Chapter V

Although little Joan had played at acting nearly all her short life, it was not until she was six and a half that she became conscious of such a thing as the theatre. For this initiation her grandmother was totally irresponsible; it came through a certain new, and very smart friend of Imogen’s, Mrs. Morse by name. Mrs. Morse was rather celebrated for the _chic_ and original nature of her entertainments, and her annual children’s party this year took the form of a special matinée of “Peter Pan.” The whole house was reserved, the best seats being sent by Mrs. Morse to her friends, while tickets for the upper galleries were distributed among several charitable institutions, the children from which could be guaranteed as absolutely clean and non-infectious. “Do come, my sweet Imogen,” Mrs. Morse wrote on her characteristic Wedgwood note-paper, “and bring your dear, talented little girl.”

Mr. Vandeleur was away on his annual copper pilgrimage in Nevada. Had he been at home, he would never have sanctioned the project. Imogen knew this very well, although she did not consciously admit it. John had never put any restriction upon her going to the theatre; it was she, herself, who did not care for it, prejudiced as she was by the consciousness of her mother’s sordid dramatic past. As for Joan, she had naturally been too young up till now for the question of playgoing possibilities to have arisen. Why, she would be only too glad to leave the child at home, Imogen thought pettishly, if she could decently go without her. Joan was sure to look extremely plain and behave odiously. But at a children’s entertainment, one must have the excuse of a child. And go herself, she must and would. It would certainly be an event of the social season, with long accounts in every paper, and Imogen derived a distinct glow of pleasure from the increasingly numerous press references to “the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur.” Even when she was merely “the well-known” or “the exquisitely gowned” it was not unsatisfying. Not long ago, after one of her big afternoon receptions, there had been over half a column of description in a leading New York daily, and a reproduction of the celebrated portrait of herself holding little Joan as a baby, the whole with a three quarter inch headline, “The Madonna of Fifth Avenue.” John Vandeleur had fumed and threatened a libel action until checked by the irrepressible laughter of his mother-in-law. “In our position I suppose we have to submit to this kind of thing,” Imogen had said with a sweetly patient sigh, and had scribbled off cheques to two more press-clipping agencies.

Well, she would be an equal success at this Peter Pan affair, Mrs. Vandeleur now resolved. What should she wear? It ought to be something very simple and girlish, to be in keeping with the entertainment. White muslin, perhaps? Yes, that was a good idea. She would have a dress made exactly like Joan’s, ribbons and all, and a big Leghorn hat with tiny rosebuds. Imogen knew that she did not look her twenty-five years, and with the faintest touch of rouge and her hair done low and tied, she could easily be taken for seventeen. Comment on her amazing youthfulness would certainly be provoked. She excitedly rang up Vesta, the great man modiste who “created” her gowns.

When, during her next weekly visit, little Joan announced to her grandmother that she was going to the theatre on the following day, Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. “What is a theatre, Granny?” the child enquired.

“People dress up and pretend a story just like you do, only, of course, they do it better,” Mrs. Lennox began. Then she stopped, startled by the light in the child’s face. “I see,” Joan replied gravely. She said nothing more until she was leaving. “I am very glad indeed, Granny, that I am going to a theatre.”

Probably it was due to her content that Joan allowed the hated dressing-up process to take place the next day without any fuss. When, at last, she was finished, to the last curl and bow, the maid breathed a sigh of relief. Never could she have believed it would have gone so smoothly. “Look, Miss Joan, what a pretty little girl you are,” she said, holding up a mirror.

Joan looked gravely at the dark, little face with tight, much-belaboured curls and befrilled white frock. The pale blue ribbons emphasised the swarthiness of her face. “I do not look pretty at all. I look silly,” she observed. “But it doesn’t matter. Is my mother nearly ready, do you think?”

Imogen was not ready. Indeed putting on her simple frock took so long that they barely reached the theatre in time. In Imogen’s case the result was certainly a success. The blue of the ribbons brought out the blue of her eyes; her roseleaf complexion shone with an almost infantile clearness. It was impossible to think of her as the mother of the plain child by her side. There was quite a sensation as they came in, a sensation that was rudely cut short by the lowering of the lights. Just as they took their places the curtain went up.

