CHAPTER VII

The lantern was out, that had burnt in the heart of the world.

Gareth was quite defenceless in face of this smashing thing which had

occurred to him. He had no philosophy or religion to which to cling;

no inner store of strength and pride. Nor was there any person to whom

blindly he could turn, and say: "Help me!" He had not even the vicious

satisfaction of feeling that his present misery was due payment for

something tangible which had been his to enjoy; nothing had been his

but moonshine, and moonshine is but poor stuff to feed on in retrospect.

Gareth, who had been hurt, looked about for somebody to hurt.

Kathleen's unnatural and feverish excitement, the prevailing atmosphere

about her of impending happenings, stabbed him with a sense of

unbearable injury. For sixteen years they had been unhappy together,

he and she; since two and a half months, found each their separate

happiness. And now his had evaporated--and hers remained. More, was

obviously reaching its consummation.

Gareth had always been possessed of an instinctive understanding where

Kathleen was concerned. Now he marked her sudden tremulous smiles;

her abstracted moods, in which trivial mishaps mattered not at all;

the state of mind in which she woke of a morning to a day which meant

something, brought something nearer. All these tokens of an earth

beatified, maddened him with the memory of his loss. Once, like a very

human child, he cried out to whosoever was responsible: "If you could

only have left me mine, I would have _wanted_ everyone to have theirs

as well!" and then Kathleen hummed a little tune as she came in from

an evening stroll; and Gareth said without looking up, "Where have you

been?"

She lied carelessly. Went on lying, as he continued to question.

The fact that she did not even labour to evolve a credible tissue

of falsehood, that the web was full of holes and gaps whence any

intelligent man might with ease tear the fabric to shreds, infuriated

him more than anything else could have done; convinced him more than

anything else how little he counted in her, in other people's eyes.

"We needn't bother about Gareth. Gareth was always a weak fool!" ...

he could hear Kathleen's scornful intonation, see Napier's flashing

smile in response. And "Campbell's Young Men" caught up the tone and

the laugh; till the world was one cruel casual voice that repeated "We

needn't bother about Gareth."...

And the achievement which would have justified him--the book? Gareth

was writing feverishly, neglecting his office-work, writing at every

spare moment, early morning and late night. The hollows in his cheeks

became more apparent; his eyes deeper sunken in their sockets. He

was writing against time; writing against that thing which lay in

the bottom drawer of his desk. The girl whose touch was cool came to

him no more; the dusty black china cat watched him glassily from the

mantelshelf. And Kathleen came in and out, and lied to him as if it

were not worth while.

He guessed that her crisis was near at hand. From a certain crafty

observance, newly and strangely acquired, he was able to deduce the

date of the actual flight. Kathleen made no elaborate provisions that

he should that evening be out of the way. She evidently intended to

pack her trunk during the day, when he was at the office; send it

in advance of her to Charing Cross; and trust to his amiability,

stupidity--to let her depart without enquiries: "I'm going for a walk,

Gareth." In anticipation he saw her eyes sparkling to an image beyond

his bowed shoulders at the dining-room table; not caring if he heard

her farewell or not. And he had drudged for her sixteen years.

After all, a certain amount was due to him on such an occasion. He was

willing to let them go, yes; but could they not betray fear of being

found out? take some pains to elude his vigilance? pay him tribute of

stammering subterfuge and sidelong anxious looks? This drama of three

had been performed so often--but this time two showed a disposition to

cut out the part of the third altogether.

For the past fortnight, Kathleen had creamed her neck and arms every

night before going to bed; and before the glass she brushed and brushed

at her long black hair till the grey threads glittered; she also

attempted to soften by massage the network of tiny winkles beneath her

eyes, and the two drawn lines at each corner of the mouth. She was

still a handsome woman, with the old suggestion of a wilder redder

strain than the Saxon in her delicate aquiline nose, high cheekbones,

and lithe body. But forty-three carries its mark. Gareth lay in bed

and watched her efforts to remove them. She could not help that, since

it was also his room. But he felt it a supreme insolence, this attempt

before his very eyes at rejuvenescence for her lover. He wanted to tell

her so ... knew there was some reason why he must pretend to be unaware

of anything impending. What reason?... Why, yes, of course, he wanted

her to go--but it required an effort to remember this, with nerves

rasped to their present condition.

On the eve of the decisive Friday, Gareth returned early from the

office, shivering from head to foot, racking pains just above his eyes,

hands burning, and with an insistent dry cough from his chest. His

chest, never strong, had not been sufficiently wrapped up in view of

the recent October mists.

"I'm not well," he muttered, as he walked swayingly up the stairs to

the bedroom. "Not well," and sat on the edge of the bed, and pressed

his hot fingers to his hot eyelids, and repeated a great many times

"Her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave ... her touch is as cold

as the sand in a cave."... Oh, why did she never come to him now, his

dream-girl? Never since that pile of manuscript lay buried in the

bottom drawer of his desk. He could not afford to be ill--suddenly

starting to his feet; he had to finish his book; at any moment Pat

O'Neill might walk in and demand to know what had become of "The

Reverse of the Medal"? Gareth's days at the office were haunted by the

swinging of the glass door, perpetual fear of who might be the entering

figure. So many strangers came to the firm of Leslie Campbell. And now,

when his pen might be licking up the yards and miles of words he saw

stretching ahead of him till the last chapter be reached--now he was

ill, and had to waste the precious moments sitting on the edge of the

bed, and coughing--coughing.

Kathleen entered, her arms laden with parcels. She started and dropped

the largest of them, seeing Gareth.

"You! home so early!"

"I'm not well," he explained piteously. He noticed the parcels; guessed

at their contents. She must have passed a delicious afternoon, spending

all her little store of money. He guessed, too, that she was eager to

unpack them, toy with the contents, try on the dainty feminine apparel

by which she sought to hide her years from that other. Well, she could

just attend to his wants instead; it would not be for many hours longer.

"You'd better go to bed," said Kathleen.

"Yes." He did not move.

"Come along then. This is only one of your usual chills. You'll be

better to-morrow."

"I don't suppose I shall be well enough to go to the office."

He marked her quick start of dismay, and a tiny streak of comfort crept

into his desolation. So at last he was proving slightly inconvenient,

was he?

"Do you think I shall be well enough, Kathleen?"

"Not unless you get at once between the blankets." She wondered how

much longer he would sit motionless on the edge of the bed, looking

at her. Not that Gareth's doings really counted for much, entirely

swamped as she was in her obsession of late love--but how like Gareth

just at this time to catch a chill; she did not know whether to be

amused or impatient at the intrusion of poultice and syrup on the

gold-shot sublimity of her thoughts. She attended to the patient; he

recognizing in her every movement an insistent determination to cure

him sufficiently that he should leave the coast clear on the morrow.

He was glad to be causing her trouble at last. Of course she must be

allowed to go--through all his fever and irritation and muddle of

desire, he strove to cling to that. He wanted her to go. It was as well

that the drama was to be soon played to the finish; he was not at all

certain how long he could retain his attitude of utter passivity.

Kathleen lay wide awake all through the night. At intervals she heard

Gareth cough; could not tell if he slept or not; hoped for the best;

it had not before occurred to her to take Gareth into consideration.

But it was essential that no hitch should occur in her plan of escape.

An hysterical fatalism brooded over her passion for Napier Kirby. She

knew that if she hesitated once, paused to debate or analyse, looked

beyond the actual moment of flight, or looked back to responsibility,

habit, sentiment, then the sequence of events which had rushed to

ten-thirty, Charing Cross, Friday evening, would pass by that single

pin-point moment of action, never to touch it again. And she would

be left. Forty-three cannot shatter and re-form her life, lose

opportunities and find others, toss love aside and gather up love, as

eighteen might do, as twenty-seven had done.

Gareth was not asleep; he tossed and coughed throughout that endless

night, and wished he were alone, and that his head had not made every

corner of the pillow such a burning discomfort.... "Her touch is as

cold as the sand in a cave"--perhaps, when Kathleen had gone, leaving

the room and the house empty, perhaps then his cool girl would return

to him, bringing with her the old dreams of peace. Kathleen was going

to-morrow.

He appeared rather better in the morning, but still feverish. Quite

out of the question to breathe the raw gusty air outside, awhirl with

crackling dancing leaves from the half-stripped branches.

"I'll have a fire put in the dining-room, Gareth. You'll be more

comfortable there than here."

He shook with a queer desire to startle her by saying "Don't let my

presence hinder your packing, my dear." Her crude attempts to remove

him from the bedroom were an insult to his intelligence. She would

lose that proneness to look through and beyond him, if he said "Don't

let my presence ..." for fear of saying it, he shuffled into his worn

dressing-gown, and went hastily downstairs; sat in the arm-chair, and

looked at the black china cat, and listened to Kathleen's footsteps

to and fro in the room above; opening drawers and cupboards; a pause

while she folded a garment; movement of carrying it to the trunk. He

made an effort to write at the book, but his head swam and he gave up

trying. The day dragged on. Once he called for the servant to bring

some more coal. Kathleen answered the summons, and attended to the fire

abstractedly. Her cheeks were stained a rich carmine.

"Where's Maggie?"

"Maggie? Oh, I gave her permission to go out."

"Why? It isn't her day."

"She looked pale. I thought it would do her good."

"You mean," said Gareth--nearly--"that you sent her out to be rid of

her while you pack."

He just withheld the speech; but with a sense that he was all the

while being robbed of a privilege. Kathleen's manner was goading him

to frenzy. He wanted her to know--know--_know_ that he knew; that

he could, if he wished, reveal her every falsehood, make her look

the fool instead of himself. As it was, she would leave the house

thinking him the dupe; continue always to think so.... Gareth writhed

impotently. Somewhere in this old tired conjunction of one and two, was

a magnificent effect for the third: at the eleventh hour to fling off

pretence of ignorance, denounce the culprits, and claim his--property.

"You mustn't! You mustn't!" twanged the last coherent fibre of his

brain. But surely any after-forfeits would be worth the paying, just

to stamp that superior exalted smile from Kathleen's lips; make her

realize the fact of him, his existence and his claims.

She talked rapidly and jerkily at supper, but ate nothing. She might

have been talking to anyone. Gareth said, "Can you give me a glass of

something hot, Kath, when I'm in bed to-night? I want to be well by

to-morrow."

"Yes, of course. I wouldn't go to bed too early if I were you"--no, not

while her trunk stood packed in the room!--"or you'll find it hard to

sleep."

"... What does that matter to you, since you won't be here?" Some demon

surely was prompting him with all these sentences that he might not

utter; he threw a swift furtive look towards the black cat with yellow

eyes.

Kathleen rose and went to her room. Towards half-past nine, listening

intently, he heard wheels that stopped a little way down the road.

The cab!--he sat with fingers tightly gripping the chair. Heavy steps

crunching to the front door. Kathleen, running softly downstairs to

meet the cabman, shut, in passing, the dining-room door.

"Kathleen!"

She looked in. "Yes?"

"Why did you do that?" querulously.

"I don't want you to feel a draught."

"Who's there?"

She made vague response, "Man about the bathroom tap"; and closed the

door again.

"Bathroom tap" ... Gareth laughed ironically. Then stopped laughing,

confronted of a sudden by the utter ignominy of a man who sat and

drowsed in a dressing-gown over the fire, while his mate was in the

very act of leaving him. Straining forward in his chair, he heard the

cabby lurch downstairs with the trunk on his shoulder. A pause. Then

Kathleen again entered, in hat and coat.

"I'm going out, Gareth."

He did not turn. "At this time? Why?"

... Just a minute longer. If he can hang on to silence a minute

longer.... The half-dead fire shifted. He felt her stop on the

threshold to answer his question.

"It's such a fine night. I wanted a stroll."

A screaming gust of wind and rain shook and rattled at the panes--and

a fibre of Gareth's brain seemed to twitch and snap. A fine night ...

what sort of an idiot did she take him for? He would show her.

"You lie. You were going to join your lover."

... Not even now was he sure if he had said it, or if that absurd

little black china cat were still playing its tricks. His back was to

the door. He waited to hear it close behind her. That would indicate

that all was well, and that she had gone. No sound. He turned ... saw

from her face that it had not been the black china cat who had spoken

the words:

"You lie. You were going to join your lover."

Her smile had slipped away--and quite right that it should!--smile that

belonged to eighteen, not to forty-three. And she was aware of him now,

Gareth noted exultantly; was waiting in stunned amaze for his next

utterance. Well, since he had once broken bounds, it might come in full

force, dramatic recrimination he had all this while suppressed. He had

lost all sense of consequences, of the ultimate issue at stake; seized,

for the second time in his life, by an irresistible storm of action.

Just on and on, not seeing whether he was going--and who could now

assert that Gareth Temple wasn't a strong man!

