i

During that evening Edgar had been away from the others for about half-an-hour, seated in his room with bundles of papers belonging to his business. This was enforced, because his absence from England had led to great accumulations of work, and only by some such evening trouble could he hope to make good the time lost from the daily routine. So he had been busy. And quite by accident, Edgar had come across a single sheet of paper which had disturbed him out of all proportion to its size and importance among its fellows. It was with other papers in a small bundle surrounded by an elastic band; and in glancing through this bundle, flicking the letters apart, Edgar had caught sight of an arresting address. Hastily, though still without more than casual interest, he had stretched the band so as to see the whole of the letter. It was the signature which, taken in conjunction with the heading, had brought an exclamation to his lips. It had thrown him quite unexpectedly into a revelation concerning Monty Rosenberg. It opened to his investigation some at least of the interstices of Monty's dark and secret mind.

The occasion of Monty's sudden need of money had been for Edgar a curious puzzle. Monty's unwillingness to follow the obvious course, which was to raise a loan from his bank to tide him over the emergency, had been another puzzle. The third puzzle had been his reason for approaching Edgar for assistance. Edgar had explained the third puzzle by the fact that he had recently been engaged in business dealings with Monty (over the transfer to himself of the "Antiquarian's Gazette," in which no money had passed), and the possibility that Monty, who was secretive by nature, had no friend intimate enough to be asked—without explanation—for so large an amount as two-thousand five-hundred pounds. And the other two puzzles were both explained by the letter which Edgar had discovered.

The letter was written upon a single sheet of business note-paper, and was an acknowledgment of some trivial communication. But the heading was that of the South Hampstead branch of the Great Central Bank; and the signature was plainly to be read as "Frederick Tallentyre, Branch Manager." It became immediately clear why Monty should have wished to conceal any adjustment of his affairs from the manager of his local bank. Less clear was the immediate occasion. Frederick Tallentyre was the husband of Blanche. And Blanche, unless Edgar's perceptions were at fault, was Monty's present mistress. Now why should Monty want so large a sum at short notice? And why should he wish the fact of his requiring a loan concealed from the husband of his mistress?

That was one of Edgar's preoccupations as he walked homeward. As a business man, he needed to know as much as possible about all those with whom he was engaged in financial transactions, and he was not so wealthy as to regard two-thousand five-hundred pounds as a negligible sum. Had the money something to do with Blanche? And, if so, what had it to do with her?

ii

The second and even more pressing preoccupation was with Patricia and Harry. It had been clear to Edgar that Patricia, when he met her at Monty's, was changed, that she was not at peace. She had been restless and emotional beyond the ordinary. It seemed that her attitude to himself was different, and less cordial. He loved her, and any change was thus of importance to him. The same air of reluctance in her glances and speeches had been apparent during this evening. Only upon their walk had she seemed to return to an ordinary cameraderie. And at the height of their newly-rediscovered ease this encounter with Harry Greenlees had spoiled everything. Or had it been the encounter with Rhoda? Could it be—and Edgar's heart leapt at the thought—that Patricia had with chagrin noticed him in Rhoda's company at Monty's party; had thought.... It was fantastic. Patricia was not crude enough for that. Edgar brushed aside any notion so preposterous. Harry, then.... His mouth became stern.

Edgar was not, outside of business, analytical; but he took intricate views of whatever was unfamiliar. And Patricia was unfamiliar. She was his new and precious delight. During the whole of the evening he had watched her without direct scrutiny; had felt, and not calculated, her changes of expression, the quick, gentle turns of her head, the speedless flights of amusement, interest, disdain, hostility, and sympathy which were so easily to be read. And in each reference to himself he had discerned something unwelcome—flattering, perhaps, as showing that she did not ignore him; but unwelcome. All the arch curiosity which might have accompanied any consciousness of attraction was absent. What if this should be explicable by some feeling for Harry? It might easily be so. Edgar knew that, so far as he could imagine the standards of a young girl's heart and mind, there was no comparison between Harry and himself. Harry was a big fellow with a handsome face, a ready tongue, charm—with the very qualities, in fact, to make him the subject of sentimental dreams. And Edgar could not refuse to suppose Patricia capable of sentimental dreams. He fought against the notion; but common sense had greater power over him than the instinct to idealise the beloved. He recognised that Patricia, like other young girls, was probably romantic. Well, he was no figure of romance. That was all. If she employed romantic standards he stood no chance of winning her love in return for his devotion. The battle was lost before issue was joined.

iii

He awoke still less sanguine, but with a grimness which was not unfamiliar. After all, he had certain obvious advantages. He might be less showy than Harry; but he was not insignificant. If it came to the test of brain, his own was not inferior. His position was assured, while Harry's was probably that of a freelance—delightful in youth, but dwindling and even becoming precarious with the passing of each year. More than that, however. Edgar had the knowledge that Harry succeeded easily. He could tell that Harry took little heed for the morrow. That unlined youthful face, in a man not much younger than himself, told him a good deal. He put Harry down as thirty-five. And if a man had not taken thought by the time he is thirty-five he will never begin to take thought after that age. He may harden; but he will never mature. Also, if a man is not married by the time he is thirty-five, there is generally a reason. It might be, as it was in Edgar's own case, that he has worked too hard, so that all his energy has been absorbed. That was not Harry's position. He was not married because he did not wish to be married. He pleased too easily, and he was not the sort of man who finds marriage an excellent starting-point for inexhaustible love-affairs.

