"Let me walk home with you," said Dick. "It is a fine night, and we can walk."

They left the hotel, and turned northwards across Trafalgar Square.

"The pale, worn face of that poor woman haunts me, Molly. It is a strange adventure."

"You will love her, Dick, as much as I do. But there is that trouble behind, whatever it is, that she has not yet told me."

Dick looked up and straightened himself. They were in the crowd—the crowd infect and horrible at the top of the Haymarket.

"It is really peaceful night," he said. "The air just here is corrupt with voices, and there are shapes about that mock the peace of darkness; but it is really peaceful night."

"And overhead are the stars, just as in the country."

"You are like the lady in Comus, Molly. These are only shapes and shadows that you see. They do not exist, except in imagination. They are the ghosts and devils that belong to night in streets."

Molly pressed a little closer to him, but made no reply.

What do men understand of the wonder, the bewilderment, with which a girl looks on the rabble rout, if ever she is permitted to see it? What does it reveal to her, this mockery of the peaceful night?

Presently they came to the upper end of Regent Street, which was quieter; and to Portland Place, which was quite deserted and peaceful; and then to the outer circle of Regent's Park, where they were beyond the houses, and where the cool wind of October fell upon their faces from the broad level of the park.

"It is almost country here. Let us walk in the middle of the road, Molly." He held out his left hand. Molly linked her little finger with his. "That is the way we used to walk what time we went on tramp, Molly."

"Yes, Dick; it was this way."

She was strangely quiet, contrary to her usual manner.

"You must never become a town girl, Molly, or a West End woman, or a society woman."

"I don't know, Dick. Perhaps I must."

They went on a little farther.

"Molly, I wanted to talk to you about something else, but I must talk about this evening. It's been a very remarkable evening. I am enriched by a kind of stepmother—a stepmother before the event, so to speak, not after—a relationship not in any dictionary. I am the child of a younger Sultana. Who would expect to meet in a London hotel, in the person of a middle-aged millionairess, the elder Sultana?"

"Ought one to be sorry for you, Dick? You couldn't have a better stepmother."

"Not sorry, exactly. But she recalls the sins of the forefathers. I have always understood that he was that kind of person. My mother, who took it wrathfully, was careful that I should know the kind of person he was. Her history halved the fifth commandment. This good lady takes it tearfully."

"She was thinking of her own dead child. For a moment she thought you were her son."

"Does one weep for a child four and twenty years after its death? There was more than a dead child in those tears."

"It was your playing, then. You never played so well. The violin talked all the time. It made me glow only to think of your birds and breezes and flowers."

"I shall call on her to-morrow. She wants to talk about it again. Molly, it's a wonderful thing."

"What is a wonderful thing?"

For he stopped.

"Woman is a wonderful thing. Acting, as you know, my poor Molly, makes real emotion difficult for us, because we are always connecting emotion with its theatrical gesture. When we ought to weep, we begin to think of how we weep."

"You talk like a book sometimes, Dick. Where do you get all your wisdom?"

"Not from books. Come on tramp with me, and you shall learn where I get it, Molly. All the thoughts worth having come to a man as he walks along the road, especially by night. Books can't tell him anything. I say that we can't help connecting emotion with the stage way of expressing it. This makes us quick to understand emotion when we do see it without the stage directions. Which is odd, but it's true. An actor born is a kind of thought-reader."

"What are you driving at, Dick?"

"I mean that an actor knows real emotion, just because it isn't like the stage business."

"Well, what then?"

"I was thinking of that poor pale lady, Molly. It's four and twenty years since her husband deserted her, and she thinks about him still. There isn't room in a woman's heart for more than one lover in a life, that's all."

"What then?"

"It's the lingering passion that she thinks was extinguished long ago. Poor old Haveril is all very well, but he hasn't the engaging qualities of the light comedian. Good, no doubt, at making money, and without the greater vices; but, Molly, my dear, without the lighter virtues. And these she remembers."

"Well, but that isn't what lies on her mind. You will be a thought-reader, indeed, Dick, if you can read what is written there."

They walked on together, side by side, in silence. Then the figure of the pale, fragile, sad woman went out of their thoughts. They returned, as is the way with youth, to themselves.

"You are happy, Molly?" he asked.

"I am happy enough," she sighed.

