don't be dreadfully serious. You'll make 
 me so unhappy. You've been awf'ly nice, but I don't love 
 you enough to marry you. You're ever so young, far too 
 young to marry. We should only be hard-up and get to 
 hate one another. Don't spoil a rather dear friendship, 
 please!' 
 
 All his boy's pride flamed scarlet in his face. 
 
 "But you let me love you. You know how I adore you, 
 and now you say you won't marry me. You're not just a 
 heartless flirt, are you?" 
 
 Something in his tone exasperated her. She stood away and 
 looked at him coolly.
 
 DOLF 73 
 
 "Because girls like being loved and taken care of, it doesn't 
 necessarily mean they want to marry. Pr'aps I know what 
 marriage means better than you. And if I were to many 
 anyone it would be a man, not a boy. Men don't ask a girl 
 if they may kiss her, Gerald. They just do it." 
 
 With almost a moan of anguish he sprang forward, his 
 arms ready to enfold her, but she avoided him and he stood 
 helpless, irresolute, listening to the clatter of her flying feet 
 along the cliff path. In the morning she had vanished, leaving 
 him a little hastily-scrawled note: 
 
 "I'm sorry. If you could have made me love you I might have, 
 but you couldn't. Some day you'll understand. Don't be too miser- 
 able, and try not to hate me. DOLT." 
 
 He turned away with tears in his eyes, loathing all women. 
 But Dolf, feeling as though she had shaken the cares of the 
 world from her slim shoulders, grudged every minute that the 
 racing train ate up on its way to London. Ralph Jenings 
 met her at the station, and a smile lurked behind his keen 
 grey eyes. 
 
 On the neutral ground of Netta's flat where they always 
 talked, Jenings occupied the wicker chair that ever seemed so 
 inadequate for his bulk, and Dolf lay curled up on the divan. 
 She felt very much at home with this man who had a wise 
 smile and kind eyes, who never tried to touch her. He might 
 indeed be trailing her with the tireless patience of the old 
 hunter, but she felt grateful for the patience, not to be taken 
 for granted. 
 
 "So it's all off with the boy," he began at last, making a 
 statement rather than asking a question. 
 
 "How do you know, Ralph?" 
 
 "Because although I may be a fool I'm an old fool. That 
 clears the air to a certain extent. And you like me quite 
 well, and you trust me, perhaps, a shade more than the next 
 man?" 
 
 "M'm."
 
 74 DOLF 
 
 He sighed faintly. 
 
 "I want you to help me. I'm reorganising the fashion 
 pages of one or two papers. You know all about frocks, and 
 the sort of girl who picks her frocks from the back pages of 
 a daily paper. Will you come and do it? It would pay you 
 better than Holbridge & Sellingbourne, and I'd love you 
 to try. I want someone young, with ideas and guts. I 
 think you'd do, don't you?" 
 
 She stared at him thoughtfully and he became a shade 
 uneasy, but his eyes met hers quite candidly. 
 
 "My dear Ralph, you're a brick, but you know perfectly 
 well you don't want me just for my frock experience. It's 
 all on the personal side. I like you, and perhaps you like 
 me a little, but if I were forty and a frump instead of eighteen 
 and not a frump, well would you ask me just the same?'* 
 
 "I'm damned if I would," retorted Jenings with hearty can- 
 dour. "I never employ old women nor plain women. The 
 old ones are fed up with life, and the young ugly ones are 
 just spiritless servile duds, who've never had enough admira- 
 tion from men to put any backbone into them. So now 
 you know." 
 
 Dolf, feeling rather like Cinderella turning down the fairy 
 godmother, tried again. 
 
 "Honestly, Ralph, do you think it would work out de- 
 cently? You've been the greatest pal. I'd hate to spoil it. 
 Don't humbug me, there's a dear. Are you being absolutely 
 straight about it?" 
 
 Whatever he had been, she made him straight now. He 
 put out a firm, square hand and took her slender one. 
 
 "I'm never quite mad over business. Come and try. I 
 promise I'll never let you down. Will that do?" 
 
 She let her hand lie in his quite several seconds. A rosy 
 dream of independence, of being as good as a man, made her 
 almost drunk with happiness. 
 
 "Ten pounds a week if that'll do. . . ." Jenings mur-
 
 DOLF 75 
 
 mured, genuinely delighted to see her so happy. He was a 
 good sort as men go. 
 
 So, picked up and whirled by the resistless sea of life in 
 a totally new direction, Dolf took leave of Holbridge & 
 Sellingbourne with the gay courage of her years and the 
 braver sex, and accustomed herself to a new hotfoot world 
 pictured in landscapes of black and white. Her place of 
 work became a great humming building, electric from the throb 
 of captive giant presses, sweet and intoxicating with the faint, 
 violet scent of printing ink. Her amateurishness shocked all 
 the canons of journalism, and the men helped her because of 
 her slight, appealing beauty. She consorted with strange, half- 
 sexed girls who drew exotic fashions with cigarette-stained 
 fingers. On the whole the women feared her vaguely because 
 her youth and freshness contrasted with their bored, slightly 
 faded competence. But she did what she could with the keen 
 joyousness of a child over a new toy. Jenings professed him- 
 self pleased. The staff of the paper took their cue from him, 
 and made Dolf make good. 
 
 Yet, since newspaper land is a land of gossip, tidings of 
 her came to Gerald's ears and stung his sore heart anew with 
 the violent acid of jealousy. He put on his hat, went out, 
 and tracked Dolf to her room in the Daily Clarion building. 
 
 She sat behind a wide table littered with sketches, cuttings, 
 scissors, paste, and a box of cigarettes. The smoke from one 
 between her lips wreathed upward, and joy-devils danced in 
 her blue eyes. 
 
 He put down his hat amid the debris of a fashion page, and 
 stood looking at her. 
 
 "So this explains everything," he said bitterly. 
 
 "Explains what, Gerald?" 
 
 "Why you wouldn't marry me. You'd rather be an old 
 man's darling. You prefer Jenings to make a fool of you. 
 The whole of Fleet Street's laughing at both of you. I 
 s'pose you think you're here on your merits. My God! You!"
 
 76 DOLF 
 
 "According to your idea, I haven't any merits apart from 
 marrying you," said Dolf very smoothly. "I don't agree. If 
 they didn't like me they could sack me. Well, they haven't." 
 
 "Do you know what they call you behind your back? They 
 call you 'Giddy Gertie'. They know why Jenings put you 
 here. They know what he's after. Perhaps you do, too. If 
 you don't, I'll tell you. He wants you body and soul, but he 
 shan't have you. I'll go to him and tell him exactly what he 
 is. Aren't I paid to run a moral crusade? Very well, then, 
 we'll start at home and work outward from there." 
 
 Dolf removed the cigarette and looked at him for a full 
 second, till his knees shook, and cold water seemed to be 
 running down his spine. 
 
 "Once," she said slowly, "you meant everything beautiful 
 in life to me. Then you bored me to death with your childish 
 narrow way of looking at life. Now I despise you absolutely. 
 If you say one word to Ralph I'll never speak to you again. 
 I don't mind your making a fool of yourself, but you won't 
 make a fool of me, please. And now I'd like you to go." 
 
 He went, slowly, just a boy hard-hit and crumpled from the 
 blow. But he left behind mere half-tones where he had found 
 the high lights of happiness. For a long time Dolf stared 
 thoughtfully at the blank wall opposite. Then shrugging 
 wearily she continued her work. 
 
 Meanwhile she had not heard from Senlake though it was now 
 late autumn. But the press of new life and work had driven 
 from her mind this incomprehensible friend except at rare 
 intervals when his picture would flash before her with un- 
 expected vividness. 
 
 At last there came a note from him. 
 
 He apologized for the unfulfilled promises in his previous 
 letter. He had been away he did not say where and he 
 hoped to call on her shortly and hear how life had treated 
 her. He trusted she had many and joyous things to tell him; 
 
 She folded the letter away, and tears smarted at the back
 
 DOLF 77 
 
 of her eyes. Somehow this bit of paper brought back so 
 much of the past "old unhappy far-off things, and battles 
 long ago." 
 
 One evening a week later, as she sat sewing, another ghost 
 from the past gibbered on Dolf's doorstep in the shape of 
 Tom Wainwright. 
 
 He came prospering as he must inevitably prosper; older 
 than his twenty-four years warranted; heavier of face, with 
 the mouth closer and more purposeful; better dressed even to 
 his tie, which was very nearly right. 
 
 "Why did you come?" she asked. "We didn't part on 
 the best of terms or with much respect for each other, did 
 we?" 
 
 He laughed. "Oh, I've forgotten all that. I was a bit 
 hard on you, but I was scared of the old man. As for to- 
 night, I hardly know myself why I came." 
 
 "Perhaps to see if I'd ask you to marry me again?" 
 
 He did not detect her mockery. "Much good that'd do 
 you!" he laughed. "I'm not going to tie myself up with a 
 family for a long time yet, let me tell you. And when I do 
 well, I have my ambitions." 
 
 "That's plucky of you, Tom, and I hope you marry an 
 earl's daughter. But where do I come in? And how did you 
 find me?" 
 
 "Your mother asked me to look you up. Why don't you 
 write to her?" he asked rebukingly. She stared at him. 
 
 "Well, I'm not good at writing. But are you so fond of 
 your father that you have to worry about the way I treat 
 my mother?" 
 
 He stared back. "You haven't heard he's dead?" 
 
 "Dead? Your father?" She started. Over her flashed a 
 picture of the elder Wainwright and she struggled to associate 
 death with that sensual, sinister man. "I didn't know," she 
 faltered. 
 
 "Well," said Tom bluntly, "I don't pretend to grieve. But
 
 78 DOLF 
 
 I thought of this; if you'd married him and mind, I know 
 lots of girls who would have you'd be his widow, and what 
 should I have done if he'd left all his money to you? And 
 there was a good bit of it, more than I expected, let me 
 tell you. Besides, probably there'd have been a kid, or 
 kids" 
 
 "Don't!" cried Dolf, recoiling. 
 
 "Well, 7 know. A girl would feel like that. Anyhow, you 
 see it's a sort of gratitude that made me look you up. Be- 
 sides it'll please your mother. I went there to lodge when he 
 died. Why, does that seem so funny?" 
 
 "Well, yes." Dolf remembered the miseries of home. But 
 the idea must have been her father's, not her mother's. Prob- 
 ably her mother did not even receive the money earned by 
 her additional toil. As for Tom, of course he had found it 
 cheaper than anywhere else. 
 
 "You're getting on pretty well in Holbridge & Selling- 
 bourne's, aren't you?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm in the office of the Clarion," she said coolly, in- 
 wardly amused by his astonishment. She saw appreciation 
 leap to his eyes. 
 
 "Honest? Well, you were always a clever one. Know a bit 
 of life now, too, don't you? See here, I'm not leaving till 
 to-morrow. What do you say to supper at a restaurant? Not 
 the most expensive," he added hastily, "but something lively, 
 you know what I mean." 
 
 "If you mean something shady," she began icily, stifling 
 a smile. At the same time his sheer energy and self-assurance 
 impressed her as much as his gross personality repelled her. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean that." And he insisted so that his 
 very forcefulness began to alarm her, and she knew only a 
 fiie could save her from yielding. She told him she stayed at 
 home to nurse a sick friend upstairs, to whom she must even 
 now return. 
 
 "All right!" he grumbled at last. Yet he did not dis-
 
 DOLF 79 
 
 believe her, because how could she Dolf Farmer, who had 
 once stood in her nightgown under his window, begging him 
 to marry her, how could she prefer anything to being his 
 guest for an evening in London? "But next time I come up 
 I'll let you know ahead. And I must say you've improved, 
 Dolf. Remember it won't mean anything serious, so don't 
 dream dreams. I've got a career ahead." 
 
 "I'll remember," she promised. "Goodbye, Tom. And tell 
 Mother I'll write some day. And give her my love." 
 
 In the morning she turned with relief to work and the one 
 man who never failed her. But at last even in that clear 
 sky appeared a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. 
 
 "Come and dine with me at my flat in Pius Inn," Jenings 
 said one afternoon, hiding his fear of a refusal behind a 
 half-smile. 
 
 Dolf stood gazing abstractedly across his big, solid room 
 in the Daily Clarion building, out over the City roofs into 
 the western afternoon sky, into the future, the land of dreams, 
 eternity. Her slight, motionless figure with its poignant lines 
 seemed to intensify the stillness. Jenings waited, as life had 
 taught him to wait. 
 
 "You know," she said at last, "we'd better not. We're 
 just friends. YouVe been awf'ly good to me. We'll never be 
 more than friends, because we mustn't. I've got to work, 
 and you'll go on helping me, won't you, and that why, that's 
 all. If I liked you less, or you liked me less, I would, and 
 then there'd be no point in it so we shouldn't want to. As it 
 is, we just can't, can we?" 
 
 He never moved, and his eyes, fixed on hers, never flickered. 
 
 "If I promised to be perfectly good; if I said I'm much older 
 than you and you're rather a little girl to me; if I told you 
 I wanted it terribly just once, wouldn't you? I've never 
 let you down, Dolf, and if I'd been going to, surely I should 
 have by now? Can't you?" 
 
 She shook her head.
 
 80 DOLF 
 
 "Always the same," she murmured. "Always a man that's 
 good to you, always a married man, always the same history, 
 the same complications, the same path that leads nowhere. 
 Where else can it lead? Must I, Ralph?" 
 
 "Just this once, if you will, dear. I want to talk to you 
 quite by ourselves. And I'll be very good. I haven't got 
 here " he swept a vague hand indicating the vast building 
 that was all his "without knowing how to keep hold of my- 
 self. To-night?" 
 
 She nodded and turned away. For this reason they sat in 
 his library after dinner, with cigarettes and coffee. Through- 
 out the meal he had watched over her with the supreme tender- 
 ness of the already damned, fighting his hopeless fight with 
 the sheer doggedness of a man who dares not think of failure. 
 
 Now he leaned forward in the deep leather armchair oppo- 
 site hers, the cigar burning idly between the fingers of his 
 linked hands, a square-set, indomitable figure of a man at the 
 pinnacle of his career, and pitched himself and all he had 
 joyfully at the slim feet of the slender wide-eyed girl in 
 front of him. 
 
 "I love you," he said simply. "I know I oughtn't to. I 
 can't help it. I'm twice as old as you, and I just ache from 
 wanting you. I can't marry you you know that. For the 
 rest you can play skittles with me and all I've got. If there's 
 anything in the world you want you've only got to ask for it. 
 You know how good I could be to you and would be to you 
 you know me, I daresay, better than I do. Now I won't 
 touch you and I won't kiss you. You shall choose alone. I 
 love you that much." 
 
 She looked at him out of eyes that seemed suddenly to have 
 had dark streaks drawn beneath them. In the deathly still- 
 ness her voice came trailing like something in agony: 
 
 "I love you, too." 
 
 She smiled across at him with shaking lips. 
 
 "Do you know, Ralph, the kindest thing you ever did for
 
 DOLF 8 1 
 
 me was never to kiss me. If you were to I couldn't stand 
 against you I should be done, finished, and I'd have to give 
 way. As it is, I can just manage it. My dear, you've your 
 place, and your wife has hers, but in all the wide world there 
 isn't any place for me as far as you're concerned. You know 
 there isn't. You know what I should be. And when you were 
 tired of me you'd go back to your wife. Men always go back. 
 Their wives know they've only to wait. And I want you all 
 to myself. You know that, and you know it can't be, and 
 what's the use? You must let me go. Oh, please, Ralph, 
 let me go. Don't kiss me, there's a dear. It's up to you to 
 help me. Do help me, because I want you so!" 
 
 They sat silent, and the utter stillness settled down again. 
 At last he got up, threw his cigar into the grate, and stood 
 looking down at her. There was nothing in his face that God, 
 or the crumpled figure in the chair could throw up against him. 
 Ridiculous as it sounds, probably he did love her. 
 
 "Where will you go, when I let you go?" he said gently. 
 
 "Back to Holbridge & Sellingbourne's. Back to my life 
 where I belong, and oh, my God, how I wish I'd never 
 left it!" 
 
 She stood up, and a wan little smile crept again over her 
 face. She took the lapels of his coat in her two hands, and 
 looked up at him. 
 
 "You are a dear. Don't be sorry. Kiss me just once. 
 It won't do any harm now." 
 
 For a moment her lips clung piteously to his. Then she 
 wrenched away, picked up her cloak and drew it round her 
 because the room seemed to have gone very cold. 
 
 "Get me a taxi, please, Ralph. And don't come down with 
 me. Please, I'd rather you didn't come down. . . ." 
 
 There being no fool like a young fool, Gerald Heritage, when 
 he heard of Dolf's parting from Jenings, called on her one 
 evening after dinner. She received him in her boarding-house
 
 82 DOLF 
 
 sitting-room, and by chance they were alone. He came straight 
 to the point. 
 
 "You've done the right thing, Dolf dear, as I knew you 
 would. The man's a scoundrel. I should like to horsewhip 
 him. And now do say we can be married. I'm well on the 
 road to my career. We'll have to begin simply, but we'll soon 
 be better off. I just must be with you to take care of you. 
 It's horrible for you to be alone, exposed to the attentions of 
 all sorts of men. I " 
 
 Her voice, interrupting his, cut icy clear across the tawdry 
 little room. 
 
 "You're an utter prig, Gerald, and I hate you more than I 
 ever thought I could. You come here and throw mud at a 
 man who gave you your chance, if you care to know, simply 
 because he thought I loved you. He's still giving it you be- 
 cause he loves me, and I asked him not to take it away. He 
 was always perfectly sweet to me, he couldn't help loving 
 me, and when I asked him to, he let me go. He never told 
 me what I ought to do, as you always do; he was never jealous 
 of you, as you are of him not that he need have been. He's 
 a man, Gerald, and if you try very hard you may be, too, 
 some day, though not a man like him, but it'll take you a long 
 time. Sometimes I doubt if you'll ever manage it. And 
 now will you please go, and never, never see me or speak to me 
 again!" 
 
 When he had closed the door behind him, she sat with her 
 hands locked in her lap, trying to hold back the tears that 
 would force themselves under her eye-lids. She knew that the 
 world is very hard, and there seemed nothing left worth an 
 effort. Never before had she felt so lonely. 
 
 Then from very far away came the subdued roar of traffic. 
 Slowly she realised that life still surged around her, that for 
 no one's private griefs does the world stand still, that with 
 every new day new opportunity beckons.
 
 DOLF 83 
 
 She crept slowly up to her tiny bedrom. A solitary moon- 
 beam trailed a silver path across the worn carpet. Somehow 
 it seemed very friendly, and stooping down she kissed it 
 where it rested on her narrow bed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN the wake of that heart-break, Netta Blatchley's scheme 
 that she and Dolf should live together and start in business 
 for themselves came as a welcome anaesthetic. Capital for 
 the venture materialised from some mysterious "friend" of 
 Netta's, who provided it partly from admiration, partly in 
 hope of favours to come, partly out of vanity. The provision 
 gave him, in his own eyes, a vague kinship with the creator. 
 He felt like one raising up a kingdom which if it pleased him 
 he might presently overthrow so that none could realise it had 
 ever existed. 
 
 Thus the new, ephemeral business venture in Sloane Street 
 took shape. 
 
 Outside it rained the miserable depressing rain of five o'clock 
 in the afternoon. Sloane Street hid her face in a mist of 
 tears, too wretched even for the gusty, wind-swept sobs of 
 earlier day. Within the small intriguing shop whose win- 
 dow displayed but one gown, one hat, and one filmy cham- 
 pagne coloured shirt, all unpriced, Dolf bent in sacrificial hu- 
 mility before the imperiousness of a large, rich woman. She 
 envied Netta, the head of the undertaking, her sanctuaried 
 peace in the basement workroom at the foot of a dozen break- 
 neck steps. And while she extolled a series of delicious little 
 hats too beautiful to be profaned by the large, rich woman's 
 sacrilegious head, she watched covertly a vaguely outlined man 
 who stared restlessly through the wet window apparently at 
 unpriced mysteries he could not pretend to understand. 
 
 "Wants to buy undies for some chorus girl and he won't 
 come in till She's gone," Dolf told herself. And aloud she 
 murmured coaxingly: 
 
 84
 
 DOLF 85 
 
 "The black satin chako is very becoming to Moddom. Of 
 course we could replace the pompom with any other colour 
 that would match Moddom's gown. But the touch of green 
 is very becoming." 
 
 "Well, I'll take it," admitted the large, rich woman grudg- 
 ingly. "But six guineas is downright robbery. It's only a 
 bit of satin with a green thingammy stuck in it." 
 
 "A Paris model, Moddom," replied Dolf with respectful 
 awe, knowing perfectly well that Netta and she had thought 
 it out together at a total cost of twenty-three shillings. "It 
 shall be sent by to-night's post. Good-afternoon, Moddom." 
 
 The large, rich woman tramped out conqueringly. A 
 moment later the stranger from the pavement entered, closing 
 the door carefully behind him. Rain trickled down his 
 weather-proof and dripped from the soft felt hat. He raised 
 this and Dolf started back with a little cry. 
 
 "Guy!" 
 
 Senlake advanced. They shook hands. 
 
 "When did you return to London?" she asked, unaccount- 
 ably glad. 
 
 "A few days ago, Dolf." 
 
 "And you've really hunted me up? or is it just accident?" 
 
 "Accident? What could bring me here except you?" 
 
 "I'm so glad, Guy." 
 
 "You look, as usual; fairer than the children of men," he 
 went on, and at that moment Netta appeared at the top of her 
 flight of steps from the workroom, yawning. Dolf introduced 
 him. 
 
 Netta's quick greeting had an eagerness that few men 
 aroused, as if Senlake attracted her more than other men. He 
 implored her to dine with Dolf and him on the following 
 night and although she declined there was a hint of regret in her 
 voice. When they had struggled on to a bus Netta, glancing 
 back at him as he disappeared in the crowd, said: 
 
 "Isn't he the mysterious man you met at the boarding
 
 86 DOLF 
 
 house?" Dolf had called him mysterious before she had really 
 known him. Since that day in the park she had seldom re- 
 ferred to him and no one knew anything of their odd friend- 
 ship. She nodded. "I liked him," Netta went on, "but he 
 gave me an uncanny feeling as if he were someone in dis- 
 guise." 
 
 "He isn't. But I admit he does give that impression. 
 P'raps it's part of his charm." 
 
 "Is he married?" 
 
 "Yes, but I believe they've separated." 
 
 "Then he can't marry you. So it's the same old story after 
 all." 
 
 "My dear Netta, I assure you he doesn't want anything 
 like that from me. He never even hinted at it, not once." 
 
 "Then why does he dig you out?" 
 
 "Friendship, nothing else. I suppose there can be a man 
 like that in all the world." 
 
 A cynical smile curved Netta's clear-cut mouth. 
 
 "If there's one thing I've never believed in it's platonic 
 friendship. It may exist but it's like heaven and souls and 
 so on you've never actually seen the thing, for all the talk 
 about it. And with his sort, and your sort of girl, I simply 
 don't believe it. Experience hasn't taught you much, my dear. 
 And anyway, married men are hell," she ended as if she had 
 the best reasons for knowing. 
 
 Senlake came next day just as twilight was deepening into 
 darkness and the streets of London seemed tinged with the 
 bitter-sweet of the dying year. 
 
 Leaving him with Netta, Dolf ran down to the work-room to 
 powder her face. 
 
 Her high heels clattered down the steep steps full of the 
 joy-music that seems to radiate from a happy girl. Senlake 
 looked consideringly at Netta Blatchley. 
 
 "You wonder so much what I'm after, what the game is, 
 don't you?" he mused aloud. "If I tell you the truth you'll
 
 DOLF 87 
 
 never believe me because you and I are too wise to recognise 
 truth when we see it. I'm very old and tired and she's fright- 
 fully young and keen. She looks such a pretty kid when she's 
 pleased. It isn't very wrong to please her and then watch, 
 is it? Tell me, you inscrutable dragon." 
 
 "No, not if you stuck at that," she said colouring very 
 faintly. (Since when had Netta Blatchley ever been self- 
 conscious with a man?) "But by and by you'll kiss her 
 and she'll catch fire from the kiss and dash off into a sort of 
 passionate thunderstorm. Then when you're tired of it you'll 
 have a beautiful renunciation scene and leave Dolf with a 
 sort of half-baked love-affair that'll make her miserable for 
 weeks. Better go now. It's healthier, and kinder." 
 
 He stared a moment, then laughed so frankly that she 
 joined in. 
 
 "I know you're genuinely fond of Dolf. Well, so am I. You 
 can believe me absolutely when I say that. Honestly, you 
 needn't worry." 
 
 She gazed back at him. To her own profound amazement 
 she did believe. And she was candid enough to tell him so, 
 just as Dolf came running up the steps. 
 
 She came towards him in a black frock, her fair hair swathed 
 in a turban with a projecting brush at right angles to it. 
 The pleased look of the taken-out girl lit up her oval face 
 and calm eyes. 
 
 "Come on, Guy! Do let's hurry! I'm sick of work and 
 the shop. I'll be home sometime, Netta dear. Don't bother 
 about me." 
 
 They dined modestly at Jules'. Sitting opposite him, 
 Dolf could observe Senlake. He looked exactly as he had 
 looked before. If, as Mrs. Bainbridge had surmised at the 
 time of his departure from the boarding-house, he had cheered 
 up, now he had relapsed. His clothes, then different and new, 
 seemed like their predecessors, because he had not taken care 
 of them. His manner was not changed. And perhaps because
 
 88 DOLF 
 
 he did not ask, she told him all that had happened to her. 
 He was interested in the newspaper experience, but not curious 
 about Jenings, of whom indeed she said little. 
 
 "Your plunge into life seems to have agreed with you," he 
 mused. She caught a qualifying, almost regretful note in his 
 voice. 
 
 "What is it you don't like?" she asked frankly. 
 
 "What? Oh, well, nothing except perhaps that you seem 
 older." 
 
 "Of course, I'm almost nineteen." But she knew what he 
 meant and was too kind to say, that in her sort of life girls 
 grow old not by years but by months, weeks. At the start 
 she had never been childishly ignorant; now looking back on 
 her twenty months in London she realised how swiftly knowl- 
 edge may come. 
 
 "At any rate I haven't any white hairs," she began, and 
 stopped abruptly. She remembered the tinge of premature 
 grey at his temples. She seemed always to blunder with him, 
 ,who never blundered with her. 
 
 "And you'll never have them, Dolf dear," he smiled. "But 
 now that you've told me all about the past let me hear about 
 the present. There must be someone in your life, of course. 
 It couldn't be otherwise." 
 
 She laughed, colouring faintly. 
 
 "Well, yes, there's always Reggie." 
 
 "Who's Reggie?" 
 
 "Oh, he sort of takes me about, kisses me, gives me dinner, 
 carries parcels. I'm not exactly in love, but one likes to be 
 taken care of." 
 
 "You mean you still love Jenings?" 
 
 She shook her head, acting a lie she dared not utter, 
 For would anyone ever take Ralph's place? "You see, he was 
 so strong and such a dear and one doesn't forget very quickly. 
 And Reggie isn't the sort to make me. But he's nice, really, 
 in his way. He's in the Guards and you do have to have
 
 DOLF 89 
 
 one man to keep off the others, don't you?" She paused. 
 "I don't mean to be flippant, Guy. It doesn't matter if I 
 am, with you, though, because you know the real me under- 
 neath. Somehow you always seem to understand." She 
 paused and he smiled rather sadly. She did not know that 
 he was repeating to himself " 'Strong and such a dear.' 
 Well, that's what I wasn't. And so she did forget quickly." 
 For a moment it was not Dolf he saw, but an older woman 
 with glorious auburn air, a cruel lovely mouth and mocking 
 eyes. Dolf glanced at him uneasily; with a faint lift of the 
 shoulders he begged her pardon. 
 
 "I'm a dull dog, aren't I?" he said smiling. 
 
 "Oh Guy, I'd hoped you'd forgotten while you were away." 
 All at once her eyes flashed. "You are much too dear and 
 wonderful for that woman to " 
 
 She stopped, seeing the change in his expression, remember- 
 ing how once before he had hurt her when she criticised his 
 wife. 
 
 "Let's talk about Reggie," he suggested. "So he only 
 kisses you? Tell me more about him, Dolf." 
 
 She offered him a cigarette from a little gold case. 
 
 "Reggie gave it to me. You can look at his photograph in- 
 side if you like. I've never shown it to anyone else. Re- 
 member, he's just a nice big, cheery, passionate boy. He's 
 got to kiss somebody, and pr'aps I've got to be kissed occa- 
 sionally, and we're quite good on the whole and I look after 
 him and keep him out of mischief. At the moment I'm 
 the only girl he kisses really seriously to be in love with, that 
 is. I could never share that kind of thing with any other 
 woman. Fancy knowing he was going on from me to her! 
 My God, as if I would ever play second fiddle to anybody!" 
 
 "So his name's Reggie and he's in the Guards" observed 
 Senlake. He took the gold toy and studied the photograph 
 of a typical subaltern slipped under the elastic. 
 
 "Ah! He looks er a good sort" he went on in exactly
 
 QO DOLF 
 
 the same tone and handed back the cigarette case. "And 
 you're the only girl he kisses for love? Splendid!" 
 
 "Don't dislike him from the photo," she pleaded, "and a 
 poor one at that. We aren't really in love and it isn't very 
 deep. I'm only a corner of his life and he's only a corner 
 cf mine, but it's a jolly corner and a unique one, and I'd 
 rather not spoil it." 
 
 "I'd like a little corner, too, Dolf," Senlake said gently, 
 "in exchange for the rather large place you have in my 
 thoughts. I don't expect you on your good days, but if 
 you'd spare me just the off ones when you're tired, and your 
 hair won't go up, and your skin doesn't fit, and God hates 
 you? You need never be desperately bright and earn your 
 dinner with me. I'll always understand, because I get tired 
 too." 
 
 She stretched a hand across the table and laid it on his. 
 "You're far too gentle with women. We always fool men 
 like you. Men ought always to be exacting and never let a 
 girl off. Girls hate them for it, but they respect them, too, in 
 a kind of miserable, oppressed, sick-hearted way." 
 
 "Thank you," he said thoughtfully. "I think I'd rather go 
 on being a fool. In my own foolish way I get more out of 
 it. But I know what I lose, and how I hate the other kind 
 of man who just takes, takes all the time and never goes 
 short! 
 
 "Do you suppose" he went on passionately "that a woman 
 who's lived with the same man ten years cares a damn 
 whether he kisses someone else or not? Women are less roman- 
 tic than men; they get so used to you that for them almost 
 any variant of the monotony's better than none. When the 
 thrill, the dither, or whatever you like to call it, goes out of 
 the relationship of the married, the woman in the case looks 
 calmly round and fills in the void with a child or two, social 
 humbugging or whatever pleases her. It's almost up to her 
 husband to find some girl and create a fresh interest. It also
 
 DOLF 91 
 
 excuses his wife if she wants to find a man. Doesn't decency 
 compel these things? Believe me it does." 
 
 Dolf looked at him steadily. Then he meant her to under- 
 stand he too had found some girl. Or had he tried that 
 and proved it vain and empty, and was that why he spared 
 her? 
 
 "No, it's because he doesn't want to hurt me, any girl of 
 my sort," she told herself almost fiercely. "He knows that 
 a girl who works can't afford passionate friendships; they rag 
 her and spoil her and drag at her vitality. He just means to 
 be a pal, and I'm lucky, ever so lucky!" 
 
 Taking her home, he climbed the stairs to her flat and fol- 
 lowed her into the little sitting-room, typically scented, fem- 
 inine and rubbishy, and lit the valedictory cigarette. As he 
 took her hand in farewell a wave of emotion seemed to emanate 
 from him to her. The lines of his face deepened a little; he 
 released her hand and smiled. 
 
 A moment later the hall door had clicked behind him. 
 
 When he had left her Dolf stood for a monent in thought. 
 Then she pattered into the bedroom where Netta lay reading 
 a magazine. 
 
 "Well?" said Netta, looking up. 
 
 "Oh, he's just Guy, dear. And he's being so good. I sup- 
 pose there's only one in the world like that, don't you?" 
 
 "And you've got him," said Netta slowly. "I s'pose you're 
 lucky." Dolf began fidgetting restlessly up and down the 
 room. 
 
 "Netta," she said after a pause, "you know we live awfully 
 stingy lives. I simply must have another frock or two. The 
 only way one can hold the interest of a man like Guy is with 
 clothes; I don't want to lose him completely. Can't we 
 take out more of the profits in salaries?" 
 
 "I've been doing accounts. They're not very rosy. Instead 
 of taking money out we ought really to get some other man 
 to invest a little more capital."
 
 92 DOLF 
 
 "But who? I don't know of one, do you?" 
 
 Netta threw the magazine on the floor, pushed back her 
 hair and shook her head. 
 
 "Oh well, men are like hell, and life's hell, but what are 
 we to do? Tear off your things and let's switch out the light, 
 dear. I'm as tired as ten dogs."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BUT even on the brink of a business crash life goes on. In 
 the fulness of time Dolf found herself again dressing to go 
 out with Reggie, decking herself as a girl does for her lover, 
 lingering happily over each detail of her beauty. Her hair 
 lay cunningly swathed about her head, her happy eyes lit 
 up her delicate face, its satin skin tinged very slightly 
 with artificial pink. Netta, cigarette in mouth, strolled in 
 and watched dispassionately. 
 
 "You're getting too fond of that lad" she said cynically. 
 "You put on your clothes as if you were dressing for your 
 wedding. He's eaten up with conceit like all boys and he'll 
 only let you down." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Netta " 
 
 A ring at the hall door interrupted her. She fled away to 
 admit Reggie Mayne, looking very perfect in his dress clothes 
 because his father and grandfather had done so before him 
 for countless generations. She led him into the sitting-room 
 and let herself be kissed as only artists like Reggie can kiss. 
 
 "You darling," he murmured into the fair hair, with a tacit 
 implication that she must be if he said so. 
 
 Dolf caught the lapels of his coat and looked up at him 
 with a touch of that self-immolation before the male peculiar 
 to women of her social order. 
 
 "You don't love any girl but me, do you, Reggie? You don't 
 kiss any other woman really seriously? 'Cause if you do, you 
 see I'd have to give you up and I don't want to. I'd never 
 be second in any man's life." 
 
 He caressed the fair head gently, feeling no end of a fellow 
 because the pretty child was so obviously his. 
 
 93
 
 94 DOLF 
 
 "Silly! Of course I don't. You're too attractive for me 
 to want anybody else. Buck up though or you'll have to 
 gobble your food and be late for the show." 
 
 She went out and ate with him a dinner vastly different 
 from that of Senlake. She played the role of pretty plaything 
 to perfection. It was a glittering meal in gilded surroundings, 
 rich with fine wines and flowers and hot-house fruit. She 
 earned her dinner with a dash and gaiety that kept him chained 
 hand and foot by sheer charm. She sat in his box and watched 
 the latest revue, criticised the girls and their clothes, or lack 
 of clothes, laughed daringly at the innuendoes of the funny 
 men. But she had her reward in dazzling and fascinating a 
 good-looking young soldier, in making him the envy of most 
 men in the theatre. Afterward she paid toll with kisses, 
 nestling against him in the silky-running car, and again when 
 he said good-night to her in the flat. These were the trophies 
 of her swiftly-fleeting youth that a girl must gather while 
 she may or not gather at all. 
 
 "You do love me?" was her last word to him, and "Yes, I do 
 love you!" his to her. 
 
 On a certain morning when Senlake's wife entered the shop, 
 Dolf was by no means sure at first. The woman with Mrs. 
 Senlake called her Sonia. Was that his wife's name? Though 
 Dolf had a keen memory the one glimpse she had had of 
 Mrs. Senlake in the park was blurred because then Dolf had 
 been too occupied with her own trouble to note carefully 
 the cause of Guy's. 
 
 Meanwhile she studied the two women, smiling conven- 
 tionally and suitably. She said "Yes, Moddom," and "I 
 think it would, Moddom" to the other woman while "Sonia," 
 half-bored, acted as connoisseur of hats. However, in trying 
 on, her companion after barely glancing at a Paris model 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "But Sonia, this would just suit you, wouldn't it?" 
 
 Sonia laughed and set the hat on her beautiful head, where
 
 DOLF 95 
 
 its deep shade of dulled peacock-blue lent new glory to the 
 auburn tresses. Both laughed, and Dolf heard the other say, 
 "Sonia, that shade of blue was made for you!" and Sonia 
 replied "It is rather delightful. I used to wear it a lot. 
 It was Guy's favorite. Angela, you're right, I'll have it." An 
 insolent laugh curled her lips, and it had not vanished when 
 she turned to Dolf and asked "How much does it cost?" 
 
 "Ten guineas, Moddom." 
 
 'Mrs. Senlake's eyebrows rose while her companion ex- 
 claimed at the price but Dolf was smilingly firm. Sonia 
 laughed mockingly. 
 
 "All right. I'll take it at ten guineas." Dolf, who had 
 until to-day loathed her abstractly, on principle, hated afresh 
 the poise and elegance of this woman who, instinct told her, 
 was cruel and selfish to the core. 
 
 When Mrs. Senlake had gone Dolf stared at the Pont Street 
 address she had scribbled. All that life, that background 
 flashed before her. It was not only hate now, but envy, too, 
 that she felt for the Sonia Senlakes who make the Dolf Farm- 
 ers feel anew the cheapness and vulgarity out of which they 
 sometimes struggle by their own efforts. 
 
 "She deserves no credit!" Dolf cried aloud. "She in- 
 herited everything, and lives on his money and makes him 
 poor." 
 
 And then for her to throw over a man like Guy! "She's 
 a devil. And he cares so much he's let her spoil his life, and 
 she laughs. I can see her laughing at his love just as she 
 laughed here. Well, I made her pay for her beastly hat!" 
 
 But shame for that trick assailed her, and before an hour 
 passed she repented thoroughly of her spite and pettiness, re- 
 gretting as well the treachery in herself against Guy. After 
 all, he did love this woman, and to be horrid to his wife 
 was no way to be a friend to him. And she did want to be 
 his friend.
 
 96 DOLF 
 
 "Mrs. de Blancheforet Senlake," murmured Netta later, 
 looking up from the bill. "Is this your Senlake's wife?" 
 
 "Couldn't it be his sister-in-law?" drawled Dolf. 
 
 "It's his wife," said Netta slowly out of a complete intui- 
 tion. 
 
 "Yes, if you must know. But Netta, we're not to tell 
 him. We mustn't speak of her to him. That's the one thing 
 you must grasp." 
 
