Chapter IV: Part 4

"Wasn't it extraordinary!" cried Yvonne, seating herself beside Don on the low window-seat and pressing the cushions with her hands. "We were simply snowed under with letters from all sorts of people, and quite a number of them called in person, even after Paul had left London."

"Did you let them in?"

"No; some of them quite frightened me. There was one old clergyman who seemed very suspicious when Eustace told him that Paul was abroad. He stood outside the house for quite a long time, banging his stick on the pavement and coughing in a nasty barking fashion. I was watching him through the curtains of an upstairs window. He left a tract behind called _The Path is Straight but Narrow_."

"Did he wear whiskers?"

"Yes; long ones."

"A soft black hat, a polo collar and a ready-for-use black tie?"

"I believe he did."

"I am glad you did not let him in."

Through the narrow-panelled windows of the charming morning-room Don could see the old sundial. He remembered that in the summer the miniature rock-garden endued a mantle of simple flowers, and that sweet scents were borne into the room by every passing breeze. A great Victorian painter had lived in this house, which now was destined to figure again in history as the home of the greater Paul Mario. He glanced around the cosy room, in which there were many bowls and vases holding tulips, those chalices of tears beloved of Hafiz, and he suppressed a little sigh.

"May I light a pipe before I go, Yvonne?" he asked. "I am one of those depraved beings who promenade the streets smoking huge briars, to the delight of Continental comic artists."

"I know you are. But you are not going to promenade the streets until you have had lunch."

"Really, Yvonne, thanks all the same, but I must go. Honestly, I have an appointment."

Yvonne smiled in his face and her violet eyes held a query.

"No," replied Don--"no such luck. The Pauls are the lucky dogs. All the nice girls are married. I am going to lunch with a solicitor!"

"Oh, how unromantic! And you are on leave!"

"Painful, I admit, but I am a stodgy old fogey. When the war is over I am going to buy a velvet coat and a little red pork-pie cap, with a green tassel. Is that old Odin I can hear barking?"

"Yes. He has heard your voice."

"I must really say 'How d'you do' to Odin. When I have lighted my pipe may I go out?"

"Of course. Odin would never forgive you if you didn't. Let me strike a match for you."

"You are spoiling me, Yvonne."

Don, his pipe well alight, stood up and went out into the garden where a wolf-hound was making an excited demonstration in the little yard before the door of his kennel.

"Hullo, Odin!" cried Don, as the great hound leapt at him joyfully, resting both paws upon his shoulders. "How is old Odin? Not looking forward to compulsory rationing, I dare swear."

He pulled the dog's ears affectionately and scratched his shapely head in that manner which is so gratifying to the canine species. Then from the pocket of his "British-warm" he produced a large sweet biscuit, whereupon Odin immediately assumed a correct mendicant posture and sat with drooping forepaws and upraised eyes. Don balanced the big biscuit upon the dog's nose. "When I say 'Three,' Odin. One!" Odin did not stir. "Two!" Odin remained still as a dog of stone. "_Three!_" The biscuit disappeared, and Don laughed as loudly as though the familiar performance had been an entire novelty. "Good morning, old fellow," he said, and returned to the house.

Yvonne was awaiting him in the hall. "What time shall you come on Tuesday?" she asked. "Paul should be home to lunch."

"You will want Paul all to yourself for awhile, Yvonne. I shall look in later in the afternoon." He shook hands with his pretty hostess, put on his cap and set off for the offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin.

* * * * *

The offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin were of that dusty, gloomy and obsolete fashion which inspires such confidence in the would-be litigant. Large and raggedly bound volumes, which apparently had been acquired from the twopenny boxes outside second-hand bookshops, lined the shelves of the outer office, and the chairs were of an early-Victorian horsehair variety. Respectability had run to seed in those chambers. Mr. Jacob Nevin, the senior partner, to whose decorous sanctum Don presently penetrated, also had a second-hand appearance. Don had always suspected him of secret snuff-taking.

"Ah, Captain Courtier," he said; "very sad about Miss Duveen's second bereavement, very sad."

"Yes. Fate has dealt unkindly with the poor girl. I understand that Mrs. Duveen died more than two months ago; but I only learned of her death quite recently. I wrote to Miss Duveen directly I knew that I was coming to England, and I was horrified to hear of her mother's death. You have got the affairs well in hand now?"

"Since receiving your instructions, Captain Courtier, I have pushed the matter on with every possible expedition--every expedition possible. The absence of Mr. Paul Mario in France had somewhat tied my hands, you see."

"I will consult Mrs. Chumley, my aunt, and arrange, if possible, for Miss Duveen to live at The Hostel. I have already written to her upon the subject. If it can be managed I shall 'phone you later to-day, and perhaps you would be good enough to wire to Miss Duveen requesting her to come to London immediately. Don't mention my name, you understand? But let me know at the Club by what train she is arriving and I shall endeavour to meet her. We cannot expect Mario to attend to these details; he has a duty to the world, which only a man of his genius could perform."

Mr. Nevin adjusted his pince-nez. "Very remarkable, Captain Courtier," he said gravely; "a very strange and strong personality--Mr. Paul Mario. As my client his wishes are mine, but as a staunch churchman I find myself in disagreement with much of his paper, _Le Bateleur_--in disagreement, but remarkable, very."

Don laughed. "You are not alone in this respect, Mr. Nevin. He is destined to divide the civilised world into two camps, and already I, who encouraged him to the task, begin to tremble for its outcome."

