BIRDS 
 FOUNTAIN 
 
 BETTINA VON HUTTEN
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 UNIT. OP CAUF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 BY 
 
 BETTINA VON HUTTEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "MARIA," "SHARROW," "PAM," ETC. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 NEW YORK 1915
 
 COPYBIGHT, 1915, BY 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 2130426
 
 PART I
 
 THE beautiful Mrs. Cloudesley Dorset was having 
 her afternoon rest. 
 
 This rite was performed between the hours 
 of three and five, and the members of the household 
 knew that any interruption occasioned by less than 
 a sudden death, or a fire, would be regarded and 
 punished almost as a sacrilege. 
 
 The temple dedicated to the cult of her beauty that 
 may almost be described as the lady's religion was 
 called the Gray Room. 
 
 It was a small room at the back of the house on the 
 third floor, and over it was an empty one, perfect 
 quiet being thus insured to it. The fact that keeping 
 the overhead room empty necessitated the sleeping 
 together, in a place scarcely larger than a cupboard, 
 of Annie Archbold, head parlormaid, and Cissy Kelly, 
 head housemaid, had not troubled the lady whose hus- 
 band paid these hirelings their wages. 
 
 She had merely thought it lucky that the hirelings 
 were friends, so that they presumably didn't mind. 
 
 The Gray Room had a large window of dove-colored
 
 glass, the thick curtain to which, hung from a box- 
 shaped frame to insure the entrance of fresh air, was 
 of dull black silk. 
 
 The unpolished ebony bed, which stood in the middle 
 of the room, its head towards the window, was also 
 hung with black silk curtains so draped on movable 
 ebony arms that they could be arranged in many ways, 
 according to its inmate's wish. 
 
 The carpet was gray, as thick, as soft to the foot 
 as moss in a damp woodland place, and the fireplace 
 was of plain gray marble. 
 
 There was in the quiet room no clock, no books, and 
 only one table; there were no pictures, no mirrors, no 
 flowers. 
 
 On the table was spread, over the gray velvet cover, 
 a white linen cloth, and on it stood a business-like array 
 of fat jars and bottles, brushes, and motley folded 
 cloths of various kinds. 
 
 There were also three glass basins of various sizes, 
 and an electric battery. 
 
 On either side of the bed stood a low, armless chair 
 with a black upholstered seat and back. 
 
 The place was, as I have said, a temple. It was 
 also a workshop. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset lay on her right side, her long reddish 
 hair, which had had its brushing, loosely plaited. She 
 had only one pillow, and her nightgown was of white
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 crepe-de-chine and quite simple. Its long sleeves were 
 unusual in that they were buttoned from the wrist 
 to the shoulders with smooth, flat buttons. 
 
 Her left hand, as she lay with a pad of wet cotton- 
 wool over her eyes, rested on a little pillow on the knees 
 of Clementine. 
 
 Clementine wore a loose gray cashmere gown and 
 over it an unstarched linen pinafore. 
 
 Beside her on a low stool was arranged all that was 
 necessary for her work of manicuring her mistress. 
 The silence in the room was so intense as to seem a 
 tangible thing ; it was like a veil, or a thick soft fabric. 
 
 The little click of the scissors or her other instru- 
 ments, sounded to the noiselessly busy woman like 
 loud bangs, and as one occurred she glanced at her 
 mistress's beautiful mouth to see if the sound had dis- 
 turbed her. Mrs. Dorset did not move; she was an 
 artist in resting, and as she lay there her mind was 
 as nearly a blank as a waking mind can be. 
 
 She was dining out that night, so her afternoon 
 drive should be a solitary one. She was going to a 
 ball, and her frock, a masterpiece of Worths' arrived 
 from Paris that morning, was perfection. Archie Hood 
 was to be at the ball. 
 
 The knowledge of these things lay at the back of 
 her brain, but her brain was not busy with them; her 
 brain, as well as her body, was resting. 
 
 5
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Clementine rose, restored the manicure things to 
 their place amongst the bottles on the table, and open- 
 ing a masked door, disappeared for a moment. When 
 she came back, brushing her newly washed hands lightly 
 together, she filled one of the flat little glass basins 
 with a sweet-smelling amber-colored oil, and began a 
 curious, gentle, soothing massage. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset was a very small, very slight woman 
 with beautiful limbs best described as gracile. Her 
 little pink feet were exquisite, but no bigger than those 
 of an average child of ten. When the maid unbuttoned 
 the nightgown sleeves, leaving them folded back like 
 wings, the little lady looked like an exquisite statuette. 
 Clementine, a broad, big-boned Norman, with flat round 
 nostrils and a mustache, worked quietly on, her sooth- 
 ing, oily, fragrant hands as delicate as butterflies. 
 She was, and with reason, proud of her touch, much 
 as a musician may be proud of his. Presently she 
 rose quietly and seated herself on the other side of the 
 bed. 
 
 Without a word Mrs. Dorset changed her position 
 slightly and again lay quiet, half asleep under the 
 blandishment of those large hands. 
 
 Clementine wore a watch, and when an hour had 
 passed she rose, washed her hands once more, and 
 changed the bandage on her mistress's eyes for a cool, 
 newly soaked one. 
 
 6
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The large full eyelids with their very long fair lashes 
 did not flutter as they were uncovered; the beautiful 
 Mrs. Dorset was nearly asleep. 
 
 Clementine watched her for a moment as she moist- 
 ened her hands afresh, this time with a mixture of 
 spirits of wine and rose scent, and her gaunt face was 
 very tender. 
 
 Then, again sitting down, she began the last step 
 of putting her charge to sleep. 
 
 She took a little rosy foot on her lap and stroked 
 it, slowly and lightly, two of her great fingers almost 
 covering it as she did so. Round the arch, under 
 the sole, over the pink toes, in a quiet arabesque of 
 hypnotic movement. Five minutes passed, and ten, and 
 slower and slower went the fingers. Clementine's own 
 eyes closed once or twice, so quiet was the room, so 
 drowsy the motion of her own hand. 
 
 Half an hour passed, and then she rose and disap- 
 peared as silently as a melting snow wreath. The 
 beautiful Mrs. Dorset was asleep.
 
 II 
 
 MAJOR MARCHINGTON thoughtfully stroked 
 his out-of-date gray mustache. 
 
 "What'd you say her name is?" he asked. 
 
 Lady Barbara Questingham repeated the name. 
 
 "Mrs. Dorset. Her husband is a son of old Charles 
 Frederick Dorset, the V.C." 
 
 "Bless my soul! Not Cloudesley Dorset?" 
 
 "Cloudesley Dorset. Why, do you know him?" 
 
 The old lady looked eagerly at her companion. 
 
 "Known him ever since he was six years old, though 
 I haven't seen him twenty times in as many years. 
 When he was sent home from India at that age, I was 
 coming back on leave to be married." 
 
 "Dear me, I never knew you had been married, Major 
 Marchington." 
 
 "I haven't much. However this fellow, then in 
 bare legs and sailor-suits, was on board." After a 
 pause he added, "What's he like now?" 
 
 Lady Barbara hesitated. "Large dull and very 
 rich." 
 
 "A good fellow?" 
 
 8
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I don't know I rarely see him. He's a silent, heavy 
 creature. Not at all in my line or yours." 
 
 "Ha. She is very beautiful." 
 
 "Isn't she?" 
 
 "Brains?" 
 
 Lady Barbara laughed. "Oh, dear, no. Absolutely 
 none. I believe she pretends to read philosophy and 
 poetry you know the type." 
 
 The two old people were silent for a while in their 
 corner of a duchess's ballroom, where they were re- 
 newing a friendly tie broken ten years before when 
 the Major had gone to China and India. He had been 
 back twice, but on one occasion had stayed only a fort- 
 night and then moved on to America, and Lady Bar- 
 bara had missed him altogether on his other visit home, 
 she being very ill at the time. 
 
 So there was much to be explained, many broken 
 threads to be knotted, a great deal of stale and fresh 
 gossip to be set forth for each other's delectation. They 
 were having a pleasant evening, for although they had 
 never got to the Christian name stage of intimacy they 
 had always had much in common. They were both 
 gifted gossips, not unamiable spyers out of other peo- 
 ple's weaknesses and sins, and they were bound by the 
 same code as to what, in the pursuit of such amuse- 
 ment, was permissible. 
 
 Also they both liked good food and plenty of it, 
 
 9
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 and had no old-fashioned ideas on the subject of early 
 to bed and early to rise. 
 
 They liked late, very late, breakfasts, slow, elaborate 
 hot luncheons, drowsy afternoons in drawing-rooms, 
 and much rich food at night. 
 
 They were delighted to be together. 
 
 After his companion's last remark the old man sat 
 in silence for a moment. 
 
 The beautiful Mrs. Dorset, as fresh after her long 
 rest as a girl of eighteen, was waltzing. 
 
 She wore green, the green of the youngest and 
 tenderest of lily-of-the-valley leaves, and round her 
 delicate, long throat hung a rope of pearls. 
 
 She danced like an angel, her tiny green satin 
 feet skimming over the shining floor like gay little 
 birds. 
 
 "It is not mere prettiness," the Major declared at 
 last. "It is great beauty on a very small scale." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "And, rare as great beauty is," pursued the old 
 man, "there is an even more unusual thing about her. 
 She really loves dancing." 
 
 "All pretty women love dancing there's an element 
 of danger about it that they enjoy even when they 
 don't recognize it " 
 
 "Dear Lady Barbara, all pretty women do not love 
 dancing, nor all young men, either ! Look at the faces 
 
 10
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 of these people as they pass us. Nine out of ten 
 are busy doing their best. That isn't loving a thing! 
 And many of them are suffering from the heart, or the 
 exercise, or tight shoes, or indigestion 
 
 The old lady laughed, her soft fat neck, as thickly 
 powdered as a new-baked cake, shaking in loose little 
 billows. 
 
 "What a horrid thought indigestion at a duchess's 
 dance?" 
 
 "Horrid but true. I know. I myself was once a 
 dancing man, but in my secret soul I loathed it. The 
 only thing that made it worth while was, saving your 
 presence, the privilege it conferred of putting my arm 
 about pretty waists and gazing into pretty eyes at 
 a closer range than was usually allowed. However, 
 this little beauty, as I said, loves dancing for dancing's 
 sake. Look at her!" 
 
 As he spoke Mrs. Dorset approached them, waltzing 
 with a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man with narrow 
 hips and thin feet. 
 
 He danced as well as she, and they looked supremely 
 happy. 
 
 Her close-coiffed head, the not too elaborately waved 
 hair packed neatly into a small coil and bound with 
 a wreath of very delicate green leaves this was before 
 the days when ladies wore surgical bandages by way 
 of head-dress had fallen back a little. Her eyes were 
 
 11
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 half-closed, and her clean-cut bright pink mouth curved 
 in a faint smile. 
 
 "By Gad, how well they dance together," exclaimed 
 the old Major. 
 
 "They ought to," was Lady Barbara's dry rejoinder. 
 
 He glanced sharply at her. "Why?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, the powdered skin cur- 
 dling at the movement. 
 
 "It's Archie Hood." 
 
 The waltz ended, and a hubbub of voices made talk- 
 ing a more difficult matter, but Marchington insisted 
 on an answer. 
 
 "Well Archie Hood who is he, and what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 Lady Barbara rose. "It is supper time, my dear 
 friend, and I am ravenous. Convey me to the costly 
 viands." 
 
 He conveyed her, and when she was pleasantly busy 
 with the costly viands he went back to the subject. 
 
 "Now tell me about Archie Hood. Who is he and 
 what?" 
 
 "I believe you have lost your heart to her !" 
 
 "I have. Shall I, such being the case, find it incum- 
 bent on me to shoot Archie Hood?" 
 
 She ruminated with mock solemnity, her wrinkled old 
 eyelids, like those of a sleepy crocodile, crumpling curi- 
 ously as she looked at him.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I shouldn't think," she declared at last, "that it 
 would be necessary to shoot him, but " 
 
 "But " 
 
 "You might give him a piece of your mind for the 
 way he is behaving about her." 
 
 "I see. It's as bad as that, then?" 
 
 "Oh, obviously. If you hadn't been gallivanting in 
 the effete Orient you'd have seen it long ago. Been 
 going on for months. Odd you've never seen her 
 before." 
 
 "I have once or twice at the opera, and at some 
 picture show, but I didn't know who she was. As a 
 matter of fact I'd got it into my head that she was one 
 of Lady Jerningham's girls." 
 
 Lady Barbara burst out laughing. "I wish Ursula 
 Jerningham could hear you say that! Why, my dear 
 man, Amy Dorset is thirty-five years old !" 
 
 The old man started. "Impossible !" 
 
 "I know it's impossible, but it's true." 
 
 "But she looks twenty." 
 
 "Not to the female eye. To that penetrating organ 
 she looks at her worst, thirty, and at her best, like 
 tonight, five and twenty." 
 
 "Thirty-five," murmured the old man, "thirty-five!" 
 
 "Aye. Isn't she amazing?" 
 
 "She is indeed. Who was she?" 
 
 "Here's another surprise for you, my poor Romeo. 
 
 13
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She was nobody. Absolutely nobody! I believe her 
 father was a solicitor or doctor or something somewhere 
 in Gloucestershire. If you can so far recover yourself, 
 I wish you'd give me some more champagne." 
 
 Major Marchington filled both their glasses and 
 emptied his at a draft. 
 
 "I see. And now tell me about Hood." 
 
 "Oh, he's all right. He's one of the Bagworthy 
 Hoods, a cousin or something. He is mad about this 
 little creature. Aha," she added with much satisfac- 
 tion, "there they are." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset and Captain Hood had threaded their 
 way through the crowd of tables and sat down at one 
 nearby. Major Marchington moved his chair slightly 
 so that he could see them. In the presence of great 
 beauty or charm this old gentleman felt as a crippled 
 man must feel when looking on at a game in which he 
 himself once excelled. 
 
 Captain Hood was making love to the lady opposite 
 him discreetly, but, to the initiated, unmistakably 
 making love. 
 
 And she, her beautifully shaped little head turned 
 away, her eyes absently scanning the people near 
 her, was, the old man perceived, listening with pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 "Her hair is dyed, you know," said Lady Barbara, 
 pleasantly, "and her lashes are really quite fair." 
 
 14
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Marchington laughed, not quite so pleasantly. 
 
 "I suppose a former maid of hers told your 
 
 maid " 
 
 "Yes," returned the old woman, stoutly, "she did."
 
 ni 
 
 YOU know perfectly well what I mean," Captain 
 Hood was saying, his dark eyes fixed on the 
 carefully controlled face of his companion. 
 
 She laughed. "Everybody on earth means a given 
 thing in given circumstances," she answered with a little 
 air of saying something clever. 
 
 "Don't talk philosophy." 
 
 She raised her delicately penciled eyebrows. "My 
 dear Captain Hood!" 
 
 "Well, then, ethics or whatever you call it. I'm no 
 match for you at talk, and I know it." 
 
 Her upper lip, one of the prettiest upper lips that 
 was, so to speak, in the public eye for the moment, 
 curled up in a delicious way, and a little dimple ap- 
 peared in either cheek. She laughed again, but his 
 tio^mge flattered her. 
 
 "You are a ridiculous being," she said, "and you are 
 interrupting my supper. Look, there's old Barbara 
 Questingham. Nasty old woman, I hate her." 
 
 "She's of no consequence. Amy " 
 
 "My name is Mrs. Dorset." 
 
 16
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She was enjoying herself with all the zest, not of a 
 cat, perhaps, but certainly of a kitten; he was her 
 latest capture, her little mouse, and her soft paw dealt 
 him blows that hurt. Perhaps, one day, she would 
 scratch him. Who could tell? 
 
 To him the situation showed itself in a different 
 aspect. He was a wolf, a predatory, sharp-toothed 
 wolf, and she was a delicious, juicy white lamb. 
 
 For the moment she was protected by the presence of 
 the flock, but he meant the day to come when he 
 should enjoy crunching her wee bones. 
 
 He drew his stolen sheep skin closer round him, and 
 smiled, hiding his teeth. 
 
 "You are cruel," he sighed ; "you like to hurt me !" 
 
 And so limited was the extent to which her brain 
 was trained to observation and understanding, that this 
 crude and moss-grown tribute pleased her. 
 
 Opening her big gray eyes very wide indeed, the 
 painted lashes casting a shadow on her cheeks as she 
 did so, she gazed at him reproachfully. 
 
 "If you are going to say things like that I shan't 
 like you." 
 
 "Like me ! But do you like me ? Do you like me at 
 all ever so little?" 
 
 Seeing Lady Barbara's eyes fixed on her with mali- 
 cious enjoyment, Mrs. Dorset laughed gayly. 
 
 "You waltz better than anyone I ever met except 
 
 17
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 a youth at the American Embassy, and he must have 
 been the Nijinski of the Heavenly Ballet, dropped 
 through a hole in the sky." 
 
 "That young man means mischief," observed March- 
 ington. "What kind of a fellow is Dorset?" 
 
 "I told you I didn't know except that he's dull. 
 As to Archie Hood, of course he means mischief. It is 
 what he was born for, and thus far he has justified his 
 existence." 
 
 "But doesn't Dorset come with her to these balls 
 and things?" 
 
 Lady Barbara gobbled a little yellow cake before she 
 answered. 
 
 "Oh, yes, he comes to them, but he also goes away 
 from them. He brought her tonight. I saw him." 
 
 "Who'll take her home?" 
 
 "No one, she'll go alone, in her impeccable Daimler. 
 Oh, she's very prudent, my dear Major. She's a little 
 baggage, but she's technically as impeccable as her 
 motor car." 
 
 "Prudent?" 
 
 "Yes, and cold-blooded. If she had a brain I should 
 call her a cerebral coquette, but she has no brain. Her 
 little head is stuffed with powder-puffs." 
 
 At the other table things were becoming tense, for 
 in spite of his having a definite line of campaign Archie 
 Hood was in earnest. He was violently in love with 
 
 18
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 the lamb he intended to devour. Also, he considered 
 that he had been trifled with about long enough. 
 
 "But I have something to tell you," he said sharply, 
 his dark, handsome face flushed, his slightly overred 
 lower lip thrust out. 
 
 "Tell me now." 
 
 "I can't. You can quite well tell your man you art 
 out, tomorrow afternoon " 
 
 "Then he wouldn't let you in," she teased. 
 
 "I mean you can tell him after I've got there." 
 
 "I can. But I won't!" 
 
 She rose. "Let's go upstairs. I want to dance." 
 
 Without a word he followed her, and they went back 
 to the ballroom in silence. At the door she turned to 
 speak, but to her surprise he bowed ceremoniously and 
 left her. 
 
 It was a primitive move, but it is always a safe one, 
 and in Amy Dorset's case it chanced to be peculiarly 
 effective. It had never happened to her before! 
 
 For a moment she stood staring after the only man 
 who had ever so treated her, her face paling under the 
 artistically applied color, and seeming to solidify into 
 a look of maturity unusual to it. Then, as a man ap- 
 proached, she threw back her head, smiled and said to 
 him, "Willy, will you dance with me?" 
 
 Willy Addison-Gore, an elderly and very dull relative 
 of her husband, was enchanted. 
 
 19
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Will I? Try me. But why this favor?" 
 
 "I don't know I'd always dance with you if you 
 asked me " 
 
 Willy Addison-Gore was dull, but he was no fool like 
 so many dull people, notwithstanding the contrary 
 judgment of the bored. 
 
 "Nonsense, Amy," he panted as he capered about 
 under the impression that he was waltzing. "You know 
 I stopped asking you because you always threw me 
 over " 
 
 At this juncture, Lady Barbara and her old squire 
 entered the room, and the lady broke into an unusual 
 feminine ejaculation. 
 
 "God bless my soul," she cried, "she's dancing with 
 WiUy Addison-Gore !" 
 
 "And why shouldn't she?" 
 
 "Look at him and you'll see why she shouldn't 
 and doesn't! I've never seen her dance with him be- 
 fore." 
 
 "He is pretty rotten," commented the Major with 
 the delicacy of language that distinguished his as a 
 nation. 
 
 Lady Barbara sat down and arranged on her bodice 
 the priceless laces that might have been placed a little 
 higher. 
 
 "She must," she declared with satisfaction, "have 
 had a row with Archie Hood." 
 
 20
 
 IV 
 
 LETTER NO. 1 
 
 Wednesday 
 MOST BEAUTIFUL: 
 
 Your letter has just come. God bless you for sending it. 
 I have had a frightful night I hope you may never have 
 one like it. I was a brute and a swine, and I ask your 
 pardon in spite of your angelic letter. 
 
 It is absurd that you should beg my pardon, no matter 
 what you did to me, but as you ask it, O Lili-Lady, I give 
 it to you on my knees. But one thing I cannot do I 
 cannot come to see you. 
 
 I need not apologize for not coming, for I know only too 
 well that you asked me only out of the kindness of your 
 gracious heart, and I will not tell you why I am not coming. 
 
 You would be angry if I did tell you. I shall go abroad 
 in a few days for six weeks. My sister the one who 
 married the Austrian wants me to look her up and inspect 
 her new son, and it will be well for me to get out of Eng- 
 land for a time. 
 
 If you don't understand why, well and good. If you do, 
 try to pity me a little. 
 
 Perhaps you won't mind, just for once, my signing 
 myself 
 
 Your devoted 
 
 ARCHIE HOOD.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 LETTER NO. 2 
 
 Wednesday 
 DEAR BBRTL: 
 
 Of course I shall be at home to tea 'today if there's 
 any chance of your blowing in. 
 
 I don't believe your lovely nose is peeling and that you're 
 covered with river freckles, but even if you're telling the 
 truth, J don't regret our outing. Hope Kitty Southey didn't 
 see us, but if she did she won't dare tell, will she? 
 
 Tout a toi, 
 
 ARCHIE. 
 
 LETTER NO. 3 
 
 ALYS, MY DEAREST: 
 
 Of course I haven't forgotten you. I have been driven 
 to death by all sorts of tiresome people and things or I 
 should have called you up days ago. 
 
 I dreamt about you last night, my splendid Juno, but I'll 
 not tell you the dream. 
 
 Goose, how can you bother about anyone, since the other 
 evening ? 
 
 If you only knew how immaturity bores me! I always 
 think a beautiful woman is at her best between thirty-five 
 and forty. 
 
 As to the other lady you wrote about who on earth told 
 you such a lie ? 
 
 I hardly know her we dance together sometimes, but I've 
 never even seen the woman alone. This, to console you, 
 on my honor. 
 
 Besides have you ever seen her ? Pretty, of course, but 
 no bigger than the statuette on your writing-table, and you 
 know my taste ! 
 
 Darling, I can't come this evening have to dine with my
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 aunt, and take her to a play. Tomorrow, too, I'm tied up. 
 But on Monday, if you are free, we might go say to Rich- 
 mond Park and then come back and dine? I am longing 
 to see you. All my love, and don't be a jealous, silly 
 darling. 
 
 ARCHIE. 
 
 LETTER NO. 4 
 
 Wednesday 
 DEAR VERA, 
 
 Sorry, but I can't lunch or dine for at least a fortnight. 
 Full up. Hope you are better. For heaven's sake try not 
 to fuss. We might both be very grateful for the happy 
 times we have had. I never reproach you, do I ? Bless you, 
 dear. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 A. M. H. 
 
 LETTER NO. 5 
 
 Wednesday 
 KIDDIE DEAR, 
 
 Let's go on the river tomorrow. Meet me at Pad at 
 eleven and arrange to dine as well. So you saw me the 
 other day "with a fat middle-aged woman with dyed hair 
 and big pearls"? 
 
 You did. Do you mind my being kind to old ladies, you 
 wee loon? 
 
 You being only seventeen, I can tell you with safety of 
 my theory that all women ought to be painlessly put to 
 death at eight-and-twenty. 
 
 If only you knew how I loathe fat and rouge and 
 le reste. Well, my sweet, meet me at Pad at eleven tomor- 
 row. Until then all my love. 
 
 ARCHIE-P ARCHIE. 
 23
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 LETTER NO. 6 
 
 DEAR GERALD, 
 
 I roared over your letter. It must have been a scream. 
 Women are funny things up to jealousy point, at which 
 they become more damnably boring than the worst male 
 bore that ever lived. 
 
 As to me, Vera is pestering as usual. The girl has no 
 sense at all, and I shall soon have to send her letters back 
 unopened. I've treated her jolly well, too. 
 
 You remember my telling you about my mature charmer 
 husband in China, or something fat, fair, and forty- 
 odd whom I met on the Marmora? I'm worried about 
 her, she's getting so infernally sentimental. Heaven pre- 
 serve me from overripe passion. She's got some letters I'd 
 give something to have back, too. I'm a bit of a fool, you 
 know, and she had a certain charm in spite of her age ! 
 
 That's the worst of a P. & O., one always gets involved 
 with someone, and this one was a Venus compared with the 
 other women on board. There never was such a lot of 
 pelicans on a single boat, since the world began. However, 
 I daresay it'll be all right, and Millipede is a treasure. 
 I tell you that fellow's skill with women is nothing less than 
 marvelous. I couldn't live without him, but he's wasted as 
 a valet, he ought to be an ambassador. 
 
 I have a new flamelet since I saw you, by the bye. A 
 lovely kid of seventeen. Hair just up, freckles. She's the 
 rummest little mixture of ignorance and knowingness that 
 one could meet. Perfectly all right, you understand a 
 lady. Amusing to hear her views and wonder how she'll 
 turn out. 
 
 At present, she adores me and tells me so. She also be- 
 lieves in free love, the baby ! 
 
 I shan't see too much of her, I might lose my head.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 This is a rotten letter, all about women. 
 
 Oh, there isn't a word of truth in what you were told 
 about Mrs. D. 
 
 I admire her tremendously don't you? but she's not 
 at all my type, and as to my being in love with her, dear 
 old chap, you needn't worry! 
 
 I saw the pater last week and his frame of mind is most 
 unsatisfactory. He has a rooted antipathy to debts, and 
 can't understand my partiality for them. 
 
 Also, he objects to my being what he calls a roue. This 
 old-fashioned word reminds one of Crawford! Isn't he 
 odd ? I asked him what he'd do if I gambled like you, and 
 he had the bad taste to say he'd prefer me to have any vice 
 rather than that of indiscriminate immorality. Oh Lord ! 
 
 Well, old man, good-bye for today. Write soon. 
 
 ARCHIE.
 
 MR. ROLAND IMMENHAM, his umbrella pro- 
 tecting him from the driving rain, stood at 
 Stanhope Gate at three o'clock. 
 
 He was a handsome, portly man with a nose rather 
 like Lord Haldane's, and a somewhat Napoleonic eye. 
 
 He was well dressed in dark, perfectly cut clothes, 
 and his doeskin gloves were of the exact degree of 
 shabbiness that, paradoxically, was, for the moment, 
 smart. 
 
 No man likes to stand in a chilly rainstorm with his 
 feet in muddy patent-leather boots, and Mr. Immen- 
 ham's distinguished features wore an expression less 
 urbane than was their wont. He was of indoor habits 
 and preferred comfort to nature in practice, though 
 theoretically he was devoted to mountains. 
 
 And the rain beat down on him with what seemed 
 to him a cruel persistency ; buses roared past, poisoning 
 the air and shaking the earth with their hideous per- 
 sonalities. 
 
 Immenham, who lived in Park Lane, bitterly resented 
 the invasion of that moneyed thoroughfare by the 
 
 26
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 plebeian vehicles. He hated the crowds of common 
 people who stood in groups awaiting the snorting, bad- 
 smelling, vociferous pests; he hated the ambulatory 
 advertisements that debased the view from the windows 
 of Number 875; he resented the ruin of the roadway 
 that defied even the springs of the most luxurious pri- 
 vate cars. 
 
 He was, in fact, an aristocrat to his marrow, and 
 should have lived in the feudal days when the lower 
 orders could be imprisoned or even hanged with so much 
 less trouble than they can be fined five shillings now. 
 
 "Hello, Immenham !" A tall, thin man with a humor- 
 ously wrinkled face had come through the gate. "This 
 looks romantic waiting for someone, eh?'* 
 
 "Oh no," the elder man returned, sardonically, "I am 
 standing here in this damned rain just for fun it's a 
 hobby !" 
 
 "Well they say rain's good for the complexion. Is 
 Mrs. Dorset at home, do you happen to know?" 
 
 "I left there half an hour ago, and she was in 
 then. I can't tell you where she may be by this time. 
 Why?" 
 
 "Hood asked me to leave a note for her, that's all." 
 
 "M-m. Aren't you going to see Miss Archbold?" 
 
 The other man laughed. "Not today, dear old chap, 
 I say, I'm inclined to think Hood is rather keen about 
 Mrs. D. What?" 
 
 27
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Immenham frowned slightly. "I don't much care 
 about discussing women, you know," he said. 
 
 "Of course of course. But well, from something 
 he said to me last night I fancied it might be serious 
 this time." 
 
 "I dislike Captain Hood," returned Immenham 
 curtly, shifting his umbrella as a gust of wind sent 
 what seemed a small waterfall down the back of his neck. 
 
 The other man laughed. "He's not such a bad sort 
 if you know him well. Bit of a petticoat-chaser, of 
 course, but then the women do their full share of the 
 chasing. Devilish good-looking chap he is, you know." 
 
 "Yes, he's not bad-looking. His father told Charles 
 Corby the other day that he was breaking his heart." 
 
 "Oh, the old man's a prig and close-fisted. Whereas 
 Archie-Parchie, as Lord Clanroberts' fourth girl calls 
 him, is at least generous. You've heard about that 
 little actress, Vera Pomeroy? He gave her a thousand 
 quid down when they parted a fortune for a girl like 
 that. Damned ungrateful little swine, too. Pesters 
 the life out of him still." 
 
 Immenham looked at the speaker with something like 
 contempt in his fine eyes. "You seem to be very inti- 
 mate with Captain Hood," he observed coldly. 
 
 "I am. I believe he tells me more than he tells anyone 
 else. I've been able to do him one or two good turns, 
 you understand, and well, he knows I don't talk." 
 
 28
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 The younger man's grin faded, giving place to a look 
 of resentment, but he answered with a shrug. 
 
 "No I don't talk, Immenham." 
 
 A short, rosy-faced young girl in a blue serge coat 
 and skirt, was waiting to cross the road towards them, 
 and Immenham raised his hat to her. 
 
 "That's my sister," he said hastily. "She won't 
 come to the house, as she dislikes Mrs. Jardine gooid 
 afternoon." 
 
 The other man, however, stayed him with a gesture. 
 
 "One minute out of justice to Hood. I know you 
 dislike him " 
 
 "Captain Hood's affairs are no concern of mine," 
 Immenham answered curtly, "but I should have thought 
 he was gentleman enough not to give away the names 
 of the poor fools of women who trusted him." 
 
 "But he doesn't !" 
 
 "He does. He told you about Miss Pomeroy." 
 
 The girl in the blue coat and skirt had, at a sign 
 from the man she had come to meet, walked slowly off 
 to the right, and the younger man went on in his curious 
 defense. 
 
 "No, no, he didn't. She told me about it herself. 
 I met her in the lift one day, and she raised an awful 
 row trying to see him and told me all about it. I know 
 he's a pretty bad lot, Immenham, but he isn't that 
 
 29
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 kind of a cad. He tells me a lot, but never a name." 
 "So much the better then. Good afternoon." 
 The big man bowed civilly and hurried on to join the 
 
 girl, whose arm he linked in his as they hurried to a taxi. 
 "My dear," she said, "I am so sorry you have been 
 
 waiting in the wet " 
 
 "You should have come to me, Rose." 
 
 "No I do so dislike Mrs. Jardine, Rowley, and if 
 
 it had been fine it would have been fun, wouldn't it, 
 
 waiting there at the Gate and seeing the people?"
 
 VI 
 
 LETTER NO. 1 
 
 Thursday 
 DEAR FATHER, 
 
 Thanks very much for the jam. Tell Maggie it is much 
 better than anyone can buy, and that the Duchess of Bra- 
 bant ate a lot of it at tea yesterday. 
 
 I wish I could come to you for a week, but I can't too 
 fearfully busy. Is it really eighteen months since you saw 
 me ? Doesn't seem possible ! No news in particular. You'll 
 have read in the papers about the Cham's visit. That was 
 rather fun. He's very yellow, has odd table manners, and 
 the only English woman he admired was the fat lady of a 
 circus he met at a railway station and tried to buy ! 
 
 No, I haven't seen Aunt Katie, but I will go soon. I am 
 quite well, although so busy. Sorry you mind about my hair. 
 Between you and me it was beginning to get dull and a 
 tiny bit gray, and that I could not bear. 
 
 The stuff is vegetable and quite harmless, and most be- 
 coming, though a little redder than I meant to have it. Mrs. 
 Graves was a cat to tell you ! However, when one thinks of 
 Ethelyn one can forgive her mother anything. 
 
 Hope your rheumatism is better. I must send you some 
 stuff Lord Penhollyn told me of. It has quite cured him. 
 Your affectionate daughter, 
 
 AMY. 
 
 31
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 LETTER NO. 2 
 
 DEAR LADY EVA, 
 
 Of course I am delighted to help you with your new home. 
 I always think epileptics so frightfully tragic, poor dears ! 
 I believe it's a most interesting disease Sir George Bigge- 
 Fease was talking about it the other night, and says it is 
 very psychic. 
 
 I wish I could send you fifty pounds, but the Bishop of 
 Thanet wants me to help him with his clerical dipsomaniacs, 
 some of whom seem to be very deserving, so, alas, it must be 
 only twenty-five pounds for you this time. 
 
 Has your daughter's baby come home yet? I thought her 
 looking lonely the other day, driving. 
 
 Kindest regards, dear Lady Eva. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 AMY DORSET. 
 
 LETTER NO. 3 
 
 Thursday 
 DEAREST Vi, 
 
 What a tiresome old thing you have become ! Your letter 
 would have bored me to death if it hadn't been yours. Of 
 course I'm frivolous, dear was I ever anything else? Be- 
 sides I'm not a bit worse than all my intimate friends. 
 What's more, I'm the only one of our little lot who ever 
 reads a word, and you know how fond I am of serious liter- 
 ature. Have you read "Sex and Character" ? Fascinating ! 
 There's a new book by Allbury, "The Souls of Vegetables," 
 which I am enchanted with. Of course, he doesn't really 
 think vegetables have souls, but he theorizes as if they had. 
 
 It is stiff reading, but most engrossing. However, when 
 all's said and done, there's no one like dear old Plato ! 
 
 32
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 I do wish I could get away and come to Dulborough for 
 a while. It would rest me so wonderfully. But I can't 
 every moment is full up to the very end of the month. I 
 sometimes wish I weren't so awfully busy, Vi dear. 
 
 You and Sam must be very happy in that lovely old 
 vicarage, with your evenings to yourselves. 
 
 My love to you all, especially to Mademoiselle Ma Fil- 
 leule. 
 
 I am sending her a little frock today. Very simple, just 
 a few tucks and some tiny flowers embroidered on, but I 
 think you'll like it. 
 
 Do make Sam publish his sermons. I often think of that 
 one about St. John. It was beautiful. 
 
 Good-bye for today, dear Puritan. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 P. S. You wouldn't have minded the tableaux vivants at 
 all if you'd seen them. The man in mine was only nine- 
 teen ! 
 
 LETTER NO. 4 
 
 Thursday 
 DEAR MR. BEAUMONT, 
 
 Your letter was a great surprise to me, and in answer to 
 it I can only say that you wrong me. I hadn't the slightest 
 idea that you really cared for me, or I should never have 
 danced with you so much. As to the rose I would give a 
 rose to anyone who asked me. I am sorry this has hap- 
 pened, but I think you had better not come to see me any 
 more for a while. 
 
 I am not angry, but it will be best. 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 AMY DORSET. 
 33
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 LETTER NO. 5 
 
 Thursday 
 DEAR BILLY, 
 
 You are a wicked, abandoned child to go and gamble. 
 You deserve to be spanked and put to bed! However, as 
 you are only nineteen, and my second cousin, I'll forgive 
 you this time. I inclose the eighty pounds and for good- 
 ness' sake don't tell your mother. She is an angel and it 
 would break her heart. I can't scold you really, but O, my 
 dear, please don't gamble. 
 
 Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I'm so glad you had the sense to write to me instead of 
 anyone else. 
 
 LETTER NO. 6 
 
 Thursday 
 DEAR CAPTAIN HOOD, 
 
 Thanks for your very nice note. I do hope you'll have 
 fun in Austria. Please remember me to the Baroness. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 AMY DORSET. 
 
 P. S. I have a cold and shall be in all the afternoon if 
 you have time to come to say good-bye. Isn't this weather 
 too beastly for words?
 
 VII 
 
 HO, ho! Madame Tanagra in an epistolary 
 mood!" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset started. She had not heard 
 the door open, nor the footsteps, over the thick carpet, 
 of her friend. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Lawrence. How d'you do?" 
 
 They kissed the air somewhere near each other's ears, 
 for Lawrence Croxley was a woman, and then sat down. 
 
 "Could somebody bring me a pair of man-sized slip- 
 pers?" Miss Croxley began. "It's absolutely pouring 
 and my feet are wet up to the knees." 
 
 As she spoke she kicked off her immense patent- 
 leather shoes and held her feet to the fire, which the 
 Arctic quality of the July day had made not a luxury, 
 but a necessity. 
 
 "You didn't walk, surely?" 
 
 "I pilgrimaged hither from the fastnesses of B'ys- 
 water by the homely and loathly bus." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset rang. "Ask Briggs for a pair of Mr. 
 Dorset's slippers, please, Immenham," she said. 
 
 The little blue drawing-room was very cozy that wet 
 
 35
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 day, and Mrs. Dorset was dressed for it. For a room 
 whose carpet and walls are sapphire blue, whose cur- 
 tains and cushions are emerald green, the best auxiliary 
 color is a deep yellow cream, and of this delightful hue 
 was composed the simple frock at which Lawrence 
 Croxley was staring through her very convex-lensed 
 lorgnon. 
 
 "That's a nice thing you have on, Amykin." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it?" 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 "Arthur's" pronounced in the French way. 
 
 "He's the Only One nowadays," approved the thin, 
 brown woman in the old-fashioned coat and skirt. Mrs. 
 Dorset nodded, as the butler reappeared, a pair of 
 crimson leather slippers in his hand. 
 
 "Thanks, Immenham." 
 
 The slippers fitted beautifully, and with a sigh of 
 the delicious creature comfort experienced only by 
 luxury-loving folk who have traveled on a wet day by 
 bus, Miss Croxley lit a cigarette. 
 
 She was a woman of forty-five with the most angular 
 elbows in the world. Sporting boy cousins had been 
 known to hang their caps on her shoulders, under the 
 alleged impression that they were hat-rack pegs. Her 
 brown face, as thin as a face can be, possessed a large, 
 bony nose, and cavernous black eyes that could, on oc- 
 casion, blaze with rage or dance with malice. 
 
 36
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She was the only child of a frivolous and ruined 
 peer, and lived in cheap lodgings in Bayswater. Under 
 her bed dwelt a large sole-leather trunk in which, under 
 double lock, was a jewel case with V. C. Croxley of 
 Cruxworth printed on it in faded gold letters. The 
 jewel case, which had belonged to the late Baroness, 
 was now empty but for one object the Croxley neck- 
 lace. 
 
 The Croxley necklace was a remarkably fine one, 
 of large emeralds, and it was, as well as being Miss 
 Croxley 's only jewel, the source of a spirited and amus- 
 ing feud between her father and herself. The old man 
 could not sell it, for it must, at his death, go to his heir, 
 but he had, in the old days, more than once pawned 
 it, trusting to luck for its redemption. 
 
 It had always been redeemed by sentimental or in- 
 furiated relations, but on Lady Croxley's death, it was 
 found to have disappeared. After a frantic search, his 
 daughter, who had gone abroad after the funeral, wrote 
 from Munich to tell him that she had stolen it and taken 
 it with her. 
 
 "I shan't sell it or pawn it," she added, "for, 
 strangely enough, I am honest. But I shall keep it with 
 me, and sometimes when I wish to be unsually lovely, 
 I shall wear it." 
 
 This simple program she had carried out to the full. 
 
 Lord Croxley had done his best to get the necklace 
 
 37
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 back he was one of those unpleasant men who bluster 
 at their womenkind but he had failed. 
 
 He failed because he dared not take the matter into 
 a court of law, and because his daughter, whom he 
 called "a damned ugly old maid," was not in the least 
 afraid of him. 
 
 Once they had even met while the jewel lay on her 
 flat brown bosom, but he dared do nothing, as it was at 
 a political party in a great crowd. 
 
 "You're very fine this evening," he sneered, his hand- 
 some, weak old face distorted by a smile that showed 
 his too white, too even teeth. 
 
 "Yes, I'm at my handsomest, I'm told," she retorted. 
 "Emeralds are so becoming !" 
 
 Then she added as she moved away on the arm of a 
 thoroughly ill-at-ease young man, "Don't grind your 
 teeth, Papa dear you'll break them." 
 
 Miss Croxley was, as she had said, honest. 
 
 Twice she might have made money by lending the 
 necklace to ladies who wished to scintillate at compara- 
 tively small expense, and in one case at least the trans- 
 action might have been kept a secret forever, for Mrs. 
 Hamilton Fryer was an American in town for the season 
 and offered to have the emeralds newly mounted for her 
 own wear and then returned to their clumsy, old- 
 fashioned setting before she returned them to Miss 
 Croxley.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 But Miss Croxley said no. 
 
 "They aren't mine," she declared, "and I can't let 
 them go out of my hands. They are only in my hands 
 because mine are one degree better than my father's, 
 and here they stay until Joe Charlton gets them." 
 
 "You've written a lot of letters, Tannie dear," she 
 began after a pause, using her diminutive of the nick- 
 name bestowed by a French diplomat on her friend. 
 
 "Yes. It's too wet to go out, and " 
 
 "And someone is coming to see you at about six." 
 
 "Lawrence ! How on earth !" Little Madame Tana- 
 gra's exquisite face flushed with amazement, but Law- 
 rence Croxley only laughed. 
 
 "I know ! I feel declarations in my bones, and despair 
 and tea and promises of Real Friendship !" 
 
 "O Lawrence !" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset, like everybody else, depended somewhat 
 as to personality on the person with whom she found 
 herself. 
 
 Lawrence Croxley always reduced her to a former 
 condition of rather helpless childishness. Not to her 
 did she prattle of Plato. 
 
 "Oh yes, I know, my dear," repeated her friend, smil- 
 ing at her as one smiles at a delightful child. "Who 
 is it? Pasquier le Breton? Or that good-looking ass 
 What's-his-name Hood ?" 
 
 39
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "You are talking awful nonsense, but as a matter of 
 fact Captain Hood is coming in later. He's going to 
 Austria tomorrow and is coming to say good-bye to me. 
 There, that's frank, at any rate!" 
 
 "You knew I wouldn't go till you told me." 
 
 "Cat! However, I must send the note. Here's his 
 to me read it if you like! It only came an hour 
 ago." 
 
 Miss Croxley, suddenly very grave as she gazed at 
 her friend through her glasses, the strength of whose 
 lenses made her look like an ant, thrust out her hand. 
 
 "I'd rather see yours to him, if I may, Amy." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset gave a little laugh and took up the 
 topmost of the pile of letters on the table. 
 
 "Right you are. I'll address another envelope." 
 
 Miss Croxley read the note, slowly, twice. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Amy I am very fond of you." 
 
 "My dear, I know you are, but I don't quite 
 see " 
 
 There was a pause, and then Lawrence did an odd 
 thing. She asked Amy to let her read all the letters 
 she had written. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset reflected for a moment. "I don't see 
 why you should," she said slowly, "but I know you 
 aren't you aren't just being curious. Well, I don't 
 mind, dear. You may read them." 
 
 40
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 While Miss Croxley read the letters Mrs. Dorset 
 stood at the window looking out into the rain. 
 
 At last she turned. Miss Croxley had laid the letters 
 on the table, and their envelopes were in the fire, blazing 
 high. 
 
 "Well, Lawrence, dear?" 
 
 "I was right," said the elder woman. 
 
 "Right! But you must have thought I was flirt- 
 ing or something " 
 
 "No. At least, not more than usual. And I never 
 minded you flirting, Amy." 
 
 Something in her voice made Mrs. Dorset uneasy. 
 
 "Well, then " 
 
 "I'll go now, dear, and thanks for trusting me." 
 
 Amy waited while the damp, smoking shoes were 
 squeezed on to her friend's unhappy feet. Then she 
 asked plaintively, "But what have I done, Lawrence? 
 I've never seen you like this what have I done?" 
 
 Lawrence Croxley kissed her cheek a real kiss this 
 time. 
 
 "You have," she answered gravely but gently, "writ- 
 ten five letters and never so much as mentioned your 
 husband's name in one of them."
 
 VIII 
 
 MRS. DORSET, left alone, sat down in the chair 
 in which her friend had sat and held her hands 
 to the fire. 
 
 She loved her hands, and with reason. They were 
 very beautifully shaped, with long, slim fingers, pink, 
 smooth palms, and filbert nails. More than these things, 
 counted for beauty their flexibility and instinctive grace 
 of movement. 
 
 Withal, they were so small that a man could take 
 both into the embrace of one of his. 
 
 But as she gazed at her hands the little lady's mind 
 was far away it was following poor dear Lawrence 
 Croxley on her homeward way. 
 
 "Now she is getting into a bus, and it is full and 
 people are stepping on her feet and their clothes are 
 wet smelly and she has to squeeze in between horrid 
 people closer than one could bear to sit between one's 
 own friends ! Poor old Lawrence." 
 
 She always thought of Lawrence as being infinitely 
 older than herself, though the difference was one of 
 only ten years and a half. "Dear old Lawrence." 
 
 42
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The note had gone to Captain Hood, and Mrs. Dorset 
 knew that he would soon arrive. 
 
 "I'm glad Lawrence doesn't think I'm flirting with 
 him. If I was," she added softly to herself, "he wouldn't 
 go to Austria." 
 
 Ladies who keep Plato's "Republic" and a volume of 
 Pater on the table by their bed are inclined to think 
 themselves literary whether they read the books or not, 
 and of these ladies Mrs. Dorset, as has probably already 
 been discovered by the jadedly sagacious readers, was 
 one. 
 
 She glanced at the clock, and, settling herself com- 
 fortably in her chair, took up a book. 
 
 It was a large, heavy volume, about some obscure 
 Indian religion, and its citations from ancient Hindu 
 philosophers were frequent and lengthy. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset, bending over it, made a pretty picture, 
 and the prettiness of the picture was increased rather 
 than diminished, when her eyes closed softly and her 
 head fell against the emerald green back of the chair. 
 
 The man who was announced, unheard, stood for a 
 moment gazing at the sleeping beauty. 
 
 He was a small, alert-looking man with black hair 
 and blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. 
 
 Briefly, he was the Vicomte Jules-Marie Pasquier le 
 Breton, age thirty- four ; occupation, the arduous duties 
 of a third secretary to his Embassy ; virtues, a love of 
 
 43
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 poetry, good temper, and kindness to animals ; hobbies, 
 old colored prints and women ; vices, chemin-de-fer and 
 women. 
 
 He was a clever man in his way, and while he admired 
 Mrs. Dorset and enjoyed his own admiration for her, 
 her little literary pretensions at once amused and 
 touched him. She was to him, in an odd way, pathetic. 
 