 "Oh," said Netta irritably, "I shan't mention her. D'you 
 think I've no tact?" And after a pause, "What was she 
 like?" she asked more gently, in a new, half-embarrassed tone. 
 
 Dolf described her briefly. Netta said nothing, but a few 
 moments later she exclaimed "Ten guineas 1 What was ten 
 guineas? Did she take two hats?" 
 
 "No, it was a mistake for six." 
 
 "Mistake ?" As Dolf was silent Netta eyed her for a 
 moment. At last she said, "Well, if she didn't know it was 
 a mistake, it needn't be, need it?" and laughed oddly. 
 
 Dolf swung round, her fierceness astounding Netta. 
 
 "It was a mistake, and I'll correct it. Only don't nag me." 
 
 "Nag!" cried Netta bitterly. "My god-fathers!" 
 
 "And don't say 'my god-fathers'; you're not the type who 
 can afford to. We're not, you and I, we're Oh damn Sonia 
 Senlake!" 
 
 Netta made no reply but after a long look at Dolf she went 
 out to have her lunch. 
 
 Dolf meant to telephone her "mistake" to Mrs. Senlake 
 that afternoon, but almost immediately the plan was replaced 
 by one of a different nature. Instead of sending the hat, 
 she would take it. 
 
 When was this sort of woman at home? Probably be- 
 tween tea and dinner. Accordingly at half-past six, assuming 
 a meekness that contradicted her smart appearance, she found 
 herself in Mrs. Senlake's boudoir. 
 
 For the first time in her life Dolf saw the home of a rich
 
 DOLF 97 
 
 and elegant woman. At every step she realised increasingly 
 the chasm between her life and this. But self-respect at 
 earning her own living, together with the purpose of her errand 
 kept her proudly erect even when at last she stood face to face 
 with Sonia, who looked up from the silken cushions where 
 she lay in an apricot-coloured rest-gown, halo'd by the smoke 
 of an amber-scented cigarette. 
 
 "I've delivered it myself, Mrs. Senlake, in order to correct 
 a mistake," Dolf said evenly. 
 
 "What mistake? Oh, the price? Was it more than ten 
 guineas?" 
 
 "It should have been six." 
 
 "Very well. Put six on the bill." And Sonia turned away 
 to choose a fresh cigarette, implying that Dolf was dismissed. 
 
 "But," said Dolf softly, "that's only what I pretended to 
 come for." 
 
 It took all her courage to meet unflinchingly the stare from 
 the widened green eyes. 
 
 "Will you explain yourself?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Dolf, meeting the command. "Your hus- 
 band, Guy Senlake, is a friend of mine." 
 
 The green eyes grew larger. Truly, they were wonderful 
 in their astounded hauteur. After a long pause Sonia said: 
 
 "Really? I'm not surprised, except at your insolent audac- 
 ity. Guy and I long ago chose separate roads and since 
 that time his love affairs have concerned me as little as mine 
 have concerned or could possibly concern him." 
 
 "I knew you'd say that, about love affairs," Dolf replied 
 quietly. Everything in this woman roused in her the instinct 
 of independence and pride. "I wonder if you'd believe me if 
 I said it wasn't that at all?" 
 
 "It isn't a matter of belief," contradicted Mrs. Senlake, "it's 
 a matter of whether, having delivered the hat I bought this 
 morning at the shop where you work, you will now leave
 
 98 DOLF 
 
 immediately or whether I shall have to ring for someone to 
 show you out. I hope you will make a prompt decision." 
 
 Dolf dug her nails into her palms and kept her ground. 
 In either white cheek burned a spot of scarlet. 
 
 "Oh, I know you can have me shown out, but I'm not here 
 because I enjoy it. I only came because he's so fine and 
 decent, too fine to suffer so much, and I thought perhaps if 
 you knew how he suffers you'd find some way to make him 
 less unhappy. Perhaps you haven't realised how he cares 
 for you and how it's wrecking his whole life. If you knew, 
 surely you wouldn't go on hurting him so. You wouldn't 
 dare." 
 
 Mrs. Senlake's hand, which at the beginning of this speech 
 had moved toward the bell, hesitated as for the moment her 
 anger was mastered by sheer incredulity. 
 
 Dolf followed up her precarious advantage. 
 
 "I know how impossible it is of me and I know Guy would 
 never, never speak to me again if he knew, and that would hurt 
 me. Girls of my kind don't find that sort of man every day. 
 In your life everything's safe; you make your own laws 
 and codes, but every time we make a friend we gamble. And 
 I suppose it's the gambler in me that made me come to you. 
 Either you'd throw me out or you wouldn't; either you'd 
 not care about Guy or how his life goes to ruin because he 
 can't forget you, or you'd care a little bit enough to listen 
 to a girl he's been decent to. I thought perhaps you'd 
 even be proud of him for being so faithful. Most men aren't, 
 even if they are mad about some other woman. Most of 
 them are all the more selfish and cruel, just to forget the 
 one for a little while. And of course you can see," she added 
 bluntly, "I'm not so ugly nor old nor stupid that I can't 
 attract a man if he wants to look on me as a means of for- 
 getting." 
 
 Sonia gazed at her steadily, abandoning the idea of ringing, 
 at least for the present. She saw before her a girl she could
 
 DOLF 99 
 
 no longer regard as a mere shopgirl, but rather as a sister- 
 woman whom immaturity alone rendered unequal in strength 
 for the present contest. There was a long silence. 
 
 "You've come here to ask me to take Guy back?" she asked 
 at last. 
 
 "No. How could I? How do I know know what would 
 be best? I only thought that if you knew he still cares so 
 much you'd know of some way to help him." 
 
 "And you say that's what you yourself haven't tried to do?" 
 
 "You'll never believe me," declared Dolf. "That means 
 you don't understand his character nor appreciate it. Yet he 
 loves you. The world's a queer place!" 
 
 "Yes," answered Mrs. Senlake slowly, "it's a place where 
 things go by contraries. For instance, though for your age, 
 you're something of a philosopher about men and women, you 
 forget that a woman never loves her slave. It's only the man 
 she never wholly possesses whom she really loves. Hasn't this 
 been your experience? unless, of course, you get your ideas 
 less from experience than from observation. And observation 
 is never trustworthy, however much you peer and pry into the 
 private affairs of people beyond your life and station." 
 
 She had risen, and was now at the door, which she was 
 about to open. All the colour had left Dolf's face, but she 
 did not reply because as Mrs. Senlake threw open the door 
 in dismissal, a man who had evidently been about to knock 
 entered boisterously. 
 
 It was Reggie. 
 
 He failed to observe the slim girl standing within the room, 
 her face in shadow; he gathered Sonia to him in a passionate 
 embrace. All at once he exclaimed, and Mrs. Senlake, freeing 
 herself said, not angrily: 
 
 "You silly boy! Haven't I told you not to be so impatient? 
 And I don't care to be kissed in front of a shopgirl." 
 
 She stopped and looked with a new sharp intensity from 
 him to Dolf. Dolf's bitter laugh broke the silence.
 
 ioo DOLF 
 
 "You and her!" 
 
 "Dolf, I I" 
 
 "You and her!" repeated Dolf. 
 
 "Reggie!" rang out Sonia's voice raucously. But the cry 
 did not make Reggie turn wholly from his horrified and scar- 
 let-faced scrutiny of Dolf. And Sonia knew that it was the 
 girl, not the woman, who held his alarmed desire, the one 
 with life before her, not the one with life already half 
 squandered. 
 
 "Dolf!" he cried again beseechingly. But Dolf looked at 
 him from eyes whose hue was now the colour of drawn steel, 
 and said slowly: 
 
 "You know me. You know I will never see you nor speak 
 to you again," and went out. 
 
 Mrs. Senlake, standing for a moment in thought, went swiftly 
 to the telephone and called a number. 
 
 "Is that Mr. Hopkins? You remember I suggested a shop 
 in Sloane Street Fleurette to dress your new Revue? Well, 
 I was wrong. They are hopeless. I wouldn't answer for the 
 consequences if you trust them." 
 
 "Ah!" replied the voice of Mr. Hopkins. "Thank you for 
 telling me, I'll remember." 
 
 Sonia turned peevishly to Reggie and her eyes smouldered. 
 
 "Thank God we're not bath fools," she said bitterly. "At 
 least I understand revenge!" 
 
 As she went blindly along the street Dolf's brain fought 
 through a tangled maze of emotions. 
 
 "Why not try to make Guy forget? Perhaps it would make 
 me forget, too. Let her have Reggie Mayne, but not both. 
 Why should she have both? She took a man from me, and 
 I'll take one from her. And I'll make him forget. God made 
 me pretty enough! He shall take me to dinner in a private 
 room and then he will kiss me and then Though I've never 
 given that to a man, I'll give it to him. Then perhaps we'll 
 both forget."
 
 DOLF 1 01 
 
 When she had made her opportunity and the waiter flitted 
 discreetly from view, closing the door with accentuated care, 
 Senlake put his restless, wandering thoughts into words, drop- 
 ping the mask of polite nonsense he had worn hitherto. 
 
 "My dear, what's the matter? For heaven's sake tell me. 
 You look like a haunted person, your nerves are all to bits, 
 and you don't know what you're saying or why." 
 
 Dolf stared at him with a steady intensity that seemed to 
 look straight into his soul. Her eyes shone twice their normal 
 size, her cheeks were flushed beneath their added pink, her 
 ringers crumbled bread restlessly. 
 
 She laughed. The harshness of the sound roused him. 
 
 "Have you and Reggie quarrelled?" 
 
 "Guy, not Reggie and I, please! Never again. That's off 
 forever." She threw at him the mocking ghost of a smile, 
 stretched across the table and took his hands. Her frock re- 
 vealed the satin fairness of throat and shoulders, he could 
 see a pulse throbbing at the base of her neck and her breath 
 came in distressed sobs. 
 
 "Dolf! Dear little Dolf!" he whispered compassionately. 
 
 "So now you see I'm free, Guy, free to do as I like." 
 
 "And the first thing you did was to come to me." He leaned 
 toward her and in his eyes, that held pity and friendship alone, 
 she read that her mad impulse was not to be realised for he 
 did not know what she had meant; he did not even think of 
 her in that way a way that now suddenly horrified her. 
 
 She saw, after all, that without love nothing counts. 
 
 How far he was from loving her! 
 
 Again hate for his wife rose in her. Suddenly she knew 
 that she must go home, that Guy was not the companion she 
 should have chosen for to-night, that she must be alone to 
 break or to endure, as the fates might decree. So, since she 
 begged him, he took her home and left her at the threshold, 
 very pale and very sad. 
 
 In the flat she found Netta staring into the fire, a little
 
 102 DOLF 
 
 heap of cigarette ends in an ash-tray beside her, gloom 
 stamped on her handsome face. 
 
 "Hullo!" she said drily. "Hope you've had a good time. 
 As a business we're down and out. You know that contract 
 for Hopkins to dress a revue? Well, it's a wash-out. We 
 shall have to close down, face the world anew, my dearie, 
 find another gold mine, or a man or something." 
 
 Dolf stared a moment, stunned by the unexpected new 
 blow. Then she laughed unnaturally. 
 
 "Only the other day I had to chuck Reggie. And now we've 
 got to shut up shop. Wouldn't it be easier just to drown?" 
 
 That night she wondered why she had been such a fool as 
 to go to Guy's wife. It was none of her business, and if Guy 
 chose to wreck his life for another woman why should she 
 care? Again she pictured the luxurious house and its beauti- 
 ful mistress and hated her with blind hatred. 
 
 But youth is elastic. In the morning she felt a wonderful 
 sensation of freedom. Reggie and that woman meant nothing 
 to her. Her irritation at Senlake was gone, too. For the fight- 
 ing spirit was in her again, the gambling spirit. She wanted to 
 go to Senlake and say, "Well, I've been jilted, too, you see, 
 but I'm going to win just the same. And you, also, you and 
 I both." She felt that she could endue him with her spirit and 
 that together they would ride down their enemies. 
 
 She came in to breakfast smiling. 
 
 "Netta, dear, last night I was talking about drowning, but 
 that's all over. One can't go down for ever and ever, can one? 
 Directly you touch bottom you begin to come up again." 
 
 "Quite sure you don't care either way?" asked Netta. Dolf 
 laughed, the blue eyes sane again, her chin set at a fighting tilt. 
 
 "Not so much as you could put on a pin's point. Give me 
 a cigarette. We're not going to let Fleurette die. Let's make 
 one more effort.'' 
 
 Netta considered this challenge glumly. 
 
 "I'd about made up my mind to try the stage again. I
 
 DOLF 103 
 
 was on once and I know a man" (she always knew a man) 
 "who can work it for me. They like girls who can wear clothes 
 properly. I thought you'd like a try too." 
 
 "It sounds all right if we can't succeed with Fleurette," Dolf 
 answered judicially. "But Fleurette' s got to have another 
 chance. I'm fond of her, and so are you. She's like us, 
 struggling to fight against odds. Let's stick at it another 
 month." 
 
 So won over by the sheer spirit of fight and hope, Netta 
 yielded. 
 
 With new plans and construction it was a busy day. But 
 not for a moment did Dolf lose Senlake from her thoughts and 
 at five that afternoon she telephoned to him. 
 
 She hung up the receiver dazed, stricken. According to his 
 landlady he had once more disappeared. 
 
 "I don't see that I need worry any more about him," Dolf 
 said one day when Netta had mentioned Senlake about a 
 month after his disappearance. 
 
 "Didn't know you ever did worry about him." 
 
 "I didn't mean worry, I meant wonder," Dolf corrected pet- 
 tishly. "Worry rather not! He's the sort who will go his 
 own way no matter what happens, so worrying would be foolish 
 even if I cared enough." 
 
 "Then you don't think he'll turn up again?" 
 
 "I just don't think, I tell you. Heavens, Netta, can't you 
 find something more interesting to talk about?" 
 
 Netta watched her a moment through cigarette smoke. 
 
 "Oh, all right. Let's talk about Fleurette." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" cried Dolf. "Try as we may Fleurette' s prac- 
 tically dead." 
 
 "Well, Dolf, dear" (Netta's "dear" had a cat-like sound, as 
 if it covered a claw), "it isn't my fault exactly. You were 
 keen on keeping on when I was ready to stop. And you 
 were going to help so much ; in fact, / was only to assist you.
 
 104 DOLF 
 
 But I can't see that you've made much of a success after all. I 
 did most of it even though I knew it was hopeless." 
 
 "You needn't rub it in," complained Dolf. But when Netta, 
 her vital young body wearied for once had gone to bed, Dolf 
 came to her. 
 
 "I was horrid, Netta. And I've been horrid about Fleurette, 
 too. I'm a little beast. But give me a chance to make up. 
 I'll work just as I meant to a month ago. Shall I?" 
 
 "I haven't any faith in it," Netta objected, but, as always 
 happened when Dolf coaxed, she gave in. 
 
 Nevertheless the end of the next fortnight found Fleurette 
 moribund. Something was subtly wrong with her, some vague 
 disease of which she was dying because, like the lady of Sha- 
 lott, a curse had come upon her. And one night they faced 
 the fact, let their ears hear the death-rattle and braced them- 
 selves for the funeral. It was merely a matter of seeing it 
 through without owing the undertaker. 
 
 "I'm glad it's over," sighed Netta as she (figuratively) filled 
 in the grave and came away. 
 
 "Me, too." Dolf stared at the rug. "But it isn't your 
 fault. I tried hard but something was wrong with me. I s'pose 
 I was a little in love with Senlake. I didn't realize it, but I've 
 begun to believe I was." 
 
 "And is it all over now?" Netta asked after a pause, turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 Dolf laughed. "He's gone out of my life for good, my dear. 
 Don't make any mistake about that." 
 
 "But he wasn't in it for bad?" murmured Netta. 
 
 "No. But I must I mean, I have forgotten him. His 
 friendship was dear and sweet, but I'm young and there must 
 be some happiness coming to me. You wouldn't keep up a 
 hopeless attachment, would you?" 
 
 "Of course not," said Netta enigmatically. 
 
 "Well, I'm sensible, too. So let's face the future and see 
 what's to be done. I suppose you'll go on the stage?"
 
 DOLF 105 
 
 Netta nodded. A faint exhilaration seemed to emanate from 
 her. "Why not come, too? It's looks that count most, and 
 you've got them." 
 
 "Anything to earn a living. I can't go back, I must go for- 
 ward. I'd rather die than be back at home, and anyway Dad 
 wouldn't have me. Auntie wouldn't help me any more either. 
 She hated my leaving her to go and live with you." 
 
 "Leave it to me," came laconically from Netta. 
 
 A girl of Dolf's type being merely a bubble on the face of 
 the waters, she found herself adrift from shadow to sunlight 
 with complete lack of reason or motive. Thus as the months 
 passed, Netta's theatrical venture spun Fortune's wheel with 
 amazing results. 
 
 Within the respectable precincts of the Albert Hall dis- 
 guised for the occasion much as if a hashish-inspired district vis- 
 itor should paint her godly face and reveal her form beyond 
 the limits of decorum hundreds of young and lovely women 
 offered sacrifice to Aphrodite in the modern fashion. The Stage 
 and Studio Fancy Dress Ball danced along its primrose path. 
 The string band of the Royal Artillery gingered the far from 
 reluctant emotions of the revellers, expressed in the angular 
 unrhythmic shuffling of to-day's dances. 
 
 The tall man with a brown, lean face, disguised as a Penin- 
 sular Guardsman, smiled patiently at Netta Blatchley, now 
 of the Summerhouse Theatre, one-fifth of her comeliness veiled 
 by something intended to represent an orchid. The smile 
 crumpled the sun-wrinkles at the corners of his eyelids with- 
 out modifying greatly a stem mouth and sun-faded hazel eyes. 
 
 "You're very cruel, aren't you?" he said lazily. "You don't 
 love me and you won't stay with me all this evening to save me 
 from the wild women. That was the understanding on which 
 I came. I do think you ought to provide a substitute, don't 
 you? A comparative stranger needs a nurse of some sort at 
 these orgies. What about it?" 
 
 "I should worry!" retorted Netta pertly, fretting one rest-
 
 io6 DOLF 
 
 less foot on the shimmering floor. "I must stick to Roddy 
 this evening, old thing. He's going to give me a part, I don't 
 think, this year, some time, never. I'm a business girl." 
 
 "I gave you a beautiful dinner, too, and we travelled here 
 in the Rolls. I insist on being found someone to love. You 
 know thousands of lovely things. Surely I can have just a 
 little one?" 
 
 Netta waved imperiously towards a curtained entrance. 
 
 "Dolf," she commanded, "come here, I want you. Sir Henry 
 Creagh Miss Farmer. He's worth millions and runs a Rolls- 
 Royce. Be good. Cheerio! There's Roddy!" 
 
 She scampered away and left them. 
 
 Sir Henry gazed down thoughtfully at Dolf. She wore a 
 thin rose-silk pyjama coat open at the throat, with shorts to 
 match. Her ankles and feet would have melted the heart of a 
 stone image. She said nothing, letting him gaze. 
 
 "They say 'he who hesitates is lost,' but the band is playing 
 a hesitation waltz. Shall we?" murmured Sir Henry at last 
 and drew her away. 
 
 Most men's lives are punctuated by women, among whom 
 the exclamation marks predominate. Nevertheless there occurs 
 once or twice in a lifetime the unsought, imperious full stop 
 that puts everything else out of mind for the time being. When 
 Sir Henry led Dolf out among the shuffling multitude on the 
 shimmering floor he knew neither the hour nor the day, heat 
 nor cold, joy nor sorrow. A bitter-sweet thrill tingled through 
 his veins akin to the subtle beginning of intoxication. There 
 was no need to explain or excuse anything. They were neither 
 strangers nor friends. Drifting together by chance they had 
 become, temporarily at any rate, the perfect complement of 
 each other. He looked deep into her eyes and they met his 
 openly, fearlessly. She smiled very faintly and her lips shaped 
 themselves instinctively to meet his. There were madness, 
 welcome, invitation in the light clasp of her fingers. 
 
 Sir Henry was thirty-nine. He had met life eye to eye in
 
 DOLF 107 
 
 most corners of the world and life had taught him many things. 
 In the dry hostility of the desert, in the eerie stillness and 
 majesty of the bush he knew a man shall either seize fate by 
 the throat and crush her, or take the wages of cowardice and 
 sin, which is death. But when life is a dalliance of hanging 
 rose-gardens, sunlight and fortunate streams, then on such 
 streams a man may take in the idle sail, ship the unnecessary 
 oar, and drift serenely towards Asgard, or Mogador. 
 
 After the eleventh cycle of the millennium they found them- 
 selves sitting in his box. Dolf absorbed the last spoonful of a 
 pink ice luxuriously. Sir Henry took away the plate, held 
 Dolf's face between his two hands and kissed her slowly. 
 
 "Well?" he said at last. 
 
 "I don't know. It doesn't matter, does it? We're just 
 happy," she answered. 
 
 Hearing her voice for the first time he thanked God it 
 matched the rest of her. It might have been a Cockney voice, 
 a provincial voice. She might even have dropped her aitches. 
 
 "Who are you, Dolf? Where do you come from? What 
 do you do? How can we escape?" he went on swiftly, authori- 
 tatively. He seemed to take her wishes for granted. 
 
 She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I work. Netta and I had a shop since then I've been in 
 another but now I think I'm going on the stage. Netta can 
 get me on." 
 
 "And beyond that, I s'pose there are men?" 
 
 Dolf smiled up at him with a hint of devil in her eyes. 
 
 "There always are, aren't there? What do you expect? 
 One can't afford one's own frocks and dinners and things. You 
 needn't be jealous there aren't any very serious men. They 
 just drift in and out of life. I'm only twenty and I can't set- 
 tle oh, don't, you're hurting!" 
 
 He had gripped her shoulders and drawn her to him. She 
 pushed the pyjama coat on one side and showed him reproach- 
 fully three red fingerprints on the white skin.
 
 io8 DOLF 
 
 "Dolf," said Sir Henry desperately, "I want you. I've just 
 got to have you. Do you understand?" 
 
 "I understand perfectly," she said, with a calm certainty 
 that brought the blood into his tanned face. "You do want 
 me and you don't want to marry me. All the nice men of your 
 class are the same. Isn't it unfortunate?" 
 
 Try as he would he could think of no repty. 
 
 "I love your kind of man and my own kind are such pigs. 
 Life's very difficult, isn't it?" 
 
 "For God's sake, don't!" murmured Sir Henry. "You're 
 quite right! I shall never marry. What are we to do, Dolf? 
 Do you remember our dance? Has it got to end there? Can't 
 you think of any way . . .?" 
 
 His voice dwindled into silence. He appeared to himself to 
 be asking impossible questions. 
 
 "How was it you came straight to me?" he went on. 
 
 "You must have any quantity of dancing partners." 
 
 "Just Netta. She looks after me. She couldn't dance with 
 you to-night. I kept myself free to help her out." 
 
 Sir Henry squared his broad shoulders. 
 
 "Come away. We can't talk here. I hate these jamborees. 
 Will you?" 
 
 She sighed faintly, realising the inevitable. 
 
 "My cloak," she murmured. "In five minutes, if you like." 
 
 The Rolls-Royce whirred softly through the soft darkness 
 to his rooms in Half Moon Street. He gave a quiet order to 
 the driver and led Dolf into a man's perfect, impersonal sit- 
 ting-room with deep chairs, a great lion skin on the hearth, ex- 
 pensive Bond Street toys on the writing-table. He rang, and 
 an impassive valet came bringing whisky and soda. Sir Henry 
 commanded a small table and supper for two. 
 
 When Dolf had eaten delicately and sipped her champagne 
 with the fastidious gourmandise of a little cat lapping new 
 cream, he put her in a big chair by the fire, lighted her ciga- 
 rette and stood looking down at her.
 
 DOLF 109' 
 
 "Dolf, I'm going away. I'm going to Africa in my yacht. 
 I want you to come too." 
 
 She shook her head slowly. 
 
 "I can't. I don't do those things. You don't quite under- 
 stand. It isn't much to you, but to a girl it's a great deal 
 all she has. I'm sorry. I'd love it a yacht, and Africa. You 
 are lucky, aren't you?" 
 
 He smiled at her a little. She lay back perfectly at rest 
 in the great chair, a slender almost boyish figure, and yet so 
 entirely girl. An idea dawned in his brain. 
 
 "Dolf, I'll make a bargain with you. You shall come to 
 Africa as my secretary. You shall have an elderly, most re- 
 spectable lady as a chaperon. You shall be treated exactly as 
 if you were my daughter or sister, and I give you my word, 
 which I've never broken, that nothing shall ever happen which 
 you'd rather not. You shall see the sort of life I could give 
 you for oh, several years, probably, and make up your mind 
 when we return to England. If you still feel you'd rather 
 not, we'll part friends. If you alter your mind, why the 
 world will be yours to choose from, and I'm considered a 
 reasonably amusing person. I make only one condition: while 
 you're with me, either on this trial trip or afterwards you 
 are not to have any love affair with anyone else. If you do, 
 our arrangements cease from that moment, wherever we are. 
 How do you like my idea?" 
 
 Dolf flicked cigarette ash into the tray at her elbow and 
 dreamed. A cinema film was running before her mind's eye. 
 On the one hand work in a shop or a theatre, the attentions of 
 all sorts of men, mostly nasty, a hand to mouth existence, 
 a battle of wits. On the other, comfort, luxury, charm, pro- 
 tection. For a while she could be even as one of his class. 
 There was every safeguard; he was not the kind to break his 
 word. Dolf knew men well enough to be sure. And in the last 
 event the choice lay with her. A yacht and Africa, with all
 
 no DOLF 
 
 to gain and nothing to lose. Netta would never hesitate. Why 
 should she? 
 
 She raised her eyes to him and smiled. 
 
 "I think I'll accept. You're an awful dear to ask me. I 
 shall never change my mind, but if you care to risk giving 
 something for nothing I'd love to go with you. Tell me what 
 I'm to do." 
 
 "I'll take you home and fix it up to-morrow. We've a month 
 to spare; you'd better have some sort of secretarial training 
 for the sake of appearances, and learn to ride. And there's 
 your kit to get, and your chaperon dear old lady! Dine 
 here to-morrow and I'll tell you details. It's your bedtime 
 now." 
 
 He lifted her to her feet, kissed her, folded the cloak about 
 her, and took her back to Netta's flat. At four a.m., Netta 
 returned to find Dolf in bed wide-eyed. 
 
 "Got my contract out of Roddy," yawned Netta, sinking 
 rather wearily on the bed. "I had to promise goodness knows 
 what, but it'll all come right in the end, darling. Where the 
 blue blazes did you get to with Henry?" 
 
 "Nothing like so far as I shall get! Oh, Netta " 
 
 She told her fairy tale with bright excited eyes. Netta lis- 
 tened all amazement, scepticism, finally pure envy. 
 
 "My God!" she exclaimed, "you don't half have luck, do 
 you? Here I am gambling week-ends at Brighton on paper 
 at any rate for a measly tenner a week, and you get yachts 
 and Cook's tours for nothing, and a chaperon thrown in. 
 I can guess what you'll say to him at the end of the trip. You 
 needn't offer a prize." 
 
 Dolf played abstractedly with the ribbon at the end of one 
 long plait. 
 
 "Can you?" she murmured. "I wonder?" 
 
 Another prospective traveller about this time was Tom 
 Wainwright. 
 
 Having prospered in the grocery trade to such an extent that
 
 DOLF m 
 
 he now had shops in London, he felt that a fresh impetus to 
 his rapid rise would be given by a journey to the sources of 
 some of his supplies. He could leave in charge a capable re- 
 liable partner and his mind would be free to enjoy a voyage in 
 South Africa. 
 
 Tom knew that a man aiming at the sort of future he had 
 in mind must acquire other things than money, and that travel 
 broadens the mind. So he was quite happy to combine busi- 
 ness and pleasure, a deal on the spot and a holiday trip. 
 
 The steam yacht Fragoletta, three thousand tons, crept dain- 
 tily past the steamer on the rocks, past the white lighthouse 
 against the green shore, into Free Town harbour. The fairy 
 tale had begun. 
 
 Dolf stood beside Sir Henry beneath the awning aft, her eyes 
 jewelled with eagerness, a slender figure in white linen and pith 
 hat. It was six-thirty a. m. in the tropics, with the just risen 
 sun gilding an unflecked sea and sky. Beyond towered the 
 saw-backed mass of the Sierra Leone ; in the air hung the begin- 
 nings of moist, breathless heat. Past the eternal bush-fringed 
 shore of Africa they crawled dead slow to their anchorage off 
 a scattered town such as Dolf had never seen, with a red brick 
 incongruous English-looking church in the foreground. 
 
 "The G. O. C.'s quite an old pal of mine and so's the Gover- 
 nor. I asked them to dine by wireless," said Sir Henry lazily. 
 "They'll come fast enough because a real dinner on a ship's 
 something to pray for in these ports. There's the Port Medi- 
 cal Officer in his launch, and somebody from the Staff won't 
 be far behind. We'll give him breakfast, Dolf. He'll amuse 
 you." 
 
 A dilapidated launch manned by gentlemen of colour in hap- 
 hazard costumes churned alongside, followed closely by a motor 
 boat. Dolf ran eagerly to the head of the accommodation 
 ladder. Sir Henry, who had been in the tropics before, walked 
 slowly after her. 
 
 Up the ladder toiled a stout man in a flannel shirt and drill
 
 H2 DOLF 
 
 shorts with a Sam Brown belt over the shirt and a Wolseley 
 helmet on his head. He nodded to the First Officer waiting to 
 receive him, and the ship's doctor. Sir Henry held out a wel- 
 coming hand. 
 
 "We've a clean sheet. Come and have breakfast," he said 
 cheerfully. "Miss Farmer, this is Major " 
 
 "Baines," supplemented the stout person. "And here we 
 have my young friend Crowther, the Military Landing Offi- 
 cer, coming over the side." He indicated a ginger-haired lieu- 
 tenant dressed in the prevailing garb, who advanced towards 
 them, staring fixedly at Dolf, the first pretty girl he had seen 
 for a year. "He might have breakfast, too, I think, speaking 
 professionally. Not a bad lad on the whole." 
 
 "Yes, do let's ask him," murmured Dolf. "There are eggs 
 and bacon and fish and omelette and iced fruit and porridge. 
 I'm sure you're both hungry." 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Mr. Crowther aloud in simple awe. 
 "Served on real plates and table cloths just like home, I s'pose. 
 Thanks, most awfully!" 
 
 Sir Henry, who knew his Africa, led the strangers away and 
 made them free of Roman baths in white-tiled bathrooms. 
 They issued forth joyfully to breakfast, and Dolf, almost ma- 
 ternal in her sympathy for these poor exiles, flirted delicately 
 with both. Before she quite realised it she had accepted an 
 invitation to tea at the barracks, the use of a hammock and 
 porters for her visits ashore, and the services of a guide in the 
 person of Mr. Crowther. 
 
 "Otherwise," he explained earnestly, "you'll be done in the 
 eye by these curio fellers. Pure thieves, every one of them." 
 
 Sir Henry, quiet, unobtrusive, watched from the background, 
 between snatches of male converse with the Major. He saw 
 the magic of his world working on Dolf, while she entertained, 
 with marvellous adaptability, these men not of her own stratum 
 in life. He saw her delight in the worship of males cut off 
 from their own womankind.
 
 DOLF 113 
 
 And Mrs. Strangeways, the chaperon, slept on. 
 
 "Then we'll chuck the book to-day and go exploring," Ijje put 
 in casually. It was a pleasant fiction that Dolf assisted him 
 with the writing of a book of travel. "Send down those ham- 
 mocks about half-past eight, will you, Crowther? It'll be so 
 fiendishly hot later. And you'll both dine on board to-night, 
 of course? The Governor's coming. The G. O. C. seems to 
 be up-country." 
 
 "Well, Dolf?" he queried in the smoking-room after the 
 guests had gone. "Happy? Is it all very exciting?" 
 
 She moved across and sat on the arm of his chair. 
 
 " 'Course! You are a dear to me, Henry. And how those poor 
 boys gape at a girl, don't they?" 
 
 "So would you if you were a man and hadn't seen one for 
 ages." 
 
 She ran her fingers lightly through his hair and drew up a 
 chair for herself. 
 
 "And to-night there'll be the Governor, and I shall wear a 
 Doucet dinner gown." 
 
 "And a colonel and the senior naval officer of the station, 
 and a motley selection of junior officers and only Mrs. Strange- 
 ways to share them with. She's hardly a rival. Frankly, Dolf, 
 I envy you!" 
 
 A day later Fragoletta steamed out of harbour; the scalps 
 of the Governor, the senior naval officer and the rest dangled 
 at Dolf's slender waist; the band of H. M. S. Nonesuch played 
 them out to the tune of "We'll All Go the Same Way Home" 
 and the Governor wirelessed "Good luck and bon voyage!" 
 And Fragoletta's clipper bow headed for the Cape. 
 
 Sir Henry continued to behave with the perfection of his 
 training. In the golden early dawn, in the noontide heat, in 
 the sheer bewitching whiteness of the tropic moonlight when 
 they had the deck to themselves, excepting the officer of the 
 watch high and remote on the bridge, he was kind, attentive,
 
 DOLF 
 
 amusing little more. Except that he kissed her good-night 
 a shade more affectionately, he might have been her brother. 
 
 Two days out from Free Town they sat side by side on 
 deck after dinner in the cane lounges of the East. Not a sound 
 broke the stillness except the rush of water past the ship and 
 the soft warm wind in the shrouds and funnel stays. Dolf sat 
 up quickly, the light wrap falling from her bare shoulders and 
 leaned towards him. 
 
 "Henry, are you sorry I came?" 
 
 He took the cigar out of his mouth and smiled at her in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 "You wouldn't be here if I were, Dolf. Why?" 
 
 "Do you remember the dance when we met? Do you re- 
 member kissing me? Well, you never kiss me now like that. 
 And I'm not greedy. I don't want to take everything and 
 give nothing. I I think I want to be kissed. It's lonely, and 
 there's the moon . . ." 
 
 He moved restlessly in his chair. 
 
 "I want everything or nothing. As you say, there's a moon 
 a white moon, very different from the moon at home. You 
 daren't begin in this moonlight and these latitudes if there 
 are to be limitations, Dolf, dear. A man's only flesh and 
 blood, and I never break my word." 
 
 She turned her face away. 
 
 "If you were I, quite alone in the world, in a ship with a man 
 who gave you everything and didn't want you, and would 
 
 rather break your heart than risk breaking his word " she 
 
 said very sadly. "Besides, if I can trust you, and myself, why 
 should you hesitate? I've everything to lose and at the worst 
 you've everything to gain. You don't need to be so very 
 brave, do you, Henry?" 
 
 She saw the jaw-muscle in his thin, tanned face quiver and 
 define itself tensely for a moment. The next she was in his 
 arms, gathered up, crushed against his heart, his mouth on 
 hers in kisses such as she had never known. She put both
 
 DOLF 115 
 
 hands against his shoulders and strove to release herself. Then 
 the pain of her bruised mouth, the madness of the moonlight, 
 the soft mystery of the tropic night all blended into a sweet 
 agony that left her defenceless, acquiescent, hungry for she 
 knew not what. 
 
 Suddenly two arms of steel lifted her clear and set her on her 
 feet upon the deck, trembling, on fire, every pulse leaping. 
 
 "So now you can realise," came in his clear, slow tones, 
 "I know the climate, the circumstances and our limitations bet- 
 ter than you. For God's sake, don't tempt me again, Dolf. 
 I can't stand it." 
 
 He lit another cigar a little unsteadily. She stood trembling 
 and tears gathered in her eyes. 
 
 "You needn't despise me quite so openly," said her choked 
 voice. In an instant he had drawn her against his heart, caress- 
 ing her hair, infinitely protecting. 
 
 "Dolf, Dolf, darling, don't. You know I love you I do 
 love you. Kiss me good-night and forgive me. Please, Dolf. 
 Don't be so unhappy, poor mite. If I hadn't loved you so it 
 wouldn't have happened. Look at me!" 
 
 He lifted her face and kissed the tear-wet eyes. A shaky 
 smile played round the corners of her mouth. 
 
 "I had to. You were so cold and polite and respectable," 
 she murmured, kissed him once, passionately, and fled away to 
 her cabin. 
 
 Love's pilgrimage in the fulness of Time, brought them to 
 Cape Town. Here also Dolf learnt many things concerning a 
 social world not hers. She lived through shot-silken days of hard 
 bright sunlight, in Adderly Street buying the most perfect 
 flowers in the world from chattering Cape girls, at idle tea- 
 drinkings on Cartwright's balcony, in wonderful motor runs 
 round the great grim mountain, enthralling dinners among the 
 strange hybrid population of the Mount Nelson Hotel. 
 
 "God's own country, Dolf," asserted Sir Henry, a new, 
 beaming, light-hearted Sir Henry, reinvigorated by his beloved
 
 n6 DOLF 
 
 sun. "God's own country wicked, cruel, heartless, but what 
 a mistress and what a playground for love ' 
 
 'Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain, 
 
 Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again.' 
 
 Aren't you happy? Aren't you just mad happy? Look at 
 that mountain ; you might think it was covered with grass, but 
 that grass happens to be trees. Things are smaller at home. 
 Are you happy?" 
 
 " 'Course I'm happy. For one thing I've got the best clothes 
 in the country. Oh, Henry, did you notice the frocks in Ad- 
 derly Street? Aren't they fierce?" 
 
 "Terrible as an army with banners. Well, we'll see what 
 Jo'burg can do. We're going there to-morrow. I'm buying a, 
 farm or a mine, I forget which. You ought to have a good time 
 in Jo'burg with an English complexion and a Hanover Square 
 wardrobe. But remember the bargain." 
 
 They were picnicking somewhere on the mountain. The dis- 
 creet chauffeur had faded round a providential corner; the 
 remains of luncheon lay on the ground; Dolf, distracting by 
 reason of a sun-kissed face under a shady hat, ate the fattest, 
 most luscious grapes she had ever seen, just warmed by the 
 sunshine in which they grew. 
 
 "I want to kiss you," he almost pleaded, stroking her cheek 
 with slow caressing fingers. "Your hair's like the honey of 
 Paradise and the scent of your skin's like the earth at the 
 break of dawn. Do you like our life, dear? Are you going 
 to keep me for oh, years and years, or will you go back to 
 your horrible English virtue and turn me down?" 
 
 She leant against his shoulder and let herself be kissed, 
 quietly, almost greedily, drinking in the most adorable love- 
 making she had ever known. Not a sound broke the blissful 
 hush of Africa. Far away out at sea a Union Castle boat 
 from England seemed an impossible speck like a gnat on the 
 surface of a great lake.
 
 DOLF 117 
 
 "You're so good to me. I should love to be married to you. 
 Why can't I? Why can ive never marry men like you?" 
 
