 Chapter 1 of Uneasy Money In a day in June, at the hour when London moves abroad in quest of lunch, a young man stood at the entrance of the Vandalero restaurant looking earnestly up Shaftesbury Avenue. A large young man, in excellent condition, with a pleasant, good-humoured, brown, clean-cut face. He paid no attention to the stream of humanity that flowed past him. His mouth was set, and his eyes were as serious, almost a wistful expression. He was frowning slightly. One would have said that here was a man with a secret sorrow. William Fitzwilliam Delamere Chalmers, Lord Dawlish, had no secret sorrow. All that he was thinking of at that moment was the best method of laying a golf ball dead in front of the Palace Theatre. It was his habit to pass the time in mental golf, when Claire Fennec was late in keeping her appointments with him. On one occasion she kept him waiting so long that he had been able to do nine holes, starting at the Savoy Grill, and finishing up near Hammersmith. His was a simple mind, able to amuse itself with simple things. As he stood there, gazing into the middle distance, an individual of dishevelled aspect sidled up, a vagrant of almost the maximum seediness, from whose midriff protruded a trayful of a strange welter of collar studs, shoelaces, rubber rings, button hooks, and dying roosters. For some minutes he had been eyeing his lordship appraisingly from the edge of the curve, and now, secure in the fact that there seemed to be no policemen in the immediate vicinity, he anchored himself in front of him and observed that he had a wife and four children at home, all starving. This sort of thing was always happening to Lord Dawlish. There was something about him, some atmosphere of unaffected kindness, that invited it. In these days, when everything from the shape of a man's hat to his method of dealing with a sparrigus is supposed to be an index to character, it is possible to form some estimate of Lord Dawlish, from the fact that his vigil in front of the bandolero had been expensive, even before the advent of the Benedict of the Studs and Laces. In London, as in New York, there are spots where it is unsafe for a man of yielding disposition to stand still, and the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus is one of them. Scrubby, impecunious man, drift to and fro there, waiting for the gods to provide something easy. An prudent man, conscious of the possession of loose change, whizzes through the danger zone at his best speed. Like one that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and, having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. In the seven minutes he'd been waiting, two frightful fiends closed in on Lord Dawlish, requesting loans of five shillings till Wednesday week and Saturday week, respectively. He'd parted with the money without a murmur. A further clue to his character is supplied by the fact that both these needy persons seemed to know him intimately, and that each called him Bill. All Lord Dawlish's friends called him Bill, and he had a Catholic list of them, ranging from men whose names were interbred, to men whose names were on the notice boards of obscure clubs in connection with the non-payment of Jews. He was the sort of man one instinctively calls Bill. The anti-race suicide enthusiast with the rubber-rings did not call Lord Dawlish Bill, but otherwise his manner was intimate. His lordship's gaze, being a little slow in returning from the middle distance, for it was not a matter to be decided carelessly and without thought, this problem of carrying the length of Shardsbury Avenue with a single brassy shot. He repeated the gossip from home. Lord Dawlish regarded him thoughtfully. Could be done, he said. But you want a bit of pull on it? I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said. The other obliged with his remark for the third time, with increased pathos, for constant repetition was making him almost believe it himself. Four starving children, four gobnas, so help me. I suppose you don't get much time for golf, then, what? Said Lord Dawlish sympathetically. It was precisely three days, said the man, mournfully inflating a dying rooster, since his offspring had tasted bread. This did not touch Lord Dawlish deeply, for he was not fond of bread. But it seemed to be troubling the poor fellow with the studs a great deal, so, realising the taste differ and that there's no accounting for them, he looked at him commiseratingly. Of course, if they like bread, that makes it rather rotten, doesn't it? What are you going to do about it? Buy dying rooster, governor, he advised, cause his great fun and laughter. Lord Dawlish eyed the strange fowl without enthusiasm. No, he said, with a slight shudder. There was a pause. The situation had the appearance of being at a deadlock. Tell you what, said Lord Dawlish, with the air of one who having pondered, has been rewarded with a great idea. The fact is, I don't want to buy anything. You seem, by bad luck, to be stocked up with just the sort of things I wouldn't be seen dead in a ditch with. I can't stand rubber-rings, never could. I'm not really keen on button-hooks. And I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I think that squeaking bird of yours is about the beastliest thing I ever met. So, suppose I give you a shilling, and call it square, what? God bless you, governor. Not at all. You'll be able to get those children of yours some bread. I expect you can get a lot of bread for a shilling. Do they really like it? Rum kids. And, having concluded this delicate financial deal, Lord Dawlish turned, the movement bringing him face to face with a tall girl in white. During the business talk, which had just come to an end, this girl had been making her way up the side street, which forms a shortcut between Coventry Street and the Bandolero. And several admirers of Feminine Beauty, who happened to be using the same route, had almost dislocated their necks, looking after her. She was a strikingly handsome girl. She was tall and willowy. Her eyes, shaded by her hat, were large and gray. Her nose was small and straight. Her mouth, though somewhat hard, admirably shaped. And she carried herself magnificently. One cannot blame the policeman on duty in Leicester Square for remarking to a cadman, as she passed, that he envied the bloke that that was going to meet. Bill Dawlish was this fortunate bloke. But from the look of him, as he caught sight of her, one would have said that he did not appreciate his luck. The fact of the matter was that he had only just finished giving the father of the family his shilling, and he was afraid that Clare had seen him doing it. For Clare, dear girl, was apt to be unreasonable about these little generalities of his. He cast a furtive glance behind him in the hope that the disseminator of expiring roosters had vanished. But the man was still at his elbow. Worse, he faced them, and in a hoarse but carrying voice, he was instructing heaven to bless his benefactor. Hello, Clare, darling," said Lord Dawlish, with a sort of sheepish breeziness. Here you are. Clare was looking after the stud merchant, as grasping his wealth, he scuttled up the avenue. Anya Bob, his lordship hastened to say, rather a sad case, don't you know, squads of children at home demanding bread. Didn't want much else, apparently, but were frightfully keen on bread. He has just gone into a public house. He may have gone to telephone or something, what? I wish," said Clare, fretfully, leading the way down the grill-room stairs, that you wouldn't let all London sponge on you like this, I keep telling you not to. I should have thought that if anyone needed to keep what little money he has got, it was you. Certainly, Lord Dawlish would have been more prudent, not to have parted with eleven shillings. For he was not a rich man. Indeed, with the single exception of the Earl of Weatherby, whose finances were so irregular that he could not be said to possess an income at all, he was the poorest man of his rank in the British Isles. It was in the days of the Regency that the Dawlish coffers first began to show signs of cracking under the strain, in the era of the then-celebrated Bow Dawlish, nor were his successors backward in the spending-art. A breezy disregard for the preservation of the pence was a family tray. Bill was at Cambridge when his predecessor in the title, his uncle Philip, was performing the concluding exercises of the dissipation of the Dawlish doubloons, a feat which he achieved so neatly that when he died there was just enough cash to pay the doctors, and no more. Bill found himself the possessor of that most ironical thing, a moneyless title. He was then twenty-three. Until six months before when he had become engaged to Cleophenic, he had nothing to quarrel with in his lot. He was not the type to waste time in vain regrets. His tastes were simple, as long as he could afford to belong to one or two golf clubs, and have something over for those small loans which, in certain of the numerous circles in which he moved, were the inevitable concomitant of popularity. He was satisfied, and this modest ambition had been realised for him by a group of what he was accustomed to refer to as decent old bucks, who had installed him as secretary of that aristocratic and exclusive club, Browns in St. James's Street, at an annual salary of four hundred pounds. With that wealth, added to free lodging at one of the best clubs in London, Perfect Health, and a steadily diminishing golf handicap, and a host of friends, in every walk of life, Bill had felt that it would be absurd not to be happy and contented. But Claire had made a difference. There was no question of that. In the first place, she resolutely declined to marry him on four hundred pounds a year. She scoffed at four hundred pounds a year to hear her talk. You would have supposed that she had been brought up from the cradle, to look on four hundred pounds a year as small change to be disposed of in tips and cab fares. That in itself would have been enough to sow doubts in Bill's mind as to whether he had really got all the money that a reasonable man needed. And Claire saw to it that these doubts sprouted. By confining her conversation on the occasions of their meeting, almost entirely, to the great theme of money and its minor subdivisions of how to get it, why don't you get it, and I'm sick and tired of not having it. She developed this theme today, not only on the stairs leading to the Grill Room, but even after they'd seated themselves at their table. It was a relief to Bill when the arrival of the waiter with food caused a break in the conversation and enabled him adroitly to change the subject. What have you been doing this morning? he asked. I went to see McGinnis at the theatre. Oh! I had a wire from him asking me to call. They want me to call. They want me to take up Claudia Winslow's part in the number one company. That's good. Why? Well, uh, well, uh, I mean, well, isn't it? What I mean is, leading part and so forth. In a touring company? Yes, I see what you mean, said Lord Dawlish, who didn't at all. He thought rather highly of the number one companies that hailed from the theatre of which Mr. McGinnis was proprietor. And anyhow, I ought to have had the part in the first place, instead of which the tour's half over. Then at Southampton this week, he wants me to join them there and go on to Portsmouth with them. You're like Portsmouth. Why? Well, uh, good links, quite near. You know I don't play golf? Nor do you, I was forgetting. Still, it's quite a jolly place. It's a horrible place, I love it. I've half of mine not to go. Oh, I don't know. What do you mean? Lord Dawlish was feeling a little sorry for himself. Whatever he said seemed to be the wrong thing. This evidently was one of the days on which Claire was not so sweet-tempered, as on some other days. It crossed his mind, that of late these irritable moods of hers had grown more frequent. It was not her fault, poor girl, he told himself. She had rather a rotten