DAS ^ 
 
 SON 
 
 STEPHEN MCKENNA
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIl>£
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 STEPHEN McKENNA
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN McKENNA 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SONIA," "nINETY-SDC HOTJKS' LEAVE," ETC. 
 
 NEW ^^S^ YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 c 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 ELIZABETH
 
 ^^Naked came I out of my mother's zvomb, 
 and naked shall I return thither^ 
 
 Job I, 21 
 
 vu
 
 Vix spes ipse suas animo capit, aurea fingens 
 Omnia. Gaudenti mensas posuere ministri, 
 Extructas dapibus, nee tostse frugis egentes: 
 Ttim vero, sive ille sua cerealia dextra 
 Munera contigerat, Cerealia dona rigebant; 
 Sive dapes avido convellere dente parabat, 
 Lammina fulva dapes, admoto dente, nitebant. 
 Miscuerat puris auctorem muneris undis: 
 Fusile per rictus aurum fluitare videres. 
 Attonitus novitate mali, divesque miserque, 
 Eflfugere optat opes, et, quae modo voverat, odit. 
 Copia nulla famem relevat: sitis arida guttur 
 Urit, et inviso meritus torquetur ab auro. 
 (Ad caelumque manus, et splendida bracchia tollens) 
 "Da veniam, Lanaee pater! peccavimus " ; inquit 
 "Sed miserere, precor, speciosque eripe damno." 
 
 iOvid, "Metamorphoses," XI, 1 18-133. 
 
 is.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Si Vieillesse Savait 15 
 
 II What's Bred in the Bone 60 
 
 III A Question OF Pride 121 
 
 IV Recoil 183 
 
 V Recovery 239 
 
 VI Si Jeunesse Pouvait . 286 
 
 VII What Comes Out in the Flesh 333 
 
 VIII A Question of Expediency 383 
 
 XI
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 I 
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT . . . 
 
 Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the in- 
 strument as one goes on. 
 
 Samuel Butler : Essays on Life, Art and Science, 
 
 As Sir Aylmer Lancing's car wound between the high 
 banks of rhododendrons which skirted the two-mile drive 
 to Ripley Court, he leaned forward critically to catch a 
 giimpse of the preparations for his son's return to England. 
 For two years all but the south-east wing of the great 
 Elizabethan house had been closed; he had been wheeled 
 from his bedroom on the ground floor to the study, es- 
 tate-room or office, thence to the dining-room and back 
 again to bed without the strength or wish once to pene- 
 trate the sound-proof double doors which divided and 
 screened him from the panelled central hall and the far 
 south-western wing where his son's library and music-room 
 were situated. In two years the twelve- foot front door, 
 surmounted by the Stornaway arms, had never been pub- 
 licly opened; Sir Aylmer and the vicarious philanthropists 
 who were his only visitors came and went by the side en- 
 trance leading to the Chapel. 
 
 To-day every blind was up, ever}^ window shone in the 
 treacherous February sunlight, and the front door was un- 
 barred and open. Thick spirals of smoke curled from un- 
 familiar chimneys, and the housemaids in print dresses 
 
 15
 
 i6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 passed and repassed before newly open windows. The 
 magic of spring, which had already coaxed scattered clus- 
 ters of snowdrops from the sodden earth, seemed to be 
 waking the winter-bound house itself to life; and, as the 
 car slowed down at the side door and Sir Aylmer became 
 infected with the bustle and stir of preparation, he sighed 
 and sat with his gaze bent on the quickening house long 
 after the footman had withdrawn the rugs and pushed 
 forward the wheeled chair. 
 
 "I'm not going in yet," he said in a deep, measured voice 
 of habitual authority. "Bring the garden chair and tell 
 Benson that I want him to take me round the place before 
 lunch." 
 
 The footman touched his cap and withdrew, to return 
 a moment later with a muscular, professionally cheerful 
 male attendant pulling a bathchair. Towering over his 
 shoulder, Sir Aylmer laboriously climbed down from the 
 car and lowered himself heavily into the chair, which 
 creaked and sank under his weight. Unobserved by him, 
 the two servants exchanged humorously rueful glances: 
 their master's periodical visits to the gardens were con- 
 ducted in the spirit of a captain's Sunday inspection of his 
 ship; an unswept leaf on the close-cropped lawns, a weed 
 squeezing its way through the tightly-packed red gravel 
 were signals for a kindling eye, for deepened furrows 
 from nose to mouth, for a rolling thunder of rebuke. His 
 mood was not likely to be made less critical by his son's 
 fast approaching return. 
 
 "Is it to-day you're expecting Mr. Deryk home, sir?" 
 Benson began conversationally, as they drew away from 
 the house and headed for the stables. 
 
 Sir Aylmer hesitated appreciably before replying. His 
 long pauses and slow delivery always suggested that he 
 was trying to make up his mind whether a question was 
 worth answering and whether his reply, with one word so 
 long separated from another, gave away anything that any- 
 one could use. He did not suspect his associates unduly, 
 but, as his habit or pose was never to say a thing twice
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 17 
 
 and always to stand unshakably by what he had said, it 
 was necessary to choose his terms with care. 
 
 "He wired from Paris. I expect him in time for din- 
 ner," he answered. 
 
 "It don't seem Hke two years," Benson pursued. Sir 
 Aylmer felt that he was wincing mentally. "And not much 
 of a day to come home to." 
 
 This time there really seemed no need to answer, but the 
 day, in its intervals of specious sunshine, was certainly un- 
 inviting. The winter of 191 3 was breaking up prematurely, 
 and the leafless trees dripped on to the steaming earth as 
 though their very fibre were melting. From the west, where 
 the forest line marked the Hampshire border, came a sound 
 of sliding snow splashing in avalanche through the upper 
 branches of the trees on to the open aisles and clearings; 
 snow still lay on the scarred face of the Sussex downs to 
 the south, while already, on the north, the Surrey hills 
 were slate-grey, misty and warm. Forgotten pockets of 
 discoloured snow lingered on the grass borders or between 
 the banks of rhododendron on either side of the drive; 
 melting ice and snow filled the dykes in the park, and the 
 ha-ha was beginning to overflow into the garden. In the 
 fifteen years that had passed since he returned from 
 America and bought the house from Lord Stornaway, he 
 had never seen so much water about ; when he had strength, 
 he must go into the question of draining the place more 
 rapidly. In the meantime, someone had been taking a short 
 cut from the engine house to the west lodge, and a corner 
 of lawn at the side of the house was trodden down and 
 shabby. He had spoken about that before, and someone 
 would have to go; orders were meant to be obeyed, and 
 without discipline and obedience it was impossible to get 
 anything done. 
 
 The inspection of garden, outbuildings and house was 
 carried out with vigilance and a ruthless particularity. Sir 
 Aylmer felt that there was no room in life for the slack 
 and casual ; time, procedure and punctilio had to be ob- 
 served, and it was comforting to think that this lesson
 
 1 8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 was gradually being learnt, so that the life of Ripley 
 Court moved like a perfect piece of mechanism: Philli- 
 more, the elderly confidential secretary, Benson, the male 
 nurse, Arkwright, the butler, Mrs. Benson, the house- 
 keeper, Jepson, the agent, were beginning to appreciate 
 that you got most done and wasted least time by slowly 
 making up your mind and then treating your decision as 
 something that could not be re-opened, could hardly be 
 discussed. He was generally accounted a slow thinker — 
 which perhaps meant that he was more patient than his 
 critics, — but he was very tenacious when he had finished 
 thinking; his critics, again, called him obstinate — which 
 perhaps meant that they were eternally shifting and chang- 
 ing, while he had finished his shifts and changes before 
 finally making up his mind. He knew himself better than 
 did these same critics, who, by the way, remained critics 
 while he created one of the largest fortunes in America ; 
 he had nothing of their quickness and imagination, but a 
 compensating providence had given him a stubborn, clear- 
 sighted sense of proportion and probability, which saved 
 him from panic and impetuosity, as he had proved a dozen 
 times, when they lost a million and he made one. 
 
 "You'll leave the house till after you've had your lunch, 
 sir?" Benson suggested, as they completed the circle of 
 the gardens and came back to the side door. Sir Aylmer's 
 face looked grey with the unaccustomed exertion, the mi- 
 nute departure from routine, and it was Benson's first busi- 
 ness to watch for the change of colour and make tactful 
 proposals when it appeared. 
 
 "I told Mrs. Benson I would go round before luncheon,'* 
 was the deliberate answer. It was not infrequently Ben- 
 son's second business to be snubbed for his pains. 
 
 "You remember what Dr. Forsyte " he continued per- 
 suasively. 
 
 "That will do, Benson." 
 
 Changing into his wheeled house-chair, Sir Aylmer had 
 himself pushed into the long library which filled the whole 
 south-west projection of the house and constituted Deryk's
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 19 
 
 kingdom. Until the end of the eighteenth century the 
 Stornaways had maintained it from a sense of pride, but 
 in the last hundred years poverty of scholarship and lack 
 of money had been stronger than pride; the books were 
 uncatalogued, ill-arranged and unreplenished, their bindings 
 tattered, their pages worm-eaten and the mouldings of 
 their cases battered and defaced. Deryk had repaired the 
 havoc and produced a catalogue ; each new enthusiasm was 
 marked by a new collection, and in the map-cases by the 
 fire and the coin cabinets under the long, narrow windows 
 could be traced the growth of his later literary passions. 
 A third of the floor-space was covered with white wooden 
 boxes waiting for him to unpack. The books had been 
 ordered more than two years ago, before he went abroad; 
 their number and cost were characteristic of his impetu- 
 osity and curious ignorance of money. Deryk certainly was 
 impetuous, but his brain moved quickly, and he was a 
 wonderfully rapid learner; he could speak a considerable 
 number of languages, he was a scholar of proved taste and 
 achievement, he was a musician. Already he had done so 
 much that there seemed nothing of the few things remain- 
 ing that he would not be able to do — and do quickly; 
 perhaps, if he needed more time to learn a subject, he 
 would not abandon it so quickly. And he certainly did 
 abandon a new enthusiasm as impetuously as he took it 
 up — early Church music (involving a new organ in the 
 chapel), French caricaturists of the nineteenth century, 
 even the silver age of Greek civilisation, on which he was 
 engaged and to which he proposed to consecrate his life, 
 when he was sent round the world. Of course he was 
 young enough to be naturally unstable; he would want 
 careful watching for some years yet; he must be set to 
 work and kept at work, otherwise he would get up to all 
 kinds of mischief ; he must decide upon his career , . . 
 
 A wave of watery sunlight broke through the February 
 sky and shone through the long, deep-set windows of the li- 
 brary. Over the rhododendrons and beyond the last sweep 
 of the drive, Sir Aylmer could see a pennant of bunting
 
 20 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 hung across the village street of Aston Ripley ; the school- 
 children were busy setting it in place when he drove by in 
 his car, and he had noticed that the bunting bore the 
 single word "WELCOME." His cadaverous, pain-twisted 
 face softened to a smile of pleasure; the welcome was 
 rather a compliment to him than to Deryk, who had lived 
 little at home, but he accepted it on the boy's behalf and 
 bowed his acknowledgments. No one would ever know 
 how much in the last two years he had longed for this day ; 
 his serv^ants, elderly and uncommunicative as himself, all 
 equally hushed in tone and spellbound by the silence and 
 desolation of the house, would never know the sense of 
 vast lifelessness which it had borne since Deryk went away. 
 
 But he was forgetting his promise to Mrs. Benson. 
 Glancing cursorily at the music-room and drawing-room 
 he had himself wheeled into the ballroom and idly pushed 
 his way under a row of Stornaway portraits from a re- 
 puted van Dyck to an undeniable Lely, struck for the first 
 time by the immense and wasteful size of the house. He 
 had kept it for Deryk, and Deryk would be able to fill it, 
 but until it changed hands it would remain an unwieldy 
 barrack . . . The dining-room he did not need to see, but 
 he spent a few minutes in the morning-room, looking curi- 
 ously at a collection of black-figure pottery; he had almost 
 forgotten its existence, yet at one time it was said to be the 
 finest private collection in England ; scholars from two con- 
 tinents had come to photograph it, dealers would approach 
 his secretary with extravagant offers, and on Tuesdays and 
 Fridays in the summer months cultured tourists would 
 send in their cards and be led round by Mrs, Benson. The 
 elect she would also take to see the china and the tapestry, 
 but the other collections were hidden away in rooms not 
 open to the public. Sir Aylmer decided that some day, 
 when he had the strength, he must look into this ques- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 Leaving the morning-room he wheeled himself into the 
 hft and explored the upper stories. Since Forsyte, the 
 Aston Ripley doctor, had told him to avoid stairs and make
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 21 
 
 himself a bedroom on the ground floor, he had hardly 
 moved from his narrow circuit; the lift was for emergen- 
 cies, put in after Deryk had been ill ; and he went upstairs 
 now, less to oblige Mrs. Benson than to see that Deryk's 
 room in the west wing over the library was in fit state to 
 receive him. Pushing his way from door to door, he 
 paused on the threshold of the central room over the hall ; 
 it had once been his own, before him it had sheltered the 
 reigning head of the Stornaway family, and, when Deryk 
 married, it would be for him and his wife. Sir Aylmer 
 rose from his chair and walked unsteadily to the window, 
 looking down the drive, though he knew that he could ex- 
 pect nothing for another six hours. Of late he had been 
 wondc-ing what manner of girl Deryk would marry. Be- 
 fore leaving England he had seemed too much absorbed 
 in his books and music to spare time for any kind ot social 
 life; Ripley Court was always full of neighbours and 
 friends for the few weeks of his vacations that he spent at 
 home, but, though they came at his invitation, he was apt 
 to grow tired of them after twenty-four hours and leave 
 them to amuse themselves ; these were the days when Deryk 
 allowed his hair to grow untidily long and lay curled in an 
 armchair before the library fire wearing disreputable clothes 
 and never troubling to change out of slippers; it was a 
 period of slovenliness and unsociability. Now, however, 
 he was five and twenty ; he must have met many women and 
 would meet more ; the relationship of father and son would 
 enter upon its most delicate phase. Deryk must be pro- 
 tected, of course, from people who saw him only as the 
 son of an Anglo-American millionaire, but beyond that he 
 must work out his own salvation. . , . There was nothing 
 like letting people work out their own salvations. 
 ' Returning to the lift, Sir Aylmer made his way down- 
 stairs, left his chair in the hall and walked into the dining- 
 room. Silent and alone he ate an unappetising luncheon, 
 specially prepared, and retired to his bedroom for the pre- 
 scribed half hour's rest; a book lay open on his knees, but 
 his mind was too restless for him to concentrate his
 
 22 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 thoughts. His eyes wandered from the page to a charcoal 
 drawing of Deryk by Blessington, completed a week before 
 sailing, and from the drawing to an oil-portrait of his w^ife. 
 The boy had his mother's brown eyes and dark hair, but 
 the thin-lipped, wilful mouth, the bony, fleshless jaws and 
 temples, the straight, rather aquiline nose and exhalation 
 of dominant, nervous vitality came from the other side at 
 a time when his own nervous endurance was almost pro- 
 verbial in New York. (She, poor soul, had unaccountably 
 lost vitality when she married.) Sir Aylmer looked back, 
 like a man recalling a forgotten story, on the twelve years 
 in which he had risen from nothing to be one of the rich- 
 est men in America. In moments of detachment even at 
 the time of his greatest triumph he used occasionally to feel 
 that he was really watching someone else who chanced to 
 bear his name ; now that it was all over, there seemed noth- 
 ing to link up the "A. L.," whose movements and operations 
 were followed with an interest only accorded to kings in 
 Europe, with an English baronet, broken in health and 
 looking if possible even nearer to death than he really was, 
 thin, bent, lined and haggard, revealing only by flashes and 
 empty smoke the volcanic energy and will-power of other 
 days. Of the surge and thunder of New York not an 
 echo or reverberation reached him; for an hour or two 
 each day he could dictate letters and answer appeals to 
 his charity; perhaps once a year his friend Raymond 
 Stornaway, the philanthropic organiser, would explain and 
 interest him in an endowment involving a hundred thou- 
 sand instead of the normal, wearisome hundred. But he 
 was unequal to detailed supervision ; he had looked on im- 
 potently, while the Rhodes Bequest was formed, conscious 
 that he could never undertake a similar effort. Ripley 
 Court, regarded as the strong-room in which the Lancing 
 Trust Corporation was encased, was the only reminder and 
 tie. 
 
 When the clock liberated him from his irksome, obliga- 
 tory rest, he threw aside his book, walked into the study 
 next to his bedroom and unlocked a drawer of his writing-
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 23 
 
 table. A revolving wooden rosette concealed a keyhole in 
 the carved front of the oak book-case facing the window, 
 and the false front opened to reveal a small steel safe with 
 a combination lock, within which lay bundles large and 
 small, tied with tape and neatly docketed, envelopes sealed 
 and open, half sheets of note paper and leaves torn from 
 a pocket book. The top strata, newest in date, shewed 
 the scattered flashes of a brain which no longer burned 
 with steady light. There were notes on "Housing Reform 
 and Politics," "The Mechanism of a Subsidised Press" 
 and "Public Health," unequal in design and all of them 
 unfinished, starting as elaborate essays and ending in 
 phrases, quotations and chapter headings. Below them lay 
 a fuller study of "Free Libraries and the Control of Opin- 
 ion," "The International Power of a Creditor Nation" and 
 "Powder and Shot." Sir Aylmer turned hurriedly over 
 this last; it was while he tested the power of a man or 
 group of men to set their money in opposition to the de- 
 structive will of a bellicose nation that his health broke 
 down; he was curbing democracy by withholding supplies, 
 as formerly the bankers had curbed their kings, and he had 
 never been given time to apply his test. Now he was un- 
 equal to trying again. The yellow manuscript pages of 
 "Powder and Shot" always recalled an unsought holiday in 
 the South Pacific, followed by a premature return to New 
 York, followed in turn by aching weeks in a darkened 
 house on Riverside Drive, wherein he tried with lips 
 puckered at one side to explain that all would be well with 
 him if the doctor would only put back the top of his skull 
 instead of leaving the brain pulsing in agonised expo- 
 sure. ... He rapidly turned over the ragged-edged es- 
 says, seeking to drive that one memory away. "The De- 
 velopment of the Mississippi Valley" was ancient history 
 by now and had never been anything but a commercial 
 enterprise; in the latter days of his power he had come 
 to regard commerce and finance as a means of political as- 
 cendancy, it was in this light that he would have Deryk 
 regard them. . . .
 
 24 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 The leaden sky blackened until the curving lines of the 
 drive were blotted out. A footman came in to drav^r the 
 curtains, but Sir Aylmer, blinking and starting out of his 
 reverie as the lights were turned on, shook his head. 
 
 "I want to see the car, as it drives up," he said, restoring 
 his papers to the safe and locking the door. 
 
 Then he pulled an armchair at right angles to the fire, 
 so that he could command the windows, and sat with heavy 
 eyes half closed, at one moment dozing, at another rousing 
 himself to look at the clock, his face in repose like the 
 death-mask of a gaunt old prize-fighter. The fire had sunk 
 low and the room was filled with long, flickering shadows, 
 when the faint note of a horn was followed by the sound 
 of changing gears. Sir Aylmer clutched the arms of his 
 chair and dragged himself painfully upright ; Benson ought 
 to have been at hand, he could not be late in welcoming his 
 own son home; there was neither sight nor sound of the 
 fellow, and, setting his teeth and first steadying himself 
 against the table, Sir Aylmer strode erect and firm into the 
 silent hall. Two shafts of light crept creamily along the 
 rusty gravel, as he threw the doors open, and a moment 
 later the car was opposite the steps. 
 
 "Dad !" 
 
 A lithe figure bounded out of the car, straightened itself 
 and ran up the steps three at a time. 
 
 "I'm very glad to see you home, Deryk," said Sir Aylmer 
 in his deep, unmodulated voice. 
 
 "I'm jolly glad to be home, dad. How are you? How's 
 Ripley? How's everything?" demanded Deryk, shaking 
 his father's hand, then shedding his coat and scarf on to 
 the floor, throwing his hat into a chair and shaking hands 
 a second time. 
 
 Sir Aylmer gazed long at the lean, travel-stained face 
 with the dancing, brown eyes and disordered hair. There 
 was the same impetuous energy, the same eager impatience 
 as ever; Deryk seemed unaged and unchanged by his two 
 years' absence. 
 
 "Everything's much the same," he answered slowly after
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 25 
 
 his usual damping hesitation ; then he turned again with 
 outstretched hand to a rosy, benevolent little man, who 
 had dawdled on the steps until the first greetings were over. 
 "How are you, Ted?" 
 
 "Tired and hungry," was the reply, delivered in a high, 
 rather nasal voice. "So'd you be, if you'd tried to keep 
 pace with Deryk for two years. I told you at the outset it 
 was no part of a family solicitor's business to turn bear- 
 leader at my time of life. I'm very glad to see you again, 
 Aylmer." 
 
 The three men stood smiling a little self-consciously in 
 a silence which each was reluctant to break. Sir Aylmer 
 and Deryk from dislike of visible emotion, Hatherly 
 through a sense that he was superfluous. The tension was 
 relaxed by Arkwright, the elderly butler, who stepped def- 
 erentially forward to Sir Aylmer and murmured some- 
 thing in an undertone. 
 
 "Oh, dinner at once," was the answer. "As soon as 
 they've had time to wash. Deryk, you — enjoyed yourself, 
 I hope? You remember you weren't very anxious to go." 
 
 "I wouldn't have missed it for the world!" Deryk cried. 
 "Lord, yes! I wanted to be a mouldy recluse and was 
 frightfully sick when you wouldn't let me." 
 
 "It's not too late yet," said Sir Aylmer with one of his 
 rare smiles, flirting timidly with a lapse into banter. 
 
 "What are you going to do with him now?" Hatherly 
 asked, as Deryk ran away from the dining-room to an- 
 nounce to the staff his return home, and he was left alone 
 with Sir Aylmer and the wine. "You'll find him a handful, 
 if you don't set him to work." 
 
 For an hour and a half he and Deryk had taken turns 
 in describing their two years' wanderings through India, 
 Burmah and the Straits to China, Japan and Manchuria. 
 Unlimited by time and money, they had turned south to 
 explore the Dutch East Indies and had made their way by 
 Australia and New Zealand through the Pacific Islands to
 
 26 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 San Francisco, where they struck north to fetch a compass 
 of Canada before descending through the States of Mexico 
 and South America. The tour was to give Der>'k a breadth 
 and maturity which Eton and Magdalen had failed to im- 
 part; he was to see the world in its variety and size and so 
 in some measure to counteract the conventional education 
 which his father deplored. Successive letters, pursuing the 
 travellers further and further east, demanded in terms 
 whether Deryk was becoming a little more manly, less 
 impetuous, of weightier judgment. Hatherly, no humour- 
 ist himself, found difficulty in answering these solemn de- 
 mands for daily reports without becoming unforgivably 
 flippant. The letters and enquiries followed them from 
 Buenos Aires to Teneriffe, where they changed to a Union 
 Castle liner and worked round the Cape, through Rhodesia 
 and the Lakes to East Africa, the Sudan and Egypt ; thence, 
 with a sudden pang of homesickness, they made for Brin- 
 disi and home. 
 
 "There's plenty for him to do," murmured Sir Aylmer. 
 "Did he give you much trouble?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. He's just what you 
 were at his age, though too restless, too energetic ; the 
 world's not quite big enough for him to conquer." 
 
 Hatherly poured himself out a second glass of port wine 
 and sipped it appreciatively, looking, with his bald head, 
 large spectacles and twinkling eyes, like a reincarnation of 
 Mr. Pickwick. "At his age — no, you must have been older 
 then. D'you remember that peculiarly bleak March morn- 
 ing when you strode into my office, remarking that you'd 
 had as much as you could stand? I never imagined 
 then. . . ." 
 
 He broke off and gazed round the long room with its 
 rows of departed Stornaways, finally letting his eyes rest 
 upon his friend's face. 
 
 Sir Aylmer hesitated long, and his eyes, too, wandered 
 round the great room in which the table was like an island 
 of light in a dark sea. 
 
 "I never imagined, either. . . ." he muttered. Both met?-
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 27 
 
 had sunk their voices, as though they were discussing a 
 guilty secret. Ripley Court invited a subdued, deferential 
 tone. 
 
 "You wanted me to come with you," said Hatherly, half 
 to himself. 
 
 Sir Aylmer nodded. 
 
 "If we had our time over again, Ted. . . ." 
 
 Hatherly wrinkled his nose and thrust out his lower lip 
 dubiously. 
 
 "With power to look into the future?" he asked. "I 
 should have come. Any man born of woman would have 
 come. I don't say that I shouldn't have regretted it later, 
 of course." 
 
 Sir Aylmer lay back like a venerable, dying king on a 
 carved throne. 
 
 "I sometimes — wonder — whether I should have gone — 
 at all," he said very slowly. 
 
 On that bleak March morning thirty years before, Ayl- 
 mer Lancing, barrister-at-law, had called in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields to take farewell of his only friend. Then and al- 
 ways, unlike Deryk, he lacked the art of making friends 
 easily ; Hatherly he had met six or eight years earlier at a 
 Fleet Street chop-house, and an acquaintance begun over 
 a game of dominoes had ripened into a friendship based 
 on loneliness and common poverty. Hatherly was an ar- 
 ticled clerk ; Lancing, by the desire of his father, who was 
 an unprosperous general practitioner in Cheshire, had lately 
 got himself called to the Bar and was entering upon the 
 lean, early years of a profession that from the first was 
 profoundly uncongenial to him. His mental qualities of 
 tenacity and slow commonsense were always obscured by 
 inelasticity. For half a dozen years he added to his father's 
 modest allowance by an occasional summons or dock de- 
 fence, but in all that time his fees on circuit did not pay 
 his expenses, and of a London practice he had nothing at 
 all. The modest allowance paid his share of a clerk and 
 chamber-rent and a subscription to the Law Reports ; he 
 contrived further to feed and clothe himself and to con-
 
 28 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 tribute his quota of the expenses of a joint establishment 
 with Hatherly and a journalist in Gray's Inn. When Dr. 
 Lancing died of bronchitis in the winter of 1882, the lux- 
 ury of running the legal profession at a loss had to be cut 
 short. Selling his books and leaving one third of the furni- 
 ture in satisfaction of all claims for rent, Aylmer Lancing 
 sailed from England with three letters of introduction and 
 a single trunk. 
 
 "I've had about as much of this as I can stand," he had 
 told Hatherly between set teeth, scowling out of the rain- 
 blurred windows on to the hated roof of Lincoln's Inn. 
 "I must go to some place where I'm mixing with intellec- 
 tual inferiors; then I shall come into my own." 
 
 "But why go to America?" Hatherly had urged. 
 
 "Oh, I'm a failure here. I want to make a fresh start 
 without any record to live down. I shall wander about 
 America till I find some job that I can do better than men 
 who've been spared a public school education and a legal 
 training. So far I've always worked above my level." 
 
 And on that word he had shaken hands with his friend, 
 driven to the station and turned his back on London and 
 the eight years of his life that it had wasted. On arriving 
 in New York, he presented his letters of introduction and 
 was received with lavish hospitality. His entertainers, 
 however, drew a rigid line between their private and their 
 commercial life. Of Lancing's abilities and integrity they 
 knew nothing, and any position that they could offer to a 
 stranger was felt by them to be not worth offering. Half 
 jocularly he told them that there was no job he would not 
 undertake, but they preferred to disbelieve him, and, when 
 he had made the circuit of their houses, he remained with 
 no more prospects and fewer resources than the latest ar- 
 rived Irish immigrant. 
 
 "It is as easy to starve on Broadway as in Fleet Street," 
 he wrote to Hatherly a few months later with an unfor- 
 giving ferocity that oozed through the lines of his letter, 
 "but perhaps not so pleasant." His next letter sounded a 
 note of sombre triumph. "I have found a greater fool
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 29 
 
 than myself. After working an elevator in a block on 
 Fourth Avenue, I've been taken in as book-keeper to a firm 
 of real estate agents. Their regular man v^ent sick, but, 
 as book-keeping is no part of a legal training, I reckon on 
 being fired as soon as he comes back." 
 
 A month later, however, he was still in the same em- 
 ployment, though no longer as book-keeper. His deliber- 
 ate, unhurried sanity of outlook impressed his principals, 
 and he was invited to stay on with an increased salary and 
 enhanced responsibilities. His firm was agent to the West- 
 ern Development Syndicate, and the chief of Lancing's 
 duties was to survey and report on suitable properties for 
 the Syndicate to acquire in its great developing march into 
 the Middle West. Nothing in his early training had pre- 
 pared him for the work, but his unrefined, brutal faculty 
 of grasping primitive essentials enabled him now to choose 
 almost unfalteringly the sites on which townships would 
 later have inevitably to be built and the natural trade 
 routes which the railroads would inevitably have to fol- 
 low. He would not be hurried; he would not confuse 
 himself with non-essentials and irrelevancies. Westward 
 from Indianapolis and Springfield to Kansas City, Lancing 
 prospected and bought. The new Illinois-Iowa-Colorado 
 road was in contemplation, and there was hardly a limit 
 to the options which his principals were prepared to secure 
 for the Syndicate. Lancing enjoyed the responsibility and 
 the sense of handling large sums of money. He was well- 
 paid, he told Hatherly, though it would be long before he 
 could feel secure ; as a bachelor of simple tastes, however, 
 he was able to save a substantial portion of his salary. 
 "Money isn't my first consideration," he wrote. "It comes 
 second or third or fourth. First of all there's self-es- 
 teem ; there's no sensation in the world like 'making good.' 
 Then there's responsibility and the gratification of feeling 
 that people trust you. In England I've defended a mur- 
 derer before now, but he never trusted me ; he'd never have 
 looked at me if he could have got anyone else. Here people 
 put millions of dollars into my hands, knowing that, if I
 
 30 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 let them down, their business will begin to look a bit 
 sick. . . . But best of all there's the excitement of doing 
 business. As money grubbers I suppose the Yanks don't 
 compare with the French, the Germans, the Chinese, the 
 Jews. They just love business for the interest of the 
 thing, and, on my soul, if you've got a continent this size 
 to play with, not a hundredth part developed, you can un- 
 derstand their keenness. I'm a richer man than when I 
 came out, but I don't see myself a millionaire and I don't 
 want to be one. . . ." 
 
 This letter was written one month, and reached Hatherly 
 one week, before an event which made Aylmer Lancing a 
 millionaire more quickly and unexpectedly than had ever 
 happened even in a continent of easy millions. His prin- 
 cipals had sent him to Charleston, Illinois, to report on the 
 advisability of the Illinois-Iowa-Colorado railroad running 
 a loop line to pick up the stores of grain which were as- 
 sembled in Charleston from the wheat fields of the west and 
 despatched by water to the railhead at Banbury. His day's 
 work done. Lancing was walking up and down the mile- 
 long main street of the town, smoking a last cigar before 
 going to bed, when he observed a red glare in the sky at 
 the eastern end ; as he walked, the glare spread, and a sound 
 of shouting beat upon his ears. Within five minutes the 
 flames, leaping from block to block, were roaring over a 
 quarter of the street ; the crazy, green and white wooden 
 houses belched forth a stream of panic-stricken men and 
 women, and still the gently fanning breeze urged the 
 tongues of fire over the side streets to lick the blistering 
 wood-work on the other side. 
 
 For several minutes Lancing stood motionless, drunk 
 with the wild beauty and awed by the loishing roar of the 
 flames. Then he decided that the fire must be stopped. 
 Three more blocks had been swallowed with a hungry roar 
 before he thought out the means, but thereafter he acted 
 quickly and unswervingly. Doubling back, he shouted for 
 volunteers to help demolish a block in the path of the racing 
 fire. Scared men hurried up at sound of a voice that would
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 31 
 
 command them, and, after twenty minutes' frenzied work 
 with axes and crowbars, a yawning gulf, too wide for the 
 flames to bridge, had been carved in the side of the street. 
 At the head of his volunteers Lancing ran back and drove 
 a dazed crowd at the point of a crowbar westward out of 
 the town and into safety. All night long the fire roared in 
 the great grain repositories, but its path to the west was 
 barred, and a saving line of wharf-frontage and canal 
 checked its progress to the south. 
 
 At day-break the heat had abated its fury enough to 
 allow the townsfolk to venture back. Of the business half 
 of the town there remained a flaky stretch of grey ashes ; 
 the Indian quarter was largely untouched, and perhaps a 
 third of the modern extension to the west had escaped. As 
 a commercial centre Lancing saw that Charleston had 
 ceased to exist. 
 
 "But it won't take long to rebuild," he said deliberately, 
 looking from the flimsy wooden shanties to a grey-faced 
 man who was staring stonily at the charred and smoulder- 
 ing barge which represented the salvage of his fortunes. 
 
 "What kind of fool's going to rebuild it?" was the an- 
 swer. "Guess I'm going to make tracks for Minneapolis 
 or Grantstown before the crowd gets started. Rebuild ! 
 This township's burnt out of the map." 
 
 Lancing looked at the man in surprise. He was wrong; 
 the fire and his own losses had unsteadied his nerve; geo- 
 graphically and for a dozen other reasons the city would 
 have to be rebuilt. No one shared his opinion, however, and, 
 when he engaged in similar discussions with other men 
 that day, the upshot was always the same ; Charleston was 
 off the map, out of the L^nion, derelict and damned ; her 
 citizens were m.igrating in a body, and he could pay his 
 hotel bill and quit or buy the hotel at a knock-out price and 
 run it him.self. The hotel-keeper spoke with the hyperbole 
 of bitterness, for, whereas the grain and its repositories were 
 insured, no policy would cover the destruction of the city 
 as a place of business. Within a month it would rank 
 with the tumble-down, deserted towns of the Far West, a
 
 32 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 forgotten footprint in the march of progress. Lancing 
 could buy the whole city for the price of a Wall Street 
 office, he was assured. 
 
 Slow-minded, obstinate and detached, he refused to share 
 the easy assumption that the history of Charleston was 
 closed. The canal system, linked with the Mississippi, was 
 undestroyed and indestructible ; a new town could be run 
 up in wood by the month's end, in stone at the end of six. 
 Even if the Illinois-Iowa-Colorado road passed by on the 
 north, even if it proved beyond human contrivance to 
 build a loop line, the town was worth buying for its water- 
 ways and roads, which he had seen stretching out into the 
 rolling wheat land of the west. And there was always the 
 chance that it might be joined up by rail. 
 
 At the end of thirty hours' brooding on one subject, 
 Lancing made up his mind and secured an option on the 
 hotel on behalf of the Western Development Syndicate, 
 which carried more weight than the names of his princi- 
 pals. He had no authority to pledge name or credit, but he 
 was always given a free hand ; he had so often exceeded 
 his authority and been joyously indemnified. For a week 
 he bought steadily: first the solid properties that were un- 
 touched, then the smouldering ruins, then the undeveloped 
 outskirts of the town. When it was known in the first 
 feverish exodus that an eccentric was prepared to purchase 
 charred foundations, deserted streets and trackless waste 
 land, the vanishing proprietors of Charleston jostled each 
 other to unload their lots before the eccentric regained 
 sanity. Unhurriedly — he was too tired to hurry — Lancing 
 pored over his plans, while excited sellers undercut one 
 another ; by the week's end he had acquired the whole town 
 with the exception of an insignificant negro quarter where 
 the titles were dubious. Then, giddy with want of sleep, 
 he packed his papers and returned to New York. 
 
 His principals were surprised to see him back at such a 
 time. They were incredulous and dismayed when he de- 
 scribed the purchases to which, on his single responsibility, 
 he had committed their chief client. The size of the trans-
 
 SI yi^ILLESSE SAVAIT ... 33 
 
 action alone frightened them; they were not prepared to 
 argue or be persuaded. Millions of dollars had been 
 pledged by an unauthorised agent to an undertaking which 
 the firm had had no opportunity of judging; as real estate 
 agents they could have nothing to do with it themselves ; 
 as agents to the Western Development Syndicate they de- 
 clined to risk their connection by recommending so fran- 
 tic a speculation. Lancing had gone in single-handed; 
 single-handed he must extricate himself. 
 
 He spent a day digesting the decision and then made his 
 way to the offices of the Syndicate itself and laid bare his 
 proposals. If his contracts were repudiated, the liability 
 would fall on his shoulders alone, and he had not as many 
 cents as the dollars he had pledged. It was bad enough to 
 be faced with the legal consequences of his venture, but 
 financial ruin was easier to bear than the sense of oppor- 
 tunity wantonly thrown away. To the man who had seen 
 Charleston before the fire and after, it was inconceivable 
 that it should not rise again to be one of the leading grain 
 markets of the Middle West. He explained, described and 
 pleaded, but the rock-like faces before him only relaxed to 
 become derisive. Against the judgment of the whole city 
 he had decided that a certain industry was to be concen- 
 trated in a certain place; while he bought the sites, the 
 industry was taking wings northward, unable and unwilling 
 to wait while the town was rebuilt. What stress or induce- 
 ment could he offer to force or woo the scattered towns- 
 folk back to their homes? 
 
 Lancmg left the Syndicate and demanded an interview 
 with the President of the Illinois-Iowa-Colorado Railroad, 
 to whom he offered the options on condition that the loop 
 line was immediately constructed. After two days and one 
 night of negotiations an agreement was reached. The rail- 
 road corporation took up the options and paid Lancmg 
 generously in ordinary stock ; a new syndicate was formed 
 to rebuild Charleston, and at a convenient season the press 
 announced that arrangements had been made to link up 
 the city with the main east-and-west system, which would
 
 34 MIDAS AND b 
 
 > 
 not, as had been unofficially suggests ^, ^an through Grants- 
 town. Within forty-eight hours of the announcement, the 
 Gran'stcAvn immigrants, betrayed and helpless, were pour- 
 ing south again, and the men who had sold a month earlier 
 at break-up prices now bought on a soaring market every 
 yard of land which the railroad corporation would offer. 
 
 A year later, when his city was rebuilt. Lancing was a 
 rich man, by any standard ; but his riches were only be- 
 ginning to accumulate. The rebuilding forced him into 
 new fields of enterprise, and he found himself automatically 
 buying lumber and steel for the rising city. As the rail- 
 road laid its tracks further and further west, Lancing be- 
 came ever richer ; when the New Mexico and Montana line 
 was in contemplation, his was the largest single subscription 
 of capital, and the same automatic development compelled 
 him to buy a fleet of lake steamers to operate in conjunction 
 with the new railroad. From transportation it was a short 
 step to acquire an interest in the things transported, and 
 Lancing's freight cars began to carry Lancing's grain over 
 Lancing's system. 
 
 "They say of you," he was told by a Boston girl whom he 
 met in the summer of "86 at Atlantic City and was to marry 
 the following year, "that folk can't get in or out of America 
 or travel around or take an apartment or buy a little bit 
 of lighting or heat without A. L.'s leave." 
 
 "Well, I guess that's pretty well so," Lancing answered. 
 "And without paymg something into A. L.'s pocket. 1 
 wouldn't just like to say how it's all come about, but it has. 
 One thing leads to another, you see." 
 
 "But what d'you make out to do with it all?" the girl 
 pursued. 
 
 Lancing considered her deliberately. 
 
 "If I could get away, I'd like to take a run around Lon- 
 don for a piece to shew them that I'd measured up," he 
 answered. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Then I guess I sort of got to get back here." 
 
 "To make more money?"
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 35 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 The girl returned to her first question. 
 "But what are you going to do with it?" 
 "I never rightly thought that up," Lancing replied. "It — 
 it isn't the money. I'm not sure that I know what it is." 
 
 "You ought to have stayed over here after you were mar- 
 ried," said Hatherly, breaking the long silence. He had 
 drunk his wine and was now cutting a cigar in the com- 
 panionship of his own thoughts ; Sir Aylmer, who neither 
 drank wine nor smoked, had been sitting sunk in his chair, 
 twirling the stem of a wine-glass between thumb and first 
 finger and gazing fixedly through half-closed eyes into the 
 gloom, beyond the yellow circle of candle-light. Neither 
 noticed any break of connection or pause in their conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "I meant to," answered Sir Aylmer. "Heaven knows 
 what I should have done; I've been trying to find out the 
 last fifteen years, but I meant to. I as good as promised 
 Gwen I would, before we married. Then you remember 
 I met Raymond on the boat, and he set me thinking." 
 
 In 1887 Lancing had married the Boston girl. They 
 spent a leisurely honeymoon in Europe, staying with 
 Hatherly as they passed through London, and returned to 
 America in time for Mrs. Lancing's confinement. On the 
 voyage west their places in the saloon were opposite an 
 untidy, cheerfully rebellious young man named Raymond 
 Stornaway, who was being despatched against his will to 
 Washington as a Third Secretary in the British Embassy. 
 At Trinity, Cambridge, he had been at least the most dis- 
 putatious of an advanced school of Philosophic Radicals 
 and was ready then, as throughout life, to express theories 
 on all subjects, ever posing as the simple, sane man in a 
 world of criminals and lunatics, but avoiding ofifence by 
 his obviously sincere belief in his ephemeral ideas. Books 
 undigested and phrases misunderstood simmered and boiled 
 in his eager brain, and throughout his conversation ran a
 
 36 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 strain of good-humoured cynicism instilled by a quarter of 
 a century of life as the younger son of an impoverished 
 peer with an obsolete conception of what became his family. 
 With the omniscience of five and twenty he poured out 
 ideas to Lancing as the two strolled up and down the decks 
 on the first night of an acquaintance arising out of Storn- 
 away's attack on all rich men of all countries and ages. 
 He was only waiting to become rich himself to instruct the 
 world. 
 
 "I wanted to go into business when I left school," he 
 confided, "but the family thought it was infra dig. Dam' 
 nonsense ! We're as poor as church mice. I want power, 
 sir; I feel I could do such a lot if I had the money. Very 
 few people know how to spend money on a large scale, but 
 I'm sure I'm one." 
 
 "What would you do?" asked his companion. "By the 
 way, my name's Lancing." 
 
 "Mine's Stornaway. Are you the Lancing? Then it's 
 quite clear I've put my foot into it." 
 
 "Tell me what you'd do, before we discuss that," Lanc- 
 ing suggested. "You may find that I'm one of the very 
 large class that doesn't know how to spend money on a big 
 scale. I've — I've never tried; I'm not sure that I should 
 know how to start. I simply put more and more money 
 into more and more things ; ultimately my income looks 
 like increasing beyond control. I — don't quite know how 
 it's come about." 
 
 Young Stornaway led the way to two chairs by the boat- 
 deck companionway and indulged in an hour-long mono- 
 logue on the social and political possibilities of wealth — the 
 eradication of disease, the control of opinion, the capture 
 of education — subjects which were afterwards to develop 
 into the yellow-paged essays in the safe. He was equally 
 prepared to start a revolution or stop a war; in his hands 
 money was equally potent for either. 
 
 "People tie themselves in such knots," Stornaway com- 
 plained. "They won't stick to the essentials. If you want 
 to make the world contented, if you want to make it do your
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 37 
 
 work, you must keep it healthy, warm and well-fed. To 
 make it discontented, arrange for some to be better fed 
 than others. Surely that's simple enough ? God knows, 
 I don't want to reform mankind, but with your money I 
 could. I'd play on their jealousy, which is one of the 
 strongest human instincts I know ; I'd plan a city. . . ." 
 
 With wild gesticulations and mischievous gurgles of 
 laughter, as his theme developed, Raymond Stornaway elab- 
 orated his scheme for a model industrial town with every 
 house a palace of luxury and every tenant secure in pos- 
 session as long as he observed his landlord's terms — "Turn 
 a man out, if he gets drunk twice; his wife will look at 
 her central heating, her labour-saving appliances, her pound 
 of comfort for a shilling of rent, and she'll take darned 
 good care that the first time her ruffian of a husband gets 
 drunk is also the last. The tenants will cling to their houses 
 like death, and, if you set up your model city at Pitts- 
 burg, all Bethlehem will go on strike until the people there 
 have model houses, and the strikes will spread until every- 
 one's living below cost. Spoil the market, spoil the market 
 for your rivals ; make them build model cities in competi- 
 tion, and in five years you'll have revolutionised working- 
 class housing conditions. Once your people are comfort- 
 able, clean and healthy, you can do something with them ; 
 and all the while they're tenants on your terms ; you can 
 reject a man who doesn't believe in the Trinity, you can 
 play such tricks with their moral, religious, political faith 
 as would stagger human imagination. You see that, sir?" 
 
 Aylmer Lancing had lagged a pace behind his young 
 friend's argument. 
 
 "I should have to think that out a bit," he said. 
 
 Stornaway hurried excitedly down a newly revealed 
 avenue. 
 
 "Think of the political effect of it, sir!" he exclaimed. 
 "Of course you've got to be rich, because you're feeding 
 and housing an entire people out of your own pocket, but, 
 once you've started, you can always make the other rich 
 men take their share, because no one's rich enough to be
 
 38 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 outdone by you. Well, start a scheme of housing reform 
 in Lancashire, make yourself king of your own people, buy 
 up the papers and shove them down people's throats below 
 cost. My dear sir, there will be strikes and riots until 
 everyone is living in the same luxury as your people. The 
 infection will spread to Yorkshire, carried by your sub- 
 sidised press ; there'll be parliamentary candidates ; in half 
 a dozen years not only will you have revolutionised housing 
 conditions, but you'll have given yourself feudal power 
 over the souls and bodies of your tenants. Of course, the 
 press has been shamefully neglected. . . ." 
 
 In a rapid digression young Stornaway sketched a news- 
 paper trust which was to undersell the old papers, ruin 
 them and buy the ruins at break-up prices until no single 
 paper remained outside the ring. Tories and Radicals 
 should have each their old, proper organ, but the direction 
 would come from a single controlling hand. And some day, 
 when opposition had been killed, the thousand mouths of the 
 trust would speak with one voice. And the controlling 
 hand would grasp such power as had never been wielded 
 before. 
 
 "It will take time to buy or break up old family prop- 
 erties like the 'Times' or tlie 'Alorning Post,' but you 
 can start doing it to-morrow. Hitherto the press has been 
 established by relatively poor men, who can't take fancy 
 risks ; now your first job is to see that every man in the 
 country gets a better paper at a cheaper price, whatever it 
 may cost you. Give it away, if you like, but see that it 
 gets everywhere; you can afford it, you can fling away 
 money for a year or two, if at the end you're going to get 
 your rivals coming to you on their knees. And your power 
 as head of a newspaper trust. . . . It's like my scheme 
 for getting control of public education. . . ," 
 
 The deck was growing gradually deserted, but Lancing 
 seemed disposed to sit listening for a while longer. Storn- 
 away pursued an unwearied course of explanatory declama- 
 tion. He was convinced that all thought and expression 
 could be controlled bv the man v/ho took the trouble to
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 39 
 
 control education. Existing schools and universities must 
 be left where they were for the present, but in rivalry any 
 rich man could establish a chain of private school, public 
 school and college with such endowments that the stream 
 of candidates would be drawn off the older schools and 
 diverted to the new. Once the pupils were secured, they 
 could be taught anything. 
 
 "You will have control of these boys and girls — don't for- 
 get to corrupt the girls' minds too ; they're the future 
 mothers — from six to twenty-six, starting with a kinder- 
 garten and ending with a travelling fellowship, fat scholar- 
 ships the whole way. You can decide that the only doc- 
 trines taught are to be the literal inspiration of the Old 
 Testament and Mill's Utilitarianism. The parents will fall 
 over one another to get their children in, if the scholarships 
 are large enough and you provide plenty to eat. There's 
 no insanity of education that you can't get people to swal- 
 low, if only it's sufficiently endowed. . . . Look what 
 they teach at an English public school ! Good God, when 
 I was at Cambridge, they solemnly insisted on my reading 
 Paley's 'Evidences of Christianity.' Now, think of my co- 
 lossal power, if I can set up private schools, public schools, 
 universities, where only my doctrines would be taught 
 and where the boys would simply have to come because 
 of the immense money prizes. ... I'd create a public 
 opinion among future public men — a school of statesmen. 
 After I'd been at it for thirty years, all your civil service 
 here and abroad, all your journalists, your soldiers, your 
 dons and school masters, your parliamentary candidates, 
 your parsons and labour leaders would all have been 
 through my mill. Not thirty years, no; but in relatively 
 short time. They might disagree as much as they pleased 
 with what they'd been taught, but they'd never be able 
 quite to shake it off; it would be like Christianity or the 
 'Wealth of Nations' ; their minds would be coloured by my 
 doctrines; I should be the intellectual currency of that 
 generation, and, after I'd gone, there'd be a crop of books 
 about me, a tradition, a school of thought. . . ."
 
 40 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Lancing cut into the frothing peroration with the first 
 objection that he had found time to frame before being 
 dragged off his feet and hurried through mazes of digres- 
 sion to new avenues of thought. 
 
 "But if you haven't got any particular doctrines?" he 
 demanded in slow perplexity. 
 
 "Oh, everyone has." 
 
 "Well, I haven't." 
 
 Young Stornaway looked at him incredulously for a mo- 
 ment, then ran both hands through his disordered mop of 
 reddish-brown hair. 
 
 "You couldn't have knocked about the world, you couldn't 
 have made all your money without philosophising and get- 
 ting all sorts of views and doctrines together." 
 
 "You must remember I was taken by surprise," Lancing 
 answered. "I'd never thought of thinking things out be- 
 fore ; I haven't had time since. But we must be getting to 
 bed. Let me know when you finally quarrel with your 
 relations and give up the Diplomatic. If you're still keen on 
 a commercial life, I may be able to give you an introduction. 
 My address " 
 
 "I suppose 'Lancing, America' will always find you," 
 Stornaway interrupted with a smile. 
 
 The two men did not meet again for three years. In 
 1888 Deryk was born, and for many months the centre of 
 gravity in Lancing's life was shifted. He attended his of- 
 fice perfunctorily and forgot his momentary questions of 
 soul on the political possibilities of wealth. Until he rousell 
 himself to break the Smelting and Refining Combine, his 
 rivals said that A. L. was a back-number, wholly sunk in 
 domesticity. The old problem remained, each year's end 
 saw him almost intolerably richer than before, more widely 
 and deeply committed; but he no longer troubled himself 
 about the future, and his wife no longer wondered what 
 kind of thing they were to make of their life ; whether they 
 lived in America or Europe depended on Deryk. Sitting 
 on the nursery floor, watching him in the slanting evening 
 sun, as he crawled and dragged himself over the rug or
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 41 
 
 stood precariously erect before toppling into a pile of cush- 
 ions, they were content to whisper endlessly of the life that 
 they would prepare for him. He was to be educated in 
 England; Aylmer Lancing still hated English public school 
 education, but he hated democracy more — he had found so 
 many opportunities of despising it; they would make a new 
 home for him as soon as his father could set his affairs 
 in order; and for an hour they would discuss where the 
 new home was to be and how Deryk was to be better taught 
 and trained than any boy of the past — as was fitting. . . . 
 
 The affairs were not in order when Raymond Stornaway 
 called at the big stone house on Riverside Drive in 1891. 
 He was being transferred to Rio, and the moment seemed 
 opportune for breaking with the Diplomatic Service and 
 trying his luck elsewhere before all initiative had died 
 within him. The Lancings entertained him at dinner and 
 picked up the threads of discussion where they had been 
 dropped three years before. Stornaway had grown ma- 
 turer in practical judgment, but was as voluble and full 
 of theories as ever. 
 
 "You'll never use your money till you're compelled to," 
 he told Lancing airily, as dinner drew to a close. "But I've 
 a theory that you'll have to before long. For one thing, 
 your financial interests extend to pretty well every country 
 in the world : well, there's bound to be political or indus- 
 trial trouble in one of them, and you'll have to settle it, if 
 you don't want to lose your money. What I want out of 
 you at the moment, though, is a job. I'm young, intelli- 
 gent, honest and extraordinarily ambitious ; I want you to 
 give me an opening, and I'll shew you what I'm made of." 
 
 A few enquiries and an introduction gave Stornaway his 
 chance with a firm of contractors in South America. When 
 they met four years later, Stornaway had travelled far and 
 fast and was in a position to demand a partnership, which 
 he got. Lancing's mind was preoccupied with other 
 thoughts that season. The news of the Jameson Raid had 
 disturbed two important markets, and he had a feeling that 
 one lawless Britisher, backed by a handful of mine-owners
 
 42 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 and considerable Jingo approbation, should not be allowed 
 to throw a peaceful industry into disorder and derange his 
 own operations. 
 
 "What do you make of this South African business?" 
 he asked moodily. 
 
 "It was bound to come," answered Stornaway without 
 hesitation. "When a self-centred agricultural community 
 happens to sit down on diamond-and-gold-yielding soil, I've 
 a theor}' that all the damned rapscallions of the world will 
 always come and make a disturbance. You can let 'em into 
 your peaceful country, and they'll make a hell of it ; or you 
 can try to keep them out, as the Dutch have been doing, 
 and you'll probably have your peaceful country grabbed 
 from you. You stand to lose anyway, like the Mexicans 
 and Peruvians, like the Indians of this country, if you like, 
 unless you're strong enough to repel the intruder." 
 
 "But the British Government can't conceivably justify 
 the Raid or support Jameson," objected Lancing. 
 
 Stornaway's chubby face lined itself into a cynical smile. 
 
 "Not now, perhaps," he conceded. "But the South Afri- 
 can diamond men are rich and not over-scrupulous. And 
 they're a lot more enterprising than you. Lancing. They'll 
 propagandise Westminster. You've always got these two 
 irreconcilables in South Africa, and, when the time's ripe, 
 there'll be another disturbance, another raid. 'This is the 
 second time,' our Government will say. 'It's getting be- 
 yond a joke. You Boers can't run your own show; we 
 must protect British interests.' Then they'll send a gunboat 
 or two and a column, the Press will work up the Majuba 
 business for all it's worth and we shall establish a protec- 
 torate over the Dutch republics. I told you years ago, when 
 we first discussed the subject, that a rich man could have 
 a war or a revolution for the asking." 
 
 Lancing brooded over his young friend's facile generali- 
 sations. 
 
 "Could he stop it?" he asked at length. "Even I know 
 that it's easier to destroy than to build up." 
 
 "If he's rich enough," was the prompt reply. "You — I
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 43 
 
 mean all the people with money can threaten to refuse a 
 loan. You can refuse other things, too — steel, lead, pro- 
 pellants, explosives — I gather that this South African rum- 
 pus is affecting you ? Well, I told you that you'd expanded 
 so far that sooner or later you'd be sensitive to any kind 
 of disturbance in any part of the world. You'd better 
 study the raw material of war and make a corner." 
 
 Sir Aylmer interrupted his reverie to push back his chair 
 and accept the support of Hatherly's arm from the dining- 
 room to his own study. He had been waiting for Deryk 
 to come back and could not imagine where he had gone ; it 
 was not much to ask of him that he should remain in the 
 room till the end of dinner on his first night at home ; ap- 
 parently he had not changed much in two years. 
 
 "How is Raymond?" Hatherly asked, as he pulled two 
 armchairs to the fire and arranged a rest for Sir Aylmer's 
 feet. 
 
 "As — effervescent as ever," was the reply, given a little 
 grudgingly. Sir Aylmer never understood how he came 
 to surrender so easily and often to Raymond's spell ; yet, 
 after their two-minute discussion of the Jameson Raid, he 
 had set his mind to work for the first time on the wider 
 potentialities of money. A growing intelligence depart- 
 ment, collected automatically and of necessity to watch on 
 his behalf what he had neither time nor knowledge to watch 
 for himself, guided his hesitating steps beyond the limits of 
 pure commerce. Each earlier development had followed 
 logically from the one before ; he had built a railroad to 
 carry grain, he had bought lumber and steel to build a 
 railroad. Hitherto he had not confused commerce with 
 politics; that steady concentration of purpose, indeed, dis- 
 tinguished him from old Diethelm, who was always flitting 
 between Frankfurt, Paris, London and New York, tr}'ing 
 to consolidate the international bankers and open their eyes 
 to a realisation of their own diplomatic powers. (It was
 
 44 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 quite impracticable, whatever Raymond Stornaway might 
 say; the London issue houses suspected a ruse for pooling 
 a profitable business, and in New York the Gregory group 
 had, as ever, declined to work with a Jewish bank. Diet- 
 helm was a visionary — like Raymond.) Carnegie was win- 
 ning the visible success of being allowed at his own expense 
 to build peace halls and arbitration courts — another vision- 
 ary. Stahl and Marlowe were believed to have an inter- 
 est in several armament rings, which was to get on nodding 
 terms with reality; but Lancing went to work as a relaxa- 
 tion and in a spirit of experiment. There was nothing 
 much in it. . . . Even with the help of Carnegie and 
 Gould, Harriman and Rockefeller, Astor and Morgan, he 
 .could not hope to buy Woolwich, Skoda and Essen, as he 
 had bought the Great Lakes Steamship Company and the 
 New Mexico and Montana Railway. There were political 
 obstacles which the minted wealth of the world could not 
 overcome. If the works were to continue, they must, of 
 course, be supplied with raw material, and, if a gun needed 
 iron ore and tungsten, copper and nickel, presumably that 
 gun lay at the mercy of the man who held the available 
 world's supply. 
 
 Slow and profoundly sceptical. Lancing learned all that 
 his intelligence department could teach him about tungsten; 
 he started with a virgin mind, not knowing where or how 
 tungsten was obtained; as his interest quickened, he laid 
 his plans for the monopoly of its supply; the project of 
 interfering with the armament works of the world yielded 
 place to a larger project of controlling the world's sup- 
 plies of steel by establishing a monopoly of that which was 
 necessary to harden steel. It was long since he had taken 
 a big risk; never had he tried to concentrate in his own 
 hands the supply of a single commodity. This would be 
 power, if he succeeded, and he worked hard, for Deryk 
 was now eight, and they had decided to take him over to 
 England the following year. Throughout the spring and 
 summer of. 1896 he was in his ofifice from seven in the 
 morning until nine at night, patiently silent in his rec-
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 45 
 
 tangnlar glass box, listening without comment by the hour 
 and abruptly making up his slow-moving mind. Deryk and 
 his mother bathed and played at Atlantic City, when New 
 York became too hot for them; but Lancing refused to 
 follow them until his new project was in train. When he 
 came, it was to bid them accompany him for a six month's 
 cruise in the Pacific. The work was unfinished, hardly 
 begun, but he had been picked up unconscious from the 
 floor of his private office, where he sat ostentatiously with 
 the door open, to shew New York that he was accessible ; 
 his doctor told him that he was suffering from nervous 
 strain. For a time the right side of his face was puckered, 
 and he could not speak distinctly. Then his control re- 
 turned, but the memory of the sudden surrender of brain, 
 the puckered mouth, the stiffness down one side of his body 
 frightened him, and he was a tractable patient. 
 
 At the end of the six months he returned to New York 
 and reported formally to the doctor, who declined to pro- 
 nounce him fit for work and ordered a further rest. Lanc- 
 ing, slowly deciding that all was not well with him, called 
 in a specialist and had himself re-examined. This time 
 there was no loose talk about nervous strain ; he was told 
 that, in the sense of the word understood in New York, he 
 would never be able to work again. 
 
 "A, L. is a back-number," he said to himself, as he drove 
 to his office ; he repeated the words mechanically, as he set 
 about furtively destroying a number of papers dealing with 
 undertakings which he would never finish. The phrase 
 had sprung from a forgotten pocket of his memory, and 
 he used it dispassionately and without rancour, though he 
 could have wished for any other tag to come and relieve 
 duty. "I am going to take another holiday, Gwen," he 
 announced that night in the same even tone, though he 
 looked deliberately round the drawing-room on Riverside 
 Drive rather than at his wife, who would now see him only 
 in his degradation. "It will last as long as I do," he went 
 on. "The fool doctor says I may travel and pick up cups
 
 46 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 and saucers, like J. P. Morgan. Or I can sign cheques 
 for free libraries half an hour a day, if I promise to stop 
 
 when I'm tired. Or I can " He stopped suddenly, 
 
 and his voice leapt shrill and hoarse. "Gwen, I'm done 
 for ! They're never going to let me vi^ork again ! !" 
 
 The next day, deaf to protests, he left the house at seven 
 to begin collecting and tidying the work of fifteen years 
 before leaving America for ever. Whatever happened, he 
 must clear things up before the next stroke; Gwen and the 
 boy must be provided for, and there was no one to help 
 him, no one he could trust, no one who knew anything 
 about the business. Since the earliest days he had worked 
 alone, because he could not tolerate the system of yielding 
 to a majority among his colleagues, when he knew them to 
 be wrong; alone the work would have to be finished, but 
 it was like punting with a sprung pole ; the next thrust 
 might well be the last. Some little minor help was forth- 
 coming on the other side, and Hatherly was instructed by 
 cable to make ready in England; Raymond Stornaway, 
 passing through New York on his way to purge Panama 
 of fever and, though he knew it not, to leave his health 
 behind there, offered his brother's house in Sussex for the 
 new home. (Raymond always bustled up with some fantas- 
 tic project! What was the use of a dilapidated house to 
 a man in his state? It was offered as a plaything, a dis- 
 traction.) The offer was made at the beginning of dinner, 
 when Lancing was wondering whether a man was justified 
 in ending this sort of thing, putting himself out of his 
 misery, as the phrase went. He drank a bottle of cham- 
 pagne, however, though his doctor had warned him that 
 action and reaction were equal and opposite; gradually 
 he felt better, later he knew that he was going to get 
 quite well again. So the onlookers, who trooped into the 
 office to say good-bye, were shewn an "A. L." as determined 
 and as steady-eyed as ever ; indeed, rather quicker in mak- 
 ing up his mind and impatient with the inevitably slow for- 
 mation of the Lancing Trust Corporation. He could make 
 it no quicker; he was working ten hours a day for seven
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 47 
 
 days a week, dragged out for three months in defiance of 
 a labouring heart and tattered nerves. And it didn't help 
 things when fools came and told him how bad he looked; 
 as if he did not know it! For the last week he was living 
 on dry biscuits, champagne, coffee and cigars; the cor- 
 poration had to be launched. And on the night when his 
 work was done, he was carried home to die. Nothing could 
 save a man, said the doctor, if he tried so hard to kill 
 himself. 
 
 For three months Lancing lay in a darkened room, pant- 
 ing as his heart raced and stopped, trembling at distant 
 sounds and wondering when the blood, which surged to his 
 head like a river in flood, would burst through the skull 
 like water from a broken main. The bone, he knew, was 
 thin as paper, for the "clock-clock" of trotting horses on 
 Riverside Drive stung and bruised his unprotected brain. 
 For the first month his wife was with him night and day; 
 by gripping her wrist he could remain in bed when the ship 
 rolled. (Evidently they were taking him to England, as 
 arranged, and had carried the house bodily on board to 
 avoid disturbing him; it was hard to believe that any ship 
 could keep afloat when it rolled until he felt himself falling 
 perpendicularly out of bed.) After the first month she dis- 
 appeared. He was convinced that she had gone overboard 
 in one of the recent heavy seas, and cried like a child, with 
 long, quivering sobs, until she was led in between two 
 nurses. Then he cried because she, too, was ill. At the 
 end of the second month he began to sleep naturally, all 
 night and most of the day, being roused for a few moments 
 to have milk poured into his mouth. The room had be- 
 come steadier, and the bone was growing more over his 
 naked, pulsating brain, though he still panted as though 
 he had been running. Once he enquired, slowly but clearly, 
 where his wife was ; the doctor said that she was asleep. A 
 week later she was rather unwell ; as he gained strength, the 
 reports of her grew graver; only when he was strong 
 enough for the news, did he learn that she had died a month 
 before.
 
 48 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 On a late summer afternoon of 1897 Hatherly waited to 
 recognise and greet a friend of his own age, whom he had 
 not seen for ten years. He looked long for a tall, black- 
 haired man of forty-six with an aquiline nose and obstinate 
 mouth ; all that he discovered, led thereto by an overwrought 
 boy of nine in black clothes, was a grey and bearded old 
 man with restless eyes and flickering lids, who had been 
 carried down the gangway by one set of men and was seem- 
 ingly waiting to be carried elsewhere by others. Hatherly 
 took charge and bore his friend to a private nursing home 
 in the country, while he chose a school for Deryk and 
 bought Ripley Court from the Stornaways, as though he 
 were buying a ready-made coat in a storm of rain. Some- 
 thing had to be done very quickly for a man who would be 
 an invalid for the rest of his life ; it would be time enough 
 for recriminations later on. "Whatever you think best, per- 
 per-perfectly sat'sfied," was Lancing's unvarying stam- 
 mered comment, as he sat huddled in bed, staring out of 
 the window and gently scratching at the sheet with long, 
 claw-like fingers. Six months before he had not been satis- 
 fied with anything that lacked his seal and imprimatur ; he 
 would have cleaned his own windows, if he could, because 
 others did the work less well. 
 
 The sight of Lancing's helplessness drove Hatherly to a 
 Quixotic act of sacrifice hardly justified by any claim of 
 friendship. He called his two partners together and told 
 them that he proposed to confine himself in future to the 
 care of the Lancings and their estate. For years Deryk 
 could expect no attention from his father, and he looked at 
 first sight too highly strung to be neglected in any way ; for 
 the rest of his life Aylmer Lancing would be unequal to the 
 single control of his own afifairs. "I'm not doing this for 
 my own amusement," Hatherly explained ruefully, already 
 half repentant, when his partners mildly expostulated at the 
 unexpected break-up of the firm. 
 
 From that day he did nothing for his own amusement, 
 and such amusement as came to him was slight. He was 
 sacrificing himself in middle life to a dying man, whose will
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 49 
 
 was never so masterful as when he lay nearest to death. 
 After the first month he deliberately took stock and asked 
 himself whether he could possibly continue. His own will 
 was being so steadily checked, disregarded and set aside that 
 he felt the lines of his personality becoming blurred ; he was 
 treated like a down-trodden wife (as, had he known it, 
 Gwendolen Lancing had come to be treated within two years 
 of Deryk's birth) ; he was becoming an obedient shadow 
 like the recently engaged male nurse (but he was paid to 
 be docile and unresentful). Yet what good did this stock- 
 taking do? He could not abandon the Lancings, if he 
 wanted to — any more than a swimmer could stand and 
 watch a child drowning; you might not like spoiling your 
 clothes, but it could not be avoided. . , . Sir Aylmer brooded 
 for months over his dead wife and his own powerlessness, 
 vaguely conscious that for years before her death they had 
 drifted apart; not knowing why; wondering why she had 
 become so inanimate ; then he would feel a tremor of de- 
 ceptive strength returning to his worn-out body, and for a 
 week would plan, direct and execute with the fury of his 
 own youth. The spasm of energy would pass as abruptly 
 as it had come, and he would sink back into morose inertia, 
 varied by outbursts of violent irritability. 
 
 The neighbouring houses, suspicious of American mil- 
 lionaires, spent a cautious year in testing him, only to find 
 that their lives held nothing in common, and that he was 
 too preoccupied to meet them. Hatherly tried to find him 
 society by choosing suitable tenants, but of all who came to 
 settle on the estate Colonel Penrose, a widower in retire- 
 ment from the Indian Army, was the only one who estab- 
 lished a foothold in the house. Three years earlier Pen- 
 rose had got at loggerheads with the War Office, and had 
 been told in effect that, interesting as were his views on 
 army reform, he must do his prescribed work in the pre- 
 scribed way or send in his papers. Petulant and never 
 dreaming that anyone would get rid of a man merely be- 
 cause he was enlightened, Penrose resigned his commission, 
 cut short a career that he loved, and returned to England
 
 50 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 with his two children, to live narrowly in a cottage on the 
 fringe of the Ripley estate, to lose odd sums of money by 
 speculation and to bandy grievances with his landlord. After 
 his fever in Panama and consequent retirement from busi- 
 ness, Raymond Stornaway would run down for a week-end, 
 in part out of old regard and sympathy, in part to discuss 
 the great philanthropic organisations to which he was de- 
 voting the rest of his life ; of other society there was none, 
 and Deryk himself was so highly wrought that during his 
 school holidays he was deliberately kept away from the 
 morbid hush of the sick-room. Not until he was halfway 
 through his time at Eton, did his father seem to take cogni- 
 sance of him ; it was Hatherly who chose schools, paid bills 
 and administered reprimands, who visited him for all school 
 functions and carried him abroad for the holidays. The 
 sight of the boy, with his mother's dark hair and nervous, 
 quickly-dilating eyes, always recalled the eight years of mar- 
 ried life on Riverside Drive, when all the world with its 
 sunshine and flowers lay before the Lancings and their boy, 
 and when he had for some reason failed to get the best out 
 of life ; he could never look back on that time without 
 breaking into savage self-pity. 
 
 When Deryk was sixteen, his father discovered him. 
 For a few days at the beginning or close of the holidays 
 they had met at Ripley Park, each confusedly regarding the 
 other more as an institution than as a blood relation. They 
 had never talked together nor exchanged confidences until 
 Hatherly raised the question what was to be done when 
 Deryk left school. The question came with a shock, and 
 Aylmer found himself summoning his thoughts from afar 
 and concentrating them on an absorbing problem. Hitherto 
 he had ridden the hobbies that his neighbours suggested, 
 demolishing and rebuilding half the house, collecting black- 
 figure pottery, laying out the gardens afresh, even start- 
 ing a racing stable. His interests were now focussed on 
 his family, as they had been once before when he and his 
 wife dreamed and made plans for their boy. It seemed 
 that Deryk had been at a public school for two and a half
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 51 
 
 years; that he was a scholar of promise, more than a year 
 younger than any boy in his division; that he could look 
 forward to an academic career of distinction ; that, so far as 
 an outsider could judge, he had achieved a certain popu- 
 larity. From a supplementary account of their holidays on 
 the continent, it appeared that he could speak fluent French 
 and German, and was at home with Italian and Spanish. He 
 was credited further with great musical talent, but of this 
 Hatherly was not in a position to judge. 
 
 As Lancing wheeled himself about the house or drove into 
 the neighbouring forest or onto the Downs for his daily 
 exercise, life seemed less empty, and the routine of food, 
 work, recreation and rest a shade less wearisome. He had 
 handed on to his son the seeds of his own vigour and apti- 
 tude before they were paralysed; there was a possibility 
 of living again in his son's body. Thereafter Deryk had 
 to spend rather more of his holidays at home, and his father 
 talked, a little nervously, about the future, and let fall anec- 
 dotes about the past. The boy certainly did not pass mus- 
 ter in his present shape; he looked delicate and neurotic, 
 he was absorbed in a world of pictures, books and music, 
 from which he could only be roused with difficulty to in- 
 terest himself in the material life of living men and women, 
 and, when the house filled, as it inevitably did, with a 
 heterogeneous gathering of men and women who were 
 leaving a mark on the administration and politics of their 
 > country, he had a habit of shutting him.self up in the library 
 and neglecting not only his father's guests but his own 
 opportunities. 
 
 Hatherly looked on with misgiving and a pang of some- 
 thing that he would not admit was jealousy; it was but 
 natural that Aylmer Lancing should become absorbed in his 
 r own son, that he should seek to mould and direct him, but 
 he was enjoying the fruit of others' work without consult- 
 ing them or being guided by their opinions and experience. 
 Now, if there were one thing more clear than another, it 
 was that Deryk ought not to spend much time at Ripley 
 Court, where the only youthful society was provided by
 
 52 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 little Idina Penrose, who was his confidante, slave and 
 hero-worshipper ; he ought not to hve in that silent, deserted 
 house with that pack of old men. Had not Forsyte, the 
 local doctor, described him as "an old man's child"? He 
 was highly strung, and there was every likelihood of his 
 brain's exhausting his body and nerves. Sir Aylmer seemed 
 to regard the great house as an empty frame and Deryk as 
 a canvas that had to be covered with a suitable picture; 
 he would not let him develop naturally. . . . From Eton the 
 boy passed to Magdalen and in four years won two firsts 
 and a university prize. He was in the running for a fel- 
 lowship, but his father intervened arbitrarily with a wider 
 ambition. Hatherly found difficulty in curbing his impa- 
 tience. . . . 
 
 "It is not my idea that you should bury yourself in Ox- 
 ford," Lancing told his son at the end of a silent dinner 
 on the night after the class lists had been published. "With 
 the money that I can put at your back " 
 
 "What's the good of money, if I can't do what I want?" 
 Deryk interrupted impatiently. "I haven't got to earn my 
 own living, so why can't I lead the kind of life I want to ?" 
 
 "Money carries responsibilities, Deryk. You can't just 
 put your feet up and read a book." 
 
 "I don't propose to. I propose to work, but it's work of 
 the kind that appeals to me. I've been at it for a year or 
 two ; they say up there that I shall do it well ; why can't I 
 go on with it?" 
 
 "You're only twenty-three," said Sir Aylmer. "You've 
 seen very little of the world " 
 
 "I don't want to see the beastly world." 
 
 "We shall not do any good by discussing this further." 
 
 Since first he went to school, fifteen years earlier, Deryk 
 had been broken to the habit of obedience; the habit had 
 never been strained, for his wants were simple and had 
 generally been gratified. 
 
 "I am proposing that you should go round the world . . . ," 
 continued Lancing, leaning back with his bony hands on
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 53 
 
 the arms of his chair, like a patriarch giving judgment. 
 Deryk looked despairingly at Hatherly, but no support was 
 forthcoming; Hatherly had deserted him. 
 
 "I want to try for this fellowship," he objected, rather 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "It will be time enough to consider what you really want 
 to do, when you come back." 
 
 "It'll be too late then." 
 
 "You are of age, Deryk," said Lancing, in conclusion, 
 "but as long as you live here I shall expect my wishes to 
 be consulted." 
 
 For two days the boy carried about a scowling face and 
 a tragic manner; on the third he capitulated, after a talk 
 in which Hatherly came like an unsuccessful ambassador to 
 explain that, so long as Aylmer Lancing controlled the 
 finances of the house, opposition was impracticable. "You 
 haven't got the fellowship yet, but, if you had, I take it 
 that you wouldn't want to break with your father and try 
 to live on it. You've got to give in, so you may as well 
 do it with a good grace." A month later the travellers set 
 out, and, before the boat reached Alexandria, he had for- 
 gotten his wild charges of injustice and tyranny in the rap- 
 ture of entering new worlds; their time-table was thrown 
 into disorder at the outset, and from Bombay he cabled 
 home for leave to extend their programme. His father 
 smiled a little wearily and cabled back his approval ; he had 
 taken the trouble to think this thing out, and it would save 
 so much time and acrimony if other people would think a 
 little more instead of hastily opposing him and afterwards 
 admitting that he was right. No one ever knew how much 
 he grudged the extra year's absence, nor how hard he found 
 it to insist on Deryk's going; but the boy had to be taught 
 by his own observation and experience what would be ex- 
 pected of his position; he must see wherein he was dif- 
 ferent from his fellows. No doubt it was very interesting 
 to pore over his books and establish where a caravan route 
 had run three hundred years before Christ, but that sort of 
 thing led nowhere at all, it could not be combined with the
 
 54 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 social and political power which his money would give 
 him ; when Deryk was less of a precocious schoolboy, he 
 would not want to combine it. . , . 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike eleven, and 
 Sir Aylmer's shaggy, grey eyebrows met in a straight, 
 frowning bar; it was intolerable that after two years' pol- 
 ishing Deryk should be the same heedless, undisciplined, 
 self-centred, mannerless hobbledehoy. 
 
 "Ring tliat bell, Ted," he ordered peremptorily. "I will 
 know where Deryk's got to." 
 
 "What are you going to do with him now that you've 
 got him home ?" Hatherly asked lazily, as he walked to the 
 fireplace. Sir Aylmer's tone suggested that sharp words 
 were going to be exchanged. 
 
 "You asked me that at dinner," was the curt reply. "It 
 depends on what sort of man you've made of him." 
 
 "Oh, I've done nothing. There was no need. You see, 
 he doesn't drink, doesn't gamble — he's too fastidious to have 
 any vices " 
 
 "No entanglements?" asked Sir Aylmer. His voice was 
 even, but the watchful, deep-set eyes were curious. 
 
 "He's entirely uninterested in women, except to idealise 
 them from a distance." 
 
 "That by itself won't save a man," said Sir Aylmer drily. 
 
 "Well, he gave me no trouble of any kind." 
 
 Sir Aylmer sat in reflective silence for a moment. 
 
 "I suppose it wasn't generally known who he was," he 
 suggested at length, as though pursuing his own line of 
 thought. 
 
 When his father's summons at length reached him, Deryk 
 left the library and bounded through the west corridor and 
 hall in shirt sleeves, with his hands and arms overflowing 
 with little boxes and a tangle of lace and silk. He took an 
 active pleasure in slamming a door or two and whistling as 
 he ran ; the silence of the house was a thing to be resisted.
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 55 
 
 "I've been unpacking," he explained in answer to Sir 
 Aylmer's look of enquiry. 
 
 "Talbot would have done that," said his father shortly, 
 though his expression of sternness relaxed at sight of his 
 lithe, handsome son. "It's part of his work." 
 
 Deryk wriggled his shoulder-blades impatiently. 
 
 "I can't stand a crowd of footmen fussing round me!" 
 he exclaimed. "I'm half afraid to blow my own nose in 
 this house. Besides, he'd have smashed everything. Look 
 here, dad, you said at dinner that you'd got a mob of peo- 
 ple coming here ; I've been selecting suitable presents. When 
 are they due, and who's coming?" 
 
 "To-morrow," answered Sir Aylmer. "By the way, 
 Deryk, you'll remember not to go about in shirt sleeves, 
 when they're here? It's rather a weakness of yours." 
 
 "I'll behave like a perfect gentleman," sighed Deryk, with 
 humorous resignation. "Who's coming?" 
 
 "Several people. Raymond and his niece ; George and 
 Beryl Oakleigh — I don't think you know them ; Sum.mer- 
 town and his sister ; one of the Dainton boys and his sister — 
 a good many of your friends, and a few of mine — I can't 
 give them you out of my head. The night after next I've 
 arranged for a little dance and invited the people round 
 about here; to-morrow we shall just have a quiet dinner 
 to ourselves, no one from outside." 
 
 Deryk nodded without any great show of interest. Yo- 
 lande Stornaway was an old ally, and her name alone was 
 welcome. 
 
 "Is Dina Penrose coming?" he asked. "I've chosen her 
 rather a jolly necklace." 
 
 "I'm not having anyone from outside to-morrow," his 
 father repeated. "The hounds are meeting here on the 
 morning of the dance — Pebbleridge rang up to ask if it 
 would amuse you ; the fixture was for Bishop's Cross itself, 
 but I hear that's under water; those are the only arrange- 
 ments I've made. I thought we might talk things over be- 
 fore anyone comes. Before that, though, I want to know
 
 S6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 what you are thinking of doing with yourself now you're 
 home." 
 
 Deryk stretched out his foot and pulled a small table 
 to the side of his chair. On this he carefully set out the 
 boxes and trinkets which he had been carrying, tossed the 
 lace onto the floor, and got up in search of a cigarette. He 
 knew that the question must come, but he was in no hurry 
 to answer it ; and he hated the theatrical setting — return of 
 heir from abroad, conseil de famille, the choice of a career, 
 family solicitor in attendance — "a serious moment in your 
 life, my dear boy." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of doing anything in particular," he 
 said at length, throwing his head back and watching through 
 half-closed eyes the wavering spirals of smoke. "I've got 
 my books here and I can work at them. It's too late to go 
 back to Oxford, and I don't know that I could settle down 
 there now after wandering about so much." He looked at 
 his father, a little embarrassed by his silence and intimi- 
 dated, as always, by these stiff, unsympathetic encounters 
 in which he was ever outnumbered. "I want to start again 
 where I left off two years ago — there's a tremendous lot to 
 be done ; I should work here part of the time and part of 
 the time in London, I should have to go abroad a good bit. 
 
 As I say, there's a tremendous lot to do, and, er " He 
 
 hesitated on finding that he was repeating himself, "Well, 
 that was my scheme. It's just a question whether you care 
 to find the money." 
 
 Sir Aylmer sat for several moments in a thoughtful si- 
 lence, stroking his chin between thumb and first finger. 
 
 "You've never considered a more — public career?" he 
 asked at length. "Parliament?" Deryk grimaced in dis- 
 favour. "The Diplomatic? I don't want you to feel later 
 on that you've buried your talents." 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the edge 
 of the club fender. 
 
 "Any talents I've got are purely academic," he said. "I 
 don't take the least interest in this House of Commons 
 racket, and I shouldn't be the least good at it. As for the
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 57 
 
 Diplomatic — my dear dad, I happened to know one or two 
 forsaken brutes marooned in our different embassies. Noth- 
 ing like good enough." 
 
 Sir Aylmer said nothing, and his fingers began to toy 
 with the trinkets on the table. Rejoicing to break up the 
 family council so quickly, Deryk jumped up, pushed Hath- 
 erly's chair round, so that he could see, and prepared to ex- 
 plain. There were conventional ivory elephants, large and 
 small, moonstone brooches and necklaces, filigree balls and 
 ebony boxes, brass pots from Benares and trays from Mo- 
 rocco — an impetuous, youthful and undiscriminating col- 
 lection. 
 
 "I've got a Buddha for you in the library," he told his 
 father. "And one of my only two tiger skins for Hats. 
 Genuine old mantilla, guaranteed to pass through a wedding 
 ring; Yolande Stornaway can have that. I want to see 
 Yolande again, . . . Rich blue silk kimono, as worn by all 
 the best people in Formosa, that's for Sally Farwell; you 
 said she was coming, didn't you? A few hundred yards 
 of Teneriffe lace — not yet allocated. A sumptuously em- 
 broidered " 
 
 "This is a beautiful thing, Der}'k," interrupted Sir Ayl- 
 mer. 
 
 The boy threw aside a crimson silk tea-gown and looked 
 at the case which his father was holding. Circling three 
 times round the velvet boss lay a pearl necklace of ex- 
 quisite harmony and colour. 
 
 "Isn't he a ripper?" cried Deryk, his eyes shining with 
 pleasure. "I got him in Paris for Dina Penrose ; I wanted 
 to give her something decent." 
 
 Sir Aylmer raised his eyebrows and looked wonderingly 
 at his son. 
 
 "My dear boy ! you mustn't go giving expensive presents 
 of jewelry in this way!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "We can afford it," Deryk answered easily. 
 
 "That's not tlie point. You must know that a girl of her 
 age can't accept pearls from a man of your age. I've never 
 heard of such a thing."
 
 58 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk laughed and shook his head. 
 
 "She'll take it from me all right," he predicted. "We've 
 always been brought up in each other's pockets " 
 
 Sir Aylraer drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair. 
 
 "But surely I wrote and told you " 
 
 "About the smash ? I know. Well, I don't suppose she's 
 got anyone to give her things now. I — I wish somethings 
 could be done for her, dad." 
 
 "Something has been done," answered Sir Aylmer im- 
 patiently. "She's living rent free at Ivy Cottage, I've made 
 myself responsible for the boy's education, and I've found 
 her a position as companion in the neighbourhood, and there 
 she must work out her own salvation. Please stick to one 
 thing at a time. If she were my daughter, and you gave 
 her this necklace, I should forbid her to accept it ; so would 
 her father, if he were still alive; so would any father. To 
 you it may seem all very foolish and conventional, but the 
 world's prejudices have to be respected." 
 
 Deryk's lips parted for an impatient rejoinder, but Hath- 
 erly caught his eye and frowned warningly. 
 
 "I'm blest if I can see what all the fuss is about," the 
 boy grumbled with only a partially successful attempt at 
 good-humour. "It's your money, though, and if you say 
 I'm not to " 
 
 Sir Aylmer interrupted with a loftily tolerant gesture 
 of the hand. 
 
 "I don't want there to be any question of my saying what 
 you may or may not do, Deryk. I can assure you that it 
 wouldn't be considered good form for you to give such a 
 present, and I know that after that you won't waste an- 
 other thought on the thing. Going back to the other ques- 
 tion, my father sent me into a profession for which I had 
 no taste or aptitude ; I don't want to repeat that mistake 
 with you, but, whatever else you may do, you'll have to give 
 considerable time to mastering the first principles of busi- 
 ness. You're going to inherit a great deal of money " 
 
 Deryk's attention had wandered, and he was playing with
 
 SI VIEILLESSE SAVAIT ... 59 
 
 a cavalcade of ivory elephants. At his father's last words, 
 however, he looked up. 
 
 "How much are you worth, dad?" he enquired. 
 
 Sir Aylmer looked at him and then looked away at the 
 fire ; as the silence lengthened, Deryk's eyes met Hatherly's, 
 and the two waited with conscious expectancy. 
 
 "How much do you think?" Sir Aylmer said at length. 
 "Please stop fidgeting with those elephants." 
 
 Deryk flushed at the reproach, and dug his hands into 
 his pockets. 
 
 "I've honestly no idea," he said. "A million?" 
 
 This time his father hardly hesitated at all ; his mind was 
 made up, and his eyes, with a question in them, turned for 
 confirmation to Hatherly, who answered with a quick nod. 
 
 "More than that, Deryk ; my annual income is over a 
 million." 
 
 Deryk whistled, and sat staring at his father with wide- 
 eyed astonishment. 
 
 "But how the deuce d'you manage to get rid of it?" he 
 demanded. 
 
 "That is a question which you'll have to answer in your 
 time," Sir Aylmer replied, as he looked at the clock and 
 motioned to Hatherly for help in getting out of his chair.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 what's bred in the bone 
 
 The old believe everything; the middle-aged suspect everything; 
 the young knovvr everything. 
 
 Oscar Wilde : Phrases and Philosophies f orthe Use of the Young. 
 
 On the afternoon of the following day the house-party 
 began to assemble. Deryk felt that the whole thing was 
 rather unnecessary, and would probably be very boring at 
 a time when he wanted to be busy tidying his books and 
 seeing what had happened to all his possessions in the last 
 two years. There was a pomposity, too, about his father 
 at such times which was rather exasperating, far too much 
 fuss and nonsense about "the return of the young heir" and 
 the young heir's general deportment. But it was something 
 to fill the great barrack of a house, and he had not come 
 across any of these people for years. He entered into the 
 enthusiasm of the servants, who were making such prepara- 
 tions as Ripley Court had not seen since it changed hands, 
 for the coming-of-age celebrations four years earlier had — 
 perhaps mercifully — been cut short by one of Sir Aylmer's 
 sudden attacks of illness. He flitted from room to room, 
 asking questions and pouring out suggestions ; only at rare 
 intervals did his mind revert to his father's conversation 
 overnight. At tea-time he M^as discovered on the stairs, 
 working out rough calculations on the back of an envelope. 
 
 "You'll change out of those clothes before anyone comes, 
 won't you, Deryk?" said Sir Aylmer, with a look of dis- 
 favour at a shapeless Norfolk jacket and flannel trousers. 
 "What are you doing there?" 
 
 Deryk smothered a sigh and wrote down the last line of 
 figures. 
 
 60
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 6i 
 
 "It's what you said last night," he answered. "A million 
 a year ; divide by fifty ; that's roughly £20,000 a week. Divide 
 by seven ; say £3,000 a day. Twenty-four hours in a day ; 
 that's roughly £120 an hour. Two pounds a minute !" He 
 looked up from the paper, and his eyes dilated in bewil- 
 derment. "Had you ever worked it out like that, dad? 
 Two pounds a minute — a fiver while we've been talking — 
 night and day, summer and winter!" 
 
 Sir Aylmer leaned over the side of his wheeled chair and 
 took the paper. 
 
 "It's rather more than that," he said with the detach- 
 ment of accuracy. "I said a million, to put it in round 
 figures, but it was well over that the last time I took stock, 
 nearly two years ago, at the time that I built the new wing 
 for the Crawleigh hospital." 
 
 "When they made you a Bart?" Deryk asked. "Why 
 didn't you stick out for a peerage ?" 
 
 Sir Aylmer frowned and made no answer. He had no 
 desire for a peerage, and had not welcomed the baronetcy. 
 It was too much and too little. If these honours meant 
 anything, they should not be given to any rich man who 
 spared a fraction of his wealth for charity; if they meant 
 nothing, he would sooner be without them. He had a posi- 
 tion of his own, which he had made for himself ; he did not 
 choose to be tolerated in company with half a dozen com- 
 pany promoters and Rand mine-owners like Sir Adolf Erck- 
 mann of Priory Court. He was not going to buy himself 
 into a society which thought itself too good for him ; either 
 England had a place for him in its social scale, or it had 
 not ; he was not going to out-bid Erckmann in surrounding 
 himself with the more venal section of the impoverished 
 nobility. On the whole, the English aristocracy and he were 
 both too good for that. In the early days he had been 
 tempted to tell Sir Roger Dainton or Lord Pebbleridge that 
 their social influence was a small thing to a man who had 
 broken the Smelting and Refining Combine, that Lord Peb- 
 bleridge's scattered 80,000 acres bulked small beside the con- 
 trol of transportation in eleven states. A trifling change in
 
 62 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 the freight tariff of the IlHnois-Iowa-Colorado Raih'oad 
 would enable com to be grown at a profit on the Bishop's 
 Cross estate. ... As for Dainton — Sir Aylmer sometimes 
 smiled as he drove far and wide through Sussex and Hamp- 
 shire, idly counting the public houses consecrated "entirely" 
 to Dainton's Melton ales ; he could cripple Sir Roger and 
 reduce Lady Dainton's self-esteem by inflating the price of 
 glucose ; it would be a costly lesson to administer, but he 
 could afford it, while Dainton could not. Even his neigh- 
 bour Dawson, an unpretentious bachelor dyspeptic, made a 
 favour of recommending his name to the Lord Lieutenant 
 for the Commission of the Peace — they had to be so careful 
 in the Home Counties ; Lancing half thought of describing 
 the part that he had played, for purposes of his own, in 
 getting Cleveland returned for the Presidency. But they 
 would not understand ; certainly they would not believe him. 
 "Things," he had often been told, "must be so different out 
 in America." 
 
 "Why didn't you stick out for a peerage?" Deryk per- 
 sisted, his face flushed with the crude possibilities of the 
 newly-discovered power. 
 
 "Why on earth should I?" his father demanded shortly. 
 "I can't attend the House of Lords." 
 
 "My hat! I wish I'd known about it before!" 
 
 Sir Aylmer wheeled himself slowly back to his study. 
 Deryk was talking like a schoolboy; it was a pity to have 
 told him so soon. 
 
 "Don't be late," he threw back over his shoulder. 
 
 Deryk looked at his watch and strolled away to the li- 
 brary. If his father had spared him that reminder, he 
 would have gone upstairs and changed his clothes at once, 
 but he would not tolerate being ordered about; there was 
 plenty of time, and he would not greatly care if he were 
 late. The library was in calamitous confusion. . . . He 
 stood in a deep bay, reading the titles of the books that sur- 
 rounded him on three sides ; it was here that he had gath- 
 ered the material for what he once hoped would be the work 
 of years, perhaps the study of a lifetime. In certain re-
 
 WJIAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 6^ 
 
 spects the Greeks of Pericles' day had raised civilisation to 
 its high-water mark, and hitherto no one had worthily writ- 
 ten their social history. He wanted to know more of their 
 daily life than the books gave him — what the slaves did in 
 the evening, whether they had a sort of workingmen's club 
 to go to — recognised meeting places. He wanted to know 
 how they lived, how they dressed — it could be very hot and 
 very cold in Athens — where they got their imported clothes 
 from, how they got them, how they did their chartering, 
 whether you definitely had a corner down at the Piraeus 
 where people bid against each other for freight, how far 
 they understood insurance and dealt in that — human re- 
 quirements were always so similar and so unchanging, when 
 you came to read history ; you had a labour problem now, 
 they had a slave problem then, a feminist movement now, a 
 feminist movement then ; and, if you wanted warm clothes 
 and didn't grow furry animals yourselves, you had to build 
 ships, put them into the fur trade, insure them — which 
 brought him back to his point, that you might be certain, 
 even without your Demosthenes to back the hypothesis, that 
 the Piraeus did have its own primitive Lloyds, that they had 
 their insurance brokers and underwriters, . . . He had 
 wanted so desperately to spend his whole time on that, re- 
 constructing the social life of Athens until he had perfect 
 knowledge of the ordinary Greek's mental equipment. If 
 you took him and planted him down in equatorial Africa, 
 you could be sure that he would have a house built on cer- 
 tain lines, domestic habits, times, procedure of a certain 
 kind, the average educated Englishman's house and life 
 generally, in short. You would know he was English by 
 the breakfast that people on the plantation had to eat. 
 Everyone knew that a Roman's mental equipment was 
 equally well-marked — that he didn't feel comfortable in a 
 new country until he'd revolutionised the water supply, got 
 down his tesselated pavement, deposited a piece of Rome 
 in Scythia or Gaul or Egypt, forced his habits and his per- 
 sonality on the natives. You could see him later building 
 an arena, as the Spaniards built bull rings in Central
 
 64 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 America and as the English laid out golf links in Nigeria. 
 Well, later on he wanted to know the habits, the daily life, 
 the domestic entourage of the average Greek who would be 
 left behind to settle in Asia Minor after Alexander's death. 
 He wanted to know what house he always built, what la- 
 bour arrangement he always made, what his average re- 
 lations were with the people that Alexander had just con- 
 quered, he wanted to know the precise stamp that a time- 
 expired soldier of Alexander left on his surroundings 
 wherever he was planted, just as historians knew to some 
 extent the kind of stamp that a Roman legionary left on his 
 surroundings. And, when he had done that, when he had 
 exhausted every source of information on the influence of 
 Greek civilisation upon the world of those days, he wanted 
 to find out how and why it was influenced in turn : how 
 far tlie Greek in Syria or Egypt forgot his common par- 
 entage and assimilated himself to the Syrian or the Egyp- 
 tian, why the descendant of Pericles became the degenerate 
 three-card-trick sharp that you found him under the early 
 Emperors, or as the chroniclers of the time affected to find 
 him. He wanted to describe the decline and fall of Greek 
 civilisation. . . . Der}^k stopped suddenly, as a horn 
 sounded far away down the drive. He had been dreaming, 
 as he used to dream at Oxford, of a people and a country 
 that he loved as a man might love a woman, a people that 
 he wanted to bring back to life, giving the whole of himself 
 to the work. . . . And now other people with golf clubs 
 and suit cases were coming to slap him on the back. . . . 
 And he was not even going to be ready in time to receive 
 them! 
 
