It was his own fault; he knew it in after years. Barrington was partly responsible for Jehane’s second marriage. It was he who suggested that, since Jehane was not happy with her parents, it would be decent to ask her up to Topbury for Christmas.

Did he like her? Well, hardly! He felt that she bore him a grudge. Whenever her name was mentioned, he and Nan had a guilty sense. They were so happy—they had everything that she coveted and lacked.

They asked her by way of atonement. When she objected that Glory would be a nuisance, they replied that Glory would be fun for Peter.—And it was he who, in the goodness of his heart, invited Waffles.

Ocky Waffles was not his sort. His very name was a handicap. A man named Waffles could scarcely command respect; but the Christian name made it worse. How could anyone called Ocky Waffles be a gentleman? He was his cousin, however, and lived alone in London lodgings. His mother was recently dead. Whatever his shortcomings, he had been an attentive son. The chap would be rottenly lonely, thought Barrington. Unadulterated Ocky he could not stand; but, if he could jumble him up in a family-party and so get him diluted, he would be very glad to do him a service. In the uncalculating days of boyhood they had been warm friends. So Mr. Tudor was persuaded to come from Cassingland and Ocky was invited.

In her twenty-eighth year, Jehane traveled to Paddington en route for her second adventure in matrimony. Glory was with her, a golden-haired baby just beginning to toddle, the image of her soldier father. Jehane still wore mourning—deepest black, with white frills at her wristbands and a white ruff about her neck. Black suited her pale complexion—it lent her the touch of helpless pathos that her beauty had always wanted. Her manner was hushed and gentle, matching her costume. Her large, dark eyes had that forlorn expression of “Oh, I can never forget,” which has so often sealed the fate of an unmarried man. You felt at once that the finest deed possible would be to bring her happiness. At least, so felt Waffles.

But that Christmas there were times when she did forget. In her new surroundings, where she and Glory were no longer burdens, she grew almost merry. When memory clouded her eyes and restored the sternness of tragedy, it was not Bobbie Spashett she remembered, who had died a very gallant gentleman, fighting for his country; it was simply that, with proper care, Nan’s shoes might have been hers. When she saw Barrington slip his arm about his wife, and heard her whisper, “Oh, please, Billy, not now,” it made her wild with envy. She felt that it was more than she could bear. She was unloved, and so was Waffles; they had this in common, despite dissimilarities.

Ocky Waffles was a kind-hearted lounger. He was always late for everything—which left him plenty of time to devote to her. His best friends would never have accused him of refinement. His mind was untidy; he was lazy and ineffectual. His faculty for conversation was childish—he babbled. He was continually making silly jokes at which he laughed himself. Because the world rarely laughed with him, he believed that his bump of humor was abnormally developed. He had met only one person as humorous as himself—his mother; she, admiring and loyal old lady, had laughed till the tears came at anything he said. But she was dead; he had lost his audience. He missed her and was extremely sorry for Ocky Waffles. No one understood his catch-phrases now, “Reaching after the mustard,” and, “Look at father’s pants.” They did not even know to what they referred; he had to explain everything. There was an element of absurdity and weak pathos about the man; when one of his jokes had missed fire he would dab his eyes, saying with a catch in his throat, “Oh dear, how mother’d have split her sides at that!”

Jehane was genuinely moved to compassion. Sinking her voice, she would lead him aside and whisper, “Tell it again, Mr. Waffles. I think I could understand.”

Before Ocky met her, the denseness of his friends had driven him to public houses, where other tales might be told without shocking anybody. With barmaids he could pass for a “nut,” a witty fellow. Grief drove him to it, he told himself. He was well aware that public houses were bad for his pocket and worse for his health. When Jehane seemed to applaud him, his thoughts naturally turned to marriage—marriage would cure every evil, and then—— Oh, then he would become like Barrington, with a loving wife, art-treasures and a fine house. It was only a matter of keeping steady and concentrating your willpower.

But to become like Barrington he would have had to be a gentleman. A top-hat never sat on his head as if it belonged to him. With his equals in birth and opportunity he could never be comfortable. He found it easy to be chatty with stable-boys and servants. This he attributed to his superior humanity. He was fond of walking down the street with a pipe in his mouth. When he sat on a chair, it was usually on the middle of his back with his feet thrust out. He slouched through life like an awkward boy, experiencing discomfort in the presence of his elders.

Since he could not cure himself of his habits, he determined some day, when he was ready for the effort, to get money; with money his habits would no longer be bad—they would become signs of democracy and independence. At the time of the Christmas party he was a clerk in a lawyer’s office—he had been other things before that. This was his worldly condition, when he met Jehane and fell in love with her.

They drifted together from force of circumstance; Nan and Barrington were still very much of lovers; Mr. Tudor spent his time on the floor with Peter and Glory. They were thrown together; there was no escape from it. Ocky was naturally affectionate; it was part of his weak amiability to love somebody. He craved love for himself—or was it admiration? But as a rule no one was flattered by his affection—it was always on tap. Jehane did not know that. Her wounded pride was soothed because he selected her. She was hungry for a man’s appreciation and anxious for his protection. And as for Ocky, to whom no one ever listened—he was encouraged by her pleased attention.