"You thought I saw nothing, did you? thought I swallowed all your

stupid little lies; held me for stupider than the lies, did you? Well,

I know. You were going to-night--not coming back--packing your

clothes ... all those weeks you've been plotting it, you--with that

smile forever on your face, and making yourself beautiful, for him; and

buying clothes, for him. And I knew! I knew! For every falsehood you

gave me, I gave you back another with my silence. Not--not quite such a

fool as you took me to be, Kathleen...."

He was forced to stop, overtaken by a spasm of coughing; clutched for

support at the corner of the table.

Kathleen had time to recover from her first numbness of surprise. The

expected hitch to her plans had occurred. No matter! she could cope

with more than this for the attainment of El Dorado. Gareth could not

prevent her departure; let him but have his say, so it be a quick one;

and then----

A noisy rapping at the front door indicated that the cabby had

deposited his load on the vehicle, and was waiting to take his fare.

Still coughing, Gareth brushed past Kathleen, and into the hall.

"You can bring the box back here," she heard him say. "You won't be

wanted to-night after all."

She made no movement to contradict. Short of undignified strugglings

and vituperations on her part, she saw that for the moment he

controlled the situation. She did not for an instant waver in her

stubborn confidence still to reach Charing Cross that night in time for

the ten-thirty. But that Gareth should dare thwart her; Gareth of all

people; Gareth, the urging of whom to initiative had well-nigh sapped

her of her own, now by initiative to shatter and frustrate her hopes;

Gareth's interference was unbearable.

He re-entered the room, well-pleased with the decisive action he

had just taken. Her eyes snapped fire at him from the shadow of her

youthful, too youthful, brown picture-hat.

"Have I been so happy with you?"

"That's beside the point," sternly.

"Is it? Is it?"

"You happen to be mine."

"You can't stop me, if I wish to go."

She heard the cab rattling down the street, dying to silence. She would

have to walk till she found another--scarce in that neighbourhood.

Supposing that by the time she reached Charing Cross, the ten-thirty

would have throbbed out of the station, and Napier with it; Napier,

thinking her trust had at the last moment failed. A bitter foreboding

of loss clouded her eyes ... the chance would not come to her again.

Gareth, watching, thought it was thus he must have looked when the

other book had crashed across his dream. And now they were both unhappy

again, he and she, as they had always been; he would not have to hear

her hum that maddening little tune to-night, while she creamed her arms

and shoulders. To-night ... then she would still be here! ... a chill

misgiving struck at his satisfaction. He lashed himself up again.

"You seem to have no sense of shame," he flung at her.

"He wanted me." And for a fleeting instant she was again happy,

thinking so. Gareth marked the beginning of--that smile.

"Are you sure?" he remarked slowly. "Of course I know little of

the man--and wish to know less. But he struck me as being rather

dangerously in love with his own wife. You and I ... we are neither of

us very young any more, Kathleen. He may have flattered you, played

with you, but----"

"She didn't care for him--didn't care...."

"That's why. You cared too much."

She cut in, fearing the next: "If he hadn't wanted me, would he have

asked me to go South with him?"

"_Did_ he ask? Didn't you rather drive it through, doggedly, blindly,

because you yourself so much desired it? Thrash it through and flog it,

and force it? The man ... I've seen you force things through, Kathleen."

He had said it, what she had all the time endeavoured to hide from

herself. And now there was no question of El Dorado. Gareth again!

destroying even the aftermath, so that she could never dwell on

the episode, on memory of Napier's voice and caresses, without hot

stinging shame. To cheapen herself, give herself where she was not

ardently desired.... Kathleen withdrew the pins from her hat, and laid

the broad-brimmed felt upon the table. Then she sat down; and Gareth

sat down opposite; and the black china cat prepared itself for some

innocent enjoyment. There were things to be said which had remained

unspoken for years. It would be good to clear the air. And they were

both out to wound, wound and hack and tear. It is not a pleasant frame

of mind which visits a man and a woman from whom the last dreams have

been wantonly snatched.

"It was perfect at Alpenruh, wasn't it?" said Kathleen, rending the

first veil.

"And never since."

"You loved me then--or didn't you?"

"Perhaps. Calf-love, moon-love, flimsy stuff that couldn't stand the

years. We should not have tried to keep it up."

"I told you so, beforehand."

"I stuck to it, at least. You were running away--to another man."

"No woman could wish to stay with you. You can't _do_ things; something

rotten always gives way in you at the critical moment. One can't even

lean on you, because you sway, sway and totter."... Quick revenge this,

on Gareth, who had pointed out her humiliation. She went on: "Other

men have passed you, again and again; young men, men with energy, men

with genius. You've got left behind--you, weak on the chest, weak in

the knees, weak everywhere. And you're always there, that's the worst

of you--always there. Why shouldn't I have tried to leave you? You have

brought me nothing, not even the right to be proud of you. It must be

wonderful for a woman to be proud of her man's strength."

And quivering from the stripes her tongue inflicted, he stammered in

answer to the final word of abuse.

"But I stopped you to-night--I stopped you----" Then hadn't he even

here shown a man's strength? Had he botched this triumph as well? The

child in him wailed its disappointment.

"You stopped me, yes," she gave a hard little laugh; "but not because

you sent the cab away, my friend, so don't you believe it." And lest

she might ever have to hear a repetition of his insinuation that she

had "forced things through," Kathleen added: "I don't think to-night

need be mentioned again, between us two."

"But----"

Maggie, the general servant, tapped at the door and entered, in Sunday

hat and jacket.

"Please, ma'am," eyes round with astonishment, "there's your trunk

a-standing in the passage. Stumbled over it, I did, when I come in from

outside. An' I wondered----"

"It can go up to the bedroom." Kathleen disdainfully withheld

explanation. "It isn't heavy, Maggie. I'll give you a hand with it."

Maggie backed.

"Oh, and Maggie, put on some hot milk, will you, for the master? and

pour a little brandy into it; a teaspoonful."

Gareth stood listening to the bumping on the stairs, as the box was

carried back to its old quarters. The fever of his mood had ebbed, till

nothing remained of the glow and the exhilaration. He only knew he was

tired and rather chilly; that Kathleen had not gone--would still be

with him to-morrow, and all the days; between them that new barrier

of silence, denser even than the old they had in their recent anger

battered down.... "I don't think to-night need be mentioned again."

If he had waited one half-minute longer. Certainly it had been a good

hour. But had he realized that his burden would in consequence be

fastened on him for the rest of his life, he might perhaps have waited

that half-minute longer....

In the bedroom upstairs, Kathleen stood at the window; behind her,

the locked trunk and the untidy litter of packing. The dark wind

whistled dismally, tore at the branches that swayed and bent and

creaked resistance. The air was a whirl with fluttering patches and

tatters. Kathleen shivered as she felt the malevolent draughts blowing

in between the chinks, and down the chimney and under the door. What a

restless shrieking tormented world, this last night of October!

Kathleen shivered.... "Shadders risin' 'twixt you an' me"--croaked

an echo of the raucous tones of the street-singer outside Napier's

rooms.... Was Napier on his way South?

She heard Gareth coughing below.

Then she moved away from the window, and her eye caught the calendar

hanging on the wall; a cheap calendar, containing a picture of kittens

playing, and under it the date--November 30th.

November 30th?... In the defiant joy of departure, she had that morning

ripped off from the block a whole handful of leaves; since what

mattered the time of year, when she would be in warm lands?

Panic-stricken, she now tore at the little strip of paper, and the

one beneath it, and then several at a time ... December--December

20th--only to get through till the summer months came round

again--December 31st--that was the last one, gummed to the cardboard;

she could not remove it ... December 31st.

And the winter-fear was on her.

PART III

CHAPTER I

"What are you doing, Gareth?"

"Reading. Do you want anything, dear?"

"No. Do you always prefer to read in that special position?"

He made no reply. He was very gentle now with Kathleen; very

considerate. Perhaps his high-coloured boyish notions of ideal

knighthood were never so nearly realized in him as during the present

uncomplaining acceptance of his self-imposed life sentence.

Kneeling before the desk in the dining-room, he bent his head once more

over the pile of type-script so engrossing him. His shoulders were

hunched between Kathleen and the open lower drawer, as if to conceal

from her its contents.

"You'll strain your eyes, so far from the light."

Apparently he did not hear.

Sighing restlessly, she rose and went into the kitchen, on the pretext

of helping Maggie with the potatoes. At least, the kitchen was always

warm--a species of thick concentrated warmth; whereas the arc of

heat spread by the dining-room fire was slashed across and across by

evil currents of cold air, entering by who knows what mysterious

loopholes of Pacific Villa. Huddled in her enormous grey shawl,

Kathleen looked as if removed by years from the radiant creature in

the brown picture-hat, of five weeks before. She had never heard again

from Napier.... But the newspapers had informed her who had won the

International Automobile Cup Race.... She had never had any doubt of

it. Sometimes she wondered if any of his pleasure in the achievement

had been marred by lack of her as audience; and whether he would

attempt to communicate with her on his return....

He did not.

* * * * *

Reluctantly quitting Spain, Napier had fortified regret by buoyant

self-assurance that things would be "all right" with Grace, now he was

coming back to her in a dazzle of glory. The Cup was bound to make

all the difference.... She could not but welcome him in the proper

spirit of femininity towards victory. "That was a narrow shave I had!"

contemplating the momentary folly which had caused him to invite

Kathleen to go with him; and his subsequent relief when at the eleventh

hour she had inexplicably failed to turn up.

"She'd have been an awful nuisance...."

He intended to make Grace a present of the Cup. And pictured her

delight....

* * * * *

"Dap cobes back to-borrow," announced old Mrs. Kirby, quite

superfluously, for the fiftieth time.

"Oh _Lord_!" groaned Teddy, "won't he swank just!" He added

discontentedly: "We were quite all right without him. Yesterday was

huge sport--I like Pater ever so much better than Nap." Grace yawned,

and stretched her arms languidly behind her head.

"Never mind, Teddums--we need only listen once each to the tale of

How I Pulled It Off. But it's a pity ... he'd have been so much more

reticent if he had lost...."

* * * * *

"The Round Adventure" was within a few chapters of completion. But

through all his hours of frenzied toil, its author knew the spell of

creation had snapped on the night "The Reverse of the Medal" was among

the pile of manuscripts submitted to his judgment. What he now composed

was bad stuff compared to the earlier portion of the book. Nevertheless

the idea, the central idea, would be sufficient to pull it through to

success, if--if he got in with it first.... A furtive look towards the

bottom drawer, and Gareth wrote on. Sick sometimes with loathing of his

own meanness, he wrote on.

The manuscript in the bottom drawer obsessed him entirely. His

eyes flew in that direction whenever he entered the room; fastened

themselves mechanically on the cheap metal handle, each time he paused

in his labours to worry out some knotty point. Directly some household

trifle, dishcloth or corkscrew, was mislaid, he waited resignedly for

Kathleen to say: "I'll just see if it can possibly have slipped into

the bottom drawer of the desk;" and then: "Gareth, did you know that

somebody's book has been accidentally shoved away to the back of this

drawer? You had better take it up to the office to-morrow...."

Nor were his daylight hours made pleasanter by the momentary

expectation of Alexander's annoyed tones: "Temple, I've just had an

enquiry respecting a MS. entitled--ah, yes, "The Reverse of the Medal."

I believe that you...."

Thank goodness, Campbell at least was away till the New Year.

The black china cat was exceedingly amused by all these futile terrors.

His opinion of Gareth in the criminal line might be summed up by the

one word "amateurish." Far beyond his loathing of himself, Gareth

loathed that mean dusty little cat with the glassy yellow stare. Pat

O'Neill stood third on the list of hatred. At the beginning of things

he had stood first--but that was before Gareth had read the second half

of "The Reverse of the Medal."

He was reading it when Kathleen wandered into the kitchen to peel

potatoes. He went on reading, held by the same subtle fascination as

had drawn him unwillingly to the pile of type-script. In style, "The

Reverse of the Medal" was a complete contrast to "The Round Adventure."

Pat O'Neill was evidently no word-spinner; lacked that tender magic

of the sound and shape and colour of phrase which was so essentially

Gareth's. O'Neill disdained words and was impatient of phrases; he

was racingly in love with ideas, and lingered to swaddle them by

language as much only as was barely necessary for interpretation to the

reader. The author galloped his idea from the first page to the last,

as a cavalryman might do astride of a horse from whom all burdensome

equipment has been stripped. Then was Pat O'Neill himself Robert

Nugent, the hero of the novel; the man so magnetic, so clear of brain,

so full of ordinary human exasperating faults, of unexpected laughter,

that his swift death in the last chapter caused a shock of rising tears

to Gareth as he read of it. The theme now lay proven: that who lives

his life as a conscious experience, must equally in this spirit accept

death--more than accept it--go voluntarily to meet it ... even if he

has from the very beginning carried deeply the panic of death in his

soul.

