THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
 
 THE 
 
 THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 </lND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'CYNTHIA'S WAY,' 'THE GRASSHOPPERS,' 
 'THE INNER SHRINE,' ETC. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 1902
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 SRLF 
 URL 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS I 
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 2O2 
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 233 
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 253 
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 264 
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 273 
 
 A SKY SIGN 289 
 
 WALL-PAPERS 300 
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 310 
 
 WITH THE HELP OF THE COTILLON 321
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 THE schoolroom was deserted because an uncle, who 
 had come to Bayswater Square on a few days' visit, 
 had taken the children to the Zoological Gardens for 
 the afternoon. He had not invited Miss Ferrers, their 
 governess, to join the party; and after she had tidied 
 the schoolroom and had done various out-of-door com- 
 missions for the mistress of the house, she returned 
 to her kingdom on the fourth floor and sat down to 
 rest. Next day she was going to the seaside with the 
 family, and she still had to pack for herself and the 
 children ; but she was too tired to begin directly. The 
 hot weather had come with a rush, and she had been 
 on her feet for hours. Mrs. Hunter and her grown-up 
 daughters had agreed at lunch-time that they were 
 not inclined to move, so Amabel Ferrers had been 
 obliged to move for them from shop to shop and back 
 to the house again, until her little body was aweary 
 of this great world. 
 
 It was not agreeable to live in Mrs. Hunter's house 
 as governess, and Amabel would have left long ago
 
 2 THE THOUSAND. EUGENIAS 
 
 if she had known how to get food and shelter else- 
 where. But a governess is not a cook with the market 
 at her command, and Amabel knew that if she threw 
 up this engagement she might be reduced to any straits 
 before she found another. Her story, so far, was the 
 commonest story in the world. Her parents had 
 brought her up in idleness and, if they ever gave a 
 thought to the future at all, had taken for granted 
 that she would marry in their lifetime. Unfortunately, 
 they both died before she was eighteen; the mother 
 died after the father, and left just enough to pay for 
 her funeral. Amabel was an only child, and knew of 
 no relations except an uncle who had gone to Mexico, 
 twenty years ago, to seek his fortune. As he never 
 wrote home she did not know whether he was dead 
 or alive, but she had found an old address amongst 
 her father's papers, and had written there at a venture 
 some months ago. So far no answer had come, and 
 she had made up her mind that her uncle Michael was 
 dead or out of reach and that she was alone in the 
 world. 
 
 This afternoon, as she stared at the sky and the 
 chimney-pots, her thoughts were vexatious and dis- 
 tressing. For several days past Mrs. Hunter's manner 
 had been more unpleasant than usual, and it would 
 be impossible to say anything stronger than that of 
 any one's manner. Amabel knew why she was in 
 disgrace. A fortnight ago there had been a children's 
 party in the house, and she had assisted at it, and
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 3 
 
 Mr. Sheringham himself had showed her marked at- 
 tention. No one else would have mattered quite so 
 much. But Mr. Sheringham ! the great financier ! 
 who was invited a dozen times before he came once! 
 who was to marry Georgina Hunter, if only he could 
 be made to see it! who was so eligible that Georgina 
 hardly expected to pull it off, but wished she might, 
 because Mr. Sheringham was so good-looking; while 
 Mr. Mendoza, the other string to her bow, was fat 
 and had little pig's eyes ! That children's party had 
 been a fiasco from Georgina's point of view, and there 
 was worse to follow. On Sunday last, Mr. Shering- 
 ham had met Miss Ferrers at morning service, and 
 had walked home with her and the children; and the 
 day before yesterday he had actually found her in 
 Kensington Gardens in the late afternoon, and had 
 stayed talking to her for nearly half-an-hour. On 
 both occasions the children had carried the news home, 
 and Mrs. Hunter had told Amabel that her conduct 
 was forward and unladylike, and that if the offence 
 was repeated she must take the consequences. 
 
 This very afternoon the offence had been repeated. 
 She had happened to be in the drawing-room taking 
 instructions about some errands, and Mr. Sheringham 
 had called, and he had looked at her in the most 
 friendly way and asked her if she was going to East- 
 bourne with the family. When she admitted that she 
 was, he said he thought of running down there himself 
 for a few days ; and when she hurried out of the room
 
 4 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 he got up and opened the door for her. She wished 
 he would leave her alone. She was a moth and he 
 was a star, and she was a sensible moth with no desire 
 to singe her wings. She would not let her thoughts 
 dwell on him ; but her thoughts dwelt with foreboding 
 on Miss Georgina Hunter's manner when she met her 
 on the stairs just now. 
 
 The irruption into the room of a red-headed page 
 boy, with a message from Mrs. Hunter, made her 
 jump. 
 
 " Mrs. 'Unter wants you downstairs," he said. 
 
 " I've been out ever since lunch and I haven't had 
 tea yet," said Amabel, trying to seem calm and indif- 
 ferent. " Do you think Mrs. Hunter wants me at once, 
 George ? " 
 
 " She looked as if she did," said the boy. 
 
 " I wonder why tea is so late ? " 
 
 " I 'card Mrs. 'Unter tell Mary she needn't bring 
 any up 'ere as the young ladies and gentlemen would 
 'ave theirs out. Shall I sneak you up a cup from the 
 kitchen, Miss ? " 
 
 " Yes no I can't wait," said Amabel, and she 
 ran downstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter sat in her drawing-room surrounded 
 by lamps and silver photograph frames and frilled 
 silk cushions. She was a stupid-looking woman, with 
 a consequential, pursed-up mouth and hard, colourless 
 eyes. She turned towards Amabel with an air of dis- 
 like and did not ask her to sit down.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 5 
 
 " I am not satisfied with you, Miss Ferrers," she 
 began. " I have sent for you to tell you so." 
 
 " I am doing my best for the children," began 
 Amabel. 
 
 " I am not thinking of the children," said Mrs. 
 Hunter. 
 
 Amabel wished she had the courage to sit down, 
 she wished she had stayed herself with tea, she wished 
 she had been born without a temper; and she looked 
 at the lady and wondered why people in fortune's 
 good graces should be so unkind to people out of 
 fortune's favor. 
 
 " Your behavior is most unbecoming," continued 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 " In what way ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " I am not going to enter into details," said Mrs. 
 Hunter. " The fact is, you allow your head to be 
 turned. You seem to think that when you come down- 
 stairs and the gentlemen who visit at the house are 
 civil to you, that you are on an equality with them. 
 I feel it my duty to open your eyes. None of them 
 would ever think of you seriously." 
 
 Amabel did not speak, but she could not force 
 back the flush of indignant color in her cheeks or 
 the anger that set her mouth and flashed in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " That is the worst of people who have come down 
 in the world," said Mrs. Hunter. " They never want 
 to realize that they have come down."
 
 6 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 "Oh, but they do," said Amabel. "The fact is 
 everlastingly forced on them." 
 
 " Then you don't show it in your behavior. Just 
 now when Mr. Sheringham was here " 
 
 " I should be glad if I need never see Mr. Shering- 
 ham again," cried Amabel. " I don't care about him." 
 
 According to her lights at the moment she spoke 
 the truth. She felt angry with Mr. Sheringham for 
 having made matters worse for her than they need 
 have been; she felt angry with his coolness and his 
 determination and with her own helplessness. 
 
 " What unladylike expressions you use, Miss Fer- 
 rers," said Mrs. Hunter. " It is not necessary that 
 you should care about Mr. Sheringham or any one 
 else you have the privilege of meeting in my house. 
 Mr. Sheringham is a most charming person and an 
 intimate friend, and it must be painful for him to 
 come here and meet a young woman who throws 
 herself at his head." 
 
 " I should think his head is fairly strong," said 
 Amabel. 
 
 "At any rate I am going to do my duty an3 stop 
 it," said Mrs. Hunter, who was working herself into 
 a pretty passion. " Unless you can give me a guaran- 
 tee of better behavior for the future " 
 
 " How can I give you a guarantee that the man 
 won't follow me to church or find out when I'm in 
 the Square with the children ? " said Amabel, her anger 
 inexpediently expressing itself.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 7 
 
 " To whom are you alluding, Miss Ferrers ? " 
 
 " To Mr. Sheringham, of course." 
 
 " Then be good enough to give him his proper title. 
 I am not accustomed to hear one of my friends spoken 
 of as a ' man.' However, your impertinence only con- 
 firms me in my intentions. I shall not take you to 
 Eastbourne with us, and as we leave the house to- 
 morrow you must leave to-morrow too. I may as 
 well pay you your wages and then we need not meet 
 again. It will be pleasanter for both sides." 
 
 " Of course, you know that you are treating me 
 abominably," said Amabel. "If I were a kitchen- 
 maid " 
 
 " Kitchenmaids have a market value," said Mrs. 
 Hunter. " Incompetent young ladies have none." 
 
 " I have nowhere to go to from here." 
 
 " That is not my business." 
 
 " I have done nothing to deserve such treat- 
 ment." 
 
 " I refuse to prolong the discussion," said Mrs. 
 Hunter, holding out a five-pound note. " I owe you 
 for one month and I will pay you for two. It is 
 more than you deserve." 
 
 " It is my legal due," said Amabel ; " and I believe 
 you ought to pay me board wages too." 
 
 " I shall not pay you another penny," said Mrs. 
 Hunter, and the note fluttered from her fingers and 
 fell on the floor. " Remember you are leaving more 
 or less under a cloud."
 
 TH] 
 
 8 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " That is a disgraceful thing to say," exclaimed 
 Amabel. 
 
 " I shall say it to any one who comes here for 
 your character," said Mrs. Hunter. " I consider you 
 flighty and impertinent." 
 
 Amabel felt that she had no weapons and no hope 
 of redress. She could not rail back as a woman of 
 coarser grain would have done. She picked up the 
 bank note and ran hastily out of the room, and then 
 she burst into tears. She was still crying when the 
 red-headed page boy came into the school-room with 
 a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter on a tray. 
 He looked at the girl and went away again. In a 
 few minutes Amabel heard a slow, heavy step on the 
 stairs, and she dried her eyes and tried to pull herself 
 together, because she thought it must be Mrs. Hunter. 
 But the door opened and the cook appeared, panting 
 and good-natured. 
 
 " Ginger said you were crying, Miss," she be- 
 gan ; " I thought I'd come and see. Ain't you 
 well?" 
 
 " I'm to leave the house to-morrow, Mrs. Pugsley," 
 said Amabel. " Do you know of any cheap, respect- 
 able room? I've nowhere to go." 
 
 The cook sat down. 
 
 "Why are you to leave the house to-morrow?" 
 she inquired, and Amabel saw that every one would 
 ask her the same question, and that it would be dif- 
 ficult to answer.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 9 
 
 " Mrs. Hunter is not satisfied," she said ; " I think 
 she has taken a dislike to me." 
 
 " Mrs. 'Unter is not a lady," said the cook, with 
 the queer discrimination of her class in such matters. 
 " You are. That's reason enough, I'll be bound. Don't 
 you fret, Miss. I'll go round to the office I patronise 
 to-morrow and I'll tell 'em if they don't find you 
 something soft within a week they won't 'ave me on 
 their books again, nor any of my friends." 
 
 " It's very kind of you," said Amabel, cheering up 
 a little, " but I'm afraid no one will take me without 
 a reference." 
 
 " Well ! " said the cook, beginning to bristle. 
 
 " Mrs. Hunter refuses me a good one." 
 
 '' Then I shall Iiave a few words with Mrs. 'Unter 
 to-morrow morning," said the cook majestically. " She 
 won't let me go if she can 'elp it. A better behaved 
 young lady I never saw and them children so spoiled 
 and quarrelsome, Job 'imself would give 'em a good 
 hiding, and of course it's what they deserve." 
 
 At that moment George's red head thrust itself 
 cautiously in at the door. 
 
 " Now what do you want, Ginger ? " said the cook. 
 "Don't you see I'm engaged?" 
 
 The boy held a telegram towards her and she took 
 it from him. 
 
 " You needn't wait," she said ; and, when he had 
 shut the door, she turned to Amabel. 
 
 "Ginger is that curious. It's for you, Miss," she said.
 
 io THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 II 
 
 " FOR me ! " cried Amabel. She could hardly believe 
 it; but she saw her name on the orange-colored en- 
 velope and on the form inside. 
 
 " Come and see me, Paris. Cannot leave. Hotel 
 Ritz. MICHAEL FERRERS." 
 
 " How extraordinary," said Amabel, and she showed 
 the form to her friend. 
 
 " What's it mean ? " said the cook. " I never can 
 make head nor tail of a telegram. Why can't people 
 write a plain letter? If there was less hurry there'd 
 be less mistakes, I always tell my kitchenmaids. But 
 you may preach all your life and you won't persuade 
 other folks to practise." 
 
 " I suppose," said Amabel, and she took the tele- 
 gram into her hands again "I suppose it is from 
 my uncle, Michael Ferrers. I wrote to him some 
 months ago. I thought he was in South America, but 
 this seems to come from Paris." 
 
 " How do you know ? " said the cook suspiciously, 
 and they examined the telegram together. When 
 Amabel lifted her head she pointed to the five-pound 
 note lying on the table.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS n 
 
 " That is all the money I have in the world," said 
 she. 
 
 " Lor ! " said the cook. 
 
 " And if I spend it on going to Paris " 
 
 " And find it was one of them lying telegrams, and 
 you hadn't no uncle at all, and there was no such 
 hotel." 
 
 " I don't see how that could happen," said Amabel. 
 
 " Anything can happen with telegrams," said the 
 cook, " else what'd the halfpenny papers do ? ' Hor- 
 rible massacre ! ' one day : ' Women and children tor- 
 tured : nobody left alive ! ' and next day every one all 
 right and the news as flat as pancakes. I know them 
 telegrams. And yet, seeing how you're placed, it do 
 seem worth a little risk just to go there and drive 
 up to the hotel if you can find it and ask if they 
 know your uncle and come straight back if they 
 don't." 
 
 Here the cook raised her voice. " Ginger," she 
 cried, and when Ginger immediately opened the door, 
 she winked at Amabel. 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't be far off," she said placidly ; 
 " you run round to Whiteley's as fast as your feet'll 
 carry you, and go to that counter where they have 
 the railway time-tables laid out somewhere near the 
 provisions, it is say you want to get to Paris quick 
 and cheap. You won't have to pay but there's 
 twopence in case you do and mind you're back in 
 five minutes."
 
 12 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " And what'll I say if SHE rings ? " said the boy, in 
 injured accents. 
 
 " Say I sent you for a lemon," said the cook. 
 " Here's another penny. Bring one." 
 
 " If I go and spend my money and nothing 
 comes of it I shall be worse off than before," said 
 Amabel, when the boy had run off. 
 
 " You mustn't look forward to that," said the cook. 
 " Turn a bright face to the world and the world'll 
 turn a bright face to you. Besides, you can always 
 come back here and lodge with my sister in the Arte- 
 sian Road, as is a widow. Don't you trouble too much. 
 It's no good, and it spoils the complexion." 
 
 " I wish I could cook," said Amabel. " I should 
 never be out of work then." 
 
 " P'raps you'd sometimes wish you were when 
 the hot weather comes and the jellies are uncertain. 
 Every perfession has its drawbacks," said the cook; 
 and then Amabel went on with her tea, and presently 
 Ginger came back with various time-tables. 
 
 " If I go by Newhaven and Dieppe to-morrow, I 
 shall get there at seven," said Amabel, in a little while. 
 " Oh, Cookie, dear, am I really going to risk half my 
 fortune ! The single fare is i, 53. ; the return is 
 
 " Don't take a return," advised the cook. " It looks 
 distrustful. I must go and see to my dinner now, my 
 dear, because last time I let Maria do the quenelles 
 she sent 'em up in a mash. But I'll see you off from 
 Victoria to-morrow morning."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 13 
 
 " I can't believe I'm going," said Amabel. " I can't 
 believe in that telegram." 
 
 " It's a chance," said the cook, " and if you don't 
 take a chance in this world, where are you? I dare- 
 say it won't be all jam in Paris any more nor what 
 it is here. Your uncle may have a wife, and she may 
 have a temper; but if he's one to like a pretty face 
 and figure you'll do. You're not as unlucky as you 
 think you are, and that's a fact. You can't expect 
 everything of them above, and as far as eyes and hair 
 and shape go, they've done pretty well for you." 
 
 Amabel looked in the glass when her friend had 
 departed, and she certainly saw a charming girl re- 
 flected there. Her hair was thick and bright and 
 wavy, and her eyes were grey and her nose straightly 
 cut and delicate; and besides beauty of feature she 
 possessed just now the beauty of youth, and would 
 always possess the beauty of expression that is the 
 outward sign of kindness and intelligence. The sud- 
 den change in her prospects had dried her tears and 
 diverted her thoughts, and as she packed for the 
 children and herself, she dwelt on the uncertain issues 
 of to-morrow instead of fretting over the offences of 
 to-day. She tried to remember everything her father 
 had ever said of his brother Michael, and she could 
 not remember much. She did not know of any 
 estrangement to account for her uncle's long silence. 
 Her parents had believed him to be dead, and when 
 she found his name above an address in a Spanish-
 
 14 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 sounding South American town, she had written as 
 people write to some one quite unknown, in a spirit 
 of adventure and with uncertain hope of a reply. 
 
 The evening passed quickly. The children came back 
 and kept her busy, and when they were in bed she 
 still had a good deal to do. It was midnight before 
 she had finished, and then she fell asleep, and woke 
 with a start next morning when a maid came in with 
 a cup of tea sent upstairs by the cook. Amabel drank 
 it as she was dressing. 
 
 " Why are you putting on your hat ? " said Florrie, 
 the elder of two children who slept in the room. 
 
 " Because I am going away," said Amabel. 
 
 " I know you are going away. Mamma told me 
 last night she would not keep you any longer because 
 you were not setting Guinevere and me a good ex- 
 ample. But she said you were to give us our break- 
 fast first as usual." 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't stay for that," said Amabel, 
 putting on her veil. 
 
 " But you must if Mamma tells you to," said the 
 child, with a good imitation of her mother's pompous 
 manner; and as Amabel took no notice she jumped 
 out of bed and ran downstairs to lodge a complaint. 
 
 Luckily for Amabel her trunk had been carried 
 down by Ginger and a housemaid the night before, 
 but she was stopped herself this morning by the ap- 
 parition of Mrs. Hunter in a quilted dressing-gown 
 and curling-pins.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 15 
 
 " Miss Ferrers," she said, " be good enough to go 
 upstairs again at once and give the children their 
 breakfast. You will leave this house when we leave 
 for Eastbourne and not a moment before." 
 
 " I must leave at once," said Amabel, and she took 
 another step towards the last flight of stairs ; but Mrs. 
 Hunter's portly figure barred the way. 
 
 " Come along, Miss," said a fat, good-tempered 
 voice from below, " the cab's here." 
 
 " Cook ! " said Mrs. Hunter, and she went down- 
 stairs herself, followed, of course, by Amabel. Ginger 
 was in the hall as well as the cook. 
 
 " It's all right, mum," said the cook. " I'll be back 
 before you're ready to give orders. I'm only going as 
 far as Victoria to see Miss Ferrers off." 
 
 " Victoria ! Didn't you tell me yesterday you had 
 nowhere to go, you wicked, deceitful girl ! trying 
 to excite my pity on false pretences." 
 
 " There wasn't much false pretences," said the cook, 
 for Amabel would not condescend to speak. " Things 
 is like weather, and take up sudden for the better 
 sometimes. Miss Ferrers had an invitation she didn't 
 expect last night to go and stay with an uncle in Paris 
 at the Hotel What was the name of the hotel, 
 Miss?" 
 
 "The Hotel Ritz," said Amabel. 
 
 " A likely story," said Mrs. Hunter. " Dukes and 
 millionaires stay at the Hotel Ritz." 
 
 " I shouldn't mind either the one or the other in
 
 16 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 my family," said the cook, and she followed Amabel 
 down the front steps. 
 
 " I'm sure you'll lose your place on my account," 
 said Amabel regretfully, as they drove away. 
 
 " Lor' bless you, my dear, I can get twenty places 
 a hour and pick and choose," said her champion. 
 " Think of my made dishes and my gravies. I've 
 rather a fancy to go and live with an earl. I read 
 such a lot about earls in all them Family Story-tellers, 
 but I ain't never rolled out pastry for one. I don't see 
 why I shouldn't as good as another. After all, pastry 
 is pastry and nothing else, whether it's for a earl or 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " You're the only friend I'm leaving in London," 
 said Amabel as the train moved out of the station. 
 
 "And I hope you'll soon be back with one better 
 worth looking at," said the cook. 
 
 Amabel's fellow-pilgrims certainly seemed to think 
 her worth looking at, and she travelled with some 
 pleasant people, who helped her through the Douane 
 and into a cab at Paris. As she drove through the 
 twinkling streets to the Place Vendome, all the hopes 
 and doubts that had possessed her since yesterday 
 reached their height, and when the driver stopped at 
 the doors of the hotel and a porter came forward, 
 Amabel hardly had breath enough to bring out her 
 uncle's name. But the man only signed her inside 
 the hotel, and there she had to do with a clerk, who 
 spoke English said that Mr. Ferrers was in, and
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 17 
 
 invited her to wait in a room close by. She sat down 
 and looked through the window at the courtyard, 
 which was gay with plants and full of people sitting 
 at little tables. Through the open door of the room 
 she saw other people pass through the hall, in and 
 out of the hotel, and from the square outside she heard 
 the rumble of wheels, the tuff-tuff of automobiles, 
 and the cries of paper boys with the latest edition of 
 La Patrie. But her impressions were blurred, for her 
 thoughts were fixed entirely on the unknown uncle, 
 and every pulse in her body seemed to wait for his 
 arrival. But the noise and the movement went on 
 around her, and no one came into the room. She 
 stared out at the courtyard, she watched the hall, the 
 minutes passed very slowly. At last she went up to 
 the centre table, found some English papers there, 
 and turned over the pages of the Times. When she 
 looked towards the door again, a man of middle age 
 had come inside the room, and stood there watching 
 her. He shut the door as she went towards him.
 
 18 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 III 
 
 " I AM Amabel Ferrers," she said. 
 
 " I am Michael Ferrers," said he, and then for a 
 moment they took stock of each other. He was a 
 grizzled, wiry-looking man, and he seemed to be in 
 a hurry; and his eyes, though they were fixed on her, 
 were preoccupied. 
 
 " You're very much like your father," he said ; 
 " when he was a boy he was so pretty that strangers 
 used to stop him in the street and ask him his name. 
 Every one took to him at once." 
 
 " Some people take a dislike to me," said Amabel, 
 thinking of Mrs. Hunter and her family. 
 
 "I don't think I shall," said Mr. Ferrers; "I'm 
 glad you've come. I shall have ten days or so here, 
 unless anything goes wrong with the Eugenia, and 
 then back I go to Mexico." 
 
 Amabel felt dreadfully disappointed. If her uncle 
 was going to the other end of the world in a short 
 ten days, nothing much would come of her acquaint- 
 ance with him. She wondered who Eugenia was, 
 and why Mr. Ferrers spoke of her with the definite 
 article. 
 
 " Your letter crawled around the world after me," 
 he continued. " I got it in Japan. I was very sorry
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 19 
 
 to hear my brother and his wife were both dead. I 
 always meant to look them up, but I haven't been as 
 near England as this for twenty years, and I never 
 write letters. You didn't tell me much in yours. Are 
 you an only child ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Amabel; "I've neither kith nor kin 
 except you." 
 
 " What have you been doing, then, since your 
 parents died ? ." 
 
 " I was in a situation as governess till this morning." 
 
 "Bless me! didn't my brother make money?" 
 
 " Never very much, and when mother died there 
 wasn't five pounds. I didn't tell you in my letter, 
 because I thought you might be as poor as I was. 
 If you are going back to Mexico, Uncle Michael, I'm 
 afraid I ought to go straight back to London and find 
 a new situation. The money I have won't last many 
 days, and I don't know any one in London to help me 
 except a cook " 
 
 " A cook ! " 
 
 " Yes where I was governess she was very 
 kind, but, of course, she is not well off and " 
 
 " But I am," interrupted Mr. Ferrers. " I wish 
 I'd known about your father. It puzzles me why any 
 one who wants money shouldn't get it. If the Eugenia 
 behaves as I expect she will, I shall have more money 
 than / want soon." 
 
 "Is she are you is the Eugenia my aunt?" 
 said Amabel.
 
 20 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " The Eugenia is a mine," said Mr. Ferrers seri- 
 ously. " I am not married." 
 
 " I wish you were," said Amabel. 
 
 "You must find a wife for me, then," said Mr. 
 Ferrers ; " I've never had time. But you needn't think 
 about going back to London yet. I'll order you a room 
 and something to eat, and when you're ready come 
 down here again and let me know. I've two people 
 dining with me, and I must go back to them." 
 
 " Are they very smart people ? " said Amabel a little 
 later, when she had dressed and dined and found her 
 uncle again. " I don't suppose you know what a smart 
 woman would think of my clothes, and I've put on 
 my Sunday frock." 
 
 " The Varasdins are Hungarians," said Mr. Ferrers, 
 leading the way to the courtyard. " I only know them 
 through doing business with the husband. She ap- 
 pears to be an agreeable woman. I never saw her till 
 to-night. I think she's in black. They both speak 
 English. They have suggested that we should go out 
 somewhere to a cafe, I suppose. It will be more 
 entertaining for you than sitting still here." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers stopped near one of the little tables, 
 and introduced Amabel to the two people waiting for 
 him there. The husband was a tall, flabby-looking 
 man, with shifty brown eyes and a head of hair that 
 wanted cutting. He made Amabel an elaborate bow, 
 and at once engaged her in conversation, but she found 
 it difficult to attend to him because her fascinated eyes
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 21 
 
 returned again and again to the brilliant figure of 
 his wife. Even judged by the French standard of 
 beauty, which differs so much from our own, Madame 
 Varasdin was not a beautiful woman, and, judged by 
 the English and the Greek ideals, she was positively 
 plain. In colouring and in feature she could no more 
 compare with Amabel than the monkey on a barrel 
 organ can compare with the charming Italian boy who 
 pets him. She had dark, very narrow eyes, a big 
 mouth, a sallow skin, and stiff black hair rolled back 
 from her face in Japanese fashion. But she had the 
 manner and the glances of a woman who has found 
 times without number that she is irresistible; she was 
 as graceful as a cat, she talked with vivacity and she 
 dressed with art. When Amabel appeared, she said 
 a civil word or two, and then seemed to make up her 
 mind that a girl in such a blouse and skirt was not 
 one to reckon with. So she settled her long feather 
 boa and entertained Mr. Ferrers and looked about her. 
 In a little while her attention seemed to fix itself on 
 a young man sitting at a table opposite their own, and 
 when her party got up to go she went a little out of 
 her way in order to pass close by him. There could 
 be no doubt as to his nationality. He was well 
 groomed, he was drinking a whisky and soda, he was 
 reading Punch and the Times. As Madame Varasdin 
 rustled past him, he looked up and at once sprang to 
 his feet. His manner expressed ardent pleasure, but 
 his British tongue said, " Oh, Madame Varasdin ! "
 
 22 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 and then stopped short. He seemed to know the hus- 
 band too, and shook hands with him as if he only half 
 liked the obligation. 
 
 Madame Varasdin mentioned to the others that he 
 was Mr. Newby, and then she sat down at his table 
 and talked to him, and Amabel thought she had 
 never seen any one smile so brilliantly or express so 
 much with her hands. But Mr. Ferrers soon grew 
 impatient. 
 
 " We ought to be going," he said to M. Varasdin ; 
 and Varasdin said to his wife in a diffident voice 
 
 " Mr. Ferrers thinks we should go now, Anastasie." 
 
 Anastasie's eyes almost shut as she just glanced at 
 her husband. 
 
 " Go on," she said ; " I will come when I am ready. 
 Mr. Newby will escort me, I know." 
 
 " Rather," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 Varasdin was evidently used to doing as he was 
 bid. He found a cab outside the hotel for his com- 
 panions and himself and drove with them to the Cafe 
 de Paris. On the way he told Mr. Ferrers that his 
 wife had met Mr. Newby at Aix-les-Bains last year, 
 and that he had a large income and was very sym- 
 pathetic. 
 
 Amabel was amused by the little grunt with which 
 her uncle received this account of their new acquaint- 
 ance, but after that she did not listen to what the two 
 men were saying, because they began to talk of busi- 
 ness, and she was bewitched by the sights and lights
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 23 
 
 of Paris. When they were seated within the cafe, 
 her uncle ordered ice for her and Bocks for M. Varas- 
 din and himself, and they watched the midnight life 
 of the city coming and going in fine raiment. They 
 had been there for some time when Madame Varasdin 
 appeared with Mr. Newby, and though the cafe was 
 full of well-dressed women, all eyes followed her be- 
 cause she was strikingly tall and graceful and wore 
 fine diamonds and a fine cloak. The cloak had hang- 
 ing sleeves and an amazing ruffled collar and gold 
 embroideries, and a Venetian painter would have 
 shown you Anastasie framed and draped with it, and 
 you would have turned like the rest of that company 
 from Amabel, who was a beauty, to the woman who 
 was plain. 
 
 She sat down and ordered little hot crayfish that 
 she ate without bread or sauces and with the help of 
 her fingers. She had lithe-looking, long hands, and 
 they blazed with jewels, and Amabel first watched her 
 and then turned away. The lady made her meal as 
 her neighbours did, and yet it was unpleasant to see 
 her delicate fingers tear the little creatures asunder. 
 Amabel was a matter-of-fact Briton and not fanciful ; 
 yet it crossed her fancy that Madame Varasdin would 
 have destroyed the crayfish with the same quickness 
 and appetite if they had been alive. When she had 
 finished, she pushed back her chair and talked to Mr. 
 Ferrers and Mr. Newby. Her English was fluent 
 and correct, and her foreign accent gave point to her
 
 24 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 stories, which were all of cosmopolitan people and in 
 cynical demonstration of human folly. Their flavour 
 was not sweet in the memory, but they suited the hour, 
 because the hour was dominated by the lady who told 
 them. For all the notice any one took of Amabel she 
 might have been a wooden dummy ; but she looked and 
 listened and felt very well amused. It was after mid- 
 night when Madame Varasdin suddenly got up. 
 
 " Look at those women in mourning," she said 
 audibly ; " they are taking the table opposite us. We 
 don't want to sit and stare at them. I hate anything 
 gloomy." 
 
 " Are you busy to-morrow, Madame Varasdin ? " 
 said Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 The lady glanced at Mr. Newby, who turned red. 
 
 " Do you want me to take your niece to see the 
 Tomb of Napoleon?" she asked. 
 
 " Something of the kind," said Mr. Ferrers. " I 
 shall be busy till five. Could you come to lunch, and 
 then take Amabel to the right milliners? I believe 
 they are more important than the Tomb." 
 
 " I will come with pleasure," said Madame Varas- 
 din. " I have one engagement to-morrow, but I can 
 fix any time I choose for it. I will call for your niece 
 in the morning and we will have lunch together, and 
 at five at five, when you are free, Mr. Ferrers, you 
 will find us at Colombin's, the tea-house in the Rue 
 Cambon, you know. Can I depend on you to pick us 
 up there ? "
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 25 
 
 " Certainly ! " said Mr. Ferrers. " But how about 
 your other engagement ? " 
 
 " Six o'clock will do for that," said Madame Varas- 
 din. " We don't dine till half-past seven. Mr. Newby, 
 will you dine with us to-morrow at half-past seven ? " 
 
 " With pleasure," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " I wish Varasdin had half the wits of his wife," 
 said Mr. Ferrers to Amabel, as they drove home to- 
 gether. " I call her a very agreeable woman, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 " Ye-es," said Amabel, with the uncertain assent 
 that points to a contrary opinion. She could not keep 
 her eyes off Madame Varasdin, but she was not at 
 all sure that she thought her agreeable.
 
 26 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 IV 
 
 AMABEL had not seen the Tomb of Napoleon yet, but 
 she had seen a Paris dressmaker and several Paris 
 shops, and now she sat at one of Colombin's tea-tables, 
 in a blouse and a hat and a ruffle that changed her in 
 a twinkling from a moth to a butterfly. Her uncle 
 had taken her breath away that morning by telling 
 her, all in a hurry, while he drank his coffee and 
 glanced at his financial papers, that he meant to pro- 
 vide for her, and that, as he had to be in Paris on 
 and off till this affair of the Eugenia was settled, she 
 might stay there for the present in the hotel at first, 
 and, when he ran back to Mexico, in a family or a 
 Pension. 
 
 " You must ask Madame Varasdin about clothes," 
 he said, with a glance at his niece's worse-for-wear 
 guinea coat and skirt. " She appears to understand 
 them. You can't go about with her dressed like a 
 country cousin. I've plenty of money and nothing 
 much to do with it, and no one belonging to me. You 
 may just as well have a good time. I like the way 
 you came here straight off, on the chance. I've 
 done things of that sort myself, and I'm on the top of 
 the wave now. Here is some French money." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers had taken out a pocket-book and was
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 27 
 
 extracting French bank notes from it. He put five 
 beside her, and she saw that each one was for a 
 thousand francs. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, and her uncle looked at her with 
 amusement. He enjoyed her surprise and confusion, 
 and he enjoyed using some of his money in this novel 
 way. 
 
 " It won't last you long if you go shopping with 
 Madame Varasdin," he said. " She looks expensive. 
 I don't know how a fool like her husband manages 
 to pay for those diamonds." 
 
 " Is M. Varasdin a fool ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " He's a fool who's always telling you he's a clever 
 fellow," said Mr. Ferrers. " I'd any time rather deal 
 with a clever fellow who tells me he's a fool." 
 
 Then he got up and put away his pocket-book, and 
 said to Amabel that he must go about his business 
 now, but that, if nothing happened to prevent it, he 
 would take her to the opera to-night ; and Amabel got 
 ready for Madame Varasdin, having made up her mind 
 that the first thing she would buy should be a silk 
 dress for the cook. 
 
 " What do you want ? " said Madame Varasdin, as 
 they sat at lunch together. 
 
 " I believe I want everything from your point 
 of view," said Amabel, for the lady's walking gown 
 and hat were as elegant as her evening raiment 
 had been. " I am sure you would say my clothes 
 were only fit for a bonfire."
 
 28 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Clothes cost money," said Madame Varasdin, with 
 the smile that seemed to shut her eyes. " Have you 
 any idea of Paris prices? For a bolero and skirt I 
 pay my tailor " 
 
 She paused, and her glance gauged Amabel's 
 poor shrunken coat and skirt, and Amabel felt 
 quite uncomfortable and in a hurry to cast it from 
 her. 
 
 " The gown I am wearing cost twenty guineas," 
 Madame Varasdin continued. " The little man who 
 made it is rather clever. You might order two or 
 three things from him to begin with." 
 
 " My uncle gave me five thousand francs this 
 morning," said Amabel. " I thought it was a great 
 deal and would last a long time. I should not like 
 to spend it extravagantly." 
 
 " It won't go far if you want everything," said 
 Madame Varasdin. " From what Hyacinth tells me 
 of your uncle he could give you five thousand francs 
 a week and never know he was spending money. 
 But men are all the same. They expect a woman 
 to spend a thousand francs and look like a thousand 
 pounds. I told Hyacinth this morning that I wanted 
 a new hat, and he threatened to commit suicide." 
 
 " Does he often do that ? " said Amabel, puzzled 
 by the lady's tranquil manner. 
 
 " Whenever anything annoys him," said Madame 
 Varasdin. Then they called a cab and began the 
 business of the day, and long before five o'clock
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 29 
 
 Amabel had spent most of her money. She had 
 bought the silk dress and despatched it to the cook, 
 and she had presented Madame Varasdin with a hat 
 that the lady tried on and put down with a sigh be- 
 cause it cost five guineas. Amabel hardly ventured 
 to offer it, but Madame Varasdin made the way easy 
 for her, and accepted it with so much grace that the 
 girl saw that she had done the right thing. And now 
 here they were at Colombin's drinking tea and eating 
 little muffins, and looking at English cakes that were 
 not quite what English cakes should be, because they 
 were neither stale nor stodgy. The rooms were very 
 full and cheerful, and most people were talking Eng- 
 lish and American. 
 
 " Are there no French people in Paris ? " said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " It is not easy to come across them," said Madame 
 Varasdin. " I have lived here for a year and know 
 none." 
 
 " Where did you live before ? " said Amabel, and as 
 the question passed her lips she knew she would have 
 done better not to ask it. 
 
 " I have lived in every capital in Europe," said 
 Madame Varasdin. " My husband's affairs are al- 
 ways taking him to fresh places." 
 
 As she replied her husband came in, accompanied 
 by Mr. Ferrers. The two men were talking as they 
 crossed the outer shop. They stopped inside the room 
 to talk, and when they reached their own party they
 
 30 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 were still at the height of their argument, and had 
 only a formal greeting for the ladies. 
 
 " What has happened ? " said Madame Varasdin. 
 
 " That's what we want to know," said her husband. 
 
 " It's Eugenias," said Mr. Ferrers, " and I believe 
 it's Mexican Jem." 
 
 He looked cool and angry, and M. Varasdin looked 
 uncomfortable. Amabel began to understand that the 
 money she had been spending so easily was not always 
 made with ease of mind. 
 
 " Something must have gone wrong over there," 
 said M. Varasdin. 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Mr. Ferrers. " Mexican 
 Jem is banging the market ; that's all." 
 
 " But Eugenias are on offer all over the place," said 
 M. Varasdin, in an explanatory way to his wife. 
 " They're as flat as ditchwater. It's easy enough to 
 say it's banging " 
 
 " Can't you find out what has happened ? " said 
 Madame Varasdin. 
 
 " No, we can't," said Mr. Ferrers. " The mine is 
 fifty miles from anywhere. Of course we have wired 
 to the new manager, but we have had no answer." 
 
 " Who is Mexican Jem ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " A man who was buying all the Eugenias he could 
 get a week or two ago," said her uncle. 
 
 " But he's off them now, and I wish I was," said 
 M. Varasdin. " It's too much of a gamble." 
 
 " Have you any ? " said his wife.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 31 
 
 " I'm sorry to say I have a thousand in my 
 pocket." 
 
 He opened a letter case, and took from it the cer- 
 tificate of the shares. It lay open on the table for any 
 one to see, and Amabel looked at the wording cu- 
 riously. 
 
 " Well, I've made up my mind," said Mr. Ferrers ; 
 " I'm going straight over there. In case anything has 
 gone wrong, I'd rather be on the spot. But I shall 
 leave orders that if Mexican Jem offers a line to- 
 morrow they are taken for me." 
 
 " What we want is to get Wolfenstein interested 
 in them," said M. Varasdin. " He would strengthen 
 our faction." 
 
 " Wolfenstein's hands are not clean," said Mr. Fer- 
 rers. 
 
 Varasdin shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Business is business," said he ; " Wolfenstein is 
 a very clever man. He made a quarter of a million 
 last year, and this year he's doing better still; and 
 you should see the names of the people who go to his 
 wife's parties. They don't seem to mind about his 
 hands." 
 
 " I'm rather nice about my name," said Mr. Fer- 
 rers. " I've never been mixed up with a shady lot 
 yet." 
 
 " If you talk like that to my husband he will think 
 you are not a good man of business," said Mme. 
 Varasdin.
 
 32 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Well, I'm going to score off Mexican Jem," said 
 Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 " Or he'll score off us," said M. Varasdin, looking 
 dolefully at the Eugenia shares. 
 
 Amabel thought her uncle's glance took the other 
 man's measure and found him wanting. 
 
 " I'll let you out if you like," said Mr. Ferrers ; 
 " I'll take back your little lot." 
 
 " Done," said Varasdin eagerly. 
 
 " Perhaps you are throwing away a good thing," 
 said Mme. Varasdin rather anxiously. Mr. Ferrers had 
 taken out his cheque-book, and was filling in a cheque. 
 
 " I'll give you your thousand pounds," he said, with 
 an air of conviction that was impressive. " You 
 couldn't get the price in London or here this after- 
 noon. But I believe in Eugenias." 
 
 " I can't afford a gamble," said Varasdin sulkily. 
 " My expenses are too heavy." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers tore off the cheque and presented it to 
 M. Varasdin. For a few minutes there was a lull at 
 that particular tea-table, and Amabel wondered what 
 was going to happen. She saw that her uncle's 
 thoughts were far away from the Parisian tea-house. 
 He consulted first a calendar and then a railway time- 
 table, and then he looked at his watch. 
 
 " I can just do it," he said. " But I must be at the 
 Nord in half-an-hour." 
 
 As if each minute had grown precious, he pushed 
 back his chair and got up, but his eyes fell on Amabel,
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 33 
 
 and he sat down again. She looked at him expec- 
 tantly. 
 
 " I can't take you to the opera till I come back," 
 he said ; " I must go to Mexico at once and find out 
 what has happened. I'll leave you all the French 
 money I have, and I'll pay up at the hotel, and I'll 
 send you a cheque. You mustn't stay on at the Ritz 
 by yourself. Mme. Varasdin, can you tell my niece 
 of a comfortable pension? If not, she had better go 
 straight to England." 
 
 " When shall you be back, Uncle Michael ? " said 
 Amabel, and she looked at him rather wistfully. 
 
 " It is sure to be weeks, it might be months," said 
 Mr. Ferrers. " I may find the new manager is mak- 
 ing a mess of things. You must send me your ad- 
 dress, of course. I'll wire you mine. You'll be all 
 right, you know. So shall I at least I hope I 
 shall Anyhow if I'm not all right give me 
 that certificate, Varasdin I believe you will be with 
 this but take care of it, my dear they're bearer 
 shares." 
 
 " What is it ? " said Amabel, taking the paper from 
 her uncle. 
 
 " It's a thousand Eugenias," said Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 " Mademoiselle enters the affair in the pleasantest 
 way," said M. Varasdin. " She takes no risk, and the 
 chance of a big profit. Even to-day, when things look 
 so black, that little bit of paper could be sold for eight 
 or nine hundred pounds, Mademoiselle."
 
 34 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " But I have just seen you sell it for a thousand," 
 Amabel reminded him. 
 
 " The prices of such things go up and down," her 
 uncle explained to her. " These shares may be worth 
 a good many thousands soon. Keep them tight till I 
 wire to you to sell, and remember that they are 
 unregistered and can be stolen as easily as a bank- 
 note." 
 
 " But how shall I sell them ? " said Amabel. 
 
 "Go to a respectable stockbroker," said Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 " I don't know one," said Amabel. 
 
 " You know me," said M. Varasdin. " I shall be 
 happy to give you any assistance in my power while 
 your uncle is away." 
 
 " Are you a stockbroker ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " I am not exactly on the Bourse," said M. Varas- 
 din, taking a fine attitude. " I keep outside and have 
 more scope. I am what you call a financier." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Amabel uncomprehendingly ; and she 
 took the certificate of the shares back from Madame 
 Varasdin, who had been studying it intently. " I sup- 
 pose I'm worth robbing," she said to her uncle, as she 
 put the certificate and the French money into her 
 purse. 
 
 " You will be in six weeks' time, I hope," said he ; 
 and then he got up, and his glance lingered a little on 
 her pretty face, and he could see that she was more 
 concerned about his going away than about the money 
 he had given her.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 35 
 
 " Come back soon, Uncle Michael," she said, as she 
 stood at the door with him for a moment. 
 
 " Suppose I didn't you'd be all right, you know, 
 my dear. If I live I'll send you money; and if I don't, 
 you're my legal heir. I'll write to my solicitors and 
 tell them about you before I leave New York. Take 
 care of your Eugenias, and don't trust that Varasdin 
 too much. I heard things I don't like about him to- 
 day. I'm glad to have done with him as far as busi- 
 ness goes. I dare say he'll do in private life." 
 
 " What do you think of Madame Varasdin ? " said 
 Amabel rather anxiously. 
 
 " I think she's a clever woman," said Mr. Ferrers, 
 signing to a cab-driver. " She will tell you how to 
 dress and where to live, and that is all you want of 
 her. I could see she was furious because her husband 
 wouldn't keep his Eugenias. She has the wit to be- 
 lieve in me. I'm not going to take you with me now 
 because I must race the clock, and you'd be in my 
 way. You talk to Madame Varasdin about a board- 
 ing-house, and settle in somewhere to-night. I shall 
 be back before you've time to turn around. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers kissed his niece and took off his hat to 
 the Varasdins, who were approaching the door. He 
 showed the cab-driver a twenty-franc piece, and told 
 him what he must do to get it, and so in a twinkling 
 he clattered out of the narrow side-street into the Rue 
 de Rivoli. Amabel watched the cab, and then walked
 
 36 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 slowly towards the Boulevards with the Varasdins. 
 She felt forlorn. 
 
 " What are you going to do now, Mademoiselle ? " 
 said M. Varasdin. 
 
 " My uncle told me to make inquiries about a pen- 
 sion," said Amabel. "Do you know of one?" 
 
 " How would you like to come and stay with us ? " 
 said Mme. Varasdin.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 37 
 
 V 
 
 " WITH you ? " repeated Amabel, a good deal sur- 
 prised and puzzled. The proposal was made in such 
 a business-like tone that she guessed a business-like 
 idea must be at the back of it ; and she looked at Mme. 
 Varasdin's hat and gown and jewels, and wondered. 
 
 " We have a flat in the best part of Paris," con- 
 tinued Mme. Varasdin. " From our balcony you can 
 see Mont Valerien if you look one way, and the Arc 
 de Triomphe if you look the other. We are close to 
 the Bois." 
 
 " But surely I should be in your way ? " said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " No," said Mme. Varasdin. " We have often had 
 some one with us for a time. When my old friend, 
 Baron Rosenmeyer, went on a financial mission to 
 Turkey, he confided his only daughter to my care. He 
 paid me what is it in your English money ? seven 
 guineas a week." 
 
 Twenty-four hours ago Amabel would have known 
 that Mme. Varasdin asked too much; but the day's 
 work had left her ideas about money quite topsy- 
 turvy. In a city where people paid five guineas for 
 a straw hat trimmed with a couple of quills, and 
 thirty guineas for a cashmere gown, a guinea a day
 
 38 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 for board and lodging sounded almost moderate. She 
 had a pocketful of money, her uncle had promised her 
 a cheque, and she had the thousand Eugenias. 
 
 " If you are quite sure I shall not be in your way " 
 she began again, embarrassed by the difficulty of re- 
 jecting the idea and uncertain whether she fancied it. 
 
 " Come and try," said Mme. Varasdin. " If you 
 don't like us, you can any day go to a pension; but 
 I think you will like us. I am sure your uncle would 
 be glad to hear you were with me, and not with stran- 
 gers." 
 
 So the matter was settled, and Amabel went back 
 to the hotel and collected her things, and at seven 
 o'clock she was driving out to Mme. Varasdin's flat 
 in the Avenue Ernani. It was still light, and as she 
 drove across the Place de la Concorde and up the 
 Champs Elysees, she felt glad that she was to stay 
 in this beautiful, happy-looking city, where she would 
 see the golden side of life, she who had seen the drab 
 side ever since she could remember. She was adrift 
 here, but she would have been adrift in London too, 
 for she had no friends there. The few friends left 
 to her lived in a grimy little Lancashire town, where 
 her parents had lived and struggled with debt, and 
 died. She loved her own country, but her memories 
 of it, though they were tender, were sad. Her drive 
 through Paris on this brilliant evening was like a 
 dancing tune that sets your spirits dancing to its own 
 measure.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 39 
 
 Mme. Varasdin received her, and took her into a 
 small drawing-room that communicated with a larger 
 one by means of glass doors. It had a parqueted 
 floor, the inevitable mirror over the mantelpiece, a 
 walnut centre table, and some damaged-looking red 
 satin chairs. 
 
 " This is the room I shall give you," said Mme. 
 Varasdin. " The bedstead will be brought down from 
 the attic after dinner; and there is a washstand too, 
 the very one I bought for Amalie von Rosenmeyer. 
 You see your window opens on to the balcony, so you 
 will have a fine view." 
 
 Amabel thought she would rather have had a ward- 
 robe and a chest of drawers. An anteroom with a 
 table and chairs did not come up to her British ideas 
 of comfort and privacy so well as a Bloomsbury attiq 
 where you can lock your one door and put away your 
 clothes. The doors leading into the salon were cur- 
 tained, but she could find neither key nor bolt to them ; 
 and through her window she could see the boots of 
 some one sitting on the balcony. 
 
 " Mr. Newby is here," said Mme. Varasdin. " He 
 will dine with us. It is not necessary to dress for 
 dinner. If you take off your hat you will be ready." 
 
 Amabel thought that, under the circumstances, a 
 more prolonged toilet would have been difficult to 
 manage; so she took off her hat and then followed 
 her hostess on to the balcony. The boots, she found, 
 belonged to Mr. Newby, who rose to greet her. He
 
 40 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 looked younger than ever, and when he saw his hos- 
 tess's tea-gown he stuck his monocle into his eye and 
 said 
 
 " I say, Madame Varasdin ! what a rippin' dress and 
 what rippin' flowers ! Did you have the flowers made 
 for you ? I never saw any like 'em ! " 
 
 For Mme. Varasdin's toilet had not been accom- 
 plished by taking off a hat. She wore a loose green- 
 ish-blue gown that hung as Amabel had never seen a 
 gown hang before, and chains of uncut turquoises and 
 great jewelled clasps and flowers with all the blues 
 and greens of heaven blended in their petals. 
 
 " They are ixias," said Anastasie, and then M. Va- 
 rasdin appeared and they went in to dinner. 
 
 It was a very good dinner, but Amabel did not know 
 whether the talk that went on was good or bad, be- 
 cause she could not follow it. She was never quite 
 sure whether people or speculations or both together 
 were being discussed, and she felt rather pleased when 
 Mr. Varasdin coupled together two names she had 
 heard before, and told Mr. Newby that Mexican Jem 
 had cleared out of Eugenias, and that instead of ris- 
 ing like rockets they were dropping like sticks. 
 
 " I suppose even Mexican Jem may make a mis- 
 take," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Well, I've left them alone," said M. Varasdin. 
 " I'm afraid of a gamble, and I don't mind who 
 knows it." 
 
 " What will happen to my Eugenias if they drop
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 41 
 
 like sticks ? " said Amabel. It was the first time she 
 had entered into the conversation. 
 
 " Your Eugenias ? " said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " My uncle gave me a thousand," said Amabel, and 
 she opened the bag hanging at her side and passed the 
 certificate across the table to Mr. Newby. He glanced 
 at it and was going to pass it back, when Mme. Va- 
 rasdin took it from him. 
 
 " Sell them to me to-night for five hundred 
 pounds," she said ; " I love a gamble." 
 
 " Don't do it," said Varasdin, addressing his wife 
 with such sudden and violent excitement that his two 
 guests felt quite alarmed. " Don't do it. Mexican 
 Jem has got even. So have I, and we know what we 
 are about. Mr. Ferrers has given mademoiselle a 
 bagatelle. In a fortnight they may not be worth five 
 pounds. Besides, where will you get five hundred 
 pounds? Do you think I will give five hundred 
 pounds for such wickedness? Do you think I have 
 them to give? Will you pay for your own gambles, 
 then, madame? You always think you know best and 
 that I am a fool, but I, Hyacinth Louis Varasdin, tell 
 you there is nothing in Eugenias, nothing at all." 
 
 He brought his hand down on the table with such 
 a bang that his wine glasses tottered, and the maid- 
 servant nearly dropped the dish in her hands. Anas- 
 tasie only blinked at her husband. 
 
 " I don't agree with you, Varasdin," said Mr. 
 Newby, in his queer, high, young voice. " I believe
 
 42 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 they'll come out right in the end. If any one had 
 chucked a thousand at me I should stick to 'em." 
 
 " I must stick to them," said Amabel, restoring the 
 certificate to her purse. " My uncle told me not to 
 sell them till he wired." 
 
 " You must take care of your purse, then," said Mr. 
 Newby. " Any one who stole it could sell them. 
 They're bearer shares." 
 
 " What disagreeable ideas you have," said Mme. 
 Varasdin, getting up from table. 
 
 But Mr. Newby's manner had put Amabel uncom- 
 fortably on her guard, and for at least a week she 
 slept with her purse under her pillow. She did not 
 know what degree of distrust her fellow-countryman 
 meant to instil, or which member of the household in- 
 spired it, but she thought it could not be Mme. Va- 
 rasdin. Mr. Newby's case with regard to her was 
 plain, and what puzzled Amabel was M. Varasdin's 
 alternate blindness and fidgety interference. He 
 fawned on the young man in his presence, and called 
 him a " beefsteak " when his back was turned, and 
 Amabel found that by a beefsteak her host meant some 
 one rude and loutish and dull of mind. She won- 
 dered whether Mme. Varasdin called her names the 
 moment she was out of hearing. Her respect for the 
 husband and wife did not grow with her sojourn in 
 their house, but they laid themselves out to please her, 
 and she was neither uncomfortable nor unhappy as a 
 rule. She soon discovered that they had dreadful and
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 43 
 
 frequent scenes with each other, and at first, after 
 hearing their voices raised in shrill vituperation, she 
 used to feel ashamed to look them in the face. But 
 they were so unashamed themselves that she began to 
 take these storms for granted, as you take thunder 
 for granted when you travel to a hotter climate. They 
 were invariably about money, although Mr. Ne why's 
 name somehow got mixed up with them every time. 
 
 Of course Amabel's life had given her no social ex- 
 perience, but even she perceived that the Varasdins 
 were not in good position. They seemed to know no 
 French people at all, but only a cosmopolitan rabble 
 of artists and business men. The artists were obscure 
 and impecunious, and the business men came from 
 heaven knows where, and made their money heaven 
 knows how. They would squander money one day 
 and borrow the next, and as lief get the best of a bar- 
 gain with a friend as with an enemy. Their women- 
 kind were not always as doubtful and unpleasing as 
 they were themselves. The matrons were often ab- 
 sorbed in domestic affairs and greatly tried by the 
 tips and downs of life. There was one very fat lady 
 who told Amabel that she never knew whether her 
 husband would come back from business with a dia- 
 mond necklace for her, or with a revolver that he 
 proposed to hold first to her head and then to his 
 own. She had been through every extreme of for- 
 tune with him, and had nearly starved while he was 
 well fed in an Austrian prison. She was rather proud
 
 44 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 of the prison episode, and said that Mathias had been 
 the victim of a brother's guile. But when Amabel saw 
 Mathias she thought a man with those eyes could not 
 be without guile himself. He was a good-natured per- 
 son, devoted to his fat wife and his grown-up daugh- 
 ters, and inclined to make a pet of Amabel. Just at 
 present he was living in great magnificence on the 
 Champs Elysees, and the eldest daughter was about to 
 marry a Berlin stockbroker. The Varasdins, with 
 Amabel, were invited to the wedding and to a re- 
 ception at the house the night before.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 45 
 
 VI 
 
 THE Varasdins were sitting on the balcony with Mr. 
 Newby and Amabel. Below them the long double 
 line of young chestnuts stretched to right and left as 
 far as the eye could follow, the tall white houses rose 
 high above the trees, and the street lights flashed 
 amongst their branches. The busy traffic of the city 
 sounded far away, and the people strolling along the 
 pavement beneath were not present in any disturbing 
 degree to the people on the balcony. At the win- 
 dows of the opposite houses there was no sign of the 
 inhabitants, except the lace curtains with which they 
 shut themselves in. The stars were coming out in 
 a clear sky, and from the hills beyond the Bois a 
 pleasant breeze swept through the avenue towards 
 Paris. 
 
 " It is my birthday to-morrow," Mme. Varasdin was 
 saying. " What will you give me, Hyancinth ? " 
 
 " Everything I have is yours already," said Hya- 
 cinth. 
 
 " But you haven't much," said Anastasie. " I want 
 a string of real pearls." 
 
 " I will give you the pearls and mademoiselle the 
 Koh-i-noor on the same day. I can get one as easily 
 as the other."
 
 46 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Pearls are beastly expensive things," said Mr. 
 Newby. " Don't see much good in them either." 
 
 " You haven't seen the gown I am going to wear 
 at the Gregorios'," said Mme. Varasdin ; " pearls 
 would be the making of it." 
 
 "How much is the gown going to cost?" inquired 
 M. Varasdin. 
 
 " You will see when the bill comes in," said Anas- 
 tasie blandly. 
 
 " Paris is a very costly place," said Amabel. " I've 
 spent all the money Uncle Michael left me and about 
 half the cheque he sent. I can't think what poor 
 people do here. How do they exist, Mme. Varasdin ? " 
 
 " I take no interest in them. It is so easy to make 
 money that people who are poor are stupid. I prefer 
 to contemplate people like the Gregorios. They un- 
 derstand the art of life." 
 
 " You mean they understand the art of swindling," 
 said Mr. Newby. 
 
 Amabel looked up rather startled and expecting 
 Mme. Varasdin to take offense, but she only laughed. 
 
