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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40168
   :PG.Title: The Old Adam
   :PG.Released: 2012-07-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Arnold Bennett
   :DC.Title: The Old Adam
              A Story of Adventure
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1913
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE OLD ADAM
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      Cover

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      THE OLD ADAM

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      *A STORY OF ADVENTURE*

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      BY

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      ARNOLD BENNETT

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      AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' TALE," "HOW TO LIVE
      ON TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY," ETC.

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      NEW YORK
      GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

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      Copyright, 1913
      BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

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      CONTENTS

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      PART I

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      CHAPTER

      I.  `Dog-Bite`_
      II.  `The Bank-Note`_
      III.  `Wilkins's`_
      IV.  `Entry Into The Theatrical World`_
      V.  `Mr. Sachs Talks`_
      VI.  `Lord Woldo And Lady Woldo`_

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      PART II

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      VII.  `Corner-stone`_
      VIII.  `Dealing with Elsie`_
      IX.  `The First Night`_
      X.  `Isabel`_

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.. _`DOG-BITE`:

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   THE OLD ADAM

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   PART I

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   THE OLD ADAM

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   CHAPTER I

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   DOG-BITE

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   \I.

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"And yet," Edward Henry Machin reflected
as at six minutes to six he approached his
own dwelling at the top of Bleakridge,
"and yet--I don't feel so jolly after all!"

The first two words of this disturbing meditation
had reference to the fact that, by telephoning twice
to his stockbrokers at Manchester, he had just made
the sum of three hundred and forty-one pounds in a
purely speculative transaction concerning Rubber
shares.  (It was in the autumn of the great gambling
year, 1910).  He had simply opened his lucky and
wise mouth at the proper moment, and the money,
like ripe golden fruit, had fallen into it, a gift from
benign Heaven, surely a cause for happiness!  And
yet--he did not feel so jolly!  He was surprised,
he was even a little hurt, to discover by introspection
that monetary gain was not necessarily accompanied
by felicity.  Nevertheless, this very successful
man of the world of the Five Towns, having been
born on the 27th of May, 1867, had reached the age
of forty-three and a half years.

"I must be getting older," he reflected.

He was right.  He was still young, as every man
of forty-three will agree, but he was getting older.
A few years ago a windfall of Three hundred and
forty-one pounds would not have been followed by
morbid self-analysis; it would have been followed by
unreasoning instinctive elation, which elation would
have endured at least twelve hours.

As he disappeared within the reddish garden wall
which sheltered his abode from the publicity of
Trafalgar Road, he half hoped to see Nellie
waiting for him on the famous marble step of the porch,
for the woman had long, long since invented a way
of scouting for his advent from the small window
in the bathroom.  But there was nobody on the
marble step.  His melancholy increased.  At the
midday meal he had complained of neuralgia, and
hence this was an evening upon which he might fairly
have expected to see sympathy charmingly attired
on the porch.  It is true that the neuralgia had
completely gone.  "Still," he said to himself with
justifiable sardonic gloom, "how does she know my
neuralgia's gone?  She doesn't know."

Having opened the front door with the thinnest,
neatest latchkey in the Five Towns, he entered his
home and stumbled slightly over a brush that was
lying against the sunk door-mat.  He gazed at that
brush with resentment.  It was a dilapidated
handbrush.  The offensive object would have been out of
place, at nightfall, in the lobby of any house.  But
in the lobby of his house--the house which he had
planned a dozen years earlier to the special end of
minimising domestic labour, and which he had
always kept up to date with the latest devices--in his
lobby the spectacle of a vile outworn hand-brush at
tea-time amounted to a scandal.  Less than a
fortnight previously he had purchased and presented to
his wife a marvellous electric vacuum-cleaner,
surpassing all former vacuum-cleaners.  You simply
attached this machine by a cord to the wall, like a
dog, and waved it in mysterious passes over the
floor, like a fan, and the house was clean!  He was
as proud of this machine as though he had invented
it, instead of having merely bought it; every day
he enquired about its feats, expecting enthusiastic
replies as a sort of reward for his own keenness; and
be it said that he had had enthusiastic replies.

And now this obscene hand-brush!

As he carefully removed his hat and his beautiful
new Melton overcoat (which had the colour and the
soft smoothness of a damson), he animadverted
upon the astounding negligence of women.  There
were Nellie, his wife; his mother, the nurse, the
cook, the maid--five of them; and in his mind
they had all plotted together--a conspiracy of
carelessness--to leave the inexcusable tool in his lobby
for him to stumble over.  What was the use of
accidentally procuring three hundred and forty-one
pounds?

Still no sign of Nellie, though he purposely made
a noisy rattle with his ebon walking-stick.  Then
the maid burst out of the kitchen with a tray and the
principal utensils for high tea thereon.  She had a
guilty air.  The household was evidently late.
Two steps at a time he rushed up-stairs to the
bathroom, so as to be waiting in the dining-room at six
precisely, in order, if possible, to shame the
household and fill it with remorse and unpleasantness.
Yet, ordinarily, he was not a very prompt man, nor
did he delight in giving pain.  On the contrary, he
was apt to be casual, blithe, and agreeable.

The bathroom was his peculiar domain, which he
was always modernising, and where his talent for the
ingenious organisation of comfort and his utter
indifference to esthetic beauty had the fullest scope.
By universal consent admitted to be the finest
bathroom in the Five Towns, it typified the whole house.
He was disappointed on this occasion to see no
untidy trace in it of the children's ablution; some
transgression of the supreme domestic law that the
bathroom must always be free and immaculate when
Father wanted it would have suited his gathering
humour.  As he washed his hands and cleansed his
well-trimmed nails with a nail-brush that had cost
five shillings and sixpence, he glanced at himself in
the mirror which he was splashing.  A stoutish,
broad-shouldered, fair, chubby man with a short
bright beard and plenteous bright hair!  His
necktie pleased him; the elegance of his turned-back
wristbands pleased him; and he liked the rich down
on his forearms.

He could not believe that he looked forty-three
and a half.  And yet he had recently had an idea
of shaving off his beard, partly to defy time, but
partly, also (I must admit), because a friend had
suggested to him, wildly perhaps, that if he
dispensed with a beard his hair might grow more
sturdily.  Yes, there was one weak spot in the middle
of the top of his head where the crop had of late
disconcertingly thinned.  The hair-dresser had
informed him that the symptom would vanish under
electric massage, and that, if he doubted the
bonafides of hair-dressers, any doctor would testify to
the value of electric massage.  But now Edward
Henry Machin, strangely discouraged, inexplicably
robbed of the zest of existence, decided that it was
not worth while to shave off his beard.  Nothing
was worth while.  If he was forty-three and a half,
he was forty-three and a half.  To become bald
was the common lot.  Moreover, beardless, he
would need the service of a barber every day.  And
he was absolutely persuaded that not a barber worth
the name could be found in the Five Towns.  He
actually went to Manchester, thirty-six miles, to get
his hair cut.  The operation never cost him less
than a sovereign and half a day's time.  And he
honestly deemed himself to be a fellow of simple
tastes!  Such is the effect of the canker of luxury.
Happily he could afford these simple tastes; for,
although not rich in the modern significance of
the term, he paid income tax on some five
thousand pounds a year, without quite convincing the
Surveyor of Taxes that he was an honest man.

He brushed the thick hair over the weak spot, he
turned down his wristbands, he brushed the collar
of his jacket, and lastly his beard; and he put on
his jacket--with a certain care, for he was very
neat.  And then, reflectively twisting his moustache
to military points, he spied through the smaller
window to see whether the new high hoarding of
the football-ground really did prevent a serious
observer from descrying wayfarers as they breasted
the hill from Hanbridge.  It did not.  Then he
spied through the larger window upon the yard, to
see whether the wall of the new rooms which he
had lately added to his house showed any further
trace of damp, and whether the new chauffeur was
washing the new motor-car with all his heart.  The
wall showed no further trace of damp, and the new
chauffeur's bent back seemed to symbolise an
extreme conscientiousness.

Then the clock on the landing struck six, and he
hurried off to put the household to open shame.

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   \II.

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Nellie came into the dining-room two
minutes after her husband.  As Edward Henry had
laboriously counted these two minutes almost
second by second on the dining-room clock, he
was very tired of waiting.  His secret annoyance
was increased by the fact that Nellie took off her
white apron in the doorway and flung it hurriedly
on to the table-tray which, during the progress of
meals, was established outside the dining-room door.
He did not actually witness this operation of
undressing, because Nellie was screened by the
half-closed door; but he was entirely aware of it.  He
disliked it, and he had always disliked it.  When
Nellie was at work, either as a mother or as the
owner of certain fine silver ornaments, he rather
enjoyed the wonderful white apron, for it suited her
temperament; but as the head of a household with
six thousand pounds a year at its disposal, he
objected to any hint of the thing at meals.  And
to-night he objected to it altogether.  Who could guess
from the homeliness of their family life that he was
in a position to spend a hundred pounds a week and
still have enough income left over to pay the salary
of a town clerk or so?  Nobody could guess; and he
felt that people ought to be able to guess.  When
he was young he would have esteemed an income
of six thousand pounds a year as necessarily
implicating feudal state, valets, castles, yachts, family
solicitors, racing-stables, county society, dinner-calls,
and a drawling London accent.  Why should his
wife wear an apron at all?  But the sad truth was
that neither his wife nor his mother ever *looked*
rich, nor even endeavoured to look rich.  His
mother would carry an eighty-pound sealskin as
though she had picked it up at a jumble sale, and
his wife put such simplicity into the wearing of a
hundred-and-eighty pound diamond ring that its
expensiveness was generally quite wasted.

And yet, while the logical male in him scathingly
condemned this feminine defect of character, his
private soul was glad of it, for he well knew that he
would have been considerably irked by the
complexities and grandeurs of high life.  But never
would he have admitted this.

Nellie's face as she sat down was not limpid.  He
understood naught of it.  More than twenty years
had passed since they had first met--he and a
wistful little creature--at a historic town-hall dance.
He could still see the wistful little creature in those
placid and pure features, in that buxom body; but
now there was a formidable, capable, and experienced
woman there too.  Impossible to credit that
the wistful little creature was thirty-seven!  But she
was.  Indeed, it was very doubtful if she would
ever see thirty-eight again.  Once he had had the
most romantic feelings about her.  He could recall
the slim flexibility of her waist, the timorous,
melting invitation of her eyes.  And now--such was
human existence!

She sat up erect on her chair.  She did not
apologise for being late.  She made no inquiry as to his
neuralgia.  On the other hand, she was not cross.
She was just neutral, polite, cheerful, and
apparently conscious of perfection.  He strongly desired
to inform her of the exact time of day, but his lips
would not articulate the words.

"Maud," she said with divine calm to the maid
who bore in the baked York ham under its silver
canopy, "you haven't taken away that brush that's
in the passage."  Another illustration of Nellie's
inability to live up to six thousand pounds a year;
she would always refer to the hall as the "passage."

"Please'm, I did, m'm," replied Maud, now as
conscious of perfection as her mistress.  "He must
have took it back again."

"Who's 'he'?" demanded the master.

"Carlo, sir."  Upon which triumph Maud retired.

Edward Henry was dashed.  Nevertheless, he
quickly recovered his presence of mind, and sought
about for a justification of his previous verdict upon
the negligence of five women.

"It would have been easy enough to put the brush
where the dog couldn't get at it," he said.  But he
said this strictly to himself.  He could not say it
aloud.  Nor could he say aloud the words
"neuralgia," "three hundred and forty-one pounds," any
more than he could say "late."

That he was in a peculiar mental condition is
proved by the fact that he did not remark the
absence of his mother until he was putting her share
of baked ham on to a plate.

He thought, "This is a bit thick, this is!"
meaning the extreme lateness of his mother for the meal.
But his only audible remark was a somewhat
impatient banging down of the hot plate in front of his
mother's empty chair.

In answer to this banging, Nellie quietly began:

"Your mother--"

(He knew instantly, then, that Nellie was disturbed
about something or other.  Mother-in-law and
daughter-in-law lived together under one roof in
perfect amity.  Nay more, they often formed
powerful and unscrupulous leagues against him.
But whenever Nellie was disturbed, by no matter
what, she would say "your mother" instead of
merely "Mother."  It was an extraordinary subtle,
silly, and effective way of putting him in the wrong.)

"Your mother is staying up-stairs with Robert."

Robert was the eldest child, aged eight.

"Oh!" breathed Edward Henry.  He might
have enquired what the nurse was for; he might have
enquired how his mother meant to get her tea; but
he refrained, adding simply, "What's up now?"

And in retort to his wife's "your," he laid a faint
emphasis on the word "now," to imply that those
women were always inventing some fresh imaginary
woe for the children.

"Carlo's bitten him--in the calf," said Nellie,
tightening her lips.

This, at any rate, was not imaginary.

"The kid was teasing him as usual, I
suppose?" he suggested.

"That I don't know," said Nellie.  "But I know
we must get rid of that dog."

"Serious?"

"Of course we must," Nellie insisted, with an
inadvertent heat which she immediately cooled.

"I mean the bite."

"Well--it's a bite right enough."

"And you're thinking of hydrophobia, death
amid horrible agony, and so on."

"No, I'm not," she said stoutly, trying to smile.

But he knew she was.  And he knew also that the
bite was a trifle.  If it had been a good bite,
she would have made it enormous; she would have
hinted that the dog had left a chasm in the boy's
flesh.

"Yes, you are," he continued to twit her,
encouraged by her attempt at a smile.

However, the smile expired.

"I suppose you won't deny that Carlo's teeth
may have been dirty?  He's always nosing in
some filth or other," she said challengingly, in a
measured tone of sagacity.  "And there may be
blood-poisoning."

"Blood-fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Edward Henry.

Such a nonsensical and infantile rejoinder deserved
no answer, and it received none.  Shortly
afterwards Maud entered and whispered that Nellie was
wanted up-stairs.  As soon as his wife had gone,
Edward Henry rang the bell.

"Maud," he said, "bring me the *Signal* out
of my left-hand overcoat-pocket."

And he defiantly finished his meal at leisure, with
the news of the day propped up against the flower-pot,
which he had set before him instead of the
dish of ham.

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   \III.

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Later, catching through the open door
fragments of a conversation on the stairs which
indicated that his mother was at last coming down
for tea, he sped like a threatened delinquent
into the drawing-room.  He had no wish to
encounter his mother, though that woman usually said
little.

The drawing-room, after the bathroom, was
Edward Henry's favourite district in the home.  Since
he could not spend the whole of his time in the
bathroom,--and he could not!--he wisely gave a
special care to the drawing-room, and he loved it
as one always loves that upon which one has bestowed
benefits.  He was proud of the drawing-room, and
he had the right to be.  The principal object in it,
at night, was the electric chandelier, which would
have been adequate for a lighthouse.  Edward
Henry's eyes were not what they used to be; and the
minor advertisements in the *Signal*, which constituted
his sole evening perusals, often lacked legibility.
Edward Henry sincerely believed in light and heat;
he was almost the only person in the Five Towns
who did.  In the Five Towns people have fires in
their grates--not to warm the room, but to make
the room bright.  Seemingly they use their pride to
keep themselves warm.  At any rate, whenever
Edward Henry talked to them of radiators, they would
sternly reply that a radiator did not and could not
brighten a room.  Edward Henry had made the
great discovery that an efficient chandelier will
brighten a room better even than a fire; and he had
gilded his radiator.  The notion of gilding the
radiator was not his own; he had seen a gilded radiator
in the newest hotel at Birmingham, and had
rejoiced as some peculiar souls rejoice when they
meet a fine line in a new poem.  (In concession to
popular prejudice, Edward Henry had fire-grates in
his house, and fires therein during exceptionally
frosty weather; but this did not save him from
being regarded in the Five Towns as in some ways a
peculiar soul.)  The effulgent source of dark heat
was scientifically situated in front of the window, and
on ordinarily cold evenings Edward Henry and his
wife and mother, and an acquaintance if one
happened to come in, would gather round the radiator
and play bridge or dummy whist.

The other phenomena of the drawing-room which
particularly interested Edward Henry were the
Turkey carpet, the four vast easy chairs, the sofa,
the imposing cigar-cabinet, and the mechanical
piano-player.  At one brief period he had hovered a good
deal about the revolving bookcase containing the
encyclopedia, to which his collection of books was
limited; but the frail passion for literature had not
survived a struggle with the seductions of the
mechanical piano-player.

The walls of the room never drew his notice.
He had chosen, some years before, a patent
washable kind of wall-paper (which could be wiped over
with a damp cloth), and he had also chosen the
pattern of the paper, but it is a fact that he could
spend hours in any room without even seeing the
pattern of its paper.  In the same way, his wife's
cushions and little draperies and bows were invisible
to him, though he had searched for and duly obtained
the perfect quality of swansdown which filled
the cushions.

The one ornament of the walls which attracted
him was a large and splendidly framed oil-painting
of a ruined castle in the midst of a sombre forest
through which cows were strolling.  In the tower
of the castle was a clock, and this clock was a
realistic timepiece whose fingers moved and told the
hour.  Two of the oriel windows of the castle were
realistic holes in its masonry; through one of them
you could put a key to wind up the clock, and
through the other you could put a key to wind up a
secret musical box which played sixteen different
tunes.  He had bought this handsome relic of the
Victorian era (not less artistic, despite your scorn,
than many devices for satisfying the higher instincts
of the present day) at an auction sale in the Strand,
London.  But it, too, had been supplanted in his
esteem by the mechanical piano-player.

He now selected an example of the most expensive
cigar in the cigar-cabinet, and lighted it as only
a connoisseur can light a cigar--lovingly; he blew
out the match lingeringly, with regret, and dropped
it and the cigar's red collar with care into a large
copper bowl on the centre table, instead of flinging
it against the Japanese umbrella in the fireplace.
(A grave disadvantage of radiators is that you
cannot throw odds and ends into them.)  He chose the
most expensive cigar because he wanted comfort and
peace.  The ham was not digesting very well.

Then he sat down and applied himself to the
property advertisements in the *Signal*, a form of
sensational serial which usually enthralled him--but
not to-night.  He allowed the paper to lapse on to
the floor, and then rose impatiently, rearranged the
thick dark blue curtains behind the radiator, and
finally yielded to the silent call of the mechanical
piano-player.  He quite knew that to dally with
the piano-player while smoking a high-class cigar
was to insult the cigar; but he did not care.  He
tilted the cigar upwards from an extreme corner
of his mouth, and through the celestial smoke
gazed at the titles of the new music-rolls which
had been delivered that day, and which were
ranged on the top of the piano itself.

And while he did so he was thinking:

"Why in thunder didn't the little thing come and
tell me at once about that kid and his dog-bite?  I
wonder why she didn't!  She seemed only to mention
it by accident.  I wonder why she didn't bounce
into the bathroom and tell me at once?"

But it was untrue that he sought vainly for an
answer to this riddle.  He was aware of the
answer.  He even kept saying over the answer to
himself:

"She's made up her mind I've been teasing her
a bit too much lately about those kids and their
precious illnesses.  And she's doing the dignified.
That's what she's doing!  She's doing the dignified!"

Of course, instantly after his tea he ought to
have gone up-stairs to inspect the wounded victim
of dogs.  The victim was his own child, and its
mother was his wife.  He knew that he ought to
have gone up-stairs long since.  He knew he ought
now to go, and the sooner the better.  But somehow
he could not go; he could not bring himself to go.
In the minor and major crises of married life there
are not two partners but four; each partner has a
dual personality; each partner is indeed two
different persons, and one of these fights against the
other, with the common result of a fatal inaction.

The wickeder of the opposing persons in Edward
Henry, getting the upper hand of the more virtuous,
sniggered.  "Dirty teeth, indeed!  Blood-poisoning,
indeed!  Why not rabies, while she's about it?
I guarantee she's dreaming of coffins and mourning
coaches already!"

Scanning nonchalantly the titles of the music-rolls,
he suddenly saw: "Funeral March.  Chopin."

"She shall have it," he said, affixing the roll to
the mechanism.  And added, "Whatever it is!"

For he was not acquainted with the Funeral
March from Chopin's Pianoforte Sonata.  His
musical education had in truth begun only a year
earlier, with the advertisement of the "Pianisto"
mechanical player.  He was a judge of advertisements,
and the "Pianisto" literature pleased him
in a high degree.  He justifiably reckoned that he
could distinguish between honest and dishonest
advertising.  He made a deep study of the question of
mechanical players, and deliberately came to the
conclusion that the "Pianisto" was the best.  It was also
the most costly; but one of the conveniences of
having six thousand pounds a year is that you need not
deny yourself the best mechanical player because it
happens to be the most costly.  He bought a
"Pianisto," and incidentally he bought a superb
grand piano, and exiled the old cottage piano to the
nursery.

The "Pianisto" was the best, partly because,
like the vacuum-cleaner, it could be operated by
electricity, and partly because, by means of certain
curved lines on the unrolling paper, and of certain
gun-metal levers and clutches, it enabled the
operator to put his secret ardent soul into the music.
Assuredly it had given Edward Henry a taste for
music.  The whole world of musical compositions
was his to conquer, and he conquered it at the rate
of about two great masters a month.  From
Handel to Richard Strauss, even from Palestrina to
Debussy, the achievements of genius lay at his mercy.
He criticised them with a freedom that was
entirely unprejudiced by tradition.  Beethoven was no
more to him than Arthur Sullivan; indeed, was
rather less.  The works of his choice were the
"Tannhäuser" overture, a potpourri of Verdi's
"Aïda," Chopin's Study in Thirds--which ravished
him--and a selection from "The Merry Widow,"
which also ravished him.  So that on the whole it
may be said that he had a very good natural taste.

He at once liked Chopin's Funeral March.  He
entered profoundly into the spirit of it.  With the
gun-metal levers he produced in a marvellous fashion
the long tragic roll of the drums, and by the
manipulation of a clutch he distilled into the chant at the
graveside a melancholy sweetness that rent the
heart.  The later crescendi were overwhelming.
And as he played there, with the bright blaze of
the chandelier on his fair hair and beard, and the
blue cigar-smoke in his nostrils, and the effluence
of the gilded radiator behind him, and the intimacy
of the drawn window curtains and the closed and
curtained door folding him in from the world, and the
agony of the music grieving his artistic soul to the
core--as he played there, he grew gradually
happier and happier, and the zest of existence seemed
to return.  It was not only that he felt the
elemental, unfathomable satisfaction of a male who is
sheltered in solitude from a pack of women that
have got on his nerves; there was also the more
piquant assurance that he was behaving in a very
sprightly manner.  How long was it since he had
accomplished anything worthy of his ancient
reputation as a "card," as "the" card of the Five
Towns?  He could not say; but now he knew that
he was being a card again.  The whole town would
smile and forgive and admire if it learnt that--

Nellie invaded the room.  She had resumed the affray.

"Denry!" she reproached him, in an
uncontrolled voice.  "I'm ashamed of you!  I really
am!"  She was no longer doing the dignified.  The
mask was off, and the unmistakable lineaments of
the outraged mother appeared.  That she should
address him as "Denry" proved the intensity of
her agitation.  Years ago, when he had been made
an alderman, his wife and his mother had decided
that "Denry" was no longer a suitable name for
him, and had abandoned it in favour of "Edward
Henry."

He ceased playing.

"Why?" he protested, with a ridiculous air of
innocence.  "I'm only playing Chopin.  Can't I
play Chopin?"

He was rather surprised and impressed that she
had recognised the piece for what it was.  But of
course she did, as a fact, know something about
music, he remembered, though she never touched
the "Pianisto."

"I think it's a pity you can't choose some other
evening for your funeral marches!" she exclaimed.

"If that's it," said Edward Henry like lightning,
"why did you stick me out you weren't afraid of
hydrophobia?"

"I'll thank you to come up-stairs," she replied
with warmth.

"Oh, all right, my dear!  All right!" he cooed.

And they went up-stairs in a rather solemn procession.


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   \IV.

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Nellie led the way to the chamber known
as "Maisie's room," where the youngest of the
Machins was wont to sleep in charge of the
nurse, who, under the supervision of the mother
of all three, had dominion over Robert, Ralph,
and their little sister.  The first thing that
Edward Henry noticed was the screen which shut
off one of the beds.  The unfurling of the four-fold
screen was always a sure sign that Nellie was taking
an infantile illness seriously.  It was an indication
to Edward Henry of the importance of the dog-bite
in Nellie's esteem.  When all the chicks of the brood
happened to be simultaneously sound, the screen
reposed, inconspicuous, at an angle against a wall
behind the door; but when pestilence was abroad, the
screen travelled from one room to another in
the wake of it, and, spreading wide, took part in the
battle of life and death.

In an angle of the screen, on the side of it away
from the bed and near the fire (in times of stress
Nellie would not rely on radiators), sat old
Mrs. Machin, knitting.  She was a thin, bony woman of
sixty-nine years, and as hard and imperishable as
teak.  So far as her son knew, she had only had
two illnesses in her life.  The first was an attack
of influenza, and the second was an attack of acute
rheumatism, which had incapacitated her for
several weeks.  Edward Henry and Nellie had taken
advantage of her helplessness, then, to force her to
give up her barbaric cottage in Brougham Street and
share permanently the splendid comfort of their
home.  She existed in their home like a philosophic
prisoner of war at the court of conquerors, behaving
faultlessly, behaving magnanimously in the
melancholy grandeur of her fall, but never renouncing her
soul's secret independence, nor permitting herself
to forget that she was on foreign ground.  When
Edward Henry looked at those yellow and seasoned
fingers which, by hard manual labour, had kept
herself and him in the young days of his humble
obscurity, and which, during sixty years had not been
idle for more than six weeks in all, he grew almost
apologetic for his wealth.  They reminded him of
the day when his total resources were five pounds,
won in a wager, and of the day when he drove
proudly about behind a mule collecting other
people's rents, and of the glittering day when
he burst in on her from Llandudno with over
a thousand gold sovereigns in a hat-box,--product
of his first great picturesque coup,--imagining
himself to be an English Jay Gould.  She
had not blenched even then.  She had not blenched
since.  And she never would blench.  In spite of his
gorgeous position and his unique reputation, in spite
of her well-concealed but notorious pride in him, he
still went in fear of that ageless woman, whose
undaunted eye always told him that he was still the
lad Denry, and her inferior in moral force.  The
curve of her thin lips seemed ever to be warning
him that with her pretensions were quite useless, and
that she saw through him, and through him to the
innermost grottoes of his poor human depravity.

He caught her eye guiltily.

"Behold the alderman!" she murmured with
grimness.

That was all.  But the three words took thirty
years off his back, snatched the half-crown cigar out
of his hand, and reduced him again to the raw,
hungry boy of Brougham Street.  And he knew that
he had sinned gravely in not coming up-stairs very
much earlier.

"Is that you, Father?" called the high voice of
Robert from the back of the screen.

He had to admit to his son that it was he.

The infant lay on his back in Maisie's bed, while
his mother sat lightly on the edge of nurse's bed
near-by.

"Well, you're a nice chap!" said Edward
Henry, avoiding Nellie's glance, but trying to face
his son as one innocent man may face another, and
not perfectly succeeding.  He never could feel like
a real father somehow.

"My temperature's above normal," announced
Robert proudly, and then added with regret, "but
not much!"

There was the clinical thermometer--instrument
which Edward Henry despised and detested as being
an inciter of illnesses--in a glass of water on
the table between the two beds.

"Father!" Robert began again.

"Well, Robert?" said Edward Henry cheerfully.

He was glad that the child was in one of his rare
loquacious moods, because the chatter not only
proved that the dog had done no serious damage,--it
also eased the silent strain between himself and
Nellie.

"Why did you play the Funeral March, Father?"
asked Robert; and the question fell into the
tranquillity of the room rather like a bomb that had
not quite decided whether or not to burst.

For the second time that evening Edward Henry
was dashed.

"Have you been meddling with my music-rolls?"

"No, Father.  I only read the labels."

This child simply read everything.

"How did you know I was playing a funeral
march?" Edward Henry demanded.

"Oh, *I* didn't tell him!" Nellie put in, excusing
herself before she was accused.  She smiled
benignly, as an angel woman, capable of forgiving all.
But there were moments when Edward Henry hated
moral superiority and Christian meekness in a wife.
Moreover, Nellie somewhat spoiled her own effect
by adding with an artificial continuation of the
smile, "You needn't look at *me*!"

Edward Henry considered the remark otiose.
Though he had indeed ventured to look at her, he
had not looked at her in the manner which she
implied.

"It made a noise like funerals and things,"
Robert explained.

"Well, it seems to me, *you* have been
playing a funeral march," said Edward Henry to the
child.

He thought this rather funny, rather worthy of
himself, but the child answered with ruthless gravity
and a touch of disdain, for he was a disdainful child,
without bowels:

"I don't know what you mean, Father."  The
curve of his lips (he had his grandmother's lips)
appeared to say, "I wish you wouldn't try to be
silly, Father."  However, youth forgets very
quickly, and the next instant Robert was beginning
once more, "Father!"

"Well, Robert?"

By mutual agreement of the parents, the child
was never addressed as "Bob" or "Bobby," or by
any other diminutive.  In their practical opinion a
child's name was his name, and ought not to be
mauled or dismembered on the pretext of fondness.
Similarly, the child had not been baptised after his
father, or after any male member of either the
Machin or the Cotterill family.  Why should
family names be perpetuated merely because they were
family names?  A natural human reaction, this,
against the excessive sentimentalism of the Victorian
era!

"What does 'stamped out' mean?" Robert enquired.

Now Robert, among other activities, busied
himself in the collection of postage-stamps, and in
consequence his father's mind, under the impulse of the
question, ran immediately to postage-stamps.

"Stamped out?" said Edward Henry, with the
air of omniscience that a father is bound to assume.
"Postage-stamps are stamped-out--by a machine--you see."

Robert's scorn of this explanation was manifest.

"Well," Edward Henry, piqued, made another
attempt, "you stamp a fire out with your feet."  And
he stamped illustratively on the floor.  After
all, the child was only eight.

"I knew all that before," said Robert coldly.
"You don't understand."

"What makes you ask, dear?  Let us show
Father your leg."  Nellie's voice was soothing.

"Yes," Robert murmured, staring reflectively at
the ceiling.  "That's it.  It says in the encyclopedia
that hydrophobia is stamped out in this country--by
Mr. Long's muzzling order.  Who is Mr. Long?"

A second bomb had fallen on exactly the same
spot as the first, and the two exploded
simultaneously.  And the explosion was none the less
terrible because it was silent and invisible.  The tidy
domestic chamber was strewn in a moment with
an awful mass of wounded susceptibilities.
Beyond the screen the *nick-nick* of grandmother's steel
needles stopped and started again.  It was
characteristic of her temperament that she should recover
before the younger generations could recover.
Edward Henry, as befitted his sex, regained his nerve
a little earlier than Nellie.

"I told you never to touch my encyclopedia," said
he sternly.  Robert had twice been caught on his
stomach on the floor with a vast volume open under
his chin, and his studies had been traced by vile
thumb-marks.

"I know," said Robert.

Whenever anybody gave that child a piece of
unsolicited information, he almost invariably replied,
"I know."

"But hydrophobia!" cried Nellie.  "How did
you know about hydrophobia?"

"We had it in spellings last week," Robert explained.

"The deuce you did!" muttered Edward Henry.

The one bright fact of the many-sided and gloomy
crisis was the very obvious truth that Robert was the
most extraordinary child that ever lived.

"But when on earth did you get at the encyclopedia,
Robert?" his mother exclaimed, completely
at a loss.

"It was before you came in from Hillport," the
wondrous infant answered.  "After my leg had
stopped hurting me a bit."

"But when I came in Nurse said it had only just happened!"

"Shows how much *she* knew!" said Robert, with contempt.

"Does your leg hurt you now?" Edward Henry enquired.

"A bit.  That's why I can't go to sleep, of course."

"Well, let's have a look at it."  Edward Henry
attempted jollity.

"Mother's wrapped it all up in boracic wool."

The bed-clothes were drawn down and the leg
gradually revealed.  And the sight of the little soft
leg, so fragile and defenceless, really did touch
Edward Henry.  It made him feel more like an
authentic father than he had felt for a long time.
And the sight of the red wound hurt him.  Still,
it was a beautifully clean wound, and it was not
a large wound.

"It's a clean wound," he observed judiciously.
In spite of himself, he could not keep a certain
flippant harsh quality out of his tone.

"Well, I've naturally washed it with carbolic,"
Nellie returned sharply.

He illogically resented this sharpness.

"Of course he was bitten through his stocking?"

"Of course," said Nellie, re-enveloping the wound
hastily, as though Edward Henry was not worthy to
regard it.

"Well, then, by the time they got through the
stocking, the animal's teeth couldn't be dirty.
Every one knows that."

Nellie shut her lips.

"Were you teasing Carlo?" Edward Henry
demanded curtly of his son.

"I don't know."

Whenever anybody asked that child for a piece
of information, he almost invariably replied, "I
don't know."

"How, you don't know?  You must know
whether you were teasing the dog or not!"  Edward
Henry was nettled.

The renewed spectacle of his own wound had
predisposed Robert to feel a great and tearful
sympathy for himself.  His mouth now began to take
strange shapes and to increase magically in area,
and beads appeared in the corners of his large eyes.

"I--I was only measuring his tail by his hind
leg," he blubbered, and then sobbed.

Edward Henry did his best to save his dignity.

"Come, come!" he reasoned, less menacingly.
"Boys who can read enyclopedias mustn't be
cry-babies.  You'd no business measuring Carlo's tail
by his hind leg.  You ought to remember that that
dog's older than you."  And this remark, too, he
thought rather funny, but apparently he was alone
in his opinion.

Then he felt something against his calf.  And it
was Carlo's nose.  Carlo was a large, very shaggy
and unkempt Northern terrier, but owing to vagueness
of his principal points, due doubtless to a
vagueness in his immediate ancestry, it was impossible to
decide whether he had come from the north or the
south side of the Tweed.  This aging friend of
Edward Henry's, surmising that something unusual
was afoot in his house, and having entirely forgotten
the trifling episode of the bite, had unobtrusively
come to make enquiries.

"Poor old boy!" said Edward Henry, stooping
to pat the dog.  "Did they try to measure his tail
with his hind leg?"

The gesture was partly instinctive, for he loved
Carlo; but it also had its origin in sheer nervousness,
in sheer ignorance of what was the best thing to do.
However, he was at once aware that he had done the
worst thing.  Had not Nellie announced that the
dog must be got rid of?  And here he was fondly
caressing the bloodthirsty dog!  With a hysterical
movement of the lower part of her leg, Nellie pushed
violently against the dog,--she did not kick, but she
nearly kicked,--and Carlo, faintly howling a protest, fled.

Edward Henry was hurt.  He escaped from
between the beds, and from that close, enervating
domestic atmosphere where he was misunderstood by
women and disdained by infants.  He wanted fresh
air; he wanted bars, whiskies, billiard-rooms, and
the society of masculine men about town.  The
whole of his own world was against him.

As he passed by his knitting mother, she ignored
him and moved not.  She had a great gift of
holding aloof from conjugal complications.

On the landing he decided that he would go out
at once into the major world.  Half-way down the
stairs he saw his overcoat on the hall-stand,
beckoning to him and offering release.

Then he heard the bedroom door and his wife's
footsteps.

"Edward Henry!"

"Well?"

He stopped and looked up inimically at her face,
which overhung the banisters.  It was the face of a
woman outraged in her most profound feelings, but
amazingly determined to be sweet.

"What do you think of it?"

"What do I think of what?  The wound?"

"Yes."

"Why, it's simply nothing.  Nothing at all.
You know how that kid always heals up quickly.
You won't be able to find the wound in a day or two."

"Don't you think it ought to be cauterised at once?"

He moved downwards.

"No, I don't.  I've been bitten three times in
my life by dogs, and I was never cauterised."

"Well, I *do* think it ought to be cauterised."  She
raised her voice slightly as he retreated from
her.  "And I shall be glad if you'll call in at
Dr. Stirling's and ask him to come round."

He made no reply, but put on his overcoat and
his hat, and took his stick.  Glancing up the stairs,
he saw Nellie was now standing at the head of them,
under the electric light there, and watching him.
He knew that she thought he was cravenly obeying
her command.  She could have no idea that before
she spoke to him he had already decided to put on
his overcoat and hat and take his stick and go forth
into the major world.  However, that was no affair
of his.

He hesitated a second.  Then the nurse appeared
out of the kitchen with a squalling Maisie in her
arms, and ran up-stairs.  Why Maisie was
squalling, and why she should have been in the kitchen
at such an hour instead of in bed, he could not
guess; but he could guess that if he remained one
second longer in that exasperating minor world he
would begin to smash furniture, and so he quitted it.


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   \V.

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It was raining slightly, but he dared not return
to the house for his umbrella.  In the haze
and wet of the shivering October night, the clock
of Bleakridge Church glowed like a fiery disk
suspended in the sky; and, mysteriously hanging
there, without visible means of support, it seemed
to him somehow to symbolise the enigma of the
universe and intensify his inward gloom.  Never before
had he had such feelings to such a degree.  It is
scarcely an exaggeration to say that never before
had the enigma of the universe occurred to him.
The side gates clicked as he stood hesitant under
the shelter of the wall, and a figure emerged from
his domain.  It was Bellfield, the new chauffeur,
going across to his home in the little square in front
of the church.  Bellfield touched his cap with an
eager and willing hand, as new chauffeurs will.

"Want the car, sir?  Setting in for a wet night!"

"No, thanks."

It was a lie.  He did want the car.  He wanted
the car so that he might ride right away into a new
and more interesting world, or at any rate into
Hanbridge, centre of the pleasures, the wickedness,
and the commerce of the Five Towns.  But he
dared not have the car.  He dared not have his
own car.  He must slip off, noiseless and unassuming.
Even to go to Dr. Stirling's he dared not
have the car.  Besides, he could have walked down
the hill to Dr. Stirling's in three minutes.  Not that
he had the least intention of going to Dr. Stirling's.
No!  His wife imagined that he was going; but she
was mistaken.  Within an hour, when Dr. Stirling
had failed to arrive, she would doubtless telephone,
and get her Dr. Stirling.  Not, however, with
Edward Henry's assistance!

He reviewed his conduct throughout the evening.
In what particular had it been sinful?  In no
particular.  True, the accident to the boy was a
misfortune, but had he not borne that misfortune
lightly, minimised it, and endeavoured to teach
others to bear it lightly?  His blithe humour ought
surely to have been an example to Nellie!  And as
for the episode of the funeral march on the
"Pianisto," really, really, the tiresome little thing
ought to have better appreciated his whimsical
drollery!

But Nellie was altered; he was altered;
everything was altered.  He remembered the ecstasy of
their excursion to Switzerland.  He remembered
the rapture with which, on their honeymoon, he
had clasped a new opal bracelet on her exciting arm.
He could not possibly have such sensations now.
What was the meaning of life?  Was life worth
living?  The fact was, he was growing old.
Useless to pretend to himself that it was not so.  Both
he and she were growing old.  Only, she seemed
to be placidly content, and he was not content.
And more and more the domestic atmosphere and
the atmosphere of the district fretted and even
annoyed him.  To-night's affair was not unique, but
it was a culmination.  He gazed pessimistically
north and south along the slimy expanse of
Trafalgar Road, which sank northwards in the direction
of Dr. Stirling's, and southwards in the direction
of joyous Hanbridge.  He loathed and despised
Trafalgar Road.  What was the use of making
three hundred and forty-one pounds by a shrewd
speculation?  None.  He could not employ three
hundred and forty-one pounds to increase his
happiness.  Money had become futile for him.
Astounding thought!  He desired no more of it.  He
had a considerable income from investments, and
also at least four thousand a year from the Five
Towns Universal Thrift Club, that wonderful but
unpretentious organisation which now embraced
every corner of the Five Towns; that gorgeous
invention for profitably taking care of the pennies of
the working classes; that excellent device, his own,
for selling the working classes every kind of goods
at credit prices after having received part of the
money in advance!

"I want a change!" he said to himself, and
threw away his cigar.

After all, the bitterest thought in his heart was
perhaps that on that evening he had tried to be a
"card," and, for the first time in his brilliant career
as a "card," had failed.  He, Henry Machin, who
had been the youngest mayor of Bursley years and
years ago; he, the recognised amuser of the Five
Towns; he, one of the greatest "characters" that
the Five Towns had ever produced--he had failed
of an effect!

He slipped out on to the pavement, and saw,
under the gas-lamp, on the new hoarding of the
football-ground, a poster intimating that during that
particular week there was a gigantic attraction at the
Empire Music Hall at Hanbridge.  According to
the posters, there was a gigantic attraction every
week at the Empire, but Edward Henry happened
to know that this week the attraction was indeed
somewhat out of the common.  And to-night was
Friday, the fashionable night for the bloods and
the modishness of the Five Towns.  He looked at
the church clock, and then at his watch.  He would
be in time for the "second house," which started
at nine o'clock.  At the same moment an electric
tram-car came thundering up out of Bursley.  He
boarded it, and was saluted by the conductor.
Remaining on the platform, he lit a cigarette, and
tried to feel cheerful; but he could not conquer his
depression.

"Yes," he thought, "what I want is change--and
a lot of it too!"





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.. _`THE BANK-NOTE`:

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   CHAPTER II

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   THE BANK-NOTE

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   \I.

.. vspace:: 1

Alderman Machin had to stand at the
back, and somewhat towards the side, of
that part of the auditorium known as the
Grand Circle at the Empire Music Hall, Hanbridge.
The attendants at the entrance and in the lounge,
where the salutation "Welcome" shone in
electricity over a large Cupid-surrounded mirror, had
compassionately and yet exultingly told him that
there was not a seat left in the house.  He had
shared their exultation.  He had said to himself,
full of honest pride in the Five Towns: "This
music-hall, admitted by the press to be one of the
finest in the provinces, holds over two thousand five
hundred people.  And yet we can fill it to
overflowing twice every night!  And only a few years
ago there wasn't a decent music-hall in the entire
district!"

The word "progress" flitted through his head.

It was not strictly true that the Empire was or
could be filled to overflowing twice every night, but
it was true that at that particular moment not a
seat was unsold; and the aspect of a crowded
auditorium is apt to give an optimistic quality to broad
generalisations.  Alderman Machin began instinctively
to calculate the amount of money in the house,
and to wonder whether there would be a chance for
a second music-hall in the dissipated town of
Hanbridge.  He also wondered why the idea of a
second music-hall in Hanbridge had never occurred to
him before.

The Grand Circle was so-called because it was
grand.  Its plush fauteuils cost a shilling, no mean
price for a community where seven pounds of
potatoes can be bought for sixpence, and the view of
the stage therefrom was perfect.  But the
alderman's view was far from perfect, since he had to
peer as best he could between and above the
shoulders of several men, each apparently, but not
really, taller than himself.  By constant slight
movements to comply with the movements of the
rampart of shoulders, he could discern fragments
of various advertisements of soap, motor-cars,
whisky, shirts, perfume, pills, bricks, and tea, for
the drop-curtain was down.  And, curiously, he felt
obliged to keep his eyes on the drop-curtain, and
across the long intervening vista of hats and heads
and smoke, to explore its most difficult corners again
and again, lest, when it went up, he might not be in
proper practice for seeing what was behind it.

Nevertheless, despite the marked inconveniences
of his situation, he felt brighter, he felt almost
happy in this dense atmosphere of success.  He even
found a certain peculiar and perverse satisfaction in
the fact that he had as yet been recognised by
nobody.  Once or twice the owners of shoulders had
turned and deliberately glared at the worrying
fellow who had the impudence to be all the time
peeping over them and between them; they had not
distinguished the fellow from any ordinary fellow.
Could they have known that he was the famous
Alderman Edward Henry Machin, founder and sole
proprietor of the Thrift Club, into which their
wives were probably paying so much a week, they
would most assuredly have glared to another tune,
and they would have said with pride afterwards,
"That chap Machin o' Bursley was standing behind
me at the Empire to-night."  And though Machin
is amongst the commonest names in the Five Towns,
all would have known that the great and admired
Denry was meant.  It was astonishing that a
personage so notorious should not have been instantly
"spotted" in such a resort as the Empire.  More
proof that the Five Towns was a vast and seething
concentration of cities, and no longer a mere district
where everybody knew everybody.

The curtain rose, and, as it did so, a thunderous,
crashing applause of greeting broke forth--applause
that thrilled and impressed and inspired; applause
that made every individual in the place feel
right glad that he was there.  For the curtain had
risen on the gigantic attraction which many
members of the audience were about to see for the
fifth time that week; in fact, it was rumoured that
certain men of fashion, whose habit was to refuse
themselves nothing, had attended every performance
of the gigantic attraction since the second house on
Monday.

The scene represented a restaurant of quiet
aspect, into which entered a waiter bearing a pile of
plates some two feet high.  The waiter being
intoxicated, the tower of plates leaned this way and
that as he staggered about, and the whole house
really did hold its breath in the simultaneous hope
and fear of an enormous and resounding smash.
Then entered a second intoxicated waiter, also
bearing a pile of plates some two feet high; and the
risk of destruction was thus more than doubled--it
was quadrupled, for each waiter, in addition to
the risks of his own inebriety, was now subject to
the dreadful peril of colliding with the other.
However, there was no catastrophe.

Then arrived two customers, one in a dress suit
and an eye-glass, and the other in a large violet
hat, a diamond necklace, and a yellow satin skirt.
The which customers, seemingly well used to the
sight of drunken waiters tottering to and fro with
towers of plates, sat down at a table and waited
calmly for attention.  The popular audience, with
that quick mental grasp for which popular
audiences are so renowned, soon perceived that the
table was in close proximity to a lofty sideboard,
and that on either hand of the sideboard were two
chairs, upon which the two waiters were trying to
climb in order to deposit their plates on the
top-most shelf of the sideboard.  The waiters
successfully mounted the chairs, and successfully lifted
their towers of plates to within half an inch
of the desired shelf, and then the chairs began
to show signs of insecurity.  By this time the
audience was stimulated to an ecstasy of
expectation, whose painfulness was only equalled by
its extreme delectability.  The sole unmoved
persons in the building were the customers awaiting
attention at the restaurant table.

One tower was safely lodged on the shelf.  But
was it?  It was not!  Yes?  No!  It curved; it
straightened; it curved again.  The excitement was
as keen as that of watching a drowning man attempt
to reach the shore.  It was simply excruciating.  It
could not be borne any longer, and when it could
not be borne any longer, the tower sprawled
irrevocably, and seven dozen plates fell in a cascade
on the violet hat, and so, with an inconceivable
clatter, to the floor.  Almost at the same moment
the being in the dress suit and the eye-glass--becoming
aware of the phenomena--slightly unusual
even in a restaurant, dropped his eye-glass,
turned round to the sideboard, and received the
other waiter's seven dozen plates in the face and
on the crown of his head.

No such effect had ever been seen in the Five
Towns, and the felicity of the audience exceeded all
previous felicities.  The audience yelled, roared,
shrieked, gasped, trembled, and punched itself in a
furious passion of pleasure.  They make plates in
the Five Towns.  They live by making plates.
They understand plates.  In the Five Towns a man
will carry not seven but twenty-seven dozen plates
on a swaying plank for eight hours a day, up steps
and down steps, and in doorways and out of doorways,
and not break one plate in seven years!  Judge,
therefore, the simple but terrific satisfaction of a
Five Towns' audience in the hugeness of the
calamity.  Moreover, every plate smashed means a
demand for a new plate and increased prosperity
for the Five Towns.  The grateful crowd in the
auditorium of the Empire would have covered the
stage with wreaths if it had known that wreaths were
used for other occasions than funerals; which it did
not know.

Fresh complications instantly ensued which
cruelly cut short the agreeable exercise of
uncontrolled laughter.  It was obvious that one of the
waiters was about to fall.  And in the enforced
tranquillity of a new dread, every dyspeptic person
in the house was deliciously conscious of a sudden
freedom from indigestion, due to the agreeable
exercise of uncontrolled laughter, and wished
fervently that he could laugh like that after every meal.
The waiter fell; he fell through the large violet hat
and disappeared beneath the surface of a sea of
crockery.  The other waiter fell too, but the sea
was not deep enough to drown a couple of them.
Then the customers, recovering themselves, decided
that they must not be outclassed in this competition
of havoc, and they overthrew the table and everything
on it, and all the other tables, and everything
on all the other tables.  The audience was now a
field of artillery which nothing could silence.  The
waiters arose, and, opening the sideboard, disclosed
many hundreds of unsuspected plates of all kinds,
ripe for smashing.  Niagaras of plates surged on to
the stage.  All four performers revelled and
wallowed in smashed plates.  New supplies of plates
were constantly being produced from strange
concealments, and finally the tables and chairs were
broken to pieces, and each object on the walls was
torn down and flung in bits on to the gorgeous
general debris, to the top of which clambered the violet
hat, necklace, and yellow petticoat, brandishing one
single little plate, whose life had been miraculously
spared.  Shrieks of joy in that little plate played
over the din like lightning in a thunder-storm.  And
the curtain fell.

It was rung up fifteen times, and fifteen times the
quartette of artists, breathless, bowed in acknowledgment
of the frenzied and boisterous testimony to
their unique talents.  No singer, no tragedian, no
comedian, no wit, could have had such a triumph,
could have given such intense pleasure.  And yet
none of the four had spoken a word.  Such is genius!

At the end of the fifteenth call the stage-manager
came before the curtain and guaranteed that two
thousand four hundred plates had been broken.

The lights went up.  Strong men were seen to be
wiping tears from their eyes.  Complete strangers
were seen addressing each other in the manner of
old friends.  Such is art!

"Well, that was worth a bob, that was!"
muttered Edward Henry to himself.  And it was.
Edward Henry had not escaped the general fate.
Nobody, being present, could have escaped it.  He
was enchanted.  He had utterly forgotten every care.

"Good evening, Mr. Machin," said a voice at his
side.  Not only he turned, but nearly every one in
the vicinity turned.  The voice was the voice of the
stout and splendid managing director of the Empire,
and it sounded with the ring of authority above the
rising tinkle of the bar behind the Grand Circle.

"Oh!  How d'ye do, Mr. Dakins?" Edward
Henry held out a cordial hand, for even the greatest
men are pleased to be greeted in a place of entertainment
by the managing director thereof.  Further,
his identity was now recognised.

"Haven't you seen those gentlemen in that box
beckoning to you?" said Mr. Dakins, proudly
deprecating complimentary remarks on the show.

"Which box?"

Mr. Dakins' hand indicated the stage-box.  And
Henry, looking, saw three men, one unknown to
him; the second, Robert Brindley, the architect, of
Bursley; and the third, Dr. Stirling.

Instantly his conscience leapt up within him.  He
thought of rabies.  Yes, sobered in the fraction of a
second, he thought of rabies.  Supposing that, after
all, in spite of Mr. Long's muzzling order, as cited
by his infant son, an odd case of rabies should have
lingered in the British Isles, and supposing that
Carlo had been infected!  Not impossible!  Was
it providential that Dr. Stirling was in the auditorium?

"You know two of them?" said Mr. Dakins.

"Yes."

"Well, the third's a Mr. Bryany.  He's manager
to Mr. Seven Sachs."  Mr. Dakins' tone was respectful.

"And who's Mr. Seven Sachs?" asked Edward
Henry absently.  It was a stupid question.

He was impressively informed that Mr. Seven
Sachs was the arch-famous American actor-playwright,
now nearing the end of a provincial tour
which had surpassed all records of provincial tours,
and that he would be at the Theatre Royal,
Hanbridge, next week.  Edward Henry then remembered
that the hoardings had been full of Mr. Seven
Sachs for some time past.

"They keep on making signs to you," said Mr. Dakins,
referring to the occupants of the stage-box.

Edward Henry waved a reply to the box.

"Here!  I'll take you there the shortest way,"
said Mr. Dakins.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

"Welcome to Stirling's box, Machin!" Robert
Brindley greeted the alderman with an almost
imperceptible wink.  Edward Henry had encountered this
wink once or twice before; he could not decide
precisely what it meant; it was apt to make him reflective.
He did not dislike Robert Brindley, his habit was
not to dislike people; he admitted Brindley to be a
clever architect, though he objected to the
"modern" style of the fronts of his houses and schools.
But he did take exception to the man's
attitude towards the Five Towns, of which, by the
way, Brindley was just as much a native as
himself.  Brindley seemed to live in the Five Towns
like a highly cultured stranger in a savage land,
and to derive rather too much sardonic amusement
from the spectacle of existence therein.  Brindley
was a very special crony of Stirling's, and had
influenced Stirling.  But Stirling was too clever to
submit unduly to the influence.  Besides, Stirling was
not a native; he was only a Scotchman, and
Edward Henry considered that what Stirling thought
of the district did not matter.  Other details about
Brindley which Edward Henry deprecated were his
necktie, which, for Edward Henry's taste, was too
flowing, his scorn of the "Pianisto" (despite the
man's tremendous interest in music), and his
incipient madness on the subject of books--a madness
shared by Stirling.  Brindley and the doctor
were forever chattering about books, and buying them.

So that, on the whole, Dr. Stirling's box was not
a place where Edward Henry felt entirely at home.
Nevertheless, the two men, having presented
Mr. Bryany, did their best, each in his own way, to make
him feel at home.

"Take this chair, Machin," said Stirling, indicating
a chair at the front.

"Oh, I can't take the front chair!" Edward
Henry protested.

"Of course you can, my dear Machin," said
Brindley sharply.  "The front chair in a stage-box
is the one proper seat in the house for you.  Do as
your doctor prescribes."

And Edward Henry accordingly sat down at the
front, with Mr. Bryany by his side; and the other
two sat behind.  But Edward Henry was not quite
comfortable.  He faintly resented that speech of
Brindley's.  And yet he did feel that what Brindley
had said was true, and he was indeed glad to be in
the front chair of a brilliant stage-box on the grand
tier, instead of being packed away in the nethermost
twilight of the Grand Circle.  He wondered how
Brindley and Stirling had managed to distinguish his
face among the confusion of faces in that distant
obscurity; he, Edward Henry, had failed to notice
them, even in the prominence of their box.  But
that they had distinguished him showed how
familiar and striking a figure he was.  He wondered,
too, why they should have invited him to hobnob
with them.  He was not of their set.  Indeed, like
many very eminent men, he was not to any degree
in anybody's set.  Of one thing he was sure,--because
he had read it on the self-conscious faces of
all three of them,--namely, that they had been
discussing him.  Possibly he had been brought up
for Mr. Bryany's inspection as a major lion and
character of the district.  Well, he did not mind that;
nay, he enjoyed that.  He could feel Mr. Bryany
covertly looking him over.  And he thought:
"Look, my boy!  I make no charge."  He smiled
and nodded to one or two people who with pride
saluted him from the stalls.  It was meet that he
should be visible there on that Friday night!

"A full house!" he observed, to break the rather
awkward silence of the box, as he glanced round at
the magnificent smoke-veiled pageant of the
aristocracy and the democracy of the Five Towns
crowded together, tier above gilded tier, up to the
dim roof where ragged lads and maids giggled and
flirted while waiting for the broken plates to be
cleared away and the moving pictures to begin.

"You may say it!" agreed Mr. Bryany, who
spoke with a very slight American accent.
"Dakins positively hadn't a seat to offer me.  I
happened to have the evening free.  It isn't often I do
have a free evening.  And so I thought I'd pop in
here.  But if Dakins hadn't introduced me to these
gentlemen, my seat would have had to be a standing
one."

