Or,--

"Man in question has given amount cabled to Republicans of New York.

Has recovered and has started a Trust himself."

This was very satisfactory. Penelope saw she was doing good. In the

middle of her joy, she received a wire from Goby.

"May I stop poetry with De Vere? Doctor says I am overdoing it. GOBY."

She also received one at the same time from De Vere:

"If I could have a week to myself to write satire, should be eternally

grateful. Doctor says rowing may be carried to excess. The bulldog is

well.

"DE VERE."

The Marquis de Rivaulx, after a fortnight with Gordon, asked to be

allowed to go over to Paris to see his mother. But he acknowledged that

Gordon was not a bad chap, though he was as white as a sheet in the

balloon.

"And he told me, my dear lady, what to buy. He knows very well what to

buy and what to sell. He is immensely clevair, oh, yes. And may I go

and see _maman_?"

She let him go, but not before he promised to take no part in any

further anti-Semitic proceedings. She told Gordon not to brag so much

of having been in a balloon.

"You know you were afraid," she said. "The marquis said you were."

"Of course I was," said Gordon, "but I went, didn't I?"

That was unanswerable.

She had an "at home" once a week. It was understood that no one but her

own relatives and members of the horde were to call on that day. She

then issued any directions that she thought of during the week.

Bradstock was now openly and recklessly on her side.

"I believe you're doing good, real good," said Augustin. "I'm proud of

you. Don't mind my laughing, Pen. Oh, but you are wonderful."

He gave her advice.

"Kick young Bramber into public life," he said. "He's got brains."

"Lord Bramber," said Pen, "you are to go into Parliament at once. Speak

to Lord Bradstock about it, and I'll talk to Mrs. Mytton on your behalf.

I expect you to be an Under-Secretary of State at once."

"Damn! this is worse than Plant," said the obedient Bramber.

Nevertheless, he owned that Plant was a man, and a real good sort.

"I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room in Bloomsbury. He's living

on about half a crown a day. I--oh--yes, I'm coming down to the

thousand by degrees. And of course if you want me to go into the House,

I'll go."

Carteret Williams was there, and was put through his paces by Pen about

art. He had learnt something about it by rote.

"The Academy is composed of painters," he said, mechanically, "but there

are few artists in it. I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures

chucked before they made him an associate through fear. Turner is a

very great artist. He shows how near the sublime can get to the

ridiculous. Whistler is also great. He shows how near the ridiculous

can go to the sublime. Art is a combination of the material and the

spiritual. So Carew says. He showed me a lot of Blake, and he says

that the beauty of Blake is that you can't understand him by any

ordinary means, such as the intellect. I'm not up to Blake yet. The

old masters are very fine. I admit it. Velasquez is dry, but wonderful.

Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I think he would be

better if he were darker. We go to the National Gallery every day, and

then I take him to the Press Club, where he hears about real life."

When Carew came, he owned that Williams wasn't a bad sort.

"And he's doing his level best to understand," said Carew, with

enthusiasm. "He stands before a picture of mine every day for an hour

while I explain it. He sees something in it at last. And he's reading

about art, and is beginning to see why a photograph isn't the last word

of things. He's led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he gets

on what he's seen and done, I feel almost ashamed to live as I do."

"That's right," said Pen; "every artist should. And every man who is not

an artist should be sorry that he is not. We are far from perfect yet."

How beautiful she looked, thought Carew.

"She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I."

"I am very much pleased with everything," said Pen at large to the

assembly, and De Vere, who was having a holiday for his satire, was

pleased too. And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry for awhile.

"Not but what there's something in it, I admit," said Goby, critically.

"Robert Lindsay Gordon is a fair snorter at it. I can't say I'm up to

Shelley yet. De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other."

"'Epipsychidion,'" said Pen.

"That's it, a regular water-jump of a word," said Goby, "and he took it

in his stride, while I boggled on the bank. However, I'm coming up hand

over hand with him. I'm reading Keats with him. He's all right when

you get to know him, Lady Penelope, and rowing's doing him no end of

good. He's a well-made little chap, and getting some good muscle. If

I'm not dead by the time I can take the Epi-what's-his-name, I'll make a

man of him."

Rivaulx, who had come in with Gordon on his return from seeing his

mother in Paris, was very proud of himself.

"A year ago I should not have had the courage to show myself with a

Jew," said Rivaulx, triumphantly. "Lady, dear lady, I thought I should

have died when I asked him to dinner. But now I like him. He is

wonderful. When he says 'buy,' I buy, and heigh, presto! the shares go

up like my balloon. And when he says 'sell,' I sell, and they go down

like a barometer when you go up. Oh, yes, and all your aristocracy

admire him. I saw seven great lords with him the other day, and they

said: 'What company am I to be a director of, Gordon?' and he said he'd

ask his clerk. But I have refused to be a director. I should not like

_maman_ to know I know him. She is very dreadful against Jews, owing to

the _affaire_ in France."

And that was the celebrated afternoon that Penelope, who found that she

was doing good in every way to all mankind by obliterating all class and

professional jealousies, raised passion and curiosity to its highest

point by saying, with the sweetest blush:

"Very well, then, I promise to marry one of you!"

*CHAPTER V.*

Penelope was the swan, and all her relations were the ducks. The noise

they made was simply unendurable. For, besides Titania, she had cousins

and other aunts, or people who were in the position of aunts, and she

had friends who had been friends of her mother, and they came down on

her like the Assyrian. They objected to publicity, especially for other

people, and for a young woman to become a public character was something

worse than immorality. Nothing but Penelope's entire singleness of

character and her humourous want of humour enabled her to meet and

overcome them. And even she felt at times that flight was the only thing

left. She sent to her solicitor for a list of all the houses and

mansions and castles that she owned, and she took her motor-car and her

pet chauffeur, and, having borrowed Bob from his grandmother, she set

off on a tour. She disappeared for a week at a time. Then she

disappeared for two weeks. She was even lost for a month.

"She ought to be in an asylum," said Titania, "and I have to let Bob go

with her. He is some kind of a safeguard. How do I know she isn't

married already? Bob, dear Bob, has ceased to confide in me. When I

interrogate him, he puts me off. I get nothing out of him. The only

thing that I can congratulate myself on is that now, instead of 'Baker

says,' it is 'Pen says.' And I doubt, I own I doubt, and I cannot help

it, whether Bob is not being done serious harm to, considering that he

will one day be a duke. A duke should be brought up properly. Goring

was brought up badly, I deeply regret to say. He laughs at Penelope's

behaviour, and says girls will be girls. I say they will be women, and

he says, 'Thank the Lord,' and I don't know what he means. But, as I

say, this wretched girl may be married by now. It is already months

since she said, in my hearing, to a whole crowd of men, 'I promise to

marry one of you!' Was there ever an aunt in a more unfortunate

position? I feel as if I should become a lunatic. Augustin, do you

hear me, I am rapidly becoming insane."

"Oh, ah," said Augustin, who always knew more about Pen's actions than

any one else. She wrote to him from a hundred places.

"Keep your eye upon Mr. Gordon," she said. "And what are people saying

about Lord Bramber's speech? I shall be up in town in time to see Mr.

Carew's new picture. I got a letter from Mr. de Vere, saying that

Captain Goby was learning Wordsworth's ode on the 'Intimations of

Immortality in Childhood' by heart. Mr. de Vere says he is doing what I

told him, and is keeping his eye on Mr. Roosevelt. I told him to model

himself on the President of the United States. He says he rows and has

bought a Sandow exerciser, and he says it does not make him so tired

now. Mr. Williams told me when I was last in town that he was thinking

of writing a guide to Dulwich Gallery if war didn't break out. I am

afraid he hopes it will. Mr. Plant's last weekly accounts were only

10*s*. 6*d*. I advised him to see a doctor if he thought it was doing

him harm. The marquis has written a very good article in the _Revue des

Deux Mondes_ against anti-Semitism. I am greatly pleased with this. I

hope Mr. Carew's picture is intelligible. I told him it was no absolute

sign of genius to be entirely incomprehensible. He took it very well. I

think Mr. Williams will have a good effect on him. I have visited ten

mansions, seven castles (two with moats; mother used to love moats,

because there are none in America), and several other houses of mine.

Most need repairs. I shall be home next week. Tell aunt that Bob is

very well and brown, and is learning to drive my car at full speed down

a narrow road with sharp turns in it. Smith says he will be the best

driver in England when he is grown up, if he goes on and doesn't have

his nerve broken up early by an accident. But I think his nerve is

good, though I can't always tell, as I shut my eyes when we go very

fast. Good-bye now, dear Guardy.

"Your loving

"PENELOPE.

"P. S. I am sure I am doing good!"

Bob was very sure of it, too.

"I say, Pen, old Guth will be lonely, won't he? But he's all right if he

has a bally Catullus in his pocket, and he draws his screw just the

same. Granny is very decent to him, take it all around. And I like him

because he likes dogs. I must wire to Baker to hear how 'Captain' is

getting on. I called him Captain because old Goby gave him to me. I

say, Pen, don't you think Smith is a ripping good driver? He says that

he'll be my chauffeur when I'm a duke, if you don't want him. He says

him and me'll win every bally race. I'd like to do that. I begin to

think horse-racing is rot. You see three or four people can't ride a

race-horse, and the responsibility of driving you fast when the road's

crooked is the fun. Every time I miss a cart, Pen, I feel as happy as

if I'd hit Rhodes for four every time he sent a ball down to me. That

would be fun. Baker says--no, I mean Smith says that all other sports

are rot of the worst kind. He says if he's ever rich, he'll go through

the city every day as fast as he can. He hates the police, and some of

them hate him. He rode over a sergeant in the Kingston Road once, but

he didn't hurt him much. When shall we leave this castle and go to

another one? I hope the next is a long way off. Smith says he wants a

good road to show what she'll do when she's out to the last notch. And

it must be down-hill."

And in town, while Pen was going about the country, people's tongues ran

as fast as any motorcar.

"It is nonsense," said one; "she's married already."

"I know she's not. I paid a shilling and looked it up at Somerset

House."

"That's nothing," said a barrister. "They could have been married under

wrong names."

"That wouldn't be legal."

"Yes, it would. It's only illegal if a false name is used and one of

the parties doesn't know. Then the one who is deceived can get a

declaration of nullity," said the barrister.

"Oh, well, but who is it?"

"It's no one. I don't believe she'll marry at all."

"She's a crank."

"It's madness. I hear the Duchess of Goring has taken to her bed."

"Well, Goring hasn't. I saw him at the Frivolity."

"Who is it now?"

"I don't know her name. But where's Lady Penelope?"

No one knew but Bradstock, and even Augustin was behind by a post or

two. None of the "horde" knew, and they began to get suspicious of each

other. Goby watched De Vere, and De Vere kept his eye on Goby. It was

obvious from the newspapers that Bramber was in the House. Gordon was

seen at his Club. And then Carteret Williams was missing. Carew hunted

for him in vain at the Press Club and at the office of the _Morning

Hour_. There was no war yet, though there were rumours of it in the

Balkans as usual.

It got about that she had married Williams, though he had only run away

from Carew for a week.

"The very worst of the lot," wailed Titania. "I knew it would be

Williams. He's hardly a gentleman, though he comes of a good family.

Being a war correspondent makes a man brutal. I knew, I knew, I knew it

was Williams, and now I shall never speak to her; and he will beat her

in time, I know it, and there will be a horrible scandal; and what, oh,

what can she have done with Bob? Augustin, go at once and find where Bob

is. I knew it would be Williams! Didn't I always say it would be

Williams? I could have forgiven her any one else."

