Short Fiction

Terror

Bridget woke up with a start.

Somewhere something had fallen; perhaps a slate from the roof, or maybe it was only a door banging on the floor above. She did not know this, of course; at six years old it is difficult to reason about strange noises, or about anything that happens in the middle of the night. Half-past nine was the same as midnight to Bridget.

For a few minutes she lay awake wondering what it was that had woken her. She no longer felt tired or sleepy, her mind was alert, and every nerve was on edge. Then she opened her eyes and looked around her. At first everything seemed black, pitch black, but as she became accustomed to the darkness the furniture in the bedroom gradually began to take shape.

A queer, ghastly shape.

This was not the same room as the one in which she had undressed. She saw that Nanny had not come up yet, because the bed was empty.

But, what is empty? The pillow must have slipped a little, for something bulky lay in the corner by the turned-down sheet. A piece of blanket had become untucked at the side; it was rolled slightly, and stretched across the centre of the bed. Yet it was not like an ordinary piece of blanket, this rolled object, it was an arm⁠—a cold, white arm⁠—with no body near it, with no person to whom it belonged.

A loose arm hanging from nowhere⁠ ⁠…

Bridget shrank back in her bed and turned her eyes away, but this time they fell on the wardrobe at the end of the room. It looked huge and sinister, far taller than in the daytime; it seemed to stretch as high as the ceiling.

And there was a dark, inky black corner just by the side of it.

She tried to think of what was kept in that corner, but she could not remember; surely it had never been there before?

Then something creaked.

Sweat broke out on Bridget’s forehead, her heart thumped under her little white nightgown; her body burned, but her feet were icy cold!

There⁠ ⁠… another creak.⁠ ⁠… Again.

Her eyes were now glued to the wardrobe, whence the sound had come.

Slowly⁠—very slowly⁠—the door opened. The gap grew larger and larger, creaking with every inch; soon it would swing right open.

And what would be inside, waiting, waiting?

She dared not move now, because the slightest sound would tell them that she was there; if she kept quite still with her eyes closed perhaps they would go away and forget all about her.

She lay silent, without a movement, and then, in spite of herself, the dread impulse came over her to look; her head turned, and her eyes were drawn, as if magnetised, towards the wardrobe.

The door was wide open.

And inside⁠—inside where Nanny’s clothes hung in the daytime, her coat, her mackintosh, her grey costume⁠—were three shadowy figures, silent and mysterious.

Three mocking priests, with gaunt, dark bodies, and no faces.

Bridget knew they were watching her; they were waiting for her to move, when they would creep from their hiding-place, creep with soft, terrible steps towards her bed, and lift great white hands with thin, hollow fingers.

But the silent priests did not move, and she turned her head.

She waited, waited for some sound to warn her, some sign to tell her that they were coming to her⁠—but nothing happened. This was worse, this sudden absence of any sound, this dead still quiet. She listened⁠—she could hear Silence.

A faint humming sound in her ears, then gradually it buzzed louder, until it became a roar like a mighty wind. She opened her eyes again, and saw that the square dressing-table had turned into a square, hunchbacked animal, with thin, queer-shaped legs.

It stood beneath the window ready to pounce. The cord of the blind was rattling against the window pane⁠—someone was trying to get into the room.

Yes, at either side of the window, where the curtains generally hung, there were two evil women with long black hair. These were more frightening than the priests; these were witches with claws instead of hands; they had the same faces as a woman in a book she had once seen. She remembered the book, a large old book with a brown cover, and the pictures were horrible.

Supposing all the pictures had become alive, and were going to steal one after the other through the window!

Bridget swallowed⁠—the sound of it seemed to echo through the room, but she could not help herself, she had to swallow again. Her throat was dry⁠—she tasted dust. Everything in the room now took a special shape. The fireplace was a yawning cave; the table a gigantic toad; the chairs were stunted dwarfs.

If only Nanny would come up; if only she could get out of this terrible room into the kind, warm Day Nursery, flooded with electric light.

What if snakes came down the chimney⁠—long, black, wriggling snakes⁠—and glided along the floor and coiled themselves round the bedposts?

The floor became thick with bodies of dead cats⁠—she had seen one in a gutter once⁠—grey, furry cats; and mice, thousands of headless mice⁠ ⁠…

Bridget began to cry, and the sound of her crying frightened her.

The Things had heard; they were all coming near her. The priests bowed, the witches waved, the animals crept quietly, quietly⁠ ⁠…

The air suddenly became thick with stifling blankets; she was going to be suffocated, the ceiling was sinking down upon her. With a strangled scream Bridget climbed out of bed, she stumbled across the floor and flung herself panting against the door. “Nanny, Nanny, come quickly!”

They were all coming nearer her, long, distorted shapes grinned at her, large crooked hands thrust themselves forward to grasp her.

Above her hung great gaping mouths.

Her feet stood in a pool of blood⁠ ⁠… She was lying on the floor now, screaming into the carpet.

Then the door opened, and someone turned on the light.

It was Nanny. Bridget flung herself upon her, sobbing hysterically.

“Nanny, Nanny, take me away; don’t let them get at me; I’m so frightened, don’t go away! Oh! save me!”

The nurse shook her crossly. She was irritated at having to come upstairs from her cup of cocoa in the kitchen, but Bridget’s screams had alarmed her and she was afraid there might be a fire.

“What do you mean by making all that noise?” she said sharply. “You ought to be fast asleep hours ago instead of shouting and screaming. I should be ashamed if I were you. I won’t have any nonsense, do you hear me?”

Bridget’s screams rose higher and higher; she begged and pleaded to be taken downstairs; she clutched on to the nurse with clammy, wet fingers; she grovelled on the floor; she almost licked her hand.

“You stop where you are; do you understand?”

Bridget was picked up and thrust back in her bed.

“Will you be quiet at once?”

Nurse was gone in an instant, and the light was put out.

The door closed behind her, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.

For a moment the child was too amazed to think. Then came realisation⁠—she was alone.

Long shadows crept across the floor⁠ ⁠…

A Difference in Temperament

He leant against the mantelpiece, nervously jingling the change in his pockets. He supposed there would be another scene. It was so unreasonable the way she minded him going out without her. She never seemed to realise that he just had to get away sometimes⁠—for no particular reason, but because it gave him a sense of freedom. He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick. There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her. The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness. Not to have to look at his watch and remember, “I promised to be back at four,” but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing. Even driving in a taxi she had never seen; to have the sensation of leaning back and smoking a cigarette without turning his head and being aware of her beside him. He would come back in the evening and tell her about it; they would sit in front of the fire and laugh; but at least it would have been his afternoon⁠—not theirs, but his alone.

This was what she resented, though; she wanted to share everything. She could never imagine doing things apart from him. She had an uncanny way of reading his thoughts, too. If he was thinking of something that had no connection with her, she would know it at once. Only she exaggerated it in her mind. She would immediately think he was bored with her, that he did not like her any more. It wasn’t that, of course; it wasn’t that at all. Naturally, he loved her more than anyone in the world; in fact, there literally did not exist anyone but her. Why did she not realise this and be thankful? Why must she chain him to her, his mind, his body, his soul, without allowing the smallest part in him to stray, even for a little distance? She should understand that he would never go far, he would never go out of her sight⁠—metaphorically; but surely just to the top of that hill, to see what was on the other side. No, even this she must share with him.

“Don’t you see,” she would explain, “that when I see anything or do anything there is no joy in keeping it to myself? I want to give everything to you. If I am alone and I see a picture that I love, or I read some passage from a book, I think to myself there is no meaning in this unless he knows it too. You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes. A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands. Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you⁠—beauty, ugliness, pain. There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.”

Funny!⁠—yes, he saw what she meant, but he could not feel like this. They were on different planes. In the universe they were two stars, she far higher, burning with a steady light, but he flickering, unsteadily, always a little ahead⁠—and in the end falling to earth, a momentary streak in the sky.

He turned to her abruptly.

“I guess I’d better go and have lunch in Town today, after all. I promised that chap I’d see him again before he leaves, and I don’t want to offend him. I’ll be back early, of course.” He smiled a shade too sincerely.

She looked up from the letter she was writing. “I thought you had arranged everything the last time you were together?”

“Yes⁠—more or less. But I feel I ought to see him again, just once. It’s a good opportunity today, don’t you think? I mean, we weren’t going to have done anything; you’re busy.” He spoke easily, naturally, as if there was no question of her minding.

She was not deceived, though, not for a moment. Why was he never frank with her? Why not admit that he was no longer content to be with her, but must go out and seek any sort of distraction? It was his reticence that hurt her, his refusal to speak the truth. Like a wounded animal she spread out her claws to protect herself.

“You enjoy his company so much, when you have only known him for three weeks?” Her voice was hard and metallic.

He knew this voice. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t care a damn whether I see this fellow or not.”

“Why do you go, then?”

There was no argument to this. He yawned self-consciously and avoided her eyes. She waited without saying a word. He pretended to lose his temper.

“I’ve told you I don’t want to offend him. It’s a bit thick; there’s always this same old argument whenever I go out. Good God, it’s only for a few hours! If you had your way you’d leave me without a friend in the world. You seem to be jealous if I speak to a dog.”

Jealous! She laughed contemptuously. He had misunderstood her again. As if she could possibly be jealous of the people he knew. It would be different if there was someone worth while. But this careless, selfish way he left her for anyone, for some creature he might not even see again! She despised the weak manner in which he shifted responsibility from himself.

“Go, then,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “since it pains you to hurt a comparative stranger. I’m glad you’ve let me know. I shall remember in future. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that last Monday you promised this sort of thing would never happen again. I realise now that I can’t depend on you at all. I’ve been making rather a fool of myself over you, haven’t I? Well, aren’t you going?”

Her eyes were cold. She had wrapped herself in a sheet of armour.

He turned his back and looked out of the window.

“Charming little scene for nothing at all,” he laughed lightly. “It’s pleasant, isn’t it, living like this? Makes such an attractive atmosphere in the house. Scarcely a day passes without some sort of discussion, does it?” He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, whistling a tune. He knew that every word tore at her like a knife. He was pleased. He wanted to hurt her. He didn’t care. She sat quite still, pretending to do accounts on a piece of paper. Calmly, dispassionately, she wondered why she loved him. His cruel, selfish nature, the way he took everything from her and gave nothing in return. If he would only realise that the smallest touch of recognition from him, the faintest sign that he would give up something unimportant for her sake, would send a flood of warmth to her heart. He did nothing. She felt herself drawing farther away from him, a lonely figure in an imaginary train. A grey shadow in a world of shadows. There was no one even to wave goodbye.

He watched her out of the tail of his eye. Why must she always parade her suffering before him? Not openly, not something that he could get hold of and flaunt in her face, but quietly, with the resignation of a martyr. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on to the blotting-paper. Oh! hell⁠—he wasn’t going to stand for it. It was damn selfish of her, spoiling his day.

“Look here,” he started, as if nothing had happened, “it’s too late to put the whole thing off now. If you’d said something earlier, naturally I’d have done so. I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back soon after lunch.”

Surely this was a compromise. He was going out of his way to be nice to her. He waited to see how she would take it.

