IX

Somewhere in these papers I have said that Shelmerdene left England, but

I touched on it very lightly, for I am only half-heartedly a realist,

and may yet live to be accused of shuffling humanity behind a phrase....

Youth must endure its periods of loneliness with what grace it can; and

youth could endure them as resignedly as its preceptors, if it were not

for its grotesque self-importance, which inflates loneliness to such a

size that it envelopes a young man's whole being, leaving him at the end

a sorry wreck of what was once a happy mortal. Anyway, that is what

happened to me; I took the whole affair in the worst possible spirit,

and, during that probation time to wisdom, thought and wrote and did so

many silly things, smashed ideals and cursed idols with such morbid

thoroughness and conviction (after the fashion of all the bitterest

young men), that I must have been as detestable a person as ever

trickled wheezily from the, well, pessimistic pen of a Mr. Wyndham

Lewis.... But it takes very little effort to forget that time entirely,

to let it bury itself with what mourning it can muster from the Shades

which sent it to plague me. Enough that it passed, but not before it

had, as they say, "put me wise" about the world and its ways.

For Shelmerdene had left behind her much more than just loneliness; much

that was more precious and, thankfully, more lasting; for she had found

a young man shaped entirely of acute angles and sharp corners, and had

rubbed and polished them over with such delicate tact that it was only

months, after she had gone that I suddenly realised how much more fit I

was to cope with a complicated world since I had known her. But, more

importantly, Shelmerdene to me was England. Before I met her I did not

know England; I knew English, but England only as a man knows the

landmarks about him in a strange country. But when she had come and gone

England was a discovered country, a vast and ever-increasing panorama in

which discoveries were continually made, leaving yet more hidden valleys

of discoveries still to be made--and to be enjoyed! So much and much

more, O unbeliever, I learnt from Shelmerdene, and in the learning of it

lay the best and gladdest lesson of all.

Time, they say, can efface all things, but in truth it can efface

nothing but its own inability to smooth out the real problems of life;

so at least I have found in the one instance in which I have challenged

time to do its best for me, a slave bound down by an unholy wizardry; or

else, perhaps, it was that Shelmerdene was not made of the stuff which

fades into the years and becomes musty and haggard in their increasing

company. I do not know. But, take it as I will, all the service time has

been able to do for me has been negative, for without disarranging one

hair of her head it has only emphasised in me the profound and subtle

influence of that gracefully licentious woman whom I once called

Shelmerdene, because, I told her, "it is the name of an American girl

which I found in a very bad American novel about the fanatical Puritans

of New England, and the name seems to suit you because in New England

they would have treated you exactly as they treated Shelmerdene Gray,

the heroine of this book, whom they branded and burnt as a shameless

woman, but loved in their withered hearts for her gaiety, and elegance,

and wit, which they couldn't understand, but vaguely felt was as much an

expression of Christ as their own wizened virtue."

Out of the silence of two years at last came a letter from her. I found

it when I came in very late one night, and for a long time I stood in my

little hall and examined the Eastern stamp and postmark; and the writing

on the envelope was so exactly the same as on the last note she had sent

me before leaving England that I had to smile at the idea of

Shelmerdene, in the rush of her last pursuit of her perfect fate, laying

in a sufficient store of her own special nibs to last her for the

lifetime she intended to spend abroad; for when I opened the letter I

found that, as I had guessed, she would never come back to England,

saying, "I am a fugitive branch which has at last found its parent

tree.... I have run my perfect fate to earth, Dikran! more perfect than

any dream, more lasting than the most perfect dream. And life is so

beautiful that I can scarcely bear your not being here to share it, for,

you see, I am quite sure that you are still the dear you were two years

ago. But it is so tiresome of you to be so young, and to have to

experience so many things before you can qualify for my sort of

happiness; and on top of being young you are so restless and fussy, too,

with your ideas of what you are going to do, and your ambitions--how it

must tire the mind to be ambitious! It would certainly tire mine in this

climate, so will you please make a note of the fact that I simply forbid

you to come out here to join me! You are too young to be happy, and you

aren't wise enough to be contented; and you can't hope to be wise enough

until you begin to lose a bit of that mane of hair of yours, which I

hope you never will, for I remember how I loved one particular wave in

it in the far-off age when I thought I was in love with you.... It is

terrible, but I am forgetting England. Terrible, because it must be

wrong to forget one's country, seeing how you oppressed nationalities go

on remembering your wretched countries for centuries of years, and

throwing bombs and murdering policemen for all the world as though you

weren't just as happy as every one else, while I, with a country, which

is after all worth remembering, go and forget it after a paltry two

years! Of course it will always be my country, and I shall always love

it for the good things it has given me, but as a _fact_ in my life it

has faded into something more dim than a memory. A spell has been put

upon me, Dikran, to prevent a possible ache in my heart for the things I

was born among, a spell which has made me forget Europe and all my

friends in it except just you, and you because, in spite of all your

English airs, you will always be a pathetic little stranger in a very

strange land, fumbling for the key.... Ah, this wise old East of mine!

so old and so wise, my dear, that it knows for certain that nothing is

worth doing; and as you happen, perhaps, on the ruins of a long-dead

city by the desert, you can almost hear it chuckling to itself in its

hard-earned wisdom, as though to say that since God Himself is that very

same Law which creates men, and cities, and religions only to level them

into the dust of the roads and the sands of the desert, why fight

against God! It is a corrupt and deadening creed, this of the East, but

it has a weight of ancestral will behind it which forces you to believe

in it; and belief in it leaves you without your Western defences, and

open to be charmed into non-resistance, as I and my Blue Bird have been

charmed, else perhaps I would not now be so happy, and might even be

dining with you on the terrace of the Hyde Park Hotel.... Rather

bitterly you have often called me the slave of Ishtar, though at the

time I did not know who the lady was, for I was always rather weak about

goddesses and such like; but I guessed she had something to do with love

because of the context, for you were developing your pleasant theory

about how I would come to a bad end, someday.... Well, Dikran, that

'someday' of your prophecy has come. I've never belonged so wholly to

Ishtar as I do now that I am perhaps in the very same country in which

she once haunted the imagination of the myriad East. I've made a mess of

life, I've come to my bad end, and, as I tell you, I have never known

such perfect happiness. The world couldn't wish me a worse fate, and I

couldn't wish myself a better.... Don't write to me, please. I can

always imagine you much more clearly than your letters can express you,

and if I think of you as doing big things, as I pray you may, it will be

better for me than knowing that you are doing nothing at all, which

might easily happen, seeing how lazy you are.... In the dim ages I was

all wrong about life. For I know now that restraint in itself is the

most perfect emotion...."

