Chapter VI: Book TWO: Gaga (3)

So book-keeping went on. And so Harry went on. But by now Sally's interests had become many, for she was leading a busy life, and the difficulty of maintaining all her affairs at the necessary pitch of freshness and importance in her attention was increasing. She had to think of her work, of Madam and her now frequent fits of illness, of Gaga, of Miss Summers, of money, of Harry, of book-keeping, of clothes, and of her mother. Mrs. Perce she rarely saw during this period, because as Sally found new preoccupations she was bound to shed some of her old ones. She thought very nicely of Mrs. Perce; but she had at the moment no time for her. Mrs. Perce belonged to a passing stage, and had not yet a niche in the new one. Toby she saw still more seldom than anybody; but for Toby Sally's feelings underwent no obvious change. They developed as her character matured, but they did not alter. She embraced him, as it were, with her mind. Toby was somehow different from all the others. He was a part of herself. She did not know why, but he stood alone, whenever she thought of him, wonderfully strange, and strong, and enduring, as much Toby as she was Sally. She did not fear him. In some ways she despised him, for being so little pliable, so little supple in his way of managing the world. But she adored him as a man, and as a simple-minded baby who unerringly made her happy by his assurance, and flighted her by behaving as though she was something belonging solely to himself. So long as she was confident that about nine-tenths of her life was outside the range of Toby's understanding, Sally enjoyed his delusion. It gave her such a sense of superiority that she relished her submission to his will in all trifles. She never felt that his absences made him a stranger. Rather, she felt that they increased and intensified her love and her desire for him. These at least were unabated--more ardent than ever. And the absences certainly made Toby all the more boisterously glad to see her whenever he returned from a voyage, and more demonstratively affectionate when they were alone together.

xii

Madame Gala had returned to work and Gaga had gone into the country by the time Sally had joined her book-keeping class; and so that matter seemed to be in abeyance. The ease with which the fabric of her newest plan had been made to collapse discomfited Sally, who was always impatient for quick results; but she did not abandon hope. She believed in her star. She had seen very little of Gaga since their dinner. He had avoided her, with some tokens of slight constraint, although his greetings had been almost furtively reassuring. That alone would have made her believe that he had not forgotten his promise. Sally bade despair stand back. Always, hitherto, she had found her own level: she would do it again in this instance. She had the grit of the ambitious person who succeeds. Hers was not a vague or unwarrantable conceit: she would work for its fulfilment. It is the mark of the great.

While she was waiting, she one day received a letter from Toby, announcing his imminent arrival in London. He would wait outside Madame Gala's, and they would spend his leave together. It was now the beginning of October, and a fine Autumn had begun. The days, although rapidly growing shorter, were warm and cordial. They were better than the summer days. There was a crispness in the air, but there was no chill. Filled with pleasure, Sally wore her prettiest clothes that morning, and Toby was waiting in the sunshine at the corner of the street, and they met with light hearts. It was just one o'clock. At once they found a tea-shop, and had lunch; and then Toby sprang upon her a proposal that they should go to Richmond for the afternoon, and to Brighton the following day. He appeared to have plenty of money for both jaunts. He had planned them as soon as he knew the date of his arrival.

"O-o-o!" cried Sally. "Brighton! The sea! Will you take me out in a boat? Better not: I should be sick. Take me on the river this afternoon, instead. No: we'll just walk in Richmond Park. Ever been to Kew, Toby? The girls say it's lovely there. What's Brighton like? I went there once when I was a kid. Wasn't half fine. What d'you do there? Sit on the beach and throw stones in the water? We might paddle. Like to see me paddling? What time do we start?"

"Here, hold on," said Toby. They were walking to catch a Richmond omnibus. "You ask a lot of questions and don't wait for no answers. I say ... look at that young woman there.... Look at her!"

"Well?" demanded Sally. "It's only because her shoes don't fit. She doesn't know how to wear high heels. That's all it is. That frock cost a bit."

"Did it?" Toby jerked his head. "Well, you ought to know, I suppose. It's not as smart as yours."

"D'you like it, Toby?" asked Sally, eagerly. He had never said anything before about her clothes. She was suddenly sportive with pride in his interest.

Toby nodded. He had been betrayed into his speech of approval. It was not natural to him.

"It's all right," he nonchalantly said. "I've seen worse."

Sally shook his arm, provoked by a variety of feelings. She loved him to tease her. How strange! She felt a hundred years older than Toby, and yet she felt like a little girl. And when she was with him she did not have to mind her tongue, but could be as slangy and as natural as she pleased. Toby did not know any better. She had not always to be thinking, with him, of what a real lady might be expected to say. He was a relaxation for her.

"That's right," she said. "Flatter me. Make me get swelled head. Don't think of the consequences. Ladle it out. Tell me I look a little princess."

"No, Sally. I wouldn't do that," answered Toby, possessively. "I don't want you to get above yourself. You're a bit uppish as it is. Noticed it? Well, I have. And that's a thing I want to talk to you about."

"Oh," said Sally in a dangerous tone. "What is? Look, there's a bus!"

With Sally's nimbleness and Toby's muscle they obtained seats upon the top of the bus, and, seated together, resumed their conversation in low, grumbling tones. She first repeated her question with new aggressiveness, not at all deterred from the possibility of a row by her delight in Toby's company.

