7 
 
 b 

 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 W. DANE BANK
 
 W. DANE BANK 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JAMES." "TREASURE." ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 PART ONE: THE DAZZLING MAID 
 
 2134170
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 PART ONE: THE DAZZLING MAID 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "TfMMIE BOLLINS fancies herself," said Lizzie 
 
 ' Smaile. 
 
 And Lizzie was probably not far from the truth. The 
 phrase too is illuminating. Emmie " fancied " herself in 
 more ways than one, and in more situations than one 
 if the truth were known. Emmie " fancied " herself to 
 this extent : she considered herself superior (the real 
 superiority not very clearly defined) to the other occu- 
 pants of the trimming-room. Superior is not quite the 
 exact word. Emmie knew she did not speak " so re- 
 fined " as Miss Black, who said " Yes " with a mince and 
 not " Ay " and never indulged in the Lancashire dialect. 
 And yet Emmie was capable of shaking her head and 
 saying " Miss Black "... and feeling she didn't care a 
 brass farthing for Miss Black. Who was Miss Black 
 if er ... if chaps were about, eh? Miss Black could 
 say " Yes " and " No " and " It's a very nice day, is it 
 not?" in a style that was probably very proper and all 
 that, but she was forty if she was a day. . . . Not much 
 good her "It's a very nice day, is it not?" (Imagine 
 this being said in a very prisms and prunes manner) 
 had done her ! No, Emmie refused to concede anything 
 of vital importance to Miss Black. 
 
 7
 
 8 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 There were, of course, others in the trimming-room 
 who were full of importance in their way, but Emmie 
 had that same feeling she didn't care for any of them. 
 The phrase must not be taken too literally: it must be 
 treated indulgently and understood as an attitude, for 
 Emmie had a heart and cared for Miss Black, for in- 
 stance, as well as for Lizzie Smaile and others. 
 
 Who can understand the pretty girl? Herself least 
 of all. 
 
 Emmie was pretty. Some praised her extravagantly; 
 others merely said, " Yes ... all right " opinions dif- 
 fer. But nobody suggested she approached ugliness. 
 Also she had a tongue which is valuable in anybody's 
 mouth, but almost an unfair advantage in the head of 
 a pretty woman. Emmie's tongue was mostly of the 
 defensive kind. She could hit back, defend herself with 
 it, use it as a weapon for trench warfare, but could in- 
 dulge in " grenade " work if pushed to it. 
 
 Emmie in a shawl, which she wore occasionally go- 
 ing to and from work: Emmie in clogs, which she 
 wore only on very dirty and bad days, was not to be 
 passed over as of no or little account; but the Emmie who 
 was dressed in her Sunday best was as likely to attract at- 
 tention as anybody in Canton. 
 
 Emmie's hair was black and her eyes a fine rich brown, 
 though the colour was not all at first glance. She had 
 a way of letting you see only half her eyes to begin 
 with, as if she were shy and looked at you cautiously, 
 or as if there was something to be hidden till she was sure 
 who looked. Her black brows, well marked, seemed to 
 protect these modest looking eyes a little, and then some' 
 pertinacity on the part of the male or a little more con- 
 fidence (or maybe feminine armoury) on Emmie's part 
 and the lids were fully raised while the brown eyes blazed
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 or signalled a wealth of something attractive. Emmie 
 had seen more than one man mutter as these lids of hers 
 went up and the eyes were glorious as Psyche at her 
 bath. Her nose was inclined to the snub, but it looked 
 pretty and became her, for she had a neat, shapely mouth 
 and her face was beautifully rounded about her chin, 
 which was full and told its affectionate tale. 
 
 Emmie had had many admirers. Shapers, body mak- 
 ers, Finishers, men from the warehouse and men who had 
 no connection with hatting at alL Emmie was not afraid 
 to talk to a stranger or to walk with him, for that matter. 
 She had picked up many strangers, or been picked up 
 would be politer, perhaps, on her Saturday evening ex- 
 cursions to Hyde or Ashton or Manchester, but she 
 walked out with nobody officially or possessedly. 
 
 " Coin' out with that there chap as you were with last 
 Sat'dy ? " asked Alice Cannel, Emmie's friend. 
 
 " No fear. Had enough of him." 
 
 " You soon have enough of 'em." 
 
 "Well, that chap! . . ." 
 
 " It's always that chap." 
 
 Emmie laughed. As she laughed she felt inside her 
 a chuckle of keen satisfaction. It was as if she were 
 confident she would make a fool of herself if she got 
 really tied to any of these young men she met on Satur- 
 day night. The feeling was the note of satisfaction she 
 carried with her satisfaction plus a fair amount of 
 joyousness. She was pretty; she attracted; she felt her 
 power; why should she get married in a hurry? 
 
 " You'll get caught one of these days," said Alice. 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 The note was one of absolute self-confidence. 
 
 " You will that," Alice laughed. " Head o'er heels 
 too, ah'll bet, when it does happen."
 
 10 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Shove him head over heels more like." 
 
 "Oh ... ay." 
 
 " Well, I'm not caught yet, am I? " 
 
 " You say not. What about Ted Bromley? " 
 
 " Him. ..." Emmie flared. 
 
 " Oh ! You needn't look so fierce. . . . You were 
 laughin' an' carryin' on at Ashton t'other week." 
 
 " Ted Bromley." Emmie shook herself. 
 
 " What's up with him? " Alice asked. 
 
 " Up with him ? . . . I don't know what's up with 
 him : he can go up to Jericho for all I care : I know that's 
 up with him. . . . Ted Bromley. . . ." She shook her- 
 self. " I wouldn't have him if I were thirty and 
 squinted." 
 
 Alice laughed. 
 
 " You and your thirty and squints. . . . You wait. 
 . . . You wait. . . ." 
 
 " I'll wait right enough." 
 
 But Emmie knew she had in her that which did not 
 desire to wait too long. She liked men, liked to be near 
 them and with them, note their admiration of her and feel 
 the influence she had on them. She might scorn Ted 
 Bromley as a husband, but she was pleased on occasions 
 to get his mead of homage. 
 
 There were moments when she felt a little afraid of 
 the future. But almost immediately she would assure 
 herself with the thought: I can take care of myself. 
 She felt that instinctively and strongly. And yet. . . . 
 But she had no fear. Even if she liked men and greatly 
 desired affection, she also had a level head and a sense 
 of duty. She worked well, earned an excellent wage 
 and helped her mother at home. But she must indulge 
 herself. 
 
 What was life if you didn't enjoy yourself? She was
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 11 
 
 going to enjoy herself. Nice chance she'd have after she 
 was married. . . . 
 
 Married? . . . Ted Bromley. . . . He was a body- 
 maker. . . . No fear. She'd rather have that chap who 
 was in a warehouse in Manchester that she met at Belle 
 Vue once. He was all right . . . dressed well and talked 
 well. But she was certainly not going to have a body- 
 maker like Ted Bromley. She could do better than that. 
 But she wasn't going to marry anybody yet. . . . Not 
 yet. . . . 
 
 She looked at herself in the glass. The black hair 
 shone in its fine thick folds; the black eyebrows covered 
 those quizzing eyes. She only looked at herself curiously 
 to begin with. Then she raised her head with a jerk, 
 opened her eyes wide, remarked the beautiful line of her 
 round chin and the beautiful shape and colour of her 
 neck. . . . 
 
 She looked a trifle disdainful ; certainly satisfied. 
 
 It was as if she said, " Am I, with this face, to marry 
 Ted Bromley?" She said, of course, nothing of the 
 kind; but the feeling was there. 
 
 Emmie Bollins worked as a trimmer at T. Booke & 
 Son's. She was a quick worker and was able in good 
 times to earn thirty shillings a week even more if she 
 cared to sit up late, for in this year, 1885, trimmers were 
 allowed to take hats to their homes and work at them 
 there. Legislation has practically put an end to that, 
 and incidentally made many a home in Canton much less 
 untidy and uncomfortable. 
 
 The trimming-room at " Booke's " was a fairly large 
 one, sufficient to accommodate about sixty workers, 
 though as a rule there were generally not more than 
 forty there. There were eight tables in the room, and the
 
 12 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 trimmers sat four on each side. They used to have the 
 work handed to them by the " giver-out " ; that is to say, 
 the hat with nothing sewn on it was passed to the trimmer 
 with the necessary trimmings band and binding to go 
 respectively round the crown and brim, and the leather 
 and lining (if a lined hat) for the inside. As a rule the 
 hats would be given out by the half dozen; occasionally a 
 trimmer might get more, generally less. She took them 
 to the workroom, sat at her place and began her work. 
 
 The lining, which was a strip of silk and a flat piece, 
 generally stamped with the name of the retailer so that 
 his advertisement should be carried by the wearer wher- 
 ever the hat went, was put together with needle and 
 thread, some paper and paste. The leather was cut so 
 that it would just fit the hat and was then laboriously 
 sewn in with even stitches, having a piece of whipcord 
 at the top to give it more neatness. The leather is put 
 in with less trouble nowadays, as the whipcord is at- 
 tached first by machine. 
 
 The needle made a click as it went through the stiff 
 felt of the hat, and one could tell the speed at which a 
 trimmer worked by the almost rhythmical sound of the 
 stitch. 
 
 When the hats were trimmed they were taken to the 
 forewoman or giver-out, who examined them to see that 
 the work had been properly done; that the bow on the 
 band was in the correct place, the binding neatly sewn, 
 or the stitches in the leather were regular and close 
 not a few together and then a gap and then another 
 crowd, and so on and the lining well made, the stamp 
 in the centre, etc. If all was well the trimmer was 
 credited in her book with the amount she had earned, 
 and given fresh work if there was fresh work to be done. 
 If the work was badly done it was handed back to be
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 13 
 
 done again, and trimmers did not like, any more than 
 other people, to do their work twice. 
 
 One can see that these women and girls on piece work 
 might earn much or little, according to their capacity. 
 A poor worker was no good at all, for she took up space 
 in the trimming-room and might keep work back in busy 
 times. Generally the trimmers were happy. They had 
 their freedom and they earned very fair wages an ex- 
 cellent combination in a woman worker's eyes. More- 
 over, there was no restraint on tongues in the trimming- 
 room; also a consideration. Sometimes laughter pealed 
 from it, till Miss Frisby, the " giver-out," feeling wildly 
 curious to know what it was all about, and also a little 
 jealous that she was out of it, would be inclined to go 
 upstairs and tell them to make less noise, only if she did 
 that she was afraid she might not get to know the cause 
 of the laughter, and so used to wait till the next trimmer 
 came down. 
 
 " Somebody's laughing upstairs," she would say. 
 
 "Oh. . . ." 
 
 "Er. . . . What is it?" 
 
 " It's Emmie Bollins and Alice Cannel." 
 
 " Those two. . . ." She wondered why on earth the 
 trimmer couldn't tell her the tale. 
 
 " They've been telling us about two chaps they met at 
 Ashton, an' promised to meet again and never went.'' 
 
 "T't! T't! T't! Miss Frisby looked properly 
 shocked. 
 
 " Alice said her chap was dressed up to the nines, an' 
 wanted to come an' see her home. But when Emmie's 
 fellow swung on too Emmie said, ' Here, clear out ; we've 
 got the footman waitin' for us, an' we mustn't let him 
 see us with you lot.' ' 
 
 The trimmer laughed again at the joke, and Miss
 
 i 4 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Frisby said "Oh!" and chuckled herself, and thought 
 what a glorious thing life was if you could only catch it, 
 instead of letting it go past. 
 
 " Those two," she said, with a shake of her head. 
 " Well, tell them not to make so much noise." She 
 could afford to tell them to be quiet, now she knew what 
 the story was. 
 
 The trimmer nodded and went upstairs as Miss Frisby 
 pulled down the clap. 
 
 " Not to make so much row," said the trimmer, as she 
 entered the workroom. 
 
 " Who says? " asked Alice Cannel. 
 
 " Miss Frisby." 
 
 " Her! " And there were defiant laughs. " She 
 wants a chap's arm round her, and then she'd make row 
 enough." 
 
 And there was a scream of laughter from the young 
 girls, while the elder ones, married and single, looked at 
 one another and enjoyed the remark, but went on busily 
 with that click, click, click, click of the stitch in the 
 hat. 
 
 Men had occasions to go to the trimming-room, and 
 their attitudes were always well noticed by the trimmers. 
 There was young Mr. Timothy, who walked about them 
 with a certain ease and with an air that told the more 
 alert and keen that he quite realised he was amongst 
 women, some of them young and pretty. 
 
 There was also Mr. Sims from the warehouse, a young 
 man with big blue eyes and a lot of straight hair, who 
 had now and then to look after a hat that was being 
 trimmed. He was nervous the moment he opened the 
 door. Most of the women were bending over their hats, 
 which they held on their knees as they worked, but they 
 always had to look up to see who it was that had entered.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 The married and elder ones went on with their work as 
 if there was nothing to disturb their equanimity in the 
 presence of this light-complexioned man from the ware- 
 house. But the younger women Emmie Bollins, Alice 
 Cannel, Lizzie Smaile, and many others began to look 
 at one another furtively. One of them would even ven- 
 ture to cough and giggle. They were all feeling : " Isn't 
 he nervous ? It's we girls that make him like that. . . ." 
 And they thoroughly enjoyed what they considered to be 
 a manifestation of feminine power and triumph. 
 
 Mr. Sims had to go to one of these younger ones occa- 
 sionally, and then she was made somewhat nervous by 
 the little coughs and sniggers of the others; and when 
 Mr. Sims had gone their tongues would clack fifteen to 
 the dozen. 
 
 " Alice, he did look at you ! ... That'll be all right." 
 
 " Well, he'd something to look at," retorted Alice, 
 scarlet with the attention. " But I want none of him ; 
 he's half rocked." 
 
 " He's as feeart as a canary, is that mon," said Mary 
 Blake once; and the trimmers shouted with glee and 
 called Sims " Canary " behind his back ever after. 
 
 Mr. Bilson, the traveller, was of another breed. He 
 was dark and gazed, rather than glanced, at the girls. 
 He would stride in the trimming-room as if he were on 
 his own domestic hearth, and could joke and look at any 
 of them without turning a hair or appearing the least 
 bit shy. In fact, he stared deliberately, on occasions, at 
 some of them; and most of them, though they felt they 
 would like to stare him out, never dared to put their fate 
 to the test when the opportunity presented itself. 
 
 Emmie did look at him once and caught his eye. His 
 eye hung on the gaze. Emmie tried bravado; she was 
 not going to be stared at like that. . . . But she could
 
 16 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 not keep it up. And when he had gone she looked 
 furious. 
 
 " Brazen face," she gasped. 
 
 The others laughed. 
 
 " He has a nerve, that Mester Bilson." 
 
 " I'd like to slap his face," said Emmie, still excited 
 that the man should have treated her as so much sub- 
 missive material, staring at her like that. . . . 
 
 " I never look at him," said Lizzie Smaile. " No fear. 
 He regular hooks his eyes on you if you start lookin' at 
 him. . . . No, I let Mester Bilson see th' back o' my 
 head that's enough for him." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," said Alice Cannel wickedly, and there 
 followed some sharp words and phrases to the accompani- 
 ment of laughter and other people's remarks and always 
 that click, click, click, as the needle went through the hat. 
 
 It was Saturday morning, always a morning different 
 from any other of the week. It was a half day and a 
 pay day. There was a general unwillingness to begin 
 anything really big that morning. The atmosphere was 
 unsettling except in busy times when work dominated 
 and hats seemed to multiply unconscionably and almost 
 called to be trimmed at once, so that they could go out 
 in the world and live their gay lives. 
 
 The trimming-room was swept every morning water 
 was splashed on the floor and the dust carefully gathered 
 up with all the pieces of paper, the bits of silk and satin 
 cut from linings, the ends of leathers and bands, et 
 cetera. 
 
 As the trimmers arrived they took off hats and coats or 
 shawls, and some of them changed the boots they had 
 walked in for slippers and old boots some for ease, but 
 mostly for economy. Some of them carried big, black
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 17 
 
 stuff bags in which were the hats they had taken home 
 to trim, and were now brought back finished. 
 
 Many of these were trimmed by the mothers of the 
 girls, who were enabled in that way to earn money at 
 home. 
 
 Some of the trimmers had work to do the moment they 
 arrived ; others had to go and ask Miss Frisby if she had 
 any hats for them. The fact that the trimmers were 
 " on piece work " gave them a sense of freedom, and 
 they never felt the need to observe a punctuality that was 
 incumbent on those who were paid a definite weekly 
 wage. 
 
 There was always a buzz of conversation to start the 
 morning's work. Some of the trimmers brought sew- 
 ing of their own to do in case there were no hats for 
 them to trim, and they were always ready to hear and 
 retail the latest bits of gossip. There were no halfpenny 
 morning papers then, and the only newspapers most of the 
 trimmers ever read were the local sheets or the Man- 
 chester Weekly Times, the Sunday Chronicle or Umpire, 
 the first for its stories and the others glanced at curiously 
 after fathers or husbands or brothers had read them. 
 
 Emmie Bollins and Alice Cannel sat next to one an- 
 other at the same table. Neither had any work to do 
 this particular morning at least none that was so urgent 
 as the bodice Alice was finishing or the hat Emmie was 
 trimming for herself. They helped each other with 
 criticism and suggestion. 
 
 " Where shall we go to-night ? " Alice said. 
 
 " Dunno. . . . Not going to Ashton this Saturday," , 
 said Emmie, as she bit her thread. 
 
 " Why? " Alice guessed the reason. 
 
 Emmie gave a little grunt and shook her shoulders. 
 Then she laughed.
 
 18 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 And then they both stopped their work and laughed 
 and laughed, till the others watched them with interest 
 and a tickling inquisitiveness that had ultimately to melt 
 in a contagious laughter. 
 
 " Them two ! " said Alice, with tears on her cheeks. 
 
 " Old corncrake ! " said Emmie with contempt, and 
 then she quickly burst into laughter again. Clearly they 
 were thinking of the chaps they had been with the pre- 
 vious Saturday. 
 
 " We haven't been to Belle Vue for a long while," said 
 Alice. 
 
 "No " 
 
 "Shall we go?" 
 
 " Don't mind." 
 
 " We can always have a bit o' fun there ! " 
 
 " Um. An' th' fireworks are on, aren't they?" 
 
 " Ay. Well, I'll call for you, shall I, after tea ? " 
 
 " Yes. I'll be ready. Half past five or a quarter to 
 six?" 
 
 " Right. . . . Suppose we see them two again ? " 
 
 " Push 'em in t' lake ! " said Emmie quickly, and then 
 they burst into laughter once more, while Miss Balke, 
 at the end of the table, said: " You girls. T't, t't . . . 
 I wonder what mischief you're up to? " 
 
 Alice whispered : " A bit what she'd like to be up to 
 if she could." 
 
 Emmie giggled and bent over her hat to hide her emo- 
 tion. 
 
 The morning passed away in its usual way. Some of 
 those who had no hats to trim went home and left their 
 wages to be collected by friends. 
 
 Alice and Emmie finished their private dressmaking 
 and millinery in good time and to their complete satis- 
 faction, and were quite ready to get their money when
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 19 
 
 they received the news that it was obtainable. Emmie's 
 earnings that particular Saturday were one pound five 
 shillings and sixpence. 
 
 She and Alice left the works together. They were 
 both neatly dressed, but not, of course, showily. The 
 black aprons they wore in the trimming-room were left 
 behind. Emmie wore her new hat and felt quite fittingly 
 adorned. The two friends parted almost at the gates 
 of the factory, for Emmie lived quite near and Alice had 
 to go in another direction. 
 
 They reminded each other of the evening's programme. 
 
 " Don't forget, Alice." 
 
 " I won't. And you be ready." 
 
 " I'll be ready, right enough." 
 
 "Yes, like you were last time kept me half an 
 hour." 
 
 " Oh ! Go on wi' your gabble ! . . . Half past five 
 not later than a quarter to six." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 Young men that Emmie knew nodded to her smil- 
 ingly as they passed her, and gave her a little pleasure 
 by the lingering way they looked. 
 
 She went to a shop that was really a converted private 
 house, where a widow sold home made bread, and bought 
 four big hot currant cakes. She did this every Satur- 
 day as a treat for the family. 
 
 Emmie lived with her father and mother and sister in 
 a little house in Silton Street. There were two rooms 
 downstairs and two up, with a yard, where coals could 
 be stored at the back. The range was in the front room, 
 which was living-room, and the scullery in the rear con- 
 tained a slop stone as well as a copper for washing. 
 
 The front door was generally open, as it was of most 
 of the houses in that street, for it let in fresh air, and it
 
 20 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 was easier for anybody inside to see who was passing 
 and what was going on outside. One walked straight 
 from the street into this front room, where there was a 
 dresser to the right which had on it some lustre orna- 
 ments, some wax flowers under a glass shade and a little 
 marble cross, also under glass. The household linen, 
 cutlery and all kinds of things, were kept in the drawers. 
 There was a round table in the middle of the room, with 
 a white cloth on it that had been there since the preced- 
 ing Sunday. On Sunday a clean cloth was used, and in 
 the afternoon a dark green one was taken off the dresser 
 and put on the table. At supper time the white cloth 
 took its place, and till the following Sunday it was not 
 thought worth while to take it off again. 
 
 There was a horsehair sofa against the wall, a curious 
 wire arrangement for plants under the window, and four 
 wooden chairs. On Saturday afternoon, when the clean- 
 ing was done, a hearth rug made of pieces of felt was 
 spread near the shining fender. There was no carpet 
 on the floor, but oilcloth, which was badly worn in cer- 
 tain flagrant spots. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was in the scullery when Emmie reached 
 home. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 " That you, Emmie ? " 
 
 "Yes. Sarah come?" 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " I thought they weren't busy at Gibbs & Sons." 
 
 " She's stopped talking, I reckon." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins emerged from the scullery, wiping her 
 hands and arms and looking tired. 
 
 Emmie put the cakes on the table. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins said: " That your new hat? "
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 21 
 
 "Yes; like it?" 
 
 " Yes. Looks very well. Eh ! You girls do spend 
 money on clothes." 
 
 " Well. . . . Here you are, Mother," and Emmie 
 handed her mother fifteen shillings. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins counted it. She was content. If only 
 the other girl did as much and the father did his share, 
 Mrs. Bollins felt she would have no worries at home. 
 But Sarah didn't make as much as Emmie, and some 
 weeks only drew ten shillings, though now and again her 
 book mounted to seventeen or eighteen shillings in the 
 busy season. But Emmie was a glutton for work when 
 there was work to be done. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins wrapped up the money in a piece of paper 
 and put it in a corner of one of the dresser drawers 
 under some sheets. 
 
 " Reckon you could do with some tea," said Mrs. 
 Bollins. 
 
 " I could that." 
 
 Emmie had got her hat in her hand and was looking 
 at it. 
 
 " This'll go well with that red dress, won't it?" 
 
 " Yes. . . . That 'ud go with anything . . . black, 
 like that. . . ." 
 
 " Urn. . . . Looks stylish." 
 
 " Well, don't go and make a fool of yourself wi' all 
 your stylish things." 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " I shall make no fool o' myself," she said, as she put 
 her hat on the dresser, near the wax flowers. "Father 
 not come yet? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Let's have some tea, Mother," said Emmie, as she 
 took hold of one of the cakes, broke it and began to eat.
 
 22 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Bollins sat down and then rose the next min- 
 ute. 
 
 " Ah shall forget mi 'ead next." She spoke very 
 quietly, as if she were very tired. " Here I am sittin' 
 down an' no tea in t' pot." 
 
 Like so many people in Canton, Mrs. Bollins could not 
 be relied on to speak with a consistent accent. Occa- 
 sionally she was almost broad, particularly with those 
 who spoke broadly or when she was tired ; at other times 
 her speech, though preserving its Lancashire note, can 
 fairly be reproduced with correct spelling. 
 
 Emmie pushed her mother back in her chair. 
 
 " You sit down ; I'll put the kettle on. These cakes 
 aren't bad to-day." 
 
 " No. . . . But they soon go stale if you don't eat 'em 
 quick." 
 
 " Mrs. Short was buyin' two when I was in t' shop." 
 
 "Was she?" 
 
 Emmie, having filled the kettle at the slopstone tap, 
 put it on the fire. 
 
 " It'll soon boil," she said. 
 
 " There's some potatoes in a dish in t' scullery, if you'd 
 like to fry 'em," said Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 " No," said Emmie quickly. " This'll do me," mean- 
 ing she would have quite a sufficient dinner with the tea 
 cake she was eating. " I'll make some potato cakes for 
 tea, shall I?" 
 
 " If you like. . . . Your father likes 'em." 
 
 Emmie laughed. " An' so do you. I'll make some." 
 She stuffed another piece of the cake in her mouth and 
 spoke in a muffled tone. " Sha-ah mop-er." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins seemed to grasp easily enough the mix- 
 ture of mastication and speech as signifying " Shall I 
 mop this?" for she said readily: "If you like. I've
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 23 
 
 got a bit o' washing to finish an' your father'll do th' 
 yard." 
 
 Emmie put tea in the pot, reached down a couple of 
 cups and saucers from the cupboard and then put on a 
 big white apron. She moved about with alertness and 
 energy. 
 
 Sarah, her sister, came in. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins looked at her. She was saying vaguely 
 to herself that she would have some more money now, 
 but not so much as Emmie had given her. She wiped 
 her hands on her apron in an instinctive preparation for 
 receiving it. 
 
 Sarah said : " Done your hat, Emmie ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Emmie put it on at once and Sarah approved, which 
 pleased Emmie. 
 
 " Get yourself a cup, Sarah," said Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 Sarah took off her hat and coat, took a cake from the 
 table and bit a lump off it. When she had got herself 
 a cup she took out some money and handed Mrs. Bollins 
 eight shillings. 
 
 " Got to buy a pair o' boots this week," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins said nothing. Under the circumstances 
 she was satisfied, for she knew Sarah had not had a 
 very good week. 
 
 When they had all eaten a cake and drunk tea, which 
 was their usual Saturday dinner, they attacked domestic 
 duties. Sarah made the beds and swept and dusted the 
 bedrooms, Mrs. Bollins washed some clothes in the 
 scullery, and Emmie at once began to sweep the kitchen 
 and then to clean it. 
 
 As she scrubbed with soap and brush she would kneel 
 upright, push back a bit of hair and tell her mother some
 
 24 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 of the gossip from the hat works. And Sarah would 
 run downstairs with: 
 
 "Eh! What d'you think? That Susan White's go- 
 ing to marry Arthur Chandler on Monday. They're 
 going to Buxton. When they come back they're going 
 to live in Nelly Street, you know, one o' them houses 
 that back on th' field. She's got a new dark blue tailor- 
 made costume for goin' away in. Alice Meggs is goin' 
 to th' weddin'. They say they're goin' to Marple after, 
 an' havin' a big tea there." 
 
 " I suppose Mester White'll pay for that," said Mrs. 
 Bollins. 
 
 Emmie looked as if she were picturing the scene. The 
 wedding . . . the bride particularly. . . . 
 
 She dashed her mop in the bucket. 
 
 "Well, she can have him for all I care and wel- 
 come," she said. 
 
 " Me too," said Sarah. " She's been walkin' out with 
 him for six years, an' she says she's lucky well, that's 
 what Mary Jecks told me." 
 
 "Lucky. ... I think if I'd had him I should have 
 thought myself lucky if some'dy had run away with him," 
 said Emmie, with a laugh, as she slapped the dripping 
 cloth on the floor. 
 
 " Me too," said Sarah, as she went upstairs again. 
 
 Then Emmie, as she mopped, sang to herself : 
 
 "White wings they never grow weary, 
 They carry me cheerily over the foam. . . ." 
 
 As she worked, she threw her mind into the business. 
 If she saw a particularly dirty spot she would say to 
 herself: "That's dirty . . . wonder how it got like 
 that ? " and she would scrub till it was as clean and re- 
 proachless as the rest. She got through the work
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 25 
 
 quickly. She seemed to know exactly what to do when 
 she got up, so that she wasted no time in putting pieces 
 of furniture into inconvenient places or in wondering 
 whether she ought to do under the window now or by 
 the fireplace. . . . 
 
 Her mother always realised that Emmie was a good 
 worker. 
 
 After having mopped the kitchen floor, Emmie took 
 out some brown stone and cleaned the door step and 
 window sill, browning them evenly with her floor- 
 cloth. 
 
 " That's done, Mother," she said, as she poured away 
 the dirty water, wrung out the floorcloth and threw it 
 under the slop stone. " Let me wash my hands, will 
 you?" 
 
 " Coin' to mix them cakes now ? " Mrs. Bollins said. 
 
 "Yes. Haven't you finished that washing?" 
 
 " Nearly." 
 
 When Emmie had mixed the potato cakes she looked 
 at the little round clock on the mantelshelf the larger 
 one on the wall never went. 
 
 " Five minutes to four." . . . Emmie took the two 
 chairs off the sofa she had placed them there while 
 she had scrubbed the floor put down the mat at the 
 door, tidied the place and then looked round as if for 
 fresh domestic worlds to conquer. 
 
 " You don't want me to do anything else, do you, 
 Mother ? " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins hesitated. She had just finished her 
 washing. 
 
 " No-o. Have you done them cakes ? " 
 
 " Yes. They're ready to go in th' oven." 
 
 " No. There's nothin' else, then. Sarah can set th' 
 table."
 
 26 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie went upstairs, where she found Sarah looking 
 at her dress. 
 
 " Guessed as much," said Emmie. " You an' work'll 
 never fall out," and she picked up her best boots, which 
 were under the bed, preparatory to cleaning them. 
 
 Sarah did not seem to mind reproaches on that head. 
 
 " Goin' to Ashton to-night," she said. 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 " Polly Bell." 
 
 " Goin' by yourselves ? " 
 
 " We're goin' to meet two chaps there." 
 
 " H'm. . . . Take care o' yourself." 
 
 " Go on wi' you! As if we couldn't. . . . My chap's 
 a jolly nice fellow; he's at Guide Bridge Station; don't 
 know what clerk, I suppose " 
 
 " Well, why don't you go downstairs an' set t' table 
 an' finish your work first? " 
 
 " What are you botherin' about ? . . . I thought o' 
 putting in a bit o' blue in these squares . . . what d'you 
 think?" 
 
 " No," said Emmie quickly; " it 'ud make it too showy 
 look like a gipsy's. You keep it as it is ; it was a good 
 dress and looks good; don't spoil it." 
 
 " H'm. . . ." Sarah sighed, put the dress on the bed 
 and went downstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was reading the local paper, but as she 
 heard Sarah coming downstairs she hastily placed it on 
 the sofa and was looking anxiously at the oven when 
 Sarah entered the room. 
 
 " You, is it? " she said quietly, as if tired. " Emmie's 
 made some potato cakes. . . . Your father likes 'em. 
 ... I wonder if this oven'll be hot enough? " 
 
 " I'll lay table, Mother, for tea, 'cause I want to get 
 dressed."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 27 
 
 " All right ; I'll just sit me down a bit." 
 
 " Have you finished ? " 
 
 "Finished? . . . Me? . . . My work's never done." 
 
 Sarah began to hum: 
 
 "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, 
 Wait till the clouds roll by. 
 Jenny, my own true loved one, 
 Wait till the clouds roll by . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins felt that now she really could have a look 
 at the paper again. And yet she was not able to read 
 without disturbance, for when Emmie and Sarah up- 
 stairs were dressing themselves Mr. Bollins came in, and 
 Mrs. Bollins, with a conscientious desire to keep up the 
 role of the tireless or tired, but certainly ceaseless, worker 
 in the house, threw down the paper instantly, got up and 
 at once began to look as if she were absorbed in that 
 unending chain of work which claimed her from morn- 
 ing to night. Not that she was an idle woman; but she 
 liked the reputation and sympathy that seemed to attach 
 to the incessant worker and cherished the idea that her 
 good name, if she were once caught reading a newspaper 
 in the daytime, would go. 
 
 " Tea ready? " asked Mr. Bollins. 
 
 " It will be soon. I'll put these potato cakes in now." 
 
 When the tea was ready, Mr. and Mrs. Bollins sat 
 down to it with their two daughters, who were wearing 
 large white aprons to protect their best frocks. Mr. 
 Bollins described how he had nearly beaten Tom Sales, 
 who was one of the best bowlers in Canton. 
 
 " Eh! If Ah'd only 'ad mi chance," he said, shaking 
 his head, " Ah'd ha' bin one o' t' best bowlers in Eng- 
 land. ... Ah would that ... if Ah'd only 'ad mi 
 chance."
 
 28 
 
 Mr. Bollins was great on this lack of chance from 
 which he suffered. He had an idea he might have 
 achieved great things if he'd had what he called a 
 chance. . . . 
 
 During the course of the tea Emmie remarked that 
 some man had got on and made a fortune. Mr. Bollins 
 shook his head. " Ay. . . . When Ah were twenty- 
 one Ah 'ad an idea. ... If only Ah'd 'ad mi chance 
 Ah'd ha' made a big fortune ... a big 'un ... if 
 Ah'd only 'ad mi chance. . . ." 
 
 As they sat at the table Mr. Bollins was without his 
 coat, and Mrs. Bollins had not yet washed herself. 
 She was always washing her hands, she said, and when 
 she washed herself in the afternoon she was supposed 
 to have reached a certain stage in domestic arrangements 
 that justified the proceeding. But each Saturday, when 
 tea was ready, she would murmur with the little self- 
 deception that was now part and substance of her being : 
 " I don't think I'll wash before tea ... I'll wait till 
 after," and one of the girls generally said: "Yes, 
 Mother. Sit down and rest." 
 
 After tea Mr. Bollins filled his pipe, sat at the open 
 door and read the local paper. Mrs. Bollins then washed 
 herself before going out to do the marketing. Some- 
 times she washed the pots, but generally left them till 
 the next day, when the girls were at home and able to 
 lend a hand in the domestic work. 
 
 Alice Cannel called for Emmie, and when they set 
 out for Belle Vue, Mrs. Bollins stood at the door watch- 
 ing them go. She was very proud of her daughter, who 
 was certainly a remarkably handsome girl, and dressed 
 very well. 
 
 "They might just as well enjoy -themselves when 
 they're young," she murmured. The phrase seemed to
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 29 
 
 be a little reminiscent of her own youth, blended with 
 her added experience since. 
 
 Neighbours watched the two girls go. 
 
 " There's Emmie Bollins and Alice Cannel. . . . Em- 
 mie's got a new hat on a black 'un, trimmed with 
 red; it goes with her dress. She fancies herself, but 
 she's a good-looking lass. . . . Off gallivantin' some- 
 where. . . ." 
 
 Emmie and Alice walked down Silton Street, out of 
 the sight of relatives and neighbours.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "T ET'S walk to the Wilton," said Emmie. 
 
 *-' " We can walk all the way if we don't catch a 
 train," said Alice. 
 
 In the year 1885 a horse tram ran every half hour 
 from Ganton to Manchester, passing on its way the 
 famous Zoological Gardens known familiarly as " Belle 
 Vue" (pronounced Belle View}. Belle Vue, situated 
 about midway between Ganton and Piccadilly (Man- 
 chester), is an astonishing place. The collection of ani- 
 mals is extraordinarily varied and interesting, but there 
 is also a kind of Luna Park or Coney Island as part of 
 the attraction, as well as a great dancing hall. And from 
 Whitsuntide till the 5th of November there are fire- 
 works; not ordinary fireworks, not yet extraordinary 
 fireworks, but something one would not guess from the 
 word fireworks a realistic representation of a battle, 
 in which scores (perhaps hundreds) of men take part, 
 cannons roar and blaze, turrets and towers, bastions and 
 forts are shattered and fall and all culminates in a burst 
 of brilliant and dazzling fireworks. 
 
 It was to Belle Vue that Emmie and Alice were going, 
 as were a great many other people from places situated 
 on all sides of Manchester. 
 
 It was clearly Saturday afternoon or evening, for so 
 many best clothes were to be seen. Men and women on 
 the road to Manchester or Enjoyment somewhere, had 
 donned their best clothes and felt far different beings 
 than they did on Saturday morning. And the dresses 
 were not simple working girls' dresses, but things of 
 
 30
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 31 
 
 taste and style and quality. The trimmer who earned 
 good wages indulged the great attractive instinct of her 
 sex : she spent freely almost lavishly on dress. 
 
 Along Manchester Road there was a thin stream of 
 these " best dressed " folk. It was not a thick stream ; 
 there was nothing torrential about it; but any one com- 
 ing from Manchester towards Canton would have no- 
 ticed the solitary clean, Sunday-clothed man, ditto girl, 
 then couple, then man, then girl, and so on. ... It was 
 Ganton at play on Saturday night. A similar stream 
 went towards Hyde and another towards Ashton, though 
 Manchester, with Belle Vue as its allurement, was the 
 most popular. Obviously Ganton was not able to hold 
 the enterprising Gantonians in their hours of ease. 
 
 As a matter of plain fact, Emmie and Alice walked 
 all the way to Belle Vue because the tram did not over- 
 take them at an economical stopping place. One may 
 spend, but one must not waste, and there were no penny 
 fares in 1885. 
 
 They invaded " Belle Vue " at the lake entrance, and 
 at once took possession of the atmosphere of the place. 
 Till then they had talked of all sorts of things, of dress, 
 of people, of hat shops and things seen by the road, a 
 plain, unlovely road, particularly after crossing the canal, 
 which was a little beyond the Ganton boundary. The 
 factory chimney of Lancashire casts an enormous 
 shadow. 
 
 On the lake in the gardens of Belle Vue there were 
 boats plying, and a steamer was paddling round for 
 those who did not care to venture in the small craft. 
 
 Emmie's eyes brightened at the sight. There was 
 youth at the helm and pleasure at the prow; it was a 
 scene of jollity and gladness. If a youth caught a crab 
 there were general rejoicings all round, including gra-
 
 32 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 tuitous advice and comment all of a wild superfluity 
 in the crab catcher's opinion. 
 
 The picture struck both Emmie and Alice. They 
 gazed with lips slightly parted in token of latent eager- 
 ness. The scene harmonised with their feelings. 
 
 " Shall we go on?" said Alice. 
 
 " Let's wait a bit," said Emmie. 
 
 Two youths in a small boat gave them a cordial invi- 
 tation. 
 
 " We haven't come here to drown ourselves," said 
 Alice. 
 
 " You'll not drown. . . . Ah'll hold you." 
 
 " Wouldn't you like the chance? " 
 
 " Come on. . . ." 
 
 " Go and wash yourselves," said Emmie, and she and 
 Alice, in a bubbling humour of high spirits, laughed and 
 walked on. 
 
 It was a pleasant summer evening and the lake had its 
 full toll of pleasure seekers. There were a number of 
 people strolling about watching those on the water, and 
 small queues waiting for small boats and for places on 
 the steamers, that created washes which allured the dar- 
 ing and made the timorous scream. 
 
 " I'd like to have a peep at t' lions," said Alice. 
 
 " Come on," said Emmie, " before it gets too dark." 
 
 "Yes. We've not too much time." 
 
 They hurried on past the lake, missing, even in their 
 quickness, no respectable and attractive young man who 
 was within a fair comprehending circle. One or two 
 nods were unambiguous and a " Mother doesn't want you 
 so soon, does she? " brought a quick look of haughtiness 
 which was immediately smothered in laughter. 
 
 " Come on," said Emmie, dragging Alice, " they're 
 after us."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 33 
 
 Alice was dragged unwillingly. If males were after 
 them it was worth while walking slow. . . . You could 
 always tell 'em to sling their hook. . . . 
 
 But Emmie always seemed as if she could treat homage 
 with a prodigal's disdain. 
 
 " What did you want to run for? " said Alice. 
 
 " They were up to nowt," said Emmie. 
 
 In the building which housed the lions and tigers, the 
 girls, at first, were interested, but soon they looked at 
 each other as if moved by a common thought. 
 
 Emmie pulled a face. 
 
 "Whiffey, isn't it?" 
 
 " Just what I was thinkin'," said Alice, as she, too, 
 pulled a face. " It does stink, doesn't it ? " 
 
 They laughed, put their handkerchiefs to their noses, 
 and went out into the fresh air. 
 
 Egged on by similar motives, they quietly made a bee- 
 line for the dancing-room. Both of them looked more 
 eager, more lively, as they caught sight of moving 
 couples and heard the strains of the music. 
 
 The ballroom at Belle Vue is a huge place, with enor- 
 mous and gorgeous pictures painted on its walls portray- 
 ing some of the stirring and emotional incidents in his- 
 tory and mythology, as well as views of gorgeous 
 landscape and seascape. An orchestra, pitched on a high 
 platform out of the way of the dancers, played the se- 
 ductive music. It was a public dancing place, and 
 if visitors wished to dance the opportunity was given 
 them. 
 
 Clearly there were a great number of people of both 
 sexes, who were prepared for the luck of the casual en- 
 counter. And the pretty girls were certainly not likely 
 to be overlooked. 
 
 Emmie and Alice had no sooner set foot in the ball-
 
 34 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 room than glances were shot towards them from right 
 and left. 
 
 " Pooh ! You may look," said Alice, with withering 
 scorn, in a whisper to Emmie, referring to the wholesale 
 ogling she was being subjected to (or fancied she was) 
 on the part of a youth with a high stiff collar and his 
 hat on one side. 
 
 "Who is Oh! him! . . ." Emmie turned away 
 too. Rich people can be proud ; people with famous an- 
 cestors can assume a haughty demeanour, but for wither- 
 ing contempt there is no one to beat the young pretty 
 girl to the audacious male. 
 
 " Come on," said Emmie to Alice, as she slid an arm 
 round her, and they joined in the polka that was then 
 being danced. 
 
 Of course the two girls enjoyed dancing for its own 
 sake. But not wholly. Even as Emmie and Alice 
 danced they knew they were doing two things: they 
 were allowing themselves to be seen and they were show- 
 ing those who really wished to know that they could 
 dance. 
 
 It would have been a very disappointing evening if 
 they had had to dance together the whole time. 
 
 When the music ceased they walked round the room 
 very slowly, standing still now and again to see who 
 was there. 
 
 Variety there certainly was. There was a little party 
 from nice respectable homes, which had come for the fire- 
 works and taken occasion by the neck to enjoy the 
 dance. There were great numbers, like Emmie and 
 Alice, who came to enjoy themselves and took the risk 
 of companions. And there were others. The men 
 ranged from the bald and fat and red nosed to the callow 
 youth who had half a crown a week to spend and man-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 35 
 
 aged to get rid of it all on a Saturday night at Belle Vue. 
 
 Alice and Emmie saw themselves making the attrac- 
 tion they deserved and hoped for. They began picking 
 and choosing mentally. They proceeded by a process of 
 attrition. "Pooh! that chap." And the head was 
 thrown up with a little jerk and the eye roved elsewhere. 
 They were quite ready to hold out the golden sceptre, 
 only they did want the grasper to be reasonably attrac- 
 tive. Besides, they were always willing to try. A man 
 might be very nice as a dancer . . . and vice versa. 
 
 Suddenly Alice said : " There's Mr. Tim." 
 
 " Where ? " asked Emmie quickly. 
 
 " There." 
 
 Emmie turned and saw her master's only son stand- 
 ing in the ballroom, much better dressed than he was at 
 the works, looking with a pleasant eye on the pleasure- 
 makers about him. 
 
 For a moment they were both silent Alice and Em- 
 mie, that is. 
 
 Mr. Tim did not appear to have seen them; he was 
 talking to a friend. 
 
 Emmie instinctively began to straighten herself and 
 look as if she were quite a superior being. 
 
 She caught Mr. Tim's eye, and he gave her a smile 
 and a nod. 
 
 His friend looked and said something, and Emmie 
 could feel Mr. Tim saying: "One of our trim- 
 mers. . . ." She didn't mind. She was a trimmer . . . 
 there was no shame in working for your living. 
 
 The band struck up. 
 
 Alice said: " A waltz. . . . Shall we?" 
 
 " No," said Emmie quickly. " Get a chap," she added, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 In an instant a young man was bowing to Alice.
 
 36 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "May I have the pleasure, Miss?" Alice looked it 
 had to be done speedily to see if he was all right. Yes, 
 he wasn't bad. She leaned forward in an act of sweet 
 surrender, and went waltzing round the room with min- 
 gled feelings joy in the dance and curiosity in her 
 partner, translated into the blunt question which was 
 in her mind : " What sort of a chap have I got hold 
 of?" 
 
 Emmie was also accosted. A young gentleman, friend 
 of Alice's partner, bowed before her and hoped he might 
 have the pleasure . . . but Emime shook her head. 
 " No, thanks," she said. 
 
 " What ! " he said. " Not dancing? Oh ! Yes, your 
 friend is." 
 
 " No, thanks." 
 
 "Oh! Go on. Don't be shy. . . . Shall we sit it 
 out somewhere ? " 
 
 " You can sit where you like," said Emmie, " so long 
 as it isn't near me." 
 
 "That's it, is it? Haughty!" 
 
 " Well, you asked for it. Move on ! " 
 
 He pulled a face, but he moved on. 
 
 Emmie was a little surprised at herself. She was not 
 usually irritable or sharp with the young men who came 
 to ask her to dance. Even if she refused their invita- 
 tions, she did it with the attitude of one who might still 
 be a sister to them. But she did feel just a little ex- 
 cited. ... It was Mr. Tim, of course. 
 
 She had seen all sorts and conditions of people at 
 Belle Vue; some people who wouldn't like their names 
 mentioned at any rate, and some quite as well off as, if 
 not better, than Mr. Tim. And yet. . . . When he had 
 smiled at her and given her that little nod, he had done
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 37 
 
 so with an air or something that told Emmie there was 
 more in it than in the mere salutation. 
 
 At least she wasn't going to dance for a bit. She 
 was going to wait and see. She had vague ideas run- 
 ning in her pretty head, but one, at least, was clear: 
 if Mr. Tim was going to be taken with her and asked 
 her to dance, she wasn't going to say No. . . . No 
 fear. . . . 
 
 She pretended to be watching the dancers, but every 
 now and then those piercing eyes of hers looked from 
 under lashes and brows towards Mr. Tim. 
 
 He was coming. 
 
 " What a bit o' luck I didn't dance with that chump 
 as asked me just now," Emmie said to herself. 
 
 She moved a little shyly, but kept up a beautiful suc- 
 cession of glances on Mr. Tim as he came towards her. 
 
 " He's going to ask me," she was saying to herself. 
 " And wouldn't they stare in that trimming-room if they 
 could see! Mr. Tim coming to me. . . . He's here, 
 right enough. . . ." 
 
 All this while Emmie was a picture of beauty and in- 
 nocence. She looked as if she had no thought but of 
 the dance, and yet was really too shy to join in it, or was 
 it too dignified or too prudent? . . . 
 
 Timothy Booke was clearly struck with her. 
 
 He, too, had a true Ganton spirit, and was not to be 
 caught out first ball through a blind swipe. He had the 
 canniness of his race, if he had certain other qualities 
 as well. After all, he was, in a sense, this girl's employer. 
 " T. Booke & Son " was his father's, and would ulti- 
 mately be his, to pass on in the course of time, if things 
 went well, to his son. And this young woman was a 
 trimmer in their factory. And a very pretty young
 
 38 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 woman, too. . . . You could go a long way without find- 
 ing a prettier. Timothy Booke had been looking at the 
 girls in that ballroom, and not one of them, in his opin- 
 ion, was fit to hold a candle to Emmie Bollins. He had 
 always thought she was a pretty wench, but in these 
 clothes, in that red dress and gloves and hat. . . . 
 
 He nodded and smiled, but did not take off his hat. 
 Emmie did not expect it. She smiled readily. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " he asked, in a kind of 
 bantering tone, not wanting any really definite answer. 
 
 " Same as most folk," said Emmie quickly. 
 
 He gave a little snort. " You look smart," he said. 
 
 " Do I? " She was pleased he noticed it, a little ruf- 
 fled he mentioned it. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So do you." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Do you dance ? " 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " Why didn't you dance with that chap as asked you 
 just now?" 
 
 " Didn't want to." 
 
 "H'm. . . . Well, would you like one?" 
 
 " Wouldn't mind. . . ." 
 
 " Come on, then," and he put his arm round her and 
 they went dancing round to the tune of the Blue Danube 
 waltz. 
 
 Emmie felt in a kind of ecstasy. It was the triumph 
 that thrilled her. She had caught the look in Mr. Tim's 
 eyes which blazoned admiration, and Emmie knew that 
 face of hers had made its impression. 
 
 Dancing with Mr. Tim. ... If only the other trim- 
 meTs could see her now ! Mr. Timothy Booke had come 
 up to her and asked her to dance with him. . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 39 
 
 She hoped to goodness Alice could see her. 
 
 Emmie danced well. So did Mr. Tim. 
 
 " Do you often come here? " he asked. 
 
 " Not very often. . . . Do you?" 
 
 He smiled. There was a hint of mischievousness in 
 the question. 
 
 " Now and then," he said, and as he looked at her, he 
 was quite pleased to be dancing with her. She was cer- 
 tainly dressed very well and tastefully. Nobody need 
 be ashamed of being seen with her. And she was as 
 pretty a girl as there was in that room. That black hair 
 of hers and those dark eyebrows went well with that red 
 dress of hers, trimmed with black. A well-made girl, 
 too. As he held her with his arm, he felt she was both 
 solid and supple ; neither putty nor wood, as he had once 
 vaguely described the girl who did not displease him. 
 
 Emmie knew quite well what he was thinking, and 
 allowed herself to be drawn a little closer. She knew 
 the value of her sex. He began to hold her more tightly. 
 She said to herself, "That's all right." Behind it all 
 there was the confidence she had that she was not going 
 to be made a fool of. 
 
 " You dance well," he said. 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So do you." 
 
 He was pleased. 
 
 ' You've done a bit o' dancin', or you wouldn't do 
 it so well." 
 
 "A bit," she said; " I'm not always dancin'." 
 
 She was enjoying herself very much, and liked this 
 conversation on equal terms. In the factory things were 
 not quite the same; but here in a ballroom beauty could 
 raise the lowly to the level of the -mighty. And Emmie
 
 40 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 knew it. She felt the admiration of Mr. Tim as cer- 
 tainly as she heard the music. She knew it was not a 
 mere casual invitation to a waltz, but a liking for her. 
 As his looks lingered on her face, on her figure, she 
 glanced at him in that semi-timid, but always attractive, 
 style of hers, and then lowered her lashes. It looked like 
 the beautiful surrender which the male likes. But Em- 
 mie was very pleased at his examination, for she was 
 saying to herself : " Go on. I don't mind. The more 
 you look, the more you'll want to." 
 
 Then the music stopped. 
 
 Emmie was not quite sure what she ought to do, and 
 so pushed back one or two hairs that were trying to get 
 out of place, and one or two that needed no attention. 
 She was flushed with the excitement and the dance. 
 
 The other couples were now walking to the seats round 
 the room or standing in little groups. 
 
 Tim Booke hesitated. He had not yet made up his 
 mind what to do. He had come to Belle Vue for a little 
 idle pleasure, and found a pleasure that was rather keener 
 than he had anticipated. 
 
 Emmie thought, " Well, I'm not going to move off if 
 he isn't," and she sincerely hoped if there were any Gan- 
 ton people in the room, who had not had the satisfaction 
 of noticing her dancing with Mr. Timothy Booke, 
 Junior, that they at least might see her talking to him 
 now. 
 
 " I don't know whether you drink or not," he said. 
 
 " No, thanks. I'm teetotal." 
 
 " Oh ! Glad to hear it ; I don't believe in women who 
 drink. Well, I enjoyed that dance." 
 
 " Very nice," muttered Emmie, very pleased. 
 
 " I had a friend when I came .here." He looked round. 
 " I must find him."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN . 41 
 
 " He's going," said Emmie to herself. 
 
 " I've got somebody with me," she said. A certain 
 instinct very common amongst Gantonians made 
 her hoist her own flag of independence. 
 
 "Well, er. . . . I'll, er. . . . We'll have another 
 dance, eh, Emmie, in a bit ? " 
 
 " All right," she said, trying to be calm and not too 
 joyful, though she was bubbling with a triumphant sat- 
 isfaction. 
 
 He smiled and walked away. 
 
 Emmie watched him go and felt supremely happy. 
 What had happened harmonised with the proper fitness 
 of things. She had not dreamt exactly of a prince, but 
 she had had ideas, that with a little stretching, might 
 get into that category. She turned round and caught 
 sight of herself in a mirror. The view pleased her. If 
 j came to looks she could beat him any day. She tilted 
 her head a little and threw her rounded chin into prom- 
 inence . . . stretched herself, and was glad that her fig- 
 ure was good. Also that she was well dressed. No man 
 need be ashamed of being with her. 
 
 " Here you are," said Alice Cannel. " Well ... I 
 saw you with Mr. Tim, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, very glad that she had not had 
 to mention the matter first, for that would have looked 
 like boasting. 
 
 "Has he gone?" 
 
 " Only to his friend." 
 
 "Is he comin' back?" 
 
 " Yes." Emmie said it carelessly, as if it were a casual 
 and very natural thing; nothing to get excited about 
 
 " Oh ! " Alice wondered for a minute if Mr. Tim 
 would have asked her if she hadn't gone with the other 
 man. " Mine was all right," she said quickly. " He
 
 42 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 danced beautifully; bit of a masher, but he isn't a com- 
 mon chap; he asked me if I'd have a glass of port, but 
 I said No, thanks. It was a lovely tune, wasn't it? 
 Urn ti. . . ." And Alice hummed it. "What's up?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Nothing. Why?" 
 
 " You're so quiet. Is it because you've been dancm* 
 with Mr. Tim?" 
 
 " Pooh! As if I bothered my head about that. Let's 
 walk about a bit. A lot o' folks here to-night, isn't 
 there?" 
 
 "Urn. . . ." 
 
 When the next dance was played a gentleman, who 
 had evidently been watching his opportunity, dashed to- 
 wards Emmie and made the usual request. But she de- 
 clined ; she wasn't dancing at least not this time, 
 thanks. 
 
 Alice, attacked during Emmie's proposal with one for 
 herself, gave in at once. 
 
 Emmie did not feel at all neglected. She wondered 
 what had come over her to make her refuse, once she had 
 started, for she did love dancing. Where was Mr. Tim ? 
 Was he dancing with anybody? She looked about. 
 
 No, he was not. He was talking to some one. That 
 was his friend. . . . She watched him. Suddenly he 
 looked in her direction and smiled pleasantly. She 
 turned round, feeling quite happy, and refused three 
 more tempting offers of partners for the dance in prog- 
 ress.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 1Y/TR. TIMOTHY BOOKE, JUNIOR, was pleasant- 
 *- faced, light-complexioned, about twenty-six years 
 of age. He had obstinacy in his jaw and could be relied 
 on. He was not original or sparklingly audacious, but 
 he could stick and had a good dose of plain common 
 sense. He liked pleasure and never funked work, was 
 not given to excesses and impressed women as a gentle 
 kind of man, one to be trusted and not to be feared. 
 He had calm blue eyes, a straight nose, a light moustache 
 over a mouth rather big for his face good-tempered, 
 you would say at once. 
 
 He was dressed in cleanliness, clean boots and a well- 
 fitting, good dark brown suit. He carried nothing of 
 the dirt of the works with him when he went out on 
 Saturday evening. 
 
 Twenty-six. ... It was really time he was married. 
 His father occasionally mentioned it in a curt way, and 
 his relatives, particularly his aunts suggested it fre- 
 quently and with uncommendable locution. 
 
 But he went his own way. Nobody no lady, that 
 is had appealed to him yet in such a way as to per- 
 suade him to ask her to be his wife. He worked fairly 
 hard during the daytime, and in the evenings there was 
 the club what chance had he, really, of being thrown 
 with those who might allure him with the fascinations 
 of sex? An occasional dance, occasional meetings. . . . 
 
 He had met many pleasant young ladies on his short 
 summer holidays to Blackpool, the Isle of Man and Llan- 
 dudno, and amused himself with them. Yet he was sin- 
 gle and unattached. 
 
 43
 
 44 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 He had come to " Belle Vue " merely to pass an agree- 
 able evening, and not expected to meet one of his own 
 say, his father's trimmers there. And now that he 
 had seen Emmie Bollins in that room and danced with 
 her, he felt a great desire to look at her frequently, to 
 watch her, observe her. . . . 
 
 He had, of course, always known that she was pretty, 
 but he had never been struck with her appearance as he 
 was now. She was beautiful ; the belle of the place. 
 
 Even as he sought his friend, he did so with a tingling 
 sensation of pleasure. He could imagine his arm still 
 round Emmie's waist, her body close to his, her face, 
 with the black hair above, the dark eyes, that finely curved 
 line of the jaw from ear to ear, turned towards his. . . . 
 
 Mechanically, he turned to look at her again. 
 
 James Short, Tim's friend, was a younger man, from 
 Manchester. 
 
 " That's a pretty girl you had, Tim." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She is that. Did you know her ? " 
 
 " Yes. She's one of our trimmers." 
 
 "One of your. . . . By Gum! I wouldn't mind hav- 
 ing a half day in your trimming-room if that's the sort 
 of trimmers you have." 
 
 " They're not all like her." 
 
 " I picked up a nice little bit." 
 
 "Oh. ..." 
 
 "What are you goin' to do? Look after your little 
 trimmer ? " 
 
 " Might. I shall have another dance with her." 
 
 " Well, look here. I'll hitch on to that one I was with ; 
 suppose we get separated " 
 
 " Don't you bother about me," said Tim quickly.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 45 
 
 "You don't mind?" 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 " Might suit you, perhaps ? " 
 
 " I dunno. . . ." 
 
 " Well, see you to-morrow, as arranged." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 And when Tim had parted with his friend, he looked 
 for Emmie. The other girls did not attract him. He 
 looked about him and kept saying : " Well, Emmie 
 could give that 'un a start an' beat her in a canter. . . . 
 And that. . . . And that. . . . And oh ! " 
 
 He did not betray too much emotion in his face, but a 
 close watcher might have noticed the satisfactory some- 
 thing that stirred him and kept him well at pleasure's 
 height. 
 
 There was a certain amount of prudence in his dispo- 
 sition, and he seemed to feel as if something held him 
 back a little and cried " Not too fast, now." 
 
 The view commended itself to him; there was noth- 
 ing to be gained by rushing matters, and probably noth- 
 ing would be lost by a little care and caution and wait- 
 ing. 
 
 He watched the couples dancing; they interested him 
 in their variety. But he kept casting glances in the di- 
 rection where he had last seen Emmie, and caught her 
 eye twice. She, too, was looking. " What's the good o' 
 this ? " he said to himself, and walked towards her not 
 hurriedly, but as one who knows what he wants and sees 
 no reason why he should not seek to realise it. 
 
 Emmie had noticed Mr. Tim's glances with a fiercely 
 beating heart. One look was curiosity, but two and 
 three and four looks lifted the gaze into the dominion 
 of interest. And if you really get interested in a pretty
 
 46 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 woman and want to watch her, the degree of interest can 
 be screwed up and up and up. 
 
 " He's coming," said Emmie to herself. 
 
 She was ready, neither attempting a welcome nor a 
 surprise. She just greeted him with a smile. 
 
 " Not got off yet? " he said, almost banteringly. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders; his was banter with a 
 scratch. 
 
 " My own fault, at any rate," she retorted quickly. 
 
 " You like dancing ? " 
 
 " I needn't dance if I don't want to," she said. 
 
 " Oh! Come on. You're wasting time." 
 
 She laughed as he put his arm round her and started 
 to dance with her. 
 
 " The music'll stop in a minute," she said. 
 
 " Never mind; a bit's better than nothing," and he felt 
 a high quality of pleasure as he held her and moved with 
 her. She was a most delectable body. He held her tight 
 a little tighter than was necessary. 
 
 " Now, then," she said, protestingly, but with a note 
 that she could take care of herself and would do so. 
 
 " You don't want to be held like a dozen hats, do you ? " 
 he said, with a pretence of justification. 
 
 She laughed. She did not mind, only you had to tell 
 some of these men if there was a danger of them going 
 too far. Besides, she wasn't going to stand any non- 
 sense, even from Mr. Tim. 
 
 The band stopped. 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 "And we've only just started." 
 
 " Well, you should have come before," she said. 
 
 " I'll have the next waltz with you." 
 
 " All right."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 47 
 
 He was just going to ask her to have a little stroll and 
 get a breath of fresh air, when Alice Cannel came up. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Mr. Tim. " You here too ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Enjoying yourself too, I'll bet." 
 
 " Not bad," said Alice, flushed and proclaiming her 
 enjoyment flagrantly, pleasure's flags on her cheeks. 
 
 "That's right. Well, I'll see you again," he said to 
 Emmie, and turned away. 
 
 Emmie was delighted at this " I'll see you again." It 
 gave her such a nice intimacy with Mr. Tim before Alice. 
 
 "See you again, eh?" said Alice. "Is he going to 
 have another dance with you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, with a superb note of ease and 
 casualness, as if she danced with Mr. Tim and his kind 
 whenever she wanted and thought nothing much of it, 
 really. 
 
 " Oh-h. Mashed Mr. Tim, eh." 
 
 "Be quiet!" 
 
 Alice was light-hearted. 
 
 " Oh, well. This chap was a chump ! Silly old beg- 
 gar, talking about * his people ' ! They keep three serv- 
 ants. Liar! Shouldn't be surprised if his mother takes 
 in washin'." They laughed. " But he could dance. 
 That first chap I had was nicer, only there was a dark 
 fellow looking at me all the time I was dancin' ! I won- 
 der where he is ? " . . . Alice turned round. . . . 
 
 Emmie was silent. She had nothing to say. Mr. 
 Tim's attitude was impressive, even in its ease and ap- 
 parent off-handedness. He would have stayed with her, 
 so Emmie said to herself, if Alice hadn't come up. Still, 
 she wasn't going to leave Alice; she couldn't do that. 
 And besides, he was coming back again.
 
 48 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 He did come back, and they danced together. There 
 was no feeling of disappointment or disillusionment or 
 surfeit with either; both were content. 
 
 Emmie breathed heavily, and her bosom rose and fell. 
 
 He looked at her admiringly. 
 
 " Come on outside a bit ; it's so stuffy in here." 
 
 " No." She Ipoked at him straight in the eyes. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " What are you afraid of ? I only want to smoke a 
 cigarette. We can walk round the building, and you'll 
 be back before you can say Jack Robinson." 
 
 " All right," she said. " But where's Alice ? I mustn't 
 lose her." 
 
 " You don'J: want to be carrying her about with you. 
 I only want a mouthful of fresh air and a smoke. Be- 
 sides, she's all right; look at her." 
 
 Alice was talking with radiant vivacity to a man, who 
 seemed very pleased to be in her company. 
 
 " Wait till I tell her," said Emmie, and she at once 
 went to Alice and informed her she was just going out 
 for a minute with Mr. Tim only going for a bit of 
 fresh air she'd be back in a moment and would come 
 there. 
 
 " All right," said Alice, rather markedly, and with a 
 noticeable improvement in her usual pronunciation, as if 
 she wished to let the gentleman with her hear how beau- 
 tifully she spoke to her friend. This kind of thing was 
 not common with Alice, but perhaps the gentleman had 
 given her a lead ; he had the air of one owning castles in 
 Spain on Saturday night and turning his sleeves up on 
 Monday. 
 
 Outside, Mr. Tim lit a cigarette. 
 
 " This" is better," he said, and as they walked Emmie 
 was just a trifle nervous. She had the feeling of aware-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 49 
 
 ness, readiness and anticipation that a young, pretty, well- 
 developed young lady of twenty-one almost instinctively 
 summons when she is alone with a young man she has 
 not often seen before in the dusk of the evening, after a 
 dance at Belle Vue, and there are not too many people 
 about and the lights are dim, and she has had hammered 
 into her head the stern ideas that she must not get into 
 mischief, or make a fool of herself or do anything of 
 that kind, and knows a bit about the world and its ways. 
 A mood quickly dispelled by something assuring. 
 
 As Mr. Tim walked by her side she felt that he had 
 something on his mind. He did not talk brilliantly or 
 with a dazzling wit, but he was pleasant and easy. Only 
 he occasionally stopped in his talk to look at her. She 
 saw and felt those glances as he took in her face and 
 figure. He took her arm once and squeezed it. 
 
 " You're not starved," he said. 
 
 " I'm not fat, either," she said quickly. 
 
 " Just right," he said, and he held on to the arm. 
 
 He'd like to kiss me, Emmie said to herself. Shall 
 I let him? . . . She thought she would tell him to stop 
 it if he tried that game, and see what sort of a man he 
 was. She was sensuous enough to like to be mastered 
 by the male, and really hoped he would take no notice 
 of her protestations if he just tried to kiss her. 
 
 But whatever stirred him, and Emmie was quite right 
 in her conjectures as to his desires, he did nothing. Per- 
 haps he was shy ; perhaps, too, he felt he had too big an 
 advantage as master towards employee, though Emmie 
 was not lacking in independence and could take care of 
 herself. 
 
 So he was just agreeable. It was a calm, balmy eve- 
 ning, and the sound of a jackal howling and the roar of 
 an annoyed lion came to them. There were a great many
 
 50 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 couples about, most of them arm in arm, or the man with 
 his arm round the lady's waist. 
 
 Just before they reached the ballroom, Mr. Tim said: 
 " Going away this wakes? " 
 
 " Yes ; going to Blackpool." 
 
 " Blackpool, eh? ... Suppose you'll go to the tower." 
 
 " I expect so." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " I reckon you'll have a good time there." 
 
 " I hope so," she said quickly. 
 
 He paused again. 
 
 " Well, Blackpool's all right for a holiday ; not many 
 places can beat it, considering everything." 
 
 They danced together again, and Alice came up after- 
 wards and chatted pleasantly. Mr. Tim said: 
 
 " I'll have a walk round. I suppose you're staying for 
 the fireworks ? " 
 
 "Oh! Yes," said Emmie. 
 
 " I . . er . . ." he smiled and nodded and went away, 
 breaking off his speech as if prudence or caution tugged 
 him. 
 
 When he was alone outside in the fresh air, he felt 
 like a man being drawn in a certain direction, while try- 
 ing to stay where he was. He wanted to look round to 
 examine more, as a climber looks for the sure foothold 
 and reckons up the chances, being allured all the time 
 by the glory of the view. Desire and something in his 
 mind seemed to be having a tussle. 
 
 He could not keep altogether away from that ballroom, 
 and when he put his foot inside it his eyes shot here and 
 there till they discovered Emmie Bollins. 
 
 " Funny," he said aloud to himself, when he discov- 
 ered what he was doing.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 51 
 
 And when the fireworks took place, he went to Emmie 
 and Alice and said, " Come on," as if he knew what he 
 wanted. He piloted them to seats, for which he paid. 
 The brilliancy of the fireworks, the realism of the battle 
 scene, the booming cannon, the blazing fortresses, the 
 men flung from battlements, the charge of the victorious 
 soldiers, the triumphant music were all wonderful in their 
 way, but to both Timothy and Emmie they were a sec- 
 ondary affair. 
 
 When Emmie reached home she found her father 
 was slightly inebriated, and her mother looking very 
 tired. 
 
 Mr. Bollins nodded and muttered something scarcely 
 worth the catching, and closed his eyes again. 
 
 " Got back ? " said Mrs. Bollins wearily. 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie brightly; " Susan in? " 
 
 " Yes. She's gone to bed. There's some bread an' 
 cheese an' a tomato, if you want it." 
 
 Emmie picked up a piece of bread and cheese. 
 
 " I'll just have a bite," she said. " Been to Belle Vue 
 the fireworks are lovely, Mother." 
 
 " Belle Vue, eh. ... Alice come home with you? " 
 
 ;< Yes. I suppose you're going to bed now, aren't you ? 
 I'll light the fire in the morning." 
 
 " All right. I shall be goin' in a minute." 
 
 " I'm off," said Emmie. 
 
 Susan was asleep. Emmie looked at herself in the 
 glass. She had her hat on, and was still proud of it. 
 She was proud of her appearance altogether. She took 
 her hat off, held it out at arm's length and admired it 
 again. She shook it, then looked at herself without it. 
 She examined herself full face, three quarters and profile. 
 She rearranged her hair a little and put her fringe quite
 
 52 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 straight ; then she put on her hat. She could apparently 
 find no flaw. 
 
 When she was in her nightdress and had brushed her 
 thick black hair and it hung loosely on her shoulders, she 
 looked at herself again. 
 
 What had he said ? " You're not starved. . . ." 
 
 Starved . . . she smiled at the irony of the word. 
 She was not of the " fat " type, but starved. . . . No ! 
 . . . She saw her breasts, not too big, and nicely rounded, 
 holding out her nightdress; she pulled up a sleeve and 
 looked at her shapely arm. . . . 
 
 She stood still, seeing nothing in particular, and think- 
 ing nothing coherent, but feeling thrilled with a kind of 
 perfect satisfaction and fiercely happy anticipation. It 
 was something to be good-looking and well-made. 
 
 " Come on into bed," muttered Susan, turning over. 
 "What d'you want lookin' at yourself for like that? 
 What's up?" 
 
 " Thought you were asleep," said Emmie, beginning 
 to coil up her hair. " Enjoy yourself? " 
 
 "Yes. Did you?" 
 
 " Er . . . all right," said Emmie. 
 
 " Been with a fellow ? " 
 
 " Er. . . . Been with Alice Cannel." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Um . . ." with some expression. " I 
 know. Come on to bed." 
 
 Emmie turned out the light and got into bed beside 
 her sister. 
 
 Mr. Tim let himself in. He went in the dining-room, 
 turned up the gas, and saw the supper neatly laid out 
 for him by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bane. 
 
 He sat in front of it, but did not eat. 
 
 His thoughts of Emmie Bollins stifled the desires of
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 53 
 
 his stomach. He looked serious and somewhat restless, 
 moved by big emotions. He got up, lit a cigarette, and 
 sat down in a big, cosy easy chair. . . . 
 
 He sat very quiet till the cigarette was finished, and 
 then he heard a key turn in the lock, and his father came 
 in. 
 
 " Hello ! . . . Not had your supper yet ? " Mr. Booke 
 spoke cheerily, and one could tell from the tone that the 
 father had affection for his son. 
 
 " No," said Tim. 
 
 " Better get it, hadn't you? " 
 
 " Ay," said Tim, adding after a pause, " Just been fin- 
 ishing my cigarette," a lame and unnecessary remark that 
 was thrust out of him because he had been unusually 
 stirred, and felt desirous in some way of covering up 
 the matter. 
 
 Mr. Booke, senior, was smoking a cigar, and the per- 
 fume pervaded the room powerfully, something like Tim- 
 othy Booke's personality. He noted the lack of eager- 
 ness in his son's attitude. 
 
 "Not hungry?" 
 
 " No," replied Tim carelessly. 
 
 " Been enjoyin' yourself ? " 
 
 " A bit." 
 
 " Eat, lad ; it'll do you good. I'm off to bed. 'Night." 
 
 " 'Night, Father." 
 
 But Tim ate very little.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Sunday evenings the members of the Booke family 
 used to meet at each others' houses in turn. 
 
 Timothy Booke, senior, was the only son, but he had 
 three sisters, two of them married : Jane to a Mr. Holten, 
 a hat manufacturer, Sophie to Mr. Grass, an engineer. 
 Maria was the unmarried one. 
 
 The family had been established in Canton for a num- 
 ber of years, for Timothy's grandfather had founded the 
 business which still flourished as " T. Booke & Son." 
 The Bookes, either in consequence of the old establish- 
 ment of the family as hat manufacturers, or on account 
 of a simple gift of nature, invariably considered them- 
 selves as people of importance. It was not only unwise 
 for anybody who sought peace and pleasantness to pass 
 over the Bookes in any public arrangements, such as the 
 forming of committees for bazaars, sales of work, the 
 management of nursing homes, et cetera it was not 
 only unwise, it was dangerous. The Bookes had tongues. 
 Also a spirit that was equal to any crisis, and a discom- 
 forting capacity for a certain level of sarcasm. It may 
 naturally be concluded that the Bookes held their heads 
 high, insisted on a certain measure of respect, and were 
 not universally loved. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was the ablest; a most capable manager, 
 knowing her worth even to the point of appraising it 
 above the general opinion. She could manage almost 
 anything particularly with that tongue of hers. And 
 one had to concede her ability. 
 
 Mrs. Grass was the least pushing, the least bellicose 
 and the happiest. She could take care of herself if she 
 
 54
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 55 
 
 were thrust into a melee or a duel, for that matter, but 
 she avoided the disagreeable if possible. 
 
 Miss Booke was, perhaps, the bitterest of the three. 
 They had all tempers (though Mrs. Grass's was quickly 
 spent), but Miss Booke could hold on for years. " Speak 
 first. . . . Never ! " That was her attitude. She used 
 to live with her brother after his wife died, but two such 
 stubborn souls as Timothy and Maria Booke were too in- 
 flammable to live together. The difference arose, the 
 dispute was born, the row supervened and the sulk entered 
 upon the scene. 
 
 The position was intolerable, since Maria was keeping 
 home for Timothy. Mrs. Holten and Mrs. Grass inter- 
 vened, and Maria decided to live in a little house by her- 
 self. 
 
 " I'm going," she said curtly to Timothy, and her lips 
 snapped together after the breaking of the terrible ice 
 of silence. 
 
 Timothy, who could preserve an air of taking things 
 easily, said, without emotion, after nodding his head: 
 " I think it's best, Maria." 
 
 " Yes." The mouth snapped like a hard door banging. 
 
 "Yes." His was longer. "Where are you going? " 
 He was her brother, after all. 
 
 " I shall take a house and live by myself." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Um. ... A very good plan, too. Well, 
 you needn't hurry, you know." 
 
 So peace was made, but Timothy then got in a working 
 housekeeper, a Mrs. Bane, who had a woman to help 
 her; and Miss Booke installed herself in her little house 
 on Manchester Road where she could see people pass- 
 ing, and found life interesting. 
 
 On the Sunday following Timothy junior's visit to 
 Belle Vue the Bookes foregathered at the brother's. The
 
 56 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 sisters met at church and came on after the service. 
 They were all well and fairly expensively dressed, and 
 eyed each other's clothes with the natural criticism and 
 curiosity of women as they walked from the church to 
 their brother's house. 
 
 " I like that dolman, Maria." 
 
 " Yes. I always fancied it. They say bustles are get- 
 ting less. . . ." 
 
 " I hear Mrs. Ginn has got a new sealskin coat, three 
 quarter length ; some one said her husband had paid fifty 
 pounds for it. . . ." 
 
 " Oh-h. . . . Fifty pounds. . . . Anne will fancy her- 
 self, won't she? " 
 
 "Is it true that Mr. O' Kelly is engaged to Miss Ec- 
 cles ? " Mr. O'Kelly was the curate. 
 
 " I've heard nothing." 
 
 " I don't think so, Maria." 
 
 " Well, it was Miss Sokes told me. She said she'd seen 
 them together a lot." 
 
 " That woman's always seeing things. . . . Miss Ec- 
 cles is a nice girl . . . will have a bit o' money, too. The 
 Reverend Joe, perhaps, knows what he's after." 
 
 " Trust him for that ! " 
 
 " You know," said Mrs. Holten, " it's time Tim began 
 to think of settling down." 
 
 " I wish he'd find a nice wife," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " I know the girl that would just suit him," said Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 "Who's that?" asked Mrs. Holten quickly. "Ellen 
 Quillan?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a slight pause. They had talked of Ellen 
 Quillan before, in this connection.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 57 
 
 " Y-yes," said Mrs. Holten. " She's a nice girl . . . 
 a very nice girl." 
 
 " And well off and a lady," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Does Tim care for her ? " asked Mrs. Grass. 
 
 Miss Booke sniffed quickly. 
 
 " I don't see why he shouldn't." 
 
 " There's this to be said : Timothy would like it," added 
 Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " I should think so, indeed," said Miss Booke, who had 
 set her heart on this match, and pressed it to the point 
 of tactlessness, as is frequently the way with match- 
 makers. 
 
 " Have you heard about William Seddon's son ? " asked 
 Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " What about him you mean his eldest the one 
 that travels?" 
 
 " Yes. He's married a barmaid." 
 
 "Eh. T't, ft." Both Jane and Maria shook their 
 heads. There were more clicks of the tongue, " T't . . . 
 ft ... ft. . . ." 
 
 " These young chaps ... a barmaid. What does his 
 father say ? " 
 
 " He's very upset, I believe," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Upset, indeed. ... A barmaid. I hope to goodness 
 Tim won't do a thing like that. Thank Heaven! he 
 doesn't go much to public-houses, according to all ac- 
 counts. If Tim married a barmaid or anybody like that, 
 I should . . . er, I don't know . . . feel that ashamed 
 I'd never want to speak to him again." 
 
 " And wouldn't people talk," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " They would that," said Miss Booke. " And some of 
 them wouldn't mind if Timothy Booke's son did make a 
 fool of himself."
 
 58 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I never think it matters much," said Mrs. Grass, " if 
 they're nice." 
 
 " I shouldn't call a barmaid nice," snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " She might be, Maria," said Mrs. Grass. " Wasn't 
 isn't that a fine show of roses that Timothy's got? " 
 
 They were just now in full view of their brother's 
 house to them, the home of the Booke family. 
 
 Helston House stood by itself, in about half an acre 
 of ground. The garden was well kept, about one-half 
 being taken up by a lawn with a flower bed round it and 
 the other half, separated by a neatly trimmed privet hedge, 
 being devoted to the service of the kitchen. The house 
 was plain and unpretentious, but it had served plain and 
 unpretentious people in the past and was solid on its 
 foundations, and comfortably and substantially furnished. 
 It stood at the corner of Silton Street and Davy Street, 
 about a dozen or fifteen yards on high ground from the 
 sidewalk. 
 
 As one faced it, the garden lay to the left of the house, 
 the lawn abutted onto the street, being firmly divided 
 from it by a wall and a stout iron railing. Behind were 
 the works. There was an entrance, really the main en- 
 trance for it was the most imposing, to the house in 
 Silton Street, but one could also enter by a door in Davy 
 Street, or at the back. The three sisters went in by the 
 principal door. 
 
 Mrs. Bane, the housekeeper, opened the door. She 
 was always disturbed with mixed feelings on the Sunday 
 Mr. Timothy entertained his sisters, for she knew very 
 well she had three for a surety, two keen-eyed, keen- 
 tongued women in the house, who would notice at once 
 any falling off from a high standard of domestic ability, ' 
 point it out and criticise freely and frankly. The mixed 
 feelings came from the fact that Mrs. Bane had a nervous
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 59 
 
 dread of two of the Booke ladies, and yet a certain pride 
 and confidence in her abilities, which prompted her to feel 
 that they could look as much as they liked, for they'd 
 find nothing to criticise. 
 
 She was always scrupulously neat and tidy in her per- 
 sonal appearance on these occasions. 
 
 As she opened the door, which caught on the mat, she 
 said, " G'evening, Mrs. Holten, 'evening, Miss Booke, 
 'evening, Mrs. Grass." 
 
 The ladies nodded and said " Good evening," Mrs. 
 Grass the most cordially. 
 
 " That door catches," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Yes, it does a bit," replied Mrs. Bane, feeling as if 
 she were being pricked already. 
 
 " A bit. . . . It'll wear that mat out if it isn't attended 
 to," said Maria pontifically. 
 
 " Does Mr. Booke know ? " asked Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Bane, boiling by this time. 
 
 Mrs. Grass said pleasantly : " Have you made your 
 jam yet, Mrs. Bane?" 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Grass. I've done some black currant and 
 strawberry." 
 
