V^ 
 
 F 
 
 Lr 
 
 BARONESS 
 VON HUTTEN
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 The BARONESS 
 VON HUTTEN
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 The BARONESS VON HUTTEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "FAM." "PAM DECIDES." "SHARROW," "KINGSMEAD." ETC. 
 
 NEW xsar YORK 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1920. 
 BT GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 HUNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO MISS LILY BETTS 
 
 MY DEAR LILY: We three, one of us in a chair, and two of us 
 upside down on the grass-plot, have decided that this book must 
 be dedicated to you, in memory of how we did not work on it at 
 Sennen Cove, and how we did work on it here. So here it is, 
 with our grateful love, from 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 ' Richard, and Hetty, and B. v. H. 
 
 PENZANCE. 
 
 2228985 
 
 . /wXwArfO-/'vJ<L/
 
 HAPPY HOUSE
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MRS. WALBRIDGE stood at the top of the steps, a pink 
 satin slipper in her hand, looking absently out into the 
 late afternoon. The July sunlight spread in thick layers 
 across the narrow, flagged path to the gate, and the 
 shadows under the may tree on the left were motionless, 
 as if cut out of lead. The path was strewn with what 
 looked like machine-made snowflakes, and a long piece 
 of white satin ribbon had caught on the syringa bush on 
 the right of the green gate, and hung like a streak of 
 whiter light across the leaves. Someone inside the 
 house was playing a fox-trot, and sounds of tired laugh- 
 ter were in the air, but the well-known author, Mrs. 
 Walbridge, did not hear them. She was leaning against 
 the side of the door, recklessly crushing her new grey 
 frock, and her eyes were fixed on the gate in the unsee- 
 ing stare of utter fatigue. Presently the music stopped 
 and the sudden silence seemed to rouse her, for, with a 
 deep sigh and a little shake of the head that was evi- 
 dently characteristic, she turned and went slowly into 
 the house. 
 
 A few minutes later a brisk-looking young man in a 
 new straw hat came down the street and paused at the 
 gate, peering up at the fanlight to verify his whereabouts. 
 
 9
 
 io HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Number eighty-eight did not seem to satisfy him, but 
 suddenly his eyes fell on the gate. On its shabby green 
 were painted the words, very faded, almost undecipher- 
 able, "Happy House," and with a contented nod the 
 young man opened the gate and went quickly up the 
 steps. No one answered his ring, so he rang again. 
 Again the silence was unbroken, but from somewhere 
 far off he heard the sound of laughter and talking, and, 
 peering forward into the little hall, he took a small note- 
 book from his pocket and wrote a few words in it, 
 whistling softly between his teeth. He was a freckled- 
 faced young man with a tip-tilted nose, not in the least 
 like the petals of a flower, and with a look of cheery 
 cheekiness. After a moment he went into the passage 
 and thrust his head into the open drawing-room door. 
 The room was filled with flowers, and though the win- 
 dows were wide open, it smelt close, as if it had already 
 been full of people. The walls were covered with pink 
 and white moire paper, whose shiny surface was broken 
 by various pictures. Watts's "Hope" in a gilt frame 
 dominated the mantelpiece; a copy of "The Fighting 
 Temeraire" faced it, and there were a good many photo- 
 graphs elaborately framed, grouped, like little families, 
 in clusters. Between the windows hung an old, faded 
 photogravure of "The Soul's Awakening," and "Alone 
 at Last" revealed its artless passion over a walnut chif- 
 fonier laden with small pieces of china. The young man 
 in the straw hat, which was now pushed far, back on his 
 sweat-darkened fair hair, stood in the middle of the 
 room and looked round, scratching his head with his 
 pencil. His bright eyes missed nothing, and although 
 he was plainly a young man full of buoyant matter-of- 
 factness, there was scorn, not unkindly, but decided, in
 
 HAPPY HOUSE ii 
 
 his merry but almost porcine eyes as he made mental 
 notes of his surroundings. 
 
 "Poor old girl," he muttered. "Hang that 'bus acci- 
 dent. I wish I'd been here in time for the party " 
 
 Then his shrewd face softened as the deeper meaning 
 of the room reached him. It was ugly ; it was common- 
 place, but it was more of a home than many a room his 
 journalistic activities had acquainted him with. By 
 a low, shabby, comfortable-looking arm-chair that stood 
 near the flower-filled grate was a dark-covered table 
 on which stood five photographs, all in shiny silver or 
 leather frames. Mr. Wick stood over the table tapping 
 his teeth softly with his pencil, and moving his lips hi 
 a way that produced a hollow tune. "So that's the little 
 lot," he said to himself in a cheerful, confidential voice. 
 "Three feminines and two masculines, as the Italians 
 say. And very nice too. Her own corner, I bet. Yes, 
 there's her fountain pen." He took it up and made a 
 note of its make and laid it carefully down. There was 
 a little fire-screen in the shape of a banner of wool em- 
 broidery on the table. "That's how she keeps the fire- 
 light out of her eyes when she's working in the winter. 
 
 Poor old girl. What ghastly muck it is, too Good 
 
 thing for her the public likes it. Now, then, what about 
 that bell? Guess I'll go and have another tinkle at it." 
 He started to the door, when it was pushed further open 
 and the owner of the house came in. Mr. Wick knew 
 at the first glance that it was the owner of the house. 
 A fattish, middle-aged man in brand new shepherd's 
 plaid trousers and a not quite so new braided morning- 
 coat. 
 
 "Hallo! I I beg your pardon " the new-comer
 
 12 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 began, not at all in the voice of one who begs pardon. 
 Mr. Wick waved his hand kindly. 
 
 "Oliver Wick's my name," he explained. "I come 
 from Round the Fire for an account of the wedding, 
 but I got mixed up with a rather good 'bus smash in 
 Oxford Street, and that's why I'm late." 
 
 "Oh, I see. Want a description of the wedding, do 
 you? Clothes and so on? I'm afraid I'm not much 
 good for that, but if you'll come into the garden I'll 
 get one of my daughters to tell you. Some of the young 
 people are still there, as a matter of fact." 
 
 Mr. Walbridge had stopped just short of being a tall 
 man. His figure had thickened and spread as he grew 
 older and his hips were disproportionately broad, which 
 gave him a heavy, clumsy look. In his reddish, rather 
 swollen face were traces of what had been great beauty, 
 and he had the unpleasant manner of a man who con- 
 sciously uses his charm as a means to attain his own 
 ends. 
 
 "Come into the dining-room first and have a glass 
 of the widow," he suggested, as he led the way down the 
 narrow passage towards an open door at the back of 
 the house. 
 
 Mr. Wick, who had no inhuman prejudice against con- 
 viviality, followed him into the dining-room and partook, 
 as his quick eyes made notes of everything on which 
 they rested, of a glass of warmish, rather doubtful wine. 
 
 "I suppose Mrs. Walbridge will give me five minutes?" 
 the young man asked, setting down his glass and taking 
 a cigarette from the very shiny silver case offered him 
 by his host. Mr. Walbridge laughed, showing the re- 
 mains of a fine set of teeth artfully reinforced by a 
 skilled dentist.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 13 
 
 "Oh, yes. My wife will quite enjoy being inter- 
 viewed. Women always like that kind of thing, and, 
 between you and me and the gate-post," he poured some 
 champagne into a tumbler and drank it before he went 
 on, "interviewers don't come round quite as they used 
 in her younger days." 
 
 Mr. Wick despised the novels of the poor lady he 
 had come to interview, but he was a youth not without 
 chivalry, and something in his host's manner irritated 
 him. 
 
 "She has a very good book public, anyhow, has Violet 
 Walbridge. You mustn't mind me calling her that. 
 I shouldn't call Browning Mr. Browning, you know, or 
 Victoria Cross Miss Cross." 
 
 Walbridge nodded. "Oh, yes, they're pretty stories, 
 pretty stories, though I like stronger stuff myself. Just 
 re-reading T/Assommoir' again. Met Zola once when 
 I was living in Paris. Always wondered how he smashed 
 his nose. Well, if you're ready, let's come down into 
 the garden where the ladies are." 
 
 The garden of Happy House was a long narrow strip 
 almost entirely covered by a grass tennis court, and 
 bounded by a narrow, crowded, neglected herbaceous 
 border. As he stood at the top of the steep flight of 
 steps leading down to where the group of young people 
 were sprawled about in dilapidated old deck-chairs or 
 on the grass, Mr. Wick's quick eyes saw the herbaceous 
 border, and, what is more, they understood it. It was 
 a meagre, squeezed, depressed looking attempt, and the 
 young man from Brondesbury knew instinctively that, 
 whereas the tennis court was loved by the young people 
 of the family, the wild and pathetic flowers belonged to 
 the old lady he had come to interview. Somehow he
 
 14 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 seemed to know, as he told his mother later, quite a lot 
 about Violet Walbridge, just through looking at her 
 border. 
 
 The sun was setting now, and a little wind had come 
 up, stirring the leaves on the old elm under whose shade, 
 erratic and scant, the little group were seated. Three 
 or four young men were there, splendid, if rather warm, 
 in their wedding garments, and several young women 
 and girls, the pre#ty pale colours of their 'fine feathers 
 harmonising charmingly with the evening. At the far 
 end of the garden a lady was walking, with a blue silk 
 sunshade over her shoulder. As the two men came down 
 the steps Mr. Walbridge pointed to her. 
 
 "There's my wife," he said. "Shall I come and intro- 
 duce you?" 
 
 "No, thank you. No, no, I'll go by myself," the 
 young man answered hastily, and as he went down 
 across the lawn he heard a girl's voice saying laughingly : 
 "Reporter to interview Mrs. Jellaby." The others 
 laughed, not unkindly, but their laughter lent to Mr. 
 Wick's approach to Mrs, Walbridge a deference it might 
 otherwise not have had. She had not heard him coming, 
 and was standing with her back to him, her head and 
 shoulders hidden by the delphinium-blue sunshade, and 
 when she turned, starting nervously at the sound of his 
 voice, he realised with painful acuteness that delphinium- 
 blue is not the colour to be worn by daylight by old 
 ladies. Her thin, worn face, in which the bones showed 
 more than in any face he had ever seen, was flooded 
 with the blue colour that seemed to fill all the hollows 
 and lines with indigo, and her large sunken eyes, on 
 which the upper eyelids fitted too closely, must have 
 been, the young man noticed, beautiful eyes long ago.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 15 
 
 They were of that most rare eye-colour, a really dark 
 violet, and the eyebrows on the very edge of the clearly 
 defined frontal bone were slightly arched and well 
 marked over the temples. When he had told her who 
 he was and his errand, she flushed with pleasure and 
 held out her hand to him, and he, whose profession is 
 probably second only to that of dentistry in its unpopu- 
 larity, was touched by her simple pleasure. 
 
 "My Chief thought the public would be interested in 
 the wedding. He tells me this daughter the bride, 
 I mean was the original of of one of your chief 
 heroines." 
 
 Violet Walbridge led the way to an old, faded green 
 garden seat, on which they sat down. 
 
 "Yes, she's the original of 'Rose Parmenter,' " she 
 helped him out gently, without offence at his having 
 forgotten the name. "I wish you had seen her. But 
 you can say that she was looking beautiful, because she 
 was " 
 
 Mr. Wick whipped out his notebook and his beautifully 
 sharpened pencil, contrived a little table of his knees, 
 and looked up at her. 
 
 " 'Rose Parmenter' oh, yes. That's one of your 
 best-known books, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, that and 'Starlight and Moonlight.' They sold 
 best, though 'One Maid's Word' has done very well. 
 That," she added slowly, "has been done into Swedish, 
 as well as French and German. 'Queenie's Promise' has 
 been done into six languages." 
 
 Her voice was very low, and peculiarly toneless, but 
 he noticed a little flush of pleasure in her thin cheeks 
 a flush that induced him, quite unexpectedly to himself, 
 to burst out with the information that a friend of his
 
 16 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 sister Jenny her name was just revelled in his com- 
 panion's works. "Give me a box o' chocs," Kitty will 
 say, "and one of Violet Walbridge's books, and I 
 wouldn't change places with Queen Mary." 
 
 Without being urged, Mrs. Walbridge gave the young 
 man details he wanted that her daughter's name was 
 Hermione Rosalind; that she was the second daughter 
 and the third child, and that she had married a man 
 named Gaskell-Walker William Gaskell-Walker. 
 
 "He belongs to a Lancashire family, and they've gone 
 to the Lakes for their honeymoon." The author waved 
 her thin hand towards the group of young people at the 
 other end of the lawn. "There's the rest of my flock," 
 she said, her voice warming a little. "The tall man who's 
 looking at his watch is my other son-in-law, Dr. Twiss 
 of Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square. He married 
 my eldest daughter, Maud, four years ago. Their little 
 boy was page to-day. He's upstairs asleep now." 
 
 As she spoke one of the girls in the group left the 
 others and came towards her and Wick. 
 
 "This is your daughter, too?" the young man asked, 
 a little throb of pleasure in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, this," Mrs. Walbridge answered, taking tfie 
 girl's hand, "is my baby, Griselda. Grisel, dear, this is 
 Mr. Mr. " 
 
 "Wick," said the young man. "Oliver Wick." 
 
 "You've come to interview Mum?" Miss Walbridge 
 asked, a little good-natured raillery in her voice. 
 
 The young man bowed. "Yes. I represent Round 
 the Fire, and my Chief thought that the public would 
 
 be interested in an account of the wedding " His 
 
 eyes were glued to the young girl's face. She was very 
 small, and, he thought to himself, the blackest white
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 17 
 
 girl he had ever seen ; so dark that if he had not known 
 who she was he might have wondered whether she were 
 not the whitest black girl her hair was coal-black and 
 her long eyes like inkwells, and her skin, smooth as 
 vellum, without a touch of colour, was a rich golden 
 brown. She was charmingly dressed in canary-coloured 
 chiffon, and round her neck she wore a little necklet 
 of twisted strands of seed pearls, from which hung a 
 large, beautifully cut pearl-shaped topaz. 
 
 "I came to tell you, Mum," she went on, glancing 
 over her shoulder at one of the upper windows, "that 
 Hilary's awake and bawling his head off, and Maud 
 wants you to go up to him." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge rose and Wick noticed, although 
 he could not have explained it, how very different were 
 her grey silk draperies from the yellow ones of her 
 daughter. She had, moreover, sat down carelessly, and 
 the back of her frock was crushed and twisted. 
 
 "It's my little grandson," she explained. "He's always 
 frightened when he wakes up. I'll go to him. Perhaps 
 you'd like my daughter to show you the wedding pres- 
 ents, Mr. Wick." 
 
 Oliver Wick was very young, and he was an ugly 
 youth as well, but something about him held the girl's 
 attention, in spite of his being only a reporter. This 
 something, though she did not know it, was power, so it 
 was perfectly natural that the little, spoilt beauty should 
 lead him into the house to the room upstairs where the 
 presents were set forth. His flowery article in the next 
 number of Round the Fire expressed great appreciation 
 of the gifts, but there was no detailed account of them, 
 and that was because, although he looked at them and 
 seemed to see what he was looking at, he really saw
 
 i8 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 nothing but Miss Walbridge's enchanting little face. 
 
 "Do you ever read any of Mum's novels?" the girl 
 asked him at last, as they stood by the window, looking 
 down over the little garden into the quiet, tree-bordered 
 road. 
 
 The young man hesitated, and she burst out laughing, 
 pointing a finger of scorn at him. 
 
 "You've not?" she cried. "Own up. You needn't 
 mind. I'm sure I don't blame you; they're awful rub- 
 bish poor old Mum! I often wonder who it is does 
 read them." 
 
 As she finished speaking, the door into the back room 
 opened, and Mrs. Walbridge came out, carrying the 
 little boy who had been crying. His long, fat legs, end- 
 ing in shiny patent leather slippers, hung limply down, 
 and his towsled fair head leant on her shoulder. He 
 was dressed in cavalier costume of velvet and satin, and 
 his fat, stupid face was blotted and blurred with tears. 
 He looked so very large and heavy, and Mrs. Walbridge 
 looked so small and old and tired that the young man 
 went towards with his arms held out. 
 
 "Let me carry him down for you," he said. "He's 
 too heavy " 
 
 Griselda laughed. "My mother won't let you," she 
 said gaily. "She always carries him about. She's much 
 stronger than she looks." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge didn't speak, but, with a little smile, 
 went out of the room and slowly downstairs. Her 
 daughter shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Mum's not only superannuated as to novels," she 
 announced, smoothing her hair in front of a glass; 
 "she's the old-fashioned mother and grandmother. She 
 won't let us do a thing."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 19 
 
 Her bright beauty had already cast a small spell on 
 the young man, but nevertheless he answered her in a 
 flash: 
 
 "Do you ever try ?" 
 
 She stared for a moment. In spite of his journalistic 
 manner and what is really best described as his cheek, 
 Oliver Wick was a gentleman, and the girl had instinct- 
 ively accepted him as such. But at the abrupt, frank 
 censure in his voice she drew herself up and assumed 
 a new manner. 
 
 "Now that you've seen the presents," she said, in 
 what he knew she thought to be a haughty tone, "I think 
 I must get back to my friends." 
 
 He grinned. "Righto! Sorry to have detained you. 
 But I haven't quite finished my talk with Mrs. Walbridge. 
 I'm sure she won't mind giving me a few tips about her 
 next book. Our people love that kind of thing eat it." 
 
 He cast his eye about the pleasant sunny room, and 
 then, as he reached the door, stopped. 
 
 "I suppose this is your room?" he asked, with bland 
 disregard of her manner. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well different kinds of pictures, you know; brown 
 wallpaper, and that's a good Kakemono. Hanabosa 
 Iccho, isn't it?" 
 
 Miss Walbridge's face expressed surprise too acute to 
 be altogether courteous. i 
 
 "I I don't know," she said. "I know it's a very 
 good one. Mother bought it for Paul that's my brother 
 he's very fond of such things for his birthday and 
 at Christmas his room is being painted, so some of his 
 things are in here."
 
 20 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 The young man looked admiringly at the grey and 
 white study of monkeys and leaves. 
 
 "I've got an uncle who collects them," he said, "and 
 that's a jolly good one. I suppose that Mrs. Walbridge 
 goes in for Japanese art too?" 
 
 "Poor mother!" The girl laughed. "She doesn't 
 know a Kakemono from a broomstick. Paul found that 
 one at some sale and asked her to give it to him." 
 
 They went slowly down the stairs, the girl's pretty 
 white hand sliding lightly along the polished rail in a 
 way that put all thought of Japanese art out of the 
 young man's active mind. He was going to be a great 
 success, for he had the conquering power of concentrat- 
 ing not only his thoughts but his feelings on one thing 
 at a time; and for the moment the only thing in the 
 world was Griselda Walbridge's left hand.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HAPPY HOUSE was a big old house with rooms on both 
 sides of the door, and a good many bedrooms, but it 
 was old-fashioned in the wrong way, like a man's straw 
 hat, say, of the early seventies. It was inconvenient 
 without being picturesque. There was only one bath- 
 room, and the passages were narrow. Most of the 
 children had been born there, indeed all of them except 
 Paul, for the prudent Mrs. Walbridge had bought it 
 out of the proceeds of her first book, "Queenie's Promise" , 
 a book that is even now dear to thousands of romantic 
 hearts in obscure homes. Paul had been born in the 
 little house at Tooting Bee, for there it was that the 
 Great Success had been written. In those days might 
 have been seen walking under the fine trees of the com- 
 mon, a little dowdy figure with a bustle and flowing 
 unhygienic draperies, that was the newly married Mrs. 
 Ferdinand Walbridge, in the throes of literary invention. 
 But just before the birth of Maud Evelyn the removal 
 had been made; the hastily gathered, inexpensive house- 
 hold gods had been carried by the faithful Carter Pater- 
 son to Walpole Road and set up in their over-large, 
 rather dwarfing shrine. Those were the days of limitless 
 ambition and mad, rosy dreams, when Ferdinand was 
 still regarded by his young wife much in the way that 
 Antony Trollope's heroines worshipped their husbands 
 a short time before. The romantic light of the runaway 
 match still hung round him and his extraordinary good 
 looks filled her with unweakened pride. 
 
 21
 
 22 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 They hung up Mr. Watts's "Hope," the beautiful and 
 touching "Soul's Awakening" (which, indeed, bore a 
 certain resemblance to Walbridge at that time), she 
 arranged her little odds and ends of china, and her few 
 books that her father had sent her after the half-hearted 
 reconciliation following Paul's birth, and one of the 
 first things they bought was a gilt clock, representing 
 two little cupids on a see-saw. Mrs. Walbridge's taste 
 was bad, but it was no worse than the taste of the greater 
 part of her contemporaries of her own class, for she 
 belonged body and soul to the Philistines. She hadn't 
 even an artistic uncle clinging to the uttermost skirts of 
 the pre-Raphaelites to lighten her darkness, and, behold, 
 when she had made it, her little kingdom looked good to 
 her. She settled down light-heartedly and without mis- 
 givings, to her quadruple role of wife, mother, house- 
 keeper and writer. She had no doubt, the delicate little 
 creature of twenty, but that she could "manage" and 
 she had been managing ever since. She managed to 
 write those flowery sentimental books of hers in a room 
 full of crawling, experimental, loud-voiced babies; she 
 managed to break in a series of savage handmaidens, 
 who married as soon as she had taught them how to do 
 their work; she managed to make flowers grow in the 
 shabby, weed-grown garden; she managed to mend 
 stair-carpets, to stick up fresh wallpapers, to teach her 
 children their prayers and how to read and write; she 
 managed to cook the dinner during the many servantless 
 periods. The fate of her high-born hero and heroine 
 tearing at her tender heart, while that fabulous being, 
 the printer's devil, waited, in a metaphorical sense, on 
 her doorstep. But most of all, she managed to put up 
 with Ferdinand. She had loved him strongly and truly,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 23 
 
 but she was a clear-sighted little woman, and she could 
 not be fooled twice in the same way, which, from some 
 points of view, is a misfortune in a wife. So gradually 
 she found him out, and with every bit of him that 
 crumbled away, something of herself crumbled too. 
 Nobody knew very much about those years, for she was 
 one of those rare women who have no confidante, and 
 she was too busy for much active mourning. Ferdinand 
 was an expensive luxury. She worked every day and 
 all day, believed in her stories with a pathetic persistence, 
 cherishing all her press notices she pasted them in a 
 large book, and each one was carefully dated. She had 
 a large public, and made a fairly large, fairly regular 
 income, but there never was enough money, because 
 Walbridge not only speculated and gambled in every 
 possible way, but also required a great deal for his own 
 personal comforts and luxuries. For years it was the 
 joy of the little woman's heart to dress him at one of 
 the classic tailors in Savile Row ; his shirts and ties came 
 from a Jermyn Street shop, his boots from St. James's 
 Street, and his gloves (he had very beautiful hands) 
 were made specially for him in the Rue de Rivoli. For 
 many years Ferdinand Walbridge (or Ferdie, as he was 
 called by a large but always changing circle of admiring 
 friends) was one of the most carefully dressed men in 
 town. He had an office somewhere in the city, but his 
 various attempts at business always failed sooner or 
 later, and then after each failure he would settle down 
 gently and not ungratefully to a long period of what he 
 called rest. 
 
 When the three elder children were eight, six and 
 three, a very bad time had come to "Happy House." 
 Little had been known about it except for the main fact
 
 24 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 that Mr. Walbridge was made a bankrupt. But Caroline 
 Breeze, the only woman who was anything like an inti- 
 mate friend of the household, knew that there was, over 
 and above this dreadful business, a worse trouble. 
 
 Caroline Breeze was one of those women who are not 
 unaffectionately called "a perfect fool" by their friends, 
 but she was a close-mouthed, loyal soul, and had never 
 talked about it to anyone. But years afterwards, when 
 the time had come for her to speak, she spoke, out of 
 her silent observation, to great purpose. For a long 
 time after his bankruptcy Ferdie Walbridge walked 
 about like a moulting bird ; his jauntiness seemed to have 
 left him, and without it he wilted and became as nothing. 
 During this three years Mrs. Walbridge for the first 
 time did her writing in the small room in the attic the 
 small room with the sloping roof and the little view of 
 the tree-tops and sky of which she grew so fond, and 
 which, empty and desolate though it was, had gradually 
 grown to be called the study ; and that was the time when 
 Caroline Breeze was of such great use to her. For 
 Caroline used to come every day and take the children, 
 as she expressed it, off their mother's hands. 
 
 In '94 Mrs. Walbridge produced "Touchstones," in 
 '95 "Under the Elms" and in '96 "Starlight and Moon- 
 light." It was in '98 that there appeared in the papers 
 a small notice to the effect that Mr. Ferdinand Walbridge 
 was discharged from his bankruptcy, having paid his 
 creditors twenty shillings in the pound. 
 
 Naturally, after this rehabilitation, Mr. Walbridge 
 became once more his charming and fascinating self, 
 and was the object of many congratulations from the 
 entirely new group of friends that he had gathered round 
 him since his misfortune. l
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 25 
 
 "Most chaps would have been satisfied to pay fifteen 
 shillings in the pound," more than one of these gentle- 
 men declared to him, and Ferdie Walbridge, as he waved 
 his hand and expressed his failure to comprehend such 
 an attitude, really almost forgot that it was his wife 
 and not himself who had provided the > money that had 
 washed his honour clean. 
 
 Caroline Breeze, faithful and best of friends, lived 
 up three pairs of stairs in the Harrow Road, and one 
 of her few pleasures was the keeping of an accurate 
 and minute record of her tiaily doings. Perhaps some 
 selections from the diary will help to bring us up to 
 date in the story of "Happy House." 
 
 October, 1894 Tuesday. Have been with poor Vio- 
 let. Mr. Walbridge has been most unfortunate, and 
 someone has made him a bankrupt. It is a dreadful 
 blow to Violet, and poor little Hermy only six weeks 
 old. Brought Maud home for the night with me. She's 
 cutting a big tooth. Gave her black currant jam for tea. 
 Do hope the seeds won't disagree with her. . . . 
 
 Wednesday. Not much sleep with poor little Maud. 
 Took her round and got Hermy in the pram, and did 
 the shopping. Saw Mr. Walbridge for a moment. He 
 looks dreadfully ill, poor man. Told me he nearly shot, 
 himself last night. I told him he must bear up for 
 Violet's sake. . . . 
 
 A week later. Went to "Happy House" and took 
 care of the children while Violet was at the solicitors. 
 She looks frightfully ill and changed, somehow. I don't 
 quite understand what it is all about. Several people 
 I know have gone bankrupt, and none of their wives 
 seem as upset as Violet. . . . 
 
 November $th. Spent the day at "Happy House"
 
 26 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 looking after the children. Violet had to go to the Law 
 Courts with Air. Walbridge. He looked so desperate 
 this morning that I crept in and hid his razors. He 
 dined at the King's Arms with some of his friends, and 
 Violet and I had high tea together. She looks dread- 
 fully ill, and the doctor says she must wean poor little 
 Hermy. She said very little, but I'm afraid she blames 
 poor Mr. Walbridge. I begged her to be gentle with 
 him, and she promised she would, but she looked so 
 oddly at me that I wished I hadn't said it. 
 
 November 2Oth. Violet has moved into the top room 
 next the nursery to be nearer the children. I must say 
 I think this is wrong of her. She ought to consider her 
 husband. He looks a little better, but my heart aches 
 for him. 
 
 February, 1895. Violet's new book doing very well. 
 Third edition out yesterday. She's getting on well with 
 the one for the autumn. Such a pretty title "Under 
 the Elms." It's about a foundling, which I think is 
 always so sweet. She's very busy making over the 
 children's clothes. Ferdie (he says it is ridiculous that 
 such an intimate friend as I am should go on calling 
 him Mr. Walbridge) has gone to Torquay for a few 
 weeks as he's very run down. Mem. I lent him ten 
 pounds, as dear Violet really doesn't seem quite to under- 
 stand that a gentleman needs a little extra money when 
 he's away. He was sweet about her. Told me how very 
 good she was, and said that her not understanding about 
 the pocket money is not her fault, as, of course, she is 
 not quite so well born as he. He is very well connected 
 indeed, though he doesn't care to have much to do with 
 his relations. He's to pay me back when his two new
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 27 
 
 pastels are sold. They are at Jackson's in Oxford Street, 
 and look lovely in the window. . . . 
 
 November, 1895. Violet's new book out to-day 
 "Under the Elms" a sweet story. She gave me a copy 
 with my name in it, and I sat up till nearly two, with 
 cocoa, reading it. Very touching, and made me cry, but 
 has a happy ending. I wish I had such a gift. 
 
 January i^th, 1896. Just had a long talk with poor 
 Ferdie. He is really very unlucky. Had his pocket 
 picked on his way home from the city yesterday with 
 86 155. 4d. in his purse. Does not wish to tell poor 
 Violet. It would distress her so. He had bought some 
 shares in some kind of mineral I forget the name 
 and they had gone up, and he had been planning to 
 buy her a new coat and skirt, and a hat, and lovely 
 presents for all the children. He's such a kind man. 
 He was even going to buy six pairs of gloves for me. 
 The disappointment is almost more than he can bear. 
 Sometimes I think Violet is rather hard on him. I 
 couldn't bear to see him so disappointed, so I am lending 
 him 50 out of the Post Office Savings Bank. He's 
 going to pay me six per cent. It's better than I can 
 get in any other safe investment. He's to pay me at 
 midsummer. N.B. That makes 60. 
 
 February 12th, 1896. Paul's birthday. Went to tea 
 to "Happy House." Violet made a beautiful cake with 
 white icing, and had squeezed little pink squiggles all 
 over it in a nice pattern. She gave him a fine new pair 
 of boots and a bath sponge. His daddy gave him a 
 drum a real one and a large box of chocolates. 
 
 February i^th, 1896. Ferdie came round at seven 
 this morning to ask me to help nurse Paul. He was ill 
 all night with nettle-rash in his throat, and nearly
 
 28 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 choked, poor little boy. I've been there all day. Susan 
 told me Ferdie's grief in the night was something awful. 
 It's a good thing Violet does not take things so to heart. 
 Odd about the chocolate. It seems it's always given him 
 nettle-rash. 
 
 September 4th, 1896. Darling Hermy's second birth- 
 day. Her mother made her a really lovely coat out of 
 her Indian shawl. I knitted her a petticoat. Dear 
 Ferdie gave her a huge doll with real hair, that talks, 
 and a box of chocolates, which we took away from her, 
 as Paul cried for some. Ferdie had quite forgotten 
 that chocolates poison Paul. He was very wonderful 
 this evening after the children had gone to bed. He had 
 made some money (only a little) by doing some work 
 in the city, and he had bought Violet a lovely pair of 
 seed-pearl earrings. I suppose she was very tired, be- 
 cause she was really quite ungracious about them, and 
 hurt his feelings dreadfully. There was also some 
 trouble about the gas man, which I didn't quite under- 
 stand. But afterwards, when I had gone upstairs to 
 take a last look at the children, they had a talk, and as 
 I came downstairs I saw him kneeling in front of her 
 with his head in her lap. He has such pretty curly 
 hair, and when I came in he came to me and took my 
 hand and said he didn't mind my seeing his tears, as I 
 was the same as a sister, and asked me to help influence 
 her to forgive him, and to begin over again. It was 
 very touching, and I couldn't help crying a little. I was 
 so sorry for him. Violet is really rather hard. I sug- 
 gested to her that after all many nice people go bank- 
 rupt, and that other women have far worse things to 
 bear, and she looked at me very oddly for a moment,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 29 
 
 almost as if she despised me, though it can't have been 
 that. . . . 
 
 September 3Of/*> 1896. Have been helping Violet 
 move her things back into the downstairs room. Ferdie 
 was so pleased. He brought home a great bunch of 
 white lilac in September! and put it in a vase by the 
 bed. I thought it was a lovely little attention. 
 
 July 4th, 1897. A beautiful little boy came home this 
 morning to "Happy House." They are going to call 
 him Guy, which is Ferdie's favourite name. He was 
 dreadfully disappointed it wasn't a little girl, so that 
 she could be named Violet Peace. He's so romantic. 
 What a pity there is no masculine name meaning 
 Peace. ,
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MR. OLIVER WICK'S ideas of courtship were primitive 
 and unshakable. On one or two clever, ingenious 
 pretexts he visited "Happy House" twice within the 
 month after his first visit, in order, as he expressed it 
 to himself, to look over Miss Walbridge in the light of 
 a possible wife. That he was in love with her he recog- 
 nised, to continue using his own language, "from the 
 drop of the hat," "from the first gun." But although 
 he belonged to the most romantic race under the sun, 
 Mr. Wick was no fool, and whereas anything like a 
 help-meet would have displeased him almost to the 
 point of disgust, he had certain standards to which any 
 one with claims to be the future Mrs. Oliver V^ick must 
 more or less conform. He didn't care a bit about 
 money he felt that money was his job, not the girl's 
 but she'd got to be straight, she'd got to be a good 
 looker, and she'd got to be good-tempered. No shrew- 
 taming for him at least not in his own domestic circle. 
 
 One evening, shortly after his third visit to "Happy 
 House," the young man was standing at the tallboys 
 in his mother's room in Spencer Crescent, Brondesbury, 
 tying a new tie over an immaculate dress shirt. 
 
 "I'm going to do the trick to-night," he declared, 
 filled with pleasant confidence, "or bust." 
 
 Mrs. Wick, who looked more like her son's grand- 
 mother than his mother, sat in a low basket chair by 
 the window, stretching, with an old, thin pair of olive- 
 
 30
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 31 
 
 wood glove stretchers, the new white gloves that were 
 to put the final touch of splendour to the wooer's appear- 
 ance. 
 
 She was a pleasant-faced old woman, with a strong 
 chin and keen, clear eyes, and when she smiled she 
 showed traces of past beauty. 
 
 "Well, of course," she said, snapping the glove- 
 stretchers at him thoughtfully, "you know everything 
 you always did and far be it from me to make any 
 suggestions to you." 
 
 He turned round, grinning, his ugly face full of subtle 
 likeness to her handsome one. 
 
 "Oh, go on," he jeered, "you wonderful old thing! 
 Some day your pictures will be in the penny papers as 
 the mother of Baron Wick of Brondesbury. Of course 
 I know everything! Look at this tie, for instance. A 
 Piccadilly tie, built for dukes, tied in Brondesbury by 
 Fleet Street. What's his name D'Orsay couldn't do 
 it better. But what were you going to say?" 
 
 She laughed and held out the gloves. "Here you are, 
 son. Only this. I bet you sixpence she won't look at 
 you. She'll turn you down; refuse you; give you the 
 cold hand; icy mit what d'you call it? And then you'll 
 come back and weep on my shoulder." 
 
 Mr. Wick, who had taken the gloves, stood still for a 
 minute, his face full of sudden thought. 
 
 "She may," he said, "she may. I don't care if she 
 does. I tell you she's lovely, mother. She'd look like 
 a fairy queen if the idiots who paint 'em realised that 
 fairies ought to be dark, and not tow-coloured. Of 
 course she'll refuse me a few times, but her father'll be 
 on my side." 
 
 "Why?"
 
 32 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Because he's a rather clever old scoundrel, and he'll 
 know that I'm a succeeder a getter." 
 
 The old woman looked thoughtful. "I haven't liked 
 anything you told me about him, Oily. But, after all, 
 he has paid up, and lots of good men have been unfortu- 
 nate in business." 
 
 The young fellow took up his dress-coat, which was 
 new and richly lined, and drew it on with care. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not marrying into this family because I 
 admire my future father-in-law," he answered. "I 
 haven't any little illusions about him, old lady. It's his 
 wife who's done the paying, or I'm very much mistaken. 
 She's an honest woman poor thing." 
 
 There was such deep sympathy in his voice that his 
 mother, who had risen, and was patting and smoothing 
 the new coat into place on his broad shoulders, pulled 
 him round till he faced her, and looked down at him, 
 for she was taller than he. 
 
 "Why are you so sorry for her?" 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, and his hesitation meant 
 much to her. 
 
 "I don't know. She never says anything, of course. 
 She seems happy enough, but I believe I believe she's 
 found him out " 
 
 "God help her," Mrs. Wick answered. 
 
 The young man remembered this episode as he sat 
 opposite his hostess at dinner an hour and a half later. 
 The dining-room had been re-papered since he had drunk 
 that glass of luke-warm wine in it the day of Hermione's 
 wedding, and his sharp eyes noticed the absence of 
 several ugly things that had been there then. Stags 
 no longer hooted to each other across mountain chasms
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 33 
 
 over the sideboard, and one or two good line drawings 
 hung in their place. 
 
 "How do you like it?" Griselda asked him. "Paul 
 and I have been cheering things up a bit." 
 
 "Splendid," he replied promptly. "I say, how beauti- 
 ful your sister is!" 
 
 Griselda's rather hard little face softened charmingly 
 as she looked across the table, where the bride was 
 sitting. Hermione Gaskell-Walker was a very handsome 
 young woman in an almost classical way, and her short- 
 sighted, clever-looking husband, who sat nearly opposite 
 her, evidently thought so too, for he peered over the 
 flowers at her in adoration that was plain and pleasing 
 to see. 
 
 "They've such a jolly house in Campden Hill. His 
 father was Adrian Gaskell-Walker, the landscape painter, 
 and collected things." 
 
 Mr. Wick nodded, but did not answer, for he was 
 busy making a series of those mental photographs, 
 whose keenness and durability so largely contributed to 
 his success in life. He had an amazing power of storing 
 up records of incidents that somehow or other might 
 come in useful to him, and this little dinner party, which 
 he had decided to be a milestone on his road, interested 
 him acutely in its detail. 
 
 By candlelight, in perfect evening dress, Ferdinand 
 Walbridge's slightly dilapidated charms were very mani- 
 fest. On his right sat an,, elderly lady about whom 
 Mr. Wick's apparatus recorded only one word pearls. 
 
 Next to her came Paul Walbridge, looking older than 
 his twenty-nine years thin, delicate, rather high shoul- 
 dered, with remarkably glossy dark hair and immense 
 soft, dove-coloured eyes. He looked far better bred,
 
 34 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 the young man decided, than he had any right to look; 
 his hands, in particular, might have been modelled by 
 Velasquez. 
 
 "Supercilious " Wick thought, and then paused, 
 
 not adding the "ass" that had come into his mind, for 
 he knew that Paul Walbridge was not an ass, although 
 he would have liked to call him one. 
 
 Next Paul came the beautiful Hermione, with mag- 
 nificent shoulders white as flour, and between her and 
 her mother sat a man named Walter Crichell, a portrait 
 painter, one of the best in the secondary school a man 
 with over-red lips and short white hands with unpleasant, 
 pointed fingers. 
 
 "That fellow's a stinker," Wick decided, never to 
 change his mind. 
 
 Next came the hostess, thin, worn, rather silent, in 
 the natural isolation of an old woman sitting between 
 two young men, each of whom had youth and beauty 
 on his far side. 
 
 Then, of course, came Oliver himself and Grisel. Next 
 to Grisel, Gaskell-Walker, the lower part of whose face 
 was clever, but who would probably find himself handi- 
 capped by the qualities belonging to too high, too 
 straight a forehead; and next him, consequently on the 
 host's left, sat Crichell's wife. Young Wick could not 
 look at her very comfortably without leaning forward, 
 but he caught one or two glimpses of her face as Wai- 
 bridge bent over her, and promised himself a good look 
 in the drawing-room. She was worth it, he knew. A 
 soft, velvety brown creature, a little on the fat side, but 
 rather beautiful. It was plain, too, that the old man 
 admired her. 
 
 Mr. Wick studied his host's face for a moment as he
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 35 
 
 thus completed his circle of observation, and so strong 
 were his feelings as he looked at Mr. Walbridge that 
 quite unintentionally he said "Ugh !" aloud. 
 
 "What did you say?" It was Mrs. Walbridge who 
 spoke her first remark for quite a quarter of an hour 
 and in her large eyes was the anxious, guilty look of 
 one who has allowed herself to wool-gather in public. 
 
 Wick started, blushed scarlet, and then burst out 
 laughing at his dilemma. 
 
 "I didn't say anything," he answered. "I was only 
 thinking. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Walbridge." 
 
 Her worn face softened into a kind smile, and he 
 noticed that her teeth were even and very white. 
 
 "It is awful, isn't it," she said, "to to get thinking 
 about things when one ought to be talking? I'm afraid 
 I'm very dull for a young man to sit next." 
 
 "Oh, come, Mrs. Walbridge," he protested, "when 
 you know how they all lapped up that article I wrote 
 about you." 
 
 She bridled gently. "It was a very nice article." 
 After a minute she added anxiously, her thin fingers 
 pressing an old blue enamel brooch that fastened the 
 rather crumpled lace at her throat : "Tell me, Mr. Wick, 
 do you do you really think that that people like my 
 books as much as they used to?" 
 
 "You must have a very big public," he answered, 
 wishing she had not put the question. 
 
 "Yes, I know I have, but you see, of course I'm 
 not young any more, and the children they know a 
 great many people, and bring some of them here and 
 I've noticed that while they are all very kind, they don't 
 seem to have to have really read my books."
 
 36 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Don't they?" said Wick, full of sympathy. "Dear 
 me!" 
 
 She shook her head. "No, they really don't, and I've 
 been wondering if if it is that they're beginning to find 
 me a little old-fashioned." 
 
 What he wanted to say in return for this was: "But, 
 bless your heart, you are old-fashioned, the old-f ashionest 
 old dear that ever lived!" What he did say was: 
 "Well, I suppose lots of people think Thackeray and 
 
 Dickens old-fashioned " But when Grisel turned 
 
 just then and fired some question at him, he felt a weak 
 longing to mop his brow. It had been a narrow escape, 
 and he would not have hurt the old lady's feelings for 
 worlds. Something about this faded, exhausted-looking 
 little old literary bee touched the young fellow in a quite 
 new way. 
 
 "Gosh!" he thought; "now if it was mother, she 
 wouldn't let people think her old-fashioned ; she wouldn't 
 be old-fashioned. My word, wouldn't she just sit up at 
 night and write something to beat Wells, and Elinor 
 Glyn, and the rest of them into a cocked hat!" 
 
 Grisel, in white white that would have done very 
 well, he thought, in Grosvenor Square or St. James's 
 was in her best mood that night, and as they talked he 
 felt himself slipping lower and lower into the abyss 
 that pleasant abyss on the edge of which he had hovered 
 so many times before without letting himself go. 
 
 It was then that the question of Bruce Collier's book 
 rose. It was Crichell who brought up the subject, and 
 as he described the book he enthusiastically waved his 
 peculiarly white hands, which Mr. Wick thought, with 
 some disgust, looked as if they were on the point of
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 37 
 
 sprouting into horrid white tubers like potatoes in a 
 dark cellar. 
 
 "The finest book I've read for years," he declared. 
 "Magnificent piece of work." 
 
 "Walter's quite mad about it," his wife put in, leaning 
 forward and making motions with her hand and throat 
 like those of a sunning pigeon. "He dined with us last 
 night Mr. Collier and he's an extraordinary creature. 
 Never touched a drug in his life, yet he knows all about 
 
 it and as for the other things " she shrugged her 
 
 shoulders and laughed. Her husband shook his fist at 
 her. ^ 
 
 "Now, Clara," he said, "curb that tongue of yours, 
 my dear, or you'll shock Mrs. Walbridge. Have you 
 read the book, Mrs. Walbridge, 'Reek'?" 
 
 The. little writer shook her head. "No, I haven't very 
 much time for reading. I've just read 'The Rosary.' 
 What a delightful book it is !" 
 
 Grisel stretched her hand across Wick and took hold 
 of her mother's. 
 
 "Never mind, darling, you shan't be teased, and you 
 mustn't read 'Reek.' I shouldn't dream of allowing 
 you to." 
 
 Walbridge, in whose handsome, swollen eyes a new 
 little flame was showing, looked up from a whispered 
 talk with Mrs. Crichell and smiled at his wife. 
 
 "No, darling," he agreed, "I can't have you reading 
 such books. It would ruin your style. I'm sure Mr. 
 Wick agrees with me, don't you, Mr. Wick ? Mr. Wick 
 is a great admirer of your books," he added in an in- 
 sufferable way. 
 
 She didn't speak, but Wick saw her thin lips quiver 
 a little, and hastened to answer:
 
 38 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "I'm only a business man, Mr. Walbridge, and know 
 nothing at all about literature, but I know this much 
 I bet the chap who wrote 'Reek' would give his eye- 
 tooth to have Mrs. Walbridge's sales!" 
 
 Hermione Gaskell-Walker raised her heavy-lidded eyes 
 and smiled at him gratefully, as she murmured, "Darling 
 mum," and, stimulated by his success, Mr. Wick ended 
 the conversation by saying firmly, as Mrs. Walbridge 
 caught the eye of the pearl lady : "Filthy book, anyhow ; 
 not fit to be read by ladies " 
 
 Some hours later a not very crestfallen young man 
 sat in the small dining-room of n, Spencer Crescent, 
 Brondesbury, and ate poached eggs on toast he was 
 always ready for poached eggs and announced to his 
 dressing-gowned and beslippered mother that the lady 
 of his choice had rejected him. 
 
 "Couldn't dream of it," he announced cheerfully, 
 reaching for butter with his own knife in a way only 
 permissible at such out-of-hour meals. "She pretended 
 to be surprised, you know, and then, when that didn't 
 work, she tried to assume that I was mad. Pretty little 
 piece, she is, mother. Dimples in her lovely face she's 
 got, and eyes like two little black suns, shining away " 
 
 His mother coughed drily. "You don't seem remark- 
 ably cast down," she observed, rubbing her nose with 
 her thumb a broad and capable thumb, "and here 
 was I wasting my tissue in an agony of fear about my 
 broken-hearted boy." 
 
 He cocked his head as little snub-nosed dogs do, in- 
 deed, he all but cocked one ear, and his eyes twinkled. 
 
 "You and your tissue, indeed! You don't think I
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 39 
 
 thought she was going to jump down my throat, do you? 
 I'd hate a girl who took me first time. I like being 
 refused looks well. I hope she'll refuse me three or 
 four times more." 
 
 "If she could see you eat poached eggs in your shirt- 
 sleeves, with all the varnish off your hair, she'd go on 
 refusing you to the crack o' doom," retorted the old 
 lady. 
 
 Then they went to bed, and in five minutes the rejected 
 one was snoring comfortably.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "ROSELEAVES AND LAVENDER," Violet Walbridge' s last 
 novel, was selling pretty well, but a iew days after the 
 dinner party the author left her house about half-past 
 eleven, mounted a No. 3 bus, settled herself in the prow 
 and travelled down to the Strand in answer to a rather 
 pressing invitation from her publishers. 
 
 It was a fine October morning, with a little tang in 
 the air, so windless that some early falling leaves left 
 their boughs with an air of doubt and travelled very 
 slowly, almost hesitatingly, towards the earth. All the 
 smoke went straight up into the sky, and several caged 
 birds on the route were singing loudly outside their 
 windows. The bus was full of people, more or less all 
 of them of the type who made Mrs. Walbridge's public, 
 and there were, without doubt, several girls sitting almost 
 within reach of her who would have felt it in the nature 
 of an adventure to meet the author of "Oueenie's 
 Promise" and "One Maid's Word." It is interesting to 
 think that there are fewer people who would genuinely 
 thrill at the sight of George Meredith, if he were still 
 alive, than would thrill at having met such a writer as 
 Violet Walbridge. But no one knew who the little, 
 dowdily dressed woman was, and her journey to Charing 
 Cross was uneventful. God, who gives all mercies, gave 
 the gift of vanity, and Mrs. Walbridge, although very 
 humble-minded, was not without her innocent share in 
 the consoling fault. More than once she had given her- 
 
 40
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 41 
 
 self the pleasure of telling some casually met stranger 
 who she was. Once her yearly holiday at Bexhill had 
 been given a glow of glory by the fact that she had by 
 chance found the chambermaid at the little hotel, en- 
 grossed to the point of imbecility in "Starlight and 
 Moonlight." Delicately, shyly, she had made known to 
 the girl the fact of her identity, and the reverence, al- 
 most awe, of the poor ignorant servant in meeting the 
 author of that splendid book had made her very happy 
 for many hours. 
 
 Another time a working man in a train had been 
 quarrelling with his wife for the possession of a torn 
 copy of "Aaron's Rod" (a book which Mrs. Walbridge 
 privately considered a little strong), and as she got' out 
 of the train and the man handed her down her holdall, 
 she had thrown the exciting information of her identity 
 into his face and run for her life, feeling herself akin to 
 Dickens, Miss Ethel M. Dell, Robert Louis Stevenson, 
 and all the other great ones of the earth. But these 
 splendid events had never been frequent, and of late 
 years they had almost ceased to occur. And as the little 
 lady got off the bus at Charing Cross and blundered 
 apologetically into a tall, rosy-faced girl, who clutched 
 The Red Magazine to her breast, she wondered wistfully 
 if the girl would have been delighted if she had told 
 her. 
 
 Messrs. Lubbock & Payne, publishers, had their offices 
 in the Strand, and Mrs. Walbridge's appointment was 
 for half-past eleven. She felt a little nervous and de- 
 pressed as she went up in the lift, for Mr. Lubbock was 
 a very imposing man, whose fine bay-windowed waist-
 
 42 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 coat always overawed her a little. However, it was 
 probably the glory of the golden autumn day that had 
 got on her nerves. She was always sad on such days, 
 so she tried to look bold and successful as she passed 
 Wheeler, the old clerk, Mr. Lubbock's right-hand man, 
 whom she had known for a quarter of a century. 
 
 Wheeler, however, did not respond to her remarks 
 about the weather as he had once done, and when she 
 had waited nearly half an hour her depression had grown 
 still greater, and she was finally ushered into the inner 
 office with hands and feet icy with fear. 
 
 Harrison Lubbock, a large, abnormally clean-looking 
 old gentleman, with a ruff of silky white hair round his 
 polished scalp, greeted her kindly, but without en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "I've asked you to call, Mrs. Walbridge," he began 
 at once with a pronounced glance at the clock, "on a 
 little matter of business. Mr. Payne and I have been 
 talking things over of late business matters you under- 
 stand and we have come to the conclusion that there 
 are one or two of our authors to whom a few words of 
 advice might be of use." He paused, and she looked 
 at him anxiously. 
 
 "I see," she said, her face growing a little paler. "I 
 I'm one of those authors?" 
 
 He bowed, and the soft folds of his beautifully shaved 
 double chin dropped a little lower over his high collar. 
 
 "Yes, yes, quite so. You're a very old, shall I say, 
 client? of ours " 
 
 She would have liked to reply that at that moment 
 the word patient might be more applicable to her, but she 
 dared not, and after a moment he went on : 
 
 "I think we may say that we are very old friends."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 43 
 
 This was awful. She was no business woman, and 
 she had little knowledge of the world, but even she knew 
 that it meant danger, in an interview avowedly a business 
 interview, when friendship was invoked. She stammered 
 something, and he went on : 
 
 "Your books have sold sell very well, on the whole. 
 We have done our best for them, and, as you know, the 
 cost of publishing and advertising particularly adver- 
 tising has nearly doubled since the war." 
 
 Again he paused, and this time she bowed, being afraid 
 to say that she knew conditions were such that her 
 percentage on sales had gone down, while the sale price 
 of her books had gone up to seven and six. She noticed 
 Mr. Lubbock's sleeve-links; they were new ones and 
 very neat, of gold and platinum. How she wished she 
 could buy a pair like that for Paul! In the old days 
 her envy would have been for Ferdie. Mr. Lubbock 
 cleared his throat, fitted his fat fingertips neatly together, 
 and began to be sprightly. 
 
 "Amazing how the output of books of fiction has 
 increased of late years, isn't it? Dear me, I can remem- 
 ber when 2250 would have been considered a big output, 
 and now there are so many good writers, so many excel- 
 lent writers, Mrs. Walbridge, that we are forced by 
 competition and market conditions to bring out nearly 
 three times that number. I wonder if you have kept up 
 with the new writers," he went on after a pause, "Mrs. 
 Levett, Joan Kelly, Austen Goodheart, and so on and 
 Wanda Potter. Wanda Potter's last book sold over a 
 hundred thousand." 
 
 "I haven't read any of them, I'm afraid. I've so 
 
 little time " She tried to smile and felt as if her 
 
 lips were freezing.
 
 44 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Just so, just so; exactly what I was saying to Payne. 
 'Mrs. Walbridge is a very busy woman,' I said to Payne. 
 'She hasn't time she can't be expected to have time 
 to read all these things, so it's quite natural that 
 
 that ' " He broke off, and taking up a little bronze 
 
 figure of a poodle, that served as a paper weight, he 
 examined it carefully for a moment. "I'm sure you 
 understand what I mean, Mrs. Walbridge," he said at 
 last. 
 
 i She was looking at the corner of his polished mahog- 
 any writing table; she was looking at two carefully 
 jointed bits of wood, finely grained and smoothly welded 
 together, but what she saw was "Happy House" ; Ferdie 
 and his new cedar cigar chest yawning to be filled; of 
 an unpaid tailor's bill; of his annual cough (Ferdie 
 coughed himself regularly to Torquay every autumn) ; 
 she saw Paul and his new edition de luxe of Swinburne, 
 and the Rowlandson "Horse Fair" he had taken her 
 to see in King Street, St. James's the "Horse Fair" 
 that was to cost "only eighteen guineas." She saw the 
 little sea-green frock that .hung in the great Frenchman's 
 window in Hanover Square, the little frock that would 
 look so beautiful on Grisel. She saw a vision of a heca- 
 tomb pf roasts of beef and saddles of mutton, and 
 oysters, and burgundy, that she was longing to offer up 
 to her family gods. She saw the natural skunk coat she 
 had been planning to give to poor dear Caroline for 
 Christmas. She saw the new bathroom, on which the 
 men were already working, that was to be Grisel's. Then 
 these things passed away, and the corner of -the table 
 again appeared, and Mr. Lubbock was saying, in that 
 kind, dreadful voice of his : "I feel quite sure that you
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 45 
 
 understand our position, Mrs. Walbridge, and, after all, 
 the reduction is not of very great consequence." 
 
 Before she could speak the telephone bell rang. He 
 took up the receiver and bent forward, politeness and 
 courtesy expressed in every line of his big figure as 
 clearly as if the telephone had been a person he was 
 speaking to. 
 
 "Oh oh, .yes, is that you, Payne?" she heard him 
 say. "Yes, what an odd coincidence, she's here with 
 me now!" and Mrs. Walbridge knew that it was no 
 coincidence; that they had planned it all out between 
 them, and for a moment she had a wild idea of flight. 
 She would run and run down the narrow, dusty stairs 
 and out into the street, and not hear any of it said. It 
 seemed that she could bear the reduction of her money, 
 but that she could not bear it discussed by these two 
 men who held not only her, but "Happy House" and 
 everybody in "Happy House" in the hollow of their 
 hands. But she dared not move, and presently Mr. 
 Payne came in. 
 
