 Chapter 11 Part 1 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The chase ends. Once started in flight, the human instinct is to keep on running. It was not immediately, therefore, that Bill recovered from the first stark desire to be elsewhere as quickly as possible, and began to turn on to the situation the searchlight of clear reason. For perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, his faculties were entirely occupied with the desire to shake off pursuit, and with this end in view he kept his large foot firmly on the accelerator, and paid only the most meager attention to the hurriedly expressed criticisms of the various traffic policemen dotted here and there about the winding route. If he had a thought outside the bare, primitive craving for speed, it was a feeling of relief that he had taken the trouble to hire from the garage a really good car. It was as if some presentiment had warned him not to accept the quaint old relics, which they had offered him at the start of the negotiations, but to hold out firmly and coldly till they produced a real hummer. His motorist eye had told him, after one glance at the engines, that this was a car of quality, and events were proving his judgment sound. With a smooth and effortless efficiency it was eating up the asphalt like a racer. They snapped across Chelsea embankment, purred up Oakley Street, and turning to the left at the Fulham Road began, though Bill was not aware of it, to cover the same ground which he and Judson had gone over that night when they had followed Roderick to Wimbledon Common. In Putney High Street they were enabled to draw away for a while, for the limousine, to Sir George's manifest discomposure, though Briggs the chauffeur, accepted the blow with calm, got itself blocked by a brewer's dray just across the bridge, whereupon Bill, dexterously imitating the ingenious tactics of the hunted hare, turned down Lacy Road into Charlewood Road, turned again into Felsham Road, and so, doubling on his tracks, crossed Putney Bridge once more and bowled along the Fulham Palace Road, to emerge finally into the bustle of King Street Hammersmith. It was a maneuver which might well have settled the issue, but Augustus Briggs, for all his woodenness, was an astute fellow, and looking over his shoulder as they reached Hammersmith Station, Bill was annoyed to perceive the limousine swerving lively round a truck still in the game. It was at this point that he began to examine the situation. What on earth is this all about? he asked. It's Uncle George! I know, but what are we running away for? Because I don't want him to catch us. Why not? The question deprived Flick momentarily of speech. Bill filled the hiatus in the conversation by dodging an omnibus and turning sharp to the left up Addison Road. What do you mean? said Flick, astonished. Well, said Bill, skilfully avoiding manslaughter with a quick twist of the wheel, what can he do if he does catch us? It had begun to irk his haughty spirit, this headlong flight from a little man with a double chin whom he could have destroyed with a finger. He would have guaranteed if challenged to mortal combat to clean up Sir George and Briggs the chauffeur too inside a couple of minutes. In the vivid phrase of Mr. Isaac Bullitt he could butter the pavement with them both. Yet here he was fleeing like the wicked man in the Psalms, permitting himself to be chivvied by these persons all over London. The pride of the West put up a strong protest. What on earth can he do? he demanded again. He can't tie you up and drag you home against your will. I know, said Flick, it's just that I can't face him. Why not? persisted Bill, just contriving to avoid diminishing the juvenile population of Ladbroke Grove by one. You don't know, Uncle George. Said Flick, shaking her head, he's such a compelling sort of man, so frightfully sort of hypnotic. Oh, come, protested Bill. Well, you know what I mean. He glares at you and tells you to do things and you just do them. When he looks at me I always feel like a rabbit and a snake. How do you mean you feel like a rabbit and a snake? said Bill, puzzled. Well, you know, sort of hypnotized. I'm sure if my door hadn't been locked that night and he had been able to come in and glare at me, I should have lost my nerve altogether and come meekly down to dinner instead of running away. If he catches us I know exactly what will happen. I shall have to go back with him. Nonsense! Be a man! Well, that's how I feel. Bill was in many ways a simple soul, but he had lived long enough in this world to know that a woman's whims have to be respected, however apparently absurd to the view of the more earthy male. And in a dim way he could follow Flick and understand her position. Until he had got used to him he had found Ridgway, his late man-servant, affecting him in rather the same fashion. Ridgway had had quiet but decided views on ties and hats, and many a time Bill remembered he had had his way in these matters, sternly overriding the preferences of the man who paid him his wages. One cannot argue about personality. Its compelling power has to be accepted as a fact. If Flick felt like that about her Uncle George, and shrank so timorously from the prospect of meeting him, then Uncle George must be shaken off if it took the last drop of petrol in the tank. He pulled the wheel round and they shot away in an easterly direction, and from this point the affair took on a dreamlike aspect which precluded coherent thought. Bill had no notion where he was going, like the heroine of a melodrama he was lost in London. His simple policy was to take any road which looked smooth and fairly empty, and to skim down it till he came to another road possessing the same desirable qualities. And always the limousine followed. It was impossible to get away from it in the traffic, and Bill yearned for the open country, and suddenly, when he had least expected it, the houses began to thin, and he was thrilled by the discovery that there really was an end to this sprawling city, after all. So sedulously had Bill twisted, retwisted, and kept on twisting his steering-wheel, that, though he had started out along the Portsmouth Road, he was now heading for Hertfordshire, and presently London, with its tram-lines and traffic, was left behind, and they were out on the open road. Now, said Bill, teeth grimly set, will show him. Although this car of his was but a hired one, he had come in the course of this stern chase to love it like a sun. It was a beautiful car, obviously only recently tuned up by expert hands, and what it needed to give of its best was just such a broad highway as now lay before it. Tram-lines and traffic fret and hamper a car of spirit. What it craves is space. This it had now got, and the roar of the engines as Bill pressed down his foot sounded like a joyful cheering. The needle on the indicator crept up to forty, then swiftly to forty-five. Laugh this off! growled Bill over his shoulder at the pursuing limousine. It was as if Augustus Briggs had heard the provocative words. He did not attempt to laugh it off, for he was a chauffeur, and by the rules of his guild not allowed anything beyond a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, but he did indulge for an instant in this faint smile. The idea of a cardinal six, for such he perceived Bill's car to be, attempting to give the dust to his own peerless brown Windsor, excited in him an almost jovial contempt, and so sudden was the bound which the limousine made as he opened the throttle that a hen down the road which had planned to make a leisurely crossing saved its valuable life only by a frenzied leap in the last split second. And so, going nicely, they passed through New Barnet, Hadley Wood, Potter's Bar, and South Mims, and came to the town of Hatfield. And it was outside Hatfield, just before you come to Brockett Hall, that the long, long trail reached its abrupt end. Bill had not been unaware of the new touch of grimness added to the chase. He had noted the chauffeur's spurt, and had answered it by putting his needle up into the fifties. But now a chill feeling of impending defeat had begun to lower his mood of exultation. Something seemed to tell him that the car behind had just that extra turn of speed which was going to make all the difference. Sticking doggedly, however, to his guns, he was endeavouring to urge the Cardinal Six to a gate which its maker had never contemplated, when the disaster occurred which subconsciously he had been anticipating all the time. There was a sudden, loud report. The Cardinal Six swerved