II

Flamby arrived at London Bridge Station in a profoundly dejected condition. However happy one may be, London Bridge Station possesses the qualities of a sovereign joy-killer, and would have inclined the thoughts of Mark Tapley toward the darker things of life; but to Flamby, alone in a world which she did not expect to find sympathetic, it seemed a particularly hopeless place. She was dressed in black, and black did not suit her, and all the wisdom of your old philosophers must fail to solace a woman who knows that she is not looking her best.

Her worldly belongings were contained in a split-cane grip and the wraith of a cabin-trunk, whose substance had belonged to her father; her available capital was stuffed in a small leather purse. When the train with a final weary snort ceased its struggles and rested beside the platform, that murk so characteristic of London draped the grimy structure of the station, and a fine drizzle was falling. London had endued no holiday garments to greet Flamby, but, homely fashion, had elected to receive her in its everyday winter guise. A pathetic little figure, she stepped out of the carriage. Something in the contrast between this joyless gloom and the sun-gay hills she had known and loved brought a sudden mist before Flamby's eyes, so that she remained unaware of the presence of a certain genial officer until a voice which was vaguely familiar said: "Your train was late, Miss Duveen."

Flamby started, stared, and found Donald Courtier standing smiling at her. Although she had seen him only once before she knew him immediately because she had often studied the photograph which was inside the famous silver cigarette-case. The mistiness of vision troubled her anew as she held out her black-gloved hand. "Oh," she said huskily, "how good of you."

The last word was almost inaudible, and whilst Don grasped her hand between both his own and pressed it reassuringly, Flamby stared through the mist at three golden stars on the left shoulder of his topcoat.

"Now," cried Don cheerily, "what about our baggage?"

"There's only one old trunk," said Flamby, "except this funny thing."

"Give me the funny thing," replied Don briskly, "and here is a comic porter who will dig out the trunk. Porter!"

Linking his left arm in Flamby's right, Don, taking up the cane grip, moved along the platform in the direction of the guard's van, which was apparently laden with an incredible number of empty and resonant milk cans. The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably have posed for Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully.

"'Ow many?" he inquired. "Got the ticket?"

He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby's black glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance. That it was an authentic relic of Duveen's earlier days was testified by the faded labels, which still clung to it and which presented an illustrated itinerary of travels extending from Paris to New Orleans, Moscow to Shanghai. The new label, "London Bridge," offered a shocking anti-climax. Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which they were bound.

"Mr. Nevin selected The Hostel as an ideal spot," he said, "where you would be free from interference and able to live your own life. He was influenced, too, by the fact that I have an aunt living there, a Mrs. Chumley, one of the most delightful old souls you could wish to meet."

Flamby was watching him all the time, and presently she spoke. "Are you quite sure, Captain Courtier, that the money from the War Office will be enough to pay for all this?"

Don waved his hand carelessly. "Ample," he declared. "The idea of The Hostel, which was founded by Lady Something-or-other, is to afford a residence for folks placed just as you are; not overburdened with means--you see? Of course, some of the tenants are queer fish, and as respectable as those dear old ladies who live amongst the ghosts at Hampton Court. But there are a number of women writers and students, and so forth: you will be quite at home in no time."

Flamby glanced down at the black dress, which she had made, and had made tastefully and well, but which to its critical creator looked painfully unfinished. "I feel a freak," she said. "Dad didn't believe in mourning, but they would have burned me alive at Lower Charleswood if I hadn't gone into black. Do you believe in mourning?"

"Well," replied Don, "to me it seems essentially a concession to popular opinion. I must admit that it strikes me as an advertisement of grief and about on a par with the wailing of the East. I don't see why we should go about inviting the world to weep. Our sorrows are our own affairs, after all, like our joys. We might quite as reasonably dress in white when a son and heir is born to us."

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so," said Flamby, and her voice was rather tremulous. "I loved mother more than anything in the world, but I hate to be reminded that she is dead by everybody who looks at me."

Don grasped her hand and tucked it confidently under his arm. "Your father was a wise man. Never be ashamed of following his advice, Flamby. May I call you Flamby? You seem so very grown-up, with your hair all tucked away under that black hat."

"I'm nearly eighteen, but I should hate you to call me Miss Duveen. Nobody ever calls me Miss Duveen, except people who don't like me."

"They must be very few."

"Not so few," said Flamby thoughtfully. "I think it's my hair that does it."

"That makes people dislike you?"

"Yes. Other women hate my hair."

"That is a compliment, Flamby."

"But isn't it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man."

Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby's hand more firmly under his arm. "You would have made a deuce of a boy," he said. "I wonder if we should have been friends."

"I don't think so," replied Flamby pensively.

"Eh!" cried Don, turning to her--"why not?"

"Well you treat women so kindly, and if I were a man I should treat them so differently."

"How do you know that I treat women kindly?"

"You are very kind to me."

"Ha!" laughed Don. "You call yourself a woman? Why you are only a kid!"

"But I'm a wise kid," replied Flamby saucily, the old elfin light in her eyes. "I know what beasts women are to one another, and I often hate myself because I'm a little beast, too."

"I don't believe it."

"That's because you are one of those nice men who deserve to know better."

Don leaned back in the cab and laughed until tears came to his eyes. He had encouraged this conversation with the purpose of diverting Flamby's mind from her sorrow, and he was glad to have succeeded so well. "Do men hate you, too," he asked.

