"Fanny? She'd love you to write your book."

"I know she'd think she would. But she wouldn't like it if it made
Horatio look a fool."

"But he's bound to look a fool in any case."

"True. I might give him a year, or two years."

"Well, then, _my_ work's cut out for me. I shall have to make Horatio go
on and finish quick, so as not to keep you waiting."

"He'll get sick of it. He'll make you go on with it."

"_Me?_"

"Practically, and quarrel with every word you write. Unless you can
write so like Horatio that he'll think he's done it himself. And then,
you know, he won't have a word of mine left in. You'll have to take me
out. And we're so mixed up together that I don't believe even he could
sort us. You see, in order to appease him, I got into the way of giving
my sentences a Waddingtonian twist. If only I could have kept it up--"

"I'll have to lick the thing into shape somehow."

"There's only one thing you'll have to do. You must make him steer a
proper course. This is to be _the_ Guide to the Cotswolds. You can't
have him sending people back to Lower Wyck Manor all the time. You'll
have to know all the places and all the ways."

"And I don't."

"No. But I do. Supposing I took you on my motor-bike? Would you awfully
mind sitting on the carrier?"

"Do you think," she said, "he'd let me go?"

"Fanny will."

"I _could_, I think. I work so hard in the mornings and evenings that
they've given me all the afternoons."

"We might go every afternoon while the weather holds out," he said. And
then: "I say, he _does_ bring us together."

That was how Barbara's happy life began.


3

He did bring them together.

In the terrible months that followed, while she struggled for order and
clarity against Mr. Waddington, who strove to reinstate himself in his
obscure confusion, Barbara was sustained by the thought that in working
for Mr. Waddington she was working for Ralph Bevan. The harder she
worked for him the harder she worked for Ralph. With all her cunning and
her little indomitable will she urged and drove him to get on and make
way for Ralph. Mr. Waddington interposed all sorts of irritating
obstructions and delays. He would sit for hours, brooding solemnly,
equally unable to finish and to abandon any paragraph he had once begun.
He had left the high roads and was rambling now in bye-ways of such
intricacy that he was unable to give any clear account of himself. When
Barbara had made a clean copy of it Mr. Waddington's part didn't always
make sense. The only bits that could stand by themselves were Ralph's
bits, and they were the bits that Mr. Waddington wouldn't let stand. The
very clearness of the copy was a light flaring on the hopeless mess it
was. Even Mr. Waddington could see it.

"Do you think," she said, "we've got it all down in the right order?"
She pointed.

"_What's_ that?" She could see his hands twitching with annoyance. His
loose cheeks hung shaking as he brooded.

"That's not as _I_, wrote it," he said at last. "That's Ralph Bevan. He
wasn't a bit of good to me. There's--there's no end to the harm he's
done. Conceited fellow, full of himself and his own ideas. Now I shall
have to go over every line he's written and write it again. I'd rather
write a dozen books myself than patch up another fellow's bad work....
We've got to overhaul the whole thing and take out whatever he's done."

"But you're so mixed up you can't always tell."

He looked at her. "You may be sure that if any passage is obscure or
confused or badly written it isn't mine. The one you've shown me, for
example."

Then Barbara had another of her ideas. Since they were so mixed up
together that Mr. Waddington couldn't tell which was which, and since he
wanted to give the impression that Ralph was responsible for all the bad
bits, and insisted on the complete elimination of Ralph, she had only
got to eliminate the bad bits and give such a Waddingtonian turn to the
good ones that he would be persuaded that he had written them himself.

The great thing was, he said, that the book should be written by
himself. And once fairly extricated from his own entanglements and set
going on a clear path, with Barbara to pull him out of all the awkward
places, Mr. Waddington rambled along through the Cotswolds at a smooth,
easy pace. Barbara had contrived to break him of his wasteful and
expensive habit of returning from everywhere to Wyck. All through August
he kept a steady course northeast, north, northwest; by September he had
turned due south; he would be beating up east again by October; November
would find him in the valleys; there was no reason why he shouldn't
finish in December and come out in March.

Mr. Waddington himself was surprised at the progress he had made.

"It shows," he said, "what we can do without Ralph Bevan."

And Barbara, seated on Ralph's carrier, explored the countryside and
mapped out Mr. Waddington's course for him.

"She's worth a dozen Ralph Bevins," he would say.

And he would go to the door with her and see her start.

"You mustn't let yourself be victimized by Ralph," he said. He glanced
at the carrier. "Do you think it's safe?"

"Quite safe. If it isn't it'll only be a bit more thrilling."

"Much better to come in the car with me."

But Barbara wouldn't go in the car with him. When he talked about it she
looked frightened and embarrassed.

Her fright and her embarrassment were delicious to Mr. Waddington. He
said to himself: "She doesn't think _that's_ safe, anyhow."

And as he watched her rushing away, swaying exquisitely over a series of
terrific explosions, he gave a little skip and a half turn, light and
youthful, in the porch of his Manor.




IX


1

Sir John Corbett had called in the morning. He had exerted himself to
that extent out of friendship, pure friendship for Waddington, and he
had chosen an early hour for his visit to mark it as a serious and
extraordinary occasion. He sat now in the brown leather armchair which
was twin to the one Mr. Waddington had sat in when he had his portrait
painted. His jolly, rosy face was subdued to something serious and
extraordinary. He had come to warn Mr. Waddington that scandal was
beginning to attach itself to his acquaintance--he was going to say
"relations," but remembered just in time that "relations" was a
question-begging word--to his acquaintance with a certain lady.

To which Mr. Waddington replied, haughtily, that he had a perfect right
to choose his--er--acquaintance. His acquaintance was, pre-eminently,
his own affair.

"Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so. But, strictly between ourselves, is
it a good thing to choose acquaintances of the sort that give rise to
scandal? As a man of the world, now, between ourselves, doesn't it
strike you that the lady in question may be that sort?"

"It does not strike me," said Mr. Waddington, "and I see no reason why
it should strike you."

"I don't like the look of her," said Sir John, quoting Major Markham.

"If you're trying to suggest that she's not straight, you're reading
something into her look that isn't there."

"Come, Waddington, you know as well as I do that when a man's knocked
about the world like you and me, he gets an instinct; he can tell pretty
well by looking at her whether a woman's that sort or not."

"My dear Corbett, my instinct is at least as good as yours. I've known
Mrs. Levitt for three years, and I can assure she's as straight, as
innocent, as your wife or mine."

"Clever--clever and a bit unscrupulous." Again Sir John quoted Major
Markham. "A woman like that can get round simple fellows like you and
me, Waddington, in no time, if she gives her mind to it. That's why I
won't have anything to do with her. She may be as straight and innocent
as you please; but somehow or other she's causing a great deal of
unpleasant talk, and if I were you I'd drop her. Drop her."

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

"My dear fellow, that's all very well, but when everybody knows your
wife hasn't called on her--"

"There was no need for Fanny to call on her. My relations with Mrs.
Levitt were on a purely business footing--"

"Well, I'd leave them there, and not too much footing either."

"What can I do? Here she is, a war widow with nobody but me to look
after her interests. She's got into the way of coming to me, and I'm not
going back on the poor woman, Corbett, because of your absurd
insinuations."

"Not _my_ insinuations."

"Anybody's insinuations then. Nobody has a right to insinuate anything
about _me_. As for Fanny, she'll make a point of calling on her now. We
were talking about it not long ago."

"A bit hard on Mrs. Waddington to be let in for that."

"You needn't worry. Fanny can afford to do pretty well what she likes."

He had him there. Sir John knew that this was true of Fanny Waddington,
as it was not true of Lady Corbett. He could remember the time when
nobody called on his father and mother; and Lady Corbett could not, yet,
afford to call on Mrs. Levitt before anybody else did.

"Well," he said, "so long as Mrs. Levitt doesn't expect my wife to
follow suit."

"Mrs. Levitt's experience can't have led her to expect much in the way
of kindness here."

"Well, don't be too kind. You don't know how you may be landed. You
don't know," said Sir John fatally, "what ideas you may have put into
the poor woman's head."

"I should be very sorry," said Mr. Waddington, "if I thought for one
moment I had roused any warmer feelings--"

But he wasn't sorry. He tried hard to make his face express a chivalrous
regret, and it wouldn't. It was positively smiling, so agreeable was the
idea conveyed by Sir John. He turned it over and over, drawing out its
delicious flavour, while Sir John's little laughing eyes observed his
enjoyment.

"You don't know," he said, "_what_ you may have roused."

There was something very irritating in his fat chuckle.

"You needn't disturb yourself. These things will happen. A woman may be
carried away by her feelings, but if a man has any tact and any delicacy
he can always show her very well--without breaking off all relations.
That would be clumsy."

"Of course, if you want to keep up with her, keep up with her. Only
take care you don't get landed, that's all."

"You may be quite sure that for the lady's own sake I shall take care."

They rose; Mr. Waddington stood looking down at Sir John and his little
round stomach and his little round eyes with their obscene twinkle. And
for the life of him he couldn't feel the indignation he would like to
have felt. As his eyes encountered Sir John's something secret and
primitive in Mr. Waddington responded to that obscene twinkle; something
reminiscent and anticipating; something mischievous and subtle and
delightful, subversive of dignity. It came up in his solemn face and
simmered there. Here was Corbett, a thorough-paced man of the world, and
he took it for granted that Mrs. Levitt's feelings had been roused; he
acknowledged, handsomely, as male to male, the fascination that had
roused them. He, Corbett, knew what he was talking about. He saw the
whole possibility of romantic adventure with such flattering certitude
that it was impossible to feel any resentment.

At the same time his interference was a piece of abominable
impertinence, and Mr. Waddington resented that. It made him more than
ever determined to pursue his relations with Mrs. Levitt, just to show
he wasn't going to be dictated to, while the very fact that Corbett saw
him as a figure of romantic adventure intensified the excitement of the
pursuit. And though Elise, seen with certainty in the light of Corbett's
intimations, was not quite so enthralling to the fancy as the Elise of
his doubt, she made a more positive and formidable appeal to his desire.
He loved his desire because it made him feel young, and, loving it, he
thought he loved Elise.

And what Corbett was thinking, Markham and Thurston, and Hawtrey and
young Hawtrey, and Grainger, would be thinking too. They would all see
him as the still young, romantic adventurer, the inspirer of passion.

And Bevan--But no, he didn't want Bevan to see him like that. Or rather,
he did, and yet again he didn't. He had scruples when it came to Bevan,
because of Fanny. And because of Fanny, while he rioted in visions of
the possible, he dreaded more than anything an actual detection, the
raking eyes and furtive tongues of the townspeople. If Fanny called on
Mrs. Levitt it would stop all the talking.

That was how Fanny came to know Mrs. Levitt, and how Mrs. Levitt (and
Toby) came to be asked to the September garden party at Lower Wyck
Manor.


2

Mrs. Levitt, of the White House, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire.

She thought it sounded very well. She had been out, that is to say, she
had judged it more becoming to her dignity not to be at home when Fanny
called; and Fanny had been actually out when Mrs. Levitt called, so that
they met for the first time at the garden party.