 His English was perfect, but Mrs. Dorset persisted 
 in speaking French with him. 
 
 There was, in Paris, an invalid lady old enough to 
 be his mother and to whom he gave the undivided love 
 that existed so curiously in his heart, coincident with 
 an ever-changing series of more or less unworthy 
 affairs to which he referred, in his bi-weekly letters to 
 her, by their correct name of amourettes. 
 
 To this lady, Madame Samain, he once explained 
 Mrs. Dorset's French. 
 
 "It is," he said, "to make weep the angels. It is of 
 an accent to wound the intelligence, though, because 
 her voice is as the cooing of wood-pigeons, to the ear 
 alone it is music. 
 
 "It is the French of the English young miss, super- 
 charged with provincialisms culled from ladies* maids 
 from different parts of our beautiful France; it is 
 garnished with scraps of Parisian slang, of the jargon 
 of the Quarter, and vivified by a few words of thieves' 
 argot words to make to rise the hair on a French 
 
 44
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 lady's head. In a word, it is not French, it is a touch- 
 ing and delightful and pathetically absurd little lan- 
 guage all her own, and I wish, my dear friend, that you 
 could hear it." 
 
 M. Pasquier le Breton stood there, then, in a rap- 
 turous silence, watching the unconscious possessor of 
 this remarkable language. 
 
 When she awoke, there he was, a book in his hand, 
 his eyes fixed on her in the most respectable adoration. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, of course, "I was asleep !" 
 
 He bowed. "The excellent Immenham announced me, 
 but you, dear Madame Dorset, you were asleep." 
 
 He kissed her hand, and she switched on the lights. 
 
 "I have brought you a book," he said; "I know you 
 will like it " 
 
 "I adore books," she answered, sincerely enough, for 
 she believed in her fallacious declaration. "What is 
 it?" 
 
 It appeared that it was verse. 
 
 "Verse but little known in England," he explained. 
 "It is an anthology. There is of Henri de Regnier, of 
 Guillard, of Jean Moreas and others. If you will 
 allow me " 
 
 He loved reading out verse, as many Frenchmen do ; 
 moreover, he had come to read out verse. He did so. 
 
 Now here is a phenomenon difficult to explain. Mrs. 
 Dorset was, as women go, very truthful. She had never, 
 
 45
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 for example, told her husband a lie in her life. Amongst 
 her friends it was a matter for good-humored jesting 
 that Amy couldn't fib if she wanted to. 
 
 Yet in the very important matter of literature the 
 little lady's untruths were of an unblushing effrontery. 
 
 When she said she loved Plato and Walter Pater 
 and the young Weinberg, she thought herself to be tell- 
 ing the truth, but when she said she enjoyed French 
 poetry read to her by a Frenchman in French, she 
 knew she was lying ; the angels must have wept. 
 
 M. Pasquier le Breton, although he was amused by 
 her French, had yet been deluded by its haphazard 
 fluency; it was bad, he knew, but he believed it to be 
 fairly comprehensive. 
 
 Therefore he read on and on, enjoying the beauties 
 of the verse and the little exclamations of pleasure that 
 interrupted him occasionally from his hearer. 
 
 "Ah, que c'est delicieux !" she would murmur, or "Ah, 
 mon Dieu," or, most frequently of all, "Ah comme c'est 
 joli!" 
 
 He read Raymond's "Le Faune," then his "Bruges," 
 a lovely little poem holding the spirit of the old town 
 in its four stanzas; he read Henri de Regnier's "Ode- 
 lette" which she preferred. 
 
 "If it is just possible, madame," he broke off once 
 to say, "that any of the poetic idioms or turns of phrase 
 should have escaped you for the moment, you will give 
 
 46
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 me the pleasure of refreshing your memory, will you 
 not?" 
 
 "Oh, oui, monsieur. But I have spoken French all 
 my life." She was not offended, but she seemed a little 
 hurt, and he hastened to assure her that her French 
 was wonderful. Which it was. 
 
 She had read some of Mallarme's, and knew Verlaine's 
 "Chanson d'Automne" and repeated it with her guest, 
 peacocking with delight at her knowledge. 
 
 "Et je m'en vais 
 Au vent mauvais 
 Qui m'emporte 
 De ga, de la 
 Pareil a la 
 Feuille morte." 
 
 "It's so true, isn't it?" she murmured softly. 
 
 "Pardon, madame?" 
 
 "I mean life. Life is so sad, so lonely." 
 
 It was one of the harmless little poses that he had 
 observed in her, and he was shrewd enough to realize 
 that, although poses, they were in an odd way sincere. 
 Her life, he could see, was not lonely, and, to the best 
 of his belief, it was not sad. Sad women do not dance 
 four nights a week. 
 
 "You mean," he said pob'tely, "life in general." 
 
 "Yes. Things never last except the things we wish 
 would pass quickly ! And the poor suffer so." 
 
 47
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He was silent for a moment, for there was real pity 
 in her voice. 
 
 "You go among the poor, then," he said, respectfully. 
 "I did not know." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset flushed. "I n-no," she hesitated and 
 then plunged boldly into the truth. "No. I don't go 
 among them. They they don't like me, somehow, and 
 I never know what to say to babies. The poor have 
 so many babies " 
 
 She had told the truth, but the miniature valor of 
 it was obscured for him by her plaint at the end. 
 
 "You do not love children?" he asked, his mind in 
 the room at Passy, where a woman who had not walked 
 for eight years devoted hours to teaching and caring 
 for the poor little people of her parish. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset felt that something had happened to dull 
 the brightness of his admiration for her. 
 
 "Oh, I love children," she declared, which was an 
 untruth told in perfect good faith. "I have three god- 
 daughters ! Lady Leonard Vlairgowry's boy is my god- 
 son, too." 
 
 "You have no children of your own?" 
 
 She shook her head with dignity. "No. I lost a 
 little girl when I was first married. She only lived a 
 few months." 
 
 Pasquier le Breton, after a pause, took up his book. 
 "Shall I go on?" 
 
 48
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Oh, yes, please; I am enjoying it immensely." And 
 because of the child who was dead he turned the pages 
 until he came to Rodenbach's "Beguinage Flamand." 
 
 There is in it nothing about children, but it is a pure 
 and lovely poem, full of the poetry so much faultless 
 verse seems to lack. 
 
 It is beautiful to have windows in which flowers grow, 
 compared to altars; it is wonderful more wonderful 
 to a French Catholic than to an English Protestant 
 to hear nuns described as looking into Heaven through 
 the wounds of the Crucified; it is a lovely thought 
 that the prayers of His people are the only thing to 
 console God in His melancholy over the sins of the 
 world. 
 
 These things, and others, Georges Rodenbach says 
 in his poem, and the quiet of the nuns, their gentle 
 happiness, comes to the reader like late afternoon sun- 
 shine, as he reads. 
 
 Pasquier le Breton was moved by his own voice as it 
 expressed the poet's feelings. Like many worldly and 
 even cynical Frenchmen, there lay at the bottom of his 
 heart a certain childish faith and reverence that nothing 
 could ever change. It is, this faith, like a fine garment 
 that is taken out of a locked chest only on great and 
 sacred occasions. As a boy he had worn this garment 
 at his first communion ; as a man at his mother's death- 
 bed; on the occasion of his first realizing his love for 
 
 49
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Anastasie-Claire Samain ; on the day when she told him 
 that she loved him. 
 
 He had worn it on the day he saw her after the acci- 
 dent that crippled her for life, when he knew what her 
 refusal to give her body to him had done for him, in 
 making him understand the supernal value of her gift 
 to him of her whole heart. He had worn it, the garment 
 of simple faith, on these occasions. 
 
 And because he had kept it, often unused but always 
 unblemished, the man had never lost his love of beau- 
 tiful, noble things. Noble verse raised him for the 
 moment to a height in which the peace of goodness 
 seemed the best thing in the world. His bold eyes 
 softened, his voice trembled. 
 
 And then he had a shock; Mrs. Dorset yawned. 
 Delicately, prettily, her little tongue curled like a 
 puppy's and as pink as a roseleaf, her teeth gleaming 
 but unmistakably, she yawned. 
 
 As he walked home through opal evening sunlight that 
 gleamed beautifully on the rain-soaked town, M. Pas- 
 quier le Breton decided that he must, after all, not go 
 to his club to dine. 
 
 He would stay in his rooms and the faithful bigarreau 
 would make him an omelette baveuse and he would drink 
 a bottle of good red wine, and then when the sun had 
 set over the trees in the square, he would write a long, 
 a very long letter to Anastasie-Claire. 
 
 50
 
 IX 
 
 CAPTAIN Hood came half an hour late, but the 
 interview was unsatisfactory both to Mrs. Dor- 
 set and to him. He had made his plan and he 
 carried it out, as was his way, but he was an honestly 
 emotional man and he suffered under his self-imposed 
 restrictions. 
 
 She, on her side, was frightened. She had known 
 him for a twelvemonth, but during several of those 
 months she had been at St. Moritz, where he was not, 
 and at another time he had been in France, where he 
 belonged to a famous polo club. So they were still 
 full of mystery, each to the other. 
 
 And she, as she sat in the oddly upright position so 
 characteristic of her, chatting airily of nothing, and 
 bent such was her instinctive realization of what was 
 wisdom on outdoing his indifference of manner by her 
 own, was conscious of an odd thing. The room, with 
 its big wood fire, was warm, but her hands were as cold 
 as ice. 
 
 She had always enjoyed the nebulous sensation of 
 danger she had from the first experienced with him, and 
 
 51
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 hitherto she had been able to tease him and thus to keep 
 the scale fairly level. 
 
 But this was the first time, partly by chance and 
 partly by alternate maneuvering on both their parts, 
 that they had ever been really alone, and she was fright- 
 ened. 
 
 It alarmed her that her hands should be cold. 
 
 However, nothing happened, and after an uncomfort- 
 able half hour he left without anything vital having 
 been said. 
 
 "You will remember me to the Baroness?" she said, 
 as they shook hands. 
 
 He smiled. "With pleasure. And you will no doubt 
 have left town when I get back, so I'll say good-bye 
 until October or November." Eight weeks dismissed as 
 lightly as eight hours might have been. 
 
 Hood was a very handsome man with, on his charming 
 face, not a sign of the life he led. His skin, though 
 sunburnt, was clear, and his dark eyes, of so deep a 
 brown as to appear black, held a look of the most ex- 
 treme sweetness and gentleness. 
 
 It was a most trustworthy face, and the signs of 
 weakness about the mouth were faint enough to be not 
 only inoffensive but rather charming. 
 
 His greatest danger to women lay in the indefensible 
 but absolute sincerity of his emotional moods. He not 
 only seemed to, but could and did, love Clarissa on a
 
 Monday, Amaryllis on the Tuesday, and Chloe on the 
 Wednesday. He was not an insincere man, though he 
 was radically and hopelessly untruthful, and his errant 
 heart was as soft as a child's. On this occasion he 
 was more in love than he knew, and his overexpressive 
 face was wan and ravaged, as he said good-bye and 
 nothing but good-bye. 
 
 And when he had gone, Amy Dorset knelt by the fire 
 and tried, before going to dress, to warm her icy hands.
 
 CLOUDESLEY DORSET was, as Lady Barbara 
 Questingham had told old Major Marchington, 
 a dull man. The word dull, applied to a metal, 
 by no means signifies that anything is wrong with the 
 metal; it does not even mean that the metal is severely 
 scratched, to say nothing of its being inferior in any 
 way. 
 
 Dull means, of course, simply the contrary to bright. 
 But applied to a human being the adjective seems to 
 lose its simplicity, and assumes a charge of intrinsic 
 inferiority. To call a man dull is to stamp him as 
 stupid, which is unfair. 
 
 Dorset was not stupid, and he was dull. He was a 
 big, heavily built man with large hands and feet and a 
 stoop. 
 
 His thick black hair, just beginning, at his forty-fifth 
 year, to be sprinkled with gray, he wore rather long, 
 but plastered flat to his well-shaped head. 
 
 His small dark-blue eyes were short-sighted, so he 
 wore a monocle. He had a close-cropped dark mus- 
 tache, and his rather thin cheeks were seamed with 
 
 54
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 deep, almost perpendicular lines that might have been 
 dimples in his youth, and which even now softened his 
 expression pleasantly when he smiled, which he did not 
 very often. 
 
 His position in his own house is difficult to define. 
 He was by no means henpecked; he was not exactly 
 unobtrusive, he was not shy; to his few friends he was 
 not even particularly reserved. 
 
 His terms with his wife were perfectly friendly, his 
 appearances at her parties perfectly conventional. But 
 to Lawrence Croxley, who happened to be one of his 
 friends, he seemed to regard Amy as he regarded a very 
 fine portrait of her painted some years before by Sar- 
 gent ; he admired and valued her, but did not ever seek 
 in her the companion he would have failed to find had 
 he sought. 
 
 The house in Park Lane was her home, and it was his 
 home, but Lawrence could not regard it as their home. 
 
 One evening, a few days after the occasion on which 
 she had read Amy's letters, Miss Croxley dined alone 
 with Dorset. 
 
 Amy is dining with some people I don't like [his note 
 had told her], and as they don't like me either I have "gone 
 to the country." Will you dine with me, my dear? 
 
 They dined very comfortably in the big, oak-paneled 
 room looking over the little garden, now full of flowers. 
 
 55
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Dorset was devoted to flowers and spent a good deal 
 of money on this small inclosure, and Miss Croxley, 
 before they sat down to dinner, was taken down the 
 flight of outside steps from the drawing-room to inspect 
 the roses. 
 
 It was a clear evening, the trees in the park showing 
 to their full advantage against a pale gold sky. 
 
 "It is somehow a luxurious and delightful thing," 
 Lawrence said, tucking into her belt a large white rose 
 he had given her, "to stand here in a rose-garden and 
 hear the buses and taxis roaring by just this other side 
 of that wall." 
 
 "Is it, Lawrence?" He eyed her kindly. 
 
 "Yes. This little garden seems far more the rich 
 man's than does the biggest I have ever seen in the 
 country !" 
 
 Dorset nodded. "I know what you mean. Yet it is 
 one of the duties of social ostentation to possess a large 
 garden in the country." 
 
 "How, by the way, is Maiden Aqualate?" 
 
 "Very well, but I miss it. I wish I could be more 
 there, Lawrence." 
 
 "So do I, Clow. It is a lovely place. How are the 
 flowers ?" 
 
 "MacPhail has got two more first prizes; one for 
 fuchsias. Lawrence, upon my word, I believe they are 
 
 the best fuchsias ever grown so far north " 
 
 56
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Still talking of flowers they mounted the ugly, con- 
 venient iron staircase, and, standing at its top, watched 
 for a while the picture spread before them. 
 
 The walls of the garden were of white stone, yellowed 
 and begrimed into a beautiful tone that Pasquier le 
 Breton called "couleur de Londres." 
 
 A beautiful creeper spread over the wall delicate 
 green tentacles starred with magenta flowers. 
 
 The little inclosure was divided into four square rose- 
 beds by a broad cross of old flagstones, between which 
 certain humble flowers were "encouraged" by Dorset. 
 And the roses were all a-blow, so lovely in their luxuri- 
 ance that one never thought of their expensiveness and 
 wondered only at their beauty. 
 
 In the middle of the garden was a sun dial, and at the 
 foot of the wall separating the roses from the buses, 
 a little fountain plashed. 
 
 Lawrence Croxley's hollow dark eyes gazed intently 
 from behind her lorgnon, first at the garden, then over 
 the wall into Park Lane. Buses rumbled by, rocking in 
 their odd, clumsy dignity ; taxis crept under their bows 
 like sampans among battleships, and splendid private 
 cars, as big as many a room in which a whole family 
 lives, pursued their aristocratic ways laden with ladies 
 in evening kit and their attendant, unornamental men- 
 kind. 
 
 Beyond them people walked slowly for the most part, 
 
 57
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 for the most part enjoying the exquisite ending to the 
 exquisite day. 
 
 "I wonder," Miss Croxley said thoughtfully after a 
 long pause, "that the poor aren't more bitter against 
 the rich." 
 
 He did not answer, and she insisted, "Don't you?" 
 
 "N-no." It was part of the man's dullness that he 
 was slow in speaking. 
 
 She, who was quick in word as in thought, shrugged 
 her bony shoulders impatiently. 
 
 "Clow why don't you wonder?" 
 
 "Because a glass can only hold a certain amount of 
 liquid " He broke off, frowning at his own in- 
 articulateness. 
 
 "Well, go on," she urged. 
 
 "And whether it's full of wine or of water, it can 
 only be just full to its brim " 
 
 She sighed. "Oh, I see. And the rich man's the 
 wine-glass, and the poor man's a nasty tin mug is 
 that it? Your argument's bad. Wine and water are 
 yery different things." 
 
 "Different in quality. I mean that in his tin-mug 
 life, the poor man gets all that the rich one does." 
 
 She glanced at him and laid her hand on his arm. 
 "Go on, Clow," she said gently. 
 
 "Oh, I was only being banal. It's not worth ex- 
 plaining." 
 
 58
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Please." 
 
 "Well then, dear, love and hate, and birth and death 
 the poor man has 'em, and ice have no more." 
 
 His plain, deeply lined face was flushed, and he ended 
 his little speech with a harsh laugh. 
 
 "Romantic this evening, am I not?" he added, going 
 on quickly. "Immenham will apply for the Chilterns if 
 we don't go and dine." 
 
 Immenham, who was only not like a bishop, as the 
 saying goes, because he was like nothing but the perfect 
 butler he was, admired Miss Croxley, and in a silent, 
 respectful manner he had long since made this fact 
 known to her. 
 
 Naturally she regarded his liking as appreciation, 
 and as naturally she returned it. 
 
 The dinner was perfect, and, without a word having 
 been spoken on the subject, the table was much more 
 simply arranged than it would have been had Mrs. Dor- 
 set dined at home. 
 
 The little lady liked table decorations, and possessed 
 four little golden dishes that she liked to have arranged 
 before her laden with deviled almonds, chocolates, 
 scraps of crystallized ginger, and peppermint fon- 
 dants. 
 
 Now, these little golden dishes Cloudesley Dorset de- 
 tested. They were not on the table tonight. Nothing 
 was on the table except things strictly necessary to the 
 
 59
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 serving of a civilized meal, and even these things were 
 of the simplest kind. 
 
 A bunch of pink and white roses stood in a glass bowl 
 in the middle of the plain cloth, and there were no 
 shades on the wax candles. 
 
 While the two friends were eating their fish the door 
 opened and Mrs. Dorset, wrapped in a filmy white and 
 silver cloak, came in. 
 
 "Oh, you poor dears," she cried. "What a horrid 
 table. It is too bad of Immenham." 
 
 "You forget that I like the table plain, Amy," Dorset 
 said, unsmilingly. 
 
 "And so do I, dear," put in Miss Croxley. "Is that 
 a new frock, you extravagant quean?" 
 
 "No Oh, no ; I've worn it twice before " 
 
 At Lawrence's shout of laughter, the little lady 
 stared in unfeigned surprise. "What's the joke? Well, 
 I must be off and tell my fib about Clow's being in the 
 country good-bye." 
 
 Cloudesley Dorset followed his beautiful wife down 
 the iron steps to the green garden door and stood there 
 until the great dark-blue motor car had borne her 
 away. 
 
 A walnut shell would, he thought, have done nearly 
 as well. He wondered why she, probably the tiniest 
 woman in London, should have chosen what was cer- 
 tainly one of the largest cars. 
 
 60
 
 As he shot the bolt in the door, he paused for a 
 moment, looking up at the open window of the dining- 
 room ; through the curtains he could just see Lawrence 
 Croxley's profile. 
 
 When she had reached her lodgings, at about eleven 
 o'clock, Miss Croxley sat down by her open window to 
 think. 
 
 Like many people who live much alone, she had the 
 habit of talking to herself ; and to this habit she added 
 a more peculiarly personal one: that of expressing her 
 thoughts in dialog form. 
 
 After a few minutes concentrated silence she began: 
 
 Clow: "Yes, she is prettier than ever." 
 
 Lawrence: "You think she's perfectly happy, 
 Clow?" 
 
 Clow: "She seems quite contented." 
 
 Lawrence: "I said happy." 
 
 Clow: "I shouldn't suppose her to be perfectly 
 happy. Why should she be? No one else is." 
 
 Lawrence (maudlin as usual about Amy) : "I always 
 feel that she ought to be. She's so little !" 
 
 Clow (densely) : "I don't see what her size has to do 
 with it." 
 
 "There ! that's the first of it. Then we talked about 
 the inevitable Lloyd-George I wonder why the London 
 Press has conferred the Order of the Hyphen on him? 
 And about Ascot, and about that book, what was its 
 
 61
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 name 'The Bower of Delight' and then I began 
 again. Let me see Oh, yes." 
 
 Lawrence' "Clow, why don't you take her away for 
 a bit to Maiden Aqualate?" 
 
 Clow (idiotically he is a thick-skull sometimes!): 
 "Take whom away?" 
 
 Lawrence : "Amy." 
 
 Clow: "Why on earth should I take her to Maiden 
 Aqualate when she is bored to tears, away from London 
 which she loves ?" 
 
 "And then," the lonely lady at the window went on, 
 dropping the dialog form of thought, "then I put it 
 to him bluntly. Did he not think, I said, that Tannie 
 was getting to be too fond of London? I said London, 
 and I meant London. He can't have thought I meant 
 anyone in particular ! And yet he said what were the 
 exact words? 'Oh, yes,' he said, 'you mean Hood?' " 
 
 For a few minutes she was silent, her thoughts min- 
 gling with the sounds of the voices of the passers-by in 
 the street below. 
 
 It was a dark night, and the lights in the open win- 
 dows opposite were the only stars. 
 
 " 'You mean Hood.' I wonder if it would have been 
 better if I had pretended to be surprised ? At all events, 
 I didn't. I Oh, dear me, I just said, 'Clow !' Dear old 
 Clow, I was so surprised at him. To think that he has 
 seen it all the time, and never said a word. Of course, 
 
 62
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 if he doesn't care but he must care, in a way, even 
 though he doesn't love her. Suppose she were to but 
 she never would. After all, Tannie is a cold little 
 thing. I love her, but she is rather inhuman. And I 
 suppose that is what makes Clow so calm about it. 
 Poor dears, both of them." 
 
 After a pause, Miss Croxley rose, drew down her 
 blind, and began to prepare for bed. 
 
 "I do wish," was her last remark to herself as she 
 switched off the light, "I do wish Tannie hadn't married 
 poor old Clow. He isn't the man she could possibly 
 love, and young Ridgway had great charm" then, 
 remembering that the young Ridgway of Amy Dorset's 
 youth was now in his middle age as penniless as he had 
 been then, she was seized with laughter so audible as 
 seriously to annoy an old lady who, together with a 
 pug-dog, dwelt in the next room.
 
 XI 
 
 CAPTAIN HOOD did not go to Austria, and, as 
 things turned out, his sister's son was a year 
 old when he had the honor of making the ac- 
 quaintance of his attractive uncle. 
 
 Hood was now quite sure why he did not go; he 
 had fully intended to do so, not, as he told Mrs. Dorset, 
 because he felt it necessary to flee from the danger of 
 her charms, but because he knew, with the wonderful 
 and dreadful cunning of men of his type, that flight 
 would be to her the greatest lure. 
 
 It was not anything she said at the unsatisfactory 
 interview in the library in Park Lane ; she had said, he 
 remembered, remarkably little. 
 
 It was more an atmosphere that hung about her, an 
 atmosphere less assured, more wavering than her usual 
 one. She seemed, somehow, less able to defend herself, 
 more influenced by him. 
 
 Moreover, she had not chaffed him, and he knew that 
 this meant much. So he stayed on in town. 
 
 A few days after their talk they met in the Park as 
 she was taking her afternoon drive. 
 
 64
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He bowed gayly, but did not attempt to speak to 
 her, in spite of the inviting accident of her motor being 
 for the moment held up by the traffic. 
 
 She felt the blood rush to her face ; she had believed 
 him to be in Austria by that time ; indeed she had men- 
 tally followed him on his supposed way, Dover Calais 
 Paris, a day there (no doubt passed in brilliantly fas- 
 cinating, though reprehensible, society!), and then the 
 long night in the Vienna Express. Vienna she did not 
 know, so it was to her a dream-city full of handsome, 
 full-busted women, corseted gray-blue officers, good 
 food, and excellent man milliners. Here, no doubt, she 
 had thought, he would stay for a day or two, and then 
 a rough journey to his sister's castle in the moun- 
 tains. The castle, in her imagination, was an ancient 
 and buttressed affair with broad ramparts and winding 
 staircases. In reality it was a violently ornate modern 
 house full of luxury, but justified in calling itself a 
 castle only by its vast size. 
 
 A few minutes before meeting Hood, Mrs. Dorset had 
 been dreaming about this aristocratic fastness, peopling 
 it with large, beautiful ladies, not one of whom would 
 make even the faintest effort to withstand the charms of 
 the young Englishman. And there he was walking 
 with Toby Elliott and obviously in the best of health 
 and spirits. 
 
 There was a big ball that night and the beautiful 
 
 65
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Mrs. Dorset was, of course, there. She was looking her 
 loveliest, but she complained of a headache and left 
 early after wasting, as some of the dancing men thought, 
 an houa* of valuable time in talking to a stupid old man 
 with a long mustache. 
 
 The poison of the dancing men was very much old 
 Major Marchington's meat. 
 
 He was greatly pleased when the little lady asked him 
 to take her to a cool place for a rest. 
 
 "One gets sick of dancing sometimes," she plained 
 in her soft voice, making with her long lashes the play 
 that had become second nature to them. 
 
 "You dance so exquisitely," he returned, pointing his 
 compliment with a bow, "I should have thought you 
 would never tire of it. Fishes never seem to weary of 
 swimming." 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "What a charming thing to say !" 
 
 "It is a true thing; I have spent many a happy mo- 
 ment in the last fortnight, watching you dance. Par- 
 ticularly," he added, "with Captain what's-his-name 
 Wood? No, no, Hood." 
 
 She was looking away from him, but he saw her little 
 ear turn scarlet, and there was a pause which he broke. 
 
 "He's not here tonight, I think?" 
 
 "No, I believe he isn't. At least," and her futile air of 
 indifference gave the old man, in spite of his not alto- 
 
 66
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 gether unmalicious curiosity, a pang of pity, "at least 
 I haven't seen him !" 
 
 They were sitting on a little balcony, and there was 
 between them and the open ballroom door a tall screen 
 of trellis-work over which were trained Dorothy Per- 
 kins roses. The old man and the woman, whom for 
 some reason he could not help regarding almost as a 
 child, were practically alone. 
 
 She was tired because she was sad, and for a moment 
 she allowed herself to be silent as she looked out over 
 the trees in the square at the crescent moon. 
 
 Marchington, in his turn, watched her. He liked 
 and admired her, but, after all, he thought, he was 
 taking Lady Barbara to supper and he could score off 
 his old friend splendidly if he could get Mrs. Dorset 
 to discuss Hood. 
 
 "I'm a selfish old fellow," he began presently, "but I 
 wish Captain Hood would come." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 In a moment she had assumed the odd little air of 
 languor that he had perceived to be her idea of a cor- 
 rect society manner and which, as a matter of fact, 
 she had half-unconsciously modeled on that of a six-foot 
 duchess. 
 
 "Why? Because it gives me very keen pleasure to 
 see you dance with him." 
 
 "Thanks for the compliment ! But you ought to see 
 
 67
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 him waltz with Miss Clark, the red-haired American girl. 
 She is wonderful, and besides," she added, gravely in- 
 different and impartial, "she is nearer his height. I am 
 really too small to dance with such tall men!" 
 
 "Nonsense. By the way, tell me about him, will 
 you? He interests me." 
 
 So she told him all she knew, lulled into suspicionless- 
 ness by his old-gentlemanly and frank demeanor. 
 
 "Oh, there's not much to tell. He's one of the Bag- 
 worthy Hoods, you know, and his mother was a daugh- 
 ter of Lord Esdaile's. He's a guardsman, of course 
 a charming man in his way, but not at all clever. You 
 know what guardsmen are." 
 
 "Of course!" 
 
 "He never reads, I mean, and doesn't care for good 
 music he says quite frankly," she added, laughing, 
 "that musical comedy is his line!" 
 
 "I see. He's a dashed good-looking fellow I sup- 
 pose he's a great pet with the ladies, eh? That sort of 
 thing?" 
 
 Amy Dorset shrugged her shoulders. "Of course, 
 that goes without saying, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It does. But on the whole," he persisted, "he's a 
 good fellow, and you like him." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I like him immensely." Her air of detached 
 friendship whetted the old man's appetite for more in- 
 formation, but a glance at her bravely held little head 
 
 68
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 stayed him. She looked not only unhappy, he saw, but 
 in a way indefinably pitiful, puzzled. 
 
 For a minute they were both silent, and then, as a 
 taxi rushed up to the house and stopped with a noise 
 such as one might imagine to resemble that made by ihe 
 gates of Hell, the beautiful woman rose suddenly and, 
 forgetting her companion, leaned well over the parapet 
 and looked down. 
 
 "It's Pasquier le Breton," she said, her lips drawn 
 straight over her teeth. "Such a delightful man. I I 
 think I must go back to the ballroom now, Major 
 Major Markham."
 
 xn 
 
 July W 
 MON ADOREE, 
 
 I seek from your great wise heart, a counsel. A woman, 
 I hear you say gently but with the sadness I also so well 
 remember. Know, however, that in this matter I am blame- 
 less. I am more than blameless. She is one of the loveliest 
 creatures the mind of the good God has ever been able to 
 conceive, and I am scatheless. Adamant I have stood be- 
 fore her, pure as ice in my heart. Sexless as an hour-old 
 she-infant I have kissed her hands. Listen, she is, as I 
 have said, most beautiful. She is about eight-and-twenty, 
 she looks twenty at night, and twenty- four by sunlight. She 
 is married and of excellent position. 
 
 The husband is a silent, slow-witted being, quite unworthy 
 of being the husband of such a woman ; a slow, uninterest- 
 ing man whom one sees but rarely, and never regrets. They 
 live in a large house in Park Lane, the street of millionaires, 
 to which enviable class they belong. There are no children, 
 though they lost one years ago. Enfin, she is the lady of 
 whom I have told you, who speaks the amazing French ! 
 
 As to morals, I hear on all sides, une beguine. And this, 
 you must note, in the odd English way which is perfectly 
 consistent with a series of what they call here "desperate 
 flirtations." Since you and our good Henri were here, Lon- 
 don has changed. With the demise of the excellent Queen 
 Victoria there was a regrettable change of morals in so- 
 ciety. King Edward, genial man, was not so strict as his 
 
 70
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 lamented parent, and he of course was the bell-wether of 
 that delightful flock, London society. 
 
 King George and his virtuous queen have, as you know, 
 once more changed the tone of the court, and society is in 
 process of reverting to the manners, even if not altogether, 
 dear friend, to the customs of the reign of the Great White 
 Queen, as I am informed she was known to certain of her 
 dark-skinned subjects. 
 
 One is virtuous ah, but virtuous these days, and many 
 ladies, once gay as well as great, are creeping back into 
 royal favor by the stony ways of devotion to charity. You 
 will understand. 
 
 The lady of whom I write, then, is well regarded. She 
 leads the most blameless, if the most vapid, of lives. Many 
 men have loved her, but she has loved no one. She is an 
 adept in the more Gallic than British art of when to 
 stop. 
 
 I, hitherto, have regarded her less as a woman than as a 
 kind of Mayfair Undine, and unlike the lady described by 
 G. Shakespeare, she has, in spite of a long list of obvious 
 adorers, escaped calumny. 
 
 And now I am frightened for her. 
 
 You, dear friend, in your cloistral life, are the only 
 person of whom I can ask advice in this most worldly 
 crisis. 
 
 The man about whom you are wondering, is an eater of 
 hearts of the most pronounced type. His victims are legion 
 and well known to everybody, though to do him justice that 
 is less his fault than theirs. 
 
 The Englishwoman in love has infinitely less reason and 
 discretion than the Frenchwoman in that happy condition. 
 There have been scandals innumerable about one young man, 
 and on two occasions he has with much dignity sustained 
 the difficult role of corespondent, and these difficulties are 
 
 71
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 doubled, you will gather, when the gentleman has no inten- 
 tion of marrying the lady. 
 
 Therefore, as Captain H. has twice been able to carry 
 off this painful situation with success, we must concede to 
 him a certain cleverness. The crux is this: 
 
 So far as I have been able to inform myself, he has never 
 up to this time really loved. He has always been in love 
 indeed, he is credited with the unusual power of being in 
 love with several women at the same time but never before 
 has he loved. And it is, of course, Madame Tanagra whom 
 he now adores. 
 
 That he adores her is obvious. We are now the twentieth 
 July and up to the fourteenth there was only a little chat- 
 ter, and that exclusively about him. Since the fourteenth 
 this has changed, tongues are beginning to wag about her 
 as well. It was a yachting trip that did it. 
 
 A friend of Mrs. D.'s and of mine sprained her ankle, 
 and decided to escape from the great heat by taking a run 
 to Scotland on her yacht. 
 
 Captain H. being her brother, naturally went when he 
 was asked, and my poor, silly little Tanagra went as well. 
 I was there because I am suspected of being the slave of the 
 lady of the sprained ankle. She is a kind soul, and a good 
 musician, but she is of the school of old young women of 
 whom we are happily spared many at home. Sixty, a mas- 
 saged and painted face, a saffron wig, and obviously won- 
 derful stays. She has no designs on me, and when we are 
 alone we discuss music and poetry, and other things that 
 matter, but in public I am what the lower classes isn't it a 
 horrid way to describe "the people"? call "her best boy." 
 
 This to explain my miserable presence on the Seagull 
 for five days. 
 
 We were in all ten souls, including the daughter of my 
 charmer, and the daughter's baby and much was the mirth 
 
 72
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 over Vi's being a grandmother. Simulated mirth, designed 
 to flatter, for what could be more natural? 
 
 However, your charitable liking for my diffuseness is 
 leading me astray and I lose myself. 
 
 The facts, bald and plain, are these : Captain H., who is, 
 so far as women are concerned, a bad man, is violently in 
 love with Madame D., and she, who is, though uneducated 
 and in many ways a stupid little being, as innocent as a 
 child, is violently in love with him. The husband, whom 
 no one seems to know except a horrible girl (they are girls 
 up to eighty, if unmarried) named Croxley, who grinds her 
 teeth with rage when she beholds my unoffensive little per- 
 son, goes nowhere with his wife. He makes no attempt to 
 protect her from the attacks to which her remarkable beauty 
 lay her open; she has no father, no mother, no child. 
 
 And the odd thing is that I, I, the wicked Frenchman, 
 am the only one who seems to see in the affair anything 
 more than occasion for a tolerant laugh or a malicious sneer. 
 
 You will see the tragedy, my beloved saint. 
 
 My poor little Undine has awakened, and I fear she is 
 finding her little stunted soul only to lose it. The man, as 
 I analyze him, is, while in every way charming, and in 
 many ways a good fellow for all men seem to like him 
 is not the man to carry on successfully a great love affair. 
 He has done what you once told me unjustifiably, as you 
 will admit events to have proved ! that I had done. He has 
 wasted his substance, the substance of his heart, thrown 
 away in useless shreds and tatters so much of the fabric 
 that there now remains nothing out of which to make the 
 great warm cloak of a real love. He will love her for 
 awhile and then he will love someone else. And she? 
 
 She, who has never suffered even little things, must then 
 suffer the worst agony of all the great disillusion. 
 
 She is piteous ; she has changed from the rather artificial 
 
 73
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 woman of the world, full of potty, silly little poses, and 
 airs, to what she should have been years ago, had she loved 
 then. She has become timorous, hesitating, bold, sad and 
 gay. It is a belated girlhood that has come to her, a too 
 late young love. 
 
 It makes tears come to my eyes to contemplate her. 
 
 Tonight she and he in company with several others, of 
 course do me the honor of dining with me at the Ritz. 
 
 And it is now time for me to dress I felt I could face 
 them better if I had told you about it. Dearest of friends, 
 best and wisest of women, advise me. Here, in England, no 
 one interferes. Nothing is anyone else's business. Even 
 now, in the reign of King George and Queen Mary, a dread- 
 ful, inhuman tolerance holds sway over people. And toler- 
 ance can be the crudest thing in the world. 
 
 I, the reprobate Frenchman, I wish to help! 
 
 Write and tell me, out of your white wisdom, what to do. 
 
 I do not mind "interfering." I have no horror of being 
 snubbed. I see danger to an unarmed soul, and I must warn 
 that soul. 
 
 Tell me how ! 
 
 Thy 
 
 JULES.
 
 xni 
 
 AT ten o'clock in the morning of July twenty- 
 fourth Cloudesley Dorset went up to his wife's 
 door, and, after a second's hesitation, knocked. 
 
 She was not in bed not for her the delicious but 
 presumably unhygienic trick of lying late in that pleas- 
 ant place. The room, the bed-clothes thrown back, the 
 windows wide open, was empty. 
 
 "May I come in, Amy?" 
 
 The big man stood at the dressing-room door, which 
 was ajar, and spoke without looking in. 
 
 "Y-yes Oh, yes, come in." 
 
 Her surprise was as audible in her voice as it was 
 visible in her eyes. "Is anything wrong?" 
 
 He neither smiled at nor resented the question. Her 
 astonishment at his appearance in her rooms at that 
 hour did not strike him as in any way remarkable. 
 
 "No," he answered with his usual gravity, "I want to 
 talk something over with you, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Of course I don't mind. And you won't mind if I 
 go on dressing." She had had her bath long ago, he 
 knew, and her hair was dressed. 
 
 75
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 As he sat down she slipped off her yellow dressing- 
 gown, which lay like a pool of sunshine on the marble 
 floor, and showed herself in a short petticoat, and black 
 stockings and shoes. 
 
 Taking from a glass table a little crystal box filled 
 with a thick black liquid and a tiny brush, she went to 
 the cheval glass and proceeded skillfully to make up her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Wait a minute," he said, and she turned. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He laughed awkwardly. "Nothing. Go on. I I 
 hadn't seen you with light lashes for a long time, that's 
 all " 
 
 "Ah, yes ! I always feel the Bon Dieu might have 
 'done the blacking and saved me the trouble, how- 
 
 ever 
 
 For a moment she worked deftly, dipping the brush 
 into the black stuff, and brushing the long, curved 
 lashes with a skillful hand. Then, as he did not speak, 
 she pivoted on her absurdly high heels. 
 
 "Eh bien what did you want to say?" she asked, 
 kindly enough. 
 
 "I saw Lawrence yesterday, and she thinks you 
 don't look well." 
 
 Her stare, while droll, one eye being furnished with 
 heavy black fringes, the other with pale gold ones, was 
 
 unaffected. "Not well! I " 
 
 76
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Turning to the glass, she peered anxiously at her still 
 unpainted face. 
 
 "It's true I look yellow," she declared in dejection. 
 
 "Yellow!" 
 
 Dorset pulled at his mustache, his face unrelieved by 
 either sympathy or amusement. 
 
 "She didn't mean you didn't look pretty," he ex- 
 plained. "She meant you looked ill." 
 
 "Oh, is that all ! You did give me a fright, Cloudes- 
 ley." 
 
 Her relief was touching and comic at the same time, 
 but still his heavy face, a face which was going, as he 
 grew older, to be with its deep lines and loose throat 
 something of the bloodhound type, did not change. 
 
 "She says you ought to go to the country, Amy." 
 
 Amy laughed gayly, and worked at her other eye. 
 When it was finished to her liking, she sat down at the 
 dressing-table and rubbed some white cream into her 
 face. 
 
 "The country," she repeated in deep scorn ; "as if the 
 country ever agreed with me ! Lawrence is a goose." 
 
 "But you don't look well," he persisted, mildly, kind 
 if not particularly interested, "and it's very hot. Why 
 not run down to Maiden Aqualate for a week? Law- 
 rence would come too, if you asked her, I'm sure she 
 would." 
 
 His wife dabbed some faintly pink cotton wool over 
 
 77
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 her cheeks, and then dried it on a little lace-edged hand- 
 kerchief. "No doubt she would. She likes the country 
 and cows and crops and mud and dust and gardens and 
 dogs and and trees, and dew, and " 
 
 "Maiden Aqualate isn't exactly a cottage," he said, 
 with his impersonal gentleness. "You can't complain of 
 discomfort there." 
 
 "Of course it isn't a cottage, Clow. It's a very beauti- 
 ful place, only I happen to dislike it. You know I do." 
 
 "I do know, and I'm sorry. But as you really are 
 overtired you've got too much color on your right 
 cheek can't you regard it as a hospital, and go down 
 for a short cure?" Before she could answer, he had 
 gone on. "At any rate it would cure that that yellow- 
 ness you mentioned." 
 
 Tragically she turned to him, her eyebrows knotted 
 with misery. "O Clow, am I really yellow? Is it very 
 bad? When did you first notice it?" 
 
 He rose. "I never noticed it at all, Amy don't get 
 excited. It was you who spoke of it. Only would 
 you care to come down just with me and Clementine, 
 of course for a little rest? I I could read aloud to 
 
 you " 
 
 She gave a little high laugh. "Oh, you funny old 
 thing; fancy your reading aloud to me. I hate being 
 read to although it's very kind of you to suggest it 
 Clementine !" 
 
 78
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The beetle-browed maid came at her call and stood 
 by the door. "Le chapeau de Madame?" 
 
 "Oui, siwoo play," answered her mistress, adding 
 rapidly, in her extraordinary accent, that she would 
 have the new riboux with the paradise. While still in 
 her short petticoat and little embroidered linen cache- 
 corset, his wife adjusted the hat, and helped her maid 
 arrange a veil to her liking, Cloudesley Dorset stood 
 in silence. 
 
 Then, as the maid arranged a white skirt on the 
 floor and her mistress stepped delicately into it, he 
 withdrew. 
 
 "I shouldn't have bored you much," he said, quite 
 without pathos or humor, "I thought it might do you 
 good to be alone." 
 
 She smiled at him as she slipped on a white blouse. 
 "It was kind of you to think of it," she answered, cheer- 
 fully, "but it would kill me to be in the country just 
 now." 
 
 When he had gone and she was ready, she bade her 
 maid good-bye, went into her bedroom, closed the door, 
 and taking from a locked drawer a little packet of let- 
 ters, put it into her velvet bag. 
 
 "There !" she said, running out her tongue at the 
 dressing-room door, "so much for you, my excellent 
 Clementine !"
 
 XIV 
 
 AMY DORSET had bad nights that week; when 
 she had slept she had dreadful dreams, and 
 when she waked, it was to horrors both of mem- 
 ory and anticipation. 
 
 It was now ten days since she had faced the fact that 
 she loved Archie Hood, and the knowledge had, of 
 course, lost part of its terror in becoming an integral 
 part of herself. 
 
 "I am a part of all that I have seen" may be changed, 
 for application to women, to "I am a part of all that I 
 have felt," and hitherto the little Tanagra lady had felt 
 so little as to be in a sense almost nothing. 
 
 Pasquier le Breton's analysis of her was remarkably 
 correct except that he, being a man and in no way 
 dependent on her for his happiness or even his comfort, 
 had not been impressed by the utter selfishness of her 
 life. 
 
 To him, as to most men, a pretty woman is her own 
 excuse for being. In that she was lovely she fulfilled 
 her destiny so far as he was concerned. His appeal 
 to Madame Samain for advice how to help his little 
 
 80
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Undine, was the result of his sudden realization that his 
 little Undine was, after all, a human soul with a personal 
 destiny to fulfill to herself. 
 
 And this was the problem that was troubling her in 
 her mental penumbra. 
 
 Side by side with her chilly virtue had always walked 
 two attendant spirits: a thoroughly up-to-date theo- 
 retical knowledge of evil, and a pleasantly sneering 
 broad-mindedness towards it. It had always pleased 
 her, as it always does please fundamentally simple- 
 minded women, to be considered worldly-wise and cyn- 
 ical. 
 
 And now in her need she had no one to help her, 
 no one to whom she could go for advice not even 
 some dead and gone great man, for the knowledge of 
 books had been but an innocent pose. She was, sur- 
 rounded by friends and acquaintances, exceptionally 
 alone. 
 
 For three days since their return from Southampton, 
 she had not seen Hood, and this was not only her doing, 
 although it was by her wish. He had no wish to see her 
 for the present, for being in his way a very wise man 
 he had decided, as he expressed it mentally, to let her 
 have her scenes out with herself. 
 
 One scene he knew he must face, but when it came he 
 would have not only the right, but the duty to console 
 her with kisses and tenderness and promises any prom- 
 
 81
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 ises she might ask of him ! In the meantime, though he 
 was desperately in love with her, he prepared to keep 
 out of her way. He was in love with her, and restless 
 and unhappy in not seeing her, but he was not lonely. 
 He was one of the men who never allow themselves to be 
 lonely. 
 
 His little flirtation with Lord Clanrobert's second 
 daughter was not at all bad fun, and Beryl Spottis- 
 woode was possessed of a perverse charm that whiled 
 away several of his hours very pleasantly. In fact, in 
 the ardor of the chase he had gone, he feared, rather 
 too far, and Mrs. Spottiswoode would, for a time, re- 
 quire skillful handling, not because she had been given 
 too much of what he called his devotion, but because 
 she would continue to demand devotion on an increasing 
 scale ! 
 
 The lady he called Juno had gone away, to his im- 
 mense relief, in a jealous fury. 
 
 When the moment came, as it probably would, that 
 he wished to see her again, she would, he knew, come 
 hieing to him. 
 
 He was one of the lads to whom, when they whistle, 
 the women come. 
 
 So Captain Hood was in his banishment not broken- 
 hearted, although he sincerely and often violently longed 
 for the day .when he should have what he called his 
 "enfin sevls" hour with Mrs. Dorset. 
 
 82
 
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 Beyond the enfin seuls hour his imagination did not 
 fare. 
 
 Whereas her imagination, poor, little, undeveloped 
 growth that it was, struggled on in clouds of bewilder- 
 ment and helplessness. 
 
 While he was thinking of kisses, she was months 
 ahead considering the horrors of her divorce ! 
 
 The divorces of one's friends are beautifully easy to 
 bear, she found, but one's own is a very different pair 
 of sleeves. 
 
 Amongst all the horrors of the immediate future only 
 one thing seemed to give her any comfort. Cloudesley 
 would not mind. 
 
 After years of self-concentration, of a selfishness 
 practiced so consistently that her husband had come to 
 mean nothing to her, it was odd that she should give 
 him even this poor thought, but she did. 
 
 Cloudesley would not mind. He would hate the pub- 
 licity, of course, but he would arrange it all with the 
 skill possible only to the very rich, and doubtless he 
 would allow her to divorce him. 
 
 In the midst of her intense preoccupation, she remem- 
 bered over and over again to be glad that Cloudesley 
 would not minding losing her. 
 
 Undine was indeed stirring in her sleep.
 
 XV 
 
 1.45 A. M., 25 July 
 MY BELOVED, 
 
 I am just home after dinner, a play, and supper with 
 the party of whom I wrote you tonight. 
 
 In her eyes is the questing look of women's eyes who are 
 beginning an unhappy love. Women in the pain of love. 
 The words remind me of two lines of music I meant to send 
 to you before: 
 
 "Tout dort. Seul, a mi mort, un rossignol de nuit 
 Module en mal d'amour sa molle melodic." 
 
 Is that not music ? Say it aloud and see. Thy 
 
 JULES.
 