madly across the road, nearly jerking the wheel out of his hands. And when he had managed to get it into control, he was made aware by a harsh bumping that the worst had happened. At the very tensest stage of the race, he had been put out of the running by a burst tire. The tragedy had taken place almost immediately opposite the neat little gate of a neat little house standing back from the road behind the shelter of a quick-set hedge. Bill brought the car to a stop and looked behind him. The limousine, a couple of hundred yards in the rear, was coming up like a galleon under sail. He grasped Flick's arm. It was a moment for swift action. Come on! he cried, and jumping out they ran through the gate. The garden in which they found themselves was one of those beautifully trimmed preserves whose every leaf and petal speaks eloquently of a loving proprietor. Neat little sticks supported neat little plants. Neat little gravel paths ran between neat little flower beds. It was the sort of garden from which snails, wandering in with a carefree, nonchalance, withdrew a bashed, blushing, and walking backwards, realizing that they are on holy ground. And it should have affected Bill and Flick, those human intruders, with the same self-conscious awe. But Bill and Flick were in a hurry, and when we are in a hurry we forget our better selves. In such a maze of flower beds it was obviously impossible to keep to the paths. Taking Flick's hand Bill raced diagonally across country to where a shrubbery seemed to offer at least a temporary refuge. From a window on the ground floor an agonized purple face glared at them with an expression of pure hatred. Two frenzied hands beat madly on the pain. A protesting wail like that of a tortured demon came to their ears muffled but awesome. They stopped for neither apologies nor explanations. Hand in hand they trampled over the beds and were in the shrubbery. There they halted, panting, and presently observed, shooting in at the gate, the projectile-like form of Sir George. Sir George Pike had marked with a stern triumph the accident that had checked the Cardinal Six. It had seemed to him like retribution overtaking the wicked. So greatly did it stimulate him that he yielded once again to that overmastering impetuosity of his, and instead of waiting to be driven up to the gate, banged imperiously on the glass and bounded from the limousine while still a good twenty yards down the road. The long period of physical inaction had told upon his nerves, and he was impatient to be up and doing. As quickly as his little legs would carry him, he scuttled along the hedge and bolted in at the gate. He was half way across the flower beds, following the clearly defined track of his quarry in the mold, when a roar so loud and anguished that it compelled attention brought him to a momentary halt. Stop, you! What the devil do you think you're doing, you dash, dash, dash, you? He perceived a large mauve-faced individual in golfing costume gesticulating forcefully from the steps of the house. Dash, dash, dash! added this person, driving home his point. So great was Sir George's absorption in the business in hand that it his doubtful weather mere words, however eloquent, would have stopped him for long. The speaker had used two adjectives and a verb which he had never heard before. But it was not the desire to pause and inquire into the meaning of these that caused him to remain. What rooted him to the spot was the sudden appearance from behind some bushes of a second man in corduroy trousers, and the thing about this second man that so compelled respect was the fact that he carried a large and dangerous looking pitchfork. And, as if this were not enough, was accompanied by a weedy dog of raffish aspect which now trotted up and began to sniff in a strong silent way at Sir George's calves. Sir George looked at the dog, and the dog, using one rolling reddish eye for the purpose, looked at Sir George. He could never, even with his face in repose, have been a handsome dog, and now his appearance was made definitely repellent by a slightly up-drawn lip, revealing a large white tooth. Pressing as his engagements were, Sir George decided to linger. The man in the golf suit came up. DASH! DASH! He began, enriching Sir George's vocabulary with a new noun. The owner of the neat little house and garden, though he looked and behaved like a retired Indian colonel of the old school, was in reality no such thing, but technically a man of peace. He was in fact no other than Montague Grayson, the well-known writer of sunny and optimistic novels. And it would have been a distinct shock to his large public could they have beheld him in his present frame of mind, and yet had they known all the facts they could hardly have denied that his wrath was justified. If there is one thing that wakes the fiend which sleeps in us all, it is getting stuck in the big chapter of a sunny and optimistic novel. For nearly three hours Montague Grayson had been writhing in his study like a lost soul, trying to inject whimsical humor and gentle pathos into the pivotal scene of his new book. And when, looking out of the window for the hundredth time, he saw Flick and Bill plowing through his beloved flower beds, all the hatred which he had been feeling towards his hero and heroine became instantly diverted to them. He had not thought it possible to dislike any human beings so much, until, coming out of the house and catching sight of Sir George, he realized that what he had felt for Flick and Bill had been but a pale imitation of the real thing. If Montague Grayson had been a dante, he would have gone straight off and started writing a new inferno in which Sir George would have occupied a position in the middle of the innermost of the seven hells. As it was, he contented himself with bounding out into the garden, his bosom seething with that perilous stuff that weighs upon the soul. Dash you, sir, dash and dash you! bellowed the ex-sunny and optimistic man, brooding over Sir George like a thundercloud. It should be mentioned here in further extinuation of Mr. Grayson's peevishness that he had had a bad morning's golf. What the dash do you think you're doing? Sir George drew himself up with what dignity he could muster, painfully conscious of the dog which was plainly waiting only for a word of encouragement from the man up top, before starting to give free play to his worst nature. My niece, he began, you'll come trespassing in here, trampling on my flower beds. I am sorry. What's the good of being sorry? I should explain that my niece, I have a good mind to shred you up and sprinkle you under the rose bushes. The man with the pitchfork and enthusiast in any scheme that made for the good of his flowers nodded silent approval of this plan. The dog breathed asthmatically. If you will allow me to explain, sir, explain what possible explanation can there be? It's an outrage. I look at those beds covered with your beastly hoof marks. My niece, to Bill and Flick, lurking in the shrubbery, only the author's portion of this dialogue had been audible, but that had been enough to send them creeping onward through the bushes with all the speed that they could command. A respect for other people's property is deep-seated in most of us, and already the heinousness of the crime that they had committed was heavy upon them. There is something about the mere act of treading on somebody else's flower beds that automatically puts back the clock and makes us children again, and Bill and Flick, as they slunk away, were feeling about ten years old. It was just such behavior as theirs that led to no jam for tea, and they felt their position deeply. It was not till the shrubbery ended in a small hedge, and they found themselves out in a field dotted with sheep that the sense of guilt left them to be replaced by one of elation. Deep horrible though their conduct might have been, it had, at any rate, had the excellent result of giving them a breathing space. From the way the interview between Sir George and Mr. Grayson was developing, it looked as if their pursuer might be occupied for quite some time. "'Take care!' said Flick suddenly, and dropped on the grass. Bill joined her, flopping as if his legs had been moaned from under him. "'What's the matter?' he asked a little querulously, for his nerves were not what they had been at the start of this affair, and he was shaken. Flick pointed. Above the hedge that rimmed the field rose the silhouette of the limousine. Against the pale sky the profile of Augustus Briggs stood out like something carven. "'Calm!' Augustus