The elfin light was growing brighter by perceptible degrees; and Paul,

looking toward the speaker, now was able to discern him as a shadowy

bulk, without definite outline, but impressive, pagan--as a granite god,

or one of those broken pillars of Medinet Habu. Either because Jules

Thessaly had moved nearer to him, or by reason of an optical delusion

produced by the half-light, the space between them seemed to have grown

less--not only physically, but spiritually. The curves of their astral

selves were sweeping inward to a point of contact which Paul knew

subconsciously would be electric, odic, illuminating. He felt the

driving force of Jules Thessaly's personality, and it struck from the

lyre of his genius strange harmonious chords. He knew, as some of the

ancients knew, that the very insect we crush beneath our feet is crushed

not by accident, but in accordance with a design vast beyond human

conception; and he wondered what part in his life this strange, powerful

man was cast to play. His thoughts found expression.

"There is no such thing as chance," he said dreamily.

"No," answered Jules Thessaly. "There is no such thing in the universe.

Our meeting to-day was an appointment."

XI

Jules Thessaly, like the Indian rope trick, was a kind of phenomenon

twice removed. In every capital throughout the world one heard of him;

of his wealth, of his art collection, of his financial interests; but

one rarely met a man who actually claimed to know him although every

second man one met knew another who did.

When he acquired Babylon Hall, for so long vacant, the county was

stirred from end to end. Lower Charleswood, which lacked a celebrity,

felt assured at last of its place in history and ceased to cast envious

glances toward that coy hamlet of the hills which enshrined the cottage

of George Meredith. The Vicar of High Fielding, who contributed

occasional "Turn-overs" to the _Globe_, investigated the published

genealogy of the great man, and caused it to be known that Jules

Thessaly was a French Levantine who had studied at Oxford and Goettingen,

a millionaire, an accomplished musician, and an amateur of art who had

exhibited a picture in the Paris Salon. He was a member (according to

this authority) of five clubs, had other country seats, as well as a

house in Park Lane, was director of numberless companies--and was

unmarried. Miss Kingsbury called upon the reverend gentleman for further

particulars.

But when at last Jules Thessaly actually arrived, Lower Charleswood

experienced a grievous disappointment. He brought no "introductions," he

paid no courtesy calls, and those who sought him at Babylon Hall almost

invariably were informed that Mr. Thessaly was abroad. When he

entertained, his guests arrived from whence no one knew, but usually in

opulent cars, and thereby departed no one knew whither. Lower

Charleswood was patient, for great men are eccentric; but in time Lower

Charleswood to its intense astonishment and mortification realised that

Jules Thessaly was not interested in "the county." Lower Charleswood

beheld itself snubbed, but preferred to hide its wounds from the world,

and therefore sent Jules Thessaly ceremoniously to Coventry. He was

voted a vulgar plutocrat and utterly impossible. When it leaked out that

Lady James knew him well and that Sir Jacques frequently dined at

Babylon Hall, Miss Kingsbury said, "Lady _James_? Well, of course"--And

Sir Jacques, as the only eligible substitute for a real notability, was

permitted a certain license. He was "peculiar," no doubt, but he had

built a charming church and was a bachelor.

Urged to the task by Miss Kingsbury, the Vicar of High Fielding made

further and exhaustive enquiries. He discovered that it was impossible

to trace Jules Thessaly's year at Oxford for the same reason that it was

impossible to trace anything else in his history. One man knew another

man whose brother was at Oriel with Thessaly; a second man had heard of

a third man who distinctly remembered him at Magdalen. The vicar's

cousin, a stockbroker, said that Thessaly's father had been a Greek

adventurer. Miss Kingsbury's agent--who sometimes succeeded in disposing

of her pictures--assured Miss Kingsbury that Jules Thessaly was a Jew.

When war began all the county whispered that Jules Thessaly was a big

shareholder in Krupps.

The constitution of his establishment at Babylon Hall was attacked in

the local press. Babylon Hall was full of dangerous aliens. Strains of

music had been heard proceeding from the Hall at most unseemly hours--by

the village innkeeper. Orgies were held there. But Jules Thessaly

remained silent, unmoved, invisible. So that at the time of Sir Jacques'

death Lower Charleswood had passed through three phases: pique, wonder,

apathy. One or two folks had met Thessaly--but always by accident; had

acclaimed him a wonderful man possessing the reserve of true genius.

Finally, Miss Kingsbury had met him--in Lower Charleswood post office,

and by noon of the following day, all "the county" knew that he was "a

charming recluse with the soul of a poet."

And this was the man with whom Paul Mario paced along the green aisles

toward the point where they crossed that Pilgrim's Way which linking

town to village, village to hamlet, lies upon the hills like a rosary on

a nun's bosom.

"My car is waiting below," said Jules Thessaly. "You will probably

prefer to drive back?"

Paul assented. He was breathing deeply of the sweet humid air, pungent

with a thousand fresh scents and the intoxicating fragrance of

rain-kissed loam. The sound of greedily drinking plant things arose from

the hillside. Beyond the purple heath hung the midnight curtain,

embroidered fitfully with silver, and he removed his hat that the cool

breeze might touch him. Hatless he was magnificently picturesque;

Antinoeus spared to maturity; the nature-worshipper within him stirred to

quickness by magic perfumes arising from the breast of Mother Earth, he

resembled that wonderful statue of the Bithynian which shows him as

Dionysus the Twice-born, son of the raincloud, lover of the verdure.

"The world," said Jules Thessaly, "is waiting for you."

Through his abstract Orphic dreams the words reached Paul's mind; and

they were oddly familiar. Who had spoken them--now, and once before? He

awoke, and remembered. Don had said that the world awaited him. He

turned and glanced at his companion. Jules Thessaly was regarding him

fixedly.

"You spoke," said Paul. "Pardon my abstraction; but what did you say?"

"I said that when Nature endows a man at once with the genius of Dante

and the appearance of a Greek god, that man holds the world in the

hollow of his hand. He was born with a purpose. He _dares_ not seek to

evade his destiny."

Paul met the glance of the golden, prominent eyes, and it held him

enthralled. "I do not seek to evade it," he replied slowly. "I accept

it; but I am afraid."

A low-pitched powerful French car stood at the foot of the slope, the

chauffeur in his seat and a footman standing beside the open door.

Poised ethereally betwixt solid earth and some sphere remote peopled by

Greek nature-myths, Paul found himself beside Jules Thessaly, and being

borne swiftly, strongly upward to the hills. At the gap beyond the

toll-gate, where one may view a prospect unique in all the county, the

car stopped, perhaps in obedience to a summons of the master. From the

open window Paul looked out over the valley; and a rainbow linked the

crescent of the hills, point to point. Backed by the murk of the moving

storm, Babylon Hall looked like a giant sarcophagus behind which Titan

hands had draped a sable curtain; and it seemed to Paul as he looked,

wondering, that the arc of heaven-born colours which no brush may

reproduce, rested upon the hidden roof of Dovelands Cottage, crossed

Babylon Hall, and swept down to the rain mist of the horizon, down to

the distant sea. The palette of the gods began to fade from view, and

Paul turned impulsively to his companion.

Jules Thessaly, his elbows resting upon his knees, was staring down,

apparently at the flat-crowned black hat which he held in his hands. The

car had resumed its smooth progress.

"An omen!" cried Paul. "The world is _not_ past redemption!"

He spoke wildly, emotionally, not choosing his words, scarce knowing

what he desired to convey. Jules Thessaly glanced aside at him.

"The world _desires_ redemption," he said. "It is for you to gratify the

world's desire."

XII

The mystery which steals out from the woods, creeps down from the hills,

and lurks beneath the shadowed hedgerows at beckoning of dusk, was

abroad and potent when Paul Mario that evening walked up Babylon Lane

towards the Hall. Elemental forces, which the ancients clothed in

semi-human shape and named and feared, moved beside him and breathed

strange counsels in his ear. The storm had released uneasy spirits from

their bondage in crannies of primeval hills, and it was on such a night

as this that many a child has glimpsed the Folk tripping lightly around

those fairy-rings which science would have us believe due to other

causes than the mystic dance. The Pipes of Pan were calling, and up in

the aisles of the hills moonbeams slyly sought and found bare-limbed

dryads darting from the eagerness of wooing fauns. Progress has banished

those Pandean spirits from the woodlands, but the moon is the mother of

magic, and her children steal out, furtive, half fearful, when she

raises her lamp as of old.

Between prescience and imagination the borderline is ill defined.

Although Dovelands Cottage was seemingly sleeping, or deserted, Paul

pictured Flamby standing by the stile beyond, where the orchard path

began. And when, nearing it, he paused, looking to the right, there was

she, a figure belonging to the elfin world of which he dreamed, and

seemingly on the point of climbing over the stile.

"Flamby!" he cried.

She turned, descended, and came forward slowly, a wild-haired nymph; and

that odd shyness which sat so ill upon her was manifest in her manner.

She had expected Paul; had really been waiting for him--and she felt

that he knew it.

"Were you dreaming in the twilight?" he asked, merrily.

Flamby stood a little apart from him, staring down at the dusty road.

"No," she replied. "I was scared, so I came out."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Don't know. Just scared. Mother is over at Mrs. Fawkes', and it's not

likely I was going with her."

"Why not?"

"She hates me," explained Flamby, with brief simplicity.

"But why should she hate you?"

"Don't know," said Flamby, busily burrowing a little hole in the road

with the heel of her left shoe. Her shoes were new ones, and boasted

impudently high heels. She had been proud of her arched instep when

first she had worn the new shoes, and had been anxious that Paul, who

hitherto had seen her shod in the clumsy boots which she called her

"workers," should learn that she possessed small feet and slim ankles.

Now, perceiving his glance to be attracted to the burrowing operation,

she flushed from brow to neck, convinced that he believed her to have

worn the shoes for his particular admiration--which was true; and to

have deliberately drawn his attention to them--which was untrue. She had

been longing to hear Paul's voice again, and now that he stood before

her she told herself that he must be comparing her with the hundreds of

really pretty girls known to him, and thinking what an odd-looking,

ignorant little fool she was. Gladly would Flamby have fled, but she

lacked the courage to do so.

"So you were afraid," said Paul, smiling; "but not, on this occasion, of

my late uncle, I hope?"

Flamby had half expected the question, but nevertheless it startled her.

A Latin tag entered her mind immediately. "_O_," she began--and her

strange shyness overwhelming her anew, said no more.

Paul assumed that he had misunderstood her. "Pardon me," he prompted,

"but I'm afraid I failed to catch what you said."

"I said '_no_,'" declared Flamby untruthfully, and silently blessed the

dusk which veiled her flaming cheeks. Paul Mario abashed her. She

delighted to be with him, and, with him, longed to run away. She had

been conscious of her imperfections from the very moment that she had

seen him in Bluebell Hollow, had hesitated to speak, doubting her

command of English, had ceased to joy in her beauty, and had wondered if

she appeared to Paul as a weird little gnome. Now, she was resolved

never to see him again--to hide away from him, to forget him--or to try.

"You are a true artist, Flamby," he said; "a creature of moods. Perhaps

to-night the fairy gates have opened for you as they have opened for me.

Titania has summoned you out into the woods, and you are half afraid.