 Mr. Payne was a little, yellowish-pink man, who 
 looked like a weazel. He had lashless and browless blue 
 eyes, and his nose was sharp and his teeth looked very 
 sharp. He was brisk and brusque in his manner, and 
 he dashed at the subject of the smaller price for the next 
 book with an abruptness that was only one degree more 
 bearable than Mr. Lubbock's smoothness. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he declared, shaking hands rather vio- 
 lently. "I knew you understood, Mrs. Walbridge, 
 didn't I, Lubbock? 'Mrs. Walbridge is a business 
 woman,' I said, 'and of course she'll understand that 
 the war has changed things very considerably, to say 
 nothing of the of the ah inevitable march of time.' '
 
 46 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "I was telling Mrs. Walbridge," Lubbock joined in, 
 "that I thought it would be a good plan for her to read 
 some of the new books. Haven't we got Wanda Potter's 
 'Rice Paper'? Excellent story, excellent and sells 
 well." He called up someone on the telephone, and 
 smiling into it, working his rough eyebrows genially, he 
 gave orders for someone named Briggs to get Miss 
 Potter's last book for Mrs. Walbridge. "Wait a minute, 
 George. What other ones would you suggest ? Oh, yes, 
 and Mr. Goodheart's 'New Odyssey.' Useful book that," 
 to Mrs. Walbridge. "You take them, with our compli- 
 ments, and just just go through them " 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge had risen and stood before the table, 
 her hands clutching very hard at her shabby leather bag. 
 
 Mr. Payne was about to speak, when something in 
 her face stopped him. They had known her for years. 
 They had treated her very well, and they had made a 
 great deal of money out of her. But both of them felt 
 at that moment that until then they had never quite 
 known her. Her face was very white, and her immense 
 hollow eyes were full of almost unbearable misery. But 
 it was the bravery of her that struck them both. 
 
 "Do I understand," she said quietly, "that you mean 
 that I am old-fashioned too old-fashioned?" They did 
 not answer, and she went on, not realising that they both 
 felt that she had turned the tables on them. "You mean 
 that my books don't sell so well as they did because they 
 are not up to date, because I'm old." 
 
 "Good gracious, Mrs. Walbridge," broke in Mr. Payne, 
 with the horrid facetiousness of well-meaning vulgarity, 
 "what an idea! We simply mean that because you are 
 so busy you have not had time to how shall I say it? 
 to keep exactly up to date. But a lady with your gifts
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 47 
 
 and your great experience is not going to pretend that 
 she finds any difficulty in changing this " 
 
 She bowed. "Thank you, Mr. Payne. I think I un- 
 derstand. My new book would have been ready in a few 
 days, but if you can give me an extra fortnight, I'll go 
 through it again and try to to modernise it a little." 
 
 Then she said good morning, and went quietly out. 
 
 ! Mr. Lubbock let himself heavily down into his swivel 
 chair. 
 
 "Dear me," he said, being a man of unblemished 
 vocabulary, "that was very unpleasant, Payne." 
 
 Mr. Payne lit a cigarette. "It was beastly," he re- 
 torted, blinking rapidly through the smoke. "Upon my 
 word, it's quite upset me. Poor old thing ! She'll never 
 be able to do it, Lubbock. Never in this world. By 
 God, it's quite upset me! I'll have a pint of champagne 
 for my lunch." 
 
 Violet Walbridge had a little shopping to do. She 
 had to go to Sketchley's to get some blouses that had 
 been cleaned for Griselda; she went to Self ridges for a 
 paper box of opened oysters for Paul, who was at home 
 with a cold; and she had two bills to pay in Oxford 
 Street. When these things were done, and she had 
 bought a bunch of chrysanthemums from a flower-girl, 
 she took her place near the kerb -and waited for her bus. 
 And then it was that the malicious gods struck her their 
 final blow for that day. Two young women stood near 
 her, laden with parcels, cheerfully talkative. One of 
 them had been to a dance the night before; the other 
 one's baby had a new tooth, a very remarkable tooth, 
 it seemed, and both of them were in a state of pleasant
 
 48 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 turmoil and fret about frocks that they were having 
 made. Mrs. Walbridge listened to them innocently, 
 standing first on one foot and then on the other to rest 
 herself, her various parcels hugged close under her arms, 
 the oysters borne like a sacred offering in both hands. 
 
 "Dear me," one of the young women said suddenly, 
 "it's after one o'clock !" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge started, for one o'clock was her lunch 
 hour, and her husband was very particular about punc- 
 tuality in others. 
 
 "I meant to pop in to the Times Book Club and get 
 something to read," declared the mother of the baby 
 with the new tooth, "but it's too late. Have you read 
 that thing 'Reek'? I've forgotten who it's by some- 
 body new." 
 
 "No. I've been down for it for days and days, but 
 I can't get it. I've read a splendid new book, though 
 Wanda Potter's 'Rice Paper' awfully clever, and 
 Joan Kelly's 'Ploughshares.' " 
 
 "I had an ulcerated tooth the other day," answered 
 her friend, "and couldn't go out, and sent Winnie to 
 Boots' with a list of books, and they were all out, so 
 that nice red-haired girl you know picked out some 
 herself and sent me, and guess what one of them was. 
 Violet Walbridge's last one 'Rosemary and Lavender' 
 something- 
 
 The other one laughed. "Oh, I know. 'Sage and 
 Onions,' George calls it. Awful trash can't stand her 
 nowadays." 
 
 A bus arrived at that moment, and the two young 
 women going on top, Mrs. Walbridge crept inside, and 
 sat crushed between two large uncomfortable women, 
 her face bent over the oysters.
 
 HAPPY. HOUSE 49 
 
 " 'Sage and Onions/ " she kept repeating under her 
 breath, " 'Sage and Onions' " 
 
 Ferdie was very much annoyed because she was late 
 for lunch, and called her very selfish to be out parading 
 the streets doing idiotic errands when she ought to be 
 at home.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "LORD EFFINGHAM" was the book on which Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge was at work, and she sat the greater part of the 
 next three nights reading the books that Mr. Lubbock 
 had given her, with a view to freshening up her nearly 
 finished novel. She could not read during the day, be- 
 cause she had too much to do. 
 
 The plumbers had played havoc with the house in 
 getting the new bathroom in, and the cook had to leave 
 even more unexpectedly than cooks generally leave be- 
 cause her only sister was marrying and she had to go 
 home and look after her mother. This domestic com- 
 plication is familiar to many, but it didn't make it any 
 easier for Mrs. Walbridge. Nor did things improve 
 when Maud Twiss and her husband went for a second 
 honeymoon to Ireland, leaving little Hilary at "Happy 
 House." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge loved her grandson; but he was a 
 querulous, spoilt child, and at the best of times his pres- 
 ence was upsetting. Now, with no cook, with plumbers 
 and the dreadful necessity of modernising "Lord Effing- 
 ham," the little boy nearly drove her mad. 
 
 One morning, about four weeks after her interview 
 with Mr. Lubbock, she was sitting in her little attic at 
 the back of the house, surrounded by closely written 
 sheets of foolscap into which she had red-inked her 
 desperate efforts at enlivening Lady Tryx, the hero- 
 ine, had started on a new career of endless cigarettes and 
 
 50
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 51 
 
 cocktails, and a hitherto blameless housemaid, who at 
 first had been dismissed by an unkind countess on a 
 charge of theft, was now burdened with an illegitimate 
 baby; but even this failed to brighten up the dull level 
 of decency that was so discouraging to the publishers. 
 Violet Walbridge was a failure at illegitimacy and law- 
 less passion, and, what was worse, she knew it. 
 
 It was cold up in the attic, for there was no fireplace, 
 and something had gone wrong with her oil-stove. Paul 
 had promised to see to it before going to the City that 
 morning, but he had forgotten, so his mother had to 
 put an old flannel dressing-gown on over her ordinary 
 clothes and wrap her aching feet in a shawl. Her hands 
 were covered with red ink, for her cheap stylographic 
 pen leaked, and her pretty black hair, wavy and attrac- 
 tively threaded with white, was tumbled and loose. 
 
 She was utterly discouraged and unhappy about the 
 book. "Lord Effingham," with ridiculous perseverance, 
 insisted on pursuing his so blightingly blameless career. 
 Her effort had put the book, such as it was, completely 
 out of shape, and she could have cried with despair as 
 she sat there staring through the curtainless window at 
 the sky. Her burden was so very great, and it made 
 it worse, although she had always prided herself on keep- 
 ing her secret, that no onejtnew how utterly dependent 
 the whole household of "Happy House" was on her 
 books. 
 
 Her husband had an office and regarded himself as a 
 business man; Paul worked in a bank, and poor Guy 
 had been called up and was in France. (He had been 
 with some stockbrokers in the City.) But none of them 
 had ever contributed anything serious to the upkeep of 
 the house.
 
 52 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Paul's salary was small, and his mother considered 
 that the poor boy really needed all that he made, because 
 he was one of those people who are very dependent on 
 beautiful surroundings. He was a poet, too, and had 
 written some charming verse, most of which was still 
 unpublished, but every line of which was carefully copied 
 in a vellum covered book someone had sent to his mother 
 one Christmas from Florence. 
 
 Somehow that morning her mind was full of the now 
 long absent Guy. Guy was the troublesome one. They 
 were all tabulated in her mind Hermione being the 
 beauty, and Maud, "my eldest girl," while Paul was 
 artistic. 
 
 There had been scrapes in Guy's early days (he was 
 only twenty-one now). Certainly his tendencies had 
 been inherited from his father full grown cap-a-pie 
 tendencies they were, sprung whole, it seemed, from 
 Ferdie's brain, as Pallas Athene sprang from her father, 
 Zeus's. The boy was fond of billiards and devoted to 
 horses, and there had been a time a very tragic time 
 when he had shown signs of being too fond of whisky 
 and soda. But that was past. Twice he had been home 
 on leave from the front, and he had undoubtedly im- 
 proved in many ways. 
 
 A year ago there had been an Entanglement (Mrs. 
 Walbridge thought of it with a capital in her mind) 
 with a young Frenchwoman in Soho, but that too seemed 
 to have died down and now that the war was certainly 
 going to end before long this dreadful war to which 
 we in England had so dreadfully become accustomed 
 he would be coming back. She sighed, for Guy's return 
 would mean an even severer strain on her resources. 
 He was rather a dandy and fond of clothes, but he had
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 53 
 
 grown and expanded of late, and would need new 
 things. 
 
 She looked down with something very much like 
 hatred at the impeccable "Lord Effingham," whose per- 
 sistent virtue and the wholesome tendencies of whose 
 female friends were such drawbacks to her living chil- 
 dren. 
 
 She struggled on and wrote a few pages, realising 
 that the interpolations she had made were as clumsy 
 and damaging to her story as were the red ink words 
 that expressed them to the fair sheets of her manuscript. 
 
 Presently she heard footsteps, and a familiar little 
 cough, coming up the stairs. It was Ferdinand coming, 
 she knew, for a talk with her about his visit to Torquay. 
 
 "Dear me, Violet, why can't you write downstairs 
 like a Christian," he began fretfully, turning up his coat 
 collar and plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. 
 "All this affectation of needing quiet and solitude for 
 such work as yours is simply ridiculous." 
 
 She glanced up at him without moving. "I'm sorry, 
 Ferdie," she said gently, "but indeed it isn't affectation. 
 I really can't work when people are going in and out, 
 and poor little Hilary is so noisy." 
 
 "Poor little Hilary! Damn nonsense! I slept very 
 badly last night, and had just got nicely off this morning 
 about half -past nine, when he came into my room and 
 waked me wanted my boot-jack for a boat, little beast!" 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry I told him he mustn't disturb you. 
 I'd just gone down to show Jessie how to make the 
 mince " 
 
 "Jessie's cooking is abominable. I don't know why 
 you haven't got someone by this time."
 
 54 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 When Ferdie's indignation had died away, he began 
 again. 
 
 "What I want to know is about my rooms at Torquay. 
 Has Mrs. Bishop written?" 
 
 "Yes. Her letter came this morning. I've got it 
 somewhere here" she rummaged , about, but failed to 
 find the letter. "I must have left it downstairs. She 
 says she can't let you have the front room, because some 
 general has got it and is going to stay all winter." 
 
 "Damnation! Just the kind of thing that always 
 happens to me." 
 
 The clear morning light, falling undiluted from the 
 sky, seemed to expose his mean soul almost cruelly, and 
 his wife turned her eyes hastily away. She had known 
 him now, as he really was, for many years and yet some- 
 how the memory of what he had once seemed to be, 
 what he had been to her, in her loving imagination, 
 came back to her with painful force, and smote her to 
 the heart. 
 
 "She says there is a very nice room at the back " 
 
 He rose impatiently, waving his beautiful hands, on 
 which the veins were beginning to stand out ominously. 
 
 "Oh, of course, you would think it delightful for me 
 to have a room at the back. Nobody but you ever does 
 appreciate beauty, views or anything of that kind. 
 When am I to go?" 
 
 "The room will be ready on Wednesday. But, listen, 
 Ferdie, if you think you can't bear it, why don't you 
 write to Mrs. Bishop yourself and ask her to look out 
 something for you? You see, she knows you, so she'd 
 take more pains than if I wrote " 
 
 A smile that she knew and hated crept round his 
 mouth. "Yes, that's possible, she might," he answered.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 55 
 
 "Nice little woman, Mrs. Bishop, and although she is 
 only a boarding-house keeper, she knows a gentleman 
 when she sees him." 
 
 At the door he paused. "Well, I'll go and write to 
 her. I suppose you've got some money, my dear? I 
 paid my last cent to the income-tax man the other day. 
 I'm sure you needn't have declared all that money to 
 them, Violet- " 
 
 "I only told them the truth, Ferdie." 
 
 It was an old quarrel, this about the declaration to 
 the income-tax people, and one in which he was always 
 beaten, so, with a shrug, he went downstairs. 
 
 After a moment he called, his musical voice hoarse 
 with the effort: "Violet I say, Violet, have my new 
 shirts come?" 
 
 "I I didn't know you had ordered any, dear " 
 
 "Oh, didn't you? No, I may have forgotten to t$ll 
 you. Well, I did. Thought I might as well get two 
 dozen while I was about it. Things are going up so." 
 
 There was a little pause and then she said, "I hope 
 you got them at that nice place in Oxford Street?" 
 
 He had begun to whistle, but now he stopped and 
 snarled out, "No, I didn't then. I suppose it's my busi- 
 ness where I order my own shirts? I got them at my 
 usual shirt-makers in Jermyn Street." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge went quietly back into her little study 
 and sat down. 
 
 That afternoon she went by Underground to Oxford 
 Street and from there walked in a cold grey rain to 
 Queen Anne Street, where her daughter, Mrs. Twiss, 
 lived. Doctor Twiss lived in one-half of a roomy old
 
 56 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 house in Queen Anne Street. His waiting-room and his 
 consulting-room were at the left of the door, those on 
 the right belonging to a fashionable dentist but the 
 rest of his rooms were two flights upstairs, the dentist, 
 who was a rich man, occupying the whole of the first 
 floor. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge paused before she rang at the upstairs 
 door, for she was very tired, and her usually placid 
 thoughts seemed broken and confused. Maud was her 
 eldest daughter and in some ways the most companion- 
 able, but she was a selfish woman and devotedly fond of 
 her husband and little boy, so that she had scant room 
 for anyone else in her life. 
 
 "If only Maud would be sympathetic," Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge thought, as she finally rang. 
 
 "Mrs. Twiss is in the bedroom," the maid told her, 
 "she ain't very well to-day. I think the sea voyage 
 upset 'er." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge nodded to her and went down the 
 narrow rose-walled passage and knocked. 
 
 Mrs. Twiss was lying down on a divan at the foot of 
 her bed, reading. 
 
 "Oh, Mum," she cried, without getting up, "how 
 sweet of you to come so soon ! How are you, all right ? 
 We've had the most glorious time Moreton's put on 
 four pounds and never looked better in his life." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge sat down and looked round at the 
 pleasant, familiar room. There were plenty of flowers 
 about and piles of new books, and all the illustrated 
 weeklies, and on a little Moorish table close to the divan 
 stood a gilt basket full of chocolates. 
 
 "You seem to be having a comfortable afternoon, 
 my dear."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 57 
 
 Maud laughed. 
 
 "I am. I expect we shall have a pretty bad time when 
 we begin to count up travelling is fearfully expensive 
 now Moreton had to send home for an extra fifty 
 pounds. So we're taking it easy to-day. He's gone to 
 the hospital, and we're dining at the Carlton and going 
 to see 'Chu Chin Chow' to-night." 
 
 There was a little pause. Mrs. Walbridge was very 
 unaccustomed to telling bad news; being told it was 
 more in her line. But she was in such distress that 
 she had thought she must tell Maud about Lubbock 
 and Payne. It would have done her good just to talk 
 it over. But now, when she tried, she found she could 
 not. 
 
 "Caroline had taken Hilary to the Zoo when your 
 telephone message came," she began, "or I would have 
 brought him along. He's been very good, Maud, and 
 his appetite is splendid. I got him a bottle of cod liver 
 oil and malt, because I thought his little ribs stuck out a 
 bit when I bathed him " 
 
 "Oh, the pet! I'm longing to see him! We've 
 brought him all sorts of presents. Oh, Mum, I was 
 going to get you a sweet little bracelet of old Irish paste 
 you know a thing in four little chains. But at the 
 last minute Moreton found we had spent so much that 
 I had to give him my last fiver. So you'll take the will 
 for the deed, won't you?" 
 
 "Of course, darling, how sweet of you to think of 
 it. I'm glad Moreton is so much better," Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge began after a moment, "I hope he'll have lots of 
 patients this winter." 
 
 Maud's fair face clouded. She was a big, handsome 
 woman, though less shapely in her features than her
 
 58 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 sisters, and already showed signs of being very fat in a 
 few years' time, although she was only twenty-eight. 
 
 "I hope so, too," she grumbled. "Things are really 
 awfully serious. I believe all the tradespeople put their 
 prices up when they hear this address." 
 
 "I suppose it wouldn't I suppose it wouldn't do for 
 you to go and live in a cheaper house ?" Mrs. Walbridge 
 faltered. 
 
 Maud sat straight up in her horror and dropped a 
 half -bitten chocolate on the floor. 
 
 "My goodness, mother, what a perfectly poisonous 
 idea! Why, it would ruin Moreton after having begun 
 here. Of course we can't. 
 
 She came and sat down on a stool near her mother 
 and leaned her head on her mother's knees. 
 
 "I'm longing to see Hilary," she repeated, playing 
 with a bit of her silk dressing-gown nervously. "And 
 I have something to tell him, Mum he'll he'll be 
 having a little sister in the spring." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Walbridge sat perfectly still for a moment, 
 her hand on her daughter's silky brown hair. Another 
 baby, another duty, another worry, and she would be 
 the only one who would really suffer, although Maud 
 and her gay, well-meaning young husband would talk 
 a great deal about their responsibilities. 
 
 "Mum," Maud said coaxingly. "Darling, you've got 
 a new book coming out, haven't you ? Don't go and buy 
 Paul any more of those nasty Japanese things; those 
 monkeys make me sick anyhow. Be a lamb, and let me 
 have a hundred pounds to see me through, will you?" 
 
 There was nothing particularly imploring in her voice, 
 for she was quite used to asking favours of her mother, 
 and repeated favours always turn into rights sooner or
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 59 
 
 later. When her mother didn't answer, she screwed 
 round on her stool and looked up. 
 
 "Why, Mum," she cried, "what's the matter? Why 
 do you look like that?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge kissed her. "Nothing, dear, I'm tired. 
 I've been working very hard." 
 
 She rose and her big daughter scrambled to her feet, 
 laughing merrily. 
 
 "Oh, you old pet! Was it working hard at it's 
 psychological masterpiece? Anybody'd think you were 
 what's-his-name, who wrote 'Elektra'!" She laughed 
 again, pleasant, full-throated, musical laughter, that yet 
 cut her hearer to her sore heart. 
 
 "Don't don't laugh, dear," she said gently. "I know 
 my books are awful rubbish, but " 
 
 Mrs. Twiss stared and took another chocolate. 
 
 "Oh, darling," she murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt 
 your feelings. We all love your books. Well, you'll let 
 me have the hundred, won't you, pet? We're going to 
 name her Violet. 
 
 The little sad face under the old-fashioned, pheasant- 
 winged hat softened a little. "I'll do my best, dear," she 
 said. "Now I must go. Give my love to Moreton."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was about a week after Mrs. Walbridge's visit to 
 Mrs. Twiss that Griselda went to the play with old 
 Mrs. Wick and her son. Greatly to the girl's astonish- 
 ment, Mr. Wick turned up two or three days after her 
 decided rejection of him, and his manner had shown 
 nothing of the traditional depression of the refused 
 young man. Indeed, he seemed particularly gay, and 
 had brought her some sweets sticky balls rolled in wax 
 paper, that he told her were the best sweets on earth. 
 
 "My mother made 'em," he said. "She's great at 
 making things. These ones are a sort of nougat. You 
 try one you'll see " 
 
 The uncouth looking sweetmeats were indeed delicious, 
 and the two young people sat at the top of the stairs 
 leading to the garden (for it was one of those odd, lost 
 summer days that wander along through our island 
 winters like, lonely strayed children ) , and munched and 
 talked, and talked and munched, in as friendly a way, 
 Griselda thought, as if he had never mentioned marriage 
 to her. 
 
 "I don't like your frock," he said suddenly, speaking 
 with difficulty, for his mother's sweets were sticky. 
 "You're too dark for blue. Makes you look yellow." 
 
 "Well, upon my word!" The girl was full of inno- 
 cent airs and graces ; little affectations blossomed all over 
 her, and perhaps they were only the blossom of future 
 graces. But somehow, this odd reporter person, as she 
 
 60
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 6l 
 
 called him to her mother, clutched at these premature 
 flowerets like a black frost, and she found herself being 
 as natural as a little boy with him. 
 
 "You are polite," she remarked. 
 
 He smiled from ear to ear. 
 
 "No, I'm not. I'm very rude, but it's true. You ought 
 to wear green and brown, or yellow or white. Imagine 
 a buttercup dressed in blue serge!" 
 
 Everyone likes to talk about himself or herself, so for 
 a moment Grisel enjoyed herself thoroughly, as they 
 gravely discussed the different kinds of flowers that she 
 might be said to resemble. Then he invited her to go 
 to the play, and when she refused demurely, he chuckled 
 with delight. 
 
 "Oh, now you think I'm the ignorant young man," he 
 retorted. "You think I don't know that you couldn't go 
 with me alone. (Of course, so far as that's concerned 
 you could all the smart girls, dukes' and earls' daugh- 
 ters, do) but I have not invited you to. My mother's 
 coming with us." 
 
 "Your mother?" 
 
 "Yes. Naturally she's anxious to meet you." 
 
 She looked at him innocently, her eyes like black- 
 heart cherries with the sun on them. 
 
 "Why should your mother wish to meet me?" 
 
 "Oh," he answered. "Don't you realise that I'm an 
 only son?" 
 
 "What's that got to do with it?" 
 
 He looked at her gravely, his flexible lips steady as 
 iron. "Most mothers want to know the girl their son's 
 going to marry, don't you think?" 
 
 Before she could help it, she laughed. "But her sons 
 aren't going to marry me."
 
 62 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "No, but her son is. I am. Oh, yes," he went on 
 before she could speak. "We shan't be married this 
 winter, of course, but in the spring we shall. You may 
 choose a nice month. It'll be a proud day for you, my 
 dear, and jolly lucky you'll be to get me!" 
 
 She rose and refused another sweet. "No thanks, we 
 must go in now. I've got a lot to do. My father's not 
 very well, and I may have to go down to Torquay to 
 look after him if he doesn't get better." 
 
 "Miss Walbridge," he spoke in a voice that to her was 
 quite new, and when she turned, looking at him over her 
 shoulder," something in the dignity of his face forced 
 her to turn completely round and wait. 
 
 "Don't think me a perfect fool," he said. "I can't 
 help teasing you. You you're so little and so young. 
 What I'd like to do would be to lift you up on my shoul- 
 der and run round and round the garden with you, and 
 scare the life out of you, but I daren't do that, so I have 
 to tease you. Besides, you know," he added very gravely, 
 "it is true that I love you, and I mean you to marry me." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge, who was in the dining-room packing 
 some bottles of home-made beef -tea to send to Torquay, 
 could not help overhearing the rest of this conversation. 
 She never forgot it, or the young man's face as he fin- 
 ished speaking to Griselda, who suddenly seemed more 
 responsible, more grown-up than her mother had ever 
 seen her. 
 
 "Please don't say anything more about that, Mr. 
 Wick," she said gently. "I like you very much we all 
 do, even my mother, who's so old-fashioned but I can't 
 possibly marry you." 
 
 The four young eyes stared into each other for what
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 63 
 
 seemed a long time, and then he drew back courteously 
 to let her pass. 
 
 "I'll not say anything more about it for three months," 
 he declared. "I promise you that." 
 
 Thus the arrangement about going to the play had 
 been made, and when the evening came Mr. Wick drove 
 up in a taxi and carried his prize off to the box at the 
 theatre, where he had already installed his mother. 
 
 When Grisel came home she went up to her mothers 
 room, slipping out of her frock and putting on her moth- 
 er's shabby old dressing-gown, that she declared to be a 
 perfect disgrace, and sat on the foot of the bed describ- 
 ing the adventures of the evening 1 . 
 
 "She's a perfect old dear, Mum," the girl declared. 
 "Very large, not exactly fat, you know, but big. Very 
 little hair, brushed quite flat, and done up in a tiny 
 bun at the back, and the most beautiful manners, like 
 some old-fashioned duchess. Like an old duchess in 
 one of your books, Mum that kind not like a Kve 
 one " 
 
 "I see," murmured Mrs. Walbridge. "How did you 
 like the play?" 
 
 "Oh, it was very pretty. Mary Grey looked per- 
 fectly beautiful. She's such a dear, but I wish she had 
 sung. They liked it awfully, but somehow I never un- 
 derstand Shakespeare's plays never quite know what 
 they are driving at, I mean. The place was packed, and 
 I saw lots of people I know. The Murchisons were 
 there, and Dickie Scotts, and that awful Pellaby woman,
 
 64 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 covered with pearls and jewels. Johnny Holden came 
 up just as we were leaving, and told me that he had 
 seen Guy. He's only just back. He said Guy's awfully 
 fit, and has done some very good caricatures. He says 
 there's going to be an armistice as sure as eggs is eggs. 
 The Hun is a dead man according to him. And, oh, 
 Mother, you'll never guess Oliver Wick went out on 
 the 28th of August, 1914, and was all through the Big 
 Push and the retreat from Mons. Fancy his never 
 telling us! Johnny mentioned it. He was wounded 
 there during the retreat. One of his fingers is quite 
 stiff. I never noticed it, did you?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge shook her head. "No, I never did. 
 So he's been out?" 
 
 "Yes, and he only had one leave all the time. He 
 was invalided out last year there's a bullet somewhere 
 inside him still. His mother says she thinks it must be 
 in his brain. She does adore him, Mum." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was silent, for she envied this other 
 woman, not exactly her son, but her love for her son. 
 Her own boys were very dear to her, but one quality 
 was lacking in her love for them, and that was adora- 
 tion. For although she was only a fourth-rate novelist, 
 she had the sad gift of unswerving clear-sightedness, 
 and no merciful delusion blinded her when she looked 
 at her own children. 
 
 Grisel had stopped brushing her pretty hair, which 
 lay like two wings over her young breast, framing her 
 little quick face, and bringing out its vivid whiteness. 
 She was sitting with the silver brush on her knees, and in 
 her eyes brooded an unusually deep thought. 
 
 "You like him, my dear, don't you?" 
 
 The girl started. "Who? Oh, Oliver? No I
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 65 
 
 mean " She rose and put the brush on the dressing- 
 table. 
 
 "How nice that you call him Oliver," commented her 
 mother, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I like him, too. I 
 think he's a delightful young fellow. So boyish, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 Grisel came to the bed, her momentary embarrassment 
 scattered to the winds by the sober sense of her mother's 
 words. 
 
 "Yes, he's a dear," she said simply, "but his mother's 
 a perfect pet, and she's coming to see us. You'll love 
 her, Mum." At the door she turned. "Good-night, 
 Mum darling. Don't worry about your old book. It's 
 sure to come out all right. What did you say the name 
 of it was?" 
 
 " 'Lord Effingham.' " 
 
 The girl stepped back in surprise at her mother's tone. 
 "Why, good gracious, Mum, you spoke as if he were 
 a real man and you hated him! I hope he isn't one of 
 the modern horrors, like that dreadful man in 'Reek.' ' 
 She ran back to the bed and gave her mother a little 
 stroke and shake. "I couldn't dream of allowing you 
 to write horrid modern books about beastly real people," 
 she said protectingly. Then she went to bed. 
 
 The next morning a telegram arrived from Torquay, 
 saying that Mr. Walbridge was no better, and asking 
 his wife to come down and look after him. She had 
 expected just such a wire (for he was one of those 
 people who always become ill when they are bored or 
 lonely) and she had already arranged to send Grisel 
 down.
 
 66 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 The girl liked Torquay and had two or three friends 
 there, and it would be a pleasant change for her. Be- 
 sides, her mother thought, if things were going to be 
 really bad, it would be better to have the children out 
 of the way. 
 
 So Grisel, much pleased, and not at all worried about 
 her father, vrent off, and for several days after her de- 
 parture Mrs. Walbridge worked uninterruptedly in the 
 deserted drawing-room. The weather had changed, and 
 it was intensely stormy and wet, so there was something 
 pleasant in the shut-in feeling of the firelit room. 
 
 Paul, now the only one at home, was, of course, at 
 the bank all day, and most evenings he either dined out 
 or went out immediately after dinner. He was a silent 
 man, very preoccupied with his own thoughts and pos- 
 sessed of the negative gift of taking no interest whatever 
 in other people's affairs. He scorned curiosity with all 
 his heart, and never suspected that curiosity is very often 
 only an expression of human interest. 
 
 Of late, too, his mother had noticed he had been even 
 more silent and absent-minded than ever, and she won- 
 dered if he was having a love affair. She dared not 
 ask him, however, and so the long days and longer 
 evenings passed in almost unending hard work for the 
 little writing woman, and finally she arrived at a certain 
 amount of success with the troublesome "Lord Effing- 
 ham." 
 
 Her book was entirely changed. Such atmosphere 
 as it had ever had she had destroyed, and, very proud 
 of the illegitimate baby she had introduced into its inno- 
 cent pages, she one night packed up the manuscript and 
 ran out to a greengrocer in the neighbourhood, where 
 lived an old man who sometimes did errands for her.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 67 
 
 Old Mr. King was at home, and would be delighted to 
 go round the next morning at half-past nine to take the 
 very valuable parcel safely down to Messrs. Lubbock & 
 Payne. 
 
 She thanked the greengrocer's wife, who was the old 
 man's daughter, and, putting up her umbrella, went out 
 again into the wet. 
 
 It was a shiny black night, full of storm noises and 
 unceasing rain, and when she reached "Happy House" 
 Mrs. Walbridge stood for a moment under her um- 
 brella, leaning against the little green gate, where the 
 name was now almost illegible, and looked about her, 
 breathing more freely in the thought that the book was 
 done; for good or evil; that she had done her best by 
 it, and that if it failed, it must just fail. 
 
 She felt more cheerful now that "Lord Effingham" 
 was off her hands. Things must improve, she thought. 
 
 The political news was much better; the armistice 
 might be signed any day, and perhaps when Guy came 
 back he would, after all, be helpful to her. 
 
 Ferdie was better. She had had a letter that morn- 
 ing, and little Grisel was having a happy time with her 
 friends. There was to be a dance, and she had written 
 for her new white satin frock to be sent down. 
 
 "I must go to Swan & Edgars and get her a new 
 pair of satin slippers," she thought, as she went tip the 
 steps, and opened the door with her latchkey. "Fancy 
 the little minx dancing her last pair through the other 
 night!" 
 
 She went down into the kitchen and made herself a 
 cup of extra strong cocoa to drink in bed. Cocoa in 
 bed with a book is a very cosy thing. 
 
 The boys had always thought her a frump, and Guy
 
 68 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 in particular hated her old black velvet evening gown, 
 and, now that he had been in Paris and seen all the smart 
 clothes, he would despise the black velvet gown more 
 than ever. If only she could have some kind of a new 
 evening frock. Grey would do. Iron grey would wear 
 almost as well as black. She set down her cup of cocoa 
 with a little sigh. Ridiculous to think about that kind 
 of thing when she only had one hundred and eighty 
 pounds in the bank. 
 
 Then she read a few pages of "Thomas a Kempis," 
 turned out her light, and lay still in the dark waiting for 
 sleep.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PAUL'S room was a large one at the back on the second 
 floor. It looked into the elm tree, and was very pleasant 
 and quiet. 
 
 A few days after Mrs. Walbridge had sent the manu- 
 script of "Lord Emngham" to her publishers, she was 
 in Paul's room, helping him hang a new picture that 
 he had picked up at a sale. His mother thought it a 
 very ugly picture; in fact, she thought it not nice, but 
 she said nothing, for her opinion was of no value to him, 
 and she knew it. 
 
 It was a sunshiny day, and the naked boughs of the old 
 tree stirred and made odd little noises as the east wind 
 attacked it in gusts. The shadows of the branches 
 danced across the dull green walls and made the gleams 
 of light on the picture glasses die and come to life again 
 in a way that gave the large room something the air 
 of a glade in a wood. 
 
 Paul, in his shirt-sleeves, stood on a pair of steps 
 hammering a nail into the exact spot in the wall that 
 he had decided on after long measurement and reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 "I do hope you're wearing your thick Jaegers, dar- 
 ling," his mother said, as she took the hammer from him 
 and held up the picture. 
 
 "Not yet," he said. "I'm going to put them on to- 
 morrow." He hung up the picture and backed gravely 
 off the ladder, looking up at it, a smile of pride and sat- 
 
 [69
 
 70 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 isfaction softening- his over-delicate, rather supercilious 
 face. "A little gem, Mother, though you probably don't 
 think so/' he announced good-naturedly. "Bruce 
 Collier wanted it. He's got a fine collection." 
 
 "Bruce Collier," Mrs. Walbridge pursed her lips 
 thoughtfully. "I've heard his name. Who is he, Paul ?" 
 
 'The chap who wrote 'Reek.' Crichell was talking 
 about him here one night in the summer. There's the 
 book on the table. He gave it to me." 
 
 She picked the book up and opened it. "What beau- 
 tiful paper," she said slowly, "and I love the print, 
 Paul." 
 
 He nodded. "Oh, yes. Nares publishes him. Now 
 I'm going to put the Kakemono here, Mother." He 
 indicated a blank space on the wall near his writing- 
 table. "Will you get it? You won't be sorry to have 
 it out of the girls' room, will you ?" 
 
 She went obediently towards the door, and at it she 
 turned. 
 
 "You'll be surprised, dear, but, do you know, I have 
 got quite used to those monkeys, and really like them 
 now!" 
 
 He looked up from filling his pipe and smiled at her, 
 his narrow face a face of a type so often seen nowa- 
 days in very young men too small-featured, too clean- 
 cut, too narrow in the brow, too lacking in the big old 
 British qualities, both good and bad, and yet full of 
 uncreative cleverness lighted by whimsical, not un- 
 unkindly, astonishment. 
 
 ' 'Violet Walbridge confesses to a passion for Hono- 
 bosft Iccho/ " he declaimed, as if quoting a possible head- 
 line. "No, no, Mother darling, that won't do. You
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 71 
 
 must stick to Marcus Stone. Trot along and get it, 
 there's a dear." 
 
 She trotted along and got it, and brought it back, 
 carefully rolled on its stick. 
 
 "Grisel will be sorry to find it gone," she said, as he 
 hung it on the nail and let it slowly slide down the wall. 
 "She loves it." 
 
 "She loves it because Wick knew about the artist. 
 Imitative little monkey, Grisel." 
 
 His mother stared at him. It was pn her lips to say, 
 "So are you -so are you an imitative monkey," for 
 she realised that these new artistic tastes of his were de- 
 rived from some model and not from any instinctive 
 search for a peculiar kind of beauty. Instead she only 
 said, referring to an old pet name of her own for her 
 children, "Yes, one of God's apelets, and so are you, 
 Paul." 
 
 He had backed to the far side of the room and stood 
 surveying the effect of the Kakemono with much satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "Yes, dear," he murmured, without listening to her. 
 "That's very good, just there. The light catches it just 
 right." 
 
 As he spoke, Jessie, the maid, came in, still straighten- 
 ing a hastily tied-on cap and apron. 
 
 "A gentleman downstairs to see you, sir." 
 
 Paul nodded. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Crichell! We're going to the Grafton Gal- 
 leries together to see that 'Moonlight in the Trenches' 
 fellow's pictures." 
 
 "Please, Mr. Paul, it ain't Mr. Crichell." Jessie was 
 still standing by the door. 
 
 "Oh, who is it?"
 
 72 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "I don't knew, sir. Not at all a nice gentleman. I 
 wouldn't leave him alone in the drorin'-room if I was 
 you." 
 
 The girl left the room, and Mrs. Walbridge sat down 
 suddenly. Paul's face had changed, and she was fright- 
 ened. 
 
 "Look here, Mother," he said, "I'm afraid it's a brute 
 of a fellow on business. I told him I'd kill him if he 
 came here, but" the young man waved his long, nervous 
 hands helplessly "he's come, you see." 
 
 Her big hollow eyes were fixed on him with a strained, 
 unwinking stare. 
 
 "Oh, Paul," she whispered, "what is it?" 
 
 He moved irresolutely towards the door, came back, 
 took up his coat and then threw it on to the divan under 
 the Rowlandson "Horse Fair." 
 
 "Look here, Mother," he said, "I must get him out 
 of the house. Suppose you go and tell him tell him 
 that I'm not in. Perhaps you'd better say that I'm 
 out of town." 
 
 "Is it a bill ?" she asked tonelessly, without moving. 
 
 "No that is not exactly. The fact is, it's a money- 
 lender. Alfred Brock put me on to a good thing in the 
 City, and it it went wrong somehow, so I borrowed 
 fifty pounds of this chap Somerset's his name and 
 
 I But go and tell him I'm out. I'll explain it all 
 
 to you afterwards," he broke off nervously. 
 
 She walked to the window and stood looking out, and 
 he thought she was crying. 
 
 "Don't, Mother, please don't," he exclaimed. "It's 
 quite all right. I shall have the money next week, and 
 the brute's just got to wait, that's all." 
 
 But she was not crying, and that was not why she
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 73 
 
 had turned her face from him. And what she saw, 
 oddly enough, as she looked out into the empty boughs 
 of the elm tree, was the face of old Mrs. Wick, whose 
 picture young Wick carried in his pocket, and had once 
 showji her. "What a happy woman, what a happy 
 woman!" she was saying under her breath. After a 
 pause she turned round. 
 
 "I'll not say you're out, Paul, and I won't say you're 
 away. I'll see the man, and I'll tell him you'll pay him 
 next week." 
 
 Across his white face flashed the wild impatience of 
 the man who, knowing that there is for his ailment only 
 one remedy and that a desperate one, is offered some 
 homely, perfectly inefficacious substitute. 
 
 "Don't be a " he broke out. But she went down- 
 stairs without heeding him. 
 
 The man stood in the middle of the drawing-room, 
 looking round at the homely furniture. Being what 
 she was, Mrs. Walbridge had, of course, expected a 
 florid and bediamonded Jew, instead of which the man 
 was a stocky, red-faced, snub-nosed Englishman, who 
 approached to her innocent ideal of a prize-fighter. 
 
 "Good morning." 
 
 At her voice he whirled round and about awkwardly. 
 
 "Sorry to trouble you, m'm, I'm sure," he began, 
 grasping the situation with what to her seemed marvel- 
 lous quickness. "Young gentleman had better come 
 down hisself." 
 
 "My son " she began. 
 
 But he waved her into silence with a small, roughcast 
 looking hand. 
 
 "No good sayin* he's out of town, ma'am, or even 
 spendin' the day on the river, 'cos he ain't."
 
 74 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge looked at him, a slow wave of under- 
 standing creeping to her brain. 
 
 "I wasn't going to tell you that my son is out, or 
 away," she returned quietly. "He's upstairs. He's ex- 
 tremely sorry, but he will not be able to pay you your 
 your little account until next week." 
 
 The man stared at her in honest surprise, and then 
 his red face melted into rather pleasant curves of irre- 
 pressible laughter. 
 
 "Well, I'll be I'll be blowed!" he cried, slapping his 
 knee. "Did he send you down to tell me that? My 
 governor will laugh at that." 
 
 They talked, this ill-assorted pair, for about half an 
 hour, and then the man left the house very quietly, 
 bowing at the door with real respect to the lady who 
 had so amused him. He had heard of Violet Walbridge 
 all his life, and vaguely remembered having read 
 "Queenie's Promise" when he was about sixteen, and 
 had the mumps, and to think that she should be like 
 this! Very much "blowed" and inclined to being 
 damned, as he told his wife later, he disappeared out 
 of Mrs. Walbridge's life. 
 
 She went upstairs, and found Paul walking up and 
 down the room, smoking cigarettes furiously, his neg- 
 lected pipe on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Lord, Mother, what an age you've been!" he cried, 
 petulantly. "Was it Somerset himself?" 
 
 "No, this man's name was Green. He tells me, Paul, 
 that they have applied to you several times; that the 
 money was due last week." 
 
 He nodded sulkily. "Yes, it was. If Alfred Brock 
 hadn't been a fool, it wouldn't have happened. Brock 
 shall never see a penny of my money again."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 75 
 
 "He told me," his mother went on, her hand on the 
 door handle, "that he knew you had a collection of 
 pictures and things, and he he was going to make you 
 sell some of them." 
 
 "The swine! Poor mother," he added carelessly, "a 
 nasty half hour for you, I'm afraid. What did you say 
 to him to make him go?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge looked curiously round the room as 
 if she saw it for the first time. The Rowlandson, the 
 Kakemono, the exquisite little Muirhead, the French 
 pastel that shocked her; the beautiful adjustable reading- 
 chair, with its lectern-like bookrest; the fourteenth cen- 
 tury Persian prayer rug; the odds and ends of good 
 china on the mantelpiece. All these treasures, so dear 
 to Paul, that she, in her innocence, had regarded as 
 inexpensive whims, had received a new value through 
 the odd medium of Mr. Green. 
 
 "I didn't say much to him, Paul," she answered 
 slowly. "I I paid him." 
 
 She went out and closed the door. The young man 
 took a hasty step towards it, then hesitated and went 
 back to his arm-chair. It was jolly decent of her. He'd 
 thank her and give her a kiss for it at tea time. He 
 must think of something graceful and appropriate to say. 
 Meantime he was chilly and uncomfortable, so, leaning 
 forward, he lit a match and set fire to the coal- 
 heaped grate. "]olly decent of mother," he thought, 
 leaning back to watch the glowing of the fire. "Those 
 absurd books of hers really are pretty useful, after all." 
 
 It was pleasant that evening to have a long letter from 
 Grisel, and Mrs. Walbridge, who had been busy since
 
 76 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Mr. Green's departure in getting off a basket of beef- 
 tea, home-made potted meat, and red-currant jelly, to 
 Torquay, and who had been bound by an old promise 
 to take tea with poor Caroline, found the letter when 
 she came in, and as Paul, after his hurried thanks, had 
 gone out for the rest of the day and evening, she changed 
 into her warm dressing-gown, and settled down to her 
 supper tray in the drawing-room, with a pint of ale and 
 a nicely browned sausage, and Grisel's letter. 
 
 Grisel wrote a peculiarly delightful hand, each letter 
 small and well-shaped, and nearly as clear as print. She 
 was also fluent and had a certain gift for description, 
 so that her letters were a real treat to her mother. This 
 one, written on several sheets of beautiful pale grey 
 paper with "Conroy Hall" in one corner, promised to be 
 an unusually delightful one, for it contained, she saw, 
 glancing through it, a full description of the ball at which 
 her daughter had worn the new satin shoes she had sent 
 her from Swan & Edgars. 
 
 "Darling Mum," Griselda began, "I haven't written 
 for several days because I've been having such a good 
 time that there wasn't a minute for anything except 
 f rivaling! You'll gather from this that the poor old 
 Dad is better, and his headaches have gone. I don't 
 think it was anything but liver myself. And he's been 
 hob-nobbing with some old friends who have turned up 
 at one of the big hotels / forget which. 
 
 "I came here the day before yesterday to stay with 
 Elsie, and I've never had such a good time in my life. 
 Fred has put an awful lot of money into the place and 
 furnished it splendidly, so it's really wonderful. He's 
 like a little white rat, it's no good concealing that, but
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 77 
 
 then he's like such a very NICE white rat, and he adores 
 Elsie, and thinks nothing's too good for her. They've 
 lived like fighting cocks all through the war. How 
 they get the food I can't imagine! Of course, they 
 make their own butter, and have swindled the Gov- 
 ernment like anything, which, of course, is great fun. 
 
 ''Elsie has just had a lot of new clothes from, Lon- 
 don, and really looks a dream, although she's as fat as 
 a little pig. Of course, they've done a lot of enter- 
 taining of wounded for years now, otherwise I don't 
 think they would have known there is a war. Elsie 
 says she's awfully glad there's no Vere de Vere blood 
 in Fred, or he would have minded things more. He 
 really is a typical nouveau riche out of a novel (not 
 one of your novels, darling). 
 
 "Did I tell you how glad I was that you've got 'Lord 
 Effingham' into sliape? It'll be a relief to your poor 
 mind. I found 'From Sunlight to Shadow ' in the li- 
 brary, and have been reading it, and I think it's per- 
 fectly sweet. I really did enjoy it very much. It re- 
 minded me of Rosa N. Carey. How I used to love her 
 books when I was a kid! 
 
 "We have no men-servants here, but Fred's going 
 to get a dozen or so as soon as the Armistice is signed. 
 Meantime there are swarms of lovely footmanettes, 
 too pretty for words, in violet frocks and lace caps and 
 aprons. They all look as if George Grossmith had 
 drilled them, somehow. One rather expects them to 
 burst out into song, but they don't. 
 
 "Well, the ball was a great success. I'm writing 
 in bed. It's after lunch. We danced till after five, 
 and I was such a belle, Mum! AH the girls down here 
 seem to be six foot tall, and many of them have that
 
 78 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 new uniform-walk I'm sure serving in different corps 
 made the women's feet all spread; they are big and 
 thick about the ankles, too so I appeared as the old- 
 fashioned Christmas pantomime fairy, done in white 
 and gold. That's what Fred said. My frock really 
 was as good as anybody's, you darling. Hundreds of 
 beautiful youths rolled up to contend for the honour 
 of a dance. It really was fun after the over-femaled 
 parties we have been to lately, and I felt like Queenie, 
 or that girl in 'Touchstones,' the cruel one who 
 broke hearts. Oh, Mother darling, what a noodle you 
 are not to know that ifs the man who does the heart- 
 breaking nowadays! 
 
 "Lady Sybil Ross was here with her twins. They 
 looked just like partridge eggs, they're so speckly, but 
 they're nice girls; but they treated me as if I was a lit- 
 tle doll of some kind, as if they were surprised that I 
 could talk and walk, being so small as I am. Fanny 
 Ross has been engaged three times, and each time the 
 man has been killed at the front. Isn't it awful? But 
 I couldn't help laughing. There didn't seem to be any 
 reason why she should stop being engaged to one after 
 the other for ever, and it doesn't seem to hurt her in 
 the least. 
 
 "Father came last night, of course, and you would 
 have been proud of him; he looked such a beautiful 
 old pet. Of course, his diet and the water wagon have 
 done wonders for his looks. His eyes are as clear as a 
 child's or were the first part of the evening, but 
 rather fell off towards the end (off the water wagon, 
 I mean!) Of course, he was quite all right, you know, 
 but he was very genial and his eyes a bit swimmy. 
 Poor old Dad.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 79 
 
 "Did I tell you that Clara Cric hell's here? She's 
 staying with her mother, who has taken a house, and 
 she and Dad had the time of their lives together. She's 
 very pretty, but towards the end of the evening she 
 looked rather like a squashed tomato, I thought. Seri- 
 ously, I think she's quite crazy about father. I'm so 
 glad you're old-fashioned, darling, and that I don't 
 have to chaperon you too. A frisky young mother is 
 an awful responsibility for a girl, and I should hate to 
 have to ask anyone's intentions about my Mamma! 
 
 "I've just had the most scrumptious lunch heav- 
 enly sweetbreads in little paper boats, and eggs done in 
 some wonderful French way, and grape-fruit salad, 
 and a sweet little carafe like a scent-bottle, full of some 
 divine white wine. I love having my meals in bed, 
 and I adore having a maid to look after me. If I 
 marry a rich man, never again as long as I live will I 
 put on my stockings myself, I swear it! 
 
 "Well, I went to supper with an awfully nice boy 
 (I forget his name), who urged me to marry him and 
 share his pension as a 2nd Lieutenant. I've danced 
 my new shoes to ribbons- war satin, of course and 
 the next evening frock I have must be black, darling. 
 Lots of girls younger than I are wearing black, and 
 it's so becoming. 
 
 "I had a ridiculous present from Oliver yesterday 
 four beautiful giant kippers tied up in blue ribbon. 
 t Of course, he thought I was at Mrs. Bishop's, but 
 'wasn't he a goose to send me kippers? 
 
 "By the ^vay, I've a serious beau a most charming 
 'old man, Sir John Barclay. He's perfectly delightful. 
 ^Quite old and frightfully rich. Snow-white hair and 
 the most lovely tenor voice. He's staying in the house,
 
 8o HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 and, though I say it as shouldn't, is my slave. He 
 sang 'The Banks of Allan Water ' the other day, and 
 made me cry. Such a sweet, young-sounding voice it 
 is. He sent me the loveliest flowers this morning. 
 Really, it looks very much as if he ivas going to offer 
 himself and his worldly goods to me! 1 hope he 
 doesn't, because he really is a dear, and he looks as if 
 he might mind being hurt. 
 
 "How are you, dearest? You must enjoy being all 
 alone. Do eat enough; don't live on toast and tea, 
 and don't let Jessie forget your hot bottle. 
 
 "Dearest love to you, 
 
 "GRISEL. 
 
 "P. S. When you send me a new pair of slippers, 
 please send me a pair of stockings too, as there are 
 simply no, soles left in my last pair."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MR. WICK, on his way to "Happy House" one very wet 
 afternoon, in the beginning of November, .gave way to 
 pleasant dreams. He knew that the lady of his affec- 
 tions was still in Torquay, for he had had a letter from 
 her, but she had bidden him go and see her mother, and 
 collect one or two books that she wanted, and send them 
 down to her. 
 
 "I'm rather worried about Mum," she had written, 
 "without any particular reason. I wish you'd go and 
 take a look at her and let me know if everything's all 
 right." 
 
 Mr. Wick, who had had a serious conflict with his 
 chief a few days before, and come out with streaming 
 colours, was feeling very happy, in spite of the pouring 
 rain and the dreadful uniformity of the wet-November- 
 afternoon faces about him. He was one step farther on 
 towards his goal, which was nothing less than becoming 
 a great newspaper proprietor and running the political 
 world from a swivel chair somewhere in Fleet Street. 
 And it was very sweet to him to be sent in this intimate 
 way by Griselda Walbridge to inspect and report on 
 her mother. 
 
 And now, under the shelter of his dripping umbrella, 
 he was finishing a book, which he had read conscien- 
 tiously, though with incredible swiftness. Since his 
 meeting with Griselda, he had taken the trouble to look 
 through half a dozen of Mrs. Walbridge's books, and 
 
 81
 
 82 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 could see (for he was unconsciously a very good critic) 
 what the secret of their success was. 
 
 "Very slow," he explained to his mother. "Nothing 
 much happens and there are the same people in all of 
 them, with different names. She always has pretty 
 names for the girls, and the men are usually swells. 
 Kind of book a woman could read while she's knitting, 
 or boiling the clothes, or bathing the baby, without either 
 losing the thread of the story or scamping her work." 
 
 But this new book, he realised, had lost that easy 
 quality. There were pages of undigested realism scat- 
 tered through it; several of the stock characters were 
 missing. There was, for instance, no faithful old family 
 butler, no sinuous foreign adventuress. (The innocence 
 of Violet Walbridge's adventuresses was prodigious, it 
 spite of the desperate epithets she showered on them) 
 and there was a superfluous infant, nameless, and as 
 unnecessary to the story as it was to his mother, whose 
 presence was as inappropriate as that of Gaby Deslys at 
 a Quaker meeting. 
 
 "That baby puts the lid on," the young man thought, 
 stuffing the book in his mackintosh pocket and feeling 
 in the other pocket for the safety of the treasure he had 
 put there. "She'll bust the whole show if she goes on 
 like that. She can't do the new stuff, and her old patients 
 won't stand such strong doses as this." 
 
 As he got off the bus his mind was engaged with won- 
 dering whether Mrs. Walbridge had any fortune apart 
 from her pen. 
 
 "Strikes me that Paul is something of an objet de 
 luxe" he reflected, as he turned off Albany Street. Bank 
 clerks oughtn't to go messing about with stockbrokers, 
 and that fellow Brock is a bad egg. When I've married
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 83 
 
 Griselda, pretty pet, we shan't have very much to do 
 with Master Paul. The other one, Guy, the soldier, 
 looks a decent lad. I like that photograph." 
 
 As he reached the house his pace slackened and over 
 his shrewd journalistic face came an odd softening as 
 if for a moment his very thoughts had stopped using 
 slang. The green swing gate with its half effaced words 
 touched him anew. The more he knew of Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge and her family, the greater seemed the pathos of 
 the name of her house. 
 
 "I suppose she named it that years ago when she was 
 young," he thought gently. "I suppose she kept the 
 paint fresh at first, and then later it didn't seem worth 
 while." 
 
 A very modern product was this Oliver Wick the 
 kind of a man that could not have existed a quarter of 
 a century ago, when young men were either gentlemen 
 or cads, as the saying went. He had set out to make a 
 great fortune and he was going to make it. He was 
 conscious to his finger-tips of his powers and his gift 
 of observation and of managing inferior minds. His 
 habitual language was a jargon composed of journalistic, 
 sporting, and society slang, yet his mind was open to 
 the most tender impressions, his sharp little eyes always 
 ready to soften to a tear, and he loved and read poetry 
 with avidity. 
 
 Now he stood for a moment in the pouring rain, 
 touched to the quick by the pathos of the shabby little 
 gate of the unsuccessful, overworked old novelist. 
 
 He found Mrs. Walbridge sitting by the fire in her 
 expressionless drawing-room, reading. She was so en-
 
 84 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 grossed in her book that, after a hurried greeting, she 
 at once began to talk of it. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wick," she cried, forgetting to ask him to 
 sit down, which, however, he promptly did, "have you 
 read this?" 
 
 He glanced at the book. "Yes, it's the book Mr. 
 Crichell talked about that night at dinner here." After 
 a second he added a little awkwardly, "I I wouldn't 
 read it if I were you, Mrs. Walbridge." 
 
