GENUS IRRITABILE

Montagu Falconer had had a busy day. At breakfast he had sent for, and sworn at, the cook. The cook, who was a lady of spirit and accustomed to being sent for, had reserved her defence until the storm had spent itself, and then pointed out with admirable composure and undeniable truth that an omelette which is uneatable at a quarter to ten may have been—and in fact was—in perfect condition when placed upon the table at nine. She then withdrew in good order, parrying the intimation that she might take a month's notice, which hurtled through the door after her, with the rejoinder that she recognised no orders save those of her mistress.

When she had gone, Mrs. Falconer said calmly:—

"I wouldn't give cook notice quite so often, old man, if I were you. Some day she will take it, you know, and then where will you be? Don't forget her marrow-bones: they are the best in London."

In reply Montagu Falconer picked up the omelette between his finger and thumb and threw it into the fire, where it created an unpleasant smell.

After this promising beginning, he proceeded to his day's work. As he entered the studio he noticed a middle-aged woman pass the window, supporting one end of a basket, at the other end of which staggered a tumble-haired little girl. It was the laundress, with her daughter.

The daughter was not too well dressed. She wore a short and rather ragged frock, and had holes in her stockings. But she was a picturesque little figure, with a pretty face and wild coppery hair.

Mr. Falconer had intended to devote a sulphurous morning to the completion of "Strange Bedfellows." This prospect possibly accounted for the omelette incident, for Peggy's papa possessed what is indulgently called a temperament, which, being interpreted, means a dislike (from which many of us less highly-strung people also suffer) of performing uncongenial duties. But at the sight of the little girl, his professional instincts despatched him hot-foot through the French window into the garden. Here, with much shouting and redundancy of words, he secured from the dazed but gratified parent, in return for an unnecessarily generous fee, the services of her daughter as model for a head-study.

"I'll run 'er home and wash 'er face, sir," she announced, "and you shall 'ave 'er back in 'alf an hour."

She was better than her word. The little girl returned in twenty-five minutes. Not only was her face washed, but she wore her Sunday frock, together with a pair of sixteen-button boots of patent leather,—the patent upon which had palpably expired,—once evidently the property of a lady of fashion, and a tragic travesty of a toque. Under her arm she bore her mother's umbrella; and her wild mane was screwed into two tight pigtails, fastened at the tips with bows of magenta ribbon.

Montagu Falconer, blaring like a bull, cast her forth, weeping, to be intercepted and comforted with clandestine cake by Mrs. Falconer at the back door.

After this followed a savage onslaught, some two hours in duration, on "Strange Bedfellows," which infuriated its creator so much that at luncheon his wife was afforded a more than usually numerous series of opportunities for "making allowances."

In the afternoon there was a slight lull, for Montagu betook himself and his temperament for an airing on the Heath. He returned sheer drunk with the glories of an autumn sunset, to make a heavy and unwholesome tea. But in an evil moment he asked for his daughter, and it was discovered that she was not in the house. A hurricane sprang up in a moment, increasing to a typhoon when Miss Peggy arrived with a stained frock and a bruised knee.

She was despatched incontinently to bed, where cook and the housemaid and (later) her mother combined to tend her wounds and supply her with abundant, if surreptitious, refreshment.

After dinner Montagu Falconer found himself in possession of a fresh grievance. His wife had deserted him. As a rule she sat placidly upon the other side of the fire and listened while her husband derided the British Philistine and consigned the Members of the Royal Academy, seriatim, to perdition. But to-night even these simple pleasures were denied him. His wife's chair stood empty. Probably she was upstairs, coddling that insubordinate brat, Peggy. Her own husband, of course, might shift for himself; he had no claim upon her consideration. He was at liberty to slave day and night to keep a roof over their heads; but when, shattered by the magnitude of his exertions, he returned to his own fireside for a few words of wifely recognition and encouragement, what did he find? An empty chair!

He laughed bitterly.

"I wonder," he said, "how high I might not have climbed if I had been properly understood!"

He was so engrossed with this gratifying speculation that he failed to hear seven portentous thumps upon the floor of the passage leading to the studio.

After another half-hour his sense of grievance took a still more pathetic turn. He was now the willing, patient, overdriven breadwinner, struggling to keep an impoverished household together. His part was to work, work, work, with none to say him nay. Happy thought! He would go and work now. Possibly if his wife found him, half-blind with fatigue, toiling at his easel at midnight, she might feel sorry. Anyhow, he would try it.

Feeling comparatively cheerful, and ignoring the fact that one does not usually paint by artificial light, the downtrodden breadwinner proceeded to the studio. He stepped softly, for he did not want his wife to hear him at present. She was to discover him later, when his stage effects had been properly worked up.

To his surprise he noted a light under the studio door. Who could it be? The servants were strictly forbidden to enter the sacred apartment at all. It seemed too much to hope that it might be cook. His eyes gleamed, and he turned the handle softly.