time. It was always Lord Dawlish's habit on these occasions to make this excuse for Claire. It was such a satisfactory excuse, it covered everything. But, as a matter of fact, the rather rotten time which she was having was not such a very rotten one. Reducing it to its simplest terms, and forgetting for the moment, that she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, which his lordship found it impossible to do, all that it amounted to was that her mother, having but a small income, and existence in the West Kensington flat, being consequently a trifle dull for one with a taste for the luxuries of life, Claire had gone on the stage. By birth, she belonged to a class, of which the female members are seldom called upon to earn money at all. And that was one count of her grievance against fate. Another was that she had not done as well on the stage as she had expected to do. When she became engaged to Bill, she had reached a point where she could obtain without difficulty good parts in the touring companies of London's successes. But beyond that, it seemed it was impossible for her to soar. It was not, perhaps, a very exhilarating life, but, except to the eyes of love, there was nothing tragic about it. It was the cumulative effect of having a mother in reduced circumstances, and grumbling about it, of being compelled to work and grumbling about that, and of achieving in her work only a semi-success and grumbling about that also. That, backed by her looks, enabled Claire to give quite a number of people, and Bill Dawlish in particular, the impression that she was a modern martyr, only sustained by her indomitable courage. So Bill, being requested in a peevish voice to explain what he meant by saying, No, I don't know, condone the peevishness. He then bent his mind to the task of trying to ascertain what he had meant. Well, he said, What I mean is, if you don't show up, won't it be rather a jar for old friend McGinnis? Won't he be apt to foam at the mouth a bit and stop giving you parts in his companies? I'm sick of trying to please McGinnis. What's the good? He never gives me a chance in London. I'm sick of being always on tour. I'm sick of everything. It's the heat, said Lord Dawlish, most injudiciously. It isn't the heat, it's you. Me, what have I done? It's what you've not done. Why can't you exert yourself and make some money? Your Dawlish groaned, a silent groan. By a devious route, but within failing precision, they had come homing back to the same old subject. We've been engaged for six months, and there seems to be about as much chance for ever getting married as of, I can't think of anything unlikely enough. We shall go on like this till we're dead. But, my dear girl, I wish you wouldn't talk to me as if you were my grandfather. What were you going to say? Only that we can get married this afternoon, if you'll say the word. Oh, don't let's go into all that again. I'm not going to marry on four hundred a year, and spend the rest of my life in a pokey little flat on the edge of London. Why can't you make more money? I did have a dash at it, you know. I waylaid old Bodger, Colonel Bodger, on the committee of the club, you know, and suggested over a whiskey and soda that the management of Browns would be behaving like sportsmen if they bumped my salary up a bit, but the old boy nearly strangled himself trying to suck down Scotch and laugh at the same time. I give you my word, he nearly expired on the smoking-room floor. When he came to, he said that he wished I wouldn't spring my good things on him so suddenly, as he had a weak heart. He said they were only paying me my present salary because they liked me so much. You know, it was decent of the old boy to say that. What's the good of being liked by the manager or club, if you won't make any use of it? How do you mean? There are endless things you could do. You could have got Mr Brightstein elected to Browns if you'd liked. They wouldn't have dreamed of blackballing anyone proposed by a popular man like you, and Mr Brightstein asked you personally to use your influence. You told me so. But my dear girl, I mean my darling, Brightstein, he's the limit. He's the worst boundary in London. He's also one of the richest men in London. He would have done anything for you, and you let him go. You insulted him. Insulted him? Didn't you send him an admission ticket to the zoo? I did do that. He thanked me and went the following Sunday. Amazing how these rich Johnny's love getting something for nothing. There was that old American I met down at Marvis Bay last year. You threw away a wonderful chance at making all sorts of money, while a single tip from Mr Brightstein would have made your fortune. But, Claire, you know there are some things. What I mean is, if they liked me at Browns, it's awfully decent of them and all that, but I couldn't take advantage of it to plant a fella like Brightstein on them. It wouldn't be playing the game. Oh, nonsense! Lord Dawlish looked unhappy but said nothing. This matter of Mr Brightstein had been touched upon by Claire in previous conversations, and it was a subject for which he had little liking. Experience had taught him that none of the arguments which seemed so conclusive to him, to wit that the financier had on two occasions only just a skeptical imprisonment for fraud, and, what was worse, made the noise when he drank soup, like water running out of a bathtub, had the least effect upon her. The only thing to do when Mr Brightstein came up in the course of chit-chat over the festive board was to stay quiet until he blew over. That old American you met at Marvis Bay, said Claire, her memory flitting back to the remark which she had interrupted. Well, there's another case. You could easily have got him to do something for you. Claire, really? said his goaded lordship, protestingly. How on earth! I only met the man on the links. But you were very nice to him. You told me yourself that you spent hours trying to help him get rid of his slice, whatever that is. We happened to be the only two down there at the time, so I was as civil as I could manage. If you're marooned at a Cornish seaside resort out of the season, with a man, you can't spend your time dodging him. And this man had a slice that fascinated me. I felt at the time that it was my mission in life to cure him. So I had a dash at it, but I don't see how on the strength of that I could expect the old boy to adopt me. He probably forgot my existence after I had left. You said you met him in London a month or two afterwards, and he hadn't forgotten you. Well, yes, that's true. He was walking up the hay market, and I was walking down. I caught his eye, and he nodded and passed on. I don't see how I construe that into an invitation to go and sit on his lap and help myself out of his pockets. You couldn't expect him to go out of his way to help you, but probably if you'd gone to him, he would have done something. You haven't the pleasure of Mr. Ira Nutcombe's acquaintance, Sklair, or you wouldn't talk like that. He wasn't the sort of man you could get things out of. He didn't even tip the caddy. Besides, can't you see what I mean? I couldn't trade on a chance acquaintance of the golf flinks to, that's just what I complain of in you. You're too diffident. It isn't diffidence exactly. Talking of old Nutcombe, I was speaking to Gates again the other night. He was telling me about America. There's a lot of money to be made over there, you know, and the committee owes me a holiday. They'd give me a few weeks off anytime I liked. What do you say? Shall I pop over and have a look round? I might happen to drop into something. Gates was telling me about fellows he knew who dropped into things in New York. What's the good of putting yourself to all the trouble and expense of going to America? You can easily make all you want in London if you will only try. It isn't as if you had no chances. You have more chances than almost any man in town. With your title, you could get all the directorships in the city that you wanted. Well, the fact is this business of taking directorships has never quite appealed to me. I don't know anything about the game, and I should probably run up against some wildcat company. I can't say I like the directorship wheeze much. It's the idea of knowing that one's name will be being used as a bait. Every time I saw it on a prospectus, I should feel like a trout fly. Claire bit her lip. It's so exasperating, she broke out. When I first told my friends that I was engaged to Lord Dawlish, they were tremendously impressed. They took it for granted that you must have lots of money. Now I have to keep explaining to them that the reason we don't get married is that we can't afford to. I'm almost as badly off as poor Polly Davis, who was in the heavenly waltz company with me when she married that man Lord Weatherby. A man with a title has no right not to have money. It makes the whole thing farcical. If I ruin your place, I should have tried a hundred things by now. But you always have some silly objection. Why couldn't you, for instance, have taken on the agency of that what you call it car? What I called it would have been nothing to what the poor devils who bought it would have called it. You could have sold hundreds of them, and the company would have given you any commission you asked. You know just the sort of people they wanted to get in touch with. But, darling, how could I? Blunding Brightstein on the club would have been nothing compared with sewing these horrors about London. I couldn't go about the place sticking my power to the car, which, I give you my honest word, was stuck together with chewing gum and tied up with string. Why not? It would be their fault if they bought a car that wasn't any good. Why should you have to worry once you had it sold? It was not, Lord Dawlish's lucky afternoon. All through lunch he had been saying the wrong thing, and now he put the coping-stone on his misdeeds. Of all the ways in which he could have answered Claire's question, he chose the worst. Well, he said, no less oblige, don't you know what? For a moment Claire did not speak. Then she looked at her watch and got up. I must be going, she said coldly. But you haven't had your coffee yet? I don't want any coffee. What's the matter, dear? Nothing's the matter. I have to go home and pack. I'm going to Southampton this afternoon. She began to move towards the door. Lord Dawlish anxious to follow was detained by the fact that he had not yet paid the bill. The production and settling of this took time, and when finally he turned in search of Claire, she was nowhere visible. Bounding upstairs, on the swift feet of love, he reached the street. She had gone. End of Chapter 1 The sky took on a leaden hue, and a chill wind blew through the world. He scanned Shaftbury Avenue with a jaundiced eye, and thought that he had never seen a beastly author-affair. Piccadilly, however, into which he shortly dragged himself, was even worse. It was full of men and women and other depressing things. He pitted himself profoundly. It was a rotten world to live in this, where a fellow couldn't say noblesse oblige without upsetting the universe. Why shouldn't a fellow say noblesse oblige? Why? At this juncture, Lord Dawlish walked into a lamppost. The shock changed his mood. Glooms still obsessed him, but blended now with remorse. He began to look at the matter from Claire's viewpoint, and his pity switched from himself to her. In the first place, the poor girl had rather a rotten time. Could she be blamed for wanting him to make money? No. Yet, whenever she made suggestions as to how the thing was to be done, he snubbed her by saying noblesse oblige. Naturally, a refined and sensitive young girl objected to having things like noblesse oblige said to her, Where was the sense in saying noblesse oblige? Such a confoundedly silly thing to say. Only a perfect ass would spend his time rushing about the place, saying noblesse oblige to people. By Jove! Lord Dawlish stopped in his stride. He disentangled