PART III

I

In the Hotel

Felix came quietly through the communicating door into Lilian's

shuttered and close room. Between the two bedrooms was a bathroom. All

the bedrooms in the hotel seemed to be designed on the same plan--too

high, too long, too narrow, with the head of the bed behind the door and

directly facing the window; a wardrobe, a dressing-table, a washstand, a

writing-table, an easy chair (under the window), two cane chairs, a

night-table, and two electric lights so devilishly arranged that they

could not be persuaded to burn simultaneously; a carpet overgrown with

huge, gorgeous flowers, and the walls overgrown with huge, gorgeous

flowers of another but equally mirific plant. Outside the bedroom a

bell rang at short intervals--all the guests in the neighbourhood

performed, according to their idiosyncrasies, on the same bell--and

slippered feet of servants rushing to and fro in the corridor shook the

planks of Lilian's floor as they passed.

Amid the obscurity of the room Lilian's curved form, lying heaped on its

side, and rather like a miniature mountain that sloped softly down

towards the head and towards the feet, could be vaguely deciphered in

the bed; and hillocks of attire, some pale, others coloured, some

fragile and diaphanous, others resistant to the world's peering, lay

dimly about on chairs and even on the writing-table. The air, exhausted

by the night, had a faint and delicate odour that excited, but did not

offend, Felix's nostrils.

"Is it time to get up?" Lilian murmured in the voice of a sleepy child.

"No."

Her brain slowly came to life. Flitting in and out of her happiness

there were transient apprehensions--not about the morality, but about

the security, of her situation. They disappeared, all except one, as

soon as she looked firmly at them, because she had the most perfect

confidence in Felix's good faith. The unity of the pair had begun in

London, under conditions provided by Felix, who, however, did not care

for them, and who had decided that he would take her away for a holiday

in order that they might both reflect upon and discuss at length the

best method of organizing a definite secret existence.

It was during the preliminaries to the departure that she had been

specially struck by his straightforwardness. He would have no wangling

with passports. She must travel as herself. She could think of no

acquaintance qualified to sign the application for her passport. It was

Felix's suggestion that she should go to the Putney doctor who had

attended her father and mother. The pair had travelled separately on

the same _train de luxe_, for which, with Felix's money, she bought her

own ticket. The cost of the ticket and the general expensiveness of the

purchases which Felix insisted on her making had somewhat frightened

her. He reassured her by preaching the relativity of all things. "You

must alter your scale--it needs only an effort of the imagination," he

had said; and explained to her his financial status. She learned that

he had an independent income, and his sister another though much smaller

independent income, and that the typewriting business was a diversion,

though a remunerative one; also that an important cash bonus just

received from an insurance policy enabled him to be profuse without

straining his ordinary resources.

She had trembled at the reception office of the great hotel, but Felix,

laughing at her fears, accomplished all formalities for her quite

openly, and indeed the discreet incuriosity of the hotel officials fully

confirmed the soundness of his attitude. Ignoring the description on

the passport, he had told her to sign as "Madame," and he threw out

negligently that she was his cousin. This was his sole guile. Before

going upstairs he had written out a telegram and shown it to her. It

was to his sister, to say that he had arrived safely and sent his love.

"She has to be deceived," he murmured, "but she's got to be treated

decently. It was all I could do to keep her from coming to see me off

at Victoria!" He smiled. Lilian was impressed. When Lilian found that

Felix's bedroom stood next to her bathroom her anxieties were renewed.

Felix laughed again, and rang, for the door between the bathroom and his

bedroom was locked. In a few minutes a dark and stoutish chambermaid

entered with a pleasant, indulgent, comprehending gravity, and unlocked

the door. "What is your name?" he asked. "Jacqueline, monsieur," she

replied, and cordially accepted a twenty-franc note from him. It was

all so simple, so natural, so un-English, so enheartening. In two hours

they had settled down. All the embarrassing preludes to the closest

intimacy had been amply achieved in London.

Lilian stretched herself voluptuously, murmured with a magnificent yawn,

"Ah! How I have slept!" and, slipping out of bed, padded unshod up the

room to Felix, who sat passive in the easy chair. She took the bearings

of his shape in the gloom, and dropped lightly on to his knees.

"What am I sitting on?" she exclaimed, startled.

"My newspapers."

Touched by the fact that he had been waiting to read his beloved papers

until she should be ready to rise, she threw her arms passionately round

his neck and crushed her face into his. Daily it became clearer to her

that he adored her; and yet she could scarcely believe it, because she

felt so young--even childish--and so crude and insipid. She determined

with a whole-souled resolve that renewed itself every hour to stop at

nothing to please him.

"Do I make you happy?" she whispered almost inarticulately, her lips

being buried in his cheek.

"You do."

After a moment she sprang up, seized her thin, loose, buttonless

dressing-gown, and having somehow got into it, opened the window and

violently pushed back the shutters. Strong sunlight rushed blazing into

the room like an army into a city long besieged and at last fallen.

Millions of buoyant motes were revealed, and all the minutest details of

the chamber. Lilian looked out. There were the shady gardens of the

hotel, the white promenade with strolling visitors in pale costumes, the

calm ultramarine Mediterranean, the bandstand far to the right emitting

inaudible music, the yellow casino, beyond the casino the jetty with its

group of white yachts, and, distant on either side, noble and jagged

mountains, some of them snow-capped. Incredible! She heard Felix

moving within the room, and turned her head.

"Darling, what are you doing?"

"Ringing for your coffee."

"What time is it?"

"Haven't the least."

"But your watch?"

"Haven't got it on."

"But you're all dressed."

"Haven't put my things in my pockets."

She clasped his arm and led him silently through the bathroom into his

own bedroom, and up to the night-table, the drawer of which she pulled

open. All his "things" were arranged carefully therein.

"Oh! Men are funny!" she laughed.

The number and the variety of the articles they carried in their

innumerable pockets!

"_I_ will put your things in your pockets," she said, and began to do

so.

"Wrong!" he would protest from time to time; but he would give no

positive direction, and she had to discover the proper pocket by

experiment. It was a most wonderful operation, and it deliciously

illustrated the exotic, incomprehensible, exquisite curiousness of men.

She was proud of having thought of it, and proud of the pleasure in his

face. As she glanced at the watch her brow puckered.

"I shall be frightfully late!"

"It is impossible to be late where time does not exist."

"Is that Jacqueline with my coffee?" she said, listening, and ran back

to her room, pulling him after her.

Yes, she admitted she was a perfect child, but she could not help it.

While she drank the coffee he put on his eyeglasses and opened the

newspapers, one English, one French. She went into the bathroom.

"Felix! Felix!" she called presently from the bathroom. "Bring me in

that soft towel I've left on the chair by the writing-table."

Then she returned to the bedroom and did her abundant glossy chestnut

hair, and by innumerable small stages dressed. He was reading his

papers, but she knew that he was also watching her, and she loved him to

watch her dress, from the first stage to the last. She was too young to

have anything to conceal, and his pleasure, which he tried to mask, was

so obvious. He dropped _The Times_ and turned to the French paper.

"Felix, do you know what?"

"What?"

"I'm frightfully ashamed of not being able to speak French. If I could

only speak it a quarter as well as you do."

"That's nothing. I couldn't say two words without a Frenchman knowing

instantly that I wasn't French."

"But you can talk it so quickly. Couldn't I have someone in here every

morning to teach me for an hour? People do. I could get up earlier."

"Certainly not," Felix replied. "If you did you'd have something to be

late for. You'd bring time into existence and spoil everything.

Besides, learning French is hard work. You wouldn't learn it by

instinct, as you learn clothes. And you aren't here for hard work.

Learn French by all means, but not in this place. London's the place

for hard work. Exercise your sense of the fitness of things, my clever

girl."

She did not fully understand this philosophy, but she accepted it

admiringly.

"What dress would you like me to wear, darling?" She was at the

wardrobe.

"That white one."

"Then I shall have to change my stockings."

"Well, the yellow one, then. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," she said with earnestness, sitting down

religiously, fanatically, to change her stockings. "Don't you know that

I don't want anything in the world except to please you? I only wanted

to learn French so you shouldn't have to be ashamed of me."

II

The Big Yacht

After lunching to music beneath a vast parasol in the hotel garden,

which looked like a tented field, they were bowed away by servitors in

black and white, and bowed into the hotel by servitors in blue and gold,

and bowed along the central artery of the hotel by apprentice-servitors

in scarlet, and bowed out of the hotel again on to the promenade by

servitors in blue and gold. It was half-past two; the glorious sun was

already slipping down; they had done absolutely nothing, and yet they

had not wasted a moment; and on the faces of all the many-coloured

servitors there was the smiling assurance that they had been admirably

exerting themselves in full correctness, and had not a moment to waste

if they honestly desired to pursue idleness as idleness ought to be

pursued. Indeed, the winter day was too short for the truly

conscientious.

"Your little fur?" exclaimed Felix, who was wearing his overcoat; he

stopped.

"But, darling, I'm far too hot as it is!"

"In an hour the day will be gone," said he, and insisted on the

treachery of the climate.

He frequently insisted on the treachery of the climate. If he happened

to cough ever so slightly, he would say that the entire Riviera was bad

for the throat and that a sore throat was the most dangerous complaint

known to man. Lilian indulgently thought him fussy about her health and

his own and the awful menaces of the exquisite climate; but she did not

attribute his fussiness to his age; she regarded him as merely happening

to be a bit fussy on certain matters. Nor did she regret the fussiness,

for it gave her new occasions to please him and (in her heart) to

condescend femininely towards him.