"No, I get on much better with men. There are some fearful rotters, of course, but most men are honest enough if you are honest with them."

"_Honi soit qui mal y pense_," murmured Don, slowly recovering from his fit of laughter.

"_Ipsissima verba_," said Flamby.

Don, who was drying his eyes, turned slowly and regarded her. Flamby blushed rosily.

"What did you say?" asked Don.

"Nothing. I was thinking out loud."

"Do you habitually think in Latin?"

"No. It was just a trick of dad's. I wish you could have heard him swear in Latin."

Don's eyes began to sparkle again. "No doubt I should have found the experience of great educational value," he said; "but did he often swear in Latin?"

"Not often; only when he was _very_ drunk."

"What was his favourite tongue when he was merely moderately so?"

Flamby's expression underwent a faint change, and looking down she bit her under-lip. Instantly Don saw that he had wounded her, and he cursed the clumsiness, of which Paul could never have been guilty, that had led him to touch this girl's acute sensibilities. She was bewildering, of course, and he realised that he must step warily in future. He reached across and grasped her other hand hard. "Please forgive me," he said. "No man had better reason for loving your father than I."

Flamby looked up at him doubtfully, read sincerity in the grey eyes, and smiled again at once. "_He_ wouldn't have minded a bit," she explained, "but I'm only a woman after all, and women are daft."

"I cannot allow you to be a woman yet, Flamby. You are only a girl, and I want you to think of me----"

Flamby's pretty lips assumed a mischievous curve and a tiny dimple appeared in her cheek. "Don't say as a big brother," she cried, "or you will make me feel like a penny novelette!"

"I cannot believe that you ever read a penny novelette."

"No; I didn't. But mother read them, and dad used to tear pages out to light his pipe before mother had finished. Then she would explain the plot to me up to the torn pages, and we would try to work out what had happened to the girl in the missing parts."

"A delightful literary exercise. And was the principal character always a girl?"

"Always a girl--yes; a poor girl cast upon the world; very often a poor governess."

"And she had two suitors."

"Yes. Sometimes three. She seemed inclined to marry the wrong one, but mother always read the end first to make sure it came out all right. I never knew one that didn't."

"No; it would have been too daring for publication. So your mother read these stories? Romance is indeed a hardy shrub."

The cab drew up before the door of The Hostel, a low, half-timbered building upon Jacobean lines which closely resembled an old coaching inn. The windows looking out upon the flower-bordered lawn had leaded panes, the gabled roof was red-tiled, and over the arched entrance admitting one to the rectangular courtyard around which The Hostel was constructed hung a wrought-iron lamp of delightfully mediaeval appearance.

Don opened the gate and walked beside Flamby under the arch and into the courtyard. Here the resemblance to an inn grew even more marked. A gallery surrounded the courtyard and upon it opened the doors of numerous suites situated upon the upper floor. There was a tiny rock garden, too, and altogether the place had a charming old-world atmosphere that was attractive and homely. The brasswork of the many doors was brightly polished and all the visible appointments of the miniature suites spoke of refined good taste.

"It's very quiet," said Flamby.

"Yes. You see most of the people who live here are out during the day."

"Please where do I live?"

"This way," cried Don cheerily, conducting her up the tiled steps to the gallery. "Number twenty-three."

His good cheer was infectious, and Flamby found herself to be succumbing to a sort of pleasant excitement as she passed along by the rows of well-groomed doors, each of which bore a number and a neat name-plate. Some of the quaint leaded lattices were open, revealing vases of flowers upon the ledges within, and the tiny casement curtains afforded an index to the characters of the various occupants, which made quite fascinating study. There was Mrs. Lawrence Pooney whose curtains were wedgwood blue with a cream border; Miss Hook, whose curtains were plain dark green; Miss Aldrington Beech, whose curtains were lemon coloured with a Chinese pattern; and Mrs. Marion de Lisle, whose curtains were of the hue of the passion flower.

The door of Number 23 proved to be open, and Flamby, passing in, stood looking around her and trying to realise that this was the stage upon which the next act of her life story should be played. She found herself in a rather small rectangular room, lighted by one large casement window and a smaller latticed one, both of them overlooking the courtyard. The woodwork was oaken and the walls were distempered a discreet and restful shade of blue. There were a central electric fitting and another for a reading-lamp, a fireplace of the latest slow-combustion pattern and a door communicating with an inner chamber.

"Oh!" cried Flamby. "What a dear little place!"

Don, who had been watching her anxiously, saw that she was really delighted and he entered into the spirit of the thing immediately. "I think it is simply terrific," he said. "I have often envied the Aunt her abode and wished I were an eligible spinster or widow. You have not seen the inner sanctuary yet; it is delightfully like a state-room."

Flamby passed through the doorway into the bedroom, which indeed was not much larger than a steamer cabin and was fitted with all those space-saving devices which one finds at sea; a bureau that was really a wash-basin, and a hidden wardrobe.

"There is a communal kitchen," explained Don, "with up-to-date appointments, also a general laundry, and there are bathrooms on both floors. I don't mean perpendicular bathrooms, so I should perhaps have said on either floor. In that cunning little alcove in the sitting-room is a small gas-stove, so that you will have no occasion to visit the kitchen unless you are preparing a banquet. You enjoy the use of the telephone, which is in the reading-room over the main entrance--and what more could one desire?"