 XVI 
 
 ARCHIE HOOD'S enfin seuls hour came a few days 
 later, but not quite as he had imagined it. 
 
 Through a mere hazard, he found himself 
 alone with Mrs. Dorset in a picture gallery where he 
 had taken refuge from a sudden shower, and whither 
 she had come to see the paintings of an unsuccessful 
 young man who was in love with her. 
 
 It was after one o'clock and on a Friday, so the 
 place might have been fairly empty had the artist been 
 a good, or even a popular one, and, as it happened, not 
 a soul was there except Mrs. Dorset. 
 
 He found her in the last of the rooms, sitting on a 
 velvet seat, staring at a picture with eyes that did not 
 see. 
 
 Things had matured during the yachting trip so that 
 the correct thing was for him to take her into his arms 
 and kiss her. 
 
 He did so, and she returned his kisses. 
 
 "My dear, my darling," he murmured, "I I do love 
 you so." 
 
 It was perfectly true that he loved her, he was shak- 
 
 85
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 ing with an emotion none the less real because he had 
 voiced it in a kind of formula he had used for years on 
 similar occasions. He always said, "My dear, my dar- 
 ling, I do love you so," but she did not know this, and, 
 in any case, although he had always, in such circum- 
 stances, meant what he said, he had never so absolutely 
 meant it. 
 
 The rain beat down on the skylight, shutting them 
 by its sound into a little world of their own. 
 
 "Amy tell me, tell me you love me " 
 
 She raised to his her beautiful eyes, round which 
 unshed tears had slightly smeared the black stuff, giving 
 her a tragic look. 
 
 "I I adore you," she said, in a faint voice, her vel- 
 vety pink lips trembling. 
 
 They sat on the sofa for a long time. What they said 
 cloesn't matter. 
 
 The artist, roaming about looking at his own pic- 
 tures, found them, but, as he had a cough, he found 
 Mrs. Dorset standing by a sunset at Venice and Captain 
 Hood surveying with every appearance of interest a 
 study of young polar bears gamboling on ice. 
 
 "You'll see me this evening," Hood said as he put the 
 lady into the taxi that she refused to share with him. 
 
 "O Archie, how can I ?" 
 
 "I am coming. You must have a headache and stay 
 
 at home " 
 
 86
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She gave a nervous little giggle. "Must I have a 
 headache ? How cruel you are to me !" 
 
 "You must have a very severe headache. Amy 
 darling heart promise me you will. If I can't see 
 you I I shall go mad." 
 
 Very handsome he looked, his dark face glowing with 
 the joy of conquest, under the dripping umbrella. 
 
 She looked at his tall, slim figure and blazing black 
 eyes with another kind of pride, the pride of ownership. 
 He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and 
 he loved her, therefore he was hers ; therefore she was 
 proud. 
 
 "Come at half-past nine, then," she said, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 She drove away in a whirl of excitement and happi- 
 ness. For the moment her fears had dispelled like 
 vapors under strong sunlight; she remembered only 
 that they loved each other and that she should see 
 him at half-past nine in seven and a half hours' time. 
 She would, she decided, studying her face intently in the 
 glass, wear the gray and silver teagown. 
 
 For his part, Hood drove straight to his club and 
 had a drink.
 
 XVII 
 
 THE DORSETS were going to Deauville that 
 year, with a party of merry souls who had 
 seen each other constantly all through the sea- 
 son, and were extremely intimate. There were Lord and 
 Lady Tolhurst, there were the Penhollyn-Digbys and 
 Leicester Browne with an E, there were Sir George Au- 
 brey and his pretty Syrian wife, there was Baron von 
 Schmidt, the son of the great Frankfort banker, his 
 fiancee Lady Ida Belfield whom Mrs. Penhollyn-Digby 
 was chaperoning; there were two comparatively unat- 
 tached young men, and there was Lawrence Croxley. 
 
 She was not particularly popular with the party and 
 she knew it and did not care a rush. 
 
 She loathed Mrs. Digby, and Ida Belfield she dis- 
 liked. The Tolhursts were what she mentally called 
 decent though dull, but at least one of the young men 
 she considered dull and not even decent. So she went, 
 as she told her grandmother, a terrific old lady living 
 at Hampton Court, as a leaven. 
 
 "They must be pretty bad," commented Lady Brath 
 dryly. 
 
 88
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Lawrence nodded. "They are. But they are the only 
 lot going off in that way en masse and it's a place 
 where one need never be alone." 
 
 "It's Mrs. Dorset, I take it, who dislikes solitude?" 
 
 It was a blazing hot Sunday, and the two ladies sat 
 by the open window looking out over the park. There 
 was a positive glare of flowers ; if they had expressed 
 themselves in music, the result would have been dis- 
 pleasing. 
 
 Old Lady Brath, who despised her granddaughter for 
 her unmitigated plainness, looked at her angrily. 
 
 "Very expensive place I'm told, Deauville." 
 
 "Awful." 
 
 "Are you going on your own?" 
 
 Miss Croxley's mouth tightened. She had not for 
 her grandmother's temper the respect it inspired in 
 most people, for her own temper, she knew, could be 
 quite as violent, but she was furiously angry. 
 
 "I never go anywhere," she said quietly, "except on 
 my own." 
 
 "Ugh !" 
 
 Lady Brath, in her day, had been a famous "guest." 
 For months at a time she had lived at other people's 
 expense, which was the more clever of her in that her 
 malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness had gained her 
 a universal dislike. And Lawrence knew this, and she 
 knew that Lawrence knew. 
 
 89
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 Over the flower-beds under the window the big butter- 
 flies dipped and planed. It pleased Lawrence to remem- 
 ber the pretty Spanish word for this most flowerlike of 
 God's creatures. 
 
 "Isn't mariposa a charming word?" she asked, ab- 
 sently. 
 
 "Ma.Tl-what?" snapped the aged lady. 
 
 "Nothing. I was thinking aloud." And she made up 
 her mind to tell Cloudesley Dorset the word when she 
 saw him that night. 
 
 "How is that little idiot going on?" Lady Brath 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 "She's very well. And very pretty. There never 
 was a prettier creature." 
 
 "I never could see it, myself." 
 
 That most blighting of rejoinders, "No, you 
 wouldn't !" sprang to Lawrence's lips, but she did not 
 utter it. As a child she had been taught to respect old 
 age, and even her unreasonable grandmother could not 
 quite destroy the feeling that old age, per se, deserved 
 great courtesy. 
 
 "A little flirting fool, no brains and no soul, and" 
 to the aged woman her last accusation was by far the 
 worst "old enough to know better." 
 
 Lawrence did not answer. 
 
 She had been motored out by some friends who wanted 
 
 90
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 to see the gardens, and was to wait until they came for 
 her. She sat still. 
 
 "A silly, middle-aged butterfly," went on Lady Brath 
 venomously. 
 
 Lawrence started. What a pretty name for poor 
 little Amy Mariposa. She would call her by it. "Tan- 
 agra" was pretty, but "Tannie" was hideous. 
 
 An infinitely tender smile lit the bony dark face in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 Lady Brath, from her height of seventy-odd years, 
 regarded Amy Dorset, who was five-and-thirty, as prac- 
 tically an old woman, but to Lawrence's five-and-forty 
 the little creature seemed very young. 
 
 "Barbara Questingham was here yesterday," an- 
 nounced Lady Brath presently. 
 
 "Was she?" 
 
 "Yes. Her hands are very much twisted with rheu- 
 matic gout. But then she always overate. She tells 
 me your Mrs. Dorset is compromising herself with one 
 of the Hood boys." 
 
 Lawrence flushed angrily. "It's not true," she cried, 
 "and Lady Barbara is a malicious old cat." 
 
 Her grandmother chuckled. "Aha! If it weren't 
 true you wouldn't mind her saying it ! I suppose young 
 Hood is one of the Deauville party?" 
 
 "No, he isn't." But poor Lawrence spoke without 
 great conviction for she could picture the unexpected, 
 
 91
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 quite-by-chance arrival at the Hotel de la Normandie, 
 of the man in question. 
 
 "If it's the one I remember, he's a nice boy " 
 
 "Boy! He's thirty-five if he's a day." 
 
 "That's what I said; a nice boy." 
 
 "Yet you think Amy old, because she's thirty-five," 
 blundered her granddaughter. "O grandmother," she 
 added nervously, "don't cackle !" 
 
 But Lady Brath, now in a high good humor, did 
 cackle, and with real delight. 
 
 "All female children," she declared, "are ten years 
 old when they are born. That explains many things." 
 
 Lawrence rose wearily. 
 
 "There's Jimmy Bowes looking for me, so I must go. 
 Good-bye, grandmother." 
 
 The old woman caught her hand and held it very 
 tight. 
 
 "Barbara may be a cat, but cats are sharp-eyed. 
 And she says that young Hood is really in love this 
 time. If he is, and if it lasts she says your Amy 
 person has quite lost her head " 
 
 "That's a lie " 
 
 "About him. Quite. So it has occurred to me," went 
 on Lady Brath, still holding her granddaughter's hand 
 in a vise, "that if they are both really serious, there 
 might be Lawrence, look at me! a chance for you." 
 
 Lawrence Croxley made no attempt to withdraw her 
 
 92
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 hand. Instead, it seemed to the old woman to melt and 
 shrink in hers. 
 
 "Good-bye, grandmother." 
 
 Four fierce black eyes gazed into each other for a 
 moment, and then Miss Croxley left the room. 
 
 In the passage she stood still, pinching her blanched 
 cheeks with icy fingers. 
 
 Then she went out into the sunny garden and joined 
 her friends.
 
 xvm 
 
 MILLIPEDE!" 
 "Sir!" 
 
 Millipede appeared in the open door, a bunch 
 of pink roses in his hand. 
 
 "Ah, the flowers have come " 
 
 "I went out and got them myself, sir. They are 
 beautiful. All pink and white." 
 
 Hood nodded. "Good. Did you get the chocolates 
 with violet stuff inside?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And the roseleaf jam?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Went down to the City for that, sir, to 
 a little Greek place I know of. I also got some Man- 
 darin orange preserves " 
 
 "Excellent. Well I hope you remember all my in- 
 structions." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I am to prepare the tea-table, and the 
 cold supper I have made the lobster salad, sir, and the 
 champagne is in the ice-chest and I am to be out of 
 the house by four-thirty." 
 
 "That's right." 
 
 94
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Hood went on writing, and the valet, a sudden grin 
 wrinkling his odd face, asked demurely, "As to my com- 
 ing in, sir?" 
 
 His master frowned, but did not look up from his 
 letter. 
 
 "You will be back at half-past seven, as usual." 
 
 Millipede retired to his pantry, and went on with his 
 work of arranging several pounds' worth of white and 
 pink roses for the decking of the flat. 
 
 "One of our prudent fits on," he mused, with a smile 
 to himself. "Supper all ready and me to be back at 
 seven-thirty, as usual! That means, of course, that 
 she's a topper. Also that he's not quite sure of 'er. 
 Ah, well," he concluded, drying his hands after filling 
 the last vase with roses, "after all, it's 'is business, not 
 mine, but I'd gladly risk a fiver on 'er not living a hun- 
 dred miles from Park Lane." 
 
 Silently, deftly, he posed his gay roses in the living- 
 room, a bowl on the table, vases here and there, one or 
 two single flower glasses budding as it were, in unex- 
 pected corners. 
 
 He loved flowers, this servant whose duties were more 
 confidential and less respectable than are those of most 
 servants, and flowers, as is their way, seemed to return 
 his love by lasting better for him than they did for most 
 people. 
 
 Hood did not look up from his letters or speak again, 
 
 95
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 and after five minutes the man withdrew, and the master 
 heard the outer door of the flat close behind him. 
 
 The room was a large pleasant one, overlooking Hyde 
 Park. 
 
 There were some, not many, books, the carpet was a 
 fine Persian one, the chintz, at once cheery and sober- 
 colored, suitable to a man's abode. There was a piano, 
 for Hood sang a little in a high throaty tenor, but there 
 was also a pianola, run by electricity, and flanked by 
 a big shelf full of rolls of very light music. 
 
 Some good sporting prints brightened the sober 
 walls, and on the big table stood a very beautiful statu- 
 ette of a cricketer about to bowl. 
 
 Hood had been earlier in his life a fairly good all- 
 round athlete, and there were in the room several sou- 
 venirs of his prowess. 
 
 Over the mantelpiece hung a remarkably beautiful 
 pastel of a young woman in the dress of 1880, a very 
 charming young woman who would have been pretty but 
 for a slightly underhung jaw. This was his mother, 
 whom he deeply loved. In Mr. Millipede's opinion, the 
 room looked rather bare during what he called the Ban- 
 ishment. The Banishment consisted of the temporary 
 withdrawal to a cupboard of some twenty elaborately 
 framed photographs of ladies, that as a rule stood about 
 on the tables and pianos. Millipede, who had a real 
 affection for his master he would, if circumstances had 
 
 96
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 allowed it, himself have been just such another, faults 
 and all! always regarded the Banishment as a rather 
 serious thing. 
 
 It always presaged for his master a really rather seri- 
 ous love affair, and in these really rather serious ones 
 Millipede had seen Hood as really rather suffer. 
 
 Not for the tall one with red hair were the photo- 
 graphs removed; not for the overblown one; not for 
 the one who laughed so loud. But they had been re- 
 moved in their turn for Lady Wellbury, and for Eve 
 Raspail, the French actress, and for poor little Mrs. 
 Orbett, who killed herself 
 
 Of these things Millipede thought as he repaired that 
 afternoon to his club, The Yellow Posts, which social 
 center was situated within a stone's throw of Park 
 Lane. 
 
 Mr. Immenham was at the club, reading the Specta- 
 tor. 
 
 "How do, Immenham. Haven't seen you since that 
 day in the rain. Charming pretty girl, your sister, if 
 I may say so." 
 
 Immenham looked at him haughtily. Then he went 
 back to his Spectator. 
 
 "I trust all is well at 875, the Lane ?" 
 
 Mr. Millipede never felt himself insulted until he was 
 kicked. Moreover, he was a born tease. 
 
 "I was at your 'ouse this morning," he said with an 
 
 97
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 air of irresponsible gayety. "Hoped to have the pleas- 
 ure of seeing you, but that pie-faced William opened 
 the door. I don't like William, he's got no chick. None. 
 Miss Archbold tells me Vs leaving." 
 
 "Yes," answered Immenham. 
 
 "Fine girl, Miss Archbold, and she's even better in 
 mufti than in uniform though a parlormaid's cap can 
 look like a crown on a pretty girl." 
 
 Even this poetic remark failed to draw a reply from 
 Immenham, so Mr. Millipede withdrew to the billiard 
 room where he had a match with a marquess' first foot- 
 man. 
 
 A few minutes later Mr. Immenham went his way, 
 for it was his afternoon, and he was a gentleman at 
 large. 
 
 Millipede, for his part, finished his game losing with 
 good grace and after a long walk in the Park, and a 
 bit of supper at a bar kept by a friend, he went back to 
 the flat. 
 
 He was a good deal of a scoundrel, being a servant 
 for the possession of whom Don Juan would have been 
 tempted to fight Captain Hood, but he was a man full 
 of human sympathy, and it was with a real thrill of 
 vicarious excitement that he opened the door of 27 with 
 his latchkey. 
 
 It was exactly seven-thirty. 
 
 The place was perfectly quiet, only the ticking of a 
 
 98
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 grandfather's clock in the hall broke the silence; the 
 sitting-room door was ajar. 
 
 After a short pause the man went into the empty 
 room. 
 
 The blinds were undrawn, and the glory of the sky 
 turned the dusk to darkness. The roses filled the room 
 with their scent and on the floor lay a deep red rose. 
 Millipede had arranged only pink and white ones. 
 
 A song was open on the piano, which he had left 
 closed. 
 
 Two tea-cups had been used and of these one was 
 still half full, the cream standing thick on top. The 
 cakes were almost untouched, and half of a chocolate 
 fondant stuffed with violet cream lay on a plate. 
 
 In a brass bowl lay the ends of seven cigarettes, three 
 consumed to the last quarter of an inch, the other four 
 burnt irregularly and only for a third of their length. 
 
 Millipede stood for a moment studying these details, 
 his face wrinkling half in amusement, half in concern. 
 
 "I'd give something to know," he said to himself, 
 "which of 'em smoked the cigarettes to the end " 
 
 Then he set the room in order.
 
 XIX 
 
 AMY dear dear little Mariposa won't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset laughed, a small flame of bright 
 color on either cheek belying the artificial pink under 
 which it glowed. 
 
 "Tell you what, Lawrence? I've nothing to tell 
 except that I shall be late for the garden party if you 
 don't let me go." 
 
 Lawrence Croxley, who looked very old and wan, and 
 even plainer than usual, caught her friend's hand in 
 hers. 
 
 "Amy I know you'll think me an interfering beast, 
 but it's only because I am so fond of you, dear." 
 Poor, time-worn, piteous, unavailing plea ! 
 
 Again Amy laughed. "Of course you're fond of me 
 so am I of you, but Queen Alexandra is to be there, 
 so we simply mustn't be late. Good-bye, dear old 
 thing." 
 
 Miss Croxley made a final effort. "Good-bye, dear 
 and O Tannie, do for God's sake let me have a talk 
 with you before next week." 
 
 100
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "All right all right, whenever you like," returned 
 the little lady, impatience in her voice and in her face, 
 "but I must go now." 
 
 It was four o'clock, and one of those nerve-racking 
 days when no man can tell at what minute a downfall 
 of rain may occur ; one of the days that seem to choose 
 dates fixed for important garden parties and other out- 
 of-door fetes for their appearance. 
 
 Miss Croxley, who was wearing a new frock of brown- 
 ish linen, in which her sallow skin looked yellower than 
 ever, stood thoughtfully by the little fountain when the 
 garden door had closed, and gazed at the cloud-charged 
 sky. 
 
 She was very unhappy about her friend and she had 
 a guilty conscience as well. 
 
 An hour before as she stood in the telephone room, 
 looking up a number, the bell had rung and she had 
 answered it. 
 
 "Hullo Captain Hood speaking. I want to speak 
 to Mrs. Dorset, please." 
 
 With no idea of disguising her own voice, Lawrence 
 replied, "Mrs. Dorset's dressing." 
 
 There was a pause and then he went on. 
 
 "I see. Well, will you please give her this message. 
 Just say that my sister in Essex she'll know the name 
 has called me to the country on important business 
 got that?" 
 
 101
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm going by the seven o'clock train, and as I wish 
 to see Mrs. Dorset about the costumes for the dance 
 on Friday got that? I'll call, today about six. Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 Lawrence answered, "Yes," adding after what seemed 
 to him a long pause, "sir." 
 
 "At six," he went on, impressively. "Tell Mrs. Dor- 
 set I'm sorry to ask her to come back early from the 
 garden party, but that it is most important about the 
 costumes." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 i 
 
 "Thanks very much, I needn't wait for an answer, as 
 I know Mrs. Dorset is anxious to know about the cos- 
 tumes " 
 
 He rang off, leaving Miss Croxley facing the tele- 
 phone as if it were the judge before whom she was being 
 tried for life. 
 
 She had not mentioned the message to Amy, and 
 Amy would not be back until after seven. 
 
 "I must tell Immenham to tell him she said she'd be 
 out tiU late." 
 
 As she spoke the sun came out, the sudden warmth 
 almost as tangible as rain. Lawrence picked a rose and, 
 shaking off the wet from the last shower, tucked it into 
 her belt and went up the steps. 
 
 At the top an idea struck her. "I'll see him myself ! 
 102
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He'll hate it and so shall I, but I may be able to per- 
 suade him " 
 
 No woman on earth was less adapted to persuasive 
 arts, and certainly the female creature did not live who 
 could less hope to influence a man of Archie Hood's 
 kidney. However, a forlorn hope is better than none, 
 and Miss Croxley, as she drank her tea, was not so 
 hopeless as she might have been. 
 
 Hood's greeting, when, according to orders, Immen- 
 ham had ushered him in without a word, disheartened 
 her a little, it was so unruffled, even so cheery. 
 
 The wretch was too sure of himself to be annoyed 
 even by her hated presence. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Captain Hood?" 
 
 "How are you, Miss Croxley? Mrs. Dorset not yet 
 back from the flower show?" 
 
 "It's a garden party. Won't you sit down? No, 
 she's not back yet. In fact she won't be back until 
 late." 
 
 Hood allowed himself the luxury of a half smile. 
 "Won't she? That's bad luck for me, isn't it?" 
 
 Miss Croxley fixed her gaze on the white carnation 
 in his coat, thinking at the same time two distinct 
 things : that only a strict regard for the canons of 
 good taste prevented Archie Hood from burgeoning into 
 bright colors and soft fabrics ; that he would have liked 
 to wear rings and an inch more of hair on his head. 
 
 103
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 This was one of her simultaneous thoughts. The other 
 was that he was chuckling over her supposed state of 
 ignorance about the telephoning. 
 
 This perception prompted her unprecedented plunge 
 into the thick of things. 
 
 "I never gave her your message," she declared 
 bluntly. 
 
 "What !" 
 
 "No. It was I at the telephone " 
 
 He flushed with anger, his rather soft-looking lips 
 pursing like a girl's. "You! Why didn't you tell me 
 then?" 
 
 "Because I wanted to hear what you had to say. 
 Besides, it was your own fault for assuming that I was 
 a servant." 
 
 "And why, may I ask, didn't you at least tell Mrs. 
 Dorset what I said?" 
 
 Lawrence looked at him squarely. "For one thing," 
 she answered, "Amy knew all about the costumes. Her 
 costume is finished and hanging in a cupboard in her 
 dressing-room. So," she wound up with a peculiar 
 clarity of voice, "you lied." 
 
 For a moment he lost, in his disappointment and 
 anger, his self-control; he said rude things. 
 
 When he had stopped speaking she said, "All these 
 things are things any man would have felt under 
 the circumstances. I am glad, however, to think 
 
 104
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 that I know very few men who would have said them." 
 
 He made an unqualified apology, which she accepted. 
 
 "Incidentally," he returned, trying to laugh, "it's 
 the first time I've ever been called a liar." 
 
 She looked meditatively at him, little flames in her 
 deep eyes. "I am," she said, "so constituted that I 
 cannot understand how people can bear to do things 
 that they cannot bear to have named." 
 
 He rose, flushing again and scowling, his heavy eye- 
 brows meeting over his nose. 
 
 "I think I won't wait any longer," he said, stiffly. 
 
 "Oh, please don't go. I will not inflict any more of 
 my odd notions upon you. Also my other reason 
 for not giving Amy your message was that I wanted to 
 speak to you myself." 
 
 The man's experience had been such that it is scarcely 
 remarkable that his first thought was, "Good God, you 
 too!" He was not a coxcomb, but he knew that neither 
 ugliness nor age had the power to instill wisdom into 
 some women, and, flashed like lightning through his 
 mind, Mrs. Lowndes, his portly Juno, must be older by 
 two or three years than this black-avised spinster. 
 
 On the whole it was to his credit that his face held 
 no betrayal of his involuntary thoughts. 
 
 "You wish to speak to me?" he repeated with cour- 
 tesy. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 105
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "If I can be of any service to you " 
 
 She rose suddenly and came close to him. 
 
 "You can," she said with abruptness, "to me and 
 to several other people by leaving Amy Dorset alone." 
 
 Burning at the stake was the least he would at that 
 moment have condemned her to. He did not know what 
 to say ; he was furious, outraged, alarmed, and horribly 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "MissCroxley!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know I'm doing a perfectly unheard-of 
 thing, but she's she's so alone and I'm fond of her." 
 
 "You are evidently assuming things that are entirely 
 wrong mistaken," he stammered. "Because I have 
 danced a great deal with Mrs. Dorset, it doesn't follow 
 that that " 
 
 "That what?" she interrupted, inexorably, knowing 
 the value in argument of letting one's opponent express 
 the situation. 
 
 "That that there's any reason for asking me to 
 to let her alone. The phrase is, besides," he continued, 
 feeling ground under his feet again, "very offensive to 
 her." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 Amazed at her stupidity, he committed himself. "To 
 whom? Why, to Amy, of course." 
 
 He saw his blunder at once, and that she had trapped 
 him, and blistered. "What's more, if there were any 
 
 106
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 interfering to be done, I suggest your leaving it to 
 Dorset." 
 
 "To Cloudesley," she repeated, "but he " 
 
 "He's her husband and if he objects to my dancing 
 with his wife he can tell me himself. I refuse to discuss 
 the matter any further with you, Miss Croxley." 
 
 He bowed as he spoke and went towards the door. 
 
 "I don't think he objects, as yet," she said, "but- 
 he knows." 
 
 Hood turned fiercely. "What does he know?" 
 
 In a way she was defeated, for she knew now for cer- 
 tain what she had almost known before making the at- 
 tempt: that no effort of hers could ever prevail with 
 this man. But side by side with her defeat was her 
 triumph. 
 
 The enemy was retreating under heavy fire and with 
 great losses. 
 
 "He knows," she said quietly, looking at him through 
 her lorgnon, "what everybody knows, that you are mak- 
 ing love to his wife. But he also knows what thus far 
 only she and you and I know that she is letting you." 
 
 Before he could speak she had rung the bell, and he 
 was obliged to go. 
 
 Heavy-hearted she made her way home. Victory or 
 defeat, it had been a bloody engagement.
 
 XX 
 
 MISS CROXLEY'S face, as she sat in one of the 
 door corners of the bus, was so grim and un- 
 pleasantly concentrated that nearly every one 
 of the people traveling through the wet with her, paid 
 her the tribute of a disapproving thought. 
 
 "Cross old frump," said to herself the pretty girl 
 with openwork stockings and an aged Burberry. 
 
 "Stop a clock, that face," mused the girl's neighbor, 
 a slightly bemused char-lady. 
 
 "I pity her husband," thought a little bride with a net 
 bag full of household purchases. 
 
 Miss Croxley, as if she felt this weight of disapproval, 
 raised her eyes and swept across her fellow-passengers 
 a comprehensive glance of fierce loathing that startled 
 some of the more timid. 
 
 "Pigs," she called them, mentally, "vulgar brutes. 
 Ugh that bad-smelling woman in the man's ulster and 
 cap." 
 
 She was in a vile and very furious temper, and as the 
 bus turned into Hyde Park Road she was deep in a 
 
 108
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 review of the things that that morning in particular 
 embittered her world. 
 
 She loathed buses ; she execrated the earth-shattering 
 vans that roar through the streets, like railway trains 
 gone mad, laden with bricks or flour or beer-barrels ; 
 she hated in a wilder way the poisonously uninteresting 
 vehicles like degraded broughams with the seats running 
 the wrong way, commercial chariots usually piled from 
 ceiling to floor with bales of cloth or cardboard boxes 
 that in their abundance leave just room for a plain 
 elderly man and his notebook and pencil, or at best, his 
 newspaper. 
 
 She would have consigned to an overheated perdition 
 the wandering slackers who blow from out-of-tune brass 
 instruments incorrect and hideous versions of music 
 every note of which one knows in its pristine form. She 
 hated fat women of fifty with bulging faces and torsos 
 obviously in need of pneumatic readjustment; she hated 
 dirty unshaven men in greasy and foul frock-coats and 
 rakishly set hats who abound in London and are more 
 or less unknown elsewhere. She hated undersized, 
 spotty-faced mashers of eighteen who leered at the maid- 
 ens of their own rank, and she hated the maidens who 
 bridled at the leer ! 
 
 She hated the painted young men who in musical 
 comedies follow the heroine about with ill-taught ges- 
 tures of their common, white-gloved hands. 
 
 109
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She hated smart women of known class who look 
 twenty behind, and sixty in front. 
 
 She abhorred what is known to those who like it, as 
 "wholesome English food" food which she wrathfully 
 described, as she went on with her list that day in the 
 bus, as woolly mutton and soapy potatoes. 
 
 She despised curates who, as a type, she believed to 
 have swallowed their own chins and disposed of them as 
 Adam's apples. And no words could describe the 
 intensity of her rage as she thought of the driveling 
 idiots of pedestrians who apparently think themselves 
 brilliantly clever in crossing the street at an angle of 
 ninety degrees, wambling along in their imbecile self- 
 approval almost in a line with the current of the traffic. 
 
 Boys on bicycles she would have strung up by their 
 thumbs, and at the mental spectacle of the trailer luna- 
 tics her vituperative imagination failed her utterly. 
 
 Yet Lawrence Croxley was an exceptionally kind 
 woman in many ways, and often denuded herself of the 
 little luxuries that to women are so much more neces- 
 sary than necessaries, that she might be able to help 
 some needy acquaintance. 
 
 One's minor hatreds are very vital things, and if lined 
 up and classified as she lined up and classified hers be- 
 tween "the Grove," as the people in her street designated 
 the Grove of Westbourne, and the Marble Arch, many 
 of us would probably discover our own lists to be nearly 
 
 110
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 as long as that of the poor lady with the grim face 
 under the shabby brown hat. 
 
 As she alighted, insisting to the conductor's very ar- 
 ticulate disgust on a complete stoppage of the vehicle 
 which she so loathed, she suddenly realized how she had 
 been using her brain, and she laughed. 
 
 " 'Black and oblong thoughts,' " she said under her 
 breath, as she made her way towards Park Lane. "I am 
 an old fool. Now for some round and white thoughts." 
 
 "Hello, Lawrence you'll be run in if you wander 
 about in Park Lane talking to yourself !" 
 
 It was Dorset. 
 
 His heavy face was as inexpressive as usual, as he 
 went on, "What is it that you were saying? It can't 
 have been about 'round, white thoughts,' but it sounded 
 like it." 
 
 "It was too, Clow. I I'm in the vilest temper today 
 I came all the way from la-bas thinking of the things 
 I hate, which is a criminal proceeding." 
 
 He was silent, and they plodded on under his umbrella 
 to his door before he spoke again. 
 
 "Yes, but what was it about round thoughts?" 
 he persisted, with the mild obstinacy she knew so 
 well. 
 
 As the door closed behind them, shutting them with 
 its heavy clang so suddenly and completely away from 
 the crowd and the ugliness of the workaday world, she 
 
 111
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 turned her head away from him, a sudden blush almost 
 hurting her face. 
 
 It was the first time they had met since her talk 
 with her grandmother, and she realized and feared the 
 fact. 
 
 "How lonely the poor roses look in the rain," she 
 said, hastily. 
 
 "Yes, Lawrence tell me about the round thoughts." 
 
 "Your initials, C. D., mean not only Cloudesley Dor- 
 set, Clow," she crowed in delight at the coincidence, 
 "they also mean Constant Dropping! You'd wear 
 away any stone." 
 
 He opened his eyes wide, thus dropping his monocle, 
 and smiled. "Rather odd, that. Well what did it 
 mean ?" 
 
 So she told him, as they stood in the little dripping 
 garden, under the umbrella that was so wet that it 
 looked as if it had been oiled. 
 
 "It's from a poem, I forget by whom. It begins : 
 
 * 'The silver girl she came to me when Spring was dancing 
 green/ 
 
 and goes on Oh, I've forgotten, but the first stanza 
 ends: 
 
 " 'And I'll get you into Heaven yet, you damned old fool.' " 
 
 112
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Dorset gazed at her solemnly. "Yes but what 
 about " 
 
 "Wait. I've forgotten the words but they are some- 
 thing like this : 
 
 "And all my black and oblong thoughts went crying to the 
 
 wilds 
 
 And all my thoughts are round and white, like any little 
 child's." 
 
 "I see. It's rather good, that. So your thoughts 
 are round and white, Lawrence ?" 
 
 She shook her head, her eyes suddenly as wet as even 
 the roses round her. 
 
 "No, Clow. They have been black and oblong with 
 hard edges and corners that cut " 
 
 He laid his hand on her arm. "Poor old girl," he 
 said, gently, "I'm sorry. Let's get in out of the 
 rain."
 
 XXT 
 
 DORSET, explaining that his wife was out, asked 
 his friend to come into the study. "There's 
 a fire," he added, as an inducement. 
 
 "Amy out at eleven o'clock !" 
 
 He raised his somber eyes to hers and was silent for 
 a second before he answered. 
 
 "Yes," he then said, slowly, "she has gone to her 
 dentist." 
 
 There was another pause, during which she could not 
 decide whether the expression in his dogged eyes meant 
 entreaty or defiance. 
 
 She shrugged her thin shoulders and sat down. "I'm 
 sorry to miss her," she said. "I haven't seen her for 
 several days." 
 
 "She's very busy. Will you lunch with us?" 
 
 She shook her head, from which she had taken her 
 hat, and smoothed the rough black hair in which the 
 few white ones shone out like good deeds in a naughty 
 world. 
 
 "Can't, thanks. Lunching with Vera Undershaft." 
 
 She liked the library, which was old-fashioned and 
 114
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 comfortable. There were in it, besides several thousand 
 books, many things sympathetic to her ; there were pipes 
 and easy chairs, and a large, sensible writing-table on 
 which stood a shabby despatch-box. A week-old Aber- 
 deen might at a pinch have been drowned in the ink-well, 
 and there was a huge waste-paper basket, nearly as big 
 as poor Lawrence's whole sitting-room. 
 
 She loved, too, the portrait of Amy as a young wife, 
 done in a charming way by a rather inferior artist, that 
 hung on the one blank wall. 
 
 "I love that," she said suddenly, nodding at it. 
 
 "So do I. It's exactly like her." 
 
 For a moment they stood looking at the pretty girl 
 in the gold frame, silent. 
 
 Miss Croxley broke the silence. "Clow tell me about 
 her, then." 
 
 The people whom her disagreeable expression had of- 
 fended in the bus would, had they at that moment been 
 flies on the wall of Dorset's library, hardly have recog- 
 nized her as she spoke, so much sweetness and even be- 
 nevolence was there in her harsh face. 
 
 The library windows gave on Wessex Street, and Dor- 
 set, as he tried to marshal his thoughts in order to do 
 as she had asked him, gazed silently at the rain against 
 the dull background of the houses opposite. When in 
 London there comes a momentary lull in the roar of 
 the traffic, it seems a tangible thing. And such a lull 
 
 115
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 happened now and in it the middle-aged man began his 
 description of the wife of his youth. 
 
 "She was," he said slowly, his voice loud in the pat- 
 ter of the rain, "just like that. Very pretty, very 
 ignorant, very simple. And," he hesitated, "very good." 
 
 "She is always good." 
 
 "Yes. She knew little. Her father had never both- 
 ered much about her, and her mother had already been 
 dead some years. I remember how surprised she was 
 to find that Queen Anne was married. She said," for 
 a moment his inexpressive face relaxed to a half smile, 
 "that Anne is such an unmarried name." 
 
 Lawrence nodded. "So it is ! And she was twenty 
 when you married her, wasn't she?" 
 
 Yes. We went to the Lakes for our wedding journey, 
 and it poured all the time." 
 
 "And then," she insisted gently, for he was busy light- 
 ing a pipe, "where did you live ?" 
 
 He threw the match away and after a puff or two 
 at his pipe, began coaxing the fire with the poker. 
 
 "We lived in Ambles in Sussex." 
 
 "Ambles. Is it a house?" 
 
 "No. It's a small town, not far from Chichester. 
 I owned still own, in fact a house there left me by 
 a-n old aunt of my mother's. There's a picture of it 
 just over your shoulder." 
 
 She turned, and saw, in a tarnished gold frame, a 
 116
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 little pencil and chalk drawing that in its dark corner 
 in the lea of the jutting mantelpiece she had never 
 noticed. 
 
 "Take it down," he said, and she did so. 
 
 The drawing, which was very badly done, represented 
 a plain Georgian house flush with the pavement. The 
 door, which had a portico supported by fluted pillars, 
 was at the top of a flight of six steps ; the windows 
 were large and there were two on either side of the 
 door. 
 
 The front of the house was covered with ivy which 
 was trimmed with great exactitude into squares round 
 the windows. To the left a wall extended, and over the 
 wall woolly and indistinguishable trees stretched up into 
 a sky equally woolly, but very blue. 
 
 Lawrence Croxley's heart contracted. It was here 
 that this dull, middle-aged man whom she loved, had 
 brought his young wife fifteen years ago. 
 
 Fifteen years ago she herself had been living at Crux- 
 worth with her father and mother still in luxury al- 
 though a shorn and diminishing luxury. She had already 
 refused, to her father's rage, the only marriage offer 
 she had ever had, before or since, and her mother's 
 wearing, terrible, apparently endless last illness had be- 
 gun. And across the hills to the south, unknown even 
 as to his very name, Cloudesley Dorset was beginning 
 his life with the wife he had chosen. 
 
 117
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "It's a dear old house," she said, suddenly, her 
 voice sounding very loud to her, though not, to all ap- 
 pearances, to him. 
 
 "Yes. There was a mulberry tree behind the house, 
 a large tree, said to have been planted by Charles II. 
 She was so pleased when I told her that it's called the 
 mulberry, the wisest of trees, because it does not risk 
 its new leaves till all danger of frost is over." 
 
 "Was the garden pretty?" 
 
 "Yes. My aunt Sybilla loved flowers and had worked 
 hard over it." 
 
 Lawrence drew near to the fire. "Did she like it too ?" 
 
 "You mean Amy? Yes. Yes," he added, gravely, 
 "she used to be fond of the garden." 
 
 There was a long pause, and then Miss Croxley rose, 
 suddenly. "Well, I must be off," she exclaimed with 
 great briskness; "tell Amy I'm sorry to have missed 
 her." 
 
 They shook hands, and he opened the door. In the 
 hall, which at that end of the house was, that dull day, 
 rather dark, Dorset said, "By the way, Lawrence, I 
 want you to do me a favor." 
 
 "Right. What is it?" 
 
 "I want you to come and dine with us tonight 1 
 here." 
 
 She reflected. "Let me see, this is Tuesday, isn't it? 
 I'm sorry, Clow, but I'm afraid I can't. I've promised 
 
 118
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Basil Humphreys to chaperon a girl and him to His 
 Majesty's." 
 
 Dorset stood still, his face indistinct in the faint 
 light. "Ask Basil to get someone else. He has three 
 sisters." 
 
 "I know, but " 
 
 "Look here, Lawrence," he went on, taking her hand 
 in his, "I said it would be a great favor, and it will. 
 I am very much troubled about Amy and I want 
 I need your help." 
 
 She knew by his voice that he was deeply moved, and 
 for a moment her heart throbbed in a wild way. Could 
 it be the touch of her hand that so stirred him? 
 
 Then with a mental shake she regained, as she after- 
 wards regarded it, her senses; at last she was feeling 
 something vital about his wife. Honestly, she tried to 
 be glad. 
 
 "I'd do anything in the world to help Amy, Clow," 
 she answered steadily, "but I promised Basil " 
 
 "You must put him off. You will?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 With a gentle pressure he released her hand. "You 
 are a good sort," he said. "Thanks. Half-past eight, 
 then." 
 
 "All right. I'll telephone Basil. And who else is 
 coming? Is it a big party?" 
 
 They had reached the door giving into Wessex Street, 
 119
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 and before answering her question Dorset hailed a pass- 
 ing taxi and put her into it. 
 
 "Thanks again," he said, closing the door. 
 
 "And how big a party? So that I shall know," 
 she went on hurriedly, "what to wear." 
 
 He looked at her. "There is no party, Lawrence. 
 It's only Amy and you and me and Hood."
 
 XXII 
 
 DEAREST, 
 
 I am awfully worried and badly frightened. Cloudesley 
 has just told me that you are coming to dinner you and 
 Lawrence Croxley. What can it mean? 
 
 I told him this morning that I should be at home tonight, 
 then an hour later he sent word by my maid that he had 
 asked a friend to dine, and just now he's told me that it is 
 you "the friend" ! What can it mean ? Can he suspect 
 anything, do you think ? Oh, I am so frightened. 
 
 My beloved, I shall be so glad when we no longer have 
 to lie ! God bless you, my dearest dear. Perhaps we can 
 have five minutes' talk alone tonight, for Lawrence often 
 goes to his study with him. I love you. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Captain Hood read this note at seven that evening. 
 It was brought to him by the excellent Millipede, and 
 read under the fire of two angry eyes under a beflowered 
 hat. 
 
 "No answer, thanks, Millipede." 
 
 When the door had closed the owner of the angry 
 eyes she also owned a redundant figure and a great 
 deal of native and foreign hair of a fine amber hue 
 burst out.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "That letter's from a woman, Archie Hood. 
 
 He put it into his pocket. "It is, my dear. What 
 then?" 
 
 "It's it's a love-letter." 
 
 He lit a cigarette, laughing as he did so. 
 
 "My name is Don Juan," he declared, "I am the 
 ladies' pet; my beauty is fatal, to see me is to love 
 me " 
 
 She, however, refused to laugh. "You are deceiving 
 me," she snapped. "I know you are. You are lying 
 to me." 
 
 "But I have just told you," he teased, his beautiful 
 dark eyes glowing with malicious amusement, "that my 
 name is Don Juan!" 
 
 She leaned towards him, her tight stays creaking a 
 little, a dull flush creeping up her throat to her unde- 
 niable double chin. "Archie show me that letter. I 
 have a right to see it." 
 
 The light died out of his face and he frowned. 
 
 "My dear Alys, don't be an a goose," he retorted, 
 as civilly as he could. "I certainly will not show you 
 my letter, and you have no right to ask me to. I have 
 never asked to see yours." 
 
 "That's because you don't care ! You don't love me 
 any more I don't believe you ever did love me. You 
 have lied and deceived me from the first !" 
 
 His morals were indefensible, but it is certainly to
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 his credit that he did not make one of several answers 
 that occurred to him. 
 
 He did not remind her that their cursory love affair 
 had been more of her seeking than of his; he did not 
 recall to her mind the fact that she was well over ten 
 years older than he; he made no reference to the cir- 
 cumstance that, although she was a widow of several 
 years' standing, he had never in the most remote way 
 hinted to her that his feelings were of the kind that lead 
 to matrimony. 
 
 Neither and perhaps, to a man of his spoiled and 
 impatient nature this, of all these reserves, was the most 
 praiseworthy did he tell her the truth: that he was 
 utterly sick of her, and would have ceased seeing her 
 long ago, but for a genuine kind-hearted dread of hurt- 
 ing her ! 
 
 As the devoted Millipede had said, Captain Hood un- 
 deniably had two good points. 
 
 What he did say, after a pause, was, "My dear Alys, 
 I am dining out, and fear that I must go and dress." 
 
 "Where are you dining?" 
 
 He looked at her too fat face, with its incipient chops 
 and purplish bloom, and a feeling of sincere self-disgust 
 came over him. "Why on earth did I ever even look 
 at you?" he reflected, adding more kindly, "You poor 
 old thing !" However, he had looked at her and there 
 she was. 
 
 123
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I'm dining at the Brook-Bellwood's in Belgrave 
 Square," he lied suavely. "Their telephone number is 
 6801 Victoria if you'd like to make inquiries !" 
 
 She sighed, and producing that friend in need, a pow- 
 der-puff, began to repair the dilapidations of tears and 
 temper. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Beau-boy," she said, "it's only because 
 I love you so. I have given you my whole life, you 
 know." 
 
 And again he achieved merit this time by not 
 suggesting that as she was forty-eight and he had 
 known her only about six months, he could hardly 
 claim the possession of what was known as her best 
 years. Instead, and in his relief at her descent to 
 earth, he was very kind to her, kissing her good- 
 bye, patting her hands, and thanking her for coming 
 to see him. 
 
 At the door she turned. "Beau-boy couldn't we 
 dine tomorrow at La Mandolina?" 
 
 "I I fear " 
 
 A few years ago her upturned, pleading face would 
 possibly have been irresistible. Now, it was at best only 
 pathetic. "Darling, I have been so unhappy, fearing 
 you'd stopped coming do say yes, and we'll have spa- 
 ghetti and white truffle salads and zabajoni !" 
 
 He winced. The ghosts of old meals can haunt and 
 hurt a sensitive soul, and in his way Hood was sensi-
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 tive. He was also not ungrateful, and she had in a 
 way pleased him, only a few months before. 
 
 "All right," he said, reluctantly, "I'll try to arrange 
 it. At seven-thirty then, upstairs." 
 
 She was all smiles. "Oh, you dear," she cried girl- 
 ishly, "what fun it'll be. And darling you do love 
 me?" 
 
 It was part of his code, such as it was, that Hood, 
 in his incidental liaisons, avoided as much as possible 
 the word love. After all, the utterance of the word is 
 by no means always a necessity in the most passionate 
 scenes. 
 
 And now, when he did really love Amy Dorset, he 
 felt a thrill of self-approbation as he realized his skill 
 in having so little degraded the word he devoted to her. 
 It is characteristic of him that his having degraded the 
 sentiment itself in his thousand and one simulations of 
 it gave him not a pang. 
 
 With a tender smile he kissed Alys Lowndes' hand. 
 "Dear," he murmured, "my feeling for you is something 
 I can't easily talk about even to you." 
 
 Then, finally, she left, and he went into his dressing- 
 room, where Millipede was busy. 
 
 "Get me a gin and vermouth, Millipede," he said. "I 
 I'm tired." 
 
 Millipede ventured a sympathetic half-grin, and went 
 to mix this drink. 
 
 125
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I think," Hood told him, setting down the empty 
 glass, "that I shall be out the next time that lady 
 comes." 
 
 The man nodded. "Very good, sir."
 
 XXIII 
 
 AS dinner went on Mrs. Dorset grew more confident 
 that her vague fear had been unfounded, and 
 in consequence of this feeling her manner be- 
 came easier and less constrained. 
 
 She had had a bad afternoon, her usual rest being 
 changed, as it had been changed more than once of 
 late, into a period of mental stress of a force that 
 threatened to annihilate her former conception of 
 things. 
 
 She loved Archie Hood, and looking into the future 
 she could see only him, but her brain was not well 
 enough focused to make her vision clear. How or when 
 they were to be together she could not even guess; all 
 she knew was that they would, must, be always to- 
 gether. 
 
 She was one of those modern products, a woman 
 without either much practical sense or much imagina- 
 tion ; she had a variety of small, superficial tastes which 
 she herself believed to be convictions, but she had never 
 channeled her forces, and now, at a great crisis, her 
 mental powers were beyond her control. 
 
 127
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She did not know what she meant to do; in fact 
 there was nothing which she definitely meant to do ; she 
 subconsciously meant things to do themselves. She was 
 an empty cup held up for Chance to fill. 
 
 When she was at last dressed for dinner, a little 
 more color than usual on not in her cheeks, a long 
 string of pale corals round her neck as more propitious 
 to her looks than pearls, she sent Clementine out of the 
 room and stood for a moment before the glass. Anx- 
 iously she scanned herself. Pale, yes tired, yes. Hag- 
 gard, thank God, no. 
 
 Her frock was perfection, her hair in its happiest 
 mood. 
 
 "I wonder," she thought, "what is going to happen. 
 I wonder why Clow invited Archie? I'm glad poor old 
 Lawrence will be here, in any case." 
 
 Unconsciously she realized that even if a highly im- 
 probable battle, murder, and sudden death were to en- 
 sue, Lawrence Croxley would stand by her. 
 
 When men descant on the untrustworthiness of 
 women to women they should remember that nearly 
 every beautiful woman who ever lived has possessed a 
 woman friend of Lawrence's kind. 
 
 Amy met her guests without betraying her inner tur- 
 moil, and watched her husband as he greeted them. 
 
 Dorset looked tired, and had at first little to say. 
 
