V.

Mrs. Windsor's cottage in Surrey stood on the outskirts of a perfectly

charming village called Chenecote, a village just like those so often

described in novels of the day. The homes of the poor people were model

homes, with lattice windows, and modern improvements. The church was

very small, but very trim. The windows were filled with stained glass,

designed by Burne-Jones and executed by Morris, and there was a lovely

little organ built by Willis, with a _vox humana_ stop in it, that

was like the most pathetic sheep that ever bleated to its lamb. The

church and the red tiled schoolhouse stood upon a delightful green

common, covered with gorse bushes. There were trees all over the place,

and the birds always sang in them. Roses bloomed in the neat little

cottage gardens, and cheery, rosy children played happily about in the

light sandy roads. Nothing, in fact, was wanting to make up a pretty

picture of complete and English rusticity.

But Mrs. Windsor's cottage was the most charming picture of all. It was

really a rambling thatched bungalow, with wide verandas trellised with

dog roses, and a demure cosy garden full of velvet lawns and yew hedges

cut into monstrous shapes. A tiny drive led up to the wide porch, and a

neat green gate guarded the drive from the country road, beyond which

there stood a regular George Morland village pond, a pond with muddy

water, and fat geese, and ducks standing on their heads, and great sleek

cart-horses pausing knee-deep to drink, with velvety distended nostrils,

and, in fact, all the proper pond accessories. A little way up the road

stood the curate's neat red house, and beyond that the village

post-office and grocery store. Further away still were the substantial

rectory, the model cottages, the common, the church, and schoolhouse.

Behind the bungalow, which was called "The Retreat," there was a

farmyard in which hens laid eggs for the bungalow breakfast table, and

black Berkshire pigs slowly ripened and matured in the bright June

sunshine. A stone sun-dial stood upon one of the velvet lawns, engraved

with the legend "Tempus fugit," and various creaking basket and beehive

chairs stood about, while no tennis net was permitted to desecrate the

appearance of complete repose that the green garden presented to the

tired town eye.

Mrs. Windsor declared that her guests must be content to rough it during

the Surrey week; but as she took down with her from London a French chef

and a couple of tall footmen, a carriage and pair, a governess cart, a

fat white pony, a coachman and various housemaids, the guests regarded

that dismal prospect with a fair amount of equanimity, and were assailed

by none of those fears that appal the wanderer who arrives at a country

inn or at a small lodging by the seaside. It may be pleasant to have

roughed it, but it is always tiresome to be plunged in a frightful

present instead of living gloriously upon a frightful past. If Mrs.

Windsor's guests were deprived of the latter triumph, they at least were

saved from the endurance of the former purgatory, and being for the most

part entirely unheroic, they were not ill content. Rusticity in the

rough they would decidedly not have approved of; rusticity in the smooth

they liked very well. Mrs. Windsor was wise in her generation. She was

distinctly not a clever woman, but she distinctly knew her world. The

two tall footmen were the motto of her social life. She and Lady Locke,

and the latter's little boy Tommy, came down from London by train in the

morning of the Wednesday on which the Surrey week was to begin. The

rest of the party was to assemble in the afternoon in time for tea.

Tommy was in a state of almost painful excitement, as the train ran very

slowly indeed through the pleasant country towards Dorking. He was a

plump little boy, with rosy cheeks, big brown eyes, and a very round

head, covered with exceedingly short brown hair. His age was nine, and

he wore dark blue knickerbockers and a loose, bulgy sort of white shirt,

trimmed with blue, and ornamented with a wide and flapping collar. His

black stockings covered frisky legs, and his mind at present was mainly

occupied with surmises as to the curate's little boys, with whom Mrs.

Windsor had promised that he should play. He was a sharp child,

interrogative in mind, and extremely loquacious. Mrs. Windsor found him

rather trying. But then she was not accustomed to children, possessing,

as she often boasted, none of her own.