himself from a pedestrian who had rammed him on the back. I'll do it! He held a passing taxi and directed the driver to make for the Pen and Ink Club. The decision at which Bill had arrived, with such dramatic suddenness in the middle of Piccadilly, was the same at which some centuries earlier Columbus had arrived in the privacy of his home. Hang it! said Bill to himself in the cab. I'll go to America! The exact words, probably which Columbus had used, talking the thing over with his wife. Bill's knowledge of the Great Republic across the sea was, at this period of his life, a little sketchy. He knew that there had been an unpleasantness between England and the United States in seventeen-something, and again in eighteen-something. But the things had eventually been straightened out by Miss Edna May and her fellow missionaries of the Bell of New York Company, since which time there had been no more trouble. Of American cocktails he had a fair working knowledge, and he appreciated ragtime. But of the other great American institutions he was completely ignorant. He was now on his way to see Gates. Gates was a comparatively recent addition to his list of friends, a New York newspaper man, who'd come to England a few months before to act as his paper's London correspondent. He was generally to be found at the Penn and Ink Club, an institution affiliated with the New York players, of which he was a member. Gates was in, he'd just finished lunch. What's the trouble, Bill? he inquired, when he had deposited his lordship in a corner of the reading-room, which he had selected because silence was compulsory there, thus rendering it possible for two men to hear each other speak. What brings you charging in here, looking like the soul's awakening? I've had an idea, old man. Proceed, continue. Oh, well, you remember what you were saying about America? What was I saying about America? The other day, don't you remember what a lot of money there was to be made there and so forth? Well, I'm going there to America, yes, to make money. Rather, Gates nodded sadly. It seemed to Bill. He was a rather melancholy young man with a long face, not unlike a pessimistic horse. Gosh, he said. Bill felt a little damped. By no mental juggling could he construe, gosh, into an expression of enthusiastic approbation. Gates looked at Bill cautiously. What's the idea? he said. I could have understood it if you'd told me that you were going to New York for pleasure or instructing your man Willoughby to see that the trunks would jolly well packed and wiring to the skipper of your yacht to meet you at Liverpool. But you seem to have sordid motives. You talk about making money. What do you want with more money? Why, I'm devilish hard up. Tenantry a big slack with a rent. Said Gates sympathetically. Bill laughed. My dear chap, I don't know what on earth you're talking about. How much money do you think I've got? Four hundred pounds a year and no prospect of ever making more unless I sweat for it. What? I always thought you were rolling in money. What gave you that idea? You have a prosperous look. It's a funny thing about England. I've known you for four months, and I know men who know you. But I've never heard a word about your finances. In New York we all wear labels stating our incomes and prospects in clear lettering. But if it's like that, it's different of course. There certainly is more money to be made in America than here. I don't quite see what you think you're going to do when you get there, but that's up to you. There's no harm in giving the city a trial. Anyway, I can give you a letter or two that might help. That's awfully good of you. You won't mind my alluding to you as my friend William Smith. William Smith? You can't travel under your own name if you're really serious about getting a job. Mind you, my letters lead to anything. It will probably be a situation as an earnest bill clerk or an effervescent office boy for Rockefeller and Carnegie and that lot have swiped all the soft jobs. But if you go over as Lord Dawlish, you won't even get that. Lords are popular socially in America, but are not used to any great extent in the office. If you try to break in under your right name, you'll get the glad hand and be asked to stay here and there and play a good deal of golf and dance quite a lot, but you won't get a job. A gentle smile will greet all your pleadings that you'll be allowed to come in and save the firm. I see. We may look on Smith as a necessity. Do you know I'm not frightfully keen on the name Smith? Wouldn't something else do? Sure, we aim to please. How would Jones suit you? The trouble is, you know, that if I took a name I wasn't used to, I might forget it. If you have the sort of mind that would forget Jones, I doubt if you'll ever be a captain of industry. Why not Charmers? You think it easier to memorize than Jones? That used to be my name, you see, before I got the title. I see, all right. Charmers then. When do you think of starting? Tomorrow? You aren't losing much time. By the way, as you're going to New York, you might as well use my flat. Ah, it's awfully good of you. Not a bit. You'll be doing me a favor. I had to leave it at a moment's notice, and I want to know what's been happening to the place. I left some Japanese prints there. My favorite nightmare is that someone has broken in and sneaked them. Write down the address. 40 Blank, East 27th Street. I'll send you the key to Browns tonight with those letters. Bill walked up a strand glowing with energy. He made his way to Coxpur Street to buy his ticket for New York. This done, he set out to Browns to arrange with the committee details of his departure. He reached Browns at 20 minutes past two, and left it again at 23 minutes past. For, directly he entered, the Hall Porter had handed him a telephone message. The telephone attendants at London Clubs are masters of suggestive brevity. The one in the basement of Browns had written on Bill's slip of paper the words 1 p.m. Will Lord Dawlish, as soon as possible, call upon Mr. Gerald Nichols at his office. To this was appended the message consisting of two words. Good news! He was stimulating. The probability was that all Jerry Nichols wanted to tell him was that he'd received stable information about some horse, or had been given a box for the Empire. But for all that it was stimulating. Bill looked at his watch. He could spare half an hour. He set out at once for the offices of the eminent law firm of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols, of which aggregation of Nichols is his friend Jerry was the last and smallest. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org. Uneasy Money by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter 3 On a westbound omnibus, Claire Phoenix sat and raged silently in the dune sunshine. She was furious. What right had Lord Dawlish to look down his nose and murmur, noblesse oblige, when she asked him a question, as if she had suggested that he should commit some crime. It was the patronising way he said it that infuriated her, as if he were a superior being of some kind, governed by codes which she could not be expected to understand. Everybody nowadays did the sort of thing she suggested. So what was the good of looking shocked and saying, noblesse oblige? The omnibus rolled on towards West Kensington. Claire hated the place, with the bitter hate of one who has read society novels, and yearned for grovener-square and butlers, and a general atmosphere of soft cushions and pink-shaded lights, and maids to do one's hair. She hated the cheap furniture of the little parlour, the penetrating contralto of the cook, singing hymns in the kitchen, and the ubiquitousness of her small brother. He was only ten, and small for his age, yet he appeared of the power of being in two rooms at the same time, while making a nerve-wracking noise in another. It was Percy who greeted her to-day as she entered the flat. Hello, Claire. I say, Claire. There's a letter for you. It came by the second post. I say, Claire, it's got an American stamp on it. Can I have it, Claire? I haven't got one in my collection. His sister regarded him broodingly. For goodness' sake, don't bellow like that, she said. Of course you can have the stamp. I don't want it. Where's the letter? Claire took the envelope from him, extracted the letter, and handed back the envelope. Percy vanished into the dining-room with a shattering squeal of pleasure. A voice spoke from behind a half-open door. Is that you, Claire? Yes, mother, I've come back to pack. They want me to go to Southampton to-night to take up Claudia Winslow's part. What train are you catching? The three-fifteen. You'll have to hurry. I'm going to hurry, said Claire, clenching her fists as two simultaneous bursts of song in different keys and varying tempos, preceded from the dining-room and the kitchen. A girl has to be in a sunnier mood than she was, to bear up without wincing, under the inflection of a duet consisting of the Rock of Ages and waiting for the Robert E. Lee. Assuredly, Claire proposed to hurry. She meant to get her packing down in record time and escape from this place. She went into her bedroom and began to throw things untidily into her trunk. She had put the letter in her pocket against a more favorable time for perusal. A glance had told her that it was from her friend Polly, Countess of Weatherby, that Polly Davis of whom she had spoken to Lord Dawlish. Polly Davis, now married, for better or for worse, to that curious, invertebrate person, Algie Weatherby, was the only real friend Claire had made on the stage. A sort of shivering gentility had kept her aloof from the rest of her fellow workers. But it took more than a shivering gentility to stave off Polly. Claire had passed through the various stages of intimacy with her. Until, on the occasion of Polly's marriage, she had acted as her bridesmaid. It was a long letter, too long to be read until she was at leisure, and written in a straggling hand that made reading difficult. She was mildly surprised that Polly should have written her, for she had been back in America a year or more now, and this was her first letter. Polly had a warm heart and did not forget her friends, but she was not a good correspondent. The need of getting her things ready at once drove the letter from Claire's mind. She was in the train on her way to Southampton before she remembered its existence. It was dated from New York. My dear old Claire, is this really my first letter to you? Isn't that awful? Gee! A lot has happened since I saw you last. I must tell you first about my hit, some hit. Claire, old girl, I own New York. I dare not tell you what my salary is, you'd faint. I'm doing barefoot dancing, you know the sort of stuff. I started at Inverteville, and went so big that my agent shifted me to the restaurants, and they have to call out the police reserves to handle the crowd. You can't get a table at Regelheimers, which is my pitch, unless you tip the head waiter a small fortune and promise to mail him your clothes when you get home. I danced during supper with nothing on my feet and not much anywhere else. And it takes three vans to carry my salary to the bank. Of course, it's the title that does it. Lady Pauline Weatherby. Algie says it oughtn't be that, because I'm not the daughter of a duke. But I don't worry about that, it looks good. And that's all that matters. You can't get away from the title. I was born in Carbondale, Illinois, but that doesn't matter. I'm an English countess, doing barefoot dancing to work off the mortgage on the ancestral castle, and they eat me. Take it from me, Claire. I'm a riot. Well, that's that. What I'm really writing about is to tell you that you have got to come over here. I've taken a house at Brookport on Long Island for the summer. You can stay with me till the fall. And then I can easily get you a good job in New York. I have some pool these days, believe me. Not that you'll need my help. The managers have only got to see you, and they'll all want you. I