"So that's how they got to know him, is it?"
thought Edward Henry.

And then there was another short silence.

"Hear you've been doing something striking in
rubber shares, Machin?" said Brindley at length.

Astonishing how these things got abroad!

"Oh, very little, very little!" Edward Henry
laughed modestly.  "Too late to do much!  In
another fortnight the bottom will be all out of the
rubber market!"

"Of course I'm an Englishman--" Mr. Bryany began.

"Why 'of course'?" Edward Henry interrupted him.

"Hear!  Hear!  Alderman.  Why 'of course'?"
said Brindley approvingly, and Stirling's rich laugh
was heard.  "Only it does just happen," Brindley
added, "that Mr. Bryany did us the honour to be
born in the district."

"Yes.  Longshaw," Mr. Bryany admitted, half
proud and half apologetic, "which I left at the age
of two."

"Oh, Longshaw!" murmured Edward Henry
with a peculiar inflection, which had a distinct
meaning for at least two of his auditors.

Longshaw is at the opposite end of the Five
Towns from Bursley, and the majority of the
inhabitants of Bursley have never been to Longshaw
in their lives, have only heard of it, as they hear
of Chicago or Bangkok.  Edward Henry had often
been to Longshaw, but, like every visitor from
Bursley, he instinctively regarded it as a foolish and
unnecessary place.

"As I was saying," resumed Mr. Bryany, quite
unintimidated, "I'm an Englishman.  But I've lived
eighteen years in America, and it seems to me the
bottom will soon be knocked out of pretty nearly
all the markets in England.  Look at the Five Towns!"

"No, don't, Mr. Bryany!" said Brindley.
"Don't go to extremes."

"Personally, I don't mind looking at the Five
Towns," said Edward Henry.  "What of it?"

"Well, did you ever see such people for looking
twice at a five-pound note?"

Edward Henry most certainly did not like this
aspersion on his native district.  He gazed in silence
at Mr. Bryany's brassy and yet simple face, and did
not like the face either.

And Mr. Bryany, beautifully unaware that he had
failed in tact, continued: "The Five Towns is the
most English place I've ever seen, believe me!  Of
course it has its good points, and England has her
good points; but there's no money stirring.  There's
no field for speculation on the spot, and as for
outside investment, no Englishman will touch anything
that really is good."  He emphasised the last three
words.

"What d'ye do yeself, Mr. Bryany?" inquired
Dr. Stirling.

"What do I do with my little bit?" cried
Mr. Bryany.  "Oh, I know what to do with my little
bit.  I can get ten per cent. in Seattle, and twelve
to fifteen in Calgary, on my little bit; and security
just as good as English railway stock--*and* better."

The theatre was darkened, and the cinematograph
began its reckless twinkling.

Mr. Bryany went on offering to Edward Henry,
in a suitably lowered voice, his views on the great
questions of investment and speculation; and
Edward Henry made cautious replies.

"And even when there is a good thing going at
home," Mr. Bryany said, in a wounded tone, "what
Englishman'd look at it?"

"I would," said Edward Henry with a blandness
that was only skin-deep, for all the time he was
cogitating the question whether the presence of
Dr. Stirling in the audience ought or ought not to be
regarded as providential.

"Now, I've got the option on a little affair in
London," said Mr. Bryany, while Edward Henry
glanced quickly at him in the darkness, "and can I
get anybody to go into it?  I can't."

"What sort of a little affair?"

"Building a theatre in the West End."

Even a less impassive man than Edward Henry
would have started at the coincidence of this
remark.  And Edward Henry started.  Twenty
minutes ago he had been idly dreaming of theatrical
speculation, and now he could almost see theatrical
speculation shimmering before him in the pale
shifting rays of the cinematograph that cut through the
gloom of the mysterious auditorium.

"Oh!" And in this new interest he forgot the
enigma of the ways of Providence.

"Of course, you know, I'm in the business," said
Mr. Bryany.  "I'm Seven Sachs's manager."  It
was as if he owned and operated Mr. Seven Sachs.

"So I heard," said Edward Henry, and then
remarked with mischievous cordiality: "And I
suppose these chaps told you I was the sort of man you
were after.  And you got them to ask me in, eh, Mr. Bryany?"

Mr. Bryany gave an uneasy laugh, but seemed to
find naught to say.

"Well, what is your little affair?" Edward Henry
encouraged him.

"Oh, I can't tell you now," said Mr. Bryany.
"It would take too long.  The thing has to be explained."

"Well, what about to-morrow?"

"I have to leave for London by the first train in
the morning."

"Well, some other time?"

"After to-morrow will be too late."

"Well, what about to-night?"

"The fact is, I've half promised to go with
Dr. Stirling to some club or other after the show.
Otherwise we might have had a quiet confidential chat in
my rooms over the Turk's Head.  I never
dreamt--"  Mr. Bryany was now as melancholy as
a greedy lad who regards rich fruit at arm's length
through a plate-glass window, and he had ceased to
be patronising.

"I'll soon get rid of Stirling for you," said
Edward Henry, turning instantly towards the doctor.
The ways of Providence had been made plain to
Edward Henry.  "I say, Doc!"  But the Doctor
and Brindley were in conversation with another man
at the open door of the box.

"What is it?" said Stirling.

"I've come to fetch you.  You're wanted at my place."

"Well, you're a caution!" said Stirling.

"Why am I a caution?" Edward Henry smoothly
protested.  "I didn't tell you before because I
didn't want to spoil your fun."

Stirling's mien was not happy.

"Did they tell you I was here?" he asked.

"You'd almost think so, wouldn't you?" said
Edward Henry in a playful, enigmatic tone.  After
all, he decided privately, his wife was right: it was
better that Stirling should see the infant.  And
there was also this natural human thought in his
mind: he objected to the doctor giving an entire
evening to diversions away from home; he
considered that a doctor, when not on a round of visits,
ought to be forever in his consulting-room, ready
for a sudden call of emergency.  It was monstrous
that Stirling should have proposed, after an
escapade at the music-hall, to spend further hours with
chance acquaintances in vague clubs!  Half the
town might fall sick and die while the doctor was
vainly amusing himself.  Thus the righteous
layman in Edward Henry!

"What's the matter?" asked Stirling.

"My eldest's been rather badly bitten by a dog,
and the missis wants it cauterized."

"Really?"

"Well, you bet she does!"

"Where's the bite?"

"In the calf."

The other man at the door having departed,
Robert Brindley abruptly joined the conversation at
this point.

"I suppose you've heard of that case of hydrophobia
at Bleakridge?" said Brindley.

Edward Henry's heart jumped.

"No, I haven't," he said anxiously.  "What is it?"

He gazed at the white blur of Brindley's face in
the darkened box, and he could hear the rapid
clicking of the cinematograph behind him.

"Didn't you see it in the *Signal*?"

"No."

"Neither did I," said Brindley.

At the same moment the moving pictures came
to an end, the theatre was filled with light, and the
band began to play, "God Save the King."  Brindley
and Stirling were laughing.  And indeed,
Brindley had scored, this time, over the unparalleled
card of the Five Towns.

"I make you a present of that," said Edward
Henry.  "But my wife's most precious infant has
to be cauterized, Doctor," he added firmly.

"Got your car here?" Stirling questioned.

"No.  Have you?"

"No."

"Well, there's the tram.  I'll follow you later.
I've some business round this way.  Persuade my
wife not to worry, will you?"

And when a discontented Dr. Stirling had made
his excuses and adieux to Mr. Bryany, and Robert
Brindley had decided that he could not leave his
crony to travel by tram-car alone, and the two men
had gone, then Edward Henry turned to Mr. Bryany:

"That's how I get rid of the doctor, you see."

"But *has* your child been bitten by a dog?" asked
Mr. Bryany, acutely perplexed.

"You'd almost think so, wouldn't you?" Edward
Henry replied, carefully non-committal.  "What
price going to the Turk's Head now?"

He remembered with satisfaction, and yet with
misgiving, a remark made to him, a judgment
passed on him, by a very old woman very many
years before.  This discerning hag, the Widow
Hullins by name, had said to him briefly, "Well,
you're a queer 'un!"

.. vspace:: 3

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   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

Within five minutes he was following Mr. Bryany
into a small parlour on the first floor of the
Turk's Head, a room with which he had no previous
acquaintance, though, like most industrious men of
affairs in metropolitan Hanbridge, he reckoned to
know something about the Turk's Head.  Mr. Bryany
turned up the gas (the Turk's Head took
pride in being a "hostelry," and, while it had
accustomed itself to incandescent mantles on the
ground floor, it had not yet conquered a natural
distaste for electricity) and Edward Henry saw a
smart despatch-box, a dress suit, a trouser-stretcher,
and other necessaries of theatrical business life at
large in the apartment.

"I've never seen this room before," said Edward Henry.

"Take your overcoat off and sit down, will you?"
said Mr. Bryany as he turned to replenish the fire
from a bucket.  "It's my private sitting-room.
Whenever I am on my travels, I always take a
private sitting-room.  It pays, you know.  Of course
I mean if I'm alone.  When I'm looking after
Mr. Sachs, of course we share a sitting-room."

Edward Henry agreed lightly:

"I suppose so."

But the fact was that he was much impressed.
He himself had never taken a private sitting-room
in any hotel.  He had sometimes felt the desire, but
he had not had the "face," as they say down there,
to do it.  To take a private sitting-room in a hotel
was generally regarded in the Five Towns as the
very summit of dashing expensiveness and futile
luxury.

"I didn't know they had private sitting-rooms
in this shanty," said Edward Henry.

Mr. Bryany, having finished with the fire, fronted
him, shovel in hand, with a remarkable air of
consummate wisdom, and replied:

"You can generally get what you want if you
insist on having it, even in this 'shanty.'"

Edward Henry regretted his use of the word
"shanty."  Inhabitants of the Five Towns may
allow themselves to twit the historic and excellent
Turk's Head, but they do not extend the privilege
to strangers.  And in justice to the Turk's Head,
it is to be clearly stated that it did no more to cow
and discourage travellers than any other provincial
hotel in England.  It was a sound and serious English
provincial hotel; and it linked century to century.

Said Mr. Bryany:

"'Merica's the place for hotels."

"Yes, I expect it is."

"Been to Chicago?"

"No, I haven't."

Mr. Bryany, as he removed his overcoat, could
be seen politely forbearing to raise his eyebrows.

"Of course you've been to New York?"

Edward Henry would have given all he had in
his pockets to be able to say that he had been to
New York, but, by some inexplicable negligence, he
had hitherto omitted to go to New York, and, being
a truthful person, except in the gravest crises, he
was obliged to answer miserably:

"No, I haven't."

Mr. Bryany gazed at him with amazement and
compassion, apparently staggered by the discovery
that there existed in England a man of the world
who had contrived to struggle on for forty years
without perfecting his education by a visit to New York.

Edward Henry could not tolerate Mr. Bryany's
look.  It was a look which he had never been able
to tolerate on the features of anybody whatsoever.
He reminded himself that his secret object in
accompanying Mr. Bryany to the Turk's Head was to
repay Mr. Bryany--in what coin he knew not yet--for
the aspersions which at the music-hall he had
cast upon England in general and upon the Five
Towns in particular, and also to get revenge for
having been tricked into believing, even for a
moment, that there was really a case of hydrophobia
at Bleakridge.  It is true that Mr. Bryany was
innocent of this deception, which had been
accomplished by Robert Brindley, but that was a detail
which did not trouble Edward Henry, who lumped
his grievances together--for convenience.

He had been reflecting that some sentimental
people, unused to the ways of paternal affection in the
Five Towns, might consider him a rather callous
father; he had been reflecting, again, that Nellie's
suggestion of blood-poisoning might not be as
entirely foolish as feminine suggestions in such
circumstances too often are.  But now he put these
thoughts away, reassuring himself against
hydrophobia anyhow, by the recollection of the definite
statement of the Encyclopedia.  Moreover, had he
not inspected the wound--as healthy a wound as
you could wish for?

And he said in a new tone, very curtly:

"Now, Mr. Bryany, what about this little affair
of yours?"

He saw that Mr. Bryany accepted the implied
rebuke with the deference properly shown by a man
who needs something towards the man in possession
of what he needs.  And studying the fellow's
countenance, he decided that, despite its brassiness
and simple cunning, it was scarcely the countenance
of a rascal.

"Well, it's like this," said Mr. Bryany, sitting
down opposite Edward Henry at the centre table,
and reaching with obsequious liveliness for the
despatch-box.

He drew from the despatch-box, which was lettered
"W.C.B.," first a cut-glass flask of whisky,
with a patent stopper, and then a spacious box of
cigarettes.

"I always travel with the right sort," he
remarked, holding the golden liquid up to the light.
"It's safer, and it saves any trouble with orders
after closing-time.  These English hotels, you
know--!"

So saying, he dispensed whisky and cigarettes,
there being a siphon and glasses, and three matches
in a match-stand, on the table.

"Here's looking!" he said, with raised glass.

And Edward Henry responded, in conformity
with the changeless ritual of the Five Towns:

"I looks!"

And they sipped.

Whereupon Mr. Bryany next drew from the
despatch-box a piece of transparent paper.

"I want you to look at this plan of Piccadilly
Circus and environs," said he.

Now there is a Piccadilly in Hanbridge; also a
Pall Mall, and a Chancery Lane.  The adjective
"metropolitan," applied to Hanbridge is just.

"London?" questioned Edward Henry.  "I
understood London when we were chatting over
there."  With his elbow he indicated the
music-hall, somewhere vaguely outside the room.

"London," said Mr. Bryany.

And Edward Henry thought:

"What on earth am I meddling with London for?
What use should I be in London?"

"You see the plot marked in red?" Mr. Bryany
proceeded.  "Well, that's the site.  There's an old
chapel on it now."

"What do all these straight lines mean?"
Edward Henry inquired, examining the plan.  Lines
radiated from the red plot in various directions.

"Those are the lines of vision," said Mr. Bryany.
"They show just where an electric sign at the
corner of the front of the proposed theatre could
be seen from.  You notice the site is not in the
Circus itself--a shade to the north."   Mr. Bryany's
finger approached Edward Henry's on the
plan and the clouds from their cigarettes fraternally
mingled.  "Now you see by those lines that the
electric sign of the proposed theatre would be visible
from nearly the whole of Piccadilly Circus, parts
of Lower Regent Street, Coventry Street, and even
Shaftesbury Avenue.  You see what a site it
is--absolutely unique."

Edward Henry asked coldly:

"Have you bought it?"

"No," Mr. Bryany seemed to apologise, "I
haven't exactly bought it; but I've got an option on it."

The magic word "option" wakened the drowsy
speculator in Edward Henry.  And the mere act
of looking at the plan endowed the plot of land with
reality.  There it was.  It existed.

"An option to buy it?"

"You can't buy land in the West End of London,"
said Mr. Bryany sagely.  "You can only
lease it."

"Well, of course," Edward Henry concurred.

"The freehold belongs to Lord Woldo, now
aged six months."

"Really!" murmured Edward Henry.

"I've got an option to take up the remainder of
the lease, with sixty-four years to run, on the
condition I put up a theatre.  And the option expires in
exactly a fortnight's time."

Edward Henry frowned, and then asked:

"What are the figures?"

"That is to say," Mr. Bryany corrected himself,
smiling courteously, "I've got half the option."

"And who's got the other half?"

"Rose Euclid's got the other half."

At the mention of the name of one of the most
renowned star actresses in England, Edward Henry
excusably started.

"Not *the*--?" he exclaimed.

Mr. Bryany nodded proudly, blowing out much smoke.

"Tell me," asked Edward Henry, confidentially,
leaning forward, "where do those ladies get their
names from?"

"It happens in this case to be her real name," said
Mr. Bryany.  "Her father kept a tobacconists'
shop in Cheapside.  The sign was kept up for many
years, until Rose paid to have it changed."

"Well, well!" breathed Edward Henry, secretly
thrilled by these extraordinary revelations.  "And
so you and she have got it between you?"

Mr. Bryany said:

"I bought half of it from her some time ago.
She was badly hard up for a hundred pounds, and I
let her have the money."  He threw away his
cigarette half-smoked, with a free gesture that
seemed to imply that he was capable of parting with
a hundred pounds just as easily.

"How did she *get* the option?" Edward Henry
inquired, putting into the query all the innuendo of
a man accustomed to look at great worldly affairs
from the inside.

"How did she get it?  She got it from the late
Lord Woldo.  She was always very friendly with
the late Lord Woldo, you know."  Edward Henry
nodded.  "Why, she and the Countess of Chell
are as thick as thieves!  You know something about
the countess down here, I reckon?"

The Countess of Chell was the wife of the
supreme local magnate.

Edward Henry answered calmly, "We do."

He was tempted to relate a unique adventure of
his youth, when he had driven the countess to a
public meeting in his mule-carriage; but sheer pride
kept him silent.

"I asked you for the figures," he added in a
manner which requested Mr. Bryany to remember
that he was the founder, chairman, and proprietor
of the Five Towns Universal Thrift Club, one of
the most successful business organisations in the
Midlands.

"Here they are," said Mr. Bryany, passing across
the table a sheet of paper.

And as Edward Henry studied them he could
hear Mr. Bryany faintly cooing into his ear: "Of
course Rose got the ground-rent reduced.  And
when I tell you that the demand for theatres in the
West End far exceeds the supply, and that theatre
rents are always going up; when I tell you that a
theatre costing £25,000 to build can be let for
£11,000 a year, and often £300 a week on a short
term--"  And he could hear the gas singing over
his head; and also, unhappily, he could hear
Dr. Stirling talking to his wife and saying to her that
the bite was far more serious than it looked, and
Nellie hoping very audibly that nothing had
"happened" to him, her still absent husband.  And then
he could hear Mr. Bryany again:

"When I tell you--"

"When you tell me all this, Mr. Bryany," he
interrupted with the ferocity which in the Five
Towns is regarded as mere directness, "I wonder
why the devil you want to sell your half of the option
if you *do* want to sell it.  Do you want to sell it?"

"To tell you the truth," said Mr. Bryany as if
up to that moment he had told naught but lies, "I do."

"Why?"

"Oh, I'm always travelling about, you see.
England one day, America the next."  Apparently he
had quickly abandoned the strictness of veracity.
"All depends on the governor's movements.  I
couldn't keep a proper eye on an affair of that kind."

Edward Henry laughed:

"And could I?"

"Chance for you to go a bit oftener to London,"
said Mr. Bryany, laughing too.  Then, with
extreme and convincing seriousness, "You're the very
man for a thing of that kind.  And you know it."

Edward Henry was not displeased by this flattery.

"How much?"

"How much?  Well, I told you frankly what I
paid.  I made no concealment of that, did I now?
Well, I want what I paid.  It's worth it!"

"Got a copy of the option, I hope!"

Mr. Bryany produced a copy of the option.

"I am nothing but an infernal ass to mix
myself up in a mad scheme like this," said Edward
Henry to his soul, perusing the documents.  "It's
right off my line, right bang off it.  But what a
lark!"  But even to his soul he did not utter the remainder
of the truth about himself, namely, "I should like
to cut a dash before this insufferable patroniser of
England and the Five Towns."

Suddenly something snapped within him, and he
said to Mr. Bryany:

"I'm on!"

Those words and no more!

"You are?" Mr. Bryany exclaimed, mistrusting
his ears.

Edward Henry nodded.

"Well, that's business anyway," said Mr. Bryany,
taking a fresh cigarette and lighting it.

"It's how we do business down here," said Edward
Henry, quite inaccurately; for it was not in
the least how they did business down there.

Mr. Bryany asked, with a rather obvious anxiety:

"But when can you pay?

"Oh, I'll send you a cheque in a day or two."  And
Edward Henry in his turn took a fresh cigarette.

"That won't do!  That won't do!" cried Mr. Bryany.
"I absolutely must have the money to-morrow
morning in London.  I can sell the option
in London for eighty pounds, I know that."

"You must have it?"

"Must!"

They exchanged glances.  And Edward Henry,
rapidly acquiring new knowledge of human nature
on the threshold of a world strange to him,
understood that Mr. Bryany, with his private sitting-room
and his investments in Seattle and Calgary, was at
his wits' end for a bag of English sovereigns, and
had trusted to some chance encounter to save him
from a calamity.  And his contempt for Mr. Bryany
was that of a man to whom his bankers are
positively servile.

"Here," Mr. Bryany almost shouted, "don't
light your cigarette with my option!"

"I beg pardon," Edward Henry apologised,
dropping the document which he had creased into a
spill.  There were no matches left on the table.

"I'll find you a match."

"It's of no consequence," said Edward Henry,
feeling in his pockets.  Having discovered therein
a piece of paper, he twisted it and rose to put it to
the gas.

"Could you slip round to your bank and meet me
at the station in the morning with the cash?"
suggested Mr. Bryany.

"No, I couldn't," said Edward Henry.

"Well, then, what--?"

"Here, you'd better take this," the Card, reborn,
soothed his host, and, blowing out the spill which
he had just ignited at the gas, he offered it to
Mr. Bryany.

"What?"

"This, man!"

Mr. Bryany, observing the peculiarity of the spill,
seized it and unrolled it, not without a certain agitation.

He stammered:

"Do you mean to say it's genuine?"

"You'd almost think so, wouldn't you?" said
Edward Henry.  He was growing fond of this reply,
and of the enigmatic playful tone that he had
invented for it.

"But--"

"We may, as you say, look twice at a fiver,"
continued Edward Henry, "but we're apt to be careless
about hundred-pound notes in this district.  I
daresay that's why I always carry one."

"But it's burnt!"

"Only just the edge, not enough to harm it.  If
any bank in England refuses it, return it to me, and
I'll give you a couple more in exchange.  Is that
talking?"

"Well, I'm dashed!"  Mr. Bryany attempted
to rise, and then subsided back into his chair.  "I
am simply and totally dashed!"  He smiled
weakly, hysterically.

And in that instant Edward Henry felt all the
sweetness of a complete and luscious revenge.

He said commandingly:

"You must sign me a transfer.  I'll dictate it."

Then he jumped up.

"You're in a hurry?"

"I am.  My wife is expecting me.  You
promised to find me a match."  Edward Henry
waved the unlit cigarette as a reproach to Mr. Bryany's
imperfect hospitality.

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   \IV.

.. vspace:: 2

The clock of Bleakridge Church, still imperturbably
shining in the night, showed a quarter to one
when he saw it again on his hurried and guilty way
home.  The pavements were drying in the fresh
night wind, and he had his overcoat buttoned up to
the neck.  He was absolutely solitary in the long,
muddy perspective of Trafalgar Road.  He walked
because the last tram-car was already housed in its
shed at the other end of the world, and he walked
quickly because his conscience drove him onwards.
And yet he dreaded to arrive, lest a wound in the
child's leg should have maliciously decided to fester
in order to put him in the wrong.  He was now as
apprehensive concerning that wound as Nellie
herself had been at tea-time.

But in his mind, above the dark gulf of anxiety,
there floated brighter thoughts.  Despite his fears
and his remorse as a father, he laughed aloud in
the deserted street when he remembered Mr. Bryany's
visage of astonishment upon uncreasing the
note.  Indubitably, he made a terrific and everlasting
impression upon Mr. Bryany.  He was sending
Mr. Bryany out of the Five Towns a different man.
He had taught Mr. Bryany a thing or two.  To
what brilliant use had he turned the purely
accidental possession of a hundred-pound note!  One
of his finest inspirations--an inspiration worthy of
the great days of his youth!  Yes, he had had his
hour that evening, and it had been a glorious one.
Also, it had cost him a hundred pounds, and he did
not care; he would retire to bed with a net gain of
two hundred and forty-one pounds instead of three
hundred and forty-one pounds, that was all.

For he did not mean to take up the option.  The
ecstasy was cooled now, and he saw clearly that
London and theatrical enterprises therein would not
be suited to his genius.  In the Five Towns he was
on his own ground; he was a figure; he was sure of
himself.  In London he would be a provincial, with
the diffidence and the uncertainty of a provincial.
Nevertheless, London seemed to be summoning him
from afar off, and he dreamt agreeably of London
as one dreams of the impossible East.

As soon as he opened the gate in the wall of his
property, he saw that the drawing-room was
illuminated and all the other front rooms in darkness.
Either his wife or his mother, then, was sitting up
in the drawing-room.  He inserted a cautious
latch-key into the door, and entered the silent home like
a sinner.  The dim light in the hall gravely
reproached him.  All his movements were modest
and restrained; no noisy rattling of his stick now.

The drawing-room door was slightly ajar.  He
hesitated, and then, nerving himself, pushed against it.

Nellie, with lowered head, was seated at a table,
mending, the image of tranquillity and soft resignation.
A pile of children's garments lay by her side,
but the article in her busy hands appeared to be an
undershirt of his own.  None but she ever
reinforced the buttons on his linen.  Such was her
wifely rule, and he considered that there was no sense in
it.  She was working by the light of a single lamp
on the table, the splendid chandelier being out of
action.  Her economy in the use of electricity was
incurable, and he considered that there was no sense
in that either.

She glanced up with a guarded expression that
might have meant anything.

He said:

"Aren't you trying your eyes?"

And she replied:

"Oh, no!"

Then, plunging, he came to the point:

"Well, doctor been here?"

She nodded.

"What does he say?"

"It's quite all right.  He did nothing but cover
up the place with a bit of cyanide gauze."

Instantly, in his own esteem, he regained perfection
as a father.  Of course the bite was nothing!
Had he not said so from the first?  Had he not been
quite sure throughout that the bite was nothing?

"Then why did you sit up?" he asked, and there
was a faint righteous challenge in his tone.

"I was anxious about you.  I was afraid--"

"Didn't Stirling tell you I had some business?"

"I forget--"

"I told him to, anyhow--important business."

"It must have been," said Nellie in an inscrutable
voice.

She rose and gathered together her paraphernalia,
and he saw that she was wearing the damnable white
apron.  The close atmosphere of the home enveloped
and stifled him once more.  How different was
this exasperating interior from the large jolly
freedom of the Empire Music Hall, and from the
whisky, cigarettes, and masculinity of that private
room at the Turk's Head!

"It was!" he repeated grimly and resentfully.
"Very important!  And I'll tell you another thing,
I shall probably have to go to London."

He said this just to startle her.

"It will do you all the good in the world," she
replied angelically, but unstartled.  "It's just what
you need."  And she gazed at him as though his
welfare and felicity were her sole preoccupation.

"I meant I might have to stop there quite a
while," he insisted.

"If you ask me," she said, "I think it would do
us all good."

So saying she retired, having expressed no
curiosity whatever as to the nature of the very
important business in London.

For a moment, left alone, he was at a loss.  Then,
snorting, he went to the table and extinguished the
lamp.  He was now in darkness.  The light in the
hall showed him the position of the door.

He snorted again.  "Oh, very well then!" he
muttered.  "If that's it!  I'm hanged if I don't
go to London!  I'm hanged if I don't go to London!"





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.. _`WILKINS'S`:

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   CHAPTER III

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   WILKINS'S

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   \I.

.. vspace:: 1

The early adventures of Alderman Machin
of Bursley at Wilkins' Hotel, London,
were so singular and to him so refreshing
that they must be recounted in some detail.

He went to London by the morning express from
Knype, on the Monday week after his visit to the
music-hall.  In the meantime he had had some
correspondence with Mr. Bryany, more poetic than
precise, about the option, and had informed
Mr. Bryany that he would arrive in London several days
before the option expired.  But he had not given a
definite date.  The whole affair, indeed, was
amusingly vague; and, despite his assurances to his wife
that the matter was momentous, he did not regard
his trip to London as a business trip at all, but rather
as a simple freakish change of air.  The one
certain item in the whole situation was that he had in
his pocket a quite considerable sum of actual money,
destined--he hoped but was not sure--to take up
the option at the proper hour.

Nellie, impeccable to the last, accompanied him
in the motor to Knype, the main-line station.  The
drive, superficially pleasant, was in reality very
disconcerting to him.  For nine days the household had
talked in apparent cheerfulness of Father's visit to
London, as though it were an occasion for joy on
Father's behalf, tempered by affectionate sorrow for
his absence.  The official theory was that all was for
the best in the best of all possible homes, and this
theory was admirably maintained.  And yet everybody
knew--even to Maisie--that it was not so;
everybody knew that the master and the mistress of
the home, calm and sweet as was their demeanour,
were contending in a terrific silent and mysterious
altercation, which in some way was connected with
the visit to London.  So far as Edward Henry was
concerned, he had been hoping for some decisive
event--a tone, gesture, glance, pressure--during
the drive to Knype, which offered the last chance of
a real concord.  No such event occurred.  They
conversed with the same false cordiality as had
marked their relations since the evening of the
dog-bite.  On that evening Nellie had suddenly
transformed herself into a distressingly perfect angel,
and not once had she descended from her high
estate.  At least daily she had kissed him--what
kisses!  Kisses that were not kisses!  Tasteless
mockeries, like non-alcoholic ale!  He could have
killed her, but he could not put a finger on a fault
in her marvellous wifely behaviour; she would have
died victorious.

So that his freakish excursion was not starting
very auspiciously.  And, waiting with her for the
train on the platform at Knype, he felt this more
and more.  His old clerk Penkethman was there to
receive certain final instructions on Thrift Club
matters, and the sweetness of Nellie's attitude towards
the ancient man, and the ancient's man's naïve
pleasure therein, positively maddened Edward Henry.
To such an extent that he began to think: "Is she
going to spoil my trip for me?"

Then Brindley came up.  Brindley, too, was going
to London.  And Nellie's saccharine assurances
to Brindley that Edward Henry really needed a
change just about completed Edward Henry's
desperation.  Not even the uproarious advent of two
jolly wholesale grocers, Messieurs Garvin and
Quorrall, also going to London, could effectually lighten
his pessimism.

When the train steamed in, Edward Henry, in
fear, postponed the ultimate kiss as long as
possible.  He allowed Brindley to climb before him into
the second-class compartment, and purposely tarried
in finding change for the porter; and then he turned
to Nellie, and stooped.  She raised her white veil
and raised the angelic face.  They kissed,--the
same false kiss,--and she was withdrawing her lips.
But suddenly she put them again to his for one
second, with a hysterical clinging pressure.  It was
nothing.  Nobody could have noticed it.  She
herself pretended that she had not done it.  Edward
Henry had to pretend not to notice it.  But to him
it was everything.  She had relented.  She had
surrendered.  The sign had come from her.  She
wished him to enjoy his visit to London.

He said to himself:

"Dashed if I don't write to her every day!"

He leaned out of the window as the train rolled
away, and waved and smiled to her, not concealing
his sentiments now; nor did she conceal hers as she
replied with exquisite pantomime to his signals.
But if the train had not been rapidly and infallibly
separating them, the reconciliation could scarcely
have been thus open.  If for some reason the train
had backed into the station and ejected its passengers,
those two would have covered up their feelings
again in an instant.  Such is human nature in the
Five Towns.

When Edward Henry withdrew his head into the
compartment, Brindley and Mr. Garvin, the latter
standing at the corridor door, observed that his
spirits had shot up in the most astonishing manner,
and in their blindness they attributed the
phenomenon to Edward Henry's delight in a temporary
freedom from domesticity.

Mr. Garvin had come from the neighbouring
compartment, which was first-class, to suggest a game
at bridge.  Messieurs Garvin and Quorrall
journeyed to London once a week and sometimes
oftener, and, being traders, they had special
season-tickets.  They travelled first-class because their
special season-tickets were first-class.  Brindley said
that he didn't mind a game, but that he had not the
slightest intention of paying excess fare for the
privilege.  Mr. Garvin told him to come along and
trust in Messieurs Garvin and Quorrall.  Edward
Henry, not nowadays an enthusiastic card-player,
enthusiastically agreed to join the hand, and announced
that he did not care if he paid forty excess fares.
Whereupon Robert Brindley grumbled enviously
that it was "all very well for millionaires..."  They
followed Mr. Garvin into the first-class
compartment; and it soon appeared that Messrs. Garvin
and Quorrall did in fact own the train, and that
the London and North Western Railway was no
more than their wash-pot.

"Bring us a cushion from somewhere, will ye?"
said Mr. Quorrall casually to a ticket-collector who
entered.

And the resplendent official obeyed.  The long
cushion, rapt from another compartment, was placed
on the knees of the quartette, and the game began.
The ticket-collector examined the tickets of
Brindley and Edward Henry, and somehow failed to
notice that they were of the wrong colour.  And
at this proof of their influential greatness,
Messieurs Garvin and Quorrall were both secretly
proud.

The last rubber finished in the neighbourhood of
Willesden, and Edward Henry, having won eighteen
pence halfpenny, was exuberantly content, for
Messrs. Garvin, Quorrall, and Brindley were all
renowned card-players.  The cushion was thrown
away, and a fitful conversation occupied the few
remaining minutes of the journey.

"Where do you put up?" Brindley asked Edward Henry.

"Majestic," said Edward Henry.  "Where do you?"

"Oh!  Kingsway, I suppose."

The Majestic and the Kingsway were two of the
half-dozen very large and very mediocre hotels in
London which, from causes which nobody, and
especially no American, has ever been able to discover,
are particularly affected by Midland provincials "on
the jaunt."  Both had an immense reputation in
the Five Towns.

There was nothing new to say about the
Majestic and the Kingsway, and the talk flagged until
Mr. Quorrall mentioned Seven Sachs.  The mighty
Seven Sachs, in his world-famous play, "Overheard,"
had taken precedence of all other topics in the Five
Towns during the previous week.  He had
crammed the theatre and half emptied the Empire
Music Hall for six nights; a wonderful feat.
Incidentally, his fifteen hundredth appearance in
"Overheard" had taken place in the Five Towns,
and the Five Towns had found in this fact a peculiar
satisfaction, as though some deep merit had thereby
been acquired or rewarded.  Seven Sachs's tour was
now closed, and on the Sunday he had gone to
London, en route for America.

"I heard *he* stops at Wilkins's," said Mr. Garvin.

"Wilkins's your grandmother!" Brindley essayed
to crush Mr. Garvin.

"I don't say he *does* stop at Wilkins's," said
Mr. Garvin, an individual not easy to crush, "I only say
I heard as he did."

"They wouldn't have him!" Brindley insisted firmly.

Mr. Quorrall at any rate seemed tacitly to agree
with Brindley.  The august name of Wilkins's was
in its essence so exclusive that vast numbers of fairly
canny provincials had never heard of it.  Ask ten
well-informed provincials which is the first hotel in
London, and nine of them would certainly reply,
the Grand Babylon.  Not that even wealthy
provincials from the industrial districts are in the habit
of staying at the Grand Babylon!  No!  Edward
Henry, for example, had never stayed at the Grand
Babylon, no more than he had ever bought a
first-class ticket on a railroad.  The idea of doing so
had scarcely occurred to him.  There are certain
ways of extravagant smartness which are not
considered to be good form among solid wealthy
provincials.  Why travel first-class (they argue), when
second is just as good and no one can tell the
difference once you get out of the train?  Why ape
the tricks of another stratum of society?  They like
to read about the dinner-parties and supper-parties
at the Grand Babylon; but they are not emulous, and
they do not imitate.  At their most adventurous they
would lunch or dine in the neutral region of the
grill-room at the Grand Babylon.  As for Wilkins's,
in Devonshire Square, which is infinitely better
known among princes than in the Five Towns, and
whose name is affectionately pronounced with a
"V" by half the monarchs of Europe, few
industrial provincials had ever seen it.  The class
which is the back-bone of England left it serenely
alone to royalty and the aristocratic parasites of
royalty.

"I don't see why they shouldn't have him," said
Edward Henry, as he lifted a challenging nose in
the air.

"Perhaps you don't, Alderman!" said Brindley.

"*I* wouldn't mind going to Wilkins's," Edward
Henry persisted.

"I'd like to see you," said Brindley, with curt
scorn.

"Well," said Edward Henry, "I'll bet you a
fiver I do."  Had he not won eighteen pence
half-penny?  And was he not securely at peace with his
wife?

"I don't bet fivers," said the cautious Brindley.
"But I'll bet you half a crown."

"Done!" said Edward Henry.

"When will you go?"

"Either to-day or to-morrow.  I must go to the
Majestic first, because I've ordered a room and so
on."

"Ha!" hurled Brindley, as if to insinuate that
Edward Henry was seeking to escape from the
consequences of his boast.

And yet he ought to have known Edward Henry.
He did know Edward Henry.  And he hoped to
lose his half-crown.  On his face and on the faces
of the other two was the cheerful admission that
tales of the doings of Alderman Machin, the great
local card, at Wilkins's--if he succeeded in
getting in--would be cheap at half a crown.

Porters cried out "Euston!"

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   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

It was rather late in the afternoon when Edward
Henry arrived in front of the façade of Wilkins's.
He came in a taxicab, and though the distance from
the Majestic to Wilkins's is not more than a couple
of miles, and he had had nothing else to preoccupy
him after lunch, he had spent some three hours in
the business of transferring himself from the portals
of the one hotel to the portals of the other.  Two
hours and three-quarters of this period of time had
been passed in finding courage merely to start.
Even so, he had left his luggage behind him.  He
said to himself that, first of all, he would go and spy
out Wilkins's; in the perilous work of scouting he
rightly wished to be unhampered by impedimenta;
moreover, in case of repulse or accident, he must have
a base of operations upon which he could retreat
in good order.

He now looked on Wilkins's for the first time in
his life; and he was even more afraid of it than he
had been while thinking about it in the vestibule of
the Majestic.  It was not larger than the Majestic;
it was perhaps smaller; it could not show more
terra cotta, plate glass, and sculptured cornice than
the Majestic.  But it had a demeanour ... and
it was in a square which had a demeanour....
In every window-sill--not only of the hotel, but of
nearly every mighty house in the square--there
were boxes of bright-blooming flowers.  These he
could plainly distinguish in the October dusk, and
they were a wonderful phenomenon--say what you
will about the mildness of that particular October!
A sublime tranquillity reigned over the scene.  A
liveried keeper was locking the gate of the garden
in the middle of the square as if potentates had just
quitted it and rendered it forever sacred.  And
between the sacred shadowed grove and the inscrutable
fronts of the stately houses, there flitted automobiles
of the silent and expensive kind, driven by chauffeurs
in pale grey or dark purple, who reclined as they
steered, and who were supported on their left sides
by footmen who reclined as they contemplated the
grandeur of existence.

Edward Henry's taxicab in that square seemed
like a homeless cat that had strayed into a dog-show.

At the exact instant when the taxicab came to rest
under the massive portico of Wilkins's, a chamberlain
in white gloves bravely soiled the gloves by
seizing the vile brass handle of its door.  He bowed
to Edward Henry, and assisted him to alight on to
a crimson carpet.  The driver of the taxi glanced
with pert and candid scorn at the chamberlain, but
Edward Henry looked demurely aside, and then in
abstraction mounted the broad carpeted steps.

"What about poor little me?" cried the driver,
who was evidently a ribald socialist, or at best a
republican.

The chamberlain, pained, glanced at Edward
Henry for support and direction in this crisis.

"Didn't I tell you I'd keep you?" said Edward
Henry, raised now by the steps above the driver.

"Between you and me, you didn't," said the driver.

The chamberlain, with an ineffable gesture, wafted
the taxicab away into some limbo appointed for
waiting vehicles.

A page opened a pair of doors, and another page
opened another pair of doors, each with
eighteen-century ceremonies of deference, and Edward
Henry stood at length in the hall of Wilkins's.
The sanctuary, then, was successfully defiled, and up
to the present nobody had demanded his credentials!
He took breath.

In its physical aspects Wilkins's appeared to him
to resemble other hotels--such as the Majestic.
And so far he was not mistaken.  Once Wilkins's
had not resembled other hotels.  For many years
it had deliberately refused to recognise that even the
Nineteenth Century had dawned, and its magnificent
antique discomfort had been one of its main
attractions to the elect.  For the elect desired
nothing but their own privileged society in order to be
happy in a hotel.  A hip bath on a blanket in the
middle of the bedroom floor richly sufficed them,
provided they could be guaranteed against the
calamity of meeting the unelect in the corridors or at
*table d'hôte*.  But the rising waters of democracy--the
intermixture of classes--had reacted
adversely on Wilkins's.  The fall of the Emperor
Maximilian of Mexico had given Wilkins's sad food
for thought long, long ago, and the obvious general
weakening of the monarchical principle had most
considerably shaken it.  Came the day when Wilkins's
reluctantly decided that even it could not fight
against the tendency of the whole world, and then,
at one superb stroke, it had rebuilt and brought
itself utterly up-to-date.

Thus it resembled other hotels.  (Save possibly
in the reticence of its advertisements!  The
Majestic would advertise bathrooms as a miracle of
modernity, just as though common dwelling-houses
had not possessed bathrooms for the past thirty
years.  Wilkins's had superlative bathrooms, but it
said nothing about them.  Wilkins's would as soon
have advertised two hundred bathrooms as two
hundred bolsters; and for the new Wilkins's a bathroom
was not more modern than a bolster.)  Also, other
hotels resembled Wilkins's.  The Majestic, too, had
a chamberlain at its portico, and an assortment of
pages to prove to its clients that they were incapable
of performing the simplest act for themselves.
Nevertheless, the difference between Wilkins's and
the Majestic was enormous; and yet so subtle was
it that Edward Henry could not immediately detect
where it resided.  Then he understood.  The
difference between Wilkins's and the Majestic resided
in the theory which underlay its manner.  And the
theory was that every person entering its walls was
of royal blood until he had admitted the contrary.

Within the hotel it was already night.

Edward Henry self-consciously crossed the
illuminated hall, which was dotted with fashionable
figures.  He knew not whither he was going, until
by chance he saw a golden grille with the word
"Reception" shining over it in letters of gold.
Behind this grille, and still further protected by an
impregnable mahogany counter, stood three young
dandies in attitudes of graceful ease.  He
approached them.  The fearful moment was upon him.
He had never in his life been so genuinely frightened.
Abject disgrace might be his portion within
the next ten seconds.

Addressing himself to the dandy in the middle, he
managed to articulate:

"What have you got in the way of rooms?"

Could the Five Towns have seen him then, as he
waited, it would hardly have recognised its "card,"
its character, its mirror of aplomb and inventive
audacity, in this figure of provincial and plebeian
diffidence.

The dandy bowed.

"Do you want a suite, sir?"

"Certainly!" said Edward Henry.  Rather too
quickly, rather too defiantly; in fact, rather rudely!
A habitué would not have so savagely hurled back
in the dandy's teeth the insinuation that he wanted
only one paltry room.

However, the dandy smiled, accepting with
meekness Edward Henry's sudden arrogance, and
consulted a sort of pentateuch that was open in front
of him.

No person in the hall saw Edward Henry's hat
fly up into the air and fall back on his head.  But
in the imagination of Edward Henry, that was what
his hat did.

He was saved.  He would have a proud tale for
Brindley.  The thing was as simple as the alphabet.
You just walked in and they either fell on your neck
or kissed your feet.

Wilkins's indeed!

A very handsome footman, not only in white
gloves but in white calves, was soon supplicating him
to deign to enter a lift.  And when he emerged
from the lift another dandy--in a frock-coat of
Paradise--was awaiting him with obeisances.
Apparently it had not yet occurred to anybody that he
was not the younger son of some aged king.

He was prayed to walk into a gorgeous suite
consisting of a corridor, a noble drawing-room
(with portrait of His Majesty of Spain on the
walls), a large bedroom with two satinwood beds,
a small bedroom, and a bathroom, all gleaming with
patent devices in porcelain and silver that fully
equalled those at home.

Asked if this suite would do, he said it would,
trying as well as he could to imply that he had seen
better.  Then the dandy produced a note-book and
a pencil, and impassively waited.  The horrid fact
that he was un-elect could no longer be concealed.
"E. H. Machin, Bursley," he said shortly, and
added: "Alderman Machin."  After all, why
should he be ashamed of being an alderman?

To his astonishment the dandy smiled very
cordially, though always with profound respect.

"Ah, yes!" said the dandy.  It was as though he
had said: "We have long wished for the high
patronage of this great reputation."  Edward
Henry could make naught of it.

His opinion of Wilkins's went down.

He followed the departing dandy up the corridor
to the door of the suite in an entirely vain attempt
to enquire the price of the suite per day.  Not a
syllable would pass his lips.  The dandy bowed and
vanished.  Edward Henry stood lost at his own
door, and his wandering eye caught sight of a pile
of trunks near to another door in the main corridor.
These trunks gave him a terrible shock.  He shut
out the rest of the hotel and retired into his private
corridor to reflect.  He perceived only too plainly
that his luggage, now at the Majestic, never could
come into Wilkins's.  It was not fashionable
enough.  It lacked elegance.  The lounge suit that
he was wearing might serve, but his luggage was
totally impossible.  Never before had he imagined
that the aspect of one's luggage could have the least
importance in one's scheme of existence.  He was
learning, and he frankly admitted that he was in an
incomparable mess.

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   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

At the end of an extensive stroll through and
round his new vast domain, he had come to no
decision upon a course of action.  Certain details of
the strange adventure pleased him--as for instance
the dandy's welcoming recognition of his name; that,
though puzzling, was a source of comfort to him
in his difficulties.  He also liked the suite; nay more,
he was much impressed by its gorgeousness, and
such novel complications as the forked electric
switches, all of which he turned on, and the double
windows, one within the other, appealed to the
domestic expert in him; indeed, he at once had the
idea of doubling the window of the best bedroom
at home; to do so would be a fierce blow to the
Five Towns Electric Traction Company, which, as
everybody knew, delighted to keep everybody awake
at night and at dawn by means of its late and its
early tram-cars.  However, he could not wander up
and down the glittering solitude of his extensive suite
for ever.  Something must be done.  Then he had
the notion of writing to Nellie; he had promised
himself to write to her daily; moreover, it would
pass the time and perhaps help him to some resolution.

He sat down to a delicate Louis XVI desk on
which lay a Bible, a Peerage, a telephone-book, a
telephone, a lamp, and much distinguished stationery.
Between the tasselled folds of plushy curtains that
pleated themselves with the grandeur of painted
curtains in a theatre, he glanced out at the lights of
Devonshire Square, from which not a sound came.
Then he lit the lamp and unscrewed his fountain pen.

"My dear wife--"

That was how he always began, whether in storm
or sunshine.  Nellie always began, "My darling
husband"; but he was not a man to fling darlings
about.  Few husbands in the Five Towns are.  He
thought "darling," but he never wrote it, and he
never said it, save quizzingly.

After these three words the composition of the
letter came to a pause.  What was he going to tell
Nellie?  He assuredly was not going to tell her that
he had engaged an unpriced suite at Wilkins's.  He
was not going to mention Wilkins's.  Then he
intelligently perceived that the note-paper and also
the envelope mentioned Wilkins's in no ambiguous
manner.  He tore up the sheet and searched for
plain paper.  Now, on the desk there was the
ordinary hotel stationery, mourning stationery, cards,
letter-cards, and envelopes for every mood; but not
a piece that was not embossed with the historic name
in royal blue.  The which appeared to Edward
Henry to point to a defect of foresight on the part
of Wilkins's.  At the gigantic political club to
which he belonged, and which he had occasionally
visited in order to demonstrate to himself and
others that he was a club-man, plain stationery
was everywhere provided for the use of husbands
with a taste for reticence.  Why not at Wilkins's also?

On the other hand, why should he not write to
his wife on Wilkins's paper?  Was he afraid of his
wife?  He was not.  Would not the news ultimately
reach Bursley that he had stayed at Wilkins's?  It
would.  Nevertheless, he could not find the courage
to write to Nellie on Wilkins's paper.

He looked around.  He was fearfully alone.
He wanted the companionship, were it only
momentary, of something human.  He decided to have
a look at a flunkey, and he rang a bell.

Immediately, just as though wafted thither on a
magic carpet, from the court of Austria, a
gentleman in waiting arrived in the doorway of the
drawing-room, planted himself gracefully on his black
silk calves, and bowed.

"I want some plain note-paper, please."

"Very good, sir."  Oh!  Perfection of tone and
of mien!

Three minutes later the plain note-paper and
envelopes were being presented to Edward Henry on
a salver.  As he took them, he looked enquiringly
at the gentleman in waiting, who supported his gaze
with an impenetrable, invulnerable servility.
Edward Henry, beaten off with great loss, thought:
"There's nothing doing here just now in the human
companionship line," and assumed the mask of a
hereditary prince.

The black calves carried away their immaculate
living burden, set above all earthly ties.

He wrote nicely to Nellie about the weather and
the journey, and informed her also that London
seemed as full as ever, and that he might go to the
theatre, but he wasn't sure.  He dated the letter
from the Majestic.

As he was finishing it, he heard mysterious,
disturbing footfalls in his private corridor, and after
trying for some time to ignore them, he was forced
by a vague alarm to investigate their origin.  A
short middle-aged, pallid man, with a long nose and
long moustaches, wearing a red and black-striped
sleeved waistcoat and a white apron, was in the
corridor.  At the Turk's Head such a person would
have been the boots.  But Edward Henry remembered
a notice under the bell, advising visitors to
ring once for the waiter, twice for the chambermaid,
and three times for the valet.  This, then,
was the valet.  In certain picturesque details of
costume Wilkins's was coquettishly French.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"I came to see if your luggage had arrived, sir.
No doubt your servant is bringing it.  Can I be of
any assistance to you?"

The man thoughtfully twirled one end of his
moustache.  It was an appalling fault in demeanour;
but the man was proud of his moustache.

"The first human being I've met here!" thought
Edward Henry, attracted too by a gleam in the eye
of this eternal haunter of corridors.

"His servant!"  He saw that something must
be done, and quickly.  Wilkins's provided valets
for emergencies, but obviously it expected visitors
to bring their own valets in addition.  Obviously
existence without a private valet was inconceivable
to Wilkins's.

"The fact is," said Edward Henry, "I'm in a
very awkward situation."  He hesitated, seeking to
and fro in his mind for particulars of the situation.

"Sorry to hear that, sir."

"Yes, a very awkward position."  He hesitated
again.  "I'd booked passages for myself and my
valet on the *Minnetonka*, sailing from Tilbury at
noon to-day, and sent him on in front with my stuff,
and at the very last moment I've been absolutely
prevented from sailing!  You see how awkward it
is!  I haven't a thing here."

"It is indeed, sir!  And I suppose *he's* gone on, sir?"

"Of course he has!  He wouldn't find out till
after she sailed that I wasn't on board.  You know
the crush and confusion there is on those big liners
just before they start."  Edward Henry had once
assisted, under very dramatic circumstances, at the
departure of a transatlantic liner from Liverpool.

"Just so, sir!"

"I've neither servant nor clothes!"  He considered
that so far he was doing admirably.  Indeed,
the tale could not have been bettered, he thought.
His hope was that the fellow would not have the
idea of consulting the shipping intelligence in order
to confirm the departure of the *Minnetonka* from
Tilbury that day.  Possibly the *Minnetonka* never
had sailed and never would sail from Tilbury.
Possibly she had been sold years ago.  He had
selected the first ship's name that came into his head.
What did it matter?

"My man," he added to clinch--the proper word
"man" had only just occurred to him--"my man
can't be back again under three weeks at the
soonest."

The valet made one half-eager step towards him.

"If you're wanting a temporary valet, sir, my
son's out of a place for the moment--through no
fault of his own.  He's a very good valet, sir, and
soon learns a gentleman's ways."

"Yes," said Edward Henry judiciously.  "But
could he come at once?  That's the point."  And
he looked at his watch, as if to imply that another
hour without a valet would be more than human
nature could stand.

"I could have him round here in less than an
hour, sir," said the hotel valet, comprehending the
gesture.  "He's at Norwich Mews--Berkeley
Square way, sir."

Edward Henry hesitated.

"Very well, then!" he said commandingly.
"Send for him.  Let me see him."

He thought:

"Dash it!  I'm at Wilkins's--I'll be *at* Wilkins's!"

"Certainly, sir!  Thank you very much, sir."

The hotel valet was retiring when Edward Henry
called him back.

"Stop a moment.  I'm just going out.  Help me
on with my overcoat, will you?"

The man jumped.

"And you might get me a tooth-brush," Edward
Henry airily suggested.  "And I've a letter for the post."

As he walked down Devonshire Square in the
dark, he hummed a tune: certain sign that he was
self-conscious, uneasy, and yet not unhappy.  At a
small but expensive hosier's in a side street he bought
a shirt and a suit of pajamas, and also permitted
himself to be tempted by a special job line of
hair-brushes that the hosier had in his fancy department.
On hearing the powerful word "Wilkins's," the
hosier promised with passionate obsequiousness that
the goods should be delivered instantly.

Edward Henry cooled his excitement by an extended
stroll, and finally re-entered the outer hall of
the hotel at half-past seven, and sat down therein
to see the world.  He knew by instinct that the
boldest lounge suit must not at that hour penetrate
further into the public rooms of Wilkins's.

The world at its haughtiest was driving up to
Wilkins's to eat its dinner in the unrivalled
restaurant, and often guests staying at the hotel came
into the outer hall to greet invited friends.  And
Edward Henry was so overfaced by visions of
woman's brilliance and man's utter correctness that
he scarcely knew where to look--so apologetic was
he for his grey lounge suit and the creases in his
boots.  In less than a quarter of an hour he
appreciated with painful clearness that his entire
conception of existence had been wrong, and that he
must begin again at the beginning.  Nothing in his
luggage at the Majestic would do.  His socks
would not do, nor his shoes, nor the braid on his
trousers, nor his cuff-links, nor his ready-made white
bow, nor the number of studs in the shirt-front, nor
the collar of his coat.  Nothing!  Nothing!  To-morrow
would be a full day.

He ventured apologetically into the lift.  In his
private corridor a young man respectfully waited,
hat in hand, the paternal red-and-black waistcoat by
his side for purposes of introduction.  The young
man was wearing a rather shabby blue suit, but a
rich and distinguished overcoat that fitted him ill.
In another five minutes Edward Henry had engaged
a skilled valet, aged twenty-four, name Joseph,
with a testimonial of efficiency from Sir Nicholas
Winkworth, Bart., at a salary of a pound a week and
all found.

Joseph seemed to await instructions.  And
Edward Henry was placed in a new quandary.  He
knew not whether the small bedroom in the suite
was for a child, or for his wife's maid, or for his
valet.  Quite probably it would be a sacrilegious
defiance of precedent to put a valet in the small
bedroom.  Quite probably Wilkins's had a floor for
private valets in the roof.  Again, quite probably,
the small bedroom might be after all specially
destined for valets!  He could not decide, and the
most precious thing in the universe to him in that
crisis was his reputation as a man about town in the
eyes of Joseph.

But something had to be done.

"You'll sleep in this room," said Edward Henry,
indicating the door.  "I may want you in the night."

"Yes, sir," said Joseph.

"I presume you'll dine up here, sir," said Joseph,
glancing at the lounge suit.  His father had
informed him of his new master's predicament.

"I shall," said Edward Henry.  "You might get
the menu."

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   \IV.

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He had a very bad night indeed, owing no doubt
partly to a general uneasiness in his unusual
surroundings, and partly also to a special uneasiness
caused by the propinquity of a sleeping valet; but
the main origin of it was certainly his dreadful
anxiety about the question of a first-class tailor.  In the
organisation of his new life a first-class tailor was
essential, and he was not acquainted with a first-class
London tailor.  He did not know a great deal
concerning clothes, though quite passably well dressed
for a provincial, but he knew enough to be sure that
it was impossible to judge the merits of a tailor by
his sign-board, and therefore that if, wandering in
the precincts of Bond Street, he entered the first
establishment that "looked likely," he would have a
good chance of being "done in the eye."  So he
phrased it to himself as he lay in bed.  He wanted a
definite and utterly reliable address.