I laid the letter down, and as the windows were already greying with the

March dawn it did not seem worth while going to a sleepless bed; and so

I sat on in my chair, drawing my overcoat round me for warmth, and

smoked many cigarettes. I felt very old indeed, for was not that letter

the echo of a long-dead experience, and are not long-dead experiences

the peculiar property of old men?

[Illustration]

No visions of the Shelmerdene of that letter came up to disturb my

peace, for she did not fit in with my ideas of the East, she had never

appealed to that Eastern side which must be somewhere in me, but had

always been to me a perfect symbol of the grace and kindliness and

devilry of the arrogant West. I could not see her as she described

herself, happy, meditative, wise in contentment.... Her contentment is

too much like an emotion, and therefore spurious, I thought, and so she

will still dine with me on the terrace of the Hyde Park Hotel, and will

wonder why I look so differently at her, for I will still be young while

she will be middle-aged.... No, that letter conjured up no perfect

vision of her in the East, except that I saw her, melodramatically

perhaps, pleading on her knees for release from the bonds of Ishtar, for

I knew that not even a Shelmerdene among women can evade the penalty of

so many unsuccessful love-affairs just by the success of one.

The grey of the March dawn became paler, and the furniture and books in

my room seemed so wan and unreal that I thought drowsily that they were

a dream of last night and were fading before the coming daylight; and

later, when my thoughts had mellowed into a security of retrospect, I

may have slept, for I realised with a start that the maid had come in to

tidy up the room for breakfast, but had got no further than the door,

perhaps wondering whether I had been very drunk the night before, or

only just "gay."

Retrospect came naturally after that letter, for she had written at the

end how she had found the true worth of "restraint"; it would have been

just a phrase in a letter if I had not remembered, as she must have when

she wrote it, that the word had a context, and that the context lay in a

long summer afternoon on a silent reach of the river many miles from

Maidenhead.... One day that summer I had suggested to her that, as the

world was becoming a nuisance with its heat and dust, we might go and

stay on the river for a few days, but she had said, quite firmly, "No, I

can't do that. I am not yet old enough to put my name down for the

divorce stakes, so if you don't mind, Dikran, we will call that bet off

and think of something else. For if that same husband heard of my

staying on the river with a young man of uncelibate eye and uncertain

occupation, he would at once take steps about it, and although I like

you well enough as a man, I couldn't bear you as a co-respondent.... But

if you really do want to stay on the river, I will get the Hartshorns to

ask us both down, for they have a delightful house on a little hill,

from which you can see the twilight creeping over the Berkshire downs

across the river."

"Oh, we can't do that," I said; "Guy Hartshorn is such a stiffnecked ass

and his wife is dull enough to spoil any river--"

"Tolerance, my dear, is what you lack," she said; "tolerance and a

proper understanding of the relation between a stiffnecked ass and a

possible host. And Guy, poor dear, always does his duty by his

guests.... Please don't be silly about it, Dikran. The Hartshorns

distinctly need encouragement as hosts, so you and I will go down and

encourage them. And if you can manage to cloak your evil thoughts behind

a hearty manner and watch Guy as he swings a racing punt down the river,

you will learn more about punting and the reason why Englishmen are

generally considered to be superior to foreigners than I could teach you

in a lifetime."

We had been two days at the house on the little hill by the river (for,

of course, we went there) before, on the third afternoon, after lunch,

our chance came, and Shelmerdene and I were at last alone on the river;

I had not the energy to do more than paddle very leisurely and look from

here to there, but always in the end to come back to the woman who lay

facing me against the pale green cushions of the Hartshorn punt, steeped

in the happy sunshine of one of those few really warm days which England

now and again manages to steal from the molten South, and exhibits in a

new green and golden loveliness. From round a bend of the river we could

quite clearly see the ivy-covered Georgian house of our host, perched

imperiously up on the top of its little hill, but not imperiously enough

to prevent the outlet of two days' impatience in the curse I vented on

it.

"Little man with little toy wants big toy of the same pattern and cries

when he can't have it," she mocked me, and smiled away my bad temper,

which had only a shallow root in impatience. But I would not let it go

all at once, for man is allowed licence on summer afternoons on the

river, and I challenged her to say if she did not know of better ways of

spending the whole glorious time between dinner and midnight than by

playing bridge, "as we tiresomely do at the house on the hill, much to

the delight of that sombre weeping elm which looks in at the window and

can then share the burden of its complaining leaves with my pessimistic

soul."

"We will leave your soul severely alone for the moment, but as for

playing bridge, I think it is very good for you," she said. "It is very

good for you to call three No Trumps, and be doubled by some one who

won't stand any nonsense, and go down four hundred or so. It teaches you

restraint."

"Restraint," I said, "is the Englishman's art of concealing his emotions

in such a way that every one can guess exactly what they are. And I have

acquired it so perfectly that you know very well that only the other day

you told me how you admired my restraint, and how I would never say to a

man's face what I couldn't say just as well behind his back." But she

did not answer, and in silence I pulled into a little aimless backwater,

and moored by a willow which let through just enough sun to speck

Shelmerdene's dress with bright arabesques.

I changed my seat for the cushions and lay full length in front of

Shelmerdene, but it was as though she had become part of the river, she

was so silent. I said something, I can't remember what it was, but it

must have suited the day and my mood. I could not see her face because

she had turned it towards the bank and it was hidden under the brim of

her pale blue hat, but when my words had broken the quietness and she

turned it towards me, I was surprised at the firm set of her lips and

the sadness of her smile.

"You are making love to me, and that is quite as it should be," she

said. "But on the most beautiful of all days I have the saddest

thoughts, for though you laughed at me when I talked about restraint, I

was really very serious indeed. I know a lot about restraint, my dear,

and how the lack of it can make life suddenly very horrible ... for once

upon a time I killed an old man because I didn't know the line between

my desires and his endurance." She shook her head at me gently. "No,

that won't do, Dikran. You were going to say something pretty about my

good manners, but that is all so much play-acting, and, besides, good

manners are my trade and profession, and without them I should long ago

have been down and under, as I deserve to be much more than Emma

Hamilton ever did.... The tragedy about people like me is that we step

into life at the deep end and find only the shallow people there, and

when we meet some one really deep and very sincere, like that old man,

we rather resent it, for we can't gauge him by the standards we use for

each other. Men like that bring a sudden reality into life, but the

reality is unacceptable and always ugly because it is forced upon one,

while the only realities that are beautiful are those that were born in

your heart when you were born; just like your country for you, which you

have never seen and may never see, and yet has been your main reality in

life since you were born; a reality as sad and beautiful as the

ancestral memories which must lurk somewhere in you, but which you can't

express because you have not learnt yet how to be really natural with

yourself. And when you have learnt that you will have learnt the secret

of great writing, for literature is the natural raw material which every

man secretes within himself, but only a few can express it to the world.

