A CHANGE OF ATMOSPHERE

Miss Joan Gaymer sat in a Windsor chair on the landing outside the bathroom door at Manors. It was half-past eight in the morning—an hour when traffic outside bathroom doors is apt to be congested.

Miss Gaymer was wrapped in a bluish-grey kimono, which, whether by accident or design,—I fear there is very little doubt about it, really,—exactly matched the colour of her eyes. At the same time it failed to conceal the fact—horresco referens—that she was still attired in what American haberdashers call "slumber-wear." Her slim bare feet were encased in red slippers, one of which dangled precariously from her right big toe, and her hair hung down her back in two tightly screwed but not unbecoming pigtails. At present she was engaged in a heated altercation with two gentlemen for right of entry into the bathroom.

The only excuse that I can offer for her conduct is that, although she was nearly twenty-one, in her present setting she looked about fourteen.

The gentlemen, who wore large hairy dressing-gowns, with towels swathed round their necks and mighty sponges in their hands, did not, it must be confessed, show to such advantage as their opponent. They were distinctly tousled and gummy in appearance, and their wits, as is usual with the male sex early in the morning, were in no condition for rapier work. They had both been patiently awaiting their turn for the bath when Joan arrived, and they were now listening in helpless indignation to a peremptory order to return to their rooms and stay there till sent for, and not to molest an unprotected female on her way to her ablutions.

"But look here, Joey," said one,—he was a pleasant-faced youth of about nineteen,—"we were both here before you; and you know we arranged last night that you were to come at twenty past—"

"Binks," commanded the offender in the Windsor chair, "go straight back to your bedroom and don't argue with me. If you are good I'll give your door a tap on my way back."

But Binks was in no mood for compromise, and furthermore wanted his breakfast.

"It's not playing the game," he grumbled; "I was here first, Cherub was second—"

"Who isn't playing the game?" flashed out Miss Gaymer. "Have you shaved, Binks?"

Binks, taken in flank, admitted the impeachment,—which, it may be mentioned, was self-evident. "You haven't, either," was the best retort he could make.

"No, but I've brushed my teeth," said the ever-ready Miss Gaymer.

"Well," pursued Binks desperately, "you haven't done your hair."

"My lad," replied his opponent frankly, "if you were a woman and had to put things on over your head, you wouldn't have done your hair either."

Binks, utterly demoralised, fell out of the fighting line.

"Joey, I've shaved," murmured the second gentleman in a deprecating voice.

Miss Gaymer turned a surprised eye upon him.

"Why, Cherub, dear?" she inquired.

"Cherub," who was still of an age to be exceedingly sensitive on the subject of his manly growth, blushed deeply and subsided. But his companion was made of sterner stuff.

"Come along, Cherub!" he said. "Let's run her into her bedroom and lock her in until we've bathed. Hang it! It's the third time she's done it this week."

"Lay one finger on me, children," proclaimed Miss Gaymer, "and I'll never speak to either of you again!"

She made ready for battle by twining her feet in and out of the legs of the Windsor chair, and sat brandishing a loofah, the picture of outraged propriety.

Her heartless opponents advanced to the attack, and seizing the arms of the chair bore it swiftly, occupant and all, down the passage. Joan, utterly unprepared for these tactics, was at first too taken aback to do anything but shriek and wield the loofah; but shortly recovering her presence of mind, she slipped off the seat, and, doubling round her bearers, who were hampered by the chair, scampered back towards the bathroom—only to run heavily into the arms of an unyielding, sunburned, and highly embarrassed gentleman, who had been standing nervously on the other side of the door of that apartment for the last five minutes, awaiting an opportunity to escape, and had suddenly emerged therefrom on a dash to his bedroom, under the perfectly correct impression that it was a case of now or never.

"Oh, I beg your—Why, it's Hughie!" cried Joan. "Yes, it really is!"

They recoiled, and stood surveying each other. It was their first meeting. Hughie, owing to a breakdown on the branch line, had arrived late the night before, after the ladies had gone to bed. Joan and he had not set eyes on each other for nine years.

Miss Gaymer recovered her equanimity first.

"You're not a bit changed, Hughie," she observed with a disarming smile. "A little browner—that's all. Am I?"