"About you," said Toby. "You see, smartness is all very well; but if you're going to be a sailor's wife you got to look where you're going. Now, your last letter. It said you was being a good girl, and taking evening classes--that's because I told you my aunt see you out with a fellow one night, coming from the schools. Now what the Hell's the good of evening classes to a sailor's wife; and who _is_ this fellow aunt seen you with?"

"I suppose even a sailor's wife wants to know how to cook," remarked Sally.

"Oh cooking," grimly said Toby. "Does the fellow learn cooking, too?"

Sally was impudent. She was enjoying herself. She rejoiced that he should be so jealous and authoritative when she knew that she could always play with him.

"I don't know which fellow your aunt saw," she answered flippantly. "There's so many of them at the classes. I can't tell which it might be. Did she tell you what he was like?"

"She told me you was arm in arm."

"That's a lie," said Sally, curtly. "Nosey old cat. She never saw me arm in arm with anybody. And even if I had been, what business is it of hers? What does she know about me? About me and you?"

"She see us last time I was home. See us twice. That's why she told me about you and this other fellow. See? She says--that girl I see you with seems to have got another young man--light come, light go."

"O-o-oh!" Sally gritted her teeth. "I _would_ like to have your aunt by the back hair, Toby! Old cat! She's made it up, I expect. Interfering old beast! But, after all, there's a lot of fellows at the class, and we all come out together, and sometimes they walk a bit of the way home with me. That's all it is. Nothing to make a fuss about. I'm not a nun, got to pass men by on the other side of the road, am I?"

"Well, I won't have it!" cried Toby, restless in his seat. His dark face was darker. There was a red under his tan, and a gleam of his teeth that made him like an angry dog. "And that's enough of it. I won't have it. You belong to me. See? And if I catch another fellow nosing round I'll split his head open. Damned sauce! Just because I'm away, you think you can go marching about...."

He sulked for several minutes, frowning, and biting a torn thumbnail.

"What you done to your thumb?" demanded Sally taking it quickly between her own fingers. Toby made no answer, but, very flushed, drew his thumb away. With her chin a little out, and an air of quietly humming to herself, Sally looked at all the shops and houses upon their route, and at the people walking sedately upon the pavements. As it was Saturday afternoon, many of the West End stores were shuttered; but as the bus went farther west, and into suburban areas, there was great marketing activity. Sally watched all the people and observed all the shops with an absorbed childish interest that was almost passionate in its intensity. She took no notice of Toby for a quarter of an hour. He might not have been there. This was his punishment for being outspoken and suspicious. She was not going to have that sort of thing from anybody. But if Sally was supercilious, Toby was stubborn. Once his grievance had been voiced, and had been taken flippantly, he was reduced to glowering. At Sally's continued disregard, and after a going over in his own mind of all they had said, Toby began to feel uncomfortable. He began to feel a fool. At the precise moment when his sensation of foolishness was strongest upon him, Sally turned and slipped her arm within his, and pressed his elbow warmly against her side. They did not speak; but peace was made. Presently Sally began to draw Toby's attention to things they passed, and although at first he was surly in his responses, Toby was gradually and surely appeased by her masterly handling of him. He was not free from suspicion--she did not want him to be, because it enhanced her value; but he was dominated by her cajolery.

When they arrived in Richmond, and had climbed the hill, and had looked down from the Terrace Gardens upon that lovely piece of the Thames which is to be seen from the height, Sally and Toby walked arm in arm about the Deer Park. They saw the leaves falling, quite yellow, although the trees were still dense with foliage; and the crisp air exhilarated them. In the sun it was hot and dazzlingly bright.

"Tell me about what you've seen, Toby," suddenly asked Sally.

"Seen?" Toby fumbled a minute in his mind. "What d'you mean--seen?"

"At sea, and when you go ashore. _You_ know. Ships and places."

Toby looked puzzled. "Well, what's there to tell?" he questioned. "A ship's a ship. You wouldn't understand if I was to tell you I'd seen a schooner, or a barque, or a cattle-boat, or a dinghy." He was rather lofty. "I mean, you wouldn't _know_."

"How do _you_ know, then? How can _you_ tell the difference?" she persisted.

Toby laughed at the fact that she had not recognised how he had slipped in the dinghy among recognisable ships. He had supposed everybody knew what a dinghy was. He pointed that fact out to Sally, who could not see that she had betrayed such glaring foolishness. Pressed to confine himself to comparable vessels, Toby condescendingly resumed:

"It's a question of the size, and the rig.... All that." He was elaborately the expert, sure that an amateur could never understand. Sally might have retorted with baffling words about seams and camisoles and voile; but she was shrewd in mystic silence. "You'd have to see the ships.... Then I could point it all out to you. I mean, a gunboat or a cruiser or a trawler.... What I mean, they're _different_. See a big liner going out from Liverpool: I tell you, it's a sight. Flocks of people, and the old thing moving along like grease. Leaves you standing. At first you don't half feel a fool. But on a boat like ours there's no time to look about. We're under-manned. That's what it is. Not enough of us to make it light for everybody. Ought to be altered. Got to be doing chores the whole time. Swabbing down, cooking----"

"Can _you_ cook?" Sally was swift, arch, incredulous.