He sought her out at first in a good-natured effort to dispel her melancholy; his method was to regale her with worn chestnuts. She heard them with a slow, sweet smile on her mouth, which narrowed and widened, but rarely broke into mirth. This showed him that all his stories were new to her. The poor fellow was stirred to his shallow depths. A gusty passion blew through him; he struggled into seeming strength; he felt he was a man.—When you’re choosing a woman who will be condemned to hear all your old anecdotes over and over to the day of her death, it is very necessary to select one to whom they will come fresh, at least before marriage. Yes, she was the wife for Waffles.

Little confidences grew up between them. She told him about Barrington, hinting that he had wobbled between her and Nan. And he told her about Barrington, how as boys they had been like brothers, spending every holiday together, but now——.

But now, in Barrington’s own words, a little of Ocky went a long way; after an hour or two in his company he felt quite fed up with him. As with many a clever man, vulgarity of mind disgusted him more than well-bred viciousness. He found it difficult to hide his feelings from his guest. In fact, he didn’t.

Nan was the first to notice what was happening. “He’s making love to Jehane, I declare!”

Her husband shook his head knowingly. “Jehane’s too proud for that.”

“But he is. They’re always sitting over the fire, oh, so closely, and whispering together.”

“It can’t be. She’s amusing herself. If I thought it were, I’d stop it. Ocky may be a bounder, but he wouldn’t do that.”

“Billy boy, he’s doing it.”

“But he’s hardly got a penny to bless himself, and her little income wouldn’t attract him.”

“You may say what you like, old obstinate; it doesn’t alter facts.”

Jehane was proud, as Barrington said; but not too proud. She realized quite well what Waffles was, but she hoped to brace him up with her strength. She was by no means blind to his shortcomings. Often, when the smile was playing about her mouth, her mind was in a ferment of derision. At night remorse pursued her—the fine, clean memory of Bobbie Spashett.—But the constant sight of Nan and Barrington, their stolen kisses and love-words, were getting on her nerves. She looked down the vista of the years—was no man ever to conquer her? Was she to grow into an old woman with that one brief memory of her soldier-man? So love-hunger drew her to Waffles, despite the warnings of her better sense. The love-hunger was continually quickened by the sight of Nan’s domestic happiness.

When, after a week’s acquaintance, he said, “Mrs. Spashett, will you marry me?” she replied, “My brave husband!—I cannot.—I must be true to the end.”

When he asked her again two days later, she was less positive. “Oh, Mr. Waffles, there’s Glory.”

“Call me Ocky,” he said.

Then he changed his tactics. He argued his loneliness, their community of grief, the loss of his mother. When he spoke of his mother, she liked him best. “Give me time,” she murmured.

The crisis came on the last day of her visit, and was hastened by two foolish happenings. She detested the thought of the return to her parents’ silent house. She had persuaded herself that she was not wanted there; her child fidgeted the old people and disarranged the household. After the glimpse of warmth and heaven she had had, she magnified her troubles through the glass of envy. Oh, to have her own fireside, and her own man!—This was how the crisis happened.

Peter, aged three, was playing with Glory. With the clumsiness of childhood he knocked her down. She commenced to scream loudly—so loudly that she might have been seriously hurt. Jehane rushed into the nursery, caught her baby to her breast and, in her anguish, smacked Peter. Peter in all his young life had never been smacked; he watched her goggle-eyed and then set up a terrified howl. When Nan arrived on the scene, he was sobbing and explaining that he had only meant to softy Glory, which was his word for loving her by rubbing her with his face and hands. A quarrel ensued between the mothers in which bitter things were said. How did Jehane dare to touch Peter, her little Peterkins baby, who was always so sensitive and gentle! Nan was fiercely angry that her child had been unjustly punished; Jehane was no less angry because her child had been knocked down. When it was all over, the babies were told to kiss one another; Peter, when Jehane approached him, hid his face in his mother’s skirt.

Strained relations followed, which made light words impossible. Barrington, when he heard of it, was extraordinarily annoyed. Waffles, because she was in the minority, sided with Jehane. That her quiet, madonna-like adoration of Glory should have turned into tigerish protective passion attracted him strangely.

That evening Barrington had some friends to dine with him—men and women of his world, whose good opinion he valued. During dinner and afterwards in the drawingroom, Waffles had been ousted from the conversation; their talk was all of books and travel—things he did not understand. He felt cold-shouldered—crowded out. He resented it, and was determined to show them that he also could be clever.

He waited for an opening-. A pause in the conversation occurred. He sprang into the gap. That he was irrelevant did not matter.

“Heard a good riddle the other day. Wonder if any of you can answer it.” All eyes turned in his direction. He cleared his throat and fumbled at his collar. “If a cat ate a haddock and a dog chased the cat, and the cat jumped over the wall, what relation would the dog bear to the haddock?”

