CHAPTER VI

LORD WOLDO AND LADY WOLDO

II.

The next morning Joseph, having opened wide the window, informed his

master that the weather was bright and sunny, and Edward Henry arose

with just that pleasant degree of fatigue which persuades one that one

is, if anything, rather more highly vitalised than usual. He sent for

Mr. Bryany, as for a domestic animal, and Mr. Bryany, ceremoniously

attired, was received by a sort of jolly king who happened to be

trimming his beard in the royal bathroom, but who was too good-natured

to keep Mr. Bryany waiting. It is remarkable how the habit of royalty,

having once taken root, will flourish in the minds of quite

unmonarchical persons. Edward Henry first enquired after the health of

Mr. Seven Sachs, and then obtained from Mr. Bryany all remaining papers

and trifles of information concerning the affair of the option.

Whereupon Mr. Bryany, apparently much elated by the honour of an

informal reception, effusively retired. And Edward Henry too was so

elated, and his faith in life so renewed and invigorated that he said to

himself:

"It might be worth while to shave my beard off after all!"

As in his electric brougham he drove along muddy and shining Piccadilly,

he admitted that Joseph's account of the weather had been very accurate.

The weather was magnificent; it presented the best features of summer

combined with the salutary pungency of autumn. And flags were flying

over the establishments of tobacconists, soothsayers, and insurance

companies in Piccadilly. And the sense of empire was in the very air,

like an intoxication. And there was no place like London. When,

however, having run through Piccadilly into streets less superb, he

reached the Majestic, it seemed to him that the Majestic was not a part

of London, but a bit of the provinces surrounded by London. He was very

disappointed with the Majestic, and took his letters from the clerk with

careless condescension. In a few days the Majestic had sunk from being

one of "London's huge caravanserais" to the level of a swollen Turk's

Head. So fragile are reputations!

From the Majestic, Edward Henry drove back into the regions of Empire,

between Piccadilly and Regent Street, and deigned to call upon his

tailors. A morning suit which he had commanded being miraculously

finished, he put it on, and was at once not only spectacularly but

morally regenerated. The old suit, though it had cost five guineas in

its time, looked a paltry and a dowdy thing as it lay, flung down

anyhow, on one of Messrs. Quayther and Cuthering's cane chairs in the

mirrored cubicle where baronets and even peers showed their braces to

the benign Mr. Cuthering.

"I want to go to Piccadilly Circus now. Stop at the fountain," said

Edward Henry to his chauffeur. He gave the order somewhat defiantly,

because he was a little self-conscious in the new and gleaming suit, and

because he had an absurd idea that the chauffeur might guess that he, a

provincial from the Five Towns, was about to venture into West End

theatrical enterprise, and sneer at him accordingly.

But the chauffeur merely touched his cap with an indifferent lofty

gesture, as if to say:

"Be at ease. I have driven more persons more moonstruck even than you.

Human eccentricity has long since ceased to surprise me."

The fountain in Piccadilly Circus was the gayest thing in London. It

mingled the fresh tingling of water with the odour and flame of autumn

blossoms and the variegated colours of shawled women who passed their

lives on its margin engaged in the commerce of flowers. Edward Henry

bought an aster from a fine, bold, red-cheeked, blowsy, dirty wench with

a baby in her arms, and left some change for the baby. He was in a very

tolerant and charitable mood, and could excuse the sins and the

stupidity of all mankind. He reflected forgivingly that Rose Euclid and

her friends had perhaps not displayed an abnormal fatuity in discussing

the name of the theatre before they had got the lease of the site for

it. Had not he himself bought all the option without having even seen

the site? The fact was that he had had no leisure in his short royal

career for such details as seeing the site. He was now about to make

good the omission.

It is a fact that as he turned northward from Piccadilly Circus, to the

right of the County Fire Office, in order to spy out the land upon which

his theatre was to be built, he hesitated, under the delusion that all

the passers-by were staring at him! He felt just as he might have felt

had he been engaged upon some scheme nefarious. He even went back and

pretended to examine the windows of the County Fire Office. Then,

glancing self-consciously about, he discerned--not unnaturally--the

words "Regent Street" on a sign.

"There you are!" he murmured with a thrill. "There you are! There's

obviously only one name for that theatre--'The Regent.' It's close to

Regent Street. No other theatre is called 'The Regent.' Nobody before

ever had the idea of 'Regent' as a name for a theatre. 'Muses' indeed!

... 'Intellectual!' ... 'The Regent Theatre!' How well it comes off the

tongue! It's a great name! It'll be the finest name of any theatre in

London! And it took yours truly to think of it!"

Then he smiled privately at his own weakness.... He too, like the

despised Rose, was baptising the unborn! Still, he continued to dream

of the theatre, and began to picture to himself the ideal theatre. He

discovered that he had quite a number of startling ideas about

theatre-construction, based on his own experience as a playgoer.

When, with new courage, he directed his feet towards the site, upon

which he knew there was an old chapel known as Queen's Glasshouse

Chapel, whose ownership had slipped from the nerveless hand of a dying

sect of dissenters, he could not find the site, and he could not see the

chapel. For an instant he was perturbed by a horrid suspicion that he

had been victimised by a gang of swindlers posing as celebrated persons.

Everything was possible in this world and century. None of the people

who had appeared in the transaction had resembled his previous

conceptions of such people! And confidence-thieves always operated in

the grandest hotels! He immediately decided that if the sequel should

prove him to be a simpleton and gull he would at any rate be a silent

simpleton and gull. He would stoically bear the loss of two hundred

pounds, and breathe no word of woe.

But then he remembered with relief that he had genuinely recognised both

Rose Euclid and Seven Sachs; and also that Mr. Bryany, among other

documents, had furnished him with a photograph of the chapel and

surrounding property. The chapel therefore existed. He had a plan in

his pocket. He now opened this plan and tried to consult it in the

middle of the street, but his agitation was such that he could not make

out on it which was north and which was south. After he had been nearly

prostrated by a taxicab, a policeman came up to him and said with all

the friendly disdain of a London policeman addressing a provincial:

"Safer to look at that on the pavement, sir!"

Edward Henry glanced up from the plan.

"I was trying to find the Queen's Glasshouse Chapel, Officer," said he.

"Have you ever heard of it?" (In Bursley, members of the town council

always flattered members of the force by addressing them as "Officer";

and Edward Henry knew exactly the effective intonation.)

"It _was there_, sir," said the policeman, less disdainful, pointing to

a narrow hoarding behind which could be seen the back walls of high

buildings in Shaftesbury Avenue. "They've just finished pulling it

down."

"Thank you," said Edward Henry quietly, with a superb and successful

effort to keep as much colour in his face as if the policeman had not

dealt him a dizzying blow.

He then walked towards the hoarding, but could scarcely feel the ground

under his feet. From a wide aperture in the palisades a cartful of

earth was emerging; it creaked and shook as it was dragged by a

labouring horse over loose planks into the roadway; a whip-cracking

carter hovered on its flank. Edward Henry approached the aperture and

gazed within. An elegant young man stood solitary inside the hoarding

and stared at a razed expanse of land in whose furthest corner some

navvies were digging a hole....

The site!

But what did this sinister destructive activity mean? Nobody was

entitled to interfere with property on which he, Alderman Machin, held

an unexpired option! But was it the site? He perused the plan again

with more care. Yes, there could be no doubt that it was the site. His

eye roved round, and he admitted the justice of the boast that an

electric sign displayed at the southern front corner of the theatre

would be visible from Piccadilly Circus, lower Regent Street,

Shaftesbury Avenue, etc. He then observed a large noticeboard, raised

on posts above the hoardings, and read the following:

_Site

of the

First New Thought Church

to be opened next Spring.

Subscriptions invited.

Rollo Wrissell, Senior Trustee.

Ralph Alloyd, Architect.

Dicks and Pato, Builders._

The name of Rollo Wrissell seemed familiar to him, and after a few

moments' searching he recalled that Rollo Wrissell was one of the

trustees and executors of the late Lord Woldo, the other being the

widow, and the mother of the new Lord Woldo. In addition to the

lettering, the notice-board held a graphic representation of the First

New Thought Church as it would be when completed.

"Well," said Edward Henry, not perhaps unjustifiably, "this really is a

bit thick! Here I've got an option on a plot of land for building a

theatre, and somebody else has taken it to put up a church!"

He ventured inside the hoarding, and, addressing the elegant young man,

asked:

"You got anything to do with this, Mister?"

"Well," said the young man, smiling humorously, "I'm the architect.

It's true that nobody ever pays any attention to an architect in these

days."

"Oh! You're Mr. Alloyd?"

"I am."

Mr. Alloyd had black hair, intensely black, changeful eyes, and the

expressive mouth of an actor.

"I thought they were going to build a theatre here," said Edward Henry.

"I wish they had been!" said Mr. Alloyd. "I'd just like to design a

theatre! But of course I shall never get the chance."

"Why not?"

"I know I sha'n't," Mr. Alloyd insisted with gloomy disgust. "Only

obtained this job by sheer accident! ... You got any ideas about

theatres?"

"Well, I have," said Edward Henry.

Mr. Alloyd turned on him with a sardonic and half-benevolent gleam.

"And what are your ideas about theatres?"

"Well," said Edward Henry, "I should like to meet an architect who had

thoroughly got it into his head that when people pay for seats to see a

play they want to be able to _see_ it, and not just get a look at it now

and then over other people's heads and round corners of boxes and

things. In most theatres that I've been in, the architects seemed to

think that iron pillars and wooden heads are transparent. Either that,

or the architects were rascals. Same with hearing. The pit costs half a

crown, and you don't pay half a crown to hear glasses rattled in a bar,

or motor-omnibuses rushing down the street. I was never yet in a London

theatre where the architect had really understood that what the people

in the pit wanted to hear was the play, and nothing but the play."

"You're rather hard on us," said Mr. Alloyd.

"Not so hard as you are on _us_!" said Edward Henry. "And then

draughts! I suppose you think a draught on the back of the neck is good

for us! ... But of course you'll say all this has nothing to do with

architecture!"