 He hurried to his room by a side staircase, pulling off 
 coat and waistcoat by the way. The one good thing about 
 this desolating party came quite inadvertently ; it had been 
 improvised so suddenly that old and new invitations were 
 clashing, applicants for charity would be rubbing shoulders 
 with the painstakingly selected young women who were al- 
 ways being paraded for his delectation and choice, and 
 among the applicants for charity was Dr. Manisty, the well-
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 65 
 
 known Hellenist, who now came to Sir Aylmer because 
 after twenty years' work he could go on no longer with- 
 out assistance. Deryk decided to make Manisty's acquaint- 
 ance as soon as possible and to use his influence and rep- 
 resentations to escape from this nonsensical social business 
 and get back to work. It was so curious that his father 
 seemed lukewarm, when a few hundreds a year were all 
 that was needed. . . . 
 
 The hall was beginning to fill by the time that he had 
 changed and hurried downstairs. Raymond Stornaway, 
 plump, untidy and prematurely white-haired, was standing 
 in front of the fire, drinking tea and talking with charac- 
 teristic violence of diction to a delicate-looking young man 
 with rimless glasses, a stoop and an expression of disil- 
 lusionment (Deryk afterwards discovered him to be George 
 Oakleigh, the Radical propagandist, descending upon Rip- 
 ley Court in search of funds). Gerald Deganway, of the 
 Foreign Office, and Jack Summertown, with whom he had 
 shared digs at Oxford, were drinking whisky and soda at 
 a side table with Valentine Arden, the novelist; they hailed 
 him vociferously as he ran down the stairs, three at a time, 
 and surged round him with welcoming hands and eager 
 questions. For ten minutes there had been so much chatter 
 and bustle, the ring of so many cups and the scrape of so 
 many matches that Sir Aylmer had had himself wheeled 
 back to his study and was receiving his guests one at a 
 time. Deryk threaded his way in and out of the little 
 groups by fire or table, shaking hands with everybody once 
 and occasionally more than once, to be on the side of 
 safety. It was unnecessary to know their names, and his 
 share of the conversation seemed restricted to "Very well 
 indeed, thanks. Only last night. Oh, a great time, thanks. 
 Honestly I've no idea ; haven't had much time to think 
 about it, have I?" This last was in answer to the inva- 
 riable question what he proposed to do with himself now 
 that he was back in England. Once, twice, twelve times 
 he could stand. . . . 
 
 "Cheero ! Deryk ! I'm jolly glad to see you again !"
 
 66 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 A slight, demurely mischievous girl with a pale face and 
 auburn hair darted from the shadows by the front door and 
 caught him by both hands. 
 
 "Cheero, Yolande," he answered. "Promise not to ask 
 which part of my most interesting travels I enjoyed most, 
 and I won't ask how you or your people are. The question 
 Degins to pall." 
 
 "So did my people," Yolande Stornaway answered with 
 laughing eyes. "You know I've run away from home? 
 Oh yes. There was a frightful row; I'll tell you all about 
 it some time, but now I want you to meet my particular 
 friend Dr. Manisty. Uncle Raymond's brought him down 
 to squeeze endowments out of your poor father; / call it 
 an abuse of hospitality, but you know what darling uncle is. 
 Come and say 'How do you do?' to the pretty gentle- 
 man." 
 
 She slipped her arm through his and dragged him away 
 to a spectacled and absent-minded scholar who was spilling 
 tea with one hand and with the other inverting his saucer 
 to inspect the marks on the china. By 19 13 and in despite 
 of criticism by the learned and disparagement by the rich, 
 Felix Manisty had excavated more of Silver Greece than 
 any ten other men of the century ; he had discovered the 
 site of Hellenopolis in Asia Minor, when earnest young 
 German students wTote theses to prove that no such city 
 existed and, alternatively, that he had not discovered it; 
 with his unaided hands he had laid bare the posts of the 
 Lion Gate and traced the course of the Street of Bridges 
 at a time when Morrison-Grahame of Edinburgh and Paw- 
 ley of King's, abandoning minor controversies, were jointly 
 protesting in print that a city built by one of Alexander's 
 generals was too late for their period and, by implication, 
 not worth excavating. It was twelve years' work, however, 
 and Manisty had turned forty. For six months of the year, 
 when Hellenopolis lay in the grip of malaria, he lectured, 
 exhibited, catalogued and wrote ; it was in the office of the 
 "Utopia Review" that he had chanced upon Yolande Storn- 
 away, flushed with enfranchisement from her family and
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 67 
 
 important with the first, fine, careless rapture of free-lance 
 journalism; she had instantly introduced him to Raymond 
 on the Terrace of the House of Commons with the words, 
 "Uncle dear, will you make one of your magics? If you 
 don't catch one of your rich friends for Dr. Manisty, we 
 shall never dig up Hellenopolis." 
 
 "That, my dear, would be very serious," answered Ray- 
 mond. "Who or what is Hellenopolis ?" 
 
 Thereupon a normally silent man with a high forehead, 
 gentle grey eyes and a shy stammer had eloquently demon- 
 strated the relative positions of the Lion Gate and the Street 
 of Bridges with the aid of an unrolled umbrella with two 
 broken ribs, a discoloured straw hat, two pairs of spectacles 
 and a silver watch lacking the minute hand. Raymond 
 looked on apprehensively as the mild-mannered enthusiast 
 divested himself of an obviously ready-made coat and 
 spread it on the Terrace to mark the Black Mountain; ap- 
 prehension ripened to alarm, when the waistcoat followed 
 the coat and a knot of curious onlookers gathered to listen. 
 When, however, Yolande asked for a promise of help and 
 an opinion of her new friend, Raymond replied from the 
 heart that Manisty possessed some of the worst clothes and 
 best manners in the world and that his zeal should be re- 
 warded. The visit to Ripley Court, planned before the date 
 of Deryk's return was known, followed automatically. 
 
 "If you're touching the gov'nor for money, sir," said 
 Deryk, as they shook hands, "the least you can do is to 
 ask me to come out with you the next time you go digging." 
 
 "L-look at me and be warned," Manist}^ answered. 
 
 Yolande glanced quickly from the one to the other and 
 decided that she could leave them to take care of them- 
 selves. They talked until the last keys had been surren- 
 dered and the dressing gong was beginning to sound; and 
 their conversation was continued briefly when Manisty ap- 
 peared at Deryk's door in shirt sleeves, holding two crum- 
 pled dress ties in his hands and stammering in mild indig- 
 nation. 
 
 "How the d'deuce does one manage these abomina-
 
 68 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 tions?" he demanded plaintively. "I sp-pecially told the 
 m-man in the shop to give me ready-made ones. B-by the 
 way, how do you c-come to have heard about Hellenopolis ?" 
 
 "Well, when you came to lecture at Oxford " Deryk 
 
 began. 
 
 "Now, don't t-tell me you attended those !" said Manisty, 
 facing his companion squarely. "Great God, that makes 
 five ! The Vice-Chancellor and the Regius Professor 
 c-came out of politeness; there was a B-Balliol man, who 
 attended all university lectures on principle, because they 
 were all the same and all wrong; and there was an obsti- 
 nate old w-widow from North Oxford, who insisted that 
 I was t-talking about the Synoptic Gospels and t-told her 
 friends that I was too long getting to the p-point to be a 
 g-good lecturer. So you were there, too ; wha-what a thing 
 is youth !" 
 
 "Are you going to take me with you?" Deryk demanded 
 again. "I — I've got a little job of my own; I don't say we 
 shall overlap, but it'll be frightfully good training for me. 
 I think you might!" 
 
 "P-put it to your father, my dear fellow. I should have 
 thought, as he's only just g-got you home. . . ." 
 
 "He won't mind," Deryk prophesied easily. 
 
 When dinner began, he found himself at the foot of the 
 long table between Beryl Oakleigh and Yolande Storn- 
 away. On the far side of them sat Lord Summertown and 
 Valentine Arden, and the party grew graver and older as 
 it approached the high-backed chair in which Sir Aylmer 
 sat with his head drooping forward and his hands on the 
 carved arms. The pink-shaded lamps softened the eyes and 
 rounded the features of the women; the black coats of the 
 men melted into the surrounding darkness, and to Deryk 
 it was as though the room held nothing but white shirt 
 fronts, light dresses, smooth faces and sleek heads col- 
 lected and bent over gleaming plate; a lingering scent of 
 carnations rose and spread from the heavy cut-glass bowls, 
 and behind the chairs, too deft and silent to interrupt the 
 murmur of a dozen conversations, shirt fronts, blue liveries,
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 69 
 
 immobile faces and legless bodies moved backwards and 
 forwards between the table and the shadowland by the 
 long wall. With an actuality never before felt, Deryk 
 suddenly appreciated that the garniture of the room, living 
 and dead, would one day be his, with the power to issue his 
 own invitations and surround himself with his own guests. 
 They would come at his bidding, as they came now; the 
 potent two pounds a minute would bring Sally Farwell, 
 who had been standing in the social slave-market, rather 
 young and wistful, when he went abroad; and her aunt, the 
 old Duchess of Ross, who always tried to interest Sir Ayl- 
 mer in politics ; and Yolande ; and all the others. 
 
 The pride of power gave place to a feeling of short- 
 lived cynicism. Ripley Court always seemed to contain 
 three or four pretty girls, eligibility stamped and tooled on 
 their well-connected names and prefixes; they were gra- 
 cious and friendly, but Deryk wondered how much sin- 
 cerity there was in it all, how long their favour would 
 survive the sudden collapse of the Lancing Trust Corpora- 
 tion. He half wished that his father had never mentioned 
 the amount of his income ; then he laughed at himself for 
 taking himself so seriously. 
 
 Yolande Stornaway turned to him a clear-cut, boyish, pale 
 profile, surmounted with auburn hair parted over one eye 
 and sweeping low over the opposite ear. 
 
 "Are you glad to see me, old man?" she began. 'T sup- 
 pose everybody's asked you about your travels, so I won't. 
 But I want to know what you're going to do now." 
 
 "I have touched upon tJiat subject," Der)4^ interrupted 
 diffidently. 
 
 "You're as easily bored as ever," she commented. 
 "Deryk, d'you ever contemplate what you'll be like at forty ? 
 But you'll have cut your throat in sheer ennui before then. 
 I wish your father'd lose his money or something." 
 
 Deryk sighed extravagantly. 
 
 "You're rather vindictive, you know," he commented. 
 
 "I've always been rather fond of you, so I don't want to 
 see you wasting yourself."
 
 170 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk found the positive young face and assured, staccato 
 manner diverting. No one ever knew what Yolande would 
 say or do next for she was entirely honest with herself and 
 frank with others ; also she seemed to be without physical 
 or moral fear. For three years she had dutifully struggled 
 through the London season from April to July with two 
 elder sisters and a conventional, dispirited mother; from 
 August to October she had moved restlessly from house to 
 house; from November till February she had hunted in 
 Wiltshire. Then Lord Stornaway would punctually carry 
 his family to Cannes, and there she remained until Easter 
 and the coming shadows of a new season. At worst, she 
 reasoned, the programme would be repeated until the invi- 
 tations ceased to come ; at best she would marry and spend 
 five and twenty years bearing and rearing a family, to shep- 
 herd it in her own middle life through the social wilderness 
 from which she was trying to escape. And then she would 
 be an old woman. And then she would cease to be anything 
 at all. It was not good enough, she told herself ; the time 
 had come for her to follow the Stornaway tradition of quar- 
 relling with the rest of the family. Already she had been 
 mixing in a suspect and undesirable world of art, letters 
 and reprehensible politics. At nineteen she was buying 
 Fabian Society publications and devouring them in bed, 
 to argue later with her father's friends, who smiled and 
 patted her hand kindly, and with her father, who wondered 
 in exasperation where she had been stuffing her head with 
 all this nonsense. The Fabian Society led to a distant and 
 temporarily exciting acquaintance with a number of au- 
 thors and journalists; she heard Gilbert Chesterton and 
 Bernard Shaw debating publicly. George Oakleigh, bored 
 but tolerant of others' enthusiasms, took her to dinners of 
 the Ragamuffins' Club and promised to read any articles 
 that she cared to submit to "Peace." Valentine Arden, 
 whose face she had slapped in circumstances which neither 
 revealed, introduced her magnanimously to the editor of 
 the "Utopia Review." 
 
 On her twenty-first birthday the long prepared attack
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 71 
 
 was launched, and, inimitably rich with three hundred 
 pounds a year of her own, she moved into two rooms at 
 the top of Stafford's Inn, threw herself on the indulgence 
 of her uncle Raymond and wrote a rather breathlessly de- 
 fiant letter to her father, who with Stornaway choleric 
 decision forbade her ever to enter his house again. Ray- 
 mond thereupon engaged her a middle-aged housekeeper 
 and motored to Wiltshire and back in a day for the pleasure 
 of telHng his brother not to make a fool of himself. A 
 guarded reconciliation was effected as soon as Lord Storn- 
 away's ruffled plumage had been smoothed, and for a year 
 Yolande had been infinitely busy and deliriously happy, 
 dashing off rather juvenile articles and sketches and feeling, 
 as she ingenuously boasted, that she was meeting the men 
 and women who did things. 
 
 "That's my career. Now, are you going to sit and 
 moulder like all these ?" she demanded of Deryk, waving a 
 slender, disrespectful arm to indicate in the dark hinter- 
 land of the room the looming gilt frames in which his an- 
 cestors were imprisoned. 
 
 Deryk looked down the long table to the high, carved 
 chair where his father sat silent and almost motionless. 
 
 "What would you do in my place ?" he asked quietly, 
 
 "Do? I'd " She stopped to laugh. "I don't know, 
 
 Deryk. Perhaps I haven't been quite fair to you ; you are 
 so horribly rich and you're the only one. But you did so 
 well at Oxford that I should simply hate to see you vege- 
 tating here." 
 
 "I want to go out with your friend Manisty his next 
 trip," said Deryk ; "I'm going to get leave from the guv'nor 
 to-night." 
 
 Yolande'* grey eyes brightened, and she nodded approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Well, that's good enough. Thafs not mouldering. But 
 I always feel that we're so frightfully tied up by what's 
 gone before — our houses, traditions, what some musty old 
 idiot laid down as the life we ought to lead." 
 
 Deryk nodded without speaking. Behind his father's
 
 72 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 silence he could not help thinking that ambitions were be- 
 ginning to form for the heir of the Lancing Trust Corpora- 
 tion to fulfil. 
 
 That night, when the women were gone to their rooms 
 and the men had gathered for a last drink, he slipped away 
 from the smoking-room and sought out his father. Sir 
 Aylmer was being undressed and helped into bed, and, 
 when Benson withdrew, Der}'k repeated the substance of 
 his conversation with Manisty. Sir Aylmer sat with closed 
 eyes, offering neither criticism nor suggestion until Deryk 
 had done. Then he opened his eyes wearily for a moment 
 and sank lower into the bed, 
 
 "We'll discuss this later," he said. "It's too much to be 
 decided offhand." 
 
 Deryk curbed his impatience and spoke with ingratiating 
 reasonableness, 
 
 "I only want your formal consent," he explained, "so 
 that I can tell Manisty," 
 
 "You'll want money. And there are a great many other 
 considerations," 
 
 "Well, now that I've come home, I imagine that you'll 
 settle something on me," Deryk said. "I'm twenty-five, you 
 know. Summertown told me that was what his father did, 
 when he came of age. Most people do it, I fancy." 
 
 Sir Aylmer panted a little, as he raised himself on the 
 pillows. 
 
 "I don't know that I should quote Summertown," he sug- 
 gested slowly. "Do you feel you know much about the 
 value of money?" 
 
 "I suppose one has to find out," Deryk answered a little 
 impatiently. The change of tone was not lost on his father. 
 
 "We'll discuss this later," he said, stretching out a wasted, 
 sallow arm to the electric switch. "Good-night, my boy. 
 See that you're down in good time for breakfast." 
 
 Deryk lay late in bed the following day to remind his 
 father that he was twenty-five and did not care to be
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 73 
 
 ordered down to breakfast in good time or told not to wan- 
 der about in shirt sleeves when the house was full of guests. 
 At the last moment, however, he recalled that there was a 
 substantial request waiting to be met; for once his father 
 must be humoured, and he hurried down, presided over 
 breakfast with eminent address, arranged for a car to take 
 four of his guests to the Pemberton links and found undis- 
 turbed rooms and writing-tables for those who had work 
 to do. 
 
 Shortly before eleven the members of the Pebbleridge 
 Hunt began to arrive, and he walked out to the lawn and 
 dispensed hospitality to them. For half an hour a stream 
 of clear-eyed, rather hard-faced men and women trotted 
 up the winding drive between the rhododendrons and as- 
 sembled in front of the long tables. Amid a volley of greet- 
 ings and badinage suggestive of a nervous endurance and 
 physical well-being unknown to him, the women bent down 
 and helped themselves to sandwiches and cherry brandy, 
 while the men dismounted and gave more serious attention 
 to the solid promise of the tables. Sir Aylmer sat at his 
 study window ; under his eye and supplementing the activi- 
 ties of the footmen, Deryk wandered in and out with a box 
 of cigars in his hand, ducking under the heads of the 
 horses or timorously avoiding their heels. Unknown friends 
 of his father shook his hand and said that they were glad 
 to see him home; a chorus of penetrating voices flung 
 questions from four sides at once about his travels ; and all 
 asked what he was going to do now that he was back in 
 England. 
 
 "By a designed and appropriate coincidence, the hounds 
 always meet at my place when I'm not in Ireland," drawled 
 George Oakleigh sympathetically, when Deryk returned to 
 the house for a fresh box of cigars. 
 
 "This has been laid on for my benefit !" Der}'k whispered 
 in despair. "I never suspected the guv'nor of so much 
 humour before. God! how I hate the country and all its 
 works ! Oh ! thank the Lord ! here's Pebbleridge ! Now 
 we shall get rid of them."
 
 74 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 A purple-faced man, almost bursting out of his coat, 
 rode in front of a black, white and tan wake into the middle 
 of the lawn, shortly acknowledging the greetings of his 
 friends with a jerk of two fingers to his cap and blasphem- 
 ing freely at a girl whose restive mare had cannoned into 
 him. Catching sight of Deryk, he shook hands and ac- 
 cepted a cigar, hoping gruffly that he had enjoyed himself 
 abroad. 
 
 "What are you goin' to do with yourself now?" he en- 
 quired, throwing away one match and striking another. 
 "Comin' out with us ?" 
 
 "We've all been asking him that," said the Secretary. 
 
 "I really don't know," Deryk answered for what seemed 
 the fortieth time. 
 
 "You'd better. Give you good sport." The restive mare 
 bumped him again, and he turned to the embarrassed rider 
 with elaborate sarcasm. 
 
 "In case you don't know, madam, I bring my hounds 
 here to be ridden over — there's one your brute hasn't kicked 
 yet — and I come here myself so that people who haven't 
 learned to ride can steady 'emselves by cannonin' me. 
 Huntin' 's a secondary consideration." He turned to the 
 Secretary, as the mare quieted down and trotted away into 
 safety. "If that beauty comes out again, Charles, I take 
 hounds home. Now then, get a move on ; we're late as 
 usual. Good-bye, Lancing; thank your father for me." 
 
 Deryk stood on the steps, watching the cavalcade ride off, 
 followed by an indeterminate tweed-coated army of cyclists 
 and the entire child-population of Aston Ripley. As the 
 jodelling voice of the huntsman grew fainter, he turned 
 with a whimsical smile to Oakleigh. 
 
 "I'm so glad to see you're not a sportsman," he remarked. 
 
 "You can shoot and remain civilised, I think," Oakleigh 
 ansvv^ered, looking critically at his companion's slight figure 
 and large, restless eyes. 
 
 "I don't shoot, either. In fact, I've not the least idea 
 what either of us is doing here !" 
 
 He laughed nervously, looked at his watch and ran up-
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 75 
 
 stairs to his bedroom. There was time for a call on his 
 friend Idina Penrose, and, after a longing glance at the 
 controversial pearl necklace, he stuffed his coat pockets 
 with a lace scarf and a medley of amethysts and moon- 
 stones. Ivy Cottage, a late seventeenth century house, with 
 small, oak-panelled rooms, open fireplaces, black beamed 
 ceilings and squat bow windows, lay but half a mile away 
 on the northern fringe of the park. Sir Aylmer had put it 
 in repair and connected it with Ripley Court by telephone 
 for the use of his secretary, but, when Colonel Penrose 
 came to him on Hatherly's introduction twelve years before, 
 he consented to let the house at a nominal rent, and at 
 the Colonel's death it had remained with his children. Sir 
 Aylmer never knew that Hatherly had contrived to give 
 him a congenial neighbour, or the two men, widowers 
 both and both disappointed, might not have drawn so in- 
 stinctively together. Deryk and Idina, with only four 
 years' difference of age, shared the same music master, 
 and the Colonel, behind the pretext of bringing and fetch- 
 ing away his daughter, grasped an opportunity of smoking 
 a succession of pipes with a good listener. The Indian 
 Army provided him with an ample subject of discussion; 
 and the two men were the better friends when each ad- 
 mitted that he had contemplated suicide in the shipwreck of 
 his life. "I had the children," Penrose explained with a 
 shrug. Characteristically, Sir Aylmer cut his own con- 
 fession short. The one subject which made Penrose un- 
 communicative was, ironically enough, also the one on 
 which Lancing was best qualified to advise him. Recognis- 
 ing that on his narrow means he could not give his children 
 the education to which he felt they were entitled, Penrose 
 unceasingly sought means of increasing his income. Once 
 or twice he tried to secure pupils for Sandhurst, but the 
 wide-rippling gossip of the Army had fixed on him as a 
 wrong-headed fellow who had been compelled to send in 
 his papers. The orthodox Press rejected his unorthodox 
 contributions, and, when he tried to get out to South 
 Africa as a war correspondent, he found that this trade had
 
 76 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to be learned as well as another and that younger men had 
 worked their way before him into the trust of their syndi- 
 cates. Failing in the quarters where his experience might 
 have helped him, he embarked timidly and a trifle shame- 
 facedly on small financial speculations. Attractive circu- 
 lars from brokers who were not members of the Stock 
 Exchange, alluring brochures on "How to Double Your 
 Income" led him to dribble away small sums which mounted 
 up to an appreciable total : on his periodical visits to London 
 a friend at his club would work through the official list and 
 stare wonderingly at industrial stocks which paid twelve 
 and fifteen per cent. Penrose interested himself, a hun- 
 dred pounds at a time, in non-refillable beer bottles, grama- 
 phones and cheap cameras, a method of illumination which 
 was to supersede electric Hght and a land-development 
 syndicate on the east coast. On the one occasion when 
 he sought advice, his broker remarked a little wearily, 
 
 "You wouldn't trust me to lead a battalion into action by 
 the light of nature. Why trust yourself to win against 
 people who make this sort of thing their business?" 
 
 "Investments are everybody's business," Penrose re- 
 joined. "Of course, you've a trade union, and, if you don't 
 feel enterprising enough to try new fields, you boycott a 
 thing and won't let anyone else try it." 
 
 In a spirit of enterprise, virgin and unwrung, he invested 
 heavily in the New London General Insurance Corporation, 
 selling the last of his humdrum gilt-edged securities to do 
 so. He was in good company, for the largest shareholders 
 were two judges of the High Court; there was a tolerable 
 list of King's Counsel, fashionable doctors and clergymen, 
 and, among the small denominations, a countless number 
 of lodginghouse keepers, widows and the •proprietors of 
 small shops and businesses, chiefly in Scotland ; all men 
 and women resolved to extract the last penny of interest 
 consonant with safety, all equally opposed by policy and 
 principle to gambling. The directors, no less enterprising 
 than the shareholders, gave the public what the public 
 wanted; the end of insurance was to underwrite risks, and,
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 77 
 
 if one office refused them, another must come forward. In 
 the first year of its Hfe the Corporation was guaranteeing 
 dividends to sea-side hotels and laying odds on the weather 
 for Ascot and Goodwood ; and in the sunny springtime be- 
 tween sowing and harvest Colonel Penrose became pos- 
 sessed of a considerable number of ordinary^ £10 shares 
 with a call of £g on each. For a while the Corporation 
 prospered on paper, but with the failure of the old Anglo- 
 Hibernian, whose risks it had largely underwritten, the 
 average began to adjust itself. Penrose, with a thousand 
 others, learned that he was likely to lose his holding in the 
 New London and to sacrifice most of his outside interests 
 as well. Lord Justice Bromleigh presided, with a grey 
 face, over a bemused meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel : 
 he stood to lose £90,000 by the full call. "At least he's got 
 a fat pension," muttered the Colonel, as he walked into the 
 street and stood, jostled by the passers-by, wondering where 
 next to go. 
 
 The decision was quickly taken out of his hands. An 
 attack of influenza carried him off the same winter: "No 
 stamina, no resistance : didn't try to get round," his doctor 
 told Sir Aylmer. Idina and the boy were left with the 
 £2,000 for which his life had been insured and the vague 
 sympathy of a few rather remote friends. A receiver was 
 appointed shortly before Deryk left England. He learned 
 by fitful flashes of news that a Board of Trade enquiry 
 had been instituted, that the directors were being prose- 
 cuted; he had heard two days before that Idina had gone to 
 his father for help. . . . 
 
 Ivy Cottage was empty, as he scrambled down the last 
 piece of sloping ground and parted his way through the 
 dripping rhododendron plantation in front of the tiny bare 
 garden. Inside, however, he found a feeble fire burning 
 and a table laid with cold meat and bread. Evidently Idina 
 lunched at home, and there was nothing for it but to wait 
 until she returned. He sat down at the piano with a 
 subtile satisfaction in playing truant, only to rise again 
 impatiently, when he found that it was out of tune. Then
 
 78 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 he stared out of the window for a while and finally began 
 to search the house for a book or paper; in his ramble he 
 became disagreeably conscious of a certain threadbare 
 economy in the rooms; there was less furniture than for- 
 merly, the ornaments seemed to have been tidied away to 
 save dusting, and the gallant efforts of the fire still left the 
 house dank and cold. In one window-seat was a type-writer 
 and a copybook half filled with the shorthand exercises of 
 a faint-hearted beginner. For the first time in his life 
 Deryk came into indirect contact with economy enforced. 
 The experience was but partially digested, when he saw 
 a figure in black coat and skirt walking with a man from 
 the direction of Aston Ripley. He withdrew from the 
 front door and gravely began to fulfill the unfailing ritual 
 which he had observed every time that he came home to 
 Ripley Court for the holidays, hastily emptying his pockets 
 of the little parcels and boxes, piling them by her plate and 
 tiptoeing to the angle of the stairs, where, by kneeling down 
 and peering through the spiral carved rails, he could watch 
 to see her untying the string. Under her broad black hat 
 it was difficult from above to catch a glimpse of her face, 
 but he watched her enter the house, take off her coat, glance 
 at the mound of parcels and replace them after a cursory 
 inspection. Then she knelt down to warm her hands at the 
 fire; still kneeling, she drew off her gloves, removed the 
 pins from her hat and sighed with contentment, as she drew 
 up an armchair. Two years before, he remembered Idina to 
 have been a slight, under-developed girl of nineteen, the 
 unsentimental companion and willing slave of his holidays; 
 without feeling older himself, he was conscious that she 
 was transformed into a woman ; the lines of her figure 
 were more mature, her face had lost the heavy roundness of 
 childhood, indeed, their old friendship was in some way 
 outgrown, and for a moment he was embarrassed, as he 
 had never been before, to find himself alone and so close 
 to her. The firelight flickered warmly on her cloud of fair 
 hair and rather frightened blue eyes ; her outstretched fin- 
 gers shone opalesque, until she wearily covered her eyes
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 79 
 
 with them ; then Deryk saw her head droop and her shoul- 
 ders move with a suppressed sob. Careless whether he 
 frightened her or not, he crept from his hiding-place, whis- 
 pering "Dina" and then more loudly "Dee-eena," until at 
 last she heard him and turned with a start to the dark- 
 ened corner of the stairs. 
 
 "Dina, it's me, Deryk," he whispered, drawing himself 
 upright. "I've been waiting to give you a present. Dearest 
 child, what were you crying about ?" 
 
 She jumped up with a little gasp of delight and ran to 
 meet him. 
 
 "Oh, Deryk ! You've come at last !" 
 
 The hunger in her voice sent a responsive thrill through 
 him, and he flung one arm about her slight shoulders, draw- 
 ing her to him until her tear-wet cheek pressed against the 
 rough tweed of his coat. 
 
 "What were you crying about, silly baby?" he repeated. 
 
 She drew one hand across her eyes and looked bravely 
 up at him. 
 
 "I'm all right now," she said. "Turn to the light, Deryk 
 dear; I want to see what you look like after all this time." 
 
 He loosened his hold on her and turned slowly round in 
 the light of the window. 
 
 "Yes, I have been away," he reminded her reproachfully.' 
 
 The girl's pale face lost its short-lived smile, and she 
 dropped her eyes. 
 
 "I couldn't have written a decent letter, if I'd tried. . . . 
 I did try to write," she said, "but it wasn't fit to send you. 
 I missed you, though — dear Deryk, you'll never know how 
 I missed you !" 
 
 He caught her hand and held it between his own. 
 
 "I hope things are straightening themselves out a bit," 
 he said with husky, unpractised sympathy. "What are you 
 doing with yourself now?" 
 
 "I'm companion to old Miss Dawson at the Grange." 
 
 She hesitated and looked up at Deryk. Something in 
 his expression prevented her going on. 
 
 "That — venomous — old "
 
 8o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Idina pressed a hand over his lips. 
 
 "She's not, Deryk. I've been happier since I've been 
 with her " 
 
 "Only shews how damned unhappy you must have been 
 before," he interrupted, pulling away her hand, "What did 
 she make you cry about?" 
 
 "She didn't, honestly." 
 
 Deryk's scant patience poured out of him at the ineffec- 
 tual denial, and he incautiously gripped her arm until she 
 winced with pain. 
 
 "She alzvays makes every companion cry," he told her. 
 "Sorry, Dina, I didn't mean to hurt you. I remember one 
 girl. . . . You've got to get out of this." 
 
 Idina looked away. She too remembered a companion 
 of three years before, whom Der>'k had discovered, con- 
 vulsive and red-eyed, trespassing in his father's park to be 
 alone and unmolested. He had called at the Grange, 
 bearded Miss Dawson and expressed himself with the 
 fluency and resource of an undergraduate. Next day, it is 
 true, he had been driven over by his father to make public 
 apology ; the apology still rankled as a piece of meaningless, 
 unnecessary injustice, and every instinct of chivalry was 
 outraged at the thought that his father should expose any 
 other girl to the same treatment. 
 
 "I can't afford it, Deryk," said Idina. "You see, things 
 have changed a good bit." 
 
 "They're going to change a good bit more before you're 
 much older," he rejoined truculently. There was a silence 
 for a few moments ; then he looked at his watch. "My hat! 
 I'm going to be late for lunch !" 
 
 As he picked up his cap and stick, the girl darted to the 
 table. 
 
 "Don't go till I've opened them and seen what's inside," 
 she begged, tugging eagerly at the string on the first of the 
 boxes. 
 
 "You can thank me for them to-night," he called back 
 from the door. 
 
 "But I shan't see you to-night."
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 8i 
 
 "Yes, you will, stupid. It's the ball; dinner at eight- 
 thirty." 
 
 "But, Deryk, I haven't been invited !" 
 
 She tried to speak unconcernedly, but there was long- 
 harboured disappointment in her voice. 
 
 "As if you needed an invitation !" he answered. "Philli- 
 more probably sent it to the Grange, and Miss Dawson's 
 sitting on it. She would. I'll have a card sent roun i this 
 afternoon, if you w^ant one, and you've jolly well got to book 
 supper with me. We'll have a cold collation in the gun- 
 room. Good-bye ! I've been late for every meal so far, 
 and the guv'nor does get so ridiculously sick about it!" 
 
 He mounted the rhododendron-covered knoll at a run, 
 pausing for an instant on the top to wave ; at the same mo- 
 ment Idina turned in the low doorway for a last sight of 
 him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining, 
 though she looked flustered by his rapid disposal of her; 
 a faint, happy "good-bye" floated between them before 
 he plunged into the dripping shrubs; ten minutes later he 
 was hurrying, wet to the waist, through the hall of Ripley 
 Court. Idina had certainly improved in the last two 
 years. . . . 
 
 As soon as luncheon was over he decoyed his guests into 
 the billiard-room and slipped away to give instructions for 
 a new card to be sent to Ivy Cottage. Old Phillimore, 
 his father's secretary and one of his own staunchest allies, 
 was dozing in an armchair before the fire in his office, a 
 silk handkerchief over his face and the "Times" spread 
 open on his knees. A generation earlier he had been a 
 middle-aged clerk in the old Lincoln's Inn chambers, and 
 Sir Aylmer had sentimentally sought him out and offered 
 him easy work and a comfortable home for his last years. 
 All day long he sat in his office with a fire blazing and 
 every window shut, copying and filing letters, posting his 
 books and intermittently attending to the telephone switch- 
 board. Meticulously methodical and entirely faithful, he 
 was already an old servant, growing gradually feebler in 
 company with his master and Benson, the male nurse, Ark-
 
 82 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Wright, the butler, all "the pack of old men," as Hatherly, 
 himself no longer young, described them. 
 
 "Frightfully sorry to disturb you," Den'k apologised, 
 as the old man woke with a start and snatched the hand- 
 kerchief from his face, protesting that he had not been 
 asleep. "I saw Miss Penrose this morning, and she hasn't 
 had her card for the ball. Will you write her another and 
 get one of the men to take it round?" 
 
 The secretary blinked for a moment; then, rising stiffly, 
 he unlocked a drawer of his desk and brought out two fools- 
 cap sheets of typewritten names, while Deryk fidgeted with 
 impatience. 
 
 "I don't call to mind sending her one. Master Deryk," he 
 murmured, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses and point- 
 ing his way down the page with a knobbly forefinger^ 
 "Now, I wonder how that was?" He concluded his scru'- 
 tiny and looked up with a shake of the head. "No, sir. It's 
 not down." 
 
 "What list is this ?" Deryk asked, holding out his hand for 
 the papers. 
 
 "Your father's. Master Deryk. I took him in the list 
 from the last dance, and he worked on that. He must have 
 missed. . . . But I'll write a card and send it round this 
 very minute." 
 
 He bustled to his desk and methodically arranged before 
 him a new pen, an inkstand, blotting-paper and a card. 
 Deryk started for the door and then turned back. 
 
 "Oh, you might ring up Arkwright and tell him there'll 
 be one extra for dinner. If you'll give me the plan of the 
 table, I'll shew where she's to go." 
 
 "I left the plan with Sir Aylmer this morning," said the 
 secretary. 
 
 Deryk hurried out, looking at his watch to see if there 
 was time to capture the plan before his father began the 
 afternoon rest. It was after the prescribed hour of three, 
 but he decided to risk it and made his way quietly into the 
 study after an inaudible knock at the door. Sir Aylmer 
 was lying on his sofa, covered by a rug, while Hatherly
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 83 
 
 walked about, pulling down the blinds and setting a screen 
 before the fire. 
 
 "Is the plan of the table for to-night here, dad?" Deryk 
 asked. "You forgot to send Dina Penrose a card, but I saw 
 her this morning and told her to roll along. I want to shew 
 Arkwright where to put her." 
 
 Sir Aylmer opened his eyes and looked long and expres- 
 sionlessly at his son; then his brows met in a familiar grey 
 bar. 
 
 "You must really not take these things into your own 
 hands without consulting me," he said. 
 
 "But — you surely meant her to come?" Deryk inter- 
 rupted in astonishment. "She always has." 
 
 "We've got as many as the tables will hold — " his father 
 hesitated ; Deryk was evidently unconvinced by the excuse, 
 but the momentary hesitation was in itself so much an an- 
 swer that he decided to go on where he had begun. "I 
 don't know that you quite realise her position, Deryk," he 
 explained slowly. "Since her father died " 
 
 "She's had to earn her own living," Deryk interrupted 
 again. "I know all that, but it doesn't make any differ- 
 ence." 
 
 Sir Aylmer's fingers drummed on the table by his side. 
 
 "Not socially, but in other ways. When she had to face 
 the changed conditions " 
 
 Deryk's gesture of impatience cut short his father's elab- 
 orate explanation. 
 
 "I absolutely disagree !" he exclaimed ; and, less respect- 
 fully, "I think it's utter rot ! But that's neither here nor 
 there, because I've invited her, and Phillimore's sending 
 her a card." 
 
 The announcement was thrown out as a challenge, and 
 Sir Aylmer seemed to pick it up and stare at it long and 
 curiously before deciding that it was worth accepting. 
 
 "You will kindly countermand your instructions to Phil- 
 limore," he said at length. 
 
 Deryk could feel himself trembling from his hips to his
 
 84 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 ankles, as he used to do when waiting to be thrashed at 
 school. He shook his head obstinately, however. 
 
 "No go. I told you I'd invited her verbally as well." 
 
 "Then you will kindly countermand the invitation." He 
 turned to Hatherly, who was conscientiously inspecting the 
 titles of the books in the revolving case. "Turn out the 
 light, will you, Ted ?" he begged. "It's long after my time." 
 
 Hatherly made a movement towards the switch, nodding 
 significantly to Deryk. In another moment the room was 
 in darkness ; and Der>k, standing halfway into the passage, 
 was left with a feeling of stampede and defeat. A sud- 
 den boyish anger possessed him, and he pushed his way 
 back past Hatherly into the room. 
 
 "I'll tell you one thing, dad !" he said very deliberately. 
 "If Dina doesn't come to-night, I don't either. I mean 
 that !" 
 
 Hatherly caught him by the shoulders and hustled him 
 into the passage. 
 
 "You're making an exhibition of yourself," he whispered 
 with unusual warmth. 
 
 Deryk marched away to the library. That was like Hats ! 
 To sit on the fence until he saw who was winning; then 
 to jump down and kick a fellow in the stomach. Two to 
 one, as usual ; but it so happened that one could beat two 
 or ten or twenty over this business. Of course, if anybody 
 chose to get a hired bravo like Benson to dress him by main 
 force and strap him into his chair with a gag in his 
 mouth . . . 
 
 The library door shivered, as he slammed it behind him. 
 
 Deryk was ostentatiously absent before tea, during tea 
 and until half an hour before it was time to dress for din- 
 ner. On Sir Aylmer's behalf and at his instigation, Hath- 
 erly started on a room-to-room quest and discovered him 
 at length in the library, pasting in book plates and entering 
 the new arrivals in a card-catalogue by the fireplace. The 
 door was locked and took so much time to open that Hath-
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 85 
 
 eriy's tone, when once he got inside, was studiedly propi- 
 tiatory. 
 
 "I just came to see where you'd got to," he explained. 
 "Arden's looking for people to play pool." 
 
 'Arden can go on looking for people to play pool," Deryk 
 rejoined, as he began to mount a pair of library steps. 'And 
 you didn't come here to see where I'd got to." 
 
 Hatherly wheeled an armchair to the side of the fire 
 opposite Deryk and lit a cigar, saying nothing and letting 
 his eyes wander round the room. For a time Deryk af- 
 fected to ignore his presence, but after an interval he re- 
 marked, 
 
 "I didn't invite him here." 
 
 "Didn't invite who ?" 
 
 "Arden. The guv'nor invites all this crowd and he can 
 jolly well keep them amused. If I'm to be treated as if I 
 were a child; if I mayn't do anything without consulting 
 him beforehand, I won't. And that's that." 
 
 Hatherly removed the cigar from his mouth and blew a 
 cloud of smoke. The round, red face ceased to smile, and 
 the eyes to twinkle; he was become like Mr. Pickwick re- 
 proving Alfred Jingle, but a little more worldlily bored, a 
 little less righteously indignant. 
 
 "You're behaving like a child, Deryk," he said dispas- 
 sionately. "You're not at your best, when you're on your 
 dignity, or when you're being rude to your father; and, if 
 you want to be treated as befits your age, you should be- 
 have accordingly. I don't know how much you want to 
 go to Asia Minor with Manisty, but I can tell you that 
 you're not starting the right way about it: you've got to 
 keep the sunny side of your father ; he's got the whip-hand." 
 
 Deryk fitted the last card into its place and slammed 
 the drawer home. He was not quite certain whether to 
 maintain his attitude of injured, vengeful isolation or to 
 shew these old men that they could not always, have their 
 own way. 
 
 "Well, he's not got the whip-hand to-night," he said at 
 length, when he had made his decision.
 
 86 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Hatherly watched him without comment, as he set a lad- 
 der against the wall and mounted with an armful of books ; 
 without comment he smoked his cigar halfway through and 
 carried the remainder across the hall. The study was still 
 in darkness, as he had left it, but a voice bade him come 
 in and turn on the light. 
 
 "Did you manage to get any sleep?" he enquired. Sir 
 Aylmer shook his head. "I'm not disturbing you, then. Ayl- 
 mer, you sometimes pay me the compliment of asking my 
 advice, and I know Deryk tolerably well ; you'll be wise not 
 to press your point about to-night. I know nothing of the 
 merits of the case " 
 
 Sir Aylmer raised himself on the sofa with one of the 
 startling exhibitions of vigour which behed his habitual 
 helplessness — and for which he had usually to pay with 
 interest. 
 
 "The merits of the case," he interrupted, "are that Deryk 
 must learn to do what he's told." 
 
 Hatherly nodded, keeping his time as slow as his com- 
 panion's. 
 
 "Well, he won't to-night," he prophesied. "I know him 
 better than you do, when he's in an obstinate mood. And, 
 what's more, you can't make him. And, what's more again, 
 if you try and he sulks, he'll let everybody know that he 
 wouldn't come to his own ball, because you forbade the 
 house to a certain girl, whom he will mention by name. 
 Everyone will then put his own construction on the story, 
 and you may all of you find that your hands have been 
 forced." He paused to give time for the advice to sink in. 
 No one else ever ventured to lecture Sir Aylmer as he 
 occasionally did, but he always spoke with trepidation, 
 never quite sure whether he was more afraid of rousing his 
 friend or being snubbed himself. "What's the matter with 
 the girl?" he went on carelessly. "I only ask out of curi- 
 osity." 
 
 Sir Aylmer was silent long enough to shew that he did 
 not intend to be roused. 
 
 "There's nothing the matter," he said abruptly. "You
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 87 
 
 used to see her about here, when Penrose was alive. 
 They've been very intimate since they were children, but 
 they're growing up now, and I don't choose to encourage 
 the intimacy. I've no preconceptions about Deryk, I pro- 
 pose to leave him complete liberty of action, but he must 
 have time to — well, to look round." 
 
 For a moment Hatherly debated the wisdom of enquir- 
 ing what kind of free action Sir Aylmer proposed to al- 
 low Deryk and when it was to begin. Few men talked 
 more of freedom and conceded it less — or conceded it more 
 irrationally and erratically. Deryk was allowed to read 
 what he liked, travel where he chose, determine — in theory 
 — his own career ; but, when he wanted money, he was given 
 a cheque for a hundred pounds, and at home his father al- 
 most shadowed him to see that he was behaving with con- 
 ventional propriety. There was no immediate object, how- 
 ever, in enlarging the issue, and Hatherly buried himself 
 in a book until it was time to dress for dinner. Sir Aylmer 
 brooded silently, slowly and seriously as if he were buy- 
 ing a fleet of steamships or selling a railroad; in time he 
 came to see that an invitation once given, verbally or in 
 writing, could not be cancelled as a disciplinary measure 
 directed against a third party ; and after that he recognised 
 quickly and almost without resentment that Deryk had 
 won. He lacked the imagination, however, to make his 
 surrender graceful, so that Deryk, dressed for once in good 
 time, waited by his chair in the hall with a set, white face 
 and sunken, dark eyes, nervously obstinate to the last. He 
 was resolved, if necessary, to keep dinner back until nine 
 and, whatever happened, to enter the dining-room with 
 Idina or not at all. A place had been laid for her in accord- 
 ance with his instructions to Arkwright; what his father's 
 instructions might have been in the interval, he had no 
 means of guessing. 
 
 Punctually at half-past eight the question was decided. 
 The Grange car drew up at the door, and a thin, middle- 
 aged man, recognised as Sidney Dawson by his exaggerated 
 shoulders and waist, helped Idina to get out and trotted
 
 88 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 boyishly up the steps at her side. Bending almost im- 
 perceptibly forward, Sir Aylmer greeted her with the same 
 stereotyped welcome that he had offered to his other guests, 
 and Deryk went in to dinner with mixed feelings of relief 
 and embarrassment and, stronger than either, a sense of 
 misunderstanding; Sir Aylmer was always so scrupulously 
 correct that, if the pearl necklace were an error of taste, if 
 Idina were by the remotest possibility to be placed in a 
 false position either by coming to the ball or by accepting 
 that wretched necklace, there would in ordinary circum- 
 stances be nothing more to be said save that scrupulosity 
 sometimes ran riot. But Deryk had a disquieting convic- 
 tion that he was not being told the whole truth. Two days 
 earlier he had asked whether Idina Penrose was dining 
 on the first night of the house-party; Sir Aylmer had de- 
 liberately let slip an opportunity of explanation and had 
 merely answered that no one was being invited from out- 
 side. And again, wdthout warning, he had been left to dis- 
 cover fortuitously that she had not been sent a card for the 
 ball. For the first time in his life Deryk seemed to find a 
 want of frankness in his father. . . . Looking down the 
 table to Idina's place, he could not understand his father's 
 sudden aversion toward a girl with whom he had been 
 deliberately brought up. ... He could not understand, 
 either, what amusement she could get from talking to an 
 old bore like Sidney Dawson, whose conversation consisted 
 of endless personal anecdotes about the reckless life which 
 he and his friends had led in the forgotten bars, the dere- 
 lict saloons and dead night-clubs of London in the eighties. 
 Of course, she had to be decently civil to her employer's 
 brother. . . . And he had given her a lift in his car. But 
 it was an infernal shame that she should be in bondage to 
 Miss Dawson, that she should pretty well have to accept 
 his dainned officious lift. ... It must be the most awful 
 rough luck on a girl to be suddenly hard up, with no one 
 to help her. At least the people who couU help her took 
 darned good care not to — not to help her properly, that is 
 (his own father had been perfectly incomprehensible — an 
 
 1
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 89 
 
 utter brute with his nonsense about working out your own 
 salvation), to buy her clothes and jewels, to seat her cross- 
 legged, as it were, on a magic carpet and whirl her away 
 to London and all the best and most expensive shops ; a hat 
 here, furs there (with her colouring she would look ador- 
 able in ermine), jewellery ... his racing imagination was 
 temporarily checked by the recollection of the pearl neck- 
 lace; then, tossing the unwelcome obstacle aside, it sped 
 forward again. It would be such fun to watch her lips 
 parting, to see the dark blue eyes lighting up ! With an in- 
 come of two pounds a minute (it was really more), you 
 could go on doing this all day long for any girl, whether — 
 you — really — technically — cared for her — or not. Some day 
 the money would be his. . . . 
 
 He was embarrassed and at the same time curiously re- 
 lieved to find Lady Sally Farwell indefatigably at an ad- 
 vanced stage of an Odyssean story. 
 
 ". . . So we went straight back to Buda Pesth. Have 
 you ever been there, Mr. Lancing?" 
 
 "Oh, by Jove!" ejaculated Deryk with specious interest. 
 
 "Have you ever been there?" she repeated. 
 
 "No; that is, yes, of course," he answered in some con- 
 fusion. 
 
 As soon as dinner was over. Sir Aylmer returned to his 
 former commanding position in the hall and claimed Deryk 
 to stand at his side and help receive the guests for the ball. 
 Until nearly eleven he stood automatically smiling and shak- 
 ing hands, then conscientiously solicited and received dances 
 from the half-dozen girls that he imagined his father would 
 least like him to offend. God! the English were supposed 
 to take their pleasures sadly, but what could you do? 
 Prima facie a ball was designed to provide enjoyment for 
 young people ; well, it couldn't amuse anyone to give or re- 
 ceive a duty dance; as for the young people, half the 
 guests were unknown to him, the other half seemed to be 
 about ninety. Really, what was the use of inviting old 
 Marsham, the vicar, unless he were going to chirp to dow- 
 agers? Or Forsyte, who, by the way, should learn not to
 
 90 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 come up on an unprofessional occasion and tell a fellow 
 that he was looking fine-drawn; who wouldn't be fine- 
 drawn at Ripley Court? The pathetic little dolls of crea- 
 tures all affected a polite interest in his travels, and by 
 midnight, when he rid himself of the last with a hurried 
 " 'Nother one later, may I ?" he felt that nothing but the 
 prospect of supper with Idina kept him from screaming 
 aloud. ... As he scoured the neighbourhood of the ball- 
 room in search of her, he found Yolande Stornaway sit- 
 ting alone in the gallery with her boyish auburn head rest- 
 ing on her arms, gazing down on to the serpentine coils of 
 the dancers. 
 
 "Lost a valuable partner, Yolande?" he enquired. "I 
 don't know a tithe of the people here, but I'll look for him, 
 if you like. Oh, it's no good, the music's stopping." 
 
 She shook her bead. 
 
 "I'm resting this one," she told him. "Tell me, Deryk, 
 is your father going to let you go with Dr. Manisty?" 
 
 Deryk sat down beside her and took out his cigarette case. 
 
 "He hasn't decided yet," he answered. "There seems to 
 be some portentous business about getting to understand 
 the family affairs, my position here — " He blew a scornful 
 puff of smoke. "In other words, fooling about here at this 
 sort of thing all my days." 
 
 Yolande half turned her head to him. 
 
 "And are you going to stand that?" she asked provoca- 
 tively. 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "If he puts his foot down, I shall have to. The purse- 
 strings, my dear Yolande." 
 
 She tossed her head contemptuously. 
 
 "If you were worth a snap of the fingers, you'd simply 
 refuse ; it's a question of pride ; and, if he wouldn't give in, 
 you'd go out and earn your own living. With your brains 
 you could do it as easily as anything. Deryk, you simply 
 couldn't live here doing nothing." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders again and pointed down to 
 the ballroom.
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 91 
 
 "About half the fellows down there are really doing 
 nothing. Deganway's in the Foreign Office, Oakleigh 
 spends his leisure moments running a paper, but most of 
 them are sort of killing time till their fathers die. And 
 then I suppose they sit tight as the complete country gen- 
 tleman until their sons grow up and wait for them to clear 
 out. This is a remarkable country, Yolande." 
 
 "To an American." 
 
 Deryk turned on her questioningly. 
 
 "I'm not an American," he said. "I was born there, but 
 that doesn't make me an American." 
 
 Yolande laughed gently to herself. 
 
 "Perhaps it keeps you from becoming anything else. 
 Deryk, I'm going to be frightfully rude. May I?" 
 
 He sighed resignedly and looked away crestfallen, like 
 a child under rebuke. 
 
 "Do you need leave after all these years?" he enquired. 
 
 His forlorn expression and tone aroused Yolande's quick 
 compassion. 
 
 "You're different from all the people down there, dear 
 Deryk," she explained; "your life's bound to be different. 
 They were born to it, and — well, you know, you weren't." 
 
 There was a long silence, in which he gazed dreamily 
 down. 
 
 "I think I realise that," he said at length. 
 
 "Your father hasn't," Yolande rejoined. "He doesn't 
 belong to the place, and the place doesn't belong to him. 
 ... I suppose it takes generations to get your roots right 
 down into the soil. And, if he's ever had the instinct, 
 America would have knocked it out of him. A year on 
 my own in London has killed centuries of cherished ideas." 
 She turned with a friendly smile. "I'm very fond of you, 
 Deryk; you can do such lots of things, and I shall never 
 forgive you, if you waste your life trying to do something 
 that was never worth doing at any time and that you 
 couldn't do, if it were." 
 
 He rose to his feet with a laugh, as the band began to 
 tune up for the next waltz.
 
 92 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I am doing my best," he protested. "But if my fa- 
 ther " 
 
 "Oh, why aren't you a bit more of a rebel?" she ex- 
 claimed. "Everybody has a father, and every father's nat- 
 urally an obscurantist. D'you suppose I didn't have to 
 make a fight for it?" 
 
 "You told me you had three hundred a year. You ap- 
 preciate I haven't a bob of my own ?" 
 
 Yolande sighed and pushed back her chair. 
 
 "As if you couldn't make it over and over again ! My 
 child, I should like to see you getting frightfully into debt 
 or marrying someone your father disapproved of. That 
 would make you shew your mettle ! But I expect you'd 
 sigh as a lover and obey as a son, like Gibbon. You're 
 hopeless, Deryk ; you've got no backbone." 
 
 "I'm keeping my partner waiting," he said, bowing and 
 turning to go. 
 
 Idina was sitting in the hall with Sidney Dawson, who 
 seemed to be maintaining a monologue of sparkling an- 
 ecdotes. As a young man he had wasted a few years and 
 a portion of his health on strictly conventional dissipation ; 
 when his friends married, he kept alive in memory the 
 glories of their saturnalia and boasted that he was too old 
 a bird to be caught in the trap of matrimony. Young mem- 
 bers of the County Club were flooded with accounts of 
 his former dare-deviltry, but, after a short renown for a 
 certain enviable worldliness, the young men seemed to tire 
 of him ; they had letters to write, when he pulled up a chair 
 next to theirs ; and, if they could not always refuse his in- 
 vitations, at least they never invited him back. Dawson 
 discovered that he was growing middle-aged. True to pose, 
 he interested himself in the health that he had so gloriously 
 squandered, and a pleasurable flicker of old fires shone out 
 when he was able to confide to strangers at Homburg, 
 Marienbad or Harrogate, "My own fault, you know, but I 
 don't regret it. You can't put old heads on young shoul- 
 ders, and I had a good run for my money. . . ." For the 
 rest he was to be found at the age of five and forty in the
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 93 
 
 smoking-room of the County Club, ineffectual, idle and 
 bored, seeking any kind of companionship and finding it 
 rarer and harder to achieve, or paying quarrelsome visits 
 to Aston Ripley, where his invalid sister ruled the Grange 
 in his absence and visibly resented his intrusion. Since 
 Idina's arrival, indeed, he spent less time in London. She 
 was an attractive new audience, and, though his sister 
 interfered spitefully with all gallantry of manner within the 
 house, he discovered agreeable variety and interest in smart- 
 ening his appearance, trying the old conversational gam- 
 bits and playing the decorous cavalier to the girl between 
 Ivy Cottage and the Grange. 
 
 "Well, I mustn't be greedy," he said regretfully at the 
 end of his story, when he saw Deryk fidgeting in front of 
 them. "Perhaps later on? . . . And you'll let me know 
 as soon as you want the car, Miss Penrose? My time is 
 entirely at your disposal. Thank you very much, I'm sure." 
 
 Deryk hurried her away for one turn round the ball- 
 room before supper. As they came back into the hall, he 
 met his father with a majestic lady and her daughter on 
 either side of his chair. 
 
 "Oh, I should like to introduce my son. Lady Dainton," 
 said Sir Aylmer, laying an arresting hand on Deryk's arm. 
 "Miss Dainton, my son. Lady Dainton's car unfortunately 
 broke down by Bishop's Cross, and she has only just ar- 
 rived." 
 
 Deryk bowed and murmured some words of stereotyped 
 regret. He was not going to have his evening spoiled with 
 any more duty dances. 
 
 "We were just going in to supper," he told the girl. 
 "May I have one later? Say, missing two?" 
 
 They reached the gun-room without further hindrance, 
 and with a sigh of satisfaction he locked the door and 
 poured out two glasses of champagne. Idina tried to check 
 him, but he waved away her interference. 
 
 "I know you don't take it, but it'll do us both good to- 
 night. I've had a perfectly damnable evening." He 
 drained the glass and filled another. "Are you enjoying
 
 94 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 yourself, Dina?" She nodded, bright-eyed, over the rim 
 of the glass. "Well, that's one good thing, I can imagine 
 less dreary recreations than listening to Dawson's conver- 
 sation, but there's no accounting for tastes. Look here, as 
 I told you this morning, I'm not going to let you stay on at 
 the Grange. That's understood, isn't it?" 
 
 The girl shook her head and silently accepted the food, 
 which he placed before her. She was not in love with her 
 work, but, on her father's death, his rare friends — a dozen 
 half-pay majors with troubles of their own — had proffered 
 so guarded a sympathy, and her two thousand pounds 
 threatened to dwindle and disappear so quickly that she 
 had applied to a Regent Street agency for employment on 
 her own account. The agency, warning her that latter-day 
 governesses were expected to have passed examinations and 
 to hold certificates, sent her to a house where she had spir- 
 itual and physical custody of two ill-bred small boys from 
 the moment when she washed and dressed them in the 
 morning, through long hours of lessons and exercise, till 
 the time when she washed and put them to bed at night. 
 She was rescued from this by a carelessly good-natured 
 woman, who met her in Hyde Park, looked approvingly at 
 her neat figure and pretty face and set her, in a rustling 
 silk dress, to sell hats at an exorbitantly expensive shop in 
 Albemarle Street. For a time she did well, but one day 
 a very thin, bored young man, with an old face and watch- 
 ful eyes, sat in the background with his chin on the gold 
 nob of his cane, following and devouring Idina with his 
 eyes, while his wife grimaced at herself under successive 
 unsuitable hats. On the morrow she was told by telephone 
 that the hat finally chosen required alteration ; could she 
 call to take instructions ? The thin young man collided with 
 her in the hall at Bruton Street, as she left, and apologised 
 at unnecessary length. A week later, meeting her as she 
 left the shop for luncheon, he told her that all was now sat- 
 isfactory and suggested that they should lunch together. 
 Idina refused, so the thin young man made a practice of 
 waiting for her as she came out of the shop and walking
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 95 
 
 home with her to her lodgings. When she complained to 
 the carelessly good-natured woman, she was told not to be 
 a little prude. After that Idina returned to the agency, 
 and was sent on trial as secretary to a member of parlia- 
 ment. At the end of a week she was told that it was im- 
 practicable for anyone unable to write shorthand to get 
 through the day's work. 
 
 Sir Aylmer Lancing had at the outset promised to pay 
 the expense of her brother's education and leave them the 
 use of Ivy Cottage, if she could find any suitable employ- 
 ment for herself. (But she must recognise that she had 
 to work out her own salvation.) She was reluctant to 
 trespass on his good nature, but the agency greeted her re- 
 turn with impatience, and her pride had lost something of 
 its bloom in the past eight months. She wrote frankly, 
 with the feeling that her father's millionaire friend might 
 have done more and talked less about working out salva- 
 tions, and after a disheartening delay was told that Miss 
 Dawson, with whom she was already acquainted, would 
 give her a trial as companion. 
 
 Some part of this history Idina unfolded to Deryk, as 
 they sat at supper. 
 
 "Well, it's got to stop," was all that he would say, wav- 
 ing away her protests and pouring her out another glass 
 of champagne. 
 
 "But, Deryk " 
 
 Far down the passage he heard a voice calling: it drew 
 nearer, and he caught the sound of his own name; nearer 
 still, and he recognised the voice as his father's. Springing 
 to the door, he unlocked it and, jumping on to the table, 
 removed the bulbs from the electric light. Then he turned 
 up the switch and dragged Idina on to a sofa behind the 
 door. 
 
 The voice came ever nearer, to be followed by the tread 
 of slow footsteps, as Sir Aylmer rose from his chair and 
 impatiently turned the handle. The door opened for a mo- 
 ment and closed again.
 
 96 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Just as well I wasn't smoking," Deryk observed in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "But oughtn't you to go ?" Idina urged. 
 
 "Not if I know it. It's probably only the Dainton girl, 
 wondering what's become of me." 
 
 "But, Deryk, it's awfully rude " she began. 
 
 He put his hand quietly over her lips, as she had done to 
 him in the morning. 
 
 "My darling Dina, Miss Dainton can have six partners 
 for every dance, if she likes ; she knows everybody and 
 she's very good-looking, and for the last three years people 
 have been falling over each other to marry her. She can 
 spare me. This is almost the first time I've seen you since 
 I came back — if I take away my hand, will you promise 
 to be sensible?" 
 
 She nodded, with a laugh. 
 
 "Turn on the lights again, Deryk," she begged. 
 
 "Don't you like it like this ?" 
 
 "It'd look so funny, if anyone came in." 
 
 He jumped up and turned the key again in the door. 
 
 "Nobody can come in now," he said. "And there's the 
 most gorgeous moonlight. Dina, dear, you do look sweet 
 to-night !" 
 
 She smiled without speaking and allowed him to take her 
 hand in his own. His lean face had softened into a smile, 
 and in the moonlight his eyes were liquid and dark. 
 
 "I'm so glad you've come back," she whispered. 
 
 "I'm probably going away again quite soon." 
 
 "Oh, Deryk, where?" 
 
 "Asia Minor. It's a digging-party with Dr. Manisty." 
 
 For several moments neither spoke; then Idina said in a 
 level voice, 
 
 "I expect you'll enjoy that." 
 
 "I shouldn't go otherwise," he answered easily. There 
 was another pause, and he became conscious that the con- 
 versation was flagging. "I hope you'll have the decency to 
 write to me this time," he said with mock severity.
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 97 
 
 The girl turned and laid her disengaged hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I wish you weren't going away so soon," she whispered 
 with trembling lips. 
 
 "But you don't want me to stay in this graveyard ?" 
 
 She nodded and turned quickly away so that the moon- 
 light, shining on her face, should not shew him that her 
 eyes were full of tears. Sliding one arm round her shoul- 
 ders, Deryk drew her to him and kissed her on the lips. In 
 all the years of their friendship they had never had occa- 
 sion to kiss; instinctively she drew back, but he threw his 
 other arm round her neck and bent forward, kissing her 
 again. The resistance grew fainter, her eyehds drooped and 
 closed, and he pressed her to him until her quickened breath- 
 ing warmed his cheek, and he could feel the beating of her 
 heart. 
 
 "Do you want me to stay, darling?" he whispered. 
 
 She sought his ear with her lips and murmured drowsily, 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 At the far end of the great house the ceaseless "tmn- 
 tum-tum, ^wm-tum-tum" of the piano could still be heard ; 
 the other instruments, the melody of the waltz itself, were 
 lost. From time to time a door slammed, there was a whirr 
 of an engine and the crackle of heavy tires on the gravel 
 of the drive. Once Idina asked whether they ought not to 
 be going back. 
 
 "Do you want to go ?" Deryk whispered. 
 
 Her arms tightened round him. 
 
 "But your father?" she began. 
 
 "He's gone to bed hours ago," was the answer. 
 
 Half-asleep and with eyes closed they sat without speak- 
 ing again until Hatherly's voice at the end of the passage 
 called "Deryk." The call was not repeated, but Deryk 
 loosened one arm to look at his watch. 
 
 "My hat, it's half-past three !" he exclaimed. 
 
 Idina jumped to her feet with a cry of dismay. Her 
 dress had slipped half off her shoulders, and she pulled it
 
 98 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 into place with one hand, while the other strove to arrange 
 her dishevelled hair. 
 
 "Mr. Dawson's waiting to take me home !" she said. 
 
 "And I ought to have been saying good-bye to all these 
 people," said Deryk, as he settled his tie and picked up his 
 gloves. 
 
 They hurried into the hall, rather consciously avoiding 
 each other's eyes. The first person whom they saw was Sir 
 Aylmer, seated in his wheeled chair, -grey of face and des- 
 perately tired, bidding farewell to the last of his guests. 
 Sidney Dawson, in fur coat and muffler, was drinking soup 
 and smoking a cigar with Hatherly; Summertown, flushed 
 and rather noisy, was collecting Deganway and Sam Dain- 
 ton for a last raid on the supper-room. 
 
 "At last!" Yolande Stornaway murmured to Manisty, as 
 the truants came in sight. "Just about three hours." 
 
 "D-does one cheer or make a speech or wha-what?" 
 enquired Manisty. "I'm not a f-family man, you know." 
 
 "You can safely leave all that to Sir Aylmer," Yolande 
 answered. "But she's a dear little thing." 
 
 Deryk advanced with exaggerated ease into the middle of 
 the hall. 
 
 "We've been having supper," he announced. "I'd no idea 
 it was so late." 
 
 Deryk was too much excited to sleep for the short re- 
 mainder of the night and appeared in the middle of the 
 morning with dark rings round very bright eyes. As he 
 turned from side to side, trying to clear his head of one 
 over-insistent waltz, he had prepared a number of elo- 
 quently defiant speeches for use with his father, when re- 
 quired to explain his behaviour overnight. He was eager 
 to fling them off, while the touch of Idina's lips was still 
 warm on his cheek and his arms seemed to draw her yield- 
 ing body to him, so that his tightly-strung valour became 
 slack, when Hatherly reported at breakfast that Sir Aylmer
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 99 
 
 was seriously overtired and would spend the day in his 
 room without seeing anyone. 
 
 Twenty- four hours' uncertainty was bad enough, but it 
 was made worse by the knowledge that everybody in the 
 house and a sprinkling of people in the neighbourhood were 
 comparing suspicions, gossiping and exchanging questions 
 every moment that he was out of earshot. Hatherly talked 
 at breakfast with a Rhadamanthine face; George Oakleigh, 
 on entering the dining-room, smiled at him a little wistfully 
 and said nothing; Summertown, meeting him in the hall, 
 punched him in the ribs and addressed him as an "old dog," 
 while Deganway, who prided himself on the range and ac- 
 curacy of his personal knowledge, spared no one in his 
 efforts to find out precisely and exhaustively who this Miss 
 Penrose was. No one congratulated him in terms except 
 Yolande, who ran up, as he was convoying a party to the 
 training-stable on the Downs, and poured out a stream of 
 whispered questions. 
 
 "Most interesting! First I've heard about it," he an- 
 swered, as he tried to break away. 
 
 "Don't be silly!" she exclaimed. "Does Sir Aylmer ap- 
 prove ?" 
 
 "There's nothing to approve of." 
 
 Yolande laughed. 
 
 "That may be truer than you care," she warned him. "I 
 hope, in spite of what I said last night, that he won't stand 
 in the way." 
 
 "What of?" 
 
 Yolande turned and gripped him by both arms. 
 
 "I shall shake you in a minute, Deryk !" she cried. "You 
 know I'm a jolly good friend to you, you know I want 
 you and her to be happy " 
 
 "But do you imagine we're engaged?" he interrupted. 
 
 Yolande looked at him with wide-open grey eyes. 
 
 "Well, aren't you ?" she asked. 
 
 "I repeat, it's the first I've heard about it," he told her 
 again, and she dropped away from his side with a chastened 
 sense that he did not want her sympathy or good wishes — •
 
 100 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 also that he was behaving oafishly over the whole busi- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 During the afternoon he made a second attempt to see 
 his father, but Benson would not allow him inside the 
 room, and he could only give himself the barren satisfac- 
 tion of constructing imaginative and unexpectedly heroic 
 versions of the impending interview. Forty-eight hours be- 
 fore it was a simple matter of saying casually, "Oh, by the 
 way, Dina and I are engaged, dad! Hope you approve!" 
 He might be entirely wrong, of course, but he felt now 
 that his father would not approve and, what was worse, 
 that he might not state his objections frankly. The episode 
 of the invitation — Deryk shivered disgustedly; it left an 
 unpleasant taste in the mouth; and the whole objection 
 seemed to arise from a new and amazing quality of snob- 
 bishness. Well, he was damned if he was going to be told 
 that Dina wasn't good enough for him ; he would not intro- 
 duce her name or allow her to be discussed. Of course, he 
 could not marry without money, and, if his father per- 
 sisted in his opposition, money would not be forthcoming. 
 Obviously the question of an independent income had to 
 be settled once and for all ; and thereafter, if his father 
 proved obdurate, had he the means of making himself in- 
 dependent of his father? Yolande thought so, but how 
 long would it take, and how the deuce was one to begin ? 
 He could only find out by trying. . . . And the immediate 
 problem was what line to take when required to explain 
 his three hours' absence overnight, his general neglect of 
 duty towards his other guests? 
 
 The imaginary interview was cut short by George Oak- 
 leigh, who strolled languidly into the room, helped him- 
 self to a cigarette and sat down on the corner of the billiard- 
 table by Deryk's sofa with the announcement that he had 
 come to talk journalism and propaganda. 
 
 'T hope you weren't asleep," he began. "Miss Storna- 
 way told me yesterday that you were probably going to 
 Asia Minor with Manisty. Is it true? My reason for 
 asking is that everybody seems to expect a third Balkan war
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE loi 
 
 as soon as Turkey has got the ships we're building for her 
 — Turkey and Bulgaria against the rest, you know — and 
 I want all the independent information I can get for my 
 paper. I don't know whether you'd care to do a series 
 or articles for me ; if you go there with good introductions, 
 you might be able to get me a lot of good stuff, and I'm 
 quite sure that we aren't in sight of the end of trouble there. 
 I can introduce you to our Ministers in Athens and Sofia. 
 The Ambassador at Constantinople I don't know, but my 
 friend O'Rane can manage that. I'm afraid that our rate 
 for contributions won't be much of an inducement to you, 
 I don't know whether you feel equal to undertaking the 
 job " 
 
 "If I go, I'll send anything I get," Deryk promised. 
 
 "Have you done anything of the kind before?" 
 
 "No, but I could pick it up, of course," Deryk answered. 
 
 Oakleigh smiled a little ruefully. 
 
 "Journalism isn't as easy or interesting or picturesque as 
 you might think from the novels written about it," he said. 
 
 "But any man of decent education can make a living 
 out of it, surely," Deryk persisted, "even if he's had no pre- 
 vious experience?" 
 
 Oakleigh gave no categorical reply, but for half an hour 
 he talked of men and methods, journalistic giants and jour- 
 nalistic triumphs; a corner of the veil was lifted from eter- 
 nally fascinating, ever active Fleet Street; he told of the 
 proud ships that had swaggered from port, never to return, 
 and of the labouring tramps that had ploughed their way to 
 and fro with riches greater and ever greater for their 
 owners ; of the men who had come to educate the press and 
 the men whom the press had educated. 
 
 "Good journalism has an excellence of its own," he con- 
 cluded, "which is not to be won in a night by your most 
 brilliant thinker or writer. Frankly I should probably have 
 to cut your effusions to pieces till you'd gone through the 
 mill." 
 
 Deryk's academic contempt for the slipshod violence of
 
 102 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Fleet Street was not mitigated by Oakleigh's temperate ex- 
 position of qualities and difficulties. 
 
 "What d'you bet I couldn't make a living by my pen 
 within one month?" he asked. 
 
 "Come and try," Oakleigh suggested. "The experience 
 won't do you any harm. I'll start you right at the bottom, 
 and you can see how high you'll rise. I don't think you'll 
 do much — quite candidly. There'll be too much gutter 
 'cuteness, too many superlatives, altogether too much racket 
 and hysteria. God ! how I hated it, when I came to it first ! 
 When I wrote leaders like the old weekly essays for my 
 tutor !" 
 
 Hardly knowing whence or where the idea had come to 
 him, Deryk had allowed his thoughts to wander far be- 
 yond the narrow range of their conversation. 
 
 "You'll pay me, of course?" he stipulated. "I'm taking 
 this seriously." 
 
 "Pay you and sack you, if you're incompetent," Oakleigh 
 returned in the same tone. 
 
 "That's a bargain," said Deryk, and they wandered out 
 of the billiard-room in search of the others. 
 
 Deryk sat down to dinner that night in high spirits. Ad- 
 venture, self-realisation and achievement lay within his 
 grasp. When the cigars were brought in, he moved round 
 to Hatherly's side and asked whether it would be possible 
 to see his father that night. Hatherly's round, kindly face 
 clouded, and he shook his head with the sub judice, Rhada- 
 manthine air of the morning; for the first time Deryk felt 
 an unkind impatience of his father's unaccommodating 
 ill-health, and he found difficulty in curbing his irritability, 
 when Yolande came up to him in the drawing-room and 
 asked the result of his interview. 
 
 "Oh, you were so bubbling over at dinner that I thought 
 you must have talked him round," she said with disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 "You think he'll need talking round?" asked Deryk. 
 
 Yolande shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "He's your father, you know him best. But it doesn't
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 103 
 
 make any difference one way or the other. Deryk dear, 
 let me say one thing, and then I'll hereafter hold my peace. 
 If you're in love with her, it doesn't matter what Sir 
 Aylmer does ; because, if you've the pride of a snail, you'll 
 snap your fingers at him and go your own way. It's a 
 question of pride, as I told you before." 
 
 Deryk smiled at her flushed face and eager manner. 
 
 "You're qualifying for a matrimonial agent," he said. 
 
 "You great gaby!" Her grey eyes suddenly softened. 
 "Don't you understand that I want to see you happy, 
 Deryk? I'm very fond of you and I've always felt that it 
 would be next to impossible for any boy with all yout 
 money to know the least happiness in life. Do say you've 
 got the pride of a snail !" 
 
 "I hope I have," he laughed; and they parted, as Sum- 
 mertown approached to claim a victim for his bridge table. 
 
 All but Deryk were tired early that night, and the party 
 broke up at eleven. The fever that had been in his blood 
 all day was not yet spent, however, and he paced up and 
 down the library after the others had gone to bed, restlessly 
 unable to still his nerves. 
 
 Since four that morning he had not seen Idina and he 
 hungered for the sound of her voice. He could not tire 
 himself by cutting the leaves of new books or finding places 
 for them on the crowded shelves ; as he sat restlessly by the 
 fire, as he slowly mounted the library ladder, his thoughts 
 raced back to the moment when he saw her face, white in 
 the moonlight and with lids drowsily lowered over dark 
 blue eyes, drawing nearer to him until their lips met ; 
 he could feel his cheeks tingling at the memory of her head 
 pressing on his shoulder and her cool, white arms clasping 
 round his neck. It was incomprehensible that he should 
 want anything, anyone so much as he wanted her. . . . 
 Throwing down the books, he paced the library again and 
 again; hardly knowing what he did, he flung open one of 
 the long windows and climbed out, but the clatter of his 
 feet on the gravel frightened him ; in the distance he could 
 hear the night watchman talking to a gardener who had
 
 I04 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 been stoking the hot-house furnaces; in the stable-yard a 
 dog yawned, bayed half-heartedly at the moon and yawned 
 again. 
 
 Climbing back, he closed the window, turned out the 
 light and walked on tiptoe to the secretary's office. There 
 was a sound, half moan, half snore, as he passed his fa- 
 ther's bedroom; but it was not repeated, and, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, he crept on. Within the office the door be- 
 tween bedroom and sitting-room was open ; he stood with 
 his fingers on the handle until Phillimore's heavy breath- 
 ing, temporarily syncopated, had recovered its regularity 
 and repose, then guided himself by the dying firelight to the 
 telephone switchboard. The little holes, the rubber tubes 
 ending in plugs perplexed him; but in time he found his 
 own extension and connected it with the outgoing line. 
 Then, noiselessly closing the door, he tiptoed down the 
 passage and hurried upstairs to his own room. 
 
 For many moments after his call he could get no an- 
 swer. Then a startled voice said, "Yes? Hullo? Yes?" 
 
 Deryk laughed softly and lowered his voice to a whisper. 
 
 "Darling! I only rang up to say good-night." 
 
 Over the wire he fancied a catch in the voice and heard a 
 little sigh of relief. 
 
 "Oh, Deryk ! I couldn't think who it was !" 
 
 "I wanted to know how you were and what you were 
 doing. Were you asleep?" 
 
 "I was in bed, but I wasn't asleep. Can't you sleep, 
 either?" 
 
 "No. I ought to be tired out, but I can't settle down till 
 you say good-night. Say 'good-night' to me, Dina." 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 He waited and then broke out in disgust. 
 
 "That's not the way to say good-night !" 
 
 "Good-night,— Deryk." 
 
 "No good." 
 
 "Good-night — dear." 
 
 Sitting half-undressed on the edge of his bed, Deryk 
 
 J
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 105 
 
 found his feet swinging backwards and forwards with ir- 
 ritable impatience. 
 
 "I shall ring off, if you go on like this," he threatened. 
 
 The voice sank to a whisper of welling tenderness. 
 
 "Don't bully me, sweetheart. Good-night, my darling, 
 darling boy." 
 
 There was a distant click, and the wire became dead. 
 Deryk smiled and finished his undressing. 
 
 The following day the house-party began to disperse. 
 Manisty was the first to go, and he spent a large part of 
 the morning with his host and Raymond Stornaway, dis- 
 cussing the details of the help which he required in his 
 work. Sir Aylmer, as ever, put a number of slow questions 
 and then sat silent: after due reflection he stated the terms 
 of what he was prepared to do and sat back with closed 
 eyes to signify that nothing more remained to be said; his 
 mind was wiped clean as a slate from the moment that his 
 draft scheme was put in black and white. After hearing 
 Manisty at length and patiently, he had offered to endow a 
 chair of archseolog}^ to be administered by trustees, but 
 with the first appointment left in his own hands. Manisty, 
 like every other applicant for funds, began to stammer 
 a comment, but Raymond silenced him and accepted the 
 proposal on behalf of both. As the door closed behind 
 them. Sir Aylmer rang his table-bell and sent for his son. 
 Deryk came in with a quickly beating heart and a sense 
 that his nervous valour of yesterday was none the better 
 for keeping. He hated these wrangles with his father, but 
 on certain points there was no room for yielding or com- 
 promise. He was five and twenty, as well entitled as any- 
 one of the same age to fashion his own life : wherein was 
 six and twenty, eight and twenty, thirty a mysteriously 
 more responsible time of life? 
 
 Sir Aylmer was at his table with a foolscap sheet of 
 scribbled figures and notes before him. He continued writ- 
 ing for some moments, while Deryk stood with his back to 
 the fire, keeping his courage up to fighting point. The 
 opening of the interview reminded him of similar meetings
 
 io6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 at school, when his tutor invariably ignored the presence of 
 a malefactor and went on with his correspondence until an 
 advantageous atmosphere of suspense had been created. 
 
 "You said the other day that you wanted to go out with 
 Manisty on his next trip to Hellenopolis," began Sir Aylmer. 
 "You haven't been home very long, and it's not very con- 
 venient for me, but you seemed anxious to go. You're still 
 of the same mind?" 
 
 Deryk considered quickly. Excavation, Manisty and Asia 
 Minor had ebbed out of his mind from the moment when 
 he mentioned Hellenopolis to Idina in the gun-room. His 
 father's opening found him unprepared ; he felt that it was 
 not quite fair. 
 
 "You're still of the same mind?" Sir Aylmer repeated, 
 looking up at him for the first time. 
 
 Over-riding every other thought, Deryk recognised that 
 he must at least know his own mind. 
 
 "Yes," he answered without further hesitation. 
 
 Sir Aylmer nodded. 
 
 "Ive been talking to Manisty this morning, and he said 
 he's willing to take you. He starts in a month's time, as 
 soon as his lectures at Liverpool are finished, and he'll be 
 away till the early autumn. When you come back, I shall 
 have to keep you very hard at work on family business. 
 Hatherly will take you over to New York in the autumn; 
 while you're down here, he and I will explain the busi- 
 ness from this end. If you can find Hatherly, kindly tell 
 him that I want to see him." 
 
 Deryk stood breathless as though his father had hit him 
 in the wind. His life was neatly mapped out for a twelve- 
 month : by design or coincidence he was throughout that 
 time to be kept under observation and away from Ivy Cot- 
 tage. Of his eloquent defiance he had not found the op- 
 portunity to speak one word ; of the heroic schemes and 
 scenes imagined in the last thirty-six hours he was not to 
 have the occasion of putting one into execution. Accept- 
 ing battle on his adversary's ground, Sir Aylmer had quietly 
 cut it from under his feet. And this was the man whom
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 107 
 
 he had so triumphantly vanquished in the contest over Idi- 
 na's invitation; the man whom he was to defy and over- 
 whelm in the greater contest over his future liberty of ac- 
 tion; he was being packed out of the country — at his own 
 premature request. 
 
 "Hats is in his own room," said Deryk. Refusing to ca- 
 pitulate and to be ordered here and there without the sem- 
 blance of opposition, he picked up the telephone from his 
 father's table. "Mr. Hatherly, please. Hullo ! that you, 
 Hats? I say, can you come and see the guv'nor?" 
 
 Sir Aylmer looked up from his writing, as Hatherly came 
 into the room. 
 
 "You're rather deserting our guests, aren't you, Deryk?" 
 he suggested pointedly. 
 
 "Oh, they'll be getting ready for lunch," Deryk an- 
 swered, looking at the clock. "I say, dad, while we're dis- 
 cussing our future arrangements, I should just like to say 
 something about the money question " 
 
 Sir Aylmer interrupted him with a quick shake of the 
 head. 
 
 "That's all settled," he said. "Manisty will act as banker 
 for you. And, when you go to America in the autumn, 
 Hatherly will, of course, pay for ever)i;hing." 
 
 "But that means I have nothing of my own." 
 
 Sir Aylmer turned to him with an expression of bland 
 surprise. 
 
 "But it's all your own. You never went short of anything 
 the last two years, did you?" 
 
 He turned to Hatherly with a smile, and Hatherly, too, 
 smiled and shook his head. Deryk had a despairing sense 
 of powerlessness. The two men were so old and unsym- 
 pathetic ; they were so cunning, too. ... It seemed to have 
 been all rehearsed. 
 
 "I never had a penny without having to go and ask for 
 it," he went on doggedly. 
 
 "But was it ever refused?" his father asked with a dis- 
 play of mild reason. He had that morning examined a 
 batch of accounts, including the bill for a pearl necklace.
 
 io8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "No, but I don't want to ask for it every time. I'm 
 twenty-five, dad, and 1 think I'm to be trusted. There's 
 not a man I know of my own age who has to go to his 
 father every time he wants to buy a paper." 
 
 Sir Aylmer ignored obvious retorts and contented himself 
 with turning to Hatherly. 
 
 "How much shall I give him, Ted?" he asked. Hatherly 
 was unable to answer quickly enough, and he looked at 
 Deryk. "How much do you need ? I want a figure to cover 
 your clothes, books and personal expenses, all that sort of 
 thing. Anything out of the ordinary, like this trip to Hel- 
 lenopolis, I'll pay independently. Will five hundred a year 
 be enough as long as you're living here ? If you take rooms 
 in town, of course, I shall have to make it more. I don't 
 want you to feel that you're tied to my apron strings." 
 
 Deryk was so far wanting in a money-sense that he found 
 it impossible to suggest a figure. At Oxford he had been 
 given an allowance of four hundred pounds for three terms 
 of eight weeks each. It was not the amount of the sum that 
 mattered, however, but the conditions attaching to it. 
 
 "You mean an allowance?" he asked deliberately. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But that's the same thing as at present. Instead of send- 
 ing my bills in to you, I shall pay them out of my allow- 
 ance ; and, if you don't like the way I'm spending the 
 money, you can stop the allowance." 
 
 For the first time Sir Aylmer allowed a shadow of an- 
 noyance to cloud his face. 
 
 "If you're going to put the money to proper uses, Deryk," 
 he said, "you know that I shan't arbitrarily stop it; if 
 you're going to put it to improper uses, you can hardly 
 expect me to encourage it very actively." 
 
 "But I want to be the judge!" Deryk cried. "You're 
 simply treating me like a child ! How much longer have 
 I got to go on like this ?" 
 
 Sir Aylmer looked at him with exasperating patience and 
 then beckoned to Hatherly. 
 
 "You must explain to Deryk — apparently he's incapable
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 109 
 
 of seeing it for himself — that I am not in a condition to 
 stand all this argument," he said. "I really don't know 
 what's come over him. You can tell him, however, that I 
 have spoken my last word on this subject. He can take 
 the allowance, or he can go on as he's doing at present; 
 if he takes it, I'll pay the first quarter's cheque into his 
 bank to-day. But he must understand that I've seen so 
 many young men victimised for their money that anything 
 I leave will be administered by trustees until he's thirty. 
 And he must understand that I decline to have this discus- 
 sion re-opened." 
 
 Hatherly walked to the fire like a well-disciplined execu- 
 tioner and took the boy by the arm. There was a moment's 
 impulse to struggle, but Deryk realised in time that nothing 
 was to be gained by growing noisy and indignant with two 
 men who declined to pursue the argument. He allowed 
 himself to be led away and, in his bewilderment, to be lec- 
 tured by Hatherly. 
 
 "If you want to kill your father, you're going the right 
 way about it," he began sternly. Then he handed on Sir 
 Aylmer's last words. At "thirty" Deryk gasped. The next 
 years of his life — all his life, for anything that he knew to 
 the contrary — had been neatly arranged and pigeon-holed. 
 His father was treating him like a university endowment ; he 
 was ever to be at the mercy of a man too old to remember 
 his own youth and surrounded by other old men whom he 
 had broken to his will. . . . 
 
 He jumped up and looked out of the window to the 
 sweeping drive and the copses of rhododendrons glistening 
 in the rain. 
 
 "I've had about as much of this as I can stand," he re- 
 marked between his teeth. 
 
 Hatherly started involuntarily. Similar words, uttered 
 in a similar tone, had been spoken by Sir Aylmer, when 
 the two were young men together. Deryk's attitude was 
 the attitude of his father, as he looked out over the wet 
 roofs of Lincoln's Inn with hot, angry eyes.
 
 no MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Now do look at the thing sensibly!" he implored with 
 a sudden, cajoling softness of voice. 
 
 But Deryk had flung away towards the dining-room. 
 Hatherly waited until he was out of sight and then hurried 
 back to Sir Aylmer. 
 
 At intervals throughout the afternoon Deryk was to be 
 found in the hall, speeding successive units of the house- 
 party on their scattered ways ; and by tea-time the only 
 survivors were George Oakleigh and his sister, who were 
 motoring over to Crowley Court in time to dine with the 
 Daintons. As the last car came to the door, Deryk led 
 Oakleigh aside and pressed a final cigar upon him. 
 
 "I was in dead earnest about what we were saying yes- 
 terday," he began with assumed truculence. "I've never 
 made a penny in my life, and you think I can't. Well, we 
 shall see. I'm coming to you on Monday morning as a 
 stranger, to tell you my qualifications and see what I can 
 do. I want you to treat me— just like anyone else," 
 
 Oakleigh smiled to himself, as he buttoned his coat and 
 lit the cigar. 
 
 "How long are you going to keep on the experiment?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "If I'm any good at all, I shall go on for some time. If 
 at the end of a month I see no prospect of keeping my head 
 above water, I shall turn the thing down and confess my- 
 self beaten." 
 
 From his combative manner and nervously emphatic 
 speech Deryk might have been gravely affronted, and his 
 companion sought to modify any early disparagement of 
 his powers. 
 
 "A month's not long," he suggested reasonably. "You've 
 got no stock-in-trade, remember; no articles or sketches 
 up your sleeve ; nothing to shew me. I shall have to set 
 you jobs and see how you do them. I don't mind, of 
 course, but it's a hand-to-mouth existence for you." He 
 derived a melancholy amusement from contemplation of
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE iii 
 
 the experiment and of Deryk's coming disillusionment when 
 he contrasted modern Fleet Street with his present ideal- 
 ised, Lucien de Rubempre conception of it. "What does Sir 
 Aylmer think of the idea?" he asked. 
 
 "I haven't told him," said Deryk shortly. "This is sim- 
 ply for my private satisfaction. The guv'nor went out when 
 he wasn't much older than I am, half the men I know at 
 Oxford have gone out, one way or another. I want to see 
 if I'm as good a man as they are." 
 
 "Then you don't want it talked about ?" 
 
 "I should think not !" Deryk exclaimed. "If I make 
 good, I expect I shall be quick enough to talk about it. But 
 I don't want congenital idiots like Summertown or Degan- 
 way coming and being funny; and I don't want the half- 
 penny press talking about 'Millionaire's Son Taking His 
 Coat Off.' I'm not telling — even the guv'nor, and you'll 
 be helping me if you give me an excuse ifor coming to Lon- 
 don at all. Tell him I'm bursting to hear all about your 
 propaganda; one lie's as good as another." 
 
 Oakleigh considered the proposal in silence. He knew 
 Deryk so little that he had no standard for judging his 
 eccentricities ; but the little conspiracy seemed innocent 
 enough, and the boy's eager, staccato speech and flashing 
 eyes would have made anyone anxious not to disappoint 
 him. 
 
 "I'll do what I can," he promised at length. "Now I 
 must go and say good-bye to your father." 
 
 The proposal met with so little opposition that Deryk's 
 surface suspicions were roused, and he told himself sar- 
 donically that his father was welcoming any opportunity 
 of putting forty-five miles between Ivy Cottage and him- 
 self. After a silent and aggrieved dinner, he locked him- 
 self in his bedroom, packed an ample supply of clothes and 
 investigated the state of his finances. There was rather 
 more than two hundred pounds at the bank, and this he was 
 prepared to borrow from himself and pay back, as he be- 
 gan to make good. But it was not his money, and he re- 
 fused to regard it as anything but a loan ; when Sir Aylmer
 
 112 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 put a question at dinner how the first quarter's allowance 
 was to be paid, Deryk replied loftily that this was a matter 
 of indifference to him; if he could not have an independ- 
 ent income, he desired no change in the old system of pay- 
 ment. Hatherly's round, benevolent face became charged 
 with trouble, and he forcibly changed the subject by asking 
 how long Deryk expected to be in London ; no definite date 
 could be given, however; and letters had best be sent to 
 the County Club. . . . 
 
 "Was he like this when you were abroad?" Sir Aylmer 
 asked in tired perplexity, when he was alone with Hatherly 
 after dinner. 
 
 The morning's conversation with Deryk, the sudden, re- 
 bellious look, the nervous outburst of defiance that seemed 
 to identify son and father across the abyss of a generation 
 occupied Hatherly's mind to the exclusion of everything 
 else. 
 
 "I'm not comfortable about him, Aylmer," he said 
 gravely. "There's going to be trouble, if you don't give 
 him his head." 
 
 For a moment Sir Aylmer's lack-lustre eyes and lined 
 face became almost youthful and combative. 
 
 "If you mean, by giving him his head " he began with 
 
 a low, explosive rumble. 
 
 "I don't mean anything," Hatherly interrupted. "I 
 haven't in the least thought it out. Rightly or wrongly 
 Deryk feels that he's reached a breaking-point, and, if you 
 don't clear his mind of that feeling, there'll be trouble." 
 
 Sir Aylmer leaned receptively back in his chair with ex- 
 pectant patience. 
 
 "What can he do?" he asked, as Hatherly continued si- 
 lent. 
 
 "What did you do at pretty much his age?" was the 
 answer. 
 
 For some time Sir Aylmer, too, was silent ; then his face 
 cleared. 
 
 "If Deryk shewed me that he meant business, if he's
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 113 
 
 prepared to work out his own salvation," he begun delib- 
 erately, 
 
 "You appreciate the price?" Hatherly asked drily. 
 "You'd never see him again, — whether he succeeded or 
 failed. Don't make any mistake about that, Aylmer. You 
 won't appreciate that he's growing up and you won't recog- 
 nise how much of your own old Adam you've handed on 
 to that boy." 
 
 Sir Aylmer beckoned with a jerk of his head and allowed 
 hiniself to be helped to his feet. 
 
 "Let's hope he comes back from town in a more reason- 
 able temper," was all that he would say. 
 
 From nine o'clock until midnight Deryk wandered dis- 
 piritedly from one room of the house to another. After the 
 excitement of the last days his mind had gone flat, and he 
 yearned for a little sympathy. The distant sight of his 
 father, laboriously wheeling himself across the hall from 
 the dining-room, made him want to run and confess, to 
 explain things and await the kindly-humorous judgment 
 that other fellows seemed to get from their fathers. The 
 guv'nor had grown so unapproachable in recent years ; he 
 seemed so old, so uncommunicative, so much wrapped up in 
 his own ill-health. In spite of it all, perhaps because of 
 it all — the satanic pride, the masterful will, the unexplaining 
 habit of authority — Deryk was reluctant and almost afraid 
 to engage him; there was no great satisfaction in defeating 
 your own father. ... If only he would see. . . . For all 
 its ungainly size and awesome silence, Der}'k did not want 
 to say good-bye to Ripley Court; the orderly, comfortable 
 routine, which made life so effortless and void of small 
 worry ; the paternal friendliness of Phillimore and the old 
 servants, who still called him "Master Deryk" and treated 
 him like a schoolboy; the solicitude of Mrs Benson, who 
 felt dishonoured when he missed a course and always pro- 
 vided a bonibe a la Nesselrode for dinner on the night of his 
 return home. . . . And he had found no time to enjoy it; 
 two-thirds of the books were not yet unpacked, and he had 
 been thinking of the library all the time he had been abroad.
 
 114 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 In Celebes a letter from his father told him that the new 
 organ had now been installed in the chapel; he had been 
 too busy to try it, he had not been inside the chapel, he had 
 been nowhere, he had done nothing. . . . 
 