 " You like a man who sits in a prison one year and 
 buys a palace the next," said M. Varasdin. 
 
 " I like a man who can get into a palace after a 
 prison," said his wife. " You want brains and 
 energy to do that." 
 
 Something in her tone and glance made her husband 
 wince and then bluster. 
 
 " Gregorio is a rogue," he shouted ; " Gregorio made
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 47 
 
 all his money out of that Coal Syndicate, and it was 
 one of the biggest frauds. He has ruined thousands." 
 
 " And we're all going to dance at his daughter's 
 wedding to-morrow," piped Mr. Newby. " I suppose 
 he'll have good champagne." 
 
 " I taught him how to play ping-pong the other 
 day," said Amabel. " He didn't like picking up the 
 balls ; he is so fat. He is always very kind, and when 
 Jeanne Gregorio spilt her wine on the governess's 
 dress I saw him give her a hundred-franc note for a 
 new one. Mrs. Hunter was highly respectable, and I 
 never had enough to eat in her house, and she nagged 
 from morning till night. It seems that swindlers are 
 agreeable people to live with." 
 
 " Quite," said Mr. Newby, " as long as you drink 
 their champagne and pocket their bank notes and don't 
 trust them with a penny. If that governess saved all 
 her life for her old age, and put her savings into his 
 hands, he'd foist some of his rotten stuff on her with- 
 out a pang, and to-morrow she'd be in the workhouse, 
 and he'd be giving a party, and you and I would be 
 drinking his champagne. That's how it's done, Miss 
 Ferrers. Be Gregorio, or be you or me, but don't be 
 some poor devil who starves and scrapes and ends in 
 the gutter after all." 
 
 " People are not forced to speculate ; they are so 
 greedy," said M. Varasdin. 
 
 " Oh ! of course, the lamb should keep away from 
 the wolf," said Mr. Newby.
 
 48 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " After all, the raison d'etre of a lamb is to be 
 eaten," said Mme. Varasdin. " You like it yourself 
 for dinner." 
 
 Later on in the evening, when Mr. Newby had de- 
 parted, the husband and wife still sat together on the 
 balcony. It was a most unusual thing for them to do. 
 
 " I've the devil's luck lately," began the man. 
 
 " That's nothing new," said the lady. 
 
 " There must be a smash soon." 
 
 " That's why I made a bid for the pearls." 
 
 " What will they be worth if you get them? I want 
 thousands. The moment I touch anything it comes 
 to grief. The moment I take my hands off it pros- 
 pers. I tell you I've the devil's luck." 
 
 " I'm sure I had when I married you," said Anas- 
 tasie. 
 
 " It's your extravagance that brings us to ruin," 
 said Hyacinth. 
 
 " I want money and I mean to have it," said his 
 wife. " I'd rather be dead than poor. People who 
 can't make money out of a world full of imbeciles de- 
 serve all the kicks they get. It is the one thing worth 
 doing, and if I were a man I would do it or go out. 
 What is the use of health or beauty or brains except 
 as a means to money? Life without it is a martyr- 
 dom that lasts as long as life itself. I, at any rate, 
 care for nothing else, desire nothing else. If I were 
 a man I would have striven for it with so single a 
 mind, with such a fierce determination, that I tell you
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 49 
 
 I would have got it. No obstacles should have hin- 
 dered me; I would have thrust them aside. No dif- 
 ficulties should have baffled me; I would have mas- 
 tered them. How can a man be so indolent, so dull, 
 so poor in spirit? You have no money? Go out into 
 the market-place and make some, fool. You play the 
 poorest part of all you wolf who never brings 
 home his lamb." 
 
 " Oh ! you have a tongue," said M. Varasdin ; " I 
 never denied that." 
 
 Then he go out a pencil and a pocket-book, and 
 did little sums, and he got more and more excited and 
 unhappy, and at last he dashed them both to the 
 ground and said he could not stand this state of 
 things any longer, and that unless Anastasie came to 
 his assistance he would go straight downstairs and 
 throw himself into the Seine. 
 
 " What do you expect me to do ? " said Anastasie. 
 
 " Get hold of money somehow anyhow." 
 
 " If you would be obliging enough to throw your- 
 self into the Seine, I might marry Mr. Newby. The 
 stupid young man is rich." 
 
 " I'm not going to drown myself to please you," said 
 M. Varasdin. 
 
 " I am convinced you will not drown yourself. It 
 would take a little courage and perhaps be unpleas- 
 ant." 
 
 " Some day I shall kill you," snarled the man. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin got up.
 
 50 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I have often thought one of us would be better 
 out of the way," she said. 
 
 But next day a basket of roses arrived for her, and 
 amongst the roses there was a jeweller's case, and in 
 the case there was a string of pearls and Mr. Newby's 
 card. She held them up triumphantly. 
 
 " You may give me another string whenever you 
 like," she said to Hyacinth. 
 
 " Mr. Newby is very gallant," he observed, and 
 Amabel, who was present, looked in vain for any trace 
 of embarrassment in his manner or in his wife's. They 
 were well satisfied. At night, when she went to the 
 Gregorios', Mme. Varasdin wore the pearls round her 
 neck, and the eyes of every woman in the room fol- 
 lowed her with longing. The type of woman gathered 
 there would rather have pearls than love or honour or 
 renown. 
 
 "If you have the wits of a sparrow you'll make 
 money out of this," she said to her husband. " Every 
 one will think you've given them to me. Pearls mean 
 money, and money means credit." 
 
 " No one will think I have given them to you," 
 growled M. Varasdin. " Haven't you come here with 
 that English booby at your heels ? " 
 
 " But, my dear, you are dull beyond understanding. 
 Isn't Miss Ferrers at my heels, too, and isn't she the 
 prettiest girl in the room ? " 
 
 "I may be dull," said M. Varasdin; "but I'm 
 sharp enough to see the fellow can't keep his eyes off
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 51 
 
 you. He's too raw and silly to care about a beautiful 
 girl." 
 
 With this back-hander the exasperated gentleman 
 sheered off, and the moment he did so Mr. Newby de- 
 serted Amabel for the lady of riper years and more 
 subtle charm. He sat down beside Mme. Varasdin, 
 and looked through his single eyeglass at the splendid 
 rooms and at the people moving about in them, and 
 when they were unusually odd he asked her to explain 
 them. Sometimes he made a remark that surprised 
 her by its shrewdness, but she found his conversa- 
 tion on the whole extremely dull. 
 
 Like most continentals, she failed entirely to under- 
 stand a man of Mr. Newby's type, a type so common 
 at home that every playing-field is full of it, and every 
 battle is fought by it, and every ship manned by it. 
 He was one of the swarm of clean-shaven, clean- 
 minded English boys, with brains that never dazzle 
 and never collapse, and a character that will neither 
 tell lies nor forgive them. Even his civilisation was 
 of a kind she could not discover or appreciate. She 
 saw that he was awkward and tongue-tied, and she 
 did not understand why he called Egon Rosenmeyer a 
 bounder. She thought Egon Rosenmeyer charming. 
 He had curly hair and an impudent tongue, his anec- 
 dotes had to be whispered, he was a facile musician, 
 and as for his bonnes fortunes, they were like the 
 waves of the sea, countless and overlapping. He 
 was always ready to tell her about them, too, and
 
 52 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 she wished he would sit beside her instead of Mr. 
 Newby. 
 
 " There's that little beast of a Rosenmeyer getting 
 introduced to Miss Ferrers," said Mr. Newby. " How 
 sick she'll be." 
 
 " Go, and rescue her, then, and send Egon to me. 
 I like him." 
 
 " How can any one like him ? " 
 
 " What's wrong with him ? " asked Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 But to explain that was, of course, beyond Mr. 
 Newby's powers. 
 
 " A man should have some muscle," he said. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin's eyes fixed themselves on Mr. 
 Newby's large, sunburnt hand. He had taken one 
 glove off and wore the other. 
 
 " He should if he wants to be a railway porter and 
 shoulder trunks, or a drayman and roll about barrels 
 of beer," she said. " I don't know what use muscles 
 are to you and M. Rosenmeyer, or what ornament. 
 It is a superstition Europe does not share with you. 
 Nowadays, even a war is waged with brains a suc- 
 cessful war, that is; you will find it out some day 
 when you are face to face with a civilised people." 
 
 " H m," said Mr. Newby. He did not get up be- 
 cause he saw that Amabel was coming towards them 
 with her new cavalier in tow. Her face and figure 
 and air were all English; her clothes and her coif- 
 fure were all French; and so she was, as Mme. Va- 
 rasdin had said, the prettiest girl in the room.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 53 
 
 " What do you think M. Rosenmeyer has just told 
 me ? " she said. " Mexican Jem is coming here to- 
 night." 
 
 "How have the Gregorios managed that?" said 
 Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " I'm surprised myself," said M. Rosenmeyer. " Old 
 Gregorio told me the moment I arrived. He keeps 
 running to the stairs and watching for him. If he was 
 expecting a royal duke he could not be in a greater 
 fuss." 
 
 " If a royal duke came here it would be to borrow 
 money," said Mme. Varasdin. " If Mexican Jem only 
 looks your way you make it. He is a more important 
 guest to old Gregorio than any duke could be." 
 
 " But who is Mexican Jem ? " asked Amabel. 
 
 " A financial power," said M. Rosenmeyer. 
 
 " But if he is English, how is it these foreigners 
 know him ? " 
 
 ' The whole world knows him since he brought out 
 the great El Paso Mine," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Is he very rich ? " asked Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " If I had a year of his income I'd never do a 
 day's work again," said M. Rosenmeyer. 
 
 " He's an awfully decent chap, too," said Mr. 
 Newby. " As straight as they make 'em." 
 
 " Oh ! do you believe that of anybody ? " said M. 
 Rosenmeyer, who understood the English idiom. " I 
 myself am strictly honourable, but I never expect to 
 find other people so."
 
 54 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " H m," said Mr. Newby again, and M. Rosen- 
 meyer had no notion that the inarticulate English lad 
 had taken his measure. 
 
 " I think Mexican Jem must have come," said 
 Amabel. " There's a buzz near that further door." 
 
 " I see him," said Mr. Newby. " He has just come 
 into the room with Mme. Gregorio." 
 
 : ' They crowd round him so," complained Mme. Va- 
 rasdin, " any one would think he was going to throw 
 them shares to scramble for." 
 
 She got up and went towards the centre of the room, 
 followed by Amabel and the two young men. They 
 made a little separate group as the host and hostess, 
 accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking man, 
 steered their way. Amabel's eyes were uncertain and 
 astonished, and she turned to Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Do you mean that tall, fair man ? " she said. " He 
 has just been stopped by some one." 
 
 " That's him," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " That Mexican Jem ! " cried Amabel, and her voice 
 carried a little further than it should have done. The 
 gentleman looked straight at her and smiled. 
 
 " Why, he knows you," said Mme. Varasdin. " He 
 is coming to us. You must present him to me."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 55 
 
 VII 
 
 " OF course he knows me," said Amabel. " It is 
 Mr. Sheringham. I never heard him called Mexican 
 Jem.' 
 
 " Then you didn't keep company with the Stock Ex- 
 change," said Mr. Newby, and the next moment he 
 and Amabel were shaking hands with the guest of the 
 evening. Madame Varasdin edged herself a little in 
 front of Amabel as soon as she could, and set herself 
 to capture Mr. Sheringham. She could not distinguish 
 between simple and simpleton, and she expected to play 
 with the three people born under the Union Jack as a 
 juggler plays with balls, throwing one away to catch 
 the other and yet keeping them all in hand. Large as her 
 experience was of men, she had never come across one 
 yet whose directness was the very weapon with which 
 he turned her subleties, and whose strength against her 
 lay partly in his want of taste for the exotic. The 
 impression she made on Mr. Sheringham was of a 
 tall, thin woman, who had eyes like a Jap and such a 
 fidgety way with her hands that she pulled at her 
 handkerchief while she talked to him. Her gold-em- 
 broidered gown was no doubt very fine, but it was a 
 gown that persistently got in front of Amabel, and the 
 first moment he could he walked round it.
 
 56 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Come and have an ice, Miss Ferrers," he said, and 
 gave Amabel his arm and walked off with her. 
 
 " That's Mexican Jem," said Mr. Newby. " What 
 he wants he takes, and you can no more stop him 
 than a pebble can stop a steam roller." 
 
 " Do fetch me an ice," said Mme. Varasdin. But 
 when the young man came back with it he could not 
 find her. He stood about for a time and felt rather 
 bored and then he went away. He knew when he 
 bought the pearls that he was playing the fool, and 
 to-night he knew it with still greater conviction. The 
 lady did not care a straw for him, and all her lures 
 were spread for his money. He thought the game 
 would soon come to an end. It had been amusing, 
 costly, and instructive, and he was beginning to tire 
 of it. He detested the husband, and his admiration 
 of the wife was not the admiration of esteem; it was 
 not even the tolerant, half-contemptuous admiration 
 men feel for a sinner who is her own enemy and no 
 one else's. The boy had been fascinated and was 
 coming to his senses. 
 
 Meanwhile Madame Varasdin sat in a corner of the 
 balcony with Egon Rosenmeyer and told him how 
 badly Mr. Newby bored her. The balcony was fur- 
 nished with palms and wicker chairs, and lighted with 
 Chinese lanterns that were bobbing in the breeze; and 
 Madame Varasdin herself, with her narrow eyes and 
 clinging gown, looked like one of the ivory-headed 
 ladies on the fan she had just unfurled.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 57 
 
 " He is as dull and heavy as his national food," 
 she said, " and the girl is as excellent and insipid. Be- 
 tween the two I am having a time. Oh ! I assure you 
 it is not gay at home now. What a race! And it 
 is always they who have the money." 
 
 " If you want money you should make eyes at the 
 other one," said M. Rosenmeyer. " What became of 
 him?" 
 
 " He walked away with mademoiselle," said Mme. 
 Varasdin. " But they are astounding, these ladies and 
 gentlemen. Their tongues are spiritless, their man- 
 ners are rude, their flirtations are scandalous. Yet 
 to all the world they give themselves airs." 
 
 " Let us talk of something agreeable," said M. 
 Rosenmeyer. " Have you heard Yvette's last song ? " 
 
 Sheringham had taken Amabel to the further end 
 of the balcony which ran along two sides of the corner 
 house in which the Gregorios lived. He fetched her 
 an ice and some champagne, and then he sat down 
 and looked at her. 
 
 " What has happened to you ? " he said. " Do you 
 remember the last time we met in Mrs. Hunter's 
 drawing-room you said you were going to East- 
 bourne next day and I said I would run down there 
 too. I never did. I was detained by business." 
 
 " I know," said Amabel sedately. " You were bang- 
 ing the market." 
 
 "What?" said Sheringham.
 
 58 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Amabel took the train of her white satin gown out 
 of danger. 
 
 " You nearly, upset that champagne," she said. 
 
 " No wonder. What do you know about markets ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. But when my uncle went off in a 
 hurry to Mexico 
 
 "Your uncle?" 
 
 " Uncle Michael." 
 
 " Michael Ferrers ! ' Eugenia ' Ferrers ! Is he your 
 uncle? Then that explains the cook." 
 
 "The cook! Oh! do you mean Mrs. Pugsley?" 
 
 " I dare say I do," said Sheringham. " I made her 
 acquaintance last Sunday. I wanted to see you again, 
 and, as it was the only way open to me, I dropped in 
 to lunch at Bayswater Square. I expected to meet 
 you at lunch, of course ; but when we went down, 
 there sat all those pasty-faced children and a pasty- 
 faced old dragon with them." 
 
 " Mrs. Hunter sent me out of the house," said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " So I was given to understand, when I made in- 
 quiries after lunch." 
 
 " Did she say I was horrid ? " 
 
 " What she said is of no importance. At the time 
 it made me rather angry, and I suppose I showed 
 it " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Amabel, with breathless interest. " Did 
 she shrivel up ? " 
 
 " Not perceptibly. Our parting was what you may
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 59 
 
 call strained. She pretended not to know where you 
 were." 
 
 "Did you ask her?" 
 
 " Of course I did." 
 
 " That would have made her angry." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Sheringham pensively, " there were 
 some feathers flying. The sort of feathers that do fly 
 in drawing-rooms, you know. I hate a row with a 
 woman." 
 
 " Oh ! did you have a row ? " said Amabel. " Do 
 tell me what happened." 
 
 " Nothing happened. I said it was downright 
 wicked to send a girl like you adrift in London for no 
 reason whatever, and that seemed to annoy her. I 
 walked out of the house in a rage, and then that red- 
 headed Buttons came tearing after me " 
 
 " Oh ! Ginger," said Amabel. " I like Ginger." 
 
 " So do I," said Mr. Sheringham. " He stopped me 
 and said, ' Would I please wait a minute and speak to 
 the cook?' I was just asking him what the what 
 the message signified, when the cook herself ap- 
 peared." 
 
 " She's an old dear," said Amabel. " I love her 
 more than some fine ladies." 
 
 " I love her too," said Mr. Sheringham. " We went 
 inside the Square garden, and sat down on a bench, 
 and she said she hoped she wasn't taking a liberty, 
 but she thought I might like to know as Miss Ferrers 
 was gone to live in Paris with an uncle as was a mil-
 
 60 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 lionaire. We were more than half-an-hour together, 
 and had a most interesting conversation. She told me 
 ever so many things I wanted to know." 
 
 "What sort of things?" 
 
 " Oh ! little things about you and your career 
 as a governess to five pasty-faced children and why 
 she took to you from the first moment she ever set 
 eyes on you and how the cloak she was wearing 
 came from you and that you were living with some 
 people called Varasdin, in the Avenue Ernani and 
 then we said good-bye she sent you her respects 
 and some day when I get married, she is coming to be 
 my cook." 
 
 " But I don't agree to that," cried Amabel. " She is 
 coming to live with Uncle Michael and me when we 
 settle down together." 
 
 " So yesterday I came to Paris and stumbled against 
 old Gregorio first thing. I asked him if he knew the 
 Varasdins and you and he asked me here to meet 
 you. That's my story. Now, what do you mean with 
 your talk about banging markets ? " 
 
 " Uncle Michael said it must be you when he 
 went off in a hurry because Eugenias went down." 
 
 " It wasn't me. Of course, they went down. The 
 reef is pinched out. They're no good. Your uncle 
 must have lost a big slice of his million over them, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " I'm sorry they're no good," said Amabel, who did 
 not feel much affected by the news of her uncle's mis-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 61 
 
 fortunes. The journey through life of a speculator 
 presented itself to her mind like a switchback with 
 violent ups and downs that the traveller took as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 " I'm uncommonly sorry too," said Mr. Sheringham. 
 
 " I have a thousand," explained Amabel. " What 
 does ' pinched out ' mean ? " 
 
 " No gold. I got the news through a private source 
 the day after I saw you, and wired from Havre to sell. 
 But Mr. Ferrers must have had the news soon after 
 me." 
 
 " My uncle will be sorry," said Amabel. " He 
 seemed to take such an interest in Eugenias." 
 
 " They've been very interesting lately," said Sher- 
 ingham. " I've dropped about a hundred thousand 
 on them myself." 
 
 " Then M. Varasdin was right," said Amabel. " He 
 was afraid of them." 
 
 " What sort of people are the Varasdins ? " 
 
 " He is a financier, whatever that may mean," said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " I know pretty well what it means in his case. M. 
 Gregorio gave me a confidential sketch of his friend's 
 career. It has been chequered and sometimes cloudy. 
 I was thinking of the husband and wife together and 
 of their relation to you. How did your uncle come to 
 place you with them ? " 
 
 Amabel explained, and said that she was not un- 
 comfortable.
 
 62 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " The lady wears very fine pearls," said Shering- 
 ham. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Newby gave her those," said Amabel. 
 
 Mr. Sheringham looked thoughtful. 
 
 " I want to come and see you," he said. " Are you 
 having much fun ? Do these people show you Paris ? " 
 
 " We go to theatres and cafes. We never do the 
 things I am dying to do." 
 
 " What are you dying to do ? " 
 
 " I want to go to St. Germain in a steam tram and 
 gather lilies of the valley and Solomon's Seal in the 
 forest. Jeanne Gregorio went with her governess the 
 other day. She says it was like a journey in a dream. 
 You fly along the road opposite people you have never 
 seen, past villages and a winding river, and trees and 
 fields. There are lovely colours and effects of light 
 and water, she says, and then you arrive at a palace 
 and a forest and the forest is full of flowers. Jeanne 
 Gregorio enjoys her life very much. Yesterday she 
 went up the Seine in a penny boat as far as the Jardin 
 des Plantes. She says she had never known before 
 how beautiful Paris was." 
 
 " We might do that any day," said Mr. Sheringham, 
 and he suggested that they should find Madame 
 Varasdin and make a plan for to-morrow. So they 
 got up and walked along the balcony and came upon 
 the lady still sitting with M. Rosenmeyer. She ac- 
 cepted Mr. Sheringham's invitation to lunch, and 
 managed with considerable skill to engage his atten-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 63 
 
 tion and to exclude the others. Egon Rosenmeyer 
 understood at once that he was ousted, and went back 
 to the salon. Amabel soon began to think she had 
 better go back too. She felt in the way. She sat 
 behind Madame Varasdin and could only see Mr. 
 Sheringham over the lady's shoulder and fan, and she 
 could not join in their talk because it was in French 
 and all about a new farce she had not seen. Besides, 
 Madame Varasdin did not give her a chance. Pres- 
 ently the strains of Jeanne Gregorio's violin floated 
 towards her from inside the house and she got up. 
 But as she reached the window she came into col- 
 lision with M. Varasdin, who rushed on to the balcony 
 with a newspaper in his hand. 
 
 " Look ! Look ! " he cried excitedly to his wife. 
 " My luck ! my usual luck ! or is it a lie ? or was 
 the bad news a lie? Is the whole thing a swindle, 
 or am I a fool ? " 
 
 " Since you ask me you are probably a fool," 
 said Mme. Varasdin, taking the paper from her hus- 
 band's trembling hand and trying to read it by the 
 light of the nearest lantern. M. Varasdin turned to 
 Amabel. 
 
 " It is you who are lucky if it is true," he 
 shrieked, and the idea seemed to give him more pain 
 than pleasure. 
 
 " What has happened ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " You hold Eugenias, don't you a thousand 
 Eugenias ? A new reef has been struck it is a big
 
 64 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 strike they'll go up the devil knows where they'll 
 go I should have made my fortune " 
 
 He stopped because his anger and excitement were 
 literally choking him. He tumbled into a chair, 
 breathing hard, still muttering to himself, demoral- 
 ised and helpless. The paper fluttered from Madame 
 Varasdin's hands. She was hard hit too. Mr. Sher- 
 ingham picked it up. 
 
 " May I see ? " he said. 
 
 " Does it affect you ? " said Amabel, watching him. 
 
 " I am in the same boat as this gentleman," he 
 said, with a glance at M. Varasdin's huddled figure. 
 " I had my chance and lost it. I sold when there 
 was a slump." 
 
 " Oh ! but there is an important difference between 
 you and this gentleman," said Mme. Varasdin bitterly. 
 " In your affairs the matter is probably a trifle."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 65 
 
 VIII 
 
 AMABEL did not like M. Varasdin, because he had a 
 florid manner and a deceitful tongue, yet she some- 
 times pitied him. He cringed before his bland, 
 masterful wife, and, in spite of his smiles and his flat- 
 tering speeches, he had the look of a miserable man. 
 Mme. Varasdin had hardly spoken to him as they drove 
 home from the Gregorios', and her tone when she did 
 was so slighting that Amabel marvelled at his en- 
 durance. She left them as soon as she could and 
 went to bed, wishing she was not so lonely. Her 
 mind was busy, her thoughts were dancing; when 
 she looked at the glass her face astonished her. It 
 had changed as a hill does when the sunlight sud- 
 denly falls there, and she felt so happy and so wide 
 awake that she walked to and fro in her room and 
 talked to the dream-sister she had wished for in 
 many a sad hour and missed now when sorrow and 
 poverty were left behind. The imaginary sister had 
 always been a person of sense, however; had often 
 kept up her courage; had sometimes convinced her 
 that she was a fool, and to-night advised her to go to 
 bed and to sleep as swiftly as she could. " Joy cometh 
 in the morning," said the sister; and Amabel laughed 
 as she shut her eyes. 
 
 Meanwhile the Varasdins had gone into the dining-
 
 66 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 room and turned on the light. The man brought a 
 bottle of syrup and a syphon of soda-water from the 
 sideboard, and mixed a glass for his wife. He lit a 
 cigarette for himself, and filled a liqueur glass with 
 brandy. He did not sit down, but moved about the 
 room in a sort of sulky silence, both defiant and 
 afraid. 
 
 " If it was possible for you to speak without lying, 
 I should like to know how much money you have 
 got," began Anastasie, when she, too, had brooded 
 in angry quiet over the grievance in her mind. 
 
 " I tell you I am ruined," said her husband. " Per- 
 haps you will believe it when you see the chairs and 
 tables sold." 
 
 He waited a moment to watch the effect of this 
 admission, before he added: "and your jewels, my 
 dear, they will be sold too." 
 
 But he might as well have watched a mask as his 
 wife's face when she did not wish it to tell him any- 
 thing. The contempt and anger she took no pains 
 to hide gave him no fresh clue to any move she 
 proposed to make in their present perilous position. 
 
 " What does this news mean exactly ? " she said. 
 " Suppose you held Eugenias ? " 
 
 The man put his hands to his temples with a gesture 
 of despair. There were lines of anger in his forehead 
 that terribly debased his face, and his wife turned 
 her eyes from him. She did not fear his impotent 
 display of wrath, but it was an ugly spectacle.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 67 
 
 " I ought to have had five thousand," he said. " I 
 could cut my throat when I think of it." 
 
 " What will five thousand shares be worth in a 
 week's time ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me. I can't bear it, I tell you. If 
 this news is true if a great reef has been struck, 
 the mine is what Ferrers said it was there will be 
 a rush how can I tell you where they will go? 
 anywhere to fifty to a hundred it just depends 
 on the news. And I'm cleaned out. I could have paid 
 for five thousand Eugenias when Ferrers was here; 
 I have been dealing in Americans instead and, as 
 usual, a panic came. They have had my last franc 
 I'm cleaned out." 
 
 " Well," said Anastasie, " what do you mean to 
 do?" 
 
 " What is there to do ? What can a man do 
 without money? I must have money," said M. Varas- 
 din, and he brought down his clenched hand on the 
 table so heavily that the glasses clattered. 
 
 " Oh ! don't bluster when we're by ourselves," said 
 Anastasie. " You have neither sense nor spirit, and 
 breaking glass won't persuade me of the contrary. 
 We have been married fourteen weary years. I ought 
 to know you." 
 
 " I can't for the life of me see what you do, 
 except squander any money I and other men are 
 fools enough to give you," said M. Varasdin. 
 
 " Nevertheless it is I who have the brains," said
 
 68 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 his wife. " When you are in a mess you always expect 
 me to pull you out." 
 
 " Pull me out this time, then. I'm in pretty deep." 
 
 Madame Varasdin began to take off her long gloves 
 with a slow, delicate care that preserved their shape. 
 
 " Of course, I know what you mean," she said. 
 " You want the girl's Eugenias." 
 
 " I would go to hell for them," said Hyacinth Louis. 
 
 " They are in her purse." 
 
 " How can I get hold of her purse ? " 
 
 " You wish me to do that, of course. It is not easy. 
 Besides if we had them would it be safe to sell 
 them?" 
 
 " As safe as changing a bank-note. I should go 
 to Buda-Pesth and sell them through Uncle Joseph. 
 He is always willing to help a man over a difficulty. 
 I should give him a commission, and the money would 
 be in the family. He has a great deal of family 
 feeling." 
 
 " You never see either a danger or a mistake until 
 it has you in its clutch," said Anastasie. " You were 
 born a bungler. If we get these shares I shall take 
 them to Uncle Joseph myself. Last time I saw him 
 he said : ' My girl, you may help Hyacinth on his feet 
 twenty times over and he will always return to the 
 gutter. He is a Schlemihl. It is trouble thrown away 
 to help a Schlemihl'" 
 
 " Get the shares and you may call me any names 
 you please," said M. Varasdin. " We will sell them
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 69 
 
 and settle down in a good climate and live easily and 
 sleep softly. That is all I ask. I'm sick of work and 
 struggle and failure." 
 
 " So am I," said his wife grimly. 
 
 "You will do it, then?" 
 
 " Is there anything else to do ? " 
 
 The man shrank from the hatred and anger in his 
 wife's low voice, and after she had gone he drank 
 some more brandy and lit a fresh cigar and took up the 
 evening paper again. But the paper contained nothing 
 that could lead his thoughts from his own misfortunes. 
 Except the one with theft in front of it he could not 
 see a loophole through which he could crawl towards 
 better days ; and hitherto his thefts had not been of this 
 kind. An unscrupulous financier brings more misery 
 on people than any burglar can, but society has not 
 consented yet to class them together. Varasdin had 
 lived on the knave's borderland, sliding downhill on 
 the whole and yet with his eyes on the region where 
 men walk safely, though they bear a dishonoured name. 
 He desired to be a flourishing rogue and not to sit 
 in gaol again, where a man of his stomach suffers 
 torture. Yet, think as he might, he could see no way 
 but the one to prosperity, and all of a sudden further 
 suspense and patience grew intolerable. With the 
 weak man's longing for immediate action, even if it 
 is untimely action, he threw down his paper, and, 
 cigar in hand, marched straight into his wife's room. 
 She had put on a thin white wrapper and was reading
 
 70 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 a novel, and she looked up with a scowl as her hus- 
 band opened the door. 
 
 " I've been thinking it over," he said. " We must 
 get those Eugenias, and the sooner it's done the 
 better." 
 
 " Well get them, then," said his wife. 
 
 " You know I can't." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 " How will you set about it ? " 
 
 " As I set about other things when I see some 
 hope of success." 
 
 " Why can't you go into her room and take them ? 
 She is probably asleep." 
 
 "How like you, to be satisfied with probability in 
 such a case." 
 
 " I shall have to get them myself." 
 
 " I am not anxious for the job," said Anastasie, and 
 she rose and came towards the door with the intention, 
 he surmised, of shutting him out of the room. But he 
 came further into it. 
 
 " You are sure you understand ? " he said. " I owe 
 money all round. I don't possess a hundred francs, 
 if something isn't done to help me at once I'm a ruined 
 man." 
 
 " You told me all this five minutes ago," said 
 Mme. Varasdin. " I suppose that even if you are 
 ruined I may brush my hair." 
 
 "We shall go under," he said, throwing out his 
 hands. " We may go and beg in the streets if some-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 71 
 
 thing isn't done. And you sit here and brush your 
 hair with silver brushes. Do you know what ruin 
 means? Do you know what cold and hunger are and 
 the shame of rags ? " 
 
 " I have known, thanks to you. I shall know again 
 if I trust to you." 
 
 It seemed from their glances as if this man and 
 woman had reached the last extremity of hate and 
 distress ; and yet to the man at least separation did 
 not suggest itself with any promise of relief. His 
 wife's dislike and contempt goaded him to fury, but 
 there was no one else in the world who could help 
 him and he had no idea of helping himself. 
 
 " If you sold your pearls it would be something," 
 he said sullenly. 
 
 " I am not going to sell my pearls yet," she said. 
 " When I do I shall keep the money. I shall not throw 
 it out of the window or give it to you. Will you 
 be good enough to go now? It is two o'clock, and I 
 have a long day before me." 
 
 " What have you to do ? " 
 
 " I take Miss Ferrers to Paillard's to lunch with 
 Mr. Sheringham. We are to do something absurd in 
 the afternoon, something with a steamboat and the 
 Jardin des Plantes, I believe. We shall be together all 
 day, and in the evening the gentlemen will probably 
 dine here." 
 
 " Together all day," said M. Varasdin with a 
 quiver in his voice, and he went quietly out of the
 
 72 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 room. His wife listened to his step in the corrider 
 and heard him shut his door and lock it. Then she 
 went to bed herself and was soon asleep. 
 
 Next day she took great pains with her toilet, but 
 she found when she arrived at Paillard's that it was 
 trouble thrown away. Mr. Sheringham only had eyes 
 for Amabel, who wore a white serge coat and skirt 
 made by an English tailor, and a white sailor hat. 
 He had invited Mr. Newby to make a fourth, and 
 even he looked again and again at Amabel, and said, 
 in an undertone to Mme. Varasdin, that if ever you 
 did see a really pretty girl in Paris you only had to 
 hear her speak to discover she was English or 
 American. 
 
 " It is an acquired taste," said Anastasie. " Over 
 here we don't admire your solid red-faced dairy- 
 maids. Our beauties have grace and delicacy and 
 charm." 
 
 Mr. Newby replied with one of those little grunts 
 that are the inexpressive Englishman's favourite form 
 of dissent. He perceived that Amabel's cheeks were 
 not red, nor was her figure solid, but it did not seem 
 worth while to say so to Mme. Varasdin. He began 
 to talk about oysters instead. After lunch they took 
 two little open carriages and drove to the Jardin des 
 Plantes. 
 
 " We will come back by steamboat," said Mr. Sher- 
 ingham to Amabel when they had started. " We have 
 the whole afternoon and evening before us. I am
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 73 
 
 going to dine with you too ; Mme. Varasdin has asked 
 me. It sounds ungrateful, but I don't like Mme. 
 Varasdin or her husband either. I have accepted 
 because I want to see you and see how the land lies. 
 I am not sure yet whether I shall have to go back 
 early or late to-morrow. Why don't you come back 
 too?" 
 
 "Oh! why should I?" said Amabel. "Uncle 
 Michael expects to find me in Paris. We are going 
 to set up house together in New York." 
 
 " That sort of plan doesn't always come off," said 
 Mr. Sheringham. 
 
 " It's a very pleasant plan." 
 
 " I can imagine a still pleasanter one," said Mr. 
 Sheringham. 
 
 Amabel did not ask him to describe it. His voice, 
 his eyes, his manner were all eloquent of the desire in 
 his heart; and in a man's way, without actual con- 
 fession, he had been telling her ever since they met 
 that he loved her. Her thoughts were not fixed on 
 the city and its sights, and when they got out of the 
 carriage at the Jardin des Plantes she was happy and 
 preoccupied and perhaps not very wide awake. At 
 any rate Mme. Varasdin's voice and touch, a few 
 minutes later, seemed to rouse her out of a dream. 
 
 " The gentlemen have gone off to speak to one of 
 the keepers," she said. " It seems that we ought to 
 have had some sort of passes of admission. I wish 
 you would lend me your purse a moment. I have
 
 74 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 forgotten to bring any money, and I want to go to 
 that stall and buy some cakes for the elephants." 
 
 Amabel's eyes were on a perambulating Polar bear, 
 deep down below her. Without looking at Mme. Va- 
 rasdin she gave her the little beaded purse-bag she was 
 carrying in her hand. 
 
 " Shall I come with you ? " she said absently. 
 
 " No," said Mme. Varasdin. " The gentlemen ex- 
 pect to find us here. I will be back in a moment."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 75 
 
 IX 
 
 MADAME VARASDIN had never attempted a theft 
 requiring so much skill and effrontery. She had to 
 extract the certificate of the shares without being seen 
 by the woman who sold cakes or by any chance passer- 
 by; and, of course, when the robbery was discovered 
 she would have to take the line that Amabel was care- 
 less, had left her purse here and there, and had 
 probably lost her property out of doors. She knew 
 where to hide the slip of paper while the storm burst, 
 and had, in fact, spent some minutes that morning 
 over the lining of an old winter jacket that usually 
 lay with other rubbish at the bottom of a trunk, in a 
 lumber room at the top of the house. 
 
 Her past life contained many episodes that prepared 
 her in some degree for the present hour. She had 
 stolen pence at school. She was the child of shifty, 
 thriftless parents, and her married life had always 
 been unstable. For Amabel she had no pity, but only 
 an envious grudge of her youth and her smiling for- 
 tunes; and she would have defrauded the girl of her 
 last penny and her last chance without a pang. She 
 had no room in her mind for any needs except her 
 own, and no heart for any one else's troubles. She 
 would very much rather have had a rich husband
 
 ;6 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 than a poor one who drove her to run risks. But 
 money she must have. She could not work ; she could 
 not deny herself ; she was dainty, delicate, and selfish ; 
 one of those who cumber the earth and behave as if 
 the earth and everything in it were made for them. 
 
 She opened the bag as she stood at the stall, and 
 saw that it contained an inner pocket with a separate 
 clasp; and when she undid the clasp she saw that 
 the certificate was wedged tightly inside. It was a 
 thick paper, folded several times, and yet rather too 
 long for the width of the bag. There was a handker- 
 chief in the purse too, and Mme. Varasdin took that 
 out and held it over the open pocket while she appar- 
 rently felt for change for the cakes, and really tugged 
 at the certificate. To find it, to hold it in her hands, 
 and then to discover that it was jammed, was a bit 
 of the devil's luck she had not bargained for. The 
 woman who had sold her the cakes had wrapped them 
 up, and waited patiently for payment. Mme. Varasdin 
 turned away from her, stooped a little over the purse 
 as if to look more carefully for the coins she wanted, 
 and by dint of stretching the inner bag violently apart, 
 at last got out the paper she wanted. Her hand 
 closed over it, but could not quite conceal it. She 
 hurriedly took some silver coins from the purse, kept 
 the handkerchief covering the shares for the moment, 
 and turned towards the stall again to pay for her cakes. 
 She meant to hide the certificate in an inside pocket 
 of her tailor-made coat as she walked away, but she did
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 77 
 
 not mean to let the stallkeeper see her doing this. 
 What she had done, so far, had been done in a moment 
 and unobserved, and the thought flamed within her 
 that, by her own dexterity, she held a fortune between 
 her fingers, a fortune that, a minute later, would be 
 her own. She put the silver on the stall, took up the 
 cakes and some copper change and, as she did so, 
 heard the creak of footsteps behind her, and then Mr. 
 Newby's voice in her ears. 
 
 " Buying nuts for the monkeys, Madame Varasdin ? " 
 said he, and wondered why the lady started violently 
 and afterwards neither spoke nor moved. She stood 
 there like a creature petrified, conscious all the while 
 that Sheringham stood there too, and that the hand- 
 kerchief and the folded paper it did not wholly conceal 
 were still in her right hand. The sudden fall from 
 success to utter failure confounded and enraged her, 
 but she did not lose her head. She recognised that for 
 the moment it was failure. When she had recovered 
 sufficiently she put the coppers, the handkerchief, and 
 the certificate all together into the gaping mouth of 
 the bag. Then she shut it with a snap, and showed 
 Mr. Newby a smiling face as she gave him her parcel 
 of cakes to carry. 
 
 " Where did you get your purse ? " he said, with 
 his eyes on the bead-bag. " It is exactly like one I 
 helped Miss Ferrers choose in the Avenue de 1'Opera 
 last week, and the man vowed he had not another." 
 
 " It is Miss Ferrers' purse," said Mme. Varasdin.
 
 78 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I borrowed it just now to buy the cakes. I had 
 forgotten my own." 
 
 " She wanted a big one because she carries those 
 shares about with her that her uncle gave her," con- 
 tinued Mr. Newby. " I stuffed them into the inside 
 pocket for her, and I told her at the time she would 
 never get them out unless she tore the purse; but she 
 won't want to get them out till he tells her to sell, and 
 then the price of the purse won't matter. What are 
 Eugenias doing to-day, Sheringham ? That strike had 
 much effect yet ? " 
 
 " Sent them up to three already," said Mr. Sher- 
 ingham. 
 
 " Wish I had a few," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 Mr. Sheringham did not show much interest in the 
 sensational rise of Eugenias. He was watching Mme. 
 Varasdin. He had seen her start when they came up 
 to her ; he had seen the paper and the handkerchief in 
 her hand, and he had seen her return both to the bag. 
 His curiosity was aroused, and he made up his mind 
 to ask Amabel whether she had taken the certificate 
 out of the inside pocket of the purse, and whether 
 the purse was torn. Madame Varasdin, however, fore- 
 stalled him. 
 
 " But there is a thick-folded paper in the purse," 
 she said. " I got it out with the handkerchief just 
 now when I wanted some small coins. It was not in 
 the inside pocket." 
 
 " Bai Jove," said Mr. Newby, " Miss Ferrers must
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 79 
 
 have been playing with her Eugenias. Isn't the purse 
 torn?" 
 
 Madame Varasdin just undid the clasp and snapped 
 it to again. 
 
 "I think it is, a little," she said. "But I hate 
 opening any one else's purse, don't you? It makes 
 one feel as if one was reading a letter meant for some- 
 body else." 
 
 " I never tried that," said Mr. Newby lightly. 
 
 " I wonder why Miss Ferrers carries these shares 
 about with her in this way," said Sheringham. " A 
 purse is easily lost." 
 
 " Of course it is," said Mme. Varasdin. " Miss 
 Ferrers is most careless. I have often seen this one 
 lying about. We have honest servants just at present, 
 I believe, but my cook is leaving " 
 
 " I don't think servants would steal shares," said 
 Mr. Newby. 
 
 " She might drop them anywhere in a shop when 
 she takes them out with her handkerchief as I did 
 just now. I have begged her to be more careful, but 
 she pays no attention to me. She sees that Hyacinth 
 carries papers of importance in his pocket-book, and 
 I suppose she thinks it is a safe thing to do." 
 
 " She usually wears this purse hanging from her 
 waistband," said Mr. Newby. " That's safe enough 
 if she had left the certificate where I put it. I 
 wonder why she was carrying the bag loose to-day ? " 
 
 " Because she is wearing a blouse that does not
 
 8o THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 admit of a waistband," explained Mme. Varasdin. 
 " You should have chosen a purse with a chatelaine 
 hook. That can be worn with anything." 
 
 " We thought a ring safer than a hook," said Mr. 
 Newby. 
 
 While they talked they approached the bear-pit 
 again, and Amabel saw them and came their way. 
 
 " But you have not bought many cakes," she said, 
 with a disappointed air, when she saw the little parcel 
 in Mr. Newby 's hand. 
 
 " Madame Varasdin is responsible," said he. " We 
 met at the cake-stall." 
 
 " Come and get some more," said Sheringham, ad- 
 dressing Amabel. 
 
 " Yes," said Mme. Varasdin ; " let us all go and 
 buy some more and give the poor animals a feast. 
 I adore animals. They are greedy and suspicious with- 
 out being ashamed of it. We are just as bad as they 
 are really, but we make greater pretensions the 
 morality of men lies chiefly on their lips." 
 
 " Suspicion is not always a vice," said Sheringham. 
 
 " It is always an unamiable trait," said Mme. Va- 
 rasdin. 
 
 " Then how would you catch your criminals ? " 
 asked Mr. Newby. 
 
 " There would be no criminals if society were less 
 corrupt," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " Meanwhile, a police force is useful," said Shering- 
 ham ; and then they arrived at the stall and he bought
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 81 
 
 more cakes and paid for them. As they went away 
 from it again, Madame Varasdin returned Amabel's 
 purse. 
 
 " Don't let me forget that I owe you a franc/' she 
 said. 
 
 As a matter of fact, she owed Amabel a good deal. 
 The seven guineas a week the girl paid regularly for 
 board and lodging did not pay all the expenses of the 
 flat, and it was a long time since Hyacinth Louis had 
 had a balance at the bank. Madame Varasdin often 
 borrowed money from her guest, and hitherto Amabel 
 had lent it without protest. Money had come into her 
 hands so suddenly and unexpectedly that for the time 
 being she had grown careless and let it slip anyhow 
 through her fingers. But she was beginning to see 
 that loans to her present host and hostess were like 
 water poured through a sieve. She wished her uncle 
 would come back and put an end to the connection for 
 her, and she often wished she had never occupied the 
 room with the crimson satin chairs. The Varasdins 
 were, of course, as civil as self-interest demanded, and 
 the food was good and the flat in a pleasant quarter; 
 but all these advantages did not make up for a sense 
 of insecurity that she could not shake off. Only this 
 morning, something had happened to heighten it. 
 
 Any one who has to do with continental servants 
 knows, of course, that they are not as determined as 
 British servants to treat the relationship between em- 
 ployer and employed from a purely business point of
 
 82 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 view. They are inclined to be friendly and loquacious, 
 to take your interest in their affairs for granted, and 
 if they like you or admire you, to say so without 
 beating about the bush. Before Amabel had been a 
 week in the Avenue Ernani she knew that the Alsatian 
 cook supported an aged mother, and that she was 
 engaged to a railway-guard who had a hot temper 
 but a good heart; and that Adele, the femme-de 
 chambre, had been very unlucky in her situations, and 
 had remarked the day Amabel arrived that mademoi- 
 selle had a sweet nature and would, doubtless, be easy 
 to please. The cook used to bring Amabel a little 
 bunch of flowers every day, and the femme-de-chambre 
 used to help her to dress, and both girls would have 
 gossiped about the Varasdins if Amabel had not 
 stopped them from the first. But this morning the 
 cook had come to her in a state of angry excitement 
 and poured forth her tale. Amabel did not find angry 
 Alsatian-French easy to follow, but she made out that 
 the cook was leaving for Alsace to-morrow because 
 her mother was ill, and that she could not get her 
 wages out of the Varasdins. Bandits she called them, 
 among other things, and in a voluble patois she advised 
 Amabel not to remain with such people. When Amabel 
 gave her enough money for her journey, she shed tears 
 and kissed the girl's hand, and implored her to leave 
 the house. 
 
 " It is not a house for you," she said plainly ; and 
 Adele, who was present, nodded mysteriously, and
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 83 
 
 said that she herself did not mean to stay much longer, 
 whether she got paid or not. 
 
 " Some day it will be ph tt ! " she said, and her 
 dramatic gesture described an explosion and the wreck 
 it leaves behind. 
 
 Amabel's growing uneasiness was not set at rest by 
 these remarks, but it did not occur to her that there 
 was any need for hurry. Financial difficulties do not, 
 as a rule, drive you out of the house at an hour's 
 notice, like an infectious disease. She resolved, how- 
 ever, to talk to Mr. Sheringham about the choice be- 
 fore her of finding different quarters in Paris and 
 returning to England. He was not an old, tried friend, 
 but she had made up her mind that he was a friend, 
 and that the wide world did not hold his match in 
 kindness, strength, and wisdom. In her own mind 
 she likened him to the golden Sigurd, whose eyes were 
 so awful to his enemies and so kind to children, to the 
 poor, and to the women who loved him; and as she 
 walked round the elephant-house with the astute finan- 
 cier she tried to fancy what he would look like in a 
 helmet and armour of gold. She thought they would 
 become him, and puzzled him considerably by showing 
 a sudden, ardent, and irrelevant interest in the fancy 
 balls he had attended and the costumes he had chosen. 
 
 " I went as a clown once, when I was about 
 eighteen," he remembered with some difficulty. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Amabel, profoundly shocked. " How 
 unsuitable ! "
 
 84 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I wonder you think so," said Mr. Sheringham. 
 " You must have forgotten our first meeting." 
 
 That was so far from the truth that Amabel coloured 
 and did not speak. They were standing in front of 
 an engaging giant elephant with an appetite for cakes. 
 They had been standing there for some time. Madame 
 Varasdin and Mr. Newby had disappeared. 
 
 " Do you remember our first meeting ? " said Mr. 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " It was on Florrie Hunter's birthday, when she had 
 a children's party." 
 
 " It was in the dining-room. Miss Hunter invited 
 me to pull a cracker a very stiff one I gave a 
 sort of backward jerk over it, and nearly upset some 
 one behind me who had a dish in her hands." 
 
 "You did upset the custards. Mrs. Hunter called 
 me clumsy and apologised to you." 
 
 " You cried." 
 
 " No, never ! " 
 
 " I swear I saw tears in your eyes." 
 
 "That's not crying." 
 
 " And all the rest of the evening I tried to get near 
 you " 
 
 " Yes," said Amabel, with a reminiscent sigh ; " I 
 know you did." 
 
 " You suddenly disappeared." 
 
 " Mrs. Hunter told me to go upstairs and stay 
 there." 
 
 " Did you cry when you were upstairs ? "
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 85 
 
 " The elephant is asking for another cake," said 
 Amabel. " Let us talk about elephants and not about 
 tears. If I did cry I am ashamed of it. I wish I had 
 more courage. I wish I was not afraid of people. 
 I suppose if you know your quarrel is just you do 
 not shrink from it. I do; and I hate myself for it." 
 
 " How many people are you afraid of, and how 
 many quarrels have you on your hands ? " asked Mr. 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " You should have gone as a knight," exclaimed 
 Amabel, who was watching his eyes, and she laughed 
 at his momentary want of comprehension. " Where 
 are the others ? " she said. 
 
 " But you don't answer my question," said he. 
 
 They walked right round the elephant-house, and 
 did not see the others. Then they went out into the 
 gardens and did not find them there. 
 
 " I know what has happened," said Amabel. " Ma- 
 dame Varasdin has driven home. She told me nothing 
 would induce her to travel on a penny steamboat ; and 
 I saw her shudder and open a smelling-bottle when 
 we went into the elephant-house. I suppose she thought 
 that, as you were to dine with her, you would not 
 mind escorting me home. You know, M. Varasdin 
 does not dress for dinner." 
 
 " But we need not go yet," said Mr. Sheringham, 
 looking at his watch. " You said you wanted to see 
 all the animals." 
 
 " How is it you have time ? I thought people like
 
 86 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 you and Uncle Michael never had time for anything 
 but business." 
 
 " Is your uncle married ? " 
 
 " No," said Amabel, thinking that her companion 
 was irrelevant now. " He told me he had never had 
 time to think about it." 
 
 " I should have said the same three months ago," 
 observed Mr. Sheringham. 
 
 " What happened three months ago ? " asked Amabel. 
 
 " We've been over all that," said Mr. Sheringham. 
 " There was a children's party and a stiff cracker 
 and upset custards and an angry lady " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Amabel.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 87 
 
 IT was after five when they strolled through the gar- 
 dens to the Quai d'Austerlitz and took the first steam- 
 boat that went their way. Amabel thought it was a 
 pleasant way of seeing Paris. She sat on the clean, 
 half-empty boat with Mr. Sheringham, and steamed 
 smoothly under the bridges of the city past the spires 
 of many churches and the facades of many splendid 
 buildings, in sight of the city traffic and sometimes 
 in hearing of the city wheels. Evening lights set the 
 city and the sky afire, and a summer breeze blew up 
 the river from seawards and met them freshly. Mr. 
 Sheringham had led Amabel to a seat in the bows, 
 which they had to themselves. It was a little way 
 below the main-deck, and they were almost out of 
 sight of other passengers and quite out of hearing. 
 Amabel looked at the clouds and thought her own 
 fate was as suddenly and rosily aglow as they were. 
 She looked at the man beside her, and wondered where 
 his eyes had been these many years, and why she out 
 of all the women in the world should please him. She 
 tried to discover his qualities, and she entered with 
 wonder into the lover's land where mortals walk as 
 gods. 
 
 It was a happy hour for both of them. Mr. Shering-
 
 88 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 ham had been too hard at work all his life to fritter 
 and diffuse his affections, and he had fallen in love, 
 as a healthy-minded man often does, with the most 
 ardent belief and delight. His subtlety was all finan- 
 cial; in the human relations of life he showed himself 
 simple and kind. " Here by God's grace is the one 
 maid for me," says Geraint, the first time he sets 
 eyes on Enid, and the same thought had flashed across 
 Sheringham's mind when he turned in a hurry and 
 saw Amabel's scared face and the custard streaming 
 absurdly down the worst and meanest dress in the 
 room. Now she sat beside him fine and radiant as a 
 lily. Without his aid Fortune had turned her wheel. 
 But the change that meant so much to her hardly 
 engaged his thoughts. Poor or rich, she was the one 
 maid for him. He talked to her about his home and 
 his people, and she told him about the loneliness and 
 the poverty she had passed through. When words 
 failed them, they watched the city and the sky. 
 
 " I wish I had more courage," said Amabel sud- 
 denly. " There is a disagreeable thing I ought to do, 
 and I believe I shall just go on from day to day not 
 doing it unless something happens to make it easier." 
 " Is it a very disagreeable thing ? " asked Shering- 
 ham. 
 
 " I want to get away from the Varasdins." 
 " I am glad to hear it. I don't like either of them." 
 Masculine approval is always bracing and pleasant 
 to the feminine mind, especially when the encouraging
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 89 
 
 man happens also to be the only man in the world of 
 any importance. 
 
 " It is so difficult to tell Madame Varasdin," Amabel 
 went on. " Besides it does seem unkind to leave them 
 just when my money is so necessary to them. If M. 
 Varasdin began to prosper again, I should not hesi- 
 tate. You know about business matters, Mr. Shering- 
 ham. Is he ever likely to get on ? " 
 
 " You can never say with a man like that." 
 " Couldn't you put him in the way of things ? " 
 " I would rather not have any dealings with him." 
 " Well I hope Uncle Michael will soon come back. 
 I am glad you are not operating against him, as he 
 thought. I wrote to him this morning and told him 
 you had lost a hundred thousand over Eugenias, and 
 that you were very pleased for his sake to hear about 
 the new reef." 
 
 " Oh ! Did you ? " said Sheringham. 
 " Yes," said Amabel. " And I asked him to send 
 you a few shares if they went up instead of those 
 you sold so badly, you know." 
 
 " I don't think you can expect him to do that," said 
 Sheringham, taken aback. " It isn't usual." 
 
 " I am sure Uncle Michael would like to," continued 
 Amabel. " He seemed to be wrapped up in Eugenias, 
 and it would vex him to think any one lost over them, 
 especially any friend of ours. He carries them about 
 in his pocket like love letters. He gave me a thousand. 
 I'll show them to you."
 
 90 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Yes, do," said Mr. Sheringham, and he watched 
 her open the bag. She looked as much taken aback 
 as he expected. 
 
 " How very odd," she said. " Some one has 
 wrenched them out of the inner pocket, and they 
 were in so tight the lining is all torn and the frame 
 twisted " 
 
 She turned the contents of the bag into her lap and 
 examined it. Meanwhile Mr. Sheringham looked at 
 the certificate of the shares. 
 
 " It must have been Madame Varasdin when I lent 
 her the purse," she went on. " She has always been 
 rather keen about Eugenias and angry with her hus- 
 band because he had none. I suppose she wanted to 
 look at them. But how vexatious it is. I only bought 
 this bag a week ago, and it cost fifty francs. Such 
 things are so dear in Paris. I'll never lend it to 
 Madame Varasdin again. Do you think it can be 
 mended ? " 
 
 " I daresay. But why don't you sell your shares 
 and invest the money not directly perhaps, but when 
 they go higher still? And you should keep them in a 
 safe place. You know they are bearer shares. If they 
 were stolen you would probably never recover them." 
 
 " Stolen ! " said Amabel ; and he saw that he had 
 frightened her and he repented of it. He cared very 
 little whether she came to him with a thousand Euge- 
 nias in her hand or with never a penny. The important 
 thing was that she should come.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 91 
 
 " Oh, well ! " he said, " I can't see why you should 
 carry them about." 
 
 " Uncle Michael told me to keep them till he wired 
 and then to sell them at once. But he was in such a 
 hurry, he never told me where to sell them at least 
 he said something about a respectable stockbroker 
 somehow I don't like the idea of M. Varasdin." 
 
 "I'm a stockbroker, you know," said Sheringham. 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " said Amabel. " Then the mo- 
 ment Uncle Michael wires, I'll post this paper to 
 you." 
 
 "You may do that," said Sheringham, "but you 
 should also wire your uncle's instructions. Then I 
 shall know what to do." 
 
 He wished she could give the certificate into his 
 charge at once ; but just then the collector came round 
 for fares, and when he had gone again Amabel put 
 her loose money and her Eugenias back into the bag. 
 She called Mr. Sheringham's attention to the bridge 
 they were approaching their talk shifted, and the 
 opportunity passed by. His suspicions were so vague, 
 and his uneasiness so undetermined, that he was in- 
 clined to wait rather than to alarm her seriously. He 
 had seen the shares in Madame Varasdin's hands, but 
 the very audacity of her attempt baffled him. Amabel 
 would have missed the shares by this time; she must 
 have raised a hue-and-cry; what would the lady who 
 borrowed the purse have said in her own defence? 
 Sheringham saw with a flash how little she would
 
 92 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 need to say as long as the shares were not found in 
 her possession or their sale traced to her. 
 
 " I hope you will soon come back to England," he 
 said to Amabel ; and that was all the outcome just at 
 present of his train of thought. 
 
