i

The following evening Edgar found on reaching home that some old friends of his parents had so protracted an afternoon call that they had been asked to stay for dinner. Both were old ladies from a small country town, of substantial wealth and position, whose perspective had become grotesque as the result of long life in a restricted circle; and as companions Edgar found them insupportable. The airs of the schoolmistress, the independence of the housemaids, and the general superiority of the Misses Wickford to the whole of their world were incessantly discussed; and all these topics combined to make Edgar restlessly unhappy throughout the meal. Claudia was absent, at the home of friends; and he had neither solace nor variety. Because of this trouble Edgar decided upon a plan which was already half-formed in his mind. It was to run up and see Monty Rosenberg, and thus to learn the truth about Monty's financial straits and to discover the real nature of the help which Monty required from him.

Having correctly taken leave of the Misses Wickford, who thereupon discussed his bachelor state with those who remained and advanced the claims of a really nice girl living in their district, Edgar was quickly upon the road. Within half-an-hour he was at Monty's door. He had not made up his mind what to say; but he had Monty's letter in his pocket, and was ready to be helpful and businesslike. And as the door was opened Edgar heard such a din that he recoiled. From the studio was a huge and brazen noise, as of kettles and fire-irons in competition with piano and banjo.

"Oh," he cried, electrically reconsidering his plan for the evening. "A party?" Coming as he had done with the object of advising a man financially embarrassed, Edgar felt as Mother Hubbard must have done when she found her dog dancing. He hesitated, quick comments darting through his mind. This was not the suitable setting for a financial talk. Was Monty mad? His recoil subsided. After all, Nero fiddled.... "Then perhaps I'd better——"

But the door of the studio had opened, shedding fresh light and redoubled din from within; and Monty was already aware of his arrival. The shutting of the door made the noise comparatively negligible again. Monty hastened forward.

"Hullo, Mayne. I'm glad to see you. Don't go. Come in here." He indicated the big drawing room to the left of the hall. It was empty, but a fire was alight there, and the room was warm. From the amber walls and rich golden brown of the furnishings the soft illumination evoked glowing beauty. "It's just a few people dancing. Are you a dancing man?"

Edgar explained the object of his visit. He was all the time acutely conscious of the room and its air of impenetrable richness, contrasting it without being aware that he did so with the less exquisite plainness of his own home, which represented so much more love and enterprise and so much less finished taste. It stiffened him a little.

"That had better be postponed," he said. "We can't discuss it now."

"I'd like to. Come and dance—and then we'll talk later on."

Monty's manner was cordial—friendly; and yet Edgar felt that it held perhaps a slight uneasiness. The beautifully-groomed air which always masked Monty was unchanged; but in those dark eyes and behind the assured manner lay something that was almost an appeal. Edgar shrank; but he accepted the invitation, and he was led into the studio.

ii

It had been cleared so as to provide ample floor-space for the guests. At the piano sat one man and by his side another who played upon a banjo. Both were in evening dress. A sportive young fellow had been adding to the noise by clashing tongs and fire-shovel together. About twenty people were in the studio altogether, of whom only a few of the men wore dinner jackets; and the dancing had not long been in progress. It was not yet a rowdy party, although it might later develop into one when the character of the music and the stimulation of the common movement should have had their effect. The studio walls rose high above the moving figures; and the place was quite different from what it had been when Edgar had seen it before. All that Æsthetic blending of colour which he had noticed was now reduced. It was a large bare place, the chairs and divans withdrawn to the walls, and the decoration subdued. Hangings and rugs were gone: the walls were adorned only with casually hung or pinned sketches. The place seemed lighter and more airy, but it was wholly out of key with Edgar's recollection. Nor were the guests recognisable to him in that first glimpse. Edgar smiled as he turned aside to Monty, and then he heard the music cease. There came a babble from all round him. It was now that Edgar's heart gave a slight stir, for he saw that Patricia, who sat with her late partner at the farther end of the studio, was looking in his direction. She wore a plain dark dress which emphasised her fairness and the whiteness of her skin; but he could not tell at that distance of what material the dress was made nor how Patricia looked, so strong was the light. Instantly Edgar was delighted that he had come. He felt nothing more intense than delight—nothing more possessive; but he was engrossed, and could hardly attend to what Monty was saying.