Toby grinned. Then he remembered her classes--her "cooking" classes--and his aunt's message, and grew suddenly serious.

"Look here, Sally. That cooking. I don't like them other fellows," he said. "I mean to say, meeting them at classes, and walking home, and that."

Sally held his arm tightly. A look of scorn appeared upon her face. In her heart a feeling arose of impatience and amused enjoyment of his concern about a thing that was to her so trivial compared with her love for himself.

"You going to begin that again?" she demanded. "Silly. Here, put your face down. There! D'you think I don't love you. Think I don't believe you're worth ten of those others? Well, I do. And that's enough of that."

Toby was obstinate. He wanted her to be his property. Nevertheless, his tone was milder.

"It's not right, Sally, you going about with other fellows. What I mean, _you_ think it's all right, but what do _they_ think?"

"I don't care _what_ they think. I don't care what anybody thinks, except you. And if you don't trust me, well...."

Toby was manifestly terrified at the removal of her arm from his. He caught it again, but she wrenched free. For a few moments they walked along together in dead silence, gloomy and disunited. Toby clenched his fists. He looked about him, and uneasily rocked his head and cleared his throat. Sally knew that he was reassuring himself by saying internally that if that was the tone she was going to take....

"You see...." he began.

"Oh, shut up!" cried Sally, savagely. "I've had enough of it." A moment later he heard a little sob from her, and moved close, overcome with his consternation. At his touch she started away. Here it was that Toby's physical strength served. He was easily able to put his arms round her, and hold her closely. A voice from the faintly struggling Sally wailed: "You don't trust me.... You'd better get some other girl...."

"I do! I do!" Toby swore. "Damn it all, Sally. I mean to say...."

"Bring me out ... make me miserable...." came the strangled little voice.

Toby was conquered. Sally knew that she had him at her mercy. She had known it all along. She had been enjoying herself, enjoying this second quarrel as much as the first one, because she knew exactly what the outcome would be. A quarrel is always worth while to a loving girl, for the sake of the reconciliation. They were the sweetest moments of the day, because in them was begun the true softening of hearts and rousing of the emotions which later gave them so much delight. Toby and Sally were happy all the rest of the afternoon and evening, and loved one another; and when it was dark, and none could observe them, Toby kissed Sally with all the fervour that he had saved up in his long days away from her. He kissed her lips and her cheeks and her eyes, and crushed the life out of her with his powerful arms. And Sally, at first laughing, had grown quieter and quieter in his arms as her joy in his love had deepened. They stood there, far above the river, in the gloaming, with the leaves whispering and slowly floating down through the air as they fell from above. Presently the moon rose, and in the moonlight the two wandered together, and forgot all their plans and ambitions and jealousies. Both were given over entirely to the moment and to the passion of the moment, which was still as strong as it had ever been.

xiii

A fortnight passed. Gaga came and went. Sally had no word with him, because he could not speak to her in the workroom or in his mother's room, and because she never met him (as she half expected to do) in the street. Sally often thought of their evening together, but gradually, as Gaga took no further step, she became sceptical about his plan, and she hardened towards him. Already her active mind was casting about for new outlets. She visited Mrs. Perce, and repaid ten shillings of the amount she owed her. She wrote to Toby, walked with Harry Simmons, had conversations with Miss Summers and Muriel and Mrs. Minto. And so the days passed. But at length Gaga took the awaited step. He met her one evening, as if by accident, upon the stairs, and immediately stopped. She had gone past him when Gaga found his tongue, and checked Sally's progress by a stammering. She waited.

"Er ... I never ... see you now," he began. Sally looked up at his tall figure, thrown sharply into relief by the clear light from a window upon the stairs, and by the pale grey distemper of the wall behind him. Again she noticed that creeping redness under the grey of his cheeks, and the almost liquid appeal which he directed at her. "I ... er ... I meant to ask you.... To-morrow...."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bertram! I'd love to," cried Sally, quickly. He was passionately relieved, as she could see. Not only by her acceptance of his intended suggestion, but at the salvation of his tongue.

"At the corner? Seven o'clock? At the corner? Where ... where ... where we met before? Really? Fine!" He nodded, and took off his hat, and climbed the stair. Sally, very sedate, descended. Well, she was still all right, then. How strange, she was quite cool! She was not at all elated! That was because of the delay, which had encouraged indifference; but it was also because the invitation was expected and because Sally was no longer to be shaken as she would have been by a novelty. She was ready. She was once again a general surveying the certainties of combat with a foe inferior in resources to herself.

