TITUS

“I tell you,” said Titus, “you should have married money.”

“If you like to put it that way,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “there’s nothing to

stop you.”

“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand

a year’s no earthly use to you.”

“It would be if I had my share.”

Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye.

“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly

how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year

you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.”

“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously.

“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But

we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has

materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too

low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I

put it too high.”

“I suppose you want me to be dressed.”

Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away.

“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly.

But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.”

“Are you suggesting——”

“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Cheviot. “I’m pointing out hard facts.”

“I suppose you consider you’re very generous.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m stingy. Seven hundred and ninety quid in less

than——”

“It would interest me to know what you consider my share.”

“I don’t know,” said Titus. “I don’t pretend to know. The flat and the

car cost about eighteen hundred. I spend about a hundred——”

“We could live much more cheaply,” said Blanche.

“I don’t quite see why we should.”

“Exactly. You choose the style in which we live. If we spent less money

on that, we should have more money to spend on other things.”

“Such as clothes,” said Titus. “What a truly solemn thought. Never mind.

You chose the flat when I was out of town. And the car.”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t be content with anything else.”

“In fact, you sank your wishes to do me pleasure?”

“I did—like a fool,” said Blanche.

“You covered it up very well,” said Cheviot. “When the flat in St.

James’s fell through, you cried all night. And that was more expensive.”

“It’s no good talking,” said Blanche. “You don’t understand. In

America——”

“I know,” said Titus. “I know. In America you’d have four-fifths of my

income, and I should pay for your furs. All I can say is I’m damned glad

I’m English.”

“In America men work.”

“Is that your trouble? Well, I’ve worked pretty hard in my time and I’m

forty-two. Moreover, I’ve got a game leg. Never mind. What about the

car?”

“Well, what about it?” said Blanche defiantly.

“This,” said her husband. “You say that you chose it because you knew

that I should not be content with anything else. Do you remember the car

I used to have?”

“Did you expect me to go about in that?”

Cheviot sighed.

“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t

feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.”

Mrs. Cheviot shuddered.

“Need you be disgusting?” she said.

“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine

months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and

here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want

you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But you

_have_—you _do_—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count.

If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But

will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to

splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if

you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another

cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car.

But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to

come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you

on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the

fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on

the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.”

“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche.

“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I

said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you

said?”

“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’” said Mrs. Cheviot.

“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than

us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t

feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.”

“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a

second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.”

“They’d better have ours,” said Titus. “If we cut out the car——”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Blanche. “We must have a car and we must have a

decent address. We must be served, and I must be well turned out.

If——”

“Exactly,” said Titus. “Now let’s translate that saying. What you really

mean is, ‘We must have a Rolls, and I won’t live West of Park Lane. We

must have at least five servants, and I’ve got to dress accordin’ an’ a

big bit over.’ Well, that’s all glorious, but the brutal answer’s this.

Someone once said in his thirst that to get a quart into a pint pot was

beyond the power of miserable man. Well, the converse is equally

melancholy and equally true. The man who can get a quart _out of_ a pint

pot has never been foaled—or if he has, my dear, his name’s not Titus.

And there we are. We’ve three thousand pounds a year—to spend. If you

can divide it by ten an’ get six hundred for answer, I’ll climb up the

nearest steeple an’ push myself off.” He flung himself into a chair and

put his head in his hands. “I’m not certain that wouldn’t be the best

move, any way. Then at least you wouldn’t——”

“Ti, Ti, how can you talk like that?” Blanche was down on her knees with

her arms round her husband’s neck. “I’m a selfish sweep, Ti, and you’re

an angel.”

“Rot!” said her husband, taking her in his arms.

“I am, I am. It’s the truth. You give, and I take—all the time. I take

and take and take. What fun do you have? None. Every penny you can

spare—more goes on my back. And then when we’re up against it I kick

and scream. Ti, I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I can’t bear it,” said Titus brokenly. “Why shouldn’t you have a show?”