 She closed the book and drew back in her chair with 
 a little flush. 
 
 "I I've nearly finished it. Everyone's been talk- 
 ing about it, and I found it in my son's room." 
 
 He was silent for a moment, for he did not know 
 quite what to say to her, to this old lady whose literary 
 stockpot produced such a harmless and uniform br,ew. 
 
 "Reek" was not important enough to be called strong 
 meat; it was just a thoroughly nasty book whose author 
 dwelt lovingly on obscene side-issues of ordinary life, 
 and in whose three hundred odd pages of closely printed 
 matter there was not a word, nor even a suggestion that 
 could help or even cheer for a moment any conceivable 
 reader. 
 
 "Disgusting rubbish," he declared after a moment. 
 "My old mother read the first chapter and marched down 
 with it in the tongs and put it in the kitchen fire." He 
 chuckled at the vision of the old lady's slow progress 
 down the narrow passage, with the tongs held straight 
 out before her. "That showed my young sister Jenny 
 what she thought of it!" He paused and then went on 
 very quickly, with a little flicker of colour in his thin, 
 white face, "You won't let Grisel read it?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 85 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge shuddered. "Dear me, no. Not that 
 she would understand it," she added slowly. 
 
 There was a pause and the young man watched the 
 firelight playing over the hollowed, haggard face with 
 the deeply-lined white brow, and the tired violet eyes. It 
 came to him suddenly how very pretty she must have 
 been in her youth her youth, so long ago, and before 
 he was born (he was twenty-six). And then she said 
 slowly, in a hesitating voice: 
 
 "It's such a stupid book. It's so badly put together 
 and the people aren't real." 
 
 If a six months' old baby had sat up in its cradle and 
 quoted Plato to him the young journalist could not have 
 been more surprised. That Violet Walbridge, of all 
 people on earth, should criticise the construction of a 
 novel by Bruce Collier! Bruce Collier, who was un- 
 doubtedly the head of the new school of writers, and 
 about whom most serious critics wrote columns in the 
 morning papers. He stared at her in frank, almost 
 open-mouthed astonishment, and she went on without 
 apparently noticing his emotion, and speaking modestly, 
 but with a sureness that he had never observed in her 
 before. 
 
 "You see, if S within Cleveland had been in the ruins 
 that time you know he could not possibly have writ- 
 ten that letter to Sophia." 
 
 "Why couldn't he?" stammered Wick. 
 
 For a few minutes he listened to her soft, rather un- 
 modulated voice, as she unfolded her ideas to him, and 
 then suddenly he jumped up and slapped his knee. 
 
 "By Jove," he shouted, "you're right, you're right, 
 Mrs. Walbridge, and not one of them the critics I mean 
 has seen it !"
 
 86 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 He tramped up and down the room, talking rapidly, 
 brandishing his arms in a characteristically ungraceful, 
 but expressive way. 
 
 "Why don't you write an article about it? I'll make 
 my chief print it in one of his decent papers. Not that 
 not that," he broke off stammering hopelessly, "Round 
 the Fire isn't very good in its way, you know but 
 I mean in Cosmos or The Jupiter." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge laughed softly. "Don't apologise 
 for Round the Fire" she said. "I think I know exactly 
 what it is." 
 
 He sat down again. The wind was whipping against 
 the window with a delightful crackling noise. The cor- 
 ner by the homely hearth in the dim, inexpressive draw- 
 ing-room was very pleasant in its way, and he liked, 
 he very greatly liked, the old-fashioned lady in the 
 shabby grey gown the lady whom, if he had to stop' 
 the stars in their courses to accomplish it, was going 
 to be his mother-in-law. He had always liked Mrs. 
 Walbridge; he had always known that she held quali- 
 ties that in a mother-in-law would be shining ones, but 
 she had a personality a little too like this drawing-room 
 of hers, too like the old mirror that hung over the man- 
 telpiece and was a little cloudy, a little obscure, and 
 now, behold, something had breathed on the mirror and 
 it had cleared! Like a flash he saw the future. Him- 
 self England's greatest newspaper king, in a great, fine, 
 romantic old house somewhere St. James's Square for 
 choice, failing that, Manchester Square might do and 
 by his side was his lovely little blackest white girl, and 
 beside her, in subdued grey velvet and lace, the perfect 
 mother-in-law, perfect because, not only had she been 
 capable of producing a wife fit for the greatest man
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 87 
 
 in England, and of being herself gently and quietly and 
 modestly impressive, but she possessed that great bless- 
 ing to a man in the position that he would be in, a 
 keenly critical mind, and the mind would be, he felt, in 
 a way his, because he had discovered it. He was sure 
 that no one in her household or among her friends even 
 suspected Mrs. Walbridge of such an astonishing pos- 
 session. 
 
 "Look here," he said at the end of half an hour or so, 
 when they had discussed Mr. Collier's rather putrescent 
 masterpiece pretty thoroughly, "I suppose Grisel's told 
 you that I mean to marry her?" 
 
 "She's told me that you'd asked her." 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," he waved his hand impatiently, 
 "asking her, I mean. I have asked her two or three 
 times, just for the sake of form, you know. But she's 
 got to do it sooner or later. I'm in no hurry." 
 
 "Dear me," murmured his hostess, a little frightened 
 by the novelty of his point of view. 
 
 "Yes. You mustn't think me cheeky or dashing, 
 you know," he protested gravely. "I'm not really. I 
 only mention it now to you so that you would under- 
 stand what I'm going to say." 
 
 "Yes?" She spoke very gently, and her eyes were 
 kind and benign. 
 
 "I was going to ask you," he said, his manner suddenly 
 changing to one that impressed her, unconsciously to 
 both of them. "I was going to ask you if you don't 
 think you could do something to modernise your style 
 a little. Just from the business point of view, I mean." 
 
 He saw her wince, but kept on, with benevolent ruth- 
 lessness. 
 
 "I've been reading over some of your books since I
 
 88 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 met you, and I like 'em, and I quite see the reason for 
 their popularity." He broke off shortly, and asked her, 
 his head cocked on one side, his lips pursed fiercely: 
 "How are your sales now, compared to what they were, 
 say, ten years ago?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge took up the poker and bent over the 
 fire. He knew she was doing it to hide her face, and 
 moved slightly so that he could keep on looking at her, 
 for he meant to have the truth, and knew that this truth- 
 ful lady would not hesitate to lie to him on this occasion. 
 
 "About the same, I think," she said in an undertone, 
 poking the fire destructively. 
 
 He took the poker out of her hand, and by pointing 
 it at her, forced her slowly back into her chair. 
 
 "Oh, come now," he protested. "Honour bright 
 man to man, you know business " 
 
 There was a pause, after which she said : "Well, then, 
 if you put it like that, no! my sales have been growing 
 less for some years now, slowly, until until quite lately. 
 My last book was really almost a failure. Don't," she 
 added, clasping her thin hands and bending forward 
 a little, "don't mention this to Grisel, will you? They 
 none of them know. I I didn't like to worry them." 
 
 The young man rose and walked to the window, say- 
 ing: "Oh, hell!" under his breath. 
 
 "Of course I won't tell Grisel," he almost shouted 
 from between the lace curtains; "but doesn't your hus- 
 band know?" 
 
 "Oh, no no. They none of them do. It would only 
 worry them, you know." 
 
 "It must worry you, doesn't it?" 
 
 Neither of them noticed that the young man, who 
 might so well have been one of her younger children,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 89 
 
 was behaving quite as if he were what he had destined 
 himself to be, a powerful and experienced king of jour- 
 nalism. And she, who had written books while he was 
 crawling on his nursery floor, sat before him with folded 
 hands, answering his questions with the simplicity and 
 lack of reserve of a child. For once he had broken her 
 barriers down, he realised how the poor thing was re- 
 lieved and glad to talk about her troubles. 
 
 Thus it came that she told him all about that dreadful 
 interview with Messrs. Lubbock & Payne, and of her 
 struggles with "Lord Effingham." 
 
 "I've modernised it," she said, with hopefulness that 
 made him want to cry, "but it didn't seem very good 
 to me. But then I don't suppose one's ever a very good 
 judge of one's own work " 
 
 "Then one ought to be," he thrust in brutally. "Every 
 man and every woman ought to be the best judge of his 
 or her work. Any other kind of talk's nonsense. You 
 ought to know your best book. Don't you? Because 
 if you don't, I can tell you." 
 
 She trembled as she looked up at him. "I know you're 
 going to say 'Queenie's Promise,' " she said feebly. 
 
 He shook his head. "Well, it isn't, then. It's the 'Un- 
 der Secretary.' I read that through from start to finish 
 in the Underground the other day, and it's it's got the 
 makings of a real good story." 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Jessie brought 
 in the tea, and by doing so changed these two bewitched 
 people back to their real selves, and the millionaire news- 
 paper king found himself once more only a young re- 
 porter, and the trembling literary aspirant at his feet 
 became, as at the wave of a wand, again the tired, once
 
 90 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 mildly successful old novelist, his hostess and potential 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 They were both embarrassed for a few minutes, and 
 then, as they drank their tea, Mrs. Walbridge found her- 
 self, to her great though gentle surprise, telling him what 
 she instinctively called the story of her life. 
 
 "My father was a solicitor," she said, "in Lincoln's 
 Inn, and we lived in Russell Street. It's a boarding- 
 house now. I went past it the other day on my way to 
 the Tube, and it brought it all back so clearly! My 
 mother died when I was a child, and one of my aunts 
 brought me up. She was very old-fashioned, and rather 
 an invalid, so as a child I saw hardly anyone but her 
 and my nurse, and once in a long while my father. For 
 years I never read anything but Miss Yonge's books, 
 and Edna Lyall's, and The Girl's Own Paper. My aunt 
 was very particular about my books." 
 
 "She must have been," growled the young man, try- 
 ing to eat his toast silently, so that he could hear. 
 
 "I never went to school, but had a series of govern- 
 esses, all very sad women. Most governesses seem to 
 be sad, don't they? And all oldish, and not in very 
 good health. I was allowed to read Sir Walter Scott's 
 poems, and one or two of Dickens as I grew older. But 
 I never liked Dickens; he writes about such common 
 people. I loved Bulwer, and my aunt allowed me to 
 read several of his. My aunt died when I was sixteen, 
 and six months after her death my father went to Mexico 
 on business, which would have made him a very rich 
 man if it had turned out as he hoped. One of my old 
 governesses came to stay in the house while he was gone. 
 Her name was Miss Sweet, and I liked her because she 
 was sentimental and had a soft voice, and wasn't at all
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 91 
 
 particular about dates. Then it was that I wrote my first 
 book or not quite then, for I was nearly eighteen, but 
 my father was still away." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. She was allowing her 
 voice more scope since the gloom had thickened in the 
 quiet room. The young man did not move, for he 
 feared to disturb her. 
 
 "It was a caretaker in the next house which had long 
 been empty that put the idea into my head. She was 
 an old woman with a niece, who lived with her, and 
 the niece was very pretty. The story was a dreadful one 
 a tragedy, and the girl committed suicide. I can't 
 quite tell you," the quiet voice went on, "what it meant 
 to an ignorant girl, sheltered as I was, to be plunged 
 into the midst of such horrors. Poor old Mrs. Bell 
 waked us up in the middle of the night when it hap- 
 pened, and I went alone, as Miss Sweet had a bad attack 
 of asthma." 
 
 She shuddered, and reaching to the back of a chair, 
 took from it and wrapped round her shoulders a little 
 old red shawl. On and on went the quiet voice, telling 
 the story with a kind of neat dexterity and absence of 
 the overburdening adjectives common to such narration. 
 
 Wick was amazed and filled with pity at the thought 
 of what life had been to this woman to reduce her powers 
 to the deadly level of the tales that she poured out regu- 
 larly every autumn. 
 
 "It was a dreadful business, as you see, but some- 
 how after the first it didn't frighten or upset me much, 
 though it made poor Miss Sweet quite ill. Afterwards 
 we went down to Lulworth Cove for a change, and it was 
 while we were down there that I wrote the book. I was
 
 92 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 very happy then. Your work," she added, with a touch 
 of innocent vanity, "not being creative, you may not 
 realise what writing a book really is, but it's very won- 
 derful. I used to sit on the rocks and scribble away by 
 the hour. I think it was very good too, and I was proud 
 of it. And the day after we got home, in the autumn 
 we had been called back by a telegram saying that my 
 father had reached Liverpool I packed up the manu- 
 script on the dining-room table and addressed it to Mr. 
 Murray. Someone had spilt a little black currant jam 
 on the tablecloth, and as I arranged the pages I managed 
 to smear a little of it across the title, and I remember 
 getting cold water and a bit of cotton-wool and washing 
 it off, and then drying it before the kitchen fire, and 
 mending the spoilt letters with a very fine pen, so that 
 it would look nice. 'Hannah' was the name of it. Not 
 a very good title, but that was the way it came to me," 
 she added softly, and her voice trailed away into silence. 
 
 The darkness increased suddenly, and the firelight 
 made a lake of colour on the hearthrug, the only colour 
 left in the room. 
 
 "Well," Wick asked hoarsely, "did John Murray pub- 
 lish it?" 
 
 She laughed. "John Murray never saw it. I left 
 it on the hall table that night, and was going to register 
 it myself in the morning. When my father came in 
 late he noticed it, and opened it." 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 Somehow he never forgot the feel of the room at that 
 moment, or the chill sound of the next words as they fell 
 on his waiting ears. 
 
 "He burnt it." After a little while she went on : "He
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 93 
 
 was horrified by it. I suppose it was not very proper, 
 written by a young girl, and he had never known that 
 I understood about such things, but of course I did, after 
 the adventure of poor Kitty Bailey. Ring the bell, will 
 you, Oliver? It's growing very dark." 
 
 He rang, and while the lamp was being brought he 
 knelt on the old hearthrug and mended the fire. In a 
 few moments the crude, unlovely room was piteously 
 bright, and the mystery had flown. 
 
 "Weren't you very angry?" Wick asked, as the door 
 closed on the maid. 
 
 "I ? Oh, no. It was he who was angry my father. 
 I think he was too hard on me, but it didn't matter very 
 much. It was probably very badly written, though at 
 the time I thought it was good." 
 
 Wick held out his hand. "Well, I must be off. Thank 
 you so much for telling me, Mrs. Walbridge. Did you 
 go on writing at once then?" 
 
 Her thin, small-boned hand quivered in his as she 
 answered : 
 
 "Oh, no. I didn't write again until until after my 
 marriage." 
 
 They stood looking very kindly at each other, the 
 old woman and the young man, and then she said sud- 
 denly, as he took up his hat and stick : 
 
 "I don't know why I told you, except, perhaps, that 
 it happened, the burning of 'Hannah,' I mean, thirty- 
 five years ago to-day. I was thinking about it before 
 you came." 
 
 As he hurried through the rain towards the 'bus, the 
 young man counted back. 
 
 "That makes her fifty-two," he said. "I thought she 
 was older than that."
 
 94 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 As he squeezed into the crowded interior of "every- 
 body's carriage," as de Amicis calls it, a feeling of great 
 pity swept over him. "How it must have hurt," he 
 thought-, "for her to remember it like that."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE Gaskell-Walkers returned from their very long 
 honeymoon a few days later and spent the night at 
 Happy House, their own house being not quite ready 
 for them. 
 
 It having rained without ceasing for a week at the 
 Lakes, the young man had taken his bride to North 
 Devon, where he had hired a car and they had spent a 
 delightful time tearing over the country as fast as they 
 could go, which happened to be Mr. Gaskell-Walker's 
 higher form of enjoyment. He had made notes of the 
 distance traversed each separate day, and to Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge's bewildered mind, it seemed as if they had been 
 nowhere, but had spent their time going from or to dif- 
 ferent places. However, her pretty daughter was in 
 blooming health, and displayed her airs and graces in 
 an artless and becoming way like some, pretty bird. 
 Wracked with worry, almost unbearably anxious about 
 her new work, on which subject her publishers had main- 
 tained a silence which looked ominous. Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge gave herself up to delight for a few hours in 
 watching the happiness of these young people and hear- 
 ing their comfortable plans for the future. She had 
 never seen the house in Campden Hill, but Hermione 
 had been taken there shortly before her wedding, and 
 was delighted with everything about it. The drawing- 
 room was apparently the only drawing-room in London 
 that was over twenty feet long, and the art treasures, 
 
 95
 
 96 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 about which the young woman talked vaguely, but with 
 immense satisfaction, seemed to be various and valuable. 
 
 "There is a whole room full of Chinese dragons," 
 Gaskell-Walker told her at dinner, "wicked-looking, 
 teethy devils of all sizes. I used to be awfully frightened 
 of them when I was a kid." 
 
 "And the loveliest Indian screens, mother, you know, 
 that dull, crumbly-looking wood, inlaid with mother-of- 
 pearl." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge had no idea of the exact income of 
 her son-in-law, but she knew that the young couple 
 intended to keep three servants and that Billy was part- 
 ner in a fairly prosperous, though new, stockbroking 
 firm in Throgmorton Street. He was not so sympathetic 
 to her as Maud's husband. Moreton Twiss was young 
 and full of boyish high spirits and a kind of innocent 
 horse-play, that even the arrival of Hilary had in no 
 wise quieted ; and for some reason his untidy black hair 
 and twinkling eyes were dearer to her than the correct 
 smartness of the more conventional Gaskell-Walker. 
 
 Gaskell-Walker was ten or twelve years older than the 
 other man, although he had married the younger daugh- 
 ter, and being extremely short-sighted, he wore pince- 
 nez, without which his mother-in-law had never seen 
 him. She was one of those people who prefer eyes to be 
 unglazed. However, everything pointed to happiness be- 
 ing in store for Hermy, for she and her husband were 
 very much in love with each other, he rather more than 
 she was, which her mother felt to be as things should be. 
 And the little dinner was very pleasant, Paul being at 
 his best, which was very good, so good that he rarely 
 produced it for family use, and Hermy, being a daugh- 
 ter for any mother's eyes to rest upon with pride, in he*
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 97 
 
 pretty sapphire-blue frock, with the charming diamond 
 pendant her husband had given her for her wedding 
 present, blinking on her lovely bosom. 
 
 "What news from Guy?" the bride asked, as they 
 lingered in the old-fashioned way over their walnuts and 
 port. 
 
 "I had a beautiful letter from him only this afternoon. 
 I am going to show it to you. He's very well and seems 
 to have made some nice friends amongst the officers." 
 
 Gaskell-Walker laughed. "Trust Master Guy to make 
 friends," he said, cracking a nut with care, his over- 
 manicured nails flashing as he did so. "Easier to make 
 than to keep them in his case." 
 
 "Like the Governor," commented Paul carelessly. 
 
 "Children, children," Mrs. Walbridge glanced with 
 anxious eyes from the one to the other, "I do wish you 
 wouldn't speak of your father so or Guy either, Paul, 
 if you don't mind." 
 
 Gaskell-Walker bowed courteously. "I am sorry, 
 Mrs. Walbridge," he answered, plainly meaning what he 
 said, "I was only chaffing. We always tease the brat 
 about his new intimate friends, and I didn't mean to 
 say a word against him." 
 
 "Is father really better?" Hermoine put in, smiling 
 at her mother over the top of her glass. "I hear he is 
 carrying on anyhow with Clara Crichell. Who was it 
 told us so, Billy?" 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Hermy," put in Paul with a glance at 
 his mother, who, however, had paid no attention to the 
 remark. 
 
 It was a peculiarity of Mrs. Walbridge's children that, 
 while each one of them individually was capable of hurt- 
 ing her a dozen times a day, not one of them could bear
 
 98 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 one of the others to inflict the slightest scratch on her. 
 
 "The kid's having a grand time/' Paul went on to 
 his sister, "with Fred and Elsie Ford. Balls and din- 
 ners every night and adorers by the dozen, so Archie 
 Pratt told me. He had been down there he's a cousin 
 of Elsie's, you know. He says the kid's the success of 
 the place. Seemed rather smitten himself, I thought." 
 
 "I loathe Archie Pratt," murmured Hermione, "he 
 smells of white rose and is always talking about biplanes 
 and monoplanes." 
 
 "He is an Ai airman," put in her husband, "they 
 say he is down for a D. S. O. for that Italian business. 
 By the way, Paul, I hear the Armistice is most certainly 
 going to be signed next week." 
 
 Paul nodded. "Yes, according to the paper it is, but 
 some of these duffers will probably put it off." 
 
 "No. I have it pretty straight. It really is going to 
 be. The Hun cannot possibly hold out any longer. It's 
 funny the way they cling to that figure-head of the 
 Kaiser. But his nerve seems to be completely broken. 
 He won't be able to stick it out." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge pushed back her chair. "Guy says 
 they expect it to be signed on Monday or Tuesday the 
 French expect it, I mean." 
 
 "What is Guy going to do then?" asked Gaskell- 
 Walker, as he opened the door. 
 
 His mother-in-law looked at him vaguely. "Do? I 
 don't know. I suppose he'll go back to the City. Mr. 
 McCormick promised to take him back, but I don't know 
 he hasn't said anything about it. I'll get his letter." 
 
 They went upstairs to the girl's room, for Paul had 
 long since established his aesthetic inability to sit in "the 
 mausoleum," as he called the drawing-room, and there,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 99 
 
 among the pretty modern knick-knacks and pictures, 
 the mother read her soldier son's letter. 
 
 It was a good letter, unoriginal and typical in its lack 
 of grumbling and rather artificial cheerfulness. The 
 writer called his friends and comrades by odd nicknames, 
 vegetable and otherwise ; he gave the details of the food, 
 and the delights of sleeping in a bed once more after 
 eighteen months of trench life. Then at the last there 
 was something over which Mrs. Walbridge hesitated for 
 a moment something which was plainly very impor- 
 tant to her. Billy Gaskell-Walker got up. 
 
 "I'll just go down and get a cigar out of my coat 
 pocket," he said kindly. 
 
 But Mrs. Walbridge stopped him. "No, no, Billy, 
 don't go," she said, "I'd like you to hear because you are 
 going to be brothers now." She could not tell him that 
 it was Paul before whom she had hesitated to read the 
 more intimate part of the letter. 
 
 Paul sat at the far end of the room, reading a news- 
 paper, his smoothly brushed hair gleaming over the back 
 of Grisel's favourite chair. 
 
 "Of course, you know that Guy has been rather fool- 
 ish," his mother went on after a pause, putting on her 
 spectacles again. "But he is only twenty-one, after all, 
 and that's not so very old, is it ?" 
 
 Curiously enough the stranger, the man who was 
 nothing to her or to her boy by blood, understood her 
 better and was closer to her at that moment than either 
 her son or her daughter. Gaskell-Walker drew his chair 
 a little nearer and took his cigarette out of his mouth, a 
 queer little unpremeditated act of homage which she 
 noticed and for which she was grateful. 
 
 "A man of twenty-one," he said slowly, "is not a man
 
 ioo HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 at all, he's only a child, and Guy is so good-looking, 
 
 he's so full of what women call charm " he broke off 
 
 with an expressive shrug, and after smiling gratefully 
 at him, and lowering her voice a little that she might 
 not disturb Paul's study of the Evening Standard, his 
 mother-in-law went on with the letter, reading in a low, 
 moved voice: 
 
 "'Dear old Mum, I shall be awfully glad to get 
 back. I've been thinking quite a lot lately and I can 
 see better than I used to what a selfish young cub I've 
 always been to you. Of course, it's your own fault 
 that we're all such pigs. You've been too good to us? 
 That," the reader broke off to say, "is ridiculous. 
 'But then I've just sort of taken everything for grant' 
 ed. Ifs been part of nature that you should sit up in 
 the little garret room, slaving away at writing books 
 to do things and buy things for us. It never struck me 
 before that you don't have much of a time, but it does 
 now, and when I come back I'm going to try to be a 
 little more decent to you. It isn't that I didn't love 
 you ' " Her voice fell still lower and she shot an- 
 other nervous glance at the back of Paul's immovable 
 head. " '/ always did we all do, of course. It's just 
 possible that we're all selfish without meaning to be 
 and I've been the worst, because, of course, Paul has 
 been working for years and has no time to do very 
 much, and ifs different with the girls. But I'd give 
 something nice now, when I think about it all out here, 
 if I hadn't always been such a hound about going up- 
 stairs for you and down to the kitchen and little things 
 like that. Your poor old feet must have been pretty
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 101 
 
 tired sometimes chasing about doing things for us, 
 and in future I'm going to do the chasing/ '' 
 
 "Bless him," put in Hermione lazily, "he's a good 
 child. We must kill the fatted calf for him when he 
 comes home. Billy, we'll have a beautiful party ." 
 
 Gaskell- Walker nodded. "Bravo, Brat" he approved 
 gently. "We mustn't tease him any more. Perhaps," 
 he added thoughtfully, "I might get him a job in Throg- 
 morton Street. Don't think much of McCormick, any- 
 way. 
 
 "There's a little more," went on Mrs. Walbridge, 
 who had not listened to this conversation, but was bend- 
 ing over her letter, partly, it struck her son-in-law, to 
 hide her eyes, "it's about about that poor girl you 
 know." 
 
 Paul turned round in his chair and rested his chin 
 on its black satin back. 
 
 "Francine, you mean" he laughed with a little sneer, 
 "what about her? The youth seems to be making his 
 soul in earnest, but I have my doubts as to whether the 
 lady will be satisfied with the role he offers her." 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Paul, you're a cat," Hermione almost 
 snapped, in her unusual vehemence. "Unless, I am very 
 much mistaken you liked the girl yourself till the Brat 
 came along and wiped your eye." 
 
 "Shut up, you two. "Go on, Mrs. Walbridge," inter- 
 rupted Gaskell-Walker. "The girl's no worse than most 
 young fellow's first adventure. Go and chew your bone 
 on the mat, you two, if you've got to squabble, I want 
 to hear what the Brat says." 
 
 After a pained look at her elder son, Mrs. Walbridge 
 went on with the letter, Paul walking ostentatiously in-
 
 102 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 different to the piano and turning over the music on top 
 of it as she did so. 
 
 " 'I know you have been worried to death about my 
 silly scrape with that girl, but it really wasn't so bad as 
 you all thought. I can't tell you about it in a letter, 
 but I will when I see you and then you'll see that I 
 wasn't quite such an ass as most people imagined. 
 Anyhow, I straightened it all out the best way I could 
 before I went back after my last leave, and I know 
 you'll be glad to hear that I didn't treat her badly' 
 That's all he said about her. Then he asks about his 
 bullfinch we've not told him it died and sends his 
 love to everyone." Her voice shook a little as she read 
 on. " 'Tell old Paul I'm awfully glad to hear he's do- 
 ing so well, and hope he'll soon be able to get out of 
 that cursed bank. I wish he'd ^vrite to me, letters are 
 a great boon out here. Give the girls each a kiss and 
 tell Billy that a little stick won't do Mrs. Hermy any 
 harm, when she goes through her manners at home!' 
 Isn't it a very nice letter, Billy?" 
 
 "It is indeed, Mrs. Walbridge, there's good stuff in 
 the Brat, and for one, I'm going to do my best to help 
 it come out. He'll have a good time at our house we 
 both like entertaining, and I've done pretty well this year, 
 and it'll be nice for him to have a cheery place to go 
 to, full of young people. We must get some pretty flap- 
 pers to amuse him, Hermy, and then he won't want to go 
 wasting his time in silly places." 
 
 Paul turned. "I rather think," he drawled, "that we 
 haven't, in spite of all these virtuous plans, heard the 
 last of the excellent Francine. Good-night, Gaskell-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 103 
 
 Walker." He left the room, closing the door very softly 
 behind him. 
 
 "I do wish," snapped Hermy, "that Paul would slam 
 the door when he's furious, like a Christian. That cat- 
 footed way of his drives me mad." 
 
 A little later Mrs. Walbridge accompanied her guests 
 to their room, where everything had been prepared for 
 them with the most minute and loving care. 
 
 "There's the cold milk, Billy, on your side, and 
 Hermy's hot milk is in the thermos. The windows are 
 open at the top about a foot. Is that right?" 
 
 Hermione kissed her mother, who, after a minute's 
 hesitation, kissed her again. 
 
 "That's poor little Guy's kiss," the elder woman said. 
 "Oh, Hermy, I'm so glad he's coming home." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge then held out her hand to her son-in- 
 law. "Good-night. Billy, it's nice having you here. 
 You've been very kind about Guy. It has made me 
 happy." 
 
 Gaskell-Walker peered closely into her face, for he 
 had taken his glasses off. He was a selfish man, and not 
 particularly tender-hearted, selfishness after forty having 
 a tendency to grow a thick membrane over the feelings. 
 But something in her face touched him. 
 
 "Good-night, dear Mrs. Walbridge," he said gently. 
 "Will you allow your new son-in-law to kiss you good- 
 night?" And he bent and kissed her on her soft cheek.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 AT half-past seven on the morning 01 Armistice Day 
 Caroline Breeze, who was an early waker, but a late 
 riser, was sitting up in bed reading. Her small, high up 
 flat was very comfortable, and the good old woman 
 had only to cross the room to light her gas-ring and 
 prepare her morning tea. This she had done half an 
 hour before, and was now propped up against many 
 pillows with a pleasantly furnished tea-tray on her lap, 
 bread and butter in one hand, which she dipped shame- 
 lessly into her tea, as she read, with avid, dreamy eyes, 
 a new novel. 
 
 Miss Breeze was about sixty, and of irredeemable 
 plainness, being the victim of that cruel form of indi- 
 gestion that makes the nose red and the eyes watery. 
 Her sparse grey hair, the front part of which was by day 
 covered by a front of grey glossiness with but few pre- 
 tences at concealment, that now hung, carefully brushed, 
 on the foot of her bed like a bloodless and innocently 
 come by war trophy, was screwed up on top of her big 
 square head. She wore a little flannel jacket of the 
 wrong shade of pink; her eiderdown, her window cur- 
 tains, her wallpaper were pink, all too, of that patheti- 
 cally wrong shade, but being comfortably colour blind, 
 or taste blind, she knew nothing of this, and regarded 
 her room as a bower of beauty and charm. The book she 
 was reading was intensely interesting; there was in it 
 a most cruelly treated companion, a revolting lap-dog 
 
 104
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 105 
 
 that had to be taken for walks in the park, and a hand- 
 some nephew who ground his teeth in moments of emo- 
 tion, and had designs on Rosamund (that was the gov- 
 erness's name). So engrossed was the good lady that 
 presently she allowed her bit of bread and butter to soak 
 too long in the tea, and as she raised it to her mouth it 
 disintegrated, and fell with a horrid splash on her jacket. 
 
 "Oh, dear, how disgusting!" the old lady said aloud, 
 laying down her book and removing the tea-soaked and 
 buttery bread with a knife. "I do hope it's going to end 
 all right." 
 
 When she had rubbed the front of her jacket vigor- 
 ously with her napkin, she took up the book; and with a 
 furtive air turned to the last page. This habit of look- 
 ing at the end before she got to it was one of which Miss 
 Breeze was very ashamed, but she was so tender-hearted 
 that when she saw in the story any signs of possible trag- 
 edy, she really could not resist taking a hasty glance at 
 the ending, just to see if things were all right. If they 
 were she went back to the tale with undisturbed zest, and 
 undiminished excitement over the intervening troubles 
 of the heroine. But if the author had been so foolish as 
 to allow death or misunderstanding to blight the life of 
 her heroine, Caroline Breeze closed the book and never 
 opened it again. 
 
 She had just resumed her reading, when a ring came 
 at her door. The postman did not ring, and she did not 
 receive telegrams, so she was startled, and sat staring 
 owl-like through her glasses towards the door. The ring 
 was repeated, followed by a quick tapping of ungloved 
 fingers on the panel, and she heard a voice : 
 
 "Let me in, Caroline, it's only me." 
 
 "Good gracious. It's Violet!"
 
 io6 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Slipping the tray from her knees to the little bamboo 
 table at the side of the bed, Miss Breeze wrapped the 
 eiderdown round her, and scuttled across and opened 
 the door. She kissed her guest and they both went back 
 into the warm bedroom ; for the fire in the little drawing- 
 room would not be lit until just before Miss Breeze got 
 up, and lying in bed in the morning was her one self- 
 indulgence. 
 
 "My dear, take your hat off and sit down in the com- 
 fortable chair. Whatever has brought you here at this 
 hour?" 
 
 "Trouble," answered Mrs. Walbridge simply, doing as 
 she was told. "I want you to do something for me, 
 Caroline, it's a favour. I've very little time, so I can't 
 explain. I must have some money." 
 
 "Money!" Miss Breeze had known Mrs. Walbridge 
 for many years, but she had never suspected that her 
 friend had money troubles. 
 
 "Yes, I must have some at once, and I want you to 
 to pawn these for me." 
 
 Opening her bag, she took out a little old case into 
 which she had crowded her two or three old-fashioned 
 diamond rings, and two pairs of ear-rings, one of seed 
 pearls, the other of pale sapphires clumsily set in dia- 
 mond chips and thick gold. 
 
 Caroline Breeze had never been inside a pawnshop 
 in her life, but she did not protest against the horrid 
 errand. 
 
 "I'll get up at once and go," she said. "W r hat do you 
 think they ought to give me?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge, who was very pale, and whose eyes 
 looked larger and more sunken than ever, shrugged her
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 107 
 
 shoulders helplessly. "I haven't the slightest idea," she 
 said. 
 
 "What's that book?" she added sharply, the crimson 
 cover of her friend's novel catching her eyes. 
 
 Miss Breeze's face, already so red and white in the 
 wrong places, turned a deep bluish colour of extreme 
 embarrassment. "Oh, it's it's just a book," she stam- 
 mered, laying her hand on it. "I I thought I'd like 
 to read it, just to see if it really is good." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge, who had risen, held out her hand. 
 
 "Let me see it, Caroline," she said quietly, and Miss 
 Breeze gave it to her. "I thought so Beryl J. Bell. 
 I've seen it advertised. Jones & Hayward advertise a 
 great deal. Is it is it good?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge's voice shook a little, and Caroline 
 Breeze turned her eyes away. 
 
 "Nothing extra," she answered in a voice that tried 
 to be indifferent. "I suppose they spend a lot of money 
 in advertising her." 
 
 Forgetting her hurry, Mrs. Walbridge sat down again 
 and looked eagerly through the book. There was a long 
 silence, a flutter of pages being the only noise in the 
 quiet room. Caroline Breeze's faithful heart ached for 
 her friend, and in her wisdom she said nothing. But 
 Mrs. Walbridge spoke after she had closed the book 
 and laid it down on the bed. 
 
 "I suppose you know," her voice was very quiet, and 
 the colour had died away from her face, leaving the 
 shadows and lines in it deeper than ever. "I suppose 
 you know that 'Lord Effingham' is a failure?" 
 
 Caroline made a dreadful grimace, rumpling up her 
 nose and protruding her thick lips two or three times
 
 io8 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 rapidly, a way she had when she was embarrassed or 
 distressed. 
 
 "Oh, no," she protested, "not a failure. I've noticed 
 that the critics don't seem to like it quite so much as 
 the others, but " 
 
 "Don't. It's a failure, Caroline, and it's right that it 
 should be. I tried to change it, to make it more mod- 
 ern, and I've spoiled it completely. It's neither fish, 
 flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." 
 
 "Oh, Violet!" Poor Miss Breeze's watery eyes over- 
 flowed a little, the tears did not fall, but spread awk- 
 wardly, scantily, over her rutted cheeks, and made her 
 plain face even plainer. "I love your books, and I 
 love this one too. If they had let you alone it would 
 have been sweet." 
 
 "Yes, but they didn't let me alone, and they were 
 right not to. They weren't unkind, they were right." 
 
 There was something innocently pathetic in the little 
 figure by the bed. The plain old felt hat was on one 
 side of her head, and in the strengthening morning light 
 she looked a really old woman an unhappy, hopeless 
 old woman. 
 
 "I'm old-fashioned, Caroline out of date. That's 
 what it is. These new people that woman for instance, 
 Beryl J. Bell she's young, she believes in her books, 
 her mind isn't tired like mine. I know." She rose and 
 moved nervously about the room, speaking in a quick 
 undertone. "I've always known that my books aren't 
 very good of course not like Hichens, I mean, and 
 Mrs. Humphrey Ward, and Arnold Bennett but they 
 were good of their kind, and people did like them, I 
 know they did. I've had letters from people I've never 
 even heard of, showing how much they liked them, and
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 109 
 
 how they had helped them. But now they're old-fash- 
 ioned even among old-fashioned ones. That's it." She 
 stood still to utter the saddest of cries. "I'm old, Caro- 
 line. I'm old." 
 
 Poor Caroline Breeze burst into loud snuffling sobs, 
 and rising from her bed, her skimpy nightgown clinging 
 to her bony legs, she embraced her poor friend, and 
 tried to comfort her with love and lies. Violet Wai- 
 bridge did not cry. She was never a tearful woman, and 
 at this moment was far past such a show of feeling. 
 
 "Get back into bed, dear. You'll catch cold," she said 
 gently, patting her friend's bony shoulder. "I must go 
 now or they'll miss me. Come to lunch when you've been 
 to the pawnshop. It's good of you to go. I know I 
 ought to go myself, but somehow I can't, with my own 
 things, and I thought it would not be so bad for you, 
 because you can tell the man that it's for a friend." 
 
 This idea she cherished, poor innocent lady, as one of 
 great originality, and to Miss Breeze as well it appeared 
 valuable. But even now, grieved as she was- for her 
 friend, it never occurred to the faithful Caroline that 
 the financial situation of "Happy House" could possibly 
 be one of more than temporary tightness. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge never talked of money matters and 
 for all Miss Breeze knew might have a regular income 
 quite apart from her books. So the kind old maid's 
 assumption was that one of the boys had got into a 
 scrape, and that Mrs. Walbridge wished to help him 
 without her husband's knowledge. For, in spite of the 
 fact that Ferdie Walbridge, on the strength of having 
 once paid back ten pounds of his original loan from Miss 
 Breeze, had on several occasions borrowed further small 
 sums of her, to avoid, he said, bothering poor Violet
 
 no HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 about trifles, Caroline still cherished her pristine belief 
 that husbands were superior beings, who ought not to 
 be troubled by small matters by their wives. 
 
 As the friends parted Caroline ventured one question. 
 "There's another book sold to Lubbock & Payne, isn't 
 there? On that last contract, I mean." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge shook her head. "No, this is the last 
 of the three. I I dare say I shall hear from them 
 shortly. 
 
 Caroline Breeze went back to her room, and dressed 
 and prepared to go on her, to her, so strange and ad- 
 venturous errand. 
 
 No one saw Mrs. Walbridge come home, and the 
 morning dragged along with its usual round of dull 
 duties, until about half past ten, when Miss Breeze ar- 
 rived, her long queer figure, in her tight-fitting jacket 
 edged with strips of shabby mink, and her oddly rakish 
 hat decorated with a scrap of gold lace and a big bunch 
 of pink roses. 
 
 "I've been, dear," she burst out eagerly, as she came 
 into the attic room, where her friend sat at her work- 
 table, "and I've got fifty-two pounds. Isn't it splendid ?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge's face fell. "Oh, thanks that's very 
 good," she said, "and I'm so grateful to you, Caroline." 
 
 "It wasn't a bit like what I had expected," Miss 
 Breeze explained, unbuttoning her jacket, and pulling 
 out her cherished lace frill. "I rather thought there 
 would be little pens, you know, like the ones in Dickens, 
 with a young man leaning across a counter. But it was 
 exactly like a shop and there was a very nice little back 
 room, and such a polite man, a Christian. He said the 
 diamonds were very good, but small, and he didn't seem
 
 HAPPY HOUSE in 
 
 to believe me when I told him it was for a friend. 
 Wasn't it odd of him?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge nodded. She had taken up a pencil 
 and was making some notes on an old envelope, "twenty- 
 six, thirty-six," she murmured. "Are they really sign- 
 ing the Armistice to-day?" she asked a moment later, 
 looking up. 
 
 "Yes, I think so. The streets are crowded, everybody 
 seems to be waiting for something. I don't see why they 
 don't sign the peace at once, and not waste time over 
 an armistice; it would be far simpler." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge rose. "Let's go downstairs, dear," 
 she said. 
 
 But at that moment a sudden ringing of bells filled 
 the air Jrells from all sides, bells big, bells small, bells 
 musical and bells harsh. The two women stared at each 
 other. 
 
 "That must be it," Miss Breeze cried. "I thought 
 they were going to fire off cannon." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge went to the little window and opened 
 it. The sun was shining, and the sky was as clear as if 
 they looked at it from some empty moor. She stood 
 and looked up. 
 
 "Thank God," she said. "Now all the sons and broth- 
 ers and lovers will be coming home those who are 
 left " 
 
 "And husbands," agreed Miss Breeze, clasping her 
 hands. 
 
 As the cannon began to roar, Violet Walbridge turned 
 and looked at her friend with a curious expression in 
 her fine eyes. "And husbands," she added softly.
 
 H2 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 While the two women were having their simple lunch 
 the house door burst open and Griselda came running 
 in, glowing with colour and happiness, looking the pic- 
 ture of youth and beauty, in a little close-fitting fur cap 
 and stole of the same kind of fur. The Fords had mo- 
 tered her up to town to see the celebrations and to go to 
 a ball at one of the big hotels that night. 
 
 "Oh, mother," she cried, "aren't you glad it's over 
 the war, I mean?" 
 
 She sat down at the table, and leaning her chin in her 
 hand, watched the two women as they pecked at their 
 bread and cheese. 
 
 "Aren't you surprised to see me? We only came up 
 on the spur of the moment. Fred said it was a historical 
 event, and we ought not to miss it, and he telephoned 
 through and got rooms. The prices are perfectly fear- 
 ful, but he really doesn't care what he spends. So here 
 we are. They sent me up here in the car." 
 
 "Where," asked her mother, in an odd, dry little voice, 
 "did you get those furs?" 
 
 Griselda, who had taken off the stole, glanced down 
 at it carelessly. "Oh, this. Elsie gave it to me. Fred 
 gave her some heavenly sables the other day, so she 
 didn't want these any more." 
 
 "I gave you my beaver set." 
 
 The girl glanced curiously at her mother's face. "I 
 know you did, dear, and it's very nice, of course. But 
 beaver doesn't suit me, and besides it's very old fash- 
 ioned." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge started at the last word, and her wed- 
 ding ring struck sharply against a glass. 
 
 "Old fashioned?" she said. "Yes, I suppose it is. 
 Well, come upstairs, dear, and take your things off in
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 113 
 
 my room. Jessie's turning yours out to-day, but it'll be 
 ready in a little while." 
 
 Griselda caught up her stole and threw it round her 
 shoulders. "Oh, I'm not staying," she explained care- 
 lessly. "We're at the Ritz. It's only for two or three 
 days, so I thought I wouldn't upset things here and 
 besides, Elsie wanted me. Sir John Barclay is motoring 
 her and me back on the day after to-morrow " 
 
 "Who is Sir John Barclay?" asked Miss Breeze in- 
 terestedly. Grisel laughed. 
 
 "Try to bear it, Caroline," she said, "but he's not 
 young and handsome; he's old. Very nice," she added, 
 patronisingly, "but really old. White hair and all that. 
 Isn't it a pity, for he's as rich as Croesus copper in Af- 
 rica it is, and sheep and cows in South America. I 
 wish he'd adopt me as a favourite grandchild." As she 
 spoke a long, throaty honk of a motor horn was heard. 
 "That's Peters. I promised Elsie I wouldn't be late, and 
 he's reminding me. We're lunching at the Carlton with 
 Sir John, so I really mustn't be late. Good-bye, dears." 
 
 She kissed both the women and they all three walked 
 to the hall door together. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you," the girl went on, as she 
 opened the door. "Dad says he's going to stay on for 
 another fortnight. He says his health's better, but really 
 and truly he's having the time of his life and is a thor- 
 oughly gay old dog. Oh, yes, and he wants you to 
 send him some new pajamas only two or three pairs, 
 and you're not to send him mauve ones. Rather naughty 
 of him to be so particular, isn't it?" 
 
 "Griselda!" Mrs. Walbridge's voice was very stern, 
 and the girl made a funny little face as she ran down 
 the path.
 
 ii 4 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 They watched her get into the big car, and waved their 
 hands to her as it bore her quietly away. 
 
 The two women went back into the house and sat 
 down in the drawing-room. The fire had gone out dur- 
 ing the excitement of the morning, and the room looked 
 more than ever unlovely and uninhabited. Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge stood for a moment gazing down at the five 
 photographs. 
 
 "Dear Grisel is having a splendid time, isn't she?" 
 asked Caroline warmly. "How nice for her to have such 
 rich friends." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge did not answer. Her eyes were still 
 fixed on the pictures of her five children.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A WEEK later Mrs. Walbridge received a letter from her 
 publishers. It was a very kind letter, for, after all, pub- 
 lishers are human beings, and Mr. Lubbock and Mr. 
 Payne were really sorry to hurt their poor little client. 
 
 " Ton my word, it really makes me feel quite miser- 
 able," Mr. Lubbock had told his partner, with perfect 
 sincerity, as they drew up a rough draft of the letter 
 for Miss Borlays, their most confidential secretary, to 
 type. 
 
 Mr. Payne nodded in agreement. "Poor old thing, 
 it'll be an awful blow, and I half suspect," he added, 
 "that she supports that rascally, good-looking husband 
 of hers by her earnings." 
 
 "There are a lot of children, too, Payne. I've for- 
 gotten how many, but a great many," added Mr. Lub- 
 bock, smoothing his impeccable waistcoat. "Poor little 
 woman. I wish we didn't have to do it. Of course, she 
 has grown absolutely out of date, and this last book is 
 disastrous, positively disastrous." 
 
 However, after some discussion, the two men decided, 
 for the sake of old times and long friendship, to accept 
 one more book from Mrs. Walbridge. 
 
 "We'll buy outright," Lubbock suggested. "What do 
 you say? Give her a cheque for five hundred pounds 
 and let her deliver the manuscript when she likes. That'll 
 let her down a bit easier." 
 
 Mr. Payne nodded. "Five hundred pounds is a lot 
 
 "5
 
 n6 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 of money," he protested feebly. "We shan't sell as 
 many copies either after this last mess. However, we'll 
 do it." 
 
 When they had finished the rough draft and sent it 
 in to the efficient Miss Borlays, the two men went out to 
 lunch, and had a bottle of Clos Vogeot to console them- 
 selves, both for what was practically a gift of a large 
 sum of money, and also for their sincere sympathy with 
 that poor little superannuated scribbler. After his third 
 glass of the excellent and mellowing wine, Mr. Lubbock 
 even recalled to his friend how very pretty Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge had been twenty years ago. 
 
 "I remember thinking I had never seen such eyes in 
 my life," the good gentleman murmured reminiscently, 
 "and I was only just married in those days, too." 
 
 The letter was less of a blow to Mrs. Walbridge than 
 might have been expected, .for, when faced with abso- 
 lute ruin, an unexpected five hundred pounds comes very 
 nearly like manna from heaven. Her relief when she 
 had cashed the cheque and actually had the notes folded 
 away in her shabby little old bag was so great that she 
 had to struggle to keep the tears from her habitually 
 tearless eyes. She did not go straight home from the 
 bank, and restraining herself with a violent effort from 
 rushing in to thank Mr. Lubbock and Mr. Payne a 
 course which she knew would be extremely distressing 
 to them both she did an unjustifiable but very forgiv- 
 able thing. She went to Peter Robinson's and spent 
 twenty-seven pounds nineteen and sixpence on a muff 
 and stole for Griselda. This she had sent straight to 
 her daughter, and, sitting at the counter in the shop,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 117 
 
 she wrote a little letter on a bit of paper out of one of 
 her notebooks. 
 
 "My darling," she said, in her beautiful, clear 
 writing, "here's a little present for you. I can't bear 
 you to accept things from anyone but me. Explain to 
 Elsie Ford, and I'm sure she'll understand your asking 
 her to take back the beautiful furs she so kindly wanted 
 to give you. 
 
 "When are you coming back? I don't want to cut 
 your pleasure short, but you've been away for a long 1 
 time noWj and I miss you. Oliver came to see me 
 yesterday, and he has a box for 'Roxana,' and wants 
 you and me and a friend of his, a young man, to go 
 with him on Thursday. Guy will be coming back any 
 day now, and Christmas is near and in fact I want 
 my baby very badly. 
 
 "Your loving mother^ 
 
 "VIOLET WALBRIDGE." 
 
 This note she pinned on the muff, and herself folded 
 the soft paper over it as it lay in the box. The girl who 
 had sold it to her was very sympathetic and pleasant, 
 and promised that it should go off that very day. When 
 these things were accomplished, Mrs. Walbridge went 
 on to Campden Hill, where she was lunching with 
 Hermione. 
 
 Hilltop Road, Campden Hill, is a blind alley, beauti- 
 fully quiet, with grass growing between the cobble- 
 stones that pave it. It is a quiet, sunny, tree-sheltered 
 place, with five or six engardened houses on either side, 
 the smallest of which belonged to the Gaskell-Walkers. 
 Even now, in November, a few scraggy roses and some 
 brown-edged hydrangeas still garnished the sodden gar-
 
 n8 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 den, and Mrs. Walbridge noticed with pleasure, as she 
 went up the path, that the painters were evidently out. 
 The door and windows glittered steadily in the glory 
 of new bottle-green paint, and the windows themselves 
 had lost the hollow-eyed look incidental to houses where 
 the housemaids are not yet settled down to a religious 
 respect for their blinds. 
 
 She was a little late for lunch, but Maud was the only 
 other guest, and, as Maud was very hungry, they had 
 not waited for her, and she found them sitting cosily 
 over curried eggs in the pretty dining-room. She had 
 not seen Maud for about a fortnight, and was pleased 
 to find her looking well and rosy. Hilary was at the 
 seaside with his Grannie Twiss, and Maud and Moreton, 
 she was told, had been having a high old time doing 
 the theatres. 
 
 "We are praying," the young wife added pleasantly, 
 "for bubonic plague, or cholera, or something. Poor 
 Moreton's only had three patients since we got back, 
 and one of them only had neuralgia from his tooth, 
 and Moreton had to send him across the passage to Mr. 
 Burton to pull out a few. That," she added, reaching 
 for the salt, "was rather bitter." 
 
 Hermione, looking radiantly pretty in her smart 
 trousseau coat and skirt, was full of simple news about 
 her husband and her house and their plans. 
 
 "Billy's not forgotten his promise about the Brat," 
 she said, after a while. "He's asked Mr. Browning, 
 his partner, you know, and he says he thinks they could 
 make some kind of a place for him for Guy, I mean." 
 
 "That's very kind of him. I haven't heard from 
 Guy for over a week. I suppose he'll be coming any 
 day now, bless him."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 119 
 
 Then she was asked and told news of Paul, and this 
 information was given and accepted rather coldly, for 
 Paul was not a favourite with his brother and sisters, 
 and their interest was only conventional. 
 
 "I believe he did rather well in something; I forget 
 what, copper or something, last week," Mrs. Walbridge 
 explained. "He's bought a lovely teapot with flowers 
 all over it, and a picture a water-colour of Venice that 
 he says will be worth double what he paid for it in a few 
 years." 
 
 "Grisel's having a grand time," one of the young 
 women exclaimed towards the end of the lunch. "Elsie 
 Ford is jolly good to her." 
 
 Her mother's delicate eyebrows stirred a little ruefully. 
 "I don't like this new custom of taking presents from 
 one's friends," she said. 
 
 "Nonsense, mother. Everybody does it, and Elsie's 
 so rich it doesn't matter to her what she gives away. Do 
 you remember how we despised her for marrying Fred 
 Ford, Hermy?" 
 
 Hermione nodded. "Yes; he was dreadful in those 
 days, wasn't he? There wasn't a decent *o' in him. 
 Real cockney." 
 
 "She's toned him down a lot, though," put in the 
 other, "and he has a trick of picking up smart slang 
 really good slang, you know that makes him quite 
 possible. When's the kid coming home, mum?" 
 
 "A few days before Christmas. I had a letter from 
 her yesterday. They are doing a lot of motoring, which, 
 of course, Grisel loves. There's an old gentleman named 
 Barclay who is very kind to her," she said. 
 
 Hermione Gaskell-Walker burst out laughing. "You'll 
 be having the kind old gentleman for a son-in-law if you
 
 120 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 don't look out, you innocent old pet," she said, lighting 
 her coffee machine, and blowing out the match. "Elsie 
 told me I met her the other day in Harrod's when she 
 came up for that special performance at His Majesty's 
 that the old man was crazy about the kid, and," she 
 added with satisfaction, "rolling simply rolling." 
 
 Her mother looked bewildered. "Rolling ?" 
 
 "In money, dear. He's extremely rich cattle, I think, 
 in Argentina. She always was the best-looking of the 
 three of us, so it's only fair she should make the best 
 match." 
 
 Maud interrupted her indignantly. "Best match, 
 indeed! An old man like that. How sickening of you, 
 Hermy. I wouldn't give up Moreton for all the million- 
 aires in the world." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge patted her hand. "That's right, 
 dear," she murmured, and Mrs. Gaskell-Walker looked a 
 litttle ashamed of herself. 
 
 "You needn't think I'm not fond of Billy, for I am. 
 He's absolutely perfect. I was only speaking from the 
 worldly point of view, and it would be funny if the kid 
 should burst out into a title, and millions, while Moreton 
 is hunting illusive patients, and Billy worrying himself 
 dead on the Stock Exchange." 
 
 After lunch Mrs. Walbridge was taken over the house, 
 which was very comfortable and full of things that she 
 supposed must be beautiful, although to her they were 
 for the most part grotesque, if not ugly. The mattresses, 
 and such homely appurtenances, were oldish, she found, 
 and rather shabby, but everything downstairs was 
 imposing, and that, Hermione thought, was the chief 
 thing. 
 
 "By the way, mother," the young wife burst out as
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 121 
 
 they came down the steep staircase, "what about that 
 Wick man? There's not going to be any trouble with 
 him, I hope?" 
 
 "Trouble?" 
 
 "Yes, with Grisel, I mean. Billy took a fancy to him 
 rather, and asked him to come and see us, so he turned 
 up the other Sunday for supper. He's very nice. We 
 both liked him, but there's something very odd about 
 him, don't you think?" 
 
 Maud laughed. "It's only that he says all the things 
 that most people only think." 
 
 "I like him," Mrs. Walbridge announced firmly. "I 
 like him very much. Did he say anything to you about 
 Griselda, Hermy or to Billy?" 
 
 "No, not exactly. But when he talked about the 
 future, and he always does talk about the future (I 
 never knew anyone who seemed to have less use for 
 the past, or even the present), he seemed to assume 
 that she would always be there, with him, I mean." 
 
 "He's asked her to marry him, and she's refused him." 
 
 "Really? He doesn't seem much cast down by it. 
 I never saw a more cheery person in my life. Billy says 
 he'll be a great success some day." 
 
 Maud went part of the way home with her mother, 
 and asked her again for the loan. Mrs. Walbridge 
 hesitated. 
 