 Worn out with the excitement of the last three days, he 
 was beginning to undress, when Hatherly strolled in behind 
 the pretext of finishing his cigar in company. Deryk found 
 him almost exasperatingly bland, non-committal, diplomatic 
 •■ — "enjoy yourself in London — the guv'nor says you mustn't 
 miss this opportunity of buying your kit for Hellenopolis — 
 send him a line from time to time to say how you're getting 
 on — " The Hatherly skin contained at least three Hather- 
 lys, one a friend almost of his own age, rather steadier 
 and sobered by life, but eminently sympathetic ; there was 
 also an old man who became cowed, submissive, unsympa- 
 thetic, repellent, whenever he met Sir Aylmer, speaking in 
 whispers and falling into his allotted place in the line of 
 Bensons and Phillimores who had grown prematurely old 
 out of compliment to Ripley Court and its master. And 
 there was this intermediate Hatherly who flitted like a high- 
 ly-strung ambassador between library and study whenever 
 the air grew electric . . . and satisfied no one. They knew 
 that something was wrong, but they tried to distract his at- 
 tention, as though he were a child with a cut knee. Faith- 
 healing was no good for a fracture ; he was not to be whee- 
 dled into forgetting Dina, as though she were a circus that 
 his father did not want him to visit. . . . 
 
 He woke from his reverie to find that Hatherly was still 
 speaking. 
 
 "... I felt that the sooner you appreciated that the bet- 
 ter," he was saying. 
 
 "I'm afraid I wasn't listening," said Deryk unapologeti- 
 cally, as he tossed his clothes into an armchair. 
 
 "I was telling you that you were upsetting the guv'nor 
 very badly," Hatherly repeated, and Deryk at once realised 
 the atmosphere which was being imported : it was always 
 "your father" when there was a rebuke to be administered, 
 "the guv'nor" when the conciliation tap was being turned on.
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 115 
 
 "And I warn you frankly that he's not in a state to stand 
 extra worry; we've kept him alive in defiance of probability 
 for a good many years, but he's a cracked pitcher." Deryk 
 jumped into bed and picked up a book from the table at his 
 side, but Hatherly took it gently away before he could be- 
 gin to read it. "What's the matter, old man ?" he asked in a 
 voice that he had used to overcome the shyness and an- 
 tagonism of sixteen years before. "I feel that we haven't 
 got to the bottom of things." 
 
 The sudden, familiar kindliness of manner made Deryk 
 cover his face as though the light were hurting his eyes. He 
 hated to worry old Hats, but he could not stand having his 
 father's death-warrant eternally fluttered in his face. 
 
 "I don't think the guv'nor's treating me fairly," he burst 
 out petulantly. "Every man I know " 
 
 "D'you know a single one a tithe as rich as your father?" 
 Hatherly interrupted. "You're going to find out before you 
 die that there are precious few things that people won't do 
 for a sufficiently large money prize — young boys marrying 
 old women, young girls selling themselves to old men, ly- 
 ing, cheating, corruption. People who wouldn't kill one 
 man to steal his purse will engineer a war and kill thou- 
 sands on either side for a beggarly diamond mine. Well, 
 old man, as long as you're only a beneficiary, you're safe- 
 guarded from a good deal; when the money's your own, 
 you'll be far more vulnerable." He took out his case and 
 lit a cigarette from the stump of his cigar. "This isn't 
 an idea of yesterday, your father's not trying to score off 
 you in any way," he went on in a manner that brought the 
 discussion closer to actuality than ever before. "We ar- 
 gued it out before you were born. Your father came to 
 England and told me that your mother would soon have a 
 child; I well remember, though I don't think it had ever 
 occurred to him before, how terribly frightened he was to 
 think what might happen, if the child came in for all his 
 money before it was old enough to look after itself. Or 
 your mother, for that matter. We set up an elaborate 
 trust — I'll explain it all to you, when you get back here —
 
 ii6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to secure that, if your father died, your mother should 
 be reasonably protected from men who wanted to marry 
 her for her money. And we included you, as your father 
 told you this morning, by arranging for the money to be 
 administered by trustees until you were thirty. After that, 
 if you're going to the devil, you'll go ; until then — I'll put 
 it quite plainly— you'll have to get the assent of your 
 father or of the trustees for every penny you want to 
 spend. I had seen my share of rich young men coming 
 their croppers and I advised him, as a solicitor ; if you think 
 it's an unreasonable scheme, fight me about it by all means, 
 don't worry the pater. But, as I'm old and you're young, 
 before you fight me, just consider what you'd do, if you 
 had the responsibility of leaving about twenty million sterl- 
 ing to your son. And you must assume that you're fond 
 of the son," he added softly; "you must assume that he's 
 the only thing in the world that you've got to live for since 
 your wife died." 
 
 Deryk lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and telling 
 himself with honourable detachment that old Hats was 
 having the best of this; shortly and simply he had raised 
 the level of the discussion and, if he spoke still as an am- 
 bassador, it was as an ambassador who wanted to help; 
 was little of the diplomatic skirmishing which had preceded 
 the morning's interview with his father. And, as they 
 were getting to grips, surely this was the moment for a 
 frank question about Dina — was the opposition imaginary, 
 what did the guv'nor want? Deryk had the question half- 
 framed, but something that he decided must be instinct 
 kept him silent; it was not chance forgetfulness that had 
 led Sir Aylmer to use the truth so economically, and it 
 was neither oblivion nor toleration which made so in- 
 veterate a stickler for decorum refrain from alluding to 
 an incident at the ball which had set every other tongue 
 in the house and neighbourhood wagging. . . . 
 
 "This trust thing can't be upset, I suppose?" Deryk 
 asked.
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 117 
 
 "Only by your father. Of course, he can modify it at 
 will or tear it up." 
 
 "Then, if he Hked, he could take so much money out of 
 trust and settle it on me? He could give me, say, five 
 hundred or a thousand a year absolutely of my own and 
 leave all the rest locked up?" 
 
 Hatherly nodded. 
 
 "Undoubtedly. I'm quite sure he won't, though." 
 
 "But, if anyone's going to marry me for my money, 
 they'll run the risk and marry me for my expectations. 
 I mean, any money-lender. . . . And you can't go to the 
 devil very much on five hundred. Why don't you suggest 
 that to the guv'nor?" 
 
 "Because he's impossible to move, and, if he could be 
 moved, I don't think it would be reasonable to try. He's 
 never refused you money when you've asked for it, and, 
 if you take a sudden dislike to asking for it, the natural 
 inference is that you're busy about something that he won't 
 approve of." Hatherly stopped abruptly, as though he 
 were giving Deryk a considered opportunity for confes- 
 sion. "As for marrying on expectations," he resumed 
 slowly and disappointedly, "you'd better send any pro- 
 spective brides for a short talk with me before they take 
 the plunge ; the powers of the trustees are left very wide." 
 
 Throwing away his cigarette, he got up to go, feeling, 
 as many have felt before and since, that he would have 
 done better to go five minutes earlier. Deryk had re- 
 verted to his grievance, and he was himself using the 
 language of menace which he deplored in Sir Aylmer. 
 
 "I suppose different generations can't be expected to see 
 a thing with the same eyes," he said, coming back to the 
 bedside to lay a hand on Deryk's shoulder and leave a less 
 unsympathetic impression behind him. "But I should like 
 you to think what you'll do with your sons ; and I do want 
 you to remember that we have only one father in this world. 
 Good-night, old man." 
 
 Deryk lay for nearly half an hour, staring resignedly at 
 the ceiling; everybody was so exasperatingly reasonable
 
 ii8 MIDA5 AND SON 
 
 that he longed for an arbitrator to advise him ; he could see 
 their points, but they wouldn't see his; he would like, say, 
 Raymond to hold the scales, arrive at the truth, impose 
 his findings on both sides . . . But if Raymond decided 
 against him ? That was the trouble ; neither he nor his 
 father would abide by the decision, if it went the wrong 
 way. It was almost the one thing they had in common. 
 And he did not propose to go about like Panurge, asking 
 advice whether to marry, yea or nay. One had one's 
 pride ; one preferred not to discuss this sort of thing even 
 with people like dear, well-intentioned Yolande. . . . And, 
 by the way, it was so easy for her to talk about "the pride 
 of a snail" and what she would do and what she had done, 
 but Lord Stornaway was indestructible as an English pub- 
 lic building; you could disagree with him all day without 
 killing him ; everybody did, and he thrived on it . . . 
 
 The bell by his bed rang, and he picked up the receiver. 
 
 "Hallo ?" 
 
 "Oh, Deryk, what luck! I was terrified that Mr. Phil- 
 limore might answer it. I only wanted to say good-night." 
 
 At sound of her voice his heart seemed to leap. 
 
 "Dina, I've been longing to talk to you all day ! Are you 
 going to be in to-morrow morning? I want to see you 
 and I simply couldn't get away while the house was full 
 of people." 
 
 "I shall be at the Grange till seven," Idina answered. 
 "I have to lunch there on Sundays and I'm afraid I can't 
 get away before." 
 
 Deryk smothered an expression of disappointment. 
 
 "Then I'm afraid I shan't see you," he said. "I've got to 
 go up to town in the afternoon and I may be away some 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, Der>'k !" 
 
 Her plaintive tone touched something deep down in him, 
 rousing a new passionate desire to protect her. 
 
 "It can't be helped, darling," he said. "I wish I could 
 explain, I'm worried nearly off my head, but it's no good. 
 I'd tell you the whole thing, if I could, but I can't. I
 
 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE 119 
 
 don't know how long I shall be away and I can't tell you 
 why I'm going, and you mustn't try to find out. If any- 
 one asks you where I am, it's better that you shouldn't 
 know." 
 
 Out of the distance her voice sounded troubled and un- 
 happy. 
 
 "But I don't understand, dear!" 
 
 "And I can't explain," he answered. "Everything's 
 damnable, damnable, damnable ! Some day I'll tell you 
 all about it, but I can't now. I'll try to write to you, but 
 you mustn't expect anything much. You'll write to me, 
 won't you? Send your letters to the County Club, St. 
 James' Square." 
 
 There was a long silence. Then a distressed voice said, 
 
 "Deryk, you have made me miserable !" 
 
 His nerves were so much overstrung that he could hardly 
 control his voice. 
 
 "Dina darling! don't imagine I'm doing this for the fun 
 of the thing! I tell you, I'm nearly out of my mind. If I 
 could tell you, you'd understand at once, but I can't. Say 
 good-night and give me your blessing. God knows I need 
 it." 
 
 "Good-night, Deryk." 
 
 He laughed in despite of himself. 
 
 "Properly now, Dina." 
 
 "Good-night, darling." 
 
 "No ! Say 'Good-night, darling ; bless you !' " 
 
 There was the same pause as before ; the voice sank to 
 the same caressing whisper. 
 
 "Good-night, darling, darling! Bless you always!" 
 
 It was long before he slept that night ; and in the morn- 
 ing the lids of his eyes were red and tired, and his nerves 
 seemed to be lacerated. He avoided meeting his father 
 or Hatherly until luncheon, and then the conversation was 
 deliberately turned to the great peace propaganda which 
 George Oakleigh and his uncle had been carrying out for 
 three or four years.
 
 120 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 When the car came round to the door after tea, Peryk 
 went into his father's study to say good-bye. 
 
 "Well, I don't seem to have seen very much of you since 
 you came back," said Sir Aylmer, as they shook hands. 
 "Enjoy yourself in town, but don't be away too long. 
 Manisty starts in a month, and there's a lot to do before 
 that." 
 
 "Yes, — if I go," said Deryk. 
 
 Sir Aylmer looked at him closely. 
 
 "But we arranged all that yesterday," he said; and then 
 less sharply, "It was your idea, you were anxious to go." 
 
 "I may change my mind; I don't know." Deryk but- 
 toned his coat slowly and began to draw on his gloves. 
 "Did Hats tell you that we had a talk last night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "He mentioned it. I cannot re-open the discussion." 
 
 Deryk pursued his own course doggedly. 
 
 "I'm not at all satisfied with the way things were left," 
 he said. "I made a suggestion to Hats " 
 
 Sir Aylmer raised a hand to check him. 
 
 "I heard all about it," he said. "I'm not disposed to 
 make any alteration in the trust." 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders, picked up his hat and 
 umbrella and shook hands with Hatherly. Then he came 
 back and stood before his father. 
 
 "You've made up your mind to that?" he asked. "It's 
 no use raising the question again ? All right, I won't." 
 
 He started to the door, but Sir Aylmer called him back. 
 
 "Let me know when I'm to expect you back here," he 
 said. 
 
 "I have no idea," Deryk answered slowly.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 
 
 She had 
 A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad. 
 Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er 
 She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
 Sir, 'twas all one ! My favour at her breast, 
 The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
 The bough of cherries some officious fool 
 Broke in the orchard for her. the white mule 
 She rode with round the terrace — all and each 
 Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 
 Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked 
 Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 
 My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 
 With anybody's gift. 
 
 Robert Browning: My Last Duchess. 
 
 Almost before he left Ripley Court, long before he 
 reached London, Deryk appreciated that henceforth he 
 would never know the ease or pleasure of being undiplo- 
 matic ; he had his part to play now with everyone that 
 he met, he was playing it already — rather well. Thus Sir 
 Aylmer really believed that he was spending half a week 
 poring over the files of some ridiculous propagandist re- 
 view ; Idina did not imagine, cotdd not imagine that his 
 sudden departure for an indefinite time and an unstated 
 purpose was in any way connected with her. George 
 Oakleigh fancied, tolerantly enough, that he was indulg- 
 ing a very young, ver}' rich man's romantic foible and that 
 he did not want it advertised. This was the attitude adop- 
 ted at "Peace" office in Bouverie Street and at Prince's 
 Gardens, where he was almost immediately taken to dine 
 
 121
 
 122 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 and meet Bertrand Oakleigh. He was amused to find 
 himself reckoned a serious young man, experimenting in 
 life and seeing it from all angles, though the amusement 
 made rapid way for indignation when he thought of the 
 unnecessary effort, the gratuitous pain and the squan- 
 dered energy in which his father's folly was involving 
 him. This iDusiness of seeing whether he could earn his 
 own living was unwelcome in itself and made doubly un- 
 welcome by this eternal play-acting, all these excuses, pre- 
 tences, half-truths and reservations. On his first night in 
 London he dined at the County Club, though he well knew 
 that he could not afford to dine there habitually. He was 
 hardly seated before Deganway fluttered up, curled, 
 scented and immaculate in his affected, invertebrate way, 
 waving an eye-glass, addressing him as "my dear" and 
 shrilly demanding news. Deryk was not at ease under his 
 friend's fusillade of questions ; he refused to share a bottle 
 of wine, he was vague and unconvincing about his pres- 
 ence in London on a Sunday night and, as the dinner 
 proceeded, he had to tell Deganway that he was asking 
 too many questions about matters which really were not 
 his business. Not that it made much difference. Heaven 
 knew! Deganway was silent for thirty seconds, then he 
 began with another catechism, and, whether he got an 
 answer or not, it was quite certain that he would chatter 
 his way round London, telling everyone what he had made 
 up his mind to treat as true, not the truth as his victims 
 gave it him. Without a trace of malice, Deganway was 
 the most indiscreet, the most inaccurate and one of the 
 most dangerous men in London, whose influence for evil 
 was unaffected by the number of times on which he was 
 proved to be wrong. On the Monday evening Deryk met 
 Lady Dainton at dinner and was told publicly that he was 
 engaged to be married and that Mr. Deganway had said 
 so; he spent a week trying to overtake the story and in 
 the end demanded an explanation of Deganway, who in- 
 dignantly denied having told Lady Dainton any such thing 
 and instantly went on to enquire whether Deryk was not
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 123 
 
 in fact engaged, as he only wanted to get hold of the 
 right end of the stick. . . . 
 
 "When I'm engaged, I shall have the announcement put 
 in the papers," Deryk told him. 
 
 Deganway looked at him reproachfully and went off in 
 search of Summertown, who knew all about this engage- 
 ment and had known all about it for days: Aliss Pen- 
 rose was a companion or governess or something in the 
 neighbourhood of Ripley Court — "quite a lady, you know, 
 and all that sort of thing"; Lancing was rather hard hit 
 about her, but the old man wouldn't recognise the engage- 
 ment. Here Summertown's grip on the narrative grew 
 slack. Obviously the old man had refused his assent, be- 
 cause Deryk was in London with a set face and uninvit- 
 ing manner, doing — God knew what. . . . Within a week 
 Deryk incautiously allowed himself to be seen in the li- 
 brary of the Club with a sheaf of proof slips; Deganway 
 looked at him with round eyes, put up his glass, grimaced, 
 murmured, "My dear!" and again sought out Summer- 
 town. 
 
 In the meantime George Oakleigh was conscientiously 
 putting Deryk through his paces in Bouverie Street and 
 atoning for the necessary harshness of editorial supervision 
 by loading him with gifts of incidental literary and musi- 
 cal criticism. It was weighting the scales in his favour, 
 but Deryk's face and nervous manner hinted that he 
 needed to have the scales weighted in his own favour. 
 And, if the initiative had not come from him, Yolande 
 Stornaway would have supplied it. She met Deryk un- 
 expectedly in "Peace" office and poured out her usual 
 stream of questions. 
 
 "You've really had it out with your father?" she en- 
 quired breathlessly, her eager little face radiant with hope. 
 "And this is the result? Good old Deryk! I didn't know 
 you'd got it in you." 
 
 "I've not had anything out with my father," he an- 
 swered cautiously. "I wanted to see "
 
 124 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 He left the explanation unfinished lest he should explain 
 too much. 
 
 "You wanted to see whether you were strong enough 
 to stand up to him ? What does he think about it ? What 
 did you tell him? Deryk, I'm simply bursting to know!" 
 
 Deryk laughed in spite of himself. 
 
 "So I observe. But there's nothing to tell. Oakleigh 
 and I had a talk at Ripley, and I told him that any man 
 of decent education could make a living with his pen — 
 he was crabbing the ordinary public school type of educa- 
 tion ; he told me to come and see if it was as easy as I 
 thought. So I'm here." He watched a look of incredulity 
 come into her eyes. "Ask him, if you don't believe me." 
 
 Yolande pouted impatiently. 
 
 "I've no doubt it's all true — so far as it goes. . . . But 
 I won't make a nuisance of myself, if you don't want to 
 tell me. Good-bye, Deryk; unless you'll come and share 
 hashed mutton in my flat? I'm in Stafford's Inn, just the 
 other side of Fleet Street." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation he accepted the invitation, 
 knowing well that he would tell her more than he then 
 intended, but hungry for the sympathetic society of a 
 woman. Yolande led the way proudly up three flights of 
 creaking, uncarpeted stairs to a tiny set of rooms over- 
 looking the Record Office. With their low ceilings, white- 
 panelled walls and green window-boxes, they conveyed a 
 suggestion of an Oxford college; but the decoration and 
 furniture were wholly feminine. While she tidied herself 
 for dinner, Deryk examined her books and pictures ; they 
 were sufficiently "advanced" and unintelligible to impress 
 him, as, for the same reason, they had impressed her uncle 
 Raymond — with her astonishing youth. Everything that 
 was modern, rational and in revolt against the tyranny 
 of age seemed to have been collected into her incendiary 
 shelves. ... At dinner, forgetful of her promise, she 
 opened a new fusillade of questions, and, before he left, 
 he had told her, as he knew he would, almost everything 
 that she wanted to know; and, being unpledged to secrecy,
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 125, 
 
 she privately reserved the right of discussing at least a 
 portion of his scheme with her friends. Two days after 
 their meeting, Deryk was invited to lunch with Manisty 
 and found the editor of the "Quarterly Journal of Archae- 
 ology" at the same table ; and, dining later with Ray- 
 mond in Pont Street, he was introduced to Lord Ilkley, 
 who in turn invited him to lunch at Ilkley House the fol- 
 lowing Sunday and listen to a jejune suggestion that the 
 marbles which the third Lord Ilkley had stolen from 
 Athens at the beginning of the nineteenth century were 
 perhaps worth arranging, cataloguing, photographing and 
 describing by a man who knew something about this sort 
 of thing. Deryk spent an intoxicating Sunday in the great 
 Georgian house on Campden Hill. In the evening he 
 sought out Manisty and told him that he would not be able 
 to accompany him to Hellenopolis. If the present run 
 continued unbroken, it was not a question of failure and 
 surrender to his father; he had to solve the problem of 
 finding physical strength and a day long enough to meet 
 the demands of his work. 
 
 "He's shaping quite well," George Oakleigh told Yo- 
 lande, when they met a few days later. "Of course, it 
 isn't a fair test ; he's been helped as only people of his 
 kind are helped; with just as good qualifications, another 
 man would never have been boosted into work as he's 
 been, but I haven't the heart to tell him so; he's obviously 
 so pleased with life. And he does hate me so, when I cut 
 the epigrams and purple patches out of his articles. , . . 
 How long's he going on with the job? I'm due to go and 
 see his father pretty soon and I've been more or less 
 sworn to secrecy." 
 
 Yolande could offer no assistance, but the ground was 
 cleared before Oakleigh went down to Sussex. On calling 
 at the County Club for letters, Deryk found an indignant 
 note from Hatherly — Hatherly now the familiar, the bravo, 
 the hired assassin. "Your father is very much concerned 
 to know what has happened to you," he was told. "It is 
 six weeks since you went to town, and you have not had
 
 126 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 the ordinary kindness to say a single word of what you are 
 doing. By a side-wind we hear that you have abandoned 
 the idea of going to Asia Minor. And that is all. Do you 
 consider that this is the way to behave to your father?" 
 For some reason that he could not put into words, the 
 letter made Deryk angry. In reply he wrote loftily : "Why 
 is it always necessary to assume that I cannot be out of 
 your sight for a few days without getting up to mischief? 
 As George Oakleigh can tell you, when he goes down next 
 ■week, I have a bet on that I can earn a living at journal- 
 ism without any previous training. I think I'm doing quite 
 well for a beginner." He added that he found it pleas- 
 ant to have a little money of his own, for which he did 
 not have to account to anyone ; but on reflection the taunt 
 seemed puerile, and he re-wrote the letter without it. 
 
 Then he addressed himself to Idina. It was becoming 
 daily harder to say anything in his letters to her, but the 
 experiment was succeeding so well that at the end of six 
 months he was determined to see his fatlier and lay all 
 his cards on the table. He would then be in a position to 
 support a wife in some sort, and, if his father really in- 
 tended to behave melodramatically, he must take the con- 
 sequences. Not that he could, not that he could! Good 
 Heavens! the money wasn't going to be left away from 
 him to a Home for Lost Dogs. And yet — you never 
 knew where to have a man like that. . . . Deryk, strong, 
 sane and conciliatory, constructed the scene afresh and 
 with greater appreciation every time that he seemed to be 
 climbing a step higher in his self-sought career. He only 
 wished that he could share his elation with Idina, but you 
 could not very well brag about what you were doing with- 
 out explaining why you were doing it ; and his only ex- 
 planation was a moral certainty that his father did not 
 wish him to marry her. . . . There had been so little 
 common memory on which to draw that these daily let- 
 ters grew harder and harder to write ; he wondered im- 
 patiently whether it would not be wiser to discontinue 
 them ; yet she seemed to like them, to judge from her let- 
 
 i
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 127 
 
 ters to him ; apparently she always went out before break- 
 fast to meet the postman . , . and read them again and 
 again during the day . . . and had one last look at them 
 before turning out the light. . . . He thought that that 
 kind of thing was only done in books or on the stage. . . . 
 It was an extraordinary thing that he, who was, after all, 
 a very ord'ma.ry person, should mean so much to anyone. . . 
 
 At Ripley Court George Oakleigh was required to report 
 all that he knew of Deryk's activities ; he gave the facts 
 without comment. Deryk was reviewing for three or four 
 papers and writing the musical notes for the "Art Re- 
 view" and "The Critic" ; in "Peace" office he was learning 
 to do some of the sub-editing and allowed to try his hand 
 on an occasional leader. There were also some miscel- 
 laneous sketches and articles for odd corners in odd mo- 
 ments, for, with the exception of the Ilkley Papers, he 
 was giving the whole of a long day to the work. At night 
 Oakleigh was introducing him to political London. 
 
 "It will be a valuable experience for him," was Sir 
 Avlmer's non-committal comment. "I'm afraid it must 
 be absorbing a good deal of your time, though." 
 
 "I've taken a great fancy to him," Oakleigh replied, 
 truthfully enough. "I admire his tireless vitality ; I should 
 think he could make a success of anything he undertook." 
 
 Sir Aylmer was gratified, if not enlightened. After his 
 visitor had left, he talked long with Hatherly, and Ray- 
 mond on his next visit was minutely examined. Shortly 
 before Easter Hatherly paid a visit to London and tried to 
 get first-hand information. It was a project that he had 
 had in mind for some time, and he was driven to action by 
 one of Sir Aylmer's periodical relapses, which sent him in 
 panic to bring Deryk home at all costs. Arriving in Bou- 
 verie Street he found that Oakleigh had left the office 
 and that Deryk was gone home to dress and dine before a 
 concert. He met Yolande, however, at the end of Chan- 
 cery Lane and persuaded her to dine with him in the 
 Savoy Grill Room. By an excited, ill-considered attack 
 on Deryk for heartlessness, he roused her to say more
 
 128 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 than she would willingly have disclosed to a man whom 
 age, in her eyes, made Deryk's natural enemy. 
 
 "I daresay it is very unfeeling," she exclaimed, "and 
 I'm sorry for Sir Aylmer, but he brought it on himself; 
 he was treating Deryk like a child." 
 
 "I've told you that his father nearly died last night," 
 said Hatherly indignantly, "he may still die at any mo- 
 ment. What's Der}'k doing? Why's he doing it? I refuse 
 to believe this nonsense about a wager with Oakleigh." 
 
 "You refuse to believe that he may be seeing if he can 
 live independently of Sir Aylmer?" Yolande enquired 
 deliberately. "Candidly, Mr. Hatherly, in his place and 
 with a spark of pride, I'd do the same. I would not be 
 told what I was to do, whom I might marry •" 
 
 "The question has never arisen," Hatherly interrupted. 
 
 "It's bound to be always in the background," Yolande 
 retorted. 
 
 "Do you think a girl will be so much glamoured by 
 Deryk when she hears that he's broken off all relations with 
 his father?" Hatherly asked with a mixture of worldli- 
 ness and malice. 
 
 "If she's worth a damn!" Yolande cried with a vehe- 
 mence that made the neighbours turn wonderingly round. 
 "I beg your pardon, I'm afraid I'm getting rather excited. 
 You see, Deryk's a sort of brother to me ; I should have 
 married him, if you and Sir Aylmer hadn't tried to make 
 me. I'm young and quite pretty, I could make him do 
 anything I wanted, we're poor and he's rich, I'm an Hon- 
 ourable " 
 
 Hatherly was embarrassed, and his expression betrayed 
 it. 
 
 "You young people are altogether too modern for me!" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "Have I shocked you?" Yolande laughed. "I'm sorry, 
 but, if there's one thing I hate it's mealy-mouthedness. 
 Do look things in the face! There are limits even to a 
 millionaire's power, if people have the pluck to stand up 
 to him."
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 129 
 
 "Well, at least I know the explanation of Deryk's ex- 
 traordinary behaviour," said Hatherly, as he signalled to 
 the waiter for his bill. 
 
 "But it isn't extraordinary !" she protested. "It's the 
 most natural thing in the world. And you might have 
 guessed it from the time that Deryk disappeared at the 
 ball. The awful thing about Ripley Court is that there 
 are no women there, nobody to understand, nobody to help 
 poor old Deryk." 
 
 Hatherly paid his bill and pocketed his change with 
 grave deliberation. 
 
 "I sometimes feel that we're too old," he murmured to 
 himself. "But, if Deryk is — contemplating anything, he 
 might reasonably be expected to consult his father first. 
 If he's engaged already, I think he's behaved abominably." 
 
 "He's not engaged," Yolande reassured him. "For the 
 rest, I should most reasonably advise him to save his 
 breath. If Sir Aylmer objects, he'll have to fight or be 
 written down a cur; if Sir Aylmer doesn't object, it's 
 waste of time. Mr. Hatherly, I feel an awful pig to let 
 you take me out to dinner and then talk like this " 
 
 Hatherly shook his head wistfully, as he looked at the 
 bright eyes and vivid colour in a normally pale face. 
 
 "The rod's in pickle, my dear young lady," he told 
 her. "When your children discover that you're too 
 old " 
 
 "Ah, but I shan't marry ; Fve got work " 
 
 "Fiddle-de-dee!" interrupted Hatherly, as they rose from 
 the table. 
 
 He returned to Aston Ripley the next morning, sharing a 
 compartment with Sidney Dawson, who had stayed in Lon- 
 don as long as he could bear the sense of solitude in a 
 crowded city and was now rhythmically returning to the 
 Grange for as long as he could bear the monotony and his 
 sister's querulous tongue. On the way down he enquired 
 conventionally after Sir Aylmer and expressed the hope 
 that this story about Deryk might not be true.
 
 130 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I don't know what the story is," answered Hatherly, 
 setting his teeth. 
 
 "Somebody was talking about it at the Club," said Daw- 
 son with a pretended effort of memory. "Oh, it was young 
 Deganway. He seemed to think Lancing was paying con- 
 siderable attentions at the ball — I didn't see anything my- 
 self, I'm sure " 
 
 "To Miss Penrose?" Hatherly asked carelessly. "They've 
 been brought up like brother and sister since they were 
 small children." 
 
 "Deganway told me that they were engaged and that 
 Lancing refused to recognise the engagement," said Daw- 
 son, watching his companion's face narrowly. "There'd 
 been a row, according to the story, and the boy had been 
 turned out of the house." 
 
 Hatherly laughed, but the laugh rang false. 
 
 "I hate to spoil a good story," he said, "but there's not* 
 a word of truth in it. What can have prompted Degan- 
 way " 
 
 "Oh, he didn't start it. Summertown discovered young 
 Lancing at the Club, writing an article for some review; 
 you can probably trace it back to that. My sister was 
 saying something about it, too ; Marsham or Forsyte had 
 mentioned the subject. . . ." 
 
 On arriving at Ripley Court, Hatherly found Sir Aylmer 
 rather stronger. He gave a full account of his visit and 
 plucked up courage to add a word of unwelcome advice. 
 
 "You can't bring Deryk back by force," he pointed out, 
 "and, so long as he's making money, he can't be starved 
 out. You can meet him over the money question — and then 
 you'll have no control over his actions ; or you can go on 
 as you're doing and trust that the girl won't marry him 
 when she finds what a love-in-a-cottage business it's going 
 to be. Those are the alternatives. I want you to appre- 
 ciate that, if you go on, you'll lose Deryk for good and 
 all ; I told you that weeks ago." 
 
 Sir Aylmer sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair 
 and his head pressed between his hands. In Hatherly's
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 131 
 
 absence he, too, had been thinking. Looking up at length, 
 he shook his head. 
 
 "In the long run he'll have to go his own way," he said. 
 "I'm not going to leave the money away from him, and 
 you know that as well as I do. He'd know it, too, if he 
 stopped to think what he means to me." 
 
 "Then, assuming that he wants to marry this Penrose 
 girl, what's your objection?" asked Hatherly. 
 
 "To the girl ? None at all. I'd have found her a lucra- 
 tive job at the other end of the world, if I had," Sir Ayl- 
 mer added grimly, with a ferocious determination that 
 brought a catch in Hatherly's breathing. "I don't even 
 say that she's unduly — affected by the money. But she'll 
 be a drag on Deryk. He wants someone running along 
 the towpath cheering and forcing him to make just one 
 more spurt, when he feels that he's not got it in him. She'll 
 never do that." He looked before him with a haggard 
 face. "But, if he wants to marry her, he shall. I made 
 up my mind years ago that I wouldn't stand in the way. 
 And I won't, even if I thought her far more unsuitable 
 than I do. I want to be sure, though, that he really does 
 want to. He's so young, he's seen so few women. . . . 
 And, when you're in love for the first time, you're so 
 certain of yourself; and, when it's all over and you look 
 back on it, you simply can't understand what you were 
 thinking about. I've been through it, Ted." 
 
 Hatherly made no answer. The one girl with whom he 
 had been in love had been drowned in a shipwreck; he 
 had never looked for another. Sir Aylmer, as a young 
 man, had seemed unable to live without female companion- 
 ship; in his will there were various sums of money for 
 women who would be withered and unlovely, possibly dead, 
 before it became ripe for payment. 
 
 "Have you thought of a time-limit?" he asked after 
 some moments' space. "Recognise the engagement, but 
 say they're not to marry for a couple of years." 
 
 "If Deryk's the man I should like to think him, he'd feel 
 bound to marry her, even if he were utterly tired of her
 
 132 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 at the end of the time, Foohsh, but honourable," he added 
 contemptuously. 
 
 Another solution of the difficulty was being attempted 
 while they talked. As Idina walked home from the Grange, 
 she was met by Sidney Dawson, who told her that he had 
 taken the liberty of bringing her down some flowers from 
 London and leaving them at Ivy Cottage. They looked so 
 beautiful that he could not resist them, he said, and it was 
 such a bad time for flowers in the country. Idina flushed 
 with pleasure, when she saw them, and made him sit down 
 while she unpacked and put them in water. Their walks 
 had hitherto stopped short at the gate of the garden, when 
 he would lift his hat with a certain flourish, bow low and 
 walk away, swinging his stick and holding himself very 
 erect ; it was the first time that he had been inside the 
 house since her father's death. He sat with his cane and 
 gloves on his knees, watching the quick movements of her 
 pliant body; she had rolled up her sleeves, baring graceful 
 white arms, and her fingers, glistening with water, were 
 slender and tapering. Suddenly he found himself on his 
 feet, asking her to marry him. At first she did not seem 
 to understand, but, when he repeated the words, her eyes 
 filled with dismay and distress, and she could only look at 
 him and shake her head. 
 
 Of what happened afterwards Idina preserved no clear 
 recollection. The attack was so unexpected that m.inutes 
 passed before she could think connectedly ; she had never 
 looked upon Dawson as a man who wanted to marry her 
 or anyone else, he had never shewn her an\i:hing but a 
 considerate courtesy. And, in accepting insignificant po- 
 litenesses and attentions, she had surely never behaved or 
 spoken in a way to rouse his hopes. No one was to blame, 
 but she felt immeasurably sorry for him, as he stood 
 before her protesting, deprecating, repeating himself. He 
 had apparently been speaking for some time, but she had 
 not caught his drift; telling her that there was, of course, 
 a considerable difference of age, but that she would never 
 regret it; he knew that her life was not happy and asked
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 133 
 
 nothing better than to devote himself to her happiness. 
 She should do what she liked, live where she chose ; he 
 had a house in Eaton Square, and they could get it back, 
 when the lease ran out, or, if she preferred the country, 
 there was the Grange, or they could live abroad. She had 
 never been out of England since her return from India; 
 he talked of a villa on the Riviera or at Naples, a house in 
 Florence, another villa in Normandy for the summer. . . . 
 
 Idina waited for him to make an end, but he spoke des- 
 perately, like a man arguing for his life and knowing that 
 death would come when the thin-drawn argument ended. 
 
 "I'm sorry, I'd do anything not to hurt you, but it's im- 
 possible," she said. 
 
 "You think I'm too old !" he began excitedly. 
 
 "Oh, it isn't that !" Idina cried, lacing and unlacing her 
 fingers in her distress. 
 
 He took a step forward and caught one of her hands. 
 
 "Can't you ever care for me — at all ?" he whispered. His 
 voice was pleading, his eyes looked at her as though he 
 were a dog begging to be caressed. 
 
 "I do care for you !" she answered. "But it's impo«i- 
 sible — oh, I do wish you didn't seem to mind so much !" 
 
 He relinquished her hand and stood silent with bowed 
 head. 
 
 "I won't take *no' for an answer," he told her with re- 
 turning steadiness in his tone. "When you've thought it 
 over — I'm afraid I took you by surprise, I thought you 
 couldn't help seeing. . . . Later on " 
 
 "Oh, please don't talk about it again!" she implored 
 him. 
 
 "Your answer will still be *no'?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so." 
 
 "You are not engaged already?" he asked. 
 
 Idina looked up quickly and met his eyes unwaveringly. 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 "Then I refuse to take 'no' for an answer," he repeated, 
 —"yet awhile."
 
 134 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 When Idina reached the Grange next morning, Sidney 
 Dawson was not there. He had returned to town by the 
 last train, leaving his sister in a state of curiosity and ex- 
 citement, which survived the night and spread tension and 
 nei-vous unrest through the house. Sidney was pre-emi- 
 nently a man of method. He wrote punctiliously to warn 
 her of the train to meet and alv/ays gave her several days' 
 notice before arriving or leaving; the times of all the meals 
 were altered to conform with his London habits; he me- 
 thodically drank a glass of sherry half an hour before 
 dinner and as methodically smoked one small cigar after 
 it and a cheroot before going to bed. His day was care- 
 fully planned and admitted of no disturbance; breakfast 
 and the morning paper, a constitutional, his letters and a 
 morning call on that dreadful, chirpy vicar, or Sir Aylmer, 
 if he were well enough, or, in the old days. Colonel Pen- 
 rose. Then followed luncheon, a book, another consti- 
 tutional and tea; until the evening letters came in, he sat 
 with his sister in the over-furnished under-ventilated draw- 
 ing-room, acerbating her nerves with thrice-told anec- 
 dotes ; in her turn she drove him to the limits of endurance 
 with a steady flow of safe but inaccurate generalisations 
 on all subjects. After a week or two Sidney usually found 
 it necessary to see his solicitors. This life had continued 
 for fifteen years, since at the age of thirty he had found 
 his friends getting married and himself left without play- 
 fellows. 
 
 Miss Dawson was ten years older than her brother and 
 had lived long in half-retirement, struggling with an in- 
 herited tendency to diabetes and an embittering grievance 
 that no one needed her. As a girl, no man had ever asked 
 her to marry him : after she had ruled the Grange and its 
 inmates for half a generation, her father left it away 
 from her to Sidney, to whom she must crawl on her knees 
 for bread and butter, as she put it with more vigour than 
 truth; and now her health was vanishing. ... In the
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 135 
 
 early days of the disease she had talked pleasurably about 
 herself to Forsyte ; later she sought spiritual consolation 
 from the vicar of Aston Ripley, who broke into her self- 
 pity with a brisk, mechanical adjuration to fortitude under 
 trial (she was not likely to forget his penny-in-the-slot 
 consolation — "Resignation, dear lady — inscrutable designs — 
 test our faith — endure to the end" — nor the infinitely more 
 artistic sympathy of a priest, who called and called again 
 until the day when her brother remembered his allegiance 
 to the church which exists to put its heel firmly on Papists 
 who tried to worm their way into respectable houses). 
 Thereafter she carried her grievances to the highest tribu- 
 nal. "I wonder if the Almighty knows what bad odour he's 
 in with Miss Dawson," sighed Raymond Stornaway after 
 an hour of her conversation. When nothing came of that, 
 she began to associate furtively with a number of elderly 
 friends who set themselves to spell out messages from an- 
 other world ; books with mystical titles made their way 
 into her room, when Sidney was in London ; her confiden- 
 tial conversation was concerned with "aura," the "sub- 
 liminal state," "messages" and "astral bodies." Sidney, 
 when at length he heard of it, was scornfully rational, so 
 she took one of his gloves to a clairvoyant, who held it to 
 her forehead and prophesied in a language of her own. 
 There was a recognised stage in all future altercations at 
 which Miss Dawson would quote to him, because she felt 
 that he ought to know, long and astonishingly outspoken 
 communications from the far side of the grave. Nothing 
 that he did was too insignificant for the exasperatingly so- 
 licitous notice of his dead friends. . . . 
 
 With the belief of the young in the ultimate kindness of 
 their fellows, Idina had considered and faced all her em- 
 ployer's shortcomings. It never occurred to her that an 
 elderly woman could be jealous of youth and good looks 
 or that she would seek consolation in the power of money 
 and the dominion which it still gave her over her depend- 
 ents. She was exacting, but then she was an invalid; no 
 one could feel personal antagonism to a girl who was doing
 
 136 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 her best to give satisfaction. . . . Idina ran about the 
 house with a beauty of body, a warmth and softness, of 
 which she was almost unconscious, though Miss Dawson 
 knew that it must waken desire in every man as she had 
 never wakened it. Sidney would sit in the drawing-room, 
 drinking tea or pretending to read a book, but devouring 
 her the whole time with his eyes. With his exasperating 
 method he would always excuse himself at the same time, 
 always wander through the garden on to the highroad, al- 
 ways wait for her and escort her home — a fluffy, blue-eyed 
 doll, with still enough youth for her brother to make a 
 fool of himself about her. . . . 
 
 Miss Dawson could not resist letting it be known that 
 she was well aware why Sidney now visited her so much 
 more frequently. She gave him her frank opinion that 
 any man of his age was a fool to think of marrying an 
 inexperienced child of twenty and doubly a fool to imag- 
 ine that he had any attraction but his money. Would he 
 please — she did not wish to be unkind — would he please 
 look at himself in the glass? 
 
 He had looked in the glass the day before and marched 
 out, flowers in hand, with a determined air that aroused 
 his sister's worst misgivings. He had returned some time 
 later and quietly slipped into the car and away to the sta- 
 tion, leaving a message that he had been recalled to town. 
 For a moment his sister feared that he had taken the girl 
 with him : it was ascertained that no telegram had been 
 delivered, and that he had left before the evening mail came 
 in. The chauffeur testified, however, that his master had 
 got into an empty carriage. . . . And in the morning 
 Idina arrived at her accustomed time, prepared to go about 
 her accustomed work. 
 
 Miss Dawson's anger that her brother should think of 
 marrying Idina was swallowed in a more devastating anger 
 that she should presume to refuse him. Throughout the 
 morning she gave no sign, sitting before a blazing fire with 
 her hands folded in the lap of a black silk dress, a plump, 
 fair woman with rather bright, pale eyes and a sing-song
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 137 
 
 voice, while Idina read the "Times" aloud or took down 
 letters from her dictation. At half-past one she asked the 
 girl to keep her company at luncheon. 
 
 "My brother returned to London yesterday evening/* 
 she said, to explain her request. "Did you see him by any 
 chance ?" 
 
 Idina could not help blushing. 
 
 "He very kindly brought me some flowers," she said,. 
 "I met him just before I got home." 
 
 "Can you imagine what can have taken him back?" Misa 
 Dawson went on, indifference masking watchful alertness. 
 
 "He didn't say anything about it." 
 
 "That was not my question, Miss Penrose," rapped out 
 Miss Dawson, like an animal making its spring. 
 
 The girl's confusion told Miss Dawson all that she 
 wanted to know. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't help," said Idina with a hint of 
 obstinacy. 
 
 "You give me the idea that you're not speaking the whole 
 truth," said Miss Dawson severely. 
 
 Idina attempted no reply, and they went in to luncheon 
 together. 
 
 The afternoons were usually the worst time of the day 
 for Idina, as Miss Dawson, ever cold and sensitive to 
 draughts, would lean comfortably back in front of the 
 piled-up fire, requiring her companion to read aloud until 
 tea was brought in. It was almost impossible to keep 
 awake in the airless, musty drawing-room, but, if Idina 
 paused for a moment to listen to the placid, stertorous 
 breathing by the fire. Miss Dawson would rouse at the 
 unfamiliar silence and order her sharply to go on until 
 told to stop. She would go on for a time, but not infre- 
 quently the book slipped on to her lap, and her head 
 drooped forward. When she awoke, it was always to find 
 that Miss Dawson was awake before her ; she would be 
 reminded that she was paid for her services and that, if 
 it were too much trouble to read a few pages in the after-
 
 138 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 noon, someone else must be found of more obliging tem- 
 per. . . . 
 
 To-day no book was produced. Miss Dawson settled 
 herself in her chair and demanded to be told what had 
 passed between her brother and the girl the evening before. 
 
 "You may not know it, but I've had my eye on you for 
 some time," she announced. "I've seen the way that you've 
 laid yourself out for him " 
 
 "I didn't!" Idina burst out indignantly. 
 
 Miss Dawson raised her eyebrows and nodded like a 
 mandarin. 
 
 "Contradiction wasn't thought polite in my young days," 
 she announced with a set smile, the voice rising a seventh 
 and falling note by note, "and I don't know that it's po- 
 lite now. When you walk along the roads morning and 
 evening with him, when you accept presents " 
 
 "They were only flowers. And I couldn't help it!" 
 
 "In my young days we sometimes let our elders finish 
 what they were trying to say, and I have to say that this 
 sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed to go on. If 
 
 you think that it's going to lead to something " Idina 
 
 was about to interrupt again, but checked herself in time. 
 "I can't tell whether you expect something more than 
 'only flowers' next time. Perhaps you don't see that all 
 this is rather unmaidenly. Has my brother ever said any- 
 thing to you ?" she asked with a meaning change of tone. 
 
 "I refuse to say." 
 
 Miss Dawson's pale eyes gleamed brightly, as a new 
 and welcome vista opened to view. Everyone in Aston 
 Ripley knew that Deryk Lancing and this girl had been 
 brought up together, ever>'one had been revivmg the mem- 
 ory during these last weeks. It seemed that they had be- 
 haved very curiously at the ball, though not, perhaps, more 
 curiously than one would expect. . . . An ill-bred boy, 
 who had not been whipped into good manners at school. 
 . . , "Perhaps you thought that you might fare better 
 without going so far," suggested Miss Dawson ; then her 
 tone changed. "I'm not going to let my brother be dangled
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 139 
 
 on a string, while young ladies look round the neighbour- 
 hood for something better." 
 
 Idina bent her head forward until her face was hidden 
 from her tormentor. She had often cried at home during 
 the last few months, but her pride always strengthened her 
 to keep a composed face in her employer's presence. Now 
 she could feel her eyes smarting and her underlip growing 
 unsteady. A moment later she had snatched a handker- 
 chief from her belt and was hurrying from the room. 
 When Miss Dawson rang for tea, she was informed that 
 the girl was no longer in the house. The evening letters 
 would still require attention, but Miss Dawson consoled 
 herself for present inconvenience by thinking how shame- 
 faced her companion would be in the morning and how 
 difficult she would find the walk from Ivy Cottage. Not 
 that she liked giving pain ; it had been a disagreeable, up- 
 setting interview, but quite unavoidable ; one could not 
 allow this sort of thing to go on, there would be a public 
 scandal, the servants would leave. Miss Dawson was not 
 at all sure that the scandal was not already well afoot. . . . 
 Idina hurried home sobbing and sobbed alone until she 
 seemed to have exhausted her tears. She could still hardly 
 think of yesterday's interview and Sidney's stammering 
 urgency without a shudder; to have the agony revived and 
 imputed to her for sin was more than she could bear. 
 She did not want him, she had never been more than rea- 
 sonably polite to him ; and this was "unmaidenly." The 
 old-fashioned word, which would have made her smile at 
 another time, stung and stung her again ; Miss Dawson had 
 so obviously enjoyed using it. She was being hurt, as she 
 had seen other companions being hurt for years, but of 
 deliberate purpose; she had never believed it possible be- 
 fore, but there was no room for doubt. (At their first in- 
 terview Miss Dawson had shewn her hand. "You will be 
 here on a business footing; I'm not engaging you out of 
 charity or any sentimental nonsense of that kind.") For 
 the last month she had gone about her work light-heartedly, 
 without thinking of the future. Deryk was home, and
 
 I40 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 nothing mattered ; but she could not stand much more of 
 this. Her spirit was being gradually broken, she could be 
 made to cry at will. ... If only Deryk would come down 
 from London ! 
 
 She unlocked her father's old despatch-box and tried to 
 comfort herself by reading Deryk's letters once again. 
 They were becoming less regular and more uncommuni- 
 cative; work here, work there, but no explanation why he 
 was working. She trusted him unhesitatingly, when he 
 said that he could not explain the reason for his sudden 
 departure, but it was all so hard to understand. Old Philli- 
 more, when she met him after service at Ripley Court 
 chapel, understood that Master Deryk was in town buying 
 his equipment before going abroad; Hatherly told her 
 later that Manisty had gone to Hellenopolis alone and that 
 Deryk was still in London. She enquired unreservedly 
 every Sunday evening at the door of the chapel, and Hath- 
 erly or Sir Aylmer always gave her the latest tidings with 
 a show of frankness; Deryk was helping Lord Ilkley to 
 catalogue and arrange his collection of Greek pottery; 
 Deryk was at work on a book, . . . 
 
 "He seems to be too busy to write much," said Sir Ayl- 
 mer, with his deep-set eyes fixed steadily away from Idina 
 on the curving lines of the deserted drive. 
 
 "Do you expect him down here for Easter?" she asked. 
 
 "I can't say," Sir Aylmer answered after a long pause, 
 as he motioned to Benson to wheel him back to the house. 
 "He's very busy at present ; then the London season will 
 soon be starting ; he may stop up for that." 
 
 Idina walked home, puzzling her brains to reconcile 
 Deryk's trouble of mind, when he last spoke to her by tele- 
 phone, with a self-sought life of journalism and social 
 amusements ; there was no intelligible reason why he should 
 make a mystery of what he was doing, though she would 
 be the first to make excuses for him, defend him, admit 
 that his position was exceptional and his time not his own. 
 She had never dreamed of doubting or even questioning 
 him until the evening after Miss Dawson's unkindness,
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 141 
 
 but she depended on him so much that she felt driven to 
 pull at the anchor just to see that it was there. It was 
 hard to write without worrying him, and, whatever hap- 
 pened, he must not think that she was unhappy, or he 
 would be unhappy, too. . . . 
 
 "I never have any news for you, Deryk dear," she wrote, 
 "but I love to hear anything of what you are doing. When 
 are you coming home? Time goes dreadfully slowly with- 
 out you, and, though I got almost used to it when you 
 were abroad, I can't bear to think that you're only forty- 
 five miles away and that I never see you. I met your 
 father on Sunday, and he told me that you were very 
 hard at work. What is it, Deryk? Or oughtn't I to ask? 
 Mr. Hatherly said something about your writing a book; 
 I long to hear about it, but I long much more to see you. 
 Can't you ever get away? You can't imagine how lonely 
 
 I feel, and your dear letters tell me so little " Her pen 
 
 lagged, and she looked out of the window, picturing Deryk's 
 receiving the letter, as she received his, with a tremor of 
 delight and opening it before all the others. He would 
 get it to-morrow — perhaps he was writing to her now, 
 perhaps there would be one for her from him, to read as 
 she walked to the Grange. . . . Her mind came back 
 abruptly to the metalled, white road running without bend 
 or turning from her front gate to Aston Ripley ; she was 
 getting so tired of walking it, so tired of being afraid what 
 treatment the day might bring her; really, unless Deryk 
 came back soon, she would have to make a change. . . . 
 "I am trying to screw my courage up to make a change," 
 she continued hurriedly. "For some time I've felt that I 
 don't suit Miss Dawson very well and now Fm sure of it. 
 I must try to get someone else to take me, but I don't want 
 to go away from here, if you're coming back. Fm not feel- 
 ing very happy to-night, and this is a wretched letter. But 
 then I never shall feel happy till I've got you here. Do you 
 remember the day you came over after you got back? I 
 always look on the stairs, when I come in, to see if you're 
 hiding there. And last night I'd just got into bed, when
 
 142 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 the telephone rang. Sweetheart, I kne'w it must be you, 
 and it wasn't! Somebody was ringing up Dr. Forsyte, 
 and the wretched girl at the post office had put her on to 
 the wrong number. I could have cried with disappoint- 
 ment! 
 
 "Good-bye, Deryk, and bless you. You have all my love 
 for ever, so I can't .give you any more." 
 
 Two days later she had her reply. 
 
 "Dina darling," he wrote, "I see that I shall have to say 
 several things that I never meant you to know. I still 
 think that you'd be wiser just to believe in me and be as 
 patient as you can, but I can tell from your letter that 
 you're unhappy and I must try to explain the position. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't know that, though I'm twenty-five, 
 I'm absolutely dependent on my father. I shan't have any- 
 thing except what he or my trustees allow me till I'm 
 thirty — or even then, if he's still alive. If I wanted to 
 many, I should have to get his approval : if I married, I 
 should still be at his beck and call. He might tell me to go 
 and live in New York to look after the Trust, and I should 
 have to go. I'm very fond of my father, but he's been 
 ordering people about half his life and doesn't like any- 
 body to have a will of his own. Well, I've got my share of 
 obstinacy and I thought this kind of life wasn't good 
 enough. He'd never have stood it at my age, and I'm not 
 going to stand it either. I decided to do precisely what 
 he'd have done in my place. Without saying anything to 
 him, I came to London to see if I could earn my own liv- 
 ing: I've done it for six weeks — far more successfully 
 than I ever thought possible, but I'm pretty nearly dead 
 with work, and anyway six weeks is too short a test. When 
 I've kept afloat for, say, six months, I shall be in a better 
 position to judge whether I've made good. 
 
 "I don't know how much you think I love you, Dina, 
 but I can tell you that I love you too well to take any risks, 
 and I won't allow any man or woman alive to interfere with 
 me and tell me what I may or mayn't do. / have never 
 asked you to marry me; 1 never shall till I've got some-
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 143 
 
 thing to offer with a little security about it. Till then I 
 leave you absoluteJy free. I can't tell how long I shall have 
 to wait, 1 don't know what I shall have to offer at the end 
 of the waiting; it's for you to decide if it's worth while. 
 If you do, Dina, you must put forth all the pluck you've 
 got. I don't see how I can help you ; I hate the idea of 
 your spending another day with that venomous old devil, 
 Miss Dawson, but I don't know what else to suggest. I'm 
 carrying as much sail as I can stand and I shall crack up, 
 if I try to do any more. 
 
 "Now I've told you everything, and it's all in the strict- 
 est confidence. I wouldn't have told you a month ago, 
 because I was too much afraid of failing and I don't like 
 anyone — you, least of all — to see me beaten. It's only a 
 question now whether I can hold on. 
 
 "Good-night and bless you, dearest child. Don't im- 
 agine that I should be where I am, if I could be with you." 
 
 Idina read his letter twice before she understood it, and 
 her first feeling was one of pride tempered by dismay. 
 Then she read it a third time, for it seemed to present Sir 
 Aylmer in a light that was frankly incredible. He had been 
 a chivalrous friend to her — at least, she had received from 
 him more than she had any right to expect ; as he said, one. 
 had to work out one's own salvation — his whole life was 
 wrapped up in Deryk ; yet he would seemingly let his son 
 walk out of the house rather than abate a particle of con- 
 trol over him at home. From her seat in the south tran- 
 sept the following Sunday she watched with new interest, 
 as he stepped out of his chair at the door and walked 
 slowly up the aisle, a gaunt, stooping figure with tightly 
 shut mouth, sunken cheeks and sombre eyes; at any mo- 
 ment he might fall or be found dead in his chair, but, 
 until the end came, there was in every line of his face 
 implacable resolve to hold together the dominion which in 
 the best years of his life he had built out of nothing. 
 
 "Wicked man — wickedness committed — lawful and right 
 — souls alive," chirped Mr. Marsham. 
 
 Idina could not take her eyes off the tall figure standing
 
 144 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 at right angles to her. His face was unemotional, it seemed 
 incapable of emotion ; infinitely strong, infinitely tired. She 
 was frightened by the thought of Deryk's having to stand 
 up to that inexorable determination ; she never entered 
 Ripley Court without breathing an atmosphere of despo- 
 tism in the silent corridors and vast, empty rooms ; the 
 servants were cowed and taciturn. Suddenly, with a 
 scarcely audible sigh, he lowered himself and remained 
 seated until the end of the service. She watched him over 
 the top of her prayer-book, wondering what humility of 
 spirit he could ever bring and what help he would ever 
 deign to ask of his Maker. He sat upright through the 
 prayers, sermon and hymns. At the Benediction he covered 
 his eyes with one bony hand. 
 
 "Peace of God — understanding — hearts and minds — 
 knowledge and love — now and f'ev'more." 
 
 The organist played the Dresden Amen and modulated in- 
 to a Steiner out-voluntary. Sir Aylmer waited until the con- 
 gregation had left and then rose with an effort to his feet. 
 Idina saw him sway, as he turned into the aisle, and hurried 
 to his side ; he bowed with a grave smile and leaned crush- 
 ingly on her shoulder as far as the door. 
 
 "I ought not to have come," he murmured, breathing with 
 difficulty, as he stepped into his chair. "I've been feeling 
 rather tired all day." 
 
 "Will you let me wheel you into the house?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I can — " He stopped and leaned back with closed 
 eyes. "I spoke too soon. Would it be troubling you very 
 much ?" 
 
 She pushed the chair along the flagged path to the side- 
 door by the morning-room, then through the hall into Sir 
 Aylmer's own wing. Hatherly came out of the study, as 
 they approached, and took charge. When last she saw Sir 
 Aylmer, his lips had gone blue and his face a dusty grey. 
 Hatherly, after a quick look, whispered to her that he would 
 be all right in a few minutes, and she retraced her steps 
 through the hall and out of the side door. 
 
 The transition from stony resolution to cadaverous
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 145 
 
 helplessness was sudden and frightening. Idina paused by 
 the open door of the chapel to hear the last pealing notes 
 of the organ die away and to consider anew Der}-k's ir- 
 reconcilable pictures of his father and himself. All reason 
 was on one side, and yet she found herself feeling that he 
 was wrong ; anyone was wrong to resist a man so ill as Sir 
 Aylmer; his duty was to submit to any terms or imposi- 
 tions that might be made. She could afford to speak 
 strongly, because she was speaking against her own inter- 
 ests. Conceivably Sir Aylmer might not look favourably 
 on herself as Deryk's wife; as the world appraised values, 
 he could make an infinitely better match, and, if need be, 
 she would try to accept the world's valuation. No one 
 would have cause to regret it, if the marriage went for- 
 ward, but to Deryk it was not worth the sacrifice contem- 
 plated. 
 
 She turned to look at the great lines of the house against 
 the waning light of the sky. Its size frightened her with 
 all that it implied of wealth, long effort and far-laid plans ; 
 it was the material expression of Sir Aylmer Lancing, the 
 shell of personality which would survive him and descend 
 to Deryk and Deryk's son. She had lived so long in its 
 shadow that she had forgotten its size ; Deryk was always 
 the boy who had played with her until he went away and 
 returned as the young man who was to fall in love with 
 her; her mind had never seen him as Sir Deryk Lancing, 
 the heir to the Lancing estate, however familiar the phrases 
 might be. She found herself passively helping to break 
 the continuity of two lives ; she decided that there could 
 be too great a sacrifice for Deryk to make and force on his 
 father. As she developed the clean-cut, intellectual de- 
 cision, something else cried out its warning what her ac- 
 tion would cost her. Fearful that doubts and compromise 
 would enter in, she hurried back to Ivy Cottage and wrote 
 to Deryk as quickly as her pen would cover the paper, as 
 collectedly, too, as if she were taking down a letter from 
 Miss Dawson's dictation. 
 
 "I have been thinking very seriously over what you last
 
 146 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 wrote. At first I thought that you were right and I loved 
 you for your courage. It must be very hard for anyone 
 like you always to have to do everything as it's arranged 
 for you, but I don't see how it's to be avoided. You see, 
 Deryk, you're not like other people ; in a way you're rather 
 like the heir to the throne, and I don't know whether you've 
 considered all that it means to do what you're doing. I'm 
 not speaking of the personal sacrifice, because you must 
 have thought that out, and I don't suppose you started until 
 you'd realised what it would mean to give up Ripley Court 
 and go through life as quite a poor man. But have you 
 thought about your father? Seriously, sweetheart, I feel 
 that it will break his heart, if you quarrel with him: it's 
 quite enough to kill him, and, even if it doesn't, everything 
 that he's hoped and dreamed in life will be wiped out. My 
 dear, I can see the house from where I'm writing. What 
 good is all this gigantic place, if you're never there? 
 
 "I can't feel that you know the sise of what you're doing ; 
 certainly I'm sure that I'm not strong enough to take the 
 responsibility of helping. Your father has been kindness 
 itself to me in hundreds of ways, but, even if he hadn't, I 
 shouldn't dare help to make a breach between you. Deryk, 
 you ought to come back at once and make it up with him. 
 You know that I love you and always shall. If you want 
 to marry me, you know you can, darling; but, if your 
 father won't allow it, you must forget all about me. Oh, 
 my sweet Deryk, you can't think how hard it is for me to 
 write like this, but I won't stand in the way of a reconcilia- 
 tion; if you ask him and he refuses, I shall never reproach 
 you. And, what ever happens, you know that no one ever 
 loved anybody as I love you." 
 
 She carried the letter to post before sitting down to sup- 
 per. There was something irrevocable in the hollow sound 
 that it made in falling to the bottom of the box. 
 
 3 
 
 Idina's letter was one of many awaiting Deryk, when he
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 147 
 
 hurried into the County Club on his way to the opera. The 
 customary reproachful note from Hatherly informed him 
 that Sir Aylmer had undergone another serious attack and 
 ordered him peremptorily back to Ripley Court, if he wished 
 to see his father alive ; great emphasis and panic in the 
 first two pages and then a postscript to say that the danger 
 was over for the present. Deryk crushed it into his pocket 
 with an unamiable smile and ordered the morning-room 
 waiter to bring him a whisky and soda, while he tore up 
 cards for the first balls of the season. Everybody seemed 
 to have found that he was in London, everybody was invit- 
 ing him to lunch, dine, dance, as though he had nothing 
 else in the world to do. He had hardly entered the room 
 before Gerald Deganway fluttered up, swinging his eye- 
 glass and protesting that he never saw Deryk nowadays. 
 
 "Now, my dear, you've simply got to dine here to-night. 
 No, you're not to make excuses " 
 
 "No time to dine anywhere," Deryk interrupted, gulping 
 his whisky and soda. "I'm due at Covent Garden in six 
 minutes and I mustn't be late." 
 
 Deganway looked at his watch, screwed his eye-glass in 
 place and stared at his friend. 
 
 "I say, old man, is it really true that you've become one 
 of the world's workers? I believe you have, you know; 
 I'm always hearing of you writing things and doing this 
 and that. I'm going to the opera, too, but I shan't be 
 there for ages and ages. Do tell me why you're doing 
 this! I'm intrigued, positively intrigued!'' 
 
 Deryk looked at the smiling, rather vacant face, the pre- 
 carious eye-glass, the pale hair brushed back from the 
 forehead without a parting; then he turned away and set 
 down his empty glass. 
 
 "You've made enough mischief already, you and Sum- 
 mertown," he said. 
 
 "But is it true that you've been turned out — it's not my 
 story, Deryk; I had it from V^al Arden, who had it " 
 
 "For the Lord's sake mind your own business, Gerry," 
 exclaimed Deryk. "I've come up here to work for my
 
 148 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 private satisfaction. I've not been turned out of anywhere, 
 and, if everything were true that you and the other liars 
 were saying about me, it would still be my business and 
 not yours." 
 
 He slipped Idina's letter unopened into his pocket and 
 left the club. He left Deganway also, open-mouthed and 
 affronted, murmuring stiffly, "Liars? I'll thank you not to 
 call me a liar, Deryk." It was really impossible to keep 
 your temper with people like that ; they gossiped and grim- 
 aced and made mischief and wasted time and dressed ex- 
 quisitely — and that was about all. And it was just what 
 he could not stand. He would not intentionally insult a 
 man, but fellows like Summertown and Deganway had 
 never got to grips with life, they had done no work, they 
 had never had to do things quickly and creditably when 
 they were tired, there were no boys waiting for their copy, 
 they never switched their brains from one thing to an- 
 other against time, they never accepted more and more 
 Work, knowing tliat they could never find leisure for it, 
 but afraid — superstitiously afraid — to refuse. At night 
 they never found themselves weaving phrases, instead of 
 sleeping. . . . Dear old George Oakleigh was really no 
 better. With the kindest intentions he was always drawl- 
 ing that the editor of some Midland paper wanted a 'Lon- 
 don Letter,' it would only take half an hour to write — as if 
 the day contained a hundred half hours It all brought 
 money, of course. . . . Deryk wondered whether his father 
 had as savagely refused to refuse work in the early New 
 York days. . . . 
 
 Covent Garden was crowded, when he arrived, as it was 
 the first night of da Costa's "Esmeralda," which had never 
 been payed in England before. Looking round the house, 
 as the orchestra settled into place, he exchanged bows with 
 Yolande Stornaway, who was with Raymond in the stalls 
 behind him, and with George Oakleigh, who as usual was 
 occupying his uncle's box to the left. Two rows in front 
 of him, Valentine Arden elaborately seated himself in the 
 middle of three empty seats, resei-ving one on either side
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 149 
 
 for hat and coat and standing up long enough to throw a 
 weary, supercilious glance round the house and to be seen 
 by his friends without having to acknowledge their bows. 
 The Daintons entered under the escort of young Lionel 
 Webster, and on the opposite side he could see Sidney 
 Dawson, an infrequent opera-goer, struggling to dispose of 
 his long legs in comfort. As the overture began, Derv'k 
 lay back limply with eyes half-closed, surrendering himself 
 to the music and trying to insulate his senses from the chill 
 of a house which he felt to be unsympathetic. Long after 
 the first curtain fell, he lay still in his trance, and only 
 when his neighbours began to shuffle and talk did he drag 
 himself to his feet and go out in search of coffee and a 
 cigarette. 
 
 Outside he found a knot of critics, bandying phrases, or 
 beginning to write their notices, while a slow-moving pro- 
 cession walked to and fro examining the dresses and emit- 
 ting safe, superior superficialities on the "meretricious 
 waltz-rhythm" and "Guildhall School orchestration." De- 
 ganway had just arrived and was considering, with one 
 finger gravely pressed to his forehead, in which box he 
 could most advantageously be seen ; Deryk slipped behind 
 him and was looking for a quiet corner to read his letter, 
 when his path was barred by a woman who held out her 
 hand and charged him with forgetting her. 
 , "Cairo, Mr. Lancing?" she suggested. 
 
 "Shepheard's Hotel, Mrs. Welman," Der}'k responded. 
 
 She was a pretty, wistful-looking woman with an amus- 
 ing tongue and seductive, large, brown eyes. It was said 
 that at one time she had been on the stage and had then 
 married one of the Northumberland Welmans, an elderly, 
 rich invalid, from whom she seemed to live apart. Deryk 
 had classified her as an attractive, rather pathetic foil to a 
 studiedly hilarious, rather vulgar party of twelve, which, 
 under the patronage of Sir Adolf Erckmann set everv'one 
 else's nerves on edge. She seemed out of her element and 
 too good for her company, seemed, further, to recognise it 
 and to face life with a hard recklessness, which she was
 
 I50 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 too proud to explain and in which she asked for no sym- 
 pathy. They had talked long and intimately at a dance 
 eighteen months before, and, when Deryk asked how they 
 could meet again, she had shrugged her shoulders, told him 
 that their paths were unlikely to cross and stirred him sur- 
 prisingly by abruptly begging him not to believe everything 
 that he might hear about her. For a week he had re- 
 membered her very vividly. 
 
 "If you're by yourself, I will offer you the privilege of 
 my company," she said. *'Sir Adolf's laid up with gout, and 
 I'm all alone in his box. Or, better still, you can rescue 
 me from this dreadful tin-can noise and take me some- 
 where amusing. But perhaps you think it would not be 
 wise," she added timidly. 
 
 "I should love to join you," Deryk answered, "but I've 
 got to see this thing out, I'm afraid. I'm here profession- 
 ally to-night." 
 
 She opened her eyes wide at him in unaffected surprise. 
 
 "I hoped it wasn't really, really true," she said. "Lord 
 Summertown told me, of course " 
 
 "Now, what did he tell you ?" Deryk asked, as she paused. 
 
 "Well, I know it's not my business, but I heard you'd 
 quarrelled with your father and been turned out of the 
 house." She looked at him interrogatively. "It's not true ? 
 I'm so, so glad. But why are you doing this, if you don't 
 have to?" 
 
 "Call it eccentricity," said Deryk carelessly. "I never 
 said I didn't have to. If you want to know, I'm moving 
 Heaven and earth to see how much money I can make." 
 
 He finished his coffee and went back to her box, where 
 he listened to a lazily drawled commentary on the dresses 
 and history of their neighbours, as she arranged herself 
 and two shapely arms prominently in the front of the box. 
 When the house was thrown into darkness, she leaned 
 towards him and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Don't answer this, if you don't want to," she whispered, 
 
 "but I hope you've not had a — a " She hesitated for 
 
 the word.
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 151 
 
 "Smash?" Deryk suggested. "Oh, Lord! no, thanks very 
 much." 
 
 "I'm really, really glad !" She laughed nervously. "I 
 hardly know you, it's nothing to do with me, but I was 
 dreadfully, dreadfully upset. I wondered if there was 
 anything I could do." 
 
 She held out her hand, and Deryk pressed it. 
 
 "It's most awfully kind of you," he whispered. "As a 
 matter of fact, I, well, I sort of backed myself to earn 
 enough to keep going, just as an experiment, you know, 
 and, as I knew something about music. . . ." 
 
 She bent forward, still leaving her hand in his. She had 
 forgotten that he was half American by blood and upbring- 
 ing, but, of course, the son of an American millionaire 
 ahvays tmis set to work like anyone else. 
 
 "What fun!" she exclaimed. "I hope you're winning! 
 Now look here, I believe I really can help you. If you 
 can write any sort of song or dance for any of the musical 
 comedies in London, Lll get it placed for you ; you know I 
 used to be on the stage? The words won't matter; if you 
 can't write them yourself, I know dozens of people who 
 will ; the music's the thing, and everybody's simply mad 
 for a new waltz song " 
 
 "But I've never written a waltz in my life," he objected. 
 
 "Well, work up an old hymn-tune. 'Praise the Lord, 
 ye Heavens adore him' makes one of the finest waltzes ever 
 written. If you set Abide with Me' to three-time — I'd do 
 it myself, if I knew anything about scoring." 
 
 Deryk thought over the proposal. 
 
 "I really don't know why you should take all this trouble 
 about me," he said in some embarrassment. 
 
 "I really, really don't know why I should !" she answered 
 lightly. 
 
 At the end of the opera Deryk invited her to come out 
 to supper vvdth him. Privately he hoped that she would not 
 accept, as he wanted to write his notice and get home to 
 bed ; he was also living on a strict daily allowance of money, 
 and supper for two, with a bottle of champagne, would
 
 152 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 keep him hungry for a month. She refused, telling him first 
 that her husband did not like her to sup in a party of two, 
 subsequently admitting under pressure that this was not 
 her real reason, that it was sweet of him to ask her, but 
 that, if he had to work all day to keep going, she was not 
 going to undo all his work at night. 
 
 "You've got to come and dine with me some night at 
 Claridge's," she told him, "just to shew that you're not 
 angry with me for talking like this. Now you ought to go 
 to bed; you're looking tired to death." 
 
 It was so long since anyone had spoken to him with her 
 little caress of tone and phrase, so long, too, since he had 
 talked with any woman, that she unsteadied him and he 
 did not want to let her go. 
 
 "I wish you'd come," he repeated. 
 
 "Find my car for me, like a good boy," she answered, 
 and he was left to return alone to supper at his club. 
 
 The long table in the dining-room was crowded, when 
 he came in, so he ordered a mixed grill and went upstairs 
 to write his critique. When he returned, there was a 
 vacant chair next to Raymond Stornaway and opposite 
 Sidney Dawson, who seemed to be elaborating an ex- 
 haustive comparison of ancient and modern opera. 
 
 "Again, in tlie old days " Deryk heard him say. 
 
 "Yolande tells me you know about these things," Ray- 
 mond intervened, turning with relief to Deryk. "What did 
 you think of it? Or perhaps you were too much occu- 
 pied in other ways." 
 
 "I heard all I wanted," Deryk answered, as he began his 
 supper. It was not Raymond's business if he chose to sit 
 in Mrs. Welman's box, and, though no harm had been in- 
 tended by the words, harm might come, if they were mis- 
 understood. In Cairo he had been solemnly warned by 
 Hatherly that he was playing with fire — whatever that 
 might mean ; he had bitter reason to know the nightmare 
 way in which unfounded stories spread; with Dawson sit- 
 ting there listening with ears strained and eyes bulging out 
 of his head, he could count on some lie reaching Aston
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 153 
 
 Ripley, as it was probably now being circulated by Degan- 
 way in the smoking-room. None of these fellows knew 
 anything about the woman. . . . 
 
 "I've known Mrs. Welman for some years," he added. 
 
 "I've known her for some time, too," said Raymond. "I 
 don't know that I should be seen about with her overmuch, 
 all the same. You're not her match." 
 
 Having had no mother for the greater part of his life 
 and being brought up among single men, Deryk was shy 
 with women and disposed to idealise them. Raymond's 
 worldly tone grated on him. 
 
 "I know nothing about her," he said shortly. 
 
 "I do," answered Raymond, unabashed by the tone. 
 "She's a collector ; I've known her on and off for ten years, 
 first as a dress-maker of a kind, intermittently an actress 
 and always a collector. She's collected Harry Welman, 
 she's collected that fellow Erckmann and she'll collect you, 
 if you're not careful." 
 
 Deryk was silent for fear of being rude. As soon as he 
 had finished supper, he walked home to Great Ormonde 
 Street, leaving Raymond to return reluctantly for a late 
 sitting, and prepared for bed. As he undressed, he dis- 
 covered Idina's letter in his pocket and opened it. In his 
 overtired state it added the last touch of irritation to nerves 
 which had first been set tingling by Deganway and kept 
 tingling by Raymond. 
 
 "Oh, do for heaven's sake leave the past alone," he 
 began in reply. "You may be quite sure that I thought all 
 this out before I started. You don't come on to the screen 
 at all, Dina ; I've never mentioned your name to the guv'nor 
 and I really know so little of what goes on inside his head 
 that I've no idea what he'd say, if I did. That's my diffi- 
 culty with him. He sits like a wizard, and I never know 
 what it's all about, and so he'll try to go on all his life. 
 It might be different, if I'd ever come a cropper but I 
 haven't and I'm not gomg to be dictated to. Well, one of 
 us had to give in, and it wasn't gomg to be me. It's not 
 the least use talking about sacrifices, nor about heirs to
 
 154 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 thrones. They can always abdicate, and that's just what 
 I've done. As for splitting the family, he can have me 
 back as easily as pressing a button. 
 
 "Dina, I'm really too tired to argue any more. You're 
 a perfectly free agent, you can do what you like, I won't 
 fetter you in any way. But, if you died to-morrow or 
 eloped with Hatherly, it wouldn't make a pennyworth of 
 difference. I should go on just as I'm going till I'd es- 
 tablished my own independence. At least, the only differ- 
 ence it would make would be this ; if I thought that you'd 
 have married me and that my father had kept us apart, I'd 
 never speak to him again in this world or the next. Don't 
 make things harder for me, darling." 
 
 He signed his name and read through the letter. She 
 would expect more endearment than the one belated "dar- 
 ling," and he added a postscript. "Bless you, sweetheart! 
 When I can't sleep and things seem more than I can bear, 
 I think of the wonderful moment when I talked about going 
 away and you looked at me with two great big blue eyes 
 filled with tears and whispered that you didn't want me to 
 go. I shall never forget you as you were then, with the 
 moon shining in on you and your poor little baby mouth all 
 trembling. Good-night, darling. Bless you always." 
 
 He was heavy-eyed when the letter was done, and the 
 sheets struck cool and refreshing to his tired body. For 
 an hour he lay waiting for the over-active brain to grow 
 drowsy, but all his pulses were beating like hammers, and 
 he turned restlessly from side to side. After a spell of 
 counting to a thousand and repeating scraps of poetry, he 
 threw aside the bedclothes and fetched himself pencils and 
 paper. Mrs. Welman's suggestion had come into his mind, 
 and he amused himself by writing the piano part of a waltz 
 adapted from "Abide with Me ;" "Lead, Kindly Light" was 
 next attempted, but he felt too lazy to undertake the full 
 score, and the unaided piano part was thin and inadequate. 
 
 By three o'clock his eyes ached too much to let him work 
 longer, and he put on trousers, overcoat and boots and set 
 out in search of exercise and fresh air. But for a few
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 155 
 
 scavengers in oilskins and waders he had the streets to 
 himself until he reached Covent Garden, where he stood for 
 a few minutes watching the fruit and vegetable carts un- 
 loading. The Strand was deserted, but unkempt men lay- 
 huddled under the Adelphi Arches, and the Embankment, 
 as ever, offered its meagre hospitality to the outcasts re- 
 jected of every other part. By the Boadicea group he 
 hoisted himself on to the parapet and sat watching the 
 water swirling and parting at the piles of the bridge. Black 
 and Silver had been his father's racing colours, and, as he 
 looked down, he began to think again of Idina's letter and 
 his own reply. ... A policeman approached and took up 
 his stand a few yards away. "I'm not contemplating sui- 
 cide," Deryk called out to him. The man laughed, mur- 
 mured something in return and moved to the other side of 
 the bridge. Deryk waited on till the wind struck cold 
 through his light clothes, then jumped down and walked 
 towards St. James' Park. The light in the Clock Tower 
 was burning, and from time to time a taxi drove away 
 from the House (he flushed with anger at the memory of 
 Raymond's impertinence at supper) ; otherwise the streets 
 were once more deserted. 
 
 Half-way across the Horse Guards Parade he filled a 
 pipe and felt in his pockets for a match. Finding none, he 
 hurried in pursuit of a man who was walking in evening 
 dress towards the Duke of York's Steps, smoking a cigar 
 and swinging his cane. He had hardly got out the first 
 words of his request, when he discovered his companion 
 to be Sidney Dawson. 
 
 "I thought we both went home to bed about four hours 
 ago !" exclaimed Deryk. 
 
 "I couldn't sleep," Dawson explained wearily. Then his 
 eyes rested for a moment on the bare head and muffled 
 throat beside him. "Couldn't you either? I wonder if it 
 was anything we had at supper. Of course, my doctor tells 
 me I oughtn't to look at supper, but, when you've had a 
 hurried dinner at about seven, you want something later 
 on, I'm sure."
 
 156 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk fell into step beside him, and they walked side by 
 side up the steps. 
 
 "I was just restless," he said. "I don't mind, but it 
 makes you feel so rotten next day.'' 
 
 "You oughtn't to be troubled at your age," said Dawson 
 with bluff heartiness. "I remember in the old days we used 
 to think nothing of staying up three nights running. There 
 was a place in Covent Garden — Betterley, Boddiley? I 
 don't recall the name — it always kept open later than any- 
 where else, and after leaving the Formosa — that was the 
 great night club of those days, you know — the fashionable 
 thing was to breakfast off kidneys and beer at — I wish 
 I could remember the name. I remember once dear old 
 Bertie Selwyn — he became Lord Stoneleigh afterwards and 
 was killed at Aintree, trying to ride the National when any 
 one of us could have certified that he hadn't been sober. . . . 
 Let me see, I forget where I'd got to. Oh, about Bertie 
 Selwyn. Yes. There was Bertie and me and a third man — 
 it may have been Dick Harley or it may not ; it's of no con- 
 sequence either way — we'd been seen at least three morn- 
 ings in succession breakfasting at that place, and Chris Fer- 
 guson bet us a pony that we couldn't keep it up for a week. 
 Well, we won the bet, but not one of us would go through 
 it again for ten times the money. When Saturday morning 
 came " 
 
 He chuckled wickedly to himself and threw up his hands 
 into the air. 
 
 "They say msomnia doesn't hurt you, if you don't worry 
 about it," said Deryk, shovelling a surreptitious spadeful 
 of earth on to the grave of Dawson's story. 
 
 "But it's so hard not to worry," Dawson objected. 'T 
 need all the sleep I can get. My doctor keeps me on a very 
 strict diet — between ourselves. Lancing, I don't believe I 
 ever get enough to eat — if you take to-day, I breakfasted 
 off a piece of dry toast and one cup of weak tea ; or 
 lunch " 
 
 Derv^k began to edge away towards the Haymarket. 
 
 "You probably don't get enough fresh air," he suggested.
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 157 
 
 'My dear fellow, every morning at eleven " 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean that,'' Deryk interrupted hastily. "I 
 don't know enough about your case. And I'm certainly 
 not in a position to lecture other people. Good-night, Mr. 
 Dawson ; I really must try to get some sleep on my own 
 account." 
 
 While Deryk hurried home, Dawson sauntered discon- 
 tentedly along Pall Mall into St. James' Street. It was his 
 boast that he never slept more than three hours a night, 
 but he would never have confirmed the boast on oath, and 
 one night's serious insomnia stood out black-figured in his 
 calendar. Since his precipitate return from Aston Ripley, 
 he had been ceaselessly reproaching himself with having 
 mismanaged the whole proposal. He had taken the girl by 
 surprise; he had entirely failed to present his case or to 
 shew her what it would mean to be mistress of the Grange 
 and the house in Eaton Square, to lounge away a winter 
 abroad, when she felt inclined, to walk into shops and carry 
 away whatever attracted her whim. . . . There was a 
 difference of age, but he had not explained how little other 
 difference that would make ; she would have her own 
 friends, he would never enquire how she passed her time. 
 Anything that adoration and an income of seven thousand 
 a year could give her was hers ; in return he only asked for 
 a little affection and the sweetness of her bodily presence 
 in the house. He had never before felt that he needed any- 
 thing so badly: she must not, could not, refuse. . . . 
 
 The arguments swept into his brain, ready phrased, as 
 they had signally failed to do when he stood stammering 
 and repeating himself before her. Well, he had refused 
 to take "no" for an answer and he meant it. To-morrow 
 he would tell her so again — or perhaps the next day. To- 
 morrow, after his broken night, he would not be adequately 
 convincing. But he would go down to the Grange next day, 
 sleep in the country air and the following morning — Well, 
 it would be no good her trying to refuse him again; he 
 would not take another refusal. 
 
 His overnight valour was unabated when he sent his
 
 158 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 man out with a telegram for his sister. It was improving 
 under steady rehearsal when he arrived half an hour before 
 dinner and strode with an air of dominion into the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "We're becoming quite a jack-in-the-box," commented 
 Miss Dawson fretfully, as she roused from slumber. "Are 
 you staying the night, Sidney, or what?" 
 
 "You remind me of something I once heard at a music- 
 hall," he answered with the laugh that heralded an anec- 
 dote. "That man — you know, the funny fellow; I can't 
 remember his name — he was asked by the indignant mother, 
 'Are you going to marry my daughter or what?' 'Oh,' he 
 said, 'I'm one of the what-ers.' Rather good, eh?" He 
 laughed immoderately, repeating to himself ". . . marry the 
 girl or what? Oh, I'm one of the what-ers." 
 
 Miss Dawson turned to him with carefully assumed 
 drowsiness. 
 
 "Have you come here after that Penrose girl, Sidney?" 
 she asked. 
 
 Her brother suddenly ceased to laugh and faced his sister 
 with lofty dignity. 
 
 "My dear, I feel that we should get on much better, if 
 you minded your own business and left me to mind mine." 
 
 "Tantrums !" ejaculated Miss Dawson with a chuckle. 
 Then her face became solemn. "Of course, it is your busi- 
 ness, and, though I am your sister, I learned long ago not 
 to expect you to listen to me. You never do, no one ever 
 does till it's too late. Then you come like a whipped cur 
 and say, 'You were right, Adeline; if only I'd followed 
 your advice !' " The scene was idealised, but Miss Dawson 
 had painted it so often that to her eyes at least it was 
 faithful. "You won't listen to me, but will you listen to 
 anyone else?" 
 
 Sidney picked up the evening paper and hid himself 
 behind it. only condescending to say, 
 
 "I decline to discuss my private affairs with anyone." 
 
 Miss Dawson was not to be deterred. Long experience 
 had taught her that no man or woman was ever so en-
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 159 
 
 grossed in book or paper as to miss all the points of an 
 oblique monologue. 
 
 "Of course, you think it's all nonsense," she began in a 
 comfortable, irrepressible voice. "Perhaps you wouldn't 
 think so, if ever you'd been present. Now, when I took 
 
 your glove to Madame Christine " "The Westminster 
 
 Gazette" flapped indignantly. "Oh, we're very wise and 
 clever, but I — tell — you — that your friend Charles Engle- 
 field, zvho'd been in his grave fifteen years. . . ." 
 
 Sidney Dawson deliberately folded his paper, placed it 
 under one arm and walked to the door. 
 
 "Time to dress," he muttered. 
 
 "Charles Englefield warned me that you were going to 
 make a fool of yourself !" cried Miss Dawson shrilly. 
 
 The door slammed. 
 
 Throughout the night following her letter to Deryk, 
 Idina lay thinking of her loss ; in the morning, as she walked 
 through the rain to the Dawsons' house, she began to think 
 once more of the future. Wonderfully little comfort came 
 to her from the sense that she had done right ; wonderfuUy 
 little consolation that would bring her in the endless future. 
 The shabby, rambling house, in long need of decoration; 
 the airless, over-furnished rooms, with their ponderous 
 mahogany, their purposeless overmantels, their massive pic- 
 tures and museum of tasteless ornaments ; the garden, which 
 no one replenished and for which no one cared ; all ex- 
 haled a heavy air of decay, as though the cunningly pre- 
 served life of an elder generation were giving out in despite 
 of every caution and artifice. And her function was to 
 arrest the decay ; for her all existence was a long ministra- 
 tion to elder generations, as they gradually weakened and 
 died. And she was filled with a fiercely rebellious wish to 
 have a life of her own instead of dancing as a familiar 
 shadow in the background of others' lives. 
 
 For three days she went about her work stolid and in- 
 sensible, winning a certain pleasure from facing the condi-
 
 i6o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 tions of her life steadily, telling herself that they would 
 never change. An impatient word from Miss Dawson was 
 received with outward placidity and stored in the armoury 
 of self-mortification. She no longer flushed or grew trem- 
 ulously nervous when her employer spoke with silken bru- 
 tality; after turning her back on Deryk, she was hardly to 
 notice what anyone else could do to her. For three days 
 she submitted with a smiHngly sullen air to her self-chosen 
 fate, like a wilful child obeying a hateful order. 
 
 Then Deryk's letter arrived, and her ill-worn stoicism fell 
 from her. She had made the effort, her sacrifice was re- 
 jected, and she could resist no more. "If you died to-mor- 
 row or eloped with Hatherly, it wouldn't make a penny- 
 worth of difference." It was not very complimentary of 
 him to relegate her so frankly to the second place, but at 
 least he had taken all responsibility from her shoulders, and 
 nothing that she did or refrained from doing would change 
 his attitude towards his father; she was no longer preju- 
 dicing his interests or making ill return for Sir Aylmer's 
 generosity. 
 
 On reaching the Grange she was greeted by Miss Dawson 
 with the words, 
 
 "My brother arrived last night. I hope that you will re- 
 member what I was compelled to say to you the other day." 
 
 Idina set about her work without answering. If anything 
 could, make her marry Sidney, it would be the pleasure of 
 revenging herself on his sister, and this sense of exhilarat- 
 ing animosity kept her undefeated throughout the morn- 
 ing. At one o'clock she had a moment's uneasy fear that 
 she would be invited to stay to luncheon and kept under 
 conscious observation for Miss Dawson's amusement. She 
 was allowed to go home unmolested, however, and Sidney 
 had the consideration to remain hidden from view at tea- 
 time. So long as this tactful disposition was maintained, 
 Idina anticipated no trouble ; and at seven o'clock she hur- 
 ried home to answer Deryk's letter. Hardly looking where 
 she was going, she had run to the lodge gate before a con-
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE i6i 
 
 cealed figure emerged from the shadow of the wall and 
 gave her pause. 
 
 "I hope you will not forbid me the pleasure of accom- 
 panying you home," said Sidney. 
 
 Idina made pretence of consulting her watch. 
 
 "I'm in an awful hurry," she said. "I've got letters to 
 write before the post goes." 
 
 "I expect I can keep up," he answered with a laugh, 
 breaking into stride, stiff and erect, beside her. "Miss 
 Penrose, I told you the other day that I wouldn't take *no' 
 for an answer. I hope you understood that I meant it." 
 
 Idina stopped and faced him with pleading eyes. 
 
 "I beg you not to ask me again !" she implored. "I 
 wouldn't hurt you for the world, but my answer will always 
 be the same. Why can't we just go on being friends, why 
 will you ?" 
 
 "Because I want something much more than that," he 
 answered easily. "Look here, Idina — I'm not going to ask 
 leave to call you that ! — when I talked to you the other 
 night, I took you by surprise. What you've got to do is to 
 think quite calmly over what I'm proposing " 
 
 He broke up her attitude of supplication by turning and 
 walking down the road, inviting her with a gesture to come 
 with him. 
 
 "I honestly never thought that I should ask anyone to 
 marry me — until I met you," he began, with a mixture of 
 boastfulness and graceful, necessary surrender. "But, when 
 I found you grown up into a woman " 
 
 With the good-humour of perfect assurance he unhur- 
 riedly delivered himself of the speeches which he had been 
 rehearsing since their last meeting; the offer was presented 
 in all its attractivness — independence, wealth, a life that 
 would be whatever she chose to make it, the worship and 
 service of a devoted husband ; and, in return, a smile of 
 affection. The case to be argued was so strong in itself 
 that he spoke almost disinterestedly, as though counselling 
 her for her own and another man's sake. Was it so hard 
 for her of all people, with her warm, kindly heart, to spare
 
 i62 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 him a comer of it? God knows, he was not vain enough 
 to have any illusions left about himself, but she would find 
 him infinitely affectionate, obedient to her wishes. . . . He 
 was amazed at the range of his own domestic virtues. . . . 
 they were barely exhausted when he found himself oppo- 
 site the gate of Ivy Cottage. 
 
 Idina looked reflectively at his thin, over-spruce figure 
 and carefully chosen clothes. As he stood, hat in hand, his 
 carefully brushed hair had not even begun to change its 
 colour; his complexion was unwholesome, but his face had 
 kept its shape and was not unduly lined. She could not 
 say of any one feature that it spoiled the cherished illusion, 
 but something faded and worn, something old and tired 
 tinder the strutting exterior refused to be hidden for all his 
 eflForts. He was like an old actor playing a boy's part with 
 a fire and activity that yet somehow failed to compensate a 
 poor make-up. 
 
 "I can't change what I've said," she told him, lowering 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I've told you I won't take that for an answer," he 
 laughed. 
 
 "But you really must. And, oh, please! please don't talk 
 to me about this again ! If you knew how miserable it made 
 me feel " 
 
 Sidney's voice became low and caressing. 
 
 "Why won't you marry me, Idina?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't love you ! I — I hardly know you," she added, 
 trying to soften the effect of the first words. 
 
 "But I've not asked you to love me," he whispered. "I've 
 done nothing to deserve it, I don't know why you should. 
 I want you to let me take care of you and make you as 
 happy as you have a right to be. Then — then! Well, 
 then, if you found you were getting just the least little bit 
 fond of me " 
 
 Idina gave a quick shake of the head and held out her 
 hand to him. 
 
 "I can't," she said. "It's no good, and you only make
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 163 
 
 me feel an ungrateful beast. . . . Good-bye; and please 
 don't — you know — again." 
 
 He took her hand and raised it with an elaborate gesture 
 to his lips, despite a perceptible pull against him. 
 
 "You say you hardly know me !" he cried with the same 
 unquenchable gaiety he had adopted throughout their time 
 together, "Idina, your most devoted servant. I shall be 
 down here for some time, and it will be my exquisite privi- 
 lege to make myself better known to you." 
 
 He released her hand and, with a bow from the waist, 
 walked towards the Grange. Idina hurried indoors and 
 turned the key for fear he should come back. The light, 
 dashing manner in courtship was but one degree less dis- 
 composing than the tragic vein of their first encounter; 
 what his next mood was likely to be she had no means of 
 guessing, but he was apparently determined to renew his 
 addresses at alarmingly short intervals until she accepted 
 him or married someone else or ran away from Aston Rip- 
 ley and went into hiding. He was incapable of taking her 
 at her word. ... It was persecution. . . . 
 
 From a mood of pity and terrified embarrassment she 
 found herself passing to one of indignation. Then she 
 began to wonder longingly how soon she could silence him 
 by announcing her engagement to Deryk. As soon as he 
 was ready for her, of course, she would come to him : the 
 sooner the better: the moment that he was making enough 
 money to put a roof over their heads and prove his inde- 
 pendence of Sir Aylmer : to-morrow : to-day. . . . She 
 laughed at her own impatience, but her knees were still 
 trembling from the nervous excitement of the last en- 
 counter. She could at least tell Deryk that she would share 
 his hardships and struggles with him, that she could help 
 him, work for him, that she did not want luxury, that she 
 only wanted to be with him. . . . 
 
 Going to the writing-table she read his letter once again. 
 
 "Darling Deryk," she wrote in reply. "I won't argue ; I 
 don't want to; I'm much too happy to do anything except 
 say, 'Bless you, and best of luck ;' I know your father will
 
 1 64 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 come round to your view when you shew him that you can 
 get on without him, because, you see, Deryk, he can't get on 
 without you. Perhaps he's not the only one ! Oh, dearest, 
 I do so badly want to see you ! It's not to argue or make 
 things harder: perhaps it may make things just the ween- 
 iest bit easier, but you're the person to judge that. Don't 
 you think you could come down just for a few hours? I 
 could go on and on for years, if I just saw you once again, 
 but there's something I must say, and I somehow feel that 
 I can't put it in a letter." 
 
 There was a delay of three days before Deryk wrote 
 again, and his letter told her a little impatiently that he was 
 unable to spare even half a day from his work. Idina 
 pouted, as she read; Deryk and she had not set eyes on 
 each other since the night of the ball, and she could not 
 help feeling that, if he really wanted to see her, he could 
 make time : he seemed to subordinate her entirely to his 
 general war of independence. ... In the three days Sid- 
 ney Dawson had proposed twice more, with the gay assur- 
 ance of a man who could afford to wait and knew that 
 waiting would bring him all that he desired. Idina took to 
 escaping through the orchard of the Grange and moving in 
 cover to Ivy Cottage through the park of Ripley Court, 
 but, after eluding him once, she was to find him the next 
 night mounting guard over the gate of her garden and 
 barring her way to the house until he had discharged his 
 latest proposal. 
 
