Tommy, calling for Clementina the next morning; was confronted at the
open door, not by Eliza, but by a demure damsel in a black frock, black
apron, and a black bow in her hair, who said “Oui, monsieur,” when
addressed. Tommy, still bewildered, asked whether she was a new lady’s
maid. “Oui; monsieur,” said the damsel, and showed him into the Sheraton
drawing-room. He sat down meekly and waited for Clementina. She came
down soon, a resplendent vision, exquisitely gowned, perfectly hatted,
delicately gloved, and in her hand she jingled a small goldsmith’s shop.
She pirouetted round.
“Like it?”
Tommy groaned. “Clementina, darling, tell me, in Heaven’s name, what
you’re playing at, or I’ll go raving mad.”
“I told you that one of these days I was going to become a lady. The day
has come. Don’t I look like a lady?”
“That’s the devil of it,” he laughed. “You look like an archduchess.”
They picked up Etta and met Quixtus at the Carlton where they lunched in
the middle of the great gay room. The young people’s curious awe of the
transmogrified Clementina soon melted away. The big, warm-hearted
Clementina they loved was unchanged; but to her was added a
laughter-evoking, brilliant, joyous personage whose existence they had
never suspected. Quixtus went home stimulated and uplifted. He had never
enjoyed two hours so much in his life.
And that was the beginning of the glory of Clementina Wing.
Day by day the glory deepened. The pyrotechnic—a flash, a bedazzlement
and then darkness—was not in Clementina’s nature. She had deliberately
immolated the phœnix of dusky plumage and from its ashes had arisen this
second and radiant phœnix incarnation. She suffered, as she confessed to
herself, infernally; for a new fire-born phœnix must have its skin
peculiarly tender; but she grinned and bore it for the greater
glory—well, not of Clementina alone—but of God and her sex and the
happiness of those she loved and the things that stood for the right.
She was fighting the interloping woman with her own weapons. She,
Clementina, the despised and rejected of men, was pitting her sex’s
fascinations against the professional seductress. She had won the first
pitched battle. She had swept the enemy from the field. Sheer fierceness
of love, almost animal, for the child, sheer pity flaming white for the
man grown dear to her, sheer sex, sheer womanhood—these were the forces
at work. It would have been easy to denounce the woman to Quixtus. But
that might have thrown him back into darkness. Easy, too, to have held
her knowledge as a threat over the woman’s head and bade her begone. But
where had been the triumph? Where the glory? Whereas to scorn the use of
her knowledge and conquer otherwise, therein lay matter for thrilling
exultation. It was an achievement worth the struggle.
And the glory of the riot through her veins of the tumultuous Thing she
had kept strangled to torpor within her! The Thing that had been stirred
by the springtide in a girl’s heart, that had leapt at the parrot tulips
in the early May, that had almost escaped from grip on the moonlit night
at Vienne, that had remained awake and struggling ever since—the glory
to let it go free and carry her whithersoever it would! Art—to the
devil with it! What was Art in comparison with this new-found glory?
It made her ten years younger. It took years from the man for whose
fascination she brought it into play. Hers was a double conquest, the
rout of the woman, the capture of the man. Daily she battled. Sheila,
the lovers, a new portrait of him which she suddenly conceived the
splendid notion of painting, all were pretexts for keeping the
unconscious man within the sphere of her influence. Any impression that
the other had made on his heart or his mind should be deleted, and her
impression stamped there in its place, so that when he met the other out
of her presence, as meet her he undoubtedly must, he would wear it as a
talisman against her arts and blandishments. Twice also during the dying
days of the season, late that year, she went out into the great world
and gave her adversary battle in the open.
It was between these two engagements that she had a talk with Huckaby.
Huckaby, doing his best to act loyally towards both parties, led a
precarious moral existence. The sight of Clementina queening it in
dazzling raiment about Quixtus’s house and the despairing confidences of
Lena Fontaine had enabled him to form a fairly accurate judgment of the
state of affairs. His heart began to bleed for Lena Fontaine. She would
come to his lodgings and claim sympathy. To not a soul in the world but
him could she talk freely. She was desperate. That abominable woman
insulted her, trampled on her, poisoned Quixtus’s mind against her. He
had changed suddenly, seemed to avoid her, and, when he found himself in
her company, he was just polite and courteous in his gentle way, and
smilingly eluded her. The Dinard intimacy, on which she had reckoned,
had faded into the land of dreams. He was being dragged off before her
eyes to some fool place up the river to be watched and guarded like a
lunatic. What was she to do? Ruin would soon be staring her in the face.
She had thought of upbraiding him for neglect, of reproaching him for
having played fast and loose with her affections, of putting him through
the ordeal of an emotional scene. Of that, however, she was afraid; it
might scare him away for good and all. She wept, an unhappy and
ill-treated woman, and Huckaby supplied sympathy and handkerchiefs and a
mirror so that she could repair the ravages of tears.
One day Huckaby and Clementina met in the hall of the Russell Square
house.
“Well,” she said. “Have you seen Mrs. Fontaine lately?”
He admitted that he had.
“Taking it rather badly, I suppose,” she remarked with a reversion to
her grim manner.
“She is miserable. As I told you, it means all the world to her—her
very salvation.”
Clementina caught the note of deep pleading in his voice and fixed him
with her shrewd eyes.
“You seem to concern yourself very deeply about the lady.”
Huckaby glanced at her for a moment hesitatingly; then shrugged his
shoulders. Clementina was a woman to whom straight dealing counted for
righteousness. He gave her his secret.
“I’ve grown to care for her—to care for her very much. I know I’m a
fool, but I can’t help it.”
“Do you know anything of the lady’s private affairs—financial, I
mean—how much she has honestly of her own?”
“Four hundred pounds a year.”
“And you?”
“When I take up the appointment of the Anthropological Society I shall
have five hundred.”
“Nine hundred pounds. Have you any idea of the minimum rate per annum at
which she would accept salvation?”
“No,” said Huckaby in a dazed way.
“Well, work it out,” said Clementina. “Good-bye.”