 When they got back to the flat, Madame Varasdin 
 sat on the balcony in a poppy-red gown. She had 
 twisted Mr. Ne why's pearls round her throat, and she 
 wore other pearls in her hair, and for the time being 
 she had got rid of Mr. Newby. She entertained 
 Sheringham while Amabel changed her gown, and 
 when the girl came back it seemed as if the witch had 
 bewitched him. Anyhow, until the other men arrived, 
 she held his attention, paid him brazen court, and let 
 Amabel sit silent and neglected. The girl, unversed 
 in the ways of men, was puzzled by his temporary 
 capture; and, after dinner, when Madame Varasdin 
 went back to her seat on the balcony and invited the 
 three men to follow her, Amabel stayed behind in the 
 salon. She opened the piano, and began to play softly 
 to herself, without music and without -lights. Voices 
 and laughter reached her from outside, and, through 
 an open window, she could just see a scarlet sleeve 
 whenever Madame Varasdin lifted her cigarette to 
 her lips. All through dinner the lady had led the talk 
 and turned it, while the men responded and were en- 
 tertained. With the best will in the world Amabel 
 could not take her part, and by the end of the meal 
 her silence had become a little dejected. Once or twice
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 93 
 
 Mr. Sheringham had looked across the table at her 
 inquiringly, as if he saw that something was the matter 
 and wondered what; but his hostess always managed 
 to divert his attention. As a friend for Amabel he 
 did not change his opinion of Madame Varasdin, but 
 he began to understand why young gentlemen pre- 
 sented her with pearls. Her way of telling gay French 
 stories in a low voice, and with a serene brow, was 
 just what would make a young gentleman feel that 
 he was really seeing life. At one moment Mr. Newby 
 had been so well amused that he was obliged to giggle. 
 M. Varasdin sat at his own table with the air of a 
 lay figure that smiles whatever face you show it, and 
 smiles without joy or understanding. 
 
 While Amabel played, it grew so dark that she 
 could hardly distinguish the notes of the piano, or the 
 furniture in the room; yet her heart gave a leap of 
 hope and delight as she heard some one come slowly 
 towards her. She could just make out that it was 
 Mr. Sheringham. He sat down beside her, while she 
 finished an adagio from a Beethoven Sonata. 
 
 " Why do you stay in here by yourself ? " he said. 
 "Don't you like the balcony?" 
 
 " Is it pleasanter out there ? " 
 
 " It might be if you came." 
 
 " Very well," said Amabel, and she was shutting 
 the lid of the piano when she felt an arresting touch 
 on her arm. 
 
 " There is no hurry now," said Mr. Sheringham.
 
 94 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Let us stay here. Why were you so silent all through 
 dinner, and why do you sit here alone ? " 
 
 " What a beautiful dress Madame Varasdin is wear- 
 ing to-night," said Amabel. " But I think she should 
 have worn red poppies in her hair big, wide open 
 ones in a sort of crown. What a clever woman she 
 is, and how well she entertained you all with her talk. 
 I wish I understood French better and could follow 
 everything she says ! " 
 
 " Oh, is that it? " said Mr. Sheringham. " Do you 
 really believe, because a man looks and laughs and 
 listens I don't want to talk to you across a dinner 
 table. I'm past that. Here, by ourselves, in the 
 dark " 
 
 He stopped short, and stared at the other end of 
 the room, where some one moved swiftly through the 
 darkness and turned on the light. 
 
 " We want a little music," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 Amabel relinquished her place at the piano without 
 a word. The untimely interruption did not anger her 
 as it did Sheringham. He " had the expression of 
 Damn all over him." The other men came in from 
 the balcony; the maid who had remained brought in 
 a tray with syrup and orangeade, and Mme. Varasdin 
 began to sing. M. Varasdin pressed his sweet drinks 
 on the two Englishmen, and looked rather hurt be- 
 cause they refused them. Amabel took her glass of 
 iced orangeade to the open window, stood there a 
 moment, and then went out on the balcony. She had
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 95 
 
 not stood there long when Mr. Sheringham joined 
 her. 
 
 " We can't talk here," he said, still angry. " Some 
 of them will be on us directly with their syrup and 
 their silly songs. What business has that woman to 
 sing such songs when you are under her roof? But 
 I suppose you don't understand much French." 
 
 " I do," said Amabel indignantly. " I took three 
 French prizes at school, and when I go to the Frangais 
 I can follow quite well if I get the play and read it 
 beforehand. I think French is the most beautiful 
 language there is. I enjoy hearing the great actors 
 as much as I enjoy music. But I can't follow all that 
 variety slang yet. I daresay I shall soon." 
 
 " Not if I can help it," thought Sheringham ; but 
 he only said that he wanted to talk to Amabel to- 
 morrow afternoon and come to some arrangement 
 that would take her back to England immediately. 
 
 " To-morrow is Wednesday," said Amabel. " In 
 the morning we often go to the Avenue des Aca- 
 cias." 
 
 " I have two important appointments in the morn- 
 ing," said Mr. Sheringham. " It would not be fair to 
 other people to give them up. Besides, I particularly 
 want to see you by yourself. It is no use my coming 
 here. Will you be in the Avenue des Acacias at four 
 o'clock?" 
 
 " I will if you can promise to be punctual," said 
 Amabel. " I should not like to wait about long by
 
 96 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 myself. That part of the Bois is rather deserted in 
 the afternoon." 
 
 " If you come at four you shall find me waiting for 
 you just at this end of the Avenue, you know," 
 promised Mr. Sheringham. 
 
 Directly he had gone Amabel went to her own room. 
 As long as the piano was going there was no chance 
 of sleep, but she was too happy to mind that at all. 
 Since her parents died she had been lonely and un- 
 loved, and until lately very poor ; and now, to-morrow 
 promised what her heart desired. It hardly crossed 
 her mind that her lover was a rich man; when it did, 
 the idea was comfortable, and translated itself into 
 pretty frocks and rooms and the delightful exercise 
 of generosity, and, above all, into an emblem of her 
 lover's qualities. She took pride in his success and 
 power. She fell asleep thinking of him, and was half 
 roused when Mr. Newby departed, slamming the front 
 door. Then the peace of the night came over the flat 
 and she slept profoundly. What woke her she never 
 knew; what time it was she could not tell. But the 
 dawn had not risen, the stars were still blinking in 
 the sky when, without moving or starting, she opened 
 her eyes. Some one had softly turned the handle of 
 the door and was creeping across the room towards 
 the bed.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 97 
 
 XI 
 
 AMABEL did not stir. She lay facing the open door, 
 her eyes fixed on the dark figure of Mme. Varasdin, 
 who came as softly as a ghost towards the bed. She 
 came straight on without hesitation or stumbling, and 
 yet it seemed to Amabel that she took a long while 
 to cross the parqueted floor on which her bare feet 
 made so little sound. The girl felt horribly afraid and 
 inclined to start, or speak, or scream. The manner of 
 the woman's entry and her cat-like tread were alarming, 
 so was the dim outline of her face, set in resolve and 
 inhuman. Amabel looked at her hands. One held her 
 gown from the floor, one hung at her side, but it was 
 too dark to see whether they were empty. The girl's 
 heart beat wildly in her throat; she felt sick with 
 fright. If she moved, the woman might fly at her, 
 if she lay still, a mere thief might take what she came 
 for and go away. That she came on some sinister 
 errand was proclaimed in her face. Amabel had not 
 drawn her thick curtains, and through the muslin ones 
 the starlight came into the room just breaking the 
 darkness. 
 
 As the woman approached the bed Amabel dared 
 not lift her eyelids in case it should be seen that she 
 was not asleep, but she wondered her anxious breath 
 and shivering body did not betray her. She lay as
 
 98 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 rigid as she could, but her knees were loosened and 
 her hands were tremulous and cold. She thought she 
 could feel the warmth of Mme. Varasdin's body as 
 she bent over the bed and cautiously slid her hand 
 beneath the pillow; the scent of violets seemed to fill 
 the room. The hand groping under the pillow slowly 
 closed on something and was withdrawn. The next 
 moment Mme. Varasdin was gliding from the bed 
 towards the open door. She made no attempt to 
 close it. 
 
 Relief and terror and anger struggled together in 
 Amabel's mind as she lay there indecisive and unhinged. 
 It was not murder the woman was after, then, but 
 theft : the theft of the Eugenias. With a flash Amabel 
 saw the events of the afternoon in their real light, 
 the request for her purse, the removal of the certificate, 
 the arrival at the bear-pit of Mme. Varasdin and the 
 two men, and Mr. Newby's remark that they had met 
 at the cake-stall. Without rhyme or reason, Amabel 
 suddenly found her fear melting fast in her hot indig- 
 nation. She made no plan, she took no care, but 
 jumped out of bed and hurried barefoot into the ad- 
 joining room. Mme. Varasdin stood close to an open 
 window and with her back to Amabel. Her head 
 stooped a little over her hands, but as the girl came 
 up behind her, she raised her right arm and was just 
 about to throw the purse into the road, when Amabel 
 caught her wrist and saved it. Mme. Varasdin's cry 
 of surprise had rage as well as fear in it, and for a
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 99 
 
 moment Amabel wished she had not followed her. 
 The first look in the woman's eyes was murderous, 
 and her free hand went up towards the girl's throat. 
 Amabel stepped back with a shudder and would have 
 fled if Mme. Varasdin's manner had not undergone a 
 swift, curious change. She allowed the purse and the 
 shares to fall to the ground, pressed her uplifted hands 
 to her temples, and said, in a voice of sleepy bewilder- 
 ment 
 
 "'What has happened? Where am I?" 
 
 " You came into my room and stole my purse," 
 said Amabel. " I suppose that paper you have just 
 dropped is the certificate of my Eugenias." 
 
 She picked it up as she spoke and put it back in 
 her bag, and all the while she stood there she watched 
 Mme. Varasdin in case she should make a sudden 
 spring and wrench it out of her hands. That lady 
 now looked unspeakably sad and surprised. She 
 pressed her hands to her temples again and sank into 
 her chair with a melancholy groan. 
 
 " Terrible ! " she exclaimed, " terrible ! " 
 
 " It is disgraceful," said Amabel. 
 
 " I thought I was safe," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " You would have been if I had not happened to 
 wake. Some one in the street would have picked up 
 the purse. I should have had no proof against you." 
 
 " It is a horrible affliction," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " I had no idea that you were subject to it," said 
 Amabel " kleptomania."
 
 ioo THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I know nothing about kleptomania. I am not sure 
 that I believe in it. A thief is a thief whatever fine 
 names the medical profession finds for him. I am a 
 somnambulist. As a child I frequently walked in my 
 sleep, and whatever I dreamed I was doing I actually 
 did. One night I walked barefoot through my father's 
 forest in the snow. I was ill for three months after 
 that. Then the malady seemed to leave me, I hoped 
 never to return. I should probably have thrown my- 
 self from the balcony if you had not roused me. Other- 
 wise why should I be standing close to the open 
 window? Perhaps you have saved my life." 
 
 " I am glad I have saved my Eugenias," said Amabel. 
 The lady's defence was unanswerable at that moment 
 and without further inquiry; and yet it was uncon- 
 vincing. 
 
 " Take my advice and put them in a safer place," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " I shall give them to Mr. Sheringham to-morrow," 
 said Amabel. " I wish I had done so to-day when we 
 found they had been moved." 
 
 Mme. Varasdin's glance had neither sleep nor be- 
 wilderment in it now. Her narrow eyes closed and 
 her mouth was set in dislike as she rose slowly from 
 her chair. 
 
 " To-morrow has come," she said. " It must be two 
 o'clock. I am afraid I have curtailed your sleep. But 
 you need not be nervous; I never walk twice in one 
 night."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 101 
 
 Amabel went back to her room, tried the bolts of 
 her window and outer door, and managed to push her 
 chest of drawers across the door opening into the 
 salon. She made a great noise, and once when she 
 stopped she heard a step on the other side, so she 
 knew that Mme. Varasdin was listening. When she 
 had barricaded herself, she got into bed again, but 
 found she could not sleep. At every creak she started, 
 and the silence of the streets increased her sense of 
 loneliness and her fear. She feared the return of 
 Mme. Varasdin; she feared husband and wife to- 
 gether. Suppose they made their way in and were 
 determined to do her some horrid harm. Now that the 
 strain was over, her courage ebbed away and she lay 
 with wide open eyes, expectant and terrified. What 
 had happened seemed worse in retrospect than it had 
 been in experience, just as a narrow escape from violent 
 death turns one sick when all danger is gone by. She 
 vowed she would not sleep under that roof another 
 night, or, if she could help it, confront either of the 
 Varasdins again; and amidst the distress and turmoil 
 in her mind there arose the consoling thought of her 
 friend. He would meet her, she would tell him she 
 must get away, and he would help her. Instead of 
 being afraid of the Varasdins as she was, he would 
 assuredly make them afraid of him. " And that is 
 the difference between a man and a woman," thought 
 Amabel with the usual injustice of a woman when she 
 is comparing her love with her sex. Directly it was
 
 102 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 light she got up and dressed and opened her window. 
 The fresh air was restoring, and so was the return 
 of life in the street. The first tramcar seemed to bring 
 back the midday world that has no traffic with night- 
 mares; and the people who soon appeared artisans 
 on their way to work, milkmen, servants, shopkeepers 
 were all decent folk, who come with dawn and leave 
 night and its deeds behind them. When Amabel saw 
 that the street was really astir again, she began to 
 pack her trunks, as she had made up her mind that 
 she would not come back to the house if she could 
 help it. By the time she had finished, the maid brought 
 her a tray with coffee and bread and butter ; and when 
 Amabel gave her a present of money the girl looked 
 round with surprise at the dismantled room and tried 
 to find out what the young lady's plans were. But 
 the young lady was not in a communicative mood, 
 said she was going out for the day, and left a message 
 for madame that she would not return till late in the 
 afternoon. She said nothing about her trunks being 
 packed ready for a journey, and when she had drunk 
 her coffee she slipped out of the front door quietly 
 and quickly, just as if she did not wish to be seen. 
 
 Amabel had a good many hours to get through 
 before she could go to the Avenue des Acacias, but she 
 had mapped out the time for herself as well as she 
 could. She went straight to the galleries of the 
 Louvre and spent two hours there, her thoughts per- 
 haps fixed with greater persistence on the events of
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 103 
 
 the night and the promise of the afternoon than on 
 the masterpieces before her eyes. At one o'clock she 
 went for lunch to a place where the British foregather, 
 and find in the very heart of Paris that respectable 
 and gloomy environment that reminds them of home. 
 She sat next to a chubby curate and opposite a thin 
 grey spinster dressed in shrunken tweeds, a sailor hat, 
 and spectacles. She eat ham and eggs, drank Mugby 
 Junction coffee, and read the Births, Deaths, and Mar- 
 riages in an old number of the Times. When she 
 had been there half-an-hour she felt quite home-sick, 
 and determined to live amongst her countryfolk 
 again. 
 
 But though she made the ham and eggs last as long 
 as she could, she had more than two hours to get 
 through before she could take the second step towards 
 her return journey. She had taken a big one when 
 she packed her trunks, and the moment she saw Mr. 
 Sheringham she meant to ask his advice as to the rest. 
 Meanwhile she could think of nothing better to do 
 than to drive to the Salon. There is protection in a 
 crowd, and Amabel got so much stared at that she 
 did not enjoy walking about the streets of Paris alone. 
 She had been to the Salon several times already and 
 knew where to find her favourite pictures; and she 
 had sat down in front of one and was staring at it 
 rather sleepily when, to her surprise, Mr. Newby came 
 up to her. He carried a catalogue in his hand and 
 looked delighted to find a companion.
 
 104 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I've had enough for to-day," he said. " It's a 
 beastly grind. Let's come into one of those little side- 
 galleries and talk. Wonder who buys these pictures. 
 I wouldn't. Wonder how the fellows who paint them 
 make a living. Just look at that heap of decaying cab- 
 bages with a Cupid sitting on top. What's it mean? 
 Who wants to see a Cupid sitting on cabbages every 
 day of his life? And look at those demons writhing 
 in hell." 
 
 " They are not demons," said Amabel, who had got 
 up and was looking patiently at the picture ; " they are 
 musicians in an orchestra. Their faces are blurred. 
 Perhaps if we were not so ignorant we should think 
 it very clever. Don't you know that the French are 
 much better at painting and acting than we are ? " 
 
 " Oh, I daresay," said Mr. Newby, and the admis- 
 sion did not seem to trouble him. He found a com- 
 fortable seat, and began to look at the passers-by 
 through his single eyeglass. 
 
 " How the beggars stare," he went on. " If you 
 were my sister, I wouldn't let you knock about Paris 
 by yourself in this way. It's not right." 
 
 " But I'm with you now," said Amabel, laughing 
 at the boy's tone, and secretly rather glad he was there. 
 The rooms were full of people of various kinds, and 
 some of the wrong kind stared at the beautiful Eng- 
 lish girl more than was civil or agreeable. 
 
 Mr. Newby drew himself up and, with a further 
 assumption of manliness, said
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 105 
 
 " When you've had enough of the pictures I'll take 
 you back to the Avenue Ernani." 
 
 " No, you won't," said Amabel ; " I'm not going 
 back there yet." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 " To meet a friend in the Bois." 
 
 Mr. Newby's silence expressed dissatisfaction. He 
 did not maintain it long. 
 
 " Is the friend French or English ? " he asked. 
 
 " What does it matter ? " said Amabel. 
 
 " It makes all the difference," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " When I was a little girl I was told not to ask 
 questions." 
 
 " I was told not to let my small sisters get into 
 mischief." 
 
 Amabel's eyes twinkled in a friendly way as she 
 glanced at the young man. 
 
 " I'm going to meet Mr. Sheringham," she said. 
 
 " Sheringham is an awfully decent sort," said Mr. 
 Newby. 
 
 "If he can help me arrange it, I shall return to 
 England to-night." 
 
 " Bless me ! What has happened ? Have you had 
 a row with the Varasdins ? " 
 
 " I don't like Madame Varasdin," said Amabel. 
 
 She was not unwilling to let Mr. Newby know that 
 there could be divergent opinions about the bewitching 
 Anastasie, and it surprised her a good deal to find 
 that he seemed to understand her point of view.
 
 106 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I like her very much myself," he said ; " but I 
 like cognac, and tobacco, and baccarat, and other things 
 I should not consider wholesome for my little sisters. 
 A young gander can digest a great deal that would 
 injure a young goose." 
 
 " I daresay he thinks so," said Amabel. " Is Ma- 
 dame Varasdin like cognac and baccarat ? " 
 
 " She is agreeable and stimulating," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " I should think she is expensive," said Amabel, and 
 then she blushed uncomfortably at her own indiscre- 
 tion. But it had occurred to her that the gander's pearl 
 necklace must have cost a great deal more than any 
 offerings made by the goose. 
 
 " I know I look like an ass," said Mr. Newby ; " but 
 I assure you I can take care of myself. Don't you 
 worry about me." 
 
 " It isn't my business to worry about you." 
 
 " I hope that isn't a hint, because I was just going 
 to give you some excellent advice. You go back to 
 England as quick as you can, and let Sheringham sell 
 your Eugenias at a top-price, and live good and quiet 
 in one of those Christian families till you have an 
 uncle or husband to look after you. What you're 
 doing here in Paris with delightful but peculiar people 
 like the Varasdins, nobody can understand." 
 
 " I wish you would come too," said Amabel. " If 
 you were my little brother, I should refuse to leave 
 you behind."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 107 
 
 XII 
 
 " I WISH you'd let me take you as far as the Bois," 
 said Mr. Newby. " Suppose Sheringham was detained, 
 and he easily might be, you'd find it very unpleasant 
 waiting about by yourself." 
 
 Amabel did not think it likely that Mr. Sheringham 
 would disappoint her, but she made no further objec- 
 tion to Mr. Newby's proposal, and they drove to the 
 Bois together and were put down at the Avenue des 
 Acacias. 
 
 " I don't see him yet," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Perhaps we are early," said Amabel, but she looked 
 at her watch and found that it was after four. 
 
 The Avenue was not crowded that afternoon. The 
 pathway was almost deserted ; the benches were empty ; 
 and carriages and motor cars drove by in a broken pro- 
 cession. There had been a little rain and the air was 
 slightly chilly, but the sun shone out amongst windy 
 clouds and dried the seats and sparkled on the glist- 
 ening trees. Amabel was so tired that she was glad 
 to sit down, and though she told Mr. Newby not to 
 wait, he sat down with her. 
 
 " I'll wait till midnight if you like," he said; " I've 
 nothing to do." 
 
 " Perhaps there is a telegram at the Avenue Ernani."
 
 io8 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 "Very likely. It's the boom, you bet. A man in 
 Mexican Jem's position isn't his own master when 
 there's a boom in his market. If he was well, he 
 wouldn't be Mexican Jem. He may be on his way 
 back to London." 
 
 By this time Amabel began to fear that Mr. Shering- 
 ham would not come, and the idea appalled her. She 
 had made no plans, she was full of suspicion, and she 
 had counted on him to help her. The thought of him 
 had sustained her courage all through the night and 
 the lagging day; with a thrill in her heart she had 
 come to hear the end of the story he had half told; 
 she had come for his counsel and protection, and had 
 felt sure that he would ask nothing better than to 
 give them. From the moment she escaped from the 
 flat, she had looked to him as a defender. Her dis- 
 appointment was indistinguishable from her terror, 
 and she felt both anxious and forlorn. 
 
 " Is there a boom ? " she said flatly. 
 
 " There is an almighty boom," chirruped Mr. Newby. 
 " Isn't Hyacinth Louis Varasdin agog about it ? I 
 thought he dabbled in Mexicans. Those Eugenias of 
 yours now " 
 
 " Don't talk of Eugenias," cried Amabel. " I wish 
 they had gone to smash like an air balloon. They took 
 Uncle Michael away. They bring me nothing but 
 bad luck. I want to be rid of them. Can't you take 
 them and sell them and give me the money invest 
 the money for me, I mean ? "
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 109 
 
 " I suppose I could," said Mr. Newby. " So could 
 Sheringham. Why not talk to him about it ? " 
 
 " I meant to talk to him about it," said Amabel, 
 with a quaver in her voice that she tried hard to 
 control. 
 
 " You can write to him." 
 
 " I don't know his address." 
 
 " You might as well say you don't know the King's 
 address. Stock Exchange, London, of course." 
 
 " It isn't of course at all. I don't know anything 
 about your Stock Exchange, and booms, and people. 
 What is Mr. Sheringham? What is Monsieur Varas- 
 din? Why do you shrug your shoulders at one and 
 go on your knees to the other? What's the difference 
 between them ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Lord ! ! ! " gasped Mr. Newby. 
 
 " That doesn't tell me." 
 
 " One is a power and known to be awfully decent, 
 as I said a little while ago ; the other isn't." 
 
 " Isn't awfully decent ? " 
 
 " Rather not," said Mr. Newby. " You have to be 
 jolly well on your guard with Hyancinth Louis, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 " Then why do you dine there so often ? " 
 
 "If it comes to that, why do you?" said Mr. 
 Newby, looking very red and uncomfortable. 
 
 " I pay Madame Varasdin seven guineas a week, 
 and, besides that, she owes me a hundred pounds," 
 said Amabel.
 
 no THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Mr. Newby could not deny himself a slight whistle. 
 It was not very loud or very long. 
 
 " She said you had never paid her a penny yet," he 
 observed. " She said so yesterday as we drove home 
 together." 
 
 Amabel looked at him and drew her own conclu- 
 sions. 
 
 " If the truth were known I suspect we have both 
 paid for our dinners," said she; and then she sud- 
 denly made up her mind to tell him what had happened 
 and to hear what he had to say. 
 
 " Last night Madame Varasdin came into my room 
 when she thought I was asleep," she began. " She 
 took this purse from under my pillow " 
 
 Mr. Newby left off tracing designs in the damp 
 gravel with the point of his stick and sat up with a 
 jerk, facing Amabel. The girl finished her story in 
 words as dry as bones ; she told him how she had fol- 
 lowed Mme. Varasdin, found the Eugenias in her 
 hands, and got them back again, and how she had felt 
 less afraid at the time than she had done ever since. 
 
 " But what did she say ? " inquired Mr. Newby. 
 
 " She said she was a somnambulist, and had been 
 walking in her sleep." 
 
 In spite of Amabel's fatigue and disappointment, she 
 could not help laughing at Mr. Newby's expression. 
 
 " Oh ! draw it mild," he murmured. 
 
 " It was equally impossible to contradict or to be- 
 lieve her," said Amabel.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS in 
 
 " You must go back to England," said Mr. Newby, 
 with decision. 
 
 " I'm very glad I met you," said Amabel. " If I 
 had come here quite alone and Mr. Sheringham had 
 failed me, I should have been at my wits' end. I can't 
 go to England without my trunks, and I should have 
 been afraid to go back to the flat by myself. I am sure 
 Madame Varasdin will be furious when she finds I 
 will not stay there any longer. I suppose I must stay 
 one more night." 
 
 " Must you? " said Mr. Newby doubtfully. 
 
 " I would rather travel by day ; and I am not afraid, 
 because I shall get Adele, the femme-de-chambre, to 
 sleep in the room, and I shall barricade that door again. 
 I feel sure that she will not make the attempt a second 
 time. She must recognise that she has failed." 
 
 "I suppose it is not you who were dreaming?" 
 said Mr. Newby. "You are quite certain about it?" 
 
 " Yes," said Amabel ; and her tone carried convic- 
 tion. 
 
 " I'm expecting you all to dine with me to-night," 
 said Mr. Newby. " I arranged it with Madame Va- 
 rasdin yesterday. I've found a new restaurant some- 
 where towards Montmartre that isn't half bad. I sup- 
 pose, as it is arranged, it must stand, and perhaps it 
 will be pleasanter for you. Otherwise " 
 
 Amabel perceived that the young man believed her, 
 and that he was both shocked and angry. She fore- 
 saw that Mme. Varasdin's hold on him would not be
 
 H2 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 as tight as it had been, and that, to this extent at any 
 rate, good was growing out of evil. 
 
 " It is past five already," she said. " I think I will 
 go back now and see if there is a telegram." 
 
 " I will come with you," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Then I will tell Madame Varasdin at once, while 
 you are there, that I am going to England to-morrow. 
 When I have done that the worst will be over. I need 
 hardly see her or speak to her again except at dinner, 
 when you will be there too." 
 
 " All right," said Mr. Newby. The programme was 
 an uncomfortable one, but he did not know how to 
 amend it. Of course, he must see Amabel through as 
 well as he could, because she was his countrywoman 
 and, for the moment, friendless. It was most unlucky 
 that Sheringham had not turned up. Sheringham had 
 never paid for the Varasdin dinners or presented Mme. 
 Varasdin with pearls, and his companionship of Ama- 
 bel could not have been regarded by his hostess as 
 a slur on herself. Mr. Newby was not unwilling to 
 wind up his affairs with the lady; her demands had 
 been excessive lately, and her recent exploit put her 
 beyond the pale of his large tolerance; but he would 
 rather have retired quietly and gradually from the little 
 band of her admirers. As things were, he expected 
 an explosion. 
 
 She surprised them both by opening the door of the 
 flat herself, but she gave no reason for doing so, and 
 they followed her into the salon. Amabel felt shy of
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 113 
 
 looking her in the face at first, but she soon found 
 that her embarrassment was not shared by Mme. Va- 
 rasdin. 
 
 " You have missed Mr. Sheringham," she said to the 
 girl, and there was a note of malicious satisfaction in 
 her voice. " He came quite early this morning, and 
 seemed surprised not to find you here." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Amabel, and in her voice there was 
 bitter disappointment. 
 
 " He waited some time, as I said I did not know 
 where you had gone or when you would be back. Per- 
 haps it struck him, mademoiselle, that you do not treat 
 your hostess very civilly." 
 
 " I sent you a message by Adele," said Amabel. 
 
 " I did not receive it." 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Sheringham left some message ? " 
 
 " Oh ! the usual thing ; his kind regards. He was off 
 to London by the 11.50 train." 
 
 " Did he say anything had happened to call him back 
 so suddenly ? " 
 
 " He talked of business matters to Monsieur Varas- 
 din. I paid no attention." 
 
 Amabel saw that Mme. Varasdin did not mean to tell 
 her more than she could help about Mr. Sheringham's 
 visit, and that it was waste of time to ply her with 
 questions. She felt sick with vexation and disappoint- 
 ment, and it was hard to believe that anything pleasant 
 waited beyond the immediate miserable hour. Mr. 
 Newby stood awkwardly beside a group of palms and
 
 H4 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 fiddled with their leaves. For a little while none of 
 the three people spoke. 
 
 " He will be over here again in about a fortnight," 
 said Mme. Varasdin, after some reflection. 
 
 Amabel saw her opening. 
 
 " I shall not be here then," she said firmly. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 Mr. Newby took a step away from the palms, a step 
 towards Amabel. Its significance was not lost on 
 Anastasie, and she included him in her glance of anger 
 and dislike. 
 
 " I have decided to go back to London," said Amabel. 
 
 " But your uncle expects to find you here." 
 
 " I shall communicate with him." 
 
 " That will take time." 
 
 " No," said Amabel. " I shall telegraph to him from 
 London to-morrow. He left me quite free." 
 
 " To-morrow ! " exclaimed Mme. Varasdin. " You 
 have been under my care six weeks when I took you 
 into my house, you were somewhat puzzled and friend- 
 less, I think out of my compassion I threw open my 
 doors to you. My husband and I have treated you as 
 an honoured guest, and without rhyme or reason you 
 want to leave us at a day's notice as you leave an inn. 
 Allow me to inform you, Mademoiselle, that your be- 
 haviour is not becoming, it is not even honest. I have 
 been put to considerable expense on your account. 
 How do you propose to compensate me ? " 
 
 " You owe me a hundred pounds," began Amabel,
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 115 
 
 in so low a voice that it hardly reached Mr. Newby's 
 ears; but Mme. Varasdin turned and spoke to him. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is assuredly a dreamer of dreams," 
 she said, and her hand went to her head for an instant 
 as if to intimate that there was something a little wrong 
 with the girl's mental faculties. " I do not owe her a 
 penny." 
 
 For a moment Mr. Newby hesitated ; but one glance 
 at Amabel's sane, indignant, and contemptuous face 
 convinced him. 
 
 " Miss Ferrers is free to go to-morrow if she chooses, 
 you know," he said. " What's the good of making a 
 bother about it? She's homesick, and you can't keep 
 her here by force. As for the money transactions that 
 have taken place between you " 
 
 " I am not going to discuss them with you," said 
 Mme. Varasdin resolutely. 
 
 " There is nothing to discuss," said Amabel, getting 
 up. " I shall go to London to-morrow, and I make 
 you a present of a hundred pounds." 
 
 She went straight to her own room and rang for 
 Adele, but no one answered. When she had rung 
 twice she went to the kitchen and then into every room 
 on the flat except the salon. But Adele was nowhere 
 to be found. As she stood indecisively in the hall, 
 wondering if the girl had been sent out and would soon 
 return, the front door bell rang. She opened the door 
 herself, saw the concierge with a letter in his hand, 
 and observed that Adele was not at home.
 
 ii6 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Does Mademoiselle not know ? " said the man. 
 " Adele was dismissed this morning paid her wages 
 and dismissed. She was so surprised, she hardly knew 
 whether to laugh or cry." 
 
 " But why was she dismissed ? " said Amabel, and 
 the man was astonished to see her turn quite pale and 
 weak. She clung to the door and her voice shook when 
 she spoke. He shrugged his shoulders at her ques- 
 tion and pointed inside the flat. 
 
 " Ladies like madame are violent and capricious," 
 said he. " I believe the poor girl broke a vase. What 
 surprised her was to get paid. She thought she would 
 have to go to the police for her money." 
 
 Mr. Newby had just got up to go when Amabel 
 entered the room again, looking so white and scared 
 that he took alarm. 
 
 "What is it? "he said. 
 
 " I'll go to-night," she whispered. " Adele has been 
 sent away. I'm afraid to sleep here again. I'll go 
 to-night."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 117 
 
 XIII 
 
 MR. NEWBY looked uncomfortably at Mme. Varasdin. 
 She had come up to them and must have heard what 
 Amabel said. 
 
 " What is the matter now ? " she inquired. 
 
 But that was more than Amabel had courage to tell 
 her just then. She stood in the doorway, the picture 
 of agitation and alarm, and she turned her eyes to Mr. 
 Newby with an appeal in them that the young man 
 would have responded to at any cost to himself. 
 
 " Don't you worry," he said obscurely. " I'll fix 
 things and let you know at dinner. I'm off now. See 
 you again at seven sharp." 
 
 "Where?" asked Amabel, who had never before 
 troubled about the name or address of a restaurant at 
 which she was to dine with the Varasdins. He told 
 her and she listened carefully, and then before he had 
 time to make a move, she ran into her own room. They 
 heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
 " I'm afraid I frightened the poor girl last night," 
 said Mme. Varasdin, narrowly watching the young 
 Englishman's face. " She seems quite nervous and up- 
 set. Instead of going out to dinner, she ought to see 
 a doctor and take a soothing draught. Can't you per- 
 suade her to? "
 
 ii8 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I'm afraid not," said Mr. Newby. " She does seem 
 a bit upset. You see she has got it into her head that 
 it might happen again." 
 
 " She did tell you about it, then ! How unnecessary 
 and disloyal to gossip with a stranger about the infirm- 
 ity of a friend. I am disappointed in Miss Ferrers." 
 
 " Well ! you've almost seen the last of her." 
 
 " I suppose she means to return here to-night ? " 
 
 " Oh ! didn't you hear what she said to me ? She 
 prefers to sleep in Paris to-night, so as to be nearer the 
 Nord for her start, I suppose. It is quite a good idea." 
 
 " I don't agree with you. This young lady is staying 
 in my house. Her uncle put her in my care. At a 
 moment's notice, without apology or explanation, she 
 decamps, abetted by you. What do you suppose her 
 uncle will say and her English friends? What are 
 your intentions with regard to her ? " 
 
 " My intention is to have dinner with you and your 
 husband and Miss Ferrers, and then to take you to 
 some of those Montmartre theatres, as we arranged 
 last night. That's all at present," said Mr. Newby, and 
 he walked away. The lady made no effort to detain 
 him. She waited until she heard her husband's step 
 in the corridor, and then she went out to meet him. 
 He took a long time to hang up his hat and coat, and 
 then he strolled towards her as if there was no hurry. 
 He did not observe that her face was livid with anger 
 and impatience. 
 
 " Come into my room," she said.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 119 
 
 Her room was at the further end of the flat, and the 
 only available door faced the long, narrow passage. 
 As M. Varasdin was about to shut it, his wife pulled it 
 roughly from him and set it wide ajar. 
 
 " I want no listeners," said she. 
 
 " Are the servants about ? I don't hear them." 
 
 " I want no servants," said Mme. Varasdin. " The 
 cook went yesterday, I sent off Adele to-day." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " So that we should be by ourselves with Miss 
 Ferrers. Is that plain enough, fool ? " 
 
 The man shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He 
 had sat down in the easiest at once and had yawned 
 and stretched his legs, but now he looked up at his 
 wife who seemed suddenly to be standing over him, 
 her face and her whole body tense with anger. 
 
 " You are pleased to yawn and stretch your legs," 
 she said ; " I suppose you think there is nothing else 
 for you to do to-night." 
 
 " I hope there is dinner," he said, with artificial 
 gaiety. 
 
 " It is your one thought. And pray what have you 
 brought me of late to buy dinner with ? " 
 
 " I can't bring you what I haven't got," said the man, 
 his flaccid face overcast and scowling. " I'm cleared 
 out. I had to borrow a few francs from Gregorio to- 
 day to pay my dejeuner and my tram fares. You'll 
 have to give me something for to-morrow." 
 
 " I have nothing to give. I am not going to sell my
 
 120 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 jewels to support a scamp like you. I owe Miss Fer- 
 rers a hundred pounds." 
 
 " Those Eugenias would set us right. They are at 
 four to-day and will go much higher when confirma- 
 tion of the strike comes. We could buy a little villa 
 somewhere on the Riviera and there would be an end 
 to this dog's life " 
 
 " Some dogs earn a living," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 " They are harnessed in carts and work hard. Some 
 lie on cushions and eat and sleep and grow fat. Which 
 kind of dog are you, my friend ? " 
 
 " Oh ! your tongue ! " said the man. " Get the Eu- 
 genias, and then talk if you please." 
 
 " It isn't so easy. I've tried twice and failed. Your 
 turn comes now. You have the evening before you." 
 
 " The evening ! " 
 
 " Mademoiselle has taken fright. She does not like 
 a somnambulist. She sleeps at a hotel to-night. To- 
 morrow she goes to England." 
 
 " Diable!" said M. Varasdin. "And you call your- 
 self clever ! " 
 
 " You must remember that in the matter of criminal 
 offences it is I who am the amateur," said his wife. 
 
 " You are the kind of woman one strangles in the 
 end," said he. 
 
 " You perceive how we stand, I hope," she con- 
 tinued. " We have nothing but debts, and I should 
 like to know in which capital of Europe you have the 
 shreds of a reputation. Paris was our last chance, and
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 121 
 
 here too you have burnt your fingers. You are not 
 the man to prosper in a new country. What lies 
 before you unless you get hold of these Eugenias? If 
 you come back to-night without them you have seen 
 the last of me. I am at the end of my patience. Your 
 rascalities land you in prison instead of at the top of 
 the tree, and I have told you before that poverty is 
 not to my taste. I was not made for it." 
 
 The man cowered as he listened to his wife's tirade, 
 and he muttered again that he had been unlucky and 
 that he couldn't pick up money in the streets, and that 
 their separation would not do either of them any good. 
 
 " I'm tired of supporting you," she said ; " that's the 
 long and short of it. You haven't earned a sixpence 
 this year." 
 
 " You scold and you scold, but you don't tell me 
 what I'm to do," complained M. Varasdin. 
 
 " We are dining with Newby to-night. After dinner 
 I am going out with him. You will naturally conduct 
 Miss Ferrers to her hotel. You are not a somnam- 
 bulist. You have escorted her here and there these six 
 weeks. She can find no reason to refuse." 
 
 " She can insist on a cab. It will be a ten minutes' 
 drive." 
 
 " Persuade her to walk, then. But I leave the details 
 to you. I admit that the matter has elements of diffi- 
 culty. At the same time I must remind you of the 
 desperate condition of our own affairs. After all, you 
 are a man. The meanest hound amongst you has the
 
 122 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 pull when it comes to muscle. The most beautiful 
 woman in the world, the cleverest woman in the world 
 walks through life knowing that any blackguard can 
 knock her down. It doesn't happen, you say? Look 
 through that pile of old newspapers. If you can find 
 one without a case of it I'll give you twenty francs 
 for your dejeuner to-morrow." 
 
 M. Varasdin did not search through the papers to 
 which his wife pointed. He was thinking hard. 
 
 " Where are we dining, do you say ? " 
 
 "At that restaurant Newby has just discovered, 
 right away towards Montmartre." 
 
 " She knows her way about Paris ? " 
 
 " She knows how to get from here to the Louvre in 
 a cab or a tram. She knows the Madelaine and the 
 Place de la Concorde. She has stared at Notre-Dame. 
 She has never been near all those quiet old streets you 
 will be near to-night." 
 
 " It is impossible. I should be suspected. The police 
 would be on us in a few hours." 
 
 " If you bungle. What does suspicion matter so long 
 as proof is impossible? Of course, you must come 
 straight back here, and, according to what has hap- 
 pened, we shall act. Don't run away in a panic and 
 have a hue-and-cry after you before morning. Prob- 
 ably we shall sit still, answer all questions, and snap 
 our fingers in the end. It is either that or the gutter 
 for both of us." 
 
 " You are sure of that? "
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 123 
 
 Mme. Varasdin shrugged her shoulders. A clock in 
 the room struck six. It was time for her to dress, and 
 she took from the wardrobe the quiet, close-fitting 
 gown she considered suitable that night. The man 
 sat staring at the floor, and biting his lips, and 
 sighing hard sometimes. He looked like a stupid, evil 
 beast caught in a trap, and he could see no way out 
 except the one he feared to try. He had led a life of 
 mean shifts; had sat in an Austrian prison as a swin- 
 dler; and had left an equivocal name in many cities. 
 At the beginning of his career he had shown some skill 
 in playing the devil's game with money; had floated 
 wild-cat companies, and had been known to fools, first 
 as a financier and then as a knave. He had feasted 
 and roystered, and starved and despaired. Over and 
 over again his wife had lifted him out of the mire with 
 money got he asked not how. She was so clever and 
 so prudent that, of late, they had even gained a footing 
 in the semi-respectable society formed by the success- 
 ful of his kind in Paris, and had led an agreeable life 
 there. He was no worse, he told himself, than other 
 men ; no worse than that arch-swindler, Jacob Wolfen- 
 stein ; not much worse than old Gregorio ; a little better, 
 perhaps, than the notorious Whitley Brown, who still 
 sat at good men's tables, whose wife had curtseyed to 
 kings. It was his dire misfortune that ruin had him 
 by the throat unless he committed a theft for which 
 want of scruple was not sufficient without pluck and 
 sleight of hand.
 
 124 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Meanwhile, Amabel got ready for dinner and packed 
 what she needed for the night in a small handbag she 
 could, at a pinch, carry. The Eugenias she put into a 
 chatelaine bag that fastened into her waistband by a 
 long, broad hook. She thought they were safer on her 
 body than in either of her trunks. Besides, in half- 
 an-hour she would be done with this household, where 
 sinister deeds seemed real, and not, as they seem to 
 most of us, half fabulous. When she thought of the 
 Varasdins now she thought of events, and words, and 
 glances that all helped, like lights turned up of a sud- 
 den, to show their true colours. She remembered their 
 straits for money, their cat-and-dog life, the extrav- 
 agance of the woman, the idle complaisance of the man. 
 The thought of another night on the flat had become 
 unbearable. With Adele to keep her company, she 
 might have endured it; by herself she knew she could 
 not. She shuddered at the thought of Mme. Varas- 
 din's hands near her throat again. What she feared 
 the girl could hardly have told you, but sheer physical 
 terror unnerved her, and her one desire was to get 
 away away from this woman and back to the com- 
 pany of honest men. 
 
 When she was ready she listened anxiously at her 
 door and heard no movement anywhere on the flat. 
 She took a sudden resolve, crept softly to the front 
 door, which was near her own, opened it without noise 
 and let herself down in the lift. As she descended 
 she trembled lest she should still by some miracle be
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 125 
 
 overtaken, yet she stopped for a moment to speak to 
 the concierge, to give him a present of money, and 
 to leave an address for letters. Then she went out 
 into the street, hailed an open cab, and drove to the 
 address Mr. Newby had given her. He was waiting 
 near the door, and he looked surprised to see her arrive 
 alone. 
 
 "Aren't the Varasdins coming?" said he. 
 
 "Oh yes!" said Amabel. "But I thought I 
 wouldn't wait for them. I wanted to ask you about 
 a hotel." 
 
 " I've taken a room for you at the Ritz," said Mr. 
 Newby. " You see they know your uncle there. You'll 
 be all right. I'm sorry I can't see you off to-morrow, 
 but I've promised to show some people round Ver- 
 sailles, and we have to make an early start." 
 
 Amabel thanked him, and they went inside the 
 restaurant, sat down at the table he had chosen, and 
 began to talk of indifferent things. She felt relieved 
 and happy and a little excited, as men do when they 
 have faced danger and passed safely by. Her thoughts 
 turned to England and to the circumstances of her 
 new life there, and she told Mr. Newby how few 
 friends she had and how she would not know where 
 to lay her head until she had consulted with Mrs. 
 Pu-gsley. 
 
 " That state of things won't last long," said Mr. 
 Newby sagely. " Money makes friends." 
 
 " It makes enemies too," said Amabel rather rue-
 
 126 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 fully. " The moment I get to London I shall send 
 these hateful Eugenias to Mr. Sheringham and ask 
 him to get rid of them for me. Uncle Michael told 
 me to wait, but I don't think he'll mind when he hears 
 what a worry they've been, and Mr. Sheringham will 
 know when they ought to be sold, I suppose. Isn't it 
 odd that a musty old bit of paper like this should be 
 worth so much money, that people should covet it, 
 that I should have to guard it as if it was a jewel, 
 and that I can sell it and get real treasures with it 
 clothes, and books, and music, and journeys, if I 
 choose, to Ultima Thule." 
 
 She had taken the certificate out of her bag and 
 unfolded it for Mr. Newby to see, and their heads 
 were bent over it when the swish of a silk gown close 
 by arrested Mr. Newby's attention. 
 
 " Put it away," he said under his breath, and got 
 up to receive Monsieur and Madame Varasdin. Ama- 
 bel hurriedly thrust the paper into the bag at her 
 side and looked up to see whether the husband and 
 wife had observed her. Apparently they were both 
 engrossed in apologising to Mr. Newby for being a 
 quarter of an hour late. 
 
 " We waited for mademoiselle," they said, but their 
 manner conveyed no reproach. Indeed, their bland 
 civility almost persuaded Amabel that her own be- 
 haviour had been panic-stricken and rude. Neverthe- 
 less the thought of sleeping at the Ritz was com- 
 fortable.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 127 
 
 XIV 
 
 THE paraphernalia of common life, the habits of the 
 body, and the company of ordinary men, all combine 
 to give tragedy a distant and improbable air. Yet it 
 takes little faith and less reflection to show that in 
 every tragedy, whether of crime or fate or passion, 
 all parts are played by men whose needs and occupa- 
 tions are as everyday as our own. In real life the 
 most awful events are not detached from the trivial 
 as they are in poetry; our spirits agonise in human 
 bodies with human needs, and the sun shines on sor- 
 row as often as on joy. Nevertheless, so narrow is 
 our vision, so hidebound our intelligence, we find it 
 difficult to see in the mingled yarn the thread of 
 grief or danger that will soon be inextricably woven. 
 Amabel sat at table in a well-lighted, well-appointed 
 Parisian restaurant. The silver and glass were shin- 
 ing, the dishes were dainty, the guests who sat at other 
 tables afforded her entertainment. She drank cham- 
 pagne, and that cheerful wine restored her ; she heard 
 Mme. Varasdin and Mr. Newby discuss the various 
 ways of cooking mutton, and that curiously encouraged 
 her. She inhabited a safe, commonplace corner of the 
 \vorld, where people were occupied with their palates 
 and did not contemplate deeds of violence. Her fears
 
 128 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 fell from her, she took an interest in the menu, 
 and she addressed herself to her dinner and to M. 
 Varasdin. 
 
 Amabel still thought him a mere animated barber's 
 block, and admired him so little that the very phrase, 
 bel homme, the phrase his wife used to describe 
 him, had been lowered in its meaning, and she would-' 
 not have applied it except to cast some slur of hollow- 
 ness and vanity. This evening, he seemed to be in a 
 silent mood, and he made so little response to Amabel's 
 efforts that she guessed him to be sulky over her 
 departure, and left him alone. Mme. Varasdin took 
 note of this at once, and drew the girl into conver- 
 sation without any sign of rancour or regret. Her 
 bland face showed no change, her questions expressed 
 her interest in Amabel's plans, and her manner sug- 
 gested the tolerance with which a healthy person 
 condones the fancies of an invalid. 
 
 " Are you going straight to your friends ? " she 
 asked. " Do they expect you ? " 
 
 " I shall telegraph to them to-morrow," said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " But you must give me an address for letters," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " I have left one with the concierge," said the 
 girl. 
 
 The lady then began to talk about London. Unhap- 
 pily for that city, she had not enjoyed a fortnight she 
 spent there some years ago. It was impossible, she
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 129 
 
 said, to think much of a nation that eats parboiled 
 cabbage with its dinner every day and sleeps on small 
 oblong pillows. Amabel asked her about theatres and 
 picture-galleries, but she said she had not troubled 
 to visit either, as she had always been told that the 
 English could not act or paint. 
 
 " Nor have you any musicians or poets," she added. 
 " It is very strange." 
 
 " The wonder is that a nation so compact of evil 
 and stupidity can exist at all," said Mr. Newby, with 
 something rather like a wink at Amabel. 
 
 " You are decaying fast," said M. Varasdin sol- 
 emnly. He was rather flushed, and had emptied his 
 glass oftener than usual. 
 
 " I have enjoyed being in Paris," said Amabel ; 
 " and to come across French people everywhere is 
 like living in a fairy story where the fountains run 
 with champagne. I like their talk and their smiles, 
 and their quickness, and their kind, pretty ways. 
 But I want to get back to my own country, too. It 
 is only in your own country that you know what other 
 people are thinking. Besides, I am homesick for toast 
 and tea, and the illustrated papers, and a cabman who 
 can drive, and a bobby like a monument. Is it windy 
 to-night? I hardly noticed. Shall I have a smooth 
 crossing ? " 
 
 " I don't think so," said Mr. Newby ; " a wind's 
 getting up." 
 
 Then the talk turned on Channel passages and
 
 130 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 the Channel tunnel, and from that went wide over the 
 high seas. Mr. Newby had been round the world, 
 and told stories of Japan and China; and Mme. Va- 
 rasdin asked questions about Indian cities and about 
 the native princes he had met out there, and about 
 their European hangers-on. 
 
 " Don't you know a Rajah who wants a secretary 
 and treasurer?" said she; "a rich Rajah, who would 
 give Hyacinth a salary for managing his finances, and 
 me some big diamonds because I am so charming. 
 I am tired of Europe. I should like to get away into 
 a bigger, wider world." 
 
 Mr. Newby said he did not think a native Indian 
 city would seem very big or very wide after the first 
 three months. He recommended Charing Cross. That 
 suggested a comparison of cities, and it appeared that 
 Mme. Varasdin knew most of the important European 
 ones west of Russia and south of Berlin. Amabel 
 who only knew London and Paris, could not join in 
 this discussion, and she fell to thinking how odd it 
 was that she should sit amicably at table with people 
 she was leaving in such a way and for such a reason. 
 It seemed impossible that both should be real the 
 woman who crawled and stole in the night, and this 
 cheerful dining-room with the guests and the busy 
 servants, and Mr. Newby, and the well-dressed, easy- 
 mannered woman next to him. But when Amabel 
 looked at M. Varasdin, she felt some return of the 
 vague uneasiness left by the shock she had sustained.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 131 
 
 As the dinner proceeded, his face grew more deeply 
 flushed; for once, wine did not loose his tongue, and 
 the man who was usually a big eater and noisy and 
 boastful in his talk, now played with his food, con- 
 sumed nothing, and sat so brooding and speechless 
 that Mr. Newby at last noticed his unnatural mood. 
 
 "What are you hatching, Varasdin?" he said. 
 " Going to make your fortune to-morrow ? Laying 
 the plans to-night ? " 
 
 " He really has that appearance," said his wife ; 
 " I hope it is so. Hyacinth, I drink to your success. 
 Lay your plans well to-night. See that they succeed 
 and bring us good fortune to-morrow." 
 
 " We'll all join in that toast," said Mr. Newby, and 
 he raised his glass. Of course, Amabel did so too. 
 
 " I wish you good luck," she said to M. Varasdin. 
 
 She thought he behaved rather badly. He took no 
 notice of her sentiment, he did not look her way; 
 he emptied his glass in such haste that he was near 
 choking over it, and he set it down with such an 
 unsteady hand that he brushed against other glasses 
 and upset them. His wife frowned as she watched 
 him. 
 
 " You do not respond to mademoiselle," she ob- 
 served. " She drinks to your success. Drink with 
 her." 
 
 At his wife's bidding, M. Varasdin refilled his glass 
 and sipped from it with a perfunctory bow in Amabel's 
 direction, but his eyes avoided her, and it was to Mr.
 
 132 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Newby, who sat opposite, that he addressed his next 
 remarks. 
 
 " All my life I have been dogged by bad luck," 
 he said. " It is little enough that I want of the world, 
 yet I don't seem able to get it. Why does one man 
 succeed and the other fail? Can you teach me the 
 trick? But I suppose you have never earned a six- 
 pence yourself. You took the trouble to be born of 
 a lucky father. You found your bed ready made." 
 
 " Oh, luck changes," said his wife lightly. " Yours 
 is on its way, my friend." Then she deftly stopped 
 the lachrymose rejoinder she saw coming by a request 
 for her cloak. It was time to say good-bye and start, 
 she reminded Mr. Newby. 
 
 Amabel thought the moment a difficult one. The 
 Varasdins were quite civil although her stampede from 
 their roof was hostile and perhaps ridiculous. Their 
 urbanity put her in the wrong, and though she held 
 to her resolve, she felt apologetic, doubtful, and con- 
 ciliatory as she offered Mme. Varasdin her hand. 
 The lady just took it and let it drop again. She 
 was occupied with the clasps of her cloak and was 
 evidently not stirred either to compunction or to 
 shame. 
 
 " Hyacinth will take you to your hotel," she said. 
 
 " It is unnecessary," said Amabel ; " I can have a 
 cab." 
 
 " Allow me to render you this small service, Made- 
 moiselle," said M. Varasdin, and there was a note
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 133 
 
 of offence in his tone as if he scented distrust and 
 defied the girl to express it. Amabel, inclined to doubt 
 her own conclusions, gave in at once. They started 
 before the others, and M. Varasdin carried the small 
 dressing-bag she had taken with her for the night. 
 When they got outside M. Varasdin looked at the sky 
 and observed that the rain held off and that if 
 mademoiselle pleased they might walk to the Place 
 Vendome. 
 
 " But you are turning the wrong way," said Amabel. 
 
 " It is a quiet way that I know very well," said 
 M. Varasdin. 
 
 Amabel had little idea of locality, and she had 
 never been on foot in this neighbourhood before. 
 Her companion dived down side streets, took a turn 
 to the left, a turn to the right, and in a few minutes 
 hopelessly confused her. From where they walked 
 now she could not have found her way to the Made- 
 leine or to any other point well known to her. They 
 were in a poorer quarter than she had seen yet, and 
 some of the streets were empty and badly lighted. 
 She kept her eyes open for a cab, but none plied for 
 hire here. She began to wish herself back amongst 
 the busy traffic of the city, where the crowd would 
 have given her a sense of safety. The man beside her 
 hardly opened his mouth, and that was not his wont, 
 and added to her uneasiness. She tried to talk, and 
 her own voice vexed her, it was so artificial. She 
 forgot her fatigue and set a hurried step, and looked
 
 134 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 furtively behind when M. Varasdin dropped back a 
 yard or two. She observed that he did this when- 
 ever the street was empty, but that when other people 
 were in sight he kept easily abreast. If he had let 
 her lag behind she thought she could have endured a 
 little longer, but it set her nerves on edge to listen for 
 his footfall at her heels and to turn her head and 
 see him close at her shoulder. The ignoble lines in his 
 face, of self-indulgence and ill-humour, were set as 
 if in a mask to-night, and as he hovered near her, 
 still and threatening, she wondered which was the 
 real man, this ruffian or the bel homme all volubility 
 and smiles. 
 
 They turned now into a long, badly lighted street 
 of tumble-down private houses, and there was not a 
 sound or a sight here to allay Amabel's vague alarm. 
 The very windows were mostly in darkness, the noise 
 of busier streets sounded far away, and there was not 
 a footstep on the pavement except their own. 
 
 " I am sure we are wrong," she said, with decision. 
 " When we get to the end of this street I shall take 
 a cab. I have been out all day and am tired." 
 
 She spoke because the silence and the deserted street 
 were terrifying. It reassured her to break the silence 
 and to talk as if nothing worse was on her mind than 
 her weary body and this weary trudge. But she made 
 the mistake that a timid person makes when he snatches 
 his hand too suddenly from an uncertain dog and so 
 decides him to spring. M. Varasdin understood that
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 135 
 
 it was now or never. He fell a step behind again, and 
 she turned her head at once and caught him shifting 
 the bag he carried from the left hand to the right. 
 
 At that moment a house door opened and shut 
 again with a bang, and a boy came whistling into the 
 street. He walked ahead of them on the opposite 
 side, and Amabel had it in her mind to run across the 
 road and walk close to him until they reached a more 
 frequented part where there would be a constant 
 stream of people and the chance of a cab. But the 
 boy walked fast, and was fast outstripping them. 
 She hurried her own steps to keep up with him. The 
 man by her side muttered some remonstrance she 
 scarcely heard, and placed himself close to her and on 
 the kerb, so that she must pass behind him or in front 
 of him to cross. The boy's whistle grew a little 
 fainter with every yard they covered, and she had 
 to strain her eyes now to make out his figure. As 
 long as she saw it, as long as she heard him, she 
 thought the chances might still be with her, and she 
 looked for the end of the long street and hoped that 
 her strength and courage would not fail her. For it 
 was not easy to walk steadily forward with a cool 
 head and her heart beating hard against her side. The 
 boy changed his tune, whistled the new one a little 
 louder, and as it seemed to her for a moment slackened 
 his pace. She leapt in front of M. Varasdin, thinking 
 to cross at any hazards, and win to safety. And then 
 she halted on the kerb, stricken helpless with disap-
 
 136 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 pointment. The boy had swung open the heavy door 
 of a courtyard, and shut it behind him. She looked 
 despairingly down the narrow street, and saw no one 
 to take his place. M. Varasdin had come close behind 
 her again, and she moved swiftly to one side. But 
 as she did so, she saw his uplifted arm, and before 
 she could escape, before she could guard herself or 
 even scream, the bag he carried came down on her 
 head and shoulder with a smashing blow. She groaned 
 and fell, and lost all consciousness. 
 