"I shan't need it----"

"Please! I'll fetch it, and I'll carry it. No! You stay there."

"But do you know where it is, Felix?"

"I know where it is." His voice had become very firm and somewhat

tyrannic.

She stood on the pavement, put up her orange sunshade, and mused

contentedly upon his prodigious care for her--proof of his passionate

attachment. People were passing in both directions all the time on the

broad _digue_ beyond the roadway. Some strolled in complete possession

of idleness; others hurried after it, with tools such as tennis rackets

to help them. Nearly all, men and women, stared at her as they passed,

until at length she turned round and faced the revolving door of the

hotel.

"Oh! _Thank_ you, dearest; you're spoiling me horribly. Do let me take

it."

"I will not. Of course I am spoiling you. That is what you're here

for. Your highest duty in life is to be spoiled. Let's go on the

Mole."

They set off. A dark man, overdressed in striped flannels, nearly stood

still at the sight of Lilian, gazing at her as though he had paid five

francs for the right to do so.

"My goodness!" she muttered. "How they do stare here!"

"Why grudge them harmless enjoyment," Felix observed. "You're giving

pleasure to every man that looks at you, and envy to most of the women.

You're fulfilling a very valuable function in the world, If anyone is

justified in objecting, I am, and I don't object. On the contrary, I'm

as proud of the staring as if I'd created you. There's nothing to beat

you on this coast, with your ingenuous English style of beauty, and half

the pretty women here would sell their souls to look as innocent as you

_look_, believe me!"

Lilian said nothing in reply. The fact was that the man simply could

not open his mouth without giving her more to think about than she could

manage.

At the quay they examined all the yachts, big and little, that were

moored, stern on, side by side. There were three large steam yachts,

and the largest of the three, with two decks and a navigating deck, all

white and gold and mahogany and bunting and flowers and fluttering

awnings, overpoweringly dominated the port. Felix stopped and stared at

the glinting enormity.

"Is that only a yacht?" Lilian cried. "Why! It's bigger than the

Channel steamer!"

"No!" said Felix, "but she's the fourth largest yacht in the world.

That's the celebrated _Qita_. Crew of eighty odd. She came in last

night for stores, and she's leaving again to-night, going to Naples.

And here are the stores, you may depend." A lorry loaded with cases of

wine drove up.

"But it's all like a fairy tale," said Lilian.

"Yes, it is. And so are you. You see, the point is that she's just

about the finest of her kind. And so are you. She costs more than you

to run, of course. A machine like that can't be run on less than a

thousand pounds a week. Come along. Who's staring now?"

"A thousand pounds a _week_!" Lilian murmured, aghast. Her imagination

resembled that of a person who, on reaching a summit which he has taken

for the top of the range, sees far higher peaks beyond. And the

conviction that those distant peaks were unattainable saddened her for a

moment. "It's absolutely awful."

"Why awful? If you have the finest you must pay for it. A thousand a

week's nothing to that fellow. Moreover, he's a British citizen, and he

did splendid service for his country in the war. Among other things, he

owns two of the best brands of champagne. The War Office gave him a

commission and a car; and he travelled all over Europe selling his own

champagne at his own price to officers' messes. After all, officers

couldn't be expected to fight without the drinks they're accustomed to,

could they?"

Lilian obscurely divined irony. She often wished that she could be

ironical and amusing, as Felix was; but she never could. She couldn't

conceive how it was done.

They reached the Mole, which was quite deserted, being off the map of

correctness, and surveyed the entire scene--ships, blue water, white

hotels, casino, villas, green wooded slopes all faint in the haze, and

rising sharply out of the haze the lofty line of snow. In the immediate

foreground, almost under their feet, was a steel collier from the north.

Along the whole length of the ship carts were drawn up and cranes were

creaking, and grimy ragged men hurried sweating to drop basketfuls of

coal into the carts, and full carts were always departing and empty

carts always coming. The activity seemed breathless, feverish and

without the possibility of end--so huge was the steamer and so small

were the pair-horse carts.

Two yacht's officers passed in shiny blue with gilt buttons and facings.

Growled one:

"Yes, and how the hell do they expect me to keep my ship clean with this

thing between me and the weather?"

"Yes," agreed the other. "How in hell do they? Why they don't make 'em

unload somewhere else beats me."

Then Felix and Lilian turned seawards and watched the everlasting

patience of the fishers on the rocks below.

"Better put your fur on," said Felix suddenly.

She put it on.

Returning to the quay Lilian could not keep her eyes off the superb

yacht. But in a moment she bent them suddenly and quickened her pace.

"You're feeling chilly," said Felix triumphantly. "The sun's got behind

the fort."

On the lower deck of the yacht, under an awning and amid easy chairs and

cushions, she had seen a tall man earnestly engaged in conversation with

a young and pretty girl. She thought the man was Lord Mackworth. She

felt sure it was Lord Mackworth. She wanted to turn her head and make

certain, but she dared not lest he should see her. She was blushing.

There was nothing whatever in the brief relations between Lord Mackworth

and herself to which the slightest exception could be taken by the

strictest moralist. Yet she was blushing. She blushed because of the

dreams she had once had concerning him. Her old, forgotten thoughts,

which nobody on earth could ever have guessed, made her into a kind of

criminal. It was very strange. Perhaps also she feared a little what

Lord Mackworth might think of her if he saw her in that place, in those

clothes, with a man much older than herself. How inexpressibly

fortunate that the yacht was leaving that night! Instead of looking over

her shoulder at Lord Mackworth, she looked over her shoulder at Felix,

to reassure herself about her deep fondness for him and about his

reliability in even the greatest crises.

"I love him," she reflected, "because he is so marvellously clever and

kind and dependable and just, and because he worships me--I don't know

why."

But she was devoted to him because he had picked her out of a batch and

opened her eyes to the apple on the tree and made her eat it, and

because she had worked and watched and suffered for him in the office,

and been cast out of the office for him, and because of a funny

enigmatic look in his wrinkled eyes. She would have liked him just the

same if he had been cruel and undependable and had not worshipped her.

And she desired ardently to be still more and more beautiful and

luxurious for him, and more and more to be stared at for him, and to

render him still happier and happier. She was magnificently ready to

kill him with bliss.

After several hundred yards she turned round and looked at the yacht.

No figures were distinguishable now on the deck. She thought

captiously:

"I wonder who that doll was and what they were talking about with their

heads so close together."

III

The Casino

Lilian, in a _neglige_, was somnolently stretched out in the easy chair

in her room when Felix peeped in. He looked at her enquiringly in

silence for a moment, and she gave him a hazy smile.

"Oh!" he said. "Then you won't feel like going into the Casino to-night

after all?"

"Nothing to stop me," she replied, with a peculiar intonation, light and

yet anxious.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Felix very gaily, almost boyishly. "Then we'll go."

The apprehension which now for two days had been eating like a furtive

cancer into her mind suddenly grew and contaminated the whole of her

consciousness; she could not understand his levity, for she had not

concealed from him the sinister misgiving.

"Yes!" she murmured with a sort of charming and victimized protest.

"That's all very well, but----" And she stopped, and the smile expired

from her face.

He shrugged his shoulders, gave a short, affectionate, humouring laugh,

and said with kind superiority, utterly positive:

"What have I told you? The thing's absolutely imposs!"

And just as suddenly she was quite reassured and the apprehension

vanished away. It could not exist against his perfect certitude. She

lit up a new smile.

"Look here," he went on, "we'll dine in the Casino if we can. Of

course, every blessed table may be booked, but I'll have a try."

A quarter of an hour later, when she had begun to dress, he returned

with the exciting information that, at precisely the right instant,

somebody had telephoned to countermand an inside table and he had

secured it.

They arrived very late in the Casino restaurant, yet more diners came

after them than had come before, so that ultimately it would have been

difficult to draw a straight line between dinner and supper. The stars

in the arched firmament of the vast and lofty hall challenged the stars

of heaven in number and splendour, and seemed to win easily. Light fell

in glittering floods on the flowered tables and on the shoulders of the

women. In the centre of the floor was an oblong parquet sacred to

dancing. The band, in which Englishmen and varied dagoes were mingled,

sat, clothed apparently in surplices, on a dais in a mighty alcove. The

drummer and the banjoist each procured an unnatural union of light and

sound by electric illumination of their instruments from within. The

leader wore a battered opera hat, and at the end of a piece he would

exclaim grimly and scornfully, "So that's that!" or, "We are the goods!"

or some such phrase. Now and then the band overflowed into song, and

the wild chants of the Marquesas or the Fiji Islands rang riotously

through the correctness of the restaurant, and Lilian caught fragments

of significant verse, such as:

"The rich get rich,

And the poor get children,

Ain't we got fun?"

showing that one touch of nature makes the Southern archipelago the very

sister and bride of Europe.

The primary mission of the band was to induce a general exultant gaiety;

and the mission was accomplished, nobody understood how. Lilian exulted

in the food, the wine, the glitter, the noise, the wise, humorous face

of Felix, and the glances which assailed her on every hand. All care

fell away from her. She forgot the future, and the whole of her

vitality concentrated itself intensely in the moment. Most of the

conversation at neighbouring tables was in English, and it was all about

gambling, dancing, golf, lawn-tennis, polo, cards, racing, trains de

luxe, clothes, hotels, prices, and women. Even in the incomprehensible

French gabble that reached her she could distinguish words like "golf,"

and "bridge," and "picnic."