But I may be wrong about all that, and anyway you must know a great deal

more about great thinking and great writing than I do, for you have read

about it in dull books while I have only sensed it in my trivial

way...."

"Shelmerdene, I want to hear about your old man," I said, "whom you say

you killed. But that is only your way of saying that he was in love with

you, and that you hurt him so much that he died of it."

"Ah, if it had been only that I would not be so sad this afternoon! In

fact, I would not be sad at all, for he was old and had to die, and all

that about love and being hurt is fair and open warfare. But it was

something much beastlier than that, something animal in me, which will

make me ashamed whenever I think of that day when we three gave our

horses rein down to the Breton coast, and I turned on the old man, a

very spitfire of a girl broken loose from the restraint of English

generations, forgetting for one fierce moment that her saddle was not

covered with the purple of a Roman Augusta, and that she couldn't do as

she liked in a world of old men.... Have you ever seen a quarrel, a real

quarrel, Dikran? When some one is so bitterly and intensely angry that

he loses all hold on everything but his wretched desire to hurt, and

unchains a beast which in a second maims him as deeply as his enemy--no,

it maims him more.

"The old Frenchman was my guardian," she said, "and the last of a name

which you can find here and there in Court Memoirs, in the thick of that

riot of gallantry and intrigue which passed for life at old Versailles.

But the world has grown out of that and does things much better now, for

gallantry has been scattered to the four winds of democracy and is the

navvy's part as much as the gentleman's, while intrigue has become the

monopoly of the few darling old men who lead governments, more as a way

of amusing their daughters than for any special purpose of their own.

But if the world has grown old since then so had my old man, for he was

none of your rigid-minded _cidevant aristos_ whom you can see any day at

the Ritz keeping up appearances on an occasional cocktail and the use of

the hotel note-paper; but the air of the _grand seigneur_ hadn't

weathered proscriptions and revolutions for nothing, and so still clung

rather finely to him in spite of himself, and made him seem as old and

faded as his ancestors in the world in which he had to live, poor old

dear! It was cruel of that other nice old gentleman above him to put him

through the ordeal, for he did so bitterly and genuinely resent a world

in which honour was second to most things and above nothing. He couldn't

forgive, you see. He couldn't forgive himself, nor France, nor God, but

especially he couldn't forgive France. Sedan, revolution, republic--and

no Turenne or Bonaparte to thrash a Moltke with the flat of his sword,

for he wasn't worth more! And all a France could muster were the

trinkets of her _monde_ and _demimonde_, and a threatening murmur of

'_revanche_' and '_Alsace-Lorraine_'--as though threats and hatred could

wipe out the memory of that day of surrender at Sedan, when he stood not

ten yards away among only too polite Prussian aides-de-camp while

Napoleon put the seal on his last mistake, and signed away an empire....

And allowing for exaggeration, and the white-hot excitement to which

folk who fuss about honour, etc., are liable, there may have been

something in his point of view about it all, for I once heard a man with

a lot of letters behind his name say that when a country gives up a limb

it also gives up its body; but he may have been wrong, for after all

France is still France!

"But you would have adored my old man, Dikran, just as I did. He treated

life, and men, and women with all that etiquette which you so admire, he

was simply bristling with etiquette--a deal too much of it for my taste,

for I was only seventeen then and liked my freedom like any other

Englander.... But I'm finding it very difficult to describe the man he

was, my dear, for in our slovenly sort of English we've got used to

describing a person by saying he is like another person, and I can't do

that in this case because he belongs as much to a past age as Hannibal,

and there isn't any one like him now. And even when he was alive there

were very few--two or three old men as fierce and unyielding and vital

as himself, who used to come and dine, and say pretty things to little

me who sat at the end of the table with very large eyes and fast-beating

heart, wondering why they weren't all leading Cabinets and squashing

revolutions, for they seemed to know the secrets of every secret cabal

and camarilla in Europe.

"Yes, my old guardian was a remnant of an empire--but what a remnant!

Such a fierce-looking little man he was, with pale, steel-blue eyes

which pierced into you from under a precipice of a forehead, a bristling

Second Empire moustache, and thin bloodless lips which parted before the

most exquisite French I've ever heard; I can scarcely bear it when you

say I talk French divinely, for I know how pitiful mine is compared to

the real thing, as done by that old man and Sarah Bernhardt, for they

were very old friends and she used often to come and lunch with us.

"He talked well, too, and all the better for having something to say, as

well he might have since he had been everything and known every one

worth knowing of his time--ministers, and rebels, and artists, and all

the best-known prostitutes of the day; but they did those things better

then, Dikran. In fact, more as an excuse for getting away from a parvenu

Paris than from any Bonapartist feelings, for he was always an

Orleanist, I think he had represented Louis Napoleon at every city which

could run to an Embassy from London to Pekin; from where he brought back

that ivory Buddha which is on my writing-table, and which has an

inscription in ancient Chinese saying that every man is his own god, but

that Buddha is every man's God, which goes a long way to prove that the

wisdom of the East wasn't as wise as all that, after all.

"But you are getting restless," she said suddenly. "You probably want to

open the tea-basket to see what's inside, or you've just seen a water

rat----"

"No, it's a little more subtle than that, Shelmerdene, although as a

fact I do see a water rat not a yard from you on the bank.... I merely

wanted to know how it was that, since you had a perfectly good father

alive in England, you were allowed to go gadding about in France with a

guardian, soi-disant----"

"We will ignore your soi-disant, young man. But I'll allow your

interruption, for it may seem a bit complicated.... It was like this: as

the fortunes of our family had run rather to seed through generations of

fast women and slow horses, my father who was utterly a pet, succumbed

to politics for an honest living, or, if you pull a face like that about

it, for a dishonest living. For up to that time, in spite of having

exactly the figure for it, he had always refused to enter Parliament,

because his idea was that the House was just a club, and one already

belonged to so many better clubs. But once there nothing could stop him,

and when he entered for the Cabinet stakes he simply romped home with a

soft job and a fat income.... But all that is really beside the point,

for between politics and guineas father and I had had a slight

disagreement about a certain young man whom I was inclined to marry

offhand, being only sixteen, you know, and liking the young man--and, of

course, my father did the correct thing, as he always did, gave the

young man a glass of port and told him not to be an ass, and shipped me

off to Paris to his very old friend. You see, he knew about that old

Marquis, and how I'd be quite safe in his care, for any young man who as

much as looked at me would have a pair of gimlet eyes asking him who the

devil he might be and why he chose to desecrate a young lady's virginal

beauty by his so fatuous gaze.