showed one of them that photograph you gave me, and he went up in the air. They've prayed twice as big salaries over here you know as in England, so come by the next boat. Claire Darling, you must come. I'm wretched. Algie has got my goat the worst way. If you don't know what that means, it means that he's behaving like a perfect pig. I hardly know where to begin. Well, it was this way. Directly, I made my hit. My press agent, a real bright man named Sheriff, got busy, of course. Interviews, you know. An advice for young girls in evening papers. And how I preserve my beauty and all that sort of thing. Well, one thing he made me do was to buy a snake and a monkey. Roscoe Sheriff is crazy about animals as aids to advertisement. He says an animal story is a thing he does best. So I bought them. Algie kicked from the first. I ought to tell you that since we left England, he's taken up painting footling little pictures, and has got the artistic temperament badly. All his life he's been starting some new fool thing. When I first met him, he prided himself on having the finest collection of photographs of race horses in England. Then he got a craze for model engines. After that, he used to work the piano player until I nearly went crazy. And now it's pictures. I don't mind his painting. It gives him something to do and keeps him out of mischief. He has a studio down in Washington Square, and is perfectly happy messing about there all day. Everything will be fine if he didn't think it necessary to tack on the artistic temperament to his painting. He's developed the idea that he has nerves, and everything upsets them. Things came to a head this morning at breakfast. Clarence, my snake, has the cutest way of climbing up the leg of the table and looking at you pleadingly in the hope that you'll give him soft-boiled egg, which he adores. He did it this morning, and though sooner had his head appeared above the table, then Algy with a kind of sharp wail struck him a violent blow on the nose with a teaspoon. Then he turned to me very pale and said, Pauline, this must end. The time has come to speak up. A nervous, highly strung man like myself should not and must not. Be called upon to live in a house where he is constantly meeting snakes and monkeys without warning. Choose between me and— We got as far as this when you used to us the monkey. Who I didn't know was in the room at all, suddenly sprang onto his back. He's very fond of Algy. Would you believe it? Algy walked straight out of the house, still holding the teaspoon, and has not returned. Later in the day he called me up on the phone, and said that, though he realized a man's place was the home, he declined to cross the threshold again, until I had got rid of Eustace and Clarence. I tried to reason with him. I told him that he ought to think himself lucky it wasn't anything worse than a monkey and a snake. For the last person Roscoe Sheriff handled, an emotional actress named Devonish, had to keep a young Puma, but he wouldn't listen, and the end of it was that he rang off, and I've not seen or heard of him since. I'm broken-hearted. I won't give in, but I'm having an awful time. So, dearest Clare, do come over and help me. If you could possibly sail by the Atlantic, leaving Southampton on the 24th of this month, you'd meet a friend of mine whom I think you'd like. His name is Dudley Pickering. He made a fortune in automobiles. I expect you've heard of the Pickering automobiles. Darling Clare, do come, or I know I shall weaken and yield to algae's outrageous demands. For, though I'd like to hit him with a brick, I love him dearly. You're affectionate, Polly Weatherby. Clare sat back against the cushion-seat, and her eyes filled with tears of disappointment. Of all the things which could have chimed in with her discontented mood at that moment, a sudden flight to America was the most alluring. Only one consideration held her back. She had not the money for her fare. Polly might have thought of that, she reflected bitterly. She took the letter up again, and saw that, on the last page, there was a post-script. P.S., I don't know how you're fixed for money, old girl, but if things are the same with you as in the old days, you can't be rolling. So I've paid for a passage for you with the line of people this side, and they've cabled their English office so you can sail whenever you want to. Come right over. An hour later, the manager of the Southampton branch of the White Star Line was dazzled by an apparition, a beautiful girl who burst in upon him with flushed face and shining eyes, demanding a birth on the steamship Atlantic, and talking about a Lady Weatherby. Ten minutes later, her passage secured, Claire was walking to the local theatre to inform those in charge of the destinies of the girl and the artist's number one company, that they must look elsewhere for a substitute for Miss Claudia Winslow. Then she went back to her hotel to write a letter home, notifying her mother of her plans. She looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. Back in West Kensington, a rich smell of dinner would be floating through the flat. The cook, watching the boiling cabbage, would be singing, a few more years shall roll, her mother would be sighing, and her little brother Percy would be employed upon some juvenile devil-tree, the exact nature of which it is not possible to conjecture. Though one could be certain that it would be something involving a deafening noise. Claire smiled a happy smile. End of chapter three. End of chapter three. The officers of Messers Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols were in Lincoln's infields. The first Nichols had been dead since the reign of King William IV, the second since the jubilee year of Queen Victoria, the remaining Brace were Lord Dawlish's friend Jerry and his father, a formidable old man who knew all the shady secrets of all the noble families in England. Bill walked up the stairs and was shown into the room where Jerry, when his father's eye was upon him, gave his daily imitation of a young man laboring with diligence and enthusiasm at the law. His father, being at the moment out to lunch, the junior partner was practicing putts with an umbrella and a ball of paper. Jerry Nichols was not a typical lawyer. At Cambridge, where Bill had first made his acquaintance, he had been notable for an exuberance of which Lincoln's infields had not yet cured him. There was an airy disregard for legal formalities about him, which exasperated his father and attorney of the old school. He came to the point, directly Bill entered the room, with a speed and levity that would have appalled Nichols senior, and must have caused the other two Nichols to revolve in their graves. Hello, Bill, old man, he said, prodding him amiably in the waistcoat with the feral of the umbrella. How's the boy? Fine, so am I. So you've got my message, wonderful invention on the telephone. I've just come from the club. Take a chair. What's the matter? Jerry Nichols thrust Bill into a chair and seated himself on the table. Look here, Bill, he said. This isn't the way we usually do this sort of thing. And if the governor were here, he would spend an hour and a half rambling on about test-haters and beneficiary legatees and parties of the first part, and all that sort of rot. But as he isn't here, I want to know, as one pal to another, what you've been doing to an old buster by the name of Nutcombe. Nutcombe? Nutcombe. Not Ira Nutcombe. Ira J. Nutcombe, formerly of Chicago, later of London, now a disembodied spirit. Is he dead? Yes, and he's left you something like a million pounds. Lord Dawlish looked at his watch. Joking apart, Jerry Oldman, he said. What did you ask me to come here for? The committee expects me to spend some of my time at the club. And if I hang about here all afternoon, I shall lose my job. Besides, I've got to get back to ask them for— Jerry Nichols clutched his forehead with both hands, raised both hands to heaven. And then, as if despairing of calming himself by these means, picked up a paperweight from the desk, and hurled it at a portrait of the founder of the firm, which hung over the mantelpiece. He got down from the table and crossed the room to inspect the ruins. Then, having taken a pair of scissors and cut the cord, he allowed the portrait to fall to the floor. He rang the bell. The prematurely aged office boy, who was undoubtedly destined to become a member of the firm some day, answered the ring. Perkins. Yes, sir. Inspect Yonder Souflay. Yes, sir. You have observed it? Yes, sir. You're wondering how I got there? Yes, sir. I will tell you. You and I were in here discussing certain legal minutiae or in the interests of the firm. When it suddenly fell, we both saw it and were very much surprised and startled. I soothed your nervous system by giving you this half-crown. The whole incident was very painful. Can you remember all this to tell my father when he comes in? I should be out lunching, then. Yes, sir. An admirable lad that, said Joe Nichols as the door closed. He's been here two years, and I've never heard him say anything except, yes, sir. He'll go far. Well, now that I'm calmer, let us return to your little matter. Honestly, Bill, you make me sick. When I contemplate you, the iron enters my soul. You stand there, talking about your toughly-hopely job as if it mattered a cent, whether you kept it or not. Can't you understand plain English? Can't you realise that you can buy browns and turn it into a moving picture house, if you like? You're a millionaire! Bill's face expressed no emotion whatsoever. Outwardly, he appeared unmoved. Inwardly, he was a riot of bewilderment incapable of speech. He stared at Jerry, dumbly. We've got the will in the old oak chest, went on Jerry Nichols. I won't show it to you, partly because the Governor has got the key, and he would have a fit if he knew I was giving you early information like this, and partly because you wouldn't understand it. It's full of where-as-is and pure adventures and here-to-fours and similar swank. And there aren't any stops in it. It takes the legal mind, like mine, to tackle wills. What it says, when you've peeled off a few of the long words, which they put in to make it more interesting, is that old nutcomb leaves you the money, because you are the only man who ever did him a disinterested kindness. And what I want to get out of you is, what was the disinterested kindness? Because I'm going straight out to do it to every elderly rich-looking man I can find till I pick a winner. Lord Dawlish, found speech. Jerry, is this really true? Gospel, you aren't pulling my leg. Pulling your leg? Of course I'm not pulling your leg. What do you take me for? I'm a dry, hearted, lawyer. The firm of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols doesn't go about pulling people's legs. Good Lord. It appears from the will that you worked this disinterested jag, whatever it was, of Marvis Bay, not longer ago than last year. Wherein you showed a lot of sense. For Ira J., having altered his will in your favour, apparently had no time before he died to alter it again in somebody else's, which he would most certainly have done. If he had lived long enough, for his chief recreation, seems to have been making his will. To my certain knowledge, he has made three in the last two years. I've seen them. He was one of those confirmed will-makers. He got the habit an early age and was never able to shake it off. Do you remember anything about the man? It isn't possible. Anything's possible, whether a man cracked enough to make freak wills, and not cracked enough to have them disputed on the ground of insanity. What did you do to him at Marvis Bay? Save him from drowning. I cured him of slicing. You did what? He used to slice his approach shots. I cured him. The thing begins to hang together. A certain plausibility creeps into it. A late nutcum was crazy about golf. The governor used to play with him now and then at Walton Heath. It was the only thing nutcum seemed to live