Then four elegant, waisted young men appeared mysteriously from nowhere

and approached certain tables and bowed with an assured air, and

instantly four elegant young women rose up, without being asked, and the

professional couples began to display to the amateurs the true art of

the dance. Lilian had never seen such dancing.

"Why are they all Spanish girls?" she innocently asked, struck by the

rich, dark skin of the women.

"They're no more Spanish than you are," said Felix. "You perceive that

one there. She's at our hotel, on our floor, and I've seen her as

blonde as a Norwegian. The dark olive is the result of strange

cosmetics, and a jolly fine result, too. Nothing finer has been

invented for a century. It's so perverse. Don't you like it?"

"I think it's lovely!" she agreed with enthusiasm, also with a vague

envy.

Later, when the senoritas had left their partners and resumed their

interrupted meals, and the parquet was empty again, she said:

"I do really think it's awful, all this! It's so expensive, everything;

and it's all for pleasure. The whole town's for pleasure." In the

background she had a vision of her working life, with its discipline and

cast-iron hours and wristlets and fatigue and privations and penury.

The click of the typewriter, the green-shaded lamps, the Tube, the cold

bedroom, the washing and sewing done in the cold bedroom! The blue

working frock with its pathetic red line of clumsy embroidery!

"What about Margate?" Felix demanded quietly.

She was nonplussed.

"Oh! But that's different!"

"It is. It's not half as good. You must remember there's nothing new

in all this. It's been going on in the Mediterranean for thousands of

years, and it's likely to go on for thousands of years more. It's what

human nature is. What are you going to do about it? Would you abolish

luxury and pleasure? Not you. Do you imagine that God created the

shores of the Mediterranean and this climate for anything else but this?

What frightens you is the tremendous organization and concentration of

the affair. Nothing else. And let me tell you that this town is the

most interesting town on the coast just now. The fellow that's got the

new concession for the casino is a bit of a genius. He's moulding the

place into something fresh. It used to be the primmest place on earth.

He discovered that the English don't want to be prim any more; he showed

them to themselves. Do you suppose all these women began to come here

on their own? They're pawns in his great game. He brought them; but no

nice-minded person asks how, nor whether they really pay for their meals

or their rooms, nor how they manage to encourage big gambling in the

baccarat rooms. This fellow has put the wind up to the next town up the

coast: it used to be the most corrupt town in the whole of Europe, that

place used to be! And now the rival genius there is introducing large

families of children and nurses there in the hope of persuading the

English that they prefer to be prim and domestic after all. The fact is

these two geniuses are gambling against one another for far bigger

stakes than any of the baccarat maniacs. It's a battle for the command

of the coast. That's what it is. You don't get the hang of it all at

once; but you will in time. Let's dance."

Lilian was startled by the invitation, for they had not yet danced

together. She remembered how, on that night when he first talked to her

about herself, he had known that she was being deprived of an evening's

dancing. They stood up as the chicken was being removed. She smiled at

him with fresh admiration. He had impregnated her with new ideas; he

had reassured her; he had justified her enjoyment; he was amazing; he

was mad about her, in his restrained style; and now he would

surprisingly dance with her.

Although they took the floor early in the dance, when only two other

couples had begun to dance, it was impossible for her to be nervous

within his arm. Half the room gazed at her, for she had attracted

attention from the first. She knew that half the room was gazing at

her, and she liked it. She guessed that half the room was saying: "Look

at that fresh young creature who's with that middle-aged man--she must

be really very young." And she liked it. She liked to show herself with

the man who was more than old enough to be her father, worn by knowledge

and experience and the corrupting of the world; to contrast her untried

simplicity--the bloom of the virginal scarcely gone from it--with his

grey hairs and his wrinkled, disillusioned, passive eyes. She was happy

in the thought that everybody knew that she must have given herself to

him, and that there was something strange, sinister, and even odious in

her abandonment. He had used the word "perverse." She did not wholly

understand the word, but it appealed to her, and for her it expressed

her mood.

She had noticed, in the room, how the women no longer unquestionably

young were more consciously and carefully charming towards their men,

receiving adulation but rendering it back; whereas the unquestionably

young were more negligent and far more egotistic. And so she behaved

like one no longer unquestionably young. She glanced up at her partner

with ravishing, ecstatic smiles; she publicly adored him. And she was

glad that her green and gold frock with its long arm-holes was not of

the Wigmore Street cut, but quite other in origin and spirit and in its

effect upon the imagination.

The dancing had by this time become general, but the olive-tinted

temptresses were still prominent in the throng, and sometimes she

touched them in the curves of the dance. She knew where they beat her

and where she beat them. And it was vouchsafed to her from the eyes of

Felix that she was lovely and marvellous. She felt intensely,

inexpressibly happy, and more than happy--triumphant. Her quiet,

obstinate resentment against the domestic policy of her father died out,

and she forgave him as she danced. She thought with a secret sigh

almost painful in its relief:

"Thank God I have fulfilled myself and succeeded not too late!"

She had premonitions of power, a foretaste of dominion. Felix was hers.

She could influence him. She could re-make him. And for the thousandth

time she breathed to him in her soul: "I have made you happy, but I will

make you more happy--infinitely more happy. You don't know yet what I

am capable of." He danced very correctly and quite nicely,--rather

stiff, of course, but with a certain clever abandonment of his body to

the rhythm. She thought: "With what women did he learn to dance? He

must have danced a lot. Never will I ask! Never!" The fox-trot ended.

As they were crossing the floor to their table she saw Lord Mackworth

dining with a man older than himself at a table near the windows. She

sat down to the sweet. He had caught sight of her and was looking at

her fixedly. She stared at him for a moment with the casually

interested stare of non-recognition, perfectly executed.

"The yacht hasn't left, then, after all," she reflected, and to Felix:

"Did that big yacht leave to-night?"

"No," said Felix. "I heard they'd changed their minds." Felix had the

faculty of hearing everything.

In spite of herself Lilian was disturbed.

IV

Chemin de Fer

When Felix said that of course they must visit the baccarat rooms she

vaguely acquiesced. A mood of the old apprehension had mysteriously

succeeded her exultation; she wanted to exorcise it and couldn't. She

would have tried to dance the gloom away, but Felix did not suggest

another dance; she understood that he had danced once because it was

proper for an enlightened amateur of life to forgo no sensation, and

that he would not dance again unless asked. She would not ask. He had

given her a cigarette and a liqueur; she had accepted a second liqueur

and then declined it, afraid of it and anxious for her reputation in his

eyes. There were formalities to accomplish at the entrance to the

baccarat rooms--forms to be filled up and money to be paid.

"They make a small charge for emptying your pockets," said Felix. "They

pretend to be rather particular about their victims."

The select rooms were crowded. Every table in the blazing interior had

round it a thick ring of sitters and standers, and many people were

walking to and fro, disappointed or hopeful. By tiptoeing and

supporting herself on Felix's shoulder Lilian could just see the green

cloth of a table, like the floor of a pit whose walls were bodies

elegant in evening dress; it was littered with white, rose, and green

counters, banknotes, cards, ash-trays, cigarette cases, and vanity bags.

More women were seated than men. A single croupier dominated and ruled

the game. Cards and counters were thrown about from side to side.

"It seems frightfully exciting," murmured Lilian, scarcely audible, into

the ear of Felix.

"It is," said Felix gruffly. "It's the real thing, you know, gambling

is. When people lose they lose real money, and when they win, ditto.

You can genuinely ruin yourself here. There's no sham about it. You

may go out without even your fare home." He offered these remarks

separately, between considerable pauses.

"Is baccarat easy to learn?"

"Very. But not here--and this isn't baccarat. This is _chemin de

fer_--equally easy, though. I'll get a pack of cards at the hotel and

teach you. It's _chemin de fer_ at every table. I suppose that's why

they call the rooms 'baccarat'?"

He was edging nearer the croupier. A stout, middle-aged woman whose

flesh seemed to be insecurely and inadequately confined within frail

silk rose from her chair, gathering up bag and cigarette case--all that

remained to her.

"Sit down here and keep the chair for me," Felix said sharply, and

pushed Lilian into the seat.

Everybody gazed at her, and her constraint showed the conviction that

everybody guessed she had never sat at a gaming-table before. Felix had

vanished, and she was thrown with her arresting, innocent beauty upon

the envious and jealous world. He had gone to exchange notes for

counters, but she did not know. After a moment that was an hour he

returned and took the seat.

"You stand behind me and watch," said he. "And when you get bored walk

about and see things for yourself, and when you need moral support again

come and put your hand on my chair. I'll stop playing whenever you tell

me." He spoke in a muttering voice, but three or four persons around

could not fail to catch every word; this, however, appeared not to

trouble him.

Lilian was in a state of high excitation, but she was also extremely

confused, the game being a complete enigma to her. The croupier was

continually raking cards to and fro and counters to and fro, continually

tearing tickets out of a book, ripping them to pieces and throwing the

pieces behind him, continually dropping cards into a big hole, and

continually dropping counters into a little hole. An official opposite

the croupier, with pockets full of counters, was continually, and with

miraculous rapidity, exchanging rose counters for green and white

counters for rose. The player next to Felix had a small table behind

him furnished with champagne and sandwiches, which he consumed in hasty

gulps and mouthfuls, as one who feels the dread hour at hand when no man

may eat or drink. The players ejaculated short incomprehensible words,

and at brief intervals Lilian seized a word that sounded like "baunco."