There was a gasp from Joan. Then the child sat silent and motionless. Her face had turned quite white, but as the moments passed, the pallor was replaced by a hot flush of excitement. The big, dark eyes were shining like stars. As Imogen glanced down at her in the dim light, she felt, with surprise, that the child was looking quite attractive. Mrs. Morse, who had flittingly seated herself on an empty seat at the other side of Joan, apparently shared the opinion, for she looked at her little guest with interest. “How entranced she is, the sweet little thing. Is it her first theatre?” she whispered to Imogen over the child’s head.

Mrs. Vandeleur nodded. Really it was rather pleasant to have a nice little daughter to take about, she thought with a sudden, faint stirring of maternal pride. Then she caressed Joan’s cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”

“Don’t touch me. Be quiet.” Joan rudely thrust aside her mother’s hand. She might have been brushing aside a worrying fly. The only excuse was the child’s evident absorption in the play. Probably she was even unconscious of her action.

Imogen flushed angrily. Had they been at home, she would have boxed the child’s ears. What had she done to be afflicted with such a little savage? “I’ll never bring you out again, never,” she muttered.

She did not try the experiment of again addressing her daughter, and during the rest of the performance Joan sat silent and entranced. Between the acts tea was served, and a number of people came up and spoke to Imogen, but the child appeared lost in a dream. At the end, with some misgiving, Imogen took her daughter to say good-bye. “Thank Mrs. Morse for inviting you,” she said with an accent of suppressed fury.

Joan appeared indifferent to her mother’s anger, but she stared at the hostess with great, round eyes. “Are you the lady that asked me to come here to-day?”

“Yes, darling.” What a quaint child she was! “Did you like it?”

“It was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen. I thank you very much. I shall not ever forget it.” Suddenly the colour flamed into the child’s face and she burst into loud, rapid speech. “I should like to come again. I should like to come every day. I should like to be one of those acting children. I could be Wendy because she does not know how to do it right. I could do it more right. Peter Pan was nearly quite right and so was the Pirate. The dog wasn’t right, but that was because he was really a man. I don’t think a person could act a dog. Couldn’t they have a real dog and teach him?”

“We must come home now,” Imogen interrupted. She was almost frightened. The child’s eyes were blazing, and she stood there delivering her harangue as though she were possessed. A whole circle had gathered round to listen, some smiling and some evidently startled. What would John say, Imogen felt guiltily, if he heard that his child had not only been at a theatrical performance but had almost made herself part of it. “Come, Joan, the carriage is waiting.” She hurried the child away.

John Vandeleur did hear of it. Indeed the incident figured largely in the papers. Although little Joan was plain, she was a striking child, and, in any case, the daughter of the great millionaire was not likely to be overlooked. One of the press-men had heard the funny little speech, and had taken it down on his cuff. “John Vandeleur’s Baby as Dramatic Critic” flared across the page. It was quite a scoop. Three days later a wire arrived for Imogen from Nevada. “Cannot understand Joan being at theatre. I forbid her entering any building whatever except her own house until my return.” Before he arrived, a couple of weeks later, Mr. Vandeleur’s anger had fortunately time to cool. Still he postponed giving his wife the diamond pendant he had brought for her, until he had a definite promise that Joan should never again be taken to any public performance.

The prohibition came too late. The child’s dormant talent was fired. The unconscious drama that she had always carried on, became conscious. She remembered whole speeches out of Peter Pan, and she made up the rest. One day Imogen happened to come towards the nursery not at her usual hour. Who could be talking in there? The voices were strange. When she came in, she saw to her surprise only her daughter and Miss Leveridge. “Joan was acting Peter Pan,” the governess explained nervously. “Ever since she went, she does it all day long! I thought you would not mind, it keeps her so good and happy. She really does it quite remarkably,” the little lady added in a lower voice.

Imogen was faintly interested. She had resented her husband’s attitude about the child having seen the play. John was quite unbearably old-fashioned, she often felt. So a slight feeling of spite added warmth to her permission that Joan might act as much as ever she liked. “But I advise you not to do it when your father’s there,” she counselled lightly. Then she turned to the really important question that had brought her. This was the writing out of some dinner menus. “They’ve made a mistake about the printing. People are so maddening. And your writing is the neatest,” she explained to Miss Leveridge.

