 7. There were two reasons why Lord Dawlish was unaware of Clare Fenwick's presence at Regalheimer's restaurant? Regalheimer's is situated in a basement below a ten-story building, and in order to prevent this edifice from falling into his patron's soup, the proprietor had been obliged to shore up his ceiling with massive pillars. One of these protruded itself between the table, which Nutty had secured for his supper-party, and the table at which Clare was sitting with her friend, Lady Weatherby, and her steamer-acquaintance, Mr. Dudley Pickering. That was why Bill had not seen Clare from where he sat, and the reason that he had not seen her when he left his seat and began to dance, was that he was not one of your dancers who dance eerily about them. When Bill danced, he danced. He would have been stunned with amazement if he had known that Clare was at Regalheimer's that night, yet it would have been remarkable seeing that she was the guest of Lady Weatherby if she had not been there. When you have travelled three thousand miles to enjoy the hospitality of a friend who does near-Greek dances at a popular restaurant, the least you can do is go to the restaurant and watch her step. Clare had arrived with Polly Weatherby and Mr. Dudley Pickering at about the time when Nutty, his gloom melting rapidly, was instructing the waiter to open the second bottle. Of Clare's movements between the time when she secured her ticket at the steamship offices in Southampton, and the moment when she entered Regalheimer's restaurant, it is not necessary to give a detailed record. She had had the usual experiences of the ocean voyager. She had fared, read, and gone to bed. The only notable event of her trip had been her intimacy with Mr. Dudley Pickering. Dudley Pickering was a middle-aged and middle-westerner, who by thrift and industry had amassed a considerable fortune out of automobiles. Everybody spoke well of Dudley Pickering, the papers spoke well of him, Bradstreet spoke well of him, and he spoke well of himself. On board the liner he had poured the saga of his life into Clare's attentive ears, and there was a gentle sweetness in her manner, which encouraged Mr. Pickering mightily. For he had fallen in love with Clare on site. It would seem that a schoolgirl in these advanced days would know what to do when she found that a man worth millions was in love with her. Yet there were factors in the situation which gave Clare pause. Lord Dawlish, of course, was one of them. She had not mentioned Lord Dawlish to Mr. Pickering, and doubtless lest the sight of it might pain him, she had abstained from wearing her engagement ring during the voyage. But she had not completely lost sight of the fact that she was engaged to Bill. Another thing that caused her to hesitate was the fact that Dudley Pickering, however wealthy, was a most colossal bore. As far as Clare could ascertain on their short acquaintance, he had but one subject of conversation—automobiles. To Clare, an automobile was a shiny thing with padded seats in which you rode if you were lucky enough to know somebody who owned one. She had no wish to go more deeply into the matter. Dudley Pickering's attitude towards automobiles, on the other hand, more nearly resembled that of a surgeon towards the human body. To him a car was something to dissect—something with an interior both interesting to explore and fascinating to talk about. Clare listened with a radiant display of interest. But she had her doubts as to whether any amount of money would make it worthwhile to undergo this sort of thing for life. She was still in this hesitant frame of mind when she entered Regelheimer's restaurant, and it perturbed her that she could not come to some definitive decision on Mr. Pickering. For those subtle signs which every woman can recognize and interpret, told her that the latter, having paved the way by talking of machinery for a week, was about to boil over and speak of higher things. At the very next opportunity she was certain he intended to propose. The presence of Lady Weatherby acted as a temporary check on the development of the situation. But after they had been seated at their table a short time, the lights at the restaurant were suddenly lowered, a coloured limelight became manifest near the roof, and classical music made itself heard from the fiddles in the orchestra. You could tell it was classical because the banjo players were leaning back and chewing gum, and the New York restaurants, only death or a classical speciality, can stop banjoists. There was a splatter of applause, and Lady Weatherby rose. This, she explained to Clare, is where I do my stunt. Watch it, I invented the step for myself, classical stuff, it's called the dream of Psyche. It was difficult for one who knew her as Clare did to associate Polly Weatherby with anything classical. On the road in England, when they had been fellow members of the number two company of the heavenly waltz, Polly had been remarkable, chiefly for a fund of humorous anecdote and a gift, amounting almost to genius, for doing battle with militant landlady. And renewing their intimacy after a hiatus of a little less than a year, Clare had found her unchanged. It was a truckulent affair, this dream of Psyche. It was not so much dancing as shadow boxing. It began mildly enough to the accompaniment of pizzicato strains from the orchestra. Psyche in her training quarters. Run and tando, Psyche punching the bag, diminuendo, Psyche using the medicine ball, presto, Psyche doing road work, forte, the night of the fight. And then things began to move to a climax, with the fiddles working themselves to the bone and the piano bounding under its persecutors' blows. Lady Weatherby ducked, sidestepped, rushed, and sprang, moving her arms in a manner that may have been classical Greek, but to the more untrained eye looked much more like the last round of some open-hair bout. It was half-way through the exhibition when you could smell the sawdust and hear the second shouting advice under the ropes that Clare, who never having seen anything in her life like this extraordinary performance, had been staring spellbound. Awoke to the realisation that Dudley Pickering was proposing to her. It required a woman's intuition to divine this fact, for Mr. Pickering was not coherent. He did not go straight to the point. He rambled. But Clare understood, and it came to her that this thing had taken her before she was ready. In a brief while she would have to give an answer of some sort. And she had not clearly decided what answer she meant to give. Then, while he was still skirting his subject before he had wandered to what he really wished to say, the music stopped. The applause broke out again, and Lady Weatherby returned to the table, like a pugilist seeking his corner at the end of a round. Her face was flushed, and her breathing hard. They pay me money for that. She observed genially. Can you beat it? The spell was broken. Mr. Pickering sat back in his chair in a punctured manner, and Clare, making monosyllabic replies to her friend's remarks, was able to bend her mind to the task of finding out how she stood on this important Pickering issue. That he would return to the attack as soon as possible she knew. And the next time she must have her attitude clearly defined one way or the other. Lady Weatherby, having got the dance of psyche out of her system, and replaced it with a glass of iced coffee, was inclined for conversation. Algie called me up on the phone this evening, Clare. Yes? Clare was examining Mr. Pickering with furtive sideglances. He was not handsome, nor on the other hand was he repulsive. Undistinguished was the adjective that would have described him. He was inclined to stoutness, but not unpardonably so. His hair was thin, but he was not aggressively bald. His face was dull, but certainly not stupid. There was nothing in his outer man which his millions would not offset. As regarded his other qualities, his conversation was certainly not exhilarating. But that also was not under certain conditions an unforgivable thing. No, looking at the matter all round and weighing it with care, the real obstacle, Clare decided, was not any quality or lack of qualities in Dudley Pickering. It was Lord Dawlish, and the simple fact that it would be extremely difficult if she discarded him in favour of a richer man without any ostensible cause. To retain her self-respect, I think he's weakening. Yes? Yes, that was the crux of the matter. She wanted to retain her good opinion of herself, and in order to achieve that end it was essential that she find some excuse, however trivial, for breaking off the engagement. Yes? A waiter approached the table. Mr. Pickering, the thwarted lover, came to life with a start. Hey, a gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone. Oh, yes, I was expecting a long-distance call. Lady Weatherby, and left word that I would be here. Will you excuse me? Lady Weatherby watched him as he bustled across the room. What do you think of him, Clare? Mr. Pickering, I think he's very nice. He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That's why I wanted you to come over on the same ship with him. Polly! I had no notion you were such a schemer. I would just love to see you two fix it up, continued Lady Weatherby, earnestly. He may not be what you might call a genius, but he's a down-good sort, and all his millions help, don't they? You don't want to overlook these millions, Clare? Why do you like Mr. Pickering? Clare, he asked me if you were engaged. What? When I told him you weren't, he beamed. Honestly, you only got to lift your little finger, and—how good, Lord, there's algae! Clare looked up. A dapper, a trim little man of about forty, was threading his way among the tables in their direction. It was a year since Clare had seen Lord Weatherby, but she recognized him at once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion of side-whiskers, small pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, the smoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it was difficult to believe that hair had ever grown there. Though his evening-grass was perfect in every detail, he conveyed a subtle suggestion of horsiness. He reached the table and sat down, without invitation, in the vacant chair. Pauline, he said, sorrowfully. Algae! said Lady Weatherby, tensely. I don't know what you've come here for. I don't remember asking you to sit down and put your elbows on that table. But I want to begin by saying that I will not be called Pauline. My name's Polly. You've got a way of saying Pauline as if it were a gentlemanly cuss word that makes me want to scream. And while you're about it, why don't you say, how do you do to Clare? You ought to remember her as she was my bridesmaid. How do you do, Miss Fenwick? Of course I remember you perfectly. I'm glad to see you again. And now, Algae, what is it? Why have you come here? Lord Weatherby looked doubtfully at Clare. Oh, that's all right, said Lady Weatherby. Clare knows all about it, I told her. When I appeal to Miss Fenwick, if, as you say, she knows all the facts of the case, to say whether it is reasonable to expect a man of my temperament, a nervous, highly strung artist, to welcome the presence of snakes at the breakfast table. I trust that I'm not an unreasonable man, but I decline to admit that a long green snake is a proper thing to keep about the house. You had no right to strike the poor thing. In that one respect I was perhaps a little hasty. I happened to be stirring my tea at the moment his head rose above the edge of the table. I was not entirely myself that morning. My nerves were somewhat disordered. I had lain awake much of the night, planning a canvas. Planning a what? A canvas. A picture. Lady Weatherby turned to Clare. I wanted to listen to Algae, Clare. A year ago he did not know one end of a paintbrush from the other. He didn't know he had any