But the artist lives very near to Nature, and has nothing to fear from

her. Surely you love these nights of the early moon?"

And as he spoke Flamby's resolution became as naught, and she knew that

to hear him and to share his dreams was worth any sacrifice of

self-esteem. Never since her father's death had she had a confidant to

whom she might speak of her imaginings, from whom she might hope for

sympathy and understanding. She forgot her shyness, forgot her new

shoes.

"I have always loved the moon," she confessed. "Perhaps I thought of her

as Isis once long ago."

Now it was Paul who hesitated and wondered, his respect for Flamby and

for the complex personality who had tutored her growing apace.

"But in London they must hate the moon," she added, and the tone

betokened one of her swift changes of mood.

"Yes," said Paul, raising his eyes, "the old goddess of the Nile seems

to have transferred her allegiance to the Rhine." He glanced at the

luminous disc of his watch. "I fear I am late. I shall call upon your

mother to-morrow, if I may, and see if we can arrange something definite

about your studies."

"Oh!" cried Flamby--"what time will you come?"

"May I come in the morning?"

"Of course."

"In the morning, then, about eleven o'clock. I must hurry, or Mr.

Thessaly will be waiting. What do you think of your new and wonderful

neighbour?"

"I have heard that he is a clever man and very rich; but I have never

seen him."

"Never seen him? And Babylon Hall is only a few hundred yards away."

"I know. But I have never seen Mr. Thessaly."

"How very queer," said Paul. "Well, good night, Flamby."

He took off his soft grey hat and extended his hand. All Flamby's

shyness descended upon her like the golden shower on Danae, and barely

touching the outstretched hand she whispered, "Good night, Mr. Mario,"

turned and very resolutely walked away, never once looking back.

At the gate of the cottage she began to limp, and upon the instant of

entering the sitting-room, where Mrs. Duveen, returned from her visit,

was lighting a large brass table lamp, Flamby dropped cross-legged upon

the floor and tenderly removed her left shoe. Having got it free of her

foot, she hurled it violently into the kitchen.

"Hell!" she said, succinctly.

"Flamby!" cried her mother, in a tone of mild reproval. "How can you

swear like that!"

Flamby began to remove her stocking. "_You'd_ swear if you had a damn

great nail sticking in your heel!" she retorted.

XIII

Paul arrived at Babylon Hall exactly eight minutes late for his

appointment. In the wonderful dusk unknown to the tropics, when sun

contests with moon, disputing the reign of night, he walked up the long

avenue past the silent lodge, and was shown into a small room adjoining

the entrance hall. Of the latter he derived no very definite impression,

except that it was queerly furnished. Wherein this queerness was

manifested he found himself unable to decide on subsequent reflection.

But the ante-room was markedly Eastern, having Arabesque mosaics, rugs

and low tables of the Orient, and being lighted by a brass mosque-lamp.

The footman who had opened the door for him was a foreigner of some

kind, apparently a Greek.

He wondered at his reception; for the servant merely bowed and departed,

without relieving him of hat and coat. Indeterminate, he stood, vaguely

conscious of misgiving and questioning the stillness of the great house.

But almost immediately a young man entered whose face expressed the

utmost concern. He was clean-shaven, except for those frustrated

whiskers once sacred to stage butlers, but latterly adopted as the sigil

of the New Bohemia. He had pleasing dark brown hair, and if nature had

not determined otherwise, might have been counted a handsome brunette.

His morning-dress was worthy of Vesta Tilley's tailor. Paul detected the

secretary even before the new arrival proclaimed his office.

"You have missed Mr. Thessaly by less than three minutes," he said,

glancing at his watch. "I am his secretary, and upon me devolves the

very delicate task of explaining his departure. In the absence of a

hostess--this is a bachelor establishment--the position is peculiarly

unfortunate--"

"Pray say no more, Mr.----"

"My name is Caspar."

"I beg you to offer no apologies, Mr. Caspar. Believe me, I quite

understand and sympathise. Mr. Thessaly has been called away at the last

moment by affairs of urgent importance."

"Exactly. I am indebted to you, Mr. Mario. The news--of a distressing

nature--only reached us over the telephone five minutes ago. A groom was

despatched immediately to Hatton Towers, but he seems to have missed

you."

"Nothing of a family nature, I trust."

"Not exactly, Mr. Mario; but a matter of such urgency that there was no

time for hesitation. Mr. Thessaly is already upon his way to London. He

will write you a full explanation, and for that purpose took writing

materials in the car. His letter should reach you by the first post in

the morning. You will readily understand that the hospitality of Babylon

Hall----"

Paul interrupted him. "My dear Mr. Caspar, I could not think of

intruding at a time of such distress and uncertainty. I can return to

Hatton Towers in less than twenty minutes and the larder is quite

capable of satisfying my modest requirements. Please say no more.

Directly you are able to communicate with him express to Mr. Thessaly my

sincere condolence."

"A car is at your service, Mr. Mario."

"I appreciate the kindness fully, but I should much prefer to walk.

Please banish from your mind any idea that you have inconvenienced me.

Good night, Mr. Caspar."

The several extraordinary features of the incident he did not come to

consider until later, but as he walked contemplative along Babylon Lane

he detected sounds of distant gunfire, distinct from the more remote

rumbling which was the voice of the battle front. He stood

still--listening. An air raid on London was in progress.

"Thank God that Yvonne is out of it," he said earnestly--"and may He be

with every poor soul to-night who needs Him."

Jules Thessaly and Babylon Hall were banished from his mind, although

the raid on London might very well prove to be the explanation of

Thessaly's sudden departure. From the stricken area his imagination

recoiled, and in spirit he stood in a quaintly rambling village street

of Devon before a rose-smothered cottage, looking up to an open casement

window. It was there that Yvonne was, perhaps already sleeping--Yvonne,

his wife. And all the old fear visited him as he contemplated their

happiness, their immunity from the horrors, the sacrifices of an

anguished world. Why was he spared when others, seemingly more worthy,

suffered? True, he had suffered in spirit, which is the keenest torture

of all; but he had emerged to a greater happiness, to a reunion with

Yvonne which had been like a second and sweeter honeymoon. It could only

be that he was spared for a great purpose, that he might perform a giant

task. He was permitted, untrammelled, to view the conflict, the sorrow

and the agony of mankind from an Olympic height, serene and personally

untouched, only in order that he might heal the wounds laid bare before

him. "The world is waiting for you," Don had said. Paul silently prayed

that the world might not wait in vain.

"Master of Destiny, inscrutable God, grant me light that I may see to

perform the duty laid upon me. Use me, mould me, make of me an

instrument. Millions have offered all and lost all. Guide my steps. If

death lies upon the path I will not shrink, but suffer me to be of some

little use to thy scarred and bleeding world. Amen."

The ominous gunfire had ceased when he retired to his room that night

after a lonely dinner, and even the more distant booming to which he was

growing accustomed was not audible. The lantern of the moon hung above

such a serene countryside that thoughts of war were all but impossible,

and Paul likened the heavens to the jewelled dome of some vast mosque

wherein were gathered together all the clashing creeds of mankind, their

differences forgotten in a universal love.

XIV

The summer days slipped by, each morning bringing a letter from Yvonne,

each night a longing that it might be the last of their separation. But

the affairs of the late Sir Jacques' estate were not easily dismissed,

and Paul, eager with the ardent eagerness of a poet to set to work upon

his task, yet found himself chained to Lower Charleswood. The place

itself enchanted his imagination, and had his mind been free (and if Sir

Jacques had never occupied Hatton Towers and impressed his individuality

upon the house) Paul might have been content to stay--with Yvonne for a

companion. But London called him urgently and inaction grew irksome.

Flamby Duveen he never tired of studying; she fascinated him like some

rare palimpsest or Pythagorean problem. But Flamby was going to London

as soon as arrangements could be made for her mother and herself to

leave Dovelands Cottage. Mrs. Duveen had raised no objection to the

proposed change; Mrs. Duveen had never raised an objection to anything

throughout the whole of her docile career; and already Paul was weaving

this oddly assorted pair into the scheme of that book which he projected

as a challenge to the latent good in man.

Some of his neighbours he met, willy nilly, but they took no place in

his mental record of things, save perhaps the place of punctuation

marks, commas and semicolons for the most part, rarely rising to the

definite degree of a full point and never approaching the dramatic

significance of an exclamation mark. Already he floated above the common

world, looking down upon its tortured contours and half-defaced

frontiers--for the true poet is a fakir who quits his physical body at

the beck of inspiration, to return laden with strange secrets.

Jules Thessaly's letter explaining his extraordinary breach of good

behaviour had been characteristic of the man. For whilst it was couched

in more or less conventional terms of apology, the writer obviously

regarded his action as justified and assumed in Paul an understanding

which rendered pique impossible. Paul's theory regarding Thessaly's

sudden departure had been correct.

"The gods are all dead," ran one passage in the letter. "A shell, one of

our own, fortunately imperfect, entered the upper storey of my house and

rudely forced a passage through one floor and the outer wall. Some

slight damage has been done to my collection"--etc.

* * * * *

The tangled details of Paul's legacy became disentangled at last, and he

fixed a definite date for his departure. That same evening the weather

broke and grey clouds veiled the stars. He was keenly susceptible to

climatic changes, and this abrupt interruption of summer plunged him

into a dark mood. Gone were the fairies from the meadows, gone the

dryads from the woods. The birds grew mute and roses drooped their

heads. He found himself alone facing a sorrowful world and sharing its

sorrows. The shadow of the black hat in the dining-room portrait lay

darkly on Hatton Towers.

When such a mood was upon him he would resign himself to it with all

that spiritual and intellectual abandon of which he was capable,

savagely goading himself to blacker despair and contemplating his own

condition with the critical faculty of his mind, which at these times

remained undisturbed. Whilst the rain beat upon the windows and

draperies billowed eerily in the draught, he passed from the library

into the study and unlocked that high black oak bureau which concealed

the private collection of works artistic and literary which had informed

him of the true character of his late uncle. He had caused a huge fire

to be made up in the old open hearth in the dining-room and he proposed

to spend the evening in building a pyre which should consume the memory

of the secret Sir Jacques.

The books, many of them in handsome bindings, he glanced at, in order

that no one worthy of life should be destroyed. The verdict pronounced

he either laid the book aside or broke it up and threw it on to the

great fire in the adjoining room. He worked for an hour, eagerly,

savagely, his coat stripped off and his shirt sleeves rolled above the

elbow. The collection, though valuable, was small, and within the hour

the bulk of it was ashes. Paul the iconoclast then turned his attention

to the portfolios of water-colours, etchings and photographs which

occupied the lower and deeper shelves of the bureau.

Here he found exquisite reproductions of Pompeiian frescoes,

illustrations in line and colour to divers works, as Pierre Louys'

_Aphrodite_, the _Satyricon_ of Petronius, and Ovid's _Amours_. The

crowning horror of the thing was the artistic skill which had been

prostituted to such ends. Technically, many of the pictures were above

criticism; morally all were beyond. He consigned the entire heap of them

to the flames.