So the next evening she deliberately stayed later than the other girls, and worked on with a garment which had occupied her attention all the afternoon. She was doing some plain embroidery upon a silk frock. It was upon this occasion that she received a great mark of favour from Miss Summers. Miss Summers, trusting Sally entirely, showed her how to lock the door after her. She had just to slip the catch, and slam the door, and nobody could enter the room without first using a key. And Miss Summers went, leaving Sally alone in the workroom. It was a thing hitherto unknown. It showed trust which had never been given to one of the other girls. Apart from Madam and Gaga, if one or both of them should still be working in Madam's room, Sally was at liberty, and in sole occupation of the establishment. It did not occur to Sally to think so; but Miss Summers would never have given her this privilege if she had not known that Madam also would approve. It would have been too dangerous a responsibility for Miss Summers unsupported. Madam must have seen that petty theft was a thing which did not tempt Sally. She was too ambitious for that, and obviously so. Keen judge of character as Madam was she must have known it all. But neither Madam nor Miss Summers could have realised--as both, with their experience of girls, should have done--that there were possibilities other than theft. Sally had listened to the explanation of the door catch, and had promised to shake the door when she left, so as to make sure that it was fast; but her only conscious thought had been one of surprise and delight that she should be left alone. Alone to do as she pleased. Alone to sing, dance, loiter. Alone, perhaps, with Gaga. At that notion she had a curious little thrill of excitement. Her eyes became fixed for a moment. She did not speak, or give any other sign. She was not thinking. Merely, her general awareness was pierced by a sudden ray.

Had she been sure that Gaga was by himself in the next room, Sally would have found some excuse to go in there. It would have been such an opportunity as she had never had before. But although she went close to the door, and listened eagerly, there was no sound within. The room might have been empty. Or Madam might be there; and if Sally sang, which would please Gaga, Madam might come out, find her in the workroom without real excuse, and give her the sack. Sally was too wise to believe that in such a case Gaga could save her. She could imagine him stammering a defence, and being crushed, and perhaps being kind to her for a little while and fussing about to find her a job elsewhere. And that would be the end of that. She neither sang nor whistled. Every now and then she again listened, until she was impatient with uncertainty. Her impatience made her laugh. Fancy being impatient for seven o'clock! And for Gaga! It wasn't natural. It was--like Gaga himself--ridiculous.

Seven o'clock struck before she was ready; but Sally did not care. She had no objection to the thought of Gaga waiting in patience at the corner of the street. Toby would have been a slightly different matter. Not that she was more afraid of Toby now than she was of Gaga. All the same, she would not have kept him waiting. Neither Toby nor Gaga would have kept Sally waiting. Toby would have been punctual; Gaga had been standing at the corner already for five minutes. It was a curious moral effect that Sally had. She was not to be treated lightly. Even now, she was learning her power, and in this case she was illustrating it. She did not join Gaga until she was satisfied that every smallest fold in her dress was in perfect order, her hat precisely at the desired angle, her gloves buttoned. Then, shutting the door with a steady bang which rendered any shaking needless, she kept her appointment, not a timid dressmaker's assistant, but a woman of the world. At seventeen--for she had not yet reached her eighteenth birthday, although it was now very near--she was more of a woman of the world than she would be at twenty-eight, when her first intuitions had been blunted by actual experience.

Gaga was standing thoughtfully leaning upon his walking stick. His shoulders were bent, and the slim, and rather graceful, outline of his figure made him appear almost pathetic in his loneliness. Sally--Sally the hard and ambitious--was struck by a sharp irritation and pity, almost by compunction. She did not know what her feeling for Gaga was; but principally it was composed of contempt. He had good looks, and he had money. He could help her at present as nobody else could do. But at heart Sally dismissed him with a word which, to her, was fatal. He was soppy. Not mad, not altogether stupid, but painfully lacking in vital energy and confidence. Of all things Sally best loved assurance, and Gaga had none of it. He drooped in waiting, and the message of his fine clothes was contradicted by his pose, and not reinforced by it.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said perfunctorily, at his start of recognition and delight. Gaga's face changed completely. From one of gloom, his expression became one of joy. "I didn't notice the time. I was working there alone-- Miss Summers had gone. I was finishing something. I didn't know if you'd gone or not. I couldn't hear anything from Madam's room. Didn't like to knock, or anything."

Gaga said nothing. He walked by her side, and Sally looked up at him almost as she might have done at a policeman or a lamp-post. He _was_ tall, she thought, when he straightened his back. And he dressed like a prince. At that instant she was proud to be walking by his side. She thought: "I must look a shrimp beside him! Him so big--so tall, and me so little. But I'm as smart as he is, any day in the week. Wish he always held himself up like that! What salmony lips he's got, and ... it's his long lashes that make his eyes look so soft. Chocolate eyes.... Funny! He's got a weak chin. No, his _chin's_ all right. It's ... you can't see his jaw at all: goes right in, and gets lost. And a funny nose--got no shape to it. Just a nose." She had the curiosity to wonder what his grey cheek felt like. She would like, one day, to touch it with her finger, just to see. It looked dry and soft. All this she glimpsed and considered like lightning while they walked quickly towards Piccadilly Circus; and her notions gathered and grew in Gaga's silence.

"Were you working?" Sally presently asked, trying to say something to begin a conversation.

Gaga shook his head, stealing a shy glance down at her.

"No. Not working," he said. "I had rather a headache, so I went for a walk in the Park."

"Oo. Sorry you've got a headache." Sally unconsciously became sympathetic. "Is it very bad? It's nerves, I expect. If you're nervous you have splitting headaches. My mother's _always_ talking about her head. She gets so tired, you know; and it goes to her head; and she sits still and can't think about anything else. Is ... is Madam quite well now? She was looking so ill...."