Yes.... Robert Nugent realized that there are two sides to a medal,

as Kay Rollinson had seen the downward as well as the upward curve to

completion of a circle. And both had met with death by water--the one

boldly, in fear of death; and the other mysteriously, in fear of water;

after each had worked out his episode of love to discover that loss of

love is as much "part of the fun" as the advent of love.

But how had this boy, this Pat O'Neill, earned the idea he exploited so

brilliantly? Was it from what he had himself done? Or, as in Gareth's

case, had failed to do?

For the first time, since sixteen years ago he had seen the profession

of reader bathed in a glow of romance, Gareth began to muse on the

personality at the other end.... Who was he? What was he? Strange how

these books drifted in from complete darkness.

Pat O'Neill. Young, certainly; for since in no passage did he dwell

on the marvel of youth, he must obviously be in that one state when

the marvel would not strike him. Young--and a genius--how well he

would have taken his place as One of Them, if.... But that could never

be, while Gareth was holding back the book till his own should be

published, and render stale the other.

Sudden memory of Graham Carr, in unwonted confidential mood:

"I used to pace up and down outside here, before you decided on

my fate. What a period that was of ghastly thrills, imagining all

the accidents of fire and water which were destroying my precious

manuscript. Yet, d'you know, if the ordeal of waiting had lasted a

decade longer, I should never have screwed myself to the point of

asking for a decision. One is possessed by the spirit of fatalism where

one's first book is concerned...."

Was that what it meant to Pat O'Neill? Was he even now chafing, in

cramped circumstances, starved and shabby, fierily impatient of

this delay to ambition? And if the delay were removed.... Gareth's

imagination was imprinted with a very clear picture of something dark

and eager and divinely insolent, seated high among "Campbell's Young

Men" as their very latest and most successful acquisition. Nobody

standing between him and his throne but Gareth ... who suddenly felt

very weak and futile, pushing stubbornly against the vigorous onslaught

of the unseen unknown personality at the other end.

"He shan't get in--with my idea; he shan't--!" Just because Pat O'Neill

would have fitted there so marvellously; would, certainly, have looked

down on the mere reader of other people's books.

* * * * *

"Can I see Mr. Campbell?"

"What name, please?" asked Gareth, standing up at his desk, and looking

at the girl in the heavy dark green cloth, tailor-made, who had just

entered through the swing-doors. He was alone in the office. Alexander

was lunching an important client; and Guy Burnett was at Watford,

interviewing the printers. Even Jimmy had just staggered off to the

post, with an accumulation of rejected manuscripts.

"What name, please?"

"O'Neill."

... But Gareth had known it before she spoke. He had known at first

sight of her, that the boy Pat O'Neill was a myth of his imagination.

And that now and inevitably he was face to face with the consequences

of a mean sin.

"Mr. Campbell is away."

She smiled ... and the tilted curve of her lips, slow, mocking,

hauntingly sad, broke with startling contrast across the conception of

jolly roguish smile one might have been led to expect by her spirited

poise, and wide-set happy green eyes, streaked and spotted with gold,

and veiled by the defiant upward-curling lashes of dusky gold. She

was tall, as a goddess is tall; and broad-shouldered; with supple

hips; and thick white skin that was powdered by a shower of tiny

cowslip freckles round the bridge of her short blunt nose. Her hair,

under its green leather slouch hat, was gold also, dull warm gold; and

sprang back squarely from her forehead, to be coiled again in a square

frame round her cheeks and neck. A magnificent creature; radiance and

strength personified, even to the deep cleft in her chin ... until she

challenged her own strength by that smile, and scorned her radiance.

"That dear little lad who tried to stop me at the foot of the stairs

also told me Mr. Campbell was away," she remarked thoughtfully. "You

stick to it?"

"Mr. Campbell _is_ away."

Pat O'Neill regarded him steadily. Then with scornful deliberation

crossed the room to the inner door marked Private, and flung it open.

The room beyond was empty of occupant.... She looked back at Gareth,

recognized something gravely whimsical in his expression--and burst out

laughing.

"I'm disappointed, Mr. Campbell. I frankly own it. I expected to expose

you with fine dramatic effect--and all the while here you are quite

tame, and ready to eat out of my hand."

He assured her patiently: "Mr. Campbell is away. On my word of honour

I'm not he. You'll never find a publisher on view in the front office;

they're always strongly entrenched behind barricades of our unsold

'favourite novels' in the cellar. Would you care to go down and dig

for him?"

He had to talk nonsense to this girl; even aware of her errand; aware

of the unspeakable wrong he had done her; and of the lies he was bound

in due course to utter under scrutiny of those straight gold-fringed

eyes, still he had to talk to her in this wise. She exhilarated him

past all sense....

"Who are you, then? Another partner?"

"Mr. Alexander is the junior partner. He's out at present. That is to

say, he's also down in the cellar. I'm reader to the firm. Is there

anything I can do for you?"

And he asked this ... marvelling at his dispassionate insolence. If she

knew----!

"Yes. I sent up a novel, about six weeks ago. It was called "The

Reverse of the Medal." Nothing to you, of course. Bores you to death.

I'm not expecting any rampant animation on the subject. But, being

mine, I have a fond fancy to know what's happening to it."

"You've heard nothing from us?"

"A printed slip of acknowledgment, that's all."

Calmly Gareth verified her information from the volume in which the

receipt of all manuscripts was noted down and dated.

"Yes, here we are ... by Pat O'Neill ... is that right?"

"Quite. I'm Patricia really; but I thought it sounded haughty."

"I prefer you as Patricia," he reflected.

"That's very dear and sweet of you, but--where's my book?"

"It may have been mislaid; I'll make due enquiries; and we will let you

know our decision as soon as possible."

Patricia O'Neill pondered on this for a moment. Then shook her head.

"Not good enough. If I went to the boarding-school where I had placed

my wee childie--be not amazed; this is pure hypothesis!--and they said:

'She--or he--may have been mislaid,' I wouldn't say: 'Thank you very

much,' and go home to my tea; dear me, no; not a bit of it!"

"Does the book mean as much to you as a child?" He had to torment

himself with these questions.... And quite irrelevantly, he wondered

how old she was; she looked about twenty-three.

"Well, just at present it's rather in the middle of my world,

and----Hang your questions!" she flared at him, in sudden hot

indignation; "are they going to accept it or not? You _must_ know--and

I _will_ know."

He sharpened a pencil to a very minute point, before, carefully

non-committal, he informed her: "I think I can promise you a decision

in a week from to-day."

"Come now, that's very pleasing--almost human,"--with one of her

mournful tantalizing smiles she apologized for her recent outburst.

"I'll reward you by going at once, so that those two poor harassed

fellows skulking below can come up and have their tea in peace."

Gareth badly wanted to ask her to come out and have tea with him; but

some hidden impulse forbade any such proceeding until he should have

remedied the injury of her book held back.

"Good afternoon, Miss O'Neill." And before he had fully grasped to what

fantastic extremes of behaviour the wild stimulation of her visit had

brought him, he heard himself ask, as he held open the door: "How old

are you?"

She halted, unastonished; and leant against the portal, hands clasped

behind her back.

"Is this official enquiry? Shall I have to tell my age to the

seven-and-seventy publishers who refuse the book? Because it might get

about that way."

"Please forgive me. I--I can't think what came over me for the moment,"

painfully abashed.

"My dear man, I love your healthy young interest. I'm

twenty-two-and-a-half. How old are you? Let's be frankly curious, by

all means. What's your name. How many glass marbles have you got to

play with?"

"My name is Gareth Temple. I'm forty-and-a-half. And I have one glass

marble to play with.... At least, I had. But it's smashed."

"Recently?"

"Very recently."

"Something is amusing you; what is it?"

"Nothing...."

"You were right to shut all your dreams into one glass marble, Mr.

Temple."

"It's the way of a fool, Miss O'Neill."

"No, it's the way of a wise man, who realizes that the big marble

smashed is worth more to him than all the little ones still rolling

about the floor."

"If he has deliberately shut all his dreams into the one marble, and is

aware that the loss of it is as much his gain as the gain of it--then

yes. But not if he is simply a blind weakling who can't help loving

the one marble--clutches it so tightly that he smashes it--and resents

furiously the escape of his dreams...."

"The marble would need to be of very brittle glass----" She regarded

him quizzically: "These metaphorical metaphysics are miles beyond me,

you know! Besides which, it happens to be the theme of my book--or

rather, its antithesis, which you have been so merrily expounding. Out

with the truth, Mr. Temple--you've read it after all."

His features stiffened to immobility. "Ah, yes, your book; I will make

enquiries at once. The delay is quite unforgivable. Good afternoon,

Miss O'Neill."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Temple."

Gareth, shutting the door on the lazy mischievous banter of her

voice, felt as though since half an hour he had been walking on thick

resilient turf. He sat dreaming at his desk ... dreaming of the girl

Patricia ... spinning webs of words over her personality, with the ease

and busyness of the diligent spider....

Patricia!... Oh, the flush and stir of romance in her; not romance

faintly suggested, but expression of the thing itself, incarnate and

unconscious, in the splendour of her build, her long loose limbs and

negligent bearing; in the clean backward spring of her hair, and in

that haunting amazing smile, and in her careless quip of speech ...

inexhaustible romance!

* * * * *

... The wraith of a girl who was pale and frail and slender, with eyes

that were blue hyacinths drenched in rain; a girl whose thoughts were

like silent places, and whose touch was as cool as the sand in a cave,

hovered forlornly on the dim borderlands of nowhere-at-all, whither she

had been rudely expelled by the intruder. Her look was a reproachful

reminder to Gareth--"I was your dream."...

* * * * *

Pat O'Neill! How she had made the empty flat spaces throb with her

presence. And she was a genius; had written that book--tumbled it forth

out of sheer vitality of brain.... He was glad he had said: "I prefer

Patricia"--it had given him the chance to speak her name aloud. She

was a genius--at twenty-two.... Oh Heavens, twenty-two! And he almost

double that age with not a single achievement he could produce to show

to her--except, of course (with a pang of relief) his book....

His book. He had forgotten.

For an instant the old hatred was stirred, of the author who had

anticipated him in his idea.... Surely, surely, Pat O'Neill might have

hit on something else; might so easily have hit on something else. And

thus they could each have published a masterpiece, and have met proudly

on equal ground.... What a hypocritical cur he felt himself now, having

lied to the girl Patricia....

His book.... "Ah well, the one is bound to knock out the other; and she

was first in----"

When he got home that evening, the reader sat down and wrote for Leslie

Campbell an enthusiastic report in praise of "The Reverse of the

Medal." Then he took the manuscript from the bottom drawer of the desk,

and tied it up in a parcel, preparatory to taking it the following

morning to the office.

"And with that, my friend," bestowing a little twisted smile on the

black china cat, "with that, goes any hope we may have had of being

ourselves One of Them."

"Couldn't pull it through, eh?" jeered the cat.

CHAPTER II

Patricia O'Neill had grown up a victim to the excitement of big ideas.

Thus she lived her life on something of an heroic scale. She could go

through anything that was disagreeable to her, once she had fitted an

"idea" to it; an idea that allowed of translation into tangible action,

that is; she had no use for the abstract theory which dwelt aloof from

its owner, and which could be kept comfortably enshrined in a crystal

or high on an inaccessible shelf. But there was a tingling curiosity

in seeing how existence worked out, adapted afresh to each big idea

applied. Patricia discovered joyously that there were few thoughts

or desires, brain-conceived, that could not immediately be put into

execution--provided, of course, that one were willing to accept the

consequent damage. And here, she stood by a certain immortal discovery

she had made when, as a child, she had been afflicted with toothache:

"I can always pretend it's out and on the mantelpiece and aching over

there without me; and when Mr. Wright tugs, I never _quite_ guess

beforehand just how much it's going to hurt; so that it's all fun--even

if it's hateful fun...."

So she raced through the years in a fashion calculated to cause much

anxiety to an adoring family not aware of the true inner significance

that would provide a clue to most of her inexplicable doings. "Pat's

terribly inconsistent," said Ann, her one step-sister. "Pat's an

egoist," pronounced Hetty, the other step-sister. And: "I wish Patricia

were more conventional!" sighed Mrs. O'Neill. But if these accusations

were just--if Pat did leap from idea to idea, she was always splendidly

consistent to the one temporarily enthroned; only she was wise enough

to lay herself open to Ann's accusation rather than cling to an idea

that had lost its elasticity, that had gone slack to the pull. And if

she were indeed unconventional, it was from no motive of cussedness or

desire to shock, but merely that in the tearing progress of whatsoever

wagon she drove, star-hitched, athwart space and along the rim of the

skies, she would not stay for the impediments that little people had

lain along their little pavements, to hinder the swift.