nerves. If you had brought him the artistic temperament on a plate with a bit of water-crace round it, he wouldn't have recognized it. And now, just because he's got a studio, he thinks he has a right to go up in the air if you speak to him suddenly, and run about the place hitting snakes with teaspoons as if he were Michelangelo. You do me an injustice. It is true that as an artist I developed late. But why should we quarrel? If it will help to pave the way to a renewed understanding between us, I am prepared to apologize for striking Clarens. That is conciliatory, I think, Miss Fenwick. Very. Miss Fenwick considers my attitude conciliatory. It's something, admitted Lady Weatherby grudgingly. Lord Weatherby drained the whiskey and soda which Dudley Pickering had left behind him, and seemed to draw strength from it, for he now struck a firmer note. Though expressing regret for my momentary loss of self-control, I cannot recede from the position I have taken up, regards the essential unfitness of Clarens' presence in the home. Lady Weatherby looked despairingly at Clare. The very first words I heard LG speak, Clare, were at Newmarket during the three-o'clock race one May afternoon. He was hanging over the rail, yelling like an Indian. And what he was yelling was, Come on, you blighter, come on, by the living jingo, brick-bat wins in a walk. And now he's talking about receding from essential positions. Oh, well, he wasn't an artist then. My dear poor Polly, I am purposely picking my words on the present occasion in order to prevent the possibility of further misunderstandings. I consider myself an ambassador. You'd be shocked if you knew what I consider you. I am endeavouring to the best of my ability. LG listened to me. I'm quite calm at present, but there is no knowing how soon I may hit you with a chair, if you don't come to earth quickly, and talk like an ordinary human being. What is it that you're driving at? Very well, it's this. I'll come home if you get rid of that snake. Never! It's surely not too much to ask of you, Polly. I won't! Lord Weatherby sighed. When I led you to the altar, he said reproachfully, you promised to love, honour and obey me. I thought at the time it was a bit of swank. Lady Weatherby's manner thawed. She became more friendly. When you talk like that, LG, I feel this hope for you after all. That's how you used to talk in the dear old days when you'd come to me to borrow half a crown to put on a horse. Listen, nevertheless you seem to be getting more reasonable. I wish I could make you understand that I don't keep Clarence for sheer love of him. He's a commercial asset. He's an advertisement. You must know that I have got to have something too. I admit that he may be so as regards the monkey Eustace. Monkeys as age to publicity have, I believe, been tested and found valuable by other artistes. I'm prepared to accept Eustace. But the snake is worthless. Oh! You don't object to Eustace, then? I do, strongly. But I concede his uses. You would live in the same house as Eustace? I would endeavour to do so. But not in the same house as Eustace and Clarence. It was a pause. I don't know that I'm so struck on Clarence myself, said Lady Weatherby, weakly. My darling! Wait a minute. I've not said I'd get rid of him, but you will. Lady Weatherby's hesitation lasted but a moment. All right, LG. I'll send him to the zoo tomorrow. My precious pet. A hand, reaching under the table, enveloped Claire's in a loving clasp. From the look on Lord Weatherby's face, she supposed that he was under the delusion that he was bestowing his attention on his wife. You know, LG, darling? said Lady Weatherby, melting completely. When you get that yearning note in your voice, I just flop and take the full count. My sweet heart! When I saw you doing that dream of what's the girl's belly name dance just now, it was all I could do to keep from rushing out onto the floor and hugging you. LG. Polly. Do you mind letting go of my hand, please, Lord Weatherby? Said Claire, on whom these saccharine exchanges were beginning to have a clawing effect. For a moment Lord Weatherby seemed somewhat confused. But, putting himself together, he covered his embarrassment with a pomposity that blended poorly with his horsey appearance. LG. Married life, Miss Fenwick, he said, as you will never discover some day, must always be a series of mutual compromises, of cheerful give and take, the lamp of love. His remarks were cut short by a crash at the other end of the room. There was a sharp cry and a splintering of glass. The place was full of a sudden, sharp confusion. They jumped up with one accord. Lady Weatherby spilled her iced coffee. Lord Weatherby dropped the lamp of love. Claire, who was nearest to Pillar, that had separated them from the part of the restaurant where the accident had happened, was the first to see what had taken place. A large man, dancing with a large girl, appeared to have charged into a small waiter, upsetting him and his tray, and the contents of his tray. The various actors in the drama were now engaged in sorting themselves out from the ruins. The man had his back towards her, but it seemed to Claire that there was something familiar about that back. Then he turned, and she recognized Lord Dawlish. She stood, transfixed. For a moment surprise was her only emotion. How came Bill to be in America? Then other feelings blended with her surprise. It is a fact that Lord Dawlish was looking singularly uncomfortable. Claire's eyes traveled from Bill to his partner, and took in, with one swift feminine glance, her large exuberant blondness. There is no denying that, seen with a somewhat biased eye, the good sport resembled rather closely a poster advertising a review. Claire returned to her seat. Lord and Lady Weatherby continued to talk, but she allowed them to conduct the conversation without her assistance. You're very quiet, Claire, said Polly. I'm thinking. Very good thing, too, so they tell me. I've never tried it myself. Algy darling, he was a bad boy to leave his nice home, wasn't he? He didn't deserve to have his hand held. End of Chapter 7 Read by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 8 of Uneasy Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Uneasy Money by Pidgey Woodhouse, Chapter 8 It has been a great night for Nutty Boyd, if the vision of his sister Elizabeth, at home at the farm speculating sadly on the whereabouts of her wandering boy, ever came before his mental eye, he certainly did not allow it to interfere with his appreciation of the festivities. At Frolick's in the air, wither they moved after draining Regelheimers of what joys it had to offer, and at Peels, where they went after wearying of Frolick's in the air, he was in the highest spirits. It was only occasionally that the recollection came to vex him that this could not last, that, since his uncle Ira had played him false, he must return anon to the place when she had come. Why in a city of all night restaurants these parties ever break up, one cannot say, but a merciful providence sees to it that they do, and just as Lord Dawlish was contemplating an eternity of the company of Nutty and his two companions, the end came. Miss Leonard said that she was tired, her friend said that it was a shame to go home at dusk like this, but if the party was going to be broken up, she supposed there was nothing else for it. Bill was too sleepy to say anything. The good sport lived round the corner, and only required Lord Dawlish's escort for a couple of hundred yards, but Miss Leonard's hotel was in the neighborhood of Washington Square, and it was Nutty's pleasing task to drive her thiver. Engaged thus, he received a shock that electrified him. That pal of yours, said Miss Leonard drowsily. She was half asleep. What did you say his name was? Jammers, he told me. I only met him tonight. Well, it isn't. It's something else. It, Miss Leonard yawned. It, Lord something? How do you mean, Lord something? He is a Lord. At least he was when I met him in London. Are you sure you met him in London? Of course I'm sure. He was at that supper Captain Delaney gave at Oddy's. There can't be two men in England who dance like that. The recollection of Bill's performance stimulated Miss Leonard into a temporary wakefulness, and she giggled. He danced just the same way that I did in London. I wish I could remember his name. I almost had it a dozen times tonight. It's something with a window in it. A window? Nuttie's brain was a little fatigued, and he felt himself unequal to grasping this. How do you mean a window? Not a window, a door. I knew it was something about a house. I know now his name's Lord Dawlish. Nuttie's fatigue fell from him like a garment. It can't be. It is. Miss Leonard's eyes had closed, and she spoke in a muffled voice. Are you sure? Nuttie was wide awake now and full of inquiries, but his companion, unfortunately, was asleep, and he could not put them to her. A gentleman cannot prod a lady and his guest at that, in the ribs, in order to wake her up and ask her questions. Nuttie sat back and gave himself up to feverish thought. He could think of no reason why Lord Dawlish should have come to America calling himself William Chalmers. But that was no reason why he should not have done so. And Daisy Leonard, who all along had remembered meeting him in London, had identified him. Nuttie was convinced. Arriving finally at Miss Leonard's hotel, he woke her up and saw her in at the door. Then, telling the man to drive to the lodgings of his new friend, he urged his mind to rapid thought. He had decided, as a first step, in the following up of this matter, to invite Bill down to Elizabeth's farm. And the thought occurred to him that there's a better be done to-night, for he knew by experience that on the morning after these little jaunts, he was seldom in the mood to seek people out and invite them to go anywhere. All the way to the flat he continued to think. And it was wonderful what possibilities there seemed to be in this little scheme of courting the society of the man who had robbed him of his inheritance. He had worked on Bill's feelings so successfully, as to elicit a loan of a million dollars, and was just proceeding to marry him to Elizabeth, when the cab stopped with the sudden sharpness peculiar to New York cabs, and he woke up to find himself at his destination. Bill was in bed when the bell rang, and received his late host in his pyjamas, wondering, as he did so, whether this was the New York custom to foregather again after a party had been broken up, and chat till breakfast. But Nutty, it seemed, had come with a motive not from a desire for more conversation. Sorry to disturb you, old man, said Nutty. I looked in to tell you that I was going down to the country tomorrow. I wondered whether you would care to come and spend the day or two with us. Bill was delighted. This was better than he hoped for. Rather, he said, thanks awfully. There are plenty of trains in the afternoon, said Nutty. I don't suppose either of us would feel like getting up early. I'll call for you here at half past six, and we'll have an early dinner and catch the seven-fifteen, shall we? We live very simply, you know. You won't mind that? My dear chap. That's all right then, said Nutty, closing the door. Good night. End of Chapter 8, read by Tim Bulkeley of bigbible.org. Chapter 9 of uneasy money. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, not a volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Tim Bulkeley of bigbible.org. Uneasy Money by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter 9. Elizabeth entered Nutty's room, and, seating herself on the bed, surveyed him with a bright, quiet eye that drilled holes in her brother's uneasy conscience. This was her second visit to him that morning. She had come an hour ago, bearing breakfast on a tray, and had departed without saying a word. It was this uncanny silence of hers, even more than the effects, which still lingered, of his revels in the metropolis, that it interfered with Nutty's enjoyment of the morning meal. Never a hearty breakfaster, he had found himself under the influence of her wordless disapproval, physically unable to consume the fried egg that confronted him. He had given it one look. Then, endorsing the opinion which she had once heard a character in a play utter, in somewhat similar circumstances, that there was nothing on earth so homely as an egg, he had covered it with a handkerchief, and tried to pull himself round with hot tea. He was now smoking a sad cigarette, waiting for the blow to fall. A silence had puzzled him, though he had tried to give her no opportunity of getting him alone on the previous evening, when he had arrived at the farm with Lord Dawlish. He had fully expected that she would have broken in upon him with abuse and recrimination in the middle of the night. Yet she had not done this, nor had she spoken to him when bringing him his breakfast. These things found their explanation in Elizabeth's character, with which Nutty, though he had known her so long, was but imperfectly acquainted. Elizabeth had never been angrier with her brother. But an innate goodness of heart had prevented her falling upon him, before he had had rest and refreshment. She wanted to massacre him, but at the same time she told herself that the poor deer must be feeling very, very ill, and should have a reasonable respite before the slaughter commenced. It was plain that in her opinion, this respite had now lasted long enough. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that she had closed the door, then leaned a little forward and spoke. Now, Nutty! The wretched youth attempted bluster. What do you mean, now Nutty? What's the use of looking at a fellow like that and saying now Nutty? Where's the scent? His voice trailed off. He was not a very intelligent young man, but even he could see that his was not a position where righteous indignation could be assumed with any solid chance of success. As a substitute, he tried pathos. Oh, my head does ache. I wish it would burst, said his sister unkindly. That's a nice thing to say to a fellow. I'm sorry I shouldn't have said it. Oh, well. Only I couldn't think of anything worse. It began to seem to Nutty that pathos was a bit of a failure, too. As a last resort, he fell back on silence. He wriggled, as far down as he could beneath the sheets, and breathed in a soft and wounded sort of way. Elizabeth took up the conversation. Nutty, she said, I have struggled for years against the conviction that you were a perfect idiot. I forced myself against my better judgment to try to look on you as sane. But now I give in. I can't believe you are responsible for your actions. Don't imagine that I'm going to heap you with reproaches because you sneaked off to New York. I'm not even going to tell you what I thought of you for not sending me a telegram, letting me know where you were. I can understand all that. You were disappointed because Uncle Ira had not left you his money. And I suppose that was your way of working it off. If you had just run away and come back again with a headache, I'd have treated you like the prodigal son. But there are some things which are too much, and bringing a perfect stranger back with you for an indefinite period is one of them. I'm not saying anything against Mr. Chalmers personally. I haven't had time to find out much about him, except that he's an Englishman. But he looks respectable. Which, as is a friend of yours, is more or less a miracle. She raised her eyebrows as a faint moan of protest came from beneath the sheets. You surely, she said, aren't going to suggest at this hour of the day, Nutty, that your friends aren't the most horrible set of pests outside of prison? Not that it's likely, after all these months, that they are outside of prison. You know perfectly well that while you were running around New York, you collected the most pernicious bunch of rogues that ever fastened their talons onto a silly child who ought never to have been allowed out without his nurse. After which, complicated insult, it was with pause for breath, and there was silence for a space. Well, as I was saying, I know nothing against this, Mr. Chalmers. Probably his fingerprints are in the rogues' gallery, and he's better known to the police as Jack the Blood or something, but he hasn't shown that side of him yet. My point is that whoever he is, I do not want him or anybody else coming and taking up his abode here, while I have to be cook and housemaid too. I object to having a stranger on the premises spying out the nakedness of the land. I'm sensitive about my honest poverty. So, darling Nutty, my pernicious Nutty, you poor, bone-headed muddler, will you kindly think up at your earliest convenience some plan for politely ejecting this Mr. Chalmers of yours from our humble home? Because if you don't, I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. And, completely restored to good humour by her own eloquence, Elizabeth burst out laughing. It was a trait in her character which she had often lamented, that she could not succeed in keeping angry with anyone for more than a few minutes on end. Sooner or later, some happy selection of a phrase of abuse would tickle her sense of humour, or the appearance of her victim would become too funny not to be laughed at. On the present occasion, it was the ridiculous spectacle of Nutty, cowering beneath the bedclothes that caused her wrath to evaporate. She made a weak attempt to recover it. She glared at Nutty. Poor the sound of her laughter had emerged from under the clothes like a worm after a thunderstorm. I mean it, she said. It really is too bad of you. You might have had some sense and a little consideration. Ask yourself if we're in a position here to entertain visitors. Well, I'm going to make myself very unpopular with this Mr. Chalmers of yours. By this evening he will be regarding me with utter loathing, for I am about to persecute him. What do you mean? asked Nutty. Alarmed. I am going to begin by asking him to help me open one of the hives, for goodness sake. After that, I shall, with his assistance, transfer some honey, and after that, well, I don't suppose he will be alive by then. If he is, I shall make him wash the dishes for me. The least he can do after swooping down on us like this is to make himself useful. The cry of protest broke from the appalled Nutty. But Elizabeth did not hear it. She had left the room and was on her way downstairs. Lord Dollish was smoking an after-breakfast cigar in the grounds. It was a beautiful day, and a peaceful happiness had come upon him. He told himself that he had made progress. He was under the same roof as the girl he had deprived of her inheritance, and it should be simple to establish such friendly relations as would enable him to reveal his identity and ask her to reconsider her refusal to relieve him of a just share of her uncle's money. He had seen Elizabeth for only a short time on the previous night, but he had taken an immediate liking to her. There was something about the American girl who reflected, which seemed to put a man at his ease, a charm and directness all her own. Yes, he liked Elizabeth, and he liked this dwelling-place of hers. He was quite willing to stay on here indefinitely. Nature had done well by flax. The house itself was more pleasing to the eye than most of the houses in those parts, owing to the black-and-white paint which decorated it, and an unconventional flattening and rounding of the roof. Nature too had made so many improvements that the general effect was unusually delightful. Bill perceived Elizabeth coming toward him from the house. He threw away his cigar and went to meet her. Seen by daylight, she was more attractive than ever. She looked so small and neat and wholesome, so extremely unlike Miss Daisy Leonard's friend. And such was the reaction from what might be termed his later Regalheimer's mood, that if he had been asked to define feminine charm in a few words, he would have replied without hesitation that it was the quality of being as different as possible in every way from the good sport. Elizabeth fulfilled this qualification. She was not only small and neat, but she had a soft voice to which it was a joy to listen. I was just admiring your place, he said. Its appearance is the best part of it, said Elizabeth. It's a deceptive place. The bay looks beautiful, but you can't bathe in it because of the jellyfish. The woods are lovely, but you don't come near them because of the ticks. They jump on you and suck your blood, said Elizabeth carelessly. And the nights are gorgeous, but you have to stay indoors after dusk because of the mosquitoes. She paused to mark the effect of these horrors on her visitor. Then, of course, she went on, as he showed no signs of flying to the house to pack his bag and catch the next train. The bees are always stinging you. I hope you are not afraid of bees, Mr. Chalmers. Rather not, jolly little chaps. A gleam appeared in Elizabeth's eye. If you are so fond of them, perhaps you wouldn't mind coming and helping me open one of the hives. Rather! I'll go and fetch the things. She went into the house and ran up to Nutty's room, waking that sufferer from a troubled sleep. Nutty, he's bitten! Nutty sat up violently. Good gracious, by what? You don't understand. What I mean is that I invited your Mr. Chalmers to help me open a hive, and he said rather. And he's waiting to do it now. Be ready to say good-bye to him. If he comes out of this alive, his first act, after bathing the wounds with ammonia, will be to leave us forever. But look here, he's a visitor. Cheer up, he won't be much longer. You can't let him in for a ghastly thing like opening a hive. When you made me do it that time, I was picking stings out of myself for a week. That was because you've been smoking. Bees dislike the smell of tobacco. But this fellow may have been smoking. He's just finished a strong cigar. For heaven's sake! Good-bye, Nutty, dear. I mustn't keep him waiting. Lord Dawlish looked with interest at the various implements which she had collected when she rejoined him outside. He relieved her of the stool, the smoker, the cotton waste, the knife, the screwdriver, and the queen-clipping cage. Let me carry these for you, he said, unless you've had a van. Elizabeth disapproved of this flippancy. He was out of place in one who should have been trembling at the prospect of doom. Do you wear a veil for this sort of job? And they're all Elizabeth did. She had reached the stage of intimacy with her bees, which rendered a veil a superfluous precaution. But until to-day she had never abandoned it. Her view of the matter was that, though the inhabitants of the hive were familiar and friendly with her by this time, and recognised that she came among them with about hostile intent, it might well happen that among so many thousands there might be one slow-witted enough and obtuse enough not to have grasped this fact, and in such an event a veil was better than any amount of explanations. For you cannot stick to pure reason when quarrelling with bees. But to-day it had struck her that she could hardly protect herself in this way, without offering a similar safeguard to her visitor, and she had no wish to hedge him about with safeguards. And how, she said brightly, I'm not afraid of a few bees, are you? Rather not. You know what to do if one of them flies at you? Well, it would, anyway, what? What I mean to say is I could leave most of the doing to the bee. Elizabeth was more disapproving than ever. This was mere bravado. She did not speak again until they reached the hives. In the neighbourhood of the hives a vast activity prevailed. What, heard from afar, had been a pleasant murmur, became at close quarters a menacing tumult. The air was full of bees, bees sullying forth for honey, bees