"I've been saying a lot of nice things about that old man to you, but I

didn't feel quite like that about him at the time. I liked him, of

course, because he was a man; but all that French business about the

sanctity of a young maid's innocence got badly on my nerves, for

innocence was never my long suit even from childhood, having ears to

hear and eyes to see; and I soon began to get very bored with life as my

old Frenchman saw it. So it wasn't surprising that I broke out now and

again just to shock him, he was so rigid, but I was always sorry for it

afterwards because he just looked at me and said not a word for a minute

or so, and then went on talking as though I hadn't hurt him--but I had,

Dikran! I had hurt him so much that for the rest of the day he often

couldn't bear to see me.... But though I was ashamed of myself for

hurting him, I couldn't stop; life with him was interesting enough in

a way, of course, but it left out so much, you see; it entirely left

out the stupendous fact that I was almost a woman, and a very feminine

one at that, who liked an odd young man about now and again just to

play about with. But I wasn't allowed any young men, except a

twenty-five-year-old over-manicured Vicomte who was so unbearably

worldly and useless that I wanted to hit him on the head with my

guardian's sword-stick, which he always carried about with him, as a

sort of mental solace, I think. No, there weren't any young men, nor any

restaurants, for the old man simply ignored them; my dear, there wasn't

anything at all in my young life except a few old dukes and dowagers,

and the aforesaid young Vicomte, who had manicured himself out of

existence and was considered harmless. And so Paris was a dead city to

me who lived in the heart of it, and all the more dead for the faded old

people who moved about in my life, and tried to change my heart into a

Louis-Quinze drawing-room hung with just enough beautiful and musty

tapestries to keep out the bourgeois sunshine and carelessness, which I

so longed for.

"So I had to amuse myself somehow.... I was a bad young woman then, as I

am a bad woman now, Dikran; for I've always had a particular sort of

vanity which, though it doesn't show on the surface like most silly

women's, is deep down in me and has never left me alone; a sort of

vanity which makes itself felt in me only in the off-seasons when no one

happens to be in love with me and I in love with no one, and tells me

that I must be dull and unattractive, utterly insignificant and

non-existent; it is a weakness in me, but much stronger than I am, for

I've never resisted it, but been only too glad to fall in love again as

soon as I could; and that is why I've never made a stand against my

impressionableness, why I've never run away from or scotched a

love-affair which I knew wouldn't last two weeks, however much I loved

the wretched man at the time; it was so much the line of least

resistance, it drowned that infernal whisper in me that I was of no

account at all in the world. But the tragedy of it was, and is, my dear,

that indulgence made the monster grow; it was like a drug, for as soon

as the off-season came again it was at its old tricks with twice its old

virulence and malice, and, of course, I gave way again. And so on, and

so on--did you murmur _dies iræ_, Dikran? Well, perhaps, but who knows?

There's a Perfect Fate for every one in this world, and if any one

deserves to find it, it's myself who has failed to find it so often....

"At that time that wretched vanity of mine was only a faint whisper, but

there it was, and it had to be satisfied, or else I should have become a

good woman, which never did attract me very much. I simply had to amuse

myself somehow--and so I formed _la grande idée_ of my young life, just

as Napoleon III had long ago formed his equally _grande idée_ about

Mexico and Maximilian, and with the same disastrous results. True, there

was no young man about, but there was a man, anyway, and a Marquis to

boot, even though he was a bit old and rigid. But it was exactly that

rigidity of his which I wanted to see about; I wanted to find out

things, and in my own way, don't you see? And so, deliberately and with

all the malice in me, I set out to subdue the old man. Not childishly

and gushingly, although I was so young, but with all the finesse of the

eternal game, for clever women are born with _rouge_ on their cheeks.

"But it was a disappointing business; I didn't seem to make the

impression I wanted to make; all my finesse went for nothing, except as

signs of the affection of a ward. Obviously, I thought hopelessly, I

don't know all there is to be known about subduing old French marquises,

and I had almost decided to try some other amusement when one May

morning, a few months after my father had died and appointed him as my

guardian and executor, he came into my little boudoir, looking more

stern and adorable than ever. And as he came in I knew somehow that big

things were coming into my little life; I don't know how, but I knew it

as surely as I knew that for all his grand air of calmness he was as shy

as any schoolboy.

"'My child,' he said very gently, 'I am intruding on you only because I

have something to say to you of the utmost importance and delicacy. I am

too old and too much of the world to do things by impulse, and so if I

seem to offend against your unworldliness now it is not because I have

not thought very carefully about what I am going to say.... And I beg

you not to count it as any more than the suggestion of an old man who

thinks only of your good, and to tell me quite frankly at the end what

you think of it.

"'My old friend, your father,' he said, 'honoured me by placing you

entirely in my charge as guardian and executor; but on looking into

matters I find that he has left very little for me to do in the latter

capacity--very little, in fact, besides that small estate in Shropshire

which is entailed on you and your children, as with all its associations

of that beautiful girl--scarcely older than you are now, your

mother--your father could not bear the thought of it ever passing to

strangers. And so, my child, without any reflection on my friend, when

you leave my care you enter the world with an old enough name to ensure

your position, but without the income to maintain it, and, if you will

forgive me, a quite insignificant _dot_; though in your case, as in your

beautiful mother's,' he added, with his little gallant smile, the first

and last of the morning, 'a _dot_ would be the requirement of a blind

man.