 Miss Croxley was arrayed in all the glories of a new 
 128
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 frock and looked, according to her possibilities, very 
 well indeed. 
 
 She was one of those thin women who look their best 
 with their bony structures well exposed ; the lines of her 
 shoulders were good, and her long throat carried with 
 an odd, gypsy-like grace her small well-set head. For 
 some reason, unexpressed even to herself, she had chosen 
 to wear the necklace that night, and it was very worth- 
 ily, though not softly, bedded in her brown bosom. 
 
 In her cheeks was a deep flame of natural color, and 
 as she bowed politely to Hood, this color seemed to leap 
 up for an instant in a way that only Dorset observed. 
 
 "You are looking," he said to her as they went in to 
 dinner, "splendid." 
 
 Again the color leapt, though she laughed. "Clow! 
 If you take to making compliments the solid earth will 
 crumble away under my feet." 
 
 The talk was general and meaningless. 
 
 Of the four who partook of it, only Hood knew what 
 he was eating, and he was one of those lucky people of 
 preeminent digestions and manly, non-existent nerves 
 who make excellent breakfasts on their hanging day. 
 
 To him the salmon, the game, the champagne and the 
 rest had even more than their usual savor because of the 
 undefined element of danger that seemed to brood in 
 the room. 
 
 Towards the end of the meal, his opinion of the situa- 
 129
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 tion was that Dorset certainly must smell a rat of some 
 kind, but could probably be put off the scent by a little 
 exercise of the ingenuity that had in the matter of hus- 
 bands done its possessor such yeoman's service. 
 
 A few weeks' absence might do it, or a hint as to a 
 half-engagement to Etheldreda Yelverton, a second- 
 cousin whom the gods evidently intended him to marry 
 some fine day ; or if necessary someone with a taste for 
 situation-molding might be told about Beryl Spottis- 
 woode. With a guiltless face and an inward chuckle, 
 Hood told himself that no man's name could escape un- 
 scathed from even the most careless linking with 
 naughty Beryl's. 
 
 "If I told this old living skeleton," he decided, smil- 
 ing courteously at Lawrence, who was speaking to him, 
 "or better still, had someone else tell her, she'd trek over 
 here first thing and tell Dorset." So his mind was beau- 
 tifully easy. 
 
 Dorset's was not. He knew that his wife was for 
 the first time in her rather pathetic, emotionally limited 
 life deeply in love. And he was frightened for her. He 
 disliked and distrusted Archie Hood for one thing, and 
 he realized far more than, in the plenitude of her new 
 happiness, Amy did, what in this matter she stood to 
 lose. 
 
 He was deeply sorry for her, and having asked Hood 
 to dine with the intention of trying to see exactly how 
 
 130
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 matters stood, he had asked Lawrence Croxley not 
 only because he had of late grown very fond of her, 
 but because he felt that in the event of any precipitated 
 crisis, she would be a comfort to his wife. 
 
 As for Lawrence, she was very much agitated, and 
 could have screamed with nerves and irritation several 
 times during the dinner. 
 
 Of all the people in the room the one who had the 
 coolest judgment and the most unbiased view of the 
 situation was the butler. 
 
 Immenham knew of his mistress's visit to Captain 
 Hood's rooms ; the impish Millipede had taken great de- 
 light in telling him. He also knew that daily letters 
 were exchanged between Mrs. Dorset and Hood, and 
 that the matutinal box of violets from Solomon's was 
 sent by Hood. 
 
 These things constituted a disquieting whole, but the 
 dignified, observant man knew more. 
 
 He knew that the lady he served was wasting her 
 heart on an altogether unworthy man. 
 
 He knew this, was constrained to look on at the 
 tragedy, and was powerless to help. 
 
 He was the cleverest, most sensitive man of those 
 present in the room for pie-faced William's successor 
 going in and out, did not count but he was a servant, 
 and therefore could do nothing to avert the catastrophe. 
 
 And this, as well, was in its way a tragedy. 
 131
 
 XXIV 
 
 WHEN they were alone, Amy walked to Hood 
 and drew him out of his chair. "O Archie," 
 she murmured, "I am so happy!" 
 
 "Mind the door," he retorted sharply ; "someone will 
 be coming in." 
 
 The little creature, all aglow, laughed aloud. "No 
 they won't, dearest. Besides what would it matter?" 
 
 For a long time he silently held her in his arms ; in 
 his arms not in the way usually meant by the phrase, 
 but literally, for she was so slim, so light, that she was 
 as easy to lift as a child, and there was to him a subtle 
 and sensuous charm in this holding, close to his breast, 
 her little feet hanging over his arm, the woman whom 
 he loved and who loved him in such an unchildlike 
 way. 
 
 When he at last set her down, she smoothed her hair 
 with absent, skillful fingers. "What an awful dinner," 
 she said, "wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Ghastly. I can't bear Miss Croxley." 
 
 She was surprised. "Lawrence? But why, Archie? 
 She's such a dear."
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I don't like her." 
 
 "You must try just to please me," she wheedled, 
 "for she's one of my best friends." 
 
 "Sorry, but I really can't bear her." 
 
 There was a pause, and then she said slowly, "/ am 
 sorry, dearest. She is one of the people who will always 
 remain my friend, even if " 
 
 "Even if what?" His splendid eyes had assumed an 
 unpleasantly watchful look, which she did not see. 
 
 Immenham at that moment coming in with a tele- 
 gram, she answered evenly, enjoying, he saw, the touch 
 of acting. "Even if everyone else disapproves about 
 Psyche." 
 
 Psyche was one of his pet names for her. 
 
 As she read the wire and wrote an answer, the butler 
 stood at attention, but his eyes were fixed on a small 
 mirror in which Hood's face was reflected. And when 
 the door had closed on the servant, and Mrs. Dorset 
 had once more sat down, she took up the subject of 
 Lawrence again. 
 
 "I think," she began, "that dear old Lawrence 
 knows." 
 
 "I know that dear old Lawrence knows." 
 
 "I I am glad," Amy said, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It will make it easier afterwards." 
 
 Hood rose with a brusqueness that startled her. 
 133
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Will you come tomorrow at four?" he asked her. 
 
 "Oh, I I cant." 
 
 "Darling! I I have some books I want to show 
 you." 
 
 He had been vaguely uneasy a moment before, but 
 something in her face set him ablaze, and ensued an 
 outwardly beautiful love-scene, passionately reverent 
 and reverently passionate, though on his part conduct- 
 ed with, so to speak, an eye on the door. At the 
 worst, Archie Hood was a love-making expert, and 
 now at his best he gave a magnificent representation 
 of a man ready to count the world well lost for 
 Love. 
 
 The best of it was that he believed in himself, with 
 his whole heart, and for the moment utterly forgot his 
 half-fears of a few minutes before. 
 
 When the moment came when Amy, having promised 
 to go to tea with him the next day, for the purpose as 
 she believed, to settle the future, asked him with her 
 exquisite face all a-quiver with love and trust, if he had 
 ever loved anyone before, he assured her, his eyes shin- 
 ing like stars, that he never had. 
 
 "You know one hears awful tales about you, darling," 
 she said, a little later. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I've sown a few 
 wild oats like other men, but it meant nothing." 
 
 "And and " she was a little shy about asking, 
 134
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 but she forced herself to do so, "there is no one now? 1 * 
 
 And he swore passionately that she was the only 
 woman in his life. 
 
 How far he believed himself to be speaking the truth 
 no one can tell, but it may be taken for a fact that he 
 was not lying unqualifiedly. 
 
 And yet separated from her indiscreetly placed head 
 only by one thickness of fine black cloth, and one of thin 
 silk, there were letters from three different women each 
 one of whom loved him and had every reason herself to 
 be loved by him ! However, Amy, in her ignorance, was 
 as happy as if he had been the honorable man he hon- 
 estly believed himself to be. 
 
 Meantime in the library Lawrence and Dorset sat 
 smoking, and very earnestly talking. 
 
 Dorset had made up his mind at dinner as to what 
 he would do, and according to his way had done it 
 promptly and unpicturesquely. 
 
 "Amy's in love with that fellow, Lawrence," he had 
 said, as he blew out the match with which he had lit her 
 first cigarette. 
 
 In her nervousness she gave a great start. "Good 
 heavens, Cloudesley !" 
 
 "Yes. And you know it." 
 
 After a moment she retorted, "Well, what then?" 
 
 He gave a short laugh. "She's at the wrong age for 
 her first love affair." 
 
 135
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Every one is ! The first one ought to be saved up 
 for the third," she said, incoherently. 
 
 This he disregarded. "I've been watching him to- 
 night especially. That's why I got him here to study 
 him." 
 
 She looked up. "Well?" 
 
 He answered deliberately, neither kindly nor un- 
 kindly. 
 
 "I don't think he's worth it, Lawrence." 
 
 The sound she made might be called a snort. 
 
 "I should think he wasn't, Clow!" 
 
 "Oh you dislike him?" 
 
 "I detest him. He's a contemptible cad," she cried, 
 jerking her cigarette into the fire. 
 
 Dorset reflected. "No I shouldn't go so far as 
 that. Men seem to like him, and men never like a fel- 
 low who is really a cad, you know." 
 
 "Perhaps you like him, then ?" 
 
 Even the scorn in her voice, which was rather funny, 
 did not stir him out of what she stigmatized as his slug- 
 gish justice. 
 
 "I don't like him. I know nothing about the fellow, 
 but he's very much in love with Amy, but I fear he'll 
 make her suffer. And," his voice softened, "the poor 
 little thing has never suffered." 
 
 "No," Lawrence's voice was far more pitiful than 
 his. 
 
 136
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I'm going to speak to her about it tonight," he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Oh, Clow! Why accentuate it?" 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean," she faltered, "that your discussing it will 
 crystallize it you can't ever disregard it again " 
 
 Dorset frowned. "Nonsense. Amy and I are per- 
 fectly good friends, and friends can discuss anything." 
 
 Then she took her courage in both hands and asked 
 him a question. "But don't you mind? Don't you 
 love her?" 
 
 An odd smile stirred his mustache as he gazed for 
 a long minute into the fire. "Don't mind? My dear, 
 Amy never loved me." 
 
 "Yes but you? You are different. Don't you love 
 her?" 
 
 "No. I haven't loved her for years." 
 
 She made a little muffled sound like a moan. 
 
 "OClow!" 
 
 "Not for years. Indeed, I have," he went on quietly, 
 as if he were discussing some rather dull business deal, 
 "been wondering whether, in the event of Amy's marry- 
 ing Hood, I could ever persuade you to marry me." 
 
 The room literally swam before Lawrence's eyes as 
 rooms sometimes do the floor touched the ceiling and 
 slowly descended and steadied into its usual place. 
 
 "Me !" 
 
 137
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He smiled gravely. "Have I shocked you? Yes, 
 you. I am fonder of you than of anyone alive, Law- 
 rence ; we have the same tastes, we are the same age 
 I was far too old for Amy and," he ended unexpect- 
 edly, with great vehemence, "I'd trust you with my im- 
 mortal soul." 
 
 In her turbulent, mad, unhoped-for happiness she 
 dared not even try to speak for a moment. 
 
 At last she said, "This seems like some perfectly mad 
 dream, Clow and after all, we came in here to try to 
 help Amy, didn't we ?" 
 
 He bowed his head. "Yes, we did. I beg your par- 
 don, I won't refer to to the other matter again."
 
 XXV 
 
 WHEN Dorset, a little later, put Miss Croxley 
 into a taxi, Iraraenham of course stood at the 
 door. 
 
 He was the most perfect of butlers, and it is one of 
 the paradoxes of domestic life that the more perfect a 
 butler is the less he is regarded by his employers as a 
 human being. 
 
 Dorset talked before him almost as freely as he 
 talked in his absence, yet he would have been amazed 
 to hear that his butler knew nearly as much of the 
 affairs of 875 as he did himself. 
 
 "Then you really think I had better wait until she 
 speaks to me," Dorset said to his guest as they went 
 out into the warm evening. 
 
 "I do, Clow. She's certain to tell you, and if she 
 does it will be so much better better for her, I 
 mean." 
 
 Immenham's serious eyes rested on the speaker's 
 face with repressed amazement. She was almost hand- 
 some, as she stood there, the emeralds glowing on her 
 breast, and a new expression glowing in her eyes. 
 
 139
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Never had he seen her look like that, and he won- 
 dered what had happened. 
 
 Half an hour before he had let Captain Hood out, 
 and his expression had been far easier to analyze. The 
 butler knew quite well what it meant, and as he whistled 
 for a taxi his mind was full of a mixture of hatred and 
 scorn that would have mightily surprised the happy 
 lover. 
 
 And now Dorset was saying, quite without either 
 hatred or scorn, "He certainly is a very handsome fel- 
 low, Lawrence." 
 
 She laughed and got into the taxi. "Oh, yes," she an- 
 swered, her face in the open window, "he's handsome 
 enough. But " and Immenham saw her eyes darken, 
 "I don't trust him." 
 
 Dorset lowered his voice a little. "No. But we 
 both know her. What she wants she must have. Noth- 
 ing on earth can stop her." 
 
 The chauffeur, a beery-eyed old fellow, obviously a 
 survival of the growler cabby tribe, climbed to his seat 
 and looked round. 
 
 "Wait a moment, chauffeur! Dear Lawrence, you 
 have been so good tonight I can't imagine what we 
 should do without you " 
 
 She smiled at the unconscious "we," but she also 
 winced a little. 
 
 "I've done nothing, Clow. Good night. And you'll 
 140
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 send me a wire tomorrow. There's not a bit of use in 
 my saying a word, to her, you know. Oh," she added 
 passionately, leaning forward, and speaking louder in 
 her vehemence, "if only it was a good man someone we 
 could trust!" 
 
 Dorset gave one of his rare laughs, and his glass fell 
 out of his eye. "We are like two old hens," he said, 
 "fretting over a duckling! Besides, there's just a 
 chance that she knows him better than we do. After 
 all, he's a gentleman, and there's no doubt about his 
 caring for her." 
 
 And then Lawrence with a sudden "Hush !" glanced 
 towards the open door and after a few words in a 
 whisper, drove away. 
 
 Immenham's face, as his master passed him, was of 
 such beautiful blankness it was a pity Dorset did not 
 even glance at him. 
 
 An hour later, Amy Dorset, her hair brushed and 
 fastened smoothly away from her brow, her face gleam- 
 ing with some kind of grease, her hands in brown rub- 
 ber gloves, lay in bed, thinking. In the light of her 
 reading-lamp, her eyes looked oddly incomplete with 
 their lashes washed clean of their black cosmetic, but 
 a smile of happiness curved her pretty mouth. 
 
 She was very happy. She adored Archie and Archie 
 adored her, so all would be well. How, she could not 
 yet quite see, but the means hardly mattered. Eventu- 
 
 141
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 ally, largely by Dorset's help she felt, she and Archie 
 would be married. Then she would always be happy. 
 
 There were many things she meant to do for him. 
 For one she meant to learn to darn his socks. It is 
 odd that the spoiled and useless little creature should, 
 in her happiness, turn to the homely services of love 
 rendered to their husbands by humble and uncosseted 
 women. 
 
 She would darn his socks and when he came home she 
 would run to the door and meet him, and and then 
 she would put on his slippers! 
 
 The ridiculous side of this plan did not appear to 
 her, for she had little sense of humor. 
 
 She had read of wives drawing off muddy boots and 
 substituting for them nicely toasted slippers, and this 
 domestic picture appealed to her in a curiously potent 
 way. 
 
 "I suppose," she mused, "I ought to get up for break- 
 fast with him, but " Her toilette was a matter too 
 
 complicated to be hurried through, so this suggestion 
 she rejected, which was just as well, as Hood himself 
 did not eat breakfast, and was never out of his room till 
 after eleven. They would travel, she dreamed on, they 
 would go to Italy and Spain and all the women would 
 envy her her handsome husband ! 
 
 They would have a house in the country, not too far 
 from town, and motor up to plays and parties and
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 things. Perhaps they had better keep on Archie's flat 
 just a pied-a-terre. 
 
 (She loved scraps of French, and they had become 
 so natural to her that she used them even in her 
 thoughts. ) 
 
 Archie should help choose her clothes, as Charlie Os- 
 woorf did for Nancy. 
 
 Then her face became rapt and serious and she 
 clasped her hands in their brown gloves. Her wedding- 
 dress ! It couldn't be white, of course, and widows wore 
 gray. Hers should be yellow a pale golden color, 
 and -very simple. La ligne should be perfect, but there 
 should be no fla-fla. Arthur should make it, and Plau- 
 9on the hat. The hat 
 
 Suddenly she sat up in bed, the color ebbing from 
 her little oily face until it looked like a mask. Money ! 
 She would have no money ! And Archie was as poor as 
 a church-mouse ! 
 
 Clytemnestra could not have looked more tragic than 
 did Mrs. Dorset in that terrible moment. 
 
 She had utterly forgotten that she possessed not a 
 penny of her own. 
 
 Dorset was so rich, and in his uninteresting way so 
 generous that she had long ceased to remember that all 
 the money was his. 
 
 And now she remembered. It was his ! 
 
 Suppose he refused to give her any. 
 143
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 What would Archie say? Of course he wouldn't 
 really mind, for he was too noble to care about such 
 things, but how were they to live? 
 
 Suddenly she burst out laughing and, switching off 
 the light, settled herself for sleep. 
 
 Of course Clow would give her money. He was so 
 rich that a few thousands a year wouldn't matter to 
 him, and he always did whatever she asked him. 
 
 "Dear old Clow," she thought drowsily, "he is always 
 good to me." 
 
 Her fears of the evening had gone. Clow did not 
 know, and when, as soon as she could find time, she told 
 him, everything would be all right. Thank Heaven he 
 would not care! 
 
 Her last thought as she went to sleep was that she 
 would need rather a lot of money to make Archie and 
 herself comfortable, but she must not be greedy. She 
 would suggest eight thousand pounds a year to Clow.
 
 XXVI 
 
 TWO days later the interview between Mr. and 
 Mrs. Cloudesley Dorset took place. 
 
 The scene of action was the library; the 
 hour, half-past nine at night. 
 
 Dorset had waited, undisturbed in his habits, until 
 his wife had suggested having a talk with him, and 
 when she came in and sat down, as was her wont, in the 
 largest chair in the room, he said kindly : 
 
 "Well, my dear ? And what have you to say to me ?" 
 
 In the softened light she looked very young, very 
 much a child, though the delicately acute lines of her 
 nose and chin were not those of extreme youth. She 
 wore a flesh-colored tea-gown, neither white nor pink, 
 and her lovely arms were bare but for loose sleeves of 
 a small-patterned, transparent lace. 
 
 He sat opposite her, his blood-hound look rather ac- 
 centuated by the fact that he had worked hard all day 
 and was tired. 
 
 "Cloudesley," she began, and then for she had never 
 called him Cloudesley he realized that she was bent on 
 conducting the interview with artistic propriety. 
 
 145
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Yes Amy?" 
 
 "I am very fond of you, you know." 
 
 "Are you, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes. I know I haven't been much of a wife to you, 
 but then you didn't want me to, did you?" 
 
 "I have never complained." 
 
 "Exactly. Well and you have been very good to 
 me. I yes, you have been awfully good." 
 
 She paused, dropping the rope of pearls over her 
 little hands, and pulling it through his fingers. 
 
 "And now, Clow, something has happened." 
 
 He nodded gravely. "I thought something had." 
 
 "I I wondered if you knew," her voice faltered a 
 little, and she dropped the pearls, grasping the carved 
 arms of the chair and sitting bolt upright. 
 
 "Did you did you see?" 
 
 He smiled. "I think you'd better go on, and tell me," 
 he returned. "I am all attention." 
 
 "All right." There was a pause and then she began 
 again. 
 
 "You remember when we were first married?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When we lived at Ambles ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We were really quite fond of each other then, 
 weren't we?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 146
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I used to think I I loved you, Clow. Really, I 
 mean. But I didn't, of course, and of course you knew 
 I didn't, didn't you?" 
 
 "I have known for many years." 
 
 She smiled happily at him. "Of course. And you 
 didn't mind, did you? I mean, of course, our tastes were 
 BO different and all that. You didn't mind, did you?" 
 
 "No, Amy." 
 
 "I am so glad. I knew it, of course, but it is good to 
 hear you say it. And then Uncle Michael died and you 
 got the money and we came to town." 
 
 He nodded, puffing hard at his cigar. 
 
 "Well, Clow you know how all one's friends have 
 love affairs, and flirtations well, I may have had 
 a few flirtations, but I never had any love affairs, 
 did I?" 
 
 "Wait a minute, Amy." Cigar in hand, he leaned 
 towards her. "I have always known," he said slowly, 
 "that you were what is nowadays called a good 
 woman." 
 
 A little puzzled but pleased, she nodded. "Oh, yes, 
 I was always good. And it wasn't," she went on not 
 without a note of pride, "for want of temptation ! You 
 see, you didn't love me, so of course you can't under- 
 stand, but lots of men have !" 
 
 "I am sure of it." 
 
 "But well, you know ! Besides, I always thought 
 147
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 that kind of thing so bad for one's looks. Don't you 
 remember how Agatha Brainton went to pieces during 
 her affair with that South American? And then, of 
 course, there's the nastiness of having to lie and all 
 that." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She had made her plan, but now she gave it up and 
 plunged into the middle of things. 
 
 "Clow I am in love," she said. 
 
 And looking at her beautifully radiant little face his 
 heart smote him. For many years he had regarded her 
 as a being, half child, half nymph, wholly irresponsible 
 and spoiled, and now he realized what Pasquier le 
 Breton had written to his friend at Passy: that the 
 poor little Undine had, after all, a soul. 
 
 "My dear," he said gently, in a voice she had almost 
 forgotten, "tell me about it." 
 
 And she told him ; told him quite truthfully the whole 
 story. 
 
 He listened in the unbroken silence that achieves full 
 information so much better than questions do, and 
 finally, her voice trembling, her eyes wet with tears that 
 even in her genuine emotion she did not forget to re- 
 move gingerly with the tip of a finger, she came to the 
 end of her tale. 
 
 "It is so wonderful, Clow I I didn't know how 
 wonderful it was ! Honestly you know what a selfish 
 
 148
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 little pig I am I would die for him. I'd even I'd even 
 lose my looks for him. So you see !" 
 
 "Yes, Amy, I see. You are really quite sure ?" 
 
 "Surer than I am of my life." There was a pause, 
 and then he asked her what she wished him to do. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, plainly feeling that in 
 this domestic difficulty she had done her share, and now 
 expected him not only to accomplish, but to think out 
 and decide upon his. 
 
 "You want to marry him?" 
 
 "Of course. I don't," she added with a return of her 
 odd little worldly pomposity, "altogether believe in 
 marriage, but as society is constituted there is nothing 
 better." 
 
 He restrained a smile. "I see and he?" 
 
 "He Archie, you mean?" 
 
 She looked such a child that he flinched at the ne- 
 cessity of enlightening her. Then, realizing her thirty- 
 five years, and the people amongst whom she lived and 
 their lives and their tongues, he went on. 
 
 "I mean, does he want to marry you?" 
 
 "Clow! Of course he does. How can you ask me 
 such a question !" 
 
 "I'm sorry, but it's a question that must have an 
 answer. You surely know that in these Ceases the man 
 very frequently doesn't. Remember Southvale and Bill 
 
 Eversley and " 
 
 149
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She cut him short with a gesture of magnificent 
 scorn. "Southvale! And Bill Everslej! Really, 
 Clow, you amaze me." 
 
 He apologized. "You see, Amy, I hardly know 
 Hood. So he has said he wants to marry you." 
 
 "Of course he has a thousand times." 
 
 Dorset drew a breath of relief. "Good. And does 
 he know you're telling me?" 
 
 She shook her head. "No." 
 
 "But why didn't you tell him you were going to?" 
 
 "He knows, of course, only I didn't say when. If I 
 didn't tell you," she went on with the ingenuousness 
 that contrasted so oddly with some of her mental 
 phrases, "how could I ever marry him ?" 
 
 Dorset felt that in pressing the point he was being 
 a brute, but he went on nevertheless. 
 
 "Can you remember," he asked slowly, "when you 
 and he last discussed the possibility of your being mar- 
 ried? I am going to help you all I can, Amy, so 
 please help me to help you in my own way." 
 
 She nodded. "All right. Let me see Oh, we 
 haven't talked about it lately you see," and she blushed 
 splendidly, "we have been so happy." 
 
 "I see. Well I am sorry, but I have promised to 
 play a game of bridge at the club " 
 
 They rose with the courtesy which had so smoothed 
 their life together, and shook hands. 
 
 150
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Thanks for telling me," he said. "I'll see Burnaby 
 tomorrow and perhaps before I do that you'd better 
 ask Hood to come and see me." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Clow," she answered. "You are a 
 dear. If only all husbands were as sensible as you there 
 wouldn't be any scandals." 
 
 Then she left the room and he went out. 
 
 As the butler helped him on with a coat he caught 
 sight of the man's face. 
 
 "Anything wrong, Immenham?" he asked. 
 
 "No, sir, thank you. That is I'm rather worried, 
 
 sir about a domestic matter " Immenham's face 
 
 looked drawn and worn and Dorset, conscious of an 
 absurd surprise that this excellent servant should have 
 any domestic, or any other, life of his own apart from 
 875, looked kindly at him. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," he said. 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 And then Dorset, urged to it by some obscure long- 
 ing he could not analyze, asked his servant a question. 
 "Are you married, Immenham?" 
 
 The man shook his head, a dull flush in his cheeks. 
 
 "No, sir not now." 
 
 Dorset went his way toward Pall Mall. "Poor beg- 
 gar," he thought, "what an answer ; not now. Ah well, 
 perhaps he, like me, doesn't mind, as that poor little 
 thing said." 
 
 151
 
 XXVII 
 
 MY VERY DEAR, 
 
 The season is over. The last ball has been danced to the 
 end; the last big dinner partly eaten, and I trust digested; 
 many great houses are closed; every day continues the exo- 
 dus of the great, the comparatively great and the would-be 
 great. It is, though the day is still but a pale streak in the 
 sky, the twenty-eighth of July. 
 
 Yet here in his eyrie still roosts thy Jules, and here he 
 is to be for diplomatic and of course desperately secret 
 reasons for another two days. 
 
 The first of August will of course see me at Passy, dear 
 friend, and then begins my month of perfect happiness with 
 you and our good and dear Henri. But, although so soon 
 I am to see you, yet must I talk with you tonight. 
 
 You know that I took your advice about my little Undine. 
 
 I sought her out and talked with her. I told her about 
 you and tried to persuade her to go to Honegate. 
 
 She was interested, she admired your miniature almost 
 enough to satisfy even me; she would, she said, love to 
 know you. But she was going with friends to Deauville. 
 
 And always, always, at balls, at concerts, after dinner, at 
 tea her beautiful questing eyes watched the door. And 
 when he came in spite of the trust, what relief in her 
 face ! Alas, Love is always haunted by some fear. He, the 
 lover, is a very handsome man with Spanish coloring did I 
 tell you, and in his bearing, all the graces belonging to his 
 
 152
 
 good birth. His manner is perfect not even too trium- 
 phant, though, alas, I fear me he is triumphant. 
 
 At first, she had moments of sadness not of regret, but 
 of sadness but now those moments have fled, and last 
 night I knew why. She has told her husband ! 
 
 She is not of those to whom "ce n'est pas peches qui peche 
 en silence," and now that her husband knows, she too is 
 triumphant. 
 
 And how, you ask, do I know that she has told? I know 
 in two ways, and here is the first. 
 
 Bigarreau, the scoundrel, has a friend, and the friend is 
 Hood's valet and it seems that Hood left her letter telling 
 him of what she had done on his table this afternoon. 
 
 This man, Millipede what an excellent name for the con- 
 fidential servant of such a being as Hood ! told Bigarreau 
 that Hood was in a towering rage over the letter. He was 
 furious with her for telling, and in his anger burst out and 
 told his valet all except the name and that the faithful 
 one learned from the letter. 
 
 Bigarreau, knowing that I was dining at the lady's 
 house (of such odd chances is history made!), told me; 
 so that I might warn her ! The good Bigarreau ! 
 
 However, God forbid that I should be so foolish as to 
 interfere when no interference can be of use, so I ate my 
 dinner in silence, and tried not to watch my host and host- 
 ess. 
 
 She was in great beauty, and so happy as to break one's 
 heart. What is worse than waiting for some dreadful blow 
 to fall on a happy, unsuspecting head? 
 
 The husband, who, as I have told you, is a dull, uninter- 
 esting man, was perfectly undisturbed and made, as they 
 say here, a very good meal. 
 
 M. Hood was not there, but I soon learned that a great 
 violinist was to play later, and that some people were com- 
 
 153
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 ing in to hear him. Of these people I knew by instinct M* 
 Hood was to be one. 
 
 And the woman who loved him had told her husband 
 of her love, and instead of being, because of her courage, 
 the proudest and happiest man in the world, I knew that 
 Hood was angry, furiously angry, and probably frightened. 
 It was to make tremble with disgust, and I have no shame 
 in telling you that I trembled. 
 
 And she so lovely, so appealing in her great happiness, 
 now a new, serene happiness was all innocently flying col- 
 ors to which, poor heart, she had no right. 
 
 She was flying the colors of a brave, fine, worthy lover 
 who existed only in her imagination ! 
 
 Me she rallied for dullness teasing me in her amazing 
 version of our beautiful tongue. 
 
 "Vous n'etes pas gai, Mossieu," she said, sweetly, "etes 
 vous malhouroux?" 
 
 "Madame," I replied, bowing, "not all the world can be 
 happy at the same time." 
 
 At that she blushed, her temples, which are of a peculiar 
 transparent quality, flushing like the top of the Jungfrau at 
 sunset. "Ah, yes," she said, softly, "I am very happy. You 
 will know, soon. Everybody will know, soon." 
 
 What will you? I could not show her that I did know. 
 Nor could I tell her that her rapture was but a mirage, a 
 dream. I was dull, tongue-tied, my Anastasie-Claire, and 
 she showed her surprise. To others, the dinner was doubt- 
 less like hundreds of others (although the cook of Madame 
 D. is, by the grace of God, a Frenchman!) ; to me it was 
 a torture. 
 
 And the memories that rose in my heart ! "Oh, the dear 
 old days when I was so unhappy !" 
 
 When the ladies had left us I went and sat by an old 
 man who greatly amuses me an ancient and disreputable 
 
 154
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 peer whose daughter honors (no, since last night I must 
 say honored!) me with a great aversion. 
 
 This old man, Lord Croxley, lived much in France in his 
 youth, and when I see him I make a point of talking to him. 
 It pleases him to speak French, and he speaks it beauti- 
 fully. 
 
 An unreverend, unrespected graybeard, but of a fine sense 
 of humor, and an unimpaired memory. In sitting down by 
 Lord Croxley, I placed myself but one seat away from 
 Mr. D., our host, and again I had occasion to feel a rising 
 of my blood against him. His wife had told him of her 
 love for another man, his beautiful child-wife, and he was 
 as unmoved as a monk who had never seen a woman since 
 his mother weaned him ! An ugly man with deep lines 
 in his face, and an immobility of countenance remarkable 
 even in England. 
 
 Curiously enough, Lord Croxley's first remark to me bore 
 on the matter of which my mind was full. 
 
 "I hear you're going to France, Dorset," he said. "Law- 
 rence was telling me." 
 
 M. Dorset shook his head, and filled his glass with 
 port. 
 
 "No," he answered, "Amy was going not I but she 
 has changed her mind, and we are going down to Maiden 
 Aqualate." 
 
 "Are you, indeed? I haven't seen Maiden Aqualate since 
 your uncle's time fine old place it is. Have you had any 
 changes?" 
 
 Me, I had frozen hands, but this insensible husband was 
 unmoved. 
 
 "Not many." That was all. 
 
 Angry, I believe, at not being asked to go down to inspect 
 the place, old Croxley made another remark. 
 
 "I hear that old daughter of mine must have told me, 
 
 155
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 I suppose that you've taken a great liking to Fred Hood's 
 son." 
 
 Dorset regarded him. "Lawrence can't have told you," 
 he said, and again that was all. 
 
 I found myself unable to understand the situation, which 1 
 you will admit is an incredible one, and a few minutes later 
 I seized the opportunity created by one of the younger men 
 who follows the modern fashion of drinking nothing, of 
 going to the drawing-room. 
 
 The day had been fine for a wonder, but a thunderstorm 
 was gathering, which met my mood agreeably. 
 
 I went straight to Mrs. Dorset, and asked her to go out 
 on the balcony with me. 
 
 The sky was dark and the air heavy, though sweet with 
 the smell of the roses in the garden. She came at once 
 and for a moment we stood looking up at the black sky. 
 Then she spoke. 
 
 "Oh, M. Pasquier le Breton," she said, as impulsively as 
 a young girl of sixteen, "how wonderful it is to be happy." 
 
 "Madame," I replied, "it is." How could I say I was 
 glad she was happy, under the circumstances? 
 
 She noticed the omission, but disregarded it. 
 
 "I hope," she said after another pause, "that you like 
 Cloudesley my husband ?" 
 
 I did not, but I lied convincingly, amazed by her query- 
 
 "Because," she burst out, "he is the best man on earth !" 
 
 To say that I was flambe, dear friend, is to say nothing. 
 She burst into a peal of the prettiest laughter at my face, 
 I suppose. "You think me mad, don't you?" she went on. 
 
 Again I lied, and then to my horror she laid her hand 
 on my arm and said quietly, "I have always liked you and 
 I want you to know I am the happiest woman in the world. 
 I love someone very much absolutely and my husband is 
 going to arrange for me to marry him." 
 
 156
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Dearest friend, I give you my word that I found myself 
 on the point of falling. My respiration failed me and I 
 was dumb. 
 
 "Is he not wonderful?" she went on. 
 
 I kissed her little, lovely hand and murmured God alone 
 knows what, but she was content. 
 
 "You see/' she explained simply. "I have never been un- 
 happy before, but I have never been happy, and there's 
 such a difference." 
 
 Willingly would I have been dragged at that moment to 
 the block. It was frightful. 
 
 Finally I stammered an eulogy of her husband it was 
 one degree easier than lying about her lover and she 
 agreed warmly. 
 
 "Yes, he is an angel. I am glad I told you, monsieur, I 
 knew you would be glad." 
 
 "But will not Monsieur Dorsette [it is thus that it pro- 
 nounces itself] be very lonely without you?" I asked. 
 
 She laughed merrily and kindly. "No. You see, dear 
 monsieur, he never cared much for me and he doesn't ob- 
 ject in the least. Also you promise not to tell?" 
 
 I promised. 
 
 "Well, I think he will not be alone long. He will marry 
 again, and, I think, a very dear friend of mine." 
 
 "Just Heaven, madame," your poor Jules cried, outside 
 himself. "You cannot mean that your husband has con- 
 fided to you as well as you to him?" 
 
 "Ah, no," she answered, amused by my distress, for they 
 train themselves, the English, to be amused by other peo- 
 ple's emotions, "not that, but for a long time I have seen 
 that a dear friend of mine is very fond of him fonder 
 possibly than she knows, poor darling ! and of late he is 
 seeing her every day, so I hope he will marry Lawrence 
 Oh, I've told you her name !" 
 
 157
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Like a child she clapped her hand over her mouth, and 
 then we each made a little exclamation of horror, for just 
 behind her, in the window, stood the lady of whom she 
 spoke, the daughter of the old lord who speaks French so 
 well ! 
 
 It was a dreadful moment, and a very long one. 
 
 Then Miss Croxley said quietly, "Some people have come, 
 Amy dear," and our hostess had fled, and she and I were 
 alone. 
 
 "I heard," she said. 
 
 "I feared it," said I. 
 
 For a moment we looked steadily at each other and then 
 she held out her hand, and I took it. A bony hand, my 
 beloved, a strong hand. 
 
 "M. Pasquier le Breton," she began, "let's be friends, 
 because if we do, we may be able to help Amy." 
 
 "I am more than willing," I replied. 
 
 "I don't know how you feel," she went on, in the rough, 
 bold way I had always hated, but now began to like, "but 
 I loathe Captain Hood." 
 
 It behooves a man to be more prudent in speech than a 
 woman, though women must in their acts be more circum- 
 spect than men. 
 
 "I can't say I like him," was my cautious reply, "but ' 
 
 "I know, I know!" (An impatient lady, this.) "Of 
 course you don't like him. Well, now listen to me. We 
 women are fools, but God the good God, as you polite 
 Latins call him ! has given us intuition. And instinctively 
 I have always disliked that man." 
 
 "She loves him," I ventured, for in the plenitude of her 
 partisanship she bewildered me. 
 
 "Yes, and to do the reptile justice, I believe he loves 
 her. But what," she went on, extending herself in a blaze, 
 like a prairie fire, "is the love of such a man?" 
 
 158
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Mademoiselle how can I say?" (Thy little Jules being 
 the diplomat indeed!) 
 
 There was a pause, and during it came to us the soul- 
 splitting wail of a violin in process of tuning. 
 
 "Levinski is going to play !" 
 
 Together, of one movement we drew into the shadow, 
 and listened. Perhaps the music soothed us to a riper com- 
 prehension, a mellower kindness; who can say? 
 
 At all events, this woman who had been strong enough 
 to bear hearing her love-story told to a man she disliked, 
 without making a single remark about it, came to appear 
 to me in a rather noble light. She reminded me in her 
 stoicism of you, dearest and sweetest of women. I need 
 say no more. 
 
 When the music ceased she spoke in the gentler mood I 
 so strongly appreciated. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, proving her rarity by pronouncing 
 that shibboleth of a word without the suspicion of an h, 
 "we will be friends, you and I. And by way of beginning 
 our friendship I will show you something." 
 
 From her flat bosom she produced three letters, which 
 she gave to me. "I must go now," she said, "for my father 
 is here, and he is not quite himself, and the sight of me 
 would incense him. Read these letters they are all dated, 
 and the one signed 'Psyche' is from Amy and, tomorrow 
 come to see me" giving me her most unfashionable ad- 
 dress "and we will confer." 
 
 I bowed. "Mademoiselle," I replied, "I am honored by 
 your friendship and your confidence, and will do my best 
 to prove worthy of them. Good night." 
 
 She disappeared into the now nearly full drawing-room, 
 but shortly came back. "I forgot to tell you," she said, with 
 a furious blush, "that these letters were sent to me anony- 
 mously I have no idea by whom." Then she left me. 
 
 159
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Dear friend, I will not offend you by the perusal of the 
 letters. It suffices to say that they are written to M. le 
 Captaine Hood by three different women, one of them 
 our poor Undine, and that they prove, beyond the shadow 
 of a doubt that, however sincerely he may love Madame Dor- 
 set, he is that contemptible thing, a man who deceives and 
 distresses women, and who is a liar and incapable of fidelity. 
 
 One of the poor souls, indeed, writes in such misery that 
 tears come, as I read, to my sinful eyes. And the worst is 
 that all these letters were written within the last week, 
 which shows that the man beloved of my poor, sweet Undine 
 has not even honored her with a temporary cessation of 
 his ignoble game. 
 
 My heart aches for her. Tomorrow I shall see Miss Crox- 1 
 ley, but what shall I say to her ? 
 
 Alas, it is beyond me. 
 
 To me he seems like the animal described by La Fontaine 
 in the "Pest-Smitten Beasts": "Death alone is capable of 
 expiating his crimes." 
 
 To you, my sweet saint, good night or rather, good 
 morning, for the western sky is bursting into the bloom of 
 sunrise ! 
 
 God be with you. 
 
 JULES.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 IT was Immenham, the decorous, self-respecting 
 Immenham, who had sent the three letters to 
 Miss Croxley. 
 
 The impish Millipede the night before the dinner- 
 party had, to tease the man whose superiority both 
 amused and irritated him, brought the letters to the 
 Yellow Posts, when, finding Mr. Dorset's butler alone, 
 he had proceeded to enjoy himself. 
 
 Every man to his humor, says the poet, and it 
 chanced to be Mr. Cosmo Millipede's humor to tor- 
 ment people who refused to appreciate him according 
 to his own bill of lading. 
 
 "Mrs. D.," he had declared, "is not the only one." 
 Then he produced the letters, explaining airily that he 
 had "borrowed" them. 
 
 The man, though a scoundrel, was undoubtedly de- 
 voted to his master, yet he sacrificed, in his love of a 
 bitter prank, his master's welfare to his own wicked 
 sense of fun. It is difficult to explain, but so it was. 
 
 "Besides," he grinned, sitting on the table, "you 
 wouldn't dare tell Mrs. Pish." 
 
 161
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Mrs. Pish?" With a gleam of hope poor Immenham 
 looked up from the paper he still feigned to read. 
 
 "Yes Pish. Read the letters and you'll see. That's 
 'is pet name for your one ! Spelt rather odd, but that's 
 what it means." 
 
 Immenham, who in his delicacy had refused to read 
 the letters, stirred uneasily in his chair. His mistress 
 was certainly not Mrs. Pish. 
 
 "If Captain Hood knew you," he said slowly, "he'd 
 kick you out." 
 
 Millipede glowed with satisfaction. "Not 'im ! I'm 
 perfectly invaluable to that man, and he knows it." 
 
 "Ugh !" 
 
 "Well, I may not be your taste, but I am his ! And 
 if you don't believe me " 
 
 "Look here, Millipede," asked Immenham, fixing him 
 with his large, clear, discomforting gaze, "it's only 
 three weeks since you were standing up for the Captain 
 through thick and thin. Why have you changed?" 
 
 The other man laughed. "Haven't Hood and I been 
 real friends. Only well, you're so damned superior, 
 Immenham ; you never meet a chap half-way ; you don't 
 know what good-fellowship means. And as you and I 
 both know that your little lady is making a " 
 
 "Shut up!" 
 
 Millipede edged away a little. "All right, all right, 
 no offense. But you just about think she's a little wax 
 
 163
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 mother of God, and well, it amuses me to prove that 
 she isn't. See?" 
 
 Immenham resumed his paper. "I see. And that's 
 quite enough from you, thanks." 
 
 Spreading the three letters alluringly on the table 
 beside poor Immenham's half-pint, the Pucklike Milli- 
 pede departed, saying that he would come back shortly. 
 
 No sooner had he gone than Immenham, his face 
 rather pale, took them, read them, and with a sigh, and 
 putting them into his pocket, left the public-house. 
 
 He would make use of the letters somehow, though 
 how he hardly knew, and he was a good man but he 
 had been sorely goaded Millipede would never dare 
 make a fuss about his loss ! 
 
 Like many clever people, Rowland Immenham made 
 the mistake of thinking that only he realized and per- 
 ceived under-surface things. He knew Archie Hood to 
 be an untrustworthy man, but he believed that no one 
 else knew. 
 
 So, once he had made up his mind, it was not without 
 satisfaction that he addressed the three letters in a 
 disguised hand to Miss Croxley and posted them. It 
 would, he feared, be a shock for Miss Croxley, but she 
 was a good woman and could be trusted to do her best 
 with the knowledge he had thus assured to her he, 
 Immenham. 
 
 163
 
 XXIX 
 
 POOR little Amy Dorset received the two letters 
 naturally Lawrence and Pasquier le Breton 
 had not sent her her own the next afternoon as 
 she waited for Hood to come to her. 
 
 He had not come the evening before, to her amaze- 
 ment, for in the letter that had so incensed him she 
 had told him that her husband wished to see him, and 
 in her odd, untimely simplicity she had expected her 
 lover to accept her husband's generosity as easily as 
 she herself had done. 
 
 Hood's attitude during the twenty-four hours sub- 
 sequent to his receipt of her letter, is extremely difficult 
 to analyze. He himself made no effort to analyze it, 
 for subconsciously he knew that he had on the matter 
 several quite distinct sets of feelings. He was violently 
 if not deeply in love with Mrs. Dorset, and he believed 
 with perfect sincerity that to own her not merely to 
 possess her, but to own, so to speak, her life would 
 be the acme of happiness to him. 
 
 If she had been free he would have married her at 
 once. But at the same time he had never contemplated 
 
 164
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 the forcible freeing of her. Divorce had not occurred 
 to him, and he was not of the eloping kind. 
 
 Danger, the pleasant, triumphant danger of success- 
 ful intrigue, was the breath of his nostrils to him, but 
 he did not enjoy the atmosphere of the divorce court. 
 Also, he had, oddly enough, always rather like Cloud- 
 esley Dorset, and although he had had no qualms about 
 injuring him without his knowledge, he shrank from 
 facing the man's realization of his injuries. 
 
 The world, he felt, was doubtless overfull of husbands, 
 but on the other hand he was not ungrateful enough to 
 refuse to grstnt that without husbands there could be 
 no wives ; and wives were his favorite pasturage. 
 
 So he was, even in his irritated anger, sorry for Dor- 
 set. Remained the detestable fact that he, Hood, was 
 over his handsome ears in debt, and what in Heaven's 
 name was he to do with a penniless wife? He had never 
 forgotten, as Amy had, that the money in the Dorset 
 household belonged entirely to its head. Altogether, 
 he was in a most unpleasant mess and spent a wretched 
 evening, first at his club and then at Beryl Spottis- 
 woode's. 
 
 Beryl cheered him with flagons and comforted him 
 with apples, so that the end of the evening was not so 
 bad as the beginning, but he knew that the morning 
 would bring its revenge, and it did, as is its horrid 
 way. 
 
 165
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 A note from Amy, brought in at ten o'clock with a 
 brandy-and-soda, did not mend matters. She was puz- 
 zled by his depression, but as yet perfectly unsuspicious, 
 and she expected him without fail at half-past five that 
 afternoon. 
 
 After a miserable hour-and-a-half in bed he rose, and 
 when he was dressed and about to go for a walk before 
 lunch, another annoyance cropped up, as if to prove 
 the truth of the horrid old proverb about the collective 
 habits of troubles. He missed some letters that in his 
 worry he had left in a pocket when he changed for din- 
 ner the evening before. 
 
 "Millipede!" 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "I left some letters in one of my pockets last night 
 when I dressed. Where have you put them?" 
 
 "Nowhere, sir; 'aven't seen 'em, sir." 
 
 "You must have seen them one was on very blue 
 paper." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Millipede was nearly as gifted in the art of untruth- 
 fulness as his master, and Hood knew that the man was 
 a liar, though he did not call himself one. 
 
 For a moment the four eyes met, and then Hood 
 nodded. "Oh, all right, they weren't very important, 
 only I certainly thought I'd left 'em in my coat " 
 
 Millipede, who had had a bad night because of the 
 166
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 letters, and who was planning all sorts of ways to get 
 even with Immenham, retired with relief in his soul. 
 
 For years he had, almost as a matter of conscience, 
 read his employer's correspondence, but he had never 
 made the slightest use of his knowledge, and until yes- 
 terday had never taken so much as an envelope out of 
 the flat. 
 
 And to think that it was pompous, dull old Immen- 
 ham who had bested him ! 
 
 Hood was very much annoyed, for while one of the 
 letters was only one of Alys Lowndes's stupidly senti- 
 mental effusions, another was from Amy, and the third 
 referred in unmistakable terms to the most serious 
 difficulty, bar this new one of Amy's having told 
 her husband, in which he for the moment found him- 
 self. 
 
 He was a fastidious man, as a rule, and although 
 Yvonne Cavendish was extremely pretty, she was not a 
 lady, and he feared she would cause trouble now. 
 