Hughie did not answer for a moment. He was genuinely astonished at what he had just seen, and not a little shocked. Where young girls are concerned, there is no greater stickler for propriety than your man of the world; and this sudden instance of the latter-day camaraderie of young men and maidens had rather taken Hughie's breath away. He felt almost as fluttered as an early Victorian matron. Suddenly he realised that he had been asked a question.

"Changed?" he said haltingly. "Well, it's rather hard to say, until—until—"

"Until I've got my hair up and more clothes on?" suggested Miss Gaymer. "Perhaps you're right. Still, I look rather nice, don't you think?" she added modestly, preening herself in the kimono. "However, you'll see me at breakfast. Meanwhile I want you to hold those two boys back while I get into the bathroom. Ta-ta, dears!"

And with an airy wave of her hand to the unwashed and discomfited firm of Dicky and Cherub, who stood grinning sheepishly in the background, Hughie's ward slipped under her guardian's arm and disappeared into the bathroom, with a swish of cÆrulean drapery and a triumphant banging of the door.

Half an hour later Hughie descended to breakfast, there to be greeted by his host, Jack Leroy, a retired warrior of thirty-eight, of comfortable exterior and incurable laziness, and his wife, the one-time render of Hughie's heart-strings in the person of Miss Mildred Freshwater. Another old friend was the Reverend Montague D'Arcy, whom we last saw dancing the Cachuca by the waters of the Cam. Here he was, a trifle more rotund and wearing Archidiaconal gaiters, but still the twinkling-eyed D'Arcy of old. One or two other guests were seated at the table, but as yet there was no sign of Joey. When she did appear, it was in a riding-habit; and after a hearty meal, in no way accelerated by urgent and outspoken messages from the front door, where her swains were smoking the pipe of patience, she dashed off in a manner which caused most of those who were over-eating themselves round the table to refer enviously to the digestive equipment of the young, and left Hughie to be entertained by his host and hostess.

"You'll find her a queer handful, Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, as she sat placidly embroidering an infantine garment in the morning sun on the verandah,—in the corner of which the current issues of the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life," fully unfurled, together with two pairs of perpendicular boot-soles and a cloud of cigar-smoke, proclaimed the fact that the Army and the Church were taking their ease together,—"but I want you to remember all the time that she is sound. You'll be tempted to disbelieve that over and over again, but don't! She has been utterly spoiled by everybody, and you must give her time to find her level again. Left to herself, she would be as good as gold. I don't say she wouldn't do something rather outrÉ now and then from sheer animal spirits, but that doesn't count. She's young, of course, so she can't—she can't be expected to—you know what I mean?"

"Stand corn," remarked a voice from behind the "Sporting Life."

"Thank you, dear: that's just it. You see, Hughie, men egg her on,—they're all alike: Jack and Mr. D'Arcy are as bad as any,—and she gets excited and carried away, and occasionally she does something stupid and conspicuous. Five minutes later she is bitterly ashamed, and comes and cries her heart out to me. People know nothing about that, of course: all they do know is that she did the stupid thing, and they call her a forward little cat and a detestable imp. Don't you believe them, Hughie!

"Then you'll find her absurdly impulsive and generous: you could have the clothes off her back if you wanted them. The other day she came home in floods of tears because of a story which a beggar-woman with a baby had told her. It was the usual sort of story, but it was quite enough for Joey. She had carried the baby herself for about two miles, and given the mother all the money she had, and made her promise faithfully to come and see me next day. Of course the woman never turned up, and Joey's blouse had to be burned,—oh, that baby!—but that sort of thing doesn't alter her faith in human nature. And she stands the great test, Hughie. She hasn't got one set of manners when men are about and another when they are not. But she's a kittle creature. You must be tender with her, and—"

"Run her on the snaffle, old man—what?" corroborated the "Sporting Life."

Hughie blew through his pipe meditatively.

"Seems to me, Mrs. Leroy," he said at length, "that I'm in for a pretty thick time. Do you think she's at all likely to take to my present methods, or must I learn some new tricks? Afraid I'm not much of a lady's man. Still, Joey and I used to be great friends, once. Won't that count for something?"