 " 'Cos of a lot of damn, silly prejudice, I s'pose. Anyway, 
 I shall never marry anyone. I've wandered too much, and 
 wherever I took a wife there'd always be someone else calling 
 me. Don't worry, little Dolf; just be kissed and forget." 
 
 So she was kissed, and didn't forget. 
 
 The next day they took train and Dolf, from her coupe, filled 
 her eyes and her soul with the great distances, the aching silent 
 spaces of this haggard, beautiful land. She saw it roll by 
 league on league of veldt and kopje, the majesty of mountains, 
 the green pastures of the Karroo, where the Lord has pre- 
 pared his table for the white man in the presence of his enemy, 
 the black. And in due season they came to Johannesburg, the, 
 new Jerusalem, and took possession of a suite at the Carlton. 
 
 Dolf went down to dinner in a gown of cream and gold that 
 moulded her into a sheer delight of slender fairness. 
 
 "Hello, Aubrey!" exclaimed Sir Henry joyfully to a tall 
 calm man who approached. "Jolly good of you to run over 
 from Pretoria so soon. Dolf, this is Captain Purvis, A. D. C. to 
 the Governor-General, a law-giver even as Moses was. Shall 
 we dine? I'm starving."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 AT Harrow they called Aubrey Purvis the Fair God, because 
 of his colouring and looks. He was extremely handsome and 
 about thirty. His past was not innocent of women, yet none 
 of the goddesses who successively reigned had ever achieved the 
 inner shrine of his heart, which was rigidly set apart for the 
 occupancy of his wife, whenever he should meet her. When 
 Dolf smiled at him he observed her with a startled atten- 
 tiveness, as if the question had leaped in his mind, "Is this 
 she?" And Dolf, interpreting the look according to her femi- 
 nine intuition, blessed the auspicious Johannesburg gods, and 
 set herself to torture him. 
 
 By this time she had all the poise of a duchess, and the 
 catch-phrases of her new world by heart. Purvis, fastidious by 
 nature and training, could find no flaw. Sir Henry chatted in- 
 dulgently of sport and his farm-buying enterprise. Purvis 
 divided attention between him and Dolf, at whom he glanced 
 with growing appreciation. 
 
 "Are you here for long, Captain Purvis?" inquired Dolf. 
 "Shall we see anything more of you or do you go back to Pre- 
 toria forever?" 
 
 "I'm not sure. I don't know till the morning. I hope to 
 stop a few days," he replied. "Things are pretty dull in 
 Pretoria just now." 
 
 "You'd better stay and look after Dolf while I go and 
 buy my farm," smiled Sir Henry. "It wouldn't interest her, 
 but Jo'burg will." 
 
 When they had left the table Purvis, alone with Dolf, came 
 straight to the point. 
 
 IIS
 
 DOLF 119 
 
 "May I see you again? I want to most particularly. IVe 
 wired for leave and I shall hear in the morning. Sir Henry 
 and I are old friends I fagged for him at Harrow, as a mat- 
 ter of fact. Can you spare me a few minutes to-morrow, do 
 you think?" 
 
 Dolf considered him thoughtfully. 
 
 ''I don't quite know what we're doing to-morrow. "You see, 
 I'm Sir Henry's secretary and it depends a good deal on his 
 movements. But if you'd care to come to tea on the off- 
 chance ?" 
 
 "Thank you most awfully. Of course I will." 
 
 She gave him her hand when he left. He pressed it so 
 hard that a ring cut into her fingers. 
 
 "Good-night," he murmured very low, but the two words 
 bore to her through the starlit dark the fragrance of all the 
 love songs and poetry in the world. 
 
 Dolf met him next day in Eloff Street on her way back to 
 the hotel for tea. She saw the light in his eyes as they dwelt 
 tenderly on her cool white figure. He laughed boyishly. 
 
 "I've got my week's leave. I shall put up at the Club. 
 What about Creagh; is he staying, too, or trekking after his 
 farm? I want to know if I'm to start looking after you at 
 once, you see." 
 
 "Yes," replied Dolf. "He goes to-morrow and we've a box 
 at the theatre as a sort of farewell celebration. But I shall 
 have heaps of work to do and you aren't to be a distraction. I 
 take my job quite seriously." 
 
 "I'll be very good," he promised with a note of yearning. 
 
 She gave him tea prettily, and she was the prettiest girl in 
 the place. She had an English complexion and a Hanover 
 Square outfit and she behaved as the girls of Sir Henry's 
 world behave. Every man in the hotel wanted her, every 
 woman secretly hated her, and Purvis was grateful. He did 
 not say so, but she saw it. 
 
 Late that night after the theatre and supper she stood in
 
 120 DOLF 
 
 their sitting-room saying good-night to Sir Henry. She put 
 her hands on his shoulders and looked up into his face. 
 
 "You do like me a little bit, Henry?" 
 
 "You know I love you, you dear thing." 
 
 She shook her head a little sadly. 
 
 "You don't love me, but you're all I have in this big coun- 
 try. I shall miss you. Don't be away too long, dear." 
 
 He kissed the pleading lips and stroked the fair head. He 
 wished as much as a wanderer can, that he might settle to this 
 one at last and have her and be hers. But he knew too well 
 that spring would come again and the red gods call. In the 
 morning he left her, and Purvis gave her lunch. 
 
 The next day he took her riding far out into the veldt where 
 the loneliness made her heart ache and her eyes grow big and 
 misty, she knew not why. He wrapped her about with a sort 
 of calm protection, having in it something almost paternal 
 something of a hush before the storm. She supposed that 
 sooner or later the hurricane of passion would break and beat 
 her to the earth. She waited. 
 
 The day after they motored to Boksburg Lake and laughed 
 at it together and picnicked like children. Driving home in 
 the evening his arm stole around her, and when they had passed 
 the Half-way House he stopped the car and took her hands. 
 
 "Dolf," he choked, and then the flood of emotion burst 
 through all restraint. "I love you I love you," he repeated 
 over and over. "There's nothing between you and Creagh? 
 There can't be, or you wouldn't be here together." 
 
 "No," she said slowly and rather bitterly. "There's noth- 
 ing between Sir Henry and me. But you mustn't kiss me. I 
 don't want you to. And please take me home. I'm so so 
 tired." 
 
 He gazed at her pleadingly. 
 
 "Very well, dear. But I'll not give you up, Dolf! You're 
 mine! Later, you will let me tell you, won't you, darling?" 
 
 Then controlling himself he drove her back to the Carlton.
 
 DOLF 121 
 
 She went up to her bedroom, flung off her clothes and sat 
 with a thin wrap over her thinner nightgown, drinking in the 
 warm night, the white light of the moon and stars, thinking, 
 thinking, thinking. 
 
 "He loves me. He doesn't know. When he does he'll shut 
 up his heart tighter than ever. He'll think of me as a street 
 girl. I know those 'good' men, they're harder than diamonds, 
 and about as scarce, thank God. He's another Gerald Heri- 
 tage, almost. But if I promised to marry him before he knows 
 he'd stick to the bargain because he's that kind. Gerald 
 wouldn't have. Shall I tell him, or shall I go back to work 
 after this?" 
 
 She looked around desperately at the luxurious room, her 
 clothes, her dressing-table everything. A tall mirror re- 
 flected a girl whose beauty any king might desire. Life seemed 
 very hard, with every man's hand against her. 
 
 "Why be good?" she murmured savagely. "What is being 
 'good?' Is anything 'good' when it means losing all the beauty 
 of life, and is anything bad that gives it to you? Any fool 
 girl who's rich can be good, but to be good and poor when you 
 might be bad and rich where's the sense?" 
 
 Throughout the moonlit night she lay wide-eyed wrangling 
 with Fate. In the morning came flowers from Purvis and an 
 invitation to ride. As they cantered out into the veldt to- 
 gether she flung at him a phrase that dinned itself into her 
 brain with every thud of her horse's hoofs. 
 
 "Sir Henry comes back to-morrow." 
 
 "Ah!" said Purvis. A strange note of satisfaction pervaded 
 the word. The news of Sir Henry's return seemed to solve 
 some problem. 
 
 "Then will you dine with me to-night and come for a motor 
 run afterwards? I want particularly to talk to you before 
 Creagh returns and it'll be my last chance. Will you?" 
 
 "Thanks. I'd love it," she replied briefly and hit her horse 
 twice venomously, so that he sprang into a gallop. Captain
 
 122 DOLF 
 
 Purvis' suave rectitude drove her to the edge of exasperation. 
 
 Later, up in Sir Henry's suite Dolf asked Mrs. Strangeways 
 if she were coming down to lunch with her. The chaperon 
 had pleaded some unexplained indisposition since they reached 
 Johannesburg. She smiled in her peculiar way. 
 
 "I lunched early becauce I had no breakfast." 
 
 "Sorry," said Dolf and went down alone. Little did she 
 dream to whom she was going. 
 
 At first she disbelieved her own eyes. But when he came 
 towards her she smothered a cry and braced herself to meet 
 him casually. 
 
 "Torn Wainwright, of all people in the world!" 
 
 "Well, Dolf, I'll bet you aren't more surprised than I was. 
 I looked and looked, and wondered if I were dreaming. What 
 are you doing here?" 
 
 "But what are you doing here?" 
 
 He laughed, suggesting dazzling things not to be told in a 
 word. 
 
 "Oh, I'm on business. And the funny thing is I was mean- 
 ing to leave to-day, but now I have to wait till to-morrow 
 just when I can hardly spare the time, too. But it mayn't be 
 such a strain now I've met an old neighbour. I'll sit here with 
 you and the lunch is mine, understand that. Order any- 
 thing you like. I can stand it; things are going pretty well." 
 
 Through his dominating self-assurance she grasped one glo- 
 rious fact he was leaving tomorrow. She breathed again and 
 considered him; his round figure, rounder and stockier than 
 ever, his prosperous clothes that just escaped blatancy, his 
 small eyes a-gleam with self-satisfaction. And meanwhile he 
 appraised her. 
 
 "What's the answer to all this?" he asked, indicating her 
 attire, her surroundings, her care-free atmosphere. 
 
 "I'm secretary to an author who is writing a book and 
 travelling. My chaperon is upstairs with a headache. If you 
 don't believe me, as I see you don't, look in the register."
 
 DOLF 123 
 
 "Yes, I think I believe you," he smiled. "I mean about the 
 register. The rest is your affair. You're a bit of a genius!" 
 
 "But not quite clever enough to understand why you ap- 
 proach me in a public place and insinuate horrid things," she 
 answered coldly. 
 
 "All right. Beg pardon. You needn't be so short with me, 
 either. After all you might say I haven't done worse my- 
 self than you have." 
 
 "Yes, that seems to be so. Is it still groceries?" 
 
 "Yes, but not in that tone of voice. I'm no village grocer 
 now, let me tell you. I've a chain of shops in London three, 
 in fact. But three three's are nine, at least they will be pres- 
 ently, and three nines are twenty-seven. Oh, I'm making my 
 little plans." 
 
 Dolf was human. One could not be unimpressed by this 
 demonstration of energy and shrewdness, however uncouth the 
 possessor. And Tom did look crude enough, almost gross, in 
 the atmosphere she breathed these days. 
 
 "I congratulate you. What brought you to Jo-burg?" 
 
 "Jam. Yes, really. And then, it was time I travelled a bit. 
 I don't believe in waiting till you're too old. I've picked up 
 things here and there. And anyhow there's nothing like deal- 
 ing at the sources of things. I've learned how to save twenty 
 to fifty per cent on pretty nearly every consignment. I'll not 
 lose by the trip." 
 
 He ordered food lavishly. She noted how barely he just 
 missed choosing the right things. Her own appetite had gone, 
 but he was too full of the narration of his affairs to notice. 
 
 "Concentration that's the secret. Not getting cluttered up 
 with other interests. Girls? No! Time for that later on." 
 
 "For the daughter of an earl, Tom?" 
 
 "Well, who can say it won't happen?" 
 
 "Who, indeed?" she repeated lightly, with exquisite irony. 
 
 After he had eaten enormously and talked incessantly, he 
 became suddenly more personal. She was to go with him to
 
 124 DOLF 
 
 see the sights he wasn't keeping his business appointment till 
 five, and the whole evening was free. 
 
 "But Tom, you don't seem to understand that I'm a secre- 
 tary, that I've work to do. I earn all this grandeur, you 
 know. I'm sorry I can't go with you, but you'll find someone, 
 I dare say." 
 
 "It'd be nicer with you," he persisted. "I know you. And 
 you know me. You'd not get silly notions, even if the excite- 
 ment and sights and all worked on our blood and I am a 
 man, I admit it, and you're an attractive girl. I admit that 
 too." And his eyes roved over her as they had done that night 
 in. London. 
 
 It gave her a certain sense of triumph that this man, so con- 
 centrated on his "career" that no time remained for girls, al- 
 ways wavered before her. He was willing to swerve, if only 
 for a moment, from his clear-cut plans because he had just 
 enough fineness to detect and appreciate her particular charm, 
 if not to respect it. But by contrast with Sir Henry and Pur- 
 vis he was intolerable. 
 
 She escaped on the plea of immediate work and insisted on 
 making it a definite farewell. 
 
 As she dressed that evening a wire came from Sir Henry: 
 
 "Back at eight to-night. Please choose celebration dinner." 
 
 Dolf twisted the thin sheet between her white fingers; a 
 cynical smile played round her lips. 
 
 "And I've promised Aubrey. And if I have a love affair 
 with anyone, Henry's and my arrangements cease from that 
 moment." She glanced coolly, rather bitterly at her reflection. 
 "Even in Johannesburg pr'haps I shouldn't starve. Anyway, 
 I'll risk it." 
 
 Purvis came for her in the car and they motored out to dine. 
 Dolf set herself to madden him for the first and last time; she 
 played with his immortal soul as a cat plays with a mouse. He 
 could do nothing but what she willed. And when she willed 
 him to ask her to marry him, he did ask.
 
 DOLF 125 
 
 Across their table in a secluded corner of that out of town 
 inn she looked at him with hard eyes and a mocking mouth. 
 
 "Always remember, Aubrey," she began, "that I coufd say 
 'yes' now, at this moment, and if I were to say yes, you would 
 stick to your bargain whatever happened, because you're Aub- 
 rey Julian Secundus Purvis, the son of Sir Denzil Purvis, 
 baronet, of Beaumanoir in the county of Sussex. Isn't that 
 so?" 
 
 He inclined his head. 
 
 "Well, Aubrey, I won't marry you. For one thing I believe 
 you love me; for another I'm not exactly the girl you imagine. 
 I've worked in a shop in London. Sir Henry saw me at a 
 dance and wanted me. 'Course, people like you and Sir Henry 
 don't marry people like me, do they? He's showing me all the 
 treasures of the earth now and if I like the life sufficiently 
 I'll just say 'right ho!' and if not we'll part friends. Privately, 
 I think we'll part, but I shall need a very strong will. At the 
 moment I'm what you call a good girl and I have a perfectly 
 good chaperon. But you've had a narrow escape, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 She laughed into his eyes and flung her beauty at him de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 "Again I ask you to do me the honour of marrying me," 
 was all he said. 
 
 She sighed and rose delicately to her feet. 
 
 "Aubrey, you're a good sort, but a little mad and melo- 
 dramatic. You've never found your balance where girls are 
 concerned. I should ruin your career and we'd both be miser- 
 able. You can't conceal people like me. Please take me home. 
 Sir Henry came back at eight, and he'll want me." 
 
 With perfectly precise good manners he shepherded her into 
 the car, saw to every detail of her comfort and drove her back. 
 It was some solace for his wounded pride to do this. At the 
 hotel entrance she laid a hand on his arm. 
 
 "Don't come in," she murmured. And then:
 
 126 DOLF 
 
 "Oh, Aubrey, you lucky, inhuman, lovable, absurd ass. Don't 
 you realise I've refused heaven and chosen hell to-night? Don't 
 you think if you'd taken me in your arms and kissed me you'd 
 have won? And at the beginning at any rate you wanted to 
 win. Good-night." 
 
 She passed into the hotel and up to Sir Henry's sitting-room. 
 
 He was waiting for her, perfectly unmoved, tall, lean and 
 brown as ever, the dinner kit accentuating his broad shoulders. 
 
 "Well, dear?" he queried simply, but there lurked a dan- 
 gerous glint in his hazel eyes. Dolf sensed the possessive male 
 instinct, the immemorial jealousy. 
 
 "Hullo!" she began cheerfully. "I've been out with Aubrey. 
 I'd promised before your wire came, and his leave's up to- 
 morrow. You don't mind, do you? After all, it's only one of 
 your and my many evenings." 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders with the old gesture. 
 He took them and looked straight into her eyes. 
 
 "Has he kissed you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What has he done?" 
 
 "He asked me to marry him this evening. I refused. I 
 explained the reason why I'm here. Probably he doesn't want 
 to marry me now." 
 
 "Does he love you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you love him?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "A girl in my position always has a certain respect for a 
 man who asks her to marry him," she said, with the faintest 
 touch of sarcasm. 
 
 He sighed. Perhaps he was a thought tired of her, of the 
 situation, his Quixotic suggestion. 
 
 "I hardly think you were justified in revealing our com- 
 pact," he observed thoughtfully. "I think also this business
 
 DOLF 127 
 
 with Purvis ends it. You will remember you were not to 
 have a love affair with any other man." 
 
 She stood back a little and considered him gravely, as peo- 
 ple view a pleasant prospect for the last time. 
 
 "You've been very good to me, Henry. I shall always have 
 the most delightful memories of you. It's unfortunate that 
 Aubrey fell in love with me, but in any case I don't think you 
 could ever have had what you want. We should have parted 
 anyhow. It's rather late; may I stay just this night, and leave 
 in the morning? 
 
 "What will you do? You haven't a penny. Johannesburg's 
 an expensive place." 
 
 She smiled. "I've a few pounds of my own. And, really, 
 I'm quite used to taking care of myself. Johannesburg Lon- 
 don what's the difference? There are plenty of shops here. 
 I can get a job." 
 
 He laughed, but she knew he admired her. There was re- 
 spect in the laugh. 
 
 "Dear little Dolf, you've got the pluck of the devil. You 
 don't suppose I'd leave you alone on the wrong side of the 
 world? I'm going home, and if you will I should like you to 
 go with me. I've bought the farm and we may as well start 
 at once. Can I still kiss you good-night, please?" 
 
 "It's rather friendly," she murmured, and held up her mouth 
 like a tired child. 
 
 Again the coupe, the aching distances from the train win- 
 dows, Cape Town, the clipper-bowed yacht, and her white, 
 enamelled cabin with the genuine bed and the silver fittings. 
 
 They went home by Madeira and the short route, for love 
 ever chooses the longest way out and the quickest way back. 
 Ever behind they flung blue sky and violet sea, exchanging 
 them for the green and grey of less fortunate latitudes. 
 
 Two nights out from Southampton they sat after dinner in 
 the music room, glad of artificial heat, smoking reflective ciga- 
 rettes. Two days would see them parted for ever, the ties
 
 128 DOLF 
 
 of daily companionship snapped, strangers in a strange world, 
 
 At last Dolf stretched out a hand from her end of the ches- 
 terfield and laid it on his. 
 
 "Henry," she began slowly, "do you remember how much 
 you wanted me the first evening we met?" 
 
 He nodded, and took the slender hand in his. 
 
 "I don't suppose I shall ever like any man better than 
 you," she went on dreamily. "It's been very sweet while it 
 lasted; no one ever took care of me as you've done. You've 
 given me the most heavenly time. I daresay I'm very selfish 
 and make a great fuss over not a great deal and so if 
 if . . ." 
 
 Slowly the blood stained her fair face and rounded throat. 
 She hid from his eyes against his shoulder and waited. He 
 seemed to be a very long time. 
 
 "Dolf," he said at last, "do you remember in Johannesburg, 
 offering to walk straight out of the Carlton and look after 
 yourself, because I said you'd broken our contract? That 
 was pretty sporting. And as you were prepared to stick to 
 the letter of the contract then, so am I now. We said you 
 should choose and whatever you may say (and it's very dear 
 of you to say it), I know what your choice is. You're per- 
 fectly right and I'm not worth it. So, little Dolf, we just part 
 friends, don't you think?" 
 
 She bowed her head, and so he held her, a long time. 
 
 They said good-bye at Waterloo Station. He collected her 
 luggage and saw her into a taxi. She watched him until the 
 traffic hid him from sight, and the grey atmosphere of town 
 had never seemed so grey. 
 
 Netta's flat appeared very small after so many spacious days. 
 Netta, wise with wisdom beyond her years, asked no ques- 
 tions. As they brushed their hair together, suddenly Dolf 
 put her head on the elder girl's knee and sobbed broken- 
 heartedly. 
 
 Netta soothed the fair hair very gently.
 
 DOLF 129 
 
 "Poor kid," she said with dry compassion. "Either a girl 
 gambles everything and loses, or plays for safety and regrets 
 it evermore, amen. The first's the worse, but both are the very 
 devil." 
 
 Dolf looked up out of tear-stained eyes. 
 
 "He was such a dear and I feel so mean. But some day 
 when I really love someone I shall be glad, shan't I, Netta?" 
 
 "Believe me, some joy day," retorted Netta, the born 
 gambler. 
 
 Yet Dolf's heart was bitter with disillusionment, and she 
 remembered Tom Wainwright, how he had come to her in Jo- 
 hannesburg out of her past, out of the life to which, after all, 
 she probably belonged. 
 
 Something seemed to try to push her down and down. 
 
 "But I'll not go back down there. I don't belong there, I 
 don't! I don't!" cried something else in her, triumphing 
 over the other and bringing the fight back to her eyes and the 
 proud tilt to her little rounded chin.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "You must make out at the theatre. You're just the type," 
 decreed Netta. So, for no better reason, Dolf approached the 
 new life. 
 
 In a chorus dressing-room of the Summerhouse Theatre, the 
 air hung heavy with shrill conversation, grains of powder, scent, 
 and the aroma of clothes and warm young bodies. A dozen 
 girls discussed life as it immediately affected them, wrangled 
 with the dresser, and made up for the first act of "Love Wisely" 
 all at the same time. 
 
 "Maggie, have my shoes come?" 
 
 "Ain't seen nothing of them, Miss Pomeroy." 
 
 "You don't want me to go on in these things? I abso- 
 lutely float about in them. Richardson's man swore he'd 
 send the others. Phyllis, darling, lend me a mite of wet 
 white I simply must have some more on my arms." 
 
 Phyllis, a lovely blonde, clad simply in one garment and 
 that unsubstantial continued to gaze fixedly at her reflection 
 in a strip of looking-glass nailed to the wall and work make- 
 up into her oval cheeks. 
 
 The call boy, hammering callously on the door, cried rau- 
 cously: 
 
 "Five minutes, ladies, please. Beginners for the first act!" 
 
 "My God!" wailed Miss Pomeroy distractedly. "My God! 
 I'll kill Richardson's. And Tony Bayswater's in front, too. 
 Oh, damn!" 
 
 In a far corner of the room Dolf leant dispassionately 
 against the wall watching Netta Blatchley hook the last hook, 
 subdue the last curl, impose the final touches of carmine and 
 
 130
 
 DOLF 131 
 
 eye-lash black. Dolf struck an alien note amid this hard glit- 
 ter and cast-iron effrontery even as her blue street-suit con- 
 trasted with the exotic daring of short skirts and extreme 
 'decolletage. She seemed too fine spiritually and physically to 
 survive in an atmosphere of robust charms and emotional hardi- 
 hood. The thought occurred to Netta Blatchley, who surveyed 
 her critically with appraising blue-lidded scarlet-cornered eyes. 
 
 "I guess he'll give you a chance, Dolf," she observed judi- 
 cially at last. "Clyte's no fool. He knows the value of a con- 
 trast with us big bold bad girls. But you want to go out after 
 him. Put the glad eye over him and look as if you were good 
 for anything, as if you didn't care whether you go on here 
 or not. Give him the idea you've got a rich pal in the 
 background. That and your face and your legs ought to 
 do the trick. Bluff, girl, bluff for all you're worth. Get me?" 
 
 Again there came that thundering summons on the door. 
 , "Overture! Beginners, please, ladies!" 
 
 With all the swirl and panache that distinguish the Summer- 
 house beyond all other theatres, the chorus flaunted down a 
 flight of narrow stone stairs with shrill snatches of song. 
 
 Dolf remained alone with the aged dresser amid the ruins 
 of twelve toilettes. She picked up a hare's foot idly and 
 played with it. She rubbed a little wet white experimentally 
 on her wrist. Far away came syncopated bursts of music as 
 someone opened and shut a door. The aged dresser wagged a 
 wise head sagely. 
 
 _ "Some bunch, ain't they? Coin 7 on, dearie? You couldn't 
 'ave chosen a better 'ouse. Fair crawlin' with dukes and earls 
 we are." 
 
 Dolf, with wisdom beyond her years, slipped half-a-crown 
 into the lady's hand. 
 
 "Wish me luck, Maggie. I want it oh, I do want it!" 
 
 Her breath came sighing between parted red lips. The old 
 wild wicked magic of the theatre had already inoculated her 
 racing blood.
 
 132 DOLF 
 
 During the first interval there came a messenger. 
 
 "Miss Blatchley and Miss Farmer in Mr. Clyte's room at 
 once, please." 
 
 Clattering at Netta's heels, Dolf rushed headlong to her 
 fate. 
 
 He sat at a roll-top desk in an over-decorated room. A 
 piano occupied one corner; signed photographs and posters 
 covered the walls. He had a pale, smooth-shaven, sophisti- 
 cated face and his dark eyes knew neither pity nor restraint. 
 They roamed openly over Dolf from head to foot in scientific 
 appraisal. 
 
 "You want to go on here, Miss Farmer? Have you any 
 stage experience?" 
 
 "No," came in a little soft drawl, and her eyes met 
 his, limpidly clear. A faint change insinuated itself into the 
 manager's voice and manner. Dolf's almost childish beauty 
 and appeal, her very frailness and slenderness, troubled him, 
 as these had always troubled men ever since she could remem- 
 ber. He shrugged faintly at the reply, but he did not end the 
 interview. 
 
 "Can you sing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Dance?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "Walk across the room." 
 
 Dolf walked. She walked as in the days when, a mannequin, 
 she had lent the mystery and appeal of her youth to priceless 
 gowns and thereby doubled their price. She walked as though, 
 a princess in her own right, the very existence of Mr. Ferguson 
 Clyte, his theatre, and all that was his weighed less with 
 her than the dust on a butterfly's wing. At the far side of 
 the room she turned sharply with a flick of the skirt that 
 emphasised slim ankles and small feet and stood looking at 
 him with faint amused mockery, half innocent, half calculated. 
 
 "All right. Rehearse at ten to-morrow."
 
 DOLF 133 
 
 A little sigh seemed to float across the room. Dolf had won. 
 
 A month later she stood again in the same room, a very 
 painted, manicured curled darling, with pearl-powdered bare 
 arms and shoulders, and long silken legs under her short skirt. 
 
 "Miss Farmer," snapped Ferguson Clyte, "I'm not satisfied 
 with you. On the surface you're all right, but that's not 
 enough. You aren't here just to go on and come off and sing 
 a little and dance a few steps. I've introduced several charm- 
 ing, influential men to you, but I don't see you dancing with 
 them at the right places nor lunching at the right restaurants. 
 You're no good to me, dear, if you're no good er, socially. 
 You ought to know that the chorus either fill the stalls or get 
 out of the chorus. What's the matter with you?" 
 
 Dolf shrugged. The old, old problem had cropped up once 
 more. 
 
 "I don't mind lunching with them and dancing with them, 
 but they won't stop at that. They want more than they're 
 ever likely to get. They're men," she ended wearily. 
 
 "Rubbish, dear. You need tact a little tact. I don't want 
 to be hard on you. You're pretty 'n all that and you've worked 
 hard. You don't miss performances and turn up late. Tell 
 you what. I'm running down to Brighton myself on Sunday 
 with the Hon. Percy Wycombe and we want another girl to 
 make a fourth. You'd better come along and see life. You 
 want waking up. What do you say?" 
 
 Dolf reflected. She saw a powerful car and luncheon bas- 
 kets, champagne and smart hotels, men charming enough on 
 the surface becoming cold, half-bullying, imperative if a girl 
 said "thus far and no farther." Her lips curled contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 "I don't think so, thanks. I hate being pawed about, and 
 kisses tasting of drink, and having my hair pulled down and 
 my frock crumpled up like a rag-bag." 
 
 Ferguson Clyte's face shut up like a rat trap.
 
 I 3 4 
 
 "Then your notice expires in a fortnight. That's all, Miss 
 Farmer unless you choose to change your mind." 
 
 She went out with feet of lead for all her gay frock and 
 artificial pink. Always, inevitably, one came up against this 
 problem the insatiable demands of men. Always hitherto she 
 had refused; yet was it worth while continually to differ from 
 other girls, to take the rough of life instead of the smooth, 
 because of some instinct for exclusiveness fast fading into a 
 legend these modern days? How long was one to go on strug- 
 gling against the stream when every other girl floated down it 
 in a golden argosy to the strains of soft music, the tinkle of 
 jewelled ornaments and the liquid frisson of silken garments? 
 
 "Well," commented Netta when she heard, "you please your- 
 self in this world. I don't say you aren't right, but you'll 
 have a dull life. I wasn't born a hermit and the world isn't 
 a convent. My face and my figure won't last forever and 
 then I'll repent some little old repentance, believe me. But 
 as for now shoo! let's get away with it!" 
 
 Dolf went on in the last act waiting for a redeeming sign 
 from heaven or a sufficiently attractive temptation from hell. 
 Later something came, and which it was she neither knew nor 
 cared. 
 
 Passing out at the stage door she became aware of some un- 
 usual feature. Pigeon, the haughty autocrat of that portal 
 whom five shillings would melt into subservient humanity, 
 gazed majestically at a strayed reveller, his hair thick with 
 metaphoric vine-leaves. This person wore the conventional 
 evening garb in a slightly exaggerated form. A crumpled gar- 
 denia distinguished his button-hole. An opera-hat, headgear 
 sacred to the suburbs and outer darkness, swayed perilously 
 on his head. He stood planted with the illusive steadfastness 
 of the intoxicated, pointed solemnly at Pigeon a gold-mounted 
 ebony stick and observed wrathfully: 
 
 "Mush shee Miss Delia Carisbrooke. Ver' ol' frien' o 1 
 mine. Go 'n tell her at wonsh!"
 
 DOLF 135 
 
 Now, Miss Delia Carisbrooke was the brightest particular 
 star of "Love Wisely." 
 
 "You'd better go home, Sir. Miss Carisbrooke can't see 
 you," came austerely from Pigeon. 
 
 "Heaven love your soul!" began the stranger ferociously, or 
 words to that effect. But Dolf having perceived at the curb a 
 specimen of the only car in the world, flanked by an agitated 
 chauffeur, recognised her heaven-sent opportunity. She slipped 
 half-a-crown from the jingling meshes of a silver chain bag into 
 the willing hand of Pigeon, leaned confidingly against the re- 
 veller and caught his arm. 
 
 "Come along, old thing, we'll go and find Delia together," 
 she murmured reassuringly. 
 
 "Night-night, girls!" 
 
 The stranger, who seemed to be a mere boy, allowed him- 
 self to be led away. She was very delightful and he knew he 
 had an awful head. The agitated chauffeur opened the door. 
 
 "Take him home for heaven's sake and I'll try and keep him 
 quiet," whispered Dolf. The man nodded, clicked the door 
 catch, and the great car whirred silkily away. 
 
 They travelled through the Strand, up Regent Street into 
 Portland Place and stopped before a block of expensive flats. 
 The chauffeur appeared at the door. 
 
 "Perhaps, Miss, I had better inform Goodson," he said 
 tactfully. Dolf nodded. The chauffeur rang the door bell and 
 returned with a perfectly impersonal valet, who, taking his 
 master's arm, assisted him through the hall into the lift. 
 Dolf found herself a minute later standing in a smoking- 
 room evidently furnished regardless of cost by a firm of high- 
 class furniture dealers on their own initiative. The boy lay 
 back, ghastly white, in a deep leather arm-chair. Goodson 
 re-appeared silently with a cup of strong coffee and adminis- 
 tered it. The patient gasped, sat up, and exclaimed: 
 
 "A big soda, quick, for God's sake!"
 
 i 3 6 DOLF 
 
 Goodson brought the soda, which disappeared almost at a 
 draught. 
 
 "Go away now and don't come back," ordered his mas- 
 ter peevishly. Goodson went, still preserving his unearthly 
 calm. 
 
 The lawful tenant of the premises ran a shaky hand through 
 his damp locks and gazed wearily at Dolf. 
 
 "How the devil did you get here?" he inquired at last. 
 
 "I brought you home from the Summerhouse. You were 
 raising blue murder at the stage door. And I should like a 
 cigarette," said Dolf very calmly, looking down at him with a 
 contented smile. 
 
 "The fact of the matter is, I was drunk," said the young 
 man in a burst of confidence. "Do you know why I got drunk? 
 Because I'm rich at least, my dad is rich, which comes to 
 the same thing and I'm trying to enjoy myself and can't. 
 Can't get hold of the right people. No friends in London ex- 
 cept billiard sharps and racing touts. No girls except well, 
 you know. We made munitions all the war worked like a 
 slave I did, and since then I've rather broken down. Want a 
 rest and change. And there's nothing doing. Damn these 
 boots!" 
 
 He gazed savagely at a pair of narrow patent button boots. 
 
 "Oh!" observed Dolf carefully, taking a cigarette from the 
 box and lighting it at an electric lighter, "munitions? Yes. I 
 see." 
 
 Her experienced eyes took in all the wrong things and there 
 were many in his attire, his hair, his jewellery. She nodded 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Did you find out my name?" 
 
 "I never tried." 
 
 He seemed relieved. 
 
 "I s'pose you want to know who I am?" he went on rather 
 consciously.
 
 DOLF 137 
 
 "Not in the least, but I should like you to send me home 
 in your car. It's getting fairly late." 
 
 He got up and looked at her narrowly. Dolf was used to 
 being looked at. She gazed over his head at an engraving on 
 the wall, the cigarette burning away between her fingers. 
 
 "I like tha', lass," he burst out. "I'm from the North. I 
 want to knock them in London. I've got the brass, and this 
 flat and the car, but I can't get any further. You know the 
 ropes; will you help me? I'll make it worth your while." 
 
 "In London," said Dolf, again carefully, "the people you 
 want to meet and can't, don't say to a girl 'I'll make it worth 
 your while.' They may take her out to dinner or give her a 
 bracelet, or even pay a few of her bills, but they don't talk 
 about it. They let it seem the natural thing for them to do. 
 They even imply it's a privilege." 
 
 His cheeks flushed, for he was barely twenty-four, but his 
 jaw set. 
 
 "I'm here to learn," he said grimly. "Go on." 
 
 Dolf drew delicately at the cigarette, leaning against the 
 mantel-piece. 
 
 "They don't go to your tailor. They don't wear buttoned 
 boots with dress clothes. They don't wear fairly heavy gold 
 watch-chains, either. There are about two places where you 
 can get your hair cut. I think you buy your shirts ready 
 made, don't you? And if you had your dress shoes built 
 for you they wouldn't hurt your feet." 
 
 She smiled daintily into his eyes. 
 
 "Shall I go on?" 
 
 "No, but you and I can do business together; that is, I shall 
 be happy" he minced his words "I shall be happy to have 
 the pleasure of taking you to dinner and the privilege of pay- 
 ing a bill or two if you'll what is it? introduce me into good 
 society. Is it a bargain?" 
 
 Dolf threw away the cigarette end. 
 
 "You may motor me back to where I live and take me to
 
 I 3 8 DOLF 
 
 lunch at the Restaurant d'Or to-morrow at one. We shall 
 meet there. Book a table or you won't get one. If they're 
 booked up already, give the head-waiter a couple of pounds 
 tactfully and say you must have one. That's all at present, 
 Mr. " 
 
 "Mr. Archibald Warley, of Dewsbury." 
 
 "And my name is Dolf Farmer." 
 
 "Very well, Miss Farmer," said Warley. He rang. 
 
 "Tell Richards to bring round the car." 
 
 "Richards is waiting, Sir." 
 
 Mr. Warley picked up the despised opera hat and flung it 
 across the room. Then, bareheaded, he accompanied Dolf 
 to the waiting limousine. They travelled in silence through quiet 
 streets to Netta's flat. Just before the car drew up he turned 
 to her in despair. 
 
 "If it's not an opera hat, what, for heaven's sake, do I 
 wear?" 
 
 "A silk one. Good-night!" murmured Dolf. 
 
 With a flutter she had gone. As she crept up to the flat on 
 the top floor she laughed. 
 
 "Munitions," she said softly. "I may stay at the Summer- 
 house after all. I may get a song and a few lines. And Archi- 
 bald will be what I make of him for a long time oh, quite a 
 long time."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ON a sun-kissed morning, Mr. Archibald Warley awaited in 
 Dolf's sitting-room the coming of his luncheon guest. Even- 
 tually she entered from her bedroom groomed from head to 
 foot with the faintly exaggerated care of the chorus girl. The 
 big hat accentuated her slightness; the jingling tangle of ciga- 
 rette case, match-box, vanity box, purse and what-not dangled 
 from her hand. She buttoned virgin white gloves with thought- 
 ful precision; her gown came from Hanover Square, her shoes 
 and stockings from Bond Street. Archibald Warley knew be- 
 cause he had paid for them. 
 
 He rose quickly to meet her. Dolf ran a wise glance over 
 his exterior and nodded imperceptibly. 
 
 "Have I got it at last then?" he queried, smiling yet faintly 
 anxious. "Could you tell me from the next lord or colonel in 
 mufti you run across?" 
 
 "Hardly. Not from your clothes anyway." She consid- 
 ered the lounge suit built in Savile Row, the hat from Bond 
 Street, the boots from Pall Mall, the Jermyn Street shirt and 
 hosiery. "Of course these people have a manner Never mind, 
 Archie, you'll do very well. Take me somewhere jolly, there's 
 a dear." 
 
 "We're going through the whole bag of tricks to-day lunch, 
 tea-dance, dinner and supper after the show," he announced, 
 carrying an irreproachable cane to his left arm-pit almost like 
 a soldier. 
 
 "But I don't know that I want to . . ." 
 
 What Dolf had christened the "Dewsbury look" darkened 
 his clean-shaved face. 
 
 139
 
 140 DOLF 
 
 "My dear, well do as I like for once. Think a minute. 
 You've got a scene with a song and dance in the show now 
 because I paid for it to be put on. I pay for your clothes and 
 your hats and your taxis and your meals at flash restaurants. 
 I'd like a little amusement in return for the outlay, if you don't 
 mind, and it amuses me to-day to go through the whole bag of 
 tricks." 
 