“Don’t forget your coat, there’s a bitter east wind,” she told him, and went on writing.

He hesitated a moment, wondering what to do. Did that mean everything was all right? No, he knew her too well. She would suffer the tortures of the damned until he returned. She would imagine every sort of accident. She would bottle up this scene in her mind, making more out of it than there had been. Why didn’t he chuck away this footling lunch and stop with her? He didn’t want to go now at all. He never had, really, all the time.

Another tear fell on to the blotting paper.

“Shall I not go after all?” he suggested weakly, pretending not to notice the tear.

She made a movement of impatience. Did he think she was to be won as easily as this? He was trying to save himself. He was anxious to make up to her, to kiss and be friends like a child, and then forget all about it until the same thing happened again. Did he really want to stay with her? She gave him one more chance.

“Do just as you think best. Don’t attempt to stay unless you feel like it.” Her voice was cool, impersonal.

Damn it all, she might show some sort of emotion. He had offered to stop, and this was how she took it. No, he didn’t see why he should be always giving in to her. What a bore everything was. Why couldn’t they live in peace? It was all her fault.

“Perhaps I’d better go, it looks rather rude,” he said carelessly, and strolled from the room, banging the door on purpose. He wouldn’t bother to put on his coat, it would serve her right if he caught pneumonia. He had a vision of himself, stretched on a bed, coughing and gasping for breath. She bending over him with an agony of fear in her eyes. She would fight for his life, but she would lose. It would be too late. He could see her planting violets on his grave, a solitary figure in a grey cloak. What a ghastly tragedy. A lump came into his throat. He became quite emotional thinking of his own death. He would have to write a poem about this.

From behind the curtains she watched him walk to the end of the street. She was sure he had forgotten her already. She felt she did not care what he did any more. It was all over. She rang the bell and began to scold the maid for no reason.

He hated the lunch, the man was a bore⁠—he couldn’t even listen to what he was saying. He felt ill, too. His wish was probably coming true, and he was catching pneumonia. What a Godforsaken fool he was to have come. There was no point in it at all. He had probably been and mucked up his life just for this. And all the while the fellow was rambling on about a whole lot of damned silly people he never wanted to see again. He’d cut everyone out of his life in future, nobody mattered but her. They’d leave this beastly country and go and live abroad. Perhaps when he went home he would find she had left him for good. There would be a note pinned on the desk. What would he do? He couldn’t live without her. He’d commit suicide, he’d chuck himself into the river. Surely she loved him too much to do this. He could imagine the house blank and silent, the wardrobes empty of her dresses, the desk bare. Gone, leaving no address behind her. No, she would not do it, it was impossible. It was cruel, it would kill him. What on earth was this idiot jabbering about?

“I told her frankly I wasn’t going to stand for it. I haven’t the money for one thing, and, besides, I’ve got to consider my reputation. Don’t you think I was right?”

“Oh! perfectly⁠—absolutely.” He hadn’t listened to a word. As if he cared about this fellow’s hellish reputation.

“You know I must push off. I’ve got an appointment with my publisher,” he lied.

Somehow he managed to get away. What did it matter if he was rude? The man had ruined his life anyway. He leapt into a taxi. “Drive like the devil!” he shouted. Stop, though, he suddenly had a longing to buy her something. The most priceless jewel⁠—the most marvellous furs⁠—anything. He would like to shower gifts at her feet. Perhaps there wasn’t time for all this. It would have to be flowers after all. It was months since he had bought her flowers. How foul of him. He chose an azalea, an enormous one with pink waving buds. “This will last a month or more if it’s watered frequently,” said the woman.

“Will it really?” He became quite excited, he walked out of the shop clutching the pot in his arms. She would be pleased with this. A month! Pretty good value considering. The buds were small now, but they would open a little every day, they would get bigger, the plant would grow into a small bush. “The symbol of my love,” he thought sentimentally.

Supposing she had gone, though, supposing she had killed herself? He would go mad, he would scatter the petals of the azalea over her body with a wild, despairing cry. Rather an effective scene for the last act, he must remember this. No, by God, he would never write another line again, he would dedicate the whole of his life to her, to her alone. Oh! how he was suffering. If she only knew what he was going through. His heart was bursting, it had never happened to anyone in the world before. What had he done that he should suffer so? He was certain there would be an ambulance outside the door, they would be carrying her limp form on a stretcher. He imagined himself leaping from the taxi, and covering her pale dead hand with kisses. “My beloved⁠—my beloved.” No, the street was empty. The house seemed unchanged. He paid the taxi and opened the front door⁠—silently, like a thief. He crept upstairs, and listened outside her room. He heard her move. Thank God! Nothing had happened then. He wanted to shout for joy. He burst open the door, a fatuous smile on his face.

Poor darling, had she been writing letters all day? Her face was white and strained. Why on earth was she looking so unhappy? Wasn’t she pleased to see him back?

“Look,” he stammered foolishly, “I’ve bought you an azalea.”

She did not smile, she scarcely noticed the flower. “Thank you,” she said in a dull voice. How inevitable of him. How unfeeling and unintelligent. Would he never understand her? Did he think he could just go off and enjoy himself after having broken her heart, and then bring back this plant as a peace offering? She could picture him saying to himself, “Oh! I’ve only got to buy her a flower, and then kiss her, she’ll forget all about this morning.”

If only it was as easy as that. His attitude wounded her, distressed her beyond measure. He had no heart, no delicacy of thought.

“Don’t you like it?” he asked her, like a spoilt child.

Why had he bought the beastly thing? His agony at lunch, his terrible impatience in the taxi, meant nothing to her. Everything was a failure. The azalea looked foolish and conceited in its big pot. It seemed quite different in the shop. Now it mocked him, the colour was vulgar, much too pink. It was a hideous type of flower altogether. It didn’t even smell⁠ ⁠… He wanted to crash it to the ground.

“Are you going to make a habit of this in future⁠—a reminder for each time you hurt me?” she asked him.

She loathed herself, she hated her words, she longed to say something entirely different. The atmosphere was terrible. Why couldn’t they be themselves again? He had only to make the first move. But her speech stung him, she insisted on ignoring every word he said.

“My God,” he shouted, “there’ll never be another time. I’m finished with the whole damned business, finished. Do you understand?”

He left the room, and went out of the house. The door slammed behind him.

“But that’s not what I meant,” he thought, “that’s not what I meant at all.”

A Man of Straw

I saw him in Leicester Square, standing on the edge of the pavement in front of the Empire.

There was something familiar about him, the tall, thin figure, the small moustache, and the pale, helpless blue eyes. He looked up at me, hesitating, uncertain, a little afraid to speak, expecting that I should cut him.

Then, like a flash, it came back to me; his name, his personality.

“Surely it’s Marlow, isn’t it?” I said, “and I don’t believe you’ve forgotten me either. Where have you been all these years, and what happened to you after we ran up against each other that time in France, in ’17?”

He had scarcely changed at all. He must have been thirty-six or seven, and yet there was scarcely a line to show the difference between him and the boy I knew at school. And yet there was something⁠—vague, shadowy. It was as if, imperceptibly, he had shrunk into himself, become worn, a little humble. I could see him at school, rather arrogant, inclined to show off, and yet popular, with many friends. Then, in France, when I met him suddenly in Havre during 1917, his arrogance had shown itself again. His attitude towards me, a junior officer, had been superior, slightly ridiculous. Now, twelve years later, his manner had altered. He stooped a little, too, as if he bore some weight upon his shoulders. I felt curious to know how he had lived.

“I never thought you would remember me,” he smiled. “You know how it is, one goes abroad⁠—one drifts, and people go out of one’s life.⁠ ⁠…” He seemed to be apologising for something.

I realised that he had the appearance of someone who is half-starved, who denies himself the meanest necessities. Yet he was not in any way shabbily or poorly dressed, his clothes were good. I took him off to dinner at my favourite little Italian restaurant, and there his general shyness melted, he gave way, he told me about himself. I leant back in my chair, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and listened to him for nearly two hours without interruption. He told me his story, fixing me the while with his pale blue eyes, and from time to time brushing his short moustache with a quick, impatient gesture.

“The fact is,” he began, “I’m done; beaten. Life has got me under, and I can’t cope. I’m thirty-seven; no money, no job⁠—without the likelihood of anything turning up. One goes on hoping, day after day, that something will come along, and that’s about all. Meanwhile, I keep up appearances; I never allow myself to grow slack or shabby.

“These clothes, for instance. You’d never guess from my clothes that this is the first meal I’ve had for two days? No, I believe in keeping up appearances.”

He spoke without conviction. His hand trembled as he lit the cigarette I offered him. A note of weariness crept into his voice, a whining note, a ceaseless complaint.

“You see, nothing has really been my fault,” he went on. “Not consciously, anyway. I’ve never meant to hurt anyone or anything, and yet life has been against me, always, always. I don’t ask for much, only the right to live decently, to keep body and soul together.

“Something has happened to the world. People have become brutal, callous. No one is ready to lend a helping hand. If I were like the rest of them, hard, indifferent, thick-skinned⁠—God, if I could only change my temperament. But I’m so appallingly sensitive⁠—and it’s incurable, there’s nothing to be done. All my life it’s been the same⁠—all my life mucked up because of it.”

He drank his coffee slowly, thoughtfully. It occurred to me that he was acting a little, that he was watching himself as it were, with me, and creating for his own benefit a shadow on a wall.

Yet he seemed unconscious of this, and I decided that he had acted a part so long that he had therefore lost all insincerity, and had become one with the character he had drawn for himself.

He leant forward, intimate, as one who bares his soul to his confessor.

“And then⁠—no one has really understood me since my mother died.”

Weakness, self-pity⁠—at once I held the key to his character.

Justified, perhaps, a shallow, empty life, like most of us who came through the War, but surely he could have found somewhere a place to rest? He could not have searched in himself, nor in anyone, for that matter, for that small grain of beauty that lies in all of us, even in the most weary, the most forsaken.

“No one has understood me since my mother died.”

Then he went on to talk about the War.

“Those four years had a terrible effect upon me. They shook something inside me, not youth, not ideals, but something I can’t name. Vaguely, I think, it was the want to ever do anything or to be anyone that went. There didn’t seem very much purpose in anything. I don’t know if other fellows did the same⁠—but I became slack with myself, I didn’t bother to think at all.

“At first I waited, expectant, for something terrific to happen, so as to be able to lose myself in a rush of feeling⁠—but it never came. I messed about, doing my job mechanically, aware of a sense of frustration, as if I’d missed something, taken the wrong turning. I dare say it was different for you, right in the thick of it. You see, I never actually saw any fighting,” he went on hurriedly, as if ashamed, blushing a little. “I was cooped up in Havre most of the time, staff work, you know, red tape. They stuck me there⁠—it wasn’t my fault.”

He looked at me helplessly. I wondered why he took such pains to explain this to me. War records⁠—what do they matter now, one way or another?

He conjured in my mind a vision of old men in clubs, discussing the election of a possible new member. “They tell me he has a very fine war record.” “Oh! really,” and the matter is settled.