"'All this preamble must seem very aimless and tiresome to you, but I

wish to put all the facts before you, my dear, before asking you to take

the responsibility, as indeed it is, of weighing the suggestion I am

going to make.... You must have seen that I am out of sympathy with this

modern world of yours, that I belong to some other period, better or

worse, what does it matter? And this world, my child, has little use for

those hard-headed persons who cannot change the bent of their minds

according to its passing whims, and so it has little use for me who

cannot and will not change.... Do you understand? I mean that I am an

old man who is every day losing touch with life, and that I know here,

quite certainly, that I have only a very few more years to live. Do not

look sad, child,' he said, almost impatiently, 'it is not that I am

complaining, but that I wish you to understand my thoughts.... Into an

old life you have come like a ray of sunshine which is even now making

light of your little puzzled frown; and I have a debt of gratitude to

pay to you, my child, which I wish to pay at the expense even of your

young peace of mind this morning. Although this new world has passed out

of my grasp, and will soon pass out of my understanding, I know that it

is the proper setting for you, the only subtle and beautiful thing that

I have found in it, and my greatest wish is to leave you in a position

worthy of your beauty and intelligence. It is not that I am afraid for

you, for you are no trivial chit of a girl, but merely that I wish to

leave you both happy and independent.... And, as it is, I can do

nothing, nothing at all! For it has been a fixed rule of our family that

we may not leave our fortune and property to any one who does not bear

our name, and thus, though my nephew and I have had no occasion to meet

for some fifteen years, I must leave him such money as I have and all

this not unappreciated furniture.... And that is why, my child, because

of my wish to leave you all I have, I have been forced to suggest the

only alternative, for I would not have even considered it otherwise,

that you should consent to bear my name with me for the few years I have

to live, and then, as a young and beautiful widow of means, and bearing

an old French name which may still be worth a little consideration, you

can take your fit position in the world in which you, and not I, were

born to be happy....'

"There it is, Dikran, or as much of it as I can remember. And do you

need a setting for it? Oh, yes, you do, for you are a little lost.

Imagine then, sitting by a window of a large house in the _Rue Colbert_,

a young girl with a battered copy of Madame Bovary skilfully hidden

beside her, and a little erect old man, very stiff but _soigné_, and

cruelly aged by the sunlight which poured blessedly into the room,

standing by the arm of her chair, asking her to marry him. Oh! but you

can't imagine it, you will think of him as pleading, and of me as

surprised. He didn't plead, he couldn't and I, my dear, by the time he

had finished, wasn't surprised.... I knew, you see. Why, I knew

everything! Lexicons and encyclopædias had toppled off their dusty

shelves, and the Sibylline books had come running to my feet, and the

whole world had come trotting out with its wisdom, wisdom as clear and

cold as any Dân-nan-Rón that your friend Gloom ever played on his

_feadan_, and all in the few minutes that an old man was speaking to me!

Of course, it should all have happened differently; I should have been

just a 'trivial chit of a girl,' and then I would have accepted all the

old darling said, and gaped, and cried, and said 'thank you.' But as it

was I did none of those things; I'm not quite sure what I did, unless it

was nothing at all.... It all seems rather mixed now, but on that May

morning it was as clear as the sunlight in my cruel young mind--how

young and how cruel, Dikran!

"You see, as he spoke, he opened out the world which he so despised to

me; page by page he showed me life, how beastly and how beautiful; he

showed me both sides, because he himself was both beastly and

beautiful.... And I gloried in it all! At my knowledge and the power it

gave me over life. After a while the old man didn't seem to

matter--there he was, talking away! I knew about him, and just how

beastly and beautiful he was. For he _was_ beautiful in his sincerity; I

knew that he wished for my good, that to leave me well provided was the

only condition he made with death; but I knew too that there was a

beastly little imp somewhere in him, as in other men, which turned his

finest thoughts into so much bluff, which told him through the locked

and bolted doors of his honour that he wanted me for my own sake, and

just for that, because I was young and because he loved me, and,

stripped of all his honour and guardianship, because he loved me just as

Solomon loved his wives, and Lucifer loved Lilith, and as you love me

now....

"There it was, then, the whole damnable world, and I, only eighteen, in

the middle of it! And there he was, my dear old man, more rigid and more

adorable than ever; for, cruel as I was in seeing through him, I loved

him all the more for his sweet naïveté and for his old, so old illusions

about his motives. While as for being shocked at the way he loved me,

I've never been shocked by anything but the vulgarity and the

indecencies of respectable people, who seem to think that sex is purely

a sort of indoor sport to be indulged in darkness and behind barricaded

doors, while it is really a setting for the most beautiful Bacchanal

that was ever devised by the fairest and purest of God's children. In

spite of bibles and the Bishop of London, Mary knew what she was about,

Dikran. Love doesn't grow anywhere, to be picked up by the wayside. Pure

beauty grows only where beauty already is....

"But, wise as I was, I didn't know what to say; what could I say? He was

waiting; I had to say, do something. I did--flung my arms round his neck

and told him he was a pet to be so nice to me, and that I must think

about it. For the first time that he had wanted me to behave like a

woman I behaved consciously like a child--it seemed the easiest way out.

And I think he saw that I was acting; he had expected something else,

for he smiled very sadly down at me, and patted my hair, saying I was a

sweet child not to be angry with him for making life so suddenly

serious, and then, very gently, he went away, leaving me in the

sunshine, a playmate of the gods.... And yet I was so sorry for him that

I almost cried when I thought of him sitting alone and lonely in his

library.

"We never spoke of it again. At first it was as though he was waiting

for me to say yes, or no, or something, but I didn't say anything, and,

later, he seemed to forget. I didn't do it out of cruelty, my dear; I

simply couldn't say anything, that's all. After sunshine, rain, you

know; I was dismal, frightened of him a little. The romance of that May

morning when he had come to me in my room had become a ridiculous

fantasy, so that it seemed to me that any reference to it would rather

tarnish the very splendid dignity which he had kept, and sort of

increased, through it all. Besides, anyway, what was there to say? I had

made up my mind as he spoke that morning, through all the clearness of

my new-found knowledge. I had never a doubt as to what I was going to

do. It wasn't in me to do as he asked, or rather, as he advised, the old

dear! I wish it had been in me, for to be a rich French marquise without

a marquis is no bad fate for any girl, and it might have helped me to

steer clear of many complications. But I couldn't, because all my life,

Dikran, I've been cursed by an utter inability to make any money out of

love. And that is why I would never be a success in my mother's country

of America, where men throw pearls and beauty roses about as a matter of

course and are very offended if one suggests an economical flirtation on

a gross of diamonds and a hundredweight of Russian sables.... It isn't

that I am mean-minded, but I cannot take presents from men who love me,

for, after all, the old Marquis' offer was a present. When I see other

women with relays of fur coats, and pearl necklaces, and no visible

means of support, I am thoroughly sorry for myself, for it isn't through

any excess of morals that I haven't just as many furs and pearls; it is

simply because I don't see life that way, as, ten years ago, I didn't

see life as the wife of an old man, whom I adored but didn't love, and

couldn't have thought of marrying him even if he had promised to arrange

for his death an hour after the wedding.... Do you understand, Dikran?