"I'll introduce you to one or two of the girls. The others won't interest you. And we'll get away presently and have a talk. That suit you?"

Again Edgar was aware of that appeal. It revived his sense of stiffness, for he could never have pleaded for himself as this man was doing. In distaste for Monty's suppleness, Edgar found also something which gave him sudden personal interest in the man. He saw him very truly in that instant, in a quick glimpse. Monty was without pride. Therefore he was to be watched. Not merely treachery might arise, but insensitiveness, which upsets standards by unconsciousness that they exist. It was with a faint shrug that Edgar turned to be introduced to Rhoda Flower. Strange how instinctively contemptuous of suppleness an Englishman often is! Edgar did not under-rate Monty; but he despised him. Deep down, far below his awareness of judgment, lay the snorting epithet "Foreigner!" All his experience of life and his tolerance of moral defects could not annul that instinctive hostility to alien civilisation. Even while he was dancing with Rhoda, he was preoccupied with other perceptions. He did not speak; he hardly felt her there; but mechanically followed the rhythm of the dance.

Something awakened him. He could not dance with Rhoda without recognising her as a voluptuary; and he was interested in her from the knowledge that Rhoda's personality was, in spite of its mobility, surprisingly fixed for so young a girl as he supposed her to be. He looked sharply at his partner—at her black bobbed hair and her beautifully clear cheeks and eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about her face, and about the life which gave it constant vivacity of expression.

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" he said, frowning in the effort to remember.

"How clever of you!" cried Rhoda. A slow and delicious smile drew her lips apart, and revealed teeth yet whiter. In the plump but beautifully-moulded cheeks appeared dimples. Rhoda was languorously arch. "I wish I was clever!"

"Have you seen me before?" demanded Edgar. He could not resist the attraction to her, and he was smiling responsively; but he was still puzzled, thinking her face so familiar and yet so unfamiliar.

"How gallant you are!" teased Rhoda. "Isn't this a good tune?"

"Were you here at a party about six weeks ago?"

Rhoda laughed outright. Patricia, at that moment passing, opened her eyes wide. She had not hitherto recognised Edgar as a wit, and she took a peculiar interest in Rhoda Flower, so that her observation in this instance was made the more alert.

His doubts resolved, Edgar was at ease with Rhoda. He now recognised her as the girl who had been with Harry Greenlees at the first party, and who had left in his company at the end of the evening. He remembered her air of attentiveness to the young man who smiled so broadly. It was pleasant to recall this picture, because it was related to his first sight of Patricia. He looked round for Harry, who, however, was not present. Nor could he see Blanche Tallentyre; but some of the other faces were those of guests at the earlier gathering. The majority were unknown to him, and while their spirits seemed to be good, Edgar thought the company as a whole was a little inclined to be rakish. He was glad to be dancing with Rhoda, who, apart from Patricia, was the freshest among the girls. The men struck him as a poor lot. Now that he was used to the band Edgar no longer found it deafening. He was only a moderately-good dancer, because although he had a good ear and sufficient physical elasticity he was not especially interested in the exercise; but he could tell that his partner was both accurate and enthusiastic. She moved beautifully, with complete absorption in the dance. Moreover, he found her impudent cheerfulness delightful. He would have preferred only one other companion; and it was to this other that his glance flew whenever she was near. The flying glimpse was all Edgar had for a long time, for Rhoda was busily engaged during intervals between dances in trying to learn something about him by means of adroit questioning, while Patricia herself seemed to be quite content with her partners and to be elated by their obvious admiration.

Edgar was happy in Patricia's presence. He did not feel any immediate need to speak to her, and he was in some curious way too shy to wrest her from these other men. But into his glances there came presently a slightly anxious gravity, for he noticed differences in her, wrought by the month during which he had been absent from London, and these differences were unwelcome. An eye less keen would not have discerned them: Edgar himself could not have said wherein they were shown. At last, when Rhoda was momentarily engaged with somebody else, he went across the room to Patricia's side.

iii

Even in her greeting he found Patricia changed, yet he was at the same time puzzled at his sense of the change. She was as unaffected as ever, and almost as fresh. Ah! almost—that was the difference he felt. It was a restlessness in her expression that made Edgar frown, a strain in the eyes, a small and perhaps momentary diminution in the bloom of her cheek. To another there would have seemed no change at all.