"It's absurd our not knowing each other," Fanny said, "when my husband
knows you so well."

"I've always felt, Mrs. Waddington, that I ought to know you, if it's
only to tell you how good he's been to me. But, of course, you know it."

"I know it quite well. He's always being good to people. He likes it.
You must take off some of the credit for that."

She thought: "She has really very beautiful eyes." A lot of credit would
have to be taken off for her eyes, too.

"But isn't that," said Mrs. Levitt, "what being good _is_? To like being
it? Only I suppose that's just what lays him open--"

She lowered the eyes whose brilliance had blazed a moment ago on Fanny;
she toyed with her handbag, smiling a little secret, roguish smile.

"That lays him open?"

Mrs. Levitt looked up, smiling. "To the attacks of unscrupulous people
like me."

It was risky, but it showed a masterly boldness and presence of mind. It
was as if she and Fanny Waddington had had their eyes fixed on a live
scorpion approaching them over the lawn, and Mrs. Levitt had stooped
down and grasped it by its tail and tossed it into the lavender bushes.
As if Mrs. Levitt had said, "My dear Mrs. Waddington, we both know that
this horrible creature exists, but we aren't going to let it sting us."
As if she knew why Fanny had called on her and was grateful to her.

Perhaps if Mrs. Levitt had never appeared at that garden party, or if,
having appeared, she had never been introduced, at their own request, to
Major Markham, Mr. Thurston, Mr. Hawtrey and young Hawtrey and Sir John
Corbett, Mr. Waddington might never have realized the full extent of her
fascination.

She had made herself the centre of the party by her sheer power to seize
attention and to hold it. You couldn't help looking at her, again and
again, where she sat in a clearing of the lawn, playing the clever,
pointed play of her black and white, black satin frock, black satin
cloak lined with white silk, furred with ermine; white stockings and
long white gloves, the close black satin hat clipping her head; the
vivid contrast and stress repeated in white skin, black hair, black
eyes; black eyes and fine mouth and white teeth making a charming and
perpetual movement.

She had been talking to Major Markham for the last ten minutes,
displaying herself as the absurdly youthful mother of a grown-up son.
Toby Levitt, a tall and slender likeness of his mother, was playing
tennis with distinction, ignoring young Horace, his partner, standing
well up to the net and repeating the alternate smashing and sliding
strokes that kept Ralph and Barbara bounding from one end of the court
to the other. Mrs. Levitt was trying to reconcile the proficiency of
Toby's play with his immunity from conscription in the late war. The war
led straight to Major Markham's battery, and Major Markham's battery to
the battery once commanded by Toby's father, which led to Poona and the
great discovery.

"You don't mean Frank Levitt, captain in the gunners?"

"I do."

"Was he by any chance stationed at Poona in nineteen-ten, eleven?"

"He was."

"But, bless my soul--_he_ was my brother-in-law Dick--Dick Benham's
best friend."

The Major's slightly ironical homage had given place to a serious
excitement, a respectful interest.

"Oh--Dicky Benham--is _he_--?"

"Rather. I've heard him talk about Frank Levitt scores of times. Do you
hear that, Waddington? Mrs. Levitt knows all my sister's people. Why on
earth haven't we met before?"

Mr. Waddington writhed, while between them they reeled off a long series
of names, people and places, each a link joining up Major Markham and
Mrs. Levitt. The Major was so excited about it that he went round the
garden telling Thurston and Hawtrey and Corbett, so that presently all
these gentlemen formed round Mrs. Levitt an interested and animated
group. Mr. Waddington hovered miserably on the edge of it; short of
thrusting Markham aside with his elbow (Markham for choice) he couldn't
have broken through. He would give it up and go away, and be drawn back
again and again; but though Mrs. Levitt could see him plainly, no
summons from her beautiful eyes invited his approach.

His behaviour became noticeable. It was observed chiefly by his son
Horry.

Horry took Barbara apart. "I say, have you seen my guv'nor?"

"No. What? Where?"

She could see by his face that he was drawing her into some iniquitous,
secret by-path of diversion.

"There, just behind you. Turn round--this way--but don't look as if
you'd spotted him.... Did you ever see anything like him? He's like a
Newfoundland dog trying to look over a gate. It wouldn't be half so
funny if he wasn't so dignified all the time."

She didn't approve of Horry. He wasn't decent. But the dignity--it _was_
wonderful.

Horry went on. "What on earth did the mater ask that woman for? She
might have known he'd make a fool of himself."

"Oh, Horry, you mustn't. It's awful of you. You really _are_ a little
beast."

"I'm not. Fancy doing it at his own garden party. He never thinks of
_us_. Look at the dear little mater, there, pretending she doesn't see
him. _That's_ what makes me mad, Barbara."

"Well, you ought to pretend you don't see it, too."

"I've been pretending the whole blessed afternoon. But it's no good
pretending with _you_. You jolly well see everything."

"I don't go and draw other people's attention to it."

"Oh, come, how about Ralph? You know you wouldn't let him miss him."

"Ralph? Oh, Ralph's different. I shouldn't point him out to Lady
Corbett."

"No more should I. _You_'re different, too. You and Ralph and me are the
only people capable of appreciating him. Though I wouldn't swear that
the mater doesn't, sometimes."

"Yes. But you go too far, Horry. You're cruel to him, and we're not."

"It's all very well for you. He isn't your father.... Oh, Lord, he's
craning his neck over Markham's shoulder now. What his face must look
like from the other side--"

"If you found your father drunk under a lilac bush I believe you'd go
and fetch me to look at him."

"I would, if he was as funny as he is now.... But I say, you know, I
can't have him going on like that. I've got to stop it, somehow. What
would you do if you were me?"