For all this while I've been trying to tell you that whatever else I am

not, I am an honest woman; a very upright gentleman in my way, which is

more than you can say for most really nice women.

"The reason why realistic tragedies are impossible, or at best only

melodramatic, on the stage is that the Person who arranges life has no

sense of drama at all. Imagine how Sardou, the wretched man who turned

Sarah Bernhardt into an exhibition, would have worked it out: the young

girl would have run away from the lustful old man to Nice; the old man

would have followed her to her boarding-house and made faces at the

landlady's fair-haired son, who was the girl's destiny; a duel, tears,

another duel, more tears, and Sarah falling about the stage in exhausted

attitudes, as well she might.... And then imagine how life worked out

the tragedy of that girl and old man; it let them be, or it seemed to

let them be! No, God can have no dramatic sense, as we know it, because

all the tragedies He arranges for us are slow-moving, so slow and moving

none of the actors know whither; perhaps this tragedy we are acting will

fade away, they say hopefully to themselves, and leave us again happy

and careless; a little later they are happily sure that their tragedy is

fading, there is no possible climax in sight, and then suddenly, out of

the inmost earth, from some really foul spot of their animal natures,

come the sudden ingredients for the tragical climax; the climax lasts

only a second, but after it no blessed curtain falls; God has interfered

again, Life is more cruel than Art, He says, so away with your tricks,

your curtains and your finales. And I suppose He is right, you know; it

must be right that shameful memories live beside the beautiful ones, as

twenty years from now the memory of that old man and myself will live

beside this very moment of you and I under this willow; for my abundant

confession of it all seems to make it as much yours as mine, Dikran.

"My guardian and I lived on smoothly enough, then; as before I broke out

now and again when he stepped too sternly between myself and an amusing

indiscretion, but rebellions always ended in my smiling at some cutting

remark of his, and in his always sweet dismissal of the subject; there

was nothing to show that we were different with each other. But we were,

indeed we were. I did not know it then, but I knew it very clearly

later; how we two people, really loving each other, though in our

different ways, had found a deep, subtle antagonism in each other, a

very real antagonism, which it would have shamed us to realise at the

time, and with a very real and inevitable climax; but like God's

creatures, mummers in yet another of His cruelly monstrous plays, we

thought the tragedy was fading, had faded, and were forgetting it, for

what climax could there possibly be?

"Four or five months after that May morning he took me to stay at a

château in Brittany; a very beautiful, tumble-down, draughty place, my

dear, standing proudly at the head of a valley like a dissipated actor

who feels that he must have done great things in the past to be what he

now is, and with nothing to show for its draughty arrogance but a few

rakish stones which were once the embattlement from which the Huguenot

_seigneur_ of the day defied the old Medici; and the slim, white-haired

old woman who charmingly met me at the door, the châtelaine of only one

castle, but with the dignity of an empire in her kind, calm elegance. My

hostess and my guardian were old, old friends, and to watch them in

their gentle, courteous intimacy was a lesson on the perfect management

of such things. When we are old and white-haired, will you come and stay

at my place, Dikran, and will you pretend that you have forgotten that

you ever liked me for anything else than my mind? Just like those two

old people in the Breton château, who a thousand years ago may have been

lovers or may have only loved one another.... Who knows? and does it

matter?

"The idea of this visit, on my guardian's part, to the solitary château

from whose highest windows one could just see the sea curling round the

Breton coast, was of course excellent. He wanted me to be out of harm's

way and entirely his own, and was there any better way of achieving that

than by putting me in a lonely château with only my hostess as an

alternative to himself? But, poor old dear, it didn't fall out like

that; for we had only been there two days when the alternative presented

himself in the person of the young man of the house, my hostess's son,

the young lord of Tumbledown Castle.... He went and spoilt it all, good

and proper, did that young man. His mother hadn't expected him, my

guardian didn't want him, and I didn't mind him--there he was, all the

way from England on a sudden desire to see his mother, the only woman

whom Raoul had ever a decent thought about, I suppose. (His name wasn't

really Raoul, you know, but it is a sort of convention that all young

Frenchmen with the title of Vicomte and with languid eyes and fragile

natures are called Raoul.) For he wasn't by any means a nice young man,

except facially, but how was I to know that! And besides, the man could

sit a horse as gallantly as any young prince who ever went crusading,

and I strained my eyes in prolonging the little thrill I had when, the

morning after he came, I saw him from a window riding out of the gates

and down into the valley, very much the young lord of the manor, on the

huge white stallion which, with such a master, defied a Republic and

still proclaimed him as the _Sieur du Château-Mauvrai_ to the dour and

morose-minded peasants of the Breton villages....

"When I say that Raoul was not a nice young man, I mean that he was a

very agreeable companion; but, like little Billee, in 'Trilby,' and

Maurice, the stone-image of my dreams, that poor young man couldn't

love, it wasn't in him to love; but unlike the other two, who were sweet

about it and made up for it as much as they could, Raoul had taken it

into his head that love was all stuff and nonsense, anyway, and that he

could do a deal better with the very frequent and not very fastidious

pretences of it; and, according to his little-minded lights, he seems to

have been right, for he had already done fairly well for himself in

London--this I found much later, of course--with a flat in Mayfair which

was much more consistent with the various middle-aged ladies who came to

tea with him than with the extent of his income.

"No reasonable person could expect that a young man like that and I

could stay in the same house and no trouble come of it. But my guardian

wasn't reasonable. He seemed still to expect me to go riding with him,

and let a perfectly good young man run to waste for want of a companion

to say pretty things to. Raoul and I, in that beautiful spot, were

scarcely ever allowed to be alone, and only twice did we manage to ride

away together to the sea for a delicious, exciting few hours; only

twice, I said, for the second time was very definitely the last....

Somehow the Marquis was always there. Not in any unpleasant way, but he

would just happen to come into the room or the particular corner of the

large garden where we also happened to be; he didn't rebuke or look

sulky, he was just the same, except, perhaps, for a little irony to

Raoul, whom he refused to take seriously as a young man of the world.

