i

Harry Greenlees, the young man with the flashing teeth, had been given his Rugby blue ten or eleven years before, and had helped Oxford to beat Cambridge in a memorable year. Since leaving the University he had played for two seasons with the Harlequins; but his footballing days were over now as he could no longer endure the strain of ninety-minutes' incessant conflict. During the rather aimless experiments which followed in the art of earning a living without exertion, Harry had revived an undergraduate habit of writing sporting descriptive articles, and to fellow-journalists his competence for this work was known. It was not, however, celebrated among his friends or the general public, and as he had fallen in quite by accident with a semi-literary and artistic set, the members of which took him for granted as a cheerful companion with enough money to live on, Harry enjoyed a most agreeable sort of life. His work was slangy and vigorous, and if it did not produce an income upon which a man of his type could exist, it made sufficient the small private means which were already at Harry's command. He was able to support himself in comfort and to go about the world very much at his ease.

Abroad, Harry walked, with a knapsack on his shoulders, and saw the countries of Europe from the road. It was for papers chiefly concerned with out-of-door life and sport that he worked, and accordingly he found material ready for his eye and his fountain-pen wherever he turned for diversion. His was a life of varied pleasure, and for as long as he remained fit he would find it inexhaustible in possibilities. He was a lively companion and a good sort. He was full of zest, making friends lightly and as lightly letting them go. Everybody felt his honesty and his energy, and he had neither the mannerisms of the unduly famous nor the menacing air of those who are intellectually better than their company. He was happy, impulsive, handsome, agreeable, and charming. It needed an Edgar Mayne to detect his faults, and Harry was too unsuspecting and satisfied to suppose that others were more subtle than himself.

He had been talking to Rhoda Flower, the dark girl with the milk-white face, when he first observed Edgar. And Edgar had been so little remarkable in appearance that this was the first fact about him which Harry had noticed. Harry, however, had found himself looking back at Edgar, unable to account for the interest he felt in the unknown. Rhoda, whom he had asked, knew no more about the man than he did, and had been indifferent; but Harry was definitely curious. If Edgar had been nearer he would have found himself directly addressed; but as it was the exchanged glance already mentioned was the only communication to pass between the two men. The glance had originated in a most singular impression which formed in Harry's mind.

When Monty had moved forward to great old Dalrymple, who was some sort of artist, Harry had felt his usual dislike of the man, based upon the feeling that Dalrymple carried with him an air of stale drink and unsuccess. But he had looked past the old man to the unknown girl who seemed to be his companion; and instantly there shot through him that strong sexual interest which Harry was in the habit of calling "love." He was a strong young man, very sufficiently sensual, and his notions of love were made accordingly. It was a quick impulse, and his first thought after receiving it and deciding that he must know the stranger was the realisation that what he had desired Monty also would desire. And then, ignoring all the others present, he had sharply sensed danger. The glance at Edgar had been quite three-quarters of a challenge. The flashing teeth had been bared, and the blue eyes had been hard. But there was something about Edgar which disarmed him. Hence the smile.

This was not the first time Harry had been in love. He was attractive, and he was quickly attracted. He had self-assurance, and he knew how to give pleasure. To Rhoda Flower he was certainly the most attractive person in the world. It was to her that he continued quietly to talk while the stranger was being brought forward to the group round the fireplace. He was teasing Rhoda, and gave no further sign of interest in the other girl; but he knew when she was near. He turned his head and looked at her. He looked from near at hand at the soft, beautifully moulded cheeks and the impetuous mouth and the clear blue eyes; and a very faint additional colour came into his face. Not knowing that Edgar was watching him, he was perfectly aware of the girl's grace and beauty. The curve of her neck and breast and shoulder seemed always to have been known and entrancing to him. With Harry it was love at first sight.

"... Greenlees—Miss Quin," said Monty, leading the stranger from one to the other of his older friends, and making her acquainted with them all.

The smoke-filled atmosphere seemed to come down like a cloud against which she stood fresh and lovely. All the vehemences of colour about him were softened. For that instant Harry saw nothing but the stranger, felt nothing but her hand. He found Miss Quin adorable. She was a reality, a sweet and wayward reality, like a flash of scarlet; and his one desire was to feel her soft hair against his cheek, her cool shoulder, her surrendered lips. The imagination of these contacts was intense. Into Harry's expression of light spirits crept something ever so slightly heavier. He was serious. To him the senses were a cause of seriousness, a cause of the complete oblivion of all that was comic or whimsical.