Only the photographs remained, and a glance at the first of these

resulted in a journey to the dining-room with laden arms. By impish

chance two large and tastefully mounted panels both representing a

sun-kissed nymph posed beside a pool slipped from the bundle and fell at

his feet. Kicking the ash-stifled fire into a blaze, he stooped to

recover them. So stooping he remained, staring down at the pictures on

the floor. Then slowly, dazedly, he took them up, one in either hand.

They were photographs of Flamby.

* * * * *

The fire roared up the brick chimney, the wind fought for entrance from

above, rain beat dismally upon the high windows. The fire died down

again, seeming to retire into the mound of grey ashes which it had

created; and the photographs fell from Paul's grasp.

A wrought-iron poker hung from a rack in the hearth, and, his face set

like a mask, Paul took the crude weapon in his hand, and slowly raised

his head until he was looking up at the oil-painting above the

mantelpiece. The sound of a dry and discreet cough close behind him drew

his attention to the presence of Davison. He turned, a strange figure,

something very menacing in his eyes. Davison glanced furtively under the

gate-legged table.

"Mr. Thessaly has called, sir," he said, and held out a salver upon

which lay a visiting-card.

"Where is he?"

"He is in the library, sir."

"Very good. I will join him there in a few moments."

The portrait of Sir Jacques had been spared to posterity by that

admirable tradition which denies an English gentleman any display of

emotion in the presence of a servant.

XV

"I have seized the first opportunity," said Thessaly, as Paul, composure

restored, entered the library, "of offering a personal explanation of my

behaviour."

Paul took his extended hand, waiving the proferred explanation. "Except

as regards the damage done to your property, I am not interested. Had

your disappearance been dictated by nothing more than a sudden desire

for solitude I should have understood. If I should ever be called upon

to act as you did on that occasion I should know that a friend would

understand. If he misunderstood he would not be a friend. I fear I am

somewhat dusty. I have been destroying a portion of my legacy."

Jules Thessaly, dropping back into the padded arm-chair in which he had

been seated, stared hard at Paul.

"Not the illustrations to that portion of Scheherazade's narrative

invariably expunged from all respectable editions of the _Thousand and

One Nights_?"

Paul nodded, pushing a box of cigars across the table. "You know them?"

"I know that Sir Jacques possessed such pictures."

"I have destroyed them."

"Why?"

Paul selected a cigar ere looking up to meet the faintly amused glance

of Thessaly. "They bore witness to a phase of his life which he chose to

conceal from the world. I could do no less."

"You speak with contempt."

"The hypocrite is contemptible. A frank libertine may be an amusing

fellow. If we do not think so, we can avoid him."

"I agree with you up to a point. But in justice remember that every man

has pages in his history which are never displayed to the world."

"Very likely. But every man does not pose as a saint. Those who seek the

company of a professed rake do so at their own peril. But the disguised

satyr is a menace to the innocent."

"I would suggest that some specific 'innocent' occurs to your mind?"

"The adder does not bite itself. Were there no stories?"

"A few. But Sir Jacques was a model of discretion; as an under-secretary

he would have glittered in the political firmament. There was a pretty

village girl who promised at one time to provide the district with

agreeable table-talk, but unfortunately for Miss Kingsbury and company

the affair apparently fell through."

"He was, as you say, a model of discretion."

"Ah. There are records? Well, you were justified in destroying them."

"It is hard to understand."

"To understand whom--Sir Jacques or the girl? You cannot mean the girl.

A man who reaches the age of thirty without understanding women is like

a bluebottle who devotes a summer morning to an endeavour to fly through

a pane of glass."

"You speak like an early Roman."

"What more admirable model? Consider the Roman institutions; perfect

sanitation and slavery. We abolish one and adopt the other, with the

result that a healthy democracy has swallowed us up. The early Romans

were sages."

"You have no sympathy for Sir Jacques' victims?"

"Except where the chivalrous warriors of Prussia are concerned, and with

other rare exceptions, I never think of women as victims, Mr. Mario."

"Not even in the case of an aged hypocrite who probably posed as the

Platonic friend?"

"Platonic friendship is impossible up to sixty-five. The most ignorant

girl knows it to be so, for every woman has hereditary memory."

"Your creed is a harsh one. You take no count of snares and pitfalls."

"Snares and pitfalls cannot be set upon the highroad."

"And how should you define this highroad?"

"As the path selected by our unspoiled instincts. It is ignorance posing

as education that first blunts those instincts, dogma disguised as

religion and hypocrisy misnamed 'good behaviour.'"

"You would allow instinct to go unfettered?"

"Provided it remains unspoiled. But first I would sweep the world of

lies."

"Then you think the world ready for the truth?"

"I know that the world waits for it."

"Do you think the world will recognise it?"

"In part the world has already recognised it. We lived in an age which

was eternally demanding 'proofs'--and which rejected them when they were

offered. But the great catastrophe which has overwhelmed us has adjusted

our perspective. Few of us to-day _dare_ to doubt the immortality of the

soul. We failed to recognise joy as a proof of our survival after death,

but we cannot reject the teaching of sorrow."

"Love and friendship, of course, are proofs not only of immortality, but

of pre-existence and the survival of the individual."

"And can you make the disciples of the clap-trap which passes for

religion believe this, Mr. Mario?"

"I propose to try. But the task is hard. There are pieces difficult to

fit into the scheme."

"You agree with me that the war, which was born of ignorance, will bear

the fruit of truth?"

"I agree that it will bear the fruit of truth, but I do not agree that

it was born of ignorance. Men did not cause the war. It is a visitation

from higher powers, and therefore has a grand purpose. There are no

accidents in the scheme of the universe."

"You think those higher powers are powers of good?"

"Wherever the powers of darkness walk the Powers of Light stand arrayed

before them."

There was a muffled crash in the adjoining room, which brought Paul,

startled, to his feet. He crossed the library and entered the panelled

dining-room. The portrait of Sir Jacques had fallen from its place above

the mantelpiece, breaking a number of ornaments as it fell. Davison was

already on the spot and stood surveying the wreckage.

"The 'eat of the extraordinary fire, no doubt, sir," he said. "The 'ook

is loosened, as you observe."

Paul stared at the man with unseeing eyes; he was striving to grasp the

symbolic significance of the incident, but it eluded him, and presently

he returned to the library, where Jules Thessaly was glancing at a book

which he had taken from a shelf apparently at random.

"An accident?"

"Yes. A picture has fallen. Nothing serious."

"Ah. Do you know this war-writer?" Thessaly held up the book in his

hand--"Rudolf Kjellen."

"By name," replied Paul, absently. "Does he understand?"

"Up to a point. His thesis is that a great and inevitable world-drama is

being played and that he who seeks its cause in mere human plotting and

diplomacy is a fool. States are superhuman but living biological

personalities, dynamic, and moving toward inevitable ends beyond human

control."

"He is mad. All the German propagandists are mad. The insanity of

Germany is part of the scheme of the world-change through which we are

passing. He recognises the superhuman forces at work and in the same

breath babbles of 'states.' There is only one earthly State and to that

State all humanity belongs."

Jules Thessaly returned Kjellen's work to its place. "If I do not

misunderstand you," he said, fixing his gaze upon Paul, "you contemplate

telling the world that the churches have misinterpreted Revelation and

that Christ as well as the other Masters actually revealed reincarnation

as the secret of heaven and hell?"

"That is my intention."

"Your audience is a vast one, Mr. Mario. No man for many generations has

been granted the power to sway thought, which nature has bestowed upon

you. Your word may well prevail against all things--even in time against

Rome. You recognise that you are about to take up a mighty weapon?"

"I do. Publicity is the lever of which Archimedes dreamed; and I confess

that I tremble. You think the churches will oppose me?"

"Can you doubt it?"

"I fear you are right, yet they should be my allies, not my enemies. In

the spectacle of a world in arms the churches must surely recognise the

evidence of failure. If they would survive they must open their doors to

reform."

"And what is the nature of the reform you would suggest?"

"Conversion from nineteen centuries of error to the simple creed of

their Founder."

"Impossible. Churches, like Russian securities, may be destroyed but

never converted."

"Yet in their secret hearts millions of professed churchmen believe as I

believe----"

"----That heaven and hell are within every man's own soul and that the

state in which he is born is the state for which he has fitted himself

by the acts of his pre-existence?"

Paul inclined his head. "No other belief is possible to-day."

"There are higher planets than Earth, perhaps lower. The ultimate deep

is Hell, the ultimate height Heaven. The universe is a ladder which

every soul must climb."

From a catechism Jules Thessaly's words had developed into a profession

of faith, and Paul, who stood watching the speaker, grew suddenly

aware--a phenomenon which all have experienced--that such a profession

had been made to him before, that he had stood thus on some other

occasion and had heard the same words spoken. He knew what Jules

Thessaly was about to say.

"The knowledge which is yours is innate knowledge beyond human power to

acquire in one short span of life; it is the result of many lives

devoted to study. For the task you are about to take up you have been

preparing since the world was young. All is ordained, even your presence

in this room to-night--and mine. Where last did we meet--where first?

Perhaps in Rome, perhaps Atlantis; but assuredly we met and we meet

again to fulfil a compact made in the dawn of time. I, too, am a student

of the recondite, and it may be that some of the fragments of truth

which I have collected will help you to force recognition of the light

from a world plunged in darkness."

"In utter darkness," murmured Paul. And clearly before him--so clearly

as almost to constitute hallucination---arose a vision of Flamby Duveen

as she appeared in the secret photographs.

"You have definitely set your hand to the plough?"

"Definitely."

Jules Thessaly advanced, leaning forward across the table. He stared

fixedly at Paul. "To-night," he said, "a new Star is born in the West

and an hour will come when the eyes of all men must be raised to it."

PART SECOND

FLAMBY IN LONDON

I

On a raw winter's morning some six months later Don Courtier walked

briskly out of St. Pancras station, valise in hand, and surveyed a misty

yellow London with friendly eyes. A taxi-driver, hitherto plunged in

unfathomable gloom, met this genial glance and recovered courage. He

volunteered almost cheerfully to drive Don to any spot which he might

desire to visit, an offer which Don accepted in an equally cordial

spirit.

Depositing his valise at the Services Club in Stratford Place, his

modest abode when on leave in London, Don directed the cabman to drive

him to Paul Mario's house in Chelsea.

"Go a long way round," he said; "through Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar

Square and up the Mall. I want to see the sights of London Town."

Lying back in the cab he lighted a cigarette and resigned himself to

those pleasant reflections which belong to the holiday mood. For the

Capital of a threatened empire, London looked disappointingly ordinary,

he thought. There seemed to be thousands of pretty women, exquisitely

dressed, thronging the West End thoroughfares; but Don had learned from

experience that this delusion was a symptom associated with leave. Long

absence from feminine society blunts a man's critical faculties, and

Robinson Crusoe must have thought all women beautiful.

There were not so many posters on the hoardings, which deprived the

streets of a characteristic note of colour, but there were conspicuous

encomiums of economy displayed at Oxford Circus which the shopping

crowds along Oxford Street and Regent Street seemed nevertheless to have

overlooked. A large majority of the male population appeared to be in

khaki. The negligible minority not in khaki appeared to be in extremis

or second childhood. Don had heard much of "slackers" but the spectacle

afforded by the street of shops set him wondering where they were all

hiding. With the exception of a number of octogenarians and cripples,

the men in Regent Street wore uniform. They were all accompanied by

lovely women; it was extraordinary, but Don knew that it would wear off.