 He wished, savagely, that he had never seen her. 
 After all, the whole thing was her fault ; she had been 
 married, she had been in some musical-comedy chorus, 
 and knew her way about as well as he. 
 
 On his way to his club he stopped at a post office and 
 sent her a telegram. 
 
 Amy, meantime, had risen early and gone for a walk. 
 
 This was for her a most unusual proceeding, but the 
 167
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 morning was fine and she was restless, and it seemed a 
 good way to kill time. 
 
 She had not seen her husband since the night before, 
 and she knew that he would be busy until dinner-time, 
 for it was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays he invariably 
 devoted to the business inevitably connected with vast 
 wealth. 
 
 After lunch she had her usual rest, but even Clemen- 
 tine's clever fingers could not soothe her to sleep, and 
 when finally, unable any longer to lie still, she found 
 herself in the drawing-room at four o'clock, she looked 
 tired and a little older than usual, in spite of the skill 
 with which her toilette was chosen. 
 
 The sun had gone, and it looked like rain it had 
 been altogether a dreadful summer. 
 
 The charming room was full of flowers; tall white 
 Madonna lilies stood about in glass vases, filling the air 
 with their poetic fragrance. 
 
 For a while Mrs. Dorset sat quietly reading. She 
 was struggling through "Crime and Punishment," and 
 trying desperately to like it. 
 
 Her brows drawn together, she waded on, and then, 
 as the clock struck half-past four, she heard a footstep 
 and sprang to her feet, her face on fire with expectation. 
 He had come and an hour too soon ! 
 
 "Letters, madame." 
 
 The light faded from her face, leaving it so wan that 
 168
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Immenham's heart smote him, and he went out of the 
 room with a sigh that only his perfect training ren- 
 dered inaudible. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset sat down again and read her letters.
 
 XXX 
 
 THERE were three invitations, one for Scotland, 
 the other two for country-house parties, one of 
 which the King of Spain was to grace; the 
 other to a certain Mrs. Beauchamp. This invitation 
 she would in no case accept. Molly Beauchamp was a 
 woman of nearly fifty with a well-deserved bad repu- 
 tation, although she knew, as the saying goes, "every- 
 body." Archie, Amy reflected, would hate her to go 
 there. There were two bills ; then there was a large 
 cheap-looking envelope with a typewritten address. 
 
 This she opened, listlessly, her mind busy with his 
 Bourbon Majesty. 
 
 The two letters that poor Lawrence had sent to her 
 without a word, were in their envelopes, and with the 
 stupidity of which most of us are guilty at sudden 
 crises, Amy stared at them for several seconds without 
 moving. 
 
 "Letters to Archie," she thought ; "how odd !" 
 
 She then realized that the letters had both been 
 opened. Had he sent them to her and forgotten to put 
 in an explanatory note? 
 
 170
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She took up the topmost one and turned it over idly. 
 She was not a curious woman, and she was perfectly 
 honorable. 
 
 The chances, therefore, may be regarded as a little 
 more than even that but for one thing she would have 
 laid the letters aside until she could ask Hood about 
 them. The determining factor in what she did was a 
 simple one; a strong scent of heliotrope reached her 
 nostrils from the letter she held. She flushed suddenly, 
 hesitated, and took the single sheet out of the envelope. 
 
 ARCHIE, MY LOVE [was scrawled in a rather firm, bold 
 hand], I can't bear this ! I must see you, dear. I hate both- 
 ering you, but it is nearly a week since I saw you and 
 I'm such a fool that when I don't, I can't help imagining 
 all sorts of dreadful things. Do write just a line and say 
 you haven't stopped loving me, Beau-Boy? And do come 
 to see me, even if it has to be late. Jessup has gone for 
 her holiday, and I'll unbolt the door, so your key will let 
 you in. Darling, I love you so dreadfully. 
 
 ALYS. 
 
 The clock ticked along in the even tenor of its way, 
 and a top-heavy lily fell out of a shallow vase. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset read the note twice. Then she read the 
 other. 
 
 32 Princes St. Westminster. 
 ARCHIE, 
 
 For God's sake answer my letter. I am nearly desperate 
 and I don't know what to do. I don't ask much but you 
 
 171
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 must help me now. For God's sake come to see me Wednes- 
 day afternoon, when I am free. I'll not make a scene, 
 only you must tell me what to do. 
 
 YVONNE. 
 
 The clock struck the quarter, and Mrs. Dorset did 
 not move. 
 
 She sat very quietly in the great chair she loved, her 
 face in the shadow of its wings. 
 
 It had begun to rain, the drops tinkling musically 
 against the windows. Presently a hurdy-gurdy burst 
 into a florid ragtime melody. 
 
 It played only a short time, breaking off in the mid- 
 dle of the air and then trundling away. . . . 
 
 When Captain Hood arrived, he found Mrs. Dorset 
 reading by the fire. She had more color than usual, 
 and looked remarkably beautiful, but she laughingly 
 warned him not to kiss her as the doctor had just been 
 and feared that she was in for measles, a malady then 
 prevalent in the neighborhood. 
 
 "Darling you mustn't have measles," he protested, 
 "I couldn't bear it if you had to suffer !" 
 
 "Couldn't you?" 
 
 "You wouldn't ask me," he said, reproachfully, "if 
 you knew how I love you." 
 
 She chattered gayly as Immenham set the tea things 
 before her, and when they were again alone, she asked 
 
 172
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 him suddenly, "By the way, Archie, do you know a Mrs. 
 Lowndes ?" 
 
 He frowned thoughtfully. "Lowndes? No I think 
 not unless you mean old Mrs. Baylay-Lowndes, Cyril 
 Heathcote's mother?" 
 
 She chose a sandwich with great care. "No, no. The 
 one I mean is younger than Cyril's mother about 
 fifty, I should say, and still handsome very made up, 
 you know." 
 
 He laughed. "Oh, yes, of course. Lives somewhere 
 in Essex and has a flat in town I've met her at the 
 Wests'. Why, darling?" 
 
 Even in her anguish she could not withhold an in- 
 voluntary tribute to his gift of lying. It was, she felt, 
 magnificent of its kind. 
 
 She was also proud of her own prowess; the tele- 
 phone book had given her "Alys's" surname, and the 
 memory of a casual inquiry about the lady months ago 
 at a garden party had fitted a personality to the 
 name. 
 
 She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. Someone told me 
 last night that the poor old thing is making a fool of 
 herself about some young man, and I wondered if you 
 knew her " 
 
 Hood changed the subject hastily, but without the 
 remotest suspicion, and five minutes later Clementine, 
 as instructed, came in to tell her mistress that Mrs. 
 
 173
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Undershaft had called her to the telephone to say that 
 she absolutely must see Mrs. Dorset at once. 
 
 Mrs. Undershaft was in delicate health, and as she 
 and Amy were great friends Hood could raise no serious 
 objection to receiving his marching orders. 
 
 "I'll see you this evening," Mrs. Dorset said, "if I'm 
 not down with measles, that is !" 
 
 Hood was no coward, but he saw no advantage to be 
 derived from running the risk of an unpleasant and 
 ridiculous malady like measles, so he made no attempt 
 to kiss his lily lady as he called her. "Darling you'll 
 telephone me at seven just to tell me how you are?" 
 he urged, with melting eyes. 
 
 She laughed again, and he wondered if she had really 
 fever; her voice sounded not quite itself, and he had 
 never seen her with such a brilliant color. 
 
 At the door he turned. "Psyche dearest," he said, 
 "you haven't said a word about us." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "You've talked so fast," he explained, reproaching 
 her for the very omission that had so relieved his mind, 
 "that you forgot to tell me when I am to see your hus- 
 band. Can't I see him now?" 
 
 "He is out. You have forgotten that he is never at 
 home on Wednesdays." 
 
 Hood shrugged his shoulders. "So I had ! However 
 you are sure he wasn't angry ?" 
 
 174
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Not at all angry. Well, I must go, Archie !" 
 "Yes, sweet. It is hard to leave you. However, it 
 isn't for long." 
 
 "No," she said slowly, "it isn't for long."
 
 XXXI 
 
 Mrs. Alfred Beauchamp. Long Powsley, Herbinton, Sus- 
 sex. Delighted to come. Arrive tomorrow afternoon. 
 
 AMY.
 
 XXXII 
 
 MISS YVONNE CAVENDISH lived not far from 
 Westminster Abbey, in a narrow street of 
 tall, dark houses. 
 
 There were three brass knobs at the side of the street 
 door, and Mrs. Dorset instinctively avoided the lowest. 
 She pulled the middle one but even that was too low, 
 and when the door yielded to her pressure and she went 
 into the dark passage, a man's voice called over the 
 banisters to ask her what she wanted. 
 
 Until then it had not occurred to her that she did 
 not know "Yvonne's" surname, so she hesitated in her 
 reply to the unseen man. 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, "I fear I've rung the wrong 
 bell. I wanted Miss " 
 
 Breaking down completely, she waited with hard- 
 beating heart to be accused of some dreadful thing, or 
 to be told to go away and mind her own business. 
 
 Instead of which the voice said good-naturedly, "Oh 
 yes, Miss Cavendish top door I think she's at 
 home" and there was a loud bang. 
 
 The stairs were narrow and dark, but there was a 
 177
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 fairly good linoleum, and the light at the first landing 
 showed that the house was clean as such houses go. 
 
 A polished plate on the first door told Mrs. Dorset 
 that her invisible informant was one Mr. Paul Green, 
 music-engraver. 
 
 Pausing for a moment, she went on into the darkness 
 and then emerged again into the light from a small 
 window. 
 
 Here she saw the name "Mrs. Keel" on a card nailed 
 to the door, and here, after a moment's breathless hesi- 
 tation, she knocked. 
 
 There was a long pause, and she knocked again. 
 
 Presently the door opened and an extremely pretty 
 girl in a voluminous pink dressing-gown stood staring 
 at her. 
 
 "Are are you Miss Cavendish?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 Her hair, which was of an unusual shade of real gold, 
 curled and tendriled round her brow in a way that even 
 in such a moment Amy could not help envying. 
 
 "I have come to see you," she said gently, " and I 
 should like to have a little talk with you, if you don't 
 mind " 
 
 Miss Cavendish, whose eyelids were red, stared at 
 her for a moment, and then, in a pretty voice barely 
 marred by a shadow of cockney inflection, invited her 
 to come in. 
 
 178
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The little sitting-room was not very ugly ; there were 
 chintz curtains, one or two old-fashioned water-colors 
 on the wall, and some books in a very good Sheraton 
 bookcase. 
 
 "The place is in rather a mess," Miss Cavendish 
 apologized; "I haven't been just the thing, and 
 
 "I think it's very pretty," Amy protested sincerely. 
 She did not know exactly what she had expected, but 
 she realized as she sat down that she certainly had not 
 expected this. 
 
 "You you don't come from the Thespian M. A.?" 
 the girl burst out suddenly, a frown on her brows. 
 
 "The Thespian what?" 
 
 "No, you don't so that's all right. I was afraid 
 you might the Thespian Mutual Aid, I meant. You 
 see, a gentleman friend of mine he's Cyril Com- 
 thorpe's general manager mentioned it to me, and I 
 
 said I wouldn't go to them. So I was afraid " She 
 
 broke off with a laugh, "but you're not, so that's all 
 right." Amy drew a deep breath. 
 
 "I have come to see you about a a very personal 
 matter," she began. "I heard of you quite by accident, 
 and you mustn't be angry," she went on hurriedly, as 
 a cloud seemed to descend on Miss Cavendish's pretty 
 face, "it's a very serious thing for me, and I want you 
 to help me if you will." 
 
 The girl laughed, drawing her crumpled garment 
 179
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 closer about her. "Me help you? That sounds a good 
 joke!" 
 
 "It isn't a joke. I am very unhappy. And I fear," 
 she went on gently, "that you are too." 
 
 Miss Cavendish jerked her chin up irritably. 
 
 "Oh, you needn't worry about me," she said. "I've 
 been a bit of a d , of a fool, but that was my own 
 lookout, and I'm all right." 
 
 There was a pause and the two women looked at each 
 other, with, on both sides, an odd mixture of sympathy 
 and repulsion. 
 
 "I think," Amy began again, "that you know Cap- 
 tain Hood." 
 
 "Captain Hood!" A rush of color flooded the girl's 
 pale face. "Did he send you? If he did, you can just 
 go and tell him " 
 
 "Hush! He didn't send me. I've never even heard 
 him mention your name. If you'll wait," Amy went on 
 gently, "I'll explain to you." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "The situation is this." Amy obeyed, feeling very 
 much as if she were acting. "This letter of yours has 
 come to my hands. Someone sent it to me anony- 
 mously. Will you tell me what it means?" 
 
 The girl took the letter, read it, and laughed, a hard, 
 short laugh, full of bitter amusement. 
 
 "Yes, it's mine all right." 
 180
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "And it means- 
 
 "I imagine you know what it means. You must be," 
 Miss Cavendish added dispassionately, "older than me." 
 
 "Yes, I am older than you. Well would you mind 
 telling me about it? I promise you I will never tell, 
 and I shall be very grateful to you." 
 
 "I don't mind telling you. I'm not ashamed. At 
 least," she amended, "not very." 
 
 After a pause she told her story. 
 
 "I was on the stage till about a year ago, and then 
 I lost my job. The stage-manager at the Tiara was a 
 great friend of mine. Used to know my husband. My 
 husband left me three years ago no good at all, he 
 wasn't. I tried very hard to get work and finally got 
 a place as show-girl. My figure," she explained cau- 
 tiously, "was not bad. I lived here rather fond of 
 the place and Mr. Isaacson that's the gentleman I 
 spoke of he used to give me tickets sometimes, or a 
 good dinner. You know little treats of different 
 kinds to cheer me up. He was a good friend to me, 
 Isaacson was. Nothing else, you understand he'd 
 have married me, if Clarence hadn't been alive. Then 
 I met Archie." 
 
 In spite of herself Amy winced at this, but Miss 
 Cavendish didn't observe it, and went on in her mo- 
 notonous voice. 
 
 "He saw me in Hanover Square one evening, and 
 181
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 spoke to me. I told him to mind his own business, but 
 he was there the next evening, and finally, once when 
 it was raining like the devil, I went and dined with 
 him. 
 
 "He was very nice, and it's pleasant to talk to a 
 real gentleman. My father was a gentlemanly man 
 he was a French polisher at Wycherley's but he 
 wasn't like Archie, and no more was Isaacson. Well" 
 she broke off with a shrug "you can imagine the 
 rest. I was awfully fond of him, and he said he was of 
 me and I suppose he was in a way for a while. 
 
 "He used to send me flowers, and chocolates his 
 manners were lovely " 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears and, inflamed already, sud- 
 denly turned scarlet. 
 
 "I don't so much mind his leaving me," she said with 
 a sob, "but don't you think 'e might have done it 
 decently ?" 
 
 Amy rose and laid her hand on the poor heaving 
 shoulder. "I do indeed," she said softly ; "he is a beast 
 to treat you so." 
 
 Yvonne Cavendish wiped her eyes on a damp ball of 
 cambric that she drew out from under one of the sofa 
 cushions. 
 
 "No, he isn't a beast," she said, clearing her throat. 
 "He's only awfully thoughtless, poor boy." 
 
 The interview reached its zenith of misery to Amy 
 182
 
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 Dorset when this pathetic creature called Hood "poor 
 boy." 
 
 She went back to her chair and took her bag from 
 the table. 
 
 "You have been very kind to tell me so frankly," she 
 said. "You have done me a great service. In return, 
 you must let me help you until you can go back to 
 your work." 
 
 The girl looked at her. "Do, you mean money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No, thank you. He's got to do that. I'm not being 
 nasty, or threatening though I've got some letters 
 of his that he'd hate to have anyone see but it's up to 
 him to help me now and he's jolly well got to do it. 
 Why, I've written him at least six letters explaining, 
 and begging him to come to see me, and he hasn't even 
 answered. He's an awful coward, you know !" 
 
 "He must be." 
 
 As she spoke a knock came to the door, and Yvonne 
 started. "That's him now !" 
 
 There was no place for Mrs. Dorset to go, nor after 
 a first wild impulse of flight did she wish to go. 
 
 She stood still in the middle of the room.
 
 XXXIII 
 
 YOU! Good God!" Hood halted on the thresh- 
 old, his face as white as a sheet, an ugly hunted 
 look in his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, Archie, it is I." 
 
 Instinctively they both disregarded their hostess who 
 watched them with a curious distress on her pretty tear- 
 dimmed face. 
 
 "You you " he stammered. "What are you 
 
 doing here ?" 
 
 Her childish helplessness, one of the qualities that 
 had so pleased him, had all gone. There stood before 
 him, not the exquisite little Psyche he loved, but a 
 shrewd-eyed, cold-voiced lady with a calm demeanor 
 he would have given half of all he owned to be able to 
 emulate. 
 
 "I came to see Miss Yvonne Cavendish," she an- 
 swered quietly. "We have had our talk, so I will go." 
 
 "Wait !" His handsome face had by now regained 
 some of its color, and he was able to control his eyes. 
 They looked straight, even commandingly at her. 
 
 "You must explain to me, Amy !" 
 184
 
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 "Surely no explanation is necessary." 
 
 "But it is." 
 
 "Then someone, I don't know who, sent me a letter 
 Miss Cavendish wrote to you so under the circum- 
 stances I thought I had better come to see her. She 
 seemed to need help." 
 
 "You have," he declared in a voice so firm, so con- 
 vincing that she stared at him in amazement, "been 
 lied to." 
 
 "Lied to ?" It was she who stammered now. 
 
 "Yes, what has this girl been telling you?" 
 
 "Miss Cavendish has told me exactly what I asked 
 her for the truth." 
 
 He turned his lambent eyes reproachfully on the 
 girl. "Yvonne," he said in a grieved voice, "what have 
 you done ?" 
 
 The poor soul, to Amy's horror, burst into tears. 
 
 "I I haven't done anything," she sobbed, with a 
 change of attitude so complete that the other woman 
 wondered for a second if she had gone mad. "You 
 know I wouldn't hurt you, Archie ! Only I'm not well, 
 and you didn't come or write " 
 
 Thoroughly master of the situation, Hood shook his 
 head sadly. 
 
 "Listen, both of you," he said. "Yvonne, when did 
 you and I meet? Wasn't it over a year ago ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 185
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "And now you complain that of late I have not 
 come to see you or written. My dear, it was wrong 
 of me and I am sorry. I quite understand your being 
 angry with me because I neglected you. But Amy" 
 he turned to the other woman "I cannot understand 
 your being angry with me for neglecting Miss Caven- 
 dish. If I had come to see her, you would have had a 
 right to be outraged." His arms folded on his breast, 
 his head held high, with a dignity and grace inherited 
 from some one of his remote Spanish ancestors, he 
 dominated the situation, looking like a grieved angeL 
 
 "Surely you," he went on, still to Mrs. Dorset, 
 "know the world well enough to understand this very 
 regrettable affair? You have every right to my future, 
 but I deny that you have any to my past." 
 
 She was silent, trying to find a way out of the toils 
 he was weaving round her. 
 
 "My solicitor," he then declared, turning to the girl, 
 who was crying quietly, "has instructions about you. 
 I am deeply sorry for the wrong I have done you but 
 we shall never meet again." 
 
 She went to him, her hands held out. "I know, I 
 know," she wailed, "but won't you kiss me once more? 
 Just once more?" 
 
 Amy Dorset recoiled, white with anger and disgust. 
 
 "Please let me pass," she said ; "I am going." 
 
 Disregarding the girl, he barred the way. "You 
 
 186
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 must let me come with you, Amy," he said. "I can't let 
 you go alone " 
 
 "You must." 
 
 And his supreme egotism it was that at the eleventh 
 hour lost him the day. In his utter indifference to the 
 feelings of anyone but himself, he forgot the very ex- 
 istence of Yvonne Cavendish. 
 
 "Amy," he cried in a low voice with an odd break in 
 it, "for God's sake listen to me. I tell you it was all 
 over the moment I cared for you months ago !" 
 
 And at that the poor thing he was deserting could 
 bear, even with the remarkable patience of her kind, 
 no more. 
 
 "All over months ago, was it? Months ago, indeed. 
 Look here, Miss whatever your name is do you know 
 that?" 
 
 Tearing open the drawer of the little writing-table, 
 she produced a photograph which she held out to Amy. 
 "There's his picture he gave me not four weeks back 
 see the date ? It was my birthday see what he wrote ? 
 And here's another thing" she held out a little gold 
 cigarette-case. "Perhaps you'll remember that you're 
 sure to have seen it, he always carried it. He left it 
 here last Friday week." 
 
 Hood was worsted. 
 
 "Yes, I remember the cigarette-case very well," Amy 
 said coldly. Then, turning to him, "You had it the 
 
 187
 
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 day we all motored down to the Braintons for polo. 
 The polo match was on the eleventh." 
 
 He was, in his unutterable humiliation, so piteous a 
 spectacle that her heart smote her. 
 
 "I shall not tell anyone," she said, "you need not fear. 
 And" opening her bag she took out the letter from 
 Mrs. Lowndes and held it out to him. "Here is a letter 
 from another one. Alys, her name is. Take it !" 
 
 Turning to the girl, she held out her hand. 
 
 "I am very sorry for you," she said gently, "and you 
 must let me help you. Wipe your eyes, my dear. He 
 is not worth a tear." 
 
 At the door she looked again at Hood. 
 
 "I will not say anything to you," she began. "You 
 know what you are, and you know that I know. And 
 that is all that's necessary. Good-bye."
 
 XXXIV 
 
 3 1st July. 
 MY DEAR, 
 
 She has gone, our poor Undine gone to stay with a 
 woman I loathe, and my heart bleeds for her in her despair. 
 She went away this morning, leaving a note for her husband 
 telling him nothing about Hood except she is never going 
 to see him again, and saying that she will come back when 
 she can. "A thousand regrets," I told her, "do not make one 
 despair," but what she feels is despair, and God alone can 
 help her. Pray for her, Anastasie-Claire, your prayers will 
 fly like white birds up to the sky, to the Great Ear of 
 Mercy. 
 
 And now I will, although I shall see you so soon, tell you 
 all about it. 
 
 The morning after my last letter, that is, yesterday, I 
 went, as she bade me, to see Miss Croxley. 
 
 For a long time we conferred, my new ally, and I hope 
 I may say, friend. 
 
 The letters of which I told you were proof conclusive of 
 the man's worthlessness and worse. For not only had he 
 deserted one of the women at a time when he should have 
 been, if he could be no more, a faithful friend, but he had 
 deserted her in a way contemptible and cowardly; leaving 
 the poor thing in absolute silence, neglecting her letters, 
 ignoring her anguished pleas for help. 
 
 As you know, my cherished one, my life is no model for 
 young men, and much have I done for which I must blush, 
 
 189
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 but it is not given to me to comprehend this English gentle- 
 man's way of treating a woman who trusted him. That is 
 water of which no decent man could drink. 
 
 So we knew, and told each other, Miss Croxley and I, that 
 Mrs. D. must not put her heart into his hands. "He would 
 break it," she said, "and before breaking it he would outrage 
 it; she trusts him as a saint trusts God, and he is this !" 
 
 It interested me to reflect on the strangeness of a worldly, 
 unspiritual woman so loving, and at her age to my amaze- 
 ment, I had learned that she is five-and-thirty ! She is, it 
 appears, quite without religion; the little cynicisms and 
 skepticisms that are current amongst London society 
 women were continually on her lips, and I had felt, when 
 I called her Undine, that her soul was a thing rudimentary, 
 unknown to herself, but alas, no religion at all ! Poor 
 soul! 
 
 And now she had put, as they say here, all her eggs into 
 one basket, and Miss Croxley and I knew that the basket 
 was, so to speak, "made in Germany" cheap and useless, 
 and what is more, already worn out and broken ! 
 
 "If I showed her this letter she would never speak to me 
 again," Miss Croxley said. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "She is, for all her pretty voice and gentle manners, a 
 perfect pig of obstinacy." It is customary here to call 
 one's nearest and dearest, pigs and even swine, dear friend, 
 so forgive the ugly word ! 
 
 "And if you showed them" she went on, but this of 
 course I refused to do. It was an impossibility. 
 
 To be sure she had, to my surprise, told me of her happi- 
 ness, but that is a thing very different from allowing a com- 
 parative stranger to behold her despair. 
 
 "If you told her that you knew him to be a bad man?" I 
 suggested, at the end of my Latin. 
 
 190
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Miss Croxley shook her head. "I have told her a thou- 
 sand times that I don't like him, and she only laughed. Now 
 she would not laugh she would fight for him, and hate 
 me !" To cut it short, we sent the two letters (not her own, 
 which Miss Croxley kept) to the poor lady in a typewritten 
 envelope without a word. 
 
 It went to my heart to hurt her thus, but it was right that 
 she should know, and after all such blows are best borne 
 alone. 
 
 I went my way, troubled indeed, but selfishly relieved 
 that my part in the matter was, as I believed, over ! Little 
 did I know. 
 
 I was dining at the Italian Embassy, and when I arrived, 
 amongst the last of the guests, I was told that my dinner 
 partner was to be Mrs. D. 
 
 I bowed and went in search of her. I knew that she 
 must have had the letters, and the first man I had seen as I 
 went upstairs was Hood himself. She was standing by an 
 open window, dressed as she often is, all in white. As I 
 approached her I thought that she could not possibly know, 
 so young, so beautiful, so gay she looked as she talked to 
 the men. 
 
 But as I kissed her hand, I knew. Her hand felt like 
 damp marble, and the color on her face was artificial. 
 
 She greeted me as usual, and almost immediately we went 
 down to dinner. 
 
 Will you believe it, dear soul, your Jules was as tongue- 
 tied as a scorpion ! I could not think of a word to say, and 
 finally she broke the silence that seemed to oppress me like 
 an evil vapor. 
 
 "I am so hungry," she said. 
 
 The piteousness of the lie, as dinner went on, nearly 
 brought tears to my eyes, but I talked. Just Heaven, how 
 I talked ! 
 
 191
 
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 I gabbled of the Russian dancers, of the weather, of books 
 I made bad jokes, I was noisy. 
 
 It was all I could do. 
 
 She answered me occasionally, pretended to be interested, 
 pretended to eat. When she talked to her other neighbor 
 things were a little better, and I had a rest, only to begin 
 again. 
 
 It was a ghastly meal, but I had my reward. 
 
 As the ladies rose to leave the room, Mrs. D. turned to 
 me. 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur," she said. 
 
 While I drank my port, and smoked the Corona I de- 
 served, if ever a man did, I watched Hood. 
 
 Have I told you that he is of the well-bred Spanish type ? 
 Very dark and brilliantly colored. His hair is vividly black, 
 his large eyes glow like black fire, his well-modeled cheeks 
 are of a fine rich brown. 
 
 Tonight, I was glad to see, his cheeks had paled and 
 looked oddly like some kind of clay. The lines of his face 
 looked not exactly friable, but argillaceous, malleable, as if 
 a molding hand could easily alter his whole countenance. 
 His mouth, usually a very handsome, strong-looking one, 
 had stretched and drooped in a way that meant great pain 
 and great anger, and, unless I was much mistaken, some 
 kind of fright. 
 
 Something had happened to him, as well as to her, I re- 
 joiced to decide. He was suffering horribly, and base 
 though I knew the fellow to be, his suffering was not wholly 
 ignoble. 
 
 "You look not quite well," I said to him smoothly. 
 
 He started and replied that he had a headache. 
 
 A headache ! Interiorly, I laughed, but I said no more. 
 An hour later Mrs. D. came to me in the drawing-room. 
 
 "M. Pasquier le Breton," she exclaimed, "I am going 
 
 192
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 home. Would you be so kind as to come with me as far as 
 my door ? I fear I am going to faint." 
 
 I followed her in silence, and in silence we drove to 
 Park Lane. I got out and while the footman opened the 
 garden door with his key, I turned to help the lady alight. 
 
 She put one foot a little foot no bigger than a swan's 
 bill on the step, and then with a sigh, pitched out into my 
 arms in a dead faint! 
 
 When she came to, she sat up on the sofa where we had 
 laid her, and pushed back her wet hair from her forehead. 
 
 "You may go now, thanks," she said quietly to her maid, 
 and the butler. "M. Pasquier le Breton will stay with me 
 till Mr. Dorset comes in." 
 
 Then, after the door had closed, and a long pause had 
 ensued, she said to me, "You have been very kind, monsieur. 
 You have seen that I am suffering." 
 
 I bowed. "I have seen, madame." 
 
 "Well," she went on, "I am going to tell you about it." 
 
 It would have been insincere of me to protest, so I merely 
 expressed my appreciation of the honor, and she went on. 
 
 "I love someone," she said, in English, to my relief, for 
 tragedy in her strange French would have been dreadful. 
 "And he is bad. He is a vile and bestial man and he is a liar 
 without honor." 
 
 "Dear madame," I answered amazed yet gladdened by 
 her courage in facing the truth, and her bitterness in ex- 
 pressing it, "you cannot love a vile and bestial liar." 
 
 She laughed, a hundred cynical little lines that I had 
 never seen before, springing to her face, ageing and chang- 
 ing it horribly. 
 
 "Until seven hours ago I thought him the noblest of men. 
 My very soul I gave to him. And now I know that he is a 
 thing whose hand no honest man, no decent women ought 
 to touch. Since I have loved him he has loved as he calls it 
 
 193
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 other women ; not one, but several. The poor drabs in the 
 street are clean and pure compared to him." 
 
 "Hush hush/' I murmured, for indeed, dear saint, her 
 bitterness and loathing were hideous to see and hear. 
 
 "It is all true, monsieur. I am no young girl I am 
 thirty j five years old, I have lived for fifteen years in Lon- 
 don where people discuss everything, and do most things. 
 I know that men are not like women, and that many men are 
 wicked. But this man he went from me to other women, 
 and from them came back to me. His lips were always full 
 of kisses a kind of great composite kiss made from the 
 mouths of dozens of women. Ah, bah !" she broke off with 
 an expression of actual physical nausea. "Shall I ever feel 
 clean again!" 
 
 It was dreadful dreadful. 
 
 To try to console her I attempted to protect him. I ex- 
 plained that he might be only weak, not a monster; that he 
 might be one of the unfortunate men whom women pursue; 
 that he might not have been able to disentangle himself yet 
 from old liaisons made before he met her. 
 
 Then she told me about the wretched girl whose letter I 
 had seen. 
 
 "She is not a bad woman," she declared, "she is young and 
 pretty, and unprotected. Her husband has deserted her 
 and she worked until he met her. And even now she loves 
 him." 
 
 I wept, but she did not. Her little face so deeply lined, 
 so old, so terrible, looked like stone, and she had no tears. 
 
 Then she showed me a letter from the man, received 
 while she dressed for dinner. 
 
 It was not a bad letter, but it showed no real understand- 
 ing of her misery. His pain was very clearly expressed, 
 and his plea for pardon rang true. He had been a fool and 
 weak, but he loved her and he couldn't bear her anger. 
 
 194
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "You see," she cried, when I had read it, "he is only 
 unhappy because he is found out." 
 
 "Madame, discovery is the most frequent door to the con- 
 fessional," I answered. 
 
 She paced the great room, twisting her little bejeweled 
 hands together, moving for all her misery so beautifully 
 that it rejoiced my eyes to see her, and as she walked she 
 talked, unburdening her poor heart to me rather than to 
 some intimate friend in the inscrutable way of women. 
 
 Then suddenly and this was the worst she flung her- 
 self into a great chair in which she looked like a little 
 wounded white bird, and cried. 
 
 She sobbed, muttering and moaning, and, shall I tell you ? 
 even whispering in a terrible, rough voice, "Oh, damn 
 him, damn him!" and then moaning again, to split the 
 heart, that she loved him so, loved him so 
 
 It was a dreadful half-hour. 
 
 Finally she ceased, and after a few minutes rose, her 
 face red and swollen and very dirty from the cosmetic on 
 her lashes. 
 
 She came to me, holding out her hand. 
 
 "I have no handkerchief," she said; "will you lend me 
 yours ?" 
 
 By a happy chance, my Anastasie-Claire, my handker- 
 chief was one of the birthday dozen you made for me. It 
 seemed to me, as she wiped her poor eyes and blew her poor 
 nose, that healing must be in the cambric hemmed and em- 
 broidered by your dear hands. 
 
 Who knows ?
 
 PART II
 
 XXXV 
 
 
 
 I WILL take a little walk, Clementine," Mrs. Dorset 
 said, dropping her silver-colored chiffon veil again 
 after her contemplation of that portion of the 
 chauffeur that was not under the car, "and when Don- 
 ald is ready you can Come for me." 
 
 Clementine, who sat at the edge of the road, her mis- 
 tress's jewel-case on her lap, desperation on her face, 
 rose. "Very well, madame. Where may I find madame?" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset glanced at the very small village sitting 
 in the lap of the downs. "I don't think you could miss 
 me if you tried," she said, "but I shall go up the hill 
 to those ruins you see? among the trees." Then 
 she walked up the dusty road. 
 
 It was three o'clock of a very warm day; the way- 
 side weeds were white with dust and drooping in the 
 sun; no birds sang; the leaves on the trees near the 
 hilltop might have been cut out of tin, so still and 
 shiny they were. 
 
 Two cows stood looking over the edge of the road 
 where it went through a deep cutting, and Mrs. Dorset 
 looked at them with the passive enmity with which one 
 
 199
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 regards antipathetic strangers in the street. In her 
 neatly cut buff coat and skirt and close hat that with 
 its evenly placed wings looked like a classic helmet, she 
 was an unexpected little vision, oddly out of place on 
 the lonely spot. 
 
 The road gave a sharp bend ten yards from the car, 
 so that to the man walking toward her over the downs 
 she was the only human being in sight. 
 
 The man was walking, it appeared to her, in a kind 
 of sea of weather-beaten blanket stuff, and he carried 
 a staff. As he drew nearer she saw that he was a 
 shepherd with his flock. 
 
 "Is there a garage in the village?" she asked him as 
 he made her a rough bow. 
 
 "A a what, miss?" 
 
 "A garage. A place for motors motor-cars, you 
 know. My car has broken down, a little way back, and 
 I am in a hurry." 
 
 The shepherd shook his head. No, he told her, there 
 was no place for motors in the village. There were also 
 no motors. 
 
 As he went on she called after him, "Is there a post 
 office?" 
 
 He looked back and nodded, not without pride. Yes, 
 there was a post office and the telegraph. 
 
 Then he disappeared in his little sea of sheep, his 
 dog walking lazily beside him. 
 
 200
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Mrs. Dorset walked on. The village, she now saw, 
 was even smaller than she had thought, and the cot- 
 tages which were for the most part white she noticed 
 one whose owner's taste had declared itself in washing 
 it a brilliant blue were thatched. Dahlias flaunted, 
 ugliest of flowers, in the little gardens, but there were 
 crimson ramblers everywhere and numerous other 
 roses. 
 
 She passed the church, a comparatively new build- 
 ing, evidently added to a squat and ancient ivy-draped 
 tower; the gravestones, moss-grown and ancient, were 
 shaded by huge elms. 
 
 The village was made in the form of a cross, and in 
 the tiny square, where geese waddled about, enjoying 
 the wet round the old-fashioned pump, was the post 
 office, a white cottage bearing its placard with an air 
 of pride, the scarlet little box shining gayly under a 
 tree near by. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset stood still by the pump, reading the 
 sign over the door : "Bird's Fountain." What an odd 
 name ! And all the inhabitants are asleep. Ah, there's 
 the post mistress, I'll go and send my wire." 
 
 Pushing open the gate, she clattered up the mossy 
 flagstones on her high heels, and went into the little 
 shop. An old woman with a pink bow under her leath- 
 ery chin and a pair of very large-eyed spectacles on 
 her nose, rose from her chair, and went on knitting. 
 
 201
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I can I send a telegram?" 
 
 "Yes, miss " 
 
 In a corner, between a big cheese and a tin of biscuits, 
 was a sheet of dusty blotting-paper, a penny bottle of 
 ink, and a pen like a rusty pin. Amy took off her 
 glove and tried to write. 
 
 "Sir Acton Goodwin," she began, and then the pen 
 tore a hole in the form and sent a shower of ink over 
 her little hand. 
 
 Now she was as fastidious as a cat and an inky 
 finger she could not endure. "Oh," she cried, plunging 
 the finger into her mouth and sucking it. 
 
 The old woman smiled at her. "Did ye prick it?" 
 she asked sympathetically. 
 
 "No, but ink has got under the nail " 
 
 As she spoke the shop door opened and an immense 
 old gentleman came in. He was vast rather than fat, 
 for he looked as though he needed blowing up, like a 
 half-inflated balloon toy. His clothes were too loose, 
 his skin was too loose ; his white hair he wore no hat 
 was like lumps of raw cotton. 
 
 "I want a new rake, Mrs. Codling, please," he said, 
 looking with perfectly open pleasure at Mrs. Dorset. 
 "Mine is bust." 
 
 Then he turned to Amy. "I hear, madame, that your 
 car has broken down. Your chauffeur says he'll be 
 another two hours. My name is Bullace, and I should 
 
 202
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 be delighted if you'd come up to my house to wait anid 
 rest." 
 
 iWhile Amy hesitated, in her surprise, Mrs. Codling, 
 her hand before her mouth, whispered audibly to him, 
 "You forgot to tell her you're the Rector, sir." 
 
 "Oh yes," he said, beaming, "I am the Rector. Will 
 you come?" 
 
 Amy still hesitated for a second, for she disliked 
 parsons, and was, moreover, unused to unconventional 
 invitations. His smile, however, was so friendly and 
 he looked so delighted with her, that she decided to 
 
 g- 
 
 "Thanks very much," she said, "it is kind of you to 
 
 ask me I'll come with pleasure." 
 
 Taking the rake Mrs. Codling was holding out to him, 
 he opened the door. "Now that is charming of you. 
 It's cool in my house and there will be cakes for tea. 
 All young ladies love cakes !" 
 
 She followed him, amused but flattered by his mis- 
 take, and together they walked up the cobbled streets 
 the lumpiness of which caused her acute suffering. 
 
 "The Rectory is at the top of the road," Mr. Bullace 
 said. "Inconvenient in rainy weather, but the view is 
 very fine. It's built of stones from the Abbey." 
 
 "The Abbey?" 
 
 He nodded, his lumpy hair bouncing on his sun- 
 burned old brow. "Yes. I often wonder the ghosts 
 
 203
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 don't come and claw some of them out in the night, 
 you know." 
 
 "So you have ghosts?" 
 
 Again he nodded, quite seriously. "Oh yes, I believe 
 there are several, but of course 7 never see 'em. Church 
 of England, you know. They wouldn't like that !" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset, wondering if he were quite sane, stole a 
 look at him. 
 
 His very large mouth, tender and whimsical, wore a 
 thoughtful expression, and his brown eyes Balzac 
 would have called them yellow were evidently not 
 seeing anything at all. 
 
 "Where are the ghosts?" she persisted, glad in her 
 heart-sickness, of any momentary distraction. 
 
 Carefully stepping over a large earthworm who was 
 journeying over the dusty path they had just reached, 
 on passing the last cottage, the old man answered her. 
 
 "In the Abbey, of course." 
 
 She burst out laughing, such pretty silvery laughter 
 that he beamed at her in delight. "And where is the 
 Abbey?" 
 
 "Now you are thinking that I am mad, and casting 
 your eye about for my keeper," he cried. "Well I'm 
 not mad not nearly so mad, for instance, as Yester- 
 with and there's the Abbey." 
 
 They had come to a little footbridge under which a 
 tiny thread of brown water crept between thick borders 
 
 204
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 of weeds and tiny aquatic green stuff, and beyond the 
 footbridge the path joined an ancient flagged walk that, 
 in broad, shallow terraces, made its zigzag way up the 
 hill on which stood the ruins pointed out by Mrs. Dor- 
 set to her maid, as the probable goal of her walk. 
 
 "Oh, it was an abbey?" 
 
 "Yes. The Abbey of the Fountain of the Birds." 
 
 "What an odd name !" 
 
 The old man laughed. "Isn't it pretty, though? 
 You see in French VAbbaye de la Fontaine des Oi- 
 seaux it is very beautiful." 
 
 Amy plodded patiently up the steep terrace, her poor 
 little feet in their patent-leather shoes burning like 
 coals, her breath coming in short pants. 
 
 "Why was it in French," she asked, "and what have 
 birds to do with an Abbey? Or with a fountain?" 
 
 At the first turning, where the path doubled back 
 nearly parallel with its last lap, Mr. Bullace stood 
 still. 
 
 "I'll show you in a moment. Now look down and 
 you'll see my house." 
 
 Surprised at the height to which the gradual incline 
 had brought them, she gazed at the landscape. 
 
 "Is that the house with the sort of red tower be-^ 
 hind it?" 
 
 "No. That's Dove Cottage the red tower is the 
 old columbarium, and square ones like that are very 
 
 205
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 rare, I can tell you ! That's my house the one behind 
 the copper beeches. It is," he added, "a perfectly beau- 
 tiful house." 
 
 Amy gazed at him, surprised, for his enthusiasm was 
 of a keenness not usually displayed by a man about his 
 own possessions. 
 
 "Very old, I suppose? Is it Jacobean?" she asked to 
 please him. 
 
 "No Oh, no. It was built in 1850, I believe; a 
 wonderful house but you'll see, you'll see. Can you' 
 go on now?" 
 
 She had, in accepting his invitation to his house, not 
 bargained for a long uphill walk in the blazing sun, but 
 not quite liking to explain this, she assented and they 
 went on. 
 
 Presently they reached the top of the hill, and stood 
 leaning against a low stone wall which seemed to have 
 been built to prevent people straying over the edge and 
 rolling down. 
 
 Amy saw that the ruin of the Abbey stood on a kind 
 of promontory jutting into a quiet pool of lower land; 
 at their feet, beyond the two houses they had looked 
 back at on their way up, lay the village, beyond which 
 the downs rolled away to the west; and to the left a 
 much sharper declivity than that which they had 
 climbed, led to a great gray-white wound in the earth 
 half grown over with grass and some few young trees. 
 
 206
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "That's the old chalk-pit, where Annie Louise 
 Whiteman was murdered in 1842. You remember," he 
 added pleasantly. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't," she laughed, and with a sudden 
 backward toss of his lumpy hair that seemed character- 
 istic, he apologized. 
 
 "Of course you don't remember," he said. "How 
 stupid of me ! If it's clear enough, we can see the sea 
 from the other side of the ruins. Let's go and look." 
 
 The Abbey had apparently never been a very large 
 one ; the whole top of the hill would have held only about 
 half of, say, Battle. And it was very ruinous. The 
 thick walls had fallen, only, it seemed, to be cleared 
 away for use elsewhere, for but little remained of ma- 
 sonry beyond the lower parts of walls that still stood. 
 
 Of the chapel, however, there were three pointed win- 
 dows nearly intact, and one wall sprang up strangely 
 perfect towards the roof that had long since gone. 
 
 "And here," the old clergyman explained, radiant 
 with the joy of the amateur cicerone, "was the refec- 
 tory. One of the seats is still in the church it's over 
 five hundred years old !" 
 
 "Dear me !" 
 
 "The cells were here. Look, this one is quite plain 
 there were eighty, they say, long ago. And many people 
 believe that Richard II came here once and made a re- 
 treat." 
 
 207
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I saw Tree do Richard II," she answered; "he was 
 splendid in the scene where he gave up the crown " 
 
 From the east a cool breeze now came to them across 
 the downs, and standing outside the refectory they 
 watched a blue line that was the sea. 
 
 "It's a lovely afternoon," Mrs. Dorset said, as if the 
 weather were attributable to her host. "I should think 
 my chauffeur must be nearly ready. Oh!" she cried, in 
 a different voice. "I quite forgot to send my telegram !" 
 
 Mr. Bullace faced her, his lower lip thrust out 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Dear me, did you?" he said. "It was doubtless that 
 pen that put you off. It's the worst pen in the world. 
 However, there's a better one at Minge. Are you going 
 through Minge?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. I'm going to Long 
 Powsley." 
 
 "Never heard of it. Where is it?" 
 
 "I don't even know that! Yes it's at Herbinton. 
 I'm going to stop with some people named Beauchamp 
 'neither the pen nor the pill maker,' " she quoted, 
 laughing. 
 
 The old man did not answer ; he was gazing intently 
 at the sea. Finally he asked abruptly, "Does your 
 mother know these people?" 
 
 "My mother? My mother has been dead for over 
 thirty years." 
 
 208
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 As she spoke, she threw back her veil and mopped her 
 brow in a gingerly way with her handkerchief. 
 
 The old man turned, and was about to say some- 
 thing which, as he saw her face, suddenly and ob- 
 viously changed to something else. "Bless my soul," 
 he exclaimed, very loudly, "and I thought she was 
 young!" 
 
 Mrs. Dorset flushed. His remark was a genuine and 
 painful shock to her. For a moment she stared at him, 
 handkerchief in hand, indignant words gathering cha- 
 otically in her mind. 
 
 They were never spoken, however, for she knew by 
 his next speech that he was perfectly unconscious of 
 having uttered the sentence that had hurt her. 
 
 "That's right," he said kindly, "you will be cooler 
 with your veil up. And now you must come and see 
 the fountain." 
 
 She followed him round to the north side of the 
 promontory and sat down on a moss-grown stone 
 bench at the top of the slope which was a very gentle 
 one. 
 
 Just before them there were no villages, and very 
 few isolated houses. Indeed, the only house near at 
 hand was the one with the columbarium, and that was 
 well to the left. From it a narrow unpaved path 
 twisted its way up the hill, and about half its way to 
 where the old man and Mrs. Dorset sat, only immedi- 
 
 209
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 ately under them, was something at which Mr. Bullace 
 waved an explanatory and proud hand. "That," he 
 said with a touch of ceremony in his big voice, "is the 
 fountain." 
 
 Amy leaned forward and looked. 
 
 There was half-way down the gradual incline, a kind 
 of natural terrace and in the middle of the terrace what 
 at first looked like a large pool of greenish brown 
 water. 
 
 As she looked she saw that it was not a pool ; it was 
 a large basin or cavity of stone sunk to the level of its 
 curled-back edge into the earth and so overgrown with 
 little water-plants and mosses of various shades of 
 green and brown and copper and gold as to seem almost 
 incorporate with the downs. 
 
 At one side appeared a thing like a large bubble that 
 never burst, and round the bubble the water curved and 
 curled, and doubled and dimpled, settling down only at 
 a distance of a foot to a broken quiet that a little 
 further still became the brown motionless mirror one 
 first perceived. 
 
 "How lovely !" 
 
 Amy's cry of pleasure was involuntary, for the place 
 was full of an odd, peaceful charm unlike any she had 
 ever felt. The old clergyman did not answer, and turn- 
 ing after a moment she saw that it was for the best of 
 reasons. He was not there. 
 
 210
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Presently, on going to the western end of the ruins 
 she saw him running with his odd, heavy nimbleness 
 down the terrace path. He had evidently forgotten all 
 about her.
 
 XXXVI 
 
 AS she went slowly back to the stone bench it 
 seemed to Mrs. Dorset that not only the old 
 man but the whole world had forgotten her; 
 Hood she felt in an odd way no longer existed; he 
 never had existed; she had blown him into a kind of 
 being, like a soap-bubble, through the pipe of her imag- 
 ination, and his beauty had been as prismatic, as fic- 
 titious as that of a soap-bubble. He had gone ; he was 
 not. And yet, how he had hurt her ! 
 
