“Quick as you can, then.”

As she laid the cloth, Eve ventured to say: “Don’t you think we might

have a maid to do the grubby work? It would give me more time to help

you.”

He seemed absorbed.

“Yes, all right. Some day. You do everything I want, though.”

“Yes, but—”

“Is that lunch ready?”

Some clothes arrived for him a few days later, and for the first time

Eve saw her husband well clad. The build of them gave an added manliness

to his slender figure.

The business of taking a theatre being successfully accomplished, Wynne

assumed instantly the guise of a commander-in-chief. He spoke with an

air of finality on all subjects, and wrapped himself in a kind of

remoteness not infrequently to be observed in actor-managers.

Oddly enough, his new importance possessed Eve with a desire to laugh

and ruffle his hair. Had he taken himself less seriously she would have

done so.

Once she asked if he would not like to give her a part in the play.

“Heavens alive!” he said, “I’m pestered the day long with people who

want engagements. Spare me from it at home.”

It was hardly a graceful speech, but it demonstrated his frame of mind

with some accuracy. Perhaps he realized the remark was churlish, for he

followed it with another:

“Besides, you’ll have plenty to do. We’re going to get out of this. I

took a flat this afternoon.”

“Without saying a word to me?”

“I said all that was needed to the agent.”

“Yet you might have mentioned it.”

“I was busy. After all, it only requires one person to take a flat.

There, that’s the address. Fix up moving in as soon as you can.”

Eve picked up the slip of paper he had dropped into her lap. Despite her

disappointment she felt a thrill of excitement at the news:

“How many rooms are there?”

“Oh, four or five—a bedroom for each of us—I forget the number. Have a

look at it in the morning.”

“We shall want carpets and some more furniture.”

“Yes, but that can wait—can’t it?”

Take away the joy of planning from a woman and you rob the safe of half

its treasure.

IX

There was no room in Wynne’s mind for further discussion. It was fully

occupied with his great advertisement scheme, which, in a few days’

time, would fling his name upon every newspaper and hoarding in the

metropolis. He had no intention of allowing his share in the production

to lack prominence. The name Wynne Rendall was to take precedence of all

other consideration in his campaign.

“The public is to take this play through me,” he announced, “and me they

shall have in large doses.”

Eve visited the flat alone, and made what arrangements were needful for

moving their few belongings. It was a sunny little flat, and with

adequate appointments would have looked very charming. The small amount

of furniture they possessed, however, seemed painfully inadequate spread

over the various rooms.

On the day of the move she worked like a galley-slave to put the place

in agreeable order. She felt somehow that it was a great occasion, and

that when Wynne returned from the theatre he would feel likewise.

Together, perhaps, they would have a glorious talk about their nearing

future, and a little house-warming of two.

But she was disappointed, for Wynne made no comment when he came in.

“My posters are out,” he cried. “Have you seen ’em?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t had a chance. I’ve been busy here all day getting straight.”

She looked tired and rather grubby—her hair was tumbled, and her hands

patched with floor-stain. For some reason her untidiness irritated

Wynne. The girls at the theatre were smart and fresh, and their clothes

were pleasant to see. A man expects his wife to be always at her best.

“Um!” he remarked. “You look in rather a pickle.” His eyes wandered

round the room: “Seems very bare, doesn’t it?”

It seemed bare to her, too, but she would have taken it kindly if he had

not said so.

“With some curtains it would be better—and a few more chairs.”

“Yes. Still, it’s the address that matters at the moment. The rest can

wait till we see how the play goes. Just now I need all the money I can

get for my own pocket. It’s essential. It’s bare and uncomfortable; but

I have the club, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“I haven’t a club,” flashed Eve, and repented the words almost before

she had spoken them.

Wynne looked at her fixedly.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, “we are not going to start that sort of thing, are

we?”

Something in the quality of his voice struck her with startling force.

It was so much more a “married” tone than she remembered to have heard

before. The petulant child note had disappeared, and with its

disappearance the mother note in her own voice wrapped itself up in

sudden hardness.

She held his eyes with hers.

“I bargained for a share,” she said. “Am I getting it?”

He wilted, and his head tossed from side to side.

“What is all this about?”

“Am I getting my share?” repeated Eve, more kindly. “You know if I am.

Answer ‘Yes,’ if you honestly think so.”

“I’m tired,” he countered.

“Not too tired to say ‘Yes.’”

“Oh, very well! If you want furniture and things, buy them. I rather

thought you could see deeper than that. Still, if you—”

“Stop! Don’t say any more—please don’t.” She pressed her hand quickly

and nervously to her lips; then, with a half-laugh, “Oh, how silly I am;

but you frightened me. You—you were laughing, Wynne, when you said

that—weren’t you?”

He looked at her perplexed, and saw she was in deadly earnest.

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “I was laughing—’course I was.”

But to tell the truth, Wynne Rendall, Master of Psychology, was sorely

out of his depth.

“That’s all right,” said Eve, and crossed to the little fireplace, where

she stood awhile thinking. “I’ll fetch your dinner now.”

She laid the cloth and placed the dishes upon it. There was an

awkwardness between them as they took their places, and very little

disposition to talk. Wynne’s thoughts were mixed with wondering at her

attitude and with intentions for the play. Hers were back to the

birthday party of nearly three years before. It had been a night so full

of promise. Everything had seemed so likely then. Then it had seemed

good that the love and sunshine for which her spirit prayed should be

rendered on the deferred payment system. Was it possible those goods

would be outworn before the debt was discharged? She shivered and looked

up under her lids at Wynne. He had changed so much; he seemed

bigger—more like a man! The frail boy body and restless spirit were no

longer upon the surface. He looked to have more ballast—to stand more

firmly as a man among men.

His voice broke in upon her thoughts:

“You’re extraordinarily mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she nodded, and after a pause, “are you glad?”

He did not give a direct answer.

“You should know. Look! small wife, this is a between-while with us, and

I want you to sympathize with the position. I’m all out to win—and I

shall win—but I haven’t won yet. Until I do it isn’t possible for us to

stand side by side. There’s barely enough to keep one afloat, and that

one must be myself. You admit that, don’t you? I’m meeting all sorts of

alleged big-wigs, and I must meet ’em level. As things are it is only

just possible to do so. To raise the scale at one side, t’other must be

kept down. But it won’t be for long, and afterwards it will be you and

I—understand.”

“Of course I do.”

“Keep on helping, then, all you can.”

“Of course I will.”

“That’s all right.”

And so the best of us fulfil our obligations and justify our

consciences.

X

Eve sat by herself in the second row of the stalls. Her eyes were

glorious with hope. On her lap lay the program of the piece, with

Wynne’s name ringing from the page.

The printing was a stupendous piece of self-sufficiency. She had noted,

half-fearful, half-amused, the hum of conversation which had gone round

the theatre as the audience noted the persistent large-type booming of a

single unknown personality.

“This young man is taking responsibilities upon his shoulders,” observed

one newspaper critic to another.

The other smiled sardonically. Already he was tasting in anticipation

several phrases he proposed to level against Mr. Wynne Rendall.

“But who is he anyway?” seemed to arise from the general buzz of voices.

From where she sat Eve could see the profile of Lane Quiltan. His box

seemed very full—a circumstance which made her glad, for Wynne had

refused to offer her a seat there. “He won’t want to be bothered with

introductions on a first night; besides, there are lots of people who

must be invited. I want you to be in the body of the house and feel the

pulse of the audience.”

So it came about she was alone with none to talk with, and none to

admire the pretty frock she wore.

It had not occurred to Wynne she would want a dress for his first

night—she had not expected that it would; but, nevertheless, she was

beautifully clad.

The possession of the evening dress and a wrap marked her first

deliberate step toward rebellion. She had ordered it from a first-class

West End dress-maker.

“Send the bill to Mr. Wynne Rendall at the Vandyke Theatre,” she had

said.

Never before had Eve possessed so sweet a frock, and the touch of it

sent a pleasurable thrill through her body. When she had finished

dressing, every vestige of the drab, houseworking little figure had been

transformed into a simple expression of fragile and delicious womanhood.

Very gloriously she had felt this to be so as she stood before the

mirror waiting for Wynne to return and take her to the theatre.

But he did not return. A messenger boy came instead, with a scribbled

note asking for his “dress things, as I shan’t have time to get back

before the play begins.”

Thus Eve was denied even a moment to wish him well, and took her stall

unnoticed and alone.

As she looked at Lane Quiltan’s profile she wondered how he felt at

being forced to take a second place to Wynne in every point of

prominence. For some reason she conceived that he would not be troubled

over-much. There was a repose and stability in his looks which suggested

a mental balance not easily disturbed by small-weight issues.

At long range she liked and felt the wish to know him better.

“Steadfast, substantial,” she reasoned; “very unlike Wynne. He is hoping

for the success of the play, not of himself. He won’t mind sacrificing

himself to get it.”

It came to her that both she and Quiltan were contributing their share

toward the making of Wynne Rendall, and both she and Quiltan were being

left a little behind in the doing of it.

The curtain rose, and half an hour later Eve knew that Wynne had made

good all he boasted he would do—and more. The spirit of the play shone

through the lines with a truth of definition that was truly remarkable.

The values of the human emotions portrayed were perfect. It was an

example of the purest artistry and the surest perception. Not an idea

was blurred—not an inflection out of place. Through an infinity of

natural detail, rendered with mirrored exactitude, ran the soul and

intention of the play, like the dominant theme of a great orchestral

fugue. Even the veriest tyro in matters dramatic realized that no mere

assembly of actors and actresses, however brilliant, could have achieved

so faultless an effect without a master hand to guide them. What Wynne

had learnt in the Paris ateliers years before he had set upon the stage.

The words of the old Maitre had soaked in: “To we artists the human

figure exists in masses of light and shade. It is not made up of legs

and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No, by the good God, no!”

Wynne had remembered, and here was the distillation of the words. Here

was his canvas with its faithful _chiaroscuro_ of life.

But of all the people in the house that night only Eve knew the palette

whereon the colours had been mixed. One by one she recognized and

silently named them, and sometimes she glowed with pride, for many owed

their brilliance and their being to herself.

“Well done, Wynne! Oh, well done!” she breathed, as the curtain fell.

“We are seeing things tonight,” said an important critic as he and a

contemporary passed toward the foyer.

Eve rose and followed them, and during the interval she moved from group

to group and listened to what the audience had to say.