 "Very well," she assented. His manner took her back swiftly 
 to the days of her childhood wherein the almighty male always 
 bullied the female and had his way. Life runs in cycles. 
 
 "The tea dance," he went on with satisfaction as they de- 
 scended the stairs, "is at Lady Mount-Ararat's place. You re- 
 member I helped her over the Fund for Demobilised V. A. D.'s. 
 She's got a big house in Belgrave Square." 
 
 "I hope it's a decent floor." 
 
 They climbed into the big car, matching the season with its 
 grey cord upholstery and massed violets in the flower vase. It 
 brought them noiselessly to the Carlton Grill where the for- 
 eign omnipotence waved beatifying hands over Dolf and 
 forced himself to be polite with Archibald, a type of young 
 man he disliked to encourage. 
 
 Dolf nestled into her chair and gazed round with a little 
 greedy sigh at a symphony of the perfect life. She loved the 
 well-bred, well-dressed people, and their clear-cut voices. Archi- 
 bald fell sadly short of the standard in personality; clothes 
 are not everything. Still, as he said, he paid. She gave a 
 little shrug, smiled gaily at Ferguson Clyte, lunching opposite 
 at the expense of a Guards' subaltern and began the pretty 
 girl's game of earning her lunch. 
 
 "Talk to me, Archie. I'm so happy. I love it all so." 
 
 "You're rather a dear kid, Dolf, only you always want your 
 own way. We get on pretty well together. I wonder I hate 
 that girl-pal of yours. Wouldn't you like a little flat of your 
 own? There's a delightful little service flat to let near mine. 
 What do you say?"
 
 DOLF 141 
 
 He finished his aperitif and looked at her steadily. His eyes 
 were small and held a calculating, covetous expression. She 
 could never get away from the business instinct in him. He 
 had made a business of the war and he would make a business 
 of her. He had laid out his capital and now he waited for 
 the interest. 
 
 She shrugged faintly. 
 
 "I hate flats, Archie, that I can't afford myself. I like to 
 live on my own, and be independent. Awf'ly nice of you to 
 suggest it, though." 
 
 "Independent!" He laughed, rather noisily for the Carlton 
 Grill, and a couple of sleek burnished heads turned curiously. 
 "Why, you've hardly got a thing on I haven't paid for even 
 your underclothes. Independent ! Why stick at a flat after all 
 I've bought you?" 
 
 It was the old, recurrent misery raising its hideous head. Let 
 a man have howsoever little and he demands everything. But 
 Dolf smiled and played idly with her wine-glass. 
 
 "One has to draw the line somewhere. And I don't think 
 the obligation's all on my side. You wouldn't be here if it 
 wasn't for me. There wouldn't have happened to be a vacant 
 table, that's all. I sent you to the right shops and I certainly 
 engineered the Mount- Ararat business. Also, dear thing, I'm 
 teaching you how to look after a woman. You may think 
 you're perfect, but you've an awful lot to learn. You still 
 throw a few presents in my face. I have to amuse you at 
 lunch instead of your amusing me. And, honestly, there are 
 a dozen men I could be lunching with who were taught how 
 to amuse women from their cradle upwards." 
 
 He flushed a dark sulky red because he knew she spoke 
 the truth. 
 
 "You've no instinct, Archie, dear. I can't give you an in- 
 stinct for the right thing. I can only send you to the right 
 shops and the right restaurants. You do follow, don't you?" 
 
 "Then why bother with me?"
 
 142 DOLF 
 
 "I don't quite know." She laughed softly and gazed at his 
 ill-humoured face out of the clear blue eyes. "Perhaps be- 
 cause if you only knew, I'm giving you more than you can ever 
 give me. I'm more than independent, really you're in debt 
 to me and you always will be. I like my independence. That's 
 all." 
 
 Deftly Dolf coaxed him into a brighter mood. She behaved 
 very sweetly to him all the afternoon, shepherding him through 
 the dance tea with imperceptible tact because he always became 
 gauche and ferocious in society. In the end they drifted back 
 to Netta's flat, so that Dolf might change into a dinner gown. 
 
 She left him in the sitting-room with a cigarette, a weekly 
 paper and an arm-chair, passing through the communicating 
 door into her bedroom. She took off her hat and pitched 
 it onto the bed, dropped into a chair before the dressing-table, 
 propped her chin on her hands and stared at herself in the 
 glass with a weary sigh. 
 
 "Oh, men, men, what pigs, what bores, what intolerable ani- 
 mals they are! " she murmured. "Why can't he see I'm tired, 
 exhausted, longing simply to lie down and rest before the 
 show. But no he bought me a frock or two and wrote a 
 cheque for the management of the theatre and now he imagines 
 I'm his, body and soul. What a price they put on us, don't 
 they!" 
 
 She rose and slipped out of her morning frock, took a little 
 soft, restful dinner gown from its wardrobe, laid it on the 
 bed, and began shaking down her fair, wavy hair. Soon there 
 arose the rhythmic swish of the hair brush until, glancing 
 into the mirror she remained motionless, one arm still raised 
 in a half -completed stroke. 
 
 Archie Warley was standing behind her, his eyes full of the 
 male hunter's look, his face reddened with crescent passion. 
 
 Dolf stared at him more in surprise than annoyance. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked. 
 
 "I wan't a little value for my money. You look very nice
 
 DOLF 143 
 
 in those silk things crepe de chine or whatever you call it. 
 I paid for them; I s'pose I've a right to see them. After all, 
 it's not much more than hundreds of men see of you on the 
 stage every night for the price of a ticket." 
 
 He took a step towards her. She crossed over to the ward- 
 robe, took out a light dressing-wrap and put it on. 
 
 "You don't appear to understand that no one has any right 
 in a woman's bedroom unless she invites him. I haven't in- 
 vited you. Please go out." 
 
 "Oh, rubbish!" he said irritably, "we aren't children. You're 
 a chorus girl. You needn't play at innocence. What do you 
 take me for? Why do you suppose I spend money on you? 
 Come here; I want to kiss you." 
 
 "I wouldn't let you kiss me if you were the last man in the 
 world," she said simply. "I don't suppose you even know how 
 to kiss a girl decently. I've taught you what few things you 
 do know, but I don't think kisses come into the bargain. I 
 think we'd better end our acquaintance here. Please go." 
 
 "You seem to end with a balance on the right side," he 
 jeered. 
 
 "If there's anything of yours you can see that you par- 
 ticularly fancy, please take it," she answered. "I'm not dining 
 with you." 
 
 He would have liked to say many things but he could think 
 of nothing to say. He ebbed away out of the room like an ill- 
 tempered child. She heard the sitting-room door and later 
 the front door slam. Then she flung herself down on the bed 
 and cried. Life seemed so cheerless; and somehow he had 
 managed to cheapen men, even herself in her own eyes. Then 
 a whole hour she lay face downward in sheer misery. Then 
 she bathed her face, drank a cup of tea and began mechanically 
 to dress for the theatre. 
 
 For a fortnight she heard nothing from him. The girls at 
 the theatre commented openly or covertly, sympathised or 
 laughed as their dispositions drove them, and in a vague im-
 
 144 DOLF 
 
 personal way Dolf felt the eye of Ferguson Clyte dwelling on 
 her. Then there came a mass of violets to the theatre accom- 
 panied by Archie's imploring note. He was a brute, an out- 
 cast ; she had been perfectly sweet to him would she be sweet 
 once more and forgive him? He would be nice always like 
 one of the men she was used to. His luck was out; he had 
 been ill and miserable. Couldn't she forget and be his friend 
 again? 
 
 A woman never forgets; she remembers through her emotions 
 and each leaves a spiritual gramophone record on her subcon- 
 scious mind. But Dolf, twisting the note in her considering 
 fingers, decided to let bygones be bygones. She missed being 
 looked after, fetched and carried for, taken about, advertised. 
 That evening she sent a messenger boy home for an evening 
 gown and went out to supper and a dance with Archibald. The 
 improvement in his dancing astonished her. 
 
 "I've been having lessons all the time. Went to a physical 
 culture fellow, too. They pulled me together no end. I wanted 
 to surprise you," he explained in gratified tones. His vanity 
 was singular. This compliment about his dancing put him in 
 the best of tempers. Dolf began to enjoy life. 
 
 "You must come to a party with me on Sunday," he went on. 
 "It's rather wicked and exciting, I believe something to make 
 the eyes of the other girls pop. I got onto it through a man 
 I met after we quarrelled. Fearful nut he is got some fright- 
 ful nutty relations down at some castle in the West. You'd 
 love him; you don't love me, do you, Dolf, old girl? I'm a 
 beastly, bullying money-hoarding tradesmen, aren't I? But 
 I'll give you a good time yet." 
 
 It was part of the unevenness and indiscipline of his nature 
 that he lavished every possible gift and kindness on her that 
 night. When they parted at her street door he would do 
 no more than touch her fingers lightly with his lips. He refused 
 to enter the flat and smoke a last cigarette in her sitting-room. 
 He wanted to be very good right from the start.
 
 DOLF 145 
 
 With a girl's eternal patience for the stupidities and moods 
 of men, who are the financiers of this earthly pilgrimage, Dolf 
 smiled, acquiesced, snuggled against him for a brief, fascinat- 
 ing moment, and scuttled into the hall with those swift escap- 
 ing movements that are intended to arouse pursuing desire in 
 men and often do. On the whole she was glad to have him 
 back. It had not been a bad evening. 
 
 Sunday brought the big car round at the unpromising hour 
 of six-thirty. They had to dine before the wicked party and 
 they dined alone in his flat, served by the impeccable Good- 
 son. Dolf loved the solid comfort of a man's rooms. It 
 seemed more permanent than restaurants. 
 
 The party being too wicked for the car, a taxi bore them 
 there. It left them at an unpretentious, respectable-looking 
 block of flats converted into houses. Within, the conven- 
 tionality lapsed; Dolf encountered rooms distinguished by 
 weird macabre decorations in black and gold full of divans and 
 coffee stools and other properties that suggest the East to 
 Westerners who have never been there. A number of curious 
 subdued guests flitted to and fro like souls wandering up and 
 down the banks of the Styx. The outstanding personalities 
 seemed to be Miriam Faigent, a dark girl with a white camellia 
 face dressed in Turkish trousers and a swathe of silk about 
 her figure, and the man with princely Devonian relatives. 
 
 Archibald Warley pulled Dolf nervously onto a divan, 
 brought coffee and cigarettes, and fidgetted. 
 
 "It's rather a rag," he explained with a ghastly, frightened 
 smile. "Dope opium you know. You needn't be scared 
 quiet little place, absolutely safe, 'n all that. Thought I'd go 
 one better than you at last. This is more exciting than sup- 
 pers at Giovanni's and Golden Revels at the Albert Hall, 
 what?" 
 
 "Silly, silly fool!" murmured Dolf, watching the scene with 
 half-fascinated contempt. Miriam Faigent was running her 
 fingers caressingly through the plastered hair of a good-look-
 
 I 4 6 DOLF 
 
 ing boy. A Chinese woman in blue Canton cotton appeared 
 from nowhere, set up the paraphernalia of her business, and 
 cooked the little pellets of opium in the lamp with deft in- 
 difference. 
 
 Presently the pipe began to circulate. Archibald Warley 
 put it to his lips, shuddered, with beads of sheer funk stand- 
 ing on his forehead, and passed it to Dolf. She made pre- 
 tence of inhaling and pushed it round the circle of devotees. 
 The rest seemed to be habitues. They were now as content 
 as they had been obviously bored. The good-looking boy 
 stared into Miriam's face with glazed, desirous eyes. 
 
 "It cost me a pretty penny to get us here," whispered Archi- 
 bald Warley. 
 
 Dolf looked at him consideringly and candidly. It came 
 over her that she was a little girl of his own class, a bare 
 twenty-two years old against his twenty-five, with a knowledge 
 of the world gleaned painfully from men far above her social 
 niche who had dallied with her for a little while. All this 
 painful knowledge she had lavished on him in return for a 
 few gifts that cost mere money, in the attempt to turn him 
 into a man for some half-quixotic reason. And as a reward 
 he took her to a dope party! 
 
 "Let's get out of this; I'm fed up" she said, and half rose. 
 But he dragged her down. His nerve had gone. He mut- 
 tered of a row, blackmail, heaven knows what. And from 
 the entrance hall came sounds of commotion that wrinkled 
 Miriam Faigent's white brow in vague alarm. 
 
 A tall, dapper, uniformed person entered the room. 
 
 "I am an inspector of police" he announced rather super- 
 fluously. "I have reason to believe that an illegal practice, 
 to wit, opium smoking, is going on here. No one must leave 
 the premises." 
 
 "Damn you!" murmured Dolf very bitterly in Archibald 
 Warley's ear. "This is your titled friend's doing, I s'pose. 
 How much did he take from you? My dear boy, I'm through
 
 DOLF 147 
 
 with you. You're too big an anxiety for me. Our names 
 will look well in the papers, won't they?" 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed, "what will my dad say? This 
 is what comes of taking up with a light girl on the stage!" 
 
 Icy clear across the stillness cut Dolf's scornful laugh. 
 The Inspector paused, shocked, in his name-taking. 
 
 Finally after explanations and identifications he let some 
 go, among them Dolf and her cavalier. Safe in his rooms 
 she lay back in one of his deep arm-chairs, utterly con- 
 temptuous. 
 
 "For my own sake I'll get you out of it, Archie," she said bit- 
 terly, "but to do it I've got to ask a favour of a man I'd 
 rather die than ask anything from. Ring for Goodson and 
 ask him to get Sir Henry Creagh on the 'phone. He used to 
 be a pal of mine. He knows everybody; he can arrange 
 anything." 
 
 She went away to the telephone cabinet in the hall and 
 came back white-faced and dewey-eyed. 
 
 "He's a brick as usual. You needn't be frightened, Archie. 
 You can sleep in peace. But this is the end. Good-bye." 
 
 Then he broke, he raved, he would not let her go. She 
 stood eyeing him almost with pity. 
 
 "I've learnt a lot, and paid to learn, but I won't pay for 
 you as well," she said slowly. "Tell Goodson to get me a 
 taxi, please." 
 
 And so she left him. 
 
 Again she faced life alone. Again the girls sympathised 
 or laughed. Again the discerning eye of Ferguson Clyte 
 seemed to note her unchaperoned condition, the lack of money 
 lavished on her, the extinction of his own perquisites. Dolf 
 knew, and feared with the chill, racking fear of the girl who 
 plays her own hand in the game of life with no cards but her 
 wits and her looks. 
 
 There broke in on this strained period of waiting the letter
 
 148 DOLF 
 
 from Messrs. Pether & Wells, Solicitors, of Great Turnstile 
 Street, asking her to call on them. 
 
 Dolf called. She knew instinctively the letter signified evil 
 rather than good and dressed simply in a blue suit, with a 
 round, babyish opening to her silk shirt. 
 
 Mr. Pether received her doubtfully. He felt so sure she 
 was very bad, he had a stern task to perform, and Dolf's 
 slight girlishness, her candid eyes, her soft mouth affected his 
 male perception so very acutely. 
 
 Mr. Pether, tall, spare, professional, opened the proceedings 
 in his most professional voice. 
 
 The old jackal was out after its whelp. Old David Warley, 
 of Dewsbury, had heard, through a blackmailer, of his son's 
 presence at the opium party. Private detectives ferreting out 
 the young man's life in town, attributed his downfall to Dolf. 
 There was no actual evidence against her. Mr. Warley senior 
 had instructed Messrs. Pether & Wells to pay Miss Farmer 
 twenty-five pounds on the understanding that she never saw 
 or communicated with Mr. Archibald Warley again. 
 
 "I'm never likely to. He needs a nurse more than a pal," 
 commented Dolf in her slow clear voice. "You may pay the 
 twenty-five pounds to the Young Women's Christian Associa- 
 tion, and send me the receipt." 
 
 "A very proper decision. May I say that we personally feel 
 that you ah! emerge from this sordid business with er 
 propriety. If ever you should need legal assistance " 
 
 "I don't think I ever shall. Good-morning!" 
 
 At the theatre she found a note from Archibald Warley, 
 incoherent, wild, unbridled as ever. 
 
 "It was the man who got me into the mess that told the 
 old man. It's not your fault. You always despised me 
 while you took my money. I'd give my soul to make you 
 love me, or do something to impress you. I've wrecked 
 my life for a common little chorus cat. If the old man knew 
 I was writing this, he'd kill me. I never loved any girl but
 
 DOLF 149 
 
 you. I was a decent chap before you broke me to stage doors 
 and flash restaurants. . . ." 
 
 Dolf tore it into the tiniest fragments. 
 
 "He was rotten from the start" she murmured. "He comes 
 from my own sort of people. Our men always want a woman 
 to lean on and to blame for any trouble. In our class we 
 have to bear men and then prop them up all their lives. I 
 think God hates us!" 
 
 During the first interval Ferguson Clyte sent for her. 
 
 "Miss Farmer" he snapped, "I'm not satisfied with you. 
 You aren't here just to go on and come off and sing a little 
 and dance a few steps. You ought to know that the chorus 
 either fill the stalls or get out of the chorus. What's the 
 matter with you?" 
 
 "I've just struck a bad patch. Men don't fall into your 
 arms every minute, you know, Mr. Clyte. Often they're the 
 wrong ones too, and I hate being pawed about, and kisses 
 tasting of drink, and having my hair pulled down." 
 
 Ferguson Clyte's face, as before, shut up like a rat trap. 
 
 "This is a theatre, not a Sunday school. We have to think 
 of our shareholders, many of them women with small in- 
 comes who depend on their dividends for a livelihood. Your 
 notice expires in a fortnight unless you choose to change your 
 mind and alter your methods." 
 
 "A fortnight!" 
 
 "There's hope yet, there must be," she told herself. "I'll 
 find some way out of this if I think hard enough." 
 
 Out of her concentration an idea emerged. 
 
 At first she only dallied with it. To ask Senlake to help 
 her, even if a letter to his old address should reach him, 
 after he had gone so deliberately out of her life, seemed in- 
 tolerable. 
 
 For a long time she wondered whether his wife had separated 
 Guy and herself. Could she have told him about that visit 
 to Pont Street?
 
 ISO DOLF 
 
 But too many things had blurred the memory of the epi- 
 sode, whereas the thing that did stand out clearly was Sen- 
 lake's real friendship for her. 
 
 Finally she wrote to him. She told him briefly of all she 
 had done and not done, and explained her present predica- 
 ment. 
 
 "You've always helped, even though you didn't give advice. And 
 Guy, I can't think of any better proof of how much faith I have in 
 your friendship than to write now, after your long silence. Sometimes 
 I think I must have a bit of something nice in me, because I haven't 
 lost my faith in men yet. I always expect to find something good 
 ahead, even now when things are all wrong. Even if you didn't see 
 me, if you just wrote, it would help me ever so much." 
 
 She put "Please forward" under his old address, posted 
 the letter and began to watch for a reply. 
 
 Day after day passed. Netta could not comprehend Dolf's 
 intense interest in the postman. Yet because she -was in- 
 terested, Dolf could not bring herself to explain. 
 
 And at last the fortnight was up. Shrugging faintly she 
 went to Clyte. 
 
 "All right," she said with a laugh, her eyes hard and reck- 
 less, "I've changed my mind. I was a fool; I don't know 
 what came over me. I'll do anything you tell me. Whom 
 do you want me to get off with, royalty, prime ministers, or 
 what?"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DOLF, the final touch of make-up achieved, her blue eyes 
 deepened by a deft smudging of the upper lids, lit by a spot 
 of scarlet in the very corner of the eye, fringed by darkened 
 lashes, the line of her soft red lips additionally red, laid down 
 the powder puff, slipped out of her pale blue wrap and stood 
 considering herself. 
 
 "It's all for men" her thoughts ran in a bitter, disillusioned 
 vein, "and what do they care? Their only idea is possession, 
 and once they've had all they want from a girl they don't 
 care two-pence about her. And yet night after night, with 
 the approval of a dear, respectable old world, we come here 
 and fake ourselves up and fool around simply and solely to 
 make men want us. I s'pose we're really an advanced line, 
 put here so that all the mothers and wives away back at a 
 safe distance needn't know anything about what men are 
 really like. We keep the home-fires burning at the right tem- 
 perature so to speak; otherwise they might flare up occa- 
 sionally and burn the whole outfit to the ground. We're 
 a kind of moral trouble squad!" 
 
 Shrugging faintly, she began to put on the cream serge 
 frock decreed for the chorus in the opening scene at Some- 
 where-sur-Mer. The door of the dressing-room crashed open, 
 letting in the call-boy's wail of "Ten minutes ten minutes 
 ladies, please." Netta Blatchley, the proud possessor of a 
 two line-part, sauntered up radiating that delicately brazen 
 chic so peculiar to the Summerhouse. 
 
 "Well, dear darling?" she began spaciously, for the benefit 
 of the world at large and leant easily against the long bench- 
 like dressing-table. Then her eyes narrowed wisely. 
 
 "Got the blue devils, haven't you, Dolf? Cut them out. 
 
 151
 
 i$2 DOLF 
 
 We can't afford them. They lower one's face value. What's 
 the trouble?" 
 
 Dolf's lips curved into a half-smile. 
 
 "I'm a butterfly that's hurt its wing against a hard world 
 to-night. Don't take any notice. Anybody that's anybody 
 in front?" 
 
 "Nine dukes, five earls and sixteen baronets, not to men- 
 tion Guardsmen," lied Netta cheerfully. She lowered her 
 voice. "And let me tell you something cheerful. Cynthia 
 Kay, our fascinating star, has got it in for you. I heard her* 
 talking to Clyte about you. She called you 'that washed-out 
 little fair-haired stick.' How she must love you! Who's 
 the man you've taken away from her?" 
 
 Dolf, hooking the corsage of her frock with listless fingers, 
 shook her head. 
 
 "I haven't got a man in the world. There's only one who 
 might be interested. He sits in 027 and walks with a stick. 
 He's there night after night and never takes his eyes off me. 
 But he never told his love, as it were. Nothing from him 
 ever comes to the stage door. Pr'aps I just remind him of 
 his little sister at home. What a dear she must bej " 
 
 "That's perfectly easy to find out. Anyhow, watch Cyn- 
 thia, and 'member I've warned you. She's " 
 
 "Beginners for the first act, please" wailed the Voice from 
 Without. Netta turned away coquettishly. 
 
 "Bye-bye, dear. See you later." 
 
 The chorus whirled hectically through the doorway, clat- 
 tered on high heels down steep stone steps and swirled 
 into the wings. An electric bulb changed colour by the con- 
 ductor's desk and the orchestra swept into the opening chorus. 
 The curtain rose, and the Summerhouse's most perfect peaches 
 cat-walked into a sea-side set with never a care in the world. 
 
 "Here's where the saucy summer baby 
 Can beguile some tame, tired toff; 
 She will shed her frock or stocking
 
 DOLF 153 
 
 Till she's awf'Iy sweet and shocking, 
 But her smile just won't come off!" 
 
 they lilted seductively. A ripple ran through the crowded 
 stalls. The old, wild magic had entered into men. The tall, 
 rather weary occupant of Day settled back comfortably and 
 commenced his nightly worship of Dolf 's fair, immature beauty. 
 The happy evening had begun. 
 
 Ferguson Clyte, the stage manager, standing in the wings, 
 ran a reflective hand over his brilliantined hair, glanced down 
 at his soigne person encased in the dress clothes parted from 
 which no manager seems altogether natural, and thanked his 
 gods for the blessing of a full house. Outside the stage door 
 under the flaring lights the last taxis and private cars slurred 
 away with a splutter of skidding back wheels. Bowing kit- 
 tenishly to the welcoming roar of applause, Cynthia Kay 
 advanced down stage to speak her celebrated opening line: 
 "Heaven looks good a long way off, but here we are!" 
 
 Later, during the interval, Ferguson Clyte sat at his roll- 
 top desk, breathing semi-defiance and Egyptian cigarette smoke 
 at Cynthia Kay. Every two seconds he broke off to hurl 
 curses at some interrupter who knocked upon the door. Every 
 half minute the telephone bell rang pitilessly. A stage man- 
 ager is a busy man; beads of perspiration began to form on 
 Clyte's pale forehead. 
 
 "Well anyway, have a heart" he burst out at last. "Can't 
 you see I've enough on my hands without your troubles, 
 Cynthia? Doesn't a job like mine make hell look silly? 
 Run along and count your blessings and your bouquets. See 
 me to-morrow." 
 
 Cynthia sat calmly on a table, swung her legs negligently 
 and flicked cigarette ash onto the carpet. 
 
 "You've got to do something about it this minute, Fer- 
 guson. That fair-haired little Dolf-deviPs put it over the 
 man with the limp in Day. He happens to be Lord Chalfont,
 
 154 DOLF 
 
 and he's mine, because I want him, and I had him till she 
 came into the show. I can't tell you why he fancies her; 
 she's as ordinary as the pies that mother made, but men are 
 all mad. 'Sides, he's been wounded and had shell-shock. He 
 never takes his eyes off her. You must give Miss Dolf Farmer 
 the straight griffin about him, simply, as you would to a child." 
 
 "Damn it, how can I? Isn't she here to attract men? As 
 long as he wants one of our girls with a great big want, do 
 I care who she is? You've lost your nerve, Cynthia. You're 
 still pretty; you needn't worry. You've been giving him the 
 hard eye and the cold face or something. Can't you keep your 
 own end up with a chorus girl? Where do I come in?" 
 
 "You're the original tin god here. Warn her off. And 
 see she doesn't get any of his love letters or flowers or any- 
 thing. Have a word with the Stage Door man. You can, 
 you know, if you want to." 
 
 Clyte shook his head irritably. 
 
 "Wrong, wrong, all wrong. That's the way to make her 
 all the keener. I don't believe she knows him anyway. I've 
 got a pretty good idea what you beautiful fiends do in your 
 spare time. She's rather little Miss Mouse doesn't go around 
 with anybody much. That's her charm; she makes all you 
 glad young women look gladder by contrast." 
 
 "Probably why he never takes his eyes off her. He's got 
 a pious fit on him the war turned some men like that. He 
 thinks she's good and he wants to love a dear good girl. 
 And I'm evidently not good enough for his lordship." 
 
 Clyte snatched up the receiver, barked viciously at some 
 distant innocent over the wire and crashed the helpless vul- 
 canite back on its hook. 
 
 "Well, that's easy. If she's too good, make her bad. Get 
 her off with George Darell. No girl-pal of his could possibly 
 be mistaken for an angel. Then your saintly acquaintance'll 
 shudder back to your side and I shall be able to get on with
 
 DOLF 155 
 
 what I'm paid to do. Now, for God's sake scatter, and leave 
 me to it!" 
 
 Cynthia slid from the table, shook her chestnut head daintily 
 and smiled at him. 
 
 "What a brain, Ferguson! I really believe you're right. 
 I'll run away and be all butter and honey to mamma's good 
 little girl. But you've got to do your bit by her correspond- 
 ence. Don't forget!" 
 
 She picked her way out followed by murmured blasphemy. 
 Clyte turned, raging, to his legitimate business. But Cynthia, 
 in the next interval sent a message to Dolf by her maid, so 
 guileless even from one woman to another that Dolf, warned 
 already by Netta whose judgment she trusted, was deceived, 
 and ran carelessly into the web spun for her in the largest, 
 airiest dressing-room the Summerhouse possessed. 
 
 Dolf distrusted her own kind as instinctively as any other 
 poor pretty girl. She knew them to be unscrupulous; they 
 stole men from you even if they did not require them; they 
 gave you half confidences as a bait for whole ones; they copied 
 your clothes and envied your kisses. But there seemed no 
 need to beware of Cynthia Kay who had everything in the 
 world she wanted, and looked it, leaning back in a silk-brocade 
 chair before a brilliant dressing-table. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Farmer," began Cynthia, and smiled, "I do want 
 to ask you to dine with me at a friend of mine's flat on 
 Sunday night if you've nothing better to do. He's simply 
 crazy to meet you. I rather want to do him a good turn, so 
 if you could come ?" 
 
 She pushed forward a vast, beribboned, hand-painted box 
 invitingly. "These are some of his chocolates. He's got a 
 charming taste in chocolates and other things. He's rather 
 well in with the management, too. In fact he's frightfully 
 useful all around." 
 
 Dolf slid a large, liqueur chocolate between her lips and 
 looked thoughtfully at Cynthia.
 
 1 56 DOLF 
 
 "Men never give anything for nothing, do they?" she 
 queried at last. "There's always something behind it all. 
 Sometimes I hate men. They're so deadly selfish. But it's 
 awf'ly kind of you, Miss Kay, and I'd love to come, thank 
 you." 
 
 "Well, you know my flat in Knightsbridge, looking over 
 the Park. Drift along about seven and I'll take you on. 
 It'll be rather a jolly crowd. Bye-bye!" 
 
 Dolf scurried back to the chorus room deep in reflections. 
 Throughout the last act she lost the thread of them because 
 the tall, crippled occupant of stall D27 never took his eyes 
 from her, and they were compelling eyes. Once when he 
 caught her glance he smiled, and the dark shadows of his 
 face lit up. Dolf wove a little dream about him in which he 
 became the mysterious man of Cynthia's invitation, a chival- 
 rous perfect lover who wanted only to make her happy, seek- 
 ing nothing for himself. Then she sighed because that is not 
 the way of men. 
 
 As she and Netta brushed out their hair rather wearily in 
 the little Marylepad Street flat, Dolf disclosed her news. 
 Netta drew thoughtfully at her cigarette. 
 
 "The man in Day with the smashed foot is Lord Chalfont. 
 He's a major in the Cornish Guards, and a D.S.O. I know 
 he never looks at anyone but you. And I can put two and 
 two together and make five." 
 
 Dolf nestled down on the rug at Netta's feet in the glow 
 of the gas-fire, and shrugged her dressing-gown round her. 
 
 "Well, whatever man wants me, I hope he's a tiny bit de- 
 cent," she said rather pathetically. "I could stand a little 
 real loving for once. It's a dog's life sometimes, Netta my 
 dear." 
 
 Since women dress largely to annoy one another, Dolf 
 crawled delicately from her taxi outside Cynthia Kay's flat 
 sheathed from waist to mid-ankle in a soft, intriguing mist 
 of cobweb pink. You do not stay long at the Summerhouse
 
 DOLF 15? 
 
 unless you know how to wear clothes. The lift attendant 
 shepherded her respectfully and respect glinted in the eyes of 
 the smart maid who admitted her. From an adjacent bed- 
 room Dolf caught snatches of song, and presently Cynthia: 
 swayed deliciously through the doorway in fifty pounds' worth 
 of inspired naughtiness, openly triumphant and astonishingly 
 pleased with herself. 
 
 "Hullo, Dolf!" she exclaimed in the clear, metallic tones 
 of the stage with the stage's insistence on consonants. "Just 
 one wee little Martini before we go. You look topping. 
 Marcelline two cocktails, quickly." 
 
 "I love your room," said Dolf dreamily. She lay back in 
 a downy-soft arm-chair and felt the ice-cold, wicked little 
 drink flow like fire through her veins. In a way she was 
 going like a beautiful slave to be inspected by some wealthy 
 connoisseur, but adventure beckoned, and life seemed for 
 the moment stained with rosy hues and shot with golden 
 lights. Cynthia appeared to understand, for she gripped her 
 victim's wrists and drew her out of the chair. 
 
 "It's a perfect dream of a room but I know a better 
 George DarelFs drawing-room. Come on the car's waiting. 
 Ours for the high spots and the bright lights!" 
 
 George Darell, his tall, broad-shouldered figure doing honour 
 to its perfect tailoring, rose to meet them in the softly-lit hall 
 of his flat. The scented smoke of a wood fire curled mistily 
 up the wide chimney, unsubstantial as the dreams a girl 
 might dream of her future if the monarch of this splendour 
 extended to her his favour. As Darrell, who knew why she 
 had been brought, let his eyes wander over Dolf, there came 
 a momentary catch to his breath and a light in his eye. But 
 he only moved forward with the most perfect charm of man- 
 ner and held out a welcoming hand. 
 
 "It's really frightfully decent of you both to turn out on a 
 wet Sunday night," he said, and his expression and his voice 
 blended into a genuine sincerity of gratitude.
 
 158 DOLF 
 
 Dolf looked at him with that limpid directness of gaze 
 that was half her charm. She took in the greying hair, the 
 handsome, lined face, the half-weary, ironical eyes. How 
 many toys, she thought, he must have pulled to pieces and cast 
 aside, and wondered rather petulantly what the process would 
 be like. 
 
 There were other girls, other men, who seemed to blend 
 into a vague background of lovely frocks set off by the con- 
 ventional male black and white, but insensibly yet surely 
 Cynthia drifted away with a dipped-moustached, obvious 
 soldier, leaving Dolf and George Darell as isolated as if no 
 other human being moved within a thousand yards. She 
 found herself sitting in a great arm-chair before the fire 
 with her little satin feet propped on a brocaded foot-stool, 
 and Darell stood, tall and almost austere, with his back to 
 the blaze, looking down at her and talking in a lazy clear-cut 
 voice with the almost arrogant ease of one who has always 
 had the world at his disposal. 
 
 "You're too intelligent for the Stage," he said lazily from 
 his great height. "It's meant for stupid people who like pos- 
 ing. You think too much, and you couldn't pose if you tried. 
 Why do you do what you hate doing?" 
 
 "I have to work," she answered, faintly antagonistic as 
 the novelty and the effect of the little, wicked drink faded. 
 "This is a men's world, and I've only my looks. I'm not 
 clever; I can't do very many things not the kind of things 
 that earn money. I understand clothes and how to wear them, 
 and that's what you want in the chorus. Besides, what would 
 people like you do without us men who've always had 
 everything money can buy?" 
 
 The corners of her mouth quivered into a smile and she 
 gave him a mocking glance. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Darell, you're extraordinarily ungrateful. 
 How would you kill your dull evenings if you couldn't come
 
 DOLF 159 
 
 down to the theatre to look at us, and guess which would be 
 the most fun to take out?" 
 
 "Heaven knows!" admitted Darell, who was clever with 
 women, and admired cleverness in them, laughing back. "The 
 worst of it is you aren't all fun. Some of you are vain, most of 
 you are stupid, nearly all of you are greedy. But you your- 
 self are too wise to be too anything else. This is my lucky 
 evening and I am so glad I've met you. Come and let's 
 dine, and drink to our long and charming friendship. I hope 
 it's going to be long; I know it'll be charming." 
 
 It was a gay affair, a revelation to Dolf accustomed only 
 to meals in gilded restaurants. The inspired simplicity of 
 everything from the food to the table linen, all simple at an 
 appalling cost, fascinated her. She hardly noticed what she 
 ate and drank because it was all too perfect to attract atten- 
 tion. Not least perfect appeared the host. He brought to his 
 task of being utterly charming the gifts and training of a 
 life-time. Dolf, knowing him to be unscrupulous, according 
 to his reputation, could not bring herself to dislike him. In- 
 different she might be, but not unimpressed. 
 
 Afterwards, he took her, in the manner of a man, to show 
 her his treasures things he had shot, trophies he had won 
 by skill at games. She found herself alone with him in his 
 own room, smoking delicious Egyptian cigarettes, listening idly 
 to his lazy gossip. At last there came silence, and she felt 
 him looking at her. She raised considering eyes, and inter- 
 preted the look. Her brain cleared to an ice-cold, glittering 
 efficiency. Swords were out at last between them. 
 
 "Dolf," he began with the calm omnipotence of a man who 
 has never denied himself anything, "I want to be friends with 
 you. You're the most delightful thing I've met for years. 
 You wouldn't find me an awful bore. I've never got par- 
 ticularly on any woman's nerves as far as I can remember. 
 You'd discover I'm quite amusing and a good sort in my 
 way. The only thing is, I'm too old to spend ages and ages
 
 160 DOLF 
 
 creating an atmosphere and working gradually upward from 
 acquaintance to friendship and so on. I'm putting it quite 
 clearly from the start. You won't mind, or be cross, will 
 you? I think you're too clever for that. Only stupid people 
 are cross and put on frills. It isn't done in the best circles." 
 
 He stood smiling down, very tall, and good-looking, and 
 experienced and confident. Evidently he had the habit of vic- 
 tory. She took the cigarette from between her lips and 
 answered: 
 
 "You're quite right. I'm not a fool. I know quite well 
 why I was brought here. But I'm not a humbug either. 
 You've got to see my point of view. Are you going to listen?" 
 
 He nodded, still smiling. She seemed an attractive variant 
 from the ordinary theatrical type. 
 
 "Well," she went on slowly, "I'll be perfectly frank. I've 
 nothing to give you, or sell you, as men look at it. I belong 
 to me, and all the dinners and frocks and cars and this and 
 that won't alter the fact. It depends entirely what you want. 
 I'll be friends with you if you like; I'm not foolish wouldn't 
 you call it? about kisses; I'll be the most accommodating 
 dance partner, dinner guest, supper companion, and all that 
 sort of thing. But if you're out for anything more serious, 
 let me beg you to find someone else. You know as well as I 
 do that it would be frightfully useful at the theatre for me 
 to be your friend. But I won't take anything from you, 
 advertisement, meals, and so forth, on false pretences. I 
 may have to earn my living by appealing to men, but I'm 
 not a hypocrite. Can you understand, or don't you want to?" 
 
 The smile in his eyes lingered. His quick brain, wise in 
 the ways of women, endeavoured to riddle her attitude and 
 just failed. Was she very deep, or very simple? Very sincere 
 he refused to believe her, for rich men seldom encounter sin- 
 cerity in women. But her fascination almost thrilled him. 
 She offended his fastidious taste in no smallest trifle, and 
 in addition she had intelligence. As for her reservations time,
 
 DOLF 161 
 
 tact and temptation work wonders. It seemed good enough 
 for a start. 
 
 "You've met me on my own ground. We've both been frank 
 to the edge of brutality. I think we'll get on. Shall we be 
 friends and risk it?" 
 
 Half laughing, half caressing, he took her face between 
 his hands and kissed her. The contact of her mouth thrilled 
 him to an unfamiliar degree, but being subtle in the ways of 
 love-making he released her gently and let her go. 
 
 "And perhaps we might lunch to-morrow at the Carlton, 
 if you'd like it?" he said with genuine longing in his voice. 
 "Now, since it's very late, let's go and find Cynthia." 
 
 Dolf went slowly past him as he held the door for her. 
 Her thought was this: 
 
 "I'm lucky. He only kissed me once, and then very nicely." 
 
 But if she had told him he would hardly have believed 
 her. 
 