No! Edgar was quite generous to Harry. He saw him as a man free from that skidding of the mind which is called sentimentalism. Love affairs—yes; but always sporting. As a man he had no objection to Harry. Directly, however, Harry appeared in the neighbourhood of Patricia, the situation changed. It would almost equally have changed if Harry had begun to make love to Claudia. He did not know that Claudia would have found Harry tiresome; but that was because he did not perceive that in calling himself unattractive, he spoke without her authority. And as for Patricia—who could tell what Patricia thought or felt? For all Edgar knew she might have fallen in love with the man whose dancing she so much admired; or with the pink and white baby who performed with the fire-irons, or with Monty Rosenberg. She might be incapable of falling in love with anybody, through self-infatuation, which is a disease greatly in vogue in modern times. She might give her love in time even to Edgar Mayne.

Edgar somehow thought, as he shaved, that this was not so improbable as he had felt on the previous evening or upon his awakening.

iv

Claudia was the first person Edgar encountered that day. She was sitting by the fire in the breakfast-room, eating an apple and reading "The Daily Courier." A dress of blue serge with a small green collar and green cuffs made her look very slim and juvenile. Her dark hair, in a billow, hid part of her face as she bent over the paper; and Edgar could barely catch a glimpse of her eyelashes and the rather inquisitive tip of her nose. At the other end of her person there was a considerable display of ankle, small and well-shaped.

"Hullo, good-morning!" said Claudia cheerfully. "Nobody else down yet, my poor boy. And I only got up to see you. I think that girl's splendid." She cast aside her paper. "You've got good taste in people, Edgar. I've noticed it. She's got one fault; and I'm going to cure her of it. I'm going to take that girl in hand."

"I wonder if she'd do the same for you," pondered Edgar aloud, as he rang for breakfast.

"She may try. Don't you want to know her fault?" asked Claudia, with a straight glance.

"Perhaps I know it."

"Perhaps you do." The acknowledgment was faintly puzzled. "But you like her, don't you?"

"Very much."

"She's almost good enough for you to marry." Claudia was reflective.

"Oh, not quite?" innocently asked Edgar. "No, I suppose not." He was too well-acquainted with Claudia to be drawn, even if he had supposed her to be angling for an admission, which she was not.

"Is she rich?"

"I've no idea."

"I shall find out. I think she's poor. And that's one reason why this fault of hers is a danger."

They seated themselves at the table, and began to eat moderately warm breakfast.

"Why do you think it's a danger?" asked Edgar.

"Well ..." Claudia spoke with her mouth full; but she was full of candour, because she and Edgar were the best friends in the world. "You see, Edgar, she's conceited. It may be only skin deep; but if it isn't, then she's hopeless. I mean, if it's ingrained."

Edgar felt a creeping of the flesh. His grave expression of interest did not change; but his breath was a little short.

"She's very young, of course," he objected. "Isn't conceit a phase with some people?"

"I hope to cure her. But you'd admit it's a very dangerous thing to have in the blood."

"You're very wise, Claudia," he said, after a pause.

"I'm vain; and you're proud (which is a sort of vanity); and we're both obstinate. But we're not conceited. Now Patricia thinks no end of herself. She's got the idea that there's something wonderful just in the fact that she's herself. At least, I think so."

"She thought you were cleverer than she was. She liked you."

"Well, that's good," said Claudia. Edgar smiled. "No, don't you see, it's good because it shows.... All the same, its wrong to compare yourself."

"I've just been comparing myself with another man. I thought I came out of it rather well, on the whole...."

"Silly! That sort of thing's...."

"I was quite serious."

"Then you're in love. That's all I can say. And I don't want you to be in love—yet I like Patricia awfully. I'm going to see her; and I think I'm going to cure her of her fault. But if I don't cure her, then I'd sooner you didn't fall in love with her."

"I don't think we'll quite assume...."

"My dear Edgar. You can't bring a girl to this house without my realising that something's up. You'll grant that, won't you? I don't mean the ordinary inspection. Less crude than that, I hope. But none the less pretty obvious."

"I can see that it was a very incautious thing to do," admitted Edgar, solemnly.

"Therefore—" "Miaow!" cried Percy from outside the door. Claudia rose to admit him, speaking as she crossed the room. "Therefore—good-morning, Percy—I consider that I'm called on to protect you. You're fortunate in having me. Of course, mother's fallen in love with her on the spot; and hopes she will attract you."

For the first time Edgar showed signs of embarrassed exasperation.

"She's idiotic!" he muttered.