for. That being so, if you got rid of his slice for him, it seems to me that you earned your money. The only point that occurs to me is, how does it affect your amateur status? Looks to me as if you're now a pro. But Jerry, it's absurd. All I did was to give him a tip or two. We were the only men down there. As it was out of season. And that drew us together. When I spotted this slice of his, I just gave him a bit of advice. I give you my word, that was all. He can't have left me a fortune on the strength of that. You don't tell the story right, Bill. I can guess what really happened, to wit, that you gave up all your time to helping the old fellow improve his game, regardless of the fact that it completely ruined your holiday. Oh no. It's no use sitting there saying, oh no. I can see you at it. The fact is, you're such an infernally good chap, that something of this sort was bound to happen sooner or later. I think making you his heir was the only sensible thing Old Nutcomb ever did. In his pace, I'd have done the same. But he didn't even seem decently grateful at the time. Probably not. He was a queer old bird. He had a most almighty row with the governor. In this office, only a month or two ago, about absolutely nothing. They disagreed about something trivial. And Old Nutcomb stalked out and never came in again. That's the sort of old bird he was. What's he saying, do you think? Absolutely, for legal purposes, we have three opinions from leading doctors, collected by him in case of accidents, I suppose, each of which declares him perfectly sane on from the collar upward. But a man can be pretty far gone, you know, without being legally insane. And Old Nutcomb, well, supposed to be called him whimsical. He seems to have zigzaged between the normal and the eccentric. His only surviving relatives appear to be a nephew and a niece. The nephew dropped out of the running two years ago when his aunt, Old Nutcomb's wife, who had divorced Old Nutcomb, left him her money. This seems to have sowed the old boy on the nephew. For in the first of his wills that I've seen, you remember I told you I had seen three, he leaves the niece the pile and the nephew only gets 20 pounds. Well, so far there's only very eccentric about Old Nutcomb's proceedings, but wait. Six months after he made that will, he came in here and made another. This left 20 pounds to the nephew as before, but nothing at all to the niece. Why, I don't know. There was nothing in the will about her having done anything to offend him during those six months. None of those nasty slams you see in wills, about I bequeathed to my only son, John, one shilling and sixpence, now perhaps he's sorry he married the cook. As far as I can make out, he changed his will, just as he did when he left the money to you, purely through some passing whim. Anyway, he did change it. He left the pile to support the movement those people are running for getting the Jews back to Palestine. He didn't seem on second thoughts to feel that this was quite such a brainy scheme as he had at first, and it wasn't long before he came trotting back to tear up this second will and switch back to the first one, the one leaving the money to the niece. That restoration to sanity last till about a month ago, when he broke loose once more and paid his final visit here to will you the contents of his stocking. This morning I see he's dead after a short illness. So you collect. Congratulations. Lord Dawley should listen to this speech in perfect silence. He now rose and began to pace the room. He looked warm and uncomfortable. His demeanour in fact was by no means the accepted demeanour of the lucky heir. This is awful, he said. Good Lord Jerry, it's frightful. Awful, being left a million pounds. Yes, like this. I feel like a belly thief. Why on earth? If it hadn't been for me, this girl, what's her name? Her name is Boyd Elizabeth Boyd. She would have had the whole million if it hadn't been for me. Have you told her yet? She's in America. I was writing her a letter just before you came in, informal you know, to put her out of her misery. If I had waited for the governor to let her know in the usual course of red tape, we should never have got anywhere. Also, one to the nephew telling her about his 20 pounds. I believe in humane treatment on these occasions. The governor would write them a legal letter with so many hearing-befores in it that they would get the idea that they'd been left the whole pile. I'd just send a cheery line saying, it's no good old top abandon hope. And they're just where they are, simple and considerate. The glance at Bill's face moved him to further speech. I don't see why you should worry, Bill. How by any stretch of the imagination can you make out that you are to blame for this Boyd girl's misfortune? Looks to me as if these eccentric wills of old nutcums came in cycles as it were. Just as he was due for another outbreak, he happened to meet you. It's a moral certainty that if he hadn't met you, he would have left all his money to a home for superannuated caddies, or a fund for supplying the deserving, poor with niblicks. Why should you blame yourself? I don't blame myself. It isn't exactly that. But, but, well, what would you feel like in my place? A two-year-old. Wouldn't you do anything? I certainly would. Buy my halodom I would. I would spend that money with a vim and speed that would make your respected ancestor, the bow, look like a village miser. You wouldn't pop over to America and see whether something couldn't be arranged. What? I mean, suppose you were popping in any case. Suppose you'd happen to buy a ticket for New York on tomorrow's boat. Wouldn't you try and get in touch with this girl when you got to America and see if you couldn't fix up something? Jerry Nichols looked at him in honest consternation. He'd always known that old Bill was a dear old ass, but he had never dreamed that he was such an infernal old ass as this. You aren't thinking of doing that, he gasped. Well, you see, it's a funny coincidence, but I was going to America anyhow tomorrow. I don't see why I shouldn't try to fix up something with this girl. What do you mean fix up something? You don't suggest you should give the money up to you? I don't know, not exactly that, perhaps. How would it be if I gave her half? What? Anyway, I should like to find out about her, see if she's hard up and so on. I should like to nose around, you know, and so forth, don't you know? Where did you say the girl lived? I didn't say, and I'm not sure that I shall. Honestly, Bill, you mustn't be so quixotic. There's no harm in my nosing around, is there? Be a good chap and give me the address. Well, with misgivings, Brookport, Long Island. Thanks. Bill, are you really going to make a fool of yourself? Not a bit of it, old chap. I'm just going to nose around, to nose around, said Bill. Jerry Nichols accompanied his friend to the door, and once more peace reigned in the offices of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols. The time of a man who has, at a moment's notice, decided to leave his native land for a sojourn on a foreign soil is necessarily taken up with a variety of occupations, and it was not till the following afternoon on the boat at Liverpool that Bill had leisure to write to Claire, giving her the news of what had befallen him. He had booked his tickets by a Liverpool boat in preference to one that sailed from Southampton, because she had not been sure how Claire would take the news of his sudden decision to leave for America. There was the chance that she might ridicule or condemn the scheme, and he preferred to get away without seeing her. Now that he had received this astounding piece of news from Jerry Nichols, he was relieved that he had acted in this way. Whatever Claire might have thought of the original scheme, there was no doubt at all what she would think of his plan of seeking out Elizabeth Boyd, with a view to dividing the legacy with her. He was guarded in his letter. He mentioned no definite figures. He wrote that there are a outcome of whom he had spoken so often, had most surprisingly left him in his will a large sum of money. At ease his conscience by telling himself that half a million pounds, undeniably was a large sum of money. The addressing of the letter called for thought. She would have left Southampton with the rest of the company before it could arrive. Where was it she had said they were going next week? Portsmouth, that was it. He addressed the letter, care of the girl and the artist company, to the King's Theatre, Portsmouth. End of Chapter 4. Reading by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 5 of Uneasy Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org. Uneasy Money by P.G. Woodhouse. Chapter 5 The village of Brookport, Long Island is a summer place. It lives, like the mosquitoes had infested entirely on its summer visitors. At the time of the death of Mr. Ira Nutcombe, the only all-year-round inhabitants were the butcher, the grocer, the chemist, the other customary former of villages, and Mr. Elizabeth Boyd, who rented the ramshackle farm known locally as Flax, and eked out a precarious livelihood by keeping bees. If you take down your Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume 3, AUS to BIS, you will find that bees are a large and natural family of the zoological order Hymenoptera, characterized by the plumbos form of many of their hairs, by the large size of the basal segment of the foot, and by the development of a tongue for sucking liquid food. The last of which peculiarities, it is interesting to note, they shared with Claude Nutcombe Boyd, Elizabeth's brother. Who, for quite a long time till his money ran out, had made liquid food almost his sole means of sustenance. These things, however, are by the way. We are not such snobs as to think better or worse of a bee, because it can claim kinship with the Hymenoptera family, nor so ill-bred as to chafe it, for having large feet. The really interesting passage in the article occurs later, where it says the bee industry prospers greatly in America. This is one of those broad statements that invite challenge. Elizabeth Boyd would have challenged it. She had not prospered greatly. With considerable trouble, she contrived to pay her way, and that was all. Again, referring to the encyclopedia, we find the words, before undertaking the management of a modern apiary, the beekeeper should possess a certain amount of aptitude for the pursuit. This was possibly the trouble with Elizabeth's venture, considered from a commercial point of view. She loved bees, but she was not an expert on them. She had started her apiary with a small capital, a book of practical hints, and a second-hand queen, principally because she was in need of some occupation that would enable her to live in the country. It was the unfortunate condition of Claude Nutcombe, which made life in the country a necessity. At that time, he was spending the remains of the money left him by his aunt, and Elizabeth had hardly settled down at Brookport, and got her venture underway, when she found herself obliged to provide for Nutty, a combination of home and sanatorium. It had been the poor lad's mistaken view that he could drink up all the alcoholic liquor in America. It is a curious law of nature, that the most undeserving brothers always have the best sisters. Thrifty, plodding young men who get up early and do it now, and catch the employer's eye and save half their salaries, have sisters who never speak civilly to them, except when they want to borrow money. To the Claude Nutcombe's of the world, are vouchsafed the Elizabeth's. The great aim of Elizabeth's life was to make a new man of Nutty. It was her hope that the quiet life and soothing air of Brookport, with, unless you counted the money in the slot musical box at the store, its absence of the fiercer entertainments, might in time pull him together and unscramble his disordered nervous system. She liked to listen to her mourning to the sound of Nutty, busy in the next