i

At his desk that day, Edgar had worked loyally to keep his attention concentrated upon matters in hand. He had always been in the habit of excluding private concerns from his mind during business hours; and even here, owing to determination and practice, he was partly successful. He did not consciously think of Patricia while he was reading and dictating letters, while he was talking to several exacting visitors, while he telephoned, and even while he lunched in company with other business men. He made no attempt to be alone or to be in company. It was not apparent to any of those who dealt with him that day that he was otherwise than as usual—competent, friendly, and benevolently unshakeable in decision. And yet the secret Edgar, the unsuspected Edgar, the Edgar who was Hamlet, was extremely disturbed. This Edgar was faced with a crisis. He was angry. He was angry and exasperated and broken-hearted. But he was much more angry and exasperated than he was broken-hearted. And in the middle of his emotions, this secret Edgar was engaged in the preposterous act of laughing.

The secret Edgar was, in fact, a little boy who had never grown up; but he concealed this from everybody, and it was supposed that he did not exist. Therefore the really grown-up persons in Edgar's office—such as his typist and his junior clerks and his shipping clerks—had a feeling of superiority to him which was mingled with their feeling of respect. They all thought, privately, how imaginative they were, in being able to enjoy books and plays which contained whimsical notions, and how completely a business man Edgar was. And this secret Edgar, who lost his temper and raged and roared with merriment in the middle of his own furies, was like a little boy who had been angry and cannot keep on being angry because everybody else, so amused, is trying to remain grave. The secret Edgar was unsuspected by those around the outward Edgar; and Edgar lived so entirely in the secret Edgar that he never knew that there was any other Edgar at all. It never entered his head to suppose that there were two Edgars—outside and inside, as it were,—and as the serious Edgar had a day's work to do, the secret Edgar made no attempt to interfere. The day's work was done; the last letter was signed; and Edgar—the composite Edgar—the physical Edgar—was at length free to abandon himself to anger and exasperation and broken heart and laughter. He put his hat unemotionally upon his head, and carefully threaded himself into his overcoat; and then he left the office, and was out in the darkness and traffic of the City of London.

Night in the City of London, on a week-day, is as remarkable and as romantically bizarre as night in some such centre of the engineering industry as Barrow-in-Furness, where the tipping of molten slag and the blazing sky-reflections of many furnaces compose miraculous effects for the sensitive. As Edgar stepped out into the cold air, thousands of people were making the sidewalks impassable, and pressing out into the asphalted roadways, and jostling and going self-absorbed to every point of the compass. Many vehicles were joined in the general hustle and congestion; cabs, omnibuses, postal-vans, and the like, all flashed their way through the crowds. Deafening noises filled the ears. Lights and shadows fought desperately their incessant battle. Boys and young men carrying waste-paper baskets full of letters, or piles of parcels which extended from their waists to their chins, or bundles carried fore and aft across their bent shoulders, staggered from all directions; others ran, doubling in and out among the foot-passengers and the vehicles, unburdened, hurrying hither and thither, their little black hats pressed down upon their ears, or their little cheap soft felt hats cocked askew with impudent carelessness. Others again wore no hats at all, but swung along bare-headed and short-coated even in the chilly evening breeze. High above the streets were globes of white light, which hung centrally, without standards to support them. And in these narrow streets, in the white, fizzing lights, amid the close-running traffic, with this noise and helter-skelter rushing to catch posts and trains and omnibuses dinning into his ears and dazzling his eyes and bewildering his senses, the secret Edgar found himself sensibly exhilarated. It was quite dark, and the sky was invisible. Somewhere beyond the crowd and the lights, and beyond the overhanging murk, it lay; to be guessed and known, but never to be seen. He had worked well all day. He was contented with the way in which various transactions in which he was engaged were progressing. And only one thing in all the world caused him distress; and yet that one thing, so all-important, out-weighed every complacency and every other care. It was a preoccupation. It was Patricia.