As for the charge of egoism--

"I look at it in this way, Shrimpet,"--her nick-name for Hetty; cross

between a shrimp and a limpet!--"Persons like you and Ann, who can

contrive to be more rampantly interested in other people than in

yourselves, are a sorrowful sight. You have only your own mind, such as

it is, Shrimpet, for thinking purposes; the mind of Mrs. Tomkyns round

the corner is of no earthly consequence to you when you are alone to

face the problem of seven times eight. Granted? You have likewise only

your own soul, Shrimpet, for great sensations. Therefore it argues to

me an ungrateful disposition, a lack of proper balance, and a want of

respect to your own mind and soul, to depreciate them out of existence

when it's a question of the mind and soul of Mrs. Tomkyns. Besides all

that, if Mrs. Tomkyns happens to be a reasonable creature who puts

herself first, and you are putting her first--and getting praised

for an unselfish disposition--then there are two people putting Mrs.

Tomkyns first, and nobody at all putting Shrimpet O'Neill first. Which

makes the world lopsided. Oh, altruism is well beyond me, I admit it.

So throw me over the caramels."

After an interval of silence, during which Patricia cheerfully removed

the paper from each one of the sweets, to find the especial kind she

coveted, and Hetty watched her in speculative apprehension, Ann, who

had been thinking over her elder sister's speech, questioned slowly:

"Yes, but might not Mrs. Tomkyns be putting Hetty first? A sort of

cross-over putting first?"

"It's rash to bet on it. But I've not the least objection to Shrimpet

taking existence in the gambling spirit, if she chooses. Only let us

understand that it _is_ the gambling spirit, and not the sheer beauty

of sacrifice, that's all. How much did you pay for these? They're

rotten!"

"It's noble to sacrifice," pronounced Hetty, well on her way to

becoming a prig.

"Dearest Shrimpet, unselfish people can know nothing about that.

They sacrifice as a matter of course; it's a pleasure to them, I

assure you. It's only an egoist like me who can speak feelingly of

the rich agonies of sacrifice.... Do you like the ones with bits of

nut in them, Shrimpet? Hm--that's a pity; so do I!... And that's why

I'm pained and grieved beyond measure when anyone calls me selfish;

because each time I do wrench myself, creaking and protesting, to an

act of sacrifice, I make a mental register of that stupendous fact,

its date and circumstance----Here's a nut one--catch!--no--it's quite

all right--I've provided for myself!... Well, naturally, memory

becomes crowded in time with these bulging obsessions of one's own

acts of unselfishness--twice a year, or thereabouts, mounts up, let

me tell you, in nineteen years. So that, contemplating these, I do

view myself, truly and honestly, as more unselfish than you--you, with

memory blankly unretentive of your effortless days of sunbeam-scatter.

What causes me to mourn bitterly--I repeat it, bitterly--is the

disproportionate appreciation I receive from you all after my

twice-yearly. I mention it as we happen to be on the subject, that's

all. Believe me, Shrimpet, bravery is to be found only in the coward,

not in the brave man. And true unselfishness can come only from the

true egoist. Usually it doesn't."

Hetty looked at Ann, who was quietly smiling; then back again at

Patricia.

"Wouldn't you--I mean, don't you like giving up little things for

people you rather love?" she ventured.

"Heaven forbid! When I am finally guilty, O Shrimpet, of offering

up my all in a very ecstasy of selfishness, it shall be to the one

person--not to people, but to the one person--who is big enough to

warrant the wickedness of self-obliteration. But to please myself in

the untidy fashion peculiar to you and Ann, all day long and day after

day complacently giving up things in driblets to people who don't

count--me, for instance!--that is self-indulgence carried to a degree

which I really cannot condone!"

After which severe and lofty denunciation, Patricia absorbed the last

of the caramels; sprang down from her perch on the schoolroom desk;

and casually asked Hetty to do an errand for her at the far end of the

town, through a mile and a half of driving rain. Not seeing the twinkle

concealed by Patricia's veiling lashes, Hetty indignantly refused;

remarking, as the other had intended she should: "I'd have gone for you

with pleasure if you hadn't said all that just now...."

Hetty was the youngest of the trio; only fourteen; and the sole

offspring of a late marriage between Shane O'Neill and Mary Lynton,

widower and widow, with a daughter apiece to bring along as

contribution to the new household. Patricia was four at the time; and

staid little Ann Lynton two and three quarters. Dr. O'Neill died a few

years later, leaving his wife and the three girls a roomy comfortable

house with a large garden in Sydenham, where his practice had been; and

a very adequate income for their needs.

When Patricia was twenty, she met Dacres Upton.

She met him while on a winter holiday in Switzerland, at Les Avants. He

beat her in the Mixed Singles Toboggan Race. And then refused to give

up the prize to her, when a sociable and tactless sports' secretary

suggested it were not unbecoming on his part to do so.

"What do you suppose she'd do with a prize she hadn't won?" enquired

Upton.

"It was a very close finish. Miss O'Neill put up a magnificent fight."

"She did," the young man assented unemotionally.

"Well then," with a genial beam, "we agree that chivalry dictates----"

"That I shouldn't insult the girl by treating her either as a babe or

an idiot. Certainly we agree. Besides," thoughtfully, "I happen to want

those binoculars...."

A report of this conversation was carried to Patricia by her indignant

admirer, the secretary. At the fancy-dress ball held at the hotel that

evening, she had an opportunity of warmly thanking Upton for retaining

the binoculars.

He said slowly, in the level tones that never altered: "Of course

Mixed Races run on chivalrous lines become an absurdity. But Fennimore

doesn't know that it's as much fun to lose as to win. He'd say it was,

because that's the 'British sporting spirit.'... You hear about it at

election-times. But he would never realize the truth of it."

The girl's interest was spurred by this. Though she only said

mournfully: "They are very nice binoculars. I have never had any

binoculars of my own...."

Upton promised her she should occasionally look through his. And she

asked him if he were not by this concession hopelessly damaging his

reputation for inflexibility. He smiled; and offered to race her again,

for their private satisfaction, down the same course and under the same

conditions.

"And shall I get the binoculars, if I win?"

"No; those are beyond your attainment, now. But you'll get the pleasure

of feeling that you are equally capable of the performance that won

them for me."

"My dear good man, I shan't be able to bear such a stupendous emotion,

all at once, without any training...."

"Quarter to three, at the foot of the Loup." And Dacres Upton

relinquished her to another partner, from whom she gathered information

that Upton was a Captain in the Army, and recently home from India.

Her interest was spurred anew; he did not give an impression of the

accepted military type.

He was victor again, in their private contest the following afternoon.

And Patricia, who had been secretly nourishing a faint hope that he

would after all yield the honour to her, and do this with such skilful

cunning that she might not even suspect it--Patricia was both surprised

and pained ... and extremely respectful.

They paired off together as much as they could, during his remaining

fortnight at Les Avants. But Upton was with a large party of uncles and

cousins; and Patricia could not often desert her mother and Ann and

Hetty, who regarded her as indispensable to their enjoyment. So that

their mutual appetites for the other's sole society was keenly whetted

by frustration. And once, during a lively and convivial excursion,

Dacres remarked to Patricia, in strictly matter-of-fact tones:

"To Hell with all these braying barbarians. Next Christmas we're coming

here alone for a week. Don't forget--December the twenty-third, Charing

Cross, in time for the boat-train."

His voice blended quite naturally with the general conversation in

progress; and nobody overheard.

"Shall we see that Upton man in London, Pat?" enquired Hetty, on the

eve of departure.

"I expect so. He told me his regiment was recalled for a good long bout

of home service."

"I don't like him."

"Alack, Shrimpet! and I love him passionately."

Six weeks later, and Patricia would have suppressed that remark for the

very truth of it....

Almost directly on their return, Patricia was informed that a gentleman

was waiting to see her in her own sitting-room--as the eldest of the

girls, Mrs. O'Neill considered her entitled to this luxury--and found

Dacres leaning up against the fireplace.

"You're a dangerous creature," he informed her gently, without further

greeting.

Patricia modestly cast down her eyes. "You flatter me."

"Dangerous to me. I saw that from the beginning. I ought to have kept

out of your way--but that's a futile fashion of avoiding the whole

affair.... I'd have gone on thinking about you, and tormenting myself;

wondering just how much difference you would have made if only I'd let

you.... In fact, I'd probably have overestimated your effect on my

life."

"I think not ..." murmured Patricia.

"Well--may I smoke? Thanks!--I prefer to go on with anything I'm afraid

of--on with it, and through with it, and done with it. So--here I am."

Patricia lit a cigarette; and reposing face downwards on the peacock

cushions of the divan, propped her chin on her hands, and gazed

thoughtfully into the ascending spirals of smoke....

"What is impressing me so profoundly that I can hardly bear to mention

it without tears, is your tender regard for my attitude in all this.

I'm touched by it, really I am. A poor girl in my station of life isn't

used to such consideration."

He looked down at her, smiling.

"You're rather a darling ... Pat."

And she knew that behind all his flow of equable talk, lurked some

element of the stuff that was going to make this worth while. Very much

worth while....

"Just for ten minutes," Dacres proposed, after a pause, "I want you to

imagine that I'm my own closest pal, who has known me all my life, and

has come to have a little private talk with you to warn you against me.

He's probably in love with you too--this pal of mine."

"Simply pestered with admirers!" Patricia informed the slow-curling

blue vapours that twisted fantastically between her and the man. But

she was tumultuously glad that he had actually and as a matter of

course spoken the phrase....

"Go on."

"Between ourselves, Miss O'Neill, Upton is not to be trusted."

"Fancy! And I thought him such a harmless well-spoken young fellow."

"Not so very young; over thirty. He'll try and make you trust in his

sincerity, and in certain of his moods he's rather plausible. But

don't. Stick like grim death to the notion that he only needs white

spats and a dyed moustache to make him the complete villain of popular

melodrama. Remember that--and you'll be all right. His inner nature is

villainous. Believe me, my dear Miss O'Neill, I'm speaking as much for

Dacres' good as for yours."

"Oh, I believe you, my man. I had a sort of inkling that Dacres' good

came somewhere into this merry little pastime of yours."

Very seriously Upton looked down into the mocking lure of her eyes:

"I'm not sure that it is a pastime. Pat, I warn you--I can't do

more--that I'm not to be trusted."

"I hate to boast," retorted the girl, "but neither am I!"

He laughed. And took her in his arms....

* * * * *

They continued for some time on these terms, Dacres forcing Patricia

into belief that his intentions were strictly dishonourable; and she

countering with the assumption that she was a rank egoist, and was

toying with his affections, preparatory at any moment to jilt him in

the fashion of the cruellest wanton. Dacres, however, declared on one

occasion that it was mere perverted vanity which had caused them to

assume such lurid aspects:

"We're quite respectable domestic characters, really.... Come with me

to the Censor, Pat, and let me ask him for your hand in marriage. If

he sees through your blatant vampire act, and passes you as fit for

publication, you'll never be able to impress me again."

"I've heard of those marriages; they're performed under bribery by

some wretched hireling who isn't really in holy orders. A pal of yours

warned me of just such an attempt to ensnare my girlish confidence."

"Vampires have no girlish confidence. And that pal of mine is a

meddlesome and treacherous old bore...."

But he would never let her continue long in any settled faith of his

purpose. There was menace to their intercourse--menace which she braved

again and again, recklessly, always to find herself saved it would

seem by some slender accident ... or was this queer man deliberately

playing the guardian angel to her, as well as the silent threatener of

evil? Jekyll pitted against Hyde, and Hyde conscious of his Jekyll....

Dacres Upton not yet sure on which side he was ranged himself. And she,

for her part, wanted to prove to him once and for all how she joyed

in this scrambling slippery contest of their wills; how, challenging

all his disguises, she trusted him; would persist in trusting him

to the furthest extremes of peril; expose herself to hurt in all

vulnerable places--thus forfeiting all right to cry out if her daring

were punished. In this spirit would she consent to that breathless week

in Switzerland, which they had so often anticipated. And afterwards

perhaps, if he still desired it.... He was quartered now with his

company at Aldershot; in January his period of home service would be

up, and he might be sent abroad at any moment; to Egypt, perhaps.

Well--if he still fervently desired it, she might go with him ... his

wife. Patricia was twenty, and unwilling to yield up her adventurous

girlhood--but Dacres Upton was the mate for her. She would risk her

all with him first, for the fun of the risk, and for her own youth's

sake.... In spite of her brilliant imagination, she was still funnily

possessed of the utterly childish notion that adventure closes perforce

with the sound of wedding-bells.

Under his almost obtrusive impassivity of outward bearing, she had

discovered a fund of mischief fully rivalling her own; his audacities

gained an added spice from the level well-bred tones which he never

varied. As for his appearance--Patricia once informed him that he was

the Least Common Multiple of every ordinary man that had ever existed:

average height; tanned hatchet face; nondescript grey-blue eyes; fawn

hair, sleekly brushed backwards.... "I've seen thousands of you,

Dacres!"

"It's the Army mould; and originally set up as a protest to the

splendid Guardsman of the Victorian era, with flowing chestnut beard

and eyes as velvety as a woman's glove and steely withal as the iron

hand inside it...."

