i

"you ought to have told me about it before, dear," said victoria. "you knew how simply thrilled i'd be."

millie and victoria were sitting in low chairs near the band. in front of them was the sea walk along whose grassy surface people passed and repassed—beyond the grass a glittering, sparkling sea of blue and gold: above their heads a sky of stainless colour. in rows to right and left of them serried ranks of deck-chairs were packed together and every chair contained a more-or-less human being. the band could be heard now rising above the chatter, now falling out of sight altogether as though the bandsmen were plunged two or three times a minute into a deep pit, there to cool and reflect a little before swinging up again.

it was so hot and glittering a day that every one was happy—hysterically so, perhaps, because the rain was certain to return, so that they were an army holding a fort that they knew they were not strong enough to defend for long. there were boats like butterflies on the sea, and every once and again an aeroplane throbbed above the heads of the visitors and reminded them that they were living in the twentieth century.

millie, who adored the sun and was in the nature of things almost terribly happy, drew the eyes of every passer-by towards her. she was conscious of this as she was conscious of her health, her happiness, her supreme confidence in eternal benevolence, her charity to all the world. victoria had been, before millie made her confession, in a state of delight with her clothes, her hat, her parasol, her publicity and her digestion. millie's news threw her into an oddly confused state of delight, trepida[pg 176]tion and self-importance. she thrilled to the knowledge that there was a wonderful romance going on at her very side, but it would mean, perhaps, that she would lose millie, and she thought it, on the whole, rather impertinent of mr. baxter. it hurt her, too, that this should have existed for weeks at her side and that she should have noticed nothing of it.

"oh, my millie, you should have told me!" she cried.

"i would have told you at once," said millie, "but bunny wanted us to be quiet about it for a week or two, until his mother returned from scotland."

"but you could have told me," continued victoria. "i'm so safe and never tell anything. and why should mr. baxter keep it quiet as though he were ashamed of it?"

"i know," said millie. "i didn't want him to. i hate secrecy and plots and mysteries. and so i told him. but it was only for a week or two. and his mother comes down from scotland on friday."

"well, i hope it will be a long engagement, darling, so that you may be quite sure before you do it. i remember a cousin of ours meeting a girl at tea in our house, proposing to her before he'd had his second cup, marrying her next morning at a registry office and separating from her a week later. he took to drink after that and married his cook, and now he has ten children and not a penny."

the music rose into a triumphant proclamation of sir william gilbert's lyric concerning "captain sure," and victoria discovered two friends of hers from the hotel, sitting quite close to her and very friendly indeed.

although they had been at cladgate so short a time victoria had acquired a large and various circle of new acquaintances, a circle very different indeed from the one that filled the house in cromwell road. millie was amused to see how swiftly victoria's wealth enabled her to change from one type of human to another. no new art in cladgate! no, indeed. mostly very charming, warm-hearted people with no nonsense about them. millie also perceived that so soon as any human creature floated into the atmosphere of victoria's money it changed like a chameleon. however ungrasping and unacquisitive it may have hitherto been, the consciousness that now with a little gush[pg 177] and patience it might obtain something for nothing had an astonishing effect.

all victoria desired was to be loved, and by as many people as possible. within a week the whole of visiting cladgate adored her. it adored her so much that it was willing to eat her food, sit in her car, allow itself to be taken to the theatre free of expense, and make little suggestions about possible gifts that would be gratefully received.

all that was requested of it in return was that it should praise victoria to her face and allow her to exercise her power of command.

millie did not think the worse of human nature for this. she perceived that in these strange times when prices were so high and incomes so low any one would do anything for money. a certain captain blatt—a cheerful gentleman of any age from thirty to fifty—was quite frank with her about it. "i was quite a normal man before the war, miss trenchard. i was, i assure you. stockbroking in the city and making enough to have a good time. now i'm making nothing—and i would do anything for money. anything. let some one offer me a thousand pounds down and i will sell my soul for three months. one must exist, you know."

victoria's happiness was touching to behold. the blocks, the balaclavas and the rest were entirely forgotten. millie had hoped, at first, that she might do something towards stemming this new tide of hungry ones. but after a warning or two she saw that she was powerless. "why, millie," cried victoria, "you're becoming a cynic. you suspect every one. i'm sure mrs. norman is perfectly sweet and it's too adorable of her to want me to be god-mother to her new darling baby. and poor mr. hackett! with his brother consumptive at davos and depending entirely upon him and his old mother nearly ninety, and his business all gone to pieces because of the war, of course i must help him. what's my money for?"

meanwhile this same money poured forth like water. would it one day be exhausted? millie wrote to dr. brooker and asked him to keep a watch. "she's quite hopeless just now," she wrote, "but we're only here for another three weeks. i suppose we must let her have her fun while she can."