There was no doubt Wynne Rendall had come into his own, for although

every one praised the play it was his name which came first.

“I shall let him off a scathing over the press campaign,” said a

representative of one of London’s dailies. “It’s the best production

I’ve seen in years.”

Eve noticed and recognized from Wynne’s descriptions, some of the

tail-lights to the arts. They were busy adding his name to their lists.

They were boasting of alleged friendship with him. One of the more

venturesome spoke of him familiarly as “old W. R.”

A man who leaps from obscurity to initials in a single night is getting

a move on.

At the final curtain there was an ovation. The author and Wynne

responded to “author’s call” together, then, as the applause continued,

Wynne came down to the footlights alone. He seemed very collected, and

twisted an unlighted cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. For the

first time Eve thought he looked young—young and care-free, as though

he had stepped into the element he had searched for for so many years.

In this new element he moved with an ease and assurance that surprised

her. She had thought he would show feverishness or excitement, but there

was no trace of either in his bearing.

“Speech! speech!” shouted the gallery.

He looked up at them with a winning smile, and replied, “Of course.”

There was a fresh burst of applause and a wave of laughter, and when it

died away he began to speak in the manner of a man chatting with friends

about a fireside:

“It’s a charming play, isn’t it? Very charming. Tomorrow my learned

critics will be saying so. They will say, perhaps, ‘The play’s the

thing’; but I trust they won’t forget that the manner of its

interpretation is possibly an even greater thing.” He stopped, smiled

and said, half under his breath, “Render unto Cæsar—Good-night,

everybody.”

Eve waited in the foyer, her cheeks aglow with excitement. Presently she

saw Wynne come through an iron door into the press of congratulation.

Half the important stage people in London were thronging round him. His

composure was remarkable. Under the influence of success he seemed to

have grown up and moved as a man among men. A pretty, rather elaborate

girl pressed forward to greet him with adulation, and Eve noted how he

touched her cheek with a kind of possessive patronage, and turned aside

to speak to some one else. The action was very unlike her preconception

of his character. Presently he noticed her, and nodded a smile across

the crowded room.

“Like it?” his lips framed.

And her eyes flashed back the answer.

Seemingly this satisfied him, for he moved away. A little later on he

noticed her again.

“Don’t wait for me,” he said. “I’m sure to be late.”

Eve walked out of the theatre alone.

“Get me a cab,” she said to the commissionaire.

“I’m sorry, madam, but there are very few tonight.”

“That one,” she pointed to a taxi standing by the curb.

“That is being kept for Mr. Rendall, madam.”

“Oh, is it?” said Eve, and walked toward the Tube.

XI

As she turned into Jermyn Street a middle-aged man, walking briskly in

the same direction, came level with her. He was in evening dress, and

his coat was open to the night air. He wore a soft hat, and a pipe

projected from his mouth at a jaunty angle. As he walked he sang to

himself as one who is glad.

Eve caught a glimpse of his features, and gave a little exclamation,

whereupon the man turned and looked at her.

“Hallo!” he said, “I know you—but—good heavens! I’ve got you. But what

in blazes are you doing here by yourself, tonight of all nights?”

“I’m walking home, Uncle Clementine.”

“Then, begad! it’s meself will walk with you. Always talk Irish when I’m

excited—at least I believe I do; but what’s it matter? I’m excited

enough to talk double Dutch tonight—aren’t you?”

“Rather,” responded Eve, for Uncle Clem awoke an echo of his mood in

others.

“I should think you were. Splendid! Top-hole! Lord! Lord! Lord! What a

production! Aren’t you proud?”

“Very.”

“He’s away, that young fellar of yours—he’s up and away. Always knew he

had the stuff, from the day when I ran off with him in a station fly and

talked fairies under the trees. He’s learnt—knew he would, and he has.

Oh! he’s learnt well! Wouldn’t mind laying a fiver he’s taken a share of

his knowledge from you.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Not a bit—common sense! Tell you what, though—’tween us two—that

speech was a mistake. Cheap and nasty! Drop him a hint, there’s a clever

girl, to cut all that stuff right out.”

Eve smiled. “Have you ever tried to drop Wynne hints about things like

that?”

“I’ve thrown him a slab of wisdom from time to time. Not that kind,

perhaps. But that’s what I say—_you_ tell him. You’ve the opportunity.

Ha!” He threw up his head. “That’s one of the good things in life that

I’ve missed.”

“What is?”

“To have some one who, in the night, will touch my foot with her

littlest toe and breathe over the pillow all the naughty mistakes I’ve

made during the day.”

“I see,” said Eve.

Something in her tone discouraged him.

“’Course that mayn’t be the way it’s done; I’ve no experience, but I’ve

fondly imagined it was so.”

“So have I,” said Eve; “but, like yourself, I have no experience.”

“What d’you say?”

“If I stretched out my littlest toe I should bump it against the

partition wall. That would be very sad, wouldn’t it?”

Uncle Clem stopped short.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember our wedding talk?”

“Remember it!”

He began to walk very fast, so fast that she could scarcely keep pace

with him. At last he jerked out the question:

“That travesty holds good, then? That’s why, on the night of his

success, you’re walking home alone ’stead of feasting at a top-notch

restaurant. Good God! And I’ve been shaking hands with myself these four

hours past that my gloomy forebodings hadn’t come true—but, damn it!

they have.”

“No,” exclaimed Eve, “you mustn’t say that; it isn’t so.”

“But it is.”

“No. The success was to come first. You remember we said so that day.”

“Well, what’s wrong with tonight’s success?—and you’re walking home

alone.”

“Yes, tonight he has found himself.”

“And left you behind.”

“I don’t want to say that. I beg you not to say things like that. They

hurt so.”

In an instant he was all sympathy.

“Why, my dear, don’t heed me. You understand the boy, and I’m only an

onlooker who gets a glimpse here and there. That’s how it seemed to me

at a snapshot glance—but I may be wrong. I don’t know what I’m talking

about half the time. I love that husband of yours, he has such a

splendid pluck.”

“Yes, he’s been so splendid, Uncle Clem—you must believe that. Never

for an instant has he spared himself. He’s worked—worked—worked.

That’s why he came out so finely tonight.”

“I know. But though a man does not spare himself he must always spare

others—that’s the great science of life. Haven’t you worked too?”

“We’ve been partners, as we said we’d be until success was ours. And now

he’s made the success, and—”

“Success as an artist, and he’s going to share it as a man?”

“I believe so—oh, I do believe so.”

Uncle Clem walked awhile in silence. When he began to talk it was almost

as if he were speaking to himself.

“Queer trusting folk, we mortals,” he said. “And we set ourselves such

wonderful tasks. How old Dame Nature must laugh at us and all our

philosophies. Fancy two young people locking up the spark of love which

had sprung between them, packing it away in a secret safe, and believing

it could be brought to life when convenience allowed. How old Dame

Nature must laugh! Can’t you imagine her peeping into the safe to see

how the spark is getting along?” He turned suddenly upon Eve. “How is it

getting along?”

“I keep it locked up here.” She pressed her hand upon her heart.

“Wonderful you!” said Uncle Clem. “God bless your trust. Hullo! This

where you live?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come up for awhile?”

“Not tonight.”

“No—no—no. Of course not. He’ll come back with his pockets full of

champagne, and his heart come to life. I like you, you know. I think

you’re fine. You’re so damn good to look at, too. Ever hear of the

purple patch?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just thinking you’ve the leading light in your eyes that should guide a

man there. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Uncle Clem.”

At two o’clock Eve took off her pretty frock, put on her plain cotton

nightdress, and went to bed.

PART SEVEN

—WHO TRAVELS ALONE”

I

In the weeks following it was made clearly evident that Wynne Rendall

was taking no precautions that his wife should share his new prosperity.

Conceivably he thought that the mere sharing of his name—a name which

had sprung into such instant prominence—was adequate compensation for

any woman.

The newspapers had given him unsparing praise, and already he had been

approached by several managements with a view to undertaking their

productions. To these offers he shook his head, replying that he was a

writer by profession and not a producer.

In an interview he told the reporter that he only worked in the

direction of his ambitions, and for the moment his ambitions were

satisfied.

This was, of course, mere persiflage, but several members of the reading

public thought it very fine.

He was asked everywhere—but only accepted invitations which appealed to

him. At the functions he attended he usually contrived to fire off at

least a couple of startling phrases which were remembered and repeated

by those persons who unintentionally work inside advertising for the

would-be great.

Being out and about so much he did not bother to alter the conditions of

life at home. It is true he left rather more money for Eve to use, but

since he showed no disposition for her to take a place beside him on the

new plane she found no incentive to change the old régime.

On the morning after the play was produced, with all the notices before

her, Eve had stretched out a hand to him, and said:

“You’ve won—absolutely you’ve won. My dear, I am so proud.”

“Yes, I’ve made a start. There’s a long way to go yet.”

With a chilly sense she felt that he had not said this from any modesty,

but rather to delay admitting the success for which they had fought

their battle.

She was conscious afterwards that he shunned the topic of his success,

and kept the conversation on impersonal lines.

That glorious moment to which all her hopes had been pinned and all her

labours consecrated did not mature into reality. It seemed that he was

floating out of her life as a steamship passes a yacht at sea. And so,

with the measure of his success, there came about in Eve a corresponding

stagnation.

It would have been easy then to have engaged a servant to do the

housework, to have bought furniture, linen, and the many delightful

things she had planned to do; but somehow the inclination to do so had

gone. It was preferable to have occupation of some sort, if only to keep

her thoughts from brooding on these disappointments. Besides, she took

an almost cynical interest in wondering how long he would allow her to

remain as a drudge who worked for him with her two hands.

Wynne himself was cheerfully indifferent to the trend of her thoughts.

He was in excellent spirits, enthusiastic for the present, and full of

plans for the future.

When “Witches” came to an end he said he proposed to put on a play of

his own. Lane Quiltan would supply the capital.

“Have you asked him?” said Eve.

“Not yet.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do so before being too sure?”

He tossed the idea aside with:

“Some things one can take for granted. I am as confident of his support

as I am confident that at least five young ladies in the company are

wondering when I shall invite them to Brighton for the week-end.”

With rather an effort, Eve replied:

“Only five?”

“I said in the company,” he very rapturously retorted.

The suggestion of these words struck a peculiar chord of memory in Eve.

They recalled very vividly a vulgar little cousin of hers—a boy

scarcely out of his teens—who had boasted, with considerable pride, of

a liaison with a young lady at a tobacconist’s. It was an unpleasant

parallel, but she could not clear it from her mind.

