THOUGH it was true that Claude’s kindness in lending Austell his flat did not cost him anything, it conferred a great convenience on his beneficiary, and Jim, who had been living at the Bath Club, had his luggage packed without pause, and wrote the letter of acceptance and thanks to Claude from the flat itself on Claude’s writing paper. The letter was quite genuine and heart-felt, or at the least pocket-felt, for Jim had had some slight difference of opinion with his mother on the subject of being seen in a hansom with a young lady who in turn was sometimes seen on the stage, and Eaton Place, where he had meant to spend those weeks, was closed to him. But Claude’s flat filled the bill exactly; it was far more comfortable than his mother’s house, and there was nothing to pay for lodging, so that it was better than the club. His satisfaction was complete when he found that Claude had left his cook there, with no instructions whatever except to go on cooking, nor any orders to have catering bills sent to the tenant. So Jim made himself charming to the cook, gave her the sovereign which he had at once found on Claude’s dressing table when he explored his bedroom, and said he would be at home for lunch. Plovers’ eggs? Yes, by all means, and a quail, and a little macÉdoine of fruit. And by way of burying the hatchet with his mother, and incidentally making her green with envy (for it would have suited her very well if Claude had offered her the flat, since somebody wanted to take her house), he instantly telephoned asking her to lunch, and mentioned that he was in Mount Street till the end of July. The lunch she declined, and made no comment on the other, but Jim heard her sigh into the telephone. She could not hear him grin.

As had been mentioned before, Jim had no liking for Claude, and up till the present he had done little living upon him. But this loan of the flat—especially since there was free food going—was extremely opportune, for at the present moment Jim was particularly hard up, having been through a Derby week of the most catastrophic nature. He had done nothing rash, too, which made his misfortunes harder to bear; he had acted on no secret and mysterious tips from the stables, but had with the most plebeian respectability backed favourites only. But the favourites had behaved in the most unaccountable manner, and their blighted careers had very nearly succeeded in completely blighting his. But he had raised money on the rent of Grote which would be paid him at the end of the month, and had paid up all his debts. That process, however, had made fearful inroads on his receipts for the next quarter, and strict economy being necessary, Claude’s kindness had been most welcome. And as he ate his quail, Jim planned two or three pleasant little dinner parties. He would certainly ask Claude and Dora to one of them, or was that a rather ironical thing to do, since Claude would be paying for the food that they all ate? He would pay for the wine as well, it seemed, for a bottle of excellent Moselle had appeared, since he had expressed a preference that way, coming, he supposed, from Claude’s cellar.

Jim looked round the room as he ate and drank, pleased to find himself in this unexpected little haven of rest, but feeling at the same time envious of and rather resentful towards its possessor. He quite sympathised with the doctrine of Socialism, and asked himself why it should be given to Claude to live perpetually in that diviner air where financial anxieties are unknown, where no bills need ever remain unpaid except because it was a nuisance to have to dip a pen in the ink and draw a cheque, whereas he himself was as perpetually in want of money. The particular reason why he was in this moment in want of it, namely because he had had a very bad week at Epsom, did not present itself to his mind, or, if it did, was dismissed as being an ephemeral detail. Perhaps in this one instance that was the reason why just now he was so absurdly hard up, but the general question was what occupied him. Claude was rich, he was poor; where was the justice of it? He liked prints, too, and why should Claude be able to cover his dining room walls with these delightful first impressions, while he could not? Indeed, he had no dining room at all in which he could hang prints even if he possessed them. His dining room was let to Mr. Osborne, who, it was said, was going to be made a peer, and on their walls hung the stupendous presentments of him and his wife. And Claude had married his sister: everything came to those who had cheque-books. Well, perhaps the Ascot week would make things pleasanter again; he had a book there which could hardly prove a disappointment. If it did—but so untoward a possibility presented no features that were at all attractive to contemplate.

