CONNIE DEERING walked back to the house with a silent and still tremulous Jimmie. She had slid her hand through his arm, and now and then gave it an affectionate pat. Within the limitations of her light, gay nature she was a sympathetic and loyal woman, and she had loved Jimmie for many years with the unquestioning fondness that one has for a beloved and satisfying domestic animal. She had recovered from the fright his frantic demonstration had caused her, and her easy temperament had shaken off the little chill of solemnity that had accompanied her vow of secrecy. But she pitied him with all her kind heart, and in herself felt agreeably sentimental.

They strolled slowly into the hall, and paused for a moment before parting.

“When you come to think of it seriously, you won't consider I have made too impossible a fool of myself?” he asked with an apologetic smile.

“I promise,” she said affectionately. Then she laughed. Not only was Jimmie's smile contagious, but Connie Deering could not face the pleasant world for more than an hour without laughter.

“I have always said you were a dear, Jimmie, and you are. I almost wish I could kiss you.”

Jimmie looked around. They were quite unperceived.

“I do quite,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Now we are really brother and sister,” she said with a flush. “You are not going to be too unhappy, are you?”

“I? Oh no, not I,” he replied heartily. He repeated this asseveration to himself while dressing for dinner. Why indeed should he be unhappy? Had he not looked a few hours before at God's earth and found that it was good? Besides, to add to the common stock of the world's unhappiness were a crime. “Yes, a crime,” he said aloud, with a vigorous pull at his white tie. Then he perceived that it was hopelessly mangled, and wished for Aline, who usually conducted that part of the ceremony of his toilette.

“It will have to do,” he said cheerfully, as he turned away from the glass.

Yet, for all his philosophising, he was surprised at the relief that his wild confession to Connie had afforded him. The burden that had seemed too heavy for him to bear had now grown magically light. He attributed the phenomenon to Connie Deering, to the witchery of her sweet sympathy and the comfort of her sisterly kiss. By the time he had finished dressing the acute pain of the past two days had vanished, and as he went down the stairs he accounted himself a happy man. In the drawing-room he met Norma, and chatted to her almost light-heartedly. He did not notice the constraint in her manner, her avoidance of his glance, the little pucker of troubled brows; nor was he aware of her sigh of relief when the door opened and the servant announced Mr. Theodore Weever, who with one or two other people were dining at the house. Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre followed on the American's heels, and soon the rest of the party had assembled. Jimmie had no opportunity for further talk with Norma, who studiously kept apart from him all the evening, and during dinner devoted herself to subacid conversation with Morland and to a reckless interchange of cynical banter with Weever. Jimmie, talking with picturesque fancy about his student days in the Rue Bonaparte to his neighbour, a frank fox-hunting and sport-loving young woman, never dreamed of the chaos of thoughts and feelings that whirled behind the proud face on the opposite side of the table; and Norma, when her mind now and then worked lucidly, wondered at the strength and sweetness of the man who could subdue such passion and laugh with a gaiety so honest and sincere. For herself, Theodore Weever, with his icy humour that crystallised her own irony into almost deadly wit, was her sole salvation during the interminable meal. Once Morland, listening with admiration, whispered in her ear:

“I've never heard you in such good form.”

She had to choke down an hysterical impulse of laughter and swallow a mouthful of champagne. Later, when the women guests had gone, she slipped up to her room without saying good-night to Morland, and, dismissing her maid, as she had done the night before, sat for a long time, holding her head in her hands, vainly seeking to rid it of words that seemed to have eaten into her brain. And when she thought of Morland, of last night, of her humiliation, she flushed hot from hair to feet. She was only five-and-twenty, and the world had not as yet completed its work of hardening. It was a treacherous and deceitful world; she had prided herself on being a finished product of petrifaction, and here she lay, scorched and bewildered, like any soft and foolish girl who had been suddenly brought too near the flame of life. Keenly she felt the piteousness of her defeat. In what it exactly consisted she did not know. She was only conscious of broken pride, the shattering of the little hard-faced gods in her temple, the tearing up of the rails upon which she had reckoned to travel to her journey's end. Hers was a confused soul state, devoid of immediate purpose. A breach of her engagement with Morland did not occur to her mind, and Jimmie was merely an impersonal utterer of volcanic words. She slept but little. In the morning she found habit by her bedside; she clothed herself therein and faced the day.

