That summer was astoundingly fine and warm, not to say tropical. But since it remains clearly in the memory of all, especially of the London water-companies, as a unique caprice on the part of the English climate, there is no need to go into details of its beauty. Towards the end of September the weather was exceedingly lovely. And of course the City prospered accordingly. It had been thought that the record “gates” during the great fÊtes of August would make the September returns look meagre and feeble. Such, however, was not the case. In the first week of September over a million people paid fifty thousand pounds at the turnstiles to enjoy the charms of the City. And a water-famine in most other parts of London did not impair their pleasure, for Ilam and Carpentaria had sunk their own Artesian wells, and they had sunk them deep enough. Consequently, the glorious lawns of the Oriental Gardens and the turf of the cricket field kept a vivid green through that solitary summer.

The consumption of multi-coloured liquids in the cafÉs dotted about the gardens exceeded the most sanguine estimates. It was stated that during one of Carpentaria’s concerts twelve thousand pints of Pilsen beer (the genuine article, imported daily in casks from the Erste Pilsen Actien-Brauerei, Pilsen) were consumed within sight of the bandstand.

“This,” said Carpentaria emphatically, “is success. No composer-conductor,” he added, “has ever before been able to say that he was listened to by an audience that put away Pilsen beer at the rate of a hundred pints a minute.”

And he was right. Success was written large all over the place. Success shone on the faces of the entire staff, and it shone particularly on the face of Carpentaria, though he tried to pretend that it was nothing to him. It was, naturally, a great deal to him. He was the lion of London, and he knew it. All his previous triumphs were nothing in comparison with this triumph, which was the triumph of his ideas as well as a personal triumph.

Fifty amusement-mongers in London were asking themselves why they had not thought of building a City of Pleasure—and they were not getting satisfactory replies to the conundrum!

One evening, towards the middle of September, after a more than usually effective concert, Carpentaria laid down his baton on the plush cushion provided for its repose, and bowed and bowed and bowed again, in response to the enthusiastic plaudits, but with a somewhat pre-occupied mien.

“What’s up with the old man?” a French-horn player whispered to his mate.

“Dashed if I know!” replied the second French-horn-player. “Unless he’s in love.”

“Well, he is,” said the first. “Everybody knows that.”

They called him the old man, no doubt, because his age was barely forty and because he looked younger than any of them.

Carpentaria descended from his throne, smiling absently at the applause of his band as he made his way through them to the steps leading down from the bandstand to the level of the gardens. He had only to move a few paces in order to be lost in the surging crowd. But before he could do this, he heard a voice:

“Mr. Carpentaria.”

He turned sharply. It was a woman’s voice. It was more—it was Pauline’s voice. Had she come to meet him? Impossible! That would have been too much happiness. However, he determined to ascertain, and he ascertained in his usual direct manner.

“Did you come specially to meet me?” he demanded.

And she replied, in a low voice:

“Yes.”

“That was extremely kind of you,” he said, trembling with joy.

“No,” she protested. “I had something to tell you—and———” She hesitated, and then stopped.

“Suppose we take a little stroll,” he suggested.

And she said, quite naturally:

“I should love to.”

“This woman is simply the divinest creature,” he told himself. “She is not like other women. She would like to go for a stroll with me, and she does not pretend the contrary. I am a great man, but I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve her goodness.”

They crossed the gardens, with difficulty, in the direction of the terrace. And around were the light and laughter of the City—the brilliant illuminated cafÉs and the sombre trees for a background, and thousands of pretty toilettes and thousands of men gazing at the pretty toilettes, so attractive in the gloom under the starry sky. A burst of minor music would come now and then from some little cafÉ-orchestra, or the sound of the popping of guns from a distant shooting-gallery or the roar of a lion, forced unwillingly to go through its performance in the menagerie. Then, every woman in the gardens gave a little start or a little shriek at the noise of the great cannon which signalled the commencement of the fireworks, and the rush to the terrace, where the best view was to be obtained, became a stampede.

“Do you mean to go on to the terrace?” asked Pauline.

“No, madam,” said Carpentaria, teasingly. “I mean to go on to the foreshore of the river. The tide is low—we shall be alone—we shall see both the crowd and the fireworks; and we shall be secure from interruption.”

With one of his pass-keys he unlocked a gate giving access to a tunnel leading down to the river. They passed through, and he locked the gate again. They arrived at the edge of the stream just as the first cluster of rockets was expanding itself in the firmament. The scene was impressive, and the roaring cheers of the serried crowd behind and above them did not detract from its impressiveness.

“So you have something to tell me?” he remarked, tapping his foot idly against a stone. “I also have something to tell you.”

“Really?” she answered.

He examined her face and figure. She was dressed in mourning, for Mrs. Ilam had died within two days of the events set down in the previous chapter, and Carpentaria thought that black had never suited any woman so well as it suited Pauline.... There was something about her face... In short... Well, those who have been through what Carpentaria was going through will readily understand.

“And what are you going to tell me?” he queried.

“It’s a message from Cousin Ilam,” said Pauline. “You haven’t seen him to-day, have you?”

“No. I’ve been very much alone to-day. Juliette’s been away all day—I suppose preparing for the wedding—there’s only a few days left now.”

“Well,” said Pauline, “Cousin Ilam told me to tell you they aren’t going to be married next week.”

“What!” cried Carpentaria, “after all? Why not?”

“Because they were married this morning. They’re already on their honeymoon.”

“And Juliette has played this trick on me?” murmured Carpentaria.

“In any case, the marriage would have had to be very quiet,” said Pauline. “I fancy Cousin Ilam didn’t particularly care for your notion of having a section of your band to play at the church. Anyhow, he wanted the affair absolutely quiet. You know how nervous and self-conscious he is.”

“Now I come to think of it,” Carpentaria said, “Juliette did kiss me this morning rather fervently, and I wondered why.”

“You wonder no longer,” observed Pauline, smiling. “It was just a little plot.”

“Extraordinary! Most extraordinary!” Carpentaria exclaimed.

“I don’t think it’s quite so extraordinary as all that!” said Pauline.

“You don’t know what I mean,” Carpentaria replied. “I also have a message—for you. It is from our friend Mr. Jetsam Ilam and your sister. Have you seen Miss Rosie since this morning?”

“No,” said Pauline; “she went with Juliette.”

“Exactly. She went with Juliette. And she has done what Juliette has done. I was asked by Mr. Jetsam Ilam to inform you that instead of marrying your sister next week he has married her this week. He is very sorry. He has a perfect horror of publicity. In fact they chose the registry office.”

“What a shame!” cried Pauline. “What a shame!”

“Ah,” said Carpentaria, “you didn’t mind them deceiving me! But when it comes to deceiving you——! It must have been a united plot on the part of those two pairs of people to deceive us two; and, I must say, they managed the thing pretty well. Don’t you think so?”

“I think they’ve been horrid,” said Pauline.

“And we two are quite alone, for one solid week—you in your house, and I in mine,” said Carpentaria.

There was a pause, and then he heard a sob.

“You aren’t really crying, are you?” he demanded.

Pauline made no answer.

In crying she had lost herself. She had given herself away—she had precipitated a crisis which, in any event, could not have been long postponed. In a word, he tried to comfort her. You may guess how he did it. You may guess whether she objected. You may guess if he succeeded. In a quarter of an hour she was telling him that she had always liked him, that, formerly, she and Rosie used to worship him—Rosie even more than she—but that that sort of worship was nothing compared to the feelings which she at present entertained—et seq.

And the fireworks and the applause of the vast crowd provided the kind of setting that Carlos Carpentaria loved.

THE END