"What are their names?" said Tommy, bounding suddenly from the window

and squatting down before Mrs. Windsor, with his elbows on his blue

serge knees, his firm white chin resting on his upturned palms, and his

brown eyes fixed steadily upon her carefully arranged face, which always

puzzled him very much; it was so unlike his mother's. "What are their

names? Are any of them called Tommy?"

"I don't think so," she replied. "One of them is called Athanasius, I

believe. I forget about the others."

"Why is he called Athanasius?"

"After the great Athanasius, I suppose."

"And who was the great Athanasius?"

"Oh--the well--well, he wrote a creed, Tommy; but you couldn't

understand about that yet. You are too young."

"I don't think you know who the great Athanasius was much, Cousin

Betty," said the boy, scrutinising her very closely, and trying to

discover why her hair was so very light and her eyebrows were so very

dark. "And you say they all wear spectacles. Can't they see without?"

Mrs. Windsor looked rather distractedly towards Lady Locke, who was

reading a military article in the _Pall Mall Magazine_ with deep

attention.

"They can see a little without, I suppose, but not very much."

"Then are they blind?"

"No, only short-sighted. And then their father is a clergyman, you know,

and clergymen generally wear spectacles. So perhaps they inherit it."

"What! the spectacles?"

"No, the--I mean they may require to wear spectacles because their

father did before them. It is often so. But you are too young to

understand heredity."

"I _can_ understand things, Cousin Betty," said the boy rather

severely.

"That's right. Well now, go and look out of the window. Look, there is a

mill with the wheel turning, and a pond with a boat on it. What a dear

little boat!"

Tommy went, obediently, but a little disdainfully, and Mrs. Windsor sank

back in her seat feeling quite worn out. She could cope better with the

wits of a wit than with the wits of a child. She began to wish that

Tommy was not going to make a part of the Surrey week. If he did not

take a fancy to the curate's children after all, he would be thrown upon

her hands. The prospect was rather terrible. However, she determined not

to dwell upon it. It was no use to meet a possible trouble half way. She

closed her eyes, and wondered vaguely who the great Athanasius had

really been till the train slowed down--it seemed to have been slowing

down steadily all the way from Waterloo--and they drew up beside the

platform at Dorking. Then Tommy was packed with his mother's maid into

the governess cart with the fat white pony, which enchanted him to

madness, and Lady Locke and Mrs. Windsor were driven away in the landau

towards "The Retreat."

The day was radiantly fine, and very hot. The hedgerows were rather

dusty, and the air was dim with a delicious haze that threw an

atmosphere of enchantment round even the most commonplace objects.

Dorking looked, as it always does, solid, serene, and cheerful, the

beau-ideal of a prosperous country town, well-fed, well-groomed,

well-favoured. Some of the shopkeepers were standing at their doors in

their shirt-sleeves taking the air. The errand-boys whistled

boisterously as they went about their business, and the butcher carts

dashed hither and thither with their usual spanking irresponsibility.

Lady Locke looked about her with supreme contentment. She loved the

English flavour of the place. It came upon her with all the charm of old

time recollections. Ten years had elapsed since she had strolled about

an English village, or driven through an English country town. Her eyes

suddenly filled with tears, and yet she was not unhappy. It was, on the

contrary, the subtlety of her happiness that made her heart throb, and

brought a choky feeling into her throat. Her tears were the idle ones,

that are the sweetest tears of all.

Mrs. Windsor was not subtly happy. She never was. Sometimes she was

irresponsibly cheerful, and generally she was lively, especially when

there were any men about; but though she read much minor poetry, and

knew all the minor poets, she was not poetic, and she honestly thought

that John Gray's "Silver Points" were far finer literature than

Wordsworth's "Ode to Immortality," or Rossetti's "Blessed Damosel." She

liked sugar and water, especially when the sugar was very sweet, and the

water very cloudy. As they drove through the High Street, she

exclaimed--

"Look, Emily, there goes George Meredith into the post-office. How like

he is to Watts' portrait of him! I never can get him to come near me,

although I have read all his books. Mr. Amarinth says that he is going

to bring out a new edition of them, 'done into English' by himself. It

is such a good idea, and would help the readers so much. I believe he

could make a lot of money by it, but it would be very difficult to do, I

suppose. However, Mr. Amarinth is so clever that he might manage it. We

shall soon be there now. Just look at Tommy! I do believe they are

letting him drive."

