After twenty-four eventful hours our two students of human motives found themselves together again by the fireplace in the Old George smoking-room. They had resumed their overnight conversation, in a state of considerable tension.

“If you find the accommodation of the car insufficient,” said Sir Richmond in a tone of extreme reasonableness, and I admit it is, we can easily hire a larger car in a place like this.

I would not care if you hired an omnibus, said Dr. Martineau. “I am not coming on if these young women are.”

“But if you consider it scandalous—and really, Martineau, really! as one man to another, it does seem to me to be a bit pernickety of you, a broad and original thinker as you are—”

“Thought is one matter. Rash, inconsiderate action quite another. And above all, if I spend another day in or near the company of Miss Belinda Seyffert I shall—I shall be extremely rude to her.”

“But,” said Sir Richmond and bit his lower lip and considered.

“We might drop Belinda,” he suggested turning to his friend and speaking in low, confidential tones. “She is quite a manageable person. Quite. She could—for example—be left behind with the luggage and sent on by train. I do not know if you realize how the land lies in that quarter. It needs only a word to Miss Grammont.”

There was no immediate reply. For a moment he had a wild hope that his companion would agree, and then he perceived that the doctor’s silence meant only the preparation of an ultimatum.

“I object to Miss Grammont and that side of the thing, more than I do to Miss Seyffert.”

Sir Richmond said nothing.

“It may help you to see this affair from a slightly different angle if I tell you that twice today Miss Seyffert has asked me if you were a married man.”

“And of course you told her I was.”

“On the second occasion.”

Sir Richmond smiled again.

“Frankly,” said the doctor, “this adventure is altogether uncongenial to me. It is the sort of thing that has never happened in my life. This highway coupling—”

“Don’t you think,” said Sir Richmond, “that you are attaching rather too much—what shall I say—romantic?—flirtatious?—meaning to this affair? I don’t mind that after my rather lavish confessions you should consider me a rather oversexed person, but isn’t your attitude rather unfair,—unjust, indeed, and almost insulting, to this Miss Grammont? After all, she’s a young lady of very good social position indeed. She doesn’t strike you—does she?—as an undignified or helpless human being. Her manners suggest a person of considerable self-control. And knowing less of me than you do, she probably regards me as almost as safe as—a maiden aunt say. I’m twice her age. We are a party of four. There are conventions, there are considerations.... Aren’t you really, my dear Martineau, overdoing all this side of this very pleasant little enlargement of our interests.”

“AM I?” said Dr. Martineau and brought a scrutinizing eye to bear on Sir Richmond’s face.

“I want to go on talking to Miss Grammont for a day or so,” Sir Richmond admitted.

“Then I shall prefer to leave your party.”

There were some moments of silence.

“I am really very sorry to find myself in this dilemma,” said Sir Richmond with a note of genuine regret in his voice.

“It is not a dilemma,” said Dr. Martineau, with a corresponding loss of asperity. “I grant you we discover we differ upon a question of taste and convenience. But before I suggested this trip, I had intended to spend a little time with my old friend Sir Kenelm Latter at Bournemouth. Nothing simpler than to go to him now....”

“I shall be sorry all the same.”

“I could have wished,” said the doctor, “that these ladies had happened a little later....”

The matter was settled. Nothing more of a practical nature remained to be said. But neither gentleman wished to break off with a harsh and bare decision.

“When the New Age is here,” said Sir Richmond, “then, surely, a friendship between a man and a woman will not be subjected to the—the inconveniences your present code would set about it? They would travel about together as they chose?”