“You’ve no idea what it was like in Havre,” said Marlowe. “It made one restless, impossible. If I could have been in the thick of it like you⁠—seen men die round me⁠—I don’t know, perhaps⁠ ⁠…”

He stopped, uncertain of his words, unable to continue.

One didn’t talk of these things⁠—besides, it had all happened so long ago. I think we were both aware that this was not a discussion that would lead him anywhere.

“When I got back to England after the War, I messed about in London for a while. I didn’t know what to do with myself at all. I got in with a crowd of people, all a little jaded, and rather excited about nothing, do you know? We killed time, we went to parties⁠—we didn’t even really amuse one another. That sort of thing has never appealed to me. Then I married.

“My marriage was a terrible failure, right from the start. You see, I started the whole thing because I was bored.”

So much for marriage. His sentence was typical, not only of the man, but of most of us⁠—this thoughtless, postwar generation.

“Besides, I was sorry for her,” he continued. “I’m very easily touched by people, especially women. She was unhappy at home, and longed to be independent. She told me some wretched story about a man who wanted her to go to New Zealand and live with him⁠—they had had an affair for a year or so⁠—and then, before she could make up her mind, he died of pneumonia. Of course, when we met she was going on the rebound, and, as I told you⁠—I was bored, nothing to do. Kate and I were just caught up in the mesh of things. Perhaps we both thought there was a certain safety in marriage. Anyway, it all happened without much forethought⁠—we imagined and pretended that what we were doing was for the best. Outwardly, I fancied this, but in reality I was tortured by doubt. Why, on the eve of my wedding I told myself ‘You’re making a terrible mistake,’ but it was too late. I did not see what I could do. How does one get out of that sort of thing without appearing an appalling cad?

“No, I’m convinced now, as I was then, nothing could be done. Kate and I had to go through with it.

“How can I explain to you? You see, I’m not really a very physical person, and unless I have someone who is sympathetic, who understands my countless changes of mood, it’s hopeless⁠—hopeless. I suppose she was disappointed in me, it was natural. However, it is worse than useless to try to draw a picture of this to you.

“Well, I found it impossible to continue living on the little income my mother had left me. I had to find something to do.

“Do you know Beachcomb, that place on the East Coast that some enterprising fool tried to push as a fashionable seaside resort? I believe a pile of money was lost there. I got the job of running the sports centre.

“It wasn’t bad fun at first. They gave us a bungalow facing the sea, and a decent little garden. Kate used to potter about there, she was fond of gardening, and she scraped up acquaintance with the various locals. After a year the life got on my nerves to such an extent I thought I should become insane.

“The petty atmosphere of that club, day in, day out, the endless rows at the hotel, people being rude, not paying⁠—and then it always seemed to fall on me, the job of peacemaking⁠—of patching up quarrels.

“Then Kate started to make silly scenes of jealousy over nothing at all.

“Oh, I dare say many other fellows would have found the life ideal, no actual worries, decent pay⁠—long summer months in the open air and that sort of thing.

“Let them try Beachcomb in the winter, though, when you can get through all your work in the morning, and then idle away the rest of the day playing billiards with chaps who haven’t an ounce of brain in their heads.

“And then going back to your wife, and finding her in tears because you had left her alone. Row after row!”

“That sort of atmosphere kills anyone like me, my nerves went all to pieces. I scarcely knew what I was doing. Then⁠—well, the inevitable happened. I⁠—made a fool of myself over a girl, and it cost me my job. She was stopping at the hotel for the summer with an invalid aunt. Nan she was called. God⁠—what a lovely thing she was⁠—very fair, thin, only eighteen. She used to come up to the club and say she wanted lessons in golf. It was an incredibly hot summer that year⁠—Beachcomb became almost attractive, and I neglected everything.

“I guess the sun must have gone to my head, nothing seemed to matter as long as I saw that child every day. We used to swim together⁠—go for moonlight walks⁠—you know the sort of thing. I never stopped to think for a moment. My life with Kate was a farce; I was miserable, wretched, and here was this lovely creature willing to give up her time to me.

“I’ve always adored anyone young, anyone gay. I couldn’t help realising that Kate was older than I, that she had never been particularly attractive. I can’t see that I was a cad in making love to Nan, any man would have done the same, she was so young, so lovely.

“Besides, I never meant it to become serious, I thought it would merely be a relaxation.”

Once more the note of injury crept into his voice. The weak man, the injured man. He had never “thought” about this, he had never “meant” any harm. Impotent stock-phrases, my brother.

“Everything seemed to combine to force us together,” he protested. “I assure you I made no definite move, but opportunities occurred⁠—these things have to happen, it’s human nature. And I’m so damned sensitive to beauty.”

One by one his little weapons fell from him, and his words helped him not at all.

“Things went on like this for about six weeks, and then Kate found out. I can’t go into this, or how she discovered. It’s too sordid, too horrible. There was a terrible scene, and she threatened to make a scandal. I was terrified of the result of all this upon Nan, and the general breakup of things. For two days Kate and I never slept at all, we discussed the question from every point of view, arriving nowhere, going over and over the same old ground.

“By the third day I was too tired to argue any more, the position was hopeless, I was ready to accept any conditions. Kate suddenly seemed to possess the energy which I was lacking. I felt ashamed of myself, I had treated her badly. And now that it had come to the point I was uneasy at the thought of a divorce, of making some sort of a life with Nan, of another failure perhaps⁠—anyway, I was unable to cope. So I agreed to Kate’s suggestion⁠—I threw up my job⁠—I wrote a wretched farewell letter to Nan⁠—and that was the end of it.”

His eyes seemed to feel mine, in search of sympathy, of possible disapproval. Then he looked away, and began to tug uncomfortably at his little moustache.

“We then came up to London, and lived in rooms near Holland Park.”

His sentence seemed to suggest that this was the outcome of every adventure that has no end, of all broken romances.

“A fiend of Kate’s told me I ought to go on the films. I’ve always photographed fairly well, but I felt there must be more in it than that. Still, Kate was keen, she had heard glorified accounts of the money they paid, I suppose, and it didn’t make much difference to me what I did.

“This friend introduced me to a chap who was starting a company. I made a fair test, and to my surprise they engaged me, for small-part work. This went on for about a year. My heart was never in it for a moment, but it kept me from thinking. Then the company went bust⁠—and I was once more without a job. It was the day after this happened, and I was feeling pretty desperate I can tell you, when Kate chose the moment to tell me she was going to have a baby. It was absolutely the last straw.”

The vivid scene came before me of him sitting in a chair in the drab rooms near Holland Park, and his wife breaking her news to him, tired, a little afraid, but perhaps daring to hope for a word of sympathy, a smile⁠—a suspicion of tenderness. And he, rising from his chair, irritable, impatient, and clenching his hands, “This is the last straw.”

“There was another scene, naturally,” he told me, “but I was firm for once. I had no job, no settled income, I could not possibly provide for a child. I made her go back to her mother. I think she was relieved, and it was the only thing to do under the circumstances.

“I was determined to break away, to start with a clean page. I felt I just had to get away from England, to begin afresh. I longed for new faces, new people. I had just enough money to pay my passage to Canada, first-class.”

Yes, he would travel first-class. He would arrive in the: Colonies without the prospect of a job, with no money in his pockets; but at least, according to his code, he would have kept his self-respect. He would travel first-class.

“I met a woman on the boat who seemed really to understand me. She had the most amazing ideas on life; we had conversations⁠—God, the things we discussed. We were both utterly in sympathy with one another. She was very rich apparently; anyway, she took me under her wing, and we went to Montreal together.

“For a couple of months I was perfectly happy. Of course I was a fool, I threw away many opportunities of jobs, for the mere pleasure of being with her, talking to her, exchanging ideas.”

“Then, I don’t know how it was, whether she grew bored or what, she was an extraordinary woman, but she went away one day and never came back. Left a note saying goodbye, and it had been fun and all that, and she had gone to California. Queer, wasn’t it? I’ve never understood it at all. The next few years I rather went to pieces. I mucked about in Canada looking for jobs, I tried one thing, and then another. I was on the stage for a while, I used to play the leading man in third-rate tours! One-night stands, and repertory stuff. What a crowd!”

He leant back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his face.

“One gets so awfully lonely,” he explained. “I can rub along with most people, but there’s something underneath all the time that keeps alive in spite of one’s efforts to kill it⁠—a pain, a reminder. I tried drinking, but it wasn’t any use. It didn’t ease me, or even give me any pleasure, but I hoped it would help me to forget, you know⁠—vaguely.”

His wisdom seemed infinite. The more one drinks the more one forgets⁠—always vaguely.

“I began to wonder about Kate, and my little boy. She had not written to me for a long while, nor I to her, for that matter. I realised that the boy must be nearly three, and I had never seen him. Only a smudgy snap, taken in a back garden. I used to carry it about in my notecase. Then, one day Kate sent me a long letter. As she had not heard from me for so long she had started to take proceedings for divorce, on the grounds of desertion, etc. Also, she told me she had met someone who had become very attached to her and the boy. I gathered that she meant to marry him. Of course, there was nothing to say, she deserved any happiness she could get. I suppose the man had money, and, anyway, what sort of a father was I?

“I threw away the snapshot, there didn’t seem much point in getting sentimental.

“My luck changed after this; I thought life was going to offer me something at last.

“I won a lottery. It gave me a real thrill to have some cash in hand for once. I knew nothing about investments, but I resolved to make good, if such a thing were possible. I met some fellow who said he’d discovered a wonderful new process of photography⁠—too technical to explain⁠—but I took a great fancy to him, and we decided to travel back to England together, and start some sort of a business. He seemed thoroughly honest, mentioned the names of people I knew⁠—well, I believed every word he said.

“I was to put my money in this photographic affair, and make a fortune. I never imagined for a moment that it was a swindle⁠—I was completely taken in. We arrived in England, put up at the same hotel⁠—and then he vanished. Not a trace of him, nor my money. It sounds a faked, unlikely story, doesn’t it, but I assure you it’s true.

“After that nothing will ever surprise me again; I’m prepared for anything⁠—any mortal thing that comes along.”

Once more he became humble, small; he seemed to shrink into himself.

“Since then I’ve been unable to cope. I’ve spent my time running round, digging up old friends. People have been kind in a way, suggesting jobs, but nothing that I fancy. All a little degrading; you know how it is, if one’s been brought up in a certain way, public school and all that; I don’t know.⁠ ⁠…

“I’m lodging in Golders Green at the moment. There’s a girl there who’s been very sweet to me⁠—and I believe I’m fond of her. But, of course, the position is hopeless, and I hate ties in any form, I must be independent.

“It’s difficult, so difficult, to know how to use one’s life. If only there was someone who could really help, really understand.”

We sat for a while in silence. I racked my brains, wondering if my uncle could do anything⁠—if there was an opening for him in his office.

Then he leant forward suddenly, flushing a little, his eyes on his plate, and speaking in a low, hurried voice⁠—

“If you could possibly lend me five pounds .

The Lover

It was ten-thirty on a wet morning in January. The telephone boxes were empty on the Piccadilly Circus subway, empty save for one at the right-hand corner by the entrance to Shaftesbury Avenue.