Joan was puzzling over her mother’s warning. She never acted when anyone was in the room, except Miss Leveridge, who was an unfortunate necessity. And Granny, of course, but Granny was different; she acted too. But, in any case, it was not likely she would want to act when Father was there, because she so very seldom saw him. Of course he gave her beautiful presents; they came every birthday and Christmas with a card tied to them from which Miss Leveridge read, “With best wishes from your affectionate father.” The worst of it was they were nearly always things that she didn’t want. This last Christmas there had been a huge elephant that bellowed and moved its trunk and tail in the most lifelike manner, when suitable strings were pulled--as though people played with elephants when they were six and a half. She had been quite relieved that Father was away at Christmas, and after his return, she had not seen him for a particularly long time, so he had forgotten to ask her if she liked the present. But how funny it was for Mother to let her act, and say she must not do it when Father was there. Lots of things were hard to understand.

Although, of course, little Joan was unaware of it, the passing years had steadily deepened the estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur. Not that there was any definite quarrel or disagreement--Imogen would have considered that vulgar--but the bright hardness of her manner towards her husband intensified, and they saw increasingly less of each other. For one thing the house always seemed to be full of visitors; dinner grew longer and longer; indeed, it had become a party every night. If John Vandeleur wanted to work in the evening, and he always did, he found it better to stay on in his private rooms over the Wall Street offices and have a chop sent in to him there. Occasionally Imogen remonstrated. John’s never appearing looked strange, she said. If he had work, why couldn’t he do it in the library? Then for a few evenings Mr. Vandeleur would come home early. But the atmosphere was tiring. He found the smart young men, who drank his wine and smoked his cigars, extremely irritating. They evidently looked down on business and considered their host immeasurably antique. Frankly the primitive male was stirred. John Vandeleur didn’t like this masculine train that was always hanging around his wife. Not that, for an instant, he imagined there was anything wrong, although Imogen’s increasing lack of good taste caused him at times to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Still he felt certain that no one of these flutterers meant anything to his wife; sometimes he almost wished they did. He felt vaguely that Imogen cared too much for herself ever to be in love with anyone else. She was not good enough even to be bad.

One evening Mr. Vandeleur let himself in after dinner as usual, but much earlier than was his general custom. Although it was not yet June, the day had been very warm and he had thought it would be pleasant to sit at home in his garden. He was going through the palm-house, but stopped as talking and laughter surged towards him. Electric Chinese lanterns were swinging outside, and by their dim light he could see figures moving about on the lawn. He retreated, and returning into the library, sank down wearily in a chair. Although it was not cool, here, at least, he would be unmolested. A tap came at the door.

“Come!” Mr. Vandeleur’s voice was irritable. The door opened. No one spoke, so he looked up. For the first second he thought no one had come in. It was a stupid trick of one of those inane gilded youths. Then lowering his gaze, he saw a small figure in a pink dressing-gown with dishevelled hair and dark eyes that were blinking a little in the strong light. “Joan?” he exclaimed.

“You must excuse my dressing gown. I thought they might hear me if I stopped to put on my proper clothes. I couldn’t wait to find any slippers either.”

Mr. Vandeleur still stared. “It’s very late for you to be up,” he observed at last, severely.

“Yes, isn’t it? Why do you always come home so late? Generally it’s later even than this. Because for lots and lots of nights I’ve been trying to keep awake until you came and always I haven’t been able to. It has become the next morning. Only to-night I did hear your automobile so I jumped up at once. It has got a partic’ler grunt, you know. Do you like your automobile?” The child had heard a good deal of talk about the new purchase, for motoring was still in its infancy.

“Yes, I like it extremely, but aren’t you a very naughty little girl to come down at all?” Mr. Vandeleur persisted.

“No, I’m not naughty, because it’s un’voidable. I want to talk to you about something private, and there’s no other time. I hardly never see you and then we are not alone.”

John Vandeleur smiled, although stiffly as with unaccustomed muscles. He remembered his last “private” interview with his daughter, when she had demanded to be taught to read. What did she want this time? “Let me see, how old are you, now, Joan?” he said aloud. “Five, isn’t it?”

“Five!” The little girl’s tone was even more scornful than on that previous occasion. “Five! Why, I haven’t been five for years and years. I shall be seven in twenty-three days. I suppose it was because you thought I was five that you gave me that elephant?” Joan stopped suddenly.

“That elephant?--Oh, at Christmas. Was it a white elephant then?” Mr. Vandeleur chuckled at his unaccustomed humour.

