 The Prologue of Jaffrey. This book on which it has pleased you to bestow your special affection I dedicate to you with my love. It is a memory of many happy hours and many dreams that we have shared. You remember how it was begun, one spring morning two years ago, with the opening scene of the first chapter gay before my eyes as I wrote. You remember the excitement of ending it before the Christmas of 1913, so that we could start with free consciences early in the new year on our Egyptian journey. C'est bien loin, tu s'es là. War overtook it in its serial course, and now, in book form, it must go out to the world as an expression of the moods and fancies almost of a past incarnation. These dream figures with whom we delighted, like children, to people our home, are now replaced by other guests tragically real, as big-hearted as those most loved of our shadow folk. Yet sometimes they seem still to live. While correcting the final proofs we have been tempted to modify the end, to bring the story of Jaffrey more or less up to date, but we have felt that any addition would be out of key, so far away from that happy Christmas tide when, in gaiety of heart, I wrote the last words. Yet we know, you and I, that Jaffrey Chayne is even now over there, across the channel. No longer writing of war, but doing his soldier's work in the thick of it, like a gallant gentleman. And don't you feel that one day he will come again, and we shall hear his mighty voice thundering across the lawn? W.J.L. End of the prologue. Chapter 1 of Jaffrey by William John Locke. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Simon Evers. Chapter 1. I received a letter the day before yesterday from my old friend Jaffrey Chayne, which has inspired me to write the following account of that dear, bull-headed, Pantagrullian being. I must say that I have been egged on to do so by my wife, of whom hereafter. A man of my somewhat obeying and did-it-anti-temperament does not do these things without being worried into them. I have the inspiration, however. I told Barbara, my wife, and she agreed at the time, dutifully, that I ought to record our friend Jaffrey's doings. But now, womanlike, she declares that the first suggestion, the root germ of the idea, came from her, that the, egging on, is merely the vain man's way of misdefining a woman's serene insistence, that she has given me out of her intimate knowledge all the facts of the story. Although Jaffrey Chayne and Agent Baldero and poor Tom Cousselton, and others involved in the embroglio, counted themselves as my bosom cronies, while she, poor wretch, a man must get home somewhere, was in the nursery, and that finally, if she had been taught English grammar and dispelling at school, one miraculous morning in late May, not so very many years ago, when the parrot tulips in my garden were expanding themselves wantonly to the sun, and the lilac and the burnum which I caught, as I sat at my table, with the tail of one eye, and the pink may which I caught with the tail of the other, bloomed in splendid arrogance, my quiet outlook on greenery and colour was obscured by a human form. I may mention that my study-table is placed in the bay of a window on the ground floor. It is a French window, opening on a terrace. On the parapet of the terrace, the garden, with its apple and walnut trees, its beaches, its lawns, its beds of tulips, its lilac and the burnum, and may, and all sorts of other pleasant things, slopes lazily upward to a horizon of iron railings separating the garden from a meadow, where now and then a cow, when she desires to be peculiarly agreeable to the sight, poses herself in silhouette against the sky. I like to gaze on that adventitious cow. Her ruminatory attitude falls in with mine. But I digress. I'd lanced up at the obscuring human form and recognised my wife. She looked, I must confess, remarkably pretty, with her fair hair blonde comme liblée, and her mocking cornflower blue eyes, and her mutinous mouth, which has never yet, after all these years, assumed a responsible parent's austerity. She wore a fresh white dress with coquettish bits of blue about the bodice. In her hand she grasped a dilapidated newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, which looked as if she had been to bed in it. Am I disturbing you, Hillary?" She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of spring, a quick incarnation of pink may, and forget-me-n-open labyrinum, that I put down my pen and smiled. You are, my dear," said I, but it doesn't matter. What are you doing?" she remained on the threshold. I'm writing my presidential address, said I, for the grand meeting next month of the Hayfitz Society. I wonder, said Barbara, why Hayfitz always makes me think of Sherbert. I remonstrated waving a dismissing hand. If that's all you've got to say—but it isn't. She crossed the threshold, stepped in, switched round the end of my long oak table, and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely at my chair. Then what is it? I asked. Have you read the paper this morning? I glanced through the times, said I. She patted her handful of bed-clothing, and let fall a blanket and a bedspread or two. Look at my beautifully orderly folded times, said I, with an indicator adjuster. She looked and sniffed, and she had vellum-brosser leaves of the daily telegraph about the library, until she had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a mangled sheet before my eyes. There! she cried. What do you think of that? What do I think of what? I asked regarding the acre of print. Adrien Baldero has written a novel. Adrien, said I, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrien is capable of anything. Anything he did would ever surprise me. He might write a sonnet to a royal princess's first set of false teeth, or steal the tin-cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would still be the same beautiful, charming, futile Adrien. Barbara pished and insisted. But this is apparently a wonderful novel. There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding book published in our generation. Look! A work of genius. Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrien. Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, flusting the paper at me in a superior manner. I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himself Adrien Baldero had written a novel called The Diamond Gate, which are usually say in a distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius. She sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. The review impressed me. Barbara, my dear," said I, this is somebody else, not our Adrien. How many people in the world are called Adrien Baldero? Thousands," said I. She pished again and tossed her pretty head. I'll go and telephone straight away to Adrien and find out all about it. She departed through the library door into the recesses of the house where the telephone had its being. I resumed consideration of my presidential address. But Hayfidd saluted me, and Adrien occupied my thoughts. I took up the paper and read the review again. And the more I read, the more absurd it seemed to me that the author of The Diamond Gate and my Adrien Baldero could be one of the same person. You see, we had all four of us, Adrien, Geoffrey Chain, Tom Castleton, and myself, been at Cambridge together, and formed after the manner of youth a somewhat incongruous brotherhood. We knew one another's shortcomings to a nicety, and whenever three of the quartets were gathered together, the physical prowess, the morals, and the intellectual capacity of the absent fourth were discussed with admirable lack of reticence. So came to pass that we gauged one another pretty accurately, and remained devoted friends. There were other men, of course, on the fringe of the brotherhood, and each of us had our little separate circle. We did not form a mutual admiration society and advertise ourselves as a kind of exclusive, ethos, porthos, army, and d'Artagnan swashbucklery. But in a quiet way we recognised our quadruple union of hearts, and talked amazing, rubbish, and committed unspeakable acts of lunacy, and dreamed impossible dreams in a very delightful and perhaps unsuspected intimacy. We were now in our middle and late thirties, also of Port Tom Carlson, over whom, in an alien grave, the years of the Lord passed unheeded. Poor old chap! He was the son of an acting manager of a well-known theatre, and used to talk to us of the starry theatre folk, his family intimates, as though they were haphazard occupants of an omnibus. How we envied him! And he was forever writing plays which he read to us, which plays, I remember, were always on the verge of being produced by Irving. We believed in him firmly. He alone of the little crew had a touch of genius. Blond, bull-naked Jaffrey, who rode in the college boat, and would certainly have got his blue if he had been amenable to discipline, and, because he was not, got sent down ingloriously from the university at the beginning of his third year, certainly did not show a sign of it. Irving was a bit unaccountable. He wrote poems for the Cambridge Review, and became vice-president of the Union. But he ran disastrously to fancy waist-cuts, and shuddered at Dickens, because his style was not that of Walter Pater. For myself, Hilary Freeth, well, I am a happy non-entity. I have a very mild scholarly taste, which, sufficient to private means, accruing to me through my late father's acumen in buying a few founder's shares in a now colossal, universal providing emporium, enable me to gratify. I am a harmless person of no account. But the other three mattered. They were definite. Jaffrey, blatantly definite, Adrian Baldaro in his queer, silky way, incisively definite, Tom Carlson romantically definite, and poor old Tom was dead, dear impossible feckless fellow. He took a first class in the classical tripos, and we thought his brilliant career was assured. But somehow circumstances baffled him. He had a terrible time for a dozen years or so, taking pupils, acting, freelancing, and journalism. His father, having in the meanwhile, died suddenly penniless. And then fortune smiled on him. He secured a professorship at an Australian university. The three of us, Jaffrey and Adrian and I, saw him off at Southampton. He never reached Australia. He died on the voyage. Poor old Tom. So I sat with the review of Adrian's book before me, looking out at my present garden, and my mind went irresistibly back to the old days, and then wandered on to the present. Tom was dead. I flourished, a comfortable cumbrer of the earth. Jaffrey was doing something idiotically desperate somewhere or the other. He was a war correspondent by trade, as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot cross buns, and a desperado by predilection. I had not heard of him for a year. And now Adrian, if indeed the Adrian Baldera over the review was he, had written an epoch-making novel. But Adrian, the precious finicking Adrian, how on earth could he have written this same epoch-making novel? Beyond out he was a clever fellow. He had obtained a first class in the law-tripals and a dumb-world in his bar examination. But after fourteen years or so he was making tough-and-sape-nipper animate his profession. He made another three farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines. He dined out a great deal, and spent much of his time at country houses, being a very popular and agreeable person. His other means of livelihood consisted of an alliance of four hundred a year made by his mother. Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself. And now— It is Adrian, cried my wife, bursting into the library. I knew it was. He's had several other glorious reviews which we haven't seen. Isn't it splendid? Our eyes danced with loyalty and gladness. Now that I too knew it was our Adrian, I caught her enthusiasm. Splendid, I echoed, to think of old Adrian making good at last. I'm more than glad. Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book. Adrian is bringing one with him. He's coming down to dine and stay the night. He said he had an engagement, but I told him it was rubbish, and he's coming. Barbara had a despotic way with her men friends, especially with Adrian and Geoffrey, who each after his kind paid her very pretty homage. And now I've got a hundred things to do, so you must excuse me," said Barbara, for all the world as if I had invited her into my library, and was detaining her against her will. My reply was smilingly ironical. She disappeared. I returned to Hayfitz. Soon a bumblebee, a great fellow, splendid in gold and black and crimson, blundered into the room, and immediately made furious racket against a window-pane. Now I can't concentrate my mind on serious things as there's a bumblebee buzzing about. So I had to get up and devote it to ten minutes to persuading the dunderhead to leave the glass and establish himself firmly onto the piece of paper that would waft him into the open air and sunlight. When I lost sight of him in the glad greenery, I again came back to my work. But two minutes afterwards, my little seven-year-old daughter, rather the worse for amateur gardening, and holding a cage of white mice in her hand, appeared on the threshold, smiled at me with refreshing absence of apology, darted in, dumped the white mice on an open volume of my precious Turner McCain's edition of Ferdici, and clambering into my lap and seizing pencil and paper, instantly ordained my participation in her favorite game of head, body, and legs. An hour afterwards a radiant angel of a nurse claimed her for purposes of ablution. I once more returned to Hayfitz. Then Barbara put her head in at the door. Have you thought how delighted Doria will be? I haven't, said I. I have more important things to think about. But, said Barbara, entering and closing the door with soft deliberation behind her, and coming to my side, if Adria makes a big success, they'll be able to marry. Well, said I. Well, said she, with a different intonation, don't you see? See what? It is wise to irritate your wife on occasion so as to manifest your superiority. Barbara shook me by the collar and stamped her foot. Don't you care a bit whether your friends get married or not? Not a bit, said I. Barbara lifted the McCain's for D.C., still suffering at the desecration of the forgotten cage of white mice, onto my manuscript, and hoisted herself on the clear corner of the table. Doria is my dearest friend. She did my sumps for me at school, although I was three years older. If it hadn't been for us, she and Adria would never have met. That's what I admit, I interrupted. But having started on the path of crime, we're not bound to pursue it to the end. You're simply horrid," she cried, but we've talked for years of the sad story of these two poor young things, and now, when there's a chance of their marrying, you say you don't care a bit. My dear, said I, rising, what with you and Adria and a bumblebee and the child and two white mice, and now Doria? My morning's work is ruined. Let us guide her to the garden and watch the starlings resting in the walnut trees. Incidentally, we might discuss Doria and Adria. Now you're talking sense, said Barbara. So we went into the garden and discussed the formation next autumn of a new rose-bed. By the afternoon train came Adria impeccably vestured and feverish with excitement. Two evening papers which he brandished nervously proclaimed the Darman Gate a masterpiece. The book had been only out a week. The country mice knew nothing of it. And already, so his publisher informed him, repeat-orders were coming in from the libraries and distributing abjence. Vittacind, my publisher, which it seems is going to be the biggest thing my first novels ever known. And though I say it, I shouldn't, dear old Hillary, he slapped me on the shoulder. It's a damn fine book. I shall always remember him, as he said this, in the pride of his manhood, a defiant triumph in his eyes, his head thrown back, and a smile revealing the teeth below his well-trimmed moustache. He had conquered at last. He put poor old Geoffrey and fortune favoured me in the shade. At one leap he had mounted to planes beyond our dreams. All this, his attitude, Vittacind. He removed the hand from my shoulder and flourished it in a happy gesture. My fortune's made, he cried. But my dear fellow, I asked, why have you sprung this surprise on us? I had no idea you were writing a novel. He laughed. And though I had, not even Doria, it was on her again, and I kept it secret. I didn't want to arouse a possible false hope. It's very simple. Besides, I'd like being a dark horse, it's exciting. Did you remember how paralysed you all were when I got my first at Cambridge? Everybody thought I hadn't done a stroke of work, but I had sweated like mad all the time. This was quite true. The sudden brilliance of the end of Adrian's university career had dazzled the whole of his acquaintance. Barbara, impatient of retrospect, came to the all-important point. How did Doria take it? He turned on her and beamed. He was one of those dapper, slim-built men who can turn with quick grace. Ah! Jesus, please, just punch! Gave it to old man Johnny Croft to read and insisted on his reading it. He's impressed. Never thought I had it in me. Can't see, however, where the commercial van of it comes in. Wait till you show him your first thumping check, sympathize my wife. I'm going to, he exclaimed boishly, I might have done it this afternoon. Fittekine was off his head with delight, and I had asked him to give me a bogus check for ten thousand to show to old man Johnny Croft. He would have written it without a murmur. How much did he really write a check for this afternoon? I asked, knowing as I have said before by Edgion. Barbara looked shocked. Hillary! She remonstrated. But Edgion laughed in high good humour. He gave me a hundred pounds on account. That won't impress Mr. Johnny Croft at all, said I, and impressed my tailor who cashed it deducting a quarter of his bill. Do you mean to say, my dear Edgion, I questioned, that you went to your tailor with a check for a hundred pounds and said, I wanted to pay you a quarter of what I owe you. Would you give me change? Of course. But why didn't you pass the check through your banking account and post him your own check? Did you ever hear such an innocent? He cried gaily. I wanted to impress him, I did. One must do these things with an air. He stuffed my pockets with notes and gold. There'd never been any one so all-ever money as I am at this particular minute. And then I gave him an order of half a dozen suits straight away. Good God! I cried aghast. I've never had six suits of clothes at a time since I was born. A more shame for you. Look! said he, drawing my wife's attention to my comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment. I love you, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame. Henry! said my wife. The next time you go to town, you'll order half a dozen suits, and I'll come with you to see you do it. Who is your tailor, Edgion? He gave the address. The best in London. And if you go to him with my introduction. Good Lord! It seemed to amuse him vastly. I can order half a dozen more. All this seemed to me who am not devoid of a sense of humour and an appreciation of the pleasant flippances of life, somewhat futile and frothy talk, unworthy of the author of The Diamond Gate and the lover of Doria Jornicroft. I expressed this opinion, and Barbara for once agreed with me. Yes, let us be serious. In the first place you ordered to allude to Doria's father as old man, Jornicroft. It isn't respectful. But I don't respect him. Who could? He's bursting with money, but won't give Doria a farthing, won't hear of our marriage, and practically forbids me the house. What possible feeling can one have for an old insect like that? I've never seen any reason, said Barbara, who is a brave little woman, why Doria shouldn't run away and marry you. She would like a shot, cried Agent, but I won't let her. How can I allow her to rush to the martyrdom of married misery on four hundred a year, which I don't even earn? I looked at my watch. It's time, my friends, to die, to dress for dinner. Afterwards we can continue the discussion. In the meantime I'll order up some of the eighty-nine Paul Roger, so that we can drink to the success of the book. The eighty-nine Paul Roger, so cried Agent, a man with eighty-nine Paul Roger in his cellar is the noblest work of God. I was thinking, Barbara Remault-Dreilly, of asking Doria to spend a few days here next week. All I can say is, he retorted with his quick turn and smile, that you are the divinity itself. So, a short time afterwards, a very happy Agent sat down to dinner, and brought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas, historical wine, and whose influence he expanded and told us of the genesis and the making of the Diamond Gate. Now, it is a very odd coincidence. One however which had little of anything to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairs into which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence, all the same, that I'm passing from the dining-room with Adrien to join Barbara in the drawing-room. I found among the last post-letters lying on the hall-table one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrien's eyes. Do you recognise the handwriting? Good Lord! cried he. It's from Jaffrey Chain. And he scanned the stamp and post-mark from Kettingey. What the juice is he doing there? Let us see, said I. I opened the letter and scanned it through. And I read it aloud. Dear Hillary, a little to let you know that I'm coming back soon, I haven't quite finished my job. What was his job? Heaven knows, I replied. The last time I heard from him he was cruising about the Sargasso Sea. I resumed my reading. For the usual reason a woman. If it wasn't for women what a thundering amount of work a man could get through. Anyhow, I'm coming back with an encumbrance, a wife. Not my wife, thank Olympus, but another man's wife. Poor old devil! cried Adrien. I knew he would come a muck on one of these days. Wait! said I. And I read. Poor Prescott's wife. I don't think you ever knew Prescott, but he was a good sort. He died of typhoid. Only quaggers and yaks and other un-gutted creatures like myself can stand Albania. I'm escorting her to England, so look out for us. How's everybody? Did you ever hear of Adrien? If so, collar him. I wanted to work the widow off on him. She has a goodish deal of money and is a kind of human dynamo. The best thing in the world for Adrien. Adrien confided the fellow. I continued. Prepare then for the dynamic widow. Love to Barbara, the fairy grasshopper. Who's that? My daughter, Susan Freeth. The last time he saw her she was hopping about in a green jumper. Barbara will give you the elementary costume's commercial name. Um, and yourself, I read. By the way, do you know of a granite-built, arm-gated, porcolist, Barbican, really comfortable home for widows? Yours, Jaffrey. Without waiting for comment from Adrien, I went with the letter into the drawing-room, he following. I handed it to Barbara, who ran it through. That's just like Jaffrey. He tells us nothing. I think he has told us everything, said I. But who and what and whence is this lady? Goodness knows, said I. Therefore he has told us nothing, retorted Barbara. My own belief is that she's a Brazilian. But what, asked Adrien, would a lone Brazilian female be doing in the Balkans? Looking for a husband, of course, said Barbara. Like all wise men, when staggered by serene feminine as separation, we bowed our heads and agreed that nothing could be more obvious. CHAPTER II Some weeks passed, but we heard no more of Jaffrey's chain. If he had planted his widow there in Kachinji and gone off to Central Africa, we would not have been surprised. On the other hand he might have walked in at any minute, just as though he lived round the corner and had dropped him casually to see us. In the meantime, events have moved rapidly for Adrien. Everybody was talking about his book, everybody was buying it. The rare phenomenon of the instantaneous success of a first book by an unknown author was occurring also in America. Golden opinions were being backed by golden cash. Adrien continued to draw on his publishers who, fortunately for them, had an American house. Anticipating possible alluring proposals from other publishers, they offered what to him were dazzling and fantastic terms for his next two novels. He accepted. He went about the world wearing fortune like a halo. He achieved sudden fame, fame so widespread that Mr. Jornicroft heard of it in the city, where he promoted, and still promotes, companies with monotonous success. The result was an interview to which Adrien came wisely armed with a note from his publisher as to sales up to date, and the amazing contract which he had just signed. He left the house with a father's blessing in his ears and an affiant bride's kisses on his lips. The wedding was fixed for September. Adrien declared himself to be the happiest of God's creatures and spent his days in joy-sodden idleness. His mother, with tears in her eyes, increased his allowance. The book that created all this commotion, I frankly admit, held me spellbound. It deserved the highest in communes by the most enthusiastic reviewers. It was one of the most irresistible books I had ever read. It was a modern high romance of love and pity, of tears iridescent with laughter, of strong and beautiful, though earring, souls. It was at once poignant and tender. It vibrated with drama. It was instinct with calm and kindly wisdom. In my humility I found I had not known my age in one little bit. As the shepherd of old who had a sort of patronising affection for the irresponsible, dancing, flute-playing, goat-footed creature of the woodland was stricken with panic when he recognised the God, so was I convulsed when I recognised the genius of my friend Adrien. And the fellow still went on dancing and flute-playing, and I stared at him open-mouthed. Mr. Johnnycroft, who was a widower, gave a great dinner-part at his house in Park Crescent in honour of the engagement. My wife and I attended, fishes somewhat out of water amid this brilliant but solid assembly of what it pleased Barbara to call merchantates. She expressed a desire to shrink out of the glare of the diamonds, but she wore her grandmother's pearls, and being by far the youngest