A woman stood there, her lips pressed close to the mouthpiece, the pennies clutched in her hand. She moved impatiently and flung a glance over her shoulder, and rattled the receiver.

“But I’ve repeated the number three times already. I tell you I want Gerrard 10550⁠—Gerrard 10550.”

She bit her lip and tapped her foot nervously on the floor.

“Of course there is somebody there. Will you please ring them again.”

He turned over in bed and reached for a cigarette. He yawned, stretched himself, and fumbled for his dressing-gown. Then he flung aside the bedclothes and strolled over towards his dressing-table.

He ran the comb through his hair and peered at the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hand wandered towards the bottle of Bromo Seltza. When the telephone rang he frowned, and, making no attempt to answer it, wandered into the bathroom. The steaming water foamed from the taps; his dressing-gown slipped to the floor.

He lay back in his bath, a large sponge pressed to his chest, and watched his pale limbs beneath the water, flabby and mushroom-coloured. The smoke from his cigarette curled towards the ceiling. Still the telephone continued to ring on the little table beside the bed.

“Yes, Gerrard 10550. Can you clear the line again? There must be some mistake.”

The woman’s voice was very weary now, flat, with an added note of supplication. She raised her eyes and read once more the rules for Public Telephone service.

He wrapped himself in a large warm towel and lit another cigarette. The rain splashed against the window. What an infernal row the telephone was making! He padded with bare feet into the bedroom.

“Hullo, what is it? Speak up; I can’t hear a word.”

The woman tilted her hat on the back of her head; her bag fell from her hand and crashed on the floor, spilling her change.

“At last! Oh, heavens, what a morning! Do you know I’ve been waiting here nearly half an hour? Were you asleep?”

“I suppose I was. What a time to ring, anyway! What d’you want?”

“What do you imagine? Don’t you realise I have crept out of the house in this pouring, filthy rain, dressed anyhow, caring for nothing, husband and children waiting at home⁠—only to speak to you. And then because I’ve wakened you up from sleep you snap at me in this beastly way.⁠ ⁠…”

“Listen,” he said quickly, “if you want to make a scene, go and make it to somebody else and not to me. I mean to say⁠—life’s too short.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh! you don’t understand what I am going through because of you! I’m miserable, miserable. I haven’t seen you for five days, and you don’t apparently care.”

“My dear, it’s ridiculous to work yourself into such a state. You know perfectly well I’m terribly busy. I’ve not had a single moment.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I worked until late, if you must know, and then went to bed.”

“How do I know that you’re speaking the truth?” Her voice was hard, suspicious. She could imagine the shrug of his shoulders.

“Oh, hell! If you’re in that sort of mood, goodbye.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it! Don’t go! I am a fool.” She clung to the receiver as though she was with him.

“Well, damn it! You make things so difficult. What do you think I did?” There was a pause.

The woman fumbled for her handkerchief; she felt her mouth drag at the corner.

“What⁠—what are you doing today?” she began desperately.

“Literally haven’t a moment today,” answered the voice briskly. “I’m up to my eyes in work. I’ve got to finish a story for an American paper.”

“Couldn’t I⁠—couldn’t I come and sit with you?”

“No. I can’t work with anyone round; you must know that by now.”

“What about this evening, or a second for lunch today? I’ve kept it absolutely free, thinking we should be together. I’m going off my head these long, empty days; this endless rain, this never seeing you for one single moment.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

How far the voice sounded, how distant! If only she could be with him now!

“If you only knew how much I love you!” she said.

He moved restlessly and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Listen. What’s the use of all this? I’ve got to do some work.”

“Then we aren’t going to see each other at all today? I might just as well go away, go abroad, go right away from you. You don’t care if you never see me again; you hate the sight of me; you.⁠ ⁠…”

The senseless words poured from her mouth.

He closed his eyes wearily and yawned.

“Why go into all that now? You know how I hate scenes⁠—discussions. Why are you complaining? After all, we’ve had a good time; it’s been good fun; we haven’t hurt anybody. What’s the point of all this tangle of nerves?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be tiresome, only it’s never seeing you, never hearing you. Swear you aren’t angry⁠—promise you aren’t angry. You see, I’ve been so unhappy. I’m loathsome, selfish⁠—and you have your work. But if perhaps⁠—loving you as I do⁠—you.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, look. I’ll ring some time later in the week. Goodbye.”

She jabbed furiously at the receiver.

“Wait⁠—wait! What are you doing tomorrow at half-past three?”

But there was no reply.

She straightened her hat and wandered uncertainly away.

He rang the bell for the hotel exchange. “I say, if anyone rings again, say I’m working and can’t be disturbed.”

He stood before the window and watched the rain. What an effort it was, this continual being⁠ ⁠… If one told the truth for one moment there was the devil to pay. Women were a cope⁠—a decided cope. Still, difficult to live without them⁠—one way and another.

He glanced at the letter that had arrived with his breakfast.

“… And I’m so anxious for you to meet him, because he really is the most important publisher today. Naturally, a genius like you will find your feet anyway, but it does help to get in with the right people. Anyway, lunch at one as usual at the same place. No one will recognise me there. Isn’t convention vile? I would like to shout about us from the housetops, and then we have to sneak to our meetings as though we were ashamed of the most marvellous thing in the world.

“Darling, when I think of last night I⁠ ⁠…”

Good lord! there were three⁠—no, four pages of this. What a woman!

He placed the letter carefully in his notecase. One never knew⁠ ⁠… All the same, she must not shout things from the housetops. Sort of damn silly thing a woman would do. Still, she did not yet telephone him every hour of the day like the last one. She was very lovely⁠—and very useful.

He wound up the gramophone that she had given him. He supposed he would be able to use her car again today. Impossible to walk a step in this rain. She had suggested giving him a car of his own.

Yes, she really was rather wonderful. He lounged in the chair while the record whispered in his ear:

“And that’s why Chinks do it⁠—Japs do it.”

“Oh, but you look marvellous!” he told her; “marvellous! Shall we take this little table in the corner?⁠—and then there will be no chance of anyone seeing us. Isn’t that a new hat? But, of course, I adore it; I adore everything you wear.”

She felt for his hand under the table and sighed.

“You know, sweetheart, when you talk to me like this I feel like chucking up everything and just going away with you. After all, what does scandal matter? We love each other. I don’t care about losing my money; we could live in a garret, in a-tent.”

He forced a laugh. “Aren’t you wonderful!”

Surely she would never dream of losing her head to such an appalling extent! Women had no sense of proportion at all.

“Just think, you and I starving in a garret,” she went on dreamily.

“Yes, but it would be the action of a cad,” he said quickly. “I should never forgive myself. How could I be so brutal to drag you away from all your comforts and luxury! It would be criminal.”

He struck his fist upon the table. He almost believed it himself.

“No,” he continued gently, “we must try and content ourselves with things as they are. One day⁠—oh, one day⁠ ⁠…”

He looked into her eyes. He could say this so many times, and it invariably rang true.

“You know,” he said, as he glanced down the menu and chose mixed grill at 1s. 9d.⁠—she might expect him to pay⁠—“you know, I don’t believe any two lovers have ever understood one another as we do. I can’t explain; it’s something that comes from the depths of one⁠—a sympathy, a mutual form of self-expression⁠ ⁠…”

“I feel it, too,” she answered breathlessly. “I’m sure people have said this before, but they’ve never meant it.”

“Never meant it,” he agreed gravely.

“Whereas with us everything is completely natural; neither of us has to pretend,” she told him.

“That’s what is really so marvellous,” he said. “Have some iced water, darling; the wine here is terrible. No, what I was saying is that no two people have ever loved the same way as we have. It’s so much more than just, you know. Sometimes I feel I could be completely happy if I didn’t touch you, if.⁠ ⁠…” He saw the cloud come over her face, so he changed his phrase with great presence of mind. “If only one didn’t have a bodily existence it would be comparatively simple; you and I would never go through our agonies of separation. As it is I suffer tortures when we are apart.”

“I know; that’s why we ought to go away,” she broke in.

“No, no⁠—you must not. I will not muck your life.” He spoke firmly, and stuck his fork into his mixed grill. “After all, we are happy in our fashion, aren’t we? We see each other every day; we love each other; and there is no danger. No one will find out.”

“Yes, it’s perfect⁠—but somehow⁠—and since just a few days ago⁠—I want to do so much for you. I want to slave for you; I want to be with you always!”

He had an uneasy pain in the pit of his stomach. Must she still harp on the subject? Was this affair going to be the same as the last one, all over again?

“God! If only I had some money of my own,” he said gloomily. He stuck out his jaw and frowned.

“Money! What does money matter?” she said impatiently. “I hate money! I’d like to give it all away, and for you and I to go away on some old dirty ship.”

He smiled weakly without enthusiasm.

“One day soon we will,” she said.

His spirits sank rapidly.

“Of course there’s no kick in being rich,” he remarked carelessly, “but there’s no doubt it does mean something in this callous world. One gets tired of striving and fighting, and sometimes one thinks, Why write? Why go on? To what end? It’s agony being poor.”

“But, darling, you know that you need never want for anything now you have me. All I have is yours, anything you care to ask for.”

He wondered if she had forgotten about the car she had promised him.

“I can’t go on taking things from you,” he muttered. “You don’t know how it hurts, how terrible it makes me feel.”

“Now you’re silly, you forget we are ‘us,’ and not two other people. Loving each other as we do these things become so simple and so natural. I mean, if our positions were reversed you’d do the same for me. Besides, I adore helping you.”

“Do you? If only I wasn’t so confoundedly proud.”

“Oh! But you’re a genius⁠—no one expects you to understand money. You’re above the sordid material things of life.”

“Um⁠—I suppose I am.” He frowned and drummed with his fingers on the table.

Poor lamb, she thought, how artistic he is, how temperamental.

“You will let me help you, won’t you?” she pleaded.

He shrugged his shoulders and pushed away his plate.

“If you must,” he said sullenly.

He decided that the time had come for a change of mood. “Let’s forget money, work, everything but that we are together,” he said smiling. “After all, there is nothing else in the world, is there?”

“Nothing,” she agreed.

“If only these people were not here and we were quite alone⁠—like yesterday. D’you remember last night?”

“Remember⁠—what do you think?”

Once more she felt for his hand under the table.

“Tell me, that woman you told me about, do you ever see her now?”

“Good Lord, no; besides, there was nothing in it, nothing at all. She was never anything more than a friend. She’s gone abroad, I believe, with her children.”

He bent to light a cigarette. Then he closed his eyes and waved aside the smoke.

“I want to kiss you for twenty-four hours without stopping.”

She revelled in the old, worn words.

“Shall we go?” she murmured.

There was a slight awkwardness with the bill. She insisted on paying and he protested. Then, as he looked away, the distasteful moment passed.

To make up for this he hailed a taxi, aggressively rattling the change in his pocket. “But, of course, I’m going to see you home,” he said reproachfully as she held out her hand. The taxi bumped amidst the traffic, and their kisses though ardent, were unsuccessful.

“If we could be like this always,” he lied.

She smiled in ecstasy and fumbled for her powder puff.