Gordon came to ask Bradstock if it was true. And Bradstock had a sense

of humour, if Pen had none.

"My dear sir," he said, "how can I tell? She liked him very much, took

a great interest in him. She told me he was writing a guide to the art

of Dulwich Gallery. Do you think that a bad sign?"

Gordon groaned.

"It looks bad, Lord Bradstock. But I don't believe she takes much

interest in him. She takes an interest in me, my lord! Why, I went up

in a balloon all on her account. I went with that madman, the French

marquis, and as sure as my name's Le-- I mean Gordon, there's not

another woman in the world I'd have done it for. Don't you think that

going up in a balloon, when you'd rather die than do it, ought to touch

a woman's heart? I give you my word that she as good as said, 'Go up in

a balloon and I'll--' well, or words to that effect. I tell you what,

Lord Bradstock, I know you ain't a rich man, not a very rich one, that

is, but, if you'll be on my side, I'll put you on to a good thing, the

best thing in the market. It's going up like--oh, like a beastly

balloon, sir,--my lord, I mean. I'm making it go up, and I'll tell you

when to sell. Oh, Lord, I'm very unhappy, my lord. I love the ground

she walks on. I'd like to buy it at the price of a city frontage. Come

in with me, my lord, and you shall have a tip that half a dozen dukes

are dying for. There's a room full of bally dukes waiting to see me

now, and I gave them the slip. Will you come in with me? Do, do!"

He was a lamentable object, and there was a spot upon his hat which did

not shine. He worked at it eagerly with his sleeve, and stood waiting

for a reply.

"I don't mind telling you," said Bradstock, "that my income is only five

thousand a year."

"Poor beggar!" murmured Gordon.

"But I only spend four. And if I had more what could I do with it?"

"Give it me," said Gordon, eagerly, "and I'll make more of it for you.

Man alive,--my lord, I mean--I can make it millions."

There was a faint suspicion of the "millionth" in the word.

"I can make it millionth," said Gordon. "I've put a pound or two into

that Frenchman's pocket, I can tell you, though he did take me up in a

balloon, and I'll put fifty for one into yourth, so help me."

"I don't want it."

"Well, you can give it away," shrieked Gordon. "They'll make you a duke

if you only give away enough. If there wathn't a faint thuspithion of

Jewish blood in me, I'd be a baron now at leathth. Give it away to

hospithalths, build a lunatic asylum, finanth your party. And if that

don't thucktheed, go into beer or biscuits, and you'll be made anything

you like."

"If they would make me thirty, I'd do it," said Bradstock.

"Thirty dukes?" asked Gordon, in bewilderment.

"Thirty years old," said Bradstock.

[Illustration: LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac

Levi]

Gordon advanced on him and took him by a button.

"My lord," he said, solemnly, "money ith youth and strength and

everything except Lady Penelope. If you had a million, you'd feel

twenty-five. When I had a measly hundred thousand, I was thin and

always going to doctors. When I got two, I got fatter and gave 'em up.

Now I'm worth two millionth."

But Bradstock said, brutally: "No, Mr. Gordon, I don't want money, and I

don't want you to marry Lady Penelope. If I had a million, I'd rather

lose it than see her do so."

"Did you tell her that?" asked Gordon.

"I did."

"I'm damned glad," said Gordon. "If you want a cat to go one way, pull

its tail the other."

"Tut, tut," said Bradstock, and Gordon went away sorrowfully, for he had

great riches, and saw no good in them without Pen.

Bradstock had to interview all the lovers one after one. They came to

implore his vote and interest. He saw Rivaulx, whose great desire was

to look like an Englishman and act like one. Rivaulx adopted a stony

calm, which sat upon him like a title on a Jew, but did not stick so

tight. He ended a talk which began most conventionally in a wild and

impassioned waltz around Bradstock's room, with despair for a partner.

He tore at his hair, but, having had it clipped till it was like a

shaved blacking-brush, he could not get hold of it.

"I must wed her," he howled. "I told _maman_ so, or I shall perish. I

will become an Englishman. _Mon Dieu_, I am sad. I am fearfully

mournful. I weep exceedingly. Have I not done all? I have eaten

largely in public with Mr. Gordon. I have bought his shares and have

sold them, but in my heart I cannot. When I return to Paris, I shall

fight duels because I have written for Dreyfus with tears in my eye and

my tongue in my cheek for sorrow. Where is she, Lord Bradstock? Tell

me where she is? I will go to her and say I have done all and can no

more!"

De Vere tackled him, too.

"My dear chap," said Bradstock, "I don't know her mind."

"She knows her own," said De Vere, with much bitterness, "and so does

that boy Bob. I bought a bulldog of him, because she said she thought

one would do me good. I don't know why, and now Bob sells me dogs by

telegram, and I daren't refuse 'em."

"Great Scott!" said his host; "but why?"

"That young ruffian has an influence over her," mourned the poet. "He

is always with her. He is capable of saying I am a 'rotter'; yes, a

rotter, a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him doing that

would be more than I can endure. I want her to love me, and so I buy

his dogs. I have a bulldog which hasn't done me any good. All he has

done is to tear my trousers and trample over my flower-beds. I have an

Irish terrier who is now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary

surgeon. I've a retriever who howls at night and makes the bulldog

unhappy. I have a Borzois with bronchitis and no hair on his tail. Bob

wrote to say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it myself. He

said men couldn't be trusted to do it. And then I've Goby on my hands.

I speak in confidence, Lord Bradstock."

"Of course," said Bradstock.

"Then I own I loathe Goby," said De Vere, viciously. "He has less

brains than my bulldog, and I think the bulldog has less brains than the

retriever. He reads poetry because she said he was to, and he makes me

explain mine to him. Explain it! And he makes me row every day he's

with me, and he says I'm not imitating Roosevelt if I don't. She said I

was to imitate Roosevelt. Why should I? I loathe Republicans. She

also told me I was to imitate Sven Hedin. On inquiry I found Sven Hedin

was an ass who explored deserts, and went without water for many days.

Goby can do that, as my wine-cellar can testify. He says he only tastes

water when he cleans his teeth, and then it makes him sick. And, though

I keep wine for my friends, I am a water-drinker. How can I do without

it? I am very unhappy."

"I should chuck Goby and give it up," said Bradstock.

"I wish I could," said the poet, "but my nature is an enduring one. We

learn in suffering Gobies and bulldogs what we teach in song. A dog may

be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor's enemy. And I believe

they gave Goby the V.C. to get rid of him. Do they ever give

decorations to get rid of people?"

Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what he could give De Vere.

And then the poet sighed and rose.

"I have to meet Goby and lunch with him. And afterward we read Shelley

together, and then he will teach me billiards at his club. I loathe

billiards. It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping bulldogs.

And Goby's friends are not sympathetic. They are sportsmen, and ought to

be hunted with bulldogs."

He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a sofa and laughed till he

cried.

"Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen," he said. "And as for

Bob--"

No sooner had De Vere departed than young Bramber was announced.

"Conceited young ass," said Bradstock. But Bramber was in the House,

and was supposed to be doing very well. He had brains, no doubt, and

the manner of Oxford (Balliol variety, as aforesaid) sat on him well.

He made speeches, and Mr. Mytton congratulated him on one of them.

Nothing but his passion for Penelope prevented him being as conceited as

Bradstock supposed him to be. But it must be remembered that Bradstock

couldn't make speeches.

"I thought I'd come and look you up," said Bramber. "I thought you

could tell me something about Lady Penelope."

"I can't," replied Bradstock. "I spend all my afternoons in saying so.

I've had Rivaulx and Austin de Vere and Gordon here already, and after

you go I don't doubt that Goby or Plant will turn up. How do you get on

with Plant? Do you know, Bramber, I believe Plant is the best man of

the lot of you."

Bramber frowned.

"He has an accent that can be cut into slabs, to use his own dialect,"

said Bramber.

"Your own accent is equally disagreeable to an American," said

Bradstock, who had been in the United States several times.

"I have no accent," said Bramber, haughtily.

"Oh," returned Bradstock. "And how do you get along with Plant?"

Bramber was obviously more jealous of Plant than any one. But he made a

tremendous effort to be fair.

"He's a very able man," he said at last, "but there's no man I should

find it so hard to get on with. He says just what he thinks in the most

awful way. And because Lady Penelope said he was not to spend more than

twenty-five pounds a week, he is living on ten shillings out of bravado.

I hate bravado. He made me dine with him in Soho, and our dinners came

to elevenpence each. Where is Lady Penelope?"

"I don't know," said Bradstock.

"I didn't see Plant yesterday," said Bramber, uneasily.

"The devil!"

"You don't think?"

"I don't know what to think," said Bradstock, wickedly. "I hear that

Jimmy Carew hasn't been seen for days, either."

Bramber fidgeted on his chair.

"She _can't_ marry Carew. He's a thorough outsider."

"Women don't understand the word, my dear chap. How are you getting on

in the House? And have you been motoring with Plant?"

"Yes," said Bramber; "we killed three fowls and a dog yesterday. And

Plant was fined ten pounds a week ago. He said he would wire to Lady

Penelope to know if that was business expenses. I believe he wants to

break my neck."

"I shouldn't be surprised," said Bradstock. "Has he gone out alone

to-day, do you think? I suppose you know Penelope is doing a lot of it

now?"

"The devil she is!" said Bramber. "I think I'll go and look up Plant."

Bradstock got some amusement out of the situation, if Titania didn't.

*CHAPTER VI.*

Penelope came back to town about a week later and saw every one.

"I wonder whom I love," said Pen, "for I'm sure I love some one. And

they are all so kind and sweet and good. I'm sorry I shall have to hurt

so many of them, for the poor dears all adore me."

It was marvellous how they had developed in a short time under Pen's

system, which was evidently sound, as Bradstock declared. Plant, under

his ten-and-sixpence-a-week scheme, had lost a stone weight, and was as

hard and fine as a coil of wire. His search after the people he had

ruined gave him a peace of mind to which he had long been a stranger,

for American millionaires in business have no peace of mind.

"I feel good," said Plant, meaning it both ways, "and my endurance of

young Bramber has stiffened my moral fibre."

"Whether I marry you or not, Mr. Plant," said Penelope, "I am awfully

pleased with you. And how has Lord Bramber behaved?"

"He's been death on what he called my accent," said Plant, a little

bitterly, "and it is notorious I've none to speak of; and, for that

matter, his own you could cut with a knife. However, I think he's a

good boy, and will discover he has brains. I've talked to him straight,

Lady Penelope. I told him you meant me to. I said he might be a lord

and the son of an earl, but that he was a lazy, loafing scallawag, and

that, if he'd been my son, I'd have cowhided him. That did him good; it

made him sit up, I tell you. Oh, he fairly fizzled and felt like going

for me, but he knew better. He has brains, and I've talked with members

of your legislature who say he'll do well. Put this down to me, Lady

Penelope. Credit me with this. I've looked after him like a baby, and

I've hustled him around in my motor till he can't help going when he's

out of it. You and me together, my dear young lady, could educate the

entire universe. If you'll only marry me, I'll start a university on

these lines of yours."

The idea was a pleasing one, but of course Pen pointed out to him that

it was his duty to do it whether she married him or not.

"Duty is duty," said Pen. "I'm doing all this out of a sense of duty."