"Most of us are. We make ourselves as happy as we can. Of course, nobody is entirely happy till he gets all he wants. For my own part, I want very little; and I am very nearly quite happy, because I've got it all except one thing, Molly."

"Hadn't we better talk about the wisdom acquired on tramp?"

"That is just what I am doing, my dear child. To-night the stars are out, the skies are clear, the air is fresh. I smell the fragrant earth across the park. I can almost believe that we are miles and miles from a town. And I want to have a real talk with you, Molly."

"Will you let me talk first?"

"Certainly, if you won't abuse the privilege. But leave time for me to answer. We mustn't throw away such a chance as this."

"I know what you want to say very well. I don't ask you to put it out of your head, because—— Oh, Dick, you know very well that I like you ever so much! You are the only kind of brother I ever had."

"By your leave, Molly, you never had any brother. You might have had the kindness to call me pal, or cousin, or comrade, or companion, or confidential clerk, even—but not any kind of brother. That relationship doesn't exist for you. I might as well call myself the child of that good lady, being only a kind of posthumous stepson. Now, Molly, you may go on."

"I only mean so that I can tell everything to you."

"That is permitted. Now I shall not interrupt."

"Very well. First of all, Hilarie is anxious about my appearance. So am I. She remains firm in the belief that I am the tragedian of the future."

Dick shook his head. "Vain hopes! Fond dreams!"

"You know, don't you, Dick, that it is impossible?"

"Comedy, light and sparkling, if you please, Molly. As soon as your name is made, I shall write a part for you on purpose. You shall take the town by storm—you yourself, as you are, witch and enchantress."

"Which makes it the more unfortunate that I'm compelled to go in for the other business."

"What about advertising 'Lady Macbeth,' and getting ready a burlesque?"

Molly took no notice of this suggestion. "Hilarie thinks the time is now approaching when I ought to make my dÉbut. Dick, I declare that I don't care one farthing about disappointed ambition. I told you so before. But I do care about disappointing Hilarie. And that weighs on my soul more than anything almost—more than the two other things."

"What are the two other things?"

"I am coming to them. Either of them, you see, would bring consolation—of sorts—for disappointed ambition. First, your cousin, Sir Humphrey——"

"Oh! He goes on making love, does he?"

"He goes on pressing for an answer. What answer shall I give him?"

"I will try to answer as if I was a disinterested bystander. You must consider not what he wants, but what you want."

"He offers me position and—I suppose—wealth. He wants me to marry him secretly, and to live out of the world, while he smooths matters with his mother."

Dick stopped in the middle of the road. "What?" he cried. "He wants you to marry him secretly? The—the—no, I won't use names and language. Marry him secretly and go into hiding? Why? Because you love the man? But you don't. Because he will make you Lady Woodroffe? But he won't—he will hide you away. Because he is rich? My dear, I know all about him. He has no money at all. The money is his mother's; she could cut him off with a shilling, if she liked. Because he is clever? He isn't. He's the laughing-stock of everybody, except the miserable little clique that he belongs to; they talk of Art—who have no feeling for Art; they hand about things they call Art, which are——"

"That will do, Dick."

"Add to this that he is a moody, ill-conditioned beast. If he loves you, it's because any man would love you. He'd be tired of you in a week. I know the man, my dear; I've made it my business to find out all about him. He is unworthy of you—quite unworthy, Molly. If you loved him it might be different; I say, might, because then there might be some lessening of the misery you would draw on your head—I don't know, it might only mean greater misery—because you would feel his treatment more."

"You are incoherent, Dick."

"Could you marry a man without loving him, Molly? I ask you that."

"Here is a seat," said Molly, evading the question, which is always a delicate one for girls. Should they—ought they—ever to marry without love? One would rather not answer that question. There are conventions, there are things understood rather than expressed, there are imaginations, men are believed to be what they are not, the secret history of men is not suspected, there are reasons which might possibly make love quite a secondary consideration. It is not, indeed, a question which ought to be put to any girl.

"Here is a seat," Molly repeated. "It is chilly; but I am tired. Let us sit down for a minute, Dick."

He pressed his question. "Could you possibly marry this fellow, Molly, when you cannot respect him or love him?"

"About loving a man, Dick. I suppose it's quite possible to marry anybody, whether you love him or not. Whether a girl can screw up her courage to endure a man all day long when she doesn't like him, I don't know. Women have to do a great many things they don't like. Very few women can afford to choose——"

"You can, Molly."

