 Story 7. Mrs. Porter and Miss Allen One of the largest flats on the fourth floor of Hortons was taken in March 1919 by a Mrs. Porter, a widow. The flat was seen, and all business in connection with it was done, by Miss Allen, her lady companion. Mr. Nix, who considered himself a sound and trenchant judge of human nature, liked Miss Allen from the first, and then when he saw Mrs. Porter he liked her too. These were just the tenets for Hortons, modest, gentle ladies with ample means and no extravagant demands on human nature. Mrs. Porter was one of those old ladies, now alas in our turbulent times, less and less easy to discover. Something straight out of a book, Mr. Nix called her. She was little and fragile, dressed in silver grey, forehead puckered a little with a sort of anticipation of being a trial to others. Her voice cultured, soft, a little remote, like the chime of a distant clock. She moved with gestures a little deprecatory, a little resigned, extremely modest. She would not disturb any one for the world. Miss Allen was, of course, another type, a woman of perhaps forty years of age, refined, quiet, efficient, her dark hair turning now a little grey, waved decorously from her high white forehead, past nay, eyes of a grave considering brown, a woman resigned after it might be, abandoning young ambitions for a place of modest and decent labour in the world. One might still see, in the rather humorous smile that she bestowed once and again upon men and things, the hint of defiance at the necessity that forced abnegation. Miss Allen had not been in Mrs. Porter's service for very long, wearied with the exactions of a family of children whose idle and uninspiring intelligences she was attempting to govern us. She answered, at the end of 1918, an advertisement in the agony columns of the times that led her to Mrs. Porter. She loved Mrs. Porter at first sight. Why, she's a dear old lady, she exclaimed, to her ironic spirit, dear old ladies being in those days as rare as crinolines. She was of the kind for which Miss Allen had unconsciously been looking, generous, gentle, refined, and intelligent. Moreover, she had, within the last six months, been left quite alone in the world. Mr. Porter had died of apoplexy in August 1918. He had left her very wealthy, and Miss Allen discovered quickly in the old lady a rather surprising desire to see and enjoy life, surprising because old ladies of seventy-one years of age and of Mrs. Porter's gentle appearance do not, as a rule, care for noise and bustle and the buzz of youthful energy. I want to be in the middle of things, dear Miss Allen, said Mrs. Porter, right in the very middle. We lived at Wimbledon long enough, Henry and I. It wasn't good for either of us. Find me somewhere within two minutes of all the best theaters. Miss Allen found Hortons, which is, as everyone knows, in Duke Street, just behind Piccadilly and Fortnum and Mason's, and Hatchards and the Hammond Turkish Baths, and the Royal Academy and Scott's Hat Shop and Jackson's Jams. How could you be more perfectly in the centre of London? Then Miss Allen discovered a curious thing, namely that Mrs. Porter did not wish to keep a single piece, fragment or vestige of her Wimbledon effects. She insisted on an auction. Everything was sold. Miss Allen attempted a remonstrance. Some of the things in the Wimbledon house were very fine, handsome, solid, mid-Victorian sideboards and cupboards and chairs and tables. You really have no idea, Mrs. Porter, said Miss Allen, of the cost of furniture these days. It is quite terrible. You will naturally get a wonderful price for your things, but the difficulty of buying, Mrs. Porter was determined. She nodded her bright, bird-like head, tapped with her delicate fingers on the table and smiled at Miss Allen. If you don't mind, dear, I know it's tiresome for you, but I have my reasons. It was not tiresome at all for Miss Allen. She loved to buy pretty new things at someone else's expense, but it was now, for the first time, that she began to wonder how dearly Mrs. Porter had loved her husband. Through the following weeks this became her principal preoccupation, Mr. Henry Porter. She could not have explained to herself why this was. She was not by nature an inquisitive and scandal-loving woman, nor was she unusually imaginative. People did not, as a rule, refer to her as existing, unless she saw them physically there in front of her. Nevertheless, she spent a good deal of her time in considering Mr. Porter. She was able to make the Horton Flat very agreeable. Mrs. Porter wanted life and color, so the sitting-room had curtains with pink roses and a bright yellow cage, with two canaries, and several pretty watercolors, and a handsome fire-screen with golden peacocks, and a deep Turkish carpet, soft and luxurious to the feet. Not one thing from the Wimbledon House was there, not any single picture of Mr. Porter. The next thing that Miss Allen discovered was that Mrs. Porter was nervous. Although Horton's sheltered many human beings within its boundaries, it was, owing to the thickness of its walls and the beautiful training of Mr. Nick's servants, a very quiet place. It had been even called NS Day, Cloistro. It simply shared with London that amazing and never-to-be-overlawded gift of being able to offer in the very center of the traffic of the world little green spots of quiet and tranquility. It seemed, after a week or two, that it was almost too quiet for Mrs. Porter. Open a window, Lucy, dear, won't you? She said, I'd like to hear the omnibuses. It was a chill evening in early April, but Miss Allen threw up the window. They sat there listening. There was no sound. Only suddenly, as though to accentuate the silence, St. James' Church clock struck the quarter. Then an omnibus rumbled, rattled, and was gone. The room was more silent than before. Shall I read to you? said Miss Allen. Yes, dear, do. And they settled down to Martin Chuzzlewood. Mrs. Porter's apprehensiveness became more and more evident. She was so dear an old lady, and had won so completely Miss Allen's heart, that that kindly woman could not bear to see her suffer. For the first time in her life she wanted to ask questions. It seemed to her that there must be some very strange reason for Mrs. Porter's silences. She was not, by nature, a silent old lady. She talked continually, seemed, indeed, positively, to detest the urgency of silence. She especially loved to tell Miss Allen about her early days. She had grown up as a girl in Plymouth, and she could remember all the events of that time. The balls, the walks on the hoe, the shops, the summer visits into Glebeshire, the old dark houses with the high garden walls, the cuckoo clock, and the pictures of the strange old ships in which her father, who was a retired sea-captain, had sailed. She could not tell Miss Allen enough about these things, but so soon as she arrived at her engagement to Mr. Porter, there was silence. London shrouded her married life with its thick gray paw. She hated that Miss Allen should leave her. She was very generous about Miss Allen's freedom, always begging her to take an afternoon or evening, and amuse herself with her own friends. But Miss Allen had very few friends, and on her return from an expedition she always found the old lady miserable, frightened, and bewildered. She found that she loved her, that she cared for her as she had cared for no human being for many years. So she stayed with her, and read to her, and talked to her, and saw less and less of the outside world. The two ladies made occasionally an expedition to a theater or a concert, but these adventures, although they were anticipated with eagerness and pleasure, were always in the event disappointing. Mrs. Porter loved the theater, especially did she adore plays of sentiment, plays where young people were happily united, where old people sat cosily together, reminiscing over a blazing fire, where surly guardians were suddenly generous, and poor orphan girls were unexpectedly given fortunes. Mrs. Porter started her evening with eager excitement. She dressed for the occasion, putting on her best lace cap, her cameo brooch, her smartest shoes. A taxi came for them, and they always had the best stalls near the front, so that the old lady should not miss a word. Mrs. Allen noticed, however, that very quickly Mrs. Porter began to be disturbed. She would glance around the theater, and soon her color would fade. Her hands began to tremble. Then perhaps at the end of the first act, perhaps later, a little hand would press Miss Allen's arm. I think, dear, if you don't mind, I'm tired, shall we not go? Later a little while, Miss Allen suggested the cinema. Mrs. Porter received the idea with eagerness. They went to the West End house, and the first occasion was a triumphant success. How Mrs. Porter loved it. Just the kind of story for her. Mary Pickford in Daddy Long Legs. To tell the truth, Mrs. Porter cried her eyes out. She swore that she had never in her life enjoyed anything so much. And the music, how beautiful, how restful, it would go every week. The second occasion was, unfortunately, disastrous. The story was one of modern life, a woman persecuted by her husband, driven by his brutality into the arms of her lover. The husband was the customary cinema villain, broad, stout, sneering, and overdressed. Mrs. Porter fainted, and had to be carried out by two descendants. A doctor came to see her, said that she was suffering from nervous exhaustion, and must be protected from all excitement. The two ladies sat now every evening in their pretty sitting-room, and Miss Allen read aloud the novels of Dickens, one after the other. More and more persistently, in spite of herself, did curiosity about the late Mr. Porter drive itself in upon Miss Allen. She told herself that curiosity itself was vulgar and unworthy of the philosophy that she had created for herself out of life. Nevertheless, it persisted. Soon she felt that, after all, it was justified. Were she to help this poor old lady to whom she was now most deeply attached, she must know more. She could not give her any real help unless she might gauge more accurately her trouble. But she was a shy woman, shy, especially of forcing personal confidences. She hesitated. Then she was aware that a barrier was being created between them. The evening had many silences, and Miss Allen detected many strange, surreptitious glances thrown at her by the old lady. The situation was impossible. One night she asked her a question. Dear Mrs. Porter, she said, her heart beating strangely as she spoke, I do hope that you will not think me impertinent, but you have been so good to me that you have made me love you. You are suffering, and I cannot bear to see you unhappy. I want all so eagerly to help you. Is there nothing I can do? Mrs. Porter said nothing. Her hands quivered, then a tear stole down her cheek. Miss Allen went over to her, sat down beside her and took her hand. You must let me help you, she said. Dismiss me if I am asking you questions that I should not. But I would rather leave you altogether happy though I am with you than see you so miserable. Tell me what I can do. You can do nothing, Lucy dear, said the old lady. But I must be able to do something you are keeping from me some secret, Mrs. Porter shook her head. It was one evening in early May that Miss Allen was suddenly conscious that there was something wrong with the pretty little sitting room, and it was shortly after her first consciousness of this that poor old Mrs. Porter revealed her secret. Miss Allen, looking up for a moment, fancied that a little white marble clock on the mantelpiece had ceased to tick. She looked across the room and for a strange moment fancied that she could see neither the clock nor the mantelpiece, a gray dimness filled her sight. She shook herself, glanced down at her hands, looked up for reassurance, and found Mrs. Porter with wide, terrified eyes staring at her, her hands trembling against the wood of the table. What is it, Lucy? Nothing, Mrs. Porter. Did you see anything? No, dear? Oh, I thought I thought suddenly the old lady with a fierce, impetuous movement pushed the table away from her. She got up, staggered for a moment on her feet, then tumbled to the pink sofa, cowering there, huddled her sharp fingers pressing against her face. Oh, I can't bear it. I can't bear it. I can't bear it anymore. He's coming. He's coming. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Miss Allen, feeling nothing but love and affection for her friend, but realizing strangely to the dim and immuted attention of the room, knelt down beside the sofa and put her strong arms around the trembling fragile body. What is it, dear, dear Mrs. Porter? What is it? Who is coming? Of whom are you afraid? Henry's coming. Henry, who hated me. He's coming to carry me away. But Mr. Porter's dead. Yes, the little voice was now the nearest whisper, but he'll come all the same. He always does what he says. The two women waited, listening. Miss Allen could hear the old lady's heart thumping and leaping close to her own. Through the opened windows came the sibilant rumble of the motorbuses. Then Mrs. Porter gently pushed Miss Allen away. Sit on a chair, Lucy, dear. I must tell you everything. I must share this with someone. She seemed to have regained some of her calmness. She sat straight up upon the sofa, patting her lace cap with her hands, feeling for the cameo brooch at her breast. Miss Allen drew a chair close to the sofa. Turning again towards the mantelpiece, she saw that it stood out boldly and clearly. The tick of the clock came across to her with almost startling urgency. Now, dear Mrs. Porter, what is it that is alarming you? She said. Mrs. Porter cleared her throat. You know, Lucy, that I was married a great many years ago. I was only a very young girl at the time. Very ignorant, of course. And you can understand, my dear, that my father and mother influenced me very deeply. They liked Mr. Porter. They thought that he would make me a good husband and that I should be very happy. I was not happy, Lucy, dear, never from the first moment. Here Mrs. Porter put out her hand and took Miss Allen's strong one. I am very willing to believe that much of the unhappiness was due to myself. I was a young foolish girl. I was disturbed from the very first by the stories that Mr. Porter told me and the pictures he showed me. I was foolish about those things. He saw that they shocked me and I think that that amused him. From the first it delighted him to tease me. Then, soon, he tired of me. He had mistresses. He brought them to our house. He insulted me in every way possible. I had years of that misery. God only knows how I lived through it. It became a habit with him to frighten and shock me. It was a game that he loved to play. I think he wanted to see how far I would go. But I was patient through all those many years. Oh, so patient! It was weak, perhaps, but there seemed nothing else for me to be. The last twenty years of our married life he hated me most bitterly. He said that I had scorned him, that I had not given him children, that I had wasted his money. A thousand different things. He tortured me, frightened me, disgusted me. But it never seemed to be enough for him for the vengeance he felt I deserved. Then one day he discovered that he had a weak heart. A doctor frightened him. He saw, perhaps for a moment in my eyes, my consciousness of my possible freedom. He took my arm and shook me, bent his face close to mine, and said, Ah, you think that after I'm dead you will be free? You are wrong. I will leave you everything that I possess, and then, just as you begin to enjoy it, I will come and fetch you. What a thing to say, Lucy dear? He was mad, and so was I to listen to him. All those years of married life together had perhaps turned both our brains. Six months later he fell down in the street dead. They brought him home, and all that summer afternoon, my dear, I sat beside him in the bedroom. He all dressed in his best clothes and his patent leather shoes, and the band playing in the square outside. Oh, he was dead, Lucy dear. He was indeed. For a week or two I thought that he was gone altogether. I was happy and free. Then, oh, I don't know. I began to imagine. Too fancy. I moved from Wendelburton. I advertised for someone, and you came. We moved here. It ought to be. It is. It must be all right, Lucy dear. Hold me. Hold me tight. Don't let me go. He can't come back. He can't. He can't. She broke into passionate sobbing, cowering back on to the sofa as she had done before. The two women sat there, comforting one another. Miss Allen gathered the frail, trembling little body into her arms, and like a mother with her child, soothed it. But as she sat there, she realized with a chill shutter of alarm that moment, a quarter of an hour before, when the room had been dimmed and the clock stilled. Had that been fancy? Had some of Mrs. Porter's terror seized her in sympathy? Were they simply two lonely women whose nerves were jagged by the quiet monotony and seclusion of their lives? Why was it that from the first she, so unimaginative and definite, should have been disturbed by the thought of Mr. Porter? Why was it that even now she longed to know more surely about him, his face is close as height? Everything. You must go to bed, dear. You are tired out. Your nerves have never recovered from the time of Mr. Porter's death. That's what it is. You must go to bed, dear. Mrs. Porter went. She seemed to be relieved by her outburst. She felt, perhaps, now less lonely. It seemed, too, that she had less to fear now that she had betrayed her ghost into sunlight. She slept better that night than she had done for a long time past. Miss Allen sat beside the bed, staring into the darkness, thinking. For a week after this they were happy. Mrs. Porter was in high spirits. They went to the Coliseum and heard Ms. Florence Smiths then sing Roses of Picardy, and in the cinema they were delighted with the charm and simplicity of Alma Taylor. Mrs. Porter lost her heart to Alma Taylor. That's a sweet girl, she said. I would like to meet her. I'm sure she's good. I'm sure she is, said Miss Allen. Mrs. Porter made friends in the flat. Mr. Knicks met them one day at the bottom of the lift and talked to them so pleasantly. What a gentleman, said Mrs. Porter afterwards, as she took off her bonnet. Then one evening Miss Allen came into the sitting room and stopped dead, frozen, rigid on the threshold. Someone was in the room. She did not at first think of Mr. Porter. She was only sure that someone was there. Mrs. Porter was in her bedroom changing her dress. Miss Allen said, who's there? She walked forward, the dim evening saffron light powdered the walls with trembling color. The canaries twittered, the clock ticked. No one was there. After that instant of horror she was to no relief. It was as though that spoken who's there had admitted her into the open acceptance of a fact that she ought forever to have denied. She was a woman of common sense, of rational thought, scornful of superstition and sentiment. She realized now that there was something quite definite for her to fight, something as definite as disease, as pain, as poverty and hunger. She realized too that she was there to protect Mrs. Porter from everything, yes, from everything and everybody. Her first thought was to escape from the flat and especially from everything in the flat, from the pink sofa, the gate-legged table, the birdcage and the clock. She saw then that if she yielded to this desire, they would be driven, the two of them, into perpetual flight, and that the very necessity of escaping would only admit the more the conviction of defeat. No, they must stay where they were. That place was their battleground. She determined too that Mr. Porter's name should not be mentioned between them again. Mrs. Porter must be assured that she had forgotten his very existence. Soon she arrived at an exact knowledge of the arrival of these attacks, as she called them. The month of May gave them wonderful weather. The evenings were so beautiful that they sat always with the windows open behind them and the dim color of the night glow softened the lamp-light and brought with it scents and breezes and a happy murmurous undertone. She received again and again in these May evenings that earlier impression of someone's entrance into the room. It came to her as she sat with her back to the fireplace with the conviction that a pair of eyes were staring at her. Those eyes willed her to him and she would not, but soon she seemed to know them cold, hawed, separated from her. She fancied by glasses. They seemed too to bend down upon her from a height. She was desperately conscious at these moments of Mrs. Porter. Was the old lady also aware? She could not tell. Mrs. Porter still cast at her those odd furtive glances as though to see whether she suspected anything, but she never looked at the fireplace nor started as though the door was suddenly opened. There were times when Miss Allen, relaxing her self-control, admitted without hesitation that someone was in the room. He was tall, wore spectacles behind which he scornfully peered. She challenged him to pass her guard and even felt the stiff pride of a victorious battle. They were fighting for the old lady and she was winning. At all other moments she scorned herself for this weakness. Mrs. Porter's nerves had affected her own. She had not believed that she could be so weak. Then suddenly one evening Mrs. Porter dropped her cards, crumpled down into her chair, scrammed, No, no, Lucy, Lucy, he's here. She was strangely, at the moment of that cry, aware of no presence in the room. It was only when she had gathered her friend into her arms persuading her that there was nothing, loving her, petting her, that she was conscious of the dimming of the light, the stealthy withdrawal of sound. She was facing the fireplace. Before the mantelpiece there seemed to her to hover a shadow, something so tenuous that it resembled a film of dust against the glow of electric light. She faced it with steady eyes and a fearless heart. But against her will her soul admitted that confrontation. From that moment Mrs. Porter abandoned disguise. Her terror was now so persistent that soon, of itself, it would kill her. There was no remedy. Doctors could not help nor change of scene. Only if Miss Allen still saw and felt nothing could the old lady still hope. Miss Allen lied and lied again and again. You saw nothing, Lucy? Nothing? Not there by the fireplace? Nothing, dear? Of course, nothing. Events from then moved quickly, and they moved for Miss Allen quite definitely in the hardening of the sinister shadow. She led now a triple existence. One life was Mrs. Porter's devoted to her, delivered over to her, helping her, protecting her. The second life was her own, her rational, practical self, scornful of shadow and of the terror of death. The third was the struggle with Henry Porter, a struggle now as definite and concrete, as though he were a blackmailer confining her liberty. She could never tell when he would come, and with every visit that he paid, he seemed to advance in her realization of him. It appeared that he was always behind her, staring at her through those glasses, that had, she was convinced, large gold rims and thin gold wires. She fancied that she had before her a dim outline of his face. Pale, the chin sharp and pointed, the ears large and protuberant, the head dome-shaped and bald. It was now that with all her life and soul in the struggle for her friend, she realized that she did not love her enough. The intense love of her life had been already in earlier years given. Mrs. Porter was a sweet old lady, and Miss Allen would give her life for her, but her soul was atrophied a little, tired a little, exhausted perhaps in the struggle so sharp and persistent for her own existence. Oh, if I were younger, I could drive him away, came back to her again and again. She