 " You must let us taste it," said Mrs. Holten quickly. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Mrs. Bane, but she added to herself : 
 " Wants to see if she can say if it's too sweet or not sweet 
 enough." " Mr. Booke is in the dining-room," she said, 
 throwing open the door, which was the first one they 
 reached. 
 
 The ladies entered majestically. 
 
 Mr. Booke was smoking, and did not rise as his sisters 
 entered. 
 
 " Ha. . . . You've come," he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Holten, and she looked round as Mrs. 
 Grass and Miss Booke followed her into the room.
 
 60 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "Well, Timothy, how are you?" said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 "I'm all right. Where's Fred?" 
 
 " He's gone with Tom for a walk." (Tom was Mr. 
 Holten. ) "I thought they might have got here before 
 us." 
 
 " Well," he paused; " won't you sit down? " 
 
 They settled down after critical glances round the 
 room. Mrs. Grass dropped into an easy chair opposite 
 her brother and smiled. Mrs. Holten sat at the table 
 like a chairwoman with the minutes before her. Miss 
 Booke went to the window. 
 
 There were three oil paintings on the walls, represent- 
 ing three generations of Bookes. It must be admitted 
 they looked sturdy men of purpose. The portrait of the 
 grandfather of Timothy had been painted from a small 
 daguerreotype, the others had been done from life (with 
 the aid of photographers) by an artist whom Mr. Booke 
 knew. They were just plain portraits, the character in 
 the faces making them interesting. There was a broad, 
 solid mahogany buffet or sideboard facing the window, 
 with a silver tray set upright, a tantalus and a handsome 
 silver epergne on mats. There was a mirror over the 
 mantelpiece, on which was a marble clock, a pair of silver 
 candlesticks and two Delph ware ornaments. The chairs 
 and couch were mahogany, with horsehair seats solid 
 and sound. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor and 
 a Persian rug by the fireplace. The paper was flowered 
 but not offensive. 
 
 " I always envy you this carpet, Timothy," said Mrs. 
 Holten, tapping her foot on it. 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 " So do I," said Mrs. Grass. " Fred says he'll get a 
 Turkey when our's is worn out; how much did you give 
 for this, Timothy?"
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 61 
 
 " Twenty pound." 
 
 " Twenty pounds. . . . It's a lot of money, isn't it? 
 for a carpet." 
 
 " It's worth it," said Mrs. Holten quickly. " They last 
 a lifetime, and they you do feel so comfortable with 
 them. And they're no worse for cleaning than others." 
 
 " Not if you look after them," said Miss Booke. 
 " You know these curtains, Timothy, should be mended 
 before they go to the wash again, or they'll be torn to 
 shreds. They were good curtains, too. ... I suppose 
 Mrs. Bane'll see to them ? " 
 
 Timothy went on smoking. 
 
 " We were talking about Tim as we came along is 
 he in?" 
 
 " I don't know. He will be soon." 
 
 "Oh! I hope he will be." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Grass. " I hope he'll come in." 
 
 " Isn't it time he got engaged ? " Mrs. Holten asked. 
 
 " Ask me another," replied Timothy. 
 
 " Well, you're his father." 
 
 " H'm. I've allus been reckoned that." 
 
 " You'd like to see him engaged, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Likin's one thing. . . ." He nodded. 
 
 " Have you heard about William Seddon's son ? " 
 
 "What about him?" 
 
 " He's going to marry a barmaid," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 "Oh-h. . . ." 
 
 " You wouldn't like Tim to marry a barmaid, I im- 
 agine," said Maria Booke. 
 
 " Your imagination's right, for once, Maria." 
 
 " Well, with these girls in bars. . . ." She shook her 
 head. " I'm sure I don't know but it would be a com- 
 fort if Tim were properly engaged to a nice girl." 
 
 " Suppose he went and made a fool of himself."
 
 62 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I don't see any reason to suppose anything of the 
 kind," said Mr. Booke. 
 
 " No. Let us hope not," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " The Seddons will feel it, won't they ? " said Miss 
 Booke, almost in the tone of one hoping they would, 
 though she may not have hoped it. " I feel very anxious 
 about Tim sometimes. With these young men. . . . 
 You never know. . . . You never know/' 
 
 " He can get married any day he likes as far as I'm 
 concerned," said Timothy. " The day he marries I walk 
 out of here; this'll be his and the works. He can live 
 here and carry on the business like I did. I've enough 
 money for what I want and I can do with a bit more 
 time for bowling or watching a bit o' cricket and foot- 
 ball. . . . I've told him. So he knows." 
 
 " Timothy ! That's very generous," said Mrs. Grass. 
 " Give it all up to Tim when he marries ? . . ." 
 
 " And where would you go and live ? " asked Mrs. 
 Holten. 
 
 " Somewhere. I'd soon find a place." 
 
 " Er . . ." said Miss Booke. " Suppose Tim were 
 to. . . ." She shook her head. " You know, Timothy, 
 Ellen Quillan's just the girl for Tim she's just the wife 
 for him. She'd manage this house beautifully." 
 
 " Perhaps . . . perhaps not. I shan't interfere. I 
 don't interfere in affairs of that kind." 
 
 " Suppose he goes and marries a barmaid? " 
 
 Timothy hesitated. His mouth was shut tight, and 
 he opened it with a little snap before he spoke. 
 
 " That'll be his lookout," he said. 
 
 " Ours, too," said Miss Booke quickly. 
 
 " Yes. His father's, too," added Mrs. Holten. 
 
 Then they were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Hol- 
 ten and Mr. Grass, who were both wearing frock coats
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 63 
 
 and white waistcoats. There was quite a stir in the room 
 as they made a " general post " for chairs, and soon 
 afterwards Tim came in, also wearing a frock coat and 
 light waistcoat. 
 
 Mrs. Holten said : " Are you going away this wakes, 
 Tim?" 
 
 " I might," he said carelessly. 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 He did not reply quickly. It was as if he were dis- 
 inclined to be too much " inquired into." 
 
 " I'm not sure yet. If anywhere, I think it will be 
 Blackpool." 
 
 " Blackpool," said Miss Booke. " I believe Mrs. Quil- 
 lan talked of going to Blackpool. If you see them, Tim, 
 you must look after them. . . . Ellen Quillan's a nice 
 girl . . . and she'll have a bit o' money." 
 
 Tim smiled. 
 
 " I reckon Mrs. Quillan can manage without me," he 
 said.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 * I V HE next day, Monday, Emmie Bollins put on her 
 * best boots, did her hair very carefully and nearly 
 put on her new hat. She, however, decided the old one 
 was quite good enough for the trimming-room. She was 
 very keen on getting as much work as possible between 
 now and the wakes, because the more hats she trimmed 
 the more money she earned, and there were sundry items 
 of finery to be bought as well as the expenses for the trip 
 to Blackpool to be secured. She wondered about Black- 
 pool. . . . What had Mr. Tim said? " Well, Blackpool's 
 all right for a holiday. . . ." 
 
 She was not quite sure what it implied, but she had 
 the woman's way of seeing something hidden under 
 words and actions when her interest, and particularly her 
 emotions, were engaged. He had danced with her 
 looked at her yes, he had looked at her. . . . And he 
 took her to a seat to watch the fireworks. Well, she was 
 going to Blackpool in any case ! 
 
 To the other trimmers at Booke & Son's she showed 
 no signs of the thoughts that disturbed her. She was 
 just a little quieter; it wouldn't do, for instance, to play 
 larks of any kind, or act foolishly or indulge in scream- 
 ing laughter that occasionally echoed in the trimming- 
 room. 
 
 She quickly got handed out half a dozen hats by Miss 
 Frisby, and at once got to work on them. 
 
 Alice Cannel said : " You're quiet, Emmie." 
 
 " Got something to do ? " 
 
 " Seen Mr. Tim ? " Alice whispered. 
 
 64
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 65 
 
 Emmie coloured. 
 
 " No," she said quickly, without raising her head. 
 " Silly fathead! " she called Alice to herself. 
 
 " H'm," sniffed Alice, and she went down to Miss 
 Frisby to get work. 
 
 About half an hour later, when Alice and Emmie were 
 both working hard and the needles clicked round every 
 table in the trimming-room, and one of the women was 
 singing in a pleasant mezzo voice, 
 
 " Swee-eet Belle Maho-oone, 
 Swee-eet Belle Maho-oone." 
 
 Mr. Tim came in. He was in his shirtsleeves, the white 
 cuffs showing their stiffness midway between his elbow 
 and his wrist. He wore a black apron tied round his 
 waist. 
 
 The singing stopped. Some of the trimmers laughed. 
 The singer bent her head as if she didn't like being over- 
 heard by Mr. Tim, but secretly wondered if he knew 
 who had been singing, and if he admired the voice. 
 
 " Mr. Tim ! " whispered Alice to Emmie. 
 
 Emmie blushed and her heart beat more strenuously, 
 and she looked up in that furtive way of hers. She must 
 see him. Had he come to have a look at her? . . . Of 
 course he had. He didn't often come to the trimming- 
 room. 
 
 " Er," he began, " who's got any hats for Stockley & 
 Co.? They're marked Wolseley 355." 
 
 The trimmers began to look at the little square pieces 
 of paper attached to their hats. 
 
 Emmie had some. She found a difficulty in speaking 
 and coughed, looking at Mr. Tim and standing up. 
 
 He saw her. 
 
 "You, eh?"
 
 66 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Alice Cannel bit her lip and hardly dared to look. 
 
 " These are Stockley & Co.," said Emmie quietly, 
 speaking very nicely, but without any pronounced affecta- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. Tim looked at the order form and the hat, and 
 then gave a glance at Emmie that seemed to have noth- 
 ing to do with the business in hand. 
 
 " They're not lined, I see," he said. 
 
 " No," said Emmie. 
 
 " Well, they're wanted quick ; have to go away to- 
 day." 
 
 " I've only just got them." 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 " Six." 
 
 " H'm." He looked at her again, as if he would put 
 something more besides business into the interview, but 
 it was of the most shadowy character. Emmie felt it, 
 though probably none of the others save Alice noticed it. 
 
 He pointed to Alice : " Suppose you take three apiece 
 that'll be better, eh? They must be done, and the 
 Midland lurry'll be here by four o'clock. Do 'em be- 
 tween you." 
 
 " All right," said Emmie, while Alice at once put on 
 one side the hats she was doing, took three of Emmie's 
 with the trimming, and at once began to work on them. 
 Mr. Tim watched them working a moment, and then 
 went out. 
 
 The moment he had gone Alice looked at Emmie and 
 Emmie, feeling scrutiny, looked at Alice. 
 
 "That's funny, isn't it?" said Alice. 
 
 Emmie simply pulled a face, laughed, and then bent 
 over her work ; she felt in a whirl. 
 
 And her three hats were not only done on time, but
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 67 
 
 they were done well, too, with as regular and as even a 
 stitching as the most critical might desire. 
 
 Emmie was still perturbed as she went to dinner. She 
 was wondering and imagining and fancying. . . . 
 
 Her dinner consisted of cold beef from yesterday's 
 joint, some red cabbage served in a cup without a handle, 
 mashed potatoes and bread and jam. The cutlery was 
 not clean: knives, though washed after use, were only 
 really cleaned occasionally if they looked very bad. 
 The plates were chipped, odd, cracked and scored. The 
 mashed potatoes were served out of a pan, which re- 
 mained on the hob during the meal vegetable dishes 
 were rarely, if ever, used in the Bollins household ; wash- 
 ing up was always a calculation. 
 
 Emmie ate almost her usual quantity, but she had a 
 feeling that something was going to happen that, 
 doubtless, accounted for the " almost." 
 
 Nothing happened, at any rate, that day. Emmie pur- 
 sued her trimming and worked at home in the evening 
 on an underskirt she was making for herself, thinking 
 a good deal of the time of Mr. Tim, even as she worked 
 out the details of her next new dress. 
 
 In the ordinary course of events Emmie did not see 
 Mr. Tim every day. He came only occasionally to the 
 trimming-room and, unless Emmie happened to meet him 
 as she was going out or coming into the works, she did 
 not come in contact with him. She met him on the 
 Wednesday. He was at the gate when she was going 
 out with Alice Cannel and two of the other trimmers. 
 
 He was wearing his black cashmere working jacket 
 and apron, and had his hands in his trousers pockets. 
 There was an air of watchfulness about him, as if there
 
 68 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 was something he particularly wanted to see. Emmie 
 caught sight of him as she emerged from the building, 
 and had time to note the look. 
 
 Alice whispered to her : " Mr. Tim." 
 
 " Shut up," said Emmie, and she straightened herself 
 and thought : " I am glad I haven't got those old boots 
 on or that old skirt. ... I wonder if. . . ." She 
 got no further with definite ideas; she was too intent on 
 the occasion. She looked at Tim and then on the ground 
 and then at him again. 
 
 He stood very stolidly, but he marked Emmie well. 
 He nodded as they were passing. 
 
 " G'night." 
 
 " Good night," they all said, and Emmie looked straight 
 into his eyes for one brief moment, and then swiftly on 
 the ground. 
 
 He made a slight motion, as if in answer to an impulse 
 of sorts, and then stood still. 
 
 Emmie turned round as she got farther down the road, 
 and Alice Cannel and one of the trimmers left her. Mr. 
 Tim was still there. 
 
 It was on the Wednesday before the wakes that Emmie 
 spoke to Mr. Tim again. She had been expecting to 
 speak to him every day she had gone to the works since 
 that " Belle Vue " Saturday a Saturday very mem- 
 orable to her now and had tried various times of going 
 and coming to give opportunity and Mr. Tim every in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 She returned a little sooner than usual on Wednesday 
 after dinner, and was stirred with a glorious emotion 
 when she saw Mr. Tim standing by the big gate leading 
 to the works. " He's there," she said to herself, and at 
 once she began to congratulate herself she was as neatly
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 69 
 
 dressed as she had ever been in her working clothes. 
 
 Mr. Tim was standing without apron, smoking his 
 pipe. 
 
 Emmie looked at him boldly. 
 
 He gave her the very slightest of nods, and did not 
 take off his hat. 
 
 " Well," he said, and it was enough to make her stand 
 still. 
 
 He paused. 
 
 She looked at him and smiled. 
 
 " Made up your mind yet where you're goiflg this 
 wakes ? " 
 
 " Yes. I told you." 
 
 "Blackpool?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Going with . . . Alice Caraael?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He spoke deliberately. 
 
 " Are you going to be with her all the time ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I shall have to be with her sometimes. 
 . . . Why?" 
 
 She felt very daring and cunning as she put this ques- 
 tion. 
 
 He looked at her with admiring eyes and very pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 " Oh ! . . . I might be going to Blackpool too. . . . 
 Only, of course, if you're going to be a Siamese Twin 
 with Alice Cannel . . . well. . . ." 
 
 " I didn't say I was going to be a Siamese Twin, or 
 whatever you call it. I expect I can leave her when I 
 want and go on my own. Alice isn't soft. . . . She'll 
 soon pick up a chap there, for that matter." Emmie 
 laughed. 
 
 So did Mr. Tim. He liked Emmie's directness and
 
 70 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 frankness. She met him half way, and yet there was an 
 air of independence both in her bearing and speech that 
 appealed to him. There was willingness but no obsequi- 
 ousness. 
 
 " Are you going to pick up a chap too ? " he asked. 
 
 Emmie shook her head. 
 
 " They are to be picked up easy enough," she said. 
 
 " H'm," he paused. " Well, er look here ; I'm going 
 to Blackpool too. Are you waiting till Saturday, or 
 what? I'm going on Friday night." 
 
 "Alice and I wanted to go on Friday if we could 
 there's a tram about 7 145 from Victoria." 
 
 " H'm. . . . You can get off right enough. Ask for 
 your money. Tell Miss Frisby to get your book made 
 up and then Mason'll pay you. And, er . . . I'll be sure 
 to meet you then. You can tell Miss Frisby I said you 
 could go on Friday." He nodded pleasantly. " See you 
 Saturday morning, then." 
 
 " Right," she said, and gave him another glance from 
 her dark eyes for remembrance, and went on into the 
 yard of the hat works, up the dirty stone steps to her 
 place in the trimming-room, saying to herself: "He's 
 going to meet me on the pier. . . . What's he after ? Is 
 he? ... Is he? ..." And then, after the waves of 
 emotion and the big and beautiful speculations had all 
 merged into a feeling of glorious satisfaction, she said 
 to herself: "Well, I know this much no chap, and 
 Mr. Tim amongst 'em, is going to make a fool of me ! " 
 
 She picked up a hat and began to work at it, as she 
 recalled Mr. Tim at the gate, his look, his attitude, his 
 tone. " He was waiting for me," she said to herself. 
 " He was that. . . . Well, if he's after me, he'll marry 
 me. . . ." 
 
 There were trimmers at work when Emmie reached
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 71 
 
 her own particular place, for they, being independent of 
 machinery, and also being piece-workers, could fling their 
 energies into their labour during the whole of the dinner 
 hour if they wished. As many of them brought their 
 dinners with them, having them warmed at a cottage 
 near and eating them in the workroom, it frequently hap- 
 pened that work went on in the trimming-room while 
 the men were resting. 
 
 Emmie's early return consequently created no surprise 
 and called forth no comment except from Alice Cannel. 
 She was Emmie's friend, and knew her. 
 
 When she came back from dinner she lost no time in 
 getting to her place. She put her feet on the low ledge 
 that ran under the table, pulled her skirt around her 
 and took up a hat which had the trimmings inside it. As 
 she bit a piece of thread she said to Emmie : 
 
 " You came back soon." 
 
 " Not that soon," said Emmie, without raising her 
 head. 
 
 " Go on with you. I looked up and down and waited 
 a bit, and I was soon." 
 
 " Well . . . perhaps I was. We can go on Friday." 
 
 "Oh! Who said so?" 
 
 Emmie hesitated. 
 
 " Mr. Tim." 
 
 "Oh! ... Did he? When did you see him? " 
 
 " After dinner." 
 
 " Oh ! ... So that's why you were soon, is it ? " 
 
 " You ought to be jolly glad I asked him," said Emmie, 
 blushing slightly and thrusting in her needle in and out 
 again smartly. 
 
 " So I am. But. ... Mr. Tim, eh? " 
 
 Emmie leaned forward and whispered : 
 
 " He's going to Blackpool too."
 
 72 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 " Uh. I say! You won't mind if I go out with him 
 a bit?" 
 
 " Has he asked you ? " 
 
 " Yea." 
 
 " Does he know I'm going? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Alice paused a little affected by jealousy, but very 
 slightly. She was good-natured, though, and replied : 
 " Go as much as you like. I can soon find somebody. 
 But . . . you remember Mary Ford ? " 
 
 "What about her?" 
 
 Alice nodded significantly. 
 
 " Five shillings a week," she winked. 
 
 Emmie looked angry. 
 
 "If you think " 
 
 " Go on ! I'm only warning you ! " 
 
 " I can take care of myself. I'm not Mary Ford." 
 
 After a pause, Alice said softly : " Mr. Tim going, 
 eh? ... What will Mr. Booke say?" 
 
 That was what Emmie was wondering.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EMMIE'S luggage was easily contained in a fair-sized 
 cardboard box, and looked neat enough encased in 
 brown paper held secure by a couple of straps joined by 
 a leather handle. Alice Cannel carried similar luggage. 
 They were both excited for they had had a complete 
 change of clothes and felt very clean and spruce and well 
 adorned. Alice called for Emmie, and as the two walked 
 down Silton Street carrying their bags, Mrs. Bollins 
 stood at the door and watched them go with a certain 
 pride. Mrs. Grey, across the road, nodded towards the 
 girls and shouted : 
 
 "Off for the wakes?" 
 
 " Yes ! " shouted Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 " Blackpool." 
 
 " Oh ! well ... it wants a bit o' beatin'. . . . Emmie 
 looks well. . . ." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The two women watched the two girls turn out of 
 Silton Street to get into Manchester Road on their way 
 to the station. 
 
 Emmie and Alice were certainly conscious of their ap- 
 pearance as they were stirred by their adventure. 
 
 " Wonder if the rooms'll be all right," said Alice. 
 
 " Should be," said Emmie. " Mrs. James said she'd 
 been four years running." 
 
 " That sounds good enough. Have you brought any- 
 thing with you? " 
 
 " A bit o' tea and sugar, and some boiled ham. Mother 
 
 73
 
 74 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 said it would save us going out getting something for 
 supper. And this is all right: it's from Mrs. Brown's." 
 
 "That corner shop?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They hurried out the station to catch the train, for 
 which they would have to wait at least half an hour at 
 the rate at which they were walking, but excitement 
 goaded them on. 
 
 Emmie said nothing of one particular hope or expecta- 
 tion that moved her as they waited on the platform at 
 Canton Station, but Alice maybe divined it, for she said : 
 
 " I wonder if Mr. Tim's going by this train? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Emmie, with as much careless- 
 ness in the tone as she could fairly assume. 
 
 Mr. Tim, however, did not go by that train. He had 
 originally intended to do so, but the presence of Alice 
 made him decide to go by an earlier one. Tim was one 
 of those people who, without being too assertive or dom- 
 inating or selfish, could make up his mind not only as to 
 the things he wanted but also as to those he did not want. 
 He wanted Emmie, and not Emmie and Alice. Occa- 
 sionally he felt he might have to put up with a little of 
 Alice, but he realised that a journey to Blackpool just 
 now, in probably a full carriage, with Alice and Emmie, 
 would not give him the satisfaction he desired. 
 
 The two girls managed very well. They arrived at 
 Talbot Road, Blackpool, after a journey that might be 
 described as uneventful, but which, to them, was crammed 
 with a suggestive excitement and adventure. 
 
 At Blackpool, men offering to carry their parcels were 
 quietly ignored and Emmie, getting directions from a 
 policeman, led the way to the lodgings which had been 
 recommended them. 
 
 There they shared a bedroom, sleeping together in the
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 75 
 
 same bed, and were allotted places at the dining-table in 
 the common room, where other lodgers, like themselves, 
 paid for lodgings and bought their own food which the 
 landlady prepared, thus giving the board at meal time 
 an appearance of variety in diet that was striking and 
 interesting. 
 
 It was not till the following morning that Emmie met 
 Mr. Tim. Alice behaved very well, though she had just 
 a slight feeling of jealousy and of being neglected, but 
 was pleasant at Emmie's departure. 
 
 " You take care of yourself," she said. 
 
 " Go on with you," replied Emmie. 
 
 " Oh ! Ay. . . . Half past twelve dinner, mind." 
 
 " I won't forget." 
 
 Emmie walked with the pride of the well dressed and 
 the independence of her northern working race and spirit. 
 She was wearing a pretty soft-flowered dress, which fitted 
 tightly to the waist, having about half a dozen small pleats 
 running from the neck, and lace on the right side where 
 it fastened. The sleeves were tight and finished just be- 
 low the elbow, where there was more lace. On the right 
 hand side the dress seemed lifted artistically where it was 
 crowned by a bow, and the plain pleated skirt showed 
 from about three or four inches on her left side to about 
 eighteen on her right. Her hat was a straw, the shape 
 of a plant pot with a narrow brim, and had a bow and a 
 feather in front. The dress was, of course, very full 
 from the waist, as it was thrust out by the bustle of the 
 period. 
 
 She was neatly shod, and carried a parasol, on the han- 
 dle of which there was a pink bow. 
 
 Mr. Tim was waiting on the pier, and felt a thrill of 
 delight when he saw her. He noticed her walk and her 
 face first. It was Emmie herself that struck home. But
 
 76 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 as he noticed the dress he felt pleased to see that Emmie 
 could dress. She would disgrace nobody. She could 
 walk out with anybody. . . . 
 
 She came to him, smiling. 
 
 He met her with a frank, genuine welcome, but did not 
 touch his hat, neither did they shake hands. 
 
 "You've got here?" 
 
 " Looks like it," she replied. 
 
 " H'm. . . . Lot o' people about, aren't there ? " 
 
 " Yes. Our train was full. What time did you 
 come ? " 
 
 " I came by the 5 :2O. That was full too. Got a new 
 frock on ? " He talked calmly, almost deliberately, but 
 roamed over her with his eyes. 
 
 "Yes. Do you like it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They began to walk up and down, both feeling in a 
 mood above that of ordinary holiday makers. They 
 looked at the rolling blue sea, and were content to watch 
 wave after wave rise and fall, merely making occasional 
 remarks, such as, " That's a big one. . . ." " Looks 
 fine. . . ." And, " This air's good," from him. 
 
 Emmie was saying to herself: He's gone on me. 
 . . . I wonder? As if she were calculating a little. But 
 she had perfect confidence in herself, and her unspoken 
 resolution was: But he's not going to make a fool of 
 me. 
 
 Tim was just happy. He was in love with Emmie 
 and fully realised it. He was thoroughly enjoying him- 
 self in her society on that Blackpool pier when he made 
 remarks about the sea, the air, the people that passed, the 
 folk they saw on the sands or anything or anybody else. 
 He was happy because Emmie was his companion and 
 gave him, by her demeanour, a fair assurance that she
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 77 
 
 would acquiesce in his ultimate desires. He was nat- 
 urally a little more excited than was customary with him, 
 but gave no observer other than Emmie any hint of 
 that. He appeared calm, well-to-do, solid, satisfied, bent 
 on holiday-making, and starting with perfect reasonable- 
 ness by having a blow on the pier and a look round. 
 
 All about were other people in twos and threes and 
 batches and alone. Many of them had the air of those 
 who were newcomers, but there were others sporting 
 about with familiar airs, denoting that this walk on the 
 pier was getting quite a common thing to them. Emmie 
 noticed these and saw in their behaviour something very 
 enticing. It seemed to suggest the lengthened stay at 
 the seaside a week, two weeks, even. Imagine staying 
 for two whole weeks at Blackpool! The idea was lux- 
 urious. None of Emmie's friends ever stayed more than 
 four days five was a special and an almost extravagant 
 affair. In fact, many of the Canton hat manufacturers, 
 like Mr. Booke, for instance, rarely went away for more 
 than ten days at a time. 
 
 And yet Emmie felt no envy for these favoured ones. 
 She was interested as she heard a group chatter gaily 
 about some excursion taken last week and fix a new one 
 for next week, but had no envy. What was going to be 
 her fate? Would she some day be as well-off as 
 they? . . . They could talk about their excursions if they 
 wanted to. ... She was in a mood to make small stuff 
 of casual excursions. 
 
 That was the thought that came to her more than any 
 other. In various expressions of course. It simply 
 meant: Is Mr. Tim serious? What does he really 
 mean? And if he is serious! . . . The height was al- 
 most dizzying. 
 
 And all the time he flung over her looks that were a
 
 78 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 frank confession of liking and approval and satisfaction. 
 But rich young men had shown likings for working girls 
 before. . . . 
 
 So Emmie had doubt and fear mingled every now and 
 then with her hope and confidence, though whenever Mr. 
 Tim spoke to her she felt serenely comfortable. He was 
 so easy and cosy, so to speak, and yet flung into his man- 
 ner an intimacy of expression that could be felt, if not 
 explained, to a third person. 
 
 Their talk was a mere meandering stream of common- 
 places. There was so much of the unusual to attract 
 them both that simple comments were natural and spon- 
 taneous. 
 
 Once Tim, as he leaned over the pier, got hold of 
 Emmie by the arm. 
 
 " Look," he said. 
 
 Emmie turned at once. It was merely a boat being 
 rowed near the pier. 
 
 " M-m," she said. 
 
 Tim made some remark, but what Emmie noticed most 
 was that he still held her arm. There was no necessity 
 for him to keep her to the position, and both he and she 
 knew it. Also both pretended to ignore what was hap- 
 pening. 
 
 But Emmie noted the incident and wondered if it 
 really was an indication of something deep and seri- 
 ous. ... 
 
 The sea rolled past the supports of the pier with an 
 uncanny power, giving them the idea that no human being 
 could hope to withstand it if it came to a struggle. And 
 yet there were people in small boats managing to do what 
 they wanted on the tops of these very waves. It was all 
 right if you behaved properly and knew what to do. ... 
 The reflection seemed to Emmie a kind of augury and
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 79 
 
 comfort. Well, she knew what she wanted, and she 
 thought she knew how to behave. . . . 
 
 And Tim still held her arm. She felt him looking at 
 her and turned her eyes towards him. There was no 
 need for her to be told of his love for her that was as 
 patent as the power and vitality of the rolling sea. The 
 sudden conviction stirred her. She felt a strange emo- 
 tion move within her. She did not withdraw her gaze, 
 but its simple curiosity was softened. She smiled, with 
 hints in those expressive eyes of hers. 
 
 He pressed her arm and seemed to get closer to her. 
 
 " Go on," she whispered. " There's folk about." 
 
 " What does it matter? " he murmured. 
 
 She felt it did not really matter at all, in view of what 
 was at stake ; but still, it did not do to say such things. 
 
 "What shall we do this afternoon? " 
 
 The very idea was joy to her, for it showed he was so 
 happy, in her society, he wished to be with her almost 
 continuously. 
 
 " There's Alice, you know," she said. 
 
 " What's she got to do with it? " 
 
 Emmie smiled a little. She knew Alice would stand 
 no chance against this great circumstance; but then, it 
 would not do to express herself too boisterously just yet. 
 Mr. Tim could be himself (if he were not playing a 
 game), but she had to be wary and indulge in calcula- 
 tion. 
 
 " Well," she said, pausing a little and using her eyes 
 both for observation and effect, " I must be with her 
 sometimes." 
 
 " You're with her enough in Ganton." 
 
 " Oh, yes, but we've come here together, haven't we ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. But she's probably off with some chap 
 and doesn't want you."
 
 8o AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " In that case, of course " 
 
 " Look here, Emmie, we'll go to-night, in any case, to 
 RaikesHall, eh?" 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " All right. There's dancing, isn't there? " This was 
 very alluring. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They arranged to meet in the evening, so as to go to 
 Raikes Hall together, which was, at that time, one of the 
 most popular of Blackpool attractions. 
 
 And now they began to walk up and down the pier. 
 Tim talked just as naturally as if he and Emmie had 
 been walking on a Blackpool pier for the hundredth time. 
 Emmie could not forget him and lose herself in the sur- 
 roundings. She was far more interested in the people 
 near her, and in Mr. Tim, than in the numerous incidents 
 to which Tim kept calling her attention. She was all 
 observation and a desire to be observed. She was noting 
 dress and walks and speech and Mr. Tim and his be- 
 haviour, and was very interested when he took off his hat 
 to somebody. 
 
 Emmie turned quickly, and then feeling she must not 
 behave as if filled to overflowing with curiosity, averted 
 her eyes, somewhat dissatisfied that she had not seen 
 well who were those people to whom Mr. Tim raised his 
 hat. A mother and daughter. . . . Emmie fancied she 
 knew them. She hesitated to ask out of a little diffidence 
 a disinclination to seem too curious, to pry, particu- 
 larly lest it might excite derision or contempt or a feeling 
 of simple disapproval in Tim. 
 She looked at him. 
 
 He had a curious look on his face only to be noted 
 by some one as keenly interested in him as Emmie was.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 81 
 
 She had to ask : " Who was that ? " 
 
 i 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Don't you know them ? " 
 
 Emmie turned, very glad of the excuse, but too many 
 people intervened now for her to see the two ladies 
 well. 
 
 " No," she said. " I can't see them now." 
 
 " They're Gantonians." 
 
 "Well, who are they?" 
 
 He laughed, realising from her tone he was teasing her 
 a little. 
 
 " It's Mrs. Quillan and her daughter," he said, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " What oh. ... Live in Stockport Road." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Them, eh ? . . ." And at once Emmie lost herself 
 in speculation. Mrs. Quillan and her daughter. . . . 
 They had seen Mr. Tim with her. . . . He had raised 
 his hat and didn't seem to mind having been seen with 
 her Emmie Bollins at all. 
 
 She felt greatly elated, and could have taken Mr. Tim's 
 arm with a little encouragement, and might actually have 
 done so if Mrs. Quillan and her daughter had passed 
 them again at that moment. 
 
 So far as Emmie was concerned this little incident was 
 really the most impressive of the morning. The great 
 moving billowy sea, with its infinite suggestiveness, faded 
 into a mere insignificance besides Mr. Tim's attitude as 
 he walked with her and took his hat off to Mrs. and Miss 
 Quillan. 
 
 Mr. Tim didn't mind being seen with her by Gantoni- 
 ans who knew him that was evident. On the con- 
 trary, if Emmie was any judge of an expression at all, 
 he had seemed to be almost pleased at the meeting, and
 
 82 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 had certainly not appeared embarrassed or awkward, or 
 shown any desire to leave Emmie's side. 
 
 He said to her before parting: "Now don't go and 
 fix up anything with Alice Cannel for to-morrow." 
 
 Of course, she was pleased to hear him say that, and 
 looked at him boldly with a smile. 
 
 " Yes, but I must be with her a bit." 
 
 She laughed, being very happy. 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 " Not so many buts, now." 
 
 " That's all very well, but I've come with her." 
 
 " You can go back with her, too, for that matter, but 
 I'm having you while you're here, so you can let her 
 know." 
 
 The speech was direct, and bordered on the proprie- 
 tary; but as no words of love had yet been spoken, Em- 
 mie was still feeling the need to struggle a little for 
 definiteness. 
 
 " M-m," she said, looking pert. 
 
 " You understand ? " 
 
 "What are you after? " she ventured, a little timidly. 
 
 " You," he said quickly. 
 
 She did not dare to ask more. In a way it was enough, 
 but in another way it was not. She was wanted. . . . 
 Yes, but ... 
 
 She looked at him searchingly, and he felt the power 
 of her eyes. 
 
 " You can be with her, if you like, this afternoon, but 
 let that finish it. And it's Raikes Hall to-night, mind." 
 
 She nodded, still gazing at him probingly. 
 
 Emmie was still in a whirl of uncertainty as she went 
 into her lodgings. There was no doubt about Mr. Tim's 
 attitude. He wanted her. He said so and showed it.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 83 
 
 But did he mean marriage? That was the great ques- 
 tion. If he did. . . . Suppose he did. . . . Mrs. Tim- 
 othy Booke. . . . 
 
 She was wondrously excited as she thought of that, 
 but not at all dismayed or hesitant. There was no quail- 
 ing at the height, no doubt as to competency. She at 
 once began to comfort and encourage herself by remem- 
 bering that the wives of some of the rich men in Canton 
 had been in as humble a way as herself when they were 
 married. 
 
 Alice Cannel met her with : " Well. . . . Been with 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Going again? " 
 
 " Yes. Here, Alice, do you mind if I'm with him a 
 lot?" 
 
 Alice couldn't at once be magnanimous. She said : 
 " Seems funny coming with me and then going off all 
 the time by yourself." 
 
 " Well, you see how it is." 
 
 And Alice, her momentary chill over, replied gaily: 
 " It's all right, Emmie. You go. But what's he after? 
 Is he going to marry you ? " 
 
 Emmie was silent. 
 
 " Don't let him play any tricks on you," said Alice. 
 " It's all very well for them " 
 
 " D'you think I'm a fool ? " said Emmie quickly. 
 
 " Go on with you. There's many a girl as thought her- 
 self very smart as has been fooled by a chap. If he says 
 nothing, ask him what his game is." 
 
 " He's all right," said Emmie quietly, still desiring very 
 greatly, and still unable to get rid of the haunting fear. 
 
 " Let's hope so. If he does want to marry you. . . . 
 It . . Eh? "
 
 84 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Oh! Be quiet," said Emmie, half afraid of spoiling 
 the dream by discussing it. 
 
 " Well, Emmie, I wish you luck. I say ! I picked up 
 such a nice chap this morning. Came from Stockport. 
 I think he's a traveller at a hat works there ; funny, isn't 
 it? But he was dancing about me. ... I dunno. . . . 
 I'm seeing him to-night. We're going to the Winter Gar- 
 dens for a skate or else to Raikes Hall." 
 
 It was during the dancing at Raikes Hall that Emmie 
 managed to fling away the doubt that had harassed her. 
 
 Mr. Tim had met her with a patent joy in the greet- 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, told Alice?" he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's right. What did you do this afternoon? " 
 
 " Walked about." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 " Myself/' 
 
 "What!" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " I'd like to shake you," he said, and she was delighted. 
 " I suppose she got off with somebody else ? " 
 
 " She knows somebody here, and we met him." 
 
 He took her arm again, and when they got amongst 
 the crowd at Raikes Hall, he said : " Well, I know you 
 like dancing." 
 
 " Do you ? " she answered roguishly. 
 
 " Yes," and he forthwith put an arm around her waist, 
 making her dance almost before she was ready. 
 
 She liked the masterfulness, and as she thoroughly en- 
 joyed the dance, it was no wonder there was a flush of 
 gorgeous pleasure on her cheek when the dance was over. 
 
 " By Gum ! You look well," he said.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 85 
 
 She stroked her cheeks. 
 
 "A bit warm, isn't it? " $he said. 
 
 " Yes. Let's have a bit of a stroll." 
 
 He led her along the path in the open to a seat under 
 the shadow and shelter of a tree. 
 
 It was a beautiful soft August evening. There was a 
 hum of voices and gladness in the air. The livid moon 
 looked austere in its beauty and loneliness. The leaves 
 of the trees scarcely stirred in the calm air, while the 
 occasional laughs and footfalls of the happy holiday- 
 makers came to Tim and Emmie with an almost regular 
 plentitude. 
 
 "Sit down." 
 
 As he sat beside her he looked at her and then put his 
 arm round her, pulled her face to him and kissed her. 
 
 Her heart was beating wildly. She looked at him tim- 
 idly, almost pleadingly. She was breathing fast. 
 
 " You're a bonny 'un, Emmie," he said, with a lover's 
 voice. 
 
 " What are you after," she muttered, worming herself 
 a little closer, while her hand seemed to creep up as a 
 sign of either protest or willingness. 
 
 " Why, you. . . . What. . . . I'm going to marry you 
 that'll suit you, won't it?" 
 
 Her breath came in gasps but she nodded eagerly, and 
 when he kissed her again he felt she was kissing him too, 
 with a burning passion. 
 
 " I said to myself I'd have you, when I met you at 
 Belle Vue." 
 
 "Did you?" she said, still most excited and revelling 
 in the situation and resting her hand in his. 
 
 " I did. I'll buy you a ring on Monday or when 
 we get back; buy you a better one in Manchester than 
 here," and he pulled her to him and kissed her again.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 EMMIE'S visit to Blackpool in the August of 1885 
 left a picture in her mind at once blurred and vivid, 
 and altogether unforgettable. It was like a gorgeous 
 sunset in which everything is subordinate to the blazing 
 sun. In Emmie's memory there were vague people on a 
 vague pier, rows of vague oyster stalls, a place called 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin, where she had danced, some gipsies 
 on the south shore, but a very definite place called Raikes 
 Hall, and a great outstanding fact Mr. Tim Booke 
 was going to marry her. 
 
 Of course he called her Emmie easily enough, for he 
 had called her that at the works whenever he had had 
 occasion to address her, but she found it just a trifle awk- 
 ward to call him " Tim." She boggled at it for a time, 
 and said nothing in the way of a name, contenting her- 
 self with raising her voice or just saying " Here ! " . . . 
 
 But she saw that familiarity was all to her advantage, 
 and so boldly said " Tim " one afternoon. After that it 
 seemed to Emmie that all the King's horses and all the 
 King's men could not drag her from her thrilling joy. 
 For she was thrilled. The thrills kept coming to her, 
 like companies at a march past. " Mrs. Timothy Booke. 
 . . . Mrs. Timothy Booke. . . . What will Mrs. So and 
 So say? And Mary X? And the Y's? . . . In the 
 trimming-room, too. . . ." That was one triumphal 
 tune. Another was headed by the usual " Mrs. Timothy 
 Booke. Where shall we live ? No more trimming. . . . 
 The minister coming to see me. . . . Eee! . . ." And 
 another : " We shall be called in church. . . . They'll 
 
 86
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 87 
 
 all hear it. ... Timothy Booke and Emily Bollins. . . ." 
 Thrills ! They seemed at first unending. Emmie was 
 in Elysium. She was so stirred with emotion that there 
 was a danger, on occasions, of her forgetting Mr. Tim 
 himself in the things he represented, for he represented 
 so very much to Emmie. 
 
 However, that was only in the early days, for though 
 some of the pictures recurred again and again, the fa- 
 miliarity with Mr. Tim at last let Emmie realise him 
 more and more as man and lover, and not the mere carrier 
 of gorgeous things to her. She properly appraised his 
 level-headedness ; she felt he was no fool; he could be 
 trusted to do the sensible thing; he was kind, too, not 
 mean; pleasant, not bad-tempered and not given to get- 
 ting drunk. 
 
 Alice had received the news fairly well. She was in- 
 clined to be a little jealous and realised she had been easily 
 outdistanced by Emmie, for there was no denying the 
 substantiality of Mr. Tim, nor his standing in Canton 
 (and if a man stood well in Canton, he stood well in 
 Lancashire; and if well in Lancashire, then . . . any- 
 where). Emmie, as Mrs. Timothy Booke, would be a 
 person of importance. Alice hung for a trifle on a mere 
 nodding of her head. Emmie to have got Mr. Tim. . . . 
 She wished she had had luck like that not necessarily 
 Mr. Tim, but something like it. But she said candidly: 
 " Well, good luck to you, Emmie. Mr. Tim's all right. 
 . . . And he will marry you ? " 
 
 "Yes. A'M't I telling you?" 
 
 " H'm. Well, I wish you luck, I do indeed. Nobody 
 else in t' trimming-room'll do as well, so you can flatter 
 yourself with that. You'll let it out, won't you? " 
 
 "Ye-es. Why not?"
 
 88 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " If I were in your place I'd tell everybody; you have 
 no secret about it. I wonder what Miss Booke'll say ? " 
 
 " What can she say ? " said Emmie quickly. 
 
 " Nothing, of course, against you. I'm not meaning 
 that. Only, you know what the Bookes are particu- 
 larly that Miss Booke, with her nose up." 
 
 " Mrs. Holten's got a tongue with a bit of a file on it," 
 said Emmie. 
 
 " Never you mind," said Alice. " Once you're mar- 
 ried you can put your ringers to your nose at Mrs. Holten 
 and Miss Booke and all the lot of 'em. ... I wonder 
 where you'll live. . . . And what will they say at home, 
 eh? Tell me what he said to you, Emmie, when he said 
 he'd marry you ? " 
 
 " He said he was going to marry me." 
 
 "Them words?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Oh! . . ." 
 
 " He said he'd made up his mind when he met me at 
 Belle Vue you remember ? " 
 
 " If I didn't think it ! I said he was gone on you then. 
 Well. ... At any rate, here's luck ! " Alice kissed her 
 friend. " I suppose you'll keep on coming to the trim- 
 ming-room till you're properly married ? " 
 
 " Why not ? Got to live, haven't I ? " 
 
 After the wakes, when work was resumed in the Gan- 
 ton hat factories, Mr. Tim and Emmie went about their 
 business at " T. Booke & Son's " just as they had done 
 before these momentous holidays had come. 
 
 But things were not the same. Alice was delighted to 
 be the bearer of surprising news. There was no reason 
 for Emmie to hold her tongue, but she found no neces- 
 sity to be eager to proclaim the news; her service was
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 89 
 
 principally to confirm the oft-repeated question : " I hear 
 as you're going to marry Mr. Tim " or " young Mr. 
 Tim." To her family Emmie was explicit. Mrs. Bol- 
 lins looked very proud, with a suspicion of anxiety. 
 
 "Mr. Tim?" she repeated. 
 
 " Yes," from Emmie. 
 
 " And he said he'd marry you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Er. . . . Well, I'm glad. His, er. . . . There's, 
 er. . . . It's, er. . . ." 
 
 Emmie was frank. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't think, Mother, he's forced to marry 
 me. You might just as well speak out. I'm not one of 
 that sort, and you ought to know me by now. He's going 
 to marry me because he wants to, and if I never saw him 
 again ; well there'd be no disgrace." 
 
 "Don't get excited, Emmie; I didn't mean anything 
 wrong, and I'm very glad. Mr. Tim. . . . He's a nice, 
 gentlemanly man. . . . Nicer than his father, for that 
 matter. What do they say in th' trimming-room ? " 
 
 " I don't know. . . . And care less," said Emmie. 
 
 Mr. Tim made no pretence of asking the consent of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bollins: he took it for granted. He and 
 Emmie had agreed to get married, and practically, he 
 considered nobody else had any consent to give or with- 
 hold. He did not even call at the Bollins' for a little 
 time. When he wished to make an appointment with 
 Emmie he would waylay her as she was going out or 
 coming into the works, and say quite casually : " To- 
 night, about nine top of Town Lane?" Or: 
 " Windmill Lane to-morrow night, about half past eight/' 
 Or on a Saturday he would say, perhaps : " Let's go to 
 Manchester to-night; there's a good thing on at the
 
 90 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Theatre Royal. Catch the half past six tram. I'll get 
 on at the Station. . . ." 
 
 And Emmie invariably acquiesced. She never made 
 difficulties or hesitated, but just smiled and said " Yes." 
 When she was with him on any of these excursions she 
 was always thoroughly happy. It would not be correct 
 to say she forgot altogether the great fact that she was 
 engaged to the son of a hat manufacturer, some one, at 
 any rate, much better off financially and socially than 
 herself but it sank oftener than not into a feeling of 
 general content in Tim's presence. He was " nice " ; he 
 had a pleasant, jolly way, and could lead, guide and pro- 
 tect as well as make her feel now and then that there 
 were things almost entirely in her province which he 
 looked to her to do. He was very rarely ill-tempered, 
 and as time passed Emmie grew more and more to like 
 and really to love him. 
 
 But meanwhile the rumour of the engagement spread. 
 There were, of course, the topics of conversation, and 
 doubtless plenty of other rumours to compete with or 
 accompany this, but Tim's engagement to Emmie Bol- 
 lins, " one of the trimmers," was an item worth passing 
 on. 
 
 " I hear young Tim Booke's walking out with one of 
 their trimmers Emmie Bollins " that was as often 
 as not the manner of the news-bearer. Details and con- 
 firmation followed. A had seen them together. B 
 thought he (or she) had. 
 
 And of course rumour was not going to stop on the 
 doorstep of Miss Booke's, for instance, or Mrs. Holten's, 
 or Mrs. Grass's, or Mr. Booke's, Senior, for that matter. 
 
 Miss Booke actually got the news first and got it 
 from her charwoman, of all people ! " Was it true that
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 91 
 
 Mr. Timothy Booke's son was walkin' out wi' Sam Bol- 
 lins' daughter? " 
 
 Miss Booke said " What ! " and hoped not, indeed. 
 But she had no sooner heard the various corroborative 
 details : " So and So had seen them together in Black- 
 pool. So and So had seen them in Manchester. So and 
 So had had the news from Mrs. Bollins herself. And it 
 was all over Booke & Son's ! . . ." 
 
 Miss Booke had a lively sense of the adage that there 
 is not, at any rate, a great quantity of smoke without 
 fire of some kind. This was what she had dreaded. 
 Tim walking out with a trimmer. . . . Bollins she 
 tried to recall the Bollins family and remembered Mr. 
 Bollins, in dirty shirtsleeves, with a dirty apron in front of 
 him, a wishy washy-looking chap; looked as if he wanted 
 a tonic and a good shaking. . . . His daughter! Miss 
 Booke then had a recollection of Emmie, the trimmer. 
 . . . That little black-eyed creature, eh! Suppose she'd 
 been leering at Tim, and he, like a young fool, had been 
 paying her some attention, perhaps gone a walk with her. 
 . . . Well, from a walk in a lane to a walk down the 
 aisle of a church was sometimes a long way . . . and 
 sometimes not . . . She wondered. ... It might be 
 cheap at fifty or a hundred pounds. . . . Her brother 
 would see to that. Tim marrying a trimmer when there 
 was Ellen Quillan waiting for him ... a girl like Ellen 
 Quillan, a lady, and with money, and he must needs go 
 and walk out with a trimmer. Oh! these young chaps; 
 what fools they could make of themselves. 
 
 Miss Booke was dreadfully worried all day, and wor- 
 ried to an almost exasperating point because she could 
 not go and talk the matter over with any other member 
 of her family and leave Mrs. Grundy, the charwoman,
 
 92 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 in the house. She'd never done that yet, and wasn't go- 
 ing to begin for all the nephews in the world. 
 
 But the moment Mrs. Grundy had gone, Miss Booke 
 put on her bonnet ladies of a certain age wore bonnets 
 in those days and went with firm step, mouth tightly 
 shut and head erect, to her sister's, Mrs. Holten's. 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked up as Miss Booke entered the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " Hello ! I thought this was your day for Mrs. 
 Grundy." 
 
 " So it is." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Nothing wrong, is there ? " she asked, see- 
 ing obvious news in her sister's face. 
 
 Miss Booke held her lips tightly shut for a moment, 
 and then said : " Nothing wrong. . . . Isn't there ? 
 Well, I hope not. I do, indeed; I do, indeed. Are they 
 all out?" 
 
 " Ye-es. Come in the drawing-room. It's nothing 
 serious, is it? " Mrs. Holten went with a quick, brisk 
 step into the richly furnished, rarely used drawing-room. 
 She waited till her sister was inside, and then shut the 
 door. 
 
 " I always like your drawing-room, Jane," said Miss 
 Booke; "it looks rich some way " 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 " Um. Tim's walking out with a trimmer one of 
 our trimmers: that Bollins' daughter." 
 
 Mrs. Holten frowned and pressed her lips together. 
 There was silence for a moment. 
 
 " Walking out. . . . What does that mean ? " she asked 
 sharply. 
 
 " It means that Tim means to marry the girl if he isn't 
 stopped." 
 
 Both pairs of lips seemed to shut tight after a speech
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 93 
 
 and both ladies looked capable of saying and of doing 
 much if they could. 
 
 " Walking out with a daughter of Sam Bollins. ... I 
 know her Emmie Bollins. . . . She's a good-looking 
 girl ; just the kind Tim would fancy. Eh, dear ! These 
 young fellows! How did you find it out? " 
 
 Miss Booke related all the details she had heard from 
 Mrs. Grundy, and Mrs. Holten was impressed. 
 
 She made melancholy noises with her tongue. " T't, 
 ft, ft. . . . What will folks say?" 
 
 " What won't they? " snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " Tim Booke's marrying one of his father's trimmers. 
 His father-in-law's that Samuel Bollins. Have you been 
 to see Timothy yet ? " 
 
 " How could I ? I've just left Mrs. Grundy to come 
 straight to you." 
 
 " Well, I didn't know ; you might have been to see Tim- 
 othy first." They were both a little irritable. " We 
 must go and see Timothy at once; it must be stopped, if 
 possible. I'd give twenty pounds before I'd see Tim 
 marry that girl. . . . And Ellen Quillan there waiting. 
 . . . We shall be the laughing stock of the place. I'll 
 come with you now, Maria ; we'll see Timothy, and Tim, 
 if need be." 
 
 " Tim can be stubborn when he likes." 
 
 " Yes. And he can be a fool, too, apparently." 
 
 Mrs. Holten lost no time in getting ready to go out 
 with her sister, and as they walked into Silton Street 
 towards their brother's house, they dropped into a medi- 
 tative silence. They had expressed their fears prin- 
 cipally fears that people who knew them would pour on 
 them a kind of scorn, and hold up to lightness and ridi- 
 cule the Booke family and now it seemed as if they had 
 to dwell on the bitter situation.
 
 94 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Of the two, Mrs. Holten was the more capable ; she was 
 not quite so narrow and sour as her unmarried sister, who 
 was always prone to criticise, and had got worse as the 
 years passed. 
 
 " We ought to catch him," said Miss Booke, as they 
 went to the side door. 
 
 " Let's hope so," replied Mrs. Holten grimly. 
 
 Mrs. Bane opened the door and was surprised to see 
 her master's two formidable sisters. 
 
 Mrs. Holten smiled. 
 
 "Mr. Booke in?" 
 
 " He's about somewhere," replied Mrs. Bane. 
 
 Miss Booke nodded austerely, as her eyes shot glances 
 at skirting boards, corners, paint, anything that might 
 show up the " lick and promise " housewoman. 
 
 Mrs. Bane, feeling the critical glances, showed the vis- 
 itors into the dining-room and said : " Shall I tell Mr. 
 Booke you're here? " 
 
 " Yes, please," said Mrs. Holten ; " we want to see 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Bane went out, wondering what was the matter. 
 
 Mr. Booke was not long in making his appearance. 
 
 He was wearing a black cashmere jacket and a black 
 apron tied at the waist, his gold albert showing above it. 
 He knew there was something serious in the wind from 
 the fact that he had been sent for from the works, a 
 thing his sisters would not have done for nothing. But he 
 refused to show any excitement or perturbation; the 
 Bookes flattered themselves they could meet a crisis with 
 coolness. 
 
 As he entered the room he said almost cheerily: 
 " Hello ! What's brought you two here ? " 
 
 " Some family business," said Miss Booke, with a snap. 
 
 " Is this true about Tim? " asked Mrs. Holten.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 95 
 
 " I can perhaps tell you," he replied slowly, " if you'll 
 tell me what it is ? " 
 
 " It's up and down Canton that he's walking out, en- 
 gaged, if you like, to one of your trimmers," Miss Booke 
 said, as if she were making a charge. 
 
 Timothy smacked his lips, looked at both his sisters 
 for a very brief moment, and then said quietly : " Up 
 and down Canton, is it? " He was keeping himself well 
 in hand, for his sister, Maria, jarred with her very ag- 
 gressive manner. 
 
 Mrs. Holten spoke more tactfully : " They say he's 
 carrying on with Emmie Bollins, one of your trimmers." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Oh-h. . . . Well. . . . And what about it?" 
 
 His cool attitude annoyed his sisters. Taking it like 
 that! . . . 
 
 Miss Booke began : " Well ! " But Mrs. Holten, with 
 a little more insight and sense, spoke more quietly. She 
 knew the folly of letting temper run riot. She was pre- 
 pared to speak after her fashion, but her greatest desire 
 was to achieve. 
 
 "You're not backing him up, Timothy, are you? 
 After all, she is only a trimmer, and her father's a shaper 
 or body-maker " 
 
 " And a poor 'un, whatever he is," whipped out Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 " I didn't say I was backing him up," said Timothy, 
 still speaking very quietly and deliberately. 
 
 " I wish you'd say what you think of it," said Mrs. 
 Holten. " Did you know about it ? " 
 
 Timothy hesitated. 
 
 " No," snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Holten, "can't you give Tim a 
 good talking to? If he's walking out with that Emmie
 
 96 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Bollins you know as well as I do what it will lead to." 
 
 Timothy reached for his pipe and tobacco jar, which 
 stood on a little table near the fireplace. 
 
 " Before we go any further," he said, " suppose I hear 
 what you've got to say," and he filled his pipe. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Booke jerkily, "I should think 
 you've heard enough. Tim's walking out with one of 
 your trimmers. Everybody in Ganton's heard about it 
 by now. He was with her in Blackpool, and he's going 
 up and down with her. They were seen together last 
 night in Windmill Lane." 
 
 Timothy lit his pipe with a paper spill, which he took 
 from a blue and white jar on the mantelshelf. 
 
 His sister Maria had an annoying way. 
 
 Mrs. Holten, equally as opposed to the match as her 
 sister, was at the same time more tactful in dealing with 
 her brother. 
 
 " It's no good pretending, Timothy," she said, " that 
 you'll like Tim marrying Emmie Bollins, any more than 
 we shall perhaps less. We're all interested. He's 
 your son, but he's our nephew. It's a family affair, and 
 I'm prepared to do what I can to stop it." 
 
 " I should think we all are," said Miss Booke, sharply 
 and thoughtlessly. 
 
 Thoughtlessly, because Timothy stedfastly refused to 
 be browbeaten and driven. 
 
 " It seems to me," he said quietly, " that Tim'll please 
 himself in a matter o' this kind. And, er . . . I'm not 
 so sure he won't be right." 
 
 Miss Booke sat up and looked superbly indignant. 
 
 Mrs. Holten understood. She muttered to her sister: 
 " I wish you wouldn't talk so fast, Maria. You surely 
 can see you can't make people do just what you want." 
 
 " Make them do it. I don't want to make anybody do
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 97 
 
 anything. But as Tim's aunt, as Miss Booke, at any 
 rate, I've a right to have my say." 
 
 " You've had your say," said Timothy sardonically. 
 
 Mrs. Holten turned to her brother. 
 
 " Now, you don't want Tim to marry this Emmie Bol- 
 lins, do you, Timothy?" 
 
 " I don't know that I've said anything one way or the 
 other," he replied cannily. 
 
 " Well, will you? " snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " I will when it pleases me," and he puffed away at 
 his pipe resolutely and stolidly. 
 
 " Now come, Timothy," said Mrs. Holten. " Can't 
 we all see what we can do to help you? " 
 
 " I don't know that I want any help." 
 
 " That's a Booke all over," said Miss Booke, knowing 
 full well that her brother was now merely responding 
 to an awkward fit, though she refused to see that she 
 herself, by her manner, was the primary cause of it. 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked troubled. She wanted to do some- 
 thing and always preferred to do it by mastering, if she 
 could, but she had a good supply of common sense in her 
 composition, and did not play the " bull in the china 
 shop " as her sister Maria was inclined to do. Sophie 
 might have had more weight with Timothy than Maria, 
 she thought. . . . 
 
 Her face was drawn and she looked at Timothy who, 
 by now, had got himself behind his pipe, so to speak, with 
 an expression of immovability. Jane knew that attitude. 
 Timothy could be silent for hours weeks even, if he 
 wished. 
 
 Mrs. Holten nodded her head: "Well, Timothy, it 
 will be a great pity if Tim does do anything foolish a 
 great pity. It isn't as if there was others in the family; 
 he's the only child. . . ."
 
 98 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Timothy continued to smoke and preserve silence. 
 
 Miss Booke had now set her face as if she had to 
 endure things and would. 
 
 Just as they were all three beginning to wonder what 
 was going to happen or who was going to make the next 
 move, Tim, himself, came in.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MR. BOOKE went on smoking while a curious ex- 
 pression crept over his face. 
 
 Mrs. Holten darted a look at him, and fancied she 
 caught concern in his eyes. She smiled, a little coldly, 
 at Tim. 
 
 Miss Booke, sitting very straight on her chair, looked 
 severe. 
 
 " Hello ! " began Tim, and saw then that all was not 
 of a roseate hue. He knew the humours of his rela- 
 tions and his first thought was there was a difference of 
 sorts between his father and his aunts. 
 
 He took off his black apron, rolled it up and put it in 
 a drawer in the sideboard. 
 
 Mrs. Holten saw she must set the ball rolling. 
 
 " What's this I hear about you and Emmie Bollins, 
 Tim? " she asked. 
 
 Tim looked at her. 
 
 " I don't know what you've been hearing, Aunt Jane." 
 
 " I think you can guess. It's going about that you're 
 walking out with her." 
 
 "Oh. . . ." 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 " I reckon it is." 
 
 " Well," said Miss Booke, " you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself, Tim Booke, to stand there and coolly tell 
 your family that you're walking out with one of your 
 father's trimmers! Reckon it is, eh. ... And do you 
 mean to marry her ? " 
 
 Tim flushed a little. 
 
 99
 
 ioo AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I don't know what there is to be ashamed of," he 
 said. 
 
 " That only makes it worse," snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " Oh. . . ." 
 
 " You're not thinking of marrying her, are you, Tim? " 
 asked Mrs. Holten. 
 
 "By Gum! This is a bit thick, isn't it? I didn't 
 know I had to ask my aunts to choose my wife for me." 
 
 " It's not a question of asking your aunts to choose 
 your wife for you," said Miss Booke quickly; "it's a 
 question of you disgracing your family." 
 
 " I say, Aunt Maria, that's putting it a bit strong, isn't 
 it? Since you think fit to talk like that, I don't mind 
 telling you that when I marry I shan't think for one 
 minute whether my aunts will approve my wife or 
 not " 
 
 " Tim," said Mrs. Holten, " there's your father . . . 
 and your family. You ought to consider them, you 
 know." 
 
 " Consider 'em. . . . Ay but how much?" 
 
 " Well, you shouldn't marry any one they, er . . . any 
 one that isn't your equal." 
 
 " Equal in what way ? " 
 
 " Position." 
 
 " Position." He laughed. " I suppose you mean 
 money. It's no good you talking, Aunt Jane, not a bit. 
 When I marry, I shall marry the woman I choose, and 
 I shan't think of position or anything else." 
 
 " Selfishness," jerked out Miss Booke. 
 
 Tim smiled. 
 
 " Selfishness. ... I suppose you'd like me to marry 
 somebody that pleased you, somebody with position, 
 whether I wanted to or not; rather than have me marry 
 somebody I wanted if you didn't approve of her. . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 101 
 
 I think we might leave the question of selfishness out of 
 it." 
 
 " Your father, Tim," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 Tim said nothing. 
 
 Mr. Booke was still silent and smoking. 
 
 "What about him?" asked Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " Well," said Tim, " he might have the right to say 
 something, but at present I seem to hear more from my 
 aunts." 
 
 " We've got your welfare at heart, Tim," said Mrs. 
 Holten. 
 
 " I think we'll drop that," retorted Tim quickly. 
 " What you've really got at heart is your own feelings. 
 You'd like me to marry somebody you can boast about 
 your nephew's marrying a few thousand pounds, or some- 
 thing of that kind. But I'm going to please myself 
 let's take that as settled." 
 
 " Oh ! dear ! dear ! dear ! Can't you see the disgrace 
 for the family? " 
 
 " No. If I'm not disgraced, I can't see how the fam- 
 ily will be." 
 
 " Have you nothing to say to him, Timothy ? " Miss 
 Booke said suddenly to her brother. 
 
 Mr. Booke quietly took out his pipe. 
 
 " You two seem to be managing all right." 
 
 " Managing all right," snapped Miss Booke. " We 
 are not managing at all. He's as obstinate as a mule. 
 He can't see anybody's view but his own." 
 
 " No," said Mr. Booke quietly. " And you're going 
 the right way to make him obstinate. I don't care who 
 she is, but a chap as wanted to marry a girl would be a 
 fool to give her up because two of his aunts started 
 shouting at him." 
 
 " I'm not shouting," said Mrs. Holten.
 
 102 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " And neither am I," shrieked Miss Booke. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, call it what you like shouting, nag- 
 ging, jawing it's all the same. You know what I 
 mean. Any young chap o' spirit would refuse to be 
 browbeaten off a girl if he only half wanted her. I don't 
 know why you can't think of other folks' feelings now 
 and then " 
 
 Miss Booke jumped up. 
 
 " And what about our feelings ? " 
 
 " We don't want to browbeat or nag or anything," 
 said Mrs. Holten, " and you know that, Timothy." 
 
 "If anybody had been listening to you since you've 
 been here he'd have thought so, at any rate," said Timothy 
 grimly. 
 
 Tim, who had been getting very angry towards his 
 aunts for their, as he thought, interference, listened to 
 his father with a great reassurance. It encouraged him 
 to feel angry with his aunts, but made him feel very deeply 
 drawn to his father. 
 
 " Oh! dear! dear! " said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " It seems to me we have done no good by coming," 
 said Miss Booke. 
 
 " That's as about as wise a thing as you've said since 
 you've been here, Maria," said Timothy. 
 
 " Well " began Miss Booke, but Mrs. Holten, who 
 did not want her brother and sister to start quarrelling, 
 said soothingly, and in almost a pleading voice : " Is 
 it really true, Tim, that you are walking out with Emmie 
 Bollins?" 
 
 Tim hesitated. 
 
 " When I mean to get married, the first person I shall 
 tell is father." 
 
 " Then you haven't made up your mind yet? " 
 
 " I didn't say that."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 103 
 
 " Have you ? " asked Miss Booke. 
 
 " I'm not going to tell you," said Tim very quietly, al- 
 most hotly. 
 
 " There ! . . . There ! . . . From Tim Booke ! Well. . . ." 
 
 " I suppose," said Mrs. Holten, with a certain amount 
 of resignation in her voice, " it means that you have 
 made up your mind. . . . Dear ! dear ! . . . Emmie Bol- 
 lins . . . her father a body-maker, or something of the 
 sort. . . . It'll be all over Canton. . . . What will they 
 say? Timothy Booke's son marrying one of his father's 
 trimmers." 
 
 Timothy got up. He spoke very quietly. 
 
 " I think it would be best, Jane," he said, " if you con- 
 sidered this topic at an end. Your talk neither yours 
 nor Maria's isn't doing a ha'p'orth o' good. In fact, 
 I should say it's the other way about. When Tim's going 
 to get married you'll hear about it." 
 
 " You might as well talk to a stump as talk to some 
 people," said Miss Booke a common remark of hers 
 when she had failed to convert some one to her views. 
 
 Mrs. Holten tried suavity and a little advice. She said 
 she spoke for Tim's good, and said that marrying out 
 of one's position was dangerous. 
 
 But Tim regarded the reasons as preposterous and the 
 interference as impertinent, and took refuge in a blank 
 silence. 
 
 The two ladies, finding they did no good, that is to say, 
 that they got hold of nothing definite (though each per- 
 suaded herself she really had gone the right way to work, 
 even if the other had failed), decided to go. Mrs. Hol- 
 ten hoped for the best, hoped the family wouldn't have 
 cause for regrets over anything Tim did, reminded Tim 
 that he was the only child of his father and that his fam- 
 ily all the members of it had a right to look to him,
 
 104 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 for a line of conduct that would never bring discredit on 
 them. 
 
 Miss Booke said curtly she hoped he'd learn sense be- 
 fore he was much older, and that if he did anything stupid 
 in the way of marrying he'd regret it, and she Miss 
 Booke would take care to let any woman know it, who 
 tried to drag down a member of the Booke family she 
 would that! 
 
 When Tim and his father were alone neither spoke for 
 a moment. Tim looked as if he would like to say some- 
 thing, but found a difficulty in beginning. He postponed 
 speech said to himself he would tell his father later, 
 and was going out of the room when Timothy said, 
 " Tim." 
 
 " Yes, Father." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Is this true?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " I think you might have told me." 
 
 "I meant to, Father," said Tim. "I've. . . . It's. 
 ... I suppose somebody's seen me with her, and so it's 
 all over Canton." 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 "Have you made up your mind?" this from the 
 father. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " No going back on it? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " H'm. . . There's been no necessity to marry her?" 
 
 " No. No fear. If I died to-morrow or left her, she 
 could marry anybody ; there's nothing of that sort." 
 
 " H'm. I'm glad o' that. You . . . you really want her?"
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 105 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Has it been going on long? " 
 
 " No. ... I met her at Belle Vue a while back, and 
 had a dance with her; and, er. . . . She's all right, Fa- 
 ther. She's sensible, and I should think a good worker. 
 She'll make me a better wife than many a one as these 
 aunts of mine 'ud have picked out for me." 
 
 " Ay. . . . Ay. . . . Only, after all, she is one of our 
 trimmers. Well, it's your affair; you're marrying her, 
 not me. I can't say as I approve ; but then, I shan't dis- 
 approve. I'm not going out of my way to be over-pleas- 
 ant to her you're marrying her, not me. If she does 
 all right, well, we'll see. Only, whoever it is, I shall 
 keep my word, Tim." 
 
 " In what way, Father? " 
 
 " When you marry, the works will be yours and this 
 house." 
 
 "Oh! But " 
 
 " That's settled. I didn't think your wife would be 
 one of our trimmers; but that'll make no difference to 
 my word; a promise is a promise. Only . . . well, I 
 hope she'll be a good wife and that you'll be happy if 
 you do marry her." 
 
 " Thanks. . . . Thank you, Father. I, er. . . ." 
 Tim looked as if he would like to say a great deal: as if 
 there were certain emotions he would like to lay bare 
 before his father; but it was very difficult. He could 
 not describe, with any ease, the particular emotions he 
 had towards Emmie or towards his father, even at that 
 moment. He was disturbed by his father's generosity; 
 it seemed extravagant in comparison with his aunts' 
 attitudes. He hesitated. After all, he had said thanks. 
 He managed to mutter : " I think she'll be all right,
 
 106 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Father. ... I, er. ... I hope you'll be satisfied. I 
 don't, er " He was uncomfortable. 
 
 " That's all right, lad. I only want you to be happy," 
 said Timothy. And he, too, hesitated, as if he would 
 like to say more; like, perhaps, to say something really 
 feeling about his affection for his son, but he found it 
 too difficult. 
 
 They both stood silent for a moment, feeling awkward 
 and very desirous, somehow, of expressing a delicate 
 sensation. But neither could find words. They felt 
 things they could not discuss. . . . 
 
 Mr. Booke suddenly said : " That's all. I reckon you 
 want to get out. Did you lock up ? " 
 
 " Yes, Father." 
 
 And then Tim went out.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THOUGH Mr. Booke could not regard his son's ac- 
 tions with a kindly eye, he did not necessarily bring 
 Emmie Bollins within the pale of his indulgence. 
 
 Mr. Booke had really some of the feelings of his sis- 
 ters. He had wanted his son to do well, and one of the 
 ways of "doing well" was to marry well; hence, this 
 engagement to Emmie Bollins was of a nature to dis- 
 appoint him. He could forgive his son and wish him 
 well, but he had still a kind of secret desire to see Emmie 
 castigated in some way for having come across Tim's 
 path. He would do nothing to thwart his son's happi- 
 ness, but neither would he stretch out a hand to help 
 Emmie. 
 
 She trimmed as usual, and when Timothy met her he 
 nodded curtly or passed her by. 
 
 She took it very calmly. She was engaged ; she knew 
 Tim was in love with her and meant to marry her; she 
 could face the others. Not that she had much chance 
 before marriage, for Miss Booke and Mrs. Holten par- 
 ticularly wanted to impress on her (by a cold-shouldering 
 behaviour) the ostracism she had earned for herself by 
 worming her way into the Booke family, and consequently 
 she received no invitations to the homes of these ladies. 
 
 They had gnashed their teeth and raged together, but 
 to the outside world they put on quite a pleasant face. 
 Tim's engagement. . . . Oh! well, they understood Miss 
 Bollins was a good worker, would make him probably 
 a good wife, and it was, perhaps, as well he had not lost 
 his heart to a doll. Besides, she was really very attrac- 
 
 107
 
 io8 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 tive everybody had to admit that. And money wasn't 
 everything! . . . 
 
 Privately, the Booke ladies (Mrs. Grass the least) let 
 their tongues wag in full. Emmie's ears must have 
 needed horrible scratching at times, if it be really true 
 that our ears do itch when we are being attacked over 
 tea cups or anywhere, for that matter. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke gave Tim the cold shoul- 
 der to some extent. If they met, they never asked about 
 Emmie, or if they mentioned her or the prospective mar- 
 riage, they did so with a gibe or a sneer. " I suppose 
 Mrs. Bollins will have her house full of guests at the 
 wedding, Tim. . . ." Or, " I should like to see Emmie 
 Bollins' bottom drawer. ... I don't suppose Sam Bol- 
 lins has a decent suit to wear. . . ." " Emmie Bollins' 
 friends will make a good show at the wedding," et cetera. 
 
 Tim had not got his father's temper, which could blaze 
 on occasions; he was mild, and kept things well focused, 
 as a rule. When his aunts tried sarcasm, he either ig- 
 nored it or retorted in kind, but never spoke in the fury 
 of passion. 
 
 He did not wear down these aunts of his, because a 
 certain fierce obstinate pride seemed almost vital to their 
 natures ; but, at least, he let them clearly understand that 
 nothing they said or did would turn him from his inten- 
 tion of marrying Emmie Bollins. 
 
 The inevitability galled them. When they met they 
 discussed Tim and Emmie. They said sharp things to 
 Timothy, but though he tolerated some, he let them know 
 there were limits they must not pass. He did not approve 
 of Emmie; he would rather Tim had chosen elsewhere; 
 but Timothy loved his son and did not intend that a 
 daughter-in-law should snap that link of affection. 
 
 Of course, people in Ganton talked, and the Bookes
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 109 
 
 had to put up with the acid-like remarks, the neatly turned 
 commiseration, the surprised " A trimmer, isn't she ? " 
 . . . But these remarks only really came from a few, 
 although to the female Bookes it sounded as if the whole 
 world whispered them. Ganton, in general, did not 
 bother its head about the business at all. Ganton, that 
 knew by sight or hearing, Tim and Emmie, smiled, per- 
 haps, and added : " She's doing well ; he might have 
 done worse." When hat manufacturers' wives cleaned 
 and cooked and managed houses without maids, it seemed 
 gratuitous to attempt to sneer at a " trimmer." But then 
 the Bookes were inclined to arrogance and when thwarted, 
 very bitter with the tongue. 
 
 Emmie and Tim took matters calmly. Letters never 
 passed between them; there was no need. Emmie went 
 to work as was her wont in the trimming-room of T. 
 Booke & Son, and walked out on certain evenings with 
 the soon-to-be sole possessor of that hat factory. They 
 walked down semi-quiet lanes, where he put his arm 
 round her waist and kissed her and assumed an attitude 
 of grave circumspection when other people appeared on 
 the scene. 
 
 There were no formal introductions. Tim merely 
 meant to marry Emmie, and with a practical directness 
 said to himself that fact did not mean that he had to go 
 hob-nobbing with Sam Bollins, her father, or with her 
 mother or her sister. 
 
 But Emmie, after a few months of engagement, felt 
 that he really ought to call. After all, he passed, and on 
 one occasion, seeing Mrs. Bollins at the door, he had 
 stopped and said : " Emmie in ? " 
 
 " She's just gone to the grocer's," said Mrs. Bollins, 
 who wanted to be very pleasant and amiable, and yet not 
 obsequious, to her prospective son-in-law.
 
 no AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Gone cold, hasn't it ? Are you keeping 
 well?" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Tim, thank you. Will you come in a min- 
 ute? We're upset a bit, but, er " 
 
 " No. No no, thanks. Some other day. Tell 
 Emmie I'll be ready in three quarters of an hour, will 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " G'night." 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Tim." 
 
 And Mrs. Bollins was quite excited over this little con- 
 versation with the man who was about to marry her 
 daughter. For one thing, it showed his straight, plain- 
 forward dealing; he was walking out with Emmie, and 
 made no pretence to hide things or cover them up. A 
 nice young fellow, too. . . . He said he'd come in some 
 other day. Of course, he was probably in a hurry 
 now. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Bollins felt unduly elated; she seemed drawn in 
 the circle of the Booke family herself. The engagement 
 no longer concerned Emmie alone. She walked across 
 the road to Mrs. Cross. 
 
 " Just had Emmie's young man calling on me." 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Booke? . . ." 
 
 " Yes. Very nice he is, too. They're going out to- 
 gether, and he just come and had a little chat with me." 
 
 " Your Emmie's doing well there." 
 
 " Yes. I tell her that. . . . She'll manage all right." 
 
 When Emmie came home, Mrs. Bollins said: 
 " Er. . . ." (She was boggling at the style of address.) 
 " Mr. Tim's been." 
 
 " Oh ! " Emmie was pleased and surprised. " What 
 did he want?" 
 
 " He just had a few words with me ; he was passing,
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 111 
 
 that was all. He said he'd be ready in three quarters of 
 an hour." 
 
 "Oh! ... Did he ask you to tell me?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Emmie was still further pleased. The fact that Tim 
 had practically told her mother he was preparing to meet 
 her and was obviously thinking about her although a 
 commonplace to her (Emmie) was very gratifying. It 
 emphasised her engagement. Mr. Timothy Booke, 
 Junior, calling at her house to leave a message that he 
 was anticipating a meeting ministered to her pride in her 
 position. 
 
 " I suppose he didn't say much," she said, really de- 
 siring to learn, if possible, every word he had uttered. 
 
 " No we just talked." Mrs. Bollins wished to mag- 
 nify her own part in the short colloquy. She did not 
 wish her daughter to think that Mr. Tim only regarded 
 her (Emmie) with respect; she too could talk to Mr. Tim 
 easily enough. . . . 
 
 The engagement kept on its even course until the next 
 summer, when Tim said to his father: 
 
 " Oh! . . . Emmie and I are thinking of getting mar- 
 ried, Father, this Wakes." 
 
 " Oh-h. . . ." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. 
 
 " I reckon you've both made up your minds," said Mr. 
 Booke, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes. We're not to a week or two, for that matter, 
 if there's any reason why the Wakes wouldn't suit." 
 
 Mr. Booke nodded his head. 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of that," he said. He smacked his 
 lips. 
 
 " What, er . . ." began Tim.
 
 112 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I was thinking of her. . . . Well, you've seen enough 
 of one another by now to know your own minds. Are 
 you satisfied ? " 
 
 " I am. Quite. There's nobody else I know as I'd 
 put in the same street with Emmie," said Tim, with some 
 little feeling, as if he owed Emmie and his own feelings 
 so much and would pay the debt. 
 
 " H'm. ... I hope she'll make you a good wife, my 
 lad. I've nothing against her. I'm not going to make 
 a fuss of her till I see how she behaves and perhaps 
 not then. But I'll give her a chance. . . . Your aunts 
 don't like her." 
 
 " They're not marrying her." 
 
 " No. But they're part of the family, and you'll meet 
 now and again. However, if you've made up your mind, 
 we'll call it settled. This'll be your home." 
 
 "Oh! But " 
 
 Mr. Booke waved his hand. 
 
 " No. I keep my word. I'm going to retire. I hope 
 Emmie'll stand by you and do her best to help you and 
 remember the firm. This house will be yours and the 
 business. I shall come when I like, poke my nose in 
 what I want, and say what I like but it'll be all yours 
 I'll see Stevens and fix it up. ... This Wakes, eh ? 
 
 " Well. . . . H'm. I don't suppose Sam Bollins has 
 anything to spend on a wedding " 
 
 " I'll see to that," interrupted Tim. 
 
 "See to what?" 
 
 " I'll let 'im have something. Besides, we shall have 
 a quiet wedding; we want no fuss." 
 
 Timothy shook his head. 
 
 " Nay, nay, lad. No hole-in-the-corner business ; 
 there's nothing to be ashamed of. And you're the only 
 one, you know."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 113 
 
 " But we'd rather, Father; we want no fuss." 
 
 " You needn't have any fuss. I reckon invitations can 
 be sent out in my name as well as the Bollins' and I'll 
 pay. You can get married at Christ Church, and I'll 
 take the guests to Marple or somewhere, and give 'em a 
 feed and a drive. We'll fix up summat. I, er. . . . 
 Emmie is a good-looking wench." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " You've perhaps made a good choice, Tim. ... I 
 don't know. At any rate, we shall see." 
 
 " She's all right, Father. She suits me, and what does 
 it matter about money? I've enough." 
 
 " The money's all right." 
 
 When the details of the wedding came to be discussed, 
 the Booke ladies found they had a great deal to say. A 
 great deal of what they said was irrelevant; it did not 
 help on the arguments at all. " Imagine Emmie Bollins 
 having a wedding like this! Never dreamt of this in 
 all her days! . . . Two big fat folk would just about 
 fill that kitchen of hers have they a scullery? . . ." 
 " Salmon mayonnaise. ... I don't suppose the Bollins 
 lot have ever heard of it; they'll probably want to eat it 
 with a spoon! . . . ." 
 
 Such remarks as those did not settle anything really, 
 but they gave Miss Booke and Mrs. Holten a certain re- 
 lief and Mrs. Grass some amusement, which was promptly 
 criticised by Miss Booke, declared the occasion to be " no 
 laughing matter." She could scarcely understand how a 
 Booke could look pleasant at such a time. 
 