[pg 178]

nevertheless it was upon this same beautiful afternoon that she realized a more sinister and personally dangerous effect of victoria's generosity. she was sitting back in her chair, almost asleep. the world came as a coloured murmur to her, the faint rhythm of the band, the soft blue of sea and sky, the sharp note of victoria's voice—"oh, really!" "fancy indeed!" "just think!" the warmth upon her body was like an encircling arm caressing her very gently with the little breeze that was its voice. she seemed to swing out to sea and back again, lazily, lazily, too happy, too sleepy to think, fading into unreality, into nothing but colour, soft blue swathes of colour wrapping her round. . . . then suddenly, with a sharp outline like a black pencil drawing against a white background, she saw bunny.

beautifully dressed in white flannels, a straw hat pushed back a little from his forehead, he stood, some way down the green path, half-turned in her direction, searching amongst the chairs.

she noticed all the things about him that she loved—his neatness, his slim body, his dark eyes, sunburnt forehead, black moustache, his mouth even then unconsciously half-smiling, his breeding, his self-confidence.

"ah! how i love him!" and still swaying out to sea she, from that blue distance, could adore him without fear that he would hold her cheap.

"i love him, i love him——" then from the very heart of the blue, sharply like the burst of a cracker in her ear, a sound snapped—"look out! look out! there's danger here!"

the sound was so sharp that as one does after some terrifying nightmare she awoke with a clap of consciousness, sitting up in her chair bewildered. had some one spoken? had an aeroplane swooped suddenly down? had she really slept? everything now was close upon her, pressing her in—the metallic clash of the band, the voices, the brush of incessant footsteps upon the grass, and bunny was coming towards her now, his eyes lit. . . . had some one spoken?

greetings were exchanged. victoria could not say very much. she could only press his hand and murmur, "i'm so glad—millie has told me. bless you both!"

he smiled, was embarrassed, and carried millie off for a[pg 179] walk. as soon as they had gone a little way he burst out, "oh, mill, why did you? i asked you not to."

"i couldn't help it. i warned you that i hate concealment. i'm very sorry, bunny, but i can't keep it secret any longer."

she looked up and saw to her amazement that he was angry. his face was puckered and he looked ten years older.

"have you told any one else?"

"only my mother and a great friend."

"friend? what friend?"

"a great friend of henry's—yes and of mine too," she burst out laughing. "you needn't worry, bunny. he's a dear old thing, but he's well over forty and i've never been in the least in love with him."

"he is with you, i suppose?"

strangely his words made her heart beat a little faster. strange because what did she care whether peter were in love with her or no? and yet—it was nice, even now when she was swallowed up by her love for bunny, it was pleasant to think that peter did care—cared a little.

"oh, he looks on me and henry as in the schoolroom still."

"then why did you tell him about us?"

"i don't know. what does it matter?"

"it matters just this much—that i asked you not to tell anybody and you've told every one in sight."

"well, i'm like that. i did keep it for three or four weeks, but i hate being deceitful. i'm proud of you and proud of your caring for me. i want people to know. of course if there were any real reason for keeping it secret——"

"there is a real reason. i told you. my mother——"

"she's coming back on friday, so it doesn't matter now, telling people."

"but it does matter. people talk so."

"but why shouldn't they talk? there's nothing to be ashamed of in our being engaged."

he said nothing and they walked along in an uncomfortable silence. then she turned to him, putting her hand through his arm.

"now, look here, bunny. we're not going to have a quarrel. and if we are going to have a quarrel, i must know what it's[pg 180] about. everything must be straight between us, always. i can't bear your not telling me what you're thinking. i'm sensible, i can stand anything if you'll only tell me. is there any other reason besides your mother why you don't want people to know that we're engaged?"