"It's just great," declared Flamby, "and I can never hope to thank you for being so good to me. But I am wondering how I am going to afford it."

"My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich, and there you are."

"I was thinking about the furniture," said Flamby.

"Eh!" cried Don--"furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature consideration I perceive distinctly that some few items of that kind will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so."

"You hadn't thought of that?"

"No--I admit it had slipped my memory. The question of furniture does not bulk largely in the mind of one used to billeting troops, but of course it must be attended to. Now, how about the furniture of What's-the-name Cottage?"

Flamby shook her head. "We had hardly any. Dad used to make things out of orange boxes; he was very clever at it. He didn't like real furniture. As fast as poor mother saved up and bought some he broke it, so after a while she stopped. I've brought the clock."

"Ah!" cried Don gaily--"the clock. Good. That's a start. You will at least know at what time to rise in the morning."

"I shall," agreed Flamby--"from the floor!"

The fascinating dimple reappeared in her cheek and she burst into peals of most musical laughter. Don laughed, too; so that presently they became quite breathless but perfectly happy.

III

"I vote," said Don, "that we consult the Aunt. She resides at Number Nineteen on this floor, and her guidance in such a matter as furnishing would be experienced and reliable."

"Right-oh," replied Flamby buoyantly. "I have a little money saved up."

"Don't worry about money. The pension has been finally settled between Mr. Nevin and the Government people, and it dates from the time----"

"Of dad's death? But mother used to draw that."

"I am speaking of the special pension," explained Don hurriedly, as they walked along the gallery, "which Mr. Nevin has been trying to arrange. This ante-dates, and the first sum will be quite a substantial one; ample for the purpose of furnishing. Here is the Aunt's."

Pausing before a door numbered 19, and bearing a brass plate inscribed "Mrs. Chumley," Don pressed the bell. Whilst they waited, Flamby studied the Aunt's curtains (which were snowy white) with critical eyes and tried to make up her mind whether she liked or disliked the sound of "Mrs. Chumley."

"The Aunt is apparently not at home," said Don, as no one responded to the ringing. "Let us return to Number 23 and summon Reuben, who will possibly know where she has gone."

Accordingly they returned to the empty suite and rang a bell which summoned the janitor. Following a brief interval came a sound resembling that of a drinking horse and there entered a red-whiskered old man with a neatly pimpled nose, introducing an odour of rum. He was a small man, but he wore a large green apron, and he touched the brim of his bowler hat very respectfully.

"Excuse me breathin' 'eavy, sir," he said, "but it's the _hahsma_. The place is hall ready for the young madam, sir, to move 'er furniture in, and Mrs. Chumley she's in the readin'-room."

"Ah, very good, Reuben," replied Don. "Will you get the trunk and basket in from the taxi, and you might pay the man. The fare was four and something-or-other. Here are two half-crowns and sixpence."

"Yes, sir," responded Reuben; "and what time am I to expect the other things?"

"Miss Duveen is not quite sure, Reuben, when they will arrive. As a matter of fact, she has several purchases to make. But probably the bulk of it will arrive to-morrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir," said Reuben, and departed respiring noisily. As he made his exit Flamby carefully closed the door, and--"Oh," she cried, "what a funny old man! Whatever did he mean by _hahsma_?"

"I have been struggling with the same problem," declared Don, "and I have come to the conclusion that he referred to asthma."

"Oh," said Flamby breathlessly. "I hope he won't mind me laughing at him."

"I am sure he won't. He is a genial soul and generally liked in spite of his spirituous aroma. Now for the Aunt."

They walked around two angles of the gallery and entered a large room the windows of which overlooked the front lawn. It was furnished cosily as a library, and a cheerful fire burned in the big open grate. From the centre window an excellent view might be obtained of Reuben struggling with the cabin-trunk, which the placid taxi-driver had unstrapped and lowered on to the janitor's shoulders without vacating his seat.

"I hope he won't break the clock," said Flamby, _sotto voce_. She turned as Don went up to a little table at which a round old lady, the only occupant of the room, was seated writing. This old lady had a very round red face and very round wide-open surprised blue eyes. Her figure was round, too; she was quite remarkably circular.

"Ha, the Aunt!" cried Don, placing his hands affectionately upon her plump shoulders. "Here is our country squirrel come to town."

Mrs. Chumley laid down her pen and turned the surprised eyes upon Don. Being met with a smile, she smiled in response--and her smile was oddly like that of her nephew. Flamby knew in a moment that Mrs. Chumley was a sweet old lady, and that hers was one of those rare natures whose possessors see ill in no one, but good in all.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Chumley, in a surprised silvery voice, a voice peculiarly restful and soothing, "it is Don." She stood up. "Yes, it is Don, and this is Flamby. Come here, dear, and let me look at you."

Flamby advanced swiftly, holding out her hand, which Mrs. Chumley took, and the other as well, drawing her close and kissing her on the cheek in the simple, natural manner of a mother. Then Mrs. Chumley held her at arms' length, surveying her, and began to muse aloud.

"She is very pretty, Don," she said. "You told me she was pretty, I remember. She is a sweet little girl, but I don't think black suits her. Do you think black suits her?"

"Any old thing suits her," replied Don, "but she looks a picture in white."

"Quite agree, Don, she would. Couldn't you dress in white, dear?"

"If nobody thought it too awful I would. Dad never believed in mourning."