"I'm not sure," said Mrs. Leroy. "You know how the young loathe being thought young, or reminded of their youth? Joey is just in that frame of mind at present. Because you were a boy of twenty-one when she was a child of twelve, she may darkly suspect you of desiring to continue on the footing of those days. Don't do that, for mercy's sake! For all practical purposes you are much nearer to each other in age than you were—"

A chuckle reverberated through the peaceful verandah, and the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life" converged for a moment as if to share a confidence.

"Jack," inquired Mrs. Leroy sternly, "what were you saying to Mr. D'Arcy just now?"

"Nothin', dear," said a meek voice.

"Mr. D'Arcy, what was he saying to you?"

Mr. D'Arcy took in a reef in the "Spectator" and replied suavely,—

"He made use of a sporting expression, dear lady, with regard to your plans for our friend Marrable's future, which I was happily unable to understand."

"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in warning tones, "people who put their oar in uninvited get taken out for afternoon calls—in the brougham, with both windows up!"

The "Sporting Life" was promptly expanded to its full extent, and silence reigned again. Presently Mrs. Leroy observed cheerfully,—

"By the way, Hughie, you are home just in time for a dance—the Hunt Ball."

Hollow groans burst from behind the newspapers.

"Oh, look here!" said Hughie frankly. "I mean—not really?"

"Yes: I promised Nina Fludyer to back her up and bring a 'bus-load of people. Why don't you want to come?"

"Well, for one thing I have only danced twice since I went down from Cambridge. One time was at a Viceregal reception in Calcutta, and the other was in Montmartre—under less formal conditions. I'll tell you what—you and your house-party go to the ball and enjoy yourselves, and your husband and I will keep each other company here—eh?"

Captain Leroy put down his paper and said, "Good scheme!" in the loyal but mournful tones of one who realizes that it is a forlorn hope, but that one might as well have a shot for it. "In fact, dear," he continued desperately, "I was thinkin' of takin' Marrable out that very night to lie out for poachers. Old Gannet was tellin' me that the North Wood—that is—"

He observed his wife's withering eye, and became suddenly interested in the advertisements on the back page of his periodical.

"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in a tone of finality, "on Tuesday night you put on your best bib and tucker and come with us—that's flat."

"All right, m' dear," replied her husband in a voice which said to Hughie, "I was afraid it wouldn't work, old man!"

"And why don't you want to come, Hughie?" continued Mrs. Leroy, suddenly turning on her guest.

"Well, I am not cut out for balls," said Hughie. "Prefer the open air, somehow."

"If open air is all you want," remarked Mrs. Leroy grimly, "the Town Hall at Midfield is the draughtiest building in the county."

"Balls are dull affairs," urged the faithful but misguided Leroy, "compared with the excitement and—er—suspense—"

"If you want excitement and suspense," replied the inexorable Mrs. Leroy, "dance the Lancers with Lady Fludyer—fifteen stone of imperfectly balanced blanc-mange!"

"And just a spice of risk—"

"Risk? My dear boy, try the Ball Committee's champagne!"

Captain Leroy, defeated at all points, once more subsided; but D'Arcy took up the argument.

"Joking apart, Mrs. Leroy," he said, "it's an awful thing to be a supernumerary man at a dance in the country. You crawl in at the tail of your party, and shake hands with the governess, under the impression that she is your hostess. You are introduced to a girl, and book a dance. You don't catch her name, so you write down 'Red hair and bird of paradise' on your programme, and leave her. Of course you know nobody; so, after booking a few more wallflowers, you still find a good deal of time at your disposal. You can always tell a male wallflower. Women can usually brazen it out: they put on an air which implies that they have refused countless offers, and are sitting on a hard bench because they like it."

"They can't deceive the other women, though," said Mrs. Leroy.

"Still," agreed Hughie, "they impose on men all right. But, as D'Arcy says, a male wallflower is hopeless. He looks miserable, and either mopes in a corner like a new boy at school, or else reads away at his programme and peers about for a partner who isn't on it."

"Why not try the smoking-room?"