"no, of course not—only. . . . well, it looks so silly seeing that we have no money and——"

"what does it matter what people say? we know, you and i, that you're going to have a job soon. we can manage on a very little at first——"

"it isn't that——" he suddenly smiled, looking young and happy again. he pressed her arm against his side. "look here, millie—as you've let the cat out of the bag, the least you can do is to help about the money side of things."

"help? of course i will."

"well, then—why not work old victoria for a trifle? she's rolling in wealth and just chucks it round on all sorts of rotten people who don't care about her a damn. she's devoted to you. i'm sure she'd settle something on us if you asked her."

millie stared at him.

"live on victoria! ask her for money? oh, bunny! i couldn't——"

"why not? everyone does—people who aren't half so fond of her as you are."

"ask her to support us when we're young and—bunny, what an awful idea. please——"

"rot! sometimes i think, millie, you've lived in a wood all your days. everyone does it these times. we're all pirates. she's got more than she knows what to do with—we haven't any, she likes you better than any one. you've been working for her like a slave."

millie moved away a little.

"you can put that out of your head, bunny—once and for all. i shall never ask victoria for a penny."

"if you don't, i will."

"if you do, i'll never speak to you again."

"very well, then, don't." before she could answer he had turned and was walking rapidly away, his head up, his shoulders set.

[pg 181]

instantly misery swooped down upon her like an evil, monstrous bird that covered the sky, blotting out the sun with its black wings. misery and incomprehension! so swiftly had the world changed that when the familiar figures—the men and the women so casual and uncaring—came back to her vision they had no reality to her, but were like fragments of coloured glass shaking in and out of a kaleidoscope pattern. she was soon sitting beside victoria again.

she said: "why, dear, where is mr. baxter?"

and millie said: "he had to go back to the hotel for something."

but victoria just now was frying other fish. she had at her side angela compton, her newest and greatest friend. she had known angela for a week and angela had, she said, given a new impulse to her life. miss compton was a slim woman with black hair, very black eyebrows and red cheeks. her features seemed to be painted on wood and her limbs too moved jerkily to support the doll-like illusion. but she was not a doll; oh dear, no, far from it! in their first half-hour together she told millie that what she lived for was adventure—"and i have them!" she cried, her black eyes flashing. "i have them all the time. it is an extraordinary thing that i can't move a yard without them." it was her desire to be the centre of every party, and thoroughly to attain this enviable position she was forced, so millie very quickly suspected, to invent tales and anecdotes when the naked truth failed her. she had been to cladgate on several other summers and was able, therefore, to bristle with personal anecdotes. "do you see that man over there?" she would deliriously whisper. "the one with the high collar and the side-whiskers. he looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but one evening last summer as i was coming in——" or "that girl! my dear. . . . drugs—oh! i know it for a fact. terribly sad, isn't it? but i happen to have seen——"

all these tales she told with the most innocent intentions in the world, being one, as she often assured her friends, who wouldn't hurt a fly. victoria believed every word that fell from her lips and adored to believe.

to-day she was the greatest comfort to millie. she could sit[pg 182] there in her misery and gather around her angela's little scandals as protection.

"oh, but it can't be!" victoria would cry, her eyes shining.

"oh, of course, if you don't want to believe me! i saw him staring at me days before. at last he spoke to me. we were quite alone at the moment, and i said: 'really i'm very sorry, but i don't know you.'

"'give me just five minutes,' he begged, 'that's all i ask. if you knew what it would mean to me.' and, i knowing all the time, my dear, about the awful things he'd been doing to his wife—i let him go on for a little while, and then very quietly i said——"

millie stared in front of her. the impulse that she was fighting was to run after him, to find him anywhere, anywhere, to tell him that she was sorry, that it had been her fault . . . just to have his hand in hers again, to see his eyes kindly, affectionate, never, never again that fierce hostility as though he hated her and were a stranger to her, another man whom she did not know and had never seen before.