There was embarrassed silence. Every face wore a puzzled expression. Barrington pulled his cigar from his mouth and gazed sternly at the glowing ash.

At last a lady, who wrote poetry, took compassion on him. She tapped him on the arm. “I can’t think of any answer. Put me out of my suspense. I’m so anxious to learn.”

Waffles beamed his acknowledgments. “That’s the answer,” he said eagerly; “there isn’t any answer.”

Barrington ceased to be vexed with his cigar and laughed coldly.

“You mustn’t mind my cousin. He’s a genial ass. Sometimes it takes him like that.—Let’s see, what were we discussing when we were interrupted?”

So there were two people with wounded feelings in that company. Ocky saw Jehane slip out of the room, and he followed. On the stairs she halted.

“Why are you following?”

“I’m not wanted. Confound their stupidity.”

“But why should you follow me?”

“Because you’re the same as I am. That’s why you left; you’re not at home here. Look how they behaved about Glory. I say, it’s our last evening together. Won’t you give me—”

But, ridiculous as it appeared to her, an almost maidenly fear took hold of her; she fled. He found her in the dark, at the top of the tall house; she was leaning over her child’s cot sobbing. He grew out of himself, stronger, better; against her will, he folded her to him.

“Won’t you give me your answer, darling?”

Silence.

“I’ll be very good to Glory.”

Still silence.

“Oh, Jehane, I’m so foolish—such a weak, foolish fellow; I need your strength. With you I could be a man.” Then all that was maternal awoke in her. She remembered how she had seen him looking empty-handed, while those clever men and women had stared. “You musn’t mind my cousin. He’s a genial ass. Sometimes it takes him like that.”—Cruel! Cruel! She took his head and pressed it to her bosom, kissing him on the forehead.

Nan, disturbed by their disappearance, found them kneeling, hand-in-hand, beside Glory.

That night as she sat before her mirror undressing, she let her hands fall to her side, listless. Barrington stole up behind her and kissed her on the neck, rubbing his face against hers.

“That’s what Peter calls softying.”

“But you weren’t thinking of Peter, little woman.”

“How did you know that?”

“You looked sad. What’s the trouble?”

She bent back her head, so that their eyes met and their lips were near to touching. “If I hadn’t been there that day, would you have loved Jehane instead?”

“Pepperminta, I was in love with you when we played together at Cassingland. Why ask foolish questions?”

“Because it’s happened.”

“You don’t mean—?”

“Yes. She’s taken him, and I’m sure she doesn’t want him.”

Barrington drew himself upright, then stooped over her; he was realizing the perfect joy of his own union with a startled sense of thankfulness.

“Poor people,” he murmured.

Three months later Jehane was married. The wedding was quiet; there were none but family-guests. No one felt that it was an affair to boast about. It took place from the Professor’s house at Oxford; Mr. Tudor performed the ceremony. Glory was being left with Nan till the honeymoon was ended. All morning Jehane’s face had been gloomy; perhaps she already had her doubts. Certainly Mr. Waffles did not show to advantage in art Oxford atmosphere. He was too boisterous. His shoes were too shiny. The colors of his tie and button-hole clashed. His clothes looked ready-made. At parting with her mother, Jehane did the unexpected—she wept.

On their drive to the station through austere streets, with bright glimpses of college quadrangles and young bloods in shooting-jackets and dancing-slippers, sauntering bareheaded, Waffles grew more exuberant and irrepressible; his ill-timed gaiety grated on her nerves. Having taken their seats in the carriage, the train was delayed in starting. He hung his head out of the window, jerking jocular remarks to her across his shoulder. She did not answer him, but sat with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes cast down. He could not make her out; up to now she had responded so readily to his merriment. At all costs he must make her laugh.

The station-master was passing down the platform, his hands clasped beneath his flapping coat-tails. Not every station-master guards the gate-way to a seat of learning. This particular station-master felt the full importance of his position and carried himself with his stomach thrust forward and his head thrown back.

Waffles leant from the window and beckoned frantically. When the official came up, he commenced to jabber in invented gibberish, desperately gesticulating with his hands.

“Don’t understand you,” the official said tartly; “don’t talk no foreign langwidge.”

Waffles paused in his torrent of palaver and winked solemnly at a group of undergraduates who stood watching. They happened to be pupils of the Professor. Then, as though an inspiration had burst upon him, he inquired, “Parlez-vous Français?”

“Nong. I do not,” snapped the station-master, annoyed that his lack of scholarship should be exposed in this manner.

He was moving away, when Waffles produced his crowning witticism, to which all the rest had been preface. Jehane would certainly laugh now. “Hi! Station-master! Does this train go to Oxford?”

He had one glimpse of the insulted official’s countenance, then he felt himself grabbed by the arm and drawn violently back into the carriage.

“Do you want to make me ashamed of you already. Sit down and behave yourself.”

“But darling—”

“Oh, be quiet. Aren’t you ever solemn? Is nothing sacred?”

Exceedingly puzzled and utterly extinguished, he did as he was bade, waiting like a small boy expecting to be spanked.

That was how they began life together.