It was the month of June. A breeze blowing in at the open window fluttered out the muslin curtains and shook loose the petals of roses standing on the table. A milk-cart rattled down the Terrace, clattering its cans. Sounds, which drifted in from the primrose-tinted world, were all what Peter would have described as “early.” The walls of the room were splashed with great streaks of sunlight, which lit up some of the pictures with peculiar intensity and left others in contrasting shadow. One of those which were thus illumined was a Dutch landscape by Cuyp, hanging against the dark oak paneling above a blue couch; it represented a comfortable burgher strolling in conversation with two women on the banks of a canal. Barrington liked to face it while he sat at breakfast; it gave him a certain indifference to worry before the rush of the day commenced. But this morning, to judge by his puckered forehead, it had not produced its usual effect. He glanced up from the letter he was reading and tossed it across to Nan. “What d’you make of that?”

She bent over it, wrinkling her brows. The letter was in a man’s handwriting and the postscript, which was of nearly equal length, was in a woman’s.

“I don’t know; if it was from anyone but Ocky——”

“Precisely, Ocky’s a fool. He’s always been a fool and he’s growing worse; but Jehane ought to have sounder sense. It’s beyond me why she married him. I never did understand Jehane; I suppose I never shall.”

“You’re not a woman, Billy; or else you would. She was sick and tired of being lonely and dependent; she wanted someone to take care of her. Ocky was the only man who offered. But that’s eight years ago—I’m afraid she’s found him out; and she’s doing her best to persuade herself that she hasn’t. Poor Jehane, she always admired strong men—men she could worship.”

“That explains but it doesn’t excuse her. She had a strong man in Captain Spashett; the hurry of her second marriage was indecent. I never did approve of it. I said nothing at first because I thought she might help Ocky to grow a backbone.—And now there’s this new folly, which she appears to encourage.”

“But, dear, is it so foolish? Perhaps, she’s given him a backbone and that’s why he’s done it.” She laughed nervously. “They both say that this is a great opportunity for him to better himself.”

“Bah! The only way for Ocky to better himself is to change his character. He’s a balloon—a gas-bag; he’ll go up in the air and burst. The higher he goes, the further he’ll have to tumble. You think I’m harsh with him; I know him. Jehane’s done him no good; she despises him, I’m sure, though she doesn’t think she shows it. She’s filled his head with stupid ambitions and before she’s done she’ll land him in a mess. She’s driven him to this bravado with private naggings; he wants to prove to her that he really is a man. Man! He’s a child in her hands. It hurts me to watch them together. Why can’t she be a wife to him and make up her mind that she’s married a donkey?”

“It’s difficult for a woman to make up her mind to that—especially a proud, impatient woman.”

He paid no attention to his wife’s interruption, but went on irritably with what he was saying.

“So he’s giving up a secure job, and he’s going into this harum-scarum plan for buying up the sands of Sandport for nothing and selling them as house-plots for a fortune. Even if there were anything in it, who’s going to finance him? Of course he’ll come to me as usual.”

“But he says he’s got the capital.”

“That’s just it—from where? His pocket always had a hole in it. When he says he’s got money, I don’t believe him; when he’s proved his word I grow nervous.”

Barrington leant across the table, rapping with his knuckles. “Ocky’s the kind of amiable weak fellow who can easily be made bad—especially by a woman who refuses to love him. Once a man like that’s gone under, you can never bring him back—he’s lost what staying quality he ever had.”

Nan rarely argued with her husband. Pushing back her chair, she went and knelt beside him, pressing her soft cheek against his hand. “You are a silly Billy, dearest, to be so serious on such a happy morning. There’s no danger of Ocky ever becoming bad; and, in any case, what’s this got to do with the matter? I know he’s foolish and his jokes get on your nerves; but it isn’t his fault that he’s not clever like you. You shouldn’t be gloomy just because he’s going to be daring. I don’t wonder he’s sick of that lawyer’s office. And it’s absurd to think that he’s going to be bad; look how Peter loves him. You like Ocky more than you pretend, now don’t you?”

“If liking’s being sorry. I’m always sorry for an ass; and I’m angry with Jehane because she knows better. She’s doing this because she’s jealous of you—that’s why she clutches at this bubble chance of prosperity.”

“Ar’n’t you a little unjust to her, Billy? Since our marriage, you’ve always been unjust to her. You know why she’s jealous—she wants her husband to be like you.”

Her voice sank away to a whisper. “Oh, Janey, I did, I did play fair,” she had said that night at Cassingland; in her violent assertion of fairness there had been an implied question which Jehane had never answered. Both she and her husband knew that they had never been acquitted.

Barrington drew Nan’s head against his shoulder. “Poor people.” Then he kissed her with new and eager gladness.

“And it isn’t only pity you feel for Ocky?” She persisted. “Now confess.”