found, too, that her own fear impeded her own self-sacrifice. She hated this shadow as something strong, evil, like mildew on stone, chilling breath. I'm not brave enough, I'm not good enough, I'm not young enough. Incessantly, she tried to determine how real her sensations were. Was she simply influenced by Mrs. Porter's fear? Was it the blindest imagination? Was it bread simply of the close, confined life that they were leading? She could not tell. They had resumed their conspiracy of silence, of false animation, and ease of mind. They led their daily lives as though there was nothing between them. But with every day, Mrs. Porter's strength was failing. The look of horrified anticipation in her eyes was now permanent. At night they slept together and the little frail body trembled like a leaf in Miss Allen's arms. The appearances were now regularized. Always when they were in the middle of their second game of patience, Miss Allen felt that impulse to turn, that singing in her ears, the force of his ironical gaze. He was now almost complete to her, standing in front of the Japanese screen, his thin legs apart, his hostile conceited face bent towards them, his pale, thin hands extended as though to catch a warmth that was not there. A Sunday evening came. Earlier than usual they sat down to their cards. Through the open window shivered the jangled jimes of the bells of St. James's. Well, he won't come yet, was Miss Allen's thought. Then with that her nightly resolve, when he comes I must not turn, I must not look, she must not know, that I know. Suddenly he was with them, and with a dominant force, a cruelty, a determination, that was beyond anything that had been before. Four, five, six, the cards trembled in Mrs. Porter's hand. And there's the spade, Lucy dear. He came closer. He was nearer to her than he had ever been. She summoned all that she had, her loyalty, her love, her honesty, her self-discipline. It was not enough. She turned. He was there, as she had always known, that she would see him, his cruel, evil, supercilious face, conscious of its triumph, bent toward them, his gray clothes hanging loosely about his thin body, his hands spread out. He was like an animal about to spring. God help me! God help me! She cried. With those words she knew that she had failed. She stood as though she would protect with her body or friend. She was too late. Mrs. Porter's agonized cry. You see him, Lucy? You see him, Lucy? Warned her. No, no, she answered. She felt something like a cold breath of stagnant water pass her. She turned back to see the old woman tumble across the table, scattering the little cards. The room was emptied. They too were alone. She knew, without moving, horror and self-shame holding her there, that her poor friend was dead. End of Story 7 Story 8 of The Thirteen Travelers by Hugh Walpole This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story 8, Lois Drake Miss Lois Drake lived in one of the attics at the top of Hortons that sounds poverty-struck and democratic, but as a matter of fact it was precisely the opposite. The so-called attics at Hortons are amongst the very handsomest flats in London. Their windows command some of the very best views, and the sloping roof that gives them their name does not slope enough to make them inconvenient, only enough to make them quaint. Miss Drake was lucky, and asked Mr. Nix whether he had any flats to let on the very day that one of the attics was vacated. But then Miss Drake was always lucky, as you could see quite well if you looked at her. She was a tall, slim girl, with dark brown hair, an imperious brow, and what her friends called a bossy mouth. It was indeed her character to be bossy. Her father, that noted traveller and big game-hunter, had encouraged her to be bossy. The Drake's and the Bows and Kays, and the Mumps's, all the good old county families with whom she was connected, encouraged her to be bossy. Finally the war had encouraged her to be bossy. She had become in the early days of 1915 an officer in the W.A.A.C., and since then she had risen to every kind of distinction. She had done magnificently in France, had won medals and honors. No wonder she believed in herself. She was born to command other women. She had just that contempt for her sex, and approval of herself necessary for command. She believed that women were greatly inferior to men. Nevertheless she was always indignant, did men not fall down instantly and abase themselves before the women of whom she approved. She bore herself as a queen, so her adoring friend said. Quite frankly she considered herself one. The W.A.A.C. uniform suited her. She liked stiff collars and short skirts and tight belts. She was full-breasted, had fine athletic limbs. Her cheeks were flushed with health. Then the armistice came, and somewhere in March she found herself demobilized. It was then that she took her attic at Hortons. Her father had died of dysentery in Egypt in 1915, and had left her amply provided for. Her mother, who was of no account, being only a chipping basset and retiring by nature, lived at Dollars Hall in Wiltshire and troubled no one. Lois was the only child. She could then spend her life as she pleased, and she soon discovered that there was plenty to do. Her nature had never been either modest or retiring. She had, from the earliest possible age, read everything that came her way, and five years at Morton House School, one year in Germany and four months in East Africa, with her father, had left her, as she herself said, with nothing about men that she did not know. The war took away her last reserves. She was a modern woman, and saw life steadily, and saw it whole. She also saw it entirely to her own advantage. The strongest element in her nature was, perhaps, her assured self-confidence in her management of human beings. She had, she would boast, never been known to fail with men or women. Her success in the war had been largely due to the fact that she had applied certain simple rules of her own to everybody alike, refusing to believe in individualities. Men and women fall into two or three classes. You can tell in five minutes the class you're dealing with, then you act accordingly. Her chief theory about men was that they like to be treated as men. They want you to be one of themselves. She adopted with them a masculine attitude that fitted her less naturally than she knew. She drank with them, smoked with them, told them rather tall stories, was never shocked by anything that they said, gave them as good as they gave her. After her demobilization, she danced a great deal, dined alone at restaurants with men whom she scarcely knew, went back to men's rooms after the theater, and had a last whiskey, walked home alone after midnight, and led herself into her attic with great satisfaction. She had the most complete contempt for girls who could not look after themselves. If girls got into trouble, it was their own rotten fault. She had developed, during her time in France, a masculine fashion of standing, sitting, talking, laughing. Nothing made her more indignant than that a man should offer her his seat in a tube. How her haughty glance scorned him as she refused him. It's an insult to our sex, she would say. How she rejoiced in her freedom. At last she said there is sexy quality, we can do what we like. She was, however, not quite free. The war had left her a legacy in the person of an adoring girlfriend, Marjorie Scales. Marjorie was an exact opposite to herself every way, plump and soft and rosy and appealing, and entirely feminine. She had been under Lois in France. From the first she had desperately adored her. It was an adoration without qualification. Lois was perfect, a queen, a goddess. Marjorie would die for her instantly, if called upon. Not that she wanted to die. She loved life, being pretty and healthy, and allowed by loving parents a great deal of freedom. But what was life without Lois? Lois would tell you if you asked her that she had made Marjorie. Marjorie owed her everything. Others who did not like Lois said that she had ruined Marjorie. Marjorie herself felt that life had simply not begun in those years before Lois had appeared. Lois had determined that after the war she would finish the Marjorie affair. It unsettled her, disturbed her, refused to fall into line with all the straightforward arrangements that were as easy to manage as putting your clothes on. The truth was that Lois was fonder of Marjorie than she wanted to be. She quarreled with her, scolded her, laughed at her, scorned her, and, at the end of it all, had absurdly soft and tender feelings for her that were not at all sensible. Marjorie's very helplessness, a quality that infuriated Lois and others, attracted and held her. She had too much to do to bother about people's feelings. Nevertheless, were Marjorie distressed and unhappy, Lois was uncomfortable and ill at ease. After the war I'll break it off, it's sent a mental. Nevertheless, here she was, four months, five months, six months after the armistice, and it was not broken off. She would dismiss Marjorie with scorn, tell her that she could not be bothered with her scenes and tears and repentances, and then five minutes after she had expelled her, she would want to know where she was and what she was doing. She would not confess to herself the joy that she felt when Marjorie suddenly reappeared. Then, as the weeks went by, she began to wonder whether Marjorie were as completely under her control as she used to be. The girl seemed at times to criticize her. She said, quite frankly, that she hated some of the men whom Lois gathered round her in the attic. Well, you needn't come, said Lois, I don't want you. Then, of course, Marjorie cried. There was one occasion when Mr. Nix, the manager of the flat, very politely and with the urbanity for which he was famous, warned her that there must not be so much noise at her evening parties. Lois was indignant. I'll pack up and go. You'd think Nix was Queen Victoria. Nevertheless, she did not pack up and go. She knew when she was comfortable. But deep down in her heart, something warned her. Did she like all the men who now surrounded her? Was there not something in what Marjorie said? In France, there had been work heaps of it. Her organizing gifts, which were very real, had had full play there. The sense of the position that she had had unsettled her. She wanted to fill her life, to be still of importance, to be admired and sought after and talked of. Yet the men with whom she spent her time were not quite the right men, and sometimes that little voice of warning told her that they went too far, said things to her that they had no right to say, told stories. But did she not encourage them? Was not that what she wanted? Perfect equality now? No false prudery? The new world in which men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, with no false reserves, no silly modesties? If Marjorie didn't like it, she could go. But she did not want Marjorie to go. Then Tubby Grenfell came, and the world was changed. Grenfell was nicknamed Tubby by his friends, because he was round and plump and rosy-faced. Lois did not know it, but she liked him at once because of his resemblance to Marjorie. He was only a boy, twenty-one years of age, and the apple of his mother's eye. He had done magnificently in France, and now he had gone on to the stock exchange, where his uncle was a man of importance and power. He had the same rather helpless, appealing innocence that Marjorie had had. He took life very seriously, but enjoyed it too, laughing a great deal and wanting to see and do everything. His naivete touched Lois. She told him that she was going to be his elder brother. From the very first he had thought Lois perfectly wonderful, just as Marjorie had done. He received her dicta about life with the utmost gravity. He came and went, just as she told him. He ate out of her hand, his friends told him. Well, I'm proud too, he said. Unfortunately he and Marjorie disliked one