"Oh, no, I sha'n't! Oh, no, I sha'n't!" exclaimed Mr. Alloyd. "I quite

agree with you!"

"You _do_?"

"Certainly. You seem to be interested in theatres?"

"I am a bit."

"You come from the North?"

"No, I don't," said Edward Henry. Mr. Alloyd had no right to be aware

that he was not a Londoner.

"I beg your pardon."

"I come from the Midlands."

"Oh! ... Have you seen the Russian ballet?"

Edward Henry had not, nor heard of it. "Why?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Mr. Alloyd. "Only I saw it the night before last in

Paris. You never saw such dancing. It's enchanted--enchanted! The

most lovely thing I ever saw in my life. I couldn't sleep for it. Not

that I ever sleep very well! I merely thought, as you were interested

in theatres--and Midland people are so enterprising! ... Have a

cigarette?"

Edward Henry, who had begun to feel sympathetic, was somewhat repelled

by these odd last remarks. After all the man, though human enough, was

an utter stranger.

"No, thanks," he said. "And so you're going to put up a church here?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wonder whether you are."

He walked abruptly away under Alloyd's riddling stare, and he could

almost hear the man saying, "Well, he's a queer lot, if you like."

At the corner of the site, below the spot where his electric sign was to

have been, he was stopped by a well-dressed middle aged lady who bore a

bundle of papers.

"Will you buy a paper for the cause?" she suggested in a pleasant,

persuasive tone. "One penny."

He obeyed, and she handed him a small blue-printed periodical of which

the title was, _Azure_, "the Organ of the New Thought Church." He

glanced at it, puzzled, and then at the middle-aged lady.

"Every penny of profit goes to the Church-Building Fund," she said, as

if in defence of her action.

Edward Henry burst out laughing; but it was a nervous, half-hysterical

laugh that he laughed.

II.

In Carey Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, he descended from his brougham in

front of the offices of Messrs. Slosson, Hodge, Budge, Slosson,

Maveringham, Slosson, and Vulto, Solicitors, known in the profession by

the compendious abbreviation of Slossons. Edward Henry, having been a

lawyer's clerk some twenty-five years earlier, was aware of Slossons.

Although on the strength of his youthful clerkship he claimed, and was

admitted, to possess a very special knowledge of the law,--enough to

silence argument when his opponent did not happen to be an actual

solicitor,--he did not in truth possess a very special knowledge of the

law,--how should he, seeing that he had only been a practitioner of

shorthand?--but the fame of Slosson he positively was acquainted with!

He had even written letters to the mighty Slossons.

Every lawyer and lawyer's clerk in the realm knew the greatness of

Slossons, and crouched before it, and also, for the most part, impugned

its righteousness with sneers. For Slossons acted for the ruling

classes of England, who only get value for their money when they are

buying something that they can see, smell, handle, or intimidate--such

as a horse, a motor-car, a dog, or a lackey. Slossons, those crack

solicitors, like the crack nerve specialists in Harley Street and the

crack fortune-tellers in Bond Street, sold their invisible, inodorous,

and intangible wares of advice at double, treble, or decuple their

worth, according to the psychology of the customer. They were great

bullies. And they were, further, great money-lenders--on behalf of

their wealthier clients. In obedience to a convenient theory that it is

imprudent to leave money too long in one place, they were continually

calling in mortgages and re-lending the sums so collected on fresh

investments, thus achieving two bills of costs on each transaction, and

sometimes three, besides employing an army of valuers, surveyors, and

mortgage-insurance brokers. In short, Slossons had nothing to learn

about the art of self-enrichment.

Three vast motor-cars waited in front of their ancient door, and Edward

Henry's hired electric vehicle was diminished to a trifle.

He began by demanding the senior partner, who was denied to him by an

old clerk with a face like a stone wall. Only his brutal Midland

insistence, and the mention of the important letter which he had written

to the firm in the middle of the night, saved him from the ignominy of

seeing no partner at all. At the end of the descending ladder of

partners he clung desperately to Mr. Vulto, and he saw Mr. Vulto--a

youngish and sarcastic person with blue eyes, lodged in a dark room at

the back of the house. It occurred fortunately that his letter had been

allotted to precisely Mr. Vulto for the purpose of being answered.

"You got my letter?" said Edward Henry cheerfully as he sat down at Mr.

Vulto's flat desk on the side opposite from Mr. Vulto.

"We got it, but frankly we cannot make head or tail of it! ... _What_

option?" Mr. Vulto's manner was crudely sarcastic.

"_This_ option!" said Edward Henry, drawing papers from his pocket and

putting down the right paper in front of Mr. Vulto with an

uncompromising slap.

Mr. Vulto picked up the paper with precautions, as if it were a

contagion, and, assuming eye-glasses, perused it with his mouth open.

"We know nothing of this," said Mr. Vulto, and it was as though he had

added, "Therefore this does not exist." He glanced with sufferance at

the window, which offered a close-range view of a whitewashed wall.

"Then you weren't in the confidence of your client?"

"The late Lord Woldo?"

"Yes."

"Pardon me."

"Obviously you weren't in his confidence as regards this particular

matter."

"As you say," said Mr. Vulto with frigid irony.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Well--nothing." Mr. Vulto removed his eye-glasses and stood up.

"Well, good morning. I'll walk round to my solicitors." Edward Henry

seized the option.

"That will be simpler," said Mr. Vulto. Slossons much preferred to deal

with lawyers than with laymen, because it increased costs and vitalised

the profession.

At that moment a stout, red-faced, and hoary man puffed very

authoritatively into the room.

"Vulto," he cried sharply, "Mr. Wrissell's here. Didn't they tell you?"

"Yes, Mr. Slosson," answered Vulto, suddenly losing all his sarcastic

quality and becoming a very junior partner. "I was just engaged with

Mr.--" (he paused to glance at his desk)--"Machin, whose singular letter

we received this morning about an alleged option on the lease of the

chapel-site at Piccadilly Circus--the Woldo estate, sir. You remember,

sir?"

"This the man?" enquired Mr. Slosson, ex-president of the Law Society,

with a jerk of the thumb.

Edward Henry said: "This is the man."

"Well," said Mr. Slosson, lifting his chin and still puffing, "it would

be extremely interesting to hear his story, at any rate. I was just

telling Mr. Wrissell about it. Come this way, sir. I've heard some

strange things in my time, but--" He stopped. "Please follow me, sir,"

he ordained.

"I'm dashed if I'll follow you!" Edward Henry desired to say, but he had

not the courage to say it. And because he was angry with himself he

determined to make matters as unpleasant as possible for the innocent

Mr. Slosson, who was used to bullying, and so well paid for bullying,

that really no blame could be apportioned to him. It would have been as

reasonable to censure an ordinary person for breathing as to censure Mr.

Slosson for bullying. And so Edward Henry was steeling himself: "I'll do

him in the eye for that, even if it costs me every cent I've got." (A

statement characterised by poetical licence!)

III.

Mr. Slosson, senior, heard Edward Henry's story, but seemingly did not

find it quite as interesting as he had prophesied it would be. When

Edward Henry had finished the old man drummed on an enormous table, and

said:

"Yes, yes. And then?" His manner was far less bullying than in the

room of Mr. Vulto.

"It's your turn now, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry.

"My turn? How?"

"To go on with the story." He glanced at the clock. "I've brought it

up to date--eleven fifteen o'clock this morning, _anno domini_." And as

Mr. Slosson continued to drum on the table and to look out of the

window, Edward Henry also drummed on the table and looked out of the

window.

The chamber of the senior partner was a very different matter from Mr.

Vulto's. It was immense. It was not disfigured by japanned boxes

inartistically lettered in white, as are most lawyers' offices. Indeed,

in aspect it resembled one of the cosier rooms in a small and decaying

but still comfortable club. It had easy chairs and cigar-boxes.

Moreover, the sun got into it, and there was a view of the comic yet

stately Victorian Gothic of the Law Courts. The sun enheartened Edward

Henry. And he felt secure in an unimpugnable suit of clothes; in the

shape of his collar, the colour of his necktie, the style of his

creaseless boots; and in the protuberance of his pocketbook in his

pocket.

As Mr. Slosson had failed to notice the competition of his drumming, he

drummed still louder. Whereupon Mr. Slosson stopped drumming. Edward

Henry gazed amiably around. Right at the back of the room, before a

back window that gave on the whitewashed wall, a man was rapidly putting

his signature to a number of papers. But Mr. Slosson had ignored the

existence of this man, treating him apparently as a figment of the

disordered brain, or as an optical illusion.

"I've nothing to say," said Mr. Slosson.

"Or to do?"

"Or to do."

"Well, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry, "your junior partner has already

outlined your policy of masterly inactivity. So I may as well go. I

did say I'd go to my solicitors; but it's occurred to me that as I'm a

principal I may as well first of all see the principals on the other

side. I only came here because it mentions in the option that the

matter is to be completed here; that's all."

"You a principal!" exclaimed Mr. Slosson. "It seems to me you're a long

way removed from a principal. The alleged option is given to a Miss

Rose Euclid."

"Excuse me--_the_ Miss Rose Euclid."

"Miss Rose Euclid. She divides up her alleged interest into fractions

and sells them here and there, and you buy them up one after another."

Mr. Slosson laughed, not unamiably. "You're a principal about five

times removed."

"Well," said Edward Henry, "whatever I am, I have a sort of idea I'll go

and see this Mr. Gristle or Wrissell. Can you--"

The man at the distant desk turned his head. Mr. Slosson coughed. The

man rose.

"This is Mr. Wrissell," said Mr. Slosson with a gesture from which

confusion was not absent.

"Good morning," said the advancing Mr. Rollo Wrissell, and he said it

with an accent more Kensingtonian than any accent that Edward Henry had

ever heard. His lounging and yet elegant walk assorted well with the

accent. His black clothes were loose and untidy. Such boots as his

could not have been worn by Edward Henry even in the Five Towns without

blushing shame, and his necktie looked as if a baby or a puppy had been

playing with it. Nevertheless, these shortcomings made absolutely no

difference whatever to the impressiveness of Mr. Rollo Wrissell, who was

famous for having said once: "I put on whatever comes to hand first, and

people don't seem to mind."

Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to one of the seven great families which

once governed--and, by the way, still do govern--England, Scotland, and

Ireland. The members of these families may be divided into two species:

those who rule, and those who are too lofty in spirit even to

rule--those who exist. Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to the latter

species. His nose and mouth had the exquisite refinement of the

descendant of generations of art-collectors and poet-patronisers. He

enjoyed life, but not with rude activity, like the grosser members of

the ruling caste, rather with a certain rare languor. He sniffed and

savoured the whole spherical surface of the apple of life with those

delicate nostrils rather than bit into it. His one conviction was that

in a properly managed world nothing ought to occur to disturb or agitate

the perfect tranquillity of his existing. And this conviction was so

profound, so visible even in his lightest gesture and glance, that it

exerted a mystic influence over the entire social organism, with the

result that practically nothing ever did occur to disturb or agitate the

perfect tranquillity of Mr. Rollo Wrissell's existing. For Mr. Rollo

Wrissell the world was indeed almost ideal.

Edward Henry breathed to himself:

"This is the genuine article."

And, being an Englishman, he was far more impressed by Mr. Wrissell than

he had been by the much vaster reputations of Rose Euclid, Seven Sachs,

Mr. Slosson, senior. At the same time he inwardly fought against Mr.

Wrissell's silent and unconscious dominion over him, and all the defiant

Midland belief that one body is as good as anybody else surged up in

him--but stopped at his lips.

"Please don't rise," Mr. Wrissell entreated, waving both hands. "I'm

very sorry to hear of this unhappy complication," he went on to Edward

Henry with the most adorable and winning politeness. "It pains me."

(His martyred expression said: "And really I ought not to be pained.")

"I'm quite convinced that you are here in absolute good faith--the most

absolute good faith, Mr.--"

"Machin," suggested Mr. Slosson.

"Ah! Pardon me, Mr. Machin. And, naturally, in the management of

enormous estates such as Lord Woldo's little difficulties are apt to

occur.... I'm sorry you've been put in a false position. You have all my

sympathies. But of course you understand that in this particular

case.... I myself have taken up the lease from the estate. I happen to

be interested in a great movement. The plans of my church have been

passed by the county council. Building operations have indeed begun."

"Oh, chuck it!" said Edward Henry inexcusably--but such were his words.

A surfeit of Mr. Wrissell's calm egotism and accent and fatigued

harmonious gestures drove him to commit this outrage upon the very

fabric of civilisation.

Mr. Wrissell, if he had ever met with the phrase,--which is

doubtful,--had certainly never heard it addressed to himself;

conceivably he might have once come across it in turning over the pages

of a slang dictionary. A tragic expression traversed his bewildered

features; and then he recovered himself somewhat.

"I--"

"Go and bury yourself!" said Edward Henry, with increased savagery.

Mr. Wrissell, having comprehended, went. He really did go. He could

not tolerate scenes, and his glance showed that any forcible derangement

of his habit of existing smoothly would nakedly disclose the unyielding

adamantine selfishness that was the basis of the Wrissell philosophy.

His glance was at least harsh and bitter. He went in silence, and

rapidly. Mr. Slosson, senior, followed him at a great pace.

Edward Henry was angry. Strange though it may seem, the chief cause of

his anger was the fact that his own manners and breeding were lower,

coarser, clumsier, more brutal, than Mr. Wrissell's.

After what appeared to be a considerable absence Mr. Slosson, senior,

returned into the room. Edward Henry, steeped in peculiar meditations,

was repeating:

"So this is Slosson's!"

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Slosson with a challenge in his ancient but

powerful voice.

"Nowt!" said Edward Henry.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Slosson, "we'd better come to an understanding

about this so-called option. It's not serious, you know."

"You'll find it is."

"It's not commercial."

"I fancy it is--for me!" said Edward Henry.

"The premium mentioned is absurdly inadequate, and the ground-rent is

quite improperly low."

"That's just why I look on it as commercial--from my point of view,"

said Edward Henry.

"It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said Mr. Slosson.

"Why?"

"Because, seeing the unusual form of it, it ought to be stamped, and it

isn't stamped."

"Listen here, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry, "I want you to remember

that you're talking to a lawyer."

"A lawyer?"

"I was in the law for years," said Edward Henry. "And you know as well

as I do that I can get the option stamped at any time by paying a

penalty, which at worst will be a trifle compared to the value of the

option."

"Ah!" Mr. Slosson paused, and resumed his puffing, which

exercise--perhaps owing to undue excitement--he had pretermitted. "Then

further, the deed isn't drawn up."

"That's not my fault."

"Further, the option is not transferable."

"We shall see about that."

"And the money ought to be paid down to-day, even on your own

showing--every cent of it, in cash."

"Here is the money," said Edward Henry, drawing his pocketbook from his

breast. "Every cent of it, in the finest brand of bank-notes!"

He flung down the notes with the impulsive gesture of an artist; then,

with the caution of a man of the world, gathered them in again.

"The whole circumstances under which the alleged option is alleged to

have been given would have to be examined," said Mr. Slosson.

"_I_ sha'n't mind," said Edward Henry; "others might."

"There is such a thing as undue influence."

"Miss Euclid is fifty if she's a day," replied Edward Henry.

"I don't see what Miss Euclid's age has to do with the matter."

"Then your eyesight must be defective, Mr. Slosson."

"The document might be a forgery."

"It might. But I've got an autograph letter written entirely in the

last Lord Woldo's hand, enclosing the option."

"Let me see it, please."

"Certainly, but in a court of law," said Edward Henry. "You know you're

hungry for a good action, followed by a bill of costs as long as from

here to Jericho."

"Mr. Wrissell will assuredly fight," said Mr. Slosson. "He has already

given me the most explicit instructions. Mr. Wrissell's objection to a

certain class of theatres is well-known."

"And does Mr. Wrissell settle everything?"

"Mr. Wrissell and Lady Woldo settle everything between them, and Lady

Woldo is guided by Mr. Wrissell. There is an impression abroad that

because Lady Woldo was originally connected--er--with the stage, she and

Mr. Wrissell are not entirely at one in the conduct of her and her son's

interests. Nothing could be further from the fact."

Edward Henry's thoughts dwelt for a few moments upon the late Lord

Woldo's picturesque and far-resounding marriage.

"Can you give me Lady Woldo's address?"

"I can't," said Mr. Slosson after an instant's hesitation.

"You mean you won't!"

Mr. Slosson pursed his lips.

"Well, you can do the other thing!" said Edward Henry, insolent to the

last.

As he left the premises he found Mr. Rollo Wrissell and his own new

acquaintance, Mr. Alloyd, the architect, chatting in the portico. Mr.

Wrissell was calm, bland, and attentive; Mr. Alloyd was eager, excited,

and deferential.

Edward Henry caught the words "Russian ballet." He reflected upon an

abstract question oddly disconnected with the violent welter of his

sensations: "Can a man be a good practical architect who isn't able to

sleep because he's seen a Russian ballet?"

The alert chauffeur of the electric brougham, who had an excellent idea

of effect, brought the admirable vehicle to the curb exactly in front of

Edward Henry as Edward Henry reached the edge of the pavement.

Ejaculating a brief command, Edward Henry disappeared within the

vehicle, and was whirled away in a style whose perfection no scion of a

governing family could have bettered.

IV.

The next scene in the exciting drama of Edward Henry's existence that

day took place in a building as huge as Wilkins's itself. As the

brougham halted at its portals an old and medalled man rushed forth,

touched his cap, and assisted Edward Henry to alight. Within the

groined and echoing hall of the establishment a young boy sprang out

and, with every circumstance of deference, took Edward Henry's hat and

stick. Edward Henry then walked a few steps to a lift, and said

"Smoking-room!" to another menial, who bowed humbly before him, and at

the proper moment bowed him out of the lift. Edward Henry, crossing a

marble floor, next entered an enormous marble apartment chiefly

populated by easy chairs and tables. He sat down to a table, and

fiercely rang a bell which reposed thereon. Several other menials

simultaneously appeared out of invisibility, and one of them hurried

obsequiously towards him.

"Bring me a glass of water and a peerage," said Edward Henry.

"I beg pardon, sir. A glass of water and--"

"A peerage. P double e-r-a-g-e."

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't catch. Which peerage, sir? We have

several."

"All of them."

In a hundred seconds, the last menial having thanked him for kindly

taking the glass and the pile of books, Edward Henry was sipping water

and studying peerages. In two hundred seconds he was off again. A

menial opened the swing-doors of the smoking-room for him, and bowed.

The menial of the lift bowed, wafted him downwards, and bowed. The

infant menial produced his hat and stick and bowed. The old and

medalled menial summoned his brougham with a frown at the chauffeur and

a smile at Edward Henry, bowed, opened the door of the brougham, helped

Edward Henry in, bowed, and shut the door.

"Where to, sir?"

"262 Eaton Square," said Edward Henry.

"Thank you, sir," said the aged menial, and repeated in a curt and

peremptory voice to the chauffeur, "262 Eaton Square!" Lastly he

touched his cap.

And Edward Henry swiftly left the precincts of the headquarters of

political democracy in London.

V.

As he came within striking distance of 262 Eaton Square he had the

advantage of an unusual and brilliant spectacle.

Lord Woldo was one of the richest human beings in England--and

incidentally he was very human. If he had been in a position to realise

all his assets and go to America with the ready money, his wealth was

such that even amid the luxurious society of Pittsburg he could have cut

quite a figure for some time. He owned a great deal of the land between

Oxford Street and Regent Street, and again a number of the valuable

squares north of Oxford Street were his, and as for Edgware Road--just

as auctioneers advertise a couple of miles of trout-stream or

salmon-river as a pleasing adjunct to a country estate, so, had Lord

Woldo's estate come under the hammer, a couple of miles of Edgware Road

might have been advertised as among its charms. Lord Woldo owned four

theatres, and to each theatre he had his private entrance, and in each

theatre his private box, over which the management had no sway. The

Woldos in their leases had always insisted on this.