"I saw you as soon as I arrived," Edgar said; "but you seemed to have partners for each dance. I've been abroad for a month."

"I wish I had been," answered Patricia.

Again the mark of slight change! And a leaping impulse in Edgar to respond that she had but to be constant in such a wish to make him altogether happy.

"It wasn't really very cheerful," he assured her. "I was very lonely."

"But you were doing something the whole time."

"And what have you been doing? Amusing yourself?"

"Trying to. Oh, yes ... I suppose so." Patricia was listless and unresponsive. Her vivacity had died down. He was seeing her in a moment of discouragement. But even as Edgar received this impression, she brightened, and went on: "That man there—" she indicated a medium-sized man of about thirty, who was describing something to a companion and raising his hands with a grace which suggested that he was not English—"That one ... dances better than anybody I've ever met. If I could dance as well as he does I should be happy."

"Is he happy?" asked Edgar. "I thought you looked as though you were happy and as though you danced about as well as anybody could."

She shook her head.

"What did you see abroad?" she demanded.

"Poverty and glitter; cabs in the streets and jewels at the opera; and everybody wondering how on earth to make both ends meet. Money that didn't buy what it ought to buy. Plenty of misery going on in each corner, and plenty of noise and fuss. The same old contradictions everywhere."

Patricia frowned.

"Worse than here?"

"I couldn't tell. I was busy, and depressed. The men I met were wretched; and I saw the gaiety only in passing. Very much the same, I expect."

"Hm." She made no comment; but she had become grave. "D'you think everybody's mad? I do."

"Perhaps they always are. Perhaps we are."

"Sometimes I feel I shall go mad." There was a discouraged note in Patricia's voice which confirmed Edgar's intuition. She was obviously not in a normal mood; although he had seen her laughing with her partners earlier in the evening.

"Let's dance," he suggested. "Postpone the madness."

"I think," said Patricia, slowly, and as if she were being strangled by some unexpressed emotion, "that ... you're only afraid because ... you think I'm a child to be petted out of...."

She allowed him to make her dance; but she did not respond to him, and there were tears in Patricia's eyes. Edgar did not speak while they danced. Almost, he did not look at her. He was too much disconcerted, too preoccupied with an effort to explain Patricia's mood. Yet to Patricia he appeared immovable.

iv

Once during their partnership Edgar was conscious of a long deep glance from her. When at last he looked to meet it the glance was withdrawn, but the gravity of Patricia's face was unchanged. He, too, frowned, made thoughtful by her expression; and when they were once more seated together, since he felt that their degree of intimacy was not great enough for an invited confidence, he tried to divert her attention from her own thoughts.

"You remember that before I went away you promised to come and make the acquaintance of Claudia?" he said. "What would you say to coming one evening this week? Would that be possible?"

"I'm not sure," said Patricia, coldly. "I'm rather busy this week."

The devil you are! thought Edgar. He grew equally cold for an instant, until his patience conquered his irritation.

"I'll ask my mother to write and suggest an evening," he went on, as if unconcernedly. "You could come to dinner, and you could meet Claudia. Also Pulcinella and Percy."

Patricia inclined her head; she was not listening. A moment later she was claimed by the dancer for whom she had expressed admiration; and Edgar saw her moving about the room as if she were entirely happy. He was bewildered. Was it to himself that she had become hostile? His impulse was to withdraw, to see her no more; but dudgeon is a preserve of the very young man, so he dismissed it. Nevertheless he was resentful of her listlessness in his own company, her inattention. What could account for it?

While Edgar sat thus absorbed in a single problem, he found that Monty had drawn near. Monty made a motion towards the door.

"Could you come now?" he asked. The two men left the studio and went into the room to which Edgar had first been introduced on arrival.

v

As the door was closed Edgar could not forbear the comment which had been in his mind from the moment of discovery that a party was in progress.

"I thought from your letter that you were in some urgent difficulty," he said.

Monty was quite suave. He stood before his companion with the utmost nonchalance, a faint smile upon his lips.

"Do sit down," he answered, in that gentle voice with the rising note. "I am in a difficulty, and it's most kind of you to ... give me your advice. Now, in detail that is quite impossible this evening. This ... this affair prevents my being away long. But perhaps if I tell you a little more the whole matter will be ... plainer." When Edgar was settled, Monty supported himself by the table, and continued. "Well, now ... as I told you, there's about twenty thousand invested in those different ... concerns. In every case the prices are seriously down. Most of them will go up again."