He finished his lunch and then made a more detailed tour of the flat. It was delightfully furnished (probably Uncle Alf was responsible for all this, since it was clearly out of the ken of any other Osborne), and everything breathed of that luxurious sort of simplicity which is so far beyond the reach of those who have to make sovereigns exercise their utmost power of purchase. By the way, he had taken a sovereign which was lying about on Claude’s dressing-table and given it to the cook; he must remember to tell Claude that (for Claude might remember, if he did not), and pay him. Next that room was the bathroom, white-walled and white-tiled, with all manner of squirts and douches to refresh and cool. Then came a second bedroom, then the dining room in which he had just now so delicately fed, then the drawing room, out of which opened a smaller sitting room, clearly Claude’s. There was a big writing table in it, with drawers on each side, and Jim amused himself by opening these, for they were all unlocked, and looking at their contents. Certainly Claude did things handsomely when he lent his flat, for in the first drawer that Jim opened was a box of cigarettes, and one of cigars. These latter smelt quite excellent, and Jim put back the cigarette he had taken from the other box and took a cigar instead. In another drawer were paper and envelopes stamped with a crest (no doubt the outcome of the ingenuity of the Herald’s College), in another a pile of letters, some of which Jim recognized to be Dora’s handwriting. This drawer he closed again at once: it was scarcely a temptation not to do so since he only cared quite vaguely to know what Dora found to say to her promesso. In another drawer were a few photographs, a few invitation cards, an engagement book, and a cheque-book. This latter was apparently an old one, for it was stiff and full toward the back with counterfoils, while the covers drooped together halfway down it.

Jim could not resist opening this, nor did he try to: he wanted to know (and there was no harm done if he did) what sort of sums Claude spent. But on opening it he saw that it was not quite empty of its cheques yet, the last but one in the book had not been torn out, but was blank, as was also the counterfoil. Then came the last counterfoil, on which was written the date, which was yesterday, and a scrawled “Books, Dora,” and an item of some £150. Then he turned over the earlier counterfoils: there was a big cheque to Daimler, no doubt for his car, another (scandalously large it seemed to Jim) to his tailor, more “Books,” several entered simply as “Venice,” and several on which there was nothing written at all. Apparently, in such instances, Claude had just drawn a cheque and not worried to fill in the counterfoil. That again was the sort of insouciance that Jim envied: it was only possible to very rich people or remarkably careless ones, whereas he was poor, but remarkably careful as to the payment of money. The blank cheque, forgotten apparently, for the cheque-book, tossed away with a heap of old invitation cards, looked as if it was thought to be finished with, was an instance the more of this enviable security about money matters. And Jim felt more Socialistic than ever.

He shut the drawer up, and examined the rest of the room, having lit the cigar which he had taken from the box and which he found to be as excellent to the palate as it was to the nostril. The room reeked of quiet opulence: there was a bookcase full of well-bound volumes, a pianola of the latest type, two or three more prints, the overflow from the dining room, and a couple of Empire arm-chairs, in which comfort and beauty were mated, and on the floor was an Aubusson carpet. And though feeling envious and Socialistic, Jim felt that it would be quite possible to be very comfortable here for the next six or seven weeks.

Like most people who have suffered all their lives from want of money, and have yet managed to live in a thoroughly extravagant manner, Jim had been so often under obligations to others that Heaven, suiting, we must suppose, the back to the burden, had made him by this time unconscious of such. He accepted such offers as this of the flat with a gay light-heartedness that was not without its charm, and made also the undoubted difficulty of conferring, no less than accepting, a favour gracefully, easy to the giver. But he did not like Claude, and had a sufficiently firm conviction that Claude did not like him, to take the edge off his enjoyment. Why Claude should not like him, he could not tell: he had always been more than pleasant to his brother-in-law, and when they met, they always, owing to a natural and easy knack of volubility which Jim possessed, got on quite nicely together.

This minute inspection of the flat had taken Jim some time, and when it was completed he strolled out to pay a call or two, see if there was any racing news of interest, and go round to the Osbornes to have a talk to Dora, whom he had not seen since she had returned from Venice, and in person express his gratitude for the timely gift of the flat. He found her in, but alone: Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were expected that afternoon.

“It was really extremely kind of Claude to think of it,” he said, “and most opportune. I had the rottenest Epsom, and really was at my wits’ end. You are probably beginning to forget what that means. Oh, by the way, I found a sovereign of Claude’s on his dressing table and gave it to the cook in order to promote good feeling—or was it ten shillings?”

Dora laughed. This was characteristic of Jim, but she was used to it, and did not make sermon to him.

“I feel quite certain it was a sovereign, Jim,” she said. “I will bet, if you like. We will ask the cook what you gave her.”

