AT a quarter to four precisely, in a heavy shower of rain, Madeline sprang out of a taxicab in St. James’s Street, and tripped into Rumpelmeyer’s. As it was pouring lavishly and she had no umbrella, she hastily and enthusiastically overpaid the cabman, with a feeling of superstition that it might bring her luck; besides, a few drops of rain, she reflected, would ruin her smart new hat if she waited for change. It was a very small hat, over her eyes, decorated with a very high feather, in the form of a lightning-conductor. She was charmingly dressed in a way that made her look very tall, slim and elegant. Her rather long, sweet face was paler than usual, her sincere brown eyes brighter. She had come to have tea with Rupert.

From the back room, waiting for her, rose the worshipped hero. He was, as she had described him, very much like a Vandyke picture. He had broad shoulders, and a thin waist, a pointed brown beard, regular features, very large deep blue eyes, and an absurdly small mouth with dazzling white teeth. If he was almost too well dressed—so well that one turned round to look at his clothes—his distinguished manners and grand seigneur air carried it off. One saw it was not the over-dressing of the nouveau riche, but the rather old-world dandyism of a past generation. This was the odder as the year was 1913, and he was exactly thirty. He always wore a buttonhole—to-day it was made of violets to match his violet socks—and invariably carried a black ebony stick, with an ivory handle.

With a quiet smile on his small mouth, he greeted and calmed the agitated Madeline.

She dropped her bag on the floor before she sat down, and when Rupert picked it up for her she dropped it again on a plate of cream cakes. He then took it and moved it to his side of the table.

“I thought,” he said smoothly, in a rather low, soothing voice, “that you’d like these cakes better than toast.”

She eagerly assured him that he was right, though it happened to be quite untrue.

“And China tea, of course?”

“Oh, of course!” She disliked it particularly.“And now, tell me, how has life been treating you?” he asked, as he looked first at her, and then with more eager interest at his pointed polished finger-nails.

Before she could answer, he went on:

“And that book on architecture that I sent you—tell me, have you read it?”

“Every word.”

This was perfectly true; she could have passed an examination in it.

“That’s delightful. Then, now that you know something about it, I should like very much to take you to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s, or to see one of those really beautiful old cathedrals. … We must plan it out.”

“Oh, please do. I revel in old things,” she said, thinking the remark would please him.

He arranged his buttonhole of Parma violets, then looked up at her, smiling.

“Do you mean that at your age you really appreciate the past?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“But you mustn’t live for it, you know—not over-value it. You must never forget that, after all, the great charm of the past is that it is over. One must live for the hour, for the moment. … You’ll remember that, won’t you?”“Oh yes, I do,” she said gratefully, taking a bite of cream cake.

“What they call Futurism (I hope you understand) is absolute rubbish and inconsistent nonsense. For this reason. It’s impossible to enjoy the present or the future if you eliminate the past entirely, as the so-called Futurists wish to do. Destruction of old associations and treasures would ruin one’s sense of proportion; it’s worse than living in the prehistoric. Besides, at least we know what has happened, and what is happening, but we can’t possibly know what is going to be, what the future holds for us; so what’s the point of thinking only of that? Why should we live only for posterity, when, as the old joke says, posterity has done nothing for us!”

“Well, the truth is I always feel nothing matters except now,” said Madeline candidly.

He laughed. “And, in a way, you’re right; it’s all we’re quite sure of.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

“By the way,” he said, dropping his instructive manner, “can you tell me where you get your hats? Do you mind?”

“Oh yes, of course I can; at several places. This one came from——” She hesitated a moment.“Paquin?” he asked, in a low, mysterious voice.

“Selfridge,” she replied.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a Selfridgette! But, please forgive my asking, won’t you? Someone who didn’t seem to know … I mean, a friend of mine. … Oh, well, I know you don’t mind telling me.”

He looked hard at her hat, could find no fault with it. Evidently its value was not diminished in his eyes. He was rather gratified that it did not come from some impossibly costly place. This pleased her; it was a good sign. Satisfaction at a moderate indication of economy suggested serious intentions.

“It suits you very well,” he went on, in his kind, approving way. “Now, will you give me another cup of tea?”

She poured it out rather shakily.

“No sugar, please.”

“Oh!” She had already nervously dropped in about three lumps.

“Oh well, never mind. … Yes, you’re looking charming, Madeline—it’s absurd calling you Miss Irwin after knowing each other so long, isn’t it?”