From behind him came the voice of the young artist, Amy Roberts.

"Hullo, Patricia," she said in greeting.

Patricia! Patricia Quin. So that was the stranger's name. Harry's faint flush subsided. He cooled. The vision had passed. The quick physical imagining was for the present gone, no longer an eager craving. He must talk to her, see her, be with her; but in a few minutes, quite easily and simply. What lay in the future was something which stretched much farther than his immediate vision. To Harry it beckoned as irresistible adventure.

ii

The party swayed and engulfed Patricia. She was among all the others, and talking or listening, extraordinarily delighted with all this sound and colour. To her, whose first party of the kind it was, such a brimming claim to the senses had no shortcomings. It was all new and glorious and intoxicating. She felt herself a queen. Wherever she looked she found the strong colour and sensation for which she had pined. It was the first party, and a landmark. Compared with her days and the unattractive dinginess of her own rooms, Monty's home was all that was rich and desirable. At two-and-twenty, when one is starving for colour, a glut of it is like a feast. She was so happy, like a child at its first theatre, that she sat there spell-bound. It could not have occurred to her to think these people sophisticated; they were all so kind, she thought to herself, so kind and generous and interesting. Her heart went out to them all. It was as though she cast her own warm affectionateness upon the party. Her radiance increased with each instant. The corners of her mouth went up; her sweet, child-like laugh melted into the general laughter. All this light and colour and sound was superb. It was vivacity and richness, music and poetry, an unequalled stimulant to gaiety and the senses. It was life as she had dreamt of it. There was a spice of daring in such contact with the unknown and the exciting, and daring was her ideal. It was lovely.... She was in a beautiful dream of delight.

Even Patricia at last began to look, beaming in her happiness, from one face to the other. They were all faces that interested her. They all had a cast—not of dignity or wisdom, but of something which she thought of as enlightenment. There was a quality about them to which she was unaccustomed, and she exalted it. She was prepared to find all knowledge and emotion in the faces, and she found it. The tones of the voices charmed her; the little jokes which she did not understand, and the fragments of criticism which belonged to another world of interests and consciousness, were all a part of the magic and delight of the evening. She set herself to look round the studio, sitting close to Amy Roberts, as a child might have done, while Amy, to whom all this sort of thing was becoming almost as commonplace as she pretended to Patricia that it already was, preserved an air of most distinguished semi-boredom. Amy, herself an artist, told her the names of those present, and sometimes, if she knew it, something about the people. Patricia from time to time glanced aside at Amy's fair bobbed hair and her white face and light lashes and eyebrows and dissatisfied mouth; and thought how nice Amy was, and how clever, and how she wished Amy had a sense of humour of the same kind as her own.

"That's Rhoda Flower—that dark girl. She's a dress-designer. Not much good, as you can see from her dress. And those two over on the right, who're so fond of each other and think each other perfect...."

"I know. They're engaged," guessed Patricia, laughing.

"More than that. They're married. And happy. The only married people I know who are happy. And how it is that Olivia has brought herself to leave the babies this evening I can't understand. They must have got a nurse. So I suppose Peter's been making some money, for a change. Olivia and Peter Stephens, they are. They've been married three years, and they've got two babies. They're still devoted to each other."

"Odd!" joked Patricia, with archly raised brows. She had no notion of the truth of her comment in the present company, or of the underlying cynicism which an unfriendly hearer might read into it. Amy looked side-ways at her friend. She was puzzled, as the sophisticated always are puzzled by a remark made with nonsensical humour and without consciousness of its implications.

"It is," she agreed drily. "Then there's somebody who isn't devoted to her husband—Blanche Tallentyre. And with good reason. That white woman with the salmon lips."

"Is she unhappy?" Patricia's face clouded. She imagined a tragedy, and she still passionately desired happy endings to all stories. She scanned Mrs. Tallentyre's face, and saw the hard lines at the lips, and the thin cheeks, and how tight her skin was across the cheek bones; and her heart felt soft towards one to whom love had been cruel. Now that she knew this of Blanche Tallentyre she could notice the hunger in Blanche's face, and the thinness of her bare arms, and the cup at the base of her throat. She could imagine sleepless, tearless sorrow. So there was one at least here who, in spite of all the thrill of it, was unhappy.

"Not too unhappy," said Amy. "Hush. I'll tell you later. Not now."