seemed, with the calmness of the man who was able to unhitch his brain at will, and think of absolutely nothing. Only the smoke rising from the cigarette that appeared to be glued to his lower lip showed that he was alive. Bill looked at Augustus keenly. He was thinking hard. A superbly strategic plan was beginning to shape itself in his mind. At this point good fortune sent to him precisely the ally he required. Close beside them, looking down on them with youth's frankly inquisitive stare, was standing a small boy. "'Hello!' said Bill, smiling and graciatingly. "'Hello!' said the boy. He spoke reservedly, as if wishing to convey that he committed himself to nothing. He was a grave-looking boy, with the pinched face of one on whom the cares of the world press heavily. He seemed worried about the cosmos. "'Do you want to earn half a crown?' "'Where is it?' "'Here.' "'Yes,' said the boy, having examined the coin critically. "'Bill pointed. See that car?' "'Yes. If I give you this half-crown, will you go to the other side of the road and start throwing stones at it?' "'Stones?' "'Stones.' "'Do you want me to throw stones at that car?' "'At that car,' said Bill patiently. "'And you'll give me that half-crown?' "'This half-crown.' An instant before one might have thought that it would have been impossible for this stripling to smile, so strained and care-worn had been his face. But now his head seemed suddenly to split in the middle. A vast grin gleamed like a gash beneath his snub nose. Stunned for a moment by the stupendous reflection that he was going to be paid a huge sum for indulging in his favourite sport, he recovered swiftly. He took the half-crown, bit it, put it in his mouth, and retired. At a leisurely pace he crossed the field, and for an age-long minute there was silence and peace. The sheep browsed in the grass. Birds twittered their even-song in the trees. Augustus Briggs smoked his cigarette in the front seat of the limousine. Then things began to happen. Appearances to the contrary, the mind of Augustus Briggs was not wholly a blank, as he sat at his wheel, placidly savoring his gasp air. His was the quietude of deep content. This rest from the chase, with the opportunity it afforded for a couple of whiffs, was just what he needed most. So far from having unhitched his brain, he was thinking quite deeply, the object of his thoughts being the tip he had received that morning from the butler on to-morrow's three o'clock race at Hurst Park. The butler, a knowledgeable man, had recommended an investment on soapy Sam, and the more Augustus examined the prospect, the better it looked. By this time to-morrow it seemed practically certain that he would be a richer man by a matter of ten shillings. The reflection soothed Augustus Briggs, he gazed almost with benevolence at the small boy who was crossing the road. He was not fond of small boys as a rule, but in his mellowed mood he did not actively dislike this one. He would not have adopted him, but on the other hand he would not have clipped him on the side of the head. He watched him indulgently as he disappeared through the hedge. Then he turned to his thoughts again, to Bob on soapy Sam at five to one. Something whizzed across the road and clanged against the bonnet of the car. For an instant Augustus Briggs sat gaping. Then peering over the side he saw that what had struck the bonnet was a large jagged flint. And a moment later he observed bobbing up over the hedge a grinning face. Gah! exclaimed Augustus, and as he spoke a second flint found its billet. The chauffeur was not a man of deep sensibility. Towards most of the phenomena of the world through which he moved his attitude was one of superior indifference. A primrose by the river's brim a simple primrose was to him, and it was nothing more. But one thing he did love with a strong and holy passion, and that was his paint, and the impact of those flints on his shiny bonnet caused him an anguish more acute than that which he would have felt had his own head been their target. With one short, sharp wail he leaped from the car, raced across the road, and burst into a torrent of eloquence. The hedge it grieved him to discover formed an impenetrable barrier. It was one of those hedges through which boys can glide like eels, but which cannot be negotiated by chauffeurs fearful of tearing their uniforms. He had consequently to be content with mere words, and while he stood there sketching out a list, necessarily incomplete for it had been compiled on the spur of the moment, but nevertheless impressive, of the things he proposed to do to the boy if he caught him. Bill and Flick hurried silently out from their ambush. Augustus, startled by the noise of engines, spun around. The car, with a wholly unauthorized driver at the wheel, was moving rapidly out of sight. Chapter 11 Part 2 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The chase ends. It is pleasant to be able to record that Bill's first act on returning to the metropolis was to drive, guided by Flick, to Sir George's house in Manchester Square and leave the limousine outside the front door. He had no desire to add larceny to his other offences against the gentlemen. This done he hailed a cab and took Flick off to a restaurant to dine. He was feeling in need of refreshment after the activities of the afternoon, and it had become evident to both of them that the situation which had arisen was one that called for calm and unhurried discussion. How on earth, he said, as the waiter receded from the table which they had taken in a quiet corner, your uncle found out that you were likely to be at Marmont Mansions? Simply gets past me. I suppose we've got to take it that he did come there looking for you. I'm afraid so. There doesn't seem any other possible reason why he should be in Battersea at all. In any case, he knows that you are to be found somewhere around these parts. So the question now arises, what's to be done? Flick drew little patterns on the tablecloth with her fork. She looked about her at the gradually filling restaurant. She had lived a cloistered life at Holly House, rarely emerging for meals, except to go to recognized resorts of wealth like the Ritz, Claridge's, and the Carlton. And this sort of place was strange to her. She was trying to decide whether the people at the other table were interesting or merely flashy when Bill put his question again. What's to be done? Yes, I'm wondering too, said Flick, but she spoke listlessly, for the long ride with all its varied emotions had left her tired. She wanted to postpone serious talk, and to that end turned a conversation to the subject of this restaurant in which she was sitting. What did you say the name of this place was? She asked. Marios, said Bill, what made you choose it? I was trying to think of somewhere where your Uncle George would be least likely to drop in for a bite, and I remembered this place. Slingsby took me here to lunch one day. Why, don't you like it? Yes, I think it's—oh! She was looking past him at the door, and he was surprised to see that the color which had been coming back to her face under the influence of food and drink had suddenly left it again. Her eyes had widened in a startled stare of dismay, and for a moment there flashed into his mind the absurd thought that Sir George might miraculously have appeared as if out of a trap. He swung around in his seat and was relieved to find that no such miracle had occurred. Somebody had just come in at the door and was walking down the room looking for a table, but it was not Sir George. It was a young man in a check suit, black-haired and adorned, if you could call it that, as to the upper lip by a small blob of mustache. Bill had no recollection of ever having set eyes on this young man before, nor did the other's appearance give to his thinking reasonable cause for alarm. He turned round again and looked at Flick inquiringly. She was still pale. Did you see? She whispered. See? said Bill, mystified. Do you mean the fellow in the check suit? Flick nodded. Mr. Pillbeam! Bill, who had taken up his knife and fork, laid them down again. He eyed Flick incredulously for a moment, then turned once more and looked down the room, and looking saw the check-suited one had congealed into a pillar of amazement and was gaping in their direction with open mouth. If he had been a highly paid motion-picture star he could not have registered surprise more eloquently. Bill flushed darkly. It took a good deal to ruffle his normally good-humored outlook on life, but it could be done. Roderick Pike had done it by hitting him over