He never built in London; his business was to let land for others to

build upon, the condition being that what others built should ultimately

belong to him. Thousands of people in London were only too delighted to

build on these terms: he could pick and choose his builders. (The

astute Edward Henry himself, for example, wanted furiously to build for

him, and was angry because obstacles stood in the path of his desire.)

It was constantly happening that under legal agreements some fine

erection put up by another hand came into the absolute possession of

Lord Woldo without one halfpenny of expense to Lord Woldo. Now and then

a whole street would thus tumble all complete into his hands. The

system, most agreeable for Lord Woldo and about a dozen other landlords

in London, was called the leasehold system; and when Lord Woldo became

the proprietor of some bricks and mortar that had cost him nothing, it

was said that one of Lord Woldo's leases had "fallen in," and everybody

was quite satisfied by this phrase.

In the provinces, besides castles, forests, and moors, Lord Woldo owned

many acres of land under which was coal, and he allowed enterprising

persons to dig deep for this coal, and often explode themselves to death

in the adventure, on the understanding that they paid him sixpence for

every ton of coal brought to the surface, whether they made any profit

on it or not. This arrangement was called "mining rights"--another

phrase that apparently satisfied everybody.

It might be thought that Lord Woldo was, as they say, on velvet. But

the velvet, if it could be so described, was not of so rich and

comfortable a pile after all; for Lord Woldo's situation involved many

and heavy responsibilities, and was surrounded by grave dangers. He was

the representative of an old order going down in the unforeseeable

welter of twentieth-century politics. Numbers of thoughtful students of

English conditions spent much of their time in wondering what would

happen one day to the Lord Woldos of England. And when a really great

strike came, and a dozen ex-artisans met in a private room of a West End

hotel and decided, without consulting Lord Woldo, or the Prime Minister,

or anybody, that the commerce of the country should be brought to a

standstill, these thoughtful students perceived that even Lord Woldo's

situation was no more secure than other people's; in fact, that it was

rather less so.

There could be no doubt that the circumstances of Lord Woldo furnished

him with food for thought, and very indigestible food too.... Why, at

least one hundred sprightly female creatures were being brought up in

the hope of marrying him. And they would all besiege him, and he could

only marry one of them--at once!

Now, as Edward Henry stopped as near to No. 262 as the presence of a

waiting two-horse carriage permitted, he saw a gray-haired and

blue-cloaked woman solemnly descending the steps of the portico of No.

262. She was followed by another similar woman, and watched by a butler

and a footman at the summit of the steps, and by a footman on the

pavement, and by the coachman on the box of the carriage. She carried a

thick and lovely white shawl, and in this shawl was Lord Woldo and all

his many and heavy responsibilities. It was his fancy to take the air

thus, in the arms of a woman. He allowed himself to be lifted into the

open carriage, and the door of the carriage was shut; and off went the

two ancient horses, slowly, and the two adult fat men and the two mature

spinsters, and the vehicle weighing about a ton; and Lord Woldo's

morning promenade had begun.

"Follow that!" said Edward Henry to the chauffeur, and nipped into his

brougham again. Nobody had told him that the being in the shawl was Lord

Woldo, but he was sure that it must be so.

In twenty minutes he saw Lord Woldo being carried to and fro amid the

groves of Hyde Park (one of the few bits of London earth that did not

belong to him nor to his more or less distant connections) while the

carriage waited. Once Lord Woldo sat on a chair, but the chief nurse's

lap was between him and the chair-seat. Both nurses chattered to him in

Kensingtonian accents, but he offered no replies.

"Go back to 262," said Edward Henry to his chauffeur.

Arrived again in Eaton Square, he did not give himself time to be

imposed upon by the grandiosity of the square in general nor of No. 262

in particular. He just ran up the steps and rang the visitors' bell.

"After all," he said to himself as he waited, "these houses aren't even

semi detached! They're just houses in a row, and I bet every one of 'em

can hear the piano next door!"

The butler whom he had previously caught sight of opened the great

portal.

"I want to see Lady Woldo."

"Her ladyship--" began the formidable official.

"Now look here my man," said Edward Henry rather in desperation, "I must

see Lady Woldo instantly. It's about the baby--"

"About his lordship?"

"Yes. And look lively, please."

He stepped into the sombre and sumptuous hall.

"Well," he reflected, "I am going it--no mistake!"

VI.

He was in a large back drawing-room, of which the window, looking north,

was in rich stained glass. "No doubt because they're ashamed of the

view," he said to himself. The size of the chimneypiece impressed him,

and also its rich carving. "But what an old-fashioned grate!" he said

to himself. "They need gilt radiators here." The doorway was a marvel

of ornate sculpture, and he liked it. He liked too the effect of the

oil-paintings--mainly portraits--on the walls, and the immensity of the

brass fender, and the rugs, and the leatherwork of the chairs. But

there could be no question that the room was too dark for the taste of

any householder clever enough to know the difference between a house and

a church.

There was a plunging noise at the door behind him.

"What's amiss?" he heard a woman's voice. And as he heard it he thrilled

with sympathetic vibrations. It was not a North Staffordshire voice,

but it was a South Yorkshire voice, which is almost the same thing. It

seemed to him to be the first un-Kensingtonian voice to soothe his ears

since he had left the Five Towns. Moreover, nobody born south of the

Trent would have said, "What's amiss?" A Southerner would have said,

"What's the matter?" Or, more probably, "What's the mattah?"

He turned and saw a breathless and very beautiful woman of about

twenty-nine or thirty, clothed in black, and she was in the act of

removing from her lovely head what looked like a length of red flannel.

He noticed too, simultaneously, that she was suffering from a heavy

cold. A majestic footman behind her closed the door and disappeared.

"Are you Lady Woldo?" Edward Henry asked.

"Yes," she said. "What's this about my baby?"

"I've just seen him in Hyde Park," said Edward Henry. "And I observed

that a rash had broken out all over his face."

"I know that," she replied. "It began this morning, all of a sudden

like. But what of it? I was rather alarmed myself, as it's the first

rash he's had, and he's the first baby I've had--and he'll be the last

too. But everybody said it was nothing. He's never been out without me

before, but I had such a cold. Now, you don't mean to tell me that

you've come down specially from Hyde Park to inform me about that rash.

I'm not such a simpleton as all that." She spoke in one long breath.

"I'm sure you're not," said he. "But we've had a good deal of rash in

our family, and it just happens that I've got a remedy--a good, sound,

north-country remedy, and it struck me you might like to know of it.

So, if you like, I'll telegraph to my missis for the recipe. Here's my

card."

She read his name, title, and address.

"Well," she said, "it's very kind of you, I'm sure, Mr. Machin. I knew

you must come from up there the moment ye spoke. It does one good above

a bit to hear a plain north-country voice after all this fal-lalling."

She blew her lovely nose.

"Doesn't it!" Edward Henry agreed. "That was just what I thought when I

heard you say 'Bless us!' Do you know, I've been in London only a

two-three days, and I assure you I was beginning to feel lonely for a

bit of the Midland accent!"

"Yes," she said, "London's lonely!" and sighed.

"My eldest was bitten by a dog the other day," he went on in the vein of

gossip.

"Oh, don't!" she protested.

"Yes. Gave us a lot of anxiety. All right now! You might like to know

that cyanide gauze is a good thing to put on a wound--supposing anything

should happen to yours--"

"Oh, don't!" she protested. "I do hope and pray Robert will never be

bitten by a dog. Was it a big dog?"

"Fair," said Edward Henry. "So his name's Robert! So's my eldest's!"

"Really now! They wanted him to be called Robert Philip Stephen Darrand

Patrick. But I wouldn't have it. He's just Robert. I did have my own

way _there_! You know he was born six months after his father's death."

"And I suppose he's ten months now?"

"No; only six."

"Great Scott! He's big!" said Edward Henry.

"Well," said she, "he is. I am, you see."

"Now, Lady Woldo," said Edward Henry in a new tone, "as we're both from

the same part of the country, I want to be perfectly straight and above

board with you. It's quite true--all that about the rash. And I _did_

think you'd like to know. But that's not really what I came to see you

about. You understand, not knowing you, I fancied there might be some

difficulty in getting at you--"

"Oh, no!" she said simply. "Everybody gets at me."

"Well, I didn't know, you see. So I just mentioned the baby to begin

with, like!"

"I hope you're not after money," she said almost plaintively.

"I'm not," he said. "You can ask anybody in Bursley or Hanbridge

whether I'm the sort of man to go out on the cadge."

"I once was in the chorus in a panto at Hanbridge," she said. "Don't

they call Bursley 'Bosley' down there--'owd Bosley'?"

Edward Henry dealt suitably with these remarks, and then gave her a

judicious version of the nature of his business, referring several time

to Mr. Rollo Wrissell.

"Mr. Wrissell!" she murmured, smiling.

"In the end I told Mr. Wrissell to go and bury himself," said Edward

Henry. "And that's about as far as I've got."

"Oh, don't!" she said, her voice weak from suppressed laughter, and then

the laughter burst forth uncontrollable.

"Yes," he said, delighted with himself and her, "I told him to go and

bury himself!"

"I suppose you don't like Mr. Wrissell?"

"Well--" he temporised.

"I didn't at first," she said. "I hated him. But I like him now,

though I must say I adore teasing him. Mr. Wrissell is what I call a

gentleman. You know he was Lord Woldo's heir. And when Lord Woldo

married me it was a bit of a blow for him! But he took it like a lamb.

He never turned a hair, and he was more polite than any of them. I dare

say you know Lord Woldo saw me in a musical comedy at Scarborough--he

has a place near there, ye know. Mr. Wrissell had made him angry about

some of his New Thought fads, and I do believe he asked me to marry him

just to annoy Mr. Wrissell. He used to say to me, my husband did, that

he'd married me in too much of a hurry, and that it was too bad on Mr.

Wrissell. And then he laughed, and I laughed too. 'After all,' he used

to say, my husband did, 'to marry an actress is an accident that might

happen to any member of the House of Lords; and it does happen to a lot

of 'em, but they don't marry anything as beautiful as you, Blanche,' he

used to say. 'And you stick up for yourself, Blanche,' he used to say.

'I'll stand by you,' he said. He was a straight 'un, my husband was.

