CHAPTER VI

LORD WOLDO AND LADY WOLDO

I

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 vitalized 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 inquired 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 & 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 and lofty

gesture, as if to say:

"Be at ease. I have driven persons more moon-struck 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 tinkling 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 northwards 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 baptizing 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 victimized 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 recognized

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 taxi-cab, 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 cart

full 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., etc. He then observed a large notice-board,

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 & 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 shan'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 shan't! Oh, no, I shan'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 & 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 Slossons 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 eyeglasses, 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 eyeglasses 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

vitalized 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?" inquired 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 so 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 characterized by poetical

license!)

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--11.15 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 lawyer's 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 pocket-book 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. Wrissel," 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 impressivness 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-patronizers. 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 and 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 civilization.

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 pocket-book 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 shan'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

late 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 kerb 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 of her 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

realize 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 Waldo 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 grey-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 or 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 leather-work 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 ear 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

times 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 temporized.

"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 daresay 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 Bobbie 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 them, 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 Bobbie!

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's 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 recognized 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

a 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 taxi-cab. 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."

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 inquiries; 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 Wilkins'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 a 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 for ever 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 on

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 apprehensions.

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 sub-ordinate,

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, taxi-cabs, 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 taxi-cab 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. & 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. Harrier'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, dozen 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?"

"25 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 inquired, 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 _matinées_, 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 in 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 kow-tow 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 at

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 corners-tone," 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 roundabout 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 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 to 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. Harrier, 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 organizing 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 organizing 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 inquired 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 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 tea-cup, 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. Harrier?" 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:

"Very good!" she approved.

"What _is_ your list, Marrier?" asked Edward Henry.

It was Elsie who replied:

"People to be invited to the dramatic soirée 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--"