 The following day she asked Miss Dawson for leave of 
 absence for a few hours. As Deryk would not come to her, 
 she telegraphed to say that she was on her way to London 
 and would meet him at the County Club. The feeling that 
 she would not come up from Aston Ripley without good 
 cause quelled his tendency to grumble at the loss of essen- 
 tial time. They dined early at a restaurant in Soho, and 
 Idina with some trepidation told him of Sidney's proposal. 
 The account was made as colourless as possible, and she 
 felt that she was perhaps unwarrantably betraying a con- 
 fidence, but it seemed only fair for Deryk to know, and
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 165 
 
 she had an idea that a girl in her position always did tell. 
 Deryk was so much infuriated that she cut her story short 
 at the first proposal. 
 
 "I hope you let him have it between the eyes," he fumed. 
 "It's an insult ! A doddering, broken-down " 
 
 "Don't abuse him, Deryk," she begged. "He — he meant 
 to be kind." 
 
 "It's the damnedest insolence I've ever heard of ! A 
 man with one foot in the grave, a fellow who wears stays, 
 having the presumption to come and ask you — what did you 
 tell him, Dina?" 
 
 "Oh, I said it was impossible." 
 
 Deryk breathed heavily, 
 
 "I should dam' well think it was. So that's what's been 
 worrying you ?" he went on more gently. 
 
 "Yes, partly. He's still down there, Deryk; if — if he 
 says anything again ?" 
 
 "Give him a back-hander across the mouth," he suggested. 
 "But, if you told him off properly, he'll keep out of the 
 way." 
 
 "I don't believe he will," she murmured; then, deciding 
 to let Deryk know everything, "It wasn't only once. . . ." 
 
 "You mean that you let him ?" 
 
 "I can't help it, Deryk!" she cried in distress. "I've told 
 him again and again, but he just laughs and comes back. 
 What am I to say? I — I — I — He makes me afraid to put 
 my nose out of doors! Can't you ?" 
 
 "Can't I what?" 
 
 "Can't you do something? Can't you tell him that we — 
 oh, Deryk, how much longer are you going to wait? 
 You've surely been going on long enough to prove what 
 you can do. Why can't we start now — I don't care how 
 much of a struggle it is, I could help you, we should win 
 through, I know we should !" 
 
 Deryk's expression hardened. 
 
 "It's out of the question," he told her. "On two months ? 
 And such luck as not one man in a thousand ever gets? 
 I'm quoting George Oakleigh ; he frankly says that it's not
 
 1 66 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 a fair test. Why, it's lunacy ! If I fell ill and had to chuck 
 work for a few weeks, you'd hardly have enough to live 
 on." 
 
 "I wouldn't mind that, Deryk." 
 
 "Perhaps you would when you'd tried it." He found it 
 difficult to speak patiently or with kindness so long as she 
 failed to recognise how hard he had been compelled to 
 work and how precarious his victory still was. Women 
 were so amazingly unpractical. She seemed to think that 
 love and a blind readiness to face risks hand in hand some- 
 how made the risks less great. "There's nothing to be 
 done yet awhile," he added. "In four months I propose to 
 see my father, but I shan't have enough powder and shot 
 till then." 
 
 Idina looked at her watch and began to draw on her 
 gloves, thankful that she had a train to catch. Deryk had 
 wounded her again and again in their short time together. 
 Instead of protecting her from Sidney's solicitations, he 
 seemed to think that it was all her fault for not speaking 
 decisively enough ; instead of being made glad by her offer 
 to share his life, however little he had to give her, he dis- 
 missed the offer as a piece of lunacy. More strongly than 
 ever before she felt that Deryk was absorbed first and 
 last in an obstinate struggle v.il-i hij father and that she 
 was but incidental to it, perhaps superfluous. 
 
 "You haven't helped me very much," she sighed, laying 
 her hand on his sleeve, as they drove to Victoria. 
 
 "What can I do, darling?" he asked. The strip of mirror 
 reflected his face, as he leaned over to kiss !.jr, and he mar- 
 velled afresh that there v/as no outward trace of the sleep- 
 less nights and restless, nervous day:; through which he had 
 passed. His eyes were burning, and the back of his head 
 and neck felt bruised. "/ can't dictate to Dawson what 
 he's to say to you. I haven't the right." 
 "I'd give you the right," she whispered. 
 He drew back involuntarily, wondering how long he 
 would be able to resist the temptation. He knew that he 
 •did right in not going near Aston Ripley; only when he
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 167 
 
 jvas working and at a distance could he be sure of himself. 
 
 "Not until I'm in a state to receive it," he answered, 
 withdrawing his hand. "I can't, Dina; surely you must 
 see? No man's justified in tying a girl to him till he sees 
 reasonable likelihood of being able to support her; I tell 
 you quite deliberately that I'm not in sight of that yet. It — 
 it doesn't make things any easier, you know, if we're not 
 patient." 
 
 Idina bit her lip and said nothing. As the taj<i drove 
 into Victoria, she asked herself what good she had done, 
 what good she ever thought she could do. When he had 
 found her a carriage, they stood talking until the gtiard 
 ordered her inside and slammed the door; as the train 
 began to move, she leaned out and whispered, "Good-bye, 
 darling; you do love me a little bit, don't you?" 
 
 Deryk laughed and waved good-bye. 
 
 "Just a little bit," he cried. Then he turned and made 
 his way back to his rooms ; the interview had cost him 
 three hours' work. . . . 
 
 In the week following her return from London, Idina 
 received two more proposals from Sidney. Determined 
 that Deryk should have no justification for thinking that 
 she was to blame for their continuance, she stood her ground 
 and reminded the importunate suitor of his previous pro- 
 posals, her invariable refusal and equally invariable request 
 not to have the proposal repeated ; she then asked him 
 whether it was chivalrous to press unwelcome attentions 
 on one who was in a position of dependence. Sidney was 
 put out of countenance by her use of the word "chival- 
 rous;" he had imagined himself a very Bayard to her and 
 was galled by her insistence on regarding him as a perse- 
 cutor. After a few moments, however, his assurance re- 
 turned, and he told her that it was the right and duty of 
 every man to offer himself, his service, all that he had or 
 was, to the woman whom he loved. Thereafter Idina en- 
 joyed four days' respite. 
 
 As she came and went and moved about the house, how- 
 ever, Sidney's eyes followed her, until she had an uncom-
 
 i68 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 fortable sense that he was mentally undressing her; he 
 methodically transferred himself from one room to another 
 a quarter of an hour after she had moved, as though to 
 pursue some fragrance of her person, but he no longer lay 
 in wait for her, no longer declaimed his set speeches. Idina 
 scored a double advantage by the change ; not only was she 
 free of his embarrassing attentions, but Miss Dawson 
 neitlier dared nor cared to be spiteful in her brother's pres- 
 ence. For four days — the only four days since she came 
 to the Grange — Idina began her work without foreboding 
 and ended it witliout having been made to suflFer. On the 
 fifth day Sidney left the drawing-room immediately after 
 tea and was waiting for her half-way down the drive. 
 
 "You can guess what brings me here ?" he began. 
 
 "I hoped that you were not going to discuss this again," 
 she answered, feeling her heart involuntarily quicken its 
 beat. 
 
 "You can hardly have expected it, dear lady. You have 
 only to see yourself as I see you " 
 
 Idina faced him with the same steadiness as on the last 
 occasion. 
 
 "Mr. Dawson, either you must promise never to re-open 
 this discussion, or I must go away. I don't want to do 
 that, it is very inconvenient, very hard. . . . But I shall do 
 it if you force me to. Will you promise?" 
 
 "I cannot, Idina. Egad! I should be a poor lover if 
 I let myself be discouraged into a promise of that kind." 
 
 Idina turned and hurried down the drive. 
 
 "Then I shall go away!" 
 
 "Sweet child, I shall follow you!" 
 
 She looked at him with tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Don't you care for me — you say you do — don't you 
 care for me enough to leave me alone, when I ask you to ?" 
 
 The falsetto gaiety died out of Sidney's manner. 
 
 "I care for you so much that I can't leave you alone !" 
 he cried. In the haggard face and hungry eyes the girl 
 traced for the first time a passion which his mock-debonair 
 gaiety was unable to hide. She was filled with pity and
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 169 
 
 fear in equal measure; for the first time she understood 
 that, though his brain might take in a refusal, the rest of 
 him never had and never would ; her words were simply 
 words ; so would Deryk's have been, if she had succeeded 
 in winning his intervention. Without conscious thought 
 she appreciated that the only way of dealing with the physi- 
 cal hunger and infatuation in his eyes was to escape from 
 his reach. 
 
 "I'll go away for a week," he said with a return of his 
 old jauntiness. "It's not to be hoped that you'll miss me, 
 but you'll have time to think over what you're throwing 
 away with such bewitching obstinacy. And, when I come 
 back, I hope you'll know how to deal with a poor devil 
 whose only wish is to make you happy and whose only 
 fault is that he's fallen head over ears in love with you. 
 Au revoir, little lady; we meet in a week's time." 
 
 With a last gallant smile and a kiss of her finger-tips he 
 turned back towards his own house. As he walked moodily 
 through the garden, the prospect of dining alone with his 
 sister and under her watchful, malicious eyes was more 
 than. he could bear; he wandered, hardly looking where he 
 was going, out of his own grounds and through the woods 
 of Ripley Court into the park. There must be a right way 
 of approaching the girl, but he had so far failed to find it ; 
 he had to find it now ; girls in her dependent position, un- 
 broken to their work and disliking it, did not as a rule 
 throw away what he was offering. It was not a question of 
 age or appearance ; he was quite comfortable on that score ; 
 she was not already engaged and could have no opportu- 
 nity of indulging romantic dreams. For the hundredth 
 time he told himself that it was inexperience and want of 
 imagination ; she did not know, she did not know the life 
 of clothes and jewels, parties and theatres, everything that 
 girls cared for, that he was preparing for her. He had not 
 interested her yet. . . . 
 
 His feet were on rising ground, and he looked up to find 
 himself mounting the knoll opposite Ivy Cottage. He had 
 no idea of the time, but lights were shining through the un-
 
 I70 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 blinded windows, and he could see Idina finishing her sup- 
 per and getting up to clear the table. That she should have 
 to lay and clear her own table! She was lost to view for 
 a time, but reappeared and sat down to write letters. Half 
 an hour, an hour later she came out bare-headed and ran 
 down to the pillar-box by the west lodge gate of Ripley 
 Court, He waited, sitting on a fallen trunk, until she came 
 up the hill again and disappeared inside the house. The door 
 was bolted, the blind drawn and the lights turned out down- 
 stairs ; a moment later the dark front of the house was 
 again broken by two yellow squares, Idina appeared in sight 
 for a moment and pulled the curtains. For ten minutes he 
 watched her shadow moving up and down; her arms were 
 joined above her head, and she was seen to be brushing her 
 hair; then the lights upstairs vanished abruptly. Careless 
 of the dew, he sat on wondering why the two of them 
 should live apart, separated by a few yards, when each was 
 essential to tlie other's happiness. He pictured her lying 
 with her wonderful flaxen hair loose on the pillow, her 
 cheeks warmly flushed, smiling in her sleep — alone and 
 wasted, when he would give ten years of his life to kiss her 
 lips once. . . . 
 
 The sound of men's voices and the ring of feet on the 
 road broke into his reverie; he awoke to find himself 
 cramped and shivering and, peering at his watch in the 
 moonlight, was amazed to find that the time was after two. 
 He stumbled out of the plantation and was twenty yards 
 down the road, when he found himself face to face with 
 the two men whose voices he had heard, 
 
 "He'll be all right, when you've given him the stuflF I'm 
 going to make up," one was saying. "As right as he ever 
 is." 
 
 Sidney recognised the village doctor from Aston Ripley. 
 
 "Good-night, Forsyte," he mumbled. 
 
 "Is that Dawson?" enquired the doctor, stopping short, 
 "I say, your sister's been telephoning round for you ; 
 wanted to know if you were dining with me, I said I 
 hadn't the honour. She seemed to be expecting you."
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 171 
 
 "She rang us up, too," said Hatherly, coming forward. 
 *'I said I hadn't seen you for some time." 
 
 "I've only been having a walk," said Sidney with some 
 impatience. 
 
 "She just seemed a bit nervous," Hatherly remarked. 
 "Well, we must be getting on. Good-night, Dawson." 
 
 "Good-night, good-night!" he answered. "I hope For- 
 syte's not a bird of ill-omen," he went on to Hatherly. 
 "Nothing serious? Good." 
 
 He marched stiffly erect into the night, while the other 
 two hurried on towards the doctor's house. 
 
 "Has he been serenading the fair Miss Penrose, do you 
 imagine?" asked Forsyte with a smile. "He's got it rather 
 badly, everyone tells me." 
 
 "Men of that age do," said Hatherly. "Well, she might 
 do worse." 
 
 Forsyte was professionally silent ; if Sidney Dawson were 
 going the way of his sister, his father and his grandfather, 
 he could not look forward to many years of health: he 
 ought not to dream of asking any girl to marry a man who 
 would spend the rest of his hfe as an invalid. 
 
 5 
 
 Her last interview with Dawson and the uncertainty of 
 her future at Deryk's hands forced Idina to act on her own 
 initiative. She wrote to her former employment bureau in 
 Regent Street for particulars of vacant situations for 
 companions, secretaries or governesses, enclosing the usual 
 booking-fee and submitting her qualifications. She had a 
 week in which to look round before Sidney returned and, 
 if need be, she was prepared to forego a month's salary 
 in order to get away. However disheartening the new pros- 
 pect, she could no longer subject herself to thrice weekly 
 proposals, alternating with short absences on Sidney's part 
 in which Miss Dawson vented the sarcasms which her 
 brother's presence had held in check. 
 
 She found Miss Dawson next morning seated as usual 
 beside a bright fire in the morning-room, with her letters
 
 172 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 and paper-knife before her and a waste-paper basket by her 
 foot-stool. There was no reply to Idina's "good-morning" 
 and the girl busied herself with arranging the writing-table 
 and preparing for the day's dictation. A quarter of an 
 hour passed before Miss Dawson seemed aware of her 
 presence; then, without speaking, she held out an envelope. 
 Idina took it and found inside a cheque for one month's 
 salary. 
 
 "But you've paid me already," she said. 
 
 "If we look, we shall see it's for the present month," said 
 Miss Dawson. "It is not expected that this kind of thing 
 can go on, surely." 
 
 Idina stared from the cheque to her employer: some 
 moments passed before she realised that she was being dis- 
 missed. 
 
 "When do you wish me to go ?" she asked quietly. 
 
 Miss Dawson turned to her with brightly gleaming eyes. 
 
 "We've not a word to say? Perhaps we're wise. But 
 no regret, no attempt to draw back ?" 
 
 "I don't know why you're getting rid of me," said Idina, 
 "but I suppose you're quite within your rights. I've done 
 my best, but I told you, when you engaged me, that I'd 
 no experience " 
 
 Miss Dawson dammed the deferential stream. 
 
 "Do you think I don't know all about you?" she cried. 
 "Do you think I haven't eyes in my head to see the way 
 you've been going on? He'd never have done it, if you 
 hadn't led him on ; he's not that kind of man." 
 
 Idina folded the cheque and slipped it into her belt. 
 
 "When do you wish me to go ?" she repeated. 
 
 "You thought nobody saw, nobody cared," went on Miss 
 Dawson. "It seems the whole village was talking about 
 you. My own servants — d'you think they don't know when 
 their master goes out at seven and has to be let in at three 
 next morning?" 
 
 Idina flushed scarlet, as Miss Dawson's meaning became 
 clear to her.
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 173 
 
 "How dare you?" she cried. "You ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself " 
 
 "For finding out?" The old woman's voice rose shrilly, 
 malice blending with indignation. "We ought to have been 
 more circumspect. People saw him going out, people saw 
 him coming away, people saw him being let in. He wouldn't 
 marry us for all our plans, so we thought we'd make him." 
 Her voice lost its last trace of moral indignation and became 
 triumphant. "Well, he won't! You're not the first or the 
 second," she cried inconsistently. "Sidney's always been 
 a favourite, but he never married any of them and he won't 
 marry you. No man would, after you've shewn yourself 
 in your true colours; it would be their turn to-day and 
 someone else's to-morrow. So I told him, quite plainly. 
 Oh, he pretended to be angry, but he knew I was right." 
 
 Idina was crying with long, quivering sobs of amazement 
 and horror. The old woman looked at her for a moment 
 in the heady sensual enjoyment of causing pain. 
 
 "Crying won't undo it," she observed at length. 
 
 The girl steadied herself and walked slowly up to the 
 old woman's chair. 
 
 "You dirty, wicked old wretch !" she cried, throwing self- 
 control to the winds. "It's a lie, a lie, a he! D'you hear? 
 You're lying! You know you're lying!" Miss Dawson 
 leaned out of her chair and pulled the bell. Idina steadied 
 herself involuntarily. "I'd kill you if I could, you horrible, 
 dirty-minded " 
 
 Her voice broke, and she hurried from the room. With- 
 out waiting to get her hat or coat on she ran down the 
 drive and never stopped until she was back in Ivy Cottage. 
 The woman who came in each morning to clean the house 
 knew better than to ask questions, but Idina explained 
 with a composure that surprised herself that she had 
 to go suddenly to London and might not be back for some 
 days. One of her father's suitcases held all the clothes 
 that she would require, and, laden with this, she made her 
 way to the station in time to catch the mid-day train. An 
 unexpected dry sob still shook her from time to time, and
 
 174 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 in her loneliness she thought for a moment of asking Deryk 
 to meet her ; she knew, however, that he would be busy, 
 and there was no need to see him until her plans were less 
 disordered. Instead, she addressed a note to the County 
 Club, telling him that she had left Miss Dawson and was 
 looking for employment elsewhere. On reaching Victoria 
 she went at once to the bureau in Regent Street, but her 
 letter had only been received a few hours before, and she 
 was told to come back in two days' time. A clerk mechan- 
 ically noted that she had left her previous employment be- 
 cause she desired a change ; the old particulars of age, 
 experience and salary were once more entered ; and she was 
 free to look for lodgings. 
 
 As soon as she had an address for letters, she wrote again 
 to Deryk and begged him to arrange a meeting. He found 
 both letters at his club that night and invited her to lunch 
 with him next day. It was a relief to hear that she had at 
 last broken free of Miss Dawson's persecution and escaped 
 the no less galling persecution of Sidney ; he was disturbed, 
 however, by the prospect of her having to secure a new 
 position. As both of them knew, she had few qualifications 
 to offer and, though he had made enough money to keep 
 her for several months, he did not want to break unduly 
 into his slowly accumulated capital. 
 
 "What exactly are you going to do?" he asked uneasily, 
 as they sat down to luncheon. 
 
 "I must take anything I can get," she answered slowly, 
 "unless " 
 
 "V/ell ?" 
 
 She leaned across the table with her eyes set pleadingly 
 on his. 
 
 "Deryk, why must we wait?" she whispered. "I've told 
 you I don't mind how poor we are to start with " 
 
 "It's no good !" His eyebrows met in a determined 
 frown, and his mouth stiffened. A similar expression was 
 well known in certain parts of New York a generation 
 earlier ; Hatherly and Raymond still saw it in its enfeebled 
 age and were wont to shrug their shoulders and acquiesce
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 175 
 
 when it appeared. Gwendolen Lancing had been compelled 
 to recognise it from the first and with it a certain hardness 
 and contempt for women; and her recognition of it had 
 killed something within her. "I've gone into it, and you 
 haven't, old girl," he went on, clumsily patting her hand. 
 "When you see what a jolly little way money goes " 
 
 "I have seen, Deryk," she interrupted obstinately. "I 
 couldn't help seeing, when father died.'' 
 
 "Well, I'm not going forward till I know the ground's 
 solid under me," he rejoined. 
 
 Idina sighed and turned the sigh into a not very con- 
 vincing laugh. 
 
 "I don't believe you really want me a bit," she said. 
 "You'd get on quite well without me." 
 
 Deryk continued his meal for some moments without 
 speaking. Than he remarked carelessly, 
 
 "I don't think that's you at your best, Dina." 
 
 "Well, you said, if I died or eloped, you'd go on just the 
 same." She had never forgotten the maladroit want of 
 affection in the phrase ; it had set her doubting whether he 
 loved her at all, and, now that she was unstrung and hungry 
 for a caress of voice or hand, the words came back to 
 sting her. "If you really cared for me, it would make a 
 difiference to whatever you did : it would make a difference, 
 if I died ;" she ignored his gesture ; "it W'ould make a differ- 
 ence if I didn't marry you." 
 
 She broke off with a pout and sat staring at her plate. 
 Deryk could feel his patience ebbing, as it had come to 
 ebb more quickly than ever in the last few months ; he felt, 
 too, that she was overwrought and in need of humouring, 
 
 "We're not going to quarrel over a phrase, are we?" 
 he asked gently. 
 
 "It depends on the phrase," she pouted. "You used 
 to say you loved me, but when I offer myself to you " 
 
 "It's a question of time," he interrupted. "We should 
 be mad to marry yet." 
 
 The luncheon was a mosaic of unhappy misunderstand- 
 ings, and both were secretly relieved when it was over.
 
 176 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk hurried back to work, promising to let her know 
 when they could meet again ; Idina walked about the Park 
 and went home to her lodgings. In the morning she called 
 again at the employment bureau and was asked to go at once 
 into the manager's private office. Full of hope, she pre- 
 sented herself before an alert young man with a highly 
 cultivated business manner. 
 
 "Miss Penrose?" he began. "Yes. P. PE. Here we 
 are. Position as companion. What happened with your 
 last employer, Miss Penrose ? We had a lady in here two 
 days ago; I thought you might suit, but, when she came 
 to take up your reference, we didn't get much satisfaction. 
 Let me see, who was your late employer?" 
 
 "Miss Dawson, The Grange, Aston Ripley," Idina an- 
 swered; and then, rather defiantly, "What does she say 
 about me?" 
 
 "Nothing. Declines — in terms — to say anything." 
 
 "But — she must!" Idina exclaimed. 
 
 "Purely optional," said the manager. "What was th^ 
 trouble?" 
 
 Idina disposed of the question as quickly as possible. 
 
 "We didn't get on together," she said. "But— I shan't 
 get a position anywhere, if I don't give a reference." The 
 young manager was delicately silent. "Shall I?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Our clients naturally expect one." 
 
 The truth sank slowly into Idina's brain. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that she can keep me out of work 
 all my life by just refusing to say anything about me?" 
 
 "I wouldn't go as far as that. References aren't wanted 
 everywhere." He looked with a practised eye at her fresh 
 young face and delicately outlined figure. "The stage, for 
 instance. Can you sing or dance?" 
 
 "I've never tried." 
 
 "H'm. Then in your own interests I wouldn't recom- 
 mend it. I really asked you to come in, because, if Miss 
 Dawson stands by what she says and if you can't give an- 
 other reference, I don't think we can help you here."
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 177 
 
 He tidied away his papers with a brisk, business-like air 
 of finaHty and looked up at her. Idina thanked him, 
 bowed and went out into the street. She had fully expected 
 to find Miss Dawson writing pages of suggestive innuendo ; 
 in her indignation she had half hoped to find the malicious 
 pen running away and using language for which it could 
 be held to account; never had she imagined that mere re- 
 fusal to speak could inexorably bar every avenue of em- 
 ployment. Jumping on to an omnibus, she went home and 
 wrote an urgent letter, begging Deryk to meet her at once. 
 He was not in the County Club, when she left it there, but 
 in the afternoon he telegraphed to say that he was en- 
 gaged all day. In turn she telegraphed, "Implore you can- 
 cel engagement urgently necessary see you immediately." 
 
 The second message reached Deryk as he was dressing 
 for dinner. In twenty minutes' time he was due to dine 
 with Mrs. Welman at Claridge's and be introduced later in 
 the evening to James Branksome, the theatrical producer 
 and lessee of four of the principal London theatres de- 
 voted to musical comedy. Already their meeting had been 
 three times postponed, twice by his own request and once 
 at the instance of Mrs. Welman ; at last all three were dis- 
 engaged, and Deryk was more than ever reluctant to take 
 risks with his luck. Branksome was to meet him that eve- 
 ning and hear his waltzes, when the party returned to sup- 
 per in his rooms after the first night of an operetta at the 
 Emperor's. Deryk balanced the long-standing pledge with 
 Idina's telegram ; her language was hysterical, but he knew 
 her to be overwrought, and it would not do to say, as he 
 was at first tempted to do, that she must pull herself to- 
 gether. Clearly he must go and steady her nerves. . . . 
 
 The only thing to do was to meet Branksome formally at 
 the theatre, cut out the supper and let the waltzes take their 
 chance at a later date. He would have cut out the theatre 
 too, but a notice was expected of him for the "Critic." 
 
 The page boy was still waiting. 
 
 "Afraid cannot be with you till late," he wrote, "calling 
 on chance otherwise will come to-morrow early."
 
 178 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Then he finished his dressing and hurried out to dinner. 
 
 Idina waited in her lodgings until half past seven and 
 then went out. She started with an idea of getting dinner 
 somewhere, but her appetite had left her, and she wandered 
 about in the open because she could not bear to be alone 
 any longer. As she turned into Edgware Road, her passage 
 was barred, and she found Sidney Dawson standing bare- 
 headed before her. There was nothing of the dandy about 
 his tired face and dusty boots; the serio-comic wooer was 
 sunk in purposeful energy and indignation. 
 
 "I've been looking for you all the afternoon, Miss Pen- 
 rose," he began with a frown that terrified her while she 
 felt that it was not intended for her. "We must get out 
 of this crowd ! Let's make for the Park, we can sit down 
 there, I'm sure." 
 
 He gave her his arm and led the way with rapid strides 
 towards the Marble Arch. As she hurried to keep pace 
 with him, Idina could hardly believe that the stern-faced 
 man who gnawed at his moustache in anger was the man 
 who had mincingly insisted on using her Christian name. 
 
 "It was the merest chance I saw you at all," he explained 
 volubly. "I might have spent the rest of my life looking 
 for you, if I hadn't caught sight of you in St. James' Square 
 this afternoon. I gave chase, of course, but you had the 
 start and got a 'bus. I followed in a taxi, but I lost you 
 just about here — one of these side streets, you know: I 
 didn't see you again, though I prowled round for miles, 
 till I spied you in the distance coming out of a telegraph 
 office. Then I lost you again, I prowled round again ; now 
 I've found you, thank God ! Let's get hold of two chairs ; 
 I want to talk to you." 
 
 Idina wondered, with a moment's dread, whether he was 
 going to say that he was grown desperate and would com- 
 mit suicide, unless she promised to marry him. Never be- 
 fore had she seen him so much stripped of his artificial 
 elegance and gaiety. 
 
 "Sit down here," he commanded, pointing to two chairs. 
 
 i
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE 179 
 
 "I'm not going to mince matters. What did my sister say 
 to you the other day?" 
 
 The girl flushed and bit her lip. 
 
 "I can't discuss that," she said. 
 
 Sidney nodded grimly. 
 
 "Thank you. That's all I wanted to know. She said it 
 to me, too — not that I mind ; I can take care of myself ; it's 
 different with you. She threatened — but I didn't believe, 
 I knew she couldn't . . . till I found she had. Frankly 
 I don't know what's to be done. ... If she were a man, 
 I'd horsewhip her. . . . Apparently she's been talking to 
 other people as well, I met Hatherly at the Club this morn- 
 ing. . . . That's how I heard about it." His explosive half- 
 sentences ceased for a moment, and he turned appeaHngly 
 to her. "What's to be done. Miss Penrose?" 
 
 Idina was long in answering. 
 
 "Nothing can be done," she said. "You can't overtake a 
 story like that." 
 
 "But I'm not going to let you " 
 
 "You can't help it," she answered in a dead voice. "It's 
 awfully good of you to take so much trouble. . . . I — I've 
 
 been expecting something of the kind. This morning " 
 
 She hesitated and then told him of the visit to the em- 
 ployment bureau. 
 
 Sidney snorted impatiently. 
 
 "That's a matter of pounds, shillings and pence," he said. 
 
 "It's your reputation " He paused and averted his face. 
 
 "I've always felt that you needed protection, and that's one 
 reason why I w^anted you to marry me. I know I've not 
 made much headway and, of course, I am several years 
 older than you are; but, if you think that my name . . ." 
 Idina shook her head. "I'm not asking you to be my wife, 
 Miss Penrose ; I'm asking you to accept anything that the 
 position of a married woman gives you. Of course, my 
 sister will make the obvious comment — she'll do that, what- 
 ever happens — but, if you want a home of your own, if 
 you'll accept what I can give you — I won't even live in 
 the same house "
 
 i8o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Idina laid her hand on his sleeve to stop him. The offer 
 was bravely phrased, but he struggled in labour to bring 
 out each word. 
 
 "It's much too good of you ; I really can't. Probably the 
 — the decent people know it's all a lie." 
 
 "But the people who don't know you ? That story's prob- 
 ably running like wildfire through the length and breadth 
 of Aston Ripley. I — I feel personally responsible." 
 
 Idina got up from her chair and held out her hand. She 
 was too tired and dazed to think clearly. Deryk must do 
 her thinking for her, and she must hurry on to the County 
 Club to see whether her telegram had reached him. The 
 effort of rising made her giddy, and she stood for a moment 
 to steady herself. Sidney rose, too, with an expression 
 of worry and bewilderment, as though he did not know 
 what next to do. 
 
 "We can't leave things as they are, you know," he urged. 
 "I want time to think it over — Have you had dinner?" 
 Idina shook her head. "Well, will you give me the pleas- 
 ure of your company at dinner somewhere — anywhere you 
 like. You're not looking well, you know." 
 
 She declined the invitation and started in the direction 
 of Park Lane, wondering how to get rid of her companion 
 before reaching St. James' Square. Yet companionship 
 was comforting even in a man who walked silently by her 
 side, digging savagely at the gravel with his stick. They 
 crossed Park Lane without speaking and turned into Brook 
 Street. A knot of idlers was collected outside Claridge's, 
 and they paused to let an immense green limousine turn 
 out of the courtyard. 
 
 "Russian Ambassador," murmured Sidney, after a glance 
 at the two men inside. "I used to know all these fellows 
 in the old days, when I lived in London more. I expect the 
 other's the Grand Duke Vladimir ; I saw he'd arrived in 
 London and I believe there's a gala night for him at Covent 
 Garden." 
 
 They started forward again, but had to jump back 
 quickly, as a second car came slowly out, bearing a woman
 
 A QUESTION OF PRIDE i8i 
 
 and a man. Sidney raised his hat, muttering, "I wish that 
 woman wouldn't bow to me." 
 
 "Who is she?" asked Idina, who had only caught sight 
 of a small face with eager, dark eyes peeping out over an 
 ermine collar. 
 
 "That's the famous Mrs. Welman," he answered a little 
 contemptuously. "I can't make out what people see in her." 
 
 Idina leaned forward for a second look, wondering where 
 she had heard the name. As she did so, the man inside 
 perfunctorily acknowledged Sidney's salute and lolled back 
 in his corner. In the failing light Idina could not be sure of 
 his identity, but Sidney solved any doubts by remarking 
 carelessly : 
 
 "Young Lancing with her again! He'll get into hot 
 water, if he's not careful." 
 
 A third car turned into the street, and they were at lib- 
 erty to walk on. As they entered Hanover Square, Sidney 
 again suggested that they should have some dinner to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I think I will, if I may," Idina answered and was sur- 
 prised to find that the words were in order and the sense 
 coherent. And yet — she had only found out why Deryk 
 would not come to see her! "Now that I come to think 
 of it, I've had nothing since breakfast," she added with a 
 laugh. 
 
 Sidney hailed a taxi and drove to the Alcazar, where he 
 ordered a private room. 
 
 "You're looking terribly tired and white," he said, sit- 
 ting timidly on the edge of the sofa where she was lying 
 half-length with one hand over her eyes. "Dinner will do 
 you all the good in the world; you're really not fit to look 
 after yourself. I mustn't enlarge on that, however, but I 
 want you always to remember that, however lonely and 
 miserable you feel, there's always one man who's only 
 waiting to be asked to help you. I — I — I want nothing in 
 return." 
 
 Idina allowed him to take her hand and stroke it. 
 
 "You're much too kind to me," she said drowsily.
 
 i82 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I'd do anything in the world to make you happy," he 
 answered simply. "But we won't discuss that any more. 
 Would you like to wash your hands before dinner?" 
 
 Idina made no movement. Two months' conflicting emo- 
 tions, the vague resentments, doubts and thoughts of the 
 last few weeks became concentrated and intensified, like 
 sun rays through a burning glass. Bitter disillusionment, 
 loneliness, response to the least congenial kindness, terror 
 of the future and vindictiveness towards the old woman 
 who had contributed so much towards her misery, passed 
 in hot successive waves through her mind. 
 
 "Why not discuss it ?" she asked, hardly knowing whether 
 she was speaking aloud. 
 
 Sidney leaned forward to take her in his arms. Then 
 he drew back with an effort. 
 
 "I will devote all I have to your protection and happi- 
 ness," he said stiffly. "And I will ask nothing in return." 
 
 Idina lay very still with her hand still pressed over her 
 throbbing eyes. 
 
 "If you still want me to be your wife, I will marry you," 
 she answered. 
 
 When dinner was over he drove her back to her lodg- 
 ings. She was too tired to speak, and for once he had 
 the intuitive wisdom to leave her to herself. During the 
 meal they exchanged half a dozen sentences on the food 
 and wine; at the door he promised to call for her next 
 day. Idina walked upstairs in a condition of mental and 
 bodily exhaustion that permitted of no thought. On her 
 dressing-table lay a telegram — "Afraid cannot be with you 
 till late calling on chance will come to-morrow early 
 Deryk." She crumpled it up and threw it into the grate; 
 then she told her landlady that she was going to bed and 
 wanted to be called early the following day. The bed- 
 clothes were hardly pulled over her before she was asleep, 
 and in the morning she awoke to find that the gas was still 
 burning.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 RECOIL 
 
 The end of life? Yes ... I can tell j'ou what that is. . . . Let 
 me suffer always ; not more than I am able to bear, for that makes 
 a man mad, as hunger drives the wolf to sally from the forest; but 
 still to suffer some, and never sink up to my eyes in comfort and 
 grow dead in virtues and respectability. 
 
 R. L. Stevenson : Letters. 
 
 Apart from the House of Commons, where he had sat 
 for twelve years as a Cross Bench member, Raymond 
 Stornaway's public life, as described by himself, consisted 
 in compelling comparative strangers to give him money 
 which they could ill spare and to lend their services to phil- 
 anthropic undertakings in which, being opulent and healthy 
 themselves, they could feel no shred of interest. His ma- 
 rauding charity was conducted in a genial, Robin Hood 
 spirit, and the victims whom he casualiy plundered strayed 
 thereafter with premeditation on to the road where they 
 knew that he was lying in wait for them. In return there 
 was no kind of burden which he would not shoulder for 
 a friend or a friend's friend. Young men in search of pre- 
 ferment would state their case to Yolande, and, if they 
 survived her shrewd and exhaustive screening, she would 
 undertake to bind a spell on her uncle ; thereupon Ray- 
 mond, in the accepted phrase, was required to "make a 
 magic"; and, before many days were passed, preferment, 
 packed up and neatly tied, was waiting. Forty per centum 
 of the candidates were unworthy of their positions, but, as 
 Raymond insisted, a far higher proportion of failures would 
 be secured by any competitive tests, and, as jobbery was 
 
 183
 
 i84 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 inherent in the race, let it at least be conducted by people 
 who knew something about it. If young married people 
 were drifting apart, Raymond was required to give them 
 commonsense and perspective ; and, when boys were found 
 spending too much money or contracting undesirable friend- 
 ships, Raymond again was summoned to speak sternly, "I 
 spend my life robbing people or telling them not to make 
 fools of themselves," he complained, running his fingers 
 distractedly through his hair. "I can't make out why there 
 isn't a popular rising against me." 
 
 At the beginning of the 1913 season he found himself 
 committed as usual, to the task of collecting young men 
 and women from his numberless acquaintances, giving sev- 
 eral large dinner parties and personally conducting twelve 
 or fifteen couples to the dances of anxious hostesses. It 
 was a reprisal, gladly endured, for his own offences in hold- 
 ing society to ransom, and, so long as Yolande made herself 
 responsible for the arrangements, he could return to bed 
 at what hour he pleased, leaving his entertainers to think 
 that he had gone back to the House of Commons and the 
 House of Commons that he was either sunk in dissipation 
 or working late in his big office by the Vale of Health. "In 
 this way everyone is pleased," he would remark contentedly. 
 
 For the first party of the season Deryk was invited, as 
 Yolande was sure that he was overworking himself and 
 stood in need of relaxation. Though he accepted the in- 
 vitation, there was no sign of him by half-past eight nor 
 any explanation of his absence until a belated note reached 
 her from Hatherly, saying that Sir Aylmer was again 
 seriously ill and begging her to communicate with Deryk, 
 if she knew his whereabouts. Under stress of circum- 
 stances she revealed his Bloomsbury address, and the din- 
 ner proceeded without him. As they were starting for the 
 Pebbleridges' ball at Bodmin Lodge, she was surprised to 
 receive a telephone message, apologising for his absence 
 and saying that he hoped to see her later in the evening. 
 
 "I didn't feel equal to dinner," he drawled nonchalantly, 
 when they met after supper in the garden of the Lodge.
 
 RECOIL 185 
 
 "I hope your uncle didn't think me rude. Not that I 
 greatly care, if he did," he added unnecessarily. 
 
 "Whatever he thought, I know what / feel," Yolande 
 answered with spirit. 
 
 "I suppose it would be really rude to say I didn't greatly 
 care about that either." 
 
 The girl looked at him in astonishment. He was stand- 
 ing with eyes half-closed and an unnaturally white face, 
 swaying slightly and sliding an unlit cigarette from one side 
 of his mouth to the other. For a moment she thought that 
 he had been drinking. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, Deryk ?" she asked. 
 
 "Just bored with life," he answered. "I say, you don't 
 feel equal to another supper, I suppose? I've had nothing 
 but three glasses of water the last two days." 
 
 Anxiously she took his arm and led him back into the 
 house. 
 
 "What's wrong?" she asked. "Is it your father again? 
 Oh, I forgot to give you a message from Mr. Hatherly." 
 
 Deryk's face twisted itself into an unamiable smile. 
 
 "I suppose it might be called my father again. I got 
 Hats' message, though. At least he ran me to earth in 
 Great Ormonde Street ; I suppose yoit gave me away. Yes, 
 that's why I'm here." 
 
 "Is Sir Aylmer all right again ?" she asked. 
 
 "Hats thinks he's dying," Deryk answered. "They 
 wanted me at Ripley, so I dressed and came here. Hats 
 always does think he's dying. What are you going to have 
 to eat ?" 
 
 Yolande sat for a moment without speaking, then pushed 
 back her chair. 
 
 "I'm going upstairs," she said. 
 
 The supper room was emptying quickly, as couple after 
 couple picked up gloves and lit cigarettes, and she made 
 her way, with tightly shut lips and bright eyes, to the back 
 of a little procession that was squeezing into the hall. 
 Deryk did not follow, but, as she turned in the doorway, 
 she saw him with his head buried in his hands, unconscious
 
 1 86 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 of the waiter's presence at his side. For a moment she hesi- 
 tated in uncertainty; then hurried back to the table and 
 made pretence of helping herself to food. 
 
 "Do tell me what the matter is !" she whispered, as the 
 waiter withdrew, "Aren't you well? You look simply 
 awful." 
 
 Deryk let fall his hands and revealed a haggard face with 
 burning, restless eyes, 
 
 "I'm all right," he told her, 
 
 Yolande shook her head and touched his hand with her 
 finger-tips, 
 
 "Don't talk till you've had something to eat," she ordered, 
 "You've been overworking, Deryk, and now you're paying 
 for it. What you've got to do is to have a complete rest — 
 it's no use frowning, you'll simply smash up, if you don't — 
 then, when you're all right again " 
 
 He rose to his feet with a sudden movement and stood 
 with twitching muscles, gripping his napkin in a hand that 
 trembled. 
 
 "I — I can't stand this, Yolande," he exclaimed, "For 
 pity's salce leave me out; talk about the Academy, any 
 dam' thing — my father, if you like. Er, I'm sorry I was 
 rude in the garden. I suppose I was trying to be funny." 
 
 With a sudden movement he collapsed on to his chair 
 and searched clumsily for a fish knife and fork. For many 
 moments Yolande was too much frightened to speak ; but to 
 sit silent under the sweep of his wild eyes lay beyond her 
 powers, and she asked vaguely whether any later news of 
 Sir Aylmer had been received. Deryk shook his head and 
 went on eating. Only when he had finished his meal and 
 drunk two glasses of champagne did he utter a word. 
 
 "If you're not booked up three-deep, can't we sit and 
 talk somewhere? I've got some news for you." 
 
 They found two chairs in the empty smoking-room, and 
 he pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and tossed it 
 unceremoniously into her lap. It was written in a hand 
 unknown to her from a private hotel in South Kensington 
 and bore a date of three days earlier, but no address.
 
 RECOIL 187 
 
 "I feel," she read, "that you and I have got into a false 
 position. Of course, as you said all along, there's been no 
 engagement between us, and we were both free to do what 
 we liked, but things weren't quite so easy as that. I believe 
 you once loved me; and I would have done anything for 
 you. Then you changed, and it would have been more 
 honourable to tell me so. Perhaps you never did love me: 
 perhaps you just thought you did. But I trusted you, even 
 when you went away and refused to see me; I went on 
 trusting you when you told me to my face that it wouldn't 
 make any difference to you if I died or married someone 
 else. I wonder what you thought of me ! V/hile I still 
 believed that you wanted me, I offered to marry you, what- 
 ever the consequences ; you may not know that, for a girl, 
 that takes some doing. I'm afraid I wasn't clever enough 
 to see that, while I was trying to force myself upon you, 
 you were trying to get rid of me. 
 
 "But, Deryk, I'd sooner have been told by you than left 
 to find it out. Why didn't you say frankly that you never 
 meant anything, that I w'asn't good enough, that you pre- 
 ferred someone else ? I shouldn't have reproached you ; 
 how could I, when we were never engaged? But it would 
 have been kinder than letting me think you still cared for 
 me. Why did you go on pretending to care for me? I 
 wasn't good enough for you, but no one else must speak 
 to me. You wouldn't see me when I was in trouble, but you 
 wouldn't let anyone else help me. I believed in you, Deryk, 
 to the very end : it wasn't clever of me, but I'm not clever 
 and, when you said that you loved me and me alone, I'm 
 afraid I believed it. I was too fond of you before to re- 
 proach you now, and you were alwjays free to do what you 
 liked. Now that it is all over, I have only to say good- 
 bye. By the time that you receive this, I shall have left 
 England with my husband. We shall probably live abroad, 
 but, whatever happens, you and I are not likely to meet. 
 I wish you all happiness in your life. 
 
 "Idina Dawson."
 
 1 88 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Before Yolande had read three lines of the letter, one 
 hand had stolen up to shield her face from Deryk's eyes ; 
 and, when she came to the end, she deliberately turned 
 back to gain time. A third and a fourth reading brought 
 her no nearer to understanding, and she finally folded up 
 the letter and handed it back in silence. 
 
 "I — I — Oh, what had you been doing, Deryk?" she cried. 
 
 "I asked her to wait till I could afford to marry her," 
 he answered in a toneless voice. Yolande stretched out 
 her hand for the letter, but he shook his head. "You know 
 all that's in it. She — I suppose she couldn't wait. I wired 
 one evening to say I was coming next day, but she was out 
 when I arrived. I went away and came back; I wired, I 
 wrote. Then the landlady told me two days afterwards 
 that a servant had called to take away her things. Then 
 I got the letter." He paused, and the tip of his tongue 
 came out to moisten his lips. "It — was the first I'd heard, 
 the first I'd dreamed. . . . The way she selected to break 
 it to me. Then I caught sight of them both coming out 
 of a shop in Regent Street and getting into his car. That 
 was two days ago. I — I — I've spent the rest of the time 
 walking about the streets — thinking." He broke off and 
 turned to Yolande in shrill excitement. "I'm mad! The 
 whole world's mad ! My God ! Yolande, what am I going 
 to do? What — what — what does it all mean?" 
 
 Down the stairs, as he paused, came the sound of a waltz, 
 and in the hall Summertown's rather nasal voice squeaked, 
 "I've got a goodish taxi here. Give you a lift home, Bettie, 
 if you're a good girl." "I'm goin' on to the Fentons at the 
 Hyde Park," answered a hard, unfeminine voice, "Casa- 
 no's playing there." 
 
 Yolande rose from her chair and shut the door. Then 
 she looked at the bowed head and twitching hands and 
 caught him gently by the shoulders. 
 
 "You must pull yourself together," she said. "I don't 
 understand, I can't say the ordinary things ; it's too bad 
 for that. You must face what's happened " 
 
 "What else d'you think I've been doing?"
 
 RECOIL 189 
 
 "You've got to go on in spite of it," she continued ex- 
 citedly. "She's gone, and you've got your whole life to 
 make, you've got to see that you don't let it be spoiled. 
 You've got " 
 
 "For God's sake, stop! Yolande," he cried. 
 
 She bit her lip at the rebuke. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Deryk." There was a moment's silence ; then 
 she caught his hand in hers, "Oh, my poor boy, if I knew 
 what to say, if only I could make it not hurt so much !" 
 
 At the sudden softening of her voice after its moment of 
 asperity, he flung away and stood at the fireplace with his 
 back to her, hiding his eyes with one hand. When he 
 turned, his cheeks were wet, and he looked pointedly away 
 from her. 
 
 "You'll break me up, if you talk like that," he muttered 
 huskily. "Tell me I'm a fool, say it was all my fault — I 
 can stand that ; but — I came here for sympathy and I can't 
 stand it when you offer it me." 
 
 He began walking round the room, examining the pic- 
 tures, while Yolande watched him in silent fascination. As 
 though dreaming, she heard him asking when Lord Pebble- 
 ridge had been in India and herself answering that she 
 believed he had once been A. D. C. to the Governor of 
 Bombay; then they stood side by side looking at a faded 
 group in front of Government House. He moved on to 
 the next picture, like a man making his way perfunctorily 
 through a gallery; again they discussed it with lack-lustre 
 pretence of interest. 
 
 "She couldn't wait — six months," he cried suddenly. 
 
 "There's more in it than that, Deryk." 
 
 "Oh, a bird in the hand!" 
 
 "If you really think that, you're well out of it. She's had 
 some big shock, some awful disappointment. ... I know; 
 I'm a woman." 
 
 She slipped her arm through his, but he disengaged him- 
 self and sprawled heavily on a couch in front of the fire- 
 place.
 
 I90 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Well, at least I can take a holiday now," he sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "I don't know. I've made quite a lot of money the last 
 month or two and, until that's gone, I needn't do any work ; 
 there'll be more coming, if I ever bother to finish the 
 Ilkley Papers. And then " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I can get what I like out of my father. Hats told me 
 so to-night. He'll climb down, he'll settle anything I like 
 on me, tear up the trust business — anything, if I'll only go 
 down to Ripley. Hats swears he will! If she'd waited 
 another week. . . ." 
 
 Yolande looked at her watch and picked up her gloves. 
 
 "I must be getting home to bed, Deryk," she said. "Are 
 you going down ? You ought to, you know." 
 
 His underlip shot out, and he shook his head sombrely. 
 
 "He can't make the best of both worlds. He's won over 
 Dina, and I wish him joy of it. As for his money, he can do 
 what he likes with it. I can always make enough to live, 
 and he can give it to a Home for Incurables or leave it 
 to me as he pleases ; only I won't have it, if he attaches any 
 conditions. He can have the fun of seeing everything he's 
 piled up so industriously simply going begging, and he won't 
 like that. He can see me going to the devil how I please, 
 without being able to raise a finger to stop me; and he 
 won't like that either. And I — I shall take a holiday and 
 forget." 
 
 It was three o'clock when they parted, and Deryk walked 
 home along Knightsbridge in the grey-blue light of dawn. 
 A note in Hatherly's writing lay on his table, and he tore 
 it unread into four pieces, resolving to change his rooms as 
 soon as possible, since Yolande had revealed their where- 
 abouts. Then, without undressing, he threw himself upon 
 his bed and switched off the light. 
 
 Hatherly at the same time was drawing near to Aston 
 Ripley by the last train. He walked from the station to 
 Ripley Court, let himself in by the side door and went to
 
 RECOIL 191 
 
 Sir Aylmer's bedroom. Phillimore was dozing in a chair 
 outside, Benson and the doctor were within. Sir Aylmer 
 raised heavy eyes, as the door opened, and asked whether 
 Deryk had been found. 
 
 "And he refused to come?" he went on, as Hatherly bent 
 over the bed. "You told him what I — said I might do 
 about the money?" 
 
 "It came too late. He'd heard about Dawson, of course, 
 and he was very savage. How are you, Aylmer ?" 
 
 Sir Aylmer was silent for many minutes ; his eyes had 
 narrowed and his lips closed tightly, when he heard that 
 Deryk was obdurate. 
 
 "Forsyte says I've turned the corner," was the reply at 
 last, "Who was right about that girl now, Ted ?" 
 
 "Don't let's discuss that now. You ought to be asleep, 
 and I shan't be sorry to be in bed." 
 
 Hatherly nodded good-night to the three men and tiptoed 
 to the door. Had he been in the mood to justify himself, 
 he could have asked who was right now about Deryk. In 
 his own mind he was satisfied that, whatever else Deryk 
 might do, he would never set foot in Ripley Court while 
 his father was alive. 
 
 "The world's a big place," he said to himself, as he 
 walked to his room. "But, with all their money, it's not 
 big enough for those two." 
 
 On the day following her tragic conversation with Deryk 
 at Bodmin Lodge, Yolande invited herself to dine alone 
 with her uncle. She was so sore and angry on Deryk's 
 account that she could only talk half-heartedly of measures 
 for restoring peace at Ripley Court, but she had a real 
 hunger to find some balm for the boy's wounded spirit. 
 Always honest with herself, however, she did not pretend 
 to know male youth in its tragic moments nor what could 
 be expected to alleviate its suffering. 
 
 "Time's the only cure, chick," Raymond told her, when 
 she had described their meeting overnight. "You saw him
 
 192 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 raw, of course, and these things hurt Hke sin, but he'll get 
 over it in time. Aylmer behaved like a fool, but masterful 
 old men always do, and now he's paying the price. You 
 mustn't force the pace. The only thing now is to keep 
 Deryk occupied. I wish for his sake that you'd marry 
 him." 
 
 "But I'm not going to marry anyone," she objected. 
 "Besides, it wouldn't be quite the moment to suggest it." 
 
 Raymond shook his head with wistful sagacity. 
 
 "There you're wrong, my dear. Half the unhappy mar- 
 riages of this world are made by men and women who miss 
 their aim and hit something that they don't want in recoil. 
 But you and he would suit each other very well ; however, 
 I'm not suggesting it seriously; I'm only warning you that, 
 if he's not kept busy, he'll get up to mischief. He was 
 lunching with Mrs. Welman to-day. Surely I told him not 
 to make a fool of himself with her? Yes, I know I did." 
 
 "I don't think that means anything," Yolande answered. 
 "Deryk's too fastidious; he prides himself on it." 
 
 "We all start by doing that." Raymond looked pensively 
 at the ash on his cigar. "It would be a good thing to get 
 Deryk packed off to Hellenopolis, where Felix could keep 
 an eye on him. If we're making a magic, that's the thing 
 to go for." 
 
 Yolande thought over the advice and spent several days 
 trying to get hold of Deryk, but his attendance at "Peace" 
 office was irregular and no one knew where he had gone 
 from his old address in Great Ormonde Street. George 
 Oakleigh promised to bring them together as soon as pos- 
 sible, but a week had gone by before they met at dinner in 
 Prince's Gardens. Pressed to explain his movements, 
 Deryk said that he had been taking the promised holiday; 
 pressed to describe the holiday, he reeled off a list of din- 
 ners and dances, ending with a week-end on Sir Adolf 
 Erckmann's house-boat at Wargrave. He was looking more 
 tired and ill than ever before, with nervously bright eyes 
 and an aggressive, rather reckless manner.
 
 RECOIL 193 
 
 "Do people of that kind amuse you?" Yolande asked a 
 little disdainfully. "They used not to." 
 
 "The Erckmann crowd? No. They keep me from think- 
 ing, though, and I suppose I really belong to them, being 
 cross-bred. Why don't you come and meet them? Sum- 
 mertown and Mrs. Welman are dining with me to-morrow 
 at Ranelagh ; come and make a fourth." 
 
 "I have no wish to meet Mrs. Welman, thank you, and, 
 if we're going on being friends, you'd better not ask me 
 again. I don't regard it as a compliment." 
 
 'Tf / know her, there's no reason why you shouldn't." 
 
 "Ah, Deryk ! in the old days, when I really liked you, you 
 wouldn't have known her." He made no attempt at de- 
 fence, and Yolande laid her hand on his. "Don't let's 
 quarrel, when I want to help you. I know^ you're all right, 
 but that set has got an awfully bad name. Lord Summer- 
 town's simply being dropped by people since he took up 
 with them. Not that he matters, but you do. You've got 
 a wonderful brain, Deryk; you've got talent, accomplish- 
 ments, health, friends — everything that will take you any- 
 where — I do want to see you do something with it all. 
 Why don't you ?" 
 
 Deryk was listening unsympathetically and with an air 
 of polite boredom, as though she were investing his life with 
 a seriousness which he had ceased to attach to it. The 
 clear grey eyes and auburn hair suggested a chastity of life 
 and spirit to which he had grown unaccustomed in the 
 "Say-all, do-all, enjoy-yourself-and-damn-the-consequences" 
 company of the last week. 
 
 "What can I do ?" he asked at length. 
 
 "What can't you do? There's nothing. Will you join 
 Dr. Manisty in Asia Minor? He's coming home soon for 
 the malaria season, but he'll be going out again in the 
 autumn. Will you go into public life? Uncle Raymond 
 could push you almost anywhere. You see, Der>'k, you've 
 had a big thing knocked out of your life and you've got to 
 put something in its place. It isn't an end in itself to write 
 just enough articles for the papers — they're not even very
 
 194 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 good articles — to keep a roof over your head and spend the 
 rest of your time racketing about with people who've got 
 nothing else in life to do. Apart from everything else, it 
 doesn't satisfy you and it's demoralising. Now I won't 
 preach any more, but, unless you take yourself at your 
 proper value, I've got no use for you." 
 
 She smiled and turned to old Bertrand Oakleigh, who was 
 on her other side. Deryk sat lost in reflection for some 
 time. During the early months of the year he had worked 
 so hard that he had lost the habit of regular sleep ; pursuing 
 a vicious circle, he had sat writing half-way through the 
 night because he knew that he could not sleep. Next day 
 he rose jaded and without appetite and was unequal to 
 work until he had counteracted the effect of the broken 
 night. . . . He shamefacedly shirked recalling how often 
 he had drunk a brandy and soda before going to his office. 
 (He could not remember quite when it had started.) It was 
 so quick and convenient, and afterwards he did not mind, if 
 he missed luncheon. By the evening he had gone flat again, 
 but a cocktail put him right for dinner, and dinner itself, 
 with some champagne, kept him vivacious throughout the 
 evening — too vivacious, perhaps, for he was always too 
 wide-awake to sleep when he returned home. And from 
 that it became a bore to go home, when he knew that he 
 could not sleep ; and there were always at least three 
 houses a night where he could amuse himself for an hour 
 or two. When at last he reached home between five and 
 six in the morning, sometimes he slept and sometimes he 
 lay awake with a waltz running unforgetably in his head. 
 Of course, it would have been absurd to slack off next day 
 just because he had stayed up late overnight; that would 
 have been to confess weak will and a dominating taste for 
 dissipation. Every morning he was called at the same 
 time ; every day he worked the same number of hours. 
 There were moments when his eyes smarted and ached for 
 want of sleep, moments, too, when he felt listless and un- 
 appetised, but a brandy and soda in the morning pulled 
 him round wonderfully. . . .
 
 RECOIL 195, 
 
 At another tirre he would have despised himself, but he 
 now felt that there was nothing to contemn. Was he ever 
 drunk? Did he ever fail to deliver his copy up to time? 
 For all Yolande's disdain, his intimacy with Mrs. Welman 
 had never taken an irrevocable step. Indeed, there was 
 something idyllic in their friendship which prevented it; 
 they brought out the good in each other; if she had ever 
 lived or spoken loosely, his presence seemed to restrain 
 her, and in her turn she gave him an understanding sym- 
 pathy which he had never found in any of the women whom 
 he had known intimately. . . . There was nothing much 
 to shew the world in all that he was doing, but, when he 
 did get to bed nowadays, he was at least too tired to picture 
 Sidney Dawson and his wife traversing Europe on their 
 honeymoon or to wonder what was happening at Aston 
 Ripley. An end must come at some time, but he could 
 not trouble himself to think what form it would take, and, 
 if Yolande pouted and looked at him with reproachful 
 eyes, he would simply avoid her until she had changed her 
 tune. He was certainly not to be hunted out to Asia Minor 
 to please her ; for one thing, there was too much unreality 
 in digging for the defaced capital of a pillar, and, for an- 
 other, he was not equal to the solitude of life with a man 
 whom he hardly knew and the thoughts that would come 
 to break his solitude. 
 
 It was a silent dinner, as far as Deryk was concerned, and 
 he had justified himself into a fine indignation by the time 
 that he went upstairs. Yolande just lacked the experience 
 and perception to leave him alone, and his indignation in- 
 creased with every mark of aflfection that she shewed him. 
 
 "He'll be home in quite a few months now," she said, 
 returning to her Manisty theme. "I shall depend on you 
 to come and meet him." 
 
 "Oh, I don't suppose there'll be any difficulty about that," 
 he answered without interest. "Well, Yolande, I must be 
 off. I promised to be in Charles Street by eleven.'* 
 
 "But why don't you go to bed? It would be so much 
 better for you. You're simply wearing out your nerves.
 
 fi96 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Or, if you don't want to go home yet, come to my flat and 
 play to me." 
 
 Deryk laughed and shook his head. 
 
 "I should compromise you with the whole of Stafford's 
 Inn," he said. 
 
 "My housekeeper's there, stupid." 
 
 He shook his head again. 
 
 "It's no go, I'm afraid. I promised to go and play to Mrs. 
 iWelman." 
 
 "I didn't ask where you were going." 
 
 "But / thought there was no reason for not telling you," 
 he answered tartly, a thirst for grievance. "I don't know 
 what you've heard about her, but I'll bet it's not true, and, 
 if it were, I can really take care of myself. Good-night." 
 
 Yolande retained his proffered hand in her own for a 
 moment, looking him steadily in the eyes and speaking 
 with slow gravity. 
 
 "I don't feel I know you nowadays, Deryk," she said. 
 "I used to be very fond of you, but I don't think I am now. 
 I — think you're deteriorating." 
 
 He laughed with mirthless hilarity. 
 
 "I'm sure of it. You see, when you've nothing in the 
 world to live for " 
 
 "You poor boy! When I talk to you, I always feel as 
 if I were your mother, Deryk. Why don't you let me help 
 you a bit? If you'd only listen to me a little bit, instead of 
 being so wilful !" She hesitated before taking what she 
 knew would be the gravest decision of her life. Deryk did 
 not love her, and she would have to work hard to make 
 him love her, though ultimately she would succeed. And 
 she did not love him at all, she did not love anyone ; Felix 
 Manisty through sheer helplessness and childish charm 
 came nearest to her heart. But she could spend herself to 
 make something of Deryk, something great. No one else 
 would, no one else could. She would not be happy, per- 
 haps she would be something more. . . . She could not 
 stand by and see him wasting himself! "Don't go to 
 Charles Street to-night !" she whispered, retaining his hand
 
 RECOIL 197 
 
 and looking into his hot, restless eyes. "Fll do anything in 
 the world you ask me, if you'll stay here." 
 
 Deryk laughed and withdrew his hand. 
 
 "Good-night, Yolande; I'm late already. See you again 
 soon." 
 
 Yolande sighed and crossed the room to the sofa where 
 Raymond was seated. 
 
 "Another of my failures, uncle dear," she began with an 
 assumption of light-hearted ruefulness. "I as good as told 
 him I'd marry him — it was what you wanted me to do, 
 remember — and all he would say was that he was going to 
 play the piano to Mrs. Welman. If I hadn't the sweetest 
 disposition on earth, I should drop him abruptly. I can't 
 do that, though, while he looks so rotten. If you were a 
 really helpful uncle " 
 
 Raymond caught her hand and patted it reflectively. 
 
 "This is the end of June," he calculated. "In a month's 
 time I go to Vienna to buy some doctors for one of my 
 hospitals, and I see no reason why he shouldn't come with 
 me. He can come as my secretary, and you as his com- 
 panion; and between us we'll tell him not to make a fool 
 of himself. When we get back, Felix will be getting ready 
 for Asia Minor again, and we shall have several strings to 
 our bow. We can send Deryk out with him, or perhaps we 
 shall have made peace with Ripley Court by then — there'll 
 be a hundred and one possibilities when I've given him a 
 talking-to. If I write to him to-night, will you promise to 
 come? I decline to regenerate him single-handed." 
 
 Yolande nodded. 
 
 "When is Dr. Manisty due back?" she asked. "Don't 
 Took like that, dear; he never writes to me." 
 
 "Just about the time we start," Raymond answered. "I 
 shall be sorry to miss him." 
 
 "But we shall see him before he goes out again." 
 
 "He will take good care of that," said Raymond with a 
 smile. 
 
 Yolande found herself blushing in spite of herself. 
 
 "Of course we shall. We're the only friends he's 'got.
 
 198 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 But that's all, uncle dear. I know you think he's in love 
 with me, you think everyone's in love with me, which is 
 quite the proper frame of mind for you, but they're not. 
 When Dr. Manisty gets out to Hellenopolis, he forgets my 
 very existence. It's rather humiliating, when you remem- 
 ber that I made him, but I told you I'd got a very sweet dis- 
 position. As long as people are happy, I don't care, bless 
 them !" 
 
 On leaving the Oakleighs' house, Deryk hailed a taxi and 
 drove to Charles Street. The drawing-room was in half 
 darkness, when he entered, and he found Mrs. Welman 
 curled up on a sofa and reading a book by the light of a 
 single lamp. She threw the book on to the floor and made 
 way for him at her side, giving him her hand to kiss, as 
 she listened to his apologies for being late. 
 
 "It doesn't matter. I've only just got rid of Adolf 
 Erckmann," she explained. "By the way, you'll only have 
 me to play to ; I was too tired to get anyone else to come." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I'm too tired to play," Deryk answered. 
 "My scheme is to sit here, while you talk to me. How are 
 you and what have you been doing, since last I saw you?" 
 
 A moment passed before she answered him. Then, with 
 affected carelessness, she said: 
 
 "Oh, nothing. The usual, usual round. Rather lonely 
 and miserable, but that's nothing new. Tell me why you're 
 tired, Deryk. Can't you sleep?" 
 
 He shook his head, and she laid one hand on his shoulder, 
 drawing him to her until his cheek lay against hers and he 
 could feel her long eyelashes flickering. 
 
 "We should look rather funny, if your husband came 
 in," Deryk suggested with an embarrassed laugh. 
 
 She released him suddenly. 
 
 "I'm sorry, if you think I'm not behaving properly," she 
 said loftily. "I was trying to be kind, because you weren't 
 looking well. . . . Are. you too tired to play?" 
 
 Deryk rose and fetched himself a cigarette from the 
 mantelpiece.
 
 RECOIL 199 
 
 "Now, don't put on that air, Lucile," he said with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "It would sound rather funny, if he heard you calling me 
 'Lucile'." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Welman. What would you 
 like me to play?" 
 
 She smiled and held out her hands to him. 
 
 "Don't be dignified, Deryk," she begged. "My husband 
 is in Wiesbaden, and you said you wanted me to talk to 
 you. Sit down as you were before, and let's console each 
 other. We're both tired and both lonely and both rather, 
 rather miserable, so let's kiss and be friends." 
 
 He went back to his old place and raised her fingers to 
 his lips in sign of amity. 
 
 "That's not what I call consoling" she pouted. 
 
 "It was respectful." 
 
 Again her arm stole out and drew him to her. 
 
 "I don't want respect, Deryk," she whispered. "I want 
 to be made a fuss of. Won't you kiss me properly?" He 
 made no sign. "Don't you want to? I've never asked 
 anyone before." 
 
 Deryk tried to disengage himself, but her other arm was 
 linked round his neck. 
 
 "I've never kissed anyone before — except once," he said ; 
 and then combatively, "I suppose you don't believe that." 
 
 "Yes, I do. That's why I always feel so safe with you. 
 You're so young and chivalrous. Oh ! if you knew how I 
 hated the set I live in ! They're bloated with money and too 
 much to eat and drink: Lord Pennington's hardly ever 
 sober, and Erckmann comes here, reeking of cigars and 
 talking broken English, and there's always a crowd of silly 
 little boys, half of them making love to me and the other 
 half trying to shock me. . . . Then I met you, and you 
 were so fresh and clean — you know you're very good-look- 
 ing, Deryk; you've got beautiful eyes, much deeper and 
 softer than mine, and your head looks as if it had been cut 
 out of marble — and you always treated me as though you'd 
 never heard a word spoken against me. But you must
 
 200 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 have. ... I'm not quite as bad as rm painted, but I'm 
 nothing Hke as good as you think me ; and I'm really, really 
 grateful for the way you always behave to me. My life's 
 not particularly happy, but you've been a great help to me." 
 
 She unclasped her hands and lay back in her comer, 
 shading her face from the reading lamp. Deryk's eyes were 
 moist and soft, as he leant towards her and raised her lips 
 to his. 
 
 "Poor little Lucile !" he whispered. 
 
 "No, don't kiss me, Deryk !" she said. "I know you think 
 it's wrong. And it is, if you think it is." 
 
 "Not with you." 
 
 "Yes, you do. You said you'd only kissed one woman in 
 your life — you'll be doing her a wrong." 
 
 His answer was to bend forward until their lips met. 
 Her faint resistance died away, and she allowed herself 
 to be drawn into his arms and held there, still and unyield- 
 ing. Gradually the pressure of his hands on her bare 
 shoulders relaxed, but, as his quickened breathing abated 
 its pace, she twined her arms round his neck, stroking his 
 lean cheeks and running her fingers through his hair. The 
 hunger of many months' loneliness clamoured to be satisfied, 
 and for the first time after the agony of the past weeks 
 he felt at peace. 
 
 The clock, striking midnight, roused them from their 
 trance, and Deryk jumped up, protesting that he must go. 
 As he took out his case and lit another cigarette, he kept 
 his eyes averted, but, when he turned again to the sofa, 
 Mrs. Welman was watching him with a smile. 
 
 "I must go," he repeated. 
 
 "Already?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so." 
 
 "You'll have a drink before you go?" She made a move- 
 ment towards the bell and then stopped. "My maids will 
 all be asleep by now, and they're at the very top of the 
 house. I'll go and fetch it myself. Deryk, you have made 
 my hair untidy. If you were really polite, you'd offer to 
 do it for me."
 
 RECOIL 201 
 
 "I've got to go home," he answered, looking again at the 
 clock. "When shall I see you again, Lucile?" 
 
 She hurried out of the room without answering and re- 
 turned a moment later with glasses and a decanter. 
 
 "I don't suppose you want to see me again, do you?" she 
 asked with a provocative humility that stirred him, while he 
 felt it to be unreal. "I've forfeited your good opinion — 
 Deryk, it isn't fair to try and kiss me when my hands are 
 full and I can't protect myself!" 
 
 He laughed in disregard of the protest and repeated his 
 question. 
 
 "If you really, really cared about seeing me, you wouldn't 
 be in such a hurry to go," she complained. 
 
 "My dear, look at the time !" 
 
 "But no one knows you're here." 
 
 He stood irresolute, gazing at the soft brown eyes and 
 pouting lips; thinking, too, of the assurance with which 
 he had defended their relationship to Yolande Stornaway. 
 In fleeting reaction he felt that his spirit had lost some of 
 its bloom since he had breathed the scent of Lucile's hair 
 and rained kisses down on her upturned face; so it would 
 seem to Yolande's austere chastity of spirit. Then with 
 quick defiance he told himself that he had done nothing that 
 mattered and that he did not care what Yolande thought. 
 
 "You needn't go just yet," Lucile pleaded. 
 
 "I thought you had to be so jolly circumspect on account 
 of your husband," he said with an uneasy laugh. 
 
 She pressed him back on to the sofa and handed him a 
 tumbler. 
 
 "Let's forget him for — five minutes," she suggested. 
 
 "We've forgotten him most of the evening. I've never 
 had the honour of meeting him, Lucile, but I think I should 
 feel rather a fool, if I ever did. It doesn't seem quite play- 
 ing the game." 
 
 She turned from him abruptly and stood resting her arm 
 on the mantelpiece and staring down into the grate. 
 
 "Don't let me keep you," she said in a low voice; and
 
 202 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 then with a sudden cry, "Oh, why didn't I let you go when 
 you wanted to ? Why must you hurt me, Deryk ?" 
 
 He jumped up uncomprehendingly and threw his arms 
 round her shoulders. 
 
 "Darling, what have I done?" 
 
 "What made you say that? We haven't done him any 
 harm." Deryk was silent. "You'd better go, if you think 
 we have." 
 
 "Lucile " 
 
 She shook his arm from her shoulders and threw herself 
 on to the sofa, covering her face with her hands. Deryk 
 faced her with bemusement in his eyes and then dropped 
 on to his knees and caught her gently by the wrists. 
 
 "I don't understand what it's all about," he said in per- 
 plexity. "Lucile, tell me what I've done." 
 
 Her face, as he pulled away her hands, was expression- 
 less, with lack-lustre eyes. For a moment she looked at 
 him; then disengaged one hand and began arranging her 
 hair where it had broken loose. 
 
 "I suppose you were right," she murmured after a long 
 silence. "It was my fault, I led you on — oh, yes, I did — , 
 but I forgot everything, everything for a moment. I was 
 quite, quite happy." She drew one hand wearily across 
 her eyes, as though she had been wakened from sleep. "I'm 
 all right now, Deryk. Good-bye." 
 
 She half rose, but he checked the movement and sat be- 
 side her again. 
 
 "You're in a great hurry to get rid of me, Lucile." 
 
 "You said you had to get home." 
 
 "I much prefer being here." 
 
 "It wouldn't be 'playing the game'," she answered with a 
 suggestion of taunt in her voice. 
 
 Deryk walked half-way to the door, conscious that his 
 next words would be big with fate. He could throw a 
 "good-night" over his shoulder and walk home, knowing 
 that in the morning he would be glad and secure in his 
 own self-respect. Or he could consent to stay — like any 
 other man. Yolandc would never know ; it was not a ques-
 
 RECOIL 203 
 
 tion of stealing Lucile from her husband, she had never 
 belonged to him; only his own standards were involved, 
 and he had abandoned many of them already without great- 
 ly noticing their subsequent loss. His brain worked quickly 
 during his leisurely progress half-way across the room. He 
 recognised that he was not in love with Lucile, that she 
 was but an incident, that there would be an end — probably 
 a troublesome and recriminatory end — to their intimacy; 
 there might also be discovery later on and a public scandal, 
 after which he would be expected to marry her. (He won- 
 dered if she knew that he had the money that he made — and 
 no more.) It was going to be a furtive, perhaps a disas- 
 trous, relationship, and he felt no overpowering desire to 
 begin it ; his sense of self-control was never stronger ; he 
 could walk home as easily as he had come. . . . 
 
 A slight sound behind him made him turn round, and he 
 saw Lucile with her head buried in her arms and her shoul- 
 ders heaving. Still conscious of his detachment, he came 
 back and seated himself on the edge of the sofa by her side. 
 
 "Lucile !" he whispered, bending down until his lips 
 touched her ear. 
 
 "Deryk, I didn't mean to make you angry!" she cried. 
 
 "I'm not angry, darling." 
 
 "Yes, you are, or you wouldn't have gone away like that. 
 Oh, Deryk, don't go away yet! I'm so miserable, miser- 
 able!" 
 
 For all his detachment, he could feel his heart beating 
 quicker, as he lifted her on to his knees and kissed her. 
 There was a last moment of struggle and hesitation before 
 he waved jaunty and contemptuous farewell to his old idols. 
 It was absurd to try to be different from other men. He 
 kissed her again and tried to pull her hand from her eyes, 
 but she protested in a whisper that they were red and that 
 she was not fit to be seen. When at length she looked at 
 him, there was no trace of tears, but he felt that it was a 
 transparent comedy and that he had duly played the part 
 allotted him 
 
 Next morning Deryk found an invitation from Raymond
 
 204 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to lunch with Yolande and himself and discuss a scheme 
 for some new work. 
 
 He telephoned in good humour and great self-confidence 
 that he would be delighted to come; and after luncheon 
 Raymond explained his proposal for a business visit to 
 Vienna. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you, Mr, Stornaway," said Deryk 
 during a pause in the conversation, "but I'm afraid I shan't 
 have time." 
 
 "It will be three weeks or a month at the outside," Ray- 
 mond answered. "Count it as a holiday, if you like. It 
 will do you all the good in the world to get away from Lon- 
 don; you're looking stale, you want a change of air." 
 
 Deryk nodded gravely. 
 
 "I know I do," he agreed. "As a matter of fact I'm going 
 out of town immediately. Young Fatty Webster has made 
 over to me his bungalow at Bray for the summer, and I 
 was thinking of living there and coming up to town each 
 
 day." 
 
 There was a pause; then Yolande said, 
 
 "Can't you take a few weeks' real holiday, Deryk? It 
 would do you much more good to knock off all work and 
 come with us. I'll promise not to preach to you, and you 
 would enjoy it." 
 
 "It's impossible, Yolande. The 'Ilkley Papers' are coming 
 out in the autumn, and I can't get away till I've corrected 
 the proofs." 
 
 "Can't you bring them with you?" 
 
 "I haven't had them from the publishers yet. I'm most 
 awfully sorry; it sounds a delightful trip." 
 
 Raymond saw that there was nothing to be won by press- 
 ing the point and closed the discussion with a word of con- 
 ventional regret ; Yolande's mind was already busily at work 
 to find some means of regaining control before Deryk finally 
 passed beyond her influence. Deryk himself ate an excel- 
 lent meal and talked with the greatest good-humour and 
 animation. The more he saw of life, the easier it became ; 
 he felt that he was playing the comedy with a fine, care-
 
 RECOIL 205 
 
 less grace, accepting and mastering each situation as he met 
 it. The double life was far simpler than when he first came 
 to live in London; he was far more skilled to throw his 
 friends off the scent. Thus, the story of Fatty Webster's 
 bungalow at Bray rang true from the start: he was in fact 
 going down there at the end of the week: but it was not 
 necessary to tell the Stornaways that Mrs. Welman had a 
 house at Maidenhead within agreeably short punting dis- 
 tance. She was going there that day and proposed to stay 
 there until her husband's return from Wiesbaden. They 
 had made all arrangements that morning, and, as soon as 
 Deryk had returned home and changed his clothes, he set 
 out in search of Webster and secured the loan of the bun- 
 galow, its servants and cellar from the good-natured owner, 
 who was flattered to be of service to a man who had only 
 noticed him at Eton in order to maltreat him. 
 
 At the end of luncheon Raymond tried to compress into 
 three minutes the subject matter of many sermons contem- 
 plated for delivery on the journey to Vienna. Prefacing 
 the attack with the statement that it was no business of his, 
 he said that he had spent a recent week-end at Aston Rip- 
 ley and heard with some surprise that Deryk had not been 
 there since the winter. 
 
 "Didn't Yolande tell you that I'd had a disagreement with 
 my father?" Deryk answered with a show of ingenuous 
 wonder. "He declined to meet me on a question of money, 
 and of course I couldn't submit to that, so I came away." 
 
 Raymond stirred his cofifee reflectively. 
 
 "I didn't know any details," he said. "We're rather 
 specialists in family quarrels, we Stornaways ; I had a row 
 with my father, and Yolande's had one with hers. I think 
 it's necessary, if we aren't going to sink down under a 
 paralysing load of ancestor-worship. Either that, or you 
 must pop everyone over forty into the lethal chamber. 
 According to my view, though, the thing should be carried 
 through without animosity. It's always supposed to be bad 
 form in England to shew your feelings, so, the moment I'd
 
 2o6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 carried my point with the old man, I went and shook hands. 
 Yolande did the same with my brother." 
 
 Deryk smiled a little bitterly. 
 
 "But then you'd won, and I haven't," he objected. 
 
 "You've got the money," Raymond pointed out. "Don't 
 think I'm unsympathetic, I cordially approve your running 
 away and making yourself independent, I wish more young 
 people would do it. But I repeat, you've got the money, 
 so why not go and shake hands?" 
 
 "Because that's the one pull I've got over him," Deryk 
 answered between his teeth. "Don't pretend Yolande's not 
 told you the whole story," he went on roughly. "You 
 wouldn't have gone back if your father had behaved like 
 that." 
 
 Raymond sucked at his cigar and assumed his most 
 judicial manner. 
 
 "It's so hard to say," he confessed. "I'm not vindictive. 
 I'd have taken devilish good care to see that the old man 
 didn't play the same trick twice, but, once I was up against 
 the accomplished fact, I should have said 'Kismet.' Or so 
 I think nozv; I honestly don't know what I should have 
 done at your age." 
 
 "Well, I know what I'm going to do," said Deryk. 
 
 Raymond nodded. 
 
 "It's a matter in which you're the only possible judge," 
 he said. "The one thing that you've got to keep in mind 
 is, of course, how you'll feel when it's too late. Your 
 father's a very sick man — I don't advance that as any ex- 
 cuse, I'm for popping sick men in the lethal chamber — and 
 it's just a question whether it won't pay you to make his 
 last days as comfortable as you can, consistently with your 
 own independence. Pay you in moral satisfaction, I mean ; 
 inward glow, all that sort of thing. You see, when a man 
 dies and you appreciate for the first time that it's too late to 
 pay him back that fiver or apologise for upsetting him, you 
 feel so helpless; naturally, too, — we've all been brought up 
 on that de mortuis nonsense — you only remember the best 
 about them, what a capital fellow he was when he took
 
 RECOIL 207 
 
 you out to dinner that time before going back to school. 
 And then you'll feel very sick to think that you weren't 
 friends when he died — At least that's been my experience ; 
 you may be different, but I feel I've let a number of fellows 
 go before I realised that it was too late. But these are 
 gloomy thoughts for a luncheon party, and by the same 
 token I must be getting back to work. I'm sorry you can't 
 come to Vienna with us, Deryk, but very glad to get this 
 glimpse of you to-day." 
 
 Deryk stood without answering for several minutes. Ray- 
 mond put on his hat and buttoned his gloves. 
 
 "I think my father ought to apologise to me," Deryk said 
 at length. 
 
 "Fathers never do, my boy. It's part of the general 
 make-up." 
 
 "He's never personally asked me to come back, he's never 
 alluded to — you know, the other thing." 
 
 "That's part of his particular make-up," said Raymond 
 easily. "But, look here, I really don't know what right I've 
 got to interfere; I might be a father myself. Good-bye, 
 Deryk." 
 
 He hurried away with his arm through Yolande's, leav- 
 ing Deryk to fumble uncertainly with his gloves. 
 
 "Might as well have been talking to the nearest pillar- 
 box, I suppose, chick?" he asked of his niece with a rueful 
 smile. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so, uncle darling. It's good seed." 
 
 "These boys think I'm so frightfully wise," murmured 
 Raymond wonderingly. "Can't make out why. I merely 
 tell 'em not to make fools of themselves. But it doesn't 
 matter anyway." 
 
 Raymond Stornaway and his niece went alone to Vienna 
 towards the end of July. As ever with Raymond, it was 
 a marauding enterprise, undertaken this time to rob the 
 Viennese of some of their best physicians and surgeons. 
 
 Adopting his favourite old attitude of the bland, sane
 
 208 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 man surrounded by imbeciles, he had demonstrated that the 
 world was sick and that no one would cure it, no one wanted 
 to cure it, no one knew how to cure it, no one would pay 
 to cure it. Yet all admitted that sick, unhappy men were 
 bad workers. He must cure it himself, starting with Eng- 
 land, and it must pay its way, like everything else. A city 
 of rivers and woods was to be built on the crest of a moun- 
 tain-chain and given over to healing these troublesome sick. 
 Such skill and attention as money could buy were to be 
 provided, and in return each patient on admission was to 
 surrender one tenth of his annual income. ("These damned 
 ruffians won't support my hospitals voluntarily, so I shall 
 have to make them.") The counting-house clerk, who re- 
 ceived four pounds a week, would present himself for ex- 
 amination and, after diagnosis, pay his twenty pounds. 
 Sir Aylmer Lancing, if the examining physician decided to 
 accept him, would pay a trifle over one hundred thousand 
 pounds ; thereafter both would be treated equally with equal 
 right to the services of the most expensive specialists in 
 any part of the world, who were to be chosen by an admin- 
 istrative board and paid a fixed salary. Raymond aimed 
 at paying them exactly double what they had received in 
 their most properous year, but in the incubation of his 
 scheme there was difficulty in arriving at accurate figures. 
 When the establishment charges had been met, the balance 
 of the year's takings was to be handed by the trustees to 
 the administrative board to apply to the erection of new 
 buildings and the development of research. On paper the 
 scheme had been worked out in detail, but Raymond had 
 yet to surround himself with a sufficient number of the 
 most skilled practitioners in medicine and surgery and to 
 wean them from private practice, often, moreover, to exile 
 them from their own country. And he had to find the initial 
 funds to build his city and guarantee the salaries of the 
 staff for a period of years. However small his beginnings, 
 the original outlay would be gigantic. 
 
 "But I've come to the conclusion that mine's the only 
 way," he told Yolande, with his customary assurance of
 
 RECOIL 209 
 
 manner and vigour of speech, as they settled into the Orient 
 Express at Ostend, "We've spoilt these scoundrels of doc- 
 tors by erecting them into a priesthood, so that they never 
 dare say they don't know anything; they'd never accept 
 the logical position of being paid an annual retaining fee 
 to keep people in health, the fee to be pro rata re-paid for 
 every day that the patient was ill; what are you to do? 
 All reforms come from the laity, of course; sanitation, 
 ventilation, manipulative surgery — and the doctors oppose 
 them at every step, like the infernal, fraudulent Trade 
 Union that they are. But in other respects the laity's 
 only fit for the lethal chamber; you pay some charlatan 
 two guineas to tell you you're over-smoking and then light 
 a cigar from the match-box on his confounded consulting- 
 room table. The only way is to pay the institute such a fee 
 — ten per cent of your income, my dear — that it can't aflford 
 not to cure you and to bleed the fool of a patient till he 
 feels that he must get something for his money. My City 
 of Health's going to be the beginning of a new world. My 
 dear, you don't know what you can do with healthy people ; 
 you can make 'em happy; you may even be able to make 
 'em good. I'm a fat old man and I can remember Lesseps' 
 trying to build the Canal at Panama. There was an amount 
 of corruption to make your hair stand on end, and he tried 
 to cut through at ocean level and a number of things of 
 that kind, but what killed the canal was fever. I've had it, 
 and it dam' nearly killed me. And I saw the fever being 
 cleaned away afterwards. And lately I've seen the new 
 canal beginning to build. There's a parable for you, chick." 
 On arriving at Vienna, Raymond called at the Embassy 
 and put Yolande in charge of the wife of one of the Sec- 
 retaries ; for a fortnight she wandered in the morning round 
 Europe's most beautiful city and drove in the afternoon 
 to the deep-wooded suburbs of Schonbrunn, returning at 
 night to dine and listen to music. He saw her only at oc- 
 casional meals, and the rest of his day was devoted to ex- 
 pounding the scheme of his institution. At the fortnight's 
 end he announced his intention of taking a week's holiday
 
 2IO MIDAS AND SON 
 
 before returning and of starting it that night with dinner 
 anywhere that Yolande chose. They dined, accordingly, at 
 Sacher's and looked in for an hour at the Apollo ; but the 
 house was stifling, and she had to beg to be taken into fresh 
 air. 
 
 "Personally I can sit for hours just watching people," he 
 said, as they threaded their way through the crowds on 
 the pavements of the Ring-Strasse. "And for sentimental 
 reasons I should like to sit in the Opern-Cafe just once 
 again before I die; it was a favourite haunt of mine when 
 I was at the Embassy, but you have to be very careful what 
 you say, because everything's overheard. I can tell you 
 a story about that." 
 
 He led the way across the street to the gaily Hghted front 
 of a cafe with three open bays divided by trellis-work parti- 
 tions. A waiter served them with coffee and the invariable 
 squat tumblers of cold water, and Raymond leaned back 
 with a cigar in his mouth, watching the idle stream that 
 flowed and eddied on the broad pavement before them. 
 The babel of tongues sounded like the drone of a half- 
 heard mass, German predominating with occasional inter- 
 ruptions in low musical Magyar, abrupt Italian cadences 
 or staccato outbursts of Czech. 
 
 "What was the story, uncle dear?" Yolande asked be- 
 tween sips of her coffee. 
 
 Raymond's chubby face broke into smiles, and his eyes 
 twinkled. 
 
 "Oh, it was my first and last public riot," he began. "I 
 was sitting here one night a year or two ago, when two 
 boys came in and ordered supper. One, I may tell you, was 
 our young friend Summertown, the other was a wild Irish- 
 man named O'Rane, who was supposed to be in charge of 
 him; I found afterwards that he was a friend of George 
 Oakleigh's. They fell into conversation with an Hungarian 
 and became rather animated. Not knowing the language, 
 I can't tell you what they said, but it was sufficiently trea- 
 sonable or offensive or something to bring an Austrian 
 officer from the far side of the partition, and after that
 
 RECOIL 211 
 
 it was a matter of moments before they came to blows. 
 Well, outwardly, at least, I'm a respectable, middle-aged 
 man, so I cleared out quicker than I've ever moved before, 
 but in thirty seconds every man's teeth were meeting in 
 his neighbour's throat. They brought in the police, there 
 were drawn swords whirling, and in the thick of it I could 
 see young O'Rane fighting like a she-devil with one arm 
 broken and useless and the blood streaming down one side 
 of his face. Then Summertown or somebody smashed the 
 lamp, and I went back to my hotel before the anti-English 
 feeling spread. I believe they were both packed out of the 
 country next day, but it's a marvel that there was anything 
 to pack. I tell you the story in case you feel disposed to 
 deliver a speech on the independence of Bohemia or any- 
 thing of that kind." 
 
 Yolande laughed and shook her head. 
 
 "Too tired and lazy, thanks," she said. Then she lowered 
 her voice. "But you might go round and repeat that story 
 the other side of the partition ; I'm afraid it couldn't have 
 been heard, and there's a man there growling and grousing 
 and finding fault in a way that makes me blush for my 
 country." 
 
 She stopped to listen again, but the storm was spent, and 
 only an occasional rumble of discontent made itself heard. 
 
 "Oh, it's gone down appallingly since the old days," nar- 
 rated the voice. "The first time I was here must have been 
 twenty, nearly five and twenty years ago. I came with old 
 George Parsons — he's dead now, poor fellow ; died of sun- 
 stroke in India — and we made up our minds to see life. 
 Well, in those days there was a celebrated French actress 
 called — it wasn't Celestine, but it might have been. Chris- 
 tine? No, it wasn't Christine. She died ten years ago on 
 the night of her benefit, when she was leaving the stage to 
 marry George Conolly. It's curious how he met her. As 
 you know, he's one of the Durham Conollys — the people 
 who own the mines " 
 
 Raymond rose silently and bent down to his niece. 
 
 "I should have recognised the manner," he whispered,
 
 212 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "even if I hadn't spotted the voice. I'm going to interrupt." 
 
 "But, uncle, you mustn't!" answered Yolande, who also 
 had recognised the voice. "They're on their honeymoon." 
 
 "A man has no business to murder a story even on a 
 honeymoon. Come on." 
 
 He finished his coffee and walked boldly round the parti- 
 tion to the table where Sidney Dawson and his wife were 
 seated. Both were in travelling clothes, Sidney's lacking 
 their usual spruceness, and Idina looked tired and white, 
 as she sat resting her cheek on her hand and nodding per- 
 functorily at each new movement in her husband's story. 
 At sight of Raymond both jumped to their feet with ex- 
 clamations of surprise. For a moment surprise mingled 
 with resentment on Sidney's face, as though he felt that a 
 honeymoon, however much prolonged, should be inviolable, 
 but Idina was already making room for the newcomers, 
 and he collected two more chairs and offered an adequate 
 welcome. 
 
 "You're quite the last people we expected to meet," said 
 Raymond, as he settled himself. 
 
 Idina's cheeks were pink with pleasure, and her eyes 
 shone. 
 
 "It is nice to meet friends !" she exclaimed. "What are 
 you doing here ? We only arrived to-day." 
 
 For a while there was a quick exchange of questions 
 and answers. The Dawsons had started out to Constanti- 
 nople and were making their way slowly home through 
 Greece and up the Danube from Pesth. They had not 
 decided on their next stopping-place, as Sidney could net 
 make up his mind whether to try a cure at Marienbad or 
 to return to his own doctor in London. Undoubtedly, as he 
 told Yolande, there was something wrong; he had lost his 
 appetite, though, to be sure, for years he had not eaten 
 enough to keep a sparrow alive; he could not sleep, even 
 the three or four hours to which he had gradually sunk; 
 sudden attacks of giddiness, too, were becoming more fre- 
 quent. , . . And his nerves were out of order. . . . Yo-
 
 RECOIL 213 
 
 lande listened patiently with one ear, trying with the other 
 to catch what Idina was saying to Raymond. 
 
 "But, in spite of it all, you must have had a wonderful 
 time," she broke in at length. "I envy you." 
 
 "Wonderful !" Idina echoed. 
 
 "Of course, I remember the places before they were 
 over-run by tourists," said Sidney grudgingly. "In the old 
 days — take this place, for instance; trams on the Ring- 
 Strasse " 
 
 "Lethal chamber," murmured Raymond. 
 
 "I beg your pardon ?" 
 
 "I said that the people who started them were only fit 
 for a lethal chamber," Raymond explained hurriedly. Then 
 he looked from bride to bridegroom. "Well, married life 
 seems to suit you, and I ask you to accept my best wishes 
 for all happiness. Now " 
 
 "But you're not going?" 
 
 All the animation died out of Idina's face, and she was 
 pouting with disappointment. For more than two months 
 she and Sidney had travelled alone and lived alone in big 
 hotels, where she was never allowed the opportunity of 
 seeking acquaintances in the public rooms. In part her 
 husband wished the honeymoon to be a royal progress with 
 such ease, comfort and luxury as money could buy ; in part 
 he wanted to keep to himself the prize which he had so 
 painfully won. On steamers and in other places, he had 
 noticed a tendency among their fellow travellers to engage 
 Idina in conversation and to look at her with a familiarity 
 which he had the best grounds for resenting. At Malta, 
 where he took her to lunch on board the "Alligator," he had 
 been compelled to speak rather sharply to one silly boy. . . . 
 
 Raymond spread out his hands with a gesture of urbanity. 
 
 "I don't want to go, I need hardly say," he told her. "But 
 I gathered from my niece, before we broke in on you, that 
 I was doing the wrong thing. So naturally " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and sat down again. Sidney 
 looked closely for a moment from Raymond to his wife and 
 then took out his watch.
 
 214 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I'm not sure that zue shan't have to be moving," he said. 
 "It's a bit chilly to be sitting about in the open. In the old 
 days I never felt the cold — wore the same thickness of un- 
 derclothes summer and winter, you know, always took my 
 cold tub in the morninjj " 
 
 Idina's sudden look of disappointment and loneliness had 
 not been lost on Raymond, and he turned to her with the air 
 of an inspiration. 
 
 "Why not go somewhere under cover?" he suggested. 
 "You're not too tired? Good. Dawson, what about the 
 Oiscau Blcuf Your wife will be able to hear some real 
 gipsy music there. Or perhaps you know a better place." 
 
 Sidney hesitated and lost his opportunity. 
 
 "All the best places are shut down," he complained. 
 "There used to be a cabaret off the Roten-Sturm called — 
 no, I can't remember the name for the moment, but I see 
 there's a horrible Automat restaurant there now. The 
 Oiscau Bleu is this side of the Ballplatz, isn't it? You 
 won't get a real Hungarian orchestra there ; they don't exist 
 nowadays, it's all faked for American visitors. But, if 
 anyone likes that kind of thing " 
 
 He sent Raymond ahead to lead the way, elaborately giv- 
 ing an arm to his own wife. Throughout the honeymoon 
 he had found Idina fascinating, fairy-like, a woman for 
 whom men would sacrifice empires, responsive to his moods, 
 appreciative and sympathetic. So she had continued until 
 that night, but the appearance of Raymond and Yolande 
 had stimulated her to a height of fascination which she had 
 never shewn him, of which he would not have believed her 
 capable. By comparison she might have been dull before — 
 might have found him dull. . . . 
 