“I daresay you are right. Ah, you expect Claude, though. I will give it him when he comes in. Have you seen mother? She and I are not on terms just now. But it does not matter, as I have Claude’s flat.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing; she did it all. I hadn’t the least wish to cut her. In fact, I wanted to stay in Eaton Place, until the flat came along, and when it did, I wished to give her a slice of my luck, and I asked her to lunch. She said ‘No,’ but sighed. The sigh was not about lunch but about the flat. She would have liked it. By Jove, Dora, you’re nicely housed here. It’s a neat little box, as Mr. O. would say.”

Dora gave a short laugh, not very merry in tone.

“Ah, that’s one of the things we mustn’t say,” she observed. “I’ve been catching it from Claude. He says he’s respectful to my family, but I’m not respectful to his.”

Jim paused with his cup in his hand.

“Been having a row?” he asked. “Make it up at once. Say you were wrong.”

“But I wasn’t,” said she.

“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you should let the purseholders have everything all their own way. Then everything slips along easily and comfortably.”

“Oh, money!” she said. “Who cares about the money?”

Jim opened his eyes very wide.

“I do very much,” he said, “and so did you up till a year ago. It is silly to say that money doesn’t matter just because you have a lot. It’s only the presence of a lot that enables you to say so.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she said, “and it adds to one’s pleasure. But it doesn’t add to one’s happiness, not one jot. I’m just as capable of being unhappy now as ever I was. Not that I am unhappy in the least.”

Jim nodded sympathetically.

“You look rather worried,” he said. “So you’ve been having a bit of a turn-up with Claude. That’s the worst of being married; if I have a shindy with anyone I walk away, and unless the other fellow follows, the shindy stops. But you can’t walk away from your husband.”

Dora was silent a moment, considering whether she should talk to her brother about these things which troubled her or not. She had tried to find a solution for them by herself, but had been unable, and she had a great opinion of his practical shrewdness. It was not likely that he would suggest anything fine or altruistic because he was not of that particular build, but he might be able to suggest something.

“Yes, we’ve been having a bit of a turn-up, as you call it,” she said. “That doesn’t matter so much; but what bothers me rather is our totally different way of looking at things. I’m awfully fond of Dad, I am really, but it would be childish if I pretended that I don’t see—well—humorous things about him. You see, one has either to be amused by such things—I only learned that yesterday from Uncle Alf—or else take them tragically. At Venice I took them tragically. I thought it dreadful that he liked to see the sugar factory better than anything else. And if it isn’t dreadful, it’s got to be funny: it’s either funny or vulgar. There’s nothing else for it to be. And then Claude—oh, dear! I told him he was at liberty to laugh at you and mother as much as he chose, but he didn’t appear to want to. I don’t think he’s got any sense of humour: there are heaps and heaps of ridiculous things about you both.”

“Good gracious! You never thought he had any sense of humour, did you?” asked Jim earnestly.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I thought about it at all. And that’s not the worst.”

Jim put his head on one side, and Dora’s estimate of his shrewdness was justified.

“Do you mean that you are beginning to mind about his being—er—not quite——?” he asked delicately.

Dora nodded.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said.

“What a pity! I hoped you wouldn’t mind. You appeared not to at first. One hoped you would get used to it before it got on your nerves. Can’t you put it away, wrap it up and put it away?”

“Do you suppose I keep it in front of me for fun?” she asked. “Oh, Jim, is it beastly of me to tell you? There’s really no one else to tell. I couldn’t tell mother because she’s—well, she’s not very helpful about that sort of thing, and talks about true nobility being the really important thing, that and truth and honour and kindness. That is such parrot-talk, you know; it is just repeating what we have all heard a million of times. No doubt it is true, but what if one can’t realize it? I used always to suppose Shakespeare was a great author, till I saw ‘Hamlet,’ which bored me. And I had to tell somebody. What am I to do?”

“Why, apply to Claude what you’ve been saying about Mr. Osborne,” said he. “There are things about him which are dreadful unless you tell yourself they are funny. Well, tell yourself they are funny. I hope they are. Won’t that help?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it might. But there are things that are funny at a little distance which cease to amuse when they come quite close. Uncle Alf made me think that the humorous solution would solve everything. But it doesn’t really; it only solves the things that don’t really matter.”

Dora dined quietly at home that night with Mr. and Mrs. Osborne and Claude, and after dinner had a talk to her mother-in-law while the other two lingered in the dining room.

“Why, it was like seeing a fire through the window to welcome you when you got home of a cold evening,” said Mrs. Osborne cordially, “to see your face at the head of the stairs, my dear. Mr. Osborne’s been wondering all the way up whether you and Claude would be dining at home to-night. Bless you, if he’s said it once he’s said it fifty times.”