returning with honey, bees trampling on each other's heels, bees pausing in mid-air to pass the time of day with rivals on competing lines of traffic, blunt-bodied drones whizzing to and fro with a noise-like miniature high-powered automobiles, as if to convey the idea of being tremendously busy, without going to the length of doing any actual work. One of these, blundered into Lord Dawlish's face, and he pleased Elizabeth to observe that he gave a jump. Don't be afraid, she said, it's only a drone. Drones have no stings. They have hard heads, though. Here he comes again. I suppose he smells your tobacco. A drone has thirty-seven thousand eight hundred nostrils, you know. That gives him a sporting chance of smelling a cigar, what? I mean to say, if he misses with eight hundred of his nostrils, he's apt to get it with the other thirty-seven thousand. Elizabeth was feeling annoyed with her bees. They resolutely declined to sting this young man. Bees flew past him. Bees flew into him. Bees settled upon his coat. Bees paused questioningly in front of him. As, who should say, what have we here? But not a single bee molested him. Yet when Nutty, poor darling, went within a dozen yards of the hives, he never failed to suffer for it. In her heart, Elizabeth knew perfectly well that this was because Nutty, when in the presence of the bees, lost his head completely and behaved like an exaggerated version of Lady Weatherby's dream of psyche. Whereas Bill maintained an easy calm. But at the moment she put the phenomenon down to the at inexplicable cussedness, which does so much to exasperate the human race. And it fed her annoyance with her unbitten guest. Without commenting on his last remark, she took the smoker from him and set to work. She inserted it in the fire chamber with a handful of the cotton waste and set fire to it. Then with a preliminary puff or two of the bellows to make sure that the conflagration had not gone out, she aimed the nozzle at the front door of the hive. The results were instantaneous. One or two bee policemen who were doing fixed point duty near the opening scuttled hastily back into the hive, and from within came a muffled buzzing as other bees, all talking at once, worried the perplexed officials with foolish questions. A buzzing that became less muffled and more pronounced, as Elizabeth lifted the edge from the cover and directed more smoke through the crack. This done, she removed the cover, set it down on the grass beside her, lifted the supercover, and applied more smoke, and raised her eyes to where Bill stood watching. His face or a smile of pleased interest. Elizabeth's irritation became painful. She resented his smile. She hung the smoker on the side of the hive. The stool pleased and the screwdriver. She seated herself beside the hive and began to loosen the outside section. Then, taking the brood frame by the projecting ends, she pulled it out and handed it to her companion. She did it as one who plays an ace of trumps. Would you mind holding this, Mr. Chalmers? This was the point in the ceremony at which the wretched nutty had broken down absolutely, and not inexcusably, considering the severity of the test. The surface of the frame was black with what appeared at first sight to be a thick, bubbling fluid of some sort, pouring viscously to and fro, as if some hidden fire had been lighted beneath it. Only after a closer inspection was it apparent to the lay eye that this seeming fluid was in reality composed of mass upon mass of bees. They shoved and writhed and muttered and jostled for all the world like a collection of home-seeking city men, trying to secure a standing-room on the underground at half-past five in the afternoon. Nutty, making this discovery, had emitted one wild yell, dropped the frame, and started at full speed for the house. His retreat expedited by repeated stings from the nervous bees. Bill, more prudent, remained absolutely motionless. He eyed the seething frame with interest, but without apparent panic. I want you to help me here, Mr. Chalmers. You have stronger wrists than I have. I will tell you what to do. Hold the frame tightly. I've got it. Jerk it down as sharply as you can to within a few inches off the door. Then jerk it up again. You see, that shakes them off. It would, me, agreed Bill cordially, if I were a bee. Elizabeth had the feeling that she had played her race of trumps, and by some miracle lost the trick. If this grisly operation did not dawn the man, nothing, not even the transferring of honey, would. She watched him as he raised the frame, and jerked it down with a strong swiftness, which her less powerful wrists had never been able to achieve. The bees tumbled off in a dense shower, asking questions to the last. Then, citing the familiar entrance to the hive, they bustled in without waiting to investigate the cause of the earthquake. Lord Dawlish watched them go, with a kindly interest. It had always been a mystery to me, he said, why they never seemed to think of manhandling the Johnny, who does that to them. They don't seem able to connect cause and effect. I suppose the only way they can figure it out is that the bottom has suddenly dropped out of everything, and they're so busy lighting out for home that they haven't had time to go to the root of things. But it's a ticklish job for all that if you're not used to it. I know when I first did it, I shut my eyes and wondered whether they would bury my remains or cremate them. When you first did it—Elizabeth was staring at him blankly, have you done it before? Her voice shook. Mill met her gaze frankly, done it before, rather, thousands of times. You see, I spent a year on a bee farm once learning the business. For a moment, mortification was the only emotion of which Elizabeth was conscious. She felt extremely ridiculous. For this she had schemed and plotted, to give a practised expert the opportunity of doing what he had done a thousand times before. And then her mood changed in a flash. Nature has decreed that there are certain things in life, which will act as hoops of steel. Grappling the souls of the elect together. Golf is one of these. A mutual love of horse-flash another. But the greatest of all is bees. Between two beekeepers there could be no strife, not even a tepid hostility can mar their perfect communion. The petty enmities which life raises to be barriers between man and man, and between man and woman, then vanish once it is revealed to them that they are linked by this great bond. Envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness disappear, and they look into each other's eyes and say, my brother. The effect of Bill's words on Elizabeth was revolutionary. They crashed through her dislike, scattering it like an explosive shell. She had resented this golden young man's presence at the farm. She had thought him in the way. She had objected to his becoming aware that she did such prosaic tasks as cooking and washing up. But now her whole attitude towards him was changed. She reflected that he was there. He could stay there as long as he liked, the longer the better. You have really kept bees? Not actually kept them, worst luck. I couldn't raise the capital, you see. Money was a bit tight. I know, said Elizabeth sympathetically. Money is like that, isn't it? The general impression seemed to be that I should be foolish to try anything so speculative as beekeeping, so it fell through. Some very decent old boys got me another job. What job? Secretary to a club. In London, of course. Yes. And all the time you wanted to be in the country keeping bees. Elizabeth could hardly control her voice. Her pity was so great. I should have liked it, said Bill, wistfully. London's all right, but I love the country. My ambition would be to have a wacking big farm, a sort of ranch, miles from anywhere. He broke off. This was not the first time he had caught himself forgetting how his circumstances had changed in the past few weeks. It was ridiculous to be telling hard luck stories about not being able to buy a farm, when he had the wherewithal to buy dozens of farms. It took a lot of getting used to this business of being a millionaire. That's my ambition too, said Elizabeth eagerly. This was the very first time she had met a congenial spirit. Not his views on farming and the Arcadian life, generally, were saddening to an enthusiast. If I had the money, I should get an enormous farm, and in the summer, I should borrow all the children I could find, and take them out to it and let them wallow in it. Wouldn't they do a lot of damage? I shouldn't mind. I should be too rich to worry about the damage. If they ruined the place beyond repair, I'd go and buy another. She laughed. It isn't so impossible, as it sounds. I came very near being able to do it. She paused for a moment, but went on almost at once. After all, if you cannot confide your intimate troubles to a fellow bee-lover, to whom can you confide them? An uncle of mine, Bill felt himself flushing. He looked away from her. He had a sense of almost unbearable guilt, as if he had just done some particularly low crime, and was contemplating another. An uncle of mine would have left me enough money to buy all the farms I wanted, and an awful person, an English lord. I wonder if you heard of him, Lord Dawlish. Got hold of Uncle somehow, and induced him to make will, leaving all the money to him. She looked at Bill for sympathy, and was touched to see that he was crimson with emotion. He must be a perfect deer to take other people's misfortunes to heart like that. I don't know how he managed it, she went on. He must have worked and plotted and schemed, for Uncle Ira wasn't a weak sort of man, whom you could do what you liked with. He was very obstinate. But anyway, this Lord Dawlish succeeded in doing it somehow, and then, her eyes blazed at the recollection, he had the insolence to write to me through his lawyers, offering me half. I suppose he was hoping to satisfy his conscience. Naturally, I refused it. But, but why? Why? Why did I refuse it? Surely you don't think I was going to accept charity from the man who had cheated me. But, but, perhaps you didn't mean it like that. What I mean to say is, as charity, you know. He did. Don't let's talk of it any more. It makes me angry to think of him, and there's no use spoiling a lovely day like this by getting angry. Bill sighed. He had never dreamed before that it could be so difficult to give money away. He was profoundly glad that he had not revealed his identity, as he had been on the very point of doing, just when she began her remarks. He understood now why that curt refusal had come in answer to his lawyer's letter. Well, there was nothing to do but wait and hope, but time might accomplish something. What do you want me to do next? he said. Why did you open the hive? Did you want to take a look at the queen? Elizabeth hesitated. She blushed with pure shame. She had had but one motive in opening the hive, and that had been to annoy him. She scorned to take advantage of the loophole he had provided. Beekeeping is a freemasonry. A beekeeper cannot deceive her brother Mason. She faced him bravely. I didn't want to take a look at anything, Mr. Chalmers. I opened that hive because I wanted you to drop the frame, as my brother did, and get stung, as he was, because I thought that would drive you away, because I thought then that I didn't want you down here. I'm ashamed of myself, and I don't know where I'm getting the nerve to tell you this. I hope you will stay on, on and on and on. Bill was aghast. A good lord, if I'm in the way. You hunt in the way. But you said. But don't you see that it's so different now? I didn't know then that you were fond of bees. You must stay. If my telling you hasn't made you feel that you want to catch the next train, you will save our lives, minor nutties, too. Oh, dear, you're hesitating. You're trying to think up some polite way of getting out of the place. You