another from the very beginning. That made difficulties for Lois, and she did not like difficulties. What you can see in him, said Marjorie, I can't think. He's just the sort of man you despise. Of course he's been brave, but anyone can be brave. The other men laugh at him. He had a good-natured contempt for Marjorie. It's jolly good of you to look after a girl like that, he said to Lois. It's just your kindness, I don't know how you can bother. Lois laughed at both of them and arranged that they should meet as seldom as possible. Hortons was soon haunted by Tubby Grenfell's presence. Peace Day came and went, and Lois really felt that it was time that she settled her life. Here was the summer before her. There were a number of places to which she might go, and she could not make up her mind. Firstly she knew that some of the time must be spent with her mother in Wiltshire, and she was dreading this. Her mother never criticized her, never asked her questions, never made any demands, and Lois had rather enjoyed spending days of her leave in that silly old-fashioned company. But now, could it be that Lois was two quite different people, and that one half of her was jealous of the other half? Moreover there was now a complication about Scotland. Tubby had begged her to go to a certain house in Northumberland, nice people, people she knew enough to want to know them more. He begged her to go there during the very month that she had planned to go away with Marjorie. She knew quite well that if she tried to break the Scottish holiday, that would be the end. Marjorie would leave her and never return. Well, was not that exactly what she had been desiring? Was she not feeling this animosity between Tubby and Marjorie a great nuisance? And yet, and yet, she could not make up her mind to lose Marjorie? No, not yet. Her hatred of this individual, she had never been undecided in France, she had always known exactly what she intended to do, flung her precipitately into that final quarrel with Marjorie that in reality she wanted to avoid. It took place one morning in the attic, it was a short and stormy scene. Lois began by suggesting that they should take their holiday during part of September instead of August, and that perhaps they would not go as far as Scotland. What about the South Coast? Marjorie listened, the color coming into her cheeks, her eyes filling with tears, as they always did, when she was excited. But we'd arranged, she said, in a kind of awestruck whisper. Months ago we fixed. I know, my dear, said Lois, with a carelessness that she by no means felt. But what does it matter? September's as good as August, and I hate Scotland. You said you loved her before, said Marjorie slowly, staring as though she were a stranger who had brought dramatic news. I believe, she went on, it's because you want to stay with Mr. Grenfell. If you want to know, cried Lois, suddenly urged on partly by her irritation at being judged, but still more by her anger at herself for feeling Marjorie's distress, it is. Your impossible Marjorie, you're so selfish, it can't make any difference to you putting your holiday off, you're selfish, that's what it is. Then a remarkable thing occurred. Marjorie did not burst into tears. Only all the color drained from her face and her eyes fell. No, I don't think I'm selfish, said Marjorie. I want you to enjoy yourself, you're tired of me and I don't blame you, but I won't hang on to you. That would be selfish if I did. I think I'll go now. Besides, she added, I think you're in love with Mr. Grenfell. Suddenly, as Marjorie said the words, Lois knew that it was true. She was in love, and for the first time in her life. A great exultation and happiness filled her. For the first time for many months she was simple and natural and good. Her masculinity fell from her, leaving her her true self. She came over to Marjorie, knelt down by her side, put her arms around her, and kissed her. Marjorie returned the kiss, but did not surrender herself. Her body was stiff and unyielding. She withdrew herself from Lois and got up. I'm glad, she said, her voice trembling a little. I hope you'll be very happy. Lois looked at her with anxious eyes. But this doesn't make any difference to us, she said. We can be the same friends as before, more than we were. You'll like to be Marjorie, darling, when you know him. We'll have a great time, we three. No, said Marjorie. This doesn't make any difference. That's quite true. The difference was made before. What do you mean, as Lois standing up, her agitation strangely returning? You've been different, said Marjorie. Since we came back from France, you've been changing all the time. It seemed right out there. You're ordering everybody about. I admired it. You were fine. But now in London, I have no right to say so, but you're trying to do all the things men do. And it's beastly somehow. It doesn't suit you. It isn't natural. I don't believe the men like it either, or at any rate, not the nice men. I suppose it's silly, but I don't admire you any more. And if I don't admire you, I can't love you. With that last word, she was gone, and Lois knew quite well that she would never come back again. Lois stayed in the attic that morning in an odd confusion of mind. Marjorie was jealous, of course. That was what had made her say those things. Her discovery of her love for Grenfell filled her with joy, so that she could scarcely realize Marjorie. Moreover, the uncertainty that had been troubling her for months was over. But behind these feelings was a curious new sense of loss, a sense that she refused to face. Life without Marjorie? What would it be? But she turned from that and, with joyful anticipation, thought of her new career. She decided at once to dismiss Marjorie from her thoughts, not only partially, but altogether, so that no fragment of her should be left. That was her only way to be comfortable. She had on earlier occasions been forced to dismiss people, thus absolutely. She had not found it difficult, and she had enjoyed in the doing of it a certain sense that she was finishing them, and that they would be sorry now for what they had done. But with Marjorie, she saw that that would be difficult. Marjorie had been with her so long, had given her so much praise and encouragement, was associated in so many ways with so many places. She would return again and again, an obstinate ghost slipping into scenes and thoughts where she should not be. Lois discovered herself watching the post, listening to the telephone, her heart beating at the sudden opening and shutting of a door. But Marjorie did not return. She centered herself then absolutely around young Grenfell. She demanded of him twice what she had demanded before, because Marjorie was gone. There was something feverish now in her possession of him. She was not contented and easy as she had been, but must have him absolutely. She was anxious that he should propose to her soon, and end this period of doubt and discomfort. She knew, of course, that he would propose. It was merely a question of time, but there was something old fashioned about him, a sort of naivete which hindered him, perhaps, from coming forward too quickly. She was not along with him very much, because she thought it was good for him to see how other men admired her. She gathered around her more than before, the men with whom she might be on thoroughly equal terms, as though in defiance of Marjorie's final taunt to her. It was as though she said to that perpetually interfering ghost, Well, if you will come back and remind me, you shall see that you were wrong in what you said men do like me for the very things of which you disapproved, and they shall like me more and more. She thought Grenfell understood that it was because of him that Marjorie had gone. She was jealous of you, she said, laughing. I'm sure I don't know why she should have been. You never liked one another, did you? Poor Marjorie, she's old-fashioned. She ought to have lived fifty years ago. She was surprised when he said, Did she dislike me? Of course we used to fight, but I didn't think it meant anything. I didn't dislike her. I'm so sorry you've quarreled. He seemed really concerned about it. One day he amazed her by saying that he'd seen Marjorie. They had met somewhere and had a talk. Lois's heart leapt. I'm ready to forgive her, she said, for what she said, but of course things can never be quite the same again. Oh, she won't come back, Grenfell said. I begged her, but she said, No, you weren't as you used to be. At this Lois felt an unhappiness that surprised her by his vehemence. Then she put that away and was angry. Well, I don't want her back, she cried. If she came and begged me, I wouldn't have her. But she felt that Grenfell had not reported truly. He was jealous of Marjorie and did not want her to return. He seemed now at times to be a little restive under her domination. That only made her more dominating. She had scenes with him, all of them worked up by her. She arranged them because he was so sweet to her when they were reconciled. He was truly in despair as she were unhappy and would do anything to make her comfortable again. Once they were engaged, she told herself, she would have no more scenes. She would be sure of him then. She was in a strange state of excitement and uncertainty. But then these were uncertain and exciting times. No one seemed to know quite where they were, with strikes and dances and all the classes upside down. Although Lois believed that women should be just as men, she resented it when Fanny the Portress was rude to her. She had got into the way of giving Fanny little things to do, sending her messages, asking her to stamp letters to wrap up parcels. Fanny was so willing that she would do anything for anybody. But the day came when Fanny frankly told her that she had not the time to carry messages. Her place was in the hall. She was very sorry. Lois was indignant. What was the girl there for? She appealed to Grenfell. But he, in the charming, hesitating, courteous way that he had, was inclined to agree with Fanny. After all, the girl had her work to do. She had to be in her place. At this little sign of rebellion, Lois redoubled her efforts. He must propose to her soon. She wished that he were not quite so diffident. She found here that this masculinity of hers hindered a little the opportunities of courtship. If you behaved just like a man, swore like a man, drank like a man, discussed any moral question like a man, scenes with sentiment and emotion were difficult. When you told a man a hundred times a day that you wanted him to treat you as he would a pal, it was perhaps irrational of you to expect him to kiss you. Men did not kiss men, nor did they bother to explain if they were rude or casual. She had, however, a terrible shock one night, when Conrad Hawke, a man whom she never liked, seeing her back to the attic after the theatre, tried to kiss her. She smacked his face. He was deeply indignant. Why, you've been asking for it, he cried. This horrified her, and she decided that Grenfell must propose to her immediately. This was the more necessary, because during the last week or two he had been less often to see her. And had been less at his ease with her. She decided that he wanted to propose, but had not the courage. She planned, then, that on a certain evening the event should take place. There was to be a great boxing match at Olympia. Beckett was to fight Goddard for the heavyweight championship of Great Britain. She had never seen a boxing match. Grenfell should take her to this one. When she suggested it, he hesitated. I'd love us to go together, of course, he said. All the same, I don't think I approve of women going to boxing matches. My dear Tubby, she cried. What age do you think we're living in? Well, I don't know, he said, looking at her doubtfully. If that isn't too absurd, she cried. Has there been a war or has there not? And have I been in France doing every kind of dirty work or not? Really, Tubby, you