She was so delighted that she almost thanked him for calling her by her Christian name.“Do you know, Madeline,” he went on, “that, at times, you’re almost a beauty.”

She opened her mouth with surprise.

“Almost. You were one evening—I forget which evening—you had something gold in your hair, and you were quite Byzantine. And then, again, a few days after I saw you, and—er—oh well, anyhow—you always look nice.”

“I suppose you mean,” she murmured, feeling shy at talking so much of herself, “that most girls look best in the evening.”

“There I venture to differ from you entirely. All girls, all women, look their best in the afternoon. The hat is everything. Evening dress is the most trying and unbecoming thing in the world; only the most perfect beauties, who are also very young and fresh, can stand it. The most becoming thing for a woman is either nÉgligÉ, or a hat. You, particularly, Madeline, look your best in the afternoon.”

“I wish then that I lived in that land where it is always afternoon!” she said, laughing.

He gave his superior little smile. “The Lotus Eaters? Good. I didn’t know you cared for Tennyson.”

“I don’t,” she answered hastily, anxious to please.

He raised his eyebrows. “Then you should. Have you a favourite poet, Madeline?”“Oh yes, of course—Swinburne.”

She thought this a perfectly safe thing to say.

“Strong meat for babes,” he of course replied, and then began to murmur to himself: “For a day and a night love sang to us, played with us. You think that beautiful, Madeline?”

“Oh yes. How beautifully you say it!”

He laughed. “Quoting poetry at Rumpelmeyer’s! Well, perhaps no place is quite prosaic where …”

She looked up.

He took another tea-cake.

… “Where there’s anyone so interested, so intelligent as yourself.”

He had returned to the indulgent, encouraging schoolmaster’s tone.

“Do you know In the Orchard?” he went on, and murmured: “Ah God, ah God! that day should be so soon! Well! May I smoke a cigarette?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Oh … Madeline!”

“Yes, Mr. Denison?”

“Who is Nigel Hillier?”

“Oh, don’t you know him?”

“Of course I know him; we belong to the same club, and that sort of thing, but that doesn’t tell me who he is.”She was wondering what Rupert meant exactly by who, but supposed he was speaking socially, so she said hesitatingly:

“Well, Nigel Hillier … he married that Miss——”

He interrupted her, putting up his hand rather like a policeman in the traffic. “I know all about his marriage, my dear friend. I didn’t ask you whom he married. Who is he?”

“Bertha and Percy have known him all their lives—at least all Bertha’s life.”

“Oh yes. Then he’s a friend of Percy Kellynch? But that doesn’t tell me what I want to know. WHO is he?”

With a flash of inspiration she said:

“Oh yes! Oh, he’s a nephew of Lord Wantage. He has no father and mother, I believe. He and his brother Charlie——”

“Ah yes, yes. It comes back to me now—I remember which Hilliers they are. Well, Hillier has asked me to dine with him and go to the Russian Ballet. Rather nice of him. I’m going, and—do you know why I accepted, Madeline?”

“You like the Russian Ballet.”

“I was told that Mrs. Kellynch and you were to be of the party.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” she answered. “Bertha’s so awfully kind——” She stopped suddenly, as if she had made a gaffe.He smiled. “Really? And what has Bertha’s kindness to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing. I mean she always takes me out wherever she can; she’s so good-natured.”

“She strikes me as being a very beautiful and brilliant person,” said Rupert coldly. “Very wonderful—very delightful. … It appears that Mrs. Hillier has influenza.”

“Oh yes,” said Madeline quickly—too quickly.

“You knew it? No; you thought that she probably would have,” said he, laughing, as he struck a match. Then he leant back, smoking, with that slow, subtle smile about nothing in particular that had a peculiar, hypnotic effect upon Madeline.

She adored him more and more every moment. She knew she was never at her best in his company; he made her nervous, shy, and schoolgirlish, and so modest that she seemed to be longing to ooze away, to eliminate herself altogether. Then he said:

“Well, Madeline, it wouldn’t be nice if I kept you too long away from your mother—she won’t trust me with you again.”

She jumped up.

“Have I been too long?”

“Nonsense, child,” he said. “But still——” With one look at the clock he rather hurriedly gave her her belongings.“I’m going to put you into a nice taxi, and send you home. We shall meet at Hillier’s dinner, that will be nice, and we shall see the wonderful ballet together.”

She murmured that it would be lovely.