He pulled out his watch hastily and, having replaced it, gulped down his coffee. “When I was Peter’s age, we were brought up like brothers together. I loved him then; I’m disappointed in him now. And yet I’m always catching glimpses in him of the little chap I played with. You see, at school I was the stronger and had to protect him. I was always fighting his battles. And one whole term, when his hand was poisoned, I had to take him to the doctor to get it dressed—— No, it isn’t only pity, Pepperminta: it’s memories.”

As he was going out of the door she called after him, “Then, I suppose, I can write and say we’ll have them?”

“While they’re moving—the children? Yes.”

“Jehane doesn’t say how many.”

“She means all, I expect. There’s the garden for them—it’ll be fun for Kay and Peter.”

A week later, Jehane traveled across London to Top-bury Terrace, bringing with her Glory, aged nine, Riska, aged six, and her youngest child, Eustace, who was the same age as Kathleen. Jehane was now in her thirty-seventh year, a striking brooding type of woman. As her face had grown thinner and her cheeks had lost their color, the gipsy blackness of her appearance had become more noticeable. She still had a fine figure, so that men in public conveyances would furtively lower their papers to gaze at her. There clung about her an atmosphere of adventure, of which she was not entirely unaware. She was unconquerably romantic, and would spin herself stories in the silence of her fancy of a love that was crushing in its intensity. No one would have guessed from the hard little lines about the corners of her eyes and mouth that this imaginative tenderness formed part of her character.

Since the birth of Eustace her hair had fallen out in handfuls and she had adopted a style of dressing it that was distinctly unbecoming. She had had her combings made up into an affair which Glory called “Ma’s mat.” It consisted of half-a-dozen curls, sewn together in rows like sausages, which she pinned across the top of her head so that they made a fringe along her forehead. It gave her an old-fashioned look of prim severity. Jehane retained for Nan an affection which was partly genuine and partly habit; but she resented Nan’s youthful appearance with slow jealous anger, attributing it to freedom from anxiety and the possession of money. As for Nan, her attitude was one of gentle and atoning apology for her happiness. “I’m so glad you brought the children yourself, Janey.”

“And who could have brought them? I’m not like you—I only keep two servants. When this scheme of Ocky’s has turned out all right, perhaps it may be different.”

She turned swiftly on Nan with latent defiance, as though challenging her to express doubt.

“I’m sure both Billy and I hope it will. Wouldn’t it be splendid to see Ocky really a big man?”

“It would be a good deal more than splendid. It would mean the end of little houses and cheap servants and neighbors that you can’t introduce to your father’s friends. It would mean the end of pinching and scraping to save a penny. And it would mean a chance for my girls.”

Nan slipped an arm into hers and hugged it. “Dear old thing, I think I understand. And when is Ocky coming over to tell us all about it? He gave us hardly any details in his letter.”

Jehane became evasive. “He’s naturally very busy. The chance developed so suddenly that he’s hardly had time to turn round. It came to him through a client at the office. Mr. Playfair had noticed him at his desk as he passed in and out to see Mr. Wagstaff. He’s told Ocky since that he spotted him at once and said to himself, ‘If ever I want a chap with-business push and legal knowledge, that’s my man.’”

“And he’s never talked with him?”

“Hardly. Not much more than to say ‘How d’you do?’ or ‘Good-morning’.”

“Wasn’t it wonderful that he should have sized him up in a flash?”

Jehane glanced at her narrowly. “It may be wonderful to you; it isn’t to me. I’m well aware that you and Billy don’t think much of Ocky. Oh, where’s the sense in disowning it? You both think he’s a born fool.”

“I’m sure you never heard Billy say that.”

“Heard him say it! Of course I didn’t. I’d like to hear him dare to say anything like that about my husband. But actions speak louder than words. He thinks it just the same; he thinks that Ocky’s good for nothing But to sit at a desk, taking a salary from another man. P’rhaps, you didn’t know that for years Ocky’s been the brains of that office?”

Nan lifted her honest eyes; she was filled with discomfort. This kind of controversy was always happening when they met; they drifted into some sort of feud for which Jehane invariably held her responsible. “The brains of the office! No, indeed, I never heard that. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because you and Billy thought he was incompetent, and it didn’t seem worth the trouble to correct you.”

“I’m sure I’ve always thought him very kind, especially to Peter.”

“Kind! What’s kindness got to do with being clever?” Nan pressed Jehane to stay to dinner. She would send a telegram to Ocky; she would send her home in a cab. But Jehane was in an ungracious mood and eager to take offense. She resented the implication that a cab was a luxury. No, she couldn’t stay; there was too much to do. She had intended to return in a cab, anyhow. In reality she was anxious to avoid Barrington’s shrewd questioning. She was rising to take her departure, when she saw him descending the garden steps.

“Ha, Jehane! This is luck. I’ve had thoughts of you all day. That letter’s got on my nerves. I couldn’t work; so I came home early.—Oh no, we’re not going to let you off now. You’ve got to stop and tell us. By the way, before Ocky actually decides, I’d like to talk the whole matter over with him.”

“He’s decided already.”

“You don’t mean———-”

“Yes. Why not? He’s given Wagstaff notice. Things so happened that he had to make up his mind in a hurry or lose it.—But I really ought to be going. Nan knows everything now.”