Gaga became mournful. The mention of his mother always, it seemed to Sally, made him miserable. Silly Gaga! He then did something which had an imperceptible effect upon Sally's thought of him. It was a mistake, because it illustrated his lack of initiative and his powerlessness to strike out a fresh path. He made straight for the Rezzonico again. He ought to have taken Sally to another restaurant; but he instinctively took her to the place where they had dined happily before. In that he betrayed to her merciless judgment the fact of his inexperience. Silently, they entered the big dining-room. The band was not playing at the moment, and, as they were early, the room was less full than it had been upon the first occasion. The enormous mirrors reflected their hesitating movements. Gaga made his way vaguely towards their former table; but Sally laid a hand upon his arm. It was time for her to take command. Into her expression there crept the faintest hardness, almost a tough assurance, that was tinged with the contempt which was her deepest feeling for Gaga.

"Couldn't we get a table against the wall ... down there?" she demanded, pointing.

It was done. They were installed, and a young and rapid waiter was attending to them. This time Sally helped to choose the dinner. She could not read the menu, because she knew no French; but the waiter, with an uncanny insight, realised that he would do well to address her and to explain the dishes to Sally instead of to Gaga; and so, to the relief of all three, they were quickly served, and wine was brought, and Sally began to feel creeping upon her all the old pleasure and excitement of noise and wine and an intriguing situation. Her hardness vanished. She sat almost with complacency, breaking her roll with two small hands, and looking at Gaga with that thin little grin which caused her meagre face to be so impish and attractive. The brilliant lights which made Sally more and more piquante had a ghastly effect upon Gaga. His grey cheeks were cruelly betrayed.

"I'm afraid mother's ... mother's not what she ought.... I'm afraid mother's ill," began Gaga, stammering. Then, impulsively: "I say.... I'm so glad you came to-night. I.... I've been--you know, my head-- I've been miserable, and.... I've been bad-tempered all day. But I'm better now. Couldn't help ... feeling better, seeing you there...."

Sally grinned again. If her cheeks had been plumper he could have seen two dimples; but all that was observable was the row of tiny pointed teeth that made her smile so mischievous. Sally's eyes looked green in the electric light--green and dark and dangerous, like deep sea; and her pallor was enhanced, so that she was almost beautiful. There was something both naive and cat-like in her manner, and the tilt of her head. She surveyed Gaga with eyes that were instinctively half-closed. She could delightedly perceive the effect she was having upon him. He sometimes could not look at her at all, but fixed his attention upon his plate while she was speaking, or no higher than her neck when he was himself--as he rarely did--making an attempt to entertain. And all Gaga's hesitations and shynesses made Sally amused and sure of herself, and she began to take pleasure in dominating him. When she found that Gaga not only did not resent this, but was pleased and thrilled by her domination, Sally grew triumphant. She chose the sweet for them both, sweeping her eye down the prices and listening to the waiter's translation of each title. She sipped her wine with a royal air of connoisseurship. And she kept such control of the situation that Gaga was afraid to give words to the timid ardour which shone from his expressive glance. Sally was herself: it was still she who conferred every favour, and not Gaga.

Presently she had a thought that whipped across her mind like a sting.

"D'you know what I've been doing since we came here before?" she demanded. "I've been taking lessons in book-keeping. I'm getting on fine. The teacher says I've got a proper head for figures. He says I shall be a cashier in no time, and understand all that you can know about accounts. Isn't that good? So I shall be able to help you--like you said...."

Gaga gave an admiring gesture. He was overwhelmed.

"Oh, but you're ... marvellous!" he cried. "Simply marvellous! Here's Miss Summers says you're the best hand, for your age, that she's got...."

"Did she say that?" Sally jumped for joy. "Really?" She gave a triumphant laugh, so naive and full of ingenuous conceitedness that Gaga was overcome afresh with admiration.

"You ought to have been two people," he answered. "Two little girls."

"Half a dozen!" Sally proclaimed. "You see, I'm--it sounds conceited, and I expect I am; but it's true-- I'm clever. I'm not soppy. Other girls-- Rose Anstey.... They're soppy. They can't do anything. I can do all sorts of things because I'm clever-- I can sew, and ... you know, all sorts of things."

Gaga glowed at her words.

"I know," he eagerly agreed. "That's why you're so wonderful. Most girls can only do one thing. They can't even do that very well."

"That's true. Takes them a week to do it; and then somebody has to do it over again for them. They haven't got any brains. They got no _sense_. They don't _think_." Sally was impetuous.

"They've got no brains at all," said Gaga. "They're like vegetables." Both laughed, in great spirits and familiarity. "Well, Sally.... My mother's.... She's a wonderful woman, too. She's been marvellous. Marvellous! She must have been like you...."

Sally shrugged.

"Bigger than me," she murmured, brooding upon an unwelcome comparison.

"No. Not bigger. She's nearly three times as old as you. My father died, you see.... I was a child. She had to make a living. _Had_ to."

"So have I got to," whispered Sally. "I got no father; and mother's in her second childhood."

Gaga stopped. He looked at her. A singular expression crossed his face.

"Now, you have to," he said. "Er, I mean.... Well, ... you won't always."

"Mean, I'll marry?" demanded Sally, sharply. "Give it all up to cook the dinner and wash the front step?" She shrugged again.

Gaga reddened slightly.