"Do? I think I should ask him to go and take Lady Corbett in to tea."

"Good."

Horry strode up to his father. "I say, pater, aren't you going to take
Lady Corbett in to tea?"

At the sheer sound of his son's voice Mr. Waddington's dignity stood
firm. But he went off to find Lady Corbett all the same.

When it was all over the garden party was pronounced a great success,
and Mr. Waddington was very agreeably rallied on his discovery, taxed
with trying to keep it to himself, and warned that, he wasn't going to
have it all his own way.

"It's our turn now," said Major Markham, "to have a look in."

And their turn was constantly coming round again; they were always
looking in at the White House. First, Major Markham called. Then Sir
John Corbett of Underwoods, Mr. Thurston of The Elms, and Mr. Hawtrey of
Medlicott called and brought their wives. These ladies, however, didn't
like Mrs. Levitt, and they were not at home when she returned their
calls. Mrs. Levitt's visiting card had its place in three collections
and there the matter ended. But Mr. Thurston and Mr. Hawtrey continued
to call with a delightful sense of doing something that their wives
considered improper. Major Markham--as a bachelor his movements were
more untrammelled--declared it his ambition to "cut Waddy out." _He_ was
everlastingly calling at the White House. His fastidious correctness,
the correctness that hadn't "liked the look of her," excused this
intensive culture of Mrs. Levitt on the grounds that she was "well
connected"; she knew all his sister's people.

And Mrs. Levitt took good care to let Mr. Waddington know of these
visits, and of her little bridge parties in the evening. "Just Mr.
Thurston and Mr. Hawtrey and Major Markham and me." He was teased and
worried by his visions of Elise perpetually surrounded by Thurston and
Hawtrey and the Major. Supposing--only supposing that--driven by
despair, of course--she married that fellow Markham? For the first time
in his life Mr. Waddington experienced jealousy. Elise had ceased to be
the subject of dreamy, doubtful speculation and had become the object of
an uneasy passion. He could give her passion, if it was passion that she
wanted; but, because of Fanny, he could not give her a position in the
county, and it was just possible that Elise might prefer a position.

And Elise was happy, happy in her communion with Mr. Thurston and Mr.
Hawtrey and in the thought that their wives detested her; happy in her
increasing intimacy with Major Markham and in her consciousness of being
well connected; above all, happy in Mr. Waddington's uneasiness.

Meanwhile Fanny Waddington kept on calling. "If I don't," she said,
"the poor woman will be done for."

She couldn't see any harm in Mrs. Levitt.


3

Barbara and Ralph Bevan had been for one of their long walks. They were
coming back down the Park when they met, first, Henry, the gardener's
boy, carrying a basket of fat, golden pears.

"Where are you going with those lovely pears, Henry?"

"Mrs. Levitt's, miss." The boy grinned and twinkled; you could almost
have fancied that he knew.

Farther on, near the white gate, they could see Mr. Waddington and two
ladies. He had evidently gone out to open the gate, and was walking on
with them, unable to tear himself away. The ladies were Mrs. Rickards
and Mrs. Levitt.

They stopped. You could see the flutter of their hands and faces,
suggesting a final triangular exchange of playfulness.

Then Mr. Waddington, executing a complicated movement of farewell, a bow
and a half turn, a gambolling skip, the gesture of his ungovernable
youth.

Then, as he went from them, the abandonment of Mrs. Rickards and Mrs.
Levitt to disgraceful laughter.

Mrs. Levitt clutched her sister's arm and clung to it, almost
perceptibly reeling, as if she said: "Hold me up or I shall collapse.
It's too much. Too--too--too--too much." They came on with a peculiar
rolling, helpless walk, rocked by the intolerable explosions of their
mirth, dabbing their mouths and eyes with their pocket-handkerchiefs in
a tortured struggle for control.

They recovered sufficiently to pass Ralph and Barbara with serious,
sidelong bows. And then there was a sound, a thin, wheezing, soaring yet
stifled sound, the cry of a conquered hysteria.

"Did you see that, Ralph?"

"I did. I heard it."

"_He_ couldn't, could he?"

"Oh, Lord, no.... They appreciate him, too, Barbara."

"That isn't the way," she said. "We don't want him appreciated that way.
That rich, gross way."

"No. It isn't nearly subtle enough. Any fool could see that his
caracoling was funny. They don't know him as we know him. They don't
know what he really is."

"It was an outrage. It's like taking a fine thing and vulgarizing it.
They'd no _business_. And it was cruel, too, to laugh at him like that
before his back was turned. When they're going to eat his pears, too."

"The fact is, Barbara, nobody _does_ appreciate him as you and I do."

"Horry?"

"No. Not Horry. He goes too far. Horry's indecent. Fanny, perhaps,
sometimes."

"Fanny doesn't see one half of him. She doesn't see his Mrs. Levitt
side."

"Have _you_ seen it, Barbara?"

"Of course I have."

"You never told me. It isn't fair to go discovering things on your own
and not telling me. We must make a compact. To tell each other the very
instant we see a thing. We might keep count and give points to which of
us sees most. Mrs. Levitt ought to have been a hundred to your score."

"I'm afraid I can't score with Mrs. Levitt. You saw that, too."

"It'll be a game for gods, Barbara."

"But, Ralph, there might be things we _couldn't_ tell each other. It
mightn't be fair to him."

"Telling each other isn't like telling other people. Hang it all, if
we're making a study of him we're making a study. Science is science.
We've no right to suppress anything. At any moment one of us might see
something absolutely vital."

"Whatever we do we musn't be unfair to him."