“I love being wanted,” said Dora quickly.

“Well, it’s wanted that you are, by him and me and everyone else. And, my dear, I’m glad to think you’ll be by my elbow at all my parties, to help me, and say who’s who. And we lead off to-morrow with a big dinner. There’s thirty to table and a reception after, just to let it be known as how the house is open again, and all and sundry will be welcome. Of course, you’ll have your own engagements as well, my dear, and many of them, I’m sure, and no wonder, and there’s nothing I wish less than to stand in the way of them, but whenever you’ve an evening to spare, you give a thought to me, and say to yourself, ‘Well, if I’m wanted nowhere else, there’s mother’ll be looking out for me at the head of the stairs.’”

Dora laughed.

“I accept your invitations to all your balls, and all your concerts, and as many as possible of your dinners,” she said. “You’ll get sick of the sight of my face before the season is over.”

“That I never shall, my dear,” said Mrs. Osborne, “nor afterward, neither. And you’ll come down to Grote, won’t you, after July, and stay quiet there till the little blessed one comes, if you don’t mind my alluding to it, my dear, as I’m going to be its grandmother, though it’s a thing I never should do if there was anybody else but you and me present. Lord, and it seems only yesterday that I was expecting my own first-born, and Mr. O. in such a taking as you never see, and me so calm and all, just longing for my time to come, and thinking nothing at all of the pain, for such as there is don’t count against seeing your baby. But you leave Claude to me, and I’ll pull him through. Bless him, I warrant he’ll need more cheering and comforting than you. And are you sure your rooms are comfortable here, dearie? I thought the suite at the back of the house would be more to your liking than the front, being quieter, for, to be sure, if you are so good as to come and keep us old folks company, the least we can do is to see that you have things to your taste and don’t get woke by those roaring motor-buses or the stream of vegetables for the market.”

“But they are delightful,” said Dora. “They’ve given me the dearest little sitting room with bedroom and bathroom all together.”

Mrs. Osborne beamed contentedly. She had had a couple of days without any return of pain, and as she said, she had had a better relish for her dinner to-night than for many days.

“Well, then, let’s hope we shall all be comfortable and happy,” she said. “And I don’t mind telling you now, my dear, that I’ve been out of sorts and not up to my victuals for a fortnight past, but to-day I feel hearty again, though I get tired easily still. But don’t you breathe a word of that, promise me, to Mr. Osborne or Claude, for what with the honour as is going to be done to Mr. O. and the thought of his grandchild getting closer, and him back to work again, which, after all, suits him best, I wouldn’t take the edge off his enjoyment if you were to ask me on your bended knees, which I should do, if he thought I was out of sorts. Lord, there he comes now, arm-in-arm with Claude. I declare he’s like a boy again, with the thought of all as is coming.”

The evening of the next day, accordingly, saw, with flare of light and blare of band, the beginning of the hospitalities of No. 92 Park Lane, the doors of which, so it appeared to Dora, were never afterward shut day or night, except during the week-ends when the doors of Grote flew open and the scene of hospitality changed to that of the country. Yet cordial though it all was, it was insensate hospitality—hospitality gone mad. Had some hotel announced that anyone of any consequence could dine there without charge, and ask friends to dine on the same easy terms, such an offer would have diverted the crowds of carriages from Park Lane, and sent them to the hotel instead. Full as her programme originally was, Mrs. Osborne could not resist the pleasure of added hospitalities, and little dances, got up in impromptu fashion with much telephoning and leaving of cards, were wedged in between the big ones, and became big themselves before the night arrived. Scores of guests, utterly unknown to their hosts, crowded the rooms, and for them all, known and unknown alike, Mrs. Osborne had the same genial and genuine cordiality of welcome. It was sufficient for her that they had crossed her threshold and would drink Mr. O.’s champagne and eat her capons; she was glad to see them all. She had a shocking memory for faces, but that made no difference, since nothing could exceed the geniality of her greeting to those whom she had never set eyes on before. It was a good moment, too, when, not so long after the beginning of her hospitalities, her secretary, whose duty it was to enter the names of all callers in the immense volume dedicated to that purpose, reported that a second calling book was necessary, since the space allotted to the letters with which the majority of names began was full. She could not have imagined a year ago that this would ever happen, yet here at the beginning of her second season only, more space had to be found. And Dora’s name for the second volume, “Supplement to the Court Guide,” was most gratifying. Alf’s allusion to the “London Directory,” though equally true, would not have been so satisfactory.