and prettiest mate from present, held her own with the best of them. There were stout women, thin women, white-haired women, women who ought to have been white-haired but were not, sprightly and fashionable women, but besides Barbara the only other young woman was Doria herself. She took us aside as soon as we were released from the former welcome of Mr. Johnnycroft, a thick-set man with a very bald head and heavy black moustache. The sight of you two is like a breath of fresh air. Did you ever meet with anything so stuffy? Now, considering that all these prosperous folks have come to do a homage, I thought the remark rather ungracious. It's apt to be stuffy in July, in London, I said. I circulated a hand on Barbara's wrist and pointed at me with her fan. He thinks he's rebuking me, but I don't care. I'm glad to see him all the same. These people mean nothing but money and music halls and bridge and restaurants. I'm so sick of it. You two mean something else. Don't speak sacrilegiously of restaurants, even though you are going to marry a genius, said I. There is one in Paris to which age you will take you straight, like a homing-bird. Whatever age one takes me it will be beautiful," she said defiantly. My little critical humour vanished, for she looked so valiantly adorable in her love for the man. She was very small and slenderly made, with dark hair, luminous eyes and ivory white complexion, a sensitive nose and mouth, a wisp of nerves and passion. She carried her head high, and for so diminutive a person appeared vastly important. One released from an ex-lady mares came up all smiles to greet us. Doria gave him a glance which in spite of my devotion to Barbara and my abhorrence of hair's breadth's deviation from strict monogamy, dealt me a pang of unregenerate jealousy. There's only one man in the universe worthy of being so regarded by a woman, and he is oneself. Every true-minded man would agree with me. She was inordinately proud of him, proud too of herself in that she had believed in him and given him her love long before he became famous. Adrienne's eyes softened as they met the glance. He turned to Barbara. Isn't it a crowd like this that she looks so mysterious and elemental? But whether of earth, air, fire or water, I shall spend my life trying to discover. The faintest flush possible mounted to that pure ivory white cheek of hers. She laughed and caught me by the arm. I must carry you to Lady Bagsaw. You're taking her into dinner. Her husband is master of the organ grinder's company. No, no, Doria, said I. Well, some city company, I don't know, and she is a museum of diseases and a guzzard here of pure places. Now you know where you are. She let me to Lady Bagsaw. Soon afterwards we trooped down to dinner, during which I learned more of my inside than I knew before, and more of that of Lady Bagsaw than any of her most fervent adorers in their wildest dreams could have ever hoped to ascertain. During which also I endeavored to convince an unknown but agreeable lady on my left that I did not play polo, whereas it seemed her eight brothers were experts, and that Emma Kayam was a contemporary not of the prophet Isaiah, but of William the Conqueror. As for the setting, I'm not a observant man, but I had an impression of much gold and silver and rare flora on the table. Great gold frames enclosing, I doubt not, costly pictures on the walls. Many desirable jewels on undesirable bosoms, strong though unsympathetic masculine faces, and such food and drink as Lusulus, poor fellow, did not live long enough to discover. When the ladies retired and we moved up towards our host, I found myself between two groups, one discussing the mercantile depravity of a gentleman called Wilmot, of whom I had never heard, the other arguing on dark dilemmas connected with an Abyssinian loan. A vacant chair happening to be by my side, Adrian, glass in hand, came round the table and sat down. How are you getting on? Well, said I, very well. I sipped my port. I recognized Coburn in 1870. You seem rather to lose hand. When one has 1870 ports to drink, said I, why frit it away its flavour in vain words? It is damn good port, Adrian admitted. Earth holds nothing better, said I. We lapsed into silence and the talk on each side of us. I confess that I rather surrender myself to the wine. A little taper for cigarettes happened to be in front of me. I held my glass in its light and lost myself in the wine's pure depths of mystery and colour, and my mind wandered to the lusty sunshine of Lusitanean summers that was there imprisoned. I inhaled its fragrance. I accepted its exquisite and spacious generosity. Wine, like bread and oil, God's three chief words, is a thing of itself, a thing of earth and air and sun, one of the great natural things, such as the stars and the flowers and the eyes of a dog. Even the most mouth-twisting new wine of northern Italy has its fascination for me, in that it is essentially something apart from the dust and empty racket of the world. How much more than this radiant vintage suddenly awakened from its slumber in the darkness of forty years! So I amused, as I think an honest man is justified in musing, soberly, over a great wine, when suddenly my left eye caught Adrian's face. He too was musing, but musing on unhappy things, for a hand seemed to have swept his face and wiped the joy from it. He was gazing at his half-emptied glass, with the short stem of which his fingers were nervously towing. There was a quick snap. The stem broke, and the wine flowed over the cloth. He started, and with a flash the old agent came back, manifesting itself in his smiling dismay, his boyish apology to Mr. Johnnycroft for smashing a rare glass, spoiling the tablecloth, and wasting precious wine. The incident served to disintegrate, as one might say, the two discussions on Wilmot and Abyssinia. Coffee came, and the cures. I bade farewell to Lucitanian dreams, and found myself in heart-to-heart conversation with my neighbour on the right, a florid, simple-minded sugar-broker, a certain next year's sheriff of the city of London, whose consuming ambition was to become a member of the Atheneum Club. When I informed him that I was privileged to enter that valley of dry bones, my late father, an eminent asyriologist, and a disastrous master of foxhounds, had put me out for all sorts of weird institutions, I think, before I was born, my sugar-broker almost fared at my feet and worshipped me. Although I told him that the premises were overrun with bishops, and that we had laid down all kinds of episcopicide to no avail, he refused to be disillusioned. I told him that on my last visit to the Megatherium, Thackeray, I explained, a royal academician with whom I had a slight acquaintance, reading Desilet the Hibbert Journal in the smoking-room, embraced me as fondly as the austerity of the place permitted, and related a non-drawing-room story which was current at my preparatory school, and that in the library I ran into an equally Desilet, though even less familiar, Archdeacon, who sees me, like the ancient mariner, and never let me go until he had impressed upon my mind the name and address of the only man in London who could cut clerical gaiters. Without the simple child of sugar would have his way, there was but one Valhalla in London, and it was built by Decimus Burton. After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half-hour or so, and then Barbara and I took our leave. As we were motoring home, we lived some thirty miles out of London, we discussed the dinner-party according to the way of married folks, homebound after a feast, and I mentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass. Archdeacon's face had been so haggard when he had everything to make him happy. He was thinking of Mr. Johnny Cross's previous insulting behaviour. How do you know? He told me, said Barbara. I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive, said I. It strikes me, my dear," replied Barbara, taking my hand, that you are an old ignoramus. And this, from a woman who actively glories and not knowing how many hours there are in a harassed. She nestled up to me. We're not going abroad in August, are we? What! I cried. Leave the English country during the only part of the year that is not deformed with dripping rains or withered by a frost? Certainly not. But we did last year and the year before. Pure accident! The year before Susan was recovering from the measles, and you had some pretty frocks which you thought would look lovely at Dina. And last year you also had some frocks, and insisted that Hullgate was the only place where Susan could avoid being stricken down by scarred at fever. Anyhow, said my wife, we're not going away this year, for I fixed up with Doria and Adrian to spend August at Northlands. Why didn't you tell me so at once? Why did you ask me whether we were going away? Because I knew we weren't," she answered. In putting two questions at the same time I blundered. The first was a poser and might have elicited some interesting revelation of feminine mental process. In forlorn hope I repeated it. Why, I've told you, stupid," said Barbara. You've no objection to that coming, have you? Good Lord, no, I'm delighted. From the way you've argued any one would have thought you didn't want them. Outraged by the illogic, I gasped. But she broke into a laugh. He used silly old Hillary," she said. Don't you see that Doria must get her trucer together and an agent must find a house or a flat that has to be decorated and furnished, and the poor child hasn't a mother or any sensible woman in the world to look after her but me? I see," said I, that you intend having the time of your life. My provision proved correct. In August came the engaged couple, and every day Barbara took them up to town and whirled them about from house agent to house agent until she found a flat to suit them, and then from emporium to emporium until she found furniture to suit the flat, and from raiment-vendor to raiment-vendor until she equipped Doria to suit the furniture. She used to return almost speechless with exhaustion, but pantingly and with the glaze of victory in her eyes, she fought all her battles ear again and told of Bargin's one. In the meantime had it not been for Susan, I should have lived in the solitude of an anchor-right. We spent much time in the garden, which we, she less conscious of irony than I, called our desert island. I was Robinson Crusoe, and she was Man Friday, and on the hull we were quite happy. Perhaps I should have been happier in a temperature of eighty degrees in the shade if I had not been forced to wear the polar bear rug from the drawing-room in representation of Crusoe's goat-skins. I did suggest that I should be Robinson Crusoe's brother, who wore ordinary flannels, and that she should be woman, Wednesday. But Susan saw through the sub-diffuse, and that game didn't work. One afternoon, however, Barbara, returning earlier than usual, caught us at it, and expressing horror and indignation of the uses to which the bear-skin was put, metaphorically whipped me and sent me to bed as being the elder of the naughty ones. After that we played at fairies in a glade, which was much cooler. It was in the evenings that I was loneless, for then Barbara went early to bed, and the lovers strolled about together in the moonlight. With the intention, half malicious, half pitiful, of filling up my time, Doria taught me a new and complicated patience. Then finally, when Doria, having spent a couple of polite minutes in the drawing-room, had retired, and when I was tarred out from the strain of the day and half asleep through weariness, Adrian would mitch himself the longest possible brandy and soda, light the longest possible cigar, and try to keep me up all night, listening to his conversation. At last, one Friday evening, while I was engaged in my forlorn and unprofitable game, the butler entered the drawing-room with unperturbed announcement. "'Mr. Chain on the telephone, sir.' I sent the card-table flying amid the wreckage of my layout, and rushed to the telephone. "'Hello, that's you, Jeff.' "'Yes, old man, very much me. A devil of a lot of me. How are you?' His strong bass boomed through the receiver. I have always found a queer comfort in Jeffery's voice. It wraps you round about in thundering waves. We exchanged the common places of delighted greeting. I asked, "'Where did you arrive?' "'A couple of days ago.' "'Why on earth didn't you let me know at once?' I heard him laugh. "'I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, can Barbara have me for the weekend?' That was like Jeffery. His men would have asked me, taking Barbara for granted. "'Barbara would have you for the rest of time,' said I, and so would Susan. "'I'll expect you by the eleven o'clock train.' "'Right,' said he. "'And I say?' "'Yes.' "'Talking of fair ladies, what about?' "'Oh, hell!' came Jeffery's great voice. "'She's here right enough.' "'Where?' I asked. "'Zavoy. So is Euphemia.' Euphemia was Jeffery's unmarried sister, as liked to her brother as the little wise-and-raison is to a fat-bursting musket-grape. "'Ephemia has taken her on, wants to convert her.' "'Good Lord!' I cried. "'Is she a turk?' "'She's a problem. Ha-ha-ha!' And