She heard Felix utter the word, saw him turn up two cards, and then

receive from the croupier's rake a large assortment of green and rose

counters. He never looked at her to smile; she was ignored, but she

guessed that he must be winning. Soon afterwards his piles of counters

had strangely diminished.

The heat stifled her, and the odour of flesh and tobacco and scent

nauseated. She held no key to the vast and splendid conundrum, unless

by chance her fundamental commonsense was right in its casual suggestion

that she was surrounded by lunatics. Yet how could persons so

well-dressed, so sure of themselves, so restrained and stylish in

manner, and seemingly so wealthy, be lunatics? Impossible! She grew

profoundly and inexplicably sad.

At length she walked away, aimless. Felix did not notice her departure.

She thought it almost certain that Lord Mackworth would be somewhere in

the rooms; she desired above everything to avoid the danger incident to

meeting him face to face; but she walked away. All the tables were the

same as the table at which she had left Felix--crowded, entranced,

self-concentrated and perfectly unintelligible; and at every table the

croupier was continually dropping counters into a little hole, and

tearing up tickets and throwing the fragments behind him on to the

crimson carpet. The sole difference between the tables was that some

held more banknotes than others. The heaps of blue thousand-franc notes

piled about one table caused Lilian to halt and gaze.

"Some ready there!" said a very young man to a fierce old woman.

"Ah! But you should have seen it in the days of gold plaques before the

war. You could call a hundred-franc gold piece 'ready,' then, if you

like." The old woman sighed grimly.

Lilian passed on under their combined stare. She glimpsed herself in

mirrors, as once she used to glimpse herself in the shop windows of Bond

Street, and was satisfied with the vision. Her walk was as remarkable

as her beauty. Yes, she knew how to put her feet on the ground and how

to make her body float smoothly and evenly above the moving limbs. Her

spirit rose as she began to suspect that no woman in the rooms was

getting more notice than herself. Fancy Felix being absorbed in his

gambling! She had forgotten Lord Mackworth; she had decided that he was

not in the rooms; and then suddenly, sprung from nothingness like a

ghost, he stood in her path between the wall and the end of a table.

She was disposed to retreat; besides, his attention was fixed on the

table and she might get by him unperceived. But just as she approached

he turned. Although she might have ignored him, and in the

circumstances was indeed entitled to do so, she did not because she

could not. She blushed, only slightly, acknowledged their acquaintance

with a faint smile, then stopped, but did not advance her hand to meet

his.

"Ought I to have shaken hands?" she thought anxiously. All her quickly

acquired worldliness of manner left her in an instant. She was the

typewriting girl again, wearing the wristlets. He had all the physical

splendour that she remembered, and the style, and the benignant

large-hearted tolerance of an extensive sinner. As he looked at her he

drew back his chin and made several chins of it in just the old way. He

was enormous, superb, and perfect. And if not a boy he had real youth;

once more she had to contrast his youth with Felix's specious

sprightliness. She fought on behalf of Felix in her mind, and on points

Felix won; but in her mind Lord Mackworth had supporters which derided

all reasoning. And as she fronted him the old frightful apprehension

was powerfully revived, and it seemed to be building a wall between her

and the young man, and she was intensely dejected beneath the brightness

of her demeanour.

"Very hot here, isn't it?" she was saying. ("A stupid typewriting girl

remark," she reflected as it slipped out.)

"A great change since I was here last just before the war," said Lord

Mackworth gaily.

"Warmer, do you mean?"

"No! Much more cheery now. Jollier!" He waved a hand towards the

company in general.

"Oh, _that_!" said Lilian, marshalling all her forces in a determined

effort to lose the typewriting girl in the woman of the world. "You

mean the company." She shrugged her shoulders, borrowing some of his

tolerance, "Of course, you know they've been brought here on purpose.

It's all part of a great battle for the command of the coast."

The effort succeeded beyond her hopes. Lord Mackworth was clearly

impressed; he put questions which Lilian answered out of the mouth of

Felix. Strange that this man should be he who had inexcusably omitted to

pay his trumpery bill at Clifford Street, the man through whose

unconscious agency she had been unjustly cast into the street! However,

the past did not in the least affect her feeling for him. What she most

vividly recalled was that she had striven to serve him and had served

him. He made no reference--doubtless from delicacy--to the night of

their meeting; nor did he betray even the very smallest surprise at

seeing her, the typewriting girl, exquisitely and expensively dressed,

in the finest baccarat rooms on the Riviera. (Of course, she might be

married, or have inherited a fortune--he could think as he chose.)

They went on talking and then a pause came, and Lord Mackworth said

bluntly:

"I saw you from the yacht this afternoon."

"Oh! What yacht?"

"The _Qita_."

"The big one? Is it yours?"

"Oh lord, no! She belongs to my friend Macmusson--we dined together

here to-night."

"It must be terribly big. I suppose you have an enormous party on

board?"

"Not a bit. Only Macmusson and his three old aunts, and his

niece--adopted daughter. Nobody else."

"That's the girl you were making love to," Lilian's heart accused him.

"She's going to be very rich and she'll pay all your family debts.

That's what it is. But what difference does it make?" her heart added,

"You are you." And aloud: "I heard the yacht was leaving to-night."

"She was. But I persuaded old Macmusson to stop another day."

"Really!"

"And do you know why?"

"No."

"Because I had some hope of meeting you here to-night."

She flushed again. She saw the ante-room at Clifford Street at the

moment when he came back to ask her to wake him by telephone. He must

have been well aware, then, that he had made a conquest, because in the

ante-room she had not been able to hide her soft emotion. From that

moment he had forgotten her; yet he could not have forgotten her.

Perhaps he had somehow been prevented from meeting her in the meantime.

Now at the mere second sight of her he had stopped the great yacht on

the chance of talking to her! He had thrown over the young rich girl at

a single glimpse of Lilian as she passed! It was astounding. But in

fact she was not astounded. She glanced up at him. His smooth,

handsome red face was alive with admiration. And was she not really to

be admired, even by the Lord Mackworths? Was she not marvellous? Did

not all the company in the rooms regard her as marvellous? She thrilled

to the romance of the incredible event. He was so young and big and

strong and handsome; he had such prestige in her eyes. She saw visions.

But the frightful apprehension--no longer a wall, rather a

cloud--swallowed up the visions and froze the thrill. Felix held her.

A gust of ruthless common sense inspired her to say primly:

"It's always dangerous to give reasons for what one's done." And,

nodding, she left him. Immediately afterwards she had to sit down.

V

In the Hills

When she at length returned to Felix and, squeezing through the outer

rings of gladiators against chance, touched him delicately on the

shoulder, he faced her with a bright youthful smile, and without any

surprise--it was plain to her that he had recognized her from the light

touch of her finger.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She nodded.

He gathered his counters together and rose with alacrity.

"You came in the nick of time," he said. "But, of course, you would!

I've been playing wild and I've made a thousand francs into rather more

than six thousand. It was the very moment to flee from the wrath that

was coming. Let's run, run, to the change-desk before I change my mind

and decide to begin to lose. That's the only insurance--getting rid of

the counters, because when you've got rid of 'em you're too ashamed with

yourself to get more."

He was quite uplifted, so gaily preoccupied with his achievement that he

noticed nothing strange in her mien. She was glad that he noticed

nothing; and yet also she was sorry; she would have liked him, after a

single glance at her, to have said in his curt, quiet, assured manner:

"What's wrong?"

She kept thinking, but not of Felix: "He must be very fickle and

capricious. I'm certain he was making love to _her_. He happens to see

me and off he runs after me! He can't be any good, with his debts and

things. I was right to give him the bird. But he's terribly nice, and

I don't care. I don't know what on earth's the matter with me. I think

I must be a bit mad, and always was. If I wasn't, should I be here?"

Transiently she viewed herself as, for example, Gertie Jackson would

have viewed her. And then she saw another and a worse self and viewed

that other self as Lilian the staid and constant friend of Felix would

naturally view such an abandoned girl. She was afraid of and disgusted

by the possibilities discovered in the depths of her own mind.

At the desk the dancing girl whom Felix had indicated as inhabiting

their hotel hurried up passionately and forestalled them. She threw

down two green counters, as it were in anger.

"Can I play with _that_!" she exclaimed in cockney English.

The changer handed her two hundred-franc notes, which she crumpled in

her hand.

"I must find a hundred thousand francs from somewhere!" she cried,

departing. She was talking to herself. As she moved away a stout,

oldish man with a thick lower lip, pearl studs in his shirt-front, and a

gleaming white waistcoat, joined her, and they disappeared together.

Lilian stared after her in amazement. Felix's winnings suddenly seemed

very insignificant. Still when he received six fine fresh

thousand-franc notes, besides some small notes, in exchange for

valueless discs, and handed to her one of the fine fresh notes--"That's

for saving me from myself!"--she was impressed anew. A palace of magic,

the baccarat rooms! The real thing, gambling!

"What do you want to do now?" he asked. "Dance? No? Well, I'll do

anything you like, anything, the most absurd thing. Is that talking?"

They were moving somewhat aimlessly down the grand staircase.