“No, it isn’t exactly white, it’s more of a brownish grey. But it doesn’t matter. And, of course, it would have been a lovely present for a little girl of five. But what I wanted to say is that now I am nearly seven, I ought to go to school.”

“To school! I didn’t know that little girls, or even big girls of seven, arranged their own education! Do you think you have learnt everything that Miss Leveridge can teach you?”

“No, I don’t.” The child looked at her father with large, honest eyes. “But Miss Leveridge is so dull, and she is always one person. I wouldn’t mind if she were like Granny. But I only see Granny on Wednesdays. And I want more people, lots and lots of people. So I must go to school--just a day-school, I mean.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Mr. Vandeleur was more inclined to consider his daughter’s proposal, because, only the other day, he had happened to hear of a new and extraordinarily superior school with extraordinarily superior fees, that had just been started for the children of the “best-to-do.” His acquaintance had even suggested that he ought to send his little girl to it, and had observed that it must be dull for the child at home alone. “In any case, you could not go to school until after the summer vacation,” Mr. Vandeleur now said decisively. “All the schools will be closed until September. Now run along back to bed. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Father.” Joan dutifully trotted off. She had the sense to feel the interview was over, and that moreover, she had got what she wanted.

Preparations for the summer departure from New York rather took Joan’s thoughts off the proposed school. This year her mother was not going abroad; they were all going together to the new house at Long Branch. This was Imogen’s latest toy. Nearly all the families of her circle had a home in this select shore city, and she had decided, last autumn, that she must have one too. Mr. Vandeleur was not attracted by the idea; the place was only pseudo-select, he said. Imogen probably did not understand the phrase. In any case she countered the argument by urging its wonderful air. Staying there would be good for Joan. Also she would benefit by it herself, she said, although she did not suppose that this would influence her husband. The taunt was unfair, for John Vandeleur was often concerned at his wife’s fragile appearance, and urgent that she should live more quietly; her restless brilliancy seemed to him far from healthy. So at her words he capitulated at once and bought about an acre of land in the favoured strip between the board walk fringing the ocean and the wide, smooth road. The cost was absurd, but Mr. Vandeleur’s simple rule in life, when his wife expressed a desire, was to sit down and write a cheque.

That was at the end of the previous year. In an incredibly short space of time another Brobdingnagian villa had been added to the many-mile row--a jerry-built palace, as amazingly bare and unattractive as the rest. Again Mr. Vandeleur wrote cheques; this time they totalled a couple of hundred thousand dollars, for the expense was increased by Imogen’s constant desire for haste. Otherwise he left the matter to his wife and the architect. Had John Vandeleur taken the building in hand himself, as in the case of his Fifth Avenue house, the result might have been more distinguished, although the site offered but little scope. The Vandeleur “lot,” like all the other lots, was an exact rectangle, quite level and bare. It remained treeless, for even a millionaire cannot work miracles. A lawn was laid down at a fabulous cost and three gardeners spent their lives in cherishing it. A few, brilliant, ready-to-see flowerbeds were added, but of mystery and surprise, those essentials of a real garden, there was not a trace. The bleak publicity was increased by the whole being unenclosed. It would have puzzled a mouse to find cover!

By the end of June, Firenze, as Mrs. Vandeleur inappropriately called the house, was ready for occupation. Most of the domestic staff was sent down, while Imogen and Joan and the faithful Miss Leveridge were to follow the next day. Mr. Vandeleur had decided to remain in New York. It was rather far to go down to business every day, he said. He would join them at week-ends.

Little Joan was in a state of intense, if suppressed, excitement. She had heard so much of the new home all these weeks, that she pictured it as a sort of fairy palace. Her little body was quivering as they drove up from the station. The carriage stopped. The child stared at the huge, flat, newly-painted house and the shadeless garden. Even the sea was not visible from this side. “That’s not our house; that’s an hotel,” she urged. She was told it was Firenze, indeed. “Then I don’t like it.” She flushed angrily. “It’s abs’lutely horrible.”

“You are the most spoilt and disagreeable child that I ever knew!” Probably the hot journey had exaggerated Imogen’s point of view as well as her daughter’s.