room with a broom and dustpan, for, in the simple lexicon of flax, there was no such word as help. The privy purse would not run to a maid, Elizabeth did the cooking, and Claude Nutcombe the housework. For several days after Claire Fenwick and Lord Dawlish by different routes had sailed from England, Elizabeth Boyd sat up in bed and shook her mane of hair from her eyes, yawning. Outside her window the birds were singing, and a shaft of sunlight intruded itself beneath the blind. But what definitely convinced her that it was time to get up was the plaintive note of James the cat, patrolling the roof of the porch. An animal of regular habits, James always called for breakfast at 8.30 sharp. Elizabeth got out of bed, wrapped her small body in a pink kimono, thrust her small feet into a pair of blue slippers, yawned again, and went downstairs. Having taken last night's milk from the ice-box, she went to the back door, and, having filled James's saucer, stood on the grass beside it, sniffing the morning air. Elizabeth Boyd was twenty-one. But standing there with her hair tumbling about her shoulders, she might have been taken by a not-too-close observer for a child. It was only when you saw her eyes and the resolute tilt of the chin that you realized she was a young woman very well able to take care of herself in a difficult world. Her hair was very fair, her eyes brown and very bright, and the contrast was extraordinarily pecan. They were valiant eyes, full of spirit, eyes also that saw the humour of things. Her mouth was the mouth of one who laughs easily. Her chin, small like the rest of her, was strong. And, in the way she held herself, there was a boyish jauntiness. She looked and was a capable little person. She stood beside James, like a sentinel, watching over him as he breakfasted. There was a puppy belonging to one of the neighbours who sometimes lumbered over and stole James's milk, disposing of it in greedy gulps, while its rightful proprietor looked on with piteous helplessness. Elizabeth was fond of the puppy, but her sense of justice was keen. And she was there to check this brigandage. It was a perfect day, cloudless and still. There was peace in the air. James, having finished his milk, began to wash himself. A squirrel climbed cautiously down from a linden tree. From the orchard came the murmur of many bees. Aesthetically, Elizabeth was fond of still, cloudless days, but experience had taught her to suspect them. As was the custom in that locality, the water supply depended on a rickety wind-wheel. It was, with a dark foreboding, that she returned to the kitchen and turned on one of the taps. For perhaps three seconds, a stream of the dimension of a dining-needle emerged. Then, with a sad gurgle, the tap relapsed into a stolid inaction. There is no stolidity so utter as that of a waterless tap. Confounded, said Elizabeth, she passed through the dining-room to the foot of the stairs. Nutty! there was no reply. Nutty, my precious lamb! Upstairs in the room next to her own, a long spare form began to uncurl itself in bed. A face with a receding chin, and a small forehead, raised itself reluctantly from the pillow, and clawed not convoyed, signalized the fact that he was awake by scowling at the morning sun and uttering an aggrieved groan. Alas! poor Nutty! This was he whom, but yesterday, Broadway had known as the speed kid, on whom head-waiters had smiled and lesser-waiters formed, whose snake-like form had nestled in so many a front row orchestra stall. Where were his lobster new-burgs now? His cold quarts that were want to set the table in a row? Nutty Boyd conformed as nearly as a human being May to Euclid's definition of a straight line. He was length without breadth. From boyhood's early day, he had sprouted like a weed. Till now, in the middle-twenties, he gave stuffled strangers the conviction that it only required a sharp gust of wind to snap him in half. Lying in bed, he looked more like a length of hose-pipe than anything else. While he was unwinding himself, the door opened and Elizabeth came into the room. Morning, Nutty! What's the time? asked her brother, hollowly. Getting on towards nine. It's a lovely day. The birds are singing. The bees are buzzing. Summer's in the air. It's one of those beautiful, shiny, heavenly, gorgeous days. A look of suspicion came into Nutty's eyes. Elizabeth was not often as lyrical as this. There's a catch somewhere, he said. As a matter of fact, said Elizabeth carelessly, the water's off again. Confound it. I said that. I'm afraid we aren't a very original family. What a ghastly place this is! Why can't you see old Flack and make him mend that infernal wheel? I'm going to pounce on him and have another try directly I see him. Meanwhile, darling Nutty, will you get some clothes on and go round to the smiths and ask them to lend us a paleful? Oh, gosh, it's over a mile. No, no. Not more than three-quarters. Lugging a pale that weighs a ton. The last time I went there, their dog bit me. I expect that was because you slunk in all doubled up, and he got suspicious. You should hold your head up and throw your chest out, and stride up as if you were a military friend of the family. Self-pity lent Nutty eloquence. Over heaven's sake, you dragged me out of bed at some awful hour of the morning when a rational person would just be turning in. You sent me across country to fetch pails full of water when I'm feeling like a corpse, and on top of that, you expect me to behave like a drum major. Dearest, you can wriggle on your tummy if you like, so long as you get the fluid. We must have water. I can't fetch it. I'm a delicate, nurtured female. We ought to have a man to do these ghastly jobs. But we can't afford one. Just at present all I ask is to be able to pay expenses. And as a matter of fact, you ought to be very thankful that you have got a roof over my head, I know. You needn't keep rubbing it in. Elizabeth flushed. I wasn't going to say that at all. What a pig you are sometimes, Nutty. As if I wasn't only too glad to have you here. What I was going to say was that you ought to be very thankful that you've got to draw water, and you would. A look of absolute alarm came into Nutty's pallid face. You don't mean to say that you want some wood chopped? I was speaking figuratively. I mean, hustle about and work in the open air. The sort of life you're leading now is what millionaires pay hundreds of dollars for at these physical culture places. It's been the making of you. I don't feel made. Your nerves are ever so much better. They aren't. Elizabeth looked at him in alarm. Oh, Nutty, you haven't been seeing anything again, have you? Not seeing, dreaming. I've been dreaming about monkeys. Why should I dream about monkeys if my nerves were all right? I often dream about all sorts of quick things. Have you ever dreamed that you are being chased up Broadway by a chimpanzee in evening dress? Never mind, dear. You'll be quite all right again when you have been living this life down here a little longer. Nutty glared balefully at the ceiling. What's that darn thing up there on the ceiling? It looks like a hornet. How on earth do these things get into the house? We ought to have nettings. I'm going to pounce on Mr. Flack about that, too. Thank goodness this isn't going to last much longer. It's nearly two weeks since Uncle Ira died, or to be hearing from the lawyers any day now. There might be a letter this morning. Do you think he's left with his money? Do I? Why, what else could he do with it? We're his only surviving relatives, aren't we? I've had to go through life with a ghastly name like Nutcombe as a compliment to him, haven't I? I wrote to him regularly at Christmas and on his birthday, didn't I? Well then, I have a feeling that there will be a letter from the lawyers today. I wish you'd get dressed and go down to the post office while I'm fetching that infernal water. I can't think why the fools haven't cabled. You would have supposed they would have thought of that. Elizabeth returned to her room to dress. She was conscious of her feeling that nothing was quite perfect in this world. It would be nice to have a great deal of money, for she had a scheme in her mind which called for a large capital. But she was sorry that it should come to her only through the death of her uncle, of whom, despite his somewhat forbidding personality, she had always been fond. She was also sorry that a large sum of money was coming to Nutty at that particular point in his career, just when there seemed to be the hope that the simple life might pull him together. She knew Nutty too well, not to be able to forecast his probable behaviour under the influence of a sudden restoration of wealth. While these thoughts were passing through her mind, she happened to glance out of the window. Nutty was shambling through the garden with his pale, a bowed, shuffling pillar of gloom. As Elizabeth watched, he dropped the pale and lashed the air violently for a while. From her knowledge of bees, it is needful to remember that bees resent outside interference and will absolutely defend themselves. Ensick Brit, Vol 3, AUS to BIS. Elizabeth deduced that one of her little pets was annoying him. This episode concluded that he resumed his pale and the journey. And at this moment there appeared over the hedge the face of Mr John Prescott. A neighbour. Mr Prescott, who had dismounted from a bicycle, called to Nutty and waved something in the air. To a stranger, the performance would have been obscure. But Elizabeth understood it. Mr Prescott was intimating that he had been down to the post office for his own letters. As was he neighbourly custom on these occasions, he had brought back also letters for flax. Nutty foregathered with Mr Prescott and took the letters from him. Mr Prescott disappeared. Nutty selected one of the letters and opened it. Then, having stood perfectly still for some moments, he suddenly turned and began to run towards the house. The mere fact that her brother, whose usual mode of progression was a languid saunter, should be actually running, was enough to tell Elizabeth that the letter which Nutty had read was from the London lawyers. No other communication could have galvanized him into such energy. Whether the contents of the letter were good or bad, it was impossible at that distance to say. But when she reached the open air, just as Nutty charged up, she saw by his face that it was anguish, not joy, that had spurred him on. He was gasping, and he bubbled unintelligible words. His little eyes gleamed wildly. "'Nutty darling, what is it?' cried Elizabeth, every maternal instinct in her aroused. He was thrusting a sheet of paper at her. A sheet of paper that bore the superscription of nickels, nickels, nickels, and nickels with a London address. "'Uncle Ira,' Nutty choked, "'twenty pounds, he's left me twenty pounds, and all the rest to a man named Dawlish.'" In silence Elizabeth took the letter. It was, even as he had said. A few moments before, Elizabeth had been regretting the imminent descent of wealth upon her brother. Now she was inconsistent enough to boil with rage at the shattering blow which had befallen him. That she too had lost her inheritance hardly occurred to her. Her thoughts were all for Nutty. It did not lead the sight of him gasping and gurgling before her to tell her how overwhelming was his disappointment. It was useless to be angry with the deceased Mr. Nutcombe. He was too shadowy a mark. Besides, he was dead. The whole current of her wrath turned upon the supplanter, this Lord Dawlish. She pictured him as a crafty adventurer, a wretched fortune-hunter. For some reason or other she imagined him a sinister person with a black moustache, a face thin and hawk-like, and unpleasant eyes. That was the sort of man who would be likely to fasten his talons on to poor Uncle Ira. She had never hated anyone her life before, but as she stood there at that moment, she felt that she loathed and detested William Lord Dawlish. Unhappy, well-meaning Bill. Who only a few hours back