He rang the bell.  Only, as it happened to be
the wrong bell, he obtained the presence of Joseph
in a round-about way, through the agency of a
gentleman in waiting.  Such, however, is the human
faculty of adaptation to environment that he was
merely amused in the morning by an error which,
on the previous night, would have put him into a
sweat.

"Good morning, sir," said Joseph.

Edward Henry nodded, his hands under his head
as he lay on his back.  He decided to leave all
initiative to Joseph.  The man drew up the blinds,
and, closing the double windows at the top, opened
them very wide at the bottom.

"It is a rainy morning, sir," said Joseph, letting
in vast quantities of air from Devonshire Square.
Clearly, Sir Nicholas Winkworth had been a breezy
master.

"Oh!" murmured Edward Henry.

He felt a careless contempt for Joseph's flunkeyism.
Hitherto he had had a theory that footmen,
valets, and all male personal attendants were an
inexcusable excrescence on the social fabric.  The
mere sight of them often angered him, though for
some reason he had no objection whatever to
servility in a nice-looking maid--indeed, rather enjoyed
it.  But now, in the person of Joseph, he saw that
there were human or half-human beings born to
self-abasement, and that, if their destiny was to be
fulfilled, valetry was a necessary institution.  He had
no pity for Joseph, no shame in employing him.
He scorned Joseph; and yet his desire, as a man
about town, to keep Joseph's esteem was in no way
diminished.

"Shall I prepare your bath, sir?" asked Joseph,
stationed in a supple attitude by the side of the bed.

Edward Henry was visited by an idea.

"Have you had yours?" he demanded like a
pistol-shot.

Edward Henry saw that Sir Nicholas had never
asked that particular question.

"No, sir."

"Not had your bath, man!  What on earth do
you mean by it?  Go and have your bath at once!"

A faint sycophantic smile lightened the amazed
features of Joseph.  And Edward Henry thought:
"It's astonishing, all the same, the way they can
read their masters.  This chap has seen already that
I'm a card.  And yet how?"

"Yes, sir," said Joseph.

"Have your bath in the bathroom here.  And
be sure to leave everything in order for me."

"Yes, sir."

As soon as Joseph had gone, Edward Henry
jumped out of bed and listened.  He heard the
discreet Joseph respectfully push the bolt of the
bathroom door.  Then he crept with noiseless rapidity
to the small bedroom, and was aware therein of a
lack of order and of ventilation.  The rich and
distinguished overcoat was hanging on the brass
knob at the foot of the bed.  He seized it, and,
scrutinizing the loop, read in yellow letters:
*Quayther and Cuthering, 47 Vigo Street, W*.  He knew
that Quayther and Cuthering must be the tailors of
Sir Nicholas Winkworth, and hence first-class.

Hoping for the best, and putting his trust in the
general decency of human nature, he did not trouble
himself with the problem: was the overcoat a gift
or an appropriation?  But he preferred to assume
the generosity of Sir Nicholas rather than the
dishonesty of Joseph.

Repassing the bathroom door, he knocked loudly
on its glass.

"Don't be all day!" he cried.  He was in a
hurry now.

An hour later he said to Joseph:

"I'm going down to Quayther and Cuthering's."

"Yes, sir," said Joseph, obviously much reassured.

"Nincompoop!" Edward Henry exclaimed secretly.
"The fool thinks better of me because my
tailors are first-class."

But Edward Henry had failed to notice that he
himself was thinking better of himself because he
had adopted first-class tailors.

Beneath the main door of his suite, as he went
forth, he found a business card of the West End
Electric Brougham Supply Agency.  And downstairs,
solely to impress his individuality on the
hall-porter, he showed the card to that vizier with the
casual question:

"These people any good?"

"An excellent firm, sir."

"What do they charge?"

"By the week, sir?"

He hesitated.  "Yes, by the week?"

"Twenty guineas, sir."

"Well, you might telephone for one.  Can you
get it at once?"

"Certainly, sir."

The vizier turned towards the telephone in his lair.

"I say--" said Edward Henry.

"Sir?"

"I suppose one will be enough?"

"Well, sir, as a rule, yes," said the vizier calmly.
"Sometimes I get a couple for one family, sir."

Though he had started jocularly, Edward Henry
finished by blenching.  "I think one will do....
I may possibly send for my own car."

He drove to Quayther and Cuthering's in his
electric brougham, and there dropped casually the name
of Winkworth.  He explained humourously his
singular misadventure of the *Minnetonka*, and was
very successful therewith, so successful indeed, that
he actually began to believe in the reality of the
adventure himself, and had an irrational impulse to
despatch a wireless message to his bewildered valet
on board the *Minnetonka*.

Subsequently he paid other fruitful visits in the
neighbourhood, and at about half-past eleven the
fruit was arriving at Wilkins's in the shape of many
parcels and boxes, comprising diverse items in the
equipment of a man about town, such as tie-clips
and Innovation trunks.

Returning late to Wilkins's for lunch, he marched
jauntily into the large brilliant restaurant, and
commenced an adequate repast.  Of course he was still
wearing his mediocre lounge suit (his sole suit for
another two days), but somehow the consciousness
that Quayther and Cutherings were cutting out
wondrous garments for him in Vigo Street stiffened
his shoulders and gave a mysterious style to that
lounge suit.

At lunch he made one mistake, and enjoyed one
very remarkable piece of luck.

The mistake was to order an artichoke.  He did
not know how to eat an artichoke.  He had never
tried to eat an artichoke, and his first essay in this
difficult and complex craft was a sad fiasco.  It
would not have mattered if, at the table next to his
own, there had not been two obviously experienced
women, one ill dressed, with a red hat, the other
well dressed, with a blue hat; one middle-aged, the
other much younger; but both very observant.  And
even so, it would scarcely have mattered, had not
the younger woman been so slim, pretty, and
alluring.  While tolerably careless of the opinion of the
red-hatted plain woman of middle age, he desired
the unqualified approval of the delightful young
thing in the blue hat.  They certainly interested
themselves in his manoeuvres with the artichoke,
and their amusement was imperfectly concealed.  He
forgave the blue hat, but considered that the red
hat ought to have known better.  They could not
be princesses, nor even titled aristocrats.  He
supposed them to belong to some baccarat-playing county
family.

The piece of luck consisted in the passage down
the restaurant of the Countess of Chell, who had
been lunching there with a party, and whom he had
known locally in more gusty days.  The countess
bowed stiffly to the red hat, and the red hat
responded with eager fulsomeness.  It seemed to be
here as it no longer was in the Five Towns:
everybody knew everybody!  The red hat and the blue
might be titled, after all, he thought.  Then, by
sheer accident, the countess caught sight of him, and
stopped dead, bringing her escort to a standstill
behind her.  Edward Henry blushed and rose.

"Is it *you*, Mr. Machin?" murmured the still
lovely creature warmly.

They shook hands.  Never had social pleasure
so thrilled him.  The conversation was short.  He
did not presume on the past.  He knew that here
he was not on his own ash-pit, as they say in the
Five Towns.  The countess and her escort went
forward.  Edward Henry sat down again.

He gave the red and the blue hats one calm
glance, which they failed to withstand.  The affair
of the artichoke was forever wiped out.

After lunch he went forth again in his electric
brougham.  The weather had cleared.  The
opulent streets were full of pride and sunshine.  And
as he penetrated into one shop after another,
receiving kowtows, obeisances, curtsies, homage,
surrender, resignation, submission, he gradually
comprehended that it takes all sorts to make a world,
and that those who are called to greatness must
accept with dignity the ceremonials inseparable from
greatness.  And the world had never seemed to him
so fine, nor any adventure so diverting and uplifting
as this adventure.

When he returned to his suite, his private
corridor was piled up with a numerous and excessively
attractive assortment of parcels.  Joseph took his
overcoat and hat and a new umbrella, and placed
an easy chair conveniently for him in the drawing-room.

"Get my bill," he said shortly to Joseph as he
sank into the gilded fauteuil.

"Yes, sir."

One advantage of a valet, he discovered, is that
you can order him to do things which to do yourself
would more than exhaust your moral courage.

The black-calved gentleman in waiting brought the
bill.  It lay on a salver, and was folded, conceivably
so as to break the shock of it to the recipient.

Edward Henry took it.

"Wait a minute," he said.

He read on the bill: "Apartment £8.  Dinner
£1-2-0.  Breakfast 6s. 6d.  Lunch 18s.  Half
Chablis 6s. 6d.  Valet's board 10s.  Tooth-brush
2s. 6d.

"That's a bit thick, half a crown for that
toothbrush!" he said to himself.  "However--"

The next instant he blenched once more.

"Gosh!" he privately exclaimed as he read:
"Paid driver of taxicab £2-3-6."

He had forgotten the taxi.  But he admired the
*sang-froid* of Wilkins's, which paid such trifles as a
matter of course, without deigning to disturb a guest
by an enquiry.  Wilkins's rose again in his esteem.

The total of the bill exceeded thirteen pounds.

"All right," he said to the gentleman in waiting.

"Are you leaving to-day, sir?" the being
permitted himself to ask.

"Of course I'm not leaving to-day!  Haven't I
hired an electric brougham for a week?" Edward
Henry burst out.  "But I suppose I'm entitled to
know how much I'm spending!"

The gentleman in waiting humbly bowed, and departed.

Alone in the splendid chamber, Edward Henry
drew out a swollen pocketbook and examined its
crisp, crinkly contents, which made a beauteous and
a reassuring sight.

"Pooh!" he muttered.

He reckoned he would be living at the rate of
about fifteen pounds a day, or five thousand five
hundred a year.  (He did not count the cost of
his purchases, because they were in the nature of a
capital expenditure.)

"Cheap!" he muttered.  "For once I'm about
living up to my income!"

The sensation was exquisite in its novelty.

He ordered tea, and afterwards, feeling sleepy,
he went fast asleep.

He awoke to the ringing of the telephone-bell.  It
was quite dark.  The telephone-bell continued to
ring.

"Joseph!" he called.

The valet entered.

"What time is it?"

"After ten o'clock, sir."

"The deuce it is!"

He had slept over four hours!

"Well, answer that confounded telephone."

Joseph obeyed.

"It's a Mr. Bryany, sir, if I catch the name
right," said Joseph.

Bryany!  For twenty-four hours he had scarcely
thought of Bryany, or the option either.

"Bring the telephone here," said Edward Henry.

The cord would just reach to his chair.

"Hello!  Bryany!  Is that you?" cried Edward
Henry gaily.

And then he heard the weakened voice of
Mr. Bryany in his ear:

"How d'ye do, Mr. Machin.  I've been after
you for the better part of two days, and now I find
you're staying in the same hotel as Mr. Sachs and me!"

"Oh!" said Edward Henry.

He understood now why on the previous day the
dandy introducing him to his suite had smiled a
welcome at the name of Alderman Machin, and why
Joseph had accepted so naturally the command to
take a bath.  Bryany had been talking.  Bryany
had been recounting his exploits as a card.

The voice of Bryany in his ear continued:

"Look here!  I've got Miss Euclid here and
some friends of hers.  Of course she wants to see
you at once.  Can you come down?"

"Er--"  He hesitated.

He could not come down.  He would have no
evening wear till the next day but one.

Said the voice of Bryany:

"What?"

"I can't," said Edward Henry.  "I'm not very
well.  But listen.  All of you come up to my rooms
here and have supper, will you?  Suite 48."

"I'll ask the lady," said the voice of Bryany,
altered now, and a few seconds later: "We're coming."

"Joseph," Edward Henry gave orders rapidly as
he took off his coat and removed the pocketbook
from it.  "I'm ill, you understand.  Anyhow, not
well.  Take this," handing him the coat, "and bring
me the new dressing-gown out of that green
cardboard box from Rollet's--I think it is.  And then
get the supper menu.  I'm very hungry.  I've had
no dinner."

Within sixty seconds he sat in state, wearing a
grandiose yellow dressing-gown.  The change was
accomplished just in time.  Mr. Bryany entered,
and not only Mr. Bryany, but Mr. Seven Sachs, and
not only these, but the lady who had worn a red
hat at lunch.

"Miss Rose Euclid," said Mr. Bryany, puffing
and bending.





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.. _`ENTRY INTO THE THEATRICAL WORLD`:

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   CHAPTER IV

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   ENTRY INTO THE THEATRICAL WORLD

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   \I.

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Once, on a short visit to London, Edward
Henry had paid half a crown to be let into
a certain enclosure with a very low ceiling.
This enclosure was already crowded with some three
hundred people, sitting and standing.  Edward
Henry had stood in the only unoccupied spot he
could find, behind a pillar.  When he had made
himself as comfortable as possible by turning up his
collar against the sharp winds that continually
entered from the street, he had peered forward, and
seen in front of this enclosure another and larger
enclosure also crowded with people, but more
expensive people.  After a blank interval of thirty
minutes a band had begun to play at an incredible
distance in front of him, extinguishing the noises of
traffic in the street.  After another interval an
oblong space, rather further off even than the band,
suddenly grew bright, and Edward Henry, by
curving his neck, first to one side of the pillar and then
to the other, had had tantalising glimpses of the
interior of a doll's drawing-room and of male and
female dolls therein.

He could only see, even partially, the interior half
of the drawing-room,--a little higher than the
heads of the dolls,--because the rest was cut
off from his vision by the lowness of his own ceiling.

The dolls were talking, but he could not catch
clearly what they said, save at the rare moments
when an omnibus or a van did not happen to be
thundering down the street behind him.  Then one
special doll had come exquisitely into the
drawing-room, and at the sight of her the five hundred
people in front of him, and numbers of other people
perched hidden beyond his ceiling, had clapped
fervently and even cried aloud in their excitement.
And he, too, had clapped fervently, and had
muttered "Bravo!"  This special doll was a marvel
of touching and persuasive grace, with a voice--when
Edward Henry could hear it--that melted
the spine.  This special doll had every elegance, and
seemed to be in the highest pride of youth.  At the
close of the affair, as this special doll sank into the
embrace of a male doll from whom she had been
unjustly separated, and then straightened herself,
deliciously and confidently smiling, to take the
tremendous applause of Edward Henry and the rest,
Edward Henry thought that he had never assisted
at a triumph so genuine and so inspiring.  Oblivious
of the pain in his neck, and of the choking foul
atmosphere of the enclosure, accurately described as
the pit, he had gone forth into the street with a
subconscious notion in his head that the special doll
was more than human, was half divine.  And he had
said afterwards, with immense satisfaction, at
Bursley: "Yes, I saw Rose Euclid in 'Flower of the
Heart.'"

He had never set eyes on her since.

And now, on this day at Wilkins's, he had seen
in the restaurant, and he saw again before him in
his private parlour, a faded and stoutish woman,
negligently if expensively dressed, with a fatigued,
nervous, watery glance, an unnatural, pale-violet
complexion, a wrinkled skin, and dyed hair; a
woman of whom it might be said that she had
escaped grandmotherhood, if indeed she had escaped
it, by mere luck--and he was pointblank
commanded to believe that she and Rose Euclid were
the same person.

It was one of the most shattering shocks of all
his career, which, nevertheless, had not been
untumultuous.  And within his dressing-gown--which
nobody remarked upon--he was busy picking
up and piecing together, as quickly as he could,
the shivered fragments of his ideas.

He literally did not recognise Rose Euclid.
True, fifteen years had passed since the night in the
pit!  And he himself was fifteen years older.  But
in his mind he had never pictured any change in
Rose Euclid.  True, he had been familiar with the
enormous renown of Rose Euclid as far back as he
could remember taking any interest in theatrical
advertisements!  But he had not permitted her to
reach an age of more than about thirty-one or
two.  Whereas he now perceived that even the
exquisite doll in paradise that he had gloated over
from his pit must have been quite thirty-five--then....

Well, he scornfully pitied Rose Euclid.  He
blamed her for not having accomplished the miracle
of eternal youth.  He actually considered that she
had cheated him.  "Is this all?  What a swindle!"
he thought, as he was piecing together the shivered
fragments of his ideas into a new pattern.  He had
felt much the same as a boy, at Bursley Annual
Wakes once, on entering a booth which promised
horrors and did not supply them.  He had been
"done" all these years....

Reluctantly he admitted that Rose Euclid could
not help her age.  But, at any rate, she ought to
have grown older beautifully, with charming dignity
and vivacity--in fact, she ought to have contrived
to be old and young simultaneously.  Or, in the
alternative, she ought to have modestly retired into
the country and lived on her memories and such
money as she had not squandered.  She had no
right to be abroad.  At worst, she ought to have
*looked* famous.  And, because her name and fame
and photographs, as an emotional actress had been
continually in the newspapers, therefore she ought
to have been refined, delicate, distinguished, and full
of witty and gracious small talk.  That she had
played the heroine of "Flower of the Heart" four
hundred times, and the heroine of "The Grenadier"
four hundred and fifty times, and the heroine
of "The Wife's Ordeal" nearly five hundred times,
made it incumbent upon her, in Edward Henry's
subconscious opinion, to possess all the talents of a
woman of the world and all the virgin freshness of
a girl.  Which shows how cruelly stupid Edward
Henry was in comparison with the enlightened rest
of us.

Why (he protested secretly), she was even
tongue-tied!

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Machin," she said awkwardly,
in a weak voice, with a peculiar gesture as
she shook hands.  Then, a mechanical nervous
giggle--and then silence.

"Happy to make your acquaintance, sir," said
Mr. Seven Sachs, and the arch-famous American
actor-author also lapsed into silence.  But the silence
of Mr. Seven Sachs was different from Rose
Euclid's.  He was not shy.  A dark and handsome,
tranquil, youngish man, with a redoubtable square
chin, delicately rounded at the corners, he strikingly
resembled his own figure on the stage; and,
moreover, he seemed to regard silence as a natural and
proper condition.  He simply stood, in a graceful
posture, with his muscles at ease, and waited.

Mr. Bryany, behind, seemed to be reduced in
stature, and to have become apologetic for himself
in the presence of greatness.

Still, Mr. Bryany did say something.

Said Mr. Bryany:

"Sorry to hear you've been seedy, Mr. Machin!"

"Oh, yes!" Rose Euclid blurted out, as if shot.
"It's very good of you to ask us up here."

Mr. Seven Sachs concurred, adding that he hoped
the illness was not serious.

Edward Henry said it was not.

"Won't you sit down, all of you?" said Edward
Henry.  "Miss--er--Euclid--"

They all sat down except Mr. Bryany.

"Sit down, Bryany," said Edward Henry.  "I'm
glad to be able to return your hospitality at the
Turk's Head."

This was a blow for Mr. Bryany, who obviously
felt it, and grew even more apologetic as he fumbled
with assumed sprightliness at a chair.

"Fancy your being here all the time!" said he,
"and me looked for you everywhere--"

"Mr. Bryany," Seven Sachs interrupted him
calmly, "have you got those letters off?"

"Not yet, sir."

Seven Sachs urbanely smiled.  "I think we ought
to get them off to-night."

"Certainly," agreed Mr. Bryany with eagerness,
and moved towards the door.

"Here's the key of my sitting-room," Seven
Sachs stopped him, producing a key.

Mr. Bryany, by a mischance catching Edward
Henry's eye as he took the key, blushed.

In a moment Edward Henry was alone with the
two silent celebrities.

"Well," said Edward Henry to himself, "I've
let myself in for it this time--no mistake!  What
in the name of common sense am I doing here?"

Rose Euclid coughed, and arranged the folds of
her dress.

"I suppose, like most Americans, you see all the
sights," said Edward Henry to Seven Sachs, "the
Five Towns is much visited by Americans.  What
do you think of my dressing-gown?"

"Bully!" said Seven Sachs, with the faintest
twinkle.  And Rose Euclid gave the mechanical
nervous giggle.

"I can do with this chap," thought Edward Henry.

The gentleman in waiting entered with the supper
menu.

"Thank Heaven!" thought Edward Henry.

Rose Euclid, requested to order a supper after
her own mind, stared vaguely at the menu for some
moments, and then said that she did not know what
to order.

"Artichokes?" Edward Henry blandly suggested.

Again the giggle, followed this time by a flush!
And suddenly Edward Henry recognised in her the
entrancing creature of fifteen years ago!  Her head
thrown back, she had put her left hand behind her,
and was groping with her long fingers for an object
to touch.  Having found at length the arm of
another chair, she drew her fingers feverishly along its
surface.  He vividly remembered the gesture in
"Flower of the Heart."  She had used it with
terrific effect at every grand emotional crisis of the play.
He now recognised even her face!

"Did Mr. Bryany tell you that my two boys are
coming up?" said she.  "I left them behind to do
some telephoning for me."

"Delighted!" said Edward Henry.  "The
more the merrier!"

And he hoped that he spoke true.

But her two boys!

"Mr. Marrier--he's a young manager.  I don't
knew whether you know him; very, very talented.
And Carlo Trent."

"Same name as my dog," Edward Henry indiscreetly
murmured; and his fancy flew back to the
home he had quitted, and Wilkins's and everybody
in it grew transiently unreal to him.

"Delighted!" he said again.

He was relieved that her two boys were not her
offspring.  That at least was something gained.

"*You* know--the dramatist," said Rose Euclid,
apparently disappointed by the effect on Edward
Henry of the name of Carlo Trent.

"Really!" said Edward Henry.  "I hope he
won't mind me being in a dressing-gown."

The gentleman in waiting, obsequiously restive,
managed to choose the supper himself.  Leaving, he
reached the door just in time to hold it open for the
entrance of Mr. Marrier and Mr. Carlo Trent, who
were talking, with noticeable freedom and emphasis,
in an accent which in the Five Towns is known as the
"haw-haw," the "lah-di-dah," or the "Kensingtonian"
accent.

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   \II.

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Within ten minutes, within less than ten minutes,
Alderman Edward Henry Machin's supper-party at
Wilkins's was so wonderfully changed for the better
that Edward Henry might have been excused for not
recognising it as his own.

The service at Wilkins's, where they profoundly
understood human nature, was very intelligent.
Somewhere in a central bureau at Wilkins's sat a
psychologist who knew, for example, that a supper
commanded on the spur of the moment must be
produced instantly if it is to be enjoyed.  Delay in these
capricious cases impairs the ecstasy, and therefore
lessens the chance of other similar meals being
commanded at the same establishment.  Hence, no
sooner had the gentleman in waiting disappeared with
the order, than certain esquires appeared with the
limbs and body of a table which they set up in
Edward Henry's drawing-room; and they covered the
board with a damask cloth and half covered the
damask cloth with flowers, glasses, and plates, and
laid a special private wire from the skirting-board
near the hearth to a spot on the table beneath
Edward Henry's left hand, so that he could summon
courtiers on the slightest provocation with the
minimum of exertion.  Then immediately brown bread
and butter and lemons and red-pepper came,
followed by oysters, followed by bottles of pale wine,
both still and sparkling.  Thus, before the principal
dishes had even begun to frizzle in the distant
kitchens, the revellers were under the illusion that the
entire supper was waiting just outside the door.

Yes, they were revellers now!  For the advent
of her young men had transformed Rose Euclid, and
Rose Euclid had transformed the general situation.
At the table, Edward Henry occupied one side of
it, Mr. Seven Sachs occupied the side opposite,
Mr. Marrier, the very, very talented young manager,
occupied the side to Edward Henry's left, and Rose
Euclid and Carlo Trent together occupied the side
to his right.

Trent and Marrier were each about thirty years
of age.  Trent, with a deep voice, had extremely
lustrous eyes, which eyes continually dwelt on Rose
Euclid in admiration.  Apparently, all she needed in
this valley was oysters and admiration, and she now
had both in unlimited quantities.

"Oysters are darlings," she said, as she swallowed
the first.

Carlo Trent kissed her hand respectfully--for
she was old enough to be his mother.

"And you are the greatest tragic actress in the
world, Ra-ose!" said he in the Kensingtonian
bass.

A few moments earlier Rose Euclid had
whispered to Edward Henry that Carlo Trent was the
greatest dramatic poet in the world.  She flowered
now beneath the sun of those dark lustrous eyes and
the soft rain of that admiration from the greatest
dramatic poet in the world.  It really did seem to
Edward Henry that she grew younger.  Assuredly
she grew more girlish, and her voice improved.
And then the bottles began to pop, and it was as
though the action of uncorking wine automatically
uncorked hearts also.  Mr. Seven Sachs, sitting
square and upright, smiled gaily at Edward Henry
across the gleaming table, and raised a glass.  Little
Marrier, who at nearly all times had a most
enthusiastic smile, did the same.  In the result, five
glasses met over the central bed of chrysanthemums.
Edward Henry was happy.  Surrounded by enigmas,--for
he had no conception whatever why Rose
Euclid had brought any of the three men to his
table,--he was nevertheless uplifted.

As he looked about him, at the rich table, and at
the glittering chandelier overhead (albeit the
lamps thereof were inferior to his own), and at the
expanses of soft carpet, and at the silken-textured
walls, and at the voluptuous curtains, and at the
couple of impeccable gentlemen in waiting, and at
Joseph who knew his place behind his master's
chair,--he came to the justifiable conclusion that money
was a marvellous thing, and the workings of
commerce mysterious and beautiful.  He had invented
the Five Towns Thrift Club; working men and their
wives in the Five Towns were paying their
two-pences, and sixpences, and shillings weekly into his
Club, and finding the transaction a real convenience--and
lo! he was entertaining celebrities at Wilkins's.

For, mind you, they were celebrities.  He knew
Seven Sachs was a celebrity because he had verily
seen him act--and act very well--in his own play,
and because his name in letters a foot high had
dominated all the hoardings of the Five Towns.  As
for Rose Euclid, could there be a greater celebrity?
Such was the strange power of the popular legend
concerning her, that even now, despite the first
fearful shock of disappointment, Edward Henry could
not call her by her name, without self-consciously
stumbling over it, without a curious thrill.  And
further, he was revising his judgment of her, as well
as lowering her age slightly.  On coming into the
room she had doubtless been almost as startled as
himself, and her constrained muteness had been
probably due to a guilty feeling in the matter of passing
too open remarks to a friend about a perfect
stranger's manner of eating artichokes.  The which,
supposition flattered him.  (By the way, he wished
she had brought the young friend who had shared
her amusement over his artichoke.)  With regard
to the other two men, he was quite ready to believe
that Carlo Trent was the world's greatest poet, and
to admit the exceeding talent of Mr. Marrier as a
theatrical manager....  In fact, unmistakable
celebrities, one and all!  He himself was a celebrity.
A certain quality in the attitude of each of his guests
showed clearly that they considered him a celebrity,
and not only a celebrity, but a card,--Bryany must
have been talking,--and the conviction of this
rendered him happy.  His magnificent hunger rendered
him still happier.  And the reflection that Brindley
owed him half a crown put a top on his bliss!

"I like your dressing-gown, Mr. Machin," said
Carlo Trent suddenly, after his first spoonful of
soup.

"Then I needn't apologise for it!" Edward
Henry replied.

"It is the dressing-gown of my dreams," Carlo
Trent went on.

"Well," said Edward Henry, "as we're on the
subject, I like your shirt-front."

Carlo Trent was wearing a soft shirt.  The other
three shirts were all rigidly starched.  Hitherto
Edward Henry had imagined that a fashionable evening
shirt should be, before aught else, bullet-proof.
He now appreciated the distinction of a frilled and
gently flowing breastplate, especially when a broad
purple eye-glass ribbon wandered across it.  Rose
Euclid gazed in modest transport at Carlo's chest.

"The colour," Carlo proceeded, ignoring Edward
Henry's compliment, "the colour is inspiring.
So is the texture.  I have a woman's delight in
textures.  I could certainly produce better hexameters
in such a dressing-gown."

Although Edward Henry, owing to an unfortunate
hiatus in his education, did not know what a
hexameter might be, he was artist enough to comprehend
the effect of attire on creative work, for he had
noticed that he himself could make more money in
one necktie than in another, and he would instinctively
take particular care in the morning choice of
a cravat on days when he meditated a great coup.

"Why don't you get one?" Marrier suggested.

"Do you really think I could?" asked Carlo
Trent, as if the possibility were shimmering far out
of his reach like a rainbow.

"Rather!" smiled Marrier.  "I don't mind
laying a fiver that Mr. Machin's dressing-gown came
from Drook's in Old Bond Street."  But instead of
saying "old" he said "ehoold."

"It did," Edward Henry admitted.

Mr. Marrier beamed with satisfaction.

"Drook's, you say?" murmured Carlo Trent.
"Old Bond Street?" and wrote down the information
on his shirt-cuff.

Rose Euclid watched him write.

"Yes, Carlo," said she.  "But don't you think
we'd better begin to talk about the theatre?  You
haven't told me yet if you got hold of Longay on
the 'phone."

"Of course we got hold of him," said Marrier.
"He agrees with me that 'The Intellectual' is a
better name for it."

Rose Euclid clapped her hands.

"I'm so glad!" she cried.  "Now what do you
think of it as a name, Mr. Machin,--'The Intellectual
Theatre?'  You see it's most important we
should settle on the name, isn't it?"

It is no exaggeration to say that Edward Henry
felt a wave of cold in the small of his back, and also
a sinking away of the nevertheless quite solid chair
on which he sat.  He had more than the typical
Englishman's sane distrust of that morbid word
"Intellectual."  His attitude towards it amounted to
active dislike.  If ever he used it, he would on no
account use it alone; he would say, "Intellectual, and
all that sort of thing!" with an air of pushing
violently away from him everything that the phrase
implied.  The notion of baptising a theatre with the
fearsome word horrified him.  Still he had to
maintain his nerve and his repute.  So he drank some
champagne, and smiled nonchalantly as the imperturbable
duellist smiles while the pistols are being
examined.

"Well--" he murmured.

"You see," Marrier broke in, with the smile
ecstatic, almost dancing on his chair.  "There's no
use in compromise.  Compromise is and always has
been the curse of this country.  The unintellectual
drahma is dead--dead.  Naoobody can deny that.
All the box-offices in the West are proclaiming it."

"Should you call your play intellectual,
Mr. Sachs?" Edward Henry inquired across the table.

"I scarcely know," said Mr. Seven Sachs calmly.
"I know I've played it myself fifteen hundred and
two times, and that's saying nothing of my three
subsidiary companies on the road."

"What is Mr. Sach's play?" asked Carlo Trent
fretfully.

"Don't you know, Carlo?" Rose Euclid patted
him.  "'Overheard.'"

"Oh!  I've never seen it."

"But it was on all the hoardings!"

"I never read the hoardings," said Carlo.  "Is
it in verse?"

"No, it isn't," Mr. Seven Sachs briefly responded.
"But I've made over six hundred thousand dollars
out of it."

"Then of course it's intellectual!" asserted
Mr. Marrier positively.  "That proves it.  I'm very
sorry I've not seen it either; but it must be
intellectual.  The day of the unintellectual drama is over.
The people won't have it.  We must have faith in
the people, and we can't show our faith better than
by calling our theatre by its proper name--'The
Intellectual Theatre!'"

("*His* theatre!" thought Edward Henry.
"What's he got to do with it?")

"I don't know that I'm so much in love with
your 'Intellectual,'" muttered Carlo Trent.

"*Aren't* you?" protested Rose Euclid, shocked.

"Of course I'm not," said Carlo.  "I told you
before, and I tell you now, that there's only one
name for the theatre--'The Muses' Theatre!'"

"Perhaps you're right!" Rose agreed, as if a
swift revelation had come to her.  "Yes, you're
right."

("She'll make a cheerful sort of partner for a
fellow," thought Edward Henry, "if she's in the
habit of changing her mind like that every thirty
seconds."  His appetite had gone.  He could only
drink.)

"Naturally, I'm right!  Aren't we going to open
with my play, and isn't my play in verse? ... I'm
sure you'll agree with me, Mr. Machin, that there
is no real drama except the poetical drama."

Edward Henry was entirely at a loss.  Indeed,
he was drowning in his dressing-gown, so
favourable to the composition of hexameters.

"Poetry..." he vaguely breathed.

"Yes, sir," said Carlo Trent.  "Poetry."

"I've never read any poetry in my life," said
Edward Henry, like a desperate criminal.  "Not a
line."

Whereupon Carlo Trent rose up from his seat,
and his eye-glasses dangled in front of him.

"Mr. Machin," said he with the utmost benevolence.
"This is the most interesting thing I've ever
come across.  Do you know, you're precisely the
man I've always been wanting to meet? ... The
virgin mind.  The clean slate....  Do you know,
you're precisely the man that it's my ambition to
write for?"

"It's very kind of you," said Edward Henry
feebly, beaten, and consciously beaten.

(He thought miserably: "What would Nellie
think if she saw me in this gang?")

Carlo Trent went on, turning to Rose Euclid:

"Rose, will you recite those lines of Nashe?"

Rose Euclid began to blush.

"That bit you taught me the day before yesterday?"

"Only the three lines!  No more!  They are
the very essence of poetry--poetry at its purest.
We'll see the effect of them on Mr. Machin.  We'll
just see.  It's the ideal opportunity to test my
theory.  Now, there's a good girl!"

"Oh!  I can't.  I'm too nervous," stammered Rose.

"You can, and you must," said Carlo, gazing at
her in homage.  "Nobody in the world can say
them as well as you can.  Now!"

Rose Euclid stood up.

"One moment," Carlo stopped her.  "There's
too much light.  We can't do with all this light.
Mr. Machin--do you mind?"

A wave of the hand, and all the lights were
extinguished, save a lamp on the mantelpiece, and in
the disconcertingly darkened room Rose Euclid
turned her face towards the ray from this solitary
silk-shaded globe.

Her hand groped out behind her, found the table-cloth
and began to scratch it agitatedly.  She lifted
her head.  She was the actress, impressive and
subjugating, and Edward Henry felt her power.  Then
she intoned:

   |   "*Brightness falls from the air;*
   |   *Queens have died young and fair;*
   |   *Dust hath closed Helen's eye.*"
   |

And she ceased and sat down.  There was a silence.

"*Bravo!*" murmured Carlo Trent.

"*Bravo!*" murmured Mr. Marrier.

Edward Henry in the gloom caught Mr. Seven
Sachs's unalterable observant smile across the table.

"Well, Mr. Machin?" said Carlo Trent.

Edward Henry had felt a tremor at the vibrations
of Rose Euclid's voice.  But the words she uttered
had set up no clear image in his mind, unless it might
be of some solid body falling from the air, or of a
young woman named Helen walking along Trafalgar
Road, Bursley, on a dusty day, and getting the dust
in her eyes.  He knew not what to answer.

"Is that all there is of it?" he asked at length.

Carlo Trent said:

"It's from Thomas Nashe's 'Song in Time of
Pestilence.'  The closing lines of the verse are:

   |   "*I am sick, I must die--*
   |   *Lord, have mercy on me!*"
   |

"Well," said Edward Henry, recovering, "I
rather like the end.  I think the end's very appropriate."

Mr. Seven Sachs choked over his wine, and kept
on choking.

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   \III.

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Mr. Marrier was the first to recover from this
blow to the prestige of poetry.  Or perhaps it would
be more honest to say that Mr. Marrier had suffered
no inconvenience from the contretemps.  His
apparent gleeful zest in life had not been impaired.  He
was a born optimist, of an extreme type unknown
beyond the circumferences of theatrical circles.

"I *say*," he emphasised, "I've got an ideah.  We
ought to be photographed like that.  Do you no end
of good."  He glanced encouragingly at Rose
Euclid.  "Don't you see it in the illustrated papers?
'A prayvate supper-party at Wilkins's Hotel.  Miss
Ra-ose Euclid reciting verse at a discussion of
the plans for her new theatre in Piccadilly Circus.
The figures reading from left to right are:
Mr. Seven Sachs, the famous actor-author; Miss Rose
Euclid; Mr. Carlo Trent, the celebrated dramatic
poet; Mr. Alderman Machin, the well-known
Midlands capitalist,' and so on!"  Mr. Marrier repeated,
"and so on."

"It's a notion," said Rose Euclid dreamily.

"But how *can* we be photographed?" Carlo
Trent demanded with irritation.

"Perfectly easy."

"Now?"

"In ten minutes.  I know a photographer in
Brook Street."

"Would he come at once?" Carlo Trent frowned
at his watch.

"Rather!" Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as
he went over to the telephone.  And Mr. Marrier's
bright boyish face radiated forth the assurance that
nothing in all his existence had more completely
filled him with sincere joy than this enterprise of
procuring a photograph of the party.  Even in
giving the photographer's number,--he was one of
those prodigies who remember infallibly all
telephone numbers,--his voice seemed to gloat upon his
project.

(And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained
communication with the photographer, was saying
gloriously into the telephone: "Yes, Wilkins's.  No.
Quite private.  I've got Miss Rose Euclid here, and
Mr. Seven Sachs--" while Mr. Marrier was thus
proceeding with his list of star attractions, Edward
Henry was thinking: "'*Her* new theatre,'--now!
It was 'his' a few minutes back!...

"The well-known Midland capitalist, eh?  Oh!  Ah!")

He drank again.  He said to himself: "I've
had all I can digest of this beastly balloony stuff."  (He
meant the champagne.)  "If I finish this glass,
I'm bound to have a bad night."  And he finished
the glass, and planked it down firmly on the table.

"Well," he remarked aloud cheerfully, "if we're
to be photographed, I suppose we shall want a bit
more light on the subject."

Joseph sprang to the switches.

"Please!" Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand.

The switches were not turned.  In the beautiful
dimness the greatest tragic actress in the world and
the greatest dramatic poet in the world gazed at
each other, seeking and finding solace in mutual esteem.

"I suppose it wouldn't do to call it the Euclid
Theater?" Rose questioned casually, without
moving her eyes.

"Splendid!" cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone.

"It all depends whether there are enough mathematical
students in London to fill the theater for a
run," said Edward Henry.

"Oh!  D'you think so?" murmured Rose, surprised
and vaguely puzzled.

At that instant Edward Henry might have rushed
from the room and taken the night mail back to the
Five Towns, and never any more have ventured
into the perils of London, if Carlo Trent had not
turned his head and signified by a curt reluctant laugh
that he saw the joke.  For Edward Henry could no
longer depend on Mr. Seven Sachs.  Mr. Seven
Sachs had to take the greatest pains to keep the
muscles of his face in strict order.  The slightest
laxity with them--and he would have been involved in
another and more serious suffocation.

"No," said Carlo Trent, "'The Muses' Theatre'
is the only possible title.  There is money in the
poetical drama."  He looked hard at Edward Henry,
as though to stare down the memory of the failure
of Nashe's verse.  "I don't want money.  I hate
the thought of money.  But money is the only proof
of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need,
and what every artist needs....  Don't you think
there's money in the poetical drama, Mr. Sachs?"

"Not in America," said Mr. Sachs.  "London
is a queer place."

"Look at the runs of Stephen Phillips's plays!"

"Yes....  I only reckon to know America."

"Look at what Pilgrim's made out of Shakespeare."

"I thought you were talking about poetry," said
Edward Henry too hastily.

"And isn't Shakespeare poetry?" Carlo Trent challenged.

"Well, I suppose if you put it in that way, he *is*!"
Edward Henry cautiously admitted, humbled.  He
was under the disadvantage of never having seen or
read "Shakespeare."  His sure instinct had always
warned him against being drawn into "Shakespeare."

"And has Miss Euclid ever done anything finer
than Constance?"

"I don't know," Edward Henry pleaded.
"Why--Miss Euclid in 'King John'--"

"I never saw 'King John,'" said Edward Henry.

"*Do you mean to say,*" expostulated Carlo Trent
in italics, "*that you never saw Rose Euclid as Constance?*"

And Edward Henry, shaking his abashed head,
perceived that his life had been wasted.

Carlo, for a few moments, grew reflective and
softer.

"It's one of my earliest and most precious boyish
memories," he murmured, as he examined the
ceiling.  "It must have been in eighteen--"

Rose Euclid abandoned the ice with which she had
just been served, and by a single gesture drew
Carlo's attention away from the ceiling and towards the
fact that it would be clumsy on his part to indulge
further in the chronology of her career.  She began
to blush again.

Mr. Marrier, now back at the table after a
successful expedition, beamed over his ice:

"It was your 'Constance' that led to your friendship
with the Countess of Chell, wasn't it, Ra-ose?
You know," he turned to Edward Henry, "Miss
Euclid and the countess are virry intimate."

"Yes, I know," said Edward Henry.

Rose Euclid continued to blush.  Her agitated
hand scratched the back of the chair behind her.

"Even Sir John Pilgrim admits I can act Shakespeare,"
she said in a thick, mournful voice, looking
at the cloth as she pronounced the august name of
the head of the dramatic profession.  "It may
surprise you to know, Mr. Machin, that about a month
ago, after he'd quarrelled with Selina Gregory, Sir
John asked me if I'd care to star with him on his
Shakespearean tour round the world next spring,
and I said I would if he'd include Carlo's poetical
play, 'The Orient Pearl,' and he wouldn't!  No,
he wouldn't!  And now he's got little Cora Pryde!
She isn't twenty-two, and she's going to play Juliet!
Can you imagine such a thing?  As if a mere girl
could play Juliet!"

Carlo observed the mature actress with deep
satisfaction, proud of her, and proud also of himself.

"I wouldn't go with Pilgrim now," exclaimed
Rose passionately, "not if he went down on his knees
tome!"

"And nothing on earth would induce me to let
him have 'The Orient Pearl'!" Carlo Trent asseverated
with equal passion.  "He's lost that forever,"
he added grimly.  "It won't be he who'll collar the
profits out of that!  It'll just be ourselves!"

"Not if he went down on his knees to me!" Rose
was repeating to herself with fervency.

The calm of despair took possession of Edward
Henry.  He felt that he must act immediately--he
knew his own mood, by long experience.  Exploring
the pockets of the dressing-gown which had aroused
the longing of the greatest dramatic poet in the
world, he discovered in one of them precisely the
piece of apparatus he required; namely, a slip of
paper suitable for writing.  It was a carbon
duplicate of the bill for the dressing-gown, and showed
the word "Drook" in massive printed black, and
the figures £4-4-0 in faint blue.  He drew a pencil
from his waistcoat and inscribed on the paper:

"Go out, and then come back in a couple of
minutes and tell me someone wants to speak to me
urgently in the next room."

With a minimum of ostentation he gave the document
to Joseph, who, evidently well trained under Sir
Nicholas, vanished into the next room before
attempting to read it.

"I hope," said Edward Henry to Carlo Trent,
"that this money-making play is reserved for the
new theatre."

"Utterly," said Carlo Trent.

"With Miss Euclid in the principal part?"

"Rather!" sang Mr. Marrier.  "Rather!"

"I shall never, never appear at any other theatre,
Mr. Machin!" said Rose with tragic emotion, once
more feeling with her fingers along the back of her
chair.  "So I hope the building will begin at once.
In less than six months we ought to open."

"Easily!" sang the optimist.

Joseph returned to the room, and sought his
master's attention in a whisper.

"What is it?" Edward Henry asked irritably.
"Speak up!"

"A gentleman wishes to know if he can speak to
you in the next room, sir."

"Well, he can't."

"He said it was urgent, sir."

Scowling, Edward Henry rose.  "Excuse me,"
he said.  "I won't be a moment.  Help yourselves
to the liqueurs.  You chaps can go, I fancy."  The
last remark was addressed to the gentlemen in waiting.

The next room was the vast bedroom with two beds
in it.  Edward Henry closed the door carefully, and
drew the portiére across it.  Then he listened.  No
sound penetrated from the scene of the supper.

"There *is* a telephone in this room, isn't there?"
he said to Joseph.  "Oh, yes; there it is!  Well,
you can go."

"Yes, sir."

Edward Henry sat down on one of the beds by
the hook on which hung the telephone.  And he
cogitated upon the characteristics of certain
members of the party which he had just left.  "I'm a
'virgin mind,' am I?" he thought.  "I'm a 'clean
slate'?  Well! ... Their notion of business is to
begin by discussing the name of the theatre!  And
they haven't even taken up the option!  Ye gods!
'Intellectual!'  'Muses!'  'The Orient Pearl.'  And
she's fifty--that I swear!  Not a word yet of
real business--not one word!  He may be a poet.
I dare say he is.  He's a conceited ass.  Why, even
Bryany was better than that lot.  Only Sachs turned
Bryany out.  I like Sachs.  But he won't open his
mouth....  'Capitalist!'  Well, they spoilt my
appetite, and I hate champagne! ... The poet
hates money....  No, he 'hates the thought of
money.'  And she's changing her mind the whole
blessed time!  A month ago she'd have gone over
to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like a house a
fire! ... Photographed indeed!  The bally photographer
will be here in a minute! ... They take me for a
fool! ... Or don't they know any better? ... Anyhow,
I am a fool....  I must teach 'em summat!"

He seized the telephone.

"Hello!" he said into it.  "I want you to put
me on to the drawing-room of Suite No. 48, please.
Who?  Oh, me!  I'm in the bedroom of Suite
No. 48.  Machin, Alderman Machin.  Thanks.  That's
all right."

He waited.  Then he heard Marrier's Kensingtonian
voice in the telephone, asking who he was.

"Is that Mr. Machin's room?" he continued, imitating
with a broad farcical effect the acute
Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier's tones.  "Is Miss
Ra-ose Euclid there?  Oh!  She is?  Well, you
tell her that Sir John Pilgrim's private secretary
wishes to speak to her.  Thanks.  All right.  *I'll*
hold the line."

A pause.  Then he heard Rose's voice in the
telephone, and he resumed:

"Miss Euclid?  Yes.  Sir John Pilgrim.  I beg
pardon!  Banks?  Oh, *Banks*!  No, I'm not
Banks.  I suppose you mean my predecessor.  He's
left.  Left last week.  No, I don't know why.
Sir John instructs me to ask if you and Mr. Trent
could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty?
What?  Oh!  At his house.  Yes.  I mean flat.
Flat!  I said flat.  You think you could?"

Pause.  He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent.

"Thanks.  No, I don't know exactly," he went
on again.  "But I know the arrangement with Miss
Pryde is broken off.  And Sir John wants a play at
once.  He told me that.  At once!  Yes.  'The
Orient Pearl.'  That was the title.  At the Royal
first, and then the world's tour.  Fifteen months at
least, in all, so I gathered.  Of course I don't speak
officially.  Well, many thanks.  Saoo good of you.
I'll tell Sir John it's arranged.  One-thirty
to-morrow.  Good-bye!"

He hung up the telephone.  The excited, eager,
effusive tones of Rose Euclid remained in his ears.
Aware of a strange phenomenon on his forehead, he
touched it.  He was perspiring.

"I'll teach 'em a thing or two," he muttered.

And again:

"Serves her right....  'Never, never appear at
any other theatre, Mr. Machin!' ... 'Bended
knees!' ... 'Utterly!' ... Cheerful partners!
Oh, cheerful partners!"

He returned to his supper-party.  Nobody said
a word about the telephoning.  But Rose Euclid and
Carlo Trent looked even more like conspirators than
they did before; and Mr. Marrier's joy in life
seemed to be just the least bit diminished.

"So sorry!" Edward Henry began hurriedly,
and, without consulting the poet's wishes, subtly
turned on all the lights.  "Now, don't you think
we'd better discuss the question of taking up the
option?  You know, it expires on Friday."

"No," said Rose Euclid girlishly.  "It expires
to-morrow.  That's why it's so *fortunate* we got
hold of you to-night."

"But Mr. Bryany told me Friday.  And the date
was clear enough on the copy of the option he gave me."

"A mistake of copying," beamed Mr. Marrier.
"However, it's all right."

"Well," observed Edward Henry with heartiness,
"I don't mind telling you that for sheer calm
coolness you take the cake.  However, as Mr. Marrier
so ably says, it's all right.  Now, I understand if I
go into this affair I can count on you absolutely, and
also on Mr. Trent's services."  He tried to talk as
if he had been diplomatising with actresses and poets
all his life.

"Absolutely!" said Rose.

And Mr. Carlo Trent nodded.

"You Iscariots!" Edward Henry addressed them,
in the silence of the brain, behind his smile.  "You
Iscariots!"

The photographer arrived with certain cases, and
at once Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent began
instinctively to pose.

"To think," Edward Henry pleasantly reflected,
"that they are hugging themselves because Sir John
Pilgrim's secretary happened to telephone just while
I was out of the room!"





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.. _`MR. SACHS TALKS`:

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   CHAPTER V

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   MR. SACHS TALKS

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   \I.

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It was the sudden flash of the photographer's
magnesium light, plainly felt by him through
his closed lids, that somehow instantly inspired
Edward Henry to a definite and ruthless line of
action.  He opened his eyes and beheld the triumphant
group, and the photographer himself, victorious
over even the triumphant, in a superb pose that
suggested that all distinguished mankind in his presence
was naught but food for the conquering camera.
The photographer smiled indulgently, and his smile
said: "Having been photographed by me, you
have each of you reached the summit of your career.
Be content.  Retire!  Die!  Destiny is accomplished!"

"Mr. Machin," said Rose Euclid, "I do believe
your eyes were shut!"

"So do I!" Edward Henry curtly agreed.

"But you'll spoil the group!"

"Not a bit of it!" said Edward Henry.  "I
always shut my eyes when I'm being photographed by
flash-light.  I open my mouth instead.  So long as
something's open, what does it matter?"

The truth was that only in the nick of time had he,
by a happy miracle of ingenuity, invented a way of
ruining the photograph.  The absolute necessity for
its ruin had presented itself to him rather late in the
proceedings, when the photographer had already
finished arranging the hands and shoulders of
everybody in an artistic pattern.  The photograph had
to be spoilt for the imperative reason that his
mother, though she never read a newspaper, did as
a fact look at a picture newspaper, *The Daily Film*,
which from pride she insisted on paying for out of
her own purse, at the rate of one halfpenny a day.
Now *The Daily Film* specialised in theatrical
photographs, on which it said it spent large sums of
money; and Edward Henry in a vision had seen the
historic group in a future issue of the *Film*.  He
had also, in the same vision, seen his mother conning
the said issue, and the sardonic curve of her lips as
she recognised her son therein, and he had even
heard her dry, cynical, contemptuous exclamation:
"Bless us!"  He could never have looked squarely
in his mother's face again if that group had
appeared in her chosen organ!  Her silent and grim
scorn would have crushed his self-conceit to a
miserable, hopeless pulp.  Hence his resolve to render the
photograph impossible.

"Perhaps I'd better take another one?" the
photographer suggested.  "Though I think Mr.--er--Machin
was all right."  At the supreme crisis the
man had been too busy with his fireworks to keep
a watch on every separate eye and mouth of the
assemblage.

"Of course I was all right!" said Edward Henry,
almost with brutality.  "Please take that thing
away as quickly as you can.  We have business to
attend to."

"Yes, sir," agreed the photographer, no longer
victorious.

Edward Henry rang the bell, and two gentlemen
in waiting arrived.

"Clear this table immediately!"

The tone of the command startled everybody
except the gentlemen in waiting and Mr. Seven Sachs.
Rose Euclid gave vent to her nervous giggle.  The
poet and Mr. Marrier tried to appear detached and
dignified, and succeeded in appearing guiltily
confused--for which they contemned themselves.
Despite their volition, the glances of all three of
them too clearly signified: "This capitalist must
be humoured.  He has an unlimited supply of
actual cash, and therefore he has the right to be
peculiar.  Moreover, we know that he is a card...."  And,
curiously, Edward Henry himself was deriving
great force of character from the simple reflection
that he had indeed a lot of money, real available
money, his to do utterly as he liked with it, hidden
in a secret place in that very room.  "I'll show 'em
what's what!" he privately mused.  "Celebrities
or not, I'll show 'em!  If they think they can come
it over me--!"

It was, I regret to say, the state of mind of a bully.
Such is the noxious influence of excessive coin!

He reproached the greatest actress and the
greatest dramatic poet for deceiving him, and quite
ignored the nevertheless fairly obvious fact that he
had first deceived them.

"Now then," he began, with something of the
pomposity of a chairman at a directors' meeting, as
soon as the table had been cleared and the room
emptied of gentlemen in waiting and photographer
and photographic apparatus, "let us see exactly
where we stand."

He glanced specially at Rose Euclid, who with an
air of deep business acumen returned the glance.

"Yes," she eagerly replied, as one seeking after
righteousness, "*do* let's see."

"The option must be taken up to-morrow.
Good!  That's clear.  It came rather casual-like,
but it's now clear.  £4,500 has to be paid down to
buy the existing building on the land and so on....  Eh?"

"Yes.  Of course Mr. Bryany told you all that,
didn't he?" said Rose brightly.

"Mr. Bryany did tell me," Edward Henry
admitted sternly.  "But if Mr. Bryany can make a
mistake in the day of the week he might make a
mistake in a few naughts at the end of a sum of money."

Suddenly Mr. Seven Sachs startled them all by
emerging from his silence with the words:

"The figure is O.K."

Instinctively Edward Henry waited for more; but
no more came.  Mr. Seven Sachs was one of those
rare and disconcerting persons who do not keep on
talking after they have finished.  He resumed his
tranquillity, he re-entered into his silence, with no
symptom of self-consciousness, entirely cheerful and
at ease.  And Edward Henry was aware of his
observant and steady gaze.  Edward Henry said
to himself: "This man is expecting me to behave
in a remarkable way.  Bryany has been telling him
all about me, and he is waiting to see if I really am
as good as my reputation.  I have just got to be as
good as my reputation!"  He looked up at the
electric chandelier, almost with regret that it was not
gas.  One cannot light one's cigarette by twisting a
hundred-pound bank-note and sticking it into an
electric chandelier.  Moreover, there were some
thousands of matches on the table.  Still further, he had
done the cigarette-lighting trick once for all.  A
first-class card must not repeat himself.

"This money," Edward Henry proceeded, "has
to be paid to Slossons, Lord Woldo's solicitors,
to-morrow, Wednesday, rain or shine?"  He finished
the phrase on a note of interrogation, and as
nobody offered any reply, he rapped on the table, and
repeated, half menacingly: "Rain or shine!"

"Yes," said Rose Euclid, leaning timidly
forward, and taking a cigarette from a gold case that
lay on the table.  All her movements indicated an
earnest desire to be thoroughly businesslike.

"So that, Miss Euclid," Edward Henry continued
impressively but with a wilful touch of incredulity,
"you are in a position to pay your share of this
money to-morrow?"

"Certainly!" said Miss Euclid.  And it was as
if she had said, aggrieved: "Can you doubt my honour?"

"To-morrow morning?"

"Ye-es."

"That is to say, to-morrow morning you will
have £2,250 in actual cash--coin, notes--actually
in your possession?"

Miss Euclid's disengaged hand was feeling out
behind her again for some surface upon which to
express its emotion and hers.

"Well--" she stopped, flushing.

("These people are astounding," Edward Henry
reflected, like a god.  "She's not got the money.
I knew it!")

"It's like this, Mr. Machin," Marrier began.

"Excuse me, Mr. Marrier," Edward Henry turned
on him, determined if he could to eliminate the
optimism from that beaming face.  "Any friend of
Miss Euclid's is welcome here, but you've already
talked about this theatre as 'ours,' and I just want
to know where you come in."

"Where I come in?" Marrier smiled, absolutely
unperturbed.  "Miss Euclid has appointed me
general manajah."

"At what salary, if it isn't a rude question?"

"Oh!  We haven't settled details yet.  You see
the theatre isn't built yet."