He leant back with his feet on the opposite seat and prodded the floor with his stick.

“By the way,” he began, “about that car you mentioned, I’ve been thinking it over⁠ ⁠…”

Th party had been dull, tedious, and after all the man had never turned up. Only his daughter, a young unsophisticated girl, red elbows in evening dress. Not unattractive in profile, but too young, much too young. Still, he had made the most of his time. After all, her father was an important man. It never did to let opportunities like this occur merely to pass them by.

He spoke to her early in the evening, and towards the end he was still by her side.

“Do you know, I swear I am not flattering you, but the moment I saw you I said to myself ‘There is someone who will understand.’ It was something about your eyes, I think.”

The girl gazed at him, flushing.

“Oh! but nobody has ever talked to me like this before. You see, being my father’s daughter they expect me to echo his remarks, and they don’t seem to imagine for an instant that I have a mind of my own.”

He laughed scornfully.

“Absurd! After five minutes with you one realises⁠—so much more than the ordinary thing.”

“I admit I was disappointed not to meet your father this evening,” he went on, “but you have made up for it⁠—more than made up for it.”

“Of course, you simply must meet him,” she exclaimed, “I’m quite sure you would get on famously together.”

“You dear thing, that’s very sweet and adorable of you. But listen⁠—tell me more about yourself.”

She held on to her evening bag with hot, sticky fingers. “Oh! there’s nothing, nothing.”

“Nonsense⁠—anyway, I feel we are going to be friends, real friends.” He held out his cigarette case and smiled. “You don’t smoke? How refreshing. One gets so tired of these women with their eternal cigarettes.”

The girl’s eyes wandered towards the figure of her hostess, surrounded by a little group of men and women.

“She’s lovely. Do you know her well?”

“Oh! one comes across her from time to time,” he answered carelessly. “But luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.”

“So do I.” They smiled at each other.

“I can talk to you about anything,” he said softly, “not only books, but things that matter. It’s marvellous to be able to discuss sex with a girl of your age, and not feel self-conscious, not be aware. You’re so lovely too, which makes it all the more rare and astounding. You’ve been told so hundreds of times.”

“No⁠—never⁠—”

“But that is absolutely remarkable.” He moved closer to her, pressing her knee.

Then his hostess moved from her group towards them. He rose to his feet and made an excuse to the girl.

“For the last hour I’ve been driven nearly mad,” he whispered rapidly. “I haven’t seen you for a moment alone. Always surrounded by that infernal crowd. And I’ve been sitting here, chatting to this little schoolgirl, watching you. Gosh⁠—you look wonderful⁠—wonderful.”

“My poor darling⁠—and I imagined you were enjoying yourself.”

“As if I ever think of anything but you for a single moment,” he said.

She put her finger on her lips. “Hush⁠—someone may hear. Be reasonable and remember tomorrow.”

He started, feigning astonishment. “Tomorrow? I don’t think I can manage tomorrow.”

“But you said at lunch⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Yes, I know, only when I got back I remembered there was an article that must be written.”

“Naturally your work comes first. But in the evening?”

“Yes, of course, in the evening.”

“Good night, my beloved.”

“Good night.”

He wandered down into the hall and saw the girl step into her car. He ran bareheaded down to the pavement. He arranged the rug carefully over her knees.

“I can’t tell you what it’s done to me⁠—meeting you,” he said. “I’m going back to work. I shall think of you.”

“How⁠—how wonderful,” breathed the girl.

He glanced up at the house behind him, and then bent forward intimately and took her hand.

“Listen⁠—are you doing anything tomorrow between five and seven?”

It was midnight when he let himself into his room at the hotel. After all, he had not wasted his time. He flung off his clothes and slipped into his dressing-gown. Then he prepared the room for work. Five cushions on the sofa, and on a stool beside it the gramophone and a case full of records. A box of cigarettes, matches, whisky, and a soda siphon on the floor within reach.

He lay down upon the sofa, settled the cushions behind his head, started a record, and balanced a sheet of foolscap against his knee.

The room filled with smoke and the gramophone played, but the sheet of foolscap remained white and untouched.

Suddenly the telephone rang sharply, screamingly, in his ear. With a grunt of annoyance he stretched out his hand.

A woman’s voice came across the wire, whispering, pleading.

“Is that Gerrard 10550? Is that you? Oh! forgive me, but you made me so miserable on the phone this morning. I’ll try and be patient about not seeing you⁠—but tell me, do you love me as much now as you did in September⁠ ⁠… ?”

The Supreme Artist

He came away from the stage after the final curtain, and went along to his dressing-room humming a tune to himself, thinking of nothing. The girl followed close behind, patting the lock of hair that had fallen over her face.

“You smudged your eye black when you cried this afternoon,” she told him, “it came off in streaks down the side of my neck⁠—look how filthy it is. I suppose you must cry?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it before,” he said, “I’ll try something else tonight. We might alter the whole of the last act. What about wearing a beard? I’m sure one could give an entirely different performance in a beard.”

He turned to the looking-glass in his room, and squinted sideways at his profile.

“I should hate you in a beard,” she said, feeling his chin. “It would make you all heavy and middle-aged. Darling, promise me never to wear one?”

He picked up a hand-mirror and viewed himself from another angle.

“I’m not so sure,” he said doubtfully, and then called over his shoulder to his dresser, “Monkton, what about a beard for the last act?”

The man coughed politely behind his hand. “Well, Sir, it’s hardly for me to say, but I scarcely think it would be suitable. Not for this type of part, Sir.”

“P’r’aps you’re right. Why is it I’m never allowed to do as I like⁠—’Oi, where are you going?”

She turned to him from the doorway. “Upstairs to change. Have you got the car outside?”

“Yes⁠—want throwing out anywhere?”

“Take me back to the flat like an angel, unless you’ve got millions of people to see. I can easily find a bus⁠ ⁠…”

“Don’t be a mug, of course I’ll drive you anywhere. Buck up and get your things on. Monkton, there’s nobody waiting, is there?” He began taking off his coat.

“One minute, Sir, excuse me, but I believe there’s a lady wishes to see you. Here is her card, but she said you wouldn’t know the card, Sir. I said I knew you generally liked to get away quickly matinée days, and she seemed disappointed. Said she’d wait in case you could spare her a few minutes.”

“Give me the card.” He frowned over it, twisting it in his fingers. “Mrs. John Pearce⁠—conveys nothing to me. What’s she like, Monkton?”

“Well, Sir⁠—it’s rather difficult to describe. A middle-aged lady I should say, white hair, tall⁠—dressed almost in county clothes if you will. A very pleasant-speaking voice.”

“Oh! Lord. Pour me out a drink and show her in.”

He lit a cigarette, and tried to remember the second bar of the tune that was haunting him.

Why are you so mean to me?
Why are you⁠ ⁠… ?

He had forgotten all about the woman, until the door closed suddenly, and she was standing there before him. She laughed at him, holding out her hands.

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

He saw someone with a mass of thick white hair under an ugly hat, someone with a bronzed, rather weather-beaten face. Her eyes were blue, and she was nice when she smiled. Her clothes were all wrong though, her ankles thick. She obviously did not care about these things. He started back in surprise, pretending to be overwhelmed with joy and astonishment.

Of course he had no idea who she was. “My dear,” he began, “but this is too marvellous. Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were in front?”

It seemed as though she could not move away from the doorway, but must stand there watching him, feeling his eyes with hers, uncertain of the truth of his words.

“I didn’t think you’d recognise me,” she began, “I was certain you wouldn’t have the remotest idea who I was. What is it⁠—nearly thirty years? Think of all that’s happened since, so much and so much⁠ ⁠…”

“But you’re talking nonsense,” he interrupted, “course I knew you the moment you came into the room.”

He racked his memory for some light out of the past. Who on earth could she be? Mrs. John Pearce⁠ ⁠…

She loosened the scarf round her throat, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. “This is the first time I’ve ever been brave enough to come round,” she said. “I’ve wanted to so often, but something always prevented me, a sort of silly pride. A feeling you wouldn’t know me, wouldn’t remember. I come and see all your plays, you know. I’m still sentimental enough to cut out your notices and paste them in a book!”

She laughed at him, shaking her head. He made a little noise in his throat to save him the necessity of words. “You see, I live right down in the country now,” she went on. “It’s quite an expedition to come up to London. When I do, about twice a year, I make a point of seeing you act. I don’t know what it is, but the years don’t make any difference to you. To me, a tired middle-aged woman in the stalls, you are always the boy I knew, funny, excited, with his hair rumpled. That’s being a sentimentalist, isn’t it? Can I have a cigarette?”

She reached out for the box on the table. He wondered why she gave him no clue to her personality, and why she did not even bother to mention the names of people or of places. Apparently they must have known each other absurdly well. Bronzed face, white hair, Mrs. John Pearce.

“Let’s see,” he threw his question into the air, “let’s see, how long is it really since I saw you last?”

She watched his expression with grave eyes. “I said thirty years just now, but maybe it’s a little less,” she answered. “Time is such a ridiculous thing. Do you know I’ve only got to relax, and throw my mind back, and I can hear the sound of your cab starting, and you driving away in it, hot and furious, with me lying on my bed imagining that nobody ever got over a broken heart.”

Oh! so they had been as intimate as that? Angry words⁠—tears⁠—and now he couldn’t remember her at all⁠ ⁠…

“I must have behaved like a swine,” he said angrily. “I can’t understand how we ever came to quarrel.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve thought it was because of a quarrel?” she asked him. “But we never had rows, you and I. You must remember that.”

“No. No, of course not.” He joined in her laugh, wondering whether she had noticed his slip. “I know we were the most wonderful friends in every way,” he continued.

She sat silent for a minute, considering the matter, her head on one side. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she told him, “it’s because we never struck a proper basis of friendship that the whole thing finished. I think we were too young to have any judgment⁠—too young and too selfish. No sense of values. We were like greedy children who make themselves sick with overeating.”

He agreed solemnly, watching her over the rim of his glass. So this had been a passionate affair. Thirty years ago⁠—he cast his mind back in vain. He had an uneasy feeling that he had behaved badly to this white-haired woman who sat before him. In a moment he was acquitted though.

“I shall never regret it,” she said suddenly, “never one second. Being in love⁠—terribly in love⁠—is the best thing in the world, don’t you think? The only moment I have sometimes regretted was sending you away as I did. We might have gone on being happy.”

Then it had not been his fault after all. Presumably he had gone from her brokenhearted. It was all rather touching. Why had he such an appalling memory? He was ready to cry over his youthful tragedy.

“I nearly blew my brains out at the time,” he said bitterly. “I suppose you never cared for one moment how it would affect me. I felt as if there was nothing to live for⁠—nothing in life to hold on to.”

“I guessed it would be hard at first,” she smiled, “but look⁠—you soon got over it.”

He was certain he had taken months in getting over it. For all he knew this woman had blasted his whole outlook thirty years ago.

They had obviously been passionately in love and she had given him the chuck, breaking his heart. He forgot her ugly hat and her tired, weather-beaten face. He began to imagine somebody young, somebody slim. He pictured to himself all sorts of mad, impossible things.