Hitherto the physical side of Wynne had been so dormant. She had nursed

the shell which held his spirit, and nourished it to a manlier form. As

he stood there before speaking she realized that in body he was a man of

different fibre, capable of passions not only of the mind. It would be

tragic and pitiable if these were to be awakened by the same vulgar

instincts which attack the little Lotharios of nineteen.

This was the man who had starved for a week to buy a copy of Walter

Pater.

She fell to wondering whether, had their first meeting been now instead

of then, she could have sat the night through in his rooms without fear

of consequence.

And while she wondered upon these matters, Wynne’s eyes travelled

critically over her face and figure.

“You’re rather drab,” he thought; “you haven’t much colour. If your hair

were dressed differently it would be an improvement, perhaps. That is

certainly a deplorable dress—and your hands!”

A man whose function is to produce plays acquires a ready knack of

judging possible qualities by external indications. The habit is not one

to be recommended in the home, for in practising it he is apt to

overlook many essentials and ignore grave liabilities.

A just man would not accuse a sweep of possessing a blackened soul

because his face was sooted from sweeping the flues. The instance may

sound trivial enough, but it is no less trivial than the train of

thought running through Wynne’s lightly-poised mind as he contemplated

the wife of his own making. His eyes were deceived by petty

superficiality, and blinded to the beauty veiled behind a screen of

three years’ unremitting toil. He did not bother to speculate if that

beauty would leap to glorious life at the touch of the hand that swept

the screen away. To follow his thoughts to their inglorious anchorage,

he was sensible to a wave of self-pity. It seemed rather ill-luck, with

the ball of success at his feet, a fresh glow of manhood ripening in his

veins, that he should be tied to a woman who had lost the fine edge of

her desirability.

“I see,” said Eve at last; “and do you propose to disappoint them?”

Wynne dropped his cigarette into the grate.

“I never know what I propose to do. The greatest mistake in the world is

to cut the picnic sandwiches before knowing what the weather will be.”

II

It was more to please his humour than from any liking for the lesser

grades of courtship that Wynne came to amuse himself at the theatre by

talking perilous rubbish to a highly unimportant young lady of the cast.

Never before had he indulged in this particular sport, and never, until

lately, had the temptation to do so allured him.

To tell the truth, he was not a little flattered by the success of his

early attempts at love badinage; although, had he chosen to look beneath

the surfaces of the very shallow waters which were ruffled by his wit,

he would have found little cause for self-congratulation.

Esme Waybury, the favoured, had an ax to grind. In her trivial soul was

ambition to get on (“getting on” implying the receipt of a salary large

enough to satisfy her tastes in shoe-leather and millinery). A little

moral laxity is sometimes a short road to the realizations of these

trifles. Favours, artfully bestowed in the right quarter, are often more

fruitful of success than is genuine talent.

To her, Wynne Rendall was a power in the land—a power which, with a

little tact, might easily be diverted toward herself. Without being

affected by prickings of conscience, she decided, if occasion offered,

she would compromise herself with him, and step lightly from the

wreckage of her virtue to spheres of extravagance hitherto unattainable.

To the furtherance of this ignoble end, she pouted, smiled, and

performed those various verbal and facial evolutions which, for a

hundred centuries, have served to divert mankind from the straight and

narrow path.

Esme was one of those pouting darlings who look infinitely sad at the

smallest word, with that quality of sadness which provokes thoughts of

remedial kisses in the male mind.

Eve produced her first pout at an understudy rehearsal taken by Wynne.

“You know,” he had said, “you are very bad in this part.”

Esme then pouted.

“Well, aren’t you?” continued Wynne.

Esme added four quick blinks to the pout very adroitly.

That was all, but when Wynne passed through the stage door Esme and her

pout were there—a vision to disturb dreams.

Wynne smiled as he walked up the street. It was pleasant to reflect that

by half a dozen words he could cause a pout to be produced of so

enduring a nature. As an observer, he considered the elements which go

to make a good pout. Undoubtedly Esme’s pout had been a good one. Her

lips were of a sweet red, and moist with the dews of grief. With a good

pout one saw ever such a little more of lips than one was accustomed to

see.

No man can think long of this subject without considering the

possibilities thereof, and for the first time Wynne was consciously

drawn to the idea that it must be a sweet enough task to kiss a pair of

pretty lips. Further to this line of thought, he deemed that it might be

pleasanter still to kiss a pair of pouting lips. And here his

investigation stopped short in a sharp surprise that such considerations

could find a place in his over-stocked brain.

Clearly he must have changed in some important features. Was it a sign

of age or youth? he asked himself. He became aware that his feet rang

heartily upon the pavement, and when he filled his lungs with good air

the life quickened in his veins.

“It’s youth,” he said aloud—“youth!”

To the astonishment of a passer-by he stretched out his arms luxuriously

and laughed:

“I’m young—young!” Then with a wave of self-pity: “Lord! I’ve worked

hard!”

III

Even the most virtuous of men are conscious of a foolish elation when

marked for favour from a woman’s eyes. They do not, as a rule, inquire

over-deeply into the value of the glances bestowed upon them. In theory

Wynne Rendall was not in the least virtuous. At the club he had

frequently remarked that, if lack of virtue were not such a general

failing with mankind, he would certainly have been a very devil of a

fellow. But this and many similar statements had been mere

phrase-making, designed to fit the wall-space of a conversation.

To adopt a cynical attitude toward human frailty was part of his mental

routine, and in no way sprung from a natural distaste for sin. Until now

sex had left him unmoved and apathetic. He had watched others flounder

in the toils of emotion, himself unstirred by curiosity or desire.

With the discovery of Esme’s pout and his own youth arose the

opportunity to direct the currents of his stored wisdom upon himself.

And, after the fashion of most men since the world began, he did no such

thing. He made no attempt to consider whither these thoughts led, or

where they drifted, but contentedly let himself gravitate toward the

enchanting vortices so lately revealed to him.

And so, on the night on which he had told his wife that he never knew

what he proposed to do, he engaged Miss Esme in trivial conversation,

and found in the practice a new and amusing diversion.

He was sufficiently entertained to mention some of the passages which

had occurred between them at breakfast next day, and thereafter the name

Esme—always referred to in the lightest manner—recurred with some

frequency in his conversation.

But, if he were pleased with the affair, Miss Esme deplored its tedious

progression, and did her noblest to smarten up the course of events. In

this, however, she met with ill-success. Wynne was amused, but no more,

and made no attempt to encourage a closer intimacy.

There are few women who would have undergone those first months of

Wynne’s success as courageously as did Eve. There are few who would have

followed so particularly, and with such understanding, the mental

processes through which he passed.

To the Esme affair she attached no great importance. She realized that

any healthy-bodied youngster would have outgrown the Esme period as he

passed from his teens. That Wynne had failed to do so was a natural

consequence of the starved, brain-fagging life he had led.

“How old Dame Nature must laugh at us and all our philosophies,” Uncle

Clem had said. Very clearly Eve saw the meaning he had sought to convey.

Dame Nature must be laughing now—laughing at the natural reaction of

nature denied.

A woman will always make allowances for the man she loves, and she

forced herself to believe that the period through which Wynne was

passing would prove transient. When it had passed the real metamorphosis

might come about—and the future promised to each other.

One of the greatest mercies is the survival of the hoping habit. In

imagination it still seemed possible Wynne would turn to her with the

light of pride and possession, and call her to his side because he

needed her there.

So once more she harnessed her soul to wait, though the collar galled as

never before.

IV

One night Wynne said:

“I shall tackle Quiltan tomorrow about backing my play. I would have

spoken at the club tonight, but some one always interrupts. Think you

could provide a decent meal if I asked him to lunch here?”

Eve’s spirits leapt.

“Of course I could,” she said.

At last, and for the first time, he was bringing his interests home.

Unimportant though his words may have seemed they were full of the most

glorious possibilities. It meant so much more than asking a man to

lunch. It meant that, at a critical point, he and she would be side by

side to discuss a great step in his future—in their future. Besides, it

would be so splendid to meet Quiltan—to know and be known by a friend

of Wynne’s. She suddenly realized in the three years of their married

life there had been no friends—nothing but work and their partnership

to relieve the grey monotony of existence. At the mere suggestion of

Quiltan’s coming she was bubbling over with excitement.

“What’s the matter?” asked Wynne.

“I don’t know—only I’m awfully, awfully glad. It’s—I haven’t met many

people lately—and your asking him—here, I— What would you like for

lunch?”

“Heaven knows! Any notepaper? I’ll drop him a line.”

That night Eve lay awake and her thoughts were good to own. They began

nowhere and travelled everywhere—out into the unknown and beyond. And

because of a sudden intense happiness she forgot all manner of doubts

which of late had oppressed and haunted her.

She rose early and took a pretty dress from a drawer—a dress which,

because he seemed not to care about these things, she foolishly had

never worn before him. When she returned from the shops she was laden

with parcels, and light of heart.

Wynne was standing in the sitting-room with an expression of some

displeasure upon his face. The spring sunshine coming through the

windows emphasized the shabbiness of the furniture and appointments. A

golden shaft caught Eve’s face as she entered, and made her radiant. But

Wynne did not look toward her. His eyes rested on the tufts of horsehair

projecting from the upholstery of the old armchair—the sunken springs,

and the threadbare dilapidation of the carpet.

“I’ve bought a sole,” said Eve, “and some cutlets and peas, and I’ll

make an omelette with apricot jam—”

“Yes—all right,” said Wynne.

“But I must hurry, for there’s a fearsome lot to do.”

Away she went to the kitchen, where she donned an apron, rolled up her

sleeves, and got to work.

Never since the early days of her marriage had she set about her duties

so happily.

“God’s going to be good to me soon,” she said to the frying-pan. “I know

He is—I know He is.”

The sunshine thrilled her veins with a new sense of life. Two

affectionate sparrows set up a lover-like duet on the kitchen

window-sill. The air was full of young spring. All was right with the

world.

“Hallo!” It was Wynne’s voice calling. “I say, I can’t possibly ask

Quiltan to this shabby old place. It would bias any one. I’ll ring him

up and tell him to meet me at the club. G’bye.”

A moment later the front door slammed. The sound scared the sparrows at

their courtship and sent them fluttering to a tree below.

Then Eve sat down, and resting her head on the kitchen table, cried as

if her soul were broken in two.