 And yet this wedding had to be a creditable affair. 
 The Bookes were mixed up in it and their pride insisted 
 on the thing being well done. Timothy sat and smoked
 
 114 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 and made suggestions and offered criticisms, but he knew 
 that his sisters, however bitter of tongue, were at least 
 very capable of organisation and that the wedding ar- 
 rangements, if left to them, would be satisfactory. He 
 said he would foot the bill and he could trust them to 
 make the required show, to see everything was of the 
 best and also to see there was no waste. ' 
 
 And these Booke ladies were very proud of their ar- 
 rangements. They wanted the guests, after the wedding, 
 to feel they had never been to a better managed affair 
 even if Emmie Bollins were the bride. And what was 
 more, they would loose their bitter tongues on anybody 
 who criticised Emmie adversely; they reserved that par- 
 ticular function for themselves. 
 
 At the beginning of July (the wedding being fixed for 
 the first week in August), Timothy said to his son: 
 " Hadn't you better bring Emmie in to supper one night ? 
 Or let her come and have dinner and meet your aunts 
 here next Sunday." 
 
 " I'll tell her," said Tim. 
 
 " Sunday will be best," said Mr. Booke. " She can 
 have dinner and you can sit in the garden and do what 
 you like till tea time, and your uncles and aunts'll be here 
 after church. It's about time they met. I think we 
 might have 'em all here, for that matter." 
 
 " I'll tell her," said Tim. 
 
 Emmie was very pleased at the invitation, and the fact 
 that it was for dinner, tea and supper, gave it a family 
 ring in her ears. It was much more friendly than a 
 simple invitation to tea or supper. Evidently Mr. Booke 
 regarded the engaged with a benevolent eye, and was 
 inclined to be sympathetic. 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 "You'll come?" he asked.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 115 
 
 " Yes. . . . You'd like me to." 
 
 " Yes. We can go for a walk in the afternoon or 
 after tea, for that matter, and get back for supper. 
 They'll all be there for supper." 
 
 Emmie looked at him. 
 
 "All . . . who's all?" 
 
 "Uncle Tom and Aunt Jane, Uncle Fred and Aunt 
 Sophia, and Aunt Maria Mr. and Mrs. Holten and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grass, and my aunt that lives down Man- 
 chester Road." 
 
 "MissBooke?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Emmie was silent. It was a family affair! All that 
 lot. . . . They wanted to have a proper look at her, eh ? 
 . . . She thought of her clothes at once. She had the 
 new summer dress; it was good enough. And she'd got 
 a new underskirt and a new pair of stockings, too. 
 She didn't mind; she was as good-looking as any of that 
 lot. . . . And wouldn't they watch her? She'd have to 
 mind her p's and q's . . . but what did it matter ? They 
 could say what they liked; she was marrying Tim, not 
 them 
 
 " What are you thinking about ? " Tim asked her. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 He gave a little laugh, knowing that " something " was 
 nearer the mark. 
 
 " Some of those aunts of mine can say things," he 
 said. 
 
 "What sort of things?" said Emmie quickly. 
 
 "All sorts if they think they can cut you a bit." 
 
 Emmie was silent. She knew the reputation of the 
 Booke family.. She shrugged her shoulders. ... If 
 they started cutting at her. . . . Well, two could play at 
 that game.
 
 ii6 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Don't let them say cheeky things to you," said Tim, 
 as if he guessed what she was thinking about. " They 
 try it on me, but I just take no notice or hit back." 
 
 " Why should they want to say cheeky things to me ? " 
 asked Emmie. 
 
 " Ask me another. Why does a duck swim? " 
 
 " I'm as good as them," said Emmie, after a pause, the 
 words coming out in spite of herself, in a kind of fierce 
 resentment and bravado. 
 
 Tim looked round. They were in a bend of the lane 
 with no one near. He put his arm round her and kissed 
 her. 
 
 " You're a jolly sight better, Emmie." 
 
 She looked at him, both gratefully and lovingly, as she 
 pushed her hair back under her hat. 
 
 Emmie was certainly well dressed when she went to 
 dinner to Mr. Booke's on the Sunday. She had a nat- 
 ural taste for the suitable and effective, and her face and 
 figure could have withstood many a shrieking garment. 
 Her only trouble was creaky boots. But that, she im- 
 agined, couldn't be helped; everybody's boots creaked 
 when they were new so she imagined. She remem- 
 bered hearing the Rev. John O' Kelly's creaking tremen- 
 dously in church one morning, and after that, she seemed 
 to fancy noisy boots were in some way sacred, like sur- 
 plices. 
 
 Mr. Booke, by this time softened towards his pros- 
 pective daughter-in-law, and philosophically (meaning 
 sensibly) facing the inevitable in such a way as to get 
 the best out of the marriage, was prepared to greet her 
 in a very friendly manner. 
 
 Mrs. Bane had taken extra care with the plain, but 
 substantial and wholesome dinner, and was really curious
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 117 
 
 to see this Emmie Bollins that was going to marry Mr. 
 Tim. 
 
 But the restrained and almost dignified curiosity at 
 Helston House was nothing to the excitement that pre- 
 vailed at the Bollins'. 
 
 Sarah Bollins had wondered more than a little if Mr. 
 Tim were playing with her sister; she took some time 
 and had some difficulty in believing that Emmie had won 
 Mr. Tim whole-heartedly. She watched the walkings-out 
 with a keen interest, not unalloyed by some fears. She 
 had been surprised at the news when she first heard it, 
 and there were occasions when she was not altogether 
 happy at Emmie's calm assurance of remarkable fortune, 
 but she was now most anxious that the affair should 
 not collapse. She had spoken of her sister's young man, 
 Mr. Tim Booke, son of Mr. Booke of Booke & Son, so 
 frequently, that she was very anxious to be able to speak 
 of her brother-in-law, Mr. Booke of Booke & Son. And 
 if anything happened to prevent that becoming a reality 
 Sarah felt she would lose the something she had recently 
 gathered round her on account of her sister's engage- 
 ment. 
 
 Mr. Bollins had suggested to his wife he should wear 
 two shirts a week now, and every now and then he hinted 
 to his wife that Emmie's marriage would be a good thing 
 for them. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins quite agreed about the good thing and said 
 it would be only right and proper. She also commended 
 the idea about the shirts, only as Sam Bollins had only 
 two, the idea had to be waived for practical reasons. 
 
 There was, consequently, a kind of keen watchfulness 
 pervading the Bollins family in relation to Emmie. 
 Some things could scarcely be repressed openly par- 
 ticularly the fears. If Emmie were not out with Tim
 
 n8 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 on some usually engaged evening there were very anx- 
 ious looks, and one or the other of the family ( frequently 
 more than one) said to Emmie: "Not going out with 
 him to-night" 
 
 Emmie's reply: 
 
 " No, he's got something on a billiard match at the 
 club," reassured them. They understood billiard matches 
 and clubs. 
 
 But a thin atmosphere of uneasiness seemed to hang 
 over the household till Emmie had been out again with 
 Mr. Tim to reassure them all. 
 
 No wonder this invitation to dinner gave them im- 
 mense satisfaction. 
 
 " Going to dinner," said Mrs. Bollins, looking at her 
 daughter in a sort of wonderment. 
 
 Sarah said : " About time, too." This great fuss of 
 Emmie at home was not always to her liking. 
 
 Mr. Bollins nodded; he was naturally elated. 
 
 " Now, take care and behave yourself well. Don't put 
 your knife in your mouth remember that." 
 
 Emmie smiled. She was wondering herself if there 
 would be any little pitfalls at the table. 
 
 " I expect they'll use serviettes," said Mrs. Bollins. 
 " And being Sunday, they'll all be clean. . . . Perhaps 
 they'll be nicely done up. ... I wonder if Mrs. Bane 
 goes in for that sort of thing? " 
 
 " Now, mind what I say," said Mr. Bollins. " Don't 
 put your knife in your mouth." 
 
 Emmie said : " Do you think I don't know how to 
 behave myself ? " 
 
 Mr. Bollins shook his head. 
 
 " You should do, my girl ; you should do. But take 
 notice: don't put your knife in your mouth." 
 
 " They'll have their vegetables in dishes," said Mrs.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 119 
 
 Bollins, trying to picture the table. " And some folk, 
 I believe, pass the vegetables to you and ask you to help 
 yourself." 
 
 " I don't like that," said Sarah quickly. " I'm always 
 afraid to take enough that way." 
 
 "You'll be all right with that," said Mr. Bollins. 
 " You needn't worry about that. If I had a chance, I 
 could show you. I don't care whether they pass you 
 dishes or help you. . . . But, remember what I've told 
 you : don't put your knife in your mouth." 
 
 Sarah laughed. 
 
 " You would look funny, Emmie, if you cut yourself, 
 wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " One would think I had just come out of the back- 
 woods, from the way you talk," said Emmie, and she 
 went upstairs to look at some of the things she was going 
 to wear. At any rate, she meant to go decently dressed. 
 
 On the Saturday evening she had a bath. She felt 
 that nothing should be left to chance. Suppose she met 
 with an accident ; broke her leg, for instance, and had to 
 be put to bed at Helston House. . . . 
 
 So the rest of the family went to bed and left her up 
 to wash in a zinc hip bath, placed in front of the kitchen 
 fire.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 EMMIE had to go through a mental ordeal before she 
 could make up her mind which door she ought to 
 knock at. She was so anxious not to do the wrong thing 
 that she began to feel there was a right and wrong door. 
 If she went to the front, she might be accused of " putting 
 it on " she, who went regularly to work in the trim- 
 ming-room at the rear! and if she went to the back 
 door they might think she was trying to be too familiar 
 and that it wasn't the proper thing for a visitor to do. 
 And then her common sense came to the rescue " As if 
 a thing like a door mattered." To be followed almost at 
 once with the hint: but Miss Booke, eh. ... And Mrs. 
 Holten. . . . 
 
 Emmie went to the side door in Davy Street as a com- 
 promise. 
 
 Tim opened the door. 
 
 " Found your way, then? " he said, smiling. 
 
 "Of course, I had to ask," she replied, with quick 
 humour. 
 
 He looked round. There was nobody about. He 
 kissed her. 
 
 " They'll hear," she whispered hoping they would. 
 
 " That will make a difference," he said, looking happy. 
 " I don't know what you'll do with your hat and 
 things " 
 
 Just then Mrs. Bane appeared, and Emmie at once be- 
 gan to wonder if she should shake hands with her or 
 not. Left to herself she would not only have shaken 
 hands but have kissed the smiling housekeeper, only
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 121 
 
 well, she had to keep that knife out of her mouth, and 
 she meant so to behave that no nasty remarks should be 
 said about her. 
 
 Mrs. Bane nodded very pleasantly : " Miss Bollins 
 good morning." 
 
 Emmie said " Good morning," and looked a little timid, 
 but had also a friendly air. " Another nice morning, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes. But at this time of the year we ought to be 
 having nice weather. Will you come upstairs? You 
 can take your hat off in the spare room." 
 
 Emmie followed Mrs. Bane upstairs, and was at once 
 struck with the difference between her house and this. 
 As she put her foot on the stairs carpet she thought at 
 once of that worn-out oilcloth that made a pretence of 
 covering their stairs. . . . And these brass rods. . . . 
 And the space there was on the landing. . . . And the 
 rooms what a lot ! . . . 
 
 " I suppose," said Mrs. Bane, when she was in the bed- 
 room with Emmie, " you'll be getting married soon." 
 
 "Soon we're thinking about the Wakes." 
 
 "And very nice, too. . . . Well, I wish you luck. 
 Mr. Tim's a gentleman. Where are you going to live ? " 
 
 " Er. . . . Oh ! We haven't settled everything yet," 
 said Emmie, with swift tactfulness. 
 
 " No. There's such a lot to be thought of at a time 
 like this. Well, I must get back to the dinner; mustn't 
 let that spoil. If you want anything, just ask. You can 
 put your hat on the bed, and you'll find your way down- 
 stairs all right." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Emmie. " Don't you wait. Thank 
 you very much." 
 
 When Mrs. Bane had left her, Emmie at once began 
 to take stock of things in the room. The bed, with the
 
 122 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 beautiful spread on it, made her screw up her hands in 
 an emotion of delighted wonder. There was a carpet 
 all over the floor, a hearth rug and a brass fender and 
 fire-irons, with a little Japanese screen in front of the 
 fireplace. Between the two windows there was a dress- 
 ing-table, with a fine swinging mirror in the middle and 
 two oblong mirrors at the sides. Emmie had no idea 
 of the particular kind of furniture; she could not tell 
 the difference between Chippendale and Sheraton, and 
 rosewood and mahogany were almost the same to her. 
 But she felt expense in the room: luxuries, things that 
 only people with money can afford. . . . She noted the 
 large wardrobe with the panel mirrors, and looked at her- 
 self in both of them and felt that those mirrors had not 
 reflected many better looking than herself, though she 
 thought it who shouldn't. She had no time to view 
 the pictures, for she was afraid they would be wondering 
 downstairs what she was doing perhaps think she was 
 taking things ! . . . 
 
 Tim was waiting in the hall. 
 
 " You might as well come in the dining-room," he said. 
 " Dinner will be ready soon." 
 
 Mr. Booke was sitting in a big easy chair, reading the 
 local weekly newspaper, when Emmie entered. He low- 
 ered his paper and nodded. 
 
 "We. . . . Found your way in all right?" 
 
 Emmie was not sure whether he would want to shake 
 hands or not. He sat up and looked agreeable, but made 
 no attempt at any ceremonial greeting. Emmie was glad, 
 for it made her path a little easier. It was the uncom- 
 mon things that tried her. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " Well, sit you down and make yourself at home. You 
 might as well start."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 123 
 
 Emmie sat down and felt a little awkward. She was 
 not much troubled, for the genuinely pretty woman has 
 a confidence in herself; but Emmie did not want to make 
 any false steps. She looked at Tim. There was a si- 
 lence. 
 
 Mr. Booke said sharply, but not harshly : " How old 
 are you, Emmie? " 
 
 " Twenty-two." 
 
 " H'm. You look older than that. I suppose you're 
 old enough to get married." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Ay. And you want to get married next Wakes, 
 eh!" 
 
 Emmie looked at Tim. 
 
 " We've been thinking of it," she said, and her mind 
 was galloping away with a recital of this conversation 
 to her parents. There was no getting away from this: 
 Mr. Booke talking to her seriously of the marriage. 
 
 Then Mrs. Bane came in, followed by the little maid, 
 and dinner was served. 
 
 Mr. Booke carved, and vegetable dishes were put in 
 front of Tim. 
 
 They had sirloin of beef and Yorkshire pudding, with 
 potatoes and cauliflowers. 
 
 Mr. Booke asked Emmie if she liked undercut, and she 
 hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, but guessing he 
 was referring to fat said, " A little." 
 
 Tim helped her to vegetables, and then Mr. Booke said : 
 " Get ahead, Emmie don't wait." 
 
 Emmie, fortunately, was not flustered with a lot of 
 knives and forks, but she rarely sat down to table where 
 the cloth was so white and the cutlery so clean, and the 
 cruet was in perfect order, with the mustard in a regular 
 pot, instead of being in an eggcup or some other odd
 
 124 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 vessel. And the plates seemed so fine and substantial 
 .and pretty you could hang them on the wall, was Em- 
 mie's reflection, meant to be conveyed to her parents when 
 she reached home. 
 
 To outward seeming Emmie had taken Mr. Booke's 
 advice and was at home. She did not put her knife in 
 her mouth, but used both it and the fork neatly, and 
 passed Tim's plate and then Mr. Booke's when he wanted 
 vegetables. 
 
 And, of course, there were table napkins, the use of 
 which made Emmie feel as if she were a most superior 
 being it had far more effect on her than the cutlery 
 or the cruet or the cloth or the food. 
 
 Emmie, having a choice between apple tart and trifle, 
 elected apple tart, and was pleased to see that both Tim 
 and Mr. Booke took that also. She refused cheese, but 
 was interested in the biscuit barrel and the little biscuits. 
 
 They had coffee after dinner and Emmie thought it 
 was most luxurious the three cups on the (what she 
 thought) silver tray, striking her imagination keenly. 
 
 When the dinner was over Emmie felt thoroughly at 
 home. She had gone through the meal without making 
 any foolish blunders, so far as she knew, and she had 
 acquired an ease of manner that would stand her in good 
 stead when she had to meet the other members of the 
 family in the evening. By this time she had found she 
 could talk freely and frankly to Mr. Booke, despite the 
 fact that she was one of his employes in essence that 
 fact never intruded itself: it was ignored by them all 
 and felt by none. Emmie was one of the family, or bet- 
 ter still, about to be, which meant that for the moment 
 she was treated with attention and consideration. 
 
 At that time the Home Rule controversy raged, for 
 Lord Salisbury's government had been defeated and Mr.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 125 
 
 Gladstone had openly proclaimed himself a Home Ruler. 
 The elections which began on the ist of July had re- 
 sulted in a crushing defeat of the Liberals. 
 
 Mr. Booke talked to Emmie of Home Rule, and some- 
 how did it so well that she did not know whether he was 
 a Home Ruler or not, but thought he was. 
 
 Mr. Booke made conversation easy by doing a good 
 deal of it himself. Emmie did not read newspapers 
 except the local weekly but admitted she had heard of 
 Mr. Stead, the " unemployed," and Sir Charles Dilke, all 
 news items of prominence in the year 1886. 
 
 But Emmie had a bright outlook on life, her mind was 
 clear and she was capable of grasping a subject quickly, 
 so Mr. Booke thought more of his prospective daughter- 
 in-law after an hour's intimacy than he had done be- 
 fore. 
 
 Tim and Emmie sat in the garden till tea time, and 
 after tea went a walk, returning to Helston House in 
 time for supper. 
 
 There were present, Mr. and Mrs. Holten, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Grass, and Miss Booke, besides Timothy Booke and 
 the lovers. 
 
 Emmie, who had been quite comfortable at tea, was 
 moved by mixed emotions as the hour approached when 
 she must meet Tim's uncles and aunts. She was very 
 desirous of making a good impression on Tim's relatives, 
 particularly after the happy time she had spent at Hel- 
 ston House. If she could get on so well with Mr. Booke, 
 why not with the others ? But three of " the others " 
 were women with tongues. 
 
 Emmie thought of her looks, her figure, her dress, and 
 thought they (meaning these "aunts") wouldn't have 
 much to say. And yet, if they liked. . . . She had 
 vague fears. ... In the end she was confident and diffi-
 
 126 
 
 dent, wishful to be in the formidable company, and anx- 
 ious about criticism. 
 
 She took her hat off upstairs again and saw other hats 
 and dolmans on the bed. She had a look at them. . . . 
 Nothing particularly brilliant, she thought, and was some- 
 what reassured at the sight of them. 
 
 She looked at herself in the glass, tidied her hair and 
 washed her hands in the bathroom, thinking, at the same 
 time, what a luxurious place a bathroom was how dif- 
 ferent from their scullery. But those taps wanted a bit 
 of cleaning, all the same. . . . 
 
 Tim was waiting to take her in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Reckon I'd better introduce you," he said. 
 
 Emmie said nothing. 
 
 As she entered the drawing-room, she heard Mr. Grass 
 laugh rather loudly, and caught a confused conversa- 
 tion from the three ladies, who were together. 
 
 Mr. Grass was nearest the door, and said rather, 
 jovially : 
 
 "So this is Emmie, is it?" and held out his hand. 
 " How are you? very well? " 
 
 Emmie took it very smilingly. " Yes, thank you," she 
 replied. 
 
 Mr. Holten stood quite gravely. "How d'you do?" 
 and shook hands. 
 
 The three ladies did not move. Mrs. Holten, who 
 wore spectacles, pushed them a little farther from her 
 nose. Miss Booke sat as upright as a church steeple and 
 Mrs. Grass looked keenly curious. 
 
 Tim brought Emmie round. 
 
 " I don't know if you want introducing," he said 
 quietly, with a certain calm indifference. " Here's Em- 
 mie my Aunt Jane, Mrs. Holten " 
 
 " There's no need to introduce her, Tim," said Mrs.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 127 
 
 Holten. " We all know Emmie Bollins by this time. 
 We've seen you on your way to the trimming-room often 
 enough, I should think." She smiled faintly at Emmie 
 a little more faintly and it would not have been recog- 
 nised as a smile. 
 
 " I should think so, indeed," said Miss Booke. 
 " Many's the time I've heard her clogs rattle." She 
 smiled vinegarly. 
 
 " Oh ! You cats ! " thought Emmie. The mention of 
 clogs galled her. She had certainly worn them when she 
 was younger, but had given them up some time ago, ex- 
 cept for an occasional very wet day. 
 
 She stood still. Her smile, that had at first been 
 pleasant and joyous, faded into a half-sickly, half-defiant 
 expression. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Grass, " better dry feet in clogs than 
 wet 'uns in cheap boots, eh, er Emmie ? " He had 
 boggled at the Christian name for a moment, and so it 
 came as after-consideration. 
 
 " A decent pair of boots will keep rain out," said Miss 
 Booke sharply. "My feet never get wet. Still, of 
 course, we don't expect er Tim's wife to wear 
 clogs." 
 
 " Have you been a walk, Emmie? " asked Mrs. Grass, 
 who wanted to talk to Emmie and get on terms with her. 
 
 Miss Booke glared. Mrs. Holten screwed up her 
 mouth. Why was their sister making so free so soon 
 with this Emmie Bollins? She ought to be kept in her 
 place, or at any rate, made to feel it. They would have 
 to be friendly ultimately, but the trimmer ought to have 
 her trimmings thrown at her first. 
 
 " Yes," replied Emmie quietly. 
 
 " Nice to have a pleasant Sunday," said Mrs. Holten. 
 "You feel fitter for work on the Monday morning.
 
 128 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 What time do you have to get to the trimming-room, 
 Emmie?" 
 
 " Eight o'clock," replied Emmie. 
 
 "Do you pad for your mother, too?" asked Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 " She does very little now," replied Emmie. 
 
 " She'll miss you," said Mrs. Holten. " If your money 
 doesn't go in the house, they'll feel it." 
 
 " They'll manage," said Emmie, who was feeling her- 
 self now being very well baited. 
 
 "They'll manage of course, they'll manage," said 
 Mrs. Holten. " As long as your father's steady and 
 there's work at Booke & Son's. I suppose he'll always 
 be able to get enough to do if he wants it." 
 
 " And you've a sister that trims, haven't you ? " asked 
 Miss Booke. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then they'll not be so badly off." 
 
 Emmie began to think it might be worth while telling 
 these ladies they needn't imagine they were scoring over 
 her, because they weren't. . . . 
 
 Tim was quiet. Mr. Booke was listening. The other 
 two men were talking politics : " Lord Salisbury would 
 have no easy job for these Liberal Unionists headed by 
 Lord Harlington and Chamberlain Chamberlain, prin- 
 cipally were a dangerous flank. They were against 
 Home Rule, but they were also against Lord Salisbury's 
 Toryism. . . . There'd be a crash soon. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Grass had at last succeeded in getting hold of 
 Emmie to be able to say : 
 
 " You're going to be married at the Wakes, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 " We're thinking of it." 
 
 " And where are you going to live ? "
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 129 
 
 Emmie looked at Tim. 
 
 " Here," said Tim. 
 
 " Here," echoed Mrs. Holten, as if aghast at the idea, 
 with which, however, she was very well acquainted. 
 
 " Yes," repeated Tim. 
 
 Emmie wished that she were at home, or rather, that 
 these Booke ladies were. 
 
 " But what's your father going to do ? He doesn't 
 want a young family round him," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Father's going somewhere else." 
 
 "Well!" said Mrs. Holten. "That's a nice start! 
 Turning your father out of his house when you get mar- 
 ried." 
 
 Emmie's eyelids were twitching with emotion. She 
 wanted to turn nobody out of a house. She had even 
 suggested that Mr. Booke should go on living in the 
 house, she didn't mind. And here they were, talking 
 like this. She had always felt folks would talk. . . . 
 
 "Did you know that?" Mrs. Holten suddenly asked 
 Emmie. 
 
 " Ye-es." 
 
 Mrs. Holten snorted, and looked significantly at her 
 sisters, taking off her spectacles, as she did so, with a 
 fine emphasis. There was an air in the action of coming 
 to grips with something or other. 
 
 Emmie wondered what on earth they were going to say 
 or do next. Why didn't somebody talk about something 
 else? . . . 
 
 Miss Booke said : " Well. ... So you're being 
 turned out of your house, Timothy, when you get your 
 daughter-in-law ? " 
 
 " I'm not turned out at all," Timothy replied stolidly, 
 and Emmie felt as if she could kiss him for that. 
 
 " But you're going out."
 
 130 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " What difference is there, then? " asked Mrs. Holten 
 sharply. " You're only going out because one of your 
 trimmers come in I call that being turned out." 
 
 Emmie went almost white. 
 
 Tim smiled, with a trace of wickedness in it as if 
 he said : " These aunts of mine are playing the fool 
 again." 
 
 " You meant leaving here, Timothy, in any case, when 
 Tim married, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 Miss Booke sniffed. 
 
 " It is funny, all the same. Emmie, here, comes out 
 of the trimming-room into this house, and then the pro- 
 prietor of T. Booke & Son's goes out." 
 
 Emmie said : " I didn't ask Mr. Booke to go. I 
 didn't want him to go, for that matter." 
 
 " Nobody said you did," retorted Miss Booke. " But 
 the fact's there, isn't it?" 
 
 Emmie was silent, and felt she had not improved mat- 
 ters. She wanted to say cutting things to these ladies, 
 but they were sisters of Mr. Booke and she was in his 
 house, for the first time, in fact, and the fact that, after 
 all, she was marrying above her station and people like 
 that had to put up with tongues, restrained her. 
 
 Mrs. Bane saved the situation at that moment for 
 Emmie, by announcing that supper was ready. 
 
 Mr. Booke got up. 
 
 " Then we'll have some," he said, as if he, too, were 
 pleased at the diversion. 
 
 Mr. Grass said very jovially to Emmie, as they were 
 going to the dining-room : " Made up your mind where 
 you're going for your honeymoon? " 
 
 Emmie was inclined to be depressed by the gibes of the
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 131 
 
 ladies, but Mr. Grass was clearly trying to be agree- 
 able. 
 
 "We had thought of Bournemouth er " 
 
 " Bournemouth. . . . Get him to take you to Paris." 
 
 Emmie looked mischievously out of her bright eyes. 
 
 Mr. Grass laughed. 
 
 " You'd enjoy it. And you mayn't get the chance 
 again for some time. You won't be running about when 
 you get a family." 
 
 Emmie blushed, but was quite pleased with Mr. Grass's 
 evident show of friendliness. 
 
 In the dining-room the Booke ladies surveyed the sup- 
 per table with critical eyes. 
 
 Emmie was impressed by the shining silver, the clean 
 cloth, the beautiful crockery, as well as by the food. 
 
 " H'm," said Mrs. Holten. " Mrs. Bane isn't bad at 
 setting out a table." 
 
 " No," said Miss Booke. " Overloads it a bit. Some 
 of these sweets would be far better on the sideboard till 
 we want them." 
 
 " Let's you see what's coming," said Mr. Holten. 
 
 " It wouldn't be a bad thing for Emmie to have a few 
 lessons from Mrs. Bane," said Miss Booke. " It isn't 
 everybody can lay a table." 
 
 " No. I don't suppose you often get your serviettes 
 mixed up at home, do you, Emmie?" said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " Not often," replied Emmie, who was surprised her- 
 self at her reply. It was not rude, and yet it had in it 
 the effectiveness of retort. 
 
 Tim laughed. Timothy almost smiled, and felt he 
 wouldn't mind patting Emmie on the back for that. 
 
 " Sit here, Emmie," Tim said, his eyes still twinkling 
 at Emmie's delightful answer. 
 
 And Mr. Grass broke into new ground by saying:
 
 132 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " That looks a fine piece of meat, Timothy. D'you 
 still go to Barley's for it? Look at that undercut." 
 
 " Ay," said Mr. Booke. 
 
 And they all fell to discussing butchers and meat and 
 grocers, and then easily led into bits of gossip. 
 
 Emmie was ignored, and was relatively happy. 
 
 Tim attended to her very well, and she was now ex- 
 ceedingly anxious not to make any mistake at the table 
 for, if she did, she knew what she had to expect from 
 the ladies watching her. 
 
 Miss Booke made her shiver and grow warm by say- 
 ing: 
 
 " Put your bread on the other side of your plate, Em- 
 mie; the left side, always, for bread." 
 
 Emmie picked up the bread and put it on the left side 
 of her plate as if she were a child being taught a lesson. 
 
 Miss Booke did not smile; she spoke as if the sight of 
 bread on the right side of the eater's plate pained her. 
 
 Mr. Grass was just about to say he never knew which 
 side he had his bread, and was content to get it in his 
 mouth, when he realised he would make a faux pas and 
 at once felt sorry for Emmie. He was a tanned, healthy- 
 looking man, fond of his wife, and good-natured. 
 
 " This beef is good, Timothy," he said. " You can 
 always tell English beef from foreign, can't you? " 
 
 The talk was switched off Emmie and etiquette for the 
 moment, particularly as Mrs. Holten had something of 
 importance to say to Mrs. Grass, who nodded. 
 
 Miss Booke said, " Is it . . ." She nodded. 
 
 Mrs. Holten nodded to signify " Yes." 
 
 Then there was a trio of " Isn't it ? ... Well. ... I 
 always said so," winding up with, " We'll talk about it 
 after," which made Emmie feel like saying : " I don't 
 want to hear your blessed conversation."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 133 
 
 When the sweets were served out Mrs. Holten helped 
 to apple tart, Mr. Booke had a jelly to distribute, and 
 Mrs. Grass rice pudding. 
 
 Emmie had cast her eyes at the sweets for the purpose 
 of having that which would cause her the least dis- 
 quietude in handling. 
 
 Miss Booke said : " I'll wait ; serve the others." Mrs. 
 Holten said she would help herself. Mrs. Grass said, 
 " Some jelly, please, Timothy." 
 
 Mrs. Holten said coldly to Emmie, as if she were dis- 
 tributing something extraordinarily rich, and rare: 
 " Some tart . . . apple tart . . . Emmie?" 
 
 Now, Emmie had desired jelly, but feared its unstable 
 qualities; she wished for no more lectures from Miss 
 Booke and, being in a diffident or anxious frame of mind, 
 was intimidated even by apple tart, a dish she had eaten 
 at dinner with complete satisfaction. She meant, for a 
 moment, to refuse all sweets, but felt that might be as 
 bad as doing the wrong thing; besides, she was young 
 and food attracted her and she liked sweets. 
 
 She did not dare to say : " May I have some pud- 
 ding? " She had been taught to wait till she was asked. 
 At least, she had had the phrase on critical occasions 
 flung at her when she was young, which is described with 
 benevolent generosity as " teaching." 
 
 Mr. Booke said : " Or some jelly, Emmie or rice 
 pudding? " 
 
 " Yes, please," said Emmie, relieved. " Rice pudding, 
 please." 
 
 ;< Yes," said Mrs. Grass, rather fussily helping it; mak- 
 ing a deal of fuss over it. 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked round the table : " Tim," she said 
 invitingly. 
 
 Tim nodded : " Please, Aunt Jane."
 
 134 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Grass passed Emmie's plate with an air of doing 
 her well; she would like the girl to see that even milk 
 pudding could be helped liberally. But Mr. Booke said : 
 " Have a bit of pie with it, Emmie ? " 
 
 Emmie hesitated. She did like apple pie, and Tim was 
 having some. 
 
 " Doesn't seem to know her own mind," said Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten tartly. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Emmie. 
 
 " There's plenty," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " I don't wa " began Emmie. 
 
 " Give her a bit, Jane," said Timothy. " I can see she 
 likes it." 
 
 " She can surely ask for what she wants," said Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 " Do you want any tart, Emmie? " asked Mrs. Holten. 
 " It'll go very well with that pudding if you haven't got 
 too much you see, Mrs. Grass didn't think you were 
 going to have tart as well." 
 
 Emmie wanted to throw tart and pudding at them. 
 She was very near to tears, but knew that would be the 
 worst thing she could do. She was blushing beautifully. 
 
 " No, thank you," she said, scarcely knowing what she 
 wanted, and only desirous of being left alone. 
 
 Tim took her plate and passed it to her. 
 
 " Have just what you want," he said. " If you don't 
 like that leave it and have something else. If you want 
 anything else, have it." 
 
 Emmie tried to smile. 
 
 Miss Booke said : " I like apple tart and rice pudding 
 together myself." 
 
 " So do I," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " I like Mrs. Bane's jellies," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 "Heard about Tom Whittaker, Timothy?" said Mr.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 135 
 
 Holten, and again Emmie felt relief that she was not 
 being talked at or told what to do or what not to do. 
 
 When she was asked to have some more she said, " No, 
 thank you," and Mrs. Holten said : " I should think 
 Emmie knows what she wants." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Booke, with a most significant nod. 
 
 The ladies did not get friendly during the whole of the 
 evening. They talked to one another and ignored Emmie 
 and talked at her. If she were inclined to be happy talk- 
 ing to Tim one of the three ladies would drag her back 
 into the arena, so that she could be made properly and 
 thoroughly to realise that she was entering the Booke 
 family through no wish of theirs, and that she must be- 
 have herself in the way approved of or they would quickly 
 and persistently call her over the coals. 
 
 In the bedroom, when they were all putting their hats 
 on, Emmie felt almost as if she were a worm. The 
 Booke ladies talked to each other, ignored Emmie, and 
 then Mrs. Holten said : " Let's look at you, Emmie. 
 . . . Turn round. . . . Do you like that hat, Maria?" 
 
 Miss Booke said " No," with a snap. " I hope you'll 
 dress quietly and with good taste when you are married 
 to Tim." 
 
 " Nobody has found fault with my dress before," said 
 Emmie, hit on the raw. She felt they would be calling 
 her ugly next! . . . 
 
 " No ; but you'll move in a different class as Mrs. Tim- 
 othy Booke." 
 
 Emmie pressed her lips together; she thought it best 
 to say nothing just then. 
 
 When she walked home with Tim, she said : " What 
 d'you think of your aunts? "
 
 136 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "What about 'em?" 
 
 " Getting at me like they did saying all those spite- 
 ful things as if I was dirt." She was on the edge of 
 tears as she recalled them where she was free to cry 
 without loss of dignity. 
 
 Tim laughed. 
 
 " That's their way," he said. " You can say what you 
 like to them. They're all mustard when it's talk. Hit 
 'em back or take no notice please yourself. They try 
 to get at me sometimes, but they might just as well try 
 to fill a dye kettle with a thimble. Aunt Jane and Aunt 
 Maria think there's nobody equal to the Bookes, but 
 that's only because they're Bookes. If they were any- 
 body else it would be just the same. Only, if you let 'em, 
 they'll walk on you." 
 
 Emmie nodded as if with a quiet but sure understand- 
 ing. 
 
 " They won't walk on me," she said. 
 
 Tim looked round. It was dark ; there were few peo- 
 ple about. 
 
 " Don't you let 'em," he said, and Chen he put his arms 
 round her, pressed her to him and kissed her. " Enjoyed 
 yourself?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes." She looked into his face lovingly ; she felt 
 very grateful for Tim's love.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE wedding day arrived at last. 
 Emmie's emotions were ordinary. The fact that 
 she was about to be married was in itself a bigger event 
 to her than whom she was to marry. The Bookes, who 
 had counted for so much hitherto, dropped behind the 
 event in importance. 
 
 To be married. . . . There were the new clothes, the 
 ceremony in the church with people about and not in- 
 significant people, either! the railway journey with those 
 fine clothes packed in a new trunk, Tim by her side. . . . 
 Mrs. Booke. . . . Mrs. Tim Booke. . . \ Mrs. Tjm, 
 they would call her. . . . The hotel . . . porters about. 
 ..." Yes, madame," " No, madame." . . . She and 
 Tim alone. 
 
 She no sooner felt one wave of emotion break over 
 her than another swept along. It was a day of big emo- 
 tions for Emmie, and details seemed merged in the one 
 big event. 
 
 Tim had given Emmie 20 so that her family could 
 provide themselves with new clothes. Emmie had re- 
 fused to take the money at first, but Tim had insisted. 
 He said it was for her family her father and mother 
 and sister ... he wanted them all to feel comfortable. 
 So Emmie's wedding was a very great day at the Bollins'. 
 For Mr. and Mrs. Bollins and Sarah the principal item 
 was not that Emmie was getting married, but that she 
 was marrying Mr. Timothy Booke of T. Booke & Son. 
 It was " My daughter's marrying Mr. Tim Booke " or 
 " sister," as the case was.
 
 138 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 All the Bollinses were excited. Emmie had, of course, 
 to be turned out irreproachably; but then she was accus- 
 tomed to dressing well. With Mr. and Mrs. Bollins it 
 was different. Neither of them had been so well dressed 
 for years probably in all their lives. The new clothes 
 were an anxiety and struggle for them both. Mr. Bol- 
 lins tried his on the night before as did they all save 
 Emmie. 
 
 Emmie had a bath on the eve of the great day, and 
 when she had finished Sarah got out of bed, came down- 
 stairs and had one too in front of the kitchen fire. 
 Mr. Bollins kept walking up and down the bedroom, 
 worn by anxiety about his boots; he was afraid if there 
 was much walking to do he'd be knocked up. Mrs. Bol- 
 lins suggested he should change them for a larger pair 
 early in the morning and be comfortable there was 
 nothing so uncomfortable as tight boots, particularly if 
 you walked a lot. And they would walk, you might rely 
 on that; and Mrs. Holten could pass remarks if they be- 
 haved funny. . . . She'd change them if she had tight 
 boots; that was one thing she'd always been careful about 
 not having tight boots. . . . 
 
 She said all this as she sat on the bed, sewing buttons 
 on a chemise and then darning stockings. 
 
 Mr. Bollins was not only gravely anxious over his 
 boots, but was also deeply concerned with his clothes. 
 Tails were cut different from what they used to be, he 
 thought he liked the old style best. The trousers were 
 all right. He could have had another pattern. One 
 with a big stripe would have showed up well. But he 
 liked these ; they were gentlemanly. . . . 
 
 Eventually Emmie was washed. Sarah was washed, 
 chemises had buttons on, stockings were darned. New
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 139 
 
 clothes lay on chairs and boxes and in open drawers, and 
 the Bollins household was in darkness and asleep. 
 
 As the actual moment of the ceremony drew near, 
 Emmie was merely nervous in a vague way. She wanted 
 to do what she had to do in a manner to deserve praise, 
 but in any case not to merit fault-finding. Her family 
 tried her. They could not concentrate on her because 
 they were all so anxious about their own appearances and 
 conduct. 
 
 But they were ready at last, and the house, as they left 
 it, Mr. Bollins locking the door and putting the key in his 
 pocket, " was a sight " Mrs. Bollins' expression. 
 
 In the cab, Emmie was the central figure again to 
 mother and sister, for they really pictured her in the 
 scene. But Mr. Bollins uttered frequent little coughs 
 and pushed his thin chest out as he thought of himself 
 walking down that church with his daughter on his arm 
 to give her to Mr. Tim, while Mr. Booke, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Holten, Mr. and Mrs. Grass, Miss Booke, Mr. Saxton, 
 Mrs. Holland, Mr. and Mrs. Ridley, Mr. Every, Dr. and 
 Mrs. Mellor ... he began licking his lips as he thought 
 of all these really important people watching him, Sam 
 Bollins, a body-maker at T. Booke & Son's, walking down 
 the church with his daughter on his arm . . . well, they'd 
 have to say he was dressed well; dressed, in a way, as 
 well as any of 'em, for that matter; and they'd have to 
 go a jolly long way before they'd find a prettier girl than 
 his daughter Emmie and she'd got her head screwed 
 on all right, too. She had that. She'd show 'em. He 
 could have done things if he'd only had the chance 
 half a chance. Well, he wasn't in the background to- 
 day, for instance, eh? What? . . .
 
 140 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie was almost calm as they drew up at the church 
 gates. She knew she was tastefully dressed in her trav- 
 elling costume; there was neither pretence nor tawdri- 
 ness about it. Besides, the tight-fitting bodice showed 
 her figure, and the bustle behind was just the fashion. 
 
 Emmie felt fit for a ceremony. It would soon be over 
 and she would be Mrs. Timothy Booke. She hoped her 
 father would behave properly. . . . 
 
 She said to her mother, just before getting out of the 
 cab: 
 
 " I expect some one'll show you to a seat, Mother." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bollins. " We shall be all right. 
 Do you feel ... all right ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie cheerfully. 
 
 Mr. Bollins coughed, tugged at his coat and shook him- 
 self. Emmie put her hand in his arm, bent her head 
 slightly, and walked down the church with a neat blend 
 of modesty and confidence. 
 
 " Emmie's all there," whispered Mr. Grass to his wife. 
 
 " She is that," whispered Mrs. Grass to her husband. 
 
 Tim was happy. Emmie was happy. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bollins and Sarah were happy, too, but a little too proud 
 to be without a weak spot. The Booke family knew that 
 people were saying : " After all, Emmie Bollins . . ." 
 with nods; "what is she after all? " or words to that 
 effect. 
 
 To all outward seeming there were smiles and a deep 
 interest and a chorus of very pleasant remarks, but the 
 Bookes, who loved, above most things, to be able to 
 boast, felt that this was no day of rejoicing for them 
 save as capable people. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke and Mrs. Grass even, 
 could look all people in the face, and few would dare 
 to say anything disparaging about the connection with the
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 141 
 
 Bollins family that was being celebrated ; but the Bookes 
 did not hide their heads in the sand of self-delusion. 
 They knew what was whispered behind their backs. 
 They felt sore with Emmie accordingly. They jeered in 
 their hearts at Sam Bollins as he walked down the aisle. 
 They ignored Mrs. Bollins and Sarah as much and as 
 long as they could. But the god of Public Opinion held 
 great hold of them; they could not go too far. They 
 had at certain moments to praise Emmie. She was 
 healthy and a good worker and pretty, and as for money, 
 well, they thought they had enough of thjat. They put a 
 bold face on the matter to friends and f*6s and gnashed 
 the teeth that Pride would set on edge. 
 
 Mr. Booke was serious almost all day, but not de- 
 pressed. He seemed to have been observing keenly and 
 shrewdly for some time, and was very cordial to Emmie 
 as she and Tim went off on the start of their linked life's 
 journey. 
 
 The wedding was naturally of an order to reflect credit 
 on the Bookes. Timothy was willing to spend for the 
 sake of his only son ; his sisters saw that the whole affair 
 made people comment favourably on the Booke family. 
 Timothy talked to Samuel Bollins with no hint of the 
 workshop. 
 
 " Suppose you've been here lots of times, eh, Sam?" 
 he said in the afternoon, when they were out in the coun- 
 try, where all the guests had been driven in brakes. 
 
 " Yes, yes. . . . Used to come here when I was a lad." 
 
 " Nice, healthy spot. I remember once coming here " 
 . . . and the two fathers chatted with friendliness and 
 without restraint or affectation of any kind. 
 
 Mrs. Holten moved about with a most important air. 
 She could not thrust down the effervescing feeling: 
 " This is a Booke day ; this is an occasion on which we
 
 142 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Bookes can lead, direct, guide and generally feel that to 
 us is entrusted the task of entertaining these people. 
 Also we feel that such a task could not have been in more 
 capable hands and we mean to do our best to let these 
 guests feel that they have had a most enjoyable day and 
 that it was due to the superb managing ability of us 
 Bookes." 
 
 And yet amidst the success of the picnic there was this 
 biting reflection in the hearts of Mrs. Holten and Miss 
 Booke and (in a lesser degree) of Mrs. Grass: " If it 
 hadn't been Emmie Bollins! ... If it had been Ellen 
 Quillan, for instance somebody we could have boasted 
 about, with influential or, at any rate, important rela- 
 tives, not one whose father is a journeyman, shirtsleeve 
 hatter, like this Sam Bollins ! . . ." 
 
 Mr. Bollins was quite content. He felt well, smoked 
 cigars and noted no fly in the ointment. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was not blind to the views of Mrs. Hol- 
 ten and Miss Booke. But she was prepared for them, 
 and did not complain. Sarah called them cats, but ad- 
 mitted she had had a very good time. She said one 
 thing that seemed to have wisdom in it : 
 
 " When our Emmie comes back," she remarked, as she 
 sat with her father and mother talking over the events 
 of the day, " she'll have to mind her p's and q's in that 
 family or they'll give her what-for." 
 
 Mr. Bollins looked at a cigar he had brought away 
 from the repast and wondered if he should smoke it now 
 or keep it till Sunday. . . . 
 
 " Our Emmie's Mrs. Booke now. . . . Whatever they 
 say, they can't alter that," he said.
 
 PART TWO: THE HAPPY WIFE
 
 PART TWO: THE HAPPY WIFE 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MR. BOOKE was as good as his word. He had a 
 private fortune of about twenty-five thousand 
 pounds, and he gave up house and business on his son's 
 marriage. So that when Tim and his wife returned from 
 their honeymoon they went home to Helston House and 
 saw through the window the factory of which Tim was 
 now the sole proprietor. 
 
 Mr. Booke had left most of the furniture behind him. 
 His bedroom suite he took, also sundry portraits and 
 pictures and odd articles which had some personal or 
 sentimental value for him. He rented a house on the 
 Manchester Road and Mrs. Bane went with him as his 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Emmie realised vividly the change from the tiny place 
 in Silton Street to Helston House. She did not express 
 her opinion of the change to anybody outside the mem- 
 bers of her family and to them only with a neat dis- 
 cretion but she was very much impressed by her new 
 home. 
 
 Fortunately she was happy. She was warm-hearted 
 and affectionate, and she and Tim suited one another. 
 After the first few days of the honeymoon she knew she 
 was of the tribe that is well married, and when she got in 
 the cab at Canton Station on the return, she felt that in 
 her native town she would henceforward be a person of 
 some importance. 
 
 She gave no gasping note of admiration or surprise 
 when she was received at Helston House by Mrs. Bane, 
 
 145
 
 146 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 who had come up specially to show her round, and by the 
 little maid, who was to help her to keep the house clean. 
 She behaved very calmly and easily, indulging in no 
 affected hauteur or bending familiarity. She saw all 
 the luggage was taken safely off and out of the cab, and 
 when Mrs. Bane expressed a hope that she had had an 
 enjoyable time, said " Yes, most enjoyable," and talked 
 of the place very pleasantly, ending up by saying : " It 
 seems a shame to have turned you out of here, Mrs. 
 Bane." 
 
 " Not at all. I'm with the master. He's got a nice 
 little place, you know. They're very nice houses in that 
 terrace and won't give so much work as this. I'll show 
 you round here, Mrs. Tim, when you've had some tea." 
 
 " Thank you. Yes, I shall be glad of some tea." 
 
 The tea, nicely set out in the dining-room, where there 
 was that thick carpet and solid-looking furniture, made 
 Emmie think: This is really mine. I am really and 
 truly the mistress of this house. It isn't a dream or a 
 fairy tale or something made up it is real. This is my 
 house mine. . . . What a difference to the other! 
 
 She looked round almost too keenly for her watchful- 
 ness. 
 
 " Well, we're home at last," said Tim. 
 
 Emmie looked at him with fond eyes. It was due to 
 him that she was here; but she did not think much of that 
 view. He couldn't help it. She had appeared before 
 him and he had to do what he had done. 
 
 " Yes," she said, smiling as she sat down without fur- 
 ther hesitation in front of the teapot and thought what 
 lovely china it was . . . and the cutlery . . . and what 
 an expensive pot silver, of course (it wasn't, being 
 merely plated; but Emmie was not equal to all this yet), 
 and the beautiful room! . . . But she kept her head at
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 147 
 
 a good level. " Aren't you glad of your tea, Tim ? " 
 She spoke as if tea was uppermost with her. 
 
 " Yes, I feel I can do with it." 
 
 She poured out the tea, realising she was presiding at 
 her own table, in her own home, for the first time. 
 
 She sipped. 
 
 " Tea's refreshing." 
 
 " Yes. What are you going to have, Emmie ? " asked 
 Tim. " Some of this fish . . . plaice, isn't it? or there's 
 some potted meat. Better have some fish, it's hot." He 
 helped her. 
 
 She noted the fish knife and fork with which they 
 were provided, the tasteful way the fish was served, the 
 thin bread and butter on the plates with the nice doileys 
 on them almost like the hotel where they had stayed. 
 
 " Glad to get home, Emmie? " Tim asked. 
 
 " Ye-es. It was all right away," she smiled ; they had 
 been very happy. 
 
 " Ay . . . well, it's work to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes," and Emmie said to herself: " No more trim- 
 ming, either." 
 
 After tea Mrs. Bane took Emmie through the house. 
 She showed her rooms, cupboards where linen was stored, 
 and food, and amazed Emmie more than she guessed 
 and she naturally guessed at a little. Emmie was aston- 
 ished at the order and plenty in the house. There 
 seemed to be so many things and contrivances and such 
 places for things, from the great whitewashed, clean cel- 
 lars to the ample bedrooms. Emmie had always had to 
 move carefully at her old home for fear she knocked 
 against a member of her family or a piece of furniture. 
 Here there seemed to be plenty of room for everything 
 and everything had a place. 
 
 Mrs. Bane was clearly proud to act as guide on this
 
 148 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 occasion, and Emmie took the instruction as easily and 
 naturally as she could. She felt almost thrilled at times, 
 and wished " to look at that again," but checked herself. 
 She would have plenty of time to see these things when 
 Mrs. Bane had gone. 
 
 " I expect I've missed telling you all," said Mrs. Bane, 
 " but if there's anything you want to know you can send 
 Ada or call. I shall only be too pleased to tell you any- 
 thing I know." 
 
 " Thank you," said Emmie. " It's very kind of you." 
 
 " You're very welcome. You and Mr. Tim look very 
 happy, and I'm sure I wish you well. Of course, there's 
 Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke . . . well, perhaps I'd bet- 
 ter say nothing. Least said, soonest mended, eh? And 
 it doesn't do to let your tongue run away with you. The 
 master can say things Mr. Booke, I mean but he has 
 a sense of justice. As for his sisters . . . well, I could 
 always get on with Mrs. Grass . . . but you'll get to 
 know them soon enough if you don't know 'em already. 
 Oh! and Barley's our butcher. Of course, you'll go 
 where you like, but I thought I'd tell you. I always get 
 my groceries from Cross's, and the milk will come regu- 
 lar that's Stone's: good milk, only he wants a bit of 
 watching sometimes, or he'll give you short measure. I 
 always weighed the beef, too, but of course you'll do what 
 you like." 
 
 Mrs. Bane talked a great deal, and Emmie was really 
 glad to hear all, for the hints were a guide. She began 
 to feel her responsibilities as Mrs. Bane told her of Mr. 
 Tim's likes and dislikes, of certain things she had been 
 most careful to do and of others she had been equally 
 careful not to do. 
 
 And in and amongst the hints, explanations and direc- 
 tions, there came the bits of gossip and intimacies.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 149 
 
 " Do you like Miss Booke? " 
 
 " I haven't seen much of her," parried Emmie. 
 
 " No. And the more you see, the less you'll want to 
 see. That woman! Only, don't ever say as I said any- 
 thing not that it matters. The master always says 
 she's sour ; and sour she is. She'll tell you this and that, 
 and make out you're a perfect fool, and she's one that 
 never did and can't do a thing wrong. That woman. 
 . . . Oh! and Ada. . . . Don't you be afraid of speak- 
 ing to her sharp. She's a good little girl, I will say that 
 for her, but she wants sharpening up now and then. It's 
 very nice of you to have her. . . ." 
 
 " I'm very glad," said Emmie. 
 
 " Well, I know she'll have a nice home, and it would 
 have been a bit awkward in the new house, which isn't 
 so large as this by a long way. I can easily manage it 
 with a woman in once a week for the outside steps and 
 the scrubbing. You know, I feel it when I get on my 
 knees ... at fifty-six, cold stones tell. And another 
 thing, I can come and help you when you're preserving 
 or anything like that. Mr. Tim likes black currant, and 
 I always kept a pot or two of that for colds; very good 
 if you've anything the matter with your throat; a table- 
 spoonful in a cupful of hot water'll do a world of good. 
 Mrs. Sellar has been charing and washing here for years. 
 Of course, you'll please yourself, but she's honest and 
 reliable. She wants a bit of watching when she's doing 
 the blankets, and I used to give her a hand with the 
 mangle but of course, you'll please yourself. . . ." 
 
 When Mrs. Bane had gone, Emmie felt in a condition 
 of delight, only very slightly troubled with anxiety. 
 Somehow she felt she could manage. If there was any 
 special cooking to be done Mrs. Bane would give her a
 
 150 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 hand, and for the rest she was confident. So far as 
 cleaning went she knew she need have no fears. 
 
 " A servant ! " She, Emmie Bollins, with a servant. 
 . . . That touched her. She had not expected that in 
 the early days, for then she had thought that she and 
 Tim would live in a much smaller house somewhere, and 
 she would be able to manage with the occasional help of 
 the charwoman. It was because Mr. Booke had handed 
 over Helston House to Tim, and Ada, who was Mrs. 
 Bane's niece, not being able conveniently to go to Mr. 
 Booke's new house, was promptly engaged by Tim, who 
 said " she could help Emmie." 
 
 Emmie's sensations when Mrs. Bane had gone were 
 particularly pleasant. She had a greater sense of actual 
 dominion and power than she had ever had before. On 
 the honeymoon she had felt the power latent: Tim's 
 purse sufficed to buy a willing and almost obsequious 
 service. But this was the real thing. This was her 
 home; she controlled it, she was mistress here. And 
 such a home ! . . . 
 
 The possession of the keys confirmed her impressions. 
 As they rattled she could almost imagine she heard the 
 ringing of bells of triumph. 
 
 Tim was far less disturbed, for he had come to an 
 accustomed home, and his chief thought was Emmie. 
 He loved to see her and know she was near him. 
 
 When he heard Mrs. Bane go and Emmie did not come 
 to him at once, he went into the kitchen, which Emmie 
 was regarding with an air of great admiration. It was 
 so large, so comfortable, so light, so pleasant, for build- 
 ers in Ganton knew in those days that the occupiers, 
 even of big houses, passed more time in the kitchen than
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 151 
 
 in any other room in the house ; it was, in fact, the living- 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Booke had used the dining-room because he had 
 a housekeeper, who naturally had to have the kitchen as 
 her domain. Had his wife been alive, they would have 
 lived mostly in the kitchen. 
 
 " What are you doing? " Tim asked. " Having a look 
 round?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He came up to her and put an arm round her. 
 
 " Mrs. Bane shown you everything? " 
 
 She looked at him winningly ; this power to attract her 
 husband gave her great pleasure. She nestled to him. 
 
 " Most things. I wanted to know where the things 
 were." 
 
 " You'll soon find that out. And you can put them 
 where you like, for that matter. Beginning to feel at 
 home?" 
 
 She looked at him, one might almost say lovingly, cer- 
 tainly happily, and nodded. 
 
 " You'll soon get used to everything," he said. 
 
 And truly Emmie soon did get used to everything. 
 
 She felt a little strange; more, perhaps, than a little, 
 when she got up the next morning in the nice, big, com- 
 fortable bedroom at Helston House. 
 
 She was not at a hotel now, where she would naturally 
 expect her surroundings to be of a mildly luxurious order, 
 but in her own home, and she put her feet on a well- 
 carpeted floor; there was ample room to move about, 
 plenty of space for her clothes, and they were in drawers 
 and wardrobe most conveniently placed; the dressing- 
 table was a handsome piece of furniture, and the whole 
 invited to neatness and a good appearance. 
 
 Ada lit the fire, and Emmie was to cook the breakfast.
 
 152 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She got up just a little earlier than was quite necessary, 
 for she did not wish to make Tim wait, and was most 
 anxious to acquit herself well. 
 
 Tim turned over lazily. 
 
 " What's up ? " he said. " Time to get up ? " 
 
 " No, you needn't get up for a bit. I want to see what 
 Ada is doing." 
 
 Tim did not answer. He watched Emmie with a gor- 
 geous admiration. She moved about quickly and alertly, 
 and seemed full of vitality. Before she put on her bodice 
 she brushed her thick black hair, bending her head this 
 way and that. Then she coiled it quickly, stuck some 
 pins in it and gave a quick glance to see if it was pre- 
 sentable. At her old home, she had gone down to break- 
 fast in a very untidy fashion, but she had more sense 
 than to do that now. 
 
 " Feel like work? " said Tim. 
 
 She turned. 
 
 " Thought you'd gone to sleep again." 
 
 " Did you? " He sounded playful. 
 
 " Two eggs with your bacon ? Work's all right." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And do you like some bread in the fat fried, I 
 mean? " 
 
 Tim jumped out of bed, took her in his arms and kissed 
 her. 
 
 " I like owt," he said, " if you give it me." 
 
 " Ada'll hear you," she said. 
 
 " I don't care a brass farthing what Ada hears." 
 
 " Let me go, Tim," she said, really anxious to do her 
 work. "Are you going to get up? Because if you're 
 not, get into bed again ; you'll catch cold standing in your 
 nightshirt like that." 
 
 " I'll get up," he said.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 153 
 
 As Emmie went downstairs, she felt she was happier 
 than she had ever imagined. To be loved as Tim loved 
 her, in this beautiful home, too! 
 
 But the moment she set foot in the kitchen she became 
 intent on her work. 
 
 Ada was outside, cleaning the steps that led into the 
 yard. The fire was burning in the grate, which was black 
 and shiny, with the steel parts beautifully polished. The 
 cleanliness struck Emmie. They hadn't been dirty at 
 home; she never thought so, but this was different. 
 There were no loose ends here, slovenliness did not show 
 its head. And what a splendid grate! 
 
 She got out the bacon and the frying pan, which hung 
 on a nail over the sink, was clean and fit for instant use. 
 Emmie remembered that theirs usually rested in the coal 
 place and had, as often as not, bits of coal in it, which 
 were served up with the bacon, and accepted as naturally 
 as the rind. 
 
 As she cooked the breakfast, she went to the dining- 
 room and saw that Ada had laid the table. Emmie 
 thought quickly : We could have managed in the kitchen. 
 ... In winter it would save a fire, too, some coals and 
 work. . . . And then the picture of her and her hus- 
 band sitting in the dining-room to breakfast while Ada, 
 the maid, answered the call of the bell, tickled her. 
 She looked in the direction of the works, and thought if 
 some of those in the trimming-room could see her! . . . 
 But she bustled about. The bacon was done to a turn. 
 She broke the eggs deftly, and hesitated about having 
 one herself, thinking the bacon, with a piece of fried 
 bread, would do for her. But she quickly decided for the 
 egg; she could afford that. She'd do with one rasher 
 of bacon and Tim could have two. She was rather sur- 
 prised that she had to be coming to little discussions at
 
 154 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 every other moment. She had thought things would de- 
 cide themselves, once she was settled. She w<asn't trou- 
 bled ; she could always make up her mind. 
 
 She heard Tim come downstairs. 
 
 "Ready for your breakfast?" she said, going to the 
 door of the dining-room. 
 
 " I am that, if it's ready for me. No hurry." 
 
 " It's ready." And then she found herself once more 
 questioning herself: should she take off her apron for 
 breakfast or not? She took it off. 
 
 At first, economy of washing (a thing ingrained into 
 her at home), suggested she should apportion Tim's 
 breakfast and hers on separate plates and carry them into 
 the dining-room ; but she remembered that Mrs. Bane 
 hadn't done that with the fish. So she put all the bacon 
 and eggs on one dish and set them before Tim. She 
 poured out the tea. 
 
 " Well, I've had a jolly good breakfast," said Tim, as 
 he rolled up his table napkin. 
 
 " Have you ? " said Emmie, very pleased. 
 
 " I have. And now I'll go and do some work. I 
 expect f ather'll pop in : he's sure to come to the 
 works." 
 
 Emmie had to think of what to do and the order in 
 which it should be done. There was the house to clean 
 and the dinner to cook. She had made up her mind 
 about the dinner. Lancashire hot pot and rice pudding. 
 She wasn't going to tell Tim what his meals would con- 
 sist of; she would surprise him. She had not had too 
 much practise in cooking, and her choice of dishes was 
 not very varied; but with a joint on Sunday and cold 
 meat Monday and a hash or stew or something of the 
 kind on Wednesday, she felt she could manage on Thurs-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 155 
 
 day, Friday and Saturday. Folk lived plainly in Gan- 
 ton. 
 
 She had, however, provided herself with a cookery 
 book, but felt she did not want anybody to know she used 
 it. She did not mind Ada, but she preferred, for the 
 moment, that no grown-up people saw her. They'd prob- 
 ably say she knew nothing, and could do nothing. . . . 
 
 She took the book out of her box, and found a con- 
 venient linen drawer in the kitchen in which to keep it. 
 She consulted it now, in the making of the hot pot, and 
 found that the compilers apparently didn't know any- 
 thing about the Lancashire dish. When she turned to 
 the index, she saw the variety of the contents was as- 
 tounding, for the catalogue began at " Absesses " and 
 ended at " Yearly Tenancies " and " Yorkshire pudding." 
 Emmie put the book away with some scorn ; it wasn't any 
 good to-day. 
 
 She felt the responsibility of her position. She had 
 to manage that house, including Ada, and see that Tim 
 was well looked after and that the domestic arrange- 
 ments escaped adverse criticism. 
 
 She quickly made up her mind about certain things: 
 the bedroom, the cooking of the dinner, the cleaning of 
 the dining-room. She put on a big apron, set Ada to 
 wash up the breakfast things and made the bed her- 
 self. . . . 
 
 As she flung back the bedclothes, she thought of her 
 new life. What a difference from trimming ! This was 
 life. One day you lived in a small house, putting up with 
 all sorts of makeshifts and contrivances and inconven- 
 iences, and the next you were married, mated to a man, 
 had a home and the whole character of your life was 
 changed ! 
 
 She gloried in the change.
 
 156 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Ada came to her. 
 
 " Miss Booke's downstairs." 
 
 Emmie looked up. 
 
 " Miss Booke. . . . Does she want to see me ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " All right. . . . I'll be down in a minute." 
 
 Ada turned to go. 
 
 " Where is she ? " Emmie almost whispered. 
 
 " In the dining-room." 
 
 " Right." 
 
 Emmie wondered: Miss Booke . . . what has she 
 come for? See what she can, eh? She pulled a face, 
 then went to the glass and saw her hair was tidy. Should 
 she go down as she was or take off her apron? As she 
 was why not? It was morning, and if Miss Booke 
 or anybody else called in the morning they would know 
 she was working. 
 
 Emmie went downstairs. 
 
 " Good morning," she said. 
 
 " Good morning," said Miss Booke amicably, coming 
 forward with hand outstretched. 
 
 They shook hands. Emmie wondered if she was go- 
 ing to be kissed, and felt sure Miss Booke thought of it 
 for one moment, and then decided not to. 
 
 " I was just on my w r ay to the butcher's, and as I knew 
 you were back, I thought I'd just look in and see how 
 you were," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie nodded and smiled. 
 
 " You're looking well," said Miss Booke. " Did you 
 enjoy your trip? " 
 
 " Very much, thanks." 
 
 " Nice place. What was the hotel like?" 
 
 " Very comfortable."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 157 
 
 " Yes, I thought it would be. I don't suppose you've 
 stayed often at hotels, have you?" 
 
 " Not often." 
 
 "Your first, wasn't it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It makes a difference, marrying somebody like Tim. 
 You're lucky." 
 
 Emmie pressed her lips together. 
 
 " This nice house, too," continued Miss Booke. " It 
 wants a bit of looking after." 
 
 " All houses do," said Emmie. 
 
 " Yes, but you don't find very many like this in Gan- 
 ton," said Miss Booke quickly. " And it's such a change 
 for you after that little house you lived in in Silton 
 Street You'll want a few hints now and again. . . . 
 Well, as you're Tim's wife, I'll help you what I can. 
 What are you getting him for dinner to-day? " 
 
 Emmie paused. 
 
 " I think I can manage that," she said. 
 
 "I should hope so, indeed; I should that. If you 
 couldn't cook him a dinner, it would be something. But 
 he wants nice cooking and nice serving. You know what 
 would do in a, er well, in a tiny place, won't do for 
 Tim Booke." 
 
 " No. But, of course, if Tim wants anything, I think 
 he's old enough to speak for himself, don't you? " 
 
 Miss Booke smiled sourly. 
 
 " Some men don't speak for themselves : they put up 
 with things. It's sometimes the duty of relatives to see 
 they're not put on." 
 
 " Have you come," said Emmie, gathering courage, 
 " to see Tim isn't put on? " 
 
 "I didn't say that," returned Miss Booke. "And I 
 don't think it's nice of you to put it that way. I'm Tim's
 
 158 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 aunt. I can surely say something for his good and yours 
 and I shall. I think it's the duty of relatives to say 
 the word in due season. Prevention's better than cure. 
 Besides, you might easily blunder, having just given up 
 trimming to come and manage this house. Oh! I'm 
 not one to let things happen for want of a bit of plain 
 speaking. I believe in speaking out. There's many a 
 man and woman gone wrong because somebody was 
 afraid to say the right word at the right moment. You 
 can't expect to do things exactly as they should be done 
 all in a minute how can you? You were trimming a 
 fortnight ago, and now you're housekeeping to a Booke. 
 ... I assure you I shan't keep silent if I see things aren't 
 what they ought to be." 
 
 Emmie went red, then white, and swallowed with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 Miss Booke stood up rigidly. 
 
 Emmie preserved silence. 
 
 Miss Booke said : " I'm quite willing to be friends. 
 I'm willing to help you. You're married now, and that 
 can't be undone. You're one of the family, and you'll 
 be expected to behave accordingly. If I offer to tell you 
 anything that isn't pleasant, it will be entirely for your 
 own good and out of a strict sense of duty. Nothing 
 will stop me doing what I consider to be my duty." 
 
 Still Emmie was silent. 
 
 " I suppose Tim's in the works," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Has this room been done yet ? " 
 
 Emmie drew herself up. 
 
 " I'm very busy," she said. " I've got a lot of work 
 to do and I don't want Tim to have to wait for his din- 
 ner. You can sit down if you like, but if you'll excuse 
 me, I'll get on with my work."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 159 
 
 Miss Booke sniffed. 
 
 " I don't want to sit down. And I don't want to in- 
 terfere with him, let alone make you late with Tim's 
 dinner. But I should have thought you would have 
 spared a few minutes to entertain your husband's aunt 
 when she called. However, I'm very glad to see you're 
 working, and I hope you'll do your best to make Tim 
 a good wife." She turned to go. " You and Tim, now 
 that you're married, must come and have tea with me 
 some Saturday or Sunday. . . ." 
 
 When Miss Booke had gone, Emmie sat down and was 
 ready to weep. She was literally on the verge of tears. 
 They welled in her eyes and then she smiled and got 
 up. "The old cat!" she said. "The old cat! 
 Well. . . ." And then she was near tears once more. 
 To be talked to like that. A perfect humiliation! . . . 
 What was she getting for Tim's dinner? And that 
 room. . . . Emmie looked round; it appeared tidy. 
 Then she looked on the mantelshelf dust! It was 
 there, plain enough dust ! There was a mark where a 
 ringer had been. Oh ! the prying thing ! The interfering 
 creature ! 
 
 Emmie felt very cross abo'ut that dust. The room 
 hadn't been done, and now Miss Booke would perhaps 
 think it had, and that Emmie was dirty. 
 
 Emmie felt furious. Tackled like that, too. Just be- 
 cause she had been a trimmer ! 
 
 She broke down then. She wept bitterly and choked 
 her sobs in her apron. It wasn't fair saying things to her 
 like that. She was doing her best; she would do her 
 best . . . just because she had lived in a little house and 
 been a trimmer and had married Tim. ... He had 
 wanted her. . . . He'd run after her more than she'd 
 run after him.
 
 160 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie stopped crying. The emotion ceased to shake 
 her. 
 
 She was married ; they couldn't alter that. . . . What 
 did it matter what Miss Booke said? 
 
 She looked at the ring on her finger: it comforted her. 
 Married. . . . Mrs. Timothy Booke. . . . No, not all 
 the Bookes in the world could alter that. And what was 
 more, she Emmie was not going to be lectured by 
 them, either. If Miss Booke or Mrs. Holten started that 
 game they'd find some one else could play it as well as 
 they. . . . 
 
 Emmie got up and went into the kitchen, where Ada 
 was wiping pots. 
 
 "Finished, Ada?" 
 
 " Nearly," said Ada faintly, as if she had washed away 
 her energy with the dirt on the dishes. 
 
 " Well, when you've done that, do the dining-room. 
 Put plenty of tea leaves on the floor and sweep it well, 
 and see there isn't a speck of dust anywhere when you've 
 finished." 
 
 Ada looked up and nodded feebly. 
 
 Emmie went upstairs to finish the bedroom, thinking 
 all the time of Miss Booke and her tongue and the 
 stair rods. She stopped to examine them, three-cornered 
 things looking so solid, so different from the thin things 
 they had at home, in Silton. . . . 
 
 The next minute as she shook the bolsters and put them 
 back in their place she was singing : 
 
 " White wings they never grow weary 
 They carry me cheerily over the foam. . . ."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 EVERY succeeding day seemed to Emmie a day of 
 happiness. This delightful atmosphere that seemed 
 to surround her refused to leave her. Tim as a hus- 
 band was glorious; married life was glorious; the new 
 home was glorious; life was a glorious reality. 
 
 Tim was happy too, and his happiness reflected on 
 Emmie, though it was, in a way, not equal to the emo- 
 tional intensity she felt on her own account. 
 
 Emmie, cooking breakfast, sweeping, bed-making, dust- 
 ing, was Emmie, happy and radiantly content. When 
 she walked out and people nodded to her or spoke, she 
 had more content than self-consciousness about her, even 
 though she felt they were saying " Mrs. Tim Booke. . . ." 
 
 Her mother and sister called one evening at Helston 
 House, and Emmie showed them over the place, opening 
 drawers here and cupboards there, delighting to show 
 them all the fine things and contrivances. Mrs. Bollins 
 moved about in a state of grave elation. Her daughter 
 was mistress here. . . . 
 
 Sarah was impressed to the point of envy. The com- 
 ments, at times, were from a Silton Street point of view. 
 
 " This house and all this furniture will want a lot of 
 looking after. . . . Think of the windows. . . . And the 
 carpets. . . . The curtains alone, for that matter. . . . 
 It isn't all honey, marrying a Booke," said Sarah, just a 
 little willing to see the fly in the ointment. 
 
 " No. But you don't get honey without doing some- 
 thing for it," said Emmie. 
 
 " I don't know that I should like a big house like this," 
 
 161
 
 i62 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Sarah said, shaking her head as if she were somewhat 
 in awe. 
 
 " I can manage all right," said Emmie. " It's only get- 
 ting used to it." 
 
 " You'll manage," said Mrs. Bollins, " with Ada. You 
 must see she works. And a charwoman for your wash- 
 ing. . . . You're lucky, Emmie." 
 
 Emmie shook herself confidently. 
 
 Mr. Booke called almost daily. He did not stay long, 
 but he came in familiarly through the yard and kitchen 
 door. Emmie felt he was beginning to like her, though 
 he never said anything definite in that respect. He looked 
 at her critically very often, and quietly drew her out, as 
 if he would try to probe her heart and head. 
 
 She liked him because, although he could say sharp and 
 bitter things if he chose, he did not say them to her. He 
 walked into the kitchen when she was cooking. 
 
 " Morning, Emmie." 
 
 " Good morning." She was very pleasant. 
 
 " Getting your husband's dinner ready ? " 
 
 " Yes. Won't you sit down ? " 
 
 " I must be off in a minute." 
 
 But he sat down. 
 
 She went on with her preparations. 
 
 " Managing all right? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They were silent for a moment, and Emmie looked at 
 him in that curiously attractive feminine way of hers. 
 She caught his eye and smiled. 
 
 " Ay . . ." he said. " Well, I'll be off. ... Just 
 came in to say good morning." 
 
 " You're in a hurry." 
 
 " No. But I don't want to hinder you. I'll pop in
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 163 
 
 at night again, when you're not so busy. . . . Morning." 
 
 " Good morning. . . . Come and have some dinner 
 when you want," she said. " You're always welcome 
 only let me know in time." Emmie gave the invitation 
 on the spur of the moment, and Mr. Booke was pleased. 
 
 " I've got a dinner being got ready at home. . . . 
 Thank you all the same. . . . I'll have a cup o' tea with 
 you now and again." 
 
 " Do." 
 
 And when he had gone Emmie thought of the situation. 
 Here she was inviting Mr. Booke to dinner, and telling 
 him to come to tea. . . . Well, what was that ? Nothing 
 now. 
 
 She had little trials with other members of the Booke 
 family. Mrs. Grass was pleasant, asked her all sorts of 
 questions about the honeymoon and the house and her- 
 self. But she was friendly, and Emmie was glad to gos- 
 sip. 
 
 Mrs. Holten called, but kept a kind of superior atmos- 
 phere about her, even though what she said was not un- 
 pleasant or annoying. She proceeded a great deal by 
 catechism and made Emmie feel that she had to give an 
 account of herself, but the answers were, for the most 
 part, received with a certain tolerance. 
 
 Emmie said to Tim: 
 
 " Mrs. Holten's been." 
 
 " Well, and how did you get on with Aunt Jane? " 
 
 There was a hinted chuckle in Tim's question, as there 
 was a suspicious humour in Emmie's tone. 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " All right, eh ? " He filled his pipe and looked at her 
 with affection as his eyes twinkled. 
 
 Emmie screwed up her mouth and smiled.
 
 164 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " She wanted to know what they charged us at the 
 hotel." 
 
 " Good Heavens! Is she thinking of going? " 
 
 " And what we had for dinner." 
 
 He lit his pipe. 
 
 " And if I get my meat from Barley's." 
 
 He smiled and puffed. 
 
 " And if Cross was our grocer. And if Stone still 
 served us with milk. And if I thought the grate was a 
 good one. She said she reckoned it one of the best in 
 Ganton. And whether I was going to wash Monday or 
 Tuesday, and if Mrs. " 
 
 " That'll do," said Tim. 
 
 Emmie smiled. 
 
 " That's Aunt Jane all over," said Tim. " You should 
 tell her to go to Owdham when she asks so many ques- 
 tions." 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 " I would that" 
 
 " You wouldn't." 
 
 "Wouldn't I?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Come here." Emmie had pushed her face very near 
 to Tim's, in a most provoking and tempting w r ay. 
 
 Tim stretched out his arms and Emmie ran behind a 
 chair. Tim followed. 
 
 " I'll show you what I will do," he said. 
 
 Emmie gave a tiny little cry, and then put her hand 
 to her mouth. Tim had caught her now and drawn her 
 to him. 
 
 " Ada," she whispered. 
 
 " What's Ada," said Tim scornfully. " Now say what 
 you said before." He held her tight with one arm and 
 lifted her chin.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 165 
 
 She loved to be held like this. She enjoyed the phys- 
 ical contact herself, as well as relished the sensation that 
 Tim loved it too. She looked at him roguishly. 
 
 " I'll say what I want," she said tantalisingly. 
 
 He made a pretence of hitting her. Then he turned 
 up her face and kissed her. 
 
 " Th'art a bonny 'un," he said, in a tone she loved. 
 
 Then she threw an arm round his neck and kissed him. 
 
 "Aren't we soft? " she said, a moment afterwards. 
 
 " I'm not," he said. " You might be." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " You're the worst," she retorted. " Oh ! And there's 
 something else : we're to go to supper to your Aunt Jane's 
 on Sunday." 
 
 "Oh! damn!" 
 
 "Sh! You naughty! About your Aunt Jane, 
 too. . . ." 
 
 " Well. . . . Oh ! well, we might as well get it over. 
 I reckon we'll have to go round and then have them here, 
 and then " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Then they can go to Owdham, for all I care." 
 
 But the visit to Mrs. Holten's was by no means a casual 
 affair for Emmie. She did not tell Tim of her anxieties, 
 though he probably guessed them, imagining the visit 
 as a worry to her. 
 
 Emmie both wanted to go and wished to escape the 
 visit. She wanted to go because she was Mrs. Timothy 
 Booke and desired to do all that such a personage ought 
 to do, and to fill her position adequately. But she was 
 still liable to smart under the tongues of Mrs. Holten and 
 Miss Booke if they were inclined for adverse criticism 
 or lecturing. 
 
 Emmie took care over her appearance, for she relied
 
 166 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 instinctively for a certain amount of sympathy or respect 
 on the " pretty woman neatly dressed." Also, she knew 
 that untidiness would simply plunge her into the bog of 
 gibes. 
 
 She was quite happy, however, as she walked out of 
 Helston House beside her husband. She was very 
 pleased to be seen beside Tim, and if she assumed a digni- 
 fied air she was sufficiently self-conscious to think of her- 
 self as Mrs. Timothy Booke and to fancy that those who 
 saw her recognised her in that capacity. 
 
 As she walked up Silton Street past her own home, she 
 nodded to her mother, who was sitting on a chair near 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins said "Hello!" 
 
 " Can't stop," said Emmie. 
 
 " Enjoying a bit of fresh air? " said Tim to his mother- 
 in-law. 
 
 " Yes ... a bit," said Mrs. Bollins, coming to the 
 door. 
 
 " Father and Sarah out ? " said Emmie. 
 
 " Your father's gone a walk ; Sarah's upstairs." 
 
 Emmie smiled and nodded. Mrs. Bollins did the 
 same. 
 
 " G'night," said Tim. 
 
 " Good night," said Mrs. Bollins, and she stood at the 
 door of the little house, watching her son-in-law in frock 
 coat and silk hat walk beside her daughter fashionably 
 dressed. Neighbours also came to the door and looked. 
 
 Mrs. Loman, across the road, shouted: 
 
 " She looks very well." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Ay. . . . Nice couple." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She can dress, too."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 167 
 
 " She'd always good taste." 
 
 " And she needn't be afraid of a shilling or two, either, 
 now." 
 
 " No." 
 
 Emmie turned round and waved her hand to her 
 mother. She knew she would be watching, and was 
 pleased to see there were others watching too. 
 
 The Holtens lived in Stockport Road in a semi-de- 
 tached house of unpretentious appearance, having a small 
 garden in front, and a fairly large one behind. It was 
 furnished with some regard to value, though lacked the 
 simplicity that characterised Helston House, perhaps be- 
 cause of Mr. Booke's dislike for " fal-lals " a term he 
 used to designate small ornaments and merely ornamental 
 articles of furniture. But Mrs. Holten was house proud. 
 She was a capable manager and would almost invite you 
 to look round and see if you could find any dust where 
 it ought not to be. 
 
 The maid gave Emmie a hint of the capability in the 
 place. She opened the door as it ought to be opened to 
 guests, not in Ada's timid, suspicious way. Emmie noted 
 this: she must drill Ada if Ada could be drilled! 
 Tim's hat and stick were taken from him, a door was 
 thrown open, and then Emmie found herself responding 
 to the maid's "Will you come this way, please?" and 
 walking upstairs. 
 
 Emmie went with dignity, but cast glances from left 
 to right. Everything certainly did look clean. 
 
 The maid knocked at the bedroom door and a voice 
 called out, " Come in." 
 
 " Mrs. Timothy," said the maid. 
 
 Emmie walked in. 
 
 " Here you are," said Mrs. Holten, advancing and
 
 168 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 shaking hands and then kissing her without hesitation. 
 " Tim downstairs ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Miss Booke was there. She also kissed Emmie because 
 her sister had, and Mrs. Grass kissed her willingly. 
 