"The older generation," calmly explained Claudia. "That's what that is. You'd admit that I'm much more realistic. I'm not by any means sure that Patricia's ... well, eager to attract you. She ought to be, because you're the best man she's ever likely to meet. But you can't tell. When a girl's conceited, she tries this man and that until she's afraid of missing the train altogether. And then she plunges, and ... well!"

"Claudia, you make me uncomfortable by your profundity," said Edgar, respectfully.

She bowed to him across the table.

"Mother says I'm an enfant terrible. I have already told her that I'm a child of my generation. In some ways I know much more than you do, Edgar."

"In all, my dear. In all," was his modest rejoinder. "You also talk more. But I hope you will save Patricia."

"If I don't, nobody can," said Claudia. "But she may have to have a ... Well, we'll see. I was going to say she might have to burn her fingers. I wonder how you'd like that. Not much, I expect. Edgar, there's something I want to ask you...."

v

Edgar looked at his watch.

"I oughtn't to stay," he said. "Fill my cup first. I shall be listening."

"What's a man's feeling about a girl?" Edgar waited. "I mean, about things she does."

"What things?"

"Reckless things. Silly things. I expect men feel different things—and different things about different girls—and different things about different girls at different times. But what I mean is this. All girls except me have very much more liberty than they used to do.—Well, even me, then; but they use their freedom differently. They go about freely, and so on. Don't they? Well, they do silly things—compromise themselves."

"I should think it's harder to do that now than it used to be."

"It's very funny—I don't think it is, somehow. It's all a convention. You can do certain things; but not others. It's odd. But that's not what I wanted to ask you. What I meant was—if somebody had been silly—had, we'll say, gone off with a man, found she didn't care for him, left him.... How would you feel about ... about marrying her?"

"You alarm me!" cried Edgar, still a little amused, but with a constriction of the heart. And then, for a moment, it crossed his mind that she might even be hinting at something which he dared not contemplate. His mind went straight to Harry, to the meeting.... He was conscious of a cold sweat. The thing was so monstrous, and the feeling it aroused in him so passionate, that he did not understand until he had recovered composure what it was further that Claudia was saying.

"That is how you feel?" Claudia was persisting. "You do feel ... well, horror?"

Edgar looked at her. Gradually his expression lightened. Claudia's face was so earnest, her concern to know his view was so obviously sincere.

"I couldn't possibly tell you how I should feel," he answered, smiling.

"Would you marry a girl who ... well, who wasn't quite ... wasn't quite fresh?"

Forgetting the horror he had glimpsed, Edgar thought for an instant.

"It all depends on the girl's attitude," he ventured. "I think for me it would be a question of whether there was any confusion in her mind between me and the other man. If there were, I wouldn't marry her."

"You do admit the right of a girl to freedom of every kind of action?"

"In theory."

"Not in fact?" Claudia was very eager. Edgar answered definitely.

"Not in fact. Any more than I admit the same right in a man."

"Ah, that's the point! You admit the right; but you don't think it should be indulged. I quite agree, Edgar. It's because it affects other people. That's ethics; not conventions. All the difference in the world. Thank you. I've been thinking about it a good deal, and I wanted to hear what you felt. Good boy!"

As he rose from the table, Claudia also rose, and gave him that rare thing, a kiss. For Claudia was no more demonstrative of affection than her brother.

"Sorry to have been a bore," she said abruptly. "I wanted to know. It hadn't anything to do with—with what we'd been talking about, you know."

"God forbid!" said Edgar, as he turned away from her in some haste.

Claudia returned to Percy, who had jumped upon her chair and was giving little sniffs at the odours of breakfast. She patted Percy's head, or rather, his nose, so that he scowled at her; and, after having lifted Percy to another chair, poured herself more coffee. Although Claudia looked so young, and her movements were still the free movements of youth, she was rather grave as she sat at the table. So many little thoughts and intuitions, chiefly about Edgar, but some of them about Patricia, ran in her head. She could not be other than grave.

vi

Edgar went straight out of the house after he had left Claudia in the breakfast room. He could not at first understand why he felt so extraordinarily miserable as he walked along the street; but he awoke to find his own exclamation, "God forbid!" dinning in his ears. What if the subject Claudia had introduced were something to do with Patricia! His mind was instantly alight. The man distraught by love will believe almost anything evil of the inscrutable mistress—that she is a devil, harlot, liar, angel, fool.... Edgar was not so extreme; but he was filled with that wild electricity of emotion which accompanies the throwing into a combustible mind of any such suggestion. His day was spoilt because of this one frantic thought. There was no pity here for Patricia; no understanding; only the fierce blaze of uncontrollable mental agitation. His heat cooled, of course; but the effect of it remained. Edgar knew that those calm doubtings and considerations of the night and morning were but the shadows of his real doubtings. Of consideration he had none: only a fire that smouldered, and that looked and felt like coldness. But he did not dare to recall the subject of the morning talk, or Claudia's dissociation of it from the discussion of Patricia's nature. To have done so would have brought him to a pitch of unmanageable fear. As it was, the thought, although suppressed, lay full of secret life.