"Felix, darling," she murmured, "let's go for a motor run in the hills.

There's a lovely moon. I should so love it." She desired to be alone

with him precisely as she had been alone with him in the taxi after

their first dinner. She had a fancy for just that and nothing else.

She pictured them together in the car, in the midst of gigantic nature

and in the brilliant night.

"But it will be cold!" he protested.

"It wasn't cold when we came in here--it was quite warm--you said so,"

she replied softly. "But just as you please. I don't mind." And into

the acquiescent charm of her voice she dropped one drop of angelic

resentment--one single drop; not because he objected to gratifying her,

but because she knew he was merely fussing himself about his throat and

his health generally.

"We'll go, by all means. It won't take long," he yielded

affectionately, without reserve.

She pressed his arm. She had won. He began to suspect that she was

overwrought--perhaps by the first sight of the spectacle of gambling on

a great scale--and he soothed her accordingly. Half a dozen automobiles

were waiting and willing to take them into the hills.

Before Lilian had regained full possession of herself they were clear of

the town, and continually ascending, in long curves. The night was

magnificent; through the close-shut windows of the car could be seen,

not the moon, which was on high, but the strong moonlight and sharp

shadows, and the huge austere contours of the hills; and here and there

a distant, steady domestic lamp. Lilian sat in her corner and Felix in

his, and a space separated them because of the width of the car. She

felt a peculiar constraint and could not reach the mood she wanted.

"Felix," she said, "you heard that girl say she must have a hundred

thousand francs, how will she get it? How can she get it?"

"She'll just disappear for a day or two, and then she'll come back with

it. I dare say she owes most of it already to the casino."

"But who will give it her?"

"Ah! That's her secret. There's always somebody in the background that

these charmers have made themselves indispensable to. When this

particular charmer tackles the particular man or men that she's

indispensable to, she'll have what she needs out of them if they've got

it to give. That's a certainty. If a man has hypnotized himself into

the belief that a girl's body is paradise, he'll win paradise and keep

paradise. He'll steal, commit murder, sell his wife and children,

abandon his parents to the workhouse; there's nothing he won't do. And

he'll do it even if she'll only let him kiss her feet. Of course, all

men aren't like that, but there are quite a few of 'em, and these

charmers always find 'em out. Trust them."

"I couldn't see that there was anything very extraordinary in her."

"Neither could I. But perhaps we're blind to what that fellow who's

going to fork out the hundred thousand francs sees. I dare say if I

were to dance with her I might have glimpses of his notion of her.

Anyhow, you bet she's a highly finished product; she's got great gifts

and great skill--must have--and she knows exactly what she's about--and

she looks eighteen and isn't above twenty-five. You must remember she's

on the way to being a star in the most powerful profession in the world.

They've made practically all the history there is, even in the East, and

they're still making it--making it this very night."

There was a considerable silence, and then Lilian shot across the seat

and leaned heavily against Felix and clasped his neck.

"Darling," she said, "I know I'm going to have a baby!"

They could just see each other. Felix paused before replying.

"Very well! Very well," he said calmly. "We shall see who's right."

Her thoughts concerning Lord Mackworth now seemed utterly incredible to

her in their mad aberration.

The next moment the car swerved unexpectedly to the side of the mounting

road and the engine stopped; the chauffeur jumped down, opened the

bonnet, unstrapped one of the side lamps and peered with it into the

secrets under the bonnet. Felix, loosing himself from Lilian, rapped

sharply on the front window, but got no response from the bent

chauffeur. Then impatiently he tried to let down the window and could

not. He lifted it, shook it, rattled it, broke the fragile fastening of

the strap. Suddenly the window fell with a bang into its slit, and there

was a tinkling of smashed glass.

"Damn it! I ought to have opened the door, but I was afraid of too much

cold."

The icy air of the hills rushed like an assassin into the interior of

the car, Felix shivered, unlatched the door and got out. The chauffeur

proved to be an Italian, with no more French than sufficed to take

orders and receive fares and tips. He could give no intelligible

explanation of the breakdown, but he smiled optimistically. The car was

absolutely alone on the road, and the road was alone in the vast

implacable landscape. No light anywhere, except the chilly, dazzling

moon and the stars, and the glitter of a far range of god-like peaks,

whence came the terrible wind. The scene and situation intimidated.

The inhuman and negligent grandeur of nature was revealed. Felix

returned into the car and shut the door, but could not shut out the

cold. Lilian covered his chest with her warm bosom. Gently he pushed her

away.

"No, no!"

"Let me, darling!"

"It's no use. I shall suffer for this."

After a few minutes the engine was throbbing again, and they had begun

the descent. But no device could conjure away the ruthless night air.

Back at the hotel Felix took brandy and hot water, accepted Lilian's hot

water bag in addition to his own, and was in bed and thickly enveloped

in no time at all. Lilian kissed him guiltily and left him. He bade her

good night kindly but absently, engrossed in himself.

VI

The Benefactress

When Lilian was alone in her room she thought anxiously:

"Supposing he should want more brandy in the night--there is none!"

The travelling flask was now empty. (In the emergency, hot water from

the lavatory-basin tap had been used to dilute the brandy. Felix having

said impatiently that any water would do so long as it was hot--hang a

few germs!) She had noticed that he would always take a little brandy

if he felt unwell from whatever cause, and this habit caused her no

uneasiness, for from her father she had acquired a firm belief in the

restorative qualities of brandy; even her mother would say how unwise it

was to "be without" brandy, and before starting for the annual domestic

holiday invariably attended herself to the provision of it. The lack of

brandy settled upon Lilian's mind, intensifying somehow her sense of

guilt. She felt deeply the responsibilities of the situation, which

became graver and graver to her--the more so as she had no real status

to deal with it.

She wanted to ring the bell, but the bell was within a few yards of

Felix's door--he often complained on this score--and to ring might be to

wake him. Cautiously she stepped into the corridor, hoping to find

Jacqueline in the service-room at the end of the shabby little side

corridor where the bell and the room-indicator were. She knew the

French for brandy. The main corridor stretched away with an effect of

endlessness. In its whole length only two electric lights had been left

to burn. Solitude and silence made it mysteriously solemn. A pair of

boots, or two pairs of boots--one large, one small and dainty--here and

there on a door-mat seemed inexplicably to symbolize the forlornness of

humanity in the sight of the infinite. The beating of Lilian's heart

attracted her attention. Not without an effort could she cross the

magic and formidable corridor. The door of the service-room was locked.

No hope! Even Jacqueline had a bed somewhere and was asleep in it; and

brandy was as unattainable as on a coral island.

Lilian felt the rough hair-lining of pleasure. The idea of her

insecurity frightened her. She perceived that a life of toil,

abstinence, deprivation and cold virginity had its advantages. Of

course, Felix was not going to be ill; but if he were, and if her

dreadful fears about her own condition were realized--what then? What

would happen? Were the moral maxims and strict practice of her parents

after all horribly true? The wages of sin, and all that sort of thing

... She heard steps in the distance of the corridor. She peeped.

Somebody was approaching. Had she time to cross and vanish into the

shelter of her room? She hesitated. The visitant was a woman. It was

the girl who in the baccarat rooms had talked of a hundred thousand

francs in a cockney accent, the girl whom Felix had described as

probably a rising star in the most powerful of professions. She too had

a bed, and was seeking it at last.

"I expect there's no chance of getting hold of a servant to-night," said

Lilian meekly, as the girl instinctively paused in passing.

The girl, staring sharply out of her artificially enlarged eyes,

shrugged the shoulders of negation at Lilian's simplicity.

"Anything the matter?"

"I only wanted some brandy. My"--'husband' she meant to say, but could

not frame the majestic word--"my friend's not very well. Chill. He's

had a very little brandy, and might need some more in the night." She

flushed.

"Come along of me. I'll let you have some." What a harsh, rasping

little voice!

The benefactress's bedroom was in a state of rich disorder that

astounded Lilian. The girl turned on every light in the chamber, banged

the door, and pushing some clothes off a chair told Lilian to sit down.

Drawers were open, cupboards were open, the wardrobe was open. Attire,

boxes, bottles, parcels, candles, parasols, illustrated comic papers,

novels with shiny coloured covers were strewn everywhere; and in a

corner a terrific trunk stood upright. The benefactress began ferreting

in drawers, and slamming them to one after another.

"I'm afraid I'm putting you to a lot of trouble," said Lilian. "You're

very kind, I'm sure."

"Not a bit of it. I never _can_ find anything.... I think us girls

ought to stand by each other, that's what I think. Not as we ever do!"

Her voice seemed to thicken, almost to break.

Lilian felt as if the entire hotel had trembled under her feet, but she

gave no sign of shock; she desired the brandy, if it was to be had. "Us

girls"!

"You _are_ French, aren't you? I only ask because you speak English so

well."

After a moment the girl replied, her head buried in a drawer:

"You bet I'm French. My mother sent me to a convent in London so as I

could learn English properly. It was one of them boarding convents

where you're free to do what you like so long as you're in by seven

o'clock. They wanted a few French girls for the chorus of a revue at

the Pavilion. Soon as I got in there I never went back to the convent,

and I've never seen ma since, either. I was in that chorus for a year.

Oh!" She produced an ingenious and costly travelling spirit-case, and

then searched for the key of it.

"I wish I could speak French half as well as you speak English."