"But he's ours, isn't he? We can't be unfair to him. And we've got to
be fair to each other. Think of the frightful advantage you might have
over me. You're bound to see more things than I do."

"I might see more, but you'll understand more."

"Well, then, you can't do without me. It's a compact, isn't it, that we
don't keep things back?"

As for Mrs. Levitt's handling of their theme they resented it as an
abominable profanation.

"Do you think he's in love with her?" Barbara said.

"What _he_ would call being in love and we shouldn't."

"Do you think he's like that--he's always been like that?"

"I think he was probably 'like that' when he was young."

"Before he married Fanny?"

"Before he married Fanny."

"And after?"

"After, I should imagine he went pretty straight. It was only the way he
had when he was young. Now he's middle-aged he's gone back to it, just
to prove to himself that he's young still. I take it the poor old thing
got scared when he found himself past fifty, and he _had_ to start a
proof. It's his egoism all over again. I don't suppose he really cares a
rap for Mrs. Levitt."

"You don't think his heart beats faster when he sees her coming?"

"I don't. Horatio's heart beats faster when he sees himself making love
to her."

"I see. It's just middle age."

"Just middle age."

"Don't you think, perhaps, Fanny does see it?"

"No. Not that. Not that. At least I hope not."




X


1

Mr. Waddington's _Ramblings Through the Cotswolds_ were to be profusely
illustrated. The question was: photographs or original drawings? And he
had decided, after much consideration, on photographs taken by
Pyecraft's man. For a book of such capital importance the work of an
inferior or obscure illustrator was not to be thought of for an instant.
But there were grave disadvantages in employing a distinguished artist.
It would entail not only heavy expenses, but a disastrous rivalry. The
illustrations, so far from drawing attention to the text and fixing it
firmly there, would inevitably distract it. And the artist's celebrated
name would have to figure conspicuously, in exact proportion to his
celebrity, on the title page and in all the reviews and advertisements
where, properly speaking, Horatio Bysshe Waddington should stand alone.
It was even possible, as Fanny very intelligently pointed out, that a
sufficiently distinguished illustrator might succeed in capturing the
enthusiasm of the critics to the utter extinction of the author, who
might consider himself lucky if he was mentioned at all.

But Fanny had shown rather less intelligence in using this argument to
support her suggestion that Barbara Madden should illustrate the book.
She had more than once come upon the child, sitting on a camp-stool
above Mrs. Levitt's house, making a sketch of the steep street, all
cream white and pink and grey, opening out on to the many-coloured
fields and the blue eastern air. And she had conceived a preposterous
admiration for Barbara Madden's work.

"It'll be an enchanting book if she illustrates it, Horatio."

"_If_ she illustrates it!"

But when he tried to show Fanny the absurdity of the idea--Horatio
Bysshe Waddington illustrated by Barbara Madden--she laughed in his face
and told him he was a conceited old thing. To which he replied, with
dignified self-restraint, that he was writing a serious and important
book. It would be foolish to pretend that it was not serious and
important. He hoped he had no overweening opinion of its merits, but one
must preserve some sense of proportion and propriety--some sanity.

"Poor little Barbara!"

"It isn't poor little Barbara's book, my dear."

"No," said Fanny. "It isn't."

Meanwhile, if the book was to be ready for publication in the spring,
the photographs would have to be taken at once, before the light and the
leaves were gone.

So Pyecraft and Pyecraft's man came with their best camera, and
photographed and photographed, as long as the fine weather lasted. They
photographed the Market Square, Wyck-on-the-Hill; they photographed the
church; they photographed Lower Wyck village and the Manor House, the
residence--corrected to seat--of Mr. Horatio Bysshe Waddington, the
author. They photographed the Tudor porch, showing the figures of the
author and of Mrs. Waddington, his wife, and Miss Barbara Madden, his
secretary. They photographed the author sitting in his garden; they
photographed him in his park, mounted on his mare, Speedwell; and they
photographed him in his motor-car. Then they came in and looked at the
library and photographed that, with Mr. Waddington sitting in it at his
writing-table.

"I suppose, sir," Mr. Pyecraft said, "you'd wish it taken from one end
to show the proportions?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Waddington.

And when Pyecraft came the next day with the proofs he said, "I think,
sir, we've got the proportions very well."

Mr. Waddington stared at the proofs, holding them in a hand that
trembled slightly with emotion. With a just annoyance. For though
Pyecraft had certainly got the proportions of the library, Mr.
Waddington's head was reduced to a mere black spot in the far corner.

If _that_ was what Pyecraft meant by proportion--

"I think," he said, "the--er--the figure is not quite satisfactory."

"The--? I see, sir. I did not understand, sir, that you wished the
figure."

"We-ell--" Mr. Waddington didn't like to appear as having wished the
figure so ardently as he did indeed wish it. "If I'm to be there at
all--"

"Quite so, sir. But if you wish the size of the library to be shown, I
am afraid the figure must be sacrificed. We can't do you it both ways.
But how would you think, sir, of being photographed yourself, somewhat
larger, seated at your writing-table? We could do you that."

"I hadn't thought of it, Pyecraft."

As a matter of fact, he had thought of nothing else. He had the title of
the picture in his mind: "The Author at Work in the Library, Lower Wyck
Manor."

Pyecraft waited in deference to Mr. Waddington's hesitation. His man,
less delicate but more discerning, was already preparing to adjust the
camera.

Mr. Waddington turned, like a man torn between personal distaste and
public duty, to Barbara.

"What do _you_ think, Miss Madden?"

"I think the book would hardly be complete without you."

"Very well. You hear, Pyecraft, Miss Madden says I am to be
photographed."

"Very good, sir."