Philip was sitting upon the sofa on the model-throne, partaking of chicken-and-ham and cocoa with an air of romantic enjoyment. He had now been an inmate of the studio for four hours, but Peggy had not returned to him. Instead, a kindly, cheerful lady, with steady eyes and a humorous mouth, bearing sustenance upon a tray, had paid him a lengthy visit. To her Philip had recounted the full tale of Uncle Joseph, not omitting the Beautiful Lady, but suppressing the nature of Uncle Joseph's profession and his own part therein. This was unfortunate, for had he not done so Mrs. Falconer would have pointed out to him what he had so far failed to realise—namely, that as the Beautiful Lady had walked in at the door, Uncle Joseph's old life had flown out of the window, and that Aubrey Buck, Tommy Smith, et hoc genus omne, were no more.

"I will think things over in the night watches," said Mrs. Falconer, "and in the morning I will come and tell you what to do. Now, you queer little mortal, eat up your supper and go to sleep. As you have no mother, do you think I might give you one kiss?"

That was half an hour ago.

Philip was conscious of a slight draught upon the back of his neck, which was turned towards the door. Hardly had he realised this when he was aware of an inarticulate roar; and into his field of vision there bounded a gentleman with a golden beard and a fiery eye, wearing a black velvet dinner-jacket. This was doubtless Pegs's father, and from external evidence he was suffering from one of his "tempers."

"What the Blazing Henry are you doing here?" bawled the gentleman.

Philip replied politely that he was having supper.

"Supper?" yelled Montagu Falconer. "How dare you have supper in my studio? How dare you bring your filthy food in here? Tell me that!" His eye fell upon the tray, suggesting a fresh outrage. "Where did that supper come from?" he demanded. "Where from, you mooncalf?"

"It came along that passage," replied the mooncalf, taking a drink of cocoa.

Peggy's papa waved his arms and raved.

"Curse you!" he shouted. "Don't drink cocoa in my presence! It is a beastly habit and a beastly beverage. It's my cocoa, too!"

"It was getting cold," explained Philip, in extenuation.

"And don't answer back!" bellowed the master of the house. "Don't answer back, or I'll brain you—like—like this!"

He snatched a mediÆval mace from off the wall, and, to Philip's intense gratification, proceeded to pound an Etruscan vase into smithereens.

"Who are you?" he continued. "Who are you, to go filibustering all over my house? Who are you, to insinuate your disgusting presence into my kitchen and forage among my household stores?"

Philip, still keeping a hopeful eye on the mediÆval mace, considered.

"I'm a boy," he said cautiously.

This eminently reasonable explanation only exasperated Mr. Falconer still further.

"No, you are not!" he bawled. "You are a criminal! Do you know I have a wife and daughter—let alone a staff of young and innocent servants? Supposing one of them had seen you? You might have frightened them all out of their wits—you toad!"

Mr. Falconer stamped up and down the room, plainly meditating further acts of violence. Philip, realising that his host had not yet been taken into the confidence of his wife and daughter regarding the present situation, decided to be cautious.

Presently the fermenting Montagu came to a standstill.

"Why did you come here at all?" he demanded.

"I wanted somewhere to sleep," replied Philip.

Montagu uplifted clenched hands to heaven.

"Unutterable dolt!" he roared. "Do you imagine you are in a common lodging-house?"

"Oh, no, sir," Philip assured him. "I like your pictures awfully," he added, with a friendly smile.

This time Montagu Falconer first gaped at him, and then enquired:—

"Are you a crÉtin?"

Philip, who did not know what a crÉtin was, shook his head dubiously, and said he was not sure. Mr. Falconer, after assuring him that there was no doubt on the matter whatever, continued his cross-examination.

"Where the devil have you come from? I suppose you know that!"

"I came from Hampstead," replied Philip.

"Do you live in that beastly spot?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"You have to live somewhere," the crÉtin pointed out gently.

"Then why not go on living there, you unspeakable Yahoo? Why leave your antimacassars, and china dogs, and wool mats, and wax fruit, and—and harmoniums, and come bursting into a civilised household—eh?"

"I have run away from home," said Philip simply.

Mr. Falconer uttered a yell of triumph.

"A-a-ah! Now we are getting at the facts. What is your address?"

Philip told him.

Mr. Falconer assumed an air of ferocious satisfaction.

"Admirable!" he cried; "most inexpressibly satisfactory! You are outwitted! I have over-reached you—criminal! To-night, since you desire it, you shall enjoy my hospitality; but to-morrow morning, on the stroke of nine, an officer of the law—a policeman—shall wait upon you and conduct you back to the slum from which you came. Meanwhile, wretched offal, sleep! Sleep all over the studio if you like, and be damned to you! To-morrow—ad leones! Good-night!"

And without another word this excellent but ill-balanced householder shot out of the studio into the passage, locking the door behind him.

Philip finished the last piece of ham and the last mouthful of cocoa, turned out the electric light, rolled himself up in a Greek robe of saffron serge, and lay down upon the sofa. He was concerned in his mind about several things. In the first place, he had been discovered, and that might mean trouble both for Peggy and her mother. In the second the door was locked, which meant that he was a prisoner. In the third, he was to be sent back to Uncle Joseph at nine o'clock next morning, which would be an ignominious ending to his first great adventure. He pondered.

In due course, just before he fell asleep, his obvious and proper course of action occurred to him. It was the only way, he decided, and moreover promised further adventure. He would have liked to be able to say good-bye to Peggy, but....

His eyes closed, and he slipped into the dreamless, motionless sleep of tired childhood, the lay figure and the other Strange Bedfellows keeping watch and ward by his pillow.