Her second sortie into the great world was on the occasion of a
garden-party at the Quinns. Lady Quinn had asked her verbally at
Quixtus’s dinner and had sent her a formal card. Knowing that Quixtus
was going and more than suspecting that the enemy would be there too,
she had kept her own invitation a secret. Welcomed, flattered,
surrounded by the gay crowd in the large, pleasant Hampstead garden, it
was some time before she saw Mrs. Fontaine. At last she caught sight of
her sitting with Quixtus, at the end of the garden, half screened by a
tree-trunk from the mass of guests. As soon as Clementina could work her
way through, she advanced quickly and smiling towards them. Quixtus
sprang to his feet and seemed to take a deep breath as a man does when
he flings bedroom windows wide open on his first morning in mountain
air.
“Clementina! I hadn’t the dimmest notion that you were coming! How
delightful!” He surveyed her for a moment as she stood before him;
parasol on shoulder. Clementina with a parasol! “Pray forgive my
impertinence,” said he, “but you’re wearing the most beautiful dress I
ever saw.”
It was hand-painted muslin—a fabulous thing. She laughed, turned to
Lena Fontaine, demure in a simple fawn costume.
“He’s improving. Have you ever known him to compliment a woman on her
dress before?”
“Many times,” said Mrs. Fontaine, mendaciously.
“It must be your excellent training,” said Clementina. She turned to
Quixtus. “I’ve seen Huckaby this morning, and everything’s quite
arranged for the transportation of your necessary books and specimens
down to Moleham. He’ll do it beautifully even though it takes a
pantechnicon van, and you won’t be worried about it at all. He’s a
splendid fellow.”
“He is rendering me invaluable assistance.”
“Dr. Quixtus tells me he is quite an old friend of yours, Mrs.
Fontaine,” said Clementina. “What a pity you can’t be persuaded to come
down to Moleham.”
“Are you going to have a chaperon to your rather mixed house-party?”
“I should if you would honour me by coming; my dear Mrs. Fontaine—a
dowager dragon of propriety. But an Admiral of the British navy is quite
safeguard enough for me.”
The hostess, coming through the edge of the crowd, carried off Quixtus.
The two women were left alone. Lena Fontaine turned suddenly,
white-lipped, shaking with anger.
“I’ve had enough of it. I’m not going to stand it. I’m not going to be
persecuted like this any longer.”
“What will you do?”
Lena Fontaine clenched her small hands. What could she do?
“Come, come,” said Clementina. “Let us have a straight talk like
sensible women, and put the pussy-cat aside, if we can. Sit down. Do.
There’s only one point of dissension between us. You know very well what
it is—there’s no use fencing. Give it up. Give up all idea of it and
I’ll let you alone. Give it all up. You can see for yourself that I
won’t let you do it.”
“It’s outrageous for you to speak to me like this,” said the other, half
hysterically.
“I know it is,” said Clementina coolly. “I’m an outrageous woman. Been
so all my life. To do an outrageous thing is only part of the day’s
work. So I just say outrageously; give it up.”
Lena Fontaine fluttered a glance at the strong face and caught the
magnetism of the black glittering eyes, and remained silent. She knew
that she was no match for this vital creature. She was confronting
overwhelming odds. The rough fishfag of Paris who could walk straight
into the mould of a great lady and carry everything contemptuously
before her suddenly impressed her with a paralysing sense of something
uncanny, relentless, irresistible. She was less a woman than an
implacable force. For the first time in her life of Hagardom, Lena
Fontaine felt beaten. The nun’s face grew drawn and haggard. Fright
replaced the allurement of her eyes. She said nothing, but twisted one
gloved hand nervously in the other. She was at the mercy of the victor.
There was silence for some moments. Then Clementina’s heart smote her.
All this elaborate wheel to break a butterfly—a very naughty, sordid,
frayed and empty little butterfly—but still a butterfly!
“My dear,” she said, at last very gently. “I know how hard life is on a
lone and defenceless woman. I know you have many reasons to hate me for
preventing you from making that life softer and sweeter. But perhaps,
one of these days, you mayn’t hate me so much. I’m every infernal thing
you like to call me, and when I’m interfered with I’m a devil. But at
heart I’m a woman and a good sort. I won’t outrage you by saying such an
idiot thing as ‘Let us be friends,’ when you’ve every rational desire to
murder me; but I ask you to remember—and I’ve suffered enough not to be
a silly fool going round saying serious things I don’t mean—I ask you
to remember that if ever you want a woman to turn to, you can count on
me. I’m a good bit older than you,” she added generously, “I’m
thirty-six.”
“Oh, God!” cried the other, bursting into tears, “I’m thirty-seven.”
“Impossible,” said Clementina, in genuine amazement. “You look nothing
like it.” She rose and touched the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Anyhow,”
she said, “I’ve a certain amount of female horse-sense that might come
in useful if you want it.”
Whereupon Clementina made her way straight through the throng to her
hostess, and after a swift farewell left the garden-party.
The enemy was finally routed; the confession of age, a confession of
defeat. The victory had been achieved much more easily than she had
anticipated. When she went home she looked with a queer smile into one
of the hanging wardrobes with which she had been obliged to furnish her
bedroom so as to accommodate the prodigious quantity of new dresses. Why
all the lavish expenditure, the feverish preparation, the many hours
wasted at great dressmakers, modistes, and other vendors of
frippery—why the hairdressers, the face specialists—why the exquisite
torture of tight lacing—why the responsibility of valuable jewels, her
mother’s, up till then safely stored at the bank—why the renting of the
caravanserai at Moleham—why the revolution of her habits, her modes of
expression, her very life—why, in short, such fantastic means to gain
so simple an end? Was it worth it? Clementina slammed the wardrobe door
and glanced at herself in the long mirror that was exposed. She saw a
happy woman, and she laughed. It was worth it. She had gained infinitely
more than a victory over a poor sister of no account. Sheila came
running into the room.
“Oh, what a beautiful auntie!”
She caught the child to her and hugged her close.
The legal formalities with regard to Will Hammersley’s affairs were
eventually concluded; but in spite of all inquiries the identity of
Sheila’s mother remained a curious mystery. No record of Hammersley’s
marriage could be found, either at Somerset House or at Shanghai. No
reference to his wife appeared in the papers he had left behind him. At
last, a day or two before her departure for Moleham, Clementina made a
discovery.
