Chapter II

MRS. BESSINGTON was talking gently to herself — inaudibly, yet with her lips moving — as she surveyed the luncheon-table half an hour before Nevill was expected. Enid was in her bedroom.

It was a pleasing little dining-room, this — the first on the left from the entrance to the flat, with a shallow square bow-window from which could be observed, sideways, the trees of Cadogan Square. Enid had done most of the furnishing. There were good chintz curtains, slender mahogany furniture, a quantity of little silver things on the lightly-carved mantelpiece, and a general air of coolness and space. A number of good engravings hung on the brown-papered walls; and the round dining-table was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Bessington had just stepped in from the sitting-room opposite to make certain that the flowers were fresh.

No human being in the world ever knew really what was Mrs. Bessington's scheme of life. Her general manner of existence was, presumably, satisfactory to herself, and not intolerable to Enid. She circled gently through London, Paris, the Riviera, Rome and back, every year, as has been described. In each place she visited the proper things. In London she went to see the Academy and several theatres, and dined and lunched out with friends as decently conventional as herself; in her cottage, when she went there, she read the newspapers, and sat a little in the garden, and called upon the Rector's wife; and went to a few afternoon parties. In Paris she drove out each afternoon in the Bois; and occasionally went to the theatre in the evening if there was anything about which anyone was talking. In Rome she led the kind of life that has been already described. And in London and Paris and the Riviera and Rome she talked gently all the time.

This, then, was the surface she presented to the world; and her smiling kind face remained unmoved. She wrote a good many letters to her friends, full of small talk; and especially to her nephews, giving them good advice all the year round, and generous tips at Christmas. Probably she kept a little pocket-book of engagements in which these duties were entered. But beneath that surface no human being had penetrated. It appeared as if she expressed herself so continuously in this unceasing dribble of talk and letters that there was no interior reservoir left at all; that she resembled, let us say, a pond through the centre of which a small stream flows in at one end and out at the other, so that the excavated space never has time to fill. No one even knew how much money she had: it was only quite certain that she had enough, and denied neither herself nor Enid anything that was proper to the kind of life they led. This flat must have cost at least three hundred a year; they had an excellent little motor-landaulette throughout the season; their cook was quite good and their wines above reproach.

At this moment, however, Mrs. Bessington was alone in the flat, except for Enid and the maid in the bedroom at the far end, and the cook in the kitchen, since Alice, the parlourmaid, and the last member of the establishment, had just been sent out to see why the cucumber had not arrived. She had slipped out, just as she was, round the corner; as the cucumber had been promised by twelve, and the little Louis Seize clock on the mantelpiece had just sounded one. When the bell, then, tingled sharply, Mrs. Bessington of course thought it was Alice come back, and that she had forgotten to take the key; so Mrs. Bessington stepped out to the door of the flat and opened it; and there was Nevill.

" I know I'm dreadfully early/' said Nevill, " but "

He wished to explain that he had had two mishaps on the way up — the bursting of some little valve and the puncture of a tire — that the car and Paul had been left somewhere near Croydon, that he had taken a taxi on, that he had mentioned the address in Cadogan Walk, as, after leaving Paul, he had discovered he had no money to pay the taxi with, and so on. (Of course, he might have told the servants in Elizabeth Street to pay; but that hadn't occurred to him.)

However, it was impossible to get all this out to Mrs. Bessington, though he tried twice. She drew him into the drawing-room and began to talk about azaleas; and it was a good ten minutes before he could make her understand that he wanted seven-and-six. Then, still discussing azaleas, she got out her netted purse from the drawer of a writing-table and gave him ten shillings in gold. So the taxi-driver got a considerable tip, and said: "Thank you, my lord."

Nevill continually forgot, in spite of all his resolutions, that Mrs. Bessington really did not desire to be talked to, so he tried again, when he came back, to say something about Aunt Anna's messages; but it was useless, so he gave up, and began to think about when Enid would come in. The drawing-room was as satisfactory as the dining-room; he had never seen either before, but he was quite conscious of its charm, and thought that he saw Enid's personality in it. Those old watercolours, for instance, in brown frames; that Spanish mirror over the fireplace; the delicate tapestry screen — these were of her choosing, he thought.