 Mrs. Grass turned to Miss Booke and continued a con- 
 versation. ..." So I told her if that sort of thing was 
 to go on. . . ." 
 
 " That's a very nice hat, Emmie," whispered Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten, as Emmie put it on the bed, noticing the fine bed- 
 spread and the bonnets of Mrs. Grass and Miss Booke. 
 
 " Yes. I like it myself," said Emmie. 
 
 "H'm. ... Get it in Manchester?" 
 
 "Yes at Madame Marie's." 
 
 *'I know Oxford Street. She's dear, isn't she? 
 How much did you pay for it ? " 
 
 " Thirty-five shillings." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 The moment Emmie heard that exclamation she knew 
 she had blundered. Why hadn't she said twenty-five, or 
 that she didn't remember. 
 
 " Thirty-five shillings," said Mrs. Holten, and she 
 turned towards her sisters. " I don't wonder it's a nice 
 hat." The tone had a lilting stab. 
 
 " Thirty-five shillings," repeated Miss Booke, with the 
 air of the shocked and pained. "Thirty-five you'll 
 ruin Tim if you go on at that rate." 
 
 " Tim didn't buy it," said Emmie, a trifle quickly. 
 
 "I didn't say he did," replied Miss Booke; " I said if 
 you go on at that rate." 
 
 Mrs. Grass said quickly : " I suppose it was for the 
 honeymoon, eh, Emmie." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, very quietly and feeling badly 
 treated. Just because she had spent all that money to
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 169 
 
 please them to have a hat fit for the occasion and the 
 family, and now they criticised it! ... If she'd bought 
 a cheap one they'd have said she disgraced them. . . . 
 She was flushed. 
 
 " Of course, it's very nice, very nice, indeed," said 
 Mrs. Holten, who wished to smooth Emmie, now that 
 Miss Booke had rushed in with her austere battery. 
 " Have you and Tim had a walk? or have you just come 
 from home ? " 
 
 " We've come straight from home," said Emmie, with 
 a certain dignity. 
 
 " I was wondering if you'd got a good appetite." Mrs. 
 Holten now spoke very friendly. 
 
 " Emmie's young," said Mrs. Grass. " I expect she 
 always has a good appetite. I remember how I used to 
 eat at her age. I couldn't do it now ; don't want to, for 
 that matter, for I'm quite fat enough." 
 
 " You're not fat, Sophia," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Fat enough," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Well, come on downstairs," said Mrs. Holten, " or 
 they'll think we've forgotten them." 
 
 Emmie wiped out at any rate, for the moment 
 the little incident that had ruffled her. As she was going 
 downstairs, Mrs. Grass put her arm round her waist and 
 nodded pleasantly. 
 
 " You must come and have supper with us next," she 
 said. 
 
 " Thank you," murmured Emmie, and she felt happier 
 at once as the scent of cigars and the sound of men's 
 voices reached her. She had the feeling of secure se- 
 renity in the presence of men. 
 
 And they rose to greet her most cordially. 
 
 Mr. Booke just shook hands and nodded, but he was 
 genuinely hearty. Mr. Holten was most polite.
 
 170 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Well, Emmie . . . very glad to see you. The latest 
 addition to the family . . . you're very welcome." 
 
 Mr. Grass nodded very affably. "How are you? 
 Haven't seen you since you came back." 
 
 Emmie felt now very comfortable. She sat near Tim, 
 and the conversation launched at them first dissolved in 
 laughter and good humour into other channels. 
 
 The men discussed business and politics and cricket. 
 The ladies talked of domestic affairs and other people. 
 Emmie listened and joined in the conversation when she 
 was appealed to and felt, on the whole, quite comfortable. 
 
 And all the time she kept noting ornaments on the 
 mantelshelf two Dresden figures which Emmie liked, 
 but thought cheap, and a fairly large dark blue ornament 
 which she liked, and a Sheraton clock which she consid- 
 ered neat, the overmantel which matched the clock and 
 then she noticed the furniture matched the clock too. 
 She thought that very smart, very clever. . . . She won- 
 dered if the clock had been bought with the chairs and 
 sofa or got separately. And the curtains, deftly hung 
 from the mantel-board arrested her attention. She saw 
 how they were done . . . yes, she would do hers like 
 that she didn't care for that browny-red colour, be- 
 sides, it wouldn't go with their furniture. . . . This was 
 a very nice room, too. . . . She had felt its picturesque- 
 ness when she came in. It was striking and yet not 
 gaudy. 
 
 And she was interrupted in her observations by the 
 march to the kitchen to supper. The kitchen was a big 
 room, providing ample accommodation for a large party, 
 whereas the so-called dining-room was a comparatively 
 small affair and was inconvenient in these Sunday eve- 
 ning gatherings. 
 
 And how clean and bright even this kitchen looked!
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 171 
 
 Emmie was struck with it the moment she entered. 
 There was a shininess and polish even about the worn 
 things that showed care and attention. The white linen 
 was white and spotless, and all the things in the room had 
 the air of having been thoroughly overhauled and kept 
 well in hand. 
 
 Mrs. Holten indicated the guests their seats, with a 
 little self-consciousness. She could never wholly forget 
 that she was a capable housewife, and so rather offered 
 all she did, not only as a hostess, but as a model. 
 
 Her sisters knew her. Mrs. Grass, too easy-going to 
 rival her, said: "Jane's clever, but she serves her clev- 
 erness with all she does." And Miss Booke had said : 
 " Jane would manage Buckingham Palace if they'd give 
 her a chance and they'd live well and save money, 
 too." The men, as they came into the room, glanced 
 at the table. 
 
 " Makes one feel hungry, Jane," said Mrs. Grass, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was pleased. 
 
 " I hope you'll enjoy it," she said. " Emmie . . ." 
 she touched a chair. " Will you sit here ? " 
 
 Emmie saw on the big dresser, that seemed to be a 
 fixture near the window, plates and dishes that could be 
 easily handled when the first course had been disposed 
 of. 
 
 Emmie looked at the ample grate and saw a big, well- 
 polished copper kettle and an iron one. All the fire-irons 
 shone like burnished steel. Everything seemed in its 
 place, toasting fork, brush, a square thing to put on the hot 
 handle of the kettle. . . . The pictures on the wall looked 
 " nice " to Emmie, principally because they had neat oak 
 frames. And then she had a strange thought : " These 
 Holtens have their meals in the kitchen. We don't. I
 
 172 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 don't. I have mine in the dining-room." She chortled. 
 Well! After the way they'd behaved. . . . 
 
 The next minute she was being helped to veal and 
 ham, and she observed the dexterous way Mrs. Holten 
 carved, the flowers on the table, the way the knives and 
 forks and spoons and forks were laid, the crockery 
 but that was not so nice as hers. Emmie began to feel 
 that Mrs. Holten had not got all the leading. 
 
 Mr. Grass began talking of the Manchester Ship Canal. 
 He was an engineer, and the plan interested him. He 
 thought it would cost more than the five millions reck- 
 oned. There were always difficulties in big undertak- 
 ings of this kind. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Holten turned to Emmie: " Enjoying it? " and 
 she smiled very pleasantly. 
 
 " Yes, thank you." And Emmie was enjoying herself. 
 She was interested in the men's talk, in the general atmos- 
 phere, in the fact that she was well dressed and treated 
 as an equal by these ladies who were amongst the lead- 
 ing ladies of Ganton. 
 
 As the meal progressed and the sweets were being 
 served, Miss Booke said to her sister : " Jane, you should 
 show Emmie a few things in cooking: that apple char- 
 lotte of yours, and your potted meat " 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked pleased; she liked her abilities to 
 be noticed. 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " I'll do anything for you, Emmie, 
 like that." 
 
 Tim said, almost casually : " I don't know why you 
 want to be teaching Emmie this and that; she can man- 
 age for me very well, thank you." 
 
 Emmie blushed, but wanted to kiss Tim, not because 
 he saved her being shown how to make apple charlotte 
 or to pot meat like Mrs. Holten ( for really she was glad
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 173 
 
 to learn anything useful), but because he stuck up for 
 her before people. It showed he cared for her. 
 
 " I don't want to interfere, Tim," said Mrs. Holten 
 mildly. 
 
 " No, Aunt Jane. But that's just what I feel." 
 
 Miss Booke said: 
 
 " And I'm sure / don't. I was only doing it for the 
 best. But you can't help some people." 
 
 " Have some of this junket, Emmie," said Mr. Holten, 
 who wished to avoid scenes. " It's good for you." 
 
 Emmie would have had some even if it had punished 
 her, or gone without it if she had been famished at that 
 moment without care or reck. She was in her inner- 
 most soul rejoicing over the discomfiture of Aunt Maria 
 by Tim. 
 
 She said, " No, thank you," first to Mr. Holten, but on 
 being pressed had some " junket," really because she 
 thought she would like to try it, and not because she was 
 taking some she would please her host, but in those days 
 it was considered polite to refuse and very hospitable 
 and natural and proper to persuade and press people to 
 take the food one had prepared for them. 
 
 When Emmie walked home with Tim, she felt very 
 happy. This life, she thought, suited her. She could 
 behave in the company of the Bookes just as well as 
 they could, for that matter. As for Miss Booke . . . 
 well, you couldn't say enough about her and her lectur- 
 ing. . . . And Emmie felt she would set her tables just 
 as well as Mrs. Holten or Mrs. Grass or Miss Booke 
 and cook as well, too. She was happy, not only because 
 she was very comfortably married and had a kind and 
 indulgent husband and happiness seemed to float about 
 her as if it were her proper atmosphere, but she was feel-
 
 174 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 ing her personality breaking through this new social 
 crust. She felt a confidence in herself that gave her a 
 fine assurance. These people could have their little gibes 
 now and again and attempt to teach her, but Emmie felt 
 within her a capability equal to theirs, equal to Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten's equal to anything she might be called on to do. 
 She had always been somebody in the trimming-room, 
 and now she felt she was really somebody in the society 
 of those who employed trimmers and thought no small 
 beer of themselves.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TIM had, of course, the whole responsibility for the 
 success or failure of " T. Booke & Son " on his 
 own shoulders. Mr. Booke came to the works almost 
 every day. He generally managed to see Emmie if it 
 were only for a moment, and he passed his time going 
 from counting house to warehouse, from fur blowing 
 or wool forming to body-making and finishing. He 
 talked to the men familiarly and seemed to go about as 
 a man would who loved a garden and noted a rose tree 
 here and a fuchsia there, a magnolia, and so on. He had 
 lived with the scent of hat-making in his nostrils ever 
 since he could remember and he had no desire to lose 
 the odour now. 
 
 Tim had to do the buying the buying of wool and 
 fur and silks and leathers and galloons. He had to de- 
 cide shapes and order blocks and see that the money 
 came in and that the business of T. Booke & Son did not 
 suffer in his hands. 
 
 He talked over business with his father, but the con- 
 versation was always conducted with a certain amount 
 of delicacy, for Mr. Booke never offered advice. Tim 
 would occasionally say : " I'm doing that " and " I think 
 I shall try that," but never actually asked for counsel 
 or encouragement, and Mr. Booke would nod and ex- 
 press no opinion, as a rule. It was as if he said, " Well, 
 it's yours now, and you must do what you think fit, re- 
 lying on your own judgment." 
 
 Tim was equal to his task. He had had a sound and 
 thorough training in the business and showed no diffi- 
 
 i75
 
 176 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 dence or weakness in taking sole control. He appointed 
 a man, who had been with the firm some years, as his 
 manager. He was a keen, rather high-browed, shrewd- 
 eyed man, not much older than Tim, steady and ener- 
 getic, Ernest Mullins by name. Tim still travelled a lit- 
 tle and he thought it as well to have some one quite 
 responsible in the factory while he was away. 
 
 It happened that now and then Tim would ask Mullins 
 to come in the house when the works were closed so that 
 they could talk business matters over more comfortably. 
 And as they sat and smoked their pipes and talked of the 
 price of wool or fur, of this competitor's effort, or a new 
 process, of work people and other details, Emmie sat and 
 listened. 
 
 She and Mullins naturally knew each other. He had 
 called her " Emmie " when she trimmed, and she had 
 always referred to him as Ernest Mullins, even if she 
 had not actually addressed him as Ernest. 
 
 He turned to her once when he and Tim had been dis- 
 cussing something, and she had listened without saying 
 anything. 
 
 " A bit dry for you, all this . . . Mrs. Tim." 
 
 " Oh ! No," she said. " It's very interesting." 
 
 " She knows all about it," said Tim. 
 
 Emmie looked up from her sewing and smiled. 
 
 " I ought to know something," she said. 
 
 " It's our bread and butter, at any rate," said Ernest, 
 and then he plunged once more into business details with 
 Tim. 
 
 Emmie liked to hear them talk. It gave her the feel- 
 ing of actually being behind the scenes. She took a keen 
 interest in what was said, and occasionally surprised Tim 
 by comments and suggestions.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 177 
 
 " I'll make thee manager, Emmie," he said one day, 
 jokingly. 
 
 " Might do worse," retorted Emmie. 
 
 Tim shook his head. 
 
 " You've got enough to manage at present. And 
 there'll be more soon, eh? " 
 
 Emmie looked at him with an expression he liked and 
 yet held in a little awe : it seemed so deep. 
 
 He put an arm round her. 
 
 " Which would you rather ... a boy or a girl ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she said. 
 
 "Twins?" he suggested. 
 
 "Go on ! " she said, pushing him away playfully. 
 
 This was the next big fact in Emmie's life. As the 
 time drew near for the little stranger's advent, Emmie 
 had got quite accustomed to being Mrs. Timothy Booke. 
 She could now greet her husband's aunts without nervous- 
 ness or tribulation of any kind. She found she could 
 manage her house well enough to allow Mrs. Holten or 
 Miss Booke to call at almost any time and take her un- 
 awares without snatching at this and hiding that or 
 wondering if they would notice such and such. . . . She 
 could entertain with ease, and the hint of diffidence to- 
 wards the elders was really pleasing to them. 
 
 Tim and she got on capitally. He had resumed his 
 visits to the club, but he did not make it a religion to 
 go there every night or feel ill at ease and uncomfortable 
 if he stayed at home. 
 
 Emmie never said anything if, on these club nights, he 
 came home late. For one thing, she rather liked the idea 
 of her husband being at the club: it signified a social 
 standing to her.
 
 178 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She waited up the first time. 
 
 Tim said : " You shouldn't have waited up." 
 
 " I didn't mind," she said. " I'd some sewing to do." 
 
 " You mustn't wait up again if I'm late, or I shall be 
 uncomfortable." 
 
 " Go on with you ! If I've got some work to do, what 
 does it matter? And don't you worry about me when 
 you're at the club ; I'm not a child." 
 
 But Tim reduced his club-going to very occasional 
 visits just before the baby was born. He and Emmie 
 would walk at night slowly up and down Silton Street 
 or out of Silton Street into Taylor Lane and along the 
 quieter New Road. 
 
 Mr. Booke called daily to see Emmie and was con- 
 cerned if he saw her looking tired. 
 
 " Emmie mustn't work too much now," he said to Tim, 
 a month or so before the expected confinement. 
 
 " No. I've told her. Mrs. Wright's coming in next 
 week." 
 
 " That's right. She must take care." 
 
 Both father and son were stirred with a wave of senti- 
 ment, but there was no clear expression of it. They were 
 silent for a moment, and then to get out of the awkward- 
 ness, Tim said : " I think crowns'll go a deal fuller, 
 Father." 
 
 " Ay. I thowt as much." And then, after a pause : 
 " Reckon you'll have Dr. Everkith." 
 
 " Oh, yes. ... I gave him the hint the other day." 
 
 " Ay. . . . H'm. . . . Very sensible. . . . Crowns go- 
 ing fuller, eh. . . ." referring to the shapes of hats. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Mrs. Grass and Miss Booke were 
 prodigal of advice, particularly Miss Booke. But they 
 were all genuinely solicitous; they desired her welfare 
 sincerely. A Booke was to be brought into the world.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 179 
 
 Emmie was, on the whole, rather pleased with the 
 attention. She kept very well, felt rarely moody or sub- 
 ject to whims, was able to do a certain amount of house- 
 work and had the desires and appetite of a healthy woman. 
 
 Alice Cannell called to see her one evening. She had 
 been once or twice before, but now that the jaunts to- 
 gether were ended the friendship lost its old intimacy. 
 Still, whenever they met, they talked freely and pleas- 
 antly together and Alice told her escapades and excite- 
 ments with a zest that Emmie thoroughly enjoyed. 
 
 It happened that Miss Booke and Mrs. Holten called 
 that evening, and they bowed with a fine condescension 
 to Alice particularly Miss Booke. Mrs. Holten ven- 
 tured to remark that for April the weather was not bad, 
 considering the terrible storms we had in March. Mrs. 
 Holten suggested the important lady being agreeable and 
 free to one beneath her. 
 
 Alice was somewhat uncomfortable and wished that 
 she was with Emmie alone, so that she could tell her about 
 a chap she thought she would really make it up with : he 
 was a real nice fellow. ... As it was, she remarked 
 carefully on the storms we had had in March; she had 
 heard that thousands of sheep had been lost in Wales 
 a thousand or ten thousand. She wasn't sure which. 
 
 Miss Booke said authoritatively: "Ten thousand." 
 
 " Yes," said Alice, willing to accept any figure. " I 
 wasn't sure." 
 
 " A big difference between ten thousand and one thou- 
 sand," said Miss Booke, with austere correctitude. 
 
 Alice looked and felt chilled. She also was filled with 
 a desire " to scratch that woman," but merely sat awk- 
 wardly on the edge of an apparently high chair and was 
 annoyed she could not get her heels down properly. 
 
 Emmie was not at all disturbed. She found she could
 
 i8o AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 listen to Miss Booke now without being upset as she used 
 to be. Of course, Miss Booke was careful now not to 
 say anything hurting to Emmie, but she could not repress 
 her undoubted talent for advice, correction and advertise- 
 ment altogether, just because her niece was going to have 
 a baby. 
 
 Alice said she had to be going, for the atmosphere now 
 was no longer congenial and she prepared to get out of it. 
 
 " I'll see you out," said Emmie, and went with her to 
 the front door. 
 
 " Don't catch a cold now, Emmie," said Miss Booke, 
 and she looked at her sister in a way to signify: What 
 do you think of that ? meaning it was almost preposterous 
 for Alice Cannell to be shown out of the front door 
 the back door was surely good enough for her. 
 
 Emmie had chosen the front door of set purposes and 
 design ; she would let the Booke ladies see that any friend 
 of hers was worthy of the front door. 
 
 Alice looked at Emmie in the hall. 
 
 " That woman! " she whispered. " I'd like to fill her 
 mouth full o' paste." Then they both smothered a 
 laughter that would, had it not been repressed, have rung 
 through the house. 
 
 The silence was enough to tell Mrs. Holten and Miss 
 Booke that something was being whispered. Miss Booke 
 coughed loudly and unnecessarily. 
 
 Emmie and Alice, smiles on their faces, nodded at one 
 another. 
 
 " Can you get on with her? " whispered Alice. 
 
 " Oh ! Yes. You can't have everything." 
 
 " No, 'spect not. Well, * olive oil/ and look after 
 yourself." 
 
 They kissed. 
 
 " Come in just whenever you like," said Emmie.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 181 
 
 " Well keep that vinegar bottle out," said Alice, with 
 a nod and a grin, " and I'll come oftener." 
 
 When Emmie returned to the two ladies, Miss Booke 
 said : " Does Alice Cannell come often? " 
 
 " Not so often as I'd like," said Emmie quickly, with 
 a little inward chuckle as she added to herself: " That's 
 one for you ! " 
 
 Miss Booke drew herself up. Really. . . . But she 
 held her peace. She thought she was behaving nobly in 
 not continuing the discussion ... at such a time, you 
 understand. . . . Had things been normal, more might 
 have been said. 
 
 Emmie every now and then was a little surprised at 
 her own capacity. She had before been an industrious 
 trimmer and had done her work well, earned quite good 
 wages, dressed well and tastefully, and made most of her 
 clothes. But she had had no standard of ability with 
 which to judge herself. Now, she noted how she stood 
 because she had had to do certain unusual things, and she 
 found she did them with ease and satisfaction. She 
 managed her house admirably Mrs. Holten readily 
 conceded that. She cooked, she washed, she arranged 
 and ordered without any effort. These domestic mat- 
 ters seemed simple to her. And now, in her present con- 
 dition, she was almost inclined to jeer at the women who 
 made a martyrdom of childbearing. 
 
 " I could dance," she said to Tim one day. 
 
 Tim looked up : " By Gum ! You'd better not." 
 
 " I'm not going to, silly. I only said I could." 
 
 " You're a marvel, Emmie ; I hope you'll go through 
 it all as well." 
 
 Emmie pulled a face. 
 
 " That'll be another thing." 
 
 Still she was getting into the way of thinking that if
 
 182 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 she had anything to do she could do it and do it well, 
 of course. 
 
 Also she was beginning to feel that she could defend 
 herself quite well, against Miss Booke and all Tim's rela- 
 tives, if they attacked her. She wasn't going to be put 
 on and she was not going to be told what to do nor talked 
 at. Advice offered as a genuine aid with genuine good 
 wishes behind it was one thing; advice strongly diluted 
 with the proclaimed superiority of the giver was another, 
 a very different thing. Emmie was beginning to press 
 her lips together and raise her chin when face to face with 
 Miss Booke. 
 
 She noted this attitude in herself, noted her growth in 
 decision and the development of her abilities. She won- 
 dered for a moment if the child she was to bear was the 
 cause of this mental expansion and dismissed the idea 
 almost at once. It was she herself that was developing 
 like a plant in the sun. 
 
 She knew it. Undoubtedly she felt a little of this self- 
 confidence in the excellent health she enjoyed, particularly 
 within a few weeks of her confinement. She had, nat- 
 urally, all sorts of tales, as well as counsel, poured into 
 her ears, and most of the experiences she heard seemed 
 those of feeble people or of those who had had to suffer. 
 She had discovered her amazing vitality after mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Both Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke were shrewd and 
 observent enough to grasp the indisputable fact of Em- 
 mie's assurance and felt a mingled resentment and pride 
 at it. She was only Sam Bollins' daughter but she was 
 also Tim's wife. They found it hard to praise her, and 
 yet would not allow her to be attacked. 
 
 And Emmie, fully emerged from the chrysalis stage of 
 diffidence went about gathering the honey of life in her
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 183 
 
 own glowing way and impressing those with whom she 
 came in contact with a sense of her " aliveness." 
 
 Her mother and father almost came to regard her with 
 awe, at least with the idea that she was not as she used 
 to be, that she was changed, another and a greater Em- 
 mie. . . . 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bollins, exceedingly gratified that their 
 daughter was Mrs. Booke and ready to talk of her at 
 all times and seasons, yet showed a little reluctance at 
 visiting Helston House too frequently. They feared 
 Booke tongues a little, were somewhat afraid of what 
 Mrs. Holten or Miss Booke might say "they were 
 never off the doorstep," or perhaps suggest they went 
 there to get things, food for instance. And they had 
 their pride. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins mentioned her desire at tea time. 
 
 " I think I'd like to go and see Emmie to-night; have 
 you seen her to-day? " 
 
 " No ! " There was always the chance that Mr. Bol- 
 lins, from the yard of T. Booke & Son's, might see his 
 daughter. 
 
 " It's getting near now," said Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 He was drinking tea out of a cup bereft of its handle 
 and munching radishes which were set out in a saucer. 
 
 " I haven't been for some time," he said. 
 
 " No." There was a pause. Mrs. Bollins hesitated 
 and then seemed to come to the conclusion that there was 
 something to be said both ways and that it didn't mat- 
 ter. " Will you come with me? " she asked. 
 
 He drank his tea noisily, put a radish in his mouth 
 threw the end in the fireplace, and after a pause, said: 
 " I might. ... Ay. ... I might."
 
 184 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " It's no good going too late," she said. " I could 
 have a talk with Emmie first. You could come after 
 you've had a wash. You'd better put your other coat 
 on too, hadn't you ? " 
 
 He was sitting in his shirtsleeves, wearing a collar 
 and tie as a concession to his relationship to the head 
 of the factory where he worked, his boots were old and 
 tied with string (to save the better pair he wore in the 
 streets and out of the works generally, but the tea half 
 hour was too short for changes of raiment) and the white 
 apron which covered him from chest to shins was dirty 
 in patches, as were his hands, with the dye of the hats. 
 
 He looked at himself. 
 
 " Yes." He was rather pleased to get into the better 
 clothes he had, for since Emmie's wedding day he had 
 had an extra suit. 
 
 " All right," she said. " I shall be gone when you get 
 home. I'll leave the key." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins took a deal of trouble over her appear- 
 ance when going to see Emmie, for there was always the 
 chance that she might meet somebody of importance 
 there of importance from her point of view, naturally. 
 Her hands were never quite clean, for she had got past 
 that stage when she bothered to take care of them, but 
 she could dress tastefully, for Emmie invariably helped 
 with the choice of a dress. 
 
 As she left the key with Mrs. Black, her next door 
 neighbour, she said : " Just going to see my daughter." 
 
 Mrs. Black, nursing the big iron key, said : " Oh, yes. 
 She's keeping very well, I hear." 
 
 " I think so." ' 
 
 Mrs. Black nodded her head, signifying quite an intel- 
 ligible prologue, and then said : " Soon, isn't it? " 
 
 "' About three weeks."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 185 
 
 Mrs. Black screwed up her face and conveyed other 
 expressions in silent language. Mrs. Bollins nodded and 
 then smiled. " And she's got everything she wants." 
 
 " Oh! Yes," said Mrs. Black. " That's a comfort." 
 
 " Yes. . . . Yes. ... I reckon he'll be here smart 
 he's coining after me." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was conveying to Mrs. Black the infor- 
 mation that the key would not trouble her long. 
 
 " That's all right," replied Mrs. Black. " I'm not go- 
 ing out." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins smiled and went on her way, meeting in a 
 couple of minutes Mrs. Tegginbottom. 
 
 " Nice night," said Mrs. Tegginbottom, a little observ- 
 ant woman, who said to herself, as she saw Mrs. Bollins 
 dressed so neatly and cleanly : " Ah ! Going to see her 
 daughter." 
 
 " Very nice," said Mrs. Bollins. " I'm just going to 
 see my daughter." 
 
 " I thought so. It's . . ." There were nods, very 
 similar to Mrs. Black's. " Soon, isn't it? " 
 
 Mrs. Bollins smiled and nodded and seemed to convey 
 information of a kind by her smiles and nods. 
 
 " She's keeping well, I hear," said Mrs. Tegginbottom. 
 
 " Very. But of course she has everything she wants," 
 said the fond and very proud mother. Her daughter had 
 everything she wanted! 
 
 And as she walked on Mrs. Bollins was very pleased she 
 had occasion to speak to Mrs. Black and Mrs. Teggin- 
 bottom, and rather hoped she might have occasion to 
 meet more acquaintances, so that she could remind them 
 of her daughter who had everything she wanted. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins went in by the back door. She felt more 
 comfortable going in there than at; ^h? front, and the side
 
 i86 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 door was neither one thing nor the other. Besides, the 
 back door was familiar. With Sarah or her husband 
 Mrs. Bollins would have gone where they wished. 
 
 Emmie was in the kitchen, putting some things on a 
 " maiden." There was the familiar smell of washing and 
 ironing, the warm, slightly damp atmosphere, and the 
 pungent odour of burnt soap over which the iron was 
 periodically run. A woman was ironing clothes at the 
 table. 
 
 " Hello, Mother," said Emmie, going round and greet- 
 ing her with a kiss. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins had come to see how Emmie was, to give 
 her advice, to warn her about this, and tell her about that, 
 but Emmie took possession of her at once. 
 
 " I'm glad you've come. Sit you down. This is Mrs. 
 Wright." 
 
 Mrs. Wright was the daily help. Mrs. Bollins nodded 
 her head and smiled. 
 
 " Doing a bit of ironing? " she said. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Wright affably. 
 
 " I'll help you, Emmie, with them," said Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 " No fear. Just you sit down and rest yourself. This 
 is nothing." 
 
 " You shouldn't do too much." 
 
 " That's what I tell her," ventured Mrs. Wright. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins shook her head. 
 
 " Yes. We don't want any accidents." 
 
 " No," echoed Mrs. Wright. " Don't want no acci- 
 dents now." 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " Accidents. We're not going to have any accident 
 because I'm putting a few things on a maiden." The 
 clothes horse was always referred to as a " maiden " in 
 the Bollins family.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 187 
 
 " I don't know so much about that . . ." and Mrs. 
 Bollins had a most engrossing tale to tell about some one 
 who had had a miscarriage because of some trivial and 
 almost insignificant thing she had attempted when she 
 was in a condition similar to Emmie. 
 
 And Mrs. Wright nodded her head with complete ap- 
 proval. She, too, had stories to tell of people she knew, 
 very thrilling and interesting stories they were, too, all 
 of them conveying the moral of care and ease. 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " You two! You'll give me the jumps soon. At any 
 rate, I'm not going to be stopped doing things like this 
 because Mrs. Somebody made a mess of herself through 
 trying to pull down a window blind that stuck. You 
 must stop and have some supper, Mother." 
 
 " Your father's coming too." 
 
 " Well, he can stop, as well ; we've enough for both of 
 you." 
 
 "Oh! But ... it's a lot o' trouble." 
 
 " No trouble at all. Just you take your bonnet off 
 that suits you." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 " Yes. Don't you think so, Mrs. Wright ? " 
 
 " Very nice. I noticed it when you came in." 
 
 Emmie went to her mother, untied her bonnet strings, 
 put the bonnet on a little farther forward, while Mrs. 
 Bollins sat submissive and pleased. 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, as she looked at it again. " Very 
 nice. Very neat . . . it's stylish, too, Mother. I'll put 
 it here for the moment," and she put it on the dresser 
 on some linen that was folded and ready to be put away. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins noticed how much older Emmie seemed. 
 She was no longer a girl, but a grown woman ; she moved 
 and talked with authority.
 
 i88 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " We'll have some toasted cheese," she said. " You 
 like that, Mother, and so does father. I think we've 
 enough cheese. . . ." She at once went to the cupboard 
 near the fireplace. 
 
 " Now don't make any fuss, Emmie." 
 
 " Toasted cheese is no fuss. I don't think we've time 
 for onions : they take so long " 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 " Front door," said Emmie. " Sounds like Aunt 
 Maria." She pushed her hands down her apron and 
 gave an instantaneous and almost instinctive glance at 
 herself. Aunt Maria could certainly send a thrill of 
 sorts through people. 
 
 " I'll open the door," said Mrs. Bollins, rising and go- 
 ing away, quite pleased to show Miss Booke she was 
 doing something in the fine house of her daughter's. 
 
 Emmie said: "Don't you bother," but, seeing her 
 mother go, seriously acquiesced, particularly as Mrs. 
 Wright (probably desiring to show Mrs. Bollins what a 
 thoughtful woman she Mrs. Wright was about a 
 house at a time like this), said: "You shouldn't run 
 about too much, you know, Mrs. Booke." 
 
 Emmie uttered a little incoherent noise, signifying she 
 would run about if she wanted. 
 
 Then Miss Booke's voice was heard at the door : 
 
 "You, is it?" with a fine volume of feeling on the 
 pronoun. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins felt shrivelled almost at once. 
 
 " Yes," she muttered apologetically. " I was just sit- 
 ting with Emmie in the kitchen." 
 
 " Is there nobody else in? " 
 
 " There's Mrs. Wright." 
 
 "Oh! ... Couldn't she open the door? "
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 189 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was beginning to wonder if she had com- 
 mitted some horrible blunder. 
 
 " She was doing something," she muttered awkwardly. 
 
 " I was just passing," said Miss Booke, as if she had 
 now discussed the opening of the door sufficiently. " I 
 thought I'd just see how Emmie was." 
 
 The mother was pleased. 
 
 " She's very well, I'm thankful to say." 
 
 " She ought to be," said Miss Booke, going forward, 
 " with a nice home like this." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Bollins submissively. 
 
 Miss Booke walked into the kitchen. 
 
 " There you are," she said to Emmie. She nodded to 
 Mrs. Wright. 
 
 " I thought it was you," said Emmie. " Sit down, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to stay. I was passing and I thought 
 I would just see how you are." 
 
 " I'm all right, thanks. Sit down, Mother." Emmie 
 spoke cheerily, while Mrs. Bollins was standing in the 
 attitude of a suppliant. 
 
 " You know," said Miss Booke, with an authoritative 
 air, " this is no place for you, Emmie." 
 
 " This . . . my own kitchen oh ! I've got some- 
 thing to do here ; can't do this in the dining-room." 
 
 " I wasn't meaning that altogether," said Miss Booke 
 seriously, while Mrs. Bollins, sitting comfortably on a 
 chair, wondered what the important Miss Booke was 
 going to say to Emmie. " I was thinking of your con- 
 dition. . . ." She shook her head. " This washing and 
 ironing won't do you any good." 
 
 " Won't do me any harm, either," retorted Emmie 
 quickly, as one refusing to be lectured. " The smell of
 
 igo AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 a bit of washing or the sight of a clean petticoat'll do me 
 no harm." 
 
 Miss Booke clinked her lips together in a disapproving 
 fashion. 
 
 Just then Tim came in. 
 
 He nodded to his aunt and mother-in-law. 
 
 " Are you frightened to be with a lot of women, Tim? " 
 Emmie asked gaily. 
 
 " Frightened. ... By Gum ! " 
 
 She laughed. Mrs. Bollins laughed too, but looked 
 furtively at Miss Booke to get a cue from her. Mrs. 
 Wright said: "Eh ... isn't she? Eh! . . ." Emmie 
 went on lifting up linen and putting it on the maiden. 
 
 Miss Booke said : " I've just been telling Emmie she 
 shouldn't be so much in this kitchen, just now, Tim. . . ." 
 
 " No. Well, she knows. . . . She looks healthy 
 enough." 
 
 " H'm. . . . Ah, well. I'll be getting on," said Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 " You've only just come," said Emmie. 
 
 " I only meant to call " 
 
 " Stop and have a bit o' supper," said Tim. 
 
 " No, thank you, Tim ; no, thank you. I wouldn't 
 dream of it at a time like this," and she looked at Mrs. 
 Bollins. " Are you coming up the road, Mrs. Bollins ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bollins looked in a minor agony. 
 
 " No! No! " said Emmie quickly. " Mother's going 
 to stay and have a bit of supper: she comes so seldom." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins began to mutter something, but Tim said 
 genially : " That's right. You'd better stay too, Aunt 
 Maria; we can find enough to eat." 
 
 " No, thank you, Tim," she replied, with fine emphasis. 
 "No, thank you; as I said before, not just now, thank 
 you."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 191 
 
 Mrs. Bollins felt like a criminal caught red-handed. 
 
 " Good night," said Miss Booke. " Good night, Em- 
 mie, and remember my warning. . . ." 
 
 And as the important lady went down the road, she 
 was saying to herself: " Just what I thought; just what 
 I expected. Those Bollinses will live on Tim. It will 
 be first one and then the other. . . . T't, t't, t't. . . ." 
 And she wagged her head and walked to her sister's so 
 that she could talk the matter over with a fervour that 
 would do justice to the topic. 
 
 Emmie, meanwhile, saw to the supper, and Tim was 
 quite comfortable in the company of his wife's parents, 
 talking familiarly with Sam Bollins about hats and hat- 
 ters, and what Ganton was like forty years ago when 
 you could see from where they were, past the station 
 there were no houses there then. . . . All that you see 
 now are new. . . . 
 
 And Tim, as he listened, kept looking at his wife, who 
 smiled and looked happy and seemed to hook him to her 
 with those bright glances she shot at him from time to 
 time. Tim would have put up with a society gathered 
 from the hedges and ditches if only Emmie had been 
 there to enjoy it, for her joyous spirit infected his. 
 
 Mr. Bollins, feeling very proud and happy, wiped his 
 mouth and kissed his daughter. 
 
 " G'night, Emmie." 
 
 " Good night, Father." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins whispered : " Do you think Miss Booke 
 was vexed ? " 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " What does it matter if she was or not? This is my 
 house, not hers." 
 
 Mrs. Bollins looked at her daughter with perplexity; 
 Emmie was beyond her. . . .
 
 EMMIE in bed was a picture. The room was clean 
 and tidy, the bed linen was white and Emmie, her- 
 self, with her hands specially attended to and her hair 
 most carefully done and tied up with a dark red ribbon, 
 was ready for any doctor. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was there, useful in a way, but principally 
 as an assistant to Mrs. Batten, the midwife, a portly, 
 placid-faced woman, who had been present at the birth 
 of the Holten and Grass children. She gave Emmie 
 plenty of encouragement, told her she would go through 
 it all right; she knew her sort; she'd seen them before 
 . . . she'd be all right. And it would be a fine and 
 healthy child. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Bollins was filled with pride. Every step she 
 took in this house filled her with more pride. But, prin- 
 cipally, she was struck with Emmie. Her own daughter 
 seemed to be the most wonderful thing in the house. 
 She was a perfect picture there, with her head on that 
 pillow. Ill or well, she seemed to be the person in the 
 house who counted. It was remarkable. 
 
 Tim, of course, was the master, but he was easy-going, 
 he was tolerant, he would put up with things. With 
 Emmie, now, you were stirred. Mrs. Bollins wondered 
 why she had not noticed this before. Perhaps Emmie 
 had changed . . . got more . . . more character. 
 
 But Emime could not dominate a little child. She 
 turned and twisted and screwed up her handkerchief and 
 thrust it into her mouth, while tears stood like jewels on 
 her cheeks. 
 
 192
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 193 
 
 Dr. Everkith, exceedingly sympathetic, soothed her and 
 helped her. . . . 
 
 A boy! . . . 
 
 Tim came to the bedside. He was cool and without 
 fuss, but he looked at Emmie lovingly. 
 
 " Feel better ? " he asked quietly. 
 
 She nodded and smiled. 
 
 " Don't worry to talk just yet," he whispered. 
 
 They both looked at the tiny infant on her breast. 
 
 Tim jerked his head in astonishment at the whole busi- 
 ness. Emmie saw what was passing in his mind, and 
 as their eyes met they smiled again. 
 
 Dr. Everkith patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Now then, Mr. Father, you'd better go a good walk 
 or look after your business for a time, while your wife 
 has a rest. She needs one ! " 
 
 " I'll bet she does." 
 
 " Nobody will bet with you, Tim, so you can save 
 your money. Now then, Mrs. Batten," said the doctor 
 to the midwife, " you can clear these things away now," 
 he signified some clothes, a kettle full of hot water, some 
 dishes, etc., " and let Mrs. Tim have a nice sleep." 
 
 " Yes, Doctor." 
 
 Emmie slept and dreamt of wonderful things, and 
 woke up to find a little bunched-up bit of humanity with 
 fingers and toes which kept working, and a pair of eyes 
 of a very deep blue which ignored everybody and every- 
 thing for the moment, but made Emmie speculate ex- 
 travagantly and wildly. 
 
 The birth of the little child made a difference to the 
 Booke family as well as to the Timothy Booke, Junior, 
 household. A boy it had to be Timothy. It's grand- 
 father and great aunts were delighted. Mr. Booke,
 
 194 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Senior, said very little, but he found many excuses for 
 calling at Helston House rather, he found one excuse 
 very tempting. 
 
 "How's th' little 'un?" he would say, as he put his 
 foot on the threshold, and a thrill went through him such 
 as might go through deep waters. He was hugely de- 
 lighted when little Timothy would catch at his knotty 
 finger and hold it and then try to chew it and make little 
 eloquent noises like " Euh. . . . Euh," and laugh. 
 
 " He's all right, Emmie." 
 
 " He's right enough," said Emmie proudly. 
 
 "Is he going to take after you or Tim? . . . Bit o' 
 you both, I think." 
 
 " I think so. Best, too." 
 
 And Emmie herself was also thrilled by her child's 
 ways. She wanted to press it to her more than to feel 
 it ; her emotion had to be slacked with some effort. She 
 was enormously happy with it. 
 
 Then, though life settled again into its groove, it was 
 a new groove, and had its everlasting air of surprise for 
 Emmie. 
 
 Little Timothy was just an additional big thing in life 
 and life seemed to have so many things that were big 
 with emotion for Emmie. 
 
 She managed to do a good deal of housework, as well 
 as attend to her child. Ada was some assistance and 
 Tim suggested they should get in a more capable servant 
 instead of Ada, but Emmie, feeling grateful in some way 
 to Mrs. Bane, said No, she would get Mrs. Wright in 
 two or three days a week. Ada consequently took little 
 Tim out in the perambulator, and then Emmie would set 
 about her cooking and cleaning with a zest that set the 
 seal of ease on housewifery duties.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 195 
 
 Emmie bathed the child every night, for Ada could 
 not be trusted with delicate duties of that kind by an 
 energetic and fond mother, and Tim would come and 
 watch as Emmie, with dress tucked up, and apron in front 
 of her cooed to a little baby in a bath, talked nonsense 
 to it, make it occasionally chink with laughter, while Ada 
 stood with mouth open, watching the scene with awe and 
 admiration, and Tim, thrilled beyond accurate descrip- 
 tion, would occasionally kneel beside the bath, touch the 
 little fingers and try to earn a rich laugh from his pre- 
 cious child. 
 
 " He's a bonny 'un," said Tim quietly to Emmie, as 
 they knelt, one on each side of the bath. 
 
 " What did you expect ? " said Emmie quickly. 
 
 Tim laughed. 
 
 " Heigh up ! " said Emmie, as she arranged a warm 
 towel across her knee. " Up-ise," she said, lifting the 
 dripping child and kissing him as she wiped. And when 
 he was glowing and dry and gurgling with the joy of it, 
 Tim would try to see if those little ringers would catch 
 his again and pinch little toes and make faces and then 
 kiss Emmie. 
 
 "You're a pair," he would whisper. 
 
 " You're not far out yourself." 
 
 And Ada would stand watching, as if she saw some- 
 thing strange and wonderful. . . . 
 
 Emmie and Tim were looking at their pride one night 
 when the teeth were beginning to push their way through 
 unwilling gums, when little Tim suddenly went blue and 
 became rigid on his mother's knee. 
 
 Emmie gave a cry. 
 
 Tim said "Oh, God!" 
 
 " It's a fit," said Emmie wildly.
 
 196 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Tim said : " Do summat Ada, run for the doctor 
 run ! run ! run ! Dr. Everkith ! Tell him to come at 
 once; say baby's in a fit." 
 
 Ada started crying, but went. 
 
 " Hot water," said Emmie, and her voice was such as 
 Tim had never heard it before. " The bath." 
 
 She was white with the shock, but somehow was work- 
 ing steadily at something reasonable. As fast as she 
 could, she undressed the child, muttering all the while, 
 " Baby darling ! darling ! Oh ! " 
 
 She flung the clothes anywhere. 
 
 " Bath, Tim, quick ; fill it with hot water. Look at 
 him ! Quick ! Quick ! " 
 
 Tim dashed about, got the bath, got a big can of boil- 
 ing water and poured it in. 
 
 " Now some cold," said Emmie. 
 
 Tim brought it. 
 
 " Baby ! Baby ! " Emmie was too busy to cry. 
 " It's a fit," she said; " hold him." 
 
 Tim took his little child, blue and stiff. He felt un- 
 steady as if he were in a dream almost. 
 
 Emmie pulled her sleeve up and dipped her elbow in 
 the water to feel the temperature. 
 
 " Right, give him to me," she said. 
 
 She put little Tim in the water up to his armpits. 
 
 " Some cold water in his face, Tim." 
 
 Tim rushed away and was soon splashing gently some 
 cold water in his son's horribly ashen face, which was 
 now slightly less drawn and ghastly. 
 
 " He's getting better," said Emmie. " Get some castor 
 oil." 
 
 She took the cold water from Tim, and while she held 
 the little boy up with one hand in the warm bath, she 
 flicked cold water on his face with the other hand.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 197 
 
 When the doctor arrived little Tim was well again. 
 
 The father was still pale. The shock had been a griev- 
 ous one to him. 
 
 " I thought he was gone," he said. 
 
 Emmie smiled and shook her head. 
 
 Dr. Everkith said she could not have done better if she 
 had been a doctor, and wanted to know how she thought 
 of it. Emmie said she supposed her mother must have 
 mentioned fits to her she thought Sarah had had con- 
 vulsions. 
 
 But they were all impressed with Emmie's presence of 
 mind and ability. It was her first child; she had never 
 before seen a case of convulsions. Even Mrs. Holten 
 said, in her impressive way : " You did very well, Em- 
 mie very well, indeed. I congratulate you." 
 
 Miss Booke ventured : " I am glad to hear, Emmie, 
 you kept your head ; that was worthy of a Booke." 
 
 Emmie wanted to put her tongue out at that, but re- 
 frained. 
 
 Old Timothy quietly brought her a pearl and sapphire 
 bracelet. 
 
 "Well done, Emmie!" he said. "I wouldn't have 
 seen that child lost for a thousand pounds." 
 
 But Emmie herself really wondered why they all made 
 such a fuss about it ; she felt capable of doing things like 
 that at any time, and she didn't lose her head in a crisis 
 as easily as all that. . . . 
 
 But when she and Tim were alone that night looking 
 at the little figure in the cot, they were both stirred to 
 an emotion that was really too deep for expression. 
 
 The little child was sleeping with a tiny hand out- 
 stretched on the counterpane. Tim looked at Emmie. 
 
 " By Gum ! " he said, shaking his head and letting tone 
 and attitude say the rest.
 
 198 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie surprised both herself and him by flinging her 
 arms round his neck and crying. 
 
 Emmie's next little baby was a girl, christened Alice 
 Emily. Emmie was up a week after the child was born, 
 astonishing the Booke ladies considerably, for Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten had not been so speedy a recoverer as that, and she 
 was accounted tough. 
 
 Oddly enough, the Booke ladies were very pleasant to 
 Emmie on account of her robustness. After all, as she 
 was Tim's wife, it was really a good thing she was not an 
 invalid. 
 
 They even went so far, at a propitious moment, to push 
 her on a committee in connection with a Church Sewing 
 Meeting with which they were connected. Mrs. Grass 
 had suggested it. Miss Booke had wondered if it 
 wouldn't turn Emmie's head, but Mrs. Holten made use 
 of the now familiar phrase: " After all, she was Tim's 
 wife she was their niece" and so Emmie was duly 
 nominated to fill the vacancy and the Booke ladies be- 
 haved as if they had done something almost uncannily 
 smart. They felt that few other families could have 
 arranged the affair so neatly. 
 
 They had warned Emmie beforehand that they might 
 do this great thing for her warned her as solemnly as 
 if they said they were inclined to think they could get a 
 baronetcy for Tim and would do their best. Emmie 
 wondered why all the fuss. . . . But Miss Booke was 
 insistent. She ran over the names of the other members 
 of the Committee (save three whose mention would 
 nitrogenize the oxygenating effect of those cited) and 
 then mentioned ladies who would be only too pleased to 
 get on that Committee " Be only too pleased, wouldn't 
 they, Jane?"
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 199 
 
 Jane said shortly she should think so. 
 
 And Sophia, being further appealed to, said " most cer- 
 tainly," but encouraged Emmie to hope for the best. 
 
 And when the election had duly taken place and Emmie 
 found she was amongst the chosen, she was plentifully 
 informed how proud she ought to be and how grateful. 
 Miss Booke mentioned the gratitude. 
 
 Emmie was a little moved. She felt she would meet 
 Mrs. Tom This and Mrs. Dick That, Miss X and Mrs. 
 Y all important people in their way. It was generally 
 termed " getting on," and Emmie liked it. 
 
 But as she had her hands pretty full at home now and 
 Tim's friends were always very agreeable to her, she was 
 beginning to feel she could afford to take things easily. 
 She was, however, flattered after the first meeting of the 
 Committee. Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke both mem- 
 bers were most attentive to her. The rector's wife, 
 Mrs. Sunning, a little, pleasant lady with energy for two 
 and a tact that was generally breathless through trying 
 to keep pace with it was very affable and welcomed 
 her agreeably, while other members were impressive in 
 their various attitudes. 
 
 Emmie listened with interest and saw how Mrs. X or 
 Miss Y had not a word to say, but just nodded acquies- 
 cence to the stronger members, such as Mrs. Holten or 
 Miss Booke. And Emmie once thought of saying : " I 
 don't agree with that. Why don't you do so and so ? " 
 but stopped herself in time. " What a fussy lot of things 
 they are ! " she muttered to herself. " I could have set- 
 tled all that in about one quarter of the time." 
 
 And after the meeting, Mrs. Holten, having proposed 
 a resolution, which had been seconded by Miss Booke 
 before anybody else had a chance, walked home with the 
 pride of one having achieved greatness.
 
 200 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie was not a bit impressed with the things these 
 ladies did in respect of their business, but was affected 
 by the behaviour of one or two who spoke with sweet 
 and low voices, suggesting delicacy and refinement. 
 
 The influence on Emmie of this was to give her more 
 and more confidence in her comparatively new social stra- 
 tum. It came to her turn to arrange for some light re- 
 freshments at a gathering of sewing ladies, visited at 
 thrilling intervals during the evening, by the rector and 
 the curate, the latter unmarried, and she managed so ad- 
 mirably that it was said no one had ever done better. 
 As Emmie had cooked almost all the cakes herself, potted 
 all the meat for the sandwiches and done it without 
 feeling that she was being overworked, she was conse- 
 quently surprised. "If they go into such a fuss over 
 a little thing like that . . ." was her comment to her- 
 self. 
 
 Then when Emmie had been married six years, the 
 big blow fell. She was opening a drawer in the dresser 
 and does not know for what purpose, so completely did 
 the shock knock everything else relating to that moment 
 out of her head, when Jenks, a man in the planking shop, 
 came running to the door. Emmie heard his dash at 
 the yard gate and turned from the dresser to look 
 through the window, wondering who was coming in that 
 rather unceremonious way. 
 
 The man's ashen face, open mouth, and wrung eyes 
 gave her warning. He looked about him in a haunted 
 fashion. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " thought Emmie, impersonally at 
 first, and then with a realisation of something dreadful. 
 
 She opened the door. 
 
 " Eh ! What's the matter ? " she asked, but in the tone
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 201 
 
 of one sympathising with another, not fearing for her- 
 self. 
 
 Jenks hesitated. 
 
 "Eh . . ." he said. "Oh! Missis. . . ." 
 
 " What is it ? " said Emmie quickly, feeling more 
 drawn into the middle of some actuality. " What is 
 it?" 
 
 " It's . . . er th' mester ! " 
 
 " Mes oh ! " she screamed. " What's the matter ? " 
 She took Jenks by the shoulder. 
 
 He apparently could not say what he had to say, for 
 he just shook his head. 
 
 Emmie saw that something horrible was for her. 
 
 "Ah!" she stifled the scream. "Not Mr. Tim, 
 Jenks. . . . There hasn't been an accident ? " She spoke 
 quickly and at the top of her voice, as if the next note 
 would swirl it in emotion. "Oh! where is he?" She 
 turned to the gate. 
 
 " Mrs. Tim. . . . Missis ! Missis ! They're bringing 
 him." 
 
 Jenks had found his tongue as he saw Mrs. Tim going 
 into the factory. 
 
 Emmie was met, however, by Ernest Mullins. She 
 saw a crowd of all sorts of people men in shirt sleeves 
 with aprons, no coats or vests, collars or ties, better 
 dressed men in alpaca jackets and wearing aprons, a 
 crowd of trimmers, and about the scene floated a babel of 
 voices : " Now here. . . . Look up ! ... Get away, 
 there. . . . Na then, Jim ! . . . Get back, you others ! " 
 and a steady groan accompanied it all. 
 
 " Go back," said Ernest Mullins to Emmie ; " go back. 
 Didn't someone tell you?" His face was white, and 
 as he held up his hands to stop Emmie they trembled and 
 shook.
 
 202 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Oh ! What is it ? " said Emmie, her chin shaking 
 as she gave little gasps. 
 
 " Come on in the house," said Ernest, as he took her 
 by the arm. "It's best. It's it's Mr. Tim. . . . 
 There's been an accident " 
 
 " Oh ! " She turned round, but Ernest stood in front 
 of her. 
 
 " You can do no good," he said. 
 
 "What! He's not dead!" 
 
 "He he " 
 
 Emmie threw his arm away and went swiftly forward. 
 The crowd seemed to shrink on the edges, but in the 
 middle it opened out. 
 
 " Missis Tim ! " said a voice, " don't come now. 
 Don't come here. You can do no good. Go in now, like 
 a good woman " 
 
 But Emmie stared wildly at a white and bloody form 
 lying on the lid of a crate. She screamed. Women 
 about were weeping and moaning. 
 
 " Is he . . . dead ? " said Emmie, kneeling beside the 
 body. "Tim . . . Tim ... oh! oh! oh! oh! . . ." 
 
 Ernest Mullins's voice was heard telling the trimmers 
 to go away, to go to their work and the men, too. 
 
 " Let her be a bit." 
 
 He, too, was deeply moved.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 NO one knew exactly how the accident happened. 
 It probably came about in one of those inexplicable 
 ways that the principal actors in the tragedies themselves 
 cannot explain, even when they live. 
 
 Tim had gone into the engine room and had had a 
 little chat with Brown, the Engineer, who said he saw 
 nothing of what happened till he heard a cry and saw Mr. 
 Tim caught in the straps. 
 
 Brown, almost stunned at the sight, had sufficient pres- 
 ence of mind to stop the engine. But Mr. Tim was a 
 helpless mass when he was picked up his back was 
 broken and he died on the floor of his engine shed. 
 When Emmie reached the body in the yard it was but 
 her husband's corpse she met. 
 
 Emmie's groans were heartrending and the men just 
 stood about in pathetic attitudes like the helpless tools of 
 Fate. Mr. Bollins came out and comforted his daughter, 
 and he and Mullins led her into the house. 
 
 Dr. Everkith came soon but said at once he could do 
 nothing for Mr. Tim; he told Mrs. Tim she must bear 
 up for the sake of the little ones, and felt that counsel to 
 assuage grief was almost a superfluity. 
 
 The body was laid out in the spare bedroom and the 
 police were notified. 
 
 Emmie could not keep away from the corpse at first. 
 She could not feel it was real. An hour ago Tim was 
 alive, walking about, having a thousand and one things 
 dependent on his word and will : now he lay there, bruised 
 and broken, never more to speak, to look, to hear, to be 
 alive. 
 
 203
 
 204 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Dead! Emmie had never been close to death before. 
 She had a faint remembrance of having gone to her 
 grandmother's funeral but none of her own family had 
 died and she had never been in a house with a corpse in 
 it. Face to face with death she saw its horror. She 
 would stare wildly at Tim's face, bruised on one side and 
 cut, but placid looking, hideously placid the placidity 
 of death. It was terribly disturbing, torturing even. 
 
 Emmie sobbed in gushes. It was all so awful, so 
 tragic, so hopeless ... so agonisingly hopeless. 
 
 " Tim," she would murmur, and then shed her scald- 
 ing tears. 
 
 But Tim did not respond as he had always done be- 
 fore at the sound of Emmie's voice. 
 
 The cruelty of death came home poignantly to Emmie 
 as she sat by the bedside and called " Tim " to the Tim 
 that would never hear her again. Never again that 
 was her wracking thought . . . still and silent for ever- 
 more. . . . 
 
 The blinds in the house were drawn and messengers 
 were sent to the relatives. 
 
 The news spread through the town and dominated 
 everything else. 
 
 "Tim Booke dead killed. ... My God! . . . 
 Young Tim. . . . Hasn't been married more than about 
 five or six year. . . . He's only thirty. . . . Tim 
 Booke. . . ." 
 
 Ernest Mullins tried to comfort Emmie, but found 
 how poor a thing sympathy was in actual words, when 
 face to face with grim tragedy. 
 
 " Don't take on so." He was speaking from his own 
 heart, for it hurt him to hear Emmie's outbursts of 
 grief. But what a feeble kind of remark it was! He 
 did not know what to do. He knew he would only stir
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 205 
 
 the wells of her sorrow if he praised Tim, and so at last 
 he just ventured to pat her on the shoulder. 
 
 " We'll all do what we can to help you. Some of us 
 can't do much, but ... as for the works, don't you 
 worry about that. . . . That will be all right ! " 
 
 " Oh, Ernest," she moaned, " why did it happen ? 
 Why was he killed?" 
 
 Emmie's grief in a way wore itself out, for it was 
 loosed afresh as each member of the family came. 
 
 Mr. Booke had least to say. His thin lips were 
 pressed tightly, but they moved constantly. His face 
 was agonisingly drawn. Emmie almost forgot her own 
 grief in his. His mouth opened when he saw Emmie but 
 he could not speak, and the trembling of his lips was 
 acutely pathetic. 
 
 Emmie said, " Oh ! " as she put her arms round his 
 neck. 
 
 He nodded his head, but said nothing. He patted her 
 feebly, very feebly on the back. It was almost as if he 
 himself wanted some one to pat him. She took his arm, 
 thrust a handkerchief to her mouth as the tears streamed 
 down her face and led him to the room where Tim lay. 
 
 Timothy Booke's feelings had their greatest fight. He 
 had suffered one or two severe blows in his life, but he 
 had borne them with a fortitude that had been admirable 
 and out of the common. He had never allowed his emo- 
 tions to get the upper hand, and the love he had had for 
 his son was the deepest thing in his life. He had given 
 up hours upon hours as he sat smoking in his easy chair 
 to building up young Tim's future. Not a word had he 
 said to others. If his sister broke in on one of these 
 building schemes with a, " What are you thinking about, 
 Timothy ? " he would answer, " Oh, nothing nothing 
 particular."
 
 206 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 And now all the feelings he had that were tender 
 seemed to be torn in ribbons. 
 
 He looked at Tim lying there and had a feeling kin 
 to Emmie's. He was surely not dead . . . not dead 
 . . . not gone for ever. . . . But he knew it was true. 
 He put his hand on Tim's forehead, and the touch loosed 
 Timothy Booke's floodgates. 
 
 He did not speak, but the tears streamed down his 
 strong face. His mouth moved as if it were out of con- 
 trol. He groaned once. 
 
 Emmie sobbed, for his grief harmonized with her 
 own. They stood together, shaking in their common sor- 
 row. 
 
 " Oh ! Isn't it cruel ? " she said. 
 
 But he made no reply. 
 
 Mrs. Holten came in weeping and greatly distressed. 
 
 " Poor Tim ! " she said. " Poor Tim ... oh, Tim- 
 othy! Emmie, it's awful." There was no make-believe 
 in the grief. 
 
 Timothy now had ceased to weep. It was as if he had 
 gone through the crisis and could now bear his lot. He 
 looked haggard, as if something vital had gone out of 
 him. 
 
 Miss Booke and Mrs. Grass came and were quickly fol- 
 lowed by Mr. Holten and Mr. Grass, Mr. and Mrs. Bol- 
 lins and Sarah. 
 
 The moaning was general. Emmie felt, too, the kind- 
 ness of people, for every one sympathised with her. The 
 Bookes in the midst of their sorrow did their best to com- 
 fort her. She was his widow. The bitter tongues were 
 stayed completely with that still figure lying in the bed- 
 room upstairs. 
 
 After the shock there was a concensus of praise for the 
 dead man. " He was so gentle ... so honourable . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 207 
 
 so true ... so kind ... so sweet-tempered . . .' so re- 
 liable." 
 
 The very mention of his virtues brought fresh tears to 
 Emmie's eyes and to all the women. 
 
 " And the little children, too . . . orphans so soon." 
 
 " And he so fond of them ! " 
 
 " Yes " and then followed little tales of Tim's say- 
 ings and doings. 
 
 Friends kept calling to know if the news were really 
 true, or to offer condolence. 
 
 Emmie had refused food: she wanted nothing. But 
 she was prevailed on at last to eat, " for the children's 
 sake." Emmie wept over them, till they looked at her 
 wonderingly and asked why mummy cried. 
 
 Mr. Grass and Mr. Holten undertook to make all ar- 
 rangements for the funeral so that Emmie need not be 
 troubled at all. 
 
 Mrs. Bollins offered to sleep with Emmie and Mrs. 
 Holten and Mrs. Grass said it would be very nice for 
 Emmie to have her mother with her at a time like this. 
 
 And just before she went to bed, when all the visitors 
 had gone, Emmie went to look at Tim once more. Mrs. 
 Bollins crept behind her. 
 
 Emmie stood looking at her young husband, cut off 
 in the very springtide of his life. A white sheet covered 
 him, and Emmie turned it down to look at his face. The 
 gas jet flared from the wall and shed a slightly yellow 
 light. Immovable. . . . Never to stir again. . . . 
 Never that was the tragic word never. ... So 
 young, too ... a husband, a father, a friend, a 
 man. . . . 
 
 Both Emmie and Mrs. Bollins wept as they stood there 
 looking.
 
 208 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " It doesn't seem fair, Mother," sobbed Emmie. 
 
 " No. It's something hard to bear." 
 
 " But him, Mother ... so young. . . . It's only like 
 yesterday that we were walking out. . . . And he was 
 only talking this morning of what he was going to do this 
 wakes. . . ." 
 
 " We don't understand everything ... we must just 
 bear it." 
 
 " But it's him, Mother Tim. . . . Him, so young, 
 too." 
 
 " I think I'd come to bed now, Emmie : you were a good 
 wife to him. He was very happy: that's one comfort." 
 
 Emmie kissed Tim's forehead, replaced the sheet, and 
 left a flicker of gas burning. 
 
 The next day Emmie received numerous callers and 
 letters of sympathy. Everybody spoke well of the dead 
 man and a great stream of comfort flowed to the young 
 widow and her children. 
 
 Ernest Mullins called and assured Emmie that she 
 need not worry about the business : he would see that was 
 not neglected. 
 
 Mr. Booke came again and was very quiet. He went 
 to see the body and moved his head from side to side as 
 if his blow was very hard to bear. 
 
 Mrs. Holten, Mrs. Grass and Miss Booke also came. 
 They were full of sympathy and advice. They arranged 
 for Emmie's mourning and helped so far as they could. 
 
 There was an inquest, but it was a formal affair and the 
 verdict was " Accidental death," with an expression of 
 sympathy for the family of the deceased. 
 
 As each day passed Emmie began to realise the facts 
 more clearly. Tim was dead. She had no husband. 
 She was a widow. The life that she had led as the wife
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 209 
 
 of Timothy Booke was at an end, and a new life had now 
 begun, that as Mrs. Timothy Booke, widow, with two 
 little children, aged respectively five and three. Things 
 that had been done before by her husband would now 
 have to be done by her : decisions he had made would now 
 have to be made by her. She had no guide and com- 
 panion now. 
 
 And what was her position? 
 
 Mr. Booke had whispered to her the day after Tim's 
 death : " You needn't worry about the future, Emmie : 
 that will be all right." 
 
 But Mr. Bowfield, Tim's solicitor, had said when he 
 called : " I don't know if your husband has left another 
 will I shouldn't think so but he made one three 
 months after your marriage and he has left you every- 
 thing." 
 
 Emmie had a vague idea that if a husband died the 
 widow got everything and so took little notice of the in- 
 formation. Moreover, she had enough to occupy her 
 without thinking strenuously of these things, even though 
 she were occasionally disturbed by some chance remark 
 or some casual thought concerning them. 
 
 The funeral was very impressive. It took place at 
 Christ Church and from Helston House to the Church 
 gates the blinds were down in almost all the houses as the 
 sad procession passed. 
 
 Mr. Booke and Emmie went in the first carriage. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bollins and Sarah were in the next and 
 then followed the members of the Booke family and 
 friends. 
 
 The tribute paid to Tim, the last it was possible to pay 
 him, was remarkable in its genuineness and in its ex- 
 tent.
 
 210 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Sarah, looking through the window of the carriage, 
 said: " It looks as if everybody were here! " 
 
 " I'm not surprised," said Mr. Bollins. 
 
 " No," echoed Mrs. Bollins, and she meant to convey 
 a great deal by that. 
 
 And after a pause Sarah said, " And to think it's our 
 Emmie." 
 
 " Ay," said Mr. Bollins. 
 
 " Yes," echoed Mrs. Bollins. 
 
 At the Church gate when the carriages stopped, Emmie 
 shook and burst into fresh tears. This was the threshold 
 of the end. Now she was about to part with Tim for- 
 ever : this was the last stage. Mr. Booke put a hand on 
 her arm, but found it very difficult to say anything. He 
 had reached a stage in life when the clouds do not dis- 
 perse quickly. The sun might shine again for Emmie 
 but not for him. 
 
 Emmie nestled to him as she wept. 
 
 " It's the end," she gasped. 
 
 " Ay," said Timothy. 
 
 There was a crowd round the gate, men, women and 
 children, but mostly women. Some of them were well 
 dressed, they were there out of a feeling of kinship with 
 humanity that suffered. Many were simply curious. A 
 greaV number of the women were trimmers. All Booke's 
 were there and the whole route traversed by the hearse 
 and cortege had its stand of watchers. 
 
 As Mr. Booke and Emmie got out of the carriage, the 
 tongues wagged. " That's Mr. Booke. . . . His father. 
 . . . Isn't he aged? He's ten years older. . . . He's a 
 broken man. . . . That's his wife. . . . She's pretty, 
 isn't she ? . . . She was Emmie Bollins used to trim 
 at th' Booke's. . . . She is pretty. . . . She's got some
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 211 
 
 good clothes on. ... She'll feel it. ... He was a nice 
 chap was Mr. Tim. . . . Here's her father and mother 
 that's Mr. and Mrs. Bollins he works at Booke's. 
 And that's her sister: she trims at Spencer's. That's 
 Mrs. Holten Timothy Booke's sister. . . . It is. . . . 
 It isn't. . . ." 
 
 There was quite a crush at the gate, so eager were the 
 sightseers to see what was going on. 
 
 The coffin was carried by men from the works. 
 
 Mr. Booke and Emmie followed. All the mourners 
 were in deep black and Air. Booke had a thick black 
 mourning band round his silk hat. Emmie wore a long 
 crepe veil. 
 
 Mr. Sunning accompanied by his curate, the Rev. John 
 O'Kelly, stood waiting for the procession to get in order. 
 
 Mr. Samuel Orde, who had charge of the funeral ar- 
 rangements, was handing out wreaths. The coffin was 
 covered with them, and the effect of the floral tributes 
 was very moving amongst the people. Women cried as 
 the flowers were put on the coffin, and carried by the men 
 from the works: there seemed to be some emotional 
 power in these frail beautiful things. The women who 
 wept as they saw them were probably incapable of saying 
 precisely why they wept. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Sunning, receiving a nod from Mr. Orde 
 to tell him that all was ready, repeated : " ' I am the-Res- 
 urrection and the Life, saith the Lord.' ' 
 
 The tones and the words flung a new note into the 
 ceremonial for many. The religious heard it with com- 
 fort : this death was but the gate of life ..." who- 
 soever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." 
 
 Mr. Booke and Emmie did not hear to understand. 
 This was the last formula for them. They caught mere 
 glimpses of phrases. . . . " ' For man walketh in a vain
 
 212 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 shadow and disquieteth himself in vain: he heapeth up 
 riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.' ' 
 
 The words of the Burial Service were a balm and a 
 healing for some. They saw light in the darkness and 
 hope in the gloom. But the words : " We therefore 
 commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to 
 ashes, dust to dust " had but the grim reality for Mr. 
 Booke and Emmie at least amongst the mourners 
 
 " Ashes to ashes . . . dust to dust." . . . That was 
 the end. 
 
 Mr. Booke stood without moving, having the air of 
 one numbed with the blow. 
 
 Emmie was weeping. 
 
 Mr. Holten took Emmie's arm as Mrs. Holten took 
 Timothy's. They drove back to Helston House. There 
 the friends and relatives talked of many things. Some 
 were reminded of the death of the Duke of Clarence, who 
 had died that year : others mentioned Spurgeon . . . min- 
 isters and clergy were discussed . . . and business. 
 
 Emmie was told to lie down and rest. 
 
 There was an excellent tea provided: cold meats, of 
 course, but those of the best and in many varieties. The 
 friends left first. 
 
 Miss Booke said to Mrs. Grass : " I suppose Emmie 
 will be comfortably off: she'll have a living in any case. 
 I suppose Timothy will go on with the works." 
 
 Mrs. Grass shook her head. 
 
 " From what Timothy said to Fred, I understand the 
 works are Emmie's." 
 
 Miss Booke looked very surprised. 
 
 " What ! " she exclaimed, " Emmie's . . . the works. 
 ... In a sense, but she'll have to do what Timothy 
 says." 
 
 Mrs. Grass shook her head.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 213 
 
 " I don't understand it all, but I think Emmie can do 
 what she likes they are hers : it's all hers." 
 
 Miss Booke went to Mrs. Holten to beg for confirma- 
 tion. Mrs. Holten apparently had just learnt the truth. 
 
 " You see Timothy gave the works and the house to 
 Tim : well, Tim made a will and left everything to Em- 
 mie." 
 
 "Oh, but" 
 
 " She could sell the works if she wanted," said Mrs. 
 Holten. 
 
 " Sell : but we must have no nonsense of that kind. 
 Emmie's not going to do as she likes. Where's Mr. 
 Bowfield?" 
 
 But Mr. Bowfield explained to Mrs. Holten and to Miss 
 Booke that Emmie's property was her own to do as she 
 liked with. 
 
 The Booke ladies sought their husbands and talked the 
 matter over, getting no further forwards towards what 
 they desired but gathering confirmation of their fears. 
 
 When Emmie came down, looking very well in crepe, 
 though pale with the ordeal, Miss Booke said : " I sup- 
 pose, Emmie, now you'll be glad if Mr. Booke looks after 
 the business again." 
 
 " I don't know," said Emmie, with a weary air, as if 
 she did not wish to be bothered with business at this time. 
 
 Miss Booke hesitated. After all, the time was not 
 quite one for the discussion of affairs. But Booke & Son 
 . . . those works. 
 
 "Of course," said Miss Booke, " you can't be troubled 
 now : but we must find some way of seeing that the busi- 
 ness goes on. I hear Tim has left you everything." 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 Mrs. Holten, trying to be discreet, was observant and 
 attentive. She said tactfully: "We shall help you all
 
 214 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 we can, Emmie: and if Timothy will manage the works 
 again it will relieve it, won't it?" 
 
 " I don't know," replied Emmie. 
 
 Miss Booke drew herself up. 
 
 Mrs. Holten pressed her lips together. 
 
 Then the children, who had just been brought from 
 the Grass's, came in, and rushed to their mother, who 
 seized them emotionally to cry over them. 
 
 "I know what's the matter," said Tim; "daddy's 
 dead." 
 
 Emmie bit her lip and pulled the boy to her. 
 
 "I want daddy, mammy " 
 
 " Me, too," said Alice. " Baby want daddy. . . . 
 Where daddy?" 
 
 Mr. Holten suggested to his wife they had better go: 
 they were only tiring Emmie now and could do nothing 
 more to help her. 
 
 Mr. Booke said as he was going out : " I'll come and 
 see how you're going on, Emmie. And there's th' shop, 
 too : we can have a talk about it." 
 
 " Come when you like," she said, " the oftener the 
 better." 
 
 He bent down his head and went away. 
 
 Sarah stayed with Emmie on the night of the funeral. 
 
 " That Miss Booke's a stuck-up thing," she said. 
 " What's this, Emmie is the shop yours ? " By 
 " shop " she meant the factory. 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 " What your own ? Are you the boss ? Could you 
 sack anybody if you wanted?" 
 
 Emmie was silent for a moment. The phrase had 
 suddenly given her a vision of power. " Sack anybody 
 if she wanted." ... Of course. . . . Yet she had not 
 thought of that. She owned " T. Booke & Son." . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 215 
 
 It was hers. This was like a dream, a fairy story. She, 
 who once was a trimmer, to own the place. 
 
 And then she suddenly gave a gasp and burst into tears. 
 
 Sarah went to her. 
 
 " What is it ? Don't fret so, Emmie." 
 
 " I'd rather be a trimmer again and have Tim," she 
 managed to say between her sobs. 
 
 " You mustn't keep thinking of things like that," said 
 Sarah. " You've two children and them works to 
 think of." 
 
 As Emmie took off the crepe bodice, with its inflated 
 sleeves at the shoulders, she said to herself " those 
 works to think of." 
 
 She held out her bodice and looked at it. 
 
 Sarah said : " Sleeves are going bigger, they say." 
 
 " They're big enough," said Emmie. 
 
 " I suppose all this is yours now, Emmie." Sarah was 
 looking at the furniture. 
 
 Emmie followed Sarah's regard. But she looked at 
 the bed. . . . That was where Tim had slept. 
 
 She gasped and fought with her tears. 
 
 " Get into bed," said Sarah. " You mustn't go on 
 fretting like that." 
 
 Emmie said to herself: "Oh! what a funny thing 
 life is!"
 
 PART THREE: 
 THE EVERLASTING WOMAN
 
 PART THREE: THE EVERLASTING 
 WOMAN 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 EMMIE at her rising (and in fact at breakfast, at 
 dinner and almost at every other moment) was re- 
 minded of her loss. She kept seeing Tim in some accus- 
 tomed attitude, smiling at her, making some remark, 
 catching hold of her. ... It was very trying to her 
 feelings. How people lived on after death ! And lived, 
 too, just as they had behaved in life. ... It was by their 
 deeds they were remembered. Tim's smiles and jokes 
 and comfortable speech were just the things that came 
 to Emmie now. And yet how hopeless, how utterly ir- 
 revocable it all was! . . . How memories haunted one! 
 
 Sarah had to go to work and just before she left, Em- 
 mie said : " I wish you'd call on Mr. Bowfield and ask 
 him if he'd mind coming to see me. I'd like to under- 
 stand my position properly, and I didn't pay enough 
 attention to him yesterday." 
 
 " Yes," said Sarah, " I'll call as I pass." 
 She was enjoying her breakfast with Emmie, for it 
 was really luxurious to sit down in this spacious kitchen 
 where everything was bright and clean and substantial, 
 and there seemed an almost unlimited supply of crockery 
 and cutlery, and the table-linen was so white, and the 
 table, even for breakfast, was set all over and not merely 
 at one corner, with the rest of it covered with hat trim- 
 mings, paste, scissors and an almost indescribable litter 
 such as she was regularly accustomed to at home. 
 
 219
 
 220 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She thought of Emmie's position. This was hers. 
 She could do what she wanted in this big house. 
 
 " Eh, Emmie," she said, stirred by her thoughts. 
 
 "What?" asked Emmie. 
 
 " Nothing. Well, I was just thinking. Of course, 
 Mr. Bowfield'll tell you . . . but if this is all yours . . . 
 and the shop ! Eh ! ..." 
 
 " We'll soon find out," said Emmie, quickly. 
 
 "If it is so, and I expect it is," said Sarah, " what 
 will you do? " 
 
 "Do?" 
 
 "Yes. What will you do? You can't manage a 
 works." 
 
 " You don't suppose I shall give 'em away, do you ? " 
 
 Sarah smiled. 
 
 " No, but what will you do ? " 
 
 " Something. I'll see," said Emmie. 
 
 Then little Tim wanted something from Auntie Sarah, 
 and Alice was coaxed by her mother to finish her bread 
 and milk. 
 
 "Tim going to school to-day?" Sarah asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, " he'll be better there." 
 
 But Tim said he didn't want to go, he wanted a holi- 
 day, and Emmie realised how that before, when she had 
 wished to persuade him to do something, she had threat- 
 ened to "tell Daddy." She knew it was mean and cow- 
 ardly holding up the father as a mere punitive being, 
 while she tried to snatch all the affection she could, but 
 almost all women did it. She saw, however, she would 
 have to be decided and purposeful in her dealings with the 
 children now. They would owe their training to her. 
 This tiny revolt of Tim's could not be handed over to 
 some one else to deal with, while she came in like a camp 
 follower for the subsequent kisses of comfort.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 221 
 
 " No, Tim school to-day." 
 
 " But I don't want, mammy. I don't want " 
 
 Emmie screwed up her resolution. Sarah wanted to 
 say, " Oh, let him stay to-day, poor little orphan ! " 
 
 " You've had a little holiday, Tim dear : you must go 
 to-day. . . . Daddy would have liked it." 
 
 Tim looked awed. 
 
 " How do you know daddy would have liked it, 
 mammy ? " 
 
 " I do, darling." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Because daddy said so." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " He always said so, darling." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 Emmie's chin began to shake. 
 
 Sarah said : " Now be a good boy, Tim, and don't 
 make mammy cry." 
 
 Tim looked at his mother. He appeared to be greatly 
 perplexed. 
 
 " Mammy," he said, quietly, stroking her face, " when 
 did daddy say that ? " 
 
 "Always, darling," said Emmie. 
 
 " Always. . . . Was he always saying he liked me to 
 go to school ? What did he say, mammy ? " 
 
 " I can't remember the exact words, darling, but you 
 know he did want you to go regularly and you always 
 will, won't you? " 
 
 Tim nodded his head thoughtfully. 
 
 " I wonder why Daddy wanted me to go to school," 
 he said, as if the problem troubled him. 
 
 Alice said : " Mammy ! " 
 
 "Well, darling?" 
 
 " Did Daddy want baby to go, too ? " .
 
 222 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie pressed the child to her: her emotions were 
 stirred. 
 
 " Yes, dear when you are old enough." 
 
 " When baby old enough," repeated Alice, gathering 
 some of her bread and milk off the tablecloth with her 
 spoon. 
 
 " Well, I must be off," said Sarah. " Shall I come 
 to-night?" 
 
 "If you like. Yes, come. It will be company." 
 
 Ada took Tim to school, one kept by two young ladies, 
 and had Alice also with her. 
 
 Mrs. Wright came in to help, for Emmie found she 
 had plenty to do just now. The fact that she was plen- 
 tifully occupied was, too, a safety valve for her grieving. 
 She had to take her mind off her loss and was conse- 
 quently better able to bear the pangs when sorrow came 
 to her on the wings of association and recollection. 
 
 Mr. Bowfield was a comparatively young man. He 
 had been a friend of Tim's and knew exactly what Tim 
 had wished to do. He was pleasant- faced, reliable look- 
 ing, with a comforting professional manner. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Tim, I expect you'd like to know exactly 
 how you stand," he said, as he sat in the dining-room with 
 Emmie. 
 
 The blinds were up now : not to the top, for that would 
 have looked as if they were rather too eager to be normal 
 the moment the body had left the house. Mrs. Wright 
 said to herself " I'll pull 'em up half way. It won't 
 be so melancholy and it'll be feelin'." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, in reply to the lawyer. She had 
 thrown off her apron and received Mr. Bowfield dressed 
 in a black stuff skirt and black cotton blouse, which 
 blended almost mournfully with her thick black hair and
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 223 
 
 black brows. Her brown eyes were very brown and 
 bright. 
 
 " Well, as I hinted to you everything Tim possessed 
 is yours. It's very nice, you know, that is, Mrs. Tim, for 
 it shows he ... well he appreciated you." 
 
 Emmie's eyes twitched and her mouth was only with 
 difficulty kept under control. 
 
 " Yes," said Bowfield. " He made his will after he 
 was married, so he knew what he was doing." 
 
 Emmie nodded. She was feeling a person of im- 
 portance, discussing business with a solicitor. She had 
 never had to deal direct on matters of business before 
 and the situation moved her a little. But as Mr. Bow- 
 field emphasised the figure of Tim, she was moved in 
 another direction. 
 
 He went on : "I may as well tell you that Tim made 
 his will especially to make things easy for you. I told 
 him that if he died without a will, you wouldn't suffer; 
 but he said he'd make things sure." 
 