V

Wynne rang up Quiltan’s number, and was answered by the manservant, who

said:

“Very good, sir. I will tell him.” But when he went to do so he found

his master had already gone out.

Lane Quiltan was somewhat surprised when the door of Wynne’s flat was

opened by a girl who by no stretch of imagination could be thought to

belong to the servant class. She wore a coarse apron, her sleeves were

rolled up, and there was a redness about her eyes that could only have

come from tears.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “is this Mr. Rendall’s flat?”

“Yes.”

“Is he—at home?”

“No,” replied Eve. Then, as she realized what had happened, a smile

broke the tragical lines of her expression.

“He asked me to lunch,” said Quiltan. “May I come in?”

“Yes, please do.”

He followed her to the shabby sitting-room.

“I’m afraid,” said Eve, “my husband won’t be back to lunch. He was

telephoning to ask you to meet him at the club instead.”

“Your husband?” He looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t know Rendall was

married.”

She bit her lip—it was rather an unkind stab. He noticed this, and

hastened to say:

“That is, he never told me.”

“Why should he?” she answered quickly.

He looked at her for a longish while before replying:

“I can see quite a number of reasons.”

The words were spoken with simple sincerity, and they brought a glow of

bright colour to her cheeks. Thinking perhaps he had offended, he said:

“Well, since he has gone to the club, I suppose I had better follow him

there. I don’t want to go a bit, and I’m sorry we shan’t be lunching

together.”

“So am I,” she nodded.

“Why aren’t we?” he asked, unexpectedly.

“I suppose there is no great harm telling you—since you are here. This

was to have been a business meeting, and Wynne thought the surroundings

might prove—unproductive.”

“Oh!” He hesitated; then: “When did he think that?”

“An hour ago.”

“Then,” said Quiltan, with quick intuition, “the lunch must have been

partially prepared?”

“It was.”

He took a deep breath.

“Isn’t it a pity to waste it? I mean, don’t you think I might be invited

to share it with you?”

There was something very attractive in the tentative manner in which he

made the proposal.

“Do you want to stay?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Do stay, then—please stay. I was rather— I mean, it would make a

difference if you stayed. But I haven’t finished cooking yet. You’d have

to wait a little.”

“So much the better.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. There are plenty of books here.”

He made a wry face.

“Of course, if I must read I will,” he said; “but I’d much rather help

cook.”

“You can if you like.”

“That’s jolly of you.”

He threw his overcoat over the back of a chair, and together they made

their way to the kitchen.

“I had no idea a sole had its face powdered before being put in a

fry-pan,” he observed, and made her laugh merrily.

“It goes in like a white Parisian, and comes out a sunburnt Spaniard,”

she returned.

“You look as if some sun would do you no harm.”

“I dare say it wouldn’t. Haven’t tried the experiment. Would you like to

be useful and lay the table in the front room?”

“Oh, can’t we eat here?”

“If you’d rather, we can.”

“Much rather. Everything piping hot, and you won’t be everlastingly

running off to fetch dishes, will you?”

It was so long since any one had minded what she did that Eve caught her

breath in a half-sob.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

It had seemed rather cruel that this five minutes’ friend should say the

very things Wynne never bothered to say.

“But you—”

“I did. I do silly things sometimes, but I’m not really hysterical.”

“I know.”

“How can you know?”

“I seem to know you very well. That remarkable husband of yours

contrived to put a lot of you into the characters of my play. I used to

puzzle about it—used to wonder where his extraordinary intimate

knowledge came from.”

Eve was all enthusiasm in a second.

“You really mean that?”

“’Course. He used to show the women what to do in the most amazing way.

Now I can see the source of his wisdom.”

“That’s made me happy. It’s nice to feel one is of use, isn’t it? There

are some knives and forks in the box there, and the plates are in the

dresser.”

It was because she could feel his eyes resting inquiringly upon her that

she gave him this sudden direction.

Presently they sat down to the first course.

“This is jolly,” said Quiltan.

“It’s a change for you. I wonder—”

“What?”

“Only whether you would think it quite so jolly if it were all.”

For awhile he made no reply, then he laid down his knife and fork.

“I say,” he said, “shall we be friends?”

“I am sure we shall be.”

“I mean— Well, this meeting of ours was never really intended, so one

might excusably assume that it had never taken place. Wouldn’t we be

justified, then, in talking to one another as we might have talked to

ourselves if we had been alone?”

Eve shivered. “It might not be a happy conversation.”

“Even so—why not? We could be as honest as dreams are, and what we said

could be as easily forgotten.”

“I’m frightened of dreams,” said Eve. “They never come true.”

“Won’t you tell me one that hasn’t come true? If it hasn’t come false

there is hope for it yet.”

“I suppose there is.”

“Won’t you tell me that dream?”

“If you promise to wake up and forget it.”

“Tell me first.”

And so, rather haltingly, but with growing confidence, Eve told the

stranger of her hopes:

“I can see clearly now, it was a companion Wynne needed, that’s all—a

mental companion. Had I been a man I might have entered more deeply into

his life. You see, we fought to rise out of this rut, and now he has

begun to rise he finds that I am part of the rut—something to be left

behind. I believe a man and woman were not intended to live together as

we have—there was no fire, you see—we were just partners. The marriage

link cannot be welded without fire. I wonder—do you understand what I

mean?”

He nodded gravely.

“Wynne’s was all mental fire. The embers of his love for me have never

glowed into a flame.” She laughed to smother a sob. “They are out—out

altogether—dead and cold! At least it seems so. I have been like a book

to him—an information bureau and debating society in one. Ever ready to

supply the thoughts that were not self-revealing. And now I have been

read from cover to cover, and it’s foolish, I suppose, to expect a place

in the new library.”

“What a damnable story!” said Quiltan, with sudden fierceness. “I feel

like—kicking him.”

“Don’t feel like that. Everybody has wanted to kick Wynne. It was the

first thing which drew me toward him. And when you look at it all from

his point of view, you _can see_.”

“_You_ find excuses for him?”

“Easily.”

“How—how?”

“I love him.”

“Still?”

“Yes. And I’d go through just such another three years if I thought that

he would love me at the end—gladly I would.”

“But suppose he never does love you! What then? How long can you last

out like this? Don’t you want to live?”

“Oh, yes, I want to live.”

“Well then?”

“But all the folk who want to live can’t have their way. Perhaps I shall

just go on wanting till even the want dies.”

“That’s unthinkable.”

“But very possible.”

She became suddenly aware of the intensity of his expression. The sinews

of his close-shut hands showed white, and in his eyes burnt a strange

fire. An odd fear seized her, and to cover her nervousness she quoted at

random.

“Don’t you remember the Browning lines:

“‘Some with lives that came to nothing,

Some with deeds as well undone,

Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.’”

He seized on the purport of a single line, and said:

“Isn’t the alternative better, perhaps, than this?”

“Death?” she queried.

“‘Some with deeds as well undone.’”

He spoke with a queer hoarseness.

For a moment she held his eyes steadily, then with quick colour turned

away her head.

“I thought,” she said, “we were to be friends.”

“Haven’t you had enough of friendship?”

She had thought he would recover himself at the rebuke, but if anything

his voice was more insistent.

“Haven’t you?” he repeated.

“There is no need for you to make love to me, Mr. Quiltan.”

“How do you know?” he retorted. “How can you possibly say that?”

She rose and moved some plates to the dresser.

“I suppose you were sorry for me, and thought that the kindest way to

show it. You were wrong.”

His reply was unexpected:

“How can you possibly say I was wrong? You don’t know—you don’t know

what may have happened to me since I came here. If I made you think I am

a lover by trade I apologize—for it’s the last thing I would have you

believe.”

She scarcely knew what to answer, but there was no need, for he started

afresh:

“D’you know, I have never been in love with any one before. I have never

even made love to any one; but, by God! I want to make love to you. The

instant you opened the door I knew something had happened to me. I’m in

love with you—do you understand?—absolutely.”

Despite the startled fear these crazy words awoke, Eve could not but

feel a sudden impulse of warmth. In the midst of the passionless

monotony of her life—at a time when her every thought was doubting if

she possessed any one quality to endear—came this sudden avowal, backed

by a sincerity that could not be misunderstood. The very surprise

written on his face testified that he meant all he had said.

So they looked at each other with the greatest perplexity, and only the

silliest, most conventional phrase found its way to Eve’s lips.

“I’m married,” she said. “You forget. You mustn’t speak so.”

“I deny your marriage, so why shouldn’t I speak as I feel? I must

speak.”

“When I ask you not?”

His hands fell to his sides.

“Why do you ask me not? Is it nothing to hear of love, even though you

may not need it? Oh, I—”

“Please.”

He took a step toward her, then turned sharply away. Presently he

laughed:

“Ha! I said we’d be as honest as dreams are—and we have been. You know

how dreams go—leaping from rock to rock—clearing all difficulties—you

and the subject to the predestined end.”

“What is the predestined end?” said Curiosity.

“To make you happy.”

“Is that a part of love?”

“All of mine,” he said.

She stretched out her hand.

“Oh, you’re rather good. I’m glad you came, you have given me back what

I had lost.”

“What?”

“You’ve given me hope.”

“I wish I could give you reality.”

“Hope is better, New Friend.”

“Until it dies.”

“It shan’t die,” said Eve, with a sudden fierceness.

“But if it should, would not reality help you to forget?”

“I don’t know.”

“How would you know if hope had died?”

“If—if he failed me altogether,” she slowly answered.

“I understand,” said Quiltan.

VI

Wynne Rendall was not a little irritated at Quiltan’s failure to keep

the appointment. He lunched alone at the club, and for want of better

occupation strolled round to the theatre afterwards. He walked on to the

stage at the very moment Miss Esme was beginning her scene, and,

observing him, this young lady very promptly gave up all attempts to

proceed, and said:

“I do wish you wouldn’t come to rehearsals—you frighten me most

dreadfully.”

“Come along, Miss Waybury,” insisted the stage manager.

But Wynne held up his hand.

“Wait a bit. We’ll go over it together. Take the rest through, Henson,

and read for Miss Waybury.”

He led the way to a comfortable office which had been set aside for his

use, and nodded Esme toward one of the big leather chairs.

“Now then, what’s the matter with you?”

“You frighten me.”

“Do I?”

“Umps!”

“Don’t believe it,” said Wynne. “You’re up to some mischief, you are.”

Esme pouted and looked at him demurely for just the right length of

time.