"Why did you enter the Army?" She had often speculated on this anomaly.

"I was afraid of death."

Patricia questioned no further. Half a year of the man's companionship

had taught her that he was no coward by temperament; quite obviously

a moral and physical stoic where life was concerned; fearless, too,

of all the circumstances of death--suffering, hardship, loss, peril,

sudden attack. It must therefore be the actual wrenching apart of flesh

and spirit which caused him that sick dread apparent in the one brief

phrase just spoken; or perhaps recoil from the after stillness and

decay. It was like him, therefore, voluntarily to adopt the profession

of arms. Silently she applauded the self-intolerant discipline of his

choice.

The months gyrated dizzily, with song-sound as of the humming of many

tops.... Autumn now--Patricia's favourite season. Red October affected

her as April affects most natures; exhilarated her body; crammed her

soul with restless flying hopes.... The hours she snatched alone with

Dacres were too frequent for longing to crust itself with peace;

insufficient for a generous passion waxing to its zenith. More and ever

more their talk recurred to that truant week at the end of December;

week which was to contain two days' wakeful journey at the start and

at the finish of it, like white sentinels guarding the three central

days, shutting them off to the aloofness of enchantment.

On the fifth of December Patricia received from Dacres the following

letter, which she read at the family breakfast-table:

"I've met the woman who means all life to me, and death, and beyond

death. I've no excuses to make for myself, Patricia--except that

I warned you that I was not to be trusted. Did you take in the

warning?--I hope so.

"Thank you for the gift of a good time. I can never ask for a

better comrade than you have been. Nor do I suppose I will ever

admire anyone quite as much as I admire you, now and always.

"Of course our arrangement for December 23rd holds, unless you wish

to cancel it. Personally, I'm looking forward immensely to our week

of winter-sport.

"DACRES."

"... Coffee, please, Ann." Gently Patricia laid the letter back in its

envelope. She would reread it presently, when she was alone; and strive

to fathom his motive for this silly gratuitous lie.

A second perusal, when she was lying on the divan of her own

sitting-room, convinced her reason beyond all doubt that he wrote the

truth. Behind reason, every nerve and sense and feeling quivered their

protest, clamoured in startled incredulity.... "Why--he loved you! he

_loved_ you!..."

Hm ... love! Strange to think that he had been right in his grave

self-indictment; right in his warning to her. He was what the world

would term a "rotter"; what she herself, one day, would dismiss with

scornful appellation of "the wrong sort of man."... Meanwhile, there

was a thick dark fog to be traversed between "one day" and the present

hour ... she could see how black, but she could not tell yet how long.

Beyond the fog, the clear road again, and sunshine, and freedom, and

the day-long tramp, light-hearted and light of heel....

Patricia sprang impatiently from the couch; crossed to the window;

stood looking out across the fantastic patchwork of roofs spread below

her....

She must think this out while yet stunned to all anguish ... presently

would come tears, and groping misery; futile rebellion; futile attempts

at alleviation.... And logic would be drenched and helpless.

Think it out.... "I've met the woman who means all life to me, and all

death, and----" That did not need much thinking out, at least. It was

kind of Dacres to be so lucid.

... Patricia found herself wondering if the blow would have fallen with

yet more fatal effect on her if it had occurred after their wild stolen

week? She had not had the remotest conception of the terms on which the

adventure was undertaken; had left it to Dacres--or to the inspiration

of the moment. There had been a tingle in this haphazard prospect which

had woken her at dawn with flushed cheeks, and fast-beating heart, and

a gladness in her own daring that was part tremulous, part triumphant.

Neither was she in the least aware if the man had made up his mind

to any settled course of virtue or villainy--or whether he too were

letting the moment decide....

Well--now she would never know. Maybe it was as well that chance

had not allowed her the full reaping of happiness for its fuller

aftermath of grief. Or might grief have been more tranquil in grateful

recognition of the harvest gathered in before the rain?

"It doesn't matter...."

Dacres' offer of "our week of winter-sport," as though indeed nothing

had happened to mar its fulfilment, goaded her to a fine flare of

anger; she tore the letter violently across and across.... Then paused,

half amused that she should have been betrayed into any such act of

commonplace melodrama.... But how dared he suggest so coolly the

spoiling of all that the past had given them, by this dead travesty of

their exultant scheme? A smile twisted her sweet mocking mouth, as from

infallible perception of the workings of his brain she followed out his

mental evolutions which had resulted in the proposal....

Thus Dacres: "The man of the first degree would not have invited her,

under the circumstances, from sheer indifference. The man of the second

degree would not have invited her, nor even mentioned the plan fallen

through, from motives of delicacy, from the fear to hurt her. The man

of the third degree would elaborately have invited her to come after

all and in spite of all; throughout the week insulting her by an extra

show of chivalry, gentleness and charming consideration. And the

man of the fourth degree, which is myself, pay her the compliment of

supposing she would prefer to play up, as though indeed nothing had

happened, to the hard good-fellowship and careless exacting brutality

which would have been her lot by divine right, a month ago...."

"And the man of the fifth degree, Dacres," whispered Patricia, to the

torn fragments of his letter littering the floor, "would not have

committed the blunder of asking me to believe in all that careful

balderdash.... The superman of the fifth degree would have behaved

exactly like the man of the first degree--and would have let well

alone. You're not quite up to that, are you, Dacres?"...

Funny--to have been jilted! Like being unseated when in full gallop.

When would she ride again?--They say one ought to mount at once after a

throw, or the nerve is gone....

Some of the numbness was passing away now.... Hurriedly she envisioned

the sort of things that were bound to beset her while she beat her way

through her bad time ... sodden and bewildered with tears; storms of

gusty feeling leading to nowhere; leaden indifference to the stir and

pulse of life around her;--then blindly stupid contemptible moods, when

she would not, _could_ not face her loss ... it was all a mistake--the

explanation might come at any moment--Dacres might come at any

moment ... moods of attempted evasion, cramming out thought by some

frenzied occupation, wilfully wrenching her mind from contemplation

of the truth ... other people--other men--anything ... artificially

stuffing her ears, her sight, her logic; deliberately avoiding certain

places; stumbling painfully over certain dates; alternation of

sentimental memories with bombastic "don't care!"... More tears....

All this, serving only to prolong the agony. All this ... _mess_!...

How she despised the sort of thing that a love-disappointment made out

of its victim!

Was there then no cleaner way out of it all? No short cut through the

fog? Patricia vowed that not Dacres nor any man was to be allowed to

weight her buoyancy, bedraggle her white pride. Not for long, anyway.

Already she was eager to regain her forfeited fleetness. Was there no

short cut?--quick--now--while still she could think?--

And then, in the nick of time, Patricia was whirled up by one of her

big ideas!

Suppose, literally, she were to face the matter out, instead of

literally fleeing from it----(She had heard of girls, in such straits,

who had immediately been dispatched on a lengthy sea-voyage.)...

Suppose she were to consent to the week at Les Avants; consent of her

own free will to be confronted by the daily hourly evidence of her

loss: the perpetual presence of Dacres--loving someone else; renewal of

the most intimate companionship, lacking that glow which lit it from

behind as through a transparency. No possibility then, after that, of

pitiful self-delusion that it was all a mistake, or that he would come

back.

It would convince her. And, convincing her, set her free.

But it would irrevocably kill all the good they had enjoyed together.

This hollow repetition of what had been once a ringing beautiful

thing--it would blur and sully memory; forbid it altogether. Was it not

a shame ... to kill a beautiful thing?

No ... and so much the better! To kill the past in order to clear the

future. All the love he had given her, overlain by torment, stung

and poisoned. With this one week as a thorn-barrier between her and

the year gone by, she would never be able to linger for regretful

sentiment. The horizon ahead was hers, at the expense of the backward

look.

Only--could she go through with it? Go through with it, and not break

down? Seven days of strain, incessant and unflinching.... Well, she

would at least have her nights alone, if she wanted to ... cry.

Slowly the episode began to take on the hues of adventure; harsh sombre

hues--but why need adventure of necessity be joyous? This sharp test to

come was surely as much part of her adventure with Dacres as his arms

gripping her and his mouth hard upon her eyelids....

Yes--yes--with a queer sense of being lifted high, higher, out of

the ruts of thought, Patricia had a glimpse of adventure, true, and

sonorous, and made complete by anguish to the verge of breaking-point.

It was adventure itself, this dash into the fire for her liberty

beyond....

The vision died down ... left her tired, and a little dazed. But she

wrote to Upton at once, saying that she would come to Les Avants, as

they had planned it. She did not comment on the rest of his letter;

and she left her motive for the acceptance unexplained. He might

assume, if he pleased, that she could not suffer total loss of him,

preferred his company even under the stated conditions; or else he

might suppose it was for the sake of the winter-sports----

No--Dacres was not quite fool enough for that.

As a matter of fact, she had not made allowances for his present

thickened perceptions where she was concerned. All his fine keen

understandings were employed upon his new love, her moods and ways and

exactions. He accepted Patricia's decision in an unquestioning spirit;

they had agreed upon this week; it was her due to insist upon it. He

could trust her to play up to their unspoken treaty of "no scenes."

He hated spending his seven days of Christmas leave apart from--her.

But he owed them to Pat. His strict sense of honour insisted that he

owed them to Pat. He could not refrain from wishing, however, that

Pat had been woman enough to answer his proposal with an indignant or

hysterical avowal that she never wanted to see him again.

He was due back at Aldershot on the morning of the thirty-first....

Perhaps he might just manage to wind up his holiday by an hour with

the beloved, on the night of the thirtieth, after he had parted from

Pat. One hour--it would be worth the whole strenuous wearisome week

preceding it. No matter how fagged he was--somehow it should be

managed. So he made his plans. And it was with eyes fixed steadily upon

the climax he had promised himself, that he met Patricia at Folkestone

among the crowd that pressed on to the gangway to the Boulogne boat....

It was with gaze that had never wavered from that climax, that he

bade her good-bye at Charing Cross Station, exactly a week later, at

twenty-five minutes past nine on the evening of the thirtieth. His

casual farewell was just what it would have been had the days behind

them been packed rooms of treasure. Only she would have received a look

that denied the careless utterance ... silent assurance of a letter the

next morning.

Altogether, Upton's magnificent lack of consideration for her

welfare had materially and quite unnecessarily added to the torment

of Patricia's self-chosen week of discipline. It was a manner of

complimenting her which had required considerable living-up-to in the

old days when one was happy and could live up to well-nigh anything:

Never to betray discomfort nor emotion--that was all very well, spurred

by his approbation. But with his dreamy indifference taking for granted

the excellence of her conduct, Patricia could have wished for a little

less fatigue duty. She could account for his absent-mindedness easily

enough ... then the sudden pull back to recollection ... involuntary

atonement rendered by some extra deferential courtesy towards herself,

hastily superseded by the brusquer comradeship of the man of the

fourth degree. Fully a dozen times on the outward journey Patricia

watched him through this little comedy--"Truly man is an amazing work

of God!"--mouth tilted to its own slow mocking smile ... but now her

eyes were dead; dead green, that had once held their hot gold sparkle.

She was tired even before they started; for lying to one's family is

another thing that requires to be buoyed up by the sub-consciousness of

great delights in store to render the lies worth while. Patricia had

not at all enjoyed the invention of a school friend who had invited her

to Scotland for a week; so many tiny props went to make this structure

dependable; she loathed herself for the smaller quibbles far more than

for the one big lie. Hetty, of course, asked dozens of questions; and

Anne asked none at all, but insisted on packing for her--which was

worse.... "Will you really need your skates in Scotland, Pat?" And all

the secret arrangements would have been such fun if.... And the journey

itself would have been such fun if....

Mrs. O'Neill had just been peremptorily ordered by her doctor into a

nursing-home for six weeks; her health required perfect rest. It was a

relief to Pat that no news of her escapade could possibly penetrate in

any form of idle gossip, to the person whom it would most grieve.

Patricia was only twenty-two, and notoriously heedless of public

opinion, or it might have struck her forcibly that to risk her good

name for the love of a man was a foolish and headstrong proceeding;

but that to risk her good name for the sake of an idea was more than

folly--and approached divine lunacy....

Seven days that were like patterns clearly pricked out by a red-hot

needle. She did not suppose she would ever forget a single moment

of them. Two days out and two days back. And three days that

were outwardly a dazzle of ice and snow and sunshine, and white

peaks scissor-cut into dark blue skies; and warning shouts of the

bob-sleighers as they shot round the curve of the Loup--Gare! Gare!!

Gare!!! ... clean crunch of the steel runners through the hard

glittering path of snow; skaters swooping in fantastic postures to and

fro on the circular ice-rink; hotels that were mere glorified wooden

châlets; shining yellow parquet of floors and corridors littered by

skis and luges waiting to be scraped; in all the rooms the smell of

soaked woollens drying on the _calorifère_; young voices clattering

ceaselessly their excited sports-jargon.... Three breathless nights

of carnival and dancing, dancing till the stiffened limbs relaxed to

suppleness; dancing till four in the morning; up again at eight; no

respite--Patricia gave thanks to her superb health and fitness that

carried her with credit through at least the physical wear and tear of

her ... holiday. Carried her through, laughing.