"If I had half your face and your figure I'd give all my English to

anybody that cared to have it. Oh! Damn the key! Excuse me. Here you

are." She offered the disengaged flask. "Now you go along and take

what you want, and bring me the flask back."

She stood in front of Lilian, who rose. She was as flat as Milly

Merrislate, and neither tall nor graceful. Every lineament of the pert

face so heavily masked in paint and powder, every gesture, the too

bright stockings, the gilded shoes, the impudent coiffure, the huge and

flashy rings, the square-dialled wrist-watch--all were crudely

symptomatic of an ingrained and unalterable vulgarity. Lilian was

absolutely unable to understand how any man, however coarse and cynical,

could find any charm of any kind in such a girl. But Lilian did not

know that intense vulgarity is in itself irresistible to certain

amateurs of women, and she was far too young really to appreciate the

sorcery of mere lithe youthfulness.

"Why! What is it?" Lilian exclaimed, as she took the flask.

Tears were ravaging the cheeks of the benefactress.

"Oh! Damn!" The benefactress stamped her foot, and raised her thin,

loose, bare shoulders. "Gambling's it. I always lose here. It's all

shemmy here, and when you win at shemmy you take other people's money,

not the bank's, and that puts me off like at the start. And you never

win if you don't feel as if you were going to. I was at Monte Carlo

last week, and you sh'd've seen me at roulette, taking the casino money.

I couldn't do wrong. But I had to come back here, and there you are!

Lost it all and a lot more!" She was speaking through her tears.

"Cleaned out to-night! Naked! You see, it's like this. Gambling gives

you an emotion. It's the only thing there is for that--I mean for me....

Did you see that fat beast speak to me to-night in the casino? Well, he

said something to me and offered me ten thousand francs, and I slapped

his face for him in the entrance-hall. He knew I was stony. I was a

fool. Why shouldn't I have done what he wanted? What's it matter? But

no! I'm like that, and I slapped his face, and I'd do it again, I

would!! He's Scapini, you know, the biggest shareholder in both the big

hotels here. I tore it, I did! And, would you believe, I'd no sooner

got in here afterwards than the manager told me I must leave to-morrow

morning. It was all over the place as quick as that! I've only got to

go to Paris to get all the money I want. Yes. But I'd sell myself for

a year to be able to pay my bill straight off in the morning and cheek

'em. It'll be near a thousand francs, and I haven't got ten francs,

besides having the whole bally town against me." She laughed and threw

her head back. "Here! You go along. Don't listen to me. It's not the

first time, neither the last. Go along now."

"I'm very sorry," said Lilian. She simply could not conceive that the

girl, possibly no older than herself, was standing alone and unaided

against what was to her the universe. How could these girls do it? What

was the quality in them that enabled them to do it?

She was in the intimidating, silent, mystery-hiding corridor again. She

listened at the door, which she had left ajar, between the bathroom and

Felix's bedroom. No sound! In the solacing, perfect tidiness of her

room, she poured some of the brandy into a glass, and then, taking her

bag, returned to the benefactress.

"Here's your flask, thank you very much!" she said. "And here's a

thousand francs, if it's any use to you." She produced the note which

Felix had given to her. The money was accepted, greedily.

"If you're here in a week's time, in five days, you'll have it back,"

said the benefactress, looking at her wrist-watch. "No! It's too late

to go and play again now!" She giggled. "Tell me your name. You can

trust _me_. I don't believe you're real, though! You couldn't be.

There aren't such girls--anyhow at your age." She stopped, and gave a

tremendous youthful sigh. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "if only I was dead. I

often dream of lying in my grave--eternal peace, eternal peace! No

emotions! No men! Quite still! Stretched straight out! Quiet for ever

and ever! Eternal peace! D'you know I've been like that all my life?

My God!"

Lilian burst into tears, agonized. The original benefactress flung

herself at the other benefactress with amazing violence, and they

kissed, weeping.

A quarter of an hour later the defier of Scapini murmured:

"I wish to heaven I could do something for _you_!"

Lilian answered:

"I wish you'd tell me how you stain your skin that lovely Spanish

colour."

And she immediately received, not merely the instructions, but the

complete materials necessary for the operation.

VII

The Doctor

When she awoke the next morning after a very few hours' sleep, she did

so suddenly, to a full consciousness of her situation, and not little by

little, passing by gradual stages to realization, as was her wont. She

listened; no sound came through the two half-open doors. The brandy had

not been needed. Perhaps he was asleep; perhaps he had had a good night

and was perfectly restored. She rose, unfastened the window and very

quietly pushed back the shutters. It was raining. Just as she was, her

hair loose and the delicate and absurd rag of a nightdress all untied,

she surveyed herself sternly in the mirror. She was well content with

her beauty. Impossible to criticize it! In every way she was far more

beautiful than the nameless woman whom she had befriended and who had

befriended her.

Partly because she had been generous to her, she felt sympathy for the

girl. The phrase "us girls" stung her still, but it was not ill meant;

in fact, it was a rather natural phrase, and no doubt already her

acquaintance must have perceived how wrong it was. She admired the girl

for her fierce defiance and courage, and for the intense passion with

which she had desired the grave. "Stretched straight out! Quiet for

ever and ever!" Startling and outrageous words, in that harsh young

voice; but there was something fine about them! ("I may say the same

one day soon," Lilian thought solemnly.) Moreover, she understood

better the power of the girl, whose kiss and clasp had communicated to

her a most disconcerting physical thrill. Indeed, it seemed to her that

she was on the threshold of all sorts of new comprehensions. Finally

she had astonished the girl by the grand loan; she had shone; she had

pleased; she had satisfied her instinct to give pleasure. She thought:

"She may be stronger than I am, and cleverer; but she is very silly and

I am not. And I'm not weak either, even if some people take me for

weak."

It was disturbing, though, how that phrase pricked and pricked: "Us

girls." Little flames shot up from the ashes of her early and abandoned

religion. "The wages of sin--the wages of sin." Was it true about the

wages of sin? Was she to be punished? The great, terrible fear of

conception still dominated her soul; and it grew hourly. At each

disappointing dawn the torture of it increased. She saw the powders and

preparations which the courtesan had given her; she recalled the minute

directions for the use of them, and smiled painfully. How could the

prospective mother employ such devices? Nevertheless, if she escaped,

she would employ them as soon as Felix was better. She knew that Felix

would delight in the perverse, provocative transformation, and she

yearned to gratify him afresh in a novel manner. When the surprise came

upon him he would pretend that it was nothing; but he would be

delighted, he would revel in it.

Putting on her peignoir she slipped noiselessly into the other bedroom,

and crept up to the bed. Needless precaution; Felix was wide awake,

staring at the ceiling. Before speaking she tenderly kissed him, and

kept her face for a moment on his.

"Better?"

"Had an awful night. Couldn't sleep a wink. I won't get up just yet.

Order me tea instead of coffee. We'll go out after lunch, not before."

"Do you think you ought to go out, dearest?"

"Of course I ought to go out," he snapped peevishly.

"It's raining."

"Oh, well, if it's raining I dare say I shan't want to go out." He

placed his hand nervously on his right breast.

"Does it hurt you?"

"Not at all. Can't I touch myself?"

She kissed him again. Then he gazed at her with love, as she moved over

him to ring the bell.

"You all right?"

"Oh, splendid! I listened once or twice at the door, but as I didn't

hear anything I made sure you were asleep."

She kept silence about her awful, persistent fear, knowing that any

reference to it would only irritate him. He was more than ever like a

child--and a captious child. She realized the attitude of his sister

towards him. Thank God he was better! If he had fallen ill she would

have condemned herself as a criminal for life, for her insane, selfish

suggestion of an excursion to the hills at night. Not he, but she, was

the child.

After his tea he did get up and dress; but he would not descend to

lunch; nor eat in the bedroom. At three o'clock he said that when it

rained on the Riviera the climate was the most damnable on earth, and

that he preferred to be in bed. And to bed he returned. Then Lilian

noticed him fingering his breast again.

"Any pain there?"

"Oh! Nothing. Nothing. Only a sort of sensation."

Soon afterwards he gave a few very faint, short, dry coughs--scarcely

perceptible efforts to clear the throat. And at the same Lilian went

cold. She knew that cough. She had helped to nurse her father. It was

the affrighting pneumonia cough. Almost simultaneously it occurred to

her that Felix was trying to hide from her a difficulty in breathing.

She had not dreamed of anything so bad as pneumonia, which for her was

the direst of all diseases. And she with a plan for dyeing her skin to

amuse and excite him! ... She had thought of a severe chill at the

worst.

She hurried downstairs to see the concierge. The lift was too slow in

coming up for her; she had to run down the flights of carpeted steps one

after another. The main question on her mind was: "Ought I to telegraph

to his sister?" If Miss Grig arrived, what would, what could happen to

herself? The concierge--a dark, haughty, long-moustached, somewhat

consumptive subject--adored Lilian for her beauty, and she had rewarded

his worship with exquisite smiles and tones.

"Would you like the English doctor, madam?" said he.

"_Is_ there an English doctor here?" She was immensely relieved. She

would be able to talk to an English doctor, whereas a French doctor with

his shrugs and science, and understanding nothing you said....

"Surely, madam! I will telephone at once, madam. He shall be here in

one quarter hour. I know where he is. He is a very good doctor."

"Oh, thank you!" Concierges were marvellous persons.

As soon as she had gone again the concierge made all the pages tremble.