They paused, Patricia looking childishly wise in an effort to disguise her faint distaste for this hint at an only dimly-realised form of ugliness; and both stared valiantly round at the others, so mysterious to Patricia, and so fascinating in their mysteriousness.

"Jack Penton's here," proceeded Amy. "Somewhere. Of course, not when he's.... Oh, there you are, Jack. You know Patricia, don't you? Who's that man at the back? Behind Charlotte Hastings. That quiet man." Patricia looked quickly at Jack Penton, whom she had met before. He was a dark, clean-shaven, commonplace-looking young man with a rasping voice; but he was a good dancer, and she thought him, if not clever, at least intelligent and worthy of some other girl's love. There was cameraderie, but no love, in Amy's manner to the boy; and something very similar, upon the surface, in his manner to Amy; but to Patricia it was agreeable to see their faces near together. But then Patricia was a sentimentalist, and saw and imagined all sorts of things that never existed.

Jack wrinkled his brow in the effort to recall a name half-forgotten.

"Er—I think his name's Rayne, or Mayne," he huskily reported. "That's it: Edgar Mayne. He's something in the city. Rather an old bird, don't you think? He's a friend of Monty's. Somebody told me he was clever, but you never know with that sort of chap."

"He looks very nice," whispered Patricia. "But rather stern. I don't think he likes this kind of thing. He looks disapproving. Oh, I wish he liked it."

Again came that incredulous stare from Amy which convicted Patricia of a naÏvetÉ. Patricia stiffened a little, and became more guarded. Some vanity in her cried out against criticism. It was the one thing she could not bear.

"Just there, on the right, is Felix Brow," proceeded Amy.

"Not ..." Patricia began in amazement.

Suddenly, as they sat thus absorbed, there came an interruption.

"Can't I help?" breathed an eager voice. "I can tell you all sorts of things you don't know—about everybody. Who they married, and why they separated, and who they're living with. I'm really an expert guide."

They all looked up, and saw Harry Greenlees, whose face was so lowered to Patricia's that it was almost level with her own. It was so close, too, that she could see the warm colour under his skin, and the crisp hairs of his moustache, and the curl of his lips as they parted in a smile of entreaty. Seen near at hand, Harry's face had all the additional attractiveness which health gives to good featured. His vigour was manifest. There was a pleading in his eyes that was almost irresistible. It was the pleading of an ideally masterful lover who would not understand a refusal and so would not accept it. Patricia looked, and held back her own head until the curve of her cheek was lengthened and made even more beautiful than before. She was smiling, and when she smiled one beheld such a picture of happiness that one became quite naturally intrigued and marvelling. To Harry the picture was an intoxication.

"You may tell me everything," said Patricia, with assurance equal to his own. "But first of all tell me who you are."

He took a seat upon the floor by her side, clasping his knees, and fixing his attention upon the two plump little hands which were clasped in Patricia's lap.

"I am the most marvellous and unfortunate of men," he said. "Unfortunate, at least, until this very minute. My name is Harry Greenlees...."

iii

To Patricia it was all as delicious as a fairy tale. She was not unused to admiration, for her beauty was of the kind to draw men; but the admiration of the men she had known had been too easily won to possess any lasting value. She had become regal and fastidious, accepting homage even while she despised those by whom it was offered. And who were these men, after all? They were men she had met at local dances, or in the office in which she had not very competently or devotedly worked. A few she had met at the homes of acquaintances, a few at the seaside hotels at which she and her uncle had stayed from summer holiday to summer holiday. They had been clerks or young school-masters or inferior stragglers in one or other of the professions. All, apart from the admiration they offered and the fact that they were more or less organically sound males, had failed to interest a lively intelligence and an impatient spirit. But now that her uncle, like her father and mother, was dead; and now that, having lost her situation and determined upon a Career for Herself, Patricia was in new lodgings and facing life upon a new footing, the case was altered. Old Dalrymple, whom she had met several times, and who had pleased her with his rather stale compliments and the still-unpricked bubble of his exaggerated tales of acquaintance with the great, had brought her to Monty's. He had been proud to do it. Partly he had an old man's rather morbid sentimental feeling towards her, which played with the pretence that it was paternal; and partly he had the knowledge that Patricia was a creditable companion. So he had brought her here on this occasion, and Patricia, revelling in the newness of her delight, had forgotten him. She was already in a hitherto-untasted heaven. And this ardent young man at her feet, who shone with admiration so confident and encroaching as almost to excite her, was a new type to Patricia. She had always been so much quicker-witted than her followers that she had discouraged them in turn. She was still engaged in battling with Harry's wit, and thinking it exceedingly nimble and daring and charming. She was more and more charmed each minute, partly with Harry, partly with herself for so charming him.