"The smokin'-room," interpolated Leroy, "is all right for the regular Philistine. But if I go there, I find it in possession of a bilious octogenarian and a retired major-general. They are sittin' in front of the fire with a cigar apiece. They glare at me when I come in, and then go on buckin' to each other. Presently they stop, and one says: 'I suppose you are not a dancin' man, sir,' in a way which implies that he doesn't know what the devil young men are comin' to nowadays. And by this time I'm so ashamed of myself that I simply bolt out of the room, with some yarn about a brief rest between two dances, and go and sit among the hats and coats in the cloak-room until it is time to go and hunt up the next freak on my programme. Rotten job, I call it!"

Mrs. Leroy surveyed the three orators with an air of serene amusement.

"I have roused a storm," she said. "But you are coming on Tuesday—all three! Now, Hughie, I know Jack is dying to take you round the stables and plantations. When you have smacked all the horses' backs and taken the pheasants' temperatures, come in. I want to introduce you to my offspring. You are fond of children, I know."

"I know I shall be fond of yours, Mildred," said Hughie.

"Thank you—that's nicely put. But they really are rather pets, though I say it who shouldn't."

"Rum little beggars," mused the male parent. "Bite your head off if they see you havin' a sherry and bitters before dinner. Got a sort of religious maniac of a nurse," he explained. "Been saved, and all that. Save you for tuppence, Marrable!"

"She's a queer old thing," said Mrs. Leroy, "but such a good nurse that her weaknesses don't matter much. The children are never sick or sorry—wait till I tap wood! your head will do, Jack—and simply love her."

"I was pleased to learn from their own lips," remarked D'Arcy, "that they have been enthusiastic teetotalers from birth, and are both ardent supporters of Foreign Missions."

"And the baby?" inquired Hughie.

"Too young," replied Leroy; "but that doesn't excuse the poor little sinner from havin' to wear a blue ribbon."

"How does the nurse regard you, Leroy?" asked D'Arcy.

"Lost sheep—hard case—bad egg generally," replied that gentleman resignedly. "She's given me up, I'm glad to say; but she'll be on Hughie's track in no time. Come along."

In the joy of roaming round the familiar plantations and stables Hughie allowed the existence of Mildred Leroy's offspring to fade from his memory; and it was not until the party gathered for luncheon that he was reminded of the introduction in store for him.

The assembled company consisted of the host and hostess, D'Arcy, Hughie, Joan, and the young gentleman previously referred to as "Cherub." The others had departed on a sailing expedition. Joan had declined to go, alleging that she must stay at home and entertain her "keeper," as she had now christened Hughie; and Cherub had speciously pleaded a tendency to mal de mer, and remained at home to steal a march on his rivals.

The party was completed by two chubby infants of seven and five, in large pinafores and short white socks, who were presented to Brevet-Uncle Hughie as Theodora and Hildegard, though Hughie discovered, after a brief experience of their society, that they answered without resentment and much more spontaneity to the appellations of "Duckles" and "Stodger" respectively.

They were deposited—it seems the right word—in the dining-room by an austere and elderly female, who groaned heavily at the sight of Captain Leroy, and eyed Hughie with unconcealed distrust before withdrawing. The small girls took their places one on each side of their mother, and sat, like two well-bred little owlets, taking stock of their new uncle. Presently their vigilance relaxed. It is a truism that teetotalers are hearty eaters, and the consumption of what was placed before them soon occupied the attention of Mesdames Duckles and Stodger to the exclusion of all else, the latter exhibiting a particularly praiseworthy attention to duty.

Their sole contribution to the conversation was offered when Leroy passed the claret to Hughie.

"Wine," remarked Duckles severely, "is a mocker!"

"Stwong dwink," corroborated Stodger, turning up the whites of her eyes, "is raging!"

The two ladies then groaned heavily in concert, and, having thus contributed their mite to the redemption of a sinner, resumed their repast.

At the end of the meal the numbers of the company were augmented by the arrival of John Marrable Leroy, aged two years—an infant whose apoplectic countenance sadly belied the small piece of blue ribbon inserted in his bib. Having taken his seat in his mother's lap, he proceeded, after the manner of babies, to give his celebrated entertainment. For the benefit of the company he obligingly identified various articles upon the table, and then proceeded to give an exposition (assisted by manual contortions) of the exact whereabouts of the Church, the Steeple, the Door, and the People. After this, without warning or apology, he deposited a nude foot in his mother's plate, having in some mysterious manner got rid of his shoe and sock under the table; and was proceeding to enumerate the respective marketing experiences of a family of little pigs, when his mother, deciding that it was high time this sÉance came to an end, called upon him to say grace on behalf of the company.