 Emmie nodded. How good had Tim been to her! 
 He had cared for her. And he had been happy, too. 
 
 She said after a pause: " Well, what is my position? 
 Tim's left me what he had. I've the two children to 
 bring up. What have I got to bring them up on? " 
 
 " So far as I can make out, you've got a business, a 
 row of cottages off Hyde Road that bring in about 
 say net 150. There are some shares, 500, in a Spin- 
 ning Company and that's all I can find." 
 
 " What does that make ? " asked Emmie. " About 
 150 and that interest and the works." 
 
 "That's it: say 170 and the works." 
 
 " Have you any idea what the works bring in ? " 
 
 " Well, Tim did say once to me he'd made a clear 
 profit of 1,500."
 
 224 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Fifteen hundred pounds how much is that a 
 week?" 
 
 " Thirty." 
 
 " Thirty pounds a week." Emmie understood her in- 
 come clearly. She had been overjoyed on those occa- 
 sions in the past when she had earned thirty shillings a 
 week, and here she was comfortably assured of thirty 
 pounds. She was astonished. She had never known 
 what Tim's income was. She had been afraid to ask 
 lest Tim should think she was considering his money 
 too much. 
 
 " Of course," said Mr. Bowfield, " I can't guarantee 
 those figures. That was one year, and it may have been 
 a good year or a bad one, but I shouldn't think it was 
 extra good or bad. T. Booke & Son have got a good 
 connection, you know." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 Emmie was thinking. " Thirty pounds a week ! " 
 
 " I shall be very glad to act for you, Mrs. Tim, as I 
 did for Tim." 
 
 " That's all right," said Emmie. " I hope I shan't 
 have much for you, but what I have I suppose you 
 acted for the business, too ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, that's all right so long as it is all right," 
 she said with a smile. 
 
 He smiled, too. He respected her frankness. 
 
 " I'll see it's all right," he said. He was beginning to 
 think that Tim had chosen very well when he married: 
 Mrs. Tim was no fool. 
 
 " Who collects the rents of those cottages? " she asked. 
 " Aren't they in Gore Street? " 
 
 " Yes. I think Tim used to go himself, or send some-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 225 
 
 body. I got them last Monday, so that they shouldn't 
 be overlooked, and if you like I'll go on collecting them." 
 
 Emmie was silent a moment. 
 
 " I suppose you'd charge for it?" 
 
 " Just the usual commission, and I'd see to all the 
 repairs and lettings." 
 
 " H'm ... I think I can do it, thanks. It will mean 
 going round on a Monday morning." 
 
 Bowfield was saying to himself : " And some of them 
 tried to sneer at Tim's wife. . . . I'd like 'em to have a 
 deal with her." 
 
 " You can send one of your men." 
 
 Emmie nodded. " Send one of your men ! " The 
 very phrase was grandiose. " Send one of your men ! " 
 Her father and mother lived in that little cottage in Sil- 
 ton Street, and she had been a trimmer and worn clogs. 
 Now it was, " send one of your men ! " 
 
 Her bosom heaved. She liked talking business with 
 the lawyer. A little colour, had come into her cheeks 
 and there was a fine vivacity in her eyes. 
 
 " The works are yours, too, Mrs. Tim," he said. 
 
 " Yes. ... I'd like to know exactly what that means." 
 
 " It means that you can shut them up to-morrow if you 
 want. You can work them, sell them do what you 
 like with them. They're yours lock, stock and bar- 
 rel, bricks and mortar, machinery, engines every- 
 thing." 
 
 Emmie nodded understanding. Everything . . . hers 
 ... to work or sell. ... It was colossal. 
 
 " I don't know if you've made up your mind what to 
 do," he said. " Haven't had time, perhaps. . . ." 
 
 " N-no." 
 
 " You could probably turn them into a Company. You 
 might get twenty thousand, though perhaps fifteen or
 
 226 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 sixteen would be nearer the mark. There's money still 
 made out of hats, but people won't sink money in hat- 
 ting just now . . . very cut the trade is." 
 
 " And Tim made fifteen hundred pounds." 
 
 " Yes, that's true. Of course, you'll get the exact fig- 
 ures from the books. Tim had a manager Ernest 
 Mullins: he's reliable, I think." 
 
 "Yes. . . ." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 Mr. Bowfield rose. 
 
 " I don't know if there's anything else, Mrs. Tim. I 
 am always at your service, you know. Anything I can 
 do in the way of help or advice quite outside business, 
 my business I shall only be too glad to do. Tim was 
 a friend of mine." 
 
 Emmie swallowed. 
 
 " Thanks. . . . You're very good. Just for the mo- 
 ment I'm taking stock. I'm very much obliged, Mr. 
 Bowfield. Come out this way," and she showed him out 
 by the front door. 
 
 She went back into the dining-room and stood there 
 as if she would quietly assimilate what she had learnt. 
 The business of T. Booke & Son, everything about it, 
 bricks and mortar, machinery, materials, et cetera, et 
 cetera, were hers . . . hers. . . . 
 
 She sat down. She realised her position in a wave of 
 emotion. It was something disturbing for her to be sud- 
 denly given power like this. To own a hat works. . . . 
 She knew nothing like it. She supposed that if a hat 
 manufacturer had died before he had always had a son 
 old enough to carry on the business. 
 
 Of course she could sell. . . . Sell? . . . Tim's 
 works . . . T. Booke & Son's. . . . No! No! There 
 was the little Tim coming on. Yes, there was a Timothy
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 227 
 
 Booke growing up who must some day inherit those 
 works. So they must be kept going 
 
 Mrs. Wright came to the door. 
 
 " There's Hester Mullins 'ere." 
 
 "Oh! Show him in." 
 
 Ernest came in wearing a black alpaca jacket and a 
 black apron. His black tie was a cheap one but his linen 
 seemed fairly clean. He had generally a neat and tidy 
 air. He was a light complexioned, capable looking man, 
 of no particular distinction in his appearance, but inter- 
 esting to the discerning. His nose was broad and not 
 small though it could not be glibly described by any of 
 the recognised shapes; his mouth was full and covered 
 with a sandy moustache; his jaw was assuringly good 
 and his brow was inclined both to be broad and high, 
 while his blue eyes had a steady reliable look. 
 
 " Come in, Ernest," said Emmie. " Sit down. I've 
 just had Mr. Bowfield here." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . I thought I'd just come and see how you 
 were and if you wanted anything from me." 
 
 Emmie pushed the hairpins more securely in her hair. 
 
 " Well," she said a little hesitatingly, " we'd better 
 have a talk on business." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " T. Booke & Son belongs to me." She felt stirred a 
 little as she said it, and a faint blush stole into her cheek. 
 It was almost like a boast and Emmie did not mean to 
 speak in that light, though she thoroughly understood the 
 importance of the remark. 
 
 " I gathered as much. ... I don't understand it al- 
 together: is it yours absolutely? Or have you only a 
 sort of share, a life interest in it? Have you to go 
 whack with the children?" 
 
 "No." She spoke quickly. "It's mine." She re-
 
 228 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 peated Bowfield's words as if she liked them, " lock, stock 
 and barrel, bricks and mortar, machinery, engines 
 everything." 
 
 There was a tremendous satisfaction on her face. 
 
 " H'm." He was wondering what was going to 
 happen. 
 
 "Of course, naturally, what's mine is the children's 
 you know what I mean? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But it's mine to do as I like with. Tim has left 
 everything to me, and I can shut it up to-morrow if I 
 want " 
 
 " But you'll not do that," he said quickly. 
 
 " No fear." 
 
 The quick, almost supplication from Ernest pleased 
 her. " You'll not do that ? " . . . There was clear evi- 
 dence of power. 
 
 She shook her head. " Why should I? " 
 
 " There wouldn't be much sense in that," he said, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Of course not. I haven't made up my mind what to 
 do yet except that things must go on. I was wonder- 
 ing. . . . You can manage, Ernest, can't you ? " 
 
 " Manage the place properly, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Yes. Of course I have in a sense been managing it 
 since Mr. Booke left it in a sense that is. Mr. Tim 
 decided anything, but he left a lot to me. He was away 
 a good deal for one thing." 
 
 " Suppose," said Emmie, " I made you manager : made 
 you responsible could you do it ? " 
 
 " Yes, and be very glad to, both for Tim's sake and 
 yours." 
 
 " H'm. ... Of course, I don't want to decide in a
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 229 
 
 hurry. We must have a talk, but at any rate you go on 
 acting as if you were manager. I make you manager 
 let's say for a month at what do you get, Ernest ? " 
 
 " Three pound, ten." 
 
 " Three pound, ten. . . . Might make it five pounds 
 that'll do for this month at any rate." 
 
 "Thanks. Yes. . . . Er " 
 
 " Just go on managing it to the best of your ability. 
 Do your very best. At the end of the month we might 
 come to better terms we'll see: say perhaps a bit of 
 commission on the profits, eh ? " 
 
 " I think that would be fair." 
 
 " I'll be fair with you. But I want you to let me 
 know what the profits have been for the last seven or 
 eight years you could let me have that, couldn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Ernest was by now almost in the attitude of one who 
 waited for orders, who recognised a superior. He had 
 come in with the full determination to help Emmie to the 
 best of his ability : he felt sorry for her. He saw her as 
 a young widow with two young children to bring up and 
 a big business on her hands. He was prepared to do his 
 utmost for her for sentimental reasons quite apart from 
 those of personal advantage, though he naturally quite 
 realised that the position of authoritative manager with 
 full responsibility and power was a better post than the 
 one he had occupied hitherto. 
 
 And when he had come in he had come prepared to talk 
 sympathetically to Emmie, to tell her not to worry about 
 anything, and he had expected to find her in a dejected 
 and appealing frame of mind. He was a little anxious 
 about his position but his uppermost feelings were those 
 of guide, counsellor and friend. He was astonished at 
 Emmie's attitude. She was so clear-headed. There
 
 230 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 was no nonsense about her. She knew what she wanted 
 to know and wasted no sighs or phrases in silly remarks 
 or, as he called it to himself afterwards, flapdoodle. He 
 sat like a servant, and she spoke like the mistress. 
 
 " There's another thing," said Emmie. 
 
 " Yes." He spoke as one receiving orders. 
 
 " I'll walk round with you one of these days : but not 
 yet. Only, in the meanwhile, let me know what you're 
 doing, when you buy anything, for instance." 
 
 "What er " 
 
 " Wool, fur, silk, band and binding. ... I might just 
 as well try to understand the business. Just bring me in 
 bits of samples and you can tell me if it's cheap or what." 
 
 He nodded. " Yes, I understand," he said. 
 
 " You can let them know how things stand." 
 
 " I must have some authority," he said. " They're all 
 working well, but there's always one or two ready to take 
 liberties." 
 
 " Oh ! Sack any of that sort. Don't have any non- 
 sense, Ernest. Are you busy now ? " 
 
 " Fair. Got a big order in this morning from Ogden 
 & Fry." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 " A big firm in London : they're wholesale people and 
 can give us an order for five hundred dozen now and 
 again." 
 
 " That's big. What's this for? " 
 
 " About a hundred and twenty dozen altogether." 
 
 "Oh! . . . Well, just pop in before you go to-night." 
 
 " Right. I suppose we'd better get out a circular to 
 send to customers and those in the trade, that Mr. 
 Tim's dead and that the business will be carried on by his 
 widow and er . . . I suppose I'd better say Mr. Ernest 
 Mullins has been appointed manager, eh? And there's
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 231 
 
 the signing of cheques. . . . Shall I sign? I shall want 
 your authority." 
 
 " Oh ! . . ." Emmie considered. There were evi- 
 dently lots of things she had not thought of. " Could I 
 sign ? " she asked. 
 
 " You could. It wouldn't always be convenient. Sup- 
 pose you were away ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't have to go away," she said quickly. She 
 had not been in the habit of going away much and so that 
 was no drawback or difficulty. 
 
 " In any case it would mean fetching you to the office," 
 said Ernest. 
 
 " Well. ... If I didn't sign I suppose you would? " 
 
 " Yes. Nobody else of course." 
 
 " H'm. . . . Suppose we both did it could that be 
 arranged ? " 
 
 " Ye-es." 
 
 " Well, when you come in to-night, bring in a copy of 
 the circular and I'll read it over." 
 
 " Right ! By Gum ! Mrs. Tim, but you've got a head 
 on your shoulders ! " 
 
 " I should look funny if I hadn't," she said quickly. 
 
 But when Ernest went back into the works he carried 
 with him a picture that was like nothing of Emmie he 
 had seen before, except the frame. " Talking like that, 
 as clear-headed as you please. . . . And she, knocked 
 over with the death of her husband. . . . Only about 
 twenty-five or twenty-six something like that. . . . 
 And a bonny looking woman too, fine figure. . . . Im- 
 agine her signing cheques." 
 
 Clearly Ernest was very much impressed. 
 
 Emmie, too, was impressed, but differently. She was 
 impressed by circumstances.
 
 232 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 These works were hers that was the idea she was 
 driving home. They were her property just as much as 
 the furniture in the house was hers, as that chair on 
 which she sat. She knew, of course, what to do with the 
 chair, but it was not so easy to say what must be done 
 with a hat factory. She tingled with the realisation of 
 what her possessions actually were. A hat factory, with 
 boilers and dye-kettles, and machinery; plankers and fur 
 blowers and wool formers and body makers and finishers 
 and trimmers and . . . 
 
 She wept. She thought of Tim again. The extent of 
 her heritage thrust her mind to the cause of it. Tim, 
 lying in the ground. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Wright appeared at the doorway. 
 
 " 'Ad I better do th' potatoes?" she asked. 
 
 Emmie wiped her eyes and stood. 
 
 " Yes. . . . The pudding ought to be in too. Is the 
 oven hot?" 
 
 " Fair." 
 
 Emmie went briskly to the kitchen. 
 
 " The potatoes," she said, and turned to go down the 
 cellar. 
 
 "Eh! I'll fetch 'em, Mrs. Tim," said Mrs. Wright, 
 making a heavy movement forward and speaking with 
 more compunction than desire. 
 
 Emmie skipped down the cellar steps. 
 
 "Just stir that fire!" she called out, "and pull the 
 damper." 
 
 She came up smartly with some potatoes in a basket 
 and a big jug of milk. 
 
 " I'd ha' fetched 'em, Mrs. Tim," said Mrs. Wright. 
 " You shouldn't . . ." 
 
 " In five minutes," thought Emmie. She merely said :
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 233 
 
 "There are the potatoes I should think half a dozen 
 of those would be ample." 
 
 She turned to the fire, raked it and pushed some under 
 the oven, the door of which she felt with the back of her 
 hand. 
 
 " It's all right," she said. 
 
 While Mrs. Wright was slowly making up her mind 
 that she had to peel potatoes and that to peel potatoes she 
 must have a knife and then she must take a potato in one 
 hand and a knife in the other, Emmie put milk, rice, sugar, 
 a pinch of salt and some nutmeg in a dish, placed the dish 
 in the oven, went into the cellar again for the meat and 
 the two women found themselves going to the knife box 
 at the same time. 
 
 Emmie worked well, and, as long as her mind was oc- 
 cupied with some task or other, she did not mourn. But 
 she found so often that little " something " to recall Tim. 
 She might be dusting and lift a tobacco jar, tidying up- 
 stairs and see a shaving brush or a razor, and everything 
 was forgotten but the dead man and what he had meant 
 to her. At such moments she was too moved to do more 
 than dwell on the picture and grieve. 
 
 She was also stirred by the many kind messages that 
 came. The secretary of the Gentleman's Club wrote to 
 express the sympathy and condolence of the members ; the 
 secretary of a cricket club did the same, also the secretary 
 of the political club, also many individuals. Emmie re- 
 ceived over a score of letters from people she did not 
 know at all intimately. They all testified to the respect 
 and esteem, and, in many cases, affection in which Tim 
 had been held. 
 
 While Emmie was of course very pleased to receive 
 these letters, she was disturbed in spirit because of them.
 
 234 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 They all reminded her of her loss and made her weep 
 fresh tears. 
 
 But surely she began to take stock of her legacy. 
 Those works . . . that was the item that fired her imag- 
 ination and made her realise she would have need of all 
 her resolution and decision in dealing with it. A factory 
 where hundreds of men and women earned their liv- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 As Emmie rested for a moment from her housework, 
 she began to see T. Booke & Son as something extraordi- 
 narily fascinating. She was merely dazed with the pos- 
 session at first. The factory hers. . . . 
 
 Afterwards her keen, practical mind faced the situation. 
 She did not know she had a particularly keen or especially 
 practical mind, though she knew she was capable of deal- 
 ing competently with the ordinary affairs of life. She 
 knew very well, for instance, that she could not manage 
 a hat factory, but she was beginning to realise that it 
 might be within her ability to find a man to manage the 
 business and for her to manage him! 
 
 Also, for that matter, she could let Mr. Booke manage 
 the works again . . . perhaps he would. He seemed to 
 hint at it, or one of them had. The works had to be kept 
 going because of the money they brought in, and because 
 of little Tim, who must one day inherit and carry them 
 on, so some one must manage them . . . whoever it 
 was . . . 
 
 But Emmie felt " T. Booke & Son " a tough prop- 
 osition, something that might worry her considerably. 
 As she went about her duties in the house, cooked the 
 dinner, dusted, saw to the children, dealt with the heavy 
 correspondence that poured in on her at this time, etc., 
 etc., she kept seeing " T. Booke & Son " as a problem 
 to be solved.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 235 
 
 Mr. Booke called. He was in black and looked like a 
 man who had been hard hit: but he had fortitude and 
 could bear the ills of life with little or no public grieving. 
 
 Emmie no sooner saw him than she thought of Tim. 
 The father suggested the son in so many ways. He came 
 into the kitchen as Emmie was laying the cloth for dinner. 
 Little Tim had not come back from school, but Alice was 
 at home and ran eagerly to her grandpa, who sat down 
 and took her on his knee and let her play with his watch. 
 
 " She's growin', Emmie," he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Coin' to be like you, too." 
 
 "Is she?" 
 
 " Yes. Has Bowfield been to see you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh. ... I suppose you know now exactly how things 
 are." 
 
 " Yes. . . . It's the works, of course, that are the try- 
 ing thing." 
 
 " H'm. Still, we must get over that. I'll see they're 
 not played ducks and drakes with if you want " He 
 paused. 
 
 Emmie said quietly after the pause, " I've been talking 
 to Ernest." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . He's all right, you know. I should think 
 he'd do with somebody behind him: he shouldn't think 
 he'd got a soft job on. ... But I always reckoned him 
 capable and he did very well for Tim." 
 
 " That's what I was thinking," said Emmie. " I'm 
 going to have a talk with him to-night. I've told him to 
 get some figures for me, and he's drawing up a circular to 
 send to customers and others." 
 
 Mr. Booke nodded and looked at Emmie keenly. He 
 had always known she was no fool, but she did not assume
 
 236 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 the attitude of the broken woman now, helpless and yearn- 
 ing for support: she talked like a sensible being taking 
 sensible stock of affairs. 
 
 " Baby got 'nother puff-puff," said Alice to her 
 grandpa. 
 
 " Oh ! An' who gave Baby another puff-puff ? " 
 
 " Auntie Sophy. . . . Booful puff-puff." Alice climbed 
 down from her grandfather's knees to fetch the booful 
 puff-puff. 
 
 " Of course you'll do as you like, Emmie," said Mr. 
 Booke. " The works are yours. T. Booke & Son be- 
 longs to you." He paused a moment, as if the reflection 
 was of more than passing interest and importance. " But 
 we shouldn't like to see the place go down any of us. 
 I thought I'd done with business, but if you like I'll 
 shoulder the harness again." 
 
 " Now don't you worry for the moment, Grandpa. I 
 don't know what's best at present, but you've earned your 
 rest." 
 
 " Nay, I'm not that old. At least I should hope not. 
 I've plenty o' work in me yet, and if it's for T. Booke & 
 Son I'm ready to go till I drop." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but ... of course it's very kind of you. 
 Let's wait a bit. Perhaps Ernest can manage, and you 
 can help me to keep an eye on him." 
 
 " They're yours, as I said," he replied. " T. Booke & 
 Son belongs to you. I don't want to push myself " 
 
 "Pushing yourself you're not pushing yourself," 
 said Emmie. " You know I'm very grateful, Grandpa, 
 but I don't want to drag you back to work now for me. 
 I'm not that helpless." 
 
 "No ... you're not that helpless." He said it very 
 quietly, and obviously was paying her a compliment, 
 though as he was not used to the giving of praise he did
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 237 
 
 it rather oddly. " Of course," he added, " I can't help 
 taking an interest in ... T. Booke & Son." 
 
 " Well, of course not. But what do you think, 
 Grandpa ; could I manage with Ernest as manager ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You might. . . . He might do very well for you." 
 
 Emmie watched him closely. " He isn't satisfied," she 
 said to herself, but she was now beginning to experience 
 a desire that seemed to be growing fast to have and 
 keep these works under her control. She was attracted 
 by the sense of something exhilarating and most fascinat- 
 ing. A jewel rich and rare and of great price would have 
 had no attraction for her comparable to this. T. Booke 
 & Son . . . her's that was the refrain. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " and I can always come to you for 
 advice." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " I shouldn't like T. Booke & Son to go down," he 
 said quietly. 
 
 He got up. Alice came in with the new toy. 
 
 " Booful puff-puff, Gran'pa. See." She put it on the 
 ground and dragged it. " Puff . . . puff . . ." 
 
 Emmie watched her and bit her lip; the child seemed 
 oblivious of all the big things that were going on and being 
 decided around her. 
 
 " Fine puff-puff," said Mr. Booke, who was not capa- 
 ble of sinking to a child's level with zest. " Well, I'll be 
 off." 
 
 "Would you like to stay and have some dinner?" 
 Emmie said. " It's not much a stew, but it's all 
 right." 
 
 " No, no. I've got mine waiting. Mornin'." 
 
 " Good morning," said Emmie. " Come in often." 
 
 He nodded slightly, bent down and kissed Alice.
 
 238 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 T. Booke & Son. . . . They did think something of it. 
 Emmie sat in a chair when Mr. Booke had gone and dwelt 
 on the situation. Grandpa was very good to offer to look 
 after the works. . . . Perhaps it might be best. If the 
 business went down the Bookes would never forgive her. 
 But Ernest Mullins could manage. . . . They'd have to 
 put somebody in to manage . . . except, of course, Mr. 
 Booke went back himself. And he'd do that before he'd 
 see those works come short of a certain standard. 
 
 What should she do? Emmie sat and pondered and 
 was a little troubled. The responsibility was great: so 
 also was the attraction. To be the head of a hat works 
 ... it was almost dizzying. Suppose she were taken 
 advantage of tricked and the business ruined. She 
 trembled at the thought of that. 
 
 Then little Tim came dashing in from school. 
 
 " I was second in class in sums to-day, Mammy, and 
 I should have been first only Arthur Fore spoke before I 
 did, and Miss Ada said I did very well." 
 
 Emmie kissed him. " Splendid ! You'll be first soon. 
 Now take your hat off; we'll have dinner in a min- 
 ute." 
 
 Tim sniffed. " What is it ? Stew ... I like stew. 
 And, Mammy, can I have a new satchel, because my 
 other's all torn? And we're going to do singing this 
 afternoon. I like singing; do you like singing, 
 Mammy?" 
 
 Alice came along. 
 
 " Puff, puff, puff, puff. Mammy, when I doe to stool 
 tan I take my puff-puff with me ? " 
 
 " We'll see, darling. We'll have dinner now." 
 
 Emmie washed herself and put on her crepe dress, in 
 the afternoon. She looked at herself as she washed. 
 Well, nobody could say she hadn't a good figure. . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 239 
 
 That face was all right too, and a widow ... a widow at 
 her age! 
 
 She had to bite her lip and swallow, and then failed to 
 keep back the tear. It was hard. She was young yet, 
 with life before her. 
 
 Emmie was finely healthy and full of vitality, and the 
 solitariness suggested by this big bedroom chilled her. 
 
 But she might have been left badly off that would 
 have made things hard. As it was and then she was 
 back at that haunting idea symbolised as it were by a big 
 factory chimney with a lightning conductor running 
 alongside it : T. Booke and Son. . . . 
 
 The heavy black of the dress displeased her. She liked 
 her thick black hair and dark eyebrows, but she felt very 
 black in this crepe. A jabot of white lace would relieve 
 it what was she thinking of? She was in black for 
 Tim. . . . Poor Tim! She saw him walking about the 
 room, turning round and saying, " Oh, Emmie," or com- 
 ing to her when she was half dressed and teasing her. 
 
 Now he was dead. Dead ... it was almost incom- 
 prehensible. 
 
 She wiped her eyes, finished dressing, looked round the 
 room, and then went downstairs. It was about tea-time. 
 Alice was in the kitchen playing with her toys. Mrs. 
 Wright was in the cellar mangling clothes and Ada was 
 busy in the kitchen putting other clothes before the fire 
 and keeping an eye on the little girl. The kettle was on 
 the hob singing quietly. 
 
 Emmie looked out of the window and saw the roofs of 
 some of the " shops " belonging to the factory there 
 was the dye shop straight in front of her, and to the right 
 the planking shop. 
 
 She shook her head : she would have to come to a de- 
 cision. The life in those works must be controlled by
 
 240 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 somebody. Would it be better to have nothing to do with 
 it but just to draw an income from it, or to go in and 
 about it, feel its pulse, see what was going on, manage 
 it rule it? She sighed. The decision was no easy 
 thing. 
 
 As she turned and looked round the kitchen, which was 
 now very clean and tidy, she felt that great content that 
 the middle-class woman feels at tea-time. It was prob- 
 ably the happiest hour of the day. As she stood for a 
 moment letting her thoughts drift from hat-making to 
 tea-making Emmie wondered why this tea-time should be 
 so pleasant comparatively and so regularly pleasant. . . . 
 Emmie now felt a more glowing satisfaction than at any 
 hour of the day previously. The kettle on the hob was a 
 symbol and sign of something peculiarly soothing; why 
 the kettle more than a pan of potatoes? A pan of po- 
 tatoes ! It never gave Emmie a thrill, or few women for 
 that matter, but. a kettle singing on the hob at tea-time 
 was music. 
 
 As Emmie walked to the fireplace, glanced at the clock 
 on the mantel shelf and pulled the kettle a little further 
 from the fire so that it should not boil too soon, she saw 
 the average woman of her class present class at any 
 rate washed and dressed, the back of the day's work 
 broken at tea-time. No wonder the singing kettle was a 
 joy to hear, quite apart from the liking for tea as a 
 beverage. With men it was different; they worked just 
 as hard after tea as before : they did not get through their 
 hard work first and find about tea-time they could wash 
 and put on other clothes which supplied in themselves an 
 emotion of satisfaction and contemplate a smoother time 
 for the rest of the day. 
 
 Emmie turned round, her thoughts moving quickly 
 from reflection to action.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 241 
 
 " You'd better wash that lettuce and cress, Ada," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes'm." 
 
 " Wash it carefully now ; don't just put it under the 
 tap that won't do." 
 
 " No'm." 
 
 Emmie meanwhile went to the dresser, took out a table- 
 cloth which she spread on the kitchen table. 
 
 " When you've washed that, put the tea things on," 
 she said to Ada, and she ran down the cellar steps for the 
 bread and butter. " We'll have tea in about five minutes, 
 Mrs. Wright." 
 
 " I can do with my tea," said Mrs. Wright. 
 
 " Have you nearly finished ? " 
 
 " I'm gettin' on." 
 
 " That's right." 
 
 Emmie came up with the bread and butter and at once 
 began to cut and butter slices. 
 
 They all sat down to tea together in the kitchen, Emmie, 
 the two children, Mrs. Wright the charwoman, and Ada. 
 Emmie had no pride of caste if it interfered with com- 
 fort. She and Tim had taken most of their meals in the 
 kitchen, although Mr. Booke and Tim had lived in the 
 dining-room because the housekeeper, Mrs. Bane, and 
 Ada occupied the kitchen. But living in the dining-room 
 now meant using another room, and the kitchen was so 
 convenient. And what did it matter if Ada sat down to 
 meals with them? It did none of them any harm. The 
 food wasn't worse and Ada was a bit of company. . . . 
 As for Mrs. Wright, well, why not? It didn't happen 
 always, and Mrs. Wright only came twice a week, on 
 Mondays and Fridays on Mondays for washing prin- 
 cipally, and on Fridays for cleaning. Of course, if there 
 was anybody else there Emmie went to the dining-room.
 
 242 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 It was when you had to clean things that you took care 
 not to be so quick to dirty them. 
 
 The tea consisted of bread and butter with lettuce and 
 cress, some jam, and a boiled egg for Mrs. Wright, whose 
 labours were reckoned to demand the extra sustenance. 
 
 After tea Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke called, and they 
 were shown into the dining-room, for Mrs. Wright was 
 now using the table in the kitchen for her ironing. 
 
 The children were with Emmie at first, but were fetched 
 by Ada to be bathed and put to bed. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke began sympathetically. 
 How was Emmie keeping up well? She must, of 
 course, for the children's sake. She must devote herself 
 wholly to the children. She had plenty of friends to help 
 and guide her. 
 
 She received a few compliments : she had behaved very 
 well and very sensibly. 
 
 " And," said Mrs. Holten, " Tim certainly behaved 
 very handsomely towards you, Emmie." 
 
 " I was his wife," said Emmie, simply. 
 
 " I am not saying a word against him or you," replied 
 Mrs. Holten quickly. " I think it was very, very good of 
 him, and, I will say this, I think you made him a good 
 wife." 
 
 " Still, there's the children," said Miss Booke. 
 
 "Of course, Emmie understands," said Mrs. Holten, 
 " don't you that though Tim left everything to you, 
 yet really it is all in the nature of a trust for the chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 " I should think so, indeed," said Miss Booke, so 
 quickly that she managed to give Emmie a blow. 
 
 Emmie had aged considerably from an intellectual and 
 resolute point of view since her marriage, and particu- 
 larly since Tim's death. It was as if the moment she felt
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 243 
 
 herself alone she was capable of taking care of herself 
 and assume, almost instantly, the masculine virtue of de- 
 cision. The qualities were doubtless dormant in her and 
 found scope in opportunity and necessity. 
 
 " I think I can be trusted to look after my own chil- 
 dren," she said. 
 
 Miss Booke shut her mouth, and her face showed an 
 expression that did not give an absolute and complete 
 approval of Emmie's speech. 
 
 "Of course, there are the works," said Mrs. Holten 
 significantly. 
 
 " T. Booke & Son," said Miss Booke, mouthing it mag- 
 nificently. " We Bookes think something of that." 
 
 Emmie was not at all cowed. The days when these 
 two ladies could fill her with awe were past. 
 
 " You can see, Emmie," said Mrs. Holten, with a softer 
 intonation than Miss Booke's, " that we feel very anxious 
 about the works; we are very anxious about them." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie. 
 
 "You understand, don't you?" pressed Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " I don't know how you can be more anxious about 
 them than I am, since they will supply my income." 
 
 " That shows you don't understand," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Ours is a feeling of er sentiment, pride, hon- 
 our, if you like." 
 
 " There is nothing to stop you having a feeling of pride 
 and honour in the works if you like, so far as I can see," 
 said Emmie. 
 
 They could all tell that the situation had reached a 
 stratum where feelings were getting more taut, and emo- 
 tion, unless well and carefully handled, might break loose. 
 
 Both Booke ladies seemed to bridle a little. Miss 
 Booke, ever the most undisciplined and aggressive of the 
 family, moved with patent uneasiness.
 
 244 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Holten cleared her throat. Emmie had spoken 
 quietly, but there was sufficient tone in it to disturb the 
 two ladies, who considered themselves " superior " 
 taking the word in its amplest social sense to one who 
 had chanced to marry into the family but had, at one 
 time, been one of the family's employes in the factory. 
 
 Emmie somehow felt strong and not uncomfortable. 
 
 " What's your objection to letting Grandpa look after 
 the works?" Miss Booke asked. 
 
 Emmie understood. The two ladies had evidently 
 been talking to grandpa about the works. He was not 
 so pushful. 
 
 " I think Grandpa has earned his rest," said Emmie. 
 
 " He's willing to look after them," said Miss Booke, 
 not at all suavely, but with a ring of arrogance in the 
 tone. 
 
 " It's very good of him," said Emmie. 
 
 The two ladies began to move on their seats. Fancy 
 being talked to like this by a young creature like Emmie. 
 . . . Emmie Bollins that was their disturbing thought. 
 
 Miss Booke wanted to dash in furiously, but Mrs. Hol- 
 ten, thoroughly understanding her sister's tactics and tact- 
 lessness, leaned forward slightly. 
 
 " Yes, but, Emmie, if he's good enough to do it for 
 the sake of the family, for the sake of the name 
 Booke " she paused a moment for emphasis " for 
 your little boy . . . don't you think you ought to be 
 very grateful and accept his offer so that we can all feel 
 comfortable?" 
 
 " I see," said Emmie. " Have you come to tell me 
 this?" 
 
 " And very good of us, too," snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " If we have," added Mrs. Holten, " I think you ought 
 to be thankful we take such an interest in you."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 245 
 
 " You mean in T. Booke & Son," said Emmie calmly. 
 
 "T. Booke & Son" ... there were sniffs. "It's 
 your income. If it hadn't been for T. Booke & Son you 
 wouldn't have been as lucky as you have been." Miss 
 Booke kept turning on her chair as she rapped out her 
 phrases. 
 
 Emmie was slightly flushed, but her head was calm 
 and the vision clear. 
 
 " You want grandpa to manage the works, is that 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " Of course we do," burst out Miss Booke. " There's 
 nothing else to be done. It's very hard on Timothy, very 
 hard on him. It's noble of him to come forward. I 
 can't understand how there can be any hesitation or 
 anybody else with proper feeling, either." 
 
 Emmie was feeling sterner. She saw these women 
 had come with a sense of grievance, and had meant to 
 put her in her place. 
 
 " Yes," she said quietly. " I don't think, Aunt Maria, 
 that I need to be talked to quite like that." 
 
 " There'd be no question of talking to you quite like 
 that if you'd do the proper thing." 
 
 " When you say the proper thing you mean what you 
 want," replied Emmie, and she paused. " Well, I haven't 
 quite made up my mind ... at least, I hadn't when you 
 came in. I think Ernest Mullins is capable of managing 
 the business and, er " 
 
 "But who's going to look after him?" asked Mrs. 
 Holten. 
 
 " Suppose he doesn't make them pay? " 
 
 " I can look after him," said Emmie. 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "You!"
 
 246 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 The voices were in unison. Both ladies were now 
 showing their emotion. 
 
 "You?" repeated Miss Booke. "Don't be a" 
 She stopped herself just in time. 
 
 " A fool ? " said Emmie. 
 
 " I didn't say it, but " Miss Booke nodded with 
 such a significant expression that she might properly be 
 understood to stand to what she repressed. 
 
 " If I were in any difficulty or doubt I could always 
 ask grandpa," Emmie ventured. 
 
 " If I were in his place, I'd let you ask," said Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 " You're not capable of managing those works. 
 You're only an average woman, Emmie; you're not ex- 
 ceptional." 
 
 " Well, I shouldn't want to worry him too much, but 
 perhaps he wouldn't mind . . . for the sake of the fam- 
 ily, for the sake of the name . . . for Tim. . . ." 
 
 She was moved as she said the last, but managed to 
 control herself. Average woman . . . was it a compli- 
 ment or not ? Emmie was not offended by that. 
 
 " You're very obstinate," said Mrs. Holten sharply. 
 
 " Worse than obstinate," added Miss Booke. 
 
 " I can't understand it," said Mrs. Holten. " You 
 know nothing about the business." 
 
 " Except trimming," added Miss Booke savagely. 
 
 Emmie's eyes blazed. She almost burst into tears. 
 She seemed to be between anger and resentment and 
 humiliation and tears. She wanted to shout bitter words 
 at this vinegar-tongued woman, and she wanted to weep 
 in sheer self-pity. But through the battle of her emo- 
 tions something steadied and calmed and restrained her. 
 It was as if her intellect directed her. She had with- 
 stood tongues dipped in gall and wormwood before; she
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 247 
 
 had more than once been reminded of her position as a 
 trimmer. 
 
 As the emotion beat itself to pieces while her hands 
 shook and her eyelids trembled, she found herself gently 
 assuming the upper hand of gibes. 
 
 " Yes," she said, looking uncannily at Miss Booke, " as 
 you say, I know something about trimming." 
 
 She shut her mouth tightly, and the remark seemed to 
 have a fine defiance in it. 
 
 Miss Booke said to herself, " Well ! " in a huge vol- 
 ume, and looked staggered. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was amazed. Emmie seemed so solid. 
 Was this mere obstinacy, or what? The Bookes could 
 be obstinate and hold tight and shut their lips sulk, 
 even, for months at a time. But this was something of 
 another kind altogether : Emmie seemed to keep her wits 
 about her, and to talk reasonably. 
 
 A level-headed woman, apart from her natural in- 
 clination to domineer, Mrs. Holten saw their point was 
 not so easily to be gained as they had imagined. They 
 had taken it for granted that their brother would super- 
 vise, in some way, the business of T. Booke & Son, and 
 when they heard from him that it was not at all a settled 
 thing, that Emmie had not apparently made up her mind 
 yet what to do, that she might have Ernest Mullins as 
 manager and try to keep an eye on him herself, they 
 flared in wrath and decided they would at once let Emmie 
 know what they thought of such ideas, and would quickly 
 put her in her place. Hence the conversation and the 
 surprise. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Emmie ? " Mrs. Holten 
 asked, still with a trace of asperity, but with a good deal 
 of the arrogance gone. 
 
 Emmie's lips were shut tight. Try to master her,
 
 248 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 would they? . . . Remind her of her trimming days, eh? 
 
 Her face was hard. But she still was able to keep her 
 pulse on the thing under discussion. 
 
 She paused deliberately : let these people see they could 
 not do as they liked with her? 
 
 " I haven't made up my mind yet," she replied quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was beginning to see that their tactics had 
 been wrong, but they were both of the rather hectoring 
 breed and could not cajole after summoning. 
 
 Miss Booke still looked furious. She had little pa- 
 tience with differences of opinion at the best of times, 
 and with Emmie Emmie Bollins, mind she thought 
 it easy to make a clean sweep of opposition. She still 
 wanted to say the bitter and galling thing, finding it gave 
 her more satisfaction to ease her temper than to gain a 
 victory. 
 
 She said, shortly : " Nice thing to see T. Booke & 
 Son go to ruin." 
 
 Emmie had to hold a very tight rein over her tongue. 
 
 " I don't see why it should go to ruin," she said. 
 
 " Nobody else, either," snapped Miss Booke. " But I 
 can't see what anybody can expect but that, if you're 
 going to try and poke your ringer in it. What do you 
 know about managing a works? I never heard of such 
 a thing in my life. A young woman like you. It's ridic- 
 ulous, positively ridiculous. You! It's " 
 
 Emmie burst into tears. She had stood all she could 
 in quietness. She had been stirred so much emotionally 
 recently that the tears came, perhaps, a little sooner than 
 usual, though the provocation in normal circumstances 
 would have been great. 
 
 Mrs. Holten said " Oh," and looked a little distressed. 
 She was angry with Emmie, but would not have spoken 
 like Maria . . . she couldn't do that just now. . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 249 
 
 Miss Booke sniffed. She could not bend even before 
 tears. 
 
 Emmie caught her breath hard as she sobbed. Her 
 feelings were torn and she was shaken with her emotion. 
 Just at that moment Ada came in : " Mrs. Wright's 
 going, 'm', an' Mr. Mullins is 'ere." 
 
 Emmie sniffed and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Holten 
 looked uncomfortable. Miss Booke could apparently 
 sit stolidly through any scene \vhen her passion was 
 roused. 
 
 " All right. I'll be there in a moment," said Emmie. 
 
 She stood up. 
 
 Mrs. Holten said : " I suppose we'd better be going. 
 You think things over, Emmie; we only want you to do 
 what is best, you know." 
 
 Miss Booke said, " Naturally." It was her best she 
 could do in the way of softening matters. 
 
 They stood up and moved towards the door. They 
 were not beautiful women; they had never been really 
 pretty, but their long noses and big jaws showed some 
 character. They were dressed very tastefully in black. 
 
 Mrs. Holten kissed Emmie. 
 
 " We're only advising for the best," she said. 
 
 And Miss Booke, as she pecked Emmie's cheek, added : 
 " Don't you be foolish, now. We're older than you ; 
 we've had a lot more experience; you should be guided 
 by us." 
 
 When they had gone, Emmie stood for a minute or 
 two in the dining-room. She sighed and gasped over the 
 hard things that had been said to her. 
 
 Yet these two aunts of Tim's were perhaps right. 
 How could she properly overlook a hat factory? It did 
 seem preposterous.
 
 250 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Yet when, later in the evening, she read the draft of 
 the circular which Ernest had left with her, she was 
 fascinated to almost complete forgetfulness of Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten and Miss Booke. 
 
 " I regret to inform you of the death of Mr. Timothy 
 Booke, sole proprietor of the business carried on as T. 
 Booke & Son, which is now the absolute property of his 
 widow. There will be no hitch in the carrying on of the 
 business, and a continuance of your favours is requested. 
 
 " Mr. Ernest Mullins, who has been associated with 
 the firm for the past ten years, and has acted as manager 
 for the last five years, will continue to direct its affairs 
 under the immediate supervision of the proprietor. . . ." 
 
 Emmie read and re-read the circular ..." under the 
 immediate supervision of the proprietor." That phrase 
 thrilled her. She was almost frightened by it. 
 
 What was it made her so anxious to possess these 
 works ? Why could she not let " grandpa " look after 
 them? She found it difficult to be clear of her motives 
 even to herself. Was it power that she wanted? or did 
 she really like taking a personal interest in the business? 
 or was it something vaguer . . . she wanted to hold fast 
 by what she had lest she should have it taken from her? 
 or was it that she liked to do as she would with her own 
 and did not care to be interfered with? 
 
 She did not bother much with motives. She was say- 
 ing to herself most of the time: Shall I, or shall I not? 
 Sometimes she thought it would be foolish of her to trust 
 wholly to Ernest ... at other moments she thought Tim 
 had trusted him, and she, Emmie, felt he was to be 
 trusted. 
 
 Then she thought of Miss Booke. Aunt Maria was 
 unbearable. She, Emmie, would not give way to her.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 251 
 
 Before she went to bed she had made up her mind that 
 Ernest Mullins should be made manager, " under the 
 immediate supervision of the proprietor." 
 
 But she tossed a good deal before going to sleep that 
 night.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE next morning Emmie experienced the feeling of 
 loneliness that had come to her each awakening 
 since Tim's death. As she turned round in bed she felt 
 
 V 
 
 very sad. No man beside her. . . . No male companion- 
 ship, and she was still young enough to desire it. ... 
 
 When she was once up and dressed she felt better. 
 This morning she thought of the works. She must look 
 after her business now. She at once began to comfort 
 herself with the thought that Ernest would manage all 
 right. What about those works near the station where 
 there was a manager they prospered well enough, and 
 there was no father and son looking after them. . . . 
 There were a lot of \vomen shareholders, too, for that 
 matter. Ernest would manage well enough, and she 
 would keep him up to the mark. The words in the cir- 
 cular recurred to her, " under the immediate supervision 
 of the proprietor. . . ." 
 
 She went to the children's room to dress Tim and 
 Alice. 
 
 She opened the door quietly, so as not to wake them 
 too suddenly, and entered with a glad welcoming smile 
 on her face. Emmie certainly loved her children. She 
 noticed the warm, faint odour, and went at once to the 
 window and drew up the blind. 
 
 Tim turned over, rubbed his eyes and sat up. 
 
 Emmie took him in her arms and kissed him. Not 
 thoroughly awake, he laid his head on her breast and 
 snuggled to her. She loved to feel him like that and 
 pulled him out of bed. 
 
 252
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 253 
 
 " Billy Winkers not gone yet? " She sat on the edge 
 of the bed and nursed him, taking a delight in holding 
 his warm little body and looking at his healthy smooth 
 skin. 
 
 Tim sat up on her knee. He was awake now. 
 
 Emmie pushed her hand through his tousled hair. 
 
 " You must have your hair cut, darling." 
 
 " Mammy." 
 
 " Well, dear." 
 
 " When Jack the Giant Killer cut the bridge, you know, 
 how deep was the water ? " 
 
 "Oh! . . . Deep enough to drown him if he wasn't 
 careful. . . . Now you get dressed quickly or perhaps 
 the Giant will come and take your clothes." 
 
 " He can't." 
 
 "Why can't he?" 
 
 " Well, because Jack killed him " 
 
 " Mammie " It was Alice shouting. 
 
 Emmie put Tim down. " Now there are your clothes, 
 dear. Hurry up, for if Jack killed one giant, perhaps 
 there's another one." 
 
 Tim stood in a very thoughtful attitude. 
 
 " Could he get in that door, Mammy? " 
 
 " Mam-mie . . ." shouted Alice, kneeling in bed. 
 
 " Yes, dear. . . ." Emmie walked to Alice's cot. 
 " Get dressed, Tim darling, quickly." 
 
 " But could he get in that door, Mammy? " said Tim, 
 as he held his little trousers in his hands. 
 
 " Mammie, Mammie, Mammie," said Alice, as she 
 threw her arms round her mother's neck and was lifted 
 out of bed. 
 
 " I think he'd crack himself," said Emmie. 
 
 Tim considered. 
 
 "With bending, Mammy?"
 
 254 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Yes, darling." 
 
 Tim thought again. 
 
 " But if he went on his knees couldn't he get in 
 then?" 
 
 " Ada would have chopped his head off by that time. 
 Now get on, darling." 
 
 " Mammie," said Alice, " what would Ada chop ? " 
 
 " The giant, darling, who might try and gobble you up 
 if you don't get washed and dressed quickly." 
 
 " I'll be washed first," said Tim, as he hurried into his 
 clothes. 
 
 " No, me first," cried Alice. 
 
 " Me, me," said Tim, hurrying. 
 
 Alice slipped onto the ground and began to run in her 
 nightdress towards the bathroom. 
 
 Emmie caught her up and she cried and had to be 
 soothed, and Tim dashed away in the turmoil; but with 
 patience and tact and the exercise of a brief authority 
 Emmie got her children dressed and washed and ready 
 for breakfast. 
 
 As she tidied the children's room before going down, 
 Emmie thought : " No more children. . . ." She was 
 not sure that she wanted any more, but the mere thought 
 of the reason depressed her. . . . 
 
 She opened the window, folded the children's night- 
 dresses, threw the bedclothes back and left the door open. 
 
 Ada was outside cleaning the steps, and Emmie at 
 once began to see to breakfast. The children had bread 
 and milk with syrup and bread afterwards. Ada was 
 given a rasher of bacon and Emmie had two rashers or 
 sometimes one rasher and an egg; there were also pieces 
 of bread cooked in the bacon fat. They all had break- 
 fast in the kitchen, and in the middle of the meal Emmie, 
 looking at the works, thought : " To think I own this
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 255 
 
 house and that factory. ... I have an income of thirty 
 pounds a week at least and I'm not spending more 
 than about four, with holidays and everything in. . . ." 
 And then Tim interrupted her with : " Mammy." 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " Do giants have bread and milk for breakfast? " 
 
 " Yes, darling . . . when they are little." 
 
 Tim gobbled up his bread and milk greedily, as if his 
 consuming desire at that moment was to become a giant. 
 
 "Mammy?" 
 
 " Yes, darling " this to Alice. 
 
 "Do fairies?" 
 
 " Yes, darling all the good ones." 
 
 " Baby going to be a fairy. . . ." 
 
 Ada, with staring eyes and a smile on her face said, 
 " Eee. . . ." This struck her limited imagination 
 fiercely. 
 
 In the course of the morning, when Emmie was wear- 
 ing a cap on her head to keep her hair reasonably free 
 of dust and a big apron to cover her clothes, Ernest Mul- 
 lins came in. Emmie took off the cap but kept on the 
 apron. 
 
 " I don't know if there's anything you'd like to see me 
 about," said Ernest. He was wearing his cashmere 
 jacket and black apron, which had two or three holes in 
 it at the top where he was in the habit of leaning against 
 things. 
 
 When Ernest came in Emmie felt a glow of satisfac- 
 tion creeping over her, and when he spoke and made her 
 thoroughly realise her position as the sole proprietor of 
 T. Booke & Son she felt that glow growing warmer and 
 keener. There was something in her that responded 
 intensely to this sense of something to do or of power.
 
 256 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 . . . Emmie did not probe herself, but the thoughts came 
 with the emotions. She felt eager to busy herself with 
 things and was not afraid of big things. Was it just a 
 fine superlative vitality ? Or what ? . . . 
 
 She moved on her chair to pull her frock straight, and 
 gave Ernest the impression of some one keen, alert, sen- 
 sible, shrewd and penetrating. Clearly she knew very 
 little about the details of hat-making or the business of a 
 hat factory, but she was a willing learner and able. 
 
 " Just tell me what you're doing," she said. " What 
 are you going to do to-day? " 
 
 Ernest felt a little amused; it was not so much a 
 strange as an unexpected question. He was a manager 
 and supervised ; the question would have been quite easily 
 answered by a person in the office, or one in the ware- 
 house or by Miss Frisby, the giver-out. 
 
 But he understood; she was trying to get into touch 
 with the business and he really wanted to let her grasp 
 the details thoroughly. 
 
 " Well, to begin with, there's the letters " 
 
 " Have you got them with you ? " she asked eagerly, 
 her natural curiosity being also excited by the correspond- 
 ence. 
 
 " I brought a few," he said, putting a small bundle on 
 the table and opening one. 
 
 Emmie became exceedingly interested. Almost all of 
 them began, " Messrs. T. Booke & Son, 
 
 Gentlemen," 
 
 To herself, in swift proclamation, Emmie felt : " ' Messrs. 
 T. Booke & Son, Gentlemen ' that's me ! " 
 
 Ernest read them and explained where explanations 
 were desirable, and Emmie handled the letters and read 
 them again for her own satisfaction. They w r ere of va- 
 rious kinds. " Enclosed please find eheque value so much
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 257 
 
 in payment of our account to March 3ist We shall be 
 obliged with a receipt in due course." 
 
 Emmie was concise. 
 
 " What do you do with this ? " 
 
 " The cheque is endorsed " 
 
 "Who does that?" 
 
 " Walker does that, as a rule." Walker was the 
 cashier. " Then he pays it in the bank. He sends off 
 the receipt, too." 
 
 Emmie read an order : " Please place in hand at once 
 and deliver at your earliest convenience, as the goods are 
 urgently wanted: 
 
 "8 doz. Conistpns Ang. 2% brim 33/-. 
 
 4 l / 2 ' May fair 2J4 3i/~- 
 
 12 " Rosebery " 37/6. 
 
 15 " Parnell 30/9 " 
 
 Emmie looked at the order. 
 
 " I suppose you hurry that up," she said. 
 
 " As quick as we can, of course, but most of 'em are 
 urgently wanted. They take their turns." 
 
 Emmie did not altogether like that. " Take their 
 turns. . . ." " Urgently wanted " sounded with pristine 
 freshness in her ears. 
 
 Ernest saw her doubt. " Of course, they get pushed 
 on as fast as possible, but we have to arrange to let no- 
 body be disappointed, if possible. They'll write again if 
 they want 'em badly." 
 
 Another letter found fault with something, and Emmie 
 was concerned. She did not like it. " Not at all equal 
 to sample. . . ." That did not sound nice. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " I must inquire into it. It may be their mistake or 
 ours. Perhaps Vigo made a mistake." 
 
 " Mr. Vigo doesn't he travel? "
 
 258 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Yes. He may have put down the wrong figure. At 
 any rate I'll see it's set right." 
 
 " Yes. They shouldn't make mistakes. What's that 
 Ang. ? 8 doz. Conistons Ang. ? " 
 
 " Anglesea curl." 
 
 "Of course," said Emmie; "I've seen that often 
 enough." 
 
 There were more cheques, some accounts, more orders. 
 
 " I suppose you see to all these, Ernest ? " 
 
 " Yes. I hand them out to those who have to deal 
 with them." 
 
 " I see, the cheques to Mr. Walker, and so on. ... 
 I'd like just to have a walk round with you sometime." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 "Well, er. . . ." Emmie felt just a trifle diffident, 
 and yet she was very desirous of seeing her works. Her 
 father was a workman in her factory, and she knew many 
 of them would refer to her as Sam Bollins' daughter, 
 and perhaps suggest she was trying to " show off " or 
 " swagger." . . . But her quick, decisive mind saved her 
 a deal of worry. " Yes . . . I'll come after dinner," 
 she said. " I only just want to have a peep round." 
 
 " Right," said Ernest. " I don't suppose you've really 
 ever been over the place." 
 
 " No. How are things ? Are we busy ? Are we do- 
 ing well?" 
 
 " Very fair. We're on full time and, as you can see, 
 we keep getting a decent dose of orders and those are 
 by post direct, not from our travellers." 
 
 " H'm. . . . Well, I'll come in about three o'clock, 
 Ernest I'll come to the office first." 
 
 " Right." 
 
 When Ernest had gone Emmie sat still and considered. 
 She who had once been a trimmer in those works was now
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 259 
 
 about to go over them as the mistress. It was wonder- 
 ful ... like a fairy tale. . . . And how interesting 
 business was. A jolly sight, more interesting than house- 
 work, with its dusting and mopping and washing-up and 
 bed-making you're never done in a house ... in a 
 sense. . . . 
 
 Then she seemed to catch herself idling. She put the 
 cap on her head again, picked up a brush and prepared 
 to sweep the dining-room. She went first to the kitchen. 
 
 " Now, Ada, don't forget that lobby to-day, and scrub 
 it well : put plenty of soap on your brush and make that 
 pattern shine." 
 
 "Yes'm " 
 
 At three o'clock Emmie, dressed very neatly in black, 
 went out of the back door of her house, through the gate 
 and into the yard of the works. One or two of the men 
 walking about in shirtsleeves and dirty aprons, carrying 
 hats in process of manufacture, looked at her curiously 
 and sheepishly. They were not sure if they ought to do 
 anything jerk their heads or smile or say " 'Ow do?" 
 
 Emmie, for that matter, was not quite sure, either. 
 As the men hurried away with their burdens Emmie went 
 into the office. 
 
 Ernest was there. 
 
 " Here you are," he said, cheerfully. " You've been in 
 here before, at any rate. You remember James, at any 
 rate." 
 
 Emmie nodded to James Walters, the cashier, a man 
 who had been with the firm for forty years. He was 
 now about fifty-two, and had gone there when he was 
 twelve as the office boy. He was bald, but had a big 
 beard and a fine presence. He used to pay Emmie her 
 wages.
 
 260 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mrs. Tim," he said, with a tiny bow. 
 
 " Good afternoon, James," and she thought to herself, 
 I feel like putting my hand out for my money! and 
 was tempted to smile at the association of the idea. It 
 was actually she who paid James Walters his money now. 
 
 " These are the books," said Ernest, and he seemed to 
 dispose of them with a wave of his hand. But Emmie 
 said: 
 
 " Show me how the books are kept what they show." 
 
 James Walters said : " Yes, Mrs. Tim," and was ap- 
 parently very pleased to explain to Emmie how important 
 the office was which he filled. 
 
 The system was merely a simple entry: the daybook 
 showed the goods despatched and to whom, the account 
 was transferred to the ledger and Emmie saw there 
 when the customers p&id. 
 
 She was interested, and thought James kept his books 
 very neatly and wrote beautifully. . . . She almost 
 wished she could write better than she did. 
 
 Johnny Dean, the fifteen-year-old invoice clerk, perched 
 up on the big stool writing at the high desk, kept looking 
 at Emmie and wondering if she would notice him . . . 
 and what he should say if she did. 
 
 Emmie just smiled at him, as Ernest said : " You'd 
 like to start at the beginning, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They walked out of the office, across the yard and into 
 a building, a place where the floor was wet and the atmos- 
 phere steamy. It was a long room, with machines and 
 pulleys and straps overhead and men in shirtsleeves and 
 aprons worked at benches. 
 
 " Mind your dress," said Ernest. 
 
 Emmie picked her way carefully. It was a messy 
 floor. Could nothing be done to keep the place clean?
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 261 
 
 Ernest said : " We'll go in here first," and he opened 
 a door not at all a door like those in the house, but 
 rather planks fastened together and now covered with 
 grime and dust and chipped and shrunk. 
 
 Again the wet, stony floor. Emmie still clutched her 
 dress and noted where to put her feet, for there were 
 puddles about. 
 
 " What a lot of wet," she said, as Ernest shut the door. 
 
 " Yes. That's hatting heat and wet." He jerked 
 his hand towards some men who were working round a 
 hexagonal-shaped affair with boiling water in the middle. 
 The men were in their shirtsleeves; some had no waist- 
 coats; most of them wore clogs and all stood on a brick 
 or two or pieces of wood to keep their feet dry and to 
 give them power for their work. In front of the big 
 aprons they wore they had a thick piece of felt to protect 
 them against the water which contained sulphuric acid. 
 
 The men seemed a little awkward at Emmie's entrance. 
 Not all of them recognised her : some had probably never 
 seen her before. One man who had known her to speak 
 to familiarly before she was married was prepared to say 
 " 'Ow do?" but Emmie did not notice him across the 
 steam. 
 
 Ernest said : " This is where we start," and he led her 
 farther in the room, where the fur was being formed 
 into a body. 
 
 He picked up out of a big box a handful of fur and 
 explained that the finished hat was made of this soft, 
 delicate fur, cut from the rabbit coneys, as the trade 
 called them. 
 
 Emmie murmured, " Rabbit." She had always known 
 that hats were made of fur the better hat but she 
 had not stopped to think that the rabbit had to die to let 
 the hat be born.
 
 262 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Ernest went on to explain the machinery how this 
 fur was put in the big box and drawn onto the big revolv- 
 ing perforated cone by the draught caused by a fan un- 
 derneath. When there was enough fur on to make a hat 
 the man attending to it placed over it a damp cloth. 
 
 Emmie nodded and smiled at the man who, listening 
 to Ernest's explanation, interrupted with : " Ah can re- 
 member you when you were in th' trimmin'-room." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Emmie, smiling. " Have you been here 
 long?" 
 
 " Twenty-three year, come November." 
 
 " It's musty," said Emmie to Ernest. 
 
 " Yes. Keep your mouth closed. This room's full of 
 these floating hairs. That body you've seen formed on 
 that cone has to be felted or planked. It's too soft as it 
 is. It has to be shrunk so that the fur sticks close to- 
 gether till it's a piece of felt, so to speak." Ernest 
 now pointed to the other group. " It's being felted 
 there." 
 
 " It's like folk is fur it gets 'ardened by trouble an' 
 experience," said the man who had spoken before. Em- 
 mie nodded. . . . 
 
 She now turned to watch the men at that hexagonal- 
 shaped table with each side sloping to the little tank of 
 boiling water and acid in the middle. She saw the men 
 dip the fur " body " in the water, then roll it and press 
 it and dip it in again and roll it and press it, and go on 
 doing that. ... It was their work. They were felters 
 or plankers, and that was how they earned their money. 
 Each man had a little can of cold water beside him in 
 which to dip his hands to protect them from the heat. 
 Their fingers seemed very white and swollen, as if the 
 skin were dead. 
 
 " There's vitriol in that," said Ernest.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 263 
 
 Tim Sharpe, the man who used to talk to Emmie, 
 caught sight of her and she recognised him. 
 
 " 'Avin' a look round?" he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. The men worked 
 hard. Ernest did not wish to interfere too soon, but he 
 wondered if Emmie cared for this recognition. 
 
 Tim Sharpe looked as if he would like to say something, 
 when Ernest said : " Shall we go on ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, and she nodded pleasantly to 
 Sharpe and all the men, remarked there were a number 
 of these curious-shaped things with the boiling water in 
 the middle, and most of them had men working at them. 
 
 When she had gone Sharpe said : " I've walked out 
 wi' her." 
 
 "Ast?" 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " Tha'd walk out wi' onybody," said Tom Smail, an 
 old hand, and they all laughed, Sharpe included, who took 
 the remark as a compliment. 
 
 As Emmie walked out of this shop, across the yard she 
 noticed crates lying about with " T. B. & Son " stamped 
 on them. 
 
 Ernest caught her look. " We make those in the car- 
 penter shop," he said. " I'll show you now the hat when 
 it's hard." 
 
 Emmie glanced about her and saw the big boilers with 
 the stacks of coal near. The engineer, Taylor, nodded. 
 
 " Seein' things ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's reet." 
 
 " How do we buy coal ? " Emmie asked Ernest. 
 
 " Six months' contract sometimes twelve. We want 
 a lot of coal to keep this place going."
 
 264 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Amazing. . . . Emmie, struck by the intricacy of the 
 place, could not help feeling very proud and thrilled. 
 This was hers. The place was freehold and the very 
 spot where they walked that part of the earth, at any 
 rate, was hers. All that machinery, too, and that ma- 
 terial. . . . 
 
 Men passed her in dirty aprons, dirty shirts, dirty boots 
 or clogs, carrying hats in almost all processes of manu- 
 facture. Girls and women, some with shawls over their 
 heads or shoulders, also passed her and shot at her curious 
 glances. 
 
 Ernest led her into the room where the soft felt body 
 of the hat was made hard by being stiffened with a var- 
 nish of shellac. And everywhere Emmie seemed to meet 
 a familiar smell. There was a general odour of a hat 
 works and there were particular odours in each shop. 
 Here the pungent varnish assailed her. 
 
 Her attention was keen: she wanted to know where 
 the shellac came from and what it cost. 
 
 Ernest said : " Mr. Timothy used to say you were 
 always safe if you bought it at ninety shillings a hundred- 
 weight ; but it's a fluctuating thing." 
 
 From this keen, sharp-scented room she just put her 
 head into a place where a stove, every side of which 
 was red hot, dried these hats, which were placed on 
 wooden racks round it and looked as if they might take 
 fire. 
 
 " I didn't know there was such a place," she said. 
 
 " The hats must dry," said Ernest. 
 
 Afterwards came the blocking, which meant that the 
 felt had been pulled over a wooden block to give it the 
 required shape. 
 
 She remembered the dye-kettles, the great coppers, en- 
 closed in brick with their boiling dye. Had she not, as
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 265 
 
 a child, been fascinated with the sight of these and won- 
 dered many a time if a man who stirred the hats with 
 the long pole had ever tumbled in ... and what had 
 happened to him if he had . . . and could one make nig- 
 gers and black men that way? 
 
 As they left the dye shop Emmie noticed a little shed 
 with a curious kind of axe in it, and rather attractive 
 wood. 
 
 "What's that?" she asked. 
 
 " Logwood. We make dye of it. But there's some- 
 thing coming in called aniline dye. ... I don't know if 
 it'll be any good, but it's being used." 
 
 Emmie stopped once, as if she would try to recall it 
 all. She smiled. " I wonder if I shall remember," she 
 said. 
 
 " Easy enough. Once you know your way about you 
 can always look round, can't you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Look round her own works. . . . She should think so. 
 But there was more in hatting than she had thought. 
 Imagine the little rabbit running about, and the felt hat 
 in every shape and form, soft or hard, black, white, 
 brown, terra-cotta any colour were all made from 
 its fur. . . . Wonderful! 
 
 Another smell in the finishing shop. And here there 
 was a special noise, and both noise and smell appealed to 
 her at once, for before she had started trimming she had 
 come many a time to this place to bring her father his 
 tea. 
 
 There the hats were being finished, and her father was 
 a " finisher." The hat was put on a block made to re- 
 volve by the pulling of a lever, and as it spun round the 
 finisher held fine emery paper to it and finally gave it a 
 polish.
 
 266 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Most of the finishers knew her. One of them next to 
 Bollins said: "Here's your Emmie." 
 
 Bollins looked up. He swallowed. He had held his 
 head proudly in that shop ever since his daughter had 
 married the boss's son. 
 
 Emmie went straight up to him. 
 
 " Well, Father." 
 
 " Hello. . . . Having a look over your shop ? " 
 
 " Yes." She nodded to the men near. Ernest talked 
 to one or two about the hats they were engaged on. 
 
 The man working next to Bollins said to Emmie : 
 
 " I can remember you when you were no higher than 
 this here " he pointed to the bench. 
 
 " I think I remember you," she said. 
 
 "You ought to," he replied quickly. 
 
 Weston, a solemn-looking man, said quietly : " It's 
 a funny world! I never thowt when I used to see you 
 comin' 'ere with your father's tea that one day these 'ud 
 all be yours they're gradely yours, arena they ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So I 'card." He nodded his head, spun round his 
 hat and applied velours to it. 
 
 " You know what this is? " said Ernest to her. 
 
 " Yes being finished." 
 
 She nodded, picked up her dress. " Come and have 
 some supper, Father, to-night, won't you ? " 
 
 " To-night ... h'm ... all right." 
 
 " I'll send word to mother." 
 
 Emmie, holding her dress, nodded pleasantly as she 
 passed the men, noted the hats about, the smell, the noise 
 of the whirring machines and went out into the yard. 
 
 " There's the trimming now," said Ernest. 
 
 Emmie smiled. She was feeling very happy. 
 
 " Yes. . . . Well . . . er." She hesitated. It would
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 267 
 
 be rather a triumph to return to that room as the em- 
 ployer of all the trimmers! And yet . . . there were 
 other considerations. . . . 
 
 " At any rate, you don't want to be told anything about 
 that," said Ernest, breaking in on her thoughts. 
 
 She laughed. " No." It would perhaps be best not 
 to visit so publicly the scene of her employe days. 
 
 " There's the warehouse," said Ernest. 
 
 " I'll see that." 
 
 Even now she could recall the desire she had when a 
 trimmer to go into the warehouse. Perhaps it was be- 
 cause the men there were usually more polished, not so 
 untidy or dirty or rough looking as at the plank. 
 
 She climbed stairs and entered a spacious room with 
 hats of every variety lying about in abundance. Hats 
 were in parcels and in boxes, on racks and shelves and 
 benches. 
 
 Two or three young men moved about aisles and pas- 
 sages and carried parcels under their arms or balanced 
 a dozen boxes or looked at a hat. 
 
 " This is Arthur Sims," said Ernest. 
 
 Emmie said : " Oh, yes. Of course." 
 
 She remembered Arthur Sims : he had always been shy 
 when he had been obliged to come into the trimming- 
 room. He was father now, and had a moustache and a 
 beard that was a couple of days too long. 
 
 " Having a look round ? " he said, pronouncing both 
 his " h " and his " g " very distinctly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Arthur turned to Ernest. 
 
 " That lot from S. W. & Co. haven't come yet, Ernest." 
 
 "Haven't they?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Better send a boy."
 
 268 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I think so ; we want 'em badly." 
 
 Emmie wondered : I wonder what they call me 
 amongst themselves Emmie or Mrs. Tim ? All the 
 men had Christian names, and nothing else, when they 
 addressed one another. Then she looked at the big stock 
 of hats : here they were gathered, put into parcels and 
 then sent to be packed in crates to be despatched to all 
 quarters. . . . 
 
 And it was all hers every bit of it. 
 
 She gasped. It was a most amazing thing. 
 
 The windows of the warehouse looked over fields at 
 the back rather dirty looking fields, but Emmie thought 
 the outlook rather pleasant. The green was cheerful and 
 the hedges and bunches of trees struck her pleasantly. 
 
 " Of course there's a lot more," said Ernest. 
 
 " I think this will do for to-day," Emmie answered. 
 " Good afternoon . . . Arthur." 
 
 "Good afternoon, er er " He got no further 
 with the name. 
 
 As Emmie stood at the doorway she thought : I would 
 like to go in that trimming-room. . . . Just pop my head 
 in. ... Alice Cannell isn't there now. ... I wonder 
 who is? . . . They'd say I only went in to show off. 
 She chuckled: and I could sack the lot of them if I 
 wanted. . . . 
 
 Ernest said: "Thinking of something pleasant?" 
 
 " Just wondering. ... I think I'll go now. If I can 
 remember what I've seen to-day I shall do very well." 
 
 " You must come in often. You'll soon get to know 
 things then." 
 
 " It seems dirty, somehow. I suppose it couldn't be 
 kept clean?" 
 
 Ernest shook his head. 
 
 " What can you do with steam ? It means water, and
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 269 
 
 that always means mud if there's any walking about. 
 And for hats you must have moisture and pressure and 
 heat. The place is swept every morning and it's as you 
 see it now every afternoon. You couldn't expect miners 
 to keep spotless, could you ? " 
 
 " No, I suppose it's part of the trade. Well, thank 
 you, Ernest. I'll leave you now. Come in if there's any- 
 thing you want to tell me to-night." 
 
 " Right." 
 
 Emmie picked up her dress again, walked down the 
 steps into the yard, caught that general odour of hats, 
 an odour that suggests hats to the hatter and nothing 
 else, realised she was in a most familiar atmosphere, and 
 went across the yard into her own house, where she sat 
 down and said to herself : " Well . . . it's been like 
 going over an estate. . . ." 
 
 Let another take that out of her hands. . . . What a 
 fool she would have been! She was thrilled with the 
 visit and its revelation to her of her possession.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MRS. HOLTEN and Miss Booke did not cover up 
 their feelings over Emmie's assumption of " imme- 
 diate supervision " of T. Booke & Son's. These two 
 ladies were not in the habit of covering up their feelings 
 and habit had given their tongues an almost licentious 
 freedom. And yet they swung between outspokenness 
 and silence, both harbours of refuge for those who feel. 
 Emmie could not be ignored after all; she was Tim's 
 widow; she did bear the name of Booke and the Bookes 
 were very sensitive to public opinion. They liked that 
 opinion to approve of Bookes in full circumstances, even 
 though they realised on occasions that they were not alto- 
 gether popular. 
 
 Timothy said nothing. He was anxious and wished 
 well to Emmie, but he did not want the business to suffer. 
 He had a fear that if T. Booke & Son went down he 
 would hear gibes and sneers or at least feel them. 
 There is not even virtue in failure to command a sym- 
 pathy of substance. So, though he was apprehensive, 
 his pride forbade any appeal to Emmie. He was a man 
 of his word, stubborn and obstinate, reliable, but not 
 loveable to the average. 
 
 He rarely spoke of the business to Emmie. Occa- 
 sionally he would say: "Things going on all right?" 
 as if he hungered for some news. Emmie generally re- 
 assured him, and as he saw the works on full time and on 
 overtime in the busy season, he began to lose some of his 
 fears and to entertain a higher respect for his daughter- 
 in-law. He got on with Emmie very well, generally 
 
 270
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 271 
 
 speaking. He knew she had been a good wife to Tim 
 and, as far as he could judge, she was a good mother 
 to the children and brought no discredit on the name she 
 bore. Besides, her personality pleased him. 
 
 Mrs. Grass, also, was very frendly with Emmie. She 
 went with her now and then to Manchester when they 
 shopped together, and had tea in St. Anne's Square. 
 
 But Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke could not altogether 
 overlook the fact that Emmie (Emmie Bollins, when it 
 was a question of putting her down) had ignored their 
 advice, braved them, passed Timothy by and assumed 
 possession of their factory. Of course, it was theirs 
 when they thought of it in relation to Emmie Bollins, 
 though they did not own a stone or stick in the place. 
 But sentimentally, ideally, feelingly it was theirs. They 
 were Bookes: the firm was T. Booke & Son, and that 
 Emmie Bollins, through having the luck to marry Tim, 
 had inherited the business and had taken possession of 
 it as if it had been in her family for generations. . . . 
 
 It is also probable they were a little jealous of Emmie, 
 even though they were comforted to some extent when 
 they knew the business continued to prosper. They put 
 the credit generally on the reputation of the firm and the 
 sound lines upon which it had been built up. Ernest 
 Mullins had only got to keep it on those lines. And 
 Emmie . . . she had only to draw the money. . . . 
 
 They tried to adopt that tone occasionally with Emmie. 
 They said how grateful she ought to be that she had a 
 business so soundly put together that it could go by it- 
 self now. ... It would have been a serious thing if 
 T. Booke & Son had had a poor foundation . . . what- 
 ever would she have done? The place would have col- 
 lapsed without grandpa's guidance. . . . She could thank 
 her stars the Bookes had been such good business people
 
 272 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 in the past. As for Ernest Mullins, well, he was steady, 
 thank God ! but steadiness wasn't enough nowadays 
 unless, of course, you had the luck to come in for an 
 old and well-established business, and even then. . . . 
 Well. . . . 
 
 Here followed wagging of heads. Mrs. Holten and 
 Miss Booke could do this kind of thing remarkably well. 
 Mrs. Grass, when she was present, would wish her sis- 
 ters wouldn't get at Emmie so much, and the men would 
 say to themselves it was a " damn shame," although Tim- 
 othy comforted himself with the thought that Emmie 
 could look after herself. 
 
 And Emmie could. It may have been philosophy or 
 merely her temperament or her health and great vitality 
 or simply tolerance due to her prosperity, but she rarely 
 replied. Occasionally she got in a neat little blow and 
 generally gave the Booke ladies to feel there was sub- 
 stance for them if they went too far ; but she rarely made 
 a fuss over their remarks. She could be silent or smile 
 and talk about something else and go on with the busi- 
 ness and life as if she were neither to be worried nor 
 bound down by the ladies of the family into which she 
 had married. Yet at the same time neither they nor the 
 family could be ignored. She was Mrs. Booke. She 
 was "T. Booke & Son." She always felt the Bookes 
 had got hold of her and she considered herself as one 
 of the family with the family obligations on her. 
 
 Her life was full, but not exciting. She was happy 
 because she had plenty to do and was quite capable of 
 doing it all with zest. She attended to her children well, 
 she managed her house well, and she carried out faith- 
 fully the note on the circular : she gave a personal super- 
 vision to the business of T. Booke & Son. 
 
 Her children grew up, the business fluctuated. In
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 273 
 
 1893 there were hard times. There was a great cotton 
 strike in Lancashire, and when weavers and spinners get 
 no wages they can't buy hats. Agriculture was very de- 
 pressed. And in 1893, too, there was also a great coal 
 strike, settled ultimately by Lord Rosebery's interven- 
 tion on the suggestion of Mr. Gladstone. 
 
 These things sent hatting under a cloud, but as Emmie 
 knew that most hat shops in Canton suffered, she was not 
 depressed. 
 
 In 1895 Emmie was still radiantly healthy. She was 
 just thirty years of age, and scarcely looked it. She had 
 been a widow over three years and was now wearing 
 colours again and spending rather more on dress than 
 the average hat manufacturer's wife in Canton, for she 
 had no one to check her, no one to say, " That's a lot o' 
 money ! " Not that Tim would have said that, only 
 Emmie knew if he had been alive she would not have 
 been quite so extravagant on dress. 
 
 In the Summer of 1895 Emmie went with her chil- 
 dren to Blackpool. Mrs. Grass went with her, and Miss 
 Booke thought she would join them later. 
 
 Emmie Booke did not go as Emmie Bollins had gone. 
 Emmie almost always thought of that when she went to 
 Blackpool. Those cheap rooms with Alice Cannell (who 
 was now married to a warehouseman employed by Yates, 
 Beeston & Higgins). . . . But she was happy then. . . . 
 Tim was just making up to her. 
 
 Now she went to " The Towers," one of the most ex- 
 pensive boarding houses in the place. She stayed a fort- 
 night and did herself well. 
 
 She had thoroughly enjoyed the preparations for going 
 away, even though they had entailed labour, for the an- 
 ticipations had been most agreeable. She would do no 
 work for a fortnight and she would thoroughly enjoy
 
 274 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 herself. She took Ada with her to help with Tim and 
 Alice, who were now nine and six respectively. 
 
 Mrs. Grass and Emmie and the two children sat at a lit- 
 tle table reserved exclusively for them. Both Mrs. Grass 
 and Emmie shot curious and searching glances at the 
 occupants of the other tables. 
 
 " Emmie," whispered Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's a nice table in the corner to my left." 
 
 " You mean that lady in black and white." 
 
 " Yes. That's a lady, if you like. I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if she isn't somebody," Mrs. Grass nodded ; " some- 
 body that is somebody, you know. You can meet nice 
 people at this place." 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 " She does look stylish. ... I suppose that's her hus- 
 band, and those two will be her daughters." Emmie 
 was observing with keenness the lady's dress. 
 
 " H'm. . . . There was a baronet's wife here once," 
 said Mrs. Grass, " when Fred and I came once in Sep- 
 tember. Yes . . . stuck-up thing, though. She used 
 to walk out of this room as if she owned the place . . . 
 head up. ... She sat over by the window there. This 
 fish is nice nicely cooked." 
 
 " Yes, they might put a few more shrimps in the 
 sauce." 
 
 " Yes, they're cheap enough. I like that brown dress 
 by your right." 
 
 "Um-m. . 
 
 Mrs. Grass, as she ate, put her knife and fork down 
 with a far greater deliberateness than was her custom 
 except, of course, in hotels and boarding-houses. She 
 sat up well, too, and looked round her very keenly, but 
 also with the consciousness that if anybody was observing
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 275 
 
 her then they should get her at what she would try to 
 be her best. 
 
 Emmie was not dissimilar. Emmie's youth and char- 
 acter and good looks and prosperity gave her a feeling 
 of self-confidence that was more than an unafraidness of 
 scrutiny it is almost an invitation. She turned round 
 and looked round at first with a little diffidence because 
 she could not at once be thoroughly at her ease in cir- 
 cumstances that were different from usual; but very 
 quickly she assimilated the novelty and was easier 
 sooner than Mrs. Grass. 
 
 Emmie was a striking figure and she speedily saw she 
 was the observed of a good many observers. She could 
 tell what the comments were. ..." A good-looking 
 woman. . . ." " That's a pretty woman." She knew 
 it. She could tell from their looks and attitudes that 
 was what they were saying. She wondered what some 
 of them would say if they knew she owned a hat factory. 
 
 These thoughts came and went speedily and had no 
 spoiling effect on her. She looked after her children, who 
 behaved very well, and gossiped easily with Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Very nice dinner," whispered Mrs. Grass, as they 
 sipped their coffee. 
 
 " Yes." Emmie had enjoyed the five-course dinner 
 with the well-dressed people round her. " Now you can 
 have a little walk, children, and then bed." 
 
 " Can I paddle to-morrow morning, Mother ? " asked 
 Tim. 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 "Me, too, Mammy?" asked Alice. 
 
 " Yes, dear; you, too, if you want." 
 
 " I'm going to take my bucket and spade out to-mor- 
 row, Mother." 
 
 " So am I," said Alice.
 
 276 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "Mother?" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " Why do we have dinner at seven o'clock ? " asked 
 Tim. 
 
 " It's usual here, dear." 
 
 Mrs. Grass looked at Emmie with a queer smile on her 
 face and wanted to " hush " Tim ; and Emmie smiled 
 and Tim was convinced the whole arrangement was very 
 funny. 
 
 " What shall we do go on the pier ? " asked Mrs. 
 Grass. 
 
 " If you like." 
 
 " I always think you get good fresh air that way, and 
 we can get a fortnightly ticket straightaway." 
 
 So after dinner Mrs. Grass and Emmie went to their 
 rooms to put on their hats and mantles, and Ada was 
 told to take the children for a walk along the front and 
 then put them to bed. 
 
 However, when Emmie came down, she saw a gentle- 
 man talking to Tim and Alice. He was sitting in a big 
 wicker chair by the door and had Alice on his knee. Tim 
 was standing by him and looking very interested. 
 
