SUGGESTS A DOUBLE PROBLEM._The Under-Secretary

Fashion, as we call it, is in these decadent days at the mercy of any

millionaire pork-butcher, or any enterprising adventurer from across the

seas. Victorian literature has declined into the "short story" and the

"problem play," taking its heroines from among women with a past and its

heroes from the slums. In prose, in verse, and in conversation, the

favourite style is the Cockney slang of the costermonger, the

betting-ring, and the barrack canteen. Is it not appalling that the

reek of the pot-house, the music-hall, the turf, the share-market, the

thieves' doss-house infects our literature, our manners, our amusements,

and our ideals of life? Yet is it not the truth?

Dudley, yielding to Claudia's persuasion, gave a large house-party at

Wroxeter during the Christmas recess. As he was too much occupied with

his public duties to be able to arrange the affair himself, she returned

from Market Harborough and went down to Shropshire to make his

arrangements. Truth to tell, he was wearied of the nightly discussions

in the House and his daily work at the Foreign Office, and looked

forward to a brief period of relaxation and gaiety, when he could

entertain his friends. He left everything to her, just as he had done

on several previous occasions. Very soon after his decision to ask his

friends down to the old feudal castle, Wroxeter was the scene of much

cleaning and garnishing.

Claudia, whose charm of manner was unequalled, was an admirable hostess

of striking individuality, and her own entertainments were always

brilliant successes. Royalties came to her small parties, and every one

who was any one was seen at her receptions. She it was who decided what

guests should be asked to Wroxeter, and who sent out the invitations;

then, after seeing that all was in complete readiness, she returned

again to town. She was a born entertainer, and never so happy as when

arranging a social function, whether it was a dinner, private

theatricals, a bazaar, or a theatre supper at the Carlton. It follows

that as regards the arrangement of Dudley's house-party at Wroxeter she

was entirely in her element.

A paragraph crept into the papers announcing how the popular

Under-Secretary intended to spend the recess. This was copied into

hundreds of papers all over the country with that rapidity with which

the personal paragraph always travels.

Of course the invitations were sent out in Dudley's name, and the fact

that Claudia had arranged the whole matter was carefully concealed. As

the relict of Dick Nevill she had a perfect right to act as hostess on

Chisholm's behalf if she so desired, but Dudley had strenuously refused

to allow this, for people might renew their ill-natured gossip. He had

no desire to submit either Claudia or himself to a fresh burst of

scandal.

The House rose. Three days later the guests began to assemble at

Wroxeter, making the old halls echo with their laughter in a manner in

which they had not echoed for many years. Claudia herself did not

arrive until a couple of days later, but the arrangements she had made

with the housekeeper were perfect.

The guests numbered thirty-three, nearly all of them Dudley's most

intimate friends, including a Cabinet Minister and a sprinkling of

political notabilities. Among them were, of course, some smart women

and pretty girls; and with a perfect round of entertainment the

Christmas festival was kept in a right royal manner, worthy the best

traditions of the Chisholms. Holly boughs and mistletoe were suspended

in the great oak-panelled hall, while a boar's head and other old-world

dishes formed part of the fare on Christmas Day. Outside, the weather

was intensely cold, for snow had fallen heavily and had now frozen,

giving the park and the surrounding hills quite a fairy-like appearance.

It was in every respect such a festival as we most of us desire, "an

old-fashioned Christmas."

The Grand-Duke was in Paris, and Dudley was secretly glad that on this

account he could not be invited. But among the guests were the portly

Lady Meldrum, whose black satin seemed a fixed part of her, her

inoffensive husband, Sir Henry, and pretty, fair-haired Muriel Mortimer.

Benthall, the Member for East Glamorganshire, was, of course, there,

but the colonel, who had been his fellow-guest for the shooting, had

gone to Cannes for the winter, in accordance with his usual habit.

With such a party, a woman's directing influence was, of course,

indispensable, but Claudia acted the part of hostess in a manner so

unobtrusive that no one could demur. So skilfully planned was the whole

affair that a perfect round of gaiety was enjoyed each day, with some

amusement to attract everybody.

Compelled to be civil and affable to everybody, Dudley somehow found

himself more often in the company of Muriel Mortimer than in that of

Claudia. Whether it was that Lady Meldrum's ward deliberately sought

his society, or whether chance threw them together so often, he could

not decide. At any rate, he played billiards with her, danced with her,

and always found her seat close to his at the head of the table.

On the morning following the revels of Christmas night most of the

guests were late down to breakfast save Muriel, who was one of the first

to appear. Dudley met her in the great old room and bent over her hand

in salutation. She had been the prettiest woman at the dance on the

previous night, and her unaffected manner had again attracted him. But

as he stood before the big wood fire, chatting with her and awaiting the

others, a curious thought crossed his mind. There, in that very room, a

couple of months earlier, he had been warned against her by the blunt

old colonel; and yet he was now entertaining her beneath his roof.

Their eyes met as they were speaking, and he saw that hers were clear,

blue, wide open, with an expression of perfect frankness. Yes, she was

altogether charming in her simple morning gown. Why in the world had

the colonel so distinctly warned him? What harm could there possibly be

in their meeting?