John Marrable Leroy reluctantly ceased fingering his toes, and twisted himself into a state of devotional rigidity. He then closed his eyes, folded his hands, and breathed stertorously. All waited with devoutly bowed heads for his benediction.

"T'ank God—" began Master Leroy at length.

There was another tense pause.

"T'ank God—" repeated the infant despondently.

Another hiatus.

"'For'—dearest," prompted his mother.

A smile of intense relief illuminated the supplicant's troubled countenance.

"—Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten!" he gabbled cheerfully; and the meeting broke up in unseemly confusion.

It was a hot afternoon, and Hughie, who as yet was far from getting tired of doing nothing, was well content to sprawl in a basket-chair under a great copper-beech, and watch the others play croquet.

Presently Joan, swinging a mallet, came and sat on the grass beside him.

"Well, Hughie?" she began, regarding her comptroller rather quizzically.

"Well, Joey?"

Then they both laughed, or rather chuckled. The curious part about it was that while Hughie laughed "Ha, ha!" deep down, Joey did the same. Tee-heeing and high-pitched feminine shrieking were beyond her compass. She was the Joey of old, with the same gruff voice, though she had got over her difficulty with the r's and l's.

"It seems rummy," observed Miss Gaymer reflectively, "my being put in your charge like the guard of a train. Do you expect me to obey you?"

"Yes," said Hughie. He felt he was missing an opportunity of saying something bright and striking, but "Yes" was the only word he could think of besides "No."

"Oh!" replied Miss Gaymer enigmatically.

"Don't you intend to?" inquired Hughie.

"Well, it depends on what you tell me to do. If it was anything that didn't matter much I might do it, sometimes, just to save your face. But as a rule I shouldn't."

"Oh!" said Hughie, in his turn.

"I may as well tell you at once," continued the lady, "the things that it's no use scolding me about. First of all, I always choose my own friends, and never take recommendations or warnings from anybody. Then you mustn't interfere with my dancing or sailing or riding, because I love them better than anything in the world. Then, you mustn't try to prevent my reading books and seeing plays that you think are bad for me, because that sort of thing is simply not done nowadays. And of course you mustn't call me extravagant if I dress nicely. Also, you mustn't expect me to go in for good works, because I hate curates. And don't give me advice, because I loathe it. On the other hand, it may comfort you to know—it does most men, for some reason—that I don't want a vote and I don't smoke cigarettes. Oh, the poor little mite!"

She was on her feet and across the lawn in a flash, to where the obese Stodger, prostrate upon a half-buried tree-root, was proclaiming to the heavens the sorrow of a sudden transition from the perpendicular to the horizontal. She comforted the child with whole-hearted tenderness, and after taking her turn in the game of croquet, returned to Hughie and sat down beside him again.

"Well—what do you think of me?" she inquired suddenly.

Hughie regarded her intently.

"I don't know yet," he said. "I want to see a little more of you."

"Most people," said Miss Gaymer with dignity, "make up their minds about me at once."

"I won't do that," said Hughie. "It wouldn't be quite fair."

Joan pondered this retort and finally flushed like a child.

"That means that you have taken a dislike to me," she said.

"I didn't mean it that way," said Hughie, much distressed,—"really!"

"Anyhow, it means that you haven't made up your mind about me," persisted Joan.

"That is true," admitted Hughie, who was no hand at fencing.

"Well, do it soon," said Miss Gaymer. "I'm not accustomed to being put on trial. I may mention to you," she added complacently, "that I am considered a great success. Do you know what Jacky Penn told me?"

"No; what?" inquired Hughie perfunctorily. He was beginning to understand the inwardness of Mildred Leroy's warning that the girl beside him had not yet found her feet.

"He told me," said Joan, with an unaffected sigh of pleasure, "that the men here all call me 'The Toast.' What do you say to that?"

"A Toast," said Hughie rather heavily, "is usually 'an excuse for a glass.' I shouldn't like to think of you merely as that, Joey."