"of course i don't blame him for drinking. after all there have been plenty of people before now who have found that too much for them, but before everybody like that! all i know is that his brother-in-law came up (mind you that is all in the strictest confidence, and—) and said before every one——"

but why should she go to him? he had been in the wrong. that he should be like the others and want to plunder victoria, poor victoria whom she was always defending. . . .

the band played "god save the king." slowly they all walked towards the hotel.

"yes, that's the woman i mean," said miss compton. "over there in the toque. you wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? but i assure you——"

millie crept like a wounded bird into the hotel. he was waiting for her. he dragged her into a corner behind a palm.

"millie, i didn't mean it—i don't know what i was about. forgive me, darling. you must, you must. . . . i'm a brute, a cad. . . ."

forgive him? happiness returned in warm floods of light and colour. happiness. but even as he kissed her it was not, she knew, happiness of quite the old kind—no, not quite.

[pg 183]

ii

ellen was coming. very soon. in two days. millie did not know why it was that she should tremble apprehensively. she was not one to tremble before anything, but it was an honest fact that she was more truly frightened of ellen than of any one she had ever met. there was something in ellen that frightened her, something secret and hidden.

then of course ellen would be nasty about bunny. she had been already nasty about him, but she had not been aware then of the engagement. and in some strange way millie was more afraid now of what ellen would say about bunny than she had been before that little quarrel of a day or two ago.

millie, in spite of herself, thought of that little quarrel. of course all lovers must have quarrels—quarrels were the means by which lovers came to know one another better—but he should not have gone off like that, should not have hurt her. . . . she could not as she would wish declare it to have been all her own fault. well, then, bunny was not perfect. who had ever said that he was? who was perfect when you came to that? millie herself was far from perfect. but she wanted him to be honest. at that stage in her development she rated honesty very highly among the virtues—not unpleasant, stupid, so-called honesty, where you told your friends frankly what you thought of them for your own pleasure and certainly not theirs, but honesty among friends so that you knew exactly where you were. it was not honest of bunny to be nice to victoria in order to get money out of her—but millie was beginning to perceive that victoria, good, kind and foolish as she was, was a kind of plague-spot in the world, infecting everyone who came near her. even millie herself . . . ?

and with this half-formed criticism of bunny there came most curiously a more urgent physical longing for him. before, when he had seemed so utterly perfect, the holding of hands, kisses, embraces could wait. everything was so safe. but now was everything so safe? if they could quarrel like that at a moment's notice, and he could look suddenly as though he hated her, were they so safe? bunny himself was changing a little. he was always wanting to kiss her, to lead her into dark[pg 184] corners, to tell her over and over again that he adored her. their love in these last days had lost some fine quality of sobriety and restraint that it had possessed at first.

there was something in the air of cladgate with its brass bands, its over-dressed women, its bridge and its dancing.

it is not to be supposed, however, that millie worried herself very much. only dimly behind her the sky had changed, thickening ever so slightly. her sense of enchantment was not pierced.

ellen arrived and was too sweet for any words.

in a letter to henry, millie wrote:

. . . and do you ever feel, i wonder, that our paths are crossing all the time? it is, i suppose, because we have always been so much together and have done everything together. but i see everything so vividly that it is exactly as though i had been there—duncombe and the thick woods and the little chapel and the deserted rooms and the boxwood garden. all this here is the very opposite, of course, and yet simply the other half of a necessary whole perhaps. aren't i getting philosophical? only i should hate to think that all that you are sharing in now is going out of the world and all this ugliness of mine remains. but of course it won't, and it's up to us, henry, to see that it doesn't.

meanwhile, ellen has arrived and is at present like one of those sugar mice that you buy at the toy-shop—simply too sweet for words. poor thing, all she needs is for some one to love her passionately and she'll never, never get it. she's quite ready to love some one else passionately and to snatch what she can out of that, but she isn't made for passion—she's so bony and angular and suspicious, and is angry so easily.

i begged victoria not to say anything about the engagement at present and she hasn't, although it hurts her terribly to keep it in. is'nt it silly to be afraid of ellen? but i do so hate scenes. so many people seem to like them. mother cured us of wanting them.

i'm dancing my legs off. yesterday, i'm ashamed to say, i danced all a lovely afternoon. the syncopated orchestra here is heavenly, and bunny says i two-step better than any one he's ever known.