"True!" said Edward Henry.  "I was forgetting!
I was thinking for the moment that the
theatre was all ready and going to be opened
to-morrow night with 'The Orient Pearl.'  Have you
had much experience of managing theatres,
Mr. Marrier?  I suppose you have."

"Eho, yes!" exclaimed Mr. Marrier.  "I
began life as a lawyah's clerk, but--"

"So did I," Edward Henry interjected.

"How interesting!" Rose Euclid murmured
with fervency, after puffing forth a long shaft of
smoke.

"However, I threw it up," Marrier went on.

"I didn't," said Edward Henry.  "I got thrown out!"

Strange that in that moment he was positively
proud of having been dismissed from his first
situation!  Strange that all the company, too, thought
the better of him for having been dismissed!
Strange that Marrier regretted that he also had not
been dismissed!  But so it was.  The possession
of much ready money emits a peculiar effluence in
both directions--back to the past, forward into the
future.

"I threw it up," said Marrier, "because the
stage had an irresistible attraction for me.  I'd
been stage-manajah for an amateur company, you
knaoo.  I found a shop as stage-manajah of a
company touring 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.'  I stuck to that
for six years, and then I threw that up too.  Then
I've managed one of Miss Euclid's provincial tours.
And since I met our friend Trent, I've had the
chance to show what my ideas about play-producing
really are.  I fancy my production of Trent's
one-act play won't be forgotten in a hurry....  You
know--'The Nymph?'  You read about it, didn't you?"

"I did not," said Edward Henry.  "How long
did it run?"

"Oh! it didn't run.  It wasn't put on for a run.
It was part of one of the Sunday-night shows of the
Play-Producing Society, at the Court Theatre.
Most intellectual people in London, you know.  No
such audience anywhere else in the wahld!"  His
rather chubby face glistened and shimmered with
enthusiasm.  "You bet!" he added.  "But that was
only by the way.  My real game is management--general
management.  And I think I may say I
know what it is."

"Evidently!" Edward Henry concurred.  "But
shall you have to give up any other engagement in
order to take charge of the Muses' Theatre?
Because if so--"

Mr. Marrier replied:

"No."

Edward Henry observed:

"Oh!"

"But," said Marrier reassuringly, "if necessary
I would throw up any engagement--you understand
me, any--in favour of the Intellectual
Theatah as I prefer to call it.  You see, as I own
part of the option--"

By these last words Edward Henry was confounded,
even to muteness.

"I forgot to mention, Mr. Machin," said Rose
Euclid very quickly.  "I've disposed of a quarter
of my half of the option to Mr. Marrier.  He fully
agreed with me it was better that he should have a
proper interest in the theatre."

"Why of course!" cried Mr. Marrier, uplifted.

"Let me see," said Edward Henry, after a long
breath, "a quarter--that makes it that you have
to find £562 10s, to-morrow, Mr. Marrier."

"Yes."

"To-morrow morning--you'll be all right?"

"Well, I won't swear for the morning, but I
shall turn up with the stuff in the afternoon anyhow.
I've two men in tow, and one of them's a certainty."

"Which?"

"I don't know which," said Mr. Marrier.
"Howevah, you may count on yours sincerely, Mr. Machin."

There was a pause.

"Perhaps I ought to tell you," Rose Euclid
smiled, "perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr. Trent
is also one of our partners.  He has taken another
quarter of my half."

Edward Henry controlled himself.

"Excellent!" said he with glee.  "Mr. Trent's
money all ready too?"

"I am providing most of it--temporarily," said
Rose Euclid.

"I see.  Then I understand you have your three
quarters of £2,250 all ready in hand."

She glanced at Mr. Seven Sachs.

"Have I, Mr. Sachs?"

And Mr. Sachs, after an instant's hesitation,
bowed in assent.

"Mr. Sachs is not exactly going into the speculation,
but he is lending us money on the security of
our interests.  That's the way to put it, isn't it,
Mr. Sachs?"

Mr. Sachs once more bowed.

And Edward Henry exclaimed:

"Now I really do see!"

He gave one glance across the table at Mr. Seven
Sachs, as who should say: "And have you too
allowed yourself to be dragged into this affair?  I
really thought you were cleverer.  Don't you agree
with me that we're both fools of the most arrant
description?" And under the brief glance
Mr. Seven Sachs's calm deserted him as it had never
deserted him on the stage, where for over fifteen
hundred nights he had withstood the menace of
revolvers, poison, and female treachery through three
hours and four acts without a single moment of agitation.

Apparently Miss Rose Euclid could exercise a
siren's charm upon nearly all sorts of men.  But
Edward Henry knew one sort of men upon whom she
could not exercise it; namely, the sort of men who
are born and bred in the Five Towns.  His instinctive
belief in the Five Towns as the sole cradle of
hard practical common sense was never stronger
than just now.  You might by wiles get the better
of London and America, but not of the Five Towns.
If Rose Euclid were to go around and about the
Five Towns trying to do the siren business, she
would pretty soon discover that she was up against
something rather special in the way of human nature!

Why, the probability was that these three--Rose
Euclid (only a few hours since a glorious name and
legend to him), Carlo Trent, and Mr. Marrier--could
not at that moment produce even ten pounds
between them! ... And Marrier offering to lay
fivers! ... He scornfully pitied them.  And he
was not altogether without pity for Seven Sachs, who
had doubtless succeeded in life by sheer accident and
knew no more than an infant what to do with his
too easily earned money.

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   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well," said Edward Henry, "shall I tell you
what I've decided?"

"Please do!" Rose Euclid entreated him.

"I've decided to make you a present of my half
of the option."

"But aren't you going in with us?" exclaimed
Rose, horror-struck.

"No, madam."

"But Mr. Bryany told us positively you were!
He said it was all arranged!"

"Mr. Bryany ought to be more careful," said
Edward Henry.  "If he doesn't mind, he'll be
telling a downright lie some day."

"But you bought half the option!"

"Well," said Edward Henry, reasoning.  "What
*is* an option?  What does it mean?  It means you
are free to take something or leave it.  I'm leaving it."

"But why?" demanded Mr. Marrier, gloomier.

Carlo Trent played with his eye-glasses and said
not a word.

"Why?" Edward Henry replied.  "Simply because
I feel I'm not fitted for the job.  I don't
know enough.  I don't understand.  I shouldn't go
the right way about the affair.  For instance, I
should never have guessed by myself that it was the
proper thing to settle the name of the theatre before
you'd got the lease of the land you're going to build
it on.  Then I'm old-fashioned.  I hate leaving
things to the last moment; but seemingly there's
only one proper moment in these theatrical affairs,
and that's the very last.  I'm afraid there'd be too
much trusting in Providence for my taste.  I
believe in trusting in Providence, but I can't bear to
see Providence overworked.  And I've never even
tried to be intellectual, and I'm a bit frightened of
poetry plays--"

"But you've not read my play!" Carlo Trent
mutteringly protested.

"That is so," admitted Edward Henry.

"Will you read it?"

"Mr. Trent," said Edward Henry.  "I'm not
so young as I was."

"We're ruined!" sighed Rose Euclid with a
tragic gesture.

"Ruined?"  Edward Henry took her up, smiling.
"Nobody is ruined who knows where he can get a
square meal.  Do you mean to tell me you don't
know where you're going to lunch to-morrow?"  And
he looked hard at her.

It was a blow.  She blenched under it.

"Oh, yes," she said, with her giggle, "I know that."

("Well you just don't!" he answered her in his
heart.  "You think you're going to lunch with John
Pilgrim.  And you aren't.  And it serves you
right!")

"Besides," he continued aloud, "how can you
say you're ruined when I'm making you a present
of something that I paid £100 for?"

"But where am I to find the other half of the
money--£2,250?" she burst out.  "We were
depending absolutely on you for it.  If I don't get it,
the option will be lost, and the option's very valuable."

"All the easier to find the money then!"

"What?  In less than twenty-four hours?  It
can't be done.  I couldn't get it in all London."

"Mr. Marrier will get it for you ... one of
his certainties!"  Edward Henry smiled in the
Five Towns' manner.

"I might, you knaoo!" said Marrier, brightening
to full hope in the fraction of a second.

But Rose Euclid only shook her head.

"Mr. Seven Sachs, then?" Edward Henry suggested.

"I should have been delighted," said Mr. Sachs
with the most perfect gracious tranquillity.  "But
I cannot find another £2,250 to-morrow."

"I shall just speak to that Mr. Bryany!" said
Rose Euclid, in the accents of homicide.

"I think you ought to," Edward Henry concurred.
"But that won't help things.  I feel a little
responsible, especially to a lady.  You have a
quarter of the whole option left in your hands, Miss
Euclid.  I'll pay you at the same rate as Bryany
sold to me.  I gave £100 for half.  Your quarter
is therefore worth £50.  Well, I'll pay you £50."

"And then what?"

"Then let the whole affair slide."

"But that won't help me to my theatre!" Rose
Euclid said, pouting.  She was now decidedly less
unhappy than her face pretended, because Edward
Henry had reminded her of Sir John Pilgrim, and
she had dreams of world triumphs for herself and
for Carlo Trent's play.  She was almost glad to
be rid of all the worry of the horrid little
prospective theatre.

"I have bank-notes," cooed Edward Henry softly.

Her head sank.

Edward Henry rose in the incomparable yellow
dressing-gown and walked to and fro a little, and
then from his secret store he produced a bundle of
notes, and counted out five tens and, coming
behind Rose, stretched out his arm and laid the
treasure on the table in front of her under the brilliant
chandelier.

"I don't want you to feel you have anything
against me," he cooed still more softly.

Silence reigned.  Edward Henry resumed his
chair and gazed at Rose Euclid.  She was quite a
dozen years older than his wife, and she looked
more than a dozen years older.  She had no fixed
home, no husband, no children, no regular situation.
She accepted the homage of young men, who were
cleverer than herself save in one important respect.
She was always in and out of restaurants and hotels
and express trains.  She was always committing
hygienic indiscretions.  She could not refrain from a
certain girlishness which, having regard to her years,
her waist, and her complexion, was ridiculous.  His
wife would have been afraid of her, and would
have despised her, simultaneously.  She was
coarsened by the continual gaze of the gaping public.
No two women could possibly be more utterly
dissimilar than Rose Euclid and the cloistered Nellie....
And yet, as Rose Euclid's hesitant fingers
closed on the bank-notes with a gesture of relief,
Edward Henry had an agreeable and kindly sensation
that all women were alike, after all, in the need
of a shield, a protection, a strong and generous male
hand.  He was touched by the spectacle of Rose
Euclid, as naïve as any young lass when confronted
by actual bank-notes; and he was touched also by
the thought of Nellie and the children afar off,
existing in comfort and peace, but utterly, wistfully,
dependent on himself.

"And what about me?" growled Carlo Trent.

"You?"

The fellow was only a poet.  He negligently
dropped him five fivers, his share of the option's value.

Mr. Marrier said nothing, but his eye met Edward
Henry's, and in silence five fivers were meted
out to Mr. Marrier also....  It was so easy to
delight these persons who apparently seldom set eyes
on real ready money.

"You might sign receipts, all of you, just as a
matter of form," said Edward Henry.

A little later, the three associates were off.

"As we're both in the hotel, Mr. Sachs," said
Edward Henry, "you might stay for a chat and a
drink."

Mr. Seven Sachs politely agreed.

Edward Henry accompanied the trio of worshippers
and worshipped to the door of his suite, but
no further, because of his dressing-gown.  Rose
Euclid had assumed a resplendent opera-cloak.
They rang imperially for the lift.  Lackeys bowed
humbly before them.  They spoke of taxicabs and
other luxuries.  They were perfectly at home in the
grandeur of the hotel.  As the illuminated lift
carried them down out of sight, their smiling heads
disappearing last, they seemed exactly like persons
of extreme wealth.  And indeed for the moment
they were wealthy.  They had parted with certain
hopes, but they had had a windfall; and two of
them were looking forward with absolute assurance
to a profitable meal and deal with Sir John Pilgrim
on the morrow.

"Funny place, London!" said the provincial to
himself as he re-entered his suite to rejoin
Mr. Seven Sachs.

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   \III.

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"Well, sir," said Mr. Seven Sachs, "I have to
thank you for getting me out of a very
unsatisfactory situation."

"Did you really want to get out of it?" asked
Edward Henry.

Mr. Sachs replied simply.

"I did, sir.  There were too many partners for
my taste."

They were seated more familiarly now in the
drawing-room, being indeed separated only by a
small table upon which were glasses.  And whereas
on a night in the previous week Edward Henry
had been entertained by Mr. Bryany in a private
parlour at the Turk's Head, Hanbridge, on this
night he was in a sort repaying the welcome to
Mr. Bryany's master in a private parlour at Wilkins's,
London.  The sole difference in favour of
Mr. Bryany was that, while Mr. Bryany provided
cigarettes and whisky, Edward Henry was providing
only cigarettes and Vichy water.  Mr. Seven
Sachs had said that he never took whisky; and
though Edward Henry's passion for Vichy water
was not quite ungovernable, he thought well to give
rein to it on the present occasion, having read
somewhere that Vichy water placated the stomach.

Joseph had been instructed to retire.

"And not only that," resumed Mr. Seven Sachs,
"but you've got a very good thing entirely into your
own hands!  Masterly, sir!  Masterly!  Why, at
the end you positively had the air of doing them a
favour!  You made them believe you *were* doing
them a favour."

"And don't you think I was?"

Mr. Sachs reflected, and then laughed.

"You were," he said.  "That's the beauty of it.
But at the same time you were getting away with
the goods!"

It was by sheer instinct, and not by learning, that
Edward Henry fully grasped, as he did, the deep
significance of the American idiom employed by
Mr. Seven Sachs.  He, too, laughed, as Mr. Sachs had
laughed.  He was immeasurably flattered.  He
had not been so flattered since the Countess of
Chell had permitted him to offer her China tea,
meringues, and Berlin pancakes at the Sub Rosa
tea-rooms in Hanbridge--and that was a very long
time ago.

"You really *do* think it's a good thing?" Edward
Henry ventured, for he had not yet been convinced
of the entire goodness of theatrical enterprise
near Piccadilly Circus.

Mr. Seven Sachs convinced him--not by argument,
but by the sincerity of his gestures and tones;
for it was impossible to question that Mr. Seven
Sachs knew what he was talking about.  The shape
of Mr. Seven Sachs' chin was alone enough to prove
that Mr. Sachs was incapable of a mere ignorant
effervescence.  Everything about Mr. Sachs was
persuasive and confidence-inspiring.  His long
silences had the easy vigour of oratory, and they
served also to make his speech peculiarly
impressive.  Moreover, he was a handsome and a dark
man, and probably half a dozen years younger than
Edward Henry.  And the discipline of lime-light
had taught him the skill to be forever graceful.
And his smile, rare enough, was that of a boy.

"Of course," said he, "if Miss Euclid and the
others had had any sense, they might have done
very well for themselves.  If you ask me, the
option alone is worth ten thousand dollars.  But then
they haven't any sense!  And that's all there is to it!"

"So you'd advise me to go ahead with the affair
on my own?"

Mr. Seven Sachs, his black eyes twinkling, leaned
forward and became rather intimately humorous:

"You look as if you wanted advice, don't you?"
said he.

"I suppose I do, now I come to think of it!"
agreed Edward Henry with a most admirable quizzicalness;
in spite of the fact that he had not really
meant to "go ahead with the affair," being in truth
a little doubtful of his capacity to handle it.

But Mr. Seven Sachs was, all unconsciously,
forcing Edward Henry to believe in his own capacities;
and the two, as it were, suddenly developed a more
cordial friendliness.  Each felt the quick lifting of
the plane of their relations, and was aware of a
pleasurable emotion.

"I'm moving onwards--gently onwards,"
crooned Edward Henry to himself.  "What price
Brindley and his half-crown now?"  Londoners
might call him a provincial, and undoubtedly would
call him a provincial; he admitted, even, that he
felt like a provincial in the streets of London.
And yet here he was, "doing Londoners in the eye
all over the place," and receiving the open homage
of Mr. Seven Sachs, whose name was the basis of
a cosmopolitan legend.

And now he made the cardinal discovery, which
marks an epoch in the life of every man who arrives
at it, that world-celebrated persons are very like
other persons.  And he was happy and rather proud
in this discovery, and began to feel a certain vague
desire to tell Mr. Seven Sachs the history of his
career--or at any rate the picturesque portions of
it.  For he, too, was famous in his own sphere;
and in the drawing-room of Wilkins's one celebrity
was hobnobbing with another!  ("Put that in your
pipe and smoke it, Mr. Brindley!")  Yes, he was
happy, both in what he had already accomplished,
and in the contemplation of romantic adventures to come.

And yet his happiness was marred--not fatally,
but quite appreciably--by a remorse that no
amount of private argument with himself would
conjure away.  Which was the more singular in that
a morbid tendency to remorse had never been among
Edward Henry's defects!  He was worrying, foolish
fellow, about the false telephone-call in which,
for the purpose of testing Rose Euclid's loyalty to
the new enterprise, he had pretended to be the new
private secretary of Sir John Pilgrim.  Yet what
harm had it done?  And had it not done a lot of
good?  Rose Euclid and her youthful worshipper
were no worse off than they had been before being
victimised by the deceit of the telephone-call.  Prior
to the call they had assumed themselves to be
deprived forever of the benefits which association with
Sir John Pilgrim could offer, and as a fact they
were deprived forever of such benefits.  Nothing
changed there!  Before the call they had had no
hope of lunching with the enormous Sir John on the
morrow, and as a fact they would not lunch with
the enormous Sir John on the morrow.  Nothing
changed there either!  Again, in no event would
Edward Henry have joined the trio in order to
make a quartette in partnership.  Even had he been
as convinced of Rose's loyalty as he was convinced
of her disloyalty, he would never have been rash
enough to co-operate with such a crew.  Again,
nothing changed!

On the other hand, he had acquired an assurance
of the artiste's duplicity, which assurance had made
it easier for him to disappoint her, while the
prospect of a business repast with Sir John had helped
her to bear the disappointment as a brave woman
should.  It was true that on the morrow, about
lunch-time, Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent might have
to live through a few rather trying moments, and
they would certainly be very angry; but these
drawbacks would have been more than compensated for
in advance by the pleasures of hope.  And had they
not between them pocketed seventy-five pounds
which they had stood to lose?

Such reasoning was unanswerable, and his remorse
did not attempt to answer it.  His remorse was
not open to reason; it was one of those stupid,
primitive sentiments which obstinately persist in the
refined and rational fabric of modern humanity.

He was just sorry for Rose Euclid.

"Do you know what I did?" he burst out confidentially,
and confessed the whole telephone trick
to Mr. Seven Sachs.

Mr. Seven Sachs, somewhat to Edward Henry's
surprise, expressed high admiration of the device.

"A bit mean, though, don't you think?"
Edward Henry protested weakly.

"Not at all!" cried Mr. Sachs.  "You got the
goods on her.  And she deserved it."

(Again this enigmatic and mystical word
"goods"!  But he understood it.)

Thus encouraged, he was now quite determined
to give Mr. Seven Sachs a brief episodic account
of his career.  A fair conversational opening was
all he wanted in order to begin.

"I wonder what will happen to her--ultimately?"
he said, meaning to work back from the
ends of careers to their beginnings, and so to himself.

"Rose Euclid?"

"Yes."

Mr. Sachs shook his head compassionately.

"How did Mr. Bryany get in with her?" asked
Edward Henry.

"Bryany is a highly peculiar person," said
Mr. Seven Sachs familiarly.  "He's all right so long
as you don't unstrap him.  He was born to convince
newspaper reporters of his own greatness."

"I had a bit of talk with him myself," said Edward Henry.

"Oh, yes!  He told me all about you."

"But *I* never told him anything about myself,"
said Edward Henry quickly.

"No, but he has eyes, you know, and ears too.
Seems to me the people of the Five Towns do little
else of a night but discuss you, Mr. Machin.  *I*
heard a good bit when *I* was down there, though
I don't go about much when I'm on the road.
I reckon I could write a whole biography of you."

Edward Henry smiled self-consciously.  He was
of course enraptured, but at the same time it was
disappointing to find Mr. Sachs already so fully
informed as to the details of his career.  However,
he did not intend to let that prevent him from
telling the story afresh, in his own manner.

"I suppose you've had your adventures too," he
remarked with nonchalance, partly from politeness,
but mainly in order to avoid the appearance of hurry
in his egotism.

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   \IV.

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"You bet I have!" Mr. Seven Sachs cordially
agreed, abandoning the end of a cigarette, putting
his hands behind his head, and crossing his legs.

Whereupon there was a brief pause.

"I remember--" Edward Henry began.

"I dare say you've heard--" began Mr. Seven
Sachs simultaneously.

They were like two men who by inadvertence had
attempted to pass through a narrow doorway
abreast.  Edward Henry, as the host, drew back.

"I beg your pardon!" he apologised.

"Not at all," said Seven Sachs.  "I was only
going to say you've probably heard that I was
always up against Archibald Florance."

"Really!" murmured Edward Henry, impressed
in spite of himself; for the renown of Archibald
Florance exceeded that of Seven Sachs as the sun the
moon, and was older and more securely established
than it as the sun the moon.  The renown of Rose
Euclid was as naught to it.  Doubtful it was
whether, in the annals of modern histrionics, the
grandeur and the romance of that American name
could be surpassed by any renown save that of the
incomparable Henry Irving.  The retirement of
Archibald Florance from the stage a couple of
years earlier had caused crimson gleams of sunset
splendour to shoot across the Atlantic and irradiate
even the Garrick Club, London, so that the
members thereof had to shade their offended eyes.
Edward Henry had never seen Archibald Florance,
but it was not necessary to have seen him in order
to appreciate the majesty of his glory.  No male
in the history of the world was ever more
photographed, and few have been the subject of more
anecdotes.

"I expect he's a wealthy chap in his old age,"
said Edward Henry.

"Wealthy!" exclaimed Mr. Sachs.  "He's the
richest actor in America, and that's saying in the
world.  He had the greatest reputation.  He's still
the handsomest man in the United States--that's
admitted--with his white hair!  They used to say
he was the cruellest, but it's not so.  Though of
course he could be a perfect terror with his companies."

"And so you knew Archibald Florance?"

"You bet I did.  He never had any friends--never--but
I knew him as well as anybody could.
Why, in San Francisco, after the show, I've walked
with him back to his hotel, and he's walked with
me back to mine, and so on, and so on, till three
or four o'clock in the morning.  You see, we
couldn't stop until it happened that he finished a
cigar at the exact moment when we got to his hotel
door.  If the cigar wasn't finished, then he must
needs stroll back a bit, and before I knew where
I was he'd be lighting a fresh one.  He smoked
the finest cigars in America.  I remember him
telling me they cost him three dollars apiece."

And Edward Henry then perceived another
profound truth, his second cardinal discovery on that
notable evening; namely, that no matter how high
you rise, you will always find that others have risen
higher.  Nay, it is not until you have achieved a
considerable peak that you are able to appreciate
the loftiness of those mightier summits.  He
himself was high, and so he could judge the greater
height of Seven Sachs; and it was only through the
greater height of Seven Sachs that he could form
an adequate idea of the pinnacle occupied by the
unique Archibald Florance.  Honestly, he had
never dreamt that there existed a man who habitually
smoked twelve-shilling cigars--and yet he reckoned
to know a thing or two about cigars!

"I am nothing!" he thought modestly.  Nevertheless,
though the savour of the name of Archibald
Florance was agreeable, he decided that he had
heard enough for the moment about Archibald
Florance, and that he would relate to Mr. Sachs
the famous episode of his own career in which the
Countess of Chell and a mule had so prominently
performed.

"I remember--" he recommenced.

"My first encounter with Archibald Florance was
very funny," proceeded Mr. Seven Sachs, blandly
deaf.  "I was starving in New York,--trying to
sell a new razor on commission,--and I was
determined to get on to the stage.  I had one
visiting card left--just one.  I wrote 'Important' on
it, and sent it up to Wunch.  I don't know whether
you've ever heard of Wunch.  Wunch was Archibald
Florence's stage-manager, and nearly as famous
as Archibald himself.  Well, Wunch sent for me
up-stairs to his room, but when he found I was only
the usual youngster after the usual job he just had
me thrown out of the theatre.  He said I'd no
right to put 'Important' on a visiting card.  'Well,'
I said to myself, 'I'm going to get back into that
theatre somehow!'  So I went up to Archibald's
private house--Sixtieth Street I think it was, and
asked to see him, and I saw him.  When I got
into his room, he was writing.  He kept on writing
for some minutes, and then he swung round on his chair.

"'And what can I do for you, sir?' he said.

"'Do you want any actors, Mr. Florance?' I said.

"'Are you an actor?' he said.

"'I want to be one,' I said.

"'Well,' he said, 'there's a school round the corner.'

"'Well,' I said, 'you might give me a card of
introduction, Mr. Florance.'

"He gave me the card.  I didn't take it to the
school.  I went straight back to the theatre with it,
and had it sent up to Wunch.  It just said,
'Introducing Mr. Sachs, a young man anxious to get
on.'  Wunch took it for a positive order to find me a
place.  The company was full, so he threw out one
poor devil of a super to make room for me.
Curious thing--old Wunchy got it into his head that
I was a *protégé* of Archibald's, and he always looked
after me.  What d'ye think about that?"

"Brilliant!" said Edward Henry.  And it was!
The simplicity of the thing was what impressed him.
Since winning a scholarship at school by altering the
number of marks opposite his name on a paper
lying on the master's desk, Edward Henry had never
achieved advancement by a device so simple.  And
he thought: "I am nothing!  The Five Towns
is nothing!  All that one hears about Americans and
the United States is true.  As far as getting on
goes, they can make rings round us.  Still, I shall
tell him about the countess and the mule--"

"Yes," continued Mr. Seven Sachs, "Wunch was
very kind to me.  But he was pretty well down and
out, and he left, and Archibald got a new
stage-manager, and I was promoted to do a bit of
assistant stage-managing.  But I got no increase of
salary.  There were two women stars in the play
Archibald was doing then--'The Forty-Niners.'  Romantic
drama, you know!  Melodrama you'd
call it over here.  He never did any other sort of
play.  Well, these two women stars were about
equal, and when the curtain fell on the first act
they'd both make a bee-line for Archibald to see
who'd get to him first and engage him in talk.  They
were jealous enough, of each other to kill.
Anybody could see that Archibald was frightfully bored,
but he couldn't escape.  They got him on both sides,
you see, and he just *had* to talk to 'em, both at once.
I used to be fussing around fixing the properties
for the next act.  Well, one night he comes up to
me, Archibald does, and he says:

"'Mr.--what's your name?'

"'Sachs, sir,' I says.

"'You notice when those two ladies come up to
me after the first act.  Well, when you see them
talking to me, I want you to come right along and
interrupt,' he says.

"'What shall I say, sir?'

"'Tap me on the shoulder, and say I'm wanted
about something very urgent.  You see?'

"So the next night when those women got hold
of him, sure enough, I went up between them and
tapped him on the shoulder.  'Mr. Florance,' I
said, 'something very urgent.'  He turned on me
and scowled: 'What is it?' he said, and he looked
very angry.  It was a bit of the best acting the old
man ever did in his life.  It was so good that at
first I thought it was real.  He said again louder,
'What is it?'  So I said, 'Well, Mr. Florance, the
most urgent thing in this theatre is that I should have
an increase in salary!'  I guess I licked the
stuffing out of him that time."

Edward Henry gave vent to one of those cordial
and violent guffaws which are a specialty of the
humorous side of the Five Towns.  And he said to
himself: "I should never have thought of
anything as good as that."

"And did you get it?" he asked.

"The old man said not a word," Mr. Seven
Sachs went on in the same even tranquil smiling
voice.  "But next pay-day I found I'd got a rise of
ten dollars a week.  And not only that, but
Mr. Florance offered me a singing part in his new
drama, if I could play the mandolin.  I naturally
told him I'd played the mandolin all my life.  I
went out and bought a mandolin and hired a teacher.
He wanted to teach me the mandolin, but I only
wanted him to teach me that one accompaniment.
So I fired him, and practised by myself night and
day for a week.  I got through all the rehearsals
without ever singing that song.  Cleverest dodging
I ever did!  On the first night I was so nervous I
could scarcely hold the mandolin.  I'd never played
the infernal thing before anybody at all--only up
in my bedroom.  I struck the first chord, and found
the darned instrument was all out of tune with the
orchestra.  So I just pretended to play it, and
squawked away with my song, and never let my
fingers touch the strings at all.  Old Florance was
waiting for me in the wings.  I knew he was going
to fire me.  But no!  'Sachs,' he said, 'that
accompaniment was the most delicate piece of playing
I ever heard.  I congratulate you.'  He was quite
serious.  Everybody said the same!  Luck, eh?"

"I should say so," said Edward Henry, gradually
beginning to be interested in the odyssey of
Mr. Seven Sachs.  "I remember a funny thing that
happened to me--"

"However," Mr. Sachs swept smoothly along,
"that piece was a failure.  And Archibald arranged
to take a company to Europe with 'Forty-Miners.'  And
I was left out!  This rattled me, specially
after the way he liked my mandolin-playing.  So
I went to see him about it in his dressing-room one
night, and I charged around a bit.  He did rattle
me!  Then I raided him.  I would get an answer
out of him.  He said:

"'I'm not in the habit of being cross-examined
in my own dressing-room.'

"I didn't care what happened then, so I said:

"'And I'm not in the habit of being treated as
you're treating me.'

"All of a sudden he became quite quiet, and
patted me on the shoulder.  'You're getting on very
well, Sachs,' he said.  'You've only been at it one
year.  It's taken me twenty-five years to get where I am.'

"However, I was too angry to stand for that sort
of talk.  I said to him:

"'I dare say you're a very great and enviable
man, Mr. Florance, but I propose to save fifteen
years on your twenty-five.  I'll equal or better your
position in ten years.'

"He shoved me out--just shoved me out of the
room....  It was that that made me turn to
play-writing.  Florance wrote his own plays sometimes,
but it was only his acting and his face that saved
them.  And they were too American.  He never
did really well outside America except in one play,
and that wasn't his own.  Now, I was out after
money.  And I still am.  I wanted to please the
largest possible public.  So I guessed there was
nothing for it but the universal appeal.  I never
write a play that won't appeal to England, Germany,
France, just as well as to America.  America's big,
but it isn't big enough for me....  Well, as I was
saying, soon after that I got a one-act play
produced at Hannibal, Missouri.  And the same week
there was a company at another theatre there
playing the old man's 'Forty-Niners.'  And the next
morning the theatrical critic's article in the
Hannibal *Courier-Post* was headed: 'Rival attractions.
Archibald Florance's "Forty-Niners" and new play
by Seven Sachs.'  I cut that heading out and sent
it to the old man in London, and I wrote under it,
'See how far I've got in six months.'  When he
came back he took me into his company again....
What price that, eh?"

Edward Henry could only nod his head.  The
customarily silent Seven Sachs had little by little
subdued him to an admiration as mute as it was profound.

"Nearly five years after that I got a Christmas
card from old Florance.  It had the usual printed
wishes,--'Merriest possible Christmas, and so on,'--but
underneath that Archibald had written in
pencil, 'You've still five years to go.'  That made
me roll my sleeves up, as you may say.  Well, a
long time after that I was standing at the corner of
Broadway and Forty-fourth Street, and looking at
my own name in electric letters on the Criterion
Theatre.  First time I'd ever seen it in electric
letters on Broadway.  It was the first night of
'Overheard.'  Florance was playing at the
Hudson Theatre, which is a bit higher up Forty-fourth
Street, and *his* name was in electric letters too, but
further off Broadway than mine.  I strolled up, just
out of idle curiosity, and there the old man was
standing in the porch of the theatre, all alone!
'Hullo, Sachs,' he said, 'I'm glad I've seen you.
It's saved me twenty-five cents.'  I asked how.  He
said, 'I was just going to send you a telegram of
congratulations.'  He liked me, old Archibald did.
He still does.  But I hadn't done with him.  I went
to stay with him at his house on Long Island in
the spring.  'Excuse me, Mr. Florance,' I says to
him.  'How many companies have you got on the
road?'  He said, 'Oh!  I haven't got many now.
Five, I think.'  'Well,' I says.  'I've got six here
in the United States, two in England, three in
Austria, and one in Italy.'  He said, 'Have a cigar,
Sachs; you've got the goods on me!'  He was
living in that magnificent house all alone, with a whole
regiment of servants."

.. vspace:: 3

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   \V.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well," said Edward Henry, "you're a great man!"

"No, I'm not," said Mr. Seven Sachs.  "But my
income is four hundred thousand dollars a year, and
rising.  I'm out after the stuff, that's all."

"I say you are a great man!" Edward Henry
repeated.  Mr. Sachs' recital had inspired him.
He kept saying to himself: "And I'm a great
man too.  And I'll show 'em."

Mr. Sachs, having delivered himself of his load,
had now lapsed comfortably back into his original
silence, and was prepared to listen.  But Edward
Henry somehow had lost the desire to enlarge on
his own variegated past.  He was absorbed in the
greater future.

At length he said very distinctly:

"You honestly think I could run a theatre?"

"You were born to run a theatre," said Seven Sachs.

Thrilled, Edward Henry responded:

"Then I'll write to those lawyer people, Slossons,
and tell 'em I'll be around with the brass about
eleven to-morrow."

Mr. Sachs rose.  A clock had delicately chimed two.

"If ever you come to New York, and I can do
anything for you--" said Mr. Sachs heartily.

"Thanks," said Edward Henry.  They were
shaking hands.  "I say," Edward Henry went on,
"there's one thing I want to ask you.  Why *did*
you promise to back Rose Euclid and her friends?
You must surely have known--"  He threw up his hands.

Mr. Sachs answered:

"I'll be frank with you.  It was her cousin that
persuaded me into it--Elsie April."

"Elsie April?  Who's she?"

"Oh!  You must have seen them about together--her
and Rose Euclid.  They're nearly always together."

"I saw her in the restaurant here to-day with a
rather jolly girl--blue hat."

"That's the one.  As soon as you've made her
acquaintance you'll understand what I mean," said
Mr. Seven Sachs.

"Ah!  But I'm not a bachelor like you," Edward
Henry smiled archly.

"Well, you'll see when you meet her," said Mr. Sachs.
Upon which enigmatic warning he departed,
and was lost in the immense glittering nocturnal
silence of Wilkins's.

Edward Henry sat down to write to Slossons by
the three A.M. post.  But as he wrote he kept
saying to himself: "So Elsie April's her name, is it?
And she actually persuaded Sachs--Sachs--to
make a fool of himself!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LORD WOLDO AND LADY WOLDO`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   LORD WOLDO AND LADY WOLDO

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   \II.

.. vspace:: 1

The next morning Joseph, having opened
wide the window, informed his master that
the weather was bright and sunny, and
Edward Henry arose with just that pleasant degree
of fatigue which persuades one that one is, if
anything, rather more highly vitalised than usual.  He
sent for Mr. Bryany, as for a domestic animal, and
Mr. Bryany, ceremoniously attired, was received by
a sort of jolly king who happened to be trimming
his beard in the royal bathroom, but who was too
good-natured to keep Mr. Bryany waiting.  It is
remarkable how the habit of royalty, having once
taken root, will flourish in the minds of quite
unmonarchical persons.  Edward Henry first enquired
after the health of Mr. Seven Sachs, and then
obtained from Mr. Bryany all remaining papers and
trifles of information concerning the affair of the
option.  Whereupon Mr. Bryany, apparently much
elated by the honour of an informal reception,
effusively retired.  And Edward Henry too was so
elated, and his faith in life so renewed and
invigorated that he said to himself:

"It might be worth while to shave my beard off
after all!"

As in his electric brougham he drove along muddy
and shining Piccadilly, he admitted that Joseph's
account of the weather had been very accurate.  The
weather was magnificent; it presented the best
features of summer combined with the salutary
pungency of autumn.  And flags were flying over the
establishments of tobacconists, soothsayers, and
insurance companies in Piccadilly.  And the sense of
empire was in the very air, like an intoxication.
And there was no place like London.  When, however,
having run through Piccadilly into streets less
superb, he reached the Majestic, it seemed to him
that the Majestic was not a part of London, but a
bit of the provinces surrounded by London.  He
was very disappointed with the Majestic, and took
his letters from the clerk with careless condescension.
In a few days the Majestic had sunk from
being one of "London's huge caravanserais" to the
level of a swollen Turk's Head.  So fragile are
reputations!

From the Majestic, Edward Henry drove back
into the regions of Empire, between Piccadilly and
Regent Street, and deigned to call upon his tailors.
A morning suit which he had commanded being
miraculously finished, he put it on, and was at once
not only spectacularly but morally regenerated.
The old suit, though it had cost five guineas in its
time, looked a paltry and a dowdy thing as it lay,
flung down anyhow, on one of Messrs. Quayther and
Cuthering's cane chairs in the mirrored cubicle where
baronets and even peers showed their braces to the
benign Mr. Cuthering.

"I want to go to Piccadilly Circus now.  Stop at
the fountain," said Edward Henry to his chauffeur.
He gave the order somewhat defiantly, because he
was a little self-conscious in the new and gleaming
suit, and because he had an absurd idea that the
chauffeur might guess that he, a provincial from
the Five Towns, was about to venture into West
End theatrical enterprise, and sneer at him accordingly.

But the chauffeur merely touched his cap with an
indifferent lofty gesture, as if to say:

"Be at ease.  I have driven more persons more
moonstruck even than you.  Human eccentricity has
long since ceased to surprise me."

The fountain in Piccadilly Circus was the gayest
thing in London.  It mingled the fresh tingling of
water with the odour and flame of autumn blossoms
and the variegated colours of shawled women who
passed their lives on its margin engaged in the
commerce of flowers.  Edward Henry bought an aster
from a fine, bold, red-cheeked, blowsy, dirty wench
with a baby in her arms, and left some change for
the baby.  He was in a very tolerant and charitable
mood, and could excuse the sins and the stupidity
of all mankind.  He reflected forgivingly that
Rose Euclid and her friends had perhaps not
displayed an abnormal fatuity in discussing the name
of the theatre before they had got the lease of the
site for it.  Had not he himself bought all the
option without having even seen the site?  The fact
was that he had had no leisure in his short royal
career for such details as seeing the site.  He was
now about to make good the omission.

It is a fact that as he turned northward from
Piccadilly Circus, to the right of the County Fire
Office, in order to spy out the land upon which his
theatre was to be built, he hesitated, under the
delusion that all the passers-by were staring at him!
He felt just as he might have felt had he been
engaged upon some scheme nefarious.  He even went
back and pretended to examine the windows of the
County Fire Office.  Then, glancing self-consciously
about, he discerned--not unnaturally--the words
"Regent Street" on a sign.

"There you are!" he murmured with a thrill.
"There you are!  There's obviously only one name
for that theatre--'The Regent.'  It's close to
Regent Street.  No other theatre is called 'The
Regent.'  Nobody before ever had the idea of
'Regent' as a name for a theatre.  'Muses'
indeed! ... 'Intellectual!' ... 'The Regent
Theatre!'  How well it comes off the tongue!  It's
a great name!  It'll be the finest name of any
theatre in London!  And it took yours truly to think
of it!"

Then he smiled privately at his own weakness....
He too, like the despised Rose, was baptising
the unborn!  Still, he continued to dream of the
theatre, and began to picture to himself the ideal
theatre.  He discovered that he had quite a
number of startling ideas about theatre-construction,
based on his own experience as a playgoer.

When, with new courage, he directed his feet
towards the site, upon which he knew there was an
old chapel known as Queen's Glasshouse Chapel,
whose ownership had slipped from the nerveless
hand of a dying sect of dissenters, he could not
find the site, and he could not see the chapel.  For
an instant he was perturbed by a horrid suspicion
that he had been victimised by a gang of swindlers
posing as celebrated persons.  Everything was
possible in this world and century.  None of the
people who had appeared in the transaction had
resembled his previous conceptions of such people!
And confidence-thieves always operated in the
grandest hotels!  He immediately decided that if
the sequel should prove him to be a simpleton and
gull he would at any rate be a silent simpleton and
gull.  He would stoically bear the loss of two
hundred pounds, and breathe no word of woe.

But then he remembered with relief that he had
genuinely recognised both Rose Euclid and Seven
Sachs; and also that Mr. Bryany, among other
documents, had furnished him with a photograph
of the chapel and surrounding property.  The
chapel therefore existed.  He had a plan in his
pocket.  He now opened this plan and tried to
consult it in the middle of the street, but his
agitation was such that he could not make out on it
which was north and which was south.  After he
had been nearly prostrated by a taxicab, a policeman
came up to him and said with all the friendly disdain
of a London policeman addressing a provincial:

"Safer to look at that on the pavement, sir!"

Edward Henry glanced up from the plan.

"I was trying to find the Queen's Glasshouse
Chapel, Officer," said he.  "Have you ever heard
of it?"  (In Bursley, members of the town council
always flattered members of the force by addressing
them as "Officer"; and Edward Henry knew exactly
the effective intonation.)

"It *was there*, sir," said the policeman, less
disdainful, pointing to a narrow hoarding behind which
could be seen the back walls of high buildings in
Shaftesbury Avenue.  "They've just finished
pulling it down."

"Thank you," said Edward Henry quietly, with
a superb and successful effort to keep as much colour
in his face as if the policeman had not dealt him a
dizzying blow.

He then walked towards the hoarding, but could
scarcely feel the ground under his feet.  From a
wide aperture in the palisades a cartful of earth
was emerging; it creaked and shook as it was
dragged by a labouring horse over loose planks into
the roadway; a whip-cracking carter hovered on its
flank.  Edward Henry approached the aperture and
gazed within.  An elegant young man stood solitary
inside the hoarding and stared at a razed expanse
of land in whose furthest corner some navvies were
digging a hole....

The site!

But what did this sinister destructive activity
mean?  Nobody was entitled to interfere with
property on which he, Alderman Machin, held an
unexpired option!  But was it the site?  He
perused the plan again with more care.  Yes, there
could be no doubt that it was the site.  His eye
roved round, and he admitted the justice of the
boast that an electric sign displayed at the southern
front corner of the theatre would be visible from
Piccadilly Circus, lower Regent Street, Shaftesbury
Avenue, etc.  He then observed a large noticeboard,
raised on posts above the hoardings, and
read the following:

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   *Site
   of the
   First New Thought Church
   to be opened next Spring.
   Subscriptions invited.
   Rollo Wrissell, Senior Trustee.
   Ralph Alloyd, Architect.
   Dicks and Pato, Builders.*


The name of Rollo Wrissell seemed familiar to
him, and after a few moments' searching he recalled
that Rollo Wrissell was one of the trustees and
executors of the late Lord Woldo, the other being
the widow, and the mother of the new Lord Woldo.
In addition to the lettering, the notice-board held
a graphic representation of the First New Thought
Church as it would be when completed.

"Well," said Edward Henry, not perhaps
unjustifiably, "this really is a bit thick!  Here I've
got an option on a plot of land for building a theatre,
and somebody else has taken it to put up a church!"

He ventured inside the hoarding, and, addressing
the elegant young man, asked:

"You got anything to do with this, Mister?"

"Well," said the young man, smiling humorously,
"I'm the architect.  It's true that nobody
ever pays any attention to an architect in these days."

"Oh!  You're Mr. Alloyd?"

"I am."

Mr. Alloyd had black hair, intensely black,
changeful eyes, and the expressive mouth of an
actor.

"I thought they were going to build a theatre
here," said Edward Henry.

"I wish they had been!" said Mr. Alloyd.  "I'd
just like to design a theatre!  But of course I shall
never get the chance."

"Why not?"

"I know I sha'n't," Mr. Alloyd insisted with
gloomy disgust.  "Only obtained this job by sheer
accident! ... You got any ideas about theatres?"

"Well, I have," said Edward Henry.

Mr. Alloyd turned on him with a sardonic and
half-benevolent gleam.

"And what are your ideas about theatres?"

"Well," said Edward Henry, "I should like to
meet an architect who had thoroughly got it into his
head that when people pay for seats to see a play
they want to be able to *see* it, and not just get a
look at it now and then over other people's heads
and round corners of boxes and things.  In most
theatres that I've been in, the architects seemed to
think that iron pillars and wooden heads are
transparent.  Either that, or the architects were rascals.
Same with hearing.  The pit costs half a crown, and
you don't pay half a crown to hear glasses rattled
in a bar, or motor-omnibuses rushing down the
street.  I was never yet in a London theatre where
the architect had really understood that what the
people in the pit wanted to hear was the play, and
nothing but the play."

"You're rather hard on us," said Mr. Alloyd.

"Not so hard as you are on *us*!" said Edward
Henry.  "And then draughts!  I suppose you
think a draught on the back of the neck is good for
us! ... But of course you'll say all this has
nothing to do with architecture!"

"Oh, no, I sha'n't!  Oh, no, I sha'n't!"
exclaimed Mr. Alloyd.  "I quite agree with you!"

"You *do*?"

"Certainly.  You seem to be interested in theatres?"

"I am a bit."

"You come from the North?"

"No, I don't," said Edward Henry.  Mr. Alloyd
had no right to be aware that he was not a Londoner.

"I beg your pardon."

"I come from the Midlands."

"Oh! ... Have you seen the Russian ballet?"

Edward Henry had not, nor heard of it.
"Why?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Mr. Alloyd.  "Only I saw it the
night before last in Paris.  You never saw such
dancing.  It's enchanted--enchanted!  The most
lovely thing I ever saw in my life.  I couldn't sleep
for it.  Not that I ever sleep very well!  I merely
thought, as you were interested in theatres--and
Midland people are so enterprising! ... Have a
cigarette?"

Edward Henry, who had begun to feel sympathetic,
was somewhat repelled by these odd last
remarks.  After all the man, though human enough,
was an utter stranger.

"No, thanks," he said.  "And so you're going to
put up a church here?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wonder whether you are."

He walked abruptly away under Alloyd's riddling
stare, and he could almost hear the man saying,
"Well, he's a queer lot, if you like."

At the corner of the site, below the spot where
his electric sign was to have been, he was stopped
by a well-dressed middle aged lady who bore a
bundle of papers.

"Will you buy a paper for the cause?" she
suggested in a pleasant, persuasive tone.  "One penny."

He obeyed, and she handed him a small blue-printed
periodical of which the title was, *Azure*,
"the Organ of the New Thought Church."  He
glanced at it, puzzled, and then at the middle-aged
lady.

"Every penny of profit goes to the Church-Building
Fund," she said, as if in defence of her action.

Edward Henry burst out laughing; but it was a
nervous, half-hysterical laugh that he laughed.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

In Carey Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, he descended
from his brougham in front of the offices of
Messrs. Slosson, Hodge, Budge, Slosson, Maveringham,
Slosson, and Vulto, Solicitors, known in the
profession by the compendious abbreviation of Slossons.
Edward Henry, having been a lawyer's clerk some
twenty-five years earlier, was aware of Slossons.
Although on the strength of his youthful clerkship
he claimed, and was admitted, to possess a very
special knowledge of the law,--enough to silence
argument when his opponent did not happen to be
an actual solicitor,--he did not in truth possess a
very special knowledge of the law,--how should he,
seeing that he had only been a practitioner of
shorthand?--but the fame of Slosson he positively was
acquainted with!  He had even written letters to
the mighty Slossons.

Every lawyer and lawyer's clerk in the realm
knew the greatness of Slossons, and crouched before
it, and also, for the most part, impugned its
righteousness with sneers.  For Slossons acted for the
ruling classes of England, who only get value for
their money when they are buying something that
they can see, smell, handle, or intimidate--such as
a horse, a motor-car, a dog, or a lackey.  Slossons,
those crack solicitors, like the crack nerve specialists
in Harley Street and the crack fortune-tellers in
Bond Street, sold their invisible, inodorous, and
intangible wares of advice at double, treble, or
decuple their worth, according to the psychology of
the customer.  They were great bullies.  And they
were, further, great money-lenders--on behalf of
their wealthier clients.  In obedience to a convenient
theory that it is imprudent to leave money too
long in one place, they were continually calling in
mortgages and re-lending the sums so collected on
fresh investments, thus achieving two bills of costs
on each transaction, and sometimes three, besides
employing an army of valuers, surveyors, and
mortgage-insurance brokers.  In short, Slossons had nothing
to learn about the art of self-enrichment.

Three vast motor-cars waited in front of their
ancient door, and Edward Henry's hired electric
vehicle was diminished to a trifle.

He began by demanding the senior partner, who
was denied to him by an old clerk with a face like
a stone wall.  Only his brutal Midland insistence,
and the mention of the important letter which he
had written to the firm in the middle of the night,
saved him from the ignominy of seeing no partner
at all.  At the end of the descending ladder of
partners he clung desperately to Mr. Vulto, and he
saw Mr. Vulto--a youngish and sarcastic person
with blue eyes, lodged in a dark room at the back
of the house.  It occurred fortunately that his
letter had been allotted to precisely Mr. Vulto for the
purpose of being answered.

"You got my letter?" said Edward Henry cheerfully
as he sat down at Mr. Vulto's flat desk on the
side opposite from Mr. Vulto.

"We got it, but frankly we cannot make head or
tail of it! ... *What* option?"  Mr. Vulto's manner
was crudely sarcastic.

"*This* option!" said Edward Henry, drawing
papers from his pocket and putting down the right
paper in front of Mr. Vulto with an uncompromising slap.

Mr. Vulto picked up the paper with precautions,
as if it were a contagion, and, assuming eye-glasses,
perused it with his mouth open.

"We know nothing of this," said Mr. Vulto, and
it was as though he had added, "Therefore this
does not exist."  He glanced with sufferance at the
window, which offered a close-range view of a
whitewashed wall.

"Then you weren't in the confidence of your client?"

"The late Lord Woldo?"

"Yes."

"Pardon me."

"Obviously you weren't in his confidence as
regards this particular matter."

"As you say," said Mr. Vulto with frigid irony.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Well--nothing."  Mr. Vulto removed his
eye-glasses and stood up.

"Well, good morning.  I'll walk round to my
solicitors."  Edward Henry seized the option.

"That will be simpler," said Mr. Vulto.  Slossons
much preferred to deal with lawyers than with
laymen, because it increased costs and vitalised the
profession.

At that moment a stout, red-faced, and hoary man
puffed very authoritatively into the room.

"Vulto," he cried sharply, "Mr. Wrissell's here.
Didn't they tell you?"

"Yes, Mr. Slosson," answered Vulto, suddenly
losing all his sarcastic quality and becoming a very
junior partner.  "I was just engaged with Mr.--"
(he paused to glance at his desk)--"Machin, whose
singular letter we received this morning about an
alleged option on the lease of the chapel-site at
Piccadilly Circus--the Woldo estate, sir.  You
remember, sir?"

"This the man?" enquired Mr. Slosson, ex-president
of the Law Society, with a jerk of the thumb.

Edward Henry said: "This is the man."

"Well," said Mr. Slosson, lifting his chin and
still puffing, "it would be extremely interesting to
hear his story, at any rate.  I was just telling
Mr. Wrissell about it.  Come this way, sir.  I've heard
some strange things in my time, but--"  He
stopped.  "Please follow me, sir," he ordained.

"I'm dashed if I'll follow you!" Edward Henry
desired to say, but he had not the courage to say
it.  And because he was angry with himself he
determined to make matters as unpleasant as possible
for the innocent Mr. Slosson, who was used to
bullying, and so well paid for bullying, that really no
blame could be apportioned to him.  It would have
been as reasonable to censure an ordinary person for
breathing as to censure Mr. Slosson for bullying.
And so Edward Henry was steeling himself: "I'll
do him in the eye for that, even if it costs me every
cent I've got."  (A statement characterised by
poetical licence!)

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Slosson, senior, heard Edward Henry's story,
but seemingly did not find it quite as interesting as
he had prophesied it would be.  When Edward
Henry had finished the old man drummed on an
enormous table, and said:

"Yes, yes.  And then?"  His manner was far
less bullying than in the room of Mr. Vulto.

"It's your turn now, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry.

"My turn?  How?"

"To go on with the story."  He glanced at the
clock.  "I've brought it up to date--eleven
fifteen o'clock this morning, *anno domini*."  And as
Mr. Slosson continued to drum on the table and to
look out of the window, Edward Henry also
drummed on the table and looked out of the window.

The chamber of the senior partner was a very
different matter from Mr. Vulto's.  It was immense.
It was not disfigured by japanned boxes inartistically
lettered in white, as are most lawyers' offices.
Indeed, in aspect it resembled one of the cosier rooms
in a small and decaying but still comfortable club.
It had easy chairs and cigar-boxes.  Moreover, the
sun got into it, and there was a view of the comic
yet stately Victorian Gothic of the Law Courts.
The sun enheartened Edward Henry.  And he felt
secure in an unimpugnable suit of clothes; in the
shape of his collar, the colour of his necktie, the
style of his creaseless boots; and in the protuberance
of his pocketbook in his pocket.

As Mr. Slosson had failed to notice the
competition of his drumming, he drummed still louder.
Whereupon Mr. Slosson stopped drumming.
Edward Henry gazed amiably around.  Right at the
back of the room, before a back window that gave
on the whitewashed wall, a man was rapidly putting
his signature to a number of papers.  But Mr. Slosson
had ignored the existence of this man, treating
him apparently as a figment of the disordered brain,
or as an optical illusion.

"I've nothing to say," said Mr. Slosson.

"Or to do?"

"Or to do."

"Well, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry, "your
junior partner has already outlined your policy of
masterly inactivity.  So I may as well go.  I did
say I'd go to my solicitors; but it's occurred to me
that as I'm a principal I may as well first of all see
the principals on the other side.  I only came here
because it mentions in the option that the matter is
to be completed here; that's all."

"You a principal!" exclaimed Mr. Slosson.  "It
seems to me you're a long way removed from a
principal.  The alleged option is given to a Miss Rose
Euclid."

"Excuse me--*the* Miss Rose Euclid."

"Miss Rose Euclid.  She divides up her alleged
interest into fractions and sells them here and there,
and you buy them up one after another."  Mr. Slosson
laughed, not unamiably.  "You're a principal
about five times removed."

"Well," said Edward Henry, "whatever I am,
I have a sort of idea I'll go and see this Mr. Gristle
or Wrissell.  Can you--"

The man at the distant desk turned his head.
Mr. Slosson coughed.  The man rose.

"This is Mr. Wrissell," said Mr. Slosson with a
gesture from which confusion was not absent.

"Good morning," said the advancing Mr. Rollo
Wrissell, and he said it with an accent more
Kensingtonian than any accent that Edward Henry had
ever heard.  His lounging and yet elegant walk
assorted well with the accent.  His black clothes were
loose and untidy.  Such boots as his could not have
been worn by Edward Henry even in the Five Towns
without blushing shame, and his necktie looked as if
a baby or a puppy had been playing with it.
Nevertheless, these shortcomings made absolutely no
difference whatever to the impressiveness of Mr. Rollo
Wrissell, who was famous for having said once:
"I put on whatever comes to hand first, and people
don't seem to mind."

Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to one of the seven
great families which once governed--and, by the
way, still do govern--England, Scotland, and
Ireland.  The members of these families may be
divided into two species: those who rule, and those
who are too lofty in spirit even to rule--those who
exist.  Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to the latter
species.  His nose and mouth had the exquisite
refinement of the descendant of generations of
art-collectors and poet-patronisers.  He enjoyed life,
but not with rude activity, like the grosser members
of the ruling caste, rather with a certain rare
languor.  He sniffed and savoured the whole spherical
surface of the apple of life with those delicate
nostrils rather than bit into it.  His one conviction was
that in a properly managed world nothing ought to
occur to disturb or agitate the perfect tranquillity
of his existing.  And this conviction was so
profound, so visible even in his lightest gesture and
glance, that it exerted a mystic influence over the
entire social organism, with the result that practically
nothing ever did occur to disturb or agitate the
perfect tranquillity of Mr. Rollo Wrissell's existing.
For Mr. Rollo Wrissell the world was indeed almost ideal.

Edward Henry breathed to himself:

"This is the genuine article."

And, being an Englishman, he was far more
impressed by Mr. Wrissell than he had been by the
much vaster reputations of Rose Euclid, Seven
Sachs, Mr. Slosson, senior.  At the same time he
inwardly fought against Mr. Wrissell's silent and
unconscious dominion over him, and all the defiant
Midland belief that one body is as good as
anybody else surged up in him--but stopped at his lips.

"Please don't rise," Mr. Wrissell entreated,
waving both hands.  "I'm very sorry to hear of this
unhappy complication," he went on to Edward
Henry with the most adorable and winning
politeness.  "It pains me."  (His martyred expression
said: "And really I ought not to be pained.")  "I'm
quite convinced that you are here in absolute
good faith--the most absolute good faith, Mr.--"

"Machin," suggested Mr. Slosson.

"Ah!  Pardon me, Mr. Machin.  And, naturally,
in the management of enormous estates such
as Lord Woldo's little difficulties are apt to occur....
I'm sorry you've been put in a false position.
You have all my sympathies.  But of course you
understand that in this particular case....  I myself
have taken up the lease from the estate.  I happen
to be interested in a great movement.  The plans
of my church have been passed by the county
council.  Building operations have indeed begun."

"Oh, chuck it!" said Edward Henry inexcusably--but
such were his words.  A surfeit of
Mr. Wrissell's calm egotism and accent and fatigued
harmonious gestures drove him to commit this
outrage upon the very fabric of civilisation.

Mr. Wrissell, if he had ever met with the phrase,--which
is doubtful,--had certainly never heard it
addressed to himself; conceivably he might have
once come across it in turning over the pages of a
slang dictionary.  A tragic expression traversed his
bewildered features; and then he recovered himself
somewhat.

"I--"

"Go and bury yourself!" said Edward Henry,
with increased savagery.

Mr. Wrissell, having comprehended, went.  He
really did go.  He could not tolerate scenes, and
his glance showed that any forcible derangement of
his habit of existing smoothly would nakedly disclose
the unyielding adamantine selfishness that was the
basis of the Wrissell philosophy.  His glance was
at least harsh and bitter.  He went in silence, and
rapidly.  Mr. Slosson, senior, followed him at a
great pace.

Edward Henry was angry.  Strange though it
may seem, the chief cause of his anger was the fact
that his own manners and breeding were lower,
coarser, clumsier, more brutal, than Mr. Wrissell's.

After what appeared to be a considerable absence
Mr. Slosson, senior, returned into the room.  Edward
Henry, steeped in peculiar meditations, was repeating:

"So this is Slosson's!"

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Slosson with a
challenge in his ancient but powerful voice.

"Nowt!" said Edward Henry.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Slosson, "we'd better come
to an understanding about this so-called option.  It's
not serious, you know."

"You'll find it is."

"It's not commercial."

"I fancy it is--for me!" said Edward Henry.

"The premium mentioned is absurdly inadequate,
and the ground-rent is quite improperly low."

"That's just why I look on it as commercial--from
my point of view," said Edward Henry.

"It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said
Mr. Slosson.

"Why?"

"Because, seeing the unusual form of it, it ought
to be stamped, and it isn't stamped."

"Listen here, Mr. Slosson," said Edward Henry,
"I want you to remember that you're talking to a
lawyer."

"A lawyer?"

"I was in the law for years," said Edward Henry.
"And you know as well as I do that I can get the
option stamped at any time by paying a penalty,
which at worst will be a trifle compared to the value
of the option."

"Ah!"  Mr. Slosson paused, and resumed his
puffing, which exercise--perhaps owing to undue
excitement--he had pretermitted.  "Then further,
the deed isn't drawn up."

"That's not my fault."

"Further, the option is not transferable."

"We shall see about that."

"And the money ought to be paid down to-day,
even on your own showing--every cent of it, in cash."

"Here is the money," said Edward Henry, drawing
his pocketbook from his breast.  "Every cent
of it, in the finest brand of bank-notes!"

He flung down the notes with the impulsive gesture
of an artist; then, with the caution of a man of
the world, gathered them in again.

"The whole circumstances under which the
alleged option is alleged to have been given would
have to be examined," said Mr. Slosson.

"*I* sha'n't mind," said Edward Henry; "others might."

"There is such a thing as undue influence."

"Miss Euclid is fifty if she's a day," replied
Edward Henry.

"I don't see what Miss Euclid's age has to do
with the matter."

"Then your eyesight must be defective, Mr. Slosson."

"The document might be a forgery."

"It might.  But I've got an autograph letter
written entirely in the last Lord Woldo's hand,
enclosing the option."

"Let me see it, please."

"Certainly, but in a court of law," said Edward
Henry.  "You know you're hungry for a good action,
followed by a bill of costs as long as from here
to Jericho."

"Mr. Wrissell will assuredly fight," said
Mr. Slosson.  "He has already given me the most
explicit instructions.  Mr. Wrissell's objection to a
certain class of theatres is well-known."

"And does Mr. Wrissell settle everything?"

"Mr. Wrissell and Lady Woldo settle everything
between them, and Lady Woldo is guided by
Mr. Wrissell.  There is an impression abroad that
because Lady Woldo was originally connected--er--with
the stage, she and Mr. Wrissell are not
entirely at one in the conduct of her and her son's
interests.  Nothing could be further from the fact."

Edward Henry's thoughts dwelt for a few
moments upon the late Lord Woldo's picturesque and
far-resounding marriage.

"Can you give me Lady Woldo's address?"

"I can't," said Mr. Slosson after an instant's hesitation.

"You mean you won't!"

Mr. Slosson pursed his lips.

"Well, you can do the other thing!" said
Edward Henry, insolent to the last.

As he left the premises he found Mr. Rollo
Wrissell and his own new acquaintance, Mr. Alloyd, the
architect, chatting in the portico.  Mr. Wrissell was
calm, bland, and attentive; Mr. Alloyd was eager,
excited, and deferential.

Edward Henry caught the words "Russian ballet."  He
reflected upon an abstract question oddly
disconnected with the violent welter of his sensations:
"Can a man be a good practical architect who isn't
able to sleep because he's seen a Russian ballet?"

The alert chauffeur of the electric brougham, who
had an excellent idea of effect, brought the admirable
vehicle to the curb exactly in front of Edward Henry
as Edward Henry reached the edge of the pavement.
Ejaculating a brief command, Edward Henry
disappeared within the vehicle, and was whirled away
in a style whose perfection no scion of a governing
family could have bettered.

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   \IV.

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The next scene in the exciting drama of Edward
Henry's existence that day took place in a building
as huge as Wilkins's itself.  As the brougham
halted at its portals an old and medalled man rushed
forth, touched his cap, and assisted Edward Henry
to alight.  Within the groined and echoing hall of
the establishment a young boy sprang out and, with
every circumstance of deference, took Edward
Henry's hat and stick.  Edward Henry then walked
a few steps to a lift, and said "Smoking-room!" to
another menial, who bowed humbly before him, and
at the proper moment bowed him out of the lift.
Edward Henry, crossing a marble floor, next entered
an enormous marble apartment chiefly populated by
easy chairs and tables.  He sat down to a table, and
fiercely rang a bell which reposed thereon.  Several
other menials simultaneously appeared out of
invisibility, and one of them hurried obsequiously
towards him.

"Bring me a glass of water and a peerage," said
Edward Henry.

"I beg pardon, sir.  A glass of water and--"

"A peerage.  P double e-r-a-g-e."

"I beg your pardon, sir.  I didn't catch.  Which
peerage, sir?  We have several."

"All of them."

In a hundred seconds, the last menial having
thanked him for kindly taking the glass and the pile
of books, Edward Henry was sipping water and
studying peerages.  In two hundred seconds he was
off again.  A menial opened the swing-doors of the
smoking-room for him, and bowed.  The menial
of the lift bowed, wafted him downwards, and
bowed.  The infant menial produced his hat and
stick and bowed.  The old and medalled menial
summoned his brougham with a frown at the chauffeur
and a smile at Edward Henry, bowed, opened the
door of the brougham, helped Edward Henry in,
bowed, and shut the door.

"Where to, sir?"

"262 Eaton Square," said Edward Henry.

"Thank you, sir," said the aged menial, and
repeated in a curt and peremptory voice to the
chauffeur, "262 Eaton Square!"  Lastly he touched
his cap.

And Edward Henry swiftly left the precincts of
the headquarters of political democracy in London.

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   \V.

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As he came within striking distance of 262 Eaton
Square he had the advantage of an unusual and
brilliant spectacle.

Lord Woldo was one of the richest human beings
in England--and incidentally he was very human.
If he had been in a position to realise all his assets
and go to America with the ready money, his wealth
was such that even amid the luxurious society of
Pittsburg he could have cut quite a figure for some
time.  He owned a great deal of the land between
Oxford Street and Regent Street, and again a
number of the valuable squares north of Oxford Street
were his, and as for Edgware Road--just as
auctioneers advertise a couple of miles of trout-stream
or salmon-river as a pleasing adjunct to a country
estate, so, had Lord Woldo's estate come under the
hammer, a couple of miles of Edgware Road might
have been advertised as among its charms.  Lord
Woldo owned four theatres, and to each theatre
he had his private entrance, and in each theatre his
private box, over which the management had no
sway.  The Woldos in their leases had always
insisted on this.

He never built in London; his business was to let
land for others to build upon, the condition being
that what others built should ultimately belong to
him.  Thousands of people in London were only too
delighted to build on these terms: he could pick and
choose his builders.  (The astute Edward Henry
himself, for example, wanted furiously to build for
him, and was angry because obstacles stood in the
path of his desire.)  It was constantly happening
that under legal agreements some fine erection put
up by another hand came into the absolute
possession of Lord Woldo without one halfpenny of
expense to Lord Woldo.  Now and then a whole
street would thus tumble all complete into his hands.
The system, most agreeable for Lord Woldo and
about a dozen other landlords in London, was called
the leasehold system; and when Lord Woldo
became the proprietor of some bricks and mortar that
had cost him nothing, it was said that one of Lord
Woldo's leases had "fallen in," and everybody was
quite satisfied by this phrase.

In the provinces, besides castles, forests, and
moors, Lord Woldo owned many acres of land
under which was coal, and he allowed enterprising
persons to dig deep for this coal, and often explode
themselves to death in the adventure, on the
understanding that they paid him sixpence for every ton
of coal brought to the surface, whether they made
any profit on it or not.  This arrangement was
called "mining rights"--another phrase that
apparently satisfied everybody.

It might be thought that Lord Woldo was, as
they say, on velvet.  But the velvet, if it could be so
described, was not of so rich and comfortable a
pile after all; for Lord Woldo's situation involved
many and heavy responsibilities, and was surrounded
by grave dangers.  He was the representative of an
old order going down in the unforeseeable welter of
twentieth-century politics.  Numbers of thoughtful
students of English conditions spent much of their
time in wondering what would happen one day to
the Lord Woldos of England.  And when a really
great strike came, and a dozen ex-artisans met in a
private room of a West End hotel and decided,
without consulting Lord Woldo, or the Prime Minister,
or anybody, that the commerce of the country should
be brought to a standstill, these thoughtful students
perceived that even Lord Woldo's situation was no
more secure than other people's; in fact, that it was
rather less so.

There could be no doubt that the circumstances of
Lord Woldo furnished him with food for thought,
and very indigestible food too....  Why, at least
one hundred sprightly female creatures were being
brought up in the hope of marrying him.  And they
would all besiege him, and he could only marry one
of them--at once!

Now, as Edward Henry stopped as near to No. 262
as the presence of a waiting two-horse carriage
permitted, he saw a gray-haired and blue-cloaked
woman solemnly descending the steps of the portico
of No. 262.  She was followed by another similar
woman, and watched by a butler and a footman at
the summit of the steps, and by a footman on the
pavement, and by the coachman on the box of the
carriage.  She carried a thick and lovely white
shawl, and in this shawl was Lord Woldo and all
his many and heavy responsibilities.  It was his
fancy to take the air thus, in the arms of a woman.
He allowed himself to be lifted into the open
carriage, and the door of the carriage was shut; and
off went the two ancient horses, slowly, and the two
adult fat men and the two mature spinsters, and the
vehicle weighing about a ton; and Lord Woldo's
morning promenade had begun.

"Follow that!" said Edward Henry to the
chauffeur, and nipped into his brougham again.
Nobody had told him that the being in the shawl was
Lord Woldo, but he was sure that it must be so.

In twenty minutes he saw Lord Woldo being
carried to and fro amid the groves of Hyde Park
(one of the few bits of London earth that did not
belong to him nor to his more or less distant
connections) while the carriage waited.  Once Lord
Woldo sat on a chair, but the chief nurse's lap was
between him and the chair-seat.  Both nurses chattered
to him in Kensingtonian accents, but he offered
no replies.

"Go back to 262," said Edward Henry to his chauffeur.

Arrived again in Eaton Square, he did not give
himself time to be imposed upon by the grandiosity
of the square in general nor of No. 262 in particular.
He just ran up the steps and rang the visitors' bell.

"After all," he said to himself as he waited,
"these houses aren't even semi detached!  They're
just houses in a row, and I bet every one of 'em can
hear the piano next door!"

The butler whom he had previously caught sight
of opened the great portal.

"I want to see Lady Woldo."

"Her ladyship--" began the formidable official.

"Now look here my man," said Edward Henry
rather in desperation, "I must see Lady Woldo
instantly.  It's about the baby--"

"About his lordship?"

"Yes.  And look lively, please."

He stepped into the sombre and sumptuous hall.

"Well," he reflected, "I am going it--no mistake!"

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   \VI.

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He was in a large back drawing-room, of which
the window, looking north, was in rich stained glass.
"No doubt because they're ashamed of the view,"
he said to himself.  The size of the chimneypiece
impressed him, and also its rich carving.  "But
what an old-fashioned grate!" he said to himself.
"They need gilt radiators here."  The doorway
was a marvel of ornate sculpture, and he liked it.
He liked too the effect of the oil-paintings--mainly
portraits--on the walls, and the immensity of the
brass fender, and the rugs, and the leatherwork of
the chairs.  But there could be no question that the
room was too dark for the taste of any householder
clever enough to know the difference between a house
and a church.

There was a plunging noise at the door behind him.

"What's amiss?" he heard a woman's voice.
And as he heard it he thrilled with sympathetic
vibrations.  It was not a North Staffordshire voice,
but it was a South Yorkshire voice, which is almost
the same thing.  It seemed to him to be the first
un-Kensingtonian voice to soothe his ears since he had
left the Five Towns.  Moreover, nobody born
south of the Trent would have said, "What's
amiss?"  A Southerner would have said, "What's
the matter?"  Or, more probably, "What's the mattah?"

He turned and saw a breathless and very beautiful
woman of about twenty-nine or thirty, clothed in
black, and she was in the act of removing from her
lovely head what looked like a length of red flannel.
He noticed too, simultaneously, that she was suffering
from a heavy cold.  A majestic footman behind
her closed the door and disappeared.

"Are you Lady Woldo?" Edward Henry asked.

"Yes," she said.  "What's this about my baby?"

"I've just seen him in Hyde Park," said Edward
Henry.  "And I observed that a rash had broken
out all over his face."

"I know that," she replied.  "It began this
morning, all of a sudden like.  But what of it?  I
was rather alarmed myself, as it's the first rash he's
had, and he's the first baby I've had--and he'll be
the last too.  But everybody said it was nothing.
He's never been out without me before, but I had
such a cold.  Now, you don't mean to tell me that
you've come down specially from Hyde Park to
inform me about that rash.  I'm not such a simpleton
as all that."  She spoke in one long breath.

"I'm sure you're not," said he.  "But we've had
a good deal of rash in our family, and it just
happens that I've got a remedy--a good, sound,
north-country remedy, and it struck me you might like to
know of it.  So, if you like, I'll telegraph to my
missis for the recipe.  Here's my card."

She read his name, title, and address.

"Well," she said, "it's very kind of you, I'm sure,
Mr. Machin.  I knew you must come from up there
the moment ye spoke.  It does one good above a
bit to hear a plain north-country voice after all this
fal-lalling."

She blew her lovely nose.

"Doesn't it!" Edward Henry agreed.  "That
was just what I thought when I heard you say 'Bless
us!'  Do you know, I've been in London only a
two-three days, and I assure you I was beginning to
feel lonely for a bit of the Midland accent!"

"Yes," she said, "London's lonely!" and sighed.

"My eldest was bitten by a dog the other day,"
he went on in the vein of gossip.

"Oh, don't!" she protested.

"Yes.  Gave us a lot of anxiety.  All right now!
You might like to know that cyanide gauze is a good
thing to put on a wound--supposing anything should
happen to yours--"

"Oh, don't!" she protested.  "I do hope and
pray Robert will never be bitten by a dog.  Was it
a big dog?"

"Fair," said Edward Henry.  "So his name's
Robert!  So's my eldest's!"

"Really now!  They wanted him to be called
Robert Philip Stephen Darrand Patrick.  But I
wouldn't have it.  He's just Robert.  I did have
my own way *there*!  You know he was born six
months after his father's death."

"And I suppose he's ten months now?"

"No; only six."

"Great Scott!  He's big!" said Edward Henry.

"Well," said she, "he is.  I am, you see."

"Now, Lady Woldo," said Edward Henry in a
new tone, "as we're both from the same part of the
country, I want to be perfectly straight and above
board with you.  It's quite true--all that about the
rash.  And I *did* think you'd like to know.  But
that's not really what I came to see you about.  You
understand, not knowing you, I fancied there might
be some difficulty in getting at you--"

"Oh, no!" she said simply.  "Everybody gets at me."

"Well, I didn't know, you see.  So I just
mentioned the baby to begin with, like!"

"I hope you're not after money," she said almost
plaintively.

"I'm not," he said.  "You can ask anybody in
Bursley or Hanbridge whether I'm the sort of man
to go out on the cadge."

"I once was in the chorus in a panto at Hanbridge,"
she said.  "Don't they call Bursley 'Bosley'
down there--'owd Bosley'?"

Edward Henry dealt suitably with these remarks,
and then gave her a judicious version of the nature
of his business, referring several time to Mr. Rollo
Wrissell.

"Mr. Wrissell!" she murmured, smiling.

"In the end I told Mr. Wrissell to go and bury
himself," said Edward Henry.  "And that's about
as far as I've got."

"Oh, don't!" she said, her voice weak from
suppressed laughter, and then the laughter burst forth
uncontrollable.

"Yes," he said, delighted with himself and her,
"I told him to go and bury himself!"

"I suppose you don't like Mr. Wrissell?"

"Well--" he temporised.

"I didn't at first," she said.  "I hated him.  But
I like him now, though I must say I adore teasing
him.  Mr. Wrissell is what I call a gentleman.
You know he was Lord Woldo's heir.  And when
Lord Woldo married me it was a bit of a blow for
him!  But he took it like a lamb.  He never turned
a hair, and he was more polite than any of them.
I dare say you know Lord Woldo saw me in a
musical comedy at Scarborough--he has a place near
there, ye know.  Mr. Wrissell had made him angry
about some of his New Thought fads, and I do
believe he asked me to marry him just to annoy
Mr. Wrissell.  He used to say to me, my husband did,
that he'd married me in too much of a hurry, and
that it was too bad on Mr. Wrissell.  And then he
laughed, and I laughed too.  'After all,' he used
to say, my husband did, 'to marry an actress is an
accident that might happen to any member of the
House of Lords; and it does happen to a lot of 'em,
but they don't marry anything as beautiful as you,
Blanche,' he used to say.  'And you stick up for
yourself, Blanche,' he used to say.  'I'll stand by
you,' he said.  He was a straight 'un, my husband was.

"They left me alone until he died.  And then
they began--I mean *his* folks.  And when Bobby
was born it got worse.  Only I must say even then
Mr. Wrissell never turned a hair.  Everybody
seemed to make out that I ought to be very grateful
to him, and I ought to think myself very lucky.
Me--a peeress of the realm!  They wanted me to
change.  But how could I change?  I was Blanche
Wilmot, on the road for ten years,--never got a
show in London,--and Blanche Wilmot I shall ever
be, peeress or no peeress!  It was no joke being
Lord Woldo's wife, I can tell you; and it's still less
of a joke being Lord Woldo's mother.  You imagine
it.  It's worse than carrying about a china vase all
the time on a slippery floor.  Am I any happier now
than I was before I married?  Well, I *am*!
There's more worry in one way, but there's less in
another.  And of course I've got Bobby!  But it
isn't all beer and skittles, and I let 'em know it, too.
I can't do what I like.  And I'm just a sort of exile,
you know.  I used to enjoy being on the stage, and
showing myself off.  A hard life, but one does enjoy
it.  And one gets used to it.  One gets to need it.
Sometimes I feel I'd give anything to be able to go
on the stage again--oh--oh--!"

She sneezed; then took breath.

"Shall I put some more coal on the fire?"
Edward Henry suggested.

"Perhaps I'd better ring," she hesitated.

"No, I'll do it."

He put coal on the fire.

"And if you'd feel easier with that flannel round
your head, please do put it on again."

"Well," she said, "I will.  My mother used to
say there was naught like red flannel for a cold."

With an actress' skill she arranged the flannel,
and from its encircling folds her face emerged
bewitching--and she knew it.  Her complexion had
suffered in ten years of the road, but its extreme
beauty could not yet be denied.  And Edward Henry
thought: "All the *really* pretty girls come from
the Midlands!"

"Here I am rambling on," she said.  "I always
was a rare rambler.  What do you want me to do?"

"Exert your influence," he replied.  "Don't you
think it's rather hard on Rose Euclid--treating her
like this?  Of course people say all sorts of things
about Rose Euclid--"

"I won't hear a word against Rose Euclid," cried
Lady Woldo.  "Whenever she was on tour, if she
knew any of us were resting in the town where she
was, she'd send us seats.  And many's the time I've
cried and cried at her acting.  And then she's the
life and soul of the Theatrical Ladies' Guild."

"And isn't that your husband's signature?" he
demanded, showing the precious option.

"Of course it is."

He did not show her the covering letter.

"And I've no doubt my husband *wanted* a
theatre built there, and he wanted to do Rose
Euclid a good turn.  And I'm quite positive certain
sure that he didn't want any of Mr. Wrissell's
rigmaroles on his land.  He wasn't that sort, my
husband wasn't....  You must go to law about it,"
she finished.

"Yes," said Edward Henry protestingly.  "And
a pretty penny it would cost me!  And supposing
I lost, after all? ... You never know.  There's
a much easier way than going to law."

"What is it?"

"As I say, you exert your influence, Lady Woldo.
Write and tell them I've seen you and you insist--"

"Eh!  Bless you!  They'd twist me round their
little finger.  I'm not a fool, but I'm not very clever;
I know that.  I shouldn't know whether I was standing
on my head or my heels by the time they'd done
with me.  I've tried to face them out before--about
things."

"Who, Mr. Wrissell or Slossons?"

"Both!  Eh, but I should like to put a spoke in
Mr. Wrissell's wheel, gentleman as he is.  You see,
he's just one of those men you can't help wanting
to tease.  When you're on the road you meet lots
of 'em."

"I tell you what you can do!"

"What?"

"Write and tell Slossons that you don't wish
them to act for you any more, and you'll go to
another firm of solicitors.  That would bring 'em to
their senses."

"Can't!  They're in the will.  *He* settled that.
That's why they're so cocky."

Edward Henry persisted, and this time with an
exceedingly impressive and conspiratorial air:

"I tell you another thing you could do--you
really *could* do--and it depends on nobody but
yourself."

"Well," she said with decision, "I'll do it."

"Whatever it is?"

"If it's straight."

"Of course it's straight.  And it would be a grand
way of teasing Mr. Wrissell and all of 'em!  A
simply grand way!  I should die of laughing."

"Well--"

At this critical point the historic conversation was
interrupted by phenomena in the hall which Lady
Woldo recognised with feverish excitement.  Lord
Woldo had safely returned from Hyde Park.
Starting up, she invited Edward Henry to wait a
little.  A few moments later they were bending over
the infant together, and Edward Henry was offering
his views on the cause and cure of rash.

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   \VII.

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Early on the same afternoon Edward Henry
managed by a somewhat excessive obstreperousness
to penetrate once more into the private room of
Mr. Slosson, senior, who received him in silence.

He passed a document to Mr. Slosson.

"It's only a copy," he said, "but the original is
in my pocket, and to-morrow it will be duly stamped.
I'll give you the original in exchange for the
stamped lease of my Piccadilly Circus plot of land.
You know the money is waiting."

Mr. Slosson perused the document; and it was
certainly to his credit that he did so without any
superficial symptoms of dismay.

"What will Mr. Wrissell and the Woldo family
say about that, do you think?" asked Edward Henry.

"Lady Woldo will never be allowed to carry it
out," said Mr. Slosson.

"Who's going to stop her?  She must carry it
out.  She wants to carry it out.  She's dying to
carry it out.  Moreover, I shall communicate it to
the papers to-night--unless you and I come to an
arrangement.  And if by any chance she doesn't
carry it out--well, there'll be a fine society action
about it, you can bet your boots, Mr. Slosson."

The document was a contract made between
Blanche Lady Woldo of the one part and Edward
Henry Machin of the other part, whereby Blanche
Lady Woldo undertook to appear in musical comedy
at any West End theatre to be named by Edward
Henry, at a salary of two hundred pounds a week,
for the period of six months.

"You've not got a theatre," said Mr. Slosson.

"I can get half a dozen in an hour--with that
contract in my hand," said Edward Henry.

And he knew from Mr. Slosson's face that he had won.

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   \VIII.

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That evening, feeling that he had earned a little
recreation, he went to the Empire Theatre--not
in Hanbridge, but in Leicester Square, London.
The lease, with a prodigious speed hitherto unknown
at Slossons, had been drawn up, engrossed, and
executed.  The Piccadilly Circus land was his for
sixty-four years.

"And I've got the old chapel pulled down for
nothing," he said to himself.

He was rather happy as he wandered about amid
the brilliance of the Empire Promenade.  But after
half an hour of such exercise, and of vain efforts
to see or hear what was afoot on the stage, he began
to feel rather lonely.  Then it was that he caught
sight of Mr. Alloyd the architect, also lonely.

"Well," said Mr. Alloyd curtly, with a sardonic
smile, "they've telephoned me all about it.  I've
seen Mr. Wrissell.  Just my luck!  So you're the
man!  He pointed you out to me this morning.
My design for that church would have knocked the
West End!  Of course Mr. Wrissell will pay me
compensation, but that's not the same thing.  I
wanted the advertisement of the building....  Just
my luck!  Have a drink, will you?"

Edward Henry ultimately went with the plaintive
Mr. Alloyd to his rooms in Adelphi Terrace.  He
quitted those rooms at something after two o'clock
in the morning.  He had practically given
Mr. Alloyd a definite commission to design the Regent
Theatre.  Already he was practically the proprietor
of a first-class theatre in the West End of London!

"I wonder whether Master Seven Sachs could
have bettered my day's work to-day!" he reflected
as he got into a taxicab.  He had dismissed his
electric brougham earlier in the evening.  "I doubt
if even Master Seven Sachs himself wouldn't be
proud of my little scheme in Eaton Square!" said
he....  "Wilkins's Hotel, please, driver."





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.. _`CORNER-STONE`:

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   THE OLD ADAM

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   PART II

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   CHAPTER VII

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   CORNER-STONE

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   \I.

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On a morning in spring Edward Henry got
out of an express at Euston, which had
come, not from the Five Towns, but from
Birmingham.  Having on the previous day been
called to Birmingham on local and profitable
business, he had found it convenient to spend the night
there and telegraph home that London had
summoned him.  It was in this unostentatious, this
half-furtive fashion, that his visits to London now
usually occurred.  Not that he was afraid of his wife!
Not that he was afraid even of his mother!  Oh,
no!  He was merely rather afraid of himself,--of
his own opinion concerning the metropolitan,
non-local, speculative, and perhaps unprofitable business
to which he was committed.  The fact was that he
could scarcely look his women in the face when he
mentioned London.  He spoke vaguely of "real
estate" enterprise, and left it at that.  The women
made no enquiries; they too, left it at that.
Nevertheless....

The episode of Wilkins's was buried, but it was
imperfectly buried.  The Five Towns definitely
knew that he had stayed at Wilklns's for a bet, and
that Brindley had discharged the bet.  And rumours
of his valet, his electric brougham, his theatrical
supper-parties, had mysteriously hung in the streets
of the Five Towns like a strange vapour.  Wisps of
the strange vapour had conceivably entered the
precincts of his home, but nobody ever referred to
them; nobody ever sniffed apprehensively, nor asked
anybody else whether there was not a smell of fire.
The discreetness of the silence was disconcerting.
Happily his relations with that angel, his wife, were
excellent.  She had carried angelicism so far as not
to insist on the destruction of Carlo; and she had
actually applauded, while sticking to her white apron,
the sudden and startling extravagances of his toilette.

On the whole, though little short of thirty-five
thousand pounds would ultimately be involved,--not
to speak of liability of nearly three thousand a
year for sixty-four years for ground-rent,--Edward
Henry was not entirely gloomy as to his prospects.
He was indubitably thinner in girth; novel problems
and anxieties, and the constant annoyance of being in
complete technical ignorance of his job, had removed
some flesh.  (And not a bad thing either!)  But,
on the other hand, his chin exhibited one proof that
life was worth living, and that he had discovered
new faith in life and a new conviction of youthfulness.

He had shaved off his beard.

"Well, sir!" a voice greeted him full of hope and
cheer, immediately his feet touched the platform.

It was the voice of Mr. Marrier.  Edward
Henry and Mr. Marrier were now in regular
relations.  Before Edward Henry had paid his final
bill at Wilkins's and relinquished his valet and his
electric brougham, and disposed forever of his
mythical "man" on board the *Minnetonka*, and got
his original luggage away from the Hotel Majestic,
Mr. Marrier had visited him and made a certain
proposition.  And such was the influence of
Mr. Marrier's incurable smile, and of his solid optimism,
and of his obvious talent for getting things done
on the spot (as witness the photography), that the
proposition had been accepted.  Mr. Marrier was
now Edward Henry's "representative" in London.
At the Green Room Club Mr. Marrier informed
reliable cronies that he was Edward Henry's
"confidential adviser."  At the Turk's Head,
Hanbridge, Edward Henry informed reliable cronies that
Mr. Marrier was a sort of clerk, factotum, or maid
of all work.  A compromise between these two
very different conceptions of Mr. Marrier's position
had been arrived at in the word "representative."  The
real truth was that Edward Henry employed
Mr. Marrier in order to listen to Mr. Marrier.
He turned to Mr. Marrier like a tap, and nourished
himself from a gushing stream of useful information
concerning the theatrical world.  Mr. Marrier,
quite unconsciously, was bit by bit remedying
Edward Henry's acute ignorance.

The question of wages had caused Edward
Henry some apprehension.  He had learnt in a
couple of days that a hundred pounds a week was a
trifle on the stage.  He had soon heard of
performers who worked for "nominal" salaries of
forty and fifty a week.  For a manager twenty
pounds a week seemed to be a usual figure.  But
in the Five Towns three pounds a week is regarded
as very goodish pay for any subordinate, and
Edward Henry could not rid himself all at once of
native standards.  He had therefore, with
diffidence, offered three pounds a week to the
aristocratic Marrier.  And Mr. Marrier had not refused
it, nor ceased to smile.  On three pounds a week
he haunted the best restaurants, taxicabs, and other
resorts, and his garb seemed always to be smarter
than Edward Henry's, especially in such details as
waistcoat slips.

Of course Mr. Marrier had a taxicab waiting
exactly opposite the coach from which Edward Henry
descended.  It was just this kind of efficient
attention that was gradually endearing him to his
employer.

"How goes it?" said Edward Henry curtly, as
they drove down to the Grand Babylon Hotel, now
Edward Henry's regular headquarters in London.

Said Mr. Marrier:

"I suppose you've seen another of 'em's got a
knighthood?"

"No," said Edward Henry.  "Who?"  He
knew that by "'em" Mr. Marrier meant the great
race of actor-managers.

"Gerald Pompey.  Something to do with him
being a sheriff in the City, you know.  I bet you what
you laike he went in for the Common Council simply
in order to get even with old Pilgrim.  In fact, I
know he did.  And now a foundation-stone-laying
has dan it!"

"A foundation-stone-laying?"

"Yes.  The new City Guild's building, you knaow.
Royalty--Temple Bar business--sheriffs--knighthood.
There you are!"

"Oh!" said Edward Henry.  And then after a
pause added: "Pity *we* can't have a
foundation-stone-laying!"

"By the way, old Pilgrim's in the deuce and all
of a haole, I heah.  It's all over the Clubs."  (In
speaking of the Clubs, Mr. Marrier always
pronounced them with a Capital letter.)  "I told you
he was going to sail from Tilbury on his world-tour,
and have a grand embarking ceremony and seeing-off!
Just laike him!  Greatest advertiser the world
ever saw!  Well, since that P. and O. boat was lost
on the Goodwins, Cora Pryde has absolutely
declined to sail from Tilbury.  Ab-so-lute-ly!  Swears
she'll join the steamer at Marseilles.  And Pilgrim
has got to go with her, too."

"Why?"

"Well, even Pilgrim couldn't have a grand
embarking ceremony without his leading lady!  He's
furious, I hear."

"Why shouldn't he go with her?"

"Why not?  Because he's formally announced
his grand embarking ceremony!  Invitations are out.
Barge from London Bridge to Tilbury, and so on!
What he wants is a good excuse for giving it up.
He'd never be able to admit that he'd had to give
it up because Cora Pryde made him!  He wants
to save his face."

"Well," said Edward Henry absently, "it's a
queer world.  You've got me a room at the Grand Bab?"

"Rather!"

"Then let's go and have a look at the Regent
first," said Edward Henry.

No sooner had he expressed the wish than
Mr. Marrier's neck curved round through the window,
and with three words to the chauffeur he had
deflected the course of the taxi.

Edward Henry had an almost boyish curiosity
about his edifice.  He would go and give it a glance
at the oddest moments.  And just now he had a
swift and violent desire to behold it.  With all
speed the taxi shot down Shaftesbury Avenue and
swerved to the right....

There it was!  Yes, it really existed, the incredible
edifice of his caprice and of Mr. Alloyd's constructive
imagination!  It had already reached a
height of fifteen feet; and, dozens of yards above
that, cranes dominated the sunlit air, swinging loads
of bricks in the azure; and scores of workmen
crawled about beneath these monsters.  And he,
Edward Henry, by a single act of volition was the
author of it!  He slipped from the taxi, penetrated
within the wall of hoardings, and gazed, just gazed!
A wondrous thing--human enterprise!  And also
a terrifying thing! ... That building might be the
tomb of his reputation.  On the other hand it
might be the seed of a new renown compared to
which the first would be as naught!  He turned his
eyes away, in fear--yes, in fear!

"I say," he said, "will Sir John Pilgrim be out
of bed yet, d'ye think?"  He glanced at his watch.
The hour was about eleven.

"He'll be at breakfast."

"I'm going to see him, then.  What's his address?"

"Twenty-five Queen Anne's Gate.  But do you
knaow him?  I do.  Shall I cam with you?"

"No," said Edward Henry shortly.  "You go
on with my bags to the Grand Bab, and get me
another taxi.  I'll see you in my room at the hotel at
a quarter to one.  Eh?"

"Rather!" agreed Mr. Marrier, submissive.

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   \II.

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"Sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre."

These were the words which Edward Henry
wrote on a visiting-card, and which procured him
immediate admittance to the unique spectacle--reputed
to be one of the most enthralling sights in
London--of Sir John Pilgrim at breakfast.

In a very spacious front room of his flat (so
celebrated for its Gobelins tapestries and its truly
wonderful parquet flooring) sat Sir John Pilgrim at a
large hexagonal mahogany table.  At one side of
the table a small square of white diaper was
arranged, and on this square were an apparatus for
boiling eggs, another for making toast, and a third
for making coffee.  Sir John, with the assistance
of a young Chinaman and a fox-terrier who flitted
around him, was indeed eating and drinking.  The
vast remainder of the table was gleamingly bare,
save for newspapers and letters, opened and
unopened, which Sir John tossed about.  Opposite to
him sat a secretary whose fluffy hair, neat white
chemisette, and tender years gave her an appearance
of helpless fragility in front of the powerful and
ruthless celebrity.  Sir John's crimson-socked left
foot stuck out from the table, emerging from the left
half of a lovely new pair of brown trousers, and
resting on a piece of white paper.  Before this
white paper knelt a man in a frock-coat, who was
drawing an outline on the paper round Sir John's foot.

"You *are* a bootmaker, aren't you?" Sir John
was saying airily.

"Yes, Sir John."

"Excuse me!" said Sir John.  "I only wanted
to be sure.  I fancied from the way you caressed
my corn with that pencil that you might be an artist
on one of the illustrated papers.  My mistake!"  He
was bending down.  Then suddenly straightening
himself he called across the room: "I say,
Givington, did you notice my pose then--my
expression as I used the word 'caressed'?  How
would that do?"

And Edward Henry now observed in a corner of
the room a man standing in front of an easel and
sketching somewhat grossly thereon in charcoal.
This man said:

"If you won't bother me, Sir John, I won't bother you."

"Ah!  Givington!  Ah!  Givington!" murmured
Sir John still more airily--at breakfast he
was either airy or nothing.  "You're getting on in
the world.  You aren't merely an A.R.A.--you're
making money.  A year ago you'd never have had
the courage to address me in that tone.  Well, I
sincerely congratulate you....  Here, Snip, here's
my dentist's bill--worry it, worry it!  Good dog!
Worry it!"

(The dog growled now over a torn document
beneath the table.)

"Miss Taft, you might see that a *communiqué*
goes out to the effect that I gave my first sitting to
Mr. Saracen Givington, A.R.A., this morning.
The activities of Mr. Saracen Givington are of
interest to the world, and rightly so!  You'd better
come round to the other side for the right foot,
Mr. Bootmaker.  The journey is simply nothing."

And then, and not till then, did Sir John Pilgrim
turn his large and handsome middle-aged blond face
in the direction of Alderman Edward Henry Machin.

"Pardon my curiosity," said Sir John, "but who
are you?"

"My name is Machin--Alderman Machin,"
said Edward Henry.  "I sent up my card and you
asked me to come in."

"Ha!" Sir John exclaimed, seizing an egg.
"Will you crack an egg with me, Alderman?  I
can crack an egg with anybody."

"Thanks," said Edward Henry.  "I'll be very
glad to."  And he advanced towards the table.

Sir John hesitated.  The fact was that, though
he dissembled his dismay with marked histrionic
skill, he was unquestionably overwhelmed by
astonishment.  In the course of years he had airily
invited hundreds of callers to crack an egg with
him,--the joke was one of his favourites,--but nobody
had ever ventured to accept the invitation.

"Chung," he said weakly, "lay a cover for the
alderman."

Edward Henry sat down quite close to Sir John.
He could discern all the details of Sir John's face
and costume.  The tremendous celebrity was wearing
a lounge suit somewhat like his own, but instead
of the coat--he had a blue dressing-jacket with
crimson facings; the sleeves ended in rather long
wristbands, which were unfastened, the opal
cuff-links drooping each from a single hole.  Perhaps
for the first time in his life Edward Henry intimately
understood what idiosyncratic elegance was.  He
could almost feel the emanating personality of Sir
John Pilgrim, and he was intimidated by it; he was
intimidated by its hardness, its harshness, its terrific
egotism, its utterly brazen quality.  Sir John's
glance was the most purely arrogant that Edward
Henry had ever encountered.  It knew no reticence.
And Edward Henry thought: "When this chap
dies he'll want to die in public, with the reporters
round his bed and a private secretary taking down
messages."

"This is rather a lark," said Sir John, recovering.

"It is," said Edward Henry, who now felicitously
perceived that a lark it indeed was, and ought to be
treated as such.  "It shall be a lark!" he said to
himself.

Sir John dictated a letter to Miss Taft, and
before the letter was finished the grinning Chung had
laid a place for Edward Henry, and Snip had
inspected him and passed him for one of the right
sort.

"Had I said that this is rather a lark?" Sir
John enquired, the letter accomplished.

"I forget," said Edward Henry.

"Because I don't like to say the same thing twice
over if I can help it.  It is a lark though, isn't it?"

"Undoubtedly," said Edward Henry, decapitating
an egg.  "I only hope that I'm not interrupting you."

"Not in the least," said Sir John.  "Breakfast
is my sole free time.  In another half-hour, I assure
you, I shall be attending to three or four things at
once."  He leant over towards Edward Henry.
"But between you and me, Alderman, quite
privately, if it isn't a rude question, what did you come
for?"

"Well," said Edward Henry, "as I wrote on my
card, I'm the sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre--"

"But there is no Regent Theatre," Sir John
interrupted him.

"No; not strictly.  But there will be.  It's in
course of construction.  We're up to the first floor."

"Dear me!  A suburban theatre, no doubt?"

"Do you mean to say, Sir John," cried Edward
Henry, "that you haven't noticed it.  It's within
a few yards of Piccadilly Circus."

"Really!" said Sir John.  "You see my theatre
is in Lower Regent Street, and I never go to
Piccadilly Circus.  I make a point of not going to
Piccadilly Circus.  Miss Taft, how long is it since
I went to Piccadilly Circus?  Forgive me, young
woman, I was forgetting--you aren't old enough to
remember.  Well, never mind details....  And
what is there remarkable about the Regent
Theatre, Alderman?"

"I intend it to be a theatre of the highest class,
Sir John," said Edward Henry.  "Nothing but the
very best will be seen on its boards."

"That's not remarkable, Alderman.  We're all
like that.  Haven't you noticed it?"

"Then, secondly," said Edward Henry, "I am
the sole proprietor.  I have no financial backers,
no mortgages, no partners.  I have made no
contracts with anybody."

"That," said Sir John, "is not unremarkable.
In fact, many persons who do not happen to possess
my own robust capacity for belief might not credit
your statement."

"And thirdly," said Edward Henry, "every
member of the audience--even in the boxes, the
most expensive seats--will have a full view of the
whole of the stage--or, in the alternative, at
matinées, a full view of a lady's hat."

"Alderman," said Sir John gravely, "before I
offer you another egg, let me warn you against
carrying remarkableness too far.  You may be regarded
as eccentric if you go on like that.  Some people, I
am told, don't want a view of the stage."

"Then they had better not come to my theatre,"
said Edward Henry.

"All which," commented Sir John, "gives me no
clue whatever to the reason why you are sitting here
by my side and calmly eating my eggs and toast and
drinking my coffee."

Admittedly, Edward Henry was nervous.  Admittedly,
he was a provincial in the presence of one
of the most illustrious personages of the empire.
Nevertheless he controlled his nervousness, and reflected:

"Nobody else from the Five Towns would or
could have done what I am doing.  Moreover, this
chap is a mountebank.  In the Five Towns they
would kowtow to him, but they would laugh at him.
They would mighty soon add *him* up.  Why should
I be nervous?  I'm as good as he is."  He finished
with the thought which has inspired many a timid
man with new courage in a desperate crisis: "The
fellow can't eat me."

Then he said aloud:

"I want to ask you a question, Sir John."

"One?"

"One.  Are you the head of the theatrical
profession, or is Sir Gerald Pompey?"

"*Sir* Gerald Pompey?"

"*Sir* Gerald Pompey.  Haven't you seen the
papers this morning?"

Sir John Pilgrim turned pale.  Springing up, he
seized the topmost of an undisturbed pile of daily
papers and feverishly opened it.

"Bah!" he muttered.

He was continually thus imitating his own
behaviour on the stage.  The origin of his renowned
breakfasts lay in the fact that he had once played
the part of a millionaire ambassador who juggled
at breakfast with his own affairs and the affairs of
the world.  The stage breakfast of a millionaire
ambassador created by a playwright on the verge of
bankruptcy had appealed to his imagination and
influenced all the mornings of his life.

"They've done it just to irritate me as I'm
starting off on my world's tour," he muttered, coursing
round the table.  Then he stopped and gazed at
Edward Henry.  "This is a political knighthood,"
said he.  "It has nothing to do with the stage.
It is not like my knighthood, is it?"

"Certainly not," Edward Henry agreed.  "But
you know how people will talk, Sir John.  People
will be going about this very morning and saying
that Sir Gerald is at last the head of the theatrical
profession.  I came here for your authoritative
opinion.  I know you're unbiased."

Sir John resumed his chair.

"As for Pompey's qualifications as a head," he
murmured, "I know nothing of them.  I fancy his
heart is excellent.  I only saw him twice, once in
his own theatre, and once in Bond Street.  I should
be inclined to say that on the stage he looks more
like a gentleman than any gentleman ought to look,
and that in the street he might be mistaken for an
actor....  How will that suit you?"

"It's a clue," said Edward Henry.

"Alderman," exclaimed Sir John, "I believe that
if I didn't keep a firm hand on myself I should soon
begin to like you!  Have another cup of coffee.
Chung! ... Good-bye, Bootmaker, good-bye!"

"I only want to know for certain who is the
head," said Edward Henry, "because I mean to invite
the head of the theatrical profession to lay the
corner-stone of my new theatre."

"Ah!"

"When do you start on your world's tour, Sir John?"

"I leave Tilbury with my entire company, scenery
and effects, on the morning of Tuesday week, by the
*Kandahar*.  I shall play first in Cairo."

"How awkward!" said Edward Henry.  "I
meant to ask you to lay the stone on the very next
afternoon--Wednesday, that is!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes, Sir John.  The ceremony will be a very
original affair--very original!"

"A foundation-stone-laying!" mused Sir John.
"But if you're already up to the first floor, how can
you be laying the foundation-stone on Wednesday
week?"

"I didn't say foundation-stone.  I said corner-stone,"
Edward Henry corrected him.  "An entire
novelty!  That's why we can't be ready before
Wednesday week."

"And you want to advertise your house by
getting the head of the profession to assist?"

"That is exactly my idea."

"Well," said Sir John.  "Whatever else you
may lack, Mr. Alderman, you are not lacking in
nerve, if you expect to succeed in *that*."

Edward Henry smiled.

"I have already heard, in a round-about way,"
he replied, "that Sir Gerald Pompey would not
be unwilling to officiate.  My only difficulty is that
I'm a truthful man by nature.  Whoever officiates,
I shall of course have to have him labelled, in
my own interests, as the head of the theatrical
profession, and I don't want to say anything that isn't
true."

There was a pause.

"Now, Sir John, couldn't you stay a day or two
longer in London and join the ship at Marseilles
instead of going on board at Tilbury?"

"But I have made all my arrangements.  The
whole world knows that I am going on board at
Tilbury."

Just then the door opened and a servant announced:

"Mr. Carlo Trent."

Sir John Pilgrim rushed like a locomotive to the
threshold and seized both Carlo Trent's hands with
such a violence of welcome that Carlo Trent's
eyeglass fell out of his eye and the purple ribbon
dangled to his waist.

"Come in, come in!" said Sir John.  "And
begin to read at once.  I've been looking out of the
window for you for the last quarter of an hour.
Alderman, this is Mr. Carlo Trent, the well-known
dramatic poet.  Trent, this is one of the greatest
geniuses in London....  Ah!  You know each
other?  It's not surprising!  No, don't stop to
shake hands.  Sit down here, Trent.  Sit down on
this chair....  Here, Snip, take his hat.  Worry
it!  Worry it!  Now, Trent, don't read to *me*.  It
might make you nervous and hurried.  Read to
Miss Taft and Chung, and to Mr. Givington over
there.  Imagine that they are the great and
enlightened public.  You have imagination, haven't
you, being a poet?"

Sir John had accomplished the change of mood
with the rapidity of a transformation-scene--in
which form of art, by the way, he was a great adept.

Carlo Trent, somewhat breathless, took a manuscript
from his pocket, opened it, and announced:
"The Orient Pearl."

"Oh!" breathed Edward Henry.

For some thirty minutes Edward Henry listened to
hexameters, the first he had ever heard.  The effect
of them on his moral organism was worse even than
he had expected.  He glanced about at the other
auditors.  Givington had opened a box of tubes and
was spreading colours on his palette.  The Chinaman's
eyes were closed while his face still grinned.
Snip was asleep on the parquet.  Miss Taft bit the
end of a pencil with her agreeable teeth.  Sir John
Pilgrim lay at full length on a sofa, occasionally
lifting his legs.  Edward Henry despaired of help
in his great need.  But just as his desperation was
becoming too acute to be borne, Carlo Trent
ejaculated the word "Curtain."  It was the first word
that Edward Henry had clearly understood.

"That's the first act," said Carlo Trent, wiping
his face.  Snip awakened.

Edward Henry rose and, in the hush, tiptoed
round the sofa.

"Good-bye, Sir John," he whispered.

"You're not going?"

"I am, Sir John."

The head of his profession sat up.  "How right
you are!" said he.  "How right you are.  Trent,
I knew from the first words it wouldn't do.  It
lacks colour.  I want something more crimson, more
like the brighter parts of this jacket, something--"  He
waved hands in the air.  "The alderman agrees
with me.  He's going.  Don't trouble to read any
more, Trent.  But drop in any time--any time.
Chung, what o'clock is it?"

"It is nearly noon," said Edward Henry in the
tone of an old friend.  "Well, I'm sorry you can't
oblige me, Sir John.  I'm off to see Sir Gerald
Pompey now."

"But who says I can't oblige you?" protested
Sir John.  "Who knows what sacrifices I would not
make in the highest interests of the profession?
Alderman, you jump to conclusions with the agility of
an acrobat, but they are false conclusions!  Miss
Taft, the telephone!  Chung, my coat!  Good-bye,
Trent, good-bye!"

An hour later Edward Henry met Mr. Marrier
at the Grand Babylon Hotel.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Marrier, "you are the
greatest man that ever lived!"

"Why?"

Mr. Marrier showed him the stop-press news of
a penny evening paper, which read: "Sir John
Pilgrim has abandoned his ceremonious departure
from Tilbury in order to lay the corner-stone of the
new Regent Theatre on Wednesday week.  He and
Miss Cora Pryde will join the *Kandahar* at Marseilles."

"You needn't do any advertaysing," said Mr. Marrier.
"Pilgrim will do all the advertaysing for you."

.. vspace:: 3

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   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

Edward Henry and Mr. Marrier worked
together admirably that afternoon on the
arrangements for the corner-stone-laying.  And--such
was the interaction of their separate enthusiasms--it
soon became apparent that all London (in
the only right sense of the word "all") must
and would be at the ceremony.  Characteristically,
Mr. Marrier happened to have a list or catalogue
of all London in his pocket, and Edward Henry
appreciated him more than ever.  But towards four
o'clock Mr. Marrier annoyed and even somewhat
alarmed Edward Henry by a mysterious change of
mien.  His assured optimism slipped away from
him.  He grew uneasy, darkly preoccupied, and
inefficient.  At last when the clock in the room struck
four, and Edward Henry failed to hear it, Mr. Marrier said:

"I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me now."

"Why?"

"I told you I had an appointment for tea at four."

"Did you?  What is it?" Edward Henry demanded
with an employer's instinctive assumption
that souls as well as brains can be bought for such
sums as three pounds a week.

"I have a lady coming to tea, here; that is,
downstairs."

"In this hotel?"

"Yes."

"Who is it?" Edward Henry pursued lightly,
for though he appreciated Mr. Marrier, he also
despised him.  However, he found the grace to add:
"May one ask?"

"It's Miss Elsie April."

"Do you mean to say, Marrier," complained
Edward Henry, "that you've known Miss Elsie April
all these months and never told me? ... There
aren't two, I suppose?  It's the cousin or something
of Rose Euclid?"

Mr. Marrier nodded.  "The fact is," he said,
"she and I are joint honorary organising secretaries
for the annual conference of the Azure
Society.  You know, it leads the New Thought
movement in England."

"You never told me that either."

"Didn't I, sir?  I didn't think it would interest
you.  Besides, both Miss April and I are comparatively
new members."

"Oh!" said Edward Henry with all the canny
provincial's conviction of his own superior
shrewdness; and he repeated, so as to intensify this
conviction and impress it on others, "Oh!"  In the
undergrowth of his mind was the thought: "How
dare this man, whose brains belong to me, be the
organising secretary of something that I don't know
anything about and don't want to know anything
about?"

"Yes," said Mr. Marrier modestly.

"I say," Edward Henry enquired warmly, with
an impulsive gesture, "who is she?"

"Who is she?" repeated Mr. Marrier blankly.

"Yes.  What does she do?"

"Doesn't do anything," said Mr. Marrier.
"Very good amateur actress.  Goes about a great
deal.  Her mother was on the stage.  Married a
wealthy wholesale corset-maker."

"Who did?  Miss April?"  Edward Henry had
a twinge.

"No; her mother.  Both parents are dead, and
Miss April has an income--a considerable income."

"What do you call considerable?"

"Five or six thousand a year."

"The deuce!" murmured Edward Henry.

"May have lost a bit of it, of course,"
Mr. Marrier hedged.  "But not much, not much!"

"Well," said Edward Henry, smiling.  "What
about *my* tea?  Am I to have tea all by myself?"

"Will you come down and meet her?"  Mr. Marrier's
expression approached the wistful.

"Well," said Edward Henry, "it's an idea, isn't
it?  Why should I be the only person in London
who doesn't know Miss Elsie April?"

It was ten minutes past four when they descended
into the electric publicity of the Grand Babylon.
Amid the music and the rattle of crockery and the
gliding waiters and the large nodding hats that
gathered more and more thickly round the tables,
there was no sign of Elsie April.

"She may have been and gone away again," said
Edward Henry, apprehensive.

"Oh, no!  She wouldn't go away."  Mr. Marrier
was positive.

In the tone of a man with an income of two
hundred pounds a week he ordered a table to be
prepared for three.

At ten minutes to five he said:

"I hope she *hasn't* been and gone away again!"

Edward Henry began to be gloomy and resentful.
The crowded and factitious gaiety of the place
actually annoyed him.  If Elsie April had been and
gone away again, he objected to such silly feminine
conduct.  If she was merely late, he equally objected
to such unconscionable inexactitude.  He blamed
Mr. Marrier.  He considered that he had the right
to blame Mr. Marrier because he paid him three
pounds a week.  And he very badly wanted his tea.

Then their four eyes, which for forty minutes
had scarcely left the entrance staircase, were
rewarded.  She came in furs, gleaming white kid
gloves, gold chains, a gold bag, and a black velvet hat.

"I'm not late, am I?" she said after the introduction.

"No," they both replied.  And they both meant
it.  For she was like fine weather.  The forty
minutes of waiting were forgotten, expunged from the
records of time, just as the memory of a month of
rain is obliterated by one splendid sunny day.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \IV.