At Piccadilly Circus he found the usual congestion of traffic and more

than the usual gala atmosphere for which this spot is peculiar.

People at Piccadilly Circus never appear to be there on business. They

are either _au rendezvous_ or bound for a restaurant or going shopping

or booking theatre seats; and although Don had every reason for

believing that a war was in progress, Piccadilly Circus brazenly refused

to care. The doors of the London Pavilion were opened hospitably and

even at that early hour the tables in Scott's windows were occupied by

lobster fanciers. A newsboy armed with copies of an evening paper (which

oddly enough came out in the morning) was shouting at the top of his

voice that there had been a naval engagement in the Channel, but he did

not succeed in attracting anything like the same attention as that

freely bestowed upon a well known actress who was standing outside the

Criterion and not shouting at all. It was very restful after the worry

at the front. In Derbyshire, too, people had talked about nothing but

the war.

There were attractive posters upon the plinth of Nelson's Monument, and

the Square seemed to be full of Colonial troops. The reputation of

Trafalgar Square ranks next to that of the Strand in the British

Colonies. A party of Grenadier Guards, led by a band and accompanied by

policemen and small boys, marched along the Mall. A phrase of the march

haunted Don all the way to Chelsea.

* * * * *

Yvonne Mario in white decollete blouse and simple blue skirt, made a

very charming picture indeed. Her beauty was that of exquisite colouring

and freshness; her hair seemed to have captured and retained the summer

sunlight, and her eyes were of that violet hue which so rarely survives

childhood. Patrician languor revealed itself in every movement of her

slim figure. Don's smile betrayed his admiration.

"Do you know, Yvonne," he said, "I have been thinking coming along that

there were thousands of pretty girls in London. I see now that I was

wrong."

"You are making me blush!" said Yvonne, which was not true, for her

graceful composure seldom deserted her. "I shall tell Paul that you have

been paying me compliments."

"I wish you would. I don't believe he thinks I appreciate you as highly

as I do."

"He does," replied Yvonne naively; "he regards you as a connoisseur of

good looks!"

"Oh!" cried Don. "Oh! listen to her! Yvonne, you are growing vain."

"A woman without vanity is not appreciated."

"A woman without vanity is not human."

"If you are going to say cynical things I won't talk to you. You want a

whisky-and-soda."

"I don't."

"You do. The first thing to offer a man on leave is whisky-and-soda."

"It is a ritual, then?"

"It is the law. Sit down there and resign yourself to it. Do you really

mean to tell me that you did not know Paul was in France?"

"It must be a dreadful blow to your self-esteem, Yvonne, but I really

came here expecting to see him. When does he return?"

Yvonne rose as a maid entered with a tray bearing decanter and syphon.

"On Tuesday morning if the Channel is clear. Will you help yourself or

shall I pour out until you say 'When'?"

"Please help me. You cannot imagine how delightful it is to be waited

upon by a nice girl after grubbing over there."

"When do you have to go back, Don?"

"I have a clear week yet. When! How is Paul progressing with the book,

Yvonne?"

"He has been collecting material for months, and of course his present

visit to France is for material, too. I think he has practically

completed the first part, but I have no idea what form it is finally to

take."

"His article in the _Review_ made a stir."

"Wasn't it extraordinary!" cried Yvonne, seating herself beside Don on

the low window-seat and pressing the cushions with her hands. "We were

simply snowed under with letters from all sorts of people, and quite a

number of them called in person, even after Paul had left London."

"Did you let them in?"

"No; some of them quite frightened me. There was one old clergyman who

seemed very suspicious when Eustace told him that Paul was abroad. He

stood outside the house for quite a long time, banging his stick on the

pavement and coughing in a nasty barking fashion. I was watching him

through the curtains of an upstairs window. He left a tract behind

called _The Path is Straight but Narrow_."

"Did he wear whiskers?"

"Yes; long ones."

"A soft black hat, a polo collar and a ready-for-use black tie?"

"I believe he did."

"I am glad you did not let him in."

Through the narrow-panelled windows of the charming morning-room Don

could see the old sundial. He remembered that in the summer the

miniature rock-garden endued a mantle of simple flowers, and that sweet

scents were borne into the room by every passing breeze. A great

Victorian painter had lived in this house, which now was destined to

figure again in history as the home of the greater Paul Mario. He

glanced around the cosy room, in which there were many bowls and vases

holding tulips, those chalices of tears beloved of Hafiz, and he

suppressed a little sigh.

"May I light a pipe before I go, Yvonne?" he asked. "I am one of those

depraved beings who promenade the streets smoking huge briars, to the

delight of Continental comic artists."

"I know you are. But you are not going to promenade the streets until

you have had lunch."

"Really, Yvonne, thanks all the same, but I must go. Honestly, I have an

appointment."

Yvonne smiled in his face and her violet eyes held a query.

"No," replied Don--"no such luck. The Pauls are the lucky dogs. All the

nice girls are married. I am going to lunch with a solicitor!"

"Oh, how unromantic! And you are on leave!"

"Painful, I admit, but I am a stodgy old fogey. When the war is over I

am going to buy a velvet coat and a little red pork-pie cap, with a

green tassel. Is that old Odin I can hear barking?"

"Yes. He has heard your voice."

"I must really say 'How d'you do' to Odin. When I have lighted my pipe

may I go out?"

"Of course. Odin would never forgive you if you didn't. Let me strike a

match for you."

"You are spoiling me, Yvonne."

Don, his pipe well alight, stood up and went out into the garden where a

wolf-hound was making an excited demonstration in the little yard before

the door of his kennel.

"Hullo, Odin!" cried Don, as the great hound leapt at him joyfully,

resting both paws upon his shoulders. "How is old Odin? Not looking

forward to compulsory rationing, I dare swear."

He pulled the dog's ears affectionately and scratched his shapely head

in that manner which is so gratifying to the canine species. Then from

the pocket of his "British-warm" he produced a large sweet biscuit,

whereupon Odin immediately assumed a correct mendicant posture and sat

with drooping forepaws and upraised eyes. Don balanced the big biscuit

upon the dog's nose. "When I say 'Three,' Odin. One!" Odin did not stir.

"Two!" Odin remained still as a dog of stone. "_Three!_" The biscuit

disappeared, and Don laughed as loudly as though the familiar

performance had been an entire novelty. "Good morning, old fellow," he

said, and returned to the house.

Yvonne was awaiting him in the hall. "What time shall you come on

Tuesday?" she asked. "Paul should be home to lunch."

"You will want Paul all to yourself for awhile, Yvonne. I shall look in

later in the afternoon." He shook hands with his pretty hostess, put on

his cap and set off for the offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin.

* * * * *

The offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin were of that dusty, gloomy and

obsolete fashion which inspires such confidence in the would-be

litigant. Large and raggedly bound volumes, which apparently had been

acquired from the twopenny boxes outside second-hand bookshops, lined

the shelves of the outer office, and the chairs were of an

early-Victorian horsehair variety. Respectability had run to seed in

those chambers. Mr. Jacob Nevin, the senior partner, to whose decorous

sanctum Don presently penetrated, also had a second-hand appearance. Don

had always suspected him of secret snuff-taking.

"Ah, Captain Courtier," he said; "very sad about Miss Duveen's second

bereavement, very sad."

"Yes. Fate has dealt unkindly with the poor girl. I understand that Mrs.

Duveen died more than two months ago; but I only learned of her death

quite recently. I wrote to Miss Duveen directly I knew that I was coming

to England, and I was horrified to hear of her mother's death. You have

got the affairs well in hand now?"

"Since receiving your instructions, Captain Courtier, I have pushed the

matter on with every possible expedition--every expedition possible. The

absence of Mr. Paul Mario in France had somewhat tied my hands, you

see."

"I will consult Mrs. Chumley, my aunt, and arrange, if possible, for

Miss Duveen to live at The Hostel. I have already written to her upon

the subject. If it can be managed I shall 'phone you later to-day, and

perhaps you would be good enough to wire to Miss Duveen requesting her

to come to London immediately. Don't mention my name, you understand?

But let me know at the Club by what train she is arriving and I shall

endeavour to meet her. We cannot expect Mario to attend to these

details; he has a duty to the world, which only a man of his genius

could perform."

Mr. Nevin adjusted his pince-nez. "Very remarkable, Captain Courtier,"

he said gravely; "a very strange and strong personality--Mr. Paul Mario.

As my client his wishes are mine, but as a staunch churchman I find

myself in disagreement with much of his paper, _Le Bateleur_--in

disagreement, but remarkable, very."

Don laughed. "You are not alone in this respect, Mr. Nevin. He is

destined to divide the civilised world into two camps, and already I,

who encouraged him to the task, begin to tremble for its outcome."

II

Flamby arrived at London Bridge Station in a profoundly dejected

condition. However happy one may be, London Bridge Station possesses the

qualities of a sovereign joy-killer, and would have inclined the

thoughts of Mark Tapley toward the darker things of life; but to Flamby,

alone in a world which she did not expect to find sympathetic, it seemed

a particularly hopeless place. She was dressed in black, and black did

not suit her, and all the wisdom of your old philosophers must fail to

solace a woman who knows that she is not looking her best.

Her worldly belongings were contained in a split-cane grip and the

wraith of a cabin-trunk, whose substance had belonged to her father; her

available capital was stuffed in a small leather purse. When the train

with a final weary snort ceased its struggles and rested beside the

platform, that murk so characteristic of London draped the grimy

structure of the station, and a fine drizzle was falling. London had

endued no holiday garments to greet Flamby, but, homely fashion, had

elected to receive her in its everyday winter guise. A pathetic little

figure, she stepped out of the carriage. Something in the contrast

between this joyless gloom and the sun-gay hills she had known and loved

brought a sudden mist before Flamby's eyes, so that she remained unaware

of the presence of a certain genial officer until a voice which was

vaguely familiar said: "Your train was late, Miss Duveen."

Flamby started, stared, and found Donald Courtier standing smiling at

her. Although she had seen him only once before she knew him immediately

because she had often studied the photograph which was inside the famous

silver cigarette-case. The mistiness of vision troubled her anew as she

held out her black-gloved hand. "Oh," she said huskily, "how good of

you."

The last word was almost inaudible, and whilst Don grasped her hand

between both his own and pressed it reassuringly, Flamby stared through

the mist at three golden stars on the left shoulder of his topcoat.

"Now," cried Don cheerily, "what about our baggage?"

"There's only one old trunk," said Flamby, "except this funny thing."

"Give me the funny thing," replied Don briskly, "and here is a comic

porter who will dig out the trunk. Porter!"

Linking his left arm in Flamby's right, Don, taking up the cane grip,

moved along the platform in the direction of the guard's van, which was

apparently laden with an incredible number of empty and resonant milk

cans. The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably

have posed for Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully.

"'Ow many?" he inquired. "Got the ticket?"

He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they

were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby's black

glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance.

