'Have you observed William closely, recently, Netta?' Henry asked me.
'Something seems to have happened to him?'
'Why should I observe William?' I demanded, puzzled, 'he is not the
sort of man a woman would observe, closely or otherwise.'
'That is exactly one of the reasons why I like him--you leave him
alone,' remarked that horrid Henry. 'I can talk to him without your
distracting his attention by flirting with him.'
I felt wounded. 'Henry, this is monstrous.'
'You cannot deny, my dear, that I have brought men--fluent
conversationalists--round here for a pleasant evening's debate only to
see them become abstracted and monosyllabic directly you appear.'
'You can't blame me for that, Henry.'
'Yes, I do. You deliberately seek to interest them. I've seen you at
it. You spare no pains or powder to gain your object. Don't dare to
deny it.'
Chastened, I replied meekly: 'Dear Henry, I love my
fellow-creatures--if they haven't beards,' I added hastily. 'After
all, doesn't the Scripture command it?'
'But you don't love William.'
'The Scripture says nothing at all about William,' I replied decidedly.
'I--er--tolerate him. What is this you tell me about something having
happened to him?'
'He's growing peculiar.'
'_More_ peculiar, I suppose you mean?'
'His manner is erratic and changed. It isn't another invention,
because when he is inventing he is merely monosyllabic, with spasms of
muttering and an increased tendency to knock things over. Now he's
altogether different. It's the trend of his conversation that puzzles
me. He talks of love.'
'Love and William,' I remarked, 'are as incompatible as acids and
alkalis. In what way does he touch on the subject? With bitterness or
curiosity?
'Both, I should say. For one thing he is most 'anxious to know what
are the effects of unrequited affection, and if the results can be
serious. Seems strange, doesn't it?'
'It's passing strange, Henry.'
'You don't think he's fallen in love with you, Netta?'
'What makes you suggest he's fallen in love with me?'
'Because he comes in contact with no other woman beyond you and his
landlady, who, I understand, is over sixty and weighs fifteen stone--so
it must be you if it's anybody.' (This is a Scotsman's way of paying a
compliment; if you can follow the workings of his mind up to the source
of the idea you will see he means well.)
'That William should fall in love seems incredible--and entirely
unnecessary,' I commented. 'There must be some other explanation of
his manner. As he's coming to dinner to-night, I'll watch and see if I
can find anything unusually strange about him.'
When William made his appearance, therefore, I observed him intently.
Surely enough I was struck by the fact that he was changed in some
subtle way. He looked dejected. Of course it was impossible to see
much of his expression, owing to his face being almost entirely
obliterated with hair, but what was visible was extremely sad.
Then a strange thing happened. As soon as we were alone he began to
exhibit signs of acute mental distress, and to my astonishment burst
out, 'Mrs. Warrington, there is something I wanted to--er--ask you.
You are a woman for whom I have a profound respect; though you are
inclined by character to be _un peu moqueuse_, you have, I feel, an
exceedingly tender heart.'
I felt uneasy. 'Yes, William, it is tender--but not for everybody,' I
added warningly. Really, it was going to be very awkward if he, in his
elephantine way, had conceived an infatuation for me. My conscience
was perfectly clear--I had not encouraged him in any way, but
nevertheless I did not wish to see him suffer from unrequited
affection. It would be so awkward in many ways. William, even in his
sane moods, has a dreadful habit of knocking things over. If the
abstraction of the lover descended upon him, it was going to have a
dire effect on our household goods.
'Because your heart is tender,' he pursued, 'you will be able to
realize the difficulty of my--er--you can better understand the
sufferings of others. Do you think an ill-placed affection can be
combated--that is, in time, be utterly stamped out?'
'I do, William,' I said firmly, 'but it must be stamped effectively,
you understand. No half measures, you know.'
'Yes, yes, I quite see that,' he said eagerly. 'Then do you think in
such a case it would help matters if a man--if one of the parties, I
mean--went right away. You know the adage, "Out of sight out of mind"?'
I pondered. It would, I knew, be a great denial to William if he was
debarred from coming about our place--almost the only home he had ever
known. Henry, too, would be lost with no one to argue with. If you
want to manage a Scotsman properly see that he gets plenty of argument,
and he'll rarely develop any other vice. No, the pair must not be
separated.
'There is another adage, William, which says, "Absence makes the heart
grow fonder,"' I said, 'so I think, after all, you--I mean he, had
better stay.'
William looked relieved. 'You think that I--er--I mean one--ought to
face it?'