But her brave and cheerful soul needed all its gallantry, for it was an incessant struggle with her to conceal the weariness and discomfort which were always with her, and which she was so afraid she would, in spite of herself, betray to others. There were days of pain, too, not as yet very severe, but of a sort that frightened her, and her appetite failed her. This she could conceal, without difficulty for the most part, since the times were few on which her husband was not sitting at some distance from her, with many guests intervening; but once or twice when they were alone she was afraid he would notice her abstention, and question her. Her high colour also began to fade from her cheeks and lips, and she made one daring but tremulous experiment with rouge and lip-salve to hide this. She sent her maid out of the room before the attempt, and then applied the pigments, but with disastrous results. “Lor, Mr. O. will think it’s some woman of the music halls instead of his wife,” she said to herself, and wiped off again the unusual brilliance.

But though sometimes her courage faltered, it never gave way. She had determined not to spoil these weeks for her husband. It was to be a blaze of triumph. Afterward she would go to the doctor and learn that she had been frightening herself to no purpose, or that there was something wrong.

And those endless hospitalities, this stream of people who passed in and out of the house, though they tired her they also served to divert her and take her mind off her discomforts and alarms. She had to be in her place, though Dora took much of the burden of it off her shoulders, to shake hands with streams of people and say—which was perfectly true—how pleased she was to see them. Friends from Sheffield, for she never in her life dropped an old acquaintance, came to stay, and the pleasurable anticipation she had had of letting them see “a bit of real London life” fell short of the reality. Best of all, Sir Thomas and Lady Ewart were in the house when the list of honours appeared in the paper.

It happened dramatically, and the drama of it was planned and contrived by Claude. He came down rather late to breakfast, having given orders that this morning no papers were to be put in their usual place in the dining room, and went straight up to his father.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said.

“Hey, what?” said Mr. Osborne. “Poking your fun at me, are you?”

“There’s something about you in the papers, my lord.”

“Well, I never! Let’s see,” said Mr. Osborne.

He unfolded the paper Claude had brought him.

“My lady,” he said across the table to his wife, “this’ll interest you. List of honours. Peerages, Edward Osborne, Esquire, M. P.”

It was a triumphant success. Sir Thomas actually thought that it was news to them both, and went so far as to lay down his knife and fork.

“Bless my soul!” he said. “Well, I’m sure there never was an honour more deservedly won, nor what will be more dignifiedly worn.”

Mr. Osborne could not keep it up.

“Well, well,” he said, “of course we’ve known all along; but Claude would have his joke and pretend it was news to us. Thank ye, Sir Thomas, I’m sure. Maria, my dear, I’m told your new coronet’s come home. Pass it to my lady, Claude.”

As if by a conjuring trick, he produced from under the table cloth an all-round tiara of immense diamonds, which had been previously balanced on his knees.

Mrs. Osborne had had no idea of this; that part of the ceremony had been kept from her.

“Put it on, Maria, my dear,” he said, “and if there’s a peeress in the land as better deserves her coronet than you, I should be proud to meet her. Let the Honourable Claude settle it comfortable for you, my dear. Claude, my boy, I’m jealous of you because you’re an honourable, which is more than your poor old dad ever was.”

The deft hands of the Honourable adjusted the tiara for her and she got up to salute the donor.

“If it isn’t the measure of my head exactly!” she said. “Well, I never, and me not knowing a word about it!”

Meantime, as June drew to its close, in this whirl of engagements and socialities, the estrangement between Dora and Claude grew (though not more acute in itself) more of a habit, and the very passage of time, instead of softening it, rendered it harder to soften. Had they been alone in their flat, it is probable that some intolerable moment would have come, breaking down that which stood between them, or in any case compelling them to talk it out; or, a thing which would have been better than nothing, bringing this cold alienation up to the hot level of a quarrel, which could have been made up, and which when made up might have carried away with it much of the cause of this growing constraint. As it was, there was no quarrel, and thus there was nothing to make up. Claude, on his side, believed that his wife still rather resented certain remarks he had made to her at Venice and here on the subject of her attitude toward his father, contrasting it unfavourably with the appreciation and kindness which his family had shewn hers. In his rather hard, thoroughly well-meaning and perfectly just manner he examined and re-examined any cause of complaint which she could conceive herself to have on the subject, and entirely acquitted himself of blame. He did not see that he could have done differently: he had not been unkind, only firm, and his firmness was based upon his sense of right.