Meantime Mrs. Bessington talked.

Then quite suddenly there was a rustle outside and a sharp, clear voice spoke to someone outside.

"It's perfectly useless, Peters; you'll just have to go if you can't do as you're told."

Then the handle was turned and Enid came in quickly.

"Nevill!" she said.

Obviously then it was Enid who had spoken; yet he thought he would not have known it. There had been a ring in her voice that he had never heard before — a certain cutting tone. She looked a little flushed, too.

" Yes; I came early. Had a breakdown." He managed to get out his explanations at last. Mrs. Bessington had paid her daughter the compliment of silence upon her entrance.

" It's perfectly charming of you! " she said. " But why not have got them to pay at your house? "

" That didn't occur to me," said Nevill, " until I reached the door."

She smiled delightfully.

" You came just in time for a domestic crisis," she went on smoothly. " Our maid — mother and I share one, you know — our maid is quite hopeless. She's a country girl, and she — oh! let's leave her."

" No; tell me," said Nevill.

She shook her head.

" Mother'll deal with her. Mother, dear, do go and soothe her. She was crying, and it would be most inconvenient if she left just now."

Mrs. Bessington began to trickle on again about servants as she went out. Nevill felt a shade uneasy.

" Yes; I spoke to her quite plainly," said Enid. " You probably heard me. I'm afraid I was brutal; but you've got to be sometimes. I can't bear it, though."

A very genuine pain showed in her eyes. Nevill made haste to sympathise.

" I think you sounded a bit sharp. But I've no doubt it was necessary."

She turned her calm face on him.

" Absolutely necessary. They don't understand anything else. Now tell me exactly what you've been doing. And how's Aunt Anna? "

" Why, there's Lord Maresfield! " said Enid suddenly.

They were doing the dutiful round in Burlington House — after Nevill had been to change his clothes and come back again — and had been a little silent for the last twenty minutes — silent, because Mrs. Bessington really did not count.

To that lady, a number of pictures in row after row presented a simply inexhaustible treasure in the way of conversational openings. Indeed, they were almost too much for her. If a very greedy squirrel be imagined, confronted suddenly by five hundred nuts, all laid out ready for him to carry away, some faint analogy may be conceived to Mrs. Bessington's situation at the Royal Academy. The names of the artists, the notes in her catalogue, the subjects of the pictures, the faces of occasional acquaintances viewed across the rooms — all these things provided her with material. Now and again she would face round upon Nevill with her back to the picture he was trying to look at, and deliver her reminiscences — joining them on, without a pause, to her previous observations, He was very nearly rude to her once or twice;

his head grew weary of assenting with nods; he gave up altogether, after the first ten minutes, any attempt at coherent replies. The ventilation of Burlington House is not of the best; his silk hat felt like a rim of iron round his forehead; he was aware of rising irritation. Enid made no attempt to cope with the situation; she simply moved on, relentlessly, consulting her catalogue now and again, looking lovely,, cool and dignified, and observing what she wished to observe. She glanced at him once or twice and away again.

When she made the remark chronicled above, Nevill turned, regardless of Mrs. Bessington (who really did not mind at all), to see at whom she was looking. It was a big man, all alone at the other end of the room, his hat rather tilted back, with a big clean-shaven good-humoured face. He too turned as Enid spoke and made a little salutation.

Then Mrs. Bessington engaged Nevill again. Then he felt a touch on his arm and turned once more.

" Nevill — may I introduce you to Lord Maresfield? Sir Nevill Fanning — Lord Maresfield."

" Pleased to meet you. Looking at the pictures. What? Sargents all right, ain't they? Bit stuffy, though. What? How do, Mrs. Bessington? Don't know a soul here, by the way. Except you. Eh?"

Yes, that was the type all right, thought Nevill. Staccato, intelligent, good-humoured, capable, robust, certainly a man who would never disappoint one; he would always be characteristic of himself; and one might discover qualities in him, by degrees, which one would never suspect at first. Enid immediately supplied one.