meanwhile, under the dancing and the eating and the dressing-up, there's the strangest feeling of unrest. yesterday there was a bolshevik meeting near the bandstand. luckily there was a football match (very important—cladgate v. margate) and all the supposed bolshies went to that instead. aren't we a funny[pg 185] country? victoria's very happy, dressing and undressing, taking people out in the car and buying things she doesn't want. she plays bridge very badly and was showing signs of interest in spiritualism. they have séances in the hotel every night, and victoria went to one last evening and was fortunately frightened out of her life. some one put a hand on her bare shoulder and she made such a fuss that they had to break up the séance. give my love to peter if you see him. he wrote me a sweet little letter about the engagement. . . .

that which millie had said about her consciousness of henry's world was very true. it seemed to her that his life and experience was always intermingling with hers, and one could not possibly be complete without the other. now, for instance, ellen was the connecting link. ellen, one could see at once, did not belong to cladgate, with its materialism, snobbery and self-satisfaction. cross old maid though you might call her, she had power and she had passion; moreover she was restless, in search of something that she would never find perhaps, but the search was the thing. that was henry's world—dear, pathetic, stumbling henry, with his fairy princess straight out of hans andersen, and the wicked witch and the cottage built of sugar—all this, as millie felt assured, to vanish with the crow of the cock, but to leave henry (and here was what truly distinguished him from his fellows) with his vision captured, the vision that was more important than the reality. ellen was one of the midway figures (and the world has many of them, discontented, aspiring, frustrated) who serve to join the dream and the business.

unhappy they may be, but they have their important use and are not the least valuable part of god's creation. see ellen in her black, rather dingy frock striding about the corridors of the cladgate hotel, and you were made uncomfortably to think of things that you would rather forget.

during her first days she was delighted with cladgate and everything and everybody in it. then the rain came back and danced upon the glass roofs and jazz bands screamed from floor to floor, and every one sat under the palms in pairs. there was no one to sit with ellen; she did not play bridge, she did not dance. she was left alone. millie tried to be kind to her[pg 186] when she remembered, but it was ellen's fate to be forgotten.

one evening, just as millie was going to bed, ellen came into the room. she stood by the door glowering.

"i'm going back to london to-morrow," she announced.

"oh, ellen, why? i thought you were enjoying yourself so much."

"i'm miserable here. nobody wants me."

"oh, but you're wrong. i——"

she strode across to millie's dressing-table. "no, you don't. don't lie about it. do you think i haven't eyes?"

suddenly she sank on to the floor, burying her head in millie's lap, bursting into desperate crying.

"oh, i'm so lonely—so miserable. why did i ever come here? nobody wants me. they'd rather i was dead. . . . they say work—find work, they say. what are you doing thinking about love with your plain face and ugly body? this is the twentieth century, they say, the time for women like you. every woman's free now. free? how am i free? work? what work can i do? i was never trained to anything. i can't even write letters decently. when i work the others laugh at me—i'm so slow. i want some one to love—some one, something. i can't keep even a dog because victoria doesn't like dogs. . . . millie, be kind to me a little—let me love you a little, do things for you, run messages, anything. you're so beautiful. every one loves you. give me a little. . . ."

millie comforted her as best she might. she stroked her hair and kissed her, petted her, but, as before, in her youth and confidence she felt some contempt for ellen.

"get up," she whispered. "ellen, dear, don't kneel like that. please. . . . please."

ellen got up.

"you do your best. you want to be kind. but you're young. you can't understand. one day, perhaps, you'll know better," and she went away.

was it ellen or the daily life of cladgate that was beginning to throttle millie? she should have been so happy, but now a cloud had come. she suddenly distrusted life, hearing whispers[pg 187] down the corridors, seeing heads close together, murmurs under that horrible, hateful band-music. . . .

why was everyone conspiring towards ugliness? on a beautiful morning, after a night of bad and disturbed dreams, she awoke very early, and going down to the pebbled beach below the hotel she was amazed by the beauty on every side of her. the sea turned lazily over like a cat in the sun, purring, asking for its back to be scratched; a veil of blue mist hung from earth to heaven; the grey sea-wall, at midday so hard and grim, was softly purple; the long grass sward above her head sparkling in the dew was unsoiled by the touch of any human being; no sound at all save suddenly a white bird rising, floating like a sigh, outlined against the blue like a wave let loose into mid-air and the sea stroking the pebbles for love of their gleaming smiles.

she sat under the sea-wall longing for bunny to be there, clutching her love with both hands and holding it out like a crystal bowl to the sea and air for them also to enjoy.

she had a perfect hour and returned into the hotel.

iii

then ellen discovered. she faced millie in victoria's sitting-room, her face graven and moulded like a mask.