"Don't marry out of a sense of it," retorted Plant. "I just want to be

loved. I'm going around feeling I want to be loved. I've never been

loved properly all my life, and I begin to hanker after it wildly. And,

if you do marry me, Lady Penelope, I want you to understand right here

and now that I don't want you to do your duty by me. If you begin to do

that, I'll take a Colt's forty-five and scatter my brains out. I want

love, that's what I want. I want it straight, without water in it."

"I see what you mean," said Penelope. "I think you are a very

noble-hearted man, Mr. Plant."

And away went poor Plant to draw up a scheme for a university.

"I think I could almost love him," said the pensive Penelope. "I

could--almost--"

Her contemplations were interrupted by Captain Goby. He was a little

paler than usual, and perhaps a trifle more intelligent. And he was

more in love than ever.

"I've done everything you told me," he said, as he sat down and eyed her

wistfully. "I've gone into poetry like a bull at a hedge, Lady

Penelope. I begin to see what it means. Old Austin (poor old josser)

has taken the deuce's own pains over me. He's read 'The Lady of the

Garden' to me seventeen times. He wrote it ten years ago. He says he

wonders how he did it, and so do I. I've been trying to write poetry to

you, do you know. That showed me there must be some special gift in it,

for I never did anything worth the horrid trouble. And I've been

worrying the War Office like a bulldog. They say they'll think of me,

and haven't gone any further, and talking of bulldogs, Bob's bulldog bit

Austin de Vere, and he swore like a man. I was surprised. But if I

were you, I'd tell Bob to stop sending him more dogs. He's very kind to

them, but they worry him. Bob's prices are very high, too. How is Bob?

Oh, by the way, I'm living on ten pounds a week. Need I reckon tailor's

bills in, do you think? Oh, yes, this bulge is the Golden Treasury. I

take it out and read a lyric between meals. The chaps at the Rag chaff

me like blazes, but I don't mind so long as I improve. I want to

improve so as to be worthy of your intellect, Lady Penelope."

"The poor dear," said Pen, when he was gone, "I think I could almost

love him!"

As luck would have it, Bob and Austin de Vere came in almost at the same

minute. For now Titania couldn't keep Bob away. For the matter of

that, she did not want to. Bob was to be Penelope's safeguard. He was

much better than Chloe Cadwallader, said Titania.

However, De Vere came in first. He held Penelope's hand no longer than

a poet should, as poets naturally hold girls' hands rather longer than

other people.

"You are looking really well, Mr. de Vere," said Penelope, when she was

free.

"I am well," said the poet, "exceedingly well in a way. My dear lady of

the beautiful garden, I owe all that to you. At first I was afraid of

Captain Goby. I told Lord Bradstock so the other day. I'm afraid I

left him under a false impression as to my feelings to Goby, by the way.

I'm quite proud of Goby. He says I am really a powerful man, and he

made me row till I was worn out. And then he insisted that I should use

Sandow's exerciser. I own I did it with reluctance. I pointed out to

Goby that I did not wish to look like Mr. Sandow. Goby always stopped

by the posters in which Mr. Sandow is lifting ten tons or so, and

pointed out certain muscles to me as ideals. I was recalcitrant, for,

although I admire Mr. Sandow immensely, I think muscle can be overdone.

However, I used the machine, which is ingenious and elastic, and only

dangerous if the hook comes out of the wall, and I've found I rather

like it. I should miss it now. I think it imparts a certain vigour to

verse, if not overdone. Oh--"

For in came Bob. He rushed at Pen and kissed her hair, and then bounced

at the poet.

"I say is it true the bulldog bit you? I saw Goby yesterday in the

park, and he said so," asked Bob, in great excitement.

"It is true," said the poet.

Penelope shook her head at the late owner of the dog.

"Oh, Bob! Mr. de Vere, I'm very sorry."

"So was I," said De Vere.

"Where did he bite you?" asked Bob, anxiously. "Was it the arm or the

leg? And did he hang on like a proper bulldog? Baker says that if a

bulldog once gets hold, you have to use a red-hot poker to make him let

go. Did you use a red-hot poker?"

"He only snapped and fetched blood," said De Vere.

"Ah!" cried Bob, "I always thought he wasn't a real good bulldog."

"At any rate, he bit the Irish terrier," said the poet. "I mean the one

you sold to me for three pounds."

"I'm glad he did, sir. That Irish terrier, though he's splendidly bred,

Baker says, has an awful temper and is very troublesome. Does Rollo,

the retriever, howl much at night, sir?"

"Oh, not so very much," said De Vere. "It's only when the moon is near

the full that he does his best."

"I never thought of that," said Bob, "but now I remember that it was

very moony when I sent him over to you. Baker said you'd like him. His

kennel is next to Baker's house."

"I'm much obliged to Baker," said De Vere. "But the tail of the Borzois

is still bald, Bob."

Bob opened his eyes wide.

"Oh, dear, I thought you would have cured him by now; and how about his

bronchitis?"

"That's better, I hope and trust," said the poet. And Penelope, who was

very greatly touched by his kindness to all these dogs, sent Bob into

the library.

"It's so good of you to be kind to Bob," she said. "Bob's a dear, and

he adores me. He says that he's going to live with me always, even when

I'm married."

[Illustration: AUSTIN DE VERE. He wrote poetry, and abhorred bulldogs

and motor-cars]

"Oh!" gasped De Vere. "We were talking about Goby, I think, when dear

Bob came in. You'll find him much improved, I'm sure, my dear Lady

Penelope. He has read a great deal of Shelley and Keats and Browning

with me. He was especially struck with 'Sordello.' I read it to him

and he sat with his hand to his forehead taking it all in. And every

now and again he said, 'Great Scott!' which is his way of expressing

wonderment and admiration. I do not know its origin. I've written to

Doctor Murray to ask him if he knows. And Goby, oh, yes, you'll find him

improved. I've done my best with him, and I've really struggled hard.

Any improvement you notice is, I really believe, under you and

Providence, due to me."

And when he went, Penelope sat thinking.

"The poor dear, how nicely he took the bulldog bites and the howling of

the retriever. I think--I think I could almost love him!"

And that afternoon and evening she saw Bramber and Carteret Williams and

Jimmy Carew and Gordon, and they were all most marvellously improved.

Bramber was alert and bright, and began to show that he had some

ambition in him, and, if he did not tell Penelope his exact mind about

Plant, he did show some little appreciation of the American's qualities.

"Associating with him has done you good," said Pen. "I see it has. You

lived far too much for yourself, Lord Bramber. I cannot endure

selfishness."

"I'm not selfish any more, I think," said Bramber. "I rather like Plant.

He seems a man, take him all around. He is abrupt, perhaps, and brutal.

I own I've found him trying, and he says things one finds it hard to

forgive."

"Yes, he told me," said Pen, delightedly. "Oh, he told me he said you

ought to be beaten severely, and he said you took it very nicely. Did

you?"

Bramber bit his lip.

"I did."

"That's right," said Pen. "Oh, I'm improving you all so much. You've

no idea how much improved you are. Mr. Mytton said he'd make something

out of you, Lord Bramber."

"Did he really?"

"Oh, yes. He said he made fair successes out of very much worse

material.

"He's quite a dear," she sighed, when he was gone, but, before she could

add that she might almost love him, Carew and Williams came in together.

And before she could greet them, Gordon came, too. Williams eyed him

with strange ferocity, for he was by nature a hater of Hebrews, and

wanted to dust the floor with him. Pen, who was as quick as lightning,

caught his glances and said to him, sweetly:

"I think you would get on nicely with Mr. Gordon."

And Williams blenched visibly.

"Oh, I couldn't leave Carew," he said. "I'm deep in art, very deep; I

adore it. Carew has introduced me to several Academicians, and I have

bought a box of paints. One Academician took me home with him and

showed me his pictures. He doesn't agree with Jimmy altogether, and he

says Jimmy will alter his opinions presently. His idea is that when a

man is an A.R.A., he is only beginning, you see. He also explained to

me the attitude of the R.A. with regard to the Chantrey Bequest. He

says that if they found a good picture not by an Academician, they would

buy it, which is interesting, isn't it? He was painting a picture

called 'War,' and wanted my opinion. I said I'd ask Jimmy, because I

didn't know anything about war except what I'd seen. I don't know why

he was chuffy about it. I find artists get chuffy and huffy very quick,

and I don't know what for. Do you think there will be war soon?"

Penelope didn't know, and said she wanted eternal peace and happiness

for every one, and meant having it if it could be got by any legitimate

influence.

"War is horrible!"

"It is," said Carew, who joined in just here, after getting away from

Gordon, who told him to buy Hittites at 3-1/8. "War is horrid.

Williams is always talking of it."

"I'm not," said Williams, angrily. "I want peace, eternal peace and

happiness for every one."

"Ah, so do I," put in Gordon. "My idea is to have a peaceful life, far

from the roar of London, in a deep green vale, where I shall hear no one

talking of shares, and where mines are unknown, and there are no Chinese

or crushing reports. Why is it that most reports from mines are

crushing? I wish I knew."

"Ah, how sweet it would all be," said beautiful Penelope. "You could

keep cows, Mr. Gordon."

"I adore them," said Gordon. "There is a breed without horns, isn't

there?"

"They look incomplete," said Jimmy.

"What are you painting now?" asked Pen.

"I'm not really painting, I'm modelling in clay, as you told me," said

the obsequious lover. "Don't you remember saying I was to model in

clay? I'm doing Williams in clay. He looks very well in it. I'm also

doing a bull going at a gate. When I get tired of Williams, I do the

bull, and when I'm fatigued by the bull I go back to Williams."

"And are they like?" asked Penelope.

"Oh, exactly," replied Carew.

And the interesting conversation was interrupted by Chloe and Ethel.

But Penelope said to herself that they were all dears.

"Mr. Williams is greatly improved," she murmured happily. "And Mr.

Carew looks more healthy and less engrossed in himself. I was awfully

glad to hear Mr. Gordon speak like that about a peaceful life."

And Williams slipped Carew on the door-step and went to his club. He

roared of war till two o'clock in the morning, and then got three

out-of-work war correspondents in the corner and told them the great

story of his love. But Jimmy went down to Chelsea, and damned modelling

in clay to other impressionist painters, and had a real good time. As

for Gordon of the "deep green vale," he went home and found a clerk

waiting with a bundle of cables from all quarters of the mining globe.

He sent a wire to Bramber to be let off an engagement to hear a debate

on drains.

On the whole, every one was tolerably happy, if we do not include

Titania and the retriever who howled at nights.

*CHAPTER VII.*

It is possible that Penelope never enjoyed herself so much as she did at

this period. She was so busy that she had no time to worry; her team

took all her time. She was young, she was beautiful, she was adored,

she was popular, she was even notorious. A dozen reporters dogged her

footsteps, and when they lost her they followed her lovers. They

haunted her door-step armed with kodaks; they invented paragraphs; they

hunted her men and her maids. They made love to the girls, and seduced

the men into neighbouring bars. One newspaper man, who belonged to the

_Mayfair Daily_, got into her establishment as a footman, and was

discovered by the butler drawing Penelope at dinner when he should have

been drawing corks. A search in his clothes revealed some pencils and a

note-book and another book of drawings. They were of such a character

that the reporter was put outside into the street. The butler could

have forgiven the sketch of his mistress: there was one of himself that

no man could forgive.