But in this examination he, of course, utterly failed to recognize the real ground of the estrangement, which was, as Dora knew, not any one particular speech or action of his, but rather the spirit and the nature which lay behind every speech, every action. This she was incapable of telling him, and even if she had been able to do so, no good end would have been served by it. She had married him, not knowing him, or at the least blinded by superficialities, and now, getting below those, or getting used to them, she found that there were things to which she could not get used, but which, on the contrary, seemed to her to be getting every day more glaringly disagreeable to her. He, not knowing this, did his best to remove what he believed had been the cause of their estrangement by praise and commendation of what he called to himself her altered behaviour. For there was no doubt whatever that now, at any rate, Dora was behaving delightfully to his parents. She took much of the work of entertaining off Mrs. Osborne’s hands; made but few engagements of her own, in order to be more actively useful in the house; and was in every sense the most loyal and dutiful of daughters-in-law. She also very gently and tactfully got leave to revise Mrs. Osborne’s visiting list, and drew a somewhat ruthless lead pencil through a considerable number of the names. For in the early days to leave a card meant, as a matter of course, to be asked to the house. This luxuriant and exotic garden wanted a little weeding.

All this seemed to Claude to be the happy fruits of his criticism, and the consciousness of it in his mind did not improve the flavour of his speeches to Dora. They were but little alone, owing to the high pressure of their days; but one evening, about a fortnight after they had moved into Park Lane, he found her resting in her sitting room before dressing.

“There you are, dear,” he said. “How right of you to rest a little. What have you been doing?”

“There were people to lunch,” said she; “and then I drove down with Dad to the House. He was not there long, so I waited for him, and we had a turn in the Park. Then a whole host of people came to tea, and I—I multiplied myself.”

“They are ever so pleased with you,” said Claude, “and I’m sure I don’t wonder. Ever since they came up you have simply devoted yourself to them.”

In his mind was the thought, “Ever since I spoke to you about it.” It was not verbally expressed, but the whole speech rang with it. Dora tried for a moment, following Uncle Alf’s plan, to find something humorous about it, failed dismally, and tried instead to disregard it.

“I’m glad,” she said, “that one is of use.”

Then she made a further effort.

“I think it was an excellent plan that we should come here,” she added. “It suits us, doesn’t it? and it suits them.”

Claude smiled at her, leaning over the head of the sofa where she lay.

“I knew you would find it a success,” he said. “I felt quite certain it would be.”

Again Dora tried to shut her ears to the personal note—this ring of “How right I was!”

“It suits Jim, too,” she said. “It really was kind of you to let him have the flat. May tells me she went to dine there last night. He had a bridge party.”

Claude laughed.

“He’s certainly making the most of it,” he said; “just as I meant him to do. I think I’m like Dad in that. Do you remember how he treated us over the Venice house this year? Not a penny for us to pay. Jim’s giving lots of little parties, I’m told, and Parker came round to me yesterday to ask if he should order some more wine, as Jim’s nearly finished it. Also cigars and cigarettes. Of course I told him to order whatever was wanted. I hate doing things by halves. The household books will be something to smile at. But he’s having a rare good time. It’s not much entertaining he has been able to do all his life up till now.”

Dora sat up.

“But Claude, do you mean he’s drinking your wine and letting you pay for all the food?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s my own fault. I ought to have locked up the cellar, and made it clear that he would pay for his own chickens. As a matter of fact, it never struck me that he wouldn’t. But as that hasn’t occurred to him, I can’t remind him of it.”

“But you must tell him he’s got to pay for things,” said Dora. “Why, he might as well order clothes and, just because he was in your flat, expect you to pay for them!”

“Oh, I can’t tell him,” said Claude. “It would look as if I grudged him things. I don’t a bit: I like people to have a good time at my expense. Poor devil! he had a rotten Derby week; no wonder he likes living on the cheap. And it must be beastly uncomfortable living on the cheap, if it’s your own cheap, so to speak. I expect you and I would be just the same if we were poor.”