It was the thwarted desire to kneel at Lilian's feet and kiss her divine

shoes that caused him to terrorize the pages.

As for telegraphing to Miss Grig, she decided that obviously she could

send no message till the doctor had examined and reported. In regard to

the hotel authorities and servants she now had no shame. She alone was

responsible for Felix's welfare, and she would be responsible, and they

must all think what they liked about her relations with him. She did

not care.

The concierge was indeed marvellous, for in less than twenty minutes

there was a knock at Felix's door. Lilian opened, saw a professional

face with hair half sandy, half grey, and, turning to Felix, murmured:

"It's the doctor, darling."

Felix, to whom she had audaciously said not a word about sending for a

doctor, actually sat up, furious.

"I'm not going to see a doctor," he gasped. "I'm not going to see any

doctor."

"Come in, doctor, please."

The moment was dramatic. Felix of course was beaten.

"You'll find me in the next room, doctor," she said, after a minute, and

the doctor bowed. In another ten minutes the doctor entered her

bedroom.

"It's a mild attack of pneumonia," said he, standing in front of her.

"Very mild. I can see no cause for anxiety. You'd better have a nurse

for the night."

"I would sooner sit up myself," Lilian answered. "I've nursed pneumonia

before."

"Then have a nurse for the day," the doctor suggested. "I can get an

English one from the Alexandra Hospital--a very good one. She might

come in at once and stay till ten o'clock, say." Then he proceeded to

the treatment, prescriptions, and so on.... An English nurse!

Lilian felt extraordinarily grateful and reassured. She knew where she

was now. She was in England again.

"Ought I to telegraph home?" she asked.

"I shouldn't if I were you," the doctor replied. "Better to wait for a

day or two. Telegrams are so disturbing, aren't they?"

His gentle manner was inexpressibly soothing. It was so soothing that

just as he was leaving she kept him back with a gesture.

"Doctor, before you go, I wish you would do something for me." And she

sat down, her face positively burning and shed tears.

In the night, as she sat with Felix, the patient's condition

unquestionably improved. He even grew cheerful and laudatory.

"You're a great girl," he muttered weakly but firmly. "I know I was

most absurdly cross, but I'm a rotten invalid."

She looked at him steadily, and, her secret resolve enfeebled by his

surprising and ravishing appreciation, she let forth, against the

dictates of discretion, the terrific fact which was overwhelming her and

causing every fibre in her to creep.

"It's true what I told you."

"What?"

"You know----" (A pause.)

"How do you know it's true?"

"The doctor----"

His reception of the tidings falsified every expectation. He waited a

moment, and then said calmly:

"That's all right. I'll see to that."

She did not kiss him, but, sitting on the bed, put her head beside his

on the pillow. Seen close, his eyelashes appeared as big as horsehairs

and transcendently masculine. She tasted the full, deep savour of life

then, moveless, in an awkward posture, in the midst of the huge sleeping

hotel. She had no regrets, no past, only a future.

VIII

Marriage

Lilian went to bed in the morning, not only with the assurance that

Felix was in no danger, but with his words echoing in her heart: "We

shall get married--here--the moment I'm fit." She was nursing his body;

he was nursing her mind. He had realized at once, of course, that the

situation was completely altered, and that he had now one sole duty--his

duty towards her. And, moreover, he had cared for her pride--had not

used the least word or even inflection to indicate that she was

absolutely dependent on his good nature. The very basis of his attitude

towards her was that he and she were indivisible in the matter. She

rose about two o'clock, and she had scarcely got out of bed when the

Irish nurse, Kate O'Connor, tapped at her door, and having received

permission to enter, came in with a conspiratorial air.

"I heard you stirring. He's going on splendidly," said the glinting-eye

Kate, clad from head to foot in whitest white. "But he sent me out of

the room after we'd had our little talk with Dr. Samson, and the doctor

stayed some while afterwards. Then there came another gentleman--French

gentleman--and I was sent out again. He told me not to say anything to

you, and I promised I wouldn't; but naturally I must tell you."

Lilian thanked her undisturbed, guessing that Felix was at work upon the

arrangements for the marriage. In the night he had asked her: "Where

were you born? What parish?" And on her inquiring why he wanted to

know he had replied casually: "Oh, it's nothing. Just curiosity." But

she had not been deceived. She understood him--how he loved to plan and

organize their doings by himself, saying naught.

The fact was that he had been asking the doctor about local lawyers,

and, having learned what he desired, he had sent for the most suitable

_avoue_, and put into his hands all the business of the marriage of two

British subjects in a French town. Apparently, as he had foreseen, the

chief documents required were the birth certificates of himself and

Lilian, and he had telegraphed for these to his own solicitor in London.

Lilian continued to receive no information concerning the progress of

the formalities, and she sought for none. She lived in a state of

contemplation. Her anxieties, except the vague, wonderful, and

semi-mystical anxiety of far-off motherhood had been dissipated. She

was uplifted; she had a magnificent sense of responsibility, which gave

her a new dignity, gravity and assurance. Kate O'Connor called her

"madam," and referred to her as "madam," especially when speaking to

Felix. The assumption underlying the behaviour of everybody was that

she was Felix's wife. As for the French lawyer, she never even saw him.

Meanwhile Felix's recovery was unexpectedly slow, and he went through

several slight relapses. Now and then his voice was suddenly become

hoarse and faint, and with the same suddenness it resumed the normal.

At length he grew cantankerous. The two women were delighted, telling

each other that this crotchetiness was a certain sign of strength. One

day he got up and dressed fully and sat at the window for half an hour,

returning to bed immediately afterwards. The same evening he convinced

Lilian that there was no more need for her to watch through the night.

The next morning when Lilian entered his room the nurse was not there.

"I've sent her off," Felix explained. "I much prefer to have you with

me than any nurse on earth." He was dressed before ten-thirty. "Now

put your things on," said he.

"What for? I don't want to go out."

"We're going out together. Look what a fine day it is! We're going to

be married at eleven o'clock, at the _mairie_. Now hurry up." His

voice hardened into a command.

"But--but does Dr. Samson agree to you going out?" she asked, quite

over-taxed.

"Samson doesn't know, as it happens; but if he did of course he'd

agree."

She might have refused to go. But could she refuse to go and be

married--she, the bearer of his child? She perceived that he had been

too clever for her, had trapped her, in his determination to regularize

her situation at the earliest possible moment. She forced a timid smile

and covered him up for the journey.

The lift-boy smiled a welcome to him. The concierge was the very symbol

of attentive deference, and in the carriage enveloped Lilian's feet with

the rug as though they had been two precious jewels--as they were. The

manager himself made a majestic appearance, and shot out congratulations

like stars from a Roman candle. And the weather was supremely gorgeous.

At the _mairie_ waited the _avoue_ and his clerk, who were to act as

witnesses. The _avoue_ and Felix talked to dirty and splendid

officials; Felix and Lilian signed papers.

"Now _you_'ve only got one thing to do," said Felix. "When I nudge you,

say, '_Oui, monsieur le maire_.'"

They were inducted into the sanctuary of celebration, and Lilian saw a

fat gentleman wearing the French national flag for a waistband. It

would have been very comical had it not been so impressive. The ceremony

started, Lilian understanding not a word. Felix nudged her. She

murmured: "_Oui, monsieur le maire_." ... The ceremony closed.

Immediately afterwards Felix handed her a sort of little tract in a

yellowish-brown cover.

"You're married now, and if anybody says you aren't, show 'em this."

The _avoue_ was tremendous with bows and smiles. They drove back to the

hotel. They were in the bedroom. Lilian took Felix apprehensively by

the shoulders.

"Oh, darling. You're sure it hasn't done you any harm?"

"And that's not quite all. There's my will," said he. "Ring the bell."

He spoke to Jacqueline, who after a few minutes brought in an English

valet and an English lady's maid. Felix was set upon having his will

witnessed by people with English addresses. He silently gave Lilian the

will to read. He had written it himself. In three lines it bestowed

upon her all that was his. Not a syllable about his sister. Well, that

was quite right, because Miss Grig had means of her own. Sitting in the

easy chair, with a blotting-pad on his knees, Felix signed the will.

Then the valet and the lady's maid signed, with much constraint and

flourish. Felix gave them fifty francs apiece, and dismissed them.

"Put that with your marriage certificate," he said to Lilian, folding up

the will and offering it to her. "I think I'll get back to bed.

Exhausting work, being married!" He laughed shortly. "I'm going to

sleep," he said later, after he had eaten and drunk. "You be off

downstairs and have your lunch."

But, of course, she could not go downstairs. She dropped into her bed,

staggered by the swift evolution of her career. Staggered by it! Lo!

She was a typewriting girl wearing wristlets, poor, hopeless, with no

prospects. A little while, and lo! she was the wife of a rich and

brilliant adorer, and an honest man in whom her trust was absolute. And

she was pregnant. Strange fear invaded her mind, the ancient fear that

too much happiness is a crime that destiny will punish.

IX

The Widow

"Felix seriously ill; double pneumonia; we are married.--Lilian Grig."

Ten words, plus Isabel's address and her own! She wrote the telegram

after several trials, in her bedroom, on half a sheet of the hotel

notepaper, Kate O'Connor standing by her side, the next morning but one.

"Give it me," said the white nurse. "I'll see to it for you, Mrs. Grig,

as I go home."