That it was an authentic relic of Duveen's earlier days was testified by

the faded labels, which still clung to it and which presented an

illustrated itinerary of travels extending from Paris to New Orleans,

Moscow to Shanghai. The new label, "London Bridge," offered a shocking

anti-climax. Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk

were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab

was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby

no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which

they were bound.

"Mr. Nevin selected The Hostel as an ideal spot," he said, "where you

would be free from interference and able to live your own life. He was

influenced, too, by the fact that I have an aunt living there, a Mrs.

Chumley, one of the most delightful old souls you could wish to meet."

Flamby was watching him all the time, and presently she spoke. "Are you

quite sure, Captain Courtier, that the money from the War Office will be

enough to pay for all this?"

Don waved his hand carelessly. "Ample," he declared. "The idea of The

Hostel, which was founded by Lady Something-or-other, is to afford a

residence for folks placed just as you are; not overburdened with

means--you see? Of course, some of the tenants are queer fish, and as

respectable as those dear old ladies who live amongst the ghosts at

Hampton Court. But there are a number of women writers and students, and

so forth: you will be quite at home in no time."

Flamby glanced down at the black dress, which she had made, and had made

tastefully and well, but which to its critical creator looked painfully

unfinished. "I feel a freak," she said. "Dad didn't believe in mourning,

but they would have burned me alive at Lower Charleswood if I hadn't

gone into black. Do you believe in mourning?"

"Well," replied Don, "to me it seems essentially a concession to popular

opinion. I must admit that it strikes me as an advertisement of grief

and about on a par with the wailing of the East. I don't see why we

should go about inviting the world to weep. Our sorrows are our own

affairs, after all, like our joys. We might quite as reasonably dress in

white when a son and heir is born to us."

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so," said Flamby, and her voice was rather

tremulous. "I loved mother more than anything in the world, but I hate

to be reminded that she is dead by everybody who looks at me."

Don grasped her hand and tucked it confidently under his arm. "Your

father was a wise man. Never be ashamed of following his advice, Flamby.

May I call you Flamby? You seem so very grown-up, with your hair all

tucked away under that black hat."

"I'm nearly eighteen, but I should hate you to call me Miss Duveen.

Nobody ever calls me Miss Duveen, except people who don't like me."

"They must be very few."

"Not so few," said Flamby thoughtfully. "I think it's my hair that does

it."

"That makes people dislike you?"

"Yes. Other women hate my hair."

"That is a compliment, Flamby."

"But isn't it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man."

Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby's hand more firmly under his arm.

"You would have made a deuce of a boy," he said. "I wonder if we should

have been friends."

"I don't think so," replied Flamby pensively.

"Eh!" cried Don, turning to her--"why not?"

"Well you treat women so kindly, and if I were a man I should treat them

so differently."

"How do you know that I treat women kindly?"

"You are very kind to me."

"Ha!" laughed Don. "You call yourself a woman? Why you are only a kid!"

"But I'm a wise kid," replied Flamby saucily, the old elfin light in her

eyes. "I know what beasts women are to one another, and I often hate

myself because I'm a little beast, too."

"I don't believe it."

"That's because you are one of those nice men who deserve to know

better."

Don leaned back in the cab and laughed until tears came to his eyes. He

had encouraged this conversation with the purpose of diverting Flamby's

mind from her sorrow, and he was glad to have succeeded so well. "Do men

hate you, too," he asked.

"No, I get on much better with men. There are some fearful rotters, of

course, but most men are honest enough if you are honest with them."

"_Honi soit qui mal y pense_," murmured Don, slowly recovering from his

fit of laughter.

"_Ipsissima verba_," said Flamby.

Don, who was drying his eyes, turned slowly and regarded her. Flamby

blushed rosily.

"What did you say?" asked Don.

"Nothing. I was thinking out loud."

"Do you habitually think in Latin?"

"No. It was just a trick of dad's. I wish you could have heard him swear

in Latin."

Don's eyes began to sparkle again. "No doubt I should have found the

experience of great educational value," he said; "but did he often swear

in Latin?"

"Not often; only when he was _very_ drunk."

"What was his favourite tongue when he was merely moderately so?"

Flamby's expression underwent a faint change, and looking down she bit

her under-lip. Instantly Don saw that he had wounded her, and he cursed

the clumsiness, of which Paul could never have been guilty, that had led

him to touch this girl's acute sensibilities. She was bewildering, of

course, and he realised that he must step warily in future. He reached

across and grasped her other hand hard. "Please forgive me," he said.

"No man had better reason for loving your father than I."

Flamby looked up at him doubtfully, read sincerity in the grey eyes, and

smiled again at once. "_He_ wouldn't have minded a bit," she explained,

"but I'm only a woman after all, and women are daft."

"I cannot allow you to be a woman yet, Flamby. You are only a girl, and

I want you to think of me----"

Flamby's pretty lips assumed a mischievous curve and a tiny dimple

appeared in her cheek. "Don't say as a big brother," she cried, "or you

will make me feel like a penny novelette!"

"I cannot believe that you ever read a penny novelette."

"No; I didn't. But mother read them, and dad used to tear pages out to

light his pipe before mother had finished. Then she would explain the

plot to me up to the torn pages, and we would try to work out what had

happened to the girl in the missing parts."

"A delightful literary exercise. And was the principal character always

a girl?"

"Always a girl--yes; a poor girl cast upon the world; very often a poor

governess."

"And she had two suitors."

"Yes. Sometimes three. She seemed inclined to marry the wrong one, but

mother always read the end first to make sure it came out all right. I

never knew one that didn't."

"No; it would have been too daring for publication. So your mother read

these stories? Romance is indeed a hardy shrub."

The cab drew up before the door of The Hostel, a low, half-timbered

building upon Jacobean lines which closely resembled an old coaching

inn. The windows looking out upon the flower-bordered lawn had leaded

panes, the gabled roof was red-tiled, and over the arched entrance

admitting one to the rectangular courtyard around which The Hostel was

constructed hung a wrought-iron lamp of delightfully mediaeval

appearance.

Don opened the gate and walked beside Flamby under the arch and into the

courtyard. Here the resemblance to an inn grew even more marked. A

gallery surrounded the courtyard and upon it opened the doors of

numerous suites situated upon the upper floor. There was a tiny rock

garden, too, and altogether the place had a charming old-world

atmosphere that was attractive and homely. The brasswork of the many

doors was brightly polished and all the visible appointments of the

miniature suites spoke of refined good taste.

"It's very quiet," said Flamby.

"Yes. You see most of the people who live here are out during the day."

"Please where do I live?"

"This way," cried Don cheerily, conducting her up the tiled steps to the

gallery. "Number twenty-three."

His good cheer was infectious, and Flamby found herself to be succumbing

to a sort of pleasant excitement as she passed along by the rows of

well-groomed doors, each of which bore a number and a neat name-plate.

Some of the quaint leaded lattices were open, revealing vases of flowers

upon the ledges within, and the tiny casement curtains afforded an index

to the characters of the various occupants, which made quite fascinating

study. There was Mrs. Lawrence Pooney whose curtains were wedgwood blue

with a cream border; Miss Hook, whose curtains were plain dark green;

Miss Aldrington Beech, whose curtains were lemon coloured with a Chinese

pattern; and Mrs. Marion de Lisle, whose curtains were of the hue of the

passion flower.

The door of Number 23 proved to be open, and Flamby, passing in, stood

looking around her and trying to realise that this was the stage upon

which the next act of her life story should be played. She found herself

in a rather small rectangular room, lighted by one large casement window

and a smaller latticed one, both of them overlooking the courtyard. The

woodwork was oaken and the walls were distempered a discreet and restful

shade of blue. There were a central electric fitting and another for a

reading-lamp, a fireplace of the latest slow-combustion pattern and a

door communicating with an inner chamber.

"Oh!" cried Flamby. "What a dear little place!"

Don, who had been watching her anxiously, saw that she was really

delighted and he entered into the spirit of the thing immediately. "I

think it is simply terrific," he said. "I have often envied the Aunt her

abode and wished I were an eligible spinster or widow. You have not seen

the inner sanctuary yet; it is delightfully like a state-room."

Flamby passed through the doorway into the bedroom, which indeed was not

much larger than a steamer cabin and was fitted with all those

space-saving devices which one finds at sea; a bureau that was really a

wash-basin, and a hidden wardrobe.

"There is a communal kitchen," explained Don, "with up-to-date

appointments, also a general laundry, and there are bathrooms on both

floors. I don't mean perpendicular bathrooms, so I should perhaps have

said on either floor. In that cunning little alcove in the sitting-room

is a small gas-stove, so that you will have no occasion to visit the

kitchen unless you are preparing a banquet. You enjoy the use of the

telephone, which is in the reading-room over the main entrance--and what

more could one desire?"

"It's just great," declared Flamby, "and I can never hope to thank you

for being so good to me. But I am wondering how I am going to afford

it."

"My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You

will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the

penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich,

and there you are."

"I was thinking about the furniture," said Flamby.

"Eh!" cried Don--"furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature

consideration I perceive distinctly that some few items of that kind

will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so."

"You hadn't thought of that?"

"No--I admit it had slipped my memory. The question of furniture does

not bulk largely in the mind of one used to billeting troops, but of

course it must be attended to. Now, how about the furniture of

What's-the-name Cottage?"

Flamby shook her head. "We had hardly any. Dad used to make things out

of orange boxes; he was very clever at it. He didn't like real

furniture. As fast as poor mother saved up and bought some he broke it,

so after a while she stopped. I've brought the clock."

"Ah!" cried Don gaily--"the clock. Good. That's a start. You will at

least know at what time to rise in the morning."

"I shall," agreed Flamby--"from the floor!"

The fascinating dimple reappeared in her cheek and she burst into peals

of most musical laughter. Don laughed, too; so that presently they

became quite breathless but perfectly happy.

III

"I vote," said Don, "that we consult the Aunt. She resides at Number

Nineteen on this floor, and her guidance in such a matter as furnishing

would be experienced and reliable."

"Right-oh," replied Flamby buoyantly. "I have a little money saved up."

"Don't worry about money. The pension has been finally settled between

Mr. Nevin and the Government people, and it dates from the time----"

"Of dad's death? But mother used to draw that."

"I am speaking of the special pension," explained Don hurriedly, as they

walked along the gallery, "which Mr. Nevin has been trying to arrange.

This ante-dates, and the first sum will be quite a substantial one;

ample for the purpose of furnishing. Here is the Aunt's."

Pausing before a door numbered 19, and bearing a brass plate inscribed

"Mrs. Chumley," Don pressed the bell. Whilst they waited, Flamby studied

the Aunt's curtains (which were snowy white) with critical eyes and

tried to make up her mind whether she liked or disliked the sound of

"Mrs. Chumley."

"The Aunt is apparently not at home," said Don, as no one responded to

the ringing. "Let us return to Number 23 and summon Reuben, who will

possibly know where she has gone."

Accordingly they returned to the empty suite and rang a bell which

summoned the janitor. Following a brief interval came a sound resembling

that of a drinking horse and there entered a red-whiskered old man with

a neatly pimpled nose, introducing an odour of rum. He was a small man,

but he wore a large green apron, and he touched the brim of his bowler

hat very respectfully.