When the ocean revealed itself, little Joan grew more reconciled. And of one thing she could certainly no longer complain, and that was lack of people. At Long Branch it was solitude that was quite unobtainable. The shore at all hours was sprinkled with young men and maidens in elaborate, so-called bathing costumes, while up and down the board walk, the visitors in smart clothes paraded endlessly. On the piazzas and in the unfenced gardens, occupants dwelt in full public view, while along the broad road running parallel to the sea, there passed an endless stream of pleasure vehicles--the automobiles, at this date, were just beginning to take their place among the staider carriages and the buggies with their out-distanced fast-trotters. Again, on the other side of this road, were more wooden summer homes with similar open gardens, but of a smaller type, denoting mere potential millionaires.

So Joan had her “lots and lots of people,” and not only as mere scenery. One or other of Imogen’s many acquaintances were constantly coming up to speak to the dark, odd-looking child. Perhaps Joan made the discovery that surfeit is worse than abstinence. After telling strange and smart ladies her name and her age some dozen times in reply to their stereotyped questioning, she suddenly turned shy, and took refuge in sulky silence. “I won’t talk to them, I won’t; they’re silly,” she confided to the shocked Miss Leveridge. “I want to go to Meenahga.” This was the Vandeleur’s forest-encircled house in the Adirondacks, where the child had spent her previous summers.

Indoors the social element was even more continuous and oppressive than out of doors. At Fifth Avenue there were constant visitors, but they were not staying in the house; besides the nursery wing was so detached that Joan hardly ever came across them. But here, whenever she went up or down stairs, she seemed to meet young men who made laughing remarks to her (which she considered very foolish) and then laughed still more at her scornful answers. Certainly there was one, Mr. Grierson by name, whom she found less objectionable. His hair was so fair and soft that it was rather like her baby doll’s; that was interesting in itself. His cheeks were pinkish too, and he had a dimple in his chin. Joan used to wonder if he were grown up at all or a very little boy who had got tall by magic. Then she heard someone say that Mr. Grierson was at College. So, of course, he must be old; that settled it. Still she liked him; he didn’t laugh as often as the others. Sometimes he would sit quite quiet and look at her mother in a curious way. Miss Leveridge looked like that sometimes at church. As Joan came down one afternoon, hot and indignant at the prospect of being dragged out for a stiff walk, she saw Mr. Grierson standing in the lobby. He was whistling as he studied a big map, and he looked very happy. “Hullo,” Joan called out in a friendly manner.

“Hullo! Where are you going to, dressed up so fine?”

“Only up and down the board walk.” Joan came closer. She suddenly determined to confide in him. “Isn’t it silly, but that’s what Christine likes doing? She’s my maid. Miss Leveridge, my governess, is away for her holiday. Christine tells me to hold her hand all the time like a good little girl. I hate being good; it makes me feel so naughty inside. Where are you going?”

The young man’s pink cheeks turned pinker. “Your mother is letting me drive her out in her automobile.” He looked more than ever as though he were at church.

“_You_ are going to drive! Not Fielding?” This was the chauffeur. “Can you drive an automobile? But I suppose Mother wouldn’t let you if you couldn’t. Oh, why can’t I come with you? I’d be so good, really and truly good, and not a bit of worry. I’d sit on the seat at the back and not say a word.”

It did credit to Mr. Grierson’s good nature that he did not instantly dismiss the idea. His face certainly fell. “Well, you’ll have to ask your mother,” he said.

“You ask. Mother will be more likely to let me come if you ask. Oh do, please.”

At this moment Mrs. Vandeleur appeared. Her little blue motor hood with tiny bunches of flowers was a “creation.” She had on a most becoming flowered muslin gown; her Shantung motor coat was over her arm. “Why, Joan, what are you doing?” she asked sharply.

“Joan is awfully set on coming out in the automobile,” Mr. Grierson explained. “She’s been begging so hard I didn’t know what to say.”

“I’d sit on the back seat and not talk. I won’t be in the way.” The child’s voice was dull and constrained, as it always was when she addressed her mother. Even the infatuated young man noticed the difference and was surprised by it.

The mother hesitated; then, to Joan’s secret astonishment, consented. The fact was that Charlie Grierson had been a little overwhelming in his devotion of late. Imogen had almost regretted that she had agreed to this ride. It would be such a nuisance if Charlie broke out in some wild protestation. He might think afterwards he ought to go right away--he had such absurd ideas sometimes. Why, she would hate their friendship to stop. She was very fond of Charlie; he was a dear boy and so useful. However, with Joan there as a little chaperon, Charlie could hardly embark upon any impassioned declarations. And if the child really kept her word and didn’t chatter, she wouldn’t be much of a nuisance.