“I should like to drive you home,” he said rather half-heartedly, as they stood at the door in the rain; “in fact, I should insist upon doing so …”

“Oh no!”

… “But I have an appointment with a friend I’m expecting to call for me here. Au revoir, then!”

She went away happy, disturbed, anxious and delighted, as she always was when she had seen him. She ran straight to her dressing-table, took off her hat, put something gold in her hair and tried to look Byzantine.

He returned to the little table. He had it cleared, and ordered fresh tea and cakes. Then he took out his watch.

In about twenty minutes, during which he grew rather nervous and impatient, he rose and went to the door again to greet another guest, who had been invited to tea an hour and a half later than Madeline.

She also was a young girl, good-looking, very dark and rather inclined to fullness in face and figure. When I say that she had handsome regular aquiline features, two thick curtains of black hair drawn over her ears, from which depended long ear-rings of imitation coral, it seems almost unnecessary to add (for this type of girl always dresses in the same way) that she wore a flat violet felt hat, the back of which touched her shoulders, a particularly tight dark blue serge coat and skirt, a very low collar, and lisle thread stockings which showed above low shiny shoes with white spats. In her hands she held a pair of new white gloves, unworn.

She bounced in with a good deal of aplomb, and, without apologising for her lateness, began to chatter a little louder than most of the people present, and with great confidence.

“No, not China tea, thanks. I prefer Indian. Oh, not cream cakes; I hate them. Can’t I have hot tea-cakes? Thanks. I’ve no idea what the time is. I’ve been to Mimsie’s studio. She would insist on doing a drawing of me, and I’m sitting to her”—she turned her face a little on one side—“like this, you know.”

“Is it like you, Miss Chivvey?”

“Oh, good gracious, I hope not! At least I hope I’m not like it! I don’t want to have a pretty picture, I’m sure. But Mimsie’s awfully clever. It’s sure to be all right. Do you know her? I must take you to her studio one day.”“Thanks immensely,” said Rupert Denison, a little coolly. “But—it may seem odd to you, but I haven’t the slightest desire to increase my acquaintance at my age. In fact, do you know, I think I know quite enough people—in every set,” he added.

As he poured out some milk, she jumped and gave a little shriek.

“Oh, don’t do that. I never take milk. What a bad memory you’ve got! Funny place this, isn’t it?” She was looking round. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“Don’t you like the plan of it?” he said, looking round at the walls and ceiling. “It may not be perfect, but really, for London, it isn’t bad. It seems to me that anyone can see that it was designed by a gentleman.”

“You mean anyone can see it’s not designed by an architect?” she asked, with a laugh so loud that he raised a finger.

He then carefully introduced the subject of hats and advised her to go, for millinery, to Selfridge. They discussed it at length, and it was settled by his offering her a hat as a birthday present. She accepted, of course, with a loud laugh.

Rupert, with his mania for educating and improving young people, had begun, about a fortnight ago, trying to polish Miss Chivvey. But he had his doubts as to its being possible; and he was, all the same, beginning to be a little carried away. She was sometimes (he owned) amusing; and it was unusual for him to be laughed at. How differently Madeline regarded him!

However, he drove Moona home to Camden Hill and promised to meet her and help her to choose a hat.

“But I sha’n’t let you interfere too much. What do men know of millinery?” she asked contemptuously.

“I am sure I know what would suit you,” he replied. “You see, you’re very vivid, and very much alive; you stand out, so you really want, if I may say so, attenuating, subduing, shading.”

“Perhaps you would like me to put my head in a bag?”

“No one would regret that more than I should.”

“I foresee we’re going to quarrel about this hat,” she answered. “Now, Mr. Denison, do let me explain to you, I don’t want anything smart. I don’t want to look like Paris Fashions.”

“No? What do you want to look like?”

“Why, artistic, of course! What a blighter you are!”Rupert winced at this vague accusation. They were nearly at her house and he put his hand on hers in a way that was rather controlling than caressing.

“Let me have one little pleasure. Let me choose your hat myself,” he said. He was terrified at the idea of what she might come out in on artistic grounds. Then she would tell all her friends it was a present from him! She had no sort of reticence.

“Well, I suppose you must have your own way. Do you really know anything about it?” she asked doubtfully.

“Rather. Everything!”

They arrived. She jumped out.

“Well, I’ll ring you up and tell you when I can go there and meet you. Good-bye! You are a nut!”