mustn't go, Mr. Chalmers. You simply must stay. There aren't any mosquitoes, no jellyfish, nothing. At least there are, but what do they matter? You don't mind them? Do you play golf? Yes. There are links here. You can't go until you've tried them. What's your handicap? Last two. So is mine. By Jove, really? Elizabeth looked at him her eyes, dancing. Why, we're practically twins-holes, Mr. Chalmers. Tell me, I know your game is nearly perfect, but if you have a fault, is it a tendency to putt too hard? Why, by Jove, yes it is. I knew it. Something told me. It's the curse of my life, too. Well, after that you can't go away. But if I'm in the way— In the way, Mr. Chalmers? Will you come in now and help me wash the breakfast things? Rather, said Lord Dawlish. In the days that followed their interrupted love scene at Riegelheimer's restaurant, that night of Lord Dawlish's unfortunate encounter with the tray-bearing waiter, Dudley Pickering's behaviour had puzzled Claire Fennig. She had taken it for granted that the next day, at the latest, he would resume the offer of his hand. She had taken it for granted that the next day, at the latest, he would resume the offer of his hand. But time passed, and he made no move in that direction. Of limousine-bodies, carburetors, spark plugs, and inner tubes, he spoke with freedom and eloquence. But, but the subject of love and marriage, he avoided absolutely. His behaviour was inexplicable. Claire was peaked. She was in the position of a hostess, who was in the position of a hostess. She was in the position of a hostess, who has swept and garnished her house against the coming of a guest, and wait in vain for that guest's arrival. She made up her mind what to do when Dudley Pickering proposed to her next time, and thereby, it seemed to her, had removed all difficulties in the way of that proposal. She little knew her Pickering. Dudley Pickering was not a self-starter in the motor-drome of love. He needed cranking. He was that most unpromising of matrimonial material, a shy man with a cautious disposition. If he ever came his shyness, caution applied the foot-break. If he succeeded in forgetting caution, shyness shut off the gas. At Riegelheimers some miracle had made him not only reckless, but unself-conscious. Possibly the dream of Psyche had gone to his head. At any rate, he had been on the very verge of proposing to Claire when the interruption had occurred, and in bed that night, reviewing the affair, he had been appalled at the narrowness of his escape from taking a definite step. Except in the way of business, he was a man who hated definite steps. He never accepted even a dinner invitation without subsequent doubts and remorse. The consequence was that in the days that followed the Riegelheimer episode, what Lord Wetherby would have called a lamp of love burned rather low in Mr. Pickering. As if the acetylene were running out. He stood mired Claire intensely, and experienced disturbing emotions when he beheld her perfect tonneau and wonderful headlights. But he regarded her with a cautious fear. Although he sometimes dreamed sentimentally of marriage in the abstract, of actual marriage, of marriage with a flesh-and-blood individual, of marriage that involved clergymen and voices that breathed or eaten, and giggling bridesmaids and cake, Dudley Pickering was afraid with a terror that woke him sweating in the night. His shyness shrank from ceremony. His caution jibed at the mysteries of married life. So his attitude towards Claire, the only girl who'd succeeded in bewitching him into the opening words of an actual proposal, was a little less cordial and affectionate than if she had been a rival automobile manufacturer. Matters were in this state. When Lady Wetherby, who having danced classical dances for three months without a break, required a rest, shifted her camp to the house which she had rented for the summer at Brookport, Long Island, taking with her Algie, her husband, the monkey Eustace, and Claire and Mr. Pickering. Her guests. The house was a large one, capable of receiving a big party, but she did not wish to entertain on an ambitious scale. The only other guest she proposed to put up was Roscoe Sheriff, a press agent, who was to come down as soon as he could get away from his metropolitan duties. It was a pleasant and romantic place. The estate which Lady Wetherby had rented, standing on a hill the house looked down through green trees on the gleaming waters of the bay. Smooth lawns and shady walks it had, and rustic seats beneath spreading cedars. Yet for all its effect on Dudley Pickering, it might have been a gas-works. He roamed the smooth lawns with Claire, and sat with her on the rustic benches, and talked guardedly of lubricating oil. There were moments when Claire was almost impelled to forfeit whatever chance she might have had of becoming mistress of thirty million dollars and a flourishing business, for the satisfaction of administering just one whole-hearted slap on his round, thinly covered head. Then Roscoe Sheriff came down, and Dudley Pickering, who for days had been using all his resolution to struggle against the siren, suddenly found that there was no siren to struggle against. No sooner had the press agent appeared than Claire deserted him shamelessly and absolutely. She walked with Roscoe Sheriff. Mr. Pickering experienced the discomforting emotions of the man who pushes violently against an abruptly yielding door, or treads heavily on the top stair, where there is no top stair. He was shaken, and the clam-like stolidity, which he had assumed as protection, gave way. Night had descended upon Brookport, used as the monkey was in his little bed, Lord Weatherby, in the smoking-room. It was Sunday, the day of rest, dinner was over, and the remainder of the party were gathered in the drawing-room, with the exception of Mr. Pickering, who was smoking a cigar on the porch. A full moon turned Long Island into a fairyland. Bloom had settled upon Dudley Pickering, and he smoked sadly. All rather stout automobile manufacturers are sad when there is a full moon. It makes them feel lonely. It stirs their hearts to thoughts of love. Marriage loses its terrors for them, and they think wistfully of hooking some fair woman up the back, and buying her hats. Such was the mood of Mr. Pickering, when, through the dimness of the porch, there appeared a white shape moving softly towards him. Is that you, Mr. Pickering? Claire dropped into the seat beside him. From the drawing-room came the soft tinkle of a piano. The sound blended harmoniously with the quiet peace of the night. Mr. Pickering let his cigar go out, and clutched the sides of his chair. Oilers sing three songs of araby, and the tales of fur-cash-mere. While tales are cheap, eat the oversaw, and charm thee to a tear. There, give a little sigh. What a beautiful voice Mr. Sheriff has. Dudley Pickering made no reply. He thought Roscoe Sheriff had a beastly voice. He resented Roscoe Sheriff's voice. He objected to Roscoe Sheriff's polluting this fair night with his cacophony. Don't you think so, Mr. Pickering? That doesn't sound very enthusiastic, Mr. Pickering. I want you to tell me something. Have I done anything to offend you? Mr. Pickering started violently. I have seen so little of you these last few days. A little while ago we were always together, having such interesting talks. But lately it has seemed to me that you have been avoiding me. A feeling of helplessness swept over Mr. Pickering. He was vaguely conscious of the sense of being treated unjustly. Of there being a flaw in Clare's words somewhere, if he could only find it. But the sudden attack had deprived him of the free and unfettered use of his powers of reasoning. He gurgled wordlessly, and Clare went on, a low sad voice mingling with the moonlight in a manner that caused thrills to run up and down his spine. He felt paralyzed. Caution urged him to make some excuse and follow it with a bolt to the drawing-room. But he was physically incapable of taking the excellent advice. Sometimes when you are out in your pickering gem or your pickering giant, the car hesitates, falters, and stops dead. And your chauffeur, having examined the carburetor, turns to you and explains the phenomenon in these words. The mixture is too rich. So it was with Mr. Pickering now. The moonlight alone might not have held him. Clare's voice alone might not have held him. But against the two combined he was powerless. The mixture was too rich. He sat and breathed a little statoriously. And there came to him that conviction that comes to all of us now and then, that we are at a crisis in our careers, and that the moment through which we are living is a moment big with fate. The voice in the drawing-room stopped. Having sung songs of Arabic and tales of Far-Cashmere, Mr. Roscoe Sheriff was refreshing himself for the comic paper. But Lady Weatherby, seated at the piano, still touched the keys softly, and the sound increased the richness of the mixture, which choked Dudley Pickering's spiritual carburetor. It is not fair that a rather stout manufacturer should be called upon to sit in the moonlight while a beautiful girl, to the accompaniment of soft music, reproaches him with having avoided her. I should be so sorry, Mr. Pickering, if I had done anything to make a difference between us. Hey! said Mr. Pickering. I have so few real friends over here. Clare's voice trembled. I—I get a little lonely, little homesick sometimes. She paused, musing. And a spasm of pity rent the bosom beneath Dudley Pickering's ample shirt. There was a buzzing in his ears, and a lump choked his throat. Of course, I'm loving life here. I think America's wonderful. And nobody could be kinder than Lady Weatherby. But I miss my home. It's the first time I've been away so long. I feel very far away sometimes. There are only three of us at home—my mother, myself, and my little brother, little Percy. Her voice trembled again as she spoke the last two words. And it was possibly this that caused Mr. Pickering to visualise Percy as a sort of little Lord Fauntleroy, his favourite character in English literature. He had a vision of a small, delicate, wistful child, pining away for his absent sister. Consumptive, probably, or curvature of the spine. He found Claire's hand in his. He supposed, Dudley, that he must have reached out for it. Soft and warm, it lay there, while the universe paused breathlessly. And then, from the semi-darkness beside him, there came the sound of a stifled sob, and his fingers closed as if someone had touched a button. We have always been such chums. He's only ten, such a dear boy. He must be missing me. She stopped, and simultaneously Dudley Pickering began to speak. There is this to be said for your shy, cautious man. That, on the rare occasions when he does tap at the vein of eloquence, that vein becomes a geezer. It was as if, after years of silence and monosyllables, Dudley Pickering was endeavouring to restore the average. He began, by touching on his alleged neglect and avoidance of Claire, he called himself names and more names, he plumbed the depths of repentance and remorse. Proceeding from this, he eulogised her courage, the pluck with which she presented a smiling face to the world while tortured inwardly by separation from her little brother Percy. He turned to his own feelings. But there are some things which the historian should hold sacred, some things which he should look on as proscribed material for his pen, and the actual words of the stout manufacturer of automobiles proposing marriage in the moonlight fall into this class. It is enough to say that Dudley Pickering was definitive. He left no room for doubt as to his meaning. Dudley! She was in his arms. He was embracing her. She was his—the latest model, self-starting, with limousine body, and all the newest. No, no, his mind was wandering. She was his—this divine girl, this queen among women, this—from