A trunk of Hammersley’s merely containing suits of clothes and other
wearing apparel had remained undisposed of, and Clementina was going
through them with the object of packing them off to some charitable
association, when from the folds of a jacket there dropped a bundle of
letters tied round with a bit of tape. She glanced idly at the outer
sheet. The handwriting was a woman’s. The few words that met her eyes
showed that they were love-letters. Clementina sat on an empty packing
case—all Hammersley’s personal belongings had been dumped in her
box-room—and balanced the bundle in her hand. They were sacred things
belonging to the hearts of the dead. Ought she to read them? Yet she
became conscious of a feminine intuition that they might hold a secret
that would bring comfort to the living. So she undid the tape and spread
out the old crumpled pages, and as she read, a tragedy, a romance as old
as the world was revealed to her. The letters dated from seven years
back. They were from one, Nora Duglade, a woman wretchedly married,
breaking her heart for Will Hammersley. Clementina read on. Suddenly she
gave a sharp cry of astonishment and leaped to her feat. There was a
reference to Angela Quixtus, who was in her confidence. Clementina
rapidly scanned page after page and found more and more of Angela. The
writer; like most women, could not bear to destroy the beloved letters;
she dared not keep them at home; Angela had lent her a drawer in her
bureau. . . .
Clementina telephoned to Quixtus to come immediately on urgent business.
In twenty minutes he arrived, somewhat scared. Was anything wrong with
Sheila?
“I’ve found out who her mother was,” said Clementina.
“Who was she?” he asked quickly.
She bade him sit down. They were in the drawing room.
“Some one called Nora Duglade. . . . I don’t remember her.”
Quixtus passed his hand over his forehead as he threw back his thoughts.
“Mrs. Duglade . . .” he said in bewilderment, “Mrs. Duglade . . .”
“A friend of Angela’s,” said Clementina.
“Yes. A school friend. They saw very little of each other. I met her
only once or twice. I had no notion Hammersley knew her. . . . Her
husband was a brute, I remember—used to beat her. . . . I think I heard
she had left him——”
“For Will Hammersley.”
“He died years ago . . . of drink. . . . Oh-h!” He shuddered and hid his
face in his hands.
“Read these few pages,” said Clementina and she left the room very
quietly.
About ten minutes afterwards she came in again. He sprang up from his
chair and grasped both her hands. His eyes were wet and his lips worked
tremulously.
“I found a letter from Hammersley in Angela’s drawer—it had got stuck
at the back. . . . It was for the other woman, my dear——” his voice
quavered into the treble. “It was for the other woman.”
She led him to the stiff sofa and sat beside him and held his hand. And
she had the joy of seeing a black cloud melt away from a man’s soul.
From that hour when he had revealed to her the things deep and sacred,
dark and despairing of his heart, and had gone forth from her sympathy
aglow with a new-found faith in humanity, the bond between them was
strengthened a thousandfold. Quixtus found that he could obtain not only
swift response to his thoughts from a keen intelligence, but wide,
undreamed of understanding of all those subtle workings of the spirit,
regrets, hopes, judgments, prejudices, shrinkings, wonderings, impulses,
which are too elusive to be thoughts, too vague to be emotions. And yet,
she herself was never subtle. She was direct and uncompromising. As a
shivering man enters a cosy room and warms himself before a blazing
fire, so did he unquestioningly warm his heart in Clementina’s
personality. And as the shivering man knows, without speculating, that
the fire is intense and strong, so did he know that Clementina was
intense and strong.
All through the idyll of the remaining summer; he felt this more and
more. She stood for something that he had missed in life, something that
Angela, pale, passionless, negative reflection of himself, had never
given him. She stood for richness, bigness, meaning. A simple man, not
given to introspection or analysis of motive, new sensations, new
realisations came to him as they come to a child and caused development.
And among other impressions that deepened on his mind—and his was the
mind of a scholar and dreamer, sweet and clean—was that of Clementina
(now appearing to the world as God Almighty intended her to appear) as a
physically fine and splendid creature.
And, during all the summer idyll in the Manor House at
Moleham-on-Thames, Clementina, in her uncompromising way, maintained the
new phœnix’s plumage preened and shiny. The old habit of clawing at her
hair while she was painting she circumvented by tying her head in an
Angelica Kauffmann handkerchief. Tommy made her a present of one, in
cardinal red, in which she flamed gipsy-like about the studio.
Involuntarily, inevitably, the manner of all the men in her house-party,
Quixtus, Huckaby, Admiral Concannon, Poynter (who spent a week-end),
Tommy and Tommy’s cronies who came and went as they pleased, was tinged
with a deference and a homage which made life a thing of meaning and
delight.
Sometimes a little scene like this would take place;
To Clementina painting hard in the morning, enter the housekeeper.
“Please, ma’am, we’ll soon be out of wine.”
She would frown at the canvas. “Well, what of it?”
“The gentlemen, ma’am.”
“Oh, let them drink ginger-beer.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Then with a laugh she would fling down her brushes, and go and attend to
her cellar. To make the men in her house comfortable, the commonplace
care of a hostess, gave her unimagined pleasure. Etta and her young
friends could look after themselves, being females and therefore
resourceful. But the men were helpless children, even the Admiral;
sometimes, she thought—especially the Admiral. Their nourishment became
a matter of peculiar solicitude. She invented wants for them which she
forthwith supplied. Sometimes she summoned Tommy to consultation. But
when he gravely prescribed a large bath powder-puff for his uncle she
upbraided him for making a jest of solemn things and dismissed him from
her counsels. Her painting suffered from these inroads on her time and
thoughts; but Clementina cared not. The happiness of the trustful men
around her was of more consequence than the successful application of
paint to canvas. Sometimes, sitting at the head of her table she would
feel herself a mother to them all, and her lips would twist themselves
into a new smile.
Her happiest hours were those which she spent alone with Sheila and
Quixtus. Since the cloud had been lifted from his soul he loved the
child with a new tenderness, thus inarticulately expressing his
gratitude to God for having put it into his heart to love her while the
cloud hung heavy. And Clementina knew this, and invested his relations
with the child in a curious sanctity. She loved to share with him the
child’s affection in actual physical presence. The late afternoon was
Sheila’s hour. Clementina would sit with them beneath the great cedar
tree on the lawn and listen to the stories he had learned to pour into
Sheila’s insatiable ears. They were mostly odds and ends of folk-lore.
But now and then she suspected heterogeneous strains; and one day she
called out;
“Are you inventing all that, Ephraim?”
He confessed with the air of a detected schoolboy.
“To hear you playing the deuce with folk-lore which you regard as a
strict and sacred science amazes me. From you it sounds almost immoral.”
Quixtus fingered the soft curls. “What,” said he, “is all the science in
the world compared with this little head?”
Clementina was silent for a moment. Then she said abruptly. “You feel
like that, too, do you?”