"Quite agree. Most peculiar that I should agree with him, but I do. Don does not believe in mourning, either. I should be most annoyed if he wore mourning. Was your mother pretty? Don't tell me if it makes you cry. What beautiful hair you have. Hasn't she beautiful hair, Don? May I take your hat off, dear?"

"Of course," said Flamby, taking off her hat immediately, whereupon the mop of unruly hair all coppery waves and gold-flecked foam came tumbling about her face.

"Dear me," continued Mrs. Chumley, whilst Don stood behind her watching the scene amusedly, "it _is_ remarkable hair." Indeed the sight of Flamby's hair seemed almost to have stupefied her. "She is really very pretty. I like you awfully, dear. I am glad you are going to live near me. What did you call her, Don?"

"What did I call her, Aunt?"

"When you first came in. Oh, yes--a squirrel." She placed her arm around Flamby and gave her a little hug. "Quite agree; she _is_ a squirrel. You are a country squirrel, dear. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," said Flamby, laughing. "You couldn't pay me a nicer compliment."

"No," replied Mrs. Chumley, lapsing into thoughtful mood. "I suppose I couldn't. Squirrels are very pretty. I am afraid I was never like a squirrel. How many inches are you round the waist?"

"I don't know. About twenty," replied Flamby, suddenly stricken with shyness; "but I'm only little."

"Are you little, dear? I should not have called you little. You are taller than I am."

Since Mrs. Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but Flamby accepted it without demur. "I'm wearing high heels," she said. "I am no taller than you, really."

"I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels. They are so smart. It's a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them. Don't you think men hate them, Don?"

"The consensus of modern masculine opinion probably admits distaste for flat-heeled womanhood, in spite of classic tradition."

"Dear me, that might be Paul Mario. Do you like Paul Mario, dear?"--turning again to Flamby and repeating the little hug.

Flamby lowered her head quickly. "Yes," she replied.

"I thought you would. He's so handsome. Don't you think him handsome?"

"Yes."

"He is astonishingly clever, too. Everybody is talking about what they call his New Gospel. Do you believe in his New Gospel, dear?"

"I don't know what it is."

"I'm not quite sure that I do. What is his New Gospel, Don?"

"That he alone can explain, Aunt. But it is going to stir up the world. Paul is a genius--the only true genius of the age."

"Quite agree. I don't know that it isn't just as well. Don't you think it may be just as well, dear?"

"I don't know," said Flamby, looking up slowly.

"I'm not quite sure that I do. Has your furniture arrived, dear?"

"Not yet, Aunt," replied Don on Flamby's behalf. "Most of it will have to be purchased, and I thought you might give Flamby some sort of a notion what to buy. Then we could trot off up town and get things."

"How delightful. I should have loved to join you, but I have promised to lunch with Mrs. Pooney, and I couldn't disappoint her. She is downstairs now, cooking a chicken. Someone sent her a chicken. Wasn't that nice?"

"Very decent of someone. I hope it is a tender chicken. And now, Aunt, could Flamby take a peep at your place and perhaps make a sort of list. Some of the things we could get to-day, and perhaps to-morrow you could run along with her and complete the purchases."

"I should love it. Dear me!" Into the round blue eyes came suddenly tears of laughter, and Mrs. Chumley became convulsed with silent merriment, glancing helplessly from Don to Flamby. This merriment was contagious; so that ere long all three were behaving quite ridiculously.

"Whatever is the Aunt laughing about?" inquired Don.

"Dear me!" gasped Mrs. Chumley, struggling to regain composure--"poor child! Of course you have nowhere to sleep to-night. How ridiculous--a squirrel without a nest." She hugged Flamby affectionately. "You will stay with me, dear, won't you?"

"Oh, but really--may I? Have you room?"

"Certainly, dear. Friends often stay with me. I have a queer thing in my sitting-room that looks like a bookcase, but is really a bed. You can stay with me just as long as you like. There is no hurry to get your own place ready, is there? There isn't any hurry, is there, Don?"

"No particular hurry, Aunt. But, naturally, Flamby will get things in order as soon as possible."

"Thank you so much," said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her sight.

"Not at all, dear. I'm glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be. What an absurd word--gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely, Don?"

"More glad would perhaps be preferable, Aunt."

Mrs. Chumley immediately succumbed to silent merriment for a time. "How absurd!" she said presently. "Gladder! I don't believe there is such a word in the dictionary. Do you believe there is such a word in the dictionary, dear?"

"I don't think there is," replied Flamby.

"No, I expect there isn't. I don't know that it may not be just as well. Come along, dear. You can come, too, if you like, Don, or you might prefer to look at your own drawings in the _Courier_. If I drew I should love to look at my own drawings. You may smoke here, Don, of course. A number of the residents smoke. Do you smoke, Flamby?"

"No, but I think I should like it."

"Quite agree. It _is_ soothing. You will wait here, then, Don? Come along, dear."

IV

An hour later when Flamby and Don came out of The Hostel, the rain clouds were breaking, and sunlight--somewhat feeble, but sunlight withal--was seeking bravely to disperse the gloom. Flamby was conscious of an altered outlook; the world after all was not utterly grey; such was the healing influence of a sympathetic soul.

"You know," said Don, as they passed through the gateway, "I am delighted with the way you have taken to the dear old Aunt. She is so often misunderstood, and it makes me writhe to see people laugh at her--unkindly, I mean. Of course her method of conversation is ridiculously funny, I know; but a woman who can suffer the misfortunes which have befallen the Aunt and come out with the heart of a child is worth studying, I think. Personally, I always feel a lot better after a chat with her. She is a perfect well of sympathy."