And there is where the old man made his mistake with me, for I, too,

didn't take Raoul seriously; I took him for just what he was, more knave

than fool, a charming companion, and a very personable young man, as far

as being just 'personable' counts, and only so far. If I had been

allowed to deal with the matter in my own way, without let or hindrance,

it would only have been very pleasant trifling, and certainly no more;

even as it was, the 'no more' part of it was still safe in my keeping,

thanks entirely to my having brought myself up properly; but for the

rest a simple amusement became a rather sordid tragedy, for God and

guardian had combined to use a commonplace young man as the climax to a

faded and forgotten little fantasy, once sun-kissed by a May morning,

now to be shivered and scattered by the shrieking sea wind, discordant

chorus enough for the unmingled destinies of any Tristans and Isoldas,

which kept forcing our horses apart on that last morning of all, when we

three rode by the sea, and made a world of anger for ourselves because

some one, something, had suddenly pushed us out of the other world where

we had been so careless and happy....

"Once things happened, they happened quickly. For all my not taking him

at all seriously, I suppose I liked him quite a lot, really--I must have

done, else I would not have been such a fool. He was my first experience

of dishonesty in man, and I suppose I wanted to plumb this dishonesty of

his to the depths, which was very stupid of me because he was much more

likely to find out about me than I about him.... Raoul had been at the

château two weeks, and our little affair had taken the important and

unpleasant air of a conspiracy. Our own stay was to last another month,

and if it hadn't been that my guardian would not for the world have

offended his old friend by cutting short this long-looked-for visit, he

would very soon have taken me away from the so desecrating gaze of young

Raoul.

"On that day, towards evening, he and I had managed to steal out walking

for an hour. Agreeable enough as he was, he would have bored me if I had

let him. But I wanted him, I intended to keep him in my mind; I wanted

him as an assertion of my independence from the old man. As we went back

up the drive to the château I carefully became as animated and smiling

as I could, for I knew that he would be watching us from the

drawing-room windows, and I wanted to irritate him as much as his

incessant care was irritating me, though that would have been

impossible, for that evening I was absurdly, fiercely angry with him.

Life seemed made up of the interferences of old men. I didn't want old

men in my life. I wanted young men, and sunshine, and fun. And so, as

Raoul and I went up the steps to the massive door, and as I turned to

him just below the drawing-room window and gave him my most trustful

smile, I was feeling reckless, unrestrained, fiercely independent....

Oh, Dikran! what idiocies we do for the fancied sake of independence!

"It was time to dress for dinner, so I left Raoul and went straight to

my room. A minute later came a knock on the door, and as I turned

sharply from the mirror, it opened and Raoul stood there, rather shy,

smiling. I wasn't old enough to know the proper way of dealing with

young men in one's bedroom, even if I had overpoweringly wanted to.

"'I had an impulse,' he said, but he still stood in the doorway, a

little question somewhere about him. I didn't answer it; just watched

him, rather interested in his methods.

"'Because,' he went on, 'I used to sleep in this room once, and remember

it as a dreary little place, and I wanted to see what it looked like

with you in it.' Poor silly fool, I thought, but rather loved him. I

have found since then, though, that his fatuous speech was quite the

proper one to make, for the established way of entering a woman's room

is by expressing an interest in the furniture, thus making the lady

self-conscious and not so sure about her dignity; seductions are

successful through women fearing to look fools if they refuse to be

seduced.

"But this time, as he spoke, he closed the door behind him and came into

the room towards me. 'This isn't playing fair, Raoul,' I only said; 'you

will get me into a row.'

"'Fair!' he said, lifting his eyebrows, the gallant ass. 'My sweet, do

you think anything real is fair in this world? And don't you trust me?

That isn't fair of you, you know--haven't I made love to you for two

weeks, haven't I loved you for two weeks, haven't I loved you all my

life--and now?' And with that he had me in his arms, not for the first

time, mind you, but this time very differently; and, over his shoulder,

as he held me, I saw the door open, and the Marquis stood there,

outraged. Raoul didn't seem to know, still held me, and I, for a

paralysed moment, couldn't move, just stared at the old man standing

very stiffly in the doorway, a hand outstretched on the door-knob--hell

seemed to have opened for him through that door, and he could move as

little as I. At last I jumped away from Raoul with a sort of cry, and he

turned quickly round to the door. He didn't go pale, or look a fool; he

must have made a study of such contretemps; nothing was said, the old

man waiting in the doorway, with words terribly smothered; he moved

aside a little from the door as though to let a dog slink through. But

Raoul wasn't going to slink; he was rather pink, negligent, resigned;

and as, without the least hurry, he bent over my fingers and his eyes

smiled gently at me, I found myself admiring him, really loving him for

the first time. Women are like that.... All this, of course, had

happened in less than a minute; from point of time my guardian came into

my room and Raoul left it--but in point of fact a great deal happened.

For, as Raoul left me and walked across the room to the door, and

through it without taking the least notice of the old man, and as I

heard his even steps receding down the _parquet_ corridor, my first

paralysed fear simmered in me and boiled up into a fierce, vixen anger.

I simply trembled now with anger at the old man as I had first trembled

with fear of him. What right had he to be standing there, ordering about

my life and my young men? What right had he to be closing the door, as

he was doing now? What right, what right? The words were throbbing

inside me, just those words, fixed unrestrainedly on the old man, who

had made a step towards me, and stopped again....

"'Child!' the pain in that one word, the lack of anger in it, an utter,

absolute pain accusing me, did not soothe. Accuse me? By what right?

"The scene was dreadful, Dikran. I can't tell you what we said, what I

said, for I did most of the scene-making. He just forbade me to talk

again alone with Raoul or to go out with him; said he would take me away

to-morrow if it weren't that explanations would then be necessary to our

hostess, who was in feeble health and might be killed by such a disgrace

as this in her own house. As for Monsieur le Vicomte, he himself would

arrange that I did not see him for longer time than could be helped.

That's all he said, but my white heat took little notice of his

commands. I said I don't know what--it must all have been terrible, for

it ended on a terrible note. Dikran, how could I have done it? I pointed

at the door and asked him how he could think he had more right in my

room than Raoul, for though he was my guardian our relations had been

changed by a certain proposal, which perhaps he remembered.... A look at

me, in which was the first and last contempt that's ever been given me,

and the door closed on the wonderful old man.