the head with a stick, and Percy Pillbeam had done it now by the mere act of walking into a restaurant where he was having dinner. A man who has been through the sort of experiences which Bill had been having that afternoon does not look at things in the light of pure reason. Mario's restaurant was open to the entire population of London, and Percy Pillbeam had a perfect right to go there, to dine, if he wished. But to Bill, who had been chased by the other's employer, from the Prince of Wales Road, Battersea, to within a couple of miles of Brockett Hall and Harfordshire, his presence in the place seemed as much an outrage as that of Sir George Pike in his flower beds had seemed to Montague Grayson, the sunny novelist. It was persecution. That was what Bill felt. Sheer persecution. And he pushed his chair back and rose with protruding jaw. Where are you going? asked Flick. The next moment it had become plain where Bill was going he was stalking down the aisle in the direction of the table at which the intruder had now been induced by a solicitous waiter to seat himself. He reached the table and planting two large hands on the cloth, bent forward and raked the assistant editor of Society Spice with a lowering gaze that seemed to the latter to sear his very soul. Not for a long time had Percy Pilbeam seen at close range anyone so big and so obviously unfriendly as Bill. He shrank into his chair. Is your name Pilbeam? Pilbeam gulped dryly. Bill bent a little closer to the diners at the neighboring tables. The incident seemed a common one of restaurant life. The old friend spotting the dear pal across the room and coming over to pass a chummy word. Pilbeam would have been amazed if he had known that anybody could possibly so misinterpret the position of affairs. He was indeed wondering dolly why the whole of the assembled company did not instantly rush to the spot to avert the murder which seemed to him so sickeningly imminent. In the pursuance of his duties as scandal-gatherer for Society Spice he had been in some unpleasant situations, but compared with this one they had been roses, roses all the way. For a swift instant he met Bill's eye and looked paledly away horrified by its red hostility. You notice I'm dining with Miss Sheridan, said Bill in a quiet rumbling voice. Pilbeam tried to say, quite, but the word stuck in his throat. Good, said Bill. Now do you know what you're going to do? Pilbeam smiled at the beginnings of a weak smile intended to convey that he was open to consider in the most favorable spirit any suggestions which Bill might make. You're going to wait right here where you're sitting. Could Bill, clenching and unclenching a fist that looked to the others, fascinated gaze like a ham? Until we are through you will then keep right on sitting while we go out and you will continue sitting for ten minutes after that. I should advise you to make it a little longer so as to be on the safe side as I shall be out there keeping an eye on the door. See? Pilbeam said that he saw. That's understood then. Now don't, urged Bill earnestly. Go getting absent-minded and forgetting, will you? Pilbeam said he wouldn't, and Bill nodded a brief farewell and returned to his table. Pilbeam, after watching him the whole way, took up a fork and began to pick feebly at a sardine. What did he say? asked Flick eagerly. Bill considered the question. Come to think of it, he replied. He didn't say much, but I gathered that he understood all right. Understood? That he wasn't to stir from the table till we had been gone ten minutes. But he will. He'll sneak out the moment we leave and follow me. I think not, said Bill. I think not. Would you mind changing seats? Then I shall be able to watch him. Not that it's really necessary. Come on, he said encouragingly. Don't let a little thing like that spoil your dinner. Try some of this fish. It looks good. With gentle solicitude he forced her to make an adequate meal, and was pleased to note the steady rise of her spirits as she ate. When the waiter had brought the coffee he felt that the time had come for serious discussion of the situation. The intrusion of Pilbeam added to the shock of discovering that Sir George had followed the trail that led to the Battersea Haven had disturbed him a good deal, and he had been thinking deeply in the intervals of conversation. Now, he said, we must talk this thing over and see where we stand. It seems to me that they're beginning to come over the plate a bit too fast. Flick nodded. The metaphor was strange to her, but she gathered its meaning. Let's get it clear, Bill went on. Your plan of campaign is to stay away till your people throw in the towel and say that this idea of marrying the man Pike is off. That's straight, isn't it? Yes, but how am I to stay away with them right after me like this? They know now where you live and any moment they may find out where I live. Exactly. Obviously, you can't come dropping in at Marmot Mansons anymore. No. Two courses, proceeded Bill judiciously, are open. We can change our addresses. But even if I do change my address, I shall be all the time in a state of jumps wondering if Uncle George isn't going to pop out from somewhere and pounce on me. Just when I was going to say myself, it doesn't seem to me worth it. You can't go on with this hunted fawn business indefinitely. It would give you the willies in a couple of days. So what I suggest is that you clear out altogether. What? Where? New York. New York? I've thought it all out, said Bill complacently, and between you and me, I think the scheme's a pippin. It'll only take a day getting your passport fixed up. But what am I to do when I get to New York? I've two ideas about that. You might go to my Uncle Cooley at Westbury, where we first met, you know. Flick shook her head. It wouldn't be safe. He would be sure to cable Uncle Sinclair that I was there. They're great friends. Yes, that's true. Well then, here's the other idea. I'll give you a letter to Alice Coker. She will look after you. If Bill had not at that moment removed his gaze while he reached for a match, he might have observed a queer expression flit over Flick's face. She looked at Bill wonderingly. It passed her comprehension how he could possibly be so dense as to imagine that she would go anywhere near the odious Miss Coker, no matter how great the emergency. True, she had never let fall a word to indicate that Alice Coker was, in her opinion, of all the superfluous women in the world, the most superfluous. But she felt that he ought to have known it by instinct. She bit her lip and her blue eyes clouded. She's a great girl, continued Bill, with tactless enthusiasm. You'll love her. Yes, said Flick, thinly. I'll tell you what, I'll write the letter now. He called to the waiter and presently pen, ink, and paper were on the table. I think this is a wow, don't you? He said buoyantly. A what? A pip! explained Bill. The scheme of a lifetime! It solves the whole thing. Flick watched him as he wrote, clenching her hands under the table. She was conscious of a rush of contending emotions. At one moment she wanted to bang this dull-witted young man over the head. And the next she was wishing that she could just bury her face in her hands and cry. It was this latter desire which she found it particularly hard to fight down. She was feeling bitterly hurt. The eerie way he had suggested that she should go right out of his life like this, with never a hint that he would miss her for an instant. It was illogical, of course. She realized that he was only trying to help her. But women cannot always be logical. In itself, considered merely as a way out of her difficulties, the idea of going to America was, she forced herself to admit, a good one. The activities of the enemy had rendered London impossible. She simply could not go on being, as Bill had expressed it, a hunted fawn. In New York she would feel safe, and she had plenty of money. There, said Bill, Flick took the letter and put it in her bag. Thank you, she said. I suppose we might as well be going now, mightn't we? I'm rather tired. All right, said Bill. I'll put you into a cab, and then I'll hang around for a while, just in case friend Pilbeam starts any ranigazoo. But Pilbeam did not start any ranigazoo. He was ostentatiously busy with the leg of a chicken as they passed down the aisle, nor did he allow his eyes to stray in their direction when they went through the door. Safety first was Pilbeam's motto. Bill closed the door of the cab. Good night, he said. Don't lose that letter. Of course not, said Flick. Good night. Bill turned back