The great desire of all these men was to spot the winner. Penelope's

maid, Harriet Weekes, who was more or less engaged to Timothy Bunting,

the groom (a sad _mesalliance_, by the way), found it impossible to go

out without being accosted respectfully by a new admirer, who tried to

lead the conversation around to her mistress.

"If you please, my lady, another of them spoke to me to-day. I hope, my

lady, you don't think it my fault," said Weekes.

"What do they say?" asked Penelope, curiously. She took great interest

in the manners and customs of other classes, perhaps with a view of

altering them when she got time.

"Oh, my lady, they always say the same thing. I think men are very much

the same all over the world. They say 'It's a fine day,' even if it's

raining, and of course it is, and they say they want to walk a little

way with me (begging your pardon), and that I am very beautiful, and

that they have long loved me, if you please, my lady, and have been

trying to speak about it for years. And I tell 'em I don't want 'em,

and I don't, to be sure, though one (he's on the _Piccadilly Circus

Gazette_) is a very handsome man with a heagle's glance, dressed in gray

tweeds. And they won't be put off, I assure you, my lady. Men on

newspapers are hextremely persevering with a fine flow of language. And

if, being persuaded to take a little walk, for they are difficult to put

off by trade, I do take one, they begin to ask, begging your pardon, I'm

sure, my lady, if I am your sister, and I'm sure I'm as like you as a

butterfly is to a beetle, as Mr. Bunting says, though he adores the

ground I walk on, if he's to be believed, which I'm not sure of yet, and

the butler is very angry with me about the whole affair. And one, who

said he was the editor of the _Times_, which I don't believe in the

least, because it doesn't seem likely, does it, my lady, that the editor

of the _Times_ would do such things himself? said he wanted to marry me

and put me on the staff as his lovely bride. I must say he spoke most

beautifully, and he said he knew Captain Goby, and also Mr. Gordon, and

he said they were getting thin he thought. And another, quite the

gentleman, though by his trousers poor and careful, said he owned most

of the _Daily Telegraph_. And I couldn't help looking at his clothes.

He was very quick, and said that was owing to the competition of the

half-penny papers. Would I save the _Daily Telegraph_ from himpending

ruin by telling him which it would be, he said. And I said flatly that

I wouldn't. I never saw such wicked impudence. Oh, yes, my lady, your

hair's done now, and it's as lovely as a dream."

And, as Miss Weekes finished, she wondered, quite as much as any of the

newspaper men, who it was to be.

"It's my belief," she said to Timothy, a little later, "that my lady is

beginning to incline to one of 'em. I've noticed she's quieter like and

more gentle. And there's a soft sadness in her eye and a colour that

comes and goes."

"There ain't one of the biling worthy of her," said Timothy, bitterly.

"But there, Miss Weekes, there ain't no man worthy of a real beautiful,

good lidy. A fair wonder how I dares to hope that some day far off,

when motor-cars has killed every 'orse, you'll be Mrs. Bunting."

"It's a great come down, Tim," said Harriet. "Mr. Gubbles says he

wonders, too."

"If he wasn't the butler, and old, I'd plug 'im," said Timothy, crossly.

"It's all right for me to wonder, but he ain't in it."

"Ah, but class distinctions is hard to get over, Mr. Bunting," said

Harriet. "You must pardon a butler's feelings. Even Mr. Gubbles has

his feelings. And he agrees with you that there's no one but a duke

ought to marry our dear lady. And she demeaning herself (if I dare say

so) with Academicians and war correspondencies and Jew men; not but what

Mr. Gordon is very gentlemanly and generous. Only yesterday, Mr.

Bunting, he says to me when he met me outside, 'Do you read?' And I

says, 'Yes, sir,' being some flustered, and he says, 'You read that.'

And it was a five-pound note. And he adds something about 'your vote

and hinfluence.' But I can't do it, Mr. Bunting, I can't. If it was

Captain Goby, I might, and if it was young Lord Bramber I might more so,

and even if it was Mr. de Vere, with a duke remote in his family, but

for a Jewish man I can't. So I said, 'Thank you, sir,' and he went off.

But some one is beginnin' to rise up in my lady's mind, I saw it plainly

when I was dressing her. It would be worth more than five pounds to

know who is risin'."

"Yes," said Timothy. "'Ow much would it run to, do you think?"

"I believe it would be worth a public 'ouse."

"Beer and spirits?" asked Timothy, eagerly.

"And a corner 'ouse at that," replied Harriet, nodding her head.

"Oh, 'Arriet," said Timothy, with a gasp, "you fairly dazzle me."

The newspaper men had dazzled Harriet.

But indeed what she said seemed true to her. And it seemed true to Lord

Bradstock, who had, like the man of the _Circus Gazette_, an eagle's

glance.

"She has been playing fair," said Bradstock, "but one of them is drawing

ahead, Titania."

"Good heavens, who is he, and how do you know?" asked Titania.

"It's intuition," said Bradstock, "intuition combined with, or founded

on, a little observation. She's different, Titania. She takes no

interest in the London County Council."

"You don't say so!" cried the duchess, in alarm.

Bradstock nodded.

"It's a fact. I asked her if she had read the last debate, and she

hadn't, and when I mentioned the Deceased Wife's Sister she yawned."

"That looks bad," said Titania, "for only a week ago she raved about

her, and Goring said he'd vote for her if she insisted on it. And she

did insist, and tears came in her eyes about the poor thing."

"Well, I told you so," said Bradstock, "and I do hope it isn't Williams.

I'm afraid of Williams. He's capable of knocking her down and carrying

her off on his shoulder. Do you remember with what joy she read us the

account of the savage tribe somewhere (was it the east of London?) where

they do that?"

"It made me shiver with apprehension," said Titania. "Oh, if she was

only married safely to a good duke, one not like Goring! Is there a

good duke, Augustin?"

"Several, so I'm informed," replied Bradstock, "and there are quite a

number of good earls, some quite admirable. But I wish you'd get hold

of Chloe Cadwallader, and find out something."

Titania bristled like a porcupine.

"There is no need to find out anything about Mrs. Cadwallader," she

said. "If Penelope wasn't too dangerously innocent to be single, she

would not have anything to do with her."

"I'm sure the poor woman was only silly," said Bradstock. "Haven't we

all been silly in our time, Titania? Didn't I marry twice? And you

married once."

"I'll speak to her," said the duchess, hastily. "If we can only find out

who it is, we can, I'm sure, prevent her doing as she says and making a

secret marriage of it. The scandal would be horrid. Oh, Augustin,

suppose she did it, and had a large family suddenly. I should die of

it."

"Good heavens," said Bradstock, "you alarm me, Titania, you are so

gloomy. She would surely acknowledge her marriage then?"

Titania threw up her hands.

"Augustin, I'm sure of nothing with Penelope. I cannot answer for her.

She will bring my gray hairs with sorrow--"

"To cremation," said Bradstock. "She has invested money in a

crematorium."

"I thought it was dairy-farming," cried Titania. "Oh, but think,

Augustin, of the horror of the situation as it might be! What would her

Royal Highness say to me? Imagine her marrying and keeping it dark, and

having, as I say, a large family suddenly without a husband producible

on the moment to answer natural inquiries! Imagine her saying _then_

that her marriage was her own business, and her certificate of marriage

firmly withheld by a young and obstinate mother in a safe! She has a

safe. She has a safe, Augustin, with many keys. I wish I could get at

it, and find things out that are in it. I wish I knew a burglar, a good

honest and reliable burglar, married and trustworthy, that I could send

in to break it open. Most girls have a desk with an ordinary key, easy

to open, but Penelope has a Lord Milner's safe with patent things to

keep it shut. It's not natural, it's wicked. Oh, I did hope, when I

found out what the duke was like and what his ways were, that I knew the

extent of my troubles, but there is no end to them, and Penelope begins

where Goring leaves off."

"Is it as bad as that?" asked Bradstock.

"And then there's Bob--"

"By Jove," said Augustin, "I believe Bob's the key to the safe!

Titania, he's more likely to find something out than any one."

Titania nodded solemnly.

"Augustin, you are right. I'll speak to Bob."

"Let me do it."

"No, no, Augustin. He is very quick and suspicious, and he loves her,

he adores her. This requires a feminine intelligence. I will work upon

him quietly."

And she went away to work upon Bob quietly.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

Now Titania believed that she was very smart and very clever, and that

she would do things subtly and do them better than Bradstock or a

barrister, even if he was a K.C. And as it is the most invariably weak

point in people that they think young people fools, or at any rate

easily hoodwinked, she really believed that Bob, her dearly beloved

young scoundrel of a grandson, would be as easy to work on as butter.

And yet she had the sense to see that Bob adored Penelope.

"I am very greatly troubled about Penelope, Bob," she said to him, as

soon as she got him alone.

"Don't you worry about Pen, granny," replied Bob, cheerfully, "she can

take care of herself. Why, she can drive a motor-car now up to about

thirty miles an hour, and Geordie Smith says she's all there. And so

does old Guth. He had long talks with her, and he says she has brains.

I tell you old Guth knows 'em when he sees 'em."

Titania nodded.

"Oh, I know she is clever, dear, but her ideas are so extraordinary."

"Ain't they?" said Bob. "I do wonder which of 'em she'll marry, don't

you?"

"Indeed I do," replied his grandmother. "Have you any idea, Bob, which

she likes best?"

Bob shook his head.

"Not me. I wish it was Goby; old Goby is a ripping good sort. He knows

what's what, does old Goby."

Goby tipped him freely and frequently, and Bob sold him a spavined pony,

aged fifteen years.

"He's a bit of a fool, of course," said Bob, thoughtfully. "Do you

know, granny, he isn't the judge of horses you'd think he is?"

"Does Penelope ever confide in you, Bob?" asked Titania.

There was a touch of anxiety in her voice that the boy felt at once. He

put his head on one side and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

He didn't answer the question.

"I say, granny, don't you think I can have a bigger allowance now? I

find mine much too little. If I had ten shillings a week more, I could

get on for a bit."

"You shall have it," said Titania. "Does she ever confide in you, Bob?"

"Some," said Bob, carelessly.

"Which do you think she likes best?" asked Titania.

"I don't know," said Bob, "but I dare say I could find out. I say,

should you be very angry if it was Gordon?"

Titania uttered a little scream.

"Great heavens, Bob, I should die of it!"

Bob sat down and looked at her.

"He's not bad, granny, not half mean, oh, no, not at all!"

He had given Bob as much as he gave Miss Harriet Weekes about three days

before.

"I rather like him," said Bob. "Pen thinks he's much improved since she

put him in harness with the Frenchy. It touched her his going up in a

balloon. I say, may I go up in a balloon? Rivaulx said I might."

"No!" screamed his grandmother. "Oh, Bob, you wouldn't?"

"I won't if you don't want me to," sighed Bob, "but it's a horrid

disappointment. He says going up in one is jolly, and London underneath

is ripping. If I don't, will you ask grandfather to give me another

hunter?"

"Yes, of course," said poor Titania; "but what do you think about

Penelope? Could you find out anything, Bob, if I let you go and stay

with her?"

Bob's eyes gleamed.

"Rather," he said, "of course. But I needn't worry about old Guth if I

do? I've been working very hard, and I think a holiday would do him

good, too. I'm very much overworked. Do I look tired, granny? I

always feel tired now in my head. Guth says a breakdown from overwork is

much worse than most fatal diseases."

"You shall go to Penelope if she'll have you," said his anxious

grandmother. "Do you have headaches, Bob?"

"Not headaches," said Bob, "I shouldn't call 'em headaches exactly.