"I think she is the sweetest woman I have ever met," declared Flamby earnestly. "How could anyone help loving her?"

"People don't or won't understand her, you see, and misunderstanding is the mother of intolerance. Ah! there is a taxi on the rank."

"Oh," cried Flamby quickly--"please don't get another cab for me."

"Eh? No cab?"

"I cannot afford it and I could not think of allowing you to pay for everything."

"Now let us have a thorough understanding, Flamby," said Don, standing facing her, that sunny rejuvenating smile making his tanned face look almost boyish. "You remember what I said on the subject of misunderstanding? Listen, then: I am on leave and my money is burning a hole in my pocket; money always does. If I had a sister--I have but she is married and lives at Harrogate--I should ask her to take pity upon me and spend a few days in my company. An exchange of views with some nice girl who understands things is imperative after one has been out of touch with everything feminine for months and months. It is a natural desire which must be satisfied, otherwise it leads a man to resort to desperate measures in the quest for sympathy. Because of your father you are more to me than a sister, Flamby, and if you will consent to my treating you as one you will be performing an act of charity above price. The Aunt quite understands and approves. Isn't that good enough?"

Flamby met his gaze honestly and was satisfied. "Yes," she replied. "Myself and what is mine to you and yours is now converted." The end of the quotation was almost inaudible, for it had leapt from Flamby's tongue unbidden. The idea that Don might suspect her of seeking to impress him with her learning was hateful to her. But Don on the contrary was quite frankly delighted.

"Hullo!" he cried--"is that Portia?"

"Yes, but please don't take any notice if I say funny things. I don't mean to. Dad loved _The Merchant of Venice_, and I know quite a lot of lines by heart."

"How perfectly delightful to meet a girl who wears neither sensible boots nor spectacles but who appreciates Shakespeare! Lud! I thought such treasures were mythical. Flamby, I have a great idea. If you love Portia you will love Ellen Terry. I suppose her Portia is no more than a memory of the old Lyceum days, but it is a golden memory, Flamby. Ellen Terry is at the Coliseum. Shall we go to-night? Perhaps the Aunt would join us."

"Oh!" said Flamby, her eyes alight with excitement; but the one word was sufficient.

"Right!" cried Don. "Now for Liberty's."

They entered the cab, and as it moved off, "What is Liberty's?" asked Flamby.

"The place for rummy furniture," explained Don. "Nobody else could possibly provide the things for your den. The Aunt once had a cottage in Devon furnished by Liberty and it was the most perfect gem of a cottage one could imagine."

"Was she very well off once?"

"The Aunt? Why the dear old lady ought to be worth thousands. Her husband left her no end of money and property. She has travelled nearly all over the civilised world, Flamby, and now is tied to that one tiny room at The Hostel."

"But how is it? Did she lose her money?"

"She gave it away and let everybody rob her. The world unfortunately is full of Dick Turpins and Jack Sheppards, not to mention their lady friends."

"Ah," said Flamby and sat silent for some time studying the panorama of the busy London streets. "Is Liberty's dear?" she inquired presently.

"Not at all; most reasonable."

"I'm glad," replied Flamby. "I have got seven pounds ten saved. Will that be enough?"

Don held his breath. Flamby's extraordinary erudition and inherent cleverness had not prepared him for this childish ignorance of the value of money. But he realised immediately that it was no more than natural after all and that he might have anticipated it; and secretly he was delighted because of the opportunity which it offered him of repaying in part, or of trying to repay, the debt which he owed to Michael Duveen. Moreover he had found that to give pleasure to Flamby was a gracious task.

"It may not cover everything," he said casually, "but the sum held by Mr. Nevin will more than do so. Think no more about it. I will see that your expenditures do not exceed your means."

* * * * *

They alighted near that window of Messrs. Liberty's which is devoted to the display of velvet robes--of those simple, unadorned creations which Golders Green may view unmoved but which stir the aesthetic soul of Chelsea. In the centre of the window, cunningly draped before an oak-pannelled background, hung a dress of grey velvet which was the apogee and culmination of Flamby's dreams. For not all the precepts of the Painted Portico can quench in the female bosom woman's innate love of adornment. Assuredly Eve wore flowers in her hair.

"Oh," whispered Flamby, "do you think it is very dear?"

Don having paid the cabman, had joined her where she stood. "Which one?" he inquired with masculine innocence.

"The grey one. There is nothing on it at all. I have seen dresses in Dale's at home with yards of embroidery that were only four pounds."

"I don't suppose so," said Don cheerfully. "Let us go in and try it on. _You_ try it on, I mean."

"Oh, I daren't! I didn't dream of _buying_ it," cried Flamby, flushing hotly. "I was only admiring it."

"And because you admire it you don't dream of buying it? That is odd. And surely grey is what is known as 'half-mourning' too, is it not? Absolutely correct form."

"But it may be frightfully dear. I will ask the price when Mrs. Chumley is with me." Flamby was weakening.

Don grasped her firmly by the arm and led her vastly perturbed into the shop, where a smiling saleswoman accosted them. "This lady wishes to see the grey gown you have in the window," he said. He drew the woman aside and added, "Don't tell her the price! You understand? If she insists upon knowing take your cue from me." He could say no more as Flamby had drawn near.