"They left me alone until he died. And then they began--I mean _his_

folks. And when Bobby was born it got worse. Only I must say even then

Mr. Wrissell never turned a hair. Everybody seemed to make out that I

ought to be very grateful to him, and I ought to think myself very

lucky. Me--a peeress of the realm! They wanted me to change. But how

could I change? I was Blanche Wilmot, on the road for ten years,--never

got a show in London,--and Blanche Wilmot I shall ever be, peeress or no

peeress! It was no joke being Lord Woldo's wife, I can tell you; and

it's still less of a joke being Lord Woldo's mother. You imagine it.

It's worse than carrying about a china vase all the time on a slippery

floor. Am I any happier now than I was before I married? Well, I _am_!

There's more worry in one way, but there's less in another. And of

course I've got Bobby! But it isn't all beer and skittles, and I let

'em know it, too. I can't do what I like. And I'm just a sort of exile,

you know. I used to enjoy being on the stage, and showing myself off.

A hard life, but one does enjoy it. And one gets used to it. One gets

to need it. Sometimes I feel I'd give anything to be able to go on the

stage again--oh--oh--!"

She sneezed; then took breath.

"Shall I put some more coal on the fire?" Edward Henry suggested.

"Perhaps I'd better ring," she hesitated.

"No, I'll do it."

He put coal on the fire.

"And if you'd feel easier with that flannel round your head, please do

put it on again."

"Well," she said, "I will. My mother used to say there was naught like

red flannel for a cold."

With an actress' skill she arranged the flannel, and from its encircling

folds her face emerged bewitching--and she knew it. Her complexion had

suffered in ten years of the road, but its extreme beauty could not yet

be denied. And Edward Henry thought: "All the _really_ pretty girls

come from the Midlands!"

"Here I am rambling on," she said. "I always was a rare rambler. What

do you want me to do?"

"Exert your influence," he replied. "Don't you think it's rather hard

on Rose Euclid--treating her like this? Of course people say all sorts

of things about Rose Euclid--"

"I won't hear a word against Rose Euclid," cried Lady Woldo. "Whenever

she was on tour, if she knew any of us were resting in the town where

she was, she'd send us seats. And many's the time I've cried and cried

at her acting. And then she's the life and soul of the Theatrical

Ladies' Guild."

"And isn't that your husband's signature?" he demanded, showing the

precious option.

"Of course it is."

He did not show her the covering letter.

"And I've no doubt my husband _wanted_ a theatre built there, and he

wanted to do Rose Euclid a good turn. And I'm quite positive certain

sure that he didn't want any of Mr. Wrissell's rigmaroles on his land.

He wasn't that sort, my husband wasn't.... You must go to law about

it," she finished.

"Yes," said Edward Henry protestingly. "And a pretty penny it would

cost me! And supposing I lost, after all? ... You never know. There's

a much easier way than going to law."

"What is it?"

"As I say, you exert your influence, Lady Woldo. Write and tell them

I've seen you and you insist--"

"Eh! Bless you! They'd twist me round their little finger. I'm not a

fool, but I'm not very clever; I know that. I shouldn't know whether I

was standing on my head or my heels by the time they'd done with me.

I've tried to face them out before--about things."

"Who, Mr. Wrissell or Slossons?"

"Both! Eh, but I should like to put a spoke in Mr. Wrissell's wheel,

gentleman as he is. You see, he's just one of those men you can't help

wanting to tease. When you're on the road you meet lots of 'em."

"I tell you what you can do!"

"What?"

"Write and tell Slossons that you don't wish them to act for you any

more, and you'll go to another firm of solicitors. That would bring 'em

to their senses."

"Can't! They're in the will. _He_ settled that. That's why they're so

cocky."

Edward Henry persisted, and this time with an exceedingly impressive and

conspiratorial air:

"I tell you another thing you could do--you really _could_ do--and it

depends on nobody but yourself."

"Well," she said with decision, "I'll do it."

"Whatever it is?"

"If it's straight."

"Of course it's straight. And it would be a grand way of teasing Mr.

Wrissell and all of 'em! A simply grand way! I should die of

laughing."

"Well--"

At this critical point the historic conversation was interrupted by

phenomena in the hall which Lady Woldo recognised with feverish

excitement. Lord Woldo had safely returned from Hyde Park. Starting up,

she invited Edward Henry to wait a little. A few moments later they

were bending over the infant together, and Edward Henry was offering his

views on the cause and cure of rash.

VII.

Early on the same afternoon Edward Henry managed by a somewhat excessive

obstreperousness to penetrate once more into the private room of Mr.

Slosson, senior, who received him in silence.

He passed a document to Mr. Slosson.

"It's only a copy," he said, "but the original is in my pocket, and

to-morrow it will be duly stamped. I'll give you the original in

exchange for the stamped lease of my Piccadilly Circus plot of land. You

know the money is waiting."

Mr. Slosson perused the document; and it was certainly to his credit

that he did so without any superficial symptoms of dismay.

"What will Mr. Wrissell and the Woldo family say about that, do you

think?" asked Edward Henry.

"Lady Woldo will never be allowed to carry it out," said Mr. Slosson.

"Who's going to stop her? She must carry it out. She wants to carry it

out. She's dying to carry it out. Moreover, I shall communicate it to

the papers to-night--unless you and I come to an arrangement. And if by

any chance she doesn't carry it out--well, there'll be a fine society

action about it, you can bet your boots, Mr. Slosson."

The document was a contract made between Blanche Lady Woldo of the one

part and Edward Henry Machin of the other part, whereby Blanche Lady

Woldo undertook to appear in musical comedy at any West End theatre to

be named by Edward Henry, at a salary of two hundred pounds a week, for

the period of six months.

"You've not got a theatre," said Mr. Slosson.

"I can get half a dozen in an hour--with that contract in my hand," said

Edward Henry.

And he knew from Mr. Slosson's face that he had won.

VIII.

That evening, feeling that he had earned a little recreation, he went to

the Empire Theatre--not in Hanbridge, but in Leicester Square, London.

The lease, with a prodigious speed hitherto unknown at Slossons, had

been drawn up, engrossed, and executed. The Piccadilly Circus land was

his for sixty-four years.

"And I've got the old chapel pulled down for nothing," he said to

himself.

He was rather happy as he wandered about amid the brilliance of the

Empire Promenade. But after half an hour of such exercise, and of vain

efforts to see or hear what was afoot on the stage, he began to feel

rather lonely. Then it was that he caught sight of Mr. Alloyd the

architect, also lonely.

"Well," said Mr. Alloyd curtly, with a sardonic smile, "they've

telephoned me all about it. I've seen Mr. Wrissell. Just my luck! So

you're the man! He pointed you out to me this morning. My design for

that church would have knocked the West End! Of course Mr. Wrissell

will pay me compensation, but that's not the same thing. I wanted the

advertisement of the building.... Just my luck! Have a drink, will

you?"

Edward Henry ultimately went with the plaintive Mr. Alloyd to his rooms

in Adelphi Terrace. He quitted those rooms at something after two

o'clock in the morning. He had practically given Mr. Alloyd a definite

commission to design the Regent Theatre. Already he was practically the

proprietor of a first-class theatre in the West End of London!

"I wonder whether Master Seven Sachs could have bettered my day's work

to-day!" he reflected as he got into a taxicab. He had dismissed his

electric brougham earlier in the evening. "I doubt if even Master Seven

Sachs himself wouldn't be proud of my little scheme in Eaton Square!"

said he.... "Wilkins's Hotel, please, driver."

THE OLD ADAM

PART II

CHAPTER VII

CORNER-STONE

I.

On a morning in spring Edward Henry got out of an express at Euston,

which had come, not from the Five Towns, but from Birmingham. Having on

the previous day been called to Birmingham on local and profitable

business, he had found it convenient to spend the night there and

telegraph home that London had summoned him. It was in this

unostentatious, this half-furtive fashion, that his visits to London now

usually occurred. Not that he was afraid of his wife! Not that he was

afraid even of his mother! Oh, no! He was merely rather afraid of

himself,--of his own opinion concerning the metropolitan, non-local,

speculative, and perhaps unprofitable business to which he was

committed. The fact was that he could scarcely look his women in the

face when he mentioned London. He spoke vaguely of "real estate"

enterprise, and left it at that. The women made no enquiries; they too,

left it at that. Nevertheless....

The episode of Wilkins's was buried, but it was imperfectly buried. The

Five Towns definitely knew that he had stayed at Wilklns's for a bet,

and that Brindley had discharged the bet. And rumours of his valet, his

electric brougham, his theatrical supper-parties, had mysteriously hung

in the streets of the Five Towns like a strange vapour. Wisps of the

strange vapour had conceivably entered the precincts of his home, but

nobody ever referred to them; nobody ever sniffed apprehensively, nor

asked anybody else whether there was not a smell of fire. The

discreetness of the silence was disconcerting. Happily his relations

with that angel, his wife, were excellent. She had carried angelicism

so far as not to insist on the destruction of Carlo; and she had

actually applauded, while sticking to her white apron, the sudden and

startling extravagances of his toilette.

On the whole, though little short of thirty-five thousand pounds would

ultimately be involved,--not to speak of liability of nearly three

thousand a year for sixty-four years for ground-rent,--Edward Henry was

not entirely gloomy as to his prospects. He was indubitably thinner in

girth; novel problems and anxieties, and the constant annoyance of being

in complete technical ignorance of his job, had removed some flesh.

(And not a bad thing either!) But, on the other hand, his chin

exhibited one proof that life was worth living, and that he had

discovered new faith in life and a new conviction of youthfulness.

He had shaved off his beard.

"Well, sir!" a voice greeted him full of hope and cheer, immediately his

feet touched the platform.

