On the heels of this episode was one of another character. Among Mr. Saltus' many charming qualities was an especially endearing one. With persons he loved, the passing of years seemed to leave no trace whatever, and he could see no difference in their personal appearance. In his eyes, until the hour of his death, I remained the fragile and impertinent child to whom he had stretched out his hand on the sands of Narragansett Pier,—a helpless and impractical creature in a world of scheming scoundrels.

In his eyes I had not a fault. It was not that he was in ignorance of my limitations and undesirable qualities; these he saw with clarity, but he believed that every virtue had its negative aspect as well,—the defects of its qualities, as he expressed it,—and to divert or eliminate these was to impair the desirable attributes behind them. In consequence any shortcomings of mine were regarded as indications only of the most superlative virtues, and not to be tampered with. No woman could ask more of a man than to accept her limitations and incapacities as evidences of her extraordinary worth. This hallucination was a pleasing one, but it had its negative side as well. Nothing could convince Mr. Saltus that every male creature was not laying plans to entice me away from him. The fact that for long periods at a time I was not only ill, but looked too frail to attract anything more than sympathy, counted for nothing. The fact that the majority of men could not run fast enough from a woman possessing my defects was unconvincing to him. Over and over he was told that the qualities which attracted him would antagonize the average man from the start. He was still convinced that I was a fragile and unsuspecting child in a world of vultures and demons. It must be said, however, that Mr. Saltus was too much of a philosopher ever to ask me to do or to omit anything. My freedom of action was limitless and his trust absolute, and he never questioned any of my actions except as a joke.

Among our acquaintances was a Turkish diplomat, T—— Bey. Occasionally, as is the custom in England, I had tea with him or he with us, and now and again I went with him for a walk in the Gardens. The fact that he looked enough like Mr. Saltus to be a twin brother had first called him to my attention. He was perhaps ten years younger, but they looked about of an age.

Besides the fat woman and the elemental, there was another joke we had rehearsed for years. It was as follows, and leads directly to the incident concerning T—— Bey.

"If you had not been such a black devil I would not have fancied you," I used to tell him.

"I'm not a black devil. I'm a good little slavey."

"No,—you're a little dark E" (making a pun on his name), "and your complexion is your stock in trade."

"I thought it was my wheedling ways?"

"No, indeed! And if I ever disappear, look about for a man a shade or two darker than yourself and miaw around the neighborhood."

"Any man darker than I will have a touch of the tar brush."

"Perhaps you have a bit yourself. Remember, an ancestress of yours came from Port Royal, Jamaica. I have often suspected the worst."

This joking always amused him so much that when en route to Africa the year before I had written him saying that it was with delightful anticipations I neared the home of his ancestors. That letter brought the query, "Which, monkeys or blacks?" To which I replied that they would be "high monkey-monks of some kind."

Much as he enjoyed this chaffing with me, T—— Bey stuck somewhat in his throat when I joked about him. Accustomed to his habit of non-interference—for, as he remarked, "Dogs can be trained, but cats have to have their own way in everything"—I was amazed when he said:—

"If you don't mind, and can see your way to it, I would rather you did not go alone to restaurants with T—— Bey."

"Of course not if you prefer," was my immediate reply. It was a trivial matter, too unimportant for discussion. An hour later, however, when going into the Ritz for tea with some friends from the country, I found T—— Bey was included. That was quite all right. What was not so was the fact, that while tea was being served an urgent telephone call made it necessary for my friends to leave at once. T—— Bey and I were left alone having our tea together. To get up and go, no matter what the excuse, would have been an insult. There was nothing to do but to remain and explain the circumstances afterward to Mr. Saltus. That explanation was never given or asked. As we were finishing our tea Mr. Saltus walked into the room, saw us, and coming forward smiling with outstretched hand asked if he might join us. This he did, chatting all the time as delightfully as he could. Being asked by T—— Bey if he knew I was in the Ritz, he answered lightly, but with an underlying meaning:—

"My intuitions about Mrs. Saltus are uncanny. If she has as much as a headache I know it. If she is perplexed I feel it, and if she is vexed with me without giving a sign of it, her vibrations tear me to pieces and I cannot endure it."

On the way home I started to tell him how it had all come about, but he stopped me short.

"Leave explanations to strangers,—love understands. That you were there after what you said this morning, is in itself proof that it was accidental."

He would not listen to a word and the subject dropped then and there. It was perhaps because of his laxity in this respect that my regard for truth was adamant. It was in consequence characteristic of Mr. Saltus to avoid any discussion with me in which I might be forced to ask:—

"Do you want to hear the unvarnished truth?"