Probably, a feeling of security due to the presence of the little girl, made Imogen allow herself even more indiscretion than usual. The pathetic tone she gave to the conversation was certainly not the way to keep her companion’s blood cool. “Must you really go to your mother’s next week? I shall miss you so.”

Young Grierson flushed; then he swallowed hard. “It’s awfully good of you to say that, Mrs. Vandeleur,” he murmured with assumed carelessness, “but, of course, you can’t mean it. You always have such a crowd awaiting your commands!”

Imogen felt piqued by his tone. “One can be lonely in a crowd,” she murmured pensively.

The young man gripped the steering wheel. She mustn’t see that his hands were shaking. “Won’t Mr. Vandeleur be coming down soon?”

“My husband’s work utterly absorbs him. Sometimes I think he forgets my poor little existence altogether.” Imogen gave a little sigh. “What a mistake it is to allow girls to marry very, very young--when they are still children. What does one know then or understand?”

“Imogen, do you----”

“Hush--the child.” Imogen gently stopped the explosion. “You must remember that my life is over,” she went on sadly. “Why I am far, far older than you--two years even in mere time.” As a matter of fact it was five years, and Imogen knew it.

Charlie Grierson set his teeth. The car had been going fast before; now to relieve his feelings, it went still faster. What a damnable world it was! If only he had met this divine creature before she had become tied to an old curmudgeon. He forgot that when this event occurred he was still, even on Imogen’s reckoning, a mere schoolboy with a doubtful collar and badly laced shoes. A curious haze came over his eyes. Perhaps this accounted for his not seeing a large hole in the road until he was close upon it. The car swerved almost into the bank as he jerked the wheel. He jammed it round again in the opposite direction. There was a crash. The car seemed trying to climb a wall; it tottered and tipped over.

Little Joan wondered if it were the end of the world--an event about which she had often speculated. Then she realized that she was lying on the grass behind an overturned automobile. She sat up. Oh, how her side hurt. She was going to scream, but, with an effort, she refrained. She would be an Early Christian at the stake. Then she found that by craning her neck she could see round the car. The pain was forgotten in a most surprising sight. There on the road lay her mother with a red cut on her forehead, while Mr. Grierson knelt beside her. He had one arm under her head and was wiping her face gently with his handkerchief. But what startled Joan the most was that Mr. Grierson was crying, really crying, with tears running down his cheeks. Surely grown up men at College didn’t cry. “Imogen, Imogen,” he was saying, and his voice was all choky just like when the child cried herself. “Imogen darling, have I killed you? Speak to me.”

Joan had hardly time to speculate as to whether her mother was really killed, when the prostrate figure opened her eyes. So that was all right, Joan felt with relief. “What has happened?” her mother asked faintly.

“Thank God! Thank God!” Joan was thrilled by Mr. Grierson’s expression of piety. She had thought such phrases confined to church. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” the young fellow gasped.

“No, I don’t think I’m hurt.” Imogen raised herself, with Mr. Grierson still reverently supporting her. “I think I’m all right. Only my head aches.” She put up her hand.

There was a sudden electric change. Imogen’s fingers had touched the cut. It was not bleeding much, but it gaped across her forehead rather openly. “It’s a cut, a deep cut,” she shrieked, pushing aside her companion’s supporting arm. “I shall be disfigured for life. Give me a mirror. Why do you stand there like a fool? Why did you take me out if you couldn’t drive? Oh, I hate you. You fool! You fool!”

Little Joan had on occasions seen her mother angry before, although never quite so angry as this. But young Grierson had probably thought his divinity incapable of any human weakness. He did look rather foolish as he stood absolutely dumbfounded before the railing woman. His youthful face had been pale before; now it became almost grey. “I wish I had been killed,” he said.

“What good would that have done to me? How selfish you are! Oh, do stop standing there like an idiot!” Pressing her scarf to her forehead, Mrs. Vandeleur staggered to her feet. “I must have a surgeon at once--the best surgeon from New York. Oh, can’t you suggest anything?” She rushed towards the car and began to pull at it as though she thought she could right it alone.

The child began to think that it was time to show herself. She scrambled to her feet, the pain in her side making her feel rather sick. “Hullo,” she said waveringly. “Won’t Fielding be cross about his car?”

