The end of another fortnight found Arthur still at Hilsey, but on the eve of leaving it for a time at least. Another summons had reached him, one which he could not disregard. His mother wrote, affectionately reproaching him for delaying his visit to Malvern. "You promised us to come before this. Besides I'm not very well, and you'll cheer me up. You mustn't altogether forsake us for the other branch of the family!"

Arthur recognised his duty, but with a reluctance of which he was ashamed. Common disaster had drawn the party at Hilsey more closely together. Judith and Arthur, working hand in hand to "make things go," had become firm friends, though they were apt to spar and wrangle still. The little girl—she knew by now that her mother's visit was to be a long one—responded to the compassionate tenderness evoked by a misfortune which she herself did not yet understand; she gained confidence from marks of love and, as she claimed affection more boldly, elicited it in ampler measure.

Freed from a struggle to which he was morbidly conscious of being unequal, Godfrey Lisle showed his better side. Aggressive courage was what he lacked and knew that he lacked; he was not without fortitude to endure the pain of a blow that had fallen—especially when he could be sure it was the last! He was at peace now; the worst possible had happened—and, lo, it was not unendurable! There were compensations; he was not humiliated any more, and the sad leak in his finances—it had threatened even his tenure of Hilsey itself—could be stopped. Though he was still fussy, self-important over trifles, sometimes ridiculous, and very dependent on his stronger kinsfolk, he was more amiable, less secretive of his feelings, free from sulks and grievances. The gentleman in him came out, both in his bearing towards those about him and in the attitude he adopted towards Bernadette herself. He spoke of her as seldom as he could but without rancour, and in regard to future arrangements put himself at her disposal. When letters came from Oliver Wyse's lawyers, acting on instructions received from the voyagers on summer seas, he caused Arthur to reply for him that he would give her the freedom she desired, and would endeavour to meet whatever might be her wishes in regard to Margaret. He was scrupulous—and even meticulous—over setting aside all her personal belongings to await her orders. He declared himself ready to consider any pecuniary arrangement which might be thought proper; some relics of his old pride in lavishly supplying all her requirements seemed to survive in his mind, side by side with his relief at the thought of paying off his mortgage.

To Arthur the quiet after the storm brought a more sober view of himself and of his life, of what he had done and what had happened to him. His eyes saw more clearly for what they were both the high-flying adoration and the tempestuous gust of passion which jealousy had raised. A critical and healthy distrust of himself and his impulses began gradually to displace the bitter and morbid self-contempt of the first hours and days after the disaster. He must still grieve with the forsaken worshipper of the smoking-room; he could not yet forget the pangs of the baffled lover; but a new man was coming to birth in him—one who, if he still grieved and sighed, could come near to smiling too at these extravagant gentlemen with their idolising dreams and gusty passions. Rueful and bitter the smile might be, but it was tonic. It helped to set devotion, passion, and catastrophe in their true places and to assign to them their real proportions. In it was the dawn of a recognition that he was still no more than on the threshold of a man's experience.

Neither was it a bad thing perhaps that another and very practical trouble began to press him hard. Though he was living in free quarters now, the bills contracted during his great London season began to come tumbling in, many for the second or third time. "To account rendered" was a legend with which he was becoming familiar to the point of disgust. The five hundred pounds was running very low; the diminished dividends could not meet his deficit. When Godfrey talked finance to him, as he often did, he was inclined to retort that there were finances in a more desperate condition than those of the estate of Hilsey and possessing no such new-born prospects of recovery—prospects born in sore travail, it is true, but there all the same for Godfrey's consolation.

But there was the farce! That persevering project emerged on the horizon again. It was in full rehearsal now; it was due in three weeks' time: it had got a third act at last, Mr. Claud Beverley and Mr. Langley Etheringham having apparently assuaged their differences. It had even got a name—a name, as Joe Halliday wrote in his enthusiasm, as superior to the name of Help Me Out Quickly as the play itself was to that bygone masterpiece. Arthur told Judith the name and, in spite of that resolution of his about relying on his own judgment, awaited her opinion anxiously. After all, in this case it was not his judgment, but, presumably, Mr. Claud Beverley's.

"'Did You Say Mrs.?' That's what you're going to call it, is it?"

"It's what they're going to call it. It's not my invention, you know."

"Well, I should think it must be vulgar enough, anyhow," said Judith.

"Oh, vulgar be hanged! That doesn't matter. Jolly good, I call it! Sort of piques your curiosity. Why did He say Mrs.?—That's what the public'll want to know, don't you see?"