"Excuse me breathin' 'eavy, sir," he said, "but it's the _hahsma_. The

place is hall ready for the young madam, sir, to move 'er furniture in,

and Mrs. Chumley she's in the readin'-room."

"Ah, very good, Reuben," replied Don. "Will you get the trunk and basket

in from the taxi, and you might pay the man. The fare was four and

something-or-other. Here are two half-crowns and sixpence."

"Yes, sir," responded Reuben; "and what time am I to expect the other

things?"

"Miss Duveen is not quite sure, Reuben, when they will arrive. As a

matter of fact, she has several purchases to make. But probably the bulk

of it will arrive to-morrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir," said Reuben, and departed respiring noisily. As he made his

exit Flamby carefully closed the door, and--"Oh," she cried, "what a

funny old man! Whatever did he mean by _hahsma_?"

"I have been struggling with the same problem," declared Don, "and I

have come to the conclusion that he referred to asthma."

"Oh," said Flamby breathlessly. "I hope he won't mind me laughing at

him."

"I am sure he won't. He is a genial soul and generally liked in spite of

his spirituous aroma. Now for the Aunt."

They walked around two angles of the gallery and entered a large room

the windows of which overlooked the front lawn. It was furnished cosily

as a library, and a cheerful fire burned in the big open grate. From the

centre window an excellent view might be obtained of Reuben struggling

with the cabin-trunk, which the placid taxi-driver had unstrapped and

lowered on to the janitor's shoulders without vacating his seat.

"I hope he won't break the clock," said Flamby, _sotto voce_. She turned

as Don went up to a little table at which a round old lady, the only

occupant of the room, was seated writing. This old lady had a very round

red face and very round wide-open surprised blue eyes. Her figure was

round, too; she was quite remarkably circular.

"Ha, the Aunt!" cried Don, placing his hands affectionately upon her

plump shoulders. "Here is our country squirrel come to town."

Mrs. Chumley laid down her pen and turned the surprised eyes upon Don.

Being met with a smile, she smiled in response--and her smile was oddly

like that of her nephew. Flamby knew in a moment that Mrs. Chumley was a

sweet old lady, and that hers was one of those rare natures whose

possessors see ill in no one, but good in all.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Chumley, in a surprised silvery voice, a voice

peculiarly restful and soothing, "it is Don." She stood up. "Yes, it is

Don, and this is Flamby. Come here, dear, and let me look at you."

Flamby advanced swiftly, holding out her hand, which Mrs. Chumley took,

and the other as well, drawing her close and kissing her on the cheek in

the simple, natural manner of a mother. Then Mrs. Chumley held her at

arms' length, surveying her, and began to muse aloud.

"She is very pretty, Don," she said. "You told me she was pretty, I

remember. She is a sweet little girl, but I don't think black suits her.

Do you think black suits her?"

"Any old thing suits her," replied Don, "but she looks a picture in

white."

"Quite agree, Don, she would. Couldn't you dress in white, dear?"

"If nobody thought it too awful I would. Dad never believed in

mourning."

"Quite agree. Most peculiar that I should agree with him, but I do. Don

does not believe in mourning, either. I should be most annoyed if he

wore mourning. Was your mother pretty? Don't tell me if it makes you

cry. What beautiful hair you have. Hasn't she beautiful hair, Don? May I

take your hat off, dear?"

"Of course," said Flamby, taking off her hat immediately, whereupon the

mop of unruly hair all coppery waves and gold-flecked foam came tumbling

about her face.

"Dear me," continued Mrs. Chumley, whilst Don stood behind her watching

the scene amusedly, "it _is_ remarkable hair." Indeed the sight of

Flamby's hair seemed almost to have stupefied her. "She is really very

pretty. I like you awfully, dear. I am glad you are going to live near

me. What did you call her, Don?"

"What did I call her, Aunt?"

"When you first came in. Oh, yes--a squirrel." She placed her arm around

Flamby and gave her a little hug. "Quite agree; she _is_ a squirrel. You

are a country squirrel, dear. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," said Flamby, laughing. "You couldn't pay me a nicer

compliment."

"No," replied Mrs. Chumley, lapsing into thoughtful mood. "I suppose I

couldn't. Squirrels are very pretty. I am afraid I was never like a

squirrel. How many inches are you round the waist?"

"I don't know. About twenty," replied Flamby, suddenly stricken with

shyness; "but I'm only little."

"Are you little, dear? I should not have called you little. You are

taller than I am."

Since Mrs. Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but

Flamby accepted it without demur. "I'm wearing high heels," she said. "I

am no taller than you, really."

"I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels.

They are so smart. It's a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them.

Don't you think men hate them, Don?"

"The consensus of modern masculine opinion probably admits distaste for

flat-heeled womanhood, in spite of classic tradition."

"Dear me, that might be Paul Mario. Do you like Paul Mario,

dear?"--turning again to Flamby and repeating the little hug.

Flamby lowered her head quickly. "Yes," she replied.

"I thought you would. He's so handsome. Don't you think him handsome?"

"Yes."

"He is astonishingly clever, too. Everybody is talking about what they

call his New Gospel. Do you believe in his New Gospel, dear?"

"I don't know what it is."

"I'm not quite sure that I do. What is his New Gospel, Don?"

"That he alone can explain, Aunt. But it is going to stir up the world.

Paul is a genius--the only true genius of the age."

"Quite agree. I don't know that it isn't just as well. Don't you think

it may be just as well, dear?"

"I don't know," said Flamby, looking up slowly.

"I'm not quite sure that I do. Has your furniture arrived, dear?"

"Not yet, Aunt," replied Don on Flamby's behalf. "Most of it will have

to be purchased, and I thought you might give Flamby some sort of a

notion what to buy. Then we could trot off up town and get things."

"How delightful. I should have loved to join you, but I have promised to

lunch with Mrs. Pooney, and I couldn't disappoint her. She is downstairs

now, cooking a chicken. Someone sent her a chicken. Wasn't that nice?"

"Very decent of someone. I hope it is a tender chicken. And now, Aunt,

could Flamby take a peep at your place and perhaps make a sort of list.

Some of the things we could get to-day, and perhaps to-morrow you could

run along with her and complete the purchases."

"I should love it. Dear me!" Into the round blue eyes came suddenly

tears of laughter, and Mrs. Chumley became convulsed with silent

merriment, glancing helplessly from Don to Flamby. This merriment was

contagious; so that ere long all three were behaving quite ridiculously.

"Whatever is the Aunt laughing about?" inquired Don.

"Dear me!" gasped Mrs. Chumley, struggling to regain composure--"poor

child! Of course you have nowhere to sleep to-night. How ridiculous--a

squirrel without a nest." She hugged Flamby affectionately. "You will

stay with me, dear, won't you?"

"Oh, but really--may I? Have you room?"

"Certainly, dear. Friends often stay with me. I have a queer thing in my

sitting-room that looks like a bookcase, but is really a bed. You can

stay with me just as long as you like. There is no hurry to get your own

place ready, is there? There isn't any hurry, is there, Don?"

"No particular hurry, Aunt. But, naturally, Flamby will get things in

order as soon as possible."

"Thank you so much," said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her

sight.

"Not at all, dear. I'm glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be.

What an absurd word--gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely,

Don?"

"More glad would perhaps be preferable, Aunt."

Mrs. Chumley immediately succumbed to silent merriment for a time. "How

absurd!" she said presently. "Gladder! I don't believe there is such a

word in the dictionary. Do you believe there is such a word in the

dictionary, dear?"

"I don't think there is," replied Flamby.

"No, I expect there isn't. I don't know that it may not be just as well.

Come along, dear. You can come, too, if you like, Don, or you might

prefer to look at your own drawings in the _Courier_. If I drew I should

love to look at my own drawings. You may smoke here, Don, of course. A

number of the residents smoke. Do you smoke, Flamby?"

"No, but I think I should like it."

"Quite agree. It _is_ soothing. You will wait here, then, Don? Come

along, dear."

IV

An hour later when Flamby and Don came out of The Hostel, the rain

clouds were breaking, and sunlight--somewhat feeble, but sunlight

withal--was seeking bravely to disperse the gloom. Flamby was conscious

of an altered outlook; the world after all was not utterly grey; such

was the healing influence of a sympathetic soul.

"You know," said Don, as they passed through the gateway, "I am

delighted with the way you have taken to the dear old Aunt. She is so

often misunderstood, and it makes me writhe to see people laugh at

her--unkindly, I mean. Of course her method of conversation is

ridiculously funny, I know; but a woman who can suffer the misfortunes

which have befallen the Aunt and come out with the heart of a child is

worth studying, I think. Personally, I always feel a lot better after a

chat with her. She is a perfect well of sympathy."

"I think she is the sweetest woman I have ever met," declared Flamby

earnestly. "How could anyone help loving her?"

"People don't or won't understand her, you see, and misunderstanding is

the mother of intolerance. Ah! there is a taxi on the rank."

"Oh," cried Flamby quickly--"please don't get another cab for me."

"Eh? No cab?"

"I cannot afford it and I could not think of allowing you to pay for

everything."

"Now let us have a thorough understanding, Flamby," said Don, standing

facing her, that sunny rejuvenating smile making his tanned face look

almost boyish. "You remember what I said on the subject of

misunderstanding? Listen, then: I am on leave and my money is burning a

hole in my pocket; money always does. If I had a sister--I have but she

is married and lives at Harrogate--I should ask her to take pity upon me

and spend a few days in my company. An exchange of views with some nice

girl who understands things is imperative after one has been out of

touch with everything feminine for months and months. It is a natural

desire which must be satisfied, otherwise it leads a man to resort to

desperate measures in the quest for sympathy. Because of your father you

are more to me than a sister, Flamby, and if you will consent to my

treating you as one you will be performing an act of charity above

price. The Aunt quite understands and approves. Isn't that good enough?"

Flamby met his gaze honestly and was satisfied. "Yes," she replied.

"Myself and what is mine to you and yours is now converted." The end of

the quotation was almost inaudible, for it had leapt from Flamby's

tongue unbidden. The idea that Don might suspect her of seeking to

impress him with her learning was hateful to her. But Don on the

contrary was quite frankly delighted.

"Hullo!" he cried--"is that Portia?"

"Yes, but please don't take any notice if I say funny things. I don't

mean to. Dad loved _The Merchant of Venice_, and I know quite a lot of

lines by heart."

"How perfectly delightful to meet a girl who wears neither sensible

boots nor spectacles but who appreciates Shakespeare! Lud! I thought

such treasures were mythical. Flamby, I have a great idea. If you love

Portia you will love Ellen Terry. I suppose her Portia is no more than a

memory of the old Lyceum days, but it is a golden memory, Flamby. Ellen

Terry is at the Coliseum. Shall we go to-night? Perhaps the Aunt would

join us."

"Oh!" said Flamby, her eyes alight with excitement; but the one word was

sufficient.

"Right!" cried Don. "Now for Liberty's."

They entered the cab, and as it moved off, "What is Liberty's?" asked

Flamby.

"The place for rummy furniture," explained Don. "Nobody else could

possibly provide the things for your den. The Aunt once had a cottage in

Devon furnished by Liberty and it was the most perfect gem of a cottage

one could imagine."

"Was she very well off once?"