 "Oh, the brute, the beast," she 'wailed suddenly, 
 under her breath. "I hate him," and she scrubbed her 
 mouth furiously with her handkerchief. 
 
 She was a proud woman, although she was vain, and 
 since the night before, when she had so cried before 
 Pasquier le Breton, she had not shed a tear. 
 
 To Clementine she had said only that she had de- 
 cided suddenly to go to Mrs. Beauchamp's instead of 
 to Deauville. 
 
 And to the eternal glory and honor of Rowland 
 Immenham, be it said that the good Clementine had not 
 one inkling of the real state of affairs !
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Dorset, on coming in very late after walking back 
 from Bayswater, where he had conferred with Miss 
 Croxley, had made no attempt to see his wife, but gone 
 straight to his room. 
 
 In the morning when the car was at the door she 
 went to his study. 
 
 "I am just off, Clow," she said, drawing on her 
 gloves. 
 
 He looked up from his writing. "Off, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes. I am going to Molly Beauchamp's. After 
 all I shan't go to France. I am tired, and a rest will 
 do me good " 
 
 This, he thought, amazed, when their last talk had 
 been of her love for Hood ! 
 
 But he said little. Lawrence had told him little, for 
 her misery was almost as great as Amy's, and she could 
 not bring her tongue to the telling of details. 
 
 "He is not good, Clow," she had said, "and she 
 knows, and is hurt." 
 
 And he had answered, in few phrases, that he under- 
 stood. Then, looking into her eyes, he had shaken 
 hands with Lawrence, and left her. 
 
 To his wife he now said, "And what about Hood?" 
 
 He was horrified and frightened by her laugh which 
 was a dreadful one. "I was wrong," she said, her face 
 suddenly gray, with grayer lips. "I shall not see him 
 
 again." 
 
 213
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 After a pause she added, "Send my letters on to 
 Long Powsley, will you, Clow? And thank you for 
 being so good to me. I'll come back when when I 
 can." 
 
 They shook hands with some ceremony, and he let her 
 go, for she seemed to him very much a stranger into 
 whose affairs he had no right to inquire. 
 
 Misery swept over her and she began to cry, "Archie, 
 Archie," she moaned, "Oh, you beast Oh, my dear, 
 sweet love !" 
 
 A finer, greater-souled woman might possibly, know- 
 ing what she knew of the man, have been able to cast 
 off her love for him as a snake casts off its worn, 
 spoiled skin. The world is full of interests, of deeds to 
 be done, of endurances to be made, of thoughts to be 
 thought, that a finer woman, having made Amy Dor- 
 set's mistake, could probably have put it from her as a 
 strong nature puts an encroaching disease, and turned 
 to other, better things. 
 
 She, however, could not. In her whole, petty, useless, 
 silly little life, her love for Archie Hood had been the 
 outstanding dominating sentiment, and it had no wor- 
 thier rivals. She hated the man, now, with a strength 
 of venom surprising to herself ; she would have loved to 
 hurt him, to avenge herself on him, but she wept for 
 him as she sat on the bench. She wept for the sound
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 of his voice, the splendor of his eyes, the touch of his 
 hand. 
 
 She loved him, and bad as she knew him to be, she 
 would have forgiven him had he appeared in that mo- 
 ment of her ignoble weakness. 
 
 But he did not come, and after a while her tears 
 ceased burning her eyes, and she took out of her bag 
 a little gold-mounted mirror and looked at herself. 
 
 "Ugh, what a horror!" she said, aloud, dabbing 
 powder over her poor swollen nose. "What a fool I 
 am! Clementine will see, and so will Molly. What a 
 face !" 
 
 Miserably she pulled down her veil, and then rising, 
 started down the slope by the winding path that led 
 past the fountain. 
 
 "It must be nearly five," she thought, "and the car 
 will be ready. I'll stop and wire Acton Goodwin. He's 
 horrid, but he's amusing and Archie hates him !" 
 
 She remembered that her husband, too, detested the 
 baronet, and shrugged her shoulders. "Clow won't 
 mind, he has Lawrence." At the fountain she paused. 
 The sound of the entering rivulet in the corner was a 
 pleasant burbling, refreshing to the ear. The water 
 seen from close at hand looked clear and fresh. A 
 bird flew down out of the sky, cocked his head at her, 
 and with a thirrre! dipped into the water, drank, shook 
 himself merrily and flew away. 
 
 215
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, Amy Dorset took off her 
 hat and veil, laid beside them on the grass her gloves 
 and bag, and knelt at the mossy brim. 
 
 It was very still on the little rough terrace ; no breeze 
 stirred the grasses, and an elm growing at the foot of 
 the hill was as silent as if it were listening. 
 
 In the quiet water the unhappy woman saw her face 
 indistinctly a little white thing it looked. 
 
 "I'm kneeling down," she thought, "as if I were going 
 to pray !" 
 
 But she did not pray. Prayer was not one of her 
 habits. Instead, after looking round, half shyly, as if 
 she feared someone might be watching, she bent her little 
 head until her face touched the water. And then she 
 started, flinging herself back blindly, for the water was 
 as cold as ice ! 
 
 After a moment, however, she dipped her hands in 
 and sluiced her hot eyes and cheeks royally. The 
 plunge once taken, it was delicious. 
 
 She dried her face and hands in her quite insufficient 
 handkerchief, and then finally on her weblike petticoat. 
 
 "There, that's better !" 
 
 Somehow the touch of the cold water seemed to her 
 an adventure ; she rose, put on her hat, leaving the veil 
 folded back over the wings that gave her cameo-likQ 
 profile a look of Mercury, and stood for a moment gaz- 
 ing at the water which had befriended her. 
 
 216
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Thanks, fountain," she said, smiling indulgently at 
 the poetry of her own conceit, "you have helped me. I 
 am better." 
 
 Then she went on in the late afternoon light down 
 the hill.
 
 XXXVII 
 
 AS she reached the level, as she was to remember 
 all her life, the church clock struck five. That 
 meant, she knew, that, according to his instruc- 
 tions, Donald would have finished repairing the car, and 
 Clementine would be in search of her. 
 
 She stood still. The evening light fell full on her, 
 and an exquisite picture she made, there in the shade of 
 a straggling old elm who had outlived his usefulness 
 and was merely an ornamental derelict. 
 
 Straight before her the sunset was going on ; a splen- 
 did pageant, gorgeous to the point of gaudiness, yet, 
 thanks to the mysterious beneficence of atmosphere, as 
 gentle to the eye as a dove-colored dawn. 
 
 Round the odd, red-brick building that the disap- 
 pearing parson had called a columbarium whirled birds 
 that looked white as snow against the glories of the 
 west, and that nevertheless, even Mrs. Dorset knew 
 must be pigeons. 
 
 Off to the left crept, at the joining of the sky and the 
 downs, a dull-colored something that must be a homing 
 flock of sheep. 
 
 218
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Evening was coming with night close behind, anil 
 everything from the sky to the creatures was obeying 
 her quiet call. 
 
 The water of the fountain seemed in some way to 
 have cooled the hot misery in the woman's heart. She 
 herself could not rest as yet, but she could already see 
 the rest that was coming to others. 
 
 Evening was coming, and evening to the primitive 
 people who work means rest. 
 
 People were going home; sheep were going home; 
 birds were going home. 
 
 "What an idiot I am !" she broke off, trying to laugh 
 at herself. "Evening is when one dresses for dinner. 
 It means more powder on the shoulders in summer than 
 in winter, that's all the difference ! People real ones 
 are not going home. They are going away from their 
 homes, to eat and talk and dance " 
 
 A horrid pang of pain seemed to cleave her to the 
 midriff. He, Archie Hood, would soon be dressing to 
 go somewhere. Where? Wherever it was there would 
 be a woman. A horrible, loving, giving woman. In- 
 stinctively she knew that in his misery about her, he 
 would go to other women for comfort and distraction. 
 And to him, to this man whom she had adored, for 
 whom in God's own truth, she would have died, one 
 woman, provided she were young and clean and fairly 
 pretty, would be as good as she herself. 
 
 219
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He could kiss, could love, any woman ! 
 
 She was unjust of course ; people in the throes of any 
 itrong, primitive emotion always are. Hood, less good 
 }han she had thought him, was certainly less vile than 
 Ahe thought him now. He had betrayed her because he 
 Was inherently unfaithful, but the poor fellow, as a 
 matter of fact, was at that very moment sitting in his 
 flat with tight-clenched hands, as miserable as she 
 herself ! 
 
 In his way he loved her; he had given her his best 
 and possibly it was not his fault that his best was not 
 better. 
 
 The sun had slid down the sky, and rested like a 
 child's balloon on top of a great round hill. 
 
 Amy Dorset stood and watched it. Clementine had 
 not come to fetch her, but she had forgotten Clemen- 
 tine ; her feet ached, but she had forgotten her feet ; she 
 had washed the black off her eyelashes but she had for- 
 gotten her eyelashes. After a while she walked on, and 
 presently she came to a low wall to the right of the road. 
 
 The other side of the low wall, two old ladies were 
 drinking tea.
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 WHEN the elder of the two old ladies looked up 
 from the tea-pot she held over her sister's 
 cup, she started, and inscribed a thin brown 
 serpent-like sign on the tablecloth from the smoking 
 spout. 
 
 "Marietta," she said in an undertone with a little 
 hiss due to some defect in the fit of her upper teeth. 
 
 Miss Marietta turned and followed her sister's gaze. 
 "O Arabella," she cried softly. 
 
 Amy Dorset, of course, did not know, never was to 
 know, just what a picture her lovely little head in its 
 Mercury hat made over the wall. She was, in the first 
 place, too intent on herself and her own feelings to 
 realize her extreme visibility in the reddish gold of 
 the late afternoon light. 
 
 Her white face, a little snowy triangle lit by eyes 
 that just caught the sun and blazed back at it, looked 
 like something almost unearthly to the two old sisters. 
 She was also cherubic in that to them she was a bodiless 
 head, surrounded and backed by a scrap of silvery 
 gauze that might easily have been a fragment of cloud. 
 
 221
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 For her part she saw a charming little lawn with a 
 ripe, red columbarium whatever that might be! as 
 background; a firm thick-grown herbaceous border 
 ablaze with strong country flowers blooming, all red and 
 blue and yellow, like mad; to the right, the French 
 windows flaunting in the setting sun like sheets of 
 flame; to the left, and as human interest, two delight- 
 fully beautiful plain, horribly dressed old ladies swarm- 
 ing round an abundantly set forth tea-table. 
 
 She also smelt several things: hot buttered toast, 
 crimson ramblers, new-mown hay, steaming tea, lavender 
 (a great sheath of it lay drying on the lawn) and 
 piping hot gingerbread. 
 
 ("It's the lady whose car broke down, Marietta, it 
 must be!") 
 
 "Oh, how good the tea looks ; I wish they'd give me 
 some." 
 
 ("It must be, Arabella. And isn't she pretty!") 
 
 At this point, Mrs. Dorset, feeling like an outcast 
 peri, walked slowly on towards the village. 
 
 "Mary insists," Miss Saint declared, in the voice of 
 one who resumes an old discussion, "that she saw Mr. 
 Bullace taking her up to the Abbey." 
 
 "I don't believe it, Arabella dear. If he had, he'd 
 have taken her home to tea wouldn't he?" 
 
 Miss Saint gave an odd little grunt that expressed 
 at once amusement, skepticism, and disapproval. 
 
 222
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Can one ever tell," she asked, plaintively, "what 
 Augustine Bullace would do? He has probably gone 
 home and forgotten all about her." 
 
 "The poor thing looked as though she'd like her tea. 
 And the toast is beautiful today " 
 
 Miss Saint laughed indulgently. "Very well, my 
 dear; I know what you mean. And I'm sure 7 don't 
 mind, only look sharp, or " 
 
 It was thus that Mrs. Dorset, just as she was turn- 
 ing off to the left to go to the village, heard a light, 
 scuttering sound, and turning, saw Miss Marietta 
 Saint's agitated, kind face over the wall and was in- 
 vited in to tea.
 
 XXXIX 
 
 AND so, you see, we have had to give it up," Miss 
 Marietta concluded with a sigh, as Miss Saint 
 disappeared into the house. 
 
 "I am sorry," Amy said with a heart-felt sympathy 
 doubtless due, however ungrateful to poetic folk the 
 idea may be, to a comfortable internal condition con- 
 tingent on two cups of tea and much buttered toast. 
 Miss Marietta, who looked like a benevolent and gently 
 bred mouse, nodded sadly and dabbed at her eye with 
 a small brown paw. 
 
 "I shouldn't so much mind," she declared, "for people 
 have a right to change their minds, and if one doesn't 
 want a house, well, one doesn't, and there's an end of it ! 
 If it weren't for Arabella's health " 
 
 "Surely she isn't ill?" 
 
 It was after six and the ladies now sat in a cool lake 
 of shadow cast by the house. 
 
 Miss Marietta shook her head. 
 
 "It's her colon," she said, with mystery. 
 
 Amy, too, lowered her voice, not having the least idea 
 what a colon might be, but convinced by Miss Marietta's 
 voice of its extreme importance. 
 
 224
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Dear me !" she murmured. 
 
 "Yes. And the doctor said she really ought to have 
 sea air a change, you know !" 
 
 "Suppose," Mrs. Dorset said slowly, "7 took the 
 house for two months!"
 
 MRS. ALFRED BEAUCHAMP, 
 
 Long Powsley. 
 So sorry. Impossible to come after all. Writing. 
 
 AMY.
 
 XLI 
 
 EVERYONE will easily understand that Amy 
 Dorset never could remember exactly why she 
 took Dove Cottage for two months. The cool- 
 ness of the little garden after her long walk in the 
 sun had to do with her decision; so, undoubtedly, had 
 the feeling of comfort contingent on her kicking off 
 under the tea-table her high-heeled shoes and stretching, 
 as the French say, her poor "murdered" toes. 
 
 Hot buttered toast, too, is a comfort, and so is good, 
 fresh-brewed tea, although the Misses Saint drank the 
 best Indian, and Amy's real preference was for that 
 of China. But after all the chief contribution to her 
 amazing decision was a pair of silhouette portraits that 
 hung, one on either side of old Sir James Pinsent's 
 portrait in the drawing-room. When the tea was drunk, 
 and the remains of the buttered toast congealed into 
 two unattractive, shamefaced slabs of burnt bread 
 smeared with pale grease, Miss Marietta suggested an 
 adjournment to the house. 
 
 "You might," she said to her guest, "like to go up- 
 stairs." 
 
 227
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Amy, who could see that her nose was shining in an 
 unbecoming way, yet who dared not, in the presence of 
 the two old gentlewomen, produce her powder-puff, was 
 glad to assent. 
 
 In a room hung with very clean, very faded chintz, 
 whereon unnatural parrots sported in highly imagina- 
 tive tropical foliage, she washed her face and hands, 
 touched up her lashes the latter office she accomplished 
 with care, lest the old sisters might, observing, be 
 shocked and incarnadined with a golden pencil her 
 pretty lips. On her reappearance, the Misses Saint 
 exclaimed as one woman, "Oh, you do look rested!" 
 
 For this Mrs. Dorset loved them. 
 
 Then she was shown the house. 
 
 It was a small house, neither old enough to be roman- 
 tic, nor new enough to be provided with all the modern 
 comforts. As a matter of fact, Alistair Bowen had built 
 it in 1814, and, like most of his houses, it was a pathetic 
 souvenir of an interregnum. 
 
 Bowen had not enough reverence for the great imme- 
 diate past, not enough appreciation of the architectural 
 giants of the immediate future, to build really good 
 habitations, but he was enough of an oddity himself to 
 impress a certain individuality on the houses he de- 
 signed. 
 
 Dove Cottage was, then, a substantial little house 
 for it was not a cottage in spite of its name and a 
 
 228
 
 man might, in one room, have murdered his wife without 
 interruption by the people in the next. It had, in short, 
 the invaluable quality of sound-proofness. The rooms, 
 too, were fairly high, the windows fitted close and opened 
 easily, and the doors when shut let in no air. 
 
 Bowen had, of course, built a Venetian balcony outside 
 the chief bedroom. Without a Venetian balcony it 
 would not have been a Bowen house. And the balcony, 
 of delicately sculptured stone, was a lovely thing, as 
 well as a place of luxurious comfort. 
 
 The dull mahogany staircase was a treasure; it was 
 a little heavy, perhaps, in proportion to the size of the 
 hall, but the wood, ripened and mellowed by a hundred 
 good British winters, had attained a sweetness of color, 
 a softness of outline for mahogany is more susceptible 
 than oak that was very attractive indeed. 
 
 These details all contributed, of course, to Mrs. Dor- 
 set's astonishing decision of staying for two months 
 in Bird's Fountain, but, as has been said, it was the sil- 
 houettes hung over the mantelpiece, one at either side 
 of good old Sir James Pinsent's portrait, that really, 
 as she herself afterwards quite simply expressed it, "did 
 the trick." To every season its "slang." 
 
 Mr. William Henry Saint, the grandfather of the 
 present owners of Dove Cottage (and to whom, indeed, 
 belonged the further distinction of having engaged the 
 then young Alistair to design the house, where, in the 
 
 229
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 event of his second marriage, Mr. Saint meant his 
 mother and his late wife's mother to end their days) 
 had been a remarkably handsome man. 
 
 The miniature likenesses of himself and his wife, "cut" 
 rather later than the period of the designing of the 
 house, represented him as he had been at sixty-five. 
 Amy Dorset, being told these details, stood staring at 
 the silhouettes, counting hard, on both fingers and toes, 
 groping for dates. 
 
 "It was cut in 1817," Miss Marietta explained. "His 
 first wife died just after our father was born in 1815. 
 He was a very handsome man." 
 
 "And they lived here?" 
 
 There was a little pause, and then Miss Saint herself 
 took up the story. "Yes," she said, "the house was 
 built, as my sister has told you, in 1814, for our dear 
 grandmother's mother and mother-in-law. But in June 
 of 1815, just when it was finished and ready for habita- 
 tion, our grandfather brought his second wife to see 
 it, and she liked it. So they came here to live them- 
 selves. I believe," she added thoughtfully, "that they 
 were very happy." 
 
 "She must have been very pretty," Mrs. Dorset said, 
 not mentioning the resemblance to herself, in the not 
 seeing of which her companions seemed to her to prove 
 themselves unobservant almost to the point of blind- 
 ness. 
 
 230
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "She was," Miss Saint answered dreamily. "She was 
 not well born I fear but he loved her, dear grand- 
 father they were a model couple." 
 
 Amy suddenly remembered a description, given her 
 recently by a friend, of a modern peer and his lady: 
 "A model couple, you know, dear : he goes his way, and 
 she hers, and they never ask each other questions!" 
 
 Miss Marietta, who had taken down the black-and- 
 gilt frame within which dwelt her grandmother's profile, 
 blew on the glass protecting it, and rubbing it with her 
 handkerchief, said meditatively, "I believe she was no- 
 body at all, our dear grandmother. (I can just remem- 
 ber her!) She was a surgeon's daughter, from some- 
 where in Northamptonshire. Her name was Hubbard." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset started. Her own mother had been a 
 Miss Hubbard. After a while the three ladies went 
 again out on to the lawn and sat down, and it was then, 
 after a few moments' conversation, that Dove Cottage 
 changed hands for the months of August and Septem- 
 ber.
 
 XLII 
 
 POOR Mr. Bullace, as he stood on the mat waiting 
 for the answer to his knock, was the picture of 
 woe. 
 
 He had heard, while at breakfast, of the immediate 
 departure for the sea of his two old friends, and that 
 the-lady-whose-car-broke-down-yesterday had taken the 
 cottage. 
 
 And then he had remembered that he had invited 
 the lady to tea, taken her up to the ruins, and then 
 forgotten all about her and gone home and eaten all the 
 tea-cakes himself as he read "Tristram Shandy." His 
 soul, as he waited under the portico, was full of shame 
 and misery. 
 
 "Will you ever forgive me ?" he burst out, as a strange 
 woman opened the door to him. 
 
 "These ladies," said the strange woman, "beg Mon- 
 sieur to enter." 
 
 Then the Rector remembered that the lady he had 
 deserted on the stone bench had not had a guttural 
 voice, a foreign accent, and a mustache. 
 
 Quite timidly, as though he had never been there
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 before, the old man laid his stick on the Flemish chest 
 at the foot of the stairs, and went into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "Me," said the mustachioed one, "I go to tell these 
 ladies." 
 
 Mr. Bullace stood still, looking round him. The 
 shabby, pretty room seemed much as usual, although it 
 was for the first time that he saw a long, yellowish 
 glove lying on the sofa. 
 
 There was also a large, heavily built, gold-topped 
 crystal smelling-bottle on the table near the Wedgwood 
 rose- jar. 
 
 "Dear me, dear me," the old parson said aloud in 
 the voice of helplessness. 
 
 But when Miss Saint came in and explained, his ejac- 
 ulations ceased. She had color in her faded cheeks, 
 and her cap was not so exactly in the middle of her 
 head as was usual. 
 
 "She is delightful delightful, Augustine," she said, 
 in a voice not so reedy as it was when uninspired by 
 adventure. "She is also quite beautiful. We, dear 
 Marietta and I, are sorry to leave her. But for my 
 health " 
 
 The old man rubbed his hands with a dry little 
 sound like that made by crickets. "She charms you, 
 then? I thought she would, Arabella. She charmed 
 
 me: 
 
 i" 
 
 233
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Miss Saint laughed. "To the extent of your leaving 
 her in the ruins and going home. O Augustine !" 
 
 The Rector was crestfallen, chapfallen, his brown 
 eyes full of embarrassment. 
 
 "My dear Arabella," he said, "I am dreadfully 
 ashamed, but indeed I went home and told Julia that 
 a lady was coming for tea. I ordered cakes and buns 
 and the heather honey." 
 
 His eyes met hers so humbly that she melted. 
 
 "And then," she said, "you waited? Waited and 
 waited, and nobody came to tea?" 
 
 "Yes, Arabella." 
 
 "And did you finally remember all about it?" 
 
 He hung his head. "No. To be truthful, as time 
 passed I forgot. I I was reading 'Tristram Shandy.' 
 I forgot." 
 
 "And when did you remember, Augustine?" 
 
 Miss Saint looked very severe, her hands folded over 
 what, to conform to both exactitude and delicacy, we 
 will call her person. 
 
 "I remembered this morning, when Mrs. Crump told 
 me that you had let the cottage. And so," he added 
 more briskly, "you really are going to Eastbourne?" 
 
 "Yes, we shall go to Mrs. Bussell this time, for guess," 
 the old lady exclaimed in triumph, "what she is paying 
 us for the two months?"
 
 XLIII 
 
 Dorset, 875 Park Lane, London. 
 
 Plans changed. Please hold letters. 
 
 AMY.
 
 XLIV 
 
 AT four o'clock of the morning after the departure 
 of the Misses Saint, Mrs. Dorset awoke, trem- 
 bling and weeping. She had had a frightful 
 dream. 
 
 And as she lay in her bed the true tragedy of her 
 life came into her mind, excluding the unreal one of her 
 dream. 
 
 It seems in some way unfair that to this light-souled, 
 trivial-minded little chatterer should have been allotted 
 the most terrible grief possible to a woman: the grief 
 of loving a man whom she knew to be unworthy and 
 bad. 
 
 Men are in the scheme of wisdom so differently 
 planned that many a man has loved a bad woman and 
 yet gone through life fairly profitably and not without 
 some happiness, but women rarely love men they know 
 to be bad which is a very different thing from loving 
 a bad man! and when one does, she is in the gravest 
 danger of complete moral and mental shipwreck. 
 
 Two days before Amy Dorset had waked at dawn in 
 her pretty room in town, her heart filled with a passion
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 of gratitude to the Heavens above, the earth below, and 
 the water under the earth. Archie Hood loved her, she 
 loved him, and her happiness was like a rising tide that 
 almost threatened to drown her. 
 
 Her small cup, to use her husband's metaphor, was 
 not of crystal, not even of gold, but it was not of base 
 metal, and it was full to the brim. 
 
 Her husband knew and "he did not care," and he 
 would, she was sure, do everything necessary for her 
 eventual perfect happiness. 
 
 She had risen, in her maid-like restlessness, and pulled 
 up the blinds, letting in the early light. 
 
 She stood there amazed at herself, her eyes filled 
 with tears. She did not quote Shakespeare for she had 
 never read him, but her heart expressed in her mood 
 that was a prayer "as I truly fight, defend me, Heaven." 
 She would be good, so good, always. 
 
 Everything was so good to her that she must be good 
 to everything. 
 
 And then, that same day, before the sun, whose com- 
 ing she had watched, had left the sky, she had been over- 
 taken by nimble, light-footed mischance. 
 
 At first her anger at the man's miserable evil had 
 been but enough to stimulate and strengthen her, as 
 fever may ; in an odd way she had even enjoyed the scene 
 at Yvonne Cavendish's. It had been horrible, and yet 
 his suffering and shame, even though it was only the 
 
 237
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 useless shame of the found-out, had been a certain balm 
 to her wound. 
 
 Then came her fainting-fit, her talk with Pasquier 
 le Breton, her torrent of tears, and a night of exhausted, 
 heavy sleep. 
 
 The next day she had decided what to do, and been 
 busy with her preparations. 
 
 She would go to Molly Beauchamp's and amuse her- 
 self. There would be much noise, horse-play, artificial 
 mirth, roulette and the kind of forgetfulness secured 
 by these things. Also, she would summon to her a man 
 who cherished for her an uncomplimentary sentiment 
 that he tried to disguise under a name that means some- 
 thing absolutely different. 
 
 Acton Goodwin was one of the most amusing men in 
 England. His mother had been Irish. His reputation 
 about women was very bad, but and in her crushing 
 misery Mrs. Dorset recalled this point with a kind of 
 greed his redeeming quality was truthfulness. 
 
 He was no coward and therefore, of course, he could 
 always be believed. 
 
 There was about this gentleman an excellent tale. 
 
 An infuriated husband, it ran, met Goodwin one day 
 on the steps of one of the Service clubs. 
 
 "You damned scoundrel," the husband cried, "I have 
 been looking for you. You have " And then fol- 
 lowed a categorical accusation.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "It's perfectly true," the culprit replied, "and she 
 doesn't love me and I don't love her and I won't marry 
 her!" 
 
 The nonplussed husband, who, indeed, was not thirsty 
 for publicity, forgave his wife, and all went well. 
 
 And this man was the one chosen by Mrs. Dorset to 
 amuse and distract her at Long Powsley. 
 
 Realizing her own condition of utter recklessness, she 
 compared it despite its frightful sincerity to that of 
 other women of whom she had heard, to that of La Val- 
 liere, of Mrs. Rex Pountry (she who finally married a 
 jockey after having been loved by very great gentlemen 
 indeed), of Dido, of Cleopatra, and of poor, lovely 
 Enid Squire, the dancer who shot herself the day of Otto 
 Ross's wedding. They had despaired (she was not 
 quite sure about Cleopatra), and she despaired. She 
 would, she decided, for she was furiously angry as well 
 as broken-hearted, perform the deed known in cases of 
 men as going to the dogs. 
 
 This resolution had occupied her mind during the 
 three hours' motor run, and but for the mishap she 
 would at that moment have been, so to speak, at, if not 
 in, the kennel. 
 
 Poor Amy! The room in which she had now awak- 
 ened was not adapted to late sleepers ; its two windows 
 were unshaded but for their cream-colored blinds ; the 
 curtains, which were of faded chintz on which little 
 
 239
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 blue and yellow Chinese folk walked up steep hills to 
 pagodas by the sea, being not only undrawn but un- 
 drawable. 
 
 She awoke not only to the misery of remembering 
 Archie Hood, but to that exasperating, immediate mis- 
 ery, a glaringly light room. 
 
 "Oh, this beastly pig of a house ; why did I ever come 
 here !" she wailed, her nose in the pillow. "I'll go on to 
 Molly's this very day." And then, after a few mo- 
 ments, "Oh, Archie, if I could only see you. I don't 
 care what you did. Oh, my dear, my sweet, my beautiful 
 love!" 
 
 She cried until her eyes look like inflamed goose- 
 berries, could such a horticultural horror exist. To 
 her it meant that at any price she would have the man 
 back, but in reality it was only another turn of the 
 wheel which, in its relentless revolutions, was her life. 
 
 She thought of nothing but herself, for Hood was 
 part of herself; she wept for herself; she was her 
 despair, and her despair was Amy Dorset. 
 
 And meantime, outside, the lovely downs were waking 
 at the call of day. There were birds in the garden, 
 sheep in the folds, dogs in the door places and cattle 
 in the byres. And as day came all these creatures wel- 
 ^omed it with words in their several tongues, and the 
 result was a beautiful, harmonious, friendly babel. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset plugged her ears against this music tith 
 240
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 exasperated, pointed fingers. She longed for black 
 night, and resented as a personal infliction the growth 
 of the morning. She hated everyone and everything. 
 Archie Hood, whom she adored, was a bad man and a 
 traitor.
 
 XLV 
 
 WHEN Clementine came in at nine with her 
 lady's breakfast on a tray, she found Mrs. 
 Dorset sitting up in bed, reading. She had 
 a lace cap on, and her wan and pointed face was thickly 
 powdered. There was also, the maid noticed with a pang 
 of pity, water in the hand basin and a crumpled towel 
 beside it. 
 
 "Elle s'est lavee la pauvre figure," the grim-faced 
 woman thought, with a fierce pang of rage towards, as 
 the language of inquests hath it, some person or per- 
 sons unknown. 
 
 "Bon jour, madame," she said, blithely. "Madame 
 has slept well?" 
 
 "No, Clementine. J'ai tray mal dormy. I have taken 
 a bad cold and my eyes are inflamed and they ache 
 rather." 
 
 Clementine disposed of the tray to her liking and 
 brought a third pillow from the sofa. "What a misfor- 
 tune!" she exclaimed. "I will prepare one of the 
 sachets de fraicheur for the eyes of madame. Madame 
 heard the dog who barked, the canaille?"
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Amy nodded. "Yes. Un chien tray movay. Is that 
 tea?" 
 
 "Oui, madame. It is prepared by the good Mrs. 
 Damson. There are buttered eggs, and jam! I ex- 
 plain madame, that madame eats not of the jam, but she 
 say to me, * 'Ome-grown and 'ome-made, it will do 'er 
 good!' Eh bien, madame, nous aliens voir, n'est ce 
 pas ?" 
 
 She was doing her best to cheer her mistress and 
 Amy saw it. "Thank you, Clementine," she said sud- 
 denly in a thin, high voice, her eyebrows raised. 
 
 Then she burst into tears. 
 
 Clementine, as has been said, was, thanks to the 
 matchless discretion of Immenham, completely in the 
 dark regarding the nature of her mistress's affliction. 
 And Mrs. Dorset's way of life had always been a 
 puzzle to the Frenchwoman. She had lived with many 
 French ladies and with, several English ones, and her 
 experience was, as she crudely expressed it, ou un mari, 
 ou un amant. 
 
 Cloudesley Dorset she did not consider a husband; 
 it was quite clear to her that he and madame did not 
 love each other. It was clear that the lovely lady was 
 wholly occupied with the life of society and with her 
 little person. She had no mastering taste, such as music 
 had been for Madame la Marquise, or the breeding of 
 bulldogs for Madame Coventry -Green ; children there 
 
 243
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 were not; where, then, was the lover? Clementine be- 
 lieved this so usual person to be wholly absent in the 
 Dorset menage. 
 
 And, to her circumscribed though acute mind, these 
 many lacks created an unheard of condition of things. 
 Madame was beautiful, rich, of tne great world ; she was 
 with husband on terms that utterly precluded a domes- 
 tic tragedy; even, the maid thought, had M. Dorsette 
 had a begum for some lady who was not a lady, it would 
 leave madame perfectly cold. Therefore, as she ob- 
 viously had no lover, for there were no hours at which 
 only one gentleman was to be admitted, no sorties de 
 cinq a sept, none of the indices of visits to a bachelor 
 quarter, what could, the faithful creature asked herself, 
 be the matter? 
 
 When Mrs. Dorset burst into tears Clementine said 
 nothing. She removed the tray from the lap of the suf- 
 ferer and laid a clean handkerchief and a bottle of 
 smelling-salts on the table near the bed. 
 
 Then she withdrew, thus achieving great merit. 
 
 When she came back, summoned by the bell, she found 
 her mistress seated at the dressing-table, washing her 
 face with a huge pad of cotton wool dripping with 
 Madame de 1'Enclos' Eau de Printemps. 
 
 "You never came to tea !" 
 
 The large old man shook his finger at her in reproach. 
 244
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "But you went and left me without a word. You 
 deserted !" 
 
 She had devoted two hours to her toilette and now, 
 in a pink linen coat and skirt, her shoes and stockings 
 silver-gray, her shady hat over her eyes and vernal 
 with flat leaves, she was as lovely as a delicately done 
 pastel. 
 
 The old man's eyes beamed at her over his nose, 
 which was in his broad face what a flying buttress is 
 between two bright windows. 
 
 "I am," he said, "an absent-minded old idiot. I de- 
 serve the rack or the wheel, but if I had not gone 
 away and forgotten you, as I confess I did, you would 
 have drunk your tea in my garden and gone your way, 
 instead of being here ! So my idiocy was a blessing in 
 disguise." 
 
 It was exactly eleven o'clock, and the sun rode in a 
 burning blue sky. Under the mulberry tree there was 
 a delightful patch of shade, and in the shade, in two 
 shabby deckchairs, Mr. Bullace and Mrs. Dorset had 
 sat down. 
 
 The sounds of a passing flock of sheep filled the im- 
 mediate air; little feet pattering down the hard road, 
 silly bleating voices babbling, no doubt, of the dust, 
 the distance, the hoped-for cropping of lunch. 
 
 Amy, tired from her crying and the subsequent 
 reparations necessitated by it, sat lazily in her chair, 
 
 245
 
 her absurd gray feet in their stilt-like heels crossed, 
 her eyes half-closed. 
 
 "It's an awful pity she paints her pretty face," the 
 old man observed suddenly. 
 
 She started, but before she could speak he went on 
 in a changed voice, "I want you to come and dine with 
 me today, this evening, if you will." 
 
 There was a pause, during which she realized that his 
 first remark had been quite unconscious, and that she 
 need only answer the second. 
 
 "I I should love to come," she said, rather inarticu- 
 late in her amazement on this rustic old priest having 
 perceived her make-up, "only I fear I must get on to 
 Long Powsley this afternoon." 
 
 "But the house?" 
 
 She laughed. "I know. I it's all right, of course, 
 about the house I mean to say, it is mine for the two 
 months. Only I must go to Mrs. Beauchamp " 
 
 The old man looked as openly disappointed as a child. 
 "And I had hoped," he plained, his lips protruding with 
 distress, "for such delightful hours with you." After a 
 moment he added, "And poor Jargonelle will be so 
 unhappy !" 
 
 "It is very sweet of you," she returned, flattered and 
 pleased as she always was by such tributes, "to be 
 sorry. And who is Jargonelle?" 
 
 "She is my only daughter's daughter. She lives with 
 246
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 me naturally." His brown eyes had taken on the odd 
 silvered look, habitual to him, Amy was beginning to see, 
 in his absent moments. 
 
 "Why naturally?" she asked kindly, as she would 
 have spoken to a cobra if it had shown signs of liking 
 her. 
 
 The old man blew his nose. "Where else could she 
 live," he said, "with her parents both dead?" 
 
 "Oh, I see." 
 
 After a moment's silence, the quiet was disturbed by 
 the loud slam of the lower garden gate, and over the 
 grass there came flying a young being in pink ; a young 
 being between kitten and cat, between child and woman; 
 a tall, thin, leggy, angular, awkward, graceful girl of 
 sixteen or seventeen. 
 
 "Grandfather, grandfather," she gasped, in her stren- 
 uous advance, waving her arms like a windmill, "you've 
 forgotten the wedding!" 
 
 The Rector rose, squeezing his mouth into a bunch 
 with his left hand, as if it had committed the crime and 
 was ashamed of it. 
 
 "They're all at the church! They've been waiting 
 half an hour, and the bride thinks she ought to faint." 
 
 The old man stared at her, the picture of guilt, and 
 then, in their excitement, they both utterly forgot their 
 hostess, and, grasping each other's hands, they went 
 tearing down the slope towards the church. A few mo- 
 
 247
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 merits after they had disappeared Mrs. Dorset saw the 
 girl flying back. 
 
 "Grandfather's in the vestry Jacob has got him and 
 it's all right, and " she held out her hand in an un- 
 abashed, friendly invitation to another race ' 
 must come to the wedding."
 
 XL VI 
 
 THE church, which, in the great thickness of its 
 walls and the smallness of its interior, seemed 
 rather to have been hollowed out of a solid block 
 of stone than built round a space, was nearly full. 
 Amy was escorted down the aisle and ensconced in the 
 Rectory pew by her companion, who, on their rush 
 through the churchyard, had put on her hat, which she 
 had left on a flat tombstone, and who, on reaching her 
 seat, plumped so suddenly to her knees that their impact 
 with the stone floor was plainly audible. 
 
 One of Mrs. Dorset's secrets was that in her child- 
 hood, since which period she had not been anything, 
 she had been a Dissenter. Her father had been a 
 deacon in a large parish chapel in a Northamptonshire 
 town, and to this abode of prayer the child had been 
 taken regularly until she was fifteen and had been sent 
 to a boarding-school. 
 
 During the three years of her second-rate education 
 she had, partly through indifference, partly through 
 snobbishness, participated in the worship of St. James's 
 on the Front, and since her marriage at the age of nine- 
 
 249
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 teen she had given up both chapel and church, not be- 
 cause of any conviction, but out of the old indifference, 
 a new and agreeable feeling that Sunday was an excel- 
 lent day for late rising, and a conviction based on her 
 circumscribed and superficial observation that only the 
 aged and the frumpish went to church. 
 
 However, even in London people went to weddings, 
 so it was the marriage service with which she was the 
 most familiar of all. 
 
 When she rose from her knees, Amy Dorset opened 
 the book handed to her by Jargonelle, and, not without 
 pride, turned to page 161. 
 
 Then, while the organ boomed out a very reminiscent 
 voluntary, she surveyed the people round her. 
 
 The women, she noticed, were remarkably broad be- 
 tween the waist and the knees, and their elaborate and 
 vivid hats were, as the slang phrase of that season went, 
 absolutely too good to be true. 
 
 The men, as always holds good in country gatherings, 
 were, while less good-looking than at least the younger 
 of the women, more dignified-looking and less gro- 
 tesque. A man's hat cannot be so ridiculous as a 
 woman's. 
 
 Suddenly, after a prolonged study of a Ricketts' blue 
 straw, trimmed with yards of cotton lace and a bunch of 
 maize-colored roses, Amy became aware that the Rector 
 stood at the altar steps. 
 
 250
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She stared at him. What had happened, she thought 
 in amazement, why did he look so different? She was 
 too ignorant, too unimaginative, to know that whereas 
 she had hitherto seen only the man, she now saw the 
 priest. 
 
 The organ burst into the wedding march, and the 
 bride, a big, healthy girl with a brick-colored neck and 
 hands like hams in white gloves, came pounding up the 
 aisle with her father, and the bridegroom, whose sheep- 
 ish demeanor really was very funny, stood waiting for 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset, whose was the elementary sense of hu- 
 mor that consists largely of the trick of seeing as ab- 
 surdities afflictions that look piteous to wiser people, bit 
 her lip. The bridegroom's scarlet face and nervously 
 working hands were ridiculous to her. 
 
 " Which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified 
 with his presence " The Rector's voice was very 
 firm as he went on, and the little church was hushed 
 and still. 
 
 " Or else hereafter forever hold his peace." 
 
 Amy's eyes swam with sudden, bitter tears. Word 
 for word this was the service, the reading of which, for 
 her and Archie Hood, forty-eight hours before, had 
 been the wish of her heart. And now 
 
 To force back the tears she shut her eyes tight, and 
 in the darkness the old, beautiful voice went on. Sup- 
 
 251
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 pose it had been for her and Archie. Suppose it was 
 all a dream, that about those dreadful letters, and her 
 visit to that poor girl suppose Archie was a good man, 
 the man for her not only to love, but of whom she might 
 or ought to be proud. 
 
 "Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep 
 her, in sickness and in health" if it were she standing 
 there in the yellow frock and, by her side, Archie 
 how beautiful he would look, his firm face white with 
 emotion and love ! "and, forsaking all others, keep thee 
 only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?" 
 
 It was as if someone had rudely and vilely laughed at 
 something sacred to her, the realization of the absurdity 
 of what these words would have meant to a man like 
 Archie Hood. 
 
 It was ridiculous, scurrilously funny, the idea of his 
 untruthful lips uttering them. She could see him, hear 
 him say them, blandly, reverently, with dignity. 
 
 A wave of fury swept over her ; she would have liked 
 to strike the man who so injured her by being what he 
 was. She would have loved to tear his face, to hurt, 
 to insult him. 
 
 The strength of her passion of anger seemed to be 
 destroying her, and then the misery that was so much 
 worse than the anger, reduced her to trembling weak- 
 ness. 
 
 "Are you faint?" 
 
 252
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The girl's voice seemed miles away. Amy could not 
 answer ; she leaned back in her corner. 
 
 "Shall I run and fetch salts or something?" 
 
 The young girl grew nearer, her pretty dark eyes 
 full of anxiety, her warm hand on Amy's. 
 
 "No, no thanks, I'll be all right " 
 
 " And in all quietness, sobriety, and peace; be a 
 follower of holy and godly matrons " 
 
 The bride and groom, now safely married, were look- 
 ing at each other, and, unconscious of observation, their 
 homely, sunburnt faces were beautiful. 
 
 Amy Dorset watched them, an odd idea dawning in 
 her mind. "Why they love each other," she thought, 
 in innocent because involuntary amazement, "the poor 
 things love each other !"
 
 XL VII 
 
 The Blue Cottage, 
 Wakelands, Wilts, Aug. 4- 
 DEAR M. PASQUIER LE BRETON, 
 
 It is all right! I have just learned all about her, and 
 I hasten to keep my promise and let you know. 
 
 It suddenly occurred to me yesterday that Mrs. Patterson, 
 the chauffeur's wife, would be bound to know where they 
 were, as her baby was expected at any time. 
 
 And when I got there I found not only the baby but 
 Donald himself! He had been forbidden to tell anyone, 
 but of course the poor man had sent his wife the address, 
 and as she was pretty bad last night, her mother wired for 
 him ! 
 
 Oh, I was so glad to see him. 
 
 He wasn't at all glad to see me though all the servants, 
 you know, are devoted to Amy ! and I had an awful time 
 persuading him to tell me about her. It seems she made 
 him promise not to. He had told Cloudesley that she was 
 well and that he could say no more, and Cloudesley asked 
 nothing further. I, however, did, and finally, on my swear- 
 ing I would not go, or even write to her, he told me the 
 whole thing, and bad as it is it is a great deal better than 
 the poor litle darling's being with the Beauchamp lot. . . . 
 
 So when the car finally was all right and he had found 
 her, she coolly told him she had taken the house for two 
 months. 
 
 254
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He said she looked all right that evening, and that the 
 old ladies were charming. He says the clergyman is mad. 
 Really mad, you know, but of course he isn't, or they'd take 
 his cure away from him ! 
 
 The day after they got there he, Donald, motored the 
 two old ladies down to Eastbourne. The next day there 
 was a rustic wedding, and he took the bride and groom to 
 Brighton. 
 
 And yesterday he came to see his wife. 
 
 While I was there at the chauffeur's house a wire came 
 for him from Amy. She said that he need not come back 
 to her, and that if he kept his word and told nobody any- 
 thing about her, she would give him fifty pounds when she 
 returned! . . . 
 
 So that is all, but thank God she is safe and not with 
 those horrid people. 
 
 I dined with Cloudesley last night. He had just had a 
 note from her, saying just that she was well and resting 
 and would write again soon. An odd, stiff little letter it 
 was, so unlike her. I should like to see that man torn to 
 bits by wild horses. You'll be glad, I know, to hear that 
 he looks ill and seems to be suffering as I had no idea such 
 things could suffer. 
 
 I met him this morning in the Park, on my way to lunch. 
 
 He: "Oh, Miss Croxley " 
 
 /: "Good morning." And I only hope I looked as con- 
 temptuous as I felt. 
 
 He: "Miss Croxley, please excuse me, but for Heav- 
 en's sake, where is she?" 
 
 /: "Where is who?" 
 
 He was very pale and very handsome, the brute! You 
 know, more Spanish than ever, and Oh, so dignified ! 
 
 He: "Mrs. Dorset. Tell me at least that she is well." 
 
 7: Alas for dignity or even common decency! "I can 
 
 255
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 tell you nothing, but does that matter ? Go and be consoled 
 by your Yvonne, and your Alys and the others." 
 
 I am bitterly ashamed of having been such a vulgar cad, 
 but I said it. And he, of course, being what he is, looked 
 at me with the eyes of a wounded doe, bowed like an angel, 
 and left me planted there, an evil-tongued, inexcusable old 
 meddler ! 
 
 I am glad he is unhappy ! I honestly believe he is, al- 
 though his pallor may have been only the result of an in- 
 digestible supper however, I've told you my news, and 
 mustn't wamble on like this. 
 
 If I hear anything more I'll let you know and I daresay 
 it will be soon. My poor butterfly Amy can't possibly stay 
 in a little village. She'll either go mad or cut her throat. 
 And Clementine has promised to let Donald know if any- 
 thing happens, he has promised to tell me and I in my turn 
 promise to tell you! 
 
 It is good to be in the country. If only Amy were here 
 with me. It hurts me a little that she should prefer to be 
 with perfect strangers, but the relief of knowing that she's 
 all right is too tremendous for me to be ungrateful. 
 
 Cloudesley has gone to Maiden Aqualate. He says very 
 little, but I know that he is intensely sorry for his wife. 
 I r of course, told him nothing about Captain Hood. You 
 will, I hope, have a delightful rest, and I shall be glad to 
 see you in the autumn. 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 LAWRENCE CROXLEY.
 
 XLVIII 
 
 EPICURUS said," Mrs. Dorset announced with 
 patent pride, "that God would like to prevent 
 evil and cannot ; or He could prevent evil and 
 will not ; or He neither would nor could !" 
 
 Mr. Bullace, who was busy pruning a pear-tree, 
 turned and looked at her through his eyebrows as his 
 granddaughter called that particular upward gaze. 
 
 "Quoting," he remarked, returning to his work, "is 
 always a crime ; but it's a sin when it's done incorrectly." 
 
 Mrs. Dorset gave a little, wan smile. "Back to the 
 post," she exclaimed, using the young girl's formula 
 for making him realize that he had been uttering 
 his thoughts instead of, as he believed, merely think- 
 ing! 
 
 "Bless me, did I say that aloud? That about quot- 
 ing? I'm sorry, Mrs. Dorset, but it's true." 
 
 "No, it isn't. Epicurus did say it," she persisted, 
 her vanity hurt. 
 
 "He did. You're right so far as you go, my dear. 
 Only you forget the best of it ! 'Or He would like to 
 and can.' " 
 
 257
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Then," she flashed, illuminated, by a ready pang of 
 her own pain, "why doesn't He?" 
 
 It was a beautiful morning, the sky agog with great 
 blustery, restless clouds, the downs blotted with their 
 moving shadows, the smell of the sea in the air, together 
 with the smell of boiling raspberry jam, warm roses, and 
 tar, from a newly mended bit of the road. 
 