It was the voice of Mr. Marrier. Edward Henry and Mr. Marrier were now

in regular relations. Before Edward Henry had paid his final bill at

Wilkins's and relinquished his valet and his electric brougham, and

disposed forever of his mythical "man" on board the _Minnetonka_, and

got his original luggage away from the Hotel Majestic, Mr. Marrier had

visited him and made a certain proposition. And such was the influence

of Mr. Marrier's incurable smile, and of his solid optimism, and of his

obvious talent for getting things done on the spot (as witness the

photography), that the proposition had been accepted. Mr. Marrier was

now Edward Henry's "representative" in London. At the Green Room Club

Mr. Marrier informed reliable cronies that he was Edward Henry's

"confidential adviser." At the Turk's Head, Hanbridge, Edward Henry

informed reliable cronies that Mr. Marrier was a sort of clerk,

factotum, or maid of all work. A compromise between these two very

different conceptions of Mr. Marrier's position had been arrived at in

the word "representative." The real truth was that Edward Henry

employed Mr. Marrier in order to listen to Mr. Marrier. He turned to Mr.

Marrier like a tap, and nourished himself from a gushing stream of

useful information concerning the theatrical world. Mr. Marrier, quite

unconsciously, was bit by bit remedying Edward Henry's acute ignorance.

The question of wages had caused Edward Henry some apprehension. He had

learnt in a couple of days that a hundred pounds a week was a trifle on

the stage. He had soon heard of performers who worked for "nominal"

salaries of forty and fifty a week. For a manager twenty pounds a week

seemed to be a usual figure. But in the Five Towns three pounds a week

is regarded as very goodish pay for any subordinate, and Edward Henry

could not rid himself all at once of native standards. He had

therefore, with diffidence, offered three pounds a week to the

aristocratic Marrier. And Mr. Marrier had not refused it, nor ceased to

smile. On three pounds a week he haunted the best restaurants,

taxicabs, and other resorts, and his garb seemed always to be smarter

than Edward Henry's, especially in such details as waistcoat slips.

Of course Mr. Marrier had a taxicab waiting exactly opposite the coach

from which Edward Henry descended. It was just this kind of efficient

attention that was gradually endearing him to his employer.

"How goes it?" said Edward Henry curtly, as they drove down to the Grand

Babylon Hotel, now Edward Henry's regular headquarters in London.

Said Mr. Marrier:

"I suppose you've seen another of 'em's got a knighthood?"

"No," said Edward Henry. "Who?" He knew that by "'em" Mr. Marrier

meant the great race of actor-managers.

"Gerald Pompey. Something to do with him being a sheriff in the City,

you know. I bet you what you laike he went in for the Common Council

simply in order to get even with old Pilgrim. In fact, I know he did.

And now a foundation-stone-laying has dan it!"

"A foundation-stone-laying?"

"Yes. The new City Guild's building, you knaow. Royalty--Temple Bar

business--sheriffs--knighthood. There you are!"

"Oh!" said Edward Henry. And then after a pause added: "Pity _we_ can't

have a foundation-stone-laying!"

"By the way, old Pilgrim's in the deuce and all of a haole, I heah.

It's all over the Clubs." (In speaking of the Clubs, Mr. Marrier always

pronounced them with a Capital letter.) "I told you he was going to

sail from Tilbury on his world-tour, and have a grand embarking ceremony

and seeing-off! Just laike him! Greatest advertiser the world ever saw!

Well, since that P. and O. boat was lost on the Goodwins, Cora Pryde has

absolutely declined to sail from Tilbury. Ab-so-lute-ly! Swears she'll

join the steamer at Marseilles. And Pilgrim has got to go with her,

too."

"Why?"

"Well, even Pilgrim couldn't have a grand embarking ceremony without his

leading lady! He's furious, I hear."

"Why shouldn't he go with her?"

"Why not? Because he's formally announced his grand embarking ceremony!

Invitations are out. Barge from London Bridge to Tilbury, and so on!

What he wants is a good excuse for giving it up. He'd never be able to

admit that he'd had to give it up because Cora Pryde made him! He wants

to save his face."

"Well," said Edward Henry absently, "it's a queer world. You've got me

a room at the Grand Bab?"

"Rather!"

"Then let's go and have a look at the Regent first," said Edward Henry.

No sooner had he expressed the wish than Mr. Marrier's neck curved round

through the window, and with three words to the chauffeur he had

deflected the course of the taxi.

Edward Henry had an almost boyish curiosity about his edifice. He would

go and give it a glance at the oddest moments. And just now he had a

swift and violent desire to behold it. With all speed the taxi shot

down Shaftesbury Avenue and swerved to the right....

There it was! Yes, it really existed, the incredible edifice of his

caprice and of Mr. Alloyd's constructive imagination! It had already

reached a height of fifteen feet; and, dozens of yards above that,

cranes dominated the sunlit air, swinging loads of bricks in the azure;

and scores of workmen crawled about beneath these monsters. And he,

Edward Henry, by a single act of volition was the author of it! He

slipped from the taxi, penetrated within the wall of hoardings, and

gazed, just gazed! A wondrous thing--human enterprise! And also a

terrifying thing! ... That building might be the tomb of his reputation.

On the other hand it might be the seed of a new renown compared to which

the first would be as naught! He turned his eyes away, in fear--yes, in

fear!

"I say," he said, "will Sir John Pilgrim be out of bed yet, d'ye think?"

He glanced at his watch. The hour was about eleven.

"He'll be at breakfast."

"I'm going to see him, then. What's his address?"

"Twenty-five Queen Anne's Gate. But do you knaow him? I do. Shall I

cam with you?"

"No," said Edward Henry shortly. "You go on with my bags to the Grand

Bab, and get me another taxi. I'll see you in my room at the hotel at a

quarter to one. Eh?"

"Rather!" agreed Mr. Marrier, submissive.

II.

"Sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre."

These were the words which Edward Henry wrote on a visiting-card, and

which procured him immediate admittance to the unique spectacle--reputed

to be one of the most enthralling sights in London--of Sir John Pilgrim

at breakfast.

In a very spacious front room of his flat (so celebrated for its

Gobelins tapestries and its truly wonderful parquet flooring) sat Sir

John Pilgrim at a large hexagonal mahogany table. At one side of the

table a small square of white diaper was arranged, and on this square

were an apparatus for boiling eggs, another for making toast, and a

third for making coffee. Sir John, with the assistance of a young

Chinaman and a fox-terrier who flitted around him, was indeed eating and

drinking. The vast remainder of the table was gleamingly bare, save for

newspapers and letters, opened and unopened, which Sir John tossed

about. Opposite to him sat a secretary whose fluffy hair, neat white

chemisette, and tender years gave her an appearance of helpless

fragility in front of the powerful and ruthless celebrity. Sir John's

crimson-socked left foot stuck out from the table, emerging from the

left half of a lovely new pair of brown trousers, and resting on a piece

of white paper. Before this white paper knelt a man in a frock-coat,

who was drawing an outline on the paper round Sir John's foot.

"You _are_ a bootmaker, aren't you?" Sir John was saying airily.

"Yes, Sir John."

"Excuse me!" said Sir John. "I only wanted to be sure. I fancied from

the way you caressed my corn with that pencil that you might be an

artist on one of the illustrated papers. My mistake!" He was bending

down. Then suddenly straightening himself he called across the room: "I

say, Givington, did you notice my pose then--my expression as I used the

word 'caressed'? How would that do?"

And Edward Henry now observed in a corner of the room a man standing in

front of an easel and sketching somewhat grossly thereon in charcoal.

This man said:

"If you won't bother me, Sir John, I won't bother you."

"Ah! Givington! Ah! Givington!" murmured Sir John still more

airily--at breakfast he was either airy or nothing. "You're getting on

in the world. You aren't merely an A.R.A.--you're making money. A year

ago you'd never have had the courage to address me in that tone. Well,

I sincerely congratulate you.... Here, Snip, here's my dentist's

bill--worry it, worry it! Good dog! Worry it!"

(The dog growled now over a torn document beneath the table.)

"Miss Taft, you might see that a _communique_ goes out to the effect

that I gave my first sitting to Mr. Saracen Givington, A.R.A., this

morning. The activities of Mr. Saracen Givington are of interest to the

world, and rightly so! You'd better come round to the other side for

the right foot, Mr. Bootmaker. The journey is simply nothing."

And then, and not till then, did Sir John Pilgrim turn his large and

handsome middle-aged blond face in the direction of Alderman Edward

Henry Machin.

"Pardon my curiosity," said Sir John, "but who are you?"

"My name is Machin--Alderman Machin," said Edward Henry. "I sent up my

card and you asked me to come in."

"Ha!" Sir John exclaimed, seizing an egg. "Will you crack an egg with

me, Alderman? I can crack an egg with anybody."

"Thanks," said Edward Henry. "I'll be very glad to." And he advanced

towards the table.

Sir John hesitated. The fact was that, though he dissembled his dismay

with marked histrionic skill, he was unquestionably overwhelmed by

astonishment. In the course of years he had airily invited hundreds of

callers to crack an egg with him,--the joke was one of his

favourites,--but nobody had ever ventured to accept the invitation.

"Chung," he said weakly, "lay a cover for the alderman."

Edward Henry sat down quite close to Sir John. He could discern all the

details of Sir John's face and costume. The tremendous celebrity was

wearing a lounge suit somewhat like his own, but instead of the coat--he

had a blue dressing-jacket with crimson facings; the sleeves ended in

rather long wristbands, which were unfastened, the opal cuff-links

drooping each from a single hole. Perhaps for the first time in his

life Edward Henry intimately understood what idiosyncratic elegance was.

He could almost feel the emanating personality of Sir John Pilgrim, and

he was intimidated by it; he was intimidated by its hardness, its

harshness, its terrific egotism, its utterly brazen quality. Sir John's

glance was the most purely arrogant that Edward Henry had ever

encountered. It knew no reticence. And Edward Henry thought: "When this

chap dies he'll want to die in public, with the reporters round his bed

and a private secretary taking down messages."

"This is rather a lark," said Sir John, recovering.

"It is," said Edward Henry, who now felicitously perceived that a lark

it indeed was, and ought to be treated as such. "It shall be a lark!"

he said to himself.

Sir John dictated a letter to Miss Taft, and before the letter was

finished the grinning Chung had laid a place for Edward Henry, and Snip

had inspected him and passed him for one of the right sort.

"Had I said that this is rather a lark?" Sir John enquired, the letter

accomplished.

"I forget," said Edward Henry.