to the door of the restaurant and stood there solidly, in his eyes the watchful look of one on his guard against ranigazoo. The cab turned the corner into Shaftesbury Avenue. A hand waved at him from the window. The cab had scarcely reached Coventry Street when the hand once more came out of the window. This time it grasped some fragments of paper. It opened, and with a vicious jerk, scattered these into the road. Then it disappeared again. The good ship Homeric lay in her slip at Southampton, preparing for departure. Her decks and alleyways were crowded with voyagers, and those who had come to see those voyagers off. Flick, leaning over the rail, stared down at the sun speckled water, and Bill, by her side, gazed at the gulls circling overhead. For some minutes now conversation between them had taken on a limping gait, and the atmosphere was charged with a strange embarrassment. You'll be off soon, said Bill, urged by the silence to say something. Yes. The gulls flashed to and fro against the cobalt sky, mewing like kittens. This is supposed to be one of the most comfortable boats in the world, said Bill. Is it? I think you'll be comfortable. I expect so. They rather pride themselves on making you comfortable. That's nice. Bill was not sure whether he was sorry or relieved to hear at this juncture the, all for the shore, cry that puts an end to the sometimes trying or deal of seeing off. Up till a few minutes ago everything had been jolly. Coming down in the train and for the first quarter of an hour on board the boat, Flick had been full of chatter, a pleasant and cheery companion, but just recently a cloud seemed to have fallen on her mood and she had tended to long silences and monosyllables. I suppose I ought to be going, he said. I suppose so. I hope you'll have a good time on board. Thanks. It'll seem funny to you being in America again after all these years. Yes. I'll look after Bob. Thanks. Well, I suppose I ought to be going. I suppose so. A gull wheeled so close to Bill's head that he ducked involuntarily. He laughed a nervous laugh. What a lot of people come to see people off, he said. Yes. Friends, I suppose, said Bill brightly. I shouldn't wonder. A steward with a voice like a fog horn in pain was once more urging all whom it might concern to make for the shore. I suppose, said Bill, struck with a novel idea, I ought to be going. I think you'd better. Well, goodbye. Goodbye. You won't lose that letter? Which letter? Why, the one to Alice, said Bill, surprised. Oh, yes, said Flick. She'll give you a great time. Yes. They had walked to the gang-plank. It was covered with a moving stream of humanity bustling like bees going into a hive. There was something so suggestive of finality about the spectacle that a curious dull melancholy swept over Bill. He cast a side glance at Flick. The sight of her sent an odd pang through him. Perhaps it was the hugeness of the vessel that made her seem so small and forlorn. Gosh! he exclaimed, with sudden fervor. I shall miss you. The flat will seem like a desert without you in the old arm-chair. I shall just sit there with poor old Bob. He broke off. Good Lord! he said, dismayed. It's nothing, said Flick. Her face was working. She dabbed impatiently at her eyes. But I—I was just thinking of Bob. She held out her hand abruptly. Goodbye! she said and was gone. Bill stood for a moment, staring into the crowd which hid her. Golly! he mused. She is fond of that dog. He walked ashore thoughtfully. End of Chapter 11, Part 2 Chapter 12, Part 1 Of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A visitor for Mr. Paradine However true it may be that action is the spice of life, there is no denying that an occasional dose of the soothing syrup of tranquillity makes a pleasant change. And so after the scenes, always restless and bordering at times on actual violence, which in order to keep the record straight, the historian of the fortunes of Bill West has just been compelled to describe, it is agreeable to turn aside and relax for a while in an atmosphere of cloistered and scholastic calm. About a month after the departure of Flick Sheridan from Southampton, we find ourselves once more in the home of Mr. Cooley Paradine at Westbury Long Island, in a small upper room looking out over the Sunlit Garden. It is the room dedicated to the studies of Mr. Paradine's adopted son Horace. And at the moment when we enter it, the hard-boiled lad is receiving a lesson in the French language from Mr. Sherman Bastable, his tutor. Yes, still his tutor. It is true that a few weeks ago Mr. Bastable definitely announced that not even so substantial a sum as a million dollars would be sufficient to induce him to continue his duties. But the statements a man makes in the first flush of realization that the inside brim of his hat has been doctored with glue are not always carried out when scissors and warm water have done their work and reason resumed its sway. Scarcely half an hour after the hat had been clipped and scoured off his forehead, Mr. Bastable, who had begun by sneering at a cool million, had reduced his terms so considerably that he actually consented to remain in office for a mere additional fifty per month. We find him, consequently, still doing business at the old stand. But the Sherman Bastable, who was now endeavouring to teach Horace French, was a very different man from the genial and juicily enthusiastic young fellow of a few weeks back. He was now a sourd and suspicious despot, who fortified by instructions from his employer to stand no nonsense, had taken on a cold implacability which was having the gravest effects on the latter's comfort. Of this change in his disposition he gave proof at this very moment, seeing that Horace, like the room in which he sat, was looking out over the sunlit garden, he banged the table with a forceful fist. "'Attend, can't you?' he cried. "'You aren't listening to a word I'm saying.' "'All right, all right,' said Horace plaintively. These passages were beginning to irk him more and more. A free child of the underworld he had taken unkindly to discipline, and it seemed to him sometimes as though Mr. Bastable had developed all the less amiable characteristics of the late Simon Legree. He removed his gaze from the shady lawn and gaped cavernously. "'Don't yawn,' thundered Mr. Bastable. "'Oh, all right!' "'And don't say, all right!' boomed the tooter, who had a retentive memory and could never look at his little charge even now without a twinge across the forehead. "'When I speak to you, say, yes, sir, smartly and respectfully.' "'Yes, sir,' said Horace. A purist might have criticised the smartness and respectfulness of his delivery, but the actual words were up to sample and the tooter appeared satisfied. At any rate he returned to the task in hand. "'Indefinite articles,' said Mr. Bastable, resuming. "'A' or an' is translated into French by un' before a masculine noun, as, for example, un homme, a man, un oiseau, a bird. "'There's a void on that tree,' interjected Horace, switching abruptly from foreign languages to nature study. Mr. Bastable favoured him with a basilisk glare. "'Attend to your work,' he growled. "'And don't say void. It's a bird. Well, it's making a noise like a void,' argued Horace. "'And un' before a feminine noun, such as dame,' proceeded the tooter. "'Un dame, a lady, un alumette, a match, un histoire, a story, un plume, a pen. Do you get that?' "'I suppose so.' "'What do you mean, you suppose so?' "'Well,' said Horace candidly, "'it sounds to me a good deal like applesauce. Seems there ain't no sense in it.' The tooter clutched his thinning hair and groaned hollily. That extra fifty dollars a month had raised his salary to a very respectable figure, but it frequently occurred to him that he was receiving but trivial payment for what he had to endure. "'Seems like there ain't no sense in it,' he echoed despairingly. "'Can't you see that's not grammar? I don't know about its being grammar.' Retorted Horace with spirit. "'It gets across, don't it?' "'Sir,' prompted Mr. Bastable automatically. "'Sir?' "'And don't say don't it. Say doesn't it, or does it not?' He eyed his pupil wanly. The weather was warm and the strain beginning to tell on his sensitive nerves. "'You're incorrigible. I don't know what's to be done with you. You take absolutely no interest in your work. I should have thought that you would have some sense of your position, your chances, and opportunities.' "'Oh, I know,' said Horace wearily, one ought to grasp one's opportunities, and try to improve oneself at least once. "'Don't say once. Oh, all