"Dinner that night passed off quite well considering the unsettled

climatic conditions aforesaid. Myself didn't contribute much, but my

guardian and Raoul talked smoothly away about anything that came, while

Madame, our hostess, smiled sweetly at us all, on brooding me in

particular.... Quite early I made for bed; the old man and I hadn't

exchanged a word all evening, and his 'good night' was a little bow, and

mine cold. As I passed Raoul he cleverly put a small piece of paper into

my hand. Upstairs in my room, that piece of paper said that he would be

going away in a day or two, and would I ride with him to-morrow morning

before breakfast, at seven o'clock. Of course I would.

"It was all a silly business, Dikran. If I had ever been in love with

Raoul, I certainly wasn't that morning when we rode away from the

gloomy, silent château, a little frightened by our own bravado; for that

is all it was. But later, as we reached the sands, I forgot that, I

forgot Raoul, though of course he always talked; I was enjoying the

horse under me, the summer morning, the high sea wind dashing its salt

air against my cheeks; I was enjoying every one of those things more

than the company of the young man, but, tragically, my guardian could

not know that.

"We had been out about half an hour when Raoul, looking back over his

shoulder, murmured, 'Ah!' 'What is it?' I asked. I could barely force my

little voice through the wind. 'That old man,' Raoul said indifferently.

'It seems that he too is out to take the salt air.' Yes, there was a

figure on horseback, perhaps half a mile behind us but rapidly gaining

on our slow canter. I had forgotten my anger, but now again it thrust

itself viciously on me.

"'Come on, let's give him a run,' I said, a little excitedly.

"'Oh, no! I am not a baby to be chased about by my own guests or other

people's grandfathers!'

"Affected idiot, I thought, and we rode on in silence. So really silly

it all was, my dear; for if it hadn't been for my anger, the natural

reaction, in a way, of the muffled life I had led with him, I had much

sooner been riding with the old man than with the young one. But that

feeling didn't last long--no one gave it a chance to last. For at last,

after what seemed an age, his horse drew beside mine, and I heard his

voice distantly through the wind, saying, 'Sandra! You must come back.'

I didn't answer, but worse, I looked sideways at him and laughed. It was

the first time that I had ever seen him in the least bit ridiculous, and

my laugh took advantage of it. Raoul was a yard or so ahead of us and

was giving his horse rein, and so I put mine to the gallop--and

heigh-ho! there were the three of us racing away on the Breton

sands--until, with wonderful and dangerous horsemanship, my guardian's

horse leapt a yard or so ahead and swung broadside round in front of our

startled horses. Near as anything there were broken collar-bones. Our

horses reared high up, almost fell backwards, nearly braining the old

man with their frantic hoofs, and then at last took the ground, startled

and panting. My guardian didn't wait. He pointed his whip at Raoul and

said sternly, 'If I were not a guest at your mother's house I would

thrash you, for that is what you need'; and then to me, harshly, 'Come,

Sandra. Enough of this nonsense. Home.'

"'Not I,' I cried against the wind. 'I'm enjoying my ride.' And round

his horse I went, towards the sea, leaving them to their argument. I

almost wanted him to follow me, I was so bitterly angry. I don't know

what I thought I would do--but I suppose I didn't think.

"I must have galloped two hundred yards or so when he was beside me

again. I took no notice; we rode on, almost knee to knee. And then I saw

his hand stretch out, clutch my rein, and pull; I saw red, I saw

nothing, or just his old, lined face bending over ... and, my dear, I

swung my riding-whip as hard as I could across it. The hand left my

rein, but my horse had already been pulled up. I don't remember what

happened. I stared at him as unbelievingly as he stared at me. I seemed

to see a weal across his face, where my whip had struck him--had I done

that? And then he smiled. Dikran, that dear old man smiled after that

horrible insult, so sweetly and sadly.

"'That then is the end, my child,' he said very gently; and then he left

me, and for a long time I watched him as he rode slowly away.

Frightfully ashamed.

"It was done, irretrievably; such things can't be forgiven, except in

words; and as far as words went he, of course, forgave me. A few hours

later I saw him in the hall; he was going to pass me, but suddenly I

flung my arms about him, begging him ... very pitiful, dreadful thing I

was. He was splendid. He said very softly into my ear that of course he

forgave me, but that he was too old to have a proper control over his

memory, and so couldn't forget, and that he was too old to be hurt any

more, and so this would be the very last time, for he didn't think it

would be wise for me to live with him any more. 'Sandra, my child, you

must not think me too unkind for sending you away, but I think it is the

best plan. You have lived with an old man long enough--it was a mistake.

I see now that it was a mistake. You must forgive me, child. I was wrong

to keep you so long. I thought, perhaps, it might have been

different....' He was inexorable about that, and it wasn't my place to,

I couldn't, beg him to keep me. I, who had hurt him so much!

"He must have made some excuse to our hostess, for the next day saw us

in Paris. Raoul? Oh, I never noticed him any more. And two days later I

was with a stodgy uncle in Portman Square, hating London but hating

myself more. I have been miserable many times, but never so shamefacedly

as then, during the two weeks which passed between my arrival in London

and the coming of that note from the old man's valet, saying that

Monsieur le Marquis was very ill, and the doctor said he would die; and

so he had taken the liberty of writing to me, without permission, in

case I should like to go and see him; would I be so kind as not to tell

Monsieur le Marquis that he had written to me?

"Like a young woman to a dying lover, I went to Paris, and with a

terrible flutter in my heart stood on the doorstep of the stern-looking

house in the _Rue Colbert_.... They hadn't told him I was coming, but he

must have expected me, for there was no surprise in the smile with which

he met the timid little figure which came into his room. He seemed to me

not ill, but just dying; he looked the same, only very tired. And then I

realised that he was dying because he wanted to die. An angry girl had

shown him that life was indeed not worth living, and so he was stopping

his heart with his own hand.... It was terrible to realise that as I

stood by his bed and he smiled quite gaily up at me. The weakness was

too strong inside him, and he couldn't speak, just patted my hand and

held it very tightly.... I was very glad when I was out of that room,

and I did not see him again before he died early the next morning.

"And so you see, Dikran, for all your talk of _dies iræ_ in the future,

I've already had my _dies iræ_, and very sadly, too--and been the wiser

for it in restraint."

* * * * *

Then it was that I realised with a start that my housemaid was staring

at me from the door in the grey March morning, and that I was not

listening to Shelmerdene in a backwater of the Thames, but was in

London, where there is less time for cherishing one's ideals than for

enquiring into other people's....