"so you're engaged to him after all?"

"yes. i would have told you before only i knew that you wouldn't like it——"

"wouldn't like it?" with a short, "what does it matter what i like? all the same you've been kind to me once or twice, and for that i'm not going to see you ruining your life without making an effort."

millie flushed. she felt her anger rising as she had known that it would do. foreseeing this scene she had told herself again and again that she must keep her temper when it arrived, above all things keep her temper.

"now, ellen, please don't. i know that you don't like him, but remember that it's settled now for good or bad. i'm very[pg 188] sorry that you don't like him better, but when you know him——"

"know him! know him? as though i didn't. but i won't let it pass. even though you never speak to me again i'll force such evidence under your nose that you'll have to realize. lord! the fools we women are! we talk of character and the things we say we admire, and we don't admire them a bit. what we want is decent legs and a smooth mouth and soft hands. i thought you had some sense, a little wisdom, but you're younger than any of us—i despise you, millie, for this."

millie jumped up from the table where she had been writing.

"and what do i care, ellen, whether you do despise me? who are you to come and lecture me? i've had enough of your ill-temper and your scenes and all the rest of it. i don't want your friendship. go your own way and let me go mine."

within her a voice was saying: "you'll be sorry for this afterwards. you know you will. you told me you were not going to lose your temper."

ellen tarried by the door. "you can say what you like to me, millie. i'll save you from this however much you hate me for it." she went out.

"i despise you, millie, for this." the words rang in millie's head as she sat there alone, repeated themselves against her will. well, what did it matter if ellen did despise her? yes it did matter. she had been laughing at ellen all these weeks and yet she cared for her good opinion. her vanity was wounded. she was little and mean and small.

and behind that there was something else. there had been more than anger and outraged sentiment in ellen's attitude. she had meant what she said. she had something serious in her mind about bunny—something that she thought she knew . . . . something. . . .

"i'm contemptible!" millie cried, "losing my temper with ellen like a fishwife, then distrusting bunny. i'm worthless." she wanted to run after ellen and beg her pardon but pride restrained her. instead she was cross with victoria all the morning.

victoria's affairs were especially agitating to herself at this time and made her uncertain in her temper and easily upset.[pg 189] out of the mist in which her many admirers obscurely floated two figures had risen who were quite obviously suitors for her hand. when millie had first begun to perceive this she doubted the evidence of her observation. it could not be possible that any one should want to marry victoria, stout and middle-aged as she was. but on second thoughts it seemed quite the simple natural thing for any adventurer to attempt. there was victoria's money, with which she quite obviously did not know what to do. why should not some one for whom youth was over, whose income was an uncertain quantity, decide to spend it for her?

millie called both these men adventurers. there she was unjust. major miles mereward was no adventurer; he was simply an honest soldier really attracted by victoria. honest, but lord, how dull!

as he sat in victoria's room, the chair creaking beneath his fat body, his red hair rough and unbrushed, his red moustache untrimmed, his red hands clutching his old grey soft hat, he was the most uncomfortable, awkward, silent man millie had ever met. he had nothing to say at all; he would only stare at victoria, give utterance to strange guttural noises that were negatives and affirmatives almost unborn. he was poor, but he was honest. he thought victoria the most marvellous creature in the world with her gay talk and light colour. he scarcely realized that she had any money. far otherwise his rival robin bennett.

mr. bennett was a man of over forty, one who might be the grandson of byron or a town's favourite "hamlet"—"distinguished" was the word always used about him.

