The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

The Man with the Chin

"I shouldn't like to marry a man with a chin like that," said the girl in red. Her companion, a ferret-faced young gentleman with his hair parted in the middle, inserted his eye-glass and stared deliberately across the room.

"Obstinate-lookin' beggar—what?" he drawled.

Unconscious of these criticisms, George Leslie sat at his solitary table, only looking up from his newspaper whenever the door of the room opened to admit a fresh arrival. It was on the sixth occasion that his inspection appeared to be successful. His lips parted in a smile, and, laying down his paper, he rose quietly from his chair.

The girl in red nudged her companion.

"She's come at last. Kept him waiting long enough."

The ferret-faced young man indulged himself in another leisurely survey. "Worth it, too, by Jove!" he ejaculated admiringly.

His criticism, if a trifle crude in expression, was sound enough in taste. The girl who had just come in was most distinctly worth waiting for. Beautifully dressed, with a shy yet charming prettiness, she moved across the tea-room towards Leslie, and held out her hand with a little smile of apology.

"I am so sorry!" she said. "I know I'm dreadfully late."

There was a momentary twinkle in Leslie's grey eyes.

"Twenty-one-and-a-half minutes," he said. "Not a record, Nancy, by a long way."

She sat down in the chair which he pulled up, and began to take off her gloves.

"There's one nice thing about you," she answered, looking at him with frank affection, "you never mind people being late, do you?"

"I occasionally make an exception in business hours," said Leslie.

"Oh, business!" She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "I expect you're simply horrid in business, George. I'm sure you bully all those poor people at the garage dreadfully."

Leslie shook his head.

"I leave that to Morton these days. My time's taken up in making them miserable at the works."

The girl laughed.

"I can just see you," she said. "I suppose you stick your chin out and growl at them like you do at me when you're cross?"

"Something the same way," admitted Leslie, "only not quite so violent. You see, they're not often as irritating as you are, Nancy."

She looked at him mischievously, and then suddenly clasped her hands.

"Oh, George," she said, "I'd quite forgotten. Are you doing anything next Wednesday?"

"Nothing more than usual," said Leslie. "About eight hours' work."

"Oh, that's all right then. It's father's and mother's wedding-day, and the old dears want to celebrate it in some way. I suggested that we should go for a motor picnic to Beechwood—just the three of us, and get you to drive us. Don't you think it's a lovely idea? You know there's a dear old church there, where Cardinal Wolsey was married or died or did something, and you and I can get away together after lunch and have a look at it. Both father and mother don't care for that sort of thing, and they won't mind my going with you. You know father's taken quite a fancy to you since you came round that day and showed him the new car."

Leslie leaned back in his chair and looked at her with a kind of amused gravity. Then he shook his head.

"Things can't go on like this, Nancy," he said.

Her dark blue eyes opened innocently.

"Can't go on like what?" she inquired.

"I mean I can't go on deceiving your people in this way."

Nancy drew back, pouting.

"Oh, George dear, I thought we'd settled all that."

Leslie smiled.

"You settled it, Nancy—I didn't. But at the best it was only to be a temporary arrangement. Well, in my opinion, the time has come to end it."

"But we can't end it, dear," protested Nancy, helping herself delicately to a chocolate éclair.

"Why not?" asked Leslie. "I can go to your father and ask him whether he has any objection to me as a son-in-law. If he has—well, at least we shall know where we are, and then you can make up your mind what you're going to do."

"Now you're being horrid," said Nancy. "You know very well father won't let me marry you. He thinks, because you've made your money yourself, and because you run a motor-car business, that—that——"

"That I'm not a gentleman," finished Leslie, smiling good-naturedly. "Well, I can't help that, Nancy. Perhaps he's right. My point is that it doesn't alter the question. If you're going to marry me, you'll have to do it some day either with or without your father's consent."

"There's no hurry," protested Nancy weakly.

"Not the least," admitted Leslie, "but, on the other hand, there's no reason for waiting. The business is bringing me in an excellent income, and we're only wasting both our lives."

Nancy stirred her tea, and looked at him sorrowfully.

"George," she said, "you'll make me cry if you go on like that. Why can't we stop as we are just a little longer? Something's sure to turn up."

Leslie shook his head.

"Nothing ever turns up in this world unless people dig for it. Come, Nancy"—he smiled at her—"if you like me well enough to marry me, surely you can't mind my asking your father whether he objects. I know you dislike rows and unpleasantness of any kind, but there must be a limit to everything."