They're pains, and old Guth says he had 'em when he was at Oxford. They

get worse, he says, and then the breakdown comes, and you have to take a

very long rest. I'll go on working if you like, though."

He sighed.

"You shall go to your cousin's," said Titania, "and my dear, dear Bob,

keep your eye on Penelope and tell me all you discover. Her ideas are

very strange, you know, and we are all so anxious about her future."

"So am I," said Bob. "If she married the wrong one I shall be out of

it. I couldn't get on well with old De Vere, and if she married him I'm

quite convinced he wouldn't buy any more dogs. I want her to marry Goby

or Bramber. But I think Bramber is rather mean in some ways, and very

thoughtless of others. I told him I wanted some salmon fishing at his

father's place in Scotland, and he's said nothing about it since."

"I shouldn't mind Lord Bramber so much," said Titania. "But I'm afraid

it won't be Bramber."

"Cheer up," said her grandson. "I'll look after her. But don't forget

about the extra ten shillings and the horse. Could you give me the ten

shillings for six weeks now, granny?"

And he went off to Penelope's house and marched in on her.

"Pen, I'm coming to stay with you if you'll have me," he said.

"Of course I will," said Penelope. "But how did you manage it?"

"I'm overworked," said Bob, solemnly, "and sitting on chairs and

learning Latin don't agree with me. I want more open air, I think, or I

shall get consumption."

He was fat and ruddy and as strong as a bull-calf. He put his arm around

Pen's neck.

"I say, Pen, I do love you," he said. "I think it's rot I'm so young,

or I'd have married you myself. Granny's in an awful state about you,

Pen. She asked me if I knew who it was you liked best, and she threw

out hints a foot wide that I was to find out if I could."

"Indeed," said Pen; "and what did you say?"

Bob chuckled.

"I said the best thing would be for me to come and stay with you. And

that's why I'm here. But I say, Pen, I'll never sneak, not even if you

marry Mr. de Vere. Granny's raised my allowance ten bob a week, and I'm

to have another hunter. I got too big for the pony, so I sold him to

Goby; Goby looked very melancholy, but he said he wanted him badly for

some reason. And he said he hoped I'd be his friend always. I like

poor old Goby. I think I'll go into the park, Pen. My things will be

here by and by. Couldn't we go to the theatre to-night? There's a

ripping farce with a fight in it at the Globe. And will you have plum

pudding for dinner, and ice meringues?"

He went into the park and met Williams there.

"I say, Mr. Williams, where's Mr. Carew?" he asked.

"Damn Carew," said Williams. "I don't know where he is, and I don't

want to."

"I'm staying at my cousin's," said Bob.

"At Lady Penelope's?" asked the war correspondent.

"That's it," said Bob. "Would you like to know what theatre we are

going to to-night?"

"Yes," said Williams, eagerly.

Bob shook his head.

"I don't suppose I ought to tell you. Tell me something very exciting

about some bloody war, Mr. Williams."

Williams grunted.

"Or an execution. Have you ever seen heads chopped off with a sword?"

"Often in China, Bob."

"I say, what fun!" said Bob. "Tell me all about it. Is it true they

smoke cigarettes while they are being chopped? And do they mind? Could

I see one if I went out? I say, if you'll describe it, I'll see if I

can tell you about the theatre."

Carteret Williams described it.

"Seventeen!" said Bob. "By Jove, I'll tell this to Penelope. She'll be

greatly interested. Do you think I could be a war correspondent, Mr.

Williams? I'd like to be, because Latin wouldn't be needed. I'm

awfully sorry for war correspondents in those days when no one but the

Roman chaps did any fighting. I've enjoyed that story of yours more

than anything I've heard for years, Mr. Williams. When they write about

these things in books, why don't they describe the blood the way you do?

It's the Globe we're going to; there's a ripping farce there. I wish

they would do an execution of pirates. I say, don't tell Pen I told

you; she might be waxy with me. Think of something else to tell me.

Good-bye."

And he went to look at the ducks.

"Williams is all right," said Bob; "I wonder if it is Williams."

And at home Pen began to know who it was. And Ethel Mytton began to know

it was some one. And so did Chloe Cadwallader.

Miss Weekes was right, there is no mistake about that.

*CHAPTER IX.*

Penelope was certainly on the verge of being in love, to go no farther

than that. She discovered that certain of the horde had a curious

tendency to disappear from her mind, though none of them lost any

opportunity of appearing in her drawing-room. She was so sorry for those

she didn't love that her kindness to them increased. Her dread of the

one she began to adore forbade her to show how soft she had grown to

him. Not even Ethel and Chloe together could make anything out of it,

which shows every one, of course, that they were two simple idiots, or

that Penelope had a very remarkable character. It seems to me that the

latter must have been the case, for Chloe was no fool in spite of the

folly she had shown on one particular occasion.

"Am I a fool?" she asked Ethel Mytton, "or is Penelope the deepest,

darkest mystery of modern times? I am convinced she has made her

choice."

"Oh, which do you think?" asked Ethel, with much anxiety. "Do you--do

you think it is Captain Goby?"

"I don't know," replied Chloe; "it may be. I give it up. I shall ask

Bob."

"I've asked him," said Ethel, "and he won't say anything. I think he

knows more than we do. He's a sweet boy, but just as cunning as a

ferret."

But of course Bob knew no more than they did, though he would never own

to it. He threw out casual hints that he was wiser than his elders, and

the only one he was in the least frank with was Lord Bradstock, who

asked him to lunch and was infinitely amused with him.

"I say, Lord Bradstock, if you'll keep it dark, I'll tell you

something!"

Bradstock promised to keep it as dark as a dry plate.

"All these women think I know who Penelope's sweet on, and I don't.

And, what's more, I wouldn't tell if I did. Would you?"

"Certainly not," said Bradstock.

"You can't think how I'm chased," said Bob. "Ethel Mytton is the worst.

She's dead nuts on poor Goby, and Goby doesn't see her when Pen's in the

room. And Mrs. Cadwallader, she's always mugging up to me with

chocolates or something to get things out of me. And the newspaper

Johnnies are on me, too. And Williams takes me out, and Carew (I don't

care for Carew), and I like Goby best. Mr. de Vere is a rotter, don't

you think? The marquis was at Pen's, and he said that if Pen didn't

marry him he'd go up in a balloon and never come back. I want him to

take me in a balloon. Don't you think I might go? Granny's cross when I

speak of it. I've always wanted to go in a balloon, and I think it hard

lines I can't go because she doesn't like 'em. Pen won't go, either.

She thinks that if she did, Rivaulx would never let her come down again,

or something. I daresay he wouldn't; he's quite mad, I think,

sometimes. Baker says all Frenchmen are mad. Do you think so?"

Bradstock didn't know; he wasn't sure of it, though he owned to thinking

it was possible.

"After all, Bob," he said, when Bob went at last, "and after all I dare

say Penelope won't marry any of them."

And of course that is what a good many people said. They said it was

Lady Penelope's fun. The Marchioness of Rigsby, who settled every one's

affairs, said so to Titania.

"Why wasn't she beaten, my dear, when she was young?" asked the

marchioness. "I was severely beaten; it did me good; it gave me sense.

I always used to beat my girls with the flat of my hand, and now they

are _most_ sensible and married excellently, although I own they are not

beauties. I can afford to own it now. I shall speak to Penelope

myself."

She did it and was routed. Pen was direct; she beat no one, and

certainly did not beat about the bush. She had no fear of the world,

and dreaded no marchioness.

"I'll attend to my own affairs, thank you," said Pen.

"My dear love," said the marchioness, "you ought to have been beaten

while you were still young. This conduct of yours is a scandal. It is

merely a means of attracting public notice. And I am old enough to

speak about it. I will speak about it."

Pen left her speaking and went out.

"She is distinctly rude," said the marchioness, viciously. "I wish she

was about ten and I was her mother!"

But Pen could not endure being spoken to.

"I love him," said Pen, "and what business is it of theirs? If they

disapprove I shall hate them! If they approve I shall hate them worse.

Oh, I almost wish I was going to marry some one who would make them

die!"

"Mark me," said the marchioness to Titania, "this will end in her

marrying a groom. Has she a good-looking one?"

Titania started.

"Oh, a very good-looking one," she cried.

"What did I say? Remember what I said," said the marchioness, darkly.

"No really good girl could act as she does. She will marry a groom!"

She went around saying so in revenge for Penelope's want of politeness.

The journalists took Timothy Bunting's photograph, and Miss Weekes was

proud till she heard the dreadful rumour. Timothy beat a man on a paper,

and Bob was delighted. Titania took to her bed, and said the end of the

world was at hand. Bradstock laughed till he cried, and cut the

marchioness in the park. Her husband was very much pleased at this, and

said it served her right. Chloe Cadwallader wrote her first letter

since the scandal to Cadwallader in the Rockies, for she felt he would

be the only man in the world who hadn't heard of it. Ethel lay wait for

Captain Goby, and asked him to kill some one. There was not a soul in

London who did not hear of it. And then Timothy quarrelled with Harriet

Weekes. He went to Penelope, and with a crimson face and bated breath

and much humbleness asked to be sent down to the country.

"You shall go," said Penelope, with great decision. "I can trust you, I

know."

"My lady, you can trust me with untold gold and diamonds," replied

Timothy Bunting, almost with tears.

"I shall send you to a house of mine you have never heard of," said

Penelope. "And I expect you, Bunting, not to write to any one from

there. I do not wish any one to know I live there."

"I'll not tell the Harchbishop of Canterbury 'imself, my lady, not if he

begged me on his knees, with lighted candles in his 'and," said Bunting.

"And, above all, my lady, I'll not tell it to Miss Weekes. Her and me

'ave quarrelled, and 'ave parted for hever. And I wouldn't trust her,

my lady, not farther than you can sling a bull by the tail, my lady.

I've trusted her to my rueing, so I have, and if she finds out hanything

she'll sell it to the _Times_, which 'ave promised her a public 'ouse at

a corner."

This revelation of the methods of Printing House Square shocked Penelope

dreadfully.

"Oh, I always thought the _Times_ was a respectable journal," she said.

But Timothy Bunting shook his head.

"Their sportin' tips ain't a patch on many of the penny papers, my lady.

But don't you forget what I says of Miss Weekes. She's a serpent in

your boodore a-coiling everywhere, and speaking to newspaper men outside

the harea like an 'ousemaid. Not but that I knows an 'ousemaid far above

such dirty work, my lady."

A little encouragement might have led him to say more about the

housemaid who would not condescend to talk with journalists. But

Penelope gave him an address, verbally.

"You will go to this place to-morrow," she said. "There are no horses

now, but there will be next week. I trust you to do what I tell you."

"Miss--my lady, I mean," said Timothy, proudly, "I wouldn't reveal where

I was if the Hemperor of Germany crawled to me for that purpose all

along of the ground, making speeches as he went."

Penelope smiled at her faithful henchman kindly, and she wondered how it

happened that he thought of placing the emperor in such an absurd

position; a position, too, which was very unlikely.

"Now are you sure you remember, Bunting?" she asked.

"Miss Mackarness, Moat 'Ouse, near Spilsby, Lincolnshire," repeated

Timothy.

"And you will speak personally to Miss Mackarness, who will give you

every instruction," said his young mistress. "I hope you don't drink,

Bunting?"