Miss Gaymer eyed her guardian with undisguised exasperation.

"Hughie, you have got fearfully old-maidish in the last nine years," she said. "Where have you been? In any decent society?"

"Sometimes; but not often. Not what you would call decent society, Joey."

"Well," remarked Miss Gaymer, turning her opponent's flank with characteristic readiness, "whatever it was, it wasn't very particular about clothes. Hughie, your get-up is perfectly tragic. If you are going to be my keeper you will have to begin by dressing decently. I don't know who your tailor is, but—Che-e-erub!"

"What ho!" came from the croquet-lawn.

"Come here, at once."

Cherub obediently put down his mallet and approached. Having arrived, he halted and stood to attention.

"Cherub," commanded Miss Gaymer, "turn round and round till I tell you to stop, and let Mr. Marrable see your clothes."

Much flattered, Cherub rotated serenely on his axis for the benefit of the untutored Marrable, while Miss Gaymer ran over his points.

"Must I have a waist?" inquired Hughie meekly.

"Yes—if you've got one," replied Joan, surveying her guardian's amorphous shooting-jacket doubtfully.

"And purple socks?"

"Green will do, old man," remarked the mannequin unexpectedly.

"Cherub, keep quiet!" said the coutumiÈre. "You have absolutely nothing whatever to recommend you but your clothes, so don't spoil it by babbling. There, Hughie! That is the sort of thing. You must go up to town next week and order some. Run away, Cherub! Now, another thing, Hughie. Look at your hands. They're like a coal-heaver's, except that they're clean. Can't you get them attended to?"

Hughie surveyed his hands in a reminiscent fashion. They were serviceable members, and had pulled their owner through many rough places. At present the palms bore the mark of the Orinoco's coal-shovels, and there was a great scar on one wrist where Hughie had incautiously touched a hot bearing. There was also an incision in the middle knuckle of the right hand, caused by the impact of Mr. Gates's front teeth on an historic occasion. There were other and older marks, and most of them had some interesting story attached to them. But of course Joan did not know this. To her they were large, unsightly, un-manicured hands—only that and nothing more. Hughie sighed. All his old assets seemed to have become liabilities, somehow.

"Aren't they a scandal, Hughie?" Joan repeated.

"I suppose they are, Joey," said Hughie, coming out of his reverie. "Right O! I'll get them seen to. I don't suppose they're ever likely to be much use to me again," he added in a depressed tone, "so they might as well be made ornamental. I'll go and consult Sophy Fullgarney about them when I get back to town."

"Who's she?" said Joey quickly.

"Manicurist—before your time," said Hughie briefly, pleased to feel that he could give points to his ward in knowledge of something. "Any more requirements, Joey?"

"Let me see. Oh, yes. Can you dance?"

"Used to waltz," said Hughie cautiously.

"Decently?"

"I can get round a room."

"Can you reverse properly?"

"If a man reversed in my young days," said Hughie, "we used to regard him as a bounder. Do they do it now?"

"Yes, always. Can you do anything else?"

"The usual things—Lancers and polka. Danced a reel once in Scotland."

"Nobody dances the polka now, and I hate the Lancers. Can you two-step?"

"Never even heard of it."

Miss Gaymer sighed.

"Never heard of the Boston, I suppose?" she said resignedly.

"Never in my life," said Hughie. "Look here," he added, inspired by a sudden hope, "perhaps it would be as well if I stayed at home on Tuesday night—eh?"

"Quite as well," said Miss Gaymer candidly. "But I don't suppose Mildred will let you off. You'll be wanted by the wallflowers."

"But not by Joey, apparently."

"I don't dance with rotters," said Miss Gaymer elegantly. "I am practically booked up already, too. However, if you apply at once I might give you one." She thought for a moment. "I'll try you with number eight."

"We had better not settle at present," said Hughie. "I should like to have a look round the ballroom before I tie myself down in any way. But I'll bear your application in mind."

Miss Joan Gaymer turned and regarded her companion with unfeigned astonishment. He was still sprawling, but his indolent pose of lazy contentment was gone, and for a moment challenge peeped out of his steely eyes. She rose deliberately from the grass, and walked with great stateliness back to the croquet-lawn.

Hughie sat on, feeling slightly breathless. He had just realised that he possessed a temper.