Because of Patricia, Edgar was angry and exasperated and broken-hearted. Because of Patricia, he was shaken with preposterous laughter.

ii

Within an hour he was indoors, in that house in Kensington where Patricia had realised what the word "home" might mean. The house was still; the servants were quiet-footed and the carpets were thick. Doors, well-made and heavy, closed gently and remained closed, without rattling. Even Pulcinella was subdued by even-tide, except upon the arrival of a member of the family much beloved. Then no amount of custom could stale the little dog's rapture. Edgar admitted himself, and washed, and went down to the brown room upon the mezzanine floor which was his own room, where there was a fire, and where books upon white-enamelled shelves warmed the walls from floor to ceiling and made them cordially glow with companionship. He had an hour before dinner, an hour in which to vent his anger and exasperation, in which to contemplate his broken heart. And when he reached the room he spent his hour in doing none of these things. He sat instead and tried to decide what he was going to do about Patricia. For he had now definitely made up his mind that Patricia was to be won. No young woman is so ostentatiously decided when she has in fact made up her mind.

At the same time, Patricia was a mystery to Edgar. He could have named her traits with scarcely a grievous error in observation; but, this done, she would still have been a mystery. A man who behaved as she was obviously in the habit of behaving could have had no interest for Edgar. If he had not loved Patricia he would have found her insufferable. But he loved her. The secret Edgar—who was all heart—loved her; the outward Edgar merely received impressions of her. The impressions might constantly be disagreeable—some of them were wholly disagreeable;—but they slipped into the heart of the secret Edgar, which was big enough to hold them all. And it was this secret Edgar who conned the mystery, with rather more humour than the outward Edgar was always supposed to possess. Which explains why Edgar's ruminations were interrupted by laughter—not loud, hearty, hopelessly solemn laughter; but laughter that was a catching of the breath, explosive, and then silent.

"She is the most preposterous creature that ever lived," said Edgar. "The most conceited, blind, ridiculous little fathead...."

He would not have dared to communicate this view of Patricia to anybody alive. He would not have dared to mention it even to Claudia. Even to hint the smallest part of it to Patricia herself would have been the act of a madman. And yet to himself Edgar was frank and fair about it. Because Edgar knew that when he said or thought such a thing every word was qualified and softened by an emotion in himself towards the object of his laughter which was without comparison the most precious thing in his life.

iii

Presently he heard the telephone bell ringing downstairs, and as he was not sure that Claudia was in, and as Mrs. Mayne was almost as ridiculous on the telephone as her husband, who invariably rang off while he went to find somebody less incompetent, Edgar walked out of the room. The bell had ceased ringing; but he proceeded as far as the clothes-cupboard where it was installed, on the chance that the answerer might not be Claudia. It was she, however. As Edgar put his head inside the clothes-cupboard she was saying "Hold on," and she turned as if to leave the cupboard in search of somebody who was wanted.

"Oh, there you are," said Claudia. "I didn't know you were in. It's Mr. Gaythorpe."

Edgar took the receiver from his sister's hand. Old Gaythorpe was one of those rare people who speak as clearly on the telephone as they would speak in a room. Every word he said was audible. Edgar could imagine the old man present. The dry wisdom of his manner was in an extraordinary degree conveyed by the sound of his voice.

"Look here, young man," said Gaythorpe. "I've been kept here by importunate suitors. My train has gone. I want to see you. Can I come to dinner?"

"Of course!" cried Edgar, foolhardy in giving such encouragement without consultation with the kitchen, but relying upon Mayne ingenuity to expand a meal at short notice.

"I'll take what Mrs. Mayne gives me," the voice continued, the voice of an experienced family man. "Right. I'll come along."

Edgar flung up the receiver. He turned to Claudia, who was leaning pensively against the doorpost, waiting to hear the worst.

"He's coming to dinner."

"Gracious!" exclaimed Claudia, blanching. "I must see mother! We've got one guest already—Olivia Stephens."

"Oh, do you know her?" said Edgar, surprised. He was familiar with the name; but he could not at first discover in what connection.

"School with her," called Claudia, hurrying away. "Known her all my life. So have you. Come and talk to her."