But there were moments whose setting and opportunity craved their fill

of passion, that perforce remained empty as beautiful scooped-out

cups--too beautiful to be robbed of their meed of glowing wine....

One evening, after sunset, Dacres and Patricia raced on their

low-built skeletons down the lonely white mountain-path, that was now

rose-flooded to an unearthly radiance. Their old course, on which he

had twice beaten her. This time she beat him ... and sprang erect on

the snow-bank, dragging away her luge just quickly enough to avert

a spill as he came whizzing in her wake. For a second, in exultant

anticipation of his applause, she had forgotten.... His hearty "Well

done, Pat!" sounded almost real.

"I say, what a run!" She was flushed and tingling from her success, and

the speed, and the keen whip of the air.

"I beat you twice, though. I'm not sure that you deserve the binoculars

yet. And you won't get another chance, as we go home to-morrow."

Her mood died at the sudden animation betrayed in his last

phrase.--Curse the man ... couldn't he behave with outward decency,

anyhow? Listlessly she picked up her luge, shook the snow from her

shoulders....

She rather thought she deserved more than the binoculars.

But he seemed as impervious to memories as though his faculties were

encased in something hard and slippery, from which all flung allusions

rebounded ineffectually. And in an hour's time he would be holding

her in his arms for the one-step; and his hands would be entirely

nerveless; and his dancing automatically perfect....

As Upton had stopped alone down in the valley on the night of their

arrival, and had only followed her up to Les Avants the following

morning, the other visitors at the hotel, and the staff, and the native

peasantry, believed the two to have met accidentally, for the second

time; and to be renewing an acquaintance that was rapidly approaching

the interesting stage of a formal engagement. Therefore, and as though

fate were bent on atoning for its last year's unkindness in the matter,

everybody combined to manœuvre that they should invariably be thrown

together, and left to themselves. It did not lighten the burden of

intercourse, but it added to the situation--at least from Pat's point

of view--a certain pungent element of humour. Their combined prowess

at all forms of winter-sport had not been forgotten; and they walked

isolated and conspicuous: the daring pair who skated so beautifully

together, danced so harmoniously together, were so closely matched at

ski-ing and luging: "I really forget how many prizes they carried off

between them last year...."

Last year. Oh, no danger but that she would hate him enough, when the

reaction would set in from this ghastly necessity of playing-up and

playing-up; when she would have time to recall and to hate. Safely and

surely he was murdering the old Dacres whom she had loved; with every

act and look; especially with every act and look left undone.... Thus

and thus he was loosening her bondage, as she had intended he should.

She was glad she had come, and a thousand times been persuaded of the

utter change in him; in a thousand exquisite ways had his indifference

pounded into her receptivity. Glad that she was not sitting at home ...

a hot fire--a little room-a muffled obstinate sorrow.

Only ... they had planned such a wonderful week!

She checked the rush of thought. Not for that had she come adventuring

on the wrong side of the sun; not to give way at the last to a sluggish

sentimentalism her soul spurned. Not for that had she wilfully spoilt

the fairest message time had as yet whispered; not that she should now

hang back to regret its damaged fairness....

For Patricia O'Neill was proud of her twenty-one years, and the

glorious vigour of her limbs, and the resilient stretch of her brain;

and of her power to shape her life obedient to those empyreal flashes

of inspiration that burst upon her out of the angry clouds. Too proud

to yield up one jot of longing to a man who was oblivious of her. She

had heard and read of the divinity of sacrifice, of pride venting

itself in profoundest humility--but at twenty-two this creed was too

meek and too quenched of colour for her acceptance. And not all the

indignity of Dacres' far-away gaze into the black dripping glooms,

as the train pounded its way from Folkestone to Charing Cross, could

render her less proud. She braced her overtaxed nerves to meet the

last demands upon them ... for she knew well enough whither Upton was

bound that night---that night still--after he had got rid of her. His

adventure did not end simultaneously with hers....

The same cynical destiny as had attended them all along, had provided

they should be alone in their first-class carriage. If their truancy

had fulfilled the promise of its first conception, then in what

grateful mood would they now be giving thanks for their isolation ...

isolation that permitted her to lie along one of the seats, her head

drawn down to his shoulder; his hard sinewy hands straying very softly

indeed over her hair and her cheeks and her throat ... lulled tender

mood of retrospect ... naughty children returning home, too tired, too

happy to care if punishment await them....

"Kiss me, Patricia--we're almost there. I can see the lights. It's been

a good time.... Kiss me, Patricia--dear...."

Had he really said it? Or had she been dozing? She started to an

upright position in her corner; her head had lain against the

window-blind. And Dacres had not moved from his seat at the far end of

the carriage. He was still looking steadily out of the window, and he

was faintly smiling ... boat and train had been punctual; and already

he saw the blurred points of light that betokened London....

He had told her he would be with her on the evening of December the

thirtieth, at a quarter to ten. He would be true to his word.

CHAPTER III

"About that book you sent us up a few days ago, Temple--let me

see--'The Reverse of the Medal,' wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Alexander."

"You thought very highly of it?"

"Very highly indeed," replied Gareth.

"It's really not at all a bad piece of work"; the junior partner was

almost enthusiastic.

"Have you come to any decision on it?" Gareth enquired, with feigned

nonchalance. It was a week to-morrow that his promise to Pat O'Neill

fell due.

"Impossible while Mr. Campbell is still away. I've just heard from him

that he intends stopping in Scotland over the New Year. But I fancy he

will agree with me that it's worth while to prevent this author from

entering into a contract with Locker and Swyn; he's very much their

style."

For Alexander did not regard the firm of Leslie Campbell with the eye

of its proud founder, as a definite and individual establishment;

but as a negative result of what had to be positively prevented from

straying to any rival firm of publishers.

"The characterization is fairly strong, and the central idea passably

original," continued the unemotional young Oxonian.

And again the reader assented.

"Well, this O'Neill--whoever he may be--" referring to the manuscript

again, "must wait another fortnight. He'll have to alter the title; I'm

not keen on it, and it's bad for the ads. I daresay we can get it out

by April. And there's a passage near the end will certainly have to be

cut.... I shall have trouble with Mr. Campbell over that," resignedly;

"he'll want it left in for a dead cert. Is Burnett here? You might send

him in to me...."

The reader was summarily dismissed.

He was glad that Alexander had praised the book; but it bothered

him that Patricia should unnecessarily be kept on the rack pending

Campbell's return from his native heath. For if Alexander spoke already

of the "ads," there was not the slightest doubt that the book was

virtually accepted.

He decided he could, in an unofficial capacity, betray as much to the

girl. After all, her patience had already been unfairly stretched over

the six weeks that "The Reverse of the Medal" had lain in the bottom

drawer of the sitting-room at Pacific Villa.... Alexander could not

know this, of course; but Gareth had promised her some certain relief

by the morrow.

He wrote to her, saying he had news that could not possibly be imparted

by letter--though why not, was a matter entirely between him and his

God!--and would she do him the pleasure of meeting him to-morrow

(Saturday) at half-past two, at the bookstall of the Piccadilly Tube,

and have tea with him?

He told Kathleen that evening that he would be detained at the office

the following afternoon for some special work connected with the "White

Review." Unlike what had been her contemptuous method of tossing him

some entirely inadequate excuse at the period when she was deceiving

him with Napier Kirby, he was very punctilious in the details of his

falsehood; and kept on nervously elaborating it, feeling somehow less

guilty as he did so....

After all, it was business detaining him; Alexander had as good as

bidden him inform the author of "The Reverse of the Medal" that the

firm was favourably considering the novel.... Had Alexander issued any

such message? By the time Gareth had separately dealt with Kathleen and

with his own conscience, he could not remember any more what was the

unveiled truth of the matter....

* * * * *

"Shall we go for a saunter in the country?" suggested Patricia O'Neill,

directly on encounter; "we can change from this line for Chorley Wood;

and the weather is just as I like it!"

Through the Tube entrance could be seen a pale leaden sky, and a

hailstorm lashing the pavement. But Gareth was so relieved at her easy

assumption of command, that he assented enthusiastically to all she

said: certainly, it was just the afternoon for a country stroll.... She

directed him to the booking-office; then down to the train--change

safely effected at Baker Street ... and they found themselves perforce

divided until arrival at Chorley Wood.

"Which way? I'm quite helpless, you know!" he smiled at her

confidentially, as they emerged from the small country station into a

slanting fury of hail.

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows ... about three miles from

here. We'll go and pick it for tea. Come along--to the right; I'm at

home in these parts. Why, what's all this going on over my head?" as,

looking joyfully skywards, she found her view blocked by an affair of

silk and spikes; "my dear man, I appreciate your delicious old-world

courtesy, truly I do, and none more than I ... I used to paint it on

satin. But for Heaven's sake remove that obstreperous object!"

"I don't want you to get wet," said Gareth gently, still shielding her

with his umbrella. "You had better take my arm."

Patricia's eyes danced ... and suddenly she yielded. She was being

rather good to him, for she detested umbrellas, never caught cold,

liked best to swing along free and aloof, and had bitten back several

flippantly witty comments to his request--simply because she both liked

and respected this man with the rugged handsome face, and the wistful

smile; and instinct told her how immeasurably her refusal to accede to

his manly protection, would hurt him at this juncture. Besides, why

not accept with appreciative good grace the different wares that were

offered her at their different times of offering? Stirring taste of

matched equality with Dacres Upton; and Temple's grave romantic charm

that savoured of a bygone era. With the gesture of slipping her hand

through his arm, Patricia's fancy envisioned him in a tall beaver

hat, mull-coloured breeches, and three-caped overcoat ... herself in

dove-colour, with a large poke bonnet and a trustful expression.

"The vision passeth away, but the shadow of the gamp remaineth ..."

murmured Patricia piously, already beginning to be restive in her role

of a-hundred-years-ago. "You might break the blow to me," she said

aloud; "are they going to refuse my book?"

"Good Heavens, no! what a brute I am to let you be worrying your heart

out all this time."

"Oh, I wasn't," Patricia owned frankly; "I've a sneaking sort of

confidence in the worth of my own work which has upheld me during the

damnably long time you have taken to decide on its merits. Forgive the

language; I daresay it wasn't your fault."

Gareth winced.... And quickly told her what Alexander had said that

morning.

"And you think that means----?"

"Acceptance; I'm quite sure of it. If Vincent Alexander admits anything

to be tolerably average, it's equivalent to a delirious outburst from

Mr. Campbell, our chief. They have about the same standard of judgment,

but different ways of expressing it. You'll be summoned to an interview

shortly, and then you'll see for yourself. Our junior partner doesn't

think authors ought to be encouraged."

"But the best writers publish with you, don't they? an awfully good

array. I selected the firm for a first try because I thought I would

look well in the catalogue all among your Graham Carrs and Ran Wymans

and--let me see--who else is of the illustrious company?"

Gareth named a few more of "Campbell's Young Men"; wondering meanwhile

if anything of his own forfeited glamour of belonging to that arrogant

little band of intellects, was shared by the girl? or whether any other

good firm of publishers would have satisfied her equally.

But just at present he could not feel quite as bitter over his lost

chance as during the brooding dreary evenings at home.... Now, with

her shoulder brushing his at every step, and her wind-bitten cheek

poppy-stained against the blown gold of her hair. Presently he asked

her solicitously if she were not tired?

"We're nearly there," she encouraged him, thinking this to be a

confession on his part. "I'm taking you to a nice ramshackle mill,

where a nice fat Yorkshire woman will give us tea and a fire and her

family history: the miller drinks; and somebody quite important was

once murdered there and they can't get used to the distinction; and she

makes perfectly wonderful cake--Cornish heavy-cake; and cures swine and

makes them into ham; and has almost cured her husband.... Oh, she's

remarkably versatile!"

She was surprised at Gareth's delight in her description. The haphazard

jumble of geography and jam and millers and murders and swine, appealed

to him as a spinner of words.... He was very happy; and happier still

when they finally arrived at their fairy-tale destination, and were

able at last to cower from the malevolent weather in front of a jovial

red fire, in the parlour of the mill-house. He insisted on removing

Patricia's slouch hat, and her tweed jacket with its deep leather

pockets, and her gauntlet gloves; and on strenuously holding up each

dripping article in turn before the blaze ... till her lazy laughing

voice remonstrated that she had no use for toasted gloves, and would he

please make room for her to dry her hair.... Turning, he saw that she

had loosened the wet coils, which now lay in a rumpled glister about

her shoulders.