 "I don't quite see how I can, dear," she said behind 
 her muff, for they were in a bus. "My my last book 
 has not sold quite so well as the others." 
 
 Maud nodded. "I've seen some of the notices. 
 Awfully sorry, dear. By the way, why don't you try 
 to brighten up your style a little? They're awfully
 
 122 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 sweet and all that, but they are a little old-fashioned, 
 you know." 
 
 "I I tried to brighten up 'Lord Effingham,' " her 
 mother faltered, and Maud laughed with kindly meant 
 amusement that cut deep. 
 
 " 'Lord Effingham' really was the limit. That baby 
 was most shocking. We blushed for you, Moreton and 
 I. Moreton says he thinks you don't read enough of 
 the new stuff. Oh, I don't mean really good stuff, like 
 Wells and May Sinclair and that lot, but the second-rate 
 ones that sell so well Mrs. Llovitt and Austen Good- 
 heart, and so on. This Bell woman, too what's her 
 name? Beryl J. Bell. I don't think her book is really 
 better than yours, but every second person one meets is 
 reading it." 
 
 Before they parted she returned again to the question 
 of the loan. 
 
 "If you possibly can you'll let me have it, won't you? 
 We really are rather at our wits' end. Everyone is so 
 dreadfully healthy just now, and the rent is pretty bad 
 quarter-day coming. I do want some pretty things 
 for little Violet. I should hate her to wear Hilary's 
 left-offs." 
 
 A little smile, that was almost whimsical, touched Mrs. 
 Walbridge's flexible lips. 
 
 "My children all wore each other's left-offs," she said 
 softly, "and it didn't seem to hurt them. Grisel looked 
 very sweet in your long robes. However, I'll see what 
 I can do, darling, and I can let you have twenty-five 
 only don't mention it to Paul, will you ?" 
 
 She changed buses at Oxford Circus, and after waiting 
 a long time on the corner, she gave up trying to force 
 her way into the overcrowded buses (for she hadn't the
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 123 
 
 gift of crowds) and walked home. It was nearly tea- 
 time when she reached Happy House, and after a hasty 
 cup of tea she went up to her little attic study and sat 
 down to work. 
 
 When Paul came home at dinner-time he was not 
 unreasonably annoyed to find his mother still writing. 
 
 "Do come down," he called. "Dinner's on the table, 
 and I'm hungry." 
 
 When she appeared, he looked with distaste at her 
 ruffled hair and ink-stained finger. 
 
 "Really, mother," he exclaimed irritably, "I do think 
 you might manage to be in time for meals. It's disgust- 
 ing to a man to get home and have to wait for his food." 
 
 "I shan't be a minute, dear," she said. "I must just 
 wash my hands and brush my hair." 
 
 "Oh, bother your hands and your hair; come along. 
 I'm going to the play gallery with Bruce Collier, to 
 the Coliseum, so I shan't have to dress, but I've very 
 little time." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was a careful housekeeper, but things 
 will go wrong sometimes in every house, and this was 
 one of those occasions for her. She had a new cook 
 whom she ought, she knew, to have superintended, but 
 the call of her book had been too loud and she had for- 
 gotten all about dinner. The soup was lumpy and luke- 
 warm, and the leg of mutton quivering and purple. Paul 
 watched it as she cut the first slice (she always did the 
 carving), and threw down his napkin angrily. 
 
 "Raw meat that's really too much! I'll go to the 
 club and get a sandwich." 
 
 Tears rose to her eyes. "Oh, Paul, I am sorry, very 
 sorry," she cried, "and I don't wonder you're annoyed, 
 but don't go. Let me make you a Welsh rabbit."
 
 124 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 He shook his head and rose. "No, no. I'd rather 
 
 go" 
 
 "I I it was my fault," she went on. "I got so 
 interested in my book that I utterly forgot dinner." 
 
 At the door he turned and looked back at her pitilessly. 
 
 "Your book! If your books were worth while there'd 
 be some excuse for artistic absent-mindedness, but con- 
 sidering the stuff you turn out, I shouldn't think such 
 mundane details as soup and mutton need be so infinitely 
 beneath you." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge sat still for several minutes, staring 
 at the closed door, a strange look on her pale face. 
 Presently she rose, the look in her eyes intensifying, 
 almost solidifying, to one that would immeasurably have 
 astonished her son if he could have seen it. Lighting 
 a lamp, she went quickly upstairs to her little writing 
 room, and, unfastening the buttons of her right sleeve, 
 freeing her wrist, she took up her pen and began to write. 
 Day had begun to light her square of sky when she crept 
 down quietly to bed the next morning.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A FEW days before Christmas Ferdinand Walbridge and 
 his youngest daughter came home. It was over two 
 months since his wife had seen him, and she was very 
 much struck by his look of health and youth. 
 
 "The sea air has done you a world of good, Ferdie," 
 she commented gently. 
 
 He shot a quick glance at her out of marvellously 
 cleared and unswollen eyes. 
 
 "Torquay agrees with me," he answered shortly; 
 "always did." 
 
 Then he told her with genuine pleasure for, like so 
 many men with whom selfishness is almost a disease, he 
 liked spending money, and was rather generous than 
 otherwise that he had made a good thing from a tip 
 in copper, given him by a friend in Torquay. 
 
 "Sir John Barclay," he explained. "Grisel will have 
 written you about him." 
 
 She nodded. "Oh, yes. The kind old gentleman." 
 
 "Exactly, the kind old gentleman." He laughed. 
 "He and I are very friendly, and, as I say, he put me 
 on to this thing, and I cleared a couple of hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 She was about to ask him if he couldn't manage some 
 of the quarterly bills with part 6f the money, when he 
 cut the ground from under her feet by taking from his 
 pocket five five-pound notes and handing them to her. 
 
 "That's just a little present for you, old girl," he 
 said, "to help you out with Christmas." 
 
 125
 
 126 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Before she had finished thanking him, the house door 
 had banged behind him. 
 
 Grisel had not arrived yet, as she was coming by car 
 with the Fords, who were spending Christmas at the 
 Savoy, and Mrs. Walbridge ran out and bought some 
 flowers to decorate the girl's room. 
 
 She had not forgiven Paul for the episode of the 
 underdone mutton. He had hurt her many times before, 
 but he had never so thoroughly disgusted her, and her 
 indignation, that she knew to be justified and fair, was 
 in an odd way a strength to her. She had worked for 
 hours every day on her new book, and was behindhand in 
 consequence with her Christmas plans, but Grisel must 
 have flowers. She spent nearly three pounds of the 
 twenty-five her husband had given her at the beautiful 
 shop in Baker Street, and then, because she was afraid 
 of crushing them, took a taxi home, and was met by a 
 look of cold raillery by Paul, who was letting himself 
 into the house with his latchkey as she drove up. 
 
 '"I hope Lubbock & Payne are paying you well for 
 the new masterpiece," he said, as she came up the steps 
 laden with flowers. He was surprised at the look she 
 gave him in return. 
 
 "Your father made me a present this morning/' she 
 said quietly, "and if I choose to buy flowers with some 
 of it that doesn't concern you, my dear Paul." 
 
 Up in the girls' room (as the upstairs sitting-room was 
 still called, although only one girl was left) she had 
 half an hour of real pleasure, filling vases with water 
 and arranging flowers to the best advantage. She was 
 passionatey devoted to the pretty things, but for many 
 years now had had to give up buying them, or trying 
 to keep growing things in the house. Growing plants
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 127 
 
 need care and time, and Mrs. Walbridge had little leisure 
 for such delightful attentions. 
 
 But now Grisel was coming home, so she felt perfectly 
 satisfied in spending such an enormous sum of money 
 as nearly three pounds on adorning the girl's room. 
 
 Her husband had not known at what time the Fords 
 and their guest would reach London. They would, no 
 doubt, lunch on the way, and as Sir John Barclay was 
 coming up with them, they would probably stop to ex- 
 plore any old churches they might pass. He had a passion 
 for routing about in chilly, romantic old churches. 
 
 "Fond of arches, and architecture, and flying but- 
 tresses and things," he added, with the pleasant disdain 
 of one to whom those chaste joys make no appeal. 
 
 So, when the flowers were arranged, and the blinds 
 drawn down, and the fire lit, Mrs. Walbridge went to 
 her own room and put on her only afternoon dress. It 
 looked very shabby, she thought, as she stood in front 
 of the glass. It had never been much of a frock, and 
 she had worn it and worn it and worn it. It was of 
 black silk, of some thin, papery kind that looked cracked 
 in a strong light, and the sleeves were very old-fashioned, 
 with something wrong about the shoulders. She sighed 
 a little, and then gave her pretty curly hair a last smooth 
 of the brush and went downstairs. 
 
 She was a little anxious lest one of the children- might 
 notice the absence of her rings, and the seed pearl ear- 
 rings, which, being one of her husband's very few gifts, 
 were a part of her immemorial gala attire; she was 
 almost sure that he would notice their absence, and she 
 felt that she would die with shame if any of them knew 
 about the pawning. 
 
 The new cook had produced some unexpectedly
 
 128 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 tempting-looking cakes, and Jessie, much elated by her 
 reinstatement as a one- job woman, was waiting in all 
 the glories of new cap and apron, to open the door to 
 Miss Griselda, while the mistress, in the dreary drawing- 
 room, sat down by the fire to wait for her daughter. 
 
 She was lost in thought over her new book, which 
 was engrossing her very deeply. She heard a sudden 
 knocking on the glass panel of the house door, and 
 jumped up and ran to open the door, flinging out her 
 arms and crying: 
 
 "Oh, my darling!" 
 
 "Thanks, Mrs. Walbridge. I like being called your 
 darling. You might kiss me too, if you don't mind. 
 It's Christmas time." 
 
 Oliver Wick laughed cheerfully as the little lady 
 started back in fright. "That's what I call a nice warm 
 welcome," the young man went on, following her into 
 the hall and hanging up his hat. 
 
 "Then she hasn't come? May I come in and wait? 
 I've really come to see her, you know, but I've got a 
 very decent excuse a note from my mother, saying 
 how delighted we shall be to dine with you on Christmas 
 Eve." He produced a letter and followed his hostess 
 into the drawing-room, carrying something that looked 
 like a small hatbox with great care. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge read the note and expressed her satis- 
 faction at its contents. 
 
 "What have you got in that box," she added. 
 
 "Flowers for Grisel," he answered promptly. "Beau- 
 ties. Just look." He raised the lid of his box and 
 showed her an enormous bunch of closely packed Parma 
 violets. "Aren't they lovely?" he asked, beaming with 
 pleasure, "and won't she love them?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 129 
 
 "She will indeed. Let's go upstairs and put them in 
 water, shall we?" 
 
 And thus it was that when Griselda Walbridge reached 
 home after having stayed nearly two months with the 
 Freddie Fords at Conroy Hall, Torquay, she found 
 Mr. Wick awaiting her with a curious air of belonging 
 to the household as much, or even more, than she did. 
 
 "You're fatter," he said, looking at her critically, his 
 small eyes shut as if she were a picture and he an expert, 
 "and you've got that nasty red stuff on your lips. Oh, 
 fie!" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge watched them happily, as she leant 
 back in Hermione's favourite old chair by the fire. There 
 was something in this friendly, busy youth that she 
 loved. He gave her a safe feeling, and she decided, as 
 she watched his sparring with her daughter, that she 
 would be glad to see Grisel safely married to him. He 
 was poor, she knew, but she had unconsciously accepted 
 his own ideas about his future, and knew that his poverty 
 was merely a temporary thing, and that he was headed 
 straight for power and wealth. Besides, power and 
 wealth were not things that she had ever greatly valued. 
 
 Grisel was thinner, she went on thinking. She looked 
 taller in her beautifully fitting chestnut brown skirt and 
 chiffon tan blouse. The girl had changed. She looked 
 more grown up, more of what her mother innocently 
 characterised as "a society girl." Her manner, too, was 
 different. She seemed at once a little bored and excited 
 about something. 
 
 She had opened her dressing-case and taken out a 
 variety of little belongings and was darting about the 
 room like, her mother thought, a swallow, settling these 
 things in their old places. A handsomely framed photo-
 
 I3Q HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 graph of her father (his gift on her last birthday) she 
 put on the mantelpiece, and turned with a little laugh. 
 
 "Isn't Dad looking splendid," she said. "He's been 
 motoring a lot, you know, and it's done him a world of 
 good." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't know he went with you," her mother 
 observed, surprised. Grisel took a little silver and 
 enamel cigarette box out of her pocket and put it on 
 the table. 
 
 "He didn't go with us," she answered carelessly. "The 
 Crichells had their car, you know, and he and Clara 
 used to knock about a bit." 
 
 "Surely, my dear, you don't call Mrs. Crichell by her 
 Christian name?" 
 
 "Don't I? I call everybody by their Christian names 
 everyone does. The old ones hate being 'Miss-ed' 
 reminds them of their age, you see. Even Elsie's mother 
 hated being called Mrs. Hulbert, but, of course, I 
 wouldn't call her Pansy! She really is old. Must be 
 as old as you, dear, though I must say she doesn't look 
 it." 
 
 Oliver Wick glanced quickly at Mrs. Walbridge, but 
 looked away in relief, for he saw that she was untouched 
 by the girl's careless remark, and he realised with a pang 
 of satisfaction that her sensitiveness lay far from such 
 matters as age and looks. 
 
 "Did you see much of that Mrs. Crichell?" he asked, 
 as she sat down and lit a cigarette. She laughed. 
 
 "Yes. I know you hate her, but she's really not so 
 bad, and Mr. Crichell and she entertained a good deal. 
 They had an awfully nice house there." 
 
 "I don't hate her," said Oliver Wick quietly, "but 
 she's vulgar, and too idle and empty-headed to be much
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 131 
 
 good, or happy. Women like that are always on the 
 edge of making beasts of themselves, even if they don't 
 do it." 
 
 "Oh, a Daniel come to judgment!" she jeered. "You 
 seem very wise, this afternoon." 
 
 "Yes," he answered drily. "I'm always rather sage 
 on Saturdays. Friday's pay day, you know, at my shop, 
 and nothing makes a man feel so wise as money in his 
 breeches pocket. You," he added, "have, on the con- 
 trary, gained chiefly in folly, I should say." 
 
 She laughed. "Have I ? I'm not at all sure of that." 
 
 There was something thoughtful in her voice and face, 
 and her mother looked at her wonderingly. 
 
 Oliver's face was imperturbable. "Who's the man?" 
 he asked, and she actually jumped, so that her cigarette 
 fell out of her amber holder to the floor. 
 
 "What d'you say?" she asked, as she picked up the 
 cigarette. "Who was the what?" 
 
 "Man the man you're contemplating marrying?" 
 
 All that there was of the new and ;the strange in 
 Griselda seemed to her mother to flower in her answer to 
 the young man's question. 
 
 She threw back her head and laughed, her pretty 
 throat shown to the best advantage as she did so. Then 
 coolly looking at Wick from under her lashes in a con- 
 sciously attractive way, she drawled: 
 
 "I'm not going to tell you his name, though you're 
 perfectly right, oh shrewd young knight of the fountain 
 pen." 
 
 Wick was shrewd, but he was also very young, and 
 Mrs. Walbridge felt a little pang of pain as she saw how 
 white he had grown and what a smitten look had come 
 to his face. After a second he rallied, and lit a cigarette,
 
 132 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 bait he had been badly hurt, and his face showed it as 
 he said, with a laugh: 
 
 "That's a phase all attractive young girls go through 
 trying to make up their minds to marry some rich man 
 they don't like, before they have the sense to settle down 
 with the handsome object of their true affections." 
 
 "The object being you, I suppose?" she retorted. 
 
 "Grisel, Grisel," her mother protested gently. "You 
 really go too far, my dear." 
 
 The girl laughed. "Poor mother. You're longing to 
 tell me it isn't womanly, aren't you? But it's very 
 kind of you to have brought me the violets, Oliver, and 
 
 I'm glad to see you, and all that " She held out her 
 
 hand carelessly, with something of the air of a stage 
 queen, "but I'm dining out, and must have a talk with 
 mother before I dress, so I'm afraid you must go now." 
 
 He rose at once, apologising nervously and sensitively 
 for having stayed too long, and Mrs. Walbridge went 
 down to the door with him. He was very slow in getting 
 into his coat, and she purposely did not look at him. 
 She knew he was suffering, and she had an absurd feeling 
 that he was hers, that she had written him that she 
 knew exactly what he was going through, and what he 
 was going to do. 
 
 Then he opened the door and turned round, grinning 
 broadly and holding out his hand. 
 
 "She got the first one in that round, didn't she?" he 
 asked. "Never mind, I'll get her yet, the young minx! 
 Oh, my word," he added, relapsing suddenly into help- 
 less, conscious pathos: "What a little beauty she is! 
 My knees feel like wet tissue paper." 
 
 Before she could speak he had bent and kissed her 
 (for though he was not very tall, he was taller than she), 
 and was gone into the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE Christmas Eve dinner party was rather a large one. 
 Hermione and her husband could not come, as they 
 were obliged to dine with relations of the Gaskell- 
 Walkers. But the Twiss's were there, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Crichell, and Paul and the Wicks, and, to Griselda's 
 joy, the great Bruce Collier honoured them with his 
 presence. She knew that this condescension was due to 
 his having onoe met her coming out of the house when 
 he was on his way to see Paul. 
 
 Walbridge had, as usual, helped by spending all his 
 available money on things of a showy and convivial 
 nature. The quarterly gas bill was still unpaid, and he 
 was having serious trouble with his tailor, but he had 
 sent in a case of champagne, and a box of the best cigars 
 money could buy, and all sorts of impressive, though 
 unnecessary dainties, such as caviare, pate de foie, 
 brandied cherries, oysters and so on, besides a fifteen- 
 pound turkey, which quite put out of joint, as Grisel 
 expressed it, "the pope's nose of the poor little eleven- 
 pounder mother had bought for the occasion." 
 
 Ferdie had been very fussy and tiresome ever since he 
 came back from Torquay, and at the last minute, dis- 
 trustful of the new cook's powers, he had insisted on 
 getting a woman in for the Christmas Eve dinner. The 
 permanent cook wept all day, and went through the usual 
 procedure of reproaches and threats, but she finally 
 quieted down, by the help of a bottle of port, and the 
 dinner really was excellent. 
 
 133
 
 134 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 At the last minute the table had had to be redecorated, 
 because Ferdie had been seized with a desire to have 
 orchids. Mrs. Walbridge sat patiently by and watched 
 him remove her time-honoured design of holly and 
 mistletoe and smilax, and then arrange the lovely purple 
 and mauve things that she now saw for the first time in 
 her life without a shop front between her and them. 
 She dared not ask the price; she dared not offer to help 
 him, for he was extraordinarily irritable, and in spite of 
 his look of renewed health and youth, moved to violent 
 invective by the slightest word or suggestion. She 
 watched him now as he darted from side to side of the 
 table trying the effect of the different clear-glass vases, 
 full of the expensive flowers that his wife privately 
 thought so much less lovely than roses or sweat peas. 
 
 He was looking very handsome, and had certainly 
 renewed his youth in a way that made her feel, as she 
 raised her eyes to the glass that always hung opposite 
 his place at table, that she looked older and more dowdy 
 than ever. And yet there was something in his face 
 that displeased her, and seemed to give her an odd kind 
 of warning. After a while she rose and went quietly 
 to the door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked sharply. 
 
 "I'm going up to write a little." 
 
 "Oh, rubbish ! Go down to the kitchen and make sure 
 that everything's all right. That's far more important." 
 
 "I've been down to the kitchen," she answered gently, 
 with something in her eyes that disconcerted him. 
 "Everything is all right, and as you are going to arrange 
 the seats I'm going to write for a while." 
 
 She went upstairs and closed the door, and sat down 
 before her work-table, where her lamp always stood
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 135 
 
 nowadays filled and trimmed, with a box of matches 
 by its side. 
 
 Old Mrs. Wick, rather imposing in grey, with some 
 fine lace, and a cap, and a handsome old brooch of Irish 
 paste and black enamel, necessarily sat on Ferdie Wai- 
 bridge's right at dinner. Mrs. Crichell, very handsome 
 in jade green velvet, sat on his left, as she had sat, Oliver 
 remembered, from his place on Mrs. Walbridge's left, 
 that night in the early autumn, when he had first dined 
 at the house. 
 
 Oliver was very proud of his old mother, and with 
 good reason, for her plain, strong face was by far the 
 most arresting, apart from the mere fact of superficial 
 beauty, at the table. His little sister too, whose soft 
 red hair foamed over her head like scarlet soap-suds, 
 bore the proximity of three very good-looking young 
 women remarkably well. She was plainly by far the 
 most intelligent of the four, and once or twice when 
 the celebrated Mr. Collier laid down the law with even 
 more than his usual cocksureness, little Jenny dashed in, 
 as her delighted brother thought, and wiped the floor 
 with him. He was a pretentious, posing man, Mr. Col- 
 lier, disposing of such writers as Thomas Hardy and 
 Meredith with a few words of amused contempt. 
 
 "Hardy has talent," he said, screwing his glass in his 
 eye, and studying Griselda's charming face with relish. 
 "Of course, he writes well, but he's very old-fashioned, 
 and far too long-winded. There's not one of his boqks 
 that would not be better for a little judicious paring 
 down."
 
 i 3 6 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "And who;" put in Jenny Wick's high, clear voice, 
 "whom do you suggest as a parer?" 
 
 Collier glared at her, and Paul who, for some reason, 
 had hardly taken his eyes off his red-headed vis-a-vis, 
 gave a sudden laugh, although he had had no intention 
 of doing so. 
 
 "I like your sister," Maud Twiss said pleasantly, turn- 
 ing to Oliver, and speaking in an undertone. "She's a 
 dear little thing." 
 
 "Isn't she," he answered, "very like me, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 And Maud, who knew him less well than the other 
 members of the family, was a little disconcerted, and 
 blushed. She looked very handsome when she blushed, 
 and Crichell leant across the table to her, waving those 
 white hands of his in the way that was so singularly 
 distasteful to Wick. Once more the young man was 
 reminded of things sprouting in dark places, and then 
 his quick imagination improved on this crude vision, 
 and he seemed to catch a glimpse of blind sea-worms 
 writhing in some sunless cavern. 
 
 "When are you going to sit to me, Mrs. Twiss?" the 
 painter asked. But Twiss, who sat the other side of 
 Jenny, leant over and answered for his wife. 
 
 "Never, Mr. Crichell. She's no time for portraits." 
 
 Paul, who disliked his younger brother-in-law, sneered 
 at this, and Maud saw him. 
 
 "I saw you yesterday, Paul," she said, without lower- 
 ing her voice. "You didn't see me, did you?" 
 
 He turned to her with a little snarl. "Yesterday ? No, 
 I didn't." 
 
 "I thought not. I was lunching at the Piccadilly Grill 
 with Elynor Twiss."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 137 
 
 Paul didn't answer, but he turned to Mrs. Wick and 
 made some unimportant remark to her. The old lady 
 was amused by the situation, and she did not like Paul, 
 whereas Maud struck her as a kind, pretty young woman 
 who ought to be aided and abetted in her attack on a 
 disagreeable, pettish-minded brother. 
 
 "No," she returned, in her sonorous voice, "I never 
 did. Do you often go to the Piccadilly Grill, Mr. Wai- 
 bridge? I was there with Oliver the other day." 
 
 Paul was furious. He didn't mind bear baiting, but 
 he did object to being the bear, and Oliver, who knew his 
 mother and her wicked ways, and who had also caught 
 a pained look in Mrs. Walbridge's eyes, leaned across 
 Maud and made a sign to the old lady. The sign con- 
 sisted of slipping the forefinger of his right hand down 
 into his collar and giving it a jerk as if he felt a little 
 breathless. Mrs. Wick laughed. She loved teasing, but 
 this was an old signal used only when Oliver felt that 
 she really had gone far enough. So she nodded good- 
 humouredly at her son and let the subject of the Picca- 
 dilly Grill drop. 
 
 After that the dinner went on pleasantly enough, and 
 Mrs. Walbridge saw with pleasure that Ferdie really 
 seemed to be enjoying himself. Mr. Walbridge, like 
 everybody else, had the qualities of his defects, and he 
 was a very good host. 
 
 Mrs. Wick was old and plain, and did not interest him 
 in the least, but she was his guest, and he was charming 
 to her charming, that is, as far as a man may be said 
 to be charming to a woman who is not at all charmed 
 by him. Pretty Mrs. Crichell, on his left, talked a good 
 deal to Moreton Twiss, who admired and took pleasure 
 in her beauty, as every man ought always to admire and
 
 138 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 take pleasure in the beauty of any pretty woman. To 
 do them justice, most of them do. 
 
 Grisel, of all the people at the table, seemed the least 
 amused, Wick thought. Mr. Collier plainly admired her, 
 but she seemed to derive less satisfaction from this cir- 
 cumstance than might have been expected, and he knew 
 that she had never liked Crichell, who sat on her right. 
 When her brilliant little face was in repose, it had a new 
 look of fatigue and boredom. Wick watched her con- 
 stantly throughout dinner, for he was hampered by no 
 wish to conceal his admiration, and he came to the con- 
 clusion that she was not only preoccupied, but worried 
 about something. He wondered if Walbridge knew the 
 cause of this worry, for the girl turned more than once 
 towards her father, and looked at him in a way that 
 puzzled her observer. 
 
 They went upstairs for coffee, the girls' sitting-room 
 being not only larger and pleasanter than the drawing- 
 room, but the piano also being there, and when the men 
 had come in and Oliver made a bee-line for Grisel, he 
 found that she looked even more nervous and tired than 
 he had thought. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "Tired. Besides it's very warm 
 in here." 
 
 "Come and sit by the window." 
 
 She obeyed him listlessly, and they sat down in the 
 window seat that looked down over the little path leading 
 round the house to the kitchen door. 
 
 "I do wish," the girl burst out suddenly, "that mother 
 wouldn't have the Crichells here." 
 
 He stared at her. "But I thought you liked her. Why 
 do you call her by her Christian name if you don't?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 139 
 
 "I don't say I don't like her. I saw you looking at 
 his hands at dinner. Aren't they beastly?" 
 
 "Horrid. Has he done anything anything you don't 
 like?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Oh, no. But I I wish they 
 hadn't come." 
 
 As she spoke Wick's sister began to play, something 
 very modern, of which he could make neither head nor 
 tail. But she played brilliantly, and with what seemed 
 almost unequalled facility, although he knew what hours 
 of daily hard work went to its perfection. 
 
 Grisel leant back in her corner, and shut her eyes for 
 a minute. She was really pale, and looked seriously 
 troubled and puzzled. He turned and watched the listen- 
 ing group round the fire. Mrs. Crichell lay back in a 
 low chair, her beautiful arms hanging loose over its sides. 
 She was really lovely, the young man thought as lovely, 
 that is, as a woman of forty could possibly be, and Mr. 
 Collier evidently agreed with him, for his eyes were fixed 
 on her. Crichell had taken up a magazine, folded back 
 the last page, and was rapidly sketching Maud Twiss, 
 who sat looking away from him and did not see what 
 he was doing. Twiss had gone to the telephone and 
 Paul stood near the piano, watching Jenny, as her red 
 head bobbed funnily over the keys as she played. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge had left the room, and Walbridge 
 stood leaning against the door in a pose often drawn by 
 du Maurier in the eighties. 
 
 "I say," Wick whispered to Grisel, hoping to make 
 her laugh, "your father is most awfully good-looking. 
 Perfectly splendid to-night, isn't he?" 
 
 She gave a little pettish start. "Oh, do be quiet," she
 
 140 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 snapped. "If you knew how sick and tired I was of 
 having father's good looks drummed into me " 
 
 She rose and marched over to the chair her mother 
 had left, and sat down, staring at her father, as if she 
 disliked him intensely. 
 
 Wick sat still, feeling very much injured, for, after 
 all, most girls would like to hear their father praised at 
 least, most pretty girls. Of course, if she had been plain, 
 he reflected gravely, one could understand her being so 
 shirty. 
 
 As Jenny stopped playing, Mrs. Walbridge came back 
 into the room, and approached Mrs. Crichell. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said kindly, "but someone has 
 just telephoned to your husband from his mother's house 
 and asked if he's not going on there." 
 
 Mrs. Crichell unfurled her fan, which was of black 
 feathers like some big wing. "Dear me, how tiresome !" 
 she said. "He's having such a good time, sketching 
 Maud, and she doesn't even see him. Walter," she 
 called. 
 
 Crichell turned. "Yes?" 
 
 She gave him the message, and he rose without any 
 comment. "You'll let me take this magazine with me, 
 Mrs. Walbridge?" he asked. 
 
 Maud turned and stared at him. She was a little 
 annoyed, but plainly thought the matter not worth 
 making a fuss about, and Mrs. Crichell rose and took 
 up her gloves, and gave herself a little shake more than 
 ever like a sleek pigeon that has been sitting in the 
 sun. 
 
 "Oh, need you go too?" Mrs. Walbridge asked, 
 hospitably.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 141 
 
 She hesitated. "No I don't know Walter, what 
 d'you think?" 
 
 "I think," he said coldly, "you might as well stay 
 where you are. My mother is not well," he explained 
 to his hostess, "and she's quite alone." 
 
 Ferdie Walbridge came forward. "Have a whisky 
 and soda before you go, old man," he said warmly. 
 "I'll bring Mrs. Crichell home in a taxi. We want her 
 to sing for us; we couldn't think of letting her go yet." 
 
 Crichell stood with his back towards Oliver Wick, and 
 he had clasped his hands behind him in a way he had. 
 Wick did not catch what he said in reply to this remark, 
 but noticed his hands move, and again thought of the 
 writhing of the unpleasant sea-worms. 
 
 When her husband had gone, Mrs. Crichell sang, 
 accompanying herself ; or rather she cooed little Spanish 
 and Mexican ballads, the words of which no one present 
 could understand, although their meaning was made 
 fairly clear by the extreme eloquence of her face and 
 gestures. 
 
 "That's very clever," old Mrs. Wick commented to 
 Moreton Twiss who sat near her. 
 
 "It's very nearly wonderful," the old woman insisted 
 gently. 
 
 Twiss looked at her, his good-looking, blue-chinned 
 face rather critical. "Oh, well, if you admire it," he 
 said, "I've nothing more to say. Personally I don't. 
 In fact," he added, confidentially, leaning forward, "I 
 can't bear the woman, so probably I'm unfair to her 
 singing." 
 
 Later in the evening Jenny Wick accompanied Paul, 
 as he sang some old ballads full of a kind of academic 
 gruesomeness. He had, singularly, a delightfully warm
 
 142 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 baritone voice, and sang well. His rendering of "Lord 
 Edward My Son" was extremely fine, and little Jenny 
 Wick was delighted, and they arranged to meet during 
 the holidays so that she might show him a lot of queer 
 Basque songs that her father had collected years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Wick and Mrs. Walbridge had a long talk before 
 the evening was over, and though they were intensely 
 reserved women in different ways, the observant Oliver 
 saw with delight that their attitude showed promise of 
 a real friendship. 
 
 When he said good-night to Mrs. Walbridge, he in- 
 vited her to kiss him, but this she refused to do, patting 
 his cheek instead. 
 
 It was late, and the Twisses and Mr. Collier had gone 
 long since. Mrs. Wick and her daughter and son left 
 at the same time that Mrs. Crichell and Mr. Walbridge 
 started out on their hunt for a taxi, for none had been 
 on the rank when they telephoned. 
 
 The Crichells lived in Hamilton Terrace, so the walk 
 would not be very long, and when finally at the corner 
 a belated taxi did draw up and showed signs of being 
 willing to accept a fare, Mrs. Crichell refused to take it. 
 
 "I really live only just round the corner," she said 
 kindly to the old woman, "and it's a long way to Baker 
 Street. Do take it, Mrs. Wick." 
 
 So the three Wicks said "Good-night," and got into 
 the taxi, and the other two walked on. 
 
 "Well, mother," the young man asked, putting an arm 
 round each of his companions as he sat bodkin between 
 them, "did you enjoy your evening?" 
 
 "I. did, son," she returned. "What a queer world it 
 is! To think that all of us will be just a handful of 
 churchyard mould, somewhere, in a few years' time."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 143 
 
 Jenny burst out laughing. "And may I ask which of 
 the guests to-night struck you as being particularly 
 mouldy?" 
 
 But Mrs. Wick was serious. "Don't try to be funny, 
 Jenny," she answered gravely. "It really struck me that 
 it is strange, when you come to think of it, how impor- 
 tant we all feel, and what rubbish we all are." After a 
 minute she added, with apparent irrelevance, "That 
 Violet Walbridge of yours is a fine, brave little soul, 
 Oily. I like her." 
 
 "I knew you would. And what," the young man 
 added, "did you think of your future daughter-in-law?" 
 
 "She's very pretty, but you'll be annoyed with me 
 for saying so but I should like her better if she were 
 more like her mother." 
 
 The young man gave her a little squeeze. "Her 
 mother's twice the woman she is, of course. But then, 
 on the other hand," he added, "she's young, and has 
 plenty of time to improve." 
 
 The cab had stopped at Baker Street Station, and 
 as he jumped out and turned to help the old lady, he 
 added, "You wouldn't like me to marry Mrs. Walbridge, 
 even if she was free, would you? She really is a little 
 too old for me!"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE day after Christmas a day spent by the "Happy 
 House" people at Campden Hill, where, also, Maud and 
 her husband and little Hilary were present Violet 
 Walbridge achieved the business talk with her husband 
 that she had had in her mind ever since his return, and 
 which, in some way difficult to define, he seemed to be 
 trying to escape. It was late, in the afternoon of Boxing 
 Day, and the others had gone to a matinee, and he was to 
 dine with the Crichells and go to a play in the evening. 
 He was resting. He seemed to rest a good deal lately, 
 she noticed, and when she had asked Grisel that morning 
 if it seemed to her to mean that he was not feeling quite 
 well, the girl had surprised her by laughing in a new, 
 harsh way, and giving her a hasty, unexpected kiss. 
 
 "It's only a beauty cure, darling," she said. "Can't 
 you see that? He takes more care of his looks nowadays 
 than any woman, except perhaps Clara Crichell." 
 
 "How do you mean, dear?" For Mrs. Walbridge 
 was singularly ignorant about such matters, and in all 
 her life had used no more subtle cosmetic than ordinary 
 cold cream, and water and soap. 
 
 "Clara! My goodness, I've seen her having it done. 
 A woman comes to her every morning of her life a 
 Mrs. Bryant here in town, and a Frenchwoman at Tor- 
 quay, and they rub grease into her face and knead it 
 and flap it with wet cotton wool, and tap it with litch 
 bags full of dried leaves and herbs soaked in something. 
 
 144
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 145 
 
 Oh, it's a wonderful business." The girl tossed her head 
 with the contempt of her nineteen years for such devices. 
 "I don't like her much, mother," she added, suddenly, 
 with a change of voice, turning to the glass and doing 
 something to her smooth hair. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge nodded. ''I know. I don't think I 
 like her much either. But she's very pretty. People 
 enjoy meeting her, and your father seems to have taken 
 a fancy to her." 
 
 Griselda had said no more, but when the lady's name 
 came up on Boxing Day between Ferdie and herself, 
 Violet Walbridge remembered what her daughter had 
 said. Her husband had had a sleep, she knew, but when 
 she heard him moving about over her head, as she sat 
 in the drawing-room sewing, she rose, folded her work 
 and went upstairs. He was sitting in front of the dress- 
 ing-table pouring some yellow liquid over his hair with 
 one hand, while, with the other, he rubbed. The room 
 smelt of orange flowers. 
 
 "Ferdie," she began, sitting down near him, "I want 
 to have a little talk with you." 
 
 He frowned and set down his bottle. "Oh, dear me," 
 he protested. "I do wish you'd let me alone. This is 
 holiday time. No one wants to talk business at Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 But she was firm, and put on her glasses, and opened 
 the little notebook she had brought with her. "I'm 
 sorry," she said, "but we really must settle matters. 
 I'm sure I don't like it any more than you do, Ferdie, 
 and, besides, what I have to say is is very unpleasant, 
 and difficult for me." 
 
 He stopped rubbing his wavy hair, which stood up 
 tumbled all over his head, giving him an absurdly boyish,
 
 146 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 helpless look. "Don't tell me this cook's going to 
 leave!" 
 
 She shook her head. "No, it's worse than that. I've 
 been worried for a long time now, but I didn't like to 
 trouble you, because you weren't well and then the 
 holidays, and Grisel coming home, and all. But I really 
 can't put it off any longer." 
 
 So she told him, as he sat there at her little old 
 dressing-table wrapped in a fine, new, brocaded dressing- 
 gown, that he had bought, he said, in Torquay, but which, 
 nevertheless, she had seen, in folding it that morning, 
 had been made by Charvet in Paris. He looked (although 
 the simile didn't occur to her) like a rather battered 
 Greek statue rather injured and scratched old statue, 
 not quite free from mould, and the effects of damp and 
 sun, but the lines of him were splendid, and the late 
 afternoon light very favourable. 
 
 She told him and after the first he listened without 
 comment about the gradual decrease of her sales, and 
 her slowly coming to realise that this was the result not 
 only of <the change in the taste of the younger genera- 
 tion, but of her own basic old-fashionedness. 
 
 "I tried, you know, to brighten up my style in 'Lord 
 Effingham/ and I failed." 
 
 He looked at her oddly, as he sat with his chin on his 
 breast. "I know," he said, not unkindly. "I was sorry 
 about that. Of course, we're none of us as young as we 
 used to be, Violet." 
 
 She was considered by her family to be unobservant, 
 because she rarely mentioned the little things she saw, 
 but she had always seen a good deal, and now she did 
 not miss the satisfied little glance he gave to his face in 
 the mirror. He felt, she knew, that he himself was the
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 147 
 
 exception to that horrid rule about growing older, and 
 for a moment she felt the ageing woman's exasperation 
 at the greater stability of men's looks. Her exaspera- 
 tion, however, was very mild, and quite kindly. 
 
 Then she showed him Messrs. Lubbock & Payne's 
 letter, and explained about the five hundred pounds. 
 
 "How much have you got left of that?" he asked. 
 
 "Exactly two hundred. There was the quarter's rent, 
 and the man called twice about the gas, so I had to pay 
 him, and the piano bill came, and then there were your 
 pyjamas, and Melton came himself about your last suits, 
 and was really rather unpleasant, so I paid him twenty 
 pounds on account. Then there was a little matter in 
 which I had to help one of the boys." 
 
 She waited, expecting him to make some disagreeable 
 remark about her eternal ability and willingness to go 
 to the boys' rescue, but to her surprise he said nothing, 
 and sat with folded arms, listening in silence. 
 
 "Grisel had to have one or two things," she went on, 
 after a moment, "and then I wanted to help Maud get 
 her things for the new baby, and Guy wanted ten pounds, 
 poor boy. I've written it all down here. I'll leave it 
 with you, Ferdie. And then Christmas, you know, was 
 rather expensive, and I don't," she added honestly, 
 "seem very clever at getting things cheap." Still he 
 didn't answer, and something in his silence gave -her a 
 little sensation of fear. "Are you listening?" she asked 
 timidly. 
 
 He rose and walked about the room, the tassels of his 
 dressing-gown trailing after him, his head down. She 
 had expected him to scold, even to rail at her, and she 
 had gathered up her courage to meet such a scene, but 
 this queer silence, and the unmistakable look of pity in
 
 148 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 his face were harder to bear than any amount of re- 
 proaches or anger would have been. 
 
 She suddenly felt very old, and very tired, and very 
 helpless. She had been independent and self-reliant for 
 over a quarter of a century, ever since, in fact, she had 
 first found out what her handsome husband really was. 
 But now at this crisis she wanted she longed for some 
 kind, strong person to take the reins out of her weary 
 hands and drive the coach for her for a while. 
 
 "You mean then," he said at last, "that if this new 
 book fails, you you won't be selling any others?" 
 
 She hesitated. "If this one should be good they 
 might make another contract," she said. "I don't know. 
 I'm afraid it's very bad, although it seems to come to 
 me easily and quickly. 
 
 "But what are you going to do?" he asked, turning 
 round and looking at her, still with that grave, 'discon- 
 certing kindness that seemed so far off, as if it had 
 nothing to do with him. She made a little gesture with 
 her hands. 
 
 "I don't know, Ferdie. What do you think we had 
 better do?" 
 
 "I think," he began slowly then his face cleared. 
 "There's the telephone bell," he cried. "It's it's a man 
 about a speculation. I'll just go down and see." He 
 hurried downstairs. When he came back he was smil- 
 ing, and had an almost silly aspect of happiness. 
 
 She caught her breath. What if, after all, now, when 
 she had failed, Ferdie was going to be successful and 
 make up for all her years of struggle! "Is it all right?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "All right? Oh, yes." He sat down again and began
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 149 
 
 to comb his hair, parting it with infinite care, skilfully 
 avoiding, she noticed, the thin place at the crown. 
 
 "I'll think all this over, my dear," he said hastily, as 
 the clock struck half-past six. "I must dress now. 
 We're dining early. By the way, I hope you aren't 
 encouraging any nonsense with that journalist fellow ' 
 with Grisel, I mean." 
 
 "Oliver Wick? I shouldn't know how to encourage 
 or discourage," she answered, "even if I wanted to do 
 either. Times have changed since our day, Ferdie." 
 
 "My God, yes; they have indeed!" he agreed. "But 
 there must be no nonsense about her marrying that boy. 
 I thought she seemed a little lackadaisical and dull since 
 we got back, and I heard her talking to him on the tele- 
 phone this morning. It would be a great pity to throw 
 her away on a little nobody like him." This was one of 
 his ducal moments, and she never protested against his 
 assumption that he belonged to the great ones of the 
 earth. So she said nothing, and when he had come 
 back from turning on the water in the bathroom, she 
 got up, knowing that he wished to be alone. 
 
 "Do you think do you think you can think of some- 
 thing?" she asked, as she reached the door. "I was 
 wondering if you would mind if we let the house and 
 moved to some cheaper one." 
 
 "No, no, no," he burst out. "We'll do nothing of 
 the kind. That's perfectly impossible." 
 
 A little touched by his unexpected vehemence, she 
 smiled back at him. 
 
 "I didn't know you cared so much for poor old 'Happy 
 House/ " she said. 
 
 "Run along, my dear girl. I must dress. Don't bother 
 your head. Things will turn out all right. If I'm not
 
 150 HAPPY HOJLJSE 
 
 very much mistaken, Sir John Barclay is going to ask 
 Grisel to marry him. If he does, she'll be the luckiest 
 girl alive." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge stared at him, her face a sudden, 
 distressing red. "Oh, Ferdie! But he's an old man!" 
 
 Walbridge, who had reached the bathroom door, drew 
 himself up, playing shoulders and chest, and his fine, 
 big, muscular throat. "Nonsense ! He's only fifty-four. 
 I'm fifty-four!" 
 
 She nodded and said no more. He was fifty-five, but 
 that didn't matter one way or the other, she felt. 
 
 As she went downstairs the telephone again rang and 
 she answered it. It was Grisel, apparently in a great 
 hurry. 
 
 "Mother, darling, I've just met Oliver, and he says 
 he's coming to the house this evening and I don't want 
 to see him." 
 
 "Why, dear?" her mother asked, looking gently and 
 kindly at the telephone. 
 
 "Well I can't go into it on the telephone I'm tele- 
 phoning you from the Underground. Sir John Barclay 
 is here. He was at the play too, you know, and I'm 
 dining with him. Yes, alone. Yes I am, mother. No, 
 I don't have to dress, we're going to a grill-room some- 
 where. Oh, please don't fuss!" The girl's voice was 
 irritable and sharp. "Do you understand? Tell Oliver 
 I can't get back." 
 
 "I shall tell him," Mrs. Walbridge said firmly, "that 
 you're dining with Sir John Barclay." 
 
 Grisel made a little inarticulate sound, and then her 
 mother heard her sigh impatiently. "All right. Just 
 as you like. It doesn't matter, but for goodness' sake
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 151 
 
 don't let him stay late. I must go now, darling. You'll 
 make it all right, won't you? Good-bye." 
 
 She rang off, and her mother stood looking at the 
 telephone as if it were a human being, as most people 
 have found themselves doing at one time or other. 
 
 She dined alone, not even seeing Walbridge before 
 he slipped out while she was in her attic-room writing. 
 Very soon after dinner Oliver arrived, and although he 
 said little and insisted on being very merry, telling her 
 some ridiculous stories, she had an unhappy evening. 
 She had tried to avoid telling him where Grisel was, 
 but it had been impossible, for there was something 
 uncanny about him, he was such a good guesser, and as 
 soon as she had explained that Griselda was out, he 
 had known all about it. 
 
 "Dining with Sir John Barclay, I suppose, in some 
 grill-room," he said shortly. 
 
 "Yes. He seems," she added, "to be a charming old 
 gentleman." 
 
 "Oh, the devil! Old gentleman indeed!" he went on, 
 without apologising. "I saw him to-day as they came 
 out of the theatre. I knew where they were going, you 
 see, and managed to get round there just as the play 
 was out. He's a fine-looking man, and a gentleman, 
 and I'd like to wring his neck." 
 
 "Surely," she said, not insincerely, for her husband's 
 impressions were, she knew, not always very accurate, 
 "why shouldn't an old man for he is old compared to 
 Grisel like to take a pretty girl out to dinner?" 
 
 Wick cocked his head on one side, and deliberately 
 shut one eye in a way that would have been vulgar if he 
 had been vulgar himself. 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Walbridge, that won't do, that won't
 
 152 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 do at all," he said, in a way that made her laugh. "You 
 know as well as I do that Grisel's a minx. She's trying 
 to make up her mind to marry Sir John Barclay because 
 
 he's rich and she doesn't want to see me because " 
 
 he broke off suddenly and his voice changed to one of 
 great softness, "she's almost half in love with me 
 already." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge clasped her hands and looked at him 
 nervously. "I don't think that's fair," she said, "to say 
 that about a young girl." 
 
 "Oh, my hat! Anything's fair to a man who's fight- 
 ing for his life and that's me. Oh, yes. I know it 
 sounds absurd and anyone but you would laugh at me. 
 But I am righting for my life, and what's more," he said 
 with finality, rising as if to emphasise his speech, "I'm 
 going to win. I'm going to get her. She's a spoilt, 
 selfish, mercenary little minx, but I love her and I'm 
 going to change her into an angel." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge did not like to have her baby called 
 mercenary, and spoilt, and selfish. Perhaps she liked it 
 less for knowing that it was true, but the young man 
 swept away her protests by further invective, and finally 
 she was bound to admit that the girl's long stay with 
 the rich and luxury-loving Fords had not done her any 
 good. Wick smiled, and looked at the clock. 
 
 "Done her good! It's nearly ruined her. Most men 
 would give her up in disgust since she's been back this 
 time but not me. I'll go now, or she'll be coming in." 
 
 They shook hands and as he got to the door he looked 
 round with a comical groan. "If only," he said, "if 
 only she wasn't so easy to look at."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 GRISELDA, during several days, was hardly at home at 
 all. The Fords were still in town; she had lunched one 
 day in Queen Anne Street, the next at Campden Hill, 
 and nearly every night the Fords fetched her to take 
 her to a play or a party. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge could, of course, have forced the girl 
 into a confidential talk, but she was not of the kind who 
 do force people to talk against their will, and it was 
 very plain to her that her daughter was avoiding her, 
 although the girl was oddly enough at the same time 
 full of little sudden bursts of affection and unusually 
 generous in the matter of little passing hugs and kisses 
 for her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was less troubled than she otherwise 
 would have been by this preoccupation of her daughter, 
 owing to the fact that she herself was very much taken 
 up with the new book she was writing. She had made 
 several attempts, for she felt weighed down with grati- 
 tude to her publisher in sending her the cheque before the 
 book was written, and she had rather lost sight of the 
 fact that this, kind though it was, was in reality a 
 douceur to sweeten the hard fact of her dismissal from 
 their list of authors. She had begun and destroyed sev- 
 eral novels before she got really started, and now this 
 new one was filling her mind day and night, although she 
 felt grave doubts as to whether it was going to be good. 
 It was dreadful to her to reflect that the book might 
 
 153
 
 154 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 turn out as much of a failure as "Lord Effingham" had 
 been, and thus cause pecuniary loss to Mr. Lubbock and 
 Mr. Payne. So she worked day and night, her pen flying 
 over the paper in a way that roused Paul's grave doubts 
 as to the results of her labour. 
 
 "You can't possibly write a book that way, mother," 
 the young man said one day when he had come up to 
 her study to have her mend a glove that he had split. 
 "You ought to see the way Collier writes. Works for 
 hours over one bit, and weighs every word." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge said nothing, for it would not have 
 been any good, she thought. She did not express her 
 conviction that the result of Mr. Bruce Collier's word- 
 weighing was hardly worth while, but, as she stitched 
 at the glove, the young man, who was in a good mood, 
 went on, not unkindly, to encourage her, as he expressed 
 it, to take more pains with her work. He did not know 
 that her contract with Lubbock & Payne had come to 
 an end, with no prospect of renewal. She had not again 
 referred the matter to her husband, and he had not 
 mentioned the subject to her. She was living in the curi- 
 ous isolation of a writer engaged in congenial work. She 
 was deliberately allowing her mind to rest from pecuniary 
 cares for a few days, in order that her novel might 
 progress satisfactorily. 
 
 "You ought to work regularly," Paul explained. It 
 was Sunday morning, and he looked very smart, turned 
 out as he was for a luncheon party after church parade. 
 "Collier does. And I met Miss Potter, who writes about 
 mediaeval Constantinople her books sell enormously 
 and she told me that she writes as regularly as she eats 
 her meals two hours in the morning and two hours in 
 the afternoon. That's what keeps her brain so fresh."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 155 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge, who had read one of the books in 
 question and did not consider it remarkable for mental 
 freshness, stitched silently, and bit off the thread with 
 her sharp little teeth. 
 
 "My dear boy," she said, "when you were children 
 I wrote every afternoon for four solid hours. I couldn't 
 write in the morning because I had to help make the 
 beds, and do the marketing, and wash and dress you all, 
 and get some of you off to school and others out for a 
 walk with either poor Caroline, or Fanny Perkins. Then 
 I had to cook your father's lunch myself, because he 
 always had a delicate stomach; and when was I to do 
 any work in the morning to keep my brain fresh?" 
 
 Paul was surprised. His mother so rarely defended 
 herself, and he felt under the mild humorousness of her 
 manner, a distinct appreciation of the fact that he had 
 made rather a fool of himself by his admonition. Feel- 
 ing more like a son, and less like a superior being than 
 he had felt for some years, he drew on the gloves with 
 a little laugh. 
 
 "I daresay you are right," he admitted. "I didn't 
 realise all that. But whatever you did in those days 
 you're certainly not writing like that on this book. Twice 
 now when I've come in very late I've seen the light under 
 this door, and you're looking very tired." 
 
 She was very tired, and her eyes filled with tears at 
 the unexpected sign of interest. 
 
 "Will you be back to lunch? Oh, no. You told me 
 you wouldn't. I'll walk over and get Caroline. A little 
 fresh air will do me good." 
 
 He frowned. "Where's Grisel? I've not seen her 
 for days. Doesn't she ever stay in nowadays?"
 
 156 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "She's lunching at the Henry Twisses with Moreton 
 and Maud." 
 
 "And where's father?" He glanced sharply at her 
 as he spoke. She took up her pen and pulled a hair off 
 its nib. 
 
 "I think he said he was lunching with the Crichells." 
 
 "No, he's not. Crichell went to Birmingham yester- 
 day about his one-man show." 
 
 "Did he?" she said indifferently. "I wasn't really 
 listening. Tell Jessie to call me at twelve, will you? 
 I lose track of time," she added apologetically, "when 
 I'm shut away up here." 
 
 The young man went out, and she settled down again 
 to her work. The holidays were nearly over, and her 
 book was approaching its end. 
 
 "I do hope," she said, as Jessie called her and she 
 went down to dress for going to fetch Caroline Breeze, 
 "I do hope it'll be good." 
 
 The house was very quiet. It struck her as she went 
 downstairs, with her jacket and hat on, that it was 
 quieter than a house ought to be with two young people 
 living in it. She longed suddenly for Guy her naughty 
 boy. He was troublesome, but he was pleasantly noisy, 
 and though he had no voice like Paul, she liked hearing 
 him sing, and even whistle, as he went up and down the 
 stairs, and his untidy hats and gloves in the hall looked 
 friendly and hearty somehow. 
 
 She met Miss Breeze as she turned off Albany Street, 
 and they walked back together. 
 
 "I've seen nothing of you lately," Miss Breeze com- 
 plained pleasantly. "I was thinking in church this 
 morning during the sermon that is that I should be 
 glad when the holidays are over."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 157 
 
 "It's more my book than the holidays. Oh, Caroline, 
 I'm so worried about it." 
 
 Miss Breeze, who was rather pathetically dressed for 
 church in all her best clothes, looked anxiously down 
 at her friend. 
 
 "Dear me, Violet, I do hope you've not been trying 
 to write one of those horrid modern books. Mrs. Barker 
 lent me several the other day, and I do think it's quite 
 wrong to write such books. I read two of Rosa Carey's 
 after them, just to take the taste out of my mouth." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge shook her head. "Oh, no, of course 
 I wouldn't do such a thing 1 as that. But I'm afraid it 
 isn't anything like so good as my best books, although 
 I must say I'm enjoying writing it." She frowned in a 
 puzzled way. "If only it could be good, and Mr. Lub- 
 bock would make a new contract with me !" 
 
 The two friends walked quietly on in the mild winter 
 morning, discussing the probability of the new book 
 pleasing Mr. Lubbock and Mr. Payne. It never occurred 
 to Miss Breeze to ask to be allowed to look at the manu- 
 script, nor to Mrs. Walbridge to suggest reading a part 
 of it aloud to her. Mrs. Walbridge had never read one 
 word of her own work aloud to a soul since the very early 
 days in Tooting Bee, when she sat on a sofa with her, 
 as yet, unchipped Greek god beside her, and read him 
 the most sentimental bits of "Queenie's Promise." 
 
 The two women had a long quiet day together, and 
 then, as no one came in at supper time, they had a boiled 
 egg and a cup of tea apiece, and went out for a little 
 walk in the dark, a mild pleasure to which Mrs. Wal- 
 bridge was rather attached, although she had been very 
 seldom able to gratify it, owing to the little trammels 
 of family life. It gave her an indefinable pleasure to
 
 158 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 see the lights behind drawn curtains, and to catch an 
 occasional glimpse of a cosy fire through forgotten win- 
 dows; she liked to see people happy, chattering people 
 opening their own house door with keys -and going 
 into the shelter and comfort of their own homes. There 
 was a clear, poetic little thrill for her in a sight that 
 exasperate many people that of humble lovers bare- 
 facedly embracing at street corners. Even overfed old 
 ladies leading frightful pugs and moth-eaten Scotch 
 terriers seemed to ring a little bell in her heart, but these, 
 of course, were faces of the morning. However, there 
 were several openings of doors that happened oppor- 
 tunely that evening for her benefit, and one charming 
 picture of three white-shod, white-frocked children rac- 
 ing down a high flight of steps screaming with rapture 
 at meeting their father who, when his hat was knocked 
 off by their onslaught, revealed a bald and shining head, 
 and a fat plebeian face, but whom the children obviously 
 adored The little Walbridges had never greeted their 
 father in tnis way, and she rather envied the protesting 
 mother, who stood at the top of the steps. 
 