Both her companions started. Indeed, Mr. Grierson was staring as though he hardly knew her. “Are you all right, Joan?” her mother asked quickly. She was a little ashamed at having completely forgotten the child’s presence. “Well, you don’t seem hurt, I’m thankful to say, though it’s no thanks to our driver.” She laughed hysterically.

“Yes, I’m all right.” Joan went up to them. Suddenly with an unchildlike intuition she put her hand into Mr. Grierson’s. “I think it’s worst for you,” she said.

She had hardly spoken, when wheels were heard coming along the road. It was a “Surrey” with two men in it. They drew up alongside of the overturned car. There were commiserations and offers of assistance. “What a piece of luck the little girl wasn’t hurt,” one of the newcomers observed. He offered to drive the wrecked party home--they had fortunately only come three or four miles--while his companion stayed to guard the damaged automobile. At Imogen’s suggestion, Mr. Grierson was dropped at a telephone office on the way. “Please let Mr. Vandeleur know at the Wall Street office,” she said faintly, with an amusing wifely dependence. “He will see about a surgeon and everything for me.”

In less than a couple of hours a surgeon of world-wide reputation was entering Firenze. Mr. Vandeleur himself had brought him down. The cut was pronounced not serious. The great man would put in a stitch or two; he guaranteed his reputation that there would be no permanent scar. Mr. Vandeleur retired downstairs while the little operation was performed.

A knock came at the door, and a very fair young man appeared. His boyish face was so haggard that Mr. Vandeleur guessed who it must be. “Are you the young gentleman who upset the car?” he enquired.

“Yes. If you’d shoot me I’d thank you.”

The words were theatrical, and so, by conviction as well as temperament, Mr. Vandeleur objected to them. Yet, he was somehow moved by the underlying ring of misery and truth. “It isn’t very serious,” he said kindly. “The surgeon assures us that Mrs. Vandeleur won’t be marked.”

“That’s something--I mean I’m awfully happy and relieved.” Young Grierson might say he was happy but he did not look it. “I don’t know how I can apologise enough to you, Mr. Vandeleur.”

John Vandeleur was looking at the young fellow curiously. He thought he had never seen anyone look quite so miserable. He wondered suddenly what Imogen had said to her escort when she found that her forehead was cut. Judging from the observations she had since made on the subject to himself and the surgeon, her words could not have lacked force. “Was Mrs. Vandeleur able to speak after the accident?”

“Almost at once.” A lively blush spread suddenly over the poor boy’s face, confirming Mr. Vandeleur’s suspicion. Any further rebuke as to the young man’s carelessness seemed uncalled for. There was a pause. “Well, I’d better be going,” Mr. Grierson stammered. “If there’s anything I can do--any reparation I can make?”

“No, only I should advise your not driving ladies out in automobiles again--particularly married ladies; it is dangerous.” Mr. Vandeleur shook the young man’s hand with a quite unusual friendliness.

As Mr. Grierson reached the door, he turned. “Oh, please thank your little girl. She was so kind and courageous.” He bolted suddenly.

Joan? So Joan had been in the accident too. Mr. Vandeleur had not understood this. He went to find his daughter rather anxiously. There was no reply when he called. She was not in any of the sitting-rooms. “Where is Miss Joan?” he asked a maid.

“I think she is in her bedroom, Mr. Vandeleur. Shall I fetch her?”

“No, I will go up.” The maid showed the way. Mr. Vandeleur knocked at his little daughter’s door and then quickly went in.

The room was dim, for the shades were closed on account of the heat. The child was sitting on her bed. She still had her coat on, and she looked very white. She did not get up or speak. Her father wondered if she recognized him in the half light. “So you were in the accident too?” he said kindly. “I hope you didn’t get hurt at all, my dear.”

Suddenly the little girl broke into sobs. “My side, my side,” she wailed. “I can’t be brave any more; I want Granny. Oh dear, oh dear, my side.”

After that things moved quickly, as was always the case when Mr. Vandeleur took them in hand. Almost before the great surgeon had finished with Imogen, he was hurried up to the next floor to see the little girl. Two ribs were broken, he found, but his skilful manipulation and bandaging soon eased the pain. Almost before it seemed possible Mrs. Lennox was at her granddaughter’s bedside. She kissed her tenderly. “Darling, why didn’t you say sooner that you were hurt?”

“I didn’t want Mr. Grierson to know. Granny, have you ever seen grown-up gentlemen cry?”