Do you know, Miss Hardacre, that I once had a wife?” said Theodore Weever, suddenly.

It was after dinner at the Wolff-Salamons', who, it may be remembered, had lent their house to the Hardacres in the summer.

“I was not aware of it,” said Norma, wondering at the irrelevance of the remark, for they had just been discussing the great painter's merciless portrait of their hostess, which simpered vulgarly at them from the wall. They were sitting on a sofa in a corner of the room.

“Yes,” said Weever. “She died young. She came from a New England village, and played old-fashioned tunes on the piano, and believed in God.”

Not a flicker passed over his smooth waxen face or a gleam of sentiment appeared in his pale steady eyes. Norma glanced round at the little assembly, mainly composed of fleshy company promoters, who, as far as decency allowed, continued among themselves the conversation that had circulated over the wine downstairs, and their women-kind, who adopted the slangy manners of smart society and talked “bridge” to such men as would listen to them. Then she glanced back at Weever.

“I don't want any more wives of that sort,” he went on. “I've outgrown them. I have no use for them. They would wilt like a snow anemone in this kind of atmosphere.”

“Is it your favourite atmosphere, then?” Norma asked, by way of saying something.

“More or less. Perhaps I like it not quite so mephitic—You are racking your brains to know why I'm telling you about my wife. I'll explain. In a little churchyard in Connecticut is a coffin, and in that coffin is what a man who is going to ask a woman to marry him ought to give her. I could never give a quiet-eyed New England girl anything again. At my age she would bore me to death. But I could give the woman who is accustomed to hot-houses a perfectly regulated temperature.”

Norma looked at the imperturbable face, half touched by his unsuspected humanity, half angered by his assurance.

“Are you by any chance making me a formal demand in marriage?” she asked.

“I am.”

“And at last you have found some one who would meet your requirements for the decorative wife?”

“I found her last summer in Scotland,” replied Weever, with a little bow. “My countrymen have a habit of finding quickly what they want. They generally get it. I could n't in this particular instance, as you were engaged to another man.”

“I am still engaged,” said Norma.

“I beg your pardon. I heard the engagement was broken off.”

“Not at all. In fact only yesterday was it settled that we should be married at Easter.”

“Having gone so far on a false assumption,” remarked Weever, placidly, “may I go without rudeness a step farther? I do not dream of asking you to throw over King—if my heart were not in Connecticut, I might—but I'll say this, if you will allow me, Miss Hardacre: I don't believe you will ever marry Morland King. I have a presentiment that you're going to marry me—chiefly because I've planned it, and my plans mostly come out straight. Anyway you are the only woman in the world I should ever marry, and if at any time there should be a chance for me, a word, a hint, a message through the telephone to buy you a pug dog—or anything—would bring me devotedly to your feet. Don't forget it.”

It was impossible to be angry with a bloodless thing that spoke like a machine. It was also unnecessary to use the conventional terms of regretful gratitude in which maidens in their mercy wrap refusals.

“I'll remember it with pleasure, if you like,” she said with a half-smile. “But tell me why you don't think I shall marry Mr. King. I don't believe in your presentiments.”

She caught his eye, and they remained for some seconds looking hard at each other. She saw that he had his well-defined reasons.

“You can tell me exactly what is in your mind,” she said slowly; “you and I seem to understand each other.”

“If you understand me, what is the use of compromising speech, my dear lady?”

“You don't believe in Morland?”

“As a statesman I can't say that I do,” replied Weever, with the puckering of the faint lines round his eyes that passed for a smile. “That is what astonishes me in your English political life—the little one need talk and the little one need do. In America the politician is the orator. He must move in an atmosphere of words half a mile thick. Wherever he goes he must scream himself hoarse. But here—”

Norma touched his arm with her fan.

“We were not discussing American and English institutions,” she interrupted, “but matters which interest me a little more. You don't believe in Morland as a man? I want to know, as they are supposed to say in your country. I disregard your hint, as you may perceive. I am also indelicate in pressing you to speak unfavourably of the man I'm engaged to. Of course, having made me an offer, you would regard it as caddish to say anything against him. But supposing I absolve you from anything of the kind by putting you on a peculiar plane of friendship?”