 "It's very pleasant walking at night," the kind Caro- 
 line, who really hated it, exclaimed, as this particular 
 door closed on the happy family. And Mrs. Walbridge 
 gave her arm a little squeeze and did not speak. 
 
 Caroline's tall and gaunt and forbidding person was 
 yet shy and full of old-fashioned tremors. It caused her 
 real fear to be out alone after nightfall, so Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge accompanied her to her door, and went back to 
 "Happy House" alone. She had forgotten her key, and 
 so knocked on the panels of the door with her knuckles. 
 Someone was in the drawing-room and was, she thought, 
 sure to hear her. No one did hear at first, and, after
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 159 
 
 a moment, she knocked again. Presently the door 
 opened and Griselda let her in. The girl had been crying, 
 and her usually smooth hair was untidy and darnp- 
 looking. But when they were in the drawing-room, and 
 before her mother could ask her what was the matter, 
 she burst into a little laugh. 
 
 "Well, mother dear, you must give me your blessing, 
 for I'm engaged to be married." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge sat down and took off her glasses. 
 She knew that the girl was on the verge of an uncontrol- 
 lable breakdown, and it was her nature to discourage 
 uncontrollable breakdowns. 
 
 "Are you, my dear?" she asked quietly. "Of course 
 you've my blessing. I suppose it's Sir John Barclay. 
 Haven't I had two daughters married before, and don't 
 I know the signs?" Her little joke did its duty, and 
 quieted Grisel. 
 
 "But you've never even seen him Sir John John 
 I mean." 
 
 "I've heard about him from your father, and from 
 Mrs. Ford. They say he's charming." 
 
 The girl rose and began to smooth her hair before the 
 glass. 
 
 "He is," she said. "He's a darling. Oh, I forgot 
 to show you this," and she held out her little left hand 
 on which hung a huge ruby in a ring far too big for her. 
 "It's got to be made smaller," she said. "Not the ruby, 
 but the ring," and she laughed, and the laugh sounded 
 more natural this time. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge rose and kissed her. "Well, my 
 dear," she said, "it'll be very funny to hear you called 
 'my Lady/ but I don't mind confessing to you that I
 
 160 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 think Sir John, however nice he may be, is a very lucky 
 man. Come along, let's have a cup of cocoa." 
 
 Both maids were out, so they went down into the 
 quiet, clean kitchen, lit the gas-ring, and had a little 
 feast such as they had had many times before. 
 
 Violet Walbridge had described hundreds of senti- 
 mental scenes between newly engaged girls and their 
 mothers, but she did not herself behave in the least as 
 one of her characters would have done, for, instead of 
 provoking a scene, and confidences and tears, and a dis- 
 play of back hair, such as she had been rather fond 
 of in her novels, she carefully avoided all reference to 
 the signs of tears on her daughter's face, and they talked 
 only of the most matter of fact aspects of the engage- 
 ment. Sir John was going to Argentina as soon as the 
 authorities would let him, it seemed, and wanted the 
 wedding to be in September, immediately after he 
 returned. 
 
 "I was awfully afraid," the girl added naively, "that 
 he was going to marry me now, and take me with him 
 to South America." 
 
 Her mother sipped her cocoa reflectively, and did not 
 raise the question of the exact meaning of the word 
 afraid. 
 
 "Oh, no," she said, "much nicer in every way to wait 
 till he comes back. I think your father will be pleased ; 
 he seems to like him very much." 
 
 "Ye-e-e-s." Grisel looked up quickly from her ring, 
 which she was twisting round her finger in the lamp 
 light. "Oh, yes. Father will be pleased." 
 
 "They are great friends, aren't they?" her mother 
 asked, as the clock struck half-past ten. 
 
 Grisel hesitated. "Well, I don't know that they are
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 161 
 
 great friends," she said in a thoughtful voice. ''Sir 
 John is very different from father, you know. He's 
 very dignified and rather stern, and he couldn't bear the 
 Crichells. But father likes him, anyhow " 
 
 "Well, come along, dear, we must get to bed. I don't 
 know where anyone in the household is, but they've got 
 keys, of course." 
 
 "Poor mother, you've been alone all day." There 
 was sudden compunction in Grisel's voice as they went 
 up the dark stairs to the ground floor. 
 
 "Oh, no. I haven't. I've not been alone at all," 
 the mother answered gaily. "Caroline came to lunch 
 and stayed all the afternoon. I just walked home with 
 her " 
 
 She woujd have liked to go into her child's bedroom 
 with her on that important evening of her life, and help 
 her undress, and even brush her hair, as one of the 
 mothers in her own books would have done. But though 
 she was old-fashioned herself, she knew that her daugh- 
 ter was not. So they kissed on the landing, and separated 
 for the night without any further display of sentiment. 
 But it was a long, long time before Violet Walbridge 
 slept that Sunday. At half -past twelve she crept out 
 and saw the light still burning in Grisel's room, and at 
 two she did the same thing. Finally, knowing that she 
 could not sleep, she put on her dressing-gown and padded 
 softly upstairs in her old felt slippers to the room in the 
 attic, and, having lit her lamp, did two hours hard work, 
 while the winter sky was gradually drained of its dark- 
 ness, and the clear grey that is neither darkness nor light 
 took the place of the night, to give way slowly, as if 
 reluctantly, to the morning. 
 
 She wrote rapidly, her face white and sharp, bent
 
 162 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 over the paper. She had forgotten now her sad con- 
 viction of the book's worthlessness. Words came out 
 in a torrent, as if independently of herself, and her hand 
 struggled to keep up with her ideas. She knew that 
 this was the wrong way to write that the great novelists 
 whom she so admired worked carefully, measuring their 
 words, weighing each one as if it was a pearl her own 
 facility having always been like that of an older child 
 telling tales by the fire to the little ones. She had con- 
 nected the mediocrity of her work with this fatal ease 
 of narration. She had been scorned kindly (for one of 
 her troubles had never been that horrid one of envy 
 and bitterness in the minds of others^ for this effortless 
 facility, and she knew it. But now she could no more 
 have held back for what she called polishing her phrases 
 than a little brook in full freshet forcing itself into a 
 pool. On and on she wrote, forgetting fatigue, for- 
 getting her troubles, forgetting everything but the fate 
 of the people she was describing, and at last, just as 
 the clock struck five, her pen wrote "finis" to her twenty- 
 third novel, and laid itself down. She sat for a moment 
 staring at the paper, suddenly very tired, and conscious 
 that her feet were numb with cold. She went to the 
 window and looked out into the livid unfriendly light, 
 and then, stuffing the manuscript into the drawer of her 
 table, she crept downstairs. 
 
 As she went back to her room, it occurred to her that 
 she had not heard Ferdie come in. He had slept on a 
 camp bed in his dressing-room since his return, because 
 of his cough, which, he said, troubled him a good deal 
 at night. 
 
 She opened his door softly. He lay there asleep, with 
 the growing daylight falling on his face. She stood for
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 163 
 
 a moment, looking at him, wondering that she had not 
 heard him come in, reproaching herself mildly for her 
 indifference to him, and deliberately recalling him as he 
 had been in the old days, when she first knew him. 
 
 How handsome he had been! She remembered the 
 day it was in winter too when she had crept down- 
 stairs in the old house in Russell Street, and joined him 
 in a musty, smelling, old "growler," that took them to 
 the train for High Wycombe, where they had been 
 married before lunch. Poor Ferdie ! He had failed her 
 utterly; she had suffered, and suffered silently; but as 
 she looked at him there as he slept, her eyes filled with 
 tears. He looked very lonely, very pathetic somehow, 
 and helpless. The thin place shone out from his tumbled 
 hair, and for a moment she was gripped by the helpless 
 pathos of the briefness of life, of the inexorable march 
 gravewards of every human being. Poor Ferdie, she 
 thought again, as she went sadly back to bed.' 
 
 She had no doubt failed him, too, and now they were 
 both old.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 As Mrs. Walbridge went down to breakfast the next 
 morning, she was conscious of a hope that Paul would 
 not be too pleased about his sister's engagement. She 
 had not stopped to analyse her feeling, but it was not 
 an unkind one. For Paul to be greatly pleased, would, 
 she knew, mean that the worst side of his nature was 
 touched by the event. So it was with some relief that 
 she found the young man and his sister in the dining- 
 room quarrelling. 
 
 "It's disgraceful," he declared, as she opened the 
 door. "He's nearly old enough to be your grandfather." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge's heart gave a thump of pleasure at 
 this speech, not that she dreamed of his words having 
 any influence on Grisel, but because honest indignation 
 over an abstract right or wrong was very rarely roused 
 in her son. 
 
 "Paul, Paul," she said gently, as she rang the bell 
 and sat down behind the old-fashioned, acorn-topped, 
 silver-plated tea equipage. "Good-morning, children." 
 
 Grisel kissed her and sat down at her place near the 
 door, the chair with its back to the fire had always been 
 Paul's. 
 
 "My romantic brother feels that I am wasting my 
 young life in marrying Sir John Barclay," she declared, 
 laughing lightly. 
 
 Paul grunted, and unfolded the morning paper. 
 "There are plenty of men who aren't beggars. I do 
 
 164
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 165 
 
 call it disgusting of Grisel to marry an old man simply 
 because he's rich." 
 
 He looked younger and softer'in his unexpected anger, 
 and his mother's eyes rested on him with an odd expres- 
 sion of surprised relief. ''He's right in theory, you 
 know, darling," she agreed, turning to the girl. "Every- 
 body'll say the same thing." 
 
 Grisel gave her ring a twist, and said nothing till the 
 door had closed on the maid. Then she helped herself 
 to butter. "Oh, I know. Crabbed age and youth 
 but Sir John John, I mean isn't crabbed that's just 
 the point. He's a perfectly charming man, and everyone 
 says so, mother, and he's ever so young in some ways. 
 He's worth," she added, with an odd little flush of 
 humility, "worth a dozen of me." 
 
 "Nobody denies that," put in Paul, taking his tea 
 from his mother. "You're a useless little baggage 
 enough, everyone knows that. And I shouldn't say a 
 word if there was any chance of you even really liking 
 
 him, to say nothing of of " He broke off, and 
 
 added gravely, as if he were making use of words that 
 he feared, "of loving him." 
 
 His mother stared at him. "Why, what do you 
 mean, Paul? You're being very rude, and it's wrong of 
 you. Of course Grisel likes Sir John, and and many 
 women have loved husbands much older than them- 
 selves," she added shamefacedly, aware of her own 
 duplicity, for she was a devoted believer in the union of 
 youth to youth, and the growing old together of happy 
 married couples. Whence she drew this romantic belief 
 it would be hard to say, for the experience had certainly 
 not come her way, and as it happened several of her 
 married friends had come to grief. But it was her belief,
 
 166 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 and probably one of the secrets of the popularity of her 
 books, for in her heyday people liked pleasant stories 
 about pleasant people, who suffered, of course, through 
 the machinations of the wicked, but who made their way 
 steadily, through floods of tears, to the safe shores of 
 the old-fashioned happy ending. 
 
 "I suppose the old fellow wears a padded coat and 
 stays," Paul went on, less angry now, and settling down 
 to a solid enjoyment of tormenting his little sister. 
 
 "Ass! He's only fifty-two, and isn't a bit that kind." 
 
 "What kind?" 
 
 "Oh, well, trying to be young. A stale beau. He 
 seems a mere boy, for instance, in some ways, beside 
 father." 
 
 Paul scowled and said nothing. His mother had 
 noticed several times of late that there was some kind 
 of dissension between him and his father, but they had 
 never been very friendly, no house being big enough 
 for two absolutely selfish men, and their interests had 
 always clashed. But during the last few weeks this 
 antagonism had seemed to quicken into something more 
 definite, and Mrs. Walbridge wondered vaguely, as she 
 ate her breakfast, what it meant. 
 
 Grisel, who was pale, was yet too young to bear in her 
 face any ugly traces of her sleepless night, and she went 
 through the meal with a kind of resolute gaiety. She 
 was full Of her own affairs, and declared her intention 
 of ringing up the girls as soon as she had finished eating, 
 and telling them the news. 
 
 "Maud and Moreton will be delighted," she declared. 
 "They liked him so much that night, and he's giving 
 Billy some kind of work, something in the City, that 
 Billy says will be awfully useful to him, because Sir
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 167 
 
 John is so well known. Billy and Hermy were frightfully 
 pleased. Wasn't it kind of him? of Sir John, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, now she's experiencing the joys of patronage," 
 commented Paul, spreading strawberry jam on his toast 
 "She'll be getting us all little jobs, mother. Oh, hell !" 
 
 He was not a young man who used bad language, and 
 his mother was surprised as well as shocked at it. But 
 before she could remonstrate the door opened, and 
 Ferdie came in, pale and tired-looking, with heavy eyes 
 and nervous twitching of his eye-brows, that boded evil 
 things for his companions. 
 
 Grisel looked at him sharply, and Paul, turning, fixed 
 his eyes so unswervingly on his father's face that his 
 father snapped at him. 
 
 "What the deuce are you glaring at?" 
 
 "You," said the young man, coolly. "It's no good, 
 Guv'nor, you can't keep it up at your time of life. You'll 
 be as plain as the rest of us if you go on like this." 
 
 His words were not so offensive to his mother as they 
 would have been to most women, as addressed by son 
 to father, for Ferdie Walbridge's character was such that 
 though his children undoubtedly had a certain pride in 
 him because of his good looks, and a kind of affection 
 that was not empty of pity, he had never, even when 
 they were very little children, inspired the least fear or 
 even respect in them. 
 
 She looked, however, anxiously from one to the other 
 of the three faces round the table, and was relieved 
 when Grisel, with a little determined air of excitement, 
 held out her left hand, and waved it under her father's 
 swollen, surly eyes. 
 
 "Look at that oh beau sabreur," she cried, "and 
 behold the future Lady Barclay, and rejoice."
 
 168 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Hallo, hallo!" His boorishness disappeared like a 
 flash, and a surprising amount of boyish beauty and 
 delight rested on his face for a moment, like the light 
 from a passing torch. He kissed her and murmured a 
 few words of delight and sympathy, and taking up his 
 cup walked about the room, sipping tea and talking to 
 himself as much as to the others. 
 
 "Good girl, good girl you'll be very happy Sir John 
 Barclay's a fine man. I knew it. I saw it coming! 
 I'm not surprised. Violet, what did I tell you? Well, 
 are you proud of your baby, old woman?" 
 
 He gave his wife a rough thump on the back as he 
 passed her chair. "He's a baronet too. Delightful 
 fellow, delightful." He stopped short, drawing himself 
 up and preening in the way that was half infuriating and 
 half pathetic. "Fancy his being my son-in-law with that 
 white hair!" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge really could not bear him when he did 
 that, so she rose, ashamed of her feeling of disgust, and 
 went out of the room. 
 
 Presently she heard the door slam, and knew that 
 Paul had left. So, after her daily interview with the 
 cook, she went up to her study, and sat down to think. 
 Sir John Barclay would be coming to-day to see her, and 
 the interview would be a difficult one for her, for she 
 was ashamed of her daughter's decision; she was a bad 
 liar, and she had always shunned with a kind of fastidi- 
 ous pain, the sight of an old man in love with a young 
 girl. Then, too, there was Oliver, and her intimate 
 knowledge of him. Poor Oliver ! He would be coming, 
 and he would have to be told, and his queer face would 
 have that dreadful look of pain in it, and then he would 
 laugh and be ridiculous, and that would be still worse.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 169 
 
 She wished Ferdie would say something to her about 
 their business affairs, but he hadn't said a word. He 
 seemed able to put troublesome thoughts clean away out 
 of his mind, but she couldn't. What was to become of 
 them all? If only this book would please Mr. Lubbock 
 and Mr. Payne! 
 
 She heard the telephone bell ring faintly, and opening 
 the door after a moment heard the sound of Grisel's 
 voice a little high and unnatural, it seemed to her. 
 
 "He's the greatest dear," the girl was saying. "I 
 knew you and Moreton would be glad." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge closed the door, and sat down. She 
 was so used to moulding events in her novels that it 
 seemed to her intolerable and almost ridiculous that in 
 real life, in this matter of her little daugher, for in- 
 stance, events so obstinately refused to be moulded. She 
 ought to be able to make Oliver Wick suddenly rich 
 enough to snatch her away from this monstrous old man, 
 who coveted her youth and beauty. Unconsciously Mrs. 
 Walbridge had fallen into the language of her novels 
 and love should triumph among roses in the last chapter. 
 But now she could no nothing. Grisel had made her 
 choice, and the old monster was to triumph. Her only 
 comfort in this dreary reverie was that Paul, selfish, hard 
 Paul, should unconsciously have taken sides with her in 
 her hatred of the marriage. She had never understood 
 Paul. He was to her not so much like a closed book 
 as like a book written in a foreign language of which 
 she knew only a word or two here and there. She had 
 expected him to be pleased, because of Sir John Bar- 
 clay's riches, and lo and behold he was as displeased as 
 she was, and full of a regret that, though bitterly ex-
 
 170 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 pressed, was, she knew, based on a genuine sentimental 
 disapproval of mercenary marriages. 
 
 After a while she opened the drawer of the table and 
 took out the manuscript, and, more in the hope of for- 
 getting for a while about Grisel than for anything else 
 she began to read it. How flat it was ! How dull ! The 
 people were all unnatural; their language silly and vul- 
 gar. Her face settled into lines of utter misery as she 
 read. Mr. Lubbock and Mr. Payne would never publish 
 such stuff. She heard a clock strike once or twice as 
 she sat reading. The sound conveyed nothing to her. 
 On and on she read, and when finally the page with 
 "finis" caught her eye she realised that it must be late, 
 and started up guiltily. Her misery was too deep for 
 tears, but as she closed the door on the failure she spoke 
 aloud to herself. "Written out," she said slowly. 
 "That's what it is. I'm old, and I'm written out." 
 
 Early that afternoon a woman who lived on the same 
 landing as Miss Breeze, came to "Happy House" with 
 a note. 
 
 Caroline was in bed with a bad go of asthma, and 
 would Violet come to see her? Mrs. Walbridge went to 
 the girls' room, where Griselda was writing notes, and 
 told her. 
 
 "Poor Caroline! I suppose I ought to go, dear, but 
 I don't want to miss Sir John when he comes." 
 
 Grisel, who had been very gay and full of laughter all 
 day, looked up sombrely. 
 
 "Oh, he won't be here before tea-time, I should think," 
 she said. "He's very busy, you know. Besides, father's 
 in. Don't stay long. It'll be all right."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 171 
 
 "Writing letters, are you?' her mother asked fool- 
 ishly. 
 
 She nodded. "Yes. Ever so many people I've got 
 to tell, of course. Looks so silly written down. 'I know 
 you will be glad to hear,' Tm sure you will be surprised 
 when I tell you' " she jabbed viciously at a clean sheet 
 of paper with her pen, sending a spray of ink across it. 
 
 "Have you written to Oliver Wick?" 
 
 "No, I haven't. He's such a goose. I thought per- 
 haps you would write to Mrs. Wick." 
 
 "You must write and tell him at once, daughter," 
 Violet Walbridge said sternly, and Grisel did not answer. 
 
 Caroline Breeze thought her friend looked very tired, 
 and though she didn't say so, very plain, when she came 
 in to her bedroom, a small bunch of asters in her hand. 
 Miss Breeze had been ill, but felt better now, and was 
 sitting up in bed smoking a medicated cigarette, the 
 smell of which was very dreadful to Mrs. Walbridge. 
 To her surprise, the sentimental Caroline was rapturous 
 with delight over the news of the engagement. Darling 
 Grisel, she was sure, would be very happy. "Better to 
 be an old man's darling than a young man's slave," she 
 cried. 
 
 "No young man wanted her to be his slave," pro- 
 tested Mrs. Walbridge, with mild horror. 
 
 "That Oliver Wick did." Caroline had never liked 
 the young Mr. Wick, Violet knew, because, plain and 
 unalluring old woman that she was, she resented the 
 young man's lack of beauty. He failed in every way to 
 come up to her standard of a lover, and Grisel, of all the 
 "Happy House" children, having been her special care 
 and pet, she felt that she had a kind of right to object 
 to such an unattractive and penniless young man ventur-
 
 172 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 ing to approach the girl, who was nearer to her than any 
 young thing in the world. 
 
 "She'll pay for dressing, too, Grisel will," Caroline 
 declared, shaking her head vigorously, and inhaling the 
 thick yellow smoke from her cigarette. "Where are 
 they going to live? I suppose he'll be getting her a 
 house in one of the swell squares. Berkeley Square would 
 be my choice," she added. "By the way, Violet, it's a 
 splendid name, Barclay. I wonder if he's any relation 
 to isn't there an earldom of that name?" 
 
 Violet shook her head. "I'm sure I don't know," 
 she said indifferently. "I do wish he was younger. 
 Why, he's older than I am, Caroline!" 
 
 "Fudge and nonsense! Fifteen years younger, to all 
 intents and purposes. Besides, Ferdie told me one day 
 that he has magnificent health. That always makes a 
 difference, to say nothing of his money," she added 
 vaguely. "It'd be lovely to have someone in the family 
 with plenty of money." 
 
 "It won't make much difference to us," commented 
 Mrs., Walbridge. 
 
 "No, of course not, but still oh, Violet, I do hope 
 they'll like the book ! By the way, I was reading a paper 
 yesterday about a girl who got a prize in some competi- 
 tion. She only got the fourth prize, and it was a hundred 
 pounds! Why don't you try for one of them?" 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was humbled-minded, but she had her 
 pride. "I saw that thing. It was some rubbish that 
 they print in pale blue paper covers scullery maid's 
 romance !" 
 
 Caroline bridled. "I'm sure I didn't mean to offend 
 you. As far as that's concerned, there are a lot of com- 
 petitions, and some very good writers write for them.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 173 
 
 Harbottle's offering a thousand pounds for a good novel, 
 to start off his new five shilling edition." 
 
 But Mrs. Walbridge was not to be beguiled into paths 
 of speculative dalliance. "I'm writing my book, as you 
 know, for Lubbock & Payne," she said, "and even if I 
 had a chance of winning a prize, which I haven't, it 
 wouldn't be honest to offer my book to anybody else." 
 
 The talk then turned again to Grisel and her prospects. 
 
 Somehow, although her dear old friend had done her 
 best to cheer her up, it was with a very flagging heart 
 that Mrs. Walbridge reached "Happy House" at tea- 
 time. 
 
 She was afraid to face in her own mind the latent 
 fear she had about Oliver Wick. But she was tired, and 
 could not put him resolutely out of her mind, and she 
 looked a very weary, faded little creature, on the very 
 verge of old age, as she toiled up the steps and opened 
 the door. 
 
 Voices upstairs in the girls' room. She went up a few 
 steps and listened. Yes, there was a man's voice she 
 had never heard before. Sir John Barclay had come. 
 
 For a moment she thought of going to her own room 
 and putting on her afternoon dress. She knew how 
 shabby she looked; she had on her oldest hat, for the 
 afternoon had looked threatening, and she had not 
 touched her hair since the early morning. Then, with a 
 little sigh, she went straight on. It wouldn't matter to 
 this prospective bridegroom that his lovely little sweet- 
 heart's mother was a dowdy old woman; and she x was 
 tired, and wanted a cup of tea more than anything in the 
 world. So, without pausing, she opened the door and 
 went in. 
 
 Maud and Hermy were both there, and they were all
 
 174 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 sitting round the tea-table at which Grisel, very flushed 
 and excited and pretty, presided. The stranger sat with 
 his back to the door. She had only time to see that it 
 was a straight, broad, strong back, surmounted by a 
 well-shaped head, covered with thick white hair, when 
 the girls saw her and rose in a little covey, fluttering 
 towards her with cries of excitement and affection. 
 
 "Oh, mother, isn't he delightful?" Maud whispered 
 as she kissed her, and Hermione's face expressed real 
 unselfish sympathy and happiness. And then Grisel, 
 taking her by the hand, smiled Over her shoulder. 
 
 "Come, John," she said, "this is mother." 
 
 The big man stood still in the middle of his advance, 
 a puzzled, queer look in his face, which even looked, she 
 noticed, a little pale. 
 
 "Isn't it," he began, and broke off. Then he came up 
 to her and held out his hands. "Surely," he said, slowly, 
 "you used to be Miss Violet Elaine ?" 
 
 "Yes." She was staring at him with utter amaze- 
 ment, so strange was his manner, and the three young 
 women were also staring. 
 
 "What do you mean, John?" Griselda burst out, 
 after a pause that seemed interminable. "What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 Then the man laughed, gave himself a little shake and 
 taking Mrs. Walbridge's hand, bent and kissed it with a 
 grace that proved that he had lived long in some Latin 
 country. 
 
 "Nothing's the matter," he said, in a pleasant deep 
 voice," except that I knew your mother over thirty 
 years ago, and I hadn't realised that you were her child." 
 
 They all sat down, the three girls chattering in amazed 
 amusement and amused amazement. The two elders
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 175 
 
 said little, and then, when Mrs. Walbridge had been 
 given her cup of tea and drunk a little of it, she looked 
 up with her big clear eyes at the man who was going to 
 marry her daughter. 
 
 "It seems very rude," she said gently, "but you know 
 I don't remember you! Are you quite sure you are not 
 mistaken ?" 
 
 "Why, how can he be, Mum, when he knew your 
 name?" laughed Hermione. "Do tell us about it, Sir 
 John." 
 
 Barclay crossed his knees and folded his arms. He 
 was a man with a fine, smooth shaven face of the kind 
 that might belong equally well to either a very fine actor 
 or a judge. His light blue eyes had a fair and level 
 gaze, and his finest feature, his mouth, was strong and 
 benevolent, with well-set corners, and firmness without 
 harshness. 
 
 "It's quite natural," he said to Mrs. Walbridge, "that 
 you should not remember me. We met just before I 
 went to the Argentine, as it was then called, thirty-one 
 years ago, at the house of some people named Fen wick, 
 near High Wycombe. You were staying in the house, 
 and my father was the dean of the parish, and the Fen- 
 wick boys and girls were my best friends. We had a 
 picnic to Naphill, and danced, and we drove on a brake 
 to Chalf ont St. Giles to see Milton's house. Now do you 
 remember ?" 
 
 A deep; beautifying flush swept across the face under 
 the deplorable old hat. "I remember the picnic per- 
 fectly. A bottle of cold tea got broken and ruined some- 
 body's frock, do you remember? And I remember 
 Milton's house, but," she shook her head a little embar-
 
 176 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 rassed but truthful, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't 
 remember you." 
 
 There was a little pause, during which his fine face did 
 not change. 
 
 "You were very preoccupied, I think," he added. 
 "You weren't particularly happy at the time, and I was 
 only a long-legged loon of a boy of twenty-one. But I 
 remember," he went on, "I've always remembered." 
 
 "Well, then, darling, you won't mind having Sir John 
 as a son-in-law, will you?" 
 
 It was Hermione who spoke. She was always the 
 readiest of speech, being the least fine of feeling of the 
 three girls, and the slight strain that lay on them all 
 merged away at her commonplace words. 
 
 Sir John took his leave a few minutes later, and as he 
 shook hands with Mrs. Walbridge, he looked down at 
 her very kindly, very gently. The three others had gone 
 into the bedroom on purpose to leave the two elders 
 alone a moment. 
 
 "She's very young, you know," Violet Walbridge said, 
 without preliminary. 
 
 "I know. I shall never forget that." And she felt as 
 she went to her own room that he had made her a solemn 
 and very comforting promise.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 To Mrs. Walbridge's surprise and relief, Oliver Wick 
 made no sign for several days, although she herself had 
 written to his mother on some pretext and mentioned 
 the engagement in a casual reference that she regarded 
 as very dishonest, though necessary, and probably use- 
 ful. The morning of New Year's Eve an answer to 
 her note had come from old Mrs. Wick, and she read it 
 several times. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Walbridge, Thanks very much for 
 your note telling me of the engagement. I am sure you 
 will be glad to know that that queer son of mine is not 
 coming to 'Happy House' at present. He's very un- 
 happy, less I think because he has given up hope of 
 marrying Grisel, than because he is disappointed in her 
 for becoming engaged to a man he is convinced she 
 does not love. I can tell you this quite frankly be- 
 cause he is so fond of you that I am sure you know 
 him well and will understand. 
 
 "He is as much like a fussy old mother as a lover 
 in his attitude towards your daughter. He does so re- 
 sent her kno^ving and liking people he despises, such 
 as that poor Mr. and Mrs. Ford, for instance, and the 
 Crichells. I met Mrs. Crichell the other day at the 
 Leicester Galleries. She's certainly very pretty, but 
 as I saw from your face that you dislike her, I don't 
 mind telling you that I do too. There's something 
 
 177
 
 178 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 very unpleasant about her. However, it's very rude 
 of me to abuse your acquaintances, so I'll stop. 
 
 "Jenny will be seeing your son New Year's Day, 
 as she's going to accompany him in some songs at 
 Mrs. Gaskell-Walker's, so we hope to hear good news 
 of you all then. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "FRANCES WICK." 
 
 Oliver carried out his intention, and nothing was seen 
 of him at "Happy House" for some time. Things went 
 very smoothly. Grisel seemed happy, and Sir John's 
 devotion to her seemed to her mother exactly what it 
 should have been neither slavish nor domineering, 
 without that touch of patronage, so often seen in old 
 men, however much they may be in love, towards their 
 young sweethearts. He had never again referred to 
 their early acquaintance, and Mrs. Walbridge was con- 
 scious of a sincere regret that, do what she would, she 
 could not recall him as a youth to her memory. 
 
 He was very kind to every one of the family, and 
 Walbridge very often lunched with him at his Club in 
 the City, and spoke vaguely of good things he had been 
 put on by his prospective son-in-law. Walbridge never 
 lost sight of the joke of his (Ferdinand Walbridge) be- 
 ing father-in-law to a man of Barclay's age. But he 
 seemed very disposed to make every possible use of Bar- 
 clay's experience and kindness. 
 
 One day, towards the end of January, Mrs. Walbridge 
 sat by the fire in the drawing-room, working hard at 
 her new book. It was bitterly cold, so cold that she 
 had been obliged to come down from her study in the 
 attic. Guy, who had been detained in Paris on some
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 179 
 
 regimental business, greatly to his own disgust, had 
 written that he was coming back in a few days, and 
 Mrs. Walbridge's feelings as she sat there in the quiet 
 house, more nearly approached happiness than she had 
 felt for a long time. Griselda, who had been lunching 
 with Maud at her mother-in-law's house, had not come 
 in, and apparently a long, quiet afternoon was before 
 Mrs. Walbridge. Her new book, after all, was going 
 on fairly well, and Mr. Payne had written her a very 
 kind letter in reply to her explanation about her failure 
 with the other one, and he had given her an extension 
 of time that promised to make the completion of "Rose- 
 mary" an easy matter. She wrote on and on, and then 
 suddenly, in the middle of her work, and rather to her 
 disappointment, Sir John Barclay was announced by 
 the proud Jessie. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," he said kindly, sit- 
 ting down by the fire and warming his hands. "Are 
 you working on your book? I've just had news calling 
 me to Scotland. Where's Grisel?" 
 
 She explained, saying that Grisel had gone to Maud. 
 "You're sure to find her there." 
 
 He nodded. "All right. I'll go and take her out to 
 dinner, and she can take me down to the station, and 
 then Smith can drive her home." . He looked at his 
 watch. "It's only half-past four. You're sure I'm not 
 disturbing you? Would you rather have me go?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Ring the bell and I'll give you some tea. 
 Yes, I'm working at my book," she went on. "I've got 
 to get it done as soon as I can; the publishers want it." 
 
 He looked very kind and interested as he sat there, his 
 handsome head turned towards her, his strong hands 
 held up to the fire so kind, that suddenly she found
 
 i8o HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 herself telling him about her other book, "Lord Effing- 
 ham" the failure. 
 
 "I'd worked so hard at it," she said, "and it seemed 
 to go well although I never liked it much; it wasn't 
 a very nice book. And then when I read it through I 
 saw how hopelessly bad it was." 
 
 He pleased her by accepting her verdict without flat- 
 tery and contradiction. 
 
 "Perhaps you were too tired. You seem to me to 
 have a great many different duties " 
 
 She shook her head. "No, I wasn't tired, and I've 
 always been used to writing in a hugger-mugger kind 
 of way," she added, with a simple vanity that touched 
 him. "I could always concentrate." 
 
 "Who are your publishers?" he asked after a moment. 
 "Oh, yes, good men good men. I'm not much of a 
 novel reader myself, but of course I know their name." 
 
 And then to her own surprise she told him the tragedy 
 of the expired contract. He listened attentively, his 
 whole mind fixed on her story. When she had finished 
 he put one or two shrewd questions to her, and reflected 
 over her answers, after which he said: "I may as well 
 tell you that I knew this before, Mrs. Walbridge." 
 
 She started. 
 
 "Oh, did you? Do you know them Mr. Lubbock 
 and Mr. Payne, I mean?" 
 
 "No. Your husband told me several weeks ago." 
 
 Something in his face betrayed to her his distaste 
 either at Walbridge's confidence or the manner in which 
 it had been made, and she flushed faintly. For Ferdie 
 had, she knew, often disgusted people. 
 
 He looked at her thoughtfully, and then to her surprise
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 181 
 
 his face changed, and with a very young smile he broke 
 out: "After all, you've changed very little!" 
 
 "Oh, Sir John! I'm an old woman," she protested 
 sincerely, "and I was only a child then." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I know. The outside of you has changed, of course, 
 but you're much the same in other ways. For instance, 
 you are still worrying to death about something that 
 business of the book, I suppose just as you were then. 
 I remember one day in the vicarage garden we had been 
 playing tennis, I tried to persuade you, silly young cub 
 that I was, to confide in me." 
 
 "Oh," she cried suddenly, clasping her hands, "didn't 
 you wear a red blazer red and white stripes? And 
 hadn't you some ridiculous nickname?" 
 
 "Good. You've remembered. I am glad." He threw 
 his head back and laughed, and she liked the shine of his 
 white teeth in the firelight. "Of course I had. They 
 called me 'Scrags.' ' 
 
 She was silent for a little while, and he knew that she 
 was seeing again the shabby old rectory garden with its 
 roses and hollyhocks, nd its lumpy tennis lawn, and 
 himself, the youth in the scarlet blazer. 
 
 "It was my old school blazer," he tojd her in a gentle 
 voice, not to interrupt too much the current of her 
 thoughts. "I remember it was too short in the arms, 
 and I was rather ashamed of it. I thought," he added 
 whimsically, "that you might laugh at it." 
 
 "I?" The gentle astonishment in her eyes amused 
 him. 
 
 "Yes, you. Some day I'll tell you about it, but not 
 now. I've a piece of good news for you," he added. 
 "Your husband and I had a long talk this morning, and
 
 182 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 as his present business arrangements seem rather un- 
 satisfactory, and as I happen to need a kind of part- 
 ner in one of my little business concerns, I've persuaded 
 him to take the position. It's nothing very brilliant," 
 he went on hurriedly, frightened by the change in her 
 face. "Only five hundred a year, but he seems to think 
 he would prefer it to this present work he is doing " 
 
 The look she turned on him was astonishingly like a 
 look of anger, and for some reason it delighted him in 
 its contrast to her husband's easy gratitude. He hated 
 scenes, and was not very well versed in the ways of 
 women, but for reasons of his own his heart sang as 
 she rose. 
 
 "I understand very little about business," she said 
 coldly. "But it's very kind of you to give a position 
 to my husband. I think, if you will excuse me, I will 
 leave you now. I am sure Grisel will be back here soon, 
 and I've a seamstress upstairs." 
 
 Instead of going to fetch her, he waited there over 
 an hour for Grisel, walking up and down the room, and 
 without visible impatience. 
 
 When his little sweetheart arrived she ran upstairs 
 for a warmer coat for they were going to motor. She 
 was gone some time and when they were in the car and 
 he had tucked her luxuriously up in a big rug of flexible 
 dark fur she explained to him why she had kept him 
 waiting. 
 
 "It was poor mother. Something's upset her. She 
 was crying actually crying. I don't think I've ever 
 seen my mother cry before. There she was, face down 
 on her bed, just howling like a child " 
 
 He winced. "You must learn, dearest," he said gently, 
 "not to tell me things I have no business to know."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 183 
 
 She looked up at him through her long lashes and 
 laughed wickedly. "Perhaps if you try long enough," 
 she returned, "you'll make a lady of me." 
 
 But his face remained grave. "Your mother," he 
 said, "is a splendid woman, my dear. I've a very great 
 admiration for her." 
 
 Griselda loved her mother; most girls do love their 
 mothers, but this homage, from a man she admired and 
 respected so much, surprised her. 
 
 "Mother? Little old Mum?" she repeated naively. 
 "She's a dear, of course " 
 
 Barclay looked down at her. 
 
 "You'll think me an awful old fogey," he said slowly, 
 "but I do seriously wish, my little dear, that you would 
 show a little more well, understanding, for your mother 
 to her, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, it's you who don't understand," she returned as 
 gravely as he. "I understand, we all do, a great deal 
 more about mother than she could bear to know. Fa- 
 ther's always been a beast, but we have to pretend to 
 her that we don't know it " 
 
 They drove on, a little closer together mentally than 
 they had ever been before. Grisel had been very sweet, 
 very womanly, for that short moment, and she, for her 
 part, had, for a brief time, been able to regard him less 
 as the old man she was going to marry for his money, 
 than as a kind and companionable contemporary. 
 
 Meantime Mrs. Walbridge had another guest. She 
 had gone up to her writing room, and was working on 
 her new book, when Jessie announced that Mr. Crichell 
 was in the young ladies' room. 
 
 "Mr. Crichell?" 
 
 "Yes, m'm, and he's in a great hurry."
 
 184 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Didn't he ask for master?" 
 
 "No, m'm," the girl returned with decision, "he asked 
 for you, quite partic'lar, m'm." 
 
 It struck Mrs. Walbridge as odd that Crichell should 
 have asked for her, for she hardly knew him. But she 
 smoothed her hair and turned down her sleeve, calling 
 out to Jessie as she went to bring up some more tea. 
 
 "Not for me, Mrs. Walbridge," Crichell began, hear- 
 ing her last words. "No tea, thanks. I've come on a 
 very unpleasant errand." 
 
 She saw that he was very much disturbed, his sleek 
 face being blurred by queer little dull red patches. Sit- 
 ting down by the fire she motioned him to do the same. 
 But he remained standing, his short legs far apart, his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "What I have to say will be painful to you," he went 
 on hurriedly. "But it's no worse for you than it is for 
 me. In fact, not so bad, for you must have had some 
 kind of an idea " 
 
 He broke off, seeing from her face that she had even 
 now no notion of what he was driving at. 
 
 "I don't understand at all," she said quietly. "Do 
 sit down, Mr. Crichell." 
 
 "It's no good beating about the bush," he resumed, 
 still standing. "It's just this. I'm I'm going to di- 
 vorce my wife, and Walbridge will be co-respondent." 
 
 "Walbridge?" she repeated stupidly, staring at him 
 with what he viciously called to himself, the face of an 
 idiot. "My husband?" 
 
 "Yes, your husband and my wife's lover. Pretty 
 little story, isn't it?" As she was about to speak, he 
 went on, purposely lashing himself, it struck her, into
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 185 
 
 a fury. "I've suspected something for a long time. 
 Haven't you?" 
 
 She shook her head. "No." But as she spoke she 
 remembered certain half-forgotten little happenings that 
 might have roused her curiosity had she been more in- 
 terested in her husband. 
 
 "Now don't tell me it isn't true, because it is," he 
 snapped, again interrupting her as she was about to 
 speak. 
 
 She was very sorry for him, and looked at him com- 
 passionately as he stood there twisting and waving his 
 white hands. 
 
 "I'm not going to tell you it isn't true, Mr. Crichell," 
 she answered gently. "I suppose it is, and I'm very, 
 very sorry for you." 
 
 Swamped as he was by hurt egotism, he did not fail 
 to observe the peculiarity of her attitude. 
 
 "Very kind of you," he muttered, at a loss. "I I 
 am sorry for you, too. In fact, we're in rather a ridicu- 
 lous position, you and I, aren't we?" His loud laugh 
 was very shrill, and she held up her hand warningly. 
 
 "Hush." 
 
 Then he sat down and told her the story. How for 
 months, ever since the late summer, in fact, he had 
 noticed a change in his wife. 
 
 "She always had a lot of boys buzzing about and it 
 never occurred to me to suspect Walbrid^e. I why 
 he's twenty years older than I am or near it. I came 
 up and down to town a good deal, and knew they used 
 to see a good deal of each other, but, as I say, the fact 
 of his age blinded me, damn him! Then, a week ago, 
 that night here, I I caught them looking at each other, 
 and when I got back from seeing my mother (it was
 
 186 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Clara, by the way, who told my mother where we were 
 going to be, and put her up to telephoning for me), I 
 took the trouble to find out what time she had got home, 
 and found that he had come back with her and stayed 
 till three o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge started. That was the morning when 
 she had stood by her husband's bedside watching him as 
 he lay asleep. 
 
 "So after that my God, it's only a week ago! I 
 kept my eyes open, and to-day I found these." 
 
 He pulled a bundle of letters out of his breast pocket, 
 and tossed them into her lap. The letters were tied 
 with a piece of yellow ribbon, and taking hold of them 
 by the ribbons, Mrs. Walbridge held them out to him. 
 
 "I donft want to see them," she said. 
 
 "You'd better to convince you." 
 
 "But I am convinced." 
 
 He rose solemnly, and put the letters back into his 
 pocket. 
 
 "Then I'll not detain you any longer. I thought I'd 
 better come and tell you myself." 
 
 At the door he turned. 
 
 "Dirty trick, wasn't it? Seen enough of women to 
 know better. But I trusted her " 
 
 They stared at each other for a moment, and then he 
 came back into the room. 
 
 "I'm very sorry for you, too," he said awkwardly. 
 "You take it so quietly that I rather forgot " 
 
 She laughed a little. "Perhaps," she said, "you'll 
 think better of it of divorcing her. There are so many 
 things to be considered, Mr. Crichell." 
 
 But at this his fury rose again, and he shouted that 
 nothing in heaven or earth would prevent his divorcing
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 187 
 
 her. "And you'll have to do the same," he added, al- 
 most menacingly. 
 
 "Why should I divorce my husband?" 
 
 "Surely you don't want him after this?" 
 
 "I want him," she replied very slowly, as if feeling for 
 the right words, "exactly as much as I've wanted him 
 for many years, Mr. Crichell." 
 
 As she spoke they heard the rattle of a latchkey in 
 the front door. 
 
 "That's Ferdie," she said hastily. "Oh, you won't 
 have a quarrel with him, will you?" 
 
 "No. I've already seen him I've nothing more to 
 say. How can I get out without meeting him?" 
 
 With pathetic knowledge of her husband, she bade 
 him stay where he was. 
 
 "I'll tell him you're here, and he'll go into the dining- 
 room." 
 
 At the foot of the stairs she met Walbridge taking off 
 his coat, a curiously boyish look in his face. "Ferdie," 
 she said quietly, "Mr. Crichell's in the girls' room." 
 
 With a little smile of almost bitter amusement, she 
 watched him as he tiptoed into the dining-room and 
 closed the door. 
 
 When Crichell had gone she joined her husband. He 
 was smoking and walking up and down, a glass of 
 whisky and soda in his hand. 
 
 "Well," he began at once, with the little nervous 
 bluster of the man who doubts his own courage, "I 
 suppose he's told you." 
 
 "Yes, he's told me," and then she added, without see- 
 ing the strangeness of her words. "I'm so sorry." 
 
 He stared, and then, with a little laugh of relief, 
 drained his glass and set it down.
 
 i88 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "It had to be," he announced with visible satisfaction 
 at the romantic element of the situation. "But I'm sorry, 
 too, Violet, very sorry. I've fought long and hard." 
 
 She looked at him with a little gleam in her eyes that 
 arrested his attention, although he told himself it could 
 not possibly be a gleam of amusement. 
 
 "No, Ferdie," she said, "I don't think you fought 
 long and hard. I don't think you fought at all." 
 
 Looking pitifully like a pricked balloon, he dropped 
 into a chair and gripped the edge of the dining-room 
 table. 
 
 "What do you mean, Violet? Really!" he mur- 
 mured, with the indignation of a sensitive man con- 
 fronted with a feminine lack of delicacy. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to hurt your feelings, Ferdie, and 
 no doubt you do feel extremely romantic. But it would 
 save time if you didn't try to be romantic with me. You 
 see, I know you very well." 
 
 Before he could gather his wits together to answer 
 her, she had gone on quietly: 
 
 "I won't tell you what I think of your treating Mr. 
 Crichell in this way, after accepting his hospitality all 
 winter. It would not do any good, and it wouldn't in- 
 terest you. But I am wondering if you couldn't per- 
 suade him, in some way, not to make a scandal. Don't 
 interrupt me. Wait a minute. It will be so dreadful 
 for her for Mrs. Crichell, I mean. How could you 
 have been so careless as to let him find out?" 
 
 Walbridge leant across the table towards her, his face 
 almost imbecile in his open-mouthed amazement. 
 
 "Do you do you know what you are talking about?" 
 he stammered. "Are you sane at all? I never heard 
 of such a thing in my born days."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 189 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'm sane enough. But I don't want the 
 children to know. It's an awfully bad example for Guy; 
 he'll be home in a day or two. Just think, he's only 
 twenty-one, and he doesn't know I mean he thinks 
 oh, yes, it would be awful if there was a scandal." 
 
 Ferdinand Walbridge made a great effort and man- 
 aged to scramble to his feet, mentally as well as phys- 
 ically. 
 
 "My dear," he said, modulating his beautiful voice 
 with instinctive skill, "you don't understand. This is 
 not an amourette. I love Clara Crichell. It is the one 
 wish of my life to make her to marry her." 
 
 For many years her indifference to her husband had 
 been so complete, so unqualified by anything except a lit- 
 tle retrospective pity, that he had never dreamed of the 
 thoroughness of her knowledge of him. She had never 
 cared to let him know ; she had been busy, and it had not 
 seemed worth while, and now she found difficulty in 
 making him understand her position, without unnec- 
 essarily hurting his feelings. 
 
 "But you can't marry her," she said slowly. "There's 
 me." 
 
 "Surely you'll not be so wicked as to ruin our lives," 
 he went on, secretly, she knew, rather enjoying himself, 
 "because of an old-fashioned, obsolete prejudice? 
 What's divorce nowadays? A mere nothing." 
 
 "I know," she said wearily, for she felt suddenly very 
 tired. "Most people think so, but I don't." 
 
 "But you don't mean to say that you want a man 
 who no longer loves you ?" 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock, and the room was lighted 
 only by firelight. In the charitable gloom Walbridge 
 looked very handsome, and the attitude he instinctively
 
 190 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 struck was not unbeautiful theoretically. She looked 
 at him for a moment. 
 
 "My dear Ferdie," she said at last, "I can't talk any 
 more now because Hermy and Billy and Mr. Peter Gas- 
 kell- Walker are dining with us at half -past seven, and 
 I've several things to see to. And as to your loving 
 me, you know perfectly well that you've not loved me 
 for nearly thirty years." 
 
 He was too utterly baffled to find a word in reply, and 
 by the time he could speak she had left the room. 
 
 As he dressed for dinner, having unsuccessfully tried 
 to get into her room, he reflected with sincere self-pity 
 that it was small wonder he had fallen in love with a 
 beautiful, sympathetic woman like Clara. Violet was 
 plainly not quite sane. He gave a vicious jerk to his tie 
 as he reached this point. 
 
 "Why, damn it all," he muttered, "she doesn't seem 
 to care a hang!"
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ALL this happened on a Thursday, and on the following 
 Wednesday Mrs. Walbridge went out quietly, and sent 
 a telegram to Oliver Wick's office, asking him to come 
 and see her that evening. She was to be alone alone, 
 it seemed to her distracted mind, for the first time for 
 weeks. For every day and all day some one or other 
 of her family had been with her, trying to persuade her 
 to do the thing her soul detested to divorce her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Maud was very vehement. Her indignation with her 
 father knew no bounds, and Moreton Twiss agreed with 
 his wife. He was a quick-witted man, with a good gift 
 of words, that he poured out unmercifully over the 
 little lady, until she felt literally beaten to death. 
 
 "It's perfectly disgusting of him," Maud interrupted 
 once. "I should think you would loathe the sight of 
 him. I'm sure I do." 
 
 But Mrs. Walbridge did not loathe the sight of her 
 husband. That is, she did not loathe him appreciably 
 more than she had done for years. They might say what 
 they liked. Billy Gaskell-Walker, too, to her amaze- 
 ment, broke into the most hideous, strange language 
 the moment the subject of his father-in-law came up 
 called him all the names under the heavens. But noth- 
 ing made any difference. Paul might sneer and make his 
 most razorlike remarks about his father and the lady 
 whom he wished to make their stepmother ; Grisel might 
 
 191
 
 192 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 cry and beg her mother for her sake to put her father 
 clean away. 
 
 "It's like a bad rat, or something," the girl said in 
 her high fastidiousness. "He makes the house unpleas- 
 ant." 
 
 But rail, scorn, revile as they might, Mrs. Walbridge 
 had her standpoint, and stuck to it. She did not believe 
 in divorce, and she wasn't going to divorce her husband. 
 What was more, after three days of exasperated wran- 
 gling discussion, she surprised them all by bidding them 
 be quiet. 
 
 They were having tea, all of them, in the girls' room. 
 The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the two 
 sons-in-law and Paul were drinking whisky and soda. 
 Mrs. Walbridge, looking very small in the corner of the 
 big sofa, suddenly sat bolt upright and looked angrily 
 round at them. 
 
 "Oh, hold your tongues, all of you," she cried in a 
 voice of authority. "You mustn't speak of him like that. 
 I won't have it. He's my husband, not yours. Poor 
 fellow!" 
 
 They all stared at her as if she had taken leave of her 
 senses, which, indeed, one or two of them privately be- 
 lieved she must have done. 
 
 "Oh, mother, how can you?" It was naturally Gri- 
 selda, the baby, who dared defy her. "You don't seem 
 to realise what an utter beast he's been, and how we all 
 loathe him for treating you yes, you like this." 
 
 "Poor fellow, indeed! Have a little pride, mother," 
 suggested Paul, as if he had said "have a little marma- 
 lade." But she didn't waver. 
 
 "Yes, poor fellow. I'm extremely sorry for him. 
 You none of you seem to realise what a pitiful thing it
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 193 
 
 is for an old man, the father of a family of grown-up 
 children, to be making such a ridiculous spectacle of him- 
 self." 
 
 Literally aghast, they stared, first at her, then at each 
 other, and in the silence she marched in triumph out of 
 the room. Her misery was very great, in spite of the 
 queerness of her attitude, for she felt keenly the pathos 
 of her ut^er detachment of attitude, and her mind was 
 thrown back violently into the old days thirty years 
 before, when she had loved him, when she had believed 
 in him, and defied and given up her whole little world 
 for his sake. 
 
 Poor Sir John Barclay still remembered her unhappi- 
 ness and preoccupation in the old days that summer 
 at High Wycombe, but she had not told him she had 
 been suffering because she had been sent to the country 
 by her furious father to get her away from Ferdinand 
 Walbridge. He did not know how she had hoped 
 against hope that Walbridge would, by some means, find 
 out where she was and get a letter to her, or manage to 
 see her. She had almost forgotten these things herself, 
 until this business of Clara Crichell had brought them 
 back to her memory. It was a tragic, heart-breaking 
 thing, she felt, that an honest, romantic, deep love such 
 as hers had been for the beautiful young man her father 
 had so detested, could ever die so utterly as hers had. 
 
 It was dreadful to her, and seemed a shameful thing, 
 that she could feel no pang of jealousy or loneliness in 
 the knowledge that her husband, her companion for 
 thirty years and the father of her five children, was pre- 
 pared to give up these children, his home life and her 
 companionship for another woman. Instead of what 
 she believed would have been normal emotions, she was
 
 194 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 conscious of a deep sorrow that he had been such a 
 fool as to fall in love with a woman of Mrs. Crichell's 
 type, for she knew with uncanny clearness exactly what 
 Mrs. Crichell was. If only he had fallen in love with 
 someone who might possibly make him happy, someone 
 who was companionable and ambitious! But this 
 woman, she knew, was so like himself in her laziness, 
 mental vacuity and self-centred one-sidedness, that they 
 were bound to destroy each other. 
 
 The whole family had assumed that her sole reason 
 for refusing the divorce was a semi-religious objection 
 to that institution. It was true that, although she was 
 not a religious woman, her innate respect for the forms 
 of the church gave her the greatest possible horror of 
 the divorce court, but she knew, though none of the 
 others seemed to suspect it, that if Clara Crichell had 
 been a different kind of woman, one with whom she 
 could, so to speak, trust her poor, faulty Ferdie, her 
 objections would v have been bound to give way, in the 
 course of time, to the combined wishes of her family 
 and friends. And she was afraid to utter this instinctive 
 fear of Mrs. Crichell because, although she knew little of 
 real life, she hafl an uncanny knowledge of the mental 
 workings of the men and women in books, who are, 
 after all, more or less, like human beings; and she felt 
 that she could not bear to be misunderstood, as she was 
 certain to be if she uttered one word of personal objec- 
 tion to Mrs. Crichell. They would all think she was 
 jealous, and she would be unable to persuade them that 
 she was not. 
 
 Oliver found her pacing up and down her drawing- 
 room in her afternoon gown, which she had forgotten
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 195 
 
 to fasten down the back, and which showed a pathetic 
 strip of merino petticoat. 
 
 "Something's wrong with your back here," he said. 
 "Shall I hook it up? I often fasten Jenny's new-fan- 
 gled things, and they hook up to her neck. Well, here I 
 am, Mrs. Walbridge, a la disposition di Usted." 
 
 One of his useful little gifts was a way of keeping in 
 mind, and reproducing with impeccable inflection, little 
 once-heard scraps of foreign languages, and somehow 
 it comforted the worried woman to hear him talking 
 so much in his usual manner; in spite of Grisel's engage- 
 ment, his world had not turned over. 
 
 "Have you have you heard anything about us 
 lately?" she began nervously, as they sat down, and she 
 nodded at his battered old cigarette case, held interrog- 
 atively up to her. 
 
 "Yes," he answered abruptly, his manner changing. 
 "I hear that Grisel has a string of pearls, and is grow- 
 ing very fond of her aged suitor." 
 
 "He's not an aged suitor, and you mustn't call him 
 one." 
 
 "Well, then, her gay young spark. It doesn't really 
 matter, and she's not really happy, and I know it, and 
 so do you." 
 