He told her about all the different men and women who were before her, what they did in order to live, and why they were present; and as she skipped quickly with her eyes and brain from one to the other he made up a great deal of nonsense about their private lives which diverted Patricia extraordinarily, while Amy listened with disapproval to the whole catalogue.

"Stuff!" she at last interrupted. "There's not a word of truth in it, Patricia."

"I know!" bubbled Patricia. "Don't you see, that's what's so nice!" Her whole face was alight as she spoke. Amy's objection seemed to Patricia to show her so very pedestrian in standard and judgment.

"Patricia understands me," said Harry, unchecked in his use of her Christian name. "She's the first person to understand me. Do you know, I've been looking all over the world for you—for thirty weary years." He beamed whimsically, handsomer in Patricia's eyes each instant.

"I wonder how many times you've said that," snapped Amy, who was impervious.

"A million times, and never meant it until now." Harry's smile showed his big white teeth, and long lashes shaded his eyes; and his big frame was so firm and manifest that Patricia, in laughing as she did with an exultancy that almost held tears, was full also of happiness in the enjoyment of his manly graces.

"I understand everything," she announced, confidingly; and mystically believed it.

"Yes, but he doesn't think so," warned Amy, in grave alarm. "Or he wouldn't be telling lies at such a rate. It isn't true that Dolly Fletcher's the daughter of a Russian prince and a charwoman."

"Oh, but wouldn't it be nice if she was!" cried Patricia.

"Exactly," agreed Harry, and proceeded to embroider his legend. "You see the short nose of the Russian of high caste, and hear the accent of the London back street. Notice the powder, the scent, the gold chain; the fur edging to her frock. You can imagine snow on her shoes and a pail in her hand. You can imagine waves of dirty water slopping just under the edge of the bed, and silk underclothing, and cosmetics, and a bath on the first Sunday of the Month—as a rarefied sensual indulgence."

"She does look dirty," admitted Amy, scrutinizing Dolly. "It's her skin. But she's a very decent sort."

This was said defiantly, while Patricia wondered. How strange! It was the first flaw that she had found in her handsome new friend, and it was unwelcome. She wished he had not spoken in that way. It troubled her.

"Tell us what you know about Mr. Mayne," said Patricia, to change this topic and to conceal her distress. It continued for a moment or two, nevertheless, as an undercurrent to her thoughts, and was still unpleasant. Personal uncleanliness was abhorrent to her; but the joking suggestion of it was equally abhorrent. It was an ugliness.

"Mayne? Who's he? Oh, is that Mayne? Really!" Harry seemed for a moment to be lost in thought. "How astonishing. Edgar Mayne. I didn't know who it was. Well, Mayne's a peculiar fellow, as I don't mind telling you."

"Is he married?" demanded Amy impatiently. "If you don't know anything about him, say so. Don't make it up. If you play any tricks on us about the man I shall go across and ask him myself."

"No, this is true," said Harry, reflectively. As he spoke he looked again at Edgar, who was talking to Rhoda Flower and listening calmly to her chatter. "He's a man who started as a bootblack or something...."

"Lie number one," commented Amy. "Take care!"

"Well, an office boy. And he got to be a ledger clerk. And he became an accountant. And then manager. And then partner. No, Amy, he's not married, as far as I know. And instead of marrying he's stuck to work and he's just bought a newspaper of some sort. So I suppose he's presently going into Parliament, and intends to be in the Cabinet in five years. He'll attack the Government in his paper until he's offered a job; and then they'll give him an Under-Secretaryship. Then he'll push out the old chap above him, and become a Minister. And there you are."

"Very nice. He's rich, then?" Amy was as sharp and persistent as the claws of a playing kitten.

"I s'pose so. I don't know. He's the industrious apprentice."

Unperceived by his hearers, Harry was sneering a little, as one always does at industriousness, with the suggestion that it is a common vice, whereas it is a chimera.

"What's the paper he's bought?" asked Jack Penton. "If it's a daily he'll burn his fingers. I thought he was in the City."