"I.... I didn't think you'd do that," he said, hesitatingly. "I only meant.... What I wanted to say ... mother's not well. She's ill. She's really ill. She'll have to take a holiday. I wonder...." His hesitation was more prolonged than usual. He became as it were lost in a kind of doubtful reverie. Sally could not tell whether he was thinking or whether the wheels of his mind had altogether ceased to revolve. His mouth gaped a little. At last he concluded: "I wonder if I could ... if I could borrow you from Miss Summers. If she'd mind. If she'd let you go."

There was a silence, while both thought of this possibility.

"Look here," cried Sally, confidently. "Like this evening, Miss Summers left me there--all alone. I mean to say, she didn't _mind_. She wouldn't leave any of the other girls like that; but she left me. She knew it was all right. Well, I wouldn't mind stopping in the evenings and helping you. I'd like to. I'm quick. I could get through a lot of work."

"Oh, but it wouldn't be fair," he objected.

"Why not? I'd love it. See, I'd get overtime."

Sally was really prompting Gaga in this last sentence. He frowned, and moved one of his long hands impatiently across some crumbs which lay before him on the table.

"Oh, money...." he said. "More than overtime. We'd.... I say, it's splendid of you. It's a splendid way to do it."

"Would you like it?" breathed Sally, her heart beating faster at the implication. Gaga reddened. His lips were pressed together.

"It would be perfect!" he cried, vigorously.

"How lovely!" Sally's face broke once more into that expressive grin. They sat smiling at each other, almost as lovers do who have stumbled upon an unsuspected agreement in taste. The mood lasted perhaps a minute Then it changed ever so slightly. "Would Madam mind?" next urged Sally.

Gaga's face clouded. She was watching him breathlessly, and saw his fists clenched. His tongue moistened the lips so lately compressed. His head was inclined. At last, dubiously, he spoke.

"I wonder," he muttered. "I haven't said anything to her. I don't think...." His face fell still more, until it was undetermined. "I'm afraid.... I'm afraid ... perhaps she mightn't like it. You see, she's ... she's ... rather.... She doesn't like anybody.... She mightn't quite ... understand."

Sally's contentment vanished abruptly. Her heart became fierce, and her tone followed. It was rough and hard, with a suggestion of despair and of something less than respect for Gaga.

"It's no good!" she cried. "It's no good. I'm a girl. Girls can never do anything! A man can do all sorts of things; but, just because she _is_ a girl, a girl can't do one of them!"

She was watching him all the time she was speaking, and only half realised that her indignation was warmly simulated in order to produce an effect upon him and stiffen a wavering determination. For a moment Gaga did not speak. He was turning the matter over in his mind, and Sally saw the changes of opinion that passed across his face. Weakness, submission, obstinacy, bewilderment were all to be observed. Above all, weakness; but a weakness that could be diverted into defiance through dread of her own contempt. The moment was desperate. Tears sprang to Sally's eyes. She became tense with chagrin and stubbornness. A gesture would have swept her wineglass to the floor.

"Never mind!" she cried, savagely, now really moved to anger and despair. "You see how it is! I always knew it wouldn't be any good. Knew it! Oh, I ought to have...."

Gaga was roused. His voice, when he spoke, was strangled.

"Don't be silly!" he cried. "We'll do it ... er ... we'll ... somehow we'll do it." Sally waited, her anger cooling, a hope rising once again in her breast. Cruel knowledge of him surged into her thoughts. At last the determination she desired came from Gaga. He said, in a grim tone: "She needn't know. We won't tell her."

Sally's eyes closed for a moment. As if she had willed this, she had attained her end. No longer was there to be any doubt. They had an understanding. They were going to do something together which must be kept secret between themselves. She did not make even a tactical display of unwillingness. She too greatly desired the end to endanger (though it should be to confirm) her aim by any further display of finesse. It was enough. She was hot in her glimpse of the triumph she had secured. She would be able to stay. The rest of their evening was now unimportant, because they had need only to speak of details, and of matters unconnected with the plan.

xiv

Upon the day following this dinner and momentous conversation, Sally was working listlessly amid the hum of girls' chatter, which proceeded unchecked while Miss Summers was out of the room, when she had a singular knowledge of something in store. She was struck almost by fear. Quickly she looked up, and across at Rose Anstey, and beyond Rose to the door of Madam's room. Miss Summers stood in the doorway, smiling, and beckoning to Sally. Smiling--so it could not be anything.... Madam wanted Sally; but Madam would not tell Miss Summers.... Had she found out about Gaga? Sally's heart was like lead. But Miss Summers was smiling kindly and significantly, which she would not have done if she had thought the interview promised to be unpleasant. Besides, Gaga had said Miss Summers called Sally her best worker. It was nevertheless a nervous girl who went into the room, heard the door close behind her, and found herself alone with Madam.

The room was that tawny one in which Sally had first seen Madame Gala. It was lighted by one large window and it was not really a large room, although it contained Madam's enormous table and a bureau and a number of shelves upon which reference books stood. It was very quiet and cool in summer, and warm in winter; and Madam sat at her writing desk in a stylish costume unconcealed by any overall. Seated, she did not look so terrifyingly tall; but her faded eyes had still that piercing scrutiny which had disturbed Sally at the first encounter. Her face was lined; her hair bleached and brittle; but the long thin nose, and hard thin mouth, and parched thin cheeks all gave to her glance a chilling quality hard to endure. Her hands were those of a skeleton: all the bones could be seen white under the cream skin. Sally, abashed and full of flutterings of secret guilt, stood before her as she might have stood before one omniscient; but her brain was not abashed, and her hearing was as strained as her alert wits. So the two hard personalities encountered. Presently Madam smiled--a smile that was tortured, like Gaga's, and showed anaemic gums but a row of astonishingly good teeth.