Much was expected of her. The great garden-party was to take place that afternoon. Her Serene Highness the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck had signified that she would do Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre the honour of being present. Her Grace the Duchess of Wiltshire would accompany the princess. The ban and arriere-ban of the county had been invited, and the place would be filled with fair women agog to bask in the smiles of royalty, and ill-tempered men dragged away from their partridges by ambitious wives. A firm of London caterers had contracted for the refreshments. A military band would play on the terrace. A clever French showman whom Providence had sent to cheer the dying hours of the London season, and had kept during the dead months at a variety theatre, was coming down with an authentic Guignol. He had promised the choicest pieces in his repertoire—la vraie grivoiserie franÇaise—and men who had got wind of the proposed entertainment winked at one another wickedly. The garden-party was to be an affair of splendour worthy of the royal lady who had deigned to shed her serenity upon the county families assembled; and Mr. Hardacre had raised a special sum of money to meet the expenses.

“I shall have to go to the Jews, my dear,” he had said to his wife when they were first discussing ways and means.

“Oh, go to the—Jews then,” said Mrs. Hardacre, almost betrayed, in her irritation, into an unwifely retort. “What does it matter, what does any sacrifice matter, when once we have royalty at the house? You are such a fool, Benjamin.”

He had a singular faculty for arousing the waspishness of his wife; yet, save on rare occasions, he was the meekest of men in her presence.

“Well, you know best, Eliza,” he said.

“I have n't been married to you for six-and-twenty years without being perfectly certain of that,” she replied tartly.

So Mr. Hardacre went to the Jews, and the princess promised to come to Mrs. Hardacre.

Norma was not the only one that morning who was aroused to a sense of responsibility. The footman entering Jimmie's bedroom brought with him a flat cardboard box neatly addressed in Aline's handwriting. The box contained a new shirt, two new collars, a new silk tie, and a pair of grey suÈde gloves; also a letter from Aline instructing him as to the use of these various articles of attire.

“Be sure to wear your frock-coat,” wrote the director of Jimmie's conduct. “I wish you had one less than six years old; but I went over it with benzine and ammonia before I packed it up, so perhaps it won't be so bad. And wear your patent-leather evening shoes. They'll look quite smart if you'll tie the laces up tight, and stick the ends in between the shoe and the sock. Oh, I wish I could come and turn you out decently! and please, Jimmie dear, don't cut yourself shaving and go about all day with a ridiculous bit of cotton wool on your dear chin. Tony says you need n't wear the frock-coat, but I know better. What acquaintance has he with princesses and duchesses? And that reminds me to tell you that Tony—” et caetera, et caetera, in a manner that brought the kindest smile in the world into Jimmie's eyes.

He dressed with scrupulous regard to directions, but not in the frock-coat. He had a morning sitting with the princess at Chiltern Towers to get through before airing himself in the splendour of benzine and ammonia. He put on his old tweed jacket and went downstairs. Morland was the only person as yet in the breakfast-room. He held a morning paper tight in his hand, and stared through the window, his back to the door. On Jimmie's entrance he started round, and Jimmie saw by a harassed face that something had happened.

“My dear fellow—” he began in alarm.

Morland smoothed out the paper with nervous fingers, and threw it somewhat ostentatiously on a chair. Then he walked to the table and poured himself out some tea. The handle of the silver teapot slid in his grasp, and awkwardly trying to save the pouring flood of liquid, he dropped the teapot among the cups and saucers. It was a disaster, but one that could have been adequately greeted by a simpler series of expletives. He cursed vehemently.

“What's the matter, man?” asked Jimmie.

Morland turned violently upon him.

“The very devil's the matter. There never was such a mess since the world began. What an infernal fool I have been! You do well to steer clear of women.”

“Tell me what's wrong and I may be able to help you.”

Morland looked at him for a moment in gloomy doubt. Then he shook his head.

“You can't help me. I thought you could, but you can't. It's a matter for a lawyer. I must run up to town.”

“And cut the garden-party?”

“That's where I'm tied,” exclaimed Morland, impatiently. “I ought to start now, but if I cut the garden-party the duchess would never forgive me—and by Jove, I may need the duchess more than ever—and I've got a meeting to attend in Cosford this morning to which a lot of people are coming from a distance.”

“Can't I interview the lawyer for you?”

“No. I must do it myself.”

The butler entered and looked with grave displeasure at the wreckage on the tea-tray. While he was repairing the disaster, Morland went back to the window and Jimmie stood by his side.

“If you fight it through squarely, it will all come right in the end.”

“You don't mind my not telling you about it?” said Morland, in a low voice.

“Why should I? In everything there is a time for silence and a time for speech.”

“You're right,” said Morland, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets; “but how I am to get through this accursed day in silence I don't know.”