 Tim had explained that his father was dead it came 
 out in answer to a remark from the gentleman, but came 
 out also with a certain not quite pride, but zest, as if 
 Tim had got a good deal of sympathy and petting and 
 probably pence through being fatherless. And Alice had 
 added a swift corroboration : " I've no daddy either." 
 
 And the gentleman had said that he knew they were 
 very good to their mother then, a statement with which 
 they were both willing and eager to agree. Then he took 
 a shark's tooth from his pocket and asked them if they 
 knew what it was and, of course, he had to explain, and 
 he did it so delightfully that the children were interested
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 277 
 
 at once and wanted to know all about sharks and ships 
 and deep waters. . . . 
 
 Emmie came down to a rather striking picture. 
 
 She, herself, was striking. Her eyes were bright; she 
 looked well, she was dressed well, and she smiled at her 
 children. 
 
 The gentleman got up. 
 
 " I am afraid I am keeping your beautiful children 
 from getting out, but it is such a pleasure to get home 
 again and see bonny English children." 
 
 Emmie scarcely knew what to say. 
 
 " I hope they haven't disturbed you," she muttered. 
 
 " Disturbed me ... on the contrary " 
 
 " Mother," said Tim, " the gentleman's got a shark's 
 tooth from a shark, a great big fish that eats men. 
 Show it mother," he said to the gentleman, who smiled 
 depreciatingly, took out the tooth and said casually: 
 " One we caught about a day's sail from Adelaide. 
 Luckily, we don't get the beasts here. But I mustn't 
 keep you." He said it very politely and Emmie felt the 
 politeness and a note of something else. " I suppose you 
 are going to have a little stroll with them." 
 
 " Well, now," said Emmie, " I am with my aunt, and 
 we are going on the pier: the children are just taking a 
 turn with the maid before going to bed." 
 
 He nodded very pleasantly. 
 
 " There's an excellent concert on the pier to-night." 
 
 And then Mrs. Grass came down and Ada went off 
 with the children, and Emmie nodded to the gentleman 
 and Mrs. Grass also nodded slightly, scarcely knowing 
 what she ought to do, not having been introduced, though, 
 as she thought, it really didn't matter in boarding-houses, 
 as you generally talked to people and got to know them 
 that way without introductions.
 
 278 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 And what a nice gentleman he looked. . . . 
 
 As Emmie and Mrs. Grass walked away Mrs. Grass 
 whispered : 
 
 " Who is that? Do you know him? " 
 
 " He was talking to Tim and Alice when I came down." 
 
 " Oh-h. . . . He looked very nice . . . quite a gen- 
 tleman. . . . But I've always noticed they have very nice 
 people staying at The Towers. They do well they do 
 that. I told you about that Lady Somebody or other 
 Lady Roller, yes, that was it, Lady Roller came from 
 near London, I heard. There was such a nice clergy- 
 man's wife there, too: no stuck-upness about her, and 
 not always talking about religion. Your Aunt Jane was 
 struck with her such a lady she was. Doesn't this air 
 feel fresh?" 
 
 Mrs. Grass inhaled noisily. 
 
 Emmie nodded. " Yes, Blackpool always agrees with 
 me." 
 
 But she was saying to herself: "I wonder who that 
 man was. . . . Travelled, at any rate. . . . And so gen- 
 tlemanly. . . . What a nice voice! And he didn't have 
 eyes in his head for nothing, either. . . . Had he talked 
 to Tim and Alice so that he could talk to the mother? " 
 
 Emmie was able to note other people quickly, but she 
 was also characteristically feminine in noting or wonder- 
 ing what effect she produced on other people. Had she 
 really made some sort of an impression on that gentle- 
 man ? Perhaps he had been watching her at dinner. . . . 
 It was nothing, of course, but it was interesting . . . 
 very interesting. . . . 
 
 A woman never grows out of the satisfaction she gets 
 from being interesting to a man. 
 
 " We're going on the pier, aren't we ? " said Mrs. 
 Grass.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 279 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie. " He said that gentleman, 
 you know there was a good concert there to-night." 
 
 " I'm glad. I don't like classical stuff so much. I like 
 Gilbert and Sullivan, don't you? Have you ever seen 
 'The Gondoliers'?" 
 
 "Yes. . . ." 
 
 " Lovely, isn't it ? Is he that gentleman going 
 on the pier? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Emmie. " He said he supposed 
 we were going for a stroll, and I said we were going on 
 the pier, so he said there was a good concert there to- 
 night." 
 
 "Oh-h. . . ." She inhaled again. "This air is 
 good." 
 
 Emmie agreed, and noted the people walking about, 
 the unmistakable Lancashire accent and the equally un- 
 mistakable accent that had no trace of provincialism in 
 it, and this Emmie liked to hear. She liked to think 
 sometimes she talked like that when she was careful. 
 
 But what she thought of most just now was the gentle- 
 man who was talking to Tim. . . . He had made an 
 impression on her. What a fine, gentlemanly man he 
 was ! Spoke easily and with no Lancashire accent a 
 gentleman, one could see that. And that look in his 
 eyes. . . . He wasn't just seeing when he looked like 
 that. No fear. He was reading, conveying a mes- 
 sage. . . . 
 
 Emmie felt a great satisfaction in this disturbance of 
 a male and such an one, too ! There were pretty girls 
 in that boarding-house, and this fine, handsome gentle- 
 man talked to her children and then to her and looked 
 at her well, if he didn't like looking at her, to put it 
 mildly, he'd no business to look at her as he did. And 
 yet, of course, it was really nothing, scarcely noticeable
 
 280 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 . . . perhaps he was one of those men who looked at 
 every woman; well, every pretty woman, like that. 
 There were lots of them about. 
 
 But she could see his eyes full of appreciation and 
 satisfaction; she could see them travel over her clothes, 
 and knew he was taking in her dress and her figure. 
 Well . . . she could stand being looked at for either and 
 didn't care what anybody said. . . . 
 
 The sun had just set and the sky near the horizon was 
 in bands of gorgeous colours from black to a blood-red, 
 with a blue-grey dome above, where floated lost clouds, 
 tender wisps of things, as if some lovely creature had 
 left a shawl or a bit of lace behind her. 
 
 The water danced with shadows of light. A steamer 
 coming back from the Isle of Man or Llandudno or 
 Liverpool puffed a long, lazy line of black smoke against 
 a dark band of cloud; two vessels with nut-brown sails 
 emptied their passengers on the sands, while the dark 
 silhouettes of the curious spectators showed clear against 
 the foaming waves and glistening sea. 
 
 Many of the people had no capes or coats. The blouses 
 had the big balloon sleeves and the dresses were inclined 
 to trail if not held up. Emmie was wearing a plain pale 
 mauve cloth skirt, a short coat of cream guipure with a 
 vest of mauve-shot chiffon, very stylish, as the shop labels 
 say ; a black straw with coloured roses and violets. Her 
 hair was fringed above the forehead and coiled in rings 
 and a knot at the back of her head. 
 
 Mrs. Grass could not afford to dress as well as Emmie, 
 but she was very neat and felt quite pleased to be out 
 with her beautiful and elegant niece.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 People on the pier were walking up and down in long 
 lines, as if promenading after dinner was a rite. 
 
 Mrs. Grass said : " Shall we go inside and hear the 
 band, or shall we stay here ? " 
 
 Emmie thought: He said it was a good programme 
 and just as swiftly, what a silly thing she was ! 
 
 " I don't mind," she said, leaving it an open question. 
 
 Mrs. Holten or Miss Booke would promptly have de- 
 cided what to do : they liked making up their minds, par- 
 ticularly when it meant the making up of other people's 
 also. 
 
 Mrs. Grass hesitated. 
 
 " It's a lovely evening," she said. 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, thinking, I wonder if he'll come 
 here. . . . He might. " Let's walk up and down," she 
 said quickly, really out of a sort of impatience with her- 
 self for having such thoughts. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Grass agreeably, " we can go and 
 hear a concert when it's wet. And I like watching the 
 people, don't you, Emmie ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They were sitting at the side of the pier watching the 
 people mostly, but turning every now and then to look 
 at the waves which swung along beneath them to be 
 shattered into foam farther up the beach, when Emmie, 
 who had been seeing with noteworthy frequency a man 
 with bold blue eyes and fine shoulders come through the 
 crowd (to be disappointed or wrong, at any rate), sud- 
 denly saw him actually. He was here. It was he. He 
 was looking about, too. Emmie did not catch his eye, 
 but she saw its roving look and wondered if he really 
 were desirous of seeing her. . . . How funny. ... It 
 wasn't funny at all. . . . Well, but a widow with two 
 children. ... At any rate, she determined he should
 
 282 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 come up if he wished to do so without encouragement 
 from her. 
 
 She looked over the pier. 
 
 " Doesn't it look deep and terrible? " she said to Mrs. 
 Grass. 
 
 " It terrifies me sometimes. I keep wondering what I 
 should do if I fell in. ... Just look at that big wave." 
 
 But Emmie had almost lost interest in the fascinating 
 sea. She was saying to herself : He ought to be here 
 now ... he ought to be behind us if he meant com- 
 ing and saw us. . . . What a fool she was, she 
 thought! What in the world did she turn her back on 
 the man for? There was no sense in that. He might 
 not see her at all and go past. . . . And in any case why 
 shouldn't she look at him ? . . . 
 
 " Yes," she said dreamily, in reply to Mrs. Grass, and 
 turned round. 
 
 Her heart gave a leap. Good Heavens! What's the 
 matter with me! she thought, and colour came into her 
 face which made her call herself other names. 
 
 The gentleman with the blue eyes and fine shoulders 
 and sandy moustache was smoking a cigar and standing 
 near her. 
 
 He raised his straw hat slightly, took his cigar out of 
 his mouth and said : " You didn't like to go inside this 
 beautiful night?" 
 
 " No," replied Emmie.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 \T7HEN Mrs. Grass turned round to see who it was 
 ^* talking to Emmie, she recognised the gentleman 
 from " The Towers " and responded to his bow. 
 
 " I think you have chosen the better part," he said to 
 her. " The concert-room can get very stuffy." 
 
 " Just what I thought," said Mrs. Grass. " And it's 
 so beautiful out here. I always like sitting on the pier." 
 
 " Very refreshing. But the sea always is : one never 
 tires of it." 
 
 " I suppose you've seen a lot of it," said Emmie, who 
 thought that as he was there and was talking to them, 
 she might as well see what he was made of. 
 
 He moved a little depreciatingly. 
 
 " A bit," he said. 
 
 " You've been to Australia," she said. 
 
 " Yes three or four times." 
 
 " Three or four times. . . ." That was astonishing. 
 Emmie could not even say that about the Isle of Man. 
 She looked her surprise. " I should think you have seen 
 a bit of the sea," she said, speaking in a challenging way, 
 as if she were on good terms with him and could indulge 
 in friendly raillery. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 Mrs. Grass looked him up and down and tried to take 
 his full measure. Emmie was wondering what kind of 
 a man he was . . . and what did he think about her. 
 He was certainly gentlemanly. 
 
 " I suppose you've been on business? " said Mrs. Grass, 
 who could ask direct questions when she chose, and liked 
 to glean personal information. 
 
 283
 
 284 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Yes. I've been in the East for three years, and only 
 got back a month ago." 
 
 " In the East. . . ." There was glamour in the word. 
 
 Emmie looked up. " What, er . . . what part ? " 
 
 "Japan, China, Java the whole of the Archipel- 
 ago." 
 
 Both the ladies were impressed. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to walk a bit, Emmie ? " said Mrs. 
 Grass, rising. 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Sophia," said Emmie, and Mrs. Grass was 
 shrewd enough to guess that Emmie had said " Aunt 
 Sophia " to let this gentleman know the relationship that 
 existed between them. 
 
 Emmie also guessed that her aunt had guessed and did 
 not care. 
 
 The gentleman saw that " Aunt Sophia " had not meant 
 to dismiss him, and Emmie made sure he did see it, for 
 she said to him as she rose : " Isn't it unhealthy in those 
 parts?" 
 
 He ranged himself on her side so that Emmie was 
 between him and Aunt Sophia. 
 
 " Not if you take care," he said. And he then began 
 to talk of his travels. He did it easily and not at all 
 like a lecturer. He would be reminded as it were of 
 places and incidents and anecdotes and Mrs. Grass kept 
 saying to herself, " What a charming man ! What de- 
 lightful talks !" 
 
 And Emmie looked at him critically boots, neat and 
 smart, patent with brown tops, a black lounge coat with 
 grey trousers, a black tie, fine pearl pin, straw hat, gold 
 ring on little finger seal ring, gold headed cane. . . . 
 What was he? Travelled on business as far as Aus- 
 tralia. . . . Been there three or four times. . . . 
 
 If Aunt Sophia weren't here and she Emmie were
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 285 
 
 alone with him. . . . Well, she was amazed at her own 
 ideas! What in the world possessed her? 
 
 Was it the sea-air, or the change ... or the sight of 
 all those young men and girls walking with or after 
 one another? There was no denying that the sea-side 
 attracted the sexes. Emmie saw the pleasure on the 
 faces of men and maidens. She saw the eagerness on 
 others. It was one great stream of sex attraction save 
 for the too young or too old, or the married: and even 
 some of the married. . . . 
 
 Emmie said to herself she hadn't felt like this since 
 Tim died. Was this man no more interested in her than 
 in any other woman he could talk to in Blackpool ? Was 
 she imagining things ? . . . 
 
 And she heard him saying : 
 
 " Yes. I've been days sometimes without speaking to 
 a soul having a chat that is." 
 
 Mrs. Grass sympathised. 
 
 Emmie said daringly : " And I should think you like 
 talking." 
 
 Mrs. Grass said : " Emmie ! " 
 
 The gentleman laughed. 
 
 " Am I talking too much ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Emmie quietly. " I only thought 
 you er well, you talked very well." 
 
 " Flatterer," he said, giving her a look with his bold 
 blue eyes. 
 
 " I don't flatter," said Emmie quietly, trying to stare 
 at him coldly, but her eyes had fire in them and she had 
 a most captivating way of using them that a little neglect 
 had not wholly smothered. 
 
 " Then I am even more honoured than I thought," he 
 said. 
 
 They strolled up and down the pier, keeping a slow
 
 286 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 even step like the rest of the promenaders. After a 
 while Mrs. Grass said : " Isn't it time to go in? " 
 
 " Getting tired ? " asked Emmie. 
 
 " No. No ! " said Mrs. Grass, who did not wish to 
 mark age like that, but was tired all the same. " But it 
 doesn't do to overdo it the first day. Don't let us take 
 you back Mr. . . ." 
 
 "Tame. T-A-M-E," he said. "Oh! if you don't 
 mind I'll go back with you. I only came for a little 
 stroll." 
 
 So they turned back together. 
 
 When Emmie was alone in her room that night she 
 locked the door and looked at herself in the glass. 
 
 Tame . . . T-A-M-E ... It was queer, she thought. 
 
 Now what well, she was surely good enough look- 
 ing to attract a man. She was well dressed (well-to-do 
 also for that matter), and well favoured even though she 
 herself said it. 
 
 He was a gentleman, too. . . . Suppose he ... had 
 taken a fancy to her. . . . Just suppose it ... well, why 
 not? 
 
 Emmie bit her lip. Tim dead but three years. . . . 
 Yes, but she was alive, and only thirty years of age. 
 Oh! what was the good of bothering about such things? 
 She had come to Blackpool for a holiday, and here she 
 was . . . yes, here she was thinking of a man with wavy 
 hair it had a wave at the side where he brushed it. 
 And he had a fine nose and chin. And he was well set 
 up, too ... he could take a woman in his arms. . . . 
 
 She took her hat off, gave it a little shake, and then 
 began to undress. 
 
 When she let her hair down and began to brush it 
 she said to herself: And why shouldn't I marry again
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 287 
 
 if I want to? I ... I ... she presses her lips to- 
 gether tightly as if she were struggling with herself. 
 She stood up in front of the glass and let her hair hang 
 over her shoulders. It fell on her breast and Emmie 
 looked superlatively hungry for life. The blood was 
 coursing warm through her veins. 
 
 Why shouldn't I marry again if I want to? she asked 
 herself. She threw her hair back and shook her head 
 . . . she noticed how finely her neck was moulded to her 
 head and chest. Her figure was excellent. At thirty 
 yes, why should she not marry again if she wished? 
 
 She was perhaps thinking of a lot of nonsense but 
 Mr. Tame with those blue eyes. . . . Her breast heaved. 
 She took up the brush again and used it vigorously on 
 her hair. 
 
 Marry again, and the man had not even said a word. 
 She had only seen him for the first time a few hours 
 ago; it was preposterous. ... It was nothing of the 
 kind, something inside her said. What was the good of 
 arguing about this and that and talking about only hav- 
 ing seen him a few hours when she felt things? You 
 couldn't argue that away if you talked till you were blue 
 in the face. That look in his eyes . . . but it was non- 
 sense in a way all the same. . . . 
 
 Emmie banished him from her fancy for the moment. 
 She undressed, jumped into bed, tucked the clothes all 
 round her and began to see the face of Mr. Tame 
 again and to hear his voice. . . . 
 
 In the morning when she got up, Emmie was at first 
 inclined to say to herself she had been very silly the 
 night before, imagining such things. . . . Lots of women 
 fancied things if a man looked at them and felt all the 
 time it wasn't mere fancy, it was something . . . they
 
 288 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 knew . . . other people would probably scoff, but they 
 knew and it turned out to be sheer nonsense ! 
 
 And Emmie said to herself she was not going to be 
 like that. All the same she felt she knew. . . . 
 
 She had sufficient self control, however, to be able 
 to think coldly of things. She effectively thrust Mr. 
 Tame from her thoughts while she dressed (which she 
 did carefully) and while she visited the children. 
 
 Tim and Alice were both dressed and Ada was also 
 looking very clean and smart, having, under Emmie's 
 guidance, provided herself with clean blouses for the 
 holiday as well as new boots and skirt. 
 
 Tim shouted that he was going on the sands after 
 breakfast and Emmie said he should go immediately 
 after and Alice added, " 'mejatly after breakfast." They 
 all looked very well and Emmie felt rather proud of her 
 family. Tim in his sailor suit stood up well and was 
 a manly little fellow, while Alice gave promise of in- 
 heriting her mother's beauty, and always attracted at- 
 tention with her striking colouring. 
 
 Emmie went downstairs with the children and saw 
 groups of " guests " standing or sitting about the hall 
 and the lounge, while some were walking outside, breath- 
 ing in the fresh sea air and hoping to do full duty to the 
 breakfast, for which they rather impatiently waited. 
 
 Emmie created an impression amongst these waiting 
 people the moment she appeared. Some of the wrinkled 
 men continued to read their papers, but the women were 
 all alert. Feminine beauty has its attraction for women 
 of any age, and this striking brunette with the beauti- 
 fully rounded face and fine figure caught their attention 
 at once. 
 
 The men noted her, too, but they could not be so per- 
 sistently curious and critical as the ladies. Theirs was
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 289 
 
 a sort of " Fine woman ! " and a resumption of the paper. 
 The women looked Emmie up and down from hair to 
 heel. They looked to see if her hair was false or dyed 
 or her bust was padded and to enjoy her beauty. 
 
 Mr. Tame came from somewhere, Emmie didn't know 
 where. She was standing at the door, hatless, in a 
 white blouse with bits of red shot in round the neck and 
 the wristbands and down the front, and a dark blue skirt. 
 Tim and Alice in sailor suits stood beside her and looked 
 out on the sea whose waves broke upon the beach 
 in front of them and sent up its note of restless ar- 
 dour. 
 
 Mr. Tame had no hat on but was dressed in knickers 
 a brown suit, showing his shapely legs and figure to ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 Emmie was pleased to be noticed, especially by this 
 handsome man and before those gazing feminine eyes, 
 too. 
 
 He smiled and nodded. 
 
 " The children are evidently going to make the most 
 of it," he said, and turning to Alice he touched her cheek 
 and asked in a wonderful whisper : " Going to dig for 
 gold?" 
 
 Alice screwed herself up and smiled. Digging for 
 gold ... it was like digging for fairies. 
 
 Tim pushed forward. 
 
 " Can we? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 "Dig for gold?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You can dig, but," he shook his head. " I don't think 
 you'll get any here by digging at any rate." 
 
 " We're going to make a castle," said Tim. 
 
 " Yes, an' put water in it," said Alice. 
 
 " Mother going to dig, too ? " he asked, looking at
 
 290 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie who found herself clearly caught interested in 
 his person. 
 
 " I don't suppose I shall dig," she said, " but I am go- 
 ing on the sands with them." 
 
 He volunteered the information that he was going 
 to play golf, had a match fixed up with a man. . . . 
 Emmie associated golf with knickers or a red coat and 
 knew little else about it for there were no links at Gan- 
 ton then and none of her friends seemed to be votaries 
 of the game. The Bookes followed cricket and football 
 and played bowls. 
 
 Mrs. Grass came down. She nodded to Emmie 
 there was no special greeting and nodded a trifle more 
 elaborately to Mr. Tame. 
 
 " I thought I was going to be late," she said. 
 
 " They give us a little license in the morning," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 As the two spoke Emmie felt he is talking here for 
 my sake. ... I wonder what it means. ... I wish I 
 knew a lot more about him. . . . 
 
 Then the gong went for breakfast and everybody 
 seemed relieved and pleased and tried not to appear too 
 anxious to dash towards the dining room till a few 
 callous creatures went ahead and then there was almost 
 a crush to the doorway. 
 
 Mrs. Grass and Emmie and the children quite enjoyed 
 the breakfast: they looked round a good deal to glance 
 at people and Emmie was not sure whether she was glad 
 or sorry she could not see Mr. Tame. He could see 
 her, but she had to turn round to see him and when she 
 did turn round once their eyes met and she turned quickly 
 towards her own table and did not try to see him again 
 during that meal. 
 
 After breakfast when she was dressed and ready to go
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 291 
 
 with Ada and the children and waited for Mrs. Grass, 
 Mr. Tame came out carrying on his back a to Emmie 
 curious leather bag with odd looking things inside, 
 " what one played golf with," Emmie imagined. 
 
 He raised his hat. 
 
 " Won't you wish me luck ? " he said as he was pass- 
 ing. 
 
 Emmie hesitated. This gentleman had a superb way 
 with him. " Oh, yes," she said, trying to treat the re- 
 quest as of no more than a polite phrase. " I don't know 
 that it will do you any good though." 
 
 " One never knows," he said, shaking his head. " I 
 have to give him a couple of strokes, but I'll try to bring 
 back his scalp now you back me. I hope you'll build a 
 gorgeous castle on the sands and defy the sea and all 
 its waves." He stroked Tim's face. " And what are 
 you going to do? " he bent down before Alice. 
 
 " Dig," she said quickly. 
 
 He looked very solemn. 
 
 " Dig a great big hole and then get the sea in your 
 bucket and pour it in then we shall be able to walk 
 to America." 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 Alice looked amazed not at the kiss, but at the idea 
 of putting the sea in a hole so that she could walk to 
 America . . . wouldn't that be splendid? . . . 
 
 Mr. Tame smiled at Emmie, not with any particular 
 message just pleasantly, but very pleasantly, turned 
 and walked away. 
 
 Emmie caught herself watching him walk along the 
 promenade for quite a long distance. What a fine, hand- 
 some man he was ! . . . 
 
 Alice said : " Mammy, can I put the sea in a hole and 
 then we can walk to America? "
 
 292 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " No, silly," said Tim quickly. 
 
 Alice looked hurt. 
 
 " The gentleman said it," she retorted defensively. 
 
 " You can't put the sea in a hole you can't at any 
 rate. Look what a lot there is. And besides it runs out 
 as fast as you put it in when the hole's full, doesn't it, 
 Mother ? ... Is America far, Mother ? " 
 
 " Too far to walk to, dear," said Emmie, thinking of 
 Mr. Tame's delightful fancies. How charming in an 
 easy quiet way he was with the children ! 
 
 Till lunch Emmie sat on the sands with Aunt Sophia, 
 while the children dug and Ada assisted and watched. 
 
 Mrs. Grass and Emmie discussed all kinds of topics, 
 including Mr. Tame. Mrs. Grass liked the look of Mr. 
 Tame but was just a trifle curious about his clear inter- 
 est in them: he had talked to them after dinner last 
 night, joined them on the pier (after encouraging them 
 to go there. . . . Mrs. Grass nodded her head signifi- 
 cantly as she thought of this, considering too, she was 
 really very smart and shrewd to have noted it all ... 
 but told herself approvingly she was no fool . . .) and 
 been pleasant and affable again this morning. What 
 did it mean? Just pleasantness? or Emmie? . . . 
 Emmie . . . The idea was disturbing. Did Emmie no- 
 tice the gentleman? Would she? And if she did 
 . . . Mrs. Grass was not altogether at rest as she thought 
 of this. She was perturbed. She was not jealous, but 
 there was something about the idea that displeased her 
 faintly. 
 
 She tried bait. 
 
 " Very nice gentleman that Mr. Tame," she said. 
 
 " Yes," replied Emmie, going on with her crocheting 
 so that Aunt Sophia tried a glance at her face and gleaned 
 nothing reliable.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 293 
 
 " Very polite, isn't he ? You can tell he doesn't come 
 from about here or else he's travelled a lot." 
 
 Emmie paused. 
 
 " He has travelled," she said, not wishing to be too 
 indifferent or too self-conscious. 
 
 " I wonder what he does now ? . . . Some of those 
 smooth-tongued people . . ." she shook her head. She 
 really felt she ought to utter a word of warning for, 
 after all, " you never knew." " And I expect queer peo- 
 ple get into these boarding-houses at times." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Emmie. " Rum lot some of 'em I'll 
 bet." It was uttered jovially as if Emmie would cover 
 up her thoughts with dashingness. 
 
 Aunt Sophia was a little reassured. 
 
 Emmie thought: Trying to probe me, Auntie . . . 
 You won't get much out of me. 
 
 And she went on with her fine crocheting as if she 
 were thinking of nothing so seriously as of that at pres- 
 ent. She held it out in her hand and gazed at it. 
 
 Aunt Sophia looked at it. " Very nice, Emmie. . . . 
 What is it, a doyley ? " 
 
 " No. It's a collar for Alice." 
 
 " Very pretty." 
 
 Aunt Sophia found it difficult to return to the subject 
 of Mr. Tame without exciting suspicion. 
 
 The sun warmed them, the gentle breeze that blew over 
 the sea soothed and invigorated them : they got sand in 
 and about their clothes but they were satisfied at lunch 
 time they had behaved quite well and done their duty 
 to the children, to themselves, to the holiday and to the 
 sea, and as they -walked back to " The Towers " Emmie 
 was thinking of a man in a brown suit with shapely legs 
 and saying to herself, " I wonder if he will be back for 
 lunch.
 
 294 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mr. Tame was not in for lunch, but he was there for 
 tea. 
 
 Emmie caught sight of him as she entered the lounge 
 where tea was served. She heard him say ..." good 
 links like most of these sand courses " and didn't under- 
 stand. He turned as she came in almost as if he were 
 expecting some one and smiled quietly. He seemed to 
 drift towards her, for his coming to her was not osten- 
 tatious. 
 
 " Did you have a good dig ? " he asked with a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 " The family did," said Emmie. " Did you have any 
 luck?" 
 
 " Three up and one. ... I knew you'd give me luck," 
 he added in a lower note a more confidential one. 
 
 Emmie was calm. 
 
 " I don't know what three up and one means : it sounds 
 like a riddle." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " By the by," he said. " They are playing ' The Pris- 
 oner of Zenda ' at the theatre to-night. I can get a 
 couple of tickets. Would you care to go, Mrs. Booke? " 
 
 Emmie hesitated. A couple of tickets . . . did he 
 mean for himself and her? or for Aunt Sophia and her? 
 And Mrs. Booke he's got her name, too, for when he 
 told them his last night he had not asked theirs, nor had 
 they volunteered the information. 
 
 She looked willingness. 
 
 " I don't know . . ." she said. " I am with my aunt. 
 I don't care about leaving her." 
 
 He was eyeing her in tell-tale fashion. 
 
 Emmie felt the something-not-to-be-easily-defined be- 
 hind the looks, but was calm. 
 
 " She wouldn't mind," he suggested.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 295 
 
 Emmie hesitated between desire and a host of other 
 things prudence ; it didn't do to be too eager, rash 
 even : and what would Aunt Sophia say ? and, er. . . . 
 
 " We've only just come : it seems a pity to leave her the 
 first day. Thank you very much, and it's very kind of 
 you." 
 
 " Not at all. Suppose I got three tickets I could get 
 another I think, would you and your aunt come? I can 
 easily get another." 
 
 Emmie said something about him being very kind 
 and taking all that trouble and er . . . when Mrs. Grass 
 joined them. 
 
 Mr. Tame turned to her at once. 
 
 " The very lady," he said cheerily. " I can get three 
 tickets for the theatre to-night it's * The Prisoner of 
 Zenda,' and I was just asking Mrs. Booke if you and she 
 would care to go." 
 
 Mrs. Grass looked agreeably surprised and yet hesi- 
 tated. She could not accept an invitation like that with- 
 out some show of embarrassment. She turned to Emmie 
 and a good many thoughts flitted through her mind. 
 
 Emmie was obviously for yes. Mrs. Grass saw that. 
 
 " It's very kind of you, Mr. Tame," she muttered. " I 
 don't know . . ." She was slowly trying to make up 
 her mind and wished she could have talked over the in- 
 vitation with Emmie for five minutes. 
 
 " It is no kindness on my part. ... I think you'll like 
 it. The piece has been a great success in London 
 George Alexander produced it." He talked as if they 
 had agreed to go and both Emmie and Aunt Sophia felt 
 they could not now refuse. They were definitely booked 
 to go to the theatre with this attractive gentleman, and 
 both of them were finding reasons why he had asked 
 them.
 
 296 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Grass said to Emmie when they were together 
 in her room : " Mr. Tame has taken a fancy to one 
 of us." 
 
 " Perhaps it's both of us," said Emmie. 
 
 " Not much," retorted Mrs. Grass. " But don't you 
 let him go too far, Emmie : you've got two children, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh! I can take care of myself," said Emmie with 
 a laugh, for she did not want to argue with Aunt Sophia. 
 
 " He's a dangerous man is that Mr. Tame, one of those 
 fascinating men, you know. I wonder if we really ought 
 to go. I'm half sorry we let him think we'd go." 
 
 Emmie laughed. Her spirits Were high, though she 
 checked the outpouring of them. 
 
 " What else could you do ? He won't eat us, and you 
 know you'll enjoy the piece." 
 
 " Oh, yes . . . but I'm thinking of something else. 
 . . . How long has Tim been dead, Emmie two years, 
 is it?" 
 
 " Three over three," said Emmie. 
 
 " How time flies ! It didn't seem so long as that to
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN Emmie was in her room at night after the 
 theatre she was disturbed with many thoughts. 
 The play had been most enjoyable, but Mr. Tame dom- 
 inated Black Michael and Rudolph Rassendall. He had 
 in general behaved charmingly, but there was more than 
 ordinary or even extraordinary courtesy in his behaviour, 
 courtesy was not the word. Those looks he gave her. 
 . . . Emmie caught him once or twice looking at her 
 and he boldly continued. He managed to invest his 
 gaze with homage. Emmie knew what it meant and so 
 thoroughly enjoyed it that she delayed overlong in try- 
 ing to make it a matter of indifference by whispering, 
 " A splendid play, isn't it? " 
 
 He just nodded, managing in rather a clever fashion 
 to let her see quite plainly that for him there were other 
 splendours beside plays. 
 
 And now Emmie in her room, luxuriated in the power 
 she possessed to influence such a man as Mr. Tame. It 
 made her very glad. She was a widow with two chil- 
 dren, and the moment she appeared before this man 
 and he was no insignificant person either he seemed 
 to have . . . fallen in love with her. Was he in love 
 with her? 
 
 Emmie looked at herself. Not a grey hair not one, 
 black through and through and plenty of it, too. . . . 
 She had no need of pads and transformations and buns. 
 And those eyes were all right nothing the matter with 
 them ... or the lashes . . . and the rest of the face 
 . , . and there was something behind the face, too. 
 
 297
 
 298 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Suppose he was really in love with her. . . . What 
 should she do? Did she want to marry again? 
 
 She clasped her hands. Why not? She was young 
 enough. What was thirty? If Tim could have given 
 her a message, she knew he would have told her to marry 
 again if she wished. It was absurd to think she must 
 never have anything to do with a man again just be- 
 cause she had had a husband for six years. She was a 
 jolly sight fitter for marriage than some of these mad- 
 cap, scraggy creatures she saw walking about hunting 
 for husbands. . . . 
 
 A man beside her again. . . . Her bosom rose and fell. 
 And what would people in Canton say if she married 
 again? The Bookes. . . . Well, even Aunt Sophia 
 would raise up her hands against it. ... There were the 
 children. . . . The children counted. Tim and Alice 
 must be thought of. In any case she would never marry 
 any man who wouldn't be good to them. 
 
 She began to undress. 
 
 But he was a nice man, those eyes of his, and his voice. 
 . . . She sighed. A man like that could marry almost 
 any woman, and he looked at her. 
 
 Did he mean it really ? ... It would be lovely to have 
 a man beside her again. Some one she could look after 
 and who would be a regular man and make her proud 
 of him, a gentleman. He would have to be a gentleman 
 or somebody out of the common this time. 
 
 But it would probably all end in nothing. She didn't 
 suppose she'd marry again. . . . The children in any case 
 must be thought of. ... But coming to that place and 
 almost at once the most distinguished gentleman in the 
 house made up to her. . . . She felt superlatively pleased. 
 She wanted all her women friends to know. If she did
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 299 
 
 marry again and a gentleman too they would stare 
 in Canton. 
 
 When she came down to breakfast the following morn- 
 ing she saw Mr. Tame talking to the children again. 
 Her heart beat a little faster. The picture seemed an 
 omen. He came towards her, Tim on one side and Alice 
 on the other, with almost a challenging air. It was 
 as if he said, "Well how do you like the idea? Don't 
 we look a happy family ? " 
 
 Emmie thought him very handsome this morning and 
 his smile had a peculiarly intimate and steady expression 
 in it. 
 
 " Good morning," he said. " I hope you feel no worse 
 for your dissipation last night." 
 
 " I didn't know I was dissipated," she said. " In any 
 case I feel no worse for it." 
 
 " That's reassuring. I have just been invited by your 
 son to visit your hat works." 
 
 Emmie turned her gaze from Mr. Tame to Tim. If 
 he came to Canton . . . 
 
 " The mother," he said quietly, " does not endorse the 
 invitation." 
 
 " I do," said Emmie quickly but quietly, " if you'd 
 like to see over a hat works you can see over mine with 
 pleasure." 
 
 " It would be a pleasure," he said. 
 
 Emmie thought his tone dangerous. " He's in love 
 with me," she said to herself, and was thrilled and a little 
 frightened. His tone was homage. 
 
 " Come any time you like," she said. 
 
 " Thank you. ... I shall come," he said, managing 
 to import into the speech a fine wealth of suggestion.
 
 300 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Then, as if he had delivered a message, he turned to the 
 children who held his hands confidently. 
 
 " Going to dig a tunnel from here to Ireland to-day? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Alice looked at him wonderingly. 
 
 " A tunnel ! " she replied, thinking of the dash of a train 
 in a dark hole. 
 
 Tim said, " We can't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " We can't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Well, we can't." 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " So that ends it," she said to Mr. Tame. 
 
 " The Channel scheme wrecked," he said. " Are you 
 going to sit on the sand again this morning and listen to 
 what the wild waves are saying? " 
 
 " Probably. I haven't seen my aunt yet. If not the 
 sands it will be somewhere else." 
 
 "Have you ever killed an elephant?" Tim suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 " No, but I've ridden on one." 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 " Ridden on an elephant's back? " asked Alice. 
 
 He nodded " Urn." 
 
 "Where?" asked Tim. 
 
 " At Belle Vue." 
 
 Tim and Alice emitted sounds of disgust and Tim 
 actually thumped him. Emmie smiled. She felt very 
 comfortable with him somehow and allowed herself to 
 think of them as a family group. . . . 
 
 " Are you going to make a long stay here? " he asked. 
 
 " About a fortnight." 
 
 " Providence is kind," he said.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 301 
 
 Emmie hesitated but could not resist the " Why." 
 
 " I hope to stay about another fortnight myself," he 
 said. 
 
 And then Emmie shot at him one of those probing, 
 most alluring glances as if, when it was a matter of sex, 
 she had to use her eyes in this particular way. 
 
 He looked at her keenly, and understood her. 
 
 He was rather quick to read women in certain direc- 
 tions. 
 
 Then Aunt Sophia came and of course noted Mr. Tame 
 and Emmie, the looks on their faces and the attitudes of 
 the children. 
 
 " Waiting for the gong," she said, but at once added 
 to Emmie, " Your Aunt Jane and Aunt Maria will be 
 here to-day. I've just had a letter." 
 
 Emmie said, " Oh, what time ? " 
 
 And Mr. Tame wondered if Aunt Jane and Aunt Maria 
 would be of any use to him. 
 
 He managed to get near to Emmie after breakfast 
 and somehow the conversation slipped from the weather 
 and Blackpool and visitors and things in general to per- 
 sonal affairs. So she had a hat factory . . . rather re- 
 markable for a lady and one so young and beautiful . . . 
 to be the head of a big business. 
 
 He looked at her with sincerity in his eyes as he spoke, 
 and let her see he was not employing his pleasing phrases 
 as mere flattery. 
 
 At least, that was how Emmie took them, though the 
 average woman on being told she is beautiful if she 
 is reasonably good-looking will invariably take the re- 
 mark as a frank spontaneous expression of honest feel- 
 ing. 
 
 And she explained how it was she was the possessor of 
 T. Booke & Son not telling she had been a trimmer,
 
 302 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 merely that her husband had died and left her every- 
 thing. 
 
 He said she was an amazing woman, talked of her pluck 
 in keeping an eye on the business, instead of getting rid 
 of it or leaving it entirely in somebody else's hands. 
 
 He talked of himself a little. He had travelled for 
 firms whose names were household words and had now 
 a fine knowledge of the East and its markets, and hoped 
 to set up with another man as a merchant: there were 
 thousands to be made out of the Eastern trade if it were 
 only tackled by the right people in the right way. 
 
 He wanted to stay at home now and let others do the 
 travelling. It was time he settled down. He felt that 
 more and more every day. He wanted a nice home and 
 a wife. . . . 
 
 They were now strolling along the front, for he had 
 lured her to the gate and deftly led her on to the prom- 
 enade. 
 
 As he talked of a wife Emmie said to herself, " Good 
 gracious! I hope he's not going to propose here." She 
 was excited and while thoroughly enjoying his attitude, 
 yet did not wish to be made uncomfortable. 
 
 " Well, you ought to find your chance here with all 
 these eligible girls about," said Emmie. 
 
 He looked at her. 
 
 " I think that's true," he said. " There are certainly 
 a lot of very nice people here," but he looked at her as if 
 that was not the thing that was in his mind. 
 
 Emmie suddenly turned. 
 
 " I must go back," she said. " They'll wonder what 
 has become of me." 
 
 He touched her arm. 
 
 " Does it matter? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 303 
 
 " You are always with your aunt," he said it as a pleas- 
 ant reproach. 
 
 " Well, I came with her." 
 
 " That's not a reason Wouldn't you care to go a 
 little excursion with me some afternoon?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " I don't know. ... I have the children and cr . . ." 
 
 " Your aunt," he said. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " Well, I can't leave her alone." 
 
 " And now I overheard I couldn't help it that 
 more aunts are arriving : will that liberate you a little, or 
 shall you be bound with still greener withs ? " 
 
 Emmie did not understand the allusion to withs but 
 grasped the sense. 
 
 "I don't know. ... If you want a companion you'll 
 have no difficulty in finding one," she said, as if she would 
 exploit the situation just a little. 
 
 " No," he said calmly. " If I only wanted a com- 
 panion I don't think I should find any difficulty." 
 
 Emmie looked at him and felt grateful for his attitude. 
 
 She wanted to be sympathetic, also she wanted to go 
 on an excursion with him. She was beginning to feel he 
 had a real influence over her and as she saw couples in 
 the heyday of youth and vigour going past, she felt de- 
 sirous of being one with them. She, too, was capable of 
 living a full life with a mate, why should she be doomed 
 to everlasting widowhood? 
 
 And he ... he was certainly out of the common. . . . 
 
 " You're very kind," she said, " but I can't promise ; 
 it's difficult, you see." 
 
 " Could you manage a theatre ? Would you care tc 
 come? " 
 
 "I ... Suppose we leave it. My aunts will be here
 
 304 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 to-day and they may want to do things perhaps in a 
 day or two. . . ." 
 
 " All right. I hope I am not worrying you," he took 
 her arm and pressed it as he guided her across the road. 
 
 She felt a thrill go through her. A man's touch again. 
 . . . Why should she bother about her aunts? Were 
 they going to tell her when she must go to the theatre 
 and when she mustn't? 
 
 " Oh ! No," she said. " I must hurry back." 
 
 " Suppose I came and digged with you." 
 
 " I'm not going to-day." 
 
 "Well, sewed then?" 
 
 " If you'll bring your sewing you can sit beside me," 
 she said, and they both felt as if they were on really 
 good and promising terms with each other. 
 
 Mrs. Grass at the gate looked serious. She wondered 
 what was really going on ... Emma and that Mr. Tame 
 again. . . . She was glad Jane and Maria were coming. 
 
 " The children have gone," she said, as Emmie entered 
 the house. 
 
 " Really I " 
 
 " My fault," said Mr. Tame. " I think I'd better go 
 after them and show them how to dig a big hole so that 
 all the clocks can be efficiently buried. I wonder what 
 we should feel like if we had no clocks or watches. ..." 
 
 Mrs. Grass thought, "What a talker he is!" She 
 said, " It would be awkward about dinner time." 
 
 He laughed merrily. 
 
 Emmie said, " I'll be down in a minute," and ran up- 
 stairs jauntily for her hat and sewing. 
 
 As Aunt Sophia and Emmie sat on the sands again 
 while the children constructed castles and moats and 
 tunnels they both had thoughts they didn't think it worth
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 305 
 
 while to express. Mrs. Grass thought of Emmie and 
 Mr. Tame and disapproved. It may have been a little 
 jealousy or a regard for the family or a certain intuition 
 that Jane and Maria would be put out when they 
 knew! . . . 
 
 Emmie's principal thoughts circled round the question : 
 " Why shouldn't I ? " She would look at Tim and Alice 
 and say, " They would be no worse off for a father . . . 
 a gentleman too like Mr. Tame. . . . And then she and 
 he would fill the picture alone. Thirty that was all she 
 was ... of course people would talk and say things 
 they always did and would, but what did that matter? 
 
 When he took her arm she could have kissed him . . . 
 and she had money enough surely. . . . 
 
 In the afternoon Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke arrived. 
 
 Emmie and Mrs. Grass went to meet them and Emmie 
 noted at once something taut in the atmosphere. Both 
 the ladies kissed her and asked after the children, but 
 there was something that suggested a veil hanging be- 
 tween their attitudes and that of frank cordiality. 
 
 Emmie said quickly, " Aunt Sophia's told them, written 
 to them " to herself of course. 
 
 She felt a little intimidated and also provoked. The 
 three of them had a pull in the matter of numbers. 
 
 First there was gossip of no value except as a prelude. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Holten, " and have you made any 
 friends?" 
 
 Mrs. Grass said, " No not in a manner of speaking. 
 We've certainly made an impression on one gentleman." 
 
 " Gentleman . . . what . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps I shouldn't say we I ought to say Emmie." 
 
 Mrs. Grass smiled at Emmie and nodded as if she were 
 most innocently intentioned.
 
 306 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " There's always men at a boarding house that . . ." 
 Mrs. Holten nodded. " I credit Emmie with a bit of 
 sense at any rate." 
 
 " I must say he's behaved very nicely," said Mrs. Grass. 
 " He took us to the theatre one night." 
 
 " Took you to the theatre? . . ." 
 
 "Who paid?" asked Miss Booke quickly. 
 
 " He did," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " He did . . ." said Miss Booke looking or endeav- 
 ouring to look agonised. 
 
 Mrs. Holten said, " Well, Sophia, I don't know how 
 you could accept something from a stranger like that 
 good seats too, I expect." 
 
 Emmie said to herself : " They are talking like this 
 for me." 
 
 Mrs. Grass assumed an apologetic air : " It sounded 
 as if he got the tickets for nothing, didn't it, Em- 
 mie?" 
 
 " I thought he did." 
 
 " In that case," said Mrs. Holten, " it wasn't so bad, 
 but I don't believe in accepting favours from strangers 
 myself, if you don't know who they are. . . . It's very 
 risky." 
 
 " Very risky," added Miss Booke with heat. " A per- 
 fect stranger, I suppose till you came here." 
 
 " I should drop him I think," said Mrs. Holten. "If 
 he asks you as soon as that to go to a theatre, he's ..." 
 she nodded, " well, it's not my style to go to the theatre 
 with the first stranger that asks me. I'd pay for myself 
 or not go. And what's more, you wouldn't find me going 
 with the first man who came up and asked me, boarding- 
 house or not." 
 
 " Never heard such a thing," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie felt her blood getting very warm.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 307 
 
 Mrs. Grass said : " It didn't seem as bad as that when 
 he asked us, did it, Emmie? " 
 
 Emmie smiled, rather more heroically than joyfully. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was watching her keenly. 
 
 " I should like to see this man that's so free with his 
 theatre tickets to ladies he hasn't known more than twenty- 
 four hours," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie was working her toes in her shoes furiously. 
 " Just imagine them making this fuss over a visit to the 
 theatre," she said to herself. 
 
 Then somehow the conversation was suddenly switched 
 off to a bit of Canton gossip and the talk was quite agree- 
 able till dinner time. The ladies went a little walk, for 
 when you were at the seaside it was your duty to be out 
 in the fresh air as much as possible. 
 
 At dinner Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke eyed Mr. Tame 
 with cold, steely, penetrating looks. He saw them and 
 remarked to himself that he was an object of observation, 
 and had evidently been talked about and that therefore 
 he might take hopeful views. . . . 
 
 After dinner he made his way towards Emmie and Miss 
 Booke who were standing together. 
 
 He talked about an accident that had happened to a 
 sailing boat, by which a man had lost his life, but Miss 
 Booke refused to join in the conversation. 
 
 So Emmie introduced him. 
 
 " My aunt, Miss Booke Mr. Tame." 
 
 Miss Booke's bow was so dignified as to be icy. 
 
 He ventured an agreeably toned remark about the 
 weather. 
 
 " Yes," she replied with a cold snap, gazing out to 
 sea. 
 
 Emmie felt as if a wave of something frigid and then 
 hot rolled down her back.
 
 308 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mr. Tame seemed to ignore it. He turned to Emmie 
 and said quietly : " I wonder how many people in the 
 course of the year pass through a place like this? " 
 
 Emmie felt very grateful to him for taking the snub 
 so well. " And what unexpected things ! " he said. 
 
 Mrs. Holten came up and said, " I suppose you are 
 going out." 
 
 " Certainly," said Miss Booke. " Come along, Emmie, 
 we'll get ready." She quite ignored Mr. Tame, who 
 smiled at Emmie. " It's a glorious night," he said. 
 
 Emmie felt as if she could kiss him. What a gentle- 
 man! 
 
 Mrs. Holten could be tactful with her masterfulness, 
 Miss Booke could not. She imagined you had to ham- 
 mer away at people if you wished them to do or not to 
 do certain things that is how she acted : she really had 
 no imagination: when she wanted a thing done she sim- 
 ply said so and could delude herself with the idea that 
 she was devoted to duty, was frankly honest and out- 
 spoken and put the welfare of others before their regard 
 for her. Her emotions were quickly roused and as she 
 had courage and vitality she was an uncomfortable per- 
 son to have as a friend. As an aunt Emmie found her 
 at times almost unbearable. 
 
 Mrs. Grass was companionable but could not fight her 
 stronger willed sisters. 
 
 Emmie was always willing to pay them some respect 
 for Tim's sake. They were his father's sisters: they 
 were Bookes and she had inherited T. Booke & Son. 
 Besides she had worked as a trimmer in the hat factory 
 and had naturally during that time considered all the 
 members of the Booke family as persons of importance. 
 These early ideas were not got rid of in the twinkling of 
 an eye. Emmie by now could hold her own but she
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 309 
 
 could not attack without some uneasiness and she gener- 
 ally kept a firm hand on herself in her dealings with Mrs. 
 Holten and Miss Booke. 
 
 It was quite in the expected order of things that Miss 
 Booke having seen Mr. Tame and spoken with him, should 
 wish to say something about him. 
 
 Emmie felt Aunt Maria was about to burst forth. Her 
 mouth twitched, she gave her head little shakes, she lost 
 her step now and then as they walked; she seemed to 
 exude a nervous aura. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Mrs. Grass were in front and Miss 
 Booke bottled up her feelings till they could be completely 
 appreciated and well backed up. 
 
 They all went on the pier: it was cheap, healthy and 
 pleasant. 
 
 Mrs. Holten marched like a leader. She could never 
 lose herself wholly in observation in a crowd for every 
 now and then she reminded herself that she had a repu- 
 tation or position or something important to keep up and 
 was as deserving of observation as most of them; and 
 then would follow a noteworthy stiffening of the body 
 and a fine, strong photographic expression on the face. 
 
 " We'll sit down a bit," she said, when they reached the 
 end of the pier. They were barely settled down in a 
 quiet corner when Miss Booke said: 
 
 " I suppose that was the gentleman, Emmie, you intro- 
 duced me to, who took you to the theatre ? " 
 
 " Lord : she's at it," said Emmie to herself. " Yes," 
 she said calmly to her aunt. 
 
 " Well, I don't think much of him," said Miss Booke 
 quickly and confidently, " did you see him, Jane? " 
 
 Mrs. Holten hesitated. She did not want Emmie to 
 think she had been paying too much attention to the gen- 
 tleman.
 
 310 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "Yes," she replied almost casually, but with definite- 
 ness for those who knew her. 
 
 " What did you think of him? " 
 
 "Oh! ... Collar and cuffs." 
 
 Emmie winced: she was being flagellated within the 
 meaning of the term discretion as understood by her 
 aunts. 
 
 " And worse. . . . That man " she nodded with 
 voluminous suggestiveness. " Well, I wouldn't trust a 
 girl of mine with him." 
 
 Emmie kept silent ; she knew her own power in a battle 
 royal and also the advantage of the unspoken word. 
 
 "Oh h. . . . Did you think that, Maria?" asked 
 Mrs. Grass who had to think of herself a little, but wished 
 at this particular moment to soothe matters. 
 
 " I shouldn't have said it if I didn't," said Miss Booke 
 sharply. " I'm surprised at you, Sophia, taking on with 
 a man like that. Emmie's younger. . . ." 
 
 " There's always a danger," said Mrs. Holten, speaking 
 with authority and weight, " of meeting undesirable peo- 
 ple at these boarding houses. You can't help it, of course, 
 and there are nice people there too : but then these, what 
 shall I say? these dangerous people come there too. 
 The only thing is to keep your eyes open and give them 
 a wide berth." 
 
 " I should think so indeed," added Miss Booke. " I 
 should give that Mr. Tame, or whatever his name is, a 
 wide enough berth." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " Did you hear, Emmie? " asked Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie feeling indignant said curtly, " I did." 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked at her quickly to read her atti- 
 tude. 
 
 Mrs. Grass said to herself, " Oh, dear me, they're at
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 311 
 
 her again more rows " She just stirred on her seat 
 and said nothing. 
 
 Miss Booke drew herself up like a rattlesnake that has 
 been pricked. 
 
 " Well," she said, " and I hope you'll take warning." 
 
 " I'm old enough," said Emmie tartly, " to take care 
 of myself without warnings." 
 
 " Oh ! that's it, is it," said Miss Booke, signifying 
 something ominous, subtle and vague. 
 
 " That's what ? " said Emmie quickly, looking a little 
 flushed. 
 
 " I should think you could understand that without 
 asking. Do you mean to say you're going on carrying 
 on with that man " 
 
 " Carrying on with a man ? " said Emmie. 
 
 "Hush! Sh! . . ." said Mrs. Holten. "Emmie!" 
 she spoke authoritatively, " don't talk so loud." 
 
 Miss Booke sniffed. " You married well enough once," 
 she said; " isn't that enough for you? " 
 
 Not talk so loud Emmie wanted to shriek. Words 
 would only come in a volume in reply to this. 
 
 " Well ! " she trembled and was on the brink of tears. 
 
 " Oh ! let's be quiet now in this place," said Mrs. 
 Grass, looking round anxiously to see if they were ob- 
 served at all. 
 
 Miss Booke had the attitude of the austere creature 
 who must do her duty regardless of time, place, circum- 
 stance and almost any mundane consideration. 
 
 " Emmie," said Mrs. Holten, " you must see you ought 
 to be careful in your dealings with a man who is a 
 stranger to you. You've got two children to bring up. 
 A person in your position can't go gadding about with 
 a man : it isn't seemly : it isn't proper. You don't mean 
 anything serious you can't of course in your position
 
 312 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 and with those two children of yours. But you'll get 
 talked about if you're not careful. And that affects us 
 you are Mrs. Booke, remember ! " 
 
 " Yes," snapped Miss Booke, " you're not Emmie Bol- 
 lins now." 
 
 Emmie got up, she looked as if she were about to say 
 something heated, but suddenly changed her mind and 
 said : " I'm going home." 
 
 She had only got a stride away when Mrs. Grass caught 
 hold of her. " Emmie, Emmie," she said, " before all 
 these people. Come back." 
 
 Emmie's tears were welling about her eyes. 
 
 " I'm only saying things for Emmie's good," said Miss 
 Booke as if she would soothe matters, but seemed to ad- 
 dress her remark to the waves. 
 
 " Eh, dear! Eh, dear! " said Mrs. Holten; " Emmie, 
 you've got a hot temper." 
 
 Emmie wanted to swear at them. A robust swear 
 word was at the top of her tongue and its presence there 
 dammed the tears effectively. 
 
 " I wish you'd talk about something else," said Mrs. 
 Grass. " Sit down, Emmie." 
 
 " No, Aunt Sophia, I'm not going to be talked to or 
 at like that." 
 
 " You won't be talke.d to or at like that if you'll behave 
 properly," said Miss Booke impenitently. 
 
 Emmie suddenly felt calmer. It was as if the little 
 crisis had spent itself. 
 
 " Good night," she said, and this time there was nobody 
 to catch her arm and detain her. 
 
 Mrs. Grass sighed and said, " Dear me ! " . . . 
 
 Mrs. Holten shook her head. Miss Booke said : " Do 
 her good. . . . Hot-tempered thing! . . . Going to dis- 
 grace us or what ? . . . She's not going to marry again
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 313 
 
 surely, and that man meant something or I've no eyes 
 in my head." 
 
 " I don't know, Maria . . ." said Mrs. Grass, wishing 
 to damp these awful thoughts. 
 
 " I do," snapped Miss Booke. 
 
 " She isn't married yet," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 Emmie walked off a little of her temper and wondered 
 now and then if she had been too hasty. Then she re- 
 called Aunt Maria's phrases and almost called herself a 
 coward. She would not put up with that any more. It 
 was insulting : Aunt Maria wanted to be insulting. " Be- 
 have properly " indeed. What in the wortfl had she done ? 
 Nothing at all. She had behaved properly and here were 
 her aunts going on as if she had disgraced them. 
 
 She knew the reason : they were afraid of her marry- 
 ing again. That was it. Jealous . . . with something 
 of " Booke & Son" in the feeling too. 
 
 Emmie scarcely knew how she got back to her room, 
 but once there she felt free to let her emotions have their 
 sway. Yes, what had she done ? . . . She went over the 
 injustice of her aunts' remarks and the correctness of her 
 own conduct. She had done nothing of which she ought 
 to be ashamed. . . . 
 
 Then she drifted into the essence of the situation. 
 Mr. Tame. . . . She wanted him. She knew she wanted 
 him. That was really why she had been slow to reply 
 to her aunts, for her conscience said to her you really 
 want him. 
 
 But Aunt Maria was a cat to call him names. Only 
 done for spite just venomous spite. 
 
 Emmie was tender here. Her brave showing broke 
 and she sat down and tried to think what really would 
 happen.
 
 3H AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She knew she wanted him or she would like to have 
 him. He was such a gentleman : the very sort she would 
 love for a husband. And she was young enough yet to 
 want a man as a mate. . . . 
 
 Why should she not marry again ? There was no harm 
 in that: no shame in it. She had been a good wife to 
 Tim and done her duty. Now she was a widow. . . . 
 
 Suppose Mr. Tame really proposed to her? . . . 
 
 What would her aunts say? They would go nearly 
 mad. They would never forgive her. Grandpa too . . . 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 Could she defy them? It was all very well talking 
 about doing what you wanted even if it was all right, but 
 you couldn't always do it if your relatives and friends 
 went against you. After all, she owed all her position 
 to the Bookes. She had got the Works as hers when 
 they'd been in the Booke family for years. 
 
 Emmie wept 
 
 There was a knock at her door, and Aunts Jane, Maria 
 and Sophia walked in. 
 
 Emmie looked at them sturdily, scarcely defiantly. 
 She was wearing a dressing gown and did not speak. 
 
 Mrs. Holten said : " It's no good us quarrelling, 
 Emmie." 
 
 " I don't want to quarrel," said Emmie, " but I won't 
 be treated like a child." 
 
 " Nobody wants to treat you like a child ; but you can't 
 do exactly what you want. Now suppose that Mr. Tame 
 we might just as well have it out wants to marry 
 you, what will you say ? " 
 
 " I refuse to discuss that," said Emmie. 
 
 " But I'm going to discuss it," said Mrs. Holten, " be- 
 cause we're interested. You see you've got the business.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 315 
 
 T. Booke & Son is in your hands unfortunately and if you 
 marry some stranger might be bossing the Booke's works, 
 for whatever you think, we look upon that factory as 
 ours Booke's ? " 
 
 " Well." . . . Emmie was quiet. 
 
 " Bring a stranger in there and we'll never forgive you. 
 It wouldn't matter much if you hadn't the control of the 
 Works : if you had some money and were bettering your- 
 self marrying a rich man for instance. But who is 
 this Mr. Tame? What is he? " 
 
 " And what do you want to bother about a man for 
 now ? " said Miss Booke, " you've two children. A man 
 doesn't go after a widow with two children unless she's 
 money." 
 
 " I've told you, Emmie," said Mrs. Holten, " we want 
 to be friends for Tim's sake and the children's: but do 
 anything foolish " 
 
 " Foolish wicked I call it," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie was tingling all over. 
 
 " We'll never forgive you," added Mrs. Holten. " If 
 you had no business and no children I'd say nothing 
 against your marrying again: as it is well. I've told 
 you what I think. I should consider it disgraceful. I 
 hope you'll take what I've said sensibly, Emmie. You've 
 got plenty to do with your life if you look after the chil- 
 dren and the business but a husband now " She 
 made a movement of disgust. 
 
 " I should think so," ejaculated Miss Booke. 
 
 When Emmie was alone again she had a good cry. 
 Why should she be attacked this way? Why shouldn't 
 she marry again? . . . 
 
 Her questions were not answered but she passed a fit- 
 ful and melancholy night and rose in the morning with a 
 kind of resignation.
 
 316 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Mrs. Grass were very pleasant to 
 her in the morning as if they wished to show her how 
 very nice they could be if she behaved herself in a fashion 
 of which they approved. And Miss Booke, who came 
 down later, was also very affable and agreeable and sug- 
 gested they should go for a little picnic. 
 
 Emmie had almost come to the conclusion that one 
 must not expect to get all one desired in this life and was 
 prepared to let Mr. Tame fade from her plans if not from 
 her memory. 
 
 He was not in sight as they waited for breakfast and 
 Emmie wondered if he had gone ... or was offended at 
 Aunt Maria's behaviour to him. 
 
 Then suddenly she saw him at the gate. Just as he 
 was turning to come in a girl about twenty, remarkably 
 pretty, whom Emmie had noticed with a keen interest 
 sitting at a table not far from theirs, went up to him, 
 talked to him, put her hand on the lapel of his coat, put 
 her arm in his and they turned together down the prom- 
 enade. 
 
 Emmie's heart seemed to give a leap. 
 
 Miss Booke, standing beside her, grunted. She, too, 
 had observed the little comedy at the gate. 
 
 " That's it that's his style. . . . You needn't worry 
 your head, Emmie : that's what your friend, Mr. Tame, is 
 after," she said, as if Providence had arranged the scene 
 for her backing and the teaching of Emmie. 
 
 Emmie wanted to scream in her aunt's face. She 
 wanted to rush to the gate and see where Mr. Tame and 
 that hussy had gone. 
 
 She felt a pain inside her and wanted to sit down. But 
 somehow she kept standing and preserved quite a dis- 
 creet attitude. She managed to curl her lip a little as if 
 she were indifferent.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 317 
 
 Aunt Maria was deluded for the moment. She was 
 clearly very pleased at the incident and wished her com- 
 mon sense, of which she imagined she had enough for a 
 whole family, and penetrating insight could be appre- 
 ciated at its proper worth. She was always right. . . . 
 She sunned herself in the beams of a sublime self-satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Mrs. Holten and Mrs. Grass edging to the door mut- 
 tered things: 
 
 " It's a lovely day. . . . There are a lot of people about 
 before breakfast! That's a nice dress, and not dressy, 
 either " 
 
 Emmie said : " Ada ought to be back with the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 She was looking out over the front. 
 
 "Where are they, Emmie?" Mrs. Grass asked. 
 
 " Gone for a little run," and Emmie walked to the 
 gate as if she would hunt for them. 
 
 She looked both ways but longer in the direction Mr. 
 Tame had gone with that pretty girl on his arm. She saw 
 them. . . . The girl seemed very happy. He, too . . . 
 
 Emmie had to catch her breath. She swallowed and 
 then fiercely came back. 
 
 Aunt Maria said to herself, " She's gone to watch him." 
 Those women who think themselves always right in their 
 surmises are really right occasionally. 
 
 Mrs. Grass said : " Aren't they there, Emmie ? " 
 
 " I didn't see them, but I expect they'll be here in a 
 minute." 
 
 " Yes. I shouldn't worry," said Mrs. Grass, who had 
 not seen all and did not understand, though she, with her 
 woman's knowledge, felt there was more than the ab- 
 sence of the children disturbing Emmie. 
 
 During breakfast Emmie looked after the children al-
 
 318 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 most ostentatiously. She was also very observant of 
 other people in the room and ate very little. She man- 
 aged to hide this last fact rather deftly, for she had some 
 fish, which she broke up on her plate, accusing herself 
 temporarily of waste with the instinct of an economical 
 woman and poohpoohing the accusation with the fury of 
 a jealous one a moment later. When her aunts appeared 
 to be busily engaged with their own breakfasts, or at 
 least, not watching her, Emmie got the waitress to take 
 her plate away as if she had finished. 
 
 Mrs. Grass passed her the marmalade which Emmie did 
 not want. But she smeared some on her plate, broke up 
 some toast into bits and had an air of having made a 
 capital breakfast. 
 
 Talking was her greatest difficulty. She could con- 
 centrate on nothing. She was afraid she was going to 
 be ill and wondered if she might say she was. Her aunts 
 might think it was due to their upsetting ways. . . . No 
 they wouldn't: they weren't of that kind. . . . Besides 
 Aunt Maria had seen the occurrence at the gate, and 
 would, of course, say that was the reason. 
 
 And so it was. Emmie was almost literally in agony. 
 She had never fancied she could feel so keenly over a 
 man. When he smiled as that girl took his arm Emmie 
 had felt her heart and stomach principally stomach 
 go like lead, then as if it dissolved and left a cankerous 
 pain behind. 
 
 She looked at the girl and could not deny she was 
 pretty and young. These young girls . . . men would 
 go after them: why? . . . She knew why. Youth and 
 innocence. . . . Innocence bah! She Emmie 
 would make him happier than any of those milk and 
 watery creatures only just out of their teens. . . . What
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 319 
 
 did they know about life? And she was in the fine flood 
 of life's vigour. . . . 
 
 Tim would interrupt her and Alice. And her aunts. 
 
 When they had finished breakfast and the room was 
 almost empty, Miss Booke suggested again that it would 
 really be a very nice day for a picnic. They would get 
 sandwiches she knew that, because she had had them 
 before once when a picnic had been got up and they 
 would be back in time for dinner in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Holten was agreeable. Mrs. Grass thought it 
 was a very nice idea. " Emmie ! " . . . 
 
 " I'm not coming," said Emmie. 
 
 The aunts looked contraried. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Miss Booke drawing 
 herself up. 
 
 " I'm going on the sands with the children." 
 
 " You can go to-morrow." 
 
 Emmie was not in a humour to be told what to do by 
 her aunts just now. 
 
 " So I can : I'm going to-day, too." 
 
 Maria, Jane and Sophia looked at their niece curiously 
 and then at each other. 
 
 "What's the matter, Emmie?" asked Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " Temper ! " ejaculated Miss Booke savagely. 
 
 Emmie was on the point of making a retort and per- 
 haps a scene, when the something prudent within her put 
 out a restraining hand. . . . What was the good of 
 quarrelling, after all? And they had really nothing to 
 do with that girl. ... It would be better to be tactful. 
 
 Emmie raised a faint smile. 
 
 " It isn't temper at all," she said. " I don't feel like 
 going for a picnic, that's all. There is no reason why 
 you shouldn't go without me."
 
 320 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 The elderly ladies were in a fix. Leave their niece 
 with this man about the house while they went away the 
 whole day on a picnic? . . . Impossible. On the other 
 hand be dominated by that same niece - Emmie Bollins 
 that was? . . . Horrible predicament. 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked cross and troubled. Mrs. Grass 
 was more troubled than cross. Miss Booke looked very 
 angry. 
 
 "Why don't you want to go?" she said, in a fierce 
 undertone. 
 
 Emmie was nettled and nerved by the tone. She was 
 in a mood to fight now to fight tactfully if need be, 
 but to fight. 
 
 " Have you finished, children? " she said to Tim and 
 Alice. " Tell Ada to get you ready : I am coming with 
 you on the sands." When the children had gone, Emmie 
 said: "There's no reason why you shouldn't go for 
 your picnic if you want." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Miss Booke ; " what's to prevent you 
 coming? " 
 
 " I don't understand you, Emmie," said Mrs. Holten. 
 "If there's any reason for your not coming let us hear 
 it; we can go to the picnic another day." 
 
 "The reason is, I don't want to go," said Emmie, 
 and, looking through the door, she caught sight of Mr. 
 Tame standing. Was he waiting for her? Or was that 
 girl with him ? She had the weak feeling in the stomach 
 again. ... It was horrible. But she knew what she 
 wanted all the same. She would fight for that man . . . 
 do almost anything. . . . 
 
 She sat still, in real torture because her aunts did not 
 get up quickly and allow her to go to Mr. Tame. Did 
 they intend to sit there all day? She would give them
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 321 
 
 the lead, but she hoped they would move first, so as to 
 cover up her impatience. 
 
 " If Emmie would rather stay with the children, we 
 can go," said Mrs. Grass, "or we can put it off for 
 another day." 
 
 "Will you come on the pier, Emmie?" asked Mrs. 
 Holten. 
 
 " I've told the children I am going on the sands," she 
 said. 
 
 " You can tell them you're not," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " But I won't," said Emmie sharply. " I'm not a 
 child. I won't let you or anybody else treat me as one. 
 If I want to go on the sands I'll go. I'm not going to 
 be told I must do this and I mustn't do that. . . ." 
 
 She got up, flushed with emotion. Had she struck 
 the right note ? She wanted to hide her real motive, for 
 the woman hunting the male is superlatively cunning, just 
 as she will be superlatively daring if necessity drives. 
 
 The three ladies at the table looked as if they were 
 grievously injured. They had a niece who would not 
 behave properly and was a great source of trial to them. 
 Miss Booke and Mrs. Holten considered themselves mar- 
 tyrs in a mild way and Emmie a most ungrateful 
 creature. Here they were thinking of her welfare and 
 happiness and look how she behaved. . . . The ingrati- 
 tude there was in the world ! 
 
 Emmie went out of the room, hoping she had made 
 them believe she was offended with them for lecturing 
 her so much. But not one of them believed it save, per- 
 haps, Mrs. Grass, who did not do much lecturing. The 
 other two considered they only did their duty, and con- 
 sequently could not understand how any sensible any 
 really sensible person could be offended at that.
 
 322 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Near the door Emmie glanced round. He was there 
 and not with that girl. Emmie, pretending to be look- 
 ing for the children, turned to him and smiled. 
 
 " Your aunts seem to surround you pretty well," he 
 ventured a little intimately. 
 
 " Yes. I am going on the sands," she said, in an un- 
 dertone. 
 
 He was quick enough to catch the message in the voice. 
 
 " May I come? " he asked. 
 
 " If you want." 
 
 "Usual place?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Emmie then turned smartly away and went upstairs. 
 
 She shut the door of her room and muttered, " I'll 
 show you." A somewhat vague sort of threat, which 
 might have been meant for either that " hussy," who took 
 Mr. Tame's arm, or for Miss Booke. 
 
 She had to sit down. Her excitement was intense and 
 her heart was beating boisterously. But she had the look 
 of one who had achieved something on which she had set 
 her heart. She was now the female resolute for the 
 male, and there may be a keener and more desperate reso- 
 lution, but none more reckless. Emmie would have him 
 now if she had to do things unusual and unwomanly. 
 That other girl should not take his arm again have his 
 arms round her. . . . 
 
 Emmie was in a fury as she thought of that. She had 
 not realised that she loved him till she saw him with 
 that girl. It was terrible. And here were her aunts 
 trying to stop her. . . . She'd like to see them stop her 
 now ; she'd like to see anybody stop her. . . . She would 
 have him. She'd marry him if all the Bookes that had 
 ever lived said she mustn't. She'd show them. . . . 
 
 The phrase was out again. It was an earnest of Em-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 323 
 
 mie's mind. She put on her hat. She was not going 
 on the sands to sit down and sew : she was going to see 
 him. What would he say? Would he propose? He 
 must. She would make him. She would lure him on 
 till he did. . . . 
 
 But he wouldn't want any luring. He was just as keen 
 as she was. Hadn't he been keen from the start from 
 the very first day? 
 
 And how quickly he said " May I come ? "... It was 
 lovely to hear him say that. And " usual place." . . . 
 Usual place. . . . Emmie almost danced. Usual place 
 meant where she was that was what usual place meant. 
 
 She would have him. . . . She would show them. 
 
 Her face was burning. She put her hand up to feel 
 her cheeks and looked at herself in the glass. What a 
 red colour! . . . 
 
 There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Grass came 
 in. 
 
 " There's nothing wrong, Emmie ? " said Aunt Sophia, 
 somewhat sympathetically. 
 
 Emmie had to act quickly and well, but was quite 
 capable of filling the role of dust-in-the-eye thrower that 
 every woman trying to help or encourage a man to take 
 her has to play. 
 
 " It isn't you, Aunt Sophia," Emmie said. " But I 
 won't be bullied. I'm tired of being told what to do and 
 what not. Besides, to-day I feel like resting a bit." 
 
 Mrs. Grass watched her. 
 
 " You mustn't be so ... well you know your Aunt 
 Jane and Aunt Maria are thinking of your good. Still, 
 I think it will blow over. Act as if there's nothing the 
 matter at lunch. We're going on the pier. We shall 
 see you at lunch-time." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, delighted at the turn of events.
 
 324 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I'm glad it's all right," said Mrs. Grass, meaning 
 that she hoped the " row " would now be forgotten, and 
 she smiled pleasantly as she went out. 
 
 Mr. Tame said to himself, when Emmie had gone: 
 " Well, I'm blest." He turned round instinctively to 
 look in the direction Emmie had gone. He was tingling 
 with a glorious emotion. " I am going on the sands " 
 ... he repeated the phrase to himself. Also he re- 
 peated, " Well, I'm blest!" 
 
 He walked away before the three members of the 
 Booke family came to the door. 
 
 Emmie gave her aunts plenty of time to go out before 
 she came down, and then she went, with some crocheting, 
 to that usual place on the sands. 
 
 Ada was there with Tim and Alice, who were working 
 like splendid amateurs. 
 
 Emmie, well-dressed, watched the children. 
 
 " That's a moat, Mother," said Tim. 
 
 "Oh. . . ." 
 
 " An' I'm going to fetch the water," said Alice. 
 " That's going to be filled with water, Mammy." 
 
 "Oh. . . ." 
 
 " And I think I shall make a bridge could I make a 
 bridge, Mother ? " 
 
 " I should think you might, dear. . . ." 
 
 Emmie was looking round keenly to see if she were 
 being watched by those sharp-eyed aunts of hers. Did 
 they suspect? And were they watching? 
 
 Emmie felt one moment as if she did not mind if they 
 were spying on her and observing her every movement, 
 and the next that she must be discreet and prudent and 
 most careful.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 325 
 
 She also looked round for Mr. Tame. . . . 
 
 The sight of the children set other thoughts stirring. 
 They would be all right. Why not ? She had the money 
 and he would be kind to them. . . . She could tell that : 
 he was of that sort. Besides, she must have him she 
 must marry him. 
 
 " So that's the terrible castle, is it? " 
 
 Emmie turned. He was there. Her heart gave a 
 leap. She felt satisfied. 
 
 Tim and Alice came to him at once. He smiled at 
 Emmie. 
 
 "I suppose you are supervising, is that it?" 
 
 " Not very keenly," she said. 
 
 She loved his easy way. Besides, she need do no 
 luring. She could play the feminine role of retiring 
 to prolong the love-making; she could watch and 
 observe and enjoy his capture of her. He was man 
 enough. . . . 
 
 " This is the gate," said Tim. 
 
 " And I'm going to get the water in my bucket," said 
 Alice. 
 
 " That's for the moat," said Tim. " Can't I build a 
 bridge? How do you build a bridge? Mine's always 
 falling in." 
 
 " A bridge for the fairies ? " 
 
 Alice looked as if wonders were about. Tim was 
 scornful. 
 
 " Fairies there aren't any such things ! " 
 
 "There are," shouted Alice. "Aren't there, Mr. 
 Tame? Say there are." 
 
 "There are," he said. 
 
 Alice shouted : " There are fairies, there are fairies, 
 there are fairies. I knew there were ! " 
 
 Tim was stolid unconvinced.
 
 326 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " In books," he said. 
 
 Mr. Tame laughed, looked at Emmie and caught her 
 smile. 
 
 " Now, about the bridge," he said. " What is it really 
 for?" 
 
 " Well," replied Tim, " castles have bridges." 
 
 " Exactly. For the knight returning from the wars 
 with his : ' What, ho, there, varlet ! Drop down the 
 bridge and raise the portcullis ! ' 
 
 Tim's eyes danced. Alice stood, mouth open, drink- 
 ing in the wonderful picture. 
 
 " We'll make a bridge," said Mr. Tame, " with a piece 
 of wood. Find one, Tim." 
 
 As Tim looked for the wood, Emmie said : " Don't 
 worry with the children." 
 
 " It's no worry : it's a pleasure. I love children. And 
 after the bridge-building there might, perhaps, be a walk 
 for the mother, eh ? I nearly said sister." 
 
 " Sister don't be silly. I'm . . . I'm nearly thirty," 
 she said, with a kind of bravado. 
 
 " The perfect age," he said ..." for me." 
 
 Emmie looked over the sea, the ageless sea. 
 
 Tim came back with a piece of wood, which served 
 splendidly as a bridge, and then amid groans from the 
 children, Mr. Tame and Emmie, after promising to be 
 back soon, set off walking along the sands towards the 
 cliffs on the north shore. 
 
 Emmie felt on the threshold of a great adventure. 
 She knew what she wanted, and there were no doubts 
 or merely the doubts of feeble strength, suggesting she 
 might not get what she most desired. 
 
 He, having had a fairly extensive experience with 
 women, seemed to understand her. He knew he was
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 327 
 
 acceptable to her, and he realised that the hour was pro- 
 pitious. 
 
 " Your husband must have died soon after you were 
 married," he said, dashing almost at once onto the per- 
 sonal side of the whole matter to glean as much knowl- 
 edge as he could. 
 
 Emmie responded. She told him when she was mar- 
 ried, when Tim died, and how she managed the hat 
 works. 
 
 " Now tell me about yourself," she said. 
 
 " Uninteresting." 
 
 " No," she said boldly. 
 
 " I never hoped for such luck," he said, and paused a 
 moment for emphasis. 
 
 Then he told his tale. He had travelled for X & Y 
 and A B & Co., two well-known firms, in America, Aus- 
 tralia and the East. He had now got such a knowledge 
 of the Eastern market, China, Japan and the East Indies, 
 that he was going to find a partner and set up as a mer- 
 chant. There were thousands of pounds to be made at 
 the game thousands. He was a steady chap, of good 
 family father was a parson in Somerset, with a big 
 family, and he had been educated at Uppingham. 
 
 Emmie was content. The social side of his tale pleased 
 her. He was a gentleman, father a clergyman, and had 
 had a good education; though she was not sure if Up- 
 pingham, or whatever it was, meant college education or 
 not. At any rate, it was good enough for her. 
 
 They walked along the sands where the waves had 
 made cameos of their gambols, and at a bend of the 
 cliffs he descried a kind of shelter, a covering, as it were, 
 from the gaze of the vulgar. 
 
 " You are not going to remain a widow always ! " he 
 said.
 
 328 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I don't know." She said it quietly. She did not 
 want to damp or deter him, but she could not afford to 
 make him do all the running till she felt he was on the 
 course. Having gone through the mating once, she was 
 willing to waive the satisfaction of the wooing if she 
 made sure of the result 
 
 " I think you hit me as you came through the door 
 the day you arrived. . . ." 
 
 Emmie said nothing. The anticipation was most de- 
 lectable. 
 
 " I said to myself, some chap's highly favoured." 
 
 Still nothing from Emmie. She was looking at the 
 sands. 
 
 " And when I heard you were a widow ... I nearly 
 thanked God." 
 
 " How wicked ! " she said, hanging her head and feel- 
 ing joyous. 
 
 " Wicked. . . . No, not really. . . . You know what 
 I mean." 
 
 He looked at her. He had been a little excited up to 
 now, but her attitude reassured him and he felt that the 
 prize was his. 
 
 "What do they call you Emmie?" 
 
 She tried to draw herself up, or rather make a mock 
 attempt at it not to reprove him; he had to see she 
 did not mind. 
 
 " Emmie." He took her by the arms. " I really don't 
 know if I'm standing on my head or my heels. . . . Will 
 you marry me? . . ." 
 
 He stood apart from her for a moment. 
 
 She was in ecstasy and was willing to let him go on 
 talking now. It was lovely. . . . 
 
 He put an arm round her. 
 
 " Emmie ... I simply fell head over heels in love
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 329 
 
 with you when you came through that doorway . . . 
 couldn't help it, and I've been sinking farther and farther 
 in ever since. . . ." He drew her to him. " Oh ! My 
 God ! But you will. . . ." 
 
 She could feel herself being held by strong, warm arms, 
 being held against a strong body. He held her tight and 
 she felt in paradise. 
 
 He lifted her face and she gave a glance at him and 
 then shut her eyes. He kissed her forehead then her 
 lips. She was passive at first, and he kissed her again. 
 
 She responded then, and made him realise her vig- 
 our. 
 
 Her heart was beating wildly. He still held her 
 tightly to him and bent her face again close to his. " You 
 haven't said Yes, darling," he whispered. 
 