Nancy wriggled rather unhappily in her chair, looking prettier than ever.

"I don't know what to do," she said forlornly. "I'm awfully fond of you, George, and I would like to marry you, really I would, dear, but I simply can't go and have a nasty, silly squabble with father and mother. You know they wouldn't hear of it. They're frightfully old-fashioned, both of them, and they think I'm sure to marry a duke or something. If I told them I wanted to marry you, they'd have a fit. I might just as well say I was going to run away with the coachman. Give me some more tea, dear."

Leslie, who did not seem to be the least annoyed, poured her out a second cup.

"Well, it seems pretty plain, Nancy," he said, "that you'll have to choose between me and your love of peace."

She looked at him with a kind of mock despair.

"Oh, George, are you going to desert me, just when I want your help? I didn't think you were like that, or I shouldn't have loved you."

"But you must make up your mind one way or the other," protested Leslie, laughing.

Nancy shook her head despairingly.

"What's the good of telling me that, George? You know I can't make up my mind; I never could. Someone's always had to do it for me. Let's just go on as we are for a bit. It's awfully nice loving each other, and no one knowing anything about it, and perhaps you'll save father's life or something."

"If that's all it depends on," said Leslie ironically, "we may as well begin printing the invitations."

"Now, you're not to stick out your chin like that and look cross," said Nancy. "It's just as tiresome for me as it is for you; and you ought to be nice and sympathetic, instead of being grumpy."

"I'm not a bit cross really," said Leslie. "I should as soon think of getting cross with a flower as with you."

Nancy brightened up wonderfully.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, George. I love people to say things like that to me, and you so seldom do it." Then she paused, and looked at him with mischievous, pleading eyes. "And you will come and drive us on Wednesday, won't you, dear?" she added.

The corners of Leslie's mouth twitched.

"Nancy," he said, "you're as wicked as you're beautiful."

"Oh, dear," said Nancy, "that's the second in two minutes."

* * * * * * *

Colonel Peyton pushed back his plate, and got up from the breakfast-table.

"Well, it's a lovely day," he observed, looking out of the window. "I hope that young man will be punctual. Are you women ready?"

"Did you ever know mother late for anything, Father?" inquired Nancy calmly.

Colonel Peyton chuckled, and shook his finger at her.

"It's you I'm thinking of, miss," he said; "you're the one that will keep us waiting."

"Come along," said Mrs. Peyton, "and put your things on, darling. We mustn't keep the car standing."

Mrs. Peyton, having been brought up with horses, had never been able to rid herself of the idea that a motor became restless under such treatment.

Nancy laughed, and accompanied her mother upstairs, from which region she shortly emerged, looking bewitchingly demure and pretty in a sort of Kate Greenaway cloak and bonnet.

The Colonel, who was just struggling into his coat, gazed at her with fond approval.

"Very nice, Nancy," he said; "very nice. You remind me of your mother."

The compliment—to Colonel Peyton it was a very genuine compliment—had hardly left his lips when there came the loud hum of a motor-car driving up to the house. Nancy stepped forward, and opened the door.

"Punctual to the minute," observed the Colonel triumphantly. "It's a pleasure to deal with a young man like that."

The young man in question brought the car round with a graceful sweep, and pulled up noiselessly level with the doorstep.

"How do you do?" he said, taking off his cap, and bowing slightly to Nancy and Mrs. Peyton.

The Colonel stepped out and offered his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Leslie?" he inquired. "Very good of you to come round and drive us yourself. Now you're making cars of your own you don't do much of this sort of thing, I suppose—eh, what?"

"Not often," said Leslie gravely. "Unless people specially ask for me, I generally send one of the men."

Nancy's eyes sparkled merrily.

"May I sit in front with the driver, Father?" she asked. "I love to watch him pull out the handles."

The Colonel looked a trifle embarrassed.

"Oh, I—I—er—expect Mr. Leslie doesn't like to be asked questions while he's driving, Nancy."

It seemed to him curious that his daughter failed to recognize that Leslie was a cut above the ordinary chauffeur.

"I hope Miss Peyton will sit in front if she wishes to," said Leslie. "I don't in the least mind being asked questions. One gets used to it, you know."

Nancy did not wait for any further discussion, but jumped lightly up into the vacant seat, while a solemn-looking butler proceeded to stow a hamper into the back of the car. The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton then took their places, and Leslie, slipping in his clutch, turned the car slowly round and started off up the road.