"The Aunt? Why the dear old lady ought to be worth thousands. Her

husband left her no end of money and property. She has travelled nearly

all over the civilised world, Flamby, and now is tied to that one tiny

room at The Hostel."

"But how is it? Did she lose her money?"

"She gave it away and let everybody rob her. The world unfortunately is

full of Dick Turpins and Jack Sheppards, not to mention their lady

friends."

"Ah," said Flamby and sat silent for some time studying the panorama of

the busy London streets. "Is Liberty's dear?" she inquired presently.

"Not at all; most reasonable."

"I'm glad," replied Flamby. "I have got seven pounds ten saved. Will

that be enough?"

Don held his breath. Flamby's extraordinary erudition and inherent

cleverness had not prepared him for this childish ignorance of the value

of money. But he realised immediately that it was no more than natural

after all and that he might have anticipated it; and secretly he was

delighted because of the opportunity which it offered him of repaying in

part, or of trying to repay, the debt which he owed to Michael Duveen.

Moreover he had found that to give pleasure to Flamby was a gracious

task.

"It may not cover everything," he said casually, "but the sum held by

Mr. Nevin will more than do so. Think no more about it. I will see that

your expenditures do not exceed your means."

* * * * *

They alighted near that window of Messrs. Liberty's which is devoted to

the display of velvet robes--of those simple, unadorned creations which

Golders Green may view unmoved but which stir the aesthetic soul of

Chelsea. In the centre of the window, cunningly draped before an

oak-pannelled background, hung a dress of grey velvet which was the

apogee and culmination of Flamby's dreams. For not all the precepts of

the Painted Portico can quench in the female bosom woman's innate love

of adornment. Assuredly Eve wore flowers in her hair.

"Oh," whispered Flamby, "do you think it is very dear?"

Don having paid the cabman, had joined her where she stood. "Which one?"

he inquired with masculine innocence.

"The grey one. There is nothing on it at all. I have seen dresses in

Dale's at home with yards of embroidery that were only four pounds."

"I don't suppose so," said Don cheerfully. "Let us go in and try it on.

_You_ try it on, I mean."

"Oh, I daren't! I didn't dream of _buying_ it," cried Flamby, flushing

hotly. "I was only admiring it."

"And because you admire it you don't dream of buying it? That is odd.

And surely grey is what is known as 'half-mourning' too, is it not?

Absolutely correct form."

"But it may be frightfully dear. I will ask the price when Mrs. Chumley

is with me." Flamby was weakening.

Don grasped her firmly by the arm and led her vastly perturbed into the

shop, where a smiling saleswoman accosted them. "This lady wishes to see

the grey gown you have in the window," he said. He drew the woman aside

and added, "Don't tell her the price! You understand? If she insists

upon knowing take your cue from me." He could say no more as Flamby had

drawn near.

"How much is it?" she inquired naively.

"I don't know yet," replied Don. "Won't you look at it first?"

"The dress is a model, madam," said the puzzled modiste. "Probably we

should have to alter it to fit you."

"Would that be extra?" asked Flamby.

"Only a trifle," Don assured her, "if you really like it."

"How much is it please?" Flamby asked.

Don, standing just behind her became troubled with a tickling in the

throat, and the woman, hesitating, looked up and detected his urgent

glance. He raised three fingers furtively. She could scarcely conceal

her amazement, but an emphatic nod from Don left her in no doubt

respecting his meaning.

"I believe it is--three guineas, madam," she replied in a forced and

unnatural voice. She was wondering what would become of her if this very

eccentric officer played her false.

Flamby turned thoughtfully to Don. "That's expensive isn't it?" she

said.

The saleswoman's amazement increased; words failed her entirely, and to

cover her embarrassment she opened the screen at the back of the window

and took out the grey gown. Flamby's eyes sparkled.

"But isn't it sweet," she whispered. "Where do I go to try it on?"

"This way, madam," said the woman, darting an imploring glance at Don to

which he was unable to respond as Flamby was looking in his direction.

Flamby disappeared into a fitting-room and Don sat down to consider the

question of how far he could hope to pursue his plot without being

unmasked.

He lighted a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection on the point.

When presently Flamby came out, radiant, followed by the troubled

attendant carrying the grey gown, he was prepared for her.

"I'm going to have it!" she said. "Am I frightfully extravagant?"

"Not at all," Don assured her; and as she took out her purse. "No," he

added, "you must not pay cash, Flamby. It would confuse Nevin's books. I

will write a cheque and charge it to your account together with the

other purchases."

He withdrew with the saleswoman, leaving Flamby seated looking at the

velvet frock draped across a chair. Having proceeded to a discreet

distance--"What is the price of the dress, please?" he asked.

"With the alterations which madam requires, eighteen guineas, sir."

"I will give you a draft on Uncle Cox," replied Don, taking out his

cheque-book and fountain-pen. "You must feel rather bewildered, but the

fact of the matter is that the lady chances to be the orphan of a very

dear friend, and coming from a country place she has no idea of the cost

of things. I would not disillusion her for the world, just yet. Will you

please make a note to send the gown to Miss Duveen at this address." He

laid one of his aunt's cards upon the table. "But--an important

point--enclose no receipt; nothing that would afford a clue to the

price. Will you remember?"

"I shall remember," said the saleswoman, greatly relieved and beginning

to smile once more.

So the quaint comedy of deception began and so it proceeded right

merrily; for passing on to the furniture department, Don took the man

aside and succeeded, although not without difficulty in this case, in

making him an accomplice. As a result of the conspiracy Flamby purchased

an exquisite little dressing-table of silver-maple (for thirty-five

shillings), a large Axminster carpet and a Persian rug (three pounds,

fifteen shillings), a miniature Jacobean oak suite (six guineas), a

quaint bureau and bookcase (fifty shillings), and a perfect stack of

cushions (at prices varying from half-a-crown to three shillings and

elevenpence-three-farthings, or, in technical terminology,

"three-and-eleven-three.") The man became infected with the quixotic

spirit of the affair and revealed himself in his true colours as a

hierophant of the higher mysteries. Producing secret keys, he exhibited

those arcana, of the inner rooms which apparently are not for sale but

which are kept solely for the purpose of dazzling the imagination: jade

Buddhas, contemplative and priceless, locked in wonderful Burmese

cabinets, strange ornaments of brass and perfume-burners from India,

mandarin robes of peacock-blue, and tiny caskets of that violet

lacquering which is one of the lost arts of Japan.

With some few items of glassware, vases and pictures purchased

elsewhere, Flamby's expenditure amounted to more than twenty-five

pounds, at which staggering total she stared in dismay. "Shall I really

be able to pay it?" she asked.

"My dear Flamby, you have only just begun. The really essential things

you will be able to buy when the Aunt is with you. I am instructing all

the shops with which you may have occasion to do business to send

accounts to Nevin. He will let you know quickly enough if you overstep

the margin."

"How much money, for goodness' sake, is the Government paying?"

"I don't know exactly, but in addition to the regular allowance and

arrears there is a gratuity of something over a hundred pounds to your

account."

They were crossing Regent Street, and Flamby narrowly escaped being run

over;--but the pavement gained in safety, "--A hundred pounds!" she

exclaimed--"_I_ have a hundred pounds!"

"Roughly," said Don, smiling and taking her arm. "Then there are the

weekly instalments, of course. Oh, you have nothing to worry about,

Flamby. Furthermore it will not be very long before you find a market

for your work and then you will be independent of State aid."

In truth, now that he was hopelessly enmeshed in his own net, Don

experienced dire misgivings, wondering what Flamby would say, wondering

what Flamby would do, when she learned of the conspiracy as she could

not fail to learn of it sooner or later. But at the moment he was solely

concerned with making her forget her sorrows, and in this he had

succeeded. Flamby was radiantly happy and at last could think of the

sweet countryside she had left behind without discovering a lump in her

throat.

* * * * *

Luncheon in a popular Piccadilly grill-room provided an intensely

thrilling experience. Flamby's acute sensibilities and inherent

appreciation of the fitness of things rendered her ill at ease, but the

gay music of the orchestra did much to restore her to harmony with

herself, and Don's unaffected delight in her company did the rest. So in

time she forgot the home-made black dress and became fascinated by her

novel surroundings and lost in the study of these men and women who

belonged to a new, a partly perceived world, but a world into which she

had longed to enter. Her personal acquaintance with the ways of modern

Babylon was limited to the crowded experiences of a day-visit with her

father and mother, a visit eagerly anticipated and never forgotten.

Michael Duveen had seemingly never regretted that place in the world

which he had chosen to forfeit. He had lived and worked like a labouring

man and had taken his pleasures like one. On that momentous day they had

visited Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament

and Nelson's Monument, had lunched at one of Messrs. Lockhart's

establishments, had taken a ride in the Tube and performed a hasty tour

of the Zoo, where they had consumed, variously, cups of tea, ginger

beer, stale buns and ices. Hyde Park they had viewed from the top of a

motor bus and descending from this chariot at London Bridge had caught

the train home. In the train Flamby had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted

with such a saturnalia, and her parents had eaten sandwiches and

partaken of beer from a large bottle which Mrs. Duveen had brought in a

sort of carpet-bag. Flamby remembered that she had been aroused from her

slumbers by her father, who conceiving a sudden and violent antipathy

against both bag and bottle (the latter being empty) had opened the

carriage window and hurled them both out on to the line.

It was an odd memory but it brought a cloud of sadness, and Don, quick

to detect the shadow, hurried Flamby off to the Coliseum and astounded

her by booking a stage box. The Aunt was consulted over the telephone,

the Aunt agreed to join the party in the evening, and during the

remainder of that eventful afternoon there were all sorts of wonderful

sights to be seen; delightful shops unlike any that Flamby had imagined,

and an exhibition of water-colours in Bond Street which fired her

ambition like a torch set to dry bracken, as Don had designed that it

should do. They had tea at a fashionable tea-shop, and Don noted that

even within the space of twenty-four hours the number of lovely women

had perceptibly diminished. This historic day concluded, then, with

dinner at the Carlton and Ellen Terry at the Coliseum. How otherwise an

excellent programme was constituted mattered not, but when the red-robed

Portia came finally before the curtain and bestowed one of her sweet

smiles exclusively upon the enraptured girl, Flamby found that two big

tears were trickling down her hot cheeks.

V

And now another figure in the pageant which Iamblichos called "the

indissoluble bonds of Necessity" was about to reappear in his appointed

place in response to the call of the unseen Prompter. Hideous are the

settings of that pageant to-day; for where in the glowing pages of Dumas

we see D'Artagnan, the gallant Forty-five and many another good friend

riding in through the romantic gates of Old Paris, the modern historian

finds himself concerned with railway stations which have supplanted

those gates of Paris and of London alike. Thus Don entered by the gate

of St. Pancras, Flamby by the smoky portal of London Bridge; and, on the

following morning, Yvonne Mario stood upon a platform at Victoria

awaiting the arrival of the Folkestone boat-train. She attracted

considerable attention and excited adverse criticism amongst the other

ladies present not only because of her personal charm but by reason of

her dress. She wore a coat of black coney seal trimmed with white fox,

and a little cap of the same, and her high-legged boots had white calf

tops. Her complexion alone doomed her to the undying enmity of her sex,

for the humid morning air had enhanced that clear freshness which quite

naturally and properly annoyed every other woman who beheld it.