"Never," said Bunting, promptly, "at least I won't from now on till you

give the word, my lady. But, my lady, as I'm goin' from here I don't

mind revealin' to you that Mr. Gubbles does. Mr. Gubbles 'as been very

unkind to me, and--"

"That will do," said Penelope. "Good-bye, Bunting. I expect to see you

in about a month. It may be less."

"I 'opes, my lady, it will be much less," said the groom, and as he went

away he nodded his close-cropped head.

"This is a damned rum start," he murmured. "Wot's up, I wonder? This

'ere Miss Mackarness was 'ousekeeper at Upwell Castle, and I'm a

Dutchman if any one of us 'as ever 'eard of Moat 'Ouse. She's goin' to

do it, as she said, goin' to be married and keep it dark. Women is

wonderful strange and, so to speak, dreadful. I thot I knew 'Arriet

Weekes through and through, and she turned out to be a serpent with

false teeth, ready to sell Lady Penelope to the _Times_. And my lady

'as turned me round 'er finger. I'm knee-deep in secret hoaths, and,

without knowin' what I was doin', I've swore off drink. Well, I always

did like ginger-beer!"

But he sighed all the same. And that afternoon he packed up and

disappeared, and no one knew what had become of him. Neither he nor any

one of those who hunted for news had any notion of the fame which would

presently be his. Nor did Penelope see quite what she had done when this

nice-looking young man suddenly vanished by her orders.

But Penelope was in love.

*CHAPTER X.*

Love is a pathological state which can only be cured by one means. It

is a disease, and robs the most humourous of their humour. When

Rabelais was in love he no doubt wrote poems which he afterward

destroyed. When Dante was in love he did the Paradiso. When he cheered

up he wrote the Inferno. Neither of these is any joke. But then, Dante

had no more humour than Penelope. It can be imagined (or it cannot be

imagined) how unhumourous Pen became when she found she had made her

choice between Plant and De Vere and Goby and Carew and Williams and

Bramber and Gordon and Rivaulx. She wept at night over those she could

not marry. And it added grief to grief to think that the unmarried

would probably relapse into their evil ways.

"What can one poor girl do with so many?" she asked. "I'm sure they

will turn around on me, and once more follow their dreadful instincts!

And they have improved so much!"

The result of her sorrow was such pity that every poor wretch of them

all was convinced she loved him better and better. They were quite

cheerful. They looked at each other almost sympathetically. They grieved

for each other, and struggled on the hard cinder-path of duty, with

Penelope at least a long lap ahead. The amount of good they did was

wonderful. Plant got his university started, Rivaulx went over to Paris

and asked Dreyfus to dinner, Goby was deep in Imperial Yeomanry and

rifle ranges, Bramber spoke on every opportunity in the House and voted

with the insistence of a whip. De Vere wrote a monograph on outdoor

sports, with an appendix on bulldogs. He also owned that poetry was not

everything, and went so far as to say that the poet laureate was a very

good fellow. Gordon floated a company without any water in the capital,

and ran the whole affair with absolute honesty and no waiver clause.

Carew learned to draw, and spoke sober truth about the Chantry Bequest.

Williams never swore in public, and painted in water-colours. And none

of them played bridge or went into good society.

"And when they know?" said poor Penelope.

"I wonder if I ought not to sacrifice him and myself on the altar of

duty?" said Pen. But she was in love, and the motor-car in which she

was to disappear stood ready. She made weekly trips in it with Bob.

Sometimes they stayed away for three days, sometimes even for a week.

"Oh, Bob, I'm so unhappy: so happy," said Pen.

And Bob looked at her critically.

"Well, you look stunning, anyhow," he replied, "you get better looking

every day, Pen. Old De Vere said so. He let on that you were a cross

between a lily and a rose, or some such rot. You mark me, Pen, he'll go

back to poetry if you marry him, and give up dogs. I don't want him to

do that. Baker has some pups coming on, a new kind of very savage dog,

and I'm halves in 'em. Can't you give me a tip as to whether it's De

Vere? If it is, I'll sell him one now, cheap."

But Pen looked beautiful and kept her mouth shut. Neither Bob nor

Titania nor Bradstock could extract a word from her. And, nevertheless,

the whole world grew suspicious. The society papers said she had made

her choice. The sporting papers gave tips. They said, "For the _Lady

Penelope Stakes_ we give Plant or Bramber," or at least one of them did.

Others selected De Vere, and one rude man said a rank outsider would get

it. Of course he didn't believe in Pen's word. But then, no one did.

And still Pen kept her teeth shut and was as obstinate as a government

mule to all persuasion. Ethel cried and said:

"Oh, is it Captain Goby?"

Chloe laughed and laid traps for Penelope saying:

"Oh, by the way, I saw Lord Bramber just now."

Or it might be De Vere or Carew or Williams. But no one got a rise out

of Penelope.

"I am entirely determined to give a lead to those who wish to be married

without publicity. I shall found a society presently," said Penelope.

When Titania, whom nothing could discourage, went at her furiously,

Bradstock smiled.

"If she has a daughter, some day we shall see the girl married in

Westminster Abbey," said Bradstock. But even he was very curious.

"Have you found out anything yet, Bob?" he asked that young financier.

"I'm on the way," said Bob, "give me time, Lord Bradstock. I feel sure

it's not De Vere. He's buying all the dogs I offer him. If he was

sure, he wouldn't."

But Bradstock wasn't certain. Penelope might have no humour, but she

was quite equal to ordering De Vere to buy in order to blind Bob.

"I never thought of that," said Bob. "I frankly own Pen's a deal worse

than Euclid. And I never thought to say that of anything."

And upon a certain day in June, when June was doing its best to live up

to the poet's ideal, Pen disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home

with Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the young vagabond

doing something. She came back after lunch, and Bob found her

abnormally silent. She had nothing to say, and there was a curious

far-off look in her eyes. Her interest in dogs was nil; she showed no

appreciation of ferrets; when he spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and

"what's that you say?" And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever, just as

clever people never have when they might be expected to show their

wisdom.

When she did speak, though, it was to the point.

"I think, Bob, it is time you went back to your grandmother's," she

declared, suddenly, and back he went in spite of all his cajoleries.

Pen was very strange, he thought, and rather beastly. There certainly

was a change in her, for she dismissed Harriet Weekes with a douceur

which did not really sweeten that lady's departure.

And in the afternoon Pen casually remarked to Chloe that she was going

out of town for three days. When she said so the motor-car was at the

door, and Geordie Smith was there too.

If Timothy Bunting had known that Smith was as deep in his lady's

confidence as he was himself, he would have been jealous. But he must

have been, for Pen said to him, when they were out of Piccadilly:

"How long will it take to get to Spilsby, Smith?"

"My lady, with this new racing-car I'll get there when you like,"

replied Smith, firmly.

Pen remembered that Bob said Smith's ambition was to ride through the

city regardless of fines.

"I wouldn't try to do it under three hours," she said.

"Unless we are followed," said Smith. "If we are followed, my lady, may

I let her go?"

"Yes," said Penelope.

Geordie Smith nodded to himself.

"Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said Smith to himself; "wait,

my darling, till we get through the traffic."

He meant "darling" for his new car. He adored it as much as he did his

mistress. He used to dream of it at night and had nightmares about it.

Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the middle of Salisbury Plain

without petrol; "she" refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic

policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock. But now she

moved under him smooth and cosy, with a vast reserve of power; she was

quick, swift, docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless of

the limping law.

"If my lady wants to go quick, I'm the man," said Geordie. "But I

wonder what's up?"

Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the violin, or Paderewski the

piano. She skated, she swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was

responsive to his lightest touch. He heard her music as every engineer

does, and found it as lovely as a dream song.

"Oh, for a clear road," said the player. He found some of it clear

before they reached Barnet, and then he fingered the keyboard, as it

were, like a master.

"Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable things! Ain't I sorry

for Tim Bunting! Here we go, my lady."

He broke the law magnificently, and with such skill that Penelope

wondered. But only once he ran against the law in the shape of a

policeman, north of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to him to

stop.

"Shall I?" said Smith.

"No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind.

They passed him flying and saw him run as they passed.

"He'll wire to Hitchin and have us there," said Smith. But he knew his

roads. "Oh, will he?"

He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn and roared through

Stevenage to Baldock and found the main road again at Sandy. They

reached Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and three

quarters.

"And I've never let her out but once," said Smith; "she's a daisy!"

The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at a speed that made

Penelope bend her head. She felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star.

They slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and rolled through

it delicately. She looked about her and remembered the dear bishop who

had christened her when he was no more than a vicar.

"We'll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith." A car followed them out of

Spilsborough, and Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it.

"Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously. But when they were well

clear of town and he turned her loose, so to speak, Pen's nerve went, or

it appeared to go.

"Don't go so fast, Smith," she commanded.

And Smith obeyed sorrowfully.

"They can't stand it," he said; "none of 'em can stand it really. They

let on they can, but it's no go. A few hot miles gives them the

mulligrubs."

But nevertheless they were running over thirty miles an hour. The car

behind crawled up to them.

"All I've got to do, my lady, is to ask her to shake 'em off, and away

we go and leave 'em," he suggested.

"Oh, no, no," said Pen.

At Spalding the pursuer, if he were one, was not a hundred yards behind.

But in the town Smith got ahead. He did not see Penelope trembling.

Smith had taken a look at the one behind.

"There's power there," he said, savagely. "If he lets her out and my

lady squeals, I'm passed!"

She did "squeal" the other side of Spalding, but not for herself. The

other car had to stop.

"That's done 'em," said Smith; "they're in the ditch." He gained ten

miles on them, and Penelope wept.

And just as they were coming into Boston at an easy gait, Smith turned

and saw the other car coming up behind like a meteor, with the dust

astern of her in a fume.

"That chap can drive after all," said Smith. "Won't you try to let me

get away from him before we get to Spilsby, my lady?"

"I--I don't want to," said Pen.

And five miles outside of Spilsby the pursuing car drew up with them.

Two indistinguishable monsters drove it, and through his glaring goggles

Smith glared at them as they came alongside.

"Stop," said Penelope, suddenly. "Stop, Smith."

And the other car stopped too.

"I'll go on with the other car," said Penelope. She took her place by

the most unrecognizable portent of the two, and disappeared in a sudden

and terrific cloud of dust.

"Damned if I know who it is, even now," said Smith.

*CHAPTER XI.*

It was Friday when Penelope disappeared from London in a motor-car, and

was carried off by a motor pirate, unknown to any one, because he wore a

peak cap, a fur coat with the fur outside, and gigantic goggles, making

him resemble a diver or a cuttlefish.

It was Monday when she returned to town in a motor-car with Geordie

Smith. And all the way into town Geordie said:

"Blessed if I'd ha' thought it. I always reckoned it would have been

one of the others. I lose money on this, but if I do, it warms the

cockles of my heart to see my lady happy. Bless her sweet face, I wish

she'd leave the blooming world alone and have a good time. I never set

eyes on such an aggravatin' beautiful sweet lady for interferin' with

men. Just as if the queen herself could alter our ways! Women always

gas that they can or mean to, and they're just like hens with men for

ducks."

If he had been a classical scholar he might have remembered Ariadne up

to her knees in the sea, with her lover on the deep in a boat.

"When I saw who it was at Moat House," said Geordie, "you could have

knocked me endwise with something less than a steel spanner. And that

horse-whipping ass of a Bunting was equal took aback. For somehow we

never spotted him as likely to make the non-stop run. Humph, humph!"