"No—no, varnish it,—varnish it, if it will hurt, which truth is more than likely to do. I would rather hear pleasing lies, even if I cannot believe them."

That was Mr. Saltus in the raw. He could not face truth, if either to hear it or to tell it was likely to cause pain or unpleasantness. Running parallel to this peculiarity was another, oriental in its courtesy, unusual in its application,—his attitude of deference toward me. Asked by T. P. O'Connor to express his views on a subject he had not considered until that moment he said:—

"Have you asked Mrs. Saltus what she thinks?"

"No," said T. P., "I'm asking you. It's your angle and opinion I want."

"My opinion is a zero. I haven't considered the subject at all. Ask Mrs. Saltus for hers. After this we will be sure to discuss it, and whatever I may say off hand, I am sure to accept her views in a week or two anyway. Ask her now, it will save time."

Not only was his attitude highly deferential but most embarrassing at times. Upon one occasion I was asked by a foreign diplomat how it felt to live with a genius. Before I could reply Mr. Saltus took us both off our feet by cutting in:—

"Don't ask the poor girl something she does not know, and cannot answer. If you want to know about living with a genius, ask me."

The diplomat's understanding of English was imperfect, and this was too much for him. He may be still trying to decipher the reply.

During the years Mr. Saltus had become an adept with animals. Through his affection for Toto he had absorbed their psychology. It was he now who rushed into the street to pick up a horse's feed-bag and restore it to its place. Seeing an injured cat near Museum Street, and being unable to get any one to help him, he discarded an armful of books and, calling a taxi, carried the victim in his arms to the Cat Shelter at Camden Town.

With autumn came the query, What and where? The war had been gaining momentum. Obviously it was unwise to remain too long away from the base of supplies. Certain also it was that if we tore up our home, taking everything back to the States, it would mean remaining there. With one of us remaining in England a home might be resurrected. It was in consequence decided that Mr. Saltus should return to New York, and rejoin me after things looked a bit clearer. The pain in his legs increased so that he walked less and less each day, but when he saw how it worried me he pretended that he was getting better and had never been as well in his life. In his anxiety to spare me and his desire to avoid telling disagreeable things he made a frightful mistake. Had I known the truth, never would I have let him return alone.

Leaving England was always a tug at his heart-strings. He was reluctant to put an ocean between us and reluctant to turn his back on possible service. Little did either of us dream, however, that he was leaving his beloved British Museum for the last time. In Waterloo Station once more, the station in which he had said so many "good-byes," we said au revoir again.

Upon his return to New York Mr. Saltus took rooms near the Manhattan Club and began to write a few articles on the origin of the war. Since "The Monster," he had attempted nothing of a sustained or exhausting character. It was not long before his letters became filled with anxiety over the distance between us, and he began to write—jestingly, to be sure—of acute indigestion, which, gripping him suddenly and sharply, had dropped like a vulture out of the air. As he expressed it, "Karma has me, not by the heels, at last, but by the solar plexus first." Added to the distress in his legs, which he finally admitted, were these attacks, so sharp and severe that after the slightest exertion he had to sit down faint from the pain. Had the war been over he was in no condition to take a journey. Miss G——afterward told me that he had greatly minimized the seriousness of his condition in writing me of it. Still his hope of returning to England persisted. The letters which followed me to Scotland, Ireland and back to England again were full of it.

Barring the little apartment in Washington Heights where Miss S—— made him welcome, offering such assistance and comfort as she could, and Miss G——, who suggested physicians and did all she could for his benefit, he went nowhere and saw no one. Had I known of the kindness and assistance so freely given by Miss S——, it would have relieved my mind concerning him. Unfortunately it was only after his death that I was able to thank her for all this.

By 1916 Mr. Saltus realized his condition better, and reading between the lines of his letters I offered to return. Passage was taken, but because of the unrestricted submarining the boat was at the last moment withdrawn. Owing to the censor, cables as well as letters were delayed. The worry of it all made Mr. Saltus go down hill rapidly. In connection with this an incident occurred which affected Mr. Saltus horribly, and through no fault of either his or mine. It is so touching, so indicative of his finest sweetness and most endearing qualities, that it is not out of place here.

During the summer of 1913 we had met a very interesting Hindu of exalted position. A mutual interest in occultism drew us together, and thereafter he became one of our play persons, Mr. Saltus teasing me with the remark:—

"When you elope with I——, it will give me an excuse for following you to India, and India is the Mecca of my dreams."

"If it comes to the worst and you can see it no other way, I will do my best to accommodate you," was the usual reply.

One can joke over a matter face to face, but war and distance give it another complexion. In a letter of mine, solely to amuse him, I mentioned that I had been out for tea with I——, and ended with the remark, "So don't give up your hope of India."