the drawing-room. Roscoe Sherris' voice floated out in unconscious comment. Good-bye, boys, I'm going to be married tomorrow. Good-bye, boys, I'm going from sunshine to sorrow. No more sitting up till broad daylight. Did the momentary chill cool the intensity of Dudley Pickering's ardour? If so, he overcame it instantly. He despised Roscoe Sherris. He fluttered himself that he had shown Roscoe Sherris pretty well. Who was who, and what was what? They would have a wonderful wedding, dozens of clergymen, scores of organs playing, the voice that breathed or eaten, platoons of bridesmaids, wagon-loads of cake, and then they would go back to Detroit and live happily ever after. And it might be that in time to come, there would be given to them little runabouts. I'm going to a life for misery and strife, so good-bye, boys. Hang, Roscoe Sherris, what did he know about it confound him? Dudley Pickering turned a deaf ear to the song and wallowed in his happiness. Claire walked slowly down the moolet-drive. She had removed herself from her Dudley's embraces, for she wished to be alone to think. The engagement had been announced. All that part of it was over. Dudley's stammering speech, the unrestrained delight of Polly Weatherby, the facetious rendering of the wedding glide on the piano by Roscoe Sherris, and it now remained for her to try to discover the way of conveying the news to Bill. It had just struck her that, though she knew that Bill was in America, she had not his address. What was she to do? She must tell him, otherwise it might quite easily happen, that they might meet in New York when she returned there. She pictured the scene. She saw herself walking with Dudley Pickering. Along came Bill. Claire, darling! Heavens! What would Dudley think? It would be too awful. She couldn't explain. No, somehow or other, even if she put detectives on his trail, she must find him. And be off with the old love, now that she was on with the new. She reached the gate and leaned over it. And as she did so, someone in the shadow of a tall tree spoke her name. A man came into the light, and she saw that it was Lord Dawlish. End of Chapter 10, Reading by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 11 of Uneasy Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Uneasy Money by P.G. Woodhouse, Chapter 11 Lord Dawlish had gone for a moonlight walk that night, because, like Claire, he wished to be alone to think. He had fallen with a pleasant ease and smoothness into a rather curious life lived at Elizabeth Boyd's Bee Farm. A liking for picnics had lingered in him from boyhood, and existence at Flaks was one long picnic. He found that he had a natural aptitude for the more muscular domestic duties, and his energy in this direction enchanted Nutty, who, before his advent, had had a monopoly of these tasks. Nor was this the only aspect of the situation that pleased Nutty. When he had invited Bill to the farm, he had had a vague hope that good might come of it. But he had never dreamed that things would turn out as well as they promised to do, or that such a warm and immediate friendship would spring up between his sister and the man who had diverted the family fortune into his own pocket. Bill and Elizabeth were getting on splendidly. They were, together all the time, walking, golfing, attending to the numerous needs of the bees, or sitting on the porch. Nutty's imagination began to run away with him. He seemed to smell the scent of orange blossoms to hear the joyous peeling of church bells. In fact, with the difference that it was not his own wedding that he was anticipating, he had begun to take very much the same view of the future that was about to come to Dudley Pickering. Elizabeth would have been startled and embarrassed if she could have read his thoughts, for they might have suggested to her that she was becoming a great deal fonder of Bill, than the shortness of their acquaintance warranted. But though she did not fail to observe the strangeness of her brother's manner, she traced it to another source than the real one. Nutty had a habit of starting back and removing himself when entering the porch, he perceived that Bill and his sister were already seated there. His own impression on such occasions was that he was behaving with consummate tact. Elizabeth supposed that he had had some sort of a spasm. Lord Dawlish, if he had been able to diagnose correctly the almost paternal attitude, which had become his host's normal manner these days, would have been equally embarrassed but less startled. For conscience had already suggested to him, from time to time, that he had been guilty of a feeling towards Elizabeth, warmer than any feeling that should come to an engaged man. Lying in bed at the end of his first week at the farm, he reviewed the progress of his friendship with her. And was amazed at the rapidity with which it had grown. He could not conceal it from himself. Elizabeth appealed to him. Being built on a large scale himself, he had always been attracted by small women. There was a smallness, a daintiness, a liveliness about Elizabeth, that was almost irresistible. She was also capable, so cheerful in spite of the fact that she was having a hard time. And then their minds seemed to blend so remarkably. There were no odd corners to be smoothed away. Never in his life had he felt so supremely at ease with one of the opposite sex. He loved Claire. He drove that fact home almost angrily to himself. But he was forced to admit that he had always been aware of something in the nature of a barrier between them. Claire was quarrelous at times, and always little too apt to take offence. He had never been able to talk to her with that easy freedom that Elizabeth invited. Talking to Elizabeth was like talking to an attractive version of oneself. It was a thing to be done with perfect confidence, without any of that apprehension which Claire inspired, lest the next remark might prove the spark to cause an explosion. But Claire was the girl he loved. There must be no mistake about that. He came to the conclusion that the key to the situation was the fact that Elizabeth was American. He had read so much of the American girl, her unaffectedness, her genius for easy comradeship. Well, this must be what the writer fellows meant. He had happened upon one of those delightful friendships, without any suspicion of sex in them, of which the American girl had the monopoly. Yes, that must be it. It was a comforting explanation. It accounted for his feeling at the loose end whenever he was away from Elizabeth for as much as half an hour. It accounted for the fact that they understood each other so well. It accounted for everything so satisfactorily, that he was able to get to sleep that night after all. But next morning, for his conscience was one of those persistent consciences, he began to have doubts again. Nothing clings like a suspicion in the mind of a conscientious young man that he has been allowing his heart to stray from its proper anchorage. Could it be that he was behaving badly towards Claire? The thought was unpleasant, but he could not get rid of it. He extracted Claire's photograph from his suitcase and solemnly gazed upon it. At first he was shocked to find that it only succeeded in convincing him that Elizabeth was quite the most attractive girl he had ever met. The photographer had given Claire a rather severe look. He had told her to moisten her lips with the tip of her tongue and assume a pleasant smile. With the result that she seemed to glare. She had a rather markedly aggressive look, queenly perhaps, but not very comfortable. There is no species of self-hypnotism equal to that of a man who gazes persistently at a photograph, with the preconceived idea that he is in love with the original of it. Little by little, Bill found that the old feeling began to return. He persevered. By the end of a quarter of an hour, he had almost succeeded in capturing anew that first fine careless rapture which six months ago had caused him to propose to Claire and walk on air when she accepted him. He continued the treatment throughout the day, and by dinner time had arranged everything with his conscience in the most satisfactory manner possible. He loved Claire with a passionate fervour. He liked Elizabeth very much indeed. He submitted this diagnosis to his conscience, and conscience graciously approved and accepted it. It was Sunday that day that helped. There is nothing like Sunday in a foreign country for helping a man to sentimental thoughts of the girl he is left behind him elsewhere. And the fact that there was a full moon clinched it. Bill was enabled to go for an after-in-a-stroll in a condition of almost painful loyalty to Claire. From time to time, as he wandered along the road, he took out the photograph and did some more gazing. The last occasion on which he did this was just as he emerged from the shadow of a large tree that stood by the roadside, and a gush of rich emotion rewarded him. Claire, he murmured. An exclamation at his elbow caused him to look up. There, leaning over a gate in the light of the moon falling on her beautiful face, stood Claire herself. CHAPTER XII In trying interviews as in sprint races, the start is everything. It was the fact that she recovered more quickly from her astonishment than enabled Claire to dominate her scene with Bill. She had the advantage of having a less complicated astonishment to recover from. For there was a shock to see him there when she had imagined that he was in New York. It was not nearly as such a shock as it was to him to see her here, when he had imagined that she was in England. She had adjusted her brain to the situation while he was still gaping. Well, Bill! This speech in itself should have been enough to warn Lord Dawlish of impending doom. As far as love, affection, and tenderness are concerned, a girl might just as well hit a man with an axe, as say, Well, Bill! to him, when they had met unexpectedly in the moonlight after a long separation. But Lord Dawlish was too shattered by surprise to be capable of observing nuances. If his love had ever waned or faltered, as Conscience had suggested earlier in the day, it was at full blast now. Claire! he cried. He was moving to take her in his arms, but she drew back. No really, Bill! she said, and this time it did filter through into his disordered mind that all was not well. A man who is a good deal dazed at the moment may fail to appreciate or remark like, Well, Bill! but for a girl to draw back and say, No, really, Bill! In a tone not exactly of loathing, but certainly of pain diversion, is a deliberately unfriendly act. The three short words, taken in conjunction with the movement, brought him up with a sharper turn as if she had punched him in the eye. Claire! what's the matter? She looked at him steadily. She looked at him with a sort of queenly wooden-ness, as if he were behind a camera with velvet bag over his head, and had just told her to moisten the lips with the tip of the tongue. Her aspect staggered Lord Dawlish. A cursory inspection of his conscience showed nothing but purity and whiteness, but he must have done something. Or she would not be staring at him like this. I don't understand, with the only remark that occurred to him. Are you sure? What do you mean? I was at Regelheimer's restaurant, ah! The sudden start which Lord Dawlish had given at the opening words of her sentence justified the concluding word. Innocent as his behaviour had been that night at Regelheimer's, he had been glad at the time that he had not been observed. It now appeared that he had been observed, and it seemed to him that Long Island suddenly flung itself into a whirling dance. He heard Claire speaking a long way off. I was there with Lady Weatherby. It was she who invited me to come to America. I went to the restaurant to see her dance, and I saw you. With a supreme effort, Bill succeeded in coming down the excited