might be mother. His Tubby face colored. His eyes were full of perplexity. Of course, if you want to go, I'll take you, he said. All the same, I'd rather not. She insisted. The tickets were taken. She was determined that that night he should propose to her. The great evening had arrived and they had a little dinner at the Carlton Grill. Lois was wearing a dress of the very latest fashion, that is, a dress that showed all her back, that was cut very low in front, and that left her arms and shoulders quite bare. She seemed, as she sat at the table, to have almost nothing on at all. This, unfortunately, did not suit her. Her figure was magnificent, but the rough life in France had helped neither her skin nor her complexion. The upper part of her chest and her neck were sunburnt. Her arms were brown. She had taken up much trouble with her hair, but it would not obey her now, as it had done in the old days. I'm a fright, she had thought, as she looked at herself in the glass. For a moment she thought she would wear one of her old, less revealing evening frocks. But no, she was worrying absurdly. All the women wore these dresses now. She would look a frump in that old dress. In color the frock was a bright mauve. She was aware that all eyes followed her as she came into the grill room. She carried herself superbly, remembering how many girls, yes and men, too, had called her a queen. She saw at once that Tabby Grenfell was uneasy and not his cheerful, innocent self. He seemed to have something that dragged his thoughts away from her. They both drank a good deal, and soon they were laughing uproariously. They started off in a taxi for Olympia. The wine that she had drunk, the sense of the crisis that this night must bring to her, the beautiful air of this May evening, through which in their open taxi they were gliding, the whisper and the murmur of the night's bridge crowd, all these things excited her as she had never in all her life been excited before. Had she looked at herself she would have realized from this excitement the child that she really was. She put her hand on Tabby's broad knee and drew a little closer to him. He talked to her eagerly, himself excited by the great event. He explained something of the fighting to her. There'll be a lot of infighting, he said. There always is nowadays. They've caught it from America. You'll find that rather boring. But it isn't boring, really. There's heaps of science in it. More than there used to be in the old boxing. They say that that's where Beckett will be beaten. That he can't infight. I don't believe they're right, but we'll see. That's what makes tonight so exciting. No one knows really what Beckett can do. He knocked out Wells too quickly, and he's improved so much that he's hardly the same man as he was before. He chattered on, apparently now, quite happy. What a dear he was. What a boy. How natural and good and simple. She felt maternal to him, as though he were her child. How happy they would be when they were married. How happy she would make him. They drew near to Olympia. They were now in a great stream of cars and taxis. Crowds thronged the road. They got out and pushed their way through. The presence of the crowd thrilled Lois so that her eyes shone and her heart hammered. She clung to Tubby's strong arm. Soon they were through the gates, pushing up the Olympia's steps, passing the turnstiles. What strange faces there were on all sides of her. She could not see another woman anywhere. She gathered her cloak more closely about her. They passed into the arena. For a moment she was dazzled by the light. The tears of seats rose on every side of her, higher and higher. She followed Tubby meekly, feeling very small and insignificant. Soon they were seated close to the ring. Already men were boxing, but no one seemed to look at them. Everyone hurried to and fro. People were finding their seats. Around her, above her, beyond her, was a curious electrical hum of excitement, like the buzz of swarming bees. She herself felt so deeply moved that she was not far from tears. She grew more accustomed to the place. She sat back in her chair, throwing her cloak behind her. Tubby talked to her in a low voice, explaining where everything was, who various celebrities were. There was Cochran, that was Eugene Corey, there was a famous actor, and so on. She began to be confident. She knew that men were looking at her. She liked them to look at her. She asked Tubby for a cigarette. Her eyes moved to the ring. She watched the boxing. She felt a renewed thrill at the side of the men's splendid condition, and then as she looked about her and saw the black cloud of men rising above and around her on every side, she could have clapped her hands with joy. Soon she was impatient of the boxing. She wanted the great event of the evening to begin. She felt as though she could not wait any longer, as though she must get up in her seat and call to them to come. She was aware then that Tubby was again uncomfortable. Was he distressed because men looked at her? Why should they not? Perhaps he did not think that she should smoke. Well, she would smoke. He was not her keeper. The heat, the smoke, the stir, confused and bewildered her, but she liked the bewilderment. She was drunk with it. Only this intense impatience for Beckett and Goddard to come was more than she could bear. Oh, I do wish they'd come. I do wish they'd come, she sighed. Then, turning to Tubby, she said, Jirap, what's the matter? Oh, I'm all right. He moved uneasily. She fancied that he glanced with anger at a fat, black hair to be ringed a man near him, who, as she already noticed, stared at her. Oh, I do wish they'd come, she cried, speaking more loudly than she had intended. Some man near her heard her and laughed. They came at last. The tall fellow was Goddard, the shorter man in the dull-colored dressing gown was Beckett. They walked about inside the ring, then they sat down, and were hidden by a cloud of men with towels. A little man walked about the ring, shouting something through a megaphone. Lois could not hear what he said because of her own excitement. The ring was cleared, the fight had begun. The breathless silence that followed was almost more than she could bear. From the first moment she wanted Beckett to win. His grim seriousness fascinated her. The way that he stood, crouching forward, his magnificent condition, the brown healthiness of his skin, appealed to her desperately. I want him to win! I want him to win! She repeated again and again to herself. He seemed to be having the best of it. Men shouted his name. The first round was over. In the pause of the interval, she realized for a moment, as though she had to come down from a great height, that the men near her were looking at her and smiling. She did not care if only Beckett would win, she cared for nothing. The first round's Beckett's on points anyway. She heard a man say near her. The ring was cleared again. The men moved cautiously, watching one another. Suddenly Beckett had sprung in. Before she could account to herself for what was happening, Goddard was on the floor. Men rose in their seats, shouting. The referee could be seen counting the seconds. Goddard was up. Then Beckett was in to him again. Right, left, tuned like a piece of music. Goddard was down again, and this time he lay at full length without moving. The vast buildings seemed to rise like the personification of one exultant man and shout. Lois herself had risen. She was crying, she knew not what, waving her program. A man had leaped forward and kissed Beckett. Goddard was dragged by his seconds like a sack to his chair. The roar continued. Men shouted and yelled and cheered. Lois sat down. It was over. Beckett had won. She had had her desire. She felt as though she had walked for miles and miles through thick, difficult country. She could only see over and over again those quick blows. Right, left, like a piece of music. They sat there quietly for a little, and then she said, Let's go, I don't want to see any more after that. Grenfell agreed. Outside there was a strange peace and quiet. A large crowd waited, but it was silent. It was watching for Beckett. The street was deliciously cool, and in the broad space beyond Olympia there was only a rumbling, sibilant rustle that threaded the dusky trees, the stars shone in a sky of velvet. They found a taxi. I'll see you to your door, Tubby said. During the drive, very few words were spoken. Lois was concentrating now all her effort on the scene that was to come. She was quite certain of her victory. She felt strong and sure with the competence that the thrill of the fight had just given her. Above all, she loved Grenfell. It was the first time in her life that she had known love, and now that it had come she was wrapped in the wonder of it, stripped of all her artifices and conceits, as simply and naturally caught by it as any ignorant girl of her grandmother's day. They were in Duke Street. The car stopped before Hortons. Grenfell got out. Good night, he said. I'm so awfully glad you enjoyed it. No, you've got to come in. You have, really, Tubby. It's very early, not ten yet. I'll make you some coffee. He looked for a moment as though he would refuse. Then he nodded his head. All right, he said, just for a bit. They went up in the lift, superintended by young William, one of the Hortons officials, in age about fourteen, but dressed with his oiled hair, high collar and uniform, to be anything over twenty. Oh, sir, who won the fight? Yes, in a husky voice, when he heard Lois make some allusion to Olympia. Beckett, said Grenfell. God bless Joe, said young William Piously. The attic looked very comfortable and cozy. Grenfell sank into the long sofa. Lois made the coffee. It was as though Beckett's victory had also been hers. She felt as though she could not be defeated. When she saw him sitting there so comfortably, she felt as though they were already married. She knew that there was something on his mind she had seen ever since they left Olympia, that there was something that he wanted to say to her. She could not doubt what it was. She stood there smiling at him as he drank his coffee. How she loved him. Every hair of his round bullet-shaped head is rosy cheeks, his strength and cleanliness, his shyness and honesty. Oh, I've just loved tonight. I'm so glad you have, he answered. Another long silence followed. He smoked, blowing rings, and then breaking them with his finger. At last she spoke, smiling, Tubby, you want to say something to me? Well, yes you do, and I know what it is. You know? He stared at her, confused and shy. Yes, she laughed. Of course I do. I've known for weeks. For weeks? But you can't. Oh, you think you can hide things? You can't. She suddenly came over to him, now down by the sofa, putting her hand on his arm. You ridiculous baby! You're shy. You're afraid to tell me. But thank heaven all that old-fashioned nonsense is over. I can tell you what you want to say without either of us being ashamed. Tubby, darling, I know. I've known for weeks, and it's all right. I'll marry you tomorrow if you want me. I've loved you since first I said eyes on you. Oh, Tubby, we'll be so happy we— But she was stopped by the look in his eyes. He had moved away. His face was crimson, his eyes wide with dismay. She knew at once that she had made a horrible mistake. He didn't love her. She rose, shame, misery, anger, self-contempt, all struggling together in her heart. She would have liked to speak. No words would come. Lois, he said at last, I'm awfully sorry. I didn't know you were going to say that, or I'd have stopped you. We're the greatest pals in the world, of course, but— You don't want to marry me, Lois interrupted. Of course, it's quite natural. I've made a bit of fool of myself, Tubby. You'd better say good night and go. He got up. Oh, Lois, I'm so sorry. But I couldn't tell. I've had something else on my mind all these weeks. Something that for the last three days I've been trying to tell you. Marjorie