Presently Mrs. Leroy completed a sequence of five hoops and retired, followed by the applause of an incompetent partner, to the copper-beech.

She sat down opposite Hughie, and surveyed him expectantly.

"Well, Hughie?" she said.

"Well, Mildred?"

"Well, Hughie?"

"I think," said Hughie, answering the unspoken question, "that she wants—slapping!"

Mildred Leroy nodded her head sagely.

"Ah!" she remarked. "I thought you would say that. Well, I hope you'll do it."

Hughie reviewed the events of the day, more suo, at three o'clock next morning, sitting with his feet on the sill of his open bedroom window,—the bedroom of his boyhood, with the old school and 'Varsity groups upon the walls,—as he smoked a final pipe before retiring to rest.

It was almost dawn. The velvety darkness was growing lighter in texture; and occasionally an early-rising and energetic young bird would utter a tentative chirrup—only to subside, on meeting with no encouragement from the other members of the orchestra (probably trades unionists), until a more seasonable hour.

Hughie had sat on with D'Arcy and Leroy in the billiard-room long after the other men—Joey's clientÈle—had emptied their glasses and gone to bed. There had been a "ladies' night," accompanied by fearsome games (of a character detrimental to the table) between sides captained by Joey and another damsel; and even after Mildred Leroy had swept her charges upstairs there had been bear-fighting and much shrieking in the passages and up the staircase. Then the younger gentlemen had returned, rumpled but victorious, to quench their thirst and listen with respectful deference to any tale that the great Marrable might care to unfold. (The story of the Orinoco had gone round, though it had mercifully escaped the notice of the halfpenny papers.)

But Hughie had not been communicative, though he had proved an eager and appreciative listener to 'Varsity gossip and athletic "shop." So the young men, having talked themselves to a standstill, had gradually faded away, highly gratified to find the great man not only willing but eager to listen to their meticulous chronicles; and Hughie and D'Arcy and Leroy, their symposium reduced to companionable limits, had compared notes and "swapped lies," as the Americans say, far into the night.

Hughie's impressions of the day were slightly blurred and confused—at the which let no man wonder. He was accustomed to fresh faces and new environments, but the plunge from yesterday into to-day had been a trifle sudden. Last night he had driven up to the door of Manors a masterless man, a superior vagabond, an irresponsible free-lance, with hundreds of acquaintances and never a friend. In twenty-four hours this sense of irresponsible detachment had gone for ever, and the spell of English home-life had sunk deep into his being. He felt for the first time that he was more than a mere unit in the Universe. He had turned from something into somebody. He realised that he had a stake in the country—the county—the little estate of Manors itself; and a great desire was upon him to settle down and surround himself with everything that is conveyed to an Englishman here and abroad—especially abroad—by the word Home.

Then there were the people with whom he had come in contact that day. They were nearly all old friends, but they were old friends with new faces. There was Mildred Leroy, for instance. He had half expected his relations with that young matron, the past considered, to be of a slightly tender and sentimental nature. Far from it. Her attitude to him was simply maternal—as, indeed, it had been, had he realised the fact, from the very beginning of their friendship. A woman always feels motherly towards a man of her own age, and rightly, for she is much older than he is. Occasionally she mistakes this motherly feeling for something else, and marries him—but not often. Obviously Mildred Leroy now regarded Hughie as nothing more than an eligible young dÉbutant, the chaperon's natural prey, to be rounded up and paired off with all possible despatch.

Then there was Joey. Twenty-four hours ago he had had no particular views on the subject of his ward, beyond—

(1) The reflection that he would probably find her "rather a bore";

(2) An idle speculation as to whether, if expediency should demand it, he would be able to bring himself to marry her.

Well, twenty-four hours is a long time. He saw now quite clearly that whatever Miss Gaymer's shortcomings might be, a tendency to bore her companions was not one of them; and that if ever the other question should arise, the difficulty would lie, not in bringing himself to marry Joey, but in bringing Joey to marry him.

Like a sensible man, he decided to let things work themselves out in their own way, and went to bed. There he dreamed that Joey, attired in a blue kimono and red slippers, was teaching him to dance the two-step to a tune played by the engines of the Orinoco.