“Those long days together,” he began dreamily, “that frock you wore⁠—and your hair brushed away from your face.”

She frowned, puzzled by his words. “But we scarcely saw each other in the daytime.”

“Nights I meant,” he said hurriedly. “Long, long nights. Sometimes there was a moon making patterns on the floor. You used to put your hands over your eyes to hide yourself from the light.”

“Did I really?”

“Yes⁠—you know you did. And often we’d come back hungry⁠—neither of us with any money in our pockets, Perhaps only enough to halve a ham sandwich. And you’d be cold⁠—I’d have to give you my coat⁠—but you’d wrinkle up your nose in contempt saying ‘Who wants to get warm that way.’ Then, because I loved you so much, I’d want to strangle you, and⁠ ⁠…”

He stopped short, dazzled by his own imagination, and a little hurt at the astonished expression on her face.

“I’ve forgotten all that,” she told him. “I’m sure you always had plenty of money. And we never halved ham sandwiches, we nearly always dined with Mother.”

He glared at her, shocked and confused. His ideas were so much more romantic. She was spoiling everything. Why must she drag in her relations?

“I always hated your Mother,” he said coldly, “we never got on. I didn’t like to tell you at the time.”

She stared at him blankly.

“But why ever didn’t you say so? You know it would have made all the difference in the world.”

He brushed her statement aside. He would not talk about her mother. He saw himself young, miserable, very much in love. This was the only thing that mattered.

“I tried drinking at first,” he went on gloomily, “but it wasn’t any good. I never could get your face out of my thoughts, never for a single instant, night and day. It was complete and utter hell⁠—”

“What about your ambition, surely that gave you some sort of interest? And then when success came to you?”

“Ambition? Success?” He laughed scornfully, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. “What were they compared with my love for you? Don’t you understand that after you sent me away I was broken, done in? You took from me the only chance of happiness I ever had. I was young, I had ideals, I believed in you more than anything in the world. Then, for some reason that I shall never know, you chucked me. You didn’t care what became of me, and you have the face to sit there and tell me that the fact of my being successful should have put you out of my mind. Don’t you know that success has not brought one grain of happiness to me, that always in the depth of my heart I’ve known that you were the only thing that mattered?”

He blew his nose noisily, and poured himself out another drink. His eyes were red and his hands trembled with emotion.

She rose from the sofa and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’d no idea you felt it in that way,” she said gently, “please, please don’t reproach me like this. I believed I was doing it for your good. I thought I would be a drag on you.”

He refused to be comforted. He shook his head miserably.

“You were the sweetest influence in my life⁠—the one reason for existence,” he said. He glanced down at the wedding ring on her hand, and was aware of his unreasoning jealousy. “Who is this fellow you’ve married, anyway?” he asked roughly. “This John Pearce⁠—damn his eyes. So you couldn’t even be faithful to one⁠ ⁠…”

“I met him eighteen months after you went away,” she answered. “John and I have been married twenty-seven years now. Four grown-up children⁠—just think of that! We lead a very peaceful life down in Devonshire. Don’t you remember how I always loved the country? That dream has come true, anyway. I have a snapshot of my youngest boy here in my bag. He’s rather a darling, don’t you think? He’s doing so well in Burma.”

He scarcely looked at the snapshot. He wasn’t interested in her children, or in her house in Devonshire.

“Does your husband know about us?”

She put the photo away in her bag.

“Oh! yes, I tell him everything.”

“Then he doesn’t mind?”

“Why should he? He’s scarcely likely to bother over something that happened thirty years ago! He’s always very interested in you. We read your notices together. He’s going to be terribly excited when I tell him I’ve been round to see you.”

He did not want it to be like this. He wanted a hulking brute of a husband who treated her badly, who never understood her. He wanted her to be lonely and unloved, leaning out of a window, watching for a star. He could not allow her to be married for twenty-seven years and have four grown-up children. She seemed to take it all for granted, too. She made no allowance for his feelings.

“So much for fidelity,” he said grimly, “so much for vows and promises, and all the things that go to make up belief. We used to hold each other and whisper words like ‘never’ and ‘forever.’ Just a silly little string of lies, that’s what they were. You’ve killed my last illusions today; you’ve made me feel as though nothing’s worth while.”

She shrugged her shoulders and began to draw the gloves on her large brown hands.

“You talk as though you had never made love to other women,” she laughed comfortably.

“Other women?” He waved the idea away. He would not even discuss it. In his mind he saw a meaningless procession, all to whom he had sworn the same things. The thought irritated him. He found it unattractive. He would have liked men and women to be as birds on a tree⁠—the male bird dumb and inconsolable on a high branch, with its mate dead at the foot of the tree. The picture saddened him. He felt unhappy for no reason. She was standing now, the ugly hat crammed over her face, the scarf pulled anyhow on her shoulder.

He caught at her hand.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said. She smiled and made her way to the door.

“I must catch my train at Paddington, John and the children expect me. It made me so happy coming to see you. I shall sit in the train tonight and go through it all over again. It’s been a great excitement in my quiet, uneventful life, you know. God bless you, and take care of yourself, You don’t know how young you’ve made me feel.”

He looked at her white hair and the bronzed, weather-beaten face.

“You’re taking something away with you that belongs to me,” he said. “It’s something that has no name, but it means a great deal to me. I wish I knew what it was.”

But this time she laughed and would not believe what he was saying. “Now you’re just acting,” she told him.

“No,” he said. “No, that’s what you don’t understand.”

She went from him down the passage and out of the stage door. He heard her footsteps pass along the alley outside his window. He looked at himself in the mirror above the fireplace. He felt tired and listless.

“Monkton?” he called. “Monkton?”

When he had cleaned away his grease paint and washed, his face seemed thin and pale. There were little lines beneath his eyes. His hair was streaked with grey.

Somebody knocked at the door. It was the girl ready dressed, carrying her beret in her hand.

“Who on earth was that old lady with the white hair and the large bosom?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said, “as a matter of fact I haven’t the vaguest idea even now.”

“Did she keep you ages, poor darling? What a bore for you.”

He made no answer. She followed him to the car waiting in the street. When they came to a block in Piccadilly she looked at him, wondering what he was thinking about.

He was singing absently to himself, his thoughts miles away⁠—

Why are you so mean to me?
Why are you⁠ ⁠… ?

He broke off in the middle of a bar. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, “that woman⁠—did she seem old to you, really old?”

Frustration

After he had been engaged to her for seven years he felt that it was impossible to wait for her any longer.

Human endurance had been tested to the limit. For seven years he had held her hand by the stile in the field, and it was beginning to pall at last.

It seemed to him that there must be more in life than these things.

He admitted that time had been when the simple fact of looking at her from a distance had ensured him weeks of fever and excitement, when the mere process of brushing against her on a tennis court had caused a state of nervous prostration.

Such follies belonged to the distant past. He was twenty-four now instead of eighteen. In the irony of his soul he wondered what Napoleon would have done if someone had offered him a box of tin soldiers; it occurred to him that Suzanne Lenglen in her day would have protested had she been compelled to play battledore and shuttlecock.

He was earnest, he was desperate, he was very much in love.

Saying good night to her at half-past nine in the evening was a modern equivalent to the appalling tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. At these moments his legs twisted themselves inside out, his fingers clutched at the air, and his tongue got caught up his uvula.

A low moaning noise rose in his throat, and he wanted to creep up a wall. Marriage seemed to be the one solution.⁠ ⁠… Scarlet in the face, his hands clenched and his jaw set, he made his declaration to her father.

“Sir,” he began, “I can’t stand this any longer; I must get married.”

The father looked him up and down.

“I can well believe it,” he said; “but it has got nothing to do with me. Personally, for a boy of your type, I put my faith in long engagements. You’ve been engaged for seven years. Why not draw up a contract for another seven?”

“Sir⁠—we can’t wait any longer. When we look at each other, we feel⁠—”

The older man interrupted him brutally.

“I’m not at all interested in what you feel. Can you support a wife?”

“No⁠—yes⁠—at least. I will find a job.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“I can tinker about with cars.”

“I see. Is that enough to make her happy?”

“I sort of.⁠ ⁠…”

“You expect to make a girl happy when you’ve no money, no job, no qualifications, and the only thing know how to handle is a spanner.”

“Sir, I⁠—”

“Splendid. I’ll say no more. My daughter is twenty-four; she can do as she likes. I’ll pay for your wedding, but neither of you get a penny from me afterwards. You can work. I have a feeling your marriage will be a success.”

“Sir, may I⁠—can I⁠—I.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, you can clear out.”

The wedding was good, as weddings go. There were church bells, white dresses, veils, orange blossom, and the “Voice That Breathed O’er Eden.”

The bridegroom tripped over his feet, fumbled with the ring, forgot his lines, and looked at his bride as though she were a lump of chocolate and he were a Pekingese.

There were champagne, speeches and tears; the afternoon ended up with a cloud of confetti and somebody’s old shoe. The bride and bridegroom left with nothing but five pounds, a couple of suitcases and a borrowed Austin Seven.

Their one stick of furniture was a tent.

“My darling,” he told her, “I cannot afford to take you to a seaside hotel, not even for a weekend. We must sleep under the stars.”

His bride was more practical than he.

“We will motor to London in a borrowed car,” she said, “and there we will find rooms and a job. But I must have a honeymoon first. Let’s spend it in the tent I used as a Girl Guide.”

It seemed to him that this was the most romantic idea that had ever penetrated the human mind.

He gurgled strangely and waved his hands.

“A pigsty with you would be Paradise,” he said, “but to think of you in a tent.⁠ ⁠…”

“There will be a moon,” she sighed, “and trees murmuring, and a brook rippling.”

“I will slay some animal for your breakfast,” he cried, his voice breaking, “and we’ll roast it over a roaring fire. You can wear the skin to protect you from the bitter cold.”

“Don’t forget it’s June,” she said quickly, “and we shall only be on Berkhamstead Common.”

“How wonderful you are, darling!”

“Am I?”

The Austin Seven bumped along the country roads.

In the evening they came to a wild stretch of heath that could be no other than their destination.

“We must not pitch our tent too close to the road,” he said. “I want to feel that I’m alone with you, miles from civilization, with nothing around us but the tangled gorse.”

“How shall we ever get the car over the rough ground?” she asked.

“We will leave it near the road, and we’ll strike inland towards those trees. I’ll carry the tent on my back.”

“You look like a prehistoric man, passionate and savage,” she told him.

“I feel it, my darling.”

It was dark before they had found a suitable camping-ground, and the tent was hoisted with difficulty. It had a queer list to starboard, and looked like the relic of a past age.

“We are like nomads,” she said vaguely, her mouth of potted meat. It was cold, and she wished had a warmer coat.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he said, trying to break the neck of a ginger-beer bottle. He had forgotten the opener.

After supper they sat outside the flapping tent, waiting for the moon that never came. Large clouds scurried across the sky.

“Darling,” he whispered, “to think we have waited seven years for this. At last we are alone together, really alone. I couldn’t have waited any longer.”

“No, nor could I. Isn’t this the most romantic thing that’s ever happened?”

They sat for a few minutes more.

“I think I’ll go in the tent,” she said.