"I don't know what the paper is." Harry's motion towards Jack, however graceful and even consciously charming, showed that he was busy with his more honest thoughts. They became vocal, and his voice, hitherto so ingratiatingly warm, had lost all quality. It was merely cautious and speculative. "I wonder if he'd give me the job of Sports Editor on it," Harry said.

"Take it," jeered Amy. "Take it. That's the sort of thing you do, isn't it?"

Harry smiled again, altogether recovered, and once again the teasing comrade he had been. It was a most welcome return.

"I will," he assured them. "You may regard it as taken. I'll just tell Mayne about it before he goes."

Patricia listened still, the colour deeper in her cheeks as the result of so much excitement and new knowledge. She was quite fascinated by Harry, as she was fascinated by this whole unfamiliar scene. She could hardly keep still, so delighted was she to be in this realm of men and women who "did" things, whose names and qualities and actions were known and public. Such gossip as she had heard was quite new to her. Such assurance as Harry had shown in sketching the possible future of Mr. Mayne argued an inside knowledge of the world of politics and affairs and finance and wide-reaching action involving the fortunes of other people which no man whom she had hitherto known had possessed or pretended to possess. A gentle glance of encouragement, almost shy, but wholly attractive, passed between Patricia and Harry. Upon his side it was prolonged. He gave a little laugh.

"Oh, it's a great life!" he ejaculated, as though he had known her thoughts.

How Patricia agreed with him!

"It's a great life!" she emphatically repeated, kindled to enthusiasm at having her vaguer thoughts crystallised. And she felt how she and Harry appreciated it in common as a great life, and was again pleased and excited, so that she wanted to clap her hands with joy. The little group of four, of which Patricia and Harry were the centre, was observed by all; and if Patricia was in any degree aware of this the knowledge can only have added to her conviction of the general splendid entertainingness of life. She was quite carried out of herself and into the spirit of the hour.

iv

By this time the first half of the evening was coming to an end. Monty, who had talked to all his guests, had observed that it was ten o'clock; and it was now that a screen at one end of the studio was removed, allowing the buffet for the first time to reveal its attractions. The visitors spread—all except our party of four;—and the most remarkable collection of drinks and foodstuffs was being relished by all. For some moments Patricia and her friends knew nothing of what was going forward; but at last Harry and Jack rose abruptly from their places to secure refreshment for their charmers. No sooner had they joined the group at the buffet than Monty and Edgar approached the two girls, the former bearing a tray upon which were glasses large and small, and the latter a couple of piled plates. It was Monty's habit to make his guests serve themselves, and he had only relaxed his rule because he was interested in Patricia and her youthful delight. Upon his heels as he thus approached hung Dalrymple, who saw an opportunity of reclaiming his charge. Patricia had forgotten Dalrymple—characteristically,—although but for him she would never have known the joys of the evening at all.

She was charmed at being thus waited upon, and accepted champagne cup and some of Edgar's more nourishing products with the most urbane pleasure. To Edgar, who came second in the procession, she was especially friendly, for she had been absorbed by Harry's tale of his history. She had time only to thank him and to catch his grave smile, and then Dalrymple, rather officiously, brought himself to her notice.

"Is Patricia having a good time?" the old man asked, with his smirking air of hints and mystery. "That's right. That's right. Is there room here for an old man?"

Amy looked at him with aversion as he squeezed into their seat beside Patricia, and her expression was suspicious and scornful. But Patricia had no criticism. It was nothing to her that his eyes were protruding and gooseberry-like, and the fringe of his moustache above the mouth browned with the stains of food and much drink. She was in a mood to welcome all who contributed to this party. She felt in a curious psychic way that it was peculiarly her party; and the atmosphere of the place would have led her, in any case, to frank friendliness with all comers. She was transported, and hardly conscious of her own actions. The barbaric colours seemed to have mingled into a glorious harmony, and she was as much intoxicated by these colours and the sounds and associations of the evening as she could have been made by deep potations. The glass in her hand was only half-empty; but she was drunk with happiness, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brimming with laughter, her lips parted in eager sportiveness. Danger she could not foresee. She lived in the moment, and knew that for her it was good. She was unaware of Dalrymple's singular glance, with its old man's ugliness and preoccupation. She could not read the expression upon Monty's face when he looked at her over the glass-laden tray. She knew nothing of Amy's grave distrust and even suspicion. She only felt that she had never been so happy.