"Sally," she said. "Sit down there, will you. Now, you've been here nearly a year. D'you know that? You were seventeen when you came. You're eighteen now.

"Nearly," interjected Sally.

"Well, when you came you had seven shillings a week. We're going to make it ten shillings from now. And of course overtime as usual. You understand that I don't want you to talk outside about your wages. At the end of what we call the financial year we may be able to give you more. I can't promise that. But Miss Summers tells me that you are a good and willing worker; and I can tell for myself that you are intelligent. I think it will be worth while for you to stay here; and if you go on as you have begun I shall hope to keep you. Now don't get the idea that you're indispensable. Don't get conceited. But be encouraged by knowing that I take an interest in you. That will do, Sally, thank you...."

"Thank you, Madam," responded Sally, demurely. She stood in an attitude of humility, a tremulous smile of candid satisfaction playing round her mouth.

Nobody in the workroom could have guessed from her manner the turbulence of Sally's emotions. Pleasure, relief, self-confidence struggled within her. She felt an enormous creature surveying a pigmy world; and yet, mechanically, she resumed her sewing at the point where she had left it. The other girls all turned inquisitive faces in her direction. Was it the sack? A row? A rise? Nothing at all? Sally was a baffling creature ... a white-faced cocket. She was deep. That word of Miss Rapson's had entered the hearts of the girls. Sally had heard it; she knew that they felt her superiority, and gaped at it with faint resentment. A flash told her now that they were all on tiptoe, and her nonchalance was a piece of acting which she enjoyed for its effect upon the others. She most mischievously enjoyed her privilege. And she had a new cause for triumph, a double success. She felt herself a schemer, an intriguer, which she was not. She was merely an opportunist, seizing the main chance. Not only had she a secret understanding with Gaga; she had also a secret understanding with Gaga's mother. She was most marvellously Sally Minto. The world was open to her. It was not the extra three shillings a week that intoxicated her: it was the sense of a difficult and engaging future. Her ambition had never been so strong. She turned her thoughts to the miserable room at home, to her mother, to Mrs. Perce. She wandered afield to the dinners with Gaga, to her recent talk with Madam. Not merely wealth, but power, seemed to lie ahead. She saw once more Madam's bad health; the probable exaltation of Miss Summers. If she took care, she would presently lie in the very heart of the business. Its accounts would be under her hand in the evenings; its work visible to her eye in the daytime. Miss Summers liked her and trusted her; she was sure of her own ability, her own shrewdness; without deliberately planning it, she had earned the good-will of the three people who really mattered, so far as her progress was concerned.

What if Madam were away ill? What if she died? Sally trembled at the prospect. She trembled lest some accident should interfere with what was otherwise inevitable. She knew that with Miss Summers she had no rival; her compact with Gaga was secure, unless his weakness betrayed them. Even here, she knew she might rely upon his integrity. Gaga would keep to his word. Sally saw herself installed as bookkeeper--oh, if she were only older! If she were older, if she were twenty-five, she would hold the business in the hollow of her hand. She was already learning how to speak to the ladies who came to give orders; her shrewdness would quickly show her which were good accounts and which required watching; and her work never grew careless. With each perception Sally's brain and her capacity for adapting herself to every circumstance seemed to expand. She was already much older than her years. With a little more experience she would be in a commanding position. But Madam must be ill, Madam must.... Madam must be very ill; and yet not before Sally had made sure of Gaga. Gaga was the key with which she would enter into her proper sphere. He must be her mascot.

With her head bent Sally stitched busily on, never allowing ambition to distract her from the immediate task. Baffled, the girls fell again to their work. That Sally Minto was deep--you couldn't tell what she was doing, what she was thinking. She was deep. Under her breath Sally was humming a tune, a familiar tune. A slow grin spread over her white face, and faded again. Looking up, she caught Miss Summers's eye, and smiled faintly, gratefully, reassuringly. She recognised at once how pleased and proud Miss Summers was at Sally's progress. If her mind had not been so busy, Sally would have felt a little warmth stealing into her heart; but she was not aware of anything except Sally Minto and her plans for worldly advancement. She for this moment saw Miss Summers also merely as an instrument, a plump, pussy-faced woman with an eternally cold nose and a heart quick to respond to the best efforts of her favourite hand.

xv

It was with a jump of excitement that Sally heard, in the following week, that Madam was very ill indeed. Gaga came in the morning with a haggard face, having spent the night by his mother's bedside. He had a few words with Miss Summers, who came out of the room with a comically solemn look upon her plump face. She made no remark to the girls, but at lunch time, when the others were out, or were dispersed in the part of the building where they were allowed to eat whatever they had brought for lunch, Sally stole into Madam's room and found Gaga there, sitting at the desk with his hands covering his face. When Sally approached him he did not seem to have heard her, but continued sitting thus lost in a depressed stupor. Sally knew that there was nobody in the room behind her: they were quite alone.