Loud shouts of boyish triumph from in front in fact announced this

divine consummation of happiness, and Tommy's face, wreathed in excited

smiles, was turned round towards them, to attract their attention to his

deeds of prowess. The fat white pony, evidently under the horrified

impression that the son of Nimshi had suddenly mounted behind him, broke

into a laborious and sprawling gallop, and, amid clouds of dust, the

governess cart vanished down the hill, Lady Locke's maid striking

attitudes of terror, and the smart groom shaking his slim and belted

sides with laughter.

Lady Locke winked her tears away, and smiled.

"He is in the seventh heaven," she said.

"I only hope he won't be in the road directly," rejoined her cousin.

"Ah! here is the village at last."

That afternoon, at four o'clock, a telegram arrived. It was from Mr.

Tyler, and stated that he had caught the influenza, and could not come.

Mrs. Windsor was much annoyed.

"Oh dear, I do hope my week is not going all wrong again this year!" she

exclaimed plaintively. "I cannot fill his place now. Everybody is so

full of engagements at this time of the year. We shall be a man short."

"Never mind, Betty," said her cousin. "Tommy is quite a man in his own

eyes, and I rather like being a little neglected sometimes. It is

restful."

"Do you think so? Well, perhaps you are right. Men are not always

soothing. Let us go out into the garden. The others ought to be here

directly, unless they have got the influenza too. I am thankful Mr.

Tyler did not have it here. It would be worse than a fit. A fit only

lasts for a few minutes after all, and then it is not catching, which is

such a consolation. Really, when one comes to think of it, a fit is one

of the best things one can have, if one is to have anything. We are

going to take tea here under the cedar tree."

Lady Locke opened her well-formed rather ample mouth, and drew in a deep

breath of country air. She had no sort of feeling about the absence of

Mr. Tyler, whom she had never seen. The country, and the warmth, and the

summer were quite enough for her. Still, she looked forward to studying

Lord Reggie with an eagerness that she hardly acknowledged even to

herself. She hoped vaguely that he would be different in the country,

that he would put on a country mind with his country clothes, that his

brain would work more naturally under a straw hat, and that in canvas

shoes he might find a certain amount of salvation. At any rate, he would

look delightfully cool and young on the velvet lawn under the great

cedar. That was certain. And his whimsicalities were generally amusing,

and sometimes original. As to Mr. Amarinth, she could not imagine him in

the country at all. He smacked essentially of cities. What he would do

in this _galère_ she knew not. She leaned back in her basket-chair

and enjoyed herself quietly. The green peace, after London, was

absolutely delicious. She could hear a hen clucking intermittently from

the farmyard hard by, the twitter of birds from the yew-trees, the

chirping voices of Tommy and the curate's little boys, who had been

formally introduced to each other, and had retired to play in a paddock

that was part of the rector's glebe. The rector himself was away on a

holiday, and the curate was doing all the work for the time. Big golden

bees buzzed slowly and pertinaciously in and out of the sweet flowers in

the formal rose garden, chaunting a note that was like the diapason of

some distant organ. Mrs. Windsor's pug, "Bung," lay on his fat side in

the sun with half-closed eyes, snoring loudly to indicate the fact that

he seriously meditated dropping into a doze. All the air was full of

mingled magical scents, hanging on the tiny breeze that stole softly

about among the leaves and flowers. There was a clink of china and

silver in the cottage, for the tall footmen were preparing to bring out

the tea. How pleasant it all was! Lady Locke felt half inclined to

snore with her eyes opened, like Bung. It seemed such a singularly

appropriate tribute to the influence of place and weather. However, she

restrained herself, and merely folded her hands in her lap and fell into

a waking dream.

She was roused by the scrunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive.