 His mind went back to an interview with his sister the 
 da}^ before his marriage. He had gone down to Sussex, nom- 
 inally to collect clothes and to warn her that she must move 
 out of the Grange before his return, in reality to punish her 
 for her treatment of Idina. He had gone richly prepared 
 with speeches and had laid siege to the house with great 
 pomp. All that he now remembered, however, was that
 
 RECOIL 215; 
 
 his sister had marched out with full honours of war. There 
 was no fool like an old fool, she began with a cheerful 
 affectation of sorrow, but it would interest her to know why, 
 precisely, he thought Idina was marrying him. There 
 followed a damaging inventory of his physical character- 
 istics and personal habits, ending with a succession of 
 gloomy prognostications. How long could he keep level 
 with a girl less than half his age? How could an elderly 
 invalid curb her from running wild — especially with the 
 knowledge that he already had of her ? All right ! All right ! 
 She wasn't saying anything, she wasn't insinuating any- 
 thing. AH she meant was that the girl was pretty in her 
 way; young men would want to meet her at dances and 
 put their arms round her waist; that sort of thing ended 
 in but one way ; everyone knew what young men were. . . . 
 She pursued Sidney into his dressing-room and camped on 
 a chair by the door, with her hands primly clasped in her 
 lap and her pale eyes brightly malevolent. Her brother 
 flung coats and boats into a top-heavy pile and affected to 
 disregard her. 'T was in London last week," she went on, 
 when all else failed. 'T asked Madame Christine what she 
 thought of it, and Estelie — she was the medium, you know, 
 that day — Estelie said that your friend Captain Melville 
 was trying to reach you. When the message came — you 
 won't like it, but it's my duty to tell you — Captain Melville 
 said, Toor old Sid! He may be her first, but he won't 
 be her last by all the gods.' You remember his curious way 
 of saying 'by all the gods.' It gave me the queerest turn." 
 
 Once inside the cabaret and face to face with a white- 
 haired, middle-aged man of impeccable respectability, Sid- 
 ney felt that he had been unduly nervous. He felt also, 
 however, that Idina's youth and inexperience stood in need 
 of protection. . . . Again and again he wondered why she 
 had flagged in the last few weeks. . . . 
 
 As soon as their eyes were used to the blazing white and 
 gold after the half-darkness of the streets, Raymond made 
 his way to an empty table at the back of the room. On the 
 long sofas under the Degas prints on the walls lounged a
 
 2i6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 broken row of officers in uniform, women in bright colours, 
 and men in evening dress. A muffled metallic rattle, punc- 
 tuated by rings of a bell, came from the bar, where a jaded 
 American tender in shirt sleeves and white apron mechan- 
 ically shook cocktails and as mechanically recorded the 
 score. The Hungarian orchestra, swarthy, broad-nosed 
 and beady-eyed, was temporarily at rest, but one guest after 
 another made his way to the leader and stated his choice. 
 
 "How long is it since you left England?" Idina inquired 
 of Yolande. 'T wrote to you from Athens to say that we'd 
 met Professor Manisty and that he sent you all sorts of 
 messages. Did you get my letter?" 
 
 "I expect it's waiting for me at home," Yolande answered 
 carelessly. "You know he's starting back quite soon? He 
 has to be formally installed in the Lancing Chair of 
 Archseolog}%" 
 
 Idina was silent for many moments. 
 
 "You make me feel quite homesick," she said at length. 
 *'How are Sir Aylmer and everybody? It seems ages since 
 I was at Aston Ripley." 
 
 "I tliink they're all about the same," Yolande answered, 
 "but I've not been invited there since the quarrel ; hardly 
 anyone has, in fact. Every week or two Sir Aylmer gets 
 one of these awful attacks, and you think he must die, but 
 he seems to pull round by sheer force of will. It's really 
 terrible to think of him lying there, refusing to die, while 
 Deryk, who can be every bit as obstinate when he likes, re- 
 fuses to see him ; I believe Sir Aylmer would sacrifice ever}'- 
 thing he's got to bring Deryk back. And the awful thing, 
 though I've never breathed this to a soul, is that / per- 
 suaded him to run away and I can't persuade him to return." 
 
 She sighed and abandoned the discussion, leaning back 
 in her corner and watching the crowded, swiftly changing 
 room through half-closed eyes. A moment later she was 
 startled to find Idina's head confidentially close to her own 
 and to hear her voice, sunk to a whisper and discreetly 
 non-committal in tone or use of words. 
 
 "How is he ?" she began ; and, when Yolande hesitated.
 
 RECOIL 217 
 
 "I don't know how much you know, but I'm — However he 
 may have treated me, you know. We'd been brought up 
 together all our lives, nearly." 
 
 Yolande still hesitated. 
 
 "I hardly know what to say," she answered at length. 
 "You see, I do know most of the story, but not quite all. 
 You — you pretty well smashed up poor old D., you know. 
 After he got your letter " 
 
 Idina's lips parted in surprise. 
 
 "But it was he " 
 
 Unperceived by the men, Yolande contrived to find 
 Idina's hand and press it. 
 
 "My dear, we shan't do a bit of good by discussing it," 
 she whispered gently. "There was some misunderstanding 
 — no, please, I don't want to hear about it — and you broke 
 apart " 
 
 "He lied to me," Idina interrupted with sudden, unexpect- 
 ed anger that flushed her cheeks. 
 
 Yolande shook her head. 
 
 "He couldn't, if he tried. I know most of his bad qual- 
 ities. We really oughtn't to discuss it, but, in justice to him, 
 he gave you every ounce of love that he had got in him ; and 
 so — I'm not blaming you, I don't know the facts — it was 
 a frightful shock and it's bound to make some difference to 
 his life. You asked how he was, and, well, that's how he is." 
 
 Idina had a defence on her lips, but it was interrupted 
 by the arrival of the waiter with their supper. While the 
 others ate and talked, she played with her food an dthought 
 once more, in a fever of self-justification, of the stages 
 by which Deryk's affection had waned and died ; the 
 stages, too, by which she had discovered the waning. 
 
 "You think he was in earnest," she began again in a 
 whisper, as soon as her husband and Raymond were deep 
 in conversation. 
 
 Yolande turned to her compassionately. 
 
 "What good shall we do by talking about it?" she asked. 
 "I've said more than I meant to, as it is. Don't think I'm 
 blaming you !"
 
 2i8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "But you've accused me of not doing him justice," Idina 
 returned combatively. 
 
 "My dear, / advised him to break free from Sir Aylmer 
 the moment he fell in love with you. I saw him when he 
 was working himself to death in London ; I know that he 
 adored you and that no other woman ever entered his head. 
 And I saw him two days after he got your letter. But what 
 does it matter who was right or wrong ? The thing's passed 
 out of our control." 
 
 For the rest of the evening Idina hardly spoke, and 
 Yolande watched her with a pain at her heart, wondering 
 what she was thinking. Supper came to an end, their 
 neighbours gradually scattered, and still the reverie con- 
 tinued unbroken, so that, when Sidney wanted to go home, 
 he had to address her three times. 
 
 "I'm sorry! I was sleepy, I suppose," she exclaimed, 
 rallying with an effort that Yolande alone saw. "Yes, we 
 ought to be going home; it's really late. Miss Stornaway, 
 it's been delightful, meeting you Uke this ; I do hope you'll 
 let me come and see you, when we're back in London." 
 
 They exchanged their farewells, but, while Raymond and 
 Sidney disputed the privilege of paying the bill, Idina hung 
 behind with Yolande. 
 
 "You'll be seeing Deryk, when you bet back?" she began 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "I'm not going to give him any message," Yolande an- 
 swered. 
 
 "You can tell him that I — wronged him," Idina pleaded 
 with lowered eyes. 
 
 "But what good can it do ?" asked Yolande for the sixth 
 time. 
 
 The men were awaiting them, and Idina, smiling good- 
 bye, hastened forward. On reaching her hotel, she com- 
 plained of feeling tired and left Sidney to smoke his final 
 cheroot by himself. She had undressed and brushed her 
 hair and was already in bed, when he came up, and with 
 eyes nearly closed, feigning sleep, she watched the light 
 from his dressing-room shining through the open door and
 
 RECOIL 219 
 
 throwing gigantic shadows on to the walls. A grotesque 
 black figure, with preposterous gestures, folded smoke-laden 
 clothes and with vast, sweeping movements washed face 
 and combed hair. Growing fainter but more enormous, it 
 advanced into her room and borrowed a manicure-set from 
 her dressing-table. Substance and shadow were now both 
 within her vision, and, as he turned, the light blazed merci- 
 lessly on to his sloping shoulders and wrinkled neck. 
 
 "Asleep, Idina?" he asked, looking closely at her. 
 
 A drowsy murmur escaped her lips, and, uncertain 
 whether she was wide enough awake to attend to him, he 
 made shift with talking to himself. 
 
 "The beauty of these electric lights is that tliey're hung 
 so that you get no light anywhere that you want it. In the 
 old days of candles — " With an impatient exclamation he 
 threw down the manicure set with a clatter, turned off the 
 hght, kissed his wife on the forehead and clambered into 
 bed. 
 
 Yolande was hardly to see the Dawsons again until their 
 return to England two months later. From motives which 
 she did not trouble to analyse and in disobedience to her 
 own precepts she called at their hotel and was disappointed 
 to find that they were out. Idina wrote a letter of effusive 
 thanks for the call and suggested times and places for meet- 
 ing, but it was only on the day of their departure from 
 Vienna that they had a moment's conversation in the Gra- 
 ben. Sidney was buying cigars, and, when he had dropped 
 out of earshot for a moment, Idina turned to Yolande with 
 an air of embarrassed obstinacy. 
 
 "I want you to give him that message, you know. It 
 won't do any good exactly, but you told me that he was 
 taking it to heart. He can at least know that I'm sorry to 
 have misjudged him." 
 
 "I shan't even say I've seen you," Yolande answered with 
 no less obstinacy. "Of course, if he ever asks me whether 
 we've met, I shall tell him about it, but you and he are
 
 220 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 not likely to cross each other's paths, and it's better that you 
 shouldn't even think of each other. You closed the chapter 
 once, and there's nothing to be gained by reopening it." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the emergence of 
 Sidney from the shop. Yolande said good-bye and made 
 her way back to her hotel, where she found her uncle and 
 invited his opinion whether the Dawson marriage was likely 
 to be a success. 
 
 "I'm prejudiced," she admitted, "because I love her; 
 she's such a soft, affectionate, tender little thing, even if 
 there's not a great lot inside her head; he always gives 
 me cold shivers. She seemed so bored, as if she had lost 
 all interest in life." 
 
 "Look her up in London," Raymond counselled. "You're 
 the only friend of her own age that she's got. I really 
 didn't have much chance of observing her that night : Daw- 
 son was so full of his own complaints." 
 
 "I had my share of it," Yolande protested ruefully. "I 
 wonder what would happen, if he ever had anything really 
 wrong with him." 
 
 Raymond answered with an irrelevancy and took her 
 in to luncheon. Sidney's health was probably for once 
 not a matter for scepticism, and the diagnosis of a physician 
 in Buda Pesth had been disquieting; for the moment Sidney 
 held no opinion of his own, but he was going from Vienna 
 to Marienbad for a second opinion and, perhaps, a course. 
 The trouble might be functional or it might be organic; 
 either was serious, but with the one he could look forward 
 with prudence to years of life ; with the other — Sidney 
 shrugged his shoulders, as he recalled the hesitating Eng- 
 lish of the Hungarian doctor; after all, it was no good 
 taking a second opinion, if you were going to frighten 
 yourself to death with the first. But it could not be denied 
 that he, the thinnest of men normally, was growing so fat 
 that casual acquaintances commented on the change and, 
 ironically enough, told him that he was looking better. 
 
 Yolande found no need for thinking what to say or leave 
 unsaid at her next meeting with Deryk, as he made no ref-
 
 RECOIL 221 
 
 erence to Idina. They met by chance in the Park one after- 
 noon and sat down for a moment's conversation before 
 returning to work. Deryk was looking appreciably older 
 than at their last meeting; there were lines at the corners 
 of his eyes, and the eyes themselves, deep in their sockets, 
 burned with feverish restlessness, Yolande took him in 
 hand with her customary decision and told him that he 
 was killing himself. 
 
 "You will persist in thinking that I've got something to 
 live for," he answered with polite boredom. 
 
 "Are you trying to kill yourself?" 
 
 "My dear Yolande, I hardly ever try to do anything now- 
 adays; it's too much trouble, and one nearly always fails. 
 This week I tried to break myself of all my bad habits and 
 I can't make two efforts in one week." 
 
 "Not if you tried the first seriously," she answered. 
 
 Deryk, sitting with closed eyes, shrugged his shoulders 
 lazily. 
 
 "I forget whether I got rid of the habits or found I hadn't 
 got any," he answered. "The result, of course, is the same. 
 By the way, I've finished the proofs of my book, and it's 
 coming out in November." 
 
 "You're running away, Deryk. We were discussing your 
 evil mode of life generally." 
 
 "But I thought I'd disposed of that. Anyway it required 
 an exhibition of iron will to finish that book. God ! I was 
 bored before I'd done with it — and that's a good quality, 
 one of my best." 
 
 He smiled unsatisfactorily at his own thoughts. Half- 
 heartedly he had slipped into an alliance with Lucile Wel- 
 man, recognising that there was no love to gild an artificial 
 passion; he had been half-heartedly ashamed of himself 
 from the first, but too half-hearted to leave her. For several 
 weeks they had lived less than a mile apart on the river, 
 meeting every evening before dinner and dragging out 
 hours of commonplace tenderness which had all been used 
 before. Twice Deryk had lost patience with this woman 
 who was bound to him by nothing but ties of furtive pas-
 
 222 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 sion ; he had threatened to close the bungalow and go back to 
 town ; twice she had cried and told him that he was breaking 
 her heart ; and to stay there was to follow the line of least 
 resistance. . . . Yesterday, however, ordinary impatience 
 became merged in active distaste for the woman ; he was 
 tired of her and disgusted with himself. His self-respect 
 had been sacrificed on her altar, and, as he could not win 
 it back, she was welcome to it ; but he would sink no lower. 
 Their intimacy was at an end, and she might cry her eyes 
 out or, better still, look round for someone else. There 
 would be successors, as there had been predecessors. He 
 tormented himself by comparing his conduct of a year ago 
 with his conduct of to-day, when he and Lucile dodged be- 
 hind an island to escape being seen by Sir Adolf Erckmann, 
 as Lucile and Erckmann had no doubt dodged to avoid Lord 
 Pennington's electric launch in earlier days. He had got 
 himself into proud, clean company! 
 
 Jn sudden remorse he turned to his companion. 
 
 "I say, Yolande, I don't think we'd better meet, you know. 
 In the old days I was a cut above other people in some 
 things, but I've come down hill pretty rapidly." 
 
 The remorse made her almost sorry for the criticism 
 which had evoked it. 
 
 "Dear Deryk, you haven't fallen so very far, whatever I 
 may say to you. At least, not too far to climb up again. 
 If you'd take yourself in hand " 
 
 I 
 
 It 
 
 'Ah, Yolande! Why won't you do it for me? If I prom- 
 ised to do everything you told me, give up everything, be- 
 have as if you were my confessor " 
 
 "You'd be a poor sort of thing. You must work out your 
 own salvation, Deryk — to use one of your father's pet 
 phrases — but I'll help you in any way I can." 
 
 He sat lost in reflection for several moments. 
 
 "Deganway- asked me to share a house with him," he said 
 with apparent irrelevance. "I refused, because I'm too 
 selfish and too jumpy; I know he'd get on my nerves, with 
 his eyeglass and his affectations. I Used to live with him, 
 too, at one time. . . . Old Bertrand Oakleigh got the Presi-
 
 RECOIL 223 
 
 dent of the Board of Fine Arts to offer me a private secre- 
 taryship ; I turned that down, because I've lost the habit of 
 work. Such work as I do is poor stuff, and I don't care 
 enough to make it better. Why won't you marry me, Yo- 
 lande, and turn me to some account?" 
 
 She answered the question in the same dispassionate 
 tone that he had used. 
 
 "Because you don't love me. I can't marry you to — to 
 rescue you, though I once came very near it. I'm glad I 
 saw the folly of it in time. Dear old Deryk, you'd be a 
 pretty fine handful at any time, when you can't share a 
 house with this man, can't work with that man, too selfish or 
 lazy for the other — your own words, my dear ! — but, if 
 you didn't even love me — and you don't, do you?" 
 
 "I— beHeve I do." , 
 
 She laughed and laid her hand on his. 
 
 "That proves you don't ! I sometimes wonder whether 
 you know anything about love. You wanted to be very 
 kind and quixotic about Dina " 
 
 Deryk looked away quickly. 
 
 "Let's leave her out," he suggested. 
 
 "I'm sorry. Well, you're friends with me and you're 
 attracted by this woman or that, but I don't believe yoi: 
 know the real thing." 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 Yolande considered. 
 
 "I met a man once who really loved me, but the unfor- 
 tunate thing was that he never knew it." 
 
 "That surely didn't keep you from telling him," Deryk 
 laughed. 
 
 "No, I didn't. You see, I didn't want to disturb him^ 
 He was doing very good public w^ork, and a wife would 
 simply have got in his way. There's candour for you !" 
 
 Deryk looked at his watch and rose hastily to his feet. 
 
 "I must be getting back !" he exclaimed. "I still keep up 
 this pretence of work, you see. Good-bye, Yolande ; you're 
 sure you won't marry me?"
 
 224 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Not just now," she answered. "But I'll do anything 
 else to help you." 
 
 It was time for her, too, to be back at work, but the 
 Park was very seductive in the late summer afternoon light, 
 and she sat on thinking and occasionally smiling at her 
 thoughts. The chair by her side was occupied, vacated 
 and occupied again, but she hardly turned her head until a 
 voice said, 
 
 "The L-lion Gate was easy w-work beside this, Miss 
 Stornaway." 
 
 "It's the man himself !" she cried. "Goodness ! How 
 long have you been sitting there ? And the clothes ! And 
 that hat ! Do you have to do this now that you're a pro- 
 fessor? I was thinking of you when you spoke." 
 
 Felix Manisty bowed low and removed his hat with a 
 flourish. He was ornately dressed in morning coat and 
 black and white check trousers, patent leather boots and a 
 glossy silk hat; lavender gloves and a gold-topped cane lay 
 on his knees ; only his face and hands were out of keeping 
 with his general elaboration, and they were burned the 
 colour of terra cotta from exposure to the sun. 
 
 "I always thought one had to put on one's b-best clothes 
 for the Park," he explained simply. "Th-that was the 
 theory, when I was an undergraduate." 
 
 "Not in October, but that's beside the point, and I 
 oughtn't to make personal remarks. You're looking awfully 
 well, and I'm jolly glad to see you. When did you get 
 back?" 
 
 "M-Monday," he answered. "I was installed yesterday. 
 Did you get my letter?" 
 
 Yolande shook her head. 
 
 "I heard of you in Vienna from the Dawsons and I was 
 thinking of you this afternoon, but I've never had a line 
 since you went out. And / discovered you : don't you for- 
 get that. However, I'm not complaining; you were busy." 
 
 The silk hat was grown irksome to him, and he placed it 
 with obvious relief on his knees. 
 
 "Yes, I was hard at work," he admitted. "I've found
 
 RECOIL 225 
 
 the site of the 1-Hbrary, and we open it up in the winter, as 
 soon as the malaria is over. If I g-go, that is," 
 
 "///" she echoed. 
 
 Manisty drummed a reflective tattoo on the top of his hat. 
 
 "I'm not going out there alone again," he said firmly. 
 
 "Well, take Deryk Lancing. I wanted to talk to you 
 about him." 
 
 "L-later," Manisty begged. "I'm — not — g-going out there 
 alone." 
 
 Yolande looked at him with surprised amusement. 
 
 "But you've done it a dozen — twenty times before !" she 
 cried. 
 
 "I didn't know you then," Manisty explained. 
 
 "It must be the clothes," said Yolande lightly, though she 
 felt herself absurdly bathed in sudden warmth. "You never 
 used to talk like this in the dear shabby days. Dr. — I heg 
 your pardon ! — Professor Manisty, I wonder if you have 
 any conception what you looked like that day on the Terrace 
 when you undressed in full sight of St. Thomas' Hospital." 
 
 Manisty sighed and shook his head. 
 
 "We s-seem to be getting away from the p-point," he 
 urged. "Will you come out to Hellenopolis th-this autumn ?" 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My dear Professor, I can't." 
 
 "B-but you don't understand ; I want you to marry me. 
 I w-wish you'd had that letter of mine ; I put it quite plainly 
 there, but I suppose I must have forgotten to p-post it. 
 You know the w-worst, of course ; I'm over forty and b-bald 
 and I c-can't tie a tie and I've no small talk, but I'm quite a 
 good sort, you know ; I should be awfully k-kind to you." 
 
 Yolande's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked 
 away. 
 
 "You're a dear," she whispered, "but I'm not going to 
 marry you. I'm never going to marry anyone. We'll go 
 on being great friends " 
 
 "But that's no g-good!" he interrupted. "If you stay
 
 226 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 here, I obviously can't go back alone to that ghasdy 
 p-place." 
 "Why not? 
 
 " 'That's the appropriate country ; there, man's thought. 
 
 Rarer, intenser, 
 Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought. 
 
 Chafes in the censer. 
 Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; 
 
 Seek we sepulture 
 On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 
 
 Crowded with culture ! . . .' " 
 
 "G-go on," said Manisty, bowing his appreciation of 
 grand lines rarely delivered. 
 
 " 'He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 
 
 Over men's pity; 
 Left play for work and grappled with the world 
 
 Bent on escaping ; 
 "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? 
 
 Show me their shaping, 
 Those who most studied man, the bard and sage — 
 
 Give !" So they gowned him.' " 
 
 Quickly, unstammeringly and with unaffected wistfulness 
 Manisty capped the quotation : 
 
 " 'Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, 
 
 Accents uncertain ; 
 "Time to taste life," another would have said. 
 
 Up with the curtain !' 
 
 "Why did you quote those 1-lines, Miss Stornaway?" 
 
 Yolande turned on him with a defiant out-thrust of a 
 determined chin. 
 
 "Because you're a man, and Fate made me a girl, and I 
 despise a man who loses faith in his work or him- 
 self." 
 
 "I've not l-lost faith," Manisty remonstrated. "But my 
 w-work's not enough in itself. L-look here, I'm as sane 
 as I ever was, even though sane men don't dig up buried 
 c-cities ; I w-want you to marry me, because I'm in love 
 with you. I'm over forty and I'm not g-going to waste 
 any more of my 1-life. I'm not g-going " He broke
 
 RECOIL 227 
 
 off desperately. "It's no g-good, I knew I c-couldn't say 
 it. L-let me see if I can't find that l-letter !" 
 
 Throughout their conversation Yolande had walked on 
 a knife-edge between laughter and tears. She leaned across 
 and laid her hand on his sleeve. 
 
 "I don't want the letter. And you mustn't talk about 
 this again." 
 
 "I can't g-go out there without you," he repeated ob- 
 stinately. "I — the whole trouble started when we met; 
 I g-got used to having someone to tell my secrets to, but 
 it was only when I went b-back — My God ! I did miss you. 
 Child, why won't you marry me?" 
 
 Yolande smiled at him compassionately. 
 
 "Suppose I said I didn't love you?" she suggested. 
 
 Manisty traced a pattern in the gravel with the end of 
 his cane. Then he replaced his hat on his head and stood 
 up. 
 
 "Yes. I hadn't thought of that," he said gravely. 
 
 "But have I ever said or done anything ?" she began 
 
 in agony. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "No. I'd quite forgotten about that s-side ; I was think- 
 ing only of myself. I must s-seem very vain." 
 
 He held out his hand, looking at her in perplexity, as 
 though uncertain whether her refusal meant that they 
 were never to meet again, anxious, too, to grave the mem- 
 ory' of her auburn hair and grey eyes upon his mind. 
 
 "What are you going to do now?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know. I want to think. You don't suppose 
 you're likely to g-get to love me?" he enquired diffidently. 
 
 Yolande had to lower her eyes before his. 
 
 "It isn't that !" she said. "I should be in your way, you'd 
 get slack " 
 
 The outstretched hand closed on her wrist. 
 
 "Are you re-reconsidering?" he demanded excitedly. "I 
 don't know, you see ; I've never asked anyone to marry me 
 before "
 
 228 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "My dear! you needn't tell me that!" Yolande inter- 
 rupted with a little sob. 
 
 "There's no more work to be done to-day," Yolande told 
 herself when the time came for her to say good-bye to 
 Felix Manisty. She was a little sorry to find her brain 
 and nerves in any way excited or rebellious, as she had 
 decided from the first that, unlike other people, she would 
 behave rationally throughout her engagement. In a spirit 
 of pure reason and with becoming calm of manner, she 
 called upon her uncle in his big, wind-swept office in 
 Hampstead and mentioned casually that she had a piece of 
 news to give him. Raymond looked at her, kissed her and 
 then held her pressed close to him while for some unac- 
 countable reason she cried as if her heart were breaking. 
 
 "I can't help it, uncle dear," she whispered convulsively. 
 "I feel so happy; and I seem to have gone all limp." 
 
 "Don't try, my dear," he advised her. "But I think 
 you're all right again now, and I'm going to make a magic 
 with some cold water and a little eau-de-cologne for bath- 
 ing your eyes. Your miserable sex always faints or has 
 a headache, so I keep a permanent supply of brandy and 
 scent in the office. When that's done, you can tell me 
 what your news is : you haven't so far, you know." 
 
 "I think you can guess," she answered with a smile. 
 "And, oh, you must go down and explain to father that 
 Felix is all right; he'll never believe it from me, I'm al- 
 ways so unpopular at home. Rub in the professorship, but 
 don't talk about archaeology or digging or Asia. Dear 
 father's so practical at times ; he might want to know what 
 good it all was. Nov; I won't waste any more of your 
 time." 
 
 She tried to get away, but the uncle persisted in standing, 
 with her hands in his, looking at her pensively and a little 
 mournfully. 
 
 "I believe you really are going to be happy," he said at 
 length. 
 
 II
 
 RECOIL 229 
 
 "I should hope I am," she answered. 
 
 "Don't take it as a matter of course. It's not so com- 
 mon as you think at this moment. Some don't marry at all^ 
 many marry the wrong people. I think you're all right. 
 Good-bye, my blessed chick." 
 
 Raymond watched her walking away and ran his fingers 
 impatiently through his hair. He could not understand why 
 he was appreciating only for the first time that henceforth 
 he would stand second in his niece's affections. 
 
 On leaving Hampstead, Yolande made her way to Eaton 
 Square and paid her long-promised call on the Dawsons. 
 The hint of melancholy in Raymond's voice, her own sense 
 of welling tenderness towards mankind, the caprice of an 
 unexpectedly idle afternoon contributed to her decision. 
 Imagining — for some insufficient reason — that she would 
 find Idina alone, she arrived in the workaday clothes which 
 she had put on that morning; she was conventional enough 
 to feel a little dismayed when she discovered the drawing- 
 room full of visitors. Idina was so obviously pleased to 
 see her, however, that she forgot her momentary embar- 
 rassment and settled down ungrudgingly to the wholly un- 
 congenial task of rescuing an "at home" from failure. Idina, 
 it was clear, had never before handled a similar gathering 
 and stood bewilderedly penned in a comer, while an el- 
 derly aunt of her husband emitted family history. The 
 other guests remained aloof and unwelded, and Sidney's 
 utility was exhausted when he had strutted up with an air 
 of proprietorship, introducing one guest after another to 
 his wife, and had subsequently repeated to every man in the 
 room, 
 
 "Give you a whisky and soda downstairs, if you don't 
 care about tea. Can't stand it myself, but then I've no 
 inside. I say, old man, it's awfully good of you to come 
 to a gloomy gathering like this ; one's womenkind seem to 
 like it, and there's an end to the matter. It's a long time 
 since I saw anything of you : we really lost touch when 
 you married and left London." 
 
 After her second hearing of this speech Yolande found
 
 230 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 her bearings in the stiff, formal gathering that harmonised 
 so exquisitely with the massive mid-Victorian furniture 
 and decoration of the room. Sidney had exhumed the 
 sobered friends of his reckless youth, and they were come 
 with their wives to witness unregenerate Sidney's belated 
 conversion, to see, too, how he had fared in the great 
 gamble. The wives were middle-aged, heavy and settled ; 
 one or two allowed a hint of disapproval and jealousy to 
 be seen ; the rest, when she had escaped from the elderly 
 aunt, advised Idina gravely on life in general and in par- 
 ticular the care of a household, talking through her and 
 over her head, calling for confirmation, confiding experi- 
 ences and comparing notes. Sittmg or standing surrounded 
 by them, slender, fair haired and warmly flushed, Idina 
 with her startled eyes looked like a strayed wood-nymph 
 made prisoner by a gathering of philosophers who were 
 not prepared to believe in wood-nymphs. 
 
 Yolande ruthlessly broke her way into the ring and scat- 
 tered the party into a dozen groups of two or three. Glid- 
 ing from one to another she galvanised them into a dozen 
 different affectations of interest, breaking up and re-sort- 
 ing the groups, like a ballet master, until she had arrived 
 at temperamental harmony. 
 
 "My dear, I had three years of it with Mother's parties 
 before I ran away," she explained to Idina, when they 
 were alone for a moment. "You'll find it quite easy, if 
 you're sufficiently brutal ; dragoon your people, and you 
 can make them think they've enjoyed them'^elves, but don't 
 go in simply for being charming, or your party gets out of 
 control. For one thing, you can't get rid of it." 
 
 Idina smiled with tired gratitude. 
 
 "Thank you for coming, Miss Stornaway," she said. "I 
 wasn't enjoying it very much before." 
 
 "Why don't you call me 'Yolande'? Everybody does, 
 you know. I want to be friends and I shall be coming to 
 you for all sorts of advice soon. You may not believe it, 
 but I'm going to be married."
 
 RECOIL 231 
 
 "Oh, who to?" Idina cried excitedly; and then with a 
 change of tone, "Not Deryk?" 
 
 Yolande shook her head unsmiHngly. 
 
 "Not Deryk," she said. "Dr. Manisty, the excavator. 
 I don't know whether you met him at Ripley Court in the 
 winter. You mustn't tell anyone yet, because it's only just 
 been arranged and I haven't told even my father yet. Wish 
 me luck, Dina." 
 
 "I wish you all possible happiness," said Idina almost 
 inaudibly. "Do you think you can bring him to dine here? 
 I should like to meet him." 
 
 "I'll make him!" Yolande laughed. "And that reminds 
 me 
 
 "Is he very much in love with you?" Idina interrupted, 
 pursuing her own line of thought. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 Idina was silent for a while. 
 
 "And are you as much in love with him?" she asked at 
 length. 
 
 "Of course I am ! I shouldn't be marrying him other- 
 wise. But I don't want to talk about myself any more, be- 
 cause I've got to go. Will you choose some day to come 
 and dine with Uncle Raymond? He wants you both to 
 come, but I always look after his invitations, so I'm asking 
 you. And then will you both come and eat the most prim- 
 itive meal imaginable in my flat? And, one thing more, 
 are you going to dances at all? I want you to come with 
 my party to the Albert Hall in the first week of November ; 
 it's fancy dress, and uncle Raymond's getting it up for 
 one of his million charities. It ought to be rather fun." 
 
 Slowly Idina's head turned towards her husband. 
 
 "It really depends on Sidney," she said uncertainly. "He's 
 not been at all well lately." 
 
 Yolande knew enough of Sidney's h3^ochondria to be 
 sceptical. 
 
 "He's looking very well," she objected. "And he's sure- 
 ly much stouter than he used to be ; he does you credit." 
 
 Idina did not wince, but her eyelids flickered.
 
 232 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "The doctors are rather worried about him," was all 
 that she would say. "But I should love to come, if he'll let 
 me. Ma)' I tell you in a day or two?" 
 
 Yolande nodded and kissed her good-bye. As she went 
 away, a feeling of exhaustion and depression bore her 
 down, as though she had spent the afternoon manufactur- 
 ing bright conversation for an invalid. Idina herself, with 
 her deathly listlessness, was sufficiently pitiful, but the 
 setting of middle-aged friends, the lifeless conversation, 
 the pantaloon quips of Sidney heightened the gloom and 
 offended against her first romantic canons. A young bride 
 should come home — with a young husband — to a new house 
 still pleasantly redolent of paint and decorated with the 
 curtains and cushions that the two of them had spent de- 
 lightful weeks in choosing; and there should be impossible 
 wedding-presents everywhere, and the friends of both 
 should be making them dine out every evening. "I worked 
 off three invitations," she interjected to herself, "and I'm 
 fairly sure that they're the only three the wretched child's 
 had." And they ought to have been too poor to furnish the 
 whole house at once, and there should have been hours of 
 happy contrivance, and the first year should have been a 
 glorious and rather uncomfortable adventure, so that they 
 could look back their lives through and reconstruct all with 
 a "Do you remember — ?" to start them — exactly as she and 
 darling Felix were going to do. . . . For completeness and 
 unswer\ang finality a Victorian undertaker might have pre- 
 pared the house in Eaton Square. 
 
 Yolande sighed, looked at her watch and walked towards 
 Deryk's new rooms in Bury Street. When he gave up saving 
 money, he had moved into a comfortable bachelor suite 
 within a stone's throw of his club, with a piano, a telephone 
 and a shamefacedly discreet landlord, who valeted him. 
 She screwed up her courage on the way there to the dis- 
 agreeable task of bearing him the tidings of her engage- 
 ment ; believing that she knew all that was to be known of 
 Deryk; she was satisfied that he did not really want to
 
 RECOIL 233 
 
 marry her, but that he would be, temporarily at least, infu- 
 riated by the idea of her marrying anyone else. 
 
 He was sitting at the piano with his head thrown back 
 and his eyes half closed, when she came in. The rustle of 
 her dress, more than her warning tap on the door, made 
 him turn, and he welcomed her with a surprised smile. 
 
 "I never expected to see youl' he said. "What do you 
 think of the rooms? This is your first visit, of course." 
 
 The room in question was small and rather overcrowded 
 with a sofa, table, two large armchairs and a small-sized 
 grand piano ; it was comfortable, at the same time, and, as 
 Deryk explained proudly, a man could reach almost any- 
 thing without getting up. A second sitting-room opened 
 out of the first, and on the far side was Deryk's bedroom. 
 
 "I like them," she said. "And it must be so useful to 
 have two doors to every room and all the rooms opening 
 out of each other. There's really no excuse for being 
 caught by people you don't want to see — unless, of course, 
 you give yourself away by playing the piano. The furni- 
 ture I hate quite a lot ; I suppose that's your landlord's." 
 
 "Yes, I couldn't afford to refurnish. At least, I could, 
 but it would have meant too much extra work." 
 
 Yolande nodded and continued her inspection of the 
 room, glancing with disfavour at the conventional pictures 
 of girls in deshabille smoking cigarettes or dozing in front 
 of unnaturally red fires. At another time Deryk would not 
 have consented to live a single day with such tawdry sug- 
 gestiveness smirking at him from the walls, but he had evi- 
 dently decided that it was too much trouble to change the 
 furniture or vary the decoration. In no other way than by 
 the betrayal of a new-born lethargy and indifference had he 
 succeeding in impressing his personality upon his sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 "Seeing how little work you're doing now, I wish you'd 
 try to turn out better stuff," she said, coming to a stand- 
 still in front of the bookcase and running her eye over the 
 titles. "I shouldn't think you're exactly proud of some of 
 your recent articles."
 
 234 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk assumed a disdainful defensive. 
 
 "I get paid the same whether they're good or bad, so 
 why waste decent work?" 
 
 "But, if you write too much bad stuff, you'll destroy your 
 own market, my friend. I suppose you can now place your 
 stuff without any difficulty, as much as you can put on the 
 market. You won't always be able to, if you go on getting 
 consistently more slipshod. And, of course, it's fright- 
 fully demoralising to turn out admittedly tenth-rate work." 
 
 "I feel too much contempt for the whole work to take 
 it seriously," Deryk answered lazily. "And I don't think 
 I mind being demoralised." 
 
 "I thought you wanted me to take you in hand and make 
 something of you," she reminded him reproachfully. 
 
 "Yes, and you turned me down." He played softly, more 
 to himself and his mood than with any idea that she was 
 listening. " Yolande, I've got over my old smash-up ; I don't 
 talk about it and I don't think about it more than I need, 
 but I've put it in its place. I'm in a decent frame of mind 
 for once and I'll do almost anything you tell me — except 
 go to Ripley Court, of course. I wish to God you'd find me 
 something to do and make me do it ! It's so frightfully easy 
 to make just enough money to keep going, and I can't and 
 won't work without an object. I wish you'd marry me. 
 That's the second time I've proposed to you to-day." 
 
 Yolande crossed the room and knelt on the sofa, resting 
 her arms on the piano. 
 
 "I can't, Deryk." 
 
 "But why not?" he drawled, with a guarded, half-serious 
 smile. 
 
 "Because — " She paused undecided. "I say, Deryk, 
 we've always been good friends, haven't we? Well, I want 
 you to be one of the first to know, because we've always 
 been friends. I'm — I've just got engaged to be married, 
 Deryk." 
 
 His right hand crashed on to the keys, and he jumped to 
 his feet. 
 
 "Engaged?"
 
 RECOIL 235 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "To Felix Manisty. Deryk dear, don't look so surprised ; 
 it isn't flattering." 
 
 For a moment he seemed not to have heard her. Then 
 he forced a wintry smile and held out his hand. 
 
 "Manisty's a good fellow," he said. "And a jolly lucky 
 fellow. I hope you're going to be very happy." 
 
 He disengaged his hand as quickly as he could and 
 walked to the window. Yolande gave him a moment to 
 himself and then crept behind and slipped her arm through 
 his. 
 
 "It isn't going to make any difference to us," she whis- 
 pered. "We shall be just as good friends " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "You can't help it," he said shortly. "I shall miss you, 
 Yolande." 
 
 "But you'll see as much of me as you ever have or ever 
 want to !" she cried, 
 
 " 'Tain't the same thing. I shall always be second. I 
 wonder if you know the sort of thing you've meant to me?" 
 he went on slowly. "You've got the cleanest soul of anyone 
 I know ; I'd as soon think of trying to kiss you as I would 
 of trying to put a knife into your ribs ; and sometimes — 
 God knows I haven't run straight — but sometimes I've at 
 least had the decency to feel what a swine you'd think me, 
 if you knew anything about it. I put you on a kind of pedes- 
 tal in my mind . . . Remember I told you this afternoon 
 that you'd better drop me." He sighed and began walking 
 up and down the room. "Oh, well ! Can't be helped ! I say 
 again, I hope you'll both be very happy. Thank Heaven 
 you're marrying because you want to." 
 
 Yolande looked at the clock and began to draw on her 
 gloves. 
 
 "I shan't be happy if you're going to let it make any 
 difference to our friendship," she said; and then with a 
 transparent assumption of gaiety, "I shall tease you and 
 abuse you as I've always done. And you'll come to me — 
 at least I shall be frightfully offended, if you don't — when-
 
 236 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 ever you're in difficulties. No, don't be impatient, Deryk. 
 I know much more about you than perhaps you think. I 
 know how hard it must be to hve with anyone as strong- 
 willed as your father ; I know how awful it must be to have 
 millions and millions of pounds just waiting for you so that 
 there's no particular reason for doing anything; I know 
 a bit about the smash-up. You haven't had an easy time, 
 old man, but there's still a great deal of work waiting to 
 be done in the world." 
 
 He walked reflectively to and fro with his hands locked 
 behind his back; Yolande touched him on the shoulder 
 with her finger-tips and slipped noiselessly out of the room. 
 Turning to the window, he was waiting to see her come 
 out into the street, when the door opened and his land- 
 lord advanced, with the air of a conspirator, two steps 
 into the room. 
 
 "A lady has called to see you, sir," he announced con- 
 fidentially. "I said you were engaged, sir, and she's wait- 
 ing in the dining room." 
 
 "I can't see her, I'm busy," Deryk answered. 
 
 "I said you were oia, sir, but she said she'd wait till 
 you came in, as it was verj' important." 
 
 After a moment's indecision Deryk sighed impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, shew her in!" he exclaimed. "Come back in five 
 minutes and say that you were to remind me that I'm 
 dining at eight." 
 
 The landlord withdrew, to reappear and usher Mrs. 
 Welman into the room. 
 
 "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Lancing," she be- 
 gan ; and then, when the door had closed, "Oh, Deryk, don't 
 be angry with me ! I couldn't, couldn't keep away." 
 
 Deryk ostentatiously looked at his watch. 
 
 "I've got to dress in about two minutes," he told her. 
 "You said there was something important." A gleam of 
 white shewed him that she was biting her lip, and the 
 sight angered him. "I told you yesterday that I'd got work 
 to do."
 
 RECOIL 237 
 
 She came up to him and laid her hands on his shoulders, 
 looking beseechingly into his eyes. 
 
 "Please, Deryk!" 
 
 "Something important," he reminded her. 
 
 "You're not, not going to send me away ?" 
 
 "I've come back to London to work; and I can't work 
 if we're always meeting and writing and ringing each 
 other up." 
 
 She withdrew her hands and looked down. 
 
 "I'm sorry — if I've — wasted your time," she said. "I had 
 better say good-bye. Try not to despise me too, too 
 much, Deryk." 
 
 The note of humility rallied him to a certain bluff kindli- 
 ness. 
 
 "I don't despise you, Lucile." 
 
 "You're sorry you ever met me." 
 
 "We should both be happier if we hadn't," he suggested 
 vmeasily. 
 
 She nodded wistfully. 
 
 "You despise yourself for ever, ever caring for me ; and 
 ^rou despise me for falling in love with you and forgetting 
 ■ — oh, it doesn't help to talk about it. Try to think kindly 
 of me, Deryk." 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and the landlord delivered 
 his pre-arranged message. Der}'k thanked him and com- 
 pared his watch with the clock on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "I shall always think kindly of you," he answered. 
 
 "Ah, you saw that ! But you're tired of me " 
 
 "I only said that I'd got work to do and that I couldn't 
 do it at Maidenhead." 
 
 "And, when you've done the work, are you going to 
 let me see you again?" 
 
 Deryk hesitated and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Better not," he counselled her. 
 
 "Very well." She turned to the door, but came back 
 at the last moment and threw her arms round his neck. 
 "Oh, my darling, you don't really mean it ! You're not 
 going to turn me away! You can't, Deryk, you mustn't!
 
 238 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 You don't know what you are to me. Say you'll let me see 
 you again." She pressed her lips to his ear. "Say you 
 will, sweetheart, say you will !" 
 
 As once before, Deryk seemed to look down on himself 
 from outside and direct the movements of a puppet in his 
 own image. He was entirely self-controlled and bored, yet 
 interested. 
 
 "We shall both regret it," he whispered with patient 
 reasonableness. "It's bound to come to an end." 
 
 "But not yet !" 
 
 He tried to liberate himself from her arms. 
 
 "Why not face the position?" he cried with a note of 
 resignation, almost of despair. 
 
 "Because I can't bear it, darling. Say you'll let me 
 come and see you just once. I don't ask more than once." 
 
 "It won't stop at once," he answered, caressing her cheek 
 with one hand. "Why won't you be sensible, Lucile?" 
 
 "I don't want to be ! I love you, I love you." 
 
 Deryk sighed helplessly and bent down to let her kiss 
 him.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 RECOVERY 
 
 " 'Make-believe. Make-believe.' The phrase . . . haunted me as 
 I walked homeward alone. I went to my room and stood before 
 my desk and surveyed papers and files and Margaret's admirable 
 equipment of me. 
 
 "I perceived . . . that so it was Mr. George Alexander would have 
 mounted a statesman's private room. . . ." 
 
 H. G. Wells: The New Machiavelli. 
 
 In the first week of November Raymond Stornaway's 
 costume ball, advertised in every paper and on every hoard- 
 ing, took place at the Albert Hall. He and his staff had 
 worked indefatigably for months, and in the last week or 
 two before the ball his whole time was given up to it, and 
 his friends lost sight of him even at meals. His only holi- 
 day was when he motored Yolande down to her father's 
 house and remained conveniently near in case Lord Storn- 
 away (or anyone else) shewed any tendency to make a 
 fool of himself, when the engagement was announced. 
 This duty discharged, he handed out a manual of good 
 advice on houses and flats, furniture and decoration, warned 
 Yolande to expect no practical assistance from her husband, 
 and closed the interview with a cheque which caused her 
 to protest with a gasp that she was marrying only one hus- 
 band and furnishing only one house. 
 
 "Beloved uncle, I think we invite Deryk, don't we?" she 
 asked, when the arrangements for Raymond's own party 
 were under discussion. "We haven't seen him for weeks, 
 and our attitude towards him is rather 'See what baby is 
 doing and tell him not to.' We particularly want him to 
 be friends with Felix." 
 
 239
 
 240 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "You invited the Dawsons for that night," Raymond re- 
 minded her. 
 
 "But they can't come, or I wouldn't have suggested 
 Deryk. Dina's keeping the tickets and says she may look 
 in for five minutes to see the dresses; she can't leave her 
 husband for more than that. He's been in bed for weeks 
 and seems to be very bad. So it's quite safe to invite 
 Deryk; and, if they meet at the Albert Hall, well, they'll 
 just have to, and it won't be our fault." 
 
 Raymond wrinkled his forehead pensively. 
 
 "I'm not much of a success with that boy," he had to 
 admit. "When last I heard from Ripley Court, he hadn't 
 been near the place. It's quite ridiculous ; he's making a 
 fool of himself. There's not the slightest reason why he 
 shouldn't go down occasionally, especially as it's unlikely 
 that his father will live through the winter. And I don't 
 like the abominable people he goes about with. Yes, invite 
 him, and I'll talk cold sense." 
 
 On that promise Yolande issued an invitation and had it 
 refused. She sent a second and reinforced it with a per- 
 sonal call. 
 
 "You've got to come, Deryk, so why make a fuss? I'm 
 not going to let you quarrel with me, and uncle Raymond 
 particularly wishes to tell you not to make a fool of your- 
 self. And Felix wants you to come out with us after 
 Christmas." 
 
 Deryk smiled lazily and with dwindling resistance. 
 
 "I won't go abroad," he said, "but, as I can't stop your 
 uncle calling me names " 
 
 "You richly deserve them, Deryk." 
 
 "Admitted. Well, I am engaged for dinner that night, 
 but I'll chuck it, if you like. You understand I don't want 
 to come a bit?" 
 
 "You have made that quite clear," she answered with 
 good-humour. "We shan't stay more than an hour or two." 
 
 On the evening of the ball Raymond in lilac coat, white 
 knee-breeches, wig and sword welcomed his guests and 
 tried to identify their costumes without committing himself
 
 RECOVERY 241 
 
 finally to an irrevocable blunder. Yolande with bare arms, a 
 winged helmet and two long plaits of hair was an unmistak- 
 able Brunhilde, but Felix's sandals, brown robe, tonsured 
 wig and gold-wire halo exposed him to endless controversy, 
 
 "N-not Francis of Assisi," he explained patiently, 
 "P-Pancras. Saint and m-martyr. He's not in the Calen- 
 dar, but the b-books say he was a y-youth of great beauty, 
 who at the age of sixteen " 
 
 "Heavens! Who's this?" Yolande interrupted, clutching 
 at his arm, as a tall figure stalked into the drawing-room, 
 A loose-fitting robe draped him from neck to feet, and his 
 head was hidden by a conical bag with ghostly eye-holes. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr, Stornaway," said an affectedly deep 
 voice. 
 
 "Good evening. I haven't the least idea who you are," 
 Raymond answered. 
 
 There was a ghostly laugh, and one muffled hand twitched 
 the bag away. 
 
 "Deryk!" Yolande cried. "What are you? An In- 
 quisitor? I should never have known who it was." 
 
 They were interrupted by the arrival of two mutually 
 jealous Columbines, Gerald Deganway as a half -naked 
 retiarius — still, to Deryk's disgust, with hair ornately 
 brushed back and eyeglass in play — and George Oakleigh in 
 dress clothes with a coloured cloak fastened, in compro- 
 mise, round his neck and tucked as far as possible out of 
 sight down his back. While Yolande flitted to and fro, in- 
 troducing the new-comers and checking their arrival by 
 her list, Raymond drew Deryk into a corner and asked for 
 news of Sir Aylmer. 
 
 "I think you'll regret it, if you don't go down to Ripley 
 pretty soon," he said without further skirmishing, when the 
 expected answer had been given. "I told you so one day 
 when you lunched with me in the summer." 
 
 "And I told you that I thought the first move ought to 
 come from him," Deryk answered obstinately. "He and 
 Hats mustn't think they can dangle me at the end of a 
 string "
 
 242 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Will you go, if he asks you to?" Raymond interrupted. 
 "Mind, I think he behaved like a fool, but, if you don't go, 
 I foretell that you'll feel yoit behaved like a fool, too. 
 And that is so damnably uncomfortable for one's pride. 
 Will you go?" 
 
 Deryk looked at him suspiciously, scenting an intrigue. 
 
 "It depends how he asks me," was all that he would 
 promise. 
 
 "Well, that's something," Raymond sighed. *'I saw 
 him last week and I doubt if he'll live through the winter. 
 Doesn't feel equal to going out this filthy weather and, 
 equally, doesn't seem able to live without air." He stopped 
 to look closely at Deryk, but there was a supercilious, 
 Roman-like expression on the boy's face. "Not the only 
 death this winter that %ve've got to expect," he added with 
 a sigh, wrinkling his forehead and staring fixedly at the fire. 
 
 "Oh ?" 
 
 Raymond looked cautiously over one shoulder. 
 
 "I don't know that I ought to tell you," he said, "and it 
 certainly mustn't go any further. Sidney Dawson's in a 
 very bad way. He and I saw a good deal of each other 
 as boys, when we were living at your place, and he made 
 me his executor some years ago. I called on him a day or 
 two ago ; and I didn't like the look of things a bit." 
 
 "But he always looked rather tough !" Deryk exclaimed. 
 
 Raymond shook his head. 
 
 "There's a weak strain in the family. Tendency to dropsy, 
 you know. Three weeks ago his arms and legs were like 
 bolsters." 
 
 Deryk was unaffectedly shocked. 
 
 "But — does his wife know?" he asked. 
 
 "Can't help it, poor soul. Of course I've no idea how 
 much she knows, but yesterday or the day before he was 
 simply living in a bag of water. His eyesight was failing, 
 too. I need hardly say he's frightened to death, but I don't 
 think even he knows how bad he is. They were talking 
 about trying a specialist in Naples whom I mentioned to 
 them. In any event " He left the sentence unfinished
 
 RECOVERY 243 
 
 and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. The sight and 
 memory of Dawson's affliction weighed upon him until he 
 was glad to share the burden with anyone. A moment 
 later dinner was announced, and Deryk walked in, reflect- 
 ing in a mood of detached bitterness that this was the kind 
 of price that people had to pay; when the artificial bitter- 
 ness passed, he indignantly demanded of himself by what 
 right dying men were allowed to marry. Then, with an 
 effort, he dismissed the discussion and its consequences 
 from his mind. As he had told Yolande several weeks 
 ago after their conversation in the park, he had recovered 
 his sense of perspective; he could, if need be, think and 
 speak of Idina dispassionately. 
 
 The ball was well begun, when they arrived and fitted 
 themselves into Raymond's box on the first tier, and they 
 had an unhurried hour in which to dance or walk idly 
 round the great hall before their host completed his tour 
 of inspection and returned to collect them for the supper 
 that was already laid at the back of the box. From the far 
 end the music even of a double band sounded muffled and 
 distant ; the crowded floor seemed covered with surging 
 waves of colour, mingling, separating and becoming lost 
 like tidal currents. Time and space grew confused and 
 remote, until Yolande, strolling arm-in-arm with Deryk, 
 wondered whether she was awake ; her individuality was in 
 danger of being swallowed by proximity to three thousand 
 slowly-moving, fantastically-dressed bodies. When they 
 danced, she found herself dancing; when the distant music 
 quickened and died away, she found herself being carried 
 with the stream through one of the doors or swept into 
 the procession that sauntered circuitously, with happy in- 
 quisitiveness staring into the lower boxes, recognising and 
 accosting friends and criticising costumes. Or, if the dance 
 ended when she was in the middle of the hall, her neigh- 
 bours dropped down unconcernedly and sat cross-legged on 
 the floor until the music started again. A drone of chatter- 
 ing voices hummed an unceasing, drowsy chant only punc- 
 tuated by momentary silence as a flash-Hght blazed and an
 
 244 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 acrid scent of burnt magnesium lingered for an instant in 
 a scattering cloud of silver dust. From the upper boxes 
 coloured paper streamers were being thrown out and 
 caught, until the box fronts were covered with a flimsy, 
 swaying trellis-work. 
 
 "I'm glad you made me come, Yolande," said Deryk,' 
 "even if I did have to cut one of my best friends. It's a 
 wonderful sight." 
 
 "That's only one thing," she answered. "Are you com- 
 ing abroad with us ? I know you like Felix, because you've 
 told me so four times already this evening — my dear, I don't 
 mind, you can go on as long as you like — and, if you won't 
 come, I shall know we aren't friends." 
 
 The music stopped, and they stood clapping for an en- 
 core. 
 
 "Why am I so popular all at once?" asked Deryk. 
 
 "You're not, but you're doing no good here, and I can 
 turn you to useful account at Hellenopolis. I don't insist 
 on an answer now, but I want you to think about the idea. 
 Hullo ! there's the great Sonia Dainton going out. She's 
 very beautiful, and it's a lovely dress, what there is of 
 it, but I don't like her friends. However, I don't suppose 
 she likes mine." 
 
 The encore was refused and they dropped once again 
 into the circling procession round the outer ring of the 
 floor. Yolande was bright-eyed with enjoyment, and Deryk 
 extracted a great deal of simple amusement by assuming 
 a deep voice towards such friends as he met and leaving 
 them to discover his identity. The conical bag was proof 
 against even Mrs. Welman, who remarked with a puzzled 
 expression, "I know your voice, but I can't place it. Do 
 tell me who you are." 
 
 Deryk chuckled and walked on. It was nearly midnight, 
 and they were making their way back to the box for supper, 
 when a youthful Apache with cap over one eye, cigarette 
 in mouth and scarlet muffler round his throat cannoned 
 them. 
 
 "Mind where you're going, Summertown!" Deryk called.
 
 RECOVERY 245 
 
 "Hullo !" He stared at the round, unbetraying eyeholes. 
 "Nothing doing; can't fix you. Who's your friend, Miss 
 Stornaway?" 
 
 "Someone you know quite well," she answered. "Are 
 you here alone?" 
 
 "No, I blew in with Erckmann's crowd. There's a good- 
 ish cold collation in his box, if you're hungry. Everyone 
 welcome; come and bring a friend. I wish you'd tell me 
 who the gentleman in the candle-extinguisher is. You 
 won't? Well, assure me that it isn't my poor, old father, 
 anyway. We've had domestic trouble and we've promised 
 to lead a newish life. Papa would not like to think of us 
 here when we might be getting our beauty sleep in our 
 coolish barracks." 
 
 With a drag at his forelock he lounged away, exchanged 
 smiles with a pierrette and began to dance. Yolande and 
 Deryk returned to their box and whiled away the time 
 before Raymond's return by listening to the sounds of 
 revelry from Sir Adolf Erckmann's party next door. A 
 steady popping of corks mingled with the deep, guttural 
 pleasantries of the host ; the new arrivals were greeted 
 with vociferous welcome, and in the boxes on either side 
 conversation was swamped and drowned. 
 
 "Liddle Zonia !" proclaimed the voice of Erckmann. 
 
 "Good evening, darlings," came the answer, drawled with 
 casual, detached daintiness. "Evening, Sir Adolf. Lord 
 Summertown told me that your party wouldn't be complete 
 without me, so of course I came. Why aren't you in fancy 
 dress ?" 
 
 "He's disguised as an English gentleman, Sonia," hic- 
 coughed a thick voice. There were sounds of affronted 
 protest, defining themselves into "Dry up, Pennington, and 
 get on with your supper." "You'll be chucked out, if you 
 can't behave yourself." Then a voice, which Deryk rec- 
 ognised as Mrs. Welman's, raised itself to say, "Put him 
 by me, and Fll keep him in order," which was swallowed 
 in an affectedly tearful whimper from Summertown, "I 
 \von't be taken away from the nice kind lady."
 
 246 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Yolande raised her eyebrows and looked at her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "I don't think I quite like them," she murmured. "Can 
 you see whether they've nearly finished?" 
 
 Deryk had removed his conical headpiece, but he settled 
 it in position again and pushed a chair against the partition. 
 
 "About forty of them, just getting their teeth in," he 
 reported on his return. "And there may be others under 
 the table. I'm afraid we've got to put up with it, unless 
 you'd like me to throw a jelly or two over to keep them 
 quiet." 
 
 She shook her head resignedly and turned with a smile 
 to her uncle, who had succeeded in mustering his party and 
 was shepherding them into the box. They had already 
 stayed later than they had intended, and, as soon as supper 
 was over, George Oakleigh gave a lead to the faint-hearted 
 by offering a seat in his car to anyone living between 
 Knightsbridge and the river. Raymond snapped his watch 
 with a "God bless my soul ! And I've got a big day to- 
 morrow" ; and the only reluctant starters were Felix Alan- 
 isty, who had not been to a ball since he was an under- 
 graduate, and Deryk, who was temperamentally disinclined 
 to go to bed while anyone else was still afoot. At the 
 last moment Felix attempted rebellion and said that he, like 
 Deryk, would stay to finish his cigar, but Yolande over- 
 ruled him, and in another moment they were massed out- 
 side, while Raymond bribed attendants to find his car for 
 him. 
 
 Left to himself, Deryk strolled back to the box and set- 
 tled himself, replete and lethargic, to the enjoyment of a 
 cigar. The tumult next door had subsided, and the party 
 was gradually disintegrating. He heard the same detached, 
 dainty voice saying, "I'm going to have one more with 
 Fatty, and then he's going to take me home." Erckmann 
 announced hospitably, "There's blenty more subber. When 
 you're hongry, you know vhere to gom, hein?" 
 
 The door slammed, and he was enjoying the welcome 
 calm, when Mrs. Welman's voice said,
 
 RECOVERY 247 
 
 "I think you might offer me one." 
 
 "It's the only one I've got, but all I have is yours," came 
 the prompt, practised answer. "And a goodish lucifer; 
 be careful with it, because it's the last." 
 
 Deryk was wondering whether it would not be charitable 
 to throw Summertown a cigarette over the partition, when 
 he heard a laugh, followed by a faint sound of scuffling. 
 Then the woman's voice said, 
 
 "Now you may go. I will find my car myself." 
 
 "But what's the matter? You didn't mind really." 
 
 Without waiting to analyse his feelings, Deryk put on his 
 headpiece and again mounted the chair by the partition. 
 Immediately under him he saw Lucile Welman seated in 
 an armchair with her hands over her face, while Summer- 
 town swung his legs from the arm of the chair and looked 
 on with an uncertain mixture of sheepishness and bravado. 
 The cap over one eye and the scarlet muffler gave him an 
 air of disreputable jauntiness, which was marred by an 
 embarrassed looseness of mouth. Deryk found time to 
 wonder how he himself had looked on the first occasion 
 that he had kissed Lucile. Then he climbed down, re-lit 
 his cigar and began to look for his hat and coat. 
 
 "No bones broken," said Summertown cheerfully, trying 
 to draw away her hands. 
 
 "Please go, Lord Summertown," she answered in the 
 same frozen voice. 
 
 "But I've not done you any harm." 
 
 "Oh, you've spoilt everything! I thought you were just 
 a nice, friendly boy ; I liked you because you were so young 
 and chivalrous; I thought you were a little bit sorry for 
 me, too " 
 
 She broke off with a shiver. Summertown slid deeper 
 into the chair and put his arm round her waist ; Deryk, 
 throwing his coat over one arm, bit deeply into his cigar. 
 
 "If you want me to go, I'll go," said Summertown. "It 
 seems rather rot, though, when we could have such fun 
 together; we should both regret it, you know." 
 
 She tried to remove his arm and rise from the chair.
 
 248 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Now you are insulting me," she said. 
 
 "Bunkum!" he retorted with a laugh. "Did you mind 
 my kissing you, Lucile ? If you say you did, I'll apologise 
 and clear out." 
 
 He jumped to his feet and stood over her with his hands 
 on his hips. The door of Deryk's box was already open, 
 and he closed it hurriedly. 
 
 "Did you mind?" he repeated. 
 
 "I won't be bullied !" she answered with a pout. 
 
 Summertown laughed with assurance and went back to 
 his place on the arm of the chair, as Deryk again opened 
 the door and headed for the nearest staircase. Everything 
 had happened so quickly that he still did not know what 
 to feel. There was finality at last; his relationship with 
 Lucile Welman, which he had tried to end a dozen times, 
 was over; but he was humiliated that she could end it at 
 her pleasure and not his. Anger and a sense of betrayal 
 filled his mind so that he failed to see that she was doing 
 what he would light-heartedly have done, if a successor of 
 greater novelty or attraction had come his way. Summer- 
 town was welcome to what he had got ; there was no room 
 for resentment or jealousy there; they would meet — as he 
 had met his own predecessors. . . . 
 
 At the corner of the stairs he collided with a girl in 
 Turkish dress, who was walking up alone. Mumbling an 
 apology, he was beginning to dodge aside, when she gave 
 a little startled cry of recognition. For the first time he 
 troubled himself to look beyond the pointed shoes and 
 t>^&gy» divided skirt to the eyes that peered at him over 
 the yashmak. The deep blue, tinged in some light with 
 violet belonged to no woman of his acquaintance but Idina 
 Dawson. She came upon him absorbed and unprepared. 
 
 "Yolande told me you weren't coming," he found himself 
 saying after a seemingly endless silence. His voice sounded 
 to him remote and uncontrolled. "Have you been here 
 long? There's such a crowd, I'm going home. Er — what 
 news of your husband? Stornaway told me he was 
 ill -"
 
 RECOVERY 249 
 
 The little conventional sentences poured out as if they 
 would have no end. He was so much surprised to find 
 himself able to speak at all that he concentrated all his 
 powers on continuing to talk. Six months before he had 
 pictured himself superbly cutting Idina when they met; 
 later, he had felt that both would be too much embarrassed 
 to speak. He was amazed at his own collectedness. Now 
 he was asking if she had brought her car; could he help 
 to find it ? Might he see her home ? 
 
 "How is Sir Aylmer?" Idina asked. "I didn't really 
 mean to come, but my husband was getting some sleep, 
 and, as I had the tickets, I thought I'd look in to see the 
 dresses. It's a wonderful sight, isn't it? I've no idea 
 how many people there are here. Your dress is wonderful, 
 of course; not quite fair, perhaps, because I should never 
 have known you, if you hadn't spoken. I've come without 
 a watch; is it very late?" 
 
 She, too, talked breathlessly with a stream of conven- 
 tional questions and comments, steering eagerly for the un- 
 embarrassing and non-committal. For a while they alter- 
 nated in speech, following parallel lines and automatically 
 starting again when the other stopped, but with no attempt 
 to converse; then Idina ceased, and Deryk was unequal to 
 taking his turn. They stood silent and uneasy, until Idina 
 cast back to his first words. 
 
 "Yes, I told Yolande not to expect me," she said hur- 
 riedly. "I really didn't think I could get away. . . . You 
 say you're going now?" 
 
 "It's frightfully packed and a bit rowdy," Deryk an- 
 swered quickly. "If you've got your car — oh, then you 
 must let me give you a lift; it's on my way. Yes, on my 
 honour it is. You're in Eaton Square, aren't you? And 
 I've got rooms in Bury Street. If you'll get your cloak, 
 I'll see about a taxi." 
 
 They were half-way along Knightsbridge before either 
 spoke. Then Idina began suddenly,
 
 250 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Deryk " 
 
 He turned half away and fumbled for his cigarette case. 
 
 "Are you sure I don't know what you're going to say?" 
 he asked. "Dina, it was pure chance that we met. Hadn't 
 — hadn't we better leave it at that ?" 
 
 "But I wanted to tell you I was sorry, I wronged 
 you " 
 
 He put out his hand and touched hers for a moment. 
 
 "We can't alter it now," he said. "Dina, we were awful 
 good friends for years and years ; and, now that we've met, 
 
 we can be friends again — at least " He hesitated, 
 
 wondering whether he wanted ever to meet her again. "I 
 mean, we were kids together for so long, and, if we meet 
 again " 
 
 The new conditional was not lost on her, but she affected 
 not to notice it. 
 
 "You don't want me to speak of — that time? I won't." 
 
 "Or think of it," he suggested eagerly. "Wash it away 
 from your mind and start again, as if — as if I'd just come 
 back to England and heard that you were married. I — I 
 should say your husband was a jolly lucky fellow and I 
 should wish you best of luck." 
 
 The note of hearty, almost boisterous, good-humour was 
 out of tune with her mood, and she attempted no reply 
 for several minutes. Deryk lay back in his corner, as 
 the taxi bumped along Knightsbridge and slowed down 
 before turning south towards Eaton Square. He felt as 
 if he were just awaking after a day of unbearable excite- 
 ment and a restless night. Things that had filled his mind 
 a few hours before came back almost audibly after their 
 temporary exile. He remembered Raymond's detached, 
 man-of-the-world advice and his own reception of it, which 
 seemed so dignified at the time and yet had so signally 
 failed to impress Raymond. He remembered wishing that 
 some one would drop a hint to his father, so that he could 
 go down to Ripley Court without too unconditional a sur- 
 render ... He had even begun to construct the scene — 
 and had abandoned it because it presented him in so much
 
 RECOVERY 251 
 
 less heroic a light than when in imagination he had burst 
 in with a pass-book in his hand, declaiming that his destiny 
 was not to be reined by another man's purse-strings. In 
 the last ten months he had fulfilled a few of his own am- 
 bitions and many of his father's forebodings. He could 
 make money, but he could no longer trust himself not to 
 waste it and his own life with it; he could no longer be 
 sure of saving himself from the first woman who troubled 
 to attack him ; for all his fastidiousness, he had for some 
 months been flattered and fed by that same Erckmann and 
 his followers whom they had heard roistering that night. 
 Anyone, seemingly, could spin him about and send him in 
 any direction . . . And he did not care enough to resist; 
 and, when it was all over, he did not care about what he 
 had done. He was drifting — and he did not care whether 
 he drifted or not ; he was tired, and there was nothing on 
 earth to keep him from drifting. . . . 
 
 The memory of Lucile Welman came back suddenly 
 with jagged, wounding edges. He had almost forgotten her 
 in the disarming surprise of meeting Idina and he now 
 strove to loosen and repel her until he had time to think 
 calmly and without giving himself so much pain as any 
 thought of her now caused him. She must be surveyed 
 and measured in all her bearings and significance. . . . 
 
 He roused himself to find the taxi entering Eaton 
 Square; another chord in his memory was touched. 
 
 "I hope you'll soon have better news of your husband," 
 he said in a correctly sympathetic voice. 
 
 Idina looked at him for a moment and then leaned to 
 him with sudden nervous decision. 
 
 "Tell the man to go to your rooms first," she said. 
 "I'll drop you and come back here. I want to say some- 
 thing, I want your advice !" 
 
 Her excited tone made him look at her in surprise, but 
 he opened the window and gave the new order without 
 comment. As the taxi turned and headed for Buckingham 
 Palace, she laid her hand on his sleeve and faced him with 
 an expression of entreaty.
 
 252 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "What would you do about him?" she asked. "My hus- 
 band, I mean. At least, I don't know how much Mr. Storn- 
 away told you " 
 
 "He only spoke very generally. You're trying a new man 
 in Naples, aren't you? I should think " 
 
 "I'll tell you how bad he is," she interrupted. "You 
 know he's swollen to twice his normal size? Well, he is — 
 First the wrists and ankles, then the legs and arms, now the 
 whole body . . . like some dreadful caricature. His eyes 
 were just little slits. . . . Then his sight failed three days 
 ago. 
 
 "This is awful !" Deryk exclaimed with a shudder. "Is 
 there — is there much hope for him ?" 
 
 "The doctor says this man in Naples is the only chance. 
 Deryk, have — have I got to go with him?" 
 
 It had never occurred to him to doubt that she would 
 and must accompany her husband. 
 
 "Yes. You'll take an attendant, of course " 
 
 "He doesn't know what he's saying sometimes," she went 
 on distractedly. "It isn't delirium, but sometimes he seems 
 to go mad and think I'm trying to kill him. He won't take 
 food if I'm in the room, because he says I've poisoned it. 
 He orders me out — in front of the nurses — and says the 
 most dreadful things — that I'm only waiting for him to 
 die so that I can marry again, that I married him for 
 money, that I never cared for him — oh, and the wildest, 
 horridest suspicions! It isn't true, Deryk; I gave him 
 ever}fthing I had to give. It may not have been much, but, 
 God knows, it wasn't easy to give." 
 
 She ended with a little sob, and Deryk's hand closed 
 restrainingly and with authority upon her wrist. At the 
 same moment the taxi entered Ryder Street, and he hastily 
 told the driver to drive once round the Park and then come 
 back. The man leered, but Deryk's mind was too much 
 occupied to wonder whether they were regarded as ro- 
 mantic revellers insatiably prolonging a six-hour flirtation 
 into the daylight. 
 
 "Dina, you've got to pull yourself together," he said
 
 RECOVERY 253 
 
 sternly. "I'm going to be thoroughly unsympathetic and 
 brutal. You've got to go. He's your husband, and you've 
 got to see him through." 
 
 The sudden sternness steadied her, but after a moment's 
 silence she cried, 
 
 "Deryk, I can't ! I can't ! You don't know." 
 
 He tried the effect of blandness and reason. 
 
 "What's the alternative?" he asked. "Are you going to 
 stay behind ?" 
 
 "I must get away from him." 
 
 "And where are you going to ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Oh, Deryk, for God's sake, heip me!" 
 
 Her little store of fortitude was spent, and she collapsed 
 limply into her corner, covering her face with her hands 
 and sobbing with the accumulated exhaustion and misery 
 of the past month. The sound acted on Deryk like a lash; 
 his boasted new indifference to her melted as quickly as his 
 remembrance of the suffering she had caused him. All that 
 he saw was someone tormented past bearing and unable to 
 help herself, someone shaken by her own ungovernable 
 emotion and disfigured with weeping. He drew her into his 
 arms, caressing and soothing her like a child. 
 
 "Dina ! I can't bear it, if you cry," he whispered. "Tell 
 me what you want, tell me what I can do to help you." 
 
 "Take me away from him!" she sobbed. "He's killing 
 me!" 
 
 Deryk again caught her hand and gripped it until she 
 was grown quieter. For a while he would not risk the 
 effect of speech upon her and sat looking away through the 
 window, as the taxi sped along Piccadilly and turned into 
 the Park. Inept irrelevancies crowded into his head; he 
 was fascinated by the hunched back of the driver, who 
 was like a coachman from some novel of Dickens', in his 
 exuberant grey muffler and faded green overcoat ; the early 
 morning was bitterly cold, and he wondered, as he always 
 wondered, how women could go about at night with noth- 
 ing but a transparent film between their shoulders and the 
 air
 
 254 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Where am I to take you to ?" he asked at length. 
 
 "I don't care. Take me anywhere. I'll do whatever you 
 tell me to." 
 
 "My dear, there's nowhere I could take you. I think you 
 ought to stay with him, you'd never live it down if it were 
 known that you'd left him. And it zvould be known ; these 
 things always are. But, quite apart from that, you're depend- 
 ent on him as long as he lives. I could find you money for a 
 few weeks, but, as soon as a scandal got on foot, it would 
 be a different thing altogether. Thanks to the governor's 
 reflected glory, I'm too well known to risk offending people 
 from whom I want work." He took her hand and pressed 
 it. "I'd do anything in the world to help you, but it wouldn't 
 do for you to run away. You've got to scrape together 
 all the courage you can find, you've got to see this through, 
 Dina : I'm going to take you home." 
 
 This time there was no remonstrance. Her head drooped 
 a little and came to rest with one cheek pressing against 
 his shoulder. Once a shiver ran through her, and he took 
 off his overcoat and wrapped it about her. Sitting in his 
 bizarre dress, he had a momentary feeling that he was 
 playing his inquisitor's part in earnest, sending Idina back 
 to be tormented and in some way, which he was too tired 
 to analyse or define, saving the soul at the expense of the 
 flesh. He wondered how much imagination an inquisitor 
 had, whether they ever sat in judgment on people they 
 loved and whether, as their appreciation of suffering grew 
 finer, they actually won a subtile pleasure from the agony 
 of men and women whom they knew. . . . Idina sat staring 
 in front of her, while the taxi completed the circle and left 
 the Park for Belgrave Square. He wondered how she ha.d 
 managed to get out, with a dying husband in the house, 
 doctors coming and going, nurses hurrying to her with 
 messages. Suppose Sidney sent for her, and she was not 
 there ; suppose a servant saw her coming in at six o'clock 
 in fancy costume. . . . And then he tried to compute the 
 desperation and agony of mind which had allowed or com- 
 pelled her to seek distraction and f orgetfulness ; he began
 
 RECOVERY 255 
 
 to picture her return to the bleak house, her timid passage, 
 growing ever more slow, up the stairs, her moment's pause 
 to listen outside the door. . . , The taxi stopped, and he 
 woke to find himself on the kerb, asking if she had her 
 latch-key. Under the eyes of the driver both rallied to an 
 artificially natural carelessness. 
 
 "It was very good of you to bring me home," she said, 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 "I shall see you again soon, shan't I?" he answered in 
 the same false measure. 
 
 "I don't quite know when we're going abroad, but I'll 
 try to let you know. Good-night." 
 
 Deryk clambered back into the taxi, picked up his over- 
 coat where it had slipped from Idina's shoulders and drove 
 once more to Bury Street. The fire had long gone out, and 
 the room was airless and cold. He turned from force of 
 habit to his writing-table and picked up a pile of letters, 
 meaning only to glance at the writing and leave the contents 
 until he was less exhausted. The first envelope, however, 
 was addressed in pencil and marked "Most urgent." He 
 opened it and had to look at the signature before he rec- 
 ognised the hurried scrawl as Hatherly's ; it stated that the 
 writer had spent the evening, until the last train was ready 
 to start, vainly looking for him. 
 
 "Your father is dying: I implore you to come before it 
 is too late." 
 
 Deryk read the note twice, swaying slightly from fatigue 
 and reflecting dispassionately, as though criticising his own 
 dream, that it was curious and yet quite natural that the 
 news should have come to him as and when it did. Then, 
 he turned to the second letter in the pile and was as much 
 and as little surprised to see his father's writing, in pen- 
 strokes that told their own tale. 
 
 "My dear Deryk," he read. 
 
 "I have been far from well and I can see that Forsyte 
 takes a grave view. I shall be obliged if you can find time 
 to run down here. "Your afifectionate father, 
 
 "Aylmer Lancing."
 
 256 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 This time Deryk felt himself stirred to artistic admi- 
 ration. His head was singing too persistently for him to 
 feel; he believed that he could be knocked down and be- 
 laboured, like a drunken man, without noticing it, but the 
 isolated brain cell that seemed to exist for irrelevancy and 
 detached criticism noticed and approved the reticence and 
 dignity of the letter. There was no whimpering, no fear, 
 no menace or cajolery. Sir Aylmer was evidently resolved 
 to die in the pose that he had adopted for half his life. 
 
 "He'll refuse to have the parson in," Deryk reflected. 
 "And he'll probably make Benson stand him upright at the 
 finish." Then his mind cleared suddenly, and the numbing 
 weariness left him. 
 
 "He's dying !" he whispered. "He's been near it so often 
 that I didn't think he could. He knows he's dying, or he 
 wouldn't have written like that. My God ! I may not get 
 there in time !" 
 
 With the pulses hammering in his temples, he rushed 
 downstairs and seized a time-table from the hall. There was 
 a train from Victoria to Aston Ripley at seven o'clock, slow 
 running and with two changes, but at least the train that 
 would take him to his father in quickest time. Changing 
 out of the fantastic costume which now seemed to mock 
 him, he took a hurried bath and ransacked his wardrobe for 
 thick clothes against the cold which was penetrating and 
 spreading over him. Only when he was huddled in his 
 corner did he remember that he had eaten nothing for hours 
 and was sick with hunger. There was no time to look for 
 food lest the train go without him, and, though the warmth 
 of the carriage made him drowsy, he dared not sleep for 
 fear of being carried beyond the junction or of missing 
 Aston Ripley in the long succession of moribund wayside 
 stations, each in charge of a single somnolent porter and lit 
 by a single gusty lamp. 
 
 The uncertain blue-grey dawn had changed to a sunless 
 November morning when at last he was able to get out and 
 stamp his feet on the platform. Two farmers touched 
 their hats to him, as he strode into the main street after
 
 RECOVERY 257 
 
 failing to find a fly, and, among the dozen faces that he 
 saw in the first mile, half were vaguely familiar. As soon 
 as the feeling had come back to his feet, he broke into a 
 run, head down and elbows to his sides, hardly noticing 
 the houses or passers-by, until he paused with a resentful, 
 sideways glance at the mildewed desolation of the Grange 
 and then plunged on into the park of Ripley Court. Half 
 a mile farther he stopped and deliberately relaxed himself 
 after the hours of cramping fear which he had felt since 
 reading his father's letter. The flag still floated from the 
 staff, not a window that he could see was blinded, and in 
 garden and stables the men were going unconcernedly 
 about their work. A great relief came to him, and he start- 
 ed on again collectedly and in hope towards the chapel. In 
 response to his ring the side door was cautiously opened a 
 few inches by Hatherly, white-faced, heavy-eyed and un- 
 shaven. 
 
 "I came as soon as I could," Deryk whispered, as he 
 shook hands and passed into a hall still warm with yester- 
 day's fires and so silent that it seemed irreverent to speak 
 above a whisper. "How is he?" 
 
 "I don't know," Hatherly answered. "Forsyte reported 
 that no ground had been lost up to last night, but he was 
 asleep when I got back and I haven't seen him. He said 
 you were to be shewn in the moment you arrived. I'm 
 glad you haven't disappointed him, Deryk. You'll find 
 Phillimore stationed outside the room ; he wouldn't have 
 anyone with him. Don't disturb him, if he's asleep ; he must 
 have sleep. And don't stay more than a moment. I shall 
 be within call, if you want me, and, whatever happens, 
 don't say anything to excite or tire him. He is — I'm not 
 sure that I can make you understand how bad he is." 
 
 Deryk tiptoed across the hall and into his father's wing, 
 a little impatient at being lectured in so great particularity. 
 As he approached the door, old Phillimore rose in tremulous 
 welcome and indicated in dumb show that his master was 
 sleeping. Deryk nodded and turned the handle noiselessly. 
 After all his preparation he was startled to find his father
 
 258 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 sitting up with an open book face downwards in his lap and 
 the reading lamp at the back of the bed alight and shining 
 past him on to the door. Even in shadow ten months had 
 brought about a noticeable change; the furrowed cheeks 
 were appreciably more sunken and the rather mournful 
 eyes more prominent. Sir Aylmer sat with his thin, large- 
 boned hands on the eider-down and his eyes turned to the 
 door, silent, unrevealing, without frown or smile. He 
 might well have sat there for ten months, awaiting Deryk's 
 return; and he seemed capable of sitting for any number 
 of months more. 
 
 "I hope you're better, dad; I'm sorry to hear you've 
 been ill again," Deryk began, still keeping his voice almost 
 down to a whisper, "I came the moment I got your letter." 
 He had found no time nor wish to construct the scene be- 
 forehand or to rehearse his speeches. "I am sorry to have 
 been away so long," he went on deliberately after a mo- 
 ment's struggle with himself. "I've missed you most aw- 
 fully." 
 
 He walked to the bedside, smiling and holding out his 
 hand. Sir Aylmer continued to look at him without speak- 
 ing, and Deryk was piqued to find, when both were to 
 blame, that all the contrition and graciousness came from 
 one side. 
 
 "I hope you're glad to see me," he went on with a hint 
 of tartness in his voice. A moraent later he was sorry for 
 it; he had not realised that his father might be too weak 
 for speech ; Hatherly's forgotten lecture returned to his 
 mind. "I mustn't stay any longer, because you're supposed 
 to be asleep, but I had to look in to see how you were. I'll 
 say good-bye for the present, but I shall be here whenever 
 you want me." 
 
 His hand went out and closed lightly over his father's; 
 immediately he started back with a sob of dismayed fear 
 on finding the hand cold and stiff. He stared in amaze- 
 ment at the open, unwavering eyes ; then he swung the 
 reading-lamp round and deflected the bulb until the light 
 shone directly on to the face. In the earlier half-light the
 
 RECOVERY 259 
 
 cheek and jaw had seemed almost to be in shadow ; Deryk 
 had assumed it to be the blue-grained skin and stubbly 
 growth of a dark man who had not shaved; in the new 
 light the skin of the face, stretching up to the forehead and 
 down to the neck was shewn to be suffused from below 
 with such a blue as Deryk had never seen before. Replac- 
 ing the lamp, he was starting to summon Phillimore from 
 outside, when he realised that no help was needed. He 
 turned back and, without looking at his father, laid a towel 
 over the ghastly discoloration. Then he tiptoed into the 
 hall, closing the door noiselessly behind him. 
 
 Hatherly hurried up with eyebrows raised interrogatively, 
 "I suppose he's dead," Deryk answered quietly. "I advise 
 you not to uncover the face; oh, don't uncover the face! 
 For God's sake, don't uncover the face!" 
 
 Then an internal mechanism over which he had no con- 
 trol began to emit peals of shrillj helpless laughter, which 
 rang harshly through the great, silent house. Hatherly, bit- 
 ing his thumb, looked from Deryk to Sir Aylmer's door and 
 from Sir Aylmer's door back to Deryk. After a moment's 
 hesitation he led the boy away where his laughter would 
 sound less atrocious. 
 
 Deryk's outburst of hysteria had had its preparation in 
 ten months of over-work, over-excitement, over-taxation of 
 physical reserves and nervous energy and eveiy kind of 
 over-indulgence. It was only occasioned by the shock of his 
 father's death and was not to pass away when the shock had 
 abated. Hatherly, divesting himself of nearly twenty years 
 of his life, found it necessary to put him to bed, and, until 
 the doctor arrived and sent him to sleep, Deryk alternated 
 between a helpless collapse and a feverish desire to be prac- 
 tical. At one moment he was seated on the side of his bed, 
 weeping limply and inconsolably ; at another he would raise 
 himself on his pillows and confer nervously on the funeral, 
 arrangements.
 
 26o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "You have to get a doctor's certificate, don't you?" he 
 asked vaguely, blinking at Hatherly with flickering eyelids. 
 
 "I'll see to all that," was the answer. "Go to sleep now, 
 or you won't be able to help me later." 
 
 Deryk lay back for a moment, only to rise again on his 
 elbow with another question. 
 
 "Did my father say where he wanted to be buried?" he 
 pursued. "That's usually put into the will, isn't it? Have 
 you got the will? I'm quite all right now; I ujant to talk 
 things over with you." 
 
 Hatherly looked at the flushed face and dilated pupils. 
 
 "I'll see to all that, Deryk," he repeated. "He wanted to 
 be cremated and to have the ashes buried in the chapel here. 
 The will is actually in the house." He hesitated and then 
 decided to go on as he had started. "Your father altered 
 it two or three months ago. We can talk about that later, 
 but I'll tell you now that he has abolished the trust." 
 
 Deryk looked at him without understanding. 
 
 "Abolished the trust?" he echoed. "Why?" 
 
 Hatherly shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I don't know. I'll say frankly that it was against my 
 advice. It was a great disappointment, of course, that he 
 never saw you, but he followed all that you were doing as 
 best he could. George Oakleigh dropped a hint now and 
 again ; and there were others. As you know, he was always 
 afraid that your expectations might land you in trouble with 
 some woman or that you might degenerate into a mere ex- 
 travagant young waster. He seems to have satisfied him- 
 self that you were too level-headed for that." 
 
 Deryk stared reflectively at the ceiling for some moments. 
 
 "Are yoiif" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "I think so. You've got your faults, but I think you're 
 fairly well-balanced and clean-living. But we can talk 
 about all this later. I've sent for Forsyte, and you've got 
 to have a complete rest, while I attend to the immediate — 
 business requirements. I only mentioned the trust, because 
 you can hardly start thinking about that too soon. The
 
 RECOVERY 261 
 
 whole of your father's money, barring a few legacies, comes 
 to you almost unconditionally." 
 
 For two nights and one day Deryk was kept in bed and 
 asleep. At the end of the first night Yolande appeared mys- 
 [ teriously and asked permission to help in the nursing. She 
 found Mrs. Benson white-faced, tearful and uncomprehend- 
 ing, and was warned that her patient occasionally talked 
 strangely in his sleep ; indeed, every effort was made to keep 
 her out of the room, as though her own self-respect and her 
 faith in Deryk were being jeopardised together. Certainly 
 after one night in his room she found it hard to pretend 
 that he had said nothing. 
 
 "I didn't hear a quarter of what you were saying," she 
 told him steadily. "And that I've forgotten." 
 
 "What did I say?" he demanded. 
 
 "Deryk darling, I've forgotten. And I swear it won't 
 make any difference to me. You're just the same as you 
 always were." 
 
 "In spite of what you heard?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "But I've really forgotten what 
 I did hear." 
 
 Dr. Forsyte consented to put his diagnosis into simple 
 language for Hatherly's benefit. Deryk, he said, was wear- 
 ing himself out with ordinary unprofitable dissipation; he 
 must be wooed away from the malign influence of London 
 and kept in the country with someone to insist on early 
 hours, suitable companionship and a sane regimen. He was 
 behaving as other young men had behaved before, but he 
 started life in a higher state of nervous excitability than 
 they did and, as they had regretted it, so he would regret it ; 
 the lowest price that he would have to pay was likely to be 
 a collapse, and, inasmuch as men living his life seldom re- 
 main stationary, he might look forward to delirium tremens 
 as the next forfeit to be paid, or he might contract the habit 
 of taking drugs, or adopt any one of a number of other 
 ingenious devices for destroying an unusually fine constitu- 
 tion by over-stimulation and over-exhaustion. 
 
 "He only wants pulling up, my dear Hatherly," the doc-
 
 262 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 tor concluded, "but he wants that pretty badly. Very likely 
 this shock will warn him, and I've no doubt that he'll have 
 so much to think about that he may change his mode of life. 
 But he mustn't even work too hard ; he must learn to be 
 moderate ; don't try to distract his thoughts from undesir- 
 able companions by driving him quicker than he can trot ; 
 otherwise he'll take his revenge by stimulating himself artifi- 
 cially, and you'll be back again where you are now." 
 
 Hatherly nodded, thinking of a time often described to 
 him when Sir Aylmer was tidying the most fruitful years of 
 his life into the Lancing Trust Corporation, working twelve 
 and fourteen hours a day and ultimately coming to subsist 
 on champagne, black coffee, biscuits and cigars. The Trust 
 had been launched at the expense of a stroke and half a 
 generation of helplessness and suffering; now its proceeds 
 were changing hands. , . . If he wanted to run amuck, 
 Deryk would not now lack opportunities : in so far as pleas- 
 ure and the world were venal, he had them at his feet. 
 
 Hatlierly returned to the subject of the will immedi- 
 ately after the cremation, but for the time Der^'k's mind was 
 absorbed. In the moment of death he first saw his father as 
 the world saw him. As soon as he was allowed out of bed, 
 he went with Yolande into the library and began to deal with 
 the letters and telegrams which had been pouring in since 
 the news of the death was made public. Deryk found circu- 
 lars from press-cutting agencies, enclosing two-column 
 obituary notices and offering to collect twenty-five, fifty, a 
 hundred or five hundred more references to Sir Aylmer or 
 himself in the British or colonial press ; the Governing Body 
 of Melton School, the Senates of seven universities and the 
 governors of thirteen hospitals forwarded copies of their 
 unanimous resolutions of sympathy with the son and grati- 
 tude to the father. A Very August Personage sent a tele- 
 gram of condolence, and from friends and beneficiaries in 
 ever}'^ quarter of England came a swelling tribute of appreci- 
 ation. 
 
 Sir Aylmer, then, had been at least as well known in 
 England as John D. Rockefeller or J. P. Morgan ; his munifi-
 
 RECOVERY 263 
 
 cence was wider spread and more varied than Carnegie's ; for 
 fifteen years he had had no other outlet for his gigantic in- 
 come than in charity or the endowment of learning; among 
 forty millions of people hardly one was not directly or in- 
 directly, potentially or actually in his debt. And they knew 
 it. Strange men of exalted eminence wrote of his liberaHty 
 and disinterestedness. "You are, no doubt, aware that I 
 wished to recommend him for a peerage. ..." "It is a 
 lasting disappointment that his health never permitted him to 
 sit for his portrait; it was always our wish to hang it in 
 the Senate House to commemorate our indebtedness to 
 him. ..." And many hundreds of letters from strange 
 men of no eminence at all contained a single reminiscence 
 designed to add one stroke to the picture and enrich Deryk's 
 knowledge with one more mite of information. "I was only 
 privileged to meet your father once — in '92 or '93. A 
 banker friend gave me a letter of introduction, and I re- 
 member several most interesting conversations in New 
 York. Your father was at that time absorbed in the ques- 
 tion of oil — transportation. ..." 
 
 In the first forty-eight hours, when Derj'k was still in 
 bed, a furtive succession of reporters had tried to worm 
 their way into the house and obtain exclusive "copy" with- 
 out too openly outraging a house of death. Phillimore and 
 the servants found themselves at all hours button-holed by 
 discreet, whispering men with professionally grave faces. 
 Cameras were always being set up, advanced and with- 
 drawn, and Hatherly, as he lovingly perfected "all the 
 grand investiture of death," was approached with requests 
 for leave to make a death-mask. 
 
 For the most part Deryk was shielded from the distress 
 and grim ironies of the time. For half the day he lay 
 peacefully enough talking to Yolande ; the rest of the time 
 they wandered round the house or sat in the library, open- 
 ing and acknowledging letters. Physical weakness, the 
 shock and break in his life had filled Der}^k with a tranquil 
 melancholy; he felt that he had confessed and been given 
 absolution, that the future was his own, to be made worthy
 
 264 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 of his father, as he now saw him, and of all his own aspir- 
 ations. 
 
 "I shall keep his rooms exactly as they were," he told 
 Yolande. "They were really the only ones he used, and 
 he'd collected all his favourite books and papers there. 
 Come in and look at them." 
 
 He went ahead and pulled up the blinds, lighting the 
 room for the first time since his father had died there. 
 Yolande found a simplicity and homely shabbiness in the 
 carpet and furniture from long and continual use. The 
 only pictures were of Deryk and his mother, the square 
 stone house on Riverside Drive, the steam yacht on which 
 they had cruised to the Bahamas and the South Seas. In 
 the book-case she found a number of albums filled with 
 ephemeral records of Deryk's boyhood, school reports, class 
 lists from "The Times," signed menus of twenty-first- 
 birthday dinners, the passenger list of the "Moravia," which 
 had carried him out to India. . . . 
 
 "He was very fond of you," she whispered, as she re- 
 placed the albums and slipped her arm through his. 
 
 Deryk was looking at two costly, gilt-topped volumes, 
 still in their wrappers.^ "The Ilkley Papers, Selected and 
 Arranged by Deryk Lancing." There was a note inside 
 from the publishers: 
 
 "We thank you for your favour of the 7th instant, en- 
 closing cheque for one pound sixteen shillings, for which 
 our receipt is attached. We venture to point out that pub- 
 , lication does not take place until the twenty-second of this 
 month, but, as we assume that you are personally interested 
 in the books, we send them, as requested and as an excep- 
 tion to our general practice. W^e shall, however, be obliged, 
 if you will retain the volumes in your own possession until 
 publication has actually taken place." 
 
 Deryk crumpled the note into his pocket and returned the 
 books to their table. 
 
 "There was such an awful lot that I wanted to tell him," 
 he whispered. "We were such pals in the old days. I can 
 just remember him in America, before he broke down,
 
 RECOVERY 265 
 
 and then we seemed to drift apart ... I got rather fright- 
 ened of him . . . And this place seemed to make him 
 unnatural." He sighed and walked with her to the door. 
 "Do you remember telling me on the night of our ball 
 that I wasn't born to this sort of thing? You spoke as if 
 you were saying something frightfully insulting, but I'd felt 
 it for years — whenever I bothered to think about it. Enor- 
 mous shooting parties to people he didn't care about, when 
 he'd never shot in his life and had to be wheeled about his 
 own garden in a chair. A racing stable, when we drove 
 over to Larchpoint solely from a sense of duty and yawned 
 all through the meeting. ... I could never make out what 
 he was after. If he was on the make socially, like that 
 fellow Erckmann, he could have had peerages and privy 
 councillorships by the dozen, but he refused everything 
 except the baronetcy. It's an extraordinary thing not to 
 understand your own father in the very least." 
 
 That afternoon he was to have further food for specu- 
 lation, when Hatherly came with the will in one hand and a 
 foolscap summary in the other. Stripped of its intermin- 
 able provisions and qualifications, the will was simple in 
 essence. Legacies were left to servants and friends, a 
 final bequest was made to every hospital or other charitable 
 body on Sir Aylmer's long list, Deryk was invited, if prac- 
 ticable, to continue his father's donations, and the residue 
 of the estate passed, with four exceptions, absolutely and 
 unconditionally to Deryk. Hatherly, in some embarrass- 
 ment, undertook to explain the exceptions. 
 
 "I don't want you to think worse of your father," he be- 
 gan, industriously polishing his glasses. "You'll find, as 
 you grow older, that in essentials men are very similar. 
 Before he married, it appears from what he has told me 
 and from what is set out in the will that there were three 
 or four women to whom he felt himself to be indebted. I be- 
 lieve that they had passed entirely out of his life and that he 
 had never given them a thought until a month or two ago. 
 Then — I don't know, — I Suppose he felt uneasy; he didn't 
 like the idea that any of them might be in want, and you
 
 266 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 will see that he charges the executors to find out whether 
 they are still living and, if so, to make certain allowances 
 to them. I cabled out to New York as soon as I had his" 
 instructions and, when I get a reply, I will do whatever is 
 necessary. I daresay you would prefer to leave it to me. 
 The executors are you, Raymond Stornaway and myself." 
 