"Or why did She say Mrs. perhaps!"

"There you are! Another puzzle! You see, you're curious yourself directly, Judith."

"Well, yes, I am rather," Judith confessed, laughing.

"I think He said it about Her—when she wasn't," Arthur maintained.

"I think She said it about herself," urged Judith. "Oh, of course, she wasn't—there can't be any doubt about that."

So Judith thought well of the title—evidently she did. Arthur's approval was fortified and grew with contemplation.

"It's corking!" he declared. "And if only Ayesha Layard's half as good as Joe thinks——"

"If only who's half as good as——?"

"Ayesha Layard—that's our star, our leading lady. A discovery of Joe's; he's wild about her."

"I wonder who invented her name, if you come to that!"

"Well, we'll hope for the best," said Arthur, laughing. "I shall be up a tree, if it goes wrong."

"Not a bad thing to be up a tree sometimes; you get a good view all round."

"Sagacious philosopher! But I can't afford to lose my money."

"Let's see, how much were you silly enough——?"

"One—thousand—pounds. No less! I can't really quite make out how I came to do it."

"I'm sure I can't help you there, Arthur. I wasn't in your confidence."

"Never mind! In for it now! I shall get hold of Joe for lunch on my way through town, and hear all about it."

"You might look in at the Temple too, and see how many briefs you've missed!"

"Well, it's vacation, you know—Still I mean to settle down to that when I get back from Malvern."

"Yes, you must. We mustn't keep you any longer. You've been very good to stay—and it's been very good to have you here, Arthur."

"By Jove, when I think of what I expected my visit here to be, and what it has been!"

She shook her head at him with a smile. "Then don't think of it," she counselled. "Think of Did You Say Mrs.? instead!"

The parting from Hilsey could not be achieved without some retrospects, some drawing of contrasts, without memories bitter or seductive; that would have demanded a mind too stoical. Yet his leave-taking was graced and softened by their reluctance to let him go. He went not as a guest whose sojourn under a strange roof is finished and who may chance not to pass that way again; his going was rather as that of a son of the house who sallies forth on his business or his ventures and, God willing, shall come again, bringing his sheaves with him, to a home ever and gladly open. So they all, in their ways, tried to tell him or to show him. For their sakes, no less than for the dear sake of her who was gone, his heart was full.

Joe Halliday bustled in to lunch at the appointed meeting-place as busy and sanguine as ever—so busy indeed that he appeared not to have been able to see much of Did You Say Mrs.? lately. "But it's going on all right," he added reassuringly. "We had a job over that third act, but it's topping now. Claud had an idea that Langley liked at last, thank heaven! It's a job to keep those two chaps from cutting one another's throats—that's the only trouble. I expect they'll be rehearsing this afternoon. Would you like to drop in for a bit?"

"Love it! I've never seen a rehearsal, and this'll be thrilling! My train isn't till 4.45."

"Ayesha's divine! Look here, you mustn't make love to her. I'm doing that myself. I mean I'm trying. That's as far as I've got." He laughed good-humouredly, devouring rump-steak at a ruinous rate.

"How's everybody, Joe? How are the Sarradets?"

"I saw the old man only yesterday. He's in great form—so cockahoop about this company of his that I believe he's taken on a new lease of life."

"What company? I haven't heard about it."

"Haven't you? Why, he's turned his business into a company—mainly to stop our young friend Raymond from playing ducks and drakes with it, when his turn comes. It's a private company—no public issue of shares. A few debentures for his friends—I've been looking after that side of it for him a bit. Like some?"

"Thanks, but just at present I'm not supporting the investment market," smiled Arthur.

"Will be soon! So will all of us. Yes, it's all fixed—and that lucky devil Sidney Barslow steps in as Managing Director. He's done himself pretty well all round, has Sidney!"

"He seems to have. Is he all right?" Arthur's comment and question were both so devoid of interest that Joe stared at him in amazement.

"I say, don't you know? Didn't anybody write and tell you? Didn't she write? Marie, I mean. She's engaged to Sidney. Do you mean to say you didn't know that?"

"No, nobody told me. I've been away, you see." He paused a moment. "Rather sudden, wasn't it?"

"Well, when a stone once begins to roll down hill—!" said Joe, with a knowing grin. "Besides he'd been very useful to them over Raymond. The old man took no end of a fancy to him. I imagine it all somehow worked in together. Funny she didn't write and tell you about it!"