“The fundamental principle of the new age,” said the doctor, “will be Honi soit qui mal y pense. In these matters. With perhaps Fay ce que vouldras as its next injunction. So long as other lives are not affected. In matters of personal behaviour the world will probably be much more free and individuals much more open in their conscience and honour than they have ever been before. In matters of property, economics and public conduct it will probably be just the reverse. Then, there will be much more collective control and much more insistence, legal insistence, upon individual responsibility. But we are not living in a new age yet; we are living in the patched-up ruins of a very old one. And you—if you will forgive me—are living in the patched up remains of a life that had already had its complications. This young lady, whose charm and cleverness I admit, behaves as if the new age were already here. Well, that may be a very dangerous mistake both for her and for you.... This affair, if it goes on for a few days more, may involve very serious consequences indeed, with which I, for one, do not wish to be involved.”

Sir Richmond, upon the hearthrug, had a curious feeling that he was back in the head master’s study at Caxton.

Dr. Martineau went on with a lucidity that Sir Richmond found rather trying, to give his impression of Miss Grammont and her position in life.

“She is,” he said, “manifestly a very expensively educated girl. And in many ways interesting. I have been watching her. I have not been favoured with very much of her attention, but that fact has enabled me to see her in profile. Miss Seyffert is a fairly crude mixture of frankness, insincerity and self-explanatory egotism, and I have been able to disregard a considerable amount of the conversation she has addressed to me. Now I guess this Miss Grammont has had no mother since she was quite little.”

“Your guesses, doctor, are apt to be pretty good,” said Sir Richmond.

“You know that?”

“She has told me as much.”

“H’m. Well—She impressed me as having the air of a girl who has had to solve many problems for which the normal mother provides ready made solutions. That is how I inferred that there was no mother. I don’t think there has been any stepmother, either friendly or hostile? There hasn’t been. I thought not. She has had various governesses and companions, ladies of birth and education, engaged to look after her and she has done exactly what she liked with them. Her manner with Miss Seyffert, an excellent manner for Miss Seyffert, by the bye, isn’t the sort of manner anyone acquires in a day. Or for one person only. She is a very sure and commanding young woman.”

Sir Richmond nodded.

“I suppose her father adores and neglects her, and whenever she has wanted a companion or governess butchered, the thing has been done.... These business Americans, I am told, neglect their womenkind, give them money and power, let them loose on the world.... It is a sort of moral laziness masquerading as affection.... Still I suppose custom and tradition kept this girl in her place and she was petted, honoured, amused, talked about but not in a harmful way, and rather bored right up to the time when America came into the war. Theoretically she had a tremendously good time.”

“I think this must be near the truth of her biography,” said Sir Richmond.

“I suppose she has lovers.”

“You don’t mean—?”

“No, I don’t. Though that is a matter that ought to have no special interest for you. I mean that she was surrounded by a retinue of men who wanted to marry her or who behaved as though they wanted to marry her or who made her happiness and her gratifications and her condescensions seem a matter of very great importance to them. She had the flattery of an extremely uncritical and unexacting admiration. That is the sort of thing that gratifies a silly woman extremely. Miss Grammont is not silly and all this homage and facile approval probably bored her more than she realized. To anyone too intelligent to be steadily excited by buying things and wearing things and dancing and playing games and going to places of entertainment, and being given flowers, sweets, jewellery, pet animals, and books bound in a special sort of leather, the prospect of being a rich man’s only daughter until such time as it becomes advisable to change into a rich man’s wealthy wife, is probably not nearly so amusing as envious people might suppose. I take it Miss Grammont had got all she could out of that sort of thing some time before the war, and that she had already read and thought rather more than most young women in her position. Before she was twenty I guess she was already looking for something more interesting in the way of men than a rich admirer with an automobile full of presents. Those who seek find.”

“What do you think she found?”

“What would a rich girl find out there in America? I don’t know. I haven’t the material to guess with. In London a girl might find a considerable variety of active, interesting men, rising politicians, university men of distinction, artists and writers even, men of science, men—there are still such men—active in the creative work of the empire.

“In America I suppose there is at least an equal variety, made up of rather different types. She would find that life was worth while to such people in a way that made the ordinary entertainments and amusements of her life a monstrous silly waste of time. With the facility of her sex she would pick up from one of them the idea that made life worth while for him. I am inclined to think there was someone in her case who did seem to promise a sort of life that was worth while. And that somehow the war came to alter the look of that promise.