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

Esme hesitated. “Well, I can’t help liking you.”

“Heroic announcement of an infatuated young lady. And now what good

purpose do you suppose that will serve?”

“No good.”

“At the first guess!”

“Because you’re so stand off.”

“Would the purpose be any better if I weren’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think.”

“No. You’re horrid—you’re trying to tie me up.”

“Believe me!” Wynne negatived.

“Yes, in words—and I can’t talk.”

“Eloquent in other ways?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes. That pout, for instance.”

“You _are_ horrid.”

“But I like the pout. You pout ever so much better than you act—you

should stick to pouting. Pout now!”

“I shan’t.”

“Come, just a little one—one small pout.”

“No.”

“I insist.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I’m waiting.”

Esme covered her mouth with her hand. “Now what are you going to do?”

“Wait—go on waiting.”

Very slowly she lowered her hand, and for a short second he saw the

little red lips screwed up in obedience to his command. Absurd as it may

seem, the foolish conquest gave him a perplexing thrill.

“Again,” he said. “It was too short.”

“No,” said Esme, shaking her head. “I shan’t do it again. You’re

laughing at me.”

She rose and moved a little toward him and the door.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t want to be laughed at—not by you.”

“I doubt if you know what you do want.”

“’Tany rate I shan’t tell you.”

“Wonderful independence!”

“I’ll go back now, please.”

“Never neglecting her studies for an instant!”

Esme came level with him and laid her hand on the door knob.

“Sometimes,” she began, “I think—I think—”

“No.”

“I think you are a very good little boy.”

She opened the door, but as quickly he closed it again.

“What do you mean by that?”

Her eyes rested on the pattern of the carpet. There was brighter colour

on Wynne’s cheeks as he repeated:

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said.” Her eyes were still lowered. “’Course I don’t blame

you—some people are born good—some people can’t help it—some people

aren’t plucky enough to be anything else.”

They stood without moving, while new and insane senses started to pulse

in his side and throat.

Then very slowly Esme raised her chin and looked at him, her eyes half

hidden by their lids, her lips curled in a moist, mocking pout.

In an instant Wynne’s arms fastened round her, but she pressed away from

him.

“You mustn’t kiss me—you mustn’t. If you did I don’t know what would

happen.”

“I don’t care,” said Wynne, madly.

So having won her pretty little battle she struggled no more, but put

her lips where best they might be reached.

VII

Five minutes later he was speeding northward in a taxi. He had given the

driver his home address, but he said a second later:

“No; drive me out Hampstead way—keep going—any old where.”

Then he lay back and let the wind rush through his hair, while his

thoughts ran riot.

His last words to Esme had been:

“In a few days—I’ll arrange something.”

He had meant it—he meant it still. She was nothing to him—only youth.

But youth was splendid. What did anything else matter? He felt like some

wild young thing of the forests when the “spring running” was in the

air. A great sense of release possessed him. It was unlike any other

sensation he had ever known. He was amazed it should have sprung from so

trivial a source, but ignored to inquire more deeply into this line of

thought. Had he but known it, the change that had come about in

him—that curious, half-wicked ecstasy—was of the same emotional

coinage that attacks the average boy when first he kisses a pretty

chambermaid in the dark of a dormitory corridor.

As the taxi climbed the Hampstead hill his thoughts turned to Eve, and

he wondered how he should approach her in the telling of the affair.

After all, there was nothing to tell yet—but later there would be.

In his insane exuberance he decided that he would make no attempt to

mask his actions. If he were not ashamed he would not act as though he

were. Emphatically not. Let people say what they might, he would steer

his own course—go his own way for all the world to see.

Would Eve mind a great deal? Why should she? After all, there was but a

partnership of brain and work which bound each to each. He wondered even

if there would be any infidelity in what he proposed to do.

But what had infidelity or partnership, or obligation or anything else,

to do with it? He was an artist, unruled by law or convention. If he

desired an excess of the brain he had indulged the desire—why not,

then, an excess of the body.

In the middle of the Heath he left the taxi, and tramped across the soft

turf. He walked fast and in a large circle. As he went he sang to

himself, and once, hat in hand, chased a butterfly as a schoolboy might

have done. In the little clearing among the trees he came upon some boys

and girls playing a boisterous laughing game. The girls were flappers

with short skirts, and cheeks rosy with running. He stayed to watch

them, and, fired by enthusiasm, shouted encouragement to pursuer and

pursued. One of the bolder shouted back that he should join in, and

without a thought he threw aside his coat and was racing and laughing

with the rest. The game was postman’s knock, and as postman he caught

the prettiest after a spirited chase, and kissed her as they collapsed

into the tangled brambles.

Still laughing and breathless, he picked up his coat and followed his

way.

The sun was falling red, and the chill evening air tasted like

champagne.

Champagne—yes—he would go to the club and drink champagne—lots of it.

He wanted to hear men talk—listen to and applaud their tales of

adventure. He had laughed at them—hurled at their frailty lampoons

through the press, and yet tonight he would laugh with them—yes, with

them, for they were right, and he, for all his wisdom, had been

wrong—wrong—wrong.

God gave unto each man one life—to make the most of. That was the wise

man’s creed.

“Of making many books there is no end:

and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

He arrived at the club about seven o’clock, and was informed that a

gentleman was waiting to see him.

“I don’t want to see anybody. Who is he?”

The page produced a card bearing the name, “Mr. Sefton Wainwright,” and

below, “New British Drama Association.”

Every one had heard of the New British Drama Association. It was

rumoured that it would be the greatest and most progressive theatrical

enterprise in England. The scaffold-poles of the façade of their

splendid new theatre were already being taken down, and it was said that

the opening would be in the coming autumn.

“How long had he been waiting?”

“Nearly an hour, sir.”

“Then he deserves to see me.”

Mr. Wainwright was very affable, also he was very businesslike.

“We want three producers on our permanent staff—a business producer, a

classic producer, and one with a _flair_ like yourself. We mean to do

things at our theatre, Mr. Rendall!”

“Aha.”

“Well, what about it?”

“I’m a writer.”

“So much the better. You’ll have plenty of time.”

“I believe I’m a mercenary too.”

“A thousand a year any good?”

Wynne smiled.

“I have lived on less,” he said.

“Then I repeat, what about it?”

“If you’ll do a play of mine I’ll think more kindly of the offer.”

“Send it right along. And in the meantime—”

“You let me know about the play and I’ll let you know about the

producing.”

“Very well—today is Friday. Shall we say Friday week?”

“I’ll come and see you at eleven o’clock.”

“And you like the idea?”

“I like everything. I’m in love with the world today.”

At dinner Wynne drank a large quantity of champagne, and insisted that

every one else in the immediate neighbourhood should do likewise. As he

drank his spirits rose, and so also did his voice. There was a great

deal of laughter and much wit—and the wit was accorded more laughter

than it deserved. After dinner there were brandies and sodas and more

wit—lots of wit—so much wit that every one was witty at once and

missed their neighbour’s scintillations. Under the influence of the

brandies and sodas wit ripened to adventure. Many and glorious were the

adventures recited, and it seemed that all save Wynne had adventured

deeply. He leaned against the mantelshelf and looked at the brave with

bright eyes.

“Oh, you marvellous Lotharios!” he cried. “To think that you, Anson—and

you, too, Braithwaite—should have adventured along paths denied to

myself.”

Many wise heads were shaken at this improbable suggestion.

“No, no, no, I assure you—innocent, my lords and gentlemen—hand on

heart I say it” (much laughter and ironical cheers). “But I will turn

over a new leaf. The spring is in the air—the call! Guide me with your

wise lights to glades of Eros, for honestly”—he dropped into the

commonplace—“if I ran away with a girl I shouldn’t know where to run.

Tell me, some one.”

“Depends on how secret you wish to be,” the some one replied.

“Secret no—to hell with subterfuge!” cried Wynne, who had many drinks

beneath his waistcoat. “Love is for the light, the sunshine, and the

sea.”

“Nothing for it but the Cosmopolis, Brighton.”

“Right—every time. Marvellous Lotharios! Every time right. The

Cosmopolis, Brighton. I shan’t forget—write it down, some one, ’case I

do. Hullo, that you Quiltan?”

Lane Quiltan, who had entered the room five minutes earlier, nodded.

“Made an appointment, and you didn’t turn up.”

“Yes.”

“Lost a fine chance! Might have had an interest in something of mine.”

“Might I?”

“Had your chance—didn’t take it. Too late now!”

“Is it?” said Quiltan.

PART EIGHT

THE LEAP

I

Clementine Rendall lay in bed and watched the sun-patterns of the

string-coloured pile carpet. The birds on the lettuce-green trees of

Kensington Square sang gaily of summer and their adventurous flights

from the roof of John Barker’s to the happy hunting ground of Earl’s

Court. It was a good day, he reflected, a day full of scent and harmony,

and yet for some reason he felt oppressed.

“Parsons,” he said, as his man entered with a small tea-tray. “Parsons,

I have an impression that I am not going to enjoy myself.”

“I hope that won’t be so, sir.”

“So do I, Parsons; but I fear the worst. How old am I?”

“Fifty-one and three months.”

“That’s not very old—but it’s too old!”

“For what, sir?”

“I don’t know. But I should like always to be young enough to go

courting when summer’s here. Dreadful thing when one loses the

inclination to court, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Then you’re not fifty-one.”

“That was not my meaning.”

“Seems to me, if one can’t go courting oneself one should show the lanes

to others. Know any one, Parsons, to whom I could show the lanes? I’d be

an awful good guide.”

“I rather fancy, sir, young folk find ’em pretty easy without help.”

“You’re wrong there—they don’t—least some don’t; they stick to the

barren moor and the wind-swept places. Not very good tea this morning,

Parsons.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“’Twouldn’t have been good, anyhow. I’m in for a bad day. I can feel it

in my bones.”

Parsons laid out a tweed suit and a cheerful necktie, and placed a silk

dressing-gown over the bedrail.

“Ready for your bath, sir?”

“Yes, turn it on.”

Parsons retired and returned a few moments later with the announcement:

“A gentleman has called to see you, sir. I told him you wasn’t up, but

he asked permission to wait.”

“Who is he?”

“Mr. Lane Quiltan, sir.”

“Quiltan, oh, yes—yes, wrote that play at the—. What’s he after?”

“I don’t know, sir. Looked a bit worried, I thought.”

“Oh! I don’t know the fellar. What’s he like? Think he’d care for me in

my dressing-gown?”