Quixtus nodded and dreamed over the curls.
“But what happened to the princess and the Ju-Ju man?” demanded Sheila,
and Quixtus had to pursue his immoral course.
August melted into September, and September drew to its close. Admiral
Concannon and Etta and all the boys and girls, save Tommy, had gone, and
Huckaby was busy with the repacking of books and specimens. The weather
had broken. The trees dripped with rain and the leaves began to fall.
Mists rose from the meadows by the river and a blue haze, sweet and sad,
enveloped the low-lying hills. In the garden the sunflowers, a week
before so glorious, hung their heads with a dying grace. The birds, even
the thrushes, were mute. The hour under the cedar tree had become the
hour of deepening twilight by the fireside. The idyll was over. London
called. . . .
* * * * *
They had been sitting before the drawing-room fire for a long time
without speaking. Sheila, with a toy shop and an army of dolls for
customers, played on the floor between them, absorbed in her game. No
one of the three noticed that darkness had crept into the room, for the
fire leaped and flamed, throwing on them fierce lights and shadows.
“The day after to-morrow,” said Clementina, breaking the silence, and
looking intently at the blaze.
“Yes,” said Quixtus. “The day after to-morrow.”
“I think you’ll find I’ve made all arrangements for Sheila, Atkins
understands.” Atkins was the nurse. “I’ve seen about the nursery fender
which I had overlooked. . . . You mustn’t let Atkins bully you, or
she’ll get out of hand. . . . How these three months have flown!”
“If you didn’t insist,” said Quixtus, “I wouldn’t take her from you. But
you’ll miss her terribly.”
“So will you when my turn comes again,” replied Clementina gruffly.
“What’s the good of talking rubbish?”
There was another silence. He glanced at her, and a sudden flame from
the fire lit up her face and he saw that her brows were bent and her
mouth set grimly tight and that something glistened for a second on each
cheek and then fell quickly. And each time he glanced at her he saw the
same glistening drop fall.
“Uncle Ephim,” said Sheila coming and insinuating herself between his
legs, “Mrs. Brown wants to buy some matches and I haven’t got any.”
He gave her his silver match-box and Sheila went away happy to her game.
Clementina choked a sob.
“My dear,” said he, at last.
“Yes?” said Clementina.
“Why shouldn’t we have her always with us?”
“You mean——?” said Clementina, after a pause, and still looking into
the fire.
“Even with her, I can’t face that great lonely house. I can’t face my
empty, lonely existence. My dear,” said he, bending forward in his
chair; “it has come to this—that I can’t think a thought or feel an
emotion without you becoming inextricably interwoven with it. You have
grown into the texture of my life. I know I may be impertinent and
presumptuous in putting such a proposal before you——”
“You haven’t put one yet,” said Clementina.
“It is that you would do me the honour of marrying me,” replied Quixtus.
Again there was silence. For the first time in her life she was afraid
to speak, lest she should betray the commotion in her being. She loved
him. She did not hide the fact from herself. It was not the mad,
gorgeous passion of romance; she knew it for something deeper, stronger,
based on essentials. He lay deeply rooted in her heart, half child for
her mothering, all man for her loving. When had she begun to care for
him? She scarcely knew. Perhaps at Marseilles, when he had returned to
her for companionship and they had walked out arm in arm. She knew that
he spoke truly of his need of her. But the words that mattered, the
foolish little words; he had not uttered.
“Do you care for me enough to marry me?” she asked, at last.
He glanced at Sheila weighing out matches in her toy scales. It is
difficult to carry on a love-scene with conviction in the presence of a
third party, even of that of a beloved child of five.
“Very, very, deeply,” he said in a low voice.
The dressing-bell rang and Clementina rose. “Put up your shop, darling.
It’s time to go to bed.” Then she crossed to Quixtus’s chair and stood
behind him and laid one arm on his shoulder. He kissed her hand.
“Well?” said he, looking up.
“I’ll tell you presently,” she said, and in withdrawing her hand, she
lightly brushed his cheek.
Quixtus dressed quickly and came down early to the drawing-room, and
soon Clementina appeared. She was wearing a red dress which she had
bought during her wholesale purchasing of raiment, but had never yet
worn, thinking it too flaring, and she had a red dahlia in her hair.
Quixtus took both her hands and raised them to his shoulders, and she
stood away from him at the distance of her bare; shapely arms, and she
smiled into his eyes.
“Your answer?” said he.
“Tell me,” she said. “What do you really want me for?”
“For yourself,” he cried, and he caught her in his arms with swift
passion and kissed her.
“If you hadn’t said that,” she remarked a few moments afterwards, “I
don’t know what my answer would have been. At any rate,” she added,
touching her hair with uplifted hands, “it would not have been quite so
spontaneous.”
He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and a great light came into his
pale blue eyes as he looked at her.
“Do you think, my dear,” said he, “that I’m such a dry stick of a man as
not to want you for your great self—your great, splendid, and wonderful
self? I want you with everything in me.”
She turned half aside and said gently;
“That’s all a woman wants, Ephraim.”
“What?”
“To be wanted,” said Clementina.
It was not till the next day that she told Tommy the great news. She
took him for a walk and broke it to him bluntly. But he was prepared for
it. Etta had foreseen and had prophesied to his sceptical ears. He
murmured well-bred congratulations.
“But your painting,” said he, after a while.
“It can go hang,” said Clementina. She laughed at his look of horror.
“Art for the polygamous man and the celibate woman. A man can throw his
soul into his pictures and also attend to his wife and family. That’s
out of a woman’s power. She must choose between her art on the one side,
and husband and children on the other—I’m telling you this, _mon
petit_, for your education. I’ve chosen husband and children as any
woman with blood in her veins would choose. It’s the women without blood
that choose art—don’t make any mistake about it. Now and then one of
’em chooses the other—and, as she doesn’t get any children and doesn’t
know what the deuce to do with a husband, falls back on her art again
and gives the poor devil soup with camel-hair brushes floating about it
and a painting-rag for a napkin, and then there are ructions, and she
goes among her weary pals and says that their sex is misunderstood and
down-trodden, and they must clamour for their rights. Bosh!”
She sniffed in her old way. Tommy insisted.
“But you’re a born painter, Clementina. A great painter. It means such a
tremendous sacrifice.”