“I do—I have. You give me a wonderful show. Everything I’ve wanted I’ve

always had. There isn’t a husband like you in all the world. You’ve

given up thing after thing—you know you have. You never hunt now, you

wear the same old suits, you’ve chucked the Bath and the Bachelors’——”

“Never went inside ’em,” muttered Titus. “What was the good of——”

“You gave them up to save money—for me to blow. And I—I let you do it.

I traded upon your love. I let you go hungry whilst I was bolting your

share. And then . . .” Blanche covered her face and burst into tears.

“I’m a rotten thief,” she sobbed, “a rotten, selfish——”

“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to

death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you

enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t

true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.”

“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one

pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.”

“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got,

and if it gives me pleasure to——”

“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t

you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?”

“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb

you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your

precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder

I’m mad about you.”

Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat

down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed,

alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his

paws in the air. . . .

Presently the telephone-bell began to throb.

Titus left the room to reply to the call.

Once outside the door, he covered his eyes.

“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “‘There isn’t a husband like you in all

the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s

coming again.”

Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one

that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche

Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death.

Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of

content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly

winter had set in.

Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of

mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all.

The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh.

With it all, the man never lost heart.

He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the

selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be

dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would

return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had

cared for the light in his eyes.

And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him

affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned

and rent the woman of the world.

It was the first swallow.

Summer was coming back.

When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier,

looked up with shining eyes.

“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve

nothing to do.”

Titus Cheviot stared.

“This is reaction,” he said. “You stay where you are, sweetheart, and

I’ll get you a drink.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Blanche. “I’m sane as sane. I’ve not been happy,

you know—splashing about. That’s really why I splurged. I felt if I

went all out perhaps I’d get there. I haven’t, of course. You never do.

That way there’s nowhere to get. Then again—without an anchor I’m

frightfully weak. I’m not a waster by nature, but put me among the

wasters and I’ll waste away. I must have an anchor, Ti—an object in

life. When you first knew me I had one. It was—to marry you. Then I

lost that anchor . . . last June . . . in Eaton Square. . . . Since then

. . . Ti, my dear, I’m going to open a shop.”

“Moses’ boots,” said Titus, sitting down on a chair. “What are you going

to purvey?”

“Brains,” said Blanche. “My brains. And yours, if you will. It’ll cost

us next to nothing except the rent. And we ought to make that on our

heads. If we make no more, it doesn’t matter. I shall have something to

do. But we must have a decent pitch.”

“Of course,” said Titus, “of course you’ve got me beat. I thought you

sold brains by the pound.”

“Ideas, my darling, ideas. _The Cheviots, Decorators._ We’ve each got an

excellent eye. You can do the halls and libraries, and I’ll do the

drawing-rooms. We shall be frightfully _chic_ and outrageously

expensive. But we must have a decent pitch.”

Titus put a hand to his head.

“I don’t know about the _chic_,” he said dazedly, “but I shall be

expensive all right. I’m sure of that. Almost costly. By the time

they’ve paid me a tenner and then paid somebody else two tenners to rub

it all out and do it again——”

“A tenner?” cried Blanche. “Why, you won’t look at a room under fifty

guineas.”

“Oh, here’s wickedness! Here’s fraud and everything! Fifty guineas to

_me_ to look at a room? Why, it’s almost burglary.”

“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste,

that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will.

You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must

ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at

your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew.

Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re

irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply

love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be

tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room

before ever the paper went up.’”

“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms.

Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell

you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you

know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the

more important race-meetings.”

“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?”

Her husband looked down his nose.

“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take

five hundred a year for——”

Blanche leaped to her feet.

“Not 68, Old Bond Street?”

Titus nodded.

“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income

comes from that little old house.”

Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.

“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it

instead.”

* * * * *

Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they _had_ to make money, they

would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather

friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the

arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being

not at all desirous of too extensive a _clientèle_, they were

immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no

more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys

nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the

curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a

household word. It had become a synonym for ‘_de luxe_.’

The window was admirably dressed.

Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library.

Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled

stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with

precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire

of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb,

covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug

of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with

philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a

cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze,

bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such

a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink.

There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more

important, an open book. Who passed might read.