“I could ask, sir.”

“Yes, ask, and tell him if he wants me in a suit he can’t have me at

all.”

Clementine Rendall swung his feet to the floor as the door closed and

felt for his slippers. He pulled on the bandanna dressing-gown, lit a

cigarette, and combed his hair. As he did so he sang cheerfully a song

written to the occasion:

“I don’t know the fellar,

I don’t know the fellar,

I don’t know the fellar,

Or who the hell he is.”

At the conclusion he became aware of the reflection of a stranger in the

mirror.

“Hullo! Mr. Quiltan,” he said. “Excuse my song—went with the comb

strokes. Liked your play no end—top hole! Sit down, won’t you. What you

come to see me for, eh?”

Quiltan hesitated.

“It’s difficult to answer,” he replied, “for really I don’t know.”

“That’s the style. Just a friendly visit.”

“Not altogether. I want to talk to some one—and I chose you. I’m in

love.”

“I envy you.”

“You needn’t, for I’m as miserable as hell.”

“It’s all a part of it.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s all a part of it.”

“Don’t you want to know with whom I’m in love?”

“Does it concern me?”

“In a way it does.”

“Fire ahead.”

“Wynne Rendall is your nephew, isn’t he? I’m in love with his wife.”

Clementine shot a quick, fierce glance at his visitor.

“Oh! Well, hadn’t you better get over it?”

“I’m not sure that I want to. Not at all sure.”

“Then I’m glad you came to see me. Why did you?”

“Your name occurred last night. She said that you understood. Well, I

want you to understand, that’s all; to understand that, if anything goes

wrong, it’s her husband’s fault, not hers.”

“And not yours?” The question was very direct.

“No, by God, I believe not mine either. I want her to be happy—I think

of nothing else.”

“And isn’t she?”

“You know the life she’s led!”

“Well?”

“Doesn’t that answer the question? He treats her as if she didn’t exist.

I verily believe he isn’t even conscious of her.”

“Is she in love with you?”

Quiltan hesitated. “Not yet—but I think I could make her.”

“Ha! Make her love you that you may make her happy, eh? Roundabout

scheme, isn’t it?”

“She shall be happy. I’m determined on that.”

“You’re very sympathetic.”

“I am.”

Clem’s voice softened.

“I believe you are,” he said. “Tell me—what’s the trouble there?”

“He’s cheated her, and used her as a ladder to climb from her world.

It’s a damnable enough story—d’you want to hear it?”

“No—no—no. I can fill in the gaps. But look here! D’you think a lover

will make up for what she’s lost? And are you sure she has lost? That’s

the point to decide.”

“I say he ignores her—isn’t conscious of her—”

“But imagine what might happen if he were.”

“He never will be.”

“You’re very sure.”

“Absolutely.”

“How long have you known her?”

“We met first last Friday.”

“And today’s Thursday. Six days?”

“We’ve met every day since.”

“Does he know that?”

“No.”

“Tell him.”

“Why should I?”

“You said you wanted her to be happy.”

“I do, but why should I tell him?”

“Love is a light sleeper—who wakes very easily. Tell him—wake him up.

The boy is drunk with success—blind drunk. Are you going to steal from

a blind man?”

“I shan’t tell him,” said Quiltan, slowly.

“No, because you’re a coward. Frightened of losing ground. Her

happiness! You don’t give a damn for it beside your own.”

“That’s not true. If I refuse to tell him, it’s because he wouldn’t care

if I did. God! he isn’t even faithful to her.”

Clementine Rendall sprang to his feet and dropped a hand on Quiltan’s

shoulder.

“You’re inventing it—inventing it.”

“No. He boasted at the club the other night of a girl he would take to

Brighton.”

“He was drunk.”

“He had been drinking.”

“Who listens to a drunken man?”

“He was sober enough to mean it. Besides, it’s true. I know the

girl—Esme Waybury, a pretty, flaxen little strumpet—week-end wife to

any bidder—understudying at the theatre. You needn’t doubt the facts.

Half the company knows by this time.”

Clem rapped his closed fist upon the table.

“I hate this,” he exclaimed, “hate it! What will she do—Eve?”

“God knows. It’ud be the last knock. God knows how she’ll take it.

Anything might happen—she’s extraordinary, and she’s counted on him so

much—built up a future of hopes. It’s pitiable. If he fails her

altogether—”

“If?”

“As he will tomorrow night.”

“Tss!”

“Sounds sordid enough, doesn’t it?”

“Well, what then?”

“As I said—anything. She might jump off a bridge.”

“Or fall into your arms, eh?”

“They are waiting.”

For a moment or two Clementine paced the floor of the bedroom, his brows

creased and his chin down.

“Where’s it all going to lead? How are we going to pull ’em out?”

“Them?”

“Yes. For the boy’s worth saving when he comes to life. I’m sorry for

him—damn sorry.”

“Think he’s worth it?”

“Worth it? Of course he’s worth it. One can see—you can’t, perhaps, but

I can—why this has happened. She knows too. One gets a true perspective

right down the aisle of all those straining, striving years through

which he struggled. A boy of no physique, whose mind was a great

question-mark, and a mighty desire to find the answer. That was all that

mattered—Nature could go hang. He’s dragooned that body of his to carry

the mind to the places where the answers might be found—worked, toiled,

sweated, starved for that ideal, asking no help, accepting no charity,

driving, driving forward on the fuel of his own brain. Then she

came—the all-understanding she—and took half the burden from his

shoulders, and built up his neglected body to the likeness of a man.

Nature was coming back! She knew his ideals, and wanted him to realize

them—gave up herself that he might realize them, for there was a

promise in his eyes that she and the ideals might be one.”

“Will it come true?”

“God knows; but He does not put promises there for nothing. It’s all

outside their reach now. Now Nature is taking a hand—cruel, tempting,

thrilling old Nature. She’s found the untried subject, and is whispering

her thousand impulses in his ear. Take your mind back, Quiltan. Can’t

you remember how it was? Can’t you recall the first pretty face you

kissed, for no better reason than a whisper of Nature’s that today it

would be different from what it had been before. And wasn’t it

different? And didn’t Nature whisper to you that night of a thousand

other differences? And didn’t you tremble and wonder, and wasn’t

curiosity alive in you? Oh, man, it comes to all of us sooner or later,

and the later it comes the more devil there is to pay. A boy is young

enough to be afraid and old enough to live clean; but a man is not

afraid, and when his passions come to life they rule him through and

through, and no damned power on earth can turn them aside.”

“There isn’t much hope, then, for her.”

“It looks like that. But we’ve got to try.”

“Are you going to see him?”

“Not for an instant.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t know. Perhaps something will turn up. But you’ll give her her

chance?”

Quiltan hesitated.

“Come on, man!”

“Very well.”

“Word of honour?”

“Word of honour.”

“Good. Where can I find you tomorrow?”

“You’ve got my card. I’ll stop in all day.”

“There’s a good chap.”

Quiltan rose and moved toward the door.

“Good-bye, then.”

“’Bye.”

II

Wynne rose from the breakfast table and took a step toward the window.

Then he turned abruptly, as a man will who has something important to

say.

“Yes,” said Eve.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I—er. No, nothing.”

It was the first time he had spoken that morning. They had sat opposite

each other in silence, and three times he had opened his lips as if

about to speak, only to close them again.

They were both near, perilously near, saying many things to each other,

but that unexplainable conversational barrier which holds up the traffic

of speech had risen between them. For six days it had been thus, six

days in which they had not expressed a word that was not commonplace.

That night at the club it had seemed easy enough to Wynne to come and

tell his wife that red blood was coursing in his veins, and white

carelessness had thrown an arm about his shoulders. It had seemed a

simple and an honest confession. She was concerned in him, and had a

right to know. Yet try as he would his pluck broke down before the

ordeal. He could do no more than look at her furtively and postpone.

Wynne hated himself when he shirked a deed. Want of courage galled him,

and the knowledge that he lacked the temerity to put his intentions into

words seemed to clip the wings of the new mad impulses which possessed

him.

All the while Eve knew there was something he wanted to say, but she

could not fathom what manner of thing it might be. Thus from his silence

grew her own, each waiting for the other to begin.

The day before he had telephoned to the Cosmopolis for rooms. He and

Esme were going down by the 9.15 that night. As an understudy it was

easy for her to be released from appearing at the theatre on the

Saturday. If Eve were to be told it would have to be at once, for the

appointment with the British Drama Association was at eleven o’clock.

He put a cigarette in his mouth and tapped his pocket for matches.

“Empty,” he said.

“I’ll get you some.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m going to the kitchen with these things.”

As she went from the room carrying the tray he noticed how shabby she

was. He was not irritated, but it seemed wrong, somehow. Presently she

returned and laid a box of matches on the table.

“Thanks. I—”

“Yes.”

“I shall want a box. I’m just going out.”

“I see.”

“Got to—er—see some people. Might be rather good. Do my play, perhaps,

and a big production job. Quite good, it might be.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yes. ’Pointment at eleven. There’s—er—. Didn’t you want some

furniture for this place?”

“No,” said Eve.

“Thought you said—”

“I may have done—but—”

“No reason why you shouldn’t have it.”

A vague hope took shape, but it was too vague to risk encouraging him to

say more. Often before the hope had arisen, only to fall to dust.

She made no answer.

“No reason at all why you shouldn’t have it,” he repeated, “or any

clothes you want. Don’t you want some clothes? You do.”

Still she made no answer.

“Come on.”

“I want clothes—yes.”

“Well, get them, I mean.”

“Is that all—all you mean?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t want any clothes,” said Eve.

He looked at her uneasily, then at his watch.

“I ought to be off.”

She nodded.

“Shall you be back?”

He hesitated.

“Probably; but don’t keep anything for me if I’m late. I may—be late.”

As the door closed Eve said, very gently:

“Oh, we’re having a hell of a life.”

Wynne went to his bedroom and pulled out a drawer. He threw a shirt or

two and some collars on to the bed, then rummaged for a suit case behind

the dressing-table.

“Damn the things, I can buy what I want,” he said.

Eve heard the front door slam a moment later.

III

At the offices of the New British Drama Association Wynne met some

important gentlemen, and the words they spoke acted upon him like good

red wine.

“It’s an astonishing play,” said Mr. Howard Delvin, who was not given to

encomiums. “So astonishing that we propose to use it for our opening

event.”

“I thought _you’d_ like it, Mr. Delvin,” said Wynne.