" Lord Maresfield paints perfectly beautifully," she explained. " He's got a studio in Chelsea."

" Splash about a bit, eh? No more. Amuse myself! Idle dog! What? That and polo, y'know. Given it up again, though, now. See you at Ranelagh some time, eh? "

Nevill said he didn't know. (He liked Lord Maresfield.)

" By the way — congratulate you, Miss Enid. What? And you too. Saw it in the Morning Post. When's it to be?"

Nevill said they had thought of October.

"Chill October, eh? Well, Mrs. Bessington. Back from Rome. What? Usual round, I suppose? "

Then Nevill became aware that Mrs. Bessington had been talking to him the whole time, unperceived. But she was quite unruffled: she turned the hose tranquilly on to the new-comer, and the four began to drift along. Enid held Nevill back a step or two. Lord Maresfield, in excellent good-humour, was firing staccato shots into Mrs. Bessington's bland mitrailleuse. His genial face, with his hat still tilted back, nodded and spoke in three-quarter profile.

" I like him," said Enid in a low voice. " He's always just the same. We met him in Rome last year. Do get to know him, Nevill."

" I'll do my best. Would he come to the opera on Wednesday, do you think? "

" Ask him."

" My dear girl, I've never seen him before in my life.

Never even heard of him. I thought that perhaps you "

She nodded.

" I'll manage it," she said.

" Tell me who he is. Quick. They're off for the tearoom."

He was rather a Bohemian, it seemed, and had drifted about vaguely, in Paris and Rome, in the artists' quarters, painting a little, but not much. He had quarrelled with his father years ago, or, rather, as Enid said, it must have been his father who quarrelled with him — the kind of quarrel which it does not take two to make. He had come into the title only last summer, had abruptly taken to polo at the age of thirty-two, and had as abruptly given it up again.

"Be nice to him/' said Enid. "He's only just finding his way about. He lives in Chelsea when he's in town."

" Married? "

" No."

She managed it quite beautifully when they were all sitting round the little marble-topped table in the tearoom. She introduced in that simple statuesque way of hers which seemed to require no introduction.

" Lord Maresfield/' she said, breaking imperturbably in upon her mother's conversation. (Really, it was the only way; one might wait for ever for an opening.) " Sir Nevill says he has a box at the opera next Wednesday. Mother and I are going. He was wondering whether you'd care to come. It's Tannhauser, I think."

"Opera? Delighted! Thanks. Very good of you, 'm sure. There last week m'self. Carmen. What? "

"Would you dine with us first?" asked Nevill.

"Very good of you, 'm sure. Where? What time? Necessary to know these things. Eh?"

Nevill supplied those details.

" Delighted. Was at Bayreuth last year. Richter and Meistersingers. What? "

" Nevill, you must stop a moment. I've got something to say "

" But "

" Oh! they're all right. Mother's got hold of a good listener. That's exactly what I want to speak about." She was detaining him at the door of the last room on the right, by a hand on his arm.

He felt much better after a cup of tea. That rim on his forehead seemed no longer to be made of hammered iron; it felt almost like the leather lining of a silk hat. He suddenly wanted to kiss the gloved hand. Before them, through the emptying room, drifted the elder lady, a feather on her bonnet quivering as she talked, and the genial ruddy man who was attending to her so nobly.

" Look here, Nevill; it's going to be impossible. I never realised before how trying it was going to be. What can we do about mother? "

" My dear girl, I don't know what you "

" Yes, you do; you needn't be polite. She's my mother, you know. (Walk on slowly and be looking at the pictures.) She talks to you simply the whole time, you poor dear! And I can't get a word in. It's all right just for this moment; but all the way here, and till Lord Mares-field came, and again at tea, I couldn't get in a word. What's to be done? "

She looked so distressed that he did not know what to say. She seemed so wholly thoughtful for him.