landscape. He willed the trees to stop dancing, and they came reluctantly to a standstill. The world ceased to swim and flicker. Let me explain, he said. The moment he had said the words, he wished he could recall them. Their substance was right enough. It was the sound of them that was wrong. They sounded like a line from a farce, where the earring husband has been caught by the masterful wife. They were ridiculous. Worse than merely ridiculous, they created an atmosphere of guilt and evasion. Explain? How can you explain? It is impossible to explain. I saw you with my own eyes, making an exhibition of yourself with a horrible creature in salmon pink. I am not asking you who she is. I am not questioning you about your relations with her at all. I don't care who she was. The mere fact that you were at a public restaurant with a person of that kind is enough. No doubt you think I am making a great deal of fuss about a very ordinary thing. You consider that it is a man's privilege to do these things, if you can do them without being found out. But it ended everything as far as I am concerned. Am I unreasonable? I don't think so. You steal off to America, thinking I am in England, and behave like this. How could you do that if you really loved me? It's the deceit of it that hurts me. Lord Dawlish drew in a few breaths of pure Long Island air. But he did not speak. He felt helpless. If he were to be allowed to withdraw to the privacy of the study, and wrap a cold wet towel about his forehead and buckle down to it, he knew that he could draft an excellent and satisfactory explanation of his presence at Regelheimers with the good sport. But to do it on the spur of the moment like this was beyond him. Claire was speaking again. She had paused for a while after her recent speech in order to think of something else to say, and during this pause had come to her mind certain excerpts from one of those admirable articles on love by Llewela Delia Philpots, which do so much to boost the reading public of the United States into the higher planes. She had read it that afternoon in a Sunday paper, and it came back to her now. I may be hypersensitive. She said, dropping her voice from the accusatory register to the lower tones of pathos. But I have such high ideals of love. There can be no true love where there is not perfect trust. Trust is to love what— She paused again. She could not remember just what Llewela Delia Philpots had said. Trust was to love. It was something extremely neat, but it had slipped her memory. A woman has the right to expect the man she is about to marry, to regard their trough as a sacred obligation that shall keep him pure as a young knight who has dedicated himself to the quest of the Holy Grail. And I find you, in a public restaurant, dancing with a creature with yellow hair, upsetting waiters, and staggering about with pats of butter all over you. Here a sense of injustice stung Lord Dullish. It was true that after his regrettable collision with Heinrich the waiter, he had discovered butter upon his person. But it was only one pat. Clare had spoken, as if he had been festooned with butter. I am not angry with you, only disappointed. What has happened has shown me that you do not really love me, not as I think of love. Oh, I know when we are together you think you do, but absence is the test. Absence is the acid test of love that separates the base metal from the trough. After what has happened we can't go on with our engagement, it will be farcical. I can never feel that way toward you again. We shall always be friends, I hope. But as for love, love is not a machine. It cannot be shattered and put together again. She turned and began to walk up the drive. Hanging over the top of the gate like a wet sock, Lord Dullish watched her go. The interview was over, and he could not think of one single thing to say. Her white dress made a patch of light in the shadows. She moved slowly, as if weighed down by sad thoughts, like one who, as Luella Adelia Philpots beautifully puts it, paces with measured step behind the coffin of a murdered heart. The bend of the drive hid her from his sight. About twenty minutes later, Dudley Pickering, smoking sentimentally in the darkness, hard by the porch, received a shock. He was musing tenderly on his claire, who was assisting him in the process, by singing in the drawing-room, when he was aware of a figure, the sinister figure of a man, who pressed against the netting of the porch, stared into the lighted room beyond. Dudley Pickering's first impulse was to stride briskly up to the intruder, tap him on the shoulder, and ask him what the devil he wanted. But a second look showed him that the other was built on to ample a scale, to make this advisable. He was a large, fit-looking intruder. Mr. Pickering was alarmed. There had been the usual epidemic of burglaries that season. Houses had been broken into valuable possessions removed. In one case, a negro butler had been struck over the head with a gas pipe, and given a headache. In these circumstances it was unpleasant to find burly strangers looking in at windows. Hi! cried Mr. Pickering. The intruder leapt afoot. It had not occurred to Lord Dawlish when, in an access of wistful yearning, he had decided to sneak up to the house in order to increase his anguish by one last glimpse of claire, that other members of the household might be out on the grounds. He was just thinking sorrowfully, as he listened to the music, how like his own position was that of the hero of Tennyson's Mord, a poem to which he was greatly addicted. When Mr. Pickering's Hi! came out of nowhere and hit him like a torpedo, he turned in agitation, with Mr. Pickering having prudently elected to stay in the shadows, there was no one to be seen. It was as if the voice of conscience had shouted Hi! at him. He was just wondering if he had imagined the whole thing, when he perceived the red glow of a cigar and beyond it a shadowy form. It was not the fact that he was in an equivocal position, staring into a house which did not belong to him, with his feet on somebody else's private soil that caused Bill to act as he did. It was the fact that at that moment he was not feeling equal to conversation with anybody on any subject whatsoever. It did not occur to him that his behaviour might strike a nervous stranger as suspicious. All he aimed at was the swift removal of himself from a spot infested by others of his species. He ran. And Mr. Pickering, having followed him with the eye of fear, went rather shakily into the house, his brain whirling with professional cracksmen and gas-pipes and assaulted butlers, to relate his adventure. A great, whole-king, ruffianly sort of fellow, glaring in at the window, said Mr. Pickering. I shouted at him, and he ran like a rabbit. Gee, must have been one of the gang that's been working down here, said Roscoe Sheriff. There might be a quarter of a column in that, properly worked, but I guess I better wait till he actually does bust the place. We must notify the police. Notify the police, and have them butt in and stop the thing and kill a good story. There was honest amazement in the press agent's voice. Let me tell you, it isn't so easy to get publicity these days that you want to go out of your way to stop it. Mr. Pickering was appalled. A dist like of this man, which had grown less vivid since his scene with Claire, returned to him with redoubled force. Why, we may all be murdered in our beds, he cried. Front-page stuff, said Roscoe Sheriff with cleaning eyes, and three columns at least. Fine. It might have consoled Lord Dawlish somewhat as he lay awake that night to have known that the man who had taken Claire from him, though at present he was not aware of such a man's existence. Also, slept ill. End of Chapter 12. Read by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org Uneasy Money by Pidgey Woodhouse, Chapter 13 Lady Weatherby sat in her room writing letters. The rest of the household were variously employed. Roscoe Sheriff was prowling about the house brooding on campaigns of publicity. Dudley Pickering was walking in the grounds with Claire. In a little shack in the woods that adjoined the High Road, which she had converted into a temporary studio, Lord Weatherby was working on a picture which he proposed to call Innocence. A study of a small Italian child he had discovered in Washington Square. Lady Weatherby, who had been taken to see the picture, had suggested the Black Hand's newest recruit, as a better title than the one selected by the artist. It is a fact to be noted that of the entire household, only Lady Weatherby could fairly be described as happy. It took very little to make Lady Weatherby happy. Find weather, good food, and a complete abstention from classical dancing. Give her these, and she asked no more. She was, moreover, delighted at Claire's engagement. It seemed to her, before she had no knowledge of the existence of Lord Dawlish, a genuine manifestation of Love's young dream. She liked Dudley Pickering, and she was devoted to Claire. It made her happy to think that it was she who had brought them together. But of the other members of the party, Dudley Pickering was unhappy because he feared that burglars were about to raid the house. Roscoe Sheriff, because he feared they were not. Claire, because now that the news of the engagement was out, it seemed to be everybody's aim to leave her alone with Mr. Pickering, whose undiluted society tended to pull. And Lord Weatherby was unhappy, because he found Eustace the Monkey a perpetual strain upon his artistic nerves. It was Eustace who had driven him to his shack in the woods. He could have painted far more comfortably in the house. But Eustace had developed a habit of stealing up to him, and plucking the leg of his trousers. And an artist simply cannot give of his best with that sort of thing going on. Lady Weatherby wrote on, she was not fond of letter writing, and she had allowed her correspondence to accumulate, but she was disposing of it in an energetic and conscientious way. When the entrance of Wrench the Butler interrupted her, Wrench had been imported from England at the request of Lord Weatherby, who had said that it soothed him, and kept him from feeling homesick to see a Butler about the place. Since then he had been hanging to the establishment as it were by a hair. He gave the impression of being always on the point of giving notice. There were so many things connected with his position of which he disapproved. He had made no official pronouncement of the matter, but Lady Weatherby knew that he disapproved of her classical dancing. His last position had been with the Dowager Duchess of Waveney, the well-known political hostess, who, even had the somewhat generous lines on which she was built, not prevented the possibility of such a thing, would have perished, rather than dance barefooted in a public restaurant. Wrench also disapproved of America. That fact had been made plain immediately upon his arrival in the country. He had given America one look, and then his mind was made up. He disapproved of it. If you please, my lady, Lady Weatherby turned, the Butler was looking even more than usually disapproving, and his disapproval had, so to speak, crystallized, as if it had found some more concrete and definite objective than either barefoot dancing or the United States. If you please, my lady, the hate. It was Wrench's custom to speak of Eustace in a tone of restrained disgust. He disapproved of Eustace. The Dowager Duchess of Waveney, though she kept open house for members of Parliament, would have drawn the line at monkeys. The hate is behaving very strange, my lady, said Wrench, frostily. It has been well said that in this world there is always something. A moment before Lady Weatherby had been feeling completely contented, without a care on her horizon. It was foolish of her to have expected such a state of things to last, for what