“I don’t like it—I dislike it very much indeed. I said it was an

astonishing play, and that is exactly what I meant. Your wit is

positively polar, there is no other word; and your philosophy is

glacial—with all the hard, clear transparence of ice. My personal

inclination is to put the whole play in a stewpan and boil it, for if

any man were clever enough to raise its temperature to blood heat he

would have achieved a play—I say it in all sincerity—of incomparable

worth. However, we’re satisfied, and now well see if we can satisfy

you.”

When Wynne departed from that erudite circle he felt almost

sublime—like nightingales sang their words of praise. A wild elation

prompted him to sing, to dance, to fill his lungs with the thin air of

the high peaks to which he had leapt. With youth in one hand and success

in the other there were no limits to the achievements which might be

his.

He felt a frenzied desire to celebrate—to celebrate wildly.

He lunched at Scott’s, and ordered a lobster, because its livery was

scarlet, and a rare champagne, because it beat against the glass. He

pledged himself and the future—the broad, untrammelled future—and

drank damnation to the cobwebs of dull care.

The wine fired his brain and imagination, restocked his courage, and set

his heart a-thumping.

“Paper and an envelope and some Napoleon brandy,” he called to the

waiter. And when these were brought:

“I was a waiter once—just such a fellow as yourself—a very devil of a

waiter. Here’s a sovereign. Go and be happy.”

The white paper lay before him, and he dashed a dozen careless words

across its surface. The envelope he addressed to his wife.

“Here,” he cried, “send that along in an hour or two. God bless you.”

He rose and pushed his way through the swing doors.

IV

Clementine Rendall spent the morning in a peculiar fashion. He first

called on his banker, and, armed with many banknotes, took a cab to the

Vandyke Theatre. At the stage door he inquired for Miss Esme Waybury.

“Just gone,” said the doorkeeper, “half an hour ago.”

“Unfortunate. Now I wonder when I could see her. Comes out about eleven

at night, I s’pose?”

“Get out ’bout nine. Understudyin’, she is.”

“I wonder if you could ask her to wait a little tonight.”

The doorkeeper negatived the idea: “Wouldn’t be any good. She’s a-goin’

to Brighton by the 9.15, and won’t be back till Monday. Ast me to have a

cab ready.”

“I see. ’Safternoon I’m engaged. But you could give me her address, no

doubt.”

“Couldn’t. ’Tisn’t allowed.”

“Nonsense. I’m her uncle. Right to know.”

He produced silver in generous quantities, to which the doorkeeper

succumbed.

Miss Esme had a flat in Maida Vale, whither Clementine Rendall proceeded

with all dispatch.

In the taxi he reflected that he had set himself a foolish and a

hopeless task. Even supposing he succeeded in buying off Miss Esme,

nothing would have been achieved. To postpone a crisis is not to avert

it. Accordingly he thrust his head from the window and addressed the

driver:

“Look here—I don’t want to go to Maida Vale. Drive me to Whatshisname

Mansions—one of the turnings off Baker Street. I’ll rap on the glass to

show you.” And as he subsided on the cushions again: “Heaven knows what

I shall do when I get there.”

He found a porter, who directed him to Wynne’s flat, and though assailed

by many doubts, he beat a cheerful tattoo upon the knocker.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, when Eve opened the door.

“Can you do with a visitor?”

Without waiting for the answer he kissed her very cordially, and putting

a friendly arm round her shoulders carried her off to the sitting-room.

“As you never come and see me I came to see you,” he announced. “Well,

how’s things?”

“Oh, they are all right.”

There was a restraint in her manner, which even his cheeriness was

unable to break down. He could feel a sense of crisis in the atmosphere.

“And Wynne?”

“He’s out.”

“Out to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Brain storm!—we’ll go out too.”

“You and I?”

“As ever is! Get yer hat.”

Eve hesitated. “I—”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t a hat.”

She laughed. “No; but it’s so long since I went out to lunch, probably I

shouldn’t know how to behave.”

“I never could,” he answered. “Eat peas with my knife, talk with my

mouth full—never was such a fellar as me. Come on—lively does it. What

’ud you like to do afterwards?”

“Anything.”

“’Cos I’ve an idea—more’n that, I’ve the means of carrying it out.

Listen to the program: Taxi; a sole and a cutlet at the Berkeley Grill,

with just a little Rhine wine to help it along. Then what? I suggest a

picture gallery, and you nod—I suggest a theatre, and you nod a bit

more agreeably. Finally, I suggest a shopping excursion up Bond Street

and down Regent Street, with a taxi rolling from door to door to carry

the parcels; at this you nod vigorously—and perhaps you smile. You

shall have a Crême de Cacao after your ice, and then you _will_ smile.

The third and last proposal is carried unanimously, and before we start

we make out a complete trousseau on the back of the menu card. Outside

and inside we’ll get the lot. What do you say?”

Eve leant over and touched his hand.

“It sounds so lovely,” she said in a trembling voice; “but what do I

want with a trousseau?”

“Want with it? Every one wants a trousseau.”

“If anybody cared how you looked in it.”

Uncle Clem’s forehead clouded, and his eyes rested upon her. As he

looked he noted how sadly she was dressed.

“Little Eve,” he said, “has he ever seen you in a trousseau? I

mean—look here, my dear, we men are such poor trivial, sleepy beings.

We only wake up when something bangs us in the eye. Have you never

thought it might be worth while to bang him in the eye with all that

beauty of yours in the setting it deserves? You see we get used to

things as they are, and never bother our heads with things as they might

be. Don’t answer. I know it’s all quite indefensible, and I know you

know it too. But just for fun—for a lark—a spree, let’s go out and do

this thing. He’ll be in later, yes?”

“He said he would come to dinner.”

“Then we’ll fill in the time between then and now, and I’ll take

charge.”

Eve stood up suddenly.

“Why—why do you always make me feel it will be all right?”

“It will. There, be off and get your hat.”

“Very well.” At the door she turned. “I have a frock if you’ll let me

put it on. You won’t have to take me out in this old thing.”

“Have you worn it for him?”

“No.”

“Silly girl. Wear it for me, then. I’ll wait.”

As the door closed he muttered to himself:

“Wonder why the devil I’m buoying up her hopes. Wonder where we’ll be

this time tomorrow?”

Clementine Rendall was a wonderful host, and he ordered the most

delicious luncheon. He and monsieur, the faultless monsieur, laid their

heads together and made decisions over the menu with a deliberation

Downing Street might have envied. Monsieur would touch the title of some

precious dish with the extreme point of pencil, and Clem would nod or

query the suggestion. At last the decision was made, brought up for

amendment, and finally approved.

The cooking was incomparable, and Uncle Clem matched his spirits to its

perfection. Gradually he drew Eve out, and by the time the last course

was set before them she was full of exquisite plans for the things they

would buy together. The harmony of the surroundings, the attention, the

good food, and the subtle white wine worked a miracle of change. Her

eyes softened and took fresh lustre, her cheeks glowed with a gentle

colour, and her voice warmed.

Noting these matters Uncle Clem was glad, but feared greatly.

“Now for the shops,” she said.

They had scarcely turned the corner of Piccadilly before he rapped

against the glass of the taxi.

“Barrett’s!” he cried; “we mustn’t pass poor old Barrett’s without

giving them a look in.”

Next instant they were in those pleasant leather-smelling showrooms, and

an attentive assistant was directing their gaze to rows of dressing

bags, both great and small.

“Make your choice—mustn’t lose time.”

“Am I really to have one of those bright bottley things?”

“’Course you are; what’s old Barrett run the place for? Choose, and

quick about it.”

Long economy prompted Eve to decide upon the smallest and cheapest.

Whereupon Clementine pointed to another with his stick, and cried:

“Sling it in the taxi—you know me! Right! On we go.”

But he did not go on before he had purchased a great spray of malmaisons

at Solomon’s.

“Hats, dresses, and all the rest of it! Bond Street, cabby.”

In Bond Street he was at his best. He insisted on following Eve through

all manner of extraordinary departments.

“Oh, go on with you. I’m old enough to have been married years ago. I’ll

look out of the window if you like—but if the bill ain’t big enough I

shall turn round. Get busy!”

Infected by his enthusiasm Eve got busy, and two great boxes of

exquisite frillies floated down to the taxi.

“When we’ve filled this cab we’ll get another,” he declared as they

clambered in and took their seats.

At Redfern’s, in Conduit Street, he showed that he was a man of

discrimination. He paraded the _mannequins_, and bought four dresses

after a deal of inspection and deliberation.

“But four’s such a heap!” said Eve.

“Nonsense. I’ll make it six if you say another word. Here, bundle off

and put on that fawn thing—know it’ll suit you—want to see how you

look! I’ll go and choose hats. I’m a whaler on hats.”

So while she changed he went off hatting, to the great joy of the

department, and returned with many.

Eve was very quick, and as she came from the little changing-room he had

a wild desire to cheer.

“Lord! You look lovely! Here, try some of these. Ain’t I a chooser? This

one! Ain’t it a tartar—the very devil of a little hat.”

He was right.

“It!” he cried. “It! Clicks with the dress every time! Keep it on. Here,

some of you kind young ladies, this lot for the taxi. Bill! Splendid.”

He shovelled out a handful of notes and they followed their purchases to

the street.

“No more,” begged Eve, between laughter and tears. “Not any more today.”

“Gloves—shoes—’brollies must be bought.”

He was inexorable, and it was six o’clock before the laden taxi rolled

them to the door of the Mansions.

“You’ve given me my most wonderful day,” she said.

“You child!” he answered, and pressed her hand. “There are lots more

wonderful days ahead—remember that.”

Then he and she, and the driver, each burdened sky-high with packages,

mounted the stairs to the flat.

As Uncle Clem paid the fare, Eve stooped and picked up a note from the

door-mat. She opened it as he closed the door.

“God!” she said, in a very little voice.

He took the note and read it.

V

Twenty minutes later Clementine Rendall was hammering on Quiltan’s front

door.

He had seen what to do. It had come to him very suddenly with all the

force of a strong white light. He had made no attempt to comfort

Eve—she had not needed that. Wynne Rendall’s note had done its work

strangely. At the death of her hopes Eve had laughed a careless, wanton

laugh. It was the laugh which gave him the idea.

“Mr. Quiltan—at once!” he said to the servant who opened the door.

“Well?” said Quiltan.

“You’re in love with Eve?”

“Yes.”