And he left Penelope at her house just in time for afternoon tea. As

she lay on the sofa she handed a paper to Chloe Cadwallader, saying:

"I wish you would send out cards to all these people for Thursday

night."

"That's very short notice, darling," said Chloe.

"They'll come," said Pen.

And when Chloe looked at the list she found it included only Pen's

particular friends, her most bitter relations, and the whole of the

"horde."

"I wonder--" said Chloe, and she wondered somewhat later with Ethel.

"Is it?" said Ethel.

"Can it be?" cried Chloe.

"It can't be," said Ethel.

"Who knows?" asked Chloe. "She is so plain and so simple and

straightforward that there is no certainty about anything she does. I

understand the wicked and the weak, but Penelope--"

She threw up her hands, and presently wrote out the cards. And Penelope

was trying "to a degree," as Chloe said all Monday and Tuesday and

Wednesday. And on Thursday she sent for Bob, who came helter-skelter in

a hansom.

"You'll stand by me, Bob," said Pen, clutching him.

Bob put his hands in his pockets and stood straddle-legs. He stared at

her. What was hidden from the wisdom of Chloe was revealed to the

simplicity of this boy.

"Pen," said Bob, solemnly, "I'll stick by you till death. But ain't you

going to tell me who it is?"

"Who what is?" asked Pen, feebly.

"Him," said Bob. "Pen, you've been and gone and done it."

Pen, the strong and mighty Pen, wept a little.

"Don't snivel," said Bob. "It can't be helped now, I suppose, unless

you get a divorce. Do you want one?"

"Oh, no!" said Pen. "Not at all!"

Bob considered the matter for a few minutes.

"I say, what makes you cry?" he asked.

"I--I don't know," said Penelope.

"Girls are very rum. Baker says they are. He's not married, you know.

He says mules are easy to them. He drove mules once in India, he says.

You know you are doing all this off your own bat, Pen, ain't you? Why

don't you chuck it?"

"Chuck what, dear?"

"Oh, this notion of not letting on. Baker says it's the rummest start

he ever knew, and he says he's seen some rum things in his life,

especially when he was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Can't you

chuck it?"

"Oh, no, certainly not," said Pen, firmly. "It's only, Bob, that I'm

not used to it yet, you see."

"Of course not," said Bob. "Being married is strange at first, I

suppose. Baker says he knew a woman who was married four times, and by

the fourth time she wasn't nervous to speak of. But is it true, Pen,

that you won't tell any one who it is?"

"I won't," said Pen.

"Bravo," cried Bob. "Stick to it. Oh, it will make granny so savage!

Has Bill spoken about it to you?"

"He laughs," said Pen. "He always does laugh."

"He tells rattling good stories," said Bob. "He told me a splendid one

about a man who stole a parrot the other day. I'll tell it you sometime

when I remember it. Is anything going to happen to-night, Pen?"

Pen shivered.

"Oh, dear, I don't know. Mind you come, too, Bob."

Bob vowed he wouldn't miss coming for worlds.

"I believe you're thinking of telling 'em you've done it," he said, and

Pen said she was thinking of telling them.

"You won't tell me who it is? I'm as close as wax," urged Bob.

"I can't, dear," said Pen.

"Oh, by Jove, I remember Bill's parrot story, Pen. A man stole a

parrot, and when he was caught he said he took it for a lark. And the

man who owned it said he'd make a bally fine judge at a bird-show."

"Oh," said Pen, rather blankly; "but if he only took it for a lark, I

suppose they let him off. Did they?"

"Let him off what?"

"Why--going to prison, of course," said Pen.

"I don't know," replied Bob, staring. "Don't you see it's a joke?"

"Yes, I see, of course," said Pen. "Why, the man said it was a lark,

and it was a parrot. I think it's a very good story, Bob."

And Bob went away wondering whether it was or not.

"I'll tell it to Baker," he said, thoughtfully.

He turned up at nine o'clock that night with Titania, who was in a state

of mind requiring instant attention from a physician.

"Good heavens, what is it, I wonder," said Titania. "Robert, I wonder

what it is? But what do you know? I am in a tremble; I am sure she

will do or say something even more scandalous than she has done yet. I

put it all on Bradstock; to make him her guardian was a fatal error. My

nerves--but I have none. I quiver like a jelly; I shake; I must be pale

as a ghost. Why should we take so much trouble over anything? I must

think of myself. I will go to bed and stay there for a week, and send

for Dr. Lumsden Griff."

But Bradstock was as calm as a philosopher without anything in the

objective world to worry him.

"What does it matter?" he inquired. "Does anything matter?"

Brading, whom no one had seen for many months, as he had spent the whole

winter in a yacht down the Mediterranean, was perfectly good-humoured.

"You see, she's a dear, but only my half-sister after all," he said to

Bradstock, "and women are so wonderful! I can tell you a story by and

by of a Greek lady, and one about a Spaniard. And, to tell the truth, I

almost agree with Pen. I'm a bit of a socialist, or an anarchist, if

you like. Have you read Nietzsche?"

"Who wrote it?" asked Bradstock.

But the horde came in one by one, and Penelope, who was dressed in the

most unremarkable costume at her disposal, and looked like a lily,

received them at the door.

"A most awful and improper situation," said Titania.

"I say, I'll tell you about that Greek girl," said Brading. "Do you

think Pen could stick a knife in a fellow?"

Bradstock didn't think so, and listened to the story of the lady who

suggested the notion.

"Right through my coat and waistcoat," said Brading. "Only a very stiff

piece of starch saved my life!"

"Good heavens!" cried Bradstock.

The room was full, and Bob buzzed around it like a bluebottle in an

orchard.

"Oh, I say," he cried to every one. He told the story of the parrot

after he had asked Brading whether he had it right. He tried it on De

Vere and failed. Goby roared handsomely. Bramber was absent-minded

with his eye on Penelope. Gordon said, "Yes, yes, a ripping good story."

The Marquis de Rivaulx balked at it, but was led to understand it.

"And when can I go up in a balloon?" asked Bob. He waited for no

answer, but told it to Williams, suggesting that the war correspondent

might pay for it by a story with blood and torture in it, please. And

all of a sudden it was noticed that the hostess had slipped out of the

room.

"Where--where is Penelope?" asked trembling Titania. "Mrs. Cadwallader,

where is Lady Penelope?"

Bob ran her to earth in her bedroom, and after many appeals he was let

in.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Penelope. "Bob, let me take hold of you. Do

I tremble?"

"Rather," said Bob. "I'll bet you couldn't drink a glass of wine

without spilling it. What's wrong? Buck up. Ain't you comin' in to

tell 'em? I've broken it a bit for you."

Pen screamed.

"You wretched boy, what have you done?"

"Bless you, nothing to speak of," said Bob. "I only said you would make

'em sit up presently. They think I know something, and want to bribe me.

I say, Pen, if you say nothing for a few days, I believe old Gordon will

make me a director. Can you? I want to make money and restore the

family property. I say, do."

But Pen paid no attention to him. She groaned instead.

"Where's the pain?" asked Bob, anxiously. "Shall I get you some brandy?"

"No, no, Bob! I _must_ go in and tell them."

"Come on, then," said Bob, eagerly. "I don't care about the

directorship. They're all white and shaking. I _guess_ they _are_ in a

stew."

But still Pen did not move, and when Chloe came she sent her away,

saying, "In a moment, in a moment!"

Then Bob had a brilliant idea.

"I say, Pen, I'll do it!"

"Do what?"

"I'll go in and tell 'em you've done it. It would be a lark!"

But Pen shook her head.

"No, I must, I will be brave. If a woman has ideas she must live up to

them. I have done good so far. Are they not very much improved, Bob?"

"Some, I think," said Bob, carelessly. "But I dare say they'll go

regular muckers now. Come on, Pen, I do want to see their jaws drop."

And Pen went with him. She stayed outside the door, and Bob went in

first.

"She's coming," said Bob. And Pen entered with her eyes on the floor.

Bob took her hand.

"Buck up and spit it out," he said, in an encouraging whisper, which was

audible in the farthest corner of the room. Some of the horde turned

pale; Titania fell back in her chair; Bradstock leant against the wall.

Brading put up his eyeglass, and then told Bradstock Pen reminded him of

a girl who had once tried to smother him with a pillow.

"She had Penelope's straightforwardness, and never gave in, just like

Pen," said Brading, thoughtfully.

And now Penelope took hold of her courage, so to speak, and opened her

mouth.

"S-sh," said Bob, who looked on himself as the master of the ceremonies,

"s-sh, I say."

And he took hold of Pen's hand.

"I'm so glad to see you here to-night," said the reformer, "for I am so

much interested in you all, you see. And you've all been so brave."

"Hear, hear," said Bob.

"So brave in different ways, about balloons and motor-cars and curing

yourselves of your weak points," went on Penelope. "That's what I hoped

my influence would do. I said I was only a girl, but even a girl ought

to do something, and I knew you all liked me very much, for you all said

so, and I said, what can I do for you? And I did my best, and you did

yours, I'm sure, for I've heard from every one of you all about the

others."

This made many of them look rather queer, as no doubt it might.

"And months ago I said--I said--"

"Go ahead, Pen," whispered Bob. "You mean you said you'd marry one of

'em."

"I said I'd--marry one of you."

Titania groaned in the corner of a vast settee. Bradstock and Brading

whistled, or it seemed so. But the other poor wretches stared at

Penelope, and saw no one, heard no one, but her.

"And I wanted you to come to-night so that I could ask you all to go on

in the path of rectitude and simplicity and courage, balloons and hard

work and healthiness and thought for others, even if I was married,"

said Pen, with a gasp. "Will you, oh, will you?"

"We will," said the crowd, Goby leading with a deep bass voice and tears

in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Penelope, "for I shall not have lived in vain

even if I died to-night. And now--and now--I have to tell you

something."

"Great heavens," said Titania, in an awestricken and penetrating

whisper, "what is she going to say now?"

"I have kept my word," said Penelope, with her eyes on the floor. "I

have kept my word!"

"What--what word?" asked the collapsed duchess, and Pen tried to say

what word she had kept.

"Speak up," said Bob, "speak up, Pen!"

And she did speak up.

"For--for," gasped Penelope, "for, you see, I _have_ married one of

you!"

Titania uttered a scream and promptly fainted. The men looked at each

other furiously and suspiciously, while Pen was on her knees beside the

poor duchess. At that moment a message was brought in for Gordon, and

an urgent note from the whip for Bramber. Brading stood in a corner and

whistled. Bradstock shrugged his shoulders, and Bob buzzed all over the

room like a wasp in a bottle. By dint of water and smelling-salts and

the slapping of hands Titania was brought to, and when she had recovered

consciousness to the extent of knowing what it was that had bowled her

over, she uttered words on the spur of the moment which were almost as

much of a bombshell as those Penelope had spoken.

"I don't believe she's married at all," said Titania.

*CHAPTER XII.*

To talk about the grounds of certainty is to talk metaphysically, and

metaphysics being the highest form of nonsense, becomes sense in that

altitude, as it must be if Hegel is to be believed. But in the conduct

of life the grounds of certainty are an estate beyond the rainbow. If

Penelope believed any one thing with more fervour than another, it was

that her truthfulness must be self-evident. The course of events after

the evening on which Titania fainted and recovered so sharply showed her

that nothing was certain, not even self-evident truths. For though she

said she was married, few, if any, believed her. Titania, who believed

in her intuitions, as all right-minded women must, because reason is

only an attribute of man, declared that Penelope had lied, to put it

plainly. She invented an hypothesis to account for it.