"And if a man is a gentleman, he may be trusted, I suppose, not to do horrid things. He wouldn't get drunk; he would be tolerably kind; he would not spend all the money on himself; he would not desert one; he wouldn't throw the furniture about."

"That's a contented and a lowly state of mind, Molly."

"Well, and you must consider what a man may have to offer. Money; position; independence. You should listen to girls talking about these things with each other."

"Go on, Molly. It's a revelation."

"Not really, Dick? Why, as for love, I don't know what it means. I don't, indeed."

"Don't tell lies, Molly," he said, pressing her fingers.

"I mean that I don't love Sir Humphrey a bit."

"In that case, why not present him with the Boot?"

"He won't leave me alone. He hangs about the street, waiting for me when I go to my lesson. He comes to the college when I am staying with Hilarie, and, oh, Dick, can't you understand the temptation of it?"

"No, I can't."

"Well, then, try to understand it. Here I am, a girl with no money, dependent on Hilarie, who is all sweetness and goodness, yet dependent; and this man, who may be—very likely—all that you say, offers me this promotion."

"You ought not to be tempted. He is insulting you. If he means what he says, why doesn't he take you by the hand and lead you to his mother? He won't. He wants to hide you away. But he shall not, Molly—he shall not, so long as I breathe the upper air."

Molly made no reply. What was there to say?

"Fine love! Very fine love!" Dick snorted.

"I don't think I care much about his being all that you say, Dick, because, if I have no particular regard for him, I should not inquire, and I should not mind. I suppose he would be tolerably well-behaved with me."

"Then you are credulous, Molly, because he can't behave well to anybody."

"And while I am pulled this way and that way with doubts, Hilarie is wanting me to make my first appearance and to conquer the world; and my teacher thinks I shall do pretty well, and learn by experience, and I know the contrary, because you say so, Dick."

"Certainly. Quite the contrary."

"And you are always telling me what you want."

"I want you, Molly. Nothing short of that will satisfy me."

"Then comes another temptation—worse than anything."

"What is that?"

"It's Alice. She wants me——"

"Does she hiss 'diamonds' in your ear?"

"No. She says that she's so fond of me she cannot live without me, and she wants me to live with them altogether. And John chimes in. Says he will adopt me, and make me his heiress. Think of that, Dick! Millions! All for me—for me, the daughter of a failure."

"Molly." Dick spoke with solemnity suitable to the occasion. "This goes to the very root of things. You can't go on tramp with me if you begin to hanker after millions. No one ever heard of a great heiress talking to a gipsy or dancing in a barn. It can't be done. The weight of the dollars would nail your very heels to the boards."

"But, Dick, they're my own people, you know."

"My child"—Dick rose, for it was getting cold—"this is the most alarming temptation of all. It must be stopped right away. Look here, Molly," they were standing face to face under the lamp-post beside the railings of the park, "you know very well that you are only shamming. You love me; and I—well, shall I say it?"

"Stage people have no emotions, Dick. You said so yourself just now."

"This is not an emotion. It is part of me. I live in it; I breathe it; I only exist, my Molly, because of you. There isn't any stage gesture to signify my state of mind. The stalls would be disturbed in their little minds if one put this passion into visible representation. Even the gallery wouldn't understand. Put your arms on my shoulders, Molly."

She obeyed; she was quite as tall as her lover, and she had no difficulty in throwing her arms quite round his neck, which she did. If she blushed, the stars, which blink because they are short-sighted, could not see it. The lamp on the lamp-post is, of course, used to such things.

"You are the best girl in the world," he said, "the best and the dearest; and I promise you, Molly—the best and the dearest—that Humphrey shall never marry you, and that Mrs. Siddons shall never have a rival in you, and that you shall never become Miss Molly Pennefather Haveril, heiress of millions, with decayed dukes and barefooted barons languishing after you."

He kissed her on the forehead and the lips. The girl made no reply, except to draw a long breath, which might have meant remonstrance, and might equally well mean satisfaction.

She took up the violin-case. "If I must carry the fiddle," she said, "let me see how it feels."

He made no objection. The action was a symbol. He accepted it as a visible expression of acquiescence, and so, side by side, in silence, they walked home under the stars and the lamp-posts.