 "Oh, Oliver, please don't make me unhappy, about 
 that. Things are bad enough without Grisel's coming 
 to grief." 
 
 He pricked his ears. "What do you mean things 
 are bad enough? What's happened? I'm not going 
 to worry you. I'm sorry " 
 
 "It's about it's about Mr. Walbridge. I don't quite 
 know how to tell you."
 
 196 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Oliver looked hastily round the room. "Oh, no, he's 
 not here. He went away yesterday morning." 
 
 "Gone away? Good heavens! Has he been losing 
 money?" 
 
 "No; he has no money," she answered simply. "It's 
 much worse than that. It's it's about a lady." 
 
 He gave a long whistle. "By golly! Is it, though? 
 Then I'll bet it's that over-ripe woman who sat next 
 him at dinner the painter's wife." 
 
 "Yes, it is. They have fallen in love with each other." 
 
 The young man threw his cigarette in the fire in his 
 excitement. 
 
 "No! They can't have. Why, bless 1 me, he's an old 
 man I beg your pardon. But he isn't young, is he?" 
 
 "That doesn't matter. He's fallen in love with her 
 and Mr. Crichell's found out." 
 
 "My hat! The man with the nasty fingers." 
 
 "Yes. And they're all after me not a soul stands 
 up for me, Oliver. So that's why I sent for you. I 
 thought perhaps you would." 
 
 "Of course I will. You want someone to see you 
 through divorcing him. Well, I'm your boy. Have you 
 got a solicitor? And excuse me speaking so plainly 
 have you got proofs?" 
 
 She laughed forlornly at his mistake. "Oh, my dear, 
 you've got it all wrong. It's the other way about. It's 
 they ^ that want me to divorce him and I I won't." 
 
 His face changed. He looked at her with surprise 
 and commiseration in his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, I see," he said quietly. "I didn't understand." 
 
 He felt that it would be indecorous for him to ask 
 this old lady, as he considered her, whether she really 
 cared for the husband he had always found so unpleas-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 197 
 
 ant, but he could in no way account for her refusing to 
 take the obvious course. 
 
 She saw his perplexity and went straight to the point. 
 "You see," she said, "I know what you are thinking, 
 but I've known Mr. Walbridge for a long time, and I 
 know that he couldn't possibly be happy with a woman 
 as selfish and self-centred as Mrs. Criehell." 
 
 "Then you want him to be happy?" He spoke very 
 gravely, his voice sounding like that of a man very much 
 older than himself. 
 
 She was grateful to him for not showing any surprise 
 at her attitude. 
 
 "Oh, yes. I should like him to be happy. You're too 
 young to understand, Oliver. I hope you never will 
 understand. But I'm not at all angry with him, and 
 I've always disliked Mrs. Criehell very much." 
 
 "So have, I. Couldn't bear her, and neither could 
 my mother. But why did you send for me, Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge? I'll do any mortal thing for you, but the better 
 I understand, the more useful I shall be." 
 
 "Oh, I just want you to stand up for me when they 
 all attack me, and try to make me divorce him." 
 
 "I see. I certainly think the choice ought to be yours. 
 But," he added, "1 don't agree with you. I I think 
 you're making a mistake. By the way, has the lady any 
 money ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, she's quite well off." 
 
 There was a pause, at the end of which he said, "Well, 
 I it beats me. Why do you suppose she wants him?" 
 Then he added, feeling that he had failed in tact, in thus 
 speaking of the man who, after all, was his companion's 
 husband, and whom she wanted, in her queer way, to 
 help. "Well, it beats me."
 
 198 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Mr. Walbridge has always been considered a very 
 handsome man," she said, in a voice of complete clarity 
 and explanation. And then the door opened and Gri- 
 selda came suddenly in, wrapped in a big fur-collared 
 velvet cloak. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, on seeing Wick. "I didn't 
 know anyone was here. They all went on to the opera," 
 she said, sitting down and letting her cloak slip back, 
 "and my head ached I think I've a cold coming on so 
 I got a taxi and came home. How are you, Oliver, and 
 how is your mother? I saw Jenny the other day, but 
 I was in a taxi and she didn't see me." 
 
 "They're both well, thanks," he answered. "It's a 
 long time since I saw you, young lady." 
 
 "Yes, it is." 
 
 There was a pause, and Mrs. Walbridge glanced anx- 
 iously from one to the other of the two painstakingly 
 indifferent faces. 
 
 "No letters, mother?" the girl asked. 
 
 "Yes, there are two for you. One from Sir John." 
 
 "Good, I'll go and get them." She held out her hand 
 to Oliver. "Then I'll go on up to bed. I really do feel 
 rather bad. Good-night." 
 
 He held her hand closely. "You're a nice young 
 minx," he told her, laughing. "I suppose you think I 
 ought to congratulate you on your engagement." 
 
 "It's a matter of complete indifference to me whether 
 you do or not." 
 
 "Grisel, Grisel!" put in her mother. 
 
 Still he held her hand, his critical eyes looking her up 
 and down. 
 
 "Good-night," she said again, trying to withdraw her 
 hand.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 199 
 
 "You're losing your looks," he declared. "You're 
 too thin, and your eyes are sunk into your head. It 
 won't do, Grisel. You'll have to give in. You used to 
 be the prettiest thing alive, and unless you own up to 
 your old gentleman and confess to me that you can't 
 live without me, you'll soon have to join the sad army 
 of the girls who aren't so pretty as they feel." 
 
 She was furiously angry so angry that she could not 
 speak, and when he suddenly let go her hand, she stum- 
 bled back and nearly fell. She left the room without a 
 word, and he sat down and hid his face for a moment in 
 his hands. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was indignant with him, but somehow 
 she dared not speak, and after a minute he rose. 
 
 "I'll go now," he said. "I'm done. Little brute!" 
 
 "I'm so sorry for you," she said, which was quite dif- 
 ferent from what she had meant to say. 
 
 "I know you are, and I deserve it; I deserve every- 
 body's pity. But damn it all," he added, with sudden 
 brightness, pushing back the strands of straight dun- 
 coloured hair that hung down over his damp forehead, 
 "I'll get her yet." 
 
 She went with him to the door, and they stood on the 
 step in the bitter cold of the still night. 
 
 "You'll stand by me then ? You'll believe," she added 
 earnestly, laying her hand on his sleeve, "that I'm 
 not just being a cat ; that I really am doing what I know 
 will be best for him in the long run?" 
 
 "If you suddenly spat at me and scratched my eyes 
 out and ran up the wall there, and sat licking your fur, I 
 shouldn't believe you were a cat. But, mind you, Mrs. 
 Walbridge, I think you are making a great mistake.
 
 200 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 What on earth will you do with him about the house in 
 this frame of mind?" 
 
 "Oh, don't make it any harder for me. I know that 
 I'm right." 
 
 They parted very kindly, and she went back into the 
 house, knowing that he would, as she expressed it, take 
 sides with her. But something of the virtue of her 
 resolution seemed to have gone out of her, for, young as 
 he was, she respected his shrewdness and his instinct, 
 and it depressed her to know that he disapproved of her 
 determination. 
 
 The next evening, Wick dined with the Gaskell-Walk- 
 ers in Campden Hill. He was the only guest, and Her- 
 mione told him at once that they had sent for him in or- 
 der to talk over this disgusting business of her father's. 
 When Gaskell-Walker had laid before him the combined 
 reasons of the whole tribe for wishing for the divorce, 
 Wick sat down his glass and looked at his host. 
 
 "I agree with every word you've said," he answered, 
 without unnecessary words. "It's a great mistake, but 
 I know why she's doing it." 
 
 "That's more than any of us knows," mourned Her- 
 mione. "I feel that I never wish to look my father in 
 the face again." 
 
 "Oh, that's going too far," the young man protested. 
 "He's an awful old scoundrel, of course, but still, there 
 are plenty more like him." 
 
 Before they parted, Wick uttered a word of wisdom. 
 "She won't give in to you, or any of you, or to me," 
 he said. "There's nothing so obsinate in this world as 
 a good woman fighting for a principle, and the fact that 
 the principle is perfectly idiotic has no bearing on the 
 case. But your mother's an old-fashioned woman, Mrs.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 201 
 
 Gaskell-Walker, and she's written so many sentimental 
 stories that her whole mind is coloured by them. If you 
 can get Mrs. Crichell to go to your mother and grovel 
 and tear her hair and cry, your mother would divorce 
 your father." Then he went his way. 
 
 "By Jove !" Gaskell-Walker said to his wife. "I be- 
 lieve he's right. Stout fellow! I'll put your father up 
 to this. I'll look him up at lunch at Seeley's to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MRS. WALBRIDGE never told any of her children what it 
 was that made her so suddenly decide, two days after 
 her interview with Oliver Wick, to do as her husband 
 begged her, and give him his freedom, as he invariably 
 called it. Freedom is a prettier word than divorce, and 
 he had a natural instinct for eliminating ugly words 
 from his life, although he had never been very particu- 
 lar about steering clear of the deeds to which the words 
 fitted. 
 
 "Very well, Ferdie," she said to him, the Sunday 
 morning when he came to get his clothes and various 
 little belongings. "You shall have it, your freedom. I'll 
 give it to you." 
 
 In his muddle-headed gratitude, he nearly kissed her. 
 She drew back, an irrepressible smile twitching at her 
 lips. He was such a goose! 
 
 "I think," he said "you had better get Gaskell-Walker 
 to manage things for you. It it might be rather awk- 
 ward for Paul. You see, we can't have her name 
 brought into it" there was actual reverence in his voice 
 at the words "and I'll have to take certain steps." 
 
 "Oh, I know," she said quietly. "She told us yester- 
 day. Don't have any more in the papers than you can 
 help, will you?" she added, "it's all so horrid." 
 
 "Oh, her name won't be mentioned at all thanks to 
 your kindness," he added, a little grandiloquently. 
 
 She looked at him with a queer expression. "I wasn't 
 
 202
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 203 
 
 thinking of her name. I was thinking of ours yours 
 and mine, and the children's, Ferdinand." 
 
 He winced when she called him Ferdinand. It re- 
 minded him of some earlier, painful scenes in their life, 
 when she had been unable to pronounce the shorter ver- 
 sion of his name. 
 
 He rose and walked up and down the ugly room. "I 
 hope you believe," he began, clearing his throat, "that 
 I'm very sorry about all this. Such things are always 
 unpleasant, but I assure you, Violet, that it it was 
 stronger than I." 
 
 "We needn't go into that. Have you enough money 
 to live comfortably till your marriage?" 
 
 He nodded. "Oh, yes. I signed my papers with Bar- 
 clay the day he went away, you know, and have been 
 at the office every day. I I intend," he went on, grop- 
 ing for words, "to give you half of my salary; that's 
 two hundred and fifty a year, and I thought perhaps 
 if you moved into a smaller house, there will only be 
 you and Guy then, and he'll soon be earning something 
 that that you might manage to get on all right." 
 
 She nodded. "Oh, yes, I shall manage." She didn't 
 add that up to this she always had managed to keep, 
 not only herself, but, for the greater part of their mar- 
 ried life, him as well. 
 
 "I'm sorry about that business of your books," he 
 resumed, with another awkward pause, during which he 
 took a cigarette out of a very beautiful new gold case, 
 which he hurriedly stuffed back into his pocket. "I 
 hope this new one will be a success. I do, really, 
 Violet." 
 
 She looked at his nervous, heated face with a queer, 
 incongruous pity that seemed to her almost undignified.
 
 204 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "I'm sure you do, Ferdie," she answered kindly. 
 "There's no reason on earth why you should not wish me 
 well. I certainly wish you every happiness." 
 
 He was relieved and grateful at her lack of resent- 
 ment, but at the same time it qiqued him a little. 
 He felt that it was not altogether normal of her to take 
 things quite like this. He looked at her curiously, and 
 her face seemed old, very plain, linked as it was to his 
 memory of Clara Crichell's luscious beauty. He was 
 very sorry for her, not only for being that most con- 
 temptible of creatures, an old woman without charm, but 
 also because she was losing him. 
 
 They parted in the most friendly way, after he had 
 telephoned for a taxi and laden it with his various boxes 
 and bags. 
 
 "Where shall I send your letters?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't know where I am," he declared 
 nervously, "or they'll bring in collusion. Gaskell-Walker 
 will do it all for you." He paused on the step, looking 
 up at the house into which, thirty years ago, they had 
 come together, full of hopes and plans, and across his 
 still beautiful, degenerate face there swept a little cloud 
 of sentimental regret. "Life's a queer thing, isn't it?' 1 
 he murmured, taking off his hat and standing bare- 
 headed. 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, it is." Then she added quickly, 
 "Never mind, Ferdie, it's all right. The children will 
 come round after a bit. It's natural they should be an- 
 noyed just at first." 
 
 "If ever there's anything I can do for you," he added, 
 incongruously, "after this business is over, of course, 
 you'll let me know, won't you?" 
 
 He went his way, and she stood looking after him.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 205 
 
 It was all remarkably odd, but perhaps oddest of all was 
 that he had failed to understand at the end of all these 
 years, how little she could miss him; that it had always 
 been she that had taken care of him, and that therefore 
 that it was he who would miss the prop for the loss of 
 which he was conventionally compassionating her. 
 
 For several days after this, nothing at all happened, 
 and the attention of her little world was turned towards 
 Hermione, whose mother-in-law had unexpectedly died, 
 leaving her an attractive, though not very valuable, col- 
 lection of old jewelry. The inspection and re-designing 
 of these treasures came as a real boon to the whole 
 family. 
 
 "I feel as if my mind had been washed again after 
 this nasty business of father's," Maud Twiss declared, 
 after two or three days of excitement. "I think Hermy's 
 wrong to have those opals set that way, but then they're 
 her's and not mine, so it doesn't matter. What a pity 
 the old lady had such a passion for cameos they don't 
 suit Hermy at all but I'd give my head for that star 
 sapphire." 
 
 It was the I2th of February, and Maud had arrived 
 first of the little group of people invited to dine at 
 "Happy House" in honour of Paul's birthday. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge had not felt much inclined for any 
 festivities, but Paul for some reason insisted on a little 
 party, and the atmosphere being cleared by the progress 
 of the regular proceedings towards the divorce, the oth- 
 rs had backed him up. Sir John Barclay was still away, 
 and Moreton Twiss had been obliged to go to an annual 
 Club dinner, but the Wicks were coming, and Paul had 
 added various delicacies to the menu in a way that was 
 so like his father, that his mother was a little saddened
 
 206 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 by it. Paul too, she knew, would always be able to spend 
 money on things that pleased him, and she foresaw that 
 he would never have a penny for dull details like gas 
 bills or cooks. He even brought in an armful of flowers, 
 and Maud, who had a new tea-gowny garment for the 
 occasion, arranged them for him, in the very vases his 
 father had bought to hold his orchids the night of the 
 Christmas Eve party. It seemed years ago, Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge thought, and yet it was only about seven weeks. 
 
 Grisel had objected strongly to the Wicks being in- 
 vited. She pretended to be very annoyed with Oliver 
 for what she called his idiotic and underbred behaviour 
 that night when she had come in after the dinner-party. 
 
 "He's sure to be tiresome again, mother. His peculiar 
 brand of humour doesn't happen to appeal to me." But 
 when Mrs. Walbridge had suggested to Paul that the 
 Wicks were not absolutely necessary to his birthday 
 party he declared pettishly that there wouldn't be any 
 party if it wasn't for Jenny Wick. She was the best 
 accompanist he had ever had, and an extremely nice girl 
 not a bit like her cub of a brother. 
 
 Grisel might, of course, have dined out, but, like many 
 other families, although they quarrelled with each other, 
 and did not particularly like each other, the Walbridges 
 yet hung together in a helpless, uncongenial kind of way, 
 and always remembered and mildly recognised each oth- 
 er's birthdays. 
 
 Grisel came downstairs while Maud was putting the 
 last touches to the red and white roses that had been 
 Paul's choice. The girl had a new frock of black, with 
 heavy gold embroidery, and though very pale and heavy- 
 eyed, her beauty was undeniably growing, as the baby 
 curves left her face and what can only be called the ele-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 207 
 
 gance of its bony structure became more apparent. Her 
 jaw-bone was a thing of real beauty, and the likeness 
 of her brow to her mother's was very great. 
 
 "Oh, Grisel, what a love of a frock!" Maud cried, 
 kissing her. "Where did you get it?" 
 
 "Greville and Ross. Glad you like it." 
 
 Maud settled the last Jacquemenot in its place, and 
 put her arm round her sister's waist. "Let's go into 
 the drawing-room," she said. "I'd hate going upstairs. 
 Never, never again shall I have another baby." 
 
 "You look beautiful, Maud," the girl assured her 
 earnestly. "It suits you somehow." 
 
 "Nonsense! But what's the matter with you, dear? 
 You look tired out." 
 
 "Yes, I've been making a fool of myself. Three 
 dances in the last five days." 
 
 "When's John coming home?" 
 
 They sat down on the uncomfortable sofa under the 
 gilt mirror, and Griselda leant back against a non-exist- 
 ent cushion, and sat up with a little scowl. 
 
 "Oh, he will be back in a day or two, thank goodness. 
 Oh, Maud, I have missed him so; you have no idea," 
 she insisted, "how much I have missed him!" 
 
 Before her marriage Maud Twiss, who, after all, was 
 nine years older than Grisel, had been rather jealous of 
 her little sister's greater charm and beauty. But since 
 she had been married her feelings had changed and the 
 sisters had grown towards each other a little. Hermione 
 had always been more selfish than Maud, and, besides, 
 she and Grisel had much the same hair and profiles, so 
 the youngest girl had always been inclined to like the 
 eldest one best. They sat there on the sofa discussing 
 things in general, but avoiding two subjects the divorce
 
 208 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 and Oliver Wick. Fortunately the Gaskell-Walkers ar- 
 rived before the Wicks, and shortly after the arrival of 
 Jenny and Oliver, Bruce Collier turned up with a young 
 Frenchman as fifth man. 
 
 Everyone had some kind of present for Paul, who 
 accepted them with extreme seriousness and regarded 
 himself most unusual in a young Englishman as the 
 legitimate centre of attraction of the evening. Paul had 
 a disconcerting way, for all his disagreeable mannerisms 
 and selfishness, of doing certain things that reminded his 
 mother almost unbearably of his babyhood and little 
 boyhood. And this evening, as he stood, as pleased as 
 possible, at the little table where all his presents were 
 spread out, she wondered if the others were as struck 
 as she was by the incongruity of his manner. Red- 
 headed little Jenny Wick, who stood near her, read her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Isn't he funny," the girl said in an undertone, shak- 
 ing her fat silk curls and wrinkling up her snow-white 
 but befreckled little nose. "He's just like a baby. I 
 wish I had brought him a rattle." 
 
 "They're all like babies," murmured Mrs. Walbridge 
 absently, her eyes fixed on space. "Every one of them." 
 
 "Have you heard the news?" the girl asked, mysteri- 
 ously, drawing her hostess a little to one side, under 
 pretence of looking at a picture near the mantelpiece. 
 
 "News! No, what news?" Poor Mrs. Walbridge 
 started, for, at the present crisis in her life, all news 
 seemed to point towards her own domestic trouble. 
 
 Jenny looked very wise. "He'll be telling you himself, 
 no doubt, but I don't mind telling you first. It's Oliver." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge looked at young Wick, who was talk- 
 ing, with every appearance of complete happiness, to
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 209 
 
 Hermione, with whom he was very good friends. 
 "What is it?" she asked. "I've not seen him for nearly 
 a fortnight." 
 
 "I know. He's been very busy. The fact is he's en- 
 gaged to be married, and we see hardly anything of him, 
 mother and I." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge felt the ground rock under her feet. 
 How could it be possible that Oliver Wick was engaged 
 when only a few nights ago he had sat before her in the 
 room downstairs shaken to the heart by misery about 
 Grisel? "Are you are you sure?" she faltered. 
 
 Jenny laughed. "Well, I ought to be. W T e hear noth- 
 ing but Dorothy from morning till night that is, when- 
 ever we do see him, he talks of nothing else. And isn't 
 it ridiculous, her name's Perkins?" 
 
 "Dorothy Perkins! That is a coincidence. I'm sure 
 I hope they'll be very happy. Does your mother like 
 her?" the poor lady murmured, trying to get her bear- 
 ings. 
 
 "Oh, we've never seen her, mother and I. She lives 
 at Chiswick and her mother's an invalid, so she hardly 
 ever leaves her. We've seen her picture, though, and 
 she's lovely." 
 
 Dinner was announced at that moment, and Mrs. 
 Walbridge, never as long as she lived, could remember 
 one thing about the meal, except that young Latour, who 
 sat next to her and knew not a word of English, had the 
 most beautiful manners she had ever seen in her life, 
 and really almost made her believe almost, but not 
 quite that the few remaining crumbs of her schoolgirl 
 French that she was able to scrape together and offer 
 him, were not only comprehensible but eloquent. He 
 was a very small young man with black hair, so smooth
 
 210 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 and glossy that it looked like varnish, and a long, long 
 white nose, sensitive nostrils and bright darting eyes 
 like those of an intelligent bird. Bruce Collier, who 
 prided himself on his perfect French, tried at first to 
 translate the conversation of the young man and his 
 hostess to each other, but "Mossioo Latour," as Mrs. 
 Walbridge laboriously called him, waved aside his of- 
 fered aid with a cigarette-stained, magnanimous hand. 
 
 "Mais non, mais non, melez vous de vos affaires, mon 
 cher," he protested, "Nous nous entendons parfaitement 
 bien, n'est-ce pas, Madame Vollbridge ?" 
 
 And Mrs. Walbridge nodded and said, "Oh ooee." 
 She said "oh ooee" rnany times, also "Je ne say pas" 
 and "N'est-ce pas." And she loved the young man for 
 his painstaking courtesy. But after a while he drifted 
 naturally into a more amusing dialogue with Hermione, 
 whom he obviously admired very much, and Mrs. Wal- 
 bridge was left to her confused realisation of the utter 
 perfidy of man. Oliver Wick engaged! She would 
 have been burnt at the stake for her belief in the reality 
 of his love for Griselda ; yet there he was, radiantly 
 happy, chattering and joking with everyone in turn, and 
 no doubt, the mother thought, with most unjust and in- 
 consequent anger, the picture of that Dorothy Perkins 
 in his pocket. And she looked at Griselda's over-tired, 
 nervous little face and hated Oliver Wick. 
 
 " The Wicks, who were spending the night with some 
 friends in the neighbourhood, were the last to leave, for 
 Jenny and Paul (who had sung a great deal and un- 
 usually well during the evening) had some new songs to 
 try. So after all the others had gone, the two went to 
 the piano and set to work on seriously trying over some
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 211 
 
 rather difficult music of Ravel and some of the more 
 modern Russians. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge, Grisel, and Oliver sat by the fire, Oli- 
 ver extremely busy roasting chestnuts, which he offered 
 in turn to his hostesses on an ash-tray. He was squat- 
 ting in front of the grate, laughing and jesting with 
 every appearance of an almost silly satisfaction with life, 
 and when at last, even Mrs. Walbridge refusing to eat 
 any more burnt chestnuts, he rose with a sigh and sat 
 down between them. 
 
 "What a delightful evening," he said. "That's a 
 lovely gown, Grisel. I don't think I ever saw you look 
 better." 
 
 "Thanks," she murmured. 
 
 "When's Sir John coming back?" 
 
 She started and looked at him in surprise; it was the 
 first time that he had mentioned Sir John's name that 
 evening. 
 
 "He'll be back the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "You must be awfully glad," he said sympathetically. 
 
 There was a little pause while the music rose to a 
 loudness greater than was comfortable as a background 
 to conversation. Then he said gently, "I'm sorry I 
 made such a fool of myself the last time I saw you, 
 Grisel. I meant it, you know. I was perfectly serious > 
 puppy love, you know ! Heavens, how I must have bored 
 you! Well, it's all over now and I've made my man- 
 ners. And now," he added with a look of proud shy- 
 ness in his face, "I've got something to tell you." 
 
 "Yes?" Grisel murmured. 
 
 "It's this. I I'm engaged to be married to the sweet- 
 est girl in all the world." 
 
 The words seemed vaguely familiar to Mrs. Wai-
 
 212 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 bridge, and then she realised that she had written them 
 often. 
 
 "Her name is Perkins, isn't it?" said Mrs. Walbridge 
 kindly, but with ludicrous effect. 
 
 "Mother!" said Grisel sharply. 
 
 Wick took a leather case from his pocket. "Here's 
 her picture," he said. "You're the very first people I've 
 shown it to, except my dear old mother and my little 
 sister." 
 
 This, too, seemed vaguely familiar to the novelist. In- 
 deed, she had a feeling that none of the conversation was 
 true that she was writing it in one of her own books. 
 
 Grisel took the photograph and held it towards her 
 mother; they looked at it together. 
 
 "Oh, she's beautiful!" Mrs. Walbridge cried in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 He nodded. "Isn't she? And this picture isn't half 
 good enough. You see, her colouring is so wonderful !" 
 
 "She's lovely," Grisel said slowly, "simply lovely. I 
 think I've seen her somewhere, too." 
 
 He took the photograph and gazed at it in dreamy 
 ecstasy. 
 
 "If you ever had," he said, "you couldn't possibly 
 forget her." Then he added shyly to Mrs. Walbridge, 
 "Isn't it wonderful that such a girl could ever have 
 looked at a fellow like me?" 
 
 Paul's beautiful voice, so utterly unlike himself, rose 
 and fell softly in a charming song of Chausson's about 
 lilacs, and there was a little silence for a^ minute. 
 
 "Mrs. Perkins is an invalid," Oliver went on at last, 
 when he had put the picture away in his left-hand breast 
 pocket, "so my poor girl hardly ever leaves her. She's 
 a most devoted daughter."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 213 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" he asked turning deferentially 
 to Grisel. 
 
 "Oh, no I didn't say anything. Do tell us more 
 about the Perkins family," she said with a grand air. 
 
 "About the father and mother? Oh, there isn't much 
 to tell. Except that they have managed to produce 
 Dorothy. The father's a painter a very bad painter. 
 A charming old man. Looks like William de Morgan; 
 big forehead, you know white hair. They are very 
 poor, but of course that doesn't matter." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge was beginning to feel more comfort- 
 able, and shook her head in unqualified assent. 
 
 "Of course it doesn't, as long as you love each 
 other." 
 
 "Ah!" the young man murmured, his voice ringing 
 unmistakably true, "I love the girl all right." 
 
 "She'll value your constancy, I should think," Gri- 
 selda drawled, "ridiculous creature that you are," 
 
 He gazed at her humbly. 
 
 "You're quite right to laugh at me," he returned, "I 
 did make a perfect fool of myself about you, but, after 
 all, I'm not so very old, you know." 
 
 "How can you be sure," she asked, trying to look like 
 a dowager, "that you really do love now ? I should think 
 that you'd be a little nervous about it/' 
 
 The music had ceased, and his sister came forward. 
 
 "Come along, Oily, we must be off. It's frightfully 
 late." 
 
 She began to roll up her music, and Wick answered 
 Griselda's question. 
 
 "I'm perfectly sure," he said gravely, "that I've found
 
 214 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 my girl what poets call my mate. And I shall love her 
 till I die." 
 
 "I hope you will, I'm sure," put in Mrs. Walbridge 
 warmly, to cover Grisel's unkind air of distance. And 
 when she had let the Wicks out of the door with Paul, 
 she hurried upstairs to reprove her daughter for her un- 
 sympathetic manner, but Griselda had gone to bed.
 
 EARLY the next morning old Mrs. Wick, who also had 
 been spending the night in town with the friends where 
 her children were staying, was gratified, while she was 
 still in bed, by a visit from her son, who burst into the 
 room apparently more than delighted with himself and 
 the way his particular world was wagging. 
 
 "A most beautiful party, mother," he exclaimed, 
 wrapping himself up in her eiderdown, for his pyjamas 
 were old, and worn, and chilly. "And the wretch looked 
 lovelier than ever." 
 
 "I hope you aren't going to backslide, Oliver," shei 
 said severely, taking her spectacles out of their old case 
 and putting them on so that she might look at him over 
 their tops. 
 
 "Oh, dear no, but I don't mind owning to you, mother, 
 that if it wasn't for Dorothy, I might be in danger! 
 She used to be a fairy princess, but now she's a princess 
 of ideal royalty. Such a beautiful gown worth, I'm 
 sure, twenty-five guineas, and a little string of lovely 
 pearls his gift, and the big ruby. I shall never," he 
 added thoughtfully, "be able to dress poor Dorothy like 
 that." 
 
 His mother regarded him suspiciously. 
 
 "Oh, go on," she said, "with your Dorothy." 
 
 He rose, and did a few steps of the "Bacchanal a la 
 Mordkin," whistling the music through his teeth. "Speak 
 not, oh aged one," he then cried, striking an attitude, 
 
 215
 
 216 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "with disrespect of the moon-faced and altogether irre- 
 proachable Dorothy." 
 
 Mrs. Wick shook her head. "I'm really sorry for you, 
 Oliver," she said. "You're so silly, and as to your 
 Dorothy Perkins, I believe her name's Harris." 
 
 He grinned. "Well, perhaps it is. After all, there's 
 very little difference between Perkins and Harris. And 
 it's done the trick. Oh, mother, you should have seen 
 me! I was an absolute gem of half-shamefaced love- 
 sickness." 
 
 "I don't see why you had to tell all that rubbish to 
 Jenny and me," the old woman protested, a little of- 
 fended, rubbing her nose with her thumb. 
 
 "But of course I had to ! Jenny's seeing that soft idiot 
 of a Paul every day, and would be sure to give it away." 
 He chuckled. "I saw her whispering it as a great secret 
 to the old lady and she was so surprised she never ate a 
 bit of dinner it was a good dinner, too." 
 
 "You're a rascal," his mother declared comfortably, 
 "and you deserve to have her marry twenty old gentle- 
 men." 
 
 He sat down, his face suddenly grave. 
 
 "Ah no, mother. All's fair in love and war. I haven't 
 yet made up my mind which of the two this is, but it's 
 one. She's a pig-headed little brute, my lovely love 
 is, and as obstinate as a mule. She's made up her mind 
 to marry this man and be rich and comfortable, and I 
 don't think anything on earth could have stopped her, 
 
 except " he grinned wickedly, "just this jealousy. 
 
 She nearly died with jealousy before my eyes. Ah, if you 
 could have heard her! Tlease tell us more about the 
 Perkins family,' " he mimicked, "and her little chin went
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 217 
 
 further and further in the air. She hated me like hell! 
 but, oh, she loved me !" 
 
 A maid knocked at the door and brought in a little 
 round tray with a cup of tea on it. 
 
 "Your tea's in your room, sir," she said. And then he 
 sent her to bring it to him. 
 
 "I want you to go and see them, mother. You aren't 
 to go and tell Jenny, mind you, that that her name's 
 Harris, but I want you to go to 'Happy House' what 
 a name for it, by the way! and tell them all sorts of 
 things about the Perkins. Don't forget that they live 
 at Chiswick, and that the old man's an unsuccessful ar- 
 tist miniatures," he added thoughtfully, "is his line, 
 and Mrs. Perkins is an invalid. 
 
 "Yes, I know. You told us that. What's the matter 
 with her? Heart disease, I suppose." 
 
 "Not at all. Stomach. She never digests anything 
 except what do you call it koumiss. Yes, she lives 
 on koumiss." 
 
 "When are you going away, Oliver?" the old lady 
 asked presently, between two sips of what is to Britons 
 closer to nectar than any other liquid on earth. 
 
 "Either to-night or to-morrow. And oh, I forgot, 
 don't say anything to them the 'Happy House' people, 
 I mean about me and my doings." 
 
 "Why, don't they know about Sparks?" 
 /'Nope. They don't know anything about what has 
 been happening lately. They think I'm still the penniless 
 reporter. That's very important, too. It's the penniless 
 reporter Miss Minx has got to propose to, not the latest 
 and favourite discovery of the Great Chief." 
 
 "I don't think that's quite fair," his mother said.
 
 218 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "After all, it's a great deal to expect any girl to marry 
 a young man who is penniless as well as a nobody." 
 
 "But I'm not a nobody, and I'm going to be a very 
 big somebody, and she ought to know that I shall be a 
 success. Did the girl think," he added angrily, waving 
 his arm, "that I would let her starve, or send her on 
 the stage to keep me? No. She ought to have under- 
 stood, and now she's got to be punished." 
 
 She felt, this wise and clever old hen, that this hatch- 
 ling of hers was not even an ordinary barnyard duck; 
 that he was a wild, alien bird, capable of almost any 
 flight. 
 
 "Well, my dear, your description of Dorothy Perkins 
 has rather made my mouth water," she declared, as he 
 rose and took a look out of the passage to see if he could 
 nip back unobserved to his room (he had forgotten to 
 bring his dressing-gown). "Such a lovable, home-keep- 
 ing, devoted daughter you made her!" 
 
 "Exactly. Where I was canniest though," he re- 
 turned, "was when I made her perfectly lovely as well. 
 That little brute would never believe in a plain girl." 
 
 "But where did you get the photograph? It really 
 is exceptionally lovely." 
 
 "I bought her at a photographers in Birmingham, 
 when I was there the week before last. I had to take 
 the man out to lunch to persuade him to sell it. She's 
 an Irish girl was governess to some rich Jew in Edg- 
 baston, and she married a vet. in the army, and has gone 
 to Egypt, so it's as safe as a church. Now mind, moth- 
 er," he bent over and kissed her, and gave her a little 
 hug, "mind you don't give it away to Jenny. I shall 
 be back in about a week, and you must keep the flag 
 flying for me while I'm away."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 219 
 
 "All right, dear, I will. I don't like telling lies, but 
 I do it very well when I want to. Any brothers and sis- 
 ters the Perkins's, I mean?" 
 
 "No. Only child. I'm going to lunch to-day," he 
 said, "with some of our other editors ahem! I see 
 myself being very chummy with the editor of the English 
 Gentleman. Oh, Lord!" 
 
 "Yes, dear. Wait a minute, Oily. Just suppose," his 
 mother said, looking at him seriously over her glasses, 
 "just suppose that things did go wrong, and that after 
 all she married Sir John Barclay." 
 
 He stood still, put his hand on the door, an almost 
 grotesque figure in his faded pink and white striped 
 flannel pyjamas. 
 
 "I don't know," he said slowly. "It would be pretty 
 bad, mother; worse than you think." After a pause 
 he shook his head and opened the door wide. "It isn't 
 going to happen," he said, "and I'm not going to weaken 
 myself by looking at the bad side of things." Then he 
 went out and she heard his door close. 
 
 An hour later, as Oliver went downstairs to breakfast, 
 the telephone bell rang and, as he was expecting a call 
 from the office, he answered it. The thing buzzed for 
 a minute and then he heard a voice say, "Is is that 
 Mr. Catherwood's house?" 
 
 Putting his hand over the receiver and turning his 
 head well away, the young man answered in a loud and 
 fervid whisper, "Yes, you blessed lamb, you little darling 
 devil, it is Mr. Catherwood's house!" Then he took 
 his hand away and said in an affected voice, "Yes, 
 moddom." 
 
 "I have tried three Catherwoods in the book," con-
 
 220 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 tinued the voice, struggling with nervous hesitation. "I 
 don't know the Christian name of the one I am looking 
 for, but is there a Mr. Wick staying there?" 
 
 "Yes, moddom." 
 
 "Will you please call him to the phone. Tell him it's 
 Miss Griselda I mean Miss Walbridge Bridge 
 B-r-i-d-g-e." 
 
 Dancing with joy, his voice perfectly steady, he pre- 
 tended to misunderstand her. "Miss Burbridge, 
 moddom ?" 
 
 "No, no oh," and a little troubled sigh chased the 
 laughter from his face. 
 
 "I'll call him," he said, almost forgetting himself and 
 adding "moddom" spasmodically. Then after a moment 
 he spoke in his own voice. "Hallo, what is it? Is it 
 you, Grisel?" 
 
 "Yes, oh Oliver, I have had such a time getting you. 
 Listen, we're in awful trouble. Guy's dying in Paris 
 and they have telegraphed for mother to come. The 
 telegram came late last night. She's never been out of 
 England in her life and hasn't the slightest idea how to 
 travel and and Paul won't be able to go; he couldn't 
 get a pass now the Peace Conference is on a friend of 
 his tried last week in almost the same circumstances, 
 and he couldn't " 
 
 "I know, I know." 
 
 "Mother wants you to come round and tell her about 
 things. Paul will go to the Foreign Office for her, but 
 she knows you know Paris well, and then you can tell 
 her about getting there trains, and so on, on the other 
 side of the channel. Will you come ?" 
 
 He came perilously near forgetting the Perkins's at 
 that moment.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 221 
 
 "I'll come at once. Perhaps you'll give me some 
 breakfast?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, anything. Do come." 
 
 Then he added, "What a pity Sir John isn't here. 
 He would have been a great comfort to you now." 
 
 "Yes," vaguely, "wouldn't he? Oh, we're all so 
 frightened about Guy." 
 
 "What's the matter with him, do you know?" he 
 asked, as Mr. Catherwood came downstairs and nodded 
 to him through the banisters. Grisel explained that it 
 was pneumonia following on "flu," and he heard her 
 blow her poor little nose. 
 
 Promising to come round at once, he went and ex- 
 plained to his host, and ten minutes later jumped out 
 of his taxi and ran up the steps of "Happy House." 
 
 Grisel and Mrs. Walbridge were at breakfast, but Paul 
 had hurried off straight to the house of some minor 
 Foreign Office official whom he happened to know. 
 Mrs. Walbridge already had her hat on, he noticed, and 
 anything more helpless and pathetic than her haggard, 
 tear-stained, bewildered face Oliver thought he had 
 never seen in his life. She kissed him absent-mindedly 
 as if he had been a son, and he sat down and Grisel plied 
 him with food. 
 
 Grisel, who had been crying (for she and Guy were 
 nearly of an age and had always been fond of each 
 other), said, "You never saw him he is such a dear! 
 Oh, it's too cruel to have fought all through the war, 
 and now " 
 
 "Hush, hush," he said, patting her wrist with a fine 
 imitation of brotherly detachment, "give the poor boy 
 a chance. Who sent the telegram?" 
 
 "A nurse."
 
 222 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "H'm. Where is he?" 
 
 "He's at a private hospital. The telegram's in mother's 
 bag." 
 
 As she spoke, the maid brought in the letters, and 
 Grisel looked through them listlessly. One, addressed 
 in firm, bold writing to herself, Wick knew instinctively 
 must come from Sir John. There was only one for 
 Mrs. Walbridge, and as Grisel handed it to her mother 
 she said: 
 
 "Don't open it, dear. I'm sure it's only a bill." Mrs. 
 Walbridge did not even look at it. 
 
 "What time does the train start," she asked im- 
 patiently. "Oliver, you must help me. I've never been 
 out of England, and I can't speak French." 
 
 Grisel opened her letter and read it through indiffer- 
 ently. "John will be back to-morrow night." 
 
 "Oh, then you'll be all right, darling," Mrs. Walbridge 
 returned. "You'd better go and stay with Hermy. Or 
 would you rather have Miss Wick come and stay with 
 you here?" 
 
 "I don't want anyone to come and stay with me, and 
 I don't want to go to Hermy's. I shall stay here, where 
 I belong. Oh, mother, mother, if only we knew if only 
 we knew" 
 
 She bent down over the table and burst into tears, 
 crying into her poor little handkerchief, that Wick saw 
 had already received more than its share of moisture. 
 He took a nice clean handkerchief from his own pocket, 
 and gave it to her. 
 
 "Take this," he said kindly. "It's got some Florida 
 water on it too." 
 
 She took it, between a laugh and a moan, and buried 
 her face in its happy folds. Then he took out a notebook
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 223 
 
 and his famous fountain pen, and began to scribble. 
 
 "Are you writing notes down for me?" Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge asked. "Put down all the little things. Re- 
 member that I know absolutely nothing about travel. 
 Oh, if only Paul could have gone with me." 
 
 He noticed that neither of them had mentioned, or 
 apparently so much as given a thought to the absent 
 husband and father. 
 
 "Paul couldn't get a permit, as you said on the tele- 
 phone. Things have tightened up worse than ever now 
 that the Peace Conference has really begun." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge nodded. "I know." 
 
 He rose and put his pen in his pocket. "I must be 
 off now," he said. "I've several things to do. Can you 
 arrange to go by the one-thirty train ?" 
 
 "Yes. Paul rang up this Mr. White, and he said he 
 would manage to pull it through." 
 
 "Good." The young man went to the desolate little 
 woman and put his hand on her shoulder. "Cheer up, 
 Mrs. Walbridge," he said. "Lots of people pull through 
 pneumonia, and I believe Guy's going to. I have a kind 
 of feeling that he is." 
 
 She smiled at him, a little consoled, as one often is by 
 just such foolish hopefulness. 
 
 "If only there wasn't that Conference," she said, 
 beautifully disregarding the world's interests, "then Paul 
 could come with me." 
 
 "Well, Paul can't, but now, listen to me I can, and 
 I'm going to." 
 
 She stared at him. "To the station, you mean?" 
 
 "No, I don't. I mean to Paris. Now you mustn't 
 keep me. I've got a thousand things to do, but I'll be 
 here in a taxi at twelve o'clock. Shall I get the tickets?"
 
 224 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Oh, yes, do. Oh, how good you are !" In her relief 
 and gratitude she leant her head against his shoulder and 
 cried a little. Grisel looked on, very pale and tense. 
 "Can can you leave Miss Perkins?" she asked for- 
 lornly. 
 
 For a moment he trembled on the brink of abject 
 confession. Then he girded up his loins. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said. "She'll quite understand. Very 
 understanding girl. I I'll ring her up from the office." 
 
 "If if you'd like to ring her up from here" Grisel's 
 voice shook a little, and he bent his face over Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge's jaded hat to hide a smile of triumph that he 
 could not repress "mother and I will be upstairs in my 
 room with the door shut." 
 
 "No, thanks. I've got to get to the office anyhow, 
 and I'll ring her up from there."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 GUY WALBRIDGE did not die. He was very ill, and 
 many weeks passed before his mother could bring him 
 back to England; but after the first part of her stay 
 in Paris he was out of danger, and her letters, particu- 
 larly those she wrote to Caroline Breeze, showed that 
 she was having a happy time. One of these letters had 
 perhaps better be given, as it explains a good many 
 things. She went to Paris on the I3th of February. 
 This letter was written the first Tuesday in March, and 
 was dated at a boarding-house in the Rue St. Ferdinand. 
 One evening after dinner Grisel, to whom Caroline had 
 brought the letter in the afternoon, according to direc- 
 tions in it, read it aloud to Oliver and Jenny Wick and 
 Sir John Barclay, as they sat round the fire in the girls' 
 room. 
 
 "She really seems to be having a good time," Grisel 
 began, taking the thin sheets out of the envelope and 
 throwing the end of her cigarette into the fire. "I'm 
 glad too. She needed a change." 
 
 Barclay smiled at her. "Isn't it," he asked, "the first 
 change your mother has ever had?" 
 
 She nodded. "Yes. I know you think we're awful, 
 the way we treat her, John," she added, "but she never 
 wanted to go away. I think her best holidays have 
 always been when we were all off staying somewhere, 
 and she had the house to herself." 
 
 "I don't," commented Jenny Wick, with a shrewd 
 
 225
 
 226 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 little grimace. "I think she likes best to have you one 
 at a time all to herself." 
 
 Oliver said nothing. It was the second time that he 
 had been to the house since his return, but the first in 
 which he had been there quite in this way en famille 
 for the two brothers-in-law were there on the other 
 occasion, and there had been things about the journey 
 to Paris that he had not cared to tell them. 
 
 "Well, never mind that," he said. "Go on with the 
 letter." 
 
 " 'My DEAR CAROLINE/ The first part's about oh, 
 about Caroline's landlady's twins not very interesting. 
 Let me see. Oh, here we are: We've been for a long 
 drive in the Bois de Boulogne. You've no idea how 
 different it is from Hyde Park, but it's very nice, just 
 the same.' " 
 
 "Speaks the Islander," from Wick. 
 
 "'It is very cold here, colder, I think, than London, 
 but it's clear and sunny. I feel very well, and in the last 
 few days I have begun to get fatter; you'll be surprised 
 to, hear, Caroline, that I've had to let out my afternoon 
 
 dress. I got a very nice piece of ' Oh, I won't read 
 
 this." 
 
 "Yes, do," shouted Oliver. "I want to know what 
 she got a nice piece of." 
 
 ' 'Of lace at the Galleries Lafayette, and a little 
 woman here has made me a fichu that quite brightens up 
 the old black satin/ Isn't she a dear ? '/ went to Notre 
 Dame this morning. It's beautiful, and I like the homely 
 way poor people come in and say their prayers for a few 
 minutes and then go out again. There were two market 
 baskets full of vegetables just inside the door this morn- 
 ing, and a flower-girl burning candles before a statue.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 227 
 
 Of course it's idolatrous, but it's a very pretty custom/ ' 
 
 Oliver laughed. "Imagine one of the Piccadilly Circus 
 flower-girls strolling in for a moment's spiritual comfort 
 to Westminster Abbey !" 
 
 " 'I bought some very nice scones at a little shop near 
 the Louvre, and Guy did enjoy them with his tea. But 
 guess what they cost, my dear. Fifty centimes apiece 
 sixpence! The prices here are perfectly dreadful. Oh, 
 I bought E. V. Lucas's "Wanderer in Paris," and go out 
 for a couple of hours every day, when Guy doesn't want 
 me, with it, and it's very delightful. Paris must have 
 changed very much, and no one could call it gay now, 
 and I never saw such deep mourning in my life. Half 
 the women are in black, real old-fashioned widows' 
 weeds, not like our war widows' little ballet skirts. 
 
 '' 'It's quite as east-windy and dusty as London, and 
 the taximen are perfect fiends. They say that the fam- 
 ily of anyone killed by a vehicle is obliged to pay jot 
 obstructing the traffic. Of course if this is. true, it 
 explains why they drive so fast' " 
 
 Sir John laughed. "This, I take it, is the novelistic 
 imagination of which we hear so much." 
 
 ' 'Thanks very much for sending me "Haycocks" and 
 "Bess Knighthood." I've read "Haycocks," and like it 
 very much in some ways, but as for "Bess Knighthood," 
 how could it have taken that prise? Fancy getting a 
 thousand pounds for such a book! I saw it at Brentano's, 
 and the man told me everybody was reading it. I think 
 it's rather a cruel book, and I don't believe any family 
 could really be quite so horrid' " 
 
 Grisel looked up. "That's true. They were perfect 
 brutes, weren't they? Poor old Mum! I suppose she's 
 a little jealous. I loved it myself!"
 
 228 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "It's going to be dramatised. Did I tell you, Grisel?" 
 Wick lighted a cigarette as he spoke. "It'll make a 
 splendid play. I never heard of the author before, did 
 you? E. R. East. Man or woman?" 
 
 "Oh, woman, of course. No, I don't think I ever 
 heard of her before. What a wonderful thing," Grisel 
 added, "to get a thousand pounds prize just for writing 
 a, story." 
 
 "Just for writing a story." Wick grinned. "Philis- 
 tine!" 
 
 "Oh, mother speaks about that listen: 
 
 " 'Do you remember that day, Caroline dear, when you 
 wanted me to write a book for the competition? Just 
 imagine "Sunlight and Shadow" or "One Maid's Word" 
 being judged by the Committee that awarded that thou- 
 sand pounds!" 
 
 "Poor mother. I musn't forget to tell her when I 
 write that Mr. Payne wrote a very nice letter about her 
 new book. It's coming out in a few days. I do hope 
 it'll be a success, poor darling. You know, it's a dreadful 
 thing, John, but I can't get through a book of mother's 
 nowadays." 
 
 "Can't you, my dear?" 
 
 "No. They are about such dull people. I wish I 
 liked them, because she must know I don't." 
 
 "Oh, she's used to that," he answered. "Paul is re- 
 markably frank about it. But go on ; finish the letter." 
 
 The next page was devoted to a description of the 
 famous pictures and statues which Mrs. Walbridge was 
 making a point of seeing. It was plainly a* surprise to 
 her that this had turned out to be not altogether an 
 unpleasant fulfilment of duty. 
 
 " 7 really love some of the pictures,' she explained
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 229 
 
 naively, 'and I almost forgot to come home for lunch the 
 day I went to the Luxembourg. Some day I shall try to 
 make time to go to the National Gallery.' '' 
 
 Wick groaned. "Oh oh dear! She's like a child," 
 he said. "Why, do you know, she positively trembled 
 with excitement when the train stopped and she first 
 noticed one of those long, straight roads edged with 
 poplars the kind that are always in illustrated maga- 
 zines. She even thought the fisher wives with their caps 
 picturesque. I'm going to take her on some sprees in 
 London when she gets back. We're going to the Tower 
 together, and she wants to see the Cathedral at St. Al- 
 bans." 
 
 ( 'There's a lady in the house,' " Grisel began again, 
 after an unamiable glance at the young man, " 'who's 
 been buying clothes to go to South America with. Yes- 
 terday I went with her to two or three dressmakers, and 
 the things really are lovely, Caroline. Of course they 
 seem very young, and one or two of this Mrs. Hammer- 
 ton's would have looked to me childish on Grisel, but it's 
 the fashion here, and they certainly do wear their clothes 
 better than we do. I've got a lovely hat for Grisel 
 black. (All the prettiest hats seem to be black.) And 
 Hermy will be delighted with an evening frock I have 
 got for her. Maud's box went off the other day. You 
 never saw such darling little things in your life. I wish 
 I could be home to help nurse her, but Dr. Butler won't 
 let Guy come back for a long time yet, and he wants us 
 to go to Cannes at the end of next week. Doesn't it 
 seem odd that I should be travelling about like this at 
 my time of life? I wonder if the Mediterranean really 
 is as blue as people say! I wish Oliver was going to be
 
 230 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 here. I rather dread the journey, although Guy really 
 speaks good French now. 
 
 " 7 wish, my dear, you would go and see Ferdie and 
 look over his things. It would be perfectly safe for you 
 to go, as you aren't one of the family. I had a very nice 
 letter from him the other day about Guy, of course 
 but he seems to feel it rather difficult to look after his 
 own underclothes, and so on. I don't suppose he has a 
 whole sock to his name ' " 
 
 Grisel broke off and looked round her audience. "Isn't 
 that just like Mum?" she said. "I suppose she'll be 
 mending Mrs. Crichell's no, Mrs. Walbridge's things 
 by this time next year." 
 
 "I saw Crichell to-day," said Sir John gravely. "The 
 case is down one of the first in the Trinity term. They've 
 got all the evidence and so on. Ugh! What a beastly 
 business it is! The woman ought to be whipped; and 
 
 as for your father, my dear " He broke off, and 
 
 Grisel laughed. 
 
 "Oh, go on. Don't spare father. I'm sure I don't 
 mind what you say about him. Paul saw him dining 
 somewhere with the lady who has sold herself as scape- 
 goat. I should think there would be a good deal of 
 money in that kind of job nowadays. Quite an idea!" 
 she added flippantly. 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Grisel." It was Jenny who spoke. 
 
 But Grisel sat with the letter on her lap. An idea 
 had occurred to her an idea that would have occurred to 
 anyone less self -engrossed than she many weeks before. 
 
 "John," she burst out, "is father still in that office 
 of yours?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 231 
 
 "But but how can he stay? Wouldn't you rather 
 have him go?" 
 
 Barclay came back to his chair. "No," he said quietly. 
 "I prefer to have him stay." 
 
 "But " She flushed and rose. "But how can he 
 
 stay and take your money when you feel about him as 
 you do?" 
 
 "It's quite all right, my dear. Business is one thing 
 and friendship another." 
 
 But she over-rode his words. "Nonsense! You only 
 gave him a job well, it's a kind of charity now that 
 you're no longer friends." 
 
 "Nonsense, Grisel." It was Wick who spoke. "You 
 don't seriously think that Sir John would have given 
 your father the job unless he knew he was going to be 
 useful? Business men don't do that kind of thing. Isn't 
 that right, sir?" 
 
 Barclay bowed his head. "Yes. It is your father's 
 knowledge of French that is of value to me. His domes- 
 tic difficulties have made no change in that." 
 
 Grisel had forgotten all about little Jenny, with whom 
 she was not very intimate, and went on rapidly, her 
 pride aflame. 
 
 "Is he going to stay on in your in your employ, then, 
 after his marriage to that disgusting woman?" 
 
 "I hope so. You forget," Barclay added in a grave 
 voice, "that if your father were not working he would 
 
 be unable to continue to support your mother and " 
 
 he hesitated a little "you." 
 
 She shivered and went to the fire. "I see. Yes, I 
 see," she murmured. Then she picked up the letter 
 again, and read them a detailed account of what 
 the doctor had told her mother about Guy's condition.
 
 232 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 The letter ended by asking Miss Breeze to take it to 
 "Happy House," as the writer was too busy to set it 
 all down a second time. 
 
 Grisel folded it up, and put it back into the envelope. 
 
 "My mother had a note from her," Wick remarked, 
 "two or three days ago, it was. And she sent Jenny 
 two pairs of gloves. I like to think," he added, "of her 
 there in Paris running about with the E. V. Lucas under 
 her arm, seeing things she has always heard of. She 
 also," he added, "wrote a charming note to Miss Perkins." 
 
 "Did she ? Has Miss Perkins written to her ?" 
 
 He nodded. "Yes. She was awfully touched by the 
 letter. So was Mrs. Perkins. Your mother's promised 
 to go and see them as soon as she gets home." 
 
 Grisel smiled with a touch of condescension. "By 
 the way, as she's so confined to the house by her mother's 
 health, you might take me to see her one afternoon. 
 Or or Sir John would let us go in the car." 
 
 Sir John nodded. "Any day you say, my dear." 
 
 Wick was terrified for a moment, and then agreed to 
 the proposal with becoming enthusiasm. 
 
 "That would be kind of you," he answered. "I've 
 been longing to suggest it, but didn't quite like to." 
 
 She looked at him sideways, and he saw her knuckles 
 whiten. 
 
 "When can you go?" he went on, pursuing his ad- 
 vantage with a beaming face. "Could you go to-mor- 
 row?" 
 
 "Fm afraid I've got to go to Derby," Sir John put 
 in. "I'm motoring two men down on rather important 
 business." 
 
 "And on Friday," Grisel added hastily, "I've an 
 engagement."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 233 
 
 "What about Saturday?" he insisted, thoroughly 
 enjoying himself. 
 
 "Saturday I'm going to be with Maud all day." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "There you are ! Always 
 busy. But I do want you to meet Doll. I'm sure you'll 
 like her. She's awfully interested in you. I think," 
 he added fatuously as his downright little sister stared 
 at him in amazement approaching open-mouthed aston- 
 ishment, "she was inclined to be well, it sounds ridicu- 
 lous, but girls are all alike to be a little jealous of you 
 just at first, Grisel. But of course that's all right now." 
 
 Grisel tossed her head. "I should think so," she 
 retorted. 
 