It was a beautiful summer day of blue and gold, and the twenty-five miles to Beechwood lay through some of the fairest country in England. Pleasantly warmed by the sun, and lulled by the gentle drone of the motor, the old people lay back in their comfortable seats, and gazed contentedly at the passing scenery. Not so Nancy, who, sitting upright, with a demure smile on her face and mischief in her eyes, proceeded to question Leslie with an apparently artless enthusiasm as to the various parts of the car. He answered her seriously and politely, never smiling or varying from the respectful tone of a temporary employé.

"I hope Nancy isn't bothering that young man too much," observed the Colonel in an undertone to his wife.

Mrs. Peyton beamed good-naturedly at the couple in front.

"Oh, people of that sort like to be asked questions," she whispered back. "He's proud to show off his car to Nancy; you can be sure of that."

"I only hope she won't make him run us into a ditch with her chattering," was the Colonel's rejoinder.

That this tragedy was successfully avoided may be gathered from the fact that half an hour later the car pulled up in a little woodland clearing just above Beechwood village. It was a charming spot carpeted with soft mossy turf, and hemmed in on three sides with trees. From the fourth the Buckinghamshire countryside stretched out in a magnificent rolling panorama of twenty miles.

After a brief and whispered consultation with his wife, Colonel Peyton turned to Leslie.

"I hope you'll lunch with us, Mr. Leslie," he said. "We have brought plenty for four."

Leslie bowed.

"I shall be very pleased to," he answered. And going round to the back of the car, he proceeded to assist Nancy in getting out the hamper.

The lunch looked most attractive spread out on a clean white cloth, for, like many elderly soldiers, Colonel Peyton regarded food as only slightly inferior in importance to religion and good breeding. Seated beside Mrs. Peyton, Leslie found himself being patronized by that complaisant lady with all the well-meaning condescension of her kind.

"You must eat a good lunch, Mr. Leslie," she observed, helping him generously to cold game-pie. "I am sure it must be most tiring driving that great heavy car."

"To say nothing of answering all your questions—eh, Nancy?" put in the Colonel. "Have some champagne?" He held out the bottle to Leslie.

The latter filled up Mrs. Peyton's glass, and then helped himself.

"Driving a car nowadays isn't a very tiring business," he explained, "especially when one is used to it."

"Well, I mean to try it before long," said the Colonel. "One has to take to the infernal things in self-defence—what? I shall probably come down on you, now you've taken to making cars yourself. Sir Herbert Temple tells me they're excellent."

Nancy clapped her hands.

"Oh, Father, that will be delightful!" she said. "And can't you get Mr. Leslie to come and drive us?"

Leslie bit his lip to stop himself from smiling.

"My dear child," said the Colonel, "Mr. Leslie is much too busy a man for that sort of thing. It's very good of him to come to-day."

"I suppose the motor-car business is a very thriving industry," hazarded Mrs. Peyton vaguely. "Do you make them yourself, Mr. Leslie?"

"With a little assistance," answered Leslie. "It's rather complicated work, you know."

"It must be," said Mrs. Peyton sympathetically. "The tyres alone, for instance. I can't think how you cut all those funny patterns on the rubber. What a perfect day for a picnic, isn't it?"

Having taken this abrupt æsthetic turn, the conversation wandered away into general channels, until by a natural process it drifted back to the immediate surroundings of the party.

"I want to see the church," said Nancy, throwing a little sidelong glance at Leslie. "I believe it's most awfully interesting. Cardinal Wolsey did something or other in it."

"The church, the church?" inquired Colonel Peyton in whom lunch had induced certain symptoms of restfulness. "What church? Where is it?"

"I believe it's down in the village," answered Nancy innocently. "I could walk down and back before you are ready to start."

"I don't think you'd better," said the Colonel. "You'll probably meet some drunken tramp."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Leslie would walk down with me," suggested Nancy. "I do want to see the church frightfully. That was why I suggested Beechwood."

"I should be delighted to," said Leslie simply.

Colonel Peyton looked a little doubtful. The young man certainly seemed most respectful and well-mannered, but—but—well, well, after all, where was the harm. Having asked him to lunch, it would appear rather unkind to refuse his well-meant offer, especially as the suggestion had originally come from Nancy.

"Go along with you, then," said the Colonel good-naturedly. "But don't be late. We want to start back by three."