his great laugh vibrated to my ears. "'Why not bring her down with Euphemia?' "'I want a couple of days off. I want a good quiet time with no female women about, save Barbara and my fairy-gross-hopper, whom, as you know, I love to distraction.' "'But will Euphemia be all right with her?' "'I had not the faintest notion what kind of a creature the problem was.' "'Writer's reign. Euphemia has fixed up to take her to-morrow-night to a lecture on Tolstoy, the Lyceum Club, and to the City Temple on Sunday. Ha-ha-ha!' His hameric laughter must have shattered the trunk-telephone system of Great Britain. For after that there was silence, cold and merciless. Well, perhaps it was just as well, for if we had been allowed to converse further, I might have told him that another female woman, Doria Jornicroft, was staying at Northlands, and he might not have come. Jaffrey was always a queer fish where women were concerned, not a chilly, fishy fish, but a sort of Laodicean fish, now hot, now cold. I have seen him shrink like a sensitive plant in the presence of an ingenue of nineteen, and roister in pantegrulium fashion with a mature member of the chorus of the parish opera. I have also known him to fly, ascared Joseph, from the allurements of the charming wife of a right-honorable Sir Cornifer Potifar, GCMG, and sigh like a furnace in front of an obdurate little milliner's place of business in Bond Street. I do not for the world which it should be supposed that I am insinuating that my dear old Jaffrey had no morals. He had lots of them. He was stuffed with them. But what they were, neither he nor I nor anyone else was ever able to define. As a general rule, however, he was shy of strange women, and to that category did Doria belong. When the lovers came in I told them my news. Adrian expressed extravagant delight. A little tiny cloud flitted over Doria's brow. "'Shall I like him?' she asked. "'He'll adore him!' cried Adrian. "'I'll try to, dear, because he seems to mean so much to you. Are you going up to town with us to-morrow?' "'There's only a morning's fitting and a dress-maker. No place for me,' he laughed. "'I'll stay and welcome old Jaffrey.'" Again the most transient of tiny little clouds. But I could not help thinking that if Jaffrey had been a woman, instead of a mere man, there would have been a thunderstorm. When Mirolo Adrian threw himself into a chair. "'Women are funny beings,' he said. "'I do believe Doria is jealous of old Jaffrey.' "'There may be reason to be proud,' said I, of your psychological acumen." CHAPTER III A fair bearded red-faced blue-eyed grinning jant got out of the train, and catching sight of us ran up and laid a couple of great sun-glazed hands on my shoulders. "'Hello, hello, hello,' he shouted, and gripping Adrian in his turn, shouted it again. He made such an uproar that people stuck wandering heads out of the carriage-windows. Then he thrust himself between us, linked our arms in his, and made us charge with him down the quiet country-platform. A porter followed with his suitcase. "'Why didn't you tell me that the man of fame was with you?' "'I thought I'd give you a pleasant surprise,' said I. "'I met Robson of the Embassy in Constantinople. You remember Robson of Pembroke, fussy little cocksparrow? He'd just come from England and was full of it. He seemed to have got him in the neck, bully, bully!' Adrian took advantage of the narrow width of the exit to release himself, and I, who went on with Jaffrey, looking back, saw him rub himself roofly, as though he'd be mauled by a bear. "'And how's everybody?' Jaffrey's voice reverberated through the subway. "'Barbara and the ferry-gross-hopper—loy to see them. That's the pool of being free. You can adopt other fellows' wives and families. I'm coming home now to my adopted wife and daughter. How are they?' I answered explicitly. He boomed on till we reached the station-yard, where his eye fell upon a familiar object. "'What?' cried he. "'Have you still got the Chinese puff-hard?' The vehicle, thus disrespectfully alluded to, was an ancient, car, the pride of many a year ago, which, sentiment, together with the impossibility of finding a purchaser, would not allow me to sell. It had been a splendid thing in those far-off days. It kept me in health. It made me walk miles and miles along unknown and unfrequented roads. In the aggregate I must have spent months of my life doing physical culture exercises underneath it. You got into it at the back. It was about ten feet high, and you started it at the side by a handle in its mid-riff. But I loved it. It still went, if treated kindly. Barbara loathed it and insulted it, so that with her as passenger it sulked and refused to go. But Susan's adoration surpassed even mine. His demoniac groans and rattles and convulsive quakings appealed to her unspoiled sense of adventure. "'Barbara's gone away with the Daimler,' said I, and as I couldn't keep a fleet of cars, I had to choose between this and the donkey-cart. Get in, and don't be so fastidious, unless you're afraid.' He took no kind of my sarcasm. His face fell. He made no attempt to enter the car. "'Barbara gone away?' I burst out laughing. His disappointment at not being welcomed by Barbara at Northlands was so genuine, so childishly unconcealed. She'll be back in time for lunch. She had up to run up to town on business. She sent you her love, and Susan will do the honors.' His face brightened. "'That's all right. But you gave me a shock—Northlands without Barbara?' He shook his head. We drove off. The Chinese Puffhard excelled herself, and though she choked asthmatically, did not really stop once until we were half way up the drive, when I abandoned her to the gardeners, who later on harnessed the donkey to her and pulled her into the motor-house. We dismounted, however, in the drive. A tiny figure and a blue smock came scuttling over the sloping lawn. The next thing I saw was the small blue patch somewhere in the upland region of Jaffrey's Beard. Then boomed forth from him, idiotic exclamations, which were not worth chronically, accompanied by a duet of base and treble laughter. Then he set her astride of his bull-neck and pitched his soft felt-hat to Adrian to hold. I honed my hair—it won't hurt," he commanded. She obeyed literally, clawing two handfuls with his thick ready shock in her tiny grasp, and Jaffrey lumbered along like an elephant with a robin on his head, unconscious of her weight. We mounted to the terrace in front of the house, and having established my guests in easy chairs, I went indoors to order such drink as would be refreshing on a sultry August noon. When I returned I found Jaffrey, with Susan on his knee, questioning Adrian after the manner of her primitive savage on the subject of the Diamond Gate. An Adrian delighted at the opportunity, dazzling our simple-minded friend with published statistics. "'And you're writing another? Deep down in another?' asked Jaffrey. "'Do you know, Susie, Uncle Adrian had just got to take a pen and jab it into a piece of paper, and, chick, up comes a golden sovereign every time he does it.'" Adrian turned her serene gaze on Adrian. "'Do it now,' she commanded. "'I haven't got a pen,' said he. "'I'll fetch you one from Daddy's study,' she said, sliding from Jaffrey's knee. Both Jaffrey and Adrian looked scared. I, who was not the father of a feminine thing of seven years old for nothing, interposed, I think, rather tactfully. Uncle Adrian can only do it with a great gold pen, and poor old Daddy hasn't got one. "'I call that silly,' replied my daughter. "'Uncle Jaffrey, have you got one?' "'No, Siddy. You have to be born like Uncle Adrian with a golden pen in your mouth.'" The lucky advent of the archangel Gabriel, with a grin on his face and a doll in his mouth. The archangel Gabriel, commonly known as Gabs, and so termed on account of his archie-angelic disposition, a hideous mongrel with a white patch over one eye and a brown patch over the other, with the nose of a collie and the legs of a great dain and the tail of a fox-terrier, whose mongreldom, however, Adrian repudiated by the bold assertion that he was a Zanzibar bloodhound, the lucky advent of this pampered and over-affectionate quadruped directed Susan's mind from the somewhat difficult conversation. She ran off forthwith to the rescue of her doll, but later, I heard, her nurse was so put at it to explain the mystery of the golden pen. "'So much for Adrian. I'm tired of the orytheris person,' said I, waving a hand. "'What about yourself? What about the dynamic widow?' "'Oh, damn the dynamic widow,' he replied, colegating his serene and sunburned forehead. "'I've come down here to forget her. I'll tell you about her later.'" Then he grinned in his silly, familiar way, showing two rows of astonishingly white, strong teeth between the hair on lip and chin. "'Well,' said I, at any rate, give some account of yourself. "'What were you doing in Albania, for instance?' "'Prospecting,' said he. "'In what? Gold, coal, iron?' "'War,' said he. "'There's going to be a hell of a bust-up one of these days, or one of these days very soon, in the Balkans. From Scutare to Salonica to Roderesto, the whole blooming triangle, it's going to be a battlefield. The war correspondent who goes out there not knowing his ground would be a silly ass. A slim statesman like me won't. See? So poor old Prescott—you must know Prescott of Reuters. Anyhow, that was the chap. Poor old Prescott and I went out exploring. When he pegged out with enteric, I hadn't finished. So I dumped his widow down at Sucingio, where I have some pals, and started out again on my own—that all." He filled another pint tumbler with the iced liquid. One always had to provide largely for Jaffrey's needs. And poured it down his throat. "'I don't call that a very picturesque kind of your adventures,' said Adrien. Jaffrey grinned. "'I'll tell you all sorts of funny things if you'll give me time,' said he, wiping his lips with a vast red and white handkerchief about the size of a ship's Union jack. But we did not give him time. We plied him with questions, and for the next hour he entertained us pleasantly with stories of his wanderings. He had a rabilation way of laughing over most of his experiences, even those which had a touch of the gruesome. And the laughter got into his speech, as though many amusing episodes were told in the roars of a hilarious lion. Presently the familiar sound of the horn announced the return of Barbara. We sprang to our feet and descended to meet the car at the front porch. Jaffrey, grinning with delight, opened the door, appeared to lift a radiant Barbara out of the car like a parcel, and almost hugged her. And there they stood, holding on to each other's hands, and smiling into each other's faces, and saying how well they looked, regardless of the fact that they were blocking the way for Doria, who remained in the car. I had to move them on with a reminder that they had the whole weekend for their effusions. Adrien helped Doria to alight, and to Doria, then, for the first time, was presented Jaffrey's chain. Jaffrey blinked at her, oddly as he held her little gloved fingers in his enormous hand. And, indeed, I could excuse him, for she was a very striking object to come suddenly into the immediate range of a man's vision, with her chiffon and her slenderness, and her black hat, beneath which her great eyes shone from the startling, nervous, ivory white face. She smiled on him graciously. I'm so glad to meet you." Then after a fraction of a second came the explanation. I've heard so much of you. He murmured something into his beard. Meeting his childlike gaze of admiration, she turned away and put her arm round Barbara's waist. The ladies went indoors to take off their things, accompanied by Adrien, who wanted a lover's word with Doria on the way. Jaffrey followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared at the corner of the hall stairs. Then he took me by the arm and led me up towards the terrace. Who is that singularly beautiful girl? he asked. Doria Jornicroft said I. She's the most astonishing thing I've ever seen in my life. I wouldn't find her too astonishing if I were you, said I with a laugh, because there might be complications. She's engaged to Adrien. He dropped my arm. Do you mean she's going to marry him? Next month, said I. Well, I'm damned, said Jaffrey. I asked him why. He did not enlighten me. Isn't he a lucky devil? He asked instead. The most pestilentially lucky devil under the sun. But why the juice didn't you tell me before? You expressed such a distaste for female women that we thought we would give you as long a respite as possible. Well, that's all very well, he grumbled, but if I had known that Adrien's fiancée was knocking around, I'd have lumped her in my heart with Barbara and Susie. You're not prevented from doing that now, said I. His brow cleared. True, sonny. He broke into a guffaw. That's the old Adrien getting married. I see nothing funny in it, said I. Lots of people get married. I'm married. Oh, you. You were born to be married, he said, crushingly. And so are you, I retorted. I? I tie myself to the stay-strings of a flip of a thing in petticoats whom I should have to swear to love on her in a bay. My good