“You young men of the present day make me tired!” she exclaimed. “You
all seem to think that larks ought to fall ready roasted into your
mouth. There’s not a blessed thing in this world worth having without
sacrifice. The big people, the people that have the big things in life
are those that have paid or are prepared to pay the big price for them.”
“I don’t see why you should round on me like that,” said Tommy. “After
all, a little while ago I made no bones about sacrificing the loaves and
fishes for the sake of my art—I don’t want to brag—but _fiat justitia_
at any rate.”
“I know what you did,” said Clementina, mollified, “and if you hadn’t
done it, I shouldn’t be talking like this to you. And you’re a painter
and my very dear Tommy, and you can understand—Of course, I’ll go on
painting—I’ve got it in my blood. I could no more do without a paint
brush handy than a tooth brush. But it’s going to be secondary. I’ll be
the gifted amateur. Clementina Wing, painter of portraits to the
nobility, gentry, mayoralty, and pork-butchery of Great Britain and
Ireland is dead. You can paraphrase the epitaph. ‘Here lies Clementina
Wing, the married woman.’ And, Tommy, my dear,” she added in a softer
voice, “You can add to it; ‘_Sic itur ad astra_.’”
“I do hope you’ll be jolly happy,” said Tommy.
On their way back it happened that the postman met them with the
household budget. She took the letters into the hall and sorted them.
Tommy went off with his precious epistle from Etta. Huckaby appeared in
quest of his chief’s correspondence, and, seeing her alone,
congratulated her on her approaching marriage. She thanked him and held
out a letter addressed to him from Dinard.
“I’ve been dealing in quotations lately,” she said. “And I find I’ve got
one for you. ‘Go thou and do likewise.’”
Huckaby sighed and laughed.
“One of these days, perhaps,” said he.
So the idyll that seemed to be coming to an end had only just begun.
They returned to London, and while Clementina (in whose charge Sheila
now remained) painted frenziedly to finish the work she had in hand,
Quixtus, with her help, reorganised the great gaunt house in Russell
Square. The worm-eaten scarecrow of a billiard table was removed from
the billiard-room built by Quixtus’s father over the garden at the back
of the house, and the room, spacious and top-lighted, was converted into
a studio for the bride to be. Tommy, enthusiastically iconoclast, being
given authority, under Clementina’s directions, to refurnish, condemned
rep curtains, mahogany mid-Victorian furniture—a dining-room sideboard
disfigured by carvings of plethoric fruit had sent shivers down his back
since infancy—Turkey carpets and all the gloom of a bygone age, and
converted the grim abode into a bower of delight.
And towards the end of October the oddly mated pair were married, and
Clementina went to her husband’s home and the patter of the feet of the
beloved child of their adoption was heard about the house and great joy
fell upon them.
One day, in the early spring, Quixtus burst into the studio, a letter in
hand. The greatest of all honours that the civilised world has to give
to the scholar had fallen on him—honorary membership of the Institut de
France. She must know of it at once.
She was sitting before the easel, a bit of charcoal in hand, absorbed in
her drawing. What he saw on the drawing-paper put, for the moment, the
Institute of France out of his mind. Two arms came from the vague,
headless trunk of a draped woman; one arm clasped Sheila, a living
portrait, and the other something all chubby, kissable curves, such as
Murillo has rendered immortal. As soon as she was aware of his presence
she tore the sheet from the board, and looked at him somewhat defiantly.
He went up and put his arm round her, deeply moved.
“My dear,” said he, “I saw. You’re the only woman in the world that
could have done it. Let me look. I can share it with you, dear.”
She yielded. His delicate perception of the innermost sweetnesses of
life was infinitely dear to her. She set the drawing upright on the
ledge. He drew a chair close to her and sat down, and he forgot the
crowning glory of his intellectual life.
“It’s not bad of Sheila, is it?” she said.
“And the other?”
She kissed him. “The very image. It’s bound to be.”
Presently she laughed and said:
“I’ve been thinking of the good St. Paul lately. He has a lot to say
about glory. Do you remember? About the glory of celestial bodies and
bodies terrestrial. ‘There is one glory of the sun and another glory of
the moon and another glory of the stars.’ But there is one glory which
that eminent bachelor never dreamed of.”
“And what is that, my dear?” asked Quixtus.
“The glory of being a woman,” said Clementina.
THE END
NOVELS BY W. J. LOCKE
MR. W. J. LOCKE’S LATEST NOVEL
The Glory of Clementina Wing
Crown 8vo, 6s.
* * * * *
Simon the Jester
Crown 8vo, 6s.
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W. L. Courtney in _The Daily Telegraph_.—“You will not put down
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the writing, the atmosphere of the novel, the easy, pervasive
charm . . . which make us feel once more the stirring pulses and
eager blood of deathless romance.”
* * * * *
The Beloved Vagabond
Crown 8vo, 6s.
_PRESS OPINIONS_
_Morning Post._—“It would not be surprising if ‘Beloved
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* * * * *
The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne
Crown 8vo, 6s.
_PRESS OPINIONS_
_Truth._—“Mr. Locke’s new novel is one of the most artistic
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* * * * *
The White Dove
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* * * * *
Derelicts
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Idols
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* * * * *
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At the Gate of Samaria
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_PRESS OPINIONS_
_Daily Chronicle._—“The heroine of this clever story attracts
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* * * * *
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* * * * *
The Demagogue & Lady Phayre
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JOHN LANE, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street, London, W.
JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION
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* * * * *
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itself as some little delicate flower.”
=ACCORDING TO MARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph_—“A more entertaining, companionable,
good-natured, and yet critical piece of portraiture we have not
had the good luck to encounter these many seasons. . . .
‘According to Maria’ is as fresh, amusing, and human a book as
any man, woman, or girl could desire to bewitch a jaded moment,
or drive away a fit of the dumps.”
_Daily Chronicle_—“This delightful novel, sparkling with
humour. . . . Maria’s world is real. . . . Thackeray might have
made such sheaves if he had been a woman.”
=TALK O’ THE TOWN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
* * * * *
BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
=THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net
Second Edition.
C. di B. (Mr. Bernard Shaw) _in the Star_—“If an unusually fine
literary instinct could make it a solid book, Mr. le Gallienne
would be at no loss for an enduring reputation . . . Nothing
could be prettier than his pleas and persuasions on behalf of
Narcissus and George Muncaster.”
=THE WORSHIPPER OF THE IMAGE.= Crown 8vo. 3/6
_Daily Chronicle_—“Contains passages of a poignancy which Mr.