Several pressmen and photographers mingled with the groups along the

platform, for the party with which Paul had been touring the French and

British fronts included at least two other notable personages; and

Bassett, Paul's press agent, said to Yvonne: "You will smile across a

million breakfast tables to-morrow morning, Mrs. Mario, and from a

thousand cinema screens later in the week."

Yvonne smiled there and then, a charming little one-sided smile, for she

was really a very pretty woman in spite of her reputation as a beauty.

"Modern journalism leaves nothing to the imagination," she replied.

"And very wisely. So few people have any."

They paced slowly along the platform. Excepting the porters who leaned

against uptilted trucks and stared stolidly up the line, a spirit of

furtive unrest had claimed everyone. People who meet trains always look

so guilty, avoiding each other's glances and generally behaving as

though their presence were a pure accident; periodically consulting the

station clock as who should say, "If this train is not signalled very

shortly I must be off. My time is of value." There is another type of

course, much more rare, who appears at the last moment from some

subterranean stairway. He is always running and his glance is wild. As

the passengers begin to descend from the train he races along the

platform, now and again pausing in his career and standing on tiptoe in

order to look over the heads of the people in front of him. To every

official he meets he says: "This train _is_ the Folkestone train?" He

rarely waits for a reply.

Indeed, at a modern railway station, as of old at the city gates, the

fatuity of human aspirations may be studied advantageously. Soldiers

were there, at Victoria, hundreds of them, lined up on a distant

platform, and they symbolised the spirit of an age which exalts

Mechanism to the pinnacle of a deity and which offers itself as a

sacrifice upon his iron altars.

The train arrived in due course; cameras and note-books appeared; and

people inquired "Is it Sir Douglas Haig they are expecting?" But

presently the initiated spread the news that it was Paul Mario who

returned from the Western front, and because his reputation was greater

than that of Gabrielle D'Annunzio or Charlie Chaplin, everyone sought to

obtain a glimpse of him.

He wore a heavy fur-lined coat and his eyes were dark with excitement.

Surrounded by the other members of the party, like an emperor by his

suite, Paul's was the outstanding personality among them all. There was

a distinguished French general to bow, courtly, over Yvonne's hand, and

a Labour Member to quote Cicero. But it was to Paul that the reporters

sought to penetrate and upon Paul that the cameras were focussed.

Bassett, who did not believe in thwarting the demands of popularity,

induced him to say a few words.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have no impressions to impart. My mind is

numbed. I had never hitherto appreciated the genius of Philip Gibbs...."

In the car Paul talked exclusively to Jules Thessaly, who had

accompanied him upon his tour. Yvonne was silent. When first he had seen

her awaiting him upon the platform his eyes had lighted up in that

ardent way which she loved, and he had pressed her hands very hard in

greeting. But thereafter he had become absorbed again in his giant

dreams, and now as they sped through the London streets homeward, he

bent forward, one hand resting upon Thessaly's knee, wrapped up in the

companionship of his memories.

"That chateau, Thessaly, holds a secret which if it could be divulged to

the world would revolutionise theology."

"Of what chateau do you speak?" asked Bassett.

"On my way to the French front I was entertained for a night at a

wonderful old chateau. The devouring war had passed it by, and it stood

like a dignified _grand seigneur_ looking sorrowfully over the

countryside. In order to understand how the sight of the place affected

me you must know that as a boy I was several times visited by a certain

dream. I last dreamed this dream during the time that I was at Oxford

but I have never forgotten it. I used to find myself in a spacious

salon, its appointments and fashion those of Louis Treize, with ghostly

moonlight pouring in at lofty church-like windows and painting distorted

shadowgraphs of heraldic devices upon the floor. My costume was that of

a Cavalier and I held a long sword in my hand. I was conscious of pain

and great weakness. Creeping stealthily from recess to recess, window to

window, I would approach the double doors at the end of the salon. There

I would pause, my heart throbbing fiercely, and press my ear to the

gaily painted panels. A murmur of conversation would seem to proceed

from the room beyond, but forced onward by some urgent necessity, the

nature of which I could never recall upon awakening, I would suddenly

throw the doors widely open and hurl myself into a small ante-room. A

fire of logs blazed in the open hearth, and some six or eight musketeers

lounged about the place, hats, baldrics, swords and cloaks lying

discarded upon tables, chairs and where not. All sprang to their feet as

I entered, and one, a huge red fellow, snatched up his sword and stood

before a low door on the right of the room which I sought to approach.

We crossed blades ... and with their metallic clash sounding in my ears

I invariably awoke. I have spoken of this to you, Yvonne?"

Paul glanced rapidly at Yvonne but proceeded immediately without waiting

for a reply. "As Thessaly and I were conducted to our rooms on the night

of which I am speaking, I found myself traversing the salon of my

dreams!"

"Most extraordinary," muttered Bassett. "Nothing about the aspect of the

other rooms of the chateau had struck you as familiar?"

"Nothing; except that I was glad to be there. I cannot make clear to you

the almost sorrowful veneration with which I entered the gate. It was

like that of a wayward son who returns, broken, to the home upon which

he has brought sorrow, to find himself welcomed by his first confessor,

old, feeble, lonely, but filled with sweet compassion. I ascribed this

emotion to the atmosphere of a stately home abandoned by its owners. But

the salon revealed the truth to me. Heavy plush curtains were drawn

across the windows, but the flames of three candles in a silver

candelabra carried by the servant created just such a half-light as I

remembered. I paused, questioning the accuracy of my recollections, but

it was all real, unmistakable. We passed through the doorway at the end

of the salon--and there was my guardroom! A modern stove had taken the

place of the old open hearth, and the furniture was totally different,

but I knew the room. The servant crossed before me to a door which I

could not recall having noticed in my dream. As he opened it I looked to

the right; and where the other door had been before which I had many

times crossed swords with the red musketeer I saw a blank wall."

"It was no more than a very remarkable coincidence after all?" said

Bassett.

"On the contrary. I called to the man, a bent old fellow, his face

furrowed with age and heavy with care. 'Have you been long in the

service of the family?' I asked him. His eyes glistened tearfully.

'Forty-five years, monsieur,' he answered. 'Then perhaps you can tell

me if there was ever a door opening on the right, yonder, beside that

armchair?'

"He stared at me, Bassett, like a man dismayed, and his hand trembled so

that spots of grease were shaken from the candles on to the floor. 'How

can you know of the Duc's door?' he whispered, watching me all the time

as if fascinated. 'How can _you_ know of the Duc's door, monsieur?' His

fear, his consternation, were so evident, that I recognised the

necessity of reassuring him in order to learn more. Therefore, 'I have

heard of it, or seen it depicted, somewhere in England,' I replied; 'but

the story associated with it escapes my memory.'

"He began to look less frightened as I spoke, and finally, having

several times moistened his dry lips, he replied. 'It has been walled up

for more than two hundred years. It opened upon a staircase leading to

the State apartments.' 'And why was it closed, my friend?' I asked. The

old man shrugged his angular shoulders and moved on out of the room.

'That I cannot say, monsieur,' he answered: 'but in the reign of Louis

XIII, Henri, second Duc de Montmorency, by whose father this chateau was

built, escaped one night from the apartment in which he had been

imprisoned under sentence of death, and attempted to force his way into

the presence of the King, then lying in the chateau. At the foot of

those stairs the Duc was mortally wounded by Guitry, Captain of the

Bodyguard....'"

* * * * *

During lunch the conversation rarely became general. Bassett talked to

Yvonne, bestowing upon her an elderly admiration which was not lacking

in a poetry of its own, and Paul exchanged memories with Thessaly. His

mental excitement was tremendous, and contagious, but of the three who

listened to him Thessaly alone seemed to respond sympathetically.

Bassett had never pretended to understand his distinguished client. He

was always covertly watching Paul, his fat face wrinkled with

perplexity, as though one day he hoped for a revelation by light of

which he might grasp the clue to a personality that eluded him entirely.

"That boasted civilisation," said Paul--"the German Kultur--has thrown

us back to the earliest savagery of which we hold record. All that

education has done for us is to hold the savage in check for a time. He

is still there. Spiritually humanity's record is one of retrogression."

Luncheon over, Paul accompanied Thessaly and Bassett to the latticed

gate in the high monastic wall which concealed his house from the road.

They walked away together and he stood for a time gazing after them,

then returned and went to his study. Yvonne, who had watched him from

the dining-room window, heard the study door close. She sat quite still

looking across the table at a chair which Paul had occupied, her fair

hair a crown about her brow as the wintry sunlight shone in upon it.

Chelsea sometimes may seem as quiet as a lonely riverside village, and

at the moment which followed the sound of the closing door it seemed to

have become so to Yvonne. Only that muted droning which arises from the

vast hive of London told of four millions of workers moving intimately

about her. The house was perfectly still. Odin, Paul's wolf-hound,

tugged at his chain in the garden and whined quaveringly. He had heard

Paul arrive and was disappointed because his master had forgotten to pay

him a visit. He was angry, too, because he also had heard the deep voice

of Jules Thessaly; and Odin did not like Jules Thessaly.

* * * * *

A quantity of personal correspondence had accumulated, and Paul

proceeded to inspect it. A letter addressed in Don's familiar sprawling

hand demanded precedence, and Paul noted with excitement that it bore a

Derbyshire postmark. It was dated from the house of one of Don's

innumerable cousins, a house of a type for which the Peak district is

notable, a manor of ghostly repute. This cheerful homestead was

apparently constructed in or adjoining an ancient burial ground, was in

fact a converted monastery, and Don dealt in characteristically

whimsical fashion with its unpleasant peculiarities.

"One can scarcely expect a house constructed in a graveyard," he wrote,

"to be otherwise than a haunted house. It is a house especially built

for a ghost; it is not a house to which a ghost has come; it is a ghost

around whom a house has been built. Erratic manifestations are to be

looked for from a hitherto free and unfettered spectre who discovers

himself to be confined in a residence possibly uncongenial to his taste

and to have thrust upon him the society of a family with whose habits

and ideals he has nothing in common...."

Finally, Don inquired how the affairs of Flamby were proceeding, and

something very like a pang of remorse troubled Paul. The open letter

lying before him, he fell into a reverie, arraigning himself before the

tribunal of his own conscience. Had his attitude toward Flamby changed?

It had done so. What was the nature of the change? His keen personal

interest had given place to one impersonal, although sincere in its way.

What was the explanation of this? He had enshrined her, set her upon a

fairy pedestal, only to learn that she was humanly frail. Had this

discovery hurt him? Intensely. How and why? It had shattered his belief

in his omniscience. Yes, that was the unpalatable truth, brought to

light at last. Frailty in woman he looked for, and because he knew it to

be an offshoot of that Eternal Feminine which is a root-principle of the

universe, he condoned. But in Flamby he had seemed to recognise a rare

spirit, one loftily above the common traits of her sex, a fit companion

for Yvonne; and had been in error. For long after the finding of those

shameful photographs he had failed to recover confidence in himself, and

had doubted his fitness to speak as a master who could be blinded by the

guile of a girl.