She disappeared, and he stood outside, smoking a cigarette.

His legs shook and his hands trembled, “This is the most beautiful moment in my life,” he thought.

A sudden gust of wind blew at his hair. There was a patter in the trees, and a large cloud, hovering overhead, seemed to burst swiftly and silently.

“Darling,” she called softly.

He tiptoed inside. Another gust of wind blew across the heath, followed by the sheeting rain.

Two minutes later the tent fell in.

The grey dawn crept into the sky. The battered remains of white canvas fluttered hideously in the wind, like the torn rags of some long-dead explorer. A young man hammered at the pegs with the undaunted perseverance of the very great.

His clothes were sodden, his shoes were pulp. His bride, crouched in the fork of a tree, watched him with dull eyes. At last he admitted defeat, and kneeling in the comparative shelter of a gorse bush, he kept up a monologue that sounded like a chapter from James Joyce.

And the rain fell and the wind blew. Once a still small voice spoke from the fork of a tree.

“Darling,” it said, “I believe we’d have been happier at Bournemouth, after all.”

Two figures stood side by side on the edge of the London road.

“I tell you it was here we left the car,” he repeated for the twelfth time. “I remember this patch of stones.”

“I’m sure it was further back,” she said; “there was a broken tree stump.”

“Well⁠—wherever it was, it’s not there now. It’s been stolen; that’s all.”

There was a sharp note of irritation in his voice. It is not every man who spends his wedding night in a gorse bush. And now the car was gone, and in it their two suitcases⁠—nothing remained to them but the clothes they wore.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “this is a calamity that has been sent to test us.”

He said so-and-so, and so-and-so.

She looked about her vaguely.

“I don’t see how they would help us,” she told him. “Besides, I don’t see any. No, darling, the only thing to do is to smile and be brave. After all, we have each other.”

“Darling, forgive me,” he said.

Hand in hand, they wandered Along the road.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast.⁠ ⁠…

They walked for hours, but in the wrong direction. They found themselves in Tring. They had lunch and walked again; they found themselves in Watford.

They caught buses, they caught trains; they found themselves in London.

It was nine in the evening once more. The day had passed slowly, horribly, yet with a subtle swiftness.

As children lost in a wood, they wandered up and down the Euston Road. Shabby, rain-bespattered and unwashed, they looked like the remnant of a hunger strike march.

Suddenly her shoe button burst. Stifling a groan, she bent her weary back to fix the strap.

As she did so, her wedding ring slipped off her finger and rolled into a drain.⁠ ⁠…

They stood on the doorstep of a lodging-house.

“My wife and I want a room for the night,” he said. “We camped out yesterday, and then our car was stolen, and so was our luggage.”

The woman glanced at the girl’s left hand.

“My wife lost her ring, too,” he added.

The woman sniffed and shrugged her shoulders.

“You seem to have lost a good many things.”

“We are telling the truth,” he said coldly.

“I don’t believe a word of your story,” answered the woman, “but I won’t turn you out this time of night.”

Meekly they followed her upstairs.

“The lady can have this room, and the gentleman the one at the end of the passage. This is a respectable house, and I’m a respectable woman.”

She frowned down at them, her arms akimbo.

“And I’m a very light sleeper.”

There seemed no more to be said.

She turned and left them in the passage.

“Good heavens! Have I got to creep like a thief to my own wife?” he whispered fiercely.

“Hush! she may hear,” she whispered back.

“Darling,” he said, “you go to your room and wait for me. I’ll pretend to go to mine, and then I’ll come along to yours.”

“Supposing the boards creak?”

“I’ll risk it. Darling, I love you.”

“So do I.”

He began to undress in his own room. The lodgings might be uncomfortable, but they were better than a gorse bush.

What an appalling day it had been! But she had behaved marvellously. Any other girl would have gone home to her family.

To think he had waited for her seven years.⁠ ⁠…

He opened the window, and as he did so the door of his own room slammed.

There was a noise of something falling on to the floor. He turned, and saw that the handle of the door had slipped off into the passage outside, while the useless knob lay at his feet.⁠ ⁠…

The next morning he bought her a wedding ring at Woolworth’s.

They moved to lodgings where the landlady was deaf, and where the door of the room bolted and double-locked.

It seemed to them that the world was theirs. The only trouble was that they had no money.

He left her alone while he looked for a job, and as soon as his back was turned she crept away to an agency. They must both work if they wished to live in comfort together.

How wonderful their life would be⁠—the quiet suppers, the long evenings.⁠ ⁠…

And, later, children playing about the floor.

They met at half-past six, he with his jaw set, a feverish glint in his eye.

“Darling, I’ve got a job,” he said.

“How splendid!”

“It’s all I could get, but it’s better than nothing. Anyway, we’ll have tomorrow in the daytime, all tomorrow.”

“Oh! no,” she told him. “I’ve got a job, too. I’m a daily companion to a lady in Golders Green. My hours are from nine until seven.”

He stared at her as one who has heard sentence of death.

“You don’t mean what you’re saying!”

“Why! Whatever’s the matter?”

“My hours are just the reverse. From seven until nine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, I’m a night porter at a bank in Acton.”

Indiscretion

I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion. The wrong word at the wrong time⁠—and then finish to all their dreams. They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late. No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.

I know three people who have been made to suffer because of a chance sentence flung into the air. One of them was myself. I lost my job through it. The other fellow lost his ideals; and the woman⁠ ⁠… well, I guess she did not have much left to lose, anyway. Maybe she lost her one chance of security. I have not seen either of them since. The curt typewritten letter came from him a week later. I packed up then and cleared away from London, leaving the shreds of my career in the wastepaper basket. In less than three months I read an announcement in a weekly rag that he was claiming a divorce. The whole thing was so needless, too. A word from me⁠—and a word from her. And all through that sordid little street that runs between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square.

We stood at the door of the office, he and I. It was cold, it was December. I had a cold in the head, and I did not want to think about Christmas. He came out of his private office and gave me a genial clap on the shoulder.

“You’re no advertisement for the time of the year,” he said, “come out and have a bite of lunch.”

I thanked him. It is not every day, or every Christmas for that matter, that one’s chief broadcasts his invitations. We went to his favourite restaurant in the Strand. I felt better once I had a plateful of beef before me, but even so his own exuberance irritated me, his easy laugh, his familiarity with the waiter. He had the audacity to place a sprig of holly in his buttonhole.

“Look here, Chief,” I said. “What’s the big idea? Are you going to play Santa Claus at a kids’ party?”

He laughed loudly, a spot of gravy at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he said, “I’m going to be married.” I made the usual retort.

“I’m not joking,” he went on. “I’m telling you the truth. They all know at the office. Told ’em before I left this morning, Kept it secret up till now because I didn’t want a scene. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

I watched his smug, self-satisfied expression.

“Hell!” I said. “You don’t know what I think about women.”

He laughed again. His mood was ridiculous.

“This is different,” he told me, “this is the real thing. I’ve found her at last⁠—the only girl. You know, I’m fond of you, my dear fellow, I’m glad you came along to lunch.”

I made some sort of noise of sympathy.

“It’s all very sudden, of course,” he said, “but I believe in that. I like everything cut and dried. None of your hanging about. We’re going to Paris this evening, while this afternoon there will be a short ceremony at a registry office.” He pulled out his watch. “In exactly an hour’s time,” he said, “I shall be a married man.”

“Where’s your bride?” I asked.

“Packing,” he smiled foolishly. “I only decided this trip yesterday evening. You’ll have a tremendous amount of work at the office, I’m afraid, before the Christmas rush.”

He leant forward, patronising, confidential. “I have a great deal of faith in you,” he said, “I’ve watched you these last few months. You’re going to do big things. I don’t mind saying⁠ ⁠…” he lowered his voice as though people listened and cared⁠ ⁠… “I don’t mind saying I shall depend on you in the future to work like blazes. You’d like a rise, wouldn’t you? Might think of getting married yourself?”

I saw his friendly beam without emotion, and remembered with cynicism a proverb about “a little something makes the whole world kin.” I thought of a word that would fit. “That’s extremely good of you,” I said, “but I shan’t marry.”

“You’re a cynic,” he said. “You’ve no illusions. You see all women in the same pattern. I’m twice your age and look at me⁠—the happiest man alive.”

“Perhaps I’ve been unlucky,” I said. “Maybe I’ve struck the wrong type.”

“Ah!” he said, “a bad picker. That’s fatal. I flatter myself,” he opened his mouth to admit a fork-load of food, “that I have chosen well. You young men are so bitter about life,” he went on, “no romance.”

Romance! The word conjured a vision in my mind of a dark night with the rain falling, and a small face turned to me, weeping, her hat pulled low over her eyes. The last taxi driving away from the Empire Cinema; men and women in evening dress, hurrying, bent under umbrellas.

“Romance!” I said. “That’s funny.” Funnier still the way I caught hold of that one word. It would have been so easy to let it go.

I thought for a moment, turning it over in my head.

“The last time I heard that word,” I said, “was from the lips of a girl. I’m not likely to forget it in a hurry.”

He glanced at me enquiringly, surprised at the note in my voice.

“More bitterness?” he suggested. “Why don’t you tell me about it? You’re such a silent fellow you never give yourself away.”

“Oh! It’s a dull story,” I said, “scarcely worth listening to! Besides, you’re going to be married in an hour’s time.”

“Come on,” he laughed, “out with it.”

I shrugged my shoulders, yawning slightly, and reached for a cigarette.

“I ran up against her in Wardour Street,” I said. “Queer sort of place for an adventure, if you come to think of it. Almost too obvious, perhaps. It’s scarcely a beat of mine, anyway. I’m a retiring sort of chap, as you know, don’t go out much. Hate meeting people, and that kind of thing. Never go to theatres, never go to parties. Can’t afford it, for that matter. My life is spent between the office down in the City and my rooms in Kensington. I read a lot, hang around museums on Saturdays. Let’s admit it, I’m damn dull! But the point is that I scarcely know the West End at all. So that this particular Wardour Street was unfamiliar to me. About six months ago I came back from the office one evening feeling fed to the world. You know how one gets⁠—nervy, irritable, thoroughly dissatisfied with life in general.

“I hated my rooms suddenly, and I felt that any minute my landlady would come in and tell me about her sister who was ‘expecting’ again. It occurred to me out of the blue then, this idea to go up West. I took the Tube to Leicester Square. When I came into the street I had a glance at the photographs hanging outside the Hippodrome, but I saw by the boards that the show had already begun. So I walked a little farther, and I came to the Empire. I loathe cinemas, never go inside ’em as a rule, but I was feeling so down and depressed that [ said to myself, “Why not?” and I went inside, paying my humble two and fourpence, with a slight sensation of shame. Have you ever been to the Empire? In the old days, naturally, but since they’ve turned it into a cinema? Well, let me tell you that the chap who owns that place is a genius. He caters for fools like me who are fed up with the office, and their lodgings, and their loneliness. There are seats especially made for tired backs and the lighting arrangements are sufficiently intriguing, and the darkness is even more intriguing.