.. vspace:: 2

Edward Henry enjoyed the tea, which was bad,
to an extraordinary degree.  He became uplifted
in the presence of Miss Elsie April; whereas
Mr. Marrier, strangely, drooped to still deeper depths
of unaccustomed inert melancholy.  Edward Henry
decided that she was every bit as piquant, challenging,
and delectable as he had imagined her to be on
the day when he ate an artichoke at the next table
to hers at Wilkins's.  She coincided exactly with
his remembrance of her, except that she was now
slightly more plump.  Her contours were effulgent--there
was no other word.  Beautiful she was not,
for she had a turned-up nose; but what charm she
radiated!  Every movement and tone enchanted
Edward Henry.  He was enchanted not at intervals,
by a chance gesture, but all the time--when she
was serious, when she smiled, when she fingered her
teacup, when she pushed her furs back over her
shoulders, when she spoke of the weather, when she
spoke of the social crisis, and when she made fun,
with a certain brief absence of restraint, rather in
her artichoke manner of making fun.

He thought and believed:

"This is the finest woman I ever saw!"  He
clearly perceived the inferiority of other women,
whom nevertheless he admired and liked, such as the
Countess of Chell and Lady Woldo.

It was not her brains, nor her beauty, nor her
stylishness that affected him.  No!  It was
something mysterious and dizzying that resided in every
particle of her individuality.

He thought:

"I've often and often wanted to see her again.
And now I'm having tea with her!"  And he was happy.

"Have you got that list, Mr. Marrier?" she
asked in her low and thrilling voice.  So saying, she
raised her eyebrows in expectation--a delicious
effect, especially behind her half-raised white veil.

Mr. Marrier produced a document.

"But that's *my* list!" said Edward Henry.

"Your list?"

"I'd better tell you."  Mr. Marrier essayed a
rapid explanation.  "Mr. Machin wanted a list
of the raight sort of people to ask to the
corner-stone-laying of his theatah.  So I used this as a
basis."

Elsie April smiled again.  "Ve-ry good!" she
approved.

"What is your list, Marrier?" asked Edward Henry.

It was Elsie who replied:

"People to be invited to the dramatic *soirée* of
the Azure Society.  We give six a year.  No title
is announced.  Nobody except a committee of three
knows even the name of the author of the play
that is to be performed.  Everything is kept
a secret.  Even the author doesn't know that his
play has been chosen.  Don't you think it's a
delightful idea? ... An offspring of the New Thought!"

He agreed that it was a delightful idea.

"Shall I be invited?" he asked.

She answered gravely: "I don't know."

"Are you going to play in it?"

She paused....  "Yes."

"Then you must let me come.  Talking of plays--"

He stopped.  He was on the edge of facetiously
relating the episode of "The Orient Pearl" at Sir
John Pilgrim's; but he withdrew in time.  Suppose
that "The Orient Pearl" was the piece to be
performed by the Azure Society!  It might well be.
It was (in his opinion) just the sort of play that
that sort of society would choose.  Nevertheless he
was as anxious as ever to see Elsie April act.  He
really thought that she could and would transfigure
any play.  Even his profound scorn of New
Thought (a subject of which he was entirely
ignorant) began to be modified--and by nothing but
the enchantment of the tone in which Elsie April
murmured the words, "Azure Society!"

"How soon is the performance?" he demanded.

"Wednesday week," said she.

"That's the very day of my corner-stone-laying,"
he said.  "However, it doesn't matter.  My little
affair will be in the afternoon."

"But it can't be," said she solemnly.  "It would
interfere with us, and we should interfere with it.
Our annual conference takes place in the afternoon.
All London will be there."

Said Mr. Marrier rather shamefaced:

"That's just it, Mr. Machin.  It positively never
occurred to me that the Azure Conference is to be
on that very day.  I never thought of it until nearly
four o'clock.  And then I scarcely knew how to explain
it to you.  I really don't know how it escaped me."

Mr. Marrier's trouble was now out, and he had
declined in Edward Henry's esteem.  Mr. Marrier
was afraid of him.  Mr. Marrier's list of personages
was no longer a miracle of foresight; it was a mere
coincidence.  He doubted if Mr. Marrier was
worth even his three pounds a week.  Edward
Henry began to feel ruthless, Napoleonic.  He was
capable of brushing away the whole Azure Society
and New Thought movement into limbo.

"You must please alter your date," said Elsie
April.  And she put her right elbow on the table
and leaned her chin on it, and thus somehow
established a domestic intimacy for the three amid all
the blare and notoriety of the vast tea-room.

"Oh, but I can't!" he said easily, familiarly.  It
was her occasional "artichoke" manner that had
justified him in assuming this tone.  "I can't!" he
repeated.  "I've told Sir John I can't possibly be
ready any earlier, and on the day after he'll almost
certainly be on his way to Marseilles.  Besides, I
don't *want* to alter my date.  My date is in the
papers by this time."

"You've already done quite enough harm to the
movement as it is," said Elsie April stoutly but
ravishingly.

"Me--harm to the movement?"

"Haven't you stopped the building of our church?"

"Oh!  So you know Mr. Wrissell?"

"Very well indeed."

"Anybody else would have done the same in my
place," Edward Henry defended himself.  "Your
cousin, Miss Euclid, would have done it, and
Marrier here was in the affair with her."

"Ah!" exclaimed Elsie April.  "But we didn't
belong to the movement then!  We didn't know....
Come now, Mr. Machin.  Sir John Pilgrim
will of course be a great show.  But even if you've
got him and manage to stick to him, we should beat
you.  You'll never get the audience you want if you
don't change from Wednesday week.  After all, the
number of people who count in London is very
small.  And we've got nearly all of them.  You've
no idea--"

"I won't change from Wednesday week," said
Edward Henry.  This defiance of her put him into
an extremely agitated felicity.

"Now, my dear Mr. Machin--"

He was actually aware of the charm she was exerting,
and yet he discovered that he could easily
withstand it.

"Now, my dear Miss April, please don't try to
take advantage of your beauty!"

She sat up.  She was apparently measuring
herself and him.

"Then you won't change the day, truly?"  Her
urbanity was in no wise impaired.

"I won't," he laughed lightly.  "I dare say you
aren't used to people like me, Miss April."

(She might get the better of Seven Sachs, but
not of him, Edward Henry Machin from the Five Towns!)

"Marrier," said he suddenly, with a bluff
humorous downrightness, "you know you're in a very
awkward position here, and you know you've got
to see Alloyd for me before six o'clock.  Be off
with you.  I will be responsible for Miss April."

("I'll show these Londoners!" he said to himself.
"It's simple enough when you once get into it.")

And he did in fact succeed in dismissing Mr. Marrier,
after the latter had talked Azure business
with Miss April for a couple of minutes.

"I must go, too," said Elsie, imperturbable, impenetrable.

"One moment," he entreated, and masterfully
signalled Marrier to depart.  After all, he was
paying the fellow three pounds a week.

She watched Marrier thread his way out.
Already she had put on her gloves.

"I must go," she repeated, her rich red lips then
closed definitely.

"Have you a motor here?" Edward Henry asked.

"No."

"Then, if I may, I'll see you home."

"You may," she said, gazing full at him.

Whereby he was somewhat startled and put out of
countenance.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \V.

.. vspace:: 2

"Are we friends?" he asked roguishly.

"I hope so," she said, with no diminution of her
inscrutability.

They were in a taxicab, rolling along the
Embankment towards the Buckingham Palace Hotel,
where she said she lived.  He was happy.  "Why
am I happy?" he thought.  "What is there in her
that makes me happy?"  He did not know.  But
he knew that he had never been in a taxicab, or
anywhere else, with any woman half so elegant.  Her
elegance flattered him enormously.  Here he was,
a provincial man of business, ruffling it with the best
of them! ... And she was young in her worldly
maturity.  Was she twenty-seven?  She could not
be more.  She looked straight in front of her, faintly
smiling....  Yes, he was fully aware that he was
a married man.  He had a distinct vision of the
angelic Nellie, of the three children, and of his
mother.  But it seemed to him that his own case
differed in some very subtle and yet effective
manner from the similar case of any other married man.
And he lived, unharassed by apprehensions, in the
lively joy of the moment.

"But," she said, "I hope you won't come to see me act."

"Why?"

"Because I should prefer you not to.  You
would not be sympathetic to me."

"Oh, yes, I should."

"I shouldn't feel it so."  And then with a swift
disarrangement of all the folds of her skirt she
turned and faced him.  "Mr. Machin, do you
know why I've let you come with me?"

"Because you're a good-natured woman," he said.

She grew even graver, shaking her head.

"No!  I simply wanted to tell you that you've
ruined Rose, my cousin."

"Miss Euclid?  Me ruined Miss Euclid?"

"Yes.  You robbed her of her theatre--her one chance."

He blushed.  "Excuse me," he said, "I did no
such thing.  I simply bought her option from her.
She was absolutely free to keep the option or let
it go."

"The fact remains," said Elsie April, with humid
eyes, "the fact remains that she'd set her heart on
having that theatre, and you failed her at the last
instant.  And she has nothing, and you've got the
theatre entirely in your own hands.  I'm not so
silly as to suppose that you can't defend yourself
legally.  But let me tell you that Rose went to the
United States heart-broken, and she's playing to
empty houses there--empty houses!  Whereas
she might have been here in London, interested in
her theatre, and preparing for a successful season."

"I'd no idea of this," breathed Edward Henry.
He was dashed.  "I'm awfully sorry!"

"Yes, no doubt.  But there it is!"

Silence fell.  He knew not what to say.  He felt
himself in one way innocent, but he felt himself in
another way blackly guilty.  His remorse for the
telephone-trick which he had practised on Rose
Euclid burst forth again after a long period of
quiescence simulating death, and actually troubled
him....  No, he was not guilty!  He insisted in
his heart that he was not guilty!  And yet--and yet--

No taxicab ever travelled so quickly as that taxi-cab.
Before he could gather together his forces it
had arrived beneath the awning of the Buckingham
Palace Hotel.

His last words to her were:

"Now, I sha'nt change the day of my stone-laying.
But don't worry about your conference.
You know it'll be perfectly all right."  He spoke
archly, with a brave attempt at cajolery; but in the
recesses of his soul he was not sure that she had not
defeated him in this their first encounter.  However,
Seven Sachs might talk as he chose--she was not
such a persuasive creature as all that!  She had
scarcely even tried to be persuasive.

At about a quarter-past six, when he saw his
underling again, he said to Mr. Marrier:

"Marrier, I've got a great idea.  We'll have that
corner-stone-laying at night.  After the theatres.
Say half-past eleven.  Torchlight!  Fireworks from
the cranes!  It'll tickle old Pilgrim to death.  I
shall have a marquee with match-boarding sides fixed
up inside, and heat it with a few of those smokeless
stoves.  We can easily lay on electricity.  It
will be absolutely the most sensational stone-laying
that ever was.  It'll be in all the papers all over
the blessed world.  Think of it!  Torches!  Fireworks
from the cranes! ... But I won't change
the day--neither for Miss April nor anybody else."

Mr. Marrier dissolved in laudations.

"Well," Edward Henry agreed with false diffidence,
"it'll knock spots off some of 'em in this town!"

He felt that he had snatched victory out of
defeat.  But the next moment he was capable of
feeling that Elsie April had defeated him even in his
victory.  Anyhow, she was a most disconcerting and
fancy-monopolising creature.

There was one source of unsullied gratification:
he had shaved off his beard.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \VI.

.. vspace:: 2

"Come up here, Sir John," Edward Henry
called.  "You'll see better, and you'll be out of the
crowd.  And I'll show you something."

He stood, in a fur coat, at the top of a short
flight of rough-surfaced steps between two
unplastered walls--a staircase which ultimately was
to form part of an emergency exit from the
dress-circle of the Regent Theatre.  Sir John Pilgrim,
also in a fur coat, stood near the bottom of the
steps, with a glare of a Wells light full on him and
throwing his shadow almost up to Edward Henry's
feet.  Around, Edward Henry could descry the vast
mysterious forms of the building's skeleton--black
in places, but in other places lit up by bright rays
from the gaiety below, and showing glimpses of
that gaiety in the occasional revelation of a woman's
cloak through slits in the construction.  High
overhead, two gigantic cranes interlaced their arms; and
even higher than the cranes, shone the stars of the
clear spring night.

The hour was nearly half-past twelve.  The
ceremony was concluded--and successfully concluded.
All London had indeed been present.  Half the
aristocracy of England, and far more than half the
aristocracy of the London stage!  The entire
preciosity of the metropolis!  Journalists with influence
enough to plunge the whole of Europe into war!
In one short hour Edward Henry's right hand
(peeping out from the superb fur coat which he
had had the wit to buy) had made the acquaintance
of scores upon scores of the most celebrated right
hands in Britain.  He had the sensation that in
future, whenever he walked about the best streets of
the West End, he would be continually compelled
to stop and chat with august and renowned acquaintances,
and that he would always be taking off his
hat to fine ladies who flashed by nodding from
powerful motor-cars.  Indeed, Edward Henry was
surprised at the number of famous people who
seemed to have nothing to do but attend advertising
rituals at midnight or thereabouts.  Sir John
Pilgrim had, as Marrier predicted, attended to the
advertisements.  But Edward Henry had helped.
And on the day itself the evening newspapers had
taken the bit between their teeth and run off with
the affair at a great pace.  The affair was on all
the contents-bills hours before it actually happened.
Edward Henry had been interviewed several times,
and had rather enjoyed that.  Gradually he had
perceived that his novel idea for a corner-stone-laying
had caught the facile imagination of the London
populace.  For that night at least he was famous--as
famous as anybody!

Sir John had made a wondrous picturesque figure
of himself as, in a raised corner of the crowded and
beflagged marquee, he had flourished a trowel and
talked about the great and enlightened public, and
about the highest function of the drama, and about
the duty of the artist to elevate, and about the
solemn responsibility of theatrical managers, and about
the absence of petty jealousies in the world of
the stage.  Everybody had vociferously applauded,
while reporters turned rapidly the pages of their
note-books.  "Ass!" Edward Henry had said to
himself with much force and sincerity,--meaning
Sir John,--but he too had vociferously applauded;
for he was from the Five Towns, and in the Five
Towns people are like that!  Then Sir John had
declared the corner-stone well and truly laid (it was
on the corner which the electric sign of the future
was destined to occupy), and, after being thanked,
had wandered off shaking hands here and there
absently, to arrive at length in the office of the clerk
of the works, where Edward Henry had arranged
suitably to refresh the stone-layer and a few choice
friends of both sexes.

He had hoped that Elsie April would somehow
reach that little office.  But Elsie April was absent,
indisposed.  Her absence made the one blemish on
the affair's perfection.  Elsie April, it appeared,
had been struck down by a cold which had entirely
deprived her of her voice, so that the performance
of the Azure Society's Dramatic Club, so eagerly
anticipated by all London, had had to be postponed.
Edward Henry bore the misfortune of the Azure
Society with stoicism, but he had been extremely
disappointed by the invisibility of Elsie April at his
stone-laying.  His eyes had wanted her.

Sir John, awaking apparently out of a dream
when Edward Henry had summoned him twice,
climbed the uneven staircase and joined his host and
youngest rival on the insecure planks and gangways
that covered the first floor of the Regent Theatre.

"Come higher," said Edward Henry, mounting
upward to the beginnings of the second story, above
which hung suspended from the larger crane the
great cage that was employed to carry brick and
stone from the ground.

The two fur coats almost mingled.

"Well, young man," said Sir John Pilgrim,
"your troubles will soon be beginning."

Now Edward Henry hated to be addressed as
"young man," especially in the patronising tone
which Sir John used.  Moreover, he had a suspicion
that in Sir John's mind was the illusion that
Sir John alone was responsible for the creation of
the Regent Theatre--that without Sir John's aid
as a stone-layer it could never have existed.

"You mean my troubles as a manager?" said
Edward Henry grimly.

"In twelve months from now, before I come
back from my world's tour, you'll be ready to get
rid of this thing on any terms.  You will be wishing
that you had imitated my example and kept out of
Piccadilly Circus.  Piccadilly Circus is sinister, my
Alderman--sinister."

"Come up into the cage, Sir John," said Edward
Henry.  "You'll get a still better view.  Rather
fine, isn't it, even from here?"

He climbed up into the cage and helped Sir John
to climb.

And, standing there in the immediate silence, Sir
John murmured with emotion:

"We are alone with London!"

Edward Henry thought:

"Cuckoo!"

They heard footsteps resounding on loose planks
in a distant corner.

"Who's there?" Edward Henry called.

"Only me!" replied a voice.  "Nobody takes
any notice of me!"

"Who is it?" muttered Sir John.

"Alloyd, the architect," Edward Henry answered,
and then calling loud: "Come up here, Alloyd."

The muffled and coated figure approached, hesitated,
and then joined the other two in the cage.

"Let me introduce Mr. Alloyd, the architect--Sir
John Pilgrim," said Edward Henry.

"Ah!" said Sir John, bending towards Alloyd.
"Are you the genius who draws those amusing little
lines and scrawls on transparent paper, Mr. Alloyd?
Tell me, are they really necessary for a building, or
do you only do them for your own fun?  Quite
between ourselves, you know!  I've often wondered."

Said Mr. Alloyd with a pale smile:

"Of course everyone looks on the architect as a
joke!"  The pause was somewhat difficult.

"You promised us rockets, Mr. Machin," said
Sir John.  "My mind yearns for rockets."

"Right you are!" Edward Henry complied.
Close by, but somewhat above them, was the
crane-engine, manned by an engineer whom Edward Henry
was paying for overtime.  A signal was given, and
the cage containing the proprietor and the architect
of the theatre and Sir John Pilgrim bounded most
startlingly up into the air.  Simultaneously it began
to revolve rapidly on its cable, as such cages will,
whether filled with bricks or with celebrities.

"Oh!" ejaculated Sir John, terror-struck, clinging
hard to the side of the cage.

"Oh!" ejaculated Mr. Alloyd, also clinging hard.

"I want you to see London," said Edward Henry,
who had been through the experience before.

The wind blew cold above the chimneys.

The cage came to a standstill exactly at the peak
of the other crane.  London lay beneath the trio.
The curves of Regent Street and of Shaftesbury
Avenue, the right lines of Piccadilly, Lower Regent
Street, and Coventry Street, were displayed at their
feet as on an illuminated map, over which crawled
mannikins and toy autobuses.  At their feet a long
procession of automobiles were sliding off, one after
another, with the guests of the evening.  The
metropolis stretched away, lifting to the north, and
sinking to the south into jewelled river on whose
curved bank rose messages of light concerning
whisky, tea, and beer.  The peaceful nocturnal roar
of the city, dwindling every moment now, reached
them like an emanation from another world.

"You asked for a rocket, Sir John," said Edward
Henry.  "You shall have it."

He had taken a box of fuses from his pocket.
He struck one, and his companions in the swaying
cage now saw that a tremendous rocket was hung
to the peak of the other crane.  He lighted the
fuse....  An instant of deathly suspense! ... And
then with a terrific and a shattering bang and
splutter the rocket shot towards the kingdom of
heaven, and there burst into a vast dome of red
blossoms which, irradiating a square mile of roofs,
descended slowly and softly on the West End like a
benediction.

"You always want crimson, don't you, Sir
John?" said Edward Henry, and the easy cheeriness
of his voice gradually tranquillised the alarm
natural to two very earthly men who for the first
time found themselves suspended insecurely over a gulf.

"I have seen nothing so impressive since the
Russian ballet," murmured Mr. Alloyd, recovering.

"You ought to go to Siberia, Alloyd," said Edward Henry.

Sir John Pilgrim, pretending now to be extremely
brave, suddenly turned on Edward Henry and in a
convulsive grasp seized his hand.

"My friend," he said hoarsely, "a thought has
just occurred to me: you and I are the two most
remarkable men in London!"  He glanced up as the
cage trembled.  "How thin that steel rope seems!"

The cage slowly descended, with many twists.

Edward Henry said not a word.  He was too
deeply moved by his own triumph to be able to
speak.

"Who else but me," he reflected, exultant, "could
have managed this affair as I've managed it?  Did
anyone else ever take Sir John Pilgrim up into the
sky like a load of bricks, and frighten his life out
of him?"

As the cage approached the platforms of the first
story he saw two people waiting there; one he
recognised as the faithful, harmless Marrier; the other
was a woman.

"Someone here wants you urgently, Mr. Machin!"
cried Marrier.

"By Jove," exclaimed Alloyd under his breath,
"what a beautiful figure!  No girl as attractive as
that ever wanted *me* urgently!  Some folks do have luck!"

The woman had moved a little away when the
cage landed.  Edward Henry followed her along
the planking.

It was Elsie April.

"I thought you were ill in bed," he breathed,
astounded.

Her answering voice reached him, scarcely audible:

"I'm only hoarse.  My cousin Rose has arrived
to-night in secret at Tilbury by the *Minnetonka*."

"The *Minnetonka*!" he muttered.  Staggering
coincidence!  Mystic heralding of misfortune!

"I was sent for," the pale ghost of a delicate
voice continued.  "She's broken, ruined; no
courage left.  Awful fiasco in Chicago!  She's hiding
now at a little hotel in Soho.  She absolutely
declined to come to my hotel.  I've done what I could
for the moment.  As I was driving by here just now
I saw the rocket, and I thought of you.  I thought
you ought to know it.  I thought it was my duty to
tell you."

She held her muff to her mouth.  She seemed to
be trembling.

A heavy hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir," said a strong, rough voice.
"Are you the gent that fired off the rocket?  It's
against the law to do that kind o' thing here, and
you ought to know it.  I shall have to trouble
you--"

It was a policeman of the C division.

Sir John was disappearing, with his stealthy and
conspiratorial air, down the staircase.





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.. _`DEALING WITH ELSIE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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   DEALING WITH ELSIE

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   \I.

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The headquarters of the Azure Society were
situate in Marloes Road, for no other
reason than that it happened so.  Though
certain famous people inhabit Marloes Road, no
street could well be less fashionable than this
thoroughfare, which is very arid and very long, and a
very long way off the centre of the universe.

"The Azure Society, you know!" Edward Henry
added when he had given the exact address to the
chauffeur of the taxi.

The chauffeur, however, did not know, and did
not seem to be ashamed of his ignorance.  His
attitude indicated that he despised Marloes Road, and
was not particularly anxious for his vehicle to be
seen therein, especially on a wet night, but that
nevertheless he would endeavour to reach it.  When
he did reach it, and observed the large concourse
of shining automobiles that struggled together in
the rain in front of the illuminated number named
by Edward Henry, the chauffeur admitted to
himself that for once he had been mistaken, and his
manner of receiving money from Edward Henry was
generously respectful.

Originally the headquarters of the Azure Society
had been a seminary and schoolmistress' house.
The thoroughness with which the buildings had been
transformed showed that money was not among the
things which the society had to search for.  It had
rich resources, and it had also high social standing;
and the deferential commissionaires at the doors
and the fluffy-aproned, appealing girls who gave
away programmes in the foyer were a proof that
the society, while doubtless anxious about such
subjects as the persistence of individuality after death,
had no desire to reconstitute the community on a
democratic basis.  It was above such transient trifles
of reform, and its high endeavours were confined to
questions of immortality, of the infinite, of sex, and
of art: which questions it discussed in fine raiment
and with all the punctilio of courtly politeness.

Edward Henry was late, in common with some
two hundred other people of whom the majority
were elegant women wearing Paris or almost Paris
gowns with a difference.  As on the current of the
variegated throng he drifted through corridors into
the bijou theatre of the society, he could not help
feeling proud of his own presence there; and yet at
the same time he was scorning, in his Five Towns
way, the preciosity and the simperings of these his
fellow creatures.  Seated in the auditorium, at the
end of a row, he was aware of an even keener
satisfaction as people bowed and smiled at him; for
the theatre was so tiny and the reunion so choice that
it was obviously an honour and a distinction to have
been invited to such an exclusive affair.  To the
evening first fixed for the dramatic *soirée* of the
Azure Society he had received no invitation.  But
shortly after the postponement due to Elsie April's
indisposition an envelope addressed by Marrier
himself, and containing the sacred card, had arrived for
him in Bursley.  His instinct had been to ignore it,
and for two days he had ignored it, and then he
noticed in one corner the initials "E.A."  Strange
that it did not occur to him immediately that
E.A. stood, or might stand, for Elsie April!

Reflection brings wisdom and knowledge.  In the
end he was absolutely convinced that E.A. stood
for Elsie April; and at the last moment, deciding
that it would be the act of a fool and a coward to
decline what was practically a personal request from
a young and enchanting woman, he had come to
London--short of sleep, it is true, owing to local
convivialities, but he had come.  And, curiously, he
had not communicated with Marrier.  Marrier had
been extremely taken up with the dramatic *soirée* of
the Azure Society, which Edward Henry justifiably
but quite privately resented.  Was he not paying
three pounds a week to Marrier?

And now, there he sat, known, watched, a
notoriety, the card who had raised Pilgrim to the skies,
probably the only theatrical proprietor in the
crowded and silent audience; and he was expecting
anxiously to see Elsie April again--across the
footlights!  He had not seen her since the night of the
stone-laying, over a week earlier.  He had not
sought to see her.  He had listened then to the
delicate tones of her weak, whispering, thrilling
voice, and had expressed regret for Rose Euclid's
plight.  But he had done no more.  What could he
have done?  Clearly he could not have offered
money to relieve the plight of Rose Euclid, who
was the cousin of a girl as wealthy and as
sympathetic as Elsie April.  To do so would have been to
insult Elsie.  Yet he felt guilty none the less.  An
odd situation!  The delicate tones of Elsie's weak,
whispering, thrilling voice on the scaffolding haunted
his memory, and came back with strange clearness as
he sat waiting for the curtain to ascend.

There was an outburst of sedate applause, and a
turning of heads to the right.  Edward Henry
looked in that direction.  Rose Euclid herself was
bowing from one of the two boxes on the first tier.
Instantly she had been recognised and acknowledged,
and the clapping had in nowise disturbed her.
Evidently she accepted it as a matter of course.  How
famous, after all, she must be, if such an audience
would pay her such a meed!  She was pale, and
dressed glitteringly in white.  She seemed younger,
more graceful, much more handsome, more in
accordance with her renown.  She was at home and
at ease up there in the brightness of publicity.  The
imposing legend of her long career had survived the
eclipse in the United States.  Who could have
guessed that some ten days before she had landed
heart-broken and ruined at Tilbury from the *Minnetonka*?

Edward Henry was impressed.

"She's none so dusty!" he said to himself in the
incomprehensible slang of the Five Towns.  The
phrase was a high compliment to Rose Euclid, aged
fifty and looking anything you like over thirty.  It
measured the extent to which he was impressed.

Yes, he felt guilty.  He had to drop his eyes, lest
hers should catch them.  He examined guiltily the
programme, which announced "The New Don
Juan," a play "in three acts and in verse"--author
unnamed.  The curtain went up.

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   \II.

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And with the rising of the curtain began Edward
Henry's torture and bewilderment.  The scene
disclosed a cloth upon which was painted, to the right,
a vast writhing purple cuttlefish whose finer
tentacles were lost above the proscenium-arch, and to
the left an enormous crimson oblong patch with a
hole in it.  He referred to the programme, which
said: "Act. I.  A castle in the forest," and also
"Scenery and costumes designed by Saracen
Givington, A.R.A."  The cuttlefish, then, was the
purple forest, or perhaps one tree in the forest, and the
oblong patch was the crimson castle.  The stage
remained empty, and Edward Henry had time
to perceive that the footlights were unlit, and
that rays came only from the flies and from the wings.

He glanced round.  Nobody had blenched.
Quite confused, he referred again to the programme
and deciphered in the increasing gloom, "Lighting
by Cosmo Clark," in very large letters.

Two yellow-clad figures of no particular sex glided
into view, and at the first words which they uttered
Edward Henry's heart seemed in apprehension to
cease to beat.  A fear seized him.  A few more
words, and the fear became a positive assurance and
realisation of evil.  "The New Don Juan" was
simply a pseudonym for Carlo Trent's "Orient
Pearl"! ... He had always known that it would
be.  Ever since deciding to accept the invitation he
had lived under just that menace.  "The Orient
Pearl" seemed to be pursuing him like a sinister
destiny.

Weakly he consulted yet again the programme.
Only one character bore a name familiar to the Don
Juan story; to wit, "Haidee"; and opposite that
name was the name of Elsie April.  He waited for
her,--he had no other interest in the evening,--and
he waited in resignation.  A young female
troubadour (styled in the programme "the messenger")
emerged from the unseen depths of the forest in the
wings and ejaculated to the hero and his friend:
"The woman appears."  But it was not Elsie that
appeared.  Six times that troubadour messenger
emerged and ejaculated, "The woman appears,"
and each time Edward Henry was disappointed.
But at the seventh heralding--the heralding of the
seventh and highest heroine of this drama in
hexameters--Elsie did at length appear.

And Edward Henry became happy.  He understood
little more of the play than at the historic
breakfast-party of Sir John Pilgrim; he was well
confirmed in his belief that the play was exactly as
preposterous as a play in verse must necessarily be; his
manly contempt for verse was more firmly established
than ever--but Elsie April made an exquisite
figure between the castle and the forest; her voice
did really set up physical vibrations in his spine.
He was deliciously convinced that if she remained
on the stage from everlasting to everlasting, just so
long could he gaze thereat without surfeit and
without other desire.  The mischief was that she did not
remain on the stage.  With despair he saw her
depart; and the close of the act was ashes in his
mouth.

The applause was tremendous.  It was not as
tremendous as that which had greeted the plate-smashing
comedy at the Hanbridge Empire, but it was
far more than sufficiently enthusiastic to startle and
shock Edward Henry.  In fact, his cold indifference
was so conspicuous amid that fever, that in order
to save his face he had to clap and to smile.

And the dreadful thought crossed his mind, traversing
it like the shudder of a distant earthquake
that presages complete destruction:

"Are the ideas of the Five Towns all wrong?
Am I a provincial after all?"

For hitherto, though he had often admitted to
himself that he was a provincial, he had never done
so with sincerity; but always in a manner of playful
and rather condescending badinage.

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   \III.

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"Did you ever see such scenery and costumes?"
some one addressed him suddenly when the applause
had died down.  It was Mr. Alloyd, who had
advanced up the aisle from the back row of the stalls.

"No, I never did!" Edward Henry agreed.

"It's wonderful how Givington has managed to
get away from the childish realism of the modern
theatre," said Mr. Alloyd, "without being ridiculous."

"You think so!" said Edward Henry judicially.
"The question is, Has he?"

"Do you mean it's too realistic for you?" cried
Mr. Alloyd.  "Well, you *are* advanced!  I didn't
know you were as anti-representational as all that!"

"Neither did I!" said Edward Henry.  "What
do you think of the play?"

"Well," answered Mr. Alloyd low and cautiously,
with a somewhat shamed grin, "between you
and me, I think the play's bosh."

"Come, come!" Edward Henry murmured as if
in protest.

The word "bosh" was almost the first word of
the discussion which he had comprehended, and the
honest familiar sound of it did him good.
Nevertheless, keeping his presence of mind, he had
forborne to welcome it openly.  He wondered what on
earth "anti-representational" could mean.  Similar
conversations were proceeding around him, and each
could be very closely heard, for the reason that, the
audience being frankly intellectual and anxious to
exchange ideas, the management had wisely avoided
the expense and noise of an orchestra.  The
entr'acte was like a *conversazione* of all the cultures.

"I wish you'd give us some scenery and costumes
like this in *your* theatre," said Alloyd as he strolled
away.

The remark stabbed him like a needle; the pain
was gone in an instant, but it left a vague fear
behind it, as of the menace of a mortal injury.  It is
a fact that Edward Henry blushed and grew
gloomy, and he scarcely knew why.  He looked
about him timidly, half defiantly.  A magnificently
arrayed woman in the row in front, somewhat to
the right, leaned back and towards him, and behind
her fan said:

"You're the only manager here, Mr. Machin!
How alive and alert you are!"  Her voice seemed
to be charged with a hidden meaning.

"D'you think so?" said Edward Henry.  He
had no idea who she might be.  He had probably
shaken hands with her at his stone-laying, but if so
he had forgotten her face.  He was fast becoming
one of the oligarchical few who are recognised by
far more people than they recognise.

"A beautiful play!" said the woman.  "Not
merely poetic, but intellectual.  And an
extraordinarily acute criticism of modern conditions!"

He nodded.  "What do you think of the
scenery?" he asked.

"Well, of course candidly," said the woman, "I
think it's silly.  I dare say I'm old-fashioned."

"I dare say," murmured Edward Henry.

"They told me you were very ironic," said she,
flushing but meek.

"They!"  Who?  Who in the world of London
had been labelling him as ironic?  He was
rather proud.

"I hope if you *do* do this kind of play,--and
we're all looking to you, Mr. Machin," said the lady
making a new start,--"I hope you won't go in for
these costumes and scenery.  That would never do!"

Again the stab of the needle!

"It wouldn't," he said.

"I'm delighted you think so," said she.

An orange telegram came travelling from hand to
hand along that row of stalls, and ultimately, after
skipping a few persons, reached the magnificently
arrayed woman, who read it and then passed it to
Edward Henry.

"Splendid!" she exclaimed.  "Splendid!"

Edward Henry read: "Released.  Isabel."

"What does it mean?"

"It's from Isabel Joy--at Marseilles."

"Really!"

Edward Henry's ignorance of affairs round about
the centre of the universe was occasionally
distressing--to himself in particular.  And just now he
gravely blamed Mr. Marrier, who had neglected to
post him about Isabel Joy.  But how could
Marrier honestly earn his three pounds a week if he was
occupied night and day with the organising and
management of these precious dramatic *soirées*?
Edward Henry decided that he must give Mr. Marrier
a piece of his mind at the first opportunity.

"Don't you know?" questioned the dame.

"How should I?" he parried.  "I'm only a
provincial."

"But surely," pursued the dame, "you knew we'd
sent her round the world.  She started on the
*Kandahar*, the ship that you stopped Sir John Pilgrim
from taking.  She almost atoned for his absence at
Tilbury.  Twenty-five reporters, anyway!"

Edward Henry sharply slapped his thigh, which
in the Five Towns signifies, "I shall forget my own
name next."

Of course!  Isabel Joy was the advertising
emissary of the Militant Suffragette Society, sent forth
to hold a public meeting and make a speech in the
principal ports of the world.  She had guaranteed
to circuit the globe and to be back in London within
a hundred days, to speak in at least five languages,
and to get herself arrested at least three times en
route.  Of course!  Isabel Joy had possessed a
very fair share of the newspapers on the day before
the stone-laying, but Edward Henry had naturally
had too many preoccupations to follow her exploits.
After all, his momentary forgetfulness was rather
excusable.

"She's made a superb beginning!" said the
resplendent dame, taking the telegram from Edward
Henry and inducting it into another row.  "And
before three months are out she'll be the talk of the
entire earth.  You'll see!"

"Is everybody a suffragette here?" asked Edward
Henry simply, as his eyes witnessed the satisfaction
spread by the voyaging telegram.

"Practically," said the dame.  "These things
always go hand in hand," she added in a deep tone.

"What things?" the provincial demanded.

But just then the curtain rose on the second act.

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   \IV.

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"Won't you cam up to Miss April's dressing-room?"
said Mr. Marrier, who in the midst of the
fulminating applause after the second act seemed to
be inexplicably standing over him, having appeared
in an instant out of nowhere like a genie.

The fact was that Edward Henry had been gently
and innocently dozing.  It was in part the deep
obscurity of the auditorium, in part his own physical
fatigue, and in part the secret nature of poetry that
had been responsible for this restful slumber.  He
had remained awake without difficulty during the
first portion of the act, in which Elsie April--the
orient pearl--had had a long scene of emotion and
tears, played, as Edward Henry thought, magnificently
in spite of its inherent ridiculousness; but later,
when gentle *Haidee* had vanished away and the
fateful troubadour messenger had begun to resume
her announcements of "The woman appears,"
Edward Henry's soul had miserably yielded to his
body and to the temptation of darkness.  The
upturned lights and the ringing hosannahs had roused
him to a full sense of sin, but he had not quite
recovered all his faculties when Marrier startled him.

"Yes, yes!  Of course!  I was coming," he
answered a little petulantly.  But no petulance could
impair the beaming optimism on Mr. Marrier's
features.  To judge by those features, Mr. Marrier,
in addition to having organised and managed the
*soirée*, might also have written the piece and played
every part in it, and founded the Azure Society and
built its private theatre.  The hour was Mr. Marrier's.

Elsie April's dressing-room was small and very
thickly populated, and the threshold of it was
barred by eager persons who were half in and half
out of the room.  Through these Mr. Marrier's
authority forced a way.  The first man Edward
Henry recognised in the tumult of bodies was
Mr. Rollo Wrissell, whom he had not seen since their
meeting at Slosson's.

"Mr. Wrissell," said the glowing Marrier, "let
me introduce Mr. Alderman Machin, of the Regent
Theatah."

"Clumsy fool!" thought Edward Henry, and
stood as if entranced.

But Mr. Wrissell held out a hand with the
perfection of urbane *insouciance*.

"How d'you do, Mr. Machin?" said he.  "I
hope you'll forgive me for not having followed your
advice."

This was a lesson to Edward Henry.  He learnt
that you should never show a wound, and if
possible never feel one.  He admitted that in such
details of social conduct London might be in advance
of the Five Towns, despite the Five Towns'
admirable downrightness.

Lady Woldo was also in the dressing-room,
glorious in black.  Her beauty was positively
disconcerting, and the more so on this occasion as she was
bending over the faded Rose Euclid, who sat in a
corner surrounded by a court.  This court,
comprising comparatively uncelebrated young women and
men, listened with respect to the conversation of
the peeress (who called Rose "my dear"), the
great star-actress, and the now somewhat notorious
Five Towns character, Edward Henry Machin.

"Miss April is splendid, isn't she?" said Edward
Henry to Lady Woldo.

"Oh!  My word, yes!" replied Lady Woldo
nicely, warmly, yet with a certain perfunctoriness.
Edward Henry was astonished that everybody was
not passionately enthusiastic about the charm of
Elsie's performance.  Then Lady Woldo added:
"But what a part for Miss Euclid!  What a part
for her!"

And there were murmurs of approbation.

Rose Euclid gazed at Edward Henry palely and
weakly.  He considered her much less effective here
than in her box.  But her febrile gaze was effective
enough to produce in him the needle-stab again, the
feeling of gloom, of pessimism, of being gradually
overtaken by an unseen and mysterious avenger.

"Yes, indeed!" said he.

He thought to himself: "Now's the time for
me to behave like Edward Henry Machin, and teach
these people a thing or two!"  But he could not.

A pretty young girl summoned all her forces to
address the great proprietor of the Regent, to whom,
however, she had not been introduced, and with a
charming nervous earnest lisp said:

"But don't you think it's a great play, Mr. Machin?"

"Of course!" he replied, inwardly employing the
most fearful and shocking anathemas.

"We were sure *you* would!"

The young people glanced at each other with the
satisfaction of proved prophets.

"D'you know that not another manager has
taken the trouble to come here!" said a second
earnest young woman.

Edward Henry's self-consciousness was now acute.
He would have paid a ransom to be alone on a
desert island in the Indian seas.  He looked
downwards, and noticed that all these bright eager
persons, women and men, were wearing blue stockings
or socks.

"Miss April is free now," said Marrier in his ear.

The next instant he was talking alone to Elsie
in another corner, while the rest of the room
respectfully observed.

"So you deigned to come!" said Elsie April.
"You did get my card!"

A little paint did her no harm, and the accentuation
of her eyebrows and lips and the calculated
disorder of her hair were not more than her powerful
effulgent physique could stand.  In a costume of
green and silver she was magnificent, overwhelmingly
magnificent.

Her varying voice and her glance, at once sincere,
timid, and bold, produced the most singular sensations
behind Edward Henry's soft-frilled shirt-front.
And he thought that he had never been through any
experience so disturbing and so fine as just standing
in front of her.

"I ought to be saying nice things to her," he
reflected; but, no doubt because he had been born in
the Five Towns, he could not formulate in his mind
a single nice thing.

"Well, what do you think of it?" she asked,
looking full at him, and the glance too had a strange
significance.  It was as if she had said: "Are you
a man, or aren't you?"

"I think you're splendid," he exclaimed.

"Now please!" she protested.  "Don't begin
in that strain.  I know I'm very good for an amateur--"

"But really!  I'm not joking!"

She shook her head.

"What do you think of my part for Rose?
Wouldn't she be tremendous in it?  Wouldn't she
be tremendous?  What a chance!"

He was acutely uncomfortable, but even his
discomfort was somehow a joy.

"Yes," he admitted.  "Yes."

"Oh!  Here's Carlo Trent," said she.

He heard Trent's triumphant voice carrying the
end of a conversation into the room: "If he hadn't
been going away," Carlo Trent was saying, "Pilgrim
would have taken it.  Pilgrim--"

The poet's eyes met Edward Henry's, and the
sentence was never finished.

"How d'ye do, Machin?" murmured the poet.

Then a bell began to ring and would not stop.

"You're staying for the reception afterwards?"
said Elsie April as the room emptied.

"Is there one?"

"Of course."

It seemed to Edward Henry that they exchanged
silent messages.

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   \V.

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Some time after the last hexameter had rolled
forth, and the curtain had finally fallen on the
immense and rapturous success of Carlo Trent's play
in three acts and in verse, Edward Henry, walking
about the crowded stage where the reception was
being held, encountered Elsie April, who was still in
her gorgeous dress of green and silver.  She was
chatting with Marrier, who instantly left her, thus
displaying a discretion such as an employer would
naturally expect from a factotum to whom he was
paying three pounds a week.

Edward Henry's heart began to beat in a manner
which troubled him and made him wonder what
could be happening at the back of the soft-frilled
shirt-front that he had obtained in imitation of
Mr. Seven Sachs.

"Not much elbow-room here!" he said lightly.
He was very anxious to be equal to the occasion.

She gazed at him under her emphasized eyebrows.
He noticed that there were little touches of red on
her delightful nostrils.

"No," she answered with direct simplicity.
"Suppose we try somewhere else."

She turned her back on all the amiable and
intellectual babble, descended three steps on the
prompt side, and opened a door.  The swish of her
brocaded spreading skirt was loud and sensuous.  He
followed her into an obscure chamber in which
several figures were moving to and fro and talking.

"What's this place?" he asked.  Involuntarily
his voice was diminished to a whisper.

"It's one of the discussion-rooms," said she.  "It
used to be a classroom, I expect, before the society
took the buildings over.  You see the theatre was
the general schoolroom."

They sat down inobtrusively in an embrasure.
None among the mysterious moving figures seemed
to remark them.

"But why are they talking in the dark?" Edward
Henry asked behind his hand.

"To begin with, it isn't quite dark," she said.
"There's the light of the street-lamp through the
window.  But it has been found that serious
discussions can be carried on much better without too
much light....  I'm not joking."  (It was as if
in the gloom her ears had caught his faint sardonic
smile.)

Said the voice of one of the figures:

"Can you tell me what is the origin of the decay
of realism?  Can you tell me that?"

Suddenly, in the ensuing silence, there was a click
and a tiny electric lamp shot its beam.  The hand
which held the lamp was the hand of Carlo Trent.
He raised it and flashed the trembling ray in the
inquirer's face.  Edward Henry recalled Carlo's
objection to excessive electricity in the private
drawing-room at Wilkins's.

"Why do you ask such a question?" Carlo Trent
challenged the enquirer, brandishing the lamp.  "I
ask you why do you ask it?"

The other also drew forth a lamp and, as it were,
cocked it and let it off at the features of Carlo
Trent.  And thus the two stood, statuesque and
lit, surrounded by shadowy witnesses of the discussion.

The door creaked and yet another figure,
silhouetted for an instant against the illumination of
the stage, descended into the discussion-chamber.

Carlo Trent tripped towards the newcomer, bent
with his lamp, lifted delicately the hem of the
newcomer's trousers, and gazed at the colour of his sock,
which was blue.

"All right!" said he.

"The champagne and sandwiches are served," said
the newcomer.

"You've not answered me, sir," Carlo Trent
faced once more his opponent in the discussion.
"You've not answered me."

Whereupon, the lamps being extinguished, they all
filed forth, the door swung to of its own accord,
shutting out the sound of babble from the stage,
and Edward Henry and Elsie April were left silent
and solitary to the sole ray of the street-lamp.

All the Five Towns shrewdness in Edward
Henry's character, all the husband in him, all the
father in him, all the son in him, leapt to his lips
and tried to say to Elsie, "Shall *we* go and inspect
the champagne and sandwiches too?" and failed to
say these incantatory words of salvation!

And the romantic adventurous fool in him rejoiced
at their failure.  For he was adventurously happy
in his propinquity to that simple and sincere creature.
He was so happy, and his heart was so active, that
he even made no caustic characteristic comment on
the singular behaviour of the beings who had just
abandoned them to their loneliness.  He was also
proud because he was sitting alone nearly in the dark
with a piquant and wealthy, albeit amateur, actress
who had just participated in a triumph at which the
spiritual aristocracy of London had assisted.

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   \VI.

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Two thoughts ran through his head, shooting in
and out and to and fro among his complex sensations
of pleasure.  The first was that he had never been
in such a fix before, despite his enterprising habits.
And the second was that neither Elsie April nor
anybody else connected with his affairs in London had
ever asked him whether he was married, nor assumed
by any detail of behaviour towards him that there
existed the possibility of his being married.  Of
course he might, had he chosen, have informed a few
of them that a wife and children possessed him, but
then, really, would not that have been equivalent to
attaching a label to himself "Married"?--a
procedure which had to him the stamp of provinciality.

Elsie April said nothing.  And as she said nothing
he was obliged to say something, if only to prove
to both of them that he was not a mere tongue-tied
provincial.  He said:

"You know I feel awfully out of it here in this
society of yours!"

"Out of it?" she exclaimed, and her voice thrilled
as she resented his self-depreciation.

"It's over my head--right over it!"

"Now, Mr. Machin," she said, dropping somewhat
that rich, low voice, "I quite understand that
there are some things about the society you don't
like, trifles that you're inclined to laugh at.  *I*
know that.  Many of us know it.  But it can't be
helped in an organisation like ours.  It's even
essential.  Don't be too hard on us.  Don't be sarcastic."

"But I'm not sarcastic!" he protested.

"Honest?"  She turned to him quickly.  He
could descry her face in the gloom, and the forward
bend of her shoulders, and the backward sweep of
her arms resting on the seat, and the straight droop
of her Egyptian shawl from her inclined body.

"Honest!" he solemnly insisted.

The exchange of this single word was so intimate
that it shifted their conversation to a different
level--a level at which each seemed to be assuring the
other that intercourse between them could never be
aught but utterly sincere thenceforward, and that
indeed in future they would constitute a little society
of their own, ideal in its organisation.

"Then you're too modest," she said decidedly.
"There was no one here to-night who's more
respected than you are.  No one!  Immediately I
first spoke to you--I daresay you don't remember
that afternoon at the Grand Babylon Hotel--I
knew you weren't like the rest.  And don't I know
them?  Don't I know them?"

"But how did you know I'm not like the rest?"
asked Edward Henry.  The line which she was
taking had very much surprised him, and charmed
him.  The compliment, so serious and urgent in
tone, was intensely agreeable, and it made an entirely
new experience in his career.  He thought: "Oh!
There's no mistake about it.  These London women
are marvellous!  They're just as straight and in
earnest as the best of our little lot down there.  But
they've got something else.  There's no
comparison!"  The unique word to describe the
indescribable floated into his head: "Scrumptuous!"  What
could not life be with such semi-divine creatures?
He dreamt of art drawing-rooms softly shaded at
midnight.  And his attitude towards even poetry
was modified.

"I knew you weren't like the rest," said she, "by
your look; by the way you say everything you *do* say.
We all know it.  And I'm sure you're far more
than clever enough to be perfectly aware that we all
know it.  Just see how everyone looked at you to-night!"

Yes, he had in fact been aware of the glances.

"I think I ought to tell you," she went on, "that
I was rather unfair to you that day in talking about
my cousin--in the taxi.  You were quite right to
refuse to go into partnership with her.  She thinks
so too.  We've talked it over, and we're quite
agreed.  Of course it did seem hard--at the time,
and her bad luck in America seemed to make it worse.
But you were quite right.  You can work much
better alone.  You must have felt that
instinctively--far quicker than we felt it."

"Well," he murmured, confused, "I don't know--"

Could this be she who had too openly smiled at
his skirmish with an artichoke?

"Oh, Mr. Machin," she burst out, "you've got
an unprecedented opportunity, and, thank Heaven,
you're the man to use it!  We're all expecting so
much from you, and we know we sha'n't be disappointed."

"D'ye mean the theatre?" he asked, alarmed as
it were amid rising waters.

"The theatre," said she gravely.  "You're the
one man that can save London.  No one *in* London
can do it! ... *You* have the happiness of knowing
what your mission is, and of knowing too that you
are equal to it.  What good fortune!  I wish I
could say as much for myself.  I want to do
something!  I try!  But what can I do?  Nothing--really!
You've no idea of the awful loneliness that
comes from a feeling of inability."

"Loneliness!" he repeated.  "But surely--"  He stopped.

"Loneliness," she insisted.  Her little chin was
now in her little hand, and her dim face upturned.

And suddenly a sensation of absolute and marvellous
terror seized Edward Henry.  He was more
afraid than he had ever been--and yet once or twice
in his life he had felt fear.  His sense of true
perspective--one of his most precious
qualities--returned.  He thought: "I've got to get out of
this."  Well, the door was not locked.  It was only
necessary to turn the handle, and security lay on the
other side of the door!  He had but to rise and
walk.  And he could not.  He might just as well
have been manacled in a prison-cell.  He was under
an enchantment.

"A man," murmured Elsie, "a man can never
realise the loneliness--"  She ceased.

He stirred uneasily.

"About this play," he found himself saying.

And yet why should he mention the play in his fright?
He pretended to himself not to know why.  But he
knew why.  His instinct had seen in the topic of the
play the sole avenue of salvation.

"A wonderful thing, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," he said; and then, most astonishingly
to himself, added: "I've decided to do it."

"We knew you would," she said calmly.  "At
any rate I did....  You'll open with it of course."

"Yes," he answered desperately, and proceeded,
with the most extraordinary bravery: "If you'll
act in it."

Immediately on hearing these last words issue
from his mouth he knew that a fool had uttered
them, and that the bravery was mere rashness; for
Elsie's responding gesture reinspired him afresh with
the exquisite terror which he had already begun to
conjure away.

"You think Miss Euclid ought to have the part,"
he added quickly, before she could speak.

"Oh, I do!" cried Elsie positively and eagerly.
"Rose will do simply wonders with that part.  You
see she can speak verse.  I can't.  I'm nobody.  I
only took it because--"

"Aren't you anybody?" he contradicted.
"Aren't you anybody?  I can just tell you--"

There he was again, bringing back the delicious
terror!  An astounding situation!

But the door creaked.  The babble from the stage
invaded the room.  And in a second the enchantment
was lifted from him.  Several people
entered.  He sighed, saying within himself to the disturbers:

"I'd have given you a hundred-pound piece if
you'd been five minutes sooner."

And yet simultaneously he regretted their arrival.
And, more curious still, though he well remembered
the warning words of Mr. Seven Sachs concerning
Elsie April, he did not consider that they were
justified.  She had not been a bit persuasive ... only...


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   \VII.

.. vspace:: 2

He sat down to the pianisto with a strange and
agreeable sense of security.  It is true that, owing to
the time of year, the drawing-room had been, in the
figurative phrase, turned upside down by the process
of spring-cleaning, which his unexpected arrival had
surprised in fullest activity.  But he did not mind
that.  He abode content among rolled carpets, a
swathed chandelier, piled chairs, and walls full of
pale rectangular spaces where pictures had been.
Early that morning, after a brief night spent partly
in bed and partly in erect contemplation of his
immediate past and his immediate future, he had
hurried back to his pianisto and his home--to the
beings and things that he knew and that knew him.

In the train he had had the pleasure of reading in
sundry newspapers that "The Orient Pearl," by
Carlo Trent (who was mentioned in terms of startling
respect and admiration), had been performed on
the previous evening at the dramatic *soirée* of the
Azure Society, with all the usual accompaniments of
secrecy and exclusiveness, in its private theatre in
Kensington, and had been accepted on the spot by
Mr. E. H. Machin ("that most enterprising and
enlightened recruit to the ranks of theatrical
managers ") for production at the new Regent Theatre.
And further, that Mr. Machin intended to open with
it.  And still further, that his selection of such a
play, which combined in the highest degree the
poetry of Mr. W. B. Yeats with the critical intellectuality
of Mr. Bernard Shaw, was of excellent augury
for London's dramatic future, and that the "upward
movement" must on no account be thought to have
failed because of the failure of certain recent
ill-judged attempts, by persons who did not understand
their business, to force it in particular directions.
And still further, that he, Edward Henry, had
engaged for the principal part Miss Rose Euclid,
perhaps the greatest emotional actress the English-speaking
peoples had ever had, but who unfortunately
had not been sufficiently seen of late on the London
stage, and that this would be her first appearance
after her recent artistic successes in the United
States.  And lastly, that Mr. Marrier (whose name
would be remembered in connection with ... etc.,
etc.) was Mr. E. H. Machin's acting manager and
technical adviser.  Edward Henry could trace the
hand of Marrier in all the paragraphs.  Marrier
had lost no time.

Mrs. Machin, senior, came into the drawing-room
just as he was adjusting the "Tannhäuser" overture
to the mechanician.  The piece was one of his major
favourites.

"This is no place for you, my lad," said Mrs. Machin
grimly, glancing round the room.  "But I
came to tell ye as th' mutton's been cooling at least
five minutes.  You gave out as you were hungry."

"Keep your hair on, Mother," said he, springing up.

Barely twelve hours earlier he had been mincing
among the elect and the select and the intellectual
and the poetic and the aristocratic; among the
lah-di-dah and Kensingtonian accents; among rouged lips
and blue hose and fixed simperings; in the centre of
the universe.  And he had conducted himself with
considerable skill accordingly.  Nobody, on the
previous night, could have guessed from the cut of his
fancy waistcoat, or the judiciousness of his responses
to remarks about verse, that his wife often wore a
white apron, or that his mother was--the woman
she was!  He had not unskillfully caught many of
the tricks of that metropolitan environment.  But
now they all fell away from him, and he was just
Edward Henry--nay, he was almost the old Denry again.

"Who chose this mutton?" he asked as he bent
over the juicy and rich joint and cut therefrom
exquisite thick slices with a carving-knife like a razor.

"*I* did, if ye want to know," said his mother.
"Anything amiss with it?" she challenged.

"No.  It's fine."

"Yes," said she, "I'm wondering whether you get
aught as good as that in these grand hotels, as you
call 'em."

"We don't," said Edward Henry.  First, it was
true, and secondly he was anxious to be propitiatory,
for he had a plan to further.

He looked at his wife.  She was not talkative, but
she had received him in the hall with every detail of
affection, if a little absent-mindedly, owing to the
state of the house.  She had not been caustic, like
his mother, about this male incursion into
spring-cleaning.  She had not informed the surrounding
air that she failed to understand why them as were
in London couldn't stop in London for a bit, as his
mother had.  Moreover, though the spring-cleaning
fully entitled her to wear a white apron at meals, she
was not wearing a white apron, which was a sign to
him that she still loved him enough to want to please
him.  On the whole, he was fairly optimistic about
his plan of salvation.  Nevertheless, it was not until
nearly the end of the meal, when one of his mother's
ample pies was being consumed, that he began to try
to broach it.