"Because I don't like to say the same thing twice over if I can help it.

It is a lark though, isn't it?"

"Undoubtedly," said Edward Henry, decapitating an egg. "I only hope

that I'm not interrupting you."

"Not in the least," said Sir John. "Breakfast is my sole free time. In

another half-hour, I assure you, I shall be attending to three or four

things at once." He leant over towards Edward Henry. "But between you

and me, Alderman, quite privately, if it isn't a rude question, what did

you come for?"

"Well," said Edward Henry, "as I wrote on my card, I'm the sole

proprietor of the Regent Theatre--"

"But there is no Regent Theatre," Sir John interrupted him.

"No; not strictly. But there will be. It's in course of construction.

We're up to the first floor."

"Dear me! A suburban theatre, no doubt?"

"Do you mean to say, Sir John," cried Edward Henry, "that you haven't

noticed it. It's within a few yards of Piccadilly Circus."

"Really!" said Sir John. "You see my theatre is in Lower Regent Street,

and I never go to Piccadilly Circus. I make a point of not going to

Piccadilly Circus. Miss Taft, how long is it since I went to Piccadilly

Circus? Forgive me, young woman, I was forgetting--you aren't old

enough to remember. Well, never mind details.... And what is there

remarkable about the Regent Theatre, Alderman?"

"I intend it to be a theatre of the highest class, Sir John," said

Edward Henry. "Nothing but the very best will be seen on its boards."

"That's not remarkable, Alderman. We're all like that. Haven't you

noticed it?"

"Then, secondly," said Edward Henry, "I am the sole proprietor. I have

no financial backers, no mortgages, no partners. I have made no

contracts with anybody."

"That," said Sir John, "is not unremarkable. In fact, many persons who

do not happen to possess my own robust capacity for belief might not

credit your statement."

"And thirdly," said Edward Henry, "every member of the audience--even in

the boxes, the most expensive seats--will have a full view of the whole

of the stage--or, in the alternative, at matinees, a full view of a

lady's hat."

"Alderman," said Sir John gravely, "before I offer you another egg, let

me warn you against carrying remarkableness too far. You may be

regarded as eccentric if you go on like that. Some people, I am told,

don't want a view of the stage."

"Then they had better not come to my theatre," said Edward Henry.

"All which," commented Sir John, "gives me no clue whatever to the

reason why you are sitting here by my side and calmly eating my eggs and

toast and drinking my coffee."

Admittedly, Edward Henry was nervous. Admittedly, he was a provincial

in the presence of one of the most illustrious personages of the empire.

Nevertheless he controlled his nervousness, and reflected:

"Nobody else from the Five Towns would or could have done what I am

doing. Moreover, this chap is a mountebank. In the Five Towns they

would kowtow to him, but they would laugh at him. They would mighty soon

add _him_ up. Why should I be nervous? I'm as good as he is." He

finished with the thought which has inspired many a timid man with new

courage in a desperate crisis: "The fellow can't eat me."

Then he said aloud:

"I want to ask you a question, Sir John."

"One?"

"One. Are you the head of the theatrical profession, or is Sir Gerald

Pompey?"

"_Sir_ Gerald Pompey?"

"_Sir_ Gerald Pompey. Haven't you seen the papers this morning?"

Sir John Pilgrim turned pale. Springing up, he seized the topmost of an

undisturbed pile of daily papers and feverishly opened it.

"Bah!" he muttered.

He was continually thus imitating his own behaviour on the stage. The

origin of his renowned breakfasts lay in the fact that he had once

played the part of a millionaire ambassador who juggled at breakfast

with his own affairs and the affairs of the world. The stage breakfast

of a millionaire ambassador created by a playwright on the verge of

bankruptcy had appealed to his imagination and influenced all the

mornings of his life.

"They've done it just to irritate me as I'm starting off on my world's

tour," he muttered, coursing round the table. Then he stopped and gazed

at Edward Henry. "This is a political knighthood," said he. "It has

nothing to do with the stage. It is not like my knighthood, is it?"

"Certainly not," Edward Henry agreed. "But you know how people will

talk, Sir John. People will be going about this very morning and saying

that Sir Gerald is at last the head of the theatrical profession. I

came here for your authoritative opinion. I know you're unbiased."

Sir John resumed his chair.

"As for Pompey's qualifications as a head," he murmured, "I know nothing

of them. I fancy his heart is excellent. I only saw him twice, once in

his own theatre, and once in Bond Street. I should be inclined to say

that on the stage he looks more like a gentleman than any gentleman

ought to look, and that in the street he might be mistaken for an

actor.... How will that suit you?"

"It's a clue," said Edward Henry.

"Alderman," exclaimed Sir John, "I believe that if I didn't keep a firm

hand on myself I should soon begin to like you! Have another cup of

coffee. Chung! ... Good-bye, Bootmaker, good-bye!"

"I only want to know for certain who is the head," said Edward Henry,

"because I mean to invite the head of the theatrical profession to lay

the corner-stone of my new theatre."

"Ah!"

"When do you start on your world's tour, Sir John?"

"I leave Tilbury with my entire company, scenery and effects, on the

morning of Tuesday week, by the _Kandahar_. I shall play first in

Cairo."

"How awkward!" said Edward Henry. "I meant to ask you to lay the stone

on the very next afternoon--Wednesday, that is!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes, Sir John. The ceremony will be a very original affair--very

original!"

"A foundation-stone-laying!" mused Sir John. "But if you're already up

to the first floor, how can you be laying the foundation-stone on

Wednesday week?"

"I didn't say foundation-stone. I said corner-stone," Edward Henry

corrected him. "An entire novelty! That's why we can't be ready before

Wednesday week."

"And you want to advertise your house by getting the head of the

profession to assist?"

"That is exactly my idea."

"Well," said Sir John. "Whatever else you may lack, Mr. Alderman, you

are not lacking in nerve, if you expect to succeed in _that_."

Edward Henry smiled.

"I have already heard, in a round-about way," he replied, "that Sir

Gerald Pompey would not be unwilling to officiate. My only difficulty

is that I'm a truthful man by nature. Whoever officiates, I shall of

course have to have him labelled, in my own interests, as the head of

the theatrical profession, and I don't want to say anything that isn't

true."

There was a pause.

"Now, Sir John, couldn't you stay a day or two longer in London and join

the ship at Marseilles instead of going on board at Tilbury?"

"But I have made all my arrangements. The whole world knows that I am

going on board at Tilbury."

Just then the door opened and a servant announced:

"Mr. Carlo Trent."

Sir John Pilgrim rushed like a locomotive to the threshold and seized

both Carlo Trent's hands with such a violence of welcome that Carlo

Trent's eyeglass fell out of his eye and the purple ribbon dangled to

his waist.

"Come in, come in!" said Sir John. "And begin to read at once. I've

been looking out of the window for you for the last quarter of an hour.

Alderman, this is Mr. Carlo Trent, the well-known dramatic poet. Trent,

this is one of the greatest geniuses in London.... Ah! You know each

other? It's not surprising! No, don't stop to shake hands. Sit down

here, Trent. Sit down on this chair.... Here, Snip, take his hat.

Worry it! Worry it! Now, Trent, don't read to _me_. It might make you

nervous and hurried. Read to Miss Taft and Chung, and to Mr. Givington

over there. Imagine that they are the great and enlightened public.

You have imagination, haven't you, being a poet?"

Sir John had accomplished the change of mood with the rapidity of a

transformation-scene--in which form of art, by the way, he was a great

adept.

Carlo Trent, somewhat breathless, took a manuscript from his pocket,

opened it, and announced: "The Orient Pearl."

"Oh!" breathed Edward Henry.

For some thirty minutes Edward Henry listened to hexameters, the first

he had ever heard. The effect of them on his moral organism was worse

even than he had expected. He glanced about at the other auditors.

Givington had opened a box of tubes and was spreading colours on his

palette. The Chinaman's eyes were closed while his face still grinned.

Snip was asleep on the parquet. Miss Taft bit the end of a pencil with

her agreeable teeth. Sir John Pilgrim lay at full length on a sofa,

occasionally lifting his legs. Edward Henry despaired of help in his

great need. But just as his desperation was becoming too acute to be

borne, Carlo Trent ejaculated the word "Curtain." It was the first word

that Edward Henry had clearly understood.

"That's the first act," said Carlo Trent, wiping his face. Snip

awakened.

Edward Henry rose and, in the hush, tiptoed round the sofa.

"Good-bye, Sir John," he whispered.

"You're not going?"

"I am, Sir John."

The head of his profession sat up. "How right you are!" said he. "How

right you are. Trent, I knew from the first words it wouldn't do. It

lacks colour. I want something more crimson, more like the brighter

parts of this jacket, something--" He waved hands in the air. "The

alderman agrees with me. He's going. Don't trouble to read any more,

Trent. But drop in any time--any time. Chung, what o'clock is it?"

"It is nearly noon," said Edward Henry in the tone of an old friend.

"Well, I'm sorry you can't oblige me, Sir John. I'm off to see Sir

Gerald Pompey now."

"But who says I can't oblige you?" protested Sir John. "Who knows what

sacrifices I would not make in the highest interests of the profession?

Alderman, you jump to conclusions with the agility of an acrobat, but

they are false conclusions! Miss Taft, the telephone! Chung, my coat!

Good-bye, Trent, good-bye!"

An hour later Edward Henry met Mr. Marrier at the Grand Babylon Hotel.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Marrier, "you are the greatest man that ever

lived!"

"Why?"

Mr. Marrier showed him the stop-press news of a penny evening paper,

which read: "Sir John Pilgrim has abandoned his ceremonious departure

from Tilbury in order to lay the corner-stone of the new Regent Theatre

on Wednesday week. He and Miss Cora Pryde will join the _Kandahar_ at

Marseilles."

"You needn't do any advertaysing," said Mr. Marrier. "Pilgrim will do

all the advertaysing for you."

III.