He wheeled sportively. "Now how am I to sit?"

"If you would set yourself so, sir. With your papers before you, spread
careless, so. And your pen in your hand, so.... A little nearer,
Bateman. The figure is important this time.... _Now_, sir, if you would
be so good as to look up."

Mr. Waddington looked up with a face of such extraordinary solemnity
that Mr. Pyecraft smiled in spite of his deference.

"A leetle brighter expression. As if you had just got an idea."

Mr. Waddington imagined himself getting an idea and tried to look like
it.

"Perfect--perfect." Mr. Pyecraft almost danced with excitement. "Keep
that look on your face, sir, half a moment.... Now, Bateman."

A click.

"_That's_ over, thank goodness," said Mr. Waddington, reluctant victim
of Pyecraft's and Barbara's importunity.

After that Mr. Pyecraft and his man were driven about the country taking
photographs. In one of them Mr. Waddington appeared standing outside the
mediaeval Market Hall of Chipping Kingdon. In another, wearing fishing
boots, and holding a fishing-rod in his hand, he waded knee deep in the
trout stream between Upper and Lower Speed.

And after that he said firmly, "I will not be photographed any more.
They've got enough of me."


2

In November, when the photographing was done, Fanny went away to London
for a fortnight, leaving Barbara, as she said, to take care of Horatio,
and Ralph Bevan to take care of Barbara.

It was then, in consequence of letters he received from Mrs. Levitt,
that Mr. Waddington's visits in Sheep Street became noticeably frequent.
Barbara, sitting on her camp-stool above the White House, noticed them.

She noticed, too, the singular abstraction of Mr. Waddington's manner in
these days. There were even moments when he ceased to take any interest
in his Ramblings, and left Barbara to continue them, as Ralph had
continued them, alone, reserving to himself the authority of
supervision. She had long stretches of time to herself, when she had
reason to suspect that Mr. Waddington was driving Mrs. Leavitt to
Cheltenham or Stratford-on-Avon in his car, while Ralph Bevan obeyed
Fanny's parting charge to look after Barbara.

Every time Barbara did a piece of the Ramblings she showed it to Ralph
Bevan. They would ride off together into the open country, and Barbara
would read aloud to Ralph, sitting by the roadside where they lunched,
or in some inn parlour where they had tea. They had decided that, though
it would be dishonourable of Barbara to show him the bits that Mr.
Waddington had written, there could be no earthly harm in trusting him
with the bits she had done herself.

Not that you could tell the difference. Barbara had worked hard, knowing
that the sooner Mr. Waddington's book was finished the sooner Ralph's
book would come out; and under this agreeable stimulus she had developed
into the perfect parodist of Waddington. She had wallowed in
Waddington's style till she was saturated with it and wrote
automatically about "bold escarpments" and "the rosy flush on the high
forehead of Cleeve Cloud"; about "ivy-mantled houses resting in the
shade of immemorial elms"; about the vale of the Windlode, "awash with
the golden light of even," and "grey villages nestling in the beech-clad
hollows of the hills."

"'Come with me,'" said Barbara, "'into the little sheltered valley of
the Speed; let us follow the brown trout stream that goes purling--'"

"Barbara, it's priceless. What made you think of purling?"

"_He'd_ have thought of it. 'Purling through the lush green grass of the
meadows.'"

Or, "'Let us away along the great high road that runs across the uplands
that divide the valleys of the Windlode and the Thames. Let us rest a
moment halfway and drink--no, quaff--a mug of good Gloucestershire ale
with mine host of the Merry Mouth.'"

Not that Mr. Waddington had ever done such a thing in his life. But all
the other ramblers through the Cotswolds did it, or said they did it;
and he was saturated with their spirit, as Barbara was saturated with
his. He could see them, robust and genial young men in tweed
knickerbocker suits, tramping their thirty miles a day and quaffing mugs
of ale in every tavern; and he desired to present himself, like those
young men, as genial and robust. He couldn't get away from them and
their books any more than he had got away from Sir Maurice Gedge and his
prospectus.

And Barbara had invented all sorts of robust and genial things for him
to do. She dressed him in pink, and mounted him on his mare Speedwell,
and sent him flying over the stone walls and five-barred gates to the
baying of "Ranter and Ranger and Bellman and True." He fished and he
tramped and he quaffed and he tramped again. He did his thirty miles a
day easily. She set down long conversations between Mr. Waddington and
old Billy, the Cotswold shepherd, all about the good old Cotswold ways,
in the good old days when the good old Squire, Mr. Waddington's
father--no, his grandfather--was alive.

"'I do call to mind, zur, what old Squire did use to zay to me: "Billy,"
'e zays, "your grandchildren won't be fed, nor they won't 'ave the
cottages, nor yet the clothes as you 'ave and your children. As zure as
God's in Gloucester" 'e zays. They was rare old times, zur, and they be
gawn.'"

"_What_ made you think of it, Barbara? I don't suppose he ever said two
words to old Billy in his life."

"Of course he didn't. 'But it's the sort of thing he'd like to think he
did."

"Has he passed it?"

"Rather. He's as pleased as Punch. He thinks he's forming my style."


3

Mr. Waddington was rapidly acquiring the habit of going round to Sheep
Street after dinner. But in those evenings that he did not devote to
Mrs. Levitt he applied himself to his task of supervision.

On the whole he was delighted with his secretary. There could be no
doubt that the little thing was deeply attached to him. You could tell
that by the way she worked, by her ardour and eagerness to please him.
There could be only one explanation of the ease with which she had
received the stamp of his personality.

Therefore he used tact. He used tact.