"She found out she didn't want to marry any of them, and her courage to

say so failed her. This notion of hers gives her time, and of course,

my dear, as you see from what I say, she's not married in the least."

Bradstock, who was a philosopher, disagreed with her, and agreed with

Bob.

"Not married in the least, eh?" said Bradstock. "What is the least

degree of marriage which would meet with your moral approval, Titania?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Augustin," replied Titania, tartly.

"I cannot help it," said Augustin, "the situation is so absurd."

And so it was for every one but the Duchess and Penelope, who did not

understand a joke even with illustrations. And they undoubtedly had the

illustrations. There were leading articles in several papers on the

subject of marriage, with discreet allusions to Penelope's case. There

was a long and rabid correspondence in the _Daily Turncoat_, a new

halfpenny paper, to which every lady with a past or a future

contributed. The editor of the _Dictator_ wrote a moral essay with his

own hand, obvious to every student of his immemorial style, which proved

that another such case would knock the bottom out of the British Empire

and bring on protection. He showed that marriage, open and

unadulterated, in a chapel, at the least, was the minimum on which

morality could exist, and he pointed out with sad firmness that the

ethical standards of the true Briton were the only decent ones at

present unfurled in the universe, and that they were in great danger of

being rolled up and put away. As every one knows, all he said was

undoubtedly fact. The true Briton is the only moral person in the

world. As a result Penelope felt that she wasn't a true Briton, and it

made her very mournful, as it should have done. Nothing but her native

obstinacy, which was imperial if not British, made her stick to her

ideas, when her half-brother came to her and asked her crudely to

"chuck" it. For, though he was humourous, it was past a joke now, and

his admiration of Pen was tinged with alarm.

"I say, old girl, chuck it," said Bill.

"I can't! I won't!" said Penelope.

"Nobody believes you."

Penelope couldn't help that.

"I've spoken the truth."

"Why, even the other men don't believe it," said her brother. "Why, I

met three of 'em to-day, and they all said, 'Oh, yes, we understand.' I

say, Pen, this is too much. Chuck it!"

"Once for all, dear, I won't," said Penelope. "Much as I dislike this

publicity, I see it is doing good. I get letters every day from scores

of people saying that I am doing good. Three to-day declared that they

were following my example in a registrar's office, and three more are

thinking of it. One lady writes, saying she hopes I would go in for

abolishing marriage altogether when public opinion was prepared for the

extinction of the race. I don't agree with her, but she was

enthusiastic, and enthusiasm is a great thing."

"I shall go yachting for a year," said Bill.

"I wish you would, dear Bill," replied Penelope. "It will do you good.

You look quite pale, and I don't like you to do that. Have you any

cough?"

"Damn it, no," said Brading, crossly.

And he went yachting again without publicity but with a lady. He was no

true Briton, and never read the _Dictator_.

His departure took one thing off Pen's hands, but none of her lovers

departed. Titania's words had sunk deep in their minds.

"She's not married," they said. "And if she says she is, it is only to

try us."

They all interviewed Bob, and made things very pleasant for that rising

statesman. If he believed Pen was married there was no reason to say so

openly.

"Am I old enough to be a director, do you think?" he asked Gordon.

"What I want is to make pots of money and rebuild Goring, which is a

bally ruin."

"You don't answer my questions," said Gordon.

"Oh, about Pen," said Bob. "She's queer. I don't know, Mr. Gordon, I

can't tell. She may be, for all I know. She's so clever, I don't know

that she hasn't married you, and put you up to coming and asking me

questions."

Gordon couldn't help grinning.

"I think you'll be a director of something some day," said he. "I can't

make you one now, but if you have a hundred pounds I'll invest it in

something for you, my son, that will make your hair curl."

"Like yours?" asked Bob, curiously, and Gordon flinched.

"Well," went on Bob, without waiting for an answer, "I haven't a hundred

pounds, but I've an idea how to get it."

"Yes?" said the financier. "What's your idea, Bob?"

"It's a safe and a certain investment, is it?"

"Why, of course," replied Gordon.

"Then I'll tell you what, you lend it me," said Bob, brightly, "and

invest it for me."

"Damned if I don't," cried Gordon. "Bob, when you are twenty-one I'll

make you a director and ask your advice! And you'll come and tell me if

you find out anything about Lady Penelope?"

Bob looked at him and shook his head.

"I say, you're so clever, I don't know how to take you. I dare say it's

you!"

The flattered financier smiled.

"Oh, by the way," said Bob, rather in a hurry, "I suppose I should get

nearly as much if I invested ninety pounds as if I put in a hundred?"

"Nearly," said Gordon, who hoped to be let off a little, "only ten per

cent. less."

"That'll do me," said Bob. "Then you can give me the tenner now, Mr.

Gordon, and put in the rest for me."

"I wish I had a boy like that," said Gordon. He went away ten pounds

poorer, but with a great admiration for Bob, who was determined to

restore the faded splendour of Goring.

"Hanged if I know who it is," said Bob. "It may be Gordon after all.

And every one but De Vere and Bramber have been at me. Is it one of

these?"

He had a remarkable list of all those who had pretended to Penelope's

hand, for he was very curious, like all the rest of the world. He was

also a little sore with Pen for not confiding in him.

"I told her I'd find out," he said, "and I will."

This was his list, and a curious document it was, written in a big,

round hand that "old Guth" could never get him to modify. His spelling

was almost ducal in its splendour.

"_Plant_. It isn't Mr. Plant, because he said would I like to go out in

a motor, a new one, ninety-horse power, and I said rather, if he'd let

her rip. And he looked anshious I thought. He tiped me.

"_Goby_. It isn't Goby, Goby says he'll always be my friend. He said

had I another pony not sound, to experiment with. He stamped up and

down, some. He tiped me.

"_Williams_. It isn't Williams, he took me to lunch and told me lots of

things about the Chinese that his paper wouldn't print. They were

orful. He said if I'd keep in with him he knew worse. He didn't tip me

this time because the lunch was so much. I had turtell three times.

"_Rivaulx_. It isn't the Frenchy because he tore his hair, and said I

could go up in a baloon any day. At least, he didn't tear his hair;

it's too short. He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid. He

tiped me.

"_Carew_. It isn't him. He's very anxshus and says he can't paint:

says the crittics are right. He was a sad sight to see, walking around

in his studio. He said would I sit to him for an angel. He stops

walking and tries to do Pen quick. I think it's muck. I wouldn't like a

tip from him, for if an artist can't paint through grief what becomes of

him? Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?"

"That's the lot so far," said Bob. And he added to his notes:

"_Gordon_. It isn't Gordon. He lent me a hundred pounds to invest in

something to make hair curl. I said make it ninety and give me ten now,

and he did. He didn't tip me, but I don't think him mean on that

account."

"That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said Bob, "and she never seemed

much stuck on either to my mind. But if they don't say anything to me I

shall begin to suspect."

He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil.

But about three days later Bob added to his notes:

"_Bramber_. It isn't Bramber. I met him in the park. He took me to

the House and gave me a beastly lunch. But he didn't notice it as he

couldn't eat and looked very pale and savidge. He tiped me.

"_De Vere_. It's not the poetry rotter. He wants me to stay with him

and look after the dogs. He said if I had a sick one he'd rather have

it than not. He said he was desprit. I don't know why, but suppose it's

Pen. He tiped me."

"Now where am I at?" he said, blankly. "I've written down it isn't any

of 'em. And that's what granny says. But I don't believe her."

He chewed his pencil till it was in rags, and then a sudden idea struck

him.

"I'll buy all Sherlock Holmes and read him right through," said Bob.

"That's the way to find out anything. I wish I knew the man that wrote

him. I wonder if De Vere knows him? I'll ask Baker to get a sick dog

from the vet's, and I'll go down and stay with De Vere if I can make

granny say 'yes.' I wonder why old De Vere wants a sick dog, though. I

can't understand poets."

It was no wonder Gordon wished he had a boy like Bob.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

It was all very well for Bob to declare that his grandmother was

altogether "off it" when she said that Penelope wasn't married at all.

For, little by little, after furious discussions in ten thousand houses,

in the court, the camp, and the grove, that came to be the general

opinion.

Titania expressed the general opinion:

"She is mad, of course. What can one expect when her mother was an

American? All Americans are mad. Bradstock assures me there is a

something in the air of the United States (oh, even in Canada) which

makes one take entirely new views of everything. And that, of course,

is madness, my dear, madness undoubted and dangerous. He assured me,

poor fellow, that six months in that absurd country made him tremble for

his belief in a constitutional monarchy! He adds that he has only

partially recovered, by firmly fixing his eyes on what a limited monarch

might be, if he tried. Yes, she was an American, and adored our

aristocracy, not knowing what we are, poor thing. And yet where

Penelope's ideas come from I do not know. I firmly believe Bradstock is

the cause of them. When she was a little girl he would take her on his

knee and pour anarchism into her innocent ears. You know his way; he

runs counter to everything, though now comparatively silent. And

Penelope was always ready to go against me, though she loves me. This

was an early idea of hers; Augustin owns that he suggested it

humourously to her years ago. There is nothing so dangerous as humour;

it is always liable to be taken seriously. Mr. Browning, the poet, said

so to me at a garden-party; he said he was a humourist, and he said Mr.

Tennyson (oh, yes, Lord Tennyson) lacked humour, while he himself had

too much of it. He explained Sordello to me, and made me laugh

heartily. But as I was saying, Penelope took up the idea and gave it

out, and now is sorry, and, not having the courage to say so, she has

taken refuge in what I am reluctantly compelled to characterize as a

lie, and it is a great relief to me. The scandal will blow over;

already the halfpenny papers are tired of her. I expect she will marry

by and by. Oh, no, of course she isn't married!"

And as Penelope's ideas were in every way absolutely contrary to what

one has a right to expect, it is only natural that, proof of the

contrary being lacking, the whole world began gradually to come around

to Titania's opinion. A duchess has a great deal of influence if she

only likes to use it, and the public is no more proof against her than

the public offices are.

And Pen set her teeth together and ignored every one, and had very

little to say to society. Her apparent passion was for motor-cars, and

she went out in the sixty-horse Panhard almost every day. And every end

of the week she disappeared, coming back on Monday or Tuesday.

"I could tell 'em something," said Geordie Smith, "couldn't I, old

girl?"

The "old girl" he referred to was the machine he loved next best, at

least, to Lady Penelope.

"Me and Bunting could wake 'em up some," he said. "I'd like Bunting if

he'd only get rid of the notion that horses are everything. I hope to

see the time when there won't be any except in parks, running wild like

deer."

It was an awful notion, and it was a wonder that he and Bunting got on

without fighting.

"My lady _uses_ your bloomin' tracking engine," said Tim,

contemptuously, "but she _loves_ 'orses. You can't give carrots to your

old thing, and it ain't got no smooth and silky muzzle to pat. Faugh!

the smell of it makes me sick; give me the 'ealthy hodour of the stable,

Smith!"

"Find me a horse that'd carry her and me a hundred and twenty miles in

three hours and damn the expense in fines," replied Smith, "and I'm with

you. My lady loves this car a'most as much as I do. Who can catch her

and me, flying along? Let 'em come, let 'em try, and I'll put her out to

the top notch and let her sizzle. You come out and try, Tim; one drive

and you'll be another man, looking on horses as what they are, mere

animals and not up to date. My lady's up to date and beyond it."