right.' "'Yes, sir,' amended Mr. Bastable, eyeing him balefully. "'Yes, sir.' The tutor flung himself back in his chair, which creaked protestingly. "'Do you realize that yours is a position which thousands of boys would give their eyes to be in?' "'Can't you see that's not grammar?' said Horace. Much as he disliked these séances, it happened now and then that bits of them stuck in his mind, oughtn't to end a sentence with in. "'You put me right, so I don't mind putting you right. Had you that time, hot dog?' he said, with a complacency which made the tutor feel, not for the first time, that his favorite character in history was Herod the Great. "'You wise me up to that yourself.' Every tutor is a statesman at heart, he has to be. Mr. Bastable, prudently realizing the danger of his position, instituted a counter-attack by assailing his pupil's pronunciation. I wish you would learn to speak properly,' he said with hauteur. "'Your accent is abominable.' Here,' he pulled out a massive book. It's no good trying to teach you French, till you can talk English. Read a page or two of this aloud, and try to do it like a human being and not.' He searched his mind for an adequate simile, and not like a caddy at a third-rate golf-course. "'What's wrong with caddies?' demanded Horace, who was intimate with several and in leisure moments, had occasionally done a bit in that line, himself. "'Go on, don't waste time,' said Mr. Bastable, refusing to be diverted to an argument. Begin at the top of page ninety-eight.' Horace took the book. It was entitled, Beacon Lights of History, Volume II, The Middle Ages, with a disrelish which he made no attempt to conceal. "'It was at this period,' he began sourly. "'Period? It was at this period when the Convince of Europe?' "'Europe!' I said Europe,' protested Horace, aggrieved. "'It was at this period when the Convince of Europe rejoiced in ample possessions, and their churches rivaled cathedrals, cathedrals in size and magnificence. That St. Bernard,' he broke off, mildly interested for the first time, "'say, I knew a gink that had us in Bernard, big hairy dog with red eyes. "'Get on,' said Mr. Bastable, coldly. "'St. Bernard, the greatest and best reprezentative of Medieval monasticism.' Said Horace under his breath, tenderly massaging his aching jaw. "'Was born, 1091, at Fontaine in Boygundy. "'Burgundy, Boygundy, he belonged to a noble family. "'His mother had six sons and a daughter, whom she early consecrated. "'To the Lord, Bernard, was the third son, a beautiful, delicate, refined young man, tall with flaxen hair, fair complexion, and blue eyes, from which shone a superhuman simplicity and purity.' He stopped, revolted. He did not know much about saints, but he knew what he liked, and something told him that he was not going to like St. Bernard. "'Sounds like a cake-eater,' he sniffed. Mr. Bastable was just drawing himself together for a legree-like reproof when there was a gentle tap at the door. "'Pardon me for interrupting, sir,' said Roberts the butler, hovering delicately on the threshold. "'You haven't made me mad, Bobby,' Horace assured him gratefully. "'What is it, Roberts?' Professor Applebee has called to see Master Horace, sir. Mr. Paradine would be glad if you would allow him to step down to the library for a moment. His announcement evoked universal enthusiasm. Horace beamed upon him, as people must have beamed on the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. Nor was Mr. Bastable displeased. He was conscientious and had been prepared to continue his task for another hour, but the thought of being relieved of Horace's society gave him the sensations of a reprieved convict. "'Certainly,' he said. "'I'm not going to put up any stiff argument, neither,' declared Horace. He trotted joyfully out of the prison chamber. Mr. Bastable, with the air of one from whose shoulders there has been removed an intolerable weight, lit a cigarette and put his feet on the table. The arrival some ten minutes before of the venerable Professor Applebee had surprised Mr. Paradine at his customary occupation of fiddling about with the books in his library. He had just scuttled up the ladder to one of the top shelves, and dumped on his already congested table a pile of mouldering volumes when Roberts brought the news of the visitor's advent. For a moment Mr. Paradine felt a little like a dog who has been hauled off a bone, but his native courtesy asserted itself, and it was with a cordial smile that he greeted the Professor when he made his entry. "'Nice of you to look in,' he said. "'I chanced to be in the neighbourhood,' said Professor Applebee, and I thought I might venture to call and inquire after the little lad. He is busy at his studies, no doubt. I imagine so. Won't you take a seat?' "'Thank you, my dear Paradine. Thank you.' Professor Applebee relaxed in a chair with the contented sigh of a man who is not in the best condition. He tapped his domed brow with a silk handkerchief and combed out his white beard with a delicate forefinger. He was looking more like a benevolent, minor prophet than ever. His mild eyes wandered to the bookshelves, and there came into them a sudden predatory gleam, which vanished almost instantly, to be replaced by their habitual expression of calm goodwill. "'A warm day,' he observed. "'Very. Do you find it close in here?' "'Not at all,' said Professor Applebee. "'Not at all. I enjoy the peculiar and distinctive scent of old books. I never find it stuffy in a library. This was so exactly what Mr. Paradine felt himself that his affection for his visitor deepened. "'And how is Horace?' inquired the Professor. "'Physically,' said Mr. Paradine. He could not be better. But—' Professor Applebee raised a deprecating hand. "'I know what you're going to say, my dear Paradine. I know just what you're going to say. It was on the tip of your tongue to tell me that the little lad is not taking kindly to his studies.' "'Not very kindly,' admitted Mr. Paradine. Mr. Bastable, his tutor, reports that it is difficult to get him to take a real interest. "'I expected as much. No enthusiasm?' "'None. It will come,' said the Professor. "'It will come. We must have patience, Paradine. Patience. We must emulate the aciduity of the polyp that builds the coral reef. I had anticipated this. It was on my advice that you adopted a totally untutored lad, a child of the people, and I still maintain that I was right in giving you that advice. How much better, even though progress may at first be slow, to have a boy like this to work upon a boy whose mind is not a palimpsest that has been scrawled over by other hands? You have nothing to worry about. It would have been perfectly easy, no doubt, for you to have adopted a son from some family of the gentlefolk. But, in my opinion, and I know I am right, the results would have been far less satisfactory. Horus is virgin soil. He has not been plowed by others. Sooner or later you will find that you will reap your reward. Sooner or later I say it confidently. You will find that by the mere process of living in your home, the little lad is beginning to imitate your mental processes to acquire your own tastes. It's odd that you should say that, said Mr. Paradine thoughtfully. Not odd, corrected the professor with a gentle smile. I based my observation on a knowledge of psychology which has rarely led me astray. But why did it strike you as peculiar? Am I to infer that he has already begun to show signs of this? As a matter of fact he has. It is a remarkable fact, Applebee, but the only thing outside his meals, in which Horus shows the slightest interest, is this library of mine. The professor coughed a gentle cough and gazed at the ceiling with a far away look in his eyes. Indeed, he said softly, he is always pottering in here and wanting to know which of my books are the rarest and most valuable. The dawning intelligence, the little mind begins to expand, to develop like a plant groping out for the sunshine. It makes me feel that there may be hope for him. I, said the professor, have great hopes of Horus. I had, right from the beginning. Perhaps after he has had a year or two of school in England. What! cried Professor Applebee. A moment before it would have seemed impossible that anything could disturb the calm serenity of this venerable man. But now he was sitting forward on the edge of his chair, staring at his host in the most manifest concern. His lower jaw had fallen and his white beard wobbled agitatedly. You are not sending him to school in England? he gasped. Taking him, corrected Mr. Paradine, I am sailing in a few days to pay