had set foot on American soil in his desire to nose-round and see if something couldn't be arranged. Nutty fetched the water. Life is like that. There's nothing clean-cut about it, no sense of form. Instead of being permitted to concentrate his attention on his tragedy, Nutty had to trudge three-quarters of a mile, conciliate a ball-terrier, and trudge back again, carrying a heavy pail. It was as if one of the heroes of Greek drama in the middle of his big scene had been asked to run round the corner to a provision store. The exercise did not act as a restorative. The blow had been too sudden, too overwhelming. Nutty's reasons, such as it was, tottered on its throne. Who was Lord Dawlish? What had he done to ingratiate himself for Uncle Ira? By what insidious means with what devilish cunning had he wormed his way into the old man's favour? These were the questions that vexed Nutty's mind, when he was able to think at all coherently. Back at the farm, Elizabeth cooked breakfast and awaited her brother's return with a sinking heart. She was a soft-hearted girl, easily distressed by the sight of suffering, and she was aware that Nutty was scarcely of the type that masks its woes behind a brave and cheerful smile. Her heart bled for Nutty. There was a weary step outside. Nutty entered, slopping water. One glance at his face was enough to tell Elizabeth that she had formed too conservative an estimate of his probable gloom. Without a word, he coiled his long form in a chair. There was silence in the stricken house. What's the time? Elizabeth glanced at her watch. Up as nine. About now, said Nutty sepulchrally, the blighter is ringing for his man to prepare his belly bath and lay out his gold leaf underwear. After that he will drive down to the bank and draw out some of our money. The day passed wearily for Elizabeth, Nutty having the air of one who is still engaged in picking up the pieces. She had not the heart to ask him to place customary part in the household duties, so she washed the dishes and made the beds herself. After that she attended to the bees. After that she cooked lunch. Nutty was not chatty at lunch, having observed. About now the blighter is cursing the waiter for bringing the wrong brand of champagne. He relapsed into a silence. Which he did not again break. Elizabeth was busy again in the afternoon. At four o'clock feeling tired out, she went to her room to lie down till the next of her cycle of domestic duties should come round. It was late when she came downstairs, for she had fallen asleep. The sun had gone down, the bees were winging their way heavily back to the hives with their honey. She went out into the grounds to try to find Nutty. There had been no signs of him in the house. There were no signs of him about the grounds. It was not like him to have taken a walk, but it seemed the only possibility. She went back to the house to wait. Eight o'clock came and nine. And it was then the truth dawned upon her. Nutty had escaped. He had slipped away and gone up to New York. End of Chapter Six 6 Lord Dawlish sat in the New York flat, which had been lent to him by his friend Gates. The hour was half past ten in the evening. The day, the second day after the exodus of Nutty Boyd from the farm. Before him on the table lay a letter. He was smoking pensively. Lord Dawlish had found New York enjoyable, but a trifle fatiguing. There was much to be seen in the city, and he had made the mistake of trying to see it all at once. It had been his intention, when he came home after dinner that night, to try to restore the balance of things, by going to bed early. He had set up longer than he had intended, because he had been thinking about this letter. Immediately upon his arrival in America, Bill had sought out a lawyer, and instructed him to write to Elizabeth Boyd, offering her one half of the late Ira Nutcombe's money. He had had time, during the voyage, to think the whole matter over, and this seemed to him the only possible course. He could not keep it all. He would feel like the dispoiler of the widow and the orphan. Nor would it be fair to Claire to give it all up. If he halved the legacy, everybody would be satisfied. That at least had been his view, until Elizabeth's reply had arrived. It was this reply that lay on the table, a brief formal note, setting forth Miss Boyd's absolute refusal to accept any portion of the money. This was a development which Bill had not foreseen, and he was feeling baffled. Whop was the next step. He had smoked many pipes in an endeavour to find an answer to this problem, and was lighting another when the doorbell rang. He opened the door, and found himself confronting an extraordinarily tall and thin young man in evening dress. Lord Dawlish was a little startled. He had taken it for granted when the bell rang, that his visitor was Tom, the lift man from Downstairs, a friendly soul, who hailed from London, and had been dropping in at intervals during the past two days to acquire the latest news from his native land. He stared at this changeling inquiringly. The solution of the mystery came with the stranger's first words. His gates in. He spoke eagerly, as if gates were extremely necessary to his well-being. It distressed Lord Dawlish to disappoint him, but there was nothing else to be done. Gates is in London, he said. What? When did he go there? About four months ago. May I come in a minute? Yes, rather do. He led the way into the sitting-room. The stranger gave abruptly in the middle, as if he were being folded up by some invisible agency, and in this attitude sank into a chair. Where he lay back, looking at Bill over his knees, like a sorrowful sheep, peering over a sharp pointed fence. You're from England, aren't you? Yes. Been in New York long, only a couple of days. The stranger folded himself up another foot or so, until his knees were higher than his head, and it was a cigarette. The Curse of New York, he said mournfully, is the way everything changes in it. You can't take your eyes off it for a minute. The population's always shifting. It's like a railway station. You go away for a bit, and come back, and try to find your old pals, and they're all gone. Ikes in Arizona, Mike's in a sanatorium, Spike's in jail, and nobody seems to know where the rest of them have got to. I came up from the country two days ago, expecting to find the old gang along Broadway the same as ever. And I'm dashed if I've been able to put my hands on one of them. Not a single solitary one of them. And it's only six months since I was here last. Lord Dawlish made sympathetic noises. Curse, proceeded the other. Time of year may have something to do with it. Living down in the country, you lose count of time. And I forgot that it was July when people go out of the city. I guess that must be what happened. I used to know all sorts of fellows, actors, and fellows like that. And they're all away somewhere. I tell you, he said, with pathos. I never knew I could be so infernally lonesome. As I have been these last two days. If I'd known what a rotten time I was going to have, I would never have left Brookport. Brookport? It's a place down on Long Island. Bill was not by nature a plotter. But the mere fact of travelling under an assumed name had developed a streak of weariness in him. He checked himself, just as he was about to ask his companion if he happened to know Miss Elizabeth Boyd, who also lived at Brookport. It occurred to him that the question would invite a counter-question as to his own knowledge of Miss Boyd. And he knew that he would not be able to invent a satisfactory answer to that offhand. This evening, said the thin young man, resuming his dirge, I was sweating my brain trying to think of somebody I could hunt up in this ghastly deserted city. It isn't so easy, you know, to think of fellows' names and addresses. I'd get the names all right, but unless the fellows in the telephone book, I'm done. Well, I was trying to think of some of my pals who might still be around the place. And I remembered Gates. Remembered his address too by a miracle. You're a pal of his, of course. Yes, I knew him in London. Oh, I see. And when you came over here, he lent you his flat. By the way, I didn't get your name. My name's Chalmers. Well, as I say, I remembered Gates, and I came down here to look him up. We used to have a lot of good times together a year ago, and now he's gone too. Do you want to see him about anything important? Well, it's important to me. I wanted him to come out to supper, you see. It's this way. I'm giving supper tonight to a girl who's in that show at the 49th Street's Theatre. I miss Leonard, and she insists on bringing a pal. She says the pal is a good sport, which sounds all right. Bill admitted it didn't sound all right. But it makes a party of three. And of all the infernal things, a party of three is the ghastliest. Having delivered himself of this undeniable truth, the stranger slid a little further into his chair and paused. Okay, what are you doing tonight? he said. I was thinking of going to bed. Going to bed? The stranger's voice was shocked, as if he had heard blasphemy. Going to bed? Half past ten in New York. My dear chap, what you want is a bit of supper. Why don't you come along? Ameability was perhaps the leading quality of Lord Dawlish's character. He did not want to have to dress and go out to supper, but there was something almost pleading in the eyes that looked at him between the sharply pointed knees. It's awfully good of you, he hesitated. Not a bit. I wish you would. You'd be a lifesaver. Bill felt that he was in for it. He got up. You will, said the other. Good boy. You go and get some clothes and come along. I'm sorry, what did you say your name was? Chalmers. Mine's Boyd. Nutcombe Boyd. Boyd? cried Bill. Nutty took his astonishment, which was too great to be concealed, as a compliment. He chuckled. Ha, I thought you'd know the name if you were a pal of gates. I expect he's always talking about me. You see, I was pretty well known in this old place before I had to leave it. Bill walked down the long passage to his bedroom, with no trace of the sleepiness which had been weighing on him five minutes before. He was galvanized by a superstitious thrill. It was fate. Elizabeth Boyd's brother turning up like this and making friendly overtures right on top of that letter from her. This astonishing thing could not have been better arranged if he had planted himself. From what little he'd seen of Nutty, he gathered that the latter was not hard to make friends with. It would be a simple task to cultivate his acquaintance and having done so. He could renew negotiations with Elizabeth. The desire to rid himself of half the legacy had become a fixed idea with Bill. He had the impression that he could not really feel clean again, until he had made matters square with his conscience in this respect. He felt that he was probably a fool to take that view of the thing, but that was the way he was built and there was no getting away from it. This eruption of Nutty Boyd into his life was an omen. It meant that all was not yet over. He was conscious of a mild surprise that he had ever intended to go to bed. He felt now as if he never wanted to go to bed again. He felt exhilarated. In these days one cannot say that a supper party is actually given in any one place. Supping in New York has become a peripatetic pastime. The supper party arranged by Nutty Boyd was scheduled to start at Regelheimers on 42nd Street. And it was there that the revelers assembled. Nutty and Bill had been there a few minutes when Miss Daisy Leonard arrived with her friend. And from that moment Bill was never himself again. The good sport was, so to speak, an outsizing good sports. She loomed up behind the small and demure Miss Leonard like a liner towed by a tug. She was big, blond, skittish and exuberant. She wore a dress like the sunset of a fine summer evening, and she effervesced with spacious goodwill to all men. She was one of those girls who splash into public places like stones into