 In a moment M. Varasdin swooped over her inert 
 body, and unhooked the chatelaine purse from her 
 waistband. The girl lay quite still, and he could not 
 hear her breathe. But he had no courage to make sure 
 that she was dead. His own limbs were so tremulous 
 now, that he kept on his feet with difficulty. He 
 stuffed the purse into his pocket, picked up the 
 travelling bag, got to the other side of the street, and 
 walked quickly and softly to the end of it. He arrived 
 at an open place where other streets converged, and 
 where other people were passing. At one corner there 
 was a cafe, not well lighted, and as far as the outside 
 seats went, nearly empty. He sat down here and called 
 for a cognac. For the moment he was at the end of 
 his strength, and at the end of his resources. His 
 thoughts were in a flurry. He did not know what to 
 do next, or what would happen if Amabel was dead, 
 or if she rose as a witness against him. He did not 
 know which he desired, to have succeeded as a mur-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 137 
 
 derer, or to have bungled this business as he had 
 done many others. He had the Eugenias in his pocket, 
 and took no thought of them. He felt sick and chilly, 
 and offended with fate; but above all offended with 
 his wife who had driven him to do this dangerous thing, 
 and sat safely at home herself. He cursed her for 
 letting him undertake it without money in his pocket. 
 He could not make good his escape until he had gone 
 home and found her, and procured money for his 
 travelling expenses. He ought to have foreseen this, 
 and brought money with him, and be on his way 
 already. It would waste hours to go out to Passy and 
 return to Paris. The police would soon be astir. But 
 Anastasie had said something about flight being un- 
 necessary. He could not remember did not under- 
 stand. The waiter might bring another cognac. He 
 was not ill, at least he did not count a touch of ague as 
 illness. The man might bring him a double quantity 
 if he pleased. It was showery to-day, and the damp 
 easily affected him. Also, he had walked far. One 
 franc, twenty? It was well. The waiter could keep 
 the change. 
 
 M. Varasdin lifted the glass to his lips and set it 
 down again, because his trembling hand would not hold 
 it. His face was petrified in fear and surprise, and if 
 he had not sat alone in the half darkness of an ill- 
 lighted corner of the cafe, his condition must inevitably 
 have attracted notice. His eyes were fixed on the 
 pitiful figure of Amabel staggering slowly across the
 
 138 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 place, her hand held to her head, her clothes in dis- 
 order, her face discoloured with blood. She came 
 straight towards him. He could see her blind and ter- 
 rified eyes; and he rose hurriedly to his feet with a 
 scream. But his scream was drowned in the shout that 
 went up from every side, and in the puffing noise of 
 a motor car that dashed out of a side street across the 
 Place, and as it seemed, right over the girl. When 
 M. Varasdin came to his senses he saw a crowd 
 gathered where Amabel had stood. The waiter who 
 had served him came away from it and spoke as he 
 passed. 
 
 " It is a young lady," he said ; " she is quite dead."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 139 
 
 XV 
 
 MADAME VARASDIN was decidedly in a difficult mood. 
 The players did not amuse her, and she left the theatre 
 at the end of the first act. She had no mind for a cafe, 
 or for a variety show, or for anything else that Mr. 
 Newby proposed. 
 
 " I am not very well to-night," she said. " It is 
 an influenza. Get me a cab and don't come near me 
 for two days. I detest seeing my friends when I am 
 ill. There is only one thing I hate more, and that is 
 seeing them when they are ill. Sick people ought to 
 hide." 
 
 " But you seemed all right at dinner," said Mr. 
 Newby. 
 
 " These things come on very quickly sometimes. 
 Yes, call that driver with the white hat. By the way, 
 shall you see Miss Ferrers again before she starts for 
 England?" 
 
 " I'm afraid not. I've promised to be at Versailles 
 all day to-morrow with two Yanks who are staying 
 at my hotel, and we start early. Yanks are so beastly 
 energetic. Had you any message ? " 
 
 " None at all. Besides, she must fetch or send for 
 her trunks. She was an amiable young person. It is 
 a pity she was subject to unamiable delusions. I hope
 
 140 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 she will go to the Ritz to-night and to England to- 
 morrow. But I do not feel sure. She was in an 
 excitable condition. I think she needs great care. I 
 am glad to see that your interest in her is not as deep 
 as I feared. I wish I felt equally safe about Hyacinth. 
 You observed his dejection at dinner. The news of 
 Miss Ferrers' departure cast that gloom over him." 
 
 " Much more likely the state of the market," said 
 Mr. Newby. " A boom, when you're not in it, is de- 
 pressing." 
 
 The symptoms of lassitude and fever that had af- 
 flicted Mme. Varasdin vanished as the cab turned 
 westwards. She was impatient to be at home. She 
 thought it most likely that Hyacinth's courage had 
 failed him, that he had done nothing at all, and that 
 life would go on as it threatened, leading them in no 
 time to open disgrace and destitution. She had her 
 jewels, but it is not easy to sell jewels profitably 
 when once the police are on your tracks, and when 
 they do not belong to you at all but to your cred- 
 itors. With a man like her husband, affairs must 
 needs grow worse as time goes on and proves his 
 incapacity and want of faith by a whole known his- 
 tory of questionable transactions. His friends had 
 fallen from him, his credit was gone, his name was 
 rank in the market - place. She could, of course, 
 leave him to his fate. That path lay before her, but 
 without seduction. She knew too much about the 
 career open to an extravagant woman, unclassed, idle,
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 141 
 
 and in some measure fastidious. The future held one 
 hope, and before midnight she would know whether 
 or not it was fulfilled. Small wonder that her mood 
 was restless, and that she had no mind for the un- 
 realities of the play. Her fate hung on her husband's 
 boldness and discretion, and she knew him to be a 
 coward and a fool. 
 
 In the improbable event of his success there was 
 still a difficult question before her, and she saw that 
 she might have to settle it suddenly. He would want 
 to keep the plunder in his own slippery hands; he 
 would play ducks and drakes with it, and a few 
 months hence they would be beggared again. This 
 issue was much in her thoughts as she approached 
 the Avenue Ernani. She looked up at her windows 
 and saw no light there. She paid the cabman, went 
 up in the lift, and opened the door with her latch- 
 key. She looked into every room and found that her 
 husband had not returned. Then she sat down in her 
 own room, and for some time did not stir even to 
 remove her hat and gloves. She had to think and 
 decide. What should she do if he came back having 
 attempted nothing? what should she do if he had 
 tried and failed? Suppose he absconded with the 
 shares and she never saw him again? suppose he 
 brought them back and refused her a share in them? 
 Whatever he did he would act solely for himself, she 
 knew. She hoped nothing of him, hardly wished 
 him otherwise. Most of all she wished him dead and
 
 142 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 out of her way. For a long while now she had seen 
 that this solution was the only convenient one; he 
 did no good in the world. No one would miss or 
 bemoan him. He had not won the esteem or the af- 
 fection of one fellow - creature on his way through 
 life. He was a man without a friend. Unfortunately 
 the law takes no count of quality, and it is as dan- 
 gerous to rid society of a drone as of a hero. It 
 behoved her to keep out of danger, and she thought 
 she saw a way, a way she would not take, however, 
 unless the need arose. Hyacinth should live if he 
 showed himself amenable; even if he came back with 
 empty hands he should live. Nothing should con- 
 demn him short of his own greed. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin got up and unlocked her jewel case. 
 She took from it a small bottle with the label of a 
 Vienna chemist. It contained a strong preparation 
 of morphia that had been given her some years ago 
 to relieve pain. She had always kept it, and had 
 sometimes felt tempted to use it and so shuffle off 
 the coil of life. She had never before thought of 
 administering it to any one else. She would not think 
 of it now with any steadiness or decision, but she 
 soaked the bottle in water and removed the label and 
 burnt it. The little bottle she hid in the pouched 
 bodice of her dress. Then she took off her hat and 
 went into the dining-room and turned on the lights. 
 She had just put brandy on the sideboard and soda 
 water and glasses, when she heard a slight sound at
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 143 
 
 the front door, and then a stealthy step in the hall. 
 As she turned round her husband appeared in the 
 room. 
 
 He was trembling with triumph and excitement; 
 yet he looked about him as he came in and she saw 
 that he was afraid. 
 
 " I am alone," she said. " What has happened ? " 
 
 " I have succeeded where you failed," said he. 
 
 His wife looked at the bag he carried in his 
 hand. 
 
 " I see you have brought that bag here as a wit- 
 ness against you," she observed. " The shares " 
 
 " The shares are in my pocket," he cried, and he 
 put down the bag and took from his coat pocket the 
 purse containing the shares. His wife stood near the 
 sideboard and watched him. She saw him open the 
 purse and she saw the certificate in his hands. He 
 unfolded it, fluttered it towards her, and then put it 
 in his coat again. The purse he left lying on the 
 table. 
 
 " Are you safe here even for an hour ? " said his 
 wife. 
 
 " The poor girl is dead," said the man, with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " You would certainly not be safe if she was alive," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " You told me I should. You told me to come 
 back. But no one knows I am here. As I came in 
 I gave the name of Duval, the people above us."
 
 144 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " What makes you think the girl is dead ? How 
 did you get the shares?" 
 
 "How does one get anything one wants? I took 
 them." 
 
 " Was there a scene ? A noise ? A crowd ? How 
 did you get away ? " 
 
 " Ask such questions of a fool and not of me. I am 
 new to the game, yet I played it with skill. We were 
 in a deserted street I had this bag in my hands 
 and I tell you once for all, Anastasie, that I will not 
 speak of what happened. A man of my calibre can- 
 not shrink from a disagreeable necessity, but I sup- 
 pose a cook who has to wring the neck of a pigeon 
 does not dwell on it afterwards with any pleasure." 
 
 " A cook is not in danger of the guillotine," said 
 Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " I did not kill the girl myself," said her husband 
 sulkily. 
 
 But the colour had gone from his face, and his voice 
 was harsh and shaky when he began to speak again. 
 
 " I left her lying on the pavement." 
 
 " Oh ! I guessed that," interrupted his wife. " You 
 knocked her down, took her purse, and ran away in 
 a fright, the proofs gaping in your hands. Well ? " 
 
 " I felt dreadfully upset. My knees were loose 
 tinder me. So I sat down at a cafe " 
 
 "How far off?" 
 
 " Beyond the end of the street. I drank three 
 cognacs before my strength returned. I tell you that
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 145 
 
 what I have done to-night is not easy to do ; and what 
 I saw next was not pleasant to see. The girl came 
 staggering across the Place towards me." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " If you know what happened I may save myself 
 the trouble of telling you. Perhaps you know what 
 the girl looked like . . . that she had her hand to her 
 head . . . that there was blood on her face . . . have you 
 that picture in your mind ? . . . I would gladly trans- 
 fer it from my own... and what came next... that 
 was worse to see." 
 
 " Oh, go on ! " said Mme. Varasdin, with exasper- 
 ation. 
 
 " She was knocked down by a motor car and killed 
 on the spot." 
 
 " How do you know she was killed ? " 
 
 " Every one rushed to see except the man on the 
 motor car. He got clean away. Every one was curs- 
 ing and shouting, and I heard several people say she 
 was dead. She must have been. I saw the car knock 
 her down." 
 
 " At this moment she is probably in the hands of 
 the police and is giving evidence against you," said 
 Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " But if she is dead we are safe. She will not have 
 her address on her clothes." 
 
 " You can never tell. She might have a card or 
 a letter on her. Dead or alive, she may send the 
 police here any moment to catch you with her
 
 146 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 property in your hands. Is there no river? Are 
 there no byways in Paris, you fool? How dare you 
 come back with that bag and that purse to com- 
 promise us both ? " 
 
 The man's face was dazed and his body was shiver- 
 ing with fear. 
 
 " What will happen if she lives ? " he said, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " The police will come and this time it will be 
 Cayenne. The life there is not agreeable, I believe. 
 Come; pull yourself together, my friend. Every 
 minute that you spend here is a folly." 
 
 " Why did you tell me to do it ? " 
 
 " I didn't tell you to do it badly." 
 
 M. Varasdin got up, his eyes staring wide at his 
 wife, his hands thrown out towards her. 
 
 " Give me money," he said ; " I must go straight 
 to Buda-Pesth and sell the shares." 
 
 " Are you mad ? " said his wife. " You must go 
 straight to South America. I will watch events here, 
 and when it is safe I will go to Buda-Pesth and sell 
 the shares." 
 
 M. Varasdin looked distrustfully at his wife. 
 
 " I ran the risk," he said ; " they are mine. I mean 
 to turn them into a million. As for South America, 
 it is too obvious. Besides, it lies across the sea, and 
 I have always thought that if I was in danger I would 
 avoid big ports. I believe in the Danubian towns. 
 From Buda-Pesth I shall go to Sofia."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 147 
 
 " I advise you, if you value your safety, to leave 
 the shares with me," said his wife. 
 
 He hardly heard what she said. He was listening 
 to every sound that came up from the street below, 
 and his eyes were haggard. 
 
 " I must go," he said. " Give me money." 
 
 His wife did not move, but her eyes were fastened 
 on him intently, and she watched him take Amabel's 
 purse from his pocket and empty the contents on the 
 table. There was a small handkerchief, some loose 
 gold and silver, ten hundred-franc notes, and the 
 folded certificate of the Eugenias. 
 
 " I can do without you," he said. 
 
 " Are you going to keep it all ? " she asked ; " all 
 the money as well as the shares ? " 
 
 " I shall want it if the police are after me. You 
 can any time raise enough to join me. Sell your 
 pearls." 
 
 " The French police are quick and clever. Of course, 
 you will change your name. But have you anything 
 in your pockets to betray you except the shares 
 any letters ? Any marks on your clothes ? " 
 
 The man dived into his pockets and pulled out a 
 silver cigarette-case, a handkerchief, and various cards 
 and letters. 
 
 " There is nothing else," he said. " Now I will go." 
 
 " I will come with you to the station," said his 
 wife. 
 
 " Shall I take a bag with what I want?"
 
 i 4 8 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Nothing nothing by which you might be known. 
 If you were wise you would leave me the Eugenias." 
 
 " And never see either them or you again and 
 be hunted like a mad dog and not a penny to make 
 it worth while do you take me for a fool ? You 
 have driven me into a crime do you think I love 
 the sight of your face when I remember the girl's? 
 I struck the blow but it is you who have a heart 
 of stone." 
 
 " But it is you the police will take," said Mme. 
 Varasdin, and she laughed. 
 
 " We waste time," said the man ; " I must catch the 
 midnight train." 
 
 Mme. Varasdin went to her own rooms and put 
 on a close hat, a thick veil, and a dark, long cloak; 
 clothes in which she was inconspicuous and almost 
 unrecognisable. She did not fasten her cloak yet, and 
 she carried her gloves in her hands. She was not 
 away three minutes, but when she returned to her hus- 
 band she found him in a state of collapse that threat- 
 ened to be unmanageable. He was shaking like a 
 man with a palsy; when he tried to stand, he sank 
 back into his chair ; when he tried to speak, sobs came 
 from his throat and tears rolled down his grey 
 shrunken face. He met his wife's eyes and found no 
 pity in them. 
 
 " I can't walk," he moaned ; " what shall I do ? " 
 
 Mme. Varasdin went to the sideboard. She filled 
 a high tumbler nearly half full of brandy, she took
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 149 
 
 the little bottle from her dress and emptied it into the 
 glass, she added soda-water and carried the drink to 
 him. 
 
 " A dose of morphia will do him no harm," she said 
 to herself, and, whether she believed it or not, her 
 shifty soul hardly knew. She watched him empty 
 the glass. Then she swept together the things on the 
 table, and put them into Amabel's travelling-bag. 
 
 " This must go into the Seine to-night," she said. 
 
 " I feel better," said M. Varasdin ; " I could walk 
 some distance now. We will take a cab where we are 
 not known. But if the police come to-day or to- 
 morrow, what shall you say ? " 
 
 " I shall have nothing to say. I shall not know 
 where you are or what you have done. We shall not 
 be able to communicate with each other, but that will 
 not trouble you greatly, I imagine. You will console 
 yourself by reflecting that I can sell the pearls." 
 
 " I wonder why you are coming with me to the 
 station ? " said the man suspiciously. " I don't believe 
 you care whether I am dead or alive." 
 
 " I am coming to get rid of this bag, and to see 
 you don't muddle your departure," said Mme. Varas- 
 din. " You know I am not fond of notoriety and the 
 guillotine." 
 
 " You would not care ' muttered M. Varasdin. 
 " You would think of yourself, and not of me, even 
 then. You have a heart of stone."
 
 150 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 XVI 
 
 THEY crept softly down the stairs and across the dark 
 hall to the front door without waking the concierge. 
 
 " The less attention we draw to ourselves the better," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. " Our door shuts without a 
 sound if one is careful." 
 
 " I can hardly drag myself along," said M. Varasdin. 
 " I feel very queer ; I am drunk, I believe. You must 
 have given me too much brandy." 
 
 Mme. Varasdin looked up and down the broad, well- 
 lighted avenue. There were a few people about still, 
 and the tram cars were still running. If her husband 
 fell like a log here in the street, and a crowd gathered 
 and the police interfered, all they had done to-night 
 would be of no avail, would be made horribly public, and 
 would bring on her head the utmost misery and shame. 
 The treasure for which she had thrown away the last 
 shreds of self-respect would be found on his person 
 and lost to her ; the drug in his system would be found 
 by some meddling physician, found perhaps while Hya- 
 cinth was still conscious and could charge her, found 
 and treated perhaps, so that to her torment he remained 
 alive. As he lurched beside her, stupid, sick, and cov- 
 etous, she did not repent of what she had done, though 
 she threw a sop to her flickering conscience by telling
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 151 
 
 herself that the dose had been haphazard, and that he 
 might not die. 
 
 She turned down a by-street as soon as she could. 
 He shambled along beside her, but his gait began to 
 drag and his breathing to sound heavy, and she was 
 glad to hail the first close cab they met. She helped 
 him in, and then she told the driver to go by the 
 Champs Elysees to a cafe on the Boulevard des Ita- 
 liens, a route that at this hour of night would take 
 them through the crowds coming away from the Opera 
 and from theatres. She was not quite sure of what 
 would happen next, but she knew she must somehow, 
 make her escape, and that it would be easiest to make 
 it in a crowd. 
 
 "Did you tell him the Garde de 1'Est?" said M. 
 Varasdin, when they had started. 
 
 " Certainly not," she said ; " when the police are after 
 you he might remember driving you there. We will 
 get out somewhere near and walk to the station." 
 
 The man made no answer but lolled in the corner of 
 the cab, his head shaken with every jolt, his arms 
 hanging limply at his sides. When they passed a cafe, 
 or crossed one of the open places where streets converge 
 and there are many twinkling lights, Mme. Varasdin 
 looked anxiously at his face, and she saw that the 
 pupils of his eyes were small and sharp, and his mouth 
 a little open ; while his breathing grew heavier and his 
 hands felt cold. 
 
 She waited a little longer. They were crossing the
 
 152 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Place de la Concorde when she ventured very cautious- 
 ly to unfasten the buttons of his coat. Her own breath 
 came with difficulty, the suspense of the moment was 
 so painful. Everything hung on the next few minutes, 
 her future, her freedom, ease, or infamy. She felt 
 neither pity nor shame, but horror of his heavy body 
 and his helplessness. To be shut up with him turned 
 her faint, and for an instant she wavered, thinking to 
 call for help. Then she roused herself, took the little 
 bottle from its hiding-place, and left it beside him on 
 the seat. Her hand paused on his arm, slid to his 
 heart, felt the quick, uneven beats, and crept very care- 
 fully to the place where the treasure was carried. He 
 made no sign. She understood that he was past all 
 desire, and she half envied him. He had persistently 
 stood at ease while others struggled, and it seemed to 
 her that he was doing so still, sleeping, safe and idle, 
 while she heard the wolves. 
 
 But she held in her hand the scrap of paper for 
 which she had gone to the depths. She had possession 
 of the Eugenias and the roll of notes, and a handful 
 of loose coin. And the miracle went on, the treasure 
 was hidden now on her own person, and still he did 
 not wake. She looked out of the cab at the busy life 
 of the main Boulevards they were now traversing. 
 From each theatre a crowd came forth to swell the 
 evening traffic, the cafes were overflowing, and where- 
 ever there was some slight attraction, the changing 
 lights of an advertisement, or a gay shop window,
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 153 
 
 people gathered in clusters on the pavement. The ve- 
 hicular traffic of Paris is, of course, insignificant com- 
 pared with that of London, but the combination of bad 
 driving, furious motor cars, steam trams, and heavy 
 carts, bring about some pretty tangles. Mme. Varasdin 
 was on the look-out for a block of this kind, and she 
 found herself in one near the Opera House, from which 
 a stream of carriages was now debouching. The in- 
 stant her chance came she had the wit and nerve to 
 take it. On one side of the cab there was a puffing 
 motor car, on the other a labyrinth of carriages, her 
 horse's head was nearly inside the door of a tram car, 
 there were market carts and newspaper boys, and 
 cyclists with Chinese lanterns, and a frantic gendarme 
 with a white baton; and behind her more carts and 
 carriages, all for the moment at a standstill. She 
 opened the cab door, saw that the driver was absorbed 
 in an altercation with a cyclist, and stepped to the 
 ground unobserved. The clamour was so great that 
 she ventured to push the door to again, and then she 
 slipped to the back of the cab, and, with some risk to 
 her limbs, made her way to the pavement. As she 
 reached it the tram car started, and the whole block 
 of vehicles moved slowly on. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin had Amabel's bag in her hands, and 
 every hour that passed made it a more dangerous thing 
 to carry. There was no telling how soon the police 
 would be on her track or to which members of the 
 force she was known. She looked business-like and
 
 154 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 unremarkable in her dark cloak and hat, and as she 
 quietly took her place in a Passy tram car she glanced 
 through her thick veil at her fellow-passengers with 
 the placid air of a woman who has nothing on her 
 mind. She paid her fare with a coin she had taken 
 from her husband's pocket, and when she got to the 
 Etoile she alighted and walked without hurry to the 
 Trocadero. From there she found her way to a no- 
 man's-land left by the destruction of some Exhibition 
 buildings, a waste area of rubble, bricks, and sand. 
 It took her to a road that gave on the river, and she 
 went close down to the water and saw that at this late 
 hour no one was in sight. She threw the bag as far 
 as she could towards the middle of the Seine. It 
 splashed as it fell, and before the water had closed over 
 it Mme. Varasdin had turned her back and was on her 
 way to the lighted streets again. 
 
 Her brain was hard at work all the time trying to 
 follow all the various possible issues of the night's 
 work. If Hyacinth lived and charged her she would 
 defy him to prove his charges. He would have no 
 witness but the cabman, and it was impossible that he 
 should have seen her features when she engaged him. 
 That Hyacinth should be driving with a nameless 
 woman and that she should have robbed him was of 
 a piece with his life. Mme. Varasdin would have no 
 difficulty in proving that. If he died, the empty 
 bottle and his empty pockets pointed to suicide, to the 
 determined suicide of a nameless and desperate man.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 155 
 
 The police would make some effort to discover his 
 name and would fail, and he would be buried, and 
 that would be the end of his story. 
 
 If Amabel lived, she would charge Hyacinth with 
 assault and robbery, and Hyacinth would have vanished 
 and his injured and deserted wife would not know his 
 whereabouts. If Amabel died, her friends would raise 
 an inquiry perhaps, but Mme. Varasdin could not see 
 that she was in any danger of being connected with it. 
 The girl had been knocked down by a motor car in a 
 low quarter of Paris, and a low crowd had gathered 
 round her, and some one in the crowd had made off 
 with her property. Every one would believe that had 
 taken place. 
 
 Of course, Mme. Varasdin saw that she must not 
 sell the Eugenias yet, and that weeks or even months 
 hence the transaction would be risky and difficult. But 
 with the help of Uncle Joseph she thought it might be 
 managed. She would give him a good commission, 
 and he would sell in one of the big markets. The 
 shares would probably pass from hand to hand as a 
 bank-note does; and it is usually as difficult to trace 
 a bank-note as a coin. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin had to ring at the street door to get 
 back into the house, but the concierge was able to let 
 her in without getting out of bed. As she passed his 
 office she did as M. Varasdin had done and shouted 
 the name of the family that lived above her, a lively 
 family of many members, who all kept more or less
 
 156 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 late hours. She had to find her way to the lift in the 
 dark and send herself up, and then she went into her 
 dining-room, where the gas was still turned on, and 
 where the glass from which her husband drank was 
 still on the table. And now for the first time her nerve 
 gave way a little. This morning the flat had held a 
 household, and in a day she had rid it of life. She 
 stood here alone with her dishonour and the stakes 
 for which she had played. As she caught sight of her 
 face in a mirror she wondered that any one could have 
 sat beside her and raised no cry. Hunted and haggard 
 she looked now that the strain was slackening, and no 
 one stood by to see. She felt solitary, she listened to 
 every sound, and her mind began to follow new issues 
 and to scent new dangers. Her eye fell on the empty 
 glass; she took it up and observed a sediment at the 
 bottom. If the police had arrived in her absence they 
 would have seized it, and as she carried it to the 
 kitchen she asked herself whether she had forgotten 
 any other evidence as damning. When she had washed 
 the glass at the sink and sluiced away all traces of the 
 contents, she went back to the dining-room. Her 
 husband had come straight in here to-night, and had 
 gone from here to the street; the things he had taken 
 from his coat were in the Seine, the glass from which 
 he had drunk stood now with other glasses in a pantry 
 cupboard, the brandy went back into the sideboard. If 
 the concierge had seen him come it did not matter 
 much. His exit with his wife had been unobserved,
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 157 
 
 and so was her stealthy return. Mme. Varasdin opened 
 a half -bottle of champagne, drank it as she undressed, 
 and fell asleep. 
 
 At ten o'clock next day she was out of the house 
 again and on her way to Paris. She would not buy 
 papers at the nearest kiosk and take them upstairs to 
 read, because in Paris you never know with whom 
 your concierge will gossip, or which of your habits he 
 will observe. She walked to the Etoile, got a sheaf 
 of papers there, took a close carriage, and told the 
 man to drive to a registry office at the other end of 
 the town. He started, and she looked eagerly through 
 each printed page, and every paper had two items of 
 news set amongst other tragedies and accidents of the 
 night. One paragraph described three motor car 
 disasters, the moderate crop of twenty-four hours. A 
 car had dashed down a hill and broken itself and its 
 occupants against the sides of a bridge; a car had 
 frightened the horses in a private carriage; a car had 
 knocked down a young lady and vanished without ex- 
 pressing regret or making inquiries. The young lady 
 lay unconscious at the Hospital of Laborisiere, and 
 was not expected to live. Her identity was not known. 
 
 The other paragraph described the suicide in a cab 
 of a nameless gentleman of middle age. An empty 
 bottle that had contained a strong solution of morphia 
 had been found beside him. The cabman told a story 
 of a woman with the man and of her disappearance. 
 But the gentleman had not been robbed ; a watch and
 
 158 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 chain of some value were on him and a few small 
 coins. The police were making inquiries, but they had 
 no clues, and they placed no faith in the cabman's 
 story. The Commissary of Police had ordered the body 
 to be on view at the Morgue for three days for pur- 
 poses of identification. 
 
 The Press did not pay great attention to any of 
 these events. Its space and its talent were engaged 
 that week in chronicling the Mexican Boom. The ex- 
 citement in London and New York was indescribable, 
 and every one with a pen was hard at work describing 
 it. The fever had touched Paris too. Women were 
 speculating as wildly as men. Eugenias had rushed 
 up to fifty. 
 
 " But it is magnificent. It is worth while," said 
 Mme. Varasdin to herself, and her hand crept to the 
 bosom of her dress, where, for the present, she carried 
 the shares. " If all goes well, perhaps I can sell a little 
 sooner. It would be horrible to keep them for the 
 slump. I will not hide them in the attic just yet. At 
 present I am in no danger, and to rummage in the 
 attic might attract suspicion. When once Hyacinth 
 is buried, the girl may live or die, but she will have 
 no case against me."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 159 
 
 XVII 
 
 THE evening papers added nothing of importance. The 
 suicide had not been identified; the unknown young 
 lady who had been knocked down by a motor car still 
 lay at the hospital between life and death, and unable 
 to give any account of herself. By the following day 
 both cases had been crowded out of the papers. A 
 crime passionnel, with lugubrious developments, mag- 
 netised the city, and the obscure man, who had so 
 plainly and commonly killed himself, the unknown girl, 
 one motor car victim amongst many, were both for- 
 gotten. Mme. Varasdin had a new maidservant in the 
 place of the two she had dismissed, and the concierge 
 was told that mademoiselle had returned to England, 
 and that monsieur, in the kindness of his heart, had 
 accompanied her before proceeding on a business 
 journey. 
 
 " Why have they taken no trunks ? " said the wife 
 of the concierge. 
 
 " People do not always stop for trunks," he said. 
 " Have you observed that madame looks ill and 
 anxious? Monsieur was certainly a charming man, 
 and mademoiselle doubtless found him irresistible. I 
 find it very natural, and madame has the trunks to 
 console her. Let us hope they were well filled. But
 
 160 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 I do not know what to do with this telegram that has 
 just arrived for mademoiselle." 
 
 It was true that Mme. Varasdin looked ill. Every 
 hour increased her sense of security, but it increased 
 her impatience too, and she burned to be gone and 
 gather in the fruits of her daring. Besides, the days 
 were interminable and the nights without peace. If 
 she had felt quite safe, or if she could have shifted 
 her quarters, she thought the strain of waiting would 
 have been slight. But she saw that some inquiry with 
 regard to Amabel might arise at any moment, and that 
 if she could stay and face it, her future position would 
 be stronger than if she yielded to her nerves and fled. 
 And it was not agreeable to spend endless, silent hours 
 in the flat, where every corner and every object ac- 
 cused her. She studied railway time-tables a good 
 deal, and formed her plans carefully. She thought 
 she would stay on in Paris a week or so, and see any 
 one who came. Her husband had vanished; Amabel 
 had vanished. That was the story she had to tell. 
 For their fate from the moment she saw them depart 
 together she was not responsible. 
 
 She had packed a small handbag with her jewels, 
 her cash, and a few necessaries; and, instead of the 
 indoor gowns she usually wore, she put on every 
 morning now a neat cloth travelling-dress and walking- 
 shoes. The Eugenias she still carried on her person, 
 and her pearls she had sold in the Rue de la Paix. 
 She did not want to start in a hurry and leave her
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 161 
 
 clothes behind her, but she wanted to be ready if the 
 necessity arose. With all her thinking, she could not 
 see every possible issue of a situation that involved 
 several people, one of whom still hung between life 
 and death. Some accident might yet undo her, unless 
 she could get clean away. 
 
 The second day had come and half gone, when her 
 new maid burst into the room and, with the fuss and 
 loquacity of the untrained continental servant, an- 
 nounced that an English gentleman waited at the door 
 and would not be denied. He asked to see an English 
 lady who lived on the flat, and he would not take her 
 assurance that madame lived there alone. Mme. Va- 
 rasdin had made up her mind that she would probably 
 have Mr. Sheringham to deal with, but she had not 
 expected him so soon. As she hesitated, he walked 
 in and made some apology for his intrusion. But 
 his manner was aloof and business-like, and, as 
 the maid shut the door behind her, he asked for Ama- 
 bel. 
 
 " Miss Ferrers left me the day before yesterday," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 " The day I called here ! Why did she leave so 
 suddenly ? " 
 
 " Why have you come back so suddenly ? You bade 
 me good-bye for a fortnight." 
 
 " I telegraphed to Miss Ferrers yesterday and re- 
 ceived no answer." 
 
 " Naturally. She was not here to receive or answer
 
 162 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 anything, and I cannot help you. I do not know her 
 whereabouts." 
 
 " I suppose she left some address for letters." 
 
 " Not with me." 
 
 " I suppose she went straight to England ? " 
 
 Mme. Varasdin's hands and eyebrows expressed her 
 ignorance. 
 
 " Let me see," she said ; " to-day is Friday. It was 
 on Wednesday that you called on Wednesday that 
 mademoiselle was out all day running about the 
 streets of Paris, it appears, with Mr. Newby. No one 
 can blame me. I had no authority. But it is unfor- 
 tunate that the young ladies of your country are not 
 more convenable, more like French young ladies. 
 Their freedom scandalises us." 
 
 " Yes, I know it does," said Mr. Sheringham. " But 
 what happened ? " 
 
 " She returned towards evening, still with Mr. 
 Newby, and said she would not spend another night 
 in the house." 
 
 " I must see Newby," said Mr. Sheringham. 
 
 " He is still in Paris, I believe," said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 Something in her tone made Sheringham pause. He 
 saw that, under her bland manner, she was in a fer- 
 ment. Her eyes shiftily avoided his, sometimes by 
 looking past him, sometimes by almost hiding beneath 
 her heavy eyelids, and while she talked, her restless 
 fingers were at their old trick, playing now with the 
 toys of her chatelaine and now with her rings.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 163 
 
 " And how is Monsieur Varasdin ? " said Shering- 
 ham. The question was one to mark time. He took 
 little interest in that gentleman's welfare. 
 
 " I have no idea where he is," said his wife. 
 
 Sheringham's glance measured her again he saw 
 nothing to trust or esteem. He felt sure she was play- 
 ing her own game, probably a malevolent game, and 
 he feared lest Amabel should be a pawn on the losing 
 side. 
 
 " Where did you last see Miss Ferrers ? " he asked. 
 
 " At the door of the restaurant where we had all 
 dined with Mr. Newby the day before yesterday." 
 
 "And where did you last see your husband?" 
 
 " Mais mon Dieu at the door of the restaurant. 
 Is it not plain? They departed together." 
 
 " Do you want to insinuate that they are together 
 now ? " 
 
 " You have not known Hyacinth for fifteen years," 
 said Mme. Varasdin, with a sigh. " He is one of those 
 men no woman or girl can resist. His adventures have 
 been like the stars in the sky. I have always forgiven 
 him, but it has not always been easy." 
 
 " I may as well tell you that I don't believe a word 
 you are saying," observed Sheringham. 
 
 " I can hardly expect you to. Of course, you are 
 very angry ; but as time goes on you will believe. Mr. 
 Newby will tell you they started together. They have 
 disappeared. They give no sign. Ask Miss Ferrers' 
 friends if she has arrived in England. Ask at the
 
 164 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 Ritz, where Mr. Newby engaged a room, if she slept 
 there. I have done nothing." 
 
 " That is odd," said Sheringham suspiciously. 
 " Why have you done nothing ? " 
 
 " Because I know my husband," said Mme. Varas- 
 din. " As far as I can I always avoid an open scandal. 
 What should I gain by it? Hyacinth will come back 
 to me." 
 
 Mr. Sheringham took up his hat and walked to the 
 door, without offering to shake hands with the injured 
 wife. She followed him a little way, and her voice 
 wooed him as he departed. 
 
 " Come back and tell me what you discover," she 
 said. 
 
 " I may come back it depends upon what hap- 
 pens," said Mr. Sheringham. " But I am quite sure 
 that your story is preposterous. You have probably 
 hidden your husband " 
 
 He was checked by the start and the sudden pallor 
 he saw on Mme. Varasdin's face. 
 
 " Hidden him from his creditors," he finished lamely ; 
 but as he drove to Mr. Newby's hotel, it was the 
 lady's glance as he left her that haunted him. 
 
 " She is afraid of something," he said to himself, 
 " badly afraid." 
 
 Mr. Newby, for a wonder, was in, and expressed 
 his surprise at seeing Mr. Sheringham in Paris again 
 so soon. He gave his guest an easy-chair and a cigar, 
 and asked after the Boom.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 165 
 
 Sheringham said it was still growing, and that he 
 would be glad of a whisky and soda. 
 
 " I have just called on Mme. Varasdin," he said, 
 when his friend had rung and given the order. 
 
 " I thought of calling there myself this evening," 
 said Mr. Newby. "Is she better?" 
 
 " She didn't say she had been ill." 
 
 " I haven't seen her since the night before last, when 
 we dined together. The truth is, I feel a little bit 
 awkward. You never know how a woman's going 
 to take anything, and as for seeing that there are dif- 
 ferent sorts in the world, and that you have to con- 
 duct yourselves accordingly, it's beyond any woman. 
 But it was a rum start, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " What was a rum start ? " asked Sheringham. 
 
 " Oh ! haven't you seen Miss Ferrers ? I suppose 
 there has hardly been time. When did you leave Lon- 
 don?" 
 
 " By the early boat this morning." 
 
 " Miss Ferrers left yesterday." 
 
 "Did you see her off?" 
 
 " Unfortunately it was impossible. I was nailed to 
 spend the whole day in Versailles." 
 
 A waiter came in with the whisky and soda for 
 Sheringham, and until he had gone the two men 
 smoked and waited. 
 
 " Can yon tell me why Miss Ferrers left Paris in 
 such a hurry ? " said Sheringham, when they were by 
 themselves again.
 
 i66 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 "I think she got frightened." 
 
 " Frightened ! " 
 
 His voice and his arrested hand showed that he had 
 taken alarm himself. His cigar went out while he 
 listened to what Mr. Newby had to say. 
 
 " I met Miss Ferrers in the Salon. I took her to 
 the Bois, where she expected to meet you. She told 
 a queer story about Mme. Varasdin going into her 
 room at night and stealing her purse. It had upset 
 her a bit, and she said she would return to England 
 next day. I went back to the Avenue Ernani, and 
 something seemed to frighten her there again. A 
 servant she liked had been sent away. So she said 
 she would sleep at the Ritz, and I engaged a room 
 for her." 
 
 " You believed her story ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! Mme. Varasdin spoke of it herself, said 
 she had been sleep-walking. She is a very clever lady, 
 and has a great deal of je ne sais quoi about her, but 
 the funny thing in clever people is that they take most 
 of the others for fools. Sleep-walking is too thin. 
 Eugenias are at fifty, and Miss Ferrers had a thousand 
 under her pillow. I didn't want to frighten her " 
 
 He stopped short, because he saw that he had most 
 effectually frightened Sheringham. 
 
 " I never thought about those accursed Eugenias," 
 said the great financier. " The girl was carrying a 
 thousand about with her, and these wolves knew it. 
 Is it true that she left the restaurant with Varasdin? "
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 167 
 
 " He was to see her to the hotel. I had promised 
 to take his wife round the Montmartre theatres." 
 
 " We must go to the hotel at once and make in- 
 quiries," said Sheringham. " I am uneasy. You don't 
 know, of course. Varasdin has disappeared." 
 
 The two men stared at each other. 
 
 " Telegraph to England," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " Come to the Ritz," said Sheringham, and they 
 got into a cab and drove straight to the Place Ven- 
 dome. 
 
 The hotel clerk turned over the pages of his ledger 
 and had some conversation with another clerk. He 
 remembered Mr. Newby, and the room had been re- 
 served on Wednesday night for the young lady, but 
 the young lady had not appeared. 
 
 " Oh, come ! " said Mr. Newby, " there's some 
 muddle. You've a lot of people going in and out. 
 A tall young English lady, dressed in grey, and next 
 morning you sent to the Avenue Ernani for her 
 trunks." 
 
 " No, they didn't," interposed Sheringham. " The 
 concierge, when he gave me my telegram, said the 
 trunks had never left the house at all. That struck me 
 as suspicious." 
 
 " I remember Miss Ferrers," said the clerk. " She 
 was here with Mr. Ferrers in the spring. She has 
 not entered the hotel since." 
 
 " I don't like it," said Sheringham, and he went 
 aside with his friend and they consulted together.
 
 i68 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " She probably went back to London by the night 
 train," said Mr. Newby. "Can't you wire?" 
 
 " Did she tell you where she meant to stay in Lon- 
 don?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Then how can I wire? I'll run over and see for 
 myself, and if I don't find her I'll wire to you to- 
 morrow morning and then you " 
 
 " But how can you look for her at large in London ? " 
 
 " It won't be quite at large. I know with whom she 
 would communicate, and there might be a letter waiting 
 for me." 
 
 " I feel sure she is in London," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " So should I if Varasdin was in the Avenue Er- 
 nani," said Mr. Sheringham. " Have you anything 
 on to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all." 
 
 " Then wait for my telegram. I may want you to 
 go straight to the police."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 169 
 
 XVIII 
 
 AT half-past seven next morning Sheringham knocked 
 at Mrs. Hunter's door and explained to the astonished 
 and inquisitive Ginger that he desired to see the cook. 
 Ginger could not understand it, but he understood a 
 little present of five shillings, and in a few minutes 
 Sheringham was shut into the dining-room with Ama- 
 bel's friend. Mrs. Pugsley had never seen Mr. Sher- 
 ingham before, but she knew all about him. " 'Im as 
 Miss 'Unter is after," they called him below stairs. 
 " A very pleasant gentleman when he is pleasant," the 
 cook thought to herself as she took his measure; and 
 he at once liked her sedate manner and capable, good- 
 humoured face. But what she had to tell him only 
 added to his growing uneasiness. She had not heard 
 from Amabel for a month; she knew nothing of her 
 coming to England. On the contrary, in her last letter 
 Miss Ferrers had said she must stay in Paris because 
 her uncle would expect to find her there. 
 
 " Do you think if she was in London she would 
 have let you know?" asked Sheringham. 
 
 " I feel sure she would, sir," said the cook. " In 
 fact, it was as good as settled. She was to let me 
 know before she came and I was to live with her 
 either as cook or confidential maid, and I said I hoped
 
 170 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 it would be cook, because I understand that work 
 and don't like the sound of the other. But I agreed 
 to go, sir, the moment I 'card, and George, Vs mad 
 to go too. Miss Ferrers is a young lady you're very 
 fond of when you know her." 
 
 " Yes, I've noticed that," said Sheringham ; and he 
 took up his hat. Then he seemed to change his mind, 
 and put it down again. 
 
 " Did you expect to find Miss Ferrers in London, 
 sir ? " asked the cook. 
 
 " Yes, I did. I am very anxious about her, now 
 that I know she is not here. I suppose you feel 
 quite sure you would have heard from her? You 
 don't think she can be staying at some hotel by her- 
 self?" 
 
 " I wouldn't reckon on it if I was you, sir," said 
 Mrs. Pugsley, anxious herself now. " It's not like 
 Miss Ferrers to say she'd send for me, and then come 
 and never let me know." 
 
 " Look here ! " said Sheringham, " if Miss Ferrers 
 wanted you in a hurry over in Paris, would you 
 come ? " 
 
 The cook pondered a little over her reply, before 
 she gave it. 
 
 " I might," she said in the end ; " I have a sister 
 who obliges." 
 
 "What?" said Sheringham. 
 
 " My sister goes out obliging, sir. She prefers it. 
 If I went off in a hurry, I'd ask her to do for Mrs.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 171 
 
 'Unter till she suits herself. Where do you suppose 
 Miss Ferrers to be at present, sir?" 
 
 " I wish I knew." 
 
 "Isn't she with friends?" 
 
 " Who are her friends ? Her uncle in Mexico, and 
 you here, and another man and me in Paris. Now, 
 none of us know where she is." 
 
 " But she is living with a foreign lady and gentle- 
 man she said." 
 
 " She is not with them. The trouble is that she 
 had something of great value in her possession." 
 
 " You never know what them foreigners will be 
 up to," said Mrs. Pugsley ; " though, to be sure, we 
 ain't all fit for 'eaven in London either. Would you 
 telegraft to me, sir? My mind will go working round 
 'orror on 'orror now till I hear Miss Ferrers is safe. 
 And I'll come directly if you want me, though foreign 
 travel and foreign ways is not what I've been used 
 to." 
 
 " Bring George to take care of you," suggested Mr. 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " Rather 'ard on Mrs. 'Unter, perhaps," said the 
 cook, and then her voice changed to one of extreme 
 severity. " Not that George would be missed any- 
 where; 'e's that prying and mischievous," she pro- 
 claimed. 
 
 " If you please, Mrs. Pugsley, can I lay breakfast? " 
 said George at the open door; and Sheringham put 
 two five-pound notes into the cook's hands for her
 
 i;2 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 expenses in case he sent for her, and was in his 
 hansom again, and on his way to his office, before 
 Ginger had asked his first question, or had his ears 
 boxed in reply. 
 
 Sheringham had managed to communicate with his 
 head clerk, and found that, early as it was, he had 
 arrived at the office and had been busy at the tele- 
 phone, according to his chief's instructions. He had 
 not been able to hear of Miss Ferrers at any of the 
 large London hotels ; and no letter from her awaited 
 Sheringham. At nine o'clock he left for Paris again. 
 Travelling hard made little mark on his strong 
 physique, but his anxiety grew more acute as he 
 reached his journey's end. He had wired to Mr. 
 Newby and hoped to see him at the Nord, and was 
 disappointed. He drove first to the young gentle- 
 man's hotel, and heard that he had been out all day 
 and that no one knew when he would return ; he drove 
 to his own hotel, and neither letters nor callers had 
 come for him. Then he went out to the Avenue 
 Ernani, and was admitted, and found Mme. Varas- 
 din sitting by herself again, still wearing her quiet 
 cloth gown, and still with a manner that was on 
 guard. 
 
 When Mr. Sheringham was shown in, she sprang 
 to her feet, and, as he spoke, he saw first alarm and 
 then relief in her face. 
 
 " Miss Ferrers is not in London," he said, " I do 
 not know where she is."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 173 
 
 She sat down again, and passed a handkerchief over 
 her eyes, and it occurred to him that she had no tears 
 to wipe away, but, perhaps, an involuntary thrill of 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " I, too, have discovered nothing," she said. " I sit 
 here with my sorrow and the days do not come 
 to an end." 
 
 " We must see whether the police can help us," said 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " They are such bunglers and so meddlesome. The 
 first thing they will do will be to proclaim to all 
 Paris that my husband has forsaken me. That makes 
 it impossible for him to return. Besides, such pub- 
 licity would be most injurious to Miss Ferrers." 
 
 " You are singularly forgiving. I should not have 
 expected you to consider Miss Ferrers if you believe 
 your own story." 
 
 " Can you think of a more likely one?" said Mme. 
 Varasdin. 
 
 " I imagine that the police will when they hear 
 that the girl had fifty thousand pounds worth of 
 shares in her possession." 
 
 The lady blinked, and a moment of tense silence 
 gave emphasis to Mr. Sheringham's reply. He had 
 thrown down the glove, and his challenge contained 
 a suggestion she could not pass by. 
 
 " Then for once Hyacinth has been clever," she 
 said, deciding neither to resent nor deny the imputa- 
 tion, but to fit it to her purpose. " I am afraid, how-
 
 174 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 ever, that if he has any money he will not come back 
 to me. I wish I knew where he was." 
 
 " Have you taken a single step to find out ? " 
 
 " The world is large," said Mme. Varasdin. " Where 
 should I begin ? " 
 
 " He may be in Paris still." 
 
 " They may be anywhere." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Sheringham, getting up, " my 
 business is to find Miss Ferrers." 
 
 " In what way is it your business, if my story is 
 true?" 
 
 " You are speaking of my future wife." 
 
 " Then it is you who will be singularly forgiving," 
 said Mme. Varasdin. 
 
 There was no longer any show of cordiality between 
 them. The man was angry and hostile, and the woman 
 was malevolent and afraid. Her glances had failed 
 to conciliate him or her plight to touch him. He took 
 no pains to hide his doubts of her; he was not held 
 in check for a moment by her appreciation of his quali- 
 ties, an appreciation she had done her best to convey 
 whenever they met. He was a man she would have 
 followed anywhere, and he had no eyes for her. From 
 the first she had coveted his favour, and from the first 
 she had failed to win it. He stood here as her enemy, 
 and she feared him, would have struck him dead if she 
 could, would have led him captive if she had known 
 how. 
 
 " We are companions in misfortune," she said, with
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 175 
 
 a sigh. " Come and see me again to-morrow. I may 
 have news." 
 
 Before Sheringham could reply the salon door was 
 thrown open by the new maid, and Mr. Newby walked 
 in. That he brought bad news was plain to both the 
 people he greeted, and they waited with alarm for him 
 to speak. He turned first to the man. 
 
 " I got your wire this morning," he said. " I went 
 straight to the police. They've been awfully decent, 
 and we've found out things. Miss Ferrers is alive." 
 
 " Good God, I hope so ! " said Sheringham. " Where 
 is she?" 
 
 " At the Laborisiere. She has concussion of the 
 brain and is still unconscious. But they say now she 
 will recover." 
 
 "What happened to her?" 
 
 " A motor car knocked her down somewhere in 
 Montmartre. How she got so far from the Ritz no one 
 knows yet. She was alone ... it happened about an 
 hour after she left the restaurant. . .and " 
 
 Mr. Newby hesitated, and both men looked at Mme. 
 Varasdin. Her face was grey and shrunken now, and 
 she stared beyond them with horror in her fixed, ex- 
 pectant eyes. 
 
 " Go on," said Sheringham. 
 
 " Her bag and purse were stolen. Of course, directly 
 the accident happened a crowd gathered." 
 
 " But what had become of Monsieur Varasdin ? " 
 said Sheringham. "Why was she alone?"
 
 176 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " Poor Varasdin," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 Mme. Varasdin did not speak, and Sheringham, who 
 was watching her, saw that she could not. He saw 
 the twitch in her throat, and the waiting stillness of 
 her body, and the despair of a creature at bay in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Have you found Monsieur Varasdin too?" said 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " Yes, I have," said Mr. Newby, in a pained voice. 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " He is dead. I have just seen him at the 
 Morgue." 
 
 A low, choking groan from Mme. Varasdin checked 
 the young man, and he looked at her helplessly. She 
 was nearer complete collapse of mind and body than 
 she had been at any moment during the last forty-eight 
 hours. In so short a time she would have been safe, 
 safe even if Amabel had recovered and proclaimed the 
 theft of the shares. She could have persuaded the 
 world that her husband had absconded with them, and 
 let the police lead a merry dance in search of him. Her 
 success had hung on the burial of her husband as a 
 nameless suicide, and if Sheringham had stayed away 
 a fortnight as he said he would, if Mr. Newby had not 
 been asked by Sheringham to pry and meddle, her 
 position would have been secure. But the identifica- 
 tion of Hyacinth at the Morgue imperilled everything. 
 There would be an inquiry. The cabman would come 
 forward with his story; who could tell what the con-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 177 
 
 cierge had seen; and there was the doctor who had 
 prescribed the morphia and knew it to be in her pos- 
 session. It might never be proved that she adminis- 
 tered it ; she might face an inquiry and come away scot 
 free. But the shock of the news unnerved her, and to 
 sit there facing those two men, one so obtuse and one 
 so hostile, was more than she could endure. She fell 
 back with hysterical cries, compound of tears and 
 laughter, pitiful to hear. 
 
 "I say where's some brandy?" said Mr. Newby. 
 He bolted into the dining-room and returned with a 
 decanter and a liqueur glass. He poured out the 
 brandy and Mme. Varasdin drank it, and in a few min- 
 utes she recovered her self-control. 
 
 " I will go with you to the Morgue," she said to Mr. 
 Newby. " I must see him." 
 
 " The police will be here directly, you know," said 
 Mr. Newby. " I gave them your name and address. 
 They'll tell you if it's necessary. I should wait if I 
 were you." 
 
 " I cannot wait," said Madame Varasdin. " I must 
 see my unhappy husband. I had always warned him 
 that this would happen. He began years ago... be- 
 gan with small doses to relieve pain. I blame myself 
 for leaving him that night. You will remember that 
 we all observed he looked strange." 
 
 As Madame Varasdin talked she was conscious that 
 Mr. Sheringham was following what she said with 
 a close, surprised attention that she did not like. She
 
 178 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 stopped, but he did not speak; she got up, and he 
 made no motion to arrest her. 
 
 " I am going to see him at once," she said to Mr. 
 Newby ; " but I can go alone." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mr. Newby, " I will come 
 with you " ; and he sat down to wait while she put on 
 her outdoor things. Sheringham waited too. 
 
 " I want to know more about Miss Ferrers," he said. 
 "Is she much hurt? Did you hear?" 
 
 " Yes, I did. I saw one of the doctors. It's all 
 right, old man. They say she'll pull through now, 
 and be as lively as ever." 
 
 " There is a great deal I can't explain," said Sher- 
 ingham. " Why was she by herself ? Who stole her 
 bag and her purse with those shares in it? And there 
 is another thing " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Sheringham did not seem inclined to say. He walked 
 about the room, and Mr. Newby stared out of the 
 window, and with both men the time passed slowly. 
 They grew impatient when twenty minutes had been 
 wasted so, and still the lady did not come. 
 
 " Madame Varasdin is a long time putting on a hat," 
 said Mr. Newby at last. " Perhaps she is ill again, 
 poor thing." 
 
 " Ring and ask," suggested Sheringham. 
 
 The new maid appeared, and was told that her mis- 
 tress had had bad news of monsieur, and that she was 
 not well in consequence. The gentlemen would be glad
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 179 
 
 if the girl would ask madame if she still wished to go 
 out with them. The girl went and returned at once. 
 
 " Madame is not in her room," she reported. 
 
 " Perhaps she is in some other room," said Mr. 
 Newby. 
 
 The girl went off again and came back again, and 
 had the same tale to tell. Madame was nowhere on 
 the flat. 
 
 The two men looked at each other. 
 
 " Has she taken offence ? " said Mr. Newby. " Has 
 she gone to the Morgue by herself? " 
 
 " I heard some one go softly into the hall," said the 
 maid. " The front door stands open still. Evidently 
 madame did not wish to attract attention." 
 
 " It is very strange," said Mr. Newby. 
 
 " It is very strange," said the girl, and the men saw 
 she had something more to communicate. 
 
 " Well ! " they said. 
 
 " Madame's travelling-bag . . . the locked one . . . has 
 gone from the wardrobe. Madame has perhaps started 
 on a journey." 
 
 Sheringham said something vague, and let the girl 
 go. Then he turned to Mr. Newby. 
 
 " She's bolted," he said ; " she won't go near the 
 Morgue. That was a blind. I should like to know 
 what is in that travelling-bag. And now I'll tell you 
 the other thing that has been going round in my head. 
 What did Varasdin die of?" 
 
 " Morphia poisoning."
 
 i8o THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " She knew it. How did she know it ? The manner 
 of his death was not mentioned by you. Most people 
 who lie at the Morgue have been drowned. She spoke 
 of doses. There has been foul play, I tell you, and 
 she is in it. And she has those shares." 
 
 " Good God ! " said Mr. Newby. " What shall we 
 do next? The police 
 
 " I'm not going to wait for the police," said Sher- 
 ingham.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 181 
 
 XIX 
 
 " I THINK I shall go to the Morgue," said Mr. Newby. 
 " You may be on the wrong tack, and, anyhow, I don't 
 see where else there is to go." 
 
 Sheringham hardly heard what his friend said. His 
 eyes were absent, his mind was at work ; and when he 
 stirred, it was to ask for a railway book. The two 
 men found one in the dining-room, and it opened with 
 tell-tale ease at the trains travelling towards Vienna 
 from the Gare de 1'Est. It was to follow one trail out 
 of many, but to follow it hot, and Sheringham decided 
 to try it. 
 
 " Yes, go to the Morgue/' he said to Mr. Newby ; 
 " if you find no one there, perhaps the police will help 
 you again." 
 
 The next moment he was out of the room, and out 
 of the flat. As he emerged from the house he held up 
 a twenty-franc piece to a passing cab, and told the 
 driver on what condition he should have it. The man 
 answered to the bribe, and by favour of fortune, landed 
 his fare undamaged at the railway station five minutes 
 before the Viennese express was timed to start. Sher- 
 ingham went straight to the booking-office, and asked 
 for a ticket to Nancy. He hoped he would not want 
 it, but he meant to take a journey, if that was the only
 
 182 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 way. At Nancy there was a halt of a quarter of an 
 hour, and he could book on there if necessary. 
 
 When he reached the departure platform, most 
 people who were travelling in that train were either 
 in their seats or standing beside the carriages they had 
 chosen. A careful glance along the thin scattered 
 groups satisfied him that he knew no one there. Then 
 he got into the train, and walked right to the end of 
 it and back again, and all the while he kept his eyes 
 and ears open for new arrivals. He had entered the 
 first compartment of the hindmost carriage, and had 
 just decided that he was a fool for his pains, when a 
 clanging bell, a whistle, and a scurry on the platform, 
 convinced him that he must instantly jump out or be 
 carried some way from Paris. He cast a cursory glance 
 into the end compartments, found that they were empty, 
 and was making for the door, when he saw through the 
 window the hurrying figure of a tall, thickly veiled 
 lady coming towards the train. He thought he knew 
 her walk, and when she spoke to the conductor he 
 was sure he knew her voice. As the train moved 
 off she settled herself in the compartment adjoining 
 his, and he heard her say that she was going to 
 Vienna. 
 