 Deryk nodded his assent with bowed head. It had never 
 occurred to him that his father, too, had sealed chapters in 
 his life, that, before he consecrated himself to his wife 
 and her memory, he had passed through clandestine amours, 
 which came back to disturb his mind twenty-five or thirty 
 years later. What was likely to have happened to the wom- 
 en? They must be old now — nearer sixty than fifty; some 
 had probably died, some sunk into irreclaimable abandon- 
 ment, others, perhaps, settled down in respectable domes- 
 ticity. Their husbands would learn from the thousand- 
 tongued American press that Aylmer Lancing was dead, 
 and perhaps their own hearts would miss half a beat 
 through fear, regret or sentimentality. It had never oc- 
 curred to him, either, that the shifts and slips of youth held 
 the germ of so great permanence. A liaison should belong 
 to careless, uncalculating springtime. He wondered whether, 
 forty years later, he and Lucile Welman would meet 
 and be elaborately introduced by other old men and women 
 and make neutral conversation and separate to their own 
 homes and their own thoughts. He wondered, too, whether 
 his sons would make their discoveries when they came 
 to examine his will. . . . 
 
 "I wonder my father didn't do something for them at 
 the time," he murmured. 
 
 "I happen to know he did," Hatherly answered. "But 
 it's an uncertain world with plenty of ups and downs in it, 
 and, for all he knew, they might have had more downs 
 than ups." 
 
 As Hatherly, but not Deryk, was to find out within a 
 week, Sir Aylmer also desired to protect his heir and the 
 estate from unfounded claims. Two days after the funeral
 
 RECOVERY 267 
 
 a trim, obstinate-mouthed woman of fifty, in black bonnet 
 and dress, called with a wealth of papers and represented 
 herself as the widow of the deceased, from whom she had 
 been living apart for thirty years by arrangement in writing. 
 She demanded to see Deryk, but departed precipitately 
 when Hatherly explained himself to be the solicitor to the 
 estate and asked Benson to telephone for the police. 
 
 "It's an uncertain world," Hatherly repeated. "One of 
 the first things you'll have to do is to make a will of your 
 own. You're in the position of having no heir-at-law. If 
 you got knocked down by a car and killed, your estate 
 would go to the Crown. You'll have to think carefully 
 over what you want done." 
 
 Deryk's eyes travelled slowly round the ofiice until they 
 came to rest on the high mahogany double doors which 
 communicated with his father's study. 
 
 "I suppose it's always open to a man to refuse what 
 you leave him," he said. "Otherwise I think I should look 
 out for my worst enemy and make him my heir. It didn't 
 bring much happiness to the guv'nor, Hats, all this place 
 and the money and everything." 
 
 "He hadn't the health to enjoy it," Hatherly answered 
 conventionally. 
 
 "But, now that I've got it, what can I do with it? The 
 average man can't eat more than one dinner a night or 
 drink more than one bottle of even the most expensive 
 champagne with it. You can collect Corots, I suppose, but, 
 if they're for sale, you can buy 'em all in a week or two. 
 I've got ever}'thing I want — clothes, books, pictures ; and 
 I honestly believe I've done everything I want to do. You 
 can rule out sport, which I can't stand in any form; I like 
 travelling about and seeing places, but you and I have seen 
 pretty well every place we ever wanted to see." Hands in 
 pockets and frowning, he stared at Hatherly in perplexity. 
 "What would you do with it ? I shall keep on the guv'nor's 
 charities and all that, and they're likely to increase every 
 year, but so's my income, and they're only a flea-bite."
 
 268 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Hatherly locked the will in his safe and took up a posi- 
 tion in front of the fire. 
 
 "You've got youth and health on your side," he began. 
 "They say that money carries great power, but I've known 
 many men who've had money and very few who could 
 extract power from it." He turned and helped himself to 
 a cigar from the mantelpiece. "This reminds me very 
 much of your father's way of speaking five and twenty 
 years ago ; he said quite deliberately that ten men knew how 
 to make money for one who knew how to spend it. Ray- 
 mond Stornaway always said that he was the one, that it 
 was a natural gift with him, his one manifestation of 
 genius — and that he never had the opportunity. Since that 
 time he's made money of his own and spent it ; and he's 
 spent millions of other people's money. Perhaps he was 
 right; / certainly should have no idea what to do with it. 
 I've not got imagination enough to see beyond free hos- 
 pitals, public libraries, scholarships — the ordinary things." 
 
 "Has Stornaway?" Deryk asked. "That's all he does.'* 
 
 "He had much more romantic ideas when he was your 
 age," Hatherly answered. "There were wonderful schemes 
 for amelioration of working-class conditions, improvement 
 in health and education. He was sincerely convinced that 
 a group of rich men could dictate the internal policy of 
 every country, the diplomatic relations between countries; 
 that they could create their own parties and press and sup- 
 porters; he was prepared to take small children and edu- 
 cate them in his own doctrines until they were grown men 
 and the world was being gradually covered by 'School- 
 men' sent out by Stornaway. The autocracy of wealth, 
 in other words." Hatherly paused to laugh softly at his 
 memory of Raymond in the days of his most turbulent dis- 
 putatiousness. "Seriously, Deryk, why don't you talk to 
 him? He had a great influence over your father." 
 
 "I'm not sure that I shan't leave the whole estate to him," 
 Deryk answered with a smile. "You could get the thing 
 on to a single sheet of paper, couldn't you?"
 
 RECOVERY 269 
 
 "But what if Raymond predeceased you? He's a gen- 
 eration older." 
 
 "Oh, I was only thinking of a temporary precaution, in 
 case I got run over, as you suggest," Deryk answered. 
 
 On the day after the funeral, Yolande went as usual 
 into Deryk's room to bring him his breakfast." She found 
 him lying back on his pillows, silent and thoughtful, with 
 the day's letters and paper unread on the table by his side ; 
 in his hand was a bulky pile of manuscript with a heavily 
 sealed envelope on top. When she had put the tray on his 
 bed, he stared at it for some moments and then abruptly 
 thrust the papers towards her, telling her to read them. 
 
 "It's from my father," he explained, as she tried to 
 recognise the writing. "I want to know what you think 
 about it." 
 
 The envelope bore the words — "For Deryk Lancing. 
 Only to be opened after my death." The letter was dated 
 many months before, but the alternation of ink and pencil, 
 vigour and weakness in thought and expression suggested 
 that Sir Aylmer had spread his composition over a long 
 period. At one time his mind had worked so well that the 
 pen had raced ; he saw clearly, he knew what he wanted 
 and how alone it could be said ; at another his brain and 
 fingers fumbled. There was a blend of posturing and sin- 
 cerity, as he recalled that he had an attitude to maintain 
 or realised that his last pose would have collapsed before 
 Deryk came to read the letter; and the language was at 
 one moment pretentious as a leading article, at another 
 familiar, colloquial and unpolished, 
 
 "My dear Deryk," it began. 
 
 "A week ago Forsyte made up his mind that I was dying, 
 and at my request Hatherly went to London to tell you this 
 and to represent to you that it was your duty to come im- 
 mediately. I have not enquired the terms of your reply
 
 270 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to him, but you did not come. I wish you to understand 
 that nothing in this letter is intended as a reproach ; and 
 I only mention the facts because they convinced me that 
 no ordinary difference of opinion could be keeping us apart 
 at such a time. After consideration I have decided that no 
 harm can be done by my v/riting frankly on several sub- 
 jects which we have hitherto not discussed; I do not ask 
 or expect you to share my views or even to be affected by 
 them, and therefore the opportunity of even considering 
 them will be withheld until the time for discussion is past. 
 If I had anything to retract or undo, if I felt that I had 
 been wrong in my upbringing of you, I should hasten to 
 admit it and to make such amends as lay in my power. It 
 is because I deliberately abide by what I have done, how- 
 ever unhappy the consequences, that I think you should at 
 least know the motives of my actions; you can only guess 
 at them now, and I can only remind myself that you came 
 home after two years abroad, stayed in this house for less 
 than a week and went away again ; these are the facts, and 
 apart from them I, too, can only guess. It has been sug- 
 gested to me that you are staying away until I make a settle- 
 ment upon you ; if so, you have never given this as a reason ; 
 it has been suggested, again, that you were influenced by 
 your feelings towards Miss Penrose ; if so, I can only 
 remind you that they were never given as a reason. 
 
 "Hatherly has told you that, before you were born, a 
 trust was erected to safeguard you from some at least of 
 the perils to which the possession of very great wealth 
 would expose you. Though I believe you unlikely to get 
 into trouble by reason of your own folly or natural de- 
 pravity, you are still so young and inexperienced that, until 
 you have shewn yourself equal to the burden, I see no 
 reason to relax the considered precautions which I have 
 taken. I speak regretfully but without cynicism when I 
 say that there is little or nothing that most women would 
 not do in order to be your wife ; I say that men and women 
 alike will treat you differently throughout life according as 
 they do or do not know who you are; it is not always
 
 RECOVERY 271 
 
 intended, but they cannot help it; women will sincerely 
 believe themselves to be in love with you and would as 
 sincerely discover their mistake on the day they found you 
 penniless ; you have ever to be on your guard against an 
 extra surface cordiality. 
 
 "I should be foolish to assay how much any one woman 
 would be influenced, I do not know whether you ever asked 
 Miss Penrose to marry you, but I have decided to say this 
 before dismissing her from the discussion. Though she 
 would never have given you the stimulus which you re- 
 quire, though her world was a different world, a smaller 
 world, though women — the so-called 'adaptable sex' — never 
 rise to their husbands' rank in a socially unequal marriage, 
 she was personally unexceptional, and, though I could never 
 regard her as your intellectual equal or even associate, I 
 should not have opposed your union when once I was satis- 
 fied that it was not mere youthful infatuation. But I should 
 have permitted no engagement until you had convinced 
 yourselves and me that you were indispensable to each 
 other. You may think that that is for you to decide, but 
 I am looking beyond a single lifetime. 
 
 "I made a gigantic fortune unexpectedly in a strange 
 country. I had then to abandon a country where a mil- 
 lionaire is absorbed and return to one where there is no 
 millionaire-class per sc, where, too, I had the social and 
 professional status of an unsuccessful barrister, where I 
 had shot ahead of any friends I may ever have had. 
 There was no question of my starting again ; my life was 
 over. But I had to determine what social niche you were 
 to occupy, what was to be your career and what use was 
 to be made of my fortune. The third question is unan- 
 swered, the second you will have to answer for yourself — 
 perhaps you are answering it now ; the first was answered 
 for me by your school and university — to my disappoint- 
 ment and misgiving at the time, for they had failed to make 
 anything of me, and I returned from America with a re- 
 publican intolerance of the English governing class, which 
 to me was parasitic and meant exclusiveness, incompetence
 
 272 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 and unworthiness of aim. To you, I think, that is all that 
 it means now, but you will have to outgrow and you will 
 outgrow that intolerant superiority, as I did. I was analyt- 
 ical and contem.ptuous as you are of men like Pebbleridge, 
 who hunt four days a week, enjoy hereditary dignities, 
 power and local influence — and are nothing as men or rul- 
 ers. It was one of my nightmares that you would grow up 
 like one of his sons. 
 
 "I think that the South African War changed that feel- 
 ing. My despised governing class, not surrendering to war- 
 fever, not thinking of war as a glorified polo, not looking 
 for decorations or promotion, went out and, as to many of 
 them, never came back. Pebbleridge lost two sons, and 
 the third ran away from school and was shot through the 
 lungs a month after landing. So there is now no heir to 
 the title. But Pebbleridge doesn't complain: they had to 
 go : South Africa, the whole empire, is only Bishop's Cross 
 on a large scale; it's their estate which they have to run — 
 and they can't tolerate other classes claiming to run it for 
 them or share in the control. Other classes no doubt made 
 the same sacrifices, but I had not singled out any other 
 class for facile condemnation. As in war, so in peace. I 
 don't know whether you were ever at home when Oak- 
 leigh's friend Loring came down. He is young, able, 
 rather indolent, with a liking for pleasure ; but he was in- 
 defatigable in the House of Lords. However much it 
 irked him, his career was the public service, and the public 
 service was his career. He disliked it, I daresay, as much 
 as the Duke of Devonshire disliked it: he did not care for 
 any phantom sense of power which it might bring him : it 
 was his job. And, if the sense of power had amused him, 
 that is only to say that an unmixed motive is the symptom 
 and characteristic of fanaticism. 
 
 "Now that, Deryk, is a spirit and a class which are lack- 
 ing in America. You need a territorial aristocracy to breed 
 it ; you need continuity, tradition and the trustee sense which 
 you find in an Oxford College or an Inn of Court — the sense 
 that you hold for those who come after you what was held
 
 RECOVERY 273 
 
 for you by those who went before. I have never spent a 
 night away from this house since I came here, so that, 
 though the Stornaways and my neighbours may regard me 
 as an upstart, I feel that I have lived here until the spirit of 
 the place has entered into my soul. I would rather starve 
 than sell this place as Stornaway sold it to me. It is the sym- 
 bol of tradition, of inherited service, of public life. I hand it 
 on to you for you to enjoy and hand on to your son ; so long 
 as it remains that symbol, you will not betray the tradition. 
 It is only the territorial aristocracy that has a family his- 
 tory; other classes migrate, marry, scatter, die — unrecorded 
 and without leaving a trace behind. Who cares about them 
 whether they lead honourable lives or not? They are un- 
 known. But, if you were cited as a co-respondent, all 
 England would discuss it: there is a graver responsibility 
 attaching to you, and you will hesitate until you have de- 
 cided that your position forbids you to trip. You have 
 seen or read of scandals in this class, but how few they 
 are ! In politics two men of my time were involved in what 
 would pass as venial in any other country; both men were 
 broken. 
 
 "I have told you that I came to admire the aristocracy 
 of this country for the very reason which formerly aroused 
 my contempt. It is hereditary. Now, I inherited nothing — 
 that is to say, nothing but arms and legs, colouring, physi- 
 cal characteristics. The rest of me was made by myself, 
 and I hand it on to you and your children's children. You 
 start life as one of the richest men in the world and with 
 every day that goes by you will discover more of the power 
 of riches, you will speculate more on their potentiality. I 
 do not profess to have made much headway, for my life 
 came to an end as I tried my first experiment. In addition 
 to money you inherit brains — as you shewed at school, and 
 at the university — determination, endurance — as you are 
 shewing now — and, I hope, judgment. I have brought you 
 up in the society, the surroundings and the atmosphere of 
 the class which I have been discussing. You are scorn- 
 fully aware of its defects, and the narrowness of its life
 
 274 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 is irksome to you — (Confess that you allow yourself to 
 be too easily bored. And agree with me that the life led by 
 anyone else always is narrow ; a Prime Minister goes from 
 Cabinet to House and from House back to Cabinet: what 
 a life ! Resist the excess of analysis and logic : the world 
 does not act from pure reason, nor are you purely reason- 
 able yourself, and 30U do not wish to be barrenly 'superior,* 
 Deryk). I have provided the home and the material means 
 for a family which, so far as human prophecy can say, will 
 never have to work for a livelihood ; you and your children 
 can devote yourselves to public life as naturally, as in- 
 evitably as a Cecil or Cavendish. 
 
 "And, Deryk, though you are academically inclined at 
 present, though I have always wanted you to do what you 
 could best do, I believe and hope that you will be drawn 
 into government. First of all, you will discover, as I did, 
 the fascination of controlling people — (I, the unsuccessful 
 barrister, could hold people up so that they could not 
 move from one state to another; I determined to some 
 extent where they were to live, and how) ; then, when they 
 are at your mercy, you will want to reform them, to make 
 them happier — (All this reminds me so strongly of Ray- 
 mond Stornaway when he was your age). In the next 
 place you will be driven into the open to protect your own 
 property and preserve your own influence. Of course, 
 when once you are in the open, you will not be allowed 
 to go back. There are so few like you, Derj^k, and you 
 are so badly wanted ; men who have been brought up like 
 the Cecils in an atmosphere of politics and with a tradi- 
 tion of politics behind them, men who look upon them- 
 selves as the trustees and guardians of their countrymen, 
 men, above all, who can afford to wait. In public hfe there 
 is no greater danger than a poor man ; there is also no 
 stronger man than the man who can wait and, if need be, 
 resign power, even withdraw from public life until the 
 tumult and the shouting die. Consider Hartington refusing 
 to be stampeded by Gladstone over Home Rule or by 
 Chamberlain over a tariff; in either case he thought the
 
 RECOVERY 275 
 
 policy wrong and bad, he said so, he left the government 
 that was flirting with such dangerous stufif. I believe 
 Chamberlain thought that Home Rule would not pay and 
 that a tariff would — pay as electoral issues, I mean ; origi- 
 nally he was not opposed in principle to the first, he was 
 to the second ; he had gone into politics late in life, he could 
 not afford to wait. 
 
 "When you have tasted domestic power, you will not 
 be content to stop short. It will not be enough to control 
 the people in one country by holding up supplies ; that will 
 be swamped and obliterated when tlie people of that coun- 
 try are thrown into conflict with other peoples. (You have 
 probably been discussing this with George Oakleigh ; if not, 
 you must.) The whole world is at the mercy of a few 
 governments working secretly and committing millions of 
 people to something from which they cannot withdraw and 
 which they cannot control. You, as a pawn in the game, 
 must not submit to that (I am speaking democratically for 
 the moment) ; speaking as myself or in your place, we are 
 too considerable to be ignored or upset by a rival political 
 power. As I see it, the conflict of the future — as in a 
 sense it has been the conflict in the past — will be between 
 organised wealth and the old governing machine ; and I 
 forecast that the units of wealth will draw closer and 
 closer together as their interests become identified and as 
 they try to eliminate competition and waste. The present 
 process of amalgamation will increase geometrically; 
 America is, of course, far ahead of this country, but you 
 may live to see all banking in England unified in a single 
 corporation and all railways similarly unified, as already 
 the competing lines are beginning to pool their traffic. You 
 can see the shipping lines, east and west, combining; I 
 have no doubt that the mines will follow. This will go on, 
 the units of wealth will become interlaced (/ started with 
 a strip of burnt prairie and within five years I was carry- 
 ing my own grain on my own system; I could not help it), 
 the mines, the ships, the railways will be in the same hands, 
 and the number of hands will ever diminish. Then — these
 
 276 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 prophecies are rash, but I am convinced that this must be 
 the natural development of wealth — either the government 
 of the world will be administered by a committee of rich 
 men who feed, clothe and carry the people of the world, 
 or else the old government machine will assume control of 
 this financial power, on the ground that it is too great to 
 be outside the government. Perhaps it will come to the 
 same thing. The possession of wealth and the control of 
 government cannot be separated. 
 
 'T am not rash enough to prophesy how soon this fusion 
 will be effected; nor can I say what you and your genera- 
 tion will be able to do. I have done nothing myself beyond 
 thinking and speculating. You, I fancy, have not yet even 
 begun to think. That is why I have written this letter. 
 After full consideration I can offer no advice, but I do not 
 feel that the letter will have been wasted, if I make you 
 appreciate the power which I have put in your hands and 
 the position in which I have placed you and your children. 
 The potentialities are more tangible than if you were 
 Prince of Wales now or if you were to become Prime 
 Minister in thirty years' time. This is not grandilo- 
 quence or megalomania ; I know what I have done, I can 
 guess what more I might have done, if I had enjoyed full 
 powers during the last fifteen years instead of sitting help- 
 lessly watching you and wondering what you would become. 
 
 "But, Der}^k, it is not my first wish that you should 
 devote yourself to the pursuit of power : I am merely 
 indicating your opportunities. My first wish for my own 
 and only son is that he should be happy. You wanted to 
 stay in England two years ago and study the later history 
 of Greece. I would sooner have you do that, I would 
 sooner have you follow any other worthy aim than feel 
 at the end of your life that you were wasted. This dying 
 is an interesting business. With me it has gone on for 
 fifteen years ; save at the very beginning, when I would 
 gladly have ended my life, I have not wanted to die, I have 
 pulled myself back again and again when Forsyte has 
 given me up ; I do not want to die now, but I am prepared,
 
 RECOVERY 277 
 
 as I have always been, I want to stay here as long as I 
 can, I want to watch you. It is so commonplace and yet 
 so incredible that, if I die to-night, the world which seems 
 a part of me will go on to-morrow as before. I cannot 
 appreciate my consciousness suddenly ceasing to register. 
 And, when I say good-bye to you, as I do now, I cannot 
 feel that it is the last good-bye. Years ago, when I first 
 went to America, I said good-bye to Hatherly ; I never 
 meant to come back, I knew that I should never see him 
 again, and yet the words were only words. So now, while 
 we are both alive, I cannot feel the finality which the words 
 convey to my head. 
 
 "My blessing goes with you always, Deryk. I repeat that 
 I see no need to modify or apologise for anything I have 
 done : I should behave in the same way if the same situa- 
 tion presented itself to me to-morrow. I leave untouched 
 the trust that I deliberately erected for your protection, 
 feeling, as I do, that, though you are shaping well, though 
 I am getting confidence in you, you are still too young and 
 your position is still so exposed that the protection cannot 
 wisely be withdrawn. 
 
 "Good-bye, m.y son. 
 
 "Your loving father, 
 "Aylmer Lancing." 
 
 Yolande put the letter back in its wax-bespattered en- 
 velope and looked up to find Deryk's eyes upon her. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, I want weeks to think about this!" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Deryk looked thoughtfully out of the window. 
 
 "He must have wanted me pretty badly at the end," he 
 murmured, "when he did upset the trust." Then his hands 
 went up and covered his face. "My God! Yolande, there 
 was so much I wanted to tell him !" 
 
 5 
 As soon as Deryk was well enough to get up and go to 
 bed at normal hours, Yolande announced that she must 
 return to London and complete the arrangements for her
 
 278 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 marriage. The date on which she had fixed in her own 
 mind had been postponed, but Deryk did not guess this, 
 and she said no more than that the wedding would take 
 place very quietly in the new year. They were then going 
 to live for a few weeks in Chelsea, while Felix completed 
 and delivered his first course of lectures; as soon as the 
 spring had made Hellenopolis tolerable for a woman who 
 had never experienced the rigours of its wind-swept winter, 
 she was to accompany him there and stay till the end of 
 the summer. 
 
 On her last evening at Ripley Court Deryk left Hatherly 
 to smoke and slumber in the dining-room while he carried 
 her away to the library and hesitatingly thanked her for 
 coming to look after him. 
 
 "But you know I v/as always very fond of you!" she 
 laughed. 
 
 "Yes, but it's rather dififerent when you're just going to 
 be married. In Felix's place I should have objected rather 
 violently." 
 
 "He's never violent, but he did object," Yolande con- 
 fessed. "However, I told him I'd known you much longer 
 than him. Deryk, I know it's a tiresome question, but what 
 are you going to do with yourself now?" 
 
 There was no answer for some moments. Deryk sat 
 looking into the fire and thinking how wonderfully empty 
 the house would seem without Yolande. He would have to 
 spend some months working daily to learn from Hatherly 
 the outline of his own business affairs ; and, when he was 
 qualified to deal with them, he would have to be at hand 
 for a few hours each day to see that the machine ran 
 smoothly. This, indeed, he would have to do all his life, 
 even if he never set himself to solve the larger problem 
 which had baffled his father. Hatherly would come to do 
 less and less ; ultimately he would do nothing at all ; he was 
 growing elderly and had only surrendered himself out of 
 friendship to Sir Aylmer; in three or six months he might 
 well ask to be relieved of his duties. Then the great house 
 with its enveloping silence, which was outraged by a burn-
 
 RECOVERY 279 
 
 ing coal falling from the grate, would be Deryk's alone. 
 Phillimore, growing drowsier each day, would keep his 
 books and file his letters ; Benson with his professional 
 cheerfulness and his wife with her comfortable maternal 
 attitude and diction would stay on for a time until he had 
 settled down, but they, too, wanted to retire; the younger 
 servants would leave, half a dozen at a time, as they had 
 come. And another half dozen, equally unknown to him, 
 would take their place. He could always fill the house, of 
 course; his friends were without number, they liked him, 
 they enjoyed coming, a week-end at Ripley Court was a 
 coveted privilege. Or so they said; his father's letter had 
 warned him to discount even the most disinterested smile 
 of friendliness. . . . 
 
 "You talked about my coming out with you and Felix," 
 he said at length. 
 
 "Would you be able to get away?" Yolande asked. "I 
 suggested it when your father was alive, of course. Would 
 it really interest you, Deryk? Felix says it's frightfully 
 rough and you have to be full of enthusiasm to put up 
 with it." 
 
 Deryk rose and fetched her a copy of the essay with 
 which he had won the Cresswell Prize four years earlier — 
 "Trade Routes of the Mediterranean Littoral from Alex- 
 ander to Constantine." 
 
 "If that's not enthusiasm, what is?" he demanded with 
 a laugh. Then he went back to his chair by the fire, gaz- 
 ing into it and shielding his face with one hand. "As you 
 know, I wanted to devote my whole life to this kind of 
 thing. You see, I always think that Athens between the 
 Persian and Peloponnesian Wars reached a relatively 
 higher standard of civilisation than has ever been known 
 before or since. It bloomed more tropically, I mean. Well, 
 I always wanted to know more than the books told me. I 
 wanted to know " 
 
 He talked, more to himself than to her, for half an hour, 
 pulling himself up at last with a self-conscious apology. 
 
 "I don't mind how long you go on in that line," she
 
 28o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 reassured him. "Well, are you going on where you left 
 off when you came down from Oxford?" 
 
 Deryk shivered and came out of his dreams. 
 
 "I don't know. I'm so infernally restless. I like talking 
 about it, but I don't at all know that I'm keen to settle 
 down in harness again." 
 
 Yolande shook her head gravely. 
 
 "If you don't, Deryk- 
 
 «i 
 
 *I know. I'm honestly going to try; I think it's what 
 the guv'nor would have liked, but I get so tired of things !" 
 He laughed, and there was little but impatience in the 
 laugh. "I'm not sure that I'm not really coming with you 
 because I'm afraid of being left alone here with nothing 
 to do." 
 
 "But you've got more to do than you'll ever get into 
 one life. Surely you see that ? Even without your father's 
 letter." 
 
 "But how am I to start?" he demanded almost queru- 
 lously. 
 
 "Go and talk to uncle Raymond." 
 
 "I'm going to, you may be quite sure. Yolande, what 
 did you think of that letter?" 
 
 She looked long into the glowing fire before answering, 
 and, when she spoke, it could be seen that she was sorting 
 her ideas. 
 
 "I disagreed with most of it," she began, "because he 
 was trying to force biology into a channel of his own, and 
 you can't do it. But I agree that you're morally com- 
 mitted to a life of public service. Not for his reasons, 
 though." She hesitated again. "You both of you seem 
 to miss one very important thing, and that is that you're 
 in debt to the rest of the world and that you've got to pay 
 your debt. Sir Aylmer began to make money by being 
 clever enough to get hold of something that other people 
 thought valueless. Well, he has been paid for his clever- 
 ness, but you're not entitled to go on making other people 
 pay you. You didn't invent anything or make anything; 
 you just bought cheaply something that other people wanted
 
 RECOVERY 281 
 
 so badly that you could make them pay you any price you 
 liked. And, following on that, you, who had got the money, 
 made comers in dozens of things that other people had to 
 have. Well, you're entitled to be paid for your enter- 
 prise and your organisation, but you've been paid for that 
 already, and the rest ought to go back for the good of 
 your fellows. I'm not singling you out, of course; the 
 people who own land where a city wants to spread itself 
 are in exactly the same position. So, you see, that's where 
 I go farther than Sir Aylmer or you; you've no right to 
 the money, you've got to get rid of it." 
 
 Deryk nodded slowly. 
 
 "Well, if I accept all that," he said. "I don't want it, I 
 shouldn't know what to do with it, if I kept it. The ques- 
 tion is, how am I to get rid of it?" 
 
 "Talk to uncle Raymond," she counselled him again. 
 
 A few days later Deryk did in fact invite Raymond 
 Stornaway to dine with him alone and talk business. He 
 explained lengthily, without interruption, encouragement 
 or dissent; the result was to be profoundly unsatisfactory. 
 
 "Tell me exactly what you want to do," Raymond said 
 at the end, "and I'll tell you if I can help you to do it." 
 
 Deryk placed his elbows on the table and recapitulated 
 his explanation. 
 
 "Well, sir, I've got an income that I couldn't spend if I 
 wanted to. You always hear of other people not being able 
 to do things because they haven't the money; here's the 
 money. How am I to use it ?" 
 
 Raymond smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "What do you want to dof" he asked again. "Do you 
 mean to provide free opera houses for the poorer classes? 
 That's an unexceptionable ambition, but perhaps you agree 
 with me that very few things are worth having — or appre- 
 ciated, when you've got them — unless you have to make 
 some sort of struggle to get them. Or you can provide 
 free meals for the poor, which I don't recommend. What 
 do you wmitf" 
 
 "I don't know," Dery^k answered.
 
 282 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Then you're going to have such an education as comes 
 to few men," Raymond answered cheerfully. "I know 
 what / want, but I've thought it out painfully over a course 
 of years, and I'm not going to tell you. You've got to think 
 it out for yourself. It won't make a great deal of differ- 
 ence to mankind or even the Lancing Trust Corporation 
 if you spend ten or twenty years experimenting and learn- 
 ing. And then you'll be in a position to pay for your 
 fancies. I'll discuss projects with you any time, but I'm 
 not going to save you the trouble of taking a great oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 Deryk sipped his wine thoughtfully and looked across 
 at the kindly, bantering face opposite him. 
 
 "George Oakleigh introduced me the other night to a 
 friend of his called David O'Rane," he said. "His great 
 ambition seems to be to rescue prostitutes and get the 
 Congo away from the Belgians. I suppose I'm hardly rich 
 enough for that." 
 
 "I don't know any man who is," Raymond answered. 
 "You don't abolish cruelty to women, children, animals or 
 native races by that means. And I take it that your friend 
 wants to abolish inhumanity rather than to rescue a few 
 hundred thousand people who are suffering from its effects. 
 Strike deeper, my boy." 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. 
 
 "You can educate them, I suppose," he said. 
 
 "They've been brought up on the milk of Christianity 
 for two thousand years. Europe — Germany — was a Chris- 
 tian country throughout all the dark infamies of the Palat- 
 inate War ; it needn't humanise men much. I don't want 
 to hurt your feelings in any way, I don't know anything 
 about your religious susceptibilities " 
 
 "Oh, I don't believe in anything," Deryk interrupted 
 lightly. "But would you say that Christianity has never 
 affected the ordinary lives of men? The early martyrs, 
 the ascetics, the Crusaders, if you like " 
 
 Raymond's eyes gleamed hopefully, as he shook his head. 
 
 "It was an influential belief then," he said. "Just as
 
 RECOVERY 283 
 
 Mohammedanism is now. And for the same reason — be- 
 cause it was run on a paying basis. The paid, professing 
 clergy would never agree, but I claim that Christianity 
 ceased to be effective when a man ceased to think that his 
 sins would be visited on his head in a material hell ; when 
 he ceased to fear, in other words. Fear's far more potent 
 than love. The decline started early, because the Church 
 based itself on its power as a mediator and interpreter; 
 what killed Christianity was the Church ; you cannot keep 
 men in the belief that they will expiate their sins in pools 
 of liquid fire, if anyone — the Redeemer himself, let alone 
 his vicars — have power of absolution and dispensation. 
 The Church made hell a put-up job, and the martyrs wilted. 
 But, if you could make it a real thing once more, if you 
 could persuade people of hell as convincingly as a Moham- 
 medan can be made to believe that he passes straight to 
 Paradise, if he dies on behalf of the True Faith !" s 
 
 Raymond left the sentence unfinished and threw his 
 hands into the air. Deryk would only shake his head and 
 push back his chair. 
 
 "Shall we go upstairs?" he suggested. "You won't get 
 people to believe that nowadays, sir. And it would be the 
 greatest possible set-back to human progress, if you could." 
 
 "I have seen enough of human progress to notice some 
 of its shortcomings," Raymond commented drily. "Leave 
 that out, though. Why would it be a set-back?" 
 
 Deryk swept his arm round in a half-circle. 
 
 "Doctrines apart, you would be enslaving the mind of 
 the world to a new pope," he declared. 
 
 Raymond laid one hand earnestly on the boy's shoulder. 
 
 "But / should be the new pope," he explained. 
 
 There was a laugh of grudging concession. 
 
 "I thought you meant it seriously," said Deryk. 
 
 "I do. I tell you, as I told your father years before you 
 were born, that I wanted to make mankind believe as I 
 believe. I could do it, too; I could start doing it to-mor- 
 row, if I had the money. It would take some years, per- 
 haps some generations, but against modern skepticism I
 
 284 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 would set modern methods of publicity. I tell you in all 
 seriousness that I would undertake to convert the whole 
 world to my doctrines — they're essentially reasonable doc- 
 trines — within a century, if I had the money." 
 
 They had reached the smoking-room, and Deryk looked 
 about for two empty chairs. 
 
 "What are the doctrines?" he asked. 
 
 "I am not going to help you any more at present," Ray- 
 mond answered. "What would you do, if you wanted to 
 humanise the world?" 
 
 Once more Deryk shrugged his shoulders helplessly. 
 
 "I don't know," he said. '*I asked the question because 
 I shan't be here to see it carried out. When I go out to 
 Asia Minor with Felix and Yolande, I propose to provide 
 against accidents by making a will and leaving everything 
 to you to do exactly what you like with. If I outlive you, 
 of course you won't get the money — or, if I marry, for 
 that matter; and, if you outlive me, equally I shan't see 
 you getting to work." He stopped to laugh at Raymond's 
 expression of surprise. "I'm quite serious, sir. I haven't 
 yet even begun to know what to do with the money, I've 
 never met anyone who did or could even offer a new sug- 
 gestion. But everyone tells me that you'd have no diffi- 
 culty; you tell me so yourself, and I accept your word. 
 I think it's only fair, though, that, if I pool the money, 
 you should pool the ideas." 
 
 Raymond looked closely at him. 
 
 "Could you carry them out?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know what they are." 
 
 "Would you try?" 
 
 Deryk laughed and refused to commit himself. 
 
 "I attach no conditions to the money," he pointed out. 
 "You ought to be equally generous with the scheme. Then 
 I could go away with an easy conscience and stay abroad 
 as long as I liked. On my honour I've told Hatherly to 
 get to work on the will." 
 
 "If it's true, you're an idle young scamp," said Raymond. 
 "If it's not true, you're a disrespectful young scamp. Order
 
 RECOVERY 285 
 
 me some coffee, or I'll never come and dine with you 
 again." 
 
 That night he wrote to his niece, "I like your young 
 friend; he improves on acquaintance, but he's extraordi- 
 narily helpless and alone. Bones a bit soft, too; and I 
 shouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd grown too fast 
 or that all his strength had gone to his brain. He's neu- 
 rotic, but I don't suppose his dear ruffian of a father could 
 be expected to have a normal, healthy son. He's astonish- 
 ingly young, of course. . . ." 
 
 At the beginning of the new year Yolande and Felix 
 were prosaically married in London; Deryk lent them 
 Ripley Court for their honeymoon and came up to town 
 on business until its end. One item, as he had warned 
 Raymond, was the new will, and it was signed at the 
 end of January. A month later, all three of them left 
 England for Trieste and an Austrian Lloyd island steamer 
 for Hellenopolis.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT 
 
 "The disappointment of manhood succeeds to the delusion of 
 youth : let us hope that the heritage of old age is not despair." 
 
 Disraeli: Vivian Grey. 
 
 Standing on deck and watching the English coastline 
 contract, fade and finally merge in an indeterminate haze 
 between sea and sky, Deryk calculated that almost exactly 
 a year had passed since he and Hatherly stood, braced 
 against the wind, watching an indeterminate haze between 
 sea and sky looming, defining and growing until it finally 
 leapt into focus as the English coastline. The time seemed 
 longer, more than a year's activity had been crowded into 
 the twelve months ; assuredly he was more than a year 
 older. As the very haze melted from view, he turned to 
 watch for the French coast, wondering how long he was 
 to be away and what would await him on his return. He 
 was glad to be escaping into comparative solitude, where 
 he would be able to think, able to rest his dancing nerves, 
 able to win back the habit of work and the old critical joy 
 in making the work fine. 
 
 When he joined Yolande and Felix at Charing Cross, he 
 had been sufficiently nervous and excited to make both 
 wonder whether a second collapse was preparing. He 
 would only say that he had been kept rather too busy 
 "clearing up odds and ends," but, while the train waited in 
 the station and the scattered groups by the doors coalesced 
 into a long, unbroken line, his eyes were restlessly search- 
 ing the crowd, as though he expected each newcomer to be 
 looking for him. As the train began to move away, he 
 
 286
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 287 
 
 wrapped a rug round his knees and settled peacefully 
 •enough to his papers ; at Dover a telegraph boy was stand- 
 ing by the gangway, repeating "Sir Deryk Lancing" to 
 every male passenger. Yolande saw him take the envelope 
 with an air of reluctant obligation ; she also saw him crump- 
 ling it unopened into a tight ball and tossing it over the 
 side of the steamer. Their eyes met, and Deryk blushed. 
 
 "I believe it's going to be a rough crossing," she said 
 with hastily assumed apprehension. 
 
 Deryk wondered, as he had never ceased wondering since 
 his breakdown, how much Yolande knew or suspected, 
 above all whether he had let any names pass his lips in the 
 endless nights, when he never knew if he was awake or 
 dreaming. 
 
 He had hardly returned to his rooms in London, after 
 leaving Ripley Court to Felix and his wife, before Lucile 
 Welman called upon him. Professionally sensitive to 
 psychological atmosphere, she had whispered a phrase of 
 sympathy on his loss and quickly withdrawn. Two days 
 later she invited him to dine with her "quite quietly" ; three 
 days after that she called again. Deryk was reduced to 
 instructing his landlord to say that he was out, when next 
 she called ; he cut short telephone conversations with prompt 
 resolution, when she begged him to come and advise her, 
 as she was in trouble ; when she wrote, he began by leaving 
 the letters unanswered and left them later unread. The 
 honeymoon was over, he was making his last arrangements 
 and buying his last clothes, when they met unexpectedly 
 in Bond Street. Her foot was on the step of her car, and 
 she almost dragged him inside and told her chauffeur to 
 drive through the Park and home. 
 
 "I should never have thought you naturally cruel," she 
 began invitingly. "Of course, I know now that you never, 
 never cared for me, but there are ways of breaking it. 
 When one writes and gets no answer " 
 
 "Did you invite me to drive with you for the sake of 
 telling me this?" Deryk interrupted wearily. 
 
 "You don't seem to know it yourself." She covered her
 
 288 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 cheeks with her hands, looking at him tragically over her 
 finger-tips. "My God, I wonder if you can possibly, pos- 
 sibly conceive what I've been through! Why did you do 
 it, Deryk?" 
 
 "Why did I do what?" 
 
 "Why did you kick me away like a mongrel cur? I 
 know you had to go away, I called to say how sorry I was. 
 But when you were back, when I begged you to see 
 me 
 
 Deryk leaned across her and pulled up the window. 
 
 "As I don't feel that your chauffeur can help," he said, 
 "I see no reason for making him a party to the discussion. 
 There were several reasons ; the one I propose to give you 
 is tliat I'm leaving England in a week or two and conse- 
 quently I've been very busy. If it's any consolation, I've 
 seen no one." 
 
 She turned on him with primitive possessiveness. 
 
 "Where are you going to?" she demanded. 
 
 "Asia Minor. I shall be away some months." 
 
 "And you never told me ?" 
 
 Her attitude of injury and outraged dignity seemed to 
 Deryk forced and theatrical. He only wanted to escape 
 from the car; she had mounted on to a plane of emotion 
 where he could not follow her, even if he wanted to. 
 
 "It was in the papers, I believe," he told her shortly. 
 
 "I don't expect to have to look in the papers to see when 
 you're tired of me." 
 
 Deryk affected a drawl of indifference to hide his rising 
 impatience. 
 
 "Surely our intimacy ended some time ago," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 She turned away to conceal her face from him. 
 
 "You can say that — to me!" she cried. 
 
 "If I said anything else, you might like it less," he warned 
 her. 
 
 "I couldn't." 
 
 "I might tell you the whole truth, Lucile," he answered. 
 "As it is, I see no point in recriminations. Don't reproach
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 289 
 
 me, and I won't reproach you. I think I shall get out here. 
 Let's say good-bye with a good grace." 
 
 His hand was stretching out to the indicator, but she 
 gripped his wrist and brought him back. 
 
 "I won't let you go," she whispered fiercely. "You're 
 everything, everything in the world to me, I can't get on 
 without you." The savage yearning died out of her voice, 
 and she caught his hand and pressed it to her lips. "Oh, 
 Deryk, you do still love me ! Say you love me !" 
 
 An almost imperceptible lisp had come into her speech, 
 and she was eliding the y of "you." The artifice, and the 
 fact that he recognised it to be an artifice, swept away all 
 his affectation of indifference and left him starkly hating her 
 until he only wanted the glowing satisfaction of hurting her. 
 He opened his mouth to remind her of their proximity at 
 the Albert Hall, but a new moderation restrained and told 
 him that he would afterwards regret any outward harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 "There will never be any lack of men to tell you that," 
 he answered. 
 
 "I gave you everything, and now you throw it back in my 
 face. I risked ever}^thing " 
 
 "We shall do no good by going over all this again. I will 
 get out, Lucile." 
 
 There was a moment's struggle, but this time he reached 
 the indicator and turned it until the car slowed down and 
 stopped. When it was too late he discovered that he was 
 getting out almost half a mile from the nearest gate at 
 perhaps the most inexplicable and least plausible part of 
 the Park. As the chauffeur clambered round to open the 
 door, she found time to say, "You shan't go ! I tell you, I 
 won't let you go" ; then her voice became decorous and 
 conventional in the man's hearing. 
 
 " 'Fraid I must get out here," said Deryk elaborately. 
 "Mustn't be late, you know. Good-bye." 
 
 From that day he had not seen her, and the uncertainty 
 whether she was taking him at his word or preparing to 
 launch another attack haunted him until the moment when
 
 290 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 the train gathered speed and sHd away from Charing Cross. 
 Then something told him instinctively that he had won, 
 that no fresh attack would be launched, even when he re- 
 turned to England, and that, if it were, he could repel it 
 without difficulty. Lucile Welman had gone out of his life 
 unregretted, as she had come into it undesired; but he felt 
 that she had taken something with her that he could never 
 win back. His idealising reverence for women, artificially 
 fostered through a lonely and shy boyhood, was gone; his 
 very interest in them was dwindling out of recognition; he 
 knew all that he wanted about women. . . . 
 
 The steamer made Anactis one night at eleven o'clock, 
 and the party gathered itself and a formidable equipment 
 into the single modest hotel. The caravan was under way 
 by noon, and, after an interval for dinner and two more 
 hours' ride in the moonlight, Felix led them to a flat ex- 
 panse at the very foot of the mountains. For half a mile 
 each way they saw that the surface had been broken into 
 blue-grey ghostly dunes : in the streets laid bare and in the 
 unrevealing flat turf under their feet lay all that remained 
 of a city where once at such a time the night had resounded 
 with the echo of footsteps and voices raised in altercation 
 or laughter. 
 
 "Th-this is Hellenopolis," said Felix. "D'you re-recog- 
 nise it, Yolande, from my description on the Terrace?" 
 
 They reined in their mules and sat gazing at the expanse 
 of silver stillness. To their left clustered a dozen wooden 
 shanties, and, as they looked, a man in blouse and loose 
 trousers stamped out the fire, stared at them and came for- 
 ward. "L-Luigi, my foreman," explained Felix. To the 
 right were two bungalows, joined by a primxitive veranda 
 and containing three rooms in all. Ahead of them, after 
 the flat tombstone which had lain for five centuries over 
 Hellenopolis a bare, rocky mountain towered above them, 
 rising with startling suddenness. The smooth blackness of 
 its glistening face was broken by a torrent which leapt and 
 foamed in a trellis of white cascades to the gloomy mouth 
 of a cavern. Running underground for half a mile, it re-
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 291 
 
 appeared to their left and lost itself in the reed-grown, 
 scum-specked swamp which filled the valley with malaria 
 for a third of the year. 
 
 In the days when Hellenopolis was a popular township, 
 the shrine of an oracle and the first house of call for thirty 
 generations of Phoenician, Greek and Syrian merchants 
 passing from Anactis over the foothills into the hinterland, 
 the stream had flowed through the centre of the city, bear- 
 ing with it a cleansing cold wind from the mountains and 
 washing impurities far out to sea. In the five centuries of 
 neglect and desolation following on the Turkish capture and 
 sack, the sand on the foreshore had silted up to form the 
 marsh, and in the destruction of the city the stream had 
 changed its course. 
 
 "N-no one knows where it runs now," said Felix. "I'm 
 always c-coming across it in unexpected places. It goes 
 far too near my 1-library for my peace of m-mind ; we 
 should have to stop work for a m-month, if we had to 
 d-dam the stream and d-divert it." 
 
 He turned the head of his mule towards the bungalow, 
 spoke for a moment with his foreman and began to move 
 away, but his companions were fascinated by the spectacle 
 of what had been done and the boundless possibilities of 
 what remained to do, 
 
 "I wonder if Pompeii was like this," Yolande murmured. 
 
 "How was it when you first came here?" Deryk called 
 out. 
 
 Felix swept his arm round the smooth, moonlit lawn and 
 unreluctantly rode back to them. 
 
 "A stretch of grass to the foot of the mountain," he said, 
 "with jagged c-corners sticking out here and there. You 
 see the g-gradient ; once you t-tamper with the lowest build- 
 ings, everything falls on top of them. According to the 
 b-books, that first slope was covered with houses all b-but- 
 tressed by the b-buildings in the street. C-cut away the 
 street, p-push the houses down the slope, clear away the 
 people, p-postulate a moist climate where grass grows 
 quickly, and N-Nature does the rest, as they say."
 
 292 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "But how did you find the place at all?" Yolande en- 
 quired. "No, I won't go to bed, Felix." 
 
 He withdrew his hand from her wrist and rubbed his 
 forehead reflectively. 
 
 "I'd been out d-digging round the tomb of Pausanias," he 
 explained. "They g-gave me a Wanscot travelling f-fellow- 
 ship, you know, and, when I'd finished, I came across 
 country and reined in about a yard from here. It's a w-won- 
 derful sight, you know, the b-black rock and the one streak 
 of white water; even n-now, when we've grown old to- 
 gether. ... I 1-looked and 1-looked, trying to remember 
 where I'd seen it before. Well, Deryk?" 
 
 "Anaximenes," cried Deryk eagerly. 
 
 Felix nodded with a chuckle. 
 
 "I s-said, 'We must be somewhere near Hellenopolis !' 
 You're last from school, Deryk. What d'you know about 
 the place ?" 
 
 Deryk took time to consider. 
 
 "Strabo mentions it," he said. "And I seem to remem- 
 ber a pretty full account in Anaximenes " 
 
 "But what was he doing there at all ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Yes, I do, though! He was visiting 
 Polycrates — 'Hellenopolis sheltering under the protecting 
 shadow of the mountain.' " 
 
 Felix took up his cue, as though they were playing a 
 game. 
 
 "And Polycrates lived here from nineteen till forty-eight, 
 when he went to Rome. The 'Rhetoric' was written here, 
 Anaximenes saw the 1-library. You re-remember his ac- 
 count of the house? Oh, but you must! He c-came in at 
 the southern gate and particularly n-noticed the lions on 
 the posts; there was a fountain further on, and he walked 
 p-past it and on till he came to a barber's shop and a man 
 being shaved in the street. He asks the barber to d-direct 
 him to Polycrates' house, and the man who is b-being 
 shaved says, if he'll w-wait a minute, he'll shew him the 
 way himself. Of c-course, it's Polycrates in p-person. 
 They g-go through the market-place and over a bridge;
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 293 
 
 Anaximenes comments on the stream, and Polycrates tells 
 him that the c-city was stricken with p-plague till Heracles 
 came to divert the course and drive the stream through the 
 c-city. He tells the story for what it's worth ; he's much 
 too sceptical to b-believe it himself. Then they c-come to 
 the house just opposite the last bridge in the street — I've 
 found one arch of it — and it's the house that I've spent 
 the last years uncovering." Behind their glasses his eyes 
 gleamed with excitement, and he was out of breath. "For 
 Heaven's sake r-read your Anaximenes again, D-Deryk." 
 
 Again he turned his mule's head towards the bungalow, 
 but Yolande rode after him and caught his arm. 
 
 "What then?" she demanded. 
 
 "Complete b-blank till 1300," Felix answered. "My dear, 
 you m-must go to bed, or I shan't get any work out of you 
 to-morrow. M-Marco Polo returned to Venice in 1295, 
 and his pupil Marino was so m-much fired that he had to 
 start out on his own account. He only w-went through 
 Greece and Asia Minor into P-Persia and was b-back again 
 in five years' time, as against Polo's twenty-four. And he's 
 a b-bad authority at any time, no p-perspective, no arrange- 
 ment, you n-never quite know what year or country you're 
 in. But he c-came here and found that the oracle was now 
 the shrine of a Christian saint ; he d-describes the mountain, 
 which struck him too, t-tells us that the harbour was hardly 
 used and that the whole c-city was a pretty fair dead-and- 
 alive place. Then" — Felix laughed with nervous im- 
 patience — "then he drags in a two-page account of a new 
 way of serving wild boar." 
 
 Yolande took a last look at the ghostly dunes and urged 
 her beast towards the bungalow. 
 
 "And nothing about the library?" she asked. 
 
 "N-not a word. Anaximenes visited the p-place in 174 
 B.C. ; b-barring Strabo's one reference, we never hear of it 
 again till 1300 or 1301, and then there's another b-blank 
 for a hundred and forty years." 
 
 "When the Turks came?" 
 
 Felix nodded with unusual vehemence.
 
 294 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Hateful people!" he cried. "They can't even sack a 
 c-city like gentlemen. Hellenopolis comes in a list of places 
 destroyed by Othman AH on his way across Greece. He 
 d-doesn't say whether he burned it, or massacred the in- 
 habitants and left the place to fall into ruin, or what. And 
 that m-makes just all the difference. If he b-bumt the 
 town, it's a m-million to one that the 1-library was burnt too, 
 except that it was a bit out of the way and b-below street 
 level. D-don't be disappointed if we find nothing; I shan't." 
 
 "Oh, Felix!" 
 
 "My dear, I shan't. I dug this up pretty well single- 
 handed when the Germans said that there was no such 
 p-place. I fancy this'll t-take some explaining away. Now 
 c-come and see your quarters." 
 
 The larger bungalow was made over to Felix and his 
 wife ; the smaller, once the home of the foreman, accommo- 
 dated Deryk and a camp kitchen. From the outset Yolande 
 ordained that they constituted a republic and that she was 
 entitled to share equally in the common work; the truckle 
 beds were made, the table laid, the meals served and the 
 enamelled mugs and plates washed by each in turn; in the 
 evenings, while the men wrote up their journals, she was 
 allowed to mend their tattered clothes; in return they lit 
 the fire and rode twice a week to Anactis for letters and 
 provisions. Deryk had made it clear on the way out that 
 Felix need not limit himself to the emoluments of his pro- 
 fessorship ; extra labour and new appliances he would sup- 
 ply at his own expense. 
 
 "I had that feeling when I b-began," sighed Felix the 
 first night. "T-twenty years of this gives you w-wonderful 
 patience. You want the whole thing finished to-morrow?" 
 Deryk hesitated, laughed and finally decided not to answer. 
 
 "You have to be patient," Felix went on, "as soon as you 
 see what a tre-tremendous lot of energy is n-needed to 
 scratch up anything." 
 
 "But if we can ginger things up a bit ?" Deryk urged. 
 
 "I'm in no hurry. It's all my life, you see. // we finished 
 to-morrow, I shouldn't know what to do."
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 295 
 
 "Nor would Den-k," said Yolande. "He's restless at 
 present, but I'm going to cure that." 
 
 The following day they breakfasted at six, and Felix 
 conducted them, almost bursting with excitement, to the 
 incline which led down to the Lion Gate and the Street of 
 Bridges. Twenty years before a jagged angle of stone had 
 protruded through the grass, and Felix, digging round and 
 clearing the earth and stones, had persevered until he had 
 uncovered a single gate-post with a defaced lion's head on 
 top. After that it had seemed worth while to go on, and for 
 most of Deryk's life and all of Yolande's he had dug his 
 way down the main street, laying bare the remains of its 
 six bridges, uncovering the foundations of the houses on 
 either side and clearing the rectangular, dwarf market- 
 place. Twice twenty years would not suffice to conjure the 
 city from its grave, and he had left all else to identify the 
 "house opposite the bridge" and to seek among its tumbled 
 stones for a buried library. During the autumn and winter 
 his men, under the supervision of the scowling Luigi, had 
 dug under the lines which he had traced; the site of Poly- 
 crates' house, like a square, smooth-topped tumulus, stood 
 erect and commanding. 
 
 "We'd better g-get to work," he told Yolande and Deryk. 
 
 With the three principals toiling nine hours a day, with 
 the native labour doubled and with an output of energy 
 many times multiplied by the menace of Felix's supervis- 
 ing eye, six weeks passed before the shell of Polycrates' 
 house had been laid bare. Of the upper half nothing re- 
 mained, but by the end of March an open stone box, with 
 spongy earth, rock plants, brute masonry and fragments 
 of carved stone brimming over its breached sides, was 
 beginning to define itself. In the early weeks there was 
 much talk during the day and much excited discussion at 
 night, but, as they dug deeper, a silent determination laid 
 hold of all three. They rose mechanically with the sun,
 
 296 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 worked until noon, rested their appointed two hours and 
 went on working until it was time for supper. Neither 
 Yolande nor Deryk spoke, after the first week, of going 
 back for one more hour ; both had tried the effect of spas- 
 modic nervous overstrain and both had rebelliously decided 
 that Felix knew more of their difficulties and resources 
 than they did. After a month they were fine-drawn and 
 trained to magnificent condition, with clear eyes and steady 
 nerves. Deryk no longer complained that he had no appe- 
 tite or could not sleep : it was rather Yolande's complaint 
 that he ate more than his fair third of the food, and Felix's 
 that he could never wake him in the morning. 
 
 On one day in seven they did no work. Raymond Storn- 
 away was making it his business to send them papers and 
 books, and every Saturday Felix or Deryk would ride to 
 Anactis, meet the incoming island steamer and return with 
 rich booty. If Deryk had to spend Sunday wrinkling his 
 forehead over foolscap pages of technicalities from Hather- 
 ly, he did not now complain ; the business which had once 
 frightened him began to fascinate him; it had been easy 
 to talk of millions here and millions there, but the words 
 had little meaning for him until he found himself author- 
 ising transfers of a hundred thousand pounds, selling his 
 interest in some enterprise in Tennessee or acquiring new 
 interests in Colorado. He was clear in his own mind that 
 he did not propose to spend his life as unpaid steward of 
 his own estate, but the size of his own possessions touched 
 his imagination. 
 
 Before leaving England he had talked idly with Raymond 
 of buying himself a house in London. He had almost for- 
 gotten the conversation when he received a half-jocular 
 letter telling him that the club house of the old "Hanove- 
 rians" in Pall Mall was shortly coming into the market and 
 suggesting that he should buy it and spend a few happy 
 months pulling it to pieces and rebuilding it. Deryk thought 
 over the proposal for a week and then asked Raymond to 
 make further enquiries and ascertain what price was likely 
 to be asked. He knew the house well enough to appreciate
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT . . . 297 
 
 its possibilities and, with his first crude understanding of 
 his own power, he was glamoured by the thought of making 
 himself such a home as no one had ever seen before. 
 
 On Sundays, when all three had lain late a-bed and by a 
 self-denying ordinance kept away from the scene of their 
 week-day labours, the journals were untouched, and they 
 were wont to sprawl in wicker chairs before the brazier in 
 the kitchen, reading a week's accumulation of daily papers 
 and trying to understand why the distance of one or two 
 thousand miles from England should so blunt their sus- 
 ceptibilities to the hysterical appeal of English politics. 
 
 "I'm sorry. I can't take the least interest in the Irish 
 question," said Yolande, surrendering her paper to Deryk. 
 "They all seem very angry about it, and there's going to 
 be civil war and the officers at the Curragh are refusing 
 to fight or something. I don't really care in the least. 
 Give me the next one, Felix ; I want to see if anybody 
 I know is getting married." 
 
 She began reading again and then stopped abruptly, look- 
 ing over the top of the paper to see whether either of the 
 others was watching her. 
 
 "I want a cigarette," she announced. Deryk searched in 
 his pockets and got up lazily to fetch a box from the 
 screened half of the bungalow that formed his bedroom. 
 While he was away she tore one sheet of the paper and 
 began to make a spill. "It's only the outside page," she 
 explained, when he came back. 
 
 That night she told Felix that Sidney Dawson was dead. 
 
 "Deryk doesn't know," she went on with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. "I tore the announcement out before I knew what 
 I was doing. He'll hear in due time, of course, and I don't 
 in the least know why I didn't want him to see it, except, 
 of course, that it was bound to bring all the old business 
 back to him. It was just impulse, but I daresay it's all for 
 the best. It's a horrid thing to say, but if only he'd died 
 a year ago !" 
 
 A fortnight later they had further news from Raymond. 
 
 "... I don't know whether it's in any of the papers I've
 
 298 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 been sending you," he wrote, "but Dawson died some weeks 
 ago in Naples. I heard about it from our friend Jim 
 Loring, who has just returned to England after Heaven 
 knows how long cruising about in his yacht. I met him at 
 dinner last week with the Oakleighs, and he told me he'd 
 arrived just after the death. I didn't hear any particu- 
 lars, but poor little Mrs. Dawson was quite prostrate. Loring 
 was at the same hotel, and it appeared that the manager 
 marked him down as an Englishman and hinted pretty 
 clearly that he'd had one death in the hotel and didn't 
 want a second. As you know, Loring's one of the kindest 
 fellows on earth, and he did everything he could to see 
 that she was properly looked after, even though he'd 
 never seen or heard of her before; he'd have brought her 
 back in his yacht, if she'd been in a fit state to move, but 
 she was too bad for that, so he scoured Naples until he 
 found the Denys Playfairs and put her in their charge. 
 They are going to bring her back as soon as England's 
 warm enough for Denys' lungs. There's going to be un- 
 pleasantness over the will, as Dawson's left everything, in- 
 cluding both houses, to his wife; the allowance he used 
 to make to his sister comes to an end automatically, and I 
 don't know that she'll have enough to live on. Never be 
 a trustee or an executor, chick, — it's a fool's game. , . ." 
 
 Yolande had a look at Deryk, who was lying asleep at 
 full length on the floor. 
 
 *T still don't see what good purpose will be served by 
 telling him," she whispered. "Every day gained is worth 
 having. He was beginning to forget all about her, when he 
 met her somewhere or other — never mind how I know; I 
 do — and heard how Mr. Dawson was ; of course that simply 
 fanned the old trouble into a flame." 
 
 Felix was listening with scant comprehension. 
 
 'T d-don't quite follow," he confessed. "D-d'you want 
 him to marry her or are you afraid he will or wh-what?" 
 
 "Oh, he won't marry her. She was just a passing epi- 
 sode, though he might have married her and they might 
 have been very happy. I only want to keep him from
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 299 
 
 brooding over his wasted life and that sort of nonsense. 
 We've done him a lot of good, my dear, and we're going 
 to take him, back a new, whole, sane man." 
 
 By the middle of April they had cleared the shell of the 
 house and were standing on a naked stone floor. Felix 
 was temporarily at fault, because, though the floor rang 
 hollow, there was no trace of any way down into the cellar 
 which was to establish once and for all time whether they 
 had found the library. To excavate outside for a stair- 
 case was to add three months to their work, and Felix de- 
 cided to cut through the floor. It was late evening when 
 he marked out the lines for the morrow's work, and his 
 order to return home was met with signs of mutiny. 
 
 "There are hours of light," cried Deryk, pointing to the 
 moon. "I'll pay the men double for overtime." 
 
 "It's waited f-five hundred years," Felix reminded him. 
 
 "I only want to grub about on top," Yolande pleaded with 
 fine show of reason. "Honestly, I'm not going to do any 
 more work; I just want to see if this looks like the right 
 place." 
 
 Felix took her by one arm and Deryk by the other. 
 
 "I have sp-spoken," he said. "You'll only knock your- 
 selves up, if you g-go on. And it isn't just getting down 
 there; we shall have plenty to do when we're there." 
 
 He dragged them half-way home, and they ended by 
 racing like children on condition that they were allowed 
 to come and have a last look after supper. 
 
 "I only hope that you're not g-going to be disappointed," 
 he observed gloomily. "You ch-children are so certain, but 
 I regard it as a w-wild improbability. Five hundred years, 
 p-probably a fire, certainly a p-peculiarly ruthless army " 
 
 Yolande put her hand over his lips. 
 
 "Darling, you make me tired, when you talk like this," 
 she complained. "You wouldn't go on, if you really thought 
 it so improbable." 
 
 He drew away her hand and slipped it through his arm. 
 
 "If we b-bring it off," he said, "it's the b-biggest thing 
 since the Renaissance. And, if we don't, we've still got
 
 300 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 enough to f-fill a new wing at the British M-Museum, P-put 
 in a spade anywhere " 
 
 Deryk wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. 
 
 " 'Brown Greek manuscripts,' " he quoted. 
 
 "You won't find them !" Felix exclaimed with a sudden 
 note of certainty. "Why should you? You w-wouldn't 
 expect to find a library of even King Alfred's time in an 
 English house." 
 
 "Not if it had been bricked up ever since? Rot, Felix!" 
 said Deryk decisively. "Things three times as old as that 
 are being found daily." 
 
 Felix sighed uncertainly. 
 
 "It was b-better protected, of course." His face lit up 
 at the recollection. "D-Deryk, you remember your Anax- 
 imenes ? They d-dined in state, and Polycrates brought out 
 some wine that he'd bought as a boy and hadn't touched, 
 because he only drank water now. And Anaximenes didn't 
 think much of it and was too polite to say s-so. And after- 
 wards they went downstairs through a secret door to a 
 1-long cavern, where the manuscripts were kept on shelves 
 — r-rather like an umbrella-shop, Yolande — and Anax- 
 imenes had never seen anything like it before, and P-Poly- 
 crates couldn't tell him anything except that it was s-said 
 to be part of the old river-bed b-before Heracles diverted 
 the stream." His voice lost its momentary eagerness and 
 became diffident again. "Th-that's our only hope, of course. 
 When I first read Anaximenes after finding this place, I 
 f-felt that there was the chance. A hidden d-door of some 
 kind, below street level ; it ni-might have escaped notice, 
 his successors fnay have left it alone, there c-certainly was 
 rock and stone all round to protect it. B-but it seems un- 
 likely, doesn't it?" 
 
 His despondency, deepening throughout the evening, be- 
 gan in time to affect his companions, but in the morning 
 they had recovered their faith, and he succeeded with diffi- 
 culty in persuading them to eat any breakfast. From seven 
 o'clock until noon the hollow shell of the house rang with 
 the strokes and echoes of steel picks on stone. Felix had
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 301 
 
 chalked a generous square in the middle of the floor, and 
 his men were cutting on all four sides at once. At noon 
 they retired to their shanties, but even Felix was now too 
 much excited to go home. Taking one corner where the 
 stone was cut deepest, the three of them stood in a triangle, 
 like pile-drivers, striking in turn. The sweat was running 
 into Deryk's eyes, and he could hear Yolande sobbing with 
 the effort, when the point of Felix's axe cut through and 
 jammed. 
 
 "Stand back !" he cried. "It'll be p-pretty foul after five 
 centuries." 
 
 Covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, he 
 worked his axe loose, and all three began chipping the 
 edges of the hole. A creak was followed by a sound of 
 tearing, and Felix dropped his pick and jumped backwards 
 with arms outstretched, again crying, "Stand back!" The 
 chalked rectangle bent slowly down, as though dragged 
 from below, broke off short at the marked base and fell 
 like a window blown in through its casement. 
 
 "My dear, I'm glad you weren't standing there!" Yo- 
 lande exclaimed breathlessly. "You tell me to stand back 
 and then — oh, darling, you've gone quite white, I didn't 
 mean to tease you !" 
 
 Still breathing hard, Felix removed his spectacles and 
 began to wipe them. 
 
 "Did you hear the stone fall?" he asked. 
 
 "I was waiting to see what was happening to my hus- 
 band," she answered, pressing his arm. 
 
 "Do you hear anything now?" 
 
 Yolande listened intentif , After the hollow ring of the 
 picks and the sound of their own raised voices, the silence 
 was profound. Deryk advanced cautiously a pace nearer 
 the black cavity. An almost inaudible noise of lapping, 
 like the movement of an animal or the soughing of the 
 wind, was borne steadily upwards. He stood for a moment 
 with head bent sideways and then moved forward again ; 
 as he did so, his foot struck a splinter of stone and shot
 
 302 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 it into the yawning blackness of the vault. Immediately 
 there came an unmistakable splash. 
 
 "Water?" asked Yolande in surprise. 
 
 "You didn't hear it tlie first time," Felix explained, "be- 
 cause you were waiting to see me f-follow the floor." 
 
 Deryk frowned impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, Lord! this means pumping," he said. "Have you 
 got pumps, Felix, or shall we have to send for some? If 
 so, I'd better ride over to Anactis at once and get off a 
 cable." 
 
 Felix replaced his spectacles and looked from one to the 
 other. 
 
 "The w-water won't inconvenience us," he said quietly. 
 
 "Think not?" 
 
 "I'm sure of it." He laid a hand on the shoulder of 
 each. "Our w-work's over here." 
 
 Yolande looked at him with startled, unbelieving eyes. 
 
 "What d'you mean?" she asked almost indignantly. "It 
 may not be anything; you don't know." 
 
 Felix smiled and shook his head wistfully. 
 
 "B-better face it, Yolande," he advised her. "I t-told you 
 to look out for foul air, but this is as fresh and pure as 
 it is outside — and a good deal cooler. Th-that isn't stag- 
 nant water; it's the stream; I always wondered where it 
 got to hereabouts. It's r-really interesting, this ; Poly- 
 crates was quite r-right in the story he told Anaximenes; 
 the vault was p-part of the old river-bed — before Heracles 
 diverted the stream. S-someone must have broken down 
 Heracles' dam, and the river's gone b-back to its old bed." 
 
 Deryk looked at him with mouth blankly open. Then 
 he murmured, 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 "D-don't be disappointed!'' laughed Felix. "We've done 
 a g-good morning's work — settled the course of the stream, 
 confirmed Anaximenes as a t-trustworthy authority. Now 
 I want some food." 
 
 He clambered over the piled-up earth and masonry, of- 
 fered Yolande a hand and jumped down into the street.
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 303 
 
 The others followed, because there was nothing else very 
 obvious for them to do. On reaching the street, Deryk 
 caught him excitedly by the arm. 
 
 "Well, we're through here, I suppose?" he began. 
 "There's nothing for it but to go back and say we've failed." 
 
 "I've only j-just started," Felix answered. "You're 
 bound to get occasional d-disappointments ; otherwise the 
 thing w-wouldn't be worth doing." 
 
 "I'm going back," said Deryk. 
 
 "N-not if you're worth your salt." 
 
 "I'm going back," Deryk repeated. "This chapter's 
 closed." 
 
 "Another?" asked Yolande. She spoke with demure 
 mockery, but within she was furious that at such a time 
 Derj'k should be thinking of himself. As he strode tragi- 
 cally forward, she held her husband in check and pulled 
 his head down until she could kiss him. "Cheer up, old 
 man," she whispered. "I hate people to shew when they're 
 hurt ! It isn't done !" 
 
 Felix looked away for a moment and then broke into a 
 laugh that was hardly certain of itself. 
 
 "I was thinking of old Polycrates," he exclaimed. "No 
 one but a philosopher would dream of making a 1-library 
 out of a disused river-bed. A philosopher or an archse- 
 ologist," he added. 
 
 That afternoon Deryk rode over to Anactis and returned 
 impenitent with the announcement that the boat which ar- 
 rived at the end of the week would bear him by way of 
 Crete to Athens, where he would take train for Patras and 
 pick up a second steamer to Brindisi. 
 
 "I'm in this for any money you like," he told Felix, "but 
 I can't stay here after this morning. I mean, what is one 
 staying for? You might stop here, digging up pots and 
 pans, all your life." 
 
 "You m-might indeed," Felix rejoined. 
 
 "That's not my theory a bit. I — er, I shall simply be a 
 wet blanket, you know. It's better for me to clear out. 
 I shall go to Brindisi, cross over to Naples, stay a few
 
 304 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 days in Rome and make my way back. There are a good 
 many things waiting for me at home " 
 
 "Oh, Deryk, don't make excuses !" begged Yolande. 
 
 "All right ! I haven't the backbone to go on, if you like." 
 
 The atmosphere was uncongenial, and he went out to 
 finish his pipe in the moonlight. 
 
 "If he's going to Naples, I must tell him who he's likely 
 to meet there," said Yolande to Felix, when they were 
 alone. 
 
 Deryk was accompanied to Anactis by Yolande and 
 Felix, and, as they shook hands and waved good-bye, he 
 pretended not to see that they were disappointed in him. 
 After all, he had come to Hellenopolis for one purpose, 
 and in that they had failed; what more remained to do? 
 
 "He's like a child," Yolande told her husband, as they 
 rode back. "He always does what he wants to do and is 
 genuinely distressed, if everyone doesn't approve." 
 
 Deryk, as he watched them jogging down the quay and 
 through the town, felt that it was ridiculous of them to be 
 going back, but none the less that he ought to be going 
 back with them. . . . 
 
 On their way to Anactis Yolande had mentioned the let- 
 ter in which her uncle told her of Sidney Dawson's death. 
 Deryk pigeon-holed the subject for further discussion with 
 himself, but its immediate effect on his mind was to decide 
 him not to go nearer Naples than Brindisi. So long as 
 Idina was in trusted hands, he need not come to her res- 
 cue ; beyond that he hardly knew what he thought or wanted. 
 Love had been followed by bitterness, and bitterness by in- 
 difference ; after indift'erence came an hysterical moment ; 
 he had to look back through the clouds of his nervous 
 breakdown, and it was impossible to say what he felt or 
 how deeply he felt it. He was satisfied that Idina had not 
 been rooted from his heart so completely as he had once 
 thought, but he did not know what strength of foothold she 
 had established there. Certainly he did not want to meet
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 305 
 
 her now; the news of her husband's death was only wel- 
 come in so far as it delivered her from the agony in which 
 he had found her four months earlier; he did not know 
 whether he ever wanted to meet her again. . . . 
 
 On arriving in London he called on Raymond and report- 
 ed the results of nearly two months' work in Asia Minor. 
 As his account proceeded, he was conscious that Raymond 
 was tacitly wondering why two had remained behind and 
 one returned. The sense of unspoken criticism embar- 
 rassed him, and he hastened to justify himself by an 
 assumed self-depreciation. 
 
 "I only went out there for the sensational coup," he re- 
 marked. "When that didn't come off, I chucked up the 
 party. It isn't good enough to devote your life to an anti- 
 climax." 
 
 "Of course, you're not quite a free agent," said Ray- 
 mond quietly. "Did you find any time out there for think- 
 ing about the future ?" 
 
 Deryk cleared his throat and beat the side of his leg 
 with his umbrella. 
 
 "I'm going down to Ripley Court to-night," he said. "I 
 shall spend a good deal of my time there till Hats has 
 given me the hang of the business — By the way, I'm going 
 to take that house." 
 
 "You might do far worse," said Raymond. "But, on the 
 larger question, have you thought out a scheme of life?" 
 
 "I can't say that I have." 
 
 "Did you try?" 
 
 Deryk laughed uneasily. 
 
 "I can't say that I did. I honestly don't know where to 
 start, sir. I get a thousand and one appeals for money and 
 I do my best to answer them judiciously." 
 
 "Anyone can do that," Raymond murmured. 
 
 "Well, I can't see beyond it," said Der\'k impatiently. 
 
 Raymond shook his head good-humouredly. 
 
 "Come, come! That won't do," he said. "You haven't 
 tried. If you collected the world's twelve greatest author- 
 ities on cancer and offered them a million to stamp out
 
 3o6 
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 the disease, that would be something beyond the ordinary 
 round of charity. But have you never thought how, with 
 your money, you could re-educate the world? We've got 
 a curious public-school standard of honour — we don't lie 
 much, or steal, or sneak, or let a man down — but it's 
 amazingly limited. Have you ever thought how a new 
 standard in education would improve it? So that a man 
 would no more think of drinking too much when he's 
 among men than he would if he were with women? So that 
 you'd no more think of paying a clerk insufficient wages 
 than you would of taking coppers out of his coat pocket?" 
 Raymond hesitated in an attempt to compress his teaching 
 into a single apothegm. "The new great ethical attack has 
 to be launched against the cruelties and dirtinesses and dis- 
 honesties which are sanctioned by everyday custom and 
 extolled as part of our competitive theory of survival. Do 
 you think you could educate people out of that frame of 
 mind?" 
 
 Deryk assumed an expression of regretful worldliness. 
 
 "You can't alter human nature, sir," he objected. 
 
 "That, my dear Deryk, has been said in every generation 
 and disproved by every generation. People are lazy; and 
 peculiarly lazy, you'll find, when it comes to radical think- 
 ing. Go down to Ripley Court and think." 
 
 One result of the interview was hardly intended by Ray- 
 mond. As Deryk made his way to the door, he came to an 
 obstinate determination that the interview should be the last 
 of its kind. With an eager will to make the best of his 
 opportunities, he only found questioners who asked what 
 he proposed to do or oracles who told him that he must find 
 out for himself. They did not appreciate that he was 
 really trying to oblige them. He did not for a moment 
 admit Yolande's contention that it was his duty to pay 
 the money back to society ; still less did he regard himself 
 as a life trustee of a public fund. The money was his, 
 but there was so much of it that he was looking for useful 
 and beneficial outlets. Raymond, who professed to have 
 well-weighed ideas on the subject, ought to be grateful
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 307 
 
 for the blank promises which he had received ; he, appar- 
 ently, not only thought that the world was a cruel and 
 unhappy place, but cherished the belief that he could alter it. 
 
 "I shall go home for a bit," he told Raymond, "but I've 
 done all the thinking I want to. The fact is, you know, as 
 my father used to say, people have to work out their own 
 salvation ; it doesn't do to coddle them." 
 
 "I said you were an idle young scamp," Raymond ob- 
 served. "Think sociologically and don't work off the igno- 
 rant cliches of an old maids' tea-party." 
 
 "Well, it isn't my business to set the world right." 
 
 "Then you'd better make it your business, my boy. 
 Otherwise, you know, you'll feel you've made a fool of 
 yourself when you come to die and find that you've done 
 nothing, nothing, nothing with your life. If you were 
 Shelley, just on the point of drowning, wouldn't you feel a 
 fool if you'd walked about with your hands in your pockets 
 instead of writing? Don't tell me that he was a poet and 
 that you aren't. Poetry was his opportunity ; money's yours, 
 so don't waste any more of your youth." He dropped the 
 bantering tone and beckoned Deryk back into the room. 
 "Remember your father; he started too late. When he'd 
 made his opportunity, he'd destroyed his power of using it. 
 He couldn't even think how to use it ... Go home and 
 think, Der}'k. I shouldn't say this to you, if you were a 
 fool; I say it to you because you've shewn yourself to 
 have brains, and I believe you've as much imagination as 
 your neighbours — which isn't much, by the way — and a 
 wider experience in some respects." 
 
 Deryk spent a week in Sussex and then returned to his 
 rooms in London. He promised Hatherly to come down 
 for long week-ends and excused his flight by enlarging 
 on the new house which he was buying in London. In 
 fact it was the size and silence of Ripley Court and the 
 want of companionship which drove him away. The work 
 and Hatherly's patient expositions he could support, but a 
 succession of luncheons and dinners with the two of them 
 at opposite ends of the table tried his nerves beyond bearing.
 
 3o8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 They had nothing more to discuss. On their travels there 
 had been new cities to explore, new friends to make on the 
 steamer; he had really seen very little of his companion. 
 Now he seemed to be assisting at an endless memorial serv- 
 ice of his father; Sir Aylmer's life was encased within the 
 steel walls of the study safe, Sir Aylmer's designs and de- 
 sires formed the liturgy, Sir Aylmer's personality seemed 
 to haunt the house until Deryk wondered by what force of 
 character he had impressed himself so strongly on his as- 
 sociates. Perhaps they had simply refused to defy a slow- 
 ly dying man. . . . 
 
 Throughout May and June he devoted three days a 
 week to business. The rest of his time he spent in Lon- 
 don, playing with his new house. For seventy years the 
 Hanoverian Club had inhabited a square grey-stone build- 
 ing on the south side of Pall Mall, backing on Carlton 
 Gardens and commanding St. James' Park from its top 
 windows. The site was Crown property, and, when the 
 lease expired, the club was unwilling to pay the new rent. 
 Deryk had been attracted partly by a staircase copied from 
 Egmorton House, partly by the possibilities of the rooms 
 for entertaining and as a treasure house for pictures and 
 furniture. Ripley Court had been filled to overflowing 
 by his father; much of the furniture belonged to a period 
 which Deryk abhorred, any pictures but the old Stornaway 
 portraits were worthless in art; they were of his father's 
 choice and collection, however, and he did not care to dis- 
 turb them. Raymond, who never failed to find a man or 
 woman for any purpose, brought him in touch with a young 
 architect of recklessly profuse genius, who was awaiting his 
 opportunity. For a week they explored the house, room 
 by room ; for another week the architect worked eighteen 
 hours a day on his first plans; the two men, whose joint 
 ages totalled less than fifty years, gesticulated and talked 
 themselves hoarse for three days, and Deryk ordered speci- 
 fications to be drawn and estimates invited. By the begin- 
 ning of June scaffolding had spread from floor to roof of 
 the square marble hall.
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 309 
 
 Before the work started and while it dragged out its 
 leisurely course, he hailed every friend whom he met to 
 come and see it. Some looked apprehensively at the size 
 of the operations, others criticised openly and all volun- 
 teered suggestions, which Deryk heard patiently and swept 
 aside as though they had never been made, even trying to 
 convince his friends that they had not and could not have 
 made them. He found it more difficult to find an answer to 
 the question, however often repeated, why he had bought 
 the house at all ; and Hatherly, on being conducted round 
 with Raymond, succeeded in unwittingly chilling Deryk's 
 enthusiasm by putting his head perfunctorily into each 
 room and observing, 
 
 "Ah, yes ! Very nice, but I don't quite see why you 
 want it," and then jerking out question after question, 
 until Deryk broke away in despair and said that he had 
 bought the place because it amused him to buy the place. 
 
 "It's a harmless amusement," said Raymond, coming un- 
 expectedly to his rescue. "Don't run it down, Hatherly. He 
 can make a very beautiful place of it." 
 
 "But he's got Ripley Court," protested Hatherly. 
 
 "Yes, but that's full of his father's things ; there's no 
 room to expand. Oh, I can quite appreciate a man's want- 
 ing to make his own collection and spread it about his own 
 house." 
 
 Hatherly 's nod suggested that such a view might be 
 tenable, but that he did not hold it. 
 
 "I naturally imagined that he would spend most of his 
 time in Sussex," he said. 
 
 Deryk grew suddenly intolerant of the conversation that 
 was being carried on over his body. "Naturally" he was 
 expected to bury himself at Ripley Court ; his father had 
 assumed that and only bought and lived in the house on 
 that assumption ; it had persevered to the end. Now 
 there seemed to be a thinly veiled grimace of grievance, if 
 he departed by one step from Sir Aylmer's ideal conception 
 of his life. 
 
 "A man really must be allowed to decide where he wants
 
 3IO MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to live," he exclaimed with dwindling patience. Hatherly 
 was a good fellow, a dear fellow, but in some moods he 
 seemed to have caught Sir Aylmer's trick of souring all 
 enjoyment in a thing; it was exactly like Sir Aylmer's be- 
 haviour over the pearl necklace the first night of his return 
 from abroad eighteen months before. The one inhibition 
 has stolen his pleasure from all the other presents. . . . What 
 had happened to the pearl necklace now? Though it was 
 the cue for his ten months' tragic scene with his father, he 
 had hardly thought of it since he threw it into a drawer 
 and caught one last glimpse a few days later when he was 
 collecting clothes for his flight to London. It was of no use 
 now, but at one time he could have brought about great 
 happiness with it, when Idina was poor. Now she was a 
 rich woman. . . These things always came too late ; the 
 world was a place where you always got what you wanted 
 as you ceased to want it. He had never actively desired 
 the death of Sidney Dawson, still less of his own father, 
 but, if either had died a year earlier, it would have made 
 a profound difference to Idina's life and his own; Ripley 
 Court would be habitable, if only he could bring in an at- 
 mosphere of youth, and he would find double his present 
 pleasure in contriving the London house, if she had been 
 there to share it. There was something, after all, in Hath- 
 erly's general criticism ; it was rather absurd to buy a 
 second palace when he was always complaining that the first 
 one was too big. 
 
 "Have you had any news of Mrs. Dawson?" he asked 
 Raymond suddenly. "The last I heard was that she was 
 ill in Naples." 
 
 "She's back in England," Raymond answered. "We had 
 a long talk on business matters a week ago. She's been 
 pretty bad, Deryk." 
 
 "Has she been back long?" Deryk asked, trying to keep 
 his tone indifferent. 
 
 "About a month. She hasn't been in town much, though ; 
 I'm getting rid of the Eaton Square house and the place 
 in Sussex for her, and in the meantime she's living at the
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 311 
 
 Hans Crescent Hotel, when she's not vegetating in the 
 country. She'll be in London again next week." 
 
 He threw the information out like a man forcing an op- 
 portunity, and Deryk instinctively drew back. He was not 
 going to have his mind made up for him by others; he 
 knew the truth, and they did not ; above all he was not 
 going to be hurried ; Raymond could keep his suggestions 
 to himself until he had decided whether he wanted to meet 
 her again. 
 
 "What's happened to — well, I suppose she's Idina's sister- 
 in-law now ?" he asked. 
 
 "Miss Dawson? She's living at Tunbridge Wells," Ray- 
 mond answered shortly. 
 
 He did not mention the struggle which he had had with 
 Idina to secure the means of letting Miss Dawson live there 
 or anywhere. The will explicitly left everything to the 
 widow, and Idina's eyes had blazed with an exultant and 
 alien fire of revenge when she found her tormentor at her 
 mercy; she told Raymond hysterically that she would let 
 her starve to death before she helped her. "My dear, you'd 
 regret it," he told her, "and you must forgive me for warn- 
 ing you that you're simply making a — behaving very fool- 
 ishly, if you do anything now that you'll regret afterwards. 
 What you're going to do is to pay Miss Dawson an annuity. 
 If you refuse, I shall pay it out of my own pocket, and that 
 cuts the ground from under your feet." 
 
 Deryk brought the tour of his house to an end and stood 
 for a moment in the hall, looking up at the circular skylight, 
 on which the gallery and hall depended for illumination 
 during the day. An idea had come to him, and, when his 
 friends passed out into Pall Mall, he hurried upstairs, for- 
 getting Idina in the excitement of novelty, and scrambled 
 up the fire escape on to the roof. All south-west London 
 lay beneath him in diamond clarity of outline ; beyond Carl- 
 ton Gardens, the Mall, and beyond the Mall a green stretch 
 of grass, a blue mirror of unruffled water, fig-trees in fruit 
 and chestnuts in leaf. Through the frame of the Admiralty 
 Arch a stunted, many-coloured procession of cars and car-
 
 312 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 riages poured into Trafalgar Square from Whitehall and 
 the Strand ; the muffled roar of traffic came like sound in a 
 dream; foreshortened, hurrying foot-passengers raced and 
 jostled each other with absurd pre-occupation. To the 
 south the wireless installation of the Admiralty reared it- 
 self easily above the dwarfed, obsolete Horse Guards, the 
 Foreign Office jutted forbiddingly out to the border of the 
 curving road, and in the distance a squat Wesleyan dome 
 measured itself pertly beside the grey towers of the Abbey. 
 
 Deryk looked beyond it, fascinated by the extent of the 
 view and amused by his own fancies in assigning personal 
 attitudes and qualities to the buildings. Watchful and 
 brooding, the tower of Westminster Cathedral dominated 
 the secular south-west of a heretic capital, challenging 
 Parliament to the contemplation of an oecumenical empire 
 and patronising the upstart pretentiousness of Buckingham 
 Palace. Constitutional Hill, St. James' Palace, the Victoria 
 Memorial flashing green, white and gold in the afternoon 
 sun, and once more the beginning of the Mall completed 
 the circle. 
 
 "Some view," he murmured. With an effort he dragged 
 himself away, skirted the glass dome in the middle of the 
 roof and sat down on the parapet to contrast the outlook on 
 the north. It was the first time he had been on a height so 
 unprotected since the days when he went to Switzerland 
 every Christmas ; then he had boasted a steeplejack's head 
 and he was reassured to find it still steady. He leaned for- 
 ward to take in the substance and solid worth of Waterloo 
 Place, Pall Mall — with its air of being always Sunday after- 
 noon — the opening ascent of St. James' Street and the van- 
 ishing point of Cleveland Row. To his fancy the plebeian 
 motor omnibuses, which ran westward up Cockspur Street, 
 seemed to hesitate and lose confidence in themselves until 
 they escaped northward by the Haymarket or Lower Re- 
 gent Street. It was a subfusc backwater of palaces, ducal 
 mansions, clubs and expensive, old-fashioned shops. Nor- 
 folk House, the Junior Carlton and the distant roof of the 
 London Library dominated the view and frowned impar-
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVArT ... 313 
 
 tially on the unbegrimed pallor of the Automobile Club and 
 the peeling, grey-black stone of his own house. 
 
 The more he looked, the stronger grew his determination 
 to utilise the broad flat roof and secure the means of en- 
 joying his glorious view. One staircase needed to be 
 brought a storey higher, the lighting dome must be re- 
 placed by a sheet of glass and the roof must be enclosed 
 to form a winter garden. He walked to and fro, exulting 
 in his new scheme, planning its outlines and trying to im- 
 agine its finished eflfect. It was almost time to dress for din- 
 ner before he had done, and even then he could not leave 
 his new-found empire without a sigh. The great house 
 seemed dark and deserted, when he entered it again after 
 the sunlight of the roof, and for the first time he was almost 
 dismayed by the spaciousness and number of the rooms; 
 the place was only half the size of Ripley Court, but it 
 was half as large again as any London house that he knew. 
 
 "What the deuce am I going to do with it ?" he murmured 
 impatiently; then he grew more impatient, because he was 
 talking to himself, and to think aloud was with him an in- 
 variable symptom of over-strain. "I don't suppose I could 
 stand the place alone for a single week, but I'm equally sure 
 that I've never met the person that I could — now — stand 
 to share it with me." 
 
 He had paused with his hands in his pockets and his 
 head bent forward at the last half-landing where Hatherly 
 and Raymond had stood before leaving two hours earlier, 
 discussing Idina's health and prospects. Ever since he had 
 heard at Anactis of her widowhood, he had appreciated 
 that a problem had to be faced; so far he had resolutely 
 refused to face it; his love for Idina a year before, his faith 
 in their common happiness were subjects of which he would 
 think endlessly, especially late at night, when he felt un- 
 restrained and could indulge the luxury of self-pity. He 
 had never considered dispassionately how much he still 
 cared for her and whether he wanted to marry her. 
 
 "I don't want to marry anyone," he told himself eva-
 
 314 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 sively. "We should simply get fed up with each other in 
 a week." 
 
 Then he knew that the problem would not bear further 
 shirking; for an hour, as he walked about the Park, he 
 examined himself without reservation or hypocrisy. At 
 the end he felt limp and exhausted, but he had established 
 to his own satisfaction that he was as fond of Idina as he 
 had ever been; he was also satisfied that after eighteen 
 months he required firmer foundation for marriage than 
 their old boy-and-girl love. It would be rash to meet her 
 unless he were sure that he needed her ; in the next mo- 
 ment he appreciated that he had been able to live without 
 her for a year. 
 
 "But she wasn't a free woman then," he told himself de- 
 fensively. 
 
 A clock in the neighbourhood began chiming a quarter, 
 and he found that he was already half an hour late for 
 dinner. 
 
 Their meeting, when it took place, was unpremeditated. 
 Der)'k was so busy throughout the summer that he had no 
 time, even if he had decided to have the inclination, to go 
 where he was likely to meet Idina. On settling in Lon- 
 don he had made up his mind to enjoy himself; for a week 
 or two he accepted invitations and impetuously secured 
 himself a box at Covent Garden. Then the house in Pall 
 Mall provided a new distraction, and everything else passed 
 out of mind. He lunched and dined at the County Club, 
 went down to Sussex once a fortnight instead of every 
 week-end and discontinued the parties which he had for a 
 month so industriously gathered round him. The box at 
 the opera went begging, and he lived all day and a large 
 part of the night within the shell of his new house or in a 
 feverish passage from shop to sales-room and sales-room 
 to shop. Hatherly would call on him in bed and pin his 
 attention to business for half an hour, but to the rest of his 
 friends he was inaccessible.
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 315 
 
 When the Manistys returned to England at the beginning 
 of July, Yolande wasted a week's effort in trying to make 
 him call ; and, when he came, it was uninvited and unan- 
 nounced at ten o'clock in the evening, as she was finishing 
 dinner. His presence was made known by a sound of music 
 from the drawing-room, and her maid explained in some 
 confusion that a strange young gentleman, giving no name, 
 had forced his way in, enquired whether dinner was over 
 and stated that he would sit in the drawing-room until Mrs. 
 Manisty was ready to see him. Yolande excused herself 
 to her guests and hurried away. 
 
 "I said you weren't to be disturbed!" Deryk cried im- 
 patiently, as she came in. 
 
 "I thought it must be you," answered Yolande. "It's all 
 right, I'll go back immediately, but I wanted to tell you that 
 Uncle Raymond and — Dina are dining here." 
 
 Der}'k continued playing to himself, with his eyes 
 averted. 
 
 "And she doesn't want to meet me?" he suggested at 
 length. 
 
 "I can't say. She doesn't know you're here, I thought 
 I'd better warn you." 
 
 He nodded his thanks. 
 
 "If she doesn't mind meeting me, I don't mind meeting 
 her," he said. "It's pretty well bound to come sooner or 
 later as long as we've got friends in common. You'd better 
 tell her, though, before she comes in ; if she jibs, hide her 
 away for a moment, while I escape." 
 
 Yolande returned to the dining-room and forced the at- 
 tention of her guests away from her mysterious visitor. 
 When the meal was over and she broke the news in a whis- 
 pered colloquy outside the door, Idina only flushed and said, 
 
 "Come in v/ith me, and I shall be all right." 
 
 The drawing-room was in darkness, and they made no 
 sound above the music as they came in. Only the sudden 
 draught and the bellying of the curtains forced Deryk to 
 turn round. 
 
 "You must excuse these clothes," he began volubly. "I
 
 3i6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 hadn't time to change, I hadn't time to dine even — no, 
 honestly I won't have anything, I'm not hungry — I'd have 
 got round before, if I could — " He held out his hand and 
 transferred his nervous volubility to Idina. "Are you 
 all right again?" he asked. "I was most awfully sorry to 
 hear you'd been so ill. Jim Loring brought the news, I 
 understand ; is he in England now ? I haven't seen him for 
 years." 
 
 "Yolande's been telling me about your work in Asia 
 Minor," said Idina, catching the nervous contagion. "No, 
 I haven't seen Lord Loring since I got back. It must have 
 been a frightful disappointment to you all, but, as Dr. 
 Manisty says, if you don't have occasional disappoint- 
 ments, you don't have anything." 
 
 Yolande cut short the stilted prattle by bringing two 
 chairs forward. 
 
 "No reason why we should all stand, is there ?" she asked. 
 "Der}^k, if you won't have any dinner, you can at least 
 have some coffee. Ring the bell, there's a dear child." 
 
 Ten minutes later Felix and Raymond entered to find 
 all three elaborately inspecting the chair-covers and cur- 
 tains, still avoiding each other's eyes and still keeping the 
 conversation neutral, but without any other noticeable ap- 
 pearance of tension, Deryk captured his host and plunged 
 with him into a discussion of the later excavations at Hel- 
 lenopolis, while Raymond in turn submitted to being led 
 round to admire the furniture and hangings. 
 
 "Deryk hasn't had time to shew you his new place, I 
 suppose ?" he asked. "I think you must give a party, Deryk. 
 This is quite disinterested, because I shan't be there ; I've 
 got to go to Vienna again next week." 
 
 "Stealing more doctors?" Yolande enquired. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "You won't get any, sir," Deryk predicted. "They'll 
 want all they've got for Servia. With any luck there's 
 going to be a scrap there, if the Servians don't accept the 
 Austrian ultimatum." 
 
 "Ah, but they will," Raymond answered. "It's mon-
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 317 
 
 strously unfair, but they can't do anything else, and the 
 Russians aren't in a position to help them — any more than 
 they were in a position to stop Austria half a dozen years 
 ago, when she annexed Bosnia and Herzegovina. It won't 
 come to fighting, or I can assure you that I shouldn't be 
 going there. I like travelling in comfort, and you don't 
 do that when the military authorities have taken over the 
 railways." 
 