It was evidently to be a bright evening. Edgar followed, trying to remember Olivia Stephens, and to recall what he knew of her. There came back to his mind a picture of a girl who came to see Claudia in bygone days, a girl with a long plait of hair and very arched brows and a freckled snub nose; of an older girl with her hair up, who had not very much to say for herself; of a young creature who flaunted a shapeless olive-green frock down the cobbled street of a Cornish fishing village, attended by an amiable fellow in a reddish-brown Norfolk suit, bearing a black-bowled pipe and a cudgel. This picture, which wavered and sharpened in its successive stages, like a series of kinema close-ups, recalled Olivia to his experience. She was the girl who had married an artist—the Norfolk-jacketed young man with the pipe; upon whose behalf Edgar had been persuaded to buy some water-colour drawings which hung in his mother's bedroom. What was it about her?—poor, artist-husband—cheerful—ah, babies! Olivia was the girl who had the two babies! The girl of his ideal! She it was of whom Claudia had given accounts which had filled him with admiring approval. Edgar was triumphant at his own instinct for clues and associations. It came into his head that he had seen vague resemblances to Olivia and the young artist at Monty's September party. Of course! He had not spoken to her, because his memory had been too vague; but now he was clear. The girl he had seen must indeed have been Olivia; and her artistic husband must have been the link with Monty and the Æsthetes. They were the young people who were still in love with each other. He could recall their happiness. Even in recollection Edgar was pleased with them.

"Babies," he ejaculated recognisingly to himself. He entered the sitting-room with the anticipation of interest; but with a certain sinking of the heart lest Olivia should be restricted to a single topic.

iv

"How are you, Edgar?" asked Olivia. She sat by the fire in the blue-grey drawing-room; and there was work in her hands. The work was obviously a garment for a small child. He recognised her at once by the well-arched eyebrows, and by the fact that she wore—as in his first vision—a dress which was olive-green in colour. The freckles were banished (whether by the season, or by some more permanent cure, he could not tell); but the calm, innocent eyes and odd little nose were much as he remembered them to have been. Her shoulders were broader, and her breast had developed. Otherwise she was the agreeable creature he had known, between fair and dark, with plump arms and legs and a lot of fair hair. She had a very sweet lazy smile, and an unself-conscious manner which came of not taking herself very seriously. She was about twenty-six. Theoretically, Edgar knew, Olivia was his ideal type of woman. She gave love with the eager readiness of the trustful child; she spoke quietly and seldom, but without constraints; she had courage and patience and unselfishness. And he was in love with her opposite. One more insoluble problem.

"How are you?" he answered. "And how's ... er, Stephens?" Then, with the proud feeling of taking his fences: "And how are the babies?"

"How nice of you to ask about them!" said Olivia, comfortably, with her slow, happy, lazy smile. "Joan isn't very grand. She's got a cold. That makes her just a little trying and sentimental at the moment. But Michael is tremendously hefty, and already weighs about ten stone. He's a sort of prize ox. In fact Mercy—Peter's sister—says he's not like a baby at all, but like a beautiful white calf. You haven't seen either of them, I expect, though Claudia has. Joan's three; and Michael's just over a year, and walks well. Look here, you ought to come and see them. They'd do you good. You must be getting quite middle-aged, Edgar. Yes, I can see you are. You ought to have children of your own. Then you wouldn't have time to grow old. Come and see them, will you?"

"This conversation is going to be extremely indelicate and extremely rude, I can see," replied Edgar. "I begin already to remember you as an excessively rude and, indelicate girl in a pigtail. I am not middle-aged, and I don't look as though I were middle-aged. So that's finished. As to the babies, I will come. I ought to have come before; but I had forgotten all about you. When Claudia said you were here I had really to recall who you were. How is it you never come to see us? Or do you come, secretly?"

Olivia grimaced.

"I go out very little. The babies, you see. Michael needs somebody still—they both need somebody to put them to bed; and Michael sometimes yells for me. I'm only out this evening because Peter's sister is staying with us. Peter's coming for me later on. He couldn't come to dinner, because he's finishing some work."

"Painting?"

Olivia shook her head, a little ruefully.

"Black-and-white. He's got some regular work to do at last. So things are looking up with us. We're beginning to save. He wants us to go and live in the country somewhere—not too far away—for the sake of the babies; and we shall do that next year if we can get a cottage."

"But would you like that? Wouldn't it be dull for you?" asked Edgar.

Olivia shook her head again, this time without any ruefulness at all.