"How much is it?" she inquired naively.

"I don't know yet," replied Don. "Won't you look at it first?"

"The dress is a model, madam," said the puzzled modiste. "Probably we should have to alter it to fit you."

"Would that be extra?" asked Flamby.

"Only a trifle," Don assured her, "if you really like it."

"How much is it please?" Flamby asked.

Don, standing just behind her became troubled with a tickling in the throat, and the woman, hesitating, looked up and detected his urgent glance. He raised three fingers furtively. She could scarcely conceal her amazement, but an emphatic nod from Don left her in no doubt respecting his meaning.

"I believe it is--three guineas, madam," she replied in a forced and unnatural voice. She was wondering what would become of her if this very eccentric officer played her false.

Flamby turned thoughtfully to Don. "That's expensive isn't it?" she said.

The saleswoman's amazement increased; words failed her entirely, and to cover her embarrassment she opened the screen at the back of the window and took out the grey gown. Flamby's eyes sparkled.

"But isn't it sweet," she whispered. "Where do I go to try it on?"

"This way, madam," said the woman, darting an imploring glance at Don to which he was unable to respond as Flamby was looking in his direction.

Flamby disappeared into a fitting-room and Don sat down to consider the question of how far he could hope to pursue his plot without being unmasked.

He lighted a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection on the point. When presently Flamby came out, radiant, followed by the troubled attendant carrying the grey gown, he was prepared for her.

"I'm going to have it!" she said. "Am I frightfully extravagant?"

"Not at all," Don assured her; and as she took out her purse. "No," he added, "you must not pay cash, Flamby. It would confuse Nevin's books. I will write a cheque and charge it to your account together with the other purchases."

He withdrew with the saleswoman, leaving Flamby seated looking at the velvet frock draped across a chair. Having proceeded to a discreet distance--"What is the price of the dress, please?" he asked.

"With the alterations which madam requires, eighteen guineas, sir."

"I will give you a draft on Uncle Cox," replied Don, taking out his cheque-book and fountain-pen. "You must feel rather bewildered, but the fact of the matter is that the lady chances to be the orphan of a very dear friend, and coming from a country place she has no idea of the cost of things. I would not disillusion her for the world, just yet. Will you please make a note to send the gown to Miss Duveen at this address." He laid one of his aunt's cards upon the table. "But--an important point--enclose no receipt; nothing that would afford a clue to the price. Will you remember?"

"I shall remember," said the saleswoman, greatly relieved and beginning to smile once more.

So the quaint comedy of deception began and so it proceeded right merrily; for passing on to the furniture department, Don took the man aside and succeeded, although not without difficulty in this case, in making him an accomplice. As a result of the conspiracy Flamby purchased an exquisite little dressing-table of silver-maple (for thirty-five shillings), a large Axminster carpet and a Persian rug (three pounds, fifteen shillings), a miniature Jacobean oak suite (six guineas), a quaint bureau and bookcase (fifty shillings), and a perfect stack of cushions (at prices varying from half-a-crown to three shillings and elevenpence-three-farthings, or, in technical terminology, "three-and-eleven-three.") The man became infected with the quixotic spirit of the affair and revealed himself in his true colours as a hierophant of the higher mysteries. Producing secret keys, he exhibited those arcana, of the inner rooms which apparently are not for sale but which are kept solely for the purpose of dazzling the imagination: jade Buddhas, contemplative and priceless, locked in wonderful Burmese cabinets, strange ornaments of brass and perfume-burners from India, mandarin robes of peacock-blue, and tiny caskets of that violet lacquering which is one of the lost arts of Japan.

With some few items of glassware, vases and pictures purchased elsewhere, Flamby's expenditure amounted to more than twenty-five pounds, at which staggering total she stared in dismay. "Shall I really be able to pay it?" she asked.

"My dear Flamby, you have only just begun. The really essential things you will be able to buy when the Aunt is with you. I am instructing all the shops with which you may have occasion to do business to send accounts to Nevin. He will let you know quickly enough if you overstep the margin."

"How much money, for goodness' sake, is the Government paying?"

"I don't know exactly, but in addition to the regular allowance and arrears there is a gratuity of something over a hundred pounds to your account."

They were crossing Regent Street, and Flamby narrowly escaped being run over;--but the pavement gained in safety, "--A hundred pounds!" she exclaimed--"_I_ have a hundred pounds!"

"Roughly," said Don, smiling and taking her arm. "Then there are the weekly instalments, of course. Oh, you have nothing to worry about, Flamby. Furthermore it will not be very long before you find a market for your work and then you will be independent of State aid."

In truth, now that he was hopelessly enmeshed in his own net, Don experienced dire misgivings, wondering what Flamby would say, wondering what Flamby would do, when she learned of the conspiracy as she could not fail to learn of it sooner or later. But at the moment he was solely concerned with making her forget her sorrows, and in this he had succeeded. Flamby was radiantly happy and at last could think of the sweet countryside she had left behind without discovering a lump in her throat.