"There they are!" said Mrs. Windsor, springing from her chair with

vivacious alacrity. "The train has been punctual for once in its life.

How shocked the directors would be if they knew it, but, of course, it

will be kept from them. Ah! Madame Valtesi, so glad to see you! How do,

Lord Reggie? How do, Mr. Amarinth? So you all came together! This is

such a mercy, as I have only one carriage down here except the cart,

which doesn't count. I told you we should have to rough it, didn't I?

That is part of the attraction of the week. Simplicity in all things,

you know, especially carriages. Mr. Tyler can't come. Isn't it shocking?

Influenza. London is so full of microbes. Do microbes go to parties, Mr.

Amarinth? because Mr. Tyler lives entirely at parties. He must have

caught it in Society. Will you have tea before you go to your rooms?

Yes, do. Here it comes. We are going to have country strawberries and

penny buns made in the village, and quite hot! So rustic and wholesome!

After all, it is nice to eat something wholesome just once in a while,

isn't it?"

Her guests settled into the arm-chairs, and Bung, who had risen in some

pardonable fury, lay down again and prepared to resume his interrupted

meditations.

Madame Valtesi was already attired in her trousseau. She had travelled

down from London in a shady straw hat trimmed with pink roses. A white

veil swept loosely round her face; she carried in her hand an attenuated

mottled cane, with an elaborate silver top. A black fan hung from her

waist by a thin silver chain, and, as usual, she was peering through her

eyeglasses at her surroundings. Mr. Amarinth and Lord Reggie were

dressed very much alike in loosely fitting very light suits, with high

turn-down collars, all round collars that somehow suggested babyhood and

innocence, and loosely knotted ties. They wore straw hats, suède gloves,

and brown boots, and in their buttonholes large green carnations bloomed

savagely. They looked very cool, very much at their ease, and very well

inclined for tea. Reggie's face was rather white, and the look in his

blue eyes suggested that London was getting altogether the better of

him.

"Wholesome things almost always disagree with me," said Madame Valtesi,

in her croaky voice, "unless I eat them at the wrong time. Now, a hot

bun before breakfast in the morning, or in bed at night, might suit me

admirably; but if I ate one now, I should feel miserable. Your

strawberries look most original, quite the real thing. Do not be angry

with me for discarding the buns. If I ate one, I should really

infallibly lose my temper."

"How curious," said Mr. Amarinth, taking a bun delicately between his

plump white fingers. "My temper and my heart are the only two things I

never lose! Everything else vanishes. I think the art of losing things

is a very subtle art. So few people can lose anything really

beautifully. Anybody can find a thing. That is so simple. A crossing

sweeper can discover a sixpence lying in the road. It is the crossing

sweeper who loses a sixpence who shows real originality."

"I wish I could find a few sixpences," said Madame Valtesi slowly, and

sipping her tea with her usual air of stony gravity. "Times are so very

bad. Do you know, Mr. Amarinth, I am almost afraid I shall have to put

down my carriage, or your brother. I cannot keep them both up, and pay

my dressmaker's bill too. I told him so yesterday. He was very much cut

up."

"Poor Teddy! Have his conversational powers gone off? I never see him.

The world is so very large, isn't it?"

"No, he still talks rather well." Then she added, turning to Lady Locke,

"You know I always give him five shillings an hour, in generous moments

ten, to take me about and talk to me. He is a superb _raconteur_. I

shall miss him very much."

"The profession of a conversationalist is so delightful," said Mrs.

Windsor, "I wonder more people don't follow it. You are too generous,

Esmé; you took it up out of pure love of the thing."

"The true artist will always be an amateur," said Lord Reggie, dreamily,

and gazing towards Lady Locke with abstracted blue eyes, "just as the

true martyr will always live for his faith. Esmé is like the thrush. He

always tells us his epigrams twice over, lest we should fail to capture

their first fine careful rapture. Repetition is one of the secrets of

success nowadays. Esmé was the first conversationalist in England to

discover that fact, and so he won his present unrivalled position, and has

known how to keep it."