"Nothing could be duller than London," she said. "Besides, if we had a nurse, Peter and I could always come up to town for an evening. One consequence of being rich would be a nurse; and that would mean lots of liberty, with the right girl. We shouldn't go anywhere quite in the wilds. And it isn't as though Joan would need a school just yet. She's got another three years before she need go. The great thing is for them to be able to play out-of-doors."

Edgar nodded, much impressed by this notion of life.

"Would you be happier?" he asked.

"I?" cried Olivia. "I couldn't be. I seem to have got everything I want."

Edgar stared meditatively at this remarkable woman.

"You're very fortunate," he said, drily. And then: "You're very rare."

v

With dinner came the other guest, cynically benevolent as ever; and the table in the big old-fashioned dining-room was a full one. At it there were three elderly people and three young ones; and, as if naturally, all the talking which was not done by Mrs. Mayne took place between Claudia and old Gaythorpe. They sparred on the best of terms, because there was a very pleasant feeling between them, and they were like partners in a game who knew each other's play. Mr. Mayne sat with fierce dignity at one end of the table, high above the heat of battle; and his wife, placidly nimble of brain, at the other, absorbed in it. Olivia blissfully enjoyed her dinner in a home-made frock, with hands that were reddened by house-work, and an inner happiness which caused her to accept every kindness with glee. Edgar, lazily listening to Claudia in combat with his old friend, was content to leave the conversation to them. And Claudia, who was full of spirits, was being agile and aggressive; and old Gaythorpe was in his own dry way being equally agile and aggressive. The motto of each was the same: "Never give your adversary a moment's peace."

"You seem to think that income tax is the only tax there is!" cried Claudia. "It's the rich man's tax, and always will be. If you were poor, and paid your taxation indirectly—"

"I do that as well, my dear Claudia. My sugar costs me—"

"Neither your sugar nor your coal!" she retorted.

"Indeed, yes."

"Our sugar doesn't. Nor our tea. Nor our coal. We buy in bulk. If you don't escape, it's by bad buying. We have tons of coal. Poor people buy in quarter-hundredweights, and pay fifty per cent more. A ha'porth of jam—you can't get ha'porths now, as it happens—multiplied many times makes much more a pot than you pay. Every necessary costs more."

"Is jam a necessary? I never eat it."

"Your pampered children do."

"Ah, my children. Yes.... Pampered indeed. I agree. The younger generation, of course. Take the cost of education, Claudia. What have I paid in school fees?"

"If the Council schools are all you say, they'd have been quite adequate."

"Your own dexterity isn't the fruit of the Council school," parried Gaythorpe.

"No; it's my own!" cried Claudia.

"Claudia, dear," objected Mrs. Mayne. "Your father and I can hardly be called ordinary people."

They all laughed at this simple interruption. Claudia was instantly deflated. She turned to Olivia.

"Are you going to give your babies any education?" she demanded.

"Well," said Olivia. "Peter doesn't think ordinary education is much good. He thinks it just spoils children to be taught by rote. But then he thinks that better education only teaches them to spend money—not to make it. He was at a public school himself."

"And is he well-educated?" pressed Claudia.

"Oh, he ... of course, he knows a lot. But it isn't very precise knowledge. He can't spell: he's never sure about words like 'separate' or 'receipt.' He's not very good at figures. I have to do the sums as a rule; but then of course that's just knack."

"Yes, and there's another thing!" Claudia, reminded by Olivia's admission as to figures, returned to her direct challenge. "Women!"

There was a general groan.

"He's very unsound there," interjected Edgar, cheerfully. "You'd better go no further."

"By the way, Olivia." Claudia was diverted from her argument. "Have you ever met an awful girl—an artist—called Amy Roberts?"

"O-oh!" exclaimed Olivia, in disgust. "Where on earth did you meet her?"

"At Patricia's—Patricia Quin's."

"Such a nice girl," said Mrs. Mayne, aside to Gaythorpe. "A friend of Edgar's."

Instantly Gaythorpe shot a glance of inexpressible malice at Edgar.

"Indeed," he said, politely. There was benign poison in his encouraging tone. He beamed upon Mrs. Mayne, hoping for further information about Edgar's friend, immediately recalling the Miss Fly-away of their conversation.

