"FOR every caress," philosophized the Marchioness, "there is a pinch. Somehow they manage to keep on pretty even terms. One receives the caresses fairly early in life, the pinches later on. You shouldn't be complaining at your time of life, my friend."

She was speaking to Lord Temple, who had presented himself a full thirty minutes ahead of other expected guests at the Wednesday evening salon. He explained that he came early because he had to leave early. Mrs. Millidew was at the theatre. She was giving a box party. He had been directed to return to the theatre before the end of the second act. Mrs. Millidew, it appears, was in the habit of "walking out" on every play she attended, sometimes at the end of an act but more frequently in the middle of it, greatly to the relief of actors and audience.

("Tell me something good to read," said one of her guests, in the middle of the first act, addressing no one in particular, the audience being a very large one. "Is there anything new that's worth while?"

"The Three Musketeers is a corker," said the man next her. "Awfully exciting."

"Write it down for me, dear boy. I will order it sent up tomorrow. One has so little time to read, you know. Anything else?"

"You must read Trilby," cried one of the other women, frowning slightly in the direction of the stage, where an actor was doing his best to break into the general conversation. "It's perfectly ripping, I hear. And there is another book called Three Men in a Yacht, or something like that. Have you had it?"

"No. Good Lord, what a noisy person he is! One can't hear oneself think, the way he's roaring. Three Men in a Yacht. Put that down, too, Bertie. Dear me, how do you find the time to keep up with your reading, my dear? It's absolutely impossible for me. I'm always six months or a year behind—"

"Have you read Brewster's Millions, Mrs. Corkwright?" timidly inquired a rather up-to-date gentleman.

"That isn't a book. It's a play," said Mrs. Millidew. "I saw it ten years ago. There is a ship in it.")

"I'm not complaining," remarked Lord Temple, smiling down upon the Marchioness, who was seated in front of the fireplace. "I merely announced that the world is getting to be a dreary old place,—and that's all."

"Ah, but you made the announcement after a silence of five minutes following my remark that Lady Jane Thorne finds it impossible to be with us tonight."

He blushed. "Did it seem as long as that?" he said, penitently. "I'm sorry."

"How do you like your new situation?" she inquired, changing the subject abruptly.

He gave a slight start. It was an unwritten law that one's daily occupation should not be discussed at the weekly drawing-rooms. For example, it is easy to conceive that one could not be forgiven for asking the Count Pietro Poloni how many nickels he had taken in during the day as Humpy the Organ-grinder.

Lord Temple also stared. Was it possible that she was forgetting that Thomas Trotter, the chauffeur, was hanging over the back of a chair in the locker room down-stairs,—where he had been left by a hurried and somewhat untidy Lord Temple?

"As well as could be expected," he replied, after a moment.

"Mrs. Millidew came in to see me today. She informed me that she had put in her thumb and pulled out a plum. Meaning you, of course."

"How utterly English you are, my dear Marchioness. She mentioned a fruit of some kind, and you missed the point altogether. 'Peach' is the word she's been using for the past two days, just plain, ordinary 'peach.' A dozen times a day she sticks a finger almost up against my manly back, and says proudly: 'See my new chauffeur. Isn't he a peach?' I can't see how you make plum out of it."

The Marchioness laughed. "It doesn't matter. She dragged me to the window this afternoon and pointed down at you sitting alone in all your splendour. I am afraid I gasped. I couldn't believe my eyes. You won't last long, dear boy. She's a dreadful woman."

"I'm not worrying. I shouldn't be out of a situation long. Do you happen to know her daughter-in-law?"

"I do," said the Marchioness, frowning.

"She told me this morning that the instant I felt I couldn't stand the old lady any longer, she'd give me a job on the spot. As a matter-of-fact, she went so far as to say she'd be willing to pay me more money if I felt the slightest inclination to leave my present position at once."

The Marchioness smiled faintly. "No other recommendation necessary, eh?"

"Beg pardon?"

"In other words, she is willing to accept you at your face value."