She looked up at the nurse, and the nurse, eyes no longer laughing,

looked down at her. The nurse knew everything, and, moreover, must have

assisted at scores of tragedies; yet Lilian regarded her as an innocent

who understood nothing essential in life. Her comforting kiss was like

the kiss of a very capable child pretending to be grown up.

Voices in the other bedroom! The doctor had arrived and was talking to

the second nurse. They went in together. Felix lay a changed man,

horribly aged. He was a man who had suddenly learned that in order to

live it was necessary to breathe, and that breathing may be an intensely

difficult operation of mechanics. His lined, wrinkled face was drawn

with the awful anxieties incident to breathing, and with the acute pain

in both lungs. The enemy was growing in strength and Felix was losing

strength, but he could not surrender. He must continue to struggle,

despite the odds, and there was no referee to stop the fight, either on

the ground that it had developed into an assassination or on any other

ground. The brutality had to proceed. And the sun streamed through the

window; and outside, from the promenade where the idlers were strolling

and the band was playing, the window looked exactly the same as all the

other windows of the enormous hotel.

After an examination, Dr. Samson injected morphia. The result was

almost instantaneous. The victim, freed from the anxiety of the pain,

could devote the whole of his energy to breathing. He sighed, and

smiled as if he had entered paradise. He gave a few short, faint

coughs, like the cough of a nervous veiled woman in church, and said in

a hoarse, feeble, whispering voice:

"You must understand, doctor, it was all my fault. I insisted, and what

could she do?" The two nurses modestly bent their gaze.

"Yes, yes," the doctor concurred.

Felix had already made the same announcement several times.

"But I want everybody to know," he persisted.

"Yes, yes," said the doctor. "I shall give you some oxygen this

morning. It will be here in a minute. That will do you a lot of good.

You'll see."

Lilian was the calmest person in the room. She had decided that there

was no hope, and had braced herself and become matter-of-fact. She was

full of health, power, and magnificent youth, and the living seed of

Felix was within her. She quietly kissed Felix on his damp cheek; no

gold now glistened in his half-empty mouth. She returned to her own

bedroom, and Dr. Samson followed.

"He's much worse," she said firmly to the doctor.

"He is not better," said the doctor. "But there is always hope."

She glanced sadly at the soft and mournful face of the middle-aged

doctor. Nurse Kate had told her the story of the doctor, who was a

widower and solitary and possibly consumptive, and on account of his

lungs practised on the Riviera during the winter. The vast tragedy of

the world obsessed her; there was no joy nor pleasure in the whole

world, and the ceaseless activities of gaiety that wearied the hotel and

the Casino and the town and the neighbouring towns seemed to her

monstrous, pathetic, and more tragic even than Felix's bed.

For five days she cabled daily to Miss Grig, and got nothing in reply.

Felix's strength consistently waned. And neither morphia nor oxygen

could help him more than momentarily. Jacqueline, the nurses, the

doctor, treated Lilian as a holy madonna. They all exclaimed at her

marvellous stedfastness. The manager of the hotel paid a decorous call

of inquiry--though it was apparent that he was already familiar with

every detail--and he, too, treated Lilian as a holy madonna. Two days

later, in the evening, just after Nurse Kate had come on duty, Felix

held out his hand for his wife's hand, and, casting off his frightful

physical preoccupation, said in a normal voice:

"Everything's in order. Don't be an idle woman, my poor girl."

She dropped on her knees, and throwing her arms on his body, cried:

"Darling, I've killed you!" (The thought that she had brought about his

death was her continual companion.) But Felix, utterly absorbed again

in the ghastly effort to breathe, had no ears for the wild outburst. In

the night he died. He had written a short note to his sister before the

great relapse, and since then had not even mentioned her.

X

The Wreath

Dr. Samson sat late with Lilian in her bedroom the next night. It was

the middle of the night. He was taller than Felix, and not so old; his

face was more flat and milder, but there was something in his expression

and about the wrinkles round his eyes that reminded her of Felix, and he

had attached himself to her to serve her; his mournful gaze appealed to

her. It was he who had made her understand that death in a hotel

devoted to gaiety was an indiscretion, a lapse from good taste that must

be carefully hidden. He stood faithfully between her and the world, the

captive of her beauty, wanting no reward but the satisfaction of having

helped her.

Not that much help was needed. The routine of such episodes was

apparently fixed. Things moved of themselves. All requirements seemed

to be met automatically. There was even an English cemetery in the

region. Early on the morning after the death a young woman in black had

called to present the card of a great Paris shop with a branch in the

town, and by the evening Lilian was dressed in black. The layer-out had

arrived earlier yet than the dressmaker. Dr. Samson had interviewed the

manager of the hotel. An important part of the routine was that the

whole of the furniture of Felix's room should be removed, and the room

refurnished at the cost of the representative of the dead. Dr. Samson

settled the price. Lilian decided to give the old furniture to the

Alexandra Hospital. The doctor had volunteered to finance Lilian till

she should be back in London; but afterwards the equivalent of nearly

four hundred pounds in French and English money was discovered in

Felix's dispatch-case, the inside of which Lilian had never seen. The

doctor had also sent off the telegram to the mute Miss Grig: "Felix died

in the night; am returning London immediately," and got the railway

ticket, and accomplished the legal formalities preliminary to the

burial, and warned the English chaplain, and ordered a gravestone in a

suitable design and taken Lilian's wishes as to the inscription thereon.

Nothing remained to be done but wait. Lilian was quietly packing; the

doctor sat watchful to assist. They both heard a noise in the next room;

and at the noise Lilian was at last startled from her calm. The moment,

then, had come. Dr. Samson went first. The room, which ought to have

been in darkness, was lighted, and not by electricity but by two

candles, one on either side of the bed.

"Who has done this?" Lilian murmured, and gave a sob.

The door into the corridor was locked; to keep it locked had been part

of the unalterable routine. Therefore the candles could only have been

brought by somebody on the staff of the hotel. The next instant

Jacqueline entered, through the bathroom. She was weeping.

"Pardon me, madam. I couldn't go to bed. I couldn't sleep. And I

thought of the candles. It was too much for me. I had to bring them.

If I was wrong, pardon me.... _They_ will be here soon." She threw

herself down on her knees at the foot of the bed. She had spoken in

French. The doctor interpreted.

"Tell her I thank her very much," said Lilian, "and ask her to go to

bed. She'll have her work to do to-morrow, poor thing!"

Jacqueline rose. Lilian took her hand and turned away.

"And this came," Jacqueline added, pointing to a package in tissue-paper

that lay on a chair. "The night porter has only just brought it up, and

as I was coming in with the candles...."

Lilian removed the tissue-paper and saw a magnificent wreath of lilies,

far finer than anything in her experience, a wreath for an imperial

monarch. In the middle was a white envelope. She opened the envelope;

it contained two French bank-notes for five hundred francs each. No

signature! Not a word!

"She has got her money," thought Lilian. "How?" And, placing the wreath

on Felix's feet, she burst into tears.

Jacqueline had vanished. Suddenly Lilian began to stride to and fro

across the room. She was full of youth and force. She was full of fury

and resentment. The moving muscles of her splendid, healthy body could

be discerned through her black dress. She frightened the doctor.

"Ah!" she cried, with a gesture towards the wreath, "she is the only one

that understands that I don't _want_ to be comforted! Nobody else has

understood. I expect she just heard that he was dead, and she doesn't

know that I killed him; but she understood. _She_ understood." The

doctor, quite mystified, seized her arm to soothe her, and was

astonished at her strength as she shook him off. She was like a tigress.

Nevertheless, she let herself be persuaded to follow him into her own

room. There her eye caught the toilet preparations which the courtesan

had bestowed on her.

"And she gave me these!" Lilian laughed, hesitated, and added fiercely:

"I will take them back with me! I will never use them, but I will keep

them for ever and ever!" And she cast them into one of the open trunks.

Then she said calmly: "Of course I know it was because of the window of

the car being broken, and it would have been all right if the engine

hadn't stopped. But it was my silly, silly idea to go out for a drive

at night.... I can't help it! I did kill him! He'd have been alive

now if I hadn't behaved myself like a perfect child!"

The doctor offered no remark. She resumed all her old tranquillity,

wiping her eyes carefully with a fine, tiny handkerchief that Felix had

given her. The bearers arrived a quarter of an hour later--discreet,

furtive and sinister. The hotel slept in its vastness. All gaiety was

asleep. But even if some devoted slave of dissipation had surprised

them on their way back, he could not have guessed that it was a coffin

they bore. The doctor, by using his professional prestige, kept Lilian

in her own room till the bearers were nearly ready to depart with more

than they had brought. She went into the mortuary. The coffin was

disguised. Picking up the wreath, which had been forgotten or

intentionally left, she placed it upon the coffin and beneath the

disguise. It lay there alone in its expensive grandeur. The bearers

withdrew with their burden, tiptoeing along the dim, silent corridor

lest revellers should be disturbed from well-earned, refreshing sleep

and open their doors to see what was afoot in the night. The cortege

was lost to view round the corner at the end of the corridor. The

doctor remained a little while, and he also prepared to go. The two

nurses Lilian would never see again.

"You should go to bed now and try to sleep. I'll call for you in good

time to-morrow for the funeral."

Lilian shook her head.

"No, I'm going to pack his things now." She stood at the door of his

room, and watched the doctor also disappear from view round the corner

at the end of the corridor.