"Quite," agreed Edgar.

"Normally, then, I should hang on. And of course I could borrow from the bank."

"I wondered why you hadn't done that."

Monty lowered his voice still further, until the thick vibration which underlay its ordinary softness was emphasised. Edgar had the sense that Monty always spoke of business in this lazy and confidential way, that he had the large loose meanness of those born opulent, that even in dealing with himself Monty was conscious of a sort of explanatory patience.

"I don't want to go to the bank for a reason which ... I wonder if you'll appreciate its strength ... because ... well, the local manager is ... an acquaintance ... a very social man ... rather indiscreet; and his wife might possibly be more indiscreet; and I'm a little morbid about...."

"Do they—I understand perfectly. Do you keep your securities at the bank, or do you keep them yourself?"

"At the bank. That's the trouble. I can get them, of course. I could transfer them from this branch and deposit them elsewhere without question or inconvenience; but I have a very definite personal reason for making no change at all in my present allocations. And, my dear Mayne, the money I need is ... I need hardly say, this is in great confidence.... The money I need will have to be paid quickly, and ... in fact, the whole thing is difficult."

"What's the sum?"

"Two-thousand five-hundred. You understand, I don't...."

"Who are your bankers? Could it be done with the Head Office? No, I suppose not."

"Not.... Look here, Mayne, I don't want to be mysterious at all...."

"No: that's quite all right. I'm only thinking...."

"It's the Great Central Bank, just up here. I particularly don't want to do anything whatever in relation to the bank. But for that I shouldn't have troubled you. I want to raise the money outside. I don't want to alter my deposits. Let me make that perfectly clear."

Edgar interrupted him.

"You'd like me to suggest lending you the money myself?" he asked directly.

There was a moment's pause—as if for the passage of a shiver of distaste for such brusque ill-breeding. Then Monty, as if nothing in the world could have ruffled him, nodded slowly.

"That would be most kind," he replied. "Most kind."

"I wonder how long it would be for?" pondered Edgar, aloud.

"Five hundred in a month's time. The whole of the rest within six months. That I think I could promise definitely. Could you do it yourself without inconvenience? You're most generous."

I wonder if I'm generous? thought Edgar, recalling Gaythorpe's jeer at his morbidity. And secretly he knew that it was not generosity but a sort of contempt which had prompted his leading question, and that Monty himself, placed similarly, would have avoided the issue and evaded the loan.

"Well, I'm not a money-lender; and it's quite true that the thing presents difficulties. But I could certainly arrange to let you have the money."

"My dear Mayne...."

"Not at all. When do you want it? And how?" He was impatient.

Monty shrugged. His orientalism was more marked than ever.

"This instant," he admitted. "Or ... as soon as possible." Edgar nodded. "And I should like it," continued Monty, with his singular smile, "I should like it—if that happened quite perfectly to suit you—as an open cheque, payable to bearer...."

vi

"Oh!" cried Edgar, as if in surprise.

"I'm perfectly ready to sign any acknowledgment," insisted Monty. "But this will be of peculiar service." There was a silence between them. The cheque was to be open, and the matter was pressing: therefore the payment was to be a secret payment. If Monty's investments were as he stated them to be, and his relations with the bank and its branch manager amicable, what purpose was there in such concealment? Edgar frowned slightly. He was being used as a friend—as a convenience—by one who was not his friend and who did not trust him with an explanation. As if he felt what was in Edgar's mind, Monty interrupted. "I feel I must emphasise the point that my reason for wanting this money privately is personal, and not financial," he said.

A sudden smile lighted Edgar's face.

"I perfectly understand that," he answered. "There's no more to be said."

Together the two men went back to the studio. In two minutes they had so mingled with the noise and rising spirits of the dancers that their absence, if it had been noticed at all, was forgotten. Edgar sought Rhoda Flower, and was amused to find her interest in himself shown without concealment. But even as he talked to her he was from time to time seeking in that crowd for Patricia, and seeking among his impressions for something which would explain the change in her. As far as Edgar could tell, Patricia did not concern herself at all with him. It was strange how this wound that she had inflicted outstayed every other sensation of the evening—from his pleasure in Rhoda to his growing antipathy towards Monty. He was puzzled and chagrined.