fellow, I interrupted. It is the woman who swears obedience. And the man practices it. His laughter had this very poor repartee. So resounded that the adventitious cow in the field some hundreds yards away lifted her tail in the air and scamped away in terror. And as to the stay-strings to continue your delicate metaphor, you can always cut them when you like. Yes, and then there's the devil to pay. She shows you the ends and makes you believe they're dripping blood and tears. Don't I know them? They're the same from Cape Horn to Alaska from Dublin to Rio. He bellowed forth his invective. He had no quarrel with marriage as an institution. It was most useful and salutary. Apparently because it provided him, Jeffrey, with comfortable conditions wherein to exist. The multitude of harmless, necessary males, like myself, were doomed to it. But there was a race of chosen ones, to which he belonged, whose untamable and omniconcupiscent essence kept them outside the dull, conjugal pale. For such as him, 1900 women at once scattered within the regions of the seven circumferential seas. He loved them all. Woman as woman was the joy of the earth. It was only the silly spectrum of civilisation that broke women up into primary colours, black, yellow, brunette, blonde. He damned civilisation. To listen to you, said I, when he paused for breath, women think you were a devil of a fellow. I am, he declared. I'm a universalist, at any rate in theory, or rather in the conviction of what best suits myself. I'm one of those men who are born to be free, who've got to fill their lungs with air, and who must get out into the wilds of there to live. God, I'd soon be snowed up on a battlefield and smirk at a damned afternoon tea-party any day of the week. If I want a woman, I like to take her by her hair and swing her up behind me on the saddle and right away with her. Lord, that's lovely, said I. How often have you done it? I've never done that exactly, you silly ass, said he. But that's my attitude, my philosophy. You see how impossible it would be for me to tie myself for life to the stay-strings of one flip of a thing in petticoats. You're a blessed innocent, said I. Agents, sauntering through the French window of my library, joined us on the terrace. Geoffrey, forgetful of his attitude, his philosophy, caught him by the shoulders and shook him in pain-dealing exuberance. Old Agent was going to be married. He wished him joy. And he was no wish his wishing him joy, because he already had it, it was assured. That exquisite wonder of a girl, Agent was a lucky devil, a pestilentially lucky devil. He, Geoffrey, had fallen in love with her on sight. And if I hadn't told him that Miss Joynikov was engaged to you, said I, he would have taken her by the hair of her head and swung her up behind him on the saddle and ridden away with her. But the little way Geoffrey has. In spite of sunburn, freckles, and pervading hairiness of face, Geoffrey grew red. Shut up, you city fool, said he, like the overgrowing schoolboy that he was. And I shut up, not because he commanded, but because Barbara, like spring in deep summer, and Doria, like night at noontide, appeared on the terrace. Soon afterwards lunch was announced. By common conspiracy Geoffrey and Susan upset the table arrangements, insisting that they should sit next to each other. He helped the child to impossible vians, much to my wife's dismay, and told her apocalyptic stories of Bulgaria, somewhat to her puzzled them, but wholly to her delight. But when he proposed to fill her silver mug, which he, as Godfather, had given her on her baptism, with a liquefied dream of paradise, the Barbara-Sona Mortallium can prepare, courtesy of hawk and champagne and fruits and cucumber and borage, and a blend of liqueurs whose subtlety transcends human thought, Barbara's medusered lair petrified him into a living statue, the crystal jug of joy poised in his hand. Why, mate, I have some, Mummy? Because Uncle Geoff's your Godfather, said I, and your mother's hawker-cup is a sinful lust of the flesh. Spare the child and fill up your own glass. Don't you know, Sir Barbara, that this is Berkshire, not the Balkans? We don't intoxicate infants here to make a summer holiday. At this rebuke he exchanged winks with my daughter, and, refusing a handed dish of cutlets, asked to be allowed to help himself to some cold beef on the sideboard. The butler's assistant, he declined. No Christian butler could carve a jaffery chain. After a longish absence he returned to the table with half the joint on his plate. Susan regarded it wide-eyed. Uncle Geoff, are you going to eat all that? She asked in an audible whisper. Yes, and you, too, he wrought, and Mummy and Daddy and Uncle Gage and if I don't get enough to eat. And Aunt Doria? Again he reddened, but he turned to Doria and bowed. In my quality of ogre only, a bulbush, said he. It was said very charmingly, and we laughed. Of course Susan began the inevitable question, but Barbara hurriedly notified some dereliction with regard to gravy, and my small daughter was, so to speak, hustled out of the conversation. Jaffery, by way of apology for his gargantuan appetite, discoursed on the privations of travel in uncivilised lands. A lump of saalabata for lunch, and a sardine and a hazelnut for dinner. We were to fancy the infinite accumulation of hunger-pangs. And as he devoured cold beef and tort, Doria watched him with the somewhat aloof interest of one who stands daintily outside the railed enclosure of a new kind of hippopotamus. The meal-over we sought the deep shade of the terrace, which faces due east. Jaffery, in his barbaric fashion, took Doria by the elbow, and swept her far away from the wisteria arbor, beneath which the remaining three of us were gathered. And when he fondly thought he was out of earshot, he set her beside him on the low parapet. My wife, with the responsibility of all the chancellories of Europe, knitted in her brow, discussed wedding preparations with Adrian. I, to whom the quality of the bath-tiles were with Adrian and his wife were to dry themselves, and that of the sheets between which their housemaid was to lie, were matters of black and awful indifference, gave my more worthily applied attention to one of a new brand of cigars—a corona, corona, that had its merits, but lacked an indefinable soul-satisfying aroma. And I was on the pleasurable but elusive point of critical formulation, when Jaffery's voice, booming down the terrace, knocked the discriminating nicety out of my head. I lazily shifted my position and watched the pair. Your subtle and psychological and introspective and analytic and all that, Jaffery was saying, his light word about an ogre at lunch was not a bad one. Sitting side by side on the low parapet, they looked like a vast red beaded ogre and a female black-haired elf she'd taken off her hat, engaged in a conversation in which the elf looked very much on the defensive. And you're always tracking down motives to their roots, and you're not contented like me with the jolly face of things. For an accurate diagnosis, I reflective, of an individual woman's nature, the blatant universalist has his points. Whereas I, you see, he continued, just buzz about life like a dunderheaded old bumblebee. I'm always busting myself up against glass panes, not seeing as you would, the open window a few inches off. Do you see what I'm driving at? Apparently she didn't. For while she was speaking, he threw away his corona-corona, a dream of a cigar for 999 men out of a thousand. I'd lanced at Agent who had religiously preserved two inches of ash on his, and hauled out pipe and tobacco-pouch. I could not hear what she said. When she finished, he edged a span nearer. What I want you to understand, said he, is that I'm a simple sort of savage. I can't follow all these intricate Henry Jamesian complications of feeling. I've had in my life—he stuck pouch and pipe on the stone beside him. I've had in my life just a few men I've loved. I don't count women. Men—men I've cared for. God knows why. Do you know why one cares for people? She smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head. The ladies was poor Prescott. She just pegged out. Soon enough about Prescott. There was Tom Castleton. Agent told you about Castleton. Again, she shook her head. He will, of course. Wonder of a fellow. Up with us at Cambridge. He's dead. There only remains Hillary, our host, and Agent. As far as I could gather, thought she spoke in the ordinary tones of civilised womanhood. Whereas Jaffrey, under the impression that he was whispering confidentially, beddowed like an honest fool. As far as I could gather, she said, You must have met hundreds of men more sympathetic to you than Mr. Freeth and Agent. I haven't, he cried. That's the funny devil of it. I haven't. If I was struck a helpless paralytic with not ascent and no prospect of any ascent, I know I could come to those two and say, Keep me for the rest of my life, and they would do it. And would you do the same for either of them? Jaffrey rose and stuffed his hand in his jacket-pockets and towered over her. I do for them, and their wives, and their children, and their children's children. He sat down again in confusion at having been led into hyperbole. But he took her shoulders in his huge but kindly hands, somewhat to her alarm, for in her world she was not accustomed to gigantic males laying on ceremonious hold of her. All I wanted to convey to you, my dear girl, is this. That if Adrian's wife would look on me as a true friend, I'm ready to go away and cut my throat. Doria smiled at him with pretty civility, and assured him of her willingness to admit him in her circle of friends. Whereupon he caught up his pouch and pipe and lumbered down the terrace towards us, shouting out his news. I fixed it up with Doria. He turned his head. I can't call you Doria, can't I? She nodded permission. What else could she do? We're going to be friends. And I say, Barbara, though, what a wedding present! What should I give them? What would you like? The latter question was levelled direct to Doria, who'd followed it merely in his footsteps. But it was not answered, for from the drawing-room there emerged Franklin, the butler, who marched up straight to Jaffery. A lady to see you, sir. A lady? God, what kind of a lady? He stared at Franklin in dismay. She came in a taxi, sir. The driver mistook the way, and put her down at the back entrance. She would not give her name. Tall, rather handsome, dressed in black. Yes, sir. Lord Almighty, cried Jaffery, including us all in the sweep of a desperate gaze. It's Leosha. I thought I'd given her the slip. Barbara rose and confronted him. And pray, who is Leosha? Agent hugged his knee and laughed. The dynamic widow said he. I'll go and see what in thunder she wants, said Jaffery. But Barbara's eyes twinkled. He'll do nothing of the sort. She has no business to come running after you like this. She must be taught manners. Franklin, will you show the lady out here? She drew herself up to her full height, of five feet nothing, thereby demonstrating the obvious fact that she was mistress in her own house. Presently Franklin reappeared. Mrs. Prescott, said he. CHAPTER IV That there should have been in the uncommon tall young woman of buxom statelyness and prepossessing features, attired to the mere masculine eye in quite elegant black raiment, a thing called, I think, a picture-hat, broad brimmed with the sweeping ostrich feather, tickled my special fancy, but was afterwards reviled by my wife as being entirely unsuited to fresh widowhood. What there should have been in this remarkable Juno-esque young person who followed on the heels of Franklin to strike terror into Jaffery's soul, I could not for the life of me imagine. In the light of her personality I thought Barbara's good at theatra rather cruel. Of course Barbara received her courteously. She too was surprised at her outward aspect, having expected to behold a fantastic personage of comic opera. I'm very pleased to see you, Mrs. Prescott. Leosha, I must call her that from the start, for she exists to me as Leosha and as nothing else, shook hands with Barbara, making a queer, deep, formal bow, and turned her calm brown eyes on Jaffery. There was just a little quarter-second of silence, during which we all wondered in what kind of outlandish tongue she would address him. To our gasping astonishment she said with an unmistakable American intonation, Mr. Chine, will you have the kindness to introduce me to your friends? I break into a nervous laugh and grasped her hand. Pray allow me. I am Mr. Freeth, your much-honoured host, and this is my wife and Mr. Johnny Croft and Mr. Baldero. Mr. Chane has been deceiving us. We thought she were an Albanian. I guess I am, said the lady, halved having made four ceremonious bows. I am the daughter of Albanian Patriots. They were murdered. One day I am going back to do a little murdering on my own account. Barbara drew an audible short breath, and Doria instinctively moved within the protective area of Adrian's arm. Jaffery, with knitted brow, leaned against one of the posts supporting the old posterior arbor, and said nothing, leaving me to exploit the lady. But you speak perfect English, said I. I