 Bond Street is very heavenly at half-past three on a sum- 
 mer afternoon. To Dolf, sauntering Piccadilly-ward in her 
 coolest, most captivating frock, the sunlight, the shop win- 
 dows, the splendid silent cars, the warm, bituminous scent of 
 London in June brought a faint, sickly feeling of sheer hap- 
 piness. Similar emotions seemed to stir the big bronzed man 
 limping towards her leaning heavily on a stick, for a smile lit 
 up his rather sombre countenance; he paused and raised his 
 hat. 
 
 "At last, thank God! " he exclaimed fervently. "Please don't 
 go. I'm not mad, really. I've tried so hard to see you, it 
 would be deliberate cruelty for you to run away. Haven't 
 you ever noticed me at the theatre? I come and watch you 
 nearly ever night." 
 
 Irresolute she stood trying to connect something familiar 
 about his steady gaze and limping foot with other circum- 
 stances. The truth dawned on her in a flash. 
 
 "You're the man in D27," she said mechanically. "I re-
 
 1 62 DOLF 
 
 member now. But you mustn't stand here talking. It'll 
 make you make you " She glanced helplessly at the crip- 
 pled foot and flushed with embarrassment. "It's so tiring 
 for you," she ended with an effort. 
 
 Their eyes dwelt on one another beseechingly as the eyes 
 of people do who are in perfect sympathy and yet are per- 
 fect strangers. They seemed to implore one another mutely 
 to do something before the passing moments tore them apart 
 still strangers. He jerked his head back restlessly and took 
 a desperate risk. 
 
 "Do please come and have tea with me. I've so much to 
 tell you. Anywhere you like, but I'd rather it were my own 
 place because because I'd like to see you there. May I?" 
 
 The ghost of a smile hovered round Dolf's lips. They were 
 being so tremendously serious over a mere matter of tea. 
 An answering smile lit up his brooding face and grey eyes. 
 A crawling taxi swerved to his raised hand. In a moment 
 they were gliding side by side towards his rooms in Ryder 
 Street, chance met, unexplained, and utterly happy. 
 
 It happened to be an exceptional taxi, with real flowers 
 in the flower-holder and clean dust covers on the cushions. 
 The occupant of stall D2y waved a prophetic hand at all 
 this magnificence. 
 
 "An omen," quoth he, "of happy import. Aren't you pleased 
 and excited, just a little? I am; I love it!" 
 
 In five minutes Dolf found herself in a man's rooms dif- 
 fering utterly from George DarelPs. These were simple to 
 the point of austerity. Her unknown host made her welcome, 
 gave her a cigarette, rang for tea and began to explain himself 
 while an obviously ex-soldier servant brought the tea equip- 
 ment with the silent efficiency of his kind. 
 
 "My name's Chalfont," he said slowly, sitting opposite her 
 in a state of happy dreaminess. "I'm Lord Chalfont really, 
 but I can't help it and it doesn't matter. I got this foot 
 crocked in the war and it seemed to spoil the whole of life till
 
 DOLF 163 
 
 I saw you at the Summer-house. Now I've begun to buck 
 up again simply in order to get to know you somehow. I've 
 done my damndest but you've been rather unkind, for you 
 never answered a single one of my letters. I wouldn't get any- 
 one to introduce me because I thought it seemed like thrust- 
 ing myself on you. When I met you in Bond Street I couldn't 
 help speaking. Now here we are. Do tell me your name, 
 please." 
 
 "I'm Dolf Farmer. But I couldn't answer your letters be- 
 cause honestly I never had one of them. How did you address 
 them?" 
 
 "Described your frock the one in Act III. They couldn't 
 have misunderstood. Dirty work somewhere. Never mind 
 I've found you at last. Are you a small piece pleased? Do 
 try to be!" 
 
 She smiled at him frankly out of two very sincere 
 eyes and nodded. She thought of George Darell with a sinking 
 heart. Here sat a man who would be a friend in the real 
 sense of the word, but people like George Darell do not 
 let go easily. It seemed so like the careful working of malign 
 fate that she asked unconcernedly because she wanted to 
 know very badly: 
 
 "Have you met Cynthia Kay?" 
 
 "Once. Once was quite enough. There are some young 
 women it's not good for a man cursed with a title to know. 
 Cynthia is such a young woman." 
 
 Dolf smiled at him again, rather less frankly. Not for 
 nothing had Cynthia produced George Darell. Yet it seemed 
 such a pity to have met the beautiful romance of Lord Chal- 
 font, stall Day, a little, so very little, too late. 
 
 "We're going to be great pals, aren't we?" he was saying 
 with a wistful boyishness oddly young for a man in the thirties. 
 "I'm due a shade of happiness after a perfectly horrible war, 
 and God seems to have given you the knack of making me 
 absolutely happy just to look at you. I daresay I appear a
 
 1 64 DOLF 
 
 mad fool, but there it is. Try and put up with it, please, Dolf 
 dear. I can't call you Miss Farmer, can I? Personally I 
 possess half-a-dozen assorted names, but my pals generally 
 call me Hugh. Will you, if you don't mind?" 
 
 She nodded, and fell into a little constrained silence. 
 
 "What's the matter, Dolf?" he said at last. "Have I wor- 
 ried you? Or is there someone no, there can't be. That 
 would simply crash everything." 
 
 "His name's George Darell," she explained slowly, "and 
 Cynthia introduced him. I don't care for him, but there was 
 nobody else, then, and he promised to be awfully good. I'm 
 afraid he's very exclusive about a girl. You see he's helped 
 me at the theatre, he's been good to me in a way and he's 
 most frightfully jealous. He'd make trouble and be per- 
 fectly impossible. I simply daren't be seen about with an- 
 other man." 
 
 Chalfont listened. He sat perfectly still, his face hardened 
 into an iron mask. When she ceased speaking he said: 
 
 "I'm afraid that ends everything. I'd hoped to be so 
 happy with you because because you're such a dear. But 
 DarelPs another matter. I knew him at Eton. He's not a 
 man I'd introduce to any woman for whom I had the least 
 regard. Sorry, but you'll understand before you're through 
 with him. But I'm glad we met. You see, I've had such a 
 happy afternoon, and they happen quite seldom." 
 
 He stood up awkwardly, and she held out her hand. A smile 
 lay in her eyes and behind it tears struggled to break through. 
 Life seemed very miserable, because she liked him so, but 
 she had promised and Darell would not overlook it. 
 
 "Please let me send you home in the car," he begged, and 
 she let him since it was all she could do. 
 
 Outside her block of flats in Marylepad Street, Ramage, 
 the chauffeur, refused a tip with the greatest tact. 
 
 "You'll not be annoyed, I know, Miss," he explained politely. 
 "You see, mine's not a place of the ordinary kind. Bates
 
 DOLF 165 
 
 that's the indoor man and me was with the Major in France, 
 and anything we can do for 'is friends if you see what I 
 mean. Thanking you kindly all the same." 
 
 Saluting, he swung the limousine deftly away. As she 
 climbed the stairs the smile faded from Dolf 's eyes and at last 
 the tears had it all their own way. 
 
 "What on earth ?" exclaimed Netta. 
 
 And Dolf told her of the conduct of Cynthia Kay. 
 
 "Keeping back his letters the lowest low thing one human 
 being can do to another. I used to think perhaps she had 
 something against me but I couldn't see why. And what good 
 does it do her? She can't have him hasn't a hope, from what 
 he said to me! But revenge what good would that do me?" 
 
 She paused, and then came and looked oddly at Netta. 
 
 "Netta, do you know, he was a bit like Senlake. Not 
 in looks, but there was something and I ought to hate him for 
 that, because I wrote to Senlake about three weeks ago, and 
 he never answered. And I know he got the letter; it never 
 came back to me." 
 
 She laughed ironically. 
 
 "So that's that. Oh, Netta," she ended wearily, "if I could 
 go to bed and never, never get up again!" 
 
 Alone, Netta paced the room in agitation. Her face had 
 quite changed; in it a sort of vicious defiance struggled with 
 shame and even horror. Suddenly she went to her desk and 
 took out an unopened letter. 
 
 It was Senlake's answer, posted over a fortnight ago. 
 
 She held it in trembling fingers. "The lowest low thing 
 one human being can do to another," she repeated brokenly. 
 
 Then something else leaped to her mind. 
 
 "Dolf's attracted all the nicest men, always. If she's un- 
 happy isn't it her own fault for keeping this idea of purity, 
 when life's one long struggle against men? I didn't mind once; 
 even now if she'd only be sensible and treat life as as I've 
 done, and most girls do, I'd be glad for her to take any man
 
 i66 DOLF 
 
 she chooses. But always to be the winner, take everything 
 and give nothing and then to have Senlake, too! She calls 
 it friendship but sooner or later he'll want her; then she'll be 
 virtuous and refuse, when I'd give my soul 
 
 "No, let her take Chalfont. She can chuck Darell. All 
 this stuff about promises and honour is simply rot in our 
 world! She'll have to face facts sooner or later, and she'd 
 better do it now." 
 
 And telling herself that it was for Dolf's eventual good, 
 she replaced the letter in the desk, hiding it where it had 
 lain before. Then with a bitter laugh she switched off the 
 light.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE moan of the saxophone died away to silence; the 
 soft, sibilant shuffle of dancing feet on the floor of the Embassy 
 Club ceased. George Darell led Dolf back to his tea-table 
 against the wall of the room, a faint yet obvious cloud marring 
 the smoothness of his brow. Crawling beside him in her 
 narrow frock she felt the claws steal out beneath the velvet 
 of his touch, and foreboded the inevitable scene. In a word, 
 Darell had come up against his limitations. 
 
 "I hear you're to have a song and some lines written into 
 the show at the Summerhouse," he said, playing abstractedly 
 with his tea-spoon. "Quite a triumph, what?" 
 
 Dolf, who knew exactly why these things had occurred, 
 nodded laughingly. 
 
 "Yes, thank you so much. Clyte's been awfully decent, too, 
 and Cynthia's perfectly sweet. I'm a lucky girl." 
 
 "But I," he objected, "am not altogether a lucky man. I 
 stand on the brink of paradise. Like Moses on Mount Pisgah 
 I survey the promised land that will never be mine. Why 
 are you so unkind to me, Dolf?" 
 
 "The promised land wasn't in Moses' contract, and there 
 was nothing about it in yours." She smiled at him very 
 adorably because she did not want him to see how he dis- 
 tressed her. "Remember I stipulated that there should be 
 nothing serious only kisses, and dinners, and dances. Let's 
 stick to our bargain please, dear." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 
 
 "That was a kind of saving clause on your part in case you 
 didn't care for me. One realised it and gave way accordingly. 
 But we've travelled a long way since then, dear lady. I like 
 
 167
 
 168 DOLF 
 
 you far too well for these narrow limits; no man could en- 
 dure them indefinitely who loved you as much as I do. Be 
 sensible even if you don't want to be kind!" 
 
 She leaned back and looked at him steadily. 
 
 "Did you say love?" she queried with an undercurrent of 
 irony in her voice. "My dear George, you're far too wise 
 for love. I do know what I'm talking about; a man has 
 really loved me before now, and he didn't ask what you do, 
 either." She was thinking of Ralph Jenings. "Love im- 
 plies unselfishness, and attractive as you are, you couldn't 
 be called unselfish. Why should you be when you needn't? 
 If I were a man I should be thoroughly selfish. As I'm not, 
 I play the game as far as I'm prepared to go, but no further. 
 Frankly, I meant what I said on that first evening." 
 
 She saw a faint angry colour darken his face, but he kept 
 his temper admirably. 
 
 "Don't let's be in a desperate hurry. Dine with me to- 
 night at the flat and cut the theatre. It'll be all right. Clyte 
 knows me, and your new part doesn't begin till next week." 
 
 She sighed ever so faintly and a shrug as disdainful as his 
 own disturbed the pure line of her shoulders. 
 
 "Very well. I warn you it won't make the slightest differ- 
 ence, but I'll love to dine with you all the same. Will you 
 take me home now? I shan't have very much time to change; 
 it's nearly six already." 
 
 Outside his car waited, as everything in life seemed to 
 await this fortunate, impregnable person. During one second 
 Dolf had almost a fellow feeling for the big Daimler. She 
 also, in Darell's eyes, had been waiting, available when he 
 chose to beckon. Darell's lady in waiting! How many be- 
 fore her had held that proud position? 
 
 He took leave in the hall of her block of flats with his 
 usual careless charm dashed by an unspoken implication 
 that the particular woman he favoured must be extraordinary 
 lucky.
 
 DOLF 169 
 
 "I'll call for you in an hour," he told her, adding later, "If 
 I may." She nodded, and turned away, to climb slowly the 
 six flights of stairs between her and solitude. 
 
 By chance she found Netta at home. 
 
 "You look a little fed up," diagnosed that astute young lady. 
 "I hope you're dining out for there's nothing to eat in the 
 flat. I am." 
 
 Dolf tore off her frock with bitter, relentless haste, let it 
 lie in a heap where it fell and flung herself on the bed. 
 
 "I'm going to have my last dinner with Darell," she an- 
 nounced curtly. "He thinks he doesn't get a proper return 
 for his kind attentions. Well, he isn't going to get anything 
 more. I played square; I told him at the start. I gave up 
 that charming Chalfont man because I'd promised Darell. 
 And this is what it conies to." 
 
 She got up and began brushing her hair savagely. Netta 
 watched with a curious little smile. 
 
 "You played square with him? Dolf darling, what's come 
 over you? Your brain's giving way!" was her only comment. 
 
 The hands of her tiny clock showed twenty minutes to 
 seven. Dolf wriggled feverishly into a dinner gown and stooped 
 over satin slippers. There came a shrill vibration of the hall 
 door bell. 
 
 "Oh!" she murmured distractedly, "that man must jump 
 into his clothes head first. Can you keep him amused for a 
 minute, Netta? I'm nearly ready." 
 
 But Netta came back bringing a strange guest dressed in 
 chauffeur's livery. She almost thrust him into the bedroom 
 and Dolf stood staring, powder puff in hand. 
 
 The chauffeur, looking rather as if he expected the feminine 
 odds and ends lying about the room to spring up and bite 
 him, addressed Dolf with military directness. 
 
 "You'll not remember me, Miss. I'm Ramage, Lord Chal- 
 font's chauffeur, and I drove you here several weeks ago. 
 The Major's very ill, Miss. It's influenza, and his tern-
 
 170 DOLF 
 
 perature's high. You'll pardon the liberty, but he keeps calling 
 for you by name. Bates, the indoor man, told me. He asked 
 if I remembered where you lived. You see, Miss, we thought, 
 if you'll excuse me, if you'd come and see the Major it might 
 quiet him, so that he'd take a turn for the better. I hope 
 I've not presumed, Miss; but Bates and me were with the 
 Major in France, and we couldn't stand by and let him go 
 out without " 
 
 In spite of being nearly forty, with a kindly, humorous cast 
 of countenance, Ramage seemed unable to control his voice. 
 
 Dolf put down the powder puff and tears came into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Of course I'll come at once. Thank you for telling me." 
 She reached mechanically for a cloak. 
 
 "I've got the car waiting, Miss," said Ramage and moved 
 towards the hall door. He opened it to admit Darell, who 
 came forward to meet Dolf with faintly-smiling politeness. 
 She stood away from him, one hand on the door. 
 
 "I can't dine with you, George. I'm sorry but I've got to 
 go. A friend of mine's very ill and wants me. Please make 
 it another night." 
 
 Darell went suddenly quiet, and the smile faded. 
 
 "This is frightfully sudden. Is she very bad? Do you 
 think there's anything you can do?" 
 
 In the background Ramage seemed to stiffen a little, like 
 a good dog scenting trouble. 
 
 "At any rate I'll go with you. My car's outside," continued 
 Darell. 
 
 Dolf's eyes met Ramage's riveted on her for a swift second. 
 Then she stepped across the threshold. 
 
 "It's not a girl, it's a man," she said slowly in her little, 
 clear voice. "And his car's waiting, thank you." 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Dareil, deadly quiet. 
 
 "Lord Chalfont. Why?" 
 
 Darell went perfectly white. Ramage, who held the door
 
 DOLF 171 
 
 now, was measuring him, quite respectfully, with an expe- 
 rienced eye. All Ramage could think of was the Major, 
 who might die while this fool wasted time. 
 
 "I disapprove of your going to Lord Chalfont. If you do 
 it ends our friendship," came slowly from Darell. He stared 
 insolently at Ramage. Ramage stared back. He was not 
 insolent; he just stared. Dolf's voice cut the silence. 
 
 "Damn your friendship!" she said distinctly. "I'm going 
 to him because he never asked me for anything. There are 
 men like that. I don't suppose you ever meet them. They'd 
 take care you didn't!" 
 
 She sprang down the stairs. With excessive politeness 
 Ramage closed the door in Darell's face. 
 
 He took the limousine through London with a suppressed 
 relentlessness that comes to good drivers in their extremity. 
 And all the while Dolf sat with her hands locked in her lap, 
 suffering in sympathy with the man who wanted her as a 
 girl loves to be wanted, hating Darell because he only looked 
 on her as the toy, the kept woman. So she came for the 
 second time to Ryder Street. 
 
 In some inscrutable manner she seemed to have been ex- 
 plained beforehand or perhaps Chalfont, in his restless de- 
 lirium, had done all the explaining. Bates received her with 
 sympathetic gratitude. He led her at once to the sick room, 
 and she entered with an un-selfconsciousness that made any 
 explanation unnecessary. The doctor took one quick look 
 at her and sighed inaudibly his relief. He could depend on 
 this girl ; for the rest he had been a colonel in the Royal Army 
 Medical Corps, and conventions worried him not at all. The 
 night nurse, standing by the bed glanced up swiftly, appeared 
 satisfied, and went on with her business. Four years' war- 
 service had taught her never to be surprised at anything. 
 
 The doctor held out a friendly, encouraging hand. He felt 
 Dolf's cold as ice in his brief clasp. 
 
 "His temperature's a hundred and four point five," he whis-
 
 172 DOLF 
 
 pered. "He keeps calling for you. The least thing may turn 
 the scale; otherwise we've done all we can. Will you answer 
 him next time he speaks?" 
 
 She went silently to the bedside and stood looking down at 
 Chalfont. His face, dark with the flush of a high tempera- 
 ture, seemed very pathetic, lined and sorrowful. Suddenly 
 his voice broke the silence. 
 
 "Dolf!" he murmured, "Dolf, I want you so. Why don't 
 you answer my letters? Won't you come and see me? I'm 
 beastly ill. No, there's that other man. Oh, my God!" 
 
 The voice died away to a groan. Dolf -sat down silently 
 on a chair by the bed-head and took one of his hot, dry 
 hands in hers. 
 
 "It's all right, old thing, I'm here," she said gently. "There 
 isn't any other man. I've sent him away." 
 
 The words seemed to soothe him, or the touch of her hand, 
 for the strained expression softened. The doctor moved close 
 to her. 
 
 "Carry on," he whispered. "It's up to you now. I'm going 
 into the next room, that's all." 
 
 From a distance came the sound of a church clock chiming 
 nine times. Then, except for the hushed murmur of traffic 
 all was still. The patient moved restlessly, but he clung 
 to Dolf's hand and muttered less frequently. Whenever he 
 called her she answered him. The shaded light spread a dim 
 glow not of this world over the room. The night-nurse did her 
 work with the automatic sureness of her kind. Periodically 
 during the night she brought Dolf hot milk or hot coffee. 
 Periodically she took the patient's temperature and gave him 
 medicine, straightened his pillow, wiped the sweat from his 
 forehead. She appeared to be outside the scope of life, death or 
 eternity. Sometimes she smiled encouragingly to Dolf; she 
 seemed like something wound up to go for so many hours. 
 
 At midnight the doctor came in, nodded to Dolf, took 
 Chalfont's pulse, and went out. She felt an insane longing
 
 DOLF 173 
 
 to scream. They appeared to treat her not as a human being, 
 but as part of the apparatus of healing, greater than a ther- 
 mometer but less than a binaural stethoscope. 
 
 Chalfont moved restlessly and his voice rose in a despair- 
 ing cry. "Oh Dolf," he said, "why don't you come when I 
 want you so?" 
 
 Tears of sheer weariness and heart-break trickled down her 
 face. She bent over and kissed him tenderly. 
 
 "I'm here, my dear, and you don't know me!" she whis- 
 pered, and then "Hugh darling, I love you. Go to sleep, 
 there's a dear." 
 
 He sighed, and the restless fit left him. The night-nurse 
 took a thermometer, dipped it in antiseptic, wiped it with 
 a piece of sterilised cotton wool, shook it, and read the scale 
 under the shaded lamp. 
 
 In the morning, at the first twitter of birds, Chalfont opened 
 his eyes, looked up, and saw Dolf. 
 
 "You!" he said feebly. "Dolf darling, how do you come 
 to be here? You're Darell's. Or is it this damn' fever, and 
 you're not real?" 
 
 Very gently she stroked his damp hair. 
 
 "I'm not Darell's. I've broken with him," she murmured. 
 "You must sleep, dear; you're very tired. I promise not to go 
 away." 
 
 He smiled up at her, closed his eyes, and slept. The doc- 
 tor, entering half-an-hour later put his fingers against Chal- 
 font's wrist, and patted Dolf's shoulder almost affectionately. 
 He helped her out of the room, and surveyed her thought- 
 fully in the corridor. 
 
 "To all intents and purposes you've saved that feller's life," 
 he said slowly. "I'm extremely grateful. We're very old 
 pals, he and I. I've had a room got ready for you, and you're 
 to have a hot bath and go to bed. They'll bring you break- 
 fast and a sleeping draught and you're not to get up before 
 tea time."
 
 174 DOLF 
 
 "But" she began. "Netta the theatre I" 
 
 He caught her as she swayed. 
 
 "Bates has telephoned, and a medical certificate will settle 
 the theatre. Do as you're told," he answered and there seemed 
 no other alternative. 
 
 However stern the fight, there comes the inevitable moment 
 when all is achieved, the struggle is over, the bugles sound 
 "Cease fire!" and the tired warrior has leisure to draw breath 
 before the next affray. Some such thought flickered in Dolf's 
 brain when, a month later she poured out tea for Chalfont 
 in his Ryder Street sitting-rom, a pale, convalescent Chalfont, 
 clothed and in his right mind, weary still, yet overcome with 
 gratitude. 
 
 He leaned forward, took one of her slender hands and held 
 it gently between his. She felt the wild, sweet, spiritual elec- 
 tricity flow from him to her, and with half-closed eyes let it 
 steal over her for a moment, marking one tiny halting place, 
 one oasis in life's desert. The strain of that night when he 
 might have died recurred to her, and she let this moment be 
 her reward. Far away, so it seemed, she heard him speaking. 
 
 "Dolf, you've been so good to me. I love you and love 
 you, but I can never love you enough. You're the littlest 
 thing, aren't you? I want so much to take care of you al- 
 ways. Will you please let me? They say I've got to have 
 a sea voyage, but we could be married ever so soon, and let 
 the voyage be our honeymoon. I'm an awful crock, I know, 
 but I want you so, Dolf." 
 
 She opened the blue eyes and they were very wide and 
 starry. For this man was not as others, the Darells of this 
 life. In his mouth were the words 'love' and 'marriage' and 
 they sounded very sweet, even as she put them away from 
 her, quickly because of the unbearable temptation. 
 
 "You're a perfect dear to me, Hugh," she said slowly, "but 
 you would be, because you're you. I can't tell you how much
 
 DOLF 175 
 
 I love you for what you've said, the more so as I can't pos- 
 sibly marry you. But I do thank you ever so much. These 
 things mean such a lot to a girl." 
 
 His face seemed to go perfectly blank, with all the life 
 and eagerness swept from it. 
 
 "You love me, and you won't marry me? I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 A very tender, adorable smile curved the corners of her 
 mouth. 
 
 "My dear, you've been very sweet, but you're not a bit 
 your own self, and you never have been since first you saw 
 me. In the beginning you were wounded and had shell-shock. 
 Now you've been ill as well. For the moment you think I'm 
 everything in the world to you because you're down and out, 
 and you just cling to the one idea of loving me. But before 
 the war, when you were perfectly fit, you wouldn't have 
 thought of marrying a chorus girl, would you?" 
 
 His pale face flushed, and she saw it, and nodded almost 
 imperceptibly. 
 
 "I don't care a damn " he began. 
 
 "But I do, Hugh. I don't want you not to care a damn if 
 you do marry me. That's what would spoil it. You've got 
 to look at it from my point of view. Women are queer, proud, 
 difficult things, aren't they? It's been so lovely to think 
 you'd needed me a certain amount and I was able to help. 
 And now it's over, so here's love, and good luck, and I want 
 you to be frightfully happy." 
 
 He sat very still, staring straight in front of him. 
 
 "Just the remains of a man, done in physically, and turned 
 down by the one girl God! what an existence!" he mur- 
 mured bitterly. 
 
 She got up, slowly drew on one glove, and came and rested 
 one hand on his head. 
 
 "You don't think it was easy, do you?" she asked. "You 
 don't think, if I didn't love you so that it hurts, I could bear
 
 176 DOLF 
 
 to leave you like this, just because I know it's good for you? 
 Good-bye, Hugh darling, and God bless you." 
 
 Outside in the street the sunlight seemed to blind her, and 
 yet the world was very dark. 
 
 Late that night as they brushed out their hair together, 
 Dolf suddenly turned to Netta and laughed. 
 
 "Rotten luck the show's coming off," she said. 
 
 She paused. 
 
 "Hugh's going abroad, but he asked me to marry him first, 
 and I wouldn't. I did do right, didn't I, Netta? Say I did, 
 for God's sake!" 
 
 Netta stared at her and suddenly cried, 
 
 "What do you want, you fool?" 
 
 Dolf looked up with amazed startled eyes. 
 
 "But you know I" 
 
 "I know that if ever an utter fool drew the breath of life, 
 it's you." And Netta banged out of the room. 
 
 Dolf stared a moment, and then sank down and began to 
 sob helplessly. 
 
 "Everyone and now it's Netta. Oh, what's the use, what's 
 the use!" 
 
 But presently, regaining herself, she forgave Netta. 
 
 "Something's been wrong with her for weeks. Some man, 
 I suppose. Poor darling! It'll wear off. She didn't mean it. 
 And I mustn't notice." Then a smile struggled through her 
 tears. "He was a perfect dear to me, and I'm frightfully 
 happy, really. I am a, little fool, or I wouldn't be crying like 
 thisl"
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN a quiver of twittering nerves, a cloud of face-powder, a 
 wild cacophony of near-music wrung from the orchestra by a 
 pitiless musical director, with a baton which turned every way, 
 like the sword of the angel at the gate of Eden, and a heart 
 cf flint, the semi-final rehearsal of "Naughty Girl!" at the 
 Summerhouse Theatre fluttered to its close. 
 
 Ferguson Clyte, the stage manager, flung the remains of 
 his personality at a lovely chorus reduced as nearly to pulp 
 as a chorus can be. 
 
 "Now ladies, for Heaven's sake! Shove a little ginger into 
 it! Remember the Guv'nor's in front, and he can tame wild 
 women, let alone nice little girls scared of their own voices. 
 That last number was like a choir glee down in the old home 
 village, with the choir on strike. If you can't shake blazes out 
 of this last act the notice'll be up before the thing's produced 
 at all!" 
 
 Netta Blatchley flashed a cynical smile at Dolf, who seemed 
 on the point of wilting before the managerial storm. 
 
 "When in doubt, curse the chorus," proclaimed Netta, with 
 deep mock wisdom. "Turn a blind eye on the leading lady's 
 breaks, for she can afford nerve storms. Go gently with the 
 star man in case you drive him to drink. But give the chorus 
 fits all the time. That's why we're here." 
 
 A half-pathetic smile curved Dolf's mouth. She ran a 
 powder-puff rather tremulously over her face. Then her blue 
 eyes met the laughing grey ones of the extremely good-looking 
 chorus man who stood near, wearing perfect morning clothes 
 as if he had been born in them, his silk hat rather on the 
 back of his head, raked slightly to the left. The storm and 
 
 177
 
 178 DOLF 
 
 stress of the weary day seemed to have left him utterly calm 
 and composed. 
 
 "Amen!" he murmured devoutly in reply to Netta. "But, 
 my dear Miss Dolf Farmer, never turn a hair. It pleases Clyte 
 and doesn't do you any good. Even the Guv'nor can't shoot 
 us. He can only give us the benefit of his experience, real 
 or imaginary. A well preserved old gentleman, but hardly a 
 man-eater, what?" 
 
 A faint glow of returning confidence stole over Dolf. To 
 the looker-on there was nothing extraordinary about the smile 
 or the words; to her they carried a personal and private 
 significance. The grey eyes and an undercurrent in the lazy 
 voice were saying to her in a new and wonderful Morse code: 
 "You're a darling and I know it, and you know I know it, 
 and I'm glad you know I know." These things are precious 
 to a girl. 
 
 "Oh," said Netta contemptuously, "you're on velvet, my dea^c 
 man. The Hon. Basil Wray, the noble aristocrat now work- 
 ing in the Summerhouse chorus, is far too good an advertise- 
 ment to get fired. We should miss the daily paragraph about 
 you in the papers." 
 
 The Hon. Basil smiled sadly. 
 
 "You are beautiful and full of grace; I'm plain and dread- 
 fully clumsy. Look at the way I knock the scenery about. 
 They always chuck out the unskilled labour first. Hullo 
 we're on in a second." 
 
 They were indeed. The orchestra crashed into the fox- 
 trot that heralded a dance club scene at the opening of the 
 last act. Dolf, in her wisp-like afternoon gown, slid thank- 
 fully into the arms of the Hon. Basil Wray, her dance partner. 
 He held her perfectly, and the faint, firm pressure seemed to 
 inoculate her with confidence from outside, since that within 
 her ebbed very low. Her stage experience eclipsed his by many 
 months, but the Hon. Basil had grown up in a world in which
 
 DOLF 179 
 
 he was accustomed to do as he pleased in his own way. This 
 habit is priceless in any walk of life. 
 
 Because of it, the Guv'nor, otherwise Gillingham Kent, 
 Napoleon of musical enterprises, sitting in the shrouded stalls 
 among a professional audience few and select, his grey hair 
 beautifully brushed, his simple clothes faultless in their sim- 
 plicity, smoking cigarette after cigarette in a long tortoise- 
 shell holder, let his introspective gaze linger on Dolf with 
 approval. Basil, who could dance if he could do nothing else, 
 was lending her that poise and assurance one good dancer 
 can give another. Dolf, happy in the desired moment, because 
 she rested in the arms of a man who attracted, admired, and 
 wished to please her, stood out from other girls through sheer 
 happiness of circumstances. From so slight causes do great 
 results ensue. 
 
 Gillingham Kent turned to Clyte at his side, and said: 
 
 "Give me a note of that fair girl's name the one dancing 
 with Wray. She's got a style of her own, personality, all that 
 sort of thing. I'm not at all sure we haven't found a winner 
 in that girl. Otherwise your girls are damned awful and I'd 
 like to burn the lot of them. And the show's the biggest frost 
 in history. It'll last about a week." 
 
 From this Ferguson Clyte, who knew the Guv'nor very, very 
 well, gathered that he was entirely pleased and looked forward 
 to at least a year's run. 
 
 "He's no good to you," said Netta, examining critically a 
 ladder in an otherwise perfectly good silk stocking. "He's got 
 no money, and expensive tastes. Probably one of those West 
 End society women's running him, and you know what that 
 means: she has first call on him and you can amuse him in 
 his few spare moments. It won't do you any good with Clyte 
 because you're there to attract men in the stalls, not men on 
 the stage. And all these titled fellers who work, or pretend 
 to work, are wrong 'uns. It means their families have given
 
 i8o DOLF 
 
 them the push, and if your family doesn't know the truth 
 about you, who does?" 
 
 Dolf sat back on her heels before the gas fire. Their little 
 flat seemed less trivial than its wont. Her blue kimono 
 matched her eyes, her fair hair hung in a wavy, well-brushed 
 cloud over the kimono, and little happy devils danced through 
 her veins. 
 
 "I don't care. I like him. I could almost love him. When 
 he touches me it's heavenly, and he makes me go all drunk. 
 His eyes don't make me cold when he looks at me, like most 
 men's do, and I don't have to be on my guard all the time. 
 You're worse than wise sometimes, Netta; you're warped, 
 morbid, possessed. You know as well as I do one can always 
 jed if a man's the wrong kind. Let me alone to play with 
 my Basil, there's a dear." 
 
 "Sure thing. You will anyway. But don't say I never tokj 
 you," warned Netta, and, as ever, warned in vain. 
 
 They were so acceptable in one another's sight. Dolf, 
 meeting him in the turgid stream of stage-door traffic, felt 
 suddenly rested. A peace passing all understanding began to 
 brood over her, peace with an undercurrent of thrill. It was so 
 obvious they could never jar on one another. Little flames 
 flickered in her heart to see that steady, half-laughing, half- 
 adoring glance steal out from his grey eyes. He had for her 
 a caressing gentleness of manner very far removed from the 
 free and easy boisterousness of the average stage man. 
 
 Netta's mythical society woman must have occupied very 
 little of his time, for very early they drifted into the habit 
 of lunching together. And one day he explained it, looking at 
 her thoughtfully across a narrow table that seemed like some 
 fortunate island in a crowded room. 
 
 "Heaven," he said, "is simply a series of little Soho restau- 
 rants when the tables are always just far enough apart. There 
 are never more than two people at each table, and they've 
 always enough money left for a taxi after paying the bill.
 
 DOLF 181 
 
 Only they never have to pay it because in heaven you go on 
 lunching forever and ever, and always stay in that early, 
 dreamy state when it's quite perfect simply to be together. 
 There!" 
 
 Dolf looked at him with the friendliest smile because she 
 felt utterly happy. 
 
 "You're a delightful liar, Basil. You must have had a 
 fearful lot of practice, or else I seem very new to you. Every- 
 one knows that the early dreamy state never lasts. You'll 
 fall in love with me, or I with you, or both of us with each 
 other, and suffer most awful torments, and get nowhere. I 
 like your idea of heaven, but this is earth. Didn't you know?" 
 
 He offered her another cigarette out of a battered silver 
 case, but she shook her head. 
 
 "Then come out into the Park and sit beside me on a 
 green chair and dream about mice," he suggested, with just 
 that note of wanting her a girl rather loves. "It's all sun- 
 light and love-in-idleness, and very charming." 
 
 Aureoled with blessings from a tipped waiter they wan- 
 dered out in the sunshine and in due season sat upon green 
 wooden chairs which require a certain amount of sentiment 
 to pad the rigours of their outline. 
 
 "Tell me about you," began Dolf idly. "You're so romantic, 
 you see, a beautiful stranger not of my world. What are you 
 doing in a place like the Summerhouse?" 
 
 He laid two fingers lightly on her wrist between the end of 
 a glove and the beginning of a sleeve, making that faint con- 
 tact so ineffable for them both. 
 
 "Nothing worth while unless you like to love me, dear thing. 
 I've had a little soldiering, a little sport, a little fun and a 
 little love. Being a younger son I haven't even a little money, 
 but the fine old name, God bless it, seems a bit of a draw on 
 the stage. One day you'll come out into the country with me, 
 won't you please, and get a surnburnt little girl and be told 
 what a darling you are. Thank heaven I can still borrow a
 
 i8a DOLF 
 
 car now and again. You don't mind my being at the theatre, 
 do you, or are you sorry?" 
 
 She turned and looked at him and their eyes met in prefect 
 steadiness because of that inscrutable magic in their relation- 
 ship. 
 
 "Fool!" she said with faint, adorable mockery, "you know 
 Fm.not!" 
 
 His own room in Gillingham Kent's suite of offices im- 
 pressed Dolf more as the half of some historic castle than a 
 place in which to get work done. It was a vast apartment 
 of carpet, tapestry, priceless old oak furniture and sombre, 
 devastating pictures. Behind the Tanagra statuette in bronze 
 on a writing table that looked as if it weighed a ton sat the 
 grey-haired theatre magnate, striking a note of complete sim- 
 plicity, recalling irresistibly some scholarly old antiquarian 
 among his treasures. 
 
 Dolf, entirely lost in a vast leather and oak chair that 
 needed a feudal baron to set it off worthily, gazed at him 
 through the smoke of his interminable cigarettes, fighting des- 
 perately to preserve a little of her own personality. 
 
 "Miss Farmer," intoned his suave, velvety voice, smooth and 
 rich as the finest old Burgundy, "I sent for you because I 
 noticed your work at the rehearsal of 'Naughty Girl ! ' I want 
 to know whether you take the stage seriously or simply as a 
 shop window in which to exhibit such physical attractions as 
 God has given you." 
 
 A faint smile took the sting out of his words. He paused 
 to light another cigarette. 
 
 "I want to get on," she replied slowly, dwelling on him with 
 distant, thoughtful eyes. "Most, I suppose I want to be 
 independent of men. So I think I want to take my work 
 seriously." 
 
 "Without influence, the odds against a chorus girl becoming
 
 DOLF 183 
 
 a star are about a thousand to one," said Gillingham Kent very 
 gently. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Why trouble to tell me that when you know I've no in- 
 fluence?" 
 
 "Because I want you to have no illusions. What I mean by 
 influence is a man with money behind you. On the other 
 hand you have personality and character. You have a cer- 
 tain type of beauty which is popular just now. If I like I 
 can make something of you supposing you choose to work. 
 The questions are: Do I like, and do you choose?" 
 
 "There's no reason why you should like and there never 
 will be," said Dolf in a clear-cut voice. It echoed through the 
 vast room with a note of challenge. The expression on Kent's 
 face never varied by the faintest shade. 
 
 "There is more than one type of reason, even with theatrical 
 producers, though you may have discovered only one so far. 
 To create a new star would be something of a feather in my 
 cap. Also the star one creates is less expensive as regards 
 salary than the star one tempts away from someone else. 
 Shall I say I have no personal interest in you? I'm talking 
 business. I do choose to make something of you; if you like 
 to work hard for three months you shall have a small part and 
 a contract. If you continue to do well there may be few 
 limits for you. Are you interested, or do I seem simply a very 
 wicked man?" 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and considered her impersonally 
 but very shrewdly. She strove hard to pierce his words, his 
 manner, and find the real motive that lay behind them. But 
 she only saw a calm, grey-haired man, detached almost to the 
 verge of boredom. 
 
 "I think " she began almost helplessly. Gillingham Kent 
 put out a white, deprecating hand. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, Miss Farmer, try and be a little more 
 er metropolitan in your outlook. Remember that hundreds
 
 184 DOLF 
 
 of girls in my companies would give soul and body, and I 
 want neither, for the chance I'm offering you. If you ask 
 me why I offer it, I can only tell you that you strike me as 
 promising raw material. But if you'd rather remain raw, if 
 the state has any particular virtue in your eyes, pray pre- 
 serve it. You see what I mean, don't you?" 
 