They sat down to breakfast. Morland rejected the offer of tea, and called for a whisky and soda which he nearly drained at a gulp. Mr. Hardacre came in, and eyed the long glass indulgently.

“Bucking yourself up, eh? Why did n't you ask for a pint of champagne?”

He opened the newspaper and ran through the pages. Morland watched him with swift nervous glances, and uttered a little gasp of relief when he threw it aside and attacked his grilled kidneys. His own meal was soon over. Explaining that he had papers to work at in the library, he hurried out of the room.

“Can't understand a man being so keen on these confounded politics,” his host remarked to Jimmie across the table. A polite commonplace was all that could be expected in reply. Politics were engrossing.

“That's the worst of it,” said Mr. Hardacre. “In the good old days a man could take his politics like a gentleman; now he has got to go at them like a damned blaspheming agitator on a tub.”

“Cosford was once a pretty little pocket borough, wasn't it?” said Jimmie. “Now Trade's unfeeling train usurp the privileges of His Grace of Wiltshire and threaten to dispossess his nominee. Instead of one simple shepherd recording his pastoral vote we have an educated electorate daring to exercise their discretion.”

Mr. Hardacre looked at Jimmie askance; he always regarded an allusive style with suspicion, as if it necessarily harboured revolutionary theories.

“I hope you're not one of those—” He checked himself as he was going to say “low radical fellows.” Politeness forbade. “I hope you are not a radical, Mr. Padgate?”

“I am sure I don't quite know,” replied Jimmie, cheerfully.

“Humph!” said Mr. Hardacre, “I believe you are.”

Jimmie laughed; but Mr. Hardacre felt that he held the key to the eccentric talk of his guest. Jimmie Padgate was a radical; a fearful wildfowl of unutterable proclivities, to whom all things dreadful were possible.

“I,” he continued, “am proud to be a Tory of the old school.”

The entrance of the ladies put a stop to the distressful conversation.

Jimmie, whose life during the past few days had been a curious compound of sunshine and shadow, went about his morning's work with only Morland's troubles weighing upon him. Of their specific nature he had no notion; he knew they had to do with the unhappy love affair; but as Morland was going to put matters into the hands of his lawyers, a satisfactory solution was bound to be discovered. Like all simple-minded men, he had illimitable faith in the powers of solicitors and physicians; it was their business to get people out of difficulties, and if they were capable men they did their business. Deriving much comfort from this fallacy, he thought as little as might be about the matter. In fact he quite enjoyed his morning. He sat before his easel at the end of a high historic gallery, the bright morning light that streamed in through the windows tempered by judiciously arranged white blinds; and down the vista were great paintings, and rare onyx tables, and priceless chairs and statuary, all harmonising with the stately windows and painted ceiling and polished floor. In front of him, posed in befitting attitude, sat the royal lady, with her most urbane expression upon her features, and, that which pleased him most, the picture was just emerging from the blurred mass of paint, an excellent though somewhat idealised portrait. So he worked unfalteringly with the artist's joy in the consciousness of successful efforts, and his good-humour infected even his harsh sitter, who now and then showed a wintry gleam of gaiety, and uttered a guttural word of approbation.

“You shall come to Herren-Rothbeck and baint the bortrait of the brince my brother,” she said graciously. “Would that blease you?”

“I should just think it would,” said Jimmie.

The princess laughed—a creaking, rusty laugh, but thoroughly well intentioned. Jimmie glanced at her enquiringly.

“I like you,” she responded. “You are so natural—what you English call refreshing. A German would have made a ceremonious speech as long as your mahl-stick.”

“I am afraid I must learn ceremony before I come to court, Madam,” said Jimmie.

“If you do, you will have forgotten how to baint bor-traits,” said the princess.

Thus, under the sun of princely favour, was Jimmie proceeding on the highroad to fortune. Never had the future seemed so bright. His bombastic jest about being appointed painter in ordinary to the crowned heads of Europe was actually going to turn out a reality. He lost himself in daydreams of inexhaustible coffers from which he could toss gold in lapfuls to Aline. She should indeed walk in silk attire, and set up housekeeping with Tony in a mansion in Park Lane.

On the front lawn at Heddon Court he met Connie and waved his hat in the air. She went to him, and, peering into his smiling face, laid her hand on his sleeve.

“Whatever has happened? Have you two stepped into each other's shoes?”

“What on earth do you mean?

“You know—Norma.”

“My dear Connie—” he began.

“Well, it seemed natural. Here are you as happy as an emperor; and there is Morland come back from Cosford with the look of a hunted criminal.”