was raised in Chicago. My parents were employed in the stockyards of armor. My father was the man who slipped the throats of the pigs. He was a dandy, she said in unemotional tones, and I knew a little shiver of repulsion rippled through Barbara and Doria. When I was twelve, my father kind of inherited lands in Albania, and we went back. Is there anything more you'd like to know? She looked us all up and down rather down than up, for she towered above us. Perfectly unconcerned mistress of the situation. Naturally we made mute appeal to Jaffery. He stirred his huge bulk from the post and plunged his hands into his bogies. I should like to know, Lyosha, said he, in a rumble like thunder, why you have left my sister Euphemia and what you are doing here. Euphemia is a damn fool, she said serenely. She's a freak. She ought to go round on a show. What have you been quarrelling about? he asked. I never quarrel, she replied, regarding him with her calm brown eyes. It is not dignified. Then I repeat most politely, Lyosha, what are you doing here? She looked to Barbara. I guess it isn't right to talk of money before strangers. Barbara smiled, glanced at me rebukingly. I pulled forward a chair and invited the lady to sit, for she had been standing, and her astonishing entrance had flabbergasted serenely's observance out of me. While she was accepting my belated courtesy Barbara continued to smile and said, You mustn't look on us as strangers, Mrs. Prescott. We are all Mr. Chains' oldest and most intimate friends. Do tell us what the row was, said Jaffrey. Lyosha took calm stock of us, and seeing that we were a pleasant face, and by no means an antagonistic assembly, even Doria's curiosity lent her semblance of a sense of humour, she relaxed her Olympian serenity, and laughed a little, showing teeth young and strong and exquisitely white. I am here, Jaff's chain, she said, because Euphemia is a damn fool. She took me this morning to your big street, the one where all the shops are. My dear lady, said Edwin, there are about a hundred miles of such streets in London. There was only one, she snapped her fingers, recalling the name, only one Regent Street I ever heard of, she replied crushingly, it was Regent Street. Euphemia took me there to show me the shops. She made me mad, for when I wanted to go in and buy things she dragged me away. If she didn't want me to buy things, why did she show me the shops? She bent forward a later hand on Barbara's knee. She must be a damn fool, don't you think so? Said Barbara, somewhat embarrassed. It's an amusement here to look at shops without any idea of buying. But if there were months to buy, if one has the money to buy, I didn't want anything foolish. I saw jewels that would buy up the whole of Albania, but I didn't want to buy up Albania, not yet. But I saw a glass cage in a shop window full of little chickens, and I said to Euphemia, I want that, I must have those chickens. I said, give me money to go in and buy them. Do you know, Jeff Chang, she refused. I said, give me my money, my husband's money, this minute, to buy those chickens in the last cage. She said she couldn't give me my husband's money to spend on chickens. That was very foolish of her, said Adrian solemnly, for if there's one thing the management of the Savoy Hotel love, chicken incubators, they keep her especially heat his suite of apartments for them. I was not aware of it, said Lyosha seriously. Euphemia was not. She knows less than nothing. I asked her for the money, she refused. I saw an automobile close by, I entered. I said, drive me to Mr. Jeff Chang, he will give me the money. He asked where Mr. Jeff Chang was. I said he was staying with Mr. and Mrs. Freeth at Northlands, Haston, Berkshire. I'm not a fool like Euphemia. I remember, I left Euphemia standing on the sidewalk with her mouth open like that. She made the funniest grimace in the world, and the automobile brought me here to get some money to buy the chickens. She held out her hand to Jeffrey. Confound the chickens, he cried. It's the taxi I'm thinking of, ticking out tuppances to say nothing of the mileage. Lyosha said he in a mild overall. It's no use thinking of buying chickens this afternoon, it's Saturday and the shops are shut. You go home before that automobile has ticked out bankruptcy and ruin. Go back to the Savoy, make your peace with Euphemia like a good girl, and on Monday I'll talk to you about the chickens. She sat up straight in her chair. You must take me somewhere else, I've got no use for Euphemia. But where else can I take you? cried Jeffrey aghast. I don't know, you know best where people go to in England. Doesn't he? she included us all in a smile. But you must go back to Euphemia till Monday at any rate. And she's arranged such a nice little program for you, said Adrian. A lecture on Tolstoy tonight and the city temple tomorrow, pity to miss him. If I saw any more of you, Euphemia, I might hurt her, said Lyosha. Oh Lord! said Jeffrey, but you must go somewhere. He turned to me with a groan. Look here, old chap, it's awfully rough luck, but I must take her back to the Savoy and mount guard over her so that she doesn't break my poor sister's neck. I wouldn't go so far as that, said Lyosha. How far would you go? Adrian asked politely, with the air of one seeking information. Oh, shut up, you idiot! Jeffrey turned on him savagely. Can't you see the position I'm in? I'm very sorry you're angry, Jeffchain, said Lyosha, with a certain kind of dignity. But these are your friends. Their house is yours. Why should I not stay here with you? Here? Good God! cried Jeffrey. Yes, why not? said Barbara, who'd set out to teach this lady manners. The very thing, said I. Jeffrey declared the idea to be nonsense. Barbara and I protested, growing warmer in our process-stations as the argument continued. Nothing would give us such unimaginable pleasure as to entertain Mrs. Prescott. Lyosha laid her hand on Jeffrey's arm. But why shouldn't they have me? When a stranger asked for hospitality in Albania, he's invited to walk right in and own the place. Is it refused in England? Strangers don't ask, growled Jeffrey. It would make life much more pleasant if they did, said Barbara, smiling. Mrs. Prescott, this bear of a guardian or trustee or whatever he is of yours, makes a terrible noise. But he's quite harmless. I know that, said Lyosha. He does what I tell him. The little lady continued, drawing herself up majestically beside Jeffrey's great bulk. He's going to stay here, and so will you, if you will so far, honourers. Lyosha rose and bowed. The honourer is mine. Then when you come this way, I will show you your room. She motioned to Lyosha to proceed her through the French window of the drawing-room. Before disappearing Lyosha bowed again. I caught up Barbara. My dear, what about clothes and things? My dear, she said, there's a telephone, there's a taxi, there's a maid, there's the Savoy Hotel, and there's a train to bring back maid and clothes. When Barbara takes command like this, the wise man effaces himself. She will run an empire with far less fuss than most people devote to the running of a small sweet-stuff shop. I smiled and returned to the others. Jeffrey was again filling his huge pipe. I'm awfully sorry, old man, he said, gloomily. Edgham burst out laughing. She's immense, your widow, most refreshing thing I've seen for many a day. The way she clears the place of the cobwebs of convention, she's great, isn't she, Doria? I can quite understand Mr. Chain finding her an uncomfortable charge. Thank you, said Jeffrey, with all the unnecessary vehemence. I knew you would be sympathetic. He dropped into a chair by her side. You can't tell what an awful thing it is to be responsible for another human being. Heaps of people managed to get through with it. Every husband and wife, every mother and father. Yes, but not many poor chaps who are neither father nor husband are responsible for another fellow's grown-up widow. Doria smiled. You must find her another husband. That's a great idea. Will you help me? Before I knew of Adrian's great good fortune, I wrote to Hillary. Ah, but we must find somebody else. Has she any money? asked Doria, who smiled but faintly at the jocular notion of a Leosha-bound Adrian. Her oppressor left her about a thousand years. He was pretty well off for a war correspondent. I don't think she'll have much difficulty. Do you know, she added, after a mental tour of reflection, if I were you, I would establish her in a really first-class boarding-house. Wouldn't that be a good way? Jeffrey asked simply. She nodded. The best! She seems to have fallen foul of your sister. The dearest old soul that ever lived, said Jeffrey. That's why, I'm sure. I know your sister perfectly. The daughter of an Albanian patriot who used to kill pigs in Chicago. Why, what can your poor sister do with her? Your sister is much older than you, isn't she? Ten years. How did you guess? Doria smiled with feminine wisdom. She's the gentlest maiden lady that ever was. It's only a man that could have thought of saddling her with her friend. Well, that's impossible. She would be the death of your sister in a week. You can't look after her yourself. That wouldn't be proper. And it would be the death of me, too, said Jeffrey. You can't leave her in lodgings or a flat by herself. Both of all the women would die of boredom. The only thing that remains is the boarding-house. Jeffrey regarded her with the open-eyed adoration of a heathen goth receiving the gospel from St. Ursula. By Jove, he murmured. You're wonderful. Let us stretch our legs, Hillary, said Agent, who had not displayed enthusiastic interest in the housing of Leosha. So we went off, leaving the two together, and we discoursed on the mystic ways of women, omitting all reference, as men do, to the exceptional paragon of femininity who reigned in our respective hearts. Perhaps we did a foolish thing in thus abandoning Saint and Hungry Convert to their sympathetic intercourse. The saint could hold her own. She'd vowed herself to Agent, and she belonged to the type for whom vows are irrefragable. But poor old Jeffrey had made no vows save of loyalty to his friends, which vows provided they are kept perfectly consistent with the man's falling hopelessly, despairingly, in love with his friends of fine spryde. And as far as Barbara and myself had been able to make out, it was during this intimate talk that Jeffrey fell in love with Doria. Of course, what the French call Le Coup de Foudre, the thunderbolt of love, had smitten him when he first beheld Doria alighting from the motor-car. But he didn't realise the stupefying effect of this bang on the heart, till he had thus sat at her little feet, and drunk in her godlike wisdom. The fairy tales are very true. The rumbustious ogre has a hitherto undescribed, but quite imaginable, gapped-toothed, beetle-browed ogreess of a wife. Why he married her has never been told. Why the mortal male whom we meet for the first time at a dinner-party has married the amazing mortal females sitting somewhere on the other side of the table, is an insoluble mystery. And if he can't tell even why men mate, why can we expect to know about ogres? At all events, as far as the humdrum of matrimony is concerned, the fairy tales are truer than real life. The ogre marries his ogreess. It is like to like. But when it comes to love, and if love were proclaimed and universally recognised as humdrum, there would never be a tale, fairy or otherwise, ever told again in the world worth the hearing. We have quite a different condition of affairs. Did you ever hear of an ogre signing himself into a shadow for love of a gapped-toothed ogreess? Now, he goes out into the fairy world, and, sending his ogreess wife to Jericho, becomes desperately enamoured of the elfin princess. There he is, great, ruddy, hairy wretch. There she is, a wraith of a creature made up of fissle-down and fountain-bubbles and stars. He stares at her, stretches out his huge paw to grab a fairy feathery dress of her dark hair. Defensive, she puts up her little hand. Its touch is an electric shock to the marauder. He blinks and rubs his arm. He has a mighty respect for her. He could take her up in his fingers and eat her like a quail. The one satisfactory method of eating a quail is, unfortunately, practised only by ogres. But he does not want to eat her. He goes on his knees and invites her to chew any portion of him that may please her dainty taste. In short, he makes the very silliest ass of himself, and the elfin princess, who, of course, has come into contact with the real, beautiful young man of the storybooks, won't have anything to do with the ogre. And if he is more rumbustious than he ought to be, generally finds a way to send him packing. And so the poor ogre remains planted there. The fairy tales, I remark again, are very true in demonstrating that the ogre loves the elf and not the ogres. But all the same they are ducatly unsympathetic towards the poor ogre. The only sympathetic one I know is beauty and the beast. And even that is a mere begging of the question. For the beast was a hamson-young Lincoln-pooper for prince all the time. Barbara says that this figurative, elusive adumbration of Jaffer's love