he dressed beautifully; he moved, victoria declared, "like a picture." not only this; he was able to talk with easy fluency upon every possible subject—politics, music, literature, painting, he had his hand upon them all. moreover, he was adaptable. he understood just why victoria preferred the novels she did, and he was not superior to her because of her taste. he knew why tears filled her eyes when the band played "pomp and circumstance," and thought it quite natural that on such an occasion she should want, as she said, "to run out and give sixpences to all the poor children in the place." he did not[pg 190] pretend to her that her bridge-playing was good. that indeed was more than even his arts could encompass, but he did assure her that she was making progress with every game she played. he even tempted her in the ballroom of the hotel into the one-step and the fox-trot, and an amusing sight for every one it was to see victoria's flushed and clumsy efforts.

nevertheless, it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the man was an adventurer. every one in the hotel knew it—victoria was his third target that season; even victoria did not disguise it altogether from herself.

it was here that millie found her touching and appealing. millie realized that this was the very first time in victoria's life that any one had made love to her; that it was her money to which bennett was making love seemed at the moment to matter very little. the woman was knowing, at long last, what it meant to have eyes—fine, large, brown eyes—gazing into hers, what it was to have her lightest word listened to with serious attention, what it was would some one hasten to open the door, to push forward a chair for her, to pick up her handkerchief when she dropped it (a thing that she was always now doing). mereward did none of these things for her—his brain moved too slowly to make the race a fair one. he was beaten by bennett (who deeply despised him) every time.

but victoria was only half a fool. "millie mine," she said, "don't you find major mereward very restful? he's a good man."

"he is indeed," said millie.

"of course he hasn't mr. bennett's brains. i said to mr. bennett last night, 'i can't think how it is with your brilliance that you are not in the cabinet.'"

"and what did mr. bennett say?" asked millie.

"oh, that he had never cared about politics, that it wasn't a gentleman's game any longer—in which i'm sure he's quite right. it seems a pity though. with his beautiful voice and fine carriage he might have done anything. he says his lack of means has always kept him back."

"i expect it has," said millie.

she was however able to give only half a glance towards[pg 191] victoria's interesting problem because of the increasing difficulty and unexpectedness of her own.

from the very first, long before he had spoken to her on that morning in the cromwell road, she had made with her hands a figure of fair and lovely report. it might be true that also from the very first she had seen that bunny, like roderick hudson, "evidently had a native relish for rich accessories, and appropriated what came to his hand," or, like the young man in galleon's widow's comedy, "believed that the glories of the world were by right divine his own natural property"—all this she had seen and it had but dressed the figure with the finer colour and glow. bunny was handsome enough and clever enough and bright enough to carry off the accessories as many a more dingy mortal might not do. and so, having set up her figure, she proceeded to deck it with every little treasure and ornament that she could find. all the little kindnesses, the unselfish thoughts, the sudden impulses of affection, the thanks and the promises and the ardours she collected and arranged. at first there had been many of these; when bunny was happy and things went well with him he was kind and generous.

then—and especially since the little quarrel about victoria's money—these occasions were less frequent. it seemed that he was wanting something—something that he was in a hurry to get—and that he had not time now for little pleasantries and courtesies. his affection was not less ardent than it had been—it grew indeed with every hour more fierce—but millie knew that he was hurrying her into insecure country and that she should not go with him and that she could not stop.

the whole situation now was unsatisfactory. his mother had been in london for some days but bunny said nothing of going to see her. millie was obliged to face the fact that he did not wish to tell his mother of their engagement. every morning when she woke she told herself that to-day she would force it all into the daylight, would issue ultimatums and stand by them, but when she met him, fear of some horrible crisis held her back—"another day—let me have another lovely day. i will speak to him to-morrow."

she who had always been so proud and fearless was now full of fear. she knew that when he was not thwarted he was still[pg 192] charming, ardent, affectionate, her lover—and so she did not thwart him.

nothing had yet occurred that was of serious moment, the things about which they differed were little things, and she let them go by. he was always telling her of her beauty, and for the first time in her life she knew that she was beautiful. her beauty grew amazingly during those weeks. she carried herself nobly, her head high, her mouth a little ironical, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure of life and the vigour of perfect health, knowing that all the hotel world and indeed all cladgate was watching her and paying tribute to her beauty.

no one disputed that she was the most beautiful girl in cladgate that summer. she roused no jealousy. she was too young, too simple, too natural and too kindly-hearted.