“Then I should say I was honoured above all mortals,” replied Weever, inscrutably, “and ask you to tell me as a friend what has become of the artist—the man who got shot—Padgate.”

The unexpected allusion was a shock. It brought back a hateful scene. It awoke a multitude of feelings. Its relevance was a startling puzzle. She strove by hardening her eyes not to betray herself.

“I've quite lost sight of him,” she answered in a matter of-fact tone. “His little adventure was n't a pleasant one.”

“I don't believe he had any little adventure at all,” said Weever, coolly.

“What do you mean?” Norma started, and the colour came into her face.

“That of all the idiots let loose in a cynical, unimaginative world, Padgate is the greatest I have yet struck. If I were a hundredth part such an idiot, I should be a better and a happier man. It's getting late. I'm afraid I must be moving.”

He rose, and Norma rose with him.

“I wish you would n't speak in riddles. Can't you tell me plainly what you mean?”

“No, I can't,” he said abruptly. “I have said quite enough. Good-night. And remember,” he added, shaking hands with her, “remember what I told you about myself.”

Only after he had gone did it flash upon her that she had not put to him the vital question—what had Padgate to do with his disbelief in Morland? As is the way with people pondering over conundrums, the ridiculously simple solution did not occur to her. She spent many days in profitless speculation. Weever prophesied that the marriage would not take place. When pressed for a reason, he brought in the name of Jimmie Padgate. Obviously the latter was to stand between Morland and herself. But in what capacity? As a lover? Had Weever rightly interpreted her insane act on the day of the garden-party, and assumed that she was still in love with the detested creature? The thought made her grow hot and cold from head to foot. Why was he an idiot? Because he did not take advantage of her public confession? or was it because he stood in Weever's eyes as a wronged and heroic man? This in the depths of her heart she had been yearning for months to believe. Connie Deering almost believed it. About the facts once so brutally plain, so vulgarly devoid of mystery, a mysterious cloud had gathered and was thickening with time. Reflection brought assurance that Theodore Weever regarded Jimmie as innocent; and if ever a man viewed human affairs in the dry, relentless light of reason, it was the inscrutable, bloodless American.

His offer of marriage she put aside from her thoughts. Morland was the irrevocably accepted. It was February. Easter falling early, the wedding would take place in a little over a month. In a cold, dispassionate way, she interested herself in the usual preparations. Peace reigned in Devonshire Place. And yet Norma despised herself, feeling the degradation of the woman who sells her body.

During the session she saw little of Morland. For this she thanked God, the duchess, and the electors of Cosford. The sense of freedom caused her to repent of her contemptuous attitude towards his political aspirations. To encourage and foster them would be to her very great advantage. She adopted this policy, much to the edification of Morland, who felt the strengthening of a common bond of interest. He regularly balloted for seats in the Ladies' Gallery, and condemned her to sit for hours behind the grating and listen to uninspiring debates. He came to her with the gossip of the lobbies. He made plans for their future life together. They would make politics a feature of their house. It would be a rallying-place for the new Tory wing, in which Morland after a dinner at the Carlton Club when his health was proposed in flattering terms, had found himself enlisted. Norma was to bring back the glories of the salon.

“When it gets too thick,” he said once laughingly, ashamed of these wanderings into the ideal, “we can go off into the country and shoot and have some decent people down and amuse ourselves rationally.”

Yet, in spite of absorbing political toys, his complete subjugation of Norma, and the smiling aspect of life, a sense of utter wretchedness weighed upon the soul of this half-developed man. He could not shake it off. It haunted him as he sat stolid and stupefied in his place below the gangway. It dulled all sensation of pleasure when he kissed the lips which Norma, resigned now to everything, surrendered to him at his pleasure. It took the sparkle out of his champagne, the joy out of his life. Now that he had asserted himself as the victorious male who had won the female that he coveted, the sense of wrong inflicted on him grew less and the consciousness of his own shame grew greater. In his shallow way he had loved Jimmie dearly. He also had the well-bred Englishman's conventional sense of honour. Accusing conscience wrote him down an unutterable knave.