 Dolf, feeling like a stupid little girl, struggled to beat back 
 the tide of shamed scarlet that ebbed into her cheeks. He had 
 got under her guard at last. Evidently he saw her as vanity 
 incarnate, so beautiful, in her own opinion, that every man 
 must necessarily be running after her. 
 
 "You think me a little fool," she began abjectly, "but to 
 us the world isn't always a nice place, and if we think what 
 we do of men, men taught us. But I'm frightfully grateful to 
 you for a generous offer, and I'd love to accept it if I may." 
 
 He rose slowly to his feet and if a hint of triumph flickered 
 into his eyes she could not see it. 
 
 "My secretary will write to you and tell you all details. 
 I doubt if you will see me again for three months. In the mean- 
 time, work hard, and let me wish you luck." 
 
 She went slowly from the big block of offices, her head full 
 of the dreams a girl loves most. She saw herself famous, 
 sought after, admired, adored. And in the sheer beauty of this 
 radiant vision, almost she believed in Gillingham Kent. 
 
 Neither ambition, work, nor a career can quench love nor 
 can the floods drown it. For these reasons the romance of 
 Dolf and Basil Wray became the gossip of the Summerhouse 
 Theatre. The chorus gabbled, the principals condescended a 
 languid curiosity, and Clyte was neutral. The shadow of Gil- 
 lingham Kent's interest brooded over Dolf and as long as it 
 continued she might do no wrong. 
 
 Dolf wondered occasionally if she were mad. "He's a man, 
 you little fool," she told herself over and over again. "How 
 many men have you known, and kissed and gone about with? 
 Dozens. And how many were genuine, or disinterested, or
 
 DOLF 185 
 
 unselfish? Not one. Yet you dare to love, as you call it, 
 this one! And what is love, anyway?" 
 
 Then she would meet him again, and the grey eyes laughed 
 into her blue eyes, the lazy voice said something only one 
 voice could say, with that lilt underlying it which speeded up 
 every pulse in her body. 
 
 "I don't love you, Basil," she insisted breathlessly. "It's 
 propinquity, sex, friendship anything you like. We're just 
 pals, because oh, natural sympathy and all that. I can talk 
 to you, and you like to tell me things. I don't believe in love 
 I don't understand it; it's a myth there isn't any." 
 
 She half leaned against the banisters, in the dimly-lit hall 
 of the Marylepad Street flats. He stood, hat in hand, smiling 
 down at her with a species of affectionate mockery. Then he 
 dropped the hat on the floor and took her face between his 
 hands. 
 
 "You don't love me, and you look at me with that in your 
 eyes!" he murmured scornfully. "I don't love you, do I? 
 and you can look back at me and tell me so! Aren't you a 
 darling little liar, Dolf? You know we simply ache for one 
 another. If I subtract you, what thrill is there left in life, 
 and if you subtract me, where's the interest in all the stretch 
 of lonely days ahead? There's no use fooling each other. We 
 might as well be honest, mightn't we, You?" 
 
 "Basil," she said, "it's true, we do need each other, but 
 somehow you aren't all I have or rather, I mean I have 
 something else because of your ambition. Does it sound silly? 
 It came to me with you. And when Kent offered me my 
 chance though I didn't know it at the time, it was the thought 
 of you that made me accept. He said perhaps I had talent. 
 Well, now I'm almost sure I have." 
 
 "I'm sure too," he said with enthusiasm. 
 
 "But I didn't mean just dancing. I want to act; does that 
 sound very conceited?" 
 
 "Silly! It's darling of you and you'll surprise Kent and
 
 1 86 DOLF 
 
 everyone else one of these days. Only, I'm jealous. Every 
 man is, when his best beloved talks about her career." 
 
 "I don't know that I mean a career. BuUwithin my limits, 
 I want to achieve something good, the best I can do. As for 
 your being jealous, ever " She lifted her lips, which he 
 kissed with impatient tenderness, and she kissed back. Kisses 
 that are kisses cannot lie. Then he drew away resolutely be- 
 fore they should catch fire from one another and wake all 
 that splendid misery of passion which would leave them won- 
 dering whether hell were heaven or heaven hell. 
 
 "Good-bye till Sunday," he said gently, holding both her 
 wrists and swaying either slowly from side to side unwilling 
 to let her go. "On Sunday we're going out of Town and I'll 
 show you the old ancestral home. On Sunday I'll have you all 
 to myself with the sunshine on your face and the wind blowing 
 through your hair. Good-night, my darling, or I'll never let 
 you go!" 
 
 Her hands slid into his, gripped tight, and she fled up the 
 stairs. He watched her out of sight, turned slowly, lit a cig- 
 arette, and went out into an empty world. 
 
 "You fool what are you doing?" he asked himself bit- 
 terly. "There's no end in sight, not even a beginning. It's 
 only hell for you and misery for her. You'll get to the point 
 when kisses are no good, and you can't have anything more; 
 if you tell her why, you're doomed, and if you don't tell her, 
 you're damned. The niceties of the choice, my dear Basil, 
 make a micrometer gauge look like a sewing maid's yard meas- 
 ure, they do really." 
 
 Then his chin went up and the battle-glint flickered in his 
 eyes. "Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet" he murmured 
 and a little laugh, like light running along a sword-blade, dead- 
 ly-reckless, broke from him. 
 
 "Ah sweet, let's leave unspoken 
 Those vows the fates gainsay, 
 For all vows made and broken 
 We love but while we may.
 
 DOLF 187 
 
 Let's kiss while kissing pleases 
 And cease when kisses pall; 
 Perchance this time to-morrow 
 We may not love at all!" 
 
 he quoted, with neither enthusiasm nor conviction.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THAT night after the first act a note reached Dolf from in 
 front. 
 
 It was unusual lately for her to have notes and she opened 
 it indifferently, her mind elsewhere. But her eyes widened 
 when she saw the large scrawled words. 
 
 "I shall wait to see you after the show. 
 
 "THOMAS WAINWRIGHT." 
 
 During the next act she saw him at the left near the front 
 of the stalls. He was alone. He seemed very different in 
 evening clothes, almost handsome, virile rather than gross. 
 But what most amazed her was his expression, distinct from 
 that of the men around him, most of whose faces typified the 
 hunter in pursuit of his quarry. Tom was stern, rebuking; 
 and when he looked at Dolf in her very short skirt he positively 
 frowned. 
 
 It infuriated her to remember how she had posed before 
 him as a rigidly correct person both at the boardinghouse and 
 at the hotel in Johannesburg. What would he think of her 
 secretaryship now? Yet if he had regarded her merely as a 
 chorus girl as did the other men, and had sent around cajolingly 
 she would have understood. However, for some reason he 
 wished to see her and she knew he would do so. She got rid 
 of Basil and met Tom at the stage entrance. 
 
 The extreme simplicity of her street suit seemed to reassure 
 him. They walked on together through the cool night air, 
 partly because her head ached from the stuffiness of the thea- 
 tre, more since she could not bear him in the seclusion of a 
 taxi. 
 
 1 88
 
 DOLF 189 
 
 He was horrified by the show. 
 
 "All nakedness, and shoulder-shaking, and doubtful songs. 
 I don't know what the world's coming to. The worst show 
 I ever saw in my life. And you in it! By Jove, I could 
 hardly believe my eyes. Who got you in? Sir Henry Creagh?" 
 
 Startled, she gazed at him haughtily. 
 
 "What do you know about Sir Henry Creagh?" 
 
 "Well, you don't suppose I swallowed all that story about 
 the secretary business, do you? And anyhow you told me 
 to look in the Carlton register, so I did. Why didn't you tell 
 me your author had a title?" 
 
 "I don't see why I should have, or why I need care what you 
 think, Tom," she said icily. 
 
 "You needn't snap me up," he retorted. In his heart he 
 always believed against his judgment that this girl was truth- 
 ful. "You were his secretary, then. Only " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You'll admit it's rather a come-down, this." 
 
 "It depends on the point of view. In the first place no one 
 but myself had anything to do with my having this part in 
 the show. I was working hard and Mr. Kent saw my work 
 and gave me a part to see if I'd develop more of the talent he 
 thought I had. And if I work hard enough." She proceeded 
 to explain her own dreams. By the time she had finished she 
 had made Tom see her as a budding star, a career-maker like 
 him, aiming at a goal the road to which was hard work. This 
 appealed to him supremely. There was a new respect in his 
 tone when he said, 
 
 "Only it's a shame to be in a common musical show!" 
 
 "No one will worry about my past when I'm famous, and 
 I certainly shan't myself. A lot of us forget about our begin- 
 nings as we go on." 
 
 He laughed. "You hit the nail square on the head. But 
 I don't know that I'm so ashamed of my start as a village 
 grocer."
 
 igo DOLF 
 
 "No, but you don't make it the chief topic of conversation. 
 I turn off this way to go home." 
 
 "Well, mayn't I come with you?" he asked in a tone just 
 between command and request. 
 
 "Tom, I'm terribly tired. I work hard you see. I have no 
 social life at all. Later on, when we've both arrived, we'll 
 meet again and you shall bring your wife, the earl's daughter, 
 to my parties." 
 
 His loud laugh was faintly reminiscent of his earlier days. 
 But he answered with a touch of sincerity. 
 
 "All right; I won't forget." 
 
 When Sunday came Basil and Dolf went out of town to- 
 gether. It was the old, old story of a man and girl, a smooth- 
 running car and a ribbon of endless road. In other ages it 
 has been a coach, a chariot, two horses, what you will, but 
 the actors in the drama are always a man and a woman escap- 
 ing from a world they know and avoid into another they know 
 not and desire. 
 
 "We'll have the place to ourselves," he explained. "For this 
 afternoon at least you shall be mistress of High Court. My 
 father's very old, and he spends most of his time in the South 
 of France. Bill, my elder brother, is in the United States, at- 
 tached to the Embassy. Very sad, but it suits you and me 
 quite well." 
 
 "Yes," answered Dolf, turning to him and smiling in the 
 abandoned fashion of the utterly care-free, "it suits us awfully 
 well. Everything does, Basil darling. That's our chief trouble. 
 When we're together, we're always happy. There must be a 
 catch in it somewhere." 
 
 For answer he unleashed the power of forty horses, and they 
 tore headlong into Buckinghamshire. There they came to a 
 green valley with a river running by, and half-way up one 
 slope a grey stone mansion, set by a master hand in surround- 
 ings of perfect peace. A long, tree-bordered avenue wound 
 imperceptibly from the high road. Basil stopped the car in
 
 DOLF 191 
 
 front of a massive entrance, and Dolf stepped out into a 
 world she hardly knew even by hearsay. 
 
 The housekeeper received them with black silk stateliness, 
 apologised for the sheeted gloom of many rooms, ascertained 
 their wishes regarding lunch, and left them together. In the 
 library, looking out over terraced gardens, Basil lit Dolf's 
 cigarette and his own, and went into half-painful revelations. 
 
 "You see, I'm rather the bad lad of the family. I was always 
 in some hot water or other and though Bill's a great sport, 
 my father never mentions me, so to speak, and I'm not en- 
 couraged here. This stage stunt simply makes him vomit. 
 That's why all the servants are the least bit sticky. They 
 like me quite well, but they're afraid it might mean trouble 
 if the guv'nor knew I was here. But I simply had to show 
 you the place. We've been here for generations. That's partly 
 why I love it all so." 
 
 His grey eyes stared out of the French windows into in- 
 finite distances, till Dolf went up to him and put her arms 
 round his neck. 
 
 "I love you," she said simply. "You're not really wicked. 
 You're just a darling, and you never did anything very wrong, 
 I think it's mostly because you love life, and girls perhaps, 
 and the things you like, too acutely. Most people cut their 
 loves and their likes according to the world's pattern. It's 
 very safe and worthy of them, and deadly dull. You'll never 
 do that and so you'll suffer, and make other people suffer 
 pr'aps, but you'll get, and they'll get, things in return neither 
 would ever have had otherwise. And after all we have to buy 
 every ounce of happiness in this life, and how expensive 
 it is!" 
 
 He gathered the fair head against his heart, and it rested 
 there, and they became very still. For after all, they were 
 but free-lances tilting against a hostile world, and the love 
 of all such is wild love, hunted and harried, and seldom at
 
 IQ2 DOLF 
 
 rest. Its few brief intervals of peace, unspeakably dear, are 
 not to be despised. 
 
 All the afternoon she stayed with him in the utter stillness 
 of woods that grew down to the river bank, with the sunshine 
 on her face and the wind blowing through her hair, and was 
 kissed a little and caressed a little, these things being finite 
 symbols of infinite homage, even as that tribute of gold which 
 Emperors of the East touch and remit. 
 
 Afterwards they returned, setting their course toward the be- 
 ginning of the endless ribbon of road, leaving adventure be- 
 hind them, with only the routine of every day in prospect. 
 
 Sorrowfully in the dim hall-way of Dolf's flat they added 
 one more to a long line of woeful partings. 
 
 Three months from the date of his first interview, Gilling- 
 ham Kent asked Dolf to dine at his house in Bury Street. It 
 was in its way more a command than an invitation. Basil 
 nodded thoughtfully on hearing the news. 
 
 "Don't be hasty with him whatever happens, kiddy dear," 
 he advised. "The world's a hard place and old gentlemen 
 are amenable to careful handling. I doubt if any man, ex- 
 cept a select few who often meet violent deaths, ever really 
 means to be a brute. They usually are, but it's absence of 
 mind with most. Men's minds are conspicuous by their ab- 
 sence, darling." 
 
 She found herself, not unexpectedly, the only guest. They 
 ate in a small room, cunningly lighted, a perfectly arranged 
 meal perfectly served. He recommended Dolf a light white 
 wine and drank mineral water himself. In the hour that dinner 
 lasted she came to understand why Gillingham Kent in his 
 own world had become a great man. 
 
 "Tell me what you've done," he said in his velvet voice. 
 "Have your dancing and singing improved? Are your teachers 
 satisfied?" 
 
 Dolf leaned her chin on her hands. The pure line of bare
 
 DOLF 193 
 
 neck and shoulder gleamed softly in the shaded glow of electric 
 light. 
 
 "I've done my very best gone all out," she replied slowly. 
 "Probably I'm not a genius, but hard work helps, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 "A genius can't succeed without it. No one drifts into 
 fame. Listen, and I'll tell you." 
 
 She listened. He leaned back in his chair and analysed his 
 career remorselessly for her benefit. He told her of things 
 he had counted as certain successes which had failed, and 
 failures redeemed from failure and become successes. He criti- 
 cised stage personalities ruthlessly and exposed their weak 
 points. She saw him no longer a dreamy, cigarette-smoking old 
 gentleman, but a man who knew his job from A to Z, who 
 would be right nine times out of ten. For some reason she 
 could not fathom, he made her a present of a life-time's ex- 
 perience. He left her breathless and admiring. 
 
 Subconsciously, all through the meal she thought of Basil, 
 who coloured every phase of her life, because, loving him as she 
 did, knowing he loved her, life had no interest apart from 
 their linked personalities. Wherever she went she took Basil 
 with her. 
 
 "Now," said Gillingham Kent, when the coffee had gone its 
 way, "you shall dance for me and I'll tell you how you've 
 succeeded." 
 
 "But my frock!" she objected, smiling. "It's only suitable 
 for ball-room dancing." 
 
 "You'll find your stage costume upstairs. Go and put it 
 on." He rang for a maid to help her dress. "I shall be in 
 the drawing-room. It has a gramophone and a parquet floor." 
 
 She came down, nervous and determined, to discover him 
 seated on a settee in the big drawing-room. A cleared space 
 at one end gave her room. He got up and set the gramophone 
 playing the special dance number from "Naughty Girl ! " Then
 
 194 DOLF 
 
 he sank back on the settee and watched her out of deep-set 
 eyes. 
 
 With heart beating wildly, and the trained smile of the 
 professional dancer upon her lips, Dolf flung herself into the 
 music. She had no foot-lights, no audience, no atmosphere, 
 no sympathy. She was simply a nerve-ridden, determined girl, 
 who tossed her slender beauty to and fro with all the art she 
 had been taught and all the natural grace of slender limbs and 
 adorable lines. And, with the inspiration of a girl in love, she 
 forgot Gillingham Kent motionless on the settee. She danced 
 for Basil alone. In imagination his arms supported her, his 
 steps matched hers, for his sake she threw all her soul into her 
 task. 
 
 The music died away into the hiss of needle on wax. Gilling- 
 ham Kent rose and stopped the clockwork. 
 
 "Come here, Dolf! " he said abruptly. 
 
 She came to him noiselessly on satin-shod feet, her cheeks 
 flushed, her breast rising and falling quickly. He put his arms 
 round her, and she was conscious of an amazing vitality that 
 gave her another clue to this extraordinary man's success. 
 
 "You perfect darling," he said slowly and deliberately. "Do 
 you know why I sent you away for three months to be taught 
 this and that? I knew you were beautiful, but beauty's not 
 enough for me, nor youth either. I want character as well. 
 You've got it, for you haven't wasted a moment of those 
 months. I can buy what's called love, but no one can buy char- 
 acter. It has to be discovered, and there's not much available. 
 You know I want you, of course. Who could help it? You 
 can give me back youth the very air you breathe radiates it. 
 But I don't want it for nothing. You shall have anything you 
 choose. You're ambitious I'll give you a career that any star 
 in existence will envy. You shall have London at your feet. 
 Money won't even interest you. Men will snarl and quarrel for 
 you. And you won't refuse because I won't let you!" 
 
 He kissed her passionately and her brain, diamond keen and
 
 DOLF 195 
 
 cold, worked at lightning speed for her lover and herself. What 
 had Basil said? "Don't be hasty with him . . . old gen- 
 tlemen are amenable to careful handling ..." 
 
 "Have you a lover?" demanded Kent swiftly. 
 
 She lowered swift lids over the blue eyes. 
 
 "There are always men, aren't there?" drawled her clear-cut 
 voice. 
 
 "I mean any particular man? Is there? Well, never mind. 
 I can arrange his affairs, if they need arranging. Oh, of course, 
 there was some story about some person in the Summerhouse 
 chorus. But you're probably tired of him already, and in any 
 case you can break with him as gently as you choose." 
 
 His fingers strayed through her fair hair; she looked him 
 steadily in the eyes for one second. She saw in them a per- 
 sonality absolutely ruthless except for one particular. He 
 would never really be a brute to any woman for whom he had 
 the least regard. It was his one weakness on which she must 
 play, for without men's weaknesses a girl would have no chance 
 at all. 
 
 Alone in her little room that night she gazed long and earn- 
 estly at Basil's portrait, with an expression in her eyes she 
 would never have let him see. 
 
 "Darling, you do forgive me, don't you? I did it for Us," 
 she murmured over and over again. 
 
 A woman in a blue suit that owed existence to a country 
 tailor took shelter thankfully in the entrance of the Marylepad 
 Street flats, furled her umbrella and shook the raindrops meth- 
 odically from its folds. Then, with the quiet purposefulness of 
 the country-bred, she began her upward climb. 
 
 Dolf herself opened the door; the strange girl surveyed her 
 with slow deliberation, and half nodded as if expressing some 
 preconceived impression. 
 
 "I should like to speak to Miss Dolf Farmer," she began in
 
 ig6 DOLF 
 
 the sing-song, soft voice of the country. "Tell her it's Mrs. 
 Wray Mrs. Basil Wray." 
 
 All the blood seemed to ebb from Dolf's heart in dreadful 
 waves of weakness. Then it flowed back, and a desperate im- 
 pulse of destruction seized her. She longed to take this quiet, 
 dowdy girl's head and dash it to pieces against the wall. But 
 she only said: "I'm Dolf Farmer. Won't you come in?" and 
 led the stranger into Netta's little gimcrack sitting-room. 
 
 Mrs. Wray followed on placid feet and sat diffidently on an 
 unsubstantial chair. She looked about with the obvious relish 
 of one who finds herself in new surroundings, and then came 
 straight to the point. 
 
 "My friend Mrs. Marshall, the housekeeper at High Court, 
 wrote and told me my husband is going about with you. She 
 said you seemed fond of one another and I thought I ought 
 to let you know Basil's married. I don't suppose he told you?" 
 
 Dolf said nothing. She stood perfectly still, gazing at her 
 visitor with a sort of incredulous horror. Mrs. Wray half 
 nodded again, as if in confirmation of an already established 
 fact. 
 
 "He didn't mean any harm by not telling you," she went 
 on simply. "I don't suppose he had the heart. You see, 
 Basil's romantic and when he falls in love he takes it hard. 
 I live down in the country and Basil makes me an allowance. 
 Of course it was ridiculous of him to marry me, but he insisted ; 
 that's his romance. We don't live together now. He's a genr 
 tleman and I'm not a bit suited to him. Old Lord Fording- 
 bridge was dreadfully angry about it. But you can't stand 
 against Basil when he's in love, and he insisted I should marry 
 him. I was a lady's maid at High Court at the time and Basil 
 was only a boy, but most awfully handsome. First we were 
 lovers, and then he would marry me. And I thought I'd come 
 and tell you before you got too much in love with him. It's 
 awfully easy to love Basil if he loves you. I hope I haven't 
 done wrong in any way?"
 
 DOLF 197 
 
 Dolf heard her own voice saying, a long way off: 
 
 "No, you haven't done wrong. Thank you for coming. 
 You're very pretty and I don't wonder he married you. 
 Won't you have tea before you go?" 
 
 "Well, thank you," said Mrs. Basil Wray, "I think, since 
 you're so kind, I would like a cup. It's dreadful weather to- 
 day, isn't it?" 
 
 After Dolf had made tea, brought it, poured it out, and seen 
 her visitor leave, she sat by the window, her hands clasped 
 around her knee, trying to bear the frightful ache in her 
 breast that seemed as if it would never depart from her in 
 this life. 
 
 "If he'd only told me," she murmured over and over again. 
 "If he wanted me it wouldn't have made any difference. He 
 could have had me if he'd liked. I'm not mean. I wouldn't 
 for any other man God ever made, but I loved Basil so." 
 
 Tears welled from her eyes and ran helplessly down her 
 face. She felt the most forlorn creature in all the wide world. 
 And upon her misery there intruded of all figures the author of 
 it, tall and desperately good-looking, in a new grey tweed 
 suit, the very pink and flower of male grooming. 
 
 "Congratulate me, darling," he began. "Dear old Gilling- 
 ham Kent my God! Dolf, what's the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," she answered drearily. "Only your wife's been 
 here, and I didn't kill her, and now you're here, and I can't 
 kill you, and I shan't even kill myself. Oh, Basil, why did 
 you let her tell me? I couldn't bear it, anyway, but I could 
 have borne it best from you." 
 
 He stood looking down at her with mingled misery and hope- 
 less, defiant pride in his glance. In a sense, if he had dropped 
 at her feet he could have gone no lower in sheer self-abase- 
 ment of affection, and yet there was triumph that he could not 
 hide. And his voice, that lazy, caressing voice that she loved 
 to the point of hatred went murmuring on:
 
 ig8 DOLF 
 
 "We played at love in Mulga town 
 And oh, her eyes were blue ! 
 We played at love in Mulga town 
 And that's a game for two, 
 t And at that game if three should play 
 There's one of them will rue, sweetheart, 
 There's one of them will rue," 
 
 he quoted softly. "He's a liar, Dolf, darling. They all three 
 rue. Love's a sweet, insidious poison, and there's no anti- 
 dote. How you hate me, don't you?" 
 
 "No," she said bitterly, "and you know it. I wish I could! 
 It would make things easier for me." 
 
 He sat on the arm of her chair, drew her fair unhappy head 
 against him and stroked it gently. 
 
 "You see, Dolf," he explained with forlorn conviction, "I'm 
 absolutely damned from birth where women are concerned. I 
 can't help loving them, and up to a point they like to be loved, 
 and after that they can't bear not to be, and it's hell for both 
 of us. The first time I loved I paid and we were all square. 
 You heard about that this afternoon. It was foolish from every 
 point of view except one. She'd have been far happier if we 
 hadn't married. And now I've met you, and I love you and 
 love you, and you love me, and what's to be done? I could 
 have told you I was married, but it wouldn't have helped. I've 
 been going to times out of number. But what difference would 
 it have made? We just clung to one another from the begin- 
 ning. We were damned from the start. If you want me you 
 can have me, but you never would on those terms. There's 
 nothing I can give you you'd take, and what you will take isn't 
 worth having from your point of view it isn't enough. I'd like 
 you to believe it's hell for me too worse hell, because I 
 shouldn't have let you love me. At least you're that much 
 better off. You didn't know." 
 
 "No," she murmured, "I didn't know. But if I had known, 
 would I have been strong enough? I'm not so sure, Basil, not
 
 DOLF 199 
 
 sufficiently to put it all on you. You do love me, don't you? 
 You can tell me now it's all finished and smashed to bits." 
 
 She held up her mouth and he kissed her very gently, very 
 slowly, very despairingly. 
 
 "Yes," he said at last, "I do love you, and you know I do." 
 
 She stood up and put her hands on his shoulders, looking at 
 him for the last time with the frank love-look a woman only 
 lets a man see once or twice in a lifetime. 
 
 "You've been the kindest thing, the dearest, you've made 
 me frightfully happy, and I don't hate you. Good-bye, and 
 thank you ever so much." 
 
 As his footfall died away in the corridor she stood looking 
 out into the late afternoon. The buildings opposite showed 
 a mere blur through the rain, but she perceived neither. She 
 only saw in a vision a man and a girl, a smooth-running car> 
 and a ribbon of endless road. 
 
 Next day, after the Saturday matinee, in the great room at 
 his suite of offices Gillingham Kent sat opposite Dolf, smoking 
 an endless sequence of cigarettes, recalling inevitably some 
 scholarly antiquarian among his treasures. But behind the 
 mask of detachment existed a steady, virile purpose; in this 
 ancient setting he played, with the vigour of youth, the oldest 
 game in the world. 
 
 "I want you," he said simply, "but I want you now. I've 
 promised you not only riches, but fame in return. You're life, 
 inspiration, vitality, everything to me. I don't say I love you 
 because there isn't such a thing as love. It's simply a sex- 
 complex in the brain. But you can see I'm perfectly straight- 
 forward. I do honestly admire you, and I can give you what 
 no one else could. The only thing is for you to decide." 
 
 Dolf, seated in the vast leather chair, a tea-table at her elbow, 
 one of his cigarettes between her fingers, laughed softly. She 
 heard vaguely all he had said, but above it a lazy, caressing
 
 200 DOLF 
 
 voice murmured in her ears: "I do love you, and you know I 
 do.'* For Gillingham Kent it was the voice of doom. 
 
 She rose, walked across to the mighty fireplace and stood 
 with her back to it. 
 
 "There's one man I'd go out into the world with and follow 
 from sea to sea if he hadn't a farthing," she answered slowly. 
 "I'd do this because I love him and in his way he loves me. 
 I can't have him because he isn't free, but equally I can't 
 have anyone else because just now it would kill me. It's very 
 nice of you to offer me all this. You'd be making a rotten 
 bargain, and I don't deserve it, but that doesn't affect your 
 kindness. Try not to think I'm ungrateful. I just can't do 
 anything else." 
 
 The grey -haired man's expression never changed. 
 
 "You are quite sure? Even at the risk of making an enemy 
 you'd stick to your decision? Of course you realise that if I 
 care to lift a finger you're finished as far as the stage is con- 
 cerned?" 
 
 "I brought nothing into the world. I shall take nothing out. 
 I can't have less than nothing. And anyway I shall never go 
 back to the stage now." 
 
 Gillingham Kent rose, and held out his hand. 
 
 "I told you you had character and that character can't be 
 bought," he said courteously. "At least you've proved the 
 truth of that saying. I respect you immensely. If you alter 
 your mind, about me or the stage, please let me know. What- 
 ever you decide to do, my name is not without influence. I 
 shall never ask anything in return except your friendship. I'd 
 like to feel we part friends." 
 
 She took his hand and smiled. 
 
 "We do, and it's not very usual in a case like ours, is it? 
 I think we've achieved rather a triumph." 
 
 Dolf and Basil had got through the matinee as best they 
 could, and the evening performance. Now they had separated
 
 DOLF 201 
 
 forever and she was alone in the flat, Netta having gone 
 straight from the theatre on a week-end holiday. 
 
 Dolf hardly knew how she was to live through the next 
 days. However, Sunday afternoon found her mechanically re- 
 peating some of the gestures of existence, among which was the 
 reading of the Sunday papers. But her mind wandered far 
 away and she would have tossed them aside had not her eye 
 been arrested by the picture of a woman's face, familiar, and 
 somehow unpleasant to her. 
 
 She glanced underneath. 
 
 "Mrs. de Blancheforet Senlake, whose husband has di- 
 vorced her. The decree was made absolute yesterday. Mrs. 
 Senlake's marriage to Captain Reginald Mayne M. C. ist. 
 Cornish Guards, is announced as an event of the near future." 
 
 Dolf put down the paper and stared into space. 
 
 At first the irony alone struck her, that Senlake should be 
 free, Senlake to whom life meant nothing, to whom this very 
 severance from the object of his infatuation would probably be 
 the final blow bringing on complete degeneration while Basil, 
 whose wife meant nothing to him, was bound. 
 
 But gradually her thoughts broadened; she saw the world 
 and its injustice less from the standpoint of her class alone. 
 She saw society in all its hypocrisy; all were victims of society, 
 of human weakness. Basil had been weak to marry that coun- 
 try girl. Guy had been weak to love Sonia to his own destruc- 
 tion. To throw away life is weak. But men have chances to 
 recover and women have not. Even Basil's wife was as ham- 
 pered as he. If she were free she might rebuild her life ac- 
 cording to her proper place in it. 
 
 "After all, I'm free. But for what? To work for food and 
 shelter and to dodge girl-hunting men. I'm not free to be 
 happy." 
 
 She saw life ahead hard, relentless, and forever ironic. She 
 saw even Senlake's point of view: Why rebel and fight when 
 nothing ever comes of it?
 
 202 DOLF 
 
 She was roused by the door opening. 
 
 Netta entered. 
 
 "Why, Dolf! Heavens, what's wrong? You look like a 
 ghost." 
 
 Briefly Dolf explained about Basil. 
 
 It was her very apathy that seemed to alarm Netta, who 
 came to her anxiously. The two had seen little of each other 
 lately; Dolf had been absorbed with Basil, while Netta was 
 playing some lone hand of her own. 
 
 "Oh I see, you've read the papers. What do you think' 
 about Mrs. Senlake?" 
 
 "What is there to think?" 
 
 "It depends on him. He's free." Netta spoke jerkily, with- 
 out looking at Dolf. 
 
 "But his own affairs are his own. Heaven knows he made it 
 plain they aren't mine," said Dolf. 
 
 "Still, you liked him, and he always helped you. How do 
 you know but what he did answer that letter of yours, and 
 you never got it?" 
 
 Something in her tone aroused Dolf. She looked up to see 
 Netta changed, pale, with burning eyes and trembling inter- 
 locking fingers. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean I mean " Suddenly Netta strode to her desk, 
 
 and took out the long-hidden letter. "I can't bear to see you 
 so unhappy," she half sobbed, and giving the letter to Dolf, 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 "Dear child," Senlake had written, "I do want to see you. But you 
 must come to me. I've been ill. Typhoid, hospital and all that. I'm 
 back at my lodgings, but still crocked pretty badly. I'll recover, 
 because there's no chance for a useless thing like me to die. Yours 
 are the real troubles. Come to me and we'll discover a way out for 
 you, if you don't mind finding me in rather dingy surroundings. But 
 you'll be like flowers and sunlight, and you'll laugh at your own 
 troubles and I'll be selfish if you aren't careful. I mustn't talk of 
 me; I mustn't be selfish with the dearest thing in the world. 
 "Almost hopefully, since you're coming, 
 
 "GUY."
 
 DOLF 203 
 
 Long minutes later Dolf went to Netta's room and handed 
 her the letter. Netta, who was fiercely brushing her hair, read 
 it standing. 
 
 The next moment she flung herself on -the bed in wild un- 
 familiar grief. Dolf, who had never seen her shed a tear, 
 waited quietly. 
 
 "Why?" she asked at last. "Why did you?" 
 
 "Why? Can't you see? It ought to be plain enough." 
 
 "You mean you love him?" 
 
 "Oh, what does it matter! I'll not die of it, anyhow. And 
 now he's free and you'll get him." 
 
 "Get Senlake?" Dolf exclaimed in sheer astoundment. 
 
 Netta sat up. She saw Dolf sunken-cheeked, pale, hollow- 
 eyed, stricken in her recent grief. All at once Netta's face 
 softened wonderfully; ever afterwards Dolf remembered that 
 at that moment Netta, hardly-used by life, had been utterly 
 selfless, taking the strange beauty that goes with unselfish- 
 ness. 
 
 "I hope you do get him, Dolf. Some day you'll forget about 
 Basil. And I suppose you'll never speak to me again, and 
 certainly you'll not go on living with me, but I do mean this: 
 I hope you'll find happiness, whether it's Senlake or not. As 
 for me, if he were ten times free he'd never love me. Per- 
 haps just because I know that it'll help me to forget." 
 
 "I shan't forget Basil," said Dolf very low. "But I'll for- 
 get what you did and we'll go on living together just as we 
 were. For I need you more than ever now. I've got to face 
 life all over again, because I've left the stage forever. There 
 are too many ghosts if I were to return." 
 
 That evening Dolf went to Senlake's address. 
 
 What happened was no surprise. Somehow she had known 
 he would not be there. He was too much a bird of passage, 
 and it had been too long ago.
 
 204 DOLF 
 
 It was a dreary neighbourhood. A slatternly fat woman let 
 her in and eyed her indifferently out of red-rimmed eyes. 
 
 "Yes, 'e stayed 'ere till the divorce was granted. Oh, yes, 'e 
 was quite well again, but thin-like. A queer-un! No, 'e didn't 
 leave no address."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 DOLF considered the typed letter with disillusioned eyes from , 
 embossed heading to firm, legible signature. 
 
 "He will engage me as his secretary," she said slowly, and 
 the certainty seemed to bring her no joy. "Thank God, Sir 
 Henry Creagh had me taught typewriting and shorthand. 
 Anyway, I've had plenty of business experience, in the shop 
 at home, at Holbridge & Sellingbourne's, and even in the 
 theatre. Then I understand people, and that's nine-tenths of 
 any business. It won't be all on account of my shorthand and 
 typewriting, though, which are no better than anybody else's. 
 He'll do it because my clothes came from Hanover Square, 
 and I'm pretty, and he wants to kiss me, and feels quite sure 
 itTl be difficult enough to be worth while though not im- 
 possible. Men are like God; they need regular sacrifices and 
 girls who have to live are the sacrifice. And then old ladies 
 tell us to be good!" 
 
 The early morning sun, which shines on the just and unjust 
 alike, made a golden pool of light on the carpet of her room. 
 In the midst of the pool sat Dolf, hair tumbled about her 
 shoulders, a pathetic expression of self-pity in her eyes. 
 Her slight beauty showed still slighter in her night-gown; her 
 wistfulness became intensified as she delved hopelessly in the 
 drawer of a wardrobe for something plain and business-like that 
 would appeal to,a distinguished business man. Most of Dolf's 
 clothes were as frail as her expectations of virtue, and as im- 
 portunate as the men who had given them to her. They repre- 
 sented so many milestones along the primrose path to the ever-, 
 lasting bonfire. Hitherto she had managed to keep the clothes 
 
 205
 
 206 DOLF 
 
 and escape the bon-fire, but several times its hot breath had 
 fanned her cheek. 
 
 Finally she dragged out a blue tailored suit and the silk 
 shirt, stockings and shoes to match. 
 
 "It's plain and business-like," she murmured. "If he's got 
 any sense he'll realise the cut, know I couldn't afford it, scent 
 an easy prey, and get going on the trail. If he hasn't he'll 
 still thank heaven I didn't turn up in a silk frock with a string 
 of amber beads round my neck and a Directoire sunshade. 
 Really a blue suit seems equal to anything." 
 
 She dressed with the infinite care for detail that forms nine- 
 tenths of a girl's life, played with an unappetising breakfast 
 and set forth to seek Geoffrey Fordham in his Bond Street 
 offices. Of men's covetous glances she took no heed. They 
 had become so commonplace they failed even to support her. 
 Just so indifferent is unattainable water to the manifestations 
 of the thirsty. 
 
 Bond Street, the paradise of the rich and the Mecca of the 
 indigent, caressed her with a wanton smile. The block of of- 
 fices retired behind the smug opulence of a marble vestibule. 
 A silent lift bore her many floors upward till a mahogany, 
 brass-bound door received her into Geoffrey Fordham's suite. 
 
 She became aware of many girls bent in mock humility over 
 typewriters. A couple of male clerks moved to and fro in the 
 desultory fashion of early morning. The senior clerk, care- 
 fully groomed, middle-aged, discreet, led her to an inner room, 
 simply and suitably furnished, that interposed a circuit of 
 peace and remoteness between the outer world and the aloof 
 majesty of Geoffrey Fordham's private apartment. Dolf 
 guessed that she or some other girl would occupy this neutral 
 zone, because women properly handled are more discreet than 
 men. 
 
 A small, plain, costly clock on the mantel-piece struck half- 
 past nine on a silver-toned gong. From the outer office came 
 faint snatches of laughter and gossip. Before a quarter to ten
 
 DOLF 207 
 
 three different girls had passed from it to Geoffrey Fordham's 
 room and out again. Each, without seeming to do so, stripped 
 Dolf with her eyes, weighed her clothes and morals in the bal- 
 ance, valued them, made a mental note, and returned to her 
 occupation. As usual, all of them, however they might hate 
 one another, hated the stranger more. 
 
 Exactly at ten o'clock the door of the outer office clicked 
 and a Personality immediately pervaded the whole place. Dolf 
 felt it through the walls and closed door; a moment later a tall 
 figure strode through the room in which she sat, bowed very 
 slightly, and disappeared inside his own. 
 
 In that second Dolf had photographed him on her brain the 
 swift brain of the girl who lives by her wits. If she knew any- 
 thing in the world she knew men, their standards, their shibbo- 
 leths, the little intimate tests by which they measure one an- 
 other and the strange gods they worship. 
 
 "He's clever," she told herself. "He's not the ordinary busi- 
 ness creature who wears a Trilby hat with his evening clothes 
 and feels frightfully wicked when he takes out a girl and leaves 
 his wife at home. This man's one of the Best People. I know 
 where he gets his clothes and who cuts his hair." 
 