a long delayed visit to an old friend of mine, Sinclair Hammond. I intend to take Horus with me and enter him at one of the large English schools. Possibly Winchester. Hammond was at Winchester. But is this wise? Is it prudent? Well, I am going to do it, said Mr. Paradine, with a touch of that belligerent manner which had so often caused adverse comment in the family. Professor Applebee pulled at his beard. His discomposure was plain. Mr. Paradine, looking at him, was conscious of a passing wonder as to why he should take the news so hardly. But the education a boy gets at these English schools, surely it has become a common place that it is too superficial, too machine-like. Read all these novels of the younger English writers. I never read novels, said Mr. Paradine with a slight shutter. And then again this visit to England. Are you not afraid to leave your books here, your priceless books entirely unguarded? Mr. Paradine uttered an amused laugh which sounded to his visitor like a knell. You talk as if I had never left the house before. I am always travelling. I was travelling when I met you. And besides, if you think I leave my books unguarded, try to get through the steel shutters over those windows. Yes, and try to pick your way through that door. I had this room specially constructed. It's like a safe. I see, said Professor Applebee unhappily. In any case, my library is insured and I'm taking all the most valuable of my books with me to England. Eh? cried the Professor, starting as if the fingers combing his beard had suddenly encountered a snake, taking them with you. Yes, Hammond is a collector, too. He will be just as excited over these books as if they belong to himself. Will he? said the Professor, brightening like a summer sky when the sun comes out from behind a cloud. Will he indeed? Yes, he's that sort of man, one of those rare collectors who have no small jealousies. He sounds delightful. Yes, you would like Hammond. I am sure I should. Of course, when you are in England, you will keep these books at some bank or safe deposit. No, I see no reason for that. Books are not like jewelry. Their value is not obvious to the lay eye. If any burglar invades Hammond's house at Wimbledon, he would hardly have the intelligence to take away what to him would be merely a bundle of dilapidated books. True, I shall keep them in my bedroom in an ordinary suitcase. An excellent notion. Ah! said the Professor, breaking off. Here is our young friend. Well, Horace. Hello! said that youth. Professor Appleby glanced at his watch. Good gracious! I had no idea how time had flown. I ought to go immediately. I shall just be able to catch a good train. Perhaps the little lad might be spared from his studies to accompany me to the station. Thank you. Get your hat, then, Horace. We must be hurrying. In spite of the statement that he had need for haste, it was at a leisurely pace that Professor Appleby started down the drive. He walked as if troubled with horns, and as he went spoke earnestly to his young companion. Kid, said Professor Appleby, it's a lucky thing I happened to look in this afternoon. Do you know what's happened? That old June bug back there doesn't seem able to stick in one spot for a couple days on end. He's taken you over to England right away. Horace stopped in his tracks, displaying as great a concern at the news as the Professor himself had shown a short while back in the library. Taking me to England? What for? To put you in school over there. Who, me? Yes, you. Well, wouldn't that jar you? cried Horace in deep disgust. I might have known there was a catch to this thing of getting me adopted. It's bad enough here, with everybody picking on me, and me having to spend all day learning French and everything. But gee, I'd always got my getaway to look forward to. By going to school, he frowned resolutely. Say, listen, I ain't going to no school. See? I ain't going to no school. Not in England nor anywheres. I, you talk too much, said Professor Appleby curtly. If you'll give me a chance to get a word in, I'll tell you something. You won't have to go to any school. The old man's going over to England to visit another book-collecting nut, and he's taken a stack of his best books with him. You'll be able to make a quick cleanup and fade out. He's going to keep the stuff in his bedroom in a suitcase. Yes, he is, said Horace derisively. That's likely, ain't it, when he locks the things up here as if they was gold dust. He is, I tell you. He told me so himself. He thinks there's no chance of anybody trying for them when he's there. And why should they? No ordinary yake who happens to blow into a house is going to load himself up with a bunch of books. Something in that, agreed Horace. I'll have Joe go over the same time as you do, and you and he can get together and fix things. All right, said Horace. Say, that's a pretty girl! The object of his commendation, a slim girl with fair hair and a boyish figure, was walking rather wearily up the road that led from the station. He eyed her critically as she passed, and so confirmed in his good opinion was he, by this closer inspection, that he stood gazing over his shoulder at her, receding form, and was awarded by his austere companion, a disciplinary thump on the head. You've no time for rubbering at girls, said Professor Appleby, like a minor prophet rebuking the sins of the people. You just listen to me when I'm talking to you. I want to get this thing straight in your ivory skull. Oh, all right, said Horace. End of Chapter 12, Part 1. Chapter 12, Part 2 of Bill the Conqueror, by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A visitor for Mr. Paradine. The girl, who had so pleased Horace's critical eye, walked on till she came to the gate of Mr. Paradine's grounds, then turned in and proceeded down the drive towards the house. This was familiar territory to her. She was surprised to find how clearly she remembered all the various landmarks. There was the funny old shingled roof. There the window of her bedroom, and there through the trees, gleamed the lake. Her eyes dimmed, and she caught her breath with a little gasp as she saw the lake. The two dressing sheds were there, also the diving board, all just the same as they had been centuries ago when she was sixteen, skinny and freckled. She walked on and rang the bell, and presently Mr. Paradine, once more up his ladder, was aware of Robert's the butler on the floor below him. A said Mr. Paradine absently. A lady wishes to see you, sir. Mr. Paradine almost slid down the ladder. It was a rare, almost an unprecedented occurrence for ladies to wish to see him. Who is she? A Miss Sheridan, sir. There had been no affecting reunion between Flick and Roberts. To each the other had appeared as a stranger. Flick remembered that on her visit to this place five years ago there had been a butler, but the personality of Roberts had not stamped itself on her mind. As for Roberts, if he recalled the small girl who had stayed at the house in the third year of his butlership, he did not associate her with this attractive young person. Did she say what she wanted? No, sir. Where is she? I have shown her into the morning room, sir. I suppose you had better ask her to come up here. Very good, sir. The uneasy suspicion which had disturbed Mr. Paradine's mind that his visitor had come to collect funds for some enterprise of the Community Church vanished as she entered the room. The Community Church, when it made its periodical assaults on his purse, did so through the medium of females of a mature vintage. He looked at her inquiringly, so obviously puzzled, that Flick, though she was far from being in a cheery frame of mind, smiled faintly. You don't remember me, Mr. Paradine? Why, er, to be frank? Well, it's quite a long time since we met. I stayed here five years ago with my uncle, Sinclair Hammond. Good heavens! Mr. Paradine, who had contented himself so far with a wary bow at long range, sprang forward and shook her hand warmly. I never have known you, plus my soul. You were quite a child, then. I remember you perfectly now. Bless my soul, yes. So you're back in America, eh? Do you live here now? Marry an American, eh? No, I'm not married. Just visiting? Well, well, I'm delighted to see you again, my dear. You caught me just in time. Oddly enough, I'm on the very eve of sailing for England to stay with your uncle. I know. That's why I've come here. Uncle Sinclair wants you to take me back to England with you. You've had his cable? Cable? said Mr. Paradine. I remember no cable. He rang the bell. Roberts, has a cable come