is life but a series of sharp corners, round each of which fate lies in wait for us with a stuffed eelskin. Something in the Butler's manner, a sort of gloating gloom which he radiated, told her that she had arrived at one of these corners now. The Hape is situated on the kitchen sink, my lady, throwing new-laid eggs at the scullery maid. The cook desired me to step up and ask for instructions. What? Lady Weatherby rose in agitation. What are you doing that for? she asked weakly. A slight dignified gesture was Wrench's only reply. It was not his place to analyse the motives of monkeys. Throwing eggs. The sight of Lady Weatherby's distress melted the Butler's stern reserve. He unbent so far as to supply a clue. As I understand from Cook, my lady, the animal appears to have taken umbrage at a lack of cordiality on the part of the cat. It seems that the Hape attempted to fondle the cat, but the latter scratched him being suspicious, said Wrench, of his bona fides. He scrutinised the ceiling with a dull eye. Aware upon, he continued, he seized her tail and threw her with considerable force. He then removed himself to the sink and began to hurl eggs at the scullery maid. Lady Weatherby's mental eye attempted to produce a picture of the scene, but failed. I suppose I better go down and see about it, she said. Wrench withdrew his gaze from the ceiling. I think it would be advisable, my lady. The scullery maid is already in hysterics. Lady Weatherby led the way to the kitchen. She was wroth with Eustace. This was just the sort of thing, out of which Algie would be able to make unlimited capital. It weakened her position with Algie. There was only one thing to do. She must hush it up. Her first glance, however, at the actual theatre of war, gave her the impression that matters had advanced beyond the hushing up stage. A yellow desolation brooded over the kitchen. It was not so much a kitchen as an omelette. There were eggs everywhere, from floor to ceiling. She scrunched her way in on a carpet of oozing shells. Her entry was a signal for a renewal on a more impressive scale of the uproar she had heard while opening the door. The air was full of voices. The cook was expressing herself in Norwegian. The parlor made in what appeared to be earth. On a chair in a corner, the scullery maid sobbed and whooped. The odd job man, who was a baseball enthusiast, was speaking in terms of high praise of Eustace's combined speed and control. The only calm occupant of the room was Eustace himself, who, either through a shortage of ammunition, or through weariness of the pitching arm, had suspended active hostilities, and was now looking down on the scene from a high shelf. There was a brooding expression in his deep-set eyes. He massaged his right ear with the sole of his left foot in a somewhat distrae manner. Eustace cried Lady Weatherby severely. Eustace lowered his foot and gazed at her meditatively. Then, at the odd job man, then at the scullery maid, whose voice rose high above the din. I rather fancy, my lady, said wrench dispassionately, that the animal is about to hurl a plate. It had escaped the notice of those present, that the shelf on which the rioter had taken refuge was with uncomfortable reach of the dresser. But Eustace himself had not overlooked this important strategic point. As the butler spoke, Eustace picked up a plate and threw it at the scullery maid, whom he seemed definitely to have picked out as the most hostile of the allies. It was a fast in-shoot, and hit the wall just above her head. At her boy! said the odd job man reverently. Lady Weatherby turned on him with some violence. His detached attitude was the most irritating of the many irritating aspects of the situation. She paid this man a weakly wage to do odd jobs. The capture of Eustace was essentially an odd job. Yet, instead of doing it, he hung about with the air of one who has paid his half-dollar and bought his bag of peanuts, and has now nothing to do but look on and enjoy himself. Why don't you catch him? she cried. The odd job man came out of his trance. A sudden realization came upon him that life was real and life was earnest, and that if he did not wish to jeopardize a good situation, he must be stir himself. Everybody was looking at him expectantly. It seemed to be definitely up to him. It was imperative that, whatever he did, he should do it quickly. There was an apron hanging over the back of a chair, more with the idea of doing something, than because he thought he could achieve anything definite thereby, he picked up the apron and flung it at Eustace. Luck was with him. The apron enveloped Eustace, just as he was winding up for another in-shoot, and was off his balance. He tripped and fell, clutching at the apron to save himself, and came to the ground, swathed in it. And, giving the effect of an apron mysteriously endowed with life. The triumphant odd job man pressing his advantage like a good general, gathered up the ends, converted it into a rude bag, and one more was added to the long list of victories of the human over the brute intelligence. Everybody had a suggestion now. The cook advocated drowning. The parlor made favoured the idea of hitting the prisoner with a broom handle. Wrench, eyeing the struggling apron disapprovingly, mentioned that Mr. Pickering had bought a revolver that morning. Put him in the coal cellar, said Lady Weatherby. Wrench was more far-seeing. If I might offer the warning, my lady, said Wrench, not the cellar. It is full of coal. It would be placing temptation in the animal's way. The odd job man endorsed this. Put him in the garage, then, said Lady Weatherby. The odd job man departed, bearing his heaving bag at arm's length. The cook and the parlor made addressed themselves to comforting and healing the scullery made. Wrench went off to polish silver. Lady Weatherby to resume her letters. The cat was the last of the party to return to the normal. She came down from the chimney an hour later, covered with soot, demanding restoratives. Lady Weatherby finished her letters. She cut them short, for Eustace's insurgents had interfered with her flow of ideas. She went into the drawing room where she found Roscoe Sheriff strumming on the piano. Eustace has been raising cane, she said. The press agent looked up, hopefully. He had been wearing a rather preoccupied air. How's that? he asked. Throwing eggs and plates in the kitchen. The gleam of interest which had come to Roscoe Sheriff's face died out. You couldn't get more than a fill-in at the bottom of a column on that, he said regretfully. I'm a little disappointed in that, Monk. I hoped he would pan out bigger. Well, I guess we've just got to give him time. I have an idea that he'll set the house on fire or do something with a punch like that one of these days. You mustn't get discouraged. Why, that puma I made Valerie Devonish keep looked like a perfect failure for four whole months. A child could have played with it. Miss Devonish called me up on the phone, I remember, and said she was done if she was going to spend the rest of her life maintaining an animal that might as well be stuffed for all the liveness it showed, and that she was going right out to buy a white mouse instead. Fortunately, I talked her round. A few weeks later, she came round and thanked me with tears in her eyes. The puma had really struck mid-season form. It clawed the elevator boy, bit the postman, and held up traffic for miles and was finally shot by a policeman. Why, for the next few days, there was nothing in the papers at all, but Miss Devonish and her puma. There was a war on at the time in Mexico or somewhere, and we had it backed off the front page so far that it was over before it could get back. So you see, there's always hope. I've been nursing the papers with bits about Eustace so as to be ready for the grandstand play when it comes. And all we can do is to wait. It's something if he's been throwing eggs. It shows he's waking up. The door opened, and Lord Weatherby entered. He looked fatigued. He sank into a chair and sighed. I cannot get it, he said. It eludes me. He lapsed into a somber silence. What can't you get? Asked Lady Weatherby cautiously. The expression, the expression I want to get into the child's eyes in my picture innocence. But you have got it. Lord Weatherby shook his head. Well, you had when I saw the picture, persisted Lady Weatherby. This child you're painting has just joined the black hand. He's been rushed in young over the heads of the waiting list because his father had a pull. Naturally, the kid wants to do something to justify his election, and he wants to do it quick. You have caught him at the moment when he sees an old gentleman coming down the street and realizes that he has only got to sneak up and stick his little knife. My dear Polly, I welcome criticism, but this is more. Lady Weatherby stroked his coat sleeve fondly. Never mind, Elgie, I was only joking precious. I thought the picture was coming along fine when you showed it to me. I'll come and take another look at it. Lord Weatherby shook his head. I should have a model. An artist cannot mirror nature properly without a model. I wish you would invite that child down here. No, Elgie, there are limits. I wouldn't have him within a mile of the place. Yet you keep Eustace. Well, you made me engage a wrench. It's fifty-fifty. I wish you wouldn't keep picking on Eustace, Elgie, dear. He does no harm. Mr. Sheriff and I were just saying how peaceable he is. He wouldn't hurt—Claire came in. Polly, she said, did you put that monkey of yours in the garage? He's just bitten Dudley in the leg. Lord Weatherby uttered an exclamation. Now, perhaps, we went in just now to have a look at the car, continued Claire. Dudley wanted to show me the commutator on the exhaust box, or the windscreen or something, and he was just bending over when Eustace jumped out from nowhere and pinned him. I'm afraid he is taking it to heart, rather. Roscoe Sheriff pondered. Is this worth half a column? He shook his head. No, I'm afraid not. The public doesn't know, Pickering. If it had been Charlie Chaplin or William J. Bryan, or someone on those lines, we could have had the papers bringing out extras. You can visualise William J. Bryan being bitten in the leg by a monkey. It hits you. But, Pickering, Eustace might just as well have bitten the leg of the table. Lord Weatherby reasserted himself. Now that the animal has become a public menace, he's nothing of the kind, said Lady Weatherby. He's only a little upset today. Do you mean, Pauline, that even after this you will not get rid of him? Certainly not, poor dear. Very well, said Lord Weatherby calmly. I give you warning, that if he attacks me, I shall defend myself. He brooded. Lady Weatherby turned to Claire. What happened then? Did you shut the door of the garage? Yes, but not until Eustace had got away. He stepped out like a streak and disappeared. It was too dark to see which way he went. Dudley Pickering limped heavily into the room. I was just telling them about you and Eustace, Dudley. Mr. Pickering nodded moodily. He was too full for words. I think Eustace must be mad, said Claire. Roscoe Sheriff uttered a cry of rapture. You've said it, he exclaimed. I knew we should get action sooner or later. It's the Puma over again. Now we're all right. Now I have something to work on. Monkey menaces countryside. Long Island summer colony in panic. Mad Monkey bites one. A convulsive shudder galvanized Mr. Pickering's portly frame. Mad Monkey terrorizes Long Island. One dead, murmured Roscoe Sheriff wistfully. Do you feel a sort of shooting Pickering, a kind of burning sensation out of the skin? Lady Weatherby, I guess I'll be getting some of the papers on the phone. We've got a big story. He hurried to the telephone. But it was some little time before he could use it. Dudley Pickering was in possession, talking earnestly to the local doctor. End of Chapter 13 of Uneasy Money.