 " Yes," she said, looking at him with all the passion 
 of tell-tale eyes. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he said. " It's wonderful too won- 
 derful for words. . . . Oh! Emmie, my darling mine. 
 ... It is almost incredible." He took her face in his 
 hands, felt her flushed cheeks, saw the fire in her eyes 
 and the eagerness in her lips. He kissed her again and 
 she kissed him more hotly in return. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " I can hardly believe it. ... I feel in Heaven," he 
 said. " You. ... I almost prayed for you that night 
 I went to you on the pier you remember? The night 
 you came? " 
 
 She nodded, still tingling with her magnificent ecstasy. 
 
 " Let us sit down a moment," she said. 
 
 There were no seats near, but they found a jutting bit 
 of rock and she sat down and rested while he held her 
 hand. 
 
 She had got him. ... He was hers. , . . She looked
 
 330 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 out towards the great waters and the horizon and felt 
 as if in this gorgeous moment she struck some note akin 
 to the infinite. 
 
 She looked at him lovingly. 
 
 " I shall want to go on kissing you, darling, all up the 
 steps of the boarding-house." 
 
 " Silly ! " she said, surrenderingly. 
 
 But she was practical the next minute. 
 
 " I don't want my aunts to know anything about it 
 yet," she said. 
 
 " All right, darling. Anything you want. We'll keep 
 the devoted aunts in ignorance." 
 
 She smiled at the word " devoted." 
 
 " They'll only kick up a fuss." 
 
 " I understand. Once a widow, always a widow, eh ? 
 It's the way with some of these old 'uns. Don't heed 
 'em, darling. We can get married on the quiet, for that 
 matter, and then they can mingle with their surprise the 
 thoughts about what they would have said if they'd only 
 had time, and congratulations all in one." 
 
 Emmie looked at him admiringly. He talked beauti- 
 fully with such a gentlemanly accent, too. 
 
 " It's no good having rows, is it ? " 
 
 " Reginald," he added, drawing her close to him. 
 
 " Reginald," she muttered. 
 
 " Or Reg." 
 
 " Reg 
 
 " Or darling darling." 
 
 She suddenly caught his face in her hands and kissed 
 him. He fascinated her. 
 
 "If the bounteous aunts caught us now!" he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " I must go back," she said, " They said they were
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 331 
 
 going on the pier, but they are quite capable of coming 
 to see if I am on the sands with the children." 
 
 " And I must be discreet." 
 
 " Oh, yes. . . ." 
 
 " Love has no age, has it? " he said. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I don't think it has." 
 
 They walked for a moment in silence. 
 
 "Well, Emmie darling, what is the programme?" 
 
 " I am just thinking . . . Reg dear " 
 
 " Gorgeous ! " he whispered. 
 
 " I feel like a young girl ! " she said. 
 
 " I feel simply indescribable." 
 
 She laughed, and her eyes sparkled with the joy that 
 stirred her. 
 
 " We must be sensible," she ventured ; " scarcely a 
 nod " 
 
 " Lor' ! " 
 
 " Well ... it, er." 
 
 " The sooner the better, darling," he whispered. 
 
 She bit her lip as if she could not make up her mind 
 to a speedy marriage and was inclined to think that 
 would be the best way out of the situation. 
 
 " Of course, I ought not to be afraid," she said, "but 
 I know what would happen. Aunt Jane would say this 
 and Aunt Maria that, and I should have no peace and 
 you would probably be insulted." 
 
 He assured her he would endure anything for her sake, 
 but they agreed to keep the engagement quite secret 
 for the present and behave with due reserve and circum- 
 spection. 
 
 Emmie went back to where the children were, and 
 was at once asked where Mr. Tame was.
 
 332 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She sat down, took out her crocheting so that she had 
 visible means of occupation if any of her aunts came, 
 and looked at the ceaseless waves breaking into white 
 foam. 
 
 Married again. . . . She was going to be married 
 again . . . have another husband and what a man ! 
 What a gentleman! There was no more distinguished 
 gentleman in Ganton! 
 
 She could feel his arms round her ... his lips on 
 hers. . . . 
 
 She did not care if he hadn't a penny. She had plenty. 
 
 When he held her in his arms and lifted up her face 
 with his hand and then kissed her. . . . 
 
 As she recalled the same her blood seemed to rush 
 through her. 
 
 " So here you are? " said Aunt Sophia. 
 
 Emmie turned and looked unexpectedly pleasant. 
 
 " Yes, here am I. Have you enjoyed your walk on 
 the pier?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you," said Mrs. Holten, as if soothed with 
 satisfaction. 
 
 At any rate, Emmie was on the sands and not with 
 that man.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 EMMIE was inclined to overdo her pleasantness to- 
 wards her aunts, so easy is it for happy people to 
 forget worries. Fortunately, the elder ladies, being 
 moved by a certain amount of egotism, could not see 
 Emmie except through their own coloured spectacles, and 
 so attributed the change in her behaviour towards them 
 to a realisation of the error of her ways and a proper 
 repentance. So dull can vanity make us. 
 
 Before, during, or after lunch, Mr. Tame made no 
 sign. Emmie had a meal for remembrance. Eat. . . - 
 She wanted nothing to eat. She had something other 
 than food to digest. 
 
 To be married again ... to be married again. . . . 
 The phrase ran through her brain, bringing pictures in 
 its train. She saw herself once more the married woman 
 with the man by her side. . . . 
 
 Appealed to by Aunt Sophia did she know who that 
 lady was sitting at the table opposite : very like Mrs. Ox- 
 ton . . . might be her sister. Emmie leaned forward 
 with a smile, the attitude of beautiful willingness, and 
 had to hear the question again. 
 
 And she was willing to do anything or go anywhere 
 her aunts suggested. They were delighted. She had 
 quite clearly seen how wrong she had been and was now 
 quite prepared to make amends. Now they were al- 
 most inclined to go to bed in the afternoon, so great w r as 
 their confidence in her. Bed was merely hinted at, but 
 at once put aside as an absurd idea for practical common 
 sense ladies, who came to the seaside for health and fresh 
 
 333
 
 334 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 air; they could rest in a cosy chair on the sands, or take 
 it easy on the pier. . . . 
 
 Emmie didn't mind. Whatever was suggested, she 
 didn't mind! 
 
 All through lunch she tried to listen to her aunts and 
 pay them some attention enough to allay all suspicion 
 and keep them agreeable, and to see in a gorgeous pano- 
 rama her own dazzling future. 
 
 The physical side kept asserting itself. In the middle 
 of a pleasant fancy, seeing herself as Mrs. Tame and all 
 her friends looking at her with surprise, and envy, she 
 would feel Reginald's arm round her, his lips on hers, 
 and she had to give herself a little shake to get her nerv- 
 ous centres ready to respond to Aunt Jane's emotional 
 remarks and not to bother so much with these other 
 things. 
 
 A drive was suggested. Emmie was, of course, per- 
 fectly willing to go a drive as she was to do anything 
 else that afternoon. She was intent on deceiving and 
 possessed in full the capacity of the woman in love to 
 deceive anybody and everybody with ease and success. 
 
 She could stare past Reginald as if he were not known 
 to her while her aunts were about, and give him a glance 
 to stir his soul the moment they had gone to dress. 
 
 In her room she allowed her imagination rein. What 
 would they say in Canton? It would cause a talk. At 
 tea tables it would be " Mrs. Booke's married again," and 
 then, "What! . . . Who to?" And then they would 
 learn she had married a gentleman, a perfect gentleman. 
 .... Once the marriage was a fact her aunts would 
 admit Reginald was a gentleman. . . . Aunt Jane might 
 call him " Collar and Cuffs " now, but that was only 
 spite. . . . 
 
 And he would come to Canton. . Of course. . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 335 
 
 And she did not care a bit if he had no money. What 
 did it matter? She had no money when she married 
 Tim: now she had money and her husband could be as 
 poor as he liked. 
 
 " Emmie are you ready ? " 
 
 It was Aunt Sophia at the door. 
 
 Emmie grabbed her hat and invited Aunt Sophia to 
 come in. 
 
 " Are you ready? " she said. 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Jane and Aunt Maria are downstairs." 
 
 Emmie laughed. 
 
 " I don't know what I've been doing," she said. " I 
 thought there was plenty of time. You're taking a coat, 
 I see, Aunt Sophia." 
 
 " Oh, yes; you'd better take one, too; it'll be cold, you 
 know, driving." 
 
 It was the oddest drive Emmie had ever had. If she 
 could have talked about Reginald to sympathetic aunts 
 it would have been different; but she had to talk about 
 that woman with the green dress most awful colour 
 Aunt Jane had ever seen and that lady with the spec- 
 tacles, a lady if ever there was one . . . lost her money 
 . . . come down a bit ... but what a lady! You 
 should have seen her at the door with the clergyman. 
 ..." He was the suffragan," Aunt Jane heard her say. 
 " Knew what she was talking about," Aunt Jane affirmed. 
 And there was that pudding they had last night. Aunt 
 Sophia had fruit, as she wasn't feeling too well was 
 the pudding nice ? Very nice indeed, and simple, too 
 people could say what they liked, but " The Towers " 
 was managed by somebody with a head on her shoulders. 
 And sleeves were going less a good thing, too. Those 
 balloon arrangements were most awkward. . . .
 
 336 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie, trying to catch a sufficient thread of this (and 
 there were eight miles of it, excluding rest and refresh- 
 ment for man and beast) to hang a suitable word on, 
 was all the time thinking of her husband-to-be . . . her 
 new life . . . what they would say in Ganton . . . and 
 what sort of a dress should she be married in. It couldn't 
 be white, of course purple . . . she could carry pur- 
 ple ... or a more delicate colour, mauve ... or rose. 
 ... A light grey with some red about her would look 
 well, too. . . . 
 
 That, mixed with the other conversation, gave Emmie 
 an afternoon of singular enjoyment. 
 
 The elder ladies went to bed early. They all discov- 
 ered the fresh air made them sleepy, and Emmie walked 
 upstairs at the same time. She, however, came down 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Tame was waiting at the door. 
 
 " You won't feel cold without a wrap of some kind? " 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 " It's a lovely evening for a little stroll," he said, as 
 he and Emmie turned to walk on the front. 
 
 " It's awful," he said, as soon as they were out of ear- 
 shot of anybody. 
 
 " What? " she said, with a smile, putting her hand on 
 his, which was pressing her arm. 
 
 " Seeing you only like this." 
 
 "Is it?" she said, smiling. "Still, it's the best we 
 can do at present." 
 
 " Let's go and get married to-morrow," he said. 
 
 " To-morrow oh ! . . . that ... oh ! ..." 
 
 "Why not? What's the good of waiting, darling?" 
 
 " I. . . . Well, I don't want to wait if you don't, dear,
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 337 
 
 but to-morrow. . . . And we should know just a bit 
 about each other." 
 
 " You've told me all I want to know about you. I 
 love you and that ends it as far as I am concerned." 
 
 She squeezed his arm against her body. It was splen- 
 did to be loved and beautiful to hear it said by a man in 
 earnest. 
 
 He went on : "I don't know if you want to know any 
 more about me. You really ought to have some guar- 
 antee that I am all right, but I will show you the pater's 
 and mater's photos I think I've got one of the family 
 taken on the lawn. You can see the pater's doings in 
 Crockford ; it isn't much of a living about four twenty 
 net but it's a lovely house. The mater will adore you, 
 Emmie. One of my sisters is married to a parson: he 
 was a curate with us; very nice chap, too; he's got a 
 living now in Lincolnshire. And I've another sister at 
 home. The pater was at B.N.C. Oxford did fairly 
 well, too. He wanted me to go to Oxford, but I didn't 
 care about taking orders and got a job in an insurance 
 office. That was horribly slow, and then I went to 
 Fonds and Mells, got travelling and you know the 
 rest. Not much money, darling, but I shall earn plenty 
 when I get this Eastern business of mine going: there's 
 a gold mine in that a perfect gold mine." 
 
 " I don't care about anything," said Emmie ; " I'm go- 
 ing to marry you." 
 
 " You are a darling." He put an arm round her. 
 
 She looked round; there was nobody to watch. 
 
 They kissed. 
 
 " I feel as if I were twenty," Emmie said. 
 
 " I feel as if I were in heaven," he said. 
 
 Emmie pressed his arm tightly, as if she would let him 
 feel the warmth in her blood.
 
 338 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " At present I don't want my aunts to know. Of 
 course, they will have to know later," she said. 
 
 " Look here, Emmie mine." He stopped and held her 
 close to him. " How would you like to run with me 
 down to Staplemore that's where the pater's living is, 
 and let him marry us. I'll arrange it if you like get 
 the license, and all that. . . ." 
 
 Emmie looked at him. He was very handsome in her 
 eyes, and such a gentleman ! His voice was like nobody 
 else's she had ever heard. His father had been to Oxford 
 University, too, and wanted Reginald to go. . . . Her 
 husband had nearly been to Oxford. . . . 
 
 " I don't know. . . ." She hesitated. 
 
 "Don't know what, darling?" 
 
 She pursed her lips. 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 " That's all right, Mrs. Reginald Tame," he said, hold- 
 ing her very close to him. " I'll write to the pater and 
 tell him all. He'll understand or we could get mar- 
 ried here, for that matter. With a special license, you 
 know, we could get married anywhere." 
 
 " Let's leave it till to-morrow, dear," she said. " I'll 
 think it over. It might be simplest to stay on here with 
 my aunts, go back with them, and then when Ada and 
 the children are at home . . . eh ? " 
 
 " As you like. The sooner the better. I'll get the 
 license, eh ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 Emmie showed very great skill in keeping her inten- 
 tions towards Mr. Reginald Tame well hidden from her 
 aunts. They really thought they had put their feet down 
 on that business for good and all. Mrs. Grass gave her- 
 self credit for having seen the affair at the outset and 
 having called in her doughty sisters. Miss Booke felt
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 339 
 
 that she alone had nipped the thing in the bud with her 
 straightforward, frank method, and Mrs. Holten im- 
 agined that by her tact and common sense she had effec- 
 tively stopped Emmie from doing "a very foolish 
 thing." 
 
 Consequently, a week after they had all returned from 
 Blackpool and were going about their usual duties in the 
 usual way, they were greatly surprised (and with the sur- 
 prise must be imagined all the emotions that accompanied 
 it) to receive a letter from Emmie (almost identical to 
 the three aunts), which ran: 
 
 DEAR AUNT JANE : 
 
 I want to inform you that I am going to be married to 
 Mr. Tame. I would have told you before, but as you 
 seemed to disapprove of the idea, I thought it best not 
 to worry you. We are to be married to-day. I hope the 
 marriage won't make any difference to our feelings to 
 one another and I am sure I needn't tell you that you will 
 be as welcome at Helston House as always. 
 
 Reginald and I hope to be back in about ten days. 
 With love. 
 
 Your affectionate niece, EMMIE. 
 
 The quotation that rang through the respective houses 
 of the aunts was " Reginald and I " 
 
 Aunt Jane put on her bonnet and almost dashed to 
 Miss Booke's, where Sophia had already arrived. 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Did you ever ! " 
 
 " The sly thing ! . . . Carrying on with him all that 
 time. . . . Going out with us and pretending she was 
 having nothing to do with him the little hypocrite. 
 . . . Emmie Bollins all Qver. . . , And that ' Reginald 
 and I ' "
 
 340 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Reginald and I." 
 
 " Reginald and I." 
 
 The disgust, scorn and contempt could not be improved 
 on. The ladies said it with all the emphasis they could 
 command. ..." Reginald and I ! " and there followed 
 the toss of the head, the fierce contempt on the face, and 
 the subsequent expression of defeat. 
 
 In spite of what they had done and said, Emmie had 
 married him. . . . 
 
 And a common thought moved them : What about T. 
 Booke & Son? . . . 
 
 The letter to Mr. Booke was different from that to 
 the aunts. 
 
 MY DEAR GRANDPA: 
 
 I write to inform you that I am going to be married 
 again. I think I did my duty to Tim and I have never 
 forgotten how happy we were together: but that doesn't 
 seem to me a reason why I shouldn't mary again, and I 
 have found some one that I care for w r ho, I think, will 
 be a good husband to me. But I want to tell you that 
 it won't make any difference in my feeling to you and I 
 hope it won't make any difference in yours towards me. 
 I shall always remember you are Tim's father and you 
 will always be as welcome at my house as you have ever 
 been. You have always been very kind to me and I am 
 very grateful, and I should be very sorry if my getting 
 married again brought any coldness between us. It won't 
 on my part, I assure you. 
 
 I would have told you before, but I had decided to 
 keep it quiet till I was married. I hope you will call and 
 see Tim and Alice while I am away. I told Ada to take 
 them to see you. 
 
 With love. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 EMMIE.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 341 
 
 There was also another letter. 
 
 MY DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER : 
 
 I am going to be married again to a Mr. Reginald 
 Tame, that I met at Blackpool. He is a perfect gentle- 
 man. His father is a clergyman and went to Oxford, 
 and Reginald could have gone there too, only he didn't 
 want. I couldn't tell you before because some people 
 might have made a lot of fuss if they had heard, and I 
 want to be able to say I told them when I told you. You 
 know why . . . three aunts ! It won't make any differ- 
 ence to you you know what I mean. You'll get the 
 money as before, and perhaps more soon; and Sarah can 
 always have some when she wants. We're going to Lon- 
 don for the honeymoon only about a week or ten days, 
 as we've both just been to Blackpool. 
 
 We're being married by special license by his father, 
 who is coming to a friend's church in Crewe. Reginald's 
 mother and sister two sisters and brother-in-law, 
 who is also a clergyman, are coming to the wedding. I 
 wanted to tell you, but it meant new clothes and that 
 meant telling everybody, so I thought a five-pound note 
 would do instead. I enclose it herewith. I am being 
 married in mauve you'll see it when we come back. I 
 have a Gainsborough hat with a fine white ostrich feather. 
 
 With best love. 
 
 Your affectionate daughter, 
 
 EMMIE. 
 
 The news spread over Ganton very quickly. 
 " Mrs. Tim Booke's married again." 
 "Oh! . . . Who to?" 
 
 " Some chap as she met at Blackpool, I hear." 
 "Hatter?" 
 
 " No. Don't know what he is. I understand he's well 
 connected, a gentleman, from all accounts." 
 " Any money ? "
 
 342 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Don't know. She's enough in any case." 
 
 " Oh, ay. What's she going to do with the busi- 
 ness?" 
 
 " Haven't heard. Perhaps he'll run it." 
 
 " Well, she's only about thirty. . . . Young enough to 
 want a chap. . . . Th' Bookes won't like it." 
 
 " No fear." 
 
 Alice Cannell's comment was : 
 
 " Mrs. Tim Booke married again. . . . Well, I always 
 said Emmie would."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IT seemed to Emmie as if she were really happier on her 
 second honeymoon than on her first. Timidity and 
 apprehension gave way to an unhampered zest. Besides 
 Reginald was a gentleman and Emmie gloried in that. 
 His dress, his manners, his accent had a fascinating influ- 
 ence on her and she felt as if she now belonged to a better 
 world than that in which she had hitherto moved. 
 
 They stayed at a good hotel in the west end and Regi- 
 nald ordered waiters with perfect ease, and held her dress 
 as she got in and out of hansoms as if every trick of that 
 trade was habitual to him. 
 
 Emmie was supremely happy. She felt she had got 
 all she wanted and more than she deserved in this new 
 husband of hers. 
 
 She observed other visitors in the hotel and noted dress 
 and jewellery with a discerning eye. There were lots of 
 wealthy and handsome women there but Emmie envied 
 none. 
 
 And Reginald seemed to improve in her eyes. He was 
 easy tempered, most pleasant with the tongue and charm- 
 ing in all his ways. 
 
 They discussed the future slightly. It had already been 
 decided that they should go on living at Helston House, 
 and he showed Emmie some of the letters he had received 
 from men who had entered into correspondence with him 
 respecting his plan of trading with the East. 
 
 But Emmie with the blood flowing warm in her said he 
 needn't " be in a hurry to close with any of these corre- 
 spondents. . . . She had money enough. She liked a 
 
 343
 
 344 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 man to work, but still there was no need for him to risk 
 anything and if this trading with the East meant that he 
 would have to go to his Japan and China and Borneo for 
 
 long visits no fear. . . ." And as he held her to 
 
 him he seemed to have no wish to leave her for long spells 
 either. 
 
 When the honeymoon came to an end and they were 
 at Huston station ready for the journey home, Emmie was 
 full of the glow of gratitude in that she should have been 
 allowed to be so happy. She was proud of her husband. 
 She wanted to let Ganton see him. She had not made a 
 fool of herself in marrying again : she had mated herself 
 to a gentleman. She knew some of them would be jeal- 
 ous; they would say spiteful things. ... It didn't mat- 
 ter. She was married: she was well off: she owned T. 
 Booke and Son. They could say what they liked. 
 
 As the cab rolled up from Ganton Station up Manches- 
 ter Road, Emmie kept looking out of the window as if she 
 were eager to see and be seen. She pointed out Aunt 
 Jane's house and houses of friends. 
 
 Reginald held his wife's hand and seemed very inter- 
 ested in all the information he received, though he had 
 paid Ganton a visit before the wedding. 
 
 Ada came to the door with Tim and Alice, and Emmie 
 almost cried as she saw her children. It was just a wave 
 of some tender emotion that swept through, inexplicable 
 as the wind which bloweth where it listeth. 
 
 She kissed them both and they were full of a wild 
 excitement at seeing their mother and new father, the 
 beloved Mr. Tame. He behaved very well. 
 
 Emmie said : " Here is your new daddy, children." 
 
 Mr. Tame lifted Alice up and kissed her. " Are you 
 glad to see me ? "
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 345 
 
 " Oh ! Yes," and Alice hugged him round the neck 
 and kissed him freely. 
 
 " That's right. You, Tim?" 
 
 " Yes," and he put up his face to be kissed. " You are 
 going to live here, aren't you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "I am glad!" said Alice. 
 
 " So am I," added Tim. " Will you help me with my 
 sums? Miss Blake says it doesn't matter if we get shown 
 at home. I'm doing practice." 
 
 " Glorious," said Mr. Tame. " We'll practise to- 
 gether." 
 
 Emmie, in showing him over the house, felt a kind of 
 pride but at the same time a small anxiety that he should 
 approve. He had criticised some of the decoration in 
 the hotel in London and Emmie had suddenly said to her- 
 self : " I wonder what he'll think of home? " The idea 
 that he might say certain things were in bad taste had not 
 occurred before, and she almost wished she had got new 
 bits of carpet. . . . 
 
 But he behaved most tactfully, letting her see he was 
 very pleased with everything. 
 
 " Do you like it ? " she asked, as they walked upstairs. 
 
 " The palace of dreams." 
 
 "No, really?" 
 
 He put an arm round her. 
 
 " Don't you see you make everything of almost no ac- 
 count beside you? It's all splendid. I imagine walking 
 into this house and calling this " he drew her close to 
 him " mine." 
 
 " Well," she said, " it won't be a serious business to get 
 a few new things if we want. Here's the bedroom." 
 
 "Ours?" 
 
 " Yes. Doesn't it seem funny me showing you this? "
 
 346 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " It's all funny, darling. I am afraid every moment I 
 shall wake up and find it all a dream. I am really awake, 
 aren't I?" 
 
 He saw the works from the window and realised their 
 actuality. They seemed to give him a sense of substan- 
 tial security. 
 
 Ernest Mullins came in, and Emmie introduced the two 
 men. She felt a little stirred as she said : 
 
 " My Manager, Mr. Mullins. . . . My husband, Mr. 
 Tame." 
 
 The two men shook hands. 
 
 Ernest said : " Pleased to meet you." 
 
 Reginald replied : " I am certainly very pleased to 
 meet my wife's manager." 
 
 Ernest gave a little laugh and Emmie, hoping he was 
 quite impressed with her husband, also laughed a little. 
 
 " Ernest manages the business," she said. 
 
 Reginald offered a cigar to Ernest, who refused it, say- 
 ing he rarely smoked cigars. 
 
 " Well, how are things ? " Emmie asked. 
 
 " All right. Wool's gone up a bit and I think we shall 
 have to get that far blowing machine attended to. I don't 
 know what's the matter, but it's got out of order twice 
 this week." 
 
 " Oh! . . . How are orders coming in? " 
 
 " Very well. We're on full time and look like keep- 
 ing it up for a long while yet." 
 
 " Did Welton's send that cheque? " 
 
 " Yes came yesterday." 
 
 " Pay it in the bank." 
 
 " At once." 
 
 " That's right. Mr. Tame would like to see round 
 to-morrow you might go with him, Ernest."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 347 
 
 " Right, any time." 
 
 " Any time will suit me," said Mr. Tame. 
 
 They arranged to go round in the morning and then 
 Mr. Tame asked : " Do you do any business with the 
 East?" 
 
 " East ? " repeated Ernest. " What Turkey ? " 
 
 " I was rather thinking of Japan, China, the Dutch 
 Islands." 
 
 Ernest shook his head as if the suggestion were rather 
 weird. 
 
 " Yet there must be hats sold there? " 
 
 " Um-n." Ernest seemed to regard the statement as 
 of small moment. He was saying to himself that Mr. 
 Tame knew nothing about hats and couldn't teach him 
 (Ernest) anything. 
 
 Mr. Tame read something of this in Ernest's attitude. 
 
 " Still, you know your business, don't you ? " 
 
 " We should do," replied Ernest with a laugh and in 
 a tone and style that suggested Mr. Tame had better think 
 twice before meddling with a business he did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Reginald nodded and smoked his cigar. 
 
 As Ernest was leaving, Emmie said : " At ten o'clock 
 then, Ernest, Mr. Tame will come." 
 
 " Right. Good-night, Mr. Tame." 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. Mullins." 
 
 " Good-night, Ernest," said Emmie. 
 
 " Good-night, Mrs. Tame." 
 
 Emmie nodded pleasantly. 
 
 " He's been a very good manager, Reginald," said 
 Emmie, when Ernest had gone. 
 
 "Looks honest and reliable." 
 
 " He is that. I think it's time we had tea ; don't you 
 want some, dear? "
 
 348 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I suppose I do, but I still feel as if I were wandering 
 about in a palace of dreams " 
 
 Emmie smiled lovingly. 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 " How dare you? " he whispered. 
 
 She kissed him. She was supremely happy. Her 
 thoughts now were all wound round him. She wanted 
 him to be comfortable, to be satisfied with the house, with 
 the place, with the people. She wanted to dazzle him if 
 possible so that he would love her more for she was so 
 very much in love with him. 
 
 "Where are the children?" he asked. 
 
 " In the kitchen with Ada. I'm going to get tea 
 we'll have it here." 
 
 " Here " was the dining-room. 
 
 " Yes." He wondered for a moment if there was 
 another room, or if tea was occasionally served in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " The children and I often have our meals in the 
 kitchen," Emmie said. " Come and have a look at it." 
 
 She put her arm in his as they walked the little space 
 from the dining-room to the kitchen. 
 
 Both Tim and Alice rushed to Mr. Tame the moment 
 they saw him. 
 
 " Father," Alice said in his ears. 
 
 " That's right." 
 
 " I was going to say father, too," said Tim. 
 
 " Say it, Tim," Mr. Tame suggested. 
 
 " Father." 
 
 "Good! Doing lessons, Tim? " 
 
 " Not yet. I don't do them till after tea ; we haven't 
 much to-night some spellings and to write a short ac- 
 count of the Slaughter of the Innocents." 
 
 " I must help you with the Slaughter of the Innocents."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 349 
 
 " And will you help me, too, Father? " Alice asked. 
 
 " You haven't got lessons to do, surely ? " 
 
 " No, but when I have." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " These are my dollies," said Alice. " That's Ruby, 
 that's Rose, that's Jane, and that's Dorothy." 
 
 "What a family!" 
 
 Alice smiled proudly. 
 
 Emmie, watching the scene, was delighted to see her 
 husband and the children on such good terms. 
 
 " It's a big kitchen, isn't it? " she said. 
 
 " It is indeed as good a room as any in the house." 
 
 " Yes, well it's been used most. Now I'm going to 
 get tea. Ada, lay the table in the dining-room." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bollins called in the evening. They 
 were both dressed in their best and endeavoured to make 
 a good impression on their new son-in-law whose father 
 had been to Oxford University. They would probably 
 have preferred Emmie to have remained Mrs. Booke, but 
 since she hadn't the only thing was to make the best of 
 the situation. 
 
 Mr. Tame was very pleasant and both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bollins went home with a distinct liking for him. He 
 went to the door with them, took Mrs. Bollins by the 
 arm, gave Mr. Bollins two cigars, and bade them good- 
 night charmingly. 
 
 There was no visit that day from either Mr. Booke or 
 any of the aunts. Emmie said to herself : " They don't 
 want me to think they're in a hurry to come and see my 
 new husband." 
 
 As time went on and Reginald smoked and read the 
 evening paper, Emmie attended to some household duties. 
 
 The children had been in bed some time. Ada had 
 gone to bed. There was an air of quietness in the house.
 
 350 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie, accustomed to managing the house, had always 
 seen to the locking of the doors and the fastening of the 
 windows. Moreover, being her own mistress, she had 
 naturally gone to bed at whatever time she chose 
 within reasonable limits. In a town like Canton one 
 cannot do exactly as one wishes. Other people are con- 
 sidered. There is a public opinion bred in the minds of 
 the average resident of certain pretentions. For instance, 
 if your light is kept burning late too frequently that 
 becomes (or may become in the opinion of the imaginer) 
 a topic for discussion. It takes this form: Mrs. X. 
 doesn't mind her gas bill which suggests waste and a 
 disregard of economy. Or, " Mrs. X. sits up late she 
 can't be working till this hour. If she is, she's a bad 
 manager." There is apparently no escape. Of course, 
 you may ignore the comment or be indifferent to it : that 
 makes a difference. 
 
 Emmie had been influenced by her mother and her 
 aunts. She really had paid homage to Public Opinion or 
 the God called " What Will People Say? " and now she 
 felt as if her absolute freedom of worship was a little in 
 the balance. Things were different, of course, but even 
 now she could not wholly escape from the idea that peo- 
 ple might talk if they saw the light burning late. . . . 
 
 And there was another feeling: Who was going to 
 decide when it was bed time ? She was quite prepared to 
 allow that province to be her husband's, but he sat there 
 as if he might go on sitting there all night. . . . Was he 
 waiting for her? Should she make a move? She did 
 not quite like to be the one to suggest going to bed the 
 first night they reached home. . . . Tim had always 
 taken the lead, in a very easy and comfortable way, in 
 matters in which they were both concerned. Reginald 
 was not like Tim in many ways.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 351 
 
 " Ten o'clock you are going to see over the works, 
 Reginald, isn't it ? " she said, more to bring him to a sense 
 of the time then than for the sake of information. 
 
 He put down the paper. 
 
 " Yes, ten, my darling," he said, looking at her most 
 affectionately. " Are you coming, too ? " 
 
 " I don't think so you don't want me to." 
 
 " Not at all necessary, if you don't want: and I expect 
 you've seen over the place often enough." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She sat in the chair doing nothing, thinking if she 
 started saying anything of that kind he might be less 
 inclined for bed, or might imagine she wished to stay 
 up. 
 
 There was silence for a moment. He felt curious in 
 his new home. 
 
 " You know, Emmie," he said, " I think there ought to 
 be a good market in the East for hats; I don't see why 
 not. . . ." 
 
 " Um-m," Emmie was saying to herself. " Oh, let's 
 go to bed and not bother about hats now," but softening 
 it, imaginatively putting an arm round his neck and plead- 
 ing. Then quickly the thought came: Love is very 
 sweet and all that, but if you can get your husband into 
 the way that makes things run smoothly and suit you, so 
 much the better. . . . And the next moment she thought : 
 " Bless him ! I'd stay up all night if he wanted me 
 to." 
 
 " Emmie," he said, " you're sleepy." 
 
 She felt stirred at the way he said it. There was a 
 ring in it. 
 
 " Am I? " she said, smiling at him. 
 
 " Yes. I expect it's early to bed and early to rise here, 
 eh?"
 
 352 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "Oh! not that early: only I've been in the habit of 
 getting into bed by half-past ten or before eleven at 
 the latest." 
 
 " Eleven. . . . It's that now. Come on : I expect 
 we're both a bit fagged with the day's travelling." 
 
 Lest he should hesitate further, Emmie discreetly said : 
 "Will you lock up?" 
 
 "Lock up ... Lord! I never locked up in my life. 
 You do it, darling. I expect you'll do it ever so much 
 better than I shall." 
 
 Emmie, glad to feel that at last they were going to 
 bed, went to the front door, side door, and back door, 
 and pushed bolts and turned keys. She looked at the 
 kitchen grate to see if the fire was out or harmless, then 
 at the windows to see if the catches were all fastened. 
 
 When she had made her round she came back to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 " I'm ready," she said. 
 
 He beckoned her playfully. 
 
 She felt very tired and wanted very badly to go to bed, 
 but the hint of love in Reginald's attitude made her walk 
 to him with a kind of fierce joy, a mingling of sweet and 
 bitter. 
 
 He drew her to him. 
 
 " And did you think I was going to be left alone when 
 I turned this light out? In the dark with the loved one 
 and I groping to a door-way. . . ." 
 
 Emmie looked at him, wondering whether he were act- 
 ing or really serious. 
 
 " Just imagine," he went on, " I with her in my arms 
 her, mind you the her of all hers " he kissed her 
 " the light is out. . . . Phew. . . ." 
 
 " Silly ! " she said, feeling very happy. " Do you real- 
 ise I'm an old married woman ? " She felt she could try
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 353 
 
 that on him now and her sleepiness seemed to have van- 
 ished as with a wizard's wand. 
 
 " Old married woman. . . ." He lifted her chin and 
 bent back her head. " Not much of the old married 
 woman about you you darling." 
 
 He knew he stirred her. Her breast heaved and fell 
 and her eyes were brilliant. He kissed her on both 
 cheeks and then on the lips. 
 
 Emmie thought Tim was all right, but this is Heaven. 
 And I haven't got to try any dodges, and my figure's my 
 own. . . . 
 
 Reginald turned out the light. 
 
 " And now to bed, as Mr. Pepys would write," he said. 
 
 Emmie realised that her husband could make her for- 
 get fatigue and almost anything if he wanted. . . . 
 
 Reginald had certainly got the art of dressing taste- 
 fully and Emmie was very glad he looked so well in his 
 clothes; but she wondered the next morning if he were 
 going to wear a clean collar every day and surely not 
 a clean shirt too! 
 
 She was down first and told Ada breakfast was to be 
 served in the dining-room. 
 
 The children were very glad to see " father," and he 
 was really very nice with them. Moreover, he seemed to 
 be agreeable with them naturally, and not as if he were 
 forcing himself to do something he did not like. 
 
 At ten o'clock, Emmie, who was now wearing an apron 
 and making the beds, came downstairs and said : " I ex- 
 pect Ernest will wait for you in the office, Reginald." 
 
 "Oh. ... Then I'll go to him." He put down the 
 Guardian and said : " Which way, dear ? " 
 
 Emmie showed him the way and Ernest was waiting 
 for him in the yard.
 
 354 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Ernest had to admit that Mr. Tame took a very keen 
 interest in what he was shown. His questions were sen- 
 sible and business-like. At the end of the tour, when 
 they had visited almost every room in the factory, the 
 two men stood in Ernest's little office which adjoined the 
 counting-house. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Tame, " it seems to me hat-making 
 is a question of turn-over and enterprise." 
 
 Ernest nodded. 
 
 " If," said Mr. Tame, " the turn-over were doubled 
 certain fixed charges would not be increased at all; 
 hats could be sold cheaper and there would be a bigger 
 profit." 
 
 Again Ernest nodded. 
 
 "Of course, every hat manufacturer could say that," 
 he said. 
 
 " Quite true, and why not? " 
 
 Ernest moved a little uneasily. 
 
 " Easier said than done, I suppose." 
 
 " I find that the big firms in anything are those who 
 won't stand still, who go ahead, who, when they see a 
 thing is sound and profitable, go for it but go for it 
 properly." 
 
 " Um . . . um. . . . I've seen one or two hatters 
 come a cropper through going for things as they thought." 
 
 Ernest seemed to talk as if he were somewhat antago- 
 nistic. 
 
 Mr. Tame nodded. 
 
 " Well, thanks very much," he said, " for showing me 
 over. I hope I haven't interfered with your work at 
 all." 
 
 " I am glad to have been of any assistance," Ernest 
 replied, won to a little more pleasantness by Mr. Tame's 
 agreeable ways.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 355 
 
 Emmie was in the kitchen, with a big white apron in 
 front of her when Reginald returned from his visit round 
 the works. She was busy making pies, and kept dipping 
 her hand in a little basin to take out flour, to sprinkle on 
 the paste which she promptly rolled with a very clean 
 looking wooden roller. 
 
 She smiled as her husband came in. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of the works? " 
 
 " Very interesting, most beautiful hatter. I have an 
 idea you could do a lot more business if your man Ernest 
 had a little more enterprise." 
 
 "Oh ... he's very reliable." 
 
 " Yes. But the people who get on, the people who do 
 really big things, you know, are something more than re- 
 liable. Men that you can trust ought really to be cheap. 
 It means keeping in the same old rut, and being careful 
 not to upset the cart, but the same old ruts lead to the 
 same old places, my dear little Emmie. . . . I've seen 
 firms grow seen them grow from small things to big. 
 It's when they open their eyes and find markets where 
 they never dreamt of them that they begin to go ahead." 
 
 Emmie rolled her paste. 
 
 " This is an old established firm." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And has done very well, too." 
 
 " Also ran, my darling." 
 
 " Also ran. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, love. ... It has struck me, Emmie, that there 
 is not merely a nice income in this business but wealth 
 big wealth wealth beyond the dreams of avar- 
 ice." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't object to the wealth coming if we 
 don't spoil what we've got." 
 
 " You don't do that. Fresh markets are all to the
 
 356 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 good surely. Why, there are markets in the East, for 
 instance, that could double the output of this factory 
 easily." 
 
 " Did you say anything to Ernest about this ? " 
 
 " Well, Ernest gave me the impression of being in- 
 clined to the critical side. He was very willing to show 
 me all there was to be seen and tell me all I wished to 
 know : but I fancy I caught a hint in his mind of the 
 man who wondered what this husband of his mistress was 
 really after should I do him out of his job some- 
 thing of that kind." 
 
 "Oh ... Reginald!" 
 
 " True, oh ! Emmie, my darling. However, we can 
 make allowances for the importance of being Ernest, 
 still there's the problem. I expect these works have done 
 fairly well and so everybody is content if they don't do 
 any worse." 
 
 " I am," said Emmie, quickly. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked, coming near to her. 
 
 " It's going to be a tart red-currant and raspberry : 
 do you like it? " 
 
 " I like it, but I wonder if I shall have the impudence 
 to eat what my blessed wife has made." 
 
 "Silly!" 
 
 He stroked her cheek. 
 
 Emmie felt the difference between her two husbands. 
 Tim loved her and was always kind and considerate, but 
 he never fussed her in quite the same charming way that 
 Reginald did. And she loved this fussing and these 
 pretty speeches. 
 
 " What are you going to do now? " she asked. 
 
 " I am going to enquire into the export trade in hats, 
 darling." 
 
 Emmie looked at him. She was pleased and fright-
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 357 
 
 ened a little pleased that he was taking such an interest 
 in her business, and frightened lest things happened. . . . 
 She had au fond the woman's great belief in security. 
 
 "How? Where?" 
 
 " Somewhere. I think I'll run down to Manchester." 
 
 " Dinner is at one." 
 
 " Oh . . . with the red-currant and raspberry tart. 
 . . . Couldn't miss it for all the trade of the East. I'll 
 go to-morrow, darling, and take a stroll round Canton's 
 streets this morning." 
 
 At that moment the yard door creaked and Emmie, 
 looking through the window, to see who opened the door, 
 waited for a moment and then said : " Grandpa ! . . . It's 
 Grandpa," she said, and at once put down the paste and 
 roller, wiped her hands on a towel near and went to greet 
 Mr. Booke. 
 
 She opened the door as he came up the steps and said : 
 " I am glad to see you," and kissed him as he entered. 
 
 He betrayed very little emotion : it was difficult to say 
 if he were moved or not. 
 
 He said : " I thought I'd come and see you and your 
 new husband." 
 
 One might have detected a trace of reproach in the 
 tone of the last two words: they were not cordially ut- 
 tered. 
 
 " Here I am," said Reginald very pleasantly, and Mr. 
 Booke, a little surprised, stood his ground stolidly. 
 
 Reginald held out his hand. 
 
 Emmie said : " That's Mr. Tame, Grandpa," in a tone 
 that was just a little charged with emotion, as if she 
 pleaded delicately for friendship. 
 
 Mr. Booke very slowly put out his hand and eyed Regi- 
 nald keenly and critically. 
 
 " You soon made up your minds," he said.
 
 358 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Yes," replied Reginald, " there was no wisdom in 
 delay." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Let's hope not. May I ask what your 
 line of business is?" 
 
 " I've been travelling in the East." 
 
 " On commission ? " 
 
 " Partly, and partly on salary." 
 
 " Made a lot o' money, I expect." 
 
 Reginald struck an easy attitude. 
 
 " There's plenty to be made in the East." 
 
 " Chaps as are steady and work hard if they've got 
 level heads can make money anywhere. Have you got 
 a business now ? " 
 
 " I was about to set up as a merchant buying from 
 and selling to the East." 
 
 " Oh . . . and got married instead." 
 
 " Got married not necessarily instead," said Regi- 
 nald very pleasantly. 
 
 " Will you stay to dinner, Grandpa? " said Emmie, not 
 liking Reginald to be too closely cross-examined about his 
 business. 
 
 " No, thank you. You got enough to feed." 
 
 " Well, sit down a minute." 
 
 " I won't stay. I wanted to see you and your . . . 
 new husband. Let's see, what did you say you were 
 doing now, Mr. . . . Mr. . . ." 
 
 " Tame." 
 
 "Tame, ay?" 
 
 " I was, as I said, about to set up in business as an 
 Eastern merchant." 
 
 " Oh ! Ay. . . . And got married while you were 
 doing it. ... Lucky your wife's got a home and an in- 
 come."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 359 
 
 " I'm very lucky to have got such a wife," said Regi- 
 nald. 
 
 " Ay, I agree with you." 
 
 " Have you been away yet, Grandpa ? " asked Emmie, 
 desiring to drag the conversation into a channel that 
 would lead them away from a discussion of her husband's 
 business, which was apparently something at which 
 Grandpa could direct his quiet sarcasm. 
 
 Mr. Booke shook his head. 
 
 " Not yet. The children all right? " 
 
 "Oh! Yes." 
 
 " From all accounts you were very clever at Blackpool. 
 You two." 
 
 Reginald did not seem to mind Grandpa's conversation 
 very much ; but his nature was of that easy, comfortable 
 kind that is not quickly depressed. Emmie could bear 
 up to a point and then she retorted; but she had never 
 retorted yet to Mr. Booke, and at this time she felt he 
 was to be permitted to say a few nasty things if he wished. 
 
 Reginald was saying to himself : " Fine old chap . . . 
 could give anybody Hell if he wanted . . . doesn't like 
 me . . . perhaps natural . . . has a tongue . . . doesn't 
 mind if he makes things a bit uncomfortable . . . lucky 
 your wife's got a home and income -the devil! ... It 
 is lucky all the same. . . ." 
 
 Reginald almost had a smile on his face as if he could 
 see the little comedy of soul being played there in that 
 kitchen with an eye, a mind undisturbed. 
 
 Emmie said, in answer to the charge of cleverness : 
 
 " You have to be clever sometimes, Grandpa." 
 
 He took time over his replies. 
 
 " Ay, you can be too clever sometimes. ... I like 
 straightforward people myself."
 
 360 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I think we all do," said Reginald quickly, but very 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Grandpa felt the hit. 
 
 Emmie dashed in with : " We shouldn't have hidden 
 it from anybody, only I wasn't going to be lectured and 
 made miserable about it. If we wanted to get married 
 why should other people keep lecturing us ? " 
 
 After a pause Mr. Booke said : " Well, it's done now. 
 You must make the best of it." 
 
 When he had gone Reginald said to Emmie: 
 " Grandpa is not too benevolently disposed." 
 
 " Well, you must not mind. Tim was his only son . . . 
 and these works were his." 
 
 " I don't mind at all," said Reginald. " These things 
 are like fungi and wet days and finding yourself without 
 tobacco you must put up with 'em and when you've 
 got a darling wife to help you to put up with 'em " 
 
 He had now got Emmie's face in his hands and he 
 kissed her. 
 
 " Let me get on with this pie," she said, " or we shan't 
 have dinner by two o'clock." She put her hand on the 
 oven door. " And that oven's drawing beautifully." 
 
 After tea Emmie and Reginald had another ordeal for 
 the three aunts called. 
 
 They came to the front door and Ada let them in. 
 Their expressions were those of people who had sternly 
 adopted a certain attitude and that not an affable one. 
 Their backs were stiff. Mrs. Grass even refused to break 
 into a smile. 
 
 Emmie and Reginald rose as Mrs. Holten led the sis- 
 ters into the dining-room. 
 
 Emmie went towards them with a little more than her 
 usual warmth as if she would make up for the lack of
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 361 
 
 confidence, but was chilled at once. There were no kisses 
 exchanged. They all shook hands. " How do you do? 
 . . . How do you do ? ... How do you do ? " 
 
 Reginald said cheerily : 
 
 " I think we have met before," to Mrs. Grass and Miss 
 Booke. 
 
 Mrs. Grass said, " Yes," and relaxed a trifle. Miss 
 Booke also said, " Yes," but as if she had been keeping 
 the word on ice. 
 
 " Mrs. Holten, isn't it? " he said, holding out his hand 
 to that lady. 
 
 Emmie said, " Yes," and wondered what was going to 
 happen. 
 
 Mrs. Holten shook hands very coldly, and then said : 
 
 " We may as well be frank, Emmie ; we don't think you 
 treated us well." 
 
 " Sit down," said Emmie, and after a moment's hesi- 
 tation they all occupied chairs, but in such a fashion as to 
 suggest a temporary discomfort. 
 
 " Perhaps not," continued Emmie, " but you didn't 
 seem to approve at Blackpool, and so I thought it best to 
 keep the whole thing quiet." 
 
 " Cowardice," said Miss Booke. 
 
 " Call it what you like," said Emmie. " Perhaps it 
 was. But if I had told you in Blackpool, you well, I 
 don't know what you would have said or done, but I 
 don't think you would havfe enjoyed the holiday as much 
 as you did." 
 
 " That," said Mrs. Holten, " is a weak excuse. We 
 are Tim's aunts. You wouldn't be in this house now if 
 you hadn't married our nephew, and the least you could 
 have done was to have told us when you were engaged 
 to be married again." 
 
 " The very least," added Miss Booke.
 
 362 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " After all," said Mrs. Grass, " we have your interests 
 at heart, Emmie." 
 
 " Well, I'm very happy, Aunt Sophia." 
 
 " Very happy . . . and Tim scarcely cold," said Miss 
 Booke, sitting bolt upright and looking at the window 
 curtains towards Christ Church graveyard. 
 
 Emmie bit her lip. She took refuge in silence. 
 
 Reginald to himself said, " What a corpse! " 
 
 " You shouldn't forget, Emmie," continued Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten, as if some set remarks had been decided upon before- 
 hand as proper and fit for the occasion, " that as all you 
 possess comes from our family, from the Bookes, we natu- 
 rally looked to you to treat us with some consideration." 
 
 " Consideration ! " repeated Aunt Jane, withering the 
 word. 
 
 " We had a right to expect that. ... In fact, I can't 
 think of any nice minded woman in your position who 
 would have suddenly written to us, under the circum- 
 stances, to tell us so coolly she was married." 
 
 " For the second time," added Aunt Jane grimly, sit- 
 ting with folded arms. 
 
 " Yes ... so soon after Tim's death," said Mrs. Hoi- 
 ten, with an approach at solemnity and feeling. 
 
 " It wouldn't have happened," said Emmie, " if you 
 hadn't gone on at Blackpool." 
 
 " Gone on," snapped Miss Booke ; " what do you mean 
 by gone on ? " 
 
 "If you hadn't said so much," said Emmie, a little 
 warmly. Her face was flushed now and she was pre- 
 paring to hit back. 
 
 " Excuse me a moment, ladies," said Reginald, " I am 
 interested in this conversation. After all, it is surely 
 not a very serious thing that our engagement was kept 
 secret from you. Emmie has told you the reason. Of
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 363 
 
 course, we are sorry if you feel hurt very sorry. We 
 apologise. There was no intention of hurting you: it 
 was merely to keep to the line of what was most agreeable 
 we did, I think at least Emmie did let you know as 
 soon as anybody else knew " 
 
 " Excuse me," said Miss Booke, moving a little hori- 
 zontally on her chair, for she could not improve her per- 
 pendicular attitude, " but as you have thought fit, Mr. 
 Tame, to interfere, I suppose you won't mind answering a 
 few questions." 
 
 Mr. Tame smiled very politely. 
 
 " It will, of course," he said, " depend to some extent 
 what those questions are." 
 
 Miss Booke, feeling he had scored a small point by his 
 manner, moved again on her chair. 
 
 " Family questions," she said as she thought, smartly. 
 " As you are one of the family, I think we have a right 
 to know something . . . about you." 
 
 " I am quite willing to tell you anything about myself 
 that you have a right to know." 
 
 " Will you tell us what you are ? " 
 
 " I suppose I might describe myself as a traveller." 
 
 " A commercial traveller ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The ladies looked at each other. They did not despise 
 commercial travellers, having too much knowledge of 
 business and enough common sense; but this was an ex- 
 ceptional case. They felt themselves at liberty to find 
 holes where they could in this present matter. 
 
 " And are you travelling for a firm now ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Out of work ? " asked Miss Booke, quickly. 
 
 Emmie began to look uncomfortable. Even Reginald 
 was piqued.
 
 364 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I have been travelling in the East Japan, China, 
 the F. M. S., Java all the Dutch East Indies, and I 
 came back to set up in business for myself as a merchant." 
 
 That sounded better. 
 
 Miss Booke was bold. 
 
 " Then you have money? " 
 
 " Some," he replied. 
 
 " I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask how much ? " 
 ventured Mrs. Holten, just a trifle diffidently. 
 
 " I think it would," he replied very urbanely, and 
 Emmie felt as if she could clap her hands. She wanted 
 to shriek at her aunts for their prying, interfering ways. 
 
 " Emmie, by the death of her late husband," said Miss 
 Booke, " has inherited money and these works T. 
 Booke and Son. Of course, it's very nice for a man 
 without money to come into a bit by marrying her; but 
 we shall always look on what Emmie has as Booke money. 
 It was made by Bookes and ought to be kept for Bookes. 
 There are two children, you know, by Emmie's first hus- 
 band, and all poor Tim left should be theirs. ... If only 
 Tim had known he would have left a different will " 
 
 Emmie burst into tears. 
 
 Reginald went to her at once. 
 
 "It's all right, darling," he muttered. "Buck up! 
 It doesn't matter." He turned to the aunts. " I think, 
 if you don't mind, we'll close this topic : it isn't very 
 pleasant for Emmie, and I must admit you can't be ac- 
 cused of a lack of frankness." 
 
 " It's better than being hypocrites," snapped Aunt Jane. 
 
 Mrs. Holten rose and the other two took the signal 
 from her. 
 
 Mrs. Holten, holding her hands in front of her and 
 standing very erect, addressed Emmie : " We shan't 
 worry you any more now, Emmie. We shall keep friends
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 365 
 
 for Tim's sake and the children's. We shall be glad 
 to see you, but you mustn't think we approve. We have 
 said what we have said to-day because we thought it our 
 duty." 
 
 " A duty to poor dead Tim," added Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie was almost sobbing, but Reginald by her side 
 soothed her. 
 
 " I will show you out," he said to his relatives by mar- 
 riage quite politely, and led the way to the door, where 
 they followed with a strained dignity, feeling a little 
 angry that he behaved so politely. 
 
 When they had gone, he came back to Emmie. 
 
 " Don't let it worry you, darling," he said, putting an 
 arm round her. " They are number one size, twenty-two 
 carat cats. They would have had pyramids erected over 
 them in Egypt. . . . Well, I'm damned ! . . . They take 
 Huntley and Palmer's works. . . . What has Aunt Jane 
 got inside her ? blood or vinegar ? . . . Ye Gods ! 
 And they'll be friends . . . and only do this from a sense 
 of duty Oh! my God! Emmie, that lot should be 
 packed off to the East by the first boat, to an island I 
 know where the natives still indulge in cannibalism and 
 don't mind a little waltz with a victim first. . . . Phew! 
 Come on, we'll go to Manchester to the theatre and forget 
 these blessed aunts for the moment." 
 
 Emmie looked up at him. She had stopped crying. 
 She felt very grateful to him for the way he had acted 
 before her aunts at any rate they saw he was in love 
 with her. She did not regret what had happened because 
 Reginald had come so beautifully to her side and behaved 
 like a gentleman. 
 
 Her face was still drawn, but she put her hands on his 
 shoulders and they kissed.
 
 366 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Get ready," he said. 
 
 "Shall we?" 
 
 " Yes, we'll wash out the taste of Aunts Jane, Maria, 
 and Sophia at the Royal or the Princess let's see what's 
 on. . . . The Geisha's a capital piece. We shall forget 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity absolutely watching the blessed 
 Geisha. So quick, Emmie, darling . . . we'll catch the 
 next train. We've just time." 
 
 And Emmie said to herself as she went upstairs: 
 " They can say what they like, but if I had my chance 
 back I'd do it again ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 - TAME made no effort to carry into effect this 
 scheme for establishing himself in business as an 
 Importer and Exporter from and to the East. Neither 
 did Emmie press him. She was so happy with him that 
 she would not disturb the joyful current of their lives. 
 The years of widowhood had given her a renewed zest 
 in married life and she flung herself into the duty of con- 
 sidering her man with a fine enthusiasm. Reginald had 
 suggested they should have a joint private banking ac- 
 count and she willingly agreed. Why not? Husband 
 and wife surely were one. 
 
 But though her husband followed no settled occupation 
 he took a great deal of interest in hatting. He went over 
 T. Booke and Son's frequently: he talked to Ernest and 
 also Mr. Booke and Emmie. He had apparently ideas 
 on business that were large and sound, having imbibed 
 them from his association with the big firms he had repre- 
 sented in the East. 
 
 " Double, treble, quadruple your turn-over and that's 
 when you begin to make headway," he would say to 
 Ernest, who used to shake his head a good deal and fancy 
 that if only Mr. Tame knew a bit more about hatting he'd 
 talk a little less about it. All very well saying double, 
 treble, quadruple your turnover you had to do it. 
 
 Mr. Booke's views seemed to be almost a replica of 
 Ernest's but they were sparingly expressed. The Bookes 
 were cautious if shrewd, and old Timothy in listening to 
 Reginald (whom he did not dislike to put it imposi- 
 tively) would wonder occasionally if the ideas were those 
 
 367
 
 368 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 of a brilliant business man or of a dreamer. Yet he could 
 not find flaws in the arguments : he merely raised difficul- 
 ties and generally ended by shrugging his shoulders and 
 declaring that, after all, the works were no longer his. 
 
 The fact that Reginald talked over these business ideas 
 with " Grandpa " pleased Emmie, especially when she 
 learned that Grandpa could find little to say against them. 
 She was glad because it put Reginald, her husband, in a 
 favourable light. Grandpa would see she had not mar- 
 ried a fool but a smart business man as well as a gentle- 
 man. Even when Reginald talked to Ernest about busi- 
 ness Emmie was pleased : it all seemed to reflect well on 
 her. She could say (imaginatively), " Isn't my husband 
 clever as well as a gentleman? Are you surprised I mar- 
 ried him ? I've got something about me to attract a man 
 like that, haven't I ? He could have married any time if 
 he'd wanted and he asked me " and that, of course, 
 heightened her love for Reginald. 
 
 Emmie, Reginald and Ernest were in the dining-room 
 discussing business. Reginald had firmly persuaded him- 
 self and Emmie that what they ought to pursue was a 
 forward policy. 
 
 " No trade can stand still," he said, " and it isn't that 
 they can't make hats in Ganton." 
 
 Ernest gave a little laugh. 
 
 " Beat anybody," he said. 
 
 " Exactly. One can see that from the returns. Do we 
 do any shipping business? " 
 
 Ernest shook his head. 
 
 " Not much. We get an order now and again for 
 Canada or Brazil, but not much : our's is a home trade." 
 
 " Any reason why we shouldn't do both ? " 
 
 " We've never bothered much with shippers. We take 
 their orders of course, but we don't run after them."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 369 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 Ernest looked a bit piqued. 
 
 " I'm not fault finding don't think that," said Regi- 
 nald. " I expect T. Booke & Son never did run after 
 shipping orders." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But so far as I can see there is no reason, is there, 
 why they shouldn't? " 
 
 Ernest paused. 
 
 " It's a different line." 
 
 "Does that matter?" 
 
 " The lines that we go on pay fairly well." 
 
 " Yes. But what is there against our forging ahead ? 
 Why shouldn't we try and double our output ? " 
 
 " No reason at all." 
 
 " But we don't do it. Mr. Booke never did it and the 
 system, which pays fairly well, let us admit that, still goes 
 on. Now I don't believe in standing still. I have been 
 connected with firms that sent men all round the world 
 that's the way to do business. That shows imagination 
 and enterprise and it pays. Of course there is no rea- 
 son why we shouldn't try and get all the trade we can at 
 home : the home market is a good one the best from 
 many points of view but you have to compete with 
 every hat manufacturer in Canton and in the country for 
 that, whereas you only compete with a few firms when you 
 go so far afield. Most businesses, between you and me, 
 Ernest, are run in this country on the theory that foreign 
 trade is risky and troublesome and not to be bothered with 
 unless you are absolutely forced to do it. And then some 
 of them do it as if they conferred a favour on the poor 
 foreigner by dealing with him. I've seen it. . Well 
 known English firms will deal with big Chinese Importers 
 on the Take-it-as-I-send-it-or-do-without-it system;
 
 370 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 whereas the German says, What do you want? Packed 
 in small boxes? Certainly. Another label? Certainly. 
 Made a bit longer? Certainly. Anything we can do to 
 oblige certainly. The Englishman says : What ! dif- 
 ferent length, different weight, different label! oh! be 
 damned to you and your orders ! " 
 
 Emmie and Ernest laughed. 
 
 " I've heard these Germans are very pushing," said 
 Ernest, " but they're no good at hatting." 
 
 (This conversation took place, of course, long before 
 the war.) 
 
 " No." 
 
 " If it weren't for their big tariff there'd scarcely be a 
 German made hat in Germany." 
 
 " So I understand. But," continued Reginald, " we 
 can do with copying a few of their ways. Success in busi- 
 ness comes to those who see far and wide, don't stick in a 
 rut and work hard. Just listen. I suppose we can turn 
 out about roughly say five hundred to seven hundred 
 dozen a week : that's our capacity. But it doesn't matter : 
 I'll imagine we can do a thousand dozen a week. Then 
 suppose we turned out two thousand dozen would our 
 working expenses be twice as much? Not at all. That 
 second thousand dozen might not cost more than thirty or, 
 if you like, fifty per cent., of what the first thousand cost. 
 But since we only make one thousand and not two we 
 have to regulate our prices accordingly. Now let's see : 
 suppose we make one thousand dozen hats and decide to 
 charge thirty-six shillings a dozen, what could we charge 
 if we made two thousand dozen? We'll suppose the 
 second thousand cost fifty per cent, of what the first thou- 
 sand cost, which is eighteen shillings a dozen or an average 
 of twenty-seven shillings! I don't say the figures are
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 371 
 
 right actually they are probably not but they point 
 to a fact that if you can increase your output you can de- 
 crease your charges without decreasing your profit. In 
 fact you can undersell the man who only turns out his five 
 hundred or thousand dozen, and you can actually get a 
 bigger profit on each dozen you sell, too ! " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " You understand, Emmie? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so," said Emmie, who had put down her 
 work-basket now, for Reginald talked so easily and 
 clearly she grasped his point easily and was deeply inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "You follow, Ernest?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's the point to aim at," continued Reginald ; " of 
 course, if you make rotten stuff it doesn't matter if you 
 make five hundred or five thousand dozen you won't sell 
 them. But we can make hats. T. Booke & Son is an 
 established business and has proved its capacity to make 
 hats, and you, Ernest, can see that that goes on, can't 
 you?" 
 
 " I think so," said Ernest, pleased at the recognition of 
 his ability. 
 
 " So that if we increased our output, we could keep 
 up the quality of our goods, which is of a recognized 
 saleable standard, and lower the price ? " 
 
 Y yes." 
 
 " If we lowered our prices we should expect to get more 
 orders?" 
 
 " That's it Suppose we didn't? " 
 
 " I won't suppose anything of the kind. If we can sell 
 five hundred dozen of an article that is in common use like 
 a hat by charging thirty-six shillings a dozen we shall sell
 
 372 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 more if we offer the same hat at thirty or thirty-three 
 shillings. Particularly if we go into any and every 
 market that we can reach. . . . Eh ? " 
 
 Ernest was silent: he was not to be hastened into en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 (Emmie looked from Reginald to Ernest to watch the 
 effects of her husband's argument, which really astonished 
 her. She thought : "If only Aunt Jane and Aunt Maria 
 could hear him now.". . . Also she was assimilating the 
 whole point in its practical side.) 
 
 " We can increase our output at present by something 
 I don't know what : you might know, Ernest with- 
 out incurring much expense. For instance, those boilers 
 would serve for the making of fifteen hundred or two 
 thousand dozen just as easily as for what they do now. 
 We have room in some of those sheds for more planks 
 that's rent saved. But in my opinion that's tinkering. 
 We could get more orders by going to new markets but 
 then we only offer the hats we make now at our present 
 prices. I think we should prepare to turn out fifteen hun- 
 dred dozen a week : I'm not particular about the precise 
 number, only I think we ought to double our present ca- 
 pacity. Then we have a splendid article to offer and we 
 ought to sell it without any trouble." 
 
 Emmie said: " What do you think, Ernest?" 
 
 " It means money." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie. " How w 7 ould you double our 
 present capacity, Reginald?" 
 
 " Build, dear, and get new machinery." 
 
 " But that would mean spending a lot of money ! " 
 
 " It would." 
 
 " And where's the money to come from? " 
 
 " We must raise it. If we haven't got it all we can 
 surely get the balance by mortgaging the works."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 373 
 
 " Mortgage," said Emmie, to whom the word was 
 something of ill omen, something that generally turned 
 out a sinister and horrible thing in a tale. 
 
 " Risky," said Ernest, shaking his head. 
 
 " It was risky to start these works at all," said Reginald 
 with a laugh. " Surely it isn't more risky to enlarge when 
 these have proved a success. Have we got less pluck than 
 the original Mr. Booke ? It's the firms that risk on sound 
 business lines that get on and do the trade that's going. 
 Stick-in-the-muds have no chance. Besides, our machin- 
 ery is out of date." 
 
 Emmie looked at Ernest as if that was something in- 
 teresting to him. 
 
 Ernest looked uneasy. Out of date machinery. . . . 
 
 He said : "It's doing fairly well for us." 
 
 " Yes, but it's out of date. Have you seen the new 
 machine for weighing fur bodies ? " 
 
 Emmie looked very surprised. How did Reginald 
 know all about this ? She was totally ignorant of the new 
 machine for weighing fur bodies. . . . 
 
 Ernest said almost sulkily : " I saw it at the Exhibi- 
 tion." 
 
 "At Manchester?" asked Emmie. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What is it? "she asked. 
 
 " Ernest will explain it," said Reginald. " He 
 knows the details of those things much better than I 
 do." 
 
 Ernest, flattered a little, was pleasanter : 
 
 " Very ingenious," he said. " You know how the fur 
 body is made now. The fur's blown on a cone and taken 
 off when the man think's there's enough on. But with 
 the new machinery the fur's weighed first." 
 
 " That means," said Reginald, " that every hat is the
 
 374 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 same weight. No variation you see sorry I interrupted 
 you, Ernest go on." 
 
 " Then after being weighed the fur is carried into the 
 box-like arrangement where a fan underneath draws it on 
 to a cone, that's revolving all the time and when there is 
 enough fur on a bell rings. Out goes the cone, another 
 lot of fur comes in. ... Oh ! very ingenious. American 
 invention I believe. Smart chaps these Yankees." 
 
 " Yes," said Reginald. 
 
 " I should like to see it," said Emmie. 
 
 " We'll have one fixed up," said Reginald, " and see 
 how it works." 
 
 Is he the master already ? thought Ernest. 
 
 Emmie had a similar thought, but it rounded itself with : 
 He can do what he likes if he won't ruin me. 
 
 " You can't afford to neglect inventions," said Reginald. 
 " Every firm should allow so much every year for the 
 trial of new dodges and machinery, otherwise somebody 
 will get in front of them. We all allow for bad debts, 
 why not for the trying of things that might turn out 
 profitable ? There's another thing, Ernest, have you ever 
 gone into the figures of the foreign trade in hats?" 
 
 " Well . . . not particularly," said Ernest. " Smith 
 Sons & Kemp do a lot with Canada and J. K. P. & Co. 
 used to do a lot with Australia. About 6,000 a year 
 they used to do, but the tariff knocked them down to 600 
 that's foreign trade." (Ernest thought he had 
 scored.) 
 
 " That's all business. Every big firm loses a good 
 market one day and finds another the next. I expect 
 J. K. P. & Co. didn't go under because they lost a trade 
 of five thousand a year with some one." 
 
 " No. They say they're doing very well with Japan
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 37; 
 
 Reginald laughed. So did Emmie. 
 
 " I'll give you some figures. They are only 1894 re- 
 turns but they will serve." He took out a piece of paper 
 from his pocket and began to read : 
 
 " Sweden & Norway 4910 dozen 10492 
 
 that's what they took in 1894 from this country. 
 
 " Denmark 4142 dozen 7,260 
 
 Germany 23164 
 
 Holland 11808 
 
 Belgium 29798 
 
 France 40175 
 
 Roumania 3896 
 
 Turkey 1699 
 
 Egypt 1013 
 
 United States 8695 
 
 Brazil 8945 
 
 British South Africa 47295 
 
 New South Wales 31816 
 
 Canada 84506 
 
 31,228 
 24,693 
 47,962 
 59,609 
 2,701 
 
 3,184 
 2418 
 18,476 
 6*1,245 
 64,385 
 34,598 
 99,896 
 
 and others. A bit of trade there, Ernest." 
 
 " Ay. ... I didn't think it was so big." 
 
 " How did you find all that out ? " asked Emmie, glow- 
 ing with pride in her brilliant husband. 
 
 " Out of a periodical I saw lying in the office." 
 
 "Oh! Urn . . ." said Ernest. "I don't often read 
 it." He referred to the technical paper. 
 
 " We sent out of this country apparently in 1894," said 
 Reginald, " something like 632,649 worth of hats. Now 
 I suggest that with enterprise a great many more could 
 have been exported : but in any case there is room for T. 
 Booke & Son in that trade. Also we don't want to stop 
 at a profit of fifteen hundred pounds a year: we ought to 
 make three thousand, five thousand ten thousand " 
 
 " Reginald ! " said Emmie, looking magnificently aston- 
 ished. 
 
 Ernest laughed.
 
 370 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " It's easy talking," he said. 
 
 " You think it over," said Reginald. " The sooner we 
 start preparing to double our capacity, having also an eye 
 on a second doubling, the better. Have a cigar, Ernest? " 
 
 " I don't mind if I do," said Ernest. 
 
 "And a whiskey?" 
 
 " And a whiskey. . . . We've got something to think 
 of," he said with a laugh that seemed made up of hope 
 and fear. 
 
 " Yes a glorious business," said Reginald. 
 
 Unostentatiously, without any fuss and with a graceful 
 ease Reginald took in hand the management of T. Booke 
 & Son. Ernest was not displaced and Reginald never 
 attempted to interfere in any of the technical processes of 
 hatting, but the new master slipped easily into position. 
 
 Emmie was really very pleased. What could be better 
 than that her business should be her husband's? If she 
 had continued making hats and Reginald had thrown his 
 energies in some other direction their interests to some 
 extent would have been divided. Besides, Reginald's en- 
 try into the firm had been accomplished not only tactfully 
 and without ruffling anybody's sensibilities (save members 
 of the Booke family, the ladies of which were as fretful 
 as porcupines, and Timothy, as suspicious as he was 
 anxious), but to Emmie, at any rate, great prosperity 
 seemed to be the promise of it. 
 
 The fact was, Reginald had seen business carried on by 
 firms whose enterprise and interest circled the world. 
 There were no confines to their markets, and he knew how 
 such businesses were organised. Moreover, he was clear 
 and had such a pleasant way that if he had something 
 sound to suggest he could make it alluring. He was 
 capable of seeing a question from most of its essential
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 377 
 
 sides and generally looked well round any problem he 
 tackled. The consequence was Emmie was easily led by 
 him in those things and Ernest followed in his train, while 
 Mr. Booke, on being spoken to could only find old words 
 of caution and warning, which were not really argument, 
 but rather suggested occasionally the belittling by a man 
 inclined to be envious of another's great vision, and was 
 also, perhaps, afraid of failure. 
 
 Reginald certainly worked out his scheme with thor- 
 oughness and enthusiasm. He kept saying: Hatting 
 appears to have got in a rut: we will lift it out. Most 
 hatters are content to make as much as their fathers did : 
 they are all capable, for in no country in the world can 
 hats be made to equal British hats at the same price ; but 
 there is always scope for those who will go over the hill. 
 
 Ernest was set to work out estimates and plan for the 
 greater output. He had to say how many more carding 
 machines, felting benches, dye kettles, et cetera, if any, 
 would be wanted. Also Reginald was determined to in- 
 stall the latest machinery for " forming." T. Booke & 
 Son could make saleable hats: they would make hats as 
 good as they had ever made, if not better, and they would 
 sell them cheaper, because they could afford to do so by 
 making double the quantity. He hammered these ideas 
 home hammered is, perhaps, a strong word, but by 
 enthusiasm and repetitions in his speech he got Ernest and 
 Emmie at least to see with him and believe in him. 
 
 He also enquired into extra home and foreign markets. 
 He learned that A. B. & Co. did a big trade with Belgium : 
 C. D. & Son did well with Canada, another firm sent thou- 
 sands of dozen in the course of the year to South Amer- 
 ica, others did most of their foreign trade with the United 
 States. 
 
 Reginald surprised Emmie by his thoroughness. He
 
 378 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 enquired into the Japanese market (amongst others) till 
 he learnt the styles and prices most popular there, how the 
 goods were packed and sent and what the financial ar- 
 rangements were. He seemed to neglect nothing. 
 
 Money had to be found for the new buildings and new 
 machinery and Emmie, in looking into her capital ac- 
 count, discovered she had saved nearly a thousand pounds 
 a year since Tim's death. She sold what stocks she had 
 and realised in round figures about 3,000. As the con- 
 templated improvements and additions were estimated at 
 5,000, a loan of 2,000 was secured on the security of 
 the works. 
 
 Reginald, when the new buildings were almost ready 
 for use, went to Paris, where he appointed an agent for 
 Holland, Belgium and France, and to Copenhagen where 
 he found another to act as the firm's representative in the 
 three Scandinavian countries. 
 
 Emmie missed him when he went away and was always 
 glad to see him return. He never failed to bring presents 
 for her and the children. She went with him on a subse- 
 quent visit to Paris, where they put up at once of the best 
 hotels, and Reginald spent money lavishly. Emmie sug- 
 gested mildly that they seemed to be living rather well, 
 but Reginald explained that you had to impress people in 
 business : you had to cut a dash and show that you could 
 spend. It was worse than useless to try and be economi- 
 cal on occasions of this sort. 
 
 Emmie was soothed and silenced but not convinced or 
 satisfied, for some sort of habit was restive, though she 
 kept further protestations to herself. 
 
 But the prosperity of T. Booke & Son was undoubted. 
 Ernest was a thoroughly capable manager and had a good 
 business sense. Reginald's predictions had been verified. 
 The firm made a better hat than before, for the money.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 379 
 
 And the additional push in the sales, due to extra agents 
 and travellers, had its results. 
 
 People in Canton began to talk of T. Booke & Son. 
 " They were going ahead doing well Due to that 
 chap Emmie Booke married ; or was it Ernest Mullins as 
 did it?" Opinion generally leaned to Reginald as the 
 cause of T. Booke & Son's progress and he was regarded 
 with respectful eyes, because in the business-world success 
 is the criterion of respect, and almost its only one. 
 
 There were, of course, others who shrugged shoulders 
 and shook heads, but the shoulders and heads were gen- 
 erally those of men who had not dared to adventure, who 
 stuck manfully and stubbornly in ruts and they said, 
 " Wait a bit. . . . Wait till there's slack times. . . . 
 Wait a bit." The suggestions were supposed to be the 
 outpourings of wise men and prophetic of doom. 
 
 But Emmie rejoiced. She saw the firm going ahead. 
 At present they were not handling more money than be- 
 fore because the expenses of organising this new cam- 
 paign as it were, had been heavy: but the profits were 
 growing. The fifteen hundred a year that had been the 
 normal figure of the firm were now promising to be three 
 thousand. Three thousand a year . . . sixty pounds a 
 week. . . . Emmie was thrilled at the contemplation of 
 this and wanted to go to all the members of her own and 
 those of the Booke family and ask them if she had not 
 done exceedingly well in marrying a man who was not 
 only a gentleman with whom she was really in love, but 
 was also a business man in a thousand " well, as smart 
 as anybody in Canton, at any rate.". . . 
 
 To her own family she would have added: haven't I 
 done well in my marriages ? 
 
 But all the time she worked with no distaste at cooking
 
 380 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 and housework. In fact it was Reginald who said they 
 ought to have a cook in the house as well as Ada. 
 
 Emmie looked up at the suggestion. 
 
 " No, Reginald," she said in rather a curious tone. 
 
 " Yes, Emmie," he said. " It's absurd you doing all 
 this work. You'll be going out washing, next." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " I'm strong enough : I don't mind. I don't like doing 
 certain things well, Ada does them and Mrs. Wright 
 but for the rest. . . ." She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " For the rest nonsense. You don't want to be do- 
 ing all that housework now. Take it easy. Besides, it 
 doesn't look well for a lady in your position to be going 
 about with a duster over her head and a big apron on." 
 
 " That's London, that is, or Paris. It doesn't look well 
 when a woman objects to doing a bit of sweeping and 
 dusting." 
 
 He laughed this time. 
 
 " That's Canton," he said. 
 
 " I should be ashamed to do nothing properly 
 ashamed. What would people say? " 
 
 " Emmie, let 'em say what they like." 
 
 He won. Ada was assisted into another place and a 
 capable general who could do plain cooking was engaged. 
 Emmie insisted on doing most of the cooking and helped 
 with bed-making and dusting. Reginald told her they 
 must have a maid soon to wait at table and Emmie felt 
 that what he said would come to pass. 
 
 The Bookes were very friendly now that they saw the 
 works prospering. They talked in corners occasionally 
 and felt a little uncomfortable as the tale of the firm's 
 progress reached them. They could never forget they 
 were T. Booke & Son, but they all seemed to feel they had 
 to bear a reproach because this great leap forward had
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 381 
 
 not been made while the firm was under the personal 
 supervision of a Booke. Timothy had been content to go 
 steadily on ; Tim had also kept the firm to its old and suc- 
 cessful lines and now came this man Emmie had picked up 
 in a boarding-house in Blackpool and did things unthought 
 of. It was galling even if it was eminently satisfactory. 
 The Bookes had a fly in their ointment. 
 
 As the months passed intercourse with the family had 
 resumed almost old habits. The Sunday evening visits 
 were part and lot of the family custom and Emmie and 
 Reginald were roped in. 
 
 Reginald was liked. The ladies were impressed by his 
 politeness, which had a polish and suavity they found 
 wanting as a Canton custom, and the men liked his talk 
 which was varied and interesting in substance and gen- 
 erally racy in utterance. Besides, one could not deny he 
 made T. Booke & Son a name to impress. 
 
 Emmie naturally lived with content. She made allow- 
 ances to her sister and her parents and her father was 
 made at Reginald's insistance a kind of foreman or odd 
 superviser at a salary of four pounds a week. He thought 
 he was worth every penny of it and his wife did not think 
 it worth while undeceiving him. She had gifts he knew 
 nothing of which she quietly put in the Post Office Sav- 
 ings Bank. 
 
 Reginald's father and mother and sister visited them 
 and Emmie was exceedingly busy, seeing there was not a 
 corner of any room that was not scrupulously clean. She 
 baked cakes and tarts and the cellar where she stored her 
 comestibles made one realise what a land flowing with 
 milk and honey would be like. 
 
 The Bookes met the Tames and were on their very best 
 behaviour. Mrs. Holten, Mrs. Grass and Miss Booke 
 were not to be patronised by anybody. They knew their
 
 382 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 worth at least they knew the value they set on them- 
 selves. They did not boast the lineage of dukes nor the 
 manners of courtiers, but they were sturdy, honest, able, 
 independent people particularly independent. If you 
 boasted they could. And they would let nobody ride 
 the high horse over them : but they could feel flattered by 
 acquaintanceship. If Mr. Tame's father had been a body 
 maker or a finisher (like Samuel Bollins for instance) 
 they could assume airs of superiority : as Mr. Tame was a 
 clergyman who had been to Oxford they were really quite 
 pleased to be friends. They would let the Rev. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Tame and Miss Tame see what Canton hatters were. 
 And they did. They all seemed to have been baking and 
 cooking for weeks and their houses were spotless. Not a 
 thing seemed to be out of its place and Mrs. Tame re- 
 marked to her daughter : " Really you could eat off the 
 floors of these people's houses, and what excellent food it 
 is!" The food was not Savoy-Hotellish : the entrees 
 were non-existent, fancy dishes played no part in the 
 meals ; but everything was of the best quality, cooked to a 
 point and there was no stint. Miss Booke made the 
 confession that freed her soul, " Well, they may have 
 had different food, Jane, but they've never had bet- 
 ter." 
 
 Both families seemed satisfied. 
 
 All the Tames had been most kind in manner to Emmie. 
 They seemed to have realised that their son had been 
 exceedingly lucky to marry a wife so well-endowed physi- 
 cally, mentally and financially as Emmie. Their attitudes 
 expressed thankfulness and gratitude. 
 
 Mrs. Tame said, " You are happy, Emmie ? " 
 
 "Oh! Yes." 
 
 " I am so glad." 
 
 Mrs. Tame nodded, drew Emmie to her and kissed her.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 383 
 
 She was a tender woman, tender in gesture, in manner, in 
 body and heart. 
 
 " Reginald is full of enthusiasms," she said. 
 
 " He's splendid," said Emmie. 
 
 After a pause Mrs. Tame said, " If he will only stick. 
 . . . He has great ability great ability. . . ." 
 
 " He'll stick right enough," said Emmie. 
 
 " I hope so." Mrs. Tame spoke with feeling. 
 
 " I'll see to that," said Emmie confidently. 
 
 " I trust you will . . . and er, I hope you will save 
 your money I mean." 
 
 " Reginald says we shall soon be rich beyond the dreams 
 of avarice that's his way of putting it. Oh ! we shall 
 save right enough." 
 
 " Do. Reginald has great dreams." 
 
 " He's got a great business, too, now." 
 