 Sheringham debated with himself whether he should 
 wait, or act at once. He wanted to get back to London. 
 He knew that his head clerk was raging at the chief's 
 not to be understood or forgiven defection in the very 
 midst of a mighty boom in his own market. He wanted
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 183 
 
 also to get back to Paris and Amabel, and watch, hour 
 by hour, for Amabel's recovery. Nothing drew him 
 to Vienna except an outraged sense of justice, but in 
 a man of his temperament that sense prevails. His 
 affairs, which were intricate and of consequence, and 
 his anxiety about the girl he loved, gave way for the 
 time to his conviction that there was a wrong to set 
 right, and that it fell to him to do it. For his purpose 
 an interview without witnesses was, of course, a prime 
 necessity; and the train had hardly travelled a mile 
 when a dissatisfied passenger spoilt his plan for the 
 time being. A stout, voluble woman came stumping 
 along the corridor in the wake of the conductor, com- 
 plaining that she had caught her death through an 
 Englishman who would open a window, although she 
 had told him that the night air invariably made people 
 blind. She put her head into Sheringham's compart- 
 ment, when she saw that here, too, sat one of the crazy, 
 draught-loving race. Finally she subsided next door. 
 So Sheringham waited, got his dinner between two 
 stations, and was back at his post before they reached 
 Chalons. He hoped that the stout lady might descend 
 at Chalons, and that he might be saved from travelling 
 further than Bar le Due, but she disappointed him. 
 Bar le Due was her destination. From that hour, the 
 train had a clear run to Nancy of more than an hour, 
 and Sheringham said to himself that he would enter 
 on his return journey there, having done what he came 
 out to do. He had been travelling, without much break
 
 184 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 or sleep, for thirty-six hours, but he had never felt 
 more wide-awake. The thought of Amabel steeled his 
 nerves, and fed his anger, for he believed that she had 
 been robbed and deserted, and that the woman next 
 door had a hand in it. He still waited a little. The 
 train sped through the darkness, the wheels rolled, mile 
 after mile, with a monotonous rhythm, and inside the 
 carriages the hush of night began to replace the clat- 
 ter and movement of the earlier hours. They were 
 not twenty minutes from Nancy when he left his seat, 
 opened the door of the next compartment, and closed 
 it behind him, before the woman, half asleep in the 
 corner, roused and recognised him. The noise of the 
 opening door had not terrified her. She expected, 
 when she looked up, to see the conductor. To see 
 Sheringham instead, frightened her out of her self- 
 control. She gave a start, and a betraying cry of sur- 
 prise, and her right hand, which was ungloved, crept 
 towards something that lay hidden between her body 
 and the cushioned side of the carriage. He was un- 
 armed, and he guessed at once that she was not. 
 
 " I want to see both your hands," he said. 
 
 She did not move, and through her veil he could see 
 the glitter of her narrow eyes. She looked as cold and 
 wicked as a snake and he remembered Amabel, and his 
 anger burned within him. 
 
 " You can't shoot here, you know," he continued. 
 "You would be arrested at once." 
 
 " But you would be out of my way."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 185 
 
 " I should do you more harm dead than I mean to 
 do you alive. You had better listen to my terms." 
 
 " What do you want of me ? " 
 
 " To begin with, I want to see your hands." 
 
 With a swiftness for which he was not prepared 
 Mme. Varasdin rose and faced him, and the nozzle of 
 the revolver in her steady hand pointed at his heart. 
 
 " If you don't go away at once I'll shoot you," she 
 said. " I'll find some story to persuade a French jury. 
 I am a woman. You are an Englishman. I am not 
 afraid. It is your life that hangs on a thread." 
 
 But Mme. Varasdin did not understand the hot 
 imperious temper of the man with whom she had to 
 deal in this hour. Like most foreigners she thought 
 that because an Englishman keeps a rein on his pas- 
 sions he has no passions to rouse, and cannot be moved 
 to any extremity of anger. As she threatened Shering- 
 ham his face went white, but it was the pallor of a 
 fiercer wrath and a harder determination than her own. 
 She looked to see him flinch and perhaps to turn ig- 
 nobly at her command ; and before she had time to 
 touch the trigger, he swooped like a hawk towards her 
 and caught both her hands. Without hurry and without 
 violence he forced her fingers from the point of danger 
 and the revolver from her grasp. His luck was with 
 him. Taken by surprise, less resolute than he, and 
 mindful perhaps of her precarious position, she did 
 not struggle much, but stared at him with a sort of 
 sour helplessness as he turned the tables on her.
 
 186 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 "If you have a knife I shall take it from you," he 
 said. " You had better sit down." He released her 
 hands and she sank back into the corner of the carriage 
 she had occupied. 
 
 " The conductor may appear at any moment," she 
 said sullenly. 
 
 " I am not afraid of him," said Sheringham. 
 
 " You play a fine part to bully some one weaker 
 than yourself." 
 
 " I warn you that I am not a man of sentiment. I 
 believe you have something in your possession to which 
 you have no right. I believe other things about you 
 too, but on one condition I consent to leave them out 
 of the discussion : in short, as far as I am concerned, 
 to let you go free." 
 
 " What is your condition ? " 
 
 " The bonds that you have stolen. The thousand 
 Eugenias." 
 
 "Are you mad? I have no Eugenias." 
 
 " I give you ten minutes," said Sheringham. " When 
 the train stops at Nancy the Eugenias will be given up 
 to me, or I shall put you in the hands of the police. 
 I shall charge you with the murder of your husband." 
 
 The woman began to tremble violently, and Sher- 
 ingham began to hate the job he had undertaken. But 
 its unpleasantness did not affect his resolve to see it 
 through. 
 
 " I can say I have never seen you before and that 
 you have threatened my life," said Mme. Varasdin.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 187 
 
 " If I raised my voice the guard would come and the 
 revolver would be found in your possession." 
 
 " But the Eugenias would be found in yours," said 
 Sheringham at a venture. He spoke with a blunt- 
 ness that took the woman aback, and he saw her 
 hand go up to the bosom of her dress and fall to her 
 lap again. 
 
 " Any one can own Eugenias," she said. 
 
 " Just as you like," said Sheringham. " We will go 
 to the police together and face inquiry. I trust them to 
 find out when and where you bought this revolver. 
 It was probably on your way to the station." 
 
 " I wish I had killed you with it," said Mme. 
 Varasdin. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on the man still standing with 
 his back to the carriage door. She recognized that his 
 fighting spirit was more than a match for her own, and 
 that neither cajolery nor bluster would avail her. 
 
 " You have no proofs against me," she said. 
 
 " The Eugenias will be found on you. Miss Ferrers 
 will tell us how she came to lose them. I have no doubt 
 that your husband was concerned in it. We shall have 
 to trace his movements from the moment he robbed 
 Miss Ferrers to the moment he entered the cab, dying 
 of morphia administered by you." 
 
 " It was a suicide." 
 
 " Then how did you know it ? No one had told you. 
 Mr. Newby said he had seen the body at the Morgue. 
 Most people who lie at the Morgue have died by
 
 188 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 drowning. You volunteered in our hearing that this 
 was a case of suicide by morphia." 
 
 " He told me he meant to do it." 
 
 " Say that to your judges when the stolen bonds 
 have been found in your possession. Explain to them 
 why you did not attempt to identify your husband's 
 body, and tried to put me off with that preposterous 
 story of his elopement with Miss Ferrers. Really you 
 have not been clever, Madame Varasdin." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Mme. Varasdin, " if it had not 
 been for you or if you had been just twelve hours 
 later How could I foresee that you would be med- 
 dling in what is none of your business? What right 
 have you to interfere? As for the shares, they are no 
 more yours than they are mine." 
 
 " But you will give them up to me," said Shering- 
 ham. 
 
 The train jogged on through the darkness, and pres- 
 ently began to slacken speed. They were approaching 
 Nancy. 
 
 " You must make up your mind," he said. " I see 
 the lights of the city. I am going to act the mo- 
 ment we draw up. I will not be carried on any 
 further." 
 
 " Even if I had Eugenias it would be no proof," said 
 Mme. Varasdin, speaking with some violence. " How 
 could you possibly prove that they were stolen from 
 Miss Ferrers ? " 
 
 Sheringham smiled a little, and he spoke with the
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 189 
 
 quiet assurance of a man who has the game in his 
 hands. 
 
 " I suspected you that day in the Jardin des Plantes," 
 he said. " As we were coming home Miss Ferrers 
 showed me the certificate. I took a precaution. I en- 
 tered the number in a note-book." 
 
 That was the last turn of the screw. Mme. Varas- 
 din knew she had lost the game. Yet she bargained 
 as she drew the shares from beneath her cloak ; and she 
 still kept them in her hands, as if to give them up was 
 beyond her strength. Her face was white and wicked, 
 and when she spoke she snarled so that her voice 
 sounded in Sheringham's ears like the voice of a 
 trapped beast who would spring at your throat if he 
 could. 
 
 " Why should I trust you ? " she said. " You will 
 get the shares and then hunt me down." 
 
 " To bring you to justice won't bring the poor devil 
 you drugged to life again," said Sheringham. 
 
 " I swear I am innocent of that," she cried. 
 
 " Here we are," said Sheringham, as the train drew 
 up. " Now ! which is it to be ? Will you go on to 
 Vienna, or will you break your journey here?" 
 
 She threw the paper on the floor at his feet, and he 
 stooped and picked it up. Then he lifted his hat 
 gravely, and turned to go. 
 
 " Stay," she said ; and he waited, wondering what 
 she could have to say. 
 
 " I suppose you think you have done a fine thing,"
 
 190 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 she went on. " You will carry those shares as a love- 
 offering to your bride ; and to me and to my fate you 
 will never give another thought. You have taken from 
 me what I risked life and took life to obtain. Oh yes ! 
 I killed my husband. I was glad when he died. Do 
 you know what it is to drag through the world with 
 a fool and a knave chained to you? I was free by my 
 own doing. I was rich by my own hands, and you 
 have threatened my freedom and forced my fortune 
 from me. And you do not need the money ; neither you 
 nor the girl you love. It is everything to me. For 
 mercy's sake, give me the shares. Give them to me 
 as you would give a crust to a starving dog." 
 
 " No," said Sheringham resolutely. " They are not 
 mine to give." 
 
 As he spoke he moved more quickly than before 
 from the carriage, for the quarter of an hour had 
 come to an end, and the train was already in motion. 
 He stepped rather hurriedly on to the platform, and 
 did not perceive, in his hurry, that Mme. Varasdin 
 had crept after him. The guard had jumped into his 
 van, Sheringham tried to shut the door of the carriage, 
 a loud-voiced porter ordered him back. By this time 
 he saw Mme. Varasdin close to the open window, and 
 while he turned the handle of the door, she leant out 
 of it, and spoke again. 
 
 " Keep that and the shares too, then," she said, and, 
 with her hand covered by the voluminous sleeve of her 
 cloak, she drove a knife into his shoulder. For a mo-
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 191 
 
 ment he did not realise what had happened, and at 
 first he felt no pain. The rear-light was travelling far 
 down the line, and the officials on the platform were 
 dispersing in various directions, when one of them 
 observed that the tall gentleman who had left the train 
 as it moved out of the station, stood very still, and then 
 staggered and fell. The man ran to his assistance. 
 
 " Is Monsieur ill ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Sheringham, and then he fainted.
 
 J92 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 XX 
 
 !A WEEK later a cab stopped in front of the Hotel Ritz, 
 and Mrs. Pugsley, attended by Ginger, got out of it. 
 Mrs. Pugsley wore a waterproof cloak and a bonnet 
 trimmed high on the crown, and tied under the chin. 
 She carried an old leather bag, and she had brought 
 with her a tin trunk and a portmanteau for Ginger. 
 The hotel porter looked at her doubtfully. Ginger paid 
 the cabman with an English half-crown, and was danc- 
 ing with delight at the man's gesticulations. 
 
 " It's all you'll get, Froggy," he said. 
 
 " We want Miss Ferrers," said Mrs. Pugsley to 
 the porter. 
 
 " Hark at the motor cars," said Ginger, at her 
 elbow ; " do you suppose there's a race on ? And 
 'ow quick the Mounseers do talk. I can't make out 
 a word they say. That chap isn't going to take my 
 'arf - crown. Look at 'im waving 'is 'ands at me. 
 What'll we do?" 
 
 " We want Miss Ferrers," said the cook again, and 
 again the porter signed to her to enter the hotel. He 
 thought there was some mistake, and that she would 
 soon emerge again and be driven to quarters where 
 people who travel with tin trunks are welcome. 
 
 " Come on," said Ginger. " 'E means we're to ask 
 inside."
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 193 
 
 He led the way. The journey, short as it was, had 
 brought about a state of things that Mrs. Pugsley 
 hoped would not last much longer. Every step in their 
 pilgrimage seemed to leave her more dependent on the 
 boy's counsel, and less capable of dealing with his im- 
 pudence. He went ahead of her now, and walked up 
 to the clerk's desk and asked for Miss Ferrers. 
 
 " Mr. Ferrers," corrected the clerk. 
 
 " Oh ! if you like," said Ginger ; " we say Miss when 
 it's a young lady. Will you please say Mrs. Pugsley 
 is 'ere and George. Has Mr. Sherringham arrived 
 yet?" 
 
 " P'raps 'e'll call 'im Miss," he whispered to the 
 cook. 
 
 The clerk looked more doubtful than the porter had 
 done, but at that hour the usual waiting-room was 
 empty, and he took the new arrivals there. They 
 looked about them with great interest, and in a few 
 minutes a middle-aged gentleman came in to them. 
 
 " Did you inquire for Mr. Ferrers ? " he said. 
 
 " For Miss Ferrers," said the cook, " for Miss 
 Amabel Ferrers." 
 
 " Do you know where my niece is, then ? " said the 
 gentleman, looking very much surprised. 
 
 " I think she must be in a hospital, sir." 
 
 "In a hospital? Amabel? Why?" 
 
 " Mr. Sheringham says so. I had a long telegraft 
 'from him day before yesterday." 
 
 "What Mr. Sheringham is that?"
 
 194 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " A Mr. James Sheringham, sir. Isn't he on the 
 Stock Exchange, George ? " 
 
 " I believe you," said George. " And I've 'card Mr. 
 'Unter allude to him as Mexican Jem." 
 
 " But Mr. Sheringham does not know my niece." 
 
 " Oh yes ! he does, sir," said Ginger. " I see 'im 
 when 'e upset the custard over her at Mrs. 'Unter's 
 party." 
 
 A light seemed gradually to break upon the puzzled 
 gentleman, and he turned to Mrs. Pugsley. 
 
 " Are you the cook my niece was so fond of when 
 she lived with Mrs. Hunter ? " he asked. 
 
 " I was Mrs. Hunter's cook until yesterday," said 
 Mrs. Pugsley. " Then I got the telegraft from Mr. 
 Sheringham, which I'll show you at once, sir." 
 
 She took the telegram from her bag, and Mr. Fer- 
 rers read it. 
 
 " Miss Ferrers arrives at Hotel Ritz, Paris, to-mor- 
 row. Recovering from serious illness. Can you be 
 there to receive her? Take George. All expenses 
 paid. Shall arrive Paris soon after you." 
 
 " I should say, sir," explained Mrs. Pugsley "I 
 should say that Mr. Sheringham had been to see me 
 a week previous, and had told me I might be wanted." 
 
 " But why does he arrange things for my niece ? 
 And why has she been in a hospital? He explains 
 nothing." 
 
 " That is what I found when I tried to answer Mrs.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 195 
 
 'Unter's questions," said Mrs. Pugsley. " 'Owever, 
 we've come. My sister's obliging Mrs. 'Unter, and 
 'er son, as is a well-beyaved boy as ever lived, 'as 
 George's place. She won't find as much coal on the 
 stairs as usual, I don't think." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers said he had been very anxious about 
 Amabel. He had telegraphed from New York, and 
 expected to find her in the hotel on his arrival; but 
 he had received no news of her, and the hotel people 
 had roused his alarm by telling him of her unex- 
 plained absence after she had engaged a room. He 
 went out into the hall now to make some further in- 
 quiries, and found the booking-clerk engaged with a 
 young gentleman whose face he thought he had seen 
 before. 
 
 " I shall return with the lady at once," the young 
 gentleman said, and he brushed against Mr. Ferrers 
 as he turned to come away. It was Mr. Newby, and 
 he recognised Amabel's uncle directly. 
 
 "Well I am" he cried. "Won't Miss Ferrers 
 be jolly glad to see you here ! " 
 
 "You too?" said Mr. Ferrers. "Is every one ex- 
 cept me looking after Amabel ? " 
 
 " I'm only doing it by proxy, you know," said Mr. 
 Newby. " Sheringham's the man. But as he's been 
 laid up at Nancy I say, I've got to find some one 
 Sheringham sent for. She's a cook really, but she's 
 going to take care of Miss Ferrers, and there's a boy 
 too, and they are somewhere loose about the hotel."
 
 196 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " I've seen them," said Mr. Ferrers. " I'll take you 
 to them. But just tell me what has been the matter 
 with my niece ? " 
 
 " She was knocked down by a motor car and nearly 
 killed. Concussion of the brain and complications. 
 She looks a bit off colour still. You must prepare 
 for that." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers was shocked to hear of Amabel's bad 
 luck, and Mrs. Pugsley said the police ought to know 
 better than to allow such things. The whole party 
 drove to the hospital to fetch Amabel, and the two 
 gentlemen went inside and saw one of the doctors. 
 'Aey were told that the girl must still be guarded 
 from all fatigue and excitement, and that it would be 
 unwise to dwell in any way on her accident or the 
 events leading up to it. Mr. Ferrers thought it was 
 hard advice to follow, but when he saw Amabel he 
 recognised its wisdom. She looked white and weak 
 still, and her pleasure in seeing him again and then 
 in seeing Mrs. Pugsley and Ginger, was as much as 
 she could bear. Her uncle invited Mr. Newby to 
 lunch, and after lunch the two men were sitting with 
 Amabel when a hotel servant opened the door and 
 Mr. Sheringham walked into the room. He carried 
 his arm in a sling and looked pale, but not as pale as 
 Amabel. He went straight up to her, and Mr. Ferrers 
 watched his niece and drew his own conclusions. 
 
 " I had no idea that my niece knew you," he said, 
 when Amabel presented Sheringham to him.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 197 
 
 " You called him by some nickname when you said 
 he was banging your market," said Amabel. 
 
 Mr. Ferrers opened his eyes, and Mexican Jem 
 stroked his moustache and smiled. 
 
 " I dropped a hundred thousand in that slump," 
 Sheringham said. " But, of course, I was right at 
 the time. I see Eugenias are at fifty." 
 
 " By the way, Amabel, I gave you a few," said Mr. 
 Ferrers. " Where are they ? I suppose that's a ques- 
 tion I may ask you ? " 
 
 " I haven't got them," said Amabel, and her uncle 
 saw that he had agitated and distressed her. " I have 
 always thought that M. Varasdin took them after lie 
 knocked me down." 
 
 The three men seemed to speak at the same moment 
 and to come a little nearer to her, moved by horror 
 and surprise. 
 
 " If any one of you had been there," she said, and 
 she shivered at the memory of that miserable hour. 
 She saw the long, dark, lonely street again she felt 
 the stunning blow. 
 
 " Never mind," said her uncle anxiously " never 
 mind the Eugenias. If I had known I wouldn't have 
 asked about them." 
 
 " But here they are," said Sheringham, who, with 
 his right arm in a sling, had found it difficult to ex- 
 tract the certificate from his coat. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said Mr. Newby. " Then you were on 
 the right tack after all."
 
 198 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " It's as plain as daylight. Varasdin stole them 
 from Miss Ferrers. His wife stole them from him 
 when she had drugged him." 
 
 " But how did you get them out of her? " 
 
 " I charged her with the murder of her husband." 
 
 "Why is your arm in a sling?" asked Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 " Oh, she had a dig at me with a knife ! " said Sher- 
 ingham. " The Nancy police could get nothing out 
 of me for forty-eight hours, so she got clean away. 
 I don't suppose they will ever find her." 
 
 Mr. Ferrers said at this point that he had a great 
 many questions to ask, and he took the two men into 
 life own room and heard all they could tell him of 
 what had happened. None of them doubted that 
 Mme. Varasdin had poisoned her husband. 
 
 " It was not suspected here," said Mr. Newby. " He 
 was buried as a suicide." 
 
 " If she is ever brought to book for it, she will have 
 herself to thank," said Sheringham. " Of course, the 
 police inquired into her attack on me. I had to give 
 her name. I said as little as I could. We can't bring 
 Varasdin to life again, and I should prefer to have 
 done with her." 
 
 " I'm glad she didn't get off with the shares," said 
 Mr. Ferrers admiringly to Mexican Jem. " You really 
 have been a first-rate friend to Amabel." 
 
 " Well, that's only natural," said the financier, and 
 there and then he explained why. 
 
 " But I looked forward to settling down in New
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 199 
 
 York and having her to keep house for me," said Mr. 
 Ferrers. 
 
 " I'll ask her to keep house for both of us in Lon- 
 don," said Sheringham, and he went off to Amabel 
 and found that she had been resting, and felt the 
 better for it. 
 
 " But I dream of it," she said nervously. " I see 
 the long dark street and his face. The motor car 
 comes and I can't escape. He is dead. I hope I need 
 never see her again. Suppose she went to New York 
 and I came across her there ? " 
 
 " I know a certain way of avoiding that," said Sher- 
 ingham ; " marry me and live in London." 
 
 "I wonder whether Uncle Michael would like it?" 
 said Amabel, when her lover had softened the bluntness 
 of his proposal by explaining at some length and in the 
 usual way how ardently he desired her to accept him. 
 
 " We will invite him to live with us," said Shering- 
 ham. " To tell the truth I have done it already." 
 
 " Did you feel so sure of me ? " said Amabel rather 
 wistfully. 
 
 " Not of you so much as of myself from the first 
 moment I saw you. And when a man sets his 
 heart " 
 
 " When Mexican Jem sets his mind, you mean " 
 
 " But I did feel sure of you too," said Sheringham, 
 " I felt sure from the moment I met you in old Gre- 
 gorio's ballroom. You may deny it if you will, but 
 you looked delighted to see me."
 
 200 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 
 
 " So I was," admitted Amabel. 
 
 " Then there is nothing more to be said," observed 
 Mexican Jem. 
 
 But they found a great deal to say until Mrs. Pugs- 
 ley and Ginger came into the room to bring Amabel 
 some tea made with the help of an English tea-basket. 
 
 " Miss Ferrers and I are going to be married," said 
 Sheringham very soon to Mrs. Pugsley. " We shall 
 want a cook." 
 
 "And a under-footman," said Ginger. 
 
 " And a best man," said Sheringham to Mr. Newby, 
 who appeared with Mr. Ferrers just then. 
 
 " And some one to give you away, my dear," said 
 Amabel's uncle. 
 
 " Let us be married to-morrow," said Mr. Sher- 
 ingham. 
 
 " I have no clothes," said Amabel. 
 
 " But you have a thousand Eugenias and one uncle," 
 said Mr. Ferrers. 
 
 " And you have two trunks," said Mr. Newby. " I 
 forgot that. I explained about them to the police, 
 and they are awaiting your instructions at the Avenue 
 Ernani." 
 
 " Shall I go and fetch them, sir ? " said Ginfer, and 
 he was allowed to do so. 
 
 " Of course, it can't really be to-morrow," said 
 Sheringham. " At least I should think not. As Brit- 
 ish subjects abroad there would be formalities." 
 
 " Of course it can't be to-morrow," said Amabel.
 
 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 201 
 
 " How can you have a wedding without a wedding 
 gown?" 
 
 " And a wedding cake," said Mrs. Pugsley. 
 
 " Are there no gowns and cakes in Paris ? " said 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " There may be gowns," said Amabel. 
 
 " But no cakes," said Mrs. Pugsley. " I have often 
 been told that foreigners get married without them." 
 
 " I must really go back to London," said the bride- 
 groom. " I don't want to find myself bankrupt on 
 my wedding day." 
 
 " I would give you the thousand Eugenias," said 
 the bride. 
 
 "You shall go back to London to-morrow," said 
 Mr. Ferrers. " The doctor shall fix the date of our 
 return, the milliners shall fix the date of the wedding, 
 and you, Mrs. Pugsley, shall fix the height of the 
 cake." 
 
 " I'm glad we're going back to London," said Mrs. 
 Pugsley. " I've heard a deal of French cooking all my 
 life, and now I've tasted it, and I don't deny it has 
 points, which is more than I can say for the meat. Of 
 course, they can cook. With old cab-horse for beef, 
 they'd die if they didn't." 
 
 " I shall go back to London too," said Mr. Newby. 
 " I look forward to a grilled steak myself." 
 
 " Never mind milliners and doctors," said Amabel. 
 " We'll all go back to-morrow." 
 
 " I call that a sensible remark," said Mexican Jem.
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a clergyman's widow 
 who lived in a little country town, and had two daugh- 
 ters called Anne and Alice. They were very poor. 
 In fact, the united income of the family did not ex- 
 ceed two hundred a year, which is not much when three 
 ladies have to pay for all they receive and give out 
 of it. Mrs. Crewe had been a pretty woman in her 
 time, and she saw with satisfaction that her girls 
 were taking after her. So she hoped that in spite of 
 their poverty they would some day marry and relieve 
 her income of the long, depressing strain upon it. 
 In many respects she was a foolish woman, but she 
 took pains with the education of Anne and Alice. 
 She sent them regularly to school, and she looked after 
 their health and their manners as well as she could. 
 
 Luckily there was an excellent school in Burnside, 
 where the girls were taught for next to nothing. 
 Nevertheless, in after years, Mrs. Crewe bore the 
 school a grudge, because she felt sure that Anne had 
 picked up her unfeminine ideas within its walls. Mrs.
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 203 
 
 Cnewe had lived in Burnside all her life, and her 
 opinions on most matters were vague, but she had no 
 doubts at all about what was feminine and what was 
 not. 
 
 In complexion and stature the sisters resembled each 
 other; but in expression and manner they were widely 
 apart. Alice, every one said, was a sweet girl. She 
 had a willowy figure and great pathetic eyes. She 
 cried rather easily, and often had headaches, and at 
 school she did not distinguish herself. But in Burn- 
 side most people thought her a much nicer girl than 
 her sister, and when Mr. Beeston went to the house 
 twice in one week, everybody hoped he went for Alice 
 and not for Anne. 
 
 No one in Burnside denied that Anne had brains. 
 In fact, some folks went as far as to say it was a pity 
 she had not been born a man, and therefore meant 
 to use them. At school she carried off prize after 
 prize, and for many a year she played the dangerous 
 part of show-scholar. But she never grew disagree- 
 ably conceited, although you could have found people 
 in Burnside who thought her so. There is a degree 
 of conceit that most of us easily forgive to youth, be- 
 cause we know what shocks it will sustain in the 
 battle of life, and how soon a sound nature sloughs it. 
 Of course, young people are tiresome creatures. They 
 come knocking at our doors with their new ideas, and 
 their inconvenient requests, and their anxiety " to go 
 out for to see " ; and they hardly listen when we im-
 
 204 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 plore them to avoid knocks, and stay quietly at home. 
 " Knocks ? " cry they. " Honour and glory and the 
 kingdoms of the world." At the age of seventeen 
 Anne Crewe said Burnside stifled her. 
 
 She wanted to go to college, but that was out of 
 the question, because of the expense. She had no de- 
 sire to teach, or to nurse, or to stand behind a counter. 
 She wanted to write, and this ambition had not been 
 roused by inward genius, but by the schoolmistress's 
 sister, who was a successful journalist. The sister 
 sometimes stayed in Burnside, and always made much 
 of Anne. So when the girl found she could not go 
 to Girton, she said she wished to live in London and 
 write for the press. Such a proposal had never issued 
 from the lips of a Burnside young person in the 
 memory of man, and when Mrs. Crewe invited the 
 town to condole with her it condoled unanimously. 
 The oldest maiden inhabitant told Anne that if she 
 stayed at home like a good girl she would be pre- 
 paring herself for the duties of a married woman. Of 
 course, as she had no money and few friends, she 
 might never be married; but every girl should wish 
 for a home of her own, and spend her youth in 
 scrambling for it. Anne did not take these remon- 
 strances so patiently as she should have done, and she 
 was even indiscreet enough to say she would rather 
 go to Girton than marry her grandfather's friend, as 
 her schoolfellow Rosie Lloyd had done. From the 
 moment this remark became public property, Burn-
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 205 
 
 side made up its mind that Anne Crewe was " un- 
 feminine," and wondered thereat, which shows that 
 Burnside went with the swim, and puzzled itself about 
 questions of heredity. 
 
 At sixteen a girl without money cannot as a rule 
 do much to escape from uncongenial surroundings ; 
 and when you are young you think that the thing you 
 want and cannot have at once will not be worth having 
 later on. Poor Anne fretted and fumed all through 
 her early youth, and offended her neighbours by show- 
 ing how much she wished to get away. A few felt 
 sorry for her, but the majority called her an am- 
 bitious, discontented girl, and supposed that they com- 
 pletely described her. The same people would have 
 been full of pity for a bird beating its wings against 
 a cage. Many of us are kinder to animals than to 
 human beings. 
 
 It was only to be expected that a sweet girl like Alice 
 would behave very differently from her sister, and it 
 seemed like a reward for good conduct when, at the 
 age of seventeen, she received one of those summonses 
 all women ardently desire. In Burnside the marriage 
 of a penniless young lady was not an everyday event. 
 There were very few young gentlemen in the town, and 
 five girls out of six never married at all. Mrs. Crewe 
 may have been a silly woman, but this fact had not 
 escaped her observation ; so when the struggling local 
 solicitor, Mr. Beeston, proposed to Alice, she urged 
 the girl not to throw away a chance that would prob-
 
 206 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 ably never occur again. Like a dutiful daughter, 
 Alice obeyed her mother and accepted the man. She 
 did not like him much, but Mrs. Crewe said that 
 women always grew fond of their husbands after mar- 
 riage. Meanwhile, she enjoyed getting new clothes 
 and wedding presents, and she thought it was better 
 to be called Mrs. Beeston than to remain Alice Crewe 
 all her days. The young couple would be very short 
 of money. Anne foresaw that her sister would be 
 worse off as a matron than she had been as a maid, 
 and she asked her mother to point out the advantages 
 of a marriage neither sanctified by affection nor com- 
 forted by money. But Mrs. Crewe only quoted texts 
 at her elder daughter, and continued to cut out under- 
 clothing for her younger one. 
 
 In course of time Anne had an offer, and refused it. 
 She did not care for the man, and she said she would 
 not marry for board and lodging. When this view 
 of hers leaked out, Burnside began to think her hardly 
 respectable. It compared her with that sweet, woman- 
 ly creature, her sister, who had five children and a 
 broken constitution at the age of twenty-six, and it 
 felt quite relieved when she suddenly cut her leading 
 strings and escaped to London. For five years she 
 had tried through the penny post to get her foot on 
 the journalistic ladder, and at last some one at the 
 top reached her a helping hand. An editor who had 
 been taking anything she sent of late offered her 
 regular work.
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 207 
 
 From Burnside Anne Crewe vanished. She did not 
 make a name by her writing at least, not a name that 
 reached Burnside. Her mother said that she sent 
 cheerful letters, and seemed able to maintain herself; 
 in fact, she once or twice came to Alice's assistance 
 with a cheque. At first Mrs. Crewe used to write for 
 Anne whenever anything went a little wrong: if her 
 servant gave notice, for instance, or if Alice's chil- 
 dren had the measles. Anne used to explain that she 
 had regular work to do, and could not run off when it 
 suited her, but no one in Burnside accepted that ex- 
 cuse for her selfish behaviour. Though she some- 
 times sent Alice a cheque, people agreed in whispers 
 that money cannot make up for personal sympathy. 
 Anne did not even spend her annual holiday in Burn- 
 side, and perhaps it was natural her mother should 
 think this unkind. She had no idea that her daughter 
 did hard work for her pay, and really needed rest and 
 bracing air once in twelve months. Mrs. Crewe was 
 very silly about it. She refused to visit Anne or to 
 travel with her, and in Burnside she hardly ever spoke 
 of her. People thought there must be a good reason 
 for her silence, and they pictured Anne starving in a 
 garret, addressing an unemployed mob from a cart, 
 and probably wearing a divided skirt. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe always talked of " my daughter Mrs. 
 Beeston " in a voice of maternal pride, although poor 
 Alice's affairs were far from flourishing. She had 
 not learned to love her husband after marriage; and
 
 208 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 you can hardly blame her for this, because he had 
 turned out a drunkard as well as a fool. He was his 
 wife's inferior in every respect but that of physical 
 strength, and he proved his superiority in this one 
 point by beating her. Of course his practice did not 
 flourish, for his habits were not hidden under a 
 bushel, and as his family increased every year, it soon 
 became difficult to satisfy their appetite for bread and 
 butter, as well as his own appetite for drink. He had 
 a long-suffering set of clients, and a mother-in-law 
 who would starve herself for her child and grand- 
 children, so he took things easily. Mrs. Crewe had a 
 weak spot in her understanding for her son-in-law the 
 lawyer, even when she had seen the bruises on Alice's 
 arms. 
 
 "Are you sure you didn't provoke him, darling?" 
 she said. 
 
 Some of the children died, and the others were usu- 
 ally ill. They were born without constitutions, and 
 brought up without care, for at the age of twenty-six 
 their mother had neither strength nor spirit left. 
 Poverty, sickness, and sorrow had worn out the girl 
 who had given herself so lightly at her mother's bid- 
 ding. The parent blunders, and the child pays; so it 
 was, so it is, and so it ever must be. 
 
 But it is doubtful whether Mrs. Crewe realised that 
 she had not done well for her daughter in advising 
 her to marry Mr. Beeston. She would have been bit- 
 terly disappointed if Alice had not gone forth from her
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 209 
 
 house as a bride. She seemed to consider the world 
 a vale of tears, in which it is better to have a drunken 
 son-in-law than none at all, and more satisfactory to 
 bury grandchildren than never to possess them. She 
 still had the pleasure of alluding to him as " my son- 
 in-law," but this was soon the only pleasure left to her 
 in connection with Mr. Beeston. 
 
 There are some unhappy women in the world who 
 can imagine what his wife and children suffered at his 
 hands; what the years brought them of want and 
 bodily terror. Once, in a drunken fit, he half killed 
 his eldest boy; another time he set a dog at his wife 
 and brought on a serious illness. Over and over 
 again the children were saved from starvation by Mrs. 
 Crewe and various friends. And every year Alice 
 carried a child beneath her breaking heart, a child born 
 to a father's curses and a mother's tears. At last, 
 one winter evening, Mr. Beeston went into his wife's 
 room with a hatchet, and said he was going to murder 
 her. He had done this before, but Alice had never 
 got used to it. Her nerves were weak. She man- 
 aged to escape to a back room and lock the door 
 against him ; but as he followed her with the hatchet, 
 and began very coolly and resolutely to cut out a panel 
 of the door, and as the children were in the room with 
 her, she felt driven to open the window and call for 
 help. Otherwise, she reflected, he would come in and 
 kill them all, and their fate would be described in one 
 of those little newspaper paragraphs that you find un-
 
 der the heading of " The Provinces," and do not read 
 because they are so disagreeable. 
 
 Luckily for Alice their doctor heard her calling, and 
 he happened to be a man with his wits about him. He 
 came into the house armed with a bottle of brandy, 
 and invited Mr. Beeston to share it with him. When 
 the bottle was finished the lawyer could not move. 
 Alice and her children escaped to Mrs. Crewe's house, 
 and the doctor, with the help of a colleague, carried 
 the sot to the nearest lunatic asylum, where the author- 
 ities agreed that he had better finish his days. So 
 that was the end of Alice's married life; and the 
 problem that now presented itself to Mrs. Crewe was 
 how to make her income of two hundred pounds sup- 
 port herself, her sickly daughter, and three sickly 
 children. The sale of Mr. Beeston's business would 
 hardly suffice to pay the asylum fees. 
 
 When Mrs. Crewe had applied herself to the problem 
 for some time, without much success, business con- 
 nected with Mr. Beeston's disordered affairs took her 
 up to London. She wrote to Anne beforehand, and 
 received a warmly worded invitation by return of post. 
 Anne said she could put her mother up, and, if pos- 
 sible, would meet her at the station. But just before 
 Mrs. Crewe started, a letter came to say that Anne 
 could not be at the station, because she had to go into 
 the country and interview a Russian Anarchist. She 
 told her mother to take a cab from St. Pancras to St. 
 George's Mansions, to ask for the key of Miss Crewe's
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 211 
 
 flat, to instal herself in the blue bedroom, and to 
 make herself tea by the sitting-room fire. 
 
 " It sounds quite mysterious," said Alice to Mrs. 
 Crewe ; " as if Anne had made a clandestine marriage, 
 and set up a home of her own. But if she were mar- 
 ried, she would not be running about the country inter- 
 viewing Anarchists." 
 
 " It seems an odd thing for a young lady, and my 
 daughter, to do," said Mrs. Crewe. " Poor, dear 
 Anne ! I suppose she will have lost all her good 
 looks." 
 
 " I don't know," said Alice gloomily. " She has not 
 had so hard a life as I have." 
 
 " Not so hard a life ! " repeated Mrs. Crewe in 
 amazement ; " but she has earned her own living for 
 years, and you have been supported by your husband." 
 
 Alice looked in the glass at her grey hair, her sunken 
 cheeks, and at a scar on her forehead, but she said 
 nothing. It was time for Mrs. Crewe to go. 
 
 Her train arrived at St. Pancras a little late, and she 
 did not get to St. George's Mansions until five o'clock. 
 She was taken up to her daughter's flat in the lift, 
 and then left to herself, and as she peeped in at each 
 room, she felt like the girl in the story of the Three 
 Bears. It was really a very small place, and the fur- 
 niture had not cost much; but you must remember 
 that Mrs. Crewe knew nothing about the ways of the 
 modern bachelor girl. She spoke of every single 
 woman as an " old maid," and expected her to be
 
 212 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 either soured or silly. She sat down in her daugh- 
 ter's sitting-room and wondered what the world was 
 coming to, and how much Burnside would believe of 
 what she told them when she got back. 
 
 Anne had taken great pains with the room, but her 
 friends saw nothing very wonderful about it. Per- 
 haps they envied her the oriel window with two little 
 steps up to it. She had found the pretty fireplace 
 ready for her, and the green tiles, and the white paint, 
 and a delicate wall-paper. Her one extravagance had 
 been a Persian carpet. The chairs and tables were 
 plain cheap ones; books and pots and pictures collect 
 themselves. She had bought daffodils in honour of 
 her mother's visit, and the sun always shone in of an 
 afternoon, when he shone on London at all. So the 
 room looked pleasant and spring-like, and, in Mrs. 
 Crewe's opinion, quite luxurious. Presently Anne ar- 
 rived, and she looked pleasant and spring-like too. 
 
 " My dear ! " exclaimed her mother, " you seem 
 younger than Alice, and prettier than ever." 
 
 " I have not had the trouble poor Alice has," said 
 Anne, and she kissed her mother affectionately. 
 
 " Poor Alice ! " she said again, half to herself, as she 
 made the tea. 
 
 Somehow it had never occurred to Mrs. Crewe to 
 think of her married daughter as " poor Alice " ; but 
 to her Burnside friends she had often spoken of " poor 
 Anne." 
 
 " You must work very hard to earn all this," she
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 213 
 
 said, looking round the room. She could not give up 
 her old point of view without striking a blow for it. 
 
 " Yes, I work hard," said Anne. 
 
 " But you look very well." 
 
 " I am very well." 
 
 Mrs. Crewe sighed. 
 
 " Poor Alice ! " she said after a pause, and she felt 
 that since she arrived in London she had travelled far. 
 
 They talked chiefly of Alice all the evening; and it 
 was only as Anne bade her mother good-night that she 
 lingered a little and said something of her own affairs. 
 
 " They have just made me sub-editor," she ex- 
 claimed ; " that means an increase of salary. Then I 
 write for some of the Colonial papers. I shall be able 
 to help you and Alice. I had no idea things were so 
 bad." 
 
 " But, my dear," said Mrs. Crewe, " do you never 
 think of marriage yourself?" 
 
 Anne blushed. 
 
 If it had not been for that blush, Mrs. Crewe would 
 have gone to bed with the pleasant conviction that the 
 worst of her troubles were over. Instead of which 
 she began the very next day to look out anxiously for 
 its cause. She soon observed that in Anne's talk and 
 Anne's plans the name of Mr. Zagadin occurred more 
 often than any other; and she wished her daughter 
 would mention his age and prospects, or, better still, 
 present him, so that Mrs. Crewe could judge whether 
 Anne's establishment in life as Mrs. Zagadin would be
 
 214 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 a satisfactory step in her career. If she married, she 
 would probably be unable to help her mother and sister 
 much. A matron has more claims on her purse than 
 a spinster, and less control of her money. Neverthe- 
 less, Mrs. Crewe hoped that Mr. Zagadin was a fine 
 fellow, and would press his suit. Even though she had 
 to pinch and scrape to the end of her days in con- 
 sequence, she wished to see Anne married that is, 
 she wished it if Mr. Zagadin passed muster. For- 
 merly, she would have wished it in any case. 
 
 Before she had been twenty-four hours in town the 
 opportunity she desired presented itself. Anne came 
 home earlier than usual, and said that Mr. Zagadin 
 had wired to ask whether he might come to dinner 
 there that night. She had arranged already for extra 
 supplies, and she had brought in fresh flowers for the 
 table. She set it herself with mimosa and green 
 glasses, and then she went away and put on her best 
 blouse. Mrs. Crewe, who had spent a depressing after- 
 noon over her son-in-law's affairs, hoped that the sight 
 of Mr. Zagadin would raise her spirits. She sighed a 
 little over his name, and wished it was a Mr. Smith or 
 Brown -for whom Anne brought home mimosa sprays. 
 
 "What is he, my dear?" she asked, as her daugh- 
 ter and she sat over the fire awaiting their guest. 
 
 "An Anarchist," said Anne ; " a Russian Anarchist." 
 
 " Dear me ! Not the one you interviewed yester- 
 day?" 
 
 " That was his cousin, who is a great inventive
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 215 
 
 genius, they say. He told me he had nearly found out 
 how to make bombs as small as peppercorns, and so 
 powerful that if you dropped one from the top of St. 
 Paul's, it would wreck London." 
 
 " How terrible ! But your Mr. Zagadin isn't that 
 kind of Anarchist, I hope ? " 
 
 " He isn't inventive. He is in very bad health, poor 
 fellow, ever since he was tortured." 
 
 " Tortured ! " 
 
 " Yes ; he will show you the marks on his hands. 
 And then he worked in the salt mines for years, and 
 his eyes are weak. So are his lungs, because he es- 
 caped in winter, and nearly died of exposure." 
 
 " But, my dear, how does he earn his living? Being 
 an Anarchist won't pay his weekly bills, I suppose." 
 
 " I don't know about that. Of course, mother, you 
 mustn't expect him to look and talk like a Burnside 
 young man." 
 
 " A Burnside young man wouldn't ask himself to 
 dine with a young unmarried lady," said Mrs. Crewe 
 at once, for this had been on her mind. 
 
 " Oh, he wouldn't think anything of that," said Anne. 
 
 " But, my dear, Anarchists are such wicked people." 
 
 " Poor Mr. Zagadin isn't wicked." 
 
 " But they want to kill everybody." 
 
 " This one wouldn't hurt a fly at least, not an 
 English fly." 
 
 " I suppose he won't have any dynamite with him ? " 
 said Mrs. Crewe nervously,
 
 216 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 II 
 
 MRS. CREWE looked at the Anarchist and the Anarchist 
 looked at her, and neither of them guessed how little 
 two people so wide apart could see of each other. 
 The Anarchist's dreadful doctrines were not written 
 on his face or presaged by his body. Mrs. Crewe 
 thought she had never seen a man so mild and fair 
 and small ; and when she heard him cough, she wished 
 she could put him to bed with a mustard plaster and 
 a hot drink. He had, however, eaten an excellent 
 dinner, and now, with the permission of his hostess, 
 he was smoking a cigarette. Anne had warned her 
 mother that he would wish to do so, and Mrs. Crewe 
 had said that of course you could not expect an 
 Anarchist to observe conventional rules and refrain 
 from tobacco in the presence of ladies. Probably he 
 associated with ladies who smoked themselves. Anne 
 said that it was quite likely, and determined not to 
 get out her own cigarette-case this evening. 
 
 Mr. Zagadin talked good, fluent English, and he 
 told his stories with little dramatic gestures that gave 
 gave them point, and convinced Mrs. Crewe of his 
 honesty. He could not describe the horrors of the 
 knout so vividly if he had not seen it administered 
 the track of the peppercorns, but Mr. Zagadin knew
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 217 
 
 and his smile came with a nervous twitch that made 
 you miserable, and all the evening his cough tore him 
 in pieces. Yet he went on talking, and the two women 
 listened, fascinated. All he had to tell them stirred 
 their deep compassion, and the poor little man him- 
 self did likewise. A child would have seen that he 
 was half-starved and too thinly clad. When he said 
 good-night, Mrs. Crewe wished it was possible to wrap 
 the roast beef in brown paper and put it in his pocket, 
 but she felt sure that even an Anarchist would con- 
 sider such behaviour a breach of etiquette. 
 
 " Poor little man ! " she said, when Anne came back 
 to the fire. Anne looked at her mother gratefully. 
 
 " Yes, I know," she said ; " one longs to be the 
 sun and shine on him." 
 
 There is no ignorance so dark and obstinate as 
 the ignorance of near relationship may be. Strangers 
 will not belittle or exalt you as unfairly as your kith 
 and kin will when they are inclined either way. Mrs. 
 Crewe had never taken the trouble to readjust her 
 ideas of Anne, whose early youth had vexed and 
 puzzled her. But to-night scales fell from her eyes, 
 and for an amazing moment she saw her child as 
 others saw her a bright, sweet - tempered woman 
 with brains and energy, able to help a creature weaker 
 than herself ; willing, perhaps, to give herself unwisely 
 away. 
 
 " What a pretty blouse that is ! " she said ; and 
 Anne thought the observation rather silly and ill-
 
 218 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 timed. She did not know what wise, appropriate 
 reflections had preceded it. 
 
 Nothing more was said about Mr. Zagadin that 
 night, but Mrs. Crewe lay awake for hours thinking 
 of him. Self-sacrifice is presumably a virtue, but it 
 is not the one a mother wishes her child to practise 
 when she chooses a husband. At least, most mothers 
 would prefer more cheerful reasons for a wedding. Of 
 course, Mrs. Crewe still desired a wedding, and she was 
 sure, after one evening's acquaintance, that Mr. Zaga- 
 din did not resemble Mr. Beeston. He was evidently 
 amiable, though a little dazed in his mind. It was most 
 unfortunate that his physique should be so feeble and 
 his opinions so wicked and inconvenient. How can a 
 woman settle down comfortably with a man who may 
 be " wanted " any moment under the Dangerous Ex- 
 plosives Act? True, it was his cousin who was on 
 the track of the peppercorns, but Mr. Zagadin knew 
 all about them. True, also, that Mr. Zagadin said 
 neither he nor his cousin wished to drop them from 
 St. Paul's, because they felt most grateful to the 
 English people for allowing them to pursue their 
 researches unmolested. But Mrs. Crewe supposed 
 that, when they were manufactured, the two gentle- 
 men would drop them somewhere probably on the 
 homesteads of their own people. She thought that if 
 the Russian Government caught him again, it would 
 go very hard with him. In fact, he had said as much, 
 and yet spoken as if his return might be ordered
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 219 
 
 at a moment's notice any time. Moreover, the poor 
 fellow was in bad health. Even if he knew how to 
 earn a living, or wished to do so, he would not be 
 well enough. Apparently he sat indoors all day trans- 
 lating abstruse German philosophy into Russian. It 
 was a fine employment, no doubt, but not one by which 
 a man can support a wife and family. Mrs. Crewe did 
 not know much about the ins and outs of Grub Street, 
 but she knew that. 
 
 During the next few days Mrs. Crewe tried hard to 
 find out Anne's point of view, because, after all these 
 years of semi-estrangement, she could not expect to 
 have much voice in her daughter's affairs. But on 
 this subject Anne was not communicative, and when 
 her mother had been a week in London she still did 
 not know whether the Anarchist would ever be her 
 son-in-law. It was an uneasy position, because by the 
 end of the week she had quite made up her mind that 
 she did not wish him to be. Whenever she could she 
 engaged Anne in conversation about Anarchists 
 their tenets, ways, and prospects in life. She also 
 read one or two numbers of a little newspaper in which 
 Mr. Zagadin and his friends expressed their opinions. 
 She also saw Mr. Zagadin nearly every day, and heard 
 him cough and watched him smile. By the end of the 
 fourth day her nerves were not what they had been, 
 and when she went to sleep she had bad dreams of 
 plots and explosions. In the daytime, as she travelled 
 about London by train and omnibus, she wondered
 
 220 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 whether the apparent peace and safety everywhere 
 would soon be exchanged for the most awful scenes 
 of bloodshed and violence. If the little newspaper were 
 a true prophet, this great city, these busy, prosperous 
 citizens, would soon be scattered and destroyed by a 
 handful of Mr. Zagadin's friends. Mrs. Crewe felt 
 that when this happened it would be most unpleasant 
 to admit that Anne was Mrs. Zagadin, especially in 
 Burnside, where no one had ever appreciated Anne. 
 It would spoil entirely the impression Mrs. Crewe 
 meant to make when she got back by describing Anne's 
 success and Anne's clothes and furniture. Burnside 
 had openly pitied both Alice and her mother for all 
 they endured at the hands of the lawyer. It is in 
 human nature to wish a taste of change. Mrs. Crewe 
 had drunk of pity to the dregs, and since her arrival 
 in London she had looked forward to stirring a little 
 harmless envy by her pictures of Anne's flat. 
 
 Mr. Zagadin usually paid his visits in the evening 
 or on a Sunday afternoon. Twice a week he came as 
 a matter of course to give Anne a lesson in Russian. 
 The other evenings some excuse or accident accounted 
 for his coming; but unless Anne meant to go out, he 
 always came. Mrs. Crewe and he were excellent 
 friends, and she sent to Burnside for a bottle of home- 
 made cough mixture that her grandchildren took every 
 winter. She advised Mr. Zagadin to try a double dose 
 at bedtime, since he suffered from sleeplessness, and 
 she had been so distressed by the holes in his coat that
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 221 
 
 she persuaded him to let her borrow it for twenty-four 
 hours and thoroughly mend it. He did not appear 
 until he had it back again, and she felt sure that he 
 possessed no other. She could not help liking him, 
 and sometimes, when Anne was away for a little 
 while, they had animated discussions about the vast 
 questions in which he was interested. They were such 
 very big, difficult questions, that hitherto they had not 
 come in Mrs. Crewe's way either for discussion or 
 consideration. But so long as Mr. Zagadin could talk 
 he did not seem to mind much who listened, and Mrs. 
 Crewe did her best to wrestle with his erring spirit. 
 Her experience as a Sunday-school teacher stood her 
 in stead. But every word he spoke convinced her 
 more firmly that he was not the man for Anne. 
 
 One afternoon she was sitting by herself and trying 
 to make up her mind that she must soon go back to 
 Burnside and leave her daughter to manage her own 
 affairs. She felt happier than usual about Alice, 
 because her sister had just sent her a cheque for fifty 
 pounds, and she would have felt happy about Anne if 
 it had not been for Mr. Zagadin. She had enjoyed 
 her visit to London. Anne had taken her to several 
 theatres, and bought her a new bonnet and cloak, and 
 invited people to meet her respectable people who 
 possessed more than one coat and did not want to 
 blow up their fellow-creatures not even those who 
 possessed twenty coats to their one. Mrs. Crewe saw 
 that a capable, generous woman like Anne may be
 
 222 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 almost as useful to her family as a man, and when 
 she saw that, she had made fair progress for a woman 
 of her age and superstitions. Nevertheless, she would 
 not have grudged her daughter to a steady-going Mr. 
 Smith. She did grudge her to Mr. Zagadin. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe had just put the little brass kettle on 
 for tea when the door-bell rang. She had to answer it, 
 and she never liked doing so, because she always 
 expected a tramp or a burglar. It relieved her greatly 
 to hear Mr. Zagadin cough as she crossed the hall. 
 She knew his cough quite well, and she hurried to let 
 him in. 
 
 " You ought not to be out in this weather," she 
 said, for it had poured with rain all day, and she saw 
 that he looked grey and cold. The rain stood in drops 
 on his thin beard and dripped from his umbrella. He 
 could not speak for coughing. 
 
 " My daughter is not at home," continued Mrs. 
 Crewe, " but you had better come in and get dry, and 
 let me give you a cup of tea. You'll catch your " 
 
 She smothered the end of her phrase in active care 
 of his hat and umbrella. He looked so like death from 
 cold that she felt a delicacy about reminding him 
 of it. 
 
 " I must see your daughter," said Mr. Zagadin. 
 "When will she be home?" 
 
 " Oh ! any time. I don't quite know," said Mrs. 
 Crewe. 
 
 Mr. Zagadin followed her into the sitting-room, sat
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 223 
 
 down in an easy-chair close to the fire, and shivered. 
 Airs. Crewe looked at his face, and then she looked 
 at his feet. She was an elderly lady and he was a 
 very young man, and he was sick unto death and he 
 had a hole in his boot. 
 
 " Take off your boots directly ! " she commanded. 
 " We'll dry them. If you're afraid of Anne coming 
 back, I'll lock the door ; but I don't think she'll be here 
 yet." 
 
 The Anarchist did as she told him with the utmost 
 docility. He drank two cups of tea and huddled over 
 the fire and coughed his dreadful graveyard cough. 
 In time the warmth and Mrs. Crewe's ministrations 
 revived him a little. Presently the door-bell rang, and 
 Mr. Zagadin got into a fluster and put on his boots, 
 though they were not dry, and in spite of Mrs. Crewe's 
 assurance that Anne always let herself in with a latch- 
 key. 
 
 It was a telegram from Anne to say she had been 
 detained and would not be back till seven. When 
 Mrs. Crewe read this message aloud Mr. Zagadin 
 turned as white as a sheet. 
 
 " But I must see her I must ! " he said wildly. 
 " Where is she ? I will go to her ! " and he staggered 
 to his feet. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe thought he had gone mad more mad 
 than usual. " I have no idea where she is," she replied ; 
 " her editor sends her here and there at a moment's 
 notice. You know how it is."
 
 224 ANN AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 He sank back in his chair and looked at Mrs. Crewe. 
 " Then I must trust to you," he said. 
 
 " Yes do," said Mrs. Crewe. She thought she 
 understood. He had come to his last penny and 
 wanted to borrow. Perhaps Anne owed him money 
 for the Russian lessons. Anyhow, Mrs. Crewe was 
 quite prepared to give him one of the two sovereigns 
 then in her purse. He looked as if he had been 
 starving for days. 
 
 But when he spoke again he did not ask for 
 money. 
 
 " It has come ! " he said in a deep, tragic voice. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Crewe inadequately. She still felt 
 puzzled, but the sadness of his eyes began to affect the 
 kind, dense old lady. They seemed to draw her with 
 them to see what they saw a ghastly real thing that 
 waited for him. 
 
 " I go back to-night," he continued, in the same 
 deep, hopeless voice. " I leave Liverpool Street at 
 half-past eight. Don't forget Liverpool Street at 
 half-past eight ! " 
 
 " I won't forget," said Mrs. Crewe. " Is that what 
 you want me to tell Anne ? " 
 
 " Yes. I hope she will be in time. I hope she 
 will come." 
 
 Mrs. Crewe started. 
 
 "What?" she cried. 
 
 " I want your daughter to go with me." 
 
 "Go with you? To Russia?"
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 225 
 
 " Yes. Tell her so. I think she will come. The 
 danger is great I do not hide it but the glory is 
 great too. If we succeed, the world will tremble. If 
 we fail we die." And he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " But I don't want Anne to die," said Mrs. Crewe. 
 " Besides, I can't spare her." 
 
 " Well perhaps we should not die. It is never 
 certain. Perhaps we should go to Siberia or Sagha- 
 lien. There, too, there is a great work to do. How 
 can you grudge one life when it may sow the seeds of 
 freedom in a thousand minds? Your daughter has 
 great gifts. I will lead her where she can employ 
 them." 
 
 " I think she employs them very well in London," 
 said Mrs. Crewe. " I am quite satisfied, and I believe 
 she is." 
 
 " How can you be satisfied when millions of your 
 fellow-creatures are miserable slaves? I want to give 
 your daughter to Russia. Do you grudge one woman's 
 life to a whole country? " 
 
 Mrs. Crewe did, most decidedly, but she thought it 
 was useless to say so. She felt a little afraid of Mr. 
 Zagadin this afternoon. The shadow of his sinister 
 creed had fallen on his face ; his eyes were restless and 
 terror-stricken. 
 