 Behind the hedge at the end of the Rectory garden 
 hung, in what, if the wind had behaved itself, would have 
 been decent seclusion, the week's washing. But the 
 wind did not behave itself so every now and then a shirt 
 of the Rector's or a petticoat or even a chemise of 
 Jargonelle's or the cook's ballooned gayly and indeco- 
 rously against the background of sky and trees. 
 
 The old clergyman rose from the chair on which he 
 had been kneeling, and, turning round towards his caller, 
 glanced down the garden and up to the downs. 
 
 "Well," he answered in triumph, "doesn't He?" 
 
 Amy shrugged her shoulders. If he was going to be 
 a parson she had, obviously, no more to say. 
 
 She liked the old man in an odd way and it was as 
 much because of this liking as it was because of the 
 immense fatigue that had come over her, that she was 
 still at Bird's Fountain at the end of a week. Every 
 (day she had intended to be her last one there ; twice 
 she had sent Clementine to the post office with a telegram 
 recalling Donald, each time to fly down the hill and 
 
 258
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 retrieve the message at the crossroads. When she went, 
 she was going to the ever hospitable Molly Beauchamp 
 and send for the equally obliging Acton Goodwin. But, 
 possibly just because she could go at any moment, she 
 still lingered in the dull little village, her sole com- 
 panions an old parson and a long-legged colt of a girl. 
 
 Mr. Bullace moved his chair and, planting it firmly 
 on the hard ground, set to work on year-old peach-trees, 
 his lips pursed absurdly, his odd hair sticking up in little 
 bunches all over his head. "This little maid's ances- 
 tors," he observed after a pause, "were Chinese. One 
 of them migrated to Persia about 2000 B. c., and one 
 of her descendants was brought to Italy thence by 
 Claudius." 
 
 "Indeed," Amy murmured politely, wondering why 
 Mrs. Keel, otherwise Miss Cavendish, had not answered 
 her letter. 
 
 Mr. Bullace nodded, perfectly satisfied with her recep- 
 tion of his bit of lore. "Yes, I've forgotten the exact 
 date of the first peach in England, but old Gerard says 
 he had 'em all in his garden, and I believe it was Wolf 
 who brought 'em. That would mean about the fifteenth 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Who was Wolf?" (She must have had my letter. 
 And surely she'll mention him when she answers it?) 
 
 "The King's gardener." 
 
 Amy, meeting his gaze, the clear, unsilvered gaze of 
 259
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 one not woolgathering, pulled herself together. "At 
 Buckingham Palace?" 
 
 The old man's eyes changed ; they now bore a distinct 
 glare of irritation. "Wolf, as I have told you before," 
 he said stiffly, "was the gardener of Henry VIII." 
 
 She was incomparable at an apology, so the glare 
 soon departed from that sweet old brown eye, and the 
 soft snip of the pruning-knife was again heard. 
 
 "Please tell me about pears, Mr. Bullace," she urged 
 gently to please him. He shook his head obdurately, 
 adding, after a while, "She means it kindly, but it only 
 bores the poor thing." 
 
 "Back to the post!" 
 
 The girl Jargonelle had come over the lawn silently 
 in her shabby old tennis-shoes and stood laughing at 
 him, her teeth glistening like a dog's. 
 
 "Don't tease him," admonished Amy. 
 
 "I will tease him. As to pears, they are native to 
 England flourished here in the thirteenth century, and 
 Edward I loved 'em. He made me learn that when I 
 was small and miles and miles about apples. And 
 plums. The plum is a Syrian. That's why he's purple 
 Syre and Tydon, you know !" She roared with laugh- 
 ter and hugged her grandfather. "Have you told her 
 about quinces, Gromp " 
 
 "I won't be called Gromp!" protested the old man 
 passionately. "I hate to be called Gromp !" 
 
 260
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "The quince," the girl went on, rejoicing in her non- 
 sense, and expressing in her face more mirth than Amy 
 Dorset had ever seen in anyone's, "was the Golden Apple 
 of the Hesp " 
 
 Her grandfather stretched forth a sly hand and gave 
 her muscular arm a pinch that hurt. 
 
 They both roared with laughter now, and Mrs. Crump 
 came out to tell them that lunch was ready. 
 
 Amy would not stay, and made her way back to her 
 temporary home, as Annie Elizabeth Dawson had once 
 called it to her.
 
 XLIX 
 
 Whelkington-on-Sea, 
 
 Friday. 
 DEAR MRS. DORSET, 
 
 Thanks for your kind letters. I am glad you are in the 
 country, for it was very close in town. It was very dusty. 
 
 I am very well, and everything is all right. You know 
 what I mean. Archie said I wasn't to write to you but I 
 could not disregard your kind letter. I did not show it to 
 him. 
 
 At first he was very angry with me for telling you, but 
 gradually he got all right, and he's very kind now. I quite 
 understand that you were vexed. I know he's bad, but that 
 doesn't so much matter to me and somehow I can't help 
 caring for him. I know I'm a fool, but I can't help it. He's 
 fond of me, too, in his way and now that you've gone he 
 seems to miss me and sort of cling to me. 
 
 It was very kind of you to offer to help me but I don't 
 need it now. Poor fellow, he hadn't really realized how 
 worried I was, or he'd have come long ago he's very kind 
 when you know him, really. I hope you won't think it very 
 wrong of me to go on seeing him. I simply couldn't say 
 no when he wants me, and besides he doesn't have to spend 
 lots of money on me like he does on some of the others. 
 You can trust me never to tell about you and him, and I am 
 
 with kindest regards, 
 
 Very truly, 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 YVONNE CAVENDISH. 
 My real name is Jessie Keel. 
 
 262
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 This letter, which arrived a day or two later, threw 
 Amy back into a slough of frenzied woe from which 
 she made no effort to escape. 
 
 She lay in bed all the morning, pretending, even to 
 Clementine, that she had a blinding headache. 
 
 Over and over she read the letter, too miserable her- 
 self to pity the writer, and a prey to violent jealousy. 
 
 This Jessie Keel, this half-educated little thing whom 
 he had ill-treated and cast off, was seeing him, hearing 
 him. She was by the sea, miles from his father's house, 
 where he was supposed to be spending the month, yet 
 she was seeing him. He cared enough for her to go to 
 the trouble of taking frequent journeys to reach her. 
 
 He could buy a ticket for Whelkington, thinking, "I 
 am going to see Yvonne" he would sit two hours in a 
 hot, dusty train thinking of Yvonne, he would reach 
 Whelkington and endure the horrors of some old station 
 fly and crawl along to Yvonne. Yvonne, indeed ! 
 
 To Jessie Keel. Mrs. Jessie Keel. What a name! 
 And she herself, Amy Dorset, would give all she owned 
 in the world to see him for one single hour. She would 
 walk barefoot to Canterbury to see him. 
 
 And he was seeing Jessie Keel. 
 
 In her misery Mrs. Dorset finally rose, and, dressing 
 herself alone, a thing she had not done since her mar- 
 riage, put on her hat. She would go for a walk. She 
 could not see even Clementine. 
 
 263
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 If that tiresome old parson or that giggling girl 
 came near her she should scream and go mad. 
 
 As she was leaving the room, Clementine met her, a 
 telegram on a little salver. 
 
 "Madame is dressed!" The good soul's ejaculation 
 met with no response. 
 
 Her mistress was staring at the telegram, her face 
 flooded with a blush that transfigured it. 
 
 For a moment she looked twenty. 
 
 "I I am going over to the Rectory," she said, in a 
 voice with a lovely quiver in it. "I didn't see that cher 
 vieil Mossieur yesterday. I shall lunch there it will 
 please him and I shall be back at about three. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 And away she ran, her little figure as light as a 
 feather and as buoyant as a wave. 
 
 The maid went to the bed and, after staring at it for 
 a moment, laid her hand on one of the pillows, rubbing 
 it gently. 
 
 "I knew it," she muttered. "I knew it. And now "
 
 MR. BULLACE was delighted to see his self- 
 invited guest, and greeted her with a com- 
 pliment. 
 
 "Your cheeks are embalmed like a mellow costard," 
 he cried, lumbering towards her from the library table 
 where he had been writing a sermon. At the sound of 
 her laughter he stared afresh. 
 
 "I have," she said, "never been told that my face was 
 like a custard!" 
 
 "Ho, ho a custard, indeed ! A costard is an apple, 
 Madame Butterfly, and that's where the word coster- 
 monger comes from ! But sit down, sit down. Yester- 
 day was a dull day, for I did not see you." 
 
 Never had he so liked her. Out of her happiness 
 flowed a stream of kindness, of sympathy, even almost 
 tenderness. 
 
 "You have had good news?" he asked. 
 ' "Yes." 
 
 The old man had, on first meeting her, asked her one 
 or two perfectly natural questions, her evasive answers 
 to which had told him they were not welcome. 
 
 265
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He hesitated for a moment. "I am glad, my dear," 
 he said gently. "It is good to see you happy. Happy 
 people," he added, more to himself than to her, "are 
 always so good." 
 
 He sat down at his table, staring with absent eyes at 
 his half-finished sermon. Finally he took up his pen and 
 resumed his work as if he were quite alone. 
 
 Amy rose and went out by the window. 
 
 Filbasket "young Filbasket" as he was still called, 
 though his antick parent had been in the churchyard for 
 over ten years a short burly man of fifty-odd years, 
 was working in the garden, and, because she was so 
 happy, she went to him. 
 
 "Good morning, miss ma'am." 
 
 "What are you doing?" 
 
 She had never smiled at him before and, humble old 
 fellow that he was, he liked it. 
 
 "Turning the yearth over for the autumn flowers, 
 ma'am," he answered, gazing at her. His mind and soul 
 were full of romantic admiration, for inwardly he was 
 comparing her to a Madonna lily, but his manners were 
 not equal to romantic expression, so when he had spoken 
 he spat on his hands. 
 
 She gave him another smile and walked away. 
 
 "I must," she thought, "give that man Donald a pres- 
 ent for his baby. How clever he was to know that I 
 shouldn't mind him telling Archie !" 
 
 266
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Her lack of logic, her absent inconsistency, her folly, 
 her weakness, all these things were, in the immensity 
 of her happiness, invisible to her. 
 
 She who had been a fool, she thought, was now wise. 
 She had taken a leaf out of the despised Jessie Keel's 
 book. He was not perfect, her poor love, but he was 
 her love, and that "was" should be enough. 
 
 "It is a beautiful thing to forgive, Mr. Bullace," she 
 said suddenly at lunch, "isn't it?" 
 
 The old man, who had been smiling, turned to her, his 
 face grave. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "forgiveness is beautiful when it is 
 justified." 
 
 Jargonelle, who had spilt mint sauce on her frock 
 and was scraping it off with a knife, stared. "Why, 
 Gromp," she began, but stopped short. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset did not understand him, either. It was 
 odd that he, the kindliest, most unresentful old fellow 
 alive, whose whole life was made up of love and friend- 
 liness, should speak of the possible un justifiability of 
 forgiveness. 
 
 "How do you mean?" she asked. 
 
 He was silent, his eyes fixed absently on the wall, and 
 gathering their strange silvery and frosty look. 
 
 "Back to the post, dear Mr. Bullace," Amy said, 
 dimpling and gentle. 
 
 He started, pushing back a lump of hair. 
 267
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Yes, yes I was forgetting. Do you know, my 
 dears, I am convinced," he answered gayly, "that my 
 brain is going?" 
 
 After lunch Mrs. Dorset went back to the question. 
 
 "What did you mean?" she asked him. "I want to 
 know for a particular reason." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you. I mean that unconsidered, 
 merely emotional forgiveness does more harm than the 
 infinitely rarer sin of hardness." 
 
 "Merely emotional forgiveness?" she faltered. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But 'seventy times seven'?" 
 
 "Christ's words have been more misunderstood and 
 misrepresented than the words of any man who ever 
 lived, my dear. He was not only always good : He was 
 also always sensible. And you may be quite sure," the 
 old man went on, wagging his big head with a cheerful 
 smile, "that He never meant a lazy or a selfish tolerance 
 when He said 'forgiveness'." 
 
 She walked slowly home, and, going into the drawing- 
 room, sat down opposite the little fernery that in the 
 winter was a fireplace. 
 
 She was disturbed in an odd, indefinable way ; she felt 
 uneasy ; her happiness had gone. 
 
 Something had been stirred in her mind, and she did 
 not know what it was. 
 
 268
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The room was very quiet, and smelled of roses. The 
 soft gray walls, with their array of valueless, priceless 
 old pictures, seemed to shut her away from the world 
 which she understood. 
 
 She felt a stranger and lonely. She would have 
 liked to cry, but must, she felt, not risk reddening her 
 eyes. 
 
 The clock under the portrait of Sir James Pinsent 
 struck one. It was half-past three, and she must go 
 and dress. She would wear odd old man, to say such 
 things tolerance wasn't forgiveness, justifiable for- 
 giveness 
 
 The afternoon sun came in through the open win- 
 dow and lay like a shallow pool on the old, polished 
 floor. A pool ! She would take him up to see the foun- 
 tain. She would wear white all white, and this little 
 hat with harebells. She must hurry. Justifiable for- 
 giveness
 
 LI 
 
 WHEN Hood, directed by the discreet Clemen- 
 tine, had climbed up the path, he found Mrs. 
 Dorset by the fountain. 
 
 Kneeling by her, he took her hands in his and raised 
 them to his lips, the simple act seeming, through his way 
 of accomplishing it, a kind of rite. 
 
 "You forgive me?" he said. 
 
 And even in the undoubted rapture of the moment 
 she wished that he hadn't made use of that particular 
 word. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 With a sigh of relief and happiness he sat down by 
 her and laid his head for a moment against her shoulder. 
 "I have been horribly unhappy," he declared, and she 
 knew by his face that it was the truth. 
 
 Perhaps she was nearer the truth than she knew 
 when she thought, half-defiant of another thought, 
 "Poo*r darling, he couldn't help it." 
 
 The fatigue natural in one who has made a long 
 journey on a very hot day by cross-country trains 
 stood the penitent in good stead. He had a headache and 
 
 270
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 was pale and a little haggard, and Amy, of course, at- 
 tributed these ravages exclusively to his feeling for her. 
 
 They sat in the pleasant shade by the fountain very 
 quiet for several minutes. 
 
 At last Hood broke the silence. 
 
 "Are you glad to see me?" 
 
 "Yes." The very baldness of her answer gave it a 
 value that the experienced Hood fully appreciated, and 
 her eyes were of an intenser blue than usual. 
 
 "You have missed me?' 
 
 "Yes. Archie how could you?" 
 
 He frowned uneasily and his eyes swept the horizon. 
 
 "Darling I have begged your pardon need we dis- 
 cuss the horrid business any more? I have been bad, 
 but you will help me to be good ; I have been weak, but 
 you will help me to be strong." The hairs of his little 
 black mustache were, she saw, tipped with gold; there 
 were three white hairs near the middle of his satiny 
 head ; the lines in his forehead were deeper than she had 
 realized. 
 
 It gave her an odd feeling of intimacy to know these 
 things, and, bending towards him, she kissed him with 
 extreme tenderness. 
 
 "All right, dear," she murmured, "we won't talk about 
 it. Only" remembering with a pang the letter she had 
 forgotten "have you seen Miss Cavendish since I 
 left?" 
 
 271
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 To her immense relief he, after a short pause, told 
 the truth. "Yes, I have seen her." 
 
 "When dearest?" 
 
 "She is at the sea ; she hasn't been well, and is at the 
 sea near where I have been staying with my father's 
 sister. She, my aunt, broke her leg ten days ago, so my 
 mother and I went down to see her." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 There was a long pause, during which the only thing 
 that broke the palpitant summer silence was the thick, 
 slow bubble of the fountain. 
 
 "Amy," the man's dark eyes were full of pleading, 
 "don't think about that girl any longer. I was a 
 beast, but I hadn't met you, and Oh, well, I can't 
 explain. All men do these things, only most of 'em 
 don't get found out." 
 
 "Justifiable forgiveness," the old parson's phrase, 
 came into her mind almost with a little clash. Was this 
 forgiveness of hers a justifiable one? 
 
 "But, Archie," she said, laying her hand on his, and 
 looking away from him, "you went on seeing her after 
 you and I loved each other." 
 
 He drew a deep, audible breath. "Amy," he an- 
 swered, "don't you trust me at all?" 
 
 The absurdity of the question did not appear to either 
 of them; Hood himself believed that he ought to be 
 trusted, and Mrs. Dorset was horror-stricken by the 
 
 272
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 reproach in his voice. Thus people innocently deceive 
 themselves, unconsciously rejoicing in their deception. 
 
 "I can't explain," he went on, a minute later, seeking 
 refuge in the well-worn cover; "you wouldn't under- 
 stand. I never loved her at all, the poor thing. And, 
 mind you, in her way she's a very nice woman." 
 
 "I am sure of it. And she loves you." 
 
 Hood was not at all a fatuous man, nor was he even 
 vain in the usual way of lady-killers. Indeed, he might 
 be better described as a lady-trap. 
 
 He was as dangerous to women as honey is to flies; 
 he was more the pursued than the pursuer; he was an 
 unregistered menace to the peace of fools ; the trap does 
 not chase the mice, but it catches them. Thus Archie 
 Hood, with his unoccupied mind, his kind heart, his 
 mediocre brain, his inflammable emotions. He stirred 
 uneasily at Mrs. Dorset's last remark. 
 
 "She does, dear, and I think you oughtn't to see 
 her for her sake." 
 
 "All right, I won't. Now tell me, my loveliest," he 
 caught her to him and kissed her, "how long are you 
 going to stay in this awful place?" 
 
 "It isn't awful !" 
 
 Amused by her vehemence, he kissed her again. "Tell 
 me how you happened to come here." 
 
 She told him. 
 
 "Well, I'm jolly glad you didn't go to Molly Beau- 
 273
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 champ's," he commended, virtuously. "She's a beastly 
 woman." 
 
 "O Archie!" 
 
 "Yes, 'O Archie' a horrid woman." 
 
 Oh, ginger, cold to the tongue! 
 
 The afternoon crept westward, leaving shadows 
 stretching behind it like footprints. And by the Bird's 
 Fountain sat the very happy lovers, forgetting every- 
 thing but their two selves. Peace after pain is a de- 
 light that everybody has experienced, so poor little Amy 
 Dorset's state of mind will be understood. Finally 
 they rose and stood at the edge of the terrace watching 
 the sunset. 
 
 "You will come, then?" Hood said. 
 
 "Yes. To the Crossroads Inn at Welling at four to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Yes. There are no houses there, not a soul will 
 see us, and at Clatton there is only the old caretaker 
 and her husband, and they don't matter." 
 
 She nodded, a little absently. "Archie, I'd so much 
 rather go to Maiden Aqualate and have you come there. 
 You see, it would really be better, for Cloudesley will 
 be there, and " 
 
 Hood burst out laughing. "Oh, you darling, you 
 sweet little angel-goose! Do you think I want to see 
 Cloudesley?" 
 
 "He would be very nice. You know he wanted to 
 274
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 see you in town; he's going to do everything for 
 us " 
 
 Hood's face darkened. He loved Mrs. Dorset, sin- 
 cerely and far more than he had ever loved anyone 
 else, and he was not ungrateful to Dorset for his in- 
 comprehensible acquiescence, but at the same time, he 
 did not wish to be the man's guest; he had no desire 
 to discuss things with him, and least of all did he like 
 the idea of giving up his runaway honeymoon. 
 
 He had made up his mind to take Amy to Clatton, a 
 little old house of his on the edge of Dartmoor, and to 
 Clatton he meant to take her. 
 
 "Darling," he pleaded, "I should die at Maiden 
 Aqualate, and I want to be all alone with you at Clat- 
 ton. I used to go there for my holidays when I was 
 a child ; I'll show you the pool where I learned to swim 
 and the apple-tree in which I wrote my first poem " 
 
 "I'm sure it was a love-poem," she flashed. 
 
 "It wasn't, then ! It was an Ode to War, and it be- 
 gan 'O War Soul with thy fingers dripping red.' It 
 was a beauty, I can tell you!" 
 
 Slowly they walked down the hill, and where the 
 roads branched he left her, going to the inn where he 
 had housed his car. 
 
 And she went on to the left, and in at the white- 
 barred gate by the columbarium.
 
 LH 
 
 IT so happened that a pouring rain that night inter- 
 vened between Mrs. Dorset and the outer world. 
 The Rector and Jargonelle the leggy, who had 
 intended to "come in after dinner," as the phrase went 
 in Bird's Fountain, did not come in, and Amy was 
 alone. 
 
 At first it did not matter. She was very happy, and 
 wandered about from room to room humming to her- 
 self in an odd little way that she regarded as singing. 
 
 Her conscience was absolutely at rest ; from the mo- 
 ment when she had told her husband about Hood, she 
 had had no further qualms. Clow did not mind, so all 
 was well. 
 
 And, Hood's charm strong on her still, her mind 
 was in a kind of haze of weary bliss. 
 
 The rain came down hard, clattering against the 
 windows of the drawing-room and on the roof. Mrs. 
 Dorset was one of the happy people to whom rain is a 
 pleasure, almost a luxury when heard from a warm 
 room: it gave her an odd feeling for extra intimacy 
 with herself; she felt, sitting by the fire under the 
 
 276
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 portrait, as if a charming Amy had come to visit her. 
 And this other Amy knew and loved Archie Hood, so 
 that they were very cozy together in the firelight, the 
 two shaded lamps glowing softly in distant corners of 
 the room. 
 
 Sir James Pinsent gazed down with benevolence from 
 his black frame, flanked by William Henry Saint and 
 his old wife, whose profiles stood out with singular dis- 
 tinctness in the firelight. In spite of the rain the night 
 was warm, and towards ten Mrs. Dorset rose from her 
 reverie and, drawing back the faded curtains, opened 
 the French window opening on to Alastair Bowen's 
 Venetian balcony. 
 
 A rush of scented air met her as she stepped out. 
 The rose-garden was only a few feet below this side 
 of the house was high, owing to the fact that the house 
 was built on a little hill and in the wet dusk pale 
 clusters and stars and streaks showed, that were rain- 
 soaked roses. 
 
 The moon, routed by the wet, had yet not withdrawn 
 far, and from behind a cloud sent through a faint glow, 
 an "I could an I would" effect full of romance. 
 
 Under this pale clarity the square tower rose from 
 the bulky mass that was the tree-embowered church, 
 and two windows in the Rectory were bright. 
 
 Suddenly there came to the watching woman a sound 
 of music. Someone was singing. 
 
 277
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Jargonelle," she said softly, aloud. "How pretty !" 
 
 The young girl had an odd, deep voice of the greatest 
 softness and mellowness. The Rector said that this 
 was because she ate so many peaches and pears, Amy 
 remembered, smiling. 
 
 And now, in the quiet night the voice was very beau- 
 tiful. The song was a hymn, and she was obviously 
 practicing for Sunday; some phrases she did over and 
 over again. 
 
 It was a melody that Mrs. Dorset knew, but she 
 could not remember the words. 
 
 "What is it? What are the words?" she thought. 
 Then she remembered that it was an old hymn sung 
 in her childhood by her mother's cook, a motherly per- 
 son generous in the matter of little cakes and tarts, suf- 
 ficiently fat in front to be a comfortable refuge in 
 times of tears. 
 
 Yes, it was old Minnie who had bellowed that air 
 among her pots and pans, and little Amy had sung 
 it too. 
 
 Jargonelle, now satisfied with her details, embarked 
 on a finished performance, and evidently another win- 
 dow had been opened, for the young voice, so delight- 
 fully free from the shrillness of many youthful ones, 
 poured out more freely. 
 
 It was one of the simpler hymns and it was a quiet 
 one. It sang of peace and humble happiness. 
 
 278
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "What are the words ? Dear old Minnie how lovely 
 her voice is " 
 
 Then suddenly a line of the verses came into the 
 listener's memory, and she sang, too, her queer little 
 voice sounding almost like a bleat. 
 
 The rain was lightening now, and no longer splashed 
 as it fell, and the moon grew stronger. 
 
 Jargonelle sang on and the church clock struck 
 ten, its voice softened by the dampness. 
 
 And in the dampness, disregarding for once its effect 
 on her hair or her delicate frock, Amy Dorset still stood 
 alone. 
 
 "I wonder," she thought, "how Clow is? And poor 
 
 old Lawrence. I must write Clow about Archie 
 
 She broke off, frowning a little. The thought had 
 seemed an intrusion. 
 
 A moment later she realized with a start that the 
 song had ceased. She wished that it had not, that 
 it had gone on and would go on, and that she could 
 stand there still, listening to it, and wrapt in the odd 
 feeling of aloofness that is not loneliness that she had 
 experienced for the first time in her life. 
 
 She went slowly back to the fire after closing the 
 window for the night and drawing the p -^ins. 
 
 Old Sir James' body had disappeared in an encroach- 
 ing shadow, but by some trick of the lamplight, his 
 eyes shone with a live light, looking straight at her. 
 
 279
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She gave a little start as she sat down. She had an ab- 
 surd feeling that he was waiting with some amusement 
 for her answer to a remark he had just made. 
 
 The fire had crumbled into a glowing heap of ashes, 
 the clock ticked loudly, and Clementine entered with a 
 glass of milk and a siphon on a tray. 
 
 "II est dix heures, madame," she said, her plain face 
 full of the curious pride that characterized her devo- 
 tion to her mistress. 
 
 "Murcy, Clementine. Put it down, please. I I'll 
 come up in a few minutes. H me fo ecrire oune lettre." 
 
 The woman withdrew, and after a pause Mrs. Dorset 
 rose and went to the beautiful little Chippendale writ- 
 ing-table on which were arranged the thousand and 
 one little objects necessary to her correspondence. 
 There were a gold-topped inkstand of pink quartz, a 
 jade pen-tray, two quill pens, their quills bedewed with 
 little diamonds, a large, very important-looking des- 
 patch-box of green leather, an emblazoned vellum 
 blotting-book, a big ring with, cut in its emerald, the 
 motto of a great ducal house, the motto innocently 
 adopted by Mrs. Dorset for her own use because she 
 liked it, and paper and little cards of all sizes and 
 thicknesses, inscribed A. D. in the smart simplicity 
 of dull gold block letters. A lavish, comprehensive, 
 rather business-like writing-table it was. 
 
 Its owner selected a sheet of paper and took from a 
 280
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 drawer the plain silver pen-holder with a J pen with 
 which, despite the quills, she did the greater part of 
 her writing. 
 
 "Dear Clow," she wrote, in her large, spidery hand, 
 "I hope you are well? Captain Hood was here today 
 and explained things and I see that I was too 
 hasty " 
 
 After a long pause she tore this into minute bits 
 and began again. 
 
 "Dear Clow, I was wrong about Archie." She paused 
 again, her little chin on her left fist, her eyes fixed on 
 the fire. 
 
 "Dear Cloudesley, I am sorry I was so silly about 
 Captain Hood. He was here yesterday and I am very 
 happy " 
 
 It was too warm in the room. 
 
 She opened the hall door, thus admitting to her con- 
 fused counsels the implacable voice of the great clock. 
 
 "Dear Clow, I have seen Archie, and I am going with 
 him to Clatton tomorrow. No one will know, but I 
 want you to. We are very happy and I hope you will 
 soon " 
 
 "Mrs. Dorset!" 
 
 Amy jumped, dropping her pen and blotting her 
 letter, for the voice had been accompanied by a hard 
 bang on the window behind her. 
 
 "Mrs. Dorset !" 
 
 281
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Yes, yes, I'm coming " 
 
 She opened the window on the high side of the gar- 
 den, and the Rector entered, hatless and wet. 
 
 "It's come on again," he said with a shake, blowing 
 out, with a vast displacement of his cheeks, the flame 
 in what she knew he always called his lanthorn. "Just 
 as I got to your gate, down it pelted." 
 
 He thrust a big stick into the fire and, sitting down 
 by it, lit his pipe and settled his old back comfortably 
 on his chair. 
 
 "Jargonelle was singing," he said, "and I stood by 
 the window and listened. So I came to see." 
 
 "You came to see what, dear Mr. Bullace?" 
 
 As she spoke she smiled at his unconscious deletion, 
 and he beamed back at her, his mouth twisting and 
 wrinkling round the pipe-stem. 
 
 "Whether you really were lonely, as I felt you were. 
 Were you?" 
 
 She hesitated. "Not exactly lonely, but I am glad to ( 
 see you." 
 
 "M-m-m. Lonely or not, you were alone. And I 
 think that must be dreadful." 
 
 The firelight, by accentuating all his wrinkles and 
 the deep caverns of his eyes, made him look his full 
 age. "I should hate to be alone," he added. 
 
 She laughed. "But you so often are! What about 
 the winter when Jargonelle is away?" 
 
 282
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 The old man took his pipe from his mouth and 
 leaned forward in his chair. 
 
 "My dear," he said slowly, "I haven't been alone for 
 years." 
 
 "How how do you mean?" 
 
 He shook his big head. "I I couldn't explain. 
 Loneliness is not a concrete condition. It is mental." 
 
 "But you mean do you mean," she persisted with 
 a new kind of shyness subduing her voice, "that 
 Mrs. Bullace is always with you?" 
 
 "No. In fact, Mrs. Bullace and I, though we both 
 did our best, weren't much of a success, matrimonially." 
 He spoke with the utmost serenity, with a smile of 
 grave sweetness on his old lips. 
 
 Amy, unused to such frankness, did not know how 
 to meet it. She said, "Oh," and relapsed into silence. 
 
 The pause grew longer and longer, enveloping them 
 like a creeping shadow out of which something seemed 
 to be preventing their emergence. 
 
 The new stick in the fire blazed up cheerily, so that 
 old Sir James appeared to wink at the other ancient. 
 
 Amy Dorset, sitting with her small hands folded, 
 waited, rapt in the odd silence. The strange restful- 
 ness of the room held her as if in warm arms. 
 
 Finally the Rector spoke. "I don't like your hus- 
 band," he said, emptying his pipe by knocking it under 
 the mantel shelf. 
 
 283
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Amy flushed. "Why not?" she asked with indigna- 
 tion. "And besides, you don't know him." 
 
 "No. But I don't like him for behaving in such a 
 way as to justify that good-looking rampallion who 
 was here today." 
 
 He rose, holding out his hand. "You are so pretty, 
 prettier than ever tonight, when you are wistly. Why," 
 he thundered suddenly, "isn't he here to look after you? 
 The man must be an absolute fool !" 
 
 At the last phrase his voice changed, and she knew 
 that he was thinking aloud. This conviction was made 
 doubly sure the next moment by his adding in an un- 
 dertone, "And she, the pretty bird, with no brain at 
 all to help her." 
 
 Now Mrs. Dorset, as I have said, honestly believed 
 herself to be a rather intellectual woman. Did she 
 not read Plato and Dostoiwsky and could she not talk 
 about Selma Lagerlof ? 
 
 Her next observation, even as she made it, surprised 
 herself. For instead of resenting the old man's dis- 
 paraging pity, she cried with a little edge in her voice. 
 "He is no t a fool. He is a very clever man, and a very 
 good one." 
 
 Mr. Bullace smiled suddenly, his face seeming to 
 crack all over as he did so. 
 
 "Good. I am glad! For in that case I shall soon 
 have the pleasure of seeing him here." 
 
 284
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Lighting his lantern, he shook hands with her and 
 plodded out into the rain, while she, going to the writing- 
 table, stood bv it looking at the various beginnings of 
 letters that strewed it. 
 
 After a long pause she gathered them into a sheaf 
 and stuffed them with the poker deep down into the 
 embers.
 
 LIII 
 
 CAPTAIN A. HOOD, 
 Cross-Roads Inn, 
 
 Welling, Sussex. 
 
 Not very well unable come today. Writing. Love. 
 
 AMY.
 
 LIV 
 
 MRS. DORSET, Dove Cottage, 
 Bird's Fountain, 
 
 Sussex. 
 
 Frightfully worried and disappointed. All my heart's 
 love. 
 
 A.
 
 LV 
 
 The Blue Cottage, Wakelands, 
 Wilts, 
 
 Friday. 
 DEAREST AMY, 
 
 I am so glad to know from Clow that you are well, and 
 that you apparently are having a good time. 
 
 He hasn't told me your address, so I send this to him 
 to be re-posted. 
 
 Isn't the weather lovely? I feel amazingly rested, and 
 if I could drink milk, feel sure that I should become plump 
 and pink and pretty. 
 
 Alas, to me milk tastes of cow and undisguised eggs taste 
 of hen (a very different thing from tasting of chicken, 
 mark you !) and to my vitiated taste these things are odious. 
 
 All this pleasant chit-chat, dear, is only my nervous way 
 of skirting round the danger signal on the ice that is you. 
 As I wrote that masterly phrase about cows and chickens, 
 my mind took a great leap ahead, and determined that I 
 should be bold and hazardous. So here goes. 
 
 Amy darling, I know. I know why he is not worth it, 
 and that that is why you went away. 
 
 There ! 
 
 Won't you write to me and tell me that you don't mind 
 my knowing? I promise never to refer to it to you, if you 
 don't wish me to, but I am so fond of you that I couldn't 
 not tell you. If you want me to, I'll tell you how I know. 
 
 288
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 One thing on my word of honor. I know that that nice 
 little Frenchman, P. le B., knows, but it was not he who 
 told me. You must believe this, for he values your friend- 
 ship. 
 
 I have seen Clow, but I have not told him. I was sure 
 that you would, when the time came. 
 
 He is splendid, Clow. It is my honest belief that his 
 only thought is your welfare. 
 
 God bless you, dearest Tannie. Please write to me. 
 Your affectionate 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Saturday 
 DEAR LAWRENCE, 
 
 Your letter has rather upset me. I have only time for a 
 note, but I must tell you that I was quite wrong about A. H. 
 I have seen him, and everything is all right. I'm writing 
 Clow in a day or two. I like being here, it's a lovely little 
 place, and I am having a really good rest. Glad you're 
 at the Blue Cottage, it always does you good. 
 
 Your aff v 
 
 AMY. 
 
 The Blue Cottage, Monday 
 DEAREST AMY, 
 
 Your letter was no letter at all. It's a babble, a shadow. 
 And I don't like it. If you have made up with Captain 
 Hood you are a fool. He is a bad man, not out of wicked- 
 ness but out of his very fiber. 
 
 I don't for a moment blame him, or suppose that he can 
 help it pears that are all brown and nasty at the core can't 
 help it, either, but no one tries to live on such pears ! (You 
 
 289
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 know the kind I mean, not exactly rotten, but blette in 
 French.) 
 
 You won't trust me, but I will trust you. You think I 
 love Clow. Well, I do. With all my heart. And if you 
 were idiotic enough to marry Archie Hood, I am sure that 
 Clow would marry me. And if he did I should be the hap- 
 piest woman on this earth. But with my whole heart I 
 hope that you won't be such a fool. 
 
 In the first place Captain Hood's no good, and in the 
 second place Clow is. What's more for in return for your 
 niggardly lack of confidence I insist on deluging you with 
 mine Clow doesn't care a brass button for me. So there 
 you are. I dare say you will be furious over this letter, but 
 I don't care a d-a-m-n if you are. Your affectionate 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 MY DEAR LAWRENCE, 
 
 I am most unwilling to break my promise to you, but un- 
 less you yourself can go down to Bird's Fountain and look 
 after Amy, I shall be obliged to go. 
 
 It is not safe for her to be alone, and whether she likes 
 it or not, someone must take care of her. 
 
 It seems incredible that she should ever even speak to 
 Hood again, but women are very odd and the fellow cer- 
 tainly has great charm. 
 
 I was quite willing to do all I could for her happiness, 
 poor little thing, but I cannot tolerate any further inter- 
 course with him. 
 
 Go and see her, Lawrence never mind her letter. 
 
 Can't you see the pathos of it ? 
 
 My dear, I don't often ask favors of anyone, but I do 
 ask this of you. Yours, 
 
 C. D. 
 
 290
 
 BIRD^S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Houlgate, Monday 
 DEAR MADAME, 
 
 You having honored me with your confidence, I venture 
 to send you from the villa of a lady whom for years I have 
 known to be the best woman in the world, my homages and 
 best wishes, together with a prayer for two words to relieve 
 my anxiety on your behalf. 
 
 Is all well with you? It hurts my heart to rememb^" 
 tears in your beautiful eyes. 
 
 Were it possible I would ask you to meet Madame Samain. 
 There is in her a power of healing that I would have you 
 know. 
 
 But you are there, so far away England is much farther 
 from France than France is from England and for many 
 years this dear lady has not been able even to walk. 
 
 Therefore, once more, I beg you to write to me, if only 
 two words. 
 
 I kiss your hands and lay at your feet the expression of 
 my most profound homage. 
 
 J. PASQUIER LE BRETON. 
 
 Tuesday 
 MRS. DORSET, Dove Cottage, Bird's Fountain, Sussex. 
 
 My mother seriously ill. Please write to me immediately 
 has anything happened. All my love. 
 
 ARCHIE. 
 
 DORSET, Maiden Aqualate, Malcome. 
 
 For Heaven's sake do not go to her. Am writing you. 
 Don't worry. 
 
 LAWRENCE.
 
 LVI 
 
 MRS. DORSET wrote to Hood, explaining that 
 she had really not felt well enough to meet him 
 at Welling and that she had not written be- 
 fore because she had not known quite where she could 
 do so. Her letter, short and constrained, had made him 
 uneasy, and he was on the point of going down to see 
 her when his mother, eating cherries at luncheon, put 
 her hand to her head, muttered something and lost 
 consciousness as suddenly as a candle loses its flame 
 in a sudden draught. 
 
 One of Hood's good qualities was, not his love for 
 his mother, for that was a gift rather than an achieve- 
 ment, but his devotion to her. 
 
 Many men really love mothers from whom they are 
 pretty constantly absent, but this man, despite the 
 multifarious engagements incidental to his career of 
 roue, was never too busy to see her whom he called by 
 her Christian name of Adelaide, nearly every day of 
 his life. 
 
 So when poor Adelaide was taken ill his grief was 
 singularly sincere and unselfish.
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 He sat by her, her hand in his for hours at a time, 
 and as she grew better he hardly ever left her. 
 
 "I'm going to get over this, Dino," she said one gay 
 morning when the curtains were blowing about in a 
 fine high wind. 
 
 "Of course you are, dearest," he answered, kissing her 
 cheek. 
 
 "Remarkably little of course about it there was for 
 some days," she retorted. "I knew. A stroke's a 
 stroke, when all's said and done. However," she added, 
 patting his hand with her little gnarled one, "I am 
 extremely glad to live on a while longer. Do you know, 
 Dino, I never before realized that I was an old woman? 
 No, Nurse, I will not eat my arrow-root, I will not, 
 and you may take it away. Or shall we make her eat 
 it herself, my son?" 
 
 The nurse, a very pretty woman in a blue-and-white 
 striped uniform, went out after a last look at the 
 Captain, as the servants called him. 
 
 She was a fully certificated nurse, but she was human, 
 and Archie's black eyes had not failed to observe her 
 charms. His eyes could not fail to observe feminine 
 charms, even then, at his beloved Adelaide's bed- 
 side. 
 
 "No," the invalid went on, as the door closed, "I know 
 of course that other women of sixty are old, but I 
 never thought that 7 was !"
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "You aren't, dear. You are young, and always will 
 be." 
 
 "Thanks, son. Well, however that may be, I am not 
 growing any more youthful, and I want you to marry 
 before my next stroke." 
 
 "Mother! Don't talk about strokes." His eyes 
 were full of the tears that were such an asset to him 
 in his various and variegated love affairs. 
 
 She laughed. "All right. But I may talk about 
 your marrying. You are thirty-five." 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "Well, you were seven when your poor father was 
 your age. He was really very fond of you, you 
 know " 
 
 A gardener passed under the window whistling. The 
 old lady listened for a moment and then drew a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "I am disgustingly weak still," she said. "I must 
 rest or that woman will be telling tales to the doctor. 
 Dear, why don't you marry?" 
 
 As he rose to go she took his hand in hers. "Have 
 you never," she added a little shyly, "seen anyone you 
 fancied?" 
 
 Hood went out into the garden as ashamed of him- 
 self as he ought to have been and never was after cer- 
 tain of his interviews with other women. 
 
 His mother had always believed him to be not only 
 294
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 the best of sons, which he was, but the best of men. 
 
 He had not much sense of humor, but he had enough 
 to know that this pathetic belief would have been 
 hugely laughable to anyone but himself. 
 
 Had he, Archie Hood, never seen anyone he fancied !
 
 LVII 
 
 OH, yes," Jargonelle said, her mouth full of pins, 
 "I shall marry. I mean to have many chil- 
 dren." 
 
 They were sitting in the Rectory garden in the open 
 space beside the house, trying to catch all the sun there 
 was, for the day was dark and rather chilly. 
 
 It was ten days since Hood's visit, and in her pocket 
 Amy had an unread letter from him. His letters were 
 very frequent, and they were beautiful because, despite 
 their dread glibness, they were the expression of a per- 
 fectly sincere feeling. 
 
 There was in the same pocket with this last one a 
 note from Yvonne Cavendish. 
 
 You are [the girl wrote] keeping him from me, and it is 
 wicked of you. You thought he wasn't good enough for 
 you because of me, but I'd think him good enough for me 
 if there were dozens like you. 
 
 As Jargonelle declared in her fruity voice her young 
 intentions, Mrs. Dorset's mind was beset by memories 
 of this letter. 
 
 296
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Another fragment ran: 
 
 There's a girl named Vincent who lives at Putney 8 
 Wellington Crescent that you ought to know about. She's 
 a manicurist. 
 
 And did you ever hear of Mrs. Keniston? Or of Miss 
 Ellaline de Courcy? She's only a chorus girl, but very 
 pretty. He took her to supper at the Salisbury Grill just 
 before I left town. A gentleman friend of mine saw them, 
 and said he seemed awfully keen. 
 
 Later the letter went on: 
 
 I know you will despise me for writing this, but I can't 
 help it. I don't so much mind about Mrs. Keniston (she's 
 an old one I mean an old affair) or this De Courcy girl. 
 They are more like me. But you are different and some- 
 times I feel like I hated you. Only at the same time I 
 don't, for you were kind to me, and not many ladies are 
 kind to girls much younger than themselves. Besides, he 
 doesn't care for you and I in the same way. Please don't 
 be angry, and I'd love to have the coat and skirt. I'm sure 
 it would be nice because it's yours. Yours sincerely, 
 
 YVONNE CAVENDISH. 
 
 The sun had come out for a moment and to it the 
 young Jargonelle turned up her face. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely?" she murmured, her needlework ly- 
 ing disregarded on her knees. 
 
 "What? Oh, yes, the sun." But Amy reflected as 
 she spoke that her own skin must not be put to the 
 test under which the girl's was so beautiful; she wore 
 
 297
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 a shady hat with a delicate little frill of tulle hanging 
 from the edge of the brim. 
 
 "What a pity it was," Jargonelle went on, after a 
 while, "that your dear little girl died. What was 
 her name?" 
 
 Amy started. It was years since she had given a 
 thought to the dead child. 
 
 "Her name was Anne," she answered, her voice sound- 
 ing odd to her own ears, "Anne Rose." 
 
 Jargonelle looked up from her work, a very sweet 
 expression in her eyes. "For your mother and Mr. 
 Dorset's." 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 The sun, swallowed by a hungry cloud, had disap- 
 peared, and the leaves of the copper-beech gave a little 
 shiver as if it felt the change. 
 
 "Tell me about herT About little Anne Rose." 
 
 "There is not much to tell. She was only six months 
 old when she died " 
 
 "Oh, poor you!" 
 
 Amy wondered at the motherliness in the girl's voice ; 
 it was as if she were the elder and Amy the younger. 
 
 "I think I am sorrier for women when their babies 
 die before anyone else has ever taken care of them, 
 while they are still helpless, and belong absolutely to 
 the mother, you know." 
 
 "Y-yes." Mrs. Dorset's voice was doubtful, but 
 298
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Jargonelle, who was again sewing busily, went on with- 
 out noticing it. 
 
 "And yet, dreadful as it must have been, you weren't 
 so badly off as a friend of mine at Scarborough." 
 
 "No? Why not, dear?" 
 
 "Well, you see, her husband such a dear he was 
 died a month before Barbara was born, so when Bar- 
 bara died poor Lil was quite alone." 
 
 "Poor thing." 
 
 "Yes. You of course had Mr. Dorset." 
 
 Filbasket, passing with a wheelbarrow, stopped at 
 this juncture to air his opinion a very mean one 
 of the weather, and when he had gone Jargonelle asked 
 suddenly: "Will you show me their pictures?" She 
 bore a rather breathless aspect as though she were 
 asking for admission into a Holy of Holies. 
 
 Amy Dorset bent over and picked up a little 
 green apple. Her face was red, and she wished to hide 
 its flush. 
 
 "I I'm afraid I can't," she said, awkwardly. "You 
 see, the baby was never photographed, I was ill for 
 months after she was born, and Mr. Dorset hates be- 
 ing taken." 
 
 Jargonelle's eyes opened very wide. 
 
 "You haven't got any?" 
 
 "No, dear. I I am very sorry " she spoke with 
 
 a queer feeling of humility, and rose. 
 
 299
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I think I must go now," she said, "I have letters to 
 write " 
 
 "I'll come with you to the gate then." Pitching her 
 needlework onto the grass, the girl laid her arm across 
 Amy's shoulders, in an affectionate rather uncomfort- 
 able way she had, and they made their way across the 
 now sunny garden. 
 
 "Tell me about him, Mrs. Dorset darling, do!" 
 
 "About whom?" 
 
 "About Mr. Dorset, of course. Is he handsome?" 
 
 "No no, he's not handsome. He's tall, and and 
 very mc^-looking." 
 
 The girl bent down and kissed her, deranging her 
 hat. 
 
 "How he must adore you," she murmured. 
 
 Amy laughed a little shrilly. "Why?" 
 
 "Why, because you are so beautiful, and such an 
 angel." 
 
 "And you are a goose of a girl ! I am not an angel 
 at all " 
 
 At the white gate they parted, and Amy walked on 
 slowly. She was not happy, and although the letter 
 from the Cavendish girl had not exactly convinced her 
 of any fresh misconduct on Hood's part, yet the very 
 fact that he was a man of whom such things could 
 be said was disturbing. She knew that decent men 
 could no more be accused of such indiscriminate 
 
 300
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 wantonness than of robbing every bank they passed. 
 
 Mrs. Jessie Keel was underbred and jealous and 
 spiteful; she had no doubt made the most out of com- 
 paratively innocent facts. 
 
 "As if a man couldn't be manicured without flirting 
 with the girl," she told herself. But at the same time 
 she knew that Hood's manicurist was more than likely 
 to be one of those with whom their clients do flirt. 
 
 As to the other women mentioned, she reflected bit- 
 terly, even he must know a few women to whom he did 
 not make love! 
 
 She passed her own gate, and though the sun had 
 now escaped from the belly of the whale that had swal- 
 lowed him and was blazing fiercely down on the dusty 
 road, her little figure went on over the bridge and off 
 to the left up the path towards the fountain.
 
 Lvm 
 
 THE fountain at that hour of the morning lay irii 
 the shadow of a gnarled and half-ruined oak that 
 grew at the edge of the little terrace. 
 
 Amy sat down by it and taking off her hat dabbecl 
 gingerly at her face with her handkerchief. 
 