Side by side, Nancy and Leslie set off down the hill. For some little way Nancy was bubbling over with suppressed merriment, which only found its escape when they rounded the corner of the hill and were out of sight of the older people. Then she thrust her arm through Leslie's, and broke into a long ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George dear," she said. "I thought I should have exploded. Your face was simply lovely!"

Leslie smiled contentedly.

"If it comes to that," he retorted, "you're looking rather nice yourself this morning, Nancy."

Nancy squeezed his arm gently.

"That's very pretty," she said, "but you mustn't say that sort of thing too often, George, or I shall think you've been practising. Where are we going to?"

"Why, to the church, of course," answered Leslie.

Nancy wrinkled her nose.

"But I don't want to go to the church," she protested. "It's sure to be all dusty and stuffy, and there'll be some horrid old man who'll want to crawl round with us and point out Cardinal Wolsey. Let's go and sit in the wood somewhere, and just talk."

Leslie shook his head.

"No, Nancy," he said sternly. "I can't encourage such deception. Come along to the church."

Nancy sighed.

"Oh, dear," she murmured, "that's the worst of loving a man with a chin like yours. I shouldn't be half so frightened of you if you had a beard, George. Will you grow one to please me when we're married?"

"You shall have whiskers if you want them," said Leslie tenderly.

Nancy laughed, and, withdrawing her arm, stopped to pick two or three flowers that were nestling in the hedgerow.

"There you are," she said, putting them in his buttonhole. Then she turned up her face. "You may kiss me now if you like."

Leslie put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her very gently.

Nancy patted his sleeve.

"You dear, obstinate old thing!" she said. "I believe you like me rather, after all."

"I do a little," said Leslie quietly.

Walking side by side, they came out on to the bend of the hill that leads down into Beechwood village. The small hamlet with its thatched cottages lay spread out below them in the warm July sunshine.

"What a sweet place, isn't it?" said Nancy. "There's the church." She pointed down to a little square tower, half hidden amongst the trees. "And, oh, look!" she added. "There's someone outside with a motor-car. I suppose he's come to see Cardinal Wolsey too."

Leslie said nothing. He was busy flicking away some dust from his coat with his handkerchief.

"He's left the car and gone inside," went on Nancy. "What fun! Let's steal it, George, and go for a ride!"

"I don't think we'd better," said Leslie. "He might be the bishop inspecting."

Nancy shook her head.

"Bishops never inspect," she said decidedly. "They sit at home and swear at the Government. I know, because my uncle's one."

"Well, we'll go inside too, and see what he's doing," said Leslie. "Perhaps he's breaking open the poor-box."

They turned in under the old wooden gateway and walked up the churchyard path. The door of the porch was open, and as they entered Leslie closed it behind them. At that moment the organ broke softly into music.

Nancy slipped her arm into her companion's.

"Oh, dear!" she whispered. "I believe there's a service on."

As she spoke an elderly clergyman in a surplice came out suddenly from a side door in the chancel. He walked slowly to the steps, and stood there with a book in his hand looking down the aisle towards them.

"It's our wedding service," said Leslie simply.

All the colour went suddenly out of Nancy's face. She stood for a moment as if turned to white marble, while the sound of the organ rose louder and louder, mounting up triumphantly into the fretted roof, and filling all the church with its joyous harmony. She tried to speak, but somehow or other the words refused to come. Then she felt Leslie's arm tighten, and she was walking up the aisle, while the music sank and died in low, melodious tones. She had a vague impression of two men getting up from the front pew.

"Gathered together—sight of God—face of this congregation—join together—man and woman—holy matrimony—honourable estate instituted——"

But this was impossible, absurd. She couldn't be married like this. What was Leslie thinking of? The man must stop.

The monotonous drone continued:

"Have this woman—wedded wife—live together—God's ordinance—holy estate matrimony—lover, comfort, honour, an' keeper—sickness and in health—forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?"

Leslie's voice came, cheerful and distinct:

"I will."

"Have this man—wedded husband—live together—God's ord'nance—holy estate matrimony. Obey him, serve him, love, honour, and keep him—sickness—health—forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?"

Nancy gasped.

"Who giveth this woman—married—this man?"

There was a shuffle of feet, and somebody stepped forward beside her.

Nancy found herself holding Leslie's hand. Her mind seemed to be a whirling wilderness of amazed protest. What was she to do? Why hadn't she spoken before? She wouldn't be married like this—she wouldn't—she wouldn't! It was hateful of Leslie! She'd—she'd—What was it the man wanted her to say?