 " Even if Anne wished to marry you " she 
 
 began, but he interrupted her quite fiercely. 
 
 "Who speaks of marriage?" he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe stared at him uncomprehendingly.
 
 226 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 " You don't suppose my daughter could travel about 
 with you unless she was your wife," she said ; " it is 
 not the English custom." 
 
 The nervous twitch that came with his smile was 
 worse than ever to-day, and Mrs. Crewe looked past 
 him in order not to see it. 
 
 " I speak of martyrdom and you speak of English 
 custom," he said. " Give me a pen and paper. I will 
 write to your daughter." 
 
 He sat down and wrote at great speed for about 
 five minutes. 
 
 " Shall you start to-night in any case ? " asked 
 Mrs. Crewe when he got up; because, of course, she 
 had been making up her mind to withhold the letter 
 for a few hours, and wondering at his simplicity in 
 expecting her to deliver it. 
 
 " If the world were tottering to its end, I should 
 start," he answered. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe felt very glad to hear it, and then she 
 began to wonder what the poor man's fate would be, 
 and even whether he would ever reach his journey's 
 end. 
 
 " Do take care of yourself," she said. " Have you 
 a warm wrap for the journey ? " 
 
 " I have not. Tell your daughter to bring some. 
 What is mine is hers." 
 
 " But really," urged Mrs. Crewe, " you must not 
 expect my daughter. It is preposterous." 
 
 " I do expect her," said Mr. Zagadin. " She is a
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 227 
 
 noble woman formed for heroic deeds not for 
 the petty, comfortable life in which you would enslave 
 her. She shall be a Charlotte Corday and kill tyrants. 
 A man may face anything, even what I face, with her 
 by his side. My body is weak, even my spirit fails 
 me. I look to her for courage." 
 
 His cough suddenly shook him, and he could say 
 no more. When the fit abated he offered Mrs. Crewe 
 his hand, but he did not offer her the letter. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. 
 
 She went with him to the door. 
 
 " Perhaps you will soon come back to England," 
 she said, with a wish to cheer him up a little. 
 
 " I go to a work from which no man comes back," he 
 answered. 
 
 " But it is horrible," she exclaimed, " and you so ill, 
 too. Can't you throw the whole thing up, and stay 
 here, and let your friends look after you ? Who forces 
 you to go ? " 
 
 He shook his head mournfully, and walked towards 
 the head of the stairs. 
 
 " You have not left the letter," Mrs. Crewe called 
 after him. 
 
 " I shall leave it with the hall-porter," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe returned to the sitting-room. It was 
 nearly half-past six now, and Anne might return at any 
 moment. What would she do? Would she say the 
 danger was visionary, and Mr. Zagadin's need of her 
 real? Would she say she could keep herself out of
 
 228 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 danger, and him, too ? Mrs. Crewe could not feel sure. 
 There is no delusion too silly for a woman inclined to 
 throw herself away. The deeper the precipice the more 
 irresistible the fascination. 
 
 Mrs. Crewe put on her outdoor things and went 
 downstairs. She peeped into the porter's office, and 
 saw Mr. Zagadin's letter lying on the table. The porter 
 was not there. If he had been she could have easily 
 given him a sixpence, and asked him to go upstairs and 
 make sure that she had shut the door of the flat. But 
 fortune favoured her, and she was not driven to prac- 
 tise this deception. She stepped across the threshold 
 and snatched the letter, and fled into the street. Her 
 heart beat, and her knees trembled, and she knew what 
 it means to see suspicion in every eye, and to hear pur- 
 suit in every footstep. But she was quite resolved to 
 wander about for two hours. When you have nowhere 
 to go, and nothing to do, and are not inclined to look 
 about you, two hours in the London streets will pass 
 like time in prison. It seemed to Mrs. Crewe that all 
 the clocks had stopped, and that every road had shrunk 
 in length. She spent a quarter of an hour in a baker's 
 shop eating buns she did not want; she went a little 
 journey by the Underground; she tried the inside of a 
 bus, and the outside of a tram. London had certainly 
 dwindled that night. She could not get far enough 
 away. But she would not go back to St. George's Man- 
 sions until half-past eight. 
 
 As she slowly mounted the four flights of steps to
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 229 
 
 Anne's flat, she took the letter out of her pocket an4 
 held it ready in her hand. Anne opened the door. 
 
 " Mother ! " she exclaimed. " I have been very un- 
 easy about you. Where have you been ? And Tomp- 
 kins is in a state about a letter he says Mr. Zagadin 
 left with him for me. Is that in your hand? How 
 did you get it? " 
 
 " I stole it," said Mrs. Crewe, giving it to her 
 daughter. 
 
 Anne looked anxiously at her mother, who was hag- 
 gard with fatigue and anxiety. She led her into the 
 sitting-room, and then opened Mr. Zagadin's letter. 
 
 " Liverpool Street, at half-past eight," she said, and 
 Mrs. Crewe saw her glance at the clock ; " and he wants 
 me to go with him to Russia. But it is half-past eight 
 now ! Oh, mother, what have you done ? " 
 
 " He wanted you to be a martyr, Anne," said Mrs. 
 Crewe, almost tearfully. " I really could not allow it. 
 Besides, he doesn't even ask you to marry him, does 
 he?" 
 
 " It comes to the same thing," said Anne, glancing 
 distractedly at the clock again. " Of course, a man of 
 Mr. Zagadin's opinions doesn't think anything of a 
 church ceremony." 
 
 " Then we certainly cannot think of him as a member 
 of the family," said Mrs. Crewe. 
 
 Anne sat down, and read her letter again. 
 
 " No one needs me as he does," she said, with both 
 indecision and anguish in her tone. " Poor fellow ! "
 
 230 
 
 " Oh, Anne," exclaimed her mother, " surely you 
 would not have gone ! It would have broken my heart." 
 
 " But I might have wished him good-bye might 
 have taken him things for the journey. He is as un- 
 practical and as unfit to take care of himself as a child. 
 You ought not to have withheld his letter, mother. 
 Where have you been all this time ? " 
 
 " I really don't know where I have been," said Mrs. 
 Crewe ; " all over London, I think. I can't understand 
 you, Anne. Surely you don't want to turn your back 
 on your work and your people to go and blow up poor 
 harmless Russians with dynamite ! He calls it martyr- 
 dom ; but you haven't been to Siberia and lost your 
 senses." 
 
 " Oh ! I never think of that side of him," interrupted 
 Anne rather impatiently. " I think of his cleverness 
 and his cough. I daresay I could have kept myself 
 out of harm's way, and him too." 
 
 " But in his own country he is considered a criminal. 
 If they catch him they'll put him in prison. No doubt, 
 if he had a wife they'd imprison her too, and send her 
 to Siberia. They're not very particular out there." 
 
 " Well it is all over," said Anne after a long 
 pause. 
 
 "But if he writes if he asks you to join him?" 
 
 " He says in his letter he won't do that." 
 
 " But if he did you would not go ? " 
 
 " I suppose not," said Anne ; " but I wish I had bid- 
 den him good-bye."
 
 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 231 
 
 For a long time neither mother nor child spoke 
 again, and they both thought of Mr. Zagadin speeding; 
 towards Harwich, ill and disappointed, and very poor. 
 
 " I wish I had given him my railway rug," said Mrs. 
 Crewe. 
 
 " I shall have to write and tell him I didn't get his 
 letter till it was too late," said Anne. " I needn't say 
 how it happened." 
 
 " I've no doubt he thinks us very unkind," said Mrs. 
 Crewe, whose eyes looked tearful. " I hope it isn't 
 wrong to be so fond of an Anarchist." 
 
 But Mrs. Crewe never repented the theft of the let- 
 ter ; and when she told Alice about it, the latter seemed 
 to think her mother had acted as rightly as any one 
 does who saves a fellow-creature from unnecessary 
 suicide. 
 
 " There is no knowing," she said ; " Anne might 
 have gone out of sheer pity." 
 
 A month later Mrs. Crewe heard from Anne that 
 poor Mr. Zagadin had neither done the awful deeds 
 nor suffered the awful vengeance he expected, because 
 he had been arrested the moment he had set foot on 
 Russian soil. In prison, he fell ill of pneumonia, and 
 died within the week. The news made Mrs. Crewe 
 feel quite conscience-stricken. If she had given him 
 her railway rug perhaps he could have taken it to 
 prison with him and kept warm. Even his death did 
 not make her wish for a moment that she had given 
 him Anne.
 
 232 ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST 
 
 Later still she told the story to one or two of her 
 Burnside friends, and they also said she had acted 
 wisely, though they added that it seemed a pity Anne 
 should die an old maid. Mrs. Crewe replied that she 
 used to be of the same opinion, but that since her visit 
 to London she considered her elder daughter's single 
 life a greater success in every way than her younger 
 daughter's married one. 
 
 Nevertheless it gave her great pleasure to tell them, 
 about a year after Mr. Zagadin's death, that Anne was 
 going to marry her editor, and would give up her flat 
 for a house in Chelsea Square. 
 
 " I hope he is a Conservative editor," said Burnside, 
 " then we will try to forget that Anne nearly ran off 
 with an Anarchist."
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Miss BRUNTON often said that she had no patience 
 with women who allowed other people to put upon 
 them. A woman, she protested, should be a person of 
 sense and spirit, not a poor, yielding reed swayed by 
 every breeze. Her sister, Mrs. Simpson, used to take 
 a remark of this kind to herself, and retort that a 
 woman who had only herself to think of could easily 
 keep up her courage. A spinster earning a comfortable 
 livelihood did not know how hardly life pressed on the 
 mother of a family. Miss Brunton never argued the 
 point, because she knew that you might as well try to 
 write on water as on Aggy's mind. But her eyes had a 
 twinkle in them when her sister compared their lots to 
 her own disadvantage. She knew who was likely to 
 wear out first. 
 
 For many years Miss Brunton had been an assistant 
 mistress in the Blackport High School, which is a large 
 and flourishing concern. Before coming to Blackport 
 she had languished as a governess in private families, 
 and every one considered that she greatly improved her 
 position by getting a post in a High School. Besides, 
 Aggy Brunton had married Professor Simpson of 
 
 233
 
 234 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Blackport College, and therefore lived in Blackport, 
 and would be able to befriend her sister in many ways. 
 
 Miss Brunton was very glad to go and live near 
 Aggy, but her reasons were not exactly those put for- 
 ward by her friends when they congratulated her. 
 Aggy had never been able to look after herself, or 
 her husband, or her children; and Miss Brunton 
 thought it would be easier to do her own work and 
 lend her sister a helping hand if the work and the 
 sister were near neighbours. At first she lived in 
 Professor Simpson's house, and as long as this ar- 
 rangement lasted she certainly found plenty to do 
 there. A child was born every year to parents who 
 were unthrifty, delicate, and poor. How Miss Brun- 
 ton had the strength and the patience to be schoolmis- 
 tress, nurse, and housekeeper day by day no one could 
 understand. She often owned that she felt tired; 
 sometimes her spirits flagged. But she would soon 
 whip them up again. Melancholy, like other luxuries, 
 was not for her. Aggy might sit by the fire and weep 
 while the world ran away ; but her sister felt the weight 
 of the world on her shoulders, and meant to support it 
 or die. 
 
 However, soon after the fifth child arrived, Miss 
 Brunton had to turn out because, unless she slept in 
 a cupboard, the house would no longer hold her. She 
 took small cheap lodgings close by, and Aggy said it 
 would be nearly the same thing as having Susan with 
 them ; which was quite true as far as Aggy was con-
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 235 
 
 cerned. Her sister found the new arrangement rather 
 more tiring than the old one. 
 
 Nevertheless Miss Brunton greatly enjoyed the 
 snatches of solitude and leisure that were left to her. 
 She had never before had a sitting-room of her own, 
 or any chance of receiving her friends. Wherever she 
 lived she made friends. That faculty of lending a 
 helping hand did not exhaust itself on her sister, and 
 it is one that usually wins goodwill. Besides she acted 
 as a tonic on some of the nervous, overworked women 
 who made the school wheels go round. Not all of them 
 liked her, but those who did swore by her, clove to her, 
 and when fate took them from her, would go far and 
 wide to see her again. 
 
 But Miss Brunton never had much time to give her 
 friends. She was always meaning to turn over a new 
 leaf and let Aggy shift for herself, and she was always 
 finding that the possible moment had not arrived. If 
 Aggy had been robust and very well-to-do, Miss Brun- 
 ton might have left her sister to fight her own battles. 
 But Professor Simpson had a limited income, and his 
 children were sickly, and his wife was both sickly and 
 incompetent. When Aggy sent in haste for her sister it 
 was always because she had a headache, or a damaged 
 child, or no nurse, or no cook; and when Miss Brun- 
 ton reached the house she often found the family in 
 real difficulties. It is true that Aggy usually brought 
 them on herself, but there they were. 
 
 Of course, all married women know that a single
 
 236 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 woman never has anything to do. Married women 
 without children count as single in this respect. A 
 spinster who maintains herself is a person of leisure 
 compared with a rich man's wife who has a baby in 
 the nursery. This is a great mystery, but every mother 
 understands it. Mrs. Simpson used to talk with envy 
 of her sister's tranquil life and even of her circum- 
 stances, which she said were really easier than her 
 own. At any rate her husband and she could not 
 afford a holiday in Switzerland, and when they 
 wanted a new book they looked for it on Miss Brun- 
 ton's table. 
 
 " My month in Switzerland has cost me eighteen 
 pounds," said Miss Brunton. " I wonder how much 
 you have spent at Filey." 
 
 " A great deal more than we meant to. We always 
 do," said Mrs. Simpson with a sigh. She was a thin 
 little woman with a drab skin and colourless scanty 
 hair. " Do you spend all you make ? " she continued. 
 " Do you never think of providing for your old age ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," said Miss Brunton briskly. " Who 
 would if I did not, pray? " 
 
 Mrs. Simpson's friends were under the impression 
 that she suffered a good deal from her sister's quick 
 temper. She looked slightly injured now and said 
 
 " It must be so easy for you to save, living in these 
 two little rooms, and only yourself to think of. Have 
 you put by much ? " 
 
 " About two hundred pounds."
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 237 
 
 A weaker woman might have tried to conceal this 
 fact, but Miss Brunton felt quite sure that she could 
 take care of herself and her money. 
 
 Aggy's prominent light eyes opened widely. 
 
 " Two hundred pounds ! I wish I had a quarter 
 of it." 
 
 " Don't be so silly, Aggy," said Miss Brunton 
 sharply. " If I was knocked out of my work to-mor- 
 row I should have about eight pounds a year to 
 live on." 
 
 " Archibald says he can't afford to buy me a new 
 winter jacket," continued Aggy. " I can't get my 
 sleeves into my old one. I wish you would lend me a 
 little money, Susan." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Susan at once. 
 
 The Simpsons ought not to have been for ever short 
 of money. Archibald had three hundred a year of 
 his own, and his professorship brought him an income 
 of at least five hundred. Most of his colleagues con- 
 sidered him a man of means. He certainly might have 
 made two ends meet in Blackport, where folks do their 
 washing at home, and get a respectable little house for 
 fifty pounds a year. The Simpsons were not even in 
 the uncomfortable position of knowing a great many 
 people much richer than themselves. The staff of 
 Blackport College supplied them with friends men 
 who professed something or lectured on something, and 
 earned very little by it. The women-folk connected 
 with such men are not fine birds ; they have no money
 
 238 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 for feathers. Mrs. Simpson could have been as well 
 dressed as her acquaintances without any undue strain 
 on her husband's purse. 
 
 But the skilful management of an income is really 
 more important than its figure. Mrs. Simpson mud- 
 dled away her money as she muddled away her time 
 and her health ; and of course her husband and children 
 suffered for her sins. She was one of those incompe- 
 tent, helpless creatures who at eighteen possess a pretty 
 complexion and an amiable, vacant smile. They al- 
 ways marry and have families, and make every one be- 
 longing to them uncomfortable, and why men choose 
 them for wives and mothers men alone can say. Poor 
 Professor Simpson had twelve years in which to repent 
 of his folly, and then, in an epidemic of influenza, he 
 went out of the game. It was after his death that Miss 
 Brunton's real troubles began. 
 
 In future Aggy and her five children would have to 
 live on three hundred a year, and she assured her sister 
 it could not be done. Susan said, " Stuff and non- 
 sense ! it must be done." It was preposterous to talk ; 
 as if they had any alternative ! How did Aggy propose 
 to spend more than her income without getting into 
 debt ? Luckily, by the terms of her husband's will, she 
 could not touch the capital. Aggy reminded her sister 
 that twenty years ago she had taken a prize at school 
 for flower-painting. Why should she not recall that 
 lost art and give lessons in it to the young ladies of 
 Black-port ? Miss Brunton said it would be much bet-
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 239 
 
 ter for her sister to recall the little she knew about 
 cooking and manage her house and children with the 
 help of one servant. 
 
 " Susan means well," said Aggy to her friends ; " but 
 of course she does not know what it is to have children 
 and feel anxious to provide for them. I must be both 
 father and mother to my darlings now, and I am not 
 strong. Susan always had the constitution of a horse. 
 She ought to have been a man." 
 
 " Yes," said her friends ; " she would have made a 
 very good man." 
 
 Professor Simpson died just before Christmas, so 
 Miss Brunton was able to spend the vacation in helping 
 Aggy to recover and remove. Aggy's grief was very 
 harrowing to those about her ; she gave it such full ex- 
 pression. Even on the day of the funeral Miss Brun- 
 ton felt inclined to shake her because she would howl 
 over the baby in his cradle directly he had been got to 
 sleep. She wept at every meal for weeks, because the 
 sight of Susan in dear Archibald's chair made her 
 miserable, and she wept at the bare mention of re- 
 trenchment, because she said her husband had always 
 wished her to have everything she wanted. She seemed 
 to blame her sister for supposing that three hundred 
 a year would not go as far as eight. 
 
 With great difficulty Miss Brunton managed to get 
 the Simpsons into a house they could reasonably af- 
 ford : and then the day soon came when she confessed 
 to her friends that she meant to live with her sister
 
 240 'THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 again. None of them asked why. They understood 
 that Aggy would get on a little better with most of 
 Susan's income added to her own. 
 
 Perhaps Aggy did get on a little better than if 
 Susan had led her own life and left her sister to shift 
 for herself. It never occurred to Miss Brunton that 
 she had any choice in the matter for longer than an 
 angry moment. She regarded her near relatives much 
 as we regard our own bodies. We regret their imper- 
 fections, but we do not try in this world to get away 
 from them. 
 
 The new conditions would have been more bearable 
 if Miss Brunton could have held the reins managed 
 the housekeeping and the family expenditure, as well 
 as her work at school. But of course Aggy stood on 
 her dignity and resented both advice and interference. 
 She attributed all her troubles to fate, and not to her 
 own want of sense and self-control. One afternoon 
 Miss Brunton came back from school and found Oscar, 
 a boy of five, badly scalded. 
 
 " How did it happen ? " she asked. 
 
 " He pulled the kitchen kettle over himself," ex- 
 plained Aggy. " Sarah was down in the wash-house at 
 the time." 
 
 " But where were you ? " 
 
 " Paying calls." 
 
 " Why do you do that on a washing-day when Sarah 
 cannot possibly look after the children ? " 
 
 " I cannot give up my friends and my position,
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 241 
 
 Susan. I wish to keep both for my family. We must 
 get a second servant." 
 
 " We cannot afford it." 
 
 " We must. It is very easy for you to talk away 
 all day in that big cheerful school, sitting on a platform 
 and looking at a lot of well-behaved girls you don't 
 know what it is to spend the morning with five children 
 as naughty as mine." 
 
 When night came Aggy asked her sister to sit up 
 with Oscar. 
 
 " A sleepless night never seems to hurt you," she 
 said. " I am quite exhausted with the shock of finding 
 him scalded." 
 
 " I will take him this night, but not again to-mor- 
 row," said Miss Brunton ; " I can't teach when I am 
 dead tired. It would not be fair to the school." 
 
 "Of course I shall come in now and then." 
 
 " No, you won't," said Miss Brunton, " I shall lock 
 the door." 
 
 Aggy took offence at her sister's manner, but she, 
 knew her to be a person of her word, so she went to 
 bed and slept soundly. The next night Oscar slept and 
 did not disturb his mother. 
 
 The fear of letting the wear and tear of her home 
 life affect her work at school acted like a spur on Miss 
 Brunton ; kept her going when she might have flagged, 
 and even drove her to resist encroachment. She never 
 allowed any one to make her unpunctual, and when 
 Easter came she set off for a short holiday, although
 
 242 'THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Mrs. Simpson showed that she thought it a selfish thing 
 to do. In the end she wished she had not spent ten 
 shillings on the journey, because, before she had been 
 away forty-eight hours, she received a telegram to say 
 that Rosie had inflammation of the lungs. Of course, 
 Rosie's aunt had to pack her trunks and return post 
 haste to Blackport. 
 
 " I can't refuse to go when they are in trouble," she 
 said to her indignant holiday companion. " Aggy's 
 troubles are of her own making, but they are terribly 
 real. She took this child with her on the top of a tram 
 last week in that bitter east wind. I told her it was 
 folly, and she asked me what I knew about children." 
 
 When Miss Brunton got back to Blackport she found 
 Rosie much better. In fact, the doctor had only feared 
 inflammation of the lungs, and had managed to keep 
 it off. 
 
 " You ought not to have sent for me," said Miss 
 Brunton to her sister. " The child has not been se- 
 riously ill." 
 
 She wished afterwards that she had held her peace, 
 because her rebuke sent Aggy into hysterics. Mrs. 
 Simpson cried and laughed, and said she was worn out 
 with nursing, and vowed she had neither asked nor ex- 
 pected her sister to come. She always kept her troubles 
 to herself, and never again would she fly to Susan for 
 sympathy in a sorrowful hour. Then she took a sleep- 
 ing draught and went to bed, while Susan looked after 
 Rosie and the other children.
 
 'THE LAST STRAW" 243 
 
 The proper mission of women is, of course, to weave 
 roses into the tangled threads of manly lives. But there 
 are some women who never get a chance of performing 
 the pretty task for which Nature, the poet says, de- 
 signed them. On the contrary, their hands have to 
 make the best of tangles just as hard and just as tiring 
 as those that engage the attention of their masculine 
 neighbours. Miss Brunton had succeeded to her 
 brother-in-law's anxieties, but not to his position of 
 authority in the house or to his income. Of course, 
 you may say that the remedy lay in her own hands. 
 She had only to harden her heart. But that is exactly 
 what some people cannot do. Miss Brunton loved her 
 nephews and nieces. They put their grimy little arms' 
 round her neck and came to her for help in their 
 troubles. She wore herself out over the effort to keep 
 them properly fed and clothed. She tried to make her 
 sister put by a little money towards their education. 
 But in this she never succeeded, and at the end of two 
 years her own savings had diminished. The latest 
 drain on her resources had been caused by a fire in the 
 nursery. When she spoke of claiming restitution from 
 the insurance company, Aggy said that the premium 
 had not been paid since her husband's death. She had 
 always had other things to do with her money. After 
 this Miss Brunton felt that no discovery of extrava- 
 gance or folly would be surprising. She wondered 
 : whether they would ever find themselves without a 
 roof to their heads.
 
 244 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Even a tough constitution cannot stand incessant 
 work and worry for very long. Professor Simpson had 
 been dead for about two and a half years when Miss 
 Brunton found that she must either rest or break down. 
 So she told Aggy that she meant to spend the summer 
 vacation in Switzerland. 
 
 " You are lucky," said Aggy. " Always off some- 
 where ! " 
 
 Miss Brunton had not been out of Blackport since 
 last summer, when she had taken the Simpsons to the 
 Isle of Man, and nursed them through the measles 
 there. She mentioned this fact to Aggy, but Aggy only 
 wriggled away from it, and observed that the children 
 and she would have to content themselves with Black- 
 pool. Miss Brunton felt positive that her sister could 
 not afford to go anywhere at all, but she gave great 
 offence by saying so. Aggy asked how she could 
 grudge the poor delicate children a fortnight at the 
 seaside, when she was planning an expensive holiday 
 on the Continent for herself. 
 
 Mrs. Simpson did not realise that her sister was near 
 a collapse. All her life she had leaned on Susan, taken 
 her strength for granted, reckoned she had no troubles 
 because she did not parade them. She had not the 
 sense or the sympathy to see that even to the strong 
 natures there come moments of discouragement. 
 
 Aggy went to Blackpool early in the summer, about 
 a month before the end of the term. Miss Brunton 
 begged her to go later, and not take the elder children
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 245 
 
 away from school, but Mrs. Simpson observed that she 
 had to study economy. Lodgings were cheap in June. 
 
 " You have bought a great many new clothes," said 
 Susan, as she helped to pack. " I hope they are paid 
 for ! " 
 
 " They are," said Mrs. Simpson shortly. 
 
 " I can't understand it," persisted Susan. " Last 
 month you said you could not pay your bills until this 
 month's cheque had come, and now you have settled 
 with the tradespeople and replenished the family ward- 
 robe. Have you enough in your purse for your railway 
 fares? And how are you going to pay your expenses 
 at Blackpool ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't poke and pry into my affairs ! " said 
 Aggy impatiently. " The children would die without 
 a change of air, and we can't go about like Red Indians, 
 in ragged blankets." 
 
 Miss Brunton did not feel reassured, but she could 
 do nothing to stop the expedition. For a day or two 
 she enjoyed the silent, empty house, and then she sud- 
 denly began to hate it. The deserted rooms oppressed 
 her, the lonely meals choked her. For the first time 
 in her life she failed to outstep the blue devils always 
 at her heels. She began to dwell on the future and 
 Heaven help the woman without mate or money who 
 does that ! She began to think that she could not af- 
 ford the journey to Switzerland. It would make a hole 
 in the hundred pounds left of her savings the only 
 shield in case of emergency between her and destitu-
 
 246 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 tion. Then a solemn word of warning from the great 
 doctor she had consulted left her no choice. She prom- 
 ised him to go. After that she felt more cheerful, and 
 made her plans. She was to start the very day school 
 closed, soon after the Simpsons came back from Black- 
 pool. 
 
 The children looked rosy and sunburnt, but Aggy 
 looked worried. Perhaps if Miss Brunton had been 
 as wide awake as usual, she would have guessed that 
 her sister had something on her mind. But just at the 
 end of term a week of great heat tried her to the ut- 
 most, and she had no strength or vision for any one's 
 business but her own. 
 
 At last speech-day arrived, and when the necessary 
 festivities came to an end Miss Brunton walked home 
 numb and dull with weariness. She felt too tired to 
 travel, too tired to live. The little street seemed to pant 
 beneath the sweltering sun ; every window was set open 
 and some front doors were ajar. It was quieter than 
 usual, as if the heat had made the inmates idle and 
 drowsy. But when Miss Brunton approached her sis- 
 ter's house, alarming and familiar sounds reached her 
 from one of the open upper windows the uncon- 
 trolled sobs of a woman nearly in hysterics. For a 
 moment Miss Brunton paused, inclined to run away. 
 But habit proved too strong for her; she could not 
 turn her back on a difficulty. She opened the door 
 with her latchkey, and walked upstairs and into the 
 front bedroom. There lay Aggy, crying, and laugh-
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 247 
 
 ing, and raving incoherently, while a frightened maid- 
 servant stood near with a bottle of smelling salts. 
 Miss Brunton sent the girl out of the room, locked 
 the door, and sat down. She knew that Aggy's 
 hysterics soon came to an end if no one tried to coax 
 her out of them. In a few minutes Mrs. Simpson got 
 off the bed and came to the window where her sister 
 had taken a chair. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " she said with a sob. 
 
 Miss Brunton did not answer. 
 
 Aggy next went to her wardrobe and put on a 
 hat and cloak. When she stood at the glass Miss 
 Brunton went to the door and put the key in her 
 pocket. Then she sat down again. She was too tired 
 to talk, and she knew she would soon hear all about 
 it. When Aggy found the door locked she pulled it 
 noisily to and fro, and beat on it with her fists, and 
 sobbed to her sister to come and open it at once. So 
 Miss Brunton seized her wrists, and dragged her back 
 to the window and made her sit down. The tussle was 
 exhausting, but successful. 
 
 " Let me go," howled Aggy ; " I want to drown 
 myself." 
 
 " Sit still and don't behave like an idiot," said Miss 
 Brunton. " The neighbours will hear you if you 
 make such a row." 
 
 " I don't care who hears me! I shall be dead in an 
 hour, and then you'll be sorry. Give me the key this 
 moment, Susan ! "
 
 248 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Miss Brunton sat still and waited until her sister 
 sulkily left off crying ; then she said 
 
 " I want my tea, Aggy. Are you going to tell me 
 what's the matter ? " 
 
 " I don't know why I should ! You can't do any- 
 thing ! Read that ! " 
 
 Miss Brunton took the crumpled letter her sister 
 held out, and as she read it her face turned wan and 
 old. The letter said that unless Mrs. Simpson paid the 
 hundred and forty pounds she had borrowed within 
 forty-eight hours, the usual proceedings would be 
 taken. In due course she must expect her furniture 
 to be seized and sold in discharge of the debt. 
 
 " You have been borrowing money," said Miss 
 Brunton. She showed no surprise, and her manner 
 was heavy and hopeless rather than angry. Yet Aggy 
 felt afraid. 
 
 " I had to," she protested. " I can't let my children 
 starve! It is impossible for an unmarried woman to 
 understand what a mother " 
 
 Miss Brunton put up her hand to stem the torrent 
 of words. 
 
 " Who writes ? Where did you get the money ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I saw an advertisement in the Herald. His letters 
 were most considerate at first. He said he did it to 
 help people especially ladies and that he wanted 
 no security. And now he is going to turn us into the 
 streets ; and the trustees will let him do it."
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 249 
 
 "How much do you owe?" 
 
 Miss Brunton looked at the letter as she asked the 
 question, and noted again that a hundred and forty 
 pounds was the sum mentioned there. 
 
 " I had a hundred pounds at Christmas," said Aggy, 
 beginning to sob again, and speaking with angry re- 
 sentment ; " I have paid him about twenty pounds as 
 interest on it; and just before I went to Blackpool I 
 had another forty. I couldn't help it! You needn't 
 look at me like that, Susan ! Give me the letter, and 
 leave me to manage my own affairs. Only, before you 
 start for Switzerland, tell me where I am to send 
 your things. I suppose they won't be sold up with 
 mine! " 
 
 Miss Brunton got up. 
 
 " I must pay it," she said. " I have the cheque 
 for my salary in my pocket and a hundred pounds at 
 the bank. You can't be left in a house without fur- 
 niture. Besides the disgrace " 
 
 Miss Brunton broke off abruptly, and with a ner- 
 vous twitch of her lips. Aggy cried, and said that in 
 future she would let all the children die rather than 
 borrow money to keep them alive. She followed her 
 sister downstairs and poured out two cups of tea. 
 
 " I will go and see Mr. Taylor at once," said Miss 
 Brunton when she had drunk the tea but not eaten 
 anything with it. She found that food choked her. 
 " He must manage this business for us or we may be 
 still more swindled."
 
 250 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Mr. Taylor had always acted as Professor Simp- 
 son's solicitor 
 
 " It is not very pleasant to let other people know 
 of one's private affairs," objected Aggy. 
 
 " When you have made a mess of them it is often 
 necessary." 
 
 " I'm sure I'm sorry you have to go out again," 
 said Aggy, who had gone back already to her usual 
 injured tone. "What time do you start to-morrow? 
 Can I pack for you ? " 
 
 Miss Brunton turned on her. 
 
 " Where do you think I should get the money now ? 
 From your money-lender ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " whimpered Aggy, " can't you go? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " I wish I had never told you. I wish you had let 
 me drown myself. It would have been much better." 
 
 " I daresay it would," said Miss Brunton impatiently, 
 and she shut the door very quietly as she went out of 
 the house, because she longed to bang it. 
 
 She saw Mr. Taylor's managing clerk and gave him 
 her instructions, and she came away possessing nothing 
 in the world but a couple of pounds in her purse, which 
 would have to last her until her salary fell due again. 
 Perhaps if Mr. Taylor himself had seen her he would 
 have made some different arrangement; but his clerk 
 merely heard what she had to say, and promised to have 
 the matter attended to at once. It never occurred to 
 Miss Brunton that she could borrow the money. Per-
 
 "THE LAST STRAW" 251 
 
 haps it would not have been easy, but at any rate she 
 did not think of it. She had never borrowed a penny 
 in her life. 
 
 As she left the office her head swam and her knees 
 trembled. She clung to the railings and looked fear- 
 fully up and down the street lest any one should see 
 her and speak to her. She felt bewildered and ex- 
 hausted, so that she could not think of the morrow 
 or question the wisdom of what she had just done. 
 But her courage had come to an end for the time. 
 She had fought a good fight, and now she thought 
 with desire of rest. She walked slowly on, her eyes 
 on the ground, her memory throwing up odd transient 
 flashes from bygone days; broken pictures of hours 
 that had been neither important nor especially happy: 
 other pictures graven on her mind in the decisive 
 moments of life. As long as the streets were quiet 
 she remained in this half-stupefied condition ; but pres- 
 ently she had to walk through the noisiest street in 
 Blackport, and there the traffic jarred cruelly on her 
 irritable nerves. She hurried on, but the street was a 
 long one, and she could not escape directly. One heavy 
 lorry seemed to pursue her. It stopped when she 
 stopped, and came after her when she ran on. At last 
 she could bear it no longer, and she made a rush across 
 the crowded road. She heard shouts, stared around, 
 and suddenly felt afraid to go on. Something hit her 
 violently in the chest
 
 252 "THE LAST STRAW" 
 
 Aggy sat beside her looking very white and tearful. 
 There were screens round the bed, but she could see 
 by the ceiling that she lay in a large room. 
 
 " It's all right about the money," she said. It was 
 a great effort to speak, and she did not hear Aggy's 
 answer, because she lost consciousness again. Next 
 time she opened her eyes she saw a doctor and a nurse 
 as well as Aggy. She looked at her sister with mild 
 surprise, and wondered why the tears streamed down 
 her poor, weak, little face. 
 
 " I suppose I am dying," she thought. 
 
 " Oh ! Susan," cried Aggy, " I wish there was some- 
 thing I could do for you. I wish I had not let you go 
 out again when you were so tired." 
 
 Susan's eyes stared dreamily at her sister. 
 
 " I'm all right," she whispered ; " the doctor said I 
 only wanted rest. I'm going to get it." 
 
 She shut her eyes and they waited. Presently she 
 opened them once more. 
 
 " You go and look after the children," she said 
 to Aggy. 
 
 Then she died.
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 MY friends say that poor Captain Ellison has gone to 
 the devil. I know that this is not a pretty phrase 
 for a lady to repeat, but I feel strongly on the subject, 
 because they say that I helped him there. This I 
 steadfastly deny. 
 
 I am very rich. I am not married. On an average 
 I get one proposal a week. I do not mean that I 
 receive an offer every Saturday with the Athencsum 
 and the Illustrated London News. But on looking 
 back at last year's crop I can count up nearly fifty 
 men who made a bid for my money. I am systematic, 
 and so I always put down their names in a pocket- 
 book. Don Juan's conquests were few and far 
 between compared to mine. They generally say they 
 love me. Some of them say so when we have waltzed 
 once round the room together. I do not waltz well. 
 Others show more caution, and wait until we have 
 been acquainted at least three days. I have had 
 proposals by post from persons I have never seen. 
 Therefore if I die unwed it will not be for want of 
 opportunities to change my state. The truth is 
 that the kind of man I should like to marry does not 
 run and gather me to his heart. 
 
 253
 
 254 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 I would have said " Yes " to Geraint. I have 
 looked out for Le Maitre de Forges. Petruchio is 
 my favourite hero in fiction. Do you begin to under- 
 stand what kind of man I admire? I often think that 
 I ought to have been born two hundred years ago, 
 when women still considered men their masters. Even 
 if I had been early Victorian I might have knelt at 
 some one's feet and called him my lord and my love. 
 How nice it sounds ! 
 
 It is a great misfortune to have a plain person and 
 a romantic mind. Behaviour, like bonnets, must be 
 chosen to suit one's features, and for a stout girl with 
 no complexion to carry on like a beauty would be 
 ridiculous. I should wish to be wooed by a man I 
 could worship. But on the one occasion when this 
 came to pass I had to neglect the rites for which my 
 heart hungered and behave like a sensible woman. 
 Men always tell me I am a sensible woman, and I 
 do not consider this a proof of insight on their part. 
 When they propose they nearly always mention that 
 they do not call for looks. 
 
 Captain Ellison said something of the kind when 
 he proposed to me, but though I felt annoyed I ac- 
 cepted him. I saw that he was fond of me in a 
 friendly fashion, and at the time I thought that might 
 serve. I loved him in the other fashion, which I 
 suppose is not sensible. His uncle, old General Elli- 
 son, pushed him to my feet. He invited us together 
 to his house, and then showed his tactics at once.
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 255 
 
 I did not object. An unmarried woman with fifty 
 thousand a year gets hardened to pursuit, and I have 
 never found that what is called " tact " on the part 
 of the hounds deceives the hare. 
 
 So we were engaged; and for a little while I lived 
 in a fool's paradise. I wish I could have stayed there. 
 However, if one must be turned out, I suppose it is 
 better done before marriage than after. I am glad, 
 on the whole, that Captain Ellison came to stay at 
 Lenham Court, my country home. 
 
 As I have no parents, and am not thirty, my friends 
 consider that I am bound to provide myself with a 
 chaperon. I find this a great trial. The first one 
 left because I objected to the frequent visits of her 
 son, who drank more than was good for him, and pro- 
 posed to me five times. The second married the curate, 
 a widower with a large family and bills. The third 
 was Mrs. Augustus Fazackery. 
 
 If you advertised for a lady companion and got a 
 reply in an old-fashioned angular hand from some one 
 who said she was a widow, and who signed herself 
 " Matilda Fazackery," what sort of person would you 
 expect ? I did not even ask her age or express a desire 
 to see her photograph. She wrote from somewhere in 
 the north of Ireland, and gave me references to the 
 wife of an Irish baronet and to the wife of an English 
 dean. Both ladies said that they had the highest 
 opinion of Mrs. Fazackery. So I have, in spite of 
 what has happened. But if any one asked me in a
 
 256 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 general way what she was like, I think I should 
 mention that she was only twenty-two and very 
 pretty. 
 
 I shall never forget the shock of my first meeting 
 with her. I went into the hall when I heard the car- 
 riage arrive, and now that it was too late I considered 
 how silly I had been not to get some impression of 
 Matilda Fazackery's personal appearance. The bar- 
 onet's wife had said she was a lady, the dean's wife 
 had said she was a Christian, but they might have 
 said these things of some one who squinted or went 
 about with her face tied up. When your looking- 
 glass gives you pain it is really important that the 
 other faces in your view should give you pleasure. 
 I hoped that my new companion would be a cheerful, 
 dignified woman of middle age. 
 
 I am afraid that the first thing I said to Mrs. 
 Fazackery startled her, but I could not help it. She 
 ran up the hall-steps to meet me, and as the full light 
 fell on her I cried 
 
 " Great Scott, child, who are you ? " 
 
 She looked quite taken aback. 
 
 " I am Matilda Fazackery," she said. " I can send 
 Mickey away if you don't like him." 
 
 I guessed that she referred to a huge Persian kitten 
 in her arms. 
 
 " Have you brought any other animals ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Only a tortoise," she said.
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 257 
 
 I nearly replied that she ought to have brought a 
 nurse, but I did not want to hurt her feelings. 
 
 I suppose I have a tell-tale countenance, because 
 after staring at each other rather awkwardly she 
 said 
 
 " I hope I shall suit you. Perhaps you think I don't 
 look old enough ? " 
 
 I have great self-control, and I consider that I 
 showed it on that occasion. I did not tell her she 
 would not suit me at all. I did not even smile. By 
 the time we had finished dinner I had discovered that 
 at any rate it was a pleasure to look at her. 
 
 The next few weeks we spent in London buying 
 clothes for ourselves. I did not send her away after 
 all. There really seemed nowhere to send her to when 
 I came to inquire more closely into her affairs. Be- 
 sides, Mickey got a cold, and when I saw how tenderly 
 she nursed him I thought she might do as much for 
 me some day if I won her affection. The tortoise 
 stayed behind at Lenham Court. 
 
 I really could not call her " Mrs. Fazackery," and 
 I am not fond of " Matilda," so one day when we 
 were both feeding Mickey with beef-tea I asked her 
 whether she liked the name of Una. She said she had 
 .-never heard it. I was not surprised, because only the 
 day before she had asked me whether " The Corsican 
 Brothers " was by Shakespeare. She did not care for 
 reading. 
 
 However, she said I might call her what I pleased.
 
 258 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 That evening I tried to tell her the story of Una and 
 her lion, but she did not seem much interested, and 
 we were interrupted by a message from the stables. 
 I forget what it was now, though I remember that she 
 ran off at once to see some sick animal. I never knew 
 any one so unromantic, but with proper training she 
 would have made a first-rate vet. And, after all, I 
 never got used to " Una." She said she had been 
 called Tilly at home, and she seemed to think that 
 name did as well as another. So Tilly she became 
 to me. 
 
 When she had lived with me for some months I 
 went to stay with the Ellisons, and got engaged to 
 their nephew. I told Gerald a good deal about my 
 new companion, and he said he would like to see her. 
 Perhaps when we were married she might suit his 
 maiden aunt, who was old and cross, and liked some 
 one bright about her. I said so did I, and that I 
 would as lief turn sunshine from my doors as Tilly 
 and her Mickey. I told him that it was possible to 
 get very fond of a pretty girl in three months. Gerald 
 said that when we were married I should have a com- 
 panion, and that a young married couple ought to 
 live by themselves. Somehow, even when I was 
 engaged to him, I never could think of myself as one 
 of a young married couple. I don't believe I looked 
 young when I was born. I asked him to remember 
 that he would often be smoking and shooting, and get- 
 ting about out of doors on a hunter. I have never
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 259 
 
 taken the least interest in sport myself. I once tried 
 to sit on a horse and failed; so I never tried again. 
 I hate making a fool of myself. 
 
 Of course, I had to give in about poor Tilly. Gerald 
 did not treat me at all like a doll or a dickey-bird. 
 If he had, I am sure I should have enoyed it. His 
 way was to take for granted that a sensible woman 
 would agree with him ; and he always persisted until 
 I did agree. However, I said that I would not tell 
 Tilly her fate just yet. In fact, I persuaded Gerald 
 to come and make her acquaintance first, because 
 I thought that when he saw what a pretty chirpy 
 creature she was, he might change his mind about 
 turning her adrift. 
 
 He came at Easter, and at his request I asked no 
 one to meet him. He said he wished to get to know 
 me better before our marriage in June. Tilly was not 
 at home when he arrived, so he and I had tea together 
 in my favourite corner of the hall. We were soon 
 busy making plans. We always made plans, or talked 
 of sensible subjects, and we never quarrelled. A 
 courtship without quarrels is like a summer without 
 showers. 
 
 My friends say that at this period of my life I 
 behaved like an idiot. I can't see it. I could not 
 guess that Captain Ellison would throw up everything 
 for the sake of a pretty face. He must have seen 
 a good many in his time, and yet he asked me to 
 marry him. Anyhow, I could not have kept Tilly
 
 26o A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 out of his way. She danced in while we were at tea, 
 her hands full of daffodils, and Mickey, as usual, 
 trotting at her heels. She stopped short when she 
 saw that one guest had come, and seemed ready to 
 run away. But I did not let her. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later we had cleared a space 
 on the floor, and were all three on our knees teaching 
 Mickey and Captain Ellison's fox-terrier Toby to make 
 friends. The fox-terrier barked, and Mickey spit and 
 swore, and we laughed. I had never seen Gerald in 
 such good spirits. I was afraid Toby would kill 
 Mickey, but Gerald said that he was a most intel- 
 ligent dog, and quite understood that Mickey must 
 not be molested. To prove it he let him loose, and 
 the next moment every one and everything seemed to 
 scatter as if an explosion had taken place. Toby with 
 a yelp had pounced on the cat. Mickey went off like 
 fireworks in Tilly's hands. Gerald got hold of the dog. 
 I started back and upset the tea-tray. I am sure there 
 had never been such a noise in the house before. 
 
 At dinner we talked mainly about horses, and next 
 morning at breakfast our fancy turned to dogs. These 
 two people seemed to think animals more interesting 
 than human beings, because when I invited them to 
 drive to a rubbishly little dog-show in our county town 
 they looked pleased, but when I mentioned that some 
 of the neighbours were coming to dinner they showed 
 no pleasure whatever; on the contrary. 
 
 I am inclined now to regret that I went to the dog-
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 261 
 
 show. It came on to rain heavily, and I caught a 
 severe cold driving home. If I had known that I 
 should spend most of the next week in my bedroom, 
 I should probably have asked Gerald to go off some- 
 where. As it was, I told Tilly day by day that she 
 must look after him. My friends say I ought to have 
 known what would come of it. Friends are sometimes 
 offensively plain-spoken. 
 
 I shall always believe that I owe my present forlorn 
 condition to Mickey, and I bear no one else a grudge. 
 One afternoon, when I had been upstairs nearly a 
 week, I put on a tea-gown and went down. I thought 
 I would give them a pleasant surprise, and appear in 
 the hall for tea. To my alarm, when I got to the foot 
 of the staircase I heard Tilly sobbing as if her heart 
 would break. I also heard Gerald talking to her in a 
 low, coaxing manner. I did not catch what he said, 
 nor did I see them yet, because a large screen shel- 
 tered that part of the hall. But as I went towards it 
 Toby slunk past me with the air of a criminal, and I 
 had a presentiment of what had happened at least 
 of one event. I advanced a little farther, and then 
 stopped short. Mickey lay stretched out on the hearth- 
 rug; Tilly drooped over him and wept; Captain Elli- 
 son was trying to console her. 
 
 I still think he ought not to have addressed her as 
 " darling " until he had come to an understanding 
 with me; but I daresay he was a good deal agitated. 
 It did not seem to soothe them to look up suddenly
 
 262 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 
 
 and see me. I felt uncomfortable, and I suppose I 
 showed it. Tilly picked up her inanimate Mickey and 
 bolted upstairs. I sat down and waited for Gerald 
 to explain. 
 
 He began by saying I was a sensible woman, so I 
 steeled myself to hear something disagreeable. He 
 acknowledged that he had fallen in love with Tilly; 
 but he said that he had not known it until Toby killed 
 Mickey and made her cry. He did not know whether 
 she cared for him ; and he considered that he could 
 not ask her unless I gave him permission to do so. 
 He said that things should remain as they were if I 
 thought it best. 
 
 He looked most dejected, and fiddled with his 
 moustache. 
 
 I had taken his ring off my finger, and when he 
 finished speaking I gave it back to him. 
 
 " It will have to be made smaller for Tilly," I said. 
 
 He stared and stammered, and then he looked in- 
 decently delighted. I had to laugh or to cry, so I 
 laughed. Tears do not become me as they do Tilly. 
 I laughed at his stupidity. I could see he thought 
 I did not mind giving him up. 
 
 " Then it's all right ? " he said, offering to shake 
 hands. 
 
 I nodded, and he went off like a shot. I hear he 
 tells every one I behaved like a brick. I am very 
 glad he thinks so. My friends say I behaved like a 
 fool. They were annoyed because I let Tilly stay
 
 A SENSIBLE WOMAN 263 
 
 with me until Captain Ellison took her away ; but she 
 had nowhere to go. General Ellison has not forgiven 
 his nephew yet. He is one of those who say that 
 Gerald has gone to the devil. I always reply that he 
 seems very happy there; and then they call me blas- 
 phemous. 
 
 Tilly is coming here in November to plant rose-trees 
 on Mickey's grave. I have told her she may bring 
 her husband if she likes.
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 
 
 LAST night, at a dance, Mr. Simpson pretended not 
 to know me. I believe that he speaks of me in terms 
 that would wither me if they reached my ears. I am 
 afraid I treated him rather badly. In fact, my hus- 
 band says there was no excuse for me, and he advises 
 me not to tell the story. But my husband never lived 
 with Aunt Thomasina. 
 
 Mr. Tredennis asked me to marry him five years 
 ago, when I was eighteen and he was twenty-two. I 
 said " Yes," at once. Most girls would say " Yes " 
 to Peter. Of course, he had no money. I only had 
 Aunt Thomasina, and we agreed that we could not 
 live on her. So he went to India to carve out a 
 career. He left me his photograph and a diamond 
 ring, which Aunt Thomasina would not let me wear. 
 She did not recognise our engagement, because Peter 
 had no money. We were not even allowed to corre- 
 spond. 
 
 For five years I had to live on a week of memories, 
 a ring, and a photograph which grew rather faded 
 and shabby as time went on. The memories suffered 
 a little, too. But the worst thing happened to the 
 ring I lost it. 
 
 264
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 265 
 
 In spite of Aunt Thomasina's prohibition, I had 
 got into the way of wearing it on occasions when I 
 particularly wished to remember Peter and my promise 
 to him. Until I lost it I always had it on when any 
 one made me an offer of marriage. Of course, I could 
 not foresee exactly when an offer would be forth- 
 coming; but as it happened, I watched its supporting 
 sparkles when I went blackberrying with Captain 
 Agincourt, when I met Betty Marsden's brother at 
 Hurlingham, and when I danced every dance with 
 Sir Dennis East at the Duchess of Stars' ball. I think 
 that I must have dropped the ring in a blackberry-bush, 
 because, though I mentioned Captain Agincourt first, 
 in point of time he came just before Mr. Simpson. 
 
 On my twenty-third birthday, Aunt Thomasina said 
 she could bear it no longer, and that I should marry 
 the first man who asked me. I felt sure that, if she 
 said so, I should. Therefore I reviewed my admirers 
 more carefully than usual. I had not exactly for- 
 gotten Peter, but I had outgrown him. I don't know 
 how else to describe the change that had taken place 
 in me. From eighteen to twenty-three is a long time, 
 at least twice as long as from thirty-eight to forty- 
 three, for instance. Peter, dear boy, had become too 
 young for me. When I looked at his photograph, 
 I felt ready to be an elder sister to him. But I knew 
 that he had seven already. I used to tell myself that 
 he had grown older, but I never believed it. My Peter 
 was twenty-two, and had rosy cheeks.
 
 266 AUNT THOMASINA 
 
 I rather liked Mr. Simpson before we were engaged. 
 He was one of those chirpy little men who chatter 
 about nothing and never hear what you say to them. 
 I had so little to say to him that I thought this trait 
 an advantage. Aunt Thomasina told him about my 
 engagement to Peter. She called it a " childish en- 
 tanglement," and Mr. Simpson professed himself quite 
 satisfied. I tried to feel faithless and miserable, be- 
 cause I considered it due to Peter. But, as a matter 
 of fact, I rather agreed with Aunt Thomasina, who 
 said no one but a fool would feel bound to a man 
 she had neither seen nor heard from for five mortal 
 years. He had probably married long ago. Besides, 
 I knew a great many young men of twenty-two, and, 
 when one of them proposed to me, I talked to him 
 like a mother, and told him to wait another ten 
 years. 
 
 Aunt Thomasina approved of Mr. Simpson because 
 he had a great deal of money. I had arrived at an 
 age when money seems desirable, but it sometimes 
 struck me that marriage with Mr. Simpson was a 
 high price to pay for it. To be sure, he did not look 
 young, like poor Peter's photograph, but he often 
 looked silly. At least, I thought so after we were 
 engaged. 
 
 One day he rushed into the drawing-room and said 
 that he must go to Scotland for a week, because the 
 recent gales had played havoc with his newly planted 
 trees.
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 267 
 
 " ' It's an ill wind that blows no one any good/ " 
 said I. 
 
 " A week is a long time," said he, fidgeting from 
 one foot to the other on the hearthrug. 
 
 " It soon goes," I sighed. 
 
 That night I looked at Peter's photograph, and 
 wondered whether we should ever meet again. I pic- 
 tured the meeting. It should take place at a great 
 reception. He should recognize that he had come 
 back too late, and his heart should ache at the sight 
 of my incomparable beauty. Because I did think he 
 might have written now and then, just to keep my 
 heart up, in spite of Aunt Thomasina's prohibition. 
 So I wanted his heart to ache. I wished my incom- 
 parable beauty had been a matter of fact. But what 
 my imagination really boggled at was that tiresome 
 little Mr. Simpson, who, under the circumstances, 
 would be my husband. You can't invent a really 
 effective sentimental situation with a man like Mr. 
 Simpson in the foreground. Besides, Aunt Thomasina 
 has brought me up in a very old-fashioned way, and 
 I felt sure that I should not philander with any one 
 after marriage. That is partly why I did not look 
 forward to it. As a girl, I have enjoyed many little 
 episodes that do not concern Peter and Mr. Simpson. 
 Captain Agincourt and I spent a very agreeable after- 
 noon among the blackberry-bushes. 
 
 While Mr. Simpson was in Scotland we telegraphed 
 to each other every day. He had proposed writing,
 
 268 AUNT THOMASINA 
 
 but I said that a correspondence by telegraph would 
 be more of a joke. So he consented at once. The 
 days flew, but each one helped to show me what I 
 had half-known before. I really could not marry Mr. 
 Simpson. I knew he would not easily believe it, be- 
 cause he had said to Aunt Thomasina that I was a 
 lucky girl. The memory of this remark served to 
 keep my mind firm when it threatened to give way 
 and pretend that it would be easier to marry Mr. 
 Simpson than to throw him over. But I quaked when 
 I thought of Aunt Thomasina. 
 
 The day it all happened she had gone out. I was 
 waiting in the drawing-room for Mr. Simpson, who 
 had telegraphed that he would arrive about four. I 
 looked forward to a painful interview, because about 
 two hours ago I had despatched his ring and an ex- 
 planatory letter to his rooms. I hoped he would take 
 it quietly, and look out for another lucky girl at once. 
 But I did not feel at all quiet myself, and, while I 
 waited, I had a great deal of very unpleasant imaginary 
 conversation. This grew so harrowing that I began 
 to think of myself as Mrs. Simpson with comparative 
 relief, when the butler opened the door and announced 
 some one. I did not catch the name, and, when I 
 turned round, I did not know the man who came 
 towards me. At least I thought so. 
 
 " Lady Sandway is out," I began. 
 
 "Have you forgotten me, Monica?" said he. 
 
 Well, I had, and it was no wonder. I stared and
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 269 
 
 stared, and could not believe my eyes. But I knew 
 his manner, though this, too, had greatly changed. 
 
 " Five years is a long time," I murmured. 
 
 " Is it too long ? " he asked hastily. " Am I too 
 late?" 
 
 " Why did you never write ? " 
 
 " Because you forbade it." 
 
 "Oh! What a reason!" 
 
 He stood there and looked at me, and I looked at 
 him. Dear Peter ! How glad I was to see him again ! 
 Every moment I recognised something I used to know, 
 and every moment I discovered that the boy had grown 
 into a man. 
 
 " I wish you had never left me your photograph," 
 I said. 
 
 " Am I too late, Monica ? Don't keep me in 
 suspense." 
 
 Mr. Simpson came in before I could speak. I in- 
 troduced the two men to each other, and rang for 
 tea. Until it came we talked of the recent gale, and, 
 when we were left to ourselves, I started subjects of 
 burning interest, one on the top of another. 
 
 " This is new," said Peter, at length ; " I don't re- 
 member that you used to be keen about politics." 
 
 " I am Member for Shrimpington," said Mr. Simp- 
 son, as if that explained it. 
 
 I said that my interest in politics was entirely due 
 to Aunt Thomasina, who could not go to sleep after 
 dinner unless I read the debates to her.
 
 270 AUNT THOMASINA 
 
 " I'm told I ought to go in for politics, myself," 
 said Peter. 
 
 I put down the sugar-basin, and looked at him. 
 
 " Are you going to stay in England ? " I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Yes. Didn't you know ? Polruan is dead, poor 
 chap. I'm his heir." 
 
 " I thought Evans announced a strange name," said 
 I. " Are you Lord Polruan now, then ? What a dif- 
 ference it will make to Aunt Thomasina ! " 
 
 " Are you related to Lady Sandway ? " asked Mr. 
 Simpson. 
 
 " Not yet," said Peter. Then he turned to me. 
 
 " You'd rather live in England than India ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Certainly," I answered ; " but I have always wished 
 to see India." 
 
 " Well, that's not impossible," whispered Mr. Simp- 
 son. "What about a wedding journey there?" 
 
 " Shall we ? " said I to Peter, with an appealing 
 glance. 
 
 " Oh, if you like," he replied. He has confessed 
 since that he thought me rather forward. 
 
 " What have you done with your ring ? " said Mr. 
 Simpson suddenly. The one he had given me was 
 very valuable, and I suppose he had just missed it 
 from my hand. 
 