"I daresay I have a competent face," he acknowledged, his smile broadening into a grin.

"Designed especially for women," said she.

He coloured. "Oh, I say, that's a bit rough."

"And thoroughly approved by men," she added.

"That's better," he said. "I'm not a ladies' man, you know,—thank God." His face clouded. "Is Lady Jane ill?"

"Apparently not. She merely telephoned to say it would be impossible to come." She eyed him shrewdly. "Do you know anything about it, young man?"

"Have you seen her,—lately?" he parried.

"Yesterday afternoon," she answered, keeping her eyes upon his half-averted face. "See here, Eric Temple," she broke out suddenly, "she is unhappy—most unhappy. I am not sure that I ought to tell you—and yet, you are in love with her, so you should know. Now, don't say you are not in love with her! Save your breath. The trouble is, you are not the only man who is in that peculiar fix."

"I know," he said, frowning darkly. "She's being annoyed by that infernal blighter."

"Oho, so you do know, then?" she cried. "She was very careful to leave you out of the story altogether. Well, I'm glad you know. What are you going to do about it?"

"I? Why,—why, what can I do?"

"There is a great deal you can do."

"But she has laid down the law, hard and fast. She won't let me," he groaned.

The Marchioness blinked rapidly. "Well, of all the stupid,—Say that again, please."

"She won't let me. I would in a second, you know,—no matter if it did land me in jail for—"

"What are you talking about?" she gasped.

"Punching his bally head till he wouldn't know it himself in the mirror," he grated, looking at his fist almost tearfully.

The Marchioness opened her lips to say something, thought better of it, and turned her head to smile.

"Moreover," he went on, "she's right. Might get her into no end of a mess with those people, you see. It breaks my heart to think of her—"

"He wants her to run away with him and be married," she broke in.

"What!" he almost shouted, glaring at her as if she were the real offender. "You—did she tell you that?"

"Yes. He rather favours San Francisco. He wants her to go out there with him and be married by a chap to whom he promised the distinction while they were still in their teens."

"The cur! That's his game, is it? Why, that's the foulest trick known to—"

"But she isn't going, my friend,—so possess yourself in peace. That's why he is turning off so nasty. He is making things most unpleasant for her."

He wondered how far Jane had gone in her confidences. Had she told the Marchioness everything?

"Why doesn't she leave the place?" he demanded, as a feeler.

Lady Jane had told the Marchioness everything, and a great deal more besides, including, it may be said, something touching upon her own feelings toward Lord Temple. But the Marchioness was under imperative orders. Not for the world, was Thomas Trotter to know that Miss Emsdale, among others, was a perfect fool about him.

"She must have her bread and butter, you know," said she severely.

"But she can get that elsewhere, can't she?"

"Certainly. She can get it by marrying some decent, respectable fellow and all that sort of thing, but she can't get another place in New York as governess if the Smith-Parvis establishment turns her out with a bad name."

He swallowed hard, and went a little pale. "Of course, she isn't thinking of—of getting married."

"Yes, she is," said the Marchioness flatly.

"Has—has she told you that in so many words, Marchioness?" he asked, his heart going to his boots.

"Is it fair to ask that question, Lord Temple?"

"No. It isn't fair. I have no right to pry into her affairs. I'm—I'm desperately concerned, that's all. It's my only excuse."

"It isn't strange that she should be in love, is it?"

"But I—I don't see who the deuce she can have found over here to—to fall in love with," he floundered.

"There are millions of good, fine Americans, my friend. Young Smith-Parvis is one of the exceptions."

"He isn't an American," said Lord Temple, savagely. "Don't insult America by mentioning his name in—"

"Please, please! Be careful not to knock over the lamp, dear boy. It's Florentine, and Count Antonio says it came from some dreadful sixteenth-century woman's bedroom, price two hundred guineas net. She's afraid she's being watched."

"She? Oh, you mean Lady Jane?"

"Certainly. The other woman has been dead for centuries. Jane thinks it isn't safe for her to come here for a little while. There's no telling what the wretch may stoop to, you see."