 " Yes yes," said Mrs. Tame. " That is a very good 
 thing."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE builders were not able to leave T. Booke & Sons. 
 No sooner had they finished one job than another 
 was ready. Reginald's imagination and his keen business 
 grip kept up progress and saw it was allied to what was 
 sound. The management of the firm's finances were al- 
 most wholly in his hands and he agreed to pay for this out 
 of income, raise something on mortgage and spend a cer- 
 tain amount in opening up a market elsewhere. . . . 
 
 Nobody was short of money. Emmie always found a 
 good balance at the bank and Reginald explained they 
 must dig and plant before they could enjoy the fruit. In 
 one sense Emmie did enjoy the fruit : she was exceedingly 
 happy. She was very proud when she walked out with 
 her good-looking gentlemanly husband. She was proud, 
 too, as she surveyed " T. Booke & Son " and realised that 
 it was hers and was growing into one of the biggest hat 
 factories in England. In the trade people talked and she 
 knew she was talked of. ... " Emmie Bollins " some of 
 them said, referring to her; others said, "Mrs. Booke," 
 and others, " Mrs. Tame," It didn't matter what they 
 called her she was she. They meant her. As she 
 walked down the road she could feel the remarks for she 
 saw the nods and looks. ..." That's Mrs. Tame her 
 as owns T. Booke & Son. . . ." 
 
 And in the shops she was fussed when she went in. ... 
 " Mrs. Tame. . . . Yes, m'm . . . send it at once. . . ." 
 Her marriage seemed to have freshened things for her. 
 She was more noticed than she had been even in Tim's 
 time. After all, T. Booke & Son's progress accounted for 
 
 384
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 385 
 
 a deal for this big building was something they could all 
 understand in Canton and discuss in public-house just as 
 well as in Club. 
 
 Tim was sent to Uppingham. Reginald had been there 
 and Emmie was glad to see her husband keen to send the 
 boy to " his " school. Emmie was inclined to boast about 
 Uppingham. She quickly got abreast of the educational 
 levels that had been reached by Gantonians and discovered 
 that few hatters' sons had managed to do better than the 
 Manchester Grammar School or some boarding school 
 that did not carry very great weight. Uppingham was a 
 public school Reginald put that idea into her and 
 Emmie could not refrain from telling a few Uppingham 
 stories to Mrs. Holten whose son was at a private board- 
 ing school in Cheshire. 
 
 " One of the public schools," said Emmie. 
 
 " There's any number of them," retorted Mrs. Holten 
 sharply, " and I don't think much of some of them either," 
 and she nodded her head, as she added to herself for her 
 own comfort, " You don't suppose I'm going to let you 
 crow over me, do you, you little trimmer ! " Outwardly, 
 Mrs. Holten was simply defensive. 
 
 " As Reginald says : It's a fine thing for a boy to go 
 to a good school, and Uppingham," Emmie shook her 
 head, " there have been bishops and titled people and I 
 don't know what there." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Holten. " I don't know what 
 either, and as Tom says : It's a fine thing for a boy to 
 get a good education and never mind his mixing with 
 bishops and titled people who won't look at him when he's 
 got his apron on or in a hat shop. You've done well 
 enough, Emmie, without much education." 
 
 Emmie nodded. She turned the barb 
 
 " It isn't the same with girls," she said. " Some girls
 
 386 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 with a fine schooling do nothing and others well, I can 
 hold my own, at any rate." 
 
 It was in 1900 that T. Booke & Son received the blow. 
 There was no denying the progress of the firm: they had 
 gone on from enlargement to enlargement ; there had been 
 all kinds of alterations and everything that contrivance 
 and ingenuity could suggest had been introduced into the 
 works almost regardless of expense. There had been one 
 or two trying times for T. Booke & Son with all that 
 machinery needed a lot of orders to keep them going and 
 if they did not make their full complement they were al- 
 most worse off than others for they had so much plant to 
 lie idle. Trade in general went up. 1896 had been a 
 record year; 1897 beat it, 1898 was better, 1899 was better 
 still. And yet hatting was not so flourishing as the gen- 
 eral figures suggested, for there were more hats, reckoned 
 in value, exported in 1896 than in any of the following 
 years mentioned above. Yet, of course, one house might 
 do well and another ill : on the whole " T. Booke & Son " 
 had done well and justified Reginald's enterprise. They 
 were now at the stage when they could afford to refrain 
 from building and buying new machinery for a time and 
 take the profits, which were in 1899 over four thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 Emmie now sported costly furs and jewels, and there 
 was a fine horse and gig for Reginald to drive her about 
 in a victoria to take her to town whenever she wished. 
 He talked now of buying a motor-car. . . . 
 
 But suddenly he said one night, " Emmie, I must go to 
 London." 
 
 Emmie found a little more time for reading now that 
 the children were older and she did less housework and 
 she had a novel by Henry Seton Merriman in her hand.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 387 
 
 They were both sitting in the dining-room; the ma- 
 hogany chairs had been reseated ; the Persian carpet was 
 still wearing well ; the mahogany sideboard still carried its 
 load of silver greater now than ever. There were pic- 
 tures on the walls which Reginald had bought in Paris and 
 London from students he had seen copying in the Luxem- 
 bourg, the Louvre and the National Gallery. In a corner 
 by the fireplace was a handsome mahogany roll-top desk 
 which contained Reginald's papers and was used only by 
 him. He was sitting at it now, running through papers, 
 tearing up a great many and making calculations. Emmie 
 was wearing a dark blue flowered gown with a red belt. 
 She still kept an admirable figure and looked in splendid 
 health. 
 
 " London," she said, putting " In Kedar's Tents " in 
 her lap. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Must. ... I want to see Wyatt, and there are some 
 things I'm enquiring into." 
 
 " When do you think of going? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 "Soon, isn't it?" 
 
 " Soonest over," he said, smiling. 
 
 " Going to take me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not this time, Emmie." 
 
 She pulled a face. 
 
 " What's the good of whirling you about?" He got 
 up and looked at her for a moment and she was glad to 
 hold his gaze. 
 
 " A lot of good," she said. " I don't mind being 
 whirled to a dinner somewhere and to a theatre." 
 
 " We'll put it off a bit. I want to do a pile of busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "What sort? Who with?"
 
 388 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie had taken much less intimate interest in the 
 works since Reginald had managed them. Ernest did not 
 come in now except as he was asked there was Reginald 
 to refer to so Emmie felt there was always a deal going 
 on she could not hope to grasp. 
 
 " With Wyatt and Stock & Co., and I think I might get 
 a Government contract." 
 
 "Oh! ... Shall you be long?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " There's that mortgage," she said suddenly. 
 
 " I've been thinking of that," he said. " I'll manage it 
 all right." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Either get them to take it a day earlier or wait till I 
 come back." 
 
 Emmie was satisfied. 
 
 " See, darling? " he said gaily. 
 
 " Yes." She smiled, feeling happy. It was nice to be 
 called darling by him. She looked at him as he resumed 
 his work at the desk. What a finely shaped head he had ! 
 How straight a nose ! Nice ruddy complexion, too, for a 
 man . . . and she liked a moustache. Some didn't: but 
 she did. . . . 
 
 She picked up " In Kedar's Tents " again and came 
 under Merriman's fascination. 
 
 Reginald went on with his tearing and arranging and 
 rearranging. 
 
 He was up early the next morning and after having had 
 his bath he got out his portmanteau. 
 
 Emmie, not quite dressed, said, " Going to pack " in a 
 surprised tone. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Are you off so soon ? "
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 389 
 
 " I want to go to the bank and arrange things and I 
 don't want to have to do the packing when I come back." 
 
 " I'll do it," said Emmie. " What do you want going 
 in ? You won't be away long two or three days ? " 
 
 " H'm pack for three days, that will do." 
 
 Emmie, in a dark striped petticoat and a white 
 chemise, showing her arms bare almost to the shoulders, 
 at once went to his drawers and got out collars and ties 
 and pajamas. 
 
 " Going to take your evening dress, Reginald ? " 
 
 " Think so. It might be useful Yes, put it in, dear." 
 
 She continued the packing and he his dressing. 
 
 He usually looked at the Guardian at breakfast, but 
 this morning he could not read, somehow. 
 
 " You're excited, Reginald, what is it? " said Emmie, 
 who saw he was playing with his food. 
 
 " Excited, nonsense." He rustled the paper as if he 
 would find something he wished to read. " I've such a lot 
 to do before I go and I want to get to town by half past 
 two if possible I can catch Wyatt and save a day if I 
 do." He looked at the paper intently. 
 
 After breakfast he went into the works and Emmie saw 
 that his bag was labelled and his umbrella ready. 
 
 He came back in a few minutes. 
 
 " I'll drive," he said. " It will be safest. I can call at 
 the bank and then go on to Stockport or get to Canton 
 Station to catch that train that meets the Euston train 
 coming from London Road. Is my bag ready ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's all ready. Have you all you want ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, thanks." 
 
 He looked into his roll-top desk again, then went up- 
 stairs and came down and picked up his umbrella and silk 
 hat off the stand. He was wearing a black morning coat 
 and striped trousers.
 
 390 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Emmie pulled a face. 
 
 " Going to leave me ? " she said a little pettedly, for 
 she always enjoyed her excursions with him to London or 
 Paris. 
 
 He took her face in his hands and looked at her almost 
 seriously. 
 
 " I wish I could take you, Emmie, dear," he said quietly, 
 but with feeling. 
 
 She was stirred at once. 
 
 " Take me, then." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Haven't time. . . ." 
 
 " Well, you'll soon be home," she said as she kissed him. 
 
 He held her in his arms and kissed her more than once. 
 
 Emmie wondered a little: he was more serious, more 
 moved than usual at a casual parting. He saw she was 
 curious. 
 
 " It's absurd kissing you like this after all the time 
 we've been married, isn't it? " he said. 
 
 " I don't think it will ever be absurd," she said. 
 
 He kissed her suddenly, almost fiercely. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear." 
 
 " Good-bye," she said, almost thrilled. Did he love her 
 so much? . . . She stood at the window and watched 
 him get into the dog-cart. Cross had put his bag in. ... 
 They could just see each other's faces. He raised his 
 hat : she threw him a kiss and he went away. 
 
 Emmie received a letter next morning. 
 
 MY DEAR EMMIE: 
 
 Have arrived safely. Will write soon at length. All 
 my love, and a kiss for Alice. 
 
 Yours, ,-, 
 
 REGINALD.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 391 
 
 No letter arrived the following day. But Ernest came 
 to see Emmie in the course of the morning. 
 
 " There's Mr. Bowfield here," he said. 
 
 " Mr. Bowfield. ... Oh ! It will be about that mort- 
 gage." 
 
 " Yes," said Ernest, looking very serious. 
 
 " Well, hasn't Mr. Tame written him or seen about 
 it?" 
 
 Ernest paused. " N No." 
 
 " He was going to where is Mr. Bowfield ? " 
 
 " In the office." 
 
 " I'll go and see him or you can tell him Ernest. 
 Tell him that Mr. Tame will be back in a day or two if 
 it's been overlooked." 
 
 But Ernest was shaking his head. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " Emmie asked. 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Ernest, speaking deliberately, 
 " there's something wrong." 
 
 Emmie saw vaguely many ominous things. 
 
 " Something wrong," she repeated, going a little paler, 
 for she was saying to herself, " Has it anything to do with 
 Reginald? and a mortgage. . . ." The word mortgage 
 still could raise up discomforts. 
 
 "Ay. . . ." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I wonder if you'd better see Bowfield." He suddenly 
 made up his mind to be frank. " It seems to me as Mr. 
 Tame has er well he hasn't paid back the first and 
 second mortgages for from what I can gather there's 
 20,000 owing." 
 
 " What ! . . . Nonsense ! Nonsense ! We only bor- 
 rowed was it 2,000 and then 6,000 and er. . . . 
 We paid off the 6,000 when we borrowed the 12,000 
 the last one."
 
 392 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " That's what I thought," said Ernest. " Now don't 
 get too excited. What's done is done. Mr. Tame's in 
 London . . . funny ! " 
 
 " It isn't funny at all." 
 
 Ernest looked pained. 
 
 " I was only meaning it was awkward he was there 
 when the mortgage had to be paid off, and he did know it 
 had to be paid off when he went away." 
 
 Emmie sat down. The scenes of the parting with her 
 husband came back to her. They had the stamp and seal 
 of a guilty conscience over them. And the letter . . . 
 " Will write soon at length." . . . What did it all mean ? 
 What had Reginald done? Nothing bad. . . . Had he 
 bungled something? . . . 
 
 " What is it, Ernest?" she said. 
 
 " Now don't take on, Mrs. Tame," he said. " If we 
 can put it right, we will. But it's no good not facing the 
 facts, and we have to find 20,000 to-day." 
 
 " Find. They must wait." 
 
 Ernest shook his head. 
 
 " They can take every stick you've got take T. 
 Booke & Son and sell the whole place if they want if you 
 don't give them 20,000 by noon to-day." 
 
 Emmie listened in amazement. 
 
 " Take and sell T. Booke & Son ... if she did not 
 give them 20,000 in a few hours. It was monstrous." 
 
 " But," she began, " hasn't Mr. Bowfield heard from 
 Mr. Tame?" 
 
 Ernest nodded. 
 
 " Yes. . . . Had a letter this morning asking him to 
 get the mortgagees to postpone settlement for a couple of 
 days." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " As Bowfield says that's no good. The mortgagees
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 393 
 
 entered into a contract : they lent money. They will hold 
 you to the contract. Why should they run risks ? At any 
 rate not for a simple casual request like that. Why 
 doesn't Mr. Tame tell them why they should wait or make 
 a promise or a proposal? But why isn't he here now?" 
 
 " Because he's in London," said Emmie sharply. 
 
 " Why do we owe 20,000 instead of 12,000? " 
 
 " I don't know. We can do nothing till Mr. Tame 
 comes back." 
 
 " We'll have to, Mrs. Tame." 
 
 " We can't." 
 
 " But you can't see T. Booke & Son taken over "... 
 
 After a pause Emmie said: " Can we get into touch 
 with Mr. Tame by telegram ? " 
 
 " We can 'phone," said Ernest, " if he's stopping at the 
 Cecil." 
 
 " He wrote from there," said Emmie. 
 
 " I'll go and 'phone. Don't you worry. We'll settle 
 it all right ifcit's possible." And Ernest went out, leaving 
 Emmie bruised and doubtful. She recalled horrible 
 things . . . the parting. . . . She began to feel some- 
 thing ominous in that parting. He had not gone on ordi- 
 nary business, the sudden resolve. She remembered that. 
 He had said : " Emmie, I must go to London." And 
 when she had reminded him of the mortgage he had said 
 he'd manage it all right. . . . But how was it the sum was 
 20,000? That was quite wrong. They had repaid 
 2,000 and 6,000. . . . Then she was chilled. Her 
 blood was chilled. Her blood seemed to run queerly. 
 What did it all mean ? 
 
 Ernest came in. Emmie looked up anxiously. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He's not there."
 
 394 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 The words were pregnant with evil. " Not there . . . 
 What does that mean ? " 
 
 " He isn't there," said Ernest, shaking his body a little. 
 " Hasn't stayed there. He called one day and that's all." 
 
 Emmie, after a pause, said with a groan, " Oh ! Ernest, 
 what does it mean?" Her face was working painfully. 
 
 " Don't give way now, Mrs. Tame " 
 
 Emmie gave a series of quick gasps as if she were mas- 
 tering herself. 
 
 " I expect it's all excitement for nothing," she said with 
 a brave show. 
 
 " Well, er . . . h'm. ... I should be prepared if I 
 were you. I'll see what can be done and I'll go to London 
 if you like." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Emmie's hands were moving uneasily. 
 
 " What can be the matter? " she said with a groan. 
 
 " I'll tell you what : we shall be no worse by knowing 
 what ought to be known. I'll bring Bowfield in 
 shall I?" 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 She sat down and tried to think. . . . What had hap- 
 pened? . . . 
 
 She knew what had happened by the time Mr. Bowfield 
 had gone. 
 
 The original mortgage had been for 2,000. Reginald 
 had conducted all the correspondence with the lawyer, the 
 architects, builders, etc. He had suggested to Emmie she 
 had better give him a power of attorney to sign all legal 
 documents relating to T. Booke & Son on her behalf. 
 She had thought it a simple matter at the time : in fact, 
 Mr. Bowfield, seeing how the relations were between 
 Emmie and her husband, considered the arrangement a
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 395 
 
 sensible one. The consequence was Emmie and Ernest 
 thought they were fully abreast of what was being bor- 
 rowed, but they were only told what Mr. Tame told them. 
 There had been fresh borrowings and Emmie imagined 
 that the first mortgage was paid off when the second was 
 contracted, and the second paid off at the third bor- 
 rowing. 
 
 At first it seemed strange why Mr. Tame should have 
 said the first and second mortgages were being paid off if 
 they were not till Ernest went to the bank. Cheques 
 had been drawn for the amounts but Mr. Bowfield had 
 not had them. . . . Reginald had managed to get hold of 
 the cash. . . . 
 
 Eight thousand pounds. . . . And now he could not 
 renew the mortgage any more : the money had to be found. 
 He had feared detection and bolted.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 AT first Emmie felt crushed. She was humiliated. 
 The man she had married had robbed her. She 
 tried to read his mind from the incidents she could recall. 
 He loved her ... he must have loved her. He could 
 not have behaved as he had if he had not loved her. . . . 
 Then why had he done this ? 
 
 She recalled that remark when he held her face and she 
 had said, " Going to leave me ? " . . . "I wish I could 
 take you, Emmie dear." There was feeling as he said 
 that. . . . 
 
 Feeling . . . she groaned. He had her money in his 
 pocket. He was going to spend it on what had he done 
 with the money? Eight thousand pounds. . . . 
 
 .Was he just a money hunting cad, a common thief? 
 ... Or did he really love her and had he gambled say 
 and lost ? . . . 
 
 Oh ! What was she to do ? Everybody to know, too. 
 All the people in Canton who had met him would talk 
 about her behind her back. . . . The Bookes. . . . Aunt 
 Jane and Aunt Maria. . . . She just wanted to groan. 
 
 Ernest and Mr. Bowfield had gone to the office and 
 promised to go into the whole matter and report. 
 
 Emmie went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed 
 feeling numbed. She felt the whole affair must be wrong. 
 . . . One of them would come hurrying across in a minute 
 to tell her they had found out their mistake and every- 
 thing was all right. . . . 
 
 But where was Reginald? He had written that letter 
 from the " Cecil." . . . Why was he not there? Where 
 
 396
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 397 
 
 was he? Oh ! the trick ! to go there just to write the let- 
 ter and the letter! 
 
 She found it. ... " Will write soon at length . . . 
 all my love. . . ." 
 
 " Write soon at length. . . . Telling what had hap- 
 pened, etc. . . ." Oh! 
 
 Emmie groaned and threw herself on the bed and 
 wept. 
 
 Mr. Bowfield and Ernest came back. There was a 
 credit at the bank of over ten thousand pounds Mr. 
 Tames had drawn out two thousand five hundred the 
 morning he left but there were a number of payments 
 due and it would be risky to reduce the balance by much. 
 However, if it came to the pinch, Mr. Bowfield suggested 
 they could borrow from the bank on the security of the 
 works plus the personal covenants of Emmie and Ernest, 
 who was willing to put his savings, nearly three thousand 
 pounds, into the scale if need be. Mr. Bowfield thought 
 that Mr. Feldham, the bank manager, would agree to 
 this if he were told exactly what had happened. 
 
 Emmie at first would not agree to that at all. Noth- 
 ing must be told . . . the thing must be carried through 
 without the slightest suspicion attaching to her husband's 
 name. After all, they had not had his version yet and 
 in any case she wouldn't have his name mentioned. 
 
 Mr. Bowfield and Ernest looked at one another as much 
 as to say, " Funny creatures women ! " and Mr. Bow- 
 field said they might not be able to do what they wanted ; 
 the mortgagees held the whip hand and if Mrs. Tame 
 wished to keep control over her property she might have 
 to tell the whole truth to somebody if she wished to get 
 money. 
 
 But Emmie refused. She felt she could go to the stake,
 
 398 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 lose all, become penniless in a kind of heroic smash rather 
 than be humiliated before Canton. 
 
 Mr. Bowfield grasped her attitude. He said he would 
 do his best to renew the mortgage for another four years. 
 The interest might have to be increased and he would sug- 
 gest the offering of a bonus of 200. If Mrs. Tame 
 wished to keep things hidden she must be willing to 
 pay. 
 
 Emmie was quite willing to pay. 
 
 The mortgagees, won by Mr. Bowfield's tact, agreed to 
 the renewal : he put it that the business was going ahead 
 and that every penny was wanted. The interest was 
 raised and 100 was accepted as a bonus. 
 
 Emmie thought that part of the affair was cheap 
 enough. 
 
 Emmie ate no dinner that day. 
 
 Her nerves seemed set on edge through beating against 
 the awful that was known and the rest that was unknown. 
 
 Where was Reginald? What was he going to do? 
 Why had he taken the money? What had he done with 
 it? 
 
 Emmie kept repeating these questions to herself till she 
 was tired. She was always making the same answers and 
 they were all unsatisfactory. She knew nothing except 
 that there seemed grave grounds for supposing Reginald 
 had helped himself to large sums of money and had gone 
 to London. 
 
 What did he mean to do? Was he going to come 
 back ? . . . Surely he did not intend to leave her. . . . 
 
 She seemed to wander round and round in this vicious 
 circle of uncertainly and horrible fact. 
 
 Ernest came to see her again in the afternoon and sug- 
 gested he should go to London.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 399 
 
 Emmie acquiesced. She felt she must have news of a 
 kind. 
 
 " Nobody must know, Ernest," she said. 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 " Anything." 
 
 " There's Bowfield." 
 
 " He mustn't hint at anything you must tell him." 
 
 " You mean, of course, about the money." 
 
 " I mean about everything about my husband that 
 he's gone." 
 
 " But if he doesn't er. . . ." 
 
 " Never mind. Leave it to me. You and Mr. Bow- 
 field must say nothing." 
 
 Ernest nodded. If Mr. Tame did not return he felt 
 that something would have to be said by somebody. 
 
 " I'll tell him," he said. 
 
 " What time will you go to London ? " 
 
 " I can catch the four o'clock to Euston : be in soon 
 after eight." 
 
 " You'll go to-night to the Cecil." 
 
 " Yes. But of course he won't be there. ... It seems 
 almost useless, doesn't it ? " 
 
 Emmie pressed her hands tightly against her knees as 
 she leaned a little forward in the chair. 
 
 " We stayed once at the Russell Hotel," she said. 
 
 " I'll go there, too." 
 
 " And I remember once he talked of a hotel near Tra- 
 falgar Square." 
 
 " Leave it to me, Mrs. Tame. I'll go to the Cecil and 
 the Russell and any likely hotel I can think of. I may 
 catch him. But he's sure to be in hiding. ... Of 
 course, I don't want to suggest anything, but as he took 
 two thousand five hundred pounds with him he's money 
 for a big long trip. ... He could go to America or Aus-
 
 400 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 tralia with that. . . . I'll try the P. and O. . . . When 
 a man's been to a place once he goes again that's my 
 experience." 
 
 " How do they go to the East? " Emmie asked. 
 
 " P. & O. as a rule. Look here, don't you worry for 
 the moment. I'll go to the Cecil and have a good hunt 
 round. I'll telegraph the moment I have any news and 
 when I find I can do nothing I'll come back. I shall stay 
 at the Cecil." 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 " Don't stint yourself, Ernest. I shall stand all your 
 expenses, of course." 
 
 " That'll be all right." 
 
 All the afternoon Emmie was following up hints and 
 suggestions and looking at the bank book and speculating 
 and wondering. She sat down and she walked about. 
 She lay down and, oddly, wept the moment she did so as 
 if the easy attitude called forth a weakness. She wept 
 in the pillow. She began to evoke pictures of Reginald 
 with his head on that pillow. . . . She pressed her face 
 into it. 
 
 What had happened ? What had happened ? ... 
 
 She said to herself when she got up she did not mind 
 what he had taken in the way of money. They could get 
 over it. Money was here to-day and gone to-morrow. 
 What was a pound more or less? Ten thousand pounds 
 for that matter. . . . She felt a scorn for money at that 
 time. But Reginald, her husband. . . . He could not be 
 replaced. If he were not there her life became quite an- 
 other kind of thing. . . . 
 
 She felt weak and told herself she had drunk some tea 
 but eaten nothing all day. She couldn't eat. She looked 
 at the clock half past six.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 401 
 
 When it was half past eight she wondered if she might 
 get a telegram and was thrilled every time she heard a 
 noise that sounded like the step of some one who might 
 be bringing a telegram. . . . 
 
 As she undressed that night and looked at herself in 
 the mirror she said : " Lord ! I've put on ten years ! " 
 
 Ernest's letter, which was to the effect that he had ar- 
 rived safely and been to the Russell, Morley's, Metropole 
 and Victoria Hotels and intended going to the P. and O. 
 offices and more hotels in the morning and hoped she 
 (Emmie) was bearing up well, did not arrive till mid- 
 day, and by that time it had lost most of its savour for 
 Emmie had previously sent a telegram to Ernest to this 
 effect : " Had letter. Come back. Emmie Tame." 
 
 Emmie had boggled at the signature. Emmie was too 
 familiar. Tame too something at least unpleasant. 
 Emmie Tame was a happy combination and cost no 
 more. 
 
 This was the letter Emmie had received by the first 
 post : 
 
 MY DEAR EMMIE: 
 
 I have torn up half a dozen letters, for I cannot tell 
 you what I want to tell you. First, I am a thief. I 
 have robbed you. I am a mean, miserable thief. I must 
 have stolen about 10,000, if not more. I have no ex- 
 cuse yes, I have. I couldn't have done it if I had not 
 had an excuse. I had to get the money, and I can't tell 
 you the reason, that is the awful part of it. I don't 
 know what you will think of me, but I must tell you that 
 I love you. I feel too ashamed to write, but I could not 
 leave you in suspense, for I have left you forever left 
 the woman I love best in all the world. I wonder if some 
 day I can tell you why, and clear myself. At any rate, 
 not yet. Don't try to find me. I am leaving England,
 
 402 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 a miserable man. Forgive me for all the trouble I have 
 caused you. I ask your pardon a thousand times. I 
 don't even refer to the thefts they are mean beyond 
 words. You can, of course, prosecute me if you wish, 
 but I beg of you not to. I almost think it would be best 
 if I died, but oh! forgive me, Emmie, if you can. I 
 have loved you, loved you deeply and truly and still love 
 you. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Your ashamed, miserable, but loving 
 
 REGINALD. 
 
 Emmie read the letter a score of times and wept fresh 
 tears at each reading. 
 
 The tragedy was so unexpected and had come into a 
 home where love seemed so firmly established that the 
 blow was very hard to bear. So far as a comprehension 
 of the matter was concerned Emmie felt in an ungraspable 
 whirl : she could seize nothing but the fact that Reginald 
 had gone. That was bad enough: it was that insistent 
 fact which mocked and taunted and tortured her. But 
 at each release she would moan " Why ? " and read the 
 letter again. 
 
 She refused to go and see Mr. Booke and told the maid 
 to tell him she had a headache if he should call, which he 
 did. 
 
 She forced herself to eat something, but waited im- 
 patiently for Ernest to come back. It was very resolute 
 to keep the terrible secret, but it was also very hard. She 
 could not tell Aunt Jane or Aunt Maria. . . . Aunt 
 Sophia might be sympathetic. . . . But Emmie refused to 
 allow herself the luxury of confession. She would not 
 even venture to tell her mother or sister yet. She 
 could tell Ernest, because he practically knew; but, after 
 all, what was there to do? Reginald had gone ... he
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 403 
 
 had left her ... he loved her, of course he loved her; 
 she needed no more assurances on that head. He loved 
 her and he had robbed her and left her. . . . Why? 
 Why? Why? 
 
 When she looked at herself in the glass she said she 
 was twenty years older and it didn't matter. 
 
 She showed Ernest the letter, because she was too weak 
 to do otherwise. She had to lean on somebody now after 
 all this fasting and weeping and anxiety. 
 
 He did not say a word, but quietly held the letter in his 
 hand when he had re-read it. 
 
 Emmie, red-eyed, holding a screwed up handkerchief 
 in her hand, said : " See? " 
 
 He nodded. He really did not see well, but Emmie 
 was a pathetic figure. 
 
 " He's gone," she said, weeping afresh. 
 
 " It's funny," he said. " Except . . ." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I don't know," he said quickly. He could not say, 
 " Except he's a rogue." " It's mystifying that's what 
 it is mystifying. It's hard on you." 
 
 Emmie kept shivering. 
 
 " Go to bed," he said. " After a rest you'll know what 
 to do better. Go to bed." 
 
 Emmie really thought it was good advice. She would 
 not sleep, but she would rest. 
 
 " Have some gruel or beef tea or something you fancy : 
 get a bit o' salmon " 
 
 " I couldn't eat it. I'll have some beef tea and go to 
 bed. Keep it quiet, Ernest. In the morning there might 
 be another letter. . . . He might write again. . . . 
 We'll see. And I thank you very much, Ernest, for all 
 you've done." 
 
 " Don't thank me. I'd ha' . ." he shook his head.
 
 404 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " Don't thank me. . . . I'm always at your service." 
 He spoke with sincere feeling. 
 
 " I do, all the same," said Emmie. " I'll go and lie 
 down." 
 
 He watched her go and went back to the works, looking 
 very thoughtful. 
 
 For some days Emmie could not help feeling that some- 
 thing was going to happen. She did not know what. 
 She was not quite normal and neither ate nor slept, nor 
 thought well : she was too tired. She kept trying to face 
 the fact Reginald had gone ... left her . . . and he 
 loved her. She kept repeating this to herself without get- 
 ting any nearer to an understanding of her position. 
 
 And she would tell nobody the facts. Ernest called 
 daily and the question was inevitable from one or the 
 other : " Any news ? " it meant news of Reginald. 
 
 For a week Emmie ambled through the twenty-four 
 hours of each day, scarcely going outside the door, for 
 she could not face anybody in her present state of mind. 
 At the end of that time she knew she must have a change 
 or make one, or she would break down. 
 
 She decided she would go to London, it might not be 
 so restful as a quiet seaside place, but it would probably 
 distract her more, and if she felt the need of rest she 
 could go on to Brighton or Eastbourne or some other 
 Southern watering place. And he had gone there. . . . 
 
 She made up her mind quickly and packed without say- 
 ing a word to any one, save Ernest and the maid, who was 
 quite capable of taking care of Alice. 
 
 " You are not going hunting after him, are you ? " 
 Ernest asked. 
 
 " No," said Emmie, but knowing quite well that her 
 eyes would hunt well enough. 
 
 " That's right. If I were you I'd go to one of those
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 405 
 
 private hotels a boarding-house you'll meet people 
 you can talk to and make friends with sooner than in 
 some of the big hotels. I'll give you the address of one: 
 it's very comfortable ; I've been myself. And go to thea- 
 tres and to Hyde Park and Bond Street and Regent 
 Street. And don't worry." 
 
 Emmie nodded. 
 
 " If you hear anything, Ernest, you'll wire me at once, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 "Things otherwise are all right, aren't they?" 
 
 " Yes. And I'm to say nothing except that you're in 
 London, with your husband, eh?" 
 
 " Let them think so." 
 
 " I expect I can put 'em off," he said. 
 
 Emmie always felt a kind of excitement when travel- 
 ling by train, due to the fact that her train journeys had 
 almost invariably been the preludes to pleasure. Even 
 now as she kept wondering where Reginald was, what he 
 was doing and why events had happened as they had, she 
 was stirred by the sight of people at the station and had 
 to speculate about them, where they were going, if they 
 were happy, and how neatly and really rather cheaply 
 dressed one lady was. 
 
 When she arrived at Euston she was excited again in a 
 small way. This was London. . . . She was alone. . . . 
 And the people hurrying, lounging, watching, racing, 
 stirred her even as she got a porter to look after her lug- 
 gage. All these people who waited about the van for 
 their boxes and portmanteaux had a look of something 
 extra on their faces. After all, they had made a journey 
 for something, for pleasure or necessity, for better or 
 worse. . . . Emmie saw one pretty wife watching her
 
 406 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 husband gather their belongings and she felt, not jealous, 
 but as if her own position were brought into relief and 
 made more poignant. 
 
 She was abandoned : her husband had left her . . . she 
 felt very lonesome as she sat in the hansom and was 
 driven to the private hotel near Russell Square. 
 
 The experience of the railway journey was reproduced 
 in the hotel. Emmie was at once interested in the people 
 she saw and yet could not escape from her own trouble, 
 which seemed to weigh upon her more and more heavily 
 when she was alone in her room. In fact, although she 
 could in a way enjoy herself in looking at the shops and 
 the well dressed people, she felt more depressed than 
 ever at night when she considered she was a unit in this 
 great hive of seven million people, none of whom she 
 could call friend at this hour of her distress. She began 
 to feel worse than at Ganton and in a couple of days 
 went on to Brighton, hoping the sea, which she loved, and 
 the sea air would do her good. 
 
 She was a little better there, but she thought she saw 
 more happy couples there than in London and that probed 
 her. She was too frequently reminded of her trouble. 
 She stayed at an hotel on the front, and the constant 
 stream of pleasant folk did not give her the balm she 
 wished to find. 
 
 She sat on the beach and watched the waves break and 
 gambol on the shingle ; she saw the whirling and whorling 
 of the beaten foam and would insist on interpreting it in 
 a mood of sadness; it recalled the wasted effort of life, 
 the struggling and struggling and disappointment. The 
 sea itself began to wear an aspect of heartlessness : there 
 was no kindness in it. 
 
 And as she sat watching the surging sea she looked 
 towards the horizon : there was Reginald . . . somewhere
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 407 
 
 there ... in that vast beyond, a mere unit like she was, 
 and to be with him again appeared as difficult a task 
 as to bring together two drops of water from separate 
 oceans. . . . 
 
 Ernest wrote each day to tell her of business matters, 
 but Emmie saw the business was mere excuse. He tried 
 to cheer her and the effort was palpable. It was almost 
 pathetic in her eyes and won her gradually to face the 
 inexorable. 
 
 She wept in her room. 
 
 If only she could have known everything she thought 
 she would have been happier, and yet she began to con- 
 sider she knew enough. Her husband had gone. She 
 had to get that fact in her head and system. She had no 
 husband he had left her. She would daily see other 
 women with their husbands, but she must try not to think 
 of herself. She must face the fact and not dream of 
 what she desired and longed for. 
 
 It was a hard struggle, but Emmie won. She found 
 after three or four days at Brighton that she began to 
 watch things going on without a desire to weep because 
 she could no longer turn to her husband and say, " Regi- 
 nald, do you see that? " or tell him all about it when she 
 got home. 
 
 And while she was there she tried to make up her mind 
 that she would stay in Canton. You cannot go through 
 life without telling people what happened to you at 
 least, not in Canton, and Emmie imagined it was not very 
 different there from other places. She could not say 
 Reginald was dead. . . . She could just tell the truth: 
 she would say her husband had left her. The discreet 
 would ask no more of her, and what they said to others 
 would not matter.
 
 408 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 She made up her mind to write to " Grandpa " and 
 Aunts Jane, Maria, and Sophia, as well as to her father 
 and mother. She would tell them the bare fact of Regi- 
 nald's going, say she could not give them the reason, and 
 ask them not to pester her with questions nor to tell any- 
 body else till she gave them permission. 
 
 But the writing of the letters tired her. Every time 
 she came to the words, " My husband has left me," she 
 was shaken with emotion. More than one of the letters 
 bore the impress of her tears. The vision raised by the 
 words was a vision cruel and black, and Emmie put the 
 pen down more than once and wondered why and how 
 and why and why, and wept and prayed. . . . 
 
 She wrote to Ernest : 
 
 DEAR ERNEST: 
 
 I intend coming back to-morrow. I have told Mr. 
 Booke my husband has left me also my aunts. I shall 
 say I can't give the reason. I can't keep it secret from 
 them, but there will be no necessity to tell anybody else 
 for a long time yet : it can get out as it likes. Brighton 
 is very nice, but I've had enough of it for the present. 
 I expect to be home about five. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 EMMIE TAME. 
 
 When Ernest received that letter he read it again and 
 again. He sighed. He was saying to himself : " I 
 wonder if she would have had me if I had only asked her 
 to marry me when I hesitated ? . . ." 
 
 Mr. Booke called on Emmie the day she returned from 
 Brighton. 
 
 She was still handsome, but there were signs of suffer- 
 ing to be observed. She carried herself well. 
 
 " So he's left you, has he? " Mr. Booke said, when the 
 greetings were over.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 409 
 
 " Yes," replied Emmie, almost calmly. 
 
 " H'mm . . . are you sorry? " 
 
 " Yes." She had to catch at her throat as she said 
 that. The emotion the question stirred up was moving. 
 
 "Oh! . . . And no questions, eh?" 
 
 " No." She whispered that. " I can say nothing, 
 Grandpa." She put her arms round his neck and wept. 
 
 He patted her on the back. " Things all right in ... 
 business? " he asked, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's all right, then. . . . You must forget, Emmie, 
 and don't dwell on what can't be helped. I suppose I can 
 do nothing for you ? " 
 
 " No nobody can do anything." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " I'll come in and see you now and again," he said. 
 
 " Do, Grandpa." 
 
 Mrs. Grass was the first of the aunts to call. 
 
 " What's this, Emmie ? " she said. " Tell me about it." 
 
 " I've told you all there is to be told." 
 
 "He's left you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " I can't tell you." 
 
 " Don't you know? " 
 
 Emmie hesitated. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't ask me," she said. 
 
 " Oh! but leaving you. . . . Why? " 
 
 " I tell you I I can't explain." 
 
 " I never heard anything like it. What did he say? " 
 
 "It doesn't matter, does it?" said Emmie. "He's 
 gone." 
 
 " Gone. . . . Well ! But he must have said something 
 or er where is he now ? "
 
 410 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Don't know ? . . . Has he ? ... Er ... is there 
 another woman ? " 
 
 Emmie sighed. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Er. . . . It's terrible. I can't understand it : you 
 looked so happy. When did he go? " 
 
 " A week yesterday." 
 
 " A week yesterday. Did he say anything? " 
 
 " Good-bye nothing more." 
 
 " Just good-bye as usual, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Just as usual, eh ? And I suppose you thought every- 
 thing was as usual ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " H'm. And he'd left you ! Dear ! Dear ! And he 
 wrote, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Saying he'd left you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " I'm not going to show you the letter, Aunt Sophia. 
 He said he'd left me." 
 
 " Didn't mention another woman or anything like 
 that?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " And where did he write from ? " 
 
 " London." 
 
 " London, eh ? It is a er something startling, 
 eh? Well, you were warned, weren't you? " 
 
 " I didn't want any warning," said Emmie. " And I 
 don't want anything nasty said now."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 411 
 
 " Emmie ! I'm sure I wouldn't say anything nasty just 
 now to you. I'm sure you must be upset. Come and 
 have some tea with me er come in to-night, when 
 Fred's in." 
 
 " Not to-night, thanks," said Emmie. 
 
 " I expect you do feel worried. Of course, I'm very 
 sorry, Emmie. I feel full of sympathy for you. It is, 
 of course, a terrible thing to lose your husband like that; 
 but er . . . and people will talk, too. . . ." 
 
 " They can talk as much as they like," said Emmie. 
 
 And then Mrs. Holten and Miss Booke came in. They 
 both kissed Emmie. Their attitudes suggested the sinis- 
 ter and the sad as if they were not in a mood to revel 
 to-day, although a very keenly penetrating mind might 
 have noted the adumbration of satisfaction in Miss 
 Booke's attitude. The flag, " I told you so," was hidden 
 somewhere about her, but she carried it and it gave her 
 comfort. 
 
 Mrs. Holten began: 
 
 " This is news, Emmie." 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, feeling that she had to explain 
 and that she both wanted and did not want to talk about 
 her sorrow. She really wished to talk about it only in 
 the way that gave her comfort, which was not the way 
 of the Booke ladies. 
 
 Miss Booke snorted. 
 
 "Left you, eh?" 
 
 " Yes," Emmie sat upright: she tried to be brave. 
 
 "What's he left you for?" 
 
 " I don't know." Emmie had to struggle a little, for 
 there was the hint of a stab in the manner and the sub- 
 stance. 
 
 " Must have had a reason," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie was silent.
 
 412 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " What did he say? " asked Mrs. Holten. 
 
 "That he'd left me!" 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " And have you no idea? " asked Miss Booke. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Funny. Had you been quarrelling at all ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Very funny! Another woman, eh?" 
 
 Emmie said nothing. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Booke, " if ever I had a presenti- 
 ment about a man, I had about Reginald Tame." 
 
 " You were certainly warned enough, Emmie," said 
 Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " That's what I said," ventured Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Warning. . . . And all that secrecy. . . . And we 
 shall reap the scandal," said Miss Booke. 
 
 Emmie was silent. 
 
 " I can't understand it," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " There's something to be explained. Have you sus- 
 pected him of carrying on with anybody else, Em- 
 mie?" 
 
 " No." Emmie moved uncomfortably in her chair. 
 
 " There's something . . ." said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " Of course, there's something," said Mrs. Holten. 
 
 " I should think there is something," added Miss 
 Booke. " A man doesn't leave his wife, his rich wife, too, 
 without some good reason." 
 
 Mrs. Holten shook her head. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Emmie? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " But you must do something," said Miss Booke.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 413 
 
 " You can't sit there and do nothing what are you 
 going to tell people ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Ridiculous ! " ejactulated Miss Booke. 
 
 " You must say something, Emmie," said Mrs. Holten. 
 " You can't be silent. If people ask you how your hus- 
 band is, what shall you say?" 
 
 " Very well, thank you." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 " Emmie ! Emmie ! " expostulated Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " That's silly," said Mrs. Holten. " You'll have to say 
 you don't know, and then they'll want to know why, or 
 you'll have to say something to keep them quiet." 
 
 " Suppose," said Emmie, " you let out the news that 
 my husband has left me; that will do. It will be all over 
 Ganton in no time, and then nobody will ask me how my 
 husband is. . . ." 
 
 Emmie's nerves seemed to have reached the limit of 
 endurance. Her chin was twitching and she had a hand- 
 kerchief screwed up tightly in her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Holten looked sympathetic. So, for that matter, 
 did Mrs. Grass. 
 
 Miss Booke could not refrain from saying: " If you'd 
 only been advised by us ! " 
 
 " I didn't want to be advised by you," said Emmie 
 quickly, with glistening eyes. 
 
 " No. That's your mistake. And that's why you are 
 suffering now. I don't say it serves you right, though 
 many might think it : a good many might say it was not 
 only what was to be expected, but what you deserved. 
 You had a beautiful home and two children and you 
 wouldn't be advised. You would run after the man in 
 spite of all the warning you got " 
 
 Emmie got up.
 
 414 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 "If you're going on like that, Aunt Maria, I'm going 
 upstairs." 
 
 Aunt Maria raised her head and sniffed. 
 
 Mrs. Holten moved uneasily: she liked to stab, but 
 fixed limits for her attacks. 
 
 Mrs. Grass was saying to herself: " Maria's gone too 
 far, as usual." 
 
 Miss Booke said : " Well, I'm not going to have it 
 said that I didn't warn you. I'm sorry, Emmie ; but . . . 
 well, you must admit you were warned." 
 
 Emmie said sharply : " You didn't want me to marry 
 again that's all the warning you gave me. I didn't 
 want your warning. If I could have my time over again 
 I'd do it again. You don't know why Reginald's gone, 
 and it's very nasty of you at a time like this to come here 
 and shout at me that you warned me. I don't want that 
 kind of sympathy." 
 
 "Who shouted? " said Aunt Jane. 
 
 Emmie did not answer. She was thrusting a handker- 
 chief to her mouth. 
 
 " Of course, it's hard on you, Emmie, and you're in 
 trouble. We'll do anything to help you," said Mrs. Hol- 
 ten. " It's a scandal, and we're in it : but we shall stand 
 by you. You must bear up and remember the family. 
 Your children's names are Booke and you'll have to live 
 down this affair for their sakes. We'll help you, only 
 it's no good getting excited or in a temper. You made a 
 mistake in your second marriage that's evident." 
 
 " Oh, no, it isn't, Aunt Jane." 
 
 Mrs. Holten sat up and looked cross. Contradicted 
 like this. . . . 
 
 " Emmie ! " said Miss Booke. 
 
 " It's evident," repeated Mrs. Holten, " since your hus- 
 band has left you."
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 415 
 
 " It is not evident," paid Emmie, flushing. 
 
 Mrs. Holten rose. 
 
 Miss Booke rose. 
 
 So did Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " One thing is evident," said Mrs. Holten. " You 
 are not in a mood to talk reasonably." 
 
 Emmie said very quickly : " You can let yourselves 
 out, can't you? " 
 
 The three ladies looked aghast. 
 
 " Well ! " said Miss Booke. " And to think that this 
 is our home ! " 
 
 Emmie walked out of the dining-room upstairs. 
 
 Emmie kept on good terms with Mr. Booke and left 
 her aunts severely alone. They came round. It was 
 hard, but first Mrs. Grass called and attempted justifica- 
 tion: then Mrs. Holten called and indulged in mild ex- 
 postulation, which Emmie could always bear up to a cer- 
 tain point, and Miss Booke seemed to sniff her way back 
 to normal intercourse. 
 
 Emmie told her own family merely the fact that 
 Reginald had gone, and she did not know why. They 
 were sympathetic and happily did not attempt to probe 
 beneath the bandages. Emmie, of course, was their bene- 
 factress. 
 
 The news spread over Ganton and caused a topic to be 
 started in almost every public and private place. Every- 
 body knew " Tim Booke's widow as married Master 
 Tame ! " In the club the news spread, in bar parlours, 
 in workshops, bodymakers' shops, plankers' shops, fin- 
 ishers' shops, trimming-rooms. ..." Mr. Tame gone 
 left her." " What him as married Tim Booke's 
 widow Emmie Bollins as was. . . ." 
 
 On doorsteps, in rooms, in the street they found rea-
 
 416 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 sons and said they couldn't understand it. And then, 
 quietly like, all those things that come with a burst on a 
 human family, the topic slowly sank to a whisper and 
 almost died. It was revived occasionally by some odd 
 thing that reminded some one of Mr. Tame or of T. 
 Booke & Son, or something almost obscure. 
 
 The children faced the news. They only knew their 
 daddy had gone away. At first they pestered, " Why," 
 and, " When is he coming back ? " But they understood 
 at last that he had gone away for good and were generally 
 hushed by other people when they asked indiscreet ques- 
 tions, and so acquired that old-young wisdom that tells 
 of the thing to be avoided. 
 
 Emmie, on the whole, bore herself well. She took a 
 keener interest in the business. She did her best not to 
 mope, and succeeded. There were odd moments (and 
 fairly frequent, too) when she felt neglected, when she 
 stood in front of the mirror and knew that she was good 
 looking and healthy, and wondered why Reginald should 
 have left her. There were one or two grey hairs peeping 
 in her thick black coils, but they were nothing. She was 
 still very active, very vigorous and young. . . . And she 
 was deserted. . . . 
 
 But she never moaned in public, though she often felt 
 her biggest blows when others were about to remind her 
 unwillingly that she had been abandoned by her hus- 
 band. . . . 
 
 T. Booke & Son prospered. Reginald's schemes had 
 turned out excellent, and Ernest's capable management 
 saw that there was no turning back. 
 
 Emmie was most desirous of repaying that mortgage. 
 It was always a source of trouble to her, and she im- 
 pressed on Ernest the injunction that all profits so far as
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 417 
 
 possible should be put on one side, so that the 20,000 
 could be repaid at the earliest possible date. T. Booke & 
 Son did now an enormous foreign trade. Their big buy- 
 ing and making on a big scale allowed them to produce a 
 hat that could not be beaten at the price and they got 
 their reward. They had to be prepared for slack times, 
 but Ernest was now confident there was nothing to fear. 
 
 The first year after Reginald had gone the profits were 
 nearly six thousand pounds. Emmie paid Ernest a salary 
 of 500 a year and gave him '$% on the net profits, so 
 that his income was about 800. 
 
 In the following four years the total profits were 
 30,000. The mortgage was paid off and Emmie put her 
 income at something like 8000 a year. She encouraged 
 Ernest to spend on improvements out of income and in- 
 sisted on his keeping up the enterprise that Reginald had 
 initiated. 
 
 Tim left Uppingham and wanted to go to Oxford. 
 But Emmie said, No. There was a business for him 
 and she was afraid Oxford would only lead him into 
 spendthrift habits and perhaps make him despise hatting. 
 He already said he wanted to go into the Army and 
 Emmie had to handle him very tactfully. She sent him 
 on the continent for eighteen months to make him more 
 proficient in French and German, and then to the United 
 States for six months to help the firm's representative 
 there, so that he could learn American methods and un- 
 derstand the American market. 
 
 Alice was sent to Manchester High School and then to 
 Switzerland, and developed into a very pretty and at- 
 tractive girl. 
 
 Canton changed slowly as some towns do : but the great 
 stream of life carried people to harbour and brought on
 
 418 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 the fresh human freights, each with its tale of promise 
 and hope. 
 
 Emmie quietly accumulated money. T. Booke & Son 
 continued to prosper though it had some bad months now 
 and again. The change that affects everything did not 
 leave Emmie alone. Grey hairs began to thrust them- 
 selves here and there among Emmie's fine black tresses 
 and she could not refrain from regarding them as in- 
 terlopers, which should be eradicated at once. She grew 
 a little bigger but could not be described as stout, and 
 kept her figure remarkably well. She had shocks when 
 she thought she might " get fat," but was always subse- 
 quently relieved. She still had a fine straight carriage 
 and brisk walk. 
 
 That Reginald should fade from her memory was, of 
 course, unthinkable; he occupied far more of her thoughts 
 than many of her friends imagined. Never a day passed 
 but she recalled some incident of the past, wondered 
 where he was, what he was doing, or why he went. . . . 
 
 It was as if she held firmly to something cherished while 
 tides ebbed and flowed, storms beat and the sun shone and 
 she watched all, lived with all, marched bravely and 
 brightly with the passing of the years talking to few of 
 her heart's anchorage. 
 
 The business occupied her attention considerably, but 
 she also lived again in her children. She had been a very 
 sensible mother, taking her task of training them seri- 
 ously and never regarding as a perquisite of her position 
 a right to pry constantly or to attempt to mould them in 
 every little way and custom. She had her reward, for 
 the children both loved and respected her. 
 
 As Alice grew up Emmie saw herself once more as the 
 girl who had gone on Saturday nights " to pick up some
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 419 
 
 chap or other," and she was glad her own daughter was 
 not driven as it were by drabness to find her amusement 
 in that fashion. 
 
 And when Alice began to be noticed first at a dance 
 held at the Conservative Club and then apparently at ten- 
 nis with patient persistency by a young lawyer named 
 Grayson, so that gossip reached Helston House, Emmie 
 felt stirred with pleasure. She was sorry to imagine the 
 house without Alice, but the young man was well spoken 
 of, well connected, and seemed likely to make a good hus- 
 band, and Emmie felt she would be glad to assist her 
 daughter to the new chapter in her life, a chapter like that 
 which had been of supreme happiness to the mother. 
 
 The young people arranged matters very speedily. 
 Alice was very frank with her mother, and told her far 
 more than a young man would have told his father and 
 mother under similar circumstances. The buying of 
 linen and the trousseau was a labour of love for Emmie. 
 She had been well blessed in her marriage: she deter- 
 mined her daughter should have every chance. Emmie 
 was not afraid of custom. She knew many parents in 
 this country, even when they had money, were not 
 ashamed to turn their daughters out with a feast and very 
 little besides, but she had no worship for money. What 
 could she do with all the money she was now making? 
 She went to Mr. Bowfield and settled 10,000 on Alice 
 and gave a wedding feast that easily put hers in the 
 shade, but one that gave the Booke ladies exceeding com- 
 fort, for was not Alice a Booke? 
 
 Tim was not quite so easily disposed of, and Emmie 
 was reminded of those women who used to moan over 
 the trouble their children caused them. But she was 
 robust in her attitude and faced difficulties frankly (won-
 
 420 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 dering now and then if some of these moaning women 
 expected the world to be swept and cleaned for them; 
 or if difficulties and trials had no business to appear be- 
 fore them). 
 
 But Tim noticing a trimmer ! 
 
 That really gave Emmie a shock. She scarcely slept 
 all night after Ernest had told her. She grasped Aunt 
 Jane's and Aunt Maria's and Aunt Sophia's points of 
 view in a flash far more intensely than she had done 
 imaginatively years before. She was troubled: pained: 
 inclined to see something black in the affair. 
 
 The son repeating the father's way. And why not? 
 Was not she Emmie once a trimmer ? But that was 
 different ! 
 
 Emmie refused to befool herself. She knew now that 
 she had been a fit mate for Tim's father : it was possible 
 Tim, junior, might find a wife amongst the trimmers 
 equal to her Emmie. If he did not : that would be the 
 only difference. At any rate, she had more sense than 
 try the game the Bookes had played: that wasn't much 
 good. 
 
 Emmie quietly gathered information about the girl 
 Sarah Tellings. There was nothing against her. She 
 had red hair, a daring look, and an obvious figure. 
 Emmie sniffed at this repetition of herself as a fine 
 actress sees a poor understudy. 
 
 She sent Tim away to the East to develop the Japanese 
 trade well worth the money, she said to Ernest, " and 
 if he sees anybody on the boat, so much the better they 
 won't be (she almost said "trimmers") Sarah Tell- 
 ings. . . ." 
 
 Ernest agreed. The Japanese market could do with a 
 bit of stirring up. 
 
 Tim's voyage was a triumph all round : his letters were
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 421 
 
 a source of pride and interest to the whole family and 
 were published in the local papers as interesting matter; 
 business was improved, and when Tim returned Sarah 
 Tellings was walking out with a bodymaker. 
 
 Every now and again Emmie had a feeling " If Tim 
 picks up with somebody at Belle Vue. ..." A sort of 
 ghost from the past to haunt and harass her. Imagine 
 her relief when Tim casually told her one day he was en- 
 gaged to a Miss Westlake. 
 
 Emmie kissed her son and was filled with so many 
 emotions at the moment she shed tears, the first for some 
 years. 
 
 She was very happy at Tim's choice, for Alice West- 
 lake was a sweet girl Tim had met in Switzerland the 
 year after he returned from Japan. Her father was a 
 doctor in Wilmslow and Alice was the only child. 
 
 Emmie began to see the autumn of life coming to her 
 pleasantly with a rich fulness and a bounteous promise 
 for the remaining seasons. She was a grandmother, and 
 her children were a great joy to her. She had few cares. 
 Her life had not been without its troubles, but that is a 
 commonplace for all human beings, and they can be called 
 well favoured who meet all things with patience and good 
 hope. Emmie began to picture herself in a house of her 
 own, visiting her children and grandchildren and being 
 visited by them and watching the firm, T. Booke & Son, 
 continue in prosperity. She was what is termed " a suc- 
 cessful woman." She was rich, still handsome, able to 
 enjoy life, and the middle forties touched her lightly. 
 But ever and again she dwelt on that sudden and inex- 
 plicable to her disappearance of the man she loved. 
 That was her burden. Well, there are few without some 
 care, some gnawing at the heart that brings a vision of the
 
 422 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 might-have-been in opposition to the thing that is. Life 
 that is emptied of all trouble scarcely seems full. She 
 dreamt dreams when alone that she told to no one. 
 
 She and Tim had breakfast together it was almost 
 the eve of Tim's marriage and he read the Guardian 
 as his father and step-father had done. Emmie looked 
 at her letters quite a pile, for Tim's wedding incited 
 correspondence. She always ran over the addresses be- 
 fore opening them to pick out favourites. Suddenly her 
 heart beat faster. She was silent a moment : but a gust 
 of emotion swept through her. 
 
 " Tim," she said in a quiet voice, unsteady, but full of 
 colour. 
 
 " Yes, Mother." He looked up at once, roused by the 
 tone. 
 
 " Nothing," she said, as if she could scarcely talk of 
 what she fancied. 
 
 Tim was going to look again at his paper when he no- 
 ticed the extraordinary expression on his mother's face. 
 
 "Anything the matter, Mother?" he asked. 
 
 Emmie shook her head. 
 
 " I don't know. . . ." She turned the envelope over 
 and then scrutinised the letter once more. " I do believe 
 that's from . . . your father." She almost gasped the 
 words. 
 
 Tim looked at her. 
 
 " Father. . . . Well, open it and see." 
 
 Emmie seemed afraid. She took a knife, but even 
 then had to look again at the handwriting before she 
 could break the seal. What fate was in that envel- 
 ope? . . . 
 
 Tim watched her, saying to himself, " Father . . ." 
 and wondered what it meant.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 423 
 
 Emmie nodded, and said quickly : " Yes. . . . From 
 him." 
 
 Tim was silent. He ignored the Guardian and waited 
 for his mother to speak. 
 
 Emmie trembled, and her colour had gone. 
 
 " Oh! ... oh! ... oh! " she said after a time, and 
 got out a handkerchief, though she did not cry. It was 
 as if she thought she was going to weep and found she 
 couldn't. It was a long letter. 
 
 " What is it, Mother ? What does he say ? " 
 
 " Read it," and she handed the letter, but before Tim 
 could take it she said, " No," and pulled it back. " Oh ! " 
 she said. " He's here in London. . . . He wants to 
 see me. . . . Oh ! I don't understand. . . . Read it 
 No! No!" 
 
 " Mother," said Tim, going to her, " don't worry. 
 Don't be distressed. You mustn't be made unhappy." 
 
 " I'm not unhappy, Tim." She trembled as if she were 
 stirred by happiness that had come too suddenly : or hap- 
 piness mixed with something evil a bittersweet, with 
 the bitter and the sweet both powerful. 
 
 She stood up. " I must read it again." 
 
 She tried to grasp it thoroughly, and eventually suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, and looked troubled. " Oh ! " 
 
 " Mother," said Tim comfortingly, as if he would re- 
 mind her of his ever present help in the time of trou- 
 ble. 
 
 " Don't say anything, dear," said Emmie. " Wait till 
 I've thought about it. I'll tell you later. I must think it 
 over. Oh ! " She read the letter again. 
 
 Tim looked at her anxiously. 
 
 " You mustn't be made unhappy. Mother." 
 
 She nodded and gasped and kissed him.
 
 424 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 " I must think it over," she said. " I am ... not 
 . . . unhappy. . . ." 
 This was the letter: 
 
 MY DEAR EMMIE: 
 
 I find it difficult to begin, but of course I must tell 
 you all. You wondered why I left you, and perhaps ex- 
 pected me to explain; but I couldn't, and I will tell you 
 why. 
 
 When I married you I was already married to another 
 woman. 
 
 It is awful, I know, and I can only hope you will for- 
 give me when you know all. 
 
 I did not know I was married. I thought I was free. 
 
 When I travelled in Java I met it does not matter 
 my going into details a woman whom I married. She 
 had Javanese blood in her, and I did not tell my people 
 of the marriage, as I had no intention of taking her to 
 England, and was in one of those mad, reckless moods 
 engendered in the East, and was prepared at that time 
 to settle down there. But the marriage turned out a 
 miserable failure, and in the end I decided to go back to 
 England and my wife agreed to get a divorce, for deser- 
 tion is a sufficient cause to dissolve a marriage in this 
 country. 
 
 I kept my part of the bargain: I paid money and I 
 went home. I received a letter saying that the divorce 
 had been pronounced, and that I was free. I told no- 
 body. Then I met you. I did not tell you. I ought to 
 have done, perhaps, but it might possibly have made no 
 difference to you: I hope not. At any rate that omis- 
 sion caused me no regrets. 
 
 But soon after we had been married about fourteen 
 months after, to be precise I met my wife in Man- 
 chester. She then told me we were not divorced, and that 
 she was still my wife. I had committed bigamy, and 
 you. . . .
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 425 
 
 Perhaps I was weak. I might have told you, but I 
 couldn't. I felt you would feel humiliated. I tried to 
 do the obvious thing for a man placed as I was I 
 bought off my wife, who seemed to be filled with hate 
 of me and jealousy of you. She had followed me to Eng- 
 land and made no attempt to get a divorce, but I pre- 
 sume sent, or caused to be sent to me, the letter which 
 said it had been granted. 
 
 Hence my thefts. You will understand: I thieved 
 to save you. I had to have money or see you humiliated. 
 The blackmail went on, but after a while my wife began 
 to tire of the English climate and wished to return to 
 Java. She would not, however, leave me without telling 
 you the whole story of your position. To save you from 
 that I had to promise money and to leave you, and as a 
 guarantee that I would keep from you I had to return 
 to the East. 
 
 I wonder now if you understand. This was why I 
 was silent, why I could not explain, why I simply left 
 you. 
 
 I traded in the East, made my wife an allowance on 
 condition she kept silent over our marriage ceremony 
 yours and mine and waited for death, which I thought 
 of hastening more than once. But I have lived and my 
 wife has died. I saw her corpse; I saw her buried, and 
 so ends a chapter. 
 
 What of the next, Emmie? I am in your hands. We 
 were happy, weren't we? The East is dazzling, but it 
 \ras Hell to me. I wonder I have survived. Its trials 
 were tortures; its beauties became sores. I was always 
 wondering : " What is Emmie doing ? . . . What is 
 my darling thinking? . . . Does she fret at all? What 
 does she think of me?" And I could not write. I did 
 not want you to know where I was. I changed my name 
 on this second visit, and those who knew me regarded me 
 as a scoundrel. But I was fearful for you. 
 
 Now if I can do anything to wipe out the past, I will.
 
 426 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 But first and last, Emmie, I want you. You may not 
 know what a certain type of woman, the type one wants, 
 will do for a man. You kept me clean and straight and 
 decent and honourable in the steaming, stinking quarters 
 of New Guinea and Sumatra and China. If ever I were 
 tempted I said " Emmie." ... At the other end of the 
 world, in a place where men can reek and stink and play 
 false to almost everything, I mentioned your name in a 
 whisper to myself, and it led me through the rottenest 
 of rotten swamps as if I were in a microbe-proof case. 
 It was like being guarded by angels. It was my watch- 
 word " Emmie. . . ." 
 
 I am free now. We can be married now. ... It 
 seems curious, but I fear lest you may wish to go on as 
 you are. Don't you love me, Emmie? Have you for- 
 gotten me? I want you you, always you. If you 
 asked me what you meant to me I can only say, every- 
 thing. I see your face everywhere and hear your voice 
 at every breath of wind. 
 
 When that creature died, just outside Batavia, I kept 
 muttering to myself : Now I am free free to see Em- 
 mie, free to be with Emmie. . . . 
 
 And I feel it so much, dear, I am afraid. I fear 
 lest you think that as I went so I may be forever gone. 
 Don't let it come to that. Don't break my life, though 
 I know I must have hurt yours ; but now that you under- 
 stand, can you forgive? You must forgive, dear, and 
 we are still young enough, thank God! to enjoy life to- 
 gether. 
 
 I propose this that you come quietly here to Paris, 
 or that I meet you anywhere we are least likely to attrac- 
 tion, and get married. We will tell nobody. But, at 
 least, you will be Mrs. Tame by right, when once that 
 ceremony has been gone through. Then. . . . Let us 
 live together somewhere. I can't live without you. I 
 have lived till now so that I might right you if ever the 
 chance should come, but I cannot go on living hopelessly
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 427 
 
 not, at least, with any credit or benefit to anybody. 
 I know I shall crumple up and become worthless unless I 
 have you as my wife again. And we can be happy. We 
 need not live in Canton unless you wish. We can travel 
 a little, and then settle anywhere. I am very anxious to 
 hear how Tim and Alice are and Ernest and the works, 
 and grandpa and the aunts and uncles and father and 
 mother and sister. . . . 
 
 But I will be absolutely at your wishes. If you don't 
 want to live with me again I will suffer the banishment 
 and never trouble you. But I plead, Emmie. . . . 
 
 I will marry you if and how you wish and, if neces- 
 sary, leave you at the church door. But I want to marry 
 you again and live with you again, be your husband again, 
 know that at last I have you really as my wife after all 
 this tribulation. 
 
 I shall hope to hear from you very soon let it be 
 that and I pray for forgiveness and a happy issue out 
 of our afflictions. 
 
 With all the love that a man can bear to a woman I 
 send this letter. 
 
 Your penitent and loving 
 
 REGINALD. 
 
 Tim was standing. 
 
 Emmie looked dazed. 
 
 " Can I ... do anything, Mother?" he asked. 
 
 Emmie sighed and shook her head. 
 
 " Leave me a while. ... I must think for a bit." 
 
 " Right." 
 
 He went into the works. 
 
 Emmie felt in a whirl. Certain ideas and phrases were 
 ringing in her head. She was principally concerned with 
 the fact that Reginald was alive, and had written a letter 
 to her and that she was not married to him. Those two 
 facts seemed to stand beside her and shout at her con-
 
 428 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 tinually. She looked at the letter three sheets of paper. 
 ..." My dear Emmie. Your penitent and loving Regi- 
 nald." 
 
 What a letter! What news! 
 
 He was alive and. . . . But what a tale ! What a tale ! 
 
 He had been married before ... to one of those half- 
 castes. 
 
 Emmie imagined her with black eyes and big breasts 
 and a knife in her hand. 
 
 She read the letter again, and phrases then began to 
 make impressions. ..." When I married you I was 
 already married to another woman. . . ." 
 
 The sentence was like a blow from a whip. Then: 
 " I did not know I was married : I thought I was free. . . ." 
 
 Emmie recalled the scenes at Blackpool with wonderful 
 vividness. They softened her : they flung a glamour over 
 the whole tale. No. He thought he was free. . . . He 
 had probably thought of living in that enervating climate, 
 picked up with this horrible woman with the curly hair 
 and thick lips and breasts and hips Emmie shuddered. 
 She did not like to think of Reginald attracted by that 
 woman. And then blackmailed! She could understand 
 now. The monster had followed him and threatened to 
 tell. He was caught. . . . 
 
 How awful it must have been ! It was going on while 
 he was scheming big things for T. Booke & Son. 
 
 Emmie began to feel sorry for Reginald. He had 
 suffered. He must have suffered. And then been forced 
 to go away. ... 
 
 Emmie was filled with pity. He loved her. He had 
 always loved her. He had gone away to save her. 
 
 But she was not married. . . . 
 
 She looked round the room as if instinctively she would 
 have nobody near her when she considered that. Not
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 429 
 
 married. . . . And she had lived with him as his wife. . . . 
 
 She put her face in her hands with shame. 
 
 After a time she looked up. She had to face that. It 
 was not her fault . . . and not really his. He thought 
 he was free. . . . But if people knew! It would be 
 awful. 
 
 Emmie walked about as if she would face that fact 
 fairly. Living with a man without being married to 
 him. 
 
 She realised she was only afraid of what people would 
 say if they knew. She had no really great upbraiding of 
 conscience the more she thought about it She didn't 
 know she was doing wrong. She tried to do right: she 
 got married properly. It wasn't her fault if some wretch 
 of a creature with a hideous mouth and with hair like a 
 mop was a villain and tricked Reginald. . . . They 
 couldn't help that. ... Of course, she wouldn't like peo- 
 ple to know, because people always talked. Think of 
 Aunt Jane! Now Emmie felt stirred, felt what she had 
 before construed as shame. 
 
 Not married. ... It was an awkward situation: like 
 what happened at the theatre or in a book. . . . 
 
 She began to think of Reginald again. What was he 
 like? Had he changed? 
 
 But what was she going to do? He suggested they 
 should get married. That was comical. Get married. 
 . . . But it was a wise suggestion. She couldn't really 
 honestly call herself Mrs. Tame till she was married. 
 He suggested Paris or any place where they were least 
 likely to attract attention. . . . Then she would be Mrs. 
 Tame . . . and he would leave her at the church door 
 if she wished. . . . 
 
 She felt softened at that. It was good of him to sug- 
 gest that. Marry and then leave her. . . .
 
 430 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Leave her ? Why ? . . . Why should she let her hus- 
 band go away ? She loved her husband. 
 
 Tim came in. 
 
 " Well, Mother," he said. 
 
 " Oh ! Tim you haven't told anybody? " 
 
 "No. Who is there to tell?" 
 
 " Ernest." 
 
 " No. I only saw him for a minute something's 
 gone wrong in that proof shop again." 
 
 "I hope they'll be careful there, Tim. You'd better 
 see to it as well. You know what a job it will be if 
 there's too much evaporation there." 
 
 "It's all right, Mother. Ernest is seeing to it ; be- 
 sides, it isn't serious." 
 
 " Oh ! about your father. . . ." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I can't tell you yet. I don't think I shall ever be able 
 to tell you what has happened, but . . ." she shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Is he coming here ? " 
 
 Emmie hesitated. 
 
 " N-no. . . . Not yet at any rate. ... I may go to 
 him first." 
 
 Emmie felt her situation was one that could only be 
 dealt with by herself. The past was done. She might 
 repent in sackcloth and ashes, go into a nunnery or con- 
 tinue as she was the past would still be there. She 
 was practical. The question for her to answer now was : 
 Would she marry Reginald again and live with him ? 
 
 Now that she knew why he had left her she began to 
 think of nothing but going back to him. It seemed to 
 her as if no other course was sensible or wise or so happy. 
 He had come to her as a lost treasure that was found.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 431 
 
 She began to think of him with a bold desire and a fine 
 gladness. She said she had no need to ask Grandpa or 
 Aunt Maria or Aunt Jane or Aunt Sophia what she ought 
 to do she knew what she wanted and meant to do. 
 After all these years. . . . She walked about and sat 
 down thrilled with a joy she had scarcely hoped to catch 
 again. She looked at herself in the glass. ... A few 
 crow's feet, a little bloom gone, a grey hair or so, and a 
 little more bulk, but . . . Emmie, the Emmie, beautiful, 
 a good heart and head, even tempered and made for a 
 man. . . . 
 
 " Tim I'm going to London." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " To your father." 
 
 Tim looked to see if his mother was happy and was 
 assured. 
 
 ** We shall probably go on to Paris. ... I don't know 
 what we shall do after I mean where we shall live." 
 
 "It's all right, Mother?" 
 
 " Yes. I understand everything. You'd like to see 
 your father again? " 
 
 " Yes if you do." 
 
 Emmie smiled. If she did ! 
 
 " Oh, yes. I shall never be able to tell you what parted 
 us, but ... it ... er well, it was nothing that 
 crossed our affection for each other." 
 
 " I'm glad of that. I shall be very glad to see him 
 again." 
 
 " He wants to see you, too. I'm going to-morrow by 
 the eigbt o'clock train." 
 
 " Early." 
 
 " Yes. I want to be in London as soon as possible. 
 Your father will meet me there. . I'll write and tell
 
 432 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 you what we are going to do. I want you to say nothing 
 till I've left and then you can say I've gone to meet Mr. 
 Tame. You can tell Ernest and Grandpa anybody 
 who asks you, for that matter." 
 
 Tim nodded. He was more like Ernmie than his own 
 father dark and distinguished looking and had a gen- 
 tlemanly air. Uppingham and Reginald had done him 
 good. 
 
 He and Alice saw their mother off at the station, and 
 when she had gone Alice said to Tim : " Funny, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Mother didn't tell you where father had been and 
 what he'd been doing?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I would like to know," said Alice. 
 
 "What does Albert say?" 
 
 Alice shook herself. 
 
 " He says, what's the good of worrying but he'd like 
 to know all the same," she added almost fiercely. 
 
 Tim laughed, lit a cigarette, and went to the works. 
 
 It was a memorable railway journey for Emmie. She 
 joined the main train for Euston at Stockport and was 
 very impatient to reach London and Reginald. There 
 were two men in the carriage and a lady with a little boy 
 about 10 years of age. Emmie wondered what they were 
 all going to London for if they went as far. . . . She 
 thought one of the men was a commercial: he looked a 
 bit like Mr. Rogers, one of her travellers a ruddy faced 
 man with a long drooping moustache. He settled him- 
 self in the corner and began reading a magazine as if he 
 knew how to make a railway journey pass. The other 
 man was more distinguished, a retired army man, Emmie
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 433 
 
 thought, till she wondered if she were not accustomed to 
 think that all gentlemanly looking men with grey mous- 
 taches and rather red cheeks were retired officers. She 
 wondered why he was going to town ... on business or 
 pleasure. . . . He looked fidgetty. 
 
 And the woman. She was one of those women you 
 couldn't read: might be anything. She was not richly 
 dressed ; her features were regular, and showed a general 
 harmony. 
 
 Emmie had got her back to the engine and the other 
 lady facing her said : " I am afraid I shall have to put 
 this window up; it's too draughty." 
 
 " Certainly," said Emmie, and she thought, " What a 
 nice voice! She's a lady! " And they began to talk. 
 
 Every now and again Emmie wanted to say : " You'll 
 never guess what I'm going to do. ... I'm going to be 
 married . . . to my husband! " 
 
 The lady talked very nicely, and told Emmie a good 
 deal of her history : her husband was a naval officer, and 
 the little boy was going to school near London next term 
 if he passed an examination which he was going in for. 
 Her husband was at Hong Kong. . , . Naval officers 
 were away a long time. . . . 
 
 And then, after much conversation, the commercial 
 traveller (supposed) took off his cap, which he put in a 
 bag, and put on his hat. 
 
 " We are near now, aren't we ? " said Emmie. 
 
 " Be there in five minutes or so," said the man. Emmie 
 began to feel very agitated. In five minutes she would 
 meet Reginald again. She began to pull little ends 
 straight her lace collar, the lace at her cuffs. . . . She 
 pulled her big hat to the proper angle. 
 
 The lady said : " Have you anybody to meet you? " 
 
 " Yes," said Emmie, wishing to say, " My husband,"
 
 434 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 but a sort of healthy instinct for truth kept her from that. 
 " Have you? " she asked instead. 
 
 " No." 
 
 As Emmie got out of the carriage she looked about. 
 Nobody. . . . He was not there. . . . Not there. . . . 
 
 "Emmie!" 
 
 She turned round. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 People looking after their luggage looked up to see 
 these people of untender years greeting each other so 
 warmly. One or two sympathised : the streams of age 
 seemed robuster and deeper than the boisterous currents 
 of youth, and love was not only for the young. The 
 young seem inclined to mock. 
 
 " Darling," he whispered. 
 
 Emmie's chin was shaking. She looked at him with 
 glistening eyes. He was greyer than she and slightly 
 thinner than before. But he was still Reginald. The 
 look in his eyes was Reginald's the voice was the voice 
 of old; the manner, too. 
 
 Emmie felt as if she could shut her eyes and picture a 
 cliff on Blackpool beach. 
 
 " We must get away," he said, holding one of her 
 hands in his as if he could not lose her. " Where's your 
 luggage?" 
 
 A porter came up and soon they were in a cab. 
 
 Emmie looked at him again. 
 
 He put an arm round her shoulder. 
 
 " Were you glad to hear from me, Emmie? " 
 
 She nodded. There were tears on her cheeks tears 
 of happiness. 
 
 " I think I told you all. I scarcely hoped for this. It 
 looked sometimes as if I might go first." 
 
 "Oh! ... That!" She gasped.
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 435 
 
 " But I didn't." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " And now we are to be married. All's ready, and 
 after the ceremony we go to Paris. You've scarcely 
 changed, dear; you're just as beautiful as you always were 
 and you're still Emmie . . . my Emmie." 
 
 He bent her face to him and kissed her again and again. 
 
 " This life has the most amazing surprises any man 
 can think of. I meet you I might never have met you, 
 think of that. I meet you, marry you, leave you . . . 
 and now I have you again, till death us do part." 
 
 Emmie looked at him a moment and then flung her 
 arms round him and held him in a passionate embrace. 
 
 Just as the story of Reginald's leaving had travelled 
 round street and fireside, so the tale of his return had a 
 similar success, thus belying the fate of most sequels. 
 
 Tim told Ernest, who went about unable to do business 
 all the morning. Then Grandpa heard it and as he was 
 getting older he had to be told twice, and said, " Come 
 back, has he ? He's had a long holiday." 
 
 And when the Booke ladies got it they made a descent 
 on Tim, who was polite and pleasant with his aunts, but 
 could tell them nothing they desired to know. Every- 
 body wanted to know, of course, why Mr. Tame went 
 away, where he had been, and what he had been doing. 
 
 Emmie wrote letters from Paris to her parents and re- 
 lations telling of her reunion with her husband, and beg- 
 ging that neither he nor she may be asked questions about 
 the past. 
 
 Miss Booke looked at Mrs. Holten and sniffed at that. 
 " Not ask questions. . . . What were they there for? 
 What were they to do if they weren't to ask questions? 
 Not ask questions indeed ! "
 
 436 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 
 
 Even in her letter Aunt Jane said that explanations 
 were due to the family and, though outsiders might prop- 
 erly be put off, she trusted there would be no attempt 
 made to leave her without a proper understanding of what 
 had really happened. She must insist on that. 
 
 Reginald and Emmie, very happy in Paris, read the let- 
 ter seriously and then comically. 
 
 " Bless her ! She really thinks she ought to know," 
 he said. 
 
 " But she won't," said Emmie. 
 
 "No, she won't. What will you say?" 
 
 " I shall just say, I won't tell you, Aunt Jane." 
 
 "And if she is offended?" 
 
 " Let her be. She'll think I'm in the wrong and most 
 undutiful and all that, but it can't be helped." 
 
 Reginald laughed. 
 
 " She'll tackle me." 
 
 " And what will you say ? " 
 
 " That since we don't want to tell, no nice people will 
 want to ask." 
 
 Emmie chuckled. 
 
 " You'll be too polite for her." 
 
 They stayed in Paris a fortnight and during that time 
 discussed their future. They would live in Canton or 
 near it. Emmie wanted to be not far from her children 
 and they knew the Ganton people would receive Reginald 
 again with a little chaffing and raillery, but satisfied that 
 if his wife was content there was no reason for them to 
 put on airs. 
 
 And there were plenty of years for Reginald and 
 Emmie taking a general computation, and life offered 
 them its flowers and fantasies. Reginald wanted to 
 know all about the works, how the new machinery was
 
 AN AVERAGE WOMAN 437 
 
 working, if A. B. & Co. still sent big orders, and if 
 Canada and Japan were still good markets. 
 
 As they sat discussing matters at a cafe near the opera 
 and noticed young, middle-aged, and old, all engaged in 
 sipping at life and looking out upon it with a great curi- 
 osity or criticism, Reginald said : " Life's full of curious 
 adventures, Emmie." 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 " Has yours been as you pictured it when you were 
 young? " 
 
 " Not a bit" 
 
 " Nor mine. I wonder is anybody's ? It goes evenly : 
 then there's a jerk. One goes along a plain, then climbs 
 a precipice. . . . And so many people are the same. 
 Occasionally we are apt to think that only certain people 
 have really thrilling moments in their lives, only a few 
 go over the Russian mountains, and for the rest it is, 
 speaking generally, a humdrum existence." He shook 
 his head. "If the tale of an average person could be 
 written it would be full of depths and heights and thrills 
 and excitements, with certain things in it we tell to no- 
 body." 
 
 Emmie nodded. It was pleasant to hear him talk like 
 this. 
 
 She seemed to be remanded of something. " I remem- 
 ber Aunt Maria once telling me I was just an average 
 woman do you think I am ? " 
 
 " An average woman . . ." He shook his head. 
 " Preposterous." Then he laid his hand on her's and a 
 jolly look came into his eyes, which recalled to Emmie 
 the times when he talked fantastically to the children. 
 " An average woman . . ." he repeated. " To tell you 
 the truth, dear, I don't believe there is such a person."
 
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