" But, my darling, I tell you — — "

" Yes, of course you're bound to say that. But I can see what you feel. Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done. But can't you get somebody always for her to talk to — like that man? Do try! Whom have you got for tonight? Anybody? "

" Algy Lennox."

" Who's he? Well, it doesn't matter. But I did want to tell you that I minded just as much as you. And do put Algy Lennox, whoever he is, next mother. I do mind, Nevill. I mind dreadfully. You know that, don't you? "

Her face was full of distress. She looked adorable. His faint irritation went up like smoke and vanished.

" My dear, I think your mother's charming. Certainly she talks; but They're waiting for us."

Nevill admired the other man more and more as, with incalculable slowness, they all drifted out and down the stairs. Mrs. Bessington kept on, of course — that goes without saying; but it was entirely indifferent to her as to in whose ear she poured her observations. As he came behind with Enid, he noticed how completely the elder man filled the situation. His head was turned all the way down the stairs towards Mrs. Bessington's bonnet; he fired his little staccato shots, and he even sent one or two behind. At the cloak-room too he was adequate and businesslike.

" Got your tickets — eh? Better give them me — what? Soon manage it. I'm nearest the bar. What a crush — eh? Here, you chap! Hand them out! There you are, Miss Enid — eh? That yours, ain't it? That yours, Sir Nevill? There we are, then! "

He got them their car too, with the same promptness, and helped the ladies in, while Nevill was directing Mrs. Bessington's chauffeur to drop him at his own house and then go on to the flat in Cadogan Walk.

" Wednesday, then? Seven-fifteen sharp, eh? That's all right. Pleased to see you all at my little studio some time. What? Nothing to show, though. Only splash a bit. That's all. Well— right, chauffeur."

He raised his hat and stood smiling.

And then Mrs. Bessington began on his biography.

Nevill felt a great deal better after a bath.

It had been a considerably wearing afternoon, and he was astonished how relaxed he felt. Neither could he conceal from himself that Mrs. Bessington was responsible for most of it. To be talked to incessantly is perhaps the most tiring mental exercise of all; it is certainly more tiring than talking.

He was touched by Enid's sympathy, and she had done it, too, he thought, in quite the tenderest way; for it is not easy to find fault with one's mother to a third person without at least an appearance of unfiliality. Her suggestion was, of course, admirable in itself; the only difficulty was to carry it out. He supposed he would have to warn Algy Lennox of what his function was to be. A tag from the Latin grammar came to his mind as he lay in his bath and considered these things. " Fungar vice cotis" he repeated softly to himself. " I will perform the function of a whetstone." That was exactly it.

Hartley seemed a very long way away as he dawdled over his dressing. It was almost unthinkable that he had only left this morning; that it was not yet twelve hours ago since he had bathed with Jim, and sat in the woods and, in blue pyjamas, carried him down to the house on his shoulders.

For London has an extraordinary power of absorbing instantly the new-comer from the country; of bringing him, by the simultaneous assault that it makes on all the senses at once — sight, hearing, smell, touch, and even taste — into a completely different mental attitude. This time last night he was sitting with Aunt Anna in the pavilion, looking out on to the river; he had been in flannels and without a jacket. Now he had just taken off one set of

London clothes and was to put on his white waistcoat. Last night, after dinner, they had sat out till half-past ten on the terrace; to-night he would be in a theatre, seeing Selva. He felt completely different already. Yet all that he had done was to lunch with the Bessingtons and to go to the Royal Academy.

As he dressed he thought again about Enid.

She too had seemed different. Down at Hartley she had dawdled about with a parasol and no hat; she had talked gently and tranquilly; she had been, in fact, exactly what he had expected her to be. Up here, however, while completely herself of course, her manner had been ever so slightly different. There was that little sharp sentence she had said to the maid — no doubt entirely deserved: yet he could not quite think of her saying it at Hartley. It was not completely characteristic of her, as he had known her. Then there was her speaking to him about her mother. That too was, of course, only natural; it showed her desire to please him; and she had not said one word that she should not. Yet she had never said it at Hartley, although her mother had talked quite s much there. Oh! but he had forgotten: Aunt Anna d performed the function of a whetstone at Hartley. Yes; that explained it. He smiled a little. Dear Aunt Anna! How she would have loathed this afternoon — the crush, the talking, the rows upon rows of pictures. She was essentially of Hartley.