affair is pure nonsense. Anything less than an ogre than our overgrown baby of a friend, it would be impossible to imagine. But I hold to my theory. All the more because, when Adrian and I return from our stroll round the garden, we find Jaffer standing over her legs apart like a colossus of roads, and roaring at her like a sucking dove. And it is scared, please don't eat me, look in her eyes. It was the ogre trying to make himself agreeable, and the princess to the life. Presently, tea was brought out, and with it came Barbara a quiet laugh about her lips, and Lyosha stately and smiling. My wife, to put her at her ease, though she had displayed singularly little shyness, after dealing with maid and taxi, had taken her over the house, exhibited Susan at tea in the nursery, and as much of Doria's trousseau was visible in the serving-room. Approaching marriage aroused her keen interest. She said very little during the meal, but smiled embarrassingly on the engaged pair. Jaffer stood lumbly devouring cucumber sandwiches till Barbara took him to one side. She's rather a dear in spite of everything, and I think you're treating her abominably. Jaffer grew scarlet beneath the brick colour of days. I wouldn't treat any woman abominably if I could help it. Well, you can help it. And taking pity on him, she laughed in his face. Can't you take her as a joke? He glanced quietly at the lady. Rather a heavy one, he said. Anyhow, come and talk to us and be civil to her. Imagine she's the thicker's wife come to call. Jaffer's elementary sense of humour was tickled, and he broke out into a loud guffaw that sent the house cat a delicate mendicant for food scuttling across the lawn. The sight of the terrestric and animal aroused the rest of the party to harmless mirth. Tell me, Mrs Prescott, said Adrien, what you had to do that in Albania? I guess there aren't many things Jaff Chang can't do in Albania, replied Lyosha. He has the business that carries him through, and he's as brave as a lion. I suppose you like brave men, said Doria. A woman who married a coward would be a damn fool, especially in Albania. I guess there aren't many in my mountains. I wish you would tell us about your mountains, said Barbara pleasantly, and at the same time, said I, Jaff might let us hear his story, that is to say if you have no objections, Mrs Prescott. With us, said Lyosha, the guest is expected to talk about himself, for he is a guest, he's one of the family. Shall I go ahead then, asked Jaffer, and you chip in whenever you feel like it? That will be best, replied Lyosha. And having lit a cigarette and settled herself in her deck chair, she motioned to Jaffer to proceed. And there, in the shade of the old wisteria arbour, surrounded by such dainty products of civilization as ageing in speckless white flannels of violet socks, and the tea-table in silver and egg-shelled china, this pair of barbarians told their tale. End of Chapter 4 It is some years now since that golden august afternoon, and my memory of the details of the story of Lyosha as told by Jaffer and illustrated picturesquely by the lady herself is none of the most precise. Incidentally, I gathered, then, and later in the smoking-room, from Jaffer alone, a prodigious amount of information about Albania, which, if I had imprisoned it in writing that same evening as the perfect diarist is supposed to do, would have been vastly useful to me at the present moment. But I am as a diarist hopelessly imperfect. I stare now, as I write, at the bald, uninspiring page. This is my entry for August the Fourth. Wade Susan, 4-stone-3 Met Jaffer at station. Albanian widow turned up unexpectedly after lunch, fine woman, going to be a handful, staying weekend, story of meeting and prescott marriage. Promised Susan a donkey-ride. Worth it used as one gets donkeys warranted quiet and guaranteed to carry a lady. Mem, ask Torn Fletcher. Mem, write to Lornebeck about cigars. Why I didn't write straight off the Lornebeck about the cigars, instead of memming it, may seem a mystery. It isn't. It is a comfortable habit of mine. Once having memmed an unpleasant thing in my diary, the matter is over. I dismiss it from my mind. But to return to Lyosha. I find at my entry of sixty-two words, thirty-five devoted to Susan, her donkey, and the cigars, and only twenty-seven to the really astonishing events of the day. Of course I am angry. Of course I consult Barbara. Of course she pats the little bald patch on the top of my head, and laughs in a superior way, and invents, with a paralyzing air of verity, an impossible amplification of the story of meeting and prescott marriage. And, of course, the frivolous Jaffer, now that one really wants him, is sitting astride of a cannon and smoking a pipe and notebook and pencil in hand, is writing a picturesque description of the bungling decapitation by Schrapnel of the general who has just been unfolding to him the whole plan of the campaign, and consequently is provoking ungettable by serious people like myself. So, for what I learned that day, I must trust to the elusive witch memory. I have never been to Albania. I have never wanted to go to Albania. Even now I haven't the remotest desire to go to Albania. I should loathe it. Wherever I go nowadays, I claim as my right, bedroom and bath, and vions succulent to the palette, and tender to the teeth. My demands are modest. But could I get them in Albania? No. Could one travel from Skutari to Monastir in the same comfort as one travels from London to Paris, more from New York to Chicago? No. Does any sensible man of domestic instincts and scholarly tastes like to find himself halfway up an inaccessible mountain, surrounded by a band of mustachio-disparados in Fustaneno petticoats engirled with an armoury of pistols, daggers and yatagans, who, if they are unkind, make a surgical demonstration with these lethal implements? And if they are spitten with a mania of amiability, hand you over for superintendents of your repose to an army of satellites of whom you are only too glad to call the flea-brother? I try not. Personally, I dislike mountains. They were made for goats, and cascades, and lunatics, and other irresponsible phenomena of nature. They have their uses, I admit, as windscreens and watersheds, and beheld from the valley they can assume very pretty colours, owing to varying atmospheric conditions. And the more jagged and unenticing they are, the greater is their spacious air of stupendousness. At any rate, they are hindrances to convenient to travel, and so I go among them as little as possible. To judge from the fervid descriptions given us by Geoffrey and Lyosha, Albania must be a pestilentrally uncomfortable place to live in. It is divided into three religious sects, then re-divided into heaven knows how many tribes. What it will be when it gets autonomy in a government and a parliament and picture-palaces, no one yet knows. But at the time when my two friends met, it was in about as chaotic a condition as a jungle. Some tribes acknowledged the rule of the Turk, others did not. Every mountainside had a pretty little anarchical system of its own. Every family had a pretty little blood feud with some other family. Accordingly every man was handy with knife and gun, and it was every maiden's dream to be sold as a wife to the most bloodthirsty scoundrel in the neighbourhood. At least that was the impression given me by Lyosha. When the tragedy occurred she herself was about to be sold to a prosperous young cutthroat of whom she had seen but little as he lived, I gathered, a couple of mountains off. They had been betrothed years before. The price her father demanded was high. Not only did he hold a notable position on his mountain, but he had travelled to the fabulous land of America and could read and write and could speak English and could handle a knife with peculiar dexterity. Again Lyosha was no ordinary Albanian maiden. She too had seen the world and could read and write and speak English. She had a will of her own, and had imbibed during her Chicago childhood curiously unalbanian notions of feminine independence. Being beautiful as well, she ranked as a sort of prize-bride worth in her father's eyes, her weight in gold. It was to try to reduce this excessive valuation that the young cutthroat visited his father's house. During the night, two families, one of whom had a feud with the host and another with the guest, each attended by an army of many brigands, fell upon the sleeping homestead, murdered everybody except Lyosha, who managed to escape, plundered everything plunderable—money, valuables, household goods, and livestock—and then set fire to the house and everything within sight that could burn. After which they marched away, singing patriotic hymns. When they had gone, Lyosha crept out of the cave wherein she had hidden and surveyed the scene of desolation. I tell you, I felt just mad, said Lyosha, at this stage of the story. I remember Barbara and Doria staring at her open mouth. Instead of fainting or going into hysterics or losing her wits at the sight of the annihilation of her entire kith and kin, including her brygrim to be and of her whole worldly possessions, Lyosha felt just mad, which as all the world knows is the American vernacular for feeling very angry. It was enough to turn any woman into a raving lunatic, gasped Barbara. Guess it didn't turn me, replied Lyosha contemptuously. But what did you do? asked Doria. I sat on a stone and thought how I could get even with that crowd. She bit her lip and her soft brown eyes hardened. And that's where we came in, don't you see? Interposed Geoffrey hastily. You can imagine the scene. The two Englishmen, one gigantic, red and hairy, the other wiry and hawk-like, jogging up the mountain path on ragged ponies, and suddenly emerging onto that plateau of despair with a lonely figure in black and white sat brooding. Under such unusual conditions it was not difficult to form acquaintance. She told her story to the two horror-stricken men. British instinct cried out for justice. They would take her straight to the valley, or whatever authority ruled in the wild land, so that punishment should be inflicted on the murderers. But she laughed at them. It would take an army to dislodge her enemies from their mountain fastnesses. And who can send an army but the sultan, a most unlikely person to trouble his head over the massacre of a few Christians? As for a local government, the Melisauri, the mountain tribes, did not acknowledge any. The Englishmen swore softly. Lyosha nodded her head and agreed with them. What was to be done? The Englishmen, after giving her food and drink, which she seemed to need, offered their escort to a place where she could find relations or friends. Again she laughed scornfully. All my relations lie there. She pointed to the smoking ruins, and I have no friends. And as for your escorting me, well, I guess it would be much more use of my escorting you. And where would you escort us? God knows, she said. Whereupon they realised that she was alone in the wide world, homeless and penniless, and that for a time at least they were responsible to God and man for this picturesque Albanian damsel who spoke the English of the stockyards of Chicago. Again, what was to be done? They could take her back to Skewtari, whence they had come, in the hope of finding a Roman Catholic sisterhood. The proposal evoked but lukewarm in enthusiasm. Lyosha being convinced that they would turn her into a nun, the last avocation in the world she desired to adopt. Her simple idea was to go out to America, like her father, return with many bags of gold, and devote her life to the linked sweetness of a gradual extermination of her enemies. When asked how she would manage to amass the gold, she applied that she would work in the packing-houses like her mother. But how they asked would she get the money to take her to Chicago? It must come from you, she said, and the men looked at each other, feeling meaner dogs in not having offered to settle her there themselves. Then, being a young woman of an apparently practical mind, she asked them what they were doing in Albania. They explained they were travellers from England, wandering for pleasure through the Balkans. They had come from Skewtari, as far as they could, in a motor-car. Lyosha had never heard of a motor-car. They described it as a kind of little railway engine that didn't need rails to run upon. At the foot of the mountains they left it at a village inn and bought the ragged ponies. They were just going ahead exploring. Do you know the way? She asked with a touch of contempt. They didn't. And I guess I'll guide you. You pay me wages every day until you're tired, and I'll use the money to go out to Chicago. And seeing them hesitate, she added, No one's got to hurt me. A woman is safe in Albania. And I'm with you, no one will hurt you. But if you're gone by yourselves, you'll very likely get murdered. Fantastic, as was her intention. They knew that, as far as they themselves were concerned, she spoke common sense. So it came to pass that Lyosha, having left them for a few moments, to take a grim farewell of the charred remains of her family, lying hidden beneath the smouldering wreckage, returned to them with