But the idea was insupportable to Dora, and the more so because of the way in which Claude took it. Generous he was, no one could be more generous, but there was behind it all a sort of patronizing attitude. He gave cordially indeed, but with the cordiality was a selfconscious pleasure in his own open-handedness and a contempt scarcely veiled of what he gave. And the worst of all was that Jim should have taken advantage of this insouciance about money affairs that sprang from the fact that he had no need to worry about money. Claude did not like Jim, Dora felt certain of that, and this made it impossible that Jim should take advantage of his bounty. It was an indebtedness she could not tolerate in her brother.

“What’s there to fuss about?” Claude went on. “If the whole thing runs into a hundred and fifty pounds, it won’t hurt. And, after all, he’s your brother, dear. I like being good to your kin.”

Dora was not doing Claude an injustice when she told herself that his irreproachable conduct to her family was in his mind. It was there; he did not mean it to be in evidence, but insensibly and unintentionally it tinged his words. The whole thing was kind, kind, kind, but it was consciously kind. That made the whole difference.

“But it can’t be,” she said. “If you won’t speak to Jim about it, I will. It is impossible that he should drink your wine and smoke your cigars and have dinner parties at your expense. I can’t let him do that sort of thing, if I can possibly help it. I would much sooner pay myself than that you should pay for him.”

“My dear, what a fuss about nothing!” said Claude. “It isn’t as if it mattered to me whether I pay for his soup and cutlet——”

“No, that’s just it,” said Dora quickly. “That’s why you mustn’t. If it cost you something—— Oh, Claude, I don’t think I can make you understand,” she said. “Anyhow, I shall tell Jim what I think; and if the poor wretch hasn’t got any money, then I must pay.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose he’s got any money,” said Claude; “and as for your paying, my dear, what difference does that make? I give you your allowance—and I wish you’d say you wanted more, for Uncle Alf’s always wondering whether you’ve got enough—and you want to pay me out of that. Well, it’s only out of one pocket and into another. Don’t fuss about it, dear. I wish I hadn’t told you.”

“But it isn’t quite like that,” said Dora. “I could deny myself something in order to pay, if Jim can’t. I can tell them not to send me the dress——”

And then the hopelessness of it all struck her. She was in the same boat as her husband; she could not deny herself anything she wanted, because there was no need for self-denial. And without that she could not make atonement for Jim’s behaviour. Nor could she say to herself that he had done it without thinking; Jim always thought when there was a question of money, for that he took seriously. It was only his own conduct, his own character, and other little trifles of that sort for which he had so light a touch, so easy a rein. He had been giving little dinners at his flat, instead of dining out, as he usually did. He would never have done that if he thought he was going to pay for the quails and the peaches. That he should do it was the thing that was irremediable—that, and the contemptuous kindness of Claude.

Claude saw there was some feeling in her mind of which he did not grasp the force. She wanted to pay herself, or to think she paid, for Jim’s hospitalities. It did not make a pennyworth of difference. He would pay a cheque into her account, which would make her square again, and she would never notice it.

“Just as you like, dear,” he said; “but you mustn’t tell Jim you are doing it. He would think that I was reluctant to pay for his food and drinks; and I’m not. I can’t stand being thought mean. There’s no excuse for a fellow with plenty of shekels being mean.”

“Oh, you are not that,” said Dora quickly, her voice without volition following the train of thought in her mind.

“No, dear, I hope not,” said he. “And, believe me, I haven’t got two ill feelings to rub against each other with regard to Jim. It’s only by chance I knew. If there’d been another box of cigars in the flat, and a few more dozen champagne, Parker would never have come to me. As for the household books——why, dear, they’d have been sent up to you, and I bet you’d never have seen. No, it’s just a chance as has put us in the knowledge of it all, and I for one should hate to take advantage of it. So cheer up, dear! Pay me, if it makes you feel easier; but don’t say a word to Jim. I like doing a thing thoroughly, as I’m doing this.”

He lingered a moment by the door.

“Perhaps that clears things up a bit, Dora,” he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his voice.

And Dora tried, tried to think it did. She tried also to put all possible simplicity into her voice as she answered:

“But what is there to clear up, dear?” she asked.

“That’s all right, then,” said he, and left her. But once outside the door, he shook his head. Bottled simplicity, so to speak, is not the same as simplicity from the spring. He was quite shrewd enough to know the difference.