A tap came at his door, and then Charleson's voice.

"Mr. Lennox, sir; I've shown him into the drawing-room."

" Oh! " (Nevill glanced at the clock. It marked five minutes to seven.) " Show him in here."

A brisk young man, very fair-haired, with an assured manner, came in. He had been at Stonyhurst with Nevill, and they had kept up with one another more or less ever since.

" Sorry, old man. But you said seven, didn't you? "

" No. Quarter-past. Doesn't matter. Sit down somewhere."

Algy seated himself on the bed.

" Don't mind a cigarette in here? Then that's all right. I like a cigarette just before dinner. Makes you so jolly giddy."

"Algy!"

"Yes?"

" I'm glad you've come early. You've got to be talked to, my son."

" Go ahead."

Nevill finished tying his tie before speaking. He thought the face in the glass looked a little dark under the eyes. " About to-night. You've got to sacrifice yourself, you know. The Bessingtons are coming — oh! I told you. Well, the old lady's a terror to talk."

" I'll deal with her."

" That's exactly what you've got to do. But I warn you. She talks all the time. And she'll talk all through the play too — if I know her."

" That's all right. I've seen Selva before."

" You needn't say much. Just let her run. That's all she wants. And say ' Yes ' now and then, and so on. But you've got to attach her."

" It shall be done."

Algy was a cheerful and a loyal youth, and Nevill knew he could depend on him. Besides, he was the kind of young man towards whom middle-aged ladies always felt motherly. He was just about Nevill's age, but looked five years younger, as well as very innocent and good; and, indeed, his looks did not greatly belie him.

He finished his cigarette before Nevill was ready, and took up a small hand-mirror from the dressing-table.

" Nice bit of work this," he said, examining the chased back.

" Out of the way, old man," said Nevill, who wanted to get at his watch and chain.

Algy retired a little from the dressing-table, and began to practise tennis-strokes — the wrist supple and the forearm horizontal. There was a crash.

" I've done it, old chap. Lord! I'm sorry."

" Pick up the bits then," said Nevill, " and kindly don't touch anything else."

" I was only trying my stroke," said the boy. " Gad! I'm sorry! It caught the bedpost."

He regarded the handle and back of the glass a little ruefully.

" Then pick up the bits," repeated Nevill.

"And it's so jolly unlucky too," said Algy, going down on his knees. " I say, old man."

"Yes?"

" You must let me have it re-fitted."

" Kindly put all the bits into the fireplace and... and what's left of it on to the table. And don't talk rot."

" But reaUy "

" You just do as I told you about Mrs. B. and you'll pay for it ten times over. Just touch the bell, will you? "

Nevill straightened himself finally before the glass. Certainly he didn't look very well. But that was just Mrs. Bessington's conversation. He'd be all right after an hour or two with Enid.

" Yessir," said Charleson at the door.

" Oh! Just take that looking-glass handle away, and get it re-fitted some time. Mr. Lennox has just smashed it."

" Yessir. Motor just drawn up, sir."

" Come along, Algy. I want to see if the room's all right. Show them into the morning-room, Charleson. Is Macpherson there?"

" Yessir."

" My word! Sh'd think it was all right," exclaimed

It was not a very big house; but it was an exceedingly satisfactory one; having been built towards the end of the eighteenth century and left practically unrestored. It was the one single house in Elizabeth Street that had not been rebuilt over and over again; and it still had quite a fair garden at the back.

This room into which the two had just come was panelled in white from ceiling to floor — large cool panels — and in the centre of each hung a single good picture. It was arranged more or less as a drawing-room, with a big rug by the hearth and chintz sofas round it; and a quantity of fantastic china stood on the high mantelpiece. But a vast kneehole table was set to catch the light from the window, and beyond it opened the double doors on to the flight of steps that ran down into the garden, that formed a pleasant green background of shrubs and lawn and a bank of rhododendrons. From the centre of the moulded plaster of the ceiling hung an elaborate spider chandelier, filled with wax candles.