One day in March, as he was proceeding citywards to see his solicitors on some question relating to marriage settlements, his carriage was blocked for some minutes in Oxford Street. Looking idly out of the near side window, he saw a familiar figure emerge from a doorway in a narrow passage come down to the pavement, and stand for a few moments in anxious thought, jostled by the passers-by. He looked thin and ill and worried. The lines by the sides of his drooping moustache had deepened. Jimmie, never spruce in his attire, now seemed outrageously shabby. Certain men who dress well are quick, like women, to notice these things. Morland's keen glance took in the discoloured brown boots and the frayed hem of trousers, the weather stains on the old tweed suit, the greasiness of the red tie, the irregular mark of perspiration on the band of the old Homburg hat. An impulse to spring out of the carriage and greet him was struggling with sheer shame, when Jimmie suddenly threw up his head—an old trick of his whose familiarity brought a pang to the man watching him—and crossed the road, disappearing among the traffic behind the brougham. Morland gazed meditatively at the little passage. Suddenly he was aware of the three brass balls and the name of Attenborough. In a moment he was on the pavement and, after a hurried word to his coachman, in pursuit of Jimmie. But the traffic had swallowed Jimmie up. It was impossible to track him. Morland returned to his brougham and drove on.

There was only one explanation of what he had seen. Jimmie was reduced to poverty, to pawning his belongings in order to live. The scandal had killed the sale of his pictures. No more ladies would sit to him for their portraits. No more dealers would purchase works on the strength of his name. Jimmie was ill, poor, down at heel, and it was all his, Morland's, fault, his very grievous fault. In a dim, futile way he wished he were a Roman Catholic, so that he could go to a priest, confess, and receive absolution. The idea of confession obsessed him in this chastened mood. By lunch-time he had resolved to tell Norma everything and abide by her verdict. At any rate, if he married her, he would not do so under false pretences. He would feel happier with the load of lies off his mind. At half-past four he left the House of Commons to transact its business without him as best it could, and drove to Devonshire Place. As he neared the door, his courage began to fail. He remembered Norma's passionate outburst against lying, and shrank from the withering words that she might speak. The situation, however, had to be faced.

The maid who opened the front door informed him that Norma was out, but that Mrs. Hardacre was at home. He was shown upstairs into the empty drawing-room, and while he waited there, a solution of his difficulty occurred to him. He caught at it eagerly, as he had caught at compromises and palliatives all his life. For he was a man of half-sins, half-virtues, half-loves, and half-repentances. His spiritual attitude was that of Naaman.

Mrs. Hardacre greeted him with smiles of welcome, and regrets at Norma's absence. If only he had sent a message, Norma would have given up her unimportant engagement. She would be greatly disappointed. The House took up so much of his time, and Norma prized the brief snatches she could obtain of his company. All of which, though obviously insincere, none the less flattered Morland's vanity.

“Perhaps it is as well that Norma is away,” said he, “for I want to have a little talk with you. Can you give me five minutes?”

“Fifty, my dear Morland,” replied Mrs. Hardacre, graciously. “Will you have some tea?”

He declined. It was too serious a matter for the accompaniment of clattering teaspoons. Mrs. Hardacre sat in an armchair with her back to the light—the curtains had not yet been drawn—and Morland sat near her, looking at the fire.

“I have something on my mind,” he began. “You, as Norma's mother, ought to know. It's about my friend Jimmie Padgate.”

Mrs. Hardacre put out a lean hand.

“I would rather not hear it. I'm not uncharitable, but I wish none of us had ever set eyes on the man. He came near ruining us all.”

“He seems to have ruined himself. He's ill, poor, in dreadful low water. I caught a sight of him this morning. The poor old chap was almost in rags.”

“It's very unpleasant for Mr. Padgate, but it fails to strike me as pathetic. He has only got his deserts.”

“That's where the point lies,” said Morland. “He does n't deserve it. I do. I am the only person to blame in the whole infernal business.”

“You?” cried Mrs. Hardacre, her grey eyes glittering with sudden interest. “What had you to do with it?”

“Well, everything. Jimmie never set eyes on the girl in his life. He took all the blame to shield me. If he had n't done so, there would have been the devil to pay. That's how it stands.”

Mrs. Hardacre gave a little gasp.

“My dear Morland, you amaze me. You positively shock me. Really, don't you think in mentioning the matter to me there is some—indelicacy?”