 Deryk brought a chair to the sofa where Yolande and 
 Idina were sitting, and they arranged a date for lunching 
 with him and inspecting the house. Their attitude was 
 now free from strain, and he found himself describing his 
 father's death to Idina, giving her news of Hatherly and 
 her other friends at Aston Ripley and putting sympathetic 
 and intimate questions on her own movements. Yolande 
 got up to give her uncle another cigar and stayed by him, 
 leaving Idina to talk undisturbed. Deryk learned that Sid- 
 ney Dawson had died of dropsy in circumstances of dis- 
 figurement, blindness, pain and madness which could 
 hardly be described, had Idina wished to do so. For weeks 
 after his death she had lain with her own life hanging by 
 a thread; then her youth had asserted itself, and she had 
 come back to England resolved to live. 
 
 Deryk stole a sideways glance at her and was astonished 
 to find so little trace of change. She was dressed in half 
 mourning, she wore a wedding-ring, her eyes looked tired ; 
 that was all. And she was eighteen months older than when 
 he returned to England with Hatherly. His wandering 
 attention was caught by a reference to her future plans. 
 She was getting rid of her two houses — her two houses! 
 She looked a fair-haired debutante, and he had to remind 
 himself that she was a rich woman, a widow, in the early 
 twenties, ready to begin life again. Something that was 
 either jealousy or a paternal protectiveness warned him 
 that she stood lonely and exposed — She was getting rid of 
 her two houses and had taken a cottage on the south coast 
 where she could amuse herself with a garden. . . He was 
 moved to recognise the inadequacy of the life — striking
 
 31 8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 roses and designing borders from twenty to seventy! It 
 was as inadequate as his own! "My brother's going into 
 the navy. You remember Martin?" Deryk had never 
 thought of the boy for a year and a half, since Sir Aylmer 
 sent him to WelHngton. "He was going into the army, 
 but that takes so long. Before I — quite knew where I 
 was, you know, your father suggested his going to Dart- 
 mouth. He's grown enormously." Deryk's attention wan- 
 dered again, as he tried to reconcile his father's public and 
 private conduct to the Penroses. In his last confession he 
 had never made really clear the one thing that mattered 
 in his- son's life. . . . 
 
 They were still talking slowly and thinking long be- 
 tween their sentences, when Raymond crossed over and 
 held out his hand. 
 
 "I don't want to break up the party," he told them, "and 
 Yolande says you mustn't think of going yet, but I've got 
 work to do before I go to bed. Mrs. Dawson, if you want 
 to see me again on business, it must be within the next 
 week. After that I shall be on my way to Vienna." 
 
 As he bowed himself out, Deryk looked at his watch. 
 
 "A quarter past eleven, by Jove !" he exclaimed. "Look 
 here, can I give you a lift, Dina? My car's outside, and 
 I'll drop you anywhere. We must hurry, though, or I 
 shan't get any supper, and I haven't had anything to eat 
 since breakfast." 
 
 Idina jumped to her feet and was hurried away to get 
 her cloak, while Felix gave Deryk a drink and walked 
 downstairs with him. As the car drove away, he slipped 
 his arm through his wife's and stood on the steps, looking 
 up at the stars. 
 
 "It w-went off all right, I think," he said with a sigh of 
 relief. It was their first effort at entertaining in their little 
 Chelsea house and even Yolande had been nervous. 
 
 "I wonder what those two are going to do," she mur- 
 mured, watching the tail-lights disappear down the road. 
 
 "You're an imp-p-penitent match-maker, darling," said 
 Felix.
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 319 
 
 "No, I'm not. I wouldn't take the responsibility with 
 Deryk. He needs a lot of handling, and I don't at all know 
 that Dina's the sort of woman he wants. I don't know 
 really what he does want." She sighed perplexedly and led 
 her husband back into the house. "I shan't be a bit sur- 
 prised, if they do marry. Deryk's never been in love 
 with anyone — not as I understand love — but he thinks 
 he was in love with her." She laughed uneasily. "It's a 
 sort of superstition, as some people think new bread doesn't 
 agree with them. And of course Dina imagines she wrecked 
 his life and would do anything to make amends. Besides, 
 she'd fall in love with anyone that was kind to her." There 
 was another sigh and a second uneasy laugh. "People are 
 a great nuisance, aren't they, darling?" 
 
 "It's none of our business," Felix reminded her. 
 
 "Oh, you can't get rid of it like that ! I always feel as if 
 Deryk were my own dear, beautiful, naughty, attractive, 
 selfish, generous, wilful little son. I've known him so long, 
 Felix dear ; he's had a rotten life, and there's so much good 
 in him, and it'll all go to waste, if we're not careful." 
 
 As the car headed for the Hans Crescent Hotel, Deryk 
 suggested diffidently that he supposed Idina would not care 
 to have supper with him somewhere, or, at least, to keep 
 him company, while he ate. ^ 
 
 "Unless you're tired," he added hastily, wondering why 
 he had given an obviously superfluous invitation. 
 
 "I should like it," she said after a moment's hesitation. 
 "It's been very pleasant, seeing you again, Deryk. And, 
 when I'm settled in my cottage, I don't suppose we shall 
 meet much." 
 
 He picked up the speaking tube and directed his chauffeur 
 to drive to the Carlton Grill Room. 
 
 "Do you remember the last time we drove together?" she 
 asked, as he leaned back again. The words were hardly 
 framed as a question, but they made him shiver. 
 
 "Honestly, I hardly do," he answered quickly. "It was 
 just before my father died, and I had a sort of break- 
 down. For about a fortnight everything seems like a bad
 
 320 
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 dream. You — you know the feeling that something you're 
 saying or doing had been said or done before — you can't 
 place it. I — to tell you the truth, I haven't tried to remem- 
 ber much about it." 
 
 Idina gathered her cloak closer round her shoulders. 
 
 "I haven't tried, but I can't help it," she said, covering 
 her eyes -wiih one thin hand. "I hoped, when I was ill, that 
 I should forget everything, but I feel it will be years before 
 I forget, — if I ever do. It seemed as if it would never end." 
 
 The car was turning into Pall Mall, and Deryk leaned 
 forward to throw his cigarette away. 
 
 "It was only about six months," he expostulated. "That's 
 not much in a lifetime, however bad the dream. I was 
 thinking to-night, Dina, how extraordinarily young we 
 both were. We seem to have been through a devil of a 
 lot, but our average is still comfortably under twenty-five." 
 
 "I don't feel that," she answered. "I don't know what 
 age I feel." 
 
 The Grill Room was only half-full, when they arrived, 
 and Deryk had no difficulty in securing a table in one of the 
 far bays. As the theatres emptied, the vacant seats began 
 to fill, and he found himself bowing to one party after 
 another. 
 
 "You seem to know everyone, Deryk," said Idina, who 
 was looking about her with an interest not far removed 
 from excitement. "It's an absurd thing to say, but I've 
 never been out to supper in London before. You see, we 
 lived in the country for so long, and, when I got back to 
 England after my honeymoon, my husband's health became 
 bad almost at once. Oh, wasn't that Lord Loring? I should 
 like to thank him for all he did in Naples." 
 
 They crossed the room to a table where Loring and his 
 sister were sitting with George Oakleigh and his cousin. 
 On their way back, after a few moments' conversation, they 
 were accosted by Summertown, who was giving supper to 
 a supercilious-looking girl with hungry eyes and a cruel 
 mouth. Oakleigh allowed a faint interest to betray itself 
 in his urbane, kindly expression of boredom; Summer-
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 321 
 
 town stared unceremoniously and then reminded Idina, to 
 the obvious displeasure of his companion, that they had 
 met once at Ripley Court. It was not lost upon Der}'k that 
 Idina, who looked a lily against a dark background, was 
 arousing interest in herself and that his presence in her 
 company did nothing to diminish the interest. As he sat 
 down, he could see George Oakleigh bent over the table, 
 explaining; the eyes of the others were directed for a mo- 
 ment to the far bay before turning carelessly back to their 
 own table. Deryk was suddenly annoyed; then he won- 
 dered why he was annoyed. 
 
 "You've told me nothing about yourself," he heard Idina 
 saying. 
 
 "There's so little to tell," he answered, beckoning to the 
 waiter and ordering himself a cigar. "When I got back 
 from Asia Minor, I had some business to attend to; then 
 I bought this house, and it's taken up all my time." 
 
 Idina was sitting with her chin upon her clasped hands, 
 watching and listening, as she used to listen when he came 
 home from school for the holidays. He had forgotten the 
 look and the attitude. 
 
 "And when you've finished it?" she asked. 
 
 "I shall live there, I suppose." 
 
 As he said them, he knew that the words were untrue. 
 He could no more live by himself in Pall Mall than in 
 Sussex; hardly waiting to enquire whether he could live 
 with anyone else, he decided that the joy of the new house 
 lay in the rebuilding of it; even if he could endure the 
 size and desolation of it, he could not simply take his meals 
 and sleep there. Had he not just told Idina how young 
 they both were? He could look forward to another fifty 
 years of life, twice as many as he had lived so far. 
 
 "I didn't know whether you were going into politics or 
 anything," she said. 
 
 "I don't know what to do, I don't know how to begin," 
 he answered. "We're in the same boat, in a way. You 
 must have more money than you know what to do with " 
 
 "I'm thinking of giving most of mine away," she in-
 
 322 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 terrupted. "If I kept about three or four hundred a year 
 and lived quite simply — The only thing is, I've a horror of 
 being poor again. It was so dreadful before; you're so 
 helpless. But I don't v^-ant all I've got now; I don't feel 
 I've really a right to it." 
 
 She fidgeted with the hem of her scarf and looked up to 
 find Deryk leaning forward eagerly. 
 
 "What are you going to do with it ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He now threw himself back with an expression of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 "Ah ! I hoped you were going to help me ! I don't know 
 what to do with mine ; and I've a haunting feeling that all 
 this money is going to spoil my life. I shall always be 
 thinking of it, wondering how to use it, where to get rid 
 of it; I shall be enslaved to it, attending to it daily until 
 I have no time to lead my own life, whatever that may be." 
 
 His face was grown haggard, and his lower lip was 
 thrust forward as though in rebellion against fate. . . 
 
 "Whatever that may be?" she repeated. 
 
 Deryk sighed and passed his hand wearily across his 
 eyes. 
 
 "I seem to have done everything," he said. "I don't 
 know what I want to do." 
 
 "I wish I could help you, dear Deryk," she answered 
 softly. 
 
 At half-past twelve he led her upstairs and drove her to 
 the Hans Crescent Hotel. As the car slowed down before 
 the door, she pressed his hand gently. 
 
 "Thank you for everything, Deryk," she whispered. 
 "That last drive, you know. You've forgotten it, but I can't 
 tell you how much you steadied me, when I was almost out 
 of my mind. All the time he was dying, I felt that you 
 were thinking of me and being sorry for me. Bless you, 
 dear Deryk !" 
 
 For want of anything to say, he kissed her hand. 
 
 "We've always been good pals," he said gruffly, as he 
 groped for the handle of the door.
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 323' 
 
 "You were a jolly good pal to me then!" she answered. 
 "I'd — I'd have thrown myself under a train, if I'd had 
 the courage." 
 
 "Then I'm glad you hadn't!" he laughed. "And you're 
 glad, too, whatever you went through. You've no reason 
 for not being happy now, Dina." , 
 
 She made no answer, and he opened the door and helped 
 her on to the pavement. 
 
 "I want to see you again," he told her, as they shook 
 hands. 
 
 "But I'm lunching with you to see the new house." 
 
 "Ah, but that's a long way off. Will you dine with me 
 to-morrow night?" 
 
 Idina looked into his eager face and lowered her eyes. 
 
 "I'm going back to the country to-morrow," she said. "I 
 only came up for one night to dine with Yolande." 
 
 "You don't think you could stay another night?" he 
 pleaded. 
 
 "Yes, if you want me to. I'll do anything you want me 
 to, Deryk." 
 
 Deryk re-entered his car with a familiar, obstinate feel- 
 ing that he was not going to sleep for many hours and 
 that it was hardly worth trying. He picked up the speaking- 
 tube and told the chauffeur to stop. 
 
 "How tired are you ?" he asked. "I don't feel m.uch like 
 going to bed, and, if you're equal to it and you've enough 
 petrol, we might go down to Ripley Court and spend the 
 night there. We ought to do it in under two hours, but 
 you'll have to drive me up to-morrow morning. I can't 
 stand trains." 
 
 The man was growing better used to his master's ec- 
 centric times and movements than Deryk, perhaps, sus- 
 pected. Without demur he turned the car towards the 
 river, and in a quarter of an hour they were gliding through 
 the South London suburbs. Deryk found himself comfort- 
 ably tired after a long, hungry day and yet more com-
 
 324 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 fortably lethargic after his late meal, but his brain was 
 working steadily and, as it seemed, with penetrating clarity, 
 flashing its light on scene after scene until they were con~ 
 nected in a unified whole. He saw Yolande, bare-armed 
 and slender, with her hair boyishly parted over one eye, 
 standing by the piano with an expression of embarrass- 
 ment, warning him that Idina vv^as in the house. He saw 
 Yolande again, tactfully leaving them together on the 
 sofa. . . And Summertown at the Carlton with his vin- 
 dictive harpy guarding him. Idina was very young, very 
 beautiful, and Lord Marling had little money to spare for 
 his son's disreputable but expensive amusements. . . . He 
 could almost hear George Oakleigh drawling out his ex- 
 planation — "I've met her, I believe ; he^s rather a friend of 
 mine. They were always supposed to be engaged, but she 
 married some other fellow — I've forgotten his name — who 
 died and left her a lot of money. . ." And no doubt Loring 
 would interrupt to supply the name. . . 
 
 Deiyk had the feeling that he was being regarded as the 
 hero of a chequered but delightful romance, which all his 
 friends were joining hands to forward. He sincerely 
 wished that people would leave him alone. . . Then a flash 
 of clarity shewed him that he was really to blame. He 
 need not have stayed in Yolande's house, he need not have 
 offered Idina a lift, or invited her to supper with him. . . 
 Yet he had enjoyed it all, especially when he saw her with 
 her chin on her hands and her eyes upon him ; there was 
 something friendly and caressing about her, he was grown 
 used over many years to having her as a confidant, she had 
 idolised and idealised him so delightfully. And certainly 
 she had drawn out of him the best that he had to give. . . 
 It was curious to think that once he had walked up and 
 down the streets of London, cursing her — that he had tried 
 to blot her from his memory and had prayed that he 
 would not meet her again. . . They had both been through 
 so much suffering that they met without recrimination and 
 took up their lives where they had been interrupted; she 
 
 I
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 325 
 
 ■was ready to marry him — he had no doubt of that from 
 the moment when they said good-night. . . 
 
 The swift passage of the car made him drowsy and 
 reminiscent, but he roused himself now to answer a ques- 
 tion which had lain in cover at the back of his mind for 
 three months. It had to be answered; he must make up 
 his mind whether he wanted to marry Idina. She was de- 
 voted to him, they had known each other so long that mar- 
 riage could not entail many surprises for either, she would fit 
 herself into his life and not want to lead a life of her own ; 
 his friends would, of course, be hers, and she would 
 not want to fill the house with tiresome people that he 
 did not like. . . . He shuddered and laughed to think of 
 the ragamufiins that Yolande would have introduced; his 
 father, in his wisdom, had wanted him to marry Yolande ! 
 Among the many . . . He sighed to contemplate the frozen 
 groove into which he would have been forced by marrying 
 Summertown's sister ; the Farwells were related to so many 
 people! Yet his father had played with the idea of his 
 marrying Sally Farwell. And with Sonia Dainton, He 
 could almost hear Lady Dainton lightly referring to "my 
 son-in-lav;. Sir Deryk Lancing, don't you know"; he could 
 imagine Sonia restlessly whirling him through a monotonous 
 round of "exclusive" parties and turning his house into a 
 place where her friends with no other excuse for staying 
 out of bed would congregate to play poker or roulette. 
 Yet Idina had been turned away — or so he still believed — 
 while the others were counted eligible ! Idina was the only 
 one who would not drive him mad in a week. 
 
 Day was breaking, and he sank deeper into his corner. 
 Body and mind were tired, and some of their weariness 
 infected his thoughts. Idina would be a restful wife, and 
 he wanted rest. She was not likely to develop a strong per- 
 sonality of her own, but he did not want that ; he had more 
 than once seen husband and wife growing jealous of the 
 other's success at their own dinner-table. She would not 
 make a commanding position for herself in society, but he
 
 326 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 did not want that, however much his father may have 
 desired it. . . . 
 
 Deryk's thoughts came back with a jerk to his father's 
 letter. He was at least prepared to agree that he ought to 
 marry; a man of his age had to, and with a man in his 
 position it was a duty. . . . He wondered what it would 
 feel like to have children of his own ; he did not in the least 
 yearn for them, but it must be a curious sensation, it must 
 make a man feel extraordinarily old all of a sudden . . . 
 But it must be interesting to watch them growing — when 
 they had got over the first horrible years of teethings and 
 measles and slobbery helplessness and noise; interesting to 
 make plans for them, send them to school, talk over what 
 they were going to do . . . What on earth was he going 
 to tell them to do? Was there going to be a dramatic 
 evening when the eldest came of age? Was he going to 
 say, "My boy, I've decided that the time has come to ex- 
 plain things to you. I don't know whether you have any 
 idea how much money you'll be coming in for, when I die ; 
 of course, it will be in the hands of trustees. . . ." 
 
 The little speech, to be delivered more than twenty years 
 later, was singularly like Sir Aylmer's speech, when he 
 looked across to see if Hatherly approved and then men- 
 tioned the size of his own income ! In twenty-one years, 
 the capital would have appreciated and grown ; grown per- 
 haps out of all control. He could fancy his son stammer- 
 ing, "But — but what d'you do with it?" and himself 
 replying with unaffected gravity, "You will have to answer 
 that question in your time." 
 
 In twenty-one years he might, of course, have found an 
 outlet; otherwise it was to confess defeat and to hand on 
 to a mere boy a problem which his father and grandfather 
 had failed to solve. So far they might fairly say that they 
 had not tried, for Sir Aylmer had been a dying man for 
 fifteen years, and there had not been time since his death 
 for anyone else to try. When once he started, when once 
 he had made up his mind where to start . . . He must 
 look into figures and see what Ripley Court and the Lon-
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 327 
 
 3on house would cost him. Thirty thousand? Fifty? He 
 could hardly make a guess, but fifty thousand seemed a 
 gigantic sum for two people and two houses, however prodi- 
 gal; that would leave another nine hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand a year — nine hundred and fifty thousand ! — and, unless 
 he could get rid of it, there would be the old task of in- 
 vesting the surplus and laying up a bigger burden for the 
 following year ... It was funny that the only man who 
 could help him refused to lend a hand! Raymond had a 
 plan and boasted of it, but where did it tend? By an ex- 
 penditure of nine hundred and fifty thousand a year for 
 any number of years a man could indeed make himself a 
 political force, but how was he to use his power? There 
 was no particular amusement in wielding a big party, run- 
 ning a group of papers, even influencing relations between 
 states. It was a power, of course, but the engine of his 
 car represented power; it was unattractive unless a man 
 knew how he wanted to use it, where he wanted to go. . . . 
 
 The car stopped suddenly, and he watched his chauflFeur 
 getting out to open the lodge gate of Ripley Court. Deryk 
 yawned and looked at his watch, but it had stopped a few 
 minutes after two. As the car glided along the curving 
 sweeps of the drive, he saw the house standing out against 
 the sky-line, first on his right and then on his left. He tried 
 to appreciate his father's feelings when he first saw it, 
 when he drove back to it day after day, when he felt it 
 becoming a part of himself and of something more than 
 himself; once again his mind leapt forward until he began 
 to lead his own son through the long rooms, explaining that 
 it would all be his some day ... A pride of possession 
 entered his soul for the first time, as he drew up at the 
 side door by the chapel and began feeling for his keys. 
 
 After breakfast six hours later he carried a pipe and an 
 armful of papers to his father's study. With the assistance 
 of Phillimore he disposed of them quickly and strolled into 
 Hatherly's office for a chat. The car was not ordered until 
 five in the afternoon, and, on leaving Hatherly, he wandered 
 round the house, appraising the rooms and ending with a
 
 328 
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 call on Mrs. Benson, who flusteredly addressed him as "my 
 dear," apologised and tried to tempt him with food. 
 
 "Nothing, really, thanks," he told her. "As I was down 
 here unexpectedly, I thought I'd come in and see how you 
 were. I say, it isn't true that you're talking of leaving, is it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Benson smoothed her unwrinkled silk apron with 
 deferential hands. 
 
 "Well, my dear — I'm sure I beg your pardon, Sir Deryk 
 — we're none of us as young as we once was, and, when your 
 dear father died, I said to Benson, 'Benson,' I said " 
 
 Deryk vaulted on to the table and sat there swinging his 
 legs. 
 
 "Were you fond of my father, Mrs. Benson?" he inter- 
 rupted. "I mean, I should awfully like to know what 
 other people thought of him." 
 
 The old woman looked at him cautiously. 
 
 "He was a kind gentleman," she said at length. "And a 
 very fair gentleman. He was very fond of you, my dear." 
 
 "Were you afraid of him at all?" Deryk asked. 
 
 "I always carried out his orders exactly as he gave 
 them," she answered pregnantly. Then, after a pause, 
 "Benson and I decided, when your father died " 
 
 "But I can't run this place without you," he interrupted. 
 
 "Why, my dear, you're hardly ever down here; and the 
 place runs itself." 
 
 "But if I married? You wouldn't like me to bring a 
 wife home and not have you to shew her round." 
 
 The housekeeper's eyes brightened with interest and 
 became suddenly moist. 
 
 "Are you truly getting married, my dear? Oh, I'm glad 
 to hear it! I pray God you'll be very happy. No, I 
 shouldn't like not to be here when you bring her home, 
 that I shouldn't. I thank you for telling me." 
 
 Deryk jumped down from the table and started towards 
 the door. 
 
 "It isn't decided yet," he told her, "but more unlikely 
 things have happened." 
 
 On his way back to London he unlocked a despatch box
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 329 
 
 and read again his father's last letter. Fanciful and ro- 
 mantic as were many of its leading ideas, he was surprised 
 to find so much imagination. Sir Aylmer might have been 
 wrong-headed ; his errors did not lie on the surface. But 
 the letter, even on a -second reading, contained no guidance, 
 and it was specific guidance that Deryk wanted. 
 
 A note from Yolande was awaiting him when he reached 
 his rooms ; she complained that they had hardly exchanged 
 six words the previous evening and begged him to choose 
 a night for dining with her the following week. "I'll see if 
 I can get Dina to come," the letter ended; "she ought to 
 go out more, or she'll begin to mope." Deryk smiled and 
 turned to the next envelope, which was addressed in Ray- 
 mond's hand-writing. The letter read unexpectedly : "My 
 dear Mrs. Dawson, I am off to V'ienna on Friday. Can you 
 lunch with me on Thursday? Say the Ritz at 2:00 p. m. 
 Most sincerely yours, Raymond Stornaway." 
 
 'T suppose hers contained a ditto ditto for me," mur- 
 mured Deryk. "Old Stornaway doesn't mind about his left 
 hand knowing what his right hand's doing. And as a 
 family the Stomaways shew more detern\ination than 
 variety. They've made up their minds that I'm to marry 
 her and they'll go about taking all the credit. Still, if it 
 amuses them " 
 
 He dressed and drove round to the Hans Crescent Hotel, 
 where he had telephoned to say that he would call for 
 Idina. She was awaiting him in the hall with an apology 
 for having only the dress in which he had seen her the 
 previous evening. 
 
 "You looked very sweet in it last night," he reassured 
 her. "I'm not sure you don't look sweeter still this evening. 
 How are you? Well?" 
 
 She nodded with bright eyes. 
 
 "I'm so glad to see you again, Deryk," she whispered. 
 "Where are you taking me to ?" 
 
 "The Savoy. D'you,mind that?" 
 
 "I've never been there ; I shall love it." 
 
 Deryk considered for a moment.
 
 330 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "As a matter of fact I've ordered a private room," he 
 told her. "If you care about seeing people, I'll try to get a 
 table in the restaurant. I thought the other'd be more 
 quiet." 
 
 For an instant Idina looked startled ; then she coloured 
 slightly. 
 
 "Oh, don't alter it," she begged. "I expect we shall have 
 ever so many things to talk about." 
 
 As their dinner drew to a close, Deryk asked Idina to 
 marry him. There could have been nothing of the unex- 
 pected in his proposal or her acceptance, but she turned 
 her face away and began to cry quietly the moment that 
 she had given him her answer. 
 
 "It's because I love you so !" she sobbed, when he knelt 
 beside her, trying to comfort her and fearful that a waiter 
 would inopportunely burst in with a tray of coffee. "Oh, 
 [Deryk, I thought I should never be happy again." 
 
 He kissed her hurriedly and went back to his place. 
 
 "You mustn't let anyone see you crying," he urged in 
 agitation. 
 
 She dried her eyes and smiled bravely at him. 
 
 "I'm very obedient, aren't I, Deryk ?" 
 
 "You can't begin too soon," he laughed. 
 
 "Oh, my darling, I'll do whatever you tell me to! I'll 
 do anything, anything in the whole world for you." 
 
 He stretched out his hand and caught hers. 
 
 "Are you really happy, Dina ?" 
 
 "Oh, wonderfully, wonderfully happy ! Do you remem- 
 ber the night of the ball at Ripley Court, the first time you 
 kissed me? I've not been really, really happy since then." 
 
 As the waiter served the coffee, Deryk lit a cigar and 
 tried to recover some appearance of collectedness. His 
 sense of perspective was gone, and he took time to appre- 
 ciate what he had done. Among the memories and thoughts 
 that crowded into his brain, Idina's "Oh, wonderfully, 
 wonderfully happy !" kept recurring like a refrain of sensu- 
 ous abandonment. The repetition was an engaging trick 
 of emphasis; he loved her for it, trivial as it really was,
 
 SI JEUNESSE POUVAIT ... 331 
 
 and for the surrender of soul which it seemed to proclaim. 
 It was a trick that he well recollected — and then he knew 
 that his memory was at fault. He had learned to know that 
 repetition from the lips of Lucile Welman, when she told 
 him at Maidenhead, months before their final parting, that 
 he was "breaking" her "poor, poor heart — breaking it." He 
 remembered the first time that he had noticed her using it ; 
 he remembered, too, how tired of it he had grown until in 
 one of their quarrels he had called it a "silly affectation." 
 Then she had cried, and he had apologised — as, in those 
 days, he always did, when she cried. . . . 
 
 "Deryk, he's gone now! You can give me one tiny, 
 tiny kiss." 
 
 He pushed back his chair and drew her into his arms. 
 
 "I wonder how long you'll care for me?" he whispered. 
 
 **0h, Deryk! for ever and ever," 
 
 He loosened one arm and smoothed her hair back from 
 her forehead. 
 
 "It's an awful thing," he began with a jerky laugh, "but 
 I suppose every man who beats his wife and every wife who 
 runs away from her husband always start like this." 
 
 "But, sweetheart, we shan't be like them!" 
 
 Deryk sighed. 
 
 "I suppose they always say that, too. I'm sorry, DIna 
 child, but sometimes I seem to see life without any of its 
 romance and glamour. And the world's a beastly place 
 then." 
 
 "Not our world, darling." 
 
 That night, after he had left her at her hotel, Deryk 
 telephoned to Yolande. 
 
 "I've got some news for you," he began. "Oh, you'd 
 guessed it already? Well, that saves me the trouble of 
 telling you. Thanks very much indeed. Oh, I hope so. 
 The what? Oh, the best day's work I've ever done. I'll 
 tell her that. You saw it coming? Well, I didn't take 
 much trouble to hide it, did I ? Good-night. Oh, not at 
 all ! I wanted you to know before anyone else. Thank you 
 most awfully."
 
 332 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 He hung up the receiver with a feeling of flatness and 
 anti-climax and hunted for Raymond's number in the tele- 
 phone directory. 
 
 "Der)^k Lancing speaking. I say, I thought you'd be 
 interested to hear I've just got engaged to Mrs. Dawson. 
 Oh, thanks very much. It's awfully kind of you. Oh, 
 only this evening. I'm afraid I can't quite hear. Oh, you 
 saw it coming. I can't hear. Oh, I shall certainly tell her 
 that. But I shall see you before you leave England. Good- 
 night and many thanks." 
 
 He depressed the receiver for a moment to break the 
 connection and then asked for a trunk call to Aston Ripley. 
 
 "Hats can't very well say he saw it coming," he mur- 
 mured. "If he does, I'll break the damned thing off."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 
 
 "After one week, man came to [Twashtri], and said: Lord, this 
 creature that you have given me makes my life miserable. She 
 chatters incessantly, and teases me beyond endurance, never leav- 
 ing me alone : and she require incessant attention, and takes all my 
 time up, and cries about nothing, and is always idle ; and so I 
 have come to give her back again, as I cannot live with her. So 
 Twashtri said: Very well: and he took her back. Then after 
 another week, man came again to him, and said : Lord, I find 
 that my life is very lonely since I gave you back that creature. 
 I remember how she used to dance and sing to me, and look at me 
 out of the corner of her eye, and play with me, and cling to me; 
 and her laughter was music, and she was beautiful to look at, 
 and soft to touch : so give her back to me again. So Twashtri 
 said : Very well : and gave her back again. Then after only three 
 days, man came back to him again, and said : Lord, I know not 
 how it is; but after all, I have come to the conclusion that she is 
 more of a trouble than a pleasure to me: so please take her back 
 again. But Twashtri said : Out on you ! Be off ! I will have 
 no more of this. You must manage how you can. Then man 
 said : But I cannot live with her. And Twashtri replied : Neither 
 could you live without her. And he turned his back on man, and 
 went on with his work. Then man said : What is to be done ? 
 for I cannot live either with or without her." 
 
 F. W. Bain : A Digit of the Moon. 
 
 The news of Deryk's engagement, starting nowhere in 
 particular and not visibly assisted on its course by anyone 
 in particular, spread through London in a day and the 
 country in a week. Self-centred, but not abnormally self- 
 conscious, Deryk was first of all surprised, then bewildered 
 and finally aghast. He had told Raymond, Yolande and 
 Hatherly between eleven and twelve one evening; while 
 he was still in bed, three illustrated papers begged by tele- 
 phone to be favoured with photographs of Mrs. Dawson 
 and himself; a bright, pertinacious girl with an air of not 
 being easily deterred by porters, footmen, secretaries or 
 
 333
 
 334 • MIDAS AND SON 
 
 confidential servants interviewed him at length, asking ques- 
 tions for an hour and condensing the results, in a form that 
 made him blush hotly, into two excessively personal para- 
 graphs. Simultaneously a torrent of congratulations de- 
 scended upon him by telegram, letter, express message and 
 telephone. The following morning, less than thirty-six 
 hours after the engagement, the daily papers were publish- 
 ing the tidings — not as a paid advertisement or social an- 
 nouncement, but as a matter of public interest, under a 
 leaded title on the main news page with a column of Austro- 
 Servian diplomacy on one side and the Buckingham Palace 
 Conference on the other. The world was informed in every 
 variety of journalistic setting, from a staid "Engagement 
 of Sir Deryk Lancing, Bart." to "England's Richest Bache- 
 lor to Wed." He had no idea — he kept saying to himself 
 and sometimes bemusedly to friends who ran him to earth 
 in his rooms or waylaid him at his club — he had no idea 
 that so many people knew of his existence. 
 
 For nearly a week he had no time to go near his new 
 house. A shorthand writer, frantically engaged by tele- 
 phone from an agency, helped him to open and sort the 
 letters, endorsing the congratulations with a common-form 
 reply of thanks telegraphed in sheafs of a hundred at a 
 time. Forgotten acquaintances at Eton and Magdalen, for- 
 gotten wayfarers encountered he knew not where, friends 
 of his father, dim personalities whose parties he had un- 
 rememberingly attended, all seemed to know him; they 
 seemed to know him as a social duty ; perhaps they quietly 
 bragged about it— "Lancing— old Deryk? Oh, Lord yes! 
 he was at m'tutor's. I must congratulate the old man." 
 Since his father's death he had appreciated that Sir Aylmer 
 was well-known, but he fought against the conviction that 
 people who had met him two or three times in a forgotten 
 house-party were remembering him clearly, getting ready 
 their smiles for the next meeting. . , . 
 
 The news-cutting agencies had gone to work as promptly 
 as before, and he yielded to the temptation of seeing what 
 was really being said about him. Immediately he found
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 335 
 
 paragraphs which he despaired of tracing to their origin, 
 photographs whose existence he had never suspected. 
 Under the title of "The Camera in Society" he found him- 
 self striding through Hyde Park, grinning vacantly in con- 
 versation with a man whom he could not recognise, worm- 
 ing his way into Boulter's Lock on Ascot Sunday; the 
 house in Pall Mall was reproduced, Ripley Court was re- 
 produced; with amazement he discovered a group taken 
 when Lord Pebbleridge's hounds met there eighteen months 
 before, with himself patting a horse's withers and talking 
 to the Secretary, while George Oakleigh — an unmistakable 
 George Oakleigh — lounged in the doorway, smoking a 
 cigar. The files had been ransacked, every shred of un- 
 interesting, bald, snob-tickiing irrelevancy was dragged out 
 and reproduced: '"Mr. Deryk Lancing, who is, of course, 
 the heir of Sir Aylmer Lancing, the well-known million- 
 aire-philanthropist," "Sir Deryk Lancing, who succeeds to 
 the title," "Sir Deryk Lancing and a friend," "Snapped at 
 Maidenhead; Mr. Deryk Lancing." He looked closely and 
 long at a picture of Mrs. Welman lying back in a punt, 
 half-covered with yielding silk cushions, and himself rather 
 inexpertly wielding a pole ; then he tore it angrily into small 
 pieces. A moment later he gathered the pieces and burned 
 them with a match, and, as the flame died down, he left his 
 work and hunted in a despatch-box for a packet of letters 
 from her which he could not remember destroying. . . . 
 
 "I suppose I never read the papers," he rputtered to him- 
 self. "Good God! I wonder how much people really do 
 know about me !" 
 
 The new aspect of himself fascinated him morbidly. 
 There were letters from traditional, family friends whom 
 he had dropped because they bored him : "Dear Sir Deryk, 
 (as I suppose I must call you now), though we have seen 
 so little of you in recent years, . . ." He smiled cynically 
 at the pathetically transparent attempt to retain or recap- 
 ture him. The mothers of several girls whom Sir Aylmer 
 was always inviting to Ripley Court were "so much inter- 
 ested in the news of your engagement"; two of the girls
 
 22^ MIDAS AND SON 
 
 themselves were "simply dying to meet your wife," and 
 one shy httle note offered all congratulations and good 
 wishes with an unblushing frankness that disconcerted him ; 
 "you don't remember me, but the times I went to Ripley 
 Court are very happy memories, and anything that makes 
 for your happiness has my blessing." Deryk tortured his 
 brain to remember the handwriting, the name, anything 
 about the woman. Apparently he had attracted her — some 
 shy girl to whom he had been civil — and she was honest 
 enough to be unreserved about it. He wondered how many 
 others had worshipped him or his setting from a distance. 
 
 "I can't remember paying any sort of attention to anyone 
 bar Dina. I suppose some of them think I treated them 
 badly, or their mothers think I raised 'expectations,' or 
 some rot of that kind. I bet they said it, too. I suppose if 
 I ever danced with a girl through half the evening — those 
 damned chaperons have got nothing else to think about . . . 
 Why can't people leave me alone?" 
 
 As the letters and news-cuttings accumulated, he began 
 to marvel that the world had left him alone so much as it 
 had. He was a public interest, an engrossing speculation, 
 and, except when a friend jocosely called him a plutocrat, 
 he had imagined that other people were as unconscious of 
 his wealth as he was ; the suspicion, which his father had 
 presented to him and which he had refused to entertain, that 
 anyone of any age or sex sought his society because he was 
 a millionaire's son, set his lip curling. If that had been 
 their first and abiding conception of him, at least they had 
 decently veiled their interest. But the world had left him 
 alone more than some people would say that he deserved. 
 The eternal question what he was going to do with his life 
 and his money was indirectly asked in numberless inaccu- 
 rate suppositions. He read, as he now remembered read- 
 ing when his father died, that "the new baronet is as keenly 
 interested as was his father in all social questions. It is 
 an open secret that he has studied them at first-hand . . ." 
 "That's George Oakleigh, I suppose," Deryk commented. 
 Gossipy "Chats about People" revealed the further open
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 337 
 
 secret that the new Baronet was preparing a political ca- 
 reer; "a. constituency 'in the Midlands has been men- 
 tioned . . . "; he learnt for the first time that he was in- 
 terested in diplomacy and that at the time of his father's 
 death he was proposing to proceed to Constantinople as an 
 Honorary Attache; only Sir Aylmer's failing health had 
 kept him in England. He was likely, too, to find his time 
 almost entirely absorbed by the control of the vast financial 
 interests which he had inherited. Alternatively, he was an 
 enthusiastic antiquarian ; while at Oxford, where he had a 
 most distinguished academic career, and every year since, 
 he had spent many months with Dr. Manisty, the well- 
 known Hellenist, excavating the remains of Troy. 
 
 "Poor Felix!" laughed Deryk. "They'll call it Hercu- 
 laneum next and say that I discovered it. I must be rather 
 a disappointment to these good people!" 
 
 He ceased to laugh as the new picture formed itself in his 
 mind. A man had a right to grow cynical, impatient, re- 
 sentful, when he was regarded as the prize in a matrimo- 
 nial lottery open to all-comers ; he was only seen as a specu- 
 lation, however, by people who did not count. A larger and 
 more sober body of critics looked upon him as a man 
 charged with a trust and a mission. They were tolerant ; so 
 far as the money was concerned, they were content with 
 his signing banker's orders for all his father's charities ; 
 but there was an inferential criticism in their curiosity 
 about him. They expected him to do something serious, 
 devoted and heroic with his unique position; they hinted 
 that there were few things that a man in his position could 
 not do and then inventoried his attainments and experience 
 to drive the hint home. ... 
 
 "H they'd suggest anything!" he exclaimed impatiently. 
 "I'm not going to waste my life tramping backwards and 
 forwards to a division lobby on some rotten Plural Voting 
 Bill. Besides, anyone can do that, and they keep billing me 
 for a star turn of some kind." 
 
 He carried his impatience out to lunch with him, sum- 
 marily charging the shorthand-writer to open all letters and
 
 338 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 telegrams, burn all circulars, catalogues and other com- 
 munications dealing with plate, jewellery, furs, furniture,, 
 houses in town and country and insurance proposals and 
 to reply by wire to all further congratulations, 
 
 "I suppose the whole racket will start again when people 
 begin sending me wedding presents," he grumbled to Idina, 
 after describing the morning's work. "Can't we put a 
 stopper on that by saying we don't want any? It is rather 
 ridiculous for twenty-five different people to send me twen- 
 ty-five perfectly superfluous cigarette-boxes ; if I want one, 
 they know perfectly well that I can afford to buy it. As a 
 matter of fact, I don't; I imagine I've got everything in 
 the world that a man could have." A sudden wistfulness 
 came into his eyes. "You're in the same boat now, Dina, 
 and I hope you'll like it more than I do. I don't feel I shall 
 ever get a new thrill, I've — I've had everything and been 
 everywhere and met everybody." 
 
 Idina looked at him with a reproachfulness which she 
 tried to pretend was affected. 
 
 "That's not very complimentary to me, darling!" she 
 protested. 
 
 "I was thinking of the last time we lunched together," 
 he answered slowly. "Do you remember coming up from 
 the country? Well, then I did have to think a good many 
 times before I ordered myself a liqueur with my coffee — 
 as a matter of fact, I knocked off coffee, cigars, everything 
 of that kind, the day I left home. It was much more fun, 
 you know, when you did stand yourself a treat. But, 
 getting back, can't we advertise to people that we don't 
 want their beastly presents?" 
 
 Idina's m.ind retained a vivid picture of her first mar- 
 riage, unheralded, unblessed, without one dear, fatuous 
 wedding-expert to crack absurd jokes, to make tender, 
 whispered speeches and, perhaps, to grow suddenly silent 
 and misty-eyed. . . . 
 
 "People pretend to be very blase about weddings," she 
 said, "but as a matter of fact they like them. They like
 
 WHAT COMES OUT- IN THE FLESH 339 
 
 choosing presents and giving them; I don't think they'd 
 care to be told their presents weren't wanted." 
 
 "But we're in rather a different position. We don't want 
 to be flooded with tea-knives and thermos flasks." Idina 
 thought well to make no answer, and he followed out his 
 own thoughts, "I don't understand about weddings. I 
 wouldn't go to one of my own free will, if you paid me 
 to, but, whenever I have to put in an appearance, I see 
 crowds of girls with their eyes bulging out of their heads 
 and dear old boys and their wives simply working them- 
 selves up to cry at the right moment. It can't be the cham- 
 pagne, because that's always undrinkable, and it's depraved 
 to drink champagne at three o'clock in the afternoon. I 
 suppose, when people get married, it's the most glorious 
 moment of their lives ; and the girls go, because they hope 
 their turn's coming, and the old people, because they like 
 to be reminded of the possibilities of life as they saw them 
 before they became disillusionised." 
 
 Idina thought of married life, as she had known it for 
 eight months. For Deryk, who had no excuse for disillu- 
 sion, to talk like that seemed to drive a knife into her and 
 twist it in the wound. 
 
 "People needn't be disillusionised always, need they?" 
 she suggested timidly, 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders and began to cut up the 
 meat on his plate, 
 
 "The honeymoon ecstasy doesn't seem to last much be- 
 yond the honeymoon," he opined. "I suppose, when tlie 
 froth's been blown away and you come to grips, when you 
 realise the extraordinary permanence of marriage, when all 
 the little mannerisms that you hardly noticed before, be- 
 cause you were so infatuated, or that you may have noticed 
 and rather liked, when they begin to get on your 
 nerves " 
 
 Idina leant across the table and laid her hand on his 
 wrist, looking at him with a strained smile. 
 
 "I suppose it is really, really best to think of all this 
 before it's too late ?" she asked.
 
 340 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "My dear, you'll find that I'm anything but easy to get 
 on with when you see me all day and every day, Fve got 
 no illusions about myself. I know myself rather well; 
 I'm nervy, selfish " 
 
 Idina shook her head at him, and her eyes softened. 
 
 "Not selfish, darling. Or else you must know yourself 
 better than I know you. Just the least little bit obstinate, 
 the least little bit wilful, but wonderfully, wonderfully gen- 
 erous." She paused abruptly and stared at her plate until 
 her voice was grown steady again. "I never thought any- 
 body coidd be so generous until — that night. We bumped 
 into each other and began speaking like machines, but, when 
 I had time to — to appreciate, I expected you to hit me in 
 the face, I expected it. And I shouldn't have blamed you. 
 You see, — I knew everything, I'd met Yolande in Vienna 
 and I knew what you thought of me. I felt like a dog 
 waiting to be beaten." 
 
 Deryk laughed self-consciously. 
 
 "I don't know that I'm much given to hitting women in 
 the face," he said. The words, on reflection, seemed well 
 chosen ; there had been moments of exasperation in his life 
 with Lucile Welman, when he felt restrained from nothing 
 except physical violence. A dozen times, as he tried to 
 burst away from her and she begged him with her prac- 
 tised, professional tear in the voice not to break her heart, 
 he had stood trembling and setting together exquisitely 
 selected words from a vocabulary of a sudden enriched, 
 picturing their efifect and exulting in her imagined, moan- 
 ing collapse. Somewhere within him he felt a sinister, 
 volcanic force of cruelty, to be released whenever his un- 
 stable grip on his own plunging nerves relaxed. But he 
 had never yet, literally or metaphorically, hit a woman in 
 the face. "And I — by the way, I'm never going to touch 
 on this subject again — it may be vanity, but, knowing you 
 as long and as well as I did, I never thought you'd chucked 
 me aside to marry him for the fun of the thing." 
 
 Idina lowered her eyes again. 
 
 "We won't talk about this," she said. "But I will just
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 341 
 
 say that I was really, really out of my mind that night, 
 and you behaved like" — she hesitated for a word — • 
 "like a gentleman. You're very, very chivalrous, Deryk 
 dear; you always have been. You can look a woman in the 
 eyes " 
 
 "I shouldn't call that much of a test," he Interrupted 
 swiftly and with obvious distaste for the turn the conver- 
 sation was taking. 
 
 "Ah, but I know ! You've always, always been the soul 
 of chivalry " 
 
 "I've always, always had every, every kind of virtue," 
 he interrupted again. Her trick of repetition was irritat- 
 ing, and he hoped to laugh her out of it ; otherwise it was 
 difficult to see how she was to be broken of the habit. 
 
 "I'll promise not to flatter you, if you'll promise not to 
 run yourself down," she proposed. "I don't say you're per- 
 fect; I'm afraid I'm not fit to marry anyone who's perfect, 
 but you're very, very magnanimous." 
 
 Deryk gave an irrepressible shiver and forced her atten- 
 tion back to their wedding arrangements. The marriage 
 was to take place as soon as a year had elapsed from Sid- 
 ney's death. 
 
 "You don't want to make a fashionable circus of it?" 
 he asked disparagingly. 
 
 "I'll do whatever you like, darling." 
 
 "Oh, I vote for no presents, no advertisement, no cere- 
 mony in church — just shove a notice in the 'Times' to 
 warn people that we're married and then go to Ripley Court 
 for our honeymoon. It'll be far more comfortable than a 
 verminous hotel in Rome or any of the usual places." Idina 
 was silent for so long that his conscience grew uneasy. 
 "You think that'll be a bit flat?" he suggested more kindly. 
 "Well, it's for you to decide. If you want a show " 
 
 "Oh, I don't want a 'show,' as you call it," she protested. 
 "I'll— I'll do anything you like." 
 
 "But what d'you want to do?" 
 
 A quaver came into her voice, as she tried to answer.
 
 342 
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I suppose I'm like other people," she said. "I want it 
 to be the most glorious moment of our lives." 
 
 Deryk smiled indulgently and began to talk about their 
 engagements for the coming week. Idina had grown very 
 sentimental of late — or he was beginning to take a worldly, 
 common-sense view of life. But she was eminently trac- 
 table ; too tractable, perhaps ; life would be intolerable, if 
 she met every proposal, damned the flow of any discussion 
 with an automatic "I'll do whatever you like." For com- 
 panionship and sympathy a man might as well live with a 
 gramaphone. 
 
 "It shall be — the most glorious," he assented. "There's 
 no hurry yet awhile, but you say exactly what you want 
 done, and it shall be arranged." 
 
 When luncheon was over, he hurried home and tele- 
 phoned for his car to take him to Aston Ripley. Hatherly 
 was there, immersed in business and clamouring for his 
 presence ; as he could not avoid the interview longer, he 
 was at least resolved to make one do duty for two and 
 to discuss the draft of his new will. For six months Ray- 
 mond Stornaway had been heir to the estate, and Deryk 
 had now to arrange for Idina to be the beneficiary and for 
 a rigorous trust to be established. It must all be strangely 
 similar to what his father had done six and twenty years 
 before; in all probability the original instrument, with 
 trifling modifications, could be used again — like causes pro- 
 ducing like effects and demanding like precautions. In an- 
 other twenty-six years another young Lancing might well 
 be found scowling on the hearth-rug and demanding his 
 rights. The new trust would have to be erected, of course, 
 but it was an ironic commentary if trust succeeded trust 
 and the beneficiaries found no way of even planing the 
 edges of the estate. . . . 
 
 He remembered that he had not discussed with Idina 
 the thoughts that had passed through his mind after read- 
 ing his morning batch of news-cuttings. Something would 
 really have to be done. To begin with, as a married man 
 he would find his liberty much curtailed. Whether his
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 343 
 
 wife had a family or not, he would no longer be able to 
 dash off for a couple of months to Asia Minor, a couple 
 of years elsewhere; his life henceforth would be anchored 
 to England ; with every day that passed it would tend more 
 and more to become a middle-aged routine — breakfast, the 
 letters and papers, luncheon, a blank until dinner, a blank 
 after dinner (they could not dine out, give parties or go 
 to a theatre every night), bed, breakfast, the letters and 
 papers. . . . 
 
 "You've got mighty little to say for yourself," com- 
 mented Hatherly that evening, when Deryk had eaten three 
 courses in unbroken silence. 
 
 "I was thinking how grateful I should be to anyone who 
 suggested something that I've never done before." 
 
 "Well, you've never been married before." 
 
 "I wonder if marriage does make all the difference that 
 people pretend. Oh ! it's no use your talking, Hats ; you're 
 a bachelor, too." 
 
 When Deryk returned to town, he was surprised to hear 
 that Idina had left suddenly for the country. "London is 
 getting so hot," she wrote in explanation, "but I will come 
 back whenever you want me. I'm afraid your visit to 
 Ripley Court was too short to do you much good ; and I'm 
 sure you want a little bit of a holiday. You seemed so 
 tired and nervous at lunch. . . ." 
 
 He had arrived in London at noon with a vista of ap- 
 pointments before him, but, on receiving her note, he 
 turned the car's head and pursued her to the south coast, 
 filled with penitence and irritation at feeling penitent. He 
 was neither nervous nor tired, and all that she meant was 
 that she had not enjoyed the luncheon ; assuredly it was 
 not his lucky meal, they always started with a general dis- 
 cussion, which invariably became stripped of everything 
 but its personal application. He remembered a furtive 
 meal which he had given her fifteen months before, when 
 she very sweetly and quite recklessly urged him to marry
 
 344 
 
 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 her at once and — well — trust to luck with his father; 
 he had explained that he was fighting his father ©n the 
 principle of financial independence and that she was only 
 a peg, a text, a casus belli; if she were dead and buried, 
 he would have to go on fighting just the same. For 
 some reason she never forgot or forgave his perfectly 
 innocent remark ; it was dragged up and thrown back at 
 him on at least three occasions that he could remem- 
 ber . , , And now, apparently, he had put his foot into 
 it again; Idina had winced and bitten her lip when he 
 said — for the life of him he could not remember what 
 he had said ; it was something about a quiet wed- 
 ding . . . He must go and kiss the tears away, he sup- 
 posed, but she really (or really, really) must try to keep 
 conversation impersonal. Otherwise it became im- 
 possible. . . . 
 
 He arrived at the fishing village of Pensington at seven 
 o'clock on a mid-July evening, at a moment of sensible 
 stillness when the drowsy heat of the day hung between 
 the cottages of the single street, over the dilapidated 
 jetty and shingle-clad beach, waiting and panting for a 
 sea-breeze to arise and blow cool air through the haze of 
 somnolence. The narrow street checked his long, low- 
 bodied car, and he went on foot through a hundred yards 
 of dusty unevenness, enquiring the way of every slow- 
 speaking loiterer, until a sudden turn bared the sea to 
 his eyes, and he caught sight of a figure in a white dress 
 and long, chamois gardening-gloves vanishing and reap- 
 pearing behind a dense, eight-foot hedge. 
 
 He paused to look through a spy-hole between two 
 bushes and whispered above the finality of her scissors' 
 "clip-clip-c/f/'," "Dee-eena !" She started at the second 
 repetition, but from her side the hedge was impenetrable, 
 and he had to run round to the crazy gate. Idina stood 
 motionless, watching his impatient fumblings with the 
 broken latch; then she plucked off her gloves and hurried 
 forward to welcome him with bare arms outstretched. 
 
 "My darling, I never expected to see you!"
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 345 
 
 The plaintive hunger in her voice made him bend down 
 and redouble his concentration on the rusty hasp. 
 
 "Are you glad to see me?" he asked, looking up with 
 a smile and collecting himself before coming in to the gar- 
 den. 
 
 "You know I am, Deryk, but there's nothing wrong, is 
 there?" 
 
 He laughed to share and appreciate her pleasure. 
 
 "I don't know whether it's wrong for me to want to 
 see you," he said. "That's the only reason I came here 
 at a time when I'm run off my legs in London. This 
 strikes me as an agreeably restful spot, Dina. Have you 
 got any food in the house, and is there an inn or any 
 place where I can get a reasonably clean bed? Two beds 
 would be useful, because I've got the shuvver here." 
 
 Her surprise and delight prevented her doing anything 
 but follow him with her eyes, as he sauntered with over- 
 elaborate ease round the garden or stood staring up at 
 the honey-coloured thatch and half-timber of her cottage. 
 
 "The 'Fisherman's Arms'," she began at length un- 
 certainly. "Dearest, how long are you going to stay 
 here?" 
 
 "How long would you like me?" he asked in turn. "I 
 haven't got so much as a razor or tooth-brush." 
 
 "As if that mattered!" 
 
 He turned suddenly and caught her by the wrists, rais- 
 ing her hands to his lips and kissing the palms. "Sweet- 
 heart, they're all earthy!" Idina protested feebly. For 
 answer he kissed them again and slipped his arm round 
 her waist. 
 
 "Are you glad to see me?" he whispered again. "I 
 oughtn't to be here and I can't stay, but I thought I must 
 come down for a few hours. Our lunch wasn't much 
 of a success the other day, I was in one of my clear- 
 sighted, analytical moods, which I suppose must always 
 seem rather unsympathetic to other people. Say you 
 forgive me, Dina."
 
 346 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 She drew down his head to a level with her own, and 
 her warm breath struck softly on his ear. 
 
 "Darling, darling Deryk! you know I don't mind what 
 you say or do as long as I'm with you. You can play 
 King John and the Jews, if you like, and pull out my 
 teeth one by one — for every hour you stay here! Only 
 I'm afraid you wouldn't love me any longer, if I weren't 
 pretty." 
 
 Deryk disengaged his arm and turned her head until 
 he could look squarely into her face. 
 
 "You're wonderfully beautiful, child," he said slowly, 
 as though he were making the discovery for the first 
 time. "You're so dainty and young and innocent, you've 
 never grown up, you're like a girl in a convent, with 
 large, enquiring eyes and a little wistful dimple of a 
 mouth . . . I'm not wholly bad and assuredly I'm not 
 wholly good, but, if I were a sort of Galahad, I should 
 adore you like a Madonna — and, if I were a bit worse 
 than I am, I think I should never be satisfied till I'd 
 broken you, spoiled you, made you as vile as I should 
 be." He paused at the startled, uncomprehending look 
 in her eyes. "You don't understand, Dina; there's a 
 lot of things you don't understand. When you — well, 
 let's say, before I met you again — I went off the rails 
 pretty considerably. For two, three — I don't know how 
 many months it was, I tried to forget " 
 
 Idina threw her arms round him. 
 
 "Go on forgetting, sweetheart," she gently urged. "I 
 don't want to hear, I shouldn't believe you, if you told 
 me. To me you'll always be brave, beautiful, generous 
 — oh, it's true, darling, it's true, even if you don't like me 
 to tell you." 
 
 Deryk had broken from her embrace and was idly 
 picking dead blooms off a standard rose-tree. Being in 
 love was an exquisite illusion, no doubt, but it should 
 always be regarded as an illusion ; a drunken man should 
 never be so drunk as not to know that he was drunk. 
 With genuine, wistful concern he tried to imagine what
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 347 
 
 kind of awakening lay ahead of Idina, if she tried to 
 keep him on his present pinnacle ; she would discover 
 that they thought differently on a thousand subjects, 
 that, however good or bad his case, he could beat her by 
 skill of dialectic or massed array of information; and 
 he could not stand much graceful surrender or many 
 repetitions of "Yes, darling, you're always right" or "Noth- 
 ing matters so long as you love me." That sort of thing 
 palled and cloyed. And, however much he loved her, he 
 would be like other husbands in broad outline ; there was no 
 blinking the certainty that, when the honeymoon phase was 
 ended, they w^ould occasionally irritate each other — like 
 any other husband and wife, — there might be petulant 
 words, as they tried to rub off their angularity. Was she 
 going to say, like people on the stage, "You've ceased to 
 love me?" 
 
 Her hands stole timidly round his shoulders again. 
 
 "Sweetheart, I've said something to upset you ! You're 
 not angry with me?" 
 
 Deryk found his voice hard to control. 
 
 "My beloved child, why should I be angry with you? I 
 suppose I had another of my desolating flashes of second- 
 sight . . . What pitiful fools we are in this world! Do 
 we really think that all eternity will be like this moment" — 
 he swept his arm agitatedly round — "roses, and a smell of 
 honey-suckle, and an orange-coloured sun, and just a hint 
 of the sea murmuring in the distance to remind us that 
 the world is not standing still? Do we really ?" 
 
 "Really, really!" she interrupted in a tremulous whisper. 
 "I couldn't bear it, if I didn't!" 
 
 Der\'k looked compassionately into her vipturned face 
 and kissed her forehead. 
 
 "This is all very well," he said with a short laugh, "but 
 I'm not going to sleep under a hedge, and, if I don't find 
 a room somewhere, there'll be trouble." 
 
 They dined that night by moonlight, sitting on the tiny 
 lawn in front of the cottage, silent or stilted as long as 
 Idina's country-bred cook was bustling importantly to and
 
 348 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 fro with newly caught soles, grilled ham and home-made 
 cheese. Deryk drank cider out of a dented pewter tankard 
 and, when dinner was over, threw himself on to the crum- 
 bling, warm earth and lazily filled a pipe. A film of dusk 
 had spread over the garden with the dropping of the day- 
 light, and the sea, changed from its afternoon blue to the 
 likeness of molten lead, seemed banked up and hesitating, 
 as the tide waited for its signal to turn. Overhead the low- 
 circling bats passed and repassed with a whirring beat of 
 wing ; all else was silent, and Idina was afraid to violate it. 
 She wanted to tell him how his ruthless commonsense the 
 previous day had hurt her — in order that she might tell 
 him that the wound was healed by his sweet, unexpected 
 appearance. His love for her took so much for granted 
 and had itself to be so much taken for granted; with his 
 ignorance of women and self-conscious contempt for senti^- 
 ment, he never understood through how many moods a 
 woman could pass, how quickly the moods changed ; nor, 
 until that night, had he shewn himself conscious of the 
 meaning to a woman of a timely, meaningless endearment 
 or caress. His power of fierce pity and obstinate love 
 was checked by fear of seeming weakness, as though he 
 dreaded advantage being taken of an open lapse into natu- 
 ral tenderness. His kindliness was as Procrustean as his 
 father's ; she wondered apprehensively whether the lapses 
 would grow more and more infrequent until he took on the 
 inexorable sternness which she had once seen on Sir 
 Aylmer's face in the chapel of Ripley Court. 
 
 "I feel as if I could stay here all my life," Deryk 
 drawled lazily between grateful, slow draws at his pipe. 
 
 Idina dropped on her knees behind him and lifted his 
 head into her lap. 
 
 "Why don't you, darling?" she asked. 
 
 "A bit cramped, I'm afraid." 
 
 "We should be nice and near together," she laughed; 
 then, with whimsical seriousness, "Mr. Stornaway sold my 
 house in Sussex and got rid of the lease of the one in 
 London. I was going to live here; then, when you asked
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 349 
 
 me to marry you, I made up my mind to sell this, too, 
 though I'd only had it for a few weeks. I don't think I 
 shall sell it now, Deryk; I shall keep it to remind me of 
 the beautiful present you made me by coming here to-day. 
 And, if ever we get tired of living in big houses or if we 
 feel that people are swarming round us and forcing us 
 apart, we'll come down here for a month or a week or a 
 day, even, and recapture all the magic, all the scent and 
 warmth . . . Deryk dear, have you ever wanted to cry 
 just because you were so happy that you didn't feel you 
 could bear any more? Before I married — just before, you 
 know — I thought I should never be happy again ; something 
 seemed to have been killed in me. Perhaps you don't know 
 that I'm very vain and I used to spend, oh! infinite time 
 and trouble trying to make my hair look nice and trying to 
 keep my hands soft and white. It wasn't all for myself; 
 I wanted to please you, I've always wanted to please you. 
 Once, when you came home from school and told me 
 I'd got skinny legs, I locked myself up with a medical dic- 
 tionary of father's and solemnly took to gorging myself 
 on cream and suet puddings in the hope of getting fat . . . 
 Dear Deryk! if you only knew how proud you made me 
 one Christmas by looking me slowly up and down and tell- 
 ing me that I was wearing "quite a decent dress !" The 
 next three dresses were exactly the same, and you nearly 
 broke my heart at the end of your first term at Oxford, 
 when you thought you really knew something about girls' 
 dresses and told me that pink didn't suit me and I must 
 never wear pink again. I did want to please you so badly, 
 but, when I thought you'd given up caring for me, I simply 
 didn't mind what happened to me ; it was nothing but habit 
 that made me do my hair or put my hat on right way round. 
 Did you bother to see what I was wearing on the night 
 when we met at Yolande's ? Ah, you're not very observant 
 even now, dear, but Yolande took me on one side and bul- 
 lied me and said I looked a fright and that she wouldn't 
 go on knowing me, if I didn't take some pride in my ap- 
 pearance. I hardly dared to come to the Carlton with you.
 
 350 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 but I have taken some pride in myself since tliat. I'm 
 afraid it wasn't for dear Yolande's sake, though. Some- 
 thing came to life again inside me." She stopped with a 
 break in her voice and bent down to kiss his half-closed 
 eyelids. "Sweetheart, I do so want to cry; and you'll 
 hate me, if I do." 
 
 Deryk stretched one hand backwards over his head and 
 caught her fingers in his own. "Go on talking instead," 
 he suggested. "I like listening, and you make love so 
 much better than I should." 
 
 "Make love? Ah, dear, I'm talking like this because I 
 can't help it, because my love for you is overflowing, be- 
 cause my heart's not large enough to hold it all. I am 
 worth coming eighty miles to see, aren't I ? And you won't 
 go back just yet? I'll take the most wonderful care of you, 
 if you'll stay ; we shall bathe and sit drying in the sun all 
 day, and at night you shall come here under the moon and 
 sleep on the warm earth with my breast as a pillow. And 
 I'll watch over you and send you sweet dreams and pray for 
 you, oh ! and thank God for you, Deryk ! My darling, why 
 need you ever go away again ?" 
 
 The long-awaited sea-breeze was blowing in with gusty 
 puffs, diluting and dispersing the bank of warmth that 
 had been accumulating all day. Deryk shivered involun- 
 tarily all through his body. 
 
 " 'Fraid your scheme rather leaves out the English cli- 
 mate," he commented. "My dear, I'm getting cold and 
 I'm sure we both ought to be in bed. What's the time?" 
 
 Idina looked at the watch on his wrist for the sake of an 
 excuse to kiss his hand. 
 
 "Dear, it's only ten. You never go to bed at ten." 
 
 '1 shall to-night." 
 
 "Your one night with me? Ah, darling, don't get up! 
 Stay where you are for just five minutes, because I ask you 
 to!" 
 
 Deryk had struggled stiffly to his feet, but she knelt up- 
 right and clasped her arms round his knees, drawing him 
 to her and begging him in whispers not to go. He tried
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 351 
 
 to disengage her hands without hurting her, laughing and 
 making game of her efforts that he might not allow a 
 strain of irritation to appear. One could rather overdo 
 this love-making; he was tired, his mood had broken, and 
 in rapidly strengthening reaction he felt that the whole 
 evening had been childish ; that, however, could not be al- 
 tered, though it might be avoided ; but he was going to 
 bed now. He had said it ; he could hardly imagine a power 
 strong enough to detain him ; certainly he could never 
 begin doing or not doing things "because I ask you to"; 
 there was no end to that, and the appetite would grow with 
 the eating. , . . 
 
 Her hands dropped with reproachful limpness to her 
 sides. Attitude and expression teased Deryk's irritated 
 nerves and made him feel that she was behaving like a 
 child. 
 
 "Well, I must go to bed," he told her abruptly, trying 
 afterwards to cloak the harshness of his tone with a parade 
 of stretching and yawning. 
 
 "Are you going to bathe to-morrow?" she asked. "The 
 sea's lovely in the morning. You could call for me on your 
 way down ; I usually go at about eight." 
 
 He took ample time to consider, as he filled his final 
 pipe. 
 
 "I'll come, if I can get anything to wear," he answered, 
 patting her cheek. "Good-night, Dina. You see that I 
 can't keep away from you for very long." 
 
 "My darling, I never want you to be away from me at 
 all !" 
 
 Deryk slept that night in a white-washed attic with waves 
 of lavender blowing through the casements and a sound of 
 scampering mice behind the wainscoting. He awoke to 
 find the sun shining on to his face and the room full of 
 the drowsy hum of bees from the garden below. Idina was 
 awaiting him on her lawn in blue peignoir, bathing costume 
 and cap, with blue sandals laced criss-cross to the knees ; 
 the night's rest in the fragrant air had stilled the dancing 
 of his nerves; he gave her twenty yards' start, and they
 
 352 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 raced, laughing and shouting, down the cliff path and a 
 hundred yards through the creaming surf until he overtook 
 her and bent her head back to receive his kiss. She looked 
 more a child than ever v^ith the wet gown clinging to her 
 slender body and her eyes gleaming with happiness and 
 joy of existence in the sunshine. 
 
 "Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" she panted. "You 
 ought to have, because you kept me waiting an hour." 
 
 "If I'd known what you were going to look like, I'd have 
 turned up considerably earlier," he answered with bois- 
 terous good-humour. 
 
 Idina sat down in two feet of water with arms out- 
 stretched, rising and sinking with the rhythmic undulation 
 of the waves. 
 
 "You're not going back, are you, Deryk?" she coaxed. 
 "I should like our life to be always like this." 
 
 "I've got work to do, my child," he reminded her. 
 
 "But, dearest, you're so rich, you can pay some one to 
 do your work for you." 
 
 He shook his head and dropped on to his knees, scooping 
 up water and splashing it over his face and hair with both 
 hands. 
 
 "That's the trouble, Dina, I'm so beastly rich that I 
 shall have to work all my life. It's expected of me. I 
 shall be one of the busiest men in London when I get 
 started — a younger edition of Raymond Stornaway." 
 
 Her face lengthened with disappointment. 
 
 "But I shall never see you," she pouted. 
 
 "Perhaps you'll see too much of me, when we're mar- 
 ried." 
 
 She caught his hand and kissed it, preliminarily plucking 
 away a strand of sea-weed and mischievously tossing it at 
 him. 
 
 "I couldn't do that, sweetheart," she said. "I want to be 
 with you every hour of the day, I want to kiss you asleep 
 at night and kiss you awake in the morning; all the rest 
 of the time I want to sit with my arms around your neck,
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 353 
 
 looking at you and listening to you and thanking God for 
 you." 
 
 Deryk withdrew his hand and began to splash his way 
 further out to sea. 
 
 "This is too shallow for me," he called back. "You have 
 to wade a mile before the water comes up to your waist." 
 
 Idina started to follow him and then abruptly stopped. 
 A hardening in his voice, only perceptible when she stopped 
 to reflect upon it, warned her that she had struck a false 
 note. She splashed industriously in the surf for a few 
 moments, with furtive, sideways glances at his bobbing 
 head ; then she began to wade inshore, calling over her 
 shoulder that she was beginning to grow cold. She had 
 returned to her cottage, dressed and finished brushing her 
 hair before Der}'k appeared, languid, damp-haired and 
 ravenous, to demand tobacco, food and drink. She waited 
 upon him silently until he rose with a sigh and walked out 
 into the garden; then she slipped her arm through his and 
 strolled into the sunshine and towards the bed of parched 
 turf where he had lain overnight. 
 
 "When d'you get your morning papers?" he asked, as 
 he filled a pipe. 
 
 "Not till to-night, I'm afraid," Idina answered, as she 
 began to pick off the battered, dead rose-blossoms. 
 "There's no proper delivery, so I have them posted down. 
 Is there anything you want to see? I find them so dull 
 that I never mind, if they don't come." 
 
 Deryk looked at her with an expression of surprise. 
 
 "But what do you do all the morning?" he asked. "You 
 can't pick off dead blossoms all day." 
 
 She laughed and brushed a clinging petal from her hands. 
 
 "I can and do, but I won't to-day. While you're here, 
 I only want to be with you ; and, when you're away, I like 
 to wander in and out among the rose-trees, thinking how 
 wonderfully peaceful it all is after what I've gone through ; 
 thinking, too, how divinely happy I am." She caught hold 
 of his wrists and looked beguilingly into his eyes. "Say 
 you like being in love with me, darling!"
 
 354 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Deryk removed his pipe and industriously repacked the 
 tobacco. 
 
 "I should have thought that went without saying," he 
 laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very demonstrative, but I 
 haven't got it in me, I'm not built that way, it all seems 
 such rot to me. I'm afraid I'm not much good at making 
 love, Dina." 
 
 "Would you like me to teach you ?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head wistfully. 
 
 "Perhaps I'm too old to learn. Have you got the time on 
 you, dear? Because I've got to get up to town by lunch- 
 time." 
 
 Idina looked crushed with disappointment. 
 
 "But you're not going to-day, darling?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I must," he answered gravely. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 Deryk hesitated. 
 
 "I've got to see my — architect," he said at length. 
 
 Idina controlled her disappointment for a time, but, when 
 eleven o'clock struck and the car backed cautiously down 
 the street to her gate, her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Derj'k, — one moment before you go, — just one!" she 
 begged, as he scrambled to his feet without any want of 
 alacrity and set out in search of his hat. "There's one 
 thing I want to say to you " 
 
 He looked at her with surprise, as she hesitated. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It's just this," she explained with forced detachment, 
 playing with a button of his coat. "If you ever feel you've 
 made — a mistake, I want you to tell me. I shan't reproach 
 you, darling; I'll say good-bye and — and — forget all about 
 you. If you ever thought you'd got me tied to you always 
 and always. ... I don't want you to marry me unless 
 you feel that you simply can't live without me. Do you feel 
 that, Deryk?"
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 355 
 
 "Should I have come down here, if I hadn't?" he asked 
 indulgently, as he took her in his arms and kissed her good- 
 bye. 
 
 She smiled in sudden ecstasy, but the joy died out of 
 her eyes as quickly as it had been born. 
 
 "You're going away again so soon ! I should like you 
 simply not to be able to go away." 
 
 "I'm afraid the world would come to a standstill on 
 that principle," he laughed. 
 
 "Bother the old world!" she cried. "Who cares? But, 
 Deryk, if you ever do feel " 
 
 He smothered her halting sentence with another kiss. 
 
 "You're talking a great deal of rot, young woman! 
 R. O. T., rot. Don't do it again, but just tell me when I 
 shall see you in town," 
 
 "Whenever you want me, dearest." 
 
 He pulled a note-book out of his pocket and turned the 
 pages. 
 
 "Well, you and the Manistys are lunching with me the 
 first Tuesday in August. I shall see you then. Do you 
 remember where you put my coat ?" 
 
 Idina's eyes followed him slowly and hopelessly, as he 
 bustled into the cottage. 
 
 "It's on the window-seat," §he called out. "I shall see 
 you then." 
 
 Deryk motored comfortably back to London with an 
 ungrudging sense that his time had been well spent. His 
 private business, the work on his new house were propor- 
 tionately neglected, but a man in love was not a free agent. 
 He had given poor Idina unbounded pleasure by his visit, 
 the memory of their ill-starred luncheon-party was ef- 
 faced ; now he had several clear days for work without fear 
 of interruption or need to play a part. They were going to 
 be very hard days, for he did not want to spend August 
 in London and, unless he got the alterations well advanced 
 before going away, he knew that nothing would be done 
 until his return. The house must be finished ; the men were 
 incredibly, intolerably slow; he wanted to see it as he had
 
 356 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 once dreamed of it at three o'clock in the morning, when 
 he pushed away the plans, tilted back his chair and sud- 
 denly caught a glimpse of perfect proportions and ideal 
 colours . . . Moving in would be rare fun ; playing with 
 his new toy. And afterwards? . . . 
 
 He wondered what Idina would do, what she really did 
 with herself all day at Pensington. It must be wonderful 
 to be able to live that Arcadian life, to sleep and bathe and 
 wander about a garden and eat primitive food; he had 
 enjoyed every moment of it as a holiday, but then he had 
 come there tired to the marrow of his bones, and it had 
 been heavenly weather. . . . 
 
 "I couldn't have stood a second night, though," he told 
 himself. "The fact is, I'm a devilish poor lover, I'm not 
 cut out for it ; the conventional technique simply makes 
 me feel a fool. Dina thinks she wants petting and calling 
 by absurd names now, she's awfully hurt if I don't play 
 up at any time, but when once we're married " 
 
 Her parting prayer returned to his memor}^ If he had 
 made a mistake, he was to get out of it as soon as possible, 
 and she would not reproach him, she would not spoil his 
 life. ... It was all rather — what word could he use? — 
 literary; if he were trying to describe the vicissitudes of 
 love in book or play, there would of necessity be theii 
 little scene of that morning — her moment's uncertainty of 
 him, the resolution to restore him his freedom at all costs, 
 the promise to forget him, the smile through her tears. . . . 
 It was charming, but rather absurd. It would hurt her 
 like sin, she would not be able to forget him; if he ever 
 accepted her invitation and said he had ceased to love her, 
 if he betrayed it without saying a word to her, he would 
 be committing murder as surely as if he deliberately 
 strangled her. She was that sort ; and she had been through 
 so much unhappiness and was so happy now that the result 
 was never in doubt. If he did get tired of her in the next 
 four months, if he became convinced that they had made 
 a hideous mistake and were preparing a married life that 
 would be a nightmare, still he would be bound to go
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 357 
 
 through with it — unless he bribed a doctor to diagnose gal- 
 loping consumption (and he was not good enough actor for 
 the parting scene), or had a shooting accident (which was 
 so likely to overtake a man who never shot!) or tumbled 
 under a train on the Underground (but, to begin with, that 
 was an unpleasant end and required nerve ; in the second 
 place it would not deceive a child ; the unexplained death 
 of a man engaged to be married was almost invariably 
 suicide, almost invariably occasioned by the engagement. 
 He would have to be more artistic, he would have to take 
 rather more trouble than that. . . . 
 
 Deryk started and sat upright in his corner. It was a 
 fool's game to admit that such a thing as suicide existed, 
 to talk about it, to think about it — You simply got mor- 
 bid and, one day, you did yourself in ; and your friends gave 
 evidence and told the coroner that you had been talking 
 about suicide a great deal and seemed "depressed," and the 
 jury returned the usual "while-of-unsound-mind" verdict 
 to spare the feelings of your relations (thank Heaven! he 
 hadn't any) and get you Christian burial. As a matter of 
 interest, he wondered whether a man of sound mind could 
 deliberately wrench soul from body and take his own life, 
 whether he could overcome that amazing tenacity of ex- 
 istence, whether you really had to be off your head before 
 you could lose sight of everything else and concentrate on 
 the one reflection that life was not worth living and that 
 the only way of ending your misery was to end your 
 life. . . . 
 
 "This, again, is morbid," he told himself. 
 
 She only wanted him to marry her when he felt that 
 he could not live without her. . . . That was really ab- 
 surd. If she had the shooting accident or got drowned 
 bathing, he would not shut himself up and die; it would 
 be a terrible shock, a dreadful loss, but he would continue 
 to live. She seemed ten years younger than he in her ro- 
 mantic conceptions. In marriage, the first thing to decide 
 was whether you could share your life with anyone, then 
 who was best suited for an amazingly intimate, incredibly
 
 358 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 permanent joint existence. If he could bear to live with 
 anyone more than a few weeks, he could bear to live with 
 Idina ; he would sooner have her with him in the car at 
 that moment — at all times, indeed, when he was not work- 
 ing; of course, she did rather look on life as a musical 
 comedy with moon-light effects, a recitative duet breaking 
 into a waltz-song, gyrations up and down stairs and a sug- 
 ary over-emphasis of sentiment and stage passion. Poor 
 Dina ! He put his feet up on the seat opposite and began 
 to write a pencil note on a sheet torn from his pocket-book. 
 "Great fun, dear, wasn't it? I hope you enjoyed it as 
 much as I did. Look here, it's a long time before our 
 lunch-party; why don't you suggest a night for coming up 
 and dining? I'm writing in the car; hence this filthy 
 scrawl." 
 
 "She'll like that," he prophesied, as the car slowed down 
 on entering the south-west suburbs. 
 
 He reached his rooms to find the shorthand-writer in- 
 dustriously ripping open envelopes and filling in names and 
 addresses on a pad of telegraph forms. 
 
 "Oh, Lord 1 I hoped somehow to find the rot would 
 stop, if I went away," he exclaimed. "I suppose there's 
 nothing of any interest ?" 
 
 "They're all — very much the same. Sir Deryk," the girl 
 answered. "This telegram has just come in from Mrs. 
 Dawson." 
 
 He took it and read, "Trust you arrived safely." 
 
 "Oh, tell her I have, will you?" he said, tossing the tele- 
 gram on to the table. The girl picked it up, as though she 
 expected him to be a little less off-hand in his reply. "As 
 a matter of fact, I have sent her a line already," he ex- 
 plained almost apologetically, wondering the next moment 
 why he troubled to excuse himself to an unknown, sub- 
 dued-looking girl who existed at that moment to type his 
 letters and send off his telegrams at two guineas a week — 
 thereafter to fade out of his life. 
 
 "A great many people have called or rung you up," she 
 told him. "I said I did not know where you were."
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 359 
 
 "Go on saying that," Deryk begged her. "If you want 
 me for anything urgent, I shall be at the new house, but I 
 don't want people to run me to earth there. Make an ex- 
 ception for Jonas, my architect, if he turns up, but no one 
 else." 
 
 He spent a happy half day, planning and ordering in the 
 new house, and only left at nine o'clock in time to snatch 
 a hurried meal at the Eclectic Club. He had meant to dine 
 alone, but George Oakleigh, also a late-comer, sent a waiter 
 to his table with the suggestion that they should join 
 forces, Deryk felt that he owed him too much to yield to 
 his first impulse of refusal. 
 
 "Just good wishes," said Oakleigh, putting down his 
 paper and extending a hand of welcome. "You must be 
 sick to death of the subject, so I won't ask a single ques- 
 tion. The sole amiral is rather good, but I can't recom- 
 mend the lamb." 
 
 "Thanks — for the good wishes and the advice," Deryk 
 laughed. "If you haven't ordered anything to drink, will 
 you help me with a bottle of the '04 Bollinger? I don't 
 believe there's a great lot left!" 
 
 As ever he felt at his ease with Oakleigh. The air of 
 kindly disillusion, the shy sympathy, the real, subterran- 
 ean friendship inspired confidence ; they had established 
 an alliance of soul at their first encounter, when with feel- 
 ings of equal boredom they had assisted at the Ripley Court 
 meet of Lord Pebbleridge's hounds. 
 
 "How much longer are you staying on in town?'* Deryk 
 asked. 
 
 "I'm going to Chepstow at the end of the month," Oak- 
 leigh answered. "By the way, you know when we met at 
 the Carlton last week? Marriage must have been in the 
 air. Loring and his sister and a cousin of mine were 
 having supper with me at one end of the room, you and 
 Mrs. Dawson were at the other; two days later your en- 
 gagement was announced, Loring's was published the fol- 
 lowing morning. Shall I see you at Chepstow by any
 
 36o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 chance? He's giving a sort of long week-end party and 
 a dance in honour of the occasion." 
 
 Deryk shook his head. 
 
 "I don't know him at all well. Wasn't he engaged be- 
 fore? To Sonia Dainton, surely? Why did they break it 
 off?" 
 
 "They weren't very well suited," Oakleigh answered 
 vaguely. "There was no discredit to Loring. He was 
 rather badly knocked out over it and went away from 
 England for some years." 
 
 Deryk would have liked to pursue the subject, but his 
 companion's manner had grown suddenly impenetrable. 
 
 "He's got pots of money, hasn't he?" he asked. "What 
 has he been doing with himself ever since he came down 
 from Oxford?" 
 
 Oakleigh seemed puzzled by the question. 
 
 "I don't quite understand. He's usually out of England 
 in the winter, but he used to attend the House of Lords 
 pretty regularly in the old days ; and then he had five dif- 
 ferent places to keep up in different parts of the country. 
 He collected a bit and entertained a bit; I think, between 
 ourselves, he was getting rather bored with it." 
 
 Deryk nodded, but the information did not help him. 
 Everything that Loring had was no doubt stable and or- 
 derly; large demands and a full treasury from which to 
 meet them; jointures automatically operative for all mem- 
 bers of his family; a population of many thousands over 
 his wide-scattered acres dependent on him in greater or 
 less degree. There was all the difference between a settled 
 kingdom and a pioneer's camp. Loring was never faced 
 with odd half-millions in cash. . . . 
 
 "How's your uncle?" Deryk enquired suddenly. 
 
 "Going strong, thanks, and wants you and your lady to 
 dine with him. He's at the House to-night, but he'll come 
 over to Ireland with me as soon as the House rises, unless 
 civil war really breaks out. I'm not very much alarmed 
 myself. Are you ?" 
 
 "No, but I think there may be trouble on the continent; 
 
 i 
 J
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 361 
 
 the Austrians are looking nasty. I suppose there's no hope 
 of a general flare-up, everybody fighting everybody else? 
 That would be rather fun." 
 
 Oakleigh looked at him with raised eyebrows. 
 
 "You've a curious idea of fun," he commented. 
 
 "I was thinking I'd try to squeeze in somewhere. I 
 don't know anything about war, but I suppose I could vol- 
 unteer. It would be a new sensation." 
 
 "It would be all that. You're a blood-thirsty young ruf- 
 fian. Lancing. You settle down to domesticity ; that'll 
 give you a new sensation and will probably be the making 
 of you." 
 
 At the end of dinner Deryk hurried Oakleigh away from 
 his coffee and led him round to see the house in Pall Mall. 
 A policeman was guarding the boarded doorway, but, after 
 a short scrutiny, he let them in, and Deryk spent a glorious 
 hour describing, displaying and arguing. 
 
 "But the place is pretty well finished !" Oakleigh ex- 
 claimed in surprise. "You've only had it a month or two; 
 and you've got all your carpets and curtains and furniture 
 and pictures. As soon as you've got your electric fittings, 
 the place will be complete." 
 
 "Then I'm having my winter garden built on the roof. 
 Oh, I can tell you I've had to put in some pretty hard 
 work." 
 
 "But you're not bei ig married for some months, are 
 you? Why all the hurry?" 
 
 Deryk made a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "I had to get the thing finished," he said. 
 
 "I should have thought it would have been more fun 
 to tackle it slowly, room by room, pick up your furniture 
 bit by bit. Now you'll have nothing more to do, and what 
 then?" 
 
 "That applies to everything," Deryk answered. He could 
 not imagine why he had brought Oakleigh against his will 
 to see something which he was obviously incapable of ap- 
 preciating. 
 
 Sensitive to tone, Oakleigh changed the subject.
 
 362 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "What does Mrs. Dawson think of it ?" he asked, as they 
 came down the stairs into the hall. 
 
 "She's coming up to see it in a few days' time." 
 
 "She hasn't seen it yet? You're a bold man." 
 
 "Oh, she'll approve." He laughed conventionally. "She 
 approves of everything I do." 
 
 "Lucky man," Oakleigh substituted. 
 
 Deryk took the stereotyped words seriously. 
 
 "Do you think so?" he asked after a pause. "If you 
 lived with someone who really agreed with ever^'thing you 
 said or did " 
 
 "You silly idiot! You're a lucky man to have anyone 
 as fond of you as she is," Oakleigh explained, gripping 
 Deryk's arm with an unexpected betrayal of affection. 
 "You're a very lucky man to get her at all. Don't forget 
 I've met her, so I know what she's like. But I've broken 
 my promise; you must be sick of hearing her praises sung." 
 
 "I — I like it from you, old man," said Deryk shyly. 
 
 Idina received his pencilled note next morning and tele- 
 graphed that she was coming to town that day. As she 
 walked to the post office it occurred to her that she might 
 be forcing his hand, that he might be engaged, that he 
 might think her importunate. "To do some shopping. 
 Staying at Hans Crescent," she added to the message. 
 
 Deryk was still in his rooms when the shorthand writer 
 opened the telegram and read it aloud to him; he was at 
 pains not to betray emotion. 
 
 "Will you please ring up Mr. George Oakleigh — some- 
 where in Prince's Gardens — and say I'm very sorry I can't 
 dine with him, as Mrs. Dawson is coming up specially to 
 see me? Then will you book me a table at Claridge's for 
 half past eight and send a message to the Hans Crescent 
 asking Mrs. Dawson to meet me there at that time?" 
 
 He was signing his last letter and preparing to go out, 
 when the girl put down the receiver of the telephone and 
 said that Mr. Oakleigh had already invited several people ; 
 would not Sir Deryk bring Mrs. Dawson with him, as Mr.
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 363 
 
 Bertrand Oakleigh and the others were very anxious to 
 meet her? 
 
 "Tell him it's very kind, and I shall be delighted to do 
 so," he said. "And tell the Hans Crescent people that I'll 
 call for Mrs. Dawson at eight-fifteen. You might order the 
 car to be here at eight. That's an improvement on the 
 other scheme." 
 
 The girl returned to the telephone and delivered the 
 message. She had seen Idina once, Deryk many times; 
 they filled her with an interest which she tried in vain to 
 dissemble. Often she tried to put herself in Mrs. Dawson's 
 place and imagine the sensation of loving and being loved 
 by her curious, old-young, nervous, happy, impatient em- 
 ployer. She was beginning to find him a little brusque and 
 inconsiderate — spoilt by having had all that money all his 
 life. The plan to dine with the Oakleighs might be an 
 improvement, but it would certainly — in Mrs. Dawson's 
 eyes — not be the same as the projected dinner at Claridge's, 
 for which she was "specially" coming to London. . . . 
 
 Deryk was well justified in boasting that Idina approved 
 of everything that he did. The corners of her mouth went 
 down for an instant when he hurried rather late into the 
 hall of her hotel and explained in the intervals of dragging 
 her into the car and packing her into a corner, as though 
 he were abducting her, that his plans were changed and 
 that she was bound for a dinner-party where she felt sure 
 that she would not know a tithe of the guests. 
 
 "You've got to go through it some time," he pointed out, 
 "and, as you were in town, I thought we'd kill two birds 
 with one stone. The Oakleighs have been very decent to 
 me. 
 
 "Shall we be very late?" she asked timidly, 
 
 "You can leave the moment that you begin to feel 
 bored." 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't meaning that. But, if we get away early, — <
 
 364 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 it's such a lovely night — couldn't we have the car open and 
 go for a drive before bed-time ?" 
 
 Deryk looked into her eager face and become immediately 
 tolerant. 
 
 "Yes, we can do that, if It would amuse you," he said 
 paternally. 
 
 George Oakleigh had improvised a large party at short 
 notice. The Lorings had postponed their departure to the 
 country for twenty-four hours, and Deryk found Lord 
 Summertown and his sister, Arden, the novelist, and half 
 a dozen others that he knew, as well as a dozen more who 
 seemed to know him. Their hosts, too, appeared to be 
 killing two birds with one stone, for Loring and Miss 
 Hunter-Oakleigh were receiving the last of many congratu- 
 lations, as Idina entered the massive, mid- Victorian draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "Your husband, m'am, will soon have the privilege of so 
 much of your company," said old Bertrand Oakleigh with 
 the courtesy which shone in his manner like an infrequent 
 jewel in quartz. "You must allow us to make him share 
 the privilege for one night. I am afraid that as yet you are 
 the greatest stranger, so you will have to let me take you 
 dov/n. George will arrange about the others, as soon as 
 we've led the way." 
 
 To Idina the long table with its rows of unfamiliar faces 
 was bewildering after her retirement of the last ten months. 
 She was conscious of sitting tongue-tied for the first two 
 courses and even afterwards of venturing on nothing more 
 original than a discreetly-placed "yes" or "no." Her host 
 soon gave up conversation and tried to set her at ease by 
 a monologue on the obvious impossibility of a European 
 war, but she felt that, however uncomplainingly, he was 
 labouring; from time to time she looked up at Deryk, 
 hoping that he would not see how poor a figure she was 
 cutting. It did not add to her comfort when she saw that 
 he was engaged in a triangular sparring-match with Arden 
 and Lady Amy Loring and that they at least were thor- 
 oughly at home. These people knew more, they knew each
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 365 
 
 other better, they had more small change to give away; 
 she was abashed to think how hard she must work before 
 she could do credit to Deryk. 
 
 On her other side Lord Loring came to Bertrand Oak- 
 leigh's relief and put a number of questions about their fu- 
 ture plans. (As their first meeting had been almost at her 
 husband's death-bed, she could not help wondering how 
 much he knew or suspected and whether he thought a fresh 
 engagement eight months later indecent.) They were in 
 the same boat ; when was she going to be married ? Where 
 did they think of living? (He had not seen the new 
 house.) Was it true that Deryk was going into Parliament, 
 as some of the papers had suggested? Finally and with 
 conventionality born of despair, he hoped that she would 
 find a moment to talk to Miss Hunter-Oakleigh upstairs, 
 as he particularly wanted them to be great friends. , . . 
 The sentence was cut short by a sudden silence, followed 
 by a rustle of skirts. He jumped up to open the door, and, 
 as she hesitated in the doorway, trying to catch Deryk's eye 
 for the last time before leaving him, she saw Loring's grey 
 eyes soften and his fingers close for a moment over Violet 
 Hunter-Oakleigh's wrist. 
 
 "Well, I congratulate both you boys," said Bertrand Oak- 
 leigh gruffly, as he changed to the armchair at the far end 
 of the table. "Your turn now, George." 
 
 "To congratulate them? I've done it already." 
 
 "To get married," grunted his uncle. 
 
 "You're senior to me, Bertrand," George answered, as he 
 began to circulate the port wine. "Any news at the House 
 about the Austrian business?" 
 
 "No. It'll fizzle out, but that's no news. The terms are 
 preposterous." 
 
 There was a languid, wide-ranging political discussion 
 until George Oakleigh warned his uncle that it was time 
 to move upstairs. 
 
 "Don't keep Mrs. Dawson here too late," he whispered to 
 Deryk. "I think she's tired. She was very quiet at din- 
 ner.
 
 Z6G MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "She always is rather quiet," Deryk answered, as he ex- 
 tinguished the end of his cigar in a finger-bowl. "Of 
 course, she has been very ill, but she was looking all right, 
 wasn't she?" 
 
 "I couldn't see properly; I'm too short-sighted. I really 
 only meant that it has taken you a bit of a fight to get her; 
 so take care of her now that you've got her." 
 
 Deryk was touched by the unobtrusive kindliness of the 
 tone. He could not help feeling that George would make 
 Idina a far more considerate husband than he could ever 
 hope to be. It was a pity in some ways that they could not 
 change places ! Though he would hate to see anyone even 
 admiring her from a distance ! It was curious that, while 
 he was sometimes not certain whether he wanted to marry 
 her himself, he was certain that he did not want anyone 
 else to. She had brought that very charge against him 
 when he was being cut out by Sidney Dawson, Appar- 
 ently he could not live without her — which was all she 
 asked — it remained to be seen whether he could live with 
 her. . . . That was going to be their life. 
 
 In the drawing-room he found himself cornered by Lor- 
 ing with an apologetic, eleventh-hour invitation for the 
 house-party at Chepstow, to which George Oakleigh had 
 alluded the previous evening, Idina had already been ap- 
 proached by Violet Hunter-Oakleigh and had accepted 
 provisionally. 
 
 "My dear, you're lunching with me on the Tuesday after 
 Bank Holiday," he reminded her. 
 
 "But Lord Loring says we can get back in time for that," 
 Idina urged. 
 
 "Well, you go, by all means. I'm afraid I shan't be able 
 to get away from London. I'm trying to clear up a lot of 
 odds and ends," he explained, "and, if I don't stay here till 
 I've finished, I shall drag on in town all August. There's 
 no reason why you shouldn't go." 
 
 Idina flushed almost imperceptibly and turned to Loring 
 with an air of great contrivance. 
 
 "May I send you a line?" she asked. "I really haven't
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 367 
 
 discussed with Deryk what we are going to do; I didn't 
 see him till he picked me up on his way here." 
 
 Loring bowed in acquiescence, and they separated to va- 
 cant chairs. 
 
 It was still early when they left, and Deryk adhered to 
 his promise of a drive. The invitation to Loring Castle left 
 a rankling sense that everybody concerned had behaved 
 rather unreasonably. In the first place, Loring no doubt 
 meant well, but it was absurd to ask to his party a man with 
 whom his acquaintance was of the slightest and a woman 
 whom he had once found ill in an Italian hotel. Then it was 
 not quite fair of Idina to give any kind of acceptance with- 
 out consulting him; now that they were almost man and 
 wife, now that the one was bound by the other's engage- 
 ments, it was essential to discuss an invitation before ac- 
 cepting it; that was the only possible basis of a common 
 life, and a common life — marriage — must be infernally 
 restricted, involving an appalling surrender of one's per- 
 sonal freedom, at the best of times. Fortunately Idina had 
 not many friends of her own, but it was preposterous to 
 suppose that any husband would get on with all his wife's 
 friends, or any wife with all her husband's. . . . 
 
 But, conceding that Loring and she had innocently con- 
 trived to put him into an awkward corner, he had not ex- 
 tricated himself from it very adroitly or gracefully. Lor- 
 ing probably guessed that he was making excuses ; Idina 
 was partly perplexed and wholly disappointed. (She did 
 love meeting people.) 
 
 "I say, about this party at Chepstow," he began, as the 
 car turned into Kensington Gardens. 
 
 Idina laid her hand penitently upon his sleeve. 
 