'I am sure one should,' I acquiesced.
William pressed my hand gratefully, and I sighed as I examined his
physiognomy in the hope of finding one attractive feature. I sighed
again as I finished my inspection. What a pity, I thought, that he had
not just a little dash about him, even the merest _soupçon_ of
fascination, in order to make the situation interesting. He was still
holding my hand as the door opened and Elizabeth shot into view with
the declaration, 'Dinner's in.'
We have a massive and imposing looking gong erected in the hall for the
sole purpose of announcing when meals are ready, but nothing will
induce Elizabeth to make use of it. If we are upstairs she hails us
from below with such expressions as 'Come on, now, it's getting cold,'
or, 'I won't bring it in till you're all 'ere, so mind you 'urry.'
If William had appeared strange, it struck me that Marion--who was also
dining with us that evening--was even stranger. For one thing, I
regret to say, she was exceedingly rude to William. She does not like
him, I know, but he was after all our guest, and she was not justified
in remarking, when he upset his wine on the tablecloth, and knocked
over an adjacent salt-cellar, 'If there's anything in the world I
loathe, it is a clumsy man.'
'I must admit I _am_ extremely clumsy--like an elephant, in fact,' came
the soft answer from William.
It did not turn away Marion's wrath. 'So I see,' she snapped.
I kicked her gently under the table. 'Marion, _dear_,' I remonstrated.
'Nothing in the world will ever improve me,' continued William.
'I'm sure of it,' replied Marion, 'it's in your system.'
She seemed in a most contrary mood that evening. For instance, William
had remarked quite nicely and affably that he considered smoking
pernicious for women. He said his mother had always declared it was,
and he thought they were better without it. Whereupon Marion, who
dislikes the weed as a general rule, immediately got up, took a
cigarette from the box on the table and asked William for a light.
'I suppose I'm shocking you terribly,' she remarked to him.
[Illustration: 'I suppose I'm shocking you terribly.']
'I don't think there's anything you could do that would shock me now,'
he replied. It was rather a peculiar retort, especially as he laid a
faint accent on the 'you.' Evidently he wished to have his revenge for
what she had said to him at dinner.
'I smoke even in bed,' said Marion, regarding him steadily. I was at a
loss to understand why she told this deliberate falsehood.
'So do I,' said William calmly.
'I smoke in the bath,' continued Marion.
'By Jove, so do I,' said William, looking at her with a new interest.
'But don't you find it rather awkward when you're washing your back?'
Marion looked rather scandalized, as though she considered William's
remark in bad taste. But she had only herself to blame after all. She
was silent and rather moody after that, until the episode of the
photograph occurred. We were assembled in the drawing-room, and I
suddenly noticed that a photo of Marion which stands on the mantelpiece
had been removed from its frame.
'Why, Marion, what has become of your photo?' I inquired.
There was, after all, nothing unusual in its disappearance. It was one
that she did not like and she had often threatened to remove it. What
was my astonishment now to see her spring to her feet and, going white
with suppressed anger, exclaim, 'Who has dared to take it? It is a
piece of unwarrantable impertinence. Who has _dared_, I say?'
I saw William looking at her in surprise--it was, indeed, something
even deeper than that. Fascinated horror seems a more apt expression.
'I insist on its being recovered,' went on Marion.
A strange exclamation from William made us all look at him. 'Women,'
he said, 'are beyond me--utterly beyond me, I repeat.'
'I'm glad you admit it,' snapped Marion.
'In guile,' he continued coldly. 'I suppose, now, you have never heard
of a woman thrusting her photograph where it is not wanted accompanied
by verse of an amorous character?'
Marion looked contemptuously at him. 'What on earth are you raving
about?' she inquired.
Henry and I intervened at this moment and changed the subject, feeling
that a quarrel between them was imminent. It was all very strange and
puzzling. But the strangest thing was yet to come. I had accompanied
Marion upstairs to put on her cloak before departure, and when we
descended William had vanished. Henry related that he was just
answering a call on the 'phone when he saw William dash past him into
the small lobby off the hall, possess himself of hat and coat, and,
after muttering some words of apology, go forth into the darkness.
'How eccentric--and ill-behaved, too,' I commented. 'It looks almost
as if he wished to avoid accompanying Marion home.'
We were standing in the drawing-room as I spoke. Suddenly I gave a
start as my eye drifted to the mantelpiece. 'What an extraordinary
coincidence!' I exclaimed. A strange eerie feeling came over me.
Marion's lost photo had been restored to its frame.