"Nell," he said, "I suppose you wouldn't care to
come to London with me?"

"Oh!" she answered smiling, a smile of a peculiar
quality.  It was astonishing how that simple woman
could put just one-tenth of one per cent. of irony into
a good-natured smile.  "What's the meaning of
this?"  Then she flushed.  The flush touched
Edward Henry in an extraordinary manner.

("To think," he reflected, incredulously, "that
only last night I was talking in the dark to Elsie
April--and here I am now!"  And he remembered
the glory of Elsie's frock, and her thrilling voice in
the gloom, and that pose of hers as she leaned dimly
forward.)

"Well," he said aloud, as naturally as he could.
"That theatre's beginning to get up on its hind legs
now, and I should like you to see it."

A difficult pass for him, as regards his mother!
This was the first time he had ever overtly spoken of
the theatre in his mother's presence.  In the best
bedroom he had talked of it, but even there with a
certain self-consciousness and false casualness.
Now his mother stared straight in front of her with
an expression of which she alone among human
beings had the monopoly.

"I should like to," said Nellie generously.

"Well," said he, "I've got to go back to town
to-morrow.  Wilt come with me, lass?"

"Don't be silly, Edward Henry," said she.
"How can I leave Mother in the middle of all this
spring-cleaning?"

"You needn't leave Mother.  We'll take her
too," said Edward Henry lightly.

"You won't!" observed Mrs. Machin.

"I *have* to go to-morrow, Nell," said Edward
Henry.  "And I was thinking you might as well
come with me.  It will be a change for you."

(He said to himself: "And not only have I to
go to-morrow, but you absolutely must come with
me, my girl.  That's the one thing to do.")

"It would be a change for me," Nellie agreed.
She was beyond doubt flattered and calmly pleased.
"But I can't possibly come to-morrow.  You can
see that for yourself, dear."

"No, I can't!" he cried impatiently.  "What
does it matter?  Mother'll be here.  The kids'll be
all right.  After all, spring cleaning isn't the day of
judgment."

"Edward Henry," said his mother, cutting in between
them like a thin blade, "I wish you wouldn't
be blasphemous.  London's London, and Bursley's
Bursley."  She had finished.

"It's quite out of the question for me to come
to-morrow, dear.  I must have notice.  I really must."

And Edward Henry saw with alarm that Nellie
had made up her mind, and that the flattered calm
pleasure in his suggestion had faded from her face.

"Oh, dash these domesticated women!" he
thought, and shortly afterwards departed, brooding,
to the offices of the Thrift Club.

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   \VIII.

.. vspace:: 2

He timed his return with exactitude, and, going
straight up-stairs to the chamber known indifferently
as "Maisie's room" or "nurse's room," sure enough
he found the three children there alone!  They were
fed, washed, night-gowned, and even dressing-gowned;
and this was the hour when, while Nurse
repaired the consequences of their revolutionary
conduct in the bathroom and other places, they were left
to themselves.  Robert lay on the hearth-rug, the
insteps of his soft, pink feet rubbing idly against the
pile of the rug, his elbows digging into the pile, his
chin on his fists, and a book perpendicularly beneath
his eyes.  Ralph, careless adventurer rather than
student, had climbed to the glittering brass rail of
Maisie's new bedstead, and was thereon imitating a
recently seen circus performance.  Maisie, in the
bed according to regulation, and lying on the flat of
her back, was singing nonchalantly to the ceiling.
Carlo, unaware that at that moment he might have
been a buried corpse but for the benignancy of
Providence in his behalf, was feeling sympathetic towards
himself because he was slightly bored.

"Hello, kids!" Edward Henry greeted them.
As he had seen them before midday dinner, the more
formal ceremonies of salutation after absence, so
hateful to the Five Towns temperament, were
happily over and done with.

Robert turned his head slightly, inspected his
father with a judicial detachment that hardly
escaped the inimical, and then resumed his book.

("No one would think," said Edward Henry to
himself, "that the person who has just entered this
room is the most enterprising and enlightened of
West End theatrical managers.")

"'Ello, Father!" shrilled Ralph.  "Come and
help me to stand on this wire rope."

"It isn't a wire rope," said Robert from the
hearth-rug, without stirring.  "It's a brass rail."

"Yes, it is a wire rope, because I can make it
bend," Ralph retorted, bumping down on the thing.
"Anyhow, it's going to be a wire rope."

Maisie simply stuck several fingers into her mouth,
shifted to one side, and smiled at her father in a
style of heavenly and mischievous flirtatiousness.

"Well, Robert, what are you reading?" Edward
Henry inquired in his best fatherly manner, half
authoritative and half humorous, while he formed
part of the staff of Ralph's circus.

"I'm not reading, I'm learning my spellings,"
replied Robert.

Edward Henry, knowing that the discipline of
filial politeness must be maintained, said:
"'Learning my spellings'--what?"

"Learning my spellings, Father," Robert consented
to say, but with a savage air of giving way to
the unreasonable demands of affected fools.  Why
indeed should it be necessary in conversation always
to end one's sentence with the name or title of the
person addressed?

"Well, would you like to go to London with me?"

"When?" the boy demanded cautiously.  He
still did not move, but his ears seemed to prick up.

"To-morrow?"

"No thanks ... Father."  His ears ceased
their activity.

"No?  Why not?"

"Because there's a spellings examination on
Friday, and I'm going to be top boy."

It was a fact that the infant (whose programmes
were always somehow arranged in advance, and were
in his mind absolutely unalterable) could spell the
most obstreperous words.  Quite conceivably he
could spell better than his father, who still showed
an occasional tendency to write "separate" with
three e's and only one a.

"London's a fine place," said Edward Henry.

"I know," said Robert negligently.

"What's the population of London?"

"I don't know," said Robert with curtness, though
he added after a pause: "But I can spell
population--p-o-p-u-l-a-t-i-o-n."

"*I'll* come to London, Father, if you'll have me,"
said Ralph, grinning good-naturedly.

"Will you!" said his father.

"Fahver," asked Maisie, wriggling, "have you
brought me a doll?"

"I'm afraid I haven't."

"Mother said p'r'aps you would."

It was true, there had been talk of a doll; he had
forgotten it.

"I tell you what I'll do," said Edward Henry,
"I'll take you to London, and you can choose a doll
in London.  You never saw such dolls as there are in
London--talking dolls that shut and open their
eyes and say Papa and Mamma, and all their clothes
take off and on."

"Do they say 'Father?'" growled Robert.

"No, they don't," said Edward Henry.

"Why don't they?" growled Robert.

"When will you take me?" Maisie almost squealed.

"To-morrow."

"Certain sure, Father?"

"Yes."

"You promise, Father?"

"Of course I promise."

Robert at length stood up to judge for himself
this strange and agitating caprice of his father's for
taking Maisie to London.  He saw that, despite
spellings, it would never do to let Maisie alone go.
He was about to put his father through a
cross-examination, but Edward Henry dropped Ralph, who
had been climbing up him as up a telegraph-pole, on
to the bed and went over to the window, nervously,
and tapped thereon.

Carlo followed him, wagging an untidy tail.

"Hello, Trent!" murmured Edward Henry,
stooping and patting the dog.

Ralph exploded into loud laughter.

"Father's called Carlo 'Trent,'" he roared.
"Father, have you forgotten his name's Carlo?"  It
was one of the greatest jokes that Ralph had
heard for a long time.

Then Nellie hurried into the room, and Edward
Henry, with a "Mustn't be late for tea," as
hurriedly left it.

Three minutes later, while he was bent over the
lavatory basin, someone burst into the bathroom.
He lifted a soapy face.

It was Nellie, with disturbed features.

"What's this about your positively promising to
take Maisie to London to-morrow to choose a doll?"

"I'll take 'em all," he replied with absurd levity.
"And you too!"

"But really--" she pouted, indicating that he
must not carry the ridiculous too far.

"Look here, d--n it," he said impulsively, "I
*want* you to come.  And I want you to come to-morrow.
I knew it was the confounded infants you
wouldn't leave.  You don't mean to tell me you can't
arrange it--a woman like you!"

She hesitated.

"And what am I to do with three children in a
London hotel?"

"Take Nurse, naturally."

"Take Nurse?" she cried.

He imitated her with a grotesque exaggeration,
yelling loudly, "Take Nurse?"  Then he planted
a soap-sud on her fresh cheek.

She wiped it off carefully and smacked his arm.
The next moment she was gone, having left the door
open.

"He *wants* me to go to London to-morrow," he
could hear her saying to his mother on the landing.

"Confound it!" he thought.  "Didn't she know
that at dinner-time?"

"Bless us!"  His mother's voice.

"And take the children--and Nurse!" his wife
continued in a tone to convey the fact that she was
just as much disturbed as her mother-in-law could
possibly be by the eccentricities of the male.

"He's his father all over, that lad is!" said his
mother strangely.

And Edward Henry was impressed by these
words, for not once in seven years did his mother
mention his father.

Tea was an exciting meal.

"You'd better come too, Mother," said Edward
Henry audaciously.  "We'll shut the house up."

"I come to no London," said she.

"Well, then, you can use the motor as much as
you like while we're away."

"I go about gallivanting in no motor," said his
mother.  "It'll take me all my time to get this
house straight against you come back."

"I haven't a *thing* to go in!" said Nellie with a
martyr's sigh.

After all (he reflected), though domesticated, she
was a woman.

He went to bed early.  It seemed to him that his
wife, his mother, and the nurse were active and
whispering up and down the house till the very
middle of the night.  He arose not late, but they were
all three afoot before him, active and whispering.

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   \IX.

.. vspace:: 2

He found out on the morning after the highly
complex transaction of getting his family from
Bursley to London that London held more problems for
him than ever.  He was now not merely the
proprietor of a theatre approaching completion, but
really a theatrical manager with a play to produce,
artistes to engage, and the public to attract.  He had
made two appointments for that morning at the
Majestic (he was not at the Grand Babylon, because
his wife had once stayed with him at the Majestic,
and he did not want to add to his anxieties the
business of accustoming her to a new and costlier
luxury): one appointment at nine with Marrier, and the
other at ten with Nellie, family, and Nurse.  He had
expected to get rid of Marrier before ten.

Among the exciting mail which Marrier had
collected for him from the Grand Babylon and
elsewhere was the following letter:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

   *Buckingham Palace Hotel.*

   DEAR FRIEND: We are all so proud of you.  I should like some
   time to finish our interrupted conversation.  Will you come and
   have lunch with me one day here at 1.30?  You needn't write.  I
   know how busy you are.  Just telephone you are coming.  But
   don't telephone between 12 and 1, because at that time I *always*
   take my constitutional in St. James's Park.

.. class:: small white-space-pre-line

   Yours sincerely,
        E. A.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well," he thought.  "That's a bit thick, that
is!  She's stuck me up with a dramatist I don't
believe in, and a play I don't believe in, and an actress
I don't believe in, and now she--"

Nevertheless, to a certain extent he was bluffing
himself; for, as he pretended to put Elsie April
back into her place, he had disturbing and delightful
visions of her.  A clever creature!  Uncannily
clever!  Wealthy!  Under thirty!  Broad-minded!
No provincial prejudices! ... Her voice, that
always affected his spine!  Her delicious flattery! ... She
was no mean actress either!  And the multifariousness
of her seductive charm!  In fact, she was a
regular woman of the world, such as you would read
about--if you did read! ... He was sitting with
her again in the obscurity of the discussion-room at
the Azure Society's establishment.  His heart was
beating again.

Pooh! ...

A single wrench, and he ripped up the letter and
cast it into one of the red-lined waste-paper baskets
with which the immense and rather shabby writing-room
of the Majestic was dotted.

Before he had finished dealing with Mr. Marrier's
queries and suggestions--some ten thousand
in all--the clock struck, and Nellie tripped into the
room.  She was in black silk, with hints here and
there of gold chains.  As she had explained, she had
nothing to wear, and was therefore obliged to fall
back on the final resource of every woman in her
state.  For in this connection "nothing to wear"
signified "nothing except my black silk"--at any
rate, in the Five Towns.

"Mr. Marrier--my wife.  Nellie, this is Mr. Marrier."

Mr. Marrier was profuse: no other word would
describe his demeanour.  Nellie had the timidity of
a young girl.  Indeed, she looked quite youthful,
despite the aging influences of black silk.

"So that's your Mr. Marrier!  I understood
from you he was a clerk!" said Nellie tartly,
suddenly retransformed into the shrewd matron as soon
as Mr. Marrier had profusely gone.  She had
conceived Marrier as a sort of Penkethman.  Edward
Henry had hoped to avoid this interview.

He shrugged his shoulders in answer to his wife's
remark.

"Well," he said, "where are the kids?"

"Waiting in the lounge with Nurse, as you said
to be."  Her mien delicately informed him that
while in London his caprices would be her law, which
she would obey without seeking to comprehend.

"Well," he went on, "I expect they'd like the
parks as well as anything.  Suppose we take 'em and
show 'em one of the parks?  Shall we?  Besides,
they must have fresh air."

"All right," Nellie agreed.  "But how far will it be?"

"Oh," said Edward Henry, "we'll crowd into a taxi!"

They crowded into a taxi, and the children found
their father in high spirits.  Maisie mentioned the
doll.  In a minute the taxi had stopped in front of a
toy-shop surpassing dreams, and they invaded the
toy-shop like an army.  When they emerged, after
a considerable interval, Nurse was carrying an
enormous doll, and Nellie was carrying Maisie, and Ralph
was lovingly stroking the doll's real shoes.  Robert
kept a profound silence--a silence which had begun
in the train.

"You haven't got much to say, Robert," his father
remarked when the taxi set off again.

"I know," said Robert gruffly.  Among other
things, he resented his best clothes on a week-day.

"What do you think of London?"

"I don't know," said Robert.

His eyes never left the window of the taxi.

Then they visited the theatre--a very fatiguing
enterprise, and also, for Edward Henry, a very
nervous one.  He was as awkward in displaying that
inchoate theatre as a newly-made father with his
first-born.  Pride and shame fought for dominion over
him.  Nellie was full of laudations.  Ralph enjoyed
the ladders.

"I say," said Nellie, apprehensive for Maisie, on
the pavement, "this child's exhausted already.  How
big's this park of yours?  Because neither Nurse
nor I can carry her very far."

"We'll buy a pram," said Edward Henry.  He
was staring at a newspaper placard which said:
"Isabel Joy on the war-path again.  Will she win?"

"But--"

"Oh, yes, we'll buy a pram!  Driver--"

"A pram isn't enough.  You'll want coverings
for her, in this wind."

"Well, we'll buy the necessary number of
eiderdowns and blankets, then," said Edward Henry.
"Driver--"

A tremendous business!  For, in addition to
making the purchases, he had to feed his flock in an
A-B-C shop, where among the unoccupied waitresses
Maisie and her talkative winking doll enjoyed a
triumph.  Still, there was plenty of time.

At a quarter-past twelve he was displaying the
varied landscape beauties of the park to his family.
Ralph insisted on going to the bridge over the lake,
and Robert silently backed him.  And therefore the
entire party went.  But Maisie was afraid of the
water, and cried.  Now, the worst thing about
Maisie was that when once she had begun to cry it
was very difficult to stop her.  Even the most
remarkable dolls were powerless to appease her distress.

"Give me the confounded pram, Nurse," said
Edward Henry, "I'll cure her."

But he did not cure her.  However, he had to
stick grimly to the perambulator.  Nellie tripped
primly in black silk on one side of it.  Nurse had the
wayward Ralph by the hand.  And Robert, taciturn,
stalked alone, adding up London and making a very
small total of it.

Suddenly Edward Henry halted the perambulator
and, stepping away from it, raised his hat.  An
excessively elegant young woman leading a Pekinese by
a silver chain stopped as if smitten by a magic dart
and held spellbound.

"How do you do, Miss April?" said Edward
Henry loudly.  "I was hoping to meet you.  This
is my wife.  Nellie, this is Miss April."  Nellie
bowed stiffly in her black silk.  Naught of the fresh
maiden about her now!  And it has to be said that
Elsie April, in all her young and radiant splendour
and woman-of-the-worldliness, was equally stiff.
"And there are my two boys.  And this is my little
girl in the pram."

Maisie screamed, and pushed an expensive doll
out of the perambulator.  Edward Henry saved it
by its boot as it fell.

"And this is her doll.  And this is Nurse," he
finished.  "Fine breezy morning, isn't it?"

In due course the processions moved on.

"Well, that's done!" Edward Henry muttered
to himself, and sighed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FIRST NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   THE FIRST NIGHT

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   \I.

.. vspace:: 1

It was upon an evening in June--and a fine
evening, full of the exquisite melancholy of
summer in a city--that Edward Henry stood
before a window, drumming thereon as he had once,
a less experienced man with hair slightly less gray,
drummed on the table of the mighty and arrogant
Slosson.  The window was the window of the
managerial room of the Regent Theatre.  And he could
scarcely believe it, he could scarcely believe that he
was not in a dream, for the room was papered,
carpeted and otherwise furnished.  Only its electric
light fittings were somewhat hasty and provisional,
and the white ceiling showed a hole and a bunch
of wires, like the nerves of a hollow tooth, whence
one of Edward Henry's favourite chandeliers would
ultimately depend.

The whole of the theatre was at least as far
advanced toward completion as that room.  A great
deal of it was more advanced; for instance the
auditorium, foyer, and bars, which were utterly finished,
so far as anything ever is finished in a changing
world.  Wonders, marvels, and miracles had been
accomplished.  Mr. Alloyd, in the stress of the
job, had even ceased to bring the Russian ballet into
his conversations.  Mr. Alloyd, despite a growing
tendency to prove to Edward Henry by authentic
anecdote about midnight his general proposition that
women as a sex treated him with shameful unfairness,
had gained the high esteem of Edward Henry
as an architect.  He had fulfilled his word about
those properties of the auditorium which had to do
with hearing and seeing--in-so-much that the
auditorium was indeed unique in London.  And he had
taken care that the clerk of the Works took care
that the builder did not give up heart in the race
with time.

Moreover he had maintained the peace with the
terrible London County Council, all of whose
inspecting departments seemed to have secretly
decided that the Regent Theatre should be opened,
not in June as Edward Henry had decided but at
some vague future date toward the middle of the
century.  Months earlier Edward Henry had
ordained and announced that the Regent Theatre
should be inaugurated on a given date in June, at
the full height of splendour of the London season,
and he had astounded the theatrical world by
adhering through thick and thin to that date, and had
thereby intensified his reputation as an eccentric; for
the oldest inhabitant of that world could not recall
a case in which the opening of a new theatre had
not been promised for at least three widely different
dates.

Edward Henry had now arrived at the eve of the
date, and if he had arrived there in comparative
safety, with a reasonable prospect of avoiding
complete shame and disaster, he felt and he admitted
that the credit was due as much to Mr. Alloyd as to
himself.  Which only confirmed an early impression
of his that architects were queer people--rather
like artists and poets in some ways, but with a basis
of bricks and mortar to them.

His own share in the enterprise of the Regent had
in theory been confined to engaging the right people
for the right tasks and situations; and to signing
checks.  He had depended chiefly upon Mr. Marrier,
who, growing more radiant every day, had
gradually developed into a sort of chubby Napoleon,
taking an immense delight in detail and in choosing
minor hands at round-sum salaries on the spur of
the moment.  Mr. Marrier refused no call upon his
energy.  He was helping Carlo Trent in the
production and stage-management of the play.  He
dried the tears of girlish neophytes at rehearsals.
He helped to number the stalls.  He showed a
passionate interest in the tessellated pavement of the
entrance.  He taught the managerial typewriting girl
how to make afternoon tea.  He went to Hitchin to
find a mediæval chair required for the third act,
and found it.  In a word he was fully equal to the
post of acting manager.  He managed!  He
managed everything and everybody except Edward
Henry, and except the press-agent, a functionary
whose conviction of his own indispensability and
importance was so sincere that even Marrier shared
it, and left him alone in his Bismarckian operations.
The press-agent, who sang in musical comedy chorus
at night, knew that if the Regent Theatre succeeded,
it would be his doing and his alone.

And yet Edward Henry, though he had delegated
everything, had yet found a vast amount of work to
do; and was thereby exhausted.  That was why he
was drumming on the pane.  That was why he was
conscious of a foolish desire to shove his fist through
the pane.  During the afternoon he had had two
scenes with two representatives of the Libraries (so
called because they deal in theatre-tickets and not in
books) who had declined to take up any of his tickets
in advance.  He had commenced an action against a
firm of bill posters.  He had settled an incipient
strike in the "limes" department, originated by
Mr. Cosmo Clark's views about lighting.  He had
dictated answers to seventy-nine letters of complaint
from unknown people concerning the supply of free
seats for the first night.  He had responded in the
negative to a request from a newspaper critic who,
on the score that he was deaf, wanted a copy of the
play.  He had replied finally to an official of the
County Council about the smoke trap over the stage.
He had replied finally to another official of the
County Council about the electric sign.  He had
attended to a new curiosity on the part of another
official of the County Council about the iron curtain.
And he had been almost rude to still another official
of the County Council about the wiring of the
electric light in the dressing-rooms.  He had been
unmistakably and pleasurably rude in writing to
Slossons about their criticisms of the lock on the door
of Lord Woldo's private entrance to the theatre.
Also he had arranged with the representative of the
Chief Commissioner of Police concerning the
carriage regulations for "setting-down and taking-up."

And he had indeed had more than enough.  His
nerves, though he did not know it, and would have
scorned the imputation, were slowly giving way.
Hence, really, the danger to the pane!  Through
the pane, in the dying light he could see a
cross-section of Shaftesbury Avenue, and an aged
newspaper lad leaning against a lamp-post and displaying
a poster which spoke of Isabel Joy.  Isabel Joy yet
again!  That little fact of itself contributed to his
exasperation.  He thought, considering the
importance of the Regent Theatre and the salary he was
paying to his press-agent, that the newspapers ought
to occupy their pages solely with the metropolitan
affairs of Edward Henry Machin.  But the wretched
Isabel had, as it were, got London by the throat.
She had reached Chicago from the West, on her
triumphant way home, and had there contrived to be
arrested, according to boast, but she was experiencing
much more difficulty in emerging from the
Chicago prison than in entering it.  And the question
was now becoming acute whether the emissary of
the militant Suffragettes would arrive back in
London within the specified period of a hundred days.
Naturally, London was holding its breath.  London
will keep calm during moderate crises--such as a
national strike or the agony of the House of Lords--but
when the supreme excitation is achieved London
knows how to let itself go.

"If you please, Mr. Machin--"

He turned.  It was his typewriter, Miss Lindop,
a young girl of some thirty-five years, holding a
tea-tray.

"But I've had my tea once!" he snapped.

"But you've not had your dinner, sir, and it's
half-past eight!" she pleaded.

He had known this girl for less than a month and
he paid her fewer shillings a week than the years
of her age, and yet somehow she had assumed a
worshipping charge of him, based on the idea that
he was incapable of taking care of himself.  To
look at her appealing eyes one might have thought
that she would have died to insure his welfare.

"And they want to see you about the linoleum
for the gallery stairs," she added timidly.  "The
County Council man says it must be taken up."

The linoleum for the gallery stairs!  Something
snapped in him.  He almost walked right through
the young woman and the tea-tray.

"I'll linoleum them!" he bitterly exclaimed, and
disappeared.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

Having duly "linoleumed them," or rather having
very annoyingly quite failed to "linoleum them,"
Edward Henry continued his way up the right-hand
gallery staircase and reached the auditorium,
where to his astonishment a good deal of electricity,
at one penny three farthings a unit, was blazing.
Every seat in the narrow and high-pitched gallery,
where at the sides the knees of one spectator would
be on a level with the picture-hat of the spectator
in the row beneath, had a perfect and entire view
of the proscenium opening.  And Edward Henry
now proved this unprecedented fact by
climbing to the topmost corner seat and therefrom
surveying the scene of which he was monarch.
The boxes were swathed in their new white
dust sheets; and likewise the higgledy-piggledy
stalls, not as yet screwed down to the floor, save
three or four stalls in the middle of the front row,
from which the sheet had been removed.  On one
of these seats, far off though it was, he could descry
a paper bag,--probably containing sandwiches,--and
on another a pair of gloves and a walking-stick.
Several alert ladies with sketchbooks walked
uneasily about in the aisles.  The orchestra was hidden
in the well provided for it, and apparently
murmuring in its sleep.  The magnificent drop-curtain,
designed by Saracen Givington, A.R.A., concealed
the stage.

Suddenly Mr. Marrier and Carlo Trent appeared
through the iron door that gave communication--to
initiates--between the wings and the auditorium;
they sat down in the stalls.  And the curtain rose
with a violent swish, and disclosed the first "set" of
"The Orient Pearl."

"What about that amber, Cosmo?" Mr. Marrier
cried thickly, after a pause, his mouth occupied
with sandwich.

"There you are!" came the reply.

"Right!" said Mr. Marrier.  "Strike!"

"Don't strike!" contradicted Carlo Trent.

"Strike, I tell you!  We must get on with the
second act."  The voices resounded queerly in the
empty theatre.

The stage was invaded by scene shifters before
the curtain could descend again.

Edward Henry heard a tripping step behind him.
It was the faithful typewriting girl.

"I say," he said.  "Do you mind telling me
what's going on here?  It's true that in the rush of
more important business I'd almost forgotten that a
theatre is a place where they perform plays."

"It's the dress-rehearsal, Mr. Machin," said the
woman, startled and apologetic.

"But the dress-rehearsal was fixed for three
o'clock," said he.  "It must have been finished three
hours ago."

"I think they've only just done the first act," the
woman breathed.  "I know they didn't begin till
seven.  Oh!  Mr. Machin, of course it's no affair
of mine, but I've worked in a good many theatres,
and I do think it's such a mistake to have the
dress-rehearsal quite private.  If you get a hundred or so
people in the stalls, then it's an audience, and
there's much less delay and everything goes much
better.  But when it's private a dress-rehearsal is
just like any other rehearsal."

"Only more so, perhaps," said Edward Henry,
smiling.

He saw that he had made her happy; but he
saw also that he had given her empire over him.

"I've got your tea here," she said, rather like a
hospital nurse now.  "Won't you drink it?"

"I'll drink it if it's not stewed," he muttered.

"Oh!" she protested.  "Of course it isn't!  I
poured it off the leaves into another teapot before
I brought it up."

She went behind the barrier, and reappeared
balancing a cup of tea with a slice of sultana cake
edged on the saucer.  And as she handed it to
him--the sustenance of rehearsals--she gazed at him
and he could almost hear her eyes saying: "You
poor thing!"

There was nothing that he hated so much as to
be pitied.

"You go home!" he commanded.

"Oh, but--"

"You go home!  See?"  He paused, threatening.
"If you don't clear out on the tick, I'll chuck
this cup and saucer down into the stalls."

Horrified, she vanished.

He sighed his relief.

After some time, the leader of the orchestra
climbed into his chair, and the orchestra began to
play, and the curtain went up again, on the second
act of the masterpiece in hexameters.  The new
scenery, which Edward Henry had with extraordinary
courage insisted on Saracen Givington substituting
for the original incomprehensibilities displayed
at the Azure Society's performance, rather pleased
him.  Its colouring was agreeable, and it did
resemble something definite.  You could, though
perhaps not easily, tell what it was meant to represent.
The play proceeded, and the general effect was
surprisingly pleasant to Edward Henry.  And then
Rose Euclid as Haidee came on for the great scene
of the act.  From the distance of the gallery she
looked quite passably youthful, and beyond question
she had a dominating presence in her resplendent
costume.  She was incomparably and amazingly better
than she had been at the few previous rehearsals
which Edward Henry had been unfortunate enough
to witness.  She even reminded him of his earliest
entrancing vision of her.

"Some people may *like* this!" he admitted, with
a gleam of optimism.  Hitherto, for weeks past, he
had gone forward with his preparations in the most
frigid and convinced pessimism.  It seemed to him
that he had become involved in a vast piece of
machinery, and that nothing short of blowing the
theatre up with dynamite would bring the cranks and
pistons to a stop.  And yet it seemed to him also
that everything was unreal, that the contracts he
signed were unreal, and the proofs he passed, and
the posters he saw on the walls of London, and the
advertisements in the newspapers.  Only the checks
he drew had the air of being real.  And now, in a
magic flash, after a few moments gazing at the
stage, he saw all differently.  He scented triumph
from afar off, as one sniffs the tang of the sea.  On
the morrow he had to meet Nellie at Euston, and
he had shrunk from meeting her, with her terrible
remorseless, provincial, untheatrical common sense;
but now, in another magic flash, he envisaged
the meeting with a cock-a-doodle-doo of hope.
Strange!  He admitted it was strange.

And then he failed to hear several words spoken
by Rose Euclid.  And then a few more.  As the
emotion of the scene grew, the proportion of her
words audible in the gallery diminished.  Until she
became, for him, totally inarticulate, raving away
there and struggling in a cocoon of hexameters.

Despair seized him.  His nervous system, every
separate nerve of it, was on the rack once more.

He stood up in a sort of paroxysm and called
loudly across the vast intervening space:

"Speak more distinctly, please."

A fearful silence fell upon the whole theatre.
The rehearsal stopped.  The building itself seemed
to be staggered.  Somebody had actually demanded
that words should be uttered articulately!

Mr. Marrier turned toward the intruder, as one
determined to put an end to such singularities.

"Who's up theyah?"

"I am," said Edward Henry.  "And I want it
to be clearly understood in my theatre that the first
thing an actor has to do is to make himself heard.
I daresay I'm devilish odd, but that's how I look at it."

"Whom do you mean, Mr. Machin?" asked
Marrier in a different tone.

"I mean Miss Euclid of course.  Here I've
spent Heaven knows how much on the acoustics of
this theatre, and I can't make out a word she says.
I can hear all the others.  And this is the
dress-rehearsal!"

"You must remember you're in the gallery," said
Mr. Marrier firmly.

"And what if I am!  I'm not giving gallery
seats away to-morrow night.  It's true I'm giving
half the stalls away, but the gallery will be paid for."

Another silence.

Said Rose Euclid sharply, and Edward Henry
caught every word with the most perfect distinctness:

"I'm sick and tired of people saying they can't
make out what I say!  They actually write me
letters about it!  Why *should* people make out what
I say?"

She quitted the stage.

Another silence....

"Ring down the curtain," said Mr. Marrier in a
thrilled voice.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

Shortly afterward Mr. Marrier came into
the managerial office, lit up now, where
Edward Henry was dictating to his typewriter
and hospital nurse, who, having been caught in hat
and jacket on the threshold, had been brought back
and was tapping his words direct on to the machine.
It was a remarkable fact that the sole proprietor
of the Regent Theatre was now in high spirits and
good-humour.

"Well, Marrier, my boy," he saluted the acting
manager, "how are you getting on with that rehearsal?"

"Well, sir," said Mr. Marrier, "I'm not getting
on with it.  Miss Euclid refuses absolutely to
proceed.  She's in her dressing-room."

"But why?" enquired Edward Henry with bland
surprise.  "Doesn't she *want* to be heard by her
gallery-boys?"

Mr. Marrier showed a feeble smile.

"She hasn't been spoken to like that for thirty
years," said he.

"But don't you agree with me?" asked Edward Henry.

"Yes," said Marrier, "I *agree* with you--"

"And doesn't your friend Carlo want his precious
hexameters to be heard?"

"We baoth agree with you," said Marrier.
"The fact is, we've done all we could, but it's no
use.  She's splendid; only--"  He paused.

"Only you can't make out ten per cent. of what
she says," Edward Henry finished for him.  "Well,
I've got no use for that in my theatre."  He found
a singular pleasure in emphasising the phrase, "my
theatre."

"That's all very well," said Marrier.  "But what
are you going to *do* about it?  I've tried everything.
*You've* come in and burst up the entire show, if
you'll forgive my saying saoh!"

"Do?" exclaimed Edward Henry.  "It's
perfectly simple.  All you have to do is to act.  God
bless my soul, aren't you getting fifteen pounds
a week, and aren't you my acting manager?
Act, then!  You've done enough hinting.  You've
proved that hints are no good.  You'd have known
that from your birth up, Marrier, if you'd been
born in the Five Towns.  Act, my boy."

"But haow?  If she won't go on, she won't."

"Is her understudy in the theatre?"

"Yes.  It's Miss Cunningham, you knaow."

"What salary does she get?"

"Ten pounds a week."

"What for?"

"Well--partly to understudy, I suppose."

"Let her earn it, then.  Go on with the rehearsal.
And let her play the part to-morrow night.
She'll be delighted, you bet."

"But--"

"Miss Lindop," Edward Henry interrupted,
"will you please read to Mr. Marrier what I've
dictated?"  He turned to Marrier.  "It's an
interview with myself for one of to-morrow's papers."

Miss Lindop, with tears in her voice if not in
her eyes, obeyed the order and, drawing the paper
from the machine, read its contents aloud.

Mr. Marrier started back--not in the figurative
but in the literal sense--as he listened.

"But you'll never send that out!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?"

"No paper will print it!"

"My dear Marrier," said Edward Henry.
"Don't be a simpleton.  You know as well as I
do that half-a-dozen papers will be delighted to
print it.  And all the rest will copy the one that
does print it.  It'll be the talk of London to-morrow,
and Isabel Joy will be absolutely snuffed out."

"Well," said Mr. Marrier.  "I never heard of
such a thing!"

"Pity you didn't, then!"

Mr. Marrier moved away.

"I say," he murmured at the door.  "Don't you
think you ought to read that to Rose first?"

"I'll read it to Rose like a bird," said Edward
Henry.

Within two minutes--it was impossible to get
from his room to the dressing-rooms in less--he
was knocking at Rose Euclid's door.  "Who's
there?" said a voice.  He entered and then replied,
"I am."

Rose Euclid was smoking a cigarette and scratching
the arm of an easy-chair behind her.  Her maid
stood near by with a whisky-and-soda.

"Sorry you can't go on with the rehearsal, Miss
Euclid," said Edward Henry very quickly.  "However,
we must do the best we can.  But Mr. Marrier
thought you'd like to hear this.  It's part of an
interview with me that's going to appear to-morrow
in the press."

Without pausing, he went on to read: "'I found
Mr. Alderman Machin, the hero of the Five Towns
and the proprietor and initiator of London's newest
and most up-to-date and most intellectual theatre,
surrounded by a complicated apparatus of telephones
and typewriters in his managerial room at the
Regent.  He received me very courteously.  "Yes,"
he said in response to my question, "The rumour
is quite true.  The principal part in 'The Orient
Pearl' will be played on the first night by Miss
Euclid's understudy, Miss Olga Cunningham, a
young woman of very remarkable talent.  No; Miss
Euclid is not ill or even indisposed.  But she and
I have had a grave difference of opinion.  The point
between us was whether Miss Euclid's speeches
ought to be clearly audible in the auditorium.  I
considered they ought.  I may be wrong.  I may
be provincial.  But that was and is my view.  At
the dress-rehearsal, seated in the gallery, I could
not hear her lines.  I objected.  She refused to
consider the subject or to proceed with the rehearsal.
*Hinc illæ lachrymæ!*" ... "Not at all," said
Mr. Machin in reply to a question, "I have the highest
admiration for Miss Euclid's genius.  I should not
presume to dictate to her as to her art.  She has
had a very long experience of the stage, very long,
and doubtless knows better than I do.  Only, the
Regent happens to be my theatre, and I'm
responsible for it.  Every member of the audience will
have a complete uninterrupted view of the stage,
and I intend that every member of the audience
shall hear every word that is uttered on the stage.
I'm odd, I know.  But then I've a reputation for
oddness to keep up.  And by the way I'm sure that
Miss Cunningham will make a great reputation for
herself."'"

"Not while I'm here, she won't!" exclaimed
Rose Euclid standing up, and enunciating her words
with marvellous clearness.

Edward Henry glanced at her, and then continued
to read: "Suggestions for headlines.  'Piquant
quarrel between manager and star actress.'  'Unparalleled
situation.'  'Trouble at the Regent Theatre.'"

"Mr. Machin," said Rose Euclid, "you are not
a gentleman."

"You'd hardly think so, would you?" mused
Edward Henry, as if mildly interested in this new
discovery of Miss Euclid's.

"Maria," said the star to her maid, "go and
tell Mr. Marrier I'm coming."

"And I'll go back to the gallery," said Edward
Henry.  "It's the place for people like me, isn't
it?  I daresay I'll tear up this paper later, Miss
Euclid--we'll see."

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   \IV.

.. vspace:: 2

On the next night a male figure in evening dress
and a pale overcoat might have been seen standing
at the corner of Piccadilly Circus and Lower
Regent Street, staring at an electric sign in the shape
of a shield which said in its glittering, throbbing
speech of incandescence:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   THE REGENT
   ROSE EUCLID
   IN
   THE ORIENT PEARL

.. vspace:: 2

The figure crossed the Circus, and stared at the
sign from a new point of view.  Then it passed along
Coventry Street, and stared at the sign from yet
another point of view.  Then it reached Shaftesbury
Avenue, and stared again.  Then it returned
to its original station.  It was the figure of Edward
Henry Machin, savouring the glorious electric sign
of which he had dreamed.  He lit a cigarette, and
thought of Seven Sachs gazing at the name of Seven
Sachs in fire on the façade of a Broadway theatre
in New York.  Was not this London phenomenon
at least as fine?  He considered it was.  The
Regent Theatre existed--there it stood!  (What a
name for a theatre!)  Its windows were all illuminated.
Its entrance-lamps bathed the pavement in
light, and in this radiance stood the commissionaires
in their military pride and their new uniforms.  A
line of waiting automobiles began a couple of yards
to the north of the main doors and continued round
all sorts of dark corners and up all manner of back
streets toward Golden Square itself.  Marrier had
had the automobiles counted and had told him the
number--, but such was Edward Henry's condition
that he had forgotten.  A row of boards reared on
the pavement against the walls of the façade said:
"Stalls Full," "Private Boxes Full," "Dress Circle
Full," "Upper Circle Full," "Pit Full," "Gallery
Full."  And attached to the ironwork of the glazed
entrance canopy was a long board which gave the
same information in terser form: "House Full."  The
Regent had indeed been obliged to refuse quite
a lot of money on its opening night.

After all, the inauguration of a new theatre was
something, even in London!  Important personages
had actually begged the privilege of buying seats
at normal prices, and had been refused.
Unimportant personages, such as those who boast in the
universe that they had never missed a first night in
the West End for twenty, thirty, or even fifty years,
had tried to buy seats at abnormal prices, and had
failed; which was in itself a tragedy.  Edward
Henry at the final moment had yielded his wife's
stall to the instances of a Minister of the Crown,
and at Lady Woldo's urgent request had put her into
Lady Woldo's private landowner's box, where also
was Miss Elsie April who "had already had
the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Machin."  Edward
Henry's first night was an event of magnitude.  And
he alone was responsible for it.  His volition alone
had brought into being that grand edifice whose
light yellow walls now gleamed in nocturnal mystery
under the shimmer of countless electric bulbs.

"There goes pretty nigh forty thousand pounds
of my money!" he reflected, excitedly.

And he reflected:

"After all, I'm somebody."

Then he glanced down Lower Regent Street and
saw Sir John Pilgrim's much larger theatre, now
sublet to a tenant who also was lavish with displays
of radiance.  And he reflected that on first nights
Sir John Pilgrim, in addition to doing all that he
himself had done, would hold the great rôle on the
stage throughout the evening.  And he admired the
astounding, dazzling energy of such a being, and
admitted ungrudgingly:

"He's somebody too!  I wonder what part of
the world he's illuminating just now!"

Edward Henry did not deny to his soul that he
was extremely nervous.  He would not and could
not face even the bare possibility that the first play
presented at the new theatre might be a failure.
He had meant to witness the production incognito
among the crowd in the pit or in the gallery.  But,
after visiting the pit a few moments before the
curtain went up, he had been appalled by the
hard-hearted levity of the pit's remarks on things in
general.  The pit did not seem to be in any way
chastened or softened by the fact that a fortune,
that reputations, that careers were at stake.  He
had fled from the packed pit.  (As for the gallery,
he decided that he had already had enough of the
gallery.)

He had wandered about corridors and to and
fro in his own room and in the wings, and even in
the basement, as nervous as a lost cat or an author,
and as self-conscious as a criminal who knows
himself to be on the edge of discovery.  It was a fact
that he could not look people in the eyes.  The
reception of the first act had been fairly amiable, and
he had suffered horribly as he listened for the
applause.  Catching sight of Carlo Trent in the
distance of a passage, he had positively run away from
Carlo Trent.  The first entr'acte had seemed to last
for about three months.  Its nightmarish length had
driven him almost to lunacy.  The "feel" of the
second act, so far as it mystically communicated
itself to him in his place of concealment, had been
better.  At the end of the second fall of the
curtain the applause had been enthusiastic.  Yes,
enthusiastic!

Curiously, it was the revulsion caused by this new
birth of hope that, while the third act was being
played, had driven him out of the theatre.  His
wild hope needed ozone.  His breast had to
expand in the boundless prairie of Piccadilly Circus.
His legs had to walk.  His arms had to swing.

Now he crossed the Circus again to his own
pavement and gazed like a stranger at his own posters.
On several of them, encircled in a scarlet ring, was
the sole name of Rose Euclid--impressive!  (And
smaller, but above it, the legend "E. H. Machin.
Sole proprietor.")  He asked himself impartially,
as his eyes uneasily left the poster and slipped round
the Circus, deserted save by a few sinister and idle
figures at that hour, "Should I have sent that
interview to the papers, or shouldn't I? ... I wonder.
I expect some folks would say on the whole I've
been rather hard on Rose since I first met
her! ... Anyhow, she's speaking up all right to-night!"  He
laughed shortly.

A newsboy floated up from the Circus bearing
a poster with the name of Isabel Joy on it in large
letters.

He thought:

"Be blowed to Isabel Joy!"

He did not care a fig for Isabel Joy's competition now.

And then a small door opened in the wall close
by, and an elegant, cloaked woman came out on to
the pavement.  The door was the private door
leading to the private box of Lord Woldo, owner of
the ground upon which the Regent Theatre was
built.  The woman he recognised with confusion
as Elsie April, whom he had not seen alone since the
Azure Society's night.

"What are you doing out here, Mr. Machin?"
she greeted him with pleasant composure.

"I'm thinking," said he.

"It's going splendidly," she remarked.  "Really!
I'm just running round to the stage door to meet
dear Rose as she comes off.  What a delightful
woman your wife is!  So pretty, and so sensible!"

She disappeared round the corner before he could
compose a suitable husband's reply to this
laudation of a wife.

Then the commissionaires at the entrance seemed
to start into life.  And then suddenly several
preoccupied men strode rapidly out of the theatre,
buttoning their coats, and vanished, phantom-like.
Critics, on their way to destruction!

The performance must be finishing.  Hastily he
followed in the direction taken by Elsie April.

He was in the wings, on the prompt side.  Close
by stood the prompter, an untidy youth with
imperfections of teeth, clutching hard at the red-scored
manuscript of "The Orient Pearl."  Sundry players,
of varying stellar degrees, were posed around
in the opulent costumes designed by Saracen
Givington, A.R.A.  Miss Lindop was in the background,
ecstatically happy, her cheeks a race-course
of tears.  Afar off, in the centre of the stage, alone,
stood Rose Euclid, gorgeous in green and silver,
bowing and bowing and bowing--bowing before
the storm of approval and acclamation that swept
from the auditorium across the footlights.

With a sound like that of tearing silk, or of a
gigantic contralto mosquito, the curtain swished down,
and swished up, and swished down again.  Bouquets
flew on to the stage from the auditorium (a custom
newly imported from the United States by Miss
Euclid, and encouraged by her, though contrary to the
lofty canons of London taste).  The actress already
held one huge trophy, shaped as a crown, to her
breast.  She hesitated, and then ran to the wings,
and caught Edward Henry by the wrist impulsively,
madly.  They shook hands in an ecstasy.  It was
as though they recognised in one another a
fundamental and glorious worth; it was as though no
words could ever express the depth of appreciation,
affection and admiration which each intensely felt
for the other; it was as though this moment were
the final consecration of twin lives whose long, loyal
comradeship had never been clouded by the faintest
breath of mutual suspicion.  Rose Euclid was still
the unparalleled star, the image of grace and beauty
and dominance upon the stage.  And yet quite
clearly Edward Henry saw close to his the wrinkled,
damaged, daubed face and thin neck of an old
woman; and it made no difference.

"Rose!" cried a strained voice, and Rose Euclid
wrenched herself from him and tumbled with half
a sob into the clasping arms of Elsie April.

"You've saved the intellectual theatah for
London, my boy!  That's what you've done!"  Marrier
was now gripping his hand.  And Edward
Henry was convinced that he had.

The strident vigour of the applause showed no
diminution.  And through the thick heavy rain of
it could be heard the monotonous insistent
detonations of one syllable:

"'Thor!  'Thor!  'Thor!  Thor!  Thor!"

And then another syllable was added:

"Speech!  Speech!  Speech!  Speech!"

Mechanically Edward Henry lit a cigarette.  He
had no consciousness of doing so.

"Where is Trent?" people were asking.

Carlo Trent appeared up a staircase at the back of
the stage.

"You've got to go on," said Marrier.  "Now,
pull yourself togethah.  The Great Beast is calling
for you.  Say a few wahds."

Carlo Trent in his turn seized the hand of
Edward Henry, and it was for all the world as though
he were seizing the hand of an intellectual and poetic
equal, and wrung it.

"Come now!" Mr. Marrier, beaming, admonished
him, and then pushed.

"What must I say?" stammered Carlo.

"Whatever comes into your head."

"All right!  I'll say something."

A man in a dirty white apron, drew back the heavy
mass of the curtain about eighteen inches, and, Carlo
Trent stepping forward, the glare of the footlights
suddenly lit his white face.  The applause, now
multiplied fivefold and become deafening, seemed to
beat him back against the curtain.  His lips worked.
He did not bow.

"Cam back, you fool!" whispered Marrier.

And Carlo Trent stepped back into safe shelter.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I c-couldn't," murmured the greatest dramatic
poet in the world; and began to cry.

"Speech!  Speech!  Speech!  Speech!"

"Here!" said Edward Henry gruffly.  "Get
out of my way!  I'll settle 'em.  Get out of my
way!"  And he riddled Carlo Trent with a
fusillade of savagely scornful glances.

The man in the apron obediently drew back the
curtain again, and the next second Edward Henry
was facing an auditorium crowded with his patrons.
Everybody was standing up, chiefly in the aisles and
crowded at the entrances, and quite half the people
were waving, and quite a quarter of them were
shouting.  He bowed several times.  An age elapsed.
His ears were stunned.  But it seemed to him that
his brain was working with marvellous perfection.
He perceived that he had been utterly wrong about
"The Orient Pearl."  And that all his advisers had
been splendidly right.  He had failed to catch its
charm and to feel its power.  But this audience--this
magnificent representative audience drawn from
London in the brilliant height of the season--had
not failed.

It occurred to him to raise his hand.  And as
he raised his hand it occurred to him that his hand
held a lighted cigarette.  A magic hush fell upon
the magnificent audience, which owned all that
endless line of automobiles outside.  Edward Henry, in
the hush, took a pull at his cigarette.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, pitching his
voice well, for municipal politics had made him a
practised public speaker, "I congratulate you.
This evening you--have succeeded!"

There was a roar, confused, mirthful, humorously
protesting.  He distinctly heard a man in the front
row of the stalls say: "Well, for sheer nerve--!"  And
then go off into a peal of laughter.

He smiled and retired.

Marrier took charge of him.

"You merit the entire confectioner's shop!"
exclaimed Marrier, aghast, admiring, triumphant.

Now Edward Henry had had no intention of
meriting cake.  He had merely followed in speech
the secret train of his thought.  But he saw that he
had treated a West End audience as a West End
audience had never before been treated, and that
his audacity had conquered.  Hence he determined
not to refuse the cake.

"Didn't I tell you I'd settle 'em?" said he.

The band played "God Save the King."

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   \VI.

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One hour later, in the double-bedded chamber at
the Majestic, as his wife lay in bed and he was
methodically folding up a creased white tie and
inspecting his chin in the mirror, he felt that he was
touching again, after an immeasurable interval, the
rock-bottom of reality.  Nellie, even when he could
see only her face, and that in a mirror, was the
most real phenomenon in his existence, and she
possessed the strange faculty of dispelling all unreality,
round about her.

"Well," he said.  "How did you get on in the box?"

"Oh!" she replied, "I got on very well with the
Woldo woman.  She's one of our sort.  But I'm
not so set up with your Elsie April."

"Dash this collar!"

Nellie continued:

"And I can tell you another thing.  I don't envy
Mr. Rollo Wrissel."

"What's Wrissel got to do with it?"

"She means to marry him."

"Elsie April means to marry Wrissel?"

"He was in and out of the box all night.  It
was as plain as a pikestaff."

"What's amiss with my Elsie April?" Edward
Henry demanded.

"She's a thought too *pleasant* for my taste,"
answered Nellie.

Astonishing, how pleasantness is regarded with
suspicion in the Five Towns, even by women who
can at a pinch be angels!

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   \VII.

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Often during the brief night he gazed sleepily
at the vague next bed and mused upon the
extraordinariness of women's consciences.  His wife
slept like an innocent.  She always did.  It was
as though she gently expired every evening and
returned gloriously to life every morning.  The
sunshiny hours between three and seven were very
long to him, but it was indisputable that he did not
hear the clock strike six, which was, at any rate,
proof of a little sleep to the good.  At five minutes
past seven he thought he heard a faint rustling noise
in the corridor, and he arose and tiptoed to the door
and opened it.  Yes, the Majestic had its good
qualities!  He had ordered that all the London
morning daily papers should be laid at his door
as early as possible, and there the pile was,
somewhat damp, and as fresh as fruit, with a slight odour
of ink.  He took it in.

His heart was beating as he climbed back into bed
with it and arranged pillows so that he could sit
up, and unfolded the first paper.  Nellie had not
stirred.

Once again he was disappointed in the prominence
given by the powerful London press to his London
enterprise.  In the first newspaper, a very important
one, he positively could not find any criticism of the
Regent's first night.  There was nearly a page of
the offensive Isabel Joy, who was now appealing,
through the newspapers, to the President of the
United States.  Isabel had been christened the
World-Circler, and the special correspondents of
the entire earth were gathered about her carpeted
cell.  Hope still remained that she would reach
London within the hundred days.  An unknown
adherent of the cause for which she suffered had
promised to give ten thousand pounds to that cause if
she did so.  Furthermore, she was receiving over
sixty proposals of marriage a day.  And so on and
so on!  Most of this he gathered in an instant from
the headlines alone.  Nauseating!

Another annoying item in the paper was a column
and a half given to the foundation-stone laying of
the First New Thought Church, in Dean Street,
Soho--about a couple of hundred yards from its original
site.  He hated the First New Thought Church as
one always hates that to which one has done an injury.

Then he found what he was searching for: "Regent
Theatre.  Production of poetical drama at
London's latest playhouse."  After all, it was well
situated in the paper, on quite an important page, and
there was over a column of it.  But in his nervous
excitation his eyes had missed it.  His eyes now read
it.  Over half of it was given to a discussion of the
Don Juan legend and the significance of the Byronic
character of Haidee--obviously written before the
performance.  A description of the plot occupied
most of the rest, and a reference to the acting ended
it.  "Miss Rose Euclid in the trying and occasionally
beautiful part of Haidee was all that her admirers
could have wished" ... "Miss Cunningham
distinguished herself by her diction and bearing
in the small part of the Messenger."  The final
words were: "The reception was quite favourable."

"Quite favourable," indeed!  Edward Henry had
a chill.  Good heavens, was not the reception
ecstatically, madly, foolishly enthusiastic?  "Why!"
he exclaimed within, "I never saw such a
reception!"  It was true; but then he had never seen
any other first night.  He was shocked, as well as
chilled.  And for this reason: For weeks past all
the newspapers, in their dramatic gossip, had
contained highly sympathetic references to his
enterprise.  According to the paragraphs, he was a
wondrous man, and the theatre was a wondrous
house, the best of all possible theatres, and Carlo
Trent was a great writer, and Rose Euclid exactly
as marvellous as she had been a quarter of a
century before, and the prospects of the
intellectual-poetic drama in London so favourable as to amount
to a certainty of success.

In those columns of dramatic gossip there was no
flaw in the theatrical world.  In those columns of
dramatic gossip no piece ever failed, though
sometimes a piece was withdrawn, regretfully and against
the wishes of the public, to make room for another
piece.  In those columns of dramatic gossip theatrical
managers, actors, and especially actresses, and
even authors, were benefactors of society, and
therefore they were treated with the deference, the
gentleness, the heartfelt sympathy which benefactors of
society merit and ought to receive.

The tone of the criticism of the first night was
different--it was subtly, not crudely, different.
But different it was.

The next newspaper said the play was bad and
the audience indulgent.  It was very severe on Carlo
Trent, and very kind to the players, whom it
regarded as good men and women in adversity--with
particular laudations for Miss Rose Euclid and the
Messenger.  The next newspaper said the play was a
masterpiece, and would be so hailed in any country but
England.  England, however--!  Unfortunately
this was a newspaper whose political opinions
Edward Henry despised.  The next newspaper praised
everything and everybody, and called the reception
tumultuously enthusiastic.  And Edward Henry felt
as though somebody, mistaking his face for a slice
of toast, had spread butter all over it.  Even the
paper's parting assurance that the future of the
higher drama in London was now safe beyond
question did not remove this delusion of butter.

The two following newspapers were more sketchy
or descriptive, and referred at some length to
Edward Henry's own speech, with a kind of sub-hint
that Edward Henry had better mind what he was
about.  Three illustrated papers had photographs
of scenes and figures, but nothing important in the
matter of criticism.  The rest were "neither one
thing nor the other," as they say in the Five Towns.
On the whole, an inscrutable press, a disconcerting,
a startling, an appetite-destroying, but not a hopeless
press.  The general impression which he gathered
from his perusals was that the author was a pretentious
dullard, an absolute criminal, a genius; that
the actors and actresses were all splendid and worked
hard, though conceivably one or two of them had
been set impossible tasks--to wit, tasks unsuited
to their personalities; that he himself was a
Napoleon, a temerarious individual, an incomprehensible
fellow; and that the future of the intellectual-poetic
drama in London was not a topic of burning
actuality....  He remembered sadly the superlative-laden
descriptions, in those same newspapers, of
the theatre itself, a week or two back, the unique
theatre in which the occupant of every seat had a
complete and uninterrupted view of the whole of
the proscenium opening.  Surely that fact alone
ought to have ensured proper treatment for him!

Then Nellie woke up, and saw the scattered
newspapers.

"Well," she asked; "what do they say?"

"Oh!" he replied lightly, with a laugh.  "Just
about what you'd expect.  Of course you know what
a first-night audience always is.  Too generous.
And ours was, particularly.  Miss April saw to
that.  She had the Azure Society behind her, and
she was determined to help Rose Euclid.  However,
I should say it was all right--I should say it was
quite all right.  I told you it was a gamble, you know."