quiet pools. Her form was large, her eyes were large, her teeth were large, and her voice was large. She overwhelmed Bill. She hit his astounded consciousness like a shell. She gave him a buzzing in the ears. She was not so much a good sport as some kind of an explosion. He was still reeling from the spiritual impact with this female tidal wave, when he became aware as one who, coming out of a swoon, hears voices faintly, that he was being addressed by Miss Leonard. To turn from Miss Leonard's friend to Miss Leonard herself was like hearing the falling of gentle rain after a thunderstorm. For a moment he reveled in the sense of being soothed. Then as he realized what she was saying, he started violently. Miss Leonard was looking at him curiously. I beg your pardon, said Bill. I'm sure I've met you before, Mr. Chalmers. Really? But I can't think where. I'm sure, said the good sport languishingly, like a sentimental siege gun, that if I had ever met Mr. Chalmers before I shouldn't have forgotten him. You're English, aren't you? asked Miss Leonard. Yes. The good sport said she was crazy about Englishmen. I thought so from your voice. The good sport said she was crazy about the English accent. It must have been in London that I met you. I was in the review at the Alhambra last year. By George, I wish I'd seen you. interjected the infatuated nutty. The good sport said she was crazy about London. I seem to remember, went on Miss Leonard, meeting you out at supper. Do you know a man named Delaney in the Coldstream Guards? Bill would have liked to deny all knowledge of Delaney, that the latter was one of his best friends, but his natural honesty prevented him. I'm sure I met you at a supper he gave at Oddy's one Friday night. We all went on to Covent Garden. Don't you remember? Talking of supper, broke in nutty, earning Bill's hearty gratitude thereby. Where's the dashed head waiter? I want to find my table. He surveyed the restaurant with a melancholy eye. Everything's changed. He spoke sadly as Ulysses might have done when his boat put in Ithaca. Every darn thing's different since I was here last. New waiter. Head waiter I never saw before in my life. Different coloured carpet. Cheer up nutty old things, said Miss Leonard. You'll feel better when you've had something to eat. I hope you had the sense to tip the head waiter or there won't be any table. Funny how these places go up and down in New York. A year ago the whole management would turn out and kiss you if you looked like spending a couple of dollars here. Now it cost the earth to get in at all. Why is that? asked nutty. Lady Pauline Weatherby, of course. Didn't you know this was where she danced? Never heard of her, said nutty. In a sort of ecstasy of wistful gloom. I will show you how long I've been away. Who is she? Miss Leonard invoked the name of Mike. Don't you ever get the papers in your village, nutty? I never read the papers. I don't suppose I've read a paper for years. Can't stand them. Who is Lady Pauline Weatherby? She does Greek dances. At least I suppose they're Greek. They all are nowadays, unless they're Russian. She's an English piresse. Miss Leonard's friend said she was crazy about these picturesque old English families. And they went into supper. Looking back on the evening later and reviewing its leading features, Lord Dawlish came to the conclusion that he never completely recovered from the first shock of the good sport. He was conscious all the time of a dreamlike feeling, as if he were watching himself from somewhere outside himself. From some conning tower in this fourth dimension he perceived himself eating boiled lobster and drinking champagne and heard himself bearing an adequate part in the conversation. But his movements were largely automatic. Time passed. It seemed to Lord Dawlish, watching from without, that things were livening up. He seemed to perceive a quickening of the tempo of the revels, and added abandon. Nutty was getting quite bright. He had the air of one who recalls the good old days, of one who in familiar scenes reenacts the joys of his vanished youth. The chastened melancholy induced by many months of fetching pales of water, of scrubbing floors with a mop, and of jumping like a firecracker to avoid excited bees, had been purged from him by the lights and the music and the wine. He was telling a long anecdote, laughing at it, throwing across to bread at an adjacent waiter, and refilling his glass at the same time. It is not easy to do all these things simultaneously, and the fact that Nutty did them with notable success was proof that he was picking up. Miss Daisy Leonard was still demure, but as she had just slipped a piece of ice down the back of Nutty's neck, one may assume that she was feeling at her ease, and had overcome any diffidence or shyness, which might have interfered with her complete enjoyment of the festivities. As for the good sport, she was larger, blonder, and more exuberant than ever, and she was addressing someone as Bill. Perhaps the most remarkable phenomenon of the evening, as it advanced, was the change it brought in Lord Dawlish's attitude towards this same good sport. He was not conscious of the beginning of the change. He awoke to the realization of it suddenly. At the beginning of supper, his views on her had been definite and clear. When they had first been introduced to each other, he had had a stunned feeling that this sort of thing ought not to be allowed at large, and his battered brain had instinctively recalled that line of Tennyson. The curses come upon me. But now, warmed with food and drink, and smoking an excellent cigar, he found that a gentler, more charitable mood had descended upon him. He argued with himself in extenuation of the girl's peculiar idiosyncrasies. Was it, he asked himself, altogether her fault, that she was so massive and spoke as if she were addressing an open-air meeting in a strong gale? Perhaps it was hereditary. Perhaps her father had been a circus giant, and her mother the strong woman of the troupe. And, for the unrestrained of her manner, defective training in early childhood would account. He began to regard her with a quiet, kindly commiseration, which, in its turn, changed into a sort of brotherly affection. He discovered that he liked her. He liked her very much. She was so big and jolly and robust, and spoke in such a clear, full voice. He was glad that she was patting his hand. He was glad that he'd asked her to call him Bill. People were dancing now. It is claimed by patriots that American dyspeptics lead the world. This supremacy, though partly due no doubt to the vast supplies of pie absorbed in youth, may be attributed to a certain extent also to the national habit of dancing during meals. Lord Dawlish had that sturdy reverence for his interior organism, which is the birthright of every Briton. And, at the beginning of supper, he had resolved that nothing should induce him to court disaster in his fashion. But, as time went on, he began to waver. The situation was awkward. Nutty and Miss Leonard were repeatedly leaving the table to tread the measure, and, on these occasions, the good sport's wistfulness was a haunting reproach. Nor was the spectacle of Nutty in action without its effect on Bill's resolution. Nutty dancing was a sight to stir the most stolid. Bill wavered. The music had started again. One of those twentieth-century eruptions of sound that began like a train going through a tunnel, and continued like audible electric shocks, that set the feet tapping beneath the table, and the spine thrilling with an unaccustomed exhilaration. Every drop of blood in his body cried to him, dance. He could resist no longer. Shall we? he said. Bill should not have danced. He was an estimable young man, honest, amiable, with high ideals. He had played an excellent game of football at the university, his golf handicap was plus two, and he was no mean performer with the gloves. But we all of us have our limitations, and Bill had his. He was not a good dancer. He was energetic, but he required more elbow room than the ordinary dancing floor provides. As a dancer, in fact, he closely resembled a newfoundland puppy, trying to run across a field. It takes a good deal to daunt the New York dancing man, but the invasion of the floor by Bill and the good sport undoubtedly caused a profound and even painful sensation. Linked together, they formed a living projectile, which might well have intimidated the bravest. Nutty was their first victim. They caught him in mid-step, one of those fancy steps which he was just beginning to exhume from the cobweb recesses of his memory, and swept him away, after which they descended resistlessly upon a stout gentleman of middle age, chiefly conspicuous for the glittering diamonds which he wore and the stoical manner in which he danced to and fro on one spot, of not more than a few inches in size, in the exact center of the room. He had apparently taken out a claim to this small spot, a claim which the other dancers had decided to respect. But Bill and the good sport, coming up from behind, had him two yards away from it at the first impact. Then, scattering apologies broadcast like a medieval monarch distributing large s, Bill whirled his partner round by sheer muscular force, and began what he intended to be a movement towards the further corner, skirting the edge of the floor. It was his simple belief that there was more safety there than in the middle. He had not reckoned with Heinrich Jörg. Indeed, he was not aware of Heinrich Jörg's existence. Yet fate was shortly to bring them together, with far-reaching results. Heinrich Jörg had left the Fatherland a good many years before with the prudent purpose of escaping military service. After various vicissitudes in the land of his adoption, which it would be extremely interesting to relate, but which must wait for a more favorable opportunity, he had secured a useful and not ill-recompensed situation as one of the staff of Regelheimer's restaurant. He was in point of fact a waiter. And he comes into the story at this point bearing a tray full of glasses, knives, forks, and pats of butter on little plates. He was setting a table for some new arrivals, and in order to obtain more scope for that task, he had left the crowded aisle beyond the table and come round to the edge of the dancing floor. He should not have come onto the dancing floor. In another moment he was admitting that to himself, for just as he was lowering his tray and bending over the table, in the pursuance of his professional duties, along came Bill at his customary high rate of speed, propelling his partner before him, and for the first time, since he left home, Heinrich was conscious of a regret that he had done so. There are worse things than military service. It was the table that saved Bill. He clutched at it, and it supported him. He was thus enabled to keep the good sport from falling, and to assist Heinrich to rise from the morass of glasses, knives, and pats of butter in which he was wallowing. Then the dance having been abandoned by mutual consent, he helped his now somewhat hysterical partner back to their table. Remorse came upon Bill. He was sorry that he had danced, sorry that he had upset Heinrich, sorry that he had subjected the good sports nervous system to such a strain, sorry that so much glass had been broken, and so many pats of butter bruised beyond repair, but of one thing, even in that moment of bleak regrets, he was distinctly glad. And that was that all these things had taken place three thousand miles away from Claire Fenwick. He had not been appearing at his best, and he was glad that Claire had not seen him. As he sat and smoked the remains of his cigar, while renewing his apologies, and explanations to his partner, and soothing the ruffled nutty with well-chosen condolences, he wondered idly what Claire was doing at that moment. Claire, at that moment, having been an astonished eyewitness of the whole performance, was resuming her seat at a table at the other end of the room.