"Conversational powers are sometimes very distressing," said Madame

Valtesi. "Last winter I was having my house in Cromwell Road painted

and papered. I went to live at a hotel, but the men were so slow, that

at last I took possession again, hoping to turn them out. It was a most

fatal step. They liked me so much, and found me so entertaining, that

they have never gone away. They are still painting, and I suppose always

will be. Whenever I say anything witty they scream with laughter, and I

believe that my name has become a household word in Whitechapel or

Wapping, or wherever the British workman lives? What am I to do?"

"Read them Jerome K. Jerome's last comic book," said Amarinth, "and they

will go at once. I find his works most useful. I always begin to quote

from them when I wish to rid myself of a bore."

"But surely he is a very entertaining writer," said Lady Locke.

"My dear lady, if you read him you will find that he is the reverse of

Beerbohm Tree as Hamlet. Tree's Hamlet was funny without being vulgar.

Jerome's writings are vulgar without being funny. His books are like

Academy pictures. They are all deserving of a place on the line."

"I think he means well," said Mrs. Windsor, taking some strawberries.

"I am afraid so," Amarinth answered. "People who mean well always do

badly. They are like the ladies who wear clothes that don't fit them in

order to show their piety. Good intentions are invariably

ungrammatical."

"Good intentions have been the ruin of the world," said Reggie

fervently. "The only people who have achieved anything have been those

who have had no intentions at all. I have no intentions."

"You will at least never be involved in an action for breach of promise

if you always state that fact," said Lady Locke, laughing.

"To be intentional is to be middle class," remarked Amarinth. "Herkomer

has become intentional, and so he has taken to painting the directors of

railway companies. The great picture of this year's exhibition is

intentional. The great picture of the year always is. It presents to us

a pretty milkmaid milking her cow. A gallant, riding by, has dismounted,

and is kissing the milkmaid."

Madame Valtesi blinked at him for a moment in silence. Then she said

with an air of indescribable virtue--

"What a bad example for the cow!"

"Ah! I never thought of that!" cried Mrs. Windsor.

"One seldom does think how easily proper cows--and people--are put to

confusion. That is why they so often flee from the plays of London to

those of Paris. They can be confused there without their relations

knowing it."

"Why are old men who have seen the world always so proper?" asked Lord

Reggie. "The other day I was staying with an old general at Malta, and

he took Catulle Mendez' charming and delicate romance, 'Mephistophela,'

out of my bedroom and burnt it. Yet his language on parade was really

quite artistically blasphemous. I think it is fatal to one's personality

to see the world at all."

"Then I must be quite hopeless," said Lady Locke, "for I have spent

eight years in the Straits Settlements."

"Dear me!" murmured Madame Valtesi. "Where is that? It sounds like one

of the places where that geographical little Henry Arthur Jones sends

the heroes of his plays to expiate their virtues."

"It is quite a mistake to imagine that the author or the artist should

stuff his beautiful, empty mind with knowledge, with impressions, with

facts of any kind," said Amarinth. "I have written a great novel upon

Iceland, full of colour, of passion, of the most subtle impurity, yet I

could not point you out Iceland upon the map. I do not know where it

is, or what it is. I only know that it has a beautiful name, and that I

have written a beautiful thing about it. This age is an age of

identification, in which our god is the Encyclopædia Britannica, and our

devil the fairy tale that teaches nothing. We go to the British Museum

for culture, and to Archdeacon Farrar for guidance. And then we think

that we are advancing. We might as well return to the myths of Darwin,

or to the delicious fantasies of John Stuart Mill. They at least were

entertaining, and no one attempted to believe in them."

"We always return to our first hates," said Lord Reggie, rather

languidly.

"Do have some more tea, Madame Valtesi," pleaded Mrs. Windsor.

"No, thank you. I never take more than one cup on principle--the

principle being that the first cup is the best, like the last word. I

want to take a stroll round the rose garden, if I may. Mr. Amarinth,

will you come with me?"