Lord Temple squared his shoulders. "I don't see how you can be so cheerful about it," he said icily. "I fear it isn't worth while to ask the favour I came to—er—to ask of you tonight."

"Don't be silly. Tell me what I can do for you."

"It isn't for me. It's for her. I came early tonight so that we could talk it all over before any one else arrived. I've slept precious little the last few nights, Marchioness." His brow was furrowed as with pain. "In the first place, you will agree that she cannot remain in that house up there. That's settled." As she did not offer any audible support, he demanded, after a pause: "Isn't it?"

"I daresay she will have something to say about that," she said, temporizing. "She is her own mistress, you know."

"But the poor girl doesn't know where to turn," he protested. "She'd chuck it in a second if something else turned up."

"I spoke of marriage, you will remember," she remarked, drily.

"I—I know," he gulped. "But we've just got to tide her over the rough going until she's—until she's ready, you see." He could not force the miserable word out of his mouth. "Now, I have a plan. Are you prepared to back me up in it?"

"How can I answer that question?"

"Well, I'll explain," he went on rapidly, eagerly. "We've got to make a new position for her. I can't do it without your help, of course, so we'll have to combine forces. Now, here's the scheme I've worked out. You are to give her a place here,—not downstairs in the shop, mind you,—but upstairs in your own, private apartment. You—"

"Good heavens, man! What are you saying? Would you have Lady Jane Thorne go into service? Do you dare suggest that she should put on a cap and apron and—"

"Not at all," he interrupted. "I want you to engage her as your private secretary, at a salary of one hundred dollars a month. She's receiving that amount from the Smith-Parvises. I don't see how she can get along on less, so—"

"My dear man!" cried the Marchioness, in amazement. "What are you talking about? In the first place, I haven't the slightest use for a private secretary. In the second place, I can't afford to pay one hundred—"

"You haven't heard all I have to say—"

"And in the third place, Lady Jane wouldn't consider it in the first place. Bless my soul, you do need sleep. You are losing your—"

"She sends nearly all of her salary over to the boy at home," he went on earnestly. "It will have to be one hundred dollars, at the very lowest. Now, here's my proposition. I am getting two hundred a month. It's just twice as much as I'm worth,—or any other chauffeur, for that matter. Well, now what's the matter with me taking just what I'm worth and giving her the other half? See what I mean?"

He was standing before her, his eyes glowing, his voice full of boyish eagerness. As she looked up into his shining eyes, a tender smile came and played about her lips.

"I see," she said softly.

"Well?" he demanded anxiously, after a moment.

"Do sit down," she said. "You appear to have grown prodigiously tall in the last few minutes. I shall have a dreadful crick in my neck, I'm afraid."

He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"I can get along like a breeze on a hundred dollars a month," he pursued. "I've worked it all out,—just how much I can save by moving into cheaper lodgings, and cutting out expensive cigarettes, and going on the water-wagon entirely,—although I rarely take a drink as it is,—and getting my clothes at a department store instead of having them sent out from London,—I'd be easy to fit, you see, even with hand-me-downs,—and in a lot of other ways. Besides, it would be a splendid idea for me to practise economy. I've never—"

"You dear old goose," broke in the Marchioness, delightedly; "do you think for an instant that I will allow you to pay the salary of my private secretary,—if I should conclude to employ one?"

"But you say you can't afford to employ one," he protested. "Besides, I shouldn't want her to be a real secretary. The work would be too hard and too confining. Old Bramble was my grandfather's secretary. He worked sixteen hours a day and never had a holiday. She must have plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise and—and time to read and do all sorts of agreeable things. I couldn't think of allowing her to learn how to use a typing machine, or to write shorthand, or to get pains in her back bending over a desk for hours at a time. That isn't my scheme, at all. She mustn't do any of those stupid things. Naturally, if you were to pay her out of your own pocket, you'd be justified in demanding a lot of hard, exacting work—"

"Just a moment, please. Let's be serious," said the Marchioness, pursing her lips.