"I'm giving you a great deal of work, Barbara," he would say. "But you
must look on it as part of your training. You're learning to write good
English. There's nothing like clear, easy, flowing sentences. You can't
have literature without 'em. I might have written those passages myself.
In fact, I can hardly distinguish--" His face shook over it; she
noticed the tremor of imminent revision. "Still, I _think_ I should
prefer 'babbling streams' here to 'purling streams.' Shakespearean."

"I _had_ 'babbling' first," said Barbara, "but I thought 'purling' would
be nearer to what you'd have written yourself. I forgot about
Shakespeare. And babbling isn't exactly purling, is it?"

"True--true. Babbling is _not_ purling. We want the exact word. Purling
let it be....

"And 'lush.' Good girl. You remembered that 'lush' was one of my words?"

"I thought it _would_ be."

"Good. You see," said Mr. Waddington, "how you learn. You're getting the
sense, the _flair_ for style. I shall always be glad to think I trained
you, Barbara.... And you may be very thankful it _is_ I and not Ralph
Bevan. Of all the jerky--eccentric--incoherent--"




XI


1

It was Monday, the twenty-fourth day of November, in the last week of
Fanny's fortnight in London.

Barbara had been busy all morning with Mr. Waddington's correspondence
and accounts. And now, for the first time, she found herself definitely
on the track of Mrs. Levitt. In checking Palmer and Hoskins's, the
Cheltenham builders, bill for the White House she had come across two
substantial items not included in their original estimate: no less than
fifteen by eight feet of trellis for the garden and a hot water pipe
rail for the bathroom. It turned out that Mrs. Levitt, desiring the
comfort of hot towels, and objecting to the view of the kitchen yard as
seen from the lawn, had incontinently ordered the hot water rail and the
trellis.

There was that letter from Messrs. Jackson and Cleaver, Mr. Waddington's
agents, informing him that his tenant, Mrs. Levitt, of the White House,
Wyck-on-the-Hill, had not yet paid her rent due on the twenty-fifth of
September. Did Mr. Waddington wish them to apply again?

And there were other letters of which Barbara was requested to make
copies from his dictation. Thus:

"My Dear Mrs. Levitt" (only he had written "My dear Elise"),--"With
reference to your investments I do not recommend the purchase, at the
present moment, of Government Housing Bonds.

"I shall be very glad to loan you the fifty pounds you require to make
up the five hundred for the purchase of Parson's Provincial and London
Bank Shares. But I am afraid I cannot definitely promise an advance of
five hundred on the securities you name. That promise was conditional,
and you must give me a little time to consider the matter. Meanwhile I
will make inquiries; but, speaking off-hand, I should say that, owing to
the present general depreciation of stock, it would be highly
unadvisable for you to sell out, and my advice to you would be: Hold on
to everything you've got.

"I am very glad you are pleased with your little house. We will let the
matter of the rent stand over till your affairs are rather more in order
than they are at present.--With kindest regards, very sincerely yours,

"HORATIO BYSSHE WADDINGTON.

"P.S.--I have settled with Palmer and Hoskins for the trellis and hot
water rail."

"_To_ Messrs. Lawson & Rutherford, Solicitors,

"9, Bedford Row, London, W.C.

"Dear Sirs,--Will you kindly advise me as to the current value of the
following shares--namely:

"Fifty ВЈ5 5 per cent. New South American Rubber Syndicate;

"Fifty ВЈ10 10 per cent. B Preference Addison Railway, Nicaragua;

"One hundred ВЈ1 4 per cent. Welbeck Mutual Assurance Society.

"Would you recommend the holder to sell out at present prices? And
should I be justified in accepting these shares as security for an
immediate loan of five hundred?--Faithfully yours,

"HORATIO BYSSHE WADDINGTON."

He was expecting Elise for tea at four o'clock on Wednesday, and Messrs.
Lawson and Rutherford's reply reached him very opportunely that
afternoon.

"Dear Sir,--_Re_ your inquiry in your letter of the twenty-fifth instant,
as to the current value of 5 per cent. New South American Rubber
Syndicate Shares, 10 per cent. B Preference Addison Railway, and 4 per
cent. Welbeck Mutual Assurance Society, respectively, we beg to inform
you that these stocks are seriously depreciated, and we doubt whether
at the present moment the holder would find a purchaser. We certainly
cannot advise you to accept them as security for the sum you name.--We
are, faithfully,

"Lawson & Rutherford."

It was clear that poor Elise--who could never have had any head for
business--was deceived as to the value of her securities. It might even
be that with regard to all three of them she might have to cut her
losses and estimate her income minus the dividends accruing from this
source. But that only made it the more imperative that she should have
at least a thousand pounds tucked snugly away in some safe investment.
Nothing short of the addition of fifty pounds to her yearly income would
enable Elise to pay her way. The dear woman's affairs ought to stand on
a sound financial basis; and Mr. Waddington asked himself this question:
Was he prepared to put them there? All that Elise could offer him,
failing her depreciated securities, was the reversion of a legacy of
five hundred pounds promised to her in her aunt's will. She had spoken
very hopefully of this legacy. Was he prepared to fork out a whole five
hundred pounds on the offchance of Elise's aunt dying within a
reasonable time and making no alteration in her will? In a certain
contingency he _was_ prepared. He was prepared to do all that and more
for Elise. But it was not possible, it was not decent to state his
conditions to Elise beforehand, and in any case Mr. Waddington did not
state them openly as conditions to himself. He allowed his mind to be
muzzy on this point. He had no doubt whatever about his passion, but he
preferred to contemplate the possibility of its satisfaction through a
decent veil of muzziness. When he said to himself that he would like to
know where he stood before committing himself, it was as near as he
could get to clarity and candour.