for me recently? Yes, sir. One arrived yesterday. If you remember, sir, I brought it to you in this room. You were busy at the bookshelves at the moment, and instructed me to place it on the table. The table was covered with a deep top dressing of books and papers. Mr. Paradine rummaged among these and presently came to the surface bearing triumphantly a buff envelope. Roberts, vindicated, left the room. I really must apologize, said Mr. Paradine. I have a bad habit of snowing my correspondence under. All the same, Roberts should have reminded me. Cables are important things. He opened the envelope and read its contents. Yes, this is the one. Your uncle says you will be calling on me, and will I bring you over to England? Of course! Only two delighted. Where are you staying? With friends in New York? No, I'm all alone. Alone? Mr. Paradine replaced his rimless glasses which had fallen off and stared at her. You don't mean to say your uncle let you come over here, all alone? I ran away, said Flick, simply. Ran away? From home. And now? She said with a crooked smile and a little lift over shoulders. I'm running back again. Even with the aid of his glasses Mr. Paradine seemed to find it hard to inspect her as closely as he wished. He came a step nearer, peering at her, bewildered. You ran away from home? But why? They wanted me to marry somebody I found I didn't want to marry. Uncle Sinclair, she went on quickly, hadn't anything to do with it, poor dear. It was the others, Anne Francis and Uncle George. Mr. Paradine would have liked footnotes explaining these two new characters, but he hesitated to interrupt the flow of a narrative which was gripping him strongly. Things, continued Flick, got rather unpleasant, so I ran away and came over here. I thought I could get work of some kind. I never heard of such a thing. That's practically what everybody said whom I asked for work. I never dreamed anybody could be so little wanted as I was. I had a certain amount of money when I got to America, and I supposed it would last ever so long. But it seemed to melt away. And one night I had my bag stolen with almost every penny I possessed in it. That finished me. I stuck it out for another couple of days, and then I spent my last two dollars on a cable home. Mr. Paradine, though capable on occasion of behaving like a volcano, was a soft-hearted and romantic man. Flick's story touched him. And then? I got a cable back telling me to go to you, and you would look after me and bring me back to England. My dear child, of course I will, of course. Your room shall be got ready at once, the same one you had five years ago. I'm afraid I'm an awful nuisance. Nothing of the kind, said Mr. Paradine heatedly. How dare you say you're a nuisance! You're nothing of the sort! Would you like some tea? I should, rather, if it's not giving too much trouble. The ringing of the bell did Mr. Paradine the service of helping him cover his embarrassment. There was to him something poignantly pathetic in this meekness on the part of a girl who only a short time back had, on her own showing, been so abundantly equipped with spirit as to run away from home and cross the Atlantic to try her luck in a foreign land. Until the tea arrived he moved about the room with his back turned, fussing over his books. But if you go home, he said, when Flick had drunk a cup of tea and seemed the better for it, you will have to marry this man you dislike. He realized that it might be tactless, this harping on a delicate subject, but curiosity overcame delicacy. He was feeling like a child being told a story. Oh, I don't dislike him, said Flick tonelessly. I'm very fond of someone else, who isn't fond of me. So I've decided I might just as well marry Roderick as do anything. Trying to live in New York on nothing has changed my views of life a good deal. It has made a comfortable home and lots of money seem more attractive. One has got to be practical, hasn't one? She got up and began to walk about the room. What a lot of books you have, she said, ever so many more than Uncle Sinclair. He has some I would be very glad to own, said Mr. Paradine handsomely. He would have liked to hear more of this man whom Flick was fond of, but who was not fond of her, but he gathered that she looked upon her narrative as completed and would resent further questioning. He followed her across the room and touched her shoulder with an awkward little pat of condolence. She looked around at him and he saw that her eyes were misty. There was a momentary pause, tense with embarrassment, and he covered it by picking up the photograph at which she had been looking. It was a full-length snapshot of a burly young man in football costume, staring out of the picture with the doughy, stolidity, habitual two burly young men in football costume. That is my nephew, William, said Mr. Paradine. Flick nodded, I know. Oh, of course, yes, said Mr. Paradine. He was staying here when you and your uncle visited me, wasn't he? He looks very strong, said Flick. She felt that she must say something. He is strong, said Mr. Paradine, and he added, gruffly, he is an idle, worthless young waster. Flick uttered a sharp exclamation. He isn't. Oh, I beg your pardon, she hurried on. What I meant to say was that I don't think you know how hard he is working now to try to find out what is wrong with your London business. Hello? Mr. Paradine put up his glasses. How do you know anything about that? I... I met him. Over in London? Yes. That's odd. Where did you run across him? Uh, in our garden? There, said Mr. Paradine, what did I say? He spends his time fooling around at garden parties. It wasn't exactly a garden party, said Flick. He really is trying his hardest to find out why those profits have fallen off so much. Oh, yes. Oh, but he is! insisted Flick. She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by the old man's gruffness. The fact that he still kept Bill's photograph in his library, that holy of holies, must surely be significant. I'll tell you something he's found out already. He's discovered that Mr. Slingsby is selling nearly all your wood pulp to a firm named Higgins and Bennett at a very small profit, when he has had much better offers elsewhere. What? It's quite true. I think we both think that Mr. Slingsby isn't very honest. Nonsense! As straight and able a man as I ever met, and I'm a judge of character. You can't be a very good judge of character if you think Bill is an idle waster, said Flick warmly. Hello! You seem very friendly towards him. I am. Why, you hardly know him. I've known him for years. Yes, I suppose you have if you like to put it that way. This is interesting what you tell me about those sales. I can't understand it. Did William tell you how he found out? No, but he's awfully clever. Hmm. I never noticed it. Well, he is, and I'm sure that if you would take him into your business and give him a fair start, he would do wonders. Mr. Paradine chuckled. If I ever think of founding a William-boosting club, I shall know where to go for a president. I think he's rather hurt that you haven't sent him a word since he got to England, asking him how he's getting on. I'll bet he hasn't given me a thought since he landed, said Mr. Paradine callously. Still, if you think he's so sensitive, I'll send him a wireless from the boat and arrange a meeting. I wish you would. But I don't even know where he is. Nine marmot mansions, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea Park, London, said Flick glibly. Good gracious! How do you know that? He told me. Mr. Paradine looked at her curiously. I don't know how long you were talking in this garden of yours, he said, but there doesn't seem to have been much that he didn't tell you. I suppose he roasted me, eh? He said you were a perfect darling, said Flick, who tried to make people believe you were a terror and didn't deceive anybody. She stooped and bestowed a swift kiss on the bald spot in the centre of Mr. Paradine's mop of stiff white hair. I'm going out into the garden, she said. I want to see if you've been and changed everything since I was last here. If I find you have, I'll come back and smack you. Mr. Paradine followed her with a round-eyed gaze as she left the room. His thoughts strayed back to the story she told him and he gave a discontented sniff. A man who isn't fond of that girl, he mused, must be a fool. He picked up the photograph of Bill and looked at it, a rather wistful smile curving his lips. An idle young hound, William, but not unattractive. By no means unattractive. He put the photograph down and toddled off to his ladder.