all the world could very quickly see that she was absorbed by young baxter and had no thoughts for any one but him. she had no desire to snatch other young men from their triumphant but fighting captors. she was of a true, generous heart; she would do any one a good turn, laugh with any one, play with any one, sympathize with any one.

she was not only the most beautiful, she was also the best-liked girl in the place.

perhaps because of her retired, cloistered, trenchard up-bringing she was, in spite of two years finishing in paris, innocent and pure of heart. she thought that she knew everything about life, and her courage and her frankness carried her through many situations before which less unsophisticated women would have quailed.

it was not that she credited every one with noble characters; she thought many people foolish and weak and sentimental, but she did believe that every one was fundamentally good at heart and intended to make of life a fine thing. her close companionship with bunny caused her for the first time to wonder whether there was not another world—"underground somewhere"—of which she knew nothing whatever. it was not that he told her anything or introduced her to men who would tell her. he had, one must in charity to him believe, at this time at any rate, a real desire to respect her innocence; but always behind the things they did and said was this implication that he[pg 193] knew so much more of life than she. henry had often implied that same knowledge, but she laughed at him. he might know things that he would not tell her, but he was essentially, absolutely of her own world. but bunny was different. she was a modern girl, belonging to the generation in which, at last, women were to know as much, to see as much, as men. she must know.

"what do you mean, bunny?"

"oh, nothing . . . nothing that you need know."

"but i want to know. i'm not a child——"

"rot. . . . come and dance." she did dance, furiously, ferociously. the diamond palace—a glass-domed building at the foot of the woods, just above the sea, was the place where cladgate danced. the negro band, its teeth gleaming with gold, its fingers glittering with diamond rings, stamped and shrieked, banged cymbals, clashed tins, thumped at drums, yelled and then suddenly murmured like animals creeping back, reluctantly, into the fastnesses of their jungles, and all the good british citizens and citizenesses of cladgate wandered round and round with solemn ecstatic faces, their bodies pressed close together, sweat gathering upon their brows; beyond the glass roof the walks were dark and silent and the sea crept in and out over the tiny pebbles, leaving a thin white pattern far down the deserted beach.

"what do you mean, bunny?" asked millie.

"oh, you'll find out soon enough," he answered her.

the glass roof sparkled above the electric light with a million facets. across the broad floor there stepped and shifted the changing pattern of the human bodies; faces stared out over shoulders, blank, serious, grim as though the crisis—the true crisis—of life had at last arrived, and the band encouraged that belief, softly whispering that now was the moment—now—and now. . . .

millie sat against the wall with victoria; she was waiting for bunny, who was a quarter of an hour late. she had a panic, as she always had when he was late, that he would not come at all; that she would never see him again. her dress to-night was carnation colour and she had shoes of silver tissue. she had an[pg 194] indescribable air of youth and trembling anticipation as though this were the first ball to which she had ever been. henry would have been amazed, had he seen her—her usually so fearless.

her love for bunny made her tremble because, unknown to herself, she was afraid that the slightest movement from outside would precipitate her into a situation that would be disastrous, irrecoverable. . . .

bunny arrived. she was in his arms and they were moving slowly around the room. she saw nothing, only felt that it was very hot. the negro band suddenly leapt out upon them, as though bursting forth from some hidden fastness. the glass roof, with its diamonds, becked and bowed, bending toward them like a vast string to a bow. soon it would snap and where would they be? bunny held her very close to him. their hearts were like voices jumping together, trying to catch some common note with which they were both just out of tune.

the band shrieked and stopped as though it had been stabbed.

they were outside, in a dark corner of the balcony that looked over the sea. they kissed and clung close to one another. suddenly she was aware of an immense danger, as though the grey wood beyond the glass were full of fiery eyes, dangerous with beasts.

"i'm not going into that wood," she heard some voice within herself cry. the band broke out again from beyond the wall. "oh, bunny, let me go——" she had only a moment in which to save herself—to save herself from herself.

she broke from him. she heard her dress tear. she had opened the door of the balcony, was running down the iron steps then, just as she was, in her carnation frock and silver shoes, was hurrying down the white road, away from the wood towards the hotel—the safe, large, empty hotel.