When Nellie, dressing, said that she considered
she ought to go back home that day, he offered no
objection.  Indeed he rather wanted her to go.
Not that he had a desire to spend the whole of his
time at the theatre, unhampered by provincial
women in London.  On the contrary, he was aware
of a most definite desire not to go to the theatre.
He lay in bed and watched with careless curiosity
the rapid processes of Nellie's toilette.  He had
his breakfast on the dressing-table (for he was not
at Wilkins's, neither at the Grand Babylon).  Then
he helped her to pack, and finally he accompanied
her to Euston, where she kissed him with affectionate
common sense and caught the twelve five.  He
was relieved that nobody from the Five Towns
happened to be going down by that train.

As he turned away from the moving carriage, the
evening papers had just arrived at the bookstalls.
He bought the four chief organs--one green, one
yellowish, one white, one pink--and scanned them
self-consciously on the platform.  The white organ
had a good heading: "Re-birth of the intellectual
drama in London.  What a provincial has done.
Opinions of the leading men."  Two columns
altogether!  There was, however, little in the two
columns.  The leading men had practised a sagacious
caution.  They, like the press as a whole, were
obviously waiting to see which way the great
elephantine public would jump.  When the enormous
animal had jumped, they would all exclaim: "What
did I tell you?"  The other critiques were colourless.
At the end of the green critique occurred the
following sentence: "It is only fair to state,
nevertheless, that the play was favourably received by
an apparently enthusiastic audience."

"Nevertheless!" ... "Apparently!"

Edward Henry turned the page to the theatrical
advertisements.

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   Theatrical advertisement

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Unreal!  Fantastic!  Was this he, Edward
Henry?  Could it be still his mother's son?

Still--"matinées every Wednesday and
Saturday."  "*Every* Wednesday and Saturday."  That
word implied and necessitated a long run, anyhow
a run extending over months.  That word comforted
him.  Though he knew as well as you do that
Mr. Marrier had composed the advertisement, and that
he himself was paying for it, it comforted him.  He
was just like a child.

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   \VIII.

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"I say, Cunningham's made a hit!" Mr. Marrier
almost shouted at him as he entered the
managerial room at the Regent.

"Cunningham?  Who's Cunningham?"

Then he remembered.  She was the girl who
played the Messenger.  She had only three words
to say, and to say them over and over again; and she
had made a hit!

"Seen the notices?" asked Marrier.

"Yes.  What of them?"

"Oh!  Well!" Marrier drawled.  "What
would you expect?"

"That's just what *I* said!" observed Edward
Henry.

"You did, did you?" Mr. Marrier exclaimed, as
if extremely interested by this corroboration of his
views.

Carlo Trent strolled in; he remarked that he happened
to be just passing.  But the discussion of the
situation was not carried very far.

That evening the house was nearly full, except the
pit and the gallery, which were nearly empty.
Applause was perfunctory.

"How much?" Edward Henry enquired of the
box-office manager when figures were added together.

"Thirty-one pounds two shillings."

"Hem!"

"Of course," said Mr. Marrier.  "In the height
of the London season, with so many counter-attractions--!
Besides, they've got to get used to the
idea of it."

Edward Henry did not turn pale.  Still, he was
aware that it cost him a trifle over sixty pounds "to
ring the curtain up" at every performance, and this
sum took no account of expenses of production nor
of author's fees.  The sum would have been higher,
but he was calculating as rent of the theatre only
the ground-rent plus six per cent. on the total price
of the building.

What disgusted him was the duplicity of the
first-night audience, and he said to himself violently:
"I was right all the time, and I knew I was right!
Idiots!  Chumps!  Of course I was right!"

On the third night the house held twenty-seven
pounds and sixpence.

"Naturally," said Mr. Marrier.  "In this hot
weathah--!  I never knew such a hot June!  It's
the open-air places that are doing us in the eye.  In
fact I heard to-day that the White City is packed.
They simply can't bank their money quick enough."

It was on that day that Edward Henry paid
salaries.  It appeared to him that he was providing
half London with a livelihood: acting managers,
stage managers, assistant ditto, property men, stage
hands, electricians, prompters, call boys, box-office
staff, general staff, dressers, commissionaires,
programme girls, cleaners, actors, actresses,
understudies, to say nothing of Rose Euclid at a purely
nominal salary of one hundred pounds a week.  The
tenants of the bars were grumbling, but happily he
was getting money from them.

The following day was Saturday.  It rained--a
succession of thunderstorms.  The morning and
the evening performances produced together
sixty-eight pounds.

"Well," said Mr. Marrier.  "In this kind of
weathah you can't expect people to come out, can
you?  Besides, this cursed week-ending habit--"

Which conclusions did not materially modify the
harsh fact that Edward Henry was losing over thirty
pounds a day--or at the rate of over ten thousand
pounds a year.

He spent Sunday between his hotel and his club,
chiefly in reiterating to himself that Monday began
a new week and that something would have to
occur on Monday.

Something did occur.

Carlo Trent lounged into the office early.  The
man was forever being drawn to the theatre as by
an invisible but powerful elastic cord.  The papers
had a worse attack than ever of Isabel Joy, for she
had been convicted of transgression in a Chicago
court of law, but a tremendous lawyer from
St. Louis had loomed over Chicago and, having
examined the documents in the case, was hopeful of
getting the conviction quashed.  He had discovered
that in one and the same document "Isabel" had
been spelt "Isobel," and, worse, Illinois had been
deprived by a careless clerk of one of its "l's."  He
was sure that by proving these grave irregularities
in American justice he could win on appeal.

Edward Henry glanced up suddenly from the
newspaper.  He had been inspired.

"I say, Trent," he remarked, without any warning
or preparation, "you're not looking at all well.
I want a change myself.  I've a good mind to take
you for a sea voyage."

"Oh!" grumbled Trent.  "I can't afford sea voyages."

"*I* can!" said Edward Henry.  "And I shouldn't
dream of letting it cost you a penny.  I'm not a
philanthropist.  But I know as well as anybody that
it will pay us theatrical managers to keep you in
health."

"You're not going to take the play off?" Trent
demanded suspiciously.

"Certainly not!" said Edward Henry.

"What sort of a sea voyage?"

"Well--what price the Atlantic?  Been to New
York? ... Neither have I!  Let's go.  Just for
the trip.  It'll do us good."

"You don't mean it!" murmured the greatest
dramatic poet, who had never voyaged farther than
the Isle of Wight.  His eyeglass swung to and fro.

Edward Henry feigned to resent this remark.

"Of course I mean it.   Do you take me for
a blooming gas-bag?" He rose.  "Marrier!"  Then
more loudly: "Marrier!"  Mr. Marrier
entered.  "Do you know anything about the
sailings to New York?"

"Rather!" said Mr. Marrier, beaming.  After
all he was a most precious aid.

"We may be able to arrange for a production in
New York," said Edward Henry to Carlo, mysteriously.

Mr. Marrier gazed at one and then at the other,
puzzled.





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.. _`ISABEL`:

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   CHAPTER X

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   ISABEL

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   \I.

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Throughout the voyage of the *Lithuania*
from Liverpool to New York, Edward
Henry, in common with some two thousand
other people on board, had the sensation of being
hurried.  He who in a cab rides late to an important
appointment arrives with muscles fatigued by
mentally aiding the horse to move the vehicle along.
Thus were Edward Henry's muscles fatigued, and
the muscles of many others; but just as much more so
as the *Lithuania* was bigger than a cab.

For the *Lithuania*, having been seriously delayed
in Liverpool by men who were most ridiculously
striking for the fantastic remuneration of one pound
a week, was engaged on the business of making new
records.  And every passenger was personally
determined that she should therein succeed.  And,
despite very bad June weather toward the end, she
did sail past the Battery on a grand Monday
morning with a new record to her credit.

So far, Edward Henry's plan was not miscarrying.
But he had a very great deal to do and very little
time in which to do it, and whereas the muscles of
the other passengers were relaxed as the ship drew
to her berth Edward Henry's muscles were only
more tensely tightened.  He had expected to see
Mr. Seven Sachs on the quay, for in response to
his telegram from Queenstown, the illustrious
actor-author had sent him an agreeable wireless message
in full Atlantic; the which had inspired Edward
Henry to obtain news by Marconi both from London
and New York, at much expense; from the east he
had had daily information of the dwindling receipts
at the Regent Theatre, and from the west daily
information concerning Isabel Joy.  He had not,
however, expected Mr. Seven Sachs to walk into the
*Lithuania's* music-saloon an hour before the ship
touched the quay.  Nevertheless this was what Mr. Seven
Sachs did, by the exercise of those mysterious
powers wielded by the influential in democratic communities.

"And what are you doing here?" Mr. Seven
Sachs greeted Edward Henry with geniality.

Edward Henry lowered his voice.

"I'm throwing good money after bad," said he.

The friendly grip of Mr. Seven Sach's hand did
him good, reassured him, and gave him courage.
He was utterly tired of the voyage, and also of the
poetical society of Carlo Trent, whose passage had
cost him thirty pounds, considerable boredom, and
some sick-nursing during the final days and nights.
A dramatic poet with an appetite was a full dose for
Edward Henry; but a dramatic poet who lay on
his back and moaned for naught but soda water and
dry land amounted to more than Edward Henry
could conveniently swallow.

He directed Mr. Sachs's attention to the anguished
and debile organism which had once been Carlo
Trent, and Mr. Sachs was so sympathetic that Carlo
Trent began to adore him, and Edward Henry to be
somewhat disturbed in his previous estimate of
Mr. Sachs's common sense.  But at a favourable
moment Mr. Sachs breathed humorously into Edward
Henry's ear the question:

"What have you brought *him* out for?"

"I've brought him out to lose him."

As they pushed through the bustle of the enormous
ship, and descended from the dizzy eminence
of her boat deck by lifts and ladders down to the
level of the windy, sun-steeped rock of New York,
Edward Henry said:

"Now I want you to understand, Mr. Sachs, that
I haven't a minute to spare.  I've just looked in for
lunch."

"Going on to Chicago?"

"She isn't in Chicago, is she?" demanded Edward
Henry, aghast.  "I thought she'd reached New York!"

"Who?"

"Isabel Joy."

"Oh!  Isabel's in New York, sure enough.
She's right here.  They say she'll have to catch the
*Lithuania* if she's going to get away with it."

"Get away with what?"

"Well--the goods."

The precious words reminded Edward Henry of
an evening at Wilkins's, and raised his spirits even
higher.  It was a word he loved.

"And I've got to catch the *Lithuania*, too!" said
he.  "But Trent doesn't know! ... And, let me
tell you, she's going to do the quickest turn round
that any ship ever did.  The purser assured me
she'll leave at noon to-morrow unless the world
comes to an end in the meantime.  Now what about
a hotel?"

"You'll stay with me--naturally."

"But--" Edward Henry protested.

"Oh, yes, you will.  I shall be delighted."

"But I must look after Trent."

"He'll stay with me too--naturally.  I live at
the Stuyvesant Hotel, you know, on Fifth.  I've a
pretty good private suite there.  I shall arrange a
little supper for to-night.  My automobile is here."

"Is it possible that I once saved your life and
have forgotten all about it?" Edward Henry
exclaimed.  "Or do you treat everybody like this?"

"We like to look after our friends," said Mr. Sachs simply.

In the terrific confusion of the quay, where groups
of passengers were mounted like watch dogs over
hillocks of baggage, Mr. Sachs stood continually
between the travellers and the administrative rigours
and official incredulity of a proud republic.  And
in the minimum of time the fine trunk of Edward
Henry and the modest packages of the poet were on
the roof of Mr. Sachs's vast car, the three men were
inside, and the car was leaping, somewhat in the
manner of a motor boat at full speed, over the
cobbles of a wide, medieval street.

"Quick!" thought Edward Henry.  "I haven't
a minute to lose!"

His prayer reached the chauffeur.  Conversation
was difficult; Carlo Trent groaned.  Presently they
rolled less perilously upon asphalt, though the
equipage still lurched.  Edward Henry was forever
bending his head toward the window aperture in order to
glimpse the roofs of the buildings, and never seeing
the roofs.

"Now we're on Fifth," said Mr. Sachs, after a
fearful lurch, with pride.

Vistas of flags, high cornices, crowded pavements,
marble, jewelry behind glass--the whole seen
through a roaring phantasmagoria of competing and
menacing vehicles!

And Edward Henry thought:

"This is my sort of place!"

The jolting recommenced.  Carlo Trent
rebounded, limply groaning, between cushions and
upholstery.  Edward Henry tried to pretend that he
was not frightened.  Then there was a shock as of
the concussion of two equally unyielding natures.  A
pane of glass in Mr. Seven Sachs's limousine flew to
fragments and the car stopped.

"I expect that's a spring gone!" observed Mr. Sachs
with tranquillity.  "Will happen, you know,
sometimes!"

Everybody got out.  Mr. Sachs's presumption
was correct.  One of the back wheels had failed to
leap over a hole in Fifth Avenue some eighteen
inches deep and two feet long.

"What is that hole?" asked Edward Henry.

"Well," said Mr. Sachs.  "It's just a hole.
We'd better transfer to a taxi."  He gave calm
orders to his chauffeur.

Four empty taxis passed down the sunny
magnificence of Fifth Avenue and ignored Mr. Sachs's
urgent waving.  The fifth stopped.  The baggage
was strapped and tied to it: which process occupied
much time.  Edward Henry, fuming against delay,
gazed around.  A nonchalant policeman on a superb
horse occupied the middle of the road.  Tram cars
passed constantly across the street in front of his
caracoling horse, dividing a route for themselves in
the wild ocean of traffic as Moses cut into the Red
Sea.  At intervals a knot of persons, intimidated and
yet daring, would essay the voyage from one
pavement to the opposite pavement; there was no
half-way refuge for these adventurers, as in decrepit
London; some apparently arrived; others seemed to
disappear forever in the feverish welter of confused
motion and were never heard of again.  The policeman,
easily accommodating himself to the caracolings
of his mount, gazed absently at Edward Henry, and
Edward Henry gazed first at the policeman, and
then at the high decorated grandeur of the buildings,
and then at the Assyrian taxi into which Mr. Sachs
was now ingeniously inserting Carlo Trent.  He
thought:

"No mistake--this street is alive.  But what
cemeteries they must have!"

He followed Carlo, with minute precautions, into
the interior of the taxi.  And then came the
supremely delicate operation--that of introducing a
third person into the same vehicle.  It was
accomplished; three chins and six knees fraternized in
close intimacy; but the door would not shut.
Wheezing, snorting, shaking, complaining, the taxi
drew slowly away from Mr. Sachs's luxurious
automobile and left it forlorn to its chauffeur.
Mr. Sachs imperturbably smiled.  ("I have two other
automobiles," said Mr. Sachs.)  In some sixty
seconds the taxi stopped in front of the tremendous
glass awning of the Stuyvesant.  The baggage was
unstrapped; the passengers were extracted one by
one from the cell, and Edward Henry saw Mr. Sachs
give two separate dollar bills to the driver.

"By Jove!" he murmured.

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Sachs politely.

"Nothing!" said Edward Henry.

They walked into the hotel, and passed through a
long succession of corridors and vast public rooms
surging with well-dressed men and women.

"What's all this crowd for?" asked Edward Henry.

"What crowd?" asked Mr. Sachs, surprised.

Edward Henry saw that he had blundered.

"I prefer the upper floors," remarked Mr. Sachs
as they were being flung upward in a gilded elevator,
and passing rapidly all numbers from 1 to 14.

The elevator made an end of Carlo Trent's
manhood.  He collapsed.  Mr. Sachs regarded him, and
then said:

"I think I'll get an extra room for Mr. Trent.
He ought to go to bed."

Edward Henry enthusiastically concurred.

"And stay there!" said Edward Henry.

Pale Carlo Trent permitted himself to be put to
bed.  But, therein, he proved fractious.  He was
anxious about his linen.  Mr. Sachs telephoned from
the bedside, and a laundry maid came.  He was
anxious about his best lounge suit.  Mr. Sachs
telephoned, and a valet came.  Then he wanted a siphon
of soda water, and Mr. Sachs telephoned, and a
waiter came.  Then it was a newspaper he required.
Mr. Sachs telephoned and a page came.  All these
functionaries, together with two reporters, peopled
Mr. Trent's bedroom more or less simultaneously.
It was Edward Henry's bright notion to add to them
a doctor--a doctor whom Mr. Sachs knew, a doctor
who would perceive at once that bed was the only
proper place for Carlo Trent.

"Now," said Edward Henry, when he and Mr. Sachs
were participating in a private lunch amid the
splendours and the grim silent service of the latter's
suite at the Stuyvesant, "I have fully grasped the
fact that I am in New York.  It is one o'clock and
after, and as soon as ever this meal is over, I have
just *got* to find Isabel Joy.  You must understand
that on this trip New York for me is merely a town
where Isabel Joy happens to be."

"Well," replied Mr. Sachs.  "I reckon I can
put you on to that.  *She's going to be photographed
at two o'clock by Rentoul Smiles*.  I happen
to know because Rent's a particular friend of mine."

"A photographer, you say?"

Mr. Sachs controlled himself.  "Do you mean
to say you've not heard of Rentoul Smiles? ... Well,
he's called 'Man's photographer.'  He has
never photographed a woman!  Won't!  At least,
wouldn't!  But he's going to photograph Isabel!
So you may guess that he considers Isabel some
woman, eh?"

"And how will that help me?" inquired Edward Henry.

"Why!  I'll take you up to Rent's," Mr. Sachs
comforted him.  "It's close by--corner of
Thirty-ninth and Fifth."

"Tell me," Edward Henry demanded, with immense
relief.  "She hasn't got herself arrested yet,
has she?"

"No.  And she won't."

"Why not?"

"The police have been put wise," said Mr. Sachs.

"Put wise?"

"Yes.  *Put wise!*"

"I see," said Edward Henry.

But he did not see.  He only half saw.

"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Sachs, "Isabel
can't get away with the goods unless she fixes the
police to lock her up for a few hours.  And she'll
not succeed in that.  Her hundred days are up in
London next Sunday.  So there'll be no time for her
to be arrested and bailed out either at Liverpool or
Fishguard.  And that's her only chance.  I've seen
Isabel, and if you ask me my opinion she's down
and out."

"Never mind!" said Edward Henry with glee.

"I guess what you are after her for," said
Mr. Seven Sachs, with an air of deep knowledge.

"The deuce you do!"

"Yes, sir!  And let me tell you that dozens of
'em have been after her already.  But she wouldn't!
Nothing would tempt her."

"Never mind!" Edward Henry smiled.

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   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

When Edward Henry stood by the side of Mr. Sachs
in a doorway half shielded by a portière, and
gazed unseen into the great studio of Mr. Rentoul
Smiles, he comprehended that he was indeed under
powerful protection in New York.  At the entrance
on Fifth Avenue he and Sachs had passed through
a small crowd of assorted men, chiefly young, whom
Sachs had greeted in the mass with the smiling
words, "Well, boys!"  Other men were within.
Still another went up with them in the elevator, but
no further.  They were reporters of the entire
world's press, to each of whom Isabel Joy had been
specially "assigned."  They were waiting; they
would wait.  Mr. Rentoul Smiles, having been
warned by telephone of the visit of his beloved
friend Seven Sachs and his English protégé had
been received at Smile's outer door by a clerk who
knew exactly what to do with them, and did it.

"Is she here?" Mr. Sachs had murmured.

"Yep," the clerk had negligently replied.

And now Edward Henry beheld the objective of
his pilgrimage, her whose personality, portrait, and
adventures had been filling the newspapers of two
hemispheres for three weeks.  She was not realistically
like her portraits.  She was a little, thin,
pale, obviously nervous woman, of any age from
thirty-five to fifty, with fair untidy hair, and pale
grey-blue eyes that showed the dreamer, the idealist,
and the harsh fanatic.  She looked as though a
moderate breeze would have overthrown her, but she
also looked, to the enlightened observer, as though
she would recoil before no cruelty and no suffering
in pursuit of her vision.  The blind dreaming force
behind her apparent frailty would strike terror into
the heart of any man intelligent enough to
understand it.  Edward Henry had an inward shudder.
"Great Scott!" he reflected.  "I shouldn't like
to be ill and have Isabel for a nurse!"

And his mind at once flew to Nellie, and then to
Elsie April.  "And so she's going to marry Wrissell!"
he reflected, and could scarcely believe it.

Then he violently wrenched his mind back to the
immediate objective.  He wondered why Isabel
Joy should wear a bowler hat and mustard-coloured
jacket that resembled a sporting man's overcoat; and
why these garments suited her.  With a whip in
her hand she could have sat for a jockey.  And yet
she was a woman, and very feminine, and probably
old enough to be Elsie April's mother!  A
disconcerting world, he thought.

The "man's photographer," as he was described
in copper on Fifth Avenue and in gold on his own
doors, was a big, loosely-articulated male, who
loured over the trifle Isabel like a cloud over a
sheep in a great field.  Edward Henry could only
see his broad bending back as he posed in athletic
attitudes behind the camera.

Suddenly Rentoul Smiles dashed to a switch, and
Isabel's wistful face was transformed into that of
a drowned corpse, into a dreadful harmony of greens
and purples.

"Now," said Rentoul Smiles, in a deep voice
that was like a rich unguent.  "We'll try again.
We'll just play around that spot.  Look into my eyes.
Not *at* my eyes, my dear woman, *into* them!  Just
a little more challenge--a little more!  That's it.
Don't wink, for the land's sake!  Now!"

He seized a bulb at the end of a tube and slowly
squeezed--squeezed it tragically and remorselessly,
twisting himself as if suffering in sympathy with the
bulb, and then in a wide sweeping gesture he flung
the bulb on to the top of the camera, and ejaculated:

"Ha!"

Edward Henry thought:

"I would give ten pounds to see Rentoul Smiles
photograph Sir John Pilgrim."  But the next
instant the forgotten sensation of hurry was upon him
once more.  Quick, quick, Rentoul Smiles!  Edward
Henry's scorching desire was to get done and
leave New York.

"Now, Miss Isabel," Mr. Smiles proceeded,
exasperatingly deliberate, "d'you know, I feel kind
of guilty?  I have got a little farm out in
Westchester County and I'm making a little English
pathway up the garden with a gate at the end.  I woke
up this morning and began to think about the quaint
English form of that gate, and just how I would
have it."  He raised a finger.  "But I ought to
have been thinking about you.  I ought to have
been saying to myself, 'To-day I have to
photograph Isabel Joy,' and trying to understand in
meditation the secrets of your personality.  I'm sorry!
Now, don't talk.  Keep like that.  Move your
head round.  Go on!  Go on!  Move it!  Don't
be afraid.  This place belongs to you.  It's yours.
Whatever you do, we've got people here who'll
straighten up after you....  D'you know why I've
made money?  I've made money so that I can take
*you* this afternoon, and tell a two-hundred-dollar
client to go to the deuce.  That's why I've made
money.  Put your back against the chair, like an
Englishwoman.  That's it.  No, don't *talk*, I tell
you.  Now look joyful, hang it!  Look joyful....
No, no!  Joy isn't a contortion.  It's something
right deep down.  There, there!"

The lubricant voice rolled on while Rentoul
Smiles manipulated the camera.  He clasped the
bulb again, and again threw it dramatically away.

"I'm through!" he said.  "Don't expect
anything very grand, Miss Isabel.  What I've been
trying to do this afternoon is my interpretation of
you as I've studied your personality in your speeches.
If I believed wholly in your cause, or if I wholly
disbelieved in it, my work would not have been
good.  Any value that it has will be due to the
sympathetic impartiality of my spiritual attitude.
Although"--he menaced her with the licenced
familiarity of a philosopher--"Although, lady, I
must say that I felt you were working against me all
the time....  This way!"

(Edward Henry, recalling the comparative
simplicity of the London photographer at Wilkins's,
thought: "How profoundly they understand
photography in America!")

Isabel Joy rose and glanced at the watch in her
bracelet; then followed the direction of the male
hand, and vanished.

Rentoul Smiles turned instantly to the other doorway.

"How do, Rent?" said Seven Sachs, coming forward.

"How do, Seven?"  Mr. Rentoul Smiles winked.

"This is my good friend, Alderman Machin, the
theatre-manager from London."

"Glad to meet you, sir."

"She's not gone, has she?" asked Sachs hurriedly.

"No, my housekeeper wanted to talk to her.
Come along."

And in the waiting room, full of permanent
examples of the results of Mr. Rentoul Smiles's
spiritual attitude toward his fellow men, Edward Henry
was presented to Isabel Joy.  The next instant the
two men and the housekeeper had unobtrusively
retired, and he was alone with his objective.  In truth
Seven Sachs was a notable organiser.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

She was sitting down in a cosy-corner, her feet
on a footstool, and she seemed a negligible physical
quantity as he stood in front of her.  This was she
who had worsted the entire judicial and police
system of Chicago, who spoke pentecostal tongues, who
had circled the globe, and held enthralled--so
journalists computed--more than a quarter of a
million of the inhabitants of Marseilles, Athens,
Port Said, Candy, Calcutta, Bangkok, Hong Kong,
Tokio, Hawaii, San Francisco, Salt Lake City,
Denver, Chicago, and lastly New York!  This was she!

"I understand we're going home on the same
ship!" he was saying.

She looked up at him, almost appealingly.

"You won't see anything of me, though," she said.

"Why not?"

"Tell me," said she, not answering his question.
"What do they say of me, really, in England?  I
don't mean the newspapers.  For instance,
the Azure Society.  Do you know of it?"

He nodded.

"Tell me," she repeated.

He related the episode of the telegram at the
private first performance of "The Orient Pearl."

She burst out, in a torrent of irrelevant protest:

"The New York police have not treated me right.
It would have cost them nothing to arrest me and
let me go.  But they wouldn't.  Every man in the
force--you hear me, every man--has had strict
orders to leave me unmolested.  It seems they
resent my dealings with the police in Chicago, where
I brought about the dismissal of four officers, so
they say.  And so I'm to be boycotted in this
manner!  Is that argument, Mr. Machin?  Tell me.
You're a man, but honestly, is it argument?  Why,
it's just as mean and despicable as brute force."

"I agree with you," said Edward Henry softly.

"Do you really think it will harm the militant
cause?  Do they *really* think so?  No, it will only
harm me.  I made a mistake in tactics.  I
trusted--fool!--to the chivalry of the United States.
I might have been arrested in a dozen cities, but
I, on purpose, reserved my last two arrests for
Chicago and New York, for the sake of the superior
advertisement, you see!  I never dreamt!--Now
it's too late.  I am defeated!  I shall just arrive
in London on the hundredth day.  I shall have made
speeches at all the meetings.  But I shall be short
of one arrest.  And the ten thousand pounds will
be lost to the cause.  The militants here--such as
they are--are as disgusted as I am.  But they
scorn me.  And are they not right?  Are they not
right?  There should be no quarter for the vanquished."

"Miss Joy," said Edward Henry, "I've come
over from England specially to see you.  I want to
make up the loss of that ten thousand pounds as
far as I can.  I'll explain at once.  I'm running a
poetical play of the highest merit, called 'The Orient
Pearl,' at my new theatre in Piccadilly Circus.  If
you will undertake a small part in it, a part of three
words only, I'll pay you a record salary--sixty-six
pounds thirteen and fourpence a word, two hundred
pounds a week!"

Isabel Joy jumped up.

"Are you another of them, then?" she muttered.
"I did think from the look of you that you would
know a gentlewoman when you met one!  Did you
imagine for the thousandth part of one second that
I would stoop--"

"Stoop!" exclaimed Edward Henry.  "My theatre
is not a music-hall--"

"You want to make it into one!" she stopped him.

"Good-day to you," she said.  "I must face
those journalists again, I suppose.  Well, even
they--!  I came alone in order to avoid them.  But
it was hopeless.  Besides, is it my duty to avoid
them--after all?"

It was while passing through the door that she
uttered the last words.

"Where is she?" Seven Sachs enquired, entering.

"Fled!" said Edward Henry.

"Everything all right?"

"Quite!"

Mr. Rentoul Smiles came in.

"Mr. Smiles," said Edward Henry, "did you
ever photograph Sir John Pilgrim?"

"I did, on his last visit to New York.  Here you are!"

He pointed to his rendering of Sir John.

"What did you think of him?"

"A great actor, but a mountebank, sir."

During the remainder of the afternoon Edward
Henry saw the whole of New York, with bits of
the Bronx and Yonkers in the distance, from Seven
Sach's second automobile.  In his third automobile
he went to the theatre and saw Seven Sachs act to
a house of over two thousand dollars.  And lastly
he attended a supper and made a speech.  But he
insisted upon passing the remainder of the night
on the *Lithuania*.  In the morning Isabel Joy came
aboard early and irrevocably disappeared into her
berth.  And from that moment Edward Henry
spent the whole secret force of his individuality in
fervently desiring the *Lithuania* to start.  At two
o'clock, two hours late, she did start.  Edward
Henry's farewells to the admirable and hospitable
Mr. Sachs were somewhat absent-minded, for
already his heart was in London.  But he had sufficient
presence of mind to make certain final arrangements.

"Keep him at least a week," said Edward Henry
to Seven Sachs, "and I shall be your debtor for ever
and ever."

He meant Carlo Trent, still bedridden.

As from the receding ship he gazed in abstraction
at the gigantic, inconvenient word--common to
three languages--which is the first thing seen by
the arriving, and the last thing seen by the
departing, visitor, he meditated:

"The dearness of living in the United States
has certainly been exaggerated."

For his total expenses, beyond the confines of the
quay, amounted to one cent, disbursed to buy an
evening paper which had contained a brief
interview with himself concerning the future of the
intellectual drama in England.  He had told the
press-man that "The Orient Pearl" would run a hundred
nights.  Save for putting "The Orient Girl"
instead of "The Orient Pearl," and two hundred
nights instead of one hundred nights, this interview
was tolerably accurate.

.. vspace:: 3

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   \IV.

.. vspace:: 2

Two entire interminable days of the voyage elapsed
before Edward Henry was clever enough to
encounter Isabel Joy--the most famous and the least
visible person on the ship.  He remembered that
she had said: "You won't see anything of me."

It was easy to ascertain the number of her
stateroom--a double-berth which she shared with
nobody.  But it was less easy to find out whether she
ever left it, and if so, at what time of day.  He
could not mount guard in the long corridor; and the
stewardesses on the *Lithuania* were mature,
experienced and uncommunicative women, their sole
weakness being an occasional tendency to imagine that
they, and not the captain, were in supreme charge
of the steamer.  However, Edward Henry did at
last achieve his desire.  And on the third morning,
at a little before six o'clock, he met a muffled Isabel
Joy on the D deck.  The D deck was wet, having
just been swabbed; and a boat, chosen for that
dawn's boat drill, ascended past them on its way
from the sea level to the busy boat deck above; on
the other side of an iron barrier, large crowds of
early-rising third-class passengers were standing and
talking, and staring at the oblong slit of sea which
was the only prospect offered by the D deck; it was
the first time that Edward Henry aboard had ever
set eyes on a steerage passenger; with all the
conceit natural to the occupant of a costly stateroom, he
had unconsciously assumed that he and his like had
sole possession of the ship.

Isabel responded to his greeting in a very natural
way.  The sharp freshness of the summer morning
at sea had its tonic effect on both of them; and as
for Edward Henry, he lunged and plunged at once
into the subject which alone preoccupied and
exasperated him.  She did not seem to resent it.

"You'd have the satisfaction of helping on a
thing that all your friends say ought to be helped,"
he argued.  "Nobody but you can do it.  Without
you, there'll be a frost.  You would make a lot of
money, which you could spend in helping on things
of your own.  And surely it isn't the publicity that
you're afraid of!"

"No," she agreed.  "I'm not afraid of
publicity."  Her pale grey-blue eyes shone as they
regarded the secret dream that for her hung always
unseen in the air.  And she had a strange, wistful,
fragile, feminine mien in her mannish costume.

"Well then--"

"But can't you see it's humiliating?" cried she,
as if interested in the argument.

"It's not humiliating to do something that you
can do well--I know you can do it well--and get
a large salary for it, and make the success of a big
enterprise by it.  If you knew the play--"

"I do know the play," she said.  "We'd lots
of us read it in manuscript long ago."

Edward Henry was somewhat dashed by this information.

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think it's just splendid!" said she with enthusiasm.

"And will it be any worse a play because you act
a small part in it?"

"No," she said shortly.

"I expect you think it's a play that people ought
to go and see, don't you?"

"I do, Mr. Socrates," she admitted.

He wondered what she could mean, but continued:

"What does it matter what it is that brings the
audience into the theatre, so long as they get there
and have to listen?"

She sighed.

"It's no use discussing with you," she murmured.
"You're too simple for this world.  I daresay
you're honest enough--in fact I think you are--but
there are so many things that you don't understand.
You're evidently incapable of understanding
them."

"Thanks!" he replied, and paused to recover his
self-possession.  "But let's get right down to
business now.  If you'll appear in this play, I'll not
merely give you two hundred pounds a week, but
I'll explain to you how to get arrested and still
arrive in triumph in London before midnight on
Sunday."

She recoiled a step, and raised her eyes.

"How?" she demanded, as with a pistol.

"Ah!" he said.  "That's just it.  How?  Will
you promise?"

"I've thought of everything," she said musingly.
"If the last day was any day but Sunday I could
get arrested on landing and get bailed out, and still
be in London before night.  But on Sunday--no!
So you needn't talk like that."

"Still," he said, "it can be done."

"How," she demanded again.

"Will you sign a contract with me, if I tell
you? ... Think of what your reception in London will
be if you win after all!  Just think!"

Those pale eyes gleamed, for Isabel Joy had
tasted the noisy flattery of sympathetic and of
adverse crowds, and her being hungered for it again;
the desire of it had become part of her nature.

She walked away, her hands in the pockets of her
ulster, and returned.

"What is your scheme?"

"You'll sign?"

"Yes, if it works."

"I can trust you?"

The little woman of forty or so blazed up.
"You can refrain from insulting me by doubting
my word," said she.

"Sorry!  Sorry!" he apologised.

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   \V.

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That same evening, in the colossal many-tabled
dining-saloon of the *Lithuania* Edward Henry sat as
usual to the left of the purser's empty chair at the
purser's table, where were about a dozen other men.
A page brought him a marconigram.  He opened
it, and read the single word "Nineteen."  It was
the amount of the previous evening's receipts at the
Regent, in pounds.  He was now losing something
like forty pounds a night--without counting the
expenses of the present excursion.  The band began
to play as the soup was served, and the ship rolled
politely, gently, but nevertheless unmistakably,
accomplishing one complete roll to about sixteen
bars of the music.  Then the entire saloon was
suddenly excited.  Isabel Joy had entered.  She
was in the gallery, near the orchestra, at a small
table alone.  Everybody became aware of the fact
in an instant, and scores of necks on the lower floor
were twisted to glimpse the celebrity on the upper.
It was remarked that she wore a magnificent evening
dress.

One subject of conversation now occupied all the
tables.  And it was fully occupying the purser's table
when the purser, generally a little late, owing to the
arduousness of his situation on the ship, entered and
sat down.  Now the purser was a Northerner, from
Durham, a delightful companion in his lighter
moods, but dour, and with a high conception of
authority and of the intelligence of dogs.  He would
relate that when he and his wife wanted to keep a
secret from their Yorkshire terrier they had to spell
the crucial words in talk, for the dog understood
their every sentence.

The purser's views about the cause represented by
Isabel Joy were absolutely clear.  None could
mistake them, and the few clauses which he curtly added
to the discussion rather damped the discussion, and
there was a pause.

"What should you do, Mr. Purser," said Edward
Henry, "if she began to play any of her tricks
here?"

"If she began to play any of her tricks on this
ship," answered the purser, putting his hands on his
stout knees, "we should know what to do."

"Of course you can arrest?"

"Most decidedly.  I could tell you things--"  The
purser stopped, for experience had taught him
to be very discreet with passengers until he had
voyaged with them at least ten times.  He
concluded: "The captain is the representative of
English law on an English ship."

And then, in the silence created by the resting
orchestra, all in the saloon could hear a clear,
piercing woman's voice, oratorical at first and then
quickening:

"Ladies and gentlemen: I wish to talk to you
to-night on the subject of the injustice of men to
women."  Isabel Joy was on her feet and leaning
over the gallery rail.  As she proceeded, a startled
hush changed to uproar.  And in the uproar could
be caught now and then a detached phrase, such
as "For example, this man-governed ship."

Possibly it was just this phrase that roused the
Northerner in the purser.  He rose, and looked
toward the captain's table.  But the captain was not
dining in the saloon that evening.  Then he strode
to the centre of the saloon, beneath the renowned
dome which has been so often photographed for the
illustrated papers, and sought to destroy Isabel
Joy with a single marine glance.  Having failed,
he called out loudly:

"Be quiet, madam.  Resume your seat."

Isabel Joy stopped for a second, gave him a glance
far more homicidal than his own, and resumed her
discourse.

"Steward," cried the purser, "take that woman
out of the saloon."

The whole complement of first-class passengers
was now standing up, and many of them saw a plate
descend from on high, and grace the purser's
shoulder.  With the celerity of a sprinter the man of
authority from Durham disappeared from the ground
floor and was immediately seen in the gallery.
Accounts differed, afterward, as to the exact order of
events; but it is certain that the leader of the band
lost his fiddle, which was broken by the lusty Isabel
on the Purser's head.  It was known later that
Isabel, though not exactly in irons, was under arrest
in her stateroom.

"She really ought to have thought of that for
herself, if she's as smart as she thinks she is," said
Edward Henry privately.

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   \VI.

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Though he was on the way to high success, his
anxieties and solicitudes seemed to increase every
hour.  Immediately after Isabel Joy's arrest he
became more than ever a crony of the Marconi
operator, and began to despatch vivid and urgent
telegrams to London, without counting the cost.  On
the next day he began to receive replies.  (It was
the most interesting voyage that the Marconi
operator had had since the sinking of the *Catherine of
Siena*, in which episode his promptness through the
air had certainly saved two hundred lives.)  Edward
Henry could scarcely sleep, so intense was his
longing for Sunday night--his desire to be safe in
London with Isabel Joy!  Nay, he could not
properly eat!  And then the doubt entered his mind
whether, after all, he would get to London on
Sunday night.  For the *Lithuania* was lagging.  She
might have been doing it on purpose to ruin him.
Every day, in the auction-pool on the ship's run, it
was the holder of the low field that pocketed the
money of his fellow men.  The *Lithuania* actually
descended below five hundred and forty knots
in the twenty-four hours.  And no authoritative
explanation of this behaviour was ever given.  Upon
leaving New York there had been talk of reaching
Fishguard on Saturday evening.  But now the
prophesied moment of arrival had been put forward to
noon on Sunday.  Edward Henry's sole consolation
was that each day on the eastward trip consisted of
only twenty-three hours.

Further, he was by no means free from apprehension
about the personal liberty of Isabel Joy.
Isabel had exceeded the programme arranged between
them.  It had been no part of his scheme that she
should cast plates, nor even break violins on the
shining crown of an august purser.  The purser
was angry, and he had the captain, a milder man,
behind him.  When Isabel Joy threatened a hunger-strike
if she was not immediately released, the
purser signified that she might proceed with her
hunger-strike; he well knew that it would be impossible for
her to expire of inanition before the arrival at Fishguard.

The case was serious, because Isabel Joy had
created a precedent.  Policemen and cabinet
ministers had for many months been regarded as the
lawful prey of militants, but Isabel Joy was the first of
the militants to damage property and heads which
belonged to persons of neither of these classes.  And
the authorities of the ship were assuredly inclined to
hand Isabel Joy over to the police at Fishguard.
What saved the situation for Edward Henry was the
factor which saved most situations, namely, public
opinion.  When the saloon clearly realised that
Isabel Joy had done what she had done with the
pure and innocent aim of winning a wager, all that
was Anglo-Saxon in the saloon ranged itself on the
side of true sport, and the matter was lifted above
mere politics.  A subscription was inaugurated to buy
a new fiddle, and to pay for shattered crockery.  And
the amount collected would have purchased, after
settling for the crockery, a couple of dozen new
fiddles.  The unneeded balance was given to seamen's
orphanages.  The purser was approached.  The
captain was implored.  Influence was brought to
bear.  In short--the wheels that are within
wheels went duly round.  And Miss Isabel Joy,
after apologies and promises, was unconditionally released.

But she had been arrested.

And then, early on Sunday morning, the ship met
a storm that had a sad influence on divine service, a
storm of the eminence that scares even the
brass-buttoned occupants of liners' bridges.  The rumour
went round the ship that the captain would not call
at Fishguard in such weather.

Edward Henry was ready to yield up his spirit
in this fearful crisis, which endured two hours.  The
captain did call at Fishguard, in pouring rain, and
men came aboard selling Sunday newspapers that
were full of Isabel's arrest on the steamer, and of
the nearing triumph of her arrival in London
before midnight.  And newspaper correspondents also
came aboard, and all the way on the tender, and in
the sheds, and in the train, Edward Henry and
Isabel Joy were subjected to the journalistic
experiments of hardy interviewers.  The train arrived at
Paddington at 9 P.M.  Isabel had won by three
hours.  The station was a surging throng of
open-mouthed people.  Edward Henry would not lose
sight of his priceless charge, but he sent Marrier to
despatch a telegram to Nellie, whose wifely interest
in his movements he had till then either forgotten or
ignored.

And even now his mind was not free.  He saw in
front of him still twenty-four hours of anguish.

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   \VII.

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The next night, just before the curtain went up,
he stood on the stage of the Regent Theatre, and it
is a fact that he was trembling--not with fear but
with simple excitement.

Through what a day he had passed!  There had
been the rehearsal in the morning; it had gone off
very well, save that Rose Euclid had behaved
impossibly, and that the Cunningham girl, the hit of
the piece but ousted from her part, had filled the
place with just lamentations and recriminations.

And then had followed the appalling scene with
Rose Euclid.  Rose, leaving the theatre for lunch,
had beheld the workmen removing her name from
the electric sign and substituting that of Isabel Joy.
She was a woman and an artist, and it would have
been the same had she been a man and an artist.  She
would not submit to this inconceivable affront.  She
had resigned her rôle.  She had ripped her contract
to bits and flung the bits to the breeze.  Upon the
whole Edward Henry had been glad.  He had sent
for Miss Cunningham, who was Rose's understudy,
had given her instructions, called another rehearsal
for the afternoon and effected a saving of nearly
half Isabel Joy's fantastic salary.  Then he entered
into financial negotiations with four evening papers
and managed to buy, at a price, their contents-bills
for the day.  So that all the West End was filled
with men and boys wearing like aprons posters which
bore the words: "Isabel Joy to appear at the
Regent to-night."  A great and original stroke!

And now he gazed through the peep-hole of the
curtain upon a crammed and half-delirious
auditorium.  The assistant stage manager ordered him
off.  The curtain went up on the drama in hexameters.
He waited in the wings, and spoke soothingly
to Isabel Joy who, looking juvenile in the airy costume
of the Messenger, stood flutteringly agog for
her cue....  He heard the thunderous crashing
roar that met her entrance.  He did not hear her line.

He walked forth to the glazed balcony at the
front of the house, where in the entr'actes dandies
smoked cigarettes baptised with girlish names.  He
could see Piccadilly Circus, and he saw Piccadilly
Circus thronged with a multitude of loafers, who
were happy in the mere spectacle of Isabel Joy's
name glowing on an electric sign.  He went back
at last to the managerial room.  Marrier was there,
hero-worshipping.

"Got the figures yet?" he asked.

Marrier beamed.

"Two hundred and sixty pounds.  As long as
it keeps up it means a profit of getting on for two
hundred a naight!"

"But, dash it, man,--the house only holds two
hundred and thirty!"

"But my good sir," said Marrier, "they're paying
ten shillings a-piece to stand up in the
dress-circle."

Edward Henry dropped into a chair at the desk.
A telegram was lying there, addressed to himself.

"What's this?" he demanded.

"Just cam."

He opened it, and read: "I absolutely forbid
this monstrous outrage on a work of art.  Trent."

"Bit late in the day, isn't he?" said Edward
Henry, showing the telegram to Marrier.

"Besides," Marrier observed, "he'll come round
when he knows what his royalties are."

"Well," said Edward Henry, "I'm going to bed."  And
he gave a devastating yawn.

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   \VIII.

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One afternoon Edward Henry sat in the king of
all the easy chairs in the drawing-room of his house
in Trafalgar Road, Bursley.  Although the month
was September, and the weather warm even for
September, a swansdown quilt lay spread upon his knees.
His face was pale, his hands were paler; but his eye
was clear and his visage enlightened.  His beard
had grown to nearly its original dimensions.  On
a chair by his side were a number of letters to
which he had just dictated answers.  At a
neighbouring table a young clerk was using a typewriter.
Stretched at full length on the sofa was Robert
Machin, engaged in the perusal of the second
edition of that day's *Signal*.  Of late Robert,
having exhausted nearly all available books, had been
cultivating during his holidays an interest in
journalism, and he would give great accounts, in the
nursery, of events happening in each day's instalment
of the *Signal's* sensational serial.  His heels
kicked idly one against the other.

A powerful voice resounded in the lobby, and
Doctor Stirling entered the room with Nellie.

"Well, Doc!" Edward Henry greeted him.

"So you're in full blast again!" observed the
doctor, using a metaphor invented by the population
of a district where the roar of furnaces wakens the
night.

"No!" Edward Henry protested, as an invalid
always will.  "I'm only just keeping an eye on one
or two pressing things."

"Of course he's in full blast!" said Nellie with
calm conviction.

"What's this I hear about ye ganging away to the
seaside, Saturday?" asked the doctor.

"Well, can't I?" said Edward Henry.

"Ye can," said the doctor.  "Let's have a look
at ye, man."

"What was it you said I've had?" Edward
Henry questioned.

"Colonitis."

"Yes, that's the word.  I thought I couldn't have
got it wrong.  Well, you should have seen my
mother's face when I told her what you called it.
She said, 'He may call it that if he's a mind to, but
we had another name for it in my time.'  You
should have heard her sniff! ... Look here, Doc,
do you know you've had me down now for pretty
near three months?"

"Nay," said Stirling.  "It's yer own obstinacy
that's had ye down, man.  If ye'd listened to yer
London doctor at first, mayhap ye wouldn't have had
to travel from Euston in an invalid's carriage.  If
ye hadn't had the misfortune to be born an obstinate
simpleton ye'd ha' been up and about six weeks back.
But there's no doing anything with you geniuses.
It's all nerves with you and your like."

"Nerves!" exclaimed Edward Henry, pretending
to scorn.  But he was delighted at the diagnosis.

"Nerves," repeated the doctor firmly.  "Ye go
gadding off to America.  Ye get yeself mixed up in
theatres....  How's the theatre?  I see yer
famous play's coming to end next week."

"And what if it is?" said Edward Henry, jealous
for reputations, including his own.  "It will have
run for a hundred and one nights.  And right
through August, too!  No modern poetry play ever
did run as long in London, and no other ever will.
I've given the intellectual theatre the biggest ad. it
ever had.  And I've made money on it.  I should
have made more if I'd ended the run a fortnight ago,
but I was determined to pass the hundredth night.
And I shall do!"

"And what are ye for giving next?"

"I'm not for giving anything next, Doc.  I've let
the Regent for five years at seven thousand five
hundred pounds a year to a musical comedy syndicate,
since you're so curious.  And when I've paid the
ground rent and taxes and repairs and something
toward a sinking-fund, and six per cent. on my capital
I shall have not far off two thousand pounds a year
clear annual profit.  You may say what you like, but
that's what I call business!"

It was a remarkable fact that, while giving
undemanded information to Doctor Stirling, Edward
Henry was in reality defending himself against the
accusations of his wife--accusations which, by the
way, she had never uttered, but which he thought he
read sometimes in her face.  He might of course
have told his wife these agreeable details directly,
and in private.  But he was a husband, and, like
many husbands, apt to be indirect.

Nellie said not a word.

"Then you're giving up London?" The doctor
rose to depart.

"I am," said Edward Henry, almost blushing.

"Why?"

"Well," the genius answered.  "Those theatrical
things are altogether too exciting and risky!
And they're such queer people--Great Scott!
I've come out on the right side, as it happens,
but--well, I'm not as young as I was.  I've done with
London.  The Five Towns are good enough for me."

Nellie, unable to restrain a note of triumph,
indiscreetly remarked with just the air of superior
sagacity that in a wife drives husbands to fury and to
foolishness:

"I should think so, indeed!"

Edward Henry leaped from his chair, and the
swansdown quilt swathed his slippered feet.

"Nell," he exploded, clenching his hand.  "If
you say that once more in that tone--once more,
mind!--I'll go and take a flat in London to-morrow!"

The doctor crackled with laughter.  Nellie
smiled.  Even Robert, who had completely ignored
the doctor's entrance, glanced round with creased
brows.

"Sit down, dearest," Nellie quietly enjoined the
invalid.

But he would not sit down, and, to show his
independence, he helped his wife to escort Stirling into
the lobby.

Robert, now alone with the ignored young clerk
tapping at the table, turned toward him, and in his
deliberate, judicial, disdainful, childish voice said to
him:

"Isn't Father a funny man?"

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   THE END

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   THE NOVELS OF ARNOLD BENNETT

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   THE OLD WIVES' TALE: A Novel of Life.

*A New Edition with Special Preface by Arnold Bennett.*

Price $1.50 Net

The greatest of Arnold Bennett's writings has now crossed
the Rubicon of merely transient popularity and bids fair to become
a classic.  It recounts from early girlhood to old age the lives of
two sisters, the exact opposites to one another in temperament.
Though its spacious canvas teems with incidents and characters,
all the interest concentrates on these two women; the world revolves
about them.  It is a story of reality; a record extraordinarily faithful
of the infinite number of infinitesimal changes which steal away
youth with increasing years.

The book is of heroic proportions.  Here all the emotions of
a life-time are met together on one stage.  It is real as life, and large
as destiny.

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   BURIED ALIVE:

*A Tale of These Days*

Price $1.20 Net

Also in Popular Edition, $0.50 Net

A romantic comedy--a surprise from start to finish, brilliant
in its plot, and audaciously carried out--it is the kind of book that
restores adventure to life and sends the reader on his way in high
spirits.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: large

   A GREAT MAN:

*A Comedy of Success.*

Price $1.20 Net

Here is a comparative study of the great and the merely
successful--a gentle satire on contemporary popular methods of
judging human worth.  At the start THE GREAT MAN knows quite
well that he is not great.  Later, confused by the clamor of applause,
he deceives himself.

The story develops the rise of a modern writer--the get-famous-quick
author who suddenly finds himself a "best-seller."

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.. class:: large

   HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND:

*An Idyllic Diversion.*

Price $1.20 Net

In the lightest comedy vein, Arnold Bennett treats of a serious
economic situation--the invasion of the grim Five Towns by modernity.
Helen typifies the splendid revolt of youth against the accepted
and conventional.  Of all Arnold Bennett's heroines Helen is
certainly the daintiest and most fascinating.

The final touch of comedy arises from the fact that Helen at
length overcomes her uncle, not by anything modern in her
temperament, but by the old-fangled race shrewdness which she has
inherited.  She defeats him by the more skilful handling of his own
weapons.

.. vspace:: 3

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   LEONORA:

*The Story of a Middle-Aged Love Affair.*

Price $1.20 Net

The soul-problems of a woman of forty: another novel of the
Five Towns.

This is one of the most human of all Arnold Bennett's novels.
It grapples with a real problem and works out the solution as in life.
There are no heroics; no false elations and no false tragedies.
LEONORA is a statement of truth, seasoned with humor.

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   THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS

*And Other Stories.*

Price $1.20 Net

Written in Arnold Bennett's most brilliant manner, each story
is a complete and perfect study of some family group or separate
phase of Five Towns life.  Never was he more witty, more
penetrating, more sure in his shrewd delineation of homespun domestic
characters.

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   ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS:

*A Young Girl's Love-Story.*

Price $1.20 Net

This is a love-story with a twist in it, such as Bennett knows
so well how to handle.  The twist consists in the coming to Anna
of unexpected wealth.  She is the daughter of a miser and has been
brought up under the most rigorous parsimony.  She has a simple
lover, in every way suited to her narrow circumstances.  Then she
comes of age and discovers that she is not only well off, but wealthy.
What will she do with her money?  Will her altered status interfere
with her love affair?  Will her father's blood tell?  In a vein of
quiet humor, rich in whimsical character-sketching, Arnold Bennett
works these problems out.

Anna is another of the inhabitants of the Five Towns.  The
little group of friends who gather about her make us familiar
with another level of Five Towns' society.

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   THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA:

*The Autobiography of a Woman's Heart.*

Price $1.20 Net

THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA presents the woman of genius--who
belongs neither to the middle-class nor to any other class,
but simply to her genius, and to the passions of her own heart.

The book is a woman's soul confession written in the first
person.  In sheer audacity of purpose it outstrips all Arnold Bennett's
other novels with the exception of THE OLD WIVES' TALE.
In the first place, it is an intimate record of a woman's secret
psychology; in the second, the woman is a woman of genius, which
necessitates a continual flow of brilliancy
on the author's part; in the third,
it is a novel written in the French manner by an Englishman.

Carlotta is an extraordinary creation--a woman apart.  She
stands among the rebels of fiction and biography--the people who
have dared to be what they are.  The motive of her whole life is
self-fulfillment as she knows it, even though this means the defiance
of laws.

Everything contributes to the last great climax entitled *Victory*.

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   ARNOLD BENNETT: POCKET PHILOSOPHIES

.. vspace:: 3

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   HOW TO LIVE ON TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY:

A Study in Time Expenditure.

*On the Conservation of Time.*

Price $0.50 Net

In a series of delightfully personal essays Arnold Bennett
discusses the problem of how to attain happiness through living the
intenser life.

When he deliberately assumes the role of philosopher and
friend, his wise and tolerant teachings come to us vivid with his
strenuous personality.  In the essay medium his strange faculty
for combining wisdom with humor works unfettered.

.. vspace:: 3

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   MENTAL EFFICIENCY:

*On the Conservation of the Mind.*

Price $0.75 Net

Everybody desires to be efficient.  But nearly everybody
mistakenly supposes that this is a natural characteristic.  That it is not,
Mr. Bennett shows in his "Mental Efficiency."  It is the product
of concentration which in turn is the product of will-power.  But
will-power can be developed by concentration and Mr. Bennett
shows us how to do it.

.. vspace:: 3

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   THE HUMAN MACHINE:

*On the Conservation of Energy.*

Price $0.75 Net

With fine inspiring optimism, amid flashes of wit and gusts of
laughter, Arnold Bennett declares to everyone how he may make
the best of himself.

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.. class:: large

   LITERARY TASTE: How to Form It.

*On the Conservation of Pleasure.*

Price $0.75 Net

It is Arnold Bennett's conviction that life ought to be for everybody
an affair of joy.  For him literature has proved the royal road
to happiness: he is eager to point the way.

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   GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY, Publishers

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   BY ARNOLD BENNETT

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   NOVELS

.. vspace:: 1

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   The Old Wives' Tale
   Helen with the High Hand
   The Matador of the Five Towns
   The Book of Carlotta
   Buried Alive
   A Great Man
   Leonora
   Whom God Hath Joined
   A Man from the North
   Anna of the Five Towns
   The Glimpse

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   POCKET PHILOSOPHIES

.. vspace:: 1

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   How to Live on 24 Hours A Day
   The Human Machine
   Literary Taste
   Mental Efficiency

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   PLAYS

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   Cupid and Commonsense
   What the Public Wants
   Polite Farces
   Milestones
   The Honeymoon

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   MISCELLANEOUS

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   The Truth About an Author
   The Feast of St. Friend

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   GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
   NEW YORK

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.. pgfooter::