"I'm enjoying this," she remarked with the innocent candour that, had

he but known it, always presaged her most disconcerting remarks. "The

miller's lady is getting our tea, and my book is as good as accepted,

and you're well on the way to fall in love with me.... I put it to

you--what could be more pleasant?"

"Sit down and let me scrape the mud from your shoes." He was glad of

an excuse to avert his face; glad too to be kneeling in an attitude of

worship in front of her; most of all glad that he was looking after her

so well.... Yes, undoubtedly he was looking after her; he had conducted

this expedition without a hitch so far; and he had been masterful over

the umbrella--the memory enfolded him in a sense of rest to which he

had been a stranger for years.

Patricia lay back in her arm-chair, and watched him from under her

drooping lids. Let matters take their course--why not? It was two

years now since Dacres' curt good-bye on that nightmare thirtieth

of December. Her dormant vitality was unashamedly eager for another

awakening and a different awakening; anything less excellent in the

same line would inevitably have invited comparison. But Gareth Temple

touched a semi-humorous semi-maternal fount of tenderness within her,

which Upton never had approached.... Her hand stole out towards his

massive iron-grey head bent before her--then quickly she drew back, as

their Yorkshire hostess entered with the Cornish heavy-cake and the

teapot.

"Ah, now, I came all the way from London to taste that cake of yours,

Mrs. Thorpe," Patricia announced gallantly.

Mrs. Thorpe looked lugubrious; and gave information that she was not

Mrs. Thorpe, but Mrs. Thorpe's sister; and Mrs. Thorpe was dead;

and she hoped the cake would be to their liking--"And that be her

funeral-card yonder on wall; and ef ee want anything else ee'll be

speakin' fur et..." the door closed.

"Oh, Hell!" ruefully exclaimed Patricia, whose tongue all too easily

became profane. "I hope the talent runs in the family."

Evidently this was not the case. The cake proved to be sopping wet, and

beyond all normal heaviness of heavy-cake.

"We simply dare not leave it untouched, after my injudicious remarks.

I'm sorry for you, Gareth Temple, but you'll have to swallow double

portion, as an act of fealty to me."

But at his apprehensive gaze towards the cake, she relented; and

suggested instead that they should burn it. "Chuck it on the fire! Will

it leave any traces of itself, I wonder?"

It did not. It merely put out the fire.

Patricia shrugged her shoulders: "A clear example of the survival of

the fittest. Not only have we still on our hands a whole round damp

cake in perfectly healthy condition; but we shall also have to account

to the miller's deceased wife's sister for the suspicious demise of the

fire!"

Gareth stood helplessly with the blackened cake in his hands: "Shall

I--shall I shove it under the carpet? Or climb through the window and

bury it in the garden? I'll do anything for you----"

"Commit any crime? This comes of it, when a publisher goes traipsing

round with his mad young clients."

"I'm only reader to the firm," he reminded her.

"I don't know ... somehow or other I shall always think of you as

responsible for the publication of my book."

He was silent for a moment. And then, driven by an unconquerable

impulse, said quietly: "I was very nearly responsible in preventing the

publication of your book."

"What do you mean?"

He set down the cake on the table; walked to the window; stood with his

back to her, seeking courage for confession.

Her voice came to him with a new grave note in it: "Mr. Temple--what do

you mean?"

Desperately he faced round. It had got to be done.

"I kept back your book--kept it back for six weeks--hid it away so that

no one else should see it. I hated it ... your book that contained the

idea of my book--God! shall I ever forget the reading of it! And then I

thought ... if only I could get mine done first; get it in first, and

published first.... It was the same idea, you see--just the same idea.

And it wasn't fair----"

He halted; came slowly back to the fire; stood looking down into it,

head steadily averted from her eyes ... the gold-shot gold-veiled green

of her eyes. Then he went on more coherently:

"It was quite fair; yours was ready first, so it ought to have had

first chance with the public. I took it home to read in my official

capacity; and just because of that, it was unspeakable that I should

have done such a thing--to you, dear, now that I know you ... and to

anyone. Pat O'Neill was just a name to me. I imagined him an ambitious

boy--a boy with genius, who was bound to get there in the long run.

But I was middle-aged, and a failure, and this one idea had come to

me--and I could write only this one book; it was my justification. Oh,

all this is no excuse. I have no excuse. I'm only telling you how it

happened...."

Would she speak now? Say that she was disappointed?--more than that:

utterly contemptuous; not because it was her own career he had tampered

with, but because Patricia O'Neill could not condone--meanness.

Would she never speak? He stood longing for absolution; honestly

ashamed--yet shame not unmixed with a queer strain of gladness that he

should have challenged her attention, stamped his personality upon her

consciousness, with anything so definite as a confession.

"Is your book finished yet?"

"No."

"Then why did you send up mine ... after all?"

He looked at her now. "You know why...."

"Say it!" her mandate was imperial.

"I love you, Patricia." He did not seek to touch her, nor even to draw

nearer. At any moment she might pronounce sentence. He felt her mind

unfathomably concentrated on some purpose behind speech.

After a pause, she said in quite altered tones: "Which is the exact

theme of my book which poached on yours?"

"I never said you poached; of course you didn't--any more than I.

But I'm curious to know how and under what circumstances you were

inspired by the duplicate theme.... It was adventure completed by

pain--especially the adventure of a man and a woman. "The Round

Adventure" was the title of my novel. And both our heroes carried about

a secret fear, and recognized this fear to be part of the fun. And

both died by it--deliberately. You stumble across that sort of truth

by what you didn't do yourself; at least, that was the way with me ...

the shadow-side of the circle, as well as the other ... if you shirk

it, you're never free--never free again."

She repeated musingly: "Never free again. You earn that sort of truth

by what you _did_ screw yourself up to do--at least, that was the way

with me."

"And then you wrote a book about it. Because you had always wanted to

write?"

"Not a bit of it! Just because I had an abstract discovery on my hands

and wanted to get rid of it in some tangible form. It worries me when

things lie about untidily and are wasted. I grant you it was quite

exciting to discover I had a talent in my napkin."

Gareth asked, jealously, who was the prototype of Robert Nugent. And

she favoured him with that smile at once tantalizing and enigmatic

which the best of girls cannot refrain from using on one male when

speaking to him of another.

"He was a dashing cavalry captain, and he treated me badly. Have I

never struck you as a sorrowful victim to a man's perfidy?"

"You didn't care for him," infinitely relieved; "or you wouldn't make a

joke of it."

She laughed. "I've paid my toll, and I'm free as air. It was a full two

years ago--a long and wearisome tale. Do you want to hear it? Dying to,

aren't you? And you're being so delightfully shocked at my bright and

breezy allusions.... Own up! it would have cheered you considerably if

I'd gone off into a highly respectable decline. I'll start my narrative

directly you unhook that attentive funeral expression--it embarrasses

me to such an extent that I shall shortly break into bitter sobs...."

* * * * *

"And now we're going home," when in the same mood of hectic flippancy,

she had retailed her episode with Dacres Upton. Gareth was doubtful

whether or not the flippancy were assumed. Nor did he feel safe in an

assumption that Patricia had altogether forgiven him for the retention

of her book. She was a baffling creature--why had she insisted on

hearing him say that he loved her?...

Had he known more of Patricia, it would have been clear to him that

she was off again on one of her recurring star-scampers; swept up by

an idea to which her entire life of action must swiftly be altered and

reset, no matter at what cost of destruction and upheaval.

She was silent all the way home, and abstracted; only seemed to become

re-aware of him at parting. "It's--all right, you know, Gareth."

"Is it? Is it? When shall I see you again?"

"Oh, leave it to chance, my dear man!"

He returned to Pacific Villa with the reaction of utter flatness upon

him.

He heard no word from Patricia during the next ten days; and tormented

himself by the alternate beliefs that he had disgusted her utterly by

his confession, that he had merely bored her on that afternoon they had

spent together, or that he was expected now to take the initiative--do

something vigorous and unexpected--he had not the remotest idea what!

She had said: "Leave it to chance"--which might have cloaked the

message: "I leave it to you!"

But she must see, surely she must see, that he could not insolently

thrust himself upon her presence, now, after the injury she was aware

he had done her; by all the rules in the game, it was incumbent upon

him to wait her pleasure in the matter. "It's all right, you know,

Gareth!"--was that meant for reassurance?

And after all, what had he to do with all this fretting and

questioning? He, who since sixteen springs had known that when the girl

came along, he was not free. "Grant the path be clear before you...."

Let him stick to his dream-girl, and safety. Dream-girl--he tried to

recall her from the shadow-wood wherein she dwelt ... but she faded to

insipidity beside the vivid reality of Patricia.

His book, then, with last chapters waiting to be completed; the old

anodyne of work....

And what was the good of that, when with Mr. Campbell's return, "The

Reverse of the Medal" would doubtless be put instantly into preparation

for the spring season? There was no room in the world for two books of

one idea.

And suddenly it struck him that he was bound to see Patricia directly

the firm requested their interview with her. Why then, his mind might

cease from nagging; he would see her then, for a certainty. Gareth

mistrusted the offices of chance.

As he had anticipated, Leslie Campbell immediately hailed in "The

Reverse of the Medal" a success which would rival even "Piccadilly,"

now booming in its cheap edition, and on the verge of dramatization

and production. Pat O'Neill was to be sent for instantly, to sign

a contract with an option on his next two books. Pat O'Neill was a

find--the genius of the age--a feather in the cap of the publisher who

discovered him!... The offices hummed with the new name. Alexander was

impotent to stem the cataracts of his partner's enthusiasm. Campbell

prattled about Pat O'Neill to Graham Carr, to the charwoman, to Mona

Gurney, to the Heart-breaker.... It was a queer sensation for Gareth

to hear the name bandied to and fro, and to realize that he alone had

walked and talked with the owner.

And all this fizzing excitement might have been for his book....

He would see Patricia enter through those swing-doors to-morrow at

eleven-thirty; so rumour and young Burnett declared....

All this might have been for his book....

Thus, pendulum-wise, his mind feverishly ticked between the two points.

Leslie Campbell, meeting Gareth the next morning on the stairs,

informed him confidentially and for the hundredth time, that the

unknown celebrity was that day expected at the office. Then he hurried

on to the inner room where Alexander already waited, his early presence

a rare tribute to the impending interview.

Gareth found it well-nigh impossible to concentrate on his work.

It was the more difficult since Ran Wyman and Graham Carr, the one

accidentally and the other by intent, had both established themselves

in the outer office, to catch a glimpse of their future colleague.

"Is he going to write for the 'White 'Un'?"

"Sure. And crowd us all out. Your days are numbered, Carr; you know

what the chief is like over a new swan of intellect. And he's keen on

paying out poor old Alex for taking that ghastly South-African serial."

"What--by those Frinton-on-Sea people?--Kate and Jasper Thurgood?

Nonsense, Wyman, he hasn't! Not for the 'White 'Un'!"

"He has, and I've seen it," chuckled Ran Wyman. "Six hundred pages of

'Queer thraldom of the Veldt.' Treks and kraals and kopjes sprinkled

like pepper; and a heroine with a Biblical name who stands all day long

in a doorway, her blouse minus its top button to show the full generous

curves of her bosom."

"Oh well, if Alex, curse his hardened greed-bitten soul, is out for

that sort of thing, he'd better ask Gilman for a contribution at once.

I came across a pearl of Gilman's the other day, in an old paper-back:

'The Earl of all the Beaumaynes behaved at the dinner-party with the

simplicity and affability that distinguishes true breeding from its

counterfeit brother'--yes, really, I'm not making this up ... listen:

'Several times he even took an entrée-dish from the servant's hand,

and helped Gracie himself, that the blushing girl might feel more at

her ease....' My servant can't understand what's come to me lately at

my little informal dinner-parties, when I keep on snatching the dishes

away from him; he doesn't know that I'm emulating the aristocracy."

"You probably only succeed in behaving like its 'counterfeit brother.'

But what a priceless person Gilman is!" Wyman picked up an eccentric

headgear in yellow felt. "After all, I shan't stay to cheer our infant

prodigy. His conceit will doubtless be enormous without the added

compliment that is bound to be shed by my presence. Conceit is for the

poor in spirit, _n'est ce pas, Jimmy, mon enfant?_" and tweaking, as

he passed, the ear of the Heart-breaker, who interrupted his whistling

by a soul-shattering yell, Wyman slammed the glass door; then returned

to say: "Bring him round to supper some time next week, Carr, if he's

presentable"--and ran downstairs.

"H'any more, Mr. Temple?"

"Yes, these can go." Gareth handed Jimmy a couple of brown-paper-bound

manuscripts. He wished Carr and Burnett would likewise depart, and

leave him in peace to ... wait for Patricia. But they lingered on,

exchanging anecdotes of the profession.

"Can I see Mr. Campbell?"

It was of Burnett, nearest the door, that the entrant made careless

enquiry. He replied, in the melancholy and regretful tones reserved

especially for unsolicited female intruders on the firm's precious

time: "I'm afraid Mr. Campbell is away. Did you wish to make an

appointment?"