Upon an impulse she thrust her glass into Dalrymple's hand, and rose and went straight to Edgar. It was extraordinary that she should feel no embarrassment; but Patricia did not reflect. She was acting upon impulse, and she exalted impulse, as modern young women are in the habit of doing. Moreover, all who knew Edgar trusted him.

"I wanted to ask you ..." began Patricia, and then faltered. Edgar's face was blurred to her vision by the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. She blinked them away, and took new courage from his expression. This man, so different from the others there, was one of those, she felt, who could always be reached by the truth. He was so controlled, so grave, that he might have terrified her in other circumstances; but in this mood of exaltation Patricia was carried beyond fear. "I wanted to ask you ..." she stammered again. "They say ... Mr. Greenlees says you've just bought a newspaper.... And will you please make him Sports Editor! I don't think he means really to ask you; but he said he would; and I think he wants to be.... If only you could, it would be so awfully nice.... He's really ..."

And then Patricia faltered. She was at the end of her knowledge. Her cheeks flushed. For the first time she was conscious of grave discomfort. She would have cancelled all she had said if it had been possible; but it was too late, and her trembling smile of anxiety was the most beautiful thing Edgar had seen for many days. Nevertheless, he shook his head.

"Such an advocate would secure a man any position," he said. "But only if it were available. It is quite true that I've bought a paper; but what a paper! Miss Quin—I hardly like to tell you what paper it is. I have only bought it because the Editor is a man I love and admire, and because the paper would otherwise die. It is called 'The Antiquarian's Gazette,' You see, we could only have some very antique sports in such a paper."

"Couldn't you ... couldn't you ... bring it up-to-date?" begged Patricia.

Edgar shook his head with so concerned an expression that she could hardly detect his lurking smile.

"I'm afraid ..." he said.

"No." Patricia was rueful. "No, I see it wouldn't do. I'm sorry, though." Her thoughts ran on apace. "Did you mean," she asked suddenly, "that the editor would have ... he wouldn't have had anything to live on?"

"Well, he's a very proud old gentleman," admitted Edgar.

"And then you've bought it to ..."

"More or less," he agreed. "It's a very special case, of course."

"Well, I think you're splendid," Patricia cried. "But then, everything ..." She paused, almost overcome. "To-night, everything's splendid."

And with that she began quite suddenly to cry, large tears rolling down her cheeks, while Edgar took one of her half-raised hands and held it in his own until she should have regained self-control. It came in a moment, and her friendly smile, so almost roguish, pierced the tears and obliterated them. Edgar smiled also, in relief and friendship.

"All right?" he questioned, very quietly.

Patricia's other hand was for the lightest instant upon his, and she was free. She nodded reassuringly, and with her handkerchief caused two tears which stood upon her cheeks to vanish. She was like a little girl; but she had made another friend, for nobody could have withstood behaviour as free from artifice and so full of naÏve emotion. The episode was finished; but its consequences could never be finished, for a human relation had been established, and these things are undying.

v

With the arrival and circulation of the drinks, Monty's party took a new turn. The noise at first increased, into such a sustained and stentorian buzzing that the sounds would have stunned a newcomer unprepared for such celebrations; but presently the noise so died that the steady downpour of rain could be heard upon the studio's glass roof. The cup was a strong one, mixed by a cunning hand; liqueurs followed; tinklings and small clashes were audible. The party grew quieter. A heaviness began to show in its members. The pallor of some of the guests increased, and with the now great heat of the poorly-ventilated room there came closeness and some discomfort. Only Dalrymple and Frederick Tallentyre (the husband of Blanche—a swarthy man with a mass of dark hair) remained at the buffet; and Dalrymple began to laugh quietly, showing his old yellow teeth.

Patricia looked once at her escort, and if she also had not had the first Benedictine of her life she would have been shocked. As it was she sat still beside Amy, her lips a little swollen and her eyes glowing; almost noisy, but no longer happy as she had been. Any outbreak of noise and dancing would have carried her with it; but these people, with their increasingly white puffy faces and the seriousness which began to overtake most of those present, were no longer adorable. They fell into a monotony of familiar dummies. Even Harry, eager though he was, she saw with less intensity of vision. He was still delightful and gay; but she was surfeited with emotion. Not at all intoxicated, but over-tired, she was now ready for the end of the evening. She even observed the first departure with some gladness. Departures began and continued.

"I say ... I'm sorry ..." Harry was murmuring in Patricia's ear. His hand was upon her wrist. "I say ... we must meet again, you know."