Le Gallienne has never before compassed.”
=THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN GIRL.= Cr. 8vo. 6/-
Fifteenth Edition.
_Daily News_—“A piece of literary art which compels our
admiration.”
Mr. Max Beerbohm in _Daily Mail_—“Mr. Le Gallienne’s gentle,
high spirits, and his sympathy with existence is exhibited
here. . . . His poetry, like his humour, suffuses the whole book
and gives a charm to the most prosaic objects and incidents of
life. . . . The whole book is delightful, for this reason, that
no one else could have written a book of the same kind.”
=THE ROMANCE OF ZION CHAPEL.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
Second Edition.
_St. James’s Gazette_—“Mr. Le Gallienne’s masterpiece.”
_Times_—“Extremely clever and pathetic. As for sentiment
Dickens might have been justly proud of poor Jenny’s lingering
death, and readers whose hearts have the mastery over their
heads will certainly weep over it.”
=PAINTED SHADOWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Scotsman_—“Material and workmanship are of the finest.”
_Queen_—“Really delightful stories, Mr. Le Gallienne writes
prose like a poet.”
=LITTLE DINNERS WITH THE SPHINX.= Cr. 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph_—“Here is the same delicate phrasing, the same
tender revelation of emotions, always presented with a
daintiness of colouring that reveals the true literary artist.”
_Star_—“Mr. Le Gallienne touches with exquisite tenderness on
the tragedy of things that change and pass and fade.”
* * * * *
BY A. E. J. LEGGE.
=MUTINEERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Speaker_—“An interesting story related with admirable lucidity
and remarkable grasp of character. Mr. Legge writes with polish
and grace.”
=BOTH GREAT AND SMALL.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Saturday Review_—“We read on and on with increasing pleasure.”
_Times_—“The style of this book is terse and witty.”
=THE FORD.= Crown 8vo. Second Edition. 6/-
_Standard_—“An impressive work . . . clever and thoughtful.
‘The Ford,’ deserves to be largely read.”
* * * * *
BY W. J. LOCKE.
=DERELICTS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Chronicle_—“Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true,
very moving, and very noble book. If anyone can read the last
chapter with dry eyes we shall be surprised. ‘Derelicts’ is an
impressive and important book.”
_Morning Post_—“Mr. Locke’s clever novel. One of the most
effective stories that have appeared for some time past.”
=IDOLS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Punch_—“The Baron strongly recommends Mr. W. J. Locke’s
‘Idols’ to all novel readers. It is well written. No time is
wasted in superfluous descriptions; there is no fine writing for
fine writing’s sake, but the story will absorb the reader. . . .
It is a novel that, once taken up, cannot willingly be put down
until finished.”
=A STUDY IN SHADOWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Chronicle_—“Mr. Locke has achieved a distinct success in
this novel. He has struck many emotional chords and struck them
all with a firm sure hand.”
_Athenœum_—“The character-drawing is distinctly good. All the
personages stand out well defined with strongly marked
individualities.”
=THE WHITE DOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Times_—“An interesting story, full of dramatic scenes.”
_Morning Post_—“An interesting story. The characters are
strongly conceived and vividly presented, and the dramatic
moments are powerfully realized.”
=THE USURPER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_World_—“This quite uncommon novel.”
_Spectator_—“Character and plot are most ingeniously wrought,
and the conclusion, when it comes, is fully satisfying.”
_Times_—“An impressive romance.”
=THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE.= Cr. 8vo. 3/6
=AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Chronicle_—“The heroine of this clever story attracts
our interest . . . She is a clever and subtle study. . . . We
congratulate Mr. Locke.”
_Morning Post_—“A cleverly written tale . . . the author’s
pictures of Bohemian life are bright and graphic.”
=WHERE LOVE IS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
Mr. James Douglas, in _Star_—“I do not often praise a book with
this exultant gusto, but it gave me so much spiritual stimulus
and moral pleasure that I feel bound to snatch the additional
delight of commending it to those readers who long for a novel
that is a piece of literature as well as a piece of life.”
_Standard_—“A brilliant piece of work.”
_Times_—“The author has the true gift; his people are alive.”
=THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE.= Cr. 8vo. 6/-
Mr. C. K. Shorter, in _Sphere_—“A book which has just delighted my
heart.”
_Truth._—“Mr. Locke’s new novel is one of the most artistic
pieces of work I have met with for many a day.”
_Daily Chronicle._—“Mr. Locke succeeds, indeed, in every crisis
of this most original story.”
=THE BELOVED VAGABOND.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Truth._—“Certainly it is the most brilliant piece of work Mr.
Locke has done.”
_Evening Standard._—“Mr. Locke can hardly fail to write
beautifully. He has not failed now.”
=SIMON THE JESTER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“. . . something of the precision of the
pendant, combined with an easy garrulity which is absolutely
charming, and a literary style which carries us from the
beginning to the end with unfailing verve and ease . . .
Certainly you will not put down the book until you have read the
last page . . . The style, the quality of the writing, the
atmosphere of the novel, the easy, pervasive charm . . . make us
feel once more the stirring pulses and eager blood of deathless
romance.”
=THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA WING.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
* * * * *
BY INGRAHAM LOVELL.
=MARGARITA’S SOUL.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Punch._—“There have been a great many _ingénues_ (mock or
real) in modern fiction, and doubtless one or two in actual
life; but there never was one inside a book or out of it who
came within a four mile cab radius of Margarita. The book is
well worth reading.”
_Westminster Gazette._—“A book which does not let the reader’s
interest flag for a moment. It is full of laughter and smiles,
of seriousness, comfortable philosophy and a few tears.”
* * * * *
BY CHARLES LOWE.
=THE PRINCE’S PRANKS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Evening Standard_—“The ‘pranks’ are good reading. All his
adventures go with a swing, and the escapes are as exciting as
anything we have read for a long time.”
_Daily Chronicle_—“The book is always bright and often
brilliant.”
_Globe_—“A very readable and pleasant book.”
* * * * *
BY LAURA BOGUE LUFFMAN.
=A QUESTION OF LATITUDE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
* * * * *
BY A. NEIL LYONS.
=ARTHUR’S.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Times._—“Not only a very entertaining and amusing work, but a
very kindly and tolerant work also. Incidentally the work is a
mirror of a phase of the low London life of to-day as true as
certain of Hogarth’s transcripts in the eighteenth century, and
far more tender.”