"I have one, thanks. Say Miss O'Neill is here."

"'Er!" exclaimed Jimmy audibly, in the silence following this

announcement; "an' I never tumbled to it!"

Carr came quickly forward, releasing the stricken Burnett of

responsibility.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Neill. The chief is most anxious to

see you, of course. We've all heard such a lot of your novel. May I

introduce myself?--Graham Carr."

Patricia had read "Piccadilly," and lingered a moment, talking to Carr.

Then Campbell, mysteriously aware of her presence, burst open the door

of his sanctum, and overwhelmed the author of "The Reverse of the

Medal" in a gale of welcome; shaking her by both hands, congratulating

her, congratulating everyone; introducing Alexander, unnecessarily

introducing Carr, introducing Jimmy and young Burnett, and Gareth....

(Pat's eyes regarded him with perfect calmness from under her level

brows!)... "A masterpiece! proud of ye, my lass, proud of ye!"--trying,

against breathlessness and cough, to quote what the junior partner had

said about the book.... Then a mild interpolation from that gentleman

that they might as well talk some business, if Mr. Campbell had no

objection--and the door of the private office sharply shut; young

Burnett and Graham Carr exchanging admiring commentary down the stairs;

their tread dying away; low continuous murmur of voices from the inner

room; save for that, silence all about the reader, where he sat at his

desk, amid a medley of proofs and manuscript, blotting-paper, ledgers,

and foolscap.

... She would speak to him, coming out. Of course she would. She had

simply relied on their secret understanding to explain her masquerade

of indifference....

The murmur of voices swelled suddenly louder, as Alexander opened

the glass door, and came through to fetch a thick roll of paper; the

contract, no doubt. Contract, yes. Gareth knew exactly all the outward

symbols of having got there, and how they would accumulate in the

future: contract for the next book, and the book after that; pile of

advertisements and posters; of press reviews; of letters from unknown

admirers and fellow celebrities; discussions _re_ American rights, and

the cheap edition, and a possible édition de luxe with illustrations;

editors applying for photographs and favourite 'hobby' of this new

star on the firmament; journalists appealing for an interview; rival

publishers with tempting and persistent bait; diffident request from

Alexander that Miss O'Neill might be prevailed upon to contribute

(expensively) to the "White Review" ... Gareth knew; and all these

prosaic and troublesome matters were poetry in his silent singing of

them. Gareth knew; he had imagined the scene often enough with--_not_

Pat O'Neill as its hero. And a rueful smile twitched his lips,

wondering if the girl were now astride of the table, in the delirium of

insolent enjoyment once described by Graham Carr.

"And she'll swing her legs with the proper amount of--swing! As for

me----"

Well, here he sat in the outer office.

And behind the door marked in black lettering: "Private," a world given

away....

Would she speak to him--coming out?

* * * * *

"And now if you'd just put your name to the contract, Miss O'Neill----"

The preliminaries of the interview had been conducted on a note of

frigid decorum from Alexander--in case anyone should suspect that he

admired the cut of this creature's tan tailor-made--and with much

demure diffidence on the part of Patricia; while Campbell dashed

himself alternately on one and then the other, after the fashion of an

all too youthful Aberdeen terrier; and: "down, sir, down!" expressed in

Alexander's restraining: "Certainly, Mr. Campbell, I was just coming to

that."

"And I should like to tell ye, my dear young leddy, what my friend

Lennox, editor of the 'Critic,' said to me about your closing chapter

when I showed it to him----"

"Wouldn't it be as well, Mr. Campbell, to get this attended to, before

we begin repeating the eulogies which Miss O'Neill's work so richly

deserves?"

"Alexander's impetuous," Campbell confided to Pat, in an aside. "Ah,

he's young! It's verra reesky to tek a young partner."

All of which, Patricia found immensely entertaining.

Then Alexander brought in the contract. "Take it home to digest at your

leisure, if you'd rather!" Pat ran her eye down the clauses.

"'In the event of the author's death' is rather tactlessly

over-emphasized, isn't it?"

Alexander explained that this was a mere matter of form.

"I rather like the chorus that runs through," she continued; "'Thirteen

copies shall be reckoned as twelve.'... It would set rather well to

part-music. Or is it a magic incantation to preserve me from harm?"

The junior partner did not budge a muscle of his face; but he said: "On

the contrary, Miss O'Neill, it's a magic incantation to preserve _US_

from harm."--And she discovered that she liked him.

Laying down the parchment on the table, she looked Campbell steadily

in the eye: "Am I to understand that you're trying to do me out

of elevenpence every time that twelve goes into a thousand, and

one over to make thirteen? Because I'm only an unprotected girl,

without--without"--her voice quivered--"without even a nice kind agent

to look after me!"

"It's like this, ye see----" Campbell, very distressed, began

to calculate the author's percentage of profit in ratio to the

publisher's, with expenses deducted. And Alexander flipped the

window-cord, and crossed his legs, and looked as if senior partners

were really rather a mistake.

"You will find the last two clauses relate to your future books, Miss

O'Neill. And now, if you'll sign----"

Patricia finished her perusal of the contract, and laid it aside.

There was a curious impishness to the upward-tilted corners of her

mouth; but her eyes were misted and far-away.... In a hundred different

directions, little shutters seemed to have flown open, with attractive

vistas beyond ... on and on and out ... vigour of creation, fun of

popularity, rivalry and applause and stimulation; then the next book,

and the next ... paths of literature--jolly little twisted

paths ... rewards of literature; literary jargon and literary

companions, literary grooves and outlook.... Well--it vrould have been

rather fun!

"I'm going to withdraw 'The Reverse of the Medal,'" she said. "I've

decided not to publish, after all."

* * * * *

Gareth, straining his ears for all sounds from the inner room, was

surprised to hear the word "murder" hurled forth in Campbell's

distinctest bellow.... "Yes, I will say it, Alex; I mean it, Miss

O'Neill. It's your ain genius ye're strangling, weelfully...."

His voice died down again, probably beneath the admonishment of

Alexander's lifted eyebrow.

And then Gareth remembered that the junior partner had, on first

reading of the "Reverse of the Medal," remarked to him that a certain

passage would have to be cut, and that there would be trouble with

Mr. Campbell on the subject. The trouble was evidently in full

swing. Perhaps Patricia had yielded too easily to Alexander's suave

suggestions; too easily--for Leslie Campbell's liking.

Presently the door opened, and she came out. Gareth did not notice if

either of the partners were in attendance upon her exit. Breathlessly

he waited; and only when she was level with his desk, did he raise his

eyes to meet hers.... She bestowed on him a careless nod, and without

pausing, walked straight on to the outer door, and down the stone

stairs.

... He sat very still, with the array of uncorrected proofs before him;

disappointment like a damp cloud weighing down his soul.

It was as he had dreaded. She had gone past him, actually and in

spirit. She was a Personage now. And for weeks and months he would be

doomed to move in an atmosphere effervescent with her triumphs; the

while she became ever more absorbed by her intellectual intimacies with

"Campbell's Young Men"; swang her legs from the table of Campbell's

inner sanctum; was impudent as she pleased to Alexander; permitted

the awed worship of Jimmy and young Burnett; sometimes graciously

remembered to nod to the reader in the outer office!

Worse, far worse, than if she had been the boy he had originally

envisioned. Far worse--being Patricia....

For that black hour, it seemed to Gareth that no nightmare could exceed

in horror the nightmare of Patricia as One of Them. For that hour he

found himself wishing that he had never yielded up her book from its

hiding-place in Pacific Villa; never confessed to her his part in its

retention....

Then, with a long breath as of one who has been stifled in a clogged

slime-fettered stream, he made an attempt to rise above this

despondency of sick envy; to regain his old resignation of last

summer,--before little Moll Aynsleigh had stirred him with the pages of

her "Spring-fret"; before the dream-girl had slipped to him between the

pale green beech-stems; before he had been given an attic and a harbour

to play with, and sweet prospects of solitude, and a book of his own;

before ambition was lit, and flamed, and was quenched again in the

heart of the world; and before the coming of Patricia to make him young

as romance, and mad as romance, and in love with romance.

All over now. He took up his pencil, and went on quietly correcting

proofs. Other people's books had the laugh of him after all. Other

people's books would always have the laugh of him.

By and by he became vaguely aware that the partners were thoroughly

upset over something that had occurred, and that all was not harmony in

the firm since the interview with Pat O'Neill. He wondered if she could

have refused to sign any contract till a literary agent should have

inspected it in her interests. Campbell howled like a jackal at the

very mention of an agent; and invariably, and with the utmost lack of

manners, turned the species over to Alexander to deal with.

But even that would hardly account for the "two thundering bad tempers"

of which Burnett complained to Gareth later on: "Wonder what our

new darling of the gods can have done to upset 'em. I asked quite

innocently when 'The Reverse of the Medal' was to be sent to the

printer, and the chief nearly bit my head off."

But lunch with his confidential secretary seemingly loosened Campbell's

tongue; so that Burnett, himself loyally sharing the prevalent mood of

angry consternation, was able afterwards to enlighten Jimmy and the

reader simultaneously.

"She's withdrawn the manuscript!"

"Not never!" Jimmy's eyes nearly goggled out of his head. And Gareth's:

"What for?" sounded sharp and unnatural to his own ears. His blood was

singing so loudly in his head that he could hardly hear Burnett's reply:

"Lord only knows. If our firm's not good enough for my lady, I should

like to know what is. But the chief says she's not taking it to anyone

else--simply has changed her mind about it and doesn't want to have

it published at all. It's _her_ book--what is one to do? Can't bring

it out against the author's consent. Though it's criminal letting

stuff like that be wasted. She can't have thought what good it might

have done to US. We haven't nabbed a real winner since 'Piccadilly.'

Well--there you are...."

He awoke to the fact that the Heart-breaker was his sole audience.

Gareth had disappeared.

Gareth was on his way to Sydenham.

The maid who opened the door informed him that Miss Patricia was out,

but would probably be in presently, and would he care to wait?

He paced for half an hour in her sitting-room. Then the furious barking

of dogs and clang of bicycle bells drew him to the window--whence he

just received a fleeting vision of Patricia, in a warm crimson jersey,

coasting full speed down the hill, and leaping from the saddle,

encumbered by an adoring frenzied surge of dogs and flappers.... Then

she swung, with that loose supple movement of the hips that was so

intensely hers, into the porch and out of sight.

He stood upright in the middle of the room, heart beating violently.

Footsteps down the passage. Her voice, clear and loud and fresh: "Down,

Rix! Down, you brute!... Ah, that's right--good fellow----" And she

entered, still clamorously surrounded; hair in a bright tangle; cheeks

aglow.

"Hullo--it was dear of you to come.... Now then, off with you, the

whole pack; I'm done with you for the moment--private audience awaiting

me. No, Rix can stop. No, Hetty, I'm not bringing the handsome

gentleman into the schoolroom for tea--Great Scott, what next! and

you and your pals the merest puling babes, who haven't even learnt

yet not to whisper in company...." Remonstrating noisily, the three

healthy schoolgirls departed, with the terriers at their heels. "Let me

introduce you--this is Vercingetorix, my special property." Pat talked

very fast, as though not quite ready yet to hear what the man had to

say; "Not quite so affectionate, my angel!" as the four-foot-high St.

Bernard dabbed clumsily with his tongue at Gareth's face; "You needn't

use all the syllables of his name at once; but the man who gave him to

me had called him Tiny ... can you conceive of anything less subtle? I

informed him that his was a primitive type of humour, and he departed

utterly crushed. That's right--not an inch of room for us!" for by

now Vercingetorix had contrived to put most of himself on to the

divan, where he lolled in voluptuous pomp, with a big rough sheet of

red tongue hanging out; "...bless you, we love to deny ourselves for

you!... He's a mere puppy, you know; eight months old; has only just

started to grow, really. And the pathos of it all is that he thinks

he's small; he does, indeed. He tries to behave like an ordinary

puppy--these bundlesome little things that you can pick up with one

finger. And I ask you--look at him!"

But for all her casual and airy chatter, Patricia could not fail to

perceive that Gareth's looks were for her. She tossed off her jersey,

picked up a book and laid it down again ... and faced him, rather a

tremulous smile on her lips, but with head erect, and chin more than

ever dented.

"Well, my man...."

"Why did you do it?"

She did not speak--but then her hands came out in a swift movement

towards him, as though she were giving--giving----

And he seized them and held them.

"Patricia, was it for me?--Was it?... You cared enough for that?"

"Oh, but I'm so glad if it's to be your book!" she cried

impetuously ... and he felt as though he stood in an open place, the

centre of a great gale of love.

"Adorable...." And surely he could allow himself to kiss her, gently,

for gratitude's sake.... But control left him at the quick hot response

of her lips.... And Heaven had showered its madness upon him before

control ever came back again----