Arthur felt that his companion was regarding him with some curiosity; the friendship between Marie Sarradet and himself had been so well known in the circle; whether it would become anything more had doubtless been a matter of speculation among them. He did not mind Joe's curiosity; better that it should be turned on this matter than on his more recent experiences.

"I suppose she had something considerably more pressing to think about," he remarked with a smile.

Yet the news caused not indeed resentment or jealousy, but a vague annoyance, based partly on vanity—the engagement was sudden, the deeper memories of another attachment must have faded quickly—but mainly on regret for Marie. He could not help feeling that she was throwing herself away on a partner beneath her, unworthy of her—from family reasons in some measure probably, or just for want of anybody better. The Marie he had known—that side of her which her shrewd and affectionate diplomacy had always contrived to present to the eyes whose scrutiny she feared—the Marie whom once he had marked for his—surely she could not easily mate with Sidney Barslow, for all the good there was in him? He forgot that there might be another Marie whom he did not know so well, perhaps in the end a more real, a more natural, a preponderating one. He should not have forgotten that possibility, since there had proved to be more than one Bernadette!

"Well, I hope they'll be very happy. I must go and see her when I'm back in town."

"They'll do all right," Joe pronounced. "Sidney has taken a reef in—several, in fact. He'll have a big chance at old Sarradet's place and, if I know him, he'll use it."

"And how's Raymond going on?"

"Raymond's on appro., so to speak, both as to the business and in another quarter, I think. Our pretty Amabel is waiting to see how he sticks to the blue ribbon of a blameless life. The old set's rather gone to pot, hasn't it, Arthur? The way of the world, what?"

"By Jove, it is!" sighed Arthur. Things had a way of going to pot—with a vengeance.

The two philosophers finished their pints of beer, and set out for the Burlington Theatre; upon entering which they shed their philosophic character and became excited adventurers.

Mr. Langley Etheringham was taking the company through the first act; they were in the middle of it when Joe, having piloted Arthur through dark and dirty ways, deposited him in the third row of the stalls. The well-known "producer" was a shortish man with a bald head, a red moustache, and fiery eyes. He was an embodiment of perpetual motion. He kept on moving his arms from the level of his thighs to that of his head, as though he were lifting a heavy weight in his hands, and accompanied the action by a constant quick murmur of "Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!" He broke off once or twice to observe sadly, "Not a funeral, my boy, not a funeral!" but he was soon back at his weight-lifting again.

"Langley's a great believer in pace, especially in the first act," Joe whispered. Arthur nodded sagaciously. Mr. Etheringham fascinated him; he could have watched him contentedly for a long while, as one can watch the untiring and incredibly swift action of some machine. But nobody on the stage seemed to take much notice. Some were reading their parts all the time, some were trying to do without their written parts. The leading man—a tall, stout, grey-haired man in double eyeglasses—just mumbled his words indifferently, but was terribly anxious about his "crosses." "Where's my cross?" "Is this my cross?" "I crossed here this morning." "I don't like this cross, Langley." His life seemed compact of crosses.

Arthur could not gather much of what the first act was about; he had missed the "exposition"—so at least Joe informed him; the confusion was to an inexperienced eye considerable, the dialogue hard to hear owing to Mr. Etheringham's exhortations and the leading man's crosses. But he did not mind much; he was keenly interested in the scene and the people. It did, however, appear that the four characters now taking part in the action were expecting a fifth, a woman, and that her entrance was to be the turning-point of the act. Mr. Etheringham varied his appeal. "Keep it up, keep it up, keep it up!" he implored. "Keep it up for her, Willie, keep it Up!" He waved his hands furiously, then brought them suddenly to rest, stretched out on each side of him. "Now!"

Everybody was still; even the leading man did not want to cross.

Miss Ayesha Layard entered. It was evidently a great moment. The others stiffened in the rigidity of surprise. Miss Layard looked round, smiling. The leading man began to mumble. Mr. Etheringham peremptorily stopped him. "Hold it, Willie, hold it—I told you to hold it, man! It'll stand another five seconds!" With poised hands he held them planted and speechless. "Now!"

Joe heaved a sigh. "Pretty good, don't you think so?"

"Splendid!" said Arthur. "I suppose she's really somebody else, or—or they think she is?"

"Ought to be, anyhow," Joe whispered back with a cunning smile.

Miss Ayesha Layard was a small lady, very richly dressed. She had a turned-up nose, wide-open blue eyes, and an expression of intense innocence. She did not look more than seventeen, and no doubt could look even younger when required. In one hand she held the script of her part, in the other a large sandwich with a bite out of it; and she was munching.