“There’s an organ that throbs a sentimental tune, and when you’re soaked with this and rubbing knees with your next-door neighbour, they fling a picture on to the screen calculated to send you soft inside. That night I was in the right mood. Ready to absorb the utmost trash and be diluted with it. They kept on giving closeups of the blonde heroine; she seemed to be staring right at me. The usual theme, of course. Lovely innocent girl in love with handsome hero, and the dark blackguard stepping in and trying to ruin her. You’re kept on tenterhooks as to whether he ruins her or whether he doesn’t. He doesn’t, of course, and she finishes with the handsome hero. But even then it leaves you unsatisfied. No real love scenes for your money⁠—only a caption saying, ‘Then Came the Dawn!’ The show at the Empire goes on until midnight. I sat through it twice, and stumbled out of my seat at twelve o’clock, still living in a land of make-believe.

“When I got outside it was raining. Through a haze I saw people crouching under umbrellas, whisking into taxis. I saw all this as a dream, in my mind I was watching the blonde heroine shut the opening of that tent in the desert.⁠ ⁠… ‘Then Came the Dawn.’ ‘B⁠⸺ rot,’ I said to myself, and turning up my collar I began to walk, my head low, hating the rain.

“So I found myself in Wardour Street. I remember glancing up at the name on the corner. A few minutes later somebody bumped into me. It was a girl. Thinly dressed, I noticed, not carrying an umbrella.

“ ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. She looked up at me, a little white face under a hat pulled low over her brow. Then to my horror she burst into tears.

“ ‘I’m most frightfully sorry,’ I began, ‘have I hurt you? Is there anything I can do?’ She made as if to brush past me, and put her hands to her eyes.

“ ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, choking over her words, ‘it was stupid of me.’ She looked to the right and left, standing on the edge of the pavement, apparently in some hesitation as to which way she should go. The rain was streaming down, and her little black coat was clinging to her. Half-consciously I remembered the blonde heroine of the picture I had seen.

“The tears were still running on her cheeks. I saw her make some attempt to brush them away.

“ ‘Gosh! How pathetic,’ I thought, ‘how utterly rotten. And here am I dissatisfied with my life for no reason.’ Acting on an impulse I touched her arm. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I know it’s no business of mine. I’ve no right to speak to you at all. But⁠—is anything the matter? Can I help you? It’s such a filthy night.⁠ ⁠…’ She pulled out a wretched little end of handkerchief, and began to blow her nose. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She was crying again. ‘I’ve never been in London before,’ she said, ‘I’ve come up from Shropshire. I was to be married⁠—and there’s no address, there’s nothing⁠—he’s left me. I don’t know where to go.’

“ ‘There’s a man been following me,’ she said timidly, glancing over her shoulder, ‘he tried to speak to me twice. He was horrid. I didn’t understand.⁠ ⁠…’

“Good heavens! I thought, she was scarcely more than child.

“ ‘You can’t stand here,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know of anywhere? Have you no friends? Isn’t there a Home you could go to?’ She shook her head, her mouth worked queerly at the corners.

“ ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘don’t bother.’ It was no use, I couldn’t let her go, not with that frightened gleam in her eyes, in the pouring rain.

“ ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Will you trust me to look after you⁠—just for the moment? Will you come and have something to eat? Then we’ll find a place for you to go.’ She looked up at me for a moment, straight in my eyes, and then she nodded her head gravely. ‘I think I can trust you,’ she said. She said this in such a way⁠—I don’t know, it seemed to go straight to my heart. I felt very old and very wise, and she was such a child.

“She put her hand on my arm, still a little scared, a little doubting. I smiled at her. ‘That’s the way,’ I said. We turned back again down Wardour Street. There was a crowd of people in Lyons. She clung tight to my arm, bewildered by them. ‘Don’t you be afraid,’ I said. We sat down at a marble-topped table. She chose eggs and bacon and coffee. She ate as though she were starving.

“ ‘Is this your first meal today?’ I asked. She flushed and bit her lips, ashamed.

“ ‘Yes,’ she said. I could have cut my tongue out.

“ ‘Supposing you tell me,’ I said, ‘just what it is that has happened.’

“The food had pulled her together, she had lost some of her shyness; she was no longer tearful, hysterical.

“ ‘I was to be married,’ she told me. ‘Back in Shropshire he seemed so fond of me, so attentive to me and mother. Why, he was quite a gentleman. We live on a little farm, mother and I, and my sister. It’s quiet, you know, away from the big towns. I used to take the produce into Tonsbury on market days. That’s where I met him. He was a traveller from a firm in London. He had a little car, too. Nothing poor or shabby about him⁠—constantly with his hand in his pocket. He was always coming to Tonsbury for his firm, and then he would visit us. Then he started courting me⁠—he was ever so handsome. It was all so proper, too. He asked mother for her consent, and the date and everything was arranged.

“ ’Last Sunday he was up home as usual, laughing and teasing, saying how soon we would have a house of our own. He was to give up travelling, and get a settled job at the firm, and we were to live in London. He insisted on the wedding being in London, too, which was the one upsetting thing, as my mother and sister couldn’t leave home.

“ ‘Yesterday was to have been my wedding day.’ I saw she was ready to burst into tears again. I leant across the table and patted her hand.

“ ‘There, there,’ I said stupidly.

“ ‘We motored up Tuesday in his little car,’ she went on, ‘and we came to London yesterday. He had taken rooms at some hotel.’ Her words trailed off; I saw that she was looking at her plate.

“ ‘And the blackguard’s left you,’ I said gently.

“ ‘He said we were to be married,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was all right. I didn’t understand.’ The tears sprang in her eyes. ‘He went this morning, early, before I was awake. The people at the hotel were cruel⁠—I found out then it was a bad place.’ She fumbled for her handkerchief, but I gave her mine.

“ ‘I couldn’t go back there, I daren’t ask them for a thing,’ she told me, ‘and I’ve been looking for him all day, but I know it’s no use now. How can I go home? What will they say? What will they think?’ She buried her face in her hands. Poor little thing! she couldn’t have been more than eighteen. I tried to keep my voice as gentle as possible.

“ ‘Have you any money?’ I said.

“ ‘I’ve seven-and-eightpence,’ she said. ‘He told me I wouldn’t need anything much.’

“I felt that this was the most impossible situation that had happened to anyone at any time. And there she sat looking at me, the tears in her eyes, waiting for me to suggest something.

“Suddenly I became very matter-of-fact. ‘You had better make shift at my lodgings for tonight,’ I said, ‘and in the morning I’ll buy you a ticket and pack you off to Shropshire.’

“ ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she said awkwardly, ‘I don’t know you.

“ ‘Nonsense,’ I said firmly. ‘You will be perfectly safe with me.’

“We had some slight argument, of course, but finally I persuaded her.

“She was tired, too. I took her home in a taxi⁠—she nearly fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. My landlady had gone to bed; nobody saw us come in. There was a bit of a fire left in the grate. The girl crouched in front of it, spreading her hands to the feeble flame. I remember looking down at her and wondering how I should explain her presence to the landlady in the morning.

“It was then that she looked up at me from the fire, and she smiled without fear for the first time. ‘If I wasn’t so unhappy,’ she said, ‘this would be like a romance, wouldn’t it?’

“Romance! Funny. It was you saying the word romance just now, chief, that brought this story back to me.”

I squashed my cigarette in the ashtray.

“Well, go on,” he said, “it’s not finished yet, is it?”

“That was the finish of the romance,” I said.

“How d’you mean?” he said. “Did she go back to Shropshire?”

I laughed. “That girl never saw Shropshire in her life,” I told him. “I woke late the next morning and she had gone, of course. So had my pocketbook with all my worldly goods.”

He stared at me in amazement.

“Good Lord!” He whistled, blowing out his cheeks. “Then you mean to say she was deceiving you the whole time? There wasn’t a word of truth in her story?”

“Not a word!”

“But didn’t you put the police on her track; didn’t you do something; make some effort?”

I shook my head. “Even if they had found her, I doubt if I could have legitimately retrieved my worldly goods.”

“You mean you suspected her story before you left Lyons?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t suspect her once.”

“I don’t understand,” he said; “if she was nothing but a common swindler, why not inform the police?”

I sighed wearily. “You see, chief, the point is I didn’t walk the streets all night like a little gentleman, nor did I sleep on the sitting-room sofa.⁠ ⁠…”

For a few minutes we sat in silence. He looked thoughtful, he stroked his chin. “You were a damn fool, and that’s all there is to it,” he said. “Ever go back to Wardour Street?”

“No,” I answered, “never before and never again. My only visit.”

“Extraordinary how you were so easily mistaken,” he said. “I can spot that type of girl a mile off. Of course, it’s the sort of thing to make you steer clear of women, I agree.

“But they’re not all like that, my dear fellow⁠—not all.” He smiled.

“Sometimes you find a really genuine case of a young unsophisticated girl, with no money, let down by some blackguard.”

“For instance?” I enquired.

“As a matter of fact, | was thinking of my own girl,” he confessed, “the girl who has consented to become my wife this afternoon. When I met her six weeks ago she was quite new to London. Left an orphan suddenly, poor kid, without a bean. Very good family⁠—she’s shown me letters and photos and things. She was making a wretched living as a typist in Birmingham, and her swine of an employer made love to her. She ran away, scared to death. Thank God I came along. Someone would have got hold of her. First time I met her she had twisted her ankle going down that filthy moving stairway on the Piccadilly tube. However, that’s not the point.” He broke off in the middle of his speech and called for the bill. “If you could see her,” he began again. “She’s the loviest thing.”

Into his eyes crept that blue suffused haze of the man who has not yet loved but will have loved by midnight.

“I guess I’m the happiest man alive,” he said, “she’s far too good for me.” The bill was paid, we rose and walked from the room.

“Tell you what,” he said, “come and see us off by the four o’clock train at Victoria. The good old Christmas spirit, eh?”

And because I was idle, because I was bored, because there was no reason to do it at all, I consented.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

I remember taking the tube to Victoria, and, not finding a seat, swaying from side to side, clinging to a strap.

I remember standing in a queue to buy a platform ticket, and being jostled by a crowd of pushing, feverish people. I remember walking senselessly up and down a platform peering into the windows of first class carriages, yelled at by porters. I remember wondering why I had come at all. Then suddenly I saw him, his big, red, cheerful face smiling at me from behind the closed window of a Pullman car. He put up his hand and waved, shouting something through the glass I could not hear. He turned and moved down the car, coming to the open door, at the entrance.

“Thought you’d given us the miss,” he shouted, “good boy⁠—turned up after all.”

He pulled the girl forward, laughing self-consciously, scarlet with pride and satisfaction.

“Here’s the bride,” he said, “I want you two to be great friends. Show yourself, my darling.” I stood motionless with my hat in my hands.

“A happy Christmas to you,” I said. She leant from the window staring at me. Her husband gazed at us both with a quick, puzzled frown.

“I say, have you two met before?” he said. Then she laughed affectionately, and putting her arms round his neck she flung into the air her silly little gesture of bravado, mistress of the situation, but speaking without forethought, reckless, a shade too soon. The guard waved his little green flag.

“But, of course, I know your face,” she said, didn’t we run up against each other once in Wardour Street?