_Punch._—“Mr. Neil Lyons seems to get right at the heart of
things, and I confess to a real admiration for this philosopher
of the coffee-stall.”
=SIXPENNY PIECES.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“It is pure, fast, sheer life, salted with
a sense of humour.”
_Evening Standard._—“‘Sixpenny Pieces’ is as good as
‘Arthur’s’, and that is saying a great deal. A book full of
laughter and tears and hits innumerable that one feels impelled
to read aloud. ‘Sixpenny Pieces’ would be very hard indeed to
beat.”
=COTTAGE PIE.= A Country Spread. Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Graphic_—“Mr. Lyons writes well and has literary
talent.”
_Daily Express._—“Every story is masterly, clear, clean,
complete. Mr. Lyons is a rare literary craftsman and something
more.”
_Athenœum._—“‘Cottage Pie’ is an achievement.”
* * * * *
BY FIONA MACLEOD (William Sharp).
=THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Literary World._—“We eagerly devour page after page; we are
taken captive by the speed and poetry of the book.”
_Graphic._—“It is as sad, as sweet, as the Hebridean skies
themselves, but with that soothing sadness of Nature which is so
blessed a relief after a prolonged dose of the misery of ‘mean
streets.’”
* * * * *
BY FREDERICK NIVEN.
=THE LOST CABIN MINE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Athenœum._—“The book should be read by lovers of good
fiction.”
_Westminster Gazette._—“The whole story is told with an amount
of spirit and realism that grips the reader throughout.”
=THE ISLAND PROVIDENCE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Graphic._—“Its descriptive power is remarkable. The
author ‘springs imagination,’ to use George Meredith’s words,
and springs it with no more than the few words prescribed by
that master.”
_Academy._—“Vigorous writing.”
* * * * *
BY FRANK NORRIS.
=THE THIRD CIRCLE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Morning Post._—“As a sketch by a great artist often reveals to
the amateur more of his power and skill than a large finished
work in which the effect is concealed, so in these virile little
studies we are made to realise quite clearly what powers of
observation and what a keen eye for effective incident Mr.
Norris had.”
_Spectator._—“A series of remarkable sketches and short stories
by the late Mr. Frank Norris . . . well worth reading.”
* * * * *
BY JOHN PARKINSON.
=A REFORMER BY PROXY.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Chronicle._—“For a first it is quite an excellent
effort.”
_Morning Leader._—“A very promising book.”
_Literary World._—“A thoroughly sound, matured piece of work.”
=OTHER LAWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
This book is distinctly the outcome of the latest “intellectual”
movement in novel-writing. The hero, Hawkins, is an African
explorer. During a holiday in England he falls in love with and
captivates Caroline Blackwood, a woman of strong personality.
Circumstances prevent him from entering upon a formal
engagement: and he departs again for Africa, without proposing
marriage. Caroline and Hawkins correspond fitfully for some
time; but then a startling combination of events causes Hawkins
to penetrate further and further into the interior; a native
village is burned, and a report, based apparently upon fact is
circulated of his death. Not until seven months have elapsed is
he able to return to England. He finds Caroline married to a man
who has found her money useful. Here the story, strong and
moving throughout, moves steadily to the close, describing
delicately and analytically the soul conflict of a man and a
woman, sundered and separate, with a yearning for each other’s
love.
* * * * *
BY F. J. RANDALL.
=LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“Since the gay days when Mr. F. Anstey was
writing his inimitable series of humourous novels, we can recall
no book of purely farcical imagination, so full of excellent
entertainment as this first effort of Mr. F. J. Randall. ‘Love
and the Ironmonger’ is certain to be a success.”
_Times_—“As diverting a comedy of errors as the reader is
likely to meet with for a considerable time.”
Mr. Clement Shorter in _The Sphere_—“I thank the author for a
delightful hour’s amusement.”
=THE BERMONDSEY TWIN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“Merry and bright farce. The incidents are
most deftly handled.”
_Westminster Gazette._—“There is a good deal of humour in some
of the situations.”
_Daily Telegraph._—“Mr. Randall has written a wonderfully
clever and thoroughly amusing humorous novel. The Bermondsey
Twin is a notable addition to the all-too-sparse ranks of novels
that are frankly designed to amuse.”
* * * * *
BY HUGH DE SÉLINCOURT.
=A BOY’S MARRIAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Evening Standard_—“Exceedingly realistic . . . but does not
give the impression that anything is expatiated upon for the
sake of effect. A daring but sincere and simple book . . .
likely to attract a good deal of attention.”
_Athenœum_—“The best points in Mr. de Sélincourt’s novel are
his delicacy of treatment and sense of character. . . . He has
the making of a fine novelist.”
=THE STRONGEST PLUME.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Academy_—“An uncomfortable story for the conventionally
minded. It deals a deadly blow to the ordinary accepted notions
of the respectable.”
_Daily Telegraph_—“The story is a very commendable as well as a
very interesting piece of work.”
_Daily Mail_—“A neat, artistic story.”
=THE HIGH ADVENTURE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Evening Standard._—“A novel for all lovers of the poetry of
life, uttered or unexpressed.”
_Morning Post_—“Mr. de Sélincourt certainly has a talent for
describing rather nice young men.”
_Observer._—“A clever and refreshing story.”
=THE WAY THINGS HAPPEN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Morning Post._—“The book has moments of grace and charm that
few contemporary writers give us.”
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“‘The Way Things Happen’ confirms a
long-settled conviction that among the young generation of
writers there are few who can compete with Mr. de Sélincourt for
pride of place.”
_Times._—“Reading this book is a surprising and a rare
experience.”
=A FAIR HOUSE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Athenœum._—“The book is tender and pathetic, and occasionally
exhibits considerable literary skill.”
_Evening Standard._—“A skilful study of life. Mr. de Sélincourt
has a graceful style and moreover, he possesses the power to
make his reader share in his emotions. The book is clever, and
something more and better.”
_Morning Post._—“‘A Fair House’ undoubtedly is a pretty book.”
* * * * *
BY G. S. STREET.
=THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY.= F’cap. 8vo. 3/6 net
Fifth Edition.
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“A creation in which there appears to be
no flaw.”
_Speaker._—“The conception is excellent and the style perfect.
One simmers with laughter from first to last.”