* * * * *

Luncheon in a popular Piccadilly grill-room provided an intensely thrilling experience. Flamby's acute sensibilities and inherent appreciation of the fitness of things rendered her ill at ease, but the gay music of the orchestra did much to restore her to harmony with herself, and Don's unaffected delight in her company did the rest. So in time she forgot the home-made black dress and became fascinated by her novel surroundings and lost in the study of these men and women who belonged to a new, a partly perceived world, but a world into which she had longed to enter. Her personal acquaintance with the ways of modern Babylon was limited to the crowded experiences of a day-visit with her father and mother, a visit eagerly anticipated and never forgotten. Michael Duveen had seemingly never regretted that place in the world which he had chosen to forfeit. He had lived and worked like a labouring man and had taken his pleasures like one. On that momentous day they had visited Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament and Nelson's Monument, had lunched at one of Messrs. Lockhart's establishments, had taken a ride in the Tube and performed a hasty tour of the Zoo, where they had consumed, variously, cups of tea, ginger beer, stale buns and ices. Hyde Park they had viewed from the top of a motor bus and descending from this chariot at London Bridge had caught the train home. In the train Flamby had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted with such a saturnalia, and her parents had eaten sandwiches and partaken of beer from a large bottle which Mrs. Duveen had brought in a sort of carpet-bag. Flamby remembered that she had been aroused from her slumbers by her father, who conceiving a sudden and violent antipathy against both bag and bottle (the latter being empty) had opened the carriage window and hurled them both out on to the line.

It was an odd memory but it brought a cloud of sadness, and Don, quick to detect the shadow, hurried Flamby off to the Coliseum and astounded her by booking a stage box. The Aunt was consulted over the telephone, the Aunt agreed to join the party in the evening, and during the remainder of that eventful afternoon there were all sorts of wonderful sights to be seen; delightful shops unlike any that Flamby had imagined, and an exhibition of water-colours in Bond Street which fired her ambition like a torch set to dry bracken, as Don had designed that it should do. They had tea at a fashionable tea-shop, and Don noted that even within the space of twenty-four hours the number of lovely women had perceptibly diminished. This historic day concluded, then, with dinner at the Carlton and Ellen Terry at the Coliseum. How otherwise an excellent programme was constituted mattered not, but when the red-robed Portia came finally before the curtain and bestowed one of her sweet smiles exclusively upon the enraptured girl, Flamby found that two big tears were trickling down her hot cheeks.

V

And now another figure in the pageant which Iamblichos called "the indissoluble bonds of Necessity" was about to reappear in his appointed place in response to the call of the unseen Prompter. Hideous are the settings of that pageant to-day; for where in the glowing pages of Dumas we see D'Artagnan, the gallant Forty-five and many another good friend riding in through the romantic gates of Old Paris, the modern historian finds himself concerned with railway stations which have supplanted those gates of Paris and of London alike. Thus Don entered by the gate of St. Pancras, Flamby by the smoky portal of London Bridge; and, on the following morning, Yvonne Mario stood upon a platform at Victoria awaiting the arrival of the Folkestone boat-train. She attracted considerable attention and excited adverse criticism amongst the other ladies present not only because of her personal charm but by reason of her dress. She wore a coat of black coney seal trimmed with white fox, and a little cap of the same, and her high-legged boots had white calf tops. Her complexion alone doomed her to the undying enmity of her sex, for the humid morning air had enhanced that clear freshness which quite naturally and properly annoyed every other woman who beheld it.

Several pressmen and photographers mingled with the groups along the platform, for the party with which Paul had been touring the French and British fronts included at least two other notable personages; and Bassett, Paul's press agent, said to Yvonne: "You will smile across a million breakfast tables to-morrow morning, Mrs. Mario, and from a thousand cinema screens later in the week."

Yvonne smiled there and then, a charming little one-sided smile, for she was really a very pretty woman in spite of her reputation as a beauty. "Modern journalism leaves nothing to the imagination," she replied.

"And very wisely. So few people have any."

They paced slowly along the platform. Excepting the porters who leaned against uptilted trucks and stared stolidly up the line, a spirit of furtive unrest had claimed everyone. People who meet trains always look so guilty, avoiding each other's glances and generally behaving as though their presence were a pure accident; periodically consulting the station clock as who should say, "If this train is not signalled very shortly I must be off. My time is of value." There is another type of course, much more rare, who appears at the last moment from some subterranean stairway. He is always running and his glance is wild. As the passengers begin to descend from the train he races along the platform, now and again pausing in his career and standing on tiptoe in order to look over the heads of the people in front of him. To every official he meets he says: "This train _is_ the Folkestone train?" He rarely waits for a reply.

Indeed, at a modern railway station, as of old at the city gates, the fatuity of human aspirations may be studied advantageously. Soldiers were there, at Victoria, hundreds of them, lined up on a distant platform, and they symbolised the spirit of an age which exalts Mechanism to the pinnacle of a deity and which offers itself as a sacrifice upon his iron altars.

The train arrived in due course; cameras and note-books appeared; and people inquired "Is it Sir Douglas Haig they are expecting?" But presently the initiated spread the news that it was Paul Mario who returned from the Western front, and because his reputation was greater than that of Gabrielle D'Annunzio or Charlie Chaplin, everyone sought to obtain a glimpse of him.

He wore a heavy fur-lined coat and his eyes were dark with excitement. Surrounded by the other members of the party, like an emperor by his suite, Paul's was the outstanding personality among them all. There was a distinguished French general to bow, courtly, over Yvonne's hand, and a Labour Member to quote Cicero. But it was to Paul that the reporters sought to penetrate and upon Paul that the cameras were focussed. Bassett, who did not believe in thwarting the demands of popularity, induced him to say a few words.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have no impressions to impart. My mind is numbed. I had never hitherto appreciated the genius of Philip Gibbs...."