"Patricia Quin?" repeated Olivia, doubtfully. "Oh, a fair girl—. Isn't she Harry Greenlees's mistress?"

"No." Edgar did not hear himself speak.

"Who told you that?" indignantly cried Claudia. "It's scandalous!"

Olivia, disconcerted, tried to remember the name of her informant. The general distress was so obvious that she slightly reddened.

"Wait a minute," she said. "I'm sorry if I've said something I ought not to. I thought there wasn't any question about it. I think it was Blanche Tallentyre who told Peter."

"Well, it's not true!" cried Claudia. "What a beast Blanche Tallentyre must be. Have you ever met her, Edgar?"

Edgar, deeply moved, was staring at the table, his face stern. All their eyes were upon him. He had a remembered glimpse of an unhappy-looking woman across a dinner-table, of lips parted to speak, of a speech checked and an enmity formed in a single instant.

"Yes," he answered slowly. "At Monty's. Patricia was rude to her. That's the explanation. Not deliberately rude, but wounding. I saw that she felt vicious about it. But surely you don't accept anything she might say as probable, Olivia?"

"Perhaps not," Olivia agreed. "No: she isn't a nice woman. I suppose there's no doubt that she's Monty's mistress, herself."

"Dear, dear!" protested Mrs. Mayne. "It seems so horrible to have that word bandied about by nice young girls. It's such a pity. Don't you think so, Mr. Gaythorpe?"

"I quite agree with you, Mrs. Mayne," said the old man. "A great pity. A very great pity. And who—" he paused, speaking across the table to Edgar. "Who is Monty?"

"Monty Rosenberg." It was a chorus.

"Indeed. And is he a friend of yours, Edgar?"

Edgar's eyes met those of his tormentor very candidly across the table.

"Perhaps one could hardly call him a friend," he suavely replied.

"Ah," said Gaythorpe. "Perhaps a debtor?"

No reply was returned to his question, which had been hardly audible. Gaythorpe bit his lower lip. The rims of his glasses caught the light as he glanced aside. He was not, perhaps, altogether certain; but he thought he had made a very fair guess at the answers to two questions which for some time had been troubling him. He wondered whether Monty had ever asked for Edgar's help, and whether Patricia had ever refused it....

vi

Although Edgar had so immediately denied the assertion that Patricia was Harry's mistress, Olivia's words caused him suffering so poignant that he could hardly maintain composure under the scrutiny of the party. He had to admit his own jealousy of Harry, and he was also made to remember Patricia's claim to wickedness, and Claudia's terrible questions at the breakfast-table. Together they made a hateful collection of poisonous thoughts. Although he now answered when he was addressed, he did so with his mind far away. He could not eat; he could not think. His one impulse was to get away from this table, from these people, in order that he might be alone. All the anger and all the laughter which had shaken him earlier in the evening were banished. He did not believe the suggestions which his mind stealthily insinuated; but they were all the time sliding into his attention, as though devils were at work in his tired brain, maddening him. If Patricia were not pure, of what use her youth, her charm, her cleverness? None, none, none! He was distraught with suspicions; not with beliefs, not with doubts; but with these suggestions, which were like secret voices of temptation. It was essential that he should deal with them seriously, by direct conflict, and not emotionally, by infatuated refusal to face possibilities.

And the meal continued, and the chatter—although sobered by the turn which the talk had taken—was maintained. Edgar could not leave the others. Gaythorpe was his guest. He must play his part. This he did, with honest endeavour to preserve his good spirits and his composure. He followed the others into the drawing-room, and there drank coffee with them. For a moment it struck him that it was almost better to be with the whole party than with Gaythorpe alone. If Gaythorpe were in his study, then a process of inquiry might be applied; until Edgar could not be sure of his power to avoid such irritability as would be, to Gaythorpe's probing mind, more betraying than actual proclamation.

But either from tact or from imperceptiveness, Gaythorpe made no attempt, when at last they withdrew from the others, to introduce a personal note. His desire to see Edgar that night had been due entirely to business problems; and it was with these that the two men were engaged for a further hour. Only as he left, old Gaythorpe, in bidding farewell to Mrs. Mayne, dropped a hint unheard by Edgar. To Mrs. Mayne's invitation for another evening he made a significant reply.