It was Mr. Saltus' custom as well as my own to write in the upper left-hand corner of our letters, "via Mauretania," or via this or that fast boat, in order that our letters would go the speediest way. Owing to the censor they were delayed at best, and then arrived five or six at a time. After this letter with the joke concerning I——, I wrote again almost at once, with "via Mauretania" in the corner as usual. Repairs being necessary, this particular boat was withdrawn for a fortnight, and my letter stupidly held over till its next crossing. All of this neither of us knew. What Mr. Saltus did know was that ten days went by without a line from me: a thing so unprecedented that it bowled him over completely. During this time I went down to Brighton for a week, which delayed my next letter, and caused the cables which came from him to be opened, delayed, and reopened, before reaching me, for resorts on the sea were under special scrutiny. Hearing nothing from his cables, Mr. Saltus sent others to two friends, neither of which were delivered, as the friends happened to be in France at the time. When these finally reached me in a bundle I was both horrified and overcome. Rushing to the cable office I sent the following: "No one but Snipps. Written constantly. At Brighton for the weekend. Eternamente. Mowgy." This I believed would set his mind at rest. Worse was to follow. After being held for some time the cable was not only returned to me, but it was discovered that I had omitted to register as a foreigner, and I was regarded with a certain amount of suspicion. Snipps, Mowgy, and Eternamente, were not English words, and I was required to explain them. It was a terrible mess. In the meantime a letter came from Mr. Saltus. So extraordinary is it,—so unlike the letter of the average male,—that its words are burned into my heart. That letter alone lifted him beyond and above the majority of his sex. After telling of his anxiety and the absence of letters it reads as follows:—

"... Do not think I am scolding you—and don't let me worry you either. I am not physically ill. I have only had a shock, and that prevents me from working. A few days ago I wrote you that I supposed I had not heard because the ships were delayed by storm and fog. Well, I waited hopefully. The storm passed, the fogs lifted and the ships came in. No letter. That was the shock, and was horrible. I cabled to the Brunswick, cabled also to the American Express and to Miss F——, and received no reply. My eyes look dreadfully, all blurred and red. I am not ill, but I might just as well be. I don't know when I will have the courage to look in my letter box. You will never know how horrible it is to look in and find it empty. It is as though I had a crack over the head, and a blow in the stomach. But there, little kit-cat, provided you are not hurt or ill no matter about me. Anyway, God willing and God grant it, I will get an answer to this. In cabling say only, "Well, and safe, Mowgy." Don't send it deferred rates, for every hour of waiting is agony. It ought to reach me on the second by noon. If it doesn't? Well, Mowgy, then in that case remember this. Always, whatever you do or omit, I shall love you just the same. Always whatever you do I will forgive it. You are my little world and will be until the end. And just this, my darling: try and write that you forgive me for anything I have done or said which I ought not to. Remember that you are my all and that you can always return to me without thought of censure on my part. My little girl—if I could only stop crying. E."

This incident upset me frightfully. It proved that Mr. Saltus must be in a critical condition mentally, to be imagining such wild and impossible things, and that he needed care. There was still no sign of the war coming to an end, and whether or not a home in England would be advisable under the changed conditions was open to question, for we were suffering acutely, not only for food, but for light, heat and other necessities.

Risking the submarines and the unforeseen, I sailed for the States. Mr. Saltus met me at the dock. Lack of exercise had made him too stout by far, he looked puffy, and every few feet he had to stop, for between the pain in his legs and the flatulence he was in bad shape.

He took me to the Hotel Broztel in East 27th Street, not only because it was only around the corner from his rooms, but because he had ascertained that our dog would be welcome there.

Mr. Saltus' usual method of assuring Toto's reception was an amusing one. Going to the office of the hotel, wherever we happened to be, he would say to the room clerk:—

"I want to know if there is any objection to children?"

He was of course assured that there was none.

"But my child is not like other children," he would say. "She has a fancy for running about in the organism of a dog. That is all there is of dog about her,—the rest is far more human than yourself."

At that stage in the conversation the man at the desk would begin looking around to see if there was a keeper with him, and if help could be obtained quickly. When this uneasiness became apparent, I would stroll up with Toto, who, putting her paws on the desk, woofing and going through her paces, would so intrigue the room clerk that he would forget Mr. Saltus and decide that the crazy owners of such a clever creature could be accommodated.

In connection with hotels and Toto, Mr. Saltus had an original way of putting our names on the register. It savoured of sarcasm and a slap at me in the bargain, but he always insisted that it was neither, and insisted upon the following:—