 The senior male clerk hurried through to the holy of holies 
 much as an orderly in a good regiment approaches his company 
 commander with a message. 
 
 "His manners'll be heavenly and he hasn't any morals," pur- 
 sued Dolf inwardly. "Every head waiter in London knows him 
 and money means nothing to him. In a way, I'm lucky, but 
 not as the Y. W. C. A. would see it." 
 
 The senior clerk stepped briskly into her presence. Ha 
 seemed to have borrowed inspiration from someone mightier 
 than himself. He was bigger, manlier, keener, more competent. 
 
 "Mr. Fordham would like to see you, please, Miss Farmer." 
 
 He showed her into Fordham's room, placed a chair for 
 her, and left them alone. 
 
 The tall man at the writing-table looked up, faintly pre-
 
 208 DOLF 
 
 occupied. Their eyes met; just as when contact is made the 
 electric current flows instantly and inexorably to complete the 
 circuit, so from each of them went out those waves of spirit- 
 ual ether and met and mingled. Instinctively the two re- 
 laxed where they sat and he opened the conversation almost 
 carelessly. He knew she would never misunderstand. They 
 spoke the same soul language. They were tuned to the same 
 wave-length. With a little sigh of relief she realised that 
 whatever happened there would be nothing ugly nor sordid 
 nor vulgar nor inartistic. 
 
 The well-cut features broke into a little almost relieved smile. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said, and his voice was as the voices of 
 the men, not of her class, who might break a girl, but would 
 never insult her. "It's very good of you to come along at short 
 notice. I haven't gone into all those references. I needn't, 
 need I? I hate references. I s'pose your shorthand and typing 
 are all right? It isn't so much them I want though as some- 
 one who won't get on my nerves, or the nerves of people who 
 come to see me. I don't think you will, do you?" 
 
 The smile lingered on his face. Dolf felt rested and very 
 much at home. She knew he must be summing her up, but 
 he did it so imperceptibly. After one quick glance he seemed 
 hardly to look at her again. He sat back in his chair, hands 
 clasped behind his head and let her alone. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself. What do you want to do? What 
 do you think of life?" 
 
 Dolf looked straight at him very thoughtfully and he never 
 gave a sign that he felt her eyes on his face. 
 
 "I want to earn my living," she said slowly, "and be inde- 
 pendent, and never have to propitiate any man again. I'm 
 not an ordinary girl typist. I've been on the stage, and in a 
 big shop, and met heaps of men your kind of men. Perhaps, 
 partly, I've lived on them, but never with them, and yet I 
 don't think I owe them anything. I should so like to make my
 
 DOLF 209 
 
 own life and be as good as a man. Can it be done ever, do 
 you think?" 
 
 The steady eyes came back to her face from the picture they 
 seemed to have been studying. 
 
 "You shall see," he said. "Your salary will be six pounds a 
 week. If in a month either of us is dissatisfied I will give you 
 a month's salary and we'll call it off. If it's O. K. you can 
 practically make what career you like. I've any number of 
 irons in the fire. Probably you won't go far wrong, not being, 
 if I may say so, exactly foolish. I should rather like you to 
 make good. If there's ever anything you want or don't under- 
 stand, please tell me. Now you'd better meet my other people, 
 and if you could start work on Monday so much the better." 
 
 He took her and introduced her to the other people. Dolf 
 noted the faint subtle difference in Parravain's manner, the 
 meek humbug of the other girls, who would be inferior to her. 
 She took a last look at her own perfect room and sighed. Per- 
 haps at length an Eden had bloomed for her in which no 
 serpent lurked and no Adam should oppress her. Then she 
 recalled the eyes of Geoffrey Fordham, and sighed again. 
 
 Fordham came out of his room into Dolf's and closed the 
 door. She never raised her eyes from her notes and the type- 
 writer clicked on methodically. She had sworn to be good. 
 Mistrusting the witchery of spiritual ether and propinquity, she 
 set herself to be a secretary and no more than a secretary, a 
 charming machine, something impersonal and not quite human. 
 And feeling daily that faint exultant stimulation his presence 
 brought, knowing it to be reciprocal, she felt the battle to be 
 lost before it began. 
 
 He stood on the other side of the room and leant his shoul- 
 ders against the mantel-piece. 
 
 "Dolf," he commenced, with a faint affectionate stress on her 
 name. "Dolf, will you lunch with me to-day?" 
 
 She swung round in the swivel chair, considered him gravely, 
 and shook her head.
 
 2io DOLF 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because," said Dolf slowly, "I'm your secretary and an 
 inferior and it wouldn't do. Parravain would think things, and 
 Miss Ramsay and Miss Merridew and Miss Laverstock would 
 say things. Besides a secretary ought to be neither mineral 
 nor animal nor vegetable. Lunching together and that kind of 
 thing get in the way of work." 
 
 "Parravain will think anyway, and the girls'll talk anyway. 
 You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. In Par- 
 ravain's eyes you're too charming to be oh, well, staid, and in 
 the eyes of the girls you're too expensive to be good. They 
 know good things are cheap and nice things are dear. Besides, 
 I want to talk to you about the potash contract." 
 
 "No, thank you, Mr. Fordham." 
 
 "I always call you Dolf when we're alone," he objected 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 "I know, but then you can do as you like, and I didn't ask 
 you to, and you're my employer, so I call you Mr. Fordham." 
 
 "Dolf, how old are you?" 
 
 "Twenty-two." 
 
 "Well, the sun's shining, and there are men selling violets in 
 Piccadilly, and there's a lilt in the air and I feel frightfully 
 young in spite of my thirty-five years. And I do want you to 
 lunch with me." 
 
 She picked up a pencil and drew little nothings with it on 
 the blotting-pad. 
 
 "Why are men always destroyers?" she said almost pas- 
 sionately, looking him straight in the eyes. "Why can they 
 never rest content without pulling down barriers like a kid pull- 
 ing a toy to pieces. I knew as soon as I saw you how it would 
 be. To-day you want me to lunch. Another day you'll want 
 to kiss me. Well, there's no harm in your kissing me if you 
 must, but you won't rest content with kisses. A. man always 
 wants to go on where he left off the day before You couldn't 
 kiss me one day and call me Miss Farmer and strafe me over
 
 DOLF 211 
 
 a letter the next. And in the long run I shall have to leave, 
 and I don't want to leave." 
 
 "Aren't you misjudging me rather, Dolf ? Have I ever been 
 unkind to you?" 
 
 "No, I'm not. And you're far too kind to me. That's 
 the trouble." She smiled and the curve of her lips troubled 
 his man's nature so that his mind rioted among imaginary 
 kisses. "If you were healthily rude occasionally I should be 
 less anxious. I'm sorry, Mr. Fordham, but I can't lunch with 
 you. You can see for yourself we're better as we are." 
 
 His face clouded a little and he shrugged faintly. 
 
 "All right. Have it your own way," he said almost casually, 
 and went back to his work. Later she saw him go out alone. 
 As she passed through the outer office to her own meal Parra- 
 vain smilingly held the door for her. He was married, with a 
 family, and he believed in making friends with the mammon 
 of unrighteousness when it wore a sixteen guinea suit and 
 earned, or was paid, six pounds a week. Dolf did not mistake 
 the quiver of Miss Ramsay's eyelid as her glance met Miss 
 Laverstock's. 
 
 "Damn them!" she exclaimed fiercely as the door closed, 
 "They're green-jealous and as cruel as the grave. Laverstock 
 would crawl over my dead body to get Geoffrey to look at her 
 twice. I want to be good, and how hard it is to be pretty 
 and good as well! I doubt if the women one meets in heaven 
 are exactly a beauty chorus." 
 
 That afternoon Fordham, who had left no message, failed 
 to return from lunch. His Rolls-Royce, ordered for two o'clock, 
 waited in vain at the curb outside the marble vestibule. Dolf, 
 unable to explain his tarrying, coped as best she might with a 
 string of callers. 
 
 "Cherchez la jemme, Miss Farmer," quoted Philip Heriot, 
 twenty-six, beautifully polished, morning-coated, and silk hat- 
 ted, having lit, with permission, a fragrant Egyptian cigarette. 
 He conferred a gentle distinction on the room, with a touch
 
 212 DOLF 
 
 of charming sincerity thrown in as if to assure her that, lovely 
 as he was, no harm or evil intent lurked beneath the surface. 
 Dolf rather liked him. 
 
 "How's 'Lucky Lingerie Limited'?" she queried idly, wonder- 
 ing what had become of Fofdham. "The boss is awfully keen 
 on it. He says the profits are enormous and you'll double 
 them before long." 
 
 "We're using half the material and charging twice the price, 
 gracious lady. How can we help succeeding? May I sell you 
 a set of everything at wholesale prices as a reward for enter- 
 taining me so nicely? That is, of course, provided Fordham 
 doesn't mind." 
 
 "Please don't," said Dolf with a touch of ice in her tone. 
 "There's no reason why you should, or why he should mind if 
 you did. I'm just his secretary and I take myself dead seri- 
 ously. If you were a girl you'd understand what I mean." 
 
 "I do understand as it is," he insisted and the mockery 
 faded out of his voice. He became at once a very nice, sincere 
 boy indeed. "Of course I was only being silly. I've got the 
 deepest respect for a girl who stands on her own feet and makes 
 her own way in the world as you do. And I'm sure Fordham 
 has too. 'Fraid I can't wait any longer. Do excuse me and 
 make it all right with him." 
 
 "Right ho!" she promised and gave him a friendly smile. 
 Somehow she felt he might turn out a pal in case of need. 
 There was so obviously no vice in him he laughed too 
 frankly and joyously for that. 
 
 To him succeeded Mrs. Dawlish. 
 
 She drifted in with her faint ironic smile and soignee at- 
 mosphere, the perfect woman of the world who knew everyone, 
 did everything, and believed in nothing except possibly herself. 
 She was a journalist of the uncommon sort, who mixed with 
 the lords of the world on equal terms, had the scandals of Lon- 
 don at her fingertips and was invariably so discreetly indis- 
 creet. She cultivated Fordham because he was a big specimen
 
 DOLF 213 
 
 of her sort of man and her business led her to a nodding ac- 
 quaintance at least with genius of any kind. 
 
 "Good-afternoon," she murmured in her clear-cut, linger* 
 ing tones. "You're new since I saw Mr. Fordham last. I 
 think he's very lucky to get you, if you don't mind my saying 
 so. After all, why shouldn't I? I'm old enough to be your 
 mother, nineteen times as wicked and not half so good-looking. 
 If either of us has to be afraid of the other I've got to be 
 afraid of you." 
 
 She drifted over to a chair and smiled across at Dolf. And 
 Dolf could only feel like a little girl caught stealing jam, and 
 wonder how many scores of men must have loved Mrs. Dawlish, 
 and know that not one of them ever began to understand this 
 woman's mind. 
 
 "Mr. Fordham's disappeared," she explained, and faced the 
 newcomer with a desperate effort to hold her own. "He didn't 
 tell me he wasn't coming back. It's a mystery and I can't 
 explain it. Do let me give you tea." 
 
 "Thanks I've already had two teas already." She looked 
 at Dolf with the little ironic smile still playing about hef 
 mouth. "How did Geoffrey discover you? Do you know I 
 think it's frightfully clever of him. So few men understand 
 how to choose their secretaries. They either get hold of a 
 frump or a hard-minded young woman with a brain like a cash- 
 register. Now you're just perfect." 
 
 Dolf rested her chin on her hands, and stared unblushingly 
 at Mrs. Dawlish out of reflective eyes. 
 
 "I wonder what you want?" she murmured. "Do you love 
 him? If you do, you may have him if you can get him. I'm 
 not a competitor even supposing I could compete with you. I 
 only want to earn my living and be let alone. Unfortunately 
 men never can let a girl alone unless she's impossibly plain." 
 
 Mrs. Dawlish, who sought truth even if she did not ensue 
 it, and had found what she wanted, went off on a tangent into 
 Gilead, so to speak, and came back loaded with balm.
 
 214 DOLF 
 
 "My dear, you can count me out," she said with the most 
 limpid sincerity of manner. "Geoffrey's a pal of mine, and 
 useful, and I'd like to know you because you're in a way a 
 sidelight on his character. And it's obvious why I said he was 
 clever to find you, and fortunate, isn't it?" 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 "Of course it is." 
 
 She stretched out a slender hand moulded in virgin white 
 kid and played with the handle of a seven guinea parasol. 
 
 "There are so many women in a man's life; some he loves, 
 others he endures, one he may even marry. If he isn't clever 
 enough some of them may get in the way of his work, which 
 is more than women if he's a person of any gifts. But if he 
 can get the right kind of pretty girl connected with that work 
 to keep him always interested, just a shade above himself, it's 
 more satisfactory as a stimulus than any drug or cocktail ever 
 invented, and far more permanent. Probably she helps with 
 the men who come to see him too. Either way she's priceless. 
 And that's what you mean to Geoffrey Fordham, and that's 
 why I call him clever. I rather envy you. If you play your 
 hand correctly, you simply haven't any limits; you can be 
 what you like to him." 
 
 She got up to go. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said and stood there still smiling, a grace- 
 ful woman of forty, with a storied past and a complicated fu- 
 ture. "I think we'll be friends, don't you? It's simpler and 
 less trouble, and there's no reason why we shouldn't. If I 
 can help you at any time, do let me." 
 
 An hour later Fordham returned. There was a weariness in 
 his expression, a touch of disillusion in his manner. He looked 
 at Dolf with half-apologetic, half-pitiful eyes. An unerring 
 sixth sense told her as plainly as if she had seen them together 
 that some girl had occupied his afternoon and that in man's 
 dumb, illogical way he was apologising to her. But he only 
 said:
 
 DOLF 215 
 
 "I met a man named Ferguson Clyte to-day. He's the man- 
 ager of the Summerhouse Theatre and he knew you when you 
 were there. He told me you were awfully popular in those 
 days. Am I so very unpleasant or so obviously immoral that 
 you won't lunch with me, Dolf?" 
 
 A languid, ironic voice seemed to be whispering in Dolf's ear: 
 "There are so many women in a man's life," it murmured. "But 
 if he can get the right kind of pretty girl to keep him always 
 interested ..." Somehow he scarcely looked as if it had 
 been the right kind of pretty girl that afternoon. He was very 
 kind, and one ought to play fair. After all, did lunch mean 
 so very much? And one could always go away if circumstances 
 became intolerable. 
 
 She shook her head very faintly and her mouth took on a 
 pathetic droop. Fordham stood before her, his brain a wild 
 tangle of desires and inhibitions, folding invisible arms round 
 the slight, poignant curves of her figure, cursing himself for 
 an incontinent brute, and exulting in her nearness and dearness 
 all in the same breath. 
 
 "All right, I will. Thanks very much," she said at last. "But 
 not to-morrow, please. Make it the day after." 
 
 She felt she could not endure it till the invisible taint of the 
 other girl had evaporated in the lapse of a little time.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Their table stood in the most fortunate corner of the great 
 cream and gold room where, because the prices were high, tables 
 did not jostle one another as in lesser restaurants. Dolf could 
 look out onto a little terrace gay with flowers and see the green 
 of the Park stretching beyond. There were Fordham's violets 
 at her breast, one of Fordham's cigarettes between her lips, a 
 whole adoring encompassing atmosphere of Fordham about her 
 and his voice lilting the love call through every conversational 
 commonplace. And while she laughed she shivered because it 
 would go on now, doggedly and unweariedly until what? One 
 got so tired of resisting and saw inevitably the day when from 
 sheer emotional fatigue it became impossible to resist any 
 longer. 
 
 "Dolf, are you happy?" 
 
 She smiled at man's eternal boyishness looking out of his 
 admiring eyes. He was by far the finest looking man in the 
 room. They had everything money could buy or art produce 
 And still he asked if she were happy. In his own eyes he 
 seemed not to have given her enough. 
 
 " 'Course I'm happy. Who wouldn't be. Are you? If you 
 are, tell me why. I'm interested." 
 
 She held* the cigarette in its gold-mounted tube between slen- 
 der fingers and studied him thoughtfully. And he quoted, with 
 the lilt singing through every tone: 
 
 " 'What is so sweet and dear 
 As a prosperous morn in May, 
 The confident prime of the day, 
 And the dauntless youth of the year, 
 216
 
 DOLF 217 
 
 When nothing that asks for bliss, 
 Asking aright, is denied, 
 And half of the world a bridegroom is 
 And half of the world a bride?' 
 
 "As usual the bliss is conditional, Dolf, dear. You have 
 to ask aright for it. And God knows I'm trying." 
 
 He stretched a hand across the table and laid it on hers. 
 
 "And what is your idea of bliss?" she queried, knowing all 
 the time. 
 
 "You," he said simply. "You're perfect. I want you so, 
 and I'm going to have you. Heavens, how I could work if I 
 had you!" He drew back his shoulders like a giant facing 
 titanic difficulties. She only smiled. She had heard it all be- 
 fore. She was waiting for seven little words: "I want you to 
 be my wife," and they did not come. And she knew they never 
 would come from him. 
 
 "Don't, Goeffrey; you only spoil it all. I warned you when 
 you asked me to lunch with you, and you wouldn't listen. You 
 don't love me a little bit and you can't even pretend to. It's 
 only your man's destructive instinct. You're all just the same 
 with every girl you meet. Aren't I right?" 
 
 But he only said: 
 
 "Come and see if I don't love you. We're going to take a 
 half holiday and motor out to my place up the river. You'll 
 simply go crazy over it and I'm dying to show it to you. Go 
 and powder your small nose. The car's waiting outside now." 
 
 Of course he left the chauffeur behind and swung the two- 
 seated Rolls-Royce in and out of the traffic like a mechanical 
 angel. At the first opportunity he stretched her out and they 
 ate up the road unconsciously because of the silence and 
 springing of a perfect car. An hour and a half brought 
 them to an old Georgian house with lawns sloping to the river 
 bank. He led her with gentle impatience through the glory of 
 the old house by terrace and pergola to the landing-stage and 
 paddled slowly up stream with Dolf lying on the silken cushions
 
 218 DOLF 
 
 of the punt, too restful to fret over life's problems or care what 
 became of her. He made tea under overhanging trees and let 
 her play blissfully with the silver spirit kettle and cunningly ar- 
 ranged basket. It was enough to see her, unbelievably slender 
 and beautiful to his eyes, lying on his cushions in his punt, 
 rejoicing no one but him. 
 
 They dined alone in a little room giving onto the terrace. 
 Afterward the inevitable happened; his hand found hers, his 
 arms went round her, he drew her head against his shoulder 
 and kissed her lips and eyes, the creamy throat and the wavy 
 hair with innumerable and diverse kisses. Some were cruel 
 and some lay so lightly they scarcely seemed to be kisses at all. 
 Dolf acquiesced, neither striving nor crying. When his passion 
 should have exhausted itself her moment would come, not 
 before. 
 
 At last she disengaged herself and faced him with something 
 in her glance he could not gainsay, that made the little room a 
 palace of truth. 
 
 "You don't want to marry me, do you?" she said in a curious, 
 level voice. 
 
 A shadow came over his clean-cut, strong face. Then he met 
 her gaze frankly. 
 
 "I'm not a marrying man, Dolf. My life's too full, and any- 
 way I could never be faithful to one woman. You want these 
 little, methodical calculating natures for that. I don't think 
 any girl is big enough to fill my life. It may sound like con- 
 ceit; of course the most ordinary girl in some respects is away 
 up above any man. I don't want children at any rate not 
 at the price of sticking to one girl for ever. But I do want you, 
 and I love you, and I'll be so good to you you'll never regret 
 it. While you're with me I'll give you the most wonderful life 
 a life you wouldn't get out of half-a-dozen ordinary mar- 
 riages. Oh, my dear, isn't it worth it to distil the gold out of a 
 wonderful love affair and end it directly it begins to pall. 
 What's the faithfulness of a man who's tired of you worth?"
 
 DOLF 219 
 
 "As much as one's children, one's home, one's self-respect, 
 I suppose. You take rather a lot for granted, Geoffrey. In a 
 moment you'll call me conventional, as if it wasn't the conven- 
 tions men have made for them that tie women down. Women 
 aren't really more what's called moral than men. And men 
 always have two standards one for wives and one for not 
 wives. But both are women." 
 
 She got up and smoothed her ruffled hair. Her face was 
 pale and very tired. 
 
 "Please take me back," she said. "And, oh, Geoffrey, don't 
 begin this all over again, for Heaven's sake. Kiss me if you 
 like I don't mind and you'll soon get tired of it. But don't 
 pretend you love me. It's too beautiful a word to me for you 
 to take liberties with. Will you promise?" 
 
 He took her two hands, looked down at her, and shook his 
 head. He was exalted, vital and the thrill that radiated from 
 his touch made her feel weak and light-headed. 
 
 "I'll make you love me," he told her with a sort of fierce 
 gentleness that made her shiver, because she knew that his 
 greater strength, ruthlessly exerted, would wear her down in 
 the long run and then there would be nothing to cling to, none 
 to help. 
 
 In desperation, knowing perfectly well the futility of what 
 she did, she went to see Philip Heriot on some manufactured 
 errand. She found him dictating letters to a dark, pretty girl 
 of nineteen, a girl with deep, inscrutable eyes, soft curves and 
 definite attraction, who cast a hostile glance at Dolf as Philip 
 murmured: "Thank you that's all, Miss Wayne," in dis- 
 missal. And having transacted her business, Dolf sat back in 
 her chair, looked him in the eye and said: 
 
 "I'm going to trust you. Supposing Fordham gets fond of 
 me, what am I to do? I don't want to leave. I must earn 
 my living. Tell me what a man's attitude is to a girl he em- 
 ploys yours to that pretty kid for instance." 
 
 The public spirit of men, which makes them play up to one
 
 220 DOLF 
 
 another, cost any woman what it may, descended on Philip 
 Heriot. 
 
 "Oh, well " he began deprecatingly and paused, "of 
 
 course Henrietta and I are pretty good pals. One must be on 
 more or less human terms with a secretary, because she comes 
 so much into life. I always say it's easier to change a wife than 
 a secretary supposing one had a wife. A new wife could only 
 wreck your home whereas a new secretary can wreck your 
 business. I shouldn't worry about Fordham. 'Course he can't 
 help admiring you, if I may say so. And it helps you to be a 
 good influence in his life, and give me a lift if he cuts up 
 rough with me over anything." 
 
 He laughed his boyish, optimistic laugh, and Dolf left him 
 much as she had found him. In a more artistically veiled fash- 
 ion she placed the problem before Mrs. Dawlish when that 
 lady, who desired to obtain an advertisement contract from 
 Fordham, asked her to tea. 
 
 Dolf sat in her hostess' tiny perfect flat. The boudoir en- 
 shrined photographs of many men, most of them either 
 famous or notorious or both. Dolf felt the flat knew as 
 many secrets as a lovely, wicked woman. Anyhow it made a 
 perfect background for its tenant, who lay back in exactly 
 the right chair for her age and delivered well-considered 
 judgment. 
 
 "After all, you're not a child, dear young lady, and Geoffrey's 
 an exceptional man and exceptional men can't be treated as 
 if they were commonplace. Even if a crisis were to arise, and 
 you er, let your better nature carry you away, girls Fave 
 done these things before and survived. We live in a charitable 
 age. And in any case, no man will 'love' you for ever, or even 
 for very many years. Better a rich profitable episode than a 
 poor eternity married to a man who 'loves' you and then gets 
 tired of you, and in neither condition can afford to do you well. 
 Perhaps I've become a little worldly, but marriage always seems 
 to me so much more tragic than divorce, and at the best it's
 
 DOLF 221 
 
 generally the anti-climax of a honeymoon, isn't it? How much 
 nicer to have the honeymoon and dodge the anti-climax?" 
 
 "Yes," murmured Dolf, "and how positively cosy to be dead 
 and buried and away from these problems. Thanks, awfully, 
 Mrs. Dawlish. I've enjoyed myself frightfully. Good-bye." 
 
 And seeing no use in running away from Fate she promised 
 to stay the following week-end at Fordham's riverside house. 
 
 Saturday they spent on the river. He flung at her feet all 
 the charm that was his; he gave her gifts that other women 
 had suffered and smiled to endow him with; since men come 
 out of every flirtation more fresh and women more tired he 
 flooded her with the vitality of other women and lavished on 
 her the prettinesses and charm they had taught him. 
 
 "God!" he said, "what's heaven when one can have earth 
 in summer time and the one perfect girl? Dolf, darling, you're 
 simply adorable. You've got all the dearness of a good girl and 
 all the subtle delightful wickedness that a man longs for and 
 never finds. Your mouth's a beautiful snare and your arms 
 are two lovely lures to destruction. When I think some other 
 man might possess you I could die with misery. How perfect 
 it'll be to teach you to love me." 
 
 She lay smiling amid the boat cushions and parried this man- 
 madness with the skill that comes so early to the lonely girls of 
 this world. 
 
 "Silly ass! I don't want to be taught to love you. I don't 
 love you and you'll never make me. I want to be taken care 
 of and not have always to be on the defensive. Oh, Geoffrey, 
 men are so stupid. Why can't they learn to let a girl just be 
 happy and not rag her? How would you like someone always 
 to look as if he wanted to burn you up with his eyes some- 
 one immensely stronger and bigger than you?" 
 
 Then in a gust of tenderness he bent and kissed her white 
 silken instep. 
 
 "I can be good to you, too. I want to be good to you.
 
 222 DOLF 
 
 But oh, Dolf, you're such a lovely thing, and you understand 
 me, and you make such a difference to life. You're all that 
 money can't buy, and you lie there as aloof and calm as if I 
 were the water-rate man or anyone else that doesn't matter." 
 
 "You don't matter. You never will matter. I just put 
 up with all your extravagance because I can't help it. You 
 know nothing about women, Geoffrey. You give them every- 
 thing that only costs money, and for the rest you're just 
 a greedy child that's never been refused anything. I could 
 hate you except that you don't know what you're doing." 
 
 His eyes seemed to become very large, so that they blotted 
 out the sun and the sky and the world. 
 
 "Dolf, how can you be so cruel . . .?" 
 
 And so it began all over again. 
 
 Evening brought more calm. With his dinner clothes he 
 seemed to become sombre and stately. He waited on her with 
 a sort of proud humility as she sat like a white flower rising 
 from the foliage of a sleeveless, shoulderless black frock. But 
 afterward when their cigarettes had burnt out, he drew her 
 to him and broke into a passion of kisses that left her limp and 
 exhausted. She put her hands over her little bruised face and 
 begged piteously for respite. And again, moved by her weak- 
 ness, he was whirled away on a great wave of pity and com- 
 forted her with interminable gossamer caresses and murmured 
 foolish endearments. And at last he let her go. 
 
 On Sunday he behaved as though they were mere friends, 
 with the sheer charm instinct in men of his kind. They mo- 
 tored all day in the swift, silent car. After tea he showed 
 her, as men who love will, little intimate things in his life 
 school photographs, his mother's picture. Dolf looked at them 
 with the remote interest that attaches to relics of the departed. 
 These things belonged to his other life, the sheltered polite 
 side of him where no unbridled passions ran the life she and 
 her kind could never share. 
 
 She pleaded to go to bed early. In the calm restfulness of
 
 DOLF 223 
 
 her beautiful room the mask slipped from her face and she 
 knew woman's solitary luxury of being weary without dis- 
 sembling. She slipped out of her clothes and sat in the sheer 
 restfulness of a silk nightgown, her hair about her bare shoul- 
 ders, studying a white, tired face in the glass with gloomy 
 stoicism. 
 
 "God!" she murmured, "I feel about a hundred." 
 
 Someone tapped at her door. The handle turned before she 
 could speak. 
 
 "May I come in?" he asked, and entered without waiting for 
 her reply. The door closed behind him. 
 
 "Dolf," he said, "Dolf ... I can't I must. Look at 
 me, Dolf." 
 
 He was standing by her, gazing down. There was not so 
 much passion in his face as an irresistible force, a world-shak- 
 ing uncurbable impulse beyond his or her volition or inhibition. 
 She knew it would sweep both of them before it and the price 
 exacted of him would be a vague illogical regret tempered by 
 pleasant memories, of her all she had. She twisted in the chair 
 to face him, white and drawn-faced. That blinding desire in 
 his eyes seemed to scorch her very soul. 
 
 "Don't!" she said in a hoarse, constricted voice. "Geoffrey, 
 you don't know what you're doing. What have I done 
 to you that you want to bankrupt me of all I ever had? You've 
 got money, power, good looks, the right sort of relatives and 
 you can't be content. I've got nothing but a girl's birthright 
 her one gift to give the man she loves, and you want to take 
 that away. Haven't you any pity, any sympathy at all?" 
 
 She locked her fingers in her lap and stared up at him with 
 tears running down her face. He was smiling a mirthless un- 
 earthly smile, and his words seemed to be dragged up from the 
 roots of his being, as their words must have been dragged 
 from the testifying devils in the gospel. 
 
 "Listen, Dolf. At the bottom of everything in life the 
 strong acquires the weak. Some man will get you some day.
 
 224 DOLF 
 
 You're doomed, as your kind is aways doomed. If I let you go 
 it would be to someone else. I've only one life. If I have 
 money and power, as you said, I've worked for them, and 
 wrung them from the world, and held them. Why should I 
 let you go? Even you in your heart will despise me if I do. 
 You worship force like all women; you respect a ruthless man 
 while you fear him. What arguments have you got left now?" 
 
 Dolf was choking back the most forlorn sobs she had ever 
 known. 
 
 "Do you remember that woman in the Bible, Geoffrey? She 
 had only one offering to make, a box of ointment that was very 
 precious. And she gave it and it was accepted, although she 
 wasn't a good woman. And I haven't been a good girl, but 
 
 all that I ever had I can still give somebody if " her voice 
 
 sank very low "if anyone in the world will ever love me 
 enough to make me want to. Somehow, what you've said 
 seems to me a a pretty rotten argument." 
 
 He came nearer and ran an unsteady hand through his damp 
 hair. His eyes were wild. 
 
 "You make me sound an awful brute, Dolf. But what you 
 say's all sentimental nonsense. You won't go down during 
 your good times, I know. But sooner or later you'll strike a 
 bad patch and then you'll be anyone's for the taking. And I 
 don't want you to be anyone's but mine. And you are mine." 
 
 These last four words seemed to sweep away Dolf's self- 
 control. Fordham became all the men she had ever known. 
 She had revealed to him a sacred ideal, and it had been flung 
 aside as a trifle to be trampled on in that selfish male passion, 
 the passion to own. 
 
 She went white as chalk. Her slenderness became strength. 
 Her eyes flashed as no one had ever before seen them flash. 
 She took a swift step toward him. 
 
 "And who are you, to demand possession of me? Do you 
 think you're different from all the men who hunt and stalk us 
 and bring us to bay? If you could see yourself now, you'd
 
 DOLF 225 
 
 know you look just like all the rest of them, because you want 
 to take, not give. You say you can make me yours! You 
 can't! You could make my body yours, but you wouldn't have 
 me, not the smallest least bit of me, and you never can. And I 
 hate you as I never knew I could hate anyone or anything in 
 all the world." 
 
 He drew back, as white as she. 
 
 "I shall wait," he said unsteadily. "You see I can afford to." 
 For a long time she sat by herself weeping. Then she crept 
 into bed and prayed incoherent distracted prayers till dawn 
 brought her a brief troubled sleep. 
 
 There being no one else to consult, she went again to see 
 Philip Heriot. Somehow that polished, smiling young man in- 
 spired her with confidence. She thought one could hardly 
 laugh and be wicked at the same time. But Philip Heriot 
 was out, and Dolf only encountered the pretty, dark-haired 
 secretary in his private office. 
 
 "Mr. Heriot won't be back to-day," said Henrietta Wayne 
 with chilling politeness. Then, looking at Dolf in bitter hos- 
 tility, the claws seemed to steal out from her roseleaf, mani- 
 cured hands, and for all her charm and prettiness she took on 
 the sharpness and venom of steel. 
 
 "I know who you are. You've got Fordham. Why can't 
 you leave Philip alone? We were perfectly happy till you 
 came. Now he's restless and fidgetty and I don't know what 
 to do. You're one of those girls who can't be content unless 
 they're stealing someone else's man." 
 
 Dolf looked at her with new eyes, and the colour flooded 
 into her fair face. 
 
 "But someone else's I don't understand." 
 
 "Well, since you're so innocent, I'm Philip's. I'm pretty 
 now, but my looks won't last for ever and I'm not the 
 sort of girl to drudge for two or three pounds a week. As long 
 as they do last I'll make the most of them, and when I'm ugly
 
 226 DOLF 
 
 I may be rich enough to do without them. Anyway, you're 
 doing the same as me, so you needn't look like that." 
 
 A little smile broke the curve of Dolf 's mouth. She nodded 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I won't wait. Good-bye and 
 good luck." 
 
 In a fortnight Fordham asked her to stay with him again. 
 
 "I've tried to be good," he pleaded, "and I swear I'll be 
 very gentle with you, Dolf. For Heaven's sake, don't hate me 
 so. It hurts, it does really." 
 
 "Does it?" she answered, with a dry smile. "When do you 
 want me to go?" 
 
 "Next week-end if you can. Why not?" 
 
 "As you say why not?" she murmured. 
 
 On Friday afternoon she borrowed the car and the chauffeur 
 to make a few final purchases. 
 
 "It's no use," she whispered to herself while the Rolls- 
 Royce purred silkily along sunlit Piccadily. "No girl can 
 resist for ever. Men wear you down with sheer persistence. You 
 get to a point when you realise that there's no escape from 
 fate. They're too strong, too ruthless, too inflexible. If one's 
 nerves didn't give out they wouldn't win, but nerves don't last 
 for ever. And after all it's quite a small matter really, I sup- 
 pose. I daresay I'm a fool and make a great fuss." 
 
 And then, with a sickening rush, panic seized her. Her 
 heart beat, her pulses raced till she could have screamed. Rea- 
 son fled on swift wings of terror and there remained only a 
 blind instinct of flight. 
 
 Trembling, she lifted the speaking tube and checked the car 
 at a shop on the corner of a side street. She slipped into it 
 by one door and out at another and fled unseen into the depths 
 of an underground station. In three-quarters of an hour she 
 was steaming out of Paddington, with a ticket bearing the name 
 of a remote village in Cornwell. To her aching eyes the flying 
 landscape seemed the sweetest sight in the world.
 
 DOLF 227 
 
 The dining car attendant broke in on her dreams with his 
 banal query about tea. After any crisis nothing seems so dear 
 as the commonplaces of every day. 
 
 She thanked him gratefully, and he looked down at her with 
 a friendly smile. He had a daughter at home almost exactly 
 her age.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 BUT no money lasts for ever, and work is hard to find espe- 
 cially if a girl looks too pretty to be good and her clothes are 
 too costly for any income she is likely to earn. 
 
 The obscene spirits of the night seemed to catch their breath 
 and hover, ears cocked, listening for the scream of the victim, 
 the brief struggle, the panting of triumphant pursuit, the death 
 note in the music of exulting hounds . . . 
 
 Down the glistening, deserted street Dolf hurried to the limit 
 of a decorous walk, on panic-stricken feet that dared not run. 
 You do not run unquestioned in London at night, a wet night 
 of autumn sinister with chill rain and a subtle bitterness of 
 wind. For uncounted aeons she seemed to have twisted and 
 doubled up side streets, down bright lighted thoroughfares, yet 
 he would not be flung off. Steadily from behind came the re- 
 morseless clip-clop of his seeking footsteps, unhurried, pitiless; 
 they gained on her with grim certainty. The wild terror of 
 fatigue beat upon her like great black wings; she pictured him 
 tall, gaunt, with looming shoulders, and cruel covetous eyes 
 leering above a dark tangle of beard. She walked half crouch- 
 ing from the expectation of a hand clutching her shoulder. 
 
 She hurried along, turned sharp to the left and beat west- 
 ward out of control, derelict, fright-maddened. The footsteps 
 pursued. He was very close now. She fought desperately for 
 words, a plan, any trick by which to fool him. 
 
 Straight ahead loomed a doorway, dimly-lit. Without a co- 
 herent thought she turned in, scrabbled wildly at the heavy hall 
 door and slammed it behind her in his teeth. She leant against 
 it, hands clutching at her panting breast, on the point of col- 
 lapse. 
 
 228
 
 DOLF 229 
 
 "Nerve," she thought, "doesn't last forever. Mine just 
 went." 
 
 When many minutes later she peered cautiously out the man 
 was gone. 
 
 She lingered for a time, however, before she left her shelter. 
 
 He seemed to typify the world as it had now resolved itself 
 to Dolf; hard, selfish, preying, male. Looking for work, she 
 had turned her hand to a few unskilled jobs which sheer 
 loathing made her give up. What was to come next heaven 
 alone knew, but she now saw she must go to Netta for help. 
 After two months of practical idleness she had left the flat, re- 
 fusing to live on Netta and unwilling to risk a dwindling capi- 
 tal on the sharing of her rent. Living cheaply close by she often 
 saw Netta but would never agree to borrow money. To-night 
 she saw that for once she would have to conquer her pride. 
 
 Netta was alone, and in possession of good news. 
 
 "I met a man named Quantock the other night. He was 
 Senlake's solicitor in the divorce. Quantock gave me his own 
 address, and a letter care of him will reach Senlake. Why 
 don't you write to him?" 
 
 "Isn't it too late now?" Dolf objected. "He was a dear, but 
 he never thought of me unless I reminded him of me I mean 
 after the Flettrette days. Besides, he'd see I'm down and out, 
 and that would make him feel he had to help me, and I don't 
 suppose he's any too well off. I fancy he wants to be let 
 alone after what happened to his wife." 
 
 "But wouldn't you like him to know it wasn't your fault you 
 never went to see him?" 
 
 "Yes, but that's only my vanity wanting it. In reality he 
 didn't care whether I went or not." 
 
 "Suppose he needs helping, cheering up, encouraging? And 
 at least if he didn't want to see you he could find an excuse." 
 
 "I don't know," Dolf considered. "I'll think it over." 
 
 The next day she wrote to him:
 
 230 DOLF 
 
 "DEAR GUY: 
 
 "Your letter got lost at the theatre, and I didn't get it 
 for months. I went straight to your address but you'd gone. I want 
 you to know I didn't fail you. Can I do anything to prove it? 
 
 "Dou." 
 
 Ten days passed without an answer. 
 
 At the end of that time her money from Netta was gone. 
 Her landlady took pains to present an ultimatum, which she 
 delivered one evening in a loud voice in the lower hall. Dolf 
 stood pale and weary, incapable of thought. The landlady, 
 quite out of breath, started towards the street door which 
 Dolf had left open. Instead of closing it she admitted a man 
 who had evidently been about to ring. 
 
 "Does Miss Farmer live here?" he asked. 
 