 "Oh, Deryk, I'm so sorry. I didn't actually say I would 
 go, but they seemed so anxious, and I didn't know you 
 were going to be busy " 
 
 "My dear, there's no need to apologise," he interrupted 
 in some embarrassment. "As I understand it, the thing's 
 left open for the present. If you're really keen on our 
 going "
 
 368 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "I'm not, Deryk, I'm really, really not. I just thought 
 
 that if you were doing nothing I think Miss Hunter- 
 
 Oakleigh is so sweet, and of course Lord Loring was won- 
 derfully kind to me when I was so ill. But I don't want 
 to go a bit — honestly." 
 
 Deryk shrugged his shoulders and sat back with his hat 
 pulled low over his forehead. He had not wanted to go 
 to Chepstow in the first place, but he would sooner be 
 there now than win his present victory over Idina. It 
 was going to be very hard if she always capitulated when 
 he began to discuss elementary difficulties in a proposition. 
 
 "I daresay I can manage it," he suggested with lukewarm 
 contrition. "If you'd like to go " 
 
 "I shouldn't, Deryk. I'd much sooner stay in London or 
 go back to Pensington. But I want you to tell me who 
 everybody was and what you talked about when we'd left 
 the room," she went on hurriedly. "Mr. Oakleigh is a 
 wonderfully interesting old man: he was talking about Sir 
 Edward Grey's foreign policy. I felt frightfully ignorant, 
 but it was very interesting all the same. I wish I wasn't 
 so ignorant, dear; I wish you'd take charge of me and edu- 
 cate me." 
 
 She stretched out her hands in supplication to him, half 
 hoping for an indignant contradiction. 
 
 "Don't be too humble, Dina," was all he would say. "In 
 this world you'll find that we're taken surprisingly much 
 at our own valuation." 
 
 "You don't take me at my valuation, I hope ?" 
 
 "I don't know what it is." 
 
 There was a flash of light, as her cloak fell back and 
 her bare arms met round his neck. 
 
 "Sweetheart ! I'm not worthy of you and I never shall 
 be, but I don't want you to feel it." 
 
 "If I felt it, I shouldn't tell you," he answered, trying to 
 laugh her out of her sudden passionate intensity. 
 
 They drove for an hour through Hyde Park, Regent's 
 Park and Hampstead up to Hendon and across to Harrow. 
 It was midnight before Deryk had dropped her at the Hans
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 369 
 
 Crescent Hotel and returned to his rooms, but he felt little 
 disposed to sleep. Changing into a smoking jacket, he 
 filled a pipe, lit it and settled down to sign the formidable 
 pile of letters which his secretary had left on the table to 
 await him. It was an antidote against thinking. He had 
 hardly read through the first before he was conscious of 
 the acrid smell of singeing and, on pushing back his chair, 
 he found that the match which he had thrown away was 
 blazing in the middle of a hole, the size of a saucer, burnt 
 in the carpet. The floor was covered with papers, and the 
 nearest of these were beginning to smoke. He hurriedly 
 stamped out the fire, poured water on the charred remains 
 and flung open the windows to get rid of the fumes. In 
 doing so, his pipe went out, and, when he came to re-light 
 it, his hand was trembling, and, as there was no one present 
 to read his thoughts, he could admit to having been sur- 
 prised and rather scared. If, instead of signing letters, he 
 had grown drowsy over a book. . . . First the carpet, then 
 the scattered papers, then — as the fire spread — the curtains, 
 table-cloth, chair-covers, his own clothes; he might have 
 been roused to find himself a pillar of flame in a circle of 
 flame ; then a wild dash through more fire to a door which 
 
 he might or might not reach, might or might not open 
 
 You had to wrap yourself in a rug on these occasions, 
 surely, and roll about till the flames were smothered, which 
 must be exceedingly painful ; if, of course, you were prop- 
 erly alight, you would probably be so badly injured that you 
 would die of the shock. . . . 
 
 With unreasoning passion he picked up the electric read- 
 ing lamp and threw it on the floor ; the telephone was about 
 to follow, when he pulled up short and told himself that he 
 was behaving like a child. Yet it was really exasperating 
 that with everything he could want, nothing to worry him, 
 he was becoming so nervous and fanciful ; morbid, too ; he 
 was always thinking how men actually died and why they 
 died, what they looked like, what it felt like, what people 
 would say after his death. There was no reason for it. 
 His father had died a natural death, there was no morbid
 
 370 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 strain in the family; someone had once told him — Hats or 
 Raymond Stornaway or his father himself — that, when he 
 first broke down beyond hope of recovery, Sir Aylmer had 
 contemplated suicide. That might be true, or it might not; 
 the fact remained that he had lived on, enduring incredible 
 pain and surmounting indescribable depression, for fifteen 
 years. This utterly unnecessary preoccupation with death 
 was just the thing to provoke tragedy. . . . 
 
 He picked up the fragments of the reading lamp and 
 returned to his letters. When he had signed the last, he 
 resolutely picked up a volume of Lecky's "Rationalism," 
 retired with it to his bedroom and began to undress. He 
 had only removed his coat and waistcoat when he recog- 
 nised the old, abrupt, hated return of wakefulness which 
 could be guaranteed to keep rest at a distance and yet left 
 his eyes and head aching too much to allow of further 
 work. Setting his teeth, he dressed again, put on his hat 
 and started for a stroll through the emptying streets. As 
 he walked eastward towards Northumberland Avenue, a 
 number of men in opera hats, with their coats over their 
 arms, passed him incuriously on their leisurely way from 
 their clubs to bed; the last belated guests of the Carlton 
 were separating, and with every step to the south he found 
 the streets more deserted. On the Embankment he paused 
 to watch the slow passage of the barges, wondering when 
 he had done the same thing before or whether he was 
 merely repeating what he had once done in a dream ; his 
 eyes became fixed on the break and parting of the waters 
 against the piles of Hungerford Bridge ; the glistening 
 black forked into tumbling silver, and he remembered 
 that silver and black had once been his father's racing 
 colours and that he had once before remembered it, when 
 he sat on the parapet by the Boadicea Group — just before 
 meeting Sidney Dawson equally night-bound, equally rid- 
 den with hunger for Idina Penrose. And, curiously enough, 
 a policeman had thought he was contemplating suicide. 
 Curious. . . And at that moment, when they discussed the
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 371 
 
 night-clubs of the 'eighties, neither had suspected the other ! 
 And Dawson was dead now. . . 
 
 "Blackguard!" Deryk whispered fiercely. Then he was 
 sorry, with a rare, irrational gust of sentimentality. The 
 poor devil had been through the agonies of hell before he 
 died; however he had behaved, he was dead now. The 
 wonderful finality of death ! He and Idina never discussed 
 the fellow ; his account was closed ; his troubles — of course 
 he had troubles like everybody else — were over. And he 
 had disappeared like a puff of smoke, and not twelve people 
 in the world knew or noticed! 
 
 That was impossible if you were born in any kind of 
 limelight. "If I put on a jersey and signed on at the Docks, 
 does anyone think / should be allowed to disappear?" 
 Deryk laughed bitterly at his own question; the news-cut- 
 ting agencies had given him more than two guineas' worth 
 of general education. People would think he had been 
 kidnapped; there would be as much fuss as when Living- 
 stone disappeared, rewards would be offered, search parties 
 organised; when the nonsense had begun to pall, some im- 
 postor, the modern Orton, would lay claim to his title and 
 estate, there would be another Tichborne case — "They'll 
 never let go of me till they've seen me on the slabs of a 
 mortuary!" 
 
 He flung away from the paTapet and retraced his steps 
 up Northumberland Avenue, along Cockspur Street and 
 into Pall Mall. Every club was now hushed and dark, but 
 to his fancy a profounder shadow and more inviolable hush 
 permeated and overhung his own house. Speechless and 
 motionless a constable stood sentry by the boarded door- 
 way, only breaking the silence to stifle a yawn. 
 
 "Poor devil!" murmured Deryk. It was not the same 
 man that he had found when he took Oakleigh over the 
 place; that was one good thing. Fancy doing this night 
 after night! "Cigarette, constable?" 
 
 The man looked cautiously up and down the street and 
 took a cigarette from the proffered case. 
 
 ".Very quiet about this time o' night, sir," he volunteered.
 
 372 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 "Dam' dull, I should call it," Deryk answered. "This 
 place looks a pretty fair mausoleum." 
 
 "A what, sir?" 
 
 "A tomb. I think two days of this would finish me." 
 
 The man turned and gazed at the spectral, deserted 
 house with new interest. 
 
 "You think so, sir? It's Sir Deryk Lancing's new town 
 house; one of these American millionaire gentlemen, as I 
 understand." 
 
 Deryk turned away to light his cigarette and hide a smile. 
 
 "An American, is he?" 
 
 "So I hear, sir." 
 
 "What sort of a fellow is he?" he asked carelessly. 
 
 *T really can't say, sir. Quite a young chap, I believe. It 
 must be a rare thing to be as rich as that when you're still 
 not much more than a boy." He smiled and slapped one 
 hand against his thigh. 
 
 "It must be," Deryk assented drily. "Good-night, con- 
 stable." 
 
 "Good-night, sir, and thank you, sir." 
 
 "It's a damned mausoleum !" Deryk growled as he strode 
 away and sought his rooms once more. 
 
 By the morning his mood had changed, and he got up 
 with an indefinite sense that something had happened to 
 bring him relief. As his brain shook free from the last 
 tendrils of sleep, he recollected that he had now more than 
 a week of undisturbed work in prospect. Nobody would so 
 much as knock in a nail for him on Bank Holiday or Sun- 
 day in this precious independent England, but he hoped by 
 then to have every room completed, every picture in its 
 place, every chair and table set at the angle which he had 
 ordained when he sketched out combinations and effects 
 on paper, like an impresario. The roof winter-garden, with 
 its wide extent of glazing, would need several weeks more ; 
 he would be unable to use it this year, which was a nui-
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 373 
 
 sance; and, more than that, his hall would be very dark 
 in the transition stage, while the illuminating dome was be- 
 ing replaced by a flat skylight. But that could not be 
 helped. He would really not complain about anything else, 
 if the inside of the house were finished by the end of an- 
 other week; then he could move his servants in and have 
 the machine actually working when Idina and the Manistys 
 came for a demonstration. 
 
 He hurried down to the house immediately after break- 
 fast and stayed there until luncheon, ordering the disposal 
 of his pictures along the southern gallery. A telephone 
 message from Idina told him that she was calling about 
 five in the hopes of finding him, but that he was not to 
 stay in on her account. He bolted his luncheon, wrote her 
 a hasty note to excuse himself and went back to work within 
 half an hour of leaving it ; he was still working when she 
 tried to engage him for dinner, and it was not until mid- 
 night that she telephoned and found him at home. 
 
 The three calls, only finding him at the third attempt, gal- 
 vanised Deryk's conscience. 
 
 'Tm sorry I was out when you rang up before," he 
 apologised. "I've been slaving away all day, hanging pic- 
 tures — some of them deuced heavy. These men are too 
 sickening! The only work that anyone did at any time 
 during the day was done by me single-handed from one 
 till two and again when they'd left for the night. I've 
 simply pulled my arms out of heir sockets. . . . Well, I 
 was on my way to bed when you rang up. Is there any- 
 thing you want? Just to say good-night. Oh, that's easily 
 done ! Good-night, my dear Dina ; sleep well and God 
 bless you." 
 
 He hung up the receiver and returned to his bedroom, 
 only to hear the bell ring again, as he crossed the threshold. 
 
 "Curse these telephones !" he exclaimed, as he ran back. 
 "Hullo! Yes! Sir Deryk Lancing. Who?" He waited, 
 while the connection was made, and then, after a "You're 
 through to Sir Deryk Lancing," heard Idina's voice again. 
 
 "My dear, some one cut us off I" she complained.
 
 374 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Der>'k repressed his sense of irritation and tried not to 
 feel guilty of discourtesy or impatience towards her. 
 
 "Was there anything more that you wanted to say?" he 
 asked gently. 
 
 "Yes, I wanted to tell you that that wasn't the right way 
 to say good-night." He could almost see her lips curling 
 into a pout. "Like you used to in the old days — Do you 
 remember the first time you rang me up at Ivy Cottage? 
 I was so frightened ! I couldn't think what anyone wanted 
 me for. Then you, like a darling baby, said good-night and 
 wouldn't let me go to sleep till I'd said it 'properly,' what- 
 ever you meant by that. Sweetheart, I know you're tired, 
 but will you just say good-night 'properly'?" 
 
 Der}4<; laughed uneasily. 
 
 "Whatever that means?" 
 
 "Say, 'Good-night, darling.' " 
 
 "Good-night, darling." 
 
 A whisper of a ghostly sigh was borne over the wires. 
 
 "A little more conviction, dear one!" 
 
 Deryk laughed again, with no better effect. 
 
 "I'm no good on the telephone. Good-night, Dina." 
 
 Again he hung up the receiver. This time there was no 
 new call. And the following day Idina cut short her shop- 
 ping and went back to Pensington. He was informed by a 
 note which he found awaiting him on his return home at 
 midnight ; he scribbled a reply of bantering reproach to 
 her for gliding away without taking the trouble to come and 
 say good-bye to him. "But, for the love of Heaven, don't 
 imagine that I'm really angry with you," he concluded. (He 
 had to be so dreadfully emphatic with her.) "I only feel 
 rather ashamed of my own arrangements, because we didn't 
 see any more of each other. But I'm looking forward to 
 Tuesday ; if you don't fall in love wath my house, I shall 
 very rapidly fall out of love with you." 
 
 Then for a week he w^as undisturbed. As he hurried in 
 and out of his chambers for luncheon, in and out of the 
 County Club for dinner, he seemed to sleep and dream for 
 an hour in a new world with people who talked about civil
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 375 
 
 war in Ireland or a general conflagration in south-eastern 
 Europe. On a lower intellectual plane he found men exult- 
 antly discussing their holiday plans and mentally cancelling 
 the days that lingeringly separated them from flannel suits, 
 the spongy, yielding turf of their favourite golf-course and 
 a gently smarting wind blowing in from the sea. They 
 lived wonderfully conventional, regular lives, these K. C, 
 Civil Service, "family business" fathers of children. Would 
 he have to transfer his nursery to the East Coast to be 
 regularly and inexorably "braced" for six weeks each sum- 
 mer, whatever else he might want to do ? Marriage was an 
 extraordinarily comprehensive thing. . . . 
 
 On tlie morning of his luncheon party he satisfied him- 
 self that the house was complete in every respect, with 
 the exception of the winter-garden. Whether his party 
 would be equally complete was open to doubt, for every- 
 body seemed to be getting into a state of amazing restless- 
 ness, almost panic. That was where he scored an advan- 
 tage over other people, that was where his peculiar quality of 
 brain asserted itself ; he could detach himself from the pre- 
 vailing emotion of the moment and see a thing exactly as it 
 was, remaining intellectually undisturbed by the elation, 
 hope, fear or dejection of his neighbours. Poor Idina 
 thought him very unsympathetic, when he applied analysis 
 to life, but the quality was there, inside him, inherited from 
 his father. It had obvious limitations, of course; he might 
 be unimaginative, slow to take a point, ignorant, at fault in 
 his psychology, but at least what he did see he saw clearly 
 in great black and white lines. On the strength of that 
 alone he could always be richer than other people ; he could 
 always earn any salary he liked simply by keeping his head, 
 as his father had done when the homeless survivors of a 
 burnt-out city in the Middle West stampeded from a site 
 that was paved with gold. . . People were going about on 
 Bank Holiday, shaking their heads and gloomily saying, "Is 
 there really going to be a war? Isn't it appalling?" It 
 was curious how their judgment was warped by their senti- 
 ment ! It might be appalling ; certainly there was going to
 
 376 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 be war : on a very big scale ; a fight to the finish with years 
 of suspicion and jealousy to prepare the mood; the sort of 
 war that might go on for any number of years, ranging 
 over several continents and every sea, gradually sucking 
 down one man after another, one nation after another, and 
 probably ending in the exhaustion of the civilised world for 
 a generation. If people would only take the trouble to 
 think, they must see this. England, France, Russia, Ger- 
 many, Austria — they could not go to war as though it were 
 punt-about. . . 
 
 His guests did not disappoint him, though Idina arrived 
 barely in time and protested that the extension of the Bank 
 Holiday had disorganised all train services. Her journey 
 had taken twice the usual time, and all the railway officials 
 expected to have the old time-table knocked to pieces and 
 civilian traffic entirely suspended during the mobilisation. 
 Everyone had made up his mind that war was inevitable, 
 people were now discussing its probable length and making 
 preparations to meet the reduction of their incomes by half. 
 Deryk wondered how his income would be affected. So 
 far as there was a general fall in the value of securities, he 
 supposed that he stood to be a very heavy loser, if he tried 
 to sell anything; on the other hand, his income would cer- 
 tainly not diminish and might actually increase, Sir Aylmer 
 had so cunningly succeeded in exacting toll on the neces- 
 sities of life ; people had to live somewhere, to get from 
 one place to another by steamship and railroad, to warm 
 and light their houses ; and the Lancing Trust Corporation 
 appeared at every stage to insist on its toll. Income ac- 
 tually increase? The price of money would rise steadily 
 with every new demand by any of the belligerents : he had 
 a considerable balance and enormous liquid assets to realise 
 and lend ; instead of being a heavy loser by selling, it might 
 pay him to sell, to get rid of low-yielding securities and 
 take advantage of the appreciating value of money. He 
 must talk to Hats about this ; they must get into touch with 
 the directors in New York. . . 
 
 "You're very silent, Deryk," Yolande observed, when the
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 377 
 
 hincheon was a quarter-way through without a word from 
 him except to give his orders. 
 
 "Sorry! I've been thinking," he exclaimed. "Assuming 
 that war of any kind breaks out, I shall make the deuce of a 
 lot of money, the very deuce of a lot." 
 
 Yolande looked at him and suddenly bit her lip. 
 
 "I could almost kill you for saying that !" she exclaimed. 
 "When people are going off to be slaughtered, for anyone 
 to sit at home and think how he can make money out of the 
 war, especially when he's a multi-millionaire " 
 
 'That's the reason, stupid !" Deryk answered with grating 
 good-humour. "My money's the first thing about me to 
 be affected by anything. If I weren't a multi-millionaire, 
 I couldn't make much money at the present time, but I 
 can't help it, it's like water running down-hill. You can 
 bet my people in New York have been getting busy the last 
 few days." 
 
 Yolande's convictions struggled for a moment with her 
 social propriety. 
 
 "Well, don't let's talk about it," she begged him by way 
 of compromise. "My brother's rejoined his regiment this 
 morning, and the next thing I may hear is that he has been 
 killed!" She felt that her tone must be sounding bitter 
 and turned to Idina with a change of voice and expression. 
 "You never met my brother Archie, did you? He's in the 
 Black Watch. . ." 
 
 Deryk's mind was recalled to a general consideration of 
 the war. It would be a serious thing, involving vast num- 
 bers — literally armed nations at each other's throats — 
 there v/as no limit to the men who would be wanted. 
 
 "Ought I to join the Territorials or do anything of that 
 kind?" he asked Yolande. "I've never done any soldiering 
 before, I should have to start from the beginning " 
 
 "The war would be over before you'd finished drilling," 
 she answered. "Besides, you'd never stand it." 
 
 Deryk smiled in confident self-assurance. 
 
 "I'm pretty healthy," he told her. 
 
 "You'd never stand army discipline, dear Deryk. Think
 
 378 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 of doing all your moving, talking, thinking by numbers, at 
 someone else's orders, think of having to salute a superior 
 officer, think of having to obey and never being allowed to 
 argue! My dear, you've not got grit enough for the job." 
 
 She affected to laugh at him, but there was a taunt in her 
 voice, and he heard more of the taunt than of the laugh. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "This wasn't mere talk, I 
 was thinking of volunteering, if war broke out — as it's 
 bound to do now — atoning for my wasted life, you know," 
 he added with heavy sarcasm. Then his eyes shone with 
 sudden excitement. "What an opportunity a thing like this 
 must be to people who've made a mess of their lives! A 
 shipwreck, fire, flood, war — anything of that kind — whether 
 you come out of it alive or not, people think you've re- 
 deemed yourself. If I went out to-morrow and took a bul- 
 let through my brain " 
 
 "Please don't, Deryk !" 
 
 He glanced up to find Idina looking at him with eyes full 
 of tears. 
 
 "It's perfectly true," he went on excitedly. "People don't 
 criticise me much as yet, because they think I'm still pretty 
 young, but they'll let themselves go, as I get a bit older, if 
 I don't do something. My life is wasted, I've done nothing 
 so far, and the devil of it is that I see no prospect of doing 
 anything in the future. If I got altruistically knocked on 
 the head, everyone would say that it was magnificent of 
 me to be fighting at all — as for being killed. . . ." 
 
 "D-Der}'k, old man, you're t-talking about yourself t-too 
 much." 
 
 It was the first time Felix had spoken. He had sat 
 down smiling with obvious pleasure at finding himself in a 
 new restaurant ; he had removed his spectacles and polished 
 them, the better to gaze round the sunlit dining-room ; 
 only by slow degrees had he concentrated his interest on his 
 own table, and by that time his wife was flushed and Idina 
 almost in tears, while Deryk seemed to be prosing and 
 swaggering rather objectionably.
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 379 
 
 "Sorry. Let's talk of something else," said Deryk with 
 heightened colour. 
 
 He was staggered to find such a reproof coming from 
 the gentle Felix. Everybody seemed to be down on him 
 to-day, visiting private irritability on him because he saw 
 clearly, and they did not. And, as though he had said the 
 most natural thing in the world, Felix was now chatting 
 away to Idina. . . 
 
 "Tell us what the house is like," Yolande suggested in 
 an undertone. "I don't even know how many floors or 
 rooms you've got." 
 
 "And you don't in the least want to hear," he retorted 
 with an open sneer for her artificial politeness. 
 
 Yolande blushed vividly. 
 
 "Indeed I do. The strain of the last few days has tired 
 my nerves, so that I'm afraid of forgetting my manners." 
 
 At last Deryk seemed a little out of countenance. 
 
 "I don't know what's the matter with me," he whispered 
 fiercely. "I didn't mean to be rude, but I — I can't bear 
 myself." 
 
 When luncheon was over they walked from the Ritz to 
 Pall Mall, and Yolande found an opportunity of warning 
 her husband that Deryk was making every preparation for 
 another breakdown. "He's in a state when even Dina gets 
 on his nerves. / don't know what to do with him !" 
 
 "If he w-wants to be a T-Territorial, let him be," Felix 
 urged. "The training would do him all the g-good in the 
 world." 
 
 "/ didn't mean to stop him. He'll hate it, though, and I'm 
 afraid it's come too late for the country and for him. Oh, 
 I wish I knew what was going to happen !" 
 
 At the bottom of St. James' Street they met George Oak- 
 leigh coming down the steps of the Eclectics' Club; almost 
 unconsciously and before they had decided to speak, they 
 were standing in a circle of five, talking with a rare inti- 
 macy unjustified by anything in their relationship. 
 
 "Quite inevitable, everybody says," reported Oakleigh. 
 "You didn't miss much by not coming to Chepstow, Mrs.
 
 38o MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Dawson ; the party began disintegrating almost before it 
 arrived, and Lord Loring and I brought up the last he- 
 roic survivors this morning. It v^as an awful week-end ! 
 We were so helpless, so far away. Things are no better 
 now that we're back in town, but we don't feel so much 
 out of it. Well, the Kaiser has till midnight, and then no 
 one knows. In a way people were rather optimistic at the 
 Club; of course, the Germans never intended to bring us in, 
 so it is to be hoped that, with us in, we shall be able to end 
 the thing within a few weeks. But it's a dreadful business ; 
 I can't believe it's true. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must 
 fly; I hear my old uncle's rather seedy." 
 
 As he turned and hurried up St. James' Street, Deryk 
 took Idina by the arm and crossed obliquely to Marlbor- 
 ough House. 
 
 "Dangerous crossing this," he observed. "Old Maurice 
 Weybridge was very nearly killed here a few years ago — 
 knocked down by a car. Did you ever know him ? He was 
 up at the House, and I met him on the Bullingdon. . . . 
 I believe he's permanently lost the use of his legs, which 
 is bad luck on a keen hunting man. I'd sooner have been 
 killed outright." 
 
 They had reached the kerb, and Deryk relaxed his arm, 
 but Idina caught him by the wrist and retained her hold. 
 
 "Darling, I wish you wouldn't talk so much about being 
 killed !" she implored him. "You made me feel so wretched 
 at lunch, and I went there to enjoy myself because I hadn't 
 seen you for days and days and because I'd never been to 
 the Ritz before. Sweetheart, you don't want to spoil my 
 day, do vou ? And you will, if you go on talking about be- 
 ing killed." 
 
 "So long as it's only talk " Deryk began. 
 
 Idina's grip tightened on his wrist. 
 
 "My dear, do you remember the night when we dined 
 with the Oakleighs ? I went to bed the moment I got home 
 and fell asleep almost immediately. Then I had the most 
 awful nightmare of my life; I dreamed that you were 
 dead!"
 
 WHAT COMES OUT IN THE FLESH 381 
 
 Deryk sorted out his recollections of the night. 
 
 "It wasn't such a bad guess," he commented. "I had a 
 diminutive fire in my rooms, and it might easily have proved 
 serious." 
 
 "Isn't that what people call telepathy?" she asked with 
 timid devotion. 
 
 "It's what damned fools call telepathy," he answered 
 roughly. "/ burned a hole in the carpet, and you dreamed 
 that I was dead. If you can trace any kind of connection 
 — let alone the thousands of times you must have had sim- 
 ilar dreams without even that amount of coincidence " 
 
 "Never that one, Deryk ! The tears were streaming down 
 my face, when I woke up !" 
 
 As they approached the doorway of the house, Deryk 
 turned to her with dispassionate, critical interest. 
 
 "If I had been burned to death " he began, 
 
 "Oh, darling, don't! It would have killed me!" 
 
 Deryk shook his head with great assurance. 
 
 "No, it wouldn't," he told her. "It would have been a 
 great shock and all that sort of thing, but it wouldn't have 
 killed you ; you wouldn't have gone to bed and quietly wilted 
 away. After all, you've been through something that was 
 worse, when you thought I'd got tired of you, that I'd 
 ceased to care for you " 
 
 "I couldn't go through that again," she whispered with 
 tense tragedy of tone. 
 
 "I was better worth having in those days," Deryk went 
 on, almost to himself. "Cleaner, healthier, more of a man, 
 not so damned neurotic or self-absorbed. . . And, my God, 
 I loved you then, Dina." 
 
 "Don't you love me now, Deryk?" she asked with a 
 laugh of happy incredulity. 
 
 "I don't believe I could ever love anybody as I loved 
 you then; I don't believe anyone has ever loved anyone 
 else as I loved you. . ." He broke off with a thin-lipped 
 laugh and looked up at the house with its great studded 
 door now exposed to view for the first time and the shal- 
 low marble steps at last liberated from their sloping plank
 
 382 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 causeway. "My servants move in to-night; the only work 
 remaining to be done is the roof-garden, and, despite the 
 extra bank hoHday, I believe I've got a few stalwart glaziers 
 to come and put in a few hours' work. Hurry up, Yolande ! 
 You're keeping everything waiting. Ladies and gentle- 
 men, the Lancing Mausoleum will now be declared open !" 
 
 Felix threw away the stump of his cigar, and all col- 
 lected on the steps, while Deryk fitted his latch-key into 
 the lock. 
 
 "Deryk, don't ! Please," whispered Idina. 
 
 "Sorry!" he exclaimed. "It's your fault for talking 
 about your dream. That night after the fire I strolled 
 out into the streets and talked to the bobby on duty here. 
 In the course of conversation, I happened to describe the 
 house — ^at night, you understand, with planks over the door- 
 way and round blobs of white paint on all the windows, 
 and an amazing great moon up behind — I described it as 
 being like a mausoleum. The word happens to have lin- 
 gered in my memory, but that's all. I can assure you that's 
 all. Curious how a phrase sticks. . . I had nothing else 
 in mind! . . ."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 A Question of Expediency 
 
 "Michael has a clean burial in the far north, by the grace of 
 the Almighty God. Bartly will have a fine coffin out of the white 
 boards, and a deep grave surely. What more can he want than 
 that? No man at all can be living for ever, and we must be 
 satisfied." 
 
 J. M. Synge: Riders to the Sea. 
 
 Deryk's latch-key turned stiffly in the lock ; he pulled the 
 bolts out of their sockets and flung open the double doors, 
 watching with pride their perfect poise and deliberate, 
 smooth movement. After the heat and glare of Pall Mall 
 the hall with its mosaic pavement and white marble pillars 
 seemed cold and dark; triangular shafts of light, varying 
 in extent and intensity, shone into the gloom from the 
 doors of the rooms opening out of the hall, but the great 
 central glass dome, which had been used to light the whole 
 interior of the building, was now removed, and the circular 
 orifice was covered with planks. Feet could be heard pass- 
 ing and repassing over them, until the planks bent in the 
 middle and let in chinks of light on either side ; from time 
 to time there came the merciless, hollow reverberation of a 
 hammer on a steel girder's end, but no workmen were vis- 
 ible, and the noise alone suggested their presence. 
 
 "Then I have a glass skylight, flush with the roof," Deryk 
 explained ; "and the winter garden, or whatever you choose 
 to call it, above that. I'll take you up there when I've shewn 
 you round the rest of the place. Starting with the ground 
 floor, you have dining-room, smoking-room, ball-room 
 and my own study. We'll take the dining-room first." 
 
 383
 
 384 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 For two hours he led them through room after room, 
 explaining, describing and answering questions. Neither 
 Felix nor Idina was in a position to criticise with knowl- 
 edge, but in an unmethodical, haphazard way Yolande had 
 picked up a considerable amateur knowledge of furniture, 
 which was at least sufificient to impress Deryk and to enable 
 her to appreciate how easily he surpassed her. Equally at 
 home in Italy, Spain, France and England, he had carried 
 out a dozen schemes in as many rooms with the minutest 
 attention to rugs and hangings, fire-places, illumination, pic- 
 tures, ornaments and bibelots, until each room was a com- 
 plete and perfect example of a period in the art of deco- 
 ration. 
 
 "I had no idea it was to be like this !" Yolande gasped, as 
 he led her away from the last of three Empire drawing- 
 rooms. 
 
 "You didn't know I was keen on furniture? That's 
 really why I took this place. Ripley Court was so crammed 
 that you could do nothing short of improvising a bonfire 
 and cleaning out everything. This gave me an opportunity." 
 
 They were standing on the south side, looking down on to 
 Carlton Garden, and Yolande felt that with a single book 
 on one of the tables, a single piece of embroidery dropped 
 carelessly across the arm of one of the chairs, the room 
 would look as if it had been continuously inhabited since 
 the house was built. 
 
 "And you did it all in about two months! No wonder 
 you're feeling overdone !" 
 
 "It was hard work, but that never killed a man. I'm all 
 right, Yolande; you can say I've had too much London, if 
 you like, but that's all. And I can go away now that this 
 place is pretty well finished. By the way, you must come 
 and see my roof garden." 
 
 He hurried her the length of the gallery and up a stair- 
 case past the second floor on to the flat roof. Felix and 
 Idina were left to follow as best they might, and indeed 
 with as long an interval as possible ; Deryk was deriving a 
 wonderful, unexpected enjoyment of the afternoon from
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 385 
 
 his discussions and disagreements with Yolande ; he had 
 always known her to be intelhgent, but he had never im- 
 agined that she had any knowledge of furniture. They 
 had fought out each room, almost each piece in each room ; 
 and she had not only told him where she thought him 
 wrong, but had given him reasons which set him thinking. 
 That was Yolande's greatest charm ; she had a personality, 
 strong individual preferences and reasons to back them. 
 She might be wrong, but she was never weakly wrong; 
 when her one epithet for Mozart was "obvious," when 
 she preferred Verdi to Rossini, when she failed to see 
 that Strauss was as far ahead of Wagner as Wagner of 
 Donizetti, when she considered Miss Austen and Stevenson 
 the most overrated of all the great nineteenth century 
 prose writers, she was not to be shaken or suppressed 
 without a stiff fight. If you told Idina that Charles Kings- 
 ley was anything but seventh-rate, she would probably be- 
 lieve you. . . 
 
 "I've never seen such a view in my life!" Yolande cried, 
 with her hands resting on the rail running round the edge 
 and her eyes, with pupils ecstatically dilated, travelling slow- 
 ly in a half-circle from east to west, from the Admiralty 
 Arch to the Foreign Office and the tops of the Abbey towers, 
 thence to Westminster Cathedral, Buckingham Palace and 
 the Mall almost below her. 
 
 "It was worth keeping," said Deryk proprietorially count- 
 ing the iron standards which were to hold his glass frame. 
 
 She turned critically to the boarded skylight. 
 
 "Of course, you're going to make your hall very dark," 
 she warned him. 
 
 They were still heatedly engaged in argument when 
 Idina joined them, Deryk elaborately explaining that his 
 new skylight would illuminate through an area actually 
 larger by forty square inches. 
 
 "But you've got another roof over and above that," Yo- 
 lande demonstrated. "Well, Dina, what do you think of it 
 all?" 
 
 "It's divine!" She stood with her hands clasped, pivot-
 
 386 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 ing on one heel and looking about her. "Deryk, you really 
 are wonderful. And Mr. Oakleigh told me that I was extra- 
 ordinarily trusting to let you decorate my drawing-room 
 without consulting me ! Every room's so perfect that I 
 don't know which I like best." 
 
 "You mustn't make him conceited," Yolande cut in. "I 
 was telling him that he's spoiling his hall by taking away so 
 much of the light. Don't you think I'm right?" 
 
 Idina looked at the sky-light of thick frosted glass, lying 
 on its iron frame by the side of the circular opening in the 
 roof. 
 
 "I suppose it zmll make it rather dark," she agreed. 
 
 Deryk lit a cigarette and threw away the match with a 
 gesture of impatience. 
 
 "How is it possible to say that without seeing the sky- 
 light and the glass roof in place?" he demanded. "This 
 actually lets in more light, with less reduction for frame, 
 than the old dome. If you'll take the trouble to look. . . ." 
 
 Conscious that he was becoming shrill and excited, he 
 bent down to the opening and untied the builders' tarpaulin 
 sheet; then he loosened the rope that coupled the planks 
 together and pulled half a dozen away from the middle. 
 
 "Now you can see !" he called from the far side, rather 
 red in the face, as he dusted his clothes. 
 
 "Ah, yes, D-don't fall in !" Felix answered. He saun- 
 tered away to the north side and looked down upon Pall 
 Mall. "S-something's upset him," he whispered to Yolande ; 
 "he'll be rude to her in one m-minute. T-tell her to come to 
 tea with us ; then you'll br-break up the party." 
 
 Yolande nodded, looked at her watch and issued the 
 invitation with fine spontaneity. As Idina began to accept 
 it, however, Deryk abandoned a sketch of the roof garden 
 which he was drawing for her in his pocket-book and 
 intervened with an announcement that tea was actually 
 awaiting them in his rooms. 
 
 "I'd no idea it was so late," he said. "Dina, will you be 
 hostess and take Yolande and Felix along? I'll follow as 
 soon as I've finished the sketch and put this gear back in
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 387 
 
 place : I daren't leave It open in this climate, or I shall get 
 my hall flooded. Straight down the staircase, and shut 
 the front door as you go out, because there's not a soul in 
 the place. I'll be with you in a few minutes." 
 
 As the women picked up their skirts and walked down 
 the still unpainted top flight of stairs, Deryk gathered the 
 planks into a pile and sat down on them to finish his draw- 
 ing. He seemed to have worked so hard to keep his team 
 together, and, with the exception of a moment's conversa- 
 tion with Yolande, the whole, endless party had been so 
 disastrous a failure that he was glad to be by himself for 
 however short a respite he could secure. Was it the pros- 
 pect of war that was making them all so jumpy, causing 
 Yolande to lose her temper with him, Felix to snub him 
 and Dina — well, it had been the other way round with her, 
 he had been vilely rude to her, but she must develop a 
 mind of her own, and her fragments of criticism, as they 
 floated across to him, were worthy of schoolgirls admiring 
 a baby or a new Pekinese. She did not do him very much 
 credit ; and it was so infernally monotonous. . . 
 
 He finished the sketch and strolled to the north side, 
 where he stood leaning against the rail and smoking another 
 cigarette. Pall Mall seemed astonishingly full of soldiers, 
 every third man was in khaki. . . . From a set of bachelor 
 chambers opposite him came the sound of a piano and of 
 inexpert fingers trying to conjure the Marseillaise from 
 the keys. ("Not like that!" he exclaimed. "Dam' good 
 mind to go over and play it for him.") The war was 
 all-penetrating, all-enveloping, though the ultimatum would 
 not expire till midnight. Then probably the entire popula- 
 tion of London would assemble in the streets and shout 
 "God Save the King," and there would be an orgy of cheap 
 patriotism until the war was over — Roberts and Kitchener 
 on buttons, sold in the street ; and a great deal of flag-wav- 
 ing, as in the old South African days. . . He regretted 
 bitterly that he had never had any training as a volunteer; 
 it was not that he cared a straw for the neutrality of Bel- 
 gium or whatever the trouble was, but he did not want to
 
 388 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 be left out of a new experience which others would go out 
 and enjoy. And it would take him at least six months to 
 train, and by that time the war would be over. . . 
 
 At the end of the six months everything would go on as 
 before, a war between England and Germany was a war 
 between a whale and an elephant ; he had thought at lunch- 
 eon that it must go on for years, but a war on this scale 
 could only be a matter of weeks; Germany would just be 
 shewn that she could not browbeat Europe at pleasure, 
 everybody would lose a good many lives and spend an ap- 
 palling amount of money, but higher taxation, possibly 
 some form of military training, would be the only change. 
 He would go on at Ripley Court or here ; some people, ap- 
 parently — to judge from the state of panic at the Club- 
 were losing money, but others would make a lot — he was 
 one — and, so long as money was in the hands of the same 
 class, it mattered little which members held it; the old 
 social life would go on as before, there was no hope of 
 excitement as in '71 — an abdication, a commune. Really, 
 he was a baronet, so perhaps he ought not to talk (though 
 he had not been consulted), but could anything be im- 
 agined more ridiculous than the relics of feudalism in Eng- 
 land ? He would fight on anybody's side if it made England 
 a republic ; but it was one thing to make England a republic, 
 and something very different to make the Englishman re- 
 publican. . . 
 
 Because he was republican and in despite of Sir Aylmer's 
 warning against "superiority," he had always rather de- 
 spised the Junker gang in England ; he was in it, but not of 
 it ; he was really not of any particular class or school, and 
 that explained much — his boredom, his want of sympathy 
 with other people's ridiculous preoccupations, his utter in- 
 ability to find anything to do. . . . Now that the great 
 house was almost finished, he was out of employment, unless 
 he took over from Hatherly and the London office the 
 English control of the Trust, — which was really making 
 work for himself. Of course, he might go on looking for 
 some imaginative use to which his money could be put, but
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 389 
 
 he was growing to be sceptical over that ; Sir Aylmer was 
 not the first milHonaire in history, but of all their number 
 Cecil Rhodes alone had departed from the facile practice 
 of giving doles to libraries and hospitals. It was not so 
 easy, after all, whatever Raymond Stornaway might think 
 — as he would find if any unexpected accident within the 
 next few weeks put him in possession of the estate to which 
 he was already heir. . . 
 
 Deryk abruptly let fall his cigarette. He had just re- 
 membered that Raymond had set out for Vienna some 
 weeks before and was probably still out there. And, if he 
 did not get away very speedily, he would find himself shut 
 up in a fortress, or whatever you did with foreigners who 
 happened to be in your country when war broke out. Poor 
 fat Raymond ! How he would hate it ! He must find out 
 from Yolande whether any news had been received, wheth- 
 er he had actually got back (it was hard to keep count of 
 time when you were busy on things, as he had been on the 
 house, for weeks on end). And, by the same token, they 
 must be waiting for him at his rooms ! 
 
 To his dismay he found that it was past six o'clock, but 
 he could still hardly bear to go back to them. The fact 
 of the matter was that they got on his nerves and that he 
 preferred his own company ; this was really the most ex- 
 quisite moment of the afternoon, when he had got rid of 
 them all ; a man must be very much in love to prefer any 
 woman's society to his own. Of course, there were mo- 
 ments when you yearned to be with a woman, as he had 
 yearned when he tramped the streets, with restless, hot eyes, 
 yearning to hear Idina's voice rather timidly saying "good- 
 night" to him over the telephone. She had a very sweet 
 voice and beautiful eyes and an extraordinarily slender 
 softness and warmth; one arm would go all the way round 
 her shoulders without unduly crushing her — as he knew ; 
 at such m.oments, seen from such angles, she was irresist- 
 ible ; but the fascination was momentary, and he was trying 
 to decide whether he would sooner forego moments of
 
 390 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 ecstasy or be spared hours of retribution. Boredom, rather, 
 to improve the antithesis. . . 
 
 What would their common life be? With her, as with 
 any other woman, there would be constant sacrifices of per- 
 sonal choice, eternal surrender to whim, everlasting expo- 
 sure to the blackmailing charge that he was causing her 
 pain ; he must expect what every man had to endure through 
 tying himself to something irrational and capricious, it was 
 the age-old penalty of being too weak to live independent of 
 woman's company. And, in addition to humouring her, 
 he must share his life with her, they must do everything 
 in pairs. , . It took some imagination and considerable 
 time to appreciate what that meant ; he knew his own life 
 at Ripley Court and in London and he could form a rough 
 conception of the extent to which it would be modified if he 
 associated a woman with it. How far the modification 
 would prove irksome depended entirely on the woman. So 
 far he had only lived with Lucile Welman, and those form- 
 ative weeks had been made possible by the physical spell 
 which she cast upon him, by the primitive, possessive hun- 
 ger which nerved her to retain him, by her experienced arts 
 and patiently acquired psychology. Other men had lived 
 with her, she understood them ; she could do what she liked 
 with them so long as the insecure union lasted; she could 
 make the union last as long as she usually wanted and 
 longer than most women contrived. . . 
 
 That was all his knowledge of a common life, and even 
 while it was coming to him he knew that the life was ab- 
 normal, that it was based on nothing but passion and that, 
 within limits, he could end it when he chose. Passion was 
 but one of a hundred things in marriage; and, when sym- 
 pathy waned and common interests died, when their life 
 ceased to be a honeymoon in paradise and became a habit 
 in England, when the monotony of the habit was appre- 
 ciated in its full horror, then he could not end it at will. 
 Each of them could look forward to a further fifty years 
 of life — and he had been rude to her that afternoon, not 
 for the first time, because she agreed with him too readily
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 391 
 
 — no, this time she had disagreed too hastily — it was 
 really rather a wolf and lamb relationship. He was fond 
 of her, he hated finding fault with her or seeing the corners 
 of her mouth droop, but his nerves were restless and dis- 
 ordered, everything she did seemed to irritate him, and 
 he spoke to her, the woman he was going to marry, in a tone 
 that he would never dare adopt with, say, Yolande. She 
 would never stand it, for one thing; and quite right, too. 
 Apparently Idina would. 
 
 Deryk jumped up and walked to the railings on the north 
 side, looking down almost as if he expected to see a search 
 party coming to meet him. 
 
 "I can't! My God, I simply can't!" he cried, as though 
 someone were pleading. 
 
 "It will break her heart. Well, it would kill us both if 
 we married. I don't love her! That's the long and short 
 of it." 
 
 He flung away and sat down again on his seat of planks, 
 burying his face in his hands and squeezing his palms 
 against his temples. 
 
 "I simply can't," he groaned. 
 
 The moment that he had put his confession into words 
 Deryk felt that he had known it all along, that, when he 
 talked of the old days and such love as no other man had 
 felt for a woman, he really meant that he had not then 
 taken the trouble to analyse as he was now doing ; he could 
 never have married her, he could not even live with her as 
 he had lived with Lucile Welman, had either of them 
 wanted to. Yet how perfect a wife she must have been 
 to Sidney Dawson, hideous though the human sacrifice had 
 seemed ; temperamentally the two had far more in common. 
 If he went ahead with the present marriage. . . 
 
 Deryk found himself thinking aloud and now gravely 
 shaking his head. Once his eyes were open, he could never 
 close them again ; the engagement had to be broken, and it
 
 392 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 was only a question how he could mercifully break it ; and 
 when ; and with what introduction. . . Obviously he could 
 do nothing at present ; there could be no crueller choice of 
 time than when she had been inspecting and admiring the 
 house in which they were to live. On the other hand, every 
 day strengthened her in the presumption that he was in 
 love with her — made harder the breach, when it came ; and 
 it was tantamount to saying that the better he knew her the 
 more impossible she seemed. He had had his opportunity 
 freely offered a week or two ago : if he ever felt that he 
 had made a mistake, he was to say so. Well, he had thrown 
 away the chance derisively, with vows and protestations. 
 What new reason could he now put before her? 
 
 And what could he tell Yolande, Hats, Raymond, the 
 three or four thousand people who had so eagerly con- 
 gratulated him ? There would be the usual announcement 
 that the marriage would not take place; and then — and 
 then ! Idina, buried and forgotten as Lady Lancing, would 
 never be so well-known, so notorious — pointed at, whispered 
 about — as the Mrs. Dawson who had jilted Deryk Lancing 
 — or been jilted by him — no one seemed to know the rights 
 of the thing. ... If he ever did anything, if it were ever 
 worth anyone's while to write a book about him, Idina 
 would go down to posterity as the woman who pre-eminently 
 had not married him ! 
 
 A pleasant prospect when the light of publicity first broke 
 upon her ! But that was not the worst ; the really pleasant 
 prospect was the meeting when he had to say, "I cannot 
 stand the idea of marrj-ing you." The brutality continued 
 naked, however many clothes you wrapped round it. It 
 would kill her — if people ever were killed by this sort of 
 thing. Or rather, she would catch a chill, and the doctor 
 would say, as that other doctor had said of her father, that 
 she had no stamina, no resistance, made no effort to keep 
 alive. And her murder would lie across his soul. . . 
 
 He began to pace slowly backwards and forwards, look- 
 ing obliquely down on the foreshortened traffic of Pall Mall. 
 Once again he was astonished at the number of soldiers
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 393 
 
 hurrying to and fro in the early turmoil of mobilisation; 
 if only Sir Aylmer had put him into a crack regiment to 
 keep him out of mischief for a few years. . . ! Good 
 Heavens! He might have been in Belgium before the 
 week was out, with every likelihood of getting killed. And 
 there was all the difference in the world between breaking 
 an engagement and having it broken by the hand of God. 
 In the social limelight Idina would then be the beautiful 
 young widow with the tragic history — "engaged to Sir 
 Deryk Lancing, the richest bachelor of his time; then he 
 got killed in the war of 1914. Twice a widow, so to say, 
 before she was five and twenty — very sad." But she would 
 not die of the shock ; her stamina, her resistance, her will 
 to live would bear her triumphantly through the perils of 
 that imagined chill ; probably she would to some extent keep 
 herself alive with the glorious boast that Deryk Lancing had 
 loved her, that he might be called dead, but she knew that 
 in reality he was watching and waiting — 
 
 "I had my task to finish, 
 
 "And he had gone home to rest; 
 
 "To rest in the far bright heaven. . . ." 
 
 (He could imagine Idina finding grandeur in the songs of 
 Jacques Blumenthal and feeling herself spiritually uplifted 
 by them.) She would not let herself die, because she had 
 his memory to tend. . . Heavens ! what make-believe these 
 good women perpetrated when they were afraid to face 
 reality; they would invent a thousand reasons, elaborate 
 a hundred stories to shirk disagreeable truth ; he would have 
 his work cut out for him to make Idina believe that he did 
 not care for her enough to marry her. . . 
 
 As he said the words to himself he was conscious that 
 his thoughts were moving in an ever diminishing circle ; he 
 was not yet prepared to look at the centre where the jour- 
 ney would end ; he had timidly stepped aside on to an outer 
 ring when he talked of breaking any kind of news to Idina ; 
 that was old, rejected; he could never tell her anything;
 
 394 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 if the engagement were broken, it would be by the hand 
 of God. . . 
 
 Of course, there was never any objection to guiding the 
 hand of God. He could not go out and get killed in this 
 war, because there was not time (and he was not at all 
 anxious to be killed) ; he could not get himself certified unfit 
 to marry, because everybody knew that he had not had six 
 months* illness in his life. There was always the possibility 
 of disappearing. He could open an account under an as- 
 sumed name with some remote bank, pay in a large sum 
 of money — Eah! He could not trouble even to work out 
 the first preliminaries. When he disappeared, any bank 
 clerk who had read Jekyll and Hyde (or had a spark of 
 native imagination) would track him by means of the 
 second account, the tell-tale large transfer. And, if he 
 disappeared with a five pound note in his pocket, prepared 
 to earn his own living, who would let him disappear ? Scot- 
 land Yard, to begin with, would never rest till he was 
 found ; the four thousand people who knew him well enough 
 to congratulate him on his engagement, the four hundred 
 thousand who, to judge by the press cuttings, knew his fea- 
 tures and were interested in his doings, all of these would 
 join hands in a double line, like one of the du Maurier 
 nightmares in Punch, to make him run the gauntlet wher- 
 ever he went. He had travelled rather like a Crown Prince, 
 he was known everywhere. If he tried to slip away into the 
 desert, somebody would recognise him at Gib. or Alexandria 
 — and the gang that travelled by liner was much the same 
 in personnel. . . . He was too well-known to disappear by 
 growing a beard and shifting his domicile twenty miles. 
 That was one of Wells' many clevernesses in "The History 
 of Mr. Polly" ; a man in Mr. Polly's position could disap- 
 pear; when solvent, his whole estate was but a few hun- 
 dreds, he was unknown, no one was interested in him, even 
 his wife was tied by the ankle to the joint haberdashery 
 business so that she could not follow him through the 
 nearest wood, over the first dividing range. 
 
 Deryk had to remind himself that he was keeping his
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 395 
 
 eyes averted from that centre to which his circling thoughts 
 were winding. He was shirking something; he was not 
 staying out there to brood over the technical clevernesses 
 of Mr. Wells. If you put him in a corner and demanded 
 to know why he was there at all? Well, he was gradually 
 discarding impossibilities, and each discard brought him 
 on to an inner ring, brought him a stage nearer the mid- 
 dle. He could not marry Idina ; he could not tell her that 
 he would not marry her; he could not run away and lie in 
 hiding; he could only — Deryk was surprised to find his 
 tongue moistening two rather dry lips — he could do 
 deuced little, but the hand of God might break the engage- 
 ment, and he might put his fingers on God's wrist, so to say. 
 
 It was a great thing to have this strong, detached, Lan- 
 cing brain! With everything pointing to suicide (he could 
 use the word now; rather enjoyed it, in fact), he could 
 think as collectively and in as orderly and logical a way 
 as ever before. Other people would no doubt be bowled 
 over by the discovery of what they were obscurely con- 
 templating; all that happened with him was that his brain 
 worked, if anything, a trifle faster, a trifle better, a trifle 
 more cogently and coherently. The first thing to consider 
 was how much he wanted to live ; then how he could take 
 his own life and make the world believe a verdict of death 
 by natural causes, when the same thing was being tried per- 
 haps once a week and never succeeding. 
 
 He did not want to die at all. Whenever he thought of 
 it, he was filled with exuberant self-pity — like Villon in "A 
 Lodging for the Night" — (Why the devil did he keep 
 dragging in these facile literary allusions?) He was so 
 young, he had enjoyed life so much, he still appreciated the 
 esoteric beauties of music, of colour and form so much 
 more fully than anyone he knew. Even if he never created 
 anything, even if he confessed to failure and left his father's 
 wealth unbroken and triumphant, he was a rare critic 
 wasted! Of course from one point of view there was 
 nothing to be said for dying old rather than young ; in either 
 event you stopped short just at the moment when you
 
 396 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 wanted to see what your successors vv^ould do; it was like 
 leaving a room and wishing yourself back there to hear 
 what people were saying about you. He would like to see 
 what kind of show old Raymond would put up. At least — 
 he was really not sure whether Raymond was still his heir. 
 He had been, in the will drawn up before the Hellenopolis 
 expedition — (God! how long ago that was! And what un- 
 real nonsense it seemed now, when nations were going to 
 war and he was gambling with his own life!) ; then, when 
 the engagement took place, Hats was instructed to draw a 
 fresh will, though of course that would not be signed until 
 after marriage ; presumably, therefore, Raymond's title re- 
 mained. Where had he got to? Oh, yes, it would be fun 
 to see what Raymond would do with the money. . . Of 
 course, if the old will had been cancelled, every penny would 
 go to the Crov/n. It was a wonderful thought, that! All 
 that his father had slaved to accumulate, all that he had 
 inherited, their pictures and furniture, the books and col- 
 lections, their houses, the very roof on which he was pacing 
 — all would go with its glamour and temptation, like the 
 Rajah's diamond Avhen it left Prince Florizel's hand and 
 described an arc of dazzling light before dropping to the 
 unrevealing mud of the Seine. (It was no good : if he were 
 fated even to think like one of the rather precious middle 
 articles that he used to write for George Oakleigh at the 
 very beginning, well, it could not be helped. By the way, 
 poor old George would be rather upset ! Still — ) It would 
 disappear, tliis monstrous engine of wealth, as silently as it 
 had come into existence ; it would become a memory, a leg- 
 end, jEinally it would be utterly forgotten: you would have 
 to refer to the Sussex guide books to find how, when and 
 why the nation became possessed of Ripley Court. For a 
 moment one small tremor had been felt in a corner of the 
 world; the tempo had been accelerated half a bar, but with 
 the restoration of the money to the vast, indeterminate 
 "public" from which it had come, the tremor would cease, 
 the time would become regular again. All that the Lan- 
 cings had been or done would be wiped away ; wiped away.
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 397 
 
 too, their joint effort to scratch their individual personaHties 
 on the slate that recorded nothing but names. 
 
 "I don't wonder!" Deryk whispered. 
 
 He was now remembering Sir Aylmer's last counsels, his 
 pleading that, whatever else happened, the house should be 
 kept as the symbol of continuity, the shell of the family, 
 the something that survived when everything else went. 
 Poor old man ! He too had been through moments like this, 
 then. He had seen what an amazing big figure he cut in — 
 say — "Who's Who?", with his title and his dignities, his 
 great house, his "owns about 19,000 acres". . . . And, by 
 Jove, what -^^ poor thing you looked when you were face 
 to face with death (who didn't care whether you had a 
 title or not) . . . What would the old man think — what was 
 he thinking, if he could look down or up or round the 
 comer or from wherever it was that the souls of the dead 
 went — what would he think of his son's throwing up the 
 sponge and bringing his family to an end? (It was a won- 
 derful thing to be able to end a family that had continued 
 in a traceable, recognisable form for five hundred years.) 
 Or would he not care ? If there were any God, if he had 
 any irony in him and if he had to construct some kind of 
 Hell (the first ethical duty of any creative god was to con- 
 struct a place of torment for his creatures), there was no 
 subtler punishment than in condemning a man to watch 
 his successors at work on the fabric which he had 
 founded. . . . 
 
 A breath of wind from the south-west brought him the 
 subdued note of Big Ben. He counted idly and was aghast 
 to find that it was seven o'clock. What those others must 
 think of him ! He looked down into Pall Mall and instantly 
 threw himself prone on the dusty leaden roof, dragging 
 himself a moment later with sinuous movements, like a 
 snake on sand, to the edge of the parapet. Far below, 
 sauntering easily on the shady side of St. James' Square 
 and descending into Pall Mall, he saw Felix, Yolande and 
 Idina. They were getting uneasy, they were wondering 
 what had happened to him when he was alone in the great.
 
 398 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 silent house ; was he faint, giddy, affected by the sun ? He 
 could not tell them that he had spent more than two hours 
 drawing one sketch, smoking three cigarettes and, well, 
 thinking. He must leave proof of a little more industry 
 than that. . . Down in the street the three were standing 
 on the opposite kerb, waiting for a negotiable gap in the 
 long chain of taxis, Felix talking and stammering hard, the 
 others occasionally nodding. Then they crossed and came 
 too much under him to be seen any longer. He jumped up 
 and was dusting his clothes, when the tap of a cane on his 
 front door rang clear and echoing through the empty hall ; 
 Deryk tiptoed guiltily to the open skylight and knelt down, 
 leaning on his hands and peering into the shadows. The 
 tapping was repeated; then someone began to whistle (it 
 was some kind of bugle call — "Officers' wives has pud- 
 dings and pies ; soldiers' wives has skilly" — some nonsense 
 of that kind). Well, they could not break down that door, 
 and no one seemed inclined to open it for them. The whist- 
 ling, like the tapping, came to an end, and, as Deryk once 
 more threw himself on his face and crawled to the parapet, 
 he was in time to see their three backs (puzzled and hesitat- 
 ing, or so he fancied) paraded on the kerb, diving between 
 two waves of traffic, reaching the far side and turning for a 
 last enquiring look at the uncommunicative house. 
 
 Then they disappeared, and his world was his own until 
 these servants came to take possession. He had said "Tues- 
 day night," naming the hour, and from what he knew of the 
 English domestic servant, they would come at about mid- 
 night. Or else within the next five minutes; you never 
 knew where to have these people. If they came soon, there 
 would be someone to open the door when the next search 
 party arrived; before then he must provide himself with 
 an excuse. 
 
 Returning to his old seat on the piled up planks, he be- 
 gan to make and discard half a dozen hasty sketches of his 
 roof garden, crumpling the sheets between his fingers and 
 tossing them hastily in a semi-circle round him. Then he 
 returned the book to his pocket, pulled off his coat and
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 399 
 
 began to drag the planks back to their old position over 
 the skylight. He worked with the roughness of impatience, 
 and the first plank slid far beyond the orifice and balanced 
 on the opposite edge, dipping and rising like a see-saw. 
 "Couldn't do that again, if I tried," Der}^k murmured, as 
 he walked round and steadied it in place. "Damnable noise 
 it would have made 1" He was grown so used to the silence 
 and solitude of the last two hours that he shivered at the 
 idea of one moment's tense expectancy, a crash like the jar 
 of two warring planets, the echo, echo, echo, fading grad- 
 ually beyond his ears' power to recapture it. Everyone in 
 the street — everyone in London — would jump out of his 
 skin, pull up short, help to swell a crowd, ask silly ques- 
 tions. . . 
 
 The second and third planks dropped into position ; he 
 threaded the rope over and under them, drew it taut and 
 began to drag up the tarpaulin. In another five minutes his 
 work would be over. Three minutes to wash his hands, 
 brush his clothes. Then he could vamp up an apology and 
 hurry back to his guests. 
 
 Deryk had an indefinite feeling that he was letting slip a 
 great opportunity. 
 
 Obedient to instructions Idina had escorted the Manistys 
 to Deryk's rooms and ordered tea. All three knew him too 
 well to delay their own movements a single instant on his 
 account; they sat down without noticing the time, began 
 their tea, finished it, smoked one or two cigarettes and dis- 
 covered to their common amazement that it was six o'clock 
 and that Deryk must have been away rather more than an 
 hour. With opportunity for reflection and candour all 
 would have confessed to a sense of relief in escaping from 
 him while his present mood was on. 
 
 "I can't think what can have happened to him!" Idina 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Yolande noticed that her cheeks were mother-of-pearl in
 
 400 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 colour and that her hands played restlessly with a platinum 
 watch chain round her neck. 
 
 "I can think of so many things that it's difficult to 
 choose," she answered easily. "You're going to marry him, 
 Dina, but I'm sure I know him better than you do. If you 
 went back now, you'd probably find him in the cellars, 
 projecting a swimming bath and not remembering a single 
 word of tea or us or anything ; or it's quite likely that he's 
 recollected a piece of tapestry at Ripley Court and is gaily 
 motoring down to see if it will do for the hall. That's the 
 sort of thing that used to make poor Sir Aylmer so angry ; 
 Deryk, of course, never noticed anything until his father 
 used to say, 'Dinner will be at 8.30, and I shall send Benson 
 to see that you are dressed by 8.15.' And then, of course, 
 there was a row, and Deryk protested that he was being 
 treated like a child. So he was, poor lamb, but then he is 
 a child." 
 
 Idina did not seem to be listening, but she noticed the 
 silence after the last words and murmured, half to herself, 
 
 "I wish he'd come !" 
 
 "L-look here, Mrs. Dawson," Felix began, struggling to 
 his feet from a very low armchair. Yolande shook her 
 head and pushed him back again. 
 
 "Don't fuss, good people," she begged. "If he's there, he 
 certainly won't come until h£^s ready ; if he's not there, we 
 shan't find him. Quite seriously, Dina, I got an idea at 
 lunch that Deryk was a bit overwrought — doing too much, 
 you know ; he was like this before his illness in the autumn. 
 If you want my advice, you'll simply ignore him; don't let 
 him think that you're fretting or worrying, keep yourself 
 in the background — oh, I know you do ! I was only warn- 
 ing you that everybody and everything are rather apt to get 
 on his nerves this afternoon." 
 
 Idina's slow nod of acquiescence closed the discussion, 
 and all three tried to remember what had been engaging 
 their attention when they unexpectedly noticed the time. 
 The conversation smouldered, however, and would not 
 break into flame. Soon after half past six, though Idina
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 401 
 
 would have sat on in endless, obedient devotion, Yolande 
 had to shew her some mercy. Und6r cover of wanting- 
 to take Felix home, she suggested that they should all go 
 by way of Pall Mall and tap at the door on the off chance 
 that Deryk was still there. 
 
 "Probably he's gone off to find his architect," she sug- 
 gested, as they set out ; "or else he's just heard " 
 
 She went on accumulating explanations until Felix broke 
 in unexpectedly with an account of a winter garden which 
 he had once seen on the roof of a house in New York. 
 
 "C-couldn't place it before," he said in explanation of 
 his long silence. "But th-that's what his description c-called 
 to my mind ; I shouldn't be surprised to f-find he'd been re- 
 remembering that more or less unconsciously. Are you 
 ready? We c-can get across now." 
 
 He gave an arm to either and crossed to Deryk's front 
 door. It was locked and unyielding, the bell brought no one 
 to them, and, when he tapped the panels with the head of 
 his cane, tliey seemed too massive to admit of the sound's 
 being allowed to penetrate. It was in the last resort that he 
 put his lips to the keyhole and whistled a jigging bugle 
 call. 
 
 "There's no one there," he pronounced at length, shaking 
 his head. "Wh-what now, Yolande?" 
 
 Out of the corner of her eye she glanced at Idina. 
 
 "He's forgotten all about us," she decided. "Well, we 
 ought to be getting home. Dina, if you're staying at the 
 Hans Crescent, we'll drop you on the way. Or, if you'll 
 accept Bank Holiday fare — literally it's cold beef and a 
 fruit tart — will you come and keep us company ?" 
 
 Idina roused herself from her attitude of dumb expecta- 
 tion and turned her eyes slowly away from the door. 
 
 "It's awfully kind of you," she said, "but I think I'll go 
 back to Deryk's rooms for a few minutes. It's so odd, you 
 know " 
 
 "My dear, he'll all right," Yolande interrupted. "If you 
 knew him a tithe as well as I do " 
 
 "But he said he was coming at once ! He was just finish-
 
 402 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 ing a little sketch; then he was going to put those boards 
 back ; that was all, / saw that he wasn't well at lunch. . . . 
 If he's been taken ill !" 
 
 Yolande slipped her arm through Idina's and led the 
 way back through St. James' Square. 
 
 "We'll come with you," she said, with a quick glance at 
 her husband. "Then — then we can all go home together. 
 My dear, I keep telling you Deryk's all right, only I think 
 he's been overtaxing his nerves. There's nothing wrong 
 with his health, but he was a little — what shall I say? — 
 abstracted. It's curious, you know ;" she went on with an 
 attempt to be detached and philosophical; "for the last 
 three days I've done nothing but talk about war or listen 
 to other people talking about it. Since we started lunch, 
 we've hardly mentioned it — except for that moment with 
 Mr. Oakleigh. Yet I suppose it's bound to come; and, 
 when it comes, I feel in my bones that it will end for all 
 time the sort of life we've all been leading. I don't know 
 what will come, but I know it will be something quite dif- 
 ferent; and I couldn't get rid of a feeling of incongruity 
 the whole time Deryk was shewing us over the house. He 
 seemed to have ransacked the past to enrich the present — 
 as though the present were not going to join the past by 
 midnight. Deryk's so wonderfully self-centred ; I don't be- 
 lieve he's conscious of anything going on, I don't believe he 
 knows that thousands of men and women are walking up 
 and down, clasping and unclasping their hands and praying 
 to something they've never prayed to before, to help them 
 back from the cliff-edge. . . ." She paused suddenly, sur- 
 prised at her own intensity of feeling. "Well, here we are! 
 I suppose we may as well go in and wait. I'm sure you 
 want to smoke, Felix." 
 
 The second vigil was worse than the first in that it was 
 deliberate and that, instead of waiting a moment or two 
 for a man who was late, they had thrown their other en- 
 gagements to the winds in order to hold together until a 
 man who was missing had been found. To herself Yo- 
 lande persisted that all was well, but she hardly tried any
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 403 
 
 longer to convince Idina. It was so absurd! At any 
 moment the door would burst open, and Deryk would cry 
 out, "I say! I'm sorry! I entirely forgot all about you." 
 He was probably at the Club. . . . Certainly he had be- 
 haved like this a dozen times to her in the course of their 
 friendship, and she was afraid that this would be his stand- 
 ard of conduct to poor Idina, when they were married. In 
 a way, it was just as well that she was getting a sample of 
 it beforehand, but she would have to acquire rather more 
 placidity if she intended to survive more than three months 
 of married life. 
 
 "He's probably arranging about the servants," Yolande 
 suggested after a silence. It was certainly inartistic, per- 
 haps it was rather foolish to go on finding new reasons, but 
 Idina was staring vacantly out of the window, Felix was 
 softly beating the side of his leg with a paper knife, and 
 all of them were ill at ease in the dingy, worn bachelor 
 rooms. No one commented on her sally; no comment was 
 possible. "He said something about servants, didn't he ?" 
 
 "They're coming in to-day," said Idina with an effort. 
 "But what time " 
 
 She stopped with eyes suddenly dilated and her hand 
 pressed against her side as the street door slammed and, a 
 moment later, feet were heard coming up the stairs. The 
 slow clamber gave way to a rapid reverberation on the 
 thinly-carpeted boards of the corridor ; the handle rattled, 
 and the door was flung open. Idina, Yolande and Felix 
 were straining forward like the leading birds in a flight, as 
 a young officer in uniform clattered into the room. 
 
 "Lord ! I'm so sorry !" he exclaimed, pulling back and 
 addressing himself in some embarrassment to Felix. "I — 
 er — I came to see Lancing; seems to be a goodish party 
 on. 
 
 Yolande started and held out her hand. 
 
 "Why, it's Lord Summertown !" she cried. "I didn't 
 recognise you in all this war-like get-up." 
 
 "Oh, I'm off immediately. I looked in to say good-bye 
 to Lancing. Will one of you, Manisty, Mrs. Dawson, Mrs.
 
 404 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Manisty, will one of you remember to give the old man my 
 love and say I called for his blessing? Good-bye, everyone! 
 I'm in a fairish hurry. If I've got to be killed, don't let's 
 be too quick about the business, say I ; but my old colonel — 
 you can't start killing his junior officers soon enough. 
 Cheero !" 
 
 He clattered out of the room with even more speed, 
 noise and imperturbability than he had shewn on entering. 
 Idina had turned her face to the window once more, sick 
 with disappointment and doubt, but the other two were 
 exhilarated by the moment's diversion. 
 
 "Lord Summertown's quite hopeless," laughed Yolande. 
 "If / were on the point of going out to fight, I shouldn't be 
 as cheery." 
 
 "I must have m-met him at Ripley Court," said Felix 
 reflectively. "He s-seemed to know my name. I say!" 
 Once again the clock on Deryk's mantelpiece had caught 
 his eye. "It's half past seven," he whispered to Yolande. 
 "We must start some time." 
 
 Yolande nodded and walked up to Idina. 
 
 "It's quite clear Deryk won't be back till after dinner," 
 she said. "The evenings are so light that one doesn't notice 
 how late it's getting, but we really must go now, Dina, and 
 we're going to take you with us." 
 
 There was an almost imperceptible struggle and a mo- 
 mentary stiffening of Idina's muscles ; then she allowed 
 herself to be led towards the door. 
 
 "I'm not frightened, Yolande," she protested. "What 
 worries me a little bit is the thought that he may have been 
 taken faint with no one at hand to help him." 
 
 "He couldn't be fainting all this time," Yolande assured 
 her. "No, he's forgotten us and remembered something 
 else, as he always does. One thing we might do is to tele- 
 phone and see if the servants are there; then we can leave 
 a message to say that we've taken you home with us." 
 
 After a short search Felix found the telephone number 
 on the flyleaf of a shorthand note-book. 
 
 "I'd better do this," said Yolande, taking the instrument
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 405 
 
 into her own hands. "Regent 484726 — yes, please." After 
 a short pause her face became animated with expectancy. 
 "Is that Regent 484726? Is Sir Deryk Lancing at liome? — 
 Sir Deryk Lancing. Isn't that his house? Oh, I'm sorry! 
 Ring off, please." She depressed the receiver-clip for a 
 moment and turned to her companions. "The hall porter 
 at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, mildly surprised but 
 very paternal — sort of 'What-can-you-expect-of-a-woman? 
 She-wow/flf-get-a-wrong-number.' Hello ! You gave me a 
 wrong number. R-r-regent 484726 — Please — Not yet 
 — Not yet. Give another ring, will you? — Not yet. 
 Oh, it doesn't matter; I don't suppose there's anyone at 
 home." 
 
 She hung up the receiver and rose to her feet. 
 
 "No reply of any kind. There's no one there. Come 
 home to dinner, friends." 
 
 As a final concession to Idina, they went once more into 
 Pall Mall and once more inspected the forbidding front 
 door. In the gathering dusk the house looked larger and 
 more deserted than ever, and its sense of inviolability was 
 enhanced by the presence of a large policeman in the door- 
 way. Yolande at once asked whether a gentleman had been 
 seen coming out or going into the house. The constable 
 shook his head. He had been there for a quarter of an 
 hour; the house, of course, was unoccupied at present, but 
 it was full of furniture, and he fancied that he had heard 
 a noise, as though some one had knocked over a table. He 
 had therefore taken up his position at a point where he 
 could command both front and side doors. 
 
 "And no one has come out?" Idina asked him again. 
 
 "Not while I've been here. Miss." 
 
 Idina felt that any further delay, any more outward ex- 
 pression of uneasiness would make an unjustifiable demand 
 of her companions' patience. Turning to Yolande with a 
 forced smile, she nodded her willingness to start. 
 
 "But why won't you and your husband dine with me?" 
 she asked, as Felix signalled to a taxi. "We're too late to 
 dress, but that won't matter in August, on the eve of war.
 
 4o6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 I'm housekeeper enough to know that it isn't fair to bring 
 in extra people on the last of three Bank Holidays run- 
 ning. Do come ! Then we'll ring Deryk up later on and 
 find where he really did get to." 
 
 They set out for Idina's hotel without further delay. 
 There, as everywhere in London that night, they found an 
 indefinable air of arrested progress ; everyone seemed to 
 have been kept in town unexpectedly or summoned back at 
 short notice. From the tables round them rose a babel of 
 amateur strategy and disjointed history — "Take Bis- 
 marck. . . . Take what happened over Schleswig-Hol- 
 stein. . . . The enveloping tactics of Sedan. . . . The 
 Germans are sure to have some surprise up their sleeves. 
 They did in '66 and again in '70 — breach-loading versus 
 muzzle-loading, machine guns as against rifles, all that sort 
 of thing. But we may have some surprises too; they may 
 find they've bitten off more than they can chew, in the old 
 phrase. I was talking to a man in the War Office only 
 last week. . . . Our army's by no means what it was 
 before we had our lesson in South Africa. . . ." 
 
 When dinner was over Idina telephoned to Derj'k at his 
 rooms and at the County Club. 
 
 "I don't feel it's any use ringing up the house," she said. 
 "I know he wasn't going to sleep there to-night. We'll 
 wait and try him later at his rooms. I'm afraid you must 
 think me very absurd and cowardly," she apologised with 
 sudden contrition. 'T suppose the excitement of the last 
 few days has been rather trying, and this is the form that 
 it takes with me. Now we won't talk about it any more." 
 
 They agreed to remain together until the moment when 
 the time limit of the ultimatum to Germany expired. When 
 they found, however, that this involved spending another 
 silent hour in each other's company, the prospect lost much 
 of its charm. Yolande with more fine spontaneity sug- 
 gested their walking round to the Russian Embassy to see 
 whether any demonstration was being made ; they mingled 
 with a grave, almost subdued crowd in Chesham Place 
 and then walked on to Albert Gate. A few knots of idlers
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 407 
 
 were clustered outside the French Embassy, but the traffic 
 of Knightsbridge did not admit of crowds' collecting. A 
 few minutes before eleven they returned to the hotel and 
 stood on the pavement waiting for the hour to strike. 
 
 "It's like seeing in the New Year," murmured Idina. 
 
 "Or — seeing out the old one," Yolande answered slowly. 
 "I wish — oh ! I do wish I knew what was going to hao- 
 peii !" 
 
 "I think I'll just have one more try to catch Deryk," said 
 Idina. as she turned into the hotel. "Don't go till you hear 
 whether I've caught him." 
 
 As the tarpaulin gently subsided and flattened, Deryk 
 dusted the palms of his hands, one against the other, and 
 walked downstairs Vv'ith the teeth of his lower jaw so drawn 
 back over their fellows of the upper that an expression of 
 truculent defiance was unintentionally produced. Only 
 when he reached the hall and began to stalk melodramati- 
 cally towards the front door did he discover that he was 
 in shirt-sleeves. 
 
 The only possible thing was to go upstairs and fetch his 
 bloody coat. It zvas a bloody coat, everything was bloody. 
 Here was he, ready to die of spontaneous combustion like 
 that fellow in Dickens — Tulkinghorn, was he ? In the book 
 about the Circumlocution Office and Jarndyce versus Jarn- 
 dyce — Bleak House, of course ! Charles Dickens at his best 
 mentally, but at a low third-best physically — a tired, de- 
 pressed Dickens. But all this was a generation old, and he 
 did not want to let fall literary-society criticisms of great 
 works. Yet literary "shop" kept him from watching the 
 progress of his own symptoms. And these absurd ar- 
 tificial discussions kept him away from the major discus- 
 sion about that bloody coat. The word was not polite; 
 admitted. But at times it was the only word, which bore 
 out his age-old contention that opportunity was the equiva- 
 lent, no more and no less, of virtue. Deryk put his hands
 
 4o8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 into his pockets and began to walk upstairs again in search 
 o£ the coat. As once before, when he was delirious with 
 influenza, he was saying he knew not what and embarking 
 on endless disputatious controversies which he was mentally 
 unequal to following. What was the absurd phrase he had 
 just used — opportunity the equivalent of virtue? It seemed 
 so profound when he used it ; now, when he was awake 
 again, he could see the meaningless folly of it. Really, it 
 was rather disconcerting when your brain took forty winks 
 like that. . . . 
 
 Once back on the roof he remembered the earlier sense 
 that he was throwing away a rare opportunity. Why? It 
 was an extraordinary thing, but he felt no fear. Yet why 
 should he feel fear ? Nor irritation, for that matter. Now, 
 downstairs (when he had that ridiculous altercation about 
 the coat) he was in a condition of what he always described 
 to himself as "prickly heat"; his nerves seemed to stretch, 
 stretch, stretch and finally snap ; then he was like a man 
 flayed alive! He could cry out if anyone spoke to him or 
 touched him, even kindly ; he could not bear himself, he 
 did not know what he wanted, but he had at such times to 
 get away to solitude lest he did irreparable injury. Al- 
 ways in that mood he was ready to be rude, satirical, 
 wounding (he had said things to Lucile Welman which 
 cut her like a lash across the face) ; thank God! he had 
 managed to hang up the receiver, or run away and hide, 
 when he had been with Idina ; she only knew him as abrupt 
 and variable, she had never seen him savage. 
 
 He never knew what brought on these attacks. That 
 afternoon (as soon as his god-forsaken guests had left him 
 in peace) he had been quite tranquil and contented; only 
 when he considered the question of re-joining them did the 
 "prickly heat" assail him, and then he had stood in the hall, 
 tensely but vacantly blaspheming — like an angry child yell- 
 ing because it had to yell. And then he had started an ab- 
 surd discussion with himself about "Bleak House" . . . 
 Prickly heat : spontaneous combustion — He was by no 
 means sure that it was Bleak House. . . .
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 409 
 
 Deryk became more interested in himself than ever be- 
 fore. When he succumbed to "prickly heat," when his lips 
 or brain began babbling irrelevancies, the plain fact of the 
 matter was that he was not in full control of himself. He 
 was — delirious, to use a non-committal word ; delirious in 
 the daytime, when he was well, sober, awake. For any- 
 thing that he said or did at such a time he was not respon- 
 sible; and these periods of delirium were becoming more 
 frequent, though he could not remember when they started. 
 . . . Now, had he inherited this from his father, had he 
 originated it in himself? Was "it" really anything at 
 all? In other words, was there a strain of insanity 
 or was he only once more in a state of nervous collapse? 
 His father had never shewn anything but a desolatingly 
 sane and level mind — with the exception of that one moment 
 when he contemplated suicide. (You could not call that an 
 inherited tendency to self-destruction.) Well, was his 
 blood tainted? Was this another legacy? It was perfectly 
 possible : nobody ever told you about this sort of thing. . . . 
 
 Or had he brought the whole thing on himself? The 
 last eighteen months had been a greater strain than any- 
 one could bear; for the first six he had worked twelve 
 and eighteen hours a day for seven days a week, he had 
 taken to brandy-drinking in the early morning and things 
 of that kind; then came the smash over Dina's marriage 
 (probably that was the beginning: he met Yolande out at 
 a dance somewhere and was extraordinarily rude to her: 
 "prickly heat" again. Yes, she tried to be sympathetic and 
 actually touched his hand — then he could have killed her, 
 quite calmly and deliberately). Thereafter came the 
 hideous months when he lived like a brute with Lucile 
 Welman, trying to forget ; then his father's death, his own 
 collapse, the Hellenopolis diversion (it was a pity that 
 had failed; he was really well, really sane out there) ; then 
 this house, bought, swept and garnished like the transfor- 
 mation scene in a pantomime ; then Dina's return. . , . 
 What human nerves the world over would stand the strain ? 
 He was worn out, worn out ! And some imbecile at the
 
 4IO MIDAS AND SON 
 
 Club had told him that he seemed run-down, adding jocosely 
 that he would be all right when he had a wife to look after 
 him! Good God! if Dina were to try pillow-smoothing 
 stunts with him! . . . 
 
 Poor Dina! Oh, poor child! She should be spared all 
 he could spare her. Now he remembered that bit about 
 feeling no fear. He had decided to commit suicide; and 
 he was not afraid, not even regretful; that old self-pity 
 business was a fake ; he was not really losing anything, he 
 had done everything, the future must all be repetition. No 
 fear, no self-pity; what was the other thing? Oh, resent- 
 ment. He was so sorry that he could not get all this down 
 in black and white, because no intending suicide had ever 
 thought so comprehensively nor pondered with so exquisite 
 a balance. The imbeciles would bring in a verdict of sui- 
 cide while of unsound mind, but he at least (who was the 
 only person that mattered) knew that the poise of his 
 brain was perfect and that he was reasoning in a form that 
 psychologists for all time would offer the wealth of the 
 world to obtain. He was the only sane man who had ever 
 nerved himself to the point; and he proved his sanity by 
 his amazing detachment, his incomparable faculty of self- 
 analysis. He had got to "resentment" ; did he blame anyone 
 in particular? That is to say, one of the richest men in 
 the world, with every social advantage, an admirable edu- 
 cation, unusual scholarship, youth, health, and every other 
 mundane blessing had somehow got himself into a position 
 of personal entanglement or mental incompatibility of 
 which suicide was the only solvent : on the assumption that 
 "being" was at least generally pleasanter than "not-being," 
 an explanation was required, perhaps even a defence. 
 
 In an enquiiy of this kind, the nearer home you started, 
 the quicker the success of your quest. It was not his fault; 
 he had not been cheating at cards or otherwise forfeiting 
 his personal reputation. He had not come to grief over 
 money (how could he with that income?). He had not 
 poisoned his blood nor brought a woman to disgrace or 
 misery. The record was good ; he had done not one of the
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 411 
 
 things that impelled most men to suicide; what brought 
 him to the same resolution was a sense that he had out- 
 grown his liking for everything and, specifically, that he 
 had ceased to love someone whom he had once loved. 
 What was the reason of that? Who had changed? She 
 was as he had always known her, as he had formerly loved 
 her, only modified by the passage of a very few years and 
 by the experience of a few months which had left her per- 
 manently subdued. He had changed more himself ; he had 
 lost chastity of spirit and body, he was bitterer, older, less 
 tolerant, more restless; but he could trace no change of 
 feeling towards her, there were only the pole at which he 
 once thought that he could not live without her and the 
 pole at which he found that he must. Who had converted 
 him? 
 
 His father, of course, had tried — tried and failed. He 
 had come to see that now; or, to be accurate (and just) 
 his father had wanted him to suspend judgment until he 
 knew his own mind. And thereto attached a great respon- 
 sibility, for, if the marriage had taken place when he fell 
 in love with Idina, he would never have wanted to be out 
 of her sight. Sir Aylmer had separated them ; on Sir 
 Aylmer's shoulders rested the nervous and physical de- 
 terioration, the sudden discovery that he was no longer in 
 love with her — the cogent sense that he must escape his 
 obligation by some means ; it was his father who had driven 
 him to the point where he now stood. . . . 
 
 Now, this was where he felt so amazingly sane. Another 
 man would have stamped and stormed, shaken his fists at 
 Heaven — and shewn himself very foolish. Before con- 
 demning his father, he had to be satisfied first that his 
 father had been wrong and secondly — though this was senti- 
 mental — that he himself would not have made the same 
 mistake — or at least taken the same course, if their posi- 
 tions had been reversed. Well, Sir Aylmer was right to 
 this extent : he saw in Idina a drag and an intellectual 
 spendthrift, a woman who would never rise to her husband's 
 social and economic position, let alone soaring above him
 
 412 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 to inspire and guide. Idina had many charming quahties, 
 but no one would waste breath in defending her against 
 that charge. And, if the positions were reversed, if he 
 were moulding the destiny of his own sons — the case put 
 so often since his father's extraordinary last letter of ex- 
 hortation (so vague in its direction!) and veiled apology 
 (so lacking in definition!) 
 
 His reflections were interrupted by a bell ringing some- 
 where inside the house. At first he could not understand 
 it; no bell existed above basement level ; he was startled, and 
 none the less so for his late afternoon of solitude. As 
 the ringing continued he recognised the mechanical note of 
 a telephone bell ; the private exchange was on the ground 
 floor, but the fine was connected with one of the bedrooms. 
 He hurried down, with just enough detachment to notice 
 and smile at the compelling hypnotism which a telephone 
 exerted over modern civilisation; ninety to one it was a 
 wrong number, and, if the call were for him, he did not 
 want to answer it ; indeed he had not thought out all that 
 was involved by supplying evidence that he was alive at 
 this particular moment. This required thought and care. 
 But he hurried downstairs, as though he had spent hours 
 trying to get in touch with someone at the other end of the 
 world on business of vital importance. 
 
 "Is that Regent 484726 ? Is Sir Deryk Lancing at home ? 
 Sir Deryk Lancing." 
 
 Deryk smiled. It was a good thing that Yolande's voice 
 was so distinctive. He tuned his own to a throaty tenor, 
 resonant with subservience. 
 
 "This is the Oxford and Cambridge Club, madam. I 
 think you must have been given a wrong number." 
 
 He was walking upstairs, when the bell rang again. 
 Obviously it was Yolande once more, but he would take no 
 further risks. It was a nuisance — that telephone; it had 
 broken the thread of his reflections, and they were no ordi- 
 nary reflections, because — to notice the first and most ob- 
 vious difference — he was sane, and other people were al- 
 ways a little prepossessed, fantastic. Now he must abandon
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 413 
 
 speculation and return to the practical. There was some- 
 thing about an opportunity thrown away (curious how 
 identity of place produced identity of thought; he always 
 remembered that lost opportunity as he ducked his head 
 and stepped out on the flat roof) ; it was like the thing that 
 Dante found painted up over the entrance to the Inferno — 
 "An opportunity awaits you here" ; which, by the way, was 
 not what Dante found, but seemed a plausible substitute. 
 There was a strange critical faculty in the human brain, 
 which seemed the first to doze and the last to rouse ; when 
 you were asleep your imagination rioted, there was nothing 
 to keep it in check, you delivered speeches of surpassing 
 eloquence and only discovered what nonsense you were 
 talking when you — and the critical faculty — awoke. Just 
 before you returned to full consciousness, the imaginative 
 and the critical played side by side, you made a misquota- 
 tion and knew it to be a misquotation, even though it were 
 an improvement on the original ; it was like poor Alice re- 
 citing, when everything would go wrong and she knew it 
 was wrong, but crocodiles would keep pressing forward 
 when she wanted to talk about busy bees. Curious brain 
 Carroll must have had. . . . 
 
 More literary small change? . . . 
 
 It came to this, then ; he was funking it. He was argu- 
 ing and thinking — pretending that some value attached to 
 his fugitive reflections — when his whole mind ought to 
 have been concentrated on that opportunity. He was, to be 
 quite frank, waiting for a reprieve; someone would tele- 
 phone, another search party would come and beat on the 
 door. . . . Good God ! if he left it much longer, the op- 
 portunity would be gone; his housekeeper would be ar- 
 riving with a girls' school of servants, the wonderful soli- 
 tude and silence would be ravished. And, to be accurate, he 
 was not funking it ; it was not fair to say that he was funk- 
 ing it ; it was very unkind ; he was hesitating between rival 
 methods, that was all. He had to decide, before anything 
 else, when the tragedy had taken place ; he could not leave 
 nearly three hours unexplained, so the tragedy had better
 
 414 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 be timed for the moment when Idina and the Manistys were 
 out of earshot. Unstrapping his wrist-watch he put the 
 hands back to half-past five — and wondered whether any- 
 thing would remain of the watch when he had done. Then 
 he pulled away the tarpaulin a second time and dragged 
 the planks aside. . . . 
 
 To what extent would his subconscious will get in his 
 way? Older than the oldest man, there was an instinct of 
 self-preservation which refused to be coerced; if you were 
 in a motor smash and saw the other car in time, you always 
 ducked your head, like a tortoise getting back under its 
 shell, and put your arm up to guard your eyes ; a woman 
 always tried to protect her bosom ; it was the untaught les- 
 son of a million years. (Curious to trace the forgotten 
 origin of these gestures ! Why, when people were amused, 
 did their eyes half close, their cheeks expand? Of course, 
 Herbert Spencer used to say that people frowned when 
 they were angry, because primitive man, scrapping with a 
 neighbour and getting hit over the head, had to twist his 
 brows into a single ridge to prevent the blood running into 
 his eyes. A bit thin!) Well, it was almost impossible to 
 fall flat backwards ; as you began to lose your balance, one 
 foot always went out to buttress you from behind. There 
 was a fellow at his tutor's who managed it and would fall 
 down again and again without hurting himself ; other people 
 could not even when they tried on a mattress. So with 
 swimming. There was a fellow in one of Stevenson's 
 books — "The Ebb-Tide" — who dived into the lagoon and 
 swam a few strokes with the idea of stopping suddenly and 
 sinking like a stone. He tried, but it was no good; auto- 
 matically the arms started working again, he had to go on 
 till he reached the shore. And next day, when he was cov- 
 ered by Herrick's rifle, he refused to put up his hands and 
 begged to be shot — begged : but he could not stop swim- 
 ming. By the way, it was Attwater who had the rifle, of 
 course; Herrick (or Hay) was the fellow who tried to 
 drown himself. A thing about that book which he never 
 understood was how the cockney clerk had managed to 
 
 I
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 415 
 
 keep a jar of vitriol among his personal effects throughout 
 a steady course of degradation in outlying parts of the 
 Pacific, when he hadn't a thing to eat and was starving on 
 the beach while the Captain begged stamps from the Con- 
 sulate. It looked very much like a slip on Stevenson's part, 
 comparable with that other curious slip in "The Master 
 of Ballantrae," where one of the brothers at the end of 
 the duel plunged his rapier up to the hilt in ground which 
 you had just been told was frozen. Stevenson had ad- 
 mitted that he had been nodding there. . . . 
 
 Deryk spun round and stamped up and down the roof, 
 cursing in language which he had never used since he was 
 a foul-mouthed school-boy of fourteen. He was funking, 
 funking ! ! The moment he tried to concentrate his mind 
 on action, something carried him away to futile discussions 
 of books. This time He looked at his watch. A quar- 
 ter to six. He had forgotten what the time was before 
 
 he moved the hands ; it might be eight, nine There was 
 
 no sun to guide him. The servants would be coming in at 
 any moment. This time. . . . 
 
 The fellow across the road was starting the Marseillaise 
 again — as badly as ever. In a way this was rather like 
 Nana dying of small-pox, while people rushed up and down 
 the streets of Paris, shouting "A Berlin !" 
 
 Literature again! 
 
 He thrust his left thumb into his mouth and bit in speech- 
 less rage until he could bear the pain no longer. Then he 
 looked at the result. The skin was still unbroken. 
 
 A single dry sob of misery shook him. 
 
 5 
 
 It was only a question how much noise he would 
 make. . . , 
 
 He stole to the parapet and looked down. It must be 
 getting late, because the soldiers in uniform were being 
 outnumbered by men in evening dress on their way out to 
 dinner. There had been no second search party ; the others
 
 41 6 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 must have gone home. He wondered when they would 
 hear about it — and how. His servants, of course, would 
 tell the police, and every paper, every news-bill would be 
 full of it. How would they take it, what would they think 
 had really happened? What was the impression that he 
 had left on their minds by his general behaviour that af- 
 ternoon? Everything depended on that, and the coming 
 stratagem that was forming in his mind was so much 
 wasted ingenuity if they had thought him abnormal. It 
 might be a petty thing, people who had not been in the same 
 position might call him self-conscious or pernickety, but, 
 if you looked at it reasonably, if words had any meaning, 
 why should a man be called insane when he was not only 
 positively sane but relatively far more sane than his neigh- 
 bours ? 
 
 Hatherly would be rather broken up, but he would be the 
 last man to suspect. 
 
 Raymond would not hear about it for months — not until 
 the war was over and he was released from his fortress. 
 Then he would find himself in unconditional possession of 
 a trifle over twenty million pounds (and be damned to 
 him! let him see what he could do with it!), and the whole 
 tragedy would be so long past by them, and he would find 
 no one with whom to exchange and compare suspicions ; 
 otherwise it was awkward, because old Raymond was a 
 shrewd fellow. But the money would keep his mind occu- 
 pied. . . . 
 
 People would regard it as a tragedy — young, rich, popu- 
 lar, good-looking, on the eve of being married ; he was get- 
 ting to know the personal touch of the press, he could 
 foretell the exact form of the obituary notice, and in 
 thirty-six hours the little cuttings on their yellow slips 
 would be pouring in on him from his agency. At least, not 
 on hhn; they would come addressed to him ; it was rather 
 curious to think of letters coming in after it was all over, 
 of a hundred and one subsidiary wheels still revolving 
 when the piston was motionless in its cylinder. People 
 would finger the envelopes, wondering who had the right
 
 A QUESTION OF EXPEDIENCY 417 
 
 to open them ; and in the end Hatherly would have to dis- 
 pose of them. Poor old Hats ! he was becoming official 
 undertaker to the family, and he was so touchingly proud 
 of the whole creation — the estate, the house, the title, Sir 
 Aylmer, himself. And Hats would not be the only person 
 to miss him. . . . 
 
 That noise question had to be decided. It had no bearing 
 on the great problem of accident against design ; if he 
 brought the house tumbling about his ears, that was still 
 unaffected, but he did not want to make a noise, he did not 
 like the idea of a crowd collecting and inquisitively prying 
 into the hall while a solid young policeman sucked a stump 
 of pencil and took notes. After all, it was his body; why 
 the Hell should these damned outsiders be allowed to come 
 and satisfy their morbid curiosity by staring at him? He 
 must not make a noise, not enough even to attract the solid 
 young policeman who was even then cutting short his con- 
 versation with one of the Marlborough House sentinels. 
 . . . And, when he started, he must go quickly; there was 
 no question of fear yet, but he would indubitably lose his 
 nerve if he waited ; it was like hesitating before a high 
 dive. God 1 it was remarkably like ! ! 
 
 Deryk kept his eyes averted from the opening in the 
 roof as he took stock of his position. The unfinished 
 sketches were scattered in a half circle of crumpled balls, 
 his coat lay where he had thrown it across the frame of the 
 new skylight; the planks were neatly piled, the tarpaulin 
 was beside the planks. He picked up the coupling rope 
 and caught it in a loose knot round one ankle — not too 
 tight to give him away, not loose enough to slip and spoil 
 his effect. As he drew himself upright, the whole world 
 seemed to be standing still ; he had a crazy sense that noth- 
 ing stood between him and the gigantic, unseen God in 
 whom he had been taught to believe as a boy; London, 
 never before silent even in the night, was silent now and 
 airlessly hot, so that he could hardly breathe. 
 
 He walked quickly to the round opening and stood poised 
 at the edge with his eyes closed and his pulses hammering
 
 41 8 MIDAS AND SON 
 
 until he felt that something must burst. The eyes had to 
 open, to see that the rope was free. Then, closing them 
 again, he took a single step forward. 
 
 A stifled cry broke from his lips when he tried, too late, 
 to recover his balance. 
 
 19 January, 1918.
 
 
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