Barrington placed his hand on her shoulder arrestingly. At his touch she drew back and colored. “This thing’s too serious, Jehane,” he said, “to be dismissed in a sentence. I have a right to know.”

He spoke kindly, but she answered him hotly. “What right, pray?”

“Well, if anything goes wrong, there’s only me to fall back on. And then there’s the right of friendship.”

“I can’t say you’ve shown yourself over friendly. If you’ve had to meet Ocky, you’ve let all the world see you were irritated. If you’ve ever invited him to your house, you’ve taken very good care that no one important was present. One would judge that you thought he lowered you. I can’t see that you have the right to know anything.”

“That can only be because your husband hasn’t told you. To quote one instance, it was through my influence that he got this position that he’s now thrown over—Wagstaff is my lawyer.”

Jehane tossed her head. “You always want to make out that he owes you everything—— Well, what is it that I’m forced to tell you?”

Barrington kept silence while they walked down the path to where chairs were spread beneath the cedar. The children ran up boisterously to greet him; having kissed them, he told Grace to take them away and to keep them quiet. When he spoke, his tones were grave and measured: “It wasn’t fair of Ocky to send you to tell us; he ought to have come himself.”

“He didn’t send——”

Barrington held up his hand. “You can’t tell me anything on that score; from the first he’s shirked responsibility. He would never fight if he could get anyone else to fight for him. Many and many’s the time I’ve had to dohis dirty work. Now you’re doing it. This is unpleasant hearing, Jehane; but you know it’s true. I’d take a wager that you spent hours trying to screw up his courage to make him come himself.”

She lifted her head to deny it, but his quiet gray eyes met hers. Their sympathy and justice disturbed her. She refused to be pitied by this man——. A great fear rose in her throat. What if his opinion of her husband were correct? It was the opinion she herself had had for years and had tried to stifle. Time and again she had listened to his plausibility—his boastings that he was the brains of the office, that luck was against him and that one day he would show the world. She had used his arguments to defend him to her relations and friends. In public she had made a parade of being proud of him. In private she had tried to ridicule him out of his shame-faced manners. And now she was trying so hard to believe that he had found his opportunity.—It was cruel of Barrington, especially cruel when he knew quite well that it was him she had loved. She could not endure to sit still and hear him voice her own suspicious and calmly analyze the folly of her marriage.

“If you think that my husband was afraid to come and tell you, the only way to prove the contrary is to let him come himself to-morrow.”

“I shall be more than glad to see him.”

But Ocky did not come to-morrow, nor the next day. The day after that Barrington went to see his lawyer.

“Good-morning, Mr. Wagstaff. I should like to speak to you about my cousin, Mr. Waffles.”

Mr. Wagstaff twitched his trousers up to prevent them from rucking as he crossed his legs. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, Mr. Barrington——”

“I understand he’s given you notice.”

Mr. Wagstaff sat up suddenly. “Understand what? He told you that?”

“No, he did not tell me. His wife did.”

“Ah, his wife! He left her to make the explanations. Just what one might expect.”

“Then he didn’t give you notice?”

“Course not.” Mr. Wagstaff spoke testily, as though for an employee to give him notice was an event beyond the bounds of possibility.

“Then he left without notifying you?”

“Well, hardly.”

The lawyer noticed that the door leading into the main office was ajar; he got up and closed it. When he returned he did not re-seat himself, but straddled the hearth-rug, holding up his coat-tails although no fire was burning.

“Mr. Barrington, sir, I put up with your cousin’s shiftlessness for longer that I ought to have done; I did it out of respect for you, sir. There was a time when I hoped I might make something of him. He can be nimble-witted over trifles and his own affairs; but he never put any interest into my work. He was insubordinate—not to my face, you understand, but when my back was turned; he wasn’t a good influence in the office. I tell you this, sir, to prove that I haven’t acted without consideration.”

The lawyer waggled his coat-tails and seemed to find a blemish in his boots, so earnestly did he regard them. When he received no help from Barrington, he suddenly came to the point and looked up sharply.

“He betrayed professional confidence; so I sacked him.”

“Had it happened before?”

“Possibly. He was always garrulous. This time it was an affair of some property at Sandport. Our client had two competing purchasers, one of whom was a Mr. Playfair. Your cousin leaked to Mr. Playfair—kept him informed as to what the other purchaser was doing. Not a nice thing to occur, Mr. Barrington.”

This last remark was as much an interrogation as an assertion. The lawyer waited for his opinion to be indorsed.

“Not at all nice,” Barrington assented. “If it’s lost you any money, I must refund it.”

“‘Tisn’t a question of money. Wouldn’t hear of that.” As Mr. Wagstaff shook hands at parting, he offered a crumb of comfort: “Mind, I don’t say your cousin is dishonest, Mr. Barrington; that would be too, too strong. Perhaps, it would be better stated by saying that his sense of honor is rudimentary.”

“Perhaps,” said Barrington brusquely. “I think I catch your meaning.”