Edward Henry and Mr. Marrier worked together admirably that afternoon on

the arrangements for the corner-stone-laying. And--such was the

interaction of their separate enthusiasms--it soon became apparent that

all London (in the only right sense of the word "all") must and would be

at the ceremony. Characteristically, Mr. Marrier happened to have a

list or catalogue of all London in his pocket, and Edward Henry

appreciated him more than ever. But towards four o'clock Mr. Marrier

annoyed and even somewhat alarmed Edward Henry by a mysterious change of

mien. His assured optimism slipped away from him. He grew uneasy,

darkly preoccupied, and inefficient. At last when the clock in the room

struck four, and Edward Henry failed to hear it, Mr. Marrier said:

"I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me now."

"Why?"

"I told you I had an appointment for tea at four."

"Did you? What is it?" Edward Henry demanded with an employer's

instinctive assumption that souls as well as brains can be bought for

such sums as three pounds a week.

"I have a lady coming to tea, here; that is, downstairs."

"In this hotel?"

"Yes."

"Who is it?" Edward Henry pursued lightly, for though he appreciated Mr.

Marrier, he also despised him. However, he found the grace to add: "May

one ask?"

"It's Miss Elsie April."

"Do you mean to say, Marrier," complained Edward Henry, "that you've

known Miss Elsie April all these months and never told me? ... There

aren't two, I suppose? It's the cousin or something of Rose Euclid?"

Mr. Marrier nodded. "The fact is," he said, "she and I are joint

honorary organising secretaries for the annual conference of the Azure

Society. You know, it leads the New Thought movement in England."

"You never told me that either."

"Didn't I, sir? I didn't think it would interest you. Besides, both

Miss April and I are comparatively new members."

"Oh!" said Edward Henry with all the canny provincial's conviction of

his own superior shrewdness; and he repeated, so as to intensify this

conviction and impress it on others, "Oh!" In the undergrowth of his

mind was the thought: "How dare this man, whose brains belong to me, be

the organising secretary of something that I don't know anything about

and don't want to know anything about?"

"Yes," said Mr. Marrier modestly.

"I say," Edward Henry enquired warmly, with an impulsive gesture, "who

is she?"

"Who is she?" repeated Mr. Marrier blankly.

"Yes. What does she do?"

"Doesn't do anything," said Mr. Marrier. "Very good amateur actress.

Goes about a great deal. Her mother was on the stage. Married a

wealthy wholesale corset-maker."

"Who did? Miss April?" Edward Henry had a twinge.

"No; her mother. Both parents are dead, and Miss April has an income--a

considerable income."

"What do you call considerable?"

"Five or six thousand a year."

"The deuce!" murmured Edward Henry.

"May have lost a bit of it, of course," Mr. Marrier hedged. "But not

much, not much!"

"Well," said Edward Henry, smiling. "What about _my_ tea? Am I to have

tea all by myself?"

"Will you come down and meet her?" Mr. Marrier's expression approached

the wistful.

"Well," said Edward Henry, "it's an idea, isn't it? Why should I be the

only person in London who doesn't know Miss Elsie April?"

It was ten minutes past four when they descended into the electric

publicity of the Grand Babylon. Amid the music and the rattle of

crockery and the gliding waiters and the large nodding hats that

gathered more and more thickly round the tables, there was no sign of

Elsie April.

"She may have been and gone away again," said Edward Henry,

apprehensive.

"Oh, no! She wouldn't go away." Mr. Marrier was positive.

In the tone of a man with an income of two hundred pounds a week he

ordered a table to be prepared for three.

At ten minutes to five he said:

"I hope she _hasn't_ been and gone away again!"

Edward Henry began to be gloomy and resentful. The crowded and

factitious gaiety of the place actually annoyed him. If Elsie April had

been and gone away again, he objected to such silly feminine conduct.

If she was merely late, he equally objected to such unconscionable

inexactitude. He blamed Mr. Marrier. He considered that he had the

right to blame Mr. Marrier because he paid him three pounds a week. And

he very badly wanted his tea.

Then their four eyes, which for forty minutes had scarcely left the

entrance staircase, were rewarded. She came in furs, gleaming white kid

gloves, gold chains, a gold bag, and a black velvet hat.

"I'm not late, am I?" she said after the introduction.

"No," they both replied. And they both meant it. For she was like fine

weather. The forty minutes of waiting were forgotten, expunged from the

records of time, just as the memory of a month of rain is obliterated by

one splendid sunny day.

IV.

Edward Henry enjoyed the tea, which was bad, to an extraordinary degree.

He became uplifted in the presence of Miss Elsie April; whereas Mr.

Marrier, strangely, drooped to still deeper depths of unaccustomed inert

melancholy. Edward Henry decided that she was every bit as piquant,

challenging, and delectable as he had imagined her to be on the day when

he ate an artichoke at the next table to hers at Wilkins's. She

coincided exactly with his remembrance of her, except that she was now

slightly more plump. Her contours were effulgent--there was no other

word. Beautiful she was not, for she had a turned-up nose; but what

charm she radiated! Every movement and tone enchanted Edward Henry. He

was enchanted not at intervals, by a chance gesture, but all the

time--when she was serious, when she smiled, when she fingered her

teacup, when she pushed her furs back over her shoulders, when she spoke

of the weather, when she spoke of the social crisis, and when she made

fun, with a certain brief absence of restraint, rather in her artichoke

manner of making fun.

He thought and believed:

"This is the finest woman I ever saw!" He clearly perceived the

inferiority of other women, whom nevertheless he admired and liked, such

as the Countess of Chell and Lady Woldo.

It was not her brains, nor her beauty, nor her stylishness that affected

him. No! It was something mysterious and dizzying that resided in

every particle of her individuality.

He thought:

"I've often and often wanted to see her again. And now I'm having tea

with her!" And he was happy.

"Have you got that list, Mr. Marrier?" she asked in her low and

thrilling voice. So saying, she raised her eyebrows in expectation--a

delicious effect, especially behind her half-raised white veil.

Mr. Marrier produced a document.

"But that's _my_ list!" said Edward Henry.

"Your list?"

"I'd better tell you." Mr. Marrier essayed a rapid explanation. "Mr.

Machin wanted a list of the raight sort of people to ask to the

corner-stone-laying of his theatah. So I used this as a basis."

Elsie April smiled again. "Ve-ry good!" she approved.

"What is your list, Marrier?" asked Edward Henry.

It was Elsie who replied:

"People to be invited to the dramatic _soiree_ of the Azure Society. We

give six a year. No title is announced. Nobody except a committee of

three knows even the name of the author of the play that is to be

performed. Everything is kept a secret. Even the author doesn't know

that his play has been chosen. Don't you think it's a delightful idea?

... An offspring of the New Thought!"

He agreed that it was a delightful idea.

"Shall I be invited?" he asked.

She answered gravely: "I don't know."

"Are you going to play in it?"

She paused.... "Yes."

"Then you must let me come. Talking of plays--"

He stopped. He was on the edge of facetiously relating the episode of

"The Orient Pearl" at Sir John Pilgrim's; but he withdrew in time.

Suppose that "The Orient Pearl" was the piece to be performed by the

Azure Society! It might well be. It was (in his opinion) just the sort

of play that that sort of society would choose. Nevertheless he was as

anxious as ever to see Elsie April act. He really thought that she

could and would transfigure any play. Even his profound scorn of New

Thought (a subject of which he was entirely ignorant) began to be

modified--and by nothing but the enchantment of the tone in which Elsie

April murmured the words, "Azure Society!"

"How soon is the performance?" he demanded.

"Wednesday week," said she.

"That's the very day of my corner-stone-laying," he said. "However, it

doesn't matter. My little affair will be in the afternoon."

"But it can't be," said she solemnly. "It would interfere with us, and

we should interfere with it. Our annual conference takes place in the

afternoon. All London will be there."

Said Mr. Marrier rather shamefaced:

"That's just it, Mr. Machin. It positively never occurred to me that

the Azure Conference is to be on that very day. I never thought of it

until nearly four o'clock. And then I scarcely knew how to explain it

to you. I really don't know how it escaped me."

Mr. Marrier's trouble was now out, and he had declined in Edward Henry's

esteem. Mr. Marrier was afraid of him. Mr. Marrier's list of

personages was no longer a miracle of foresight; it was a mere

coincidence. He doubted if Mr. Marrier was worth even his three pounds

a week. Edward Henry began to feel ruthless, Napoleonic. He was

capable of brushing away the whole Azure Society and New Thought

movement into limbo.

"You must please alter your date," said Elsie April. And she put her

right elbow on the table and leaned her chin on it, and thus somehow

established a domestic intimacy for the three amid all the blare and

notoriety of the vast tea-room.

"Oh, but I can't!" he said easily, familiarly. It was her occasional

"artichoke" manner that had justified him in assuming this tone. "I

can't!" he repeated. "I've told Sir John I can't possibly be ready any

earlier, and on the day after he'll almost certainly be on his way to

Marseilles. Besides, I don't _want_ to alter my date. My date is in

the papers by this time."

"You've already done quite enough harm to the movement as it is," said

Elsie April stoutly but ravishingly.

"Me--harm to the movement?"

"Haven't you stopped the building of our church?"

"Oh! So you know Mr. Wrissell?"

"Very well indeed."

"Anybody else would have done the same in my place," Edward Henry

defended himself. "Your cousin, Miss Euclid, would have done it, and

Marrier here was in the affair with her."

"Ah!" exclaimed Elsie April. "But we didn't belong to the movement

then! We didn't know.... Come now, Mr. Machin. Sir John Pilgrim will

of course be a great show. But even if you've got him and manage to

stick to him, we should beat you. You'll never get the audience you

want if you don't change from Wednesday week. After all, the number of

people who count in London is very small. And we've got nearly all of

them. You've no idea--"

"I won't change from Wednesday week," said Edward Henry. This defiance

of her put him into an extremely agitated felicity.

"Now, my dear Mr. Machin--"

He was actually aware of the charm she was exerting, and yet he

discovered that he could easily withstand it.

"Now, my dear Miss April, please don't try to take advantage of your

beauty!"

She sat up. She was apparently measuring herself and him.

"Then you won't change the day, truly?" Her urbanity was in no wise

impaired.

"I won't," he laughed lightly. "I dare say you aren't used to people

like me, Miss April."