And when he wrote to Elise that his promise was conditional he really
did mean that the loan would depend on the value of the securities
offered; a condition that his integrity could face, a condition that, as
things stood, he had a perfect right to make. While, all the time, deep
inside him was the knowledge that, if Elise gave herself to him, he
would not ask for security--he would not make any conditions at all. He
saw Elise, tender and yielding, in his arms; he saw himself, tender and
powerful, stooping over her, and he thought, with a qualm of disgust: "I
wouldn't touch her poor little legacy."

Meanwhile he judged it well to let the correspondence pass, like any
other business correspondence, through his secretary's hands. It was
well to let Barbara see that his relations with Mrs. Levitt were on a
strictly business footing, that he had nothing to hide. It was well to
have copies of the letters. It was well--Mr. Waddington's instinct, not
his reason, told him it WA well--to have a trustworthy witness to all
these transactions. A witness who understood the precise nature of his
conditions, in the event, the highly unlikely event, of trouble with
Elise later on. (It was almost as if, secretly, he had a premonition.)
Also, when his conscience reproached him, as it did, with making
conditions, with asking the dear woman for security, he was able to
persuade himself that he didn't really mean it, that all this was clever
camouflage designed to turn Barbara's suspicions, if she ever had any,
off the scent. And at the same time he was not sorry that Barbara should
see him in his rГґle of generous benefactor and shrewd adviser.

"I needn't tell you, Barbara, that all this business is strictly
private. As my confidential secretary, you have to know a great many
things it wouldn't do to have talked about. You understand?"

"Perfectly."

She understood, too, that it was an end of the compact with Ralph Bevan.
She must have foreseen this affair when she said to him there would be
things she simply couldn't tell. Only she had supposed they would be
things she would see, reward of clear eyesight, not things she would be
regularly let in for knowing.

And her clear eyes saw through the camouflage. She had a suspicion.

"I don't see," she said, "why you should have to go without your rent
just because Mrs. Levitt doesn't want to pay it."

She was sorry for Waddy. He might be ever so wise about Mrs. Levitt's
affairs; but he was a perfect goose about his own. No wonder Fanny had
asked her to take care of him.

"I've no doubt," he said, "she _wants_ to pay it; but she's a war widow,
Barbara, and she's hard up. I can't rush her for the rent."

"She's no business to rush you for trellis work and water pipes you
didn't order."

"Well--well," he couldn't be angry with the child. She was so loyal, so
careful of his interests. And he couldn't expect her to take kindly to
Elise. There would be a natural jealousy. "That's Palmer and Hoskins's
mistake. I can't haggle with a lady, Barbara. _Noblesse oblige_." But he
winced under her clear eyes.

She thought: "How about the fifty and the five hundred? At this rate
_noblesse_ might _oblige_ him to do anything."

She could see through Mrs. Levitt.

Mr. Waddington kept on looking at the clock.

It was now ten minutes to four, and at any moment Elise might be there.
His one idea was to get Barbara Madden out of the way. Those clear eyes
were not the eyes he wanted to be looking at Elise, to be looking at him
when _their_ eyes met. And he understood that that fellow Bevan was
going to call for her at four. He didn't want _him_ about. "Where are
you going for your walk?" he said.

"Oh, anywhere. Why?"

"Well, if you happen to be in Wyck, would you mind taking these
photographs back to Pyecraft and showing him the ones I've chosen? Just
see that he doesn't make any stupid mistake."

The photographs were staring her in the face on the writing-table, so
that there was really no excuse for her forgetting them, as she did. But
Mr. Waddington's experience was that if you wanted anything done you had
to do it yourself.


2

Elise would be taken into the drawing-room. He went to wait for her
there.

And as he walked up and down, restless, listening for the sound of her
feet on the gravel drive and the ringing of the bell, at each turn of
his steps he was arrested by his own portrait. It stared at him from
its place above Fanny's writing-table; handsome, with its brilliant
black and carmine, it gave him an uneasy sense of rivalry, as if he felt
the disagreeable presence of a younger man in the room. He stared back
at it; he stared at himself in the great looking-glass over the
chimneypiece beside it.

He remembered Fanny saying that she liked the iron-grey of his moustache
and hair; it was more becoming than all that hard, shiny black. Fanny
was right. It _was_ more becoming. And his skin--the worn bloom of it,
like a delicate sprinkling of powder. Better, more refined than that
rich, high red of the younger man in the gilt frame. To be sure his
eyes, blurred onyx, bulged out of creased pouches; but his nose--the
Postlethwaite nose, a very handsome feature--lifted itself firmly above
the fleshy sagging of the face. His lips pouted in pride. He could still
console himself with the thought that mirrors were unfaithful; Elise
would see him as he really was; not that discoloured and distorted
image. He pushed out his great chest and drew a deep, robust breath. At
the thought of Elise the pride, the rich, voluptuous, youthful pride of
life mounted. And as he turned again he saw Fanny looking at him.

The twenty-year-old Fanny in her girl's white frock and blue sash; her
tilted, Gainsborough face, mischievous and mocking, smiled as if she
were making fun of him. His breath caught in his chest. Fanny--Fanny.
His wife. Why hadn't his wife the loyalty and intelligence of Barbara,
the enthusiasm, the seriousness of Elise? He needn't have any
conscientious scruples on Fanny's account; she had driven him to Elise
with her frivolity, her eternal smiling. Of course he knew that she
cared for him, that he had power over her, that there had never been and
never would be any other man for Fanny; but he couldn't go on with
Fanny's levity for ever. He wanted something more; something sound and
solid; something that Elise gave him and no other woman. Any man would
want it.