 Sir John watched them with a puzzled look in his clear 
 eyes. Their talk seemed to him to be in surprisingly 
 bad taste. He had noticed before that the subject of 
 Miss Perkins seemed to bring out in them both a quality 
 that he could not define, but that he greatly disliked, and 
 it was odd that Grisel at such moments displeased him 
 far more than young Wick. He was a clear-sighted man 
 who had seen a good deal of the world, and pf course 
 it had not escaped him that Wick must only very recently 
 have been in love with Grisel, for sometimes he had 
 caught in the young man's eyes a look that was at least 
 reminiscent of a stronger feeling than Miss Perkins 
 might have approved of. He felt a mild curiosity about 
 Miss Perkins, whose photograph he had seen, and whose 
 beauty was undeniable, and he remembered that the last 
 time Wick had been at the house he had dropped on the 
 floor, and left, a fat letter in a delicate grey envelope, 
 addressed in a pretty hand, and that Grisel, who had 
 found it, remarked, as he propped it up against a brass
 
 234 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 candlestick: "Chiswick postmark. Miss Perkins, of 
 course." 
 
 Barclay reflected, as he walked home that night, that 
 if it were not for Miss Perkins he should feel extremely 
 sorry for young Wick. He liked the boy. He liked him 
 for his initiative and general air of success. Incidentally 
 he knew through a friend who was high up in the hier- 
 archy in Fleet Street, of which the head was a man whom 
 Oliver called his Chief, of this youth's recent and rapid 
 promotion, and the confidential position to which he had 
 been raised over the heads of dozens of more experienced 
 and older men. He had said nothing of these things at 
 "Happy House," and so far as he could judge Oliver 
 was regarded there still as the unimportant, though 
 pushful reporter, who had been sent to write up Her- 
 mione's wedding in, the previous July. Why the young 
 man was concealing his remarkable advance Barclay had 
 no idea. But he did not consider it his business to tell 
 what he knew, and even Wick himself had no idea of 
 his rival's information. "The beautiful Miss Perkins," 
 the elder man thought, as he walked along in the bright 
 moonlight, "will be My Lady before she has been mar- 
 ried five years, or I'm very much mistaken." 
 
 Meantime, Wick, who now had a room in a little blind 
 alley off Fleet Street, was toiling upstairs thoroughly 
 tired in every sense. He had expected Miss Perkins to 
 effect a quicker revolution than she had been able to do. 
 He was overworked, for the great man who had taken 
 him in hand was testing him at every point, and things 
 were not being made easy for him; that was not the 
 great man's way. He had, moreover, to contend with 
 the very natural jealousy of a good many men at the 
 office, over whose resentful heads he had been promoted,
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 235 
 
 and their protests were none the less bitter because they 
 were forced to be silent ones. Criticism of the Chief's 
 plans, or even whims, were not tolerated in Fleet Street. 
 Wick found his work hampered and retarded in every 
 possible way, but he was too clever to speak a word of 
 protest during his rare but fruitful interviews with the 
 "Boss," whose eyes twinkled as he asked him each time 
 that they met: "Well, Mr. Wick, things going well, 
 I hope?" And Wick, knowing that he knew (for he 
 knew everything) , that things were being made damnably 
 hard for him, invariably answered with a corresponding 
 twinkle and a pugnacious tightening of the lips: "Top- 
 hole." But now, after this second evening he had spent 
 at "Happy House" since his return from Paris, he was 
 worn out and discouraged, and he sat down on the edge 
 of his bed, the moonlight pouring in through the un- 
 curtained window, and allowed his face to drop and line 
 without restraint. 
 
 "I'll go and see mother to-morrow," he said aloud, 
 "and tell her all about it. She'll set me right, if I'm 
 settable. The only decent thing in the whole world is 
 that Mrs. Walbridge is having the time of her life in 
 Paris, bless her! What a stupid letter!" He took a 
 letter from his pocket and tossed it on to the dressing- 
 table. "I wonder what they would say if they could 
 read mine ! Ah, well." 
 
 As he got into bed and blew out his candle, he groaned 
 heavily. "Damn Miss Perkins," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ONE day in early May Sir John Barclay, who had been 
 lunching at "Happy House," managed to slip as he went 
 down the steps into the garden and tore the tendons 
 away from one of his ankles. Grisel telephoned for the 
 doctor, who bound it up and gave Sir John, who was 
 suffering acute pain, a quietening draught of some kind, 
 and went away leaving Grisel and her lover in the dismal 
 drawing-room alone together. 
 
 "Did it hurt much ?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 He nodded, "Yes, ridiculously. It is odd how a little 
 injury like that can hurt so much more than a good 
 many serious ones." After a moment he added, looking 
 thoughtfully at her as she moved about setting the room 
 to rights, "It is exactly the same with mental pain, too, 
 my dear. Ever noticed that?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" She turned at the door, grasp- 
 ing the basin of cold water in which the bandages had 
 been wetted. 
 
 "I mean that some little annoyance or disappoint- 
 ment," he went on slowly, feeling his way, "often causes 
 one more real discomfort than a big blow would." 
 
 She nodded listlessly. "I suppose so. I'll be back in 
 a minute, John." 
 
 The strengthening spring sunshine fell through a 
 window full on his face as he waited for her to come 
 back, and there was something very thoughtful and a 
 little sad in his strong blue eyes. In spite of his white 
 
 236
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 237 
 
 hair he looked very young for his years, and his face, 
 finely modelled and dignified, held a look of mental 
 clarity and freshness, that, combined with its dominant 
 expression of quiet energy, was very striking. But a 
 heat wave had been hovering over London for the last 
 three days and the humid warmth had tired everyone, 
 and even he looked a little fagged. 
 
 As Grisel came back and drew together the hideous 
 lace curtains that the doctor had wrenched to the ends 
 of the poles, he said gently: 
 
 "This heat is exhausting you, my dear. You look 
 fagged and worn." 
 
 "Why not say hideous at once?" she laughed, with 
 a little edge in her voice and her slim hands moving 
 restlessly as she sat down. 
 
 "For two reasons, the first is that you are not looking 
 or never could look hideous; the second that I am too 
 old and too old-fashioned for the brutal frankness that 
 seems so popular nowadays." After a moment he added 
 quietly, "I leave that kind of downrightness to younger 
 men such as Oliver Wick." 
 
 She started. "Oliver Wick's manners are perfectly 
 abominable, and they seem to get worse. The beautiful 
 Miss Perkins does not appear to have a very good influ- 
 ence on him." 
 
 John Barclay's blue eyes did not waver from her face. 
 
 "And yet," he said, "there is no doubt, at least to my 
 mind, that the young man is very much in love." 
 
 "Oh, he's always very much in love," she retorted, the 
 edge in her voice sharpening. "Why, it is only nine 
 months ago that he was making a perfect fool of himself 
 about about a friend of mine." 
 
 Barclay nodded. "Yes, I gathered from something
 
 238 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 his mother said that the young lady with the floral name 
 has not the advantage of being his first love. I suppose 
 the girl the other girl," he took a cigarette case from 
 his pocket and lit a cigarette, "didn't care about him." 
 
 Grisel rose. "Oh, give me a cigarette. Care about 
 him? I should think she didn't. He bored the life out 
 of the poor girl with his scenes and and," she struck 
 a match, "his absurd white face." 
 
 "Dear me, I should have called him rather brown!" 
 commented Sir John mildly. "Quite a brown young 
 man, I should have said." 
 
 "Oh, yes, but he used to turn white, and all those 
 hideous lines in his face used to look suddenly so sharp 
 and and so deep." 
 
 "Very emotional he must be. You knew the young 
 lady well, then?" 
 
 Grisel shot a quick glance at him. "Yes yes, I did. 
 She was a friend of mine. She has she is in South 
 America now." 
 
 "I see. But we are digressing. What I started to say 
 was that as you are looking so tired, and as it is so 
 frightfully hot, and as my foot is going to make me 
 pretty useless for a few days, suppose we go for a little 
 motor tour?" 
 
 Her face brightened, "Oh yes, let's. Couldn't we go 
 to the sea, John, I I think the sea up north somewhere 
 would brace me I mean all of us up and make us feel 
 better." 
 
 "Good! What do you think of Yorkshire, Whitby 
 or Robinhood Bay? Could you start to-morrow?" 
 
 She flushed with pleasure and came over and kissed 
 his forehead, at which he smiled a little sadly in his 
 growing wisdom.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 239 
 
 "We can get Caroline to go with us," the girl resumed, 
 sitting down on the sofa and smoothing the shawl which 
 she had spread over his bandaged foot. "Poor old Caro- 
 line, she never gets any pleasure, and she will love it." 
 
 "I think perhaps you had better ring up Jackson" 
 (he gave the number) "and tell him to get the car ready 
 for a long run to-morrow; and if you and Paul don't 
 mind, and will put me up to-night, you might tell Jackson 
 to send Bob up with my clothes and things. It would 
 not hurt this foot to be perfectly quiet till we start, and 
 Bob can make the compresses, and bandage it, as well as 
 any doctor." 
 
 After a little pause she answered, "Yes, that would 
 be splendid. You can have mother's room, and Bob 
 can sleep in in the dressing-room. Shall I go and tell 
 Caroline ?" 
 
 "No, go and telephone." He repeated the number. 
 "Better get Jackson at once. By the way, Miss Perkins' 
 young man will be coming in this afternoon, won't he?" 
 
 She nodded, "Yes, oh dear, I had forgotten. He and 
 Jenny are coming to dinner. Paul has a lot of new 
 Russian music " 
 
 Barclay sat there and listened to her pretty voice at 
 the telephone, the thoughtful look in his face deepening 
 though not saddening, and when she came back he asked 
 her abruptly if she thought Paul and Jenny Wick were 
 falling in love with each other. 
 
 She stood in a pool of sunlight on the other side of the 
 mantel-piece, twisting the ruby on her finger. She had 
 grown a little thin during the hot weather, and her slight, 
 graceful figiire looked almost too unsubstantial in the 
 little dove coloured frock.
 
 240 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Paul and Jenny?" she murmured, "I don't know, 
 John, I have been wondering myself." 
 
 "Would you would you like it if they did?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know. I like Jenny very much; she is too 
 good for Paul, really." 
 
 He nodded, "Yes, I see what you mean, but on the 
 other hand she draws out the very best that there is in 
 the boy." 
 
 "Paul is not a boy, he's thirty." 
 
 "Thirty is boyhood to fifty-three," he answered 
 smiling. "I like the little lady with her edible looking 
 curls, and her music is real music, based on the best 
 things in her; music is no good at all when it is built 
 only on the emotions. Of course, if they do marry, the 
 energetic journalist would be almost a member of the 
 family he and his wife." 
 
 Grisel laughed and gave a comic shiver. "Oh dear, 
 oh dear, then I should have to live cheek and jowl with 
 perfection; it would be dreadful." 
 
 "By that time, dear," he said gravely, "you and I 
 will not be living exactly cheek and jowl with anyone at 
 'Happy House.' " 
 
 "No, no, of course not. I was only thinking" she 
 broke off a little confused, and he laughed. 
 
 "Oh, John," she said, "you are such a dear and I am 
 so fond of you! You always make everything so much 
 nicer and so much easier to bear." 
 
 As she spoke Jessie came in with the tea tray, and 
 when she had gone out, and Grisel was pouring out the 
 tea with sudden gaiety and high spirits, Barclay went 
 on as if they had not been interrupted : 
 
 "That sounds almost as if you had things to bear."-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 241 
 
 Her eyes darkened. "Well, haven't I ? After all, it's 
 not very pleasant to have one's own father make such 
 a ridiculous fool of himself as my father is doing. I 
 suppose you saw that article in the Express yesterday?" 
 
 He nodded, "Yes/ a very decent little article; the 
 papers have behaved very well on the whole, considering 
 that he is, well your mother's husband." 
 
 She looked at him blankly and then understood. "Oh, 
 mother's books you mean! Yes, I suppose that does 
 make it a little better known, the divorce business, I mean 
 poor mother !" 
 
 "Why poor mother, Grisel?" 
 
 "The books, you know," she returned vaguely, stirring 
 her tea. "They they are so awful, John." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 She nodded. "Yes. So old-fashioned and sentimental 
 and utterly unreal. I have not been able to get through 
 one for years." 
 
 "Haven't you ?" he answered reflectively. "I read one 
 the other day, and, thanks I suppose to my own old- 
 fashionedness and sentimentality, I quite liked it." 
 
 "Not really! What was it?" 
 
 "It was called, I think, The Under Secretary.' " 
 
 She nodded, "Yes, that's one of the best ones, and you 
 know it used to be very popular. The later ones are 
 awful, and, oh, John," the girl's beautiful face was filled 
 with real sympathy, " 'Lord Effingham' was perfectly 
 dreadful you know she tried to modernise it you 
 never read such hopeless stuff in your life." 
 
 "Yes, I looked at that one day somewhere. It struck 
 me as being very pathetic, Grisel." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose so, but then 
 lots of other writers have changed with the times
 
 242 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 advanced I mean only mother seems to have stuck back 
 in the eighties somewhere. It is not so much that her 
 stories are bad," she went on with an air of disinterested 
 criticism that rather jarred on her hearer, "it is the way 
 she tells them that is so so hopelessly out of fashion. 
 Why just look at Marjory Brendon, and Miss Thirsk 
 and Eugene and Olive Parker, their books are just as 
 hopeless as mother's from a literary point of view, but 
 they sell like anything because they're modern." 
 
 "Yes, I am not much of a novel reader," he said, 
 "and when I do read a novel I like the old ones, Dickens 
 and Thackeray and so on, but I must say I do not see 
 much of the modern ones that are considered literary. 
 The two or three I have struck have been either deadly 
 dull in their wealth of utterly unattractive details, or so 
 filthy that they ought to be burnt; that book Paul lent 
 me, for instance, 'Reek,' is not fit for any decent young 
 woman to read." 
 
 Grisel nodded, "Yes, it is horrid. I began it, but 
 mother wouldn't let me finish it. I love 'Haycocks,' don't 
 you?" 
 
 He shook his head. "No. Of course it is beautifully 
 written, but people with such undeveloped minds and 
 such lack of knowledge of anything except turnips and 
 sheep, don't interest me." 
 
 "That is the one my mother likes. Yes, I know what 
 you mean about the turnips," the girl added thought- 
 fully, "but I suppose it is a perfect picture of the lives 
 of such people. It is selling splendidly. I like 'Bess 
 Knighthood' better, only I don't believe any family 
 could be so horrid to each other. Yet it is told in an 
 odd, attractive way. Mother couldn't bear it, yet it got 
 the 1,000 dollar prize. 'Young Bears at Play' was the
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 243 
 
 book I liked best of all. Oliver gave us those two, and 
 I laughed till I was limp over it. Betterton is a funny 
 man." 
 
 They talked on and on very pleasantly, very cosily, 
 and as the draught given him by the doctor began to 
 take effect Barclay's eyes grew heavy and his voice grad- 
 ually softer; finally his head fell back against the pillow 
 and he slept. 
 
 Grisel sat for some time looking at him in his un- 
 consciousness, and it seemed to the girl that she was 
 really seeing for the first time this man who was to be 
 her husband. She studied his face closely; its well 
 marked eyebrows and strong serene mouth ; a good face 
 it was, she saw, the best of faces. And then she gave a 
 little shiver and rose, for somehow the intimacy of the 
 little scene was painful to her. 
 
 After a minute she went quietly out of the room and 
 down into the garden. A little wind had risen as the 
 sun began to go down, and the leaves in the big elm 
 tree were stirring with small, brisk sounds, as if they, 
 too, felt better for the coolness. The sky was unusually 
 bright in its hard blueness, and the two lilac bushes, one 
 purple and the other white, that had been gently grilling 
 all day, sent out strong waves of sweetness as they 
 swayed in the freshening air. Grisel Walbridge sat 
 down on the steps and gazed out across the garden. One 
 or two of the earlier rose bushes were starred with half- 
 open buds, and a patch of some intensely yellow flower 
 in one of the pathetic herbaceous borders caught her eye 
 so yellow it was that it looked like a pool of concen- 
 trated light an altar of sunshine, the girl thought ab- 
 sently. Then her mind went back to the sleeping man in 
 the drawing-room. "How handsome he looked," she
 
 244 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 said to herself resolutely. "How kind his face is, and 
 how strong. I certainly am a very lucky girl." Yet 
 somehow she seemed to know better than ever before 
 what it was she was really doing in marrying this kind 
 powerful man. Strong and placid and handsome as he 
 undoubtedly was, the relaxation of sleep had revealed 
 one thing very clearly to her. His face was as smooth, 
 and more unlined than that of many much younger men 
 whom she knew the flesh looked firm and sound, and 
 the muscles were shapely and did not sag, but she moved 
 restlessly and leaning her head against the hand-rail on 
 which a climbing rose had swung its first clumps of thick 
 pink blossom. "He's old," she said, "old." In her se- 
 curity of perfect solitude she had, without knowing it, 
 spoken aloud, and Oliver Wick, who had come down the 
 passage noiselessly, on rubber-soled tennis shoes, heard 
 her, without her having heard him, and for several min- 
 utes he stood in the doorway quite motionless, his white 
 flannelled figure sharply outlined against the inner dark- 
 ness, his tennis racquet in his hand, listening, as it 
 seemed to him, to the repeated echo of her words. They 
 seemed to go on for a long time, the words, "He is old 
 he is old." 
 
 Presently he tiptoed back into the house and a moment 
 later came bounding out into the sunshine very noisily, 
 so noisily that she turned with an irritated frown, and 
 on her seeing who it was her frown deepened. "Oh, it is 
 you," she said ungraciously, "I thought you were coming 
 to dinner, you and Jenny." 
 
 "We are; Jenny is spending the night with Mrs. 
 Gaskell-Walker, and I am at the Catherwoods." 
 
 "I see. Will you come upstairs? Sir John is asleep
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 245 
 
 in the drawing-room. He has sprained his ankle and is 
 asleep." 
 
 Wick expressed proper regret at the accident, but 
 declined to go in. 
 
 "I have a message for you," he went on, sitting down, 
 pulling up the knees of his trousers, "from Dorothy. 
 She's awfully sorry to have missed you on Tuesday." 
 
 "Yes, I was sorry too, but I thought you quite under- 
 stood that I was going to tea with Hermione." 
 
 He shook his head. "No, I muddled it somehow, fool 
 that I am. And about Monday, I am afraid it is no good 
 after all, for she is going to Birmingham to see her 
 grandmother, who is ill. She had a wire while I was 
 there last night." 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry," Grisel said stiffly, picking a cluster 
 of pink roses and smelling them. "I hope the old lady 
 will soon be better." 
 
 Mr. Wick had apparently great faith in the recupera- 
 tive powers of his betrothed' s grandmother. 
 
 "Oh, she'll be all right; they are a splendidly healthy 
 family, the Wandsworths. It is her mother's mother, 
 you see." 
 
 Grisel looked at him. "Mrs. Perkins herself does not 
 seem to be like the rest of them, then," she suggested 
 maliciously. 
 
 He did not flinch. "No, poor thing, she's the exception 
 that proves the rule. She's always bemoaning it. How- 
 ever, they are trying massage now, a peculiar kind of 
 massage and dumb-bells, and I really believe it is going 
 to do her good." 
 
 Grisel nodded indifferently. "I hope so, I am sure. 
 Have you been playing tennis?"
 
 246 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Yes, Joan Catherwood and I had four sets. She 
 beat me hollow, too. How pretty these roses are !" 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, aren't they; I love them." Then 
 she stroked her cheek with a pretty cluster as if it had 
 been a powder puff. 
 
 Wick picked a bunch and smelt it. 
 
 "Lovely things," he murmured in a rather maudlin 
 voice. "I am glad you like them, Grisel." 
 
 "Glad? Why?" 
 
 His small eyes looked at her reproachfully. 
 
 "My dear girl," he said, "don't you understand, don't 
 you realise why they are my favourite flowers?" 
 
 She stared for a moment and then rose impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, of course, 'Dorothy Perkins/ " she said shortly. 
 "Come along in, it's too hot here." 
 
 As he followed her, Mr. Wick treated himself to a 
 silent chuckle, and kicked over the edge of the veranda 
 the clump of roses she had dropped.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 CAROLINE BREEZE'S diary at this time contained several 
 items that bear on the history of that year at "Happy 
 House." Miss Breeze had indeed been glad to chaperon 
 Griselda to Yorkshire, and the journey and short stay 
 there was to her delightful in every respect. 
 
 "Sir John," she wrote on one occasion, "is the most 
 chivalrous man, his manners are perfectly beautiful. 
 One would think by his politeness to me that it must 
 be me he was engaged to (which, of course, in point of 
 years might be considered more suitable), and not Grisel 
 at all. He behaves as if she was not exactly a daughter, 
 but a niece he was very fond of." 
 
 In another place she gives way to reflection about 
 Grisel herself. "A very much spoiled girl. I suppose 
 her winter with the Fords at Torquay has turned her 
 head a little, for I am sure she never used to be so change- 
 able and hard to please. She is almost fretful sometimes 
 and dear Sir John is so patient with her. He is a wonder- 
 ful man. He seems to have taken a great fancy to that 
 tiresome Mr. Wick, and he has invited him down here 
 for Sunday. (This was written at Whitby.) I am sorry 
 he is coming and so is Grisel. She told me yesterday 
 that he bores her to death. It rather surprises me, for 
 he never struck me as exactly a bore." 
 
 Then a little later she describes the visit. 
 
 "Mr. Wick has been to Weston-super-Mare to see 
 Miss Perkins, who is there with some friends, after 
 
 247
 
 248 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 nursing her grandmother. Grisel was quite cross with 
 him and although, of course, one sympathises with the 
 young man's raptures about his sweetheart, I must admit 
 he rather rubs her in Miss Perkins, I mean. 
 
 "Sir John seems very much interested in Miss Perkins, 
 and, if she had come to Scarborough as she intended at 
 first, he was going to take us over in the car to see her. 
 I am quite sorry her friends decided to go to Weston- 
 super-Mare instead, for I should love to see her. They 
 are going to be married in November, and really Mr. 
 Wick's expression when he talks about her is very nearly 
 ridiculous." 
 
 A week later the diary goes on : 
 
 "We are going back to-morrow, for Paul has had a' 
 wire from dear Violet, saying they are leaving Cauterets 
 and coming to Paris on their way home. I shall be glad 
 to see Violet, it seems years since she went. Oliver is 
 going to bring them back from Paris, where he has gone 
 in connection with the signing of the Peace. Miss 
 Perkins has written a charming letter to Grisel ; she must 
 be a lovely girl. 
 
 "Grisel and Sir John are to be married in October/ 
 as he has to go to the Argentine at the end of that month 
 and she wants to go with him. I hope the change will 
 do her good, for she really looks ill and doesn't seem at 
 all herself." 
 
 Mr. Wick about this time writes to his mother from 
 Paris. 
 
 "It was wildly successful, but I nearly broke down a 
 dozen times, sometimes into a roar of laughter and 
 sometimes into tears of pity. She does so hate my 
 poor Dorothy, mother, she is as jealous as a Turk and
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 249 
 
 so in love with me that I wonder everyone in the 
 world doesn't see it, but they don't, I rather had some 
 doubts about Sir John once or twice, he is no fool, and 
 I have caught him looking at me in a rather under- 
 standing way. He displays an almost suspicious in- 
 terest in my young woman. I made a little slip and 
 had her headed for Scarborough, but I saw in his eyes 
 a plan for driving us all over there to see her, so I had 
 Billy Barnes wire me from Birmingham that their 
 plans were changed and I packed them all off to 
 Weston-super-Mare, a place that I am sure Dorothy 
 would enjoy if she really existed. 
 
 "There is only one thing, mother dear, that disturbs 
 me at all, and that is Sir John Barclay. He is a splen- 
 did old fellow and I am afraid he is going to be upset 
 over our marriage. Hoivever, that can't be helped, 
 and after all a man of his age has no real right to 
 romance! That belongs to us" and so on and so on. 
 
 On the morning after her return Grisel came down- 
 stairs to find a telegram just being handed in at the door. 
 It was addressed to her and announced that her mother 
 and brother would arrive that night. It was from Wick, 
 dated Paris. She was a little late that morning, and 
 Paul had nearly finished his breakfast when she opened 
 the dining-room door. 
 
 "They are coming to-night, Paul," she said. "This 
 wire has just come from Oliver." 
 
 Paul slew a wasp on the edge of his jam-baited plate 
 and then took the telegram. 
 
 "Good!" he said. "I shall be glad to see them, and 
 Guy will like those new songs of mine; we must get 
 Jenny to come in to-morrow night and I will sing them."
 
 250 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 She sat down. 
 
 "You like Jenny very much, don't you?" she asked 
 gently. 
 
 He looked up, his clever face, sometimes so highly 
 repellent, almost tender. 
 
 "Jenny is a dear," he declared, "she is the best 
 accompanist I have ever had and her taste-of music is 
 perfect." 
 
 Grisel, who had poured out her coffee, leaned her 
 chin on her clasped hands and looked at him thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "It is not only the music, you know," she said, "I 
 think it is her kindness that I like so much. Although 
 she is so little and quick, her mind always seems to jump 
 towards the nice things in people instead of like us 
 we always jump towards the faults. Instinctively, we 
 seem to, don't we, Paul ?" 
 
 He was silent for a moment, apparently studying with 
 deep interest the remains of the wasp on his plate. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose we do. You and I and Hermione 
 certainly do. We get that from our beautiful father, 
 no doubt. Mother and Maud are different, but then, 
 of course Jenny Wick has had a great pull in her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Wick is a fine old " he paused, and added 
 
 gravely, "fellow. That's what she is like, a fine old man, 
 whereas our father was always like a spoilt, and not 
 fine woman. By the way," he suddenly felt in his 
 pocket. "I had a letter from father last night. He seems 
 to be in trouble of some kind." 
 
 "He would." Grisel answered indifferently. "Per- 
 haps Clara Crichell is sick of him; I should think she 
 would be by this time." 
 
 Paul tossed the letter to her across the table.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 251 
 
 "All she ever saw in him was his looks," he answered, 
 "and he is looking particularly handsome just now or 
 was three weeks ago. Barclay keeps him pretty busy 
 and he is on the water wagon, so as far as his beauty 
 goes he is flourishing like a rose." 
 
 Grisel opened the letter, which was written in pencil 
 on a half sheet of paper. 
 
 "Dear Paul," it said, "let me know when your 
 mother is coming back, as I must see her. What on 
 earth is she doing in Paris so long? They say every- 
 thing is frightfully expensive there now. 
 
 "Thanks for sending me my bathing suit, I have 
 had one or two good swims and feel the better for 
 them. 1 have been trying to find new rooms. This is 
 an awful hole I am in, but London is so full of those 
 beastly Colonials and Americans that I cannot get in 
 anywhere. 
 
 "Is Grisel all right? I saw her sitting in Sir John's 
 car in front of Solomons the other day, but she did not 
 see me. I WAS ON A BUS. / thought she looked seedy. 
 Do write and tell me the news, and mind you let me 
 know as soon as you know when your mother and 
 Guy are coming back; it really strikes me as very odd 
 her galloping about France like this at her age. 
 "Your affectionate father, 
 
 "FERDINAND WALBRIDGE." 
 
 "Characteristic, isn't it?" Paul asked. 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, very. Something has happened 
 to upset him. Wouldn't it be awful, Paul," she added, 
 unconscious of any oddity in her speech, "if Clara 
 chucked him after all and we had to take him back!" 
 
 "Take him back, indeed !"
 
 252 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Yes, mother would, you know, if he came to grief." 
 
 He rose. "Not while I'm alive, she won't," he said, 
 with the amazing firmness of the powerless. "Well, I 
 must be off. I will send up some flowers if I can find 
 any that are not a guinea a bloom." He hesitated and 
 turned at the door. "Will you ring up Jenny and say 
 they are coming, or shall I? They might dine instead 
 of to-morrow " 
 
 "You don't want Jenny here the first night they are 
 back, do you?" 
 
 "Well, yes; to-morrow would be better, of course, but 
 I have just remembered that I have an engagement to- 
 morrow. Mother likes Jenny she's never in anybody's 
 way and it will cheer Guy up to hear some music after 
 his journey." 
 
 He went out, leaving his sister smiling over the peculiar 
 and highly characteristic logic of his last speech. How 
 like Paul! She knew that Oliver Wick would be sure 
 to come straight to "Happy House" with his charges, 
 because there was luggage to be seen to and carried up, 
 and a thousand little matters to be settled before he went 
 off to Brondesbury, so it would be after all only natural 
 for him to stay and have a bit of dinner before he went 
 on to Brondesbury, and as for Jenny, she was staying, 
 as she so often did, with Joan Catherwood. 
 
 Barclay, who was going away in a day or two, was 
 to have taken her out to dinner, but she rang him up at 
 his office and asked him to dine at "Happy House" 
 instead, he being, as she told herself with decision, one 
 of the family. She gave the number and after the usual 
 delay a voice from the office answered her. 
 
 "Hallo, yes, you wish to speak to Sir John. Who is 
 it, please?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 253 
 
 Grisel started, for it was her father's voice speaking 
 to her. 
 
 "It is Miss " she began nervously, and then mak- 
 ing a face at herself, she went on, "It is Grisel, father. 
 Is John there?" 
 
 Ferdie Walbridge's soft voice had an unmistakable 
 thrill in it as he spoke again. 
 
 "Oh, it is you, dear ! How are you, Grisel, and when 
 is mother I mean your mother coming home?" 
 
 "They are coming to-night; Paul had a wire this 
 morning from Mr. Wick." 
 
 There was a little pause and she could almost see her 
 father's beautiful, self-indulgent face sharpen for a mo- 
 ment with surprise. He had a way at such moments of 
 catching his underlip sharply back with his white teeth, 
 and inflating his nostrils. This she knew he was doing 
 now. 
 
 "To-night! Dear me, I hope they will have had a 
 good crossing." Then he added pitifully, "Dear me, 
 Grisel, is it not strange that I should not be there 
 when they come?" 
 
 Grisel laughed. "Well, really, father!" she said. 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know. Of course, it is all my own 
 fault," he was playing on his voice now, and it was very 
 pleasant to hear, although she despised him for doing 
 it. "But when you are my age, my child, you will know 
 that habit is a great thing and that old ties are not easily 
 broken." 
 
 "I know that already," she snapped, "I thought it was 
 you who didn't." 
 
 After a pause, feeling that he was about to become 
 lyrical, she cut him short by asking pleasantly: 
 
 "How are the Crichells?"
 
 254 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 There was a pause and then he nobly replied : 
 
 "Poor Crichell, for whom I am very sorry, is coming 
 back to-day. He has been in Scotland and er Mrs. 
 Crichell " 
 
 "Oh, don't mind me, father, call her Clara," she inter- 
 rupted, conscious of and quite horrified by her own bad 
 taste, and yet somehow unable to keep back the words. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. Clara is staying with some 
 friends in Herefordshire." 
 
 "Well," she went on with a change of tone, "will you 
 tell John I am here, and want to speak to him?" 
 
 Again she could almost see her father gazing at her 
 with noble reproach. 
 
 "I will tell him," he said with magnificent rhythm and 
 throb in his voice. "I will tell him, my child, that you 
 are here " 
 
 Then, knowing that he would add "God bless you," 
 she snatched the receiver from her ear and held it against 
 her hip so as not to hear the words. 
 
 During the morning Caroline Breeze came in to see 
 how her recent travelling companion felt after their 
 journey. The summer winds and sun that had been so 
 kind to Griselda, painting her delicate face with mellow 
 brown and dusky crimson, had attacked poor Caroline's 
 plain old countenance with unkind vehemence. Her 
 lashless eyes looked red and raw, like Marion's nose in 
 Shakespeare, and her thin and unusual cartilaginous 
 nose was not only painted scarlet, but highly varnished 
 as well and there were two little patches on her cheeks 
 that were peeling; but the good creature had no envy 
 or even the mildest resentment at fate in her long, nar- 
 row body. She was delighted to see the girl looking
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 255 
 
 brighter, and happier, and gave vent to a curious noise, 
 nearly like a crow, over the news of the arrival. 
 
 "Oh dear," she kept repeating, rubbing her dry hands 
 together with a rough scrape, "I shall be glad to see 
 Violet I shall be glad to see Violet," and then she went 
 down into the kitchen to undertake all the more tiresome 
 errands that must be done in order to achieve a really 
 brilliant reception for the travellers. 
 
 Grisel was busy all day in a pleasant, unwearying 
 manner. She filled her mother's room with flowers out 
 of the garden and arranged those sent by Paul in the 
 glasses for the table. 
 
 In the afternoon Jenny Wick arrived, with a basket 
 of green peas that had been sent to her mother by a 
 friend in the country and that Mrs. Wick had sent on 
 as a little present to the "Happy House" people. 
 
 Late in the afternoon the cook, who was Grisel's de- 
 voted slave, being very busy with some elaborate confec- 
 tions in the kitchen, the two girls sat on the back steps 
 where the Dorothy Perkins roses would, before long, be 
 in their full glory, and shelled the peas, each with a big 
 blue check apron over her frock. 
 
 "I guess this is the first time that ruby has ever shelled 
 peas," Jenny exclaimed after a while. "It is a beauty, 
 Grisel." 
 
 Grisel nodded, and her utter indifference struck the 
 other girl. 
 
 "Funny," she remarked shrewdly, "how easily one gets 
 used to things. You were nearly off your head about 
 that ruby at first, weren't you, and now you don't care a 
 bit about it." 
 
 "Oh, yes I do. It is very beautiful, but well, that's
 
 256 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 just as you say. One does get used to things some 
 things that is," she added sombrely. 
 
 Jenny, whose little cream-coloured face was peppered 
 all over with large pale freckles, like the specks in eau de 
 vie de Dantzig, added a handful of peas to the pan, that 
 glittered like silver in the bright sun. 
 
 "It's grand that people do get used to things," she 
 reflected, screwing up her little nose, "almost as good 
 as getting over things. Oh, Grisel, do you remember 
 how miserable poor Oily used to be about you?" 
 
 "Nonsense! He thought he was, but he wasn't, 
 really." 
 
 "You don't know. He was frightfully uphappy. 
 Mother and I were worried to death " 
 
 Grisel laughed. "Poor fellow. But anyhow it didn't 
 last very long, did it ?" 
 
 "No, but it would have done," Jenny agreed with a 
 shrewd shake of her curls, "if Dorothy had not come 
 along." 
 
 "We were going over to see 'Dorothy,' if she had 
 come to Scarborough." 
 
 "Yes, it was tiresome, their going to that other place. 
 Oliver has been having such fun in Paris choosing an 
 engagement ring for her; he has got a beauty, he says, 
 a very old one. An emerald with diamonds around it." 
 
 The two girls were intimate enough for Grisel to be 
 able without rudeness to exclaim at the obvious expen- 
 siveness of this choice. 
 
 "Yes, of course, it is," Jenny agreed, "but naturally 
 he would want to give her something worth while." 
 
 Grisel glanced at her big ruby and went on shelling 
 peas.
 
 THE various preparations for the dinner that night 
 turned out, however, to be more or less in vain, for the 
 travellers were delayed and did not reach the house until 
 nearly ten o'clock. Dinner had been arranged for eight, 
 and when half past eight had struck Grisel rang and sent 
 word to cook that they would not wait any longer. 
 
 "The cook," she explained to Sir John, "is a sensitive 
 soul and very particular about having her things ruined 
 by waiting." 
 
 Sir John laughed. "Well, I am glad, for my part I'm 
 hungry. The sea air has given me a furious appetite." 
 
 Little Jenny Wick looked at him thoughtfully. She 
 did not think him looking well and her bright eyes re- 
 vealed the thought. 
 
 He smiled down at her. "I know what you are think- 
 ing, Miss Jenny," he said, as if speaking to a child. "The 
 heat has fagged me a little, but I'm really very well. 
 How is your mother?" he added, for he and old Mrs. 
 Wick had struck up a great friendship and more than 
 once he had taken her for long rides in his car by him- 
 self. 
 
 Although she was the mother of so young a girl as 
 Jenny, Mrs. Wick was several years older than her new 
 friend, and treated him rather in an elder-sisterly way 
 that had a great charm for him whose people had been 
 dead for years, and who at "Happy House" was so very 
 much the elder of everyone. 
 
 257
 
 258 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 So now he was glad to hear that Mrs. Wick was well, 
 and looking forward to seeing him before long. 
 . "We must have a long spin some day before I go 
 away," he answered. "I always enjoy a talk with your 
 mother." 
 
 Jenny nodded. "So does she with you, Sir John." 
 
 "She's so glad Oily is coming back she doesn't know 
 what to do with herself," the girl added, giving a little 
 shake in a bird-like way to her pretty frilly frock, as 
 she rose to go in to dinner. "The way she prefers that 
 boy to me is simply scandalous." 
 
 Barclay laughed. "You look ill-treated. I suppose," 
 he added as they crossed the hall en masse, "Miss Perkins 
 will be very glad, too, if she is back yet, that is from 
 Weston-super-Mare !" 
 
 "Yes, she and her mother and father are at Bury St. 
 Edmunds now, with some relations of Mr. Perkins. 
 Mother went down the other day and spent a couple of 
 nights, but they could not put me up." 
 
 The dinner was rather silent, for everyone was dis- 
 appointed by the non-arrival of the travellers. Paul, 
 who was in good form and the happy temper that Jenny 
 Wick's presence always produced in him, did most of the 
 talking, for he was intensely interested in a lot of new 
 songs, Russian and Spanish, that he had just got and, 
 with the naivete that was in his case, as it so often is, 
 only a form of selfishness, he assumed that everyone else 
 was as deeply interested as he was. 
 
 Grisel, who had not seen her lover that day until he 
 arrived rather late for dinner, told him in a low voice of 
 her talk with her father on the telephone. 
 
 "He really was upset about something," she added at 
 the end of the story. "Of course, he was not so upset
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 259 
 
 as he seemed, but there is something wrong, I'm sure. 
 I believe mother would take him back if Clara Crichell 
 did not marry him after all." 
 
 "What on earth makes you think that she won't 
 marry him ?" he asked, puzzled. "No woman alive would 
 go through all this business of the divorce and the pub- 
 licity unless she really cared for the man." 
 
 Grisel shrugged her thin shoulders. "Oh, well, I don't 
 know. You see, we know him so well that I suppose we 
 instinctively fear she may have got to know him and 
 and not liked what she has learnt." 
 
 It struck Barclay as a very sad thing for a man that 
 his own daughter should judge him in this unrancorous 
 but pitiless way. 
 
 "I rather like your father, you know," he said slowly, 
 "in some ways. He is very much nicer away from home 
 than he is in it." 
 
 "He must be," she answered, with the charity of utter 
 indifference. "He must be charming somewhere, and he 
 certainly isn't when he is here!" 
 
 "It struck me the last time I saw him," Barclay went 
 on slowly, "that he was not very happy. I suppose he 
 misses your mother." 
 
 Grisel stirred, and he hastened to explain. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I mean just that misses your mother. She 
 has taken care of him for years, you know, and I don't 
 imagine Mrs. Crichell would be as patient with his moods 
 and vagaries as your mother has always been." 
 
 Then suddenly the memory of her father in his less 
 pleasant phases swent over Grisel, and her face was grim 
 and tight as she answered : 
 
 "No, and I hope she isn't! His hot milk last thing 
 at night, and his four grades of underclothing, and his
 
 2<5d HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 trouser-pressing rriachines, and his indigestion ! His hot 
 bottles in the middle of the night every time he's dined 
 too well, and poor mother poking around in the kitchen 
 heating kettles on the gas-ring! Oh, no, Mrs. Crichell 
 won't much like that side of her beau sabreur, as she 
 calls him." 
 
 After dinner, as they walked in the garden, Sir John 
 told her that he had met Walter Crichell that morning. 
 
 "The poor wretch looks miserably unhappy," he said. 
 "Those white hands of his look look shrunken in their 
 skin rather as if he had kid gloves on." 
 
 Grisel shuddered. "Ugh! his hands are loathsome! 
 After all," she added a moment later, staring at a rose- 
 bush, "there is no reason why the poor wretch should 
 be hurt like this just because he has horrid hands ! Oh ! 
 John," she cried, catching his arm almost as if she were 
 frightened, "what an awful lot of misery there is in the 
 world." 
 
 He covered her small hand with his big, strong, brown 
 one. 
 
 "Yes, dear, there is. A great deal of it is inevitable 
 and has to be borne, but the other kind the kind that 
 can be avoided ought always, I think, to be avoided. 
 It is right that it should be avoided." 
 
 She loosed his arm and looked up at him as they 
 walked on. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that when people find they have made mis- 
 takes and everyone does find that once in a while 
 I think that no consideration of pride or advantage 
 ought to stand in the way of open confession and restora- 
 tion." 
 
 There was a little pause.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 261 
 
 "You are thinking about mother and father. You 
 mean that if Mrs. Crichell finds she has been mistaken, 
 she ought to say so and go back to her husband, even 
 though people laughed at her for it." 
 
 "No, I was not thinking of the Crichells or your 
 father." 
 
 The great heat had gathered masses of thick, quilted- 
 looking clouds over London, and nervous little spurts 
 of wind startled the trees every now and then and stirred 
 the heavy-headed roses. The air smelt of dust and dry- 
 ing vegetation. 
 
 Grisel looked up. "There's going to be a storm," she 
 said. "Shall we go in?" 
 
 "If you like, dear; but the storm won't break yet 
 awhile. Though," he stood looking up at the sky for a 
 moment, his thick white hair moving, she thought, just 
 as the leaves on the trees moved in the spasmodic wind, 
 "there is going to be one." 
 
 They went slowly into the drawing-room, although 
 the others were upstairs, and Paul's beautiful voice was 
 already heard trying one of the new songs. 
 
 "Let's stay here," he suggested. "It's cooler on this 
 side of the house, and I don't feel inclined for music 
 to-night." 
 
 "Neither do I," she said, "but Paul does, so we shall 
 have it! Yes, it is cool in here. Give me a cigarette, 
 John, will you?" 
 
 He did so, and they sat in almost unbroken silence, 
 smoking. Presently the door-bell rang, and voices were 
 heard outside. 
 
 "That's Moreton and Maud," Griselda explained, 
 without rising. "They have motored up from Burnham 
 Beeches to see Guy."
 
 262 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "You ought to go up to them, oughtn't you?" he 
 asked gently. 
 
 "No; they will be all right, and they'll love hearing 
 the songs, and Paul will tell them we are in the garden." 
 Again they were silent. 
 
 The air was extremely oppressive in spite of the rising 
 wind, and Grisel's head ached faintly. Every now and 
 then one of the long lace curtains would blow into the 
 room and writhe about as if reaching for something, to 
 sink back listlessly into its place. 
 
 "How heavy the scent of those lilacs is," the girl said 
 after a while, glancing at a big bowl of them on the 
 table, and Barclay raised his head suddenly, with a new 
 look in his face. 
 
 "Yes; that brings back to me a story that I've been 
 thinking of telling you. I think I will tell you now, 
 Grisel," he said. "Something that happened in my 
 youth. My father was a parson, and there were six of 
 us children. My mother died when I was about eight, 
 and an old aunt of ours, my father's sister, came and 
 lived with us and brought us up. She was a good 
 woman, absolutely without imagination, and she looked 
 rather like Miss Breeze. When I think of my Aunt 
 Susan I always see her behind a kind of barricade of 
 baskets full of mending of all kinds. She spent the 
 greater part of her life with a boy's stocking drawn up 
 over her left arm and a needle full of wool in her right 
 hand. She did her best by us, poor woman, but she 
 bored us, every one, and I suppose she could not have 
 been very wise about our health, because before I left 
 home four of us had died, two the twins, who had 
 never been very strong of pneumonia, and the other 
 .two of diphtheria. It is not very interesting, but it ex-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 263 
 
 plains just a little the way I felt that day " He 
 
 broke off. 
 
 "I was just twenty-one," he went on, smiling at her, 
 "an awkward colt of a boy, too big for my clothes, and 
 too hungry for my father's income, and one day my 
 sister Celia, the only other one of us who lived to grow 
 up " 
 
 "I know the one who died in New Zealand." 
 
 "Yes. Well, one day Celia and I went up to Coops 
 Hall, our nearest neighbours, some people named Fen- 
 wick, to plan tennis. It was a day like yesterday, very 
 sunny and hot, and it must have been about this time 
 of the year, because the white lilacs a great clump of 
 them of which Mrs. Fenwick was verv proud were in 
 full bloom, and the air thick with their scent." 
 
 He glanced at the bowl on the table as he spoke. 
 
 "I remember perfectly well how I felt as we came up 
 the incline of the lawn to the tulip trees where two or 
 three hammocks were slung and where the Fenwick girls 
 and their brother were sitting. That is one of the mo- 
 ments in my life of which I can still always recapture the 
 very feel" After a moment he went on. "She was 
 standing, leaning on a croquet mallet, with her sideface 
 towards me. Her left profile, which was always better 
 
 than the right and still is for that matter " He 1 
 
 smiled, his face singularly sweetening at the thought. 
 
 "But, John!" the girl cried in amazement, "you ro- 
 mantic old thing, you are telling me a love story !" 
 
 He looked at her gravely. "I am, my dear. The only 
 love story I ever had until I met you." 
 
 She shrank back in her big chair as if drawing away 
 from a too close physical touch, and he went on. 
 
 "She wore a blue and white striped dress, as it used
 
 264 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 to be called in those days, bunched up at the back over 
 a bustle, and, oh dear me, how her hair shone in the 
 sun! It was rather a saintly face," he went on after a 
 moment, "but the hair was the hair of a siren, full of 
 waves and tendrils, and bewitching high lights and 
 shades. Well, I was introduced to her, and we played 
 croquet together, and then we had tea. And that was 
 all. Did you ever read a little poem, 'There is a lady 
 sweet and kind'?" 
 
 She shook her head. "No, John. You know I don't 
 like poetry much." 
 
 "Well, listen. I don't remember the exact words, but 
 it's like this : 
 
 " 'There is a lady sweet and kind, 
 Was never face so pleased my mind; 
 I did but seeing her pass by, 
 And yet I loved her until I die. 
 
 'Cupid has wounded and doth range 
 Her country and she my love doth change ; 
 But change the earth and change the sky, 
 But still will I love her till I die. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I was exactly like that romantic youth. 
 For over a quarter of a century my mind remained 
 perfectly true to the memory of that sad-faced girl in 
 the garden. She came once to my father's rectory, and 
 we played tennis, and after that I didn't see her again 
 for over thirty years." 
 
 Grisel watched him with wide, fascinated eyes, as if 
 he was someone she had never seen before. She was 
 trying to do what is so hard for a young person to do 
 look back into an old person's youth and really see that 
 youth face to face. 
 
 "Why was she unhappy?" she asked as he paused and 
 very slowly lit another cigarette.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 265 
 
 "Oh, that, too, was a romance. Hers, just as she was 
 mine. She had been sent to the Fenwicks to try to 
 distract her mind and draw her away from a young 
 man to whom she was attached." 
 
 "Did you ever tell her that you had fallen in love with 
 her?" 
 
 "Good heavens, no! I was not a lover. I was a 
 
 worshipper, and she was so beautiful, so perfect ' 
 
 He broke off. "Ah, my dear, that's the kind of love 
 that's worth having." 
 
 She watched him, her face changing to one of less 
 detached curiosity. 
 
 "Dear me, John," she said, "you alarm me, for this 
 kind of love is certainly not what you give me." 
 
 She laughed, but he looked at her very seriously. 
 
 "No," he said, "it is not. I give you the best I have 
 got, but it is not much for a young creature like you." 
 
 She flushed, and her face contracted for a second. 
 
 "Oh, I hope you don't think I am ungrateful," she 
 stammered. 
 
 He shook his head. "No, it is only that I'm wonder- 
 ing if it was not wrong of me to persuade you to accept 
 so little." 
 
 "But, John, I " 
 
 "Wait a moment, Grisel. I have been thinking about 
 this for a long time now, and this seems the right mo- 
 ment to say it. Hallo ! it's raining !" he broke off, looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 "It has been raining for a long time," she said dully. 
 "Go on, please." 
 
 The air, quickened by the quiet rush of water, came 
 in refreshingly at the window, and the music upstairs 
 had ceased, so that the silence was very perfect.
 
 266 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "I think," Barclay went on, looking at her with a 
 reassuring smile, "that it is my duty to advise you to 
 think it all over again everything." 
 
 "Oh, John," she faltered, "this is my fault. It is 
 because I have been dull and moody. You think I'm 
 ungrateful. You must think I am, but, indeed, I am 
 not." 
 
 "Any marriage that is based on gratitude," he said 
 sharply, leaning forward in the gloom, "is bound to go 
 smash. I mean exactly what I say, Grisel: you must 
 think it all over again. I have told you the truth; you 
 know just how I feel, and, of course, you have known 
 all along that you do not love me as" - he rose and 
 came slowly towards her "as, say, Miss Perkins pre- 
 sumably loves Wick." 
 
 She stood facing him with quickened breath. "Miss 
 Perkins has nothing to do with it, John," she said with 
 a quiet dignity that touched him. "If you wish to break 
 our engagement, I I am quite willing to let you do so, 
 of course, but / don't wish to break it." She turned and 
 went out of the room. 
 
 He went to the window and stood looking out into 
 the delightful rain; he could smell fresh leaves and re- 
 vived flowers; the very smell of wet dust was pleasant. 
 
 For a long time he stood there, going over in his mind 
 the scene that had just passed. It struck him as very 
 odd that Grisel had not guessed that the girl in his story 
 had been her mother. He could not, in his well-balanced 
 middle age, realise the savage strength of her youthful 
 egotism. It seemed strange to him, but it was very plain, 
 that the only interest in his story lay, to her, in the fact 
 that it explained why he had not much left to give her 
 her. The story itself seemed to her, he could see, as 

 
 HAPPY HOUSE 267 
 
 remote as if its actors had been contemporaries of Noah. 
 It was too far off for her to feel it. Quite different, 
 however, it had been when he mentioned Miss Perkins' 
 name. Half anxiously he had hoped by mentioning Miss 
 Perkins to precipitate the crisis that he felt to be on its 
 way, but nothing happened. His gun had missed fire. 
 
 "I shall have to have a talk with Mrs. Walbridge," 
 he said to himself ".t last as the clock struck half-past 
 nine. "Something has got to be done, poor little 
 thing " Then he went upstairs and joined the others.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHEN the taxi drew up at the gate, Maud and Paul and 
 Grisel ran downstairs. 
 
 Moreton Twiss, who was reading and smoking in the 
 corner, did not come to the window, and Barclay and 
 Jenny leaned out in the wet, watching the little scene 
 of greeting in the glistening band of light from the open 
 door. 
 
 Finally the house door was banged, and the taxi drove 
 away. 
 
 "Shall we go down?" Jenny asked, dancing with ex- 
 citement. "I do so want to see Guy !" 
 
 "I think we had better wait where we are. If they 
 want us they will come up here or send for us. Look 
 here, Miss Wick," Barclay went on, struck by a sudden 
 idea, "I am worried about Grisel. What do you think 
 of her?" 
 
 Jenny, whose face was contradictory in that it was 
 at once the face of an elf, and of a very practical modern 
 girl, sat down on the back of a chesterfield and looked 
 at him thoughtfully. 
 
 "I have been wondering," she said after a pause, "if 
 you noticed it too." 
 
 "Oh, then you have seen?" 
 
 Seen? Why, of course. I have never seen anyone 
 change so in my life. Everybody says she looks so much 
 better for being at the sea, but she does not. That's 
 nothing but sunburn, and she is as thin as a herring and 
 
 268
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 269 
 
 as nervous" she broke off, looking round for a simile 
 "as a wild cat. I was speaking to my brother about her 
 only the other day." 
 
 "Ah !" Something in Sir John's voice struck her, and 
 again she looked at him penetratingly. "What did your 
 brother say?" he went on, meeting her gaze. "He 
 strikes me as a pretty shrewd fellow." 
 
 "He is or ought to be but since he became engaged 
 he seems unable to think of anyone but his blessed Dor- 
 othy. He said he thought Grisel looked very well and 
 seemed extremely happy." 
 
 Sir John was silent for a moment, but the peculiarity 
 of his expression did not escape his observant companion. 
 
 "He was very keen on Grisel himself at one time, you 
 know, Oliver was," she added, "but they always fight 
 nowadays. Of course, she is not perfect like his Dor- 
 othy, but I don't mind telling you, Sir John, that if it 
 wasn't for you I should be very sorry that he ever met 
 Dopothy." " 
 
 "Do you think Grisel could ever have come to care 
 for your brother?" 
 
 Barclay's voice was very quiet and kind, but the girl 
 hesitated for a moment, eyeing him in a perplexed way 
 before she answered. 
 
 "Oh, I am sure I don't know! Rather stupid to talk 
 about it to you, anyway. I suppose " 
 
 "I don't see that at all, and I should really rather like 
 to know your opinion," he added slowly, "of my defeated 
 rival." After a pause: "I mean, what do you think 
 would have happened if he had been the successful one?" 
 
 "Well, then," Jenny said, weighing her words and 
 obviously striving for the exact expression of her 
 thoughts, "I do not think they would have got on very
 
 270 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 well if if you had not come along. You see," she 
 explained as she smiled in an encouraging way, "Oliver 
 is as clever as the Old Nick. He is so silly sometimes, 
 and talks in such an idiotic way that lots of people think 
 he must be a fool, but he isn't; and although he was so 
 in love with Grisel and you can hardly believe it now, 
 from the way he drivels about Dorothy Perkins but he 
 was in love with Grisel there was never any of the 
 'love is blind' business about him. He always saw right 
 through her." 
 
 "Poor little thing!" Barclay murmured with a laugh. 
 "Anyway, she refused him!" 
 
 "Oh, yes; but he used to go for her about things and 
 tease the life out of her. That, of course, was good for 
 Grisel. She gets too much flattery. I do hope," the 
 intelligent little creature went on, so earnestly that there 
 seemed nothing ridiculous in her assumption of equality 
 of knowledge and years with her companion, "that you 
 are not going to spoil her, Sir John !" 
 
 "I hope not. So you think that an occasional wigging 
 does her good." 
 
 "Rather! It does us all good. I know / get on a 
 high horse every now and then, and start galloping off, 
 and then Master Oliver cracks his whip, and down we 
 come in the dust, and I know it is good for me." 
 
 He liked her, liked her thoroughly, with her mixture 
 of music and sharpness; above all, he liked her for not 
 apologising for her perfectly fair criticism of her friend. 
 He was a man who inclined to be very impatient of 
 unnecessary apologies. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, as, in answer to a message 
 brought up by Jessie, they went downstairs. "Miss 
 Perkins seems to have played a rather important part in
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 271 
 
 all our lives, doesn't she? I am afraid my poor Grisel 
 could never compete with her in the matter of womanly 
 perfection." 
 