and I are engaged to be married. That took the color from her face. She stepped back, putting one hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself. Marjorie? You? That stupid little idiot? There she made a mistake. He took her retort as a dog takes a douse of water, shaking his head resentfully. You mustn't say that, Lois. And after all, it was you that brought us together. I—her indignation, as she turned on him, was red hot. Yes, I was sorry for her when you turned her off. I went to see her. We agreed about you from the beginning, and that was a bond. Agreed about me? Yes, we thought it was such a pity that you went about with all these men. She told me how splendid you were in France. She had thought that I was in love with you. But I told her, of course, that I'd always thought of you as a man, almost. Love was a different sort of thing. Although tonight at the boxing you weren't a man either. Anyway, she cut short his whole thing confused explanation with contempt. You'd better go. You and Marjorie have treated me pretty badly between you. Good night. He tried to say something, but the sight of her furious eyes checked him. Without another word he went. The door closed. The room was suddenly intensely silent, as though it were waiting to hear the echo of his step. She stood, fury contempt, working in her face. Suddenly her eyes flooded with tears. Her brow puckered. She flung herself down on the floor beside the sofa, and, burying her face in it, cried with complete abandonment from her breaking heart. End of Story 8 Story 9 Of The Thirteen Travelers by Hugh Walpole This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story 9 Mr. Nix Mr. Nix, the manager of Hortons, had never been an analyzer of the human character. It startled him, therefore, considerably somewhere about March or April of 1919 to find himself deep in introspection. What is deep to one may not be deep to another, and Mr. Nix's introspection amounted to little more than that he felt as he found himself confiding to a friend one evening as though he were nothing more or less than a blooming juggler, one of those fellows, Joe, that toss eight or ten bowls in the air at a time. That's what I'm doing positively. If you ask me, said his friend, what you're doing, Sam, is thinking too much about yourself, being morbidly introspective. That's what you're being. I should stop it. That kind of thing grows. No, am I really? said Mr. Nix anxiously. Upon my word, Joe, I believe you're right. What Mr. Nix meant, however, when he said that he felt like a trick juggler, was literally true. He not only felt like it, he dreamt it. This dream was recurrent. He saw himself dressed in purple tights, one foot on a rope, the other in mid-air, and tossing a dozen golden balls. Beneath him, far, far beneath him, was the sawdust ring, tears of people rising to either side of it. The balls glittered and winked and tumbled in the fierce electric light. Always they returned to him, as though drawn towards his stomach by a magnet. But always present with him was the desperate fear, lest one should avoid and escape him. The sweat stood and beads on his forehead. The leg upon which everything depended began to tremble. The balls seemed to develop a wild individuality of their own. They winked at him. They sniggered. They danced and mocked and dazzled. He missed one. He missed two. Three. The crowd beneath him began to shout. He swerved. He jolted. He was over. He was falling. The balls swinging in laughing derision about him. Falling, falling. He was awake. This dream came to him so often that he consulted a doctor. The doctor consoled him, telling him that everyone was having bad dreams just now, that it was the natural reaction after the four years of stress and turmoil through which we have passed. You yourself, Mr. Nix, have had your troubles, I don't doubt. Yes, Mr. Nix had lost his only son. Ah, well, that is quite enough to account for it. Don't eat a heavy meal at night. Sleep lightly covered. Plenty of fresh air. This interview only confirmed to Mr. Nix in his already deep conviction that all doctors were humbugs. The matter with me, he said to himself, is just this that I've got too much to do. Nineteen hundred and nineteen was a very difficult year for anyone engaged in such business as Hortons. That spontaneous hour or two of mirth and happiness on the morning of the armistice had its origin in the general human belief that the troubles of those nightmare years were over now. At once, as though the fairy furkan had waved her wand, the world would be changed. The world was changed, but only because a new set of difficulties and problems had taken the place of the old ones, and these new troubles were in many ways harder to fight. That was a year of bafflement, bewilderment, disappointment, suspicion. Quite rightly so, but the justice of it could not be seen by the actors in it. Mr. Nix was making a brave fight a bit, just as throughout the war he had made a brave fight. He was a little man with a buoyant temperament and no touch of morbidity. His boy's death had shocked him as an incredible event, but he had forbidden it to change the course of his life, and it remained deep down, unseen, a wound that never healed and was never examined. His embarrassment, the balls with which he was forever a juggling, were in the main four. First, the directors in whose power the fate of Hortons and several other service flats lay. Secondly, Hortons itself, its servants, its tenants, the furniture, its food, its finances, its marriages, births, and deaths. Thirdly, his own private speculations, his little private business enterprises, his pals, his games, his vices, and his ambitions. Fourth, his wife, Nancy. These four elements had all been complicated enough before the war. It would take a man all his time, he used to say, to deal with the board. Nice enough men, but peremptory in many ways, not understanding, and always in a hurry. He had spent the best years of his life in persuading those men that Hortons was the best service flat in London. They did at length believe that, they were satisfied, but having brought them to such a height, they must be maintained there. The war brought discontent, of course, only the old men were active on the board, and the old men had always been the trying ones to deal with. The war, as it dragged its weary coils along, brought nerves and melodrama with it. Only Mr. Nixon seemed, in all the world, was allowed to be neither nervous nor melodramatic. He must never show anger nor disappointment nor a sense of injustice. There were days he honestly confessed to Nancy his wife, when he longed to pull some of those old white beards. But worse than those old men were the tenants of Hortons themselves. Here was a golden ball of truly stupendous heaviness and eccentricity, the things they had demanded, the wild unnatural, impossible things, and the things that Hortons itself demanded. To Hortons the war was as nothing. It must be fed, clothed, cleaned, just as it had always been. You might shout to it about the prices, the laziness of workmen, the heaviness of taxation. It did not care. The spirit of Hortons must be maintained. It might as well not exist, as be less than the fine creation it had always been. As to the third of Mr. Nixon's elements, his private life, that had dwindled until it was scarcely visible. He had no private life. He did not want to have one, now that his son, who had been so deeply connected with it, was gone. Everything that he had done, he had done for his son. That was his future. He did not look to the future now, but worked for the day, and rather to his own surprise, for Hortons which had become a concrete figure, gay, debonair, autocratic. His personal life dropped. He saw little of his friends, never past the doors of his club, sat at home in the evenings, reading first the times, then the morning post, then the daily news. He liked to have an all-around view of the situation. It was his sense of fair play. In this way the third wheel of his life infringed upon, and influenced the fourth, his wife. Mrs. Nix, whose maiden name had been Nancy Rolls, was about forty years of age. Even Mr. Nix was not quite sure how old she was. It was her way to exclaim with her hearty, cheerful laugh. We're all getting on, you know. There was a time when to be thirty seemed to be as good as dead. Now that I'm over thirty, she was round, plump, red-phased, brown-haired, with beseeching eyes and a little brown mole in the middle of her left cheek. She dressed just a little too smartly, with a little too much color. Mr. Nix, himself attached to color, did not notice this. He liked to see her gay. Nancy's a real sport, was his favorite exclamation about her. He had married her when she was a baby, seventeen years of age. They had been great pals ever since. Sentiment had perhaps gone a little out of their relationship. They were both deeply sentimental people, but for some reason, sentiment was the last thing that they evoked from one another. The death of their boy Lancelot should have brought them together emotionally, but their attitude had been, for so long, that of an almost masculine, good cheer and good humor, that they bore their great sorrow individually. They had forgotten the language of emotion. Mr. Nix, in the deep recesses of his soul, pondered over this. He wanted now to get closer to Nancy. He was sure that she felt our Lancelot's death, quite desperately. But after the shock of the first month, she put on her bright clothes again and went about to the theater and entertained her friends. There's enough misery in the world without my trying to add to it, she would say. I know some people think it's bad of me to wear these clothes, but it is what Lancelot would have liked. As they sat in their cozy little flat, perched high on the top floor of Horton's evening after evening, Mr. Nix with a paper, Mrs. Nix with a novel, they were both perhaps conscious that the boy's death had made a barrier, and as they lay side by side in their bed at night, they were still more conscious of this. The darkness seemed to strip from them that lively exterior life that they had developed. Mr. Nix would lie there and think about Nancy for hours. In the daytime, indeed, his hands were full. The servants alone were problem enough for anybody. First, the men all went away to the war, and he had to have women. Women for everything. Women for the kitchen. Women for the hall. Women valets. And then, just as he was getting used to them, the men began to come back. Or rather, he had to get new men, men who must be taught their jobs and learn his rules, and fall in with his ways. Fortunately, he was blessed with a wonderful portrait, Fanny. Fanny, on whom, after a time, the whole great establishment seemed to hang. But what did Fanny do but become restless after the armistice, fall a victim to a conscience which persuaded her that she was, by remaining, keeping a man out of his proper job, and, when he had persuaded her over that difficulty, what should she do then but become engaged to one of the valets, whom she presently married? Then the tenants of the flats were disturbed and agitated by the general unrest. Poor old Mr. J. was so deeply agitated by the new world that he died of the shock of it, and, as though that were not enough, old Ms. Morganhurst went out of her mind and died in a fit. It became more and more difficult to secure the right kind of tenants. Hortons had always been a very expensive place, and only wealthy people could afford to live there. But how strange now the people who had money! A young man like the Honourable Clive Torby, representative of one of the finest families in England, found suddenly that he had not a penny in the world, and gaily took to house-painting, while on the other side of the shield there were people like the Boddingtons, who simply did not know how to behave, who, wealthy though they were, should never have been in Hortons at all. Then again Mr. Nix was most