 The walk up had been very hot, and she was tired. 
 Jargonelle's ridiculous chatter had disturbed her, and 
 she wished she had not let the girl talk. 
 
 Probably, of the losses that women in growing older 
 inevitably experience, none is sadder than that of 
 ignorance, the beautiful ignorance of youth; and Amy 
 Dorset now realized this for the first time. 
 
 She wished that she still believed in the comfort of 
 husbands, in the holy grief for dead children. 
 
 Her baby, so long dead, had for years been as unreal 
 to her as the child of one of the Pharaohs. For thou- 
 sands of days she had never given the little creature a 
 thought. 
 
 And now in the cool shadow, the sound of the gentle 
 fountain sweet in her ears, she remembered it. 
 
 She remembered the reddish down on its head; the 
 302
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 milky blue of its eyes; the first whinnying, nickering 
 cry of it, when it was born. And she remembered 
 Clow's face as he had looked when he first saw it. 
 
 One of the tag-ends of poetry with which she but- 
 tressed her funny little conception of herself as a liter- 
 ary woman, was a scrap from Browning. 
 
 God be praised, the meanest of his creatures 
 Boasts two soul-sides; one to face the world with, 
 One to show a woman when he loves her. 
 
 This occurred to her now, and she found herself won- 
 dering whether her husband had ever loved her. 
 
 He had always been kind and good and trustworthy, 
 but she decided with a little angry toss of the head 
 trustworthiness was easily compatible with dullness. 
 Clow had no temptations such as beset, for instance, 
 poor Archie. No, surely Clow had never loved her. 
 He had never even said that he could not live without 
 her. 
 
 He had cried once, she remembered, but the tears 
 hadn't been for her. It was on that dull October day 
 when the little Anne Rose was buried. 
 
 She remembered the churchyard at Ambles, the sound 
 of the parson's voice he had adenoids and the chill 
 rain that fell. 
 
 And Clow had cried. . . . 
 
 A bird, sitting on the mossy brim of the fountain, 
 303
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 looked at her with his head on one side, almost as if 
 it winked. A nasty, little, common brown bird ! Then 
 he dipped across the pool, skimming the surface, and 
 returning to dry land, shook his wet feathers and 
 rearranged them. 
 
 From the little velvet bag that never left her except 
 when exchanged for a more beautiful one, Mrs. Dorset 
 took a folding glass and looked at herself. Her face 
 was red and damp and worn-out looking. She dabbed 
 it with powder, but the powder made things worse and 
 she wiped it off. 
 
 With it came souvenirs of black eyebrows, rose- 
 colored cheeks, and cherry lips. 
 
 "Oh, how beastly!" 
 
 The bird, thoroughly refreshed, flew to a broken 
 branch of the ancient oak, and being of an inquisitive 
 nature, sat and watched his companion. 
 
 This is what he saw. 
 
 First she drew her hair back from her brow; then 
 she unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up to her 
 elbows ; then she unfastened the low collar of her gown 
 and tucked in the frill. 
 
 Then, with a stealthy look all round her as if, the 
 bird thought, she suspected the neighborhood of a cat, 
 she moved to the fountain and knelt, both hands on the 
 brink of it. 
 
 After staring at herself in the brown mirror, she 
 304
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 gave an odd little laugh, and leaning over, dipped her 
 face in the water. 
 
 She spluttered, snorted, tossed her head and dipped 
 again. Then she plunged her arms into the cool depths 
 and rubbed her screwed-up face with her little hands 
 on which were things that glittered . . . 
 
 "Amy!" 
 
 "Lawrence !" 
 
 "My darling little child, what on earth are you do- 
 ing?" Miss Croxley, dusty and travel worn, yellow 
 and grimy with the yellowness and griminess of women 
 who never flush, stared down. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset, her face mottled and damp, a lock of 
 dank hair on one shoulder, stared up. 
 
 "Did you never," Amy asked finally, with a touch 
 of asperity, "see anyone wash her face before?" 
 
 At this, Miss Croxley burst into a cheer of laughter, 
 and coming round, knelt, and kissed the wet face in 
 question. 
 
 "O you darling," she cried. "What a duck you are ! 
 I always said you were a duck, and here I find vou at 
 your secret aquatics !" 
 
 "Idiot. But I'm so glad to see you, Lawrence. 
 Lend me your hank, will you, mine is a wreck." 
 
 Lawrence produced hers, and when Mrs. Dorset's 
 little face was dry, the conversation went on. 
 
 305
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Who told you where I was?" 
 
 "Clow. He said I must come or he would." 
 
 "O Lawrence, why should he?" 
 
 "Because, dear, he is your husband." 
 
 "Pooh ! As if that mattered, nowadays " 
 
 Miss Croxley laughed. "You are a gump, Tannie! 
 However, here I am. I am to find out all about you 
 and report to him tonight." 
 
 "Tonight? Where? At Maiden Aqualate?" 
 
 "No, dear, at 875." 
 
 Amy stared. "But why in mid- August?" 
 
 Lawrence Croxley paused for a moment, her eyes fixed 
 on the beautiful panorama stretched before them. It 
 was a pause, not a hesitation. 
 
 Finally, she spoke. "I could not go to Maiden 
 Aqualate, where he is living alone," she said, "so 
 he is coming up to town to see me and learn about 
 you." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes." She took her old-fashioned gold watch from 
 her belt, and looked at it. "Amy, it's twelve. My 
 train goes at two. You'll give me some lunch, I know, 
 and before lunch, will you tell me what I am to tell 
 your husband?" 
 
 The sun had crept past the oak-tree, and Amy's 
 little face was deluged with its light. 
 
 Lashless, eyebrowless, pink, instead of crimson- 
 306
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 lipped, she sat there, her hands clasped round her 
 raised knees. 
 
 And she was silent. 
 
 After a time Miss Croxley spoke again. 
 
 "Amy, what about Captain Hood? Have you seen 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, dearest, won't you tell me?" 
 
 "Tell you what?" 
 
 "Have you are you do you still care for him?" 
 
 "Yes!" Mrs. Dorset's answer rang out, harsh and 
 defiant. "Of course I do !" 
 
 A little sunny silence fell, and in it the burbling of 
 the fountain seemed only a further, more velvety still- 
 ness. 
 
 "I am sorry, Amy." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I wrote you, dear, that I knew." 
 
 Amy took from her bag the golden pencil, and lick- 
 ing its red tip with a tongue nearly as red, passed it 
 over her pretty lips with the nonchalance of long prac- 
 tice. 
 
 "Well, what do you know?" she asked, defiantly. 
 
 "About those women." 
 
 There was a short silence, during which a spot of 
 blue seemed to drop from the sky into the now quite 
 unshaded pool. 
 
 307
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Mrs. Dorset shut her bag with a snap. 
 
 "Listen, Lawrence," she said, putting on her hat, 
 "you mustn't say a word against Archie. He has been 
 here and and explained. I was very hard on him 
 before, and very silly to be so upset. Men like him," 
 she added, "can't be like men like my husband." 
 
 She rose, and Miss Croxley did the same. 
 
 Lawrence's hollow eyes were full of tears, but they 
 were angry tears, and her voice shook with tension 
 as she answered. "No, Amy, you are quite right. Men 
 like Captain Hood cannot be like Cloudesley Dorset." 
 
 Amy turned, her unshaded eyes a light gray, slightly 
 pink at the edges. "Don't be cross, dear," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "I am not cross." There was no artificial sweetness 
 about the woman who loved Cloudesley Dorset. "And 
 I will not stay for lunch. What am I to tell your 
 husband?" 
 
 "You really won't stay?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "Very well. There is a train at one-five. You can 
 just catch it. As to Clow O Lawrence, remember, you 
 told me you cared. Be good to him. He he is really 
 such a dear ! And I believe you can make him happy. 
 I am going to marry the the man I love. If Clow 
 ever asks you to marry him" her voice was very sweet, 
 her eyes kind, "do it, dear. He's the best man in 
 
 308
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 the world, and will make you happy. If he ever asks 
 you, remember ' 
 
 Lawrence Croxley drew her deerskin gloves taut at 
 the wrists. 
 
 "He has asked me," she said proudly. 
 
 Then she walked down the hill without looking back.
 
 LIX 
 
 THINGS that happen only in novels are too fre- 
 quent in real life to need any explanation. When, 
 on the rustic bridge over the thread of brown 
 water just at the edge of the village, the Rector met 
 a remarkably handsome man who looked as if he were 
 a beautiful dream of Velasquez, it was of course Archie 
 Hood. 
 
 "A fine day," said Mr. Bullace. 
 
 "Delightful." 
 
 "I take it that you are going up to the ruins ?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 There was a pause and then the old man remarked 
 with a fine air of casualness, "Would you like a Bishop's 
 Thumb?" 
 
 " 'A Bishop's' " 
 
 "Thumb. Exactly. As you see, it's a pear." 
 
 Hood stared helplessly at the fine specimen held 
 out to him. "An odd name," he murmured; "no, 
 thanks, I don't care for fruit " 
 
 The Rector, his large person completely filling the 
 space between the two handrails, smiled at him. 
 
 310
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "You are wrong. Fruit is good. You of course re- 
 member Tusser?" 
 
 "No, I don't remember Tusser, sir, and as I am 
 rather in a hurry " 
 
 Hood had no doubt as to the old man's insanity, 
 and his voice was persuasive, but vainly so. 
 
 "Tusser," Mr. Bullace thundered, one hand on either 
 rail, "was remarkably fond of strawberries. 'Wife, into 
 the garden, and set me a plot with strawberry-roots, of 
 the best to be got. Such, growing abroad amongst 
 thorns in the wood, well-chosen and picked, form ex- 
 cellent food!' What do you think of that?" 
 
 Hood laughed. "Delightful, sir," he answered with 
 the high courtesy that distinguished him, "but I fear 
 I must go on " 
 
 Then Augustine Clement Bullace lied. 
 
 "You will not find Mrs. Dorset in the ruins," he said. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because she is not there." 
 
 "I think you are mistaken. Her maid told me " 
 
 The old man wagged a big forefinger at him. "Her 
 maid," he declared with untruthful truth, "did not see 
 her start off to Brighton in a motor-car with some 
 friends " 
 
 Hood looked up the sunny dusty road, and then into 
 the old man's candid eyes. 
 
 "I am very sorry to have missed her, but it can't 
 311
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 be helped. Brighton lies in my way, perhaps I may be 
 fortunate enough to meet her " 
 
 They shook hands and the younger man left the old 
 one on the little bridge. 
 
 And the old man, despite his holy office, was filled 
 with glee and something like pride over his successful 
 lie.
 
 O XT 
 
 CHER MONSIEUR, 
 
 Je vous remercie pour votre charmante lettre. Je suis 
 tres bien, et je m'amuse assez. J'aimerais beaucoup con- 
 naitre votre amie Madame Samain, mais je crains que c'est 
 impossible pour le present. Quant a M. H. je 1'ai vu et 
 je crois que je lui ai fait tort. Je 1'aime beaucoup, et 
 j'etais tres in juste. Mon mari est tres, tres bon, et tout 
 ira bien, je suis sure. Vous etiez si bon avec moi, je n'oubli- 
 erai jamais. Je suis sure que vous serez heureux de savoir 
 que je suis tres heureuse. 
 
 Miss Croxley etait ici hier et j'ai dit a elle combien je 
 suis heureuse. 
 
 Agreez, cher Monsieur, les assurances de ma parfaite 
 
 consideration. 
 
 AMY DORSET. 
 
 _, Friday, Vittel. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I found my poor brother so much better that I feel re- 
 warded for my sacrifice in leaving you. I enclose my dear 
 little Undine's letter. She thinks it is written in French. 
 Can you read it? Isn't it odd? However, in case you 
 can't read it, it means simply that she's well and happy 
 (which is not true). Dearest, I shall be back with you and 
 our dear Henri in three days' time. Until then, my happi- 
 ness lies, as always, in your thin, exquisite hands. 
 
 Thy T 
 
 JULES.
 
 LXI 
 
 THEN happened four days of the most perfect 
 weather. Days golden and warm with blue dis- 
 tances and a turquoise bowl for a sky. 
 Time seemed to stand still. 
 
 Amy Dorset could never remember any one thing 
 she had done during those mellow hours. She ate and 
 slept and was in the sun that was all. 
 
 At the end of this period, in which she seemed to 
 be like a ripening seed, there were two happenings. 
 The first was a letter from Dorset to his wife. 
 
 DEAR AMY [it ran], 
 
 Lawrence has told me of seeing you, and that you had 
 seen H. As I told you, I am quite willing to do anything 
 for your happiness, and I know the folly of speaking 
 against a man to a woman who cares for him. Only be 
 quite sure, not only of yourself, but of him. I have just 
 met a very nice man who has known him for years, and who 
 likes him immensely. I should say that Hood is a very de- 
 cent chap with men. But I have grave doubts of his ever 
 being a good husband. Think it over well, my dear. And 
 then send him to see me. He and I must have a talk. I 
 hope you will soon come to Maiden Aqualate. 
 
 Believe me to be yours affectionately, 
 
 CLOUDESLEY DORSET. 
 
 314
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 This note reached Dove Cottage one evening when 
 Amy was finishing her dinner on the Venetian balcony. 
 The pleasant, fading light fell full on her face as she 
 read, and rested on it while she sat, her hands on the 
 table edge, reflecting. She looked odd and unlike her- 
 self, because she was completely and undisguisedly her- 
 self. 
 
 There was no black stuff on her eyelashes, no paint 
 on her cheeks, and her little nose even had a faint 
 gleam, because of its lack of powder. 
 
 The letter was, she thought, very like Clow, grave 
 and kind, and nice. 
 
 Tomorrow she would answer it. In the meantime, she 
 would walk down to the post office and wire Archie to 
 go and see her husband. Archie had written of his 
 abortive visit to Bird's Fountain, and she had wished 
 to ask the Rector why he had sent her guest away. 
 She had been very angry with the Rector, but some- 
 how she had not dared to question him. 
 
 She had grown very fond of the old man, but she 
 was in an odd way afraid of him. There were, she 
 felt, things in his mind which could not come out of 
 his mouth without hurting her. 
 
 So when he first met her after the episode of the 
 meeting on the bridge and looked at her sharply as if 
 waiting for something, she had only asked him with 
 innocent eyes, if she didn't look funny with fair lashes. 
 
 315
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 His answer was to cup her little face in his huge 
 hands and give her a loud kiss. "That's what I think," 
 he said. 
 
 As she walked down the road to send the wire she 
 saw Mr. Bullace climbing the steep bit of ground just 
 beyond the bridge. 
 
 She did not wish to meet him for some reason which 
 she did not even try to define, so she drew aside just 
 within an open gate to let him pass. 
 
 The west was behind him and his white hair seemed 
 to have caught a little of its rosy light. He ambled 
 along, flinging his great limbs about, waving his stick, 
 turning his face up to the sky and then from side 
 to side in the way habitual to him. She remembered 
 his once having said to her that he never ceased trying 
 to see all he could of the world and that he had been 
 allowed to see a great deal. This from an octogenarian 
 whose travels consisted of a journey to Switzerland and 
 another half a century before to Rome and Florence, 
 had struck Amy's developing sense of understanding as 
 very remarkable. 
 
 Yet now, as she stood behind the hedge and watched 
 a sudden pounce of his to the grass on the other side 
 of the road, she saw what he meant. 
 
 The small dusty flower that he picked, and looked 
 at in triumph, would have been passed unseen by ninety- 
 nine people out of every hundred. 
 
 316
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 Mr. Bullace had been allowed to see a great deal of 
 the world he so splendidly enjoyed. When he had dis- 
 appeared, Mrs. Dorset went her way to the cottage 
 telegraph office. 
 
 The pen like a pin had been replaced by a new one 
 that blotted and blurred as it wrote, so two forms had 
 to be torn up before a decently legible message was 
 achieved. 
 
 It was addressed to London, for Hood was, she knew, 
 there on business, and it ran: 
 
 Delightful letter from Cloudesley. He wishes see you 
 Maiden Aqualate. AMY. 
 
 She wished to put in her love but dared not, seized 
 by the miniature prudence of some very daring women. 
 
 She was signing her name when Jargonelle came 
 tearing in. "O Mrs. Dorset, do come. Veales' hay- 
 rick is on fire! Hurry, you must see it. Oh you're 
 sending a telegram. How splendid. I love telegrams." 
 
 Amy folded the form and handed it to the old post 
 mistress. She wished the girl had not come. Hood 
 and Jargonelle belonged to two such different phases 
 of her life that she did not wish them to meet, even on 
 a telegraph form, until she was married. 
 
 Into the deepening dusk Jargonelle rushed her, up 
 the cobbled street, past the church, and down a long 
 lane. 
 
 317
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Poor Veale isn't it a pity? Such a perfectly 
 gorgeous rick too, worth thirty pounds, Julia says. 
 Oh, there goes the engine. Do look at Weddle, isn't he 
 too funny?" 
 
 The old-fashioned fire-engine roared past them, Wed- 
 dle, the butcher, driving, his jaws set, his staring blue 
 eyes blazing with pride. In his own imagination he 
 was for the moment not a butcher; he was a hero, a 
 man who took his life in his hands, not altogether, pos- 
 sibly, guiltless of piracy rather confused, Weddle, but 
 gloriously proud of himself. 
 
 Jargonelle broke into a run and raced down the 
 steep lane, in clamorous company of half the village. 
 
 A rick fire was beyond a doubt catastrophic, but it 
 was also a social event. On reaching the hollow where 
 the little farm was situated, a hush fell on those who 
 had come to see. 
 
 It was night down here, though day still lingered on 
 the downs, and the blazing mound was a wonderful 
 sight. For, in truth, dry hay or straw burns more 
 beautifully than almost anything else; it goes with a 
 rustle, a sparkiness, a lack of smoke that makes it 
 almost a firework display. Against the darkness the 
 separate strands and twists turned like worms of fire, 
 and sprays of sparks flecked the gathering blackness. 
 
 The engine had arrived too late, the fire had too good 
 f\ hold, and the spectators, including Weddle himself x 
 
 318
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 stood fatalistically watching the picturesque destruc- 
 tion of thirty pounds. Veale, who was a poor man 
 with a large family, stood leaning on the rick-yard 
 gate. He was a plain man with a broken nose. Amy 
 was near him, and in the midst of her fastidious 
 thought "Oh, what a hideous old thing," came an- 
 other. He had tears in his eyes and she saw them. 
 "Oh, how dreadful it is," she thought. 
 
 She also saw that his wife stood by him, her long 
 nose red and shining with tears. 
 
 "Poor man," Jargonelle said softly, "it will make 
 them poor the whole winter." 
 
 After a moment Amy went quietly up to Mrs. Veale, 
 and laid her hand on her arm. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said, a new timidity veiling her 
 voice. 
 
 The woman turned. "Thank you," she answered, 
 drearily, "it's hard on 'im." 
 
 That was all, but her very lack of emphasis was strik- 
 ing. She thought, this plain mother of a swarm of 
 plain children, only of him; the world held for her only 
 one "him." 
 
 When the Rector's figure suddenly appeared on the 
 brow of the downs just above the little group of neigh- 
 bors, a murmur of pleasure went round. 
 
 Everyone was glad to see the old man whose gigantic 
 shadow danced down behind him. Amy knew that he 
 
 319
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 could be of very little material use to the unfortunate 
 farmer, but she felt the illimitable comfort he was 
 nevertheless bringing. 
 
 When he had shaken hands with the Veales, and 
 talked to them, Amy slipped her hand into his arm. 
 "Rector!" 
 
 "Bless my soul," he rumbled in his deepest voice. 
 "So this is where you were. I went up to see you but 
 you were out " 
 
 For a wild second she had to bite her lips to keep 
 from telling him that she had hidden behind the hedge 
 to avoid him. It seemed all of a sudden to be almost 
 a crime to have let him take the walk for nothing, to 
 have met his kindly intent of seeing her, with evasion. 
 
 "Rector," she said, drawing him aside a little, "I 
 want to give that poor man thirty pounds." 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 "The farmer Veale. Someone said he loses thirty 
 pounds by this fire and I am rich, you know." 
 
 He smiled. "It is kind of you, my dear, and you 
 shall, only don't say anything about it now. They are 
 proud people " 
 
 Night had come at last, and the fire had died down 
 to a smoldering heap. The villagers were talking again, 
 as people do after a funeral. 
 
 A star stood, apparently, on the topmost bough 
 of an elm in the lane, and a cow lowed in the byre. 
 
 320
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "You two girls," the Rector said, "had better go 
 home and I'll come after I've told Veale. Go to the 
 Rectory, Amy, will you? There's some excellent cold 
 beef for supper " 
 
 He had never called her Amy before, and she felt that 
 his so doing meant, despite his patent unconsciousness 
 of it, a great deal. 
 
 The peace of the untrammeled evening dropped 
 gently into her heart. She was very happy.
 
 LXII 
 
 MY DARLING, 
 
 No, I can't go to Maiden Aqualate. It would be a ridicu- 
 lous thing to do. Your husband can't really wish to see me. 
 You are so sweet that you want everybody to be friends, 
 but he and I never could. What do you mean, that he will 
 do everything for us ? 
 
 Beloved, let the unborn future bring forth what it will, 
 as that poet chap said. I want you. I adore you. I wor- 
 ship you. You must keep your promise and come with 
 me to my little house on Dartmoor. Husbands don't exist, 
 nor friends. Just you and me together up there. Trust 
 me to make my little sweetheart happy. . . . Later your 
 husband will see that nobody but I can make you happy. 
 If he chooses to let you divorce him, then I shall be the 
 happiest man on earth. But in any case come with me on 
 Saturday. I'll meet you at Paddington whenever you say 
 . . . You have been odd with me of late, your letters are 
 short, your wires so stiff. I am frightened. Surely you 
 haven't ceased loving me? O my darling, you are the only 
 woman on earth for me. I think of you by day, and dream 
 of you by night. You are mine, and I am yours. Send me 
 a wire about Saturday. Just the hour when I am to meet 
 you at Paddington. I'll reserve compartment. O, mip 
 love. . . . 
 
 Archie Hood was perfectly sincere in writing this let- 
 ter. He loved Amy and longed for her, but he loved 
 
 322
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 and longed more than he would have done had her loving 
 and longing for him showed no signs of waning. 
 
 He was well used to signs of waning, but they were 
 always on his side, and this new juxtaposition amazed 
 him. 
 
 He grew fretful and worried, and his mother asked 
 him why. 
 
 "Nothing, Adelaide dearest," he said, with the charm- 
 ing gayety he always had for her. 
 
 "But something distresses you." 
 
 "No. I've rather a bad head that's all." 
 
 And the wise old woman pretended to believe him. 
 
 He waited two days for Amy's answer to his letter, 
 and when it came he took it to his own room to read. 
 
 It was very short. 
 
 Dearest, of course I love you. And I'll come on Saturday, 
 although I'd rather have gone to Maiden Aqualate. He mill 
 let me divorce him, beloved, he's so good and kind. I fear 
 I haven't been a very good wife to him, but then, he doesn't 
 care, so I needn't worry about it. I reach town at twelve- 
 one and shall be at Paddington at two. Oh, I shall be so 
 glad to see you. I have not been very happy here. It's the 
 wrong place for me. I don't seem to belong here. I ought 
 never to have stayed. I think I must be awfully bored. All 
 my love to you, my love. Your own 
 
 AMY. 
 
 That afternoon Hood rode over to a neighboring 
 fiouse to tea. His hostess, a very pretty woman with 
 
 823
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 two half-grown girls and a vacant heart, flirted with 
 him over the tea-table, which stood in a yew arbor. 
 
 She admired him immensely, and showed it ; she knew 
 his record as a polo-player and rhapsodized over it ; she 
 remembered his steeplechasing days. 
 
 In a word she was what he called, to himself, a sen- 
 sible, appreciative woman. 
 
 When she told him how tiresome her husband was, 
 and that she was lonely, he kissed her. 
 
 This, to do him justice, seemed to him the only pos- 
 sible thing under the circumstances, and when she clung 
 to him, murmuring that she had always cared for him, 
 he too, murmured, by no means repudiating her infer- 
 ence that he had cherished a certain feeling for her. 
 
 Autumnal ardors had always rather appealed to him. 
 
 And yet his telegraphic reply to Amy Dorset wav 
 couched in words so fiery that she, passing the old 
 post mistress an hour after receipt, felt her face burn, 
 
 And Saturday was only three days off.
 
 LXIII 
 
 OLD Mrs. Hood died "as happy as a bird" on the 
 Friday. It was at tea-time that she died, and 
 toast and cakes and jam were on the table. 
 Soft rain blurred the windows, a little fire sputtered 
 pleasantly on the hearth, and the old lady and her son 
 had been quite alone until the quiet entrance of the 
 unbidden guest. 
 
 They had had a very happy day. Archie had told 
 his dear Adelaide of his departure on Saturday for a 
 few days, and she had rallied him about some not im- 
 possible young maid whom he might be going to see. 
 
 "I believe," she said, "that your hard heart is touched 
 at last." 
 
 "Come, come, Adelaide !" 
 
 "But I do. You are different since yesterday. Hap- 
 pier more like my old little boy." 
 
 He felt a pang of remorse. 
 
 "Am I, dear?" 
 
 "Yes. Some more tea, dearest?" 
 
 They were her last words, and they were very charac- 
 teristic. All her life she had been trying to make people 
 
 325
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 comfortable, and now she died with the homely invita- 
 tion on her lips. 
 
 When he finally saw that no remedies could avail to 
 stir her stilled heart, her son gathered her to his breast 
 and carried her up to her bed. 
 
 "Leave us alone," he said, and the frightened servants 
 obeyed. 
 
 They closed the door on the kind, loving, lying, selfish, 
 generous, untrustworthy man and the woman whom, in 
 spite of the evidence of his life, he had loved the best 
 of all.
 
 LXIV 
 
 SOME days after receiving the news of Mrs. Hood?s 
 death, Amy Dorset awoke to a new fact. Sum- 
 mer had gone. 
 
 Technically it was still in Sussex, but in reality au- 
 tumn had dragged it too soon away. 
 
 Rains fell. Heavy, dull, soaking rains that beat down 
 the grass, destroyed the roses and made a torrent of the 
 road to the village. 
 
 And Dove Cottage, isolated by the downpour, became 
 a little bit of eternity. The days did not seem to go; 
 a week seemed one gray, cozy space of undivided hours. 
 
 For the first time in her life Amy Dorset was alone 
 for a week. Even the Rector did not come, for he was 
 in bed with a bronchial cold, and Jargonelle's nursing 
 duties kept her away. 
 
 Solitude seemed to fall about the little house with the 
 rain, to wrap it round like the mists that, although it 
 was only early in September, had slowly begun to veil 
 the downs at dawn and dusk. 
 
 Summer had gone. 
 
 Mrs. Dorset sat by herself in the pretty drawing- 
 327
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 room, growing intimate with all its treasures. One day, 
 in a delightful rosewood cabinet of no earthly period, 
 she came across a thing that gave to her the faerie 
 feeling that is the basis of children's loves for sea-shells, 
 caves, drum music, and chimneysweeps. 
 
 It was a contraption, as Uncle Remus would have 
 said, of cardboard. It was a little like a stereoscope, 
 but more like those fascinating Easter eggs made of 
 glittering sugar that one licked on the sly, in which 
 small paper shepherds, shepherdesses, sheep and angels 
 stood about on arsenic-green grass. 
 
 In a word, it was a thing that unfolded like a con- 
 certina and in which, when one peeped through a variety 
 of little eyeholes, one perceived in all its wicked glory 
 the gallery of the Palais Royal. Infinitesimal ladies 
 and gentlemen strutted in the shady arcades ; a poodle 
 sat up and begged ; soldiers marched. 
 
 It was one of those enchanting toys to be enjoyed 
 only by grown-ups, and Amy Dorset had just arrived 
 in her tardy maturity at the age of appreciation of it. 
 
 It amused her for hours, and she even showed it to 
 Clementine. 
 
 "N'est ce pas, Clementine, c'est joli?" 
 
 "Mais oui, madame un petit machin ravissant 
 
 Amy at that moment made the adorable discovery 
 that one's own society is better than the society of the 
 average other person. Clementine was bored, so Clemen- 
 
 328
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 tine bored her, and when the door closed behind the 
 excellent woman, Amy gave a little shudder of pleasure 
 in the rain and the fog outside, the fire and the Palais 
 Royal inside. 
 
 It was during these rainy days, too, that she faced 
 the fact that she did not really like books. "I think," 
 she said to the Rector the first time she saw him after 
 his illness, "that my favorite author is really ." 
 
 Old Bullace chuckled. "And a very good author," 
 he commended. 
 
 Amy shook her head. "I don't suppose," she amended 
 candidly, "that she really is a very good author 
 everyone says she's awful but well, I enjoy her, Mr. 
 Bullace." 
 
 "Then read her." 
 
 It seemed so simple to him that it suddenly seemed 
 simple to Amy. 
 
 "I suppose," she returned, "that I have a right to 
 admire her, haven't I?" 
 
 The Rector no longer smiled. His face, white with 
 the pallor of the very old who are ill, was grave. 
 
 "Any honest admiration, for no matter how humble 
 an object," he answered, "is respectable, whereas a 
 feigned admiration even for St. Paul or Shakespeare is 
 contemptible." 
 
 Then he asked for his beef- juice and changed the 
 subject. 
 
 329
 
 LXV 
 
 Sept. 9, Maiden Aqualate. 
 MY DEAR AMY, 
 
 I've heard from Lawrence, and it is by her advice that 
 I again write to you. I was sorry to read of the death 
 of Hood's mother. I believe that he was a most devoted 
 son. 
 
 And it is my earnest hope that he may prove to be as good 
 a husband. 
 
 I have written asking him to come to see me, and on 
 Wednesday we meet at 875. I've just heard from him. 
 
 I will do whatever seems best for your happiness. 
 
 His letter is very nice it has impressed me, and I will 
 do my best to help the good in him. I have never liked him, 
 but I must confess that I believe now that he really loves 
 you. 
 
 If, as I think will be the case, he convinces me of the 
 durability of both your feelings, I shall, to further the 
 speed of the inevitable unpleasant proceedings, go abroad 
 at once to Paris. 
 
 Burnaby will then tell you what to do. 
 
 I mean to settle seven thousand pounds a year on you 
 and any possible children of yours. 
 
 I will write you when I have seen Hood. 
 
 You could not, I think, do better than to stay at Bird's 
 Fountain until you have filed your petition. 
 
 And now, my poor little Amy, good-bye. I have been a 
 
 330
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 miserable failure as a husband, but I did love you once. I 
 was, no doubt, too old for you, and too dull. 
 
 If our baby had lived things might have been different. 
 Do you ever remember her? 
 
 God bless you and make you happy. 
 
 CI.OUDESLEY DORSET.
 
 LXVI 
 
 IT had been a blazing hot day, and the air was heavy 
 and exhausted. . 
 
 Bayswater was at its worst. 
 
 In the shabby street where Miss Croxley lived, all the 
 curtains looked grimier than usual, the doorsteps more 
 neglected, and in the hot wind dust blew about, and 
 scraps of paper. 
 
 Miss Croxley came wearily up the street. Her large 
 feet ached, and her eyes and temper were full of dust. 
 
 In a paper bag she had some buns, and she loathed 
 buns. 
 
 As she took her latchkey from her bag a round-eyed 
 telegraph boy ran up the steps. "Croxley?" 
 
 "Yes. Wait a minute till I see " 
 
 Her flagging face brightened as she read the tele- 
 gram, and she smiled at the boy. 
 
 "No answer, thanks." 
 
 Then she went to the dairy round the corner and 
 called up a telephone number. 
 
 "Hullo, is Oh, it's you!" 
 
 "Yes. Did you get my wire?" 
 332
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I did. And I'll come with pleasure. How how are 
 you?" 
 
 After a moment's further talk she went back to her 
 rooms. The dust no longer blew into her eyes, and the 
 red-haired cornetist, an unlovely phenomenon whom she 
 usually detested, was enriched by her to the extent of 
 a penny. 
 
 She was to dine with Dorset. 
 
 They dined at a quiet restaurant near an open win- 
 dow, and the dinner was excellent. 
 
 Dorset looked pale, and the deep lines in his cheeks 
 were more definitely lines and not dimples than she had 
 ever seen them. 
 
 However, he said nothing of any importance until the 
 dinner was nearly over, and they were eating fruit. 
 
 "I've seen him, Lawrence," he began quietly. 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 "Yes. He came to 875." 
 
 "Did he suggest it, Clow or you?" 
 
 "I I wrote him just before his mother died, and had 
 his letter the other day." 
 
 There was a long pause, Lawrence Croxley's eloquent 
 eyes fixed on Dorset's face. "Well?" 
 
 "I think we've both been too hard on him, my dear. 
 I can see nothing fine in him, but his attitude regarding 
 
 Amy was perfect " 
 
 333
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Oh, yes, his attitude would be perfect. His manner 
 is magnificent!" 
 
 "I don't mean his manner. You see, I asked him 
 outright whether he wished to marry her. For some 
 reason I've rather doubted it." 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 "And we were wrong. He was quite frank with me 
 told me that at first he had not thought of marriage 
 it never occurred to him, but that, of late, the hope 
 had been growing stronger and stronger. He assured 
 me that he really loves her, and that he will do his best 
 to make her happy." 
 
 Lawrence laughed sharply. "His mother is only just 
 dead he's being a good boy. However, she is bent on 
 having him, so we can only hope that his virtue will 
 last!" 
 
 Dorset nodded. "He certainly means it to, now. 
 Lawrence I am sorry she and you quarreled. Poor 
 little soul, she is going to need her friends." 
 
 "When she needs me she'll know where to find me." 
 Her long mouth was a little grim as she spoke. 
 
 Then she waited, wondering what he would say next. 
 Since the evening that now seemed centuries ago, when 
 he had suggested their marrying, he had made no ref- 
 erence to the matter. Sometimes she almost won- 
 dered if she had dreamt it or even misunderstood 
 him. 
 
 334
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 And now, her thin hands crossed under her chin, she 
 waited. 
 
 "I met a man last week who knows him," he went on, 
 thoughtfully, "and he liked him immensely. A first-rate 
 sportsman, a good officer, a hater of gossip all sorts 
 of good things he said about him, but I gathered 
 that he is most untrustworthy where women are con- 
 cerned." 
 
 She nodded. "You mean he doesn't really love them !" 
 
 "No! He seems to love 'em all and that is a 
 deucedly complicating gift. However, as I told you, 
 I almost liked the fellow today." 
 
 "You're a goose, Clow ! A man takes your wife away 
 from you and you endow him with money and like 
 him!" 
 
 The little restaurant was nearly empty now, and it 
 was much cooler. 
 
 After a while Dorset answered her. 
 
 "He didn't take my wife away from me, Lawrence," 
 he said slowly. "She had gone away from me and I 
 from her long before he came along. I was the last 
 man on earth for poor little Amy. Heavens, how I 
 must have bored her." 
 
 In its perfect sincerity and lack of all demand for 
 sympathy, the speech was an amazing one. It silenced 
 his companion. 
 
 "This chap Hood talks her language, they like the 
 335
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 same things, the same people. God bless her," he 
 ended, "I do hope she'll be happy." 
 
 "So do I, Clow. But she's a little changed of late. 
 That day she had washed her face in the fountain all 
 the eyebrow stuff and the powder, and she looked 
 different, somehow. I think she would have reminded 
 you of her as she was years ago, before she before 
 you, know." 
 
 He nodded. "Yes. Why, Lawrence, do you know 
 that even now Amy is as simple as a child ? I wish you 
 could have heard her that night when she told me about 
 Hood." 
 
 "She's a baby." 
 
 Lawrence Croxley was longing for a personal note in 
 their talk; she had reached the point, feeling that for 
 the moment she had had enough of Amy, but her face 
 softened and her mouth curved uncontrollably at the 
 thought of Amy in her sweet phase. "O Clow," she 
 added generously, "if he isn't good to her what shall we 
 do to him?" 
 
 Dorset smiled at her. "Tar and feather him, you 
 fierce woman. Well, Lawrence, when she is safely mar- 
 ried will you marry me?" 
 
 She bent her head low over the plate as if she had 
 discovered a pearl under the pear-peeling. Her eyes 
 were full of tears and she feared that he would see. 
 
 "Why on earth," she said with an uneven laugh, "do 
 336
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 you want to marry me? I'm as old as Methuselah and 
 as ugly as sin, and as irritable and short-tempered as 
 a nervous horse " 
 
 "Then I like age and ugliness and bad temper. Will 
 you, my dear?" 
 
 She raised her head. "Of course I will, Clow." And 
 at that minute something happened of which she was 
 to be ashamed to the end of her days. It so happened 
 that, from where he sat, Dorset could not see the door 
 of the restaurant, or the curtained stairway leading to 
 the upper room. 
 
 And as she accepted Dorset's offer of marriage, an 
 offer made possible, she knew, only by the comparative 
 good behavior of Archie Hood, Archie Hood came in 
 with a rather well-known lady of the half-world. 
 
 When he saw Miss Croxley he turned perfectly white. 
 Then, into his handsome face he threw such an expres- 
 sion of concentrated pleading that she gave way to it. 
 She hated him, but their interests were identical. 
 
 She let him go his way upstairs unchallenged, and 
 she was engaged to Cloudesley Dorset.
 
 LXVH 
 
 DEAR Miss CROXLEY, 
 
 May I thank you? And will you allow me to explain? 
 I have known that lady for many years. A friend of mine 
 who is now dead, really loved her. She and I have always 
 been friends, and last night she telephoned me and asked 
 me to dine with her. She is in trouble and needed a friend. 
 
 You may not know that I am far more grieved and un- 
 happy over my mother's death than many a better man 
 might be. I was not amusing myself last night. All this 
 on my word of honor. Dorset has been splendid with me, 
 and I am going to do my best to make Amy happy. 
 
 Once more, thanks for doing what you did last night. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 A. HOOD.
 
 LXVIII 
 
 MR. BULLACE, I am very wicked." 
 "Are you, my dear?" 
 "Yes. I I am a dog in the manger." 
 
 The old man smiled and laid his hand on her head. 
 "A nasty animal, that." 
 
 "Yes. But I am." 
 
 The rain beat hard on the windows, and a big fire 
 roared in the fireplace. The clock in the church tower 
 had struck ten, and the night was black. 
 
 Amy sat on a creepie by the Rector they had sent 
 Jargonelle to bed. 
 
 "Why are you a dog in the manger, dear?" 
 
 Amy looked up, heedless of red eyes and swollen nose. 
 
 "You don't know me " she began with a recru- 
 descence of tragedy in her voice. 
 
 The old man laughed. 
 
 "Don't I ? The pretty wife, the adoring lover and 
 the neglectful husband. That group, at least, is not 
 new, my dear !" 
 
 "Cloudesley," she said with dignity, "is not neglect- 
 ful." 
 
 339
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Oh, isn't he?" 
 
 "No. O Rector, dear Rector, read his letter." 
 All crumpled and warm, she squeezed it into his hand. 
 Then she waited while he read it. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 And with the guile of the serpent he answered her. 
 
 "A very decent letter poor man." 
 
 She blazed. "Why 'poor man'?" 
 
 And who knows what inward chuckle stirred the Rec- 
 tor's aged frame as he held his huge, transparent hands 
 to the fire. 
 
 "I call him a poor man because he has not had the 
 wits to keep you. And now, my child, tell me about 
 the other man. My one, to whom I lied." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bullace!" 
 
 "Yes. I lied to him. Yes and very well. I am," 
 he added, daringly, with pride, "a good liar." 
 
 "Mr. Bullace!" 
 
 She caught his hand and held it in hers, on which the 
 diamonds blazed. 
 
 "Rector dear I am not being bad to him, you 
 know." 
 
 "Of course not. I quite see that he never deserved 
 you " 
 
 A long pause followed and then she returned bravely, 
 
 "It isn't that. He was always awfully good " 
 
 340
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "I see. But tell me about the one I saw. He is a 
 very beautiful man." 
 
 Amy sighed. "Yes. Isn't he? And he he does 
 love me. Really, I mean." 
 
 "I know. And he is, of course, a really good man." 
 
 "Y-yes. Or, no " She sat up, and, whirling 
 
 round, faced him. 
 
 "Of course I love Archie. He is wonderful. But 
 I don't think he is so very good. Although I love him 
 and shall, of course, be perfectly happy with him, I must 
 tell you that I don't think he is so good from your 
 point of view as Clow." 
 
 "'Clow'?" 
 
 "Cloudesley my husband." 
 
 The clock struck and a door somewhere at the back 
 of the Rectory slammed. The house was being closed 
 for the night. 
 
 The old man was very tired ; his head stirred wearily 
 against the back of his chair. 
 
 "Well, my pet, if your husband is the better man, why 
 not stick to him?" 
 
 Her light eyes filled with tears. "Oh," she said, care- 
 lessly, "Archie is quite good enough for me." 
 
 Then she rose and put on her cloak. 
 
 "Julia is going to walk back with me. I will go now. 
 Good night, dear Mr. Bullace." 
 
 He kissed her. "Good night, my love but before 
 341
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 you go, do tell me why you are a dog in the manger." 
 
 She hesitated, folding the letter and putting it into 
 her bag. "Did you ever want to get rid of something 
 and then not want anyone else to have it?" 
 
 The old man laughed. "Often." 
 
 With an effort he rose, a grotesque figure in his purple 
 dressing-gown. 
 
 "Amy I am very glad you are going to be happy 
 with your Archie. But will your husband be happy 
 too?" 
 
 She drew herself up. "Oh, yes. I have tried to tell 
 you before, but it was difficult, somehow. Clow will 
 be far happier without me." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 They had reached the door, and could hear, on the 
 gravel, the creaking footsteps of Mrs. Crump, the light 
 of whose lantern streamed across the wet garden. 
 
 The rain came down in torrents, and the wind had 
 risen. "What a night! Oh, well you see my hus- 
 band doesn't love me, either, Mr. Bullace. And he 
 will, I believe, marry a very dear friend of ours a 
 Miss Croxley." 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 "Yes. (I'm coming, Mrs. Crump.) She is nearly as 
 old as he, and she is very fond of him " 
 
 The Rector gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. 
 "I see. Then he, too, cares for someone else?"
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Crump blew her nose loudly and unfurled her 
 umbrella. Amy held out her hand. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Bullace." 
 
 "Good night, my dear. I I am very glad about 
 your husband." 
 
 "Thank you ; so am I. Good night." 
 
 "Good night. One thing I should like you to do, my 
 love. I am a sentimental old fellow in purple flannel^ 
 but I should like you to do me one favor." 
 
 "All right," she answered firmly, "I will." 
 
 "Your little girl, Anne Rose. Where did you bury 
 her little body?" 
 
 "At Ambles." 
 
 "That is only two hours from here, across country. 
 The trains are not too bad. Well, dear you have 
 promised I want you, before you marry Captain Hood, 
 to go and say one prayer at her grave, will you?" 
 
 Amy started. "How odd that you should ask me 
 that today!" 
 
 "Why odd?" 
 
 "Because the day after tomorrow, it will be fifteen 
 years since she died." 
 
 "Very well, then, go and say good-bye to her grave 
 before you give up all right to it." 
 
 "Before I give up all right " 
 
 "Yes. When you are married to the other man you 
 343
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 will, of course, have no further right to it. Your baby 
 was his child Dorset's as well as yours " 
 
 After a pause she gave a shrill laugh. 
 
 "Very well," she said, "I'll go. It's a mad idea, but 
 because it's you who asks me, I'll go good night."
 
 LXIX 
 
 AMBLES is a small town with one long, cobbled 
 street and a tiny square. 
 
 It was four o'clock when Mrs. Dorset got 
 out of the train at the little station, and it was rain- 
 ing. 
 
 To the solitary flyman she waved an impatient, deny- 
 ing hand. 
 
 She was desperately tired, but she would walk. 
 
 Up the long street she plodded under an umbrella 
 belonging to Mrs. Damson. 
 
 She was amazed to find that she remembered the place 
 so well; Borden, the grocer his sign was the same 
 and the gilded crosskeys of the old inn still swung with 
 a creak over the door. 
 
 A drunken man lurched by, and she recollected her 
 old fear of the champion village drunkard of sixteen 
 years ago. 
 
 The clock struck one, and its voice held the old, 
 familiar crack. 
 
 The very rain seemed the same. 
 
 Up the steep street she toiled, and then a light burst 
 345
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 oat from the big Georgian windows across the way, and 
 the little pilgrim came to a halt. 
 
 There it was, the old house to which she had been 
 brought as a bride. In the rainy dusk it looked older 
 and dingier, yet very much the same, and the trees hung 
 their wet branches over the wall in quite the old way. 
 
 Through the unshaded windows the sitting-room was 
 plainly visible. A fire burnt on the hearth at which, 
 so long ago, she had waited for her husband. 
 
 A woman sat there now, a child by her side. And 
 then, with a clatter of eager feet, a man came up the 
 street and mounted the steps. 
 
 The child was now alone by the fire. 
 
 A moment later they were all there; the father, the 
 mother, and the bonny fat baby. 
 
 Amy stood in the rain, breathless, watching. And 
 when the happy-faced wife drew down the blinds the 
 poor little watcher felt as if she had been struck in the 
 face. 
 
 Two men passed her, talking hard; a cart passed; 
 the rain came down harder; she smelt the brewery; it 
 was too dark to see. She hated it all. Suddenly she 
 was bitterly unhappy. 
 
 "Oh, why did I come, why did I come? It was cruel 
 of the Rector!" 
 
 She felt an outcast, a pariah, the loneliest of ill- 
 treated women. 
 
 346
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 She would not go to the churchyard. The Rector 
 was a cruel old man to ask her to. She would go to the 
 Cross Keys and get a motor surely they would have 
 a motor! and go straight to Archie. She wanted 
 Archie. The old life was over and done with. It was 
 Archie she loved, it was he whom she missed. 
 
 Then she went on to the church. 
 
 The gravel was very wet, but the grass, as she struck 
 off towards the tower, was wetter. Her feet sank in, 
 and came out with a sucking noise. 
 
 With a physical twinge of horror she realized that 
 her baby had lain there for fifteen years. She hated 
 the Rector. 
 
 Clutching the flowers she had brought, she plodded 
 on, and in a sudden gust of wind reached the corner 
 where her husband had cried that only time on the 
 day of the child's funeral. 
 
 And there, at the grave, a bunch of white roses in 
 his hand, stood her husband. 
 
 "You must be patient with me, Amy, dear," he said, 
 ten minutes later; "I am a dull dog." 
 
 "You must be patient with me, Clow, for I am a fool," 
 
 He kissed her. "Your poor, sweet little feet will be 
 so wet. May I dry them for you at the inn?" 
 
 She gave a little gasp. "O Clow." 
 
 At last, after a moment's silence, the child's grave 
 347
 
 BIRD'S FOUNTAIN 
 
 between them, they turned to leave the quiet place. 
 Hood's name had not been mentioned. 
 
 "Clow, it is very wonderful that you should have 
 thought of coming here today, too." 
 
 Cloudesley Dorset picked his little wife up in his arms, 
 and, as he did so, a bit of paper in an orange-colored 
 envelope crackled in his breast pocket. 
 
 "I didn't, dearest," he said. "I have often been here 
 before without telling you, but this time it was not 
 chance." 
 
 She laid her cheek to his. "I don't understand," she 
 said, "for nobody knew except the Rector, but noth- 
 ing matters now." 
 
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