 Dolf, who had started limply to ascend the stairs, turned 
 and gazed down at Senlake. 
 
 "Guy!" she exclaimed weakly. But her eyes had brightened 
 as if they beheld the Land of Promise. 
 
 "Well, dear thing," he smiled as he took her hand firmly. 
 And that clasp and his voice and the look in his eyes gave her 
 the illusion that they had parted only the day before. 
 
 "I'm so glad," she was murmuring through a mist of tears. 
 
 "I've only just got your letter, you see," he explained, still 
 holding her hand. "Quantock doesn't forward them; I go 
 there once a fortnight or so and see if there are any. Will 
 you come and have dinner somewhere, please, if you can put up 
 with me?" 
 
 "I'd love to!" she cried, laughing now half hysterically. "Ill 
 only be five minutes if you'll just wait for me." She darted 
 up the stairs. The landlady, who had lingered somewhere in 
 the background, approached rather doubtfully. Senlake looked 
 at her as if she were not there. 
 
 "How much does Miss Farmer owe you?" he asked at last. 
 
 She told him, and when he had paid her there was very little 
 left in his note-case. He went out to wait for Dolf in the 
 fresh air. The house seemed to stifle him.
 
 DOLF 231 
 
 What Dolf first noticed as she studied him across the little 
 restaurant table was that he seemed at once older and stronger, 
 with a new philosophy of life. 
 
 "I'm working," he explained. "I went in for engineering 
 once, and I'd have stuck to it if I hadn't come into money. 
 The money let me marry Sonia. It's finished now, and so's 
 the marriage. I daresay you've heard?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Well, I've got a job now running a machine shop for a big 
 engineering firm. It's hard work and rotten pay, but that'll 
 improve in time. I rather enjoy it because it helps me to for- 
 get. Now tell me about you." 
 
 Food and wine had helped Dolf, together with the joy of 
 being with him. She described her life since she had seen him 
 last, gilding the joys and softening the sorrows. But all at 
 once she faltered, pale and exhausted. 
 
 "I've been going about all day," she explained, with a faint 
 smile. "Don't worry, it's quite all right." 
 
 Senlake, who always understood, mocked her gently. 
 
 "I heard what your landlady said. Don't try to pretend. 
 I've seen where you live, and you can't go back there. I've 
 got a little empty room on my top floor in Gosport Street; it 
 goes with the one I live in, and I only keep some kit there. 
 You could sleep in it and use the other room in the day. You'd 
 be alone all day. There's a door between them you could lock. 
 I don't want you to feel under an obligation so may I offer you 
 a pound a week to housekeep and darn socks and sew on but- 
 tons?" 
 
 "If you'll let me just for a little, until my luck turns or 
 you're tired of me," she said smiling through gathering tears. 
 In the taxi she slipped one hand in his for comfort and he 
 stroked her fingers with a gentleness that went to her weary 
 heart. 
 
 She followed him passively up hundreds and hundreds of 
 stairs. It seemed rather like a dream in which some Pied Piper
 
 232 DOLF 
 
 lured her she knew not whither. The stairs wound up and up, 
 and the air came laden with a stuffy scent of old woodwork, 
 long-past cooking and decay. 
 
 On the topmost landing he flung open a door and stood back 
 for her to enter. She passed into a large room as perfectly neat 
 and soulless as a barrack, furnished only with a camp bed, its 
 blankets carefully folded soldier fashion, a table, and two chairs. 
 A couple of boxes at one end apparently contained all the ten- 
 ant's possessions, apart from a few enamelled table appoint- 
 ments on a shelf. 
 
 "Sit down," said Senlake. "I'm going to make coffee," and 
 he began to occupy himself with a small portable gas-stove 
 fed by an India-rubber tube. He paused and looked across at 
 her. 
 
 "When I cook it smells like blazes, but it can't be helped." 
 
 "I'll not mind," she answered gaily. At the same time all 
 volition seemed to have left her. She watched in idle content 
 while with deft ease he boiled coffee, and set the result before 
 her, together with a cigarette and a match. 
 
 "We'd better light a fire in your honour, I think," he sug- 
 gested. And kneeling by the grate he coaxed a blaze out of 
 damp wood and coal with the same second-hand skill he had 
 displayed over his coffee-making. Then, leaning against the 
 mantel-piece he savoured thoughtfully the acrid smoke of a 
 cheap Virginia cigarette and surveyed her while drinking his 
 coffee. 
 
 She leant back in his one wicker arm-chair and the cigarette 
 smoke streaked idly ceiling-ward between her fingers. Colour 
 had run into her cheeks and strength came back to her voice. 
 New courage to face a hostile world lifted her chin almost de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 Silence fell on the plain, scantily furnished room. Both, with- 
 out looking at one another, seemed to be stretching out inquir- 
 ing spiritual antennae, groping vaguely for the truth which 
 they felt was in each other. A cinder fell from time to time
 
 DOLF 233 
 
 in the grate; rain slashed wickedly against the blinded, un- 
 curtained window. It seemed to Dolf she would always be 
 sitting in a basket chair gazing into a fire and had never done 
 anything else all her life. 
 
 At last he pitched the stub of his cigarette into the grate 
 and met her eyes with two steady grey ones. 
 
 "This life, Dolf," he said, "if you can only realise it, is 
 utterly simple. It comes down to eating, sleeping and doing 
 such necessary things as enable us to eat and sleep no more. 
 All the frills and embroideries are mere eye-wash faked up by 
 idle people with accidental money, who needn't do necessary 
 things for themselves, and they call it civilisation. You and I 
 are such infinite grains of dust whirled before the wind of cre- 
 ation that all our yearnings and strivings and agonisings really 
 matter no more than the struggles of a fly with soaked wings. 
 If I give you an opportunity to eat and sleep and clothe 
 yourself it's nothing. You aren't to be grateful and you'll be 
 absolutely on your own. And any time you choose you can 
 walk straight out. And now I think you ought to go to bed. 
 You look done in." 
 
 She reached up weary arms and unpinned her hat. He 
 looked consideringly at the mass of her hair, said nothing, and 
 led her into an adjoining room, swept and clean. He lit the 
 naked gas jet and carried the camp bed from his room to hers, 
 retaining only one blanket out of four. He made down the bed 
 for her, added an enamelled basin and jug of water, soap and a 
 clean towel. 
 
 "We'll get more things to-morrow," he explained. "I'll carry 
 on quite well in the meantime. I have breakfast at seven, but 
 don't get up. I'll leave yours ready for once, as you're tired. 
 Good-night!" 
 
 The door closed behind him and she turned the key. Her 
 eyes wandered vaguely from the sheetless bed to the jug and 
 basin on the floor, and back again. 
 
 "It might be prison, and there isn't a looking-glass," she
 
 234 DOLF 
 
 murmured. Then the picture of the man who with bitter eyes 
 had stripped life to the bare bones passed through her mind 
 and she smiled almost maternally. So he did not love his 
 work. But did he still love his wife? 
 
 She undressed, shivering a little, and knelt on the bare 
 boards beside the narrow bed, and said those prayers women 
 do say, not so much because they believe in anything definite 
 as because they need prayer as a safety valve in order to make 
 life bearable. Then she crept into bed and slept since, as he 
 said, she was weary. 
 
 For a month they lived quietly, uneventfully. His days 
 never differed one from another by a hair's breadth. He left 
 at seven-thirty, he returned at seven in the evening. To- 
 gether they ate their meal and cleared it away. Sometimes they 
 smoked and talked, sometimes they walked in Hyde Park, 
 otherwise she read the books he lent her. 
 
 For the time being she made no effort to find work. She 
 kept house for him, did his sewing, mothered him, and found 
 in it all a dangerous sweetness. For the first time in her 
 life she was happy because someone in a sense depended on 
 her. It was like being married with all the stress and friction 
 and emotion of marriage fined away. She was very moved 
 by this man who earned his living uncomplainingly after years 
 of dreaming and idleness, who lived like an anchorite, and 
 played fair with her. She had no anxieties. She rested her 
 body and mind and her cheeks bloomed, her eyes shone 
 with health, and her skin acquired a satin texture. She was 
 temptation incarnate at his very door, and she might have 
 been literally his sister. 
 
 At the end of a month he fell ill. He came home one night 
 shivering, with the flush of fever in his face, a mass of aches 
 and pains. He went straight to bed, and she cared for him, 
 making up his fire and bringing him hot milk. In the morn- 
 ing he seemed no better, and drifted into snatches of delirium.
 
 DOLF 235 
 
 "You'd better have a doctor, Guy," she told him. "Ill 
 go and find one. You'll be all right till I come back, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "I s'pose you'd better. And will you telephone the works? 
 Oh damn! This is going to upset everything. I'm so sorry, 
 Dolf." 
 
 The weary eyes smiled at her and her answering smile was 
 dangerously gentle. 
 
 "Don't forget, you little fool!" she murmured as she fled 
 down the stairs. "Just because being ill puts him in your 
 power " 
 
 The doctor took the patient's temperature, frowned because 
 it was a hundred and three point something, saw Dolf was 
 capable, gave instructions and left. 
 
 For two days Senlake was very ill indeed. He babbled light- 
 headedly of things and people such as Dolf had known at 
 second-hand from not a few men. And constantly, in all 
 variations of despair, he spoke of Sonia, the woman who had 
 kicked him into the gutter. At times he half recognised his 
 nurse. 
 
 "Dolf dear little Dolf," he murmured once in delirium, "I'll 
 play fair, I won't hurt you. I'll keep myself in hand. You're 
 safe with me, dear. Only grains of dust, but a bargain's a bar- 
 gain. . . ." 
 
 He fell asleep afterward, as if even in delirium his self- 
 mastery had calmed him. But Dolf sat by the bed, wide- 
 eyed before the revelation. He did want her! Too honest 
 to take her, yet he had wanted her and mastered himself 
 because a bargain's a bargain. 
 
 She gazed at him as he lay there, and gazing realised the one 
 perfect need in a shifting world. She loved him; she could 
 give herself to him because she loved him. 
 
 Her thoughts fled back to the first night on which she had 
 met him, in the dark of the Tallentyre Square boarding- 
 house. His voice, even then gentle and understanding as
 
 236 DOLF 
 
 later when they knew each other, was the voice of the man she 
 loved. She had always loved him and never known till now. 
 
 But he cared irrevocably for another woman! 
 
 "No matter," she murmured. "He wants me. Well, he 
 shall have me. I won't be ashamed to tell him I love him. I 
 can grow to be what he'd like. I can persuade him to teach 
 me how. I can be his, and make him forget every other 
 woman in the world in my arms." 
 
 Finally the fever passed off and he lay quiet and weak 
 watching as she came and went. There were tired lines under 
 her eyes, but she looked very happy. She had fought Death 
 for him and won, and, whatever might happen in the long 
 run, he was hers and no one else's for the time being. Lying 
 there his eyes saw very clearly as sick men's do, so that when 
 she approached he murmured her name. 
 
 "Dolf!" 
 
 She came to the bedside smiling a little shyly. 
 
 "What do you want, old thing?" 
 
 "Bend down," he whispered. 
 
 She knelt beside him and he drew her head down to his 
 pillow and stroked it tenderly. 
 
 "You dear!" he murmured over and over again. 
 
 She did not move. The tears gathered in her eyes and rolled 
 down her face while she stayed, leaning her head against 
 his. And because she knew it might not last she secretly 
 gave him all the love in her heart for a free gift that asked 
 no return and needed none. Then, with a faint shiver, she 
 rose because there were things to be done for him and life 
 must go on. 
 
 At last he was back at the old routine, going early to work, 
 returning dog-tired in the evening. She watched over him 
 always with that more than maternal instinct of a woman 
 for the man she loves. And at last the whole world went to 
 pieces at her feet. 
 
 She had been out shopping. She returned in a mood of
 
 DOLF 237 
 
 quiet happiness to find Guy staring moodily into the empty 
 grate. On the air hung a subtle penetrating perfume. It 
 could not have been Netta's, for Netta used nothing but 
 Shem el Nessim. 
 
 Swift jealousy invaded Dolf's heart. Some woman out of 
 his past, perhaps one of his own kind, one of that safe, pro- 
 tected irresistible race. 
 
 She saw Guy's face tense and profoundly bitter. In a flash 
 she knew with whom the perfume was associated. She had 
 savoured it before in Sonia Senlake's boudoir. 
 
 "So," asserted Dolf almost inaudibly, "she's been here?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered briefly and resumed his work. 
 
 She did not utter a word in reply. She prepared the supper 
 and called him to it and they ate in silence. Then he went 
 out, without speaking and she had gone to bed long before 
 she heard him return. 
 
 In the morning he called that he was leaving before break- 
 fast. 
 
 Somehow she lived through the day. Nevertheless when 
 night came she had gathered courage, prepared a meal and 
 schooled herself to meet him as though nothing had happened. 
 Her longing to comfort him amounted to pain, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 To her relief he seemed more natural, but soon she realised 
 that he had changed in a way she could not define until a few 
 days later. Then she understood it, and her heart contracted 
 with desolation. 
 
 The thing that had been in his eyes was gone. He had 
 returned to his old attitude of impersonal friendship. She 
 could not hold him; he had ceased to want her. 
 
 Sonia's mockery haunted the attic, and Dolf knew that the 
 end of the idyll had come. 
 
 She would not leave him abruptly, but she would go. 
 
 "You must get a job," she told herself. "It's up to you." 
 
 All next day she studied advertisements and made plans.
 
 238 DOLE 
 
 She was throwing the paper aside when a paragraph caught 
 her eye. 
 
 "Interesting Business Combine: Mr. Thomas Wainwright, 
 O.B.E., to be Managing Director of the Amalgamated Stores." 
 
 The paragraph went on to describe the amazing career of a 
 young man whose father, dying at the outbreak of the great 
 war, had left him a prosperous village grocery which he con- 
 verted into a little gold-mine through the neighbourhood be- 
 coming a training centre for troops. Now, thanks to enterprise 
 and ability he had acquired a controlling interest in the Amal- 
 gamated Stores, one of the best known multiple-shop organi- 
 sations in the country. 
 
 She put down the paper and relapsed once more into deep 
 thought. 
 
 "So the first sweetheart I ever had is one of the richest 
 men in the country!" 
 
 Clear and sharp as a cinema film there rose before her men- 
 tal vision the old picture of herself throwing pebbles at Tom 
 Wainwright's window, and begging him to take her away 
 anywhere from the drudgery and cruelty of home. It was 
 followed by other pictures; London, four years ago; Johannes- 
 burg; the night at the theatre; four intimate views of the 
 Napoleon of Grocers, the man of Career. And she remem- 
 bered how, whenever fate threw them together, she could 
 always impress him by her propriety and intelligence, while 
 intriguing his male nature. As for the last, he was too near 
 his goal to threaten embarassment to her on the score of sex. 
 He might like her in the office; she could lend it distinction 
 and beauty. Occasionally he might take her to dine. But 
 nothing further would result, or if he should have any further 
 impulse she could check it, for he would do nothing foolish 
 with his eye on the glittering goal of Success. 
 
 "He must have heaps of jobs going," she decided. "And 
 if I play my cards well it's quite possible. Anyway, I've got 
 to do something and this is just a chance."
 
 DOLF 239 
 
 She went across to her little room and counted over the 
 pounds Guy had given her. There were ten of them un- 
 touched. Smiling a little bitterly, she told herself the best 
 use she could make of his money was to rid him of her. She 
 put on hat and coat, and went out slowly, unwillingly, to per- 
 fect her plans. 
 
 There existed a man dressmaker to whom in her prosperous 
 days she had brought custom. To him she went now and 
 outlined the situation. 
 
 "I want to be fitted out decently from head to foot," she 
 told him. "I've got ten pounds in the world, and it's a gamble 
 but if it comes off neither of us will lose. Can you do any- 
 thing for me?" 
 
 He eyed her narrowly. He was used to such things in his 
 particular sphere of business. If she had looked worn, hag- 
 gard, down-trodden he would have set his face against her. 
 But as this world goes she held good cards, and he assented 
 grudgingly. For this reason she entered the Regent Street 
 offices of the Amalgamated Stores next morning, armed at all 
 points with the subtle feminine weapons of her slight young 
 beauty backed by a faultess gown, hat, shoes and stockings. 
 
 There received Dolf Mr. Webber, the typical human filter 
 of the self-made business man to sort out the sheep among 
 visitors from the goats. He had no age; he might have been 
 forty or fifty; his thin, anxious face, indefinite moustache 
 and punctilious clothes bore witness of his many stripes. He 
 resembled an elderly horse clipped, groomed, bitted and 
 whipped into unnatural briskness. With obvious misgivings, 
 Mr. Webber counted Dolf unto himself for righteousness and 
 passed her up into a bright, shining, soulless waiting-room. 
 She sat in the sort of arm-chair only to be found in such 
 places and mused triumphantly. Mr. Webber had given her the 
 measure of the new Tom Wainwright. 
 
 The great man received her in an apartment voluptuous 
 with Turkey carpet, massive writing-table, opulent bookcases
 
 240 DOLF 
 
 and solid bronze telephone instrument. Morning dress clad 
 his well-nourished figure. He was sitting back in a padded 
 swing chair and he did not rise when she entered. But sud- 
 denly seeing who she was, he got to his feet. 
 
 "Well, Dolf ! My word! Good of you to call." He placed 
 a chair, somewhat ostentatiously. "I s'pose you saw the news 
 in the papers. How are you? I must say you look pros- 
 perous enough." His gaze dwelt approvingly on her. 
 
 "Oh yes," she smiled. "But you're a busy man, I know, 
 so I'm not going to keep you." 
 
 He glanced at an ornate silver clock, as if implying that 
 every minute wasted on visitors cost him at least a thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 "Still," she went on smoothly, "I do enjoy seeing how 
 you look now you've got on. It's really rather difficult to 
 live up to a great success, isn't it? One generally under-does 
 it or over-does it." 
 
 His ever-alert vanity bristled almost laughably. He had 
 a pathetic pride in his own achievement. But the under- 
 current of shrewdness that had made him what he was 
 saved him. 
 
 "Well," he retorted with sham jovialty, "which do I do?" 
 
 She stroked his ruffled feelings with the velvet of "her voice. 
 
 "Oh, neither, of course. I said I wanted to see, and now 
 I have seen, I congratulate you, Tom. The room, for instance, 
 is perfect." 
 
 She glanced about in simulated admiration. "And you've 
 got a fearf'ly discreet secretary. He looked me over from 
 head to foot." 
 
 "Ah yes, old Webber. He knows his place where I'm con- 
 cerned. I s'pose you've done well too? I haven't seen your 
 name in the papers, but then, I'm too busy to keep track, 
 of those things." 
 
 "Oh, I've given up the stage," she explained. 
 
 "What? So you've lost all your big ambitions?"
 
 DOLF 241 
 
 She saw his respect waning and hastened to reinstate her- 
 self. 
 
 "I was too impatient. And the Chief wanted to make love 
 to me; they always do in the long run. Besides, I hadn't 
 enough talent. You see it's only people like you, who know 
 they'll reach the top, who succeed. I mean, you either know 
 it and do it, or you only think you know it till you find out 
 it isn't so, and then you give up. I'd never be content with 
 getting half-way." 
 
 "Too bad!" he mused. "Yet you're busy at something? You 
 look too prosperous not to be. And wonderfully pretty, 
 Dolf, d'you know?" 
 
 "Oh, one can't stand still," she laughed. "And of course 
 I immediately looked out for something else. I still mean 
 to have my career. So I became Fordham's confidential secre- 
 tary, Fordham of United Undertakings, you know. He's 
 a pretty big man, but when I was on the stage I met a good 
 many influential people. In fact there are one or two rather 
 attractive things in the wind, though of course they wouldn't 
 interest you. You've enough of your own. As a matter of 
 fact, I'm seeking a wider scope than Fordham can offer." 
 
 If his head had been made of glass she could not have read 
 his thoughts more easily. Fordham's confidential secretary 
 disengaged! Everyone knew Geoffrey Fordham, a big man 
 if ever there was one. Perfectly sure of herself, with that 
 easy way that got round people. And he felt none too well 
 at home in the new surroundings to which he had attained. 
 Why not? 
 
 He shifted uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "I s'pose you're quite on good terms with gentry and so 
 on?" The hated word slipped out and he cursed under his 
 breath. "Now something you said about men of our class 
 it's true in a sense. I'm not small-minded. I'll own I've 
 defects. I've had no time for polish, as you know. I've had 
 to work. Now I'm a big man and it's not easy. How would
 
 242 DOLF 
 
 you like to be my confidential secretary at a larger salary 
 than Fordham gave you?" 
 
 Dolf drew little patterns with a smart umbrella. 
 
 "How much?" she drawled very carelessly, smiling straight 
 at him. 
 
 "Five hundred a year," he smiled back. "Of course we'd 
 throw in expenses. But it's business, mind. There'll be no 
 love-making nor nonsense. You'd have to work for it." 
 
 With an effort she controlled her expression. It is so dizzy 
 to feel your power if you are a girl. 
 
 "Shall we say six months on trial?" she queried tentatively. 
 "Then if we don't suit one another we'll say good-bye with* 
 out any broken bones. Thanks awfully, Tom. I'll love to 
 do my very best. When do I start?" 
 
 "To-morrow!" came the swift repy. The house telephone 
 burred and he broke off with the receiver to his ear. 
 
 "Who? Miss Sheba Garth? Show her up at once." 
 
 Curiously Dolf noted the change that came over him. He 
 seemed to swell with pride and importance. As she rose to 
 go a tall, dark, imperious-looking girl, expensively dressed 
 entered with an assured air almost of possession. Mr. Thomas 
 Wainwright, O.B.E., rose deferentially. 
 
 "Good-morning, Miss Sheba. How is Sir Julius? I was 
 just engaging my new secretary, but I've quite finished." 
 Then in an altered voice of dismissal he added briefly: 
 
 "That will be all, Miss Farmer. I shall see you at 9.30 
 a.m. to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Dolf wandered thoughtfully through Hanover Square into 
 Bond Street. The cheery sunshine of a bright autumn day 
 lent fictitious gaiety to a well-dressed shopping crowd. She 
 bought a bunch of violets, pinned them at her breast and 
 sauntered idly Piccadilly-ward. 
 
 "What I'm going to do," she mused, "only means starting 
 the same old round over again. It'll not be Tom, but it'll 
 be others. Thank heaven that Garth girl will keep Tom from 
 any nonsense. She's not his earl's daughter, but perhaps 
 she's the one he'll marry." She saw her reflection in a win- 
 dow and her faintly pathetic, still immature beauty exasper- 
 ated her. 
 
 "There are only two decent solutions of life for girls like 
 me, a figure like an ironing board and a face like a shovel, 
 or else marriage. And girls in my class can't marry out of 
 it. Even Tom, now, is above me. He's in with the Sir 
 Juliuses." Then the picture of herself as a hopeless aspirant 
 for the name of Wainwright tickled her fancy and she laughed, 
 for a moment forgetting the real emptiness of her disillusioned 
 heart. 
 
 Back in her Soho dwelling-place she put away the gown 
 of conquest and picked up the arrears of housekeeping. When 
 Guy came in at half-past seven he found a more festive meal 
 than usual and a bottle of red wine. 
 
 "Is it your birthday, Dolf, or what?" he queried with his 
 grave, considering smile. "Why this ghastly luxury?" 
 
 She stood up and smiled back. 
 
 "I've got a job. This is my celebration, and you're the dis- 
 tinguished guest. I'm a millionaire; I've been promised five 
 
 243
 
 244 DOLF 
 
 hundred a year on the strength of a big bluff. Say you're 
 pleased." 
 
 He leant against the mantel-piece and not a ripple of emo- 
 tion disturbed his face. 
 
 "Tell me," he said simply, after they had eaten. 
 
 She outlined her story, throwing in a brief biography of 
 Tom Wainwright. He nodded in silence. 
 
 "Then you'll be going away? You can't do your own house- 
 keeping and earn your living at the same time." 
 
 "Yes, Guy; I'll be going away," she said with difficult 
 calm. 
 
 "I think we're all square," he suggested still with his grave 
 smile. "I took care of you and then you took care of me 
 after I was ill." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose we end up square." And to herself she 
 added dumbly, miserably, "He loves someone he can't have, 
 who hurts him deliberately, and I love someone I can't have, 
 who hurts me unconsciously, so it must be about even." 
 
 "When shall you leave?" he asked. 
 
 "To-morrow. I shall miss you, Guy," she added with some- 
 thing like a break in her voice. Fortunately he would never 
 know how much. 
 
 "And I you, Dolf dear. You know that. And I'm awfully 
 sorry but I must go out now. We'll have another talk about 
 it when I come back." 
 
 But she had left before he returned. She could not have 
 endured a second parting. 
 
 She sent a note thanking him over and over again for his 
 kindness, spoke gratefully of the weeks they had spent to- 
 gether, and said she was sure they would meet again. She 
 meant as far as it lay in her power, never to see him any 
 more. 
 
 Dolf, betaking herself to two quiet rooms in the Russell 
 Square region, set herself to study Tom Wainwright, to be a 
 messenger preparing his social way before him, to be indis-
 
 DOLF 245 
 
 pensable. Early she realised that this implied a study of 
 Sheba Garth but that young woman presented few difficulties 
 to a pretty girl doomed to live by her wits. Sheba fell into 
 a very conventional category the spoilt daughter of an im- 
 pecunious baronet who lived largely by permitting his title to 
 adorn the prospectuses of companies and his personality to 
 shed lustre on boards of Directors. It became clear to Dolf 
 that Tom Wainwright had determined to marry Sheba, thus 
 making himself impregnable socially as he was financially. 
 Sheba merely toyed with him for lack of something better 
 to do; in the meantime his car was irreproachable and his 
 entertaining expensive. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom drove Dolf hard. She typed innumerable 
 letters, she made abstracts of minutes, she watched over his 
 appointments, she soothed angry visitors and delivered them 
 over to him lambs for the slaughter. She worked early and 
 late to make herself an integral part of his life. 
 
 Moreover she was a safety valve. In her presence he could 
 relax, and be his shameless plebeian self. 
 
 "Do I have braid on my dress trousers or not?" he would 
 ask helplessly. "Where did you tell me to get shirts made 
 the place that toff you knew went to. I don't see why I 
 shouldn't wear diamond studs. It isn't vulgar for me because 
 I can afford it." 
 
 "Yes, but it isn't done," she explained patiently. "Sir 
 Julius and Sheba wouldn't understand. That sort of person 
 thinks a lot of these small things." 
 
 "Miss Garth to you, please. By the way, Miss Garth is 
 the young lady I hope to marry. Be particularly careful 
 never to do anything to offend her. I couldn't overlook that." 
 
 Dolf nodded wisely. 
 
 "Right ho! Well, you'd be a good catch for her in some 
 ways. They're as poor as church mice, aren't they?" 
 
 "They were till I put Sir Julius onto Ethiopian Oil shares.
 
 246 DOLF 
 
 He made about fifty thousand out of them. Why are you 
 smiling?" 
 
 "Oh, at nothing." 
 
 One afternoon when he was away, Sheba Garth called at the 
 Amalgamated Stores office. She went up to Dolf's room and 
 sat contemptuously on a table swinging her legs. 
 
 "You knew Mr. Wainwright as a child, didn't you?" she be- 
 gan carelessly. "You both lived in some dreadful village 
 and your fathers kept little shops there. Isn't that right?" 
 
 Dolf propped her chin on her hands and stared unblink- 
 ingly at the visitor. 
 
 "I wonder what you want?" she said slowly. "Whatever it 
 is, you won't get it from me, Miss Garth. You'd better ask 
 Mr. Wainwright himself. I'm his secretary and my work 
 doesn't include discussing his private life." 
 
 Sheba Garth laughed. 
 
 "Aren't you rather a fool? You know you ought to marry 
 him yourself because you can supply just what he lacks. 
 You know he wants to marry me, and yet you play into my 
 hands. As a matter of fact I've had private inquiries made 
 and I know as much as you could tell me. You see, father's 
 quite well off now, and I'm not obliged to marry Mr. Wain- 
 wright. So to be quite frank, I shan't. I shall refuse him at 
 the dance he's giving next week. You'd better catch him on 
 the rebound. Well, I don't know why I trouble to tell you 
 all this. Cheerio!" 
 
 She slid from the table and strolled away. 
 
 That same day Tom invited Dolf to the dance in question. 
 "You'll be able to keep an eye on things and handle the 
 people for me," he explained. "Don't go just to enjoy your- 
 self. Keep Sir Julius in a good temper, if possible. He 
 rather fancies you, I believe." 
 
 Meantime, what Sheba Garth had said to her had been 
 drumming in her ears. "You know you ought to marry him
 
 DOLF 247 
 
 yourself; you can supply just what he lacks; better catch 
 him on the rebound." 
 
 Six months had elapsed since she had left Guy Senlake. 
 And though she still cared, it was a scar smarting to the touch 
 rather than an open wound. Pride had come to her aid, 
 and youth, and the instinct of self-preservation. 
 
 "Guy said we were grains of dust. What does it matter? 
 His sort never marries my sort or if they do it wrecks them, 
 and us. They live with us when we're young and pretty, 
 make our own men impossible by contrast, and then go their 
 way. If I married Tom it would be as fair for him as for 
 me. And if I don't marry someone like him I'll go under." 
 
 She counted the cost, wept bitterly, and emerged with a 
 heart steeled to be as relentless as fate. 
 
 The dance surprised her by its success. 
 
 How had Tom done it? There were some very unexpected 
 guests, and Dolf thought of him with new respect. 
 
 There are certain women, charming and fastidious in all 
 other respects, who will pay homage to any star, however 
 newly discovered, so long as it be in the ascendant. For this 
 reason, half-way through the evening Dolf encountered Sonia, 
 picking her way daintily through the crush supperward. 
 
 She was glorious as ever, yet faintly coarsened in some in- 
 definable way just perceptible to Dolf's practised eye. She 
 was dressed exquisitely and her auburn hair flamed a moment 
 across Dolf's vision before she disappeared, followed by several 
 men. She had not seen Dolf. 
 
 But something bitter and hard and inexorable had entered 
 into Dolf's soul. It was the one touch necessary to send her 
 in the now inevitable direction. 
 
 About a quarter of an hour later sbe came suddenly upon 
 Tom, alone in a corridor, white and collapsed, his self conceit 
 evaporated, his mind stunned. 
 
 She put a hand on his arm and looked at him pityingly.
 
 248 DOLF 
 
 After all, it seemed hard luck. He was well-meaning, he had 
 no vice in him, and to Sheba he had been child's play. 
 
 "Well," Dolf said, "what is it?" 
 
 There was almost tenderness in the curve of her mouth, 
 and so in sheer misery he put his trust in her. She was some- 
 one he could depend on, and after all she knew the worst 
 about him. He need never worry to deceive her. 
 
 "Sheba Garth turned me down. I wanted her, Dolf. 
 Daresay it serves me right for I can't say I loved her dearly. 
 But I'd set my heart on her, and I made her old fool of a 
 father. Now she laughs at me on the strength of the money 
 I put in his way. It's a bitter blow. I despise a man that 
 fails." 
 
 "Never mind, Tom," she said gently. "I don't think you 
 two would have got on. She hadn't much respect for you, 
 or anyone else. You want someone more sympathetic." 
 
 She was very near and very beautiful. He watched the 
 slow rise and fall of her breast almost fascinated. She did 
 not appear to notice. 
 
 "Like you," he said harshly at last. "You've suffered and 
 you understand. You're a girl from my own village and 
 I knew you as a little thing when you were frightened of your 
 father. You've grit in you for the way you came up here 
 and fought your own battles. Dolf, will you marry me?" 
 
 "So this," she thought, "is the great moment of my life! 
 and probably he doesn't care if I'm moral or immoral!" But 
 aloud she replied: 
 
 "Do you think you're sure this time, Tom? I haven't 
 led any sort of life that matters to any man who wants to 
 marry me. But do you want to, honestly? Aren't you per- 
 haps upset and not yourself?" 
 
 "No," he said doggedly, "I was mad, and now I'm sane. 
 Ill never have to pretend with you. You can tell me things 
 I'll need to know, you're pretty enough for a king on his 
 throne and I've enough money to do you justice. And we
 
 DOLF 249 
 
 respect one another and that's nine-tenths of marriage. I 
 love you quite a lot and I don't suppose you actually hate 
 me. Are you willing, Dolf?" 
 
 She bowed her head. 
 
 "If you're quite, quite sure, Tom. And if you're prepared 
 to settle an income on me so that I needn't ask you for every 
 penny. I couldn't do that." 
 
 For a moment he eyed her in surprise. Then a smile 
 broke over his face. She had appealed to his business in- 
 stinct. He took her face between his pudgy hands and kissed 
 her lingeringly. 
 
 A faint sound broke upon them, causing them to spring 
 apart. 
 
 Sonia was passing, alone. 
 
 Dolf glanced swiftly, commandingly at Tom, and he under- 
 stood. Taking Dolf's hand, he drew her in Sonia's pathway. 
 
 "Miss Farmer has just honoured me by saying she'll marry 
 me," he said, between pride and defiance. 
 
 Sonia's face changed; the mocking contempt with which 
 she had eyed Dolf gave way to amazement in which was a 
 tinge of respect. For a shop-girl is one thing, but a million- 
 aire's wife is another. 
 
 She bowed ironically. 
 
 "Then I am the first to congratulate you, Mr. Wainwright?" 
 And she extended her hand, which he shook eagerly, obse- 
 quiously. 
 
 About a week later Dolf sat white and rigid in the new 
 little flat Tom had insisted on finding for her. She was living 
 now alone with the reality of her situation. 
 
 Henceforward nothing mattered. She need take no thought 
 for the morrow, since he would provide for an eternity of to- 
 morrows. She need never again struggle for a livelihood nor 
 flee from the pursuit of men, because his protection com- 
 passed her about like a wall of triple brass. The old excite- 
 ment of living had ceased forever, because there would be no
 
 DOLF 
 
 longer anything to get excited about. There would never be 
 any more of those charming, attractive, impermanent men from 
 a world other than hers. 
 
 On the other hand she had won security. When her looks 
 waned she would have just as much claim on Tom Wainwright 
 as in the days of her beauty. She would belong to the great 
 trades union of the Married Women, and help to enforce 
 conventions. 
 
 Surely this was luck? 
 
 A great sob rose in her throat, choking her. But she had 
 done too much crying already and Tom would notice when 
 he came to take her out. Therefore she bathed her eyes and 
 got into an evening gown. 
 
 She had finished dressing when her doorbell rang. 
 
 She opened the door to Senlake. 
 
 In his eyes shone the ineffable call of a man to a girl. He 
 dominated her so that she drew back trembling. But he paid 
 no heed. 
 
 "You know, don't you," he said quietly, "that this can't go 
 on?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You know what I mean, Dolf. I want to marry you. You 
 can't marry him. Do you remember the things you said about 
 him?" 
 
 Dolf motioned him into the sitting room, sat down and 
 explained wearily: 
 
 "You're ever so much more attractive, Guy, and you know 
 it. And I know it. But also you don't know what you want. 
 You love me, and you love the woman who was your wife. 
 You can't make up your mind between her and me. I could 
 never depend on you. Your head would always be half turned 
 away, looking back. And Tom, for all his faults and lack 
 of charm, is dependable. He'll never turn away from me. I 
 shall have something of my own, no one else's a man to 
 lean on, an honest unshakable man. I don't know how you
 
 DOLF 251 
 
 found out we were engaged, but I do ask you to leave me in 
 peace. You see I'm so so fond of you, I'll never have any 
 peace so long as I can see you and talk to you." 
 
 He stood perfectly still and answered: 
 
 "She told me Sonia." 
 
 "Oh? Yes, she was the first to congratulate us." 
 
 Senlake, a lonely detached figure, fought his battle for hap- 
 piness with the forlorn courage of one without hope. 
 
 "Dolf, that day when Sonia came to Gosport Street you 
 remember? she saw your photograph, and guessed every- 
 thing. By everything I mean of course more than there was, 
 about you and me. And she told me of your visit to Pont 
 Street." 
 
 "Oh!" said Dolf very low, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "That was how I knew I ceased to love her. I saw her as 
 she really is. I saw myself as I'd really been. I used to 
 think I'd seen it always, but I hadn't. And I saw something 
 else." 
 
 He came forward and took her hand. She gazed up at him, 
 ghastly pale. 
 
 "I knew then it was you I loved, Dolf. I didn't tell you, 
 because I'd wanted you as other men have, just to forget, to 
 soothe the ache of my heart, to be at rest; just for my sake, 
 not for yours. And then, when I knew I loved you, you be- 
 came the littlest thing, to be adored and taken care of. So 
 I wanted to wait a little and root out the memory of my sheer 
 blind passion. It seemed the only decent thing." 
 
 "But were you so sure I loved you back, Guy?" 
 
 He laughed softly, triumphantly. 
 
 "Do you remember when I was ill, and you knelt down be- 
 side me because I couldn't go to you, and put your head 
 against mine? We can lie to one another in words, Dolf 
 darling, but the touch of someone whom you really love, who 
 loves you back, can't lie. That's how I know. And that's 
 how I'll tell you, if you'll let me."
 
 252 DOLF 
 
 He gathered her to him, and bent his head so that her 
 cheek rested against his. She knew it was heaven to be held 
 so, very gently and tenderly, and the meaning of love drifted 
 into her soul; gentleness, protection, a safe refuge, encom- 
 passing arms. Love meant more than sanctified passion; it 
 jmplied someone who would rather give up to you than attain 
 something for himself. 
 
 How could you ever be weary or disappointed if someone 
 loved you better than himself? 
 
 Perfect peace stole over her and she lifted her arms and 
 put them around his neck because all her body seemed very 
 tired, but her heart sang for joy. 
 
 "I love you," she said. "You know I could never love any- 
 one else. I was silly to ask if you knew, but I'm so happy I 
 don't mind. You won't let Tom be angry because I'm going to 
 you, will you, Guy? Darling, I love saying your name over 
 and over again. And we'll be such wonderful lovers, and 
 I'll do everything for you, and no other woman shall ever 
 come near you. I think I'd kill her if she did." 
 
 He lifted her face and looked straight into her eyes. 
 
 "I've nothing to offer you except me," he murmured, "but 
 you'll make me do such great things it hardly matters. You 
 shall have gold bracelets for your beautiful arms, slave brace- 
 lets for love, and pearls for your adorable throat. But first 
 I'll kiss you, because you're mine." 
 
 She lifted her most wonderful mouth. He kissed her 
 gently, cruelly, ineffably, so that she would willingly have 
 died rather than it should end, and she knew that they had 
 always been lovers from the very beginning of the world. 
 
 THE END
 
 A 000120095