"Suffering—" he began, staring at her in astonishment.

"I mean, let's seriously consider your scheme," she hastened to amend. "You are assuming, of course, that she will accept a position such as you suggest. Suppose she says no,—what then?"

"I leave that entirely to you," said he, composedly. "You can persuade her, I'm sure."

"She is no fool. She is perfectly well aware that I don't require the services of a secretary, that I am quite able to manage my private affairs myself. She would see through me in a second. She is as proud as Lucifer. I don't like to think of what she would say to me. And if I were to offer to pay her one hundred dollars a month, she would—well, she would think I was losing my mind. She knows I—"

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, slapping his knee, his face beaming. "That's the ticket! That simplifies everything. Let her think you are losing your mind. From worry and overwork—and all that sort of thing. It's the very thing, Marchioness. She would drop everything to help you in a case like that."

"Well, of all the—" began the Marchioness, aghast.

"You can put it up to her something like this," he went on, enthusiastically. "Tell her you are on the point of having a nervous breakdown,—a sort of collapse, you know. You know how to put it, better than I do. You—"

"I certainly do not know how to put it better than you do," she cried, sitting up very straight.

"Tell her you are dreadfully worried over not being able to remember things,—mental strain, and all that sort of thing. May have to give up business altogether unless you can—Is it a laughing matter, Marchioness?" he broke off, reddening to the roots of his hair.

"You are delicious!" she cried, dabbing her eyes with a bit of a lace handkerchief. "I haven't laughed so heartily in months. Bless my soul, you'll have me telling her there is insanity in my family before you're through with it."

"Not at all," he said severely. "People never admit that sort of thing, you know. But certainly it isn't asking too much of you to act tired and listless, and a little distracted, is it? She'll ask what's the matter, and you simply say you're afraid you're going to have a nervous breakdown or—or—"

"Or paresis," she supplied.

"Whatever you like," he said promptly. "Now you will do this for me, won't you? You don't know what it will mean to me to feel that she is safe here with you."

"I will do my best," she said, for she loved him dearly—and the girl that he loved dearly too.

"Hurray!" he shouted,—and kissed her!

"Don't be foolish," she cried out. "You've tumbled my hair, and Julia had a terrible time with it tonight."

"When will you tackle—see her, I mean?" he asked, sitting down abruptly and drawing his chair a little closer.

"The first time she comes in to see me," she replied firmly, "and not before. You must not demand too much of a sick, collapsible old lady, you know. Give me time,—and a chance to get my bearings."

He drew a long breath. "I seem to be getting my own for the first time in days."

She hesitated. "Of course, it is all very quixotic,—and most unselfish of you, Lord Temple. Not every man would do as much for a girl who—well, I'll not say a girl who is going to be married before long, because I'd only be speculating,—but for a girl, at any rate, who can never be expected to repay. I take it, of course, that Lady Jane is never, under any circumstances to know that you are the real paymaster."

"She must never know," he gasped, turning a shade paler. "She would hate me, and—well, I couldn't stand that, you know."

"And you will not repent when the time comes for her to marry?"

"I'll—I'll be miserably unhappy, but—but, you will not hear a whimper out of me," he said, his face very long.

"Spoken like a hero," she said, and again she laughed, apparently without reason. "Some one is coming. Will you stay?"

"No; I'll be off, Marchioness. You don't know how relieved I am. I'll drop in tomorrow some time to see what she says,—and to arrange with you about the money. Good night!" He kissed her hand, and turned to McFaddan, who had entered the room. "Call a taxi for me, McFaddan."

"Very good, sir."

"Wait! Never mind. I'll walk or take a street car." To the Marchioness: "I'm beginning right now," he said, with his gayest smile.

In the foyer he encountered Cricklewick.

"Pleasant evening, Cricklewick," he said.

"It is, your lordship. Most agreeable change, sir."

"A bit soft under foot."

"Slushy, sir," said Cricklewick, obsequiously.