=THE TRIALS OF THE BANTOCKS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6
_Westminster Gazette._—“Since Mr. Matthew Arnold left us we
remember nothing so incisive about the great British Middle, and
we know of nothing of Mr. Street’s that we like so well.”
_Saturday Review._—“Mr. Street has a very delicate gift of
satire.”
_Times._—“A piece of irony that is full of distinction and
wit.”
* * * * *
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN.
=REGINA : or THE SINS OF THE FATHERS.= 6/-
Crown 8vo. Also Canvas Back Library 1/6 net. Third Edition.
A Translation of “Der Katzensteg,” by Beatrice Marshall.
_St. James’s Gazette._—“A striking piece of work, full of
excitement and strongly drawn character.”
_Globe._—“The novel is a striking one, and deserves a careful
and critical attention.”
* * * * *
BY MARCELLE TINAYRE.
=THE SHADOW OF LOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- Translated from the
French by A. R. Allinson, M.A.
Of the newer French novelists Marcelle Tinayre is perhaps the
best known. Her work has been crowned by the French Academy and
she possesses a very large public in Europe and in America. The
story deals with a girl’s love and a heroic sacrifice dictated
by love. “The Shadow of Love” is a book of extraordinary power,
uncompromising in its delineation of certain hard, some might
say repulsive facts of life, yet instinct all through with an
exquisitely tender and beautiful passion of human interest and
human sympathy.
* * * * *
BY CLARA VIEBIG.
=ABSOLUTION.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Times._—“There is considerable strength in ‘Absolution’ . . .
As a realistic study the story has much merit.”
_Daily Telegraph._—“The tale is powerfully told . . . the tale
will prove absorbing with its minute characterisation and real
passion.”
=OUR DAILY BREAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Athenœum._—“The story is not only of great human interest, but
also extremely valuable as a study of the conditions in which a
large section of the poorer classes and small tradespeople of
German cities spend their lives. Clara Viebig manipulates her
material with extraordinary vigour. . . . Her characters are
alive.”
_Daily Telegraph._—“Quite excellent.”
* * * * *
BY H. G. WELLS.
=A NEW MACHIAVELLI.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Mr. Robert Ross in Bystander._—“It may safely be prophesied
that 1911 is not likely to produce another literary sensation of
so permanent a kind. It is impossible to lay down ‘The New
Machiavelli’ for longer than a few moments. . . . The most
various novel that has appeared since ‘Vanity Fair.’ . . . A
great piece of literature.”
_The Times._—“The book is without doubt the most important
piece of work that Mr. Wells has yet given us. . . . The most
finished example of the form which the novel has gradually
arrived at in his hands. . . . Margaret, the betrayed and
deserted wife, is possibly, the most finely touched portrait
that Mr. Wells has drawn.”
* * * * *
BY MARGARET WESTRUP.
=ELIZABETH’S CHILDREN.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“The book is charming . . . the author . . .
has a delicate fanciful touch, a charming imagination . . .
skilfully suggests character and moods . . . is bright and
witty, and writes about children with exquisite knowledge and
sympathy.”
=HELEN ALLISTON.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“The book has vivacity, fluency, colour,
more than a touch of poetry and passion. . . . We shall look
forward with interest to future work by the author of ‘Helen
Alliston.’”
=THE YOUNG O’BRIENS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Saturday Review._—“Delightful . . . the author treats them
(the Young O’Briens) very skilfully.”
=PHYLLIS IN MIDDLEWYCH.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“The author of ‘Elizabeth’s Children’ has
really excelled herself in this volume of stories in which
Phyllis Cartwright figures. Phyllis, who is called a little
angel by her mother and a little devil by her father, has
certainly a double share of the power of moving people to wrath
or mirth.”
* * * * *
BY EDITH WHARTON.
=THE GREATER INCLINATION.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“Teems with literary ability and dramatic
force.”
_Outlook._—“Miss Wharton writes with a sympathy, insight and
understanding that we have seldom seen equalled.”
* * * * *
BY IDA WILD.
=ZOË THE DANCER.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Times._—“The literary style is a feature. There is a pleasing
originality about the account of the career of Zoë. We should
certainly like to hear again from the author.”
_Morning Leader._—“Miss Wild can write, not only English, but
good English. Her style is often clever and brilliant. It shews
a real sense and mastery of words and idiom.”
* * * * *
BY M. P. WILLCOCKS.
=WIDDICOMBE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Evening Standard._—“Wonderfully alive and pulsating with a
curious fervour which brings round the reader the very
atmosphere which the author describes. . . . A fine, rather
unusual novel. . . . There are some striking studies of women.”
_Queen._—“An unusually clever book.”
=THE WINGLESS VICTORY.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Times_—“Such books are worth keeping on the shelves even by
the classics, for they are painted in colours that do not fade.”
_Daily Telegraph_—“A novel of such power as should win for its
author a position in the front rank of contemporary writers of
fiction.”
=A MAN OF GENIUS.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Daily Telegraph._—“‘Widdicombe’ was good, and ‘The Wingless
Victory’ was perhaps better, but in ‘A Man of Genius’ the author
has given us something that should assure her place in the front
rank of our living novelists.”
_Punch._—“There is no excuse for not reading ‘A Man of Genius’
and making a short stay in the ‘seventh Devon of delight.’”
=THE WAY UP.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Morning Post._—“Admirable . . . ‘The Way Up’ grips one’s
attention more completely than any of Miss Willcocks’ three
previous novels.”
_World._—“The author has given us her best. This is a real
literary achievement, a novel in a thousand and a work of art.”
_Literary World._—“This is a novel that on every page bears the
hall-mark of a genius.”
* * * * *
BY F. E. MILLS YOUNG.
=A MISTAKEN MARRIAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Pall Mall Gazette._—“It is a very sincere and moving story.
The heroine claims our sympathies from the first, and we follow
her fortunes with absorbed interest.”
=CHIP.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Morning Post._—“Original, vivid and realistic.”
_Athenœum._—“A tale . . . of unusual romantic interest.”
=ATONEMENT.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
_Morning Leader._—“The book is certainly very powerful, and the
end is extraordinarily moving. The characters are human beings,
and the whole thing has the stamp of strong rugged life . . . an
exceptional and strong book.”
_Daily Chronicle._—“A vigorous and striking story . . .
unusually well told. The author’s power to describe places is as
clear and incisive as it is in defining his characters.”
=SAM’S KID.= Crown 8vo. 6/-
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Glory of Clementina Wing, by William J. Locke