But it was the flowers that had made Algy exclaim.

They stood on every possible table and shelf, in silver bowls and slender green glass vases — (they had come up from Hartley that afternoon). They were all white, and their scent filled the room.

" Smells a bit like a funeral, though," said Algy, who spoke his mind undauntedly.

Nevill said nothing. He stood on the hearthrug, with his hands in his pockets, surveying slowly from side to side. Yes, it seemed to him quite satisfactory. Then he perceived that Algy had spoken.

"Eh?" he said.

" Smells like a — like a wedding, old chap," said Algy.

The rustle of dresses was heard outside as the ladies went past to take off their wraps. Nevill had received very precise instructions from Aunt Anna that the morning-room— (the only sitting-room that faced the street) — was to be provided with looking-glasses and a maid, and so forth. That would leave the three rooms — this drawing-room, the library and the dining-room — that all looked out on to the garden, and that communicated with another by double doors, entirely free.

These doors were now all set open, and Algy could see straight through to the white-laid dining-table, with the candles burning, in spite of the evening light from the garden.

" Glad you've got candles, old man," he said. " I must say I like to see what I'm eating."

Suddenly Nevill smiled at him — a perfectly simple unconscious smile of pleasure. He was not attending to a word Algy was saying; he was thinking how perfectly delicious it was to be here in his own house, to be able to entertain Enid like this, to have all those flowers to greet her. This too was to be her home some day; and therefore when she saw it for the first time, let it be full of welcome.

" Yes? " questioned Algy, puzzled at the smile.

" Nothing^ old man," said Nevill. " I was just thinking. By the way, are you free next week? Come in and dine on Tuesday."

" Right," said Algy.

"And Thursday?"

" Can't on Thursday. Going to a crush. And I'm dining there first."

"Where?"

Algy named a house.

" Well, we shall meet there, then. I'm going with the Bessingtons."

Then through the opening door came Charleson, who announced names; and Enid sailed in after her mother.

By half-way through dinner Nevill was thinking that Algy must be something very like a genius. Mrs. Bessing-ton sat on her host's right, and Enid on his left; Algy faced him, with his back to the windows. Nevill had, too, taken Mrs. Bessington in, and she had conversed as they went through the library. Yet after the moment they had sat down, there had been no more trouble.

Algy instantly played the Academy as his lead, before Mrs. Bessington had done more than glance at the menu; and then the stream had begun.

Along that stream, like bobbing chips of wood, flowed the names of Academicians, solutions of all Mr. John Collier's conundrums, reminiscences on the late Mr. Sidney Cooper's accuracy in painting the hair on the hides of cows, Mr. La Thangue's sun-flecked foregrounds, and the eyes of Mr. Briton le Riviere's collies. Then, when the stream began to run clear again, and Mrs. Bessington was still talking of course, but talking about nothing in particular, Algy had again led off with Selva, whom they were presently to see. Obviously he was about to say he had seen her before; but he was unable to get this out, because Mrs. Bessington began to relate plots of plays in which she had seen Duse and Sarah Bernhardt. Apparently there was no reason why she should ever leave off doing this, because she even compared the rival merits of Italian and English scene-painters — in parentheses; and if one comes down to that, an infinity of subjects suggest themselves. It was enough for Mrs. Bessington that any kind of connection should exist in her monologues — connections of period, place, merits, association. Each thing " reminded " her of the next, in unfailing sequence.

All this Nevill heard fragmentarily, as he talked in a low voice to Enid — answering her questions about the portraits that hung opposite, suggesting small plans for the future. Once he caught Algy's eye across the orchids between them, and the agonised fortitude of his friend's expression made him hastily look away again. He knew exactly what the other was feeling like. He would have laughed suddenly and loudly if he had looked a moment longer.