Claudia, who, strangely enough, evinced no jealousy because of his

constant companionship with her, was standing near the window,

handsomely and becomingly clad, chatting with old Sir Henry Meldrum, now

and then glancing in the direction of the man for whom she had confessed

her love. Dudley noticed these glances, but went on talking, though

rather mechanically, with the sweet, ingenuous girl whom the colonel had

declared he ought to avoid. Claudia herself had arranged her seat at

table close to him; she had even suggested on the previous afternoon

that as Muriel liked billiards, her host should play with her, and had

herself whispered in his ear at the dance to invite Lady Meldrum's ward

to be his partner in the "Washington Post."

All this puzzled him, as the truth was slowly revealed to him. And,

after all, who was this pretty Muriel?

From a dozen different sources he had endeavoured to obtain some

information regarding her birth and parentage, but all he could gather

was of a contradictory nature. One old dowager had told him that she

was the only daughter and heiress of the late Charles Mortimer, a great

Liverpool ship-owner and intimate friend of Sir Henry's. From another

source he learnt that she was the daughter of a man who had been for

some years partner with the ironmaster; while a third person hinted

mysteriously that her parentage was unknown, and that she had merely

been adopted by Sir Henry and his wife, chiefly because they were

childless. All this was perplexing, to say the least of it.

He had laughed heartily when the old colonel had warned him against her,

declaring that he had no desire to make the acquaintance of the pretty

Unknown. But somehow the mystery surrounding her began to attract him,

and he became eager to fathom it.

Later that morning he met Claudia alone in one of the corridors, and

took her aside to arrange the entertainment for the morrow. Then, when

they had finished, he put a question to her, point-blank: "Who is Muriel

Mortimer?" he asked.

She glanced at him quickly, evidently taken somewhat aback by the

suddenness of his question.

"My dear Dudley," she laughed, "I should have thought you knew all about

your guests by this time. She is Sir Henry Meldrum's ward."

"I know that," he said, a trifle impatiently. "But who were her

parents?"

"I've never heard," she replied. "I don't think any one knows.

Possibly it is some family secret. At least, I've always thought so."

"Then you have already endeavoured to find out?"

"Of course. Curiosity is woman's nature."

"And have you discovered nothing of her birth, or who she is?"

"Nothing whatever. A month ago I even went so far as to ask Lady

Meldrum."

"And what was her answer?" he inquired eagerly. "She said that her

parentage was a matter that concerned only Muriel herself. Indeed, she

seemed quite huffy that I should have dared to broach the subject. But

you know how sore that kind of person is in regard to certain points."

"Then Lady Meldrum gave no reason why Muriel was her husband's ward?"

"No. Her reply was a polite negative to all inquiries."

He was silent for a few minutes, leaning against the table and facing

her.

"How did you first become acquainted with this estimable pair, Claudia?

Tell me, for they interest me."

"You mean that Muriel interests you," she laughed mischievously.

"No, I mean that the whole affair appears to me full of mystery."

"I first met Lady Meldrum at a bazaar with which I was connected in aid

of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We held a

stall together."

"You had never met her, or known her before?"

"Never. She was the wife of a Glasgow knight, and quite unknown in

London."

"Was Muriel with her at the bazaar?"

"I did, not see her. I believe she was away visiting somewhere. Lady

Meldrum spoke of her, I recollect quite distinctly."

"And it was you who afterwards introduced her in town. I presume she

owes all her social success to you?"

"Yes, I believe she does," she replied.

"Then I consider it curious that she has never confided in you the

secret of Muriel's birth. She surely could not expect you to stand

sponsor for a girl of whom you knew nothing?"

"Oh, how absurdly you talk, Dudley!" she laughed airily. "Whatever is

in your mind? If Muriel Mortimer amuses you, as apparently she does,

what does her parentage matter? Sir Henry and her ladyship are

perfectly respectable persons, and even though they may be of somewhat

plebeian origin they don't offend by bad manners. Can it be that your

thirst for knowledge is due to a vague idea that Muriel might one day be

the _chatelaine_ of this place, eh?"

She looked him full in the face with the dark and brilliant eyes that

had always held him spellbound. She was a clever woman, and with

feminine intuition knew exactly the power she possessed over the man

whom she loved with a passion so fierce and uncurbed that she had been

led to overstep the conventionalities.

"Muriel Mortimer will never be mistress here," he said in a hard voice,

a trifle annoyed at her final remark. "You yourself have invited her

here as my guest, and I am bound to be civil, but beyond that--well, I

hope that we shall not meet again after this party breaks up."

"And yet you want to know all about her, with the eagerness of an ardent

lover!" she laughed sarcastically.

"I have reasons--strong ones," he answered firmly.

Again she raised her eyes to his, but rather furtively, as though she

were seeking to discover the reason of this sudden anxiety and was not

quite sure of how much he knew.

"Then if you consider the matter of sufficient importance, why not ask

Lady Meldrum herself?" she suggested. "To you she may perhaps give a