“Will you run away with her—now?”

“Now?”

“At once. Go and make love to her. Don’t be frightened, it will be quite

easy. She knows. Then take her away.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Have you got a car?”

“Yes.”

“Order it. Pack her inside and get away to Brighton.”

“Brighton?”

“I said so—the Cosmopolis.”

“But good God! he’s going there.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Thought you wanted her to be happy?”

“I do.”

“Thought you were prepared to give her the chance.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then do as I say. Take her to Brighton. She’ll go—give her supper in

the public room at 10.30. Don’t look so blank, man. After all, it’s ten

to one against, and the odds are with you.”

Quiltan hesitated. “It’s so extraordinary.”

“Quiltan! if you refuse to do this thing I’ll shoot you—by God! I

believe I will.”

Quiltan rang the bell.

“I want the car,” he said—“immediately—and—and a suit case.”

VI

Eve scarcely spoke in the car as they drove over the long, undulating

road to Brighton. When Quiltan came to the flat he found her with a

queer hard light in her eyes. She nodded in a detached kind of way when

he told her he knew. In the same detached way she listened to his

half-scared, wholly genuine, protestations of love. She even allowed him

to kiss her.

“I want you to come with me,” he had said—“to come away now.”

And with a fierceness which astonished him she had answered:

“Yes—yes— I don’t care—I will—will. Seems rather funny to me! All

right. I’ve heaps of clothes—I’ll come—yes.”

At Crawley a tyre burst, and it took nearly an hour to wake up a garage

and procure a new outer cover. It was after 10.30 when they drew up

before the Cosmopolis, with all its naughty lights winking at the sea.

Eve laughed as they stood in the foyer, and the porter brought in her

beautiful new suit case.

“Don’t,” said Quiltan.

For the first time she seemed aware of his presence, and turned with

kindlier light in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m not playing the game, am I? But it _does_ seem funny. I

suppose we have supper now. Will you wait, and I’ll run up and put on a

pretty frock for you?”

He would have stopped her, but she was gone with the words.

Rather nervously he entered the great dining-hall and ordered a table

for two. There were many guests present, and his eyes travelled quickly

from table to table. Wynne was nowhere to be seen, and with this a

sudden intolerable excitement seized him. It was short-lived, however,

for his next glance lighted on the fluffy head of little Miss Esme, her

eyes demurely lowered over a dessert plate. Facing her, with his back to

Quiltan, sat Wynne. They were some distance away, and while the room was

crowded it was impossible to see them from the table he had taken.

Quiltan took a cigarette from his case and passed out to wait for Eve.

As she stepped from the lift he thought her the most wonderful being he

had ever seen. Fragile—adorable—desirable—everything to set a man’s

heart on fire.

With a passion he could not control he whispered:

“You dear, beautiful—beautiful dear!”

Her answering smile seemed to come from a long way off.

They took their places, hers looking in the direction of Wynne’s table,

and a busy waiter approached:

“Ah, in one minute the supper. Wine? Cliquot ver’ good.”

“Champagne?” queried Quiltan.

“I suppose so—yes, of course.”

He gave the order.

A _consommé_ was brought in little cups. Presently a cork popped into a

serviette and the creaming wine tinkled into the glasses. A few guests

at the neighbouring table rose and left, one or two others following

their example.

The company began to thin out, and vistas occurred through which one

could see people in other parts of the room. The conversation lost its

general constant hum and became isolated and more individual.

VII

“You are a quiet old boy, aren’t you?” whispered Miss Esme.

Wynne started and raised his head.

“What—what’s that?”

“I say you are quiet.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Funny old boy!”

He called a waiter.

“Get me some more cigarettes—these little boxes hold none at all.”

“You smoke too much.”

He played with a cold cigarette-end upon his plate.

“You simply haven’t stopped.”

“What?”

“I say”—she whispered it—“isn’t it lovely being down here—just we

two?”

“Um.”

He crumbled a piece of bread, then swept the crumbs to the floor. He

shot a quick glance at her, lowered his eyes, picked up the

cigarette-end again, and drew with it upon his plate.

“I say—”

“Wish that waiter would do what he is told.”

Esme sighed and stole a shy glance at the clock.

“Isn’t it getting late?”

“Is it? I don’t know—I’m a late person. Ah, that’s better!”

He took the cigarettes from the waiter and lighted one.

When the man had gone, Esme remarked:

“Everybody seems to be going away. Nobody left soon—but us.”

“H’m.”

“I love Brighton. Don’t you love the sea? I do—and the hills—oh, I

love the hills!”

Quite suddenly Wynne said:

“Must you talk such a lot?”

“Oh,” said Esme, “you old cross patch.”

A party of people at a round table in the centre of the room rose and

moved toward the door.

VIII

Eve and Quiltan sat in silence as course after course was brought to

them. His few efforts to talk had broken down, and all he could do was

to look at her—look at this woman who _might_ become his.

As the party from the round table passed them by he said:

“Emptying now.”

Eve roused herself, and her eyes wandered round the room. Suddenly she

leant forward with a sharp little gasp in her throat.

“What is it?” said Quiltan, although he knew.

She ignored his question. Her eyes were wide open and bright. Then she

laughed a cold, quick laugh.

“I’m glad,” she whispered—“yes, I’m glad—glad. Look!”

She did not notice if he acted well or ill when he saw the sight he had

expected to see.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know—don’t care.”

She did not move her eyes from Wynne’s table, and after a moment a

puzzled look came into her face. She had recognized his attitude. He

always sat like that, with his head down and his fingers fidgeting, when

he was irritated. But why now? A sudden insane desire possessed her to

spring to her feet and cry aloud.

Then Esme’s eyes, wandering once more toward the clock, met hers, and in

an instant Eve smiled and bowed. Esme looked surprised, and Eve smiled

again.

“Some one over there knows me,” said Esme, “but I don’t know her. No,

you mustn’t look, ’cos she’s too pretty.”

Wynne turned slowly in the direction indicated, and saw. His napkin

dropped to the floor, and unsteadily he rose to his feet. He rubbed one

hand over his eyes as though to clear the vision. He took a few quick

steps to the centre of the room—stopped—then came on again.

And all the while Eve kept her eyes on his.

Beside her table he stopped, and looked from one to the other, his mouth

twitching and his face strangely white.

“Yes—well?” he said, as if expecting they would be ready with

explanation.

“What are you doing here?”

“Or you?” she answered.

“What’s _he_ doing?”

“Or _she_?”

“Come on.”

“Can’t you see?”

“No.”

“We said when we took the leap we’d take it together. We are.”

Quiltan rose and moved a little away.

“I shall want you,” whispered Wynne.

“No, you won’t,” said Eve.

Quiltan walked from the room. In the hall he waited indecisively. Then

he remembered the flash of a light seen in Wynne’s eyes—a light of

possession—wild, primal, outraged possession. He drew a quick

conclusion.

“I’m no good,” he thought. Then, turning to the porter, “I want that car

of mine.” He waited in the porch until it came.

Wynne jerked his head toward the door.

“Out of this,” he said. “Can’t talk here.”

He moved to the half-light of a deserted winter garden beyond the

dining-hall, and suddenly he spoke, very fast and hoarsely:

“You and that fellar—wasn’t true!”

“Yes it was.”

“God!”

“Why not?”

“God! But you’re mine.”

“You say that.”

“Mine.”

“In what possible way?”

“You are—you are! My woman—mine!”

“And that other one?”

“That! Nothing—it’s you—you!”

He clenched and unclenched his hands. Then caught at a random hope:

“You knew I was here—came because of that.”

She shook her head.

“You did.”

“I came with him.”

His hands fell on her shoulders and shook her fiercely.

“For Christ’s sake! no, that’s not the reason!”

The wild agony in his voice started the honest answer:

“I came because of what you’re doing.”

He stopped, caught his breath, took fresh fear, and sobbed out:

“But—but you’ve never looked—like this before—you never looked like

this for _me_.”

“Did you ever want me to look like this for you? Did you ever——

Oh—oh—oh!”

She turned, covered her eyes with her hands, and fell sobbing on to a

chair.

And he fell on his knees beside her, and fought to draw away her hands,

calling:

“Oh, God! I haven’t lost you! For God’s sake!—for Christ’s sake!—I

haven’t lost you!”

IX

Miss Esme sat at her table wearing an expression of absolute amazement.

A slight but growing tendency toward tears emphasized itself in her

small and brittle soul. She, of all the guests, remained in the room.

Presently the lights were lowered one by one, and presently an elderly

gentleman detached himself from a shadowy seat in a window corner and

came toward her.

“Don’t you think you’d better be going?” he said, in the kindliest

possible way.

Esme started.

“I beg your pardon—n-no, I must wait for my husband.”

“Dear me! I shouldn’t do that, because—I mean—after all—you haven’t

one—and he has a wife already.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “then that—”

“Quite so. Splendid, isn’t it?”

“But—who are you?”

“Just a friend.”

“Of course,” said Esme, trying to recover a grain of lost prestige. “I

hadn’t any idea he was married.”

“’Course not. Not in the least to blame.”

“Fancy his being married!”

“I’m doing that,” said Clem, with rather a wonderful expression on his

face. “But, look here, suppose we do the rest of our fancyin’ in the

12.30 to town? Nice time to catch it.”

“Well, I can’t stop here, can I?”

“Wouldn’t do.”

They had a first-class compartment all to themselves, and Uncle Clem

made a most favourable impression upon Miss Esme. She thought him such a

nice old gentleman. He talked of such pleasant things in such a pleasant

way. He wasn’t a bit prudish, and seemed to think she had done perfectly

right in coming away with Wynne.

“Still, I do think it was very wrong of him, as he was married,” she

said.

“Yes—yes—yes. Still, it’s a queer world. You see he may have forgotten

he was married—some folk do. He may never really have known—but he

_will_ know. My dear, it isn’t until we realize the wonder of another

that we become wonderful ourselves. You don’t know what you’ve done for

that young man.”

“Somehow I don’t believe I should like to have married him,” said Esme,

thoughtfully.

“You don’t! No! Well, there you are, you see! Yet somebody is always

wanted by somebody else, and that somebody else can always make that

somebody into something. Victoria! Wouldn’t be any harm to kiss you

good-night, would it? ’Course not! That’s right Splendid!”

THE END

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected

without note. When multiple spellings occurred, majority use has been

employed.

A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public

domain.

[End of _Our Wonderful Selves_ by Roland Pertwee]