"I, Nancy, take thee, George—wedded husband—have and to hold——"

Somehow she had stumbled through the responses, and then she was kneeling beside Leslie, and her hand was still in his.

It was too late now. She was married—married—married, and all the protests in the world would be worse than useless. Even the parson's drone seemed to ring with a note of finality.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

Of what happened immediately after, Nancy never had any very clear idea. She remembered signing a book, and shaking hands with two complete strangers, and being congratulated by the old clergyman. And at last she and Leslie were alone.

It was then that Nancy began to cry.

"Don't, dearest, don't!" said Leslie.

He took her in his arms, and kissed her wet eyes and quivering lips.

"Oh, how could you—how could you?" She hid her face against his coat, and somehow the laughter forced its way through her tears. "Oh, George, you beast, you beast, you bully!"

"It was the only way, my Nancy."

His voice was very tender, and the steady grey eyes looked down on her alight with love. She took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed her eyes.

"I'll never forgive you—never! It was horrible of you, George!" Then came the old mischievous smile, like a flash of sunshine through the rain. "However did you do it, dear?"

"I got a special licence on Saturday," said Leslie calmly. "Then I came down here, saw the parson, and told him to be ready at two o'clock. I said we might keep him waiting, so I would pay double fees."

Nancy burst into a ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George," she said, "I think you must be the devil!"

"Well, he took up the bargain quick enough. Then I told Morton, my partner, to come down with another car and wait outside the churchyard. Directly he saw me coming he was to go in and start the parson, and that's how everything was ready. It was quite a simple matter, really."

"But it's only just beginning," said Nancy. "Think of father and mother."

"I have," said Leslie. "Morton is driving them home. I have given him a letter explaining the circumstances. We shall go back in the other car."

Nancy collapsed.

"And then?" she inquired faintly.

"Then I shall take you to Claridge's, and go round and see your father. I want to apologize to him."

Nancy shuddered.

"What do you think he'll say?"

Leslie took her two hands and drew her towards him.

"Dearest," he said, "your father and I are going to be great friends."

She looked up into his strong, kind face. Then she gave a little happy laugh.

"George," she said, "I'm glad you've got a chin like that. It makes me feel so safe."

Tony and His Conscience

The taxi pulled up with a jerk opposite Hyde Court Mansions, and the Honourable Reginald Seton, in the glossiest of top hats and the most delicate of grey frock-coats, stepped out carefully on to the pavement. Then, with the graceful deliberation that marked all his movements, he extracted half-a-crown from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the driver.

The man pocketed the coin with a wheezy "Thank ye, sir," and, leaning over from his box, inquired furtively, "Wot's goin' to win ter-day, guv'nor?"

Reggie sighed.

"My bookmaker," he said, adjusting his field-glasses to a nicer angle. Then, with his head slightly on one side, he mounted the two or three stone steps that led into the big block of flats.

The liftman, who looked like a dirty edition of the All Highest, touched his cap as Reggie approached.

"Mr. Delmar's flat, sir?" he inquired, opening the door.

Reggie nodded.

"They tell me, sir," pursued the liftman, as he and Reggie progressed heavenwards, "that Little Eva's very 'ot to-day—very 'ot indeed, sir."

"How unpleasant for her jockey!" replied Reggie, with a slight shudder.

The liftman smiled respectfully.

"It's a good tip, sir," he observed. "I 'ad it straight from the stable."

Reggie looked at him with admiration.

"Did you really, Smith?" he said. "How clever of you! The only things I've ever had from a stable have been bills."

"Ah, well, sir," said the liftman indulgently, "you can afford to pay 'em."

Reggie shook his head.

"That's just where you're wrong, Smith; I can afford not to—which is much more important."

The lift stopped at the third landing, and Mr. Smith flung back the trellised iron gate. Then he stepped out after Reggie, and, crossing to the door exactly opposite, pressed the electric bell.

"Thank you, Smith," said Reggie languidly; "you are very efficient."

The bell was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with a face like a tired mask.

"Good-morning, Ropes," said Reggie. "Is Mr. Delmar up?"

Ropes stepped back, opening the door.

"Mr. Delmar is dressing, sir; I think he is expecting you."

"I know he is," said Reggie, advancing into the hall, and beginning to take off his gloves. "Has he ordered the car?"

"Nine-thirty sharp, sir."

Reggie smiled.

"Ah, well," he said, "I think we shall be ready by ten, with any luck."

"Yes, sir," replied Ropes; "