"Of course," she agreed, her face clear and open and full of the sweet candour she was feeling.

"How ... when can I see you?" He was hot and urgent. "I'm awfully sorry, but I promised to see young Rhoda home. But ... I ... er.... When, I mean ... when can I see you. I must.... It's got to be soon, you know." Oh, they were of one mind upon that!

Dalrymple was now alone at the buffet, a benign smile upon his aged face, and his attitude that of one by the world forgotten.

"Any time. Let me know," said Patricia, very gravely, and without coquetry.

"But how can I find you?"

"Amy.... Any way, it's ..."

She was giving him her address when Rhoda appeared against the doorway, all muffled in furs, with her expression one of impatience ill-concealed. Harry shook Patricia's wrist, and made off to the door. He turned as he reached it, and kissed his hand. Patricia, with her head back and her eyes suddenly sombre, waved in return. He was gone. She turned to Amy, who was frowning at Jack Penton. Amy sharply whispered:

"How are you going to get home?"

As if in answer, Dalrymple approached rather lurchingly from the buffet. He smiled ingratiatingly upon the reduced company.

"Where's ... where's my lit ... little ... companion?" he said, coming towards them. It was clear that although he could control his movements he was no longer quite sober.

"No," said Amy, in Patricia's ear.

"I wonder if I might give you a lift in my car, Miss Quin."

The voice was that of Edgar. It was so quiet as to be almost an undertone.

"Oh, do." Amy was the one to answer, for Patricia was dazed.

"Get your coat, then. Will you take her?" Edgar supplemented his instruction with the request to Amy; and the two girls moved quickly away. They saw no more of Dalrymple. By the time they were dressed Edgar was waiting in the hall; and they stood in the doorway together while he started the engine of his car. Two great lights illumined the gravel sweep in front of Monty's house. Then Patricia was in a warm, soft-lighted vehicle, and they were in motion. She pressed back in her place, her head throbbing and her mouth still nervously smiling. It was as though she were flying from all unpleasantness, very tired and happy, with one she trusted and would have trusted with her life.

"And now ..." said Edgar. "Where do we go?"

Patricia was looking back at the doorway. In it she could no longer see Amy and Jack Penton. There remained, silhouetted against the light of the hall, only the figure of Monty; and Monty, so still that he might have been without pulses, stood watching the departure of Patricia and her escort. For her thereafter there was nothing but the soft purring of the engine and the sense of security and safe harbourage against all the elements.

vi

In the studio, Monty stood alone. His last guest had gone. He was in the midst of that stale atmosphere and the wreck of a past entertainment. Smoke hung about in the air, the faint pungent smells of the drinks and of drying dampness combined with it. All was hot and vitiated. Monty stood with perspiration faintly upon his cheeks and under his heavy eyes. He had mixed himself a glass of whisky and soda, and rested it now upon the mantelpiece. The soft front of his dress shirt was crumpled, and his hair was less thickly smooth than it had been; but he was otherwise immaculate, from his beautifully-cut dinner jacket to his patent-leather shoes. He looked round the studio, and listened to the pattering of rain above his head.

Slowly Monty sank into one of his soft armchairs, and set his glass upon the floor. Around him was an indescribable mess of cigarette ash. The ghost of the party was risen. It was everywhere about him, in the now-silent chatter and the remembered scents and interests of the evening. Monty's thoughts were not mournful or stagnant, as those of one more sensitive might have been. He was entirely collected, and satisfied with his party. There had been no hitch at all; and even Dalrymple had at last been persuaded to go by the arrival of a taxi and the loan of his fare. Monty was alone, well content.

All the same, Dalrymple must never again come to one of his parties. Monty had no use for a man such as he had shown himself to be. This was for Monty the end of Dalrymple. Far otherwise was the case with Dalrymple's companion. Far otherwise.... The exclusion of Dalrymple must not affect the little Quin girl. She could be reached through Amy Roberts ... possibly through Harry Greenlees....

Monty almost smiled as he had this last thought. Then he became serious again. He had other matters to think of. There were many other things....

Half-an-hour later he still sat in the studio, and at last, as his man-servant came into the doorway to ask if there were any further instructions, he roused himself from his reverie.

"No. Good-night, Jacobs," said Monty.

It was quite remarkable how long that little girl's face had remained in his memory, he thought. Fresh.... She was fresh. Attractive little thing ... Greenlees seemed to like her...."

Monty laughed quietly to himself.