But his young friend's genius, no less than his fortitude, was a complete surprise. Mrs. Bessington had not said anything to her host at all, since they sat down. Certainly Algy was the man to dine with them as often as possible. But Nevill thought he must relieve him when the ice came.

Meantime Enid was entirely fascinating.

She was dressed in some kind of filmy blue, with a single line of sapphires round her white throat. It was precisely the right tone, and finished the chord of which her clear brunette complexion supplied the rest. (She had come out of the last shadow of mourning for her father at Easter.) Her hair was dressed in the heavy manner that Nevill loved, with blue flowers in it, and she carried another bunch at her breast. She seemed too even more vitally alive than this afternoon; her face was steady and clear, and her eyes shone....

As soon as the green bomb of ice appeared Nevill turned to the right, after a look at Enid. Enid dropped her eyes demurely.

" I'm simply delighted we're going to see Selva," he said. " I think "

Mrs. Bessington turned unseeing eyes upon him.

" Well, and it was at Milan, as I was saying, Mr. Lennox, in the year eighty-two " Nevill was reprieved.

With a sigh of delight he turned again to Enid. He was not in the least annoyed. It had happened a hundred times before. For Mrs. Bessington, when she was really under way, appeared to be simply deaf.

" Whoo! old man! " said Algy, as Nevill came back from the door after the ladies had gone. He sank back in his seat, and passed a handkerchief across his forehead. He really looked almost faint.

" Have some port," said Nevill, " or a cigarette? There's not time for both. I should suggest port."

" But I say " began the boy.

" You may break a looking-glass every time you come, if you'll do that again. You were superb."

" She's a terror! I've never had so much information in my life. I feel an experienced man of the world at last. No; a cigarette. Something light."

" How did you do it? "

"It wasn't me. She did it all. I'd four points ready: Academy; Selva; portraits; and the cup in the middle. I spotted that after I'd sat down. But I only got to Selva."

" You'd better have some port, really. You've got to keep it up till eleven, you know."

"Can't do it; can't do it, old man. And about Tuesday "

" I'm sorry," said Nevill. " But you're engaged. A quarter-past eight."

Algy poured himself out a glass of port after all, meditatively; then he sipped.

" Tastes like oily ink," he said.

" If you will smoke too " began Nevill.

" I'm drinking it to support me," said Algy. " Not pleasure, I assure you. Pleasure! If I can keep body and soul together, it's as much "

" You were superb," said Nevill again. (He saw that violent flattery must be supplied.)

" But, my dear man," said Algy, " I know she's going to be your mother-in-law and all that, and I don't want to be offensive. But where does she get it all from? It's... it's incredible. You look tired too. Suppose it was the Academy this afternoon. I say "

"Yes?"

" I haven't congratulated you yet. Well, I do now."

" Thanks, old man."

He did indeed feel tired. During dinner he had been elated enough, in a quiet sort of way. Even to sit by Enifl seemed to him enough, but to talk uninterruptedly to her! It was almost as good as Hartley. Yet now he felt suddenly blank again, as if vitality had been running from him all the time. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps the very presence of Mrs. Bessington had been enough to drain his energy. He remembered rather a great doctor telling him once that some people were like that — that the old vampire-tales really had a substratum of truth, and a more considerable substratum than most people recognised. The doctor had said also that that kind of temperament had no connection whatever, so far as he knew, with moral character. Quite nice and good people were vampirish sometimes.

That was it then. Poor Mrs. Bessington was a vampire! The pressure on his head had returned a little.

But the dinner had been a success. There was no doubt about that. Not a detail had missed fire. The room had looked perfect: the flowers had been perfect: the dinner had been perfect. He must congratulate Mrs. Ferguson to-morrow on her admirable management. It really was good, considering she had only come up yesterday.

There was the vibration of a step in the next room; and then Enid appeared, a vision of loveliness, in her swansdown cloak and the hood over her head.

" Charleson says the motor is here, Nevill. We must go if we're to be in time."

Ah! how charming that was! How naturally she had said it! The house really might be her own. Well, it would be, in three or four months.

He smiled at her, without answering.