 "Oh, I don't suppose Dorothy is as bad as good 
 as Oliver thinks," the girl laughed. "No girl ever was, 
 but still " 
 
 The first thing that met Sir John's eyes as he opened 
 the dining-room door was Oliver Wick's face. Oliver 
 sat opposite him, and as Jenny went into the room 
 Barclay stood for a moment watching the scene of greet- 
 ing and exclamations and introductions, and it struck 
 him that there was something very odd in Wick's face 
 as he, too, looked on after kissing his sister. 
 
 The young man looked at once triumphant and touched, 
 and in an odd way, despite the triumph, hurt. 
 
 Barclay's impression that something very strange was 
 going on in the room strengthened as he advanced to the 
 table. Then Mrs. Walbridge, whose back had been 
 towards him, and over whose chair Jenny was leaning, 
 turned and held out her hand. Barclay stared almost 
 open-mouthed, then he fell back a step, glanced sharply 
 at Wick, whose complexity of expression had simplified, 
 he saw, to one of sheer pride of achievement and delight. 
 
 It was, indeed, Mrs. Walbridge whose hand her old 
 adorer now held in his, but it was an entirely new Mrs. 
 Walbridge. A beautifully dressed, much younger, shyly 
 self-possessed woman, whose faint blush of pleasure in 
 his plainly-shown surprise gave her an oddly reminiscent 
 look of the girl in the garden of so many years ago. 
 
 Her hair, which since he had found her again had 
 been carelessly smoothed back, and dulled from lack of 
 care, now shone almost with the old lustre, and its be- 
 witching curliness was made the highest use of. Her
 
 272 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 metamorphosis was so complete and so striking that it 
 would have been foolish to try to ignore it, and he found 
 himself saying simply as he released her hand : 
 
 "I never should have known you, Mrs. Walbridge." 
 She laughed and bade him sit down. 
 
 "I know," she said, "Paul hardly did know me as I 
 got out of the cab, did you, Paul?" 
 
 "No," the young man answered, "I was never so 
 surprised in my life." 
 
 "It is all Oliver's doing," she went on, as she began 
 her interrupted dinner. "He would have it. Wait till 
 you see some of the things he has bought me, Maud! 
 He went to all the dressmakers with me, and was so fussy 
 about my hats that I nearly threw them in his face." But 
 her smile at the young man across the table was a very 
 loving one. 
 
 He beamed back at her in a way that struck the new- 
 comer as being enviable. He himself felt suddenly very 
 old, very isolated. Violet Walbridge's husband had been 
 a dismal failure, and her children were selfish, and spoilt, 
 and not one of them, he had always thought, really ap- 
 preciated her, but here was this queer journalistic young 
 man whose odd gifts were certainly more than intelli- 
 gence and might easily be the youthful growth of genius, 
 plainly loving and understanding her like the most per- 
 fect of sons. Barclay envied her. 
 
 "I did," Oliver was saying. "With my own hand I 
 did it. With my little bow and arrow I killed cock 
 sparrow of British clothes and unselfish indifference! 
 Wait till you see the evening dress we got. My word! 
 And there's a tea-gown. We had a most unseemly scene 
 over that tea-gown; nearly came to blows, didn't we, 
 petite mere?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 273 
 
 She laughed. "I shall never dare wear it; it's the 
 most unrespectable looking garment. I only got it to 
 make him stop talking." She went on, turning to 
 Griselda, "He talked the two saleswomen nearly into 
 collapse, and the premier vendeuse went and got Ma- 
 dame Carlier herself. His words flowed, and flowed, like 
 a dreadful, devastating river, and they were all nearly 
 drowned." 
 
 "So you got the tea-gown as a plank to save them," 
 Oliver grinned. "Some day when we are married, 
 Grisel" Grisel, started violently, and after a momen- 
 tary pause, during which he bit his lip, he went on in 
 an injured voice, "What is the matter? Aren't you going 
 to be married? I certainly am! I was going to say, 
 when we are all married I can tell my wife about our 
 dreadful scenes in the lingerie shop and chez la corse- 
 tiere. Oh, la, la!" 
 
 "Oh, la, la." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge blushed scarlet, and whispered to 
 Maud, who sat .next her, that he had really been dread- 
 ful over her night gowns. "The girl who served us 
 laughed till she was black. I really don't know what she 
 thought we were!" 
 
 Guy, who was more like his mother than any of the 
 others, and who looked, despite his serious illness, partic- 
 ularly fit and well, now took up the tale and went on 
 with it. 
 
 "He is an awful fellow, really, is Wick, and I can 
 only hope his real mother has more fight in her than 
 mine." 
 
 "She's mine, too, yours is," Wick interrupted, his 
 voice steady, but his eyes bright. "She has adopted me, 
 and I have adopted her."
 
 274 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "How will Miss Perkins like this new relationship and 
 all that it entails?" Barclay asked, looking away from 
 Mrs. Walbridge for the first time for several minutes. 
 
 "Oh, she'll be delighted! She's longing to meet Mrs. 
 Walbridge and all of them, particularly, of course," he 
 added politely, "Grisel." 
 
 For some reason everyone at the table turned and 
 looked at Grisel. She was leaning back in her chair, her 
 face clearly alarmingly white, and her nose looked 
 pointed. 
 
 Paul, who sat next to her, took hold of her hand. 
 
 "What is the matter," he asked roughly. 
 
 She moved a little and forced herself to speak, "It's 
 my head. I have felt rather bad all day, haven't I?" 
 she added, turning to Barclay with pathetic eagerness. 
 
 He rose. "Yes, dear, your head was bad before din- 
 ner, even. Come, I'll take you out into the air." 
 
 Paul opened the door and Grisel and Barclay went 
 out, and the others heard the veranda door open and 
 close behind them. 
 
 "Grisel looks like the very deuce," nodded Guy gruff- 
 ly. "Can't think what you have all been dreaming of 
 to let her get into such a state." 
 
 "It really has been frightfully hot," Jenny Wick said 
 explanatorily. "I've felt like a rag all day, and Grisel 
 isn't nearly so strong as I am." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge looked anxiously at her eldest daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "How do you think she is, Maud?" 
 
 Maud shrugged her shoulders. "She certainly looks 
 bad enough to-night, but, of course, I have seen very 
 little of her our being down at Burnham Beeches 
 what do you think, Moreton?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 275 
 
 The young doctor hesitated for a moment "It is her 
 nerves," he said. "She strikes me as being a bit upset 
 about something. Most probably, poor kid, it's this af- 
 fair about about her father." 
 
 Young Wick had stopped eating, and was rolling a bit 
 of bread absently between his thumb and first finger. 
 His fair eyebrows were twisted into an odd frown and 
 his mouth was set. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge rose. "I'm going to see if she is all 
 right," she declared anxiously, but Paul put out a de- 
 taining hand. 
 
 "Don't, mother, John will look after her. He'll see 
 that she is all right. Don't worry, she is a bit run down, 
 but that is nothing. I think I know something that will 
 put everything straight," he added. "I should have 
 waited for him to tell you himself, but as you are wor- 
 ried he won't mind my telling you now. You know how 
 anxious he has been to get back to Argentina?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, he had a letter to-night from some big official, 
 saying that they would let him go the moment peace is 
 signed. Peace will certainly be signed this week, and 
 he will get off I should think next week, and I believe 
 -mind you, I don't know, only think that he is going 
 to ask Grisel to marry him at once and go out with him." 
 
 "That's a very good plan," declared Moreton Twiss 
 with all the authority of the doctor, "the sea journey 
 would put her to rights, better than anything in the 
 world. Splendid." 
 
 "Did he tell you he was going to suggest this?" Mrs. 
 Walbridge asked in a faltering voice. "Oh, Paul, I don't 
 want her to go so soon." 
 
 "Nonsense, mother, you must not be selfish," returned
 
 276 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Paul, briskly. "I was very late getting back to-night, 
 and he picked me up at the corner in his car and showed 
 me the letter. He didn't exactly suggest it, in fact, I 
 rather think it was I who asked him if he would not be 
 wanting her to marry him at once under the circum- 
 stances, but I'd like to bet 5 on his doing it at this 
 moment out there in the rain. 
 
 As he spoke they heard the outside door closing again, 
 and after a moment Barclay came into the dining-room 
 alone. 
 
 "Grisel has gone upstairs," he said. "Her head is 
 pretty bad. She may come down later." 
 
 They all went up to the girls' room, and shortly after 
 the Twiss' and the Wicks who were spending the night 
 with the Catherwoods, left, and the rain having ceased, 
 Paul walked back with them. 
 
 When they had gone Mrs. Walbridge, Sir John and 
 Guy sat on for a while in the pleasant, flower-filled room, 
 and presently Mrs. Walbridge asked Guy to leave her 
 alone with Sir John, and the young man said "Good- 
 night," and went out. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge sat very slim and graceful-looking in 
 her new clothes, and, what was still more remarkable, 
 her new bearing, on the black chesterfield, and Barclay 
 walked up and down the room restlessly, his hands 
 behind him, his head sunk thoughtfully on his breast. 
 
 Neither of them spoke for a long time, and then Mrs. 
 Walbridge broke the silence. 
 
 "Sir John," she began abruptly, "I do hope you are 
 not going to want to take Grisel back with you to South 
 America next week?" 
 
 He turned. "So Paul has told you ?" 
 
 "Yes. I hope you don't mind."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 277 
 
 "Not at all. That is why I told him." 
 
 "He thought he thought you might be asking her 
 to marry you at once while you were on the veranda 
 I mean." 
 
 He shook his head. "No, I didn't mention it to her." 
 Then he went on very deliberately, looking her straight 
 in the face, "Mrs. Walbridge, I do not wish to marry 
 your daughter." 
 
 As soon as she had grasped that she really had heard 
 the words, she sprang to her feet, years younger in her 
 anger. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she cried. 
 
 He smiled sadly. "Don't be angry, I have the greatest 
 possible esteem and admiration for Grisel." 
 
 "But you do not wish to marry her?" 
 
 "No! I do not." 
 
 In those few short days of long ago he had never seen 
 Violet Elaine angry, and since he had found her again 
 she had seemed so timid, so flattened by life, that he had 
 been unable to conceive of her in any mood but that of 
 her daily one of gentle unobtrusive hopelessness; and 
 now, as she blazed at him, standing there with clenched 
 hands and shortened breath, he suddenly felt twenty 
 years younger, as if all sorts of recent things had been 
 only a dream, and that this this only, was real. 
 
 He looked at her with such plain-to-be-seen satisfac- 
 tion and admiration, that she was startled and drew 
 back, losing her bearings, and then he spoke. 
 
 "You and I," he said, "are too old to do anything 
 but speak plainly to each other; affectations and pretty 
 little pretences are part of the pageant of youth; we 
 have no right to them. So I will be quite short in tell- 
 ing you what I have to say. Grisel is a delightful girl
 
 278 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 as well as a most beautiful one, but I made a mistake 
 in asking her to marry me. I do not wish to marry her ; 
 I do not love her." 
 
 Again her righteous anger blazed up to his curious 
 gratification and delight, but he went on doggedly. 
 
 "I have been trying this afternoon to make her break 
 off the engagement, but I have failed, so I shall have 
 to do it myself." 
 
 "But it is outrageous, abominable! You have no 
 right to treat my daughter so." 
 
 "I have no right," he said, "to treat any woman in 
 the world with less than entire honesty, and least of all 
 your daughter." 
 
 Something in his voice penetrated through her anger 
 into her mind and mitigated her glance a little as she 
 answered : 
 
 "What do you mean ? Why least of all my daughter ?" 
 
 There was a little pause, then his simple words fell 
 very quietly on the silence. "Because," he said, "for over 
 thirty years I have loved you." 
 
 She could not answer for a moment so deep was her 
 amazement, and then, as so often is the case, she could 
 only repeat his words. 
 
 "Loved me!" 
 
 "Yes, you. I have never married, never in my life 
 used the word love to any woman until I met Grisel, 
 and that was because you were always there in my 
 memory, and there was no room for anyone else." 
 
 "But I did not even remember you!" 
 
 "No! And you have no idea," he added, smiling 
 sadly, "how after thirty years those words of yours 
 'that you did not remember me' hurt me. Well, there
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 279 
 
 you are. Such as I am I have been absolutely faithful 
 to my boyish love for you." 
 
 So many different feelings were struggling in her mind 
 that her face was tremulous with varied fleeting expres- 
 sions. Her beautiful deep eyes were wet, and her lips 
 looked fuller and red; more like the lips of a girl than 
 they had done for years. 
 
 "When I met her at Torquay," he went on, looking 
 away from her with delicacy, "I had no idea she was 
 your daughter. I had never even heard your married 
 name, but something in her, particularly a trick she has 
 with her hands, and then the shape of her ears, always 
 recalled you, and I encouraged myself, deliberately en- 
 couraged myself, to fall in love with her. I very nearly 
 succeeded too," he added smiling. "Who could not? 
 Such a charming child." 
 
 There was a little pause. It had begun to rain again 
 and the soft pattering sound on the windows filled the 
 air. 
 
 "Then I came here and saw you. You, as the years 
 had made you as the years of Ferdinand Walbridge 
 had made you," he added, with sudden firmness. 
 
 She looked up still with the odd air of youth in her 
 face. "Poor Ferdie," she murmured, "he never meant 
 it, you know." 
 
 "They never do," he answered dryly. "The very 
 worst husbands are those who did not mean it." 
 
 "Well, then," he went on, after a moment, "I had a 
 good deal of thinking, one way and another, and it 
 struck me that if I could make her happy it would make 
 you happy as well. And I tried." 
 
 "Oh, you have, you have; you have been so good."
 
 280 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 she interrupted, clasping her hands. "It's only that she 
 is not very well." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Surely you must see," 
 he asked slowly, "what is the matter with her?" 
 
 "Then there is something the matter with her?" 
 
 "Of course there is. Why, look at her," he rejoined 
 roughly. "She nearly fainted under your very noses 
 out of sheer misery to-night, and not one of you saw the 
 reason." 
 
 She stared at him, her lips moving faintly, and at last 
 she said: 
 
 "What was the reason?" 
 
 "Wick, young Wick. She is madly in love with him, 
 and he is worth it." 
 
 A worldlier woman or a less wise one might have 
 suspected that Barclay was using young Wick as a means 
 to help him out of an irksome engagement, but Mrs. 
 Walbridge knew. 
 
 "So I was right," she murmured thoughtfully. "I 
 had begun to think I was wrong." Then she started, 
 clenching the arms of her chair hard. 
 
 "Oh, dear," she cried, "what about Miss Perkins?" 
 
 He laughed. "That's the question; what about Miss 
 Perkins? There is something about her; some mystery, 
 I mean. But never mind that now. The point is this. 
 Grisel has practically refused to break off her engage- 
 ment with me, so I shall just have to screw up my cour- 
 age and break mine with her. A nasty job." 
 
 "You must not mention Oliver to her. It would not 
 be fair, because of Miss Perkins." 
 
 He looked at her curiously. "You don't mean to say 
 that you still think that Wick cares a button about Dor- 
 othy Perkins or anyone else except Grisel?"
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 281 
 
 "But if he doesn't oh, how dreadful it all is why 
 is he engaged to her?" 
 
 "That I don't know. I shall know by this time to- 
 morrow." He looked at his watch. "It is only eleven 
 now. I wonder," he went on slowly, "if I could get him 
 on the telephone? May as well get it over at once." 
 
 She told him the number, and acting on certain in- 
 structions of his went to Grisel's room while he was 
 telephoning. The girl was sitting by the window still 
 dressed, but with her hair plaited in a long tail down 
 her back, which gave her an odd effect of being a child 
 dressed in some one else's clothes. "My head was so 
 bad," she explained. "I have been brushing my hair." 
 
 "Good, I am glad you have not gone to bed, darling, 
 for John is still here and wants to see you in a little 
 while." 
 
 "Oh, mother, it's so late." 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge kissed her smooth, black, old-fash* 
 ioned, silky hair. "I know, dear, but he has had an im' 
 portant telegram, and wishes to speak to you about it 
 Oh, look, it has stopped raining, and the moon is com' 
 ing out !" 
 
 She stood for a while looking out into the delicate 
 gleams of the rain-soaked garden, and then said gently: 
 
 "Grisel, darling, have you seen Miss Perkins yet?" 
 
 "No, but he he showed me the ring he has got for 
 her." 
 
 "Yes, I saw it, too. I think that the girl who marries 
 Oliver," the mother went on, pitifully conscious of the 
 futility of searching for the most painless words, "will 
 be very, very happy." 
 
 Grisel nodded without speaking. 
 
 "You see, in Paris, and travelling with him, I I have
 
 282 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 got to know him so well. He he is a splendid fellow, 
 Grisel, under all his nonsense." 
 
 "I know, mother," the girl's voice was very low, and 
 very gentle. 
 
 After a moment Mrs. Walbridge went on, going to 
 the back of her daughter's chair, and stroking her little 
 head with smooth, regular movements. 
 
 "Sometimes I have wished, dear, that you that you 
 could have cared for him." 
 
 "I !" The girl broke away from her gentle hand and 
 faced her. "What if I had cared for him? Thank God 
 I didn't; but what if I had? A splendid kind of love 
 that was to trust would have been I mean. Why it 
 was only a week after after that time in the drawing- 
 room when he looked so awful not a week after that, 
 that he was engaged to this beast of a Perkins girl. I 
 I hate him," she cried, suddenly breaking down with an 
 unreserved voice that at once frightened and relieved 
 her mother. 
 
 Kneeling by the window she cried, cried as her mother 
 knew she had not done for years, her little shoulders 
 shaking, her forehead on the window sill. 
 
 "Hush, dear, you must not cry. Better wash your 
 face and sniff some camphor. Remember John will be 
 wanting to see you in a few minutes." 
 
 Violet Walbridge had forced herself to speak coldly 
 and in a voice devoid of sympathy, and the effect of this 
 manoeuvre showed in the girl's rising almost at once and 
 darting into the bathroom. Her mother heard the 
 roaring of the cold water and stood for a moment listen- 
 ing. Then, without a word, she went back to Barclay.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 "HAVE you any idea why I asked you to come back, 
 Wick?" 
 
 Oliver Wick, who had been told to sit down opposite 
 Sir John, looked up at him for a long minute. The 
 young man's face was white, and seemed suddenly to 
 have grown thin, but in his still excitement his eyes were 
 oddly lucent. At last he answered: 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, his voice so tense that while it 
 did not tremble it vibrated a little. "I do not know 
 exactly why, but I think I know what it's about." 
 
 "Good. Then we need not waste any time." 
 
 The clock struck as he spoke, and Barclay, who was 
 smoking a cigar, waited until the silence was undisturbed 
 before saying quietly, "It's about Griselda Walbridge." 
 
 Wick murmured, "I thought as much." 
 
 "I want," Barclay went on, watching the young face 
 very closely, "your help in a matter of great importance 
 both to Grisel and to me." 
 
 "I'd do a great deal for you, sir. I'd do anything in 
 the world for Griselda." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say that. Well, what steps 
 would you advise me to take in order to to break off 
 my engagement to Griselda?" 
 
 The hot red leaped to Wick's face, and he started 
 violently, but he did not speak for a time; his surprise 
 was unblemished by his having had any suspicion that 
 the interview was going to take this turn, and for a 
 
 283
 
 284 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 moment he was incapable of sane speech. When he 
 could find his voice it was to exclaim blandly, "Why 
 do you ask me?" 
 
 "Because," the older man answered in a perfectly 
 even voice, "I know that she loves you." 
 
 Wick rose. "Oh, you know that!" 
 
 "I do, and because of this I have suggested to her 
 that perhaps, when she did me the honour of accepting 
 me, she^-she made a mistake." 
 
 A sudden grin, as disconcerting as it was irresistible, 
 appeared on the young man's face, and they both waited 
 for it to disappear much as they might have waited for 
 the withdrawal of an intruding stranger. 
 
 "Oh, no, she didn't make any mistake," Wick broke 
 out when he could again control his facial muscles. "She 
 knew perfectly well when she accepted you; knew that 
 well, sir" he proceeded boldly, yet with a very charm- 
 ing deference "that she loved me." 
 
 "Surely she never told you this?" Barclay's voice was 
 stern. 
 
 "Oh, bless my soul, no never; in fact," the grin again 
 quivered on his lips for a second, "she did some pretty 
 tall lying about it, poor little minx." 
 
 "I see. Then, to be brief, you have known all along 
 that I was bound to be disappointed?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." Wick's brightly shining, smiling eyes met 
 his fairly and squarely. "You see, she meant to marry 
 you and did her best, but well, I knew she would break 
 down in the end." 
 
 "Neither of you seem," the elder man said, but with 
 a hint of dryness in his voice, "to have considered my 
 feelings much." 
 
 But Wick protested, "Oh, yes, we did I mean to say
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 285 
 
 / did. I thought a lot about you at one time and an- 
 other, sir." 
 
 "And to what conclusions did these reflections lead 
 you?" 
 
 Wick, who was still standing, took out his cigarette 
 case and snapped it thoughtfully several times. 
 
 "To this," he returned at last, "that though I was 
 really sorry for you, it just could not be helped." 
 
 "I see, youth must have its day." 
 
 "Yes, or 'every dog' is better. What I mean is that 
 really, you know, normally, your day for that particular 
 form of happiness ought to have been, well before we 
 Griselda and I, were even born." 
 
 There was so much odd gentleness in the way he 
 voiced his ruthless theory that Barclay was touched. 
 
 "You are not far out there," he answered unemo- 
 tionally, "only my day never did come. It was a kind 
 of false dawn and then ah, well, it is rather late, so 
 suppose we get to business. As matters stand at present, 
 this young lady happens to be engaged not to you, but 
 to me, and what is more, she she has practically re- 
 fused to break the engagement, so it is left to me. And 
 this," he added cheerfully, "is a little hard on me, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "I do. Do you want me to do it for you?" 
 
 "No. I want to hear your ideas about the matter. 
 For example, what would you suggest as a good first 
 step?" 
 
 Wick thought for a moment. "I don't quite see the 
 first step, but the end is perfectly clear." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "She must propose to me." The young man's voice
 
 286 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 was full of confidence, and he appeared to be uncon- 
 scious of the absurdity of his suggestion." 
 
 "Grisel Grisel to propose to you? Nonsense, Wick !" 
 
 "But she must. Look here, Sir John." Wick, who 
 had sat down, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, 
 and spoke very earnestly. 
 
 "You know nothing about me, sir, so, if you don't 
 mind, I'd better tell you a. little. You see, they the 
 Walbridges think that I am still the little Fleet Street 
 reporter I was when they first knew me, but I am not. 
 For several months" he talked on, explaining his posi- 
 tion with a modest pride that pleased his hearer. 
 
 "So I am actually speaking to the editor of a London 
 newspaper!" Sir John at last smiled kindly. 
 
 "Yes. Sparks is a rotten paper, but his making me 
 editor of it is only a trick of the chief's to find out what 
 I am made of, so I don't mind. He's a sly old devil, 
 long sighted and crafty, and he has, so to speak, laid me 
 wide open and is now poking about in my in'ards to 
 find out all about me." He laughed. "Lord, how the old 
 man is sweating, trying to tire me out, and I get fresher 
 and fresher ! Oh, yes," he went on after another chuckle, 
 "I am his latest YOUNG MAN and I have got better works 
 than most of them and I am bound to succeed all right. 
 So that's that." His mouth set, and he was silent for 
 a moment, plainly looking into the future. "And by 
 the time I am your age, Sir John," he said slowly, "I 
 shall be what Fleet Street calls a 'Great Man.' I shall 
 also be a multi-millionaire. Miss Minx will never 
 starve." 
 
 "Yes, but you forget that she is still engaged to me." 
 
 Wick's eyes lost their far-off look. 
 
 "So she is," he admitted, "so she is. Guess I am
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 287 
 
 going on a bit too fast. However," he went on with an 
 air of conclusiveness, "she can't very well marry you 
 if you don't want her, and you don't. So let's get on." 
 He had rumpled his fine mouse-coloured hair, which 
 stood up ludicrously, and he now tried to smooth it 
 down, which made it more absurd than before. 
 
 Sir John watched him with a smile. "Well, now that 
 we understand each other," the older man began, "sup- 
 pose you tell me something else. I think I am not wrong 
 in assuming that you love Griselda?" 
 
 He had been half afraid to put the question, not that 
 he doubted the gist of the reply, but that he shrank 
 from a possible awkwardness or unbeautiful expression 
 of it. He had been wrong. 
 
 Pick dropped his hands and turned to him his sym- 
 metrical face excited and bold looking, his eyes bloom- 
 ing with youth and love. 
 
 "Yes," he said with dignity, "I do. And -" 
 
 "You believe that her love for you is big enough to 
 bring her to the point of of well foregoing the 
 thing for whose sake she accepted me?" 
 
 "Of course I do, but you can see for yourself that 
 she has not been happy. I have made it just as hard 
 for her as I possibly could, too. I have not told her 
 about Sparks, or the chief's taking a shine to me, or my 
 rise in salary, I I wanted her to have a bad time, I 
 I wanted the little wretch to feel what she was going to 
 give up in giving up you, and all your things, just for 
 me. For the penniless, obscure kid I was at first." 
 
 "And you think that she will do this now?" 
 
 "Yes, poor little thing, oh, yes, she will !" He mused 
 for a moment and then his face sharpened again and he 
 added testily, "But I won't ask her to."
 
 288 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "You mean that she must ask you?" Barclay spoke 
 more gently. "Well, when she has asked you to marry 
 her what are you going to do about poor Miss Per- 
 kins?" 
 
 Wick literally bounced to his feet, as if the name had 
 been a bomb dropped into the room. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Perkins Miss Perkins," he repeated al- 
 most idiotically. 
 
 "Yes. This is bound to be something of a blew to 
 her." Barclay's face was very grave, but there was a 
 slight quiver in his voice. 
 
 Oliver Wick had, just then, no ear for slight quivers. 
 
 "I oh, she'll be all right," he murmured feebly. 
 
 "You mean that she won't mind?" 
 
 "Oh, no, she won't mind. She's a remarkably sensible 
 
 girl " then he burst into a roar of laughter. "Look 
 
 here, Sir John," he gasped, "it's no good, I have a hor- 
 rible confession to make to you. I shall have to murder 
 Miss Perkins!" Again he shouted with childish, almost 
 painfully loud laughter, and Sir John laughed with him. 
 
 At last Sir John wiped his eyes. "I take it you will 
 be able to kill the lady without much bloodshed?" he 
 
 asked. "I I have been suspecting as much." 
 ***** 
 
 The moon was flooding the rain bejewelled garden 
 with light as Griselda Walbridge came down the steps. 
 She walked slowly, as if her little feet were heavy, and 
 her smooth dark head was bent. At the foot of the steps 
 she stopped and looked around, "John," she called softly, 
 "John, are you there?" 
 
 No one answered, and she shrank back against the 
 rose-festooned handrail. The moonlight was very bright, 
 but the shadows were black and solid-looking, and it
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 289 
 
 was later, too, than she had ever been alone in the gar- 
 den. 
 
 In the silence she turned and looked up the steps to 
 the open house door. Her mother had told her that 
 Barclay was waiting for her in the garden and now 
 where was he, she wondered. In the clear light her 
 small face, a little hard in reality, looked unusually child- 
 like and spiritual. She stared up at the sky, and across 
 the garden, and then, thinking that Barclay for some 
 reason had not waited for her after all, walked slowly 
 along across the tennis lawn. 
 
 She was dressed in true sapphire blue, the best colour 
 of all for moonlight, and presently she stopped by a 
 rose tree and pulled a deep red rose, her big ruby glow- 
 ing as she tugged at the tough stem and then, embold- 
 ened and soothed by the perfect quiet, she went slowly 
 on, holding the rose against her cheek. 
 
 Near the old bench where her mother and Oliver had 
 sat on Hermione's wedding day, she started back fright- 
 ened and then gave a nervous little laugh. 
 
 "Oh, here you are," she cried. 
 
 The owner of the cigarette came out of the shadow, 
 and again she cried out, this time in a very different 
 voice, "Oh, it is you." 
 
 "Yes, it is me," Wick answered britannically. "Oh, 
 Grisel, Grisel, do look at that moon " 
 
 He drew her hand through his arm and thus old- 
 fashionedly linked they stood in silence for a moment. 
 
 Then she said, "Where is Sir John? Mother said 
 he was here waiting for me." 
 
 Wick stared at the moon a moment longer and then 
 said quietly: 
 
 "Grisel, I love you!"
 
 290 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 "Oliver, you are crazy!" 
 
 "No, sit down on the bench." 
 
 "Thanks, I'd rather not, I must go in " 
 
 "Sit down " 
 
 "No, thanks." 
 
 "Grisel, sit down." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Grisel, sit down!" 
 
 Grisel sat down, and he sat beside her. 
 
 "Did you hear what I said a minute ago?" he went 
 on quietly. 
 
 "Not being deaf, I did. What they call lunal madness, 
 I suppose." Her voice shook, but her tone was one of 
 awful hauteur. 
 
 "Lunar, no such word as lunal. Grisel, I love you." 
 
 "Really," she protested, "I must go in." 
 
 "Grisel, I " 
 
 "I," she broke out furiously, "you say that again and I 
 shall yell." 
 
 "Yell then, it will do you good. Yell like hell. And 
 you love me." 
 
 She sprang to her feet. "I don't. What an abomi-r 
 nable thing to say. How how -" 
 
 "How dare I? Easy. Almost as easy as looking at 
 you, my pretty. Grisel, we love each other." 
 
 She burst into nervous, shrill laughter, and then sud- 
 denly stopped. 
 
 "I cannot help laughing, you are such an idiot," she 
 said, "but I am very angry. Have you forgotten that 
 I am engaged to John " 
 
 "John be damned." 
 
 Helpless tears crowded into her eyes and her throat 
 swelled suddenly. "How hateful you are."
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 291 
 
 "I am not hateful, darling. I am your true love." 
 
 "Oh, Oliver," she cried in despair, her feelings so 
 varied, and so entangled, that she could not straighten 
 them out. "What about Dorothy Perkins?" 
 
 "Dorothy Perkins is a flower." 
 
 "A a what?" 
 
 "A flower. I mean to say, she is a creeper." 
 
 "Oliver," she laid her hand on his arm and peered 
 anxiously into his face. "What is the matter with you? 
 Aren't you well?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, I am well, but she is a creeper." He 
 stretched out his arm and pointed, "There she is on the 
 steps." Then he saw that she was really alarmed for 
 his sanity. 
 
 "Grisel, darling, that rose, that rose climbing on the 
 steps, is the only Dorothy Perkins I know." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "No, it is true. I I made her up, my little darling." 
 
 "How could you make her up?" she wailed. "You 
 could not make up a girl !" 
 
 "But she isn't a girl, sweetheart. I invented her, to 
 make you jealous." 
 
 Suddenly Grisel broke down and their great moment 
 was upon them. When she had cried herself into ex- 
 hausted quiet in his arms he wiped her eyes on his hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "Oh, I I have hated her so, Oliver. But whose was 
 the photograph then?" 
 
 He explained. 
 
 "But Jenny talked about her, and even your mother." 
 
 "Of course, that's what mothers are for." 
 
 Suddenly she sat up and smoothed her hair. "Oh, 
 dear me, what what will poor John say?"
 
 292 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 Wick stiffened. Now came the test. "What do you 
 mean?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, when I tell him. Poor John!" 
 
 He stuffed the damp handkerchief back into his pocket, 
 and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "When you tell him what?" 
 
 "Why, about us." 
 
 Wick very deliberately puffed at his cigarette. "I 
 don't think I would mention it," he said. 
 
 "Oliver, what do you mean?" 
 
 He rose, and walked up and down in front of her. 
 
 "I mean that because I just lost my head and made a 
 fool of myself there is no reason that that splendid old 
 fellow should be worried." 
 
 "Worried!" she almost screamed. "I don't under- 
 stand you." 
 
 "Well, I mean, my dear, that because I behaved like 
 a cad and and kissed a girl who is going to marry an- 
 other man a man a thousand times my superior in every 
 way there is no reason for his being troubled by know- 
 ing about it. I am ashamed of myself, and I beg your 
 pardon, and I am sure you will forgive me." 
 
 The pallor made her in the moonlight look almost 
 unearthly, and he was obliged to bend his eyes resolutely 
 away from her, during the pause that ensued. 
 
 "Then you then you meant nothing by it?" she stam- 
 mered. 
 
 "No. At least oh, well of course you know that I 
 love you, but I quite agree with you that to marry a 
 penniless young beggar like me would be madness " 
 
 She was so amazed, so honestly horrified by his cynical 
 cold-bloodedness that for a moment she could not speak. 
 
 "How how can I marry him after that?" she gasped.
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 293 
 
 "Oh, quite easily, dear. You forgive me, and I will 
 forgive you and we will both blame the moon," he 
 waved his hand, "and the roses," and then she broke 
 down. 
 
 "I can't, I can't," she wailed, "you know I can't. Oh, 
 Oliver, if you love me you must marry me." 
 
 Wick, though deeply stirred, held his ground. 
 
 "I don't see any must/' he said morosely, and at last 
 his triumph came. 
 
 "But you will, won't you?" she cried. "Oh, Oliver, 
 you will marry me?" 
 
 At about this time Mrs. Walbridge and Sir John 
 Barclay sat together in the girls' room. Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge's eyes, strangely youthful-looking, fixed thought- 
 fully on her companion. They had had a long talk, and 
 now, at the end of it, she put a question to him. 
 
 "But you," she said gently, "are you sure you will 
 not be unhappy, John?" 
 
 And he said, his grave face full of serenity, "Yes. I 
 have always known that I was too old for her, you know, 
 Violet I suppose I may call you Violet now?" 
 
 In the moonlight her little blush gave her face a mar- 
 vellous look of girlishness, and his eyes shone as he 
 looked at her. 
 
 "Your your divorce case is on for Wednesday, isn't 
 it," he asked after a little pause. 
 
 "Yes. I suppose they will be married in six months 
 time? Oh, John, I hope so poor Ferdie, he he doesn't 
 bear trouble very well. I do hope it will be all right." 
 
 They talked on, and he told her that he should not
 
 294 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 stay long in South America, that in November he would 
 come back to London for good. 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad," she answered. "I am very glad. 
 For I shall be a little lonely later on. Griselda will go 
 very soon, and Paul really cares for little Jenny, and I 
 hope of course I shall have Guy for a while I must 
 tell you about Guy, John the war has taught him such 
 a lot. He is changed enormously. Do you know, he 
 and I are better friends than I have ever been with any 
 of the others? I am so thankful but still, he is young, 
 and of course will be full of his own interests, and I 
 shall be glad to have you near one of my own age 
 but will you like living always in London?" 
 
 Barclay nodded. "Yes, I shall always live in London. 
 Somewhere not too far from here."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IT was one o'clock when Mrs. Walbridge at last found 
 herself alone. She was very tired, but so happy and 
 excited that she did not want to go to bed, and after 
 walking restlessly about the girls' room, and the draw- 
 ing-room, living over again the happenings of the last 
 few crowded hours, she went softly up two flights of 
 stairs and opened the door of her little study. 
 
 It was many weeks since she had sat there at the old 
 table, and the moonlight revealed a thick layer of dust 
 over the inky blotting-paper and the cheap, china ink- 
 stand. Noiselessly she opened the window and stood 
 looking out at the night. She had always loved the 
 quiet, dark hours and the mystery and purity of night 
 had all her life made a strong appeal to her imagination. 
 The millions of people who lay helpless and innocent in 
 sleep; the rest from scheming and struggle; the renewal 
 of strength; and the ebbing towards dawn of enfeebled 
 life. The very fact that some of the great thorough- 
 fares of London were being washed laved she mentally 
 called it and purified from their accumulation of ugly 
 unhygienic filth; all these things made night a time of 
 beauty and romance to this writer of sentimental rub- 
 bish. It seemed, she had always thought, to make the 
 sin-defiled old world young and innocent again for a few 
 hours, and this night was to be an unforgettable one 
 to her. 
 
 Guy had come back finer, and with greater promises 
 
 295
 
 296 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 of nobility than ever before. Grisel had finally come 
 been dragged to her senses, and would worthily fulfil 
 her womanhood with Oliver, whom Mrs. Walbridge told 
 herself she loved nearly as much as she loved her own 
 sons. In reality she loved the young journalist far more 
 than even Guy, but this she did not, and never was, to 
 know. 
 
 She went on counting her blessings. Maud's baby 
 was lovely, and strong, and patients were really begin- 
 ning, if not exactly to flock at least, to come in decent 
 numbers to Moreton Twiss. Hermione was enjoying 
 what to her mother seemed an almost unparalleled social 
 success, among people innocently believed by Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge to be of very high society indeed; little Jenny 
 Wick seemed to like Paul, and if she married him he 
 seemed to stand a very good chance of improving in 
 every way, of becoming kinder and less selfish. 
 
 Thus, standing in the moonlight, Mrs. Walbridge 
 thankfully reviewed the many good things in her life. 
 
 "To be sure," she thought, her face clouding, "it was 
 very sad about Ferdie, it was a dreadful, almost tragic 
 thing that their old life, however trying and disappoint- 
 ing it had been to her, should have been broken in this 
 way. Like many other women she felt that, though her 
 husband was a bad one he was, because he had been the 
 lover of her youth and was the father of her children, 
 a thing of odd pathos and even value to her. He was 
 like," she thought, "a bit of china a bowl or a jug 
 bought by her in her youth, and though she had been 
 deceived in thinking it genuine and though it was 
 cracked all over, she yet preferred to keep it than to 
 lose it." 
 
 Carrying on the simile, the divorce case seemed to her
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 297 
 
 like a public sale, in which all the blemishes and cracks 
 of her poor jug would be exposed to indifferent ob- 
 servers. 
 
 All this she felt very sharply, but at the same time 
 there was an immense relief that never again would 
 Ferdie live under the same roof with her, that she would 
 never again have to listen to his boasting, to hear his 
 plausible, usually agreeable lies, to endure his peevish 
 reproaches when things went wrong. Never again, she 
 told herself with an odd little smile, need she have fried 
 liver for breakfast. Ferdie cherished for fried liver a 
 quite impossible ideal of tenderness and juiciness, and 
 every Sunday morning for a quarter of a century she 
 had come downstairs praying that the liver might be 
 all right this time. And it never was all right. No, she 
 would never have fried liver on her table again. 
 
 Then she thought about Paris. Paris, once Guy was 
 out of danger, had been wonderful in its freedom from 
 household cares, its lack of responsibility to anyone. At 
 first she had hardly been able to believe that no one 
 would ask her where she was going, and instantly sug- 
 gest her not going there, but somewhere else. And then 
 Cannes! One of her favourite literary devices had al- 
 ways been to send the heroines to the Sunny South. 
 
 She had written lavishly of the tropical heat, the in- 
 credible blueness of the quiet sea, of the wealth of flow- 
 ers in that vague bepalaced land, but the reality (although 
 the sea was not quite so blue as she had expected it to 
 be) overwhelmed her. The best of all had been the 
 gentle, balmy laziness that gradually wrapped her round 
 and enveloped her, the laziness that even an occasionally 
 sharp, dusty wind could not dispel. 
 
 Best of all she had had no duties. Not one. And
 
 298 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 she had sat on her balcony in a comfortable cane rock- 
 ing-chair, by the hour. "I just sat, and sat, and sat," 
 she thought, leaning against the window sill. "How 
 beautiful it was." And, now that her regret about her 
 cracked jug had been softened by time, and mitigated 
 by the variety of new joys that had come to her, she 
 could henceforth, in a more decorous British way, go 
 on sitting. 
 
 Paul would, of course, continue to bully her and to 
 nag, but if, as she hoped, little Jenny cared enough about 
 him to marry him, he would turn his bullying and nag- 
 ging attentions, in a very modified way, to her. It was, 
 Mrs. Walbridge reflected innocently, right that a man 
 should give up tormenting his mother once he had a 
 wife of his own. And little red-headed Jenny could, she 
 thought with a smile, look after herself. 
 
 As for Mrs. Crichell once she, too, was Mrs. Ferdie, 
 she would no doubt look after herself. It was a rather 
 startling thought, that of two Mrs. Ferdies! "I suppose 
 I shall be Mrs. Violet?" 
 
 The clock on the stairs struck again, and Mrs. Violet 
 started. "Good gracious," she murmured aloud, "how 
 dreadfully late it is." 
 
 She looked round the little room once more, recalling 
 the hundreds of hours she had sat there grilling in sum- 
 mer ; freezing in winter, working on her books, and then 
 with a queer little smile she went downstairs. She told 
 herself resolutely as she went that this was perfectly 
 ridiculous; that she must go to bed but she didn't want 
 to go to bed, and, moreover, she suddenly realised that 
 she was hungry. 
 
 In her excitement she had eaten very little dinner, 
 and after locking the front door she ran down into the
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 299 
 
 kitchen. After a hurried examination of the larder, 
 and experiencing a new and what she felt to be un-Brit- 
 ish distaste for cold mutton, she decided to scramble 
 some eggs. Lighting the gas-ring, she broke three eggs 
 into a yellow bowl, and began to beat them briskly with 
 a silver fork. 
 
 The kitchen was a pleasant place, newly painted and 
 whitewashed, and a row of highly flourishing pink and 
 white geraniums garnished the long low window. Really, 
 a very nice kitchen, its mistress mused happily. 
 
 When she had whipped the eggs enough, she set the 
 table, spreading a lace teacloth on one end of it, and 
 reaching down a plate and a cup and saucer from the 
 rack. She was smiling now, for there was to her gentle 
 spirit of adventure something rather romantic in this 
 solitary, very late meal. 
 
 "I do not know," she said as she set the saucepan 
 on the ring and dropped a big bit of butter into it, 
 "whether it is supper or breakfast." 
 
 Then a sudden idea came to her. She set the sauce- 
 pan on the table and flew to the larder, whence, after a 
 hurried search, she brought back two large fine tomatoes. 
 She had always been extremely fond of scrambled eggs 
 with tomatoes, but Ferdie loathed tomatoes, and Paul 
 had inherited his distaste for them, so she had long 
 since renounced this innocent gluttony. Now Ferdie had 
 gone, and Paul was asleep, and there was nothing on 
 earth to prevent her having "Spanish eggs," as she called 
 them. She turned the savoury mess, very much peppered 
 and salted, out on to two slices of buttered toast, and 
 sat down with the teapot at hand, to enjoy herself. 
 
 "I will I will tell John about this," she reflected 
 gaily. "He'll laugh."
 
 300 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 She had been so busy up to this, since he had told 
 her, that she had hardly had time to think about it, 
 but now, as she ate, she went back over their talk to- 
 gether. It seemed to her very wonderful that such a 
 man should have cared for her, and her mind was full of 
 pathetic gratitude to him for what she did not at all 
 realise he must often have regarded as a perfect nuisance. 
 
 Here she had been, she thought, struggling along at 
 "Happy House" with Ferdie and the children, losing 
 her youth, and her hopes, and her looks, and there 
 somewhere anywhere had been that fine, handsome, 
 successful man, loving her! It was most wonderful. 
 "I hope, though," her thoughts went on as she began 
 on her delicious hot eggs, "that he didn't mean anything 
 by what he said about the divorce and his always living 
 somewhere near us." 
 
 She had written nearly two dozen very sentimental 
 novels, and was an adept at happy endings, but she 
 blushed in her solitude at the thought that Barclay might 
 possibly be contemplating for her and him anything so 
 indecorous as in their case it would be, as such a happy 
 ending. 
 
 "Oh, no, I am sure he didn't but how wonderful 
 it would be to have him for a friend. For the boys too, 
 with his fine character and his cleverness." Oh, yes, she 
 was going to be very proud of him, and the fragrance 
 of the old romance would always hang over their friend- 
 ship. And then suddenly she blushed hotly, and laid 
 down her fork. 
 
 "Violet Walbridge," she said severely, precisely as she 
 would have made one of her own heroines in like case 
 apostrophise herself, "you are not being honest. You 
 know that he did mean something. You know that he
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 301 
 
 will not now, of course, but after a long, long time 
 ask you to be his wife." Feeling very wicked, and 
 very shy, she faced the question for a moment, and then 
 took a long drink of tea a long draught of tea her 
 heroine would have called it "but if he does," she de- 
 cided, her eyes full of tears, "it won't be for ages, and 
 I need not decide now. I can tell him when the time 
 
 comes that that " as she reached this point her eyes 
 
 happened to fall on a pot of white paint that was stand- 
 ing on a shelf in the corner. Cook, she supposed, had 
 been painting something in the scullery and the pot had 
 been forgotten. Her face changed. 
 
 It was very odd. She had been meaning for years 
 to have the words "Happy House" renewed on the gate, 
 but the irony of the name had somehow forced her into 
 putting it off, and for a long time now she had been 
 dating her letters just 88, Walpole Road, and not using 
 the name at all ; the romantic, foolish name, it had come 
 to look to her now. She rose with a smile, and reached 
 down the pot, and stood stirring the thick paint with 
 the brush. 
 
 "Now," she thought, "it really is 'Happy House' 
 or it's going to be" and she would have the words 
 there again. 
 
 Refreshed by the tea and food, she felt less than ever 
 inclined for bed and, laughing aloud at her own folly, 
 she decided that she would paint the words on the gate 
 herself. 
 
 The moon was still shining, yet it was too early for 
 any prying eye to see her, and it would, she thought, 
 with that novelist's imagination of hers the thing with- 
 out which not even the worst novel could possibly be
 
 302 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 written be a romantic and splendid ending to the most 
 wonderful day in her life. 
 
 Opening the area door softly she crept up the steps 
 with the pot and brush in her hand, and went down the 
 flagged path. The moon was paling and the shadows 
 lay less distinctly on the quiet road, but the general 
 gloom seemed greater. Not a soul was in sight; not 
 a sound broke the sleepy stillness; not a light shone in 
 any window. Opening the gate, and closing it again 
 to steady it, Mrs. Walbridge, forgetting her beautiful 
 frock, knelt down on the pavement and set to work. 
 The poor old words, last renewed, she remembered the 
 day Paul came of age, when Ferdie had given one of 
 his characteristic parties, were nearly obliterated. 
 
 Very carefully the thankful little woman worked, her 
 heart singing. Darling Grisel, how happy she had 
 looked when she left her lying in bed, the big ruby gone 
 from her ringer, and the little old emerald bought in 
 Paris for Miss Perkins, in its place. It was really won- 
 derful how well everything was turning out! Paul and 
 Jenny had certainly advanced a good deal in their friend- 
 ship during her absence, Jenny must marry him, oh 
 dear, and Mrs. Crichell must marry Ferdie, too. John, 
 dear, wise romantic John thought she would, and, after 
 all, she thought, as her brush worked, poor Ferdie had 
 lots of good qualities really, and she, Violet, had always 
 been too dull, too staid for him. 
 
 "Clara Crichell liked entertaining, and really has great 
 talents as a hostess and I always was dreadful at par- 
 ties." She dipped the brush in again and began on the 
 "y." "He is one of those people for whom success is 
 really good," she went on ; "who knows but that he may
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 303 
 
 turn out very well as the husband of a rich woman, poor 
 Ferdie " 
 
 "Violet!" She started and ruined the "H" in 
 "House." Poor Ferdie stood before her. 
 
 "Ferdie, is it you?' she cried stupidly, still kneeling. 
 
 "Yes, of course it is me," he snapped crossly. "What 
 on earth are you doing out here in the middle of the 
 night?" 
 
 Scrambling to her feet she answered anxiously, "I 
 I am just painting. But why are you here?" 
 
 "Let's go into the house and I will tell you," he said. 
 "I have come home, Violet!" 
 
 Half an hour later Ferdinand Walbridge sat in the 
 kitchen of "Happy House," drinking tea and eating 
 scrambled eggs without tomatoes. He had on a velvet 
 jacket of Paul's, for he was cold, and the glass out of 
 which he had drunk a stiff brandy and soda still stood 
 on the table. Beside him sat his wife, her face full of 
 troubled sympathy. 
 
 "Enough salt?" she asked presently. 
 
 He nodded. "The food at the Rosewarne is beastly, 
 it has played the very deuce with my digestion " 
 
 "Did you have hot water every morning?" 
 
 "No, it was luke warm half the time and made me 
 feel sick." 
 
 He went on eating in silence, and she studied his face. 
 That he should look ill, and unhappy, did not, after 
 what he had told her, surprise her much ; what did strike 
 her was his look of age. She had often seen him when 
 he was ill, but this was the first time that his face not 
 only showed his real age, but looked actually older.
 
 304 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 The lines in it seemed deeper, and his eyes, under heavy 
 suddenly wrinkled lids, lustreless and watery. He had 
 cried a good deal of course, she reflected pitifully, but 
 never before had his easy tears made his eyes look like 
 that. 
 
 "I do think," he murmured resentfully, "that you 
 might have remembered that I like China tea." 
 
 "I did remember, Ferdie, but there is not any in the 
 house. You know all the rest of us prefer Ceylon." 
 
 He grunted and went on eating. "Poor china jug," 
 she thought, "his cracks were very apparent now." 
 
 "Oh, Ferdie," she broke out, "I am really awfully 
 sorry for you." 
 
 He looked up, his haggard face a little softened. 
 
 "Yes, I believe you really are, Violet, and I can tell 
 you one thing, Clara wouldn't be if she was in your 
 shoes." 
 
 She didn't answer, for she really did not know what 
 to say about Clara Clara, who had behaved so cruelly 
 to poor Ferdie. 
 
 "She is a woman," he burst out, "with no heart, abso- 
 lutely none." 
 
 "Perhaps she perhaps she is sorry for Mr. Crichell," 
 she suggested timidly. 
 
 He laughed. "Sorry? Not she. I tell you it is the 
 legacy that has done it. The legacy. She always could 
 twist Crichell around her little finger, and the very min- 
 ute she heard the news, off she went to him and made 
 up. You mark my words, the greater part of that legacy 
 will be hanging round her neck before very long." 
 
 "But, Ferdie, she can't be as bad as that. No woman 
 could. People often make mistakes, you know, and she
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 305 
 
 may have found that that after all, her heart was 
 really his." 
 
 He rose and stared at her rudely. "Like one of the 
 awful women in your novels! I tell you, it was the 
 legacy that did it. Perfectly revolting, because, after 
 all," he added with an odious, fatuous laugh, "all other 
 things being equal, it's me she loves. Why, I never 
 saw a woman " he broke off, seeming to realise sud- 
 denly the bad taste of his attitude. "But that's not the 
 point," he went on, nervously "the point is this ' 
 
 She drew a long breath and clenched her hands in her 
 lap to fortify herself for the coming scene. Nothing, 
 she knew, not even the real suffering he had been 
 through, could induce Ferdie to forego a dramatic scene. 
 
 "Hum," he cleared his throat violently and Mrs. Wai- 
 bridge, instinctively true to her wifely duty, answered: 
 
 "Yes, Ferdinand?" 
 
 "Well," he made a little gesture with his handsome 
 hand, which struck her as being not quite so clean as 
 usual. "I have done wrong, and I beg your pardon." 
 His voice was sonorous and most musical, and as he 
 finished speaking he dropped his head on his breast in 
 a kind of splendid compromise between the attitude of 
 shame and a court bow. 
 
 "I I forgive you, Ferdie, of course, I forgive you," 
 but she knew that he had not yet got his money's worth 
 out of the situation. 
 
 "Violet," he began again and then as if for the first 
 time, he looked at her, not as a refuge, or a feather-bed, or 
 
 a soothing draught, but as a woman. "Why, what " 
 
 he stammered, staring, "what have you been doing with 
 yourself? You look different somehow. You look
 
 306 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 years younger, and and where did you get that gown?" 
 To her dismay he ended on a sharp note of suspicion. 
 
 "I bought it in Paris," she answered quietly. 
 
 "Bought it? Why, it is worth twenty guineas, if 
 it's worth a penny! Violet, I I hope you have not 
 been forgetting that you are my wife, while I have 
 been away?" 
 
 She nearly laughed, he was so ridiculous, but her deep 
 eyes filled with tears over the pathos of it. 
 
 "Listen, Ferdie," she said gently, "you need not worry 
 about me. I am an old woman now and I have always 
 been a good woman. I bought this dress, and several 
 others, in Paris, with money that I got as a prize for a 
 book." 
 
 He stared at her stupidly with his blood-shot eyes. 
 
 "Yes, a book you have probably read. It's called 
 'Bess Knighthood.' " 
 
 "You you didn't write 'Bess Knighthood !' " 
 
 "Yes, I did. After 'Lord Effingham' was such a fail- 
 ure, I just just sat down and wrote 'Bess Knighthood.' 
 I don't know how I did it it went so fast I could hardly 
 remember it, when it was done." A wan smile stirred 
 her lips, which seemed to have lost their recent fullness 
 and looked flat and faded, "but I got the prize." 
 
 "Oh." He looked annoyed, and she realised at once 
 that he felt injured, for it had always given him a pleas- 
 ant feeling of superiority to laugh at her looks, and now 
 he could laugh no more. 
 
 "Yes," she resumed, drawing herself up a little in her 
 pride, "and I have not spent very much I have got 
 nearly five hundred pounds left, so if you need some, 
 Ferdie " 
 
 The early day was by now coming in over the gera-
 
 HAPPY HOUSE 307 
 
 niums, and in its wan light, each of them thought how 
 ruinous the other looked. 
 
 Walbridge gazed at his wife. "You are fagged out," 
 he said pompously. "It is very late, I think we had 
 better go upstairs," and without a word she followed 
 him up into the hall. 
 
 "One of your old pyjama suits is in the dressing-room 
 chest-of -drawers," she said, as he went on up the front 
 stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail. "I I have one 
 or two things to do, Ferdie." 
 
 He turned, looking down, dominating her even now 
 in her miserable triumph. 
 
 "All right," he said, "I I will sleep in the dressing- 
 room. Don't be long, Violet," and Ferdinand Wai- 
 bridge went to bed. 
 
 Mrs. Walbridge took up the pet of paint and the 
 sprawling brush from where they were lying on the 
 pavement and looked at the words on the gate. "Happy" 
 stood out neatly, but the "H" in "House" was oblit- 
 erated by a great splash, and the remaining letters, un- 
 touched by the fresh paint, looked by contrast more 
 faded and faint than ever. 
 
 "Dear me," she thought, "what a mess." And then, 
 because she was a tidy woman, as well as to avoid ques- 
 tions and conjectures, she rubbed off the smear of paint 
 as well as she could with one of the new Paris hand- 
 kerchiefs, and resumed her interrupted task. 
 
 In a few moments her work was done, and the words 
 she had chosen for the new house thirty years ago 
 showed out once more distinctly on the green gate. She 
 rose to her knees, too tired for thought, sensible only of
 
 308 HAPPY HOUSE 
 
 a violent longing for sleep; to-morrow, she knew, she 
 must think. She must think about the turn things were 
 taking; about the coming back of her husband, and the 
 resumption of the old daily routine; of Ferdie's fretful- 
 ness, of liver for breakfast, and, most of all, she must 
 think about Sir John Barclay. 
 
 "Poor John," she thought, giving a last look at the 
 words on the gate, "and poor Ferdie. Oh, how tired I 
 am " and she went into the house and shut the door. 
 
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