“How?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I am only romancing. But for this young woman I am convinced this expedition to Europe has meant experience, harsh educational experience and very profound mental disturbance. There have been love experiences; experiences that were something more than the treats and attentions and proposals that made up her life when she was sheltered over there. And something more than that. What it is I don’t know. The war has turned an ugly face to her. She has seen death and suffering and ruin. Perhaps she has seen people she knew killed. Perhaps the man has been killed. Or she has met with cowardice or cruelty or treachery where she didn’t expect it. She has been shocked out of the first confidence of youth. She has ceased to take the world for granted. It hasn’t broken her but it has matured her. That I think is why history has become real to her. Which so attracts you in her. History, for her, has ceased to be a fabric of picturesque incidents; it is the study of a tragic struggle that still goes on. She sees history as you see it and I see it. She is a very grown-up young woman.

“It’s just that,” said Sir Richmond. “It’s just that. If you see as much in Miss Grammont as all that, why don’t you want to come on with us? You see the interest of her.”

“I see a lot more than that. You don’t know what an advantage it is to be as I am, rather cold and unresponsive to women and unattractive and negligible—negligible, that is the exact word—to them. YOU can’t look at a woman for five minutes without losing sight of her in a mist of imaginative excitement. Because she looks back at you. I have the privilege of the negligible—which is a cool head. Miss Grammont has a startled and matured mind, an original mind. Yes. And there is something more to be said. Her intelligence is better than her character.”

“I don’t quite see what you are driving at.”

“The intelligence of all intelligent women is better than their characters. Goodness in a woman, as we understand it, seems to imply necessarily a certain imaginative fixity. Miss Grammont has an impulsive and adventurous character. And as I have been saying she was a spoilt child, with no discipline.... You also are a person of high intelligence and defective controls. She is very much at loose ends. You—on account of the illness of that rather forgotten lady, Miss Martin Leeds—” “Aren’t you rather abusing the secrets of the confessional?”

“This IS the confessional. It closes to-morrow morning but it is the confessional still. Look at the thing frankly. You, I say, are also at loose ends. Can you deny it? My dear sir, don’t we both know that ever since we left London you have been ready to fall in love with any pretty thing in petticoats that seemed to promise you three ha’porth of kindness. A lost dog looking for a master! You’re a stray man looking for a mistress. Miss Grammont being a woman is a little more selective than that. But if she’s at a loose end as I suppose, she isn’t protected by the sense of having made her selection. And she has no preconceptions of what she wants. You are a very interesting man in many ways. You carry marriage and entanglements lightly. With an air of being neither married nor entangled. She is quite prepared to fall in love with you.”

“But you don’t really think that?” said Sir Richmond, with an ill-concealed eagerness.

Dr. Martineau rolled his face towards Sir Richmond. “These miracles—grotesquely—happen,” he said. “She knows nothing of Martin Leeds.... You must remember that....

“And then,” he added, “if she and you fall in love, as the phrase goes, what is to follow?”

There was a pause.

Sir Richmond looked at his toes for a moment or so as if he took counsel with them and then decided to take offence.

“Really!” he said, “this is preposterous. You talk of falling in love as though it was impossible for a man and woman to be deeply interested in each other without that. And the gulf in our ages—in our quality! From the Psychologist of a New Age I find this amazing. Are men and women to go on for ever—separated by this possibility into two hardly communicating and yet interpenetrating worlds? Is there never to be friendship and companionship between men and women without passion?”

“You ought to know even better than I do that there is not. For such people as you two anyhow. And at present the world is not prepared to tolerate friendship and companionship WITH that accompaniment. That is the core of this situation.”

A pause fell between the two gentlemen. They had smoothed over the extreme harshness of their separation and there was very little more to be said.

“Well,” said Sir Richmond in conclusion, “I am very sorry indeed, Martineau, that we have to part like this.”