"Mr. Bertram!" she said, quietly. Still he made no response. Her heart quickened. Was he asleep? Was he--was he dead? She took a further step, and then spoke his name again. There was a slight movement. He was awake, and merely very unhappy and perhaps exhausted. With the slightest feeling of self-consciousness she advanced to Gaga's side, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. She could see the thinning hair upon the top of his head, and the long slim fingers pressed to his temples.

"Mr. Bertram, I'm so sorry," whispered Sally. Her arm slipped farther round his shoulders, and her breast was against his head, so gently pressing there that Gaga was only conscious of the faintest contact. He relaxed slightly, and his hands fell. Two gloomy eyes looked up into Sally's face. She withdrew her arm, standing now beside him, altogether apart.

"You made me feel queer," Sally went on. "Thought you were in a faint or something. Are you ill? Oh, say something, say _something_!"

All Sally's little thin body grew rigid as she spoke, for Gaga looked at her with an air of distraction. He seemed not to recognise her. His eyes were yellow and suffused, his mouth was open, his appearance that of one who was hardly sane.

"I'm all right," came at last with an effort from his dry lips. "All right, Sally. Only tired ... ever so tired." There followed a stiff attempt to smile, and then his face was hidden once again by the long hands. "My head's throbbing. It's like pincers in my head."

"Have you got any medicine?" she asked, quite moved by his weakness. "Go out and get some. Quick! Get a chemist to...." The head was slowly shaken. "You _ought_ to. You can't do anything if you're ill. Can't do any work, or help Madam, or anything."

"Better presently," groaned Gaga. "That's ... that's all right, Sally. Good little girl to be so kind. I've been up all night. She's very bad, Sally; very bad. I've been up all night. Never mind; I'll be better presently." He relapsed into his former comatose state, nerveless and lethargic.

"You ought to get some sleep now. Go home to bed," urged Sally. "It's no good trying to work if you're sick. Go home now." She did not know how motherly, how caressing and wise, her voice had become. She was absorbed in his state of exhaustion and passivity. "It's not right," she went on. "You can't do any good. Get the doctor to give you something to make you sleep."

Gaga groaned again, still lost in his own sensations.

"No good," he murmured. "I can't sleep. That's what's the matter. Nothing does any good. I can't sleep--can't forget. Only sit here like this, and feel stupid. Never mind, Sally. Good little girl." He spoke thickly, like a man who has been drinking; but he was stupidly unshakable. She could do nothing with him. Having withdrawn her arm she could not again lay it upon his shoulders; but stood silent, feeling helpless and on tiptoe, with a sense of strain. She was not miserable nor anxious about him; she could almost hear her own voice, so nearly had detachment come upon her. And with something like cramp in her limbs, and paralysis of her ingenuity, she remained by his side, one hand resting for support upon Gaga's desk. Presently he withdrew one of his own hands, and patted hers; and as if that released her Sally went very quietly back to the workroom. There she saw two or three of the girls busy reading a paper, and in a little while Miss Summers came back and work was resumed. By the time Sally could again go into Madam's room Gaga had disappeared, and they did not see him all the following day.

xvi

Two days later he returned, and dully went on with his work as though it had no interest for him. Miss Summers had several times to suffer the ordeal of debilitating interviews; and towards the end of the afternoon was exasperated to tears. Sally could tell this from the sniffs and nose-rubbings that became more and more frequent. Miss Summers's eye-rims were quite pink, and her funny eyes were moist. She looked more than ever like a disconsolate tabby, and her hands were restless and clumsy. She had to ask Sally to thread her needle, and even to finish work that she was doing badly because of her agitation.

"Thank you, my dear," murmured Miss Summers. "So kind." Then, in a low tone, "Do for goodness' sake go in and see what Mr. Bertram's doing. He's quite absurd, like somebody mad. He's not in his senses, that's clear; and it's enough to drive anybody crazy."

Sally left the girls and slipped into Madam's tawny room. At her entrance Gaga gave a start, and his ruler fell clattering to the floor. But when he saw who was there his face brightened. A faint smile spread across the grey cheeks, making Gaga look so charming, in spite of his illness, that Sally was unexpectedly relieved. Her own smile was instantly responsive, and she stood almost roguishly before him in her short frock, and the demure pinafore which she was wearing over it.

"Miss Summers sent me," she explained. "Thought you might want some help."

Gaga shook his head, the smile still apparent. He shook his head again, trying to find words to express himself, and failing.

"No, Sally," he at last ventured. "No help. I'm better ... almost better, to-day. I can understand ... understand what I'm doing. I'm afraid ... er ... afraid I was very stupid the other day. I've thought of that since. Er.... I say.... I wish you'd ... come out to dinner to-night."

"Really?" Sally beamed upon him. She gave her little grin, and nodded. "If you'd like me to, of course I will. I'll be ready. Thank you very much."

Gaga made a heroic effort. He began to stammer, checked himself, and at last succeeded in imposing coherence upon his wandering words.

"It's you who ... ought to be thanked," he answered. "You cheer me up."

"Do I?" Sally's tone was eager, her reply instant. "I'm so glad. I like to feel I ... you know, cheer you. Does _me_ good."