“You are a woman of the world,” said Morland, bluntly, “and you know that men don't lead the lives of monks just because they happen to be unmarried.”

“Of course I know it,” said Mrs. Hardacre, composing herself to sweetness. “One knows many things of which it is hardly necessary or desirable to talk. Of course I think it shocking and disreputable of you. But it's all over and done with. If that was on your mind, wipe it off and let us say no more about it.”

“I'm afraid you don't understand,” said Morland, rising and leaning against the mantel-piece. “What is done is done. Meanwhile another man is suffering for it, while I go about prospering.”

“But surely that is a matter between Mr. Padgate and yourself. How can it possibly concern us?”

As Morland had not looked at the case from that point of view, he silently inspected it with a puzzled brow.

“I can't help feeling a bit of a brute, you know,” he said at length. “I meant at first to let him off—to make a clean breast of it—but it wasn't feasible. You know how difficult these things are when they get put off. Then, of course, I thought I could make it up to Jimmie in other ways.”

“Why, so you can,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with the elaborate pretence of a little yawn, as if the subject had ceased to interest her. “You could afford it.”

“Money is no good. He won't touch a penny. I have offered.”

“Then, my dear Morland, you have done your best. If a man is idiot enough to saddle himself with other people's responsibilities and refuses to be helped when he breaks down under them, you must let him go his own way. Really I haven't got any sympathy for him.”

Morland, having warmed himself sufficiently and feeling curiously comforted by Mrs. Hardacre's wise words, sat down again near her and leant forward with his arms on his knees.

“Do you think Norma would take the same view?” he asked. After all, in spite of certain eccentricities inseparable from an unbalanced sex, she had as much fundamental common-sense as her mother. The latter looked at him sharply.

“What has Norma got to do with it?”

“I was wondering whether I ought to tell her,” said he.

Mrs. Hardacre started bolt upright in her chair. This time her interest was genuine. Nothing but her long training in a world of petty strife kept the sudden fright out of her eyes and voice.

“Tell Norma? Whatever for?”

“I thought it would be more decent,” said Morland, rather feebly.

“It would be sheer lunacy!” cried the lady, appalled at the certain catastrophe that such a proceeding would cause. Did not the demented creature see that the whole affair was in unstable equilibrium? A touch, let alone a shock like this, would bring it toppling down, never to be set up again by any prayers, remonstrances, ravings, curses, thumbscrews, or racks the ingenuity of an outraged mother could devise.

“It would be utter imbecility,” she continued. “My dear man, don't you think one mad Don Quixote in a romance is enough? What on earth would you, Norma, or any one else gain by telling her? She is as happy as possible now, buying her trousseau and making all the wedding arrangements. Why spoil her happiness? I think it exceedingly inconsiderate of you—not to say selfish—I do really.”

“Hardly that. It was an idea of doing penance,” said Morland.

“If that is all,” said Mrs. Hardacre, relaxing into a bantering tone, as she joyfully noted the lack of conviction in his manner, “I'll make you a hair shirt, and I'll promise it shall be scratchy—untanned pigskin with the bristles on, if you like. Be as uncomfortable, my dear Morland, as ever you choose—wear a frock-coat with a bowler hat or dine tÊte-À-tÊte with Mr. Hardacre, but do leave other folks to pass their lives in peace and quiet.”

Morland threw himself back and laughed, and Mrs. Hardacre knew she had won what she paradoxically called a moral victory. They discussed the question for a few moments longer, and then Morland rose to take his leave.

“It's awfully good of you to look at things in this broadminded way,” he said, with the air of a man whom an indulgent lady has pardoned for a small peccadillo. “Awfully good of you.”

“There is no other sane way of looking at them,” replied Mrs. Hardacre. “Won't you wait and see Norma?”

“I must get back to the House,” replied Morland, consulting his watch. “There may be a division before the dinner-hour.”

He smoked a great cigar on his way to Westminster, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Mrs. Hardacre was quite right. He had done his best. If Jimmie was too high and mighty to accept the only compensation possible, he was not to blame. The matter was over and done with. It would be idiotic to tell Norma.

Meanwhile, having made confession and received absolution, he felt spiritually refreshed.