seriously disturbed by the strange new interchanging of the sexes that seemed to have sprung up in this post-war England. Positively, he said to his wife one evening, all the men seemed to be turning into women and all the women into men. He read an article in some paper that lamented the rapidity with which women were abandoning all the mysteries that had made them once so charming. How thoroughly Mr. Nix agreed with the writer of the article. He read it through to Mrs. Nix, who was entirely in accord with every word of it. The girls are nothing better than baggages, she declared. That's my belief. Hortons, its dignity, its traditions, its morality, was in danger. I'll save it if I have to die for it, Nix declared. As the weeks advanced, his troubles extended. One strike followed another. Coal, food, labor, clothes, all faltered, died, were revived again. Mr. Robesart, the famous novelist, his most eminent tenant, awoke early one morning to find a pipe leaking. His dining room wallpaper, a very beautiful and exclusive one, developed bright pink and purple spots. It was weeks before anything could be done. Mr. Robesart, who had been led by an excited female public to believe his personality to be one upon which the sun never set, said what he thought about this. The balls faltered in the air, their glittering surfaces menacing and threatening. The tightrope trembled, the crowd roared like angry beasts. This dream was ruining Mr. Nix. And through it all, like a refrain that set rhythm and measure to the rest, was the sense that he ought to do something for Mrs. Nix, that she was unhappy, but would not tell him about her unhappiness, that he should come closer to her and did not know how. Into this new troubled confusion of Mr. Nix's life came a figure. One day a young man who had known Lancelot in France came to see them. His name was Harry Harper. He was little more than a boy, was in the London Joint City in Midland Bank, and was as fresh and charming a lad as you would be likely to find anywhere. Mr. Nix liked him at once. In the first place he had many new things to tell about Lancelot, and he told them in just the right way, with sentiment, but not too much, with humor a little, and with real appreciation of Lancelot's bravery and his popularity with his men and his charm with everyone. Mrs. Nix sat there on her bright red sofa, whilst young Harper told his tale, and her face was as red as the furniture. The tears glittered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her plump hands were locked lightly in her lap. She stared before her as though she were seeing straight through into the horrors of that terrible no-man's land, where her boy had faced the best and the worst, and made his choice. He was always a good boy, she said at last. You will understand, Mr. Harper, I'm sure. From his very cradle he was good. He never cried like other babies, and made a fuss. Of course, as he grew older, he had a little of the devil in him, as one might say. I'm sure no mother would have it otherwise, but oh, he was a good boy. There, their mother, said Mr. Nix, patting her soft shoulder. I'm sure it's very good of you, Mr. Harper, to come and tell us all this. You can understand that we appreciate it. Young Harper took it all the right way. His tact was wonderful for a boy of his years. Mr. Nix, who like most Englishmen, was a deep-dyed sentimentalist, without knowing it, loved the boy. You come and see us whenever you like. We're in. Most evenings you'll always be welcome. Harper availed himself of the invitation, and came very often. He was leading, it seemed, a lonely life. His parents lived in Newcastle, and they had many children. His lodgings were far away in Pimlico, and he had few friends in London. Before a month had passed, he was occupying a little spare bedroom in the Nix Quarters, a very little bedroom, but wonderful for him, he declared, being so marvelously in the centre of London. You've given me a home, he cried. Can't thank you enough. You don't know what Pimlico can be for a fella. As the days passed, Mr. Nix was more and more delighted with the arrangement. Mrs. Nix had a way of going to bed early, and Mr. Nix and Harry would sit up talking. Mr. Nix looked forward to those evenings. He had, he discovered, been wanting someone with whom he might talk, and clear his ideas a bit. Harry, although he was so young, had really thought very deeply. Mr. Nix, whose thinking was rather of an amateur kind, very quickly forgot the difference between their years. Harry and he talked as man to man. If anything, Harry was perhaps the older of the two. Mr. Nix found that it helped him very much when Harry talked. He did not seem to be balancing so many balls in mid-air when Harry was sharing his difficulties. The boy had too a charm. His air of asking Mr. Nix advice as a man of the world, that was what Mr. Nix liked to be considered, and he told Harry many sensible things, especially about women. Don't let them catch you, was the burden of his opinion. They are the devil for getting hold of a man before he knows where he is. Play with him, but don't take them seriously, until the right one comes along. You'll know it as soon as she does, so much wiser to wait. But they're clever, damned clever. Your right, sir, said Harry, absolutely. I remember a girl once. He plunged into reminiscence. Finally, however, he declared that he didn't care very much about women. He meant to lead a life apart from them. He'd watched other fellas, and he knew the mess they could get into, especially married women. Ah, married women, repeated Mr. Nix with a sigh. There wasn't much that he didn't know about married women. It was terrible the way that they were kicking over the traces these days. Really stopped at nothing while he remembered a married woman. Then Harry remembered a married woman. Then Mr. Nix remembered still another married woman. This led quite naturally to certain disclosures about Mrs. Nix. Mr. Nix had indeed reasons to be thankful. There was a woman who was corrupted by none of these modern ideas. She was no prude, she knew her world, but she believed in the good old rules. One man for one woman. It's been a bit lonely for her, Mr. Nix continued, since Lancelot went, and it's a bit difficult to make her happy. I'm so busy all day, you see. Takes the whole of a man's time to run a place like this nowadays. I can tell you. Be nicer, Harry. See as much of her as you can. She likes you. Indeed, I will, said Harry fervently. You two are the first real friends I've ever had. I'm grateful, I can tell you. Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her close to him and make her happy, the less he seemed to realize her. There comes perhaps that moment in most married lives when the intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no longer be discerned. Something of the kind that came now to Mr. Nix. The more he attempted to draw closer to Nancy, the more he realized that he was hearing a voice, watching a physical form, having physical contact, but dealing with shadows. He knew so precisely her every movement, her laugh, the way that she caught her breath when she was agitated, the touch of her step on the carpet, that she was no longer a person at all. She was part of himself, perhaps, but a part of himself that he could not treat with his imagination. He had not known before that he had an imagination, the war had given at birth, and now it was growing, demanding food, living, thrusting, experiencing, leading its master into many, queer places, but neglecting altogether Mrs. Nix. He found himself, as he sat in his little office downstairs, positively trying to force himself to realize what his wife was like. She had bright yellow hair, a rosy face, a plump figure. She wore two rings, one with a ruby stone, another a pearl. She was marvelously young for her age. She then, when with a start of surprise, he realized what he was doing, he wondered positively whether he were not going mad. He buried himself more and more in the work of the place, of the office, fighting to keep everything straight and proper, realizing, although he was frightened to admit it, that Hortons was more vivid to him than anything or anybody else, except Harry. Thank God that boy's here, he thought. I don't know what we'd do without him. That was a piece of luck for us. He lay on his bed, staring up into the dark ceiling. He heard his wife's regular breathing at his side, and he saw, there in the living dusk above him, the golden balls dancing, rising and falling, multiplying, diminishing, tumbling faster and faster and faster. Then, with the month of June and July, Mr. Nix was given very little more time, in which to speculate about life, women, and his wife. Everything in his business affairs became so complicated that his life extended into a real struggle for existence. He had the sense that Hortons, which had hitherto shown him a kindly friendly face, was suddenly hostile, as though it said to him, well, I've stood here hanky-panky long enough, I'll have no more of it, I'm finished with your management of me. Strange how a building suddenly decides to fall to pieces. Hortons so decided. Every window, every door, every pipe, every chimney misbehaved. Tenants appeared from all sides bitterly complaining. Servants rioted. The discontent that was already flooding the world poured through the arteries of the building, sweeping it, deluging. Mr. Nix showed them the character that he had. He took off his coat and set to work. He was no longer the round-of-ball-like little man with the cherubic countenance and the amiable smile. He was stern, autocratic, unbending. He argued, persuaded, advised. He wrote to his own surprise a very stiff letter to the board of directors, telling them that they must understand that times were difficult. Rome wasn't built in a day and that if they were dissatisfied with him, they must find somebody else in his place. To his amazement he received a very polite letter from the secretary of the board, saying that the directors were thoroughly satisfied with him and had no complaints. He went on during that month from struggle to struggle. He forgot Harry. He puzzled no longer about Mrs. Nix. He was so tired when night came that he slept the sleep of a drugged man. He no longer saw the dancing balls. He was invigorated, uplifted, desperately excited. He found in himself a capacity for organization that he had never suspected. He discovered that it delighted him to meet and to conquer his servants. He saw in their eyes, and he was delighted to see it, their own astonishment at this new character that he was developing. He browbeat them, told them to go, showed them that they had better stay, held them together, and forced them to content. They were afraid of him. By Jove they were afraid of him. He looked at himself in the glass. He blessed the crisis that had shown him in his true colors. He contemplated the life of Napoleon. He went out and with his own right arm fetched in sulky and wage demanding workmen. He talked to them and found that there was a great deal to be said on their side. He began to discover that strange truth that almost everyone was discovering just at this time. Namely, that when you read the papers or thought of your fellow human beings in the mass, you hated and despised them, but that if you talked to any individual man or woman, you liked and understood them. Pride grew in his heart and happiness and contentment. By the middle of July Hortons was itself again. The crisis was over. Prices were impossible. Labor rebellious. The world topsy-turvy. But Hortons was at peace. He sighed, put back his shoulders, patted his little stomach appreciatively, loved all the world, and once again considered Mrs. Nix. He would give her now all his time. He would take her out, make her presence. They should have a splendid new life together. He came back one evening after a successful meeting with the board, opened his little hall door, hung up his coat, whistling to