"And I hope that the next time I come I shall have the pleasure of meeting Miss Patricia ... Patricia Quin. You have quite whetted my appetite to see the young lady."

He bowed, and his hand-pressure was a reassurance to Mrs. Mayne; who was much comforted by such confirmation of her belief in Patricia's innocence.

vii

At last Edgar was alone. He had bidden good-bye to Olivia, and had received her invitation to come at any time, on any day, to visit the babies. He had said good-night to his mother and father, had received a light touch of farewell from his sister; and he was in his room, by the fire, with a pipe; and a tray bearing a decanter, a syphon, and a glass, together with a slice of Mrs. Mayne's latest private cake, lay on a small table behind him. He was bending over the fire in the room's light glow, and the books were shining and the shelves gleaming in the shadow, when, with a slight rustle, Claudia appeared in a long silk dressing-gown, her hair plaited for the night.

"My dear," she hurriedly said. "I knew you'd feel a bit sick. You don't believe it's true, do you?" The remark was not a question. It was a statement.

Edgar turned, making no pretence of misunderstanding her.

"No," he said. "It's not true. And of course it's the venom of a miserable woman. But it doesn't make me very cheerful, because ... well, at any rate, they're friends."

"I was afraid of that," breathed Claudia. "I thought she might be ... in love with him. I got an idea ... nothing at all ... just the sort of thing you imagine.... That's really why I came."

"Well, we'll see," answered Edgar, gravely, and without very much sanguine colour in his tone. "Good-night."

No caress passed. Claudia was a sister, and Edgar was a brother. They loved and trusted each other. But neither could have borne to see the other in acute distress; because both knew that the cause of such distress would necessarily be external to themselves, and therefore beyond reach of consolation. Claudia silently withdrew.

Nevertheless, her visit had done Edgar good. He sat on, smoking; and the fire grew less brilliant, dying on the surface and keeping its red heart, as it would continue to do long after the grate had seemed to a casual eye to be filled only with sullen ash. The room was a large one, and there were many books in bright, warm bindings. A desk stood near the window, in such a position that in daylight it would catch the sun upon its left side. The desk was orderly. It bore a stand lamp and a stationery cabinet, and various bundles of papers, tied or encircled with bands. To this desk Edgar presently went, standing above it lost in thought, the finger tips of one hand resting lightly upon its surface. And at length, when his pipe was burning harshly, he knocked out the remaining charred fragments of tobacco, and mixed himself a whisky-and-soda. In a few minutes he would be in bed, thinking still of Patricia....

And, as he thought that, it seemed to Edgar that he heard the ringing of the telephone bell. Strange! He opened the door of his room. There was no mistake. The bell was furiously ringing. It was echoing through the house. Edgar knew that everybody else was in bed, so he did not delay. He ran down to the clothes-cupboard, and heard the rattling of the bell still in the receiver as he put it to his ear.

"Hullo! Hullo!" he cried.

And from far off came a little breathless voice.

"Mr. Mayne's? Is that you? Edgar? This is Patricia. I'm at Monty's ... yes, Monty's. Look here, I haven't ... changed my mind. No. But I'm in trouble. Could you come and fetch me in your car? Could you? How splendid! Don't come to the house. No, don't come. I'll walk along to Marlborough Road station, and wait for you there. Yes. You're sure it's all right? Sure? Be quick. Quick...." Her voice died as she said the last words; showing that she was moving away from the telephone even as she spoke.

Strangely elated, his heart beating fast, Edgar stood for an instant ejaculating with surprise.

"Well!" he whispered to himself. "What on earth does that mean?" In his excitement Edgar gave a little laugh. "Extraordinary!"

No more time was wasted. It was precious. He ran quickly to the hall, back to get an overcoat, felt in its place for the garage key, remembered approximately the amount of petrol in the tank of his car, made sure that he had the key of the front door,—all as if in a single movement of thought and action; and then, with his coat still open, left the house at high speed. He was out again in the night, and in that chilly darkness, racing to the garage; and as he raced he laughed again, exhilarated by the sense of adventure, by the surprise of such a call, by quick speculation as to its cause. Above everything else, exhilarated by the knowledge that he was after all to see Patricia that night.