 " I daresay you have lost it,'" said Peter good- 
 naturedly ; and I knew he referred to the one of little
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 271 
 
 value that he had given me five years ago. I felt 
 quite pleased to be able to answer straightfor- 
 wardly. 
 
 "I have," I said, addressing him; "I'm afraid I 
 dropped it in a blackberry-bush." 
 
 " Scissors ! " said Mr. Simpson. He really said 
 something much ruder that I should not think of re- 
 peating. I say " scissors " myself sometimes. 
 
 " Scissors ! " said Mr. Simpson ; " that ring cost 
 two hundred pounds, and where do blackberry-bushes 
 grow in Bruton Street?" 
 
 " Nonsense," said Peter, who by this time looked 
 downright angry. He had very old-fashioned ideas, 
 and did not like to hear a man use strong language 
 in the presence of a lady. " The ring didn't cost 
 twenty pounds. I wasn't worth two hundred when 
 I bought it." 
 
 Mr. Simpson looked as if a new idea had just 
 entered his head. 
 
 " Are you the ' childish entanglement ' ? " he in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Has that been your description of me, Monica ? " 
 said Peter. 
 
 I took my courage in my hands and turned to Mr. 
 Simpson. 
 
 " I did not want to explain now before Lord 
 Polruan. I wrote to you this morning, and said what 
 I had to say. The letter is at your rooms." 
 
 "But where is the ring?" he cried.
 
 272 AUNT THOMASINA 
 
 " In the letter," I said. 
 
 "Do you mean that you want to jilt me? You 
 a girl without a penny ! " 
 
 I knew he would not behave well. Perhaps I did 
 not deserve much at his hands, but, at the same time, 
 many men would not have said the things he tried to 
 say until Peter stopped him. He would not believe 
 that I had written to him before I saw Peter, or even 
 knew that he had come back from India with a title 
 and a fortune. He asked me whether Aunt Thomasina 
 knew of the letter I had written to him, and I had to 
 confess that she did not. 
 
 " Lady Sandway will agree with me that your be- 
 haviour is disgraceful," he said. 
 
 At that moment Lady Sandway entered the room. 
 She went straight up to Peter. 
 
 " My dear Lord Polruan," she cooed, " -what a 
 pleasure to see you again ! " 
 
 " Do you know what has happened, Lady Sand- 
 way ? " blurted out Mr. Simpson at once. " Your 
 niece has thrown me over." 
 
 " Really ! " said Aunt Thomasina. " Then " 
 
 Of course, she was a very worldly old lady, but 
 I never supposed her worldliness would stand me in 
 such good stead. She threw off Mr. Simpson like an 
 old glove, just as she had once thrown off poor Peter. 
 But she admitted later that she never could abide Mr. 
 Simpson's manners. 
 
 " I have just seen Lady Caroline Cadbury," she
 
 AUNT THOMASINA 273 
 
 said, still standing, as if she expected Mr. Simpson 
 to go at once. 
 
 " I shall propose to her to-night," he said savagely. 
 
 I suppose he did, because next day she wrote to tell 
 Aunt Thomasina that she had accepted him, and hoped 
 I would forgive her, as it was a case of an irresistible 
 attachment on both sides. I did not see Aunt Tho- 
 masina's reply. 
 
 Peter maintains that I treated Mr. Simpson very 
 badly. It is all very well; but if I had married Mr. 
 Simpson, what would have become of Peter?
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 The study at Admers, MR. BERENGER'S house in Sur- 
 rey. A comfortable, but rather untidy room, with 
 a great many books in it. A beautiful view from 
 the Tvindoivs. MR. BERENGER, the celebrated 
 novelist, is at his writing-table. ROSE, his daugh- 
 ter, a very pretty girl of eighteen, stands near him, 
 an open letter in her hand. 
 
 ROSE. She arrives by the 12.15. She will be here 
 in five minutes. I can't help it, Dad ! She would 
 come. 
 
 MR. B. Bless me, child ! Have you no will of your 
 own? 
 
 ROSE. Plenty. But they always say you invited 
 them, and it's always true. You're so distressingly 
 good-natured, Dad. 
 
 MR. B. I suppose I have my faults, like other 
 people, but I'm not good-natured not in your sense 
 of the word, I mean. 
 
 ROSE. Oh ! ( Takes up a letter from a pile on the 
 table, some of which are not yet opened.} The Vicar 
 of Shrimpington would like some more free copies 
 
 274
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 275 
 
 of your last novel to sell at a bazaar. His church 
 steeple is out of repair. Bless the Vicar of Shrimp- 
 ington. (Takes up other letters.} Autograph-hunters. 
 Only five to-day. Julia O'Connor would like a lock 
 of your hair. (Laughs.) You've none to spare, Dad, 
 have you? 
 
 MR. B. (easily). Give me some sheets of paper. 
 If I can make people happier with so little trouble 
 
 ROSE. It's all very well, but I have to write their 
 silly addresses, and pay for the stamps out of my 
 housekeeping money. If this new novel catches on 
 like the last I shall want an increased allowance. Or 
 I might sell your signatures at a shilling apiece. 
 
 MR. B. I daresay; and whenever I was having a 
 quiet pipe you'd bring me a pen and paper. 
 
 ROSE. Oh no! I understand that even a novelist 
 may be busy. (Points to a stack of unopened manu- 
 scripts.) I believe all the boys and girls in Great 
 Britain ask you to read their manuscripts, and give 
 them your honest opinion. 
 
 MR. B. (groans). 
 
 ROSE. And think of the abusive unstamped letters 
 you get when you have given it ! 
 
 MR. B. Some seem grateful. 
 
 ROSE (sniffs and takes up an unopened letter). I 
 have just paid twopence for this one. 
 
 MR. B. (reading aloud). "Dear Sir, Thank you 
 for nothing. You have not read my novel, because I 
 put a drop of gum between page 703 and 704, where
 
 276 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 the Lady Yvonne defies the Marquis, and it is still 
 there; so your advice that I want to study models of 
 fine English is ridiculous, and when your next novel 
 comes out, I shall look whether you have stolen my 
 plot, and if you do I shall not spare you. Your last 
 novel I consider very feeble. In fact you are going 
 off, though no doubt the ring you lead will continue 
 to roll you sky high in their well-known shameless 
 manner. It is time all this was stopped and literature 
 restored to hands who know how to use it. Yours 
 gratefully (ha-ha), "ROLAND DE BOHUN." 
 
 Well, that's worth twopence, Rose. 
 
 ROSE. Oh, Dad, I wish you'd take things seriously ! 
 
 MR. B. My dear child, you won't when you're as 
 old as I am. You'll know that nothing matters very 
 much or lasts very long except the toothache. 
 
 ROSE. But your novels are very serious very 
 tragic. 
 
 MR. B. They're fiction. Real life is a joke if you 
 take it the right way. 
 
 ROSE. Miss Mortlake is not a joke. 
 
 MR. B. (sighs). No. 
 
 ROSE. She is very serious very tragic like your 
 novels. 
 
 MR. B. Oh, come, Rose, my novels are not as bad 
 as all that! 
 
 ROSE. And she may matter very much, and she 
 might stay very long.
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 277 
 
 MR. B. {uneasily). You're too suspicious, my dear. 
 
 ROSE. No wonder! Since I left school and you 
 grew so famous, I've prevented at least six women 
 from becoming my stepmother. (Indignantly.) I've 
 no time to establish myself, Dad; you take so much 
 looking after. 
 
 MR. B. When all's said and done, a man can't be 
 married against his will. 
 
 ROSE. Oh! can't he? 
 
 MR. B. He must propose to the woman. 
 
 ROSE. Oh dear no, Dad. Where have you lived? 
 
 MR. B. (looking at his watch). I rather thought 
 of taking lunch out to-day, on my bicycle. Anything 
 will do ... bread and cheese 
 
 ROSE. That's no good, Dad. It only delays mat- 
 ters. To-day I'm here. 
 
 MR. B. But what can you do, my dear? 
 
 ROSE. I must think. (Thinks.) 
 
 [MR. B. takes up ROLAND DE BOHUN'S letter again 
 and chuckles over it. ROSE looks pensively 
 at her father. A long silence, broken at last 
 by MR. B. 
 
 MR. B. Well, Rose? 
 
 ROSE. I have an idea. Miss Mortlake, as you 
 know, is a flopper. 
 
 MR. B. A how much? 
 
 ROSE. A flopper . . . always on her knees to some 
 one. Just now it's you. A little while ago it was 
 Wilkins, the Minor Poet.
 
 278 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 MR. B. Will you set up a new idol for her, then? 
 ROSE. No ; I thought I'd pull down the old one 
 if you don't mind, Dad. 
 
 MR. B. My dear girl, you may shatter me in frag- 
 ments if you please. Anything for a quiet life. There's 
 the front door. 
 
 [He gets up in a flurry and disappears through 
 
 a low French window into the garden. The 
 
 parlour-maid announces Miss MORTLAKE, an 
 
 anemic-looking young woman with very 
 
 round prominent eyes, a restless manner, and 
 
 untidy hair. She wears a shocking coat and 
 
 skirt, a velveteen hat that has been out in 
 
 the rain, and thick square-toed boots. 
 
 Miss M. You got my letter, I hope, Miss Berenger. 
 
 It is so delightful to come in this informal friendly 
 
 way. When I met your father at the New Gallery 
 
 last week we somehow began to talk about pilgrimages. 
 
 You can't be a moment in Mr. Berenger's company 
 
 without talking of something that ennobles the soul, 
 
 can you? 
 
 ROSE. It's not my experience. I only see father at 
 meals, and then he's usually growling at the food. 
 It doesn't ennoble my soul. It annoys me. There was 
 a beautiful steak-pie at breakfast this morning. The 
 
 gravy was all jelly and 
 
 Miss M. My dear Miss Berenger! I can't think 
 of your father in connection with steak-pies and jelly. 
 I suppose he eats and drinks like other people, though
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 279 
 
 one can hardly imagine the creator of " Maud Wy- 
 vern " doing anything but dream and write . . . and per- 
 haps walk over his own hills . . . and perhaps read fine 
 poetry. 
 
 ROSE. Father reads the Daily Mail, and Punch, 
 and the Sphere . . . chief ly, and if he dreams I hear 
 of it. He says his dinner has disagreed with him. 
 
 Miss M. (shudders}. But, as I was telling you, 
 your father spoke of Stratford-on-Avon, he spoke of 
 Abbotsford, he spoke of Freshwater ; and I said boldly, 
 " All these may wait for me, Mr. Berenger. When I 
 put on cockleshells and sandall'd shoon I shall go to 
 Admers." 
 
 ROSE (with her eyes on Miss M.'s boots). And 
 what did father say? 
 
 Miss M. He said you always had lunch at one, 
 and might come any day by the 12.15. I' ve trodden 
 on air ever since. Is this his study? (In a sepulchral 
 voice.) Was it here that Maud Wyvern lived and 
 died? Where does he sit? Where does he write? 
 Let me sit in his chair. 
 
 ROSE. He sits there. . .with his feet on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 Miss M. Hozv original. 
 
 ROSE. It's expensive. That mantelpiece was 
 painted white a month ago. You see the colour now. 
 You won't find the chair comfortable. All the springs 
 are broken. Dad weighs thirteen stone, you know. 
 He'll have no figure left soon.
 
 280 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 Miss M. (looks startled, but recovers). And do 
 you sit here while he works and inspire him? 
 
 ROSE. Good gracious, no. If the housemaid knocks 
 a broom against the door he swears, and if I go near 
 him he throws things at me. 
 
 Miss M. ! ! ! 
 
 ROSE. Yes; Dad's a fiendish temper. Of course, 
 it isn't his fault, poor dear. It's the disease. 
 
 Miss M. What disease? 
 
 ROSE (truthfully). I can't tell you. 
 
 Miss M. Dear me! How sad. 
 
 ROSE. Oh! It won't kill him. I daresay I shall 
 die first. (Sighs.) I have to order his dinners. 
 
 Miss M. (to herself). If there is a quality in men 
 I hold in detestation it is greediness. A really spiri- 
 tual man ought not to know what he is eating. 
 
 [A gong is sounded, and ROSE leads the way into 
 the dining-room, where MR. B. is waiting. It 
 is a charming room and a well-ordered table. 
 
 Miss M. (at the window). What a view! I am 
 sure I should be inspired myself if I sat and gazed 
 at it. Do you look out of the window while you 
 think, Mr. Berenger? 
 
 MR. B. I don't know. [They sit down to lunch. 
 
 ROSE. I hope you have taken your dinner-pills, 
 Dad. 
 
 MR. B. Dinner-pills! (Catches her eye and shakes 
 his head reprovingly.) Pass the claret to Miss Mort- 
 lake, Rose.
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 281 
 
 Miss M. I never touch wine, Mr. Berenger. 
 
 ROSE (jumping up). I'll mix your brandy and 
 water for you, Dad. Dear me, Minton has forgotten 
 the hot water. (Rings.) 
 
 MR. B. Thank you, Rose, I think I won't have it 
 to-day. 
 
 ROSE. Oh ! you'd better. You're so used to it, you 
 know. (Mixes a steaming glass and places it as near 
 as she can to Miss M., who edges away from it in 
 disgust. ) 
 
 Miss M. I met a great admirer of yours the other 
 day, Mr. Beringer; such a cultured woman. She said 
 she had read " Maud Wyvern " five times, and when- 
 ever she came to Maud's death she dissolved in tears. 
 It is just what I do myself. Did you weep when you 
 wrote it? 
 
 ROSE. I can answer that question. (MR. B. looks 
 
 surprised.) Don't you remember, Dad? You came 
 
 in to me chortling. " That'll fetch 'em," you said. 
 
 ' That's good for fifty thousand." So it has been. 
 
 I've had five new hats since Maud Wyvern died. 
 
 MR. B. Rose, your imagination runs away with 
 you. 
 
 Miss M. / really should not like to live in the 
 house with that girl. I wonder if she is quite truth- 
 ful. A fiendish temper and brandy and water for 
 lunch. How unlike one's ideal! (Aloud.) I have 
 always fancied, Mr. Beringer, that in your portrait 
 of Sir Guy Ferrers you drew largely on yourself.
 
 282 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 (Pause.) He is assuredly the most dashing and chiv- 
 alrous figure in modern fiction. 
 
 ROSE (exploding). Dad isn't dashing not much. 
 You should see him back-.pedalling down our hills. 
 I always have to wait for him at the bottom. 
 
 MR. B. (severely). Rose, your tongue runs away 
 with you. 
 
 ROSE (getting up and imprinting a wheedling little 
 butterfly kiss on her father's forehead). And your 
 bike runs away with you, Dad, doesn't it? (To Miss 
 M.) I had to help him out of a ditch once. 
 
 Miss M. (in a tone of disgust). Do you ride 
 er ironmongery, Mr. Berenger ? 
 
 [MR. B. is about to reply, when a startling inci- 
 dent disturbs the conversation. A tennis-ball 
 flies through the open windoiv and hits Miss 
 M. rather violently on the chin. It rebounds 
 on the table and upsets several slender flower- 
 glasses. Tumult and apologies. MR. B. goes 
 off in search of the offenders. 
 ROSE (calmly). That's Tommy. Last time he broke 
 a decanter. I've three brothers, you know. . .demons. 
 Miss M. Indeed! I didn't know. I thought you 
 were the only child, and when I saw you I said to 
 myself, " Poor Mr. Berenger will be a very lonely 
 man before long." Are there three boys living in this 
 house? 
 
 ROSE. Yes. They go to school now, but before 
 that I used to teach them.
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 283 
 
 Miss M. What anxious work! 
 
 ROSE. It chiefly consisted in chasing them up 
 and down stairs. They play at being Red Indians, 
 and you can hear their yells at the end of the 
 garden. 
 
 Miss M. But how can your father write if you 
 make such a noise? 
 
 ROSE. He can't. He waits till we're all in bed. 
 He sits up half the night, and has breakfast any time. 
 That's why he's so dyspeptic. 
 
 Miss M. Dyspeptic ! The author of " Maud Wy- 
 vern " dyspeptic ! 
 
 MR. B. (returning). Tommy is very much ashamed 
 of himself, Miss Mortlake. The truth is, that the 
 tennis-ball was really a tomahawk hurled by Red Eagle, 
 the terror of the plains, and you can't expect an Indian 
 chief in the heat of battle to look out for an open 
 window. In future I have said that I will not have 
 Red Indians this side of the yew-hedge. They are 
 too careless. 
 
 Miss M. (to herself). Then she docs speak the 
 truth. They do pretend to be Red Indians. What a 
 very odd idea! 
 
 ROSE (getting up). Shall we go into the drawing- 
 room? I suppose you don't mind smoke, Miss Mort- 
 lake? 
 
 Miss M. I'm afraid I do, Miss Berenger. Even 
 a cigarette gives me vertigo. 
 
 ROSE. How distressing ! I hope stale smoke doesn't,
 
 284 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 because all of our rooms smell of it. Dad has his 
 pipe whenever he pleases. 
 
 Miss M. I never can understand why a man of 
 refined habits should want to smoke. / don't. 
 
 ROSE. But you're not a man of refined habits. 
 
 Miss M. It is so impossible to put a self-indulgent 
 man on a pedestal. 
 
 ROSE. Well, if I were a man I'd prefer an easy- 
 chair. 
 
 Miss M. But have you no high ideals? The man 
 I worship must be heroic and austere. 
 
 ROSE. I suppose it's a matter of taste. 
 
 Miss M. It is so thrilling to look up and adore. 
 
 ROSE. I never tried it. 
 
 Miss M. So heart-breaking to see the idol fall. 
 
 ROSE. There is always the pedestal and idols 
 are cheap to-day. 
 
 Miss M. Ah ! You have your father's mocking 
 spirit the spirit, I mean, of his wonderful, his in- 
 comparable books. It is odd that his conversation 
 
 should be so so 
 
 i ROSE. Flat. You see, Dad writes at night. He 
 gets lively after supper. 
 
 Miss M. (to herself}. Supper! What a house- 
 hold! What ways. (Aloud.) Does he then does 
 he drink brandy and water for supper? 
 
 ROSE. Rather. 
 
 Miss M. !!! 
 
 [MR. B. comes into the drawing-room. ROSE gets
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 285 
 
 up and goes out, saying something inarticu- 
 late about TOMMY'S dinner. 
 
 Miss M. When is the next train, Mr. Berenger? 
 MR. B. At 3.15. But the 4.20 is better. Won't 
 you stay for that? 
 
 Miss M. No, thank you. 
 
 [The parlour-maid brings MR. B. a small package 
 
 that has just come by the post. 
 MR. B. Proofs ! I think my new novel, " Flower 
 o' the Quince," will be out in six weeks. 
 
 [Miss M. bows slightly and says nothing. 
 MR. B. (not noticing her manner yet}. What do 
 you think of the name? 
 
 Miss M. (seriously). I am afraid that in future I 
 shall feel very differently about the names of your 
 novels and their contents. 
 
 MR. B. (looking at her). Has your pilgrimage been 
 so disappointing? 
 
 Miss M. I confess it has. I may seem rude, but 
 I am shattered, and you must forgive me. Perhaps I 
 am an idealist, Mr. Berenger. I did not expect to 
 find you all so very er real. 
 MR. B. Oh! I admit our reality. 
 Miss M. You never told me you had three boys 
 at home. Boys should be at school. 
 
 MR. B. (rather shortly). My boys are delicate. 
 They will be at home for years. 
 
 Miss M. I really cannot stand boys. 
 
 [MR. B. lifts his eyebrows.
 
 286 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 Miss M. Mr. Berenger, there is a scene in one 
 of your novels that I admire I mean that I did 
 admire more than any scene in literature. (She waits 
 in vain for MR. B. to say something.) It is when 
 Maud Wy vern admits to Sir Guy Ferrers though 
 he is poor and she is rich 
 
 MR. B. Yes. He is poor and she is rich. 
 
 Miss M. I have twenty thousand pounds, Mr. 
 Berenger. 
 
 MR. B. I am delighted to hear it. But 
 
 Miss M. (shaking her head). It is impossible, Mr. 
 Berenger. All the way here I thought of that scene. 
 All the way home I shall think of another. 
 
 MR. B. Indeed. (To himself.) Where can Rose 
 be? I wish she'd come back. 
 
 Miss M. It is a scene in a novel of my own. 
 
 MR. B. I didn't know you wrote novels. 
 
 Miss M. I have written ten. 
 
 [MR. B. looks surprised. 
 
 Miss M. They are not published. My friends ad- 
 mire them, and that is enough for me. Some day, 
 perhaps. . .1 don't despise fame, but I am in no hurry 
 for it. The novel I am thinking of is called " The 
 Idol." 
 
 MR. B. (quoting softly). " Bloomin' idol made o' 
 mud." 
 
 Miss M. When the heroine discovers that the hero 
 falls short of her ideal, she dies of a broken heart. . . 
 on the spot ... in his arms.
 
 AN ICONOCLAST 287 
 
 MR. B. Poor fellow! 
 
 Miss M. (her eyes very round). And he never 
 touches brandy again. 
 
 MR. B. (stifling a yawn). I should have thought 
 he wanted some after that. 
 
 Miss M. My novels are not flippant, Mr. Berenger. 
 They are like my life purposeful and truly inward. 
 And as my life is, so must my surroundings be. What 
 I dream of is no doubt rare and difficult to attain. 
 I want a companion whose lightest word carries a 
 gospel, and whose every hour is devoted to the im- 
 provement of the soul; who climbs a little higher 
 day by day, and lifts me higher too. 
 
 MR. B. Well, I hope you'll find him her Miss 
 Mortlake. 
 
 Miss M. I have not found him yet. I thought I 
 had. (Suddenly.) I'm afraid it's time to start if I 
 am to catch the 3.15. 
 
 Enter ROSE, with flowers. 
 
 ROSE. I've gathered you some roses. They won't 
 live long, but for a day they will remind you of 
 Admers. 
 
 Miss M. Then I will leave them here. I wish to 
 forget Admers. (Marches out, leaving her astonished 
 host and hostess staring at each other.) 
 
 MR. B. Rose, you little minx, what have you been 
 saying to her? 
 
 ROSE. I said you liked your dinner well cooked; 
 so you do. I said the boys were noisy little demons;
 
 288 AN ICONOCLAST 
 
 so they are. I suppose I said a few other things. 
 I've just given Tommy a shilling. 
 
 MR. B. What for? 
 
 ROSE. For the tennis-ball. It was a help. 
 
 MR. B. H'm. " I was adored once." 
 
 ROSE. I know she came down here intending to 
 propose to you. 
 
 MR. B. (with sudden severity) . Rose, do you listen 
 at doors? 
 
 ROSE (smothering her father with kisses). I knew 
 it, I knew it, Dad ! No need to listen. What a mercy 
 I was at home! 
 
 MR. B. (tenderly). Poor Miss Mortlake. 
 
 ROSE. Don't worry, Dad. She'll stick up some 
 one else. I couldn't spare you for her pedestal. I 
 want you all the time for my own.
 
 A SKY SIGN 
 
 SCENE : A sitting-room on a fourth floor flat in Ken- 
 sington. Books, floivers, autotypes, copper jars, 
 honeysuckle cretonne, a Persian carpet, comfort- 
 able chairs. 
 
 FLORA HATHAWAY. I can't see it. Give up the 
 man you care for because you think a married woman 
 can't write as much for the magazines as a single one ! 
 I should let the magazines go to 
 
 STELLA BLOIS. You always caricature one's views, 
 Flora. I have not said I care for Jack. 
 
 FLORA. Said! Hath not a friend eyes? You 
 needn't get so red. If Captain Daresham worshipped 
 the ground / trod on 
 
 STELLA. It's different for you, Flora. You're a 
 darling, but you do nothing but dress and flirt and 
 play the banjo. Now, you ought to marry. 
 
 FLORA. If you throw over Captain Daresham I 
 shall consider him fair game. I have a new toque, 
 with blue poppies Aha! You don't like the idea. 
 Thought you wouldn't. 
 
 STELLA. I have drudged and slaved and given up. 
 I have worked early and late. At last success is 
 
 289
 
 290 A SKY SIGN 
 
 knocking at my door such a gentle knock perhaps 
 only my ears hear it. But with each new effort it will 
 come a little louder if I think of nothing else 
 
 FLORA. Sell yourself to the devil, like a mediaeval 
 bridge - builder. Well, if you think it's worth it. 
 Seems to me utter nonsense, you know. If you marry 
 Jack you get something out of life affection and 
 all that I can't talk, but I'd like to have some one 
 round as I get older who thinks I'm the only woman 
 in the world. Must be kind of soothing when you 
 begin to see wrinkles and grey hair. Put your ink- 
 pot in your trunk, and write your rubbish on your 
 honeymoon. 
 
 STELLA. You don't understand, sweetheart. You 
 never understand. I want to write a great novel 
 an " Esmond," perhaps. I want to spend five years 
 over it build it word by word, step by step; die, 
 for all I care, when it is finished. 
 
 FLORA. Oh, you goose! In five years you won't 
 be as pretty as you are now. Good-bye. 
 
 STELLA. Jack is coming this afternoon to wish me 
 many happy returns. I must be ready with my an- 
 swer. It is not right to keep him on tenterhooks so 
 long. I wish something would happen to drive me 
 one way or the other. I wish there were sky signs 
 to tell us what to do. Suppose I could see it written 
 in great letters across the sky : " Stella Blois, give 
 up marriage and go on with your work." Of course, 
 it would only be visible to me.
 
 A SKY SIGN 291 
 
 FLORA. Yes ; and directly you did see it you'd want 
 to give up work and go on with marriage. Ta-ta! 
 STELLA. Are you going? Stay to tea. 
 FLORA. Is it likely? 
 
 [She goes. STELLA sees her to the door, and 
 then returns to the sitting-room. She stands 
 still and looks round. 
 
 STELLA. How pretty this room is! I can do just 
 as I like here lead the life that pleases me see 
 the friends I choose spend my time and money as 
 I will. Why should I desire any change? Do I 
 desire any? I wish I knew! 
 
 [She sits dozvn and takes up a book, but does 
 not open it. A little later, a maid-servant 
 opens the door and shows in a tall, broad- 
 shouldered young man, zvhom she announces 
 as CAPTAIN DARESIIAM. 
 STELLA. Tea, Mary. How d'ye do, Jack? 
 CAPTAIN D. Many happy returns, Stella! How 
 jolly this room always looks ! 
 
 STELLA. It may well look jolly when you fill it 
 with roses. Thank you so much for them. 
 
 [MARY brings in tea. The china is old and del- 
 icate, the silver very bright. CAPTAIN DAR- 
 SHAM sits down near the tea-table and 
 watches STELLA make the tea. MARY goes. 
 CAPTAIN D. What pretty hands you have, Stella! 
 STELLA (absently). Have I? Let me see. You 
 do take sugar? one of your old-fashioned ways.
 
 292 A SKY SIGN 
 
 CAPTAIN D. What are the others? 
 
 STELLA. Oh, everything! Not your ways, per- 
 haps, but your ideas. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Don't let's quarrel on your birthday. 
 We always quarrel when we talk about my ideas. 
 
 STELLA. You must keep them out of sight, then. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. So I will " all but one," as Hamlet 
 says. 
 
 STELLA. Have you ever read " Hamlet " ? 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Oh! if you're going to rag Look 
 here, Stella stick to the point. You promised me 
 an answer to-day. 
 
 STELLA (sighing). Ye-es. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Is that the answer? 
 
 STELLA. No, certainly not. Don't jump at one like 
 that, Jack. I nearly upset my tea. Sit down and 
 keep cool, and let us talk sensibly. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. I'd rather talk foolishly. Sometimes 
 I wish you were a bit more of a fool. 
 
 STELLA. If you wish me any different from what 
 I am, we will give it up because we should only 
 make each other miserable. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. I'll risk it, if only you will. 
 
 STELLA. Yes, I know you're rash and easily car- 
 ried away. Men are, poor things ! I must look ahead 
 for both of us. Now, for instance, if you have an 
 idea that when once we are married you can mould 
 me 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Good heavens, Stella! you talk as if
 
 A SKY SIGN 293 
 
 you were a blanc-mange. I want you just as you 
 are have done for the last two years. 
 
 STELLA. You said you wished me more of a fool. 
 What can that mean if not that you want to shape 
 me in your own your own 
 
 CAPTAIN D. In my own image. Thank you, Stella. 
 I asked for a plain answer, and I suppose I've got it. 
 
 STELLA. Why can't you keep your temper, as I do ? 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Because you might have let me down 
 more easily. 
 
 STELLA. I don't call it nice to say you'll go back 
 to India to-morrow unless I marry you. Highway- 
 man manners ! Why can't we go on as we are ? 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Because we can't. At least, I can't. 
 I want a straight answer. I've waited a long time 
 for one. 
 
 STELLA. Very well No. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. (getting tip). Do you mean that? 
 
 STELLA. When you look like that, I do. 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Good-bye, then. 
 
 STELLA. Are you going? Good-bye. 
 
 [She averts her head and lets him go without 
 shaking hands. The bang of a door is heard. 
 She makes a little rush forward, and then 
 stops short. 
 
 STELLA. Gone! And now I can begin the novel. 
 (She sits doivn and stares at a bozvl of roses.) It will 
 have to be a very great novel to make it worth while. 
 I wonder when he will start for India? Surely he
 
 294 A SKY SIGN 
 
 will come and see me again first. If he didn't I 
 should have the novel which is not begun. 
 
 [MARY comes in and removes the tea-things. 
 
 Then she returns. 
 
 MARY. If you please, m'm, can I go out for half- 
 an-hour ? 
 
 STELLA. Certainly. 
 
 [She sits dozvn at her writing-table and takes a 
 note-book from a drawer. Presently the out- 
 side door bangs again. 
 
 STELLA. It is much better so. Marriage would be 
 very distracting. I believe that the wear and tear of 
 ordering three meals a day for a man is quite in- 
 calculable. But I shall miss Jack. India is a long 
 way off, and the climate never suited him. How pro- 
 voking men are! They always want to marry every 
 one directly. As if marriage were the only relation- 
 ship worth having. Well, I can see my life a long 
 way ahead now. I shall live here ten months out of 
 the year and grind away at my writing; the other 
 two months I shall spend in a Swiss hotel. I shall 
 get a little older every year, and, as that minx Flora 
 says, a little uglier. Flora will marry, and then there 
 will be no one who cares a rap for me. Some day 
 Jack will come back with a liver and a family. ( The 
 bell rings. ) Jack come back already ! Oh ! 
 
 [She rushes to the door and opens it. A SEEDY- 
 LOOKING SPECTACLED FOREIGNER, in a dilapi- 
 dated coat, makes his way in before she has.
 
 A SKY SIGN 295 
 
 recovered from her surprise. He bows ob- 
 sequiously and presents a visiting-card on 
 which she sees a German name, and, scrawled 
 in pencil, the names of a distinguished English 
 professor and of her own last book. She leads 
 the way back to the sitting-room, but reflects 
 that she is alone on the flat, and leaves both 
 doors ajar. 
 
 STELLA. Please sit down. (To herself.) He'll 
 dislocate his neck if he goes on bowing. Who can he 
 be? Too shabby for a German professor. He can't 
 be a thief with spectacles and a bundle of papers 
 under his arm. (Aloud.) You come from Berlin, you 
 say, and you know Professor Cambervvell, and you 
 wish to see me about my book, " The Life of Dorothea 
 Eutin." Do you want to translate it? 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Oh ! madam your very learned 
 book and I have corresponded with Professor Cam- 
 berwell and my father he has corresponded with 
 Dorothea Eutin yes, madam. (Sighs deeply, gets 
 up and bows, sits down again.) 
 
 STELLA (to herself). I wish he'd speak out. I 
 believe he has come to beg; but I can't offer a man 
 money till he asks for it. (Aloud.) Are you engaged 
 in literary work? 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Oh, madam yes a reader 
 a reader of the drama and poetry and I have had 
 a railway accident, and was seven months in the hos- 
 pital seven months, madam and it has affected
 
 296 A SKY SIGN 
 
 my head and my memory. But your book, madam, 
 " Dorothea Eutin " yes. (Sighs.) 
 
 STELLA. I'm sure I'm very sorry for you. I sup- 
 pose you want to find work, or perhaps a little help? 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Work, madam? That is not 
 to be found. I go to the editors and publishers. They 
 are out always out. I go to your great poet I 
 have written poetry myself he has a visitor 
 always a visitor. I go to the German Consul: he 
 gives me five shillings five shillings, madam, to a 
 man who has served his country who has himself 
 to support and two sons ! 
 
 STELLA. It's not much, certainly. (To herself.) 
 I wish Mary would come back. He's mad, I'm sure, 
 and he's getting excited. (Aloud.) I suppose you 
 earn your living in some way? 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Lessons, madam ; sixpence an 
 hour and never enough. I make five shillings a week. 
 How can a man of letters, a gentleman, support him- 
 self and two sons on five shillings a week? 
 
 STELLA (to herself). I wonder if he is quite truth- 
 ful. (Looks at his card, which is still in her hands.) 
 Professor Camberwell! Why! (Aloud.) Did you say 
 Professor Camberwell gave you an introduction to me ? 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Oh ! madam. Professor Cam- 
 berwell ! I have corresponded with him yes and 
 my accident I cannot remember 
 
 STELLA (indignantly). He died a year ago. 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Died ! I had not heard it. What
 
 A SKY SIGN 297 
 
 a pity ! Then I cannot go and see him. Ah ! he said 
 he would help me to return to Hamburg. The fare 
 is two pounds ten, madam. 
 
 STELLA. I thought you said you came from Berlin ! 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. From Hamburg, madam. The 
 fare is two pounds ten. 
 
 STELLA. I can't give you as much as that. If five 
 
 shillings is of any use 
 
 SEEDY-LOOKING F. Five shillings, madam ! to a 
 man who has served his country to a colleague 
 a man of letters, who has lost his memory ! 
 
 STELLA (to herself). I don't like it. He has a bad 
 face. I wonder if I could floor him. He's a little 
 man, but I've no more muscle than a mouse. I wish 
 Jack would come back and turn him out. I've no 
 money in my pocket. I must get some out of the 
 writing-table drawer. I hate having to walk to the 
 other end of the room. Suppose he came after me 
 and knocked me down. But I should hear him move. 
 Anyhow, I must do it to get rid of him. 
 
 [She gets up and walks hurriedly to the writing- 
 table. The moment her back is turned, her 
 visitor rises softly and steals to a table 
 covered with silver knick-knacks. He puts 
 tzvo or three in his pocket. STELLA sees this 
 in a small mirror. 
 
 STELLA (to herself). A common thief. I knew it. 
 What shall I do ? Get past him and lock him in ? The 
 key is on this side of the door. Perhaps I had better
 
 298 A SKY SIGN 
 
 give him the five shillings and let him go quietly 
 if he will, the little wretch! What is he doing now 
 creeping to the fireplace? Oh, I wish I'd turned 
 round before he has picked up the poker he 
 means to knock me down and steal everything. What 
 shall I do ? How my knees tremble and my hands 
 idiot ! and there's nothing but a paper-knife. In 
 future I'll always have a dagger or a pistol handy. 
 He's coming I'll frighten him. 
 
 [She turns so suddenly that she does frighten him 
 for a moment. He starts back, she rushes 
 forward, seises his arm, and tries to wrench 
 the poker from him. Just as she feels that 
 the struggle is useless, she hears a step out- 
 side. The bell rings. 
 
 STELLA (loudly}. Jack! come here! Quick! 
 CAPTAIN D. (strides forward}. Stella! What the 
 
 devil ! Here, you little beggar 
 
 [He flings the man aside, but keeps a tight hold 
 
 of him. 
 
 STELLA. He has stolen my silver things and he 
 was just going to murder me with that poker. Le 
 him go, Jack! For Heaven's sake, let him go out 
 of my sight! 
 
 CAPTAIN D. I ought to give him in charge. How- 
 ever here, where are the things you've stolen? Is 
 that all, Stella? Then, get out! 
 
 STELLA (when CAPTAIN DARESHAM returns}. Oh! 
 Jack, did you hurt him?
 
 A SKY SIGN 299 
 
 CAPTAIN D. I hope so. 
 
 STELLA. I must buy a pistol and a dagger and 
 keep them within reach. 
 
 [A long silence. 
 
 STELLA. Why did you come back, Jack? 
 CAPTAIN D. Why did you let that blackguard in? 
 STELLA. I thought it was you. I flew to the door, 
 
 and 
 
 CAPTAIN D. Oh! you thought it was me and you 
 flew to the door ! Then you wanted me to come back ? 
 STELLA. I'm always glad to see you. 
 CAPTAIN D. (gravely). Look here, Stella. You 
 mustn't play with me any longer ; it's not good enough 
 for either of us; either I go, altogether, or I stay, 
 and we get married at once. Which is it to be? 
 
 STELLA (smiling and putting her hand in his). I 
 don't know what you mean by " at once," Jack ; but 
 if you object to machine-stitching, as I do, your hand- 
 sewn things take You never let me finish a sen- 
 tence ! 
 
 [MARY is heard letting herself in at the outside 
 door, and speaking to some one else there. 
 A moment later FLORA HATHAWAY walks in 
 without announcement. She perceives that 
 she should not have done so. 
 FLORA. I forgot my Oh!
 
 WALL-PAPERS 
 
 The drawing-room in an unfurnished house. There 
 are two large books of sample wall-papers on the 
 broad window-seat. In front of these is a plank 
 on trestles. MR. JOHN ELIOT and Miss CYNTHIA 
 CAPEL are sitting on the plank and looking at the 
 wall-papers. 
 
 MR. E. That one isn't half bad. It would light 
 up well and look cheerful. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Cheerful ! 
 
 MR. E. Bless me, Cynthia! We want our house 
 to be cheerful, I suppose! 
 
 CYNTHIA. What you call cheerful I call depress- 
 ing. 
 
 MR. E. That's unfortunate, isn't it? 
 
 CYNTHIA. I could not live in a room that jumped 
 at you. 
 
 MR. E. I shouldn't like it myself. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Now that design I showed you yester- 
 day . . . 
 
 MR. E. Don't speak of it. Rows of roses as big 
 as cabbages and the colour of blotting-paper. Have 
 
 300
 
 WALL-PAPERS 301 
 
 it by all means, if that's what you like, but don't 
 expect me to sit in the room. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I'm afraid there won't be a room in 
 the house we can sit in together. Surely we shall 
 find that inconvenient. 
 
 MR. E. What's the matter with the dining-room? 
 
 CYNTHIA. There would have been nothing the 
 matter with it if you had left it to me. Aunt Sabrina 
 recommended that beautiful carpet. . . 
 
 MR. E. I draw the line at a mustard-coloured 
 carpet. You've got yellow curtains in there, and very 
 odd they'll look. Red's the colour for a dining-room. 
 
 CYNTHIA. What an early Victorian idea! 
 
 MR. E. And, by the way, Cynthia, I went into 
 Bunthorn's yesterday and saw the chairs you'd chosen, 
 and I said I'd speak to you about them. They won't 
 do, you know. And where's the sense of a board on 
 trestles, instead of a properly made table? I'm not 
 a mediaeval baron. 
 
 CYNTHIA. No; but you can try to live like one. 
 
 MR. E. Perhaps you'd like your floor strewn with 
 rushes and lighted by torches. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I should. Even a suburban drawing- 
 room in the nineteenth century might look beautiful 
 by torchlight. 
 
 MR. E. Well, we'd better get back to our papers. 
 Dawkins will be here directly. He said five o'clock. 
 How about this one? Poppies. 
 
 [CYNTHIA starts so hastily to her feet that her
 
 302 WALL-PAPERS 
 
 skirt catches the corner of the plank and pulls 
 it from the trestles. MR. ELIOT jumps up 
 too. The plank falls on the floor with a good 
 deal of noise. 
 
 MR. E. What is the matter with you this afternoon, 
 Cynthia ? 
 
 CYNTHIA. I might ask that of you, I think. Pop- 
 pies! 
 
 [MR. ELIOT stares at her as if he really thinks 
 
 she has taken leave of her senses. 
 CYNTHIA. Have you quite forgotten that a year 
 ago you were nearly . . . engaged ... to a Poppy ? 
 
 MR. E. (firmly). I had quite forgotten it at the 
 moment. I generally do when I am with you, and 
 it was never the near thing you make out. 
 
 CYNTHIA. But you want to surround me with 
 flowers that will constantly recall her. 
 
 MR. E. They won't do anything of the sort. Be- 
 sides, she's married. 
 
 CYNTHIA. What has that to do with it? 
 MR. E. Really, Cynthia, if you can't trust me not 
 to philander after married women 
 
 CYNTHIA, (teasingly) . Yes. . .if .. .what then? 
 MR. E. Oh! never mind. Come, choose this wall- 
 paper. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Aunt Sabrina says a woman ought to 
 die rather than marry a man who does not swear 
 she is his first and only love. Could you swear that, 
 Jack, to Aunt Sabrina?
 
 WALL-PAPERS 303 
 
 MR. E. My dear Cynthia, at the present moment 
 I feel more inclined to swear at Aunt Sabrina. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Oh ! if you are going to call me " My 
 dear Cynthia" in that voice... as if we had been 
 married for years . . . ( To herself. ) And we have only 
 been here half-an-hour. . .but it is very quiet and dull 
 in this room. . .Aunt Sabrina is quite right. . . (Aloud.) 
 Jack ! I have made up my mind that I don't want 
 to go to the Lakes. 
 
 MR. E. (vexed). But it's all settled. I've engaged 
 our rooms at that little inn on Ullswater, and my 
 fishing-tackle is ready, and it was you who proposed 
 it and planned it ... walking and boating and fishing 
 all day . . . and in the evenings you're going to read 
 Browning to me, and try to make me like him. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I'm afraid if we walk all day we shall 
 be too sleepy for Browning. 
 
 MR. E. Then we'll sit in a boat all day. Anything 
 to please you. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I think Paris would suit us better. I 
 could go to the Louvre, and you'd have the boule- 
 vards and cafes and things. I'm afraid Ullswater 
 will bore you. 
 
 MR. E. Oh ! if you want to spend your honey- 
 moon in a big shop . . . why not take rooms near White- 
 ley's? 
 
 CYNTHIA. ! ! ! (Pause.) I meant the museum, not 
 the shop. 
 
 MR. E. (not as much abashed as he should be). I
 
 304 WALL-PAPERS 
 
 dare say the shop would have a look in, too. I sup- 
 pose you're as fond of chiffons as most girls. I 
 hope so. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I don't know why you should either sup- 
 pose or hope that I am a mere empty-headed doll. 
 
 [MR. E. says something quite inarticulate. 
 
 CYNTHIA (sighing). Aunt Sabrina is staying 
 with us. 
 
 MR. E. I might have guessed it. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I don't know how. She came quite 
 unexpectedly yesterday. 
 
 MR. E. I shall be glad when you have seen the 
 last of her. 
 
 CYNTHIA. What can you mean, Jack? Do you 
 propose to forbid my friends the house? 
 
 MR. E. Not your friends. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Aunt Sabrina is my dearest friend. She 
 is so sympathetic. She is always perfectly miserable 
 about other people. 
 
 MR. E. Who is she miserable about now? 
 
 CYNTHIA. Me. 
 
 MR. E. Rather unnecessary, isn't it? 
 
 CYNTHIA. I don't know. 
 
 MR. E. You don't know!... and our wedding is 
 to-morrow week ! 
 
 CYNTHIA. Aunt Sabrina says it is such a mistake 
 to marry young. She says if we waited five or six 
 years we might like some one quite different at the 
 end of the time.
 
 WALL-PAPERS 305 
 
 MR. E. Very likely . . . But we're not going to make 
 the experiment. 
 
 CYNTHIA. We should know each other better if 
 we waited. When Mr. Allpress proposed to Mabel, 
 Aunt Sabrina told him to come again in two years. 
 
 MR. E. Yes, and you know what happened. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Mabel found out that Mr. Allpress did 
 not really care for her. Aunt Sabrina says it was a 
 most lucky escape. 
 
 MR. E. Does Mabel see it in that light? 
 
 CYNTHIA. No. She droops, poor dear. I'm afraid 
 she doesn't quite understand or value her mother. 
 
 MR. E. (laughs rather unkindly). Allpress told 
 me the whole story. He got sick of waiting, or of 
 Aunt Sabrina's little ways, and married some one else. 
 I don't blame him much. 
 
 CYNTHIA. If you mean that for a threat, Jack 
 
 MR. E. Why, dearest girl, I mean nothing.. . .But 
 I shan't keep my temper much longer. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I sometimes think Aunt Sabrina is right. 
 It is a great mistake to marry at all, and to marry 
 a man who can't even keep his temper might be most 
 unpleasant. Aunt Sabrina says 
 
 MR. E. Damn Aunt Sabrina! 
 
 CYNTHIA. She says that if I broke off my engage- 
 ment to you she would go back to Little Steeple happy. 
 (Plays with the ring on the third finger of her left 
 hand.) 
 
 MR. E. Very well, Cynthia. You must decide
 
 306 WALL-PAPERS 
 
 whether you will make me happy or Aunt Sabrina. 
 You evidently can't please us both. 
 
 CYNTHIA. And you are indifferent? 
 
 MR. E. (stiffly). You do what you can to make 
 me so. 
 
 CYNTHIA (takes off her ring). You leave me no 
 choice. 
 
 [A loud knock at the front door. 
 
 MR. E. There's Dawkins. (Rushes out.) 
 
 CYNTHIA. Aunt Sabina is quite right. He doesn't 
 care for me. If I did, he would see how much how 
 very much I care for him. I'm sure I've done all 
 I can this afternoon to show it. 
 
 [MR. ELIOT conies back, accompanied by MR. 
 DAWKINS, a thick set, middle-aged man, with 
 a strong Cockney accent. 
 
 DAWKINS. I'd oughter order that droring-room 
 pyper to-night if the 'ouse is to be ready by the 
 sixteenth, and I did sy the sixteenth, and when I sy 
 a thing I loike to do it. Of course, if the pyper isn't 
 chosen . . . now that one would 'ang well, Miss. Good 
 bold design I call it ... no one would come away and 
 sy they 'adn't noticed your pyper. 
 
 CYNTHIA smiles faintly, but does not speak. 
 
 DAWKINS (taking a long envelope out of his pocket). 
 'Ere's the agreement, sir. I've signed it. 
 
 MR. E. Oh, of course. . .the agreement. I suppose 
 if I sign that, the house is mine for three years. 
 (Glances at CYNTHIA.)
 
 WALL-PAPERS 30; 
 
 DAWKINS. Just as we arranged it, sir. You'll find 
 it's all right. You can sign it now, if you like, and 
 this young lady can witness it. Save you the trouble 
 of posting it. I've got a fountain pen in my 
 pocket. 
 
 MR. E. Oh ! have you ? I've often thought of 
 getting one myself. (Takes the paper and unfolds it, 
 and pretends to read it.) 
 
 DAWKINS (handing him the pen). 'Ere you 
 are, sir. Just there, if you please; and the young 
 lydy's nyme beneath yours. You see it's all right, 
 sir. We've put in that there clause " in case of 
 fire." 
 
 MR. E. Very well, Mr. Dawkins, I'll just glance 
 through it. By the way, I'm afraid there's something 
 wrong with the hot-water cistern on the top landing. 
 I wish you'd have a look at it. 
 
 DAWKINS. There's nothing wrong with no cisterns 
 in this 'ouse, sir. But I'll have a look. (Goes.) 
 
 MR. E. Well, Cynthia? Am I to sign it? 
 
 CYNTHIA. Are you obliged to, Jack? 
 
 MR. E. (to himself). Jack, indeed. . .and her usual 
 voice. Then it's all right after all. (Aloud.) It 
 comes to that. I've agreed to take it, and half the 
 decorations are done. Well, you knozv. 
 
 CYNTHIA. You can't live in it by yourself. 
 
 MR. E. Certainly not. 
 
 CYNTHIA. What a pity you have no sisters! 
 
 MR. E. (looks at her, takes a sudden resolution, and
 
 308 WALL-PAPERS 
 
 affixes his signature to the deed. Then he hands 
 the pen to CYNTHIA). Write your name there, Cyn- 
 thia. 
 
 CYNTHIA (writing}. But now the house is yours, 
 and you must live in it. 
 
 MR. E. Or sub-let it. 
 
 CYNTHIA. It isn't every one's house. It just suited 
 us, but 
 
 MR. E. Then come and live in it. 
 
 CYNTHIA. Oh, Jack! I want to. 
 
 MR. E. Have scarlet wall-papers and orange 
 carpets . . . 
 
 CYNTHIA. I don't mind what we have if only I 
 can be here with you. I'm so glad you asked me 
 and we'll go to Ullswater and not to Paris. 
 
 MR. E. We might manage both. 
 
 CYNTHIA. I don't care about Paris; but Aunt 
 Sabrina said that if we went to a quiet place you'd 
 hate me in a week. 
 
 MR. E. My dear girl, I'll buy you what you please, 
 and go where you please, and say what you please. 
 But- 
 
 CYNTHIA (meekly}. Yes, Jack. 
 
 MR. E. Don't quote Aunt Sabrina. She nearly 
 parted us this afternoon. Sh ! take care here's this 
 old god out of the machine who joined us together 
 again. If it hadn't been for his agreement Well, 
 Mr. Dawkins? 
 
 DAWKINS (scornfully}. What did you think was
 
 WALL-PAPERS 309 
 
 the matter with that there 'ot-water cistern, sir? I've 
 examined it most careful 
 
 MR. E. Oh well there's no hot water in it, 
 you know 
 
 DAWKINS (after a prolonged sniff}. If you've 
 signed that agreement, sir, I'll write to the water com- 
 pany, and they'll turn the water on, and then there'll 
 be some water in it. It won't be 'ot then, sir, not till 
 you light the kitchen fire. 
 
 MR. E. I suppose not. 
 
 DAWKINS (confidentially to CYNTHIA). Thought 
 the gentleman might expect it. He'll know a little 
 more about cisterns soon, when 'e's lived in this 'ouse 
 a bit. (Going towards the book of wall-papers.) Now 
 this 'ere pyper, if I might recommend it very tysty 
 I call those magenta dysies . . .
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 WHEN Mr. Spettigue, the Vicar of Potley, went to 
 Switzerland for his summer holiday, Mrs. Spettigue 
 of course went with him. She knew that the parish 
 would go to pieces in her absence, but she also knew 
 that when she came back she could soon put it to- 
 gether again. Anyhow, it is a wife's duty to remain 
 at her husband's side, even when an unpatriotic doctor 
 has ordered him out of the British Isles for the time. 
 Mrs. Spettigue did not believe for a moment that any 
 " foreign " air was equal to the air of Potley. But, 
 though it flutters its own flag, Switzerland is invaded 
 and occupied by the English every summer, and you 
 may spend August in one of the right hotels without 
 meeting as many foreigners as you would find most 
 days in a hotel near Charing Cross. The Spettigues 
 were recommended to one at Griinegg by a friend 
 who had taken the Sunday services there the year 
 before. He said he had greatly enjoyed his stay and 
 had hardly once realised that he was abroad at all. 
 He also mentioned that the Bishop of Rye spent a 
 fortnight at Grunegg every August, and that he put 
 up at the Hotel d'Angleterre. 
 
 310
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 311 
 
 On hearing this Mrs. Spettigue went to the best 
 shop in Ashfield, the nearest big town, and bought a 
 handsome bonnet made of black sequins and trimmed 
 with upstanding feathers. She had not been to Ash- 
 field for a long while, because two years ago there 
 had been a very serious and disgraceful bank crash 
 there, and Mr. Spettigue had lost a hundred pounds 
 by it. He had no children and was well off, so he 
 did not feel the loss much; but Mrs. Spettigue took 
 it very hard, and said that a town in which such people 
 as the Eliots could prosper was not the town for the 
 wife of the Vicar of Potley; and she consistently 
 carried her custom to Elm ford as long as it was 
 convenient to do so. But the Ashfield milliners were 
 superior to the Elmford milliners, and when it came 
 to a bonnet that might make an impression on the 
 Bishop of Rye, Mrs. Spettigue said Christians must 
 not be vindictive, and took a train to Ashfield the 
 same afternoon. For if the Bishop liked the bonnet 
 and Mr. Spettigue he might be persuaded to offer 
 Mr. Spettigue the adjacent living of Nuthall which 
 had just fallen vacant. The drawing-room at Nuthall 
 was twice the size of the drawing-room at Potley, 
 and the drive had a self-respecting sweep, and the 
 squire, who lived close by, had married the second 
 cousin of a duke, a lady devoted, like Mrs. Spettigue 
 herself, to good works and the improvement of other 
 people, Mrs. Spettigue thought that life at Nuthall 
 wou!4 guit her exactly. Before she started for Swit-
 
 312 MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 zerland she paid a farewell call at the rectory, and 
 had a good look at the shape of the drawing-room. 
 
 " A new carpet would be necessary," she murmured 
 to her husband as they drove away. " In fact, we 
 should probably spend about a hundred pounds on 
 settling in just what those wicked, thievish Eliots 
 stole from us. Some one told me the other day that 
 the son was out of prison. The spirit of leniency 
 that prevails nowadays is a direct encouragement to 
 sin." 
 
 The journey to Switzerland was, of course, un- 
 pleasant. Mrs. Spettigue had never been out of Eng- 
 land before, and many little things annoyed and sur- 
 prised her. She said she would make the conduct of 
 the frontier officials with regard to her dressing-bag 
 the subject of an international inquiry; and she was 
 really rude to two German officers who travelled in 
 her compartment and began to smoke in her presence. 
 As they were in uniform she took them for privates, 
 and ordered her husband to turn them out of the 
 carriage; but it happened that they spoke English and 
 were gentlemen, and they threw away their cigars 
 and explained to the poor little mouse of a parson 
 that they did so to please his wife, and that they had 
 a right to be where they were and smoke if they 
 pleased. They did not meet with much gratitude from 
 Mrs. Spettigue. She detested soldiers. 
 
 In Griinegg the vicar's wife soon felt at home. 
 There was a pleasant society at the Hotel d'Angleterre,
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 313 
 
 and Mrs. Spettigue found that a determined woman 
 might govern it as easily as she governed her hus- 
 band's parish. She led the conversation, and organ- 
 ised expeditions, and checked the advances of foreign- 
 ers, and took care that people were treated according 
 to their deserts. At Potley accidental advantages, like 
 brains or wit or beauty, did not count, and Mrs. 
 Spettigue made more of Sir Lucas Bunn, the notorious 
 and successful company promoter, who had lately 
 bought Ashfield Towers and furnished it from kitchen 
 to garret, than she did of Mr. Aspland, a mere well- 
 known war correspondent. In London Mr. Aspland 
 was welcome in houses that refused to receive Sir 
 Lucas Bunn; but London is not Potley, and its hall- 
 mark was always carefully ignored by Mrs. Spettigue. 
 " He may be the best war correspondent in Europe," 
 she said to Sir Lucas, " but I am told that his uncle 
 has a chemist's shop. In Potley we judge people 
 by their station in life. Any other test I consider 
 irreligious." 
 
 Of course Mrs. Spettigue had found out when the 
 Bishop was expected, and which rooms he and his 
 chaplain would occupy, and where his meals would 
 be served; and as the time of his visit drew near 
 she became rather restless, and with regard to the 
 guests at her table more inclined than ever to winnow 
 the chaff from the grain. In the dining-room she 
 always sat at the head of the long centre table, and 
 the English guests she countenanced gathered near
 
 3H MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 her on either side. There were other tables, and other 
 people eating at them, if you allow that foreigners 
 are people. Mrs. Spettigue honestly doubted it. She 
 had been told that the Bishop and his chaplain always 
 dined by themselves in a private sitting-room, but she 
 hoped for a more sociable arrangement this year. 
 
 " I shall point out to his lordship that a shepherd 
 should mix with his sheep," she said, never doubting 
 that her platitudes would please and instruct the 
 Bishop. 
 
 Her own place in the picture was, of course, at his 
 lordship's elbow, advising and informing him which 
 sheep were white and which black, and which an un- 
 certain drab. By this time she knew the staying 
 guests in the hotel as well as she knew the cottagers 
 of Potley, and she had even learned to gauge new 
 arrivals quickly, and decide whether or not they were 
 eligible for " her table." One evening an English 
 honeymoon couple arrived on the mountain top, tired 
 with their walk, well-dressed, pleasant to behold. The 
 man held himself like a soldier, and was strongly 
 built and tall. His wife had those most charming 
 eyes that shut a little when they laugh, and laugh 
 often. Mrs. Spettigue was in the hall when they 
 arrived, but as they had no luggage with them she 
 did not find out their name that evening. She hunted 
 up the head waiter, and told him to put the newcomers 
 at her table; and at supper, though they sat some 
 way off, she addressed them several times, and asked
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 315 
 
 them if they would help with a concert she wished 
 to organise in order to pay for the publication in 
 Dutch and English of two tracts against strong drink 
 and tobacco, written by her husband, for equal dis- 
 tribution in South Africa amongst our godless and 
 profligate soldiery and our fellow-Christians the Boers. 
 Mrs. Spettigue never tried to find out whether the 
 people she harangued were likely to agree with her; 
 indeed, she had never asked herself whether there 
 was any one in the world worth considering who 
 did not. 
 