He was shrewd enough also to know that he did not quite understand what had gone wrong. Something certainly had, and after his compliments to her on the subject of the admirable way in which she was behaving to his parents he knew that it was no longer his strictures on that subject that made this barrier. True it was that during these past weeks neither of them had had much leisure or opportunity for intimate conversation; but there were glances, single words, silences even that had passed between them when they were in Venice first that had taken no time if measured by the scale of minutes or seconds, yet which had been enough to fill the whole day with inward sunshine. And he had not changed to her: that he knew quite well; it was not that he was less sensitive now, less receptive of signals of that kind. For his part, he gave them in plenty. Just now he had leaned over her, smiling, when she lay on her sofa, a thing that in early days would have been sufficient to make her glance at him, with perhaps a raised hand that just touched his face, with perhaps an “Oh, Claude!” below her breath. Honestly, as far as any man can be honest with himself, he was as hungry for that as ever; he made his private code just as before, and no answer came. Something was out of tune: the vibrations, wireless, psychical, did not pass from her to him as they had done; and his own messages, so it seemed, throbbed themselves out, and found none to pick them up, but were lost in the unanswering air.

Claude was of a very simple and straightforward nature, but he felt none the less keenly because he was not capable of feeling in any subtle or complicated manner. Love had come into his life, and his part in that burned within him still, in no way less ardently. He believed that Dora had loved him also: believed it, that is to say, in a sacred sense: it had been a creed to him, just as his own love for her was a creed. With body and soul he loved her, not fantastically, but deeply, and as he left her this afternoon it seemed to him that his love was being poured into a vessel in which was bitterness. They had talked only about what to him was a trivial thing—namely, the completeness with which Jim had made himself at home in the flat; but in the earlier days it made no difference what they talked about: tenderness, love came through it all, like water through a quicksand, engulfing them. Their days had been passed in such a quicksand; they were always joyfully foundering in it. But now it was not so. Some bitter encrustation had come on it which bore their weight quite easily, and there was no risk of going through, nor any chance of it. Honestly, he did not believe that he was responsible for the formation of that crust. He had not changed; was not other than he had always been. Once for a moment his mind poised and hovered above the truth, and he half said to himself, “I wonder if she finds me common?” But he rejected that: it was the wildest freak of imagination. Besides, she had not found him common at first, and he had not grown commoner. On the contrary, she had taught him much—little things, no doubt, but many of them. He had noticed she was always polite to servants and shop people, and though a year ago his tendency had been to be rather short with them, as inferiors, he had instinctively followed her example. That was only one instance out of many. But, so the poor fellow told himself, they were all little things like that, which could make no real difference to anybody.

Yet he thought over this a little longer. He himself, for instance, had always known that his father and mother and Per were, so to speak, “common” beside him. That seemed perfectly natural, for he had been sent to Eton and Oxford, and had picked up all sorts of things as to the way “gentlemen behaved,” which they did not know. He would not press his guests to have more wine, as his father did, when they had refused, nor tempt them to a second helping, as his mother did. There were little tricks of language, too, infinitesimal affairs, but he, so he thought, had got into the way of it, whereas they had not. He, for instance, never said “Lor’,” as his father constantly did, and his mother, if she “was not on the watch.” But he said, “Good Lord,” because fellows said that, and not the other. But what did that really matter? There was a certain boisterousness of manner also that characterized them, which he and Mrs. Per, for instance, who was certainly a perfect lady, did not practise. Often, half in jest, his father had said, “Old Claude’s getting too much of a swell for me”; and though he deprecated such a conclusion, he understood what was meant, and knew that if half was jest, half was serious. But all this made it the more impossible that Dora should find him common. Eton and Oxford, he felt quite sure, had taken all the commonness out of him.

And how little it mattered! He saw a hundred things, day by day, in which, if he had been disposed to peer and dissect and magnify, he would have felt that there was a difference between his father and himself. But how measure so small a thing? But what did that matter? He saw the kindness, the honour, the truth of his parents, and he was as likely to cease respecting and caring for them because of that difference as he was likely to cease to love Dora because once he had found a gray hair in her golden head. Besides—and his mind came back to that—if she found him common now, she must always have found him common. But nothing was short of perfection in their early weeks in Venice.

Once, on his way downstairs to be ready to greet Per and his wife, who were expected that evening, he half turned on his foot, intending to go back to Dora and try to get to the bottom of it all. But he knew that he would find nothing to say, for there was nothing he could suggest in which he had fallen short. And even as he paused, wondering if it would be enough that he should go back and say, “Dora, what is it?” he heard the sound of the hall door opening. That was Per, no doubt; he must go down and welcome him.