"No, no!" cried Mr. Etheringham, suddenly spying the sandwich, "I will not go on while you're eating!"

"But I'm so hungry, Mr. Etheringham!" she pleaded in a sweet childish voice. "It's past three and I've had no lunch."

"Lunch, lunch, always lunch! No sooner do we begin to get going than it's lunch!"

She stood still, munching, smiling, appealing to him with wide-open candid eyes. He flung himself crossly into a chair. "Take a quarter-of-an-hour then! After that we'll go back and run straight through the act." Miss Layard dimpled in a smile. He broke out again. "But go on while you're eating I won't!"

On receiving their brief respite the men on the stage had scuttled off, like rabbits into their holes; Miss Layard too hurried off, but soon reappeared in the front of the house, carrying a paper bag with more sandwiches. She sat down in the front row of the stalls, still munching steadily.

"I'll be back in a minute," said Joe, and went and sat himself down beside her.

A melancholy voice came from the cavernous recesses of the pit: "We could do with a bit more life, Etheringham."

"If we get the pace and the positions now, the life'll soon come. I've got some experience, I suppose, haven't I?"

The author emerged into view, as he replied sadly, "Oh, experience, yes!" He did not appear disposed to allow the producer any other qualifications for his task.

Mr. Etheringham gave him a fiery glare but no answer. Mr. Beverley saw Arthur and came up to him. "Hullo, Lisle, have you come to see this rot?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I've a train to catch, and I've got to get my hair cut first."

"Oh, well, you won't miss much," said Beverley resignedly, as he dropped into the next stall.

Arthur was surprised at his mode of referring to the great work; his attitude had been different that night at the Sarradets', when they celebrated the formation of the Syndicate. Perhaps the author detected his feeling, for he went on:

"Oh, it's all right of its sort. It's funny, you know, all right—it'll go. Etheringham there swears by it, and he's a pretty good judge, in spite of his crankiness. But—well, I've moved on since I wrote it. Life has begun to interest me—real life, I mean, and real people, and the way things really happen. I'm writing a play now about a woman leaving her husband and children. I hope the Twentieth Society'll do it. Well, I treat it like a thing that really happens, not as you see it done on the stage or in novels."

Arthur was curious. "How do you make her do it?" he asked.

"Why, in a reasonable way—openly, after discussing the matter, as real men and women would. None of the old elopement nonsense! Real people don't do that."

"Well, but—er—don't people differ?"

"Not half so much as you think—not real people. Well, you'll see. Only I wish I could get on a bit quicker. The office takes up so much of my time. If I can make a bit out of this thing, I'll chuck the office." He paused for a minute. "You've been away, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've been down in the country. Had some family affairs to—er—look after." He was a little surprised that Mr. Beverley had condescended to notice his absence.

"Going to be in town now?"

"Well, I'm off for about ten days more. Then I've got to buckle to work—if I can get any work to buckle to, that is."

Mr. Beverley nodded thoughtfully and smiled. The next moment a loud giggling proceeded from where Miss Layard and Joe sat. The lady rose, saying, "I'll ask Mr. Beverley," and came towards them, Joe looking on with a broad grin on his face. "He's not like you—he's sensible and serious." After a quick glance over her shoulder at Joe, she addressed the author. "Oh, Mr. Beverley, you're a literary man and all that. Tell me, do you say 'ee-ther' or 'eye-ther'?" Her face was a picture of innocent gravity.

"Eye-ther," replied the eminent author promptly.

"But which?"

"Eye-ther."

"Oh, but haven't you a choice?"

"I tell you I say 'eye-ther,' Miss Layard."

Joe sniggered. Arthur began to smile slowly, as the joke dawned upon him.

"Just as it happens—or alternately—or on Sundays and week-days, or what, Mr. Beverley?"

"I've told you three times already that I say——" He stopped, looked at her sourly, and fell back in his stall, muttering something that sounded very like "Damned nonsense!"

"I thought I could pull your leg!" she cried exultantly, and burst into the merriest peal of laughter—sweet ringing laughter that set Arthur laughing too in sympathy. She was indeed all that Joe had said when she laughed like that. She was irresistible. If only Mr. Beverley had given her opportunity enough for laughter, Did you Say Mrs.? must surely be a success!

She saw his eyes fixed on her in delight. "Awfully good, isn't it?" she said. "Because you can't get out of it, whatever you answer!" Her laughter trilled out again, clear, rich, and soft.

"First Act!" called Mr. Etheringham threateningly.

"I'd like to try it on him," she whispered. "Only he's so cross!"