a calm face, mounted one of the ponies, and pointing before her, led the way into the mountains. Now, if old Jaff would only sit down and write this absurd odyssey in the vivid manner in which he's related bits of it to me, he would produce the queerest book of travel ever written. But he never will. As a matter of fact, although he saw Albania as few Westerners have done, and learned useful bits of language and made invaluable friends, and although he appreciated the journeys of venturous and humorous side, it did not afford him complete satisfaction. A day or two after their start, Prescott began to show signs of peculiar interest in their guide. In spite of her unquestioning readiness to shoulder burdens, Prescott would run to relieve her. Lyosha has assured me that Jaffly did the same, and indeed I cannot conceive Jaffry allowing a female companion to stagger along under a load which he could swing onto his huge back and carry like a walnut. To go further, she maintains that the two quarrelled dreadfully over the alleviation of her labours. So much so that often before they had ended their quarrel, she had performed the task in dispute. This, of course, Jaffry has blusteringly denied. She was there, paid to do certain things, and she had to do them. The way Prescott spoiled her and indulged her, as though she were a little dressed-up cat in a London drawing-room, instead of a great hefty woman accustomed to throw steers and balance of sack of potatoes on her head, was simply sickening. And it became more sickening still, as Prescott's infatuation clouded more and more the poor fellow's brain. Jaffry talked, not before Lyosha, but to Adrian and myself, that night, after the ladies had gone to bed, as if the girl had woven a vidian spell around his poor friend. We smiled, knowing it was Jaffry's way. At all events, whether Jaffry was jealous or not, it is certain that Prescott fell wildly, blindly, overwhelmingly in love with Lyosha. Considering the close intimacy of their lives, considering that they were in ceaseless contact with this splendid creature, untrammeled by any convention, daughter of the earth, yet chaste as her own mountain winds, and considering that both of them were hot-blooded men, the only wonder is that they did not fly at each other's throats, or dash in each other's heads with stones, after the fashion of prehistoric males. It is my well-supported conviction, however, that Jaffry, honest old bear, seeing his comrade's very soul set upon the honey trotted off and left him to it, and made pretence to satisfy his ursine conscience of growling his sarcastic disapproval. The devil of it was, he declared that night, with the sweep of his arm that sent a full glass of whiskey and soda hurtly across space to my bookshelves and ruining some choice bindings. The devil of it was, said he, after expressing rueful contrition, as he treated him like a dog, whereas I could do anything I liked with her. But she married him. Of course she married him. Most Albanian young women in her position would have married a brave and handsome Englishman of incalculable wealth, even if they had not Lyosha's ulterior motives. And beyond question Lyosha had ulterior motives. Prescott espoused her cause hotly. He convinced her that he was a power in Europe. As a Reuter correspondent he did indeed possess power. He would make the civilized world ring with this tale of bloodshed and horror. He would beard sultans in their lairs and emperors in their dens. He would bring down awful vengeance on the heads of our enemies. How sultans and emperors were to do it was as obscure as at the horror-filled hour of their first meeting. But a man vehemently in love is notoriously blind to practical considerations. Prescott put his life into her hands. She accepted it calmly, and I think it was this calmness of acceptance that infuriated Geoffrey. If she had been likewise caught in the whirlpool of a mad passion, Geoffrey would have had nothing to say. But she did not, say he maintained, care a button for Prescott, and Prescott would not believe it. She had promised to marry him. That ideal of magnificent womanhood had promised to marry him. They were to be married. Think of that, my boy, as soon as they got back to Skewtari and found a British consul and a priest or two to marry them. Then for God's sake, or Geoffrey, that has trekked to Skewtari, I am fed up with playing Gooseberry, the giant Gooseberry. So they shortened their projected journey, and, making a circuit, picked up the motor-car. A joy and wonder to Leosha. She wanted to drive it over the rutted wagon-tracks that pass for road in Albania. And such was Prescott's infatuation that he would have allowed her to do so. But Geoffrey sat an immovable mountain of flesh at the wheel and brought them safely to Skewtari. There arrangements were made for the marriage before the British vice-consul. On the morning of the ceremony Prescott fell ill. The ceremony was, however, performed. Towards evening he was in high fever. The next morning Typhoid declared itself. In two or three days he was dead. He made a will leaving everything to his wife, with Geoffrey as sole executor and trustee. This sorry ending of poor Prescott's romance, I never knew him, but you'll always think of him as a swift and veerman spirit, was told very huskily by Geoffrey beneath the wisteria arbour. Tears rolled down barbarous and dory as cheeks. My wife's sympathetic little hand slid into Lyosha's. With her other hand Lyosha fondled it. I am sure it was rather gratitude for this little feminine act than poignant emotion that moistened Lyosha's beautiful eyes. I haven't had much luck, have I? No, my poor dear, you haven't! cried Barbara in a gush of kindness. In the course of a few weeks to have one's affianced husband murdered and one's legal, their nominal husband spirited away by disease, seemed in the eyes of my gentle wife to transcend all records of human tragedy. Very soon afterwards she made a pretext for taking Lyosha away from us, and I had the extraordinary experience of seeing my proud little Barbara, who loathes the caressive insincereities prevalent among women, crossed the lawn with our arm round Lyosha's waist. The rest of the bare bones of the story I have already told you. Geoffrey, after burying his poor comrade, took ship with Lyosha and went to Katinji, where he entrusted her to the care of old friends of his, the Austrian consul and his wife, a mate unknown as the widow of Prescott of Reuters to the British Diplomatic Authorities. Then, having his work to do, he started forth again, a heavy-hearted adventurer, and when it was over, he picked up Lyosha, for whom Fravon Hagen had managed to procure a stock of more or less civilised raiment, and brought her to London to make good her claim under Prescott's will to her dead husband's fortune. Now this is Geoffrey all over, put him on a battlefield with guns going off in all directions, or in a shipwreck, or in the midst of a herd of crocodiles, and he will be cool master of the situation and will telegraph to his neighbour the graphic nervous stuff of the born journalist. But set him a simple problem in social life, which a child of fifteen would solve in a walk across the room, and he is scared to death. Instead of sending for Barbara, for instance, when he arrived in London, or any other sensible woman, say like Fravon Hagen of Katinji, he drags poor Euphemia, a timid maiden lady of forty-five, from her tea-parties and Bible classes and dorkess meetings at Tumbridge Wells, and plants her down as guide, philosopher and friend to this disconcerting product of Chicago and Albania. Of course, the poor lady was at her wit's end, not knowing whether to treat her as a newborn baby, or a buffalo. With equal inevitability, Lyosha, unaccustomed to this type of western woman, summed her up in a drastic epithet. And in the meantime Geoffrey went about tearing hair and beard and cursing the fate, but put him in charge of a volcano in petticoats. I have a great regard for Euphemia, said Barbara, later in the day. They were walking up and down the terrace in the dusk before dinner. But I have some sympathy with Lyosha. Tolstoy, my dear Geoffrey, and the city temple! If she wanted to take the girl to church, why not her own church, the Brompton Oratory, or Farm Street? If Ema wouldn't attend a papish place of worship, she still calls it papish, poor dear, to save her soul alive, or anybody else's soul, replied Geoffrey. Then pack her off at once to Tumbridge Wells, said Barbara, she's even more helpless than you, which is saying a great deal. I'll see to Lyosha. Geoffrey protested. It was dear of her, sweet of her, miraculous of her, but he couldn't dream of it. Then don't, she retorted, put it out of your mind. And there's Franklin, come to dinner. I'm not a bit hungry, he said, loomily. We dined, as far as I was concerned, very pleasantly. Lyosha, who sat on my right, refreshingly free in her table manners, embarrassingly so to my most correct butler, was equally free in her speech. She provided me with excellent entertainment. I learned many frank truths about Albanian women, for whom, on account of their vaccine subjection, she proclaimed the most scathing contempt. Her details, in architectural phrase, were full size. Once her toys, Doria, who sat on my left, lowered her eyes disapprovingly. At her age, her mother would have been shocked. Her grandma would have blushed from toes to forehead. Her great-grandmother might have fainted. But Doria, a twentieth-century product, on the committee of a maternity home and a rescue laundry, merely looked down her nose. I gathered that Lyosha, for all her yearning to shoot, flay alive, crucify, and otherwise annoy her enemies, did not greatly regret the loss of the distinguished young Albanian cutthroat who was her affianced. Had he lived, she would have spent the rest of our days in saying, like Melissand, I am not happy. She would have been an instrument of pleasure, a producer of children, a slaving drudge, when he went triumphantly about her predatory ravisher among the scattered Bulgarian peasantry. In fact, she expressed a whole-hearted detestation for her betrothed. I am pretty sure, too, that the death of her father did not leave in her life the aching gap that it might have done. You see, it came to this. Her father, an American Albanian, wanted to run with the hair of barbarism and hunt with the hounds of civilisation. His daughter, woman the world over, was all for hunting. He had spent twenty years in America. By a law of gravitation, natural only in that melting pot of nations, Chicago, he had come across an Albanian wife. Chicago is the melting pot of the nations of the world. Let me tell you a true tale. It is nothing whatever to do with Jeffrey Chain or Leosha, except perhaps to show that there is no reason why a Tierra del Fuegan foundling should not run across his long-lost brother on Michigan Avenue, and still less reason why Albanian male should not meet Albanian female in armor's stockyards. And besides, considering that I was egged on, as I said on the first page, to write these memoirs, I really don't see why I should not put into them anything I choose. An English novelist of my acquaintance visiting Chicago received a representative of a great daily newspaper who desired to interview him. The interviewer was a typical American reporter—blue-eyed, high cheek-boned, keen, nervous, finely strung, courteous, intensely alive, desires to get to the heart of my friend's mystery, and charmingly responsive to his frank welcome. They talked. My friend, to give the young man his story, discoursed on Chicago's amazingly solved problem of the conglomeration of all the races under heaven. To point his remarks and mark his contrast, he used the words We English and You Americans. After a time the young man smiled and said But I'm not an American. At least I'm an American citizen, but I'm not a born American. But, cried my friend, you're the essence of America. No, said the young man. I'm an Icelander. Thus it was natural for Liosha's father to find an Albanian wife in Chicago. She too was superficially Americanized. When they returned to Albania with their purely American daughter, they had first found it difficult to appear superficial Albanians. Liosha had to learn Albanian as a foreign language, her parents and herself always speaking English among themselves. But the call of the blood rang strong in the veins of the elders. Robbery and assassination on the heroic scale held for the man an irresistible attraction, and he acquired great skill at the business. And the woman, who seemed to have been of a lymphatic temperament, sank without murmuring into the domestic subjection into which she had been born. It was only Liosha who rebelled. Hence her complicated attitude towards life, and hence her entertaining talk at the dinner table. I enjoyed myself, so I think did everybody. When the ladies rose, Jeffrey, who was nearest to the door, opened it for them to pass out. Barbara, the last, lingered for a second or two and laid her hand on Jeffrey's arm, and looked up at him out of her teasing blue eyes. My dear Jaff, she said, what kind of a dinner do you eat when you are hungry? End of Chapter 5