 But next day the young people found their places 
 set at a side table opposite a German professor and 
 his wife. They made no objection at the time, for 
 their new neighbours were more amiable and enter- 
 taining and better bred than Mrs. Spettigue. But 
 afterwards it occurred to them that they were the only 
 English people in the hotel who sat beside foreign- 
 ers, and by the time they had been in the hotel a 
 week they were both alive to the unpleasant fact that 
 their country folk made every effort to avoid them. 
 As they were on their wedding journey and were in 
 love with each other they were, of course, not anxious 
 for society ; but even honey-mooners do not wish to 
 be shunned as if they were infectious or criminal. 
 
 " Sir Lucas Bunn turned his back on me to-day," 
 said the husband ; " at home I should turn my back 
 on Sir Lucas Bunn." 
 
 " I was sorry I did not come with you this morning,"
 
 316 MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 said his wife. " I went into the woods at the back 
 of the hotel and sat down on a bench near Mrs. 
 Spettigue and Miss Nixey. Directly I did so Mrs. 
 Spettigue tossed her head and said, ' We didn't bar- 
 gain for this,' and they got up and walked away. 
 Then I met Poppy Beyer, and asked her to play 
 croquet, but she refused rather uncivilly I thought 
 and five minutes later I saw her playing with that 
 pasty-faced schoolmaster and his wife. It really isn't 
 fancy as you said at first, Jack. They stare at us, 
 and they whisper about us, and they leave us out. 
 There must be some mistake, and we ought to set it 
 right. Of course it is absurd and unimportant, but 
 at the moment it is disagreeable. Here comes poor 
 little Mr. Spettigue, and there is Mr. Nixey just 
 behind him. Can't you get hold of one or the other? " 
 
 " I don't see how I can," said Jack doubtfully. 
 
 Nevertheless, as Mr. Spettigue toddled their way, 
 Jack got up, and his wife watched the two men ap- 
 proach each other. She saw the wizened vicar glance 
 one way and another, and suddenly swerve, and then 
 trot forward again to a distant corner of the terrace 
 where his wife sat with some of her friends. Jack 
 strolled slowly on, and soon met Mr. Nixey, a good- 
 humoured self-important person, the mayor of a small 
 manufacturing town. He looked uncomfortable, but 
 he plodded on past Jack, and took no notice at all of 
 the young man's salutation. So Jack returned to his 
 wife, and the words he used may be easily imagined.
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 317 
 
 " Mrs. Spettigue is excited about something," said 
 Jack's wife. " She is scolding her husband, and point- 
 ing at us. Shall we leave to-night, Jack? It is really 
 unpleasant here. Shall we come upstairs now ? " 
 
 " No," said Jack, " I've just ordered coffee, and 
 we'll have it here, and we'll keep to our plans, and 
 these people shall mend their manners or I'll know the 
 reason why." 
 
 " Mrs. Spettigue is getting up," said his wife ; and 
 she rose herself and looked alarmed. " She is coming 
 across the terrace to us oh, Jack ! " 
 
 " Sit still, Mary," ordered her husband, half laugh- 
 ing, half angry. 
 
 So Mary sat down again, and the young couple 
 waited while Mrs. Spettigue marched solemnly across 
 the broad gravel terrace. When she reached their 
 table she seated herself between them, but they looked 
 at the scenery and not at her, and they did not speak. 
 Their apparent sang-froid annoyed her, and her man- 
 ner became more aggressive. 
 
 " I think your name is Eliot," she said to Jack. 
 
 " It is," said he. 
 
 "You come from Ashfield in shire?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " My husband is the Vicar of Potley. We do not 
 visit with Ashfield people, but we hear a good deal 
 about them." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 "Need I say more?" asked Mrs. Spettigue.
 
 3i8 MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 "Just as you like," said Jack; and then the coffee 
 arrived and made a diversion. 
 
 " It is the sudden arrival of the Bishop that renders 
 the position so unpleasant," said Mrs. Spettigue when 
 the hotel servant had departed. 
 
 " Has the Bishop arrived ? " asked Mrs. Eliot, look- 
 ing up for the first time. 
 
 " He is walking up the hill," said Mrs. Spettigue. 
 " The vicar met him and hurried back to tell me. 
 He has come a week earlier than we expected. I 
 hoped that you might go, and that I might not be 
 forced to perform this distressing duty. But as Pot- 
 ley is so near Ashfield, and as I know all about you 
 and feel responsible to the Bishop surely you see 
 the fact is, you ought never to have come to this 
 hotel. I have felt compelled to warn people, and they 
 have been grateful." 
 
 " The Bishop " began Mrs. Eliot, but her hus- 
 band checked her with a glance and spoke himself. 
 
 " You seem to be a silly, officious woman," he said 
 to Mrs. Spettigue; and she floundered to her feet, 
 red in the face, and spluttering with wrath. 
 
 " Can you deny that you come straight from 
 prison ? " she exclaimed, " any one can see it by your 
 hair." And she turned her back abruptly on the hus- 
 band and wife, gathered up the little vicar, and hur- 
 ried on to meet the Bishop who, she reckoned, must 
 now be near the top of the hill. 
 
 Five minutes after she had been presented to him
 
 MRS. SPETTIGUE 319 
 
 she was in the midst of her story. The Bishop heard 
 of the infamous bank smash, and of the vicar's loss, 
 and of the trial and the conviction, and of Mrs. Spet- 
 tigue's horror when the felon and his wife arrived at 
 the hotel, and of Mrs. Spettigue's efforts to get rid 
 of them. 
 
 " But are you quite sure," said the Bishop. " Eliot 
 is a common name, and I myself " 
 
 " Quite sure," interrupted Mrs. Spettigue, treating 
 the Bishop as she treated her husband, with firmness 
 and a spice of contempt, " the man owns to it." 
 
 " Then there is nothing more to be said," observed 
 the Bishop. 
 
 " If they have any shame left they will take them- 
 selves off," said Mrs. Spettigue, and when she got 
 back to the terrace she looked anxiously ahead. 
 
 " The impudence," she gasped, " they are still sit- 
 ting there," and with the point of her parasol she 
 denounced the pair. The Bishop stopped short. 
 
 " Do you say that young man told you he was a 
 released convict ? " he asked ; and Mrs. Spettigue did 
 not like his tone at all. 
 
 "James Eliot, the son of the fraudulent bankrupt, 
 his father's accomplice," she murmured. 
 
 " Nonsense," said the Bishop ; " that young man is 
 John Eliot, and he is a captain in the - shire Fusi- 
 liers, quartered for some time now in Ashfield, and 
 three weeks ago he married my niece ; and her brother 
 is the new rector of Nuthall."
 
 320 MRS. SPETTIGUE 
 
 Mrs. Spettigue's knees gave way under these re- 
 peated shocks, and she clung for once in her life to 
 her husband's arm. 
 
 "And I've told every one in the hotel," she whis- 
 pered to herself. 
 
 Meanwhile the Bishop had gone forward, and had 
 been greeted by his niece and her husband. After a 
 time they all came up to the Spettigues. 
 
 " Let me introduce Captain Eliot and my niece, Mrs. 
 Eliot," said the Bishop, and he spoke severely. But 
 Mrs. Eliot's eyes were laughing, and she offered Mrs. 
 Spettigue her hand. Captain Eliot twisted his mous- 
 tache and looked away. 
 
 " You were quite right about Jack's hair," said Mrs. 
 Eliot. " Any one would think to look at him that he 
 wished to be taken for a convict." 
 
 Mrs. Spettigue made some kind of lame apology, 
 but she insisted on leaving Grunegg that evening. As 
 Nuthall had gone, the favour of the Bishop of Rye was 
 not at present important to her, and she was glad to 
 return to Potley where no one would presume to call 
 her a woman, and where her friends believe that the 
 air of Switzerland did not suit her, and that society in 
 Swiss hotels is disagreeably " mixed."
 
 WITH THE HELP OF THE 
 COTILLON 
 
 THE Greenfields always gave a dance on New Year's 
 Eve, and whether it was the fashion or not they 
 invariably danced the cotillon after supper. Mrs. 
 Greenfield was a German, and knew exactly how to 
 choose and provide for the elaborate figures. Indeed, 
 there were few events for which Mrs. Greenfield could 
 not provide. In her house her word was law. Mr. 
 Greenfield, of course, did not dispute it, nor did the 
 children, nor did even the servants. The only person 
 who ever showed an inclination to rebel was her 
 daughter Pamela. 
 
 This young lady had grown up the image of her 
 mother. She had the same grey eyes, firm mouth, and 
 strong, light figure. Among her companions she was 
 a leading spirit. At home she showed herself ready 
 to organise little rebellions and lead the way to victory. 
 When she came home from school, Mrs. Greenfield 
 settled in her own mind that Pamela must marry at 
 once. No sooner had she arrived at this conclusion 
 than she fixed on the right man, and even on the occa- 
 sion when he should declare himself. Mr. James 
 
 321
 
 322 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 
 
 Haverstock had been dangling after Pamela ever since 
 her first ball, eight months ago. He should dangle 
 no longer. With the help of the cotillon he could easily 
 be brought to the point on New Year's Eve. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield was not the woman to urge on a 
 reluctant suitor. Her daughter possessed both money 
 and good looks. Mr. Haverstock had paid his court 
 to Pamela with much persistence, and would, doubt- 
 less, have declared himself long ago if he had received 
 the encouragement he deserved. But with vexatious 
 folly Pamela fluttered from him, spoke of him mock- 
 ingly, said he was bald, stout, and stupid. As if a 
 stupid man could make his income! and as if slim 
 young men were not a step farther every morning 
 towards the time when they, too, would be bald and 
 stout ! Of course, there was some one with whom 
 Pamela compared James Haverstock to his disad- 
 vantage. When she spoke of young men in the ab- 
 stract her mother knew that she saw their engaging 
 qualities in a concrete specimen whose name was 
 Charles Ludlow, and who had nothing but his good 
 looks to recommend him. He had painted one suc- 
 cessful picture, and the art critics sometimes tore him 
 to pieces and sometimes patted him on the back. One 
 picture is not much to marry on. Pamela said that his 
 studio was crowded with masterpieces, all of which 
 would sell for immense sums when they were finished ; 
 and that his friend on the Mayfair Gossip had prom- 
 ised to cut him up so savagely that the town would
 
 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 323 
 
 crowd in thousands round the fragments. Mrs. 
 Greenfield sniffed. She had been born forty years 
 ago in a small German mercantile town, where artists, 
 actors, and pen-men were reckoned all together as 
 unstable and rather vagabond. Her old prejudices 
 were as vigorous as her constitution; and Pamela 
 understood quite clearly that her mother favoured Mr. 
 Haverstock. 
 
 The thirty-first of December arrived, and all the 
 young folks known to the Greenfields came to dance 
 the Old Year out and the New Year in. They danced 
 and they danced. Then they had supper and drank 
 champagne and punch, and wished each other a Happy 
 New Year. They opened windows so that they might 
 hear the city bells, and some of them stepped out on 
 the verandah. Pamela, followed by Charles Ludlow, 
 went farther still. They reached the garden, which 
 was moonlit and hard-frozen. They walked right 
 round it very slowly, and then Pamela said she must 
 go back and lead the cotillon. 
 
 The guests reassembled in the drawing-room, the 
 musicians resumed their posts, the servants carried 
 in the properties. The most conspicuous of these were 
 two sticks, each of which had long coloured ribbons 
 floating from one end. There was also a hand-mir- 
 ror, a sheet, a box of extra large crackers, a sofa- 
 cushion stuck full of favours, and a tray piled with 
 little bunches of hot-house flowers. 
 
 Pamela was to lead the cotillon with her young
 
 324 tWITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 
 
 German uncle, Fritz Elster. He knew how to give the 
 necessary directions both to the guests and the mu- 
 sicians. There was quite a sprinkling of Germans 
 present, and the majority of Mrs. Greenfield's English 
 friends had been at the house on New Year's Eve be- 
 fore. So the dance was not likely to become as flat 
 and spiritless as it sometimes does in England when 
 people are not used to its topsy-turvy ways. Pamela 
 had received her directions early in the day. She knew 
 exactly what Mrs. Greenfield expected of her. She 
 was to seize every opportunity of showing that she 
 appreciated Mr. Haverstock. He would behave with 
 his accustomed gallantry, and the sequel would prob- 
 ably be in accordance with Mrs. Greenfield's wishes. 
 Pamela felt no doubt of it. She knew better than any 
 one how anxious her elderly suitor was to screw his 
 courage to the sticking-place. It had become more and 
 more difficult lately to hold him off. 
 
 The cotillon began as usual with a polonaise. All the 
 dancers marched in couples behind Pamela and Uncle 
 Fritz, and, after certain complicated evolutions, sat 
 down again. Then the leaders took up the be-ribboned 
 sticks. Six young men were invited to seize Pamela's 
 ribbons ; six girls were called from the ranks by Uncle 
 Fritz. The twin colours were to waltz together. Mrs. 
 Greenfield, from her position near the door, looked 
 anxiously at Pamela's half-dozen, and saw to her vexa- 
 tion that Charles Ludlow had been chosen, but not 
 Mr. Haverstock. In the succeeding rounds of this
 
 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 325 
 
 figure Pamela, as daughter of the house, was con- 
 stantly asked to take a part. So, when Mr. Haver- 
 stock carried the ribbons first to her he only imitated 
 a dozen other men. There was nothing remarkable in 
 that little attention. 
 
 There were one or two figures after this in which 
 Pamela neglected her chances. Then she sat down 
 in the centre of the room with a small mirror in her 
 hand, while Uncle Fritz brought one young man after 
 another to stand behind her chair. If she did not like 
 his reflection she wiped it away, and he retired. A 
 little row of rejected aspirants were waiting aside 
 already when Mr. Haverstock came forward. Mrs. 
 Greenfield thought she noted a slight accession of in- 
 terest on some faces as he bent over the back of 
 Pamela's chair so that the girl could see his image in 
 the glass. For the moment Mrs. Greenfield wished 
 him less portly and plain. But she forgot the wish in 
 her immediate indignation when she beheld her daugh- 
 ter's conduct. Pamela wiped him viciously out of the 
 glass, and then got up to dance with Charles Ludlow; 
 who strolled forward smilingly and put his arm round 
 Pamela's waist as if it belonged there. Mrs. Green- 
 field heard one or two people call them a handsome 
 couple, and she reflected that it is easy to put a high 
 value on good looks with regard to a marriage in which 
 you have no interest. She felt anxious and angry. 
 She knew Mr. Haverstock to be a vain man, and she 
 saw that he had turned very glum.
 
 326 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 
 
 But the worst was still to come, and for this bad 
 business Mrs. Greenfield never forgave her brother 
 Fritz. How could he presume to introduce a figure 
 that she had not sanctioned? one that she considered 
 vulgar, and, at any rate, unsuitable in an English 
 drawing-room. If only she could have stopped 
 him ! But, although she was tall enough to see every- 
 thing that went on, she really stood behind a 
 close little crowd. She could not push her way 
 through or attract Fritz's attention without dis- 
 turbing people and making more of a fuss than she 
 liked. 
 
 Fritz had thrust a little basket into Pamela's hands, 
 and told her in a loud voice that she must present it 
 to one of the two gentlemen he would straightway 
 bring to her. With the other she would dance. The 
 Germans looked on and smiled. Some of the English 
 people were evidently puzzled and, seeing this, that 
 blundering, foolish Fritz must needs explain to them 
 that the German idiom " to give a basket," means, in 
 ordinary language, to dismiss a suitor. He then smiled 
 amiably at his sister, readjusted his pince-nez, and 
 summoned Mr. Haverstock and secondly Charles Lud- 
 low. Mrs. Greenfield could hardly believe that he 
 made his choice by accident. 
 
 The two men were certainly a great contrast to 
 each other, and no one was much surprised when 
 Pamela, with a self-possessed little curtsey, offered 
 the basket to Mr. Haverstock. But a good many
 
 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 327 
 
 people would have felt rather sorry for him if he had 
 not been unwise enough to show temper. He almost 
 snarled at Pamela; he threw the basket back to Fritz 
 instead of dancing round with it as by rights he should 
 have done, and he strutted back to his place muttering 
 that he had played the fool enough for one night. 
 Perhaps he had. At any rate, it is not unnatural that 
 a portly, middle-aged man should object to waltz with 
 a basket for a partner. Mr. Haverstock left the house 
 a little later in a furious temper, and with the lowest 
 opinion of foreign pastimes. 
 
 There were several new figures after this, all of 
 which gave Charles and Pamela their opportunities.. 
 By the time the last round came, every one in the 
 room knew which coat would sport Pamela's favour, 
 and which hand would accept Charles Ludlow's bunch 
 of flowers. At the finish, when each couple had taken 
 their turn in this popular figure, there was one favour 
 left, and one bunch of flowers. The guests looked at 
 Pamela. Pamela looked at Uncle Fritz. Then, as he 
 signed to the musicians to strike up again, she tripped 
 to the denuded sofa-cushion, possessed herself of the 
 solitary favour, and pinned it on Charles Ludlow's 
 coat. He presented her with the flowers. They 
 whispered, nodded to each other smilingly, and danced 
 down the room to Mrs. Greenfield. Other couples 
 had arisen and were joining in the final waltz. Amid 
 the hubbub the two young people could speak to the 
 mistress of the house unheard.
 
 328 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON 
 
 " The cotillon has been a great success," said Charles 
 Ludlow. 
 
 " I think it has been a great failure," said Mrs. 
 Greenfield. 
 
 " I am engaged to be married, mamma," whispered 
 Pamela. 
 
 " To the wrong man," said her mother. 
 
 " That's a matter of taste," replied the girl. 
 
 " You will consent ? " murmured Charles Ludlow 
 imploringly. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield looked at them severely. " Mr. 
 Haverstock has just told me that he means to take 
 a trip around the world," she said. " He expects to 
 stay away three years." 
 
 And it did not strike the young people she addressed 
 that her reply was at all irrelevant. They gazed at 
 each other with ecstatic eyes and joined in the dance 
 again.
 
 CYNTHIA'S WAY 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE INNER SHRINE," "THE GRASSHOPPERS," ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.5O 
 
 This is a tale of an heiress that is not met with every day. Cynthia Blount 
 is a millionairess whose wish it is to be loved for her own sake and not for her 
 material wealth. As a means to this end she takes a situation, which has been 
 offered to a friend, as English governess in a German family. . . . German 
 family life is very intimately and faithfully depicted, and most of the characters 
 are well drawn and interesting. * Cynthia's Way ' is well worth reading. " 
 
 DAILY CHRONICLE, NEWCASTLE, ENO. 
 
 "This is an unusually interesting book . . . it is so artistically handled, 
 so delightfully unravelled that one forgets and forgives ... for light, inter- 
 esting literature, a joy to the traveller, this dainty book has not been surpassed 
 in many moons. " SPIRIT OF THE TIMES, NEW YORK. 
 
 " A delightful story of German life. . . . Altogether the story deserves 
 higher praise than it is possible to give to the ruck of current fiction." 
 
 JOURNAL, PROVIDENCE, R. I. 
 
 " It is a most amusing novel. . . . For the fairness of the book it would 
 be unsafe to vouch, but there can be no doubt that it is entertaining. Even a 
 German might smile over it. " REPUBLICAN, SPRINGFIELD, MASS. 
 
 "The dialogue of the book fairly sparkles, and the light fiction of the year 
 offers no more charming medium of pleasure." DENVER REPUBLICAN. 
 
 " This is an amusing, clever book, full of humorous scenes, a satirical under- 
 standing of the lighter sides of character, done with a light touch and much 
 taste." COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y. 
 
 "There are so few really bright and entertaining novels this season that 
 Cynthia's Way ' will be gladly seized upon by hungry novel readers. The style 
 is very taking and amusing." BOSTON BEACON. 
 
 "This is a taking story, humorous and brisk, with a flavor of originality 
 that makes it appetizing." FREE PRESS, DETROIT, MICH. 
 
 " A most readable story of pure tone and interesting matter . . . can be 
 heartily recommended to anyone liking a wholesome tale of interesting people." 
 
 COURIER-JOURNAL, LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 " Mrs. Sidgwick's new novel, Cynthia's Way 'her cleverest piece of work 
 thus far reminds us strongly of ' The Benefactress.' The same fresh, vivacious, 
 and femininely ironical style marks the two stories and wins upon the reader 
 with irresistible beguilement No one will put down th history of Cynthia, w 
 Imagine, until the last page is reached." N. Y. TRIBUNE. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 THE CHEVALIER D'AURIAC. 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 BY S. LEVETT YEATS. 
 
 AUTHOR OP "THE HONOUR OF SAVELU," ETC., ETC. 
 1 2mo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 
 
 "The story is full of action, it is alive from cover to cover, and it so compact with thrill- 
 ing adventure that there is no room for a dull page. The chevalier tells his own story, but 
 he is the most charming of egoists. He wins our sympathies from the outsat by his boyish 
 naivete, his downright manliness and bravery. . . . Not only has Mr. Yeats written an 
 excellent tale of adventure, but he has shown a close study of character which doc* not bor- 
 row merely from the trappings of historical actors, but which denotes a keen knowledge of 
 human nature, and a shrewd insight into the workings of human motives. . . . The 
 fashion of the period is kept well in mind, the style of writing has just that touch of old- 
 fashioned formality which serves to veil the past from the present, and to throw the lights 
 and shadows into a harmony of tone. . . . The work has literary quality of a genuine 
 sort in it, which raises it above a numerous host of its fellows in kind. 
 
 BOOKMAN, NEW YORK. 
 
 "... A story of Huguenot days, brim full of action that takes shape in plots, sud- 
 den surprises, fierce encounters, and cunning intrigues. The author is so saturated with the 
 times of which he writes that the story is realism itself. . . . The story is brilliant and 
 thrilling, and whoever sits down to give it attention will reach the last page with regret." 
 
 GLOBE, BOSTON. 
 
 "... A tale of more than usual interest and of genuine literary merit. ... 
 The characters and scenes in a sense seem far removed, yet they live in our hearts and seem 
 contemporaneous through the skill and philosophic treatment of the author. Those men and 
 women seem akin to us ; they are flesh and blood, and are impelled by human motives as we 
 are. One cannot follow the fortunes of this hero without feeling refreshed and benefited." 
 
 GLOBE-DEMOCRAT, ST. Louis. 
 
 " A book that may be recommended to all those who appreciate a good, hearty, rollicking 
 story of adventure, with lots of fierce fighting and a proper proportion of love-making. ... 
 There is in his novel no more history than is necessary, and no tedious detail ; it is a story 
 inspired by, but not slavishly following, history. ... The book is full of incident, and 
 from the first chapter to the last the action never flags. ... In the Chevalier the author 
 has conceived a sympathetic character, for d" Auriac is more human and less of a puppet than 
 most heroes of historical novels, and consequently there are few readers who will not find en- 
 joyment in the story of his thrilling adventures. . . . This book should be read by all 
 who love a good story of adventures. There is not a dull page in it." NEW YORK SUM. 
 
 "A capital story of the Dumas- Weyman order. . . . The first chapters bring one 
 right into the thick of the story, and from thence on the interest is unflagging. The Cheva- 
 lier himself is an admirably studied character, whose straightforwardness and simplicity, 
 bravery, and impulsive and reckless chivalry, win the reader's sympathy. D'Auriac has 
 something of the intense vitality of Dumas's heroes, and the delightful improbabilities through 
 which he passes so invincibly have a certain human quality which renders them akin to our 
 day. Mr. Levett Yeats has done better in this book than in anything else he has written." 
 
 PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 "The interest in the story does not lag for an instant; all is life and action. The pict- 
 uresque historical setting is admirably painted, and the characters are skilfully drawn, espe- 
 cially that of the king, a true monarch, a brave soldier, and a gentleman. The Chevalier i* 
 the typical hero of romance, fearing nothing save a stain on his honor, and with such a hero 
 there can not but be vigor and excitement in every page of the story." 
 
 MAIL AND EXPRESS, NEW YORK. 
 
 "As a story of adventure, pure and simple, after the type originally seen in Dumas' t 
 'Three Musketeers,' the book is well worthy of high praise. OUTLOOK, NEW YORK. 
 
 " We find all the fascination of mediaeval France, which have made Mr. Weyman's stories 
 such general favorites. . . . We do not see how any intelligent reader can take it up 
 without keen enjoyment" LIVING CHURCH, CHICAGO. 
 
 LONGMANS, GBEEN, & 00., 91-93 PHTH AYR, NEW YOBK,
 
 THE FIERY DAWN 
 
 By M. E. COLERIDGE 
 AUTHOR OF "THE KING WITH TWO FACES," "NOW SEQUITUR," ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.5O 
 
 " Here is an able and cleverly written romance of modern French life during 
 a stirring and troublous period." OUTLOOK, N. Y. 
 
 "A historical tale which is dramatic and interesting enough to keep the lov- 
 ers of such narrative happy for a time. It is full of action and mystery, alive 
 with adventurous deeds and their fascination. It has romance, pathos and the 
 vivid coloring of Dumas." COURIER-JOURNAL, LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 " There are many historical romances written to-day, and few that have any 
 genuine originality. . . . ' The Fiery Dawn ' is an exception to this more 
 or less general rule, for it has some originality, some poetry and several charm- 
 ing characters ... it has freshness, poetry, and in touches, the genuine 
 spirit of romance." COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y. 
 
 THE GOLD-STEALERS 
 
 A STORY OF WADDY 
 
 By EDWARD DYSON 
 AUTHOR OF "BELOW AND ON TOP," ETC. 
 
 With 8 Full-page Illustrations. Crown Svo, $1.5O 
 
 " Boys who are fond of tales of adventure will lose no time in reading ' The 
 Gold-Stealers.'" TRANSCRIPT, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 " It is an exceedingly interesting narrative, bright and crisp of dialogue, and 
 full of stirring incidents in the ' gold fields ' of Australia." 
 
 CHRONICLE-TELEGRAPH, PITTSBURGH, PA. 
 
 " A very bright and entertaining story of life among the miners at Waddy, 
 Australia." ST. Louis GLOBE-DEMOCRAT. 
 
 "A thrilling tale of adventure in the Australian mining fields. There is a 
 pretty love element in the romance, also a touch of characteristic boy life, and 
 the atmosphere is breezy and exhilarating. The story is generously illustrated." 
 
 ST. Louis REPUBLICAN. 
 
 " The characters of the rough mining lads are well drawn, and there is much 
 of a light, amusing character in the incidents of the story. A little love-story 
 between one of the lads and a daughter of a miner is woven into the texture of 
 the tale. Altogether it is a well-constructed and well-written story." 
 
 BROOKLYN EAGLE. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 COUNT HANNIBAL 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE COURT OF FRANCE 
 
 BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," 
 "THE CASTLE INN," ETC., ETC. 
 
 With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.5O 
 
 " It is very seldom that one runs across a historical novel the plot of which is 
 so ably sustained, the characters so strongly drawn, the local color or atmosphere 
 so satisfactory. . . ' Count Hannibal ' is the strongest and most interest- 
 ing novel as yet written by this popular author." BOSTON TIMES. 
 
 " Stanley J. Weyman has had hundreds of imitators since he wrote ' A Gen- 
 tleman of France,' but no man has yet surpassed him. I know of no book in 
 the whole list of popular favorites that holds one's interest more intensely or 
 more continuously than ' Count Hannibal ' does. And what an insistent, throat- 
 gripping interest it is ! 
 
 What is the use of hoping for a decadence of the craze for historical 
 romances so long as the public is fed on books like this ? Such a story has zest 
 for the most jaded palate ; nay, it can hold the interest even of a book reviewer. 
 From the first page to the last there is not a moment when one's desire to finish 
 the book weakens. Along with the ordinary interest of curiosity there goes that 
 of a delightful and unique love story involving no little skill in character deline- 
 ation." RECORD- HERALD, CHICAGO. 
 
 " A spirited, tersely interesting and most vivid story of scenes and incidents 
 and portrayals of various characters that lived and fought and bled in the lurid 
 days that saw the massacre of St. Bartholomew. . . . This is Mr. Weyman 's 
 most graphic and realistic novel. " PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 " Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in 'Count Hannibal.' The scene of 
 the story is laid chiefly in Paris, at the time of the massacre of St. Bartholo- 
 mew. . . . We are made to grasp the soul of Count Hannibal and are tacitly 
 asked to let its envelope take care of itself. . . . Never has Mr. Weyman 
 achieved, in fact, a higher degree of verisimilitude. Count Hannibal may leave 
 us breathless with his despotic methods, but he is not abnormal ; he is one of the 
 Frenchmen who shared the temper which made the St. Bartholomew, and he is in- 
 tensely human too . . . how the tangle of events in which he and half a 
 dozen others are involved is straightened out we refrain from disclosing. The 
 reader who once takes up this book will want to find all this out for himself." 
 
 NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 
 
 "A story in Mr. Weyman's best vein, with the crimson horror of St Bar- 
 tholomew as an historical setting. ' Count Hannibal ' is a worthy companion of 
 1 A Gentleman of France ' and ' The Red Cockade,' and Mr. Weyman's hand is 
 as cunning as ever in fashioning a romance which will send a thrill through the 
 most jaded reader and keep even a reviewer from his bed. " 
 
 BOOKMAN, LONDON. 
 
 " The book is rapid, is absorbing, and the hero is a distinctly interesting 
 character in himself, apart from his deeds of daring. " ATHBNJEUM. 
 
 " Mr. Stanley Weyman's ' Count Hannibal ' is fully worthy of his great repu- 
 tation the style is brilliant, easy and clear ; the invention of subject and the 
 turns of fortune in the story surprising; above all, the subtle painting of a man 
 and a woman's heart is done with inexhaustible knowledge." GUARDIAN. 
 
 " A picturesque and vigorous romance. The narrative will be followed with 
 breathless interest." TIMES, LONDON. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00,, 91-93 PITTH AVENUE, NEW YOBK.
 
 THE WHIRLIGIG 
 
 By MAYNE LINDSAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE VALLEY OF SAPPHIRES' 
 
 With 8 full-page Illustrations by Maurice Grieffenhagen 
 Crown 8vo, $1 .25 
 
 "Crisp and clever diction, thrilling yet always possible situations, with 
 strength sustained throughout, are the features of the story. It is a perfect 
 romance." LLOYDS' NEWS. 
 
 " Fairly takes one off his feet with its crowded, impetuous, bustling succes- 
 sion of events. The story is well told and holds the interest . . . The story 
 while discoursing of dangerous things does it lightly and with a skillful hand." 
 
 COURIER-JOURNAL, LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 " Makes stirring reading . . . the action takes place within three days, 
 and the reader is carried along breathlessly from one chapter to another." 
 
 CHICAGO TRIBUNE. 
 
 " And surely it is a ' Whirligig ' which Mayne Lindsay has devised, abun- 
 dant in well-preserved mystery, with the proper amount of sword-play and the due 
 complement of broken heads, and full of exciting yet possible situations. Mr. 
 Lindsay, though comparatively a new writer, shows nothing of the amateur in 
 this dashing, roystering story, which, aside from its incidents, is good in charac- 
 ter drawing." DETROIT FREE PRESS. 
 
 " The author is a young and comparatively new writer, but has shown un- 
 usual skill and ingenuity in this novel. Seldom has an author succeeded in 
 crowding two days of a man's life so full of stirring, unexpected events as are 
 here provided for the hero. " CHICAGO EVENING POST. 
 
 "A sparkling, very prettily turned little romance, whimsical and pictur- 
 esque." NEW YORK TIMES. 
 
 "Among stories of adventure it would be hard to match ' The Whirligig.' 
 . . . It starts in a quiet, if unconventional, way, but once fairly launched on 
 the stream of narrative, the reader is carried along, in breathless, eager haste to 
 the very end. It is a story to thrill the pulses and keep one on the edge of 
 ardent curiosity as to what is going to turn up next" THE BEACON, BOSTON. 
 
 " There is no dozing or drowsing to be done over this novel. It is a swiftly 
 moving tale of breathless excitement It is drawn according to a familiar pat- 
 tern ; but it has merits of its own that will compel the attention and absorbed 
 interest of every reader who once takes it up. The writer is new, but should 
 soon become well known and popular, if he can do this sort of thing again." 
 
 PHILADELPHIA TIMES. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 WAYFARING MEN. 
 
 BY EDNA LYALL, 
 
 AUTHOR or "DONOVAN," "WE TWO," "DOREEN," *rc. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 
 
 "... We take up Edna Lyall's last novel . . . with high expectations, and 
 we are not disappointed. Miss Bayly has acquired a wonderful insight into human nature, 
 and this last production of her pen is full of the true portrayals of life. . . . The whole 
 book is a whiff of ' caller air ' in these days of degenerate fiction." 
 
 COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, NEW YORK. 
 
 " One of her best stories. It has all the qualities which have won her popularity in the 
 past." SENTINEL, MILWAUKEE. 
 
 "A well- written and vigorous story." OBSERVER, NEW YORK. 
 
 " It is a strong story, thoroughly well constructed, . . . with the characters very 
 skilfully handled. . . . Altogether the story is far above the ordinary, and bids fair to 
 be one of the most successful of the opening season." COMMERCIAL, BUFFALO. 
 
 " Edna Lyall . . . has added another excellent volume to the number of her ro- 
 mances. . . . It sustains the reputation of the author for vigorous writing. and graceful 
 depicting of life, both in the peasant's cabin and the noble's hall.' 
 
 OBSERVER, UTICA, NEW YORK. 
 
 " Miss Lyall's novel is one of unflagging interest, written in that clear, virile style, with 
 its gentle humor and dramatic effectiveness, that readers well know and appreciate. . . . 
 On many pages of the story the writer reveals her sympathetic admiration for Ireland and 
 the Irish. ' Wayfaring Men ' is a literary tonic to be warmly welcomed and cheerfully com- 
 mended as an antidote to much of the unhealthy, morbid, and enervating fiction of the day." 
 
 PRESS, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 " The author has made a pretty and interesting love-story, ... a truthful picture of 
 modern stage life, and a thoroughly human story that holds the interest to the end." 
 
 TRIBUNE, CHICAGO. 
 
 " It is a story that you will enjoy, because it does not start out to reform the world in less 
 than five hundred pages, only to wind up by being suppressed by the government. It is a 
 bright story of modern life, and it will be enjoyed by those who delighted in ' Donovan,' 
 4 We Two, and other books by this author." CINCINNATI TRIBUNE. 
 
 " A new book by Edna Lyall is sure of a hearty welcome. ' Wayfaring Men ' will not 
 disappoint any of her admirers. It has many of the characteristics of her earlier and still 
 popular books. It is a story of theatrical life, with which the author shows an unusually 
 extensive and sympathetic acquaintance." NEW ORLEANS PICAYUNE. 
 
 " Characterized by the same charming simplicity of style and realism that won for 
 ' Donovan ' and ' Knight Errant ' their popularity. . . . Miss Lyall has made no attempt 
 to create dramatic situations, though it is so largely a tale of stage life, but has dealt with 
 the trials and struggles of an actor's career with an insight and delicacy that are truly pleas- 
 ing." THE ARGONAUT, SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 " Is a straightforward, interesting story, in which people and things theatrical have 
 much to do. The hero is an actor, young and good, and the heroine as Miss Lyall's hero- 
 ines are sure to be is a real woman, winning and lovable. There is enough excitement in 
 the book to please romance-lovers, and there are no problems to vex the souls of those who 
 love a story for the story's sake. It will not disappoint the large number of persons who 
 have learned to look forward with impatient expectation to the publication of Miss Lyall'* 
 'next novel.' ' Wayfaring Men ' is sure of a wide and a satisfied reading." 
 
 WOMANKIND, SPRINGFIELD, OHIO. 
 
 LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00,, 91-93 PITTS AVK, NEW YOEK.
 
 ONE OF OURSELVES 
 
 BY MRS. L. B. WALFORD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BABY'S GRANDMOTHER," " LEDDY. MARGET," ETC., ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo, 454 Pages, S1.5O 
 
 Never before were better portraits made of middle-class English women 
 than we find in the wives of the three bankers, Thomas, Charles, and Stephen 
 Farrell ; ... is about the best novel Mrs. Walford has ever written, and as 
 has already been said, her characters, all of them, are depicted with remarkable 
 grace and virility." TIMBS, BOSTON. 
 
 " An entertaining story with characteristic piquancy, shrewdness, and sensi- 
 bility. She has ever had a special gift for the description of what may be called 
 tasteful love-making." NBW YORK TRIBUNB. 
 
 " Is an amusing English story ; ... it is full of amusing incidents and 
 situations." SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. 
 
 "There is great variety of scene and incident in the novel, and the situ- 
 ations are amusing." ARGONAUT, SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 "A very vivacious story of four orphans. . . . The conversations are 
 unusually well managed." NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE. 
 
 " This is a story of English life, brightly told, a little on the long side, but 
 interesting and entertaining throughout. Moreover, it is altogether wholesome 
 reading, which is more than can be said of many stories published nowadays. 
 Its lessons are good. There is one for young girls and women, and one, too, 
 for men. Much of the telling of the story is managed by conversations, and 
 these, though oftentimes very amusing, are simple and natural very different 
 from the smart persiflage and elegant wit-play so much striven for by many 
 writers of modern fiction. ' One of Ourselves ' is indeed on the whole a very 
 likable story. There are many characters in it some pretty ones and these 
 are all portrayed admirably. A story with so much domesticity in it, and so 
 little that is stagey and melodramatic, is not far from rare." 
 
 BULLETIN OF NEW BOOKS. 
 
 " It is a remarkably good character study. The quiet adventures and pleas- 
 ant happenings of the various members of the family are most interesting, and 
 one enjoys the society of a wholesome group throughout the whole story." 
 
 FINANCIAL RECORD, NEW YORK. 
 
 "A very bright social study, and the author succeeds in thoroughly arousing 
 the reader's interest in the love-making of William Farrell, who, in the guise of 
 an honored member of society, is a consummate scoundrel." 
 
 HERALD, MONTREAL. 
 
 LONGMANS, GBEEN, & 00,, 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOBK.
 
 CHARLOTTE 
 
 By MRS. L. B. WALFORD 
 Crown 8vo, 382 pages, $1.5O 
 
 " Charlotte is an exceedingly beautiful, fascinating, and utterly selfish 
 coquette, belonging to a ' smart set ' whose rapid pace is hardly swift 
 enough to suit her ... a very good story with a very good moral." 
 CHURCH STANDARD, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
 
 "... a society novel pulsating with life and action, and revealing 
 many of the subtleties of the human heart. 
 
 " The scene vacillates pleasantly between London at its season's height, 
 fashionable summer-resorts, and tranquillizing rural retreats, with a strange 
 interplay of light and shadow and commingling of comedy and tragedy. 
 From an artistic standpoint the book is a clever creation, vivid and real." 
 
 CHICAGO POST. 
 
 " This is a study of a young lady who is not at all good, but who, as not 
 infrequently is the case with people of doubtful virtues, is very interesting 
 
 . . an extremely readable novel. " COURIER, LEBANON, PA. 
 
 THE HINDERERS 
 
 By EDNA LYALL 
 Crown 8vo, 8 LOO 
 
 "There is an unusual love-story in 'The Hinderers ' and a heroine of 
 much magnetism. Irene de St. Croix, a lovable English girl of an admir- 
 able type. The romance of her wooing by Sir Christopher Hope is well 
 told." REPUBLIC, ST. Louis. 
 
 " . . . this interesting novel deserves to be read by all those who 
 would like to follow a clean, well-told, and spirited narrative of incidents, 
 that are liable to occur in this age of furious living." 
 
 PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 " The book should be read and will be enjoyed by the many admirers of 
 this well-known writer of fiction." CHRISTIAN WORK, NEW YORK. 
 
 " This is one of the best stories written by Miss Bayly. It is a strong 
 narrative, well constructed, with characters skilfully handled. It is a story 
 of the present time and absorbingly interesting." 
 
 ARMY AND NAVY REGISTER, WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 MY LADY OF ORANGE 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE NETHERLANDS IN THE DAYS OF ALVA 
 
 BY H. C. BAILEY 
 
 With 8 Illustrations by G. P. Jacomb-Hood 
 Crown 8vo, $1.25 
 
 " There is not a line of padding in the story. It moves swiftly and steadily 
 from start to finish. Incident follows incident in vivid succession, but the narra- 
 tive, while rapid, is never complex or incoherent The hero is a soldier of 
 sturdy pattern ; and My Lady of Orange is a woman worthy of the hairbreadth 
 'scapes endured for her safety and happiness. The pictures by Mr. Jacomb- 
 Hood are superb." BEACON, BOSTON. 
 
 " . . . Told with a vigorous brusqueness and force that are in keeping 
 with the character of the doughty soldier of fortune as he reveals himself to be. 
 There is plenty of fighting and deeds of daring. . . . The heroine, 
 Mistress Gabrielle de St. Trond, is a brave, winsome maid, with courage and 
 wit and womanly sweetness too. . . . The story moves forward with a fine 
 impetuosity and dash, and speeds briskly in the telling, as befits a tale of 
 action." BROOKLYN TIMES. 
 
 " Mr. Bailey has written a rattling good story of Alva and the war in the 
 Netherlands. . . . Mr. Bailey has caught the atmosphere of the period very 
 successfully. The style of the narrative is just archaic enough without being 
 pedantic, and the spirit and character of the narrator are very clearly and dra- 
 matically portrayed. In this respect the novel will rank high among recent 
 books of its kind." NEWS AND COURIER, CHARLESTON. 
 
 " The soldier of fortune has never been more exactly and strongly delineated 
 than he is in ' My Lady of Orange.' It is replete with thrilling escapades, and 
 every character is one of interest clearly delineated. An excellent romance 
 skilfully described." BOSTON COURIER. 
 
 " We have to thank Mr. Bailey, whose name is new to us, for creating such 
 a womanly heroine, for such an entertaining and faithful reproduction of 
 old-time Flemish life, and for making his characters think and talk, and now 
 and then swear, like human men and women and not like literary puppets." 
 
 MAIL AND EXPRESS, NEW YORK. 
 
 " Here is a natural, tender, humorous, beautiful and artistic romance, told 
 autobiographically by an Englishman, who was a soldier of Orange. We 
 receive here graphic accounts of Holland life, and an easy, human kind of 
 narrative which will interest men and women alike. The value of the tale is 
 enhanced by eight full-page illustrations." GLOUCESTER DAILY TIMES. 
 
 LONGMANS, GBEEN, & 00,, 91-93 PUTS AVENUE, NEW YOBK.
 
 LUKE DELMEGE 
 
 By P. A. SHEEHAN, Parish Priest, Doneraile, Co. Cork 
 
 AUTHOR OF " MY NEW CURATE " 
 
 Crown 8vo, $1.5O 
 
 " This is an exceedingly powerful and absorbing book. Beginning with the 
 true artistic quiet and restraint, it strengthens and broadens in power and inter- 
 est until it moves on like a great procession. . . . It is a novel but it is more 
 than that. It is a great sermon, a great lesson, almost a great drama, . . . 
 We cordially commend ' Luke Delmege ' for its lofty purpose and thought, its 
 adequate diction, and its high incentive . . . there is in it an occasional 
 touch of humor which is very welcome and which is truly Irish in its nature. 
 Altogether we consider ' Luke Delmege ' the most notable religious novel that 
 has been written within a year. " THE SUN, BALTIMORE, MD. 
 
 "One of the triumphs among the works of fiction. . . . It is an extremely 
 interesting tale of Irish life, full of profound erudition, and withal replete with 
 incident and pathos. " MONITOR, ST. JOHN, N. B. 
 
 '"Luke Delmege ' is in some respects a greater accomplishment than its 
 predecessor. If it has not such exuberance of humor, its theme is more vital 
 and the work itself more substantial It is a book which philosophers and se- 
 rious students will enjoy almost as thoroughly as the chronic novel-reader. . . . 
 No other author has given us such a series of clerical portraits ... a story 
 of which Catholics may well be proud. It is of classic quality, and generations 
 hence it will be read, enjoyed, and lauded as one of the masterpieces of English 
 fiction." AVE MARIA, NOTRE DAME, IND. 
 
 " This is loftier work than ' My New Curate,' and its influence will be stronger 
 and grander. It is a wonderful story, with something in its passionate pleading 
 for the supremacy of the mystical that recalls a mediaeval saint emerging from 
 his solitude to denounce the world and to summon the few elect to the business 
 of their salvation. . . . We freely pass upon the book the judgment that it 
 is worthy to live with the very best we have of noble and uplifting fiction." 
 
 CATHOLIC NEWS, N. Y. 
 
 " Father Sheehan's latest work is in many respects his best. It is a more 
 pretentious literary effort and a more finished work than ' My New Curate.' 
 . . . . His characters are strong and lifelike. All things considered ' Luke 
 Delmege ' is one of the best things that have been published lately. " 
 
 ROSARY MAGAZINE, N. Y. 
 
 " We have just read ' Luke Delmege,' and of all the books of the year, ser- 
 mon or song or story, we put it first. ... In this new work he adds a new 
 glory to his fame a place in the hearts of his countrymen forever." 
 
 FREEMAN'S JOURNAL, V. Y. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOB&
 
 By EDNA LYALL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," " DOREEN," "HOPE, THE HERMIT," ETC., ETC 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.5O 
 
 " The days when England was rent with civil war, when Puritan and Cava- 
 lier fought for Parliament and King ; when Cromwell's Roundheads struggled 
 heroically against the lawless Charles and finally won this is the period chosen 
 for this splendid story . . . while of necessity there is abundance of war, the 
 story is, above all, one of love tried and triumphant . . . Finely written, 
 full of striking pictures of men and events. 
 
 The book is full of people with whom each of us is familiar through reading 
 history, and every one of them is drawn with rare fidelity to truth. The tale 
 should have a hearty welcome from all classes of readers." 
 
 NASHVILLE AMERICAN. 
 
 " The romance . . . the familiar one of a Royalist maiden and a Puritan 
 lover who espoused the cause of the people . . . is of deep interest and the 
 story thrills with the excitement of conflicts and adventures, mingled with the 
 gentle influences of love. 
 
 The book is pleasing in all respects, and the story is exceedingly well told t 
 holding interest to the end. " EVERY EVENING, WILMINGTON, DEL. 
 
 " This story of 532 pages is one which will win its thousands of readers, as a 
 story of love and trial, war and separation, must when handled with the skill 
 which this author's training has given her.'' MAIL AND EXPRESS, N. Y. 
 
 " It has much historic interest ... A pretty romance holds the reader's 
 interest all through the book. The hero is a Puritan, while the girl he loves, 
 Hilary, as sweet and wilful and true a maid as could have been found in those 
 stormy times, is a bishop's niece and therefore a Royalist in all her sympathies. 
 There are strong dramatic scenes in the book the battlefield and the political 
 intrigue of court life are portrayed and also the religious strife existing at the 
 time. The bigotry of the Church and the fanaticism of many of the Puritans is 
 well portrayed. The book, like all that this author has written, is interesting 
 and wholesome." REPUBLICAN, DENVER, COL. 
 
 "The story is clean, pure and wholesome, has plenty of adventure and a 
 goodly amount of love-making, and is written in an easy, pleasant strain that 
 makes it an entertaining book. " BALTIMORE AMERICAN. 
 
 "Is well worth the reading." CHURCHMAN, N. Y. 
 
 " The high moral tone of the book and its historical accuracy will commend 
 it to the better class of novel readers." CONGREGATIONALIST, BOSTON. 
 
 "The latest book by Edna Lyall may safely be said to be one of the best of 
 recent historical novels." BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. 
 
 LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEK
 
 HOPE THE HERMIT 
 
 A ROMANCE OF BORROWDALE. 
 BY EDNA LYALL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DORBBN," "WAYFARING MEN," ETC. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1 .50. 
 
 "When Edna Lyall wrote this book she stepped into the front rank of living novelists. 
 It exemplifies the finest type of historical romance, which is, of course, the highest form of 
 fictions literature. The scene of the story is one of the loveliest which could have been 
 chosen, the lake region of England. . . . Her story is full of life and incident, and at 
 the same time conveys lessons of high morality. . . . Altogether this is one of the 
 healthiest, purest, best, and most powerful romances in the whole range of English 
 literature. LIVING CHURCH, CHICAGO. 
 
 " Miss Bayly ... by careful examination of her authorities has been able to con- 
 struct an uncommonly good romance of the days when brother's hand was against brother. 
 It is distinctly good work a stirring story and in every way creditable to the author." 
 
 PUBLIC OPINION, NEW YORK. 
 
 "The characters are well drawn, never mere puppets. There is a coherent, well- 
 thought-out, and carefully developed plot, and the style is clear and straightforward. The 
 story is wholesome and interesting, and much better worth reading than a good many of 
 the so-called ' stories of adventure.' " BEACON, BOSTON. 
 
 " There are few novelists of the present day whose writings are better known and liked 
 than those of Edna Lyall. They are always clean, pure and wholesome, and delightful read- 
 ing. The latest, ' Hope the Hermit,' deals with her favorite period, the seventeenth century. 
 We have the revolution, the accession of William and Mary, and the Jacobite plots, and 
 among the real characters introduced are Archbishop Tillotson, Lady Temple and George 
 Fox, the Quaker. . . . The story ends as all love stories should, to be perfectly satisfactory 
 to the average novel reader, and ' Hope the Hermit ' will find many readers, who are fond 
 of a good story well told.' 1 ADVERTISER, PORTLAND, ME. 
 
 " She is quite at home with her theme. . . . It is a fine historical novel, admirably 
 written, and one of her best books." LITERARY WORLD, BOSTON. 
 
 "... is one of those delightful stories that have made the author very popular 
 and that one can take up with the absolute certainty of finding nothing unclean or repel- 
 }ent. It is a clear, strong, well-designed, refreshing story, based upon scenes and events 
 in the days of William and Mary of England days when a man could hardly trust his own 
 brother, and when sons were on one side in a rebellion, and the father on the other. . . . 
 Many of the situations are very exciting, the characters are admirably drawn, and the whole 
 telling of the. story is entertaining, grateful and artistic. We regard it as quite as good as 
 ' Donovan,' and the other popular stories by the same author." BUFFALO COMMERCIAL. 
 
 "Miss Bayly has kept her pages clean and white. The book is preSminently suitable 
 to the shelves of a circulating library, as well as to the reading-table under the family lamp. 
 It not only entertains, but gives historical data in a pleasantly impressive manner . . . 
 we have, notwithstanding a few extravagances, a very fascinating story, enlivened by the 
 admitted license of the writer of romance." HOME JOURNAL, NEW YORK. 
 
 " This latest work of Miss Bayly has all the qualities which have won her popularity in 
 the past. The book should have a considerable vogue, appealing, as it does, not only to 
 those who like quick action, plenty of adventure, and much picturesqueness, but also to 
 those who have a cultivated literary palate." DISPATCH, RICHMOND, VA. 
 
 "... is one of the best specimens of Edna Lyall's talent for telling a good story 
 in engaging style. . . . The reader's attention is held throughout." 
 
 PRESS, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 " There is much in this book to commend it. It is original and has great activity. 
 . . . Miss Lyall possesses literary talent, and her style is clear, and, to one unfamiliar 
 with her writings, ihis latest production will be a delightful treat. The reader will put it 
 down delighted with the story, refreshed by the study of the merits and faults of its charac- 
 ters, and cogitating upon the great events which, during the making of English history, 
 followed quickly one upon another toward the close of the seventeenth century." 
 
 PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 LONGMANS, GBEEN, & CO., 91-93 PIPTH AVE., NEWTOEt.
 
 THE DUKE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By J. STORER CLOUSTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE LUNATIC AT LARGE ' 
 
 Crown 8vo, $1.25 
 
 "A book that is brimful of the richest quality of pure Celtic humor. The fic- 
 titious duke gets into any number of scrapes, all of them laughable, but the real 
 duke finds himself embarrassed by the immediate consequences, and is forced at 
 last to reclaim his title from the Irish adventurer. . . . The book, after keep- 
 ing one convulsed for two hours with mingled smiles and broad laughter, ends 
 happily and up to the standard of exacting convention." 
 
 JOURNAL, DETROIT, MICH. 
 
 " It is cleverly told and far better worth attention than nine out of ten of the 
 serious efforts to portray human life and character." 
 
 JOURNAL, PROVIDENCE, R. I. 
 
 " It is a well-written tale and absorbingly interesting." 
 
 PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS, LA. 
 
 *' One of the most attractive books of the season. The characters are well 
 drawn, and there is a kind of deuce-take-it in the telling of the story that con- 
 duces much to the excellence of the story." COURIER, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 ' ' The situation is intensely comic . . . the upshot of the Duke of Gran- 
 don's experiment is not only genuinely droll, but has the sentimental interest 
 which we suppose is indispensable in the average novel. The book might make 
 a laughable play." NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 
 
 " Mr. Clouston certainly has written along original lines in his newest book. 
 . . . Mr. Clouston's story is interesting. It is told in a direct, forcible man- 
 ner. The manners and customs of the English people of the time are pictured 
 as they really were. His principal characters are real flesh and blood creatures, 
 with all the envy, hatred and hero-worship that go to make the average human 
 being." NEW YORK PRESS. 
 
 1 ' The story is most ingenious, well told, and interesting, and the humor is 
 not too strained. " NEWS, INDIANAPOLIS, IND. 
 
 " A most entertaining story . . . the telling of the story is so bright and 
 original that the interest increases on each page, and the reader is kept in a state 
 of wonderment as to how it will all end. . . . There are few novels which 
 are so entertaining and no one can read it and come to the end without wishing 
 that Mr. Clouston had made it a little longer." SAN FRANCISCO BULLETIN. 
 
 " It is replete with humor and amusing situations." CHICAGO POST. 
 
 " The story is admirably told and is full of humor." 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. 
 
 "A brisk, well told, vivacious story." BROOKLYN TIMES. 
 
 "The style is so brisk, the dialogue so crisp, and the incidents so dramatic, 
 that the book contains a clever and amusing comedy ready for transfer to the 
 stage. It is an amusing novel, which anyone may read with pleasure." 
 
 CHRONICLE TELEGRAPH, PITTSBURG, PA. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 FIANDER'S WIDOW 
 
 By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 
 AUTHOR OF "THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS," "YEOMAN FLEETWOOD," ETC 
 
 Crown 8vo, ornamental cover, $1.5O 
 
 "Is an altogether delightful story. ... If more of such novels were 
 written, pure, wholesome and bracing, redolent of everything that is pleasant 
 to the senses, the world would be all the better." BRISTOL MERCURY. 
 
 " An idyll of Dorsetshire life, as natural and fresh and wholesome as the old 
 stone dairy in which some of the scenes take place. . . . The book is redo- 
 lent of the charm of English country life, pure and sweet, as it were, with the 
 scent of the gorse and the breath of the kine, of all things that are wholesome 
 and homely and good. " COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, NEW YORK. 
 
 " One of the most charming of recently published works of fiction. . . . 
 The plot has an appetizing freshness about it, and more than once the unexpected 
 happens." CHICAGO EVENING POST. 
 
 " Here is a story of life in rural England well worth reading, because of the 
 curious social conditions it describes, and yet these, though well set forth, are 
 only incidental to the main theme, which is a delightful study, involving much 
 humor and no tragedy, of the belated coming of love to an earnest, warm- 
 hearted woman. It is brightly, lightly done, and yet holds the attention and 
 contains sufficient to provoke thought." PUBLIC LEDGER, PHILA. 
 
 "A truly delightful bucolic comedy. The theme might almost be called 
 farcial, but the treatment is delicate, quaint and graceful. Old Isaac, the rustic 
 bachelor who narrowly escapes matrimony from a sense of duty, is a Dorset- 
 shire original and deserves to rank with the best rustics of Hardy, Blackmore, 
 and Philpotts. The story is prettily told and is wholesomely amusing. Mrs. 
 Blundell is always careful in her literary workmanship ; this tale will add to the 
 popular appreciation of her work. " OUTLOOK, N. Y. 
 
 "An altogether charming tale. . . . There is not a dull page in it, and 
 there are continuous pages and chapters of the brightest humor." 
 
 LIVING CHURCH, MILWAUKEE. 
 
 " A beautiful little story. One is at a loss for an epithet adequate to its 
 charm, its simplicity, its humor, its truth." BROOKLYN EAGLE. 
 
 " A bright little pastoral comedy. . . . The widow is a rare combination 
 of business sense and sentiment, a combination which insures her both prosper- 
 ity and happiness. Reversing the usual order of love and life she postpones 
 romance until she is able to entertain her Prince Charming in truly royal style. 
 The sly efforts of one Isaac Sharpe to rid himself of the burden of matrimony 
 are genuinely amusing." PUBLIC OPINION, N. Y. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
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