himself, opened his drawing-room door, saw Mrs. Nix on the red sofa, enveloped in the arms of Harry, who was kissing her ears, her eyes, her mouth. He saw this, and then he saw the neat little sitting-room sway and eve, a bright blue face, holding yellow sprays of some dried flowers raced towards him across the mantelpiece, and he stepped back, putting his hand onto a chair behind him to avoid its contact. The room steadied itself, and he realized that he felt sick. He put up his hand to his mouth. Then every sensation was swallowed up by a mad, violent anger, an anger that seemed to increase with every wild beat of his art, as though that heart were of its own purpose, pounding him on to some desperate act. Behind his anger he saw the two faces. Nancy was sitting square on the sofa, her hands spread out, plunged deep into the red stuff of the sofa. Harry was standing, his face white, his eyes bewildered and defiant. You might at least have locked the door, Mr. Nix said, whispering. His knees trembled so that he suddenly sat down and stared across at them. Why didn't you lock the door, he repeated? You knew I'd be coming back. Look here, Harry began. He stopped, took a pull at himself, straightened his back, stood instinctively as though he were obeying orders. I love your wife. I've loved her for weeks. Of course it's all my fault. She doesn't care for me in that way. She's just lonely, that's all. Lonely, said Mr. Nix. Yes, lonely. You don't know that you've been neglecting her all this time, do you? But you have, and it's your own fault, all this. Nothing's happened. She'd never deceive you. She's too good for that. But it would be your own fault, if she did, that I'm not a cad. Of course I am, coming in and you're being such a friend to me and then behaving like this. I'm a cad all right, but you're to blame too. She's the only one who hasn't done any wrong. Where had Mr. Nix heard all this before? He'd seen it on the stage, just like this. Exactly. Nevertheless his anger mounted. He saw the room colored crimson. He suddenly bounded from his chair and rushed at Harry. He tried to hit him in the face. There was a most ludicrous struggle. The two hot faces were suddenly close to one another. Then a chair fell with a crash, and as though the noise made both men feel the absurdity of their situation, they withdrew from one another and stood there glaring. Mr. Nix hated that he should be trembling as he was. Every part of him was shaking, and he was so conscious of this that he wanted to escape and return only when he was calmer. Very well, he said. Of course I know what to do. I hope that I shall never see either of you again. One moment it was his wife's voice, and he turned round, surprised that it should sound just as it had always sounded. That was pathetic, and there was an impulse in him that he instantly fiercely defeated to go to her and take her hand. One moment, she repeated, I've got something to say to this. She rose and stood, her hands moving nervously against her dress, her eyes staring straight into her husband's face. It's quite right that I was kissing Harry, but it isn't right that I love him. I don't love him a bit. I don't love anybody. I'm just sick of men. I've been sick of them a long time. It was just because I didn't feel Harry was a man at all that I let him kiss me. A dog or a baby would have done just as well. I don't care what you do. You can turn me out. I want to be turned out. I want to be free. I want to be with women and work on my own and do sensible things and have my own life with no men in it, no men in it anywhere. I've been wanting this for years, ever since the war started. The world's just run from in, and you think you're so important that you're everything, but you're not. Not to a woman of my age who's been through it all and hasn't children. What have I been sitting at home for, waiting for you, seeing after your food, keeping you in good temper, looking after you? Why should I? I'm myself, not half of you, and Harry too. He was a nice boy at first, but suddenly he wants me to love him, to belong to him, to follow him. Why should I, a boy like that? I want to be with other women, women who understand me, women who know how I feel, women who have their own world and their own life and are independent of men altogether. I've wanted to go for months, and now I'm going. She moved towards the door, the absurdity of what she had said kept him standing there in front of her. She wanted only women? Oh, of course! That was only bluff put up to carry off a difficult situation. People did not want their own sex. A man for a woman, a woman for a man. That was the way the world went, and it was right that it should be so. Nevertheless, her words had had behind them a strange ring of conviction. He stared at her in his round, puzzle, solid way. He did not move from where he was, and she could not reach the door without brushing against him, so she also stayed. Another mood came to her. Oh, I'm so sorry, she said. I've done very wrong to hurt you. You've always done your very best, but it was over you and I. So long ago, long, long before Lance was killed. Over, he repeated. Yes, over. Men never know unless it's worth some woman's while to tell them. Harry's voice broke in. I'd better go, I ought to, I mustn't. He murmured something more, but they neither of them noticed him. They were intent upon one another. He left the room. Mr. Nix stared desolately about him. I don't know what to do, he repeated to himself. I don't know what to do. She sighed, as she might have done with a child who was trying her. We've both got to think it out, she said. I'm glad now that it's happened. It ends all that falseness. I'll tuck it over with you as long as you like. She moved forward. He stood aside, and she left the room. He sat down on the red sofa and stayed there until late into the night, trying to puzzle out his position. Sometimes, in his distress, he spoke to himself aloud. That's what it is. The world's changed. Entirely changed. Women don't want men anymore. But that's awful. They can't get on alone. Nancy can't get on alone. She thinks she can, but she can't. She gets taken in by the first silly boy that comes along. I believe she cares for Harry more than she said. She must. She wouldn't have let him kiss her. And that was the first thing that he found in the voyage of mental discovery that he was not making. Namely, that he couldn't be jealous of Harry if he tried. His anger had left him. There was nothing in that. He knew it, absolutely. Nancy had spoken the truth when she had said that she didn't care for that boy any more than for a dog or a baby. No, he felt no jealousy, and now, oddly enough, no anger. But he did not know how he felt. He did not know what to do. Again, he saw the golden balls tossing in the air above him. And there was she, a luring, a glittering, a tumbling, escaping. He thought, with a smile of contempt of his conquest of Hortons, that was no achievement. But this, this new woman, this new Nancy, here was something. He slept that night on the sofa, taking off his coat and wrapping a rug around him. He slept the slumber of the dead. Next day they had only one talk together, and that a very little one. Suddenly, after breakfast, she turned round upon him. Well, she said, what are you going to do? I don't know, he answered. And then, because he felt that she would despise him for being so indeterminate, he went on. It doesn't matter about Harry. I was only angry for a moment, seeing you together like that. I know that you don't care for him. It was what you said afterwards about not caring for me anymore. Did you mean that? Why, no, she answered. I never said that. Of course I care for you. How could it be otherwise after all these years? But I don't want to give up my whole life to you anymore. I don't love you. I haven't loved you for years. I think Lance took all the love I had after he was born. And so I don't want to be always with you. Why should I be? Men, and when they are friends, aren't always together. I want to be free to do some of the things independent women are doing. There are so many things women can do now. I see no reason for us staying always together. I don't want to stay with anyone always. Then you don't love me anymore. No, of course I don't. And you don't love me. You know that. Forever so long now you haven't felt anything about me at all. You've pretended to, because you thought it was right. But I've been a shadow to you. She was so right that he could only stare dumbly at her wisdom. You're not a shadow any longer, he said. She laughed. That's only because we've just had a scene. I shall be a shadow again in a day or two. They waited. At last he said, Well, you won't go at once, will you? Please promise me that. Stay until we straightened everything out. Promise me. She shook her head. No, I'll promise nothing any more. I should only break my promises. But I'll tell you before I'm going. There began then for him the strangest time. Slowly an entirely new woman stole into his life. A woman whom he did not know at all. A creation as strange and novel as though he had, but now, met her for the first time. Every evening, when he returned to the flat, it was with the expectation of finding her gone. He questioned her about nothing. She continued, as she had done before, to look after the flat and his clothes and his food. He did not touch her. He did not kiss her. They sat in the evening in their little sitting-room reading. They discussed the events of the day. Soon he realized that it was beginning to be a passionate determination with him that he must keep her. He did not know how to set about it. He found that he was beginning to woo her again, to woo her as he had never wooed anybody before. He did not let her see it. He fancied that he was the last word intact. One evening he brought her some roses. He tried to speak casually about it. His voice trembled. One night he kissed her, but very indifferently, as though he were thinking of other things. And how mysterious she was becoming to him. Not in the old way. He could not believe that there had ever been a time when he had known her so well that he could not see her. He saw her continually now, through all his work, through every moment of the day. His heart beat when he thought of her. He would wait for a moment outside the door in the evening. His hands trembling with the thought that he might look inside and find her gone. He never questioned her now as to where she went, but he was forced to admit that she did not go out any more than she had done in the old days. It was strange when you came to think of it, that she had not followed up more completely her fine declaration of independence. They went one evening to a theater together. They sat close to one another in the dark, and he longed to take her hand, but did not dare. He felt like a boy again, and she was surely young too, younger than he had ever known her. There were times when he fancied that after all she was quite contented with her domesticity, but he did not dare to believe that. If he once caught the golden ball and held it, what would happen? There came at last an evening when imprudence overcame him. He caught her in his arms and kissed her, as he had not done for years. The first wonderful thing that he knew was that she responded, responded with all the passion of their first days of courtship. He heard her murmur, Poor old Sam, you poor, blind, silly old Sam. A moment later she was out of his arms and across the floor. But don't imagine, she cried, that I'm sure that I'm going to stay. I may be off at any moment, this very night perhaps. He was alone staring at the closed door. The golden balls were still dancing. He wanted to follow her. He got up. He stopped. He had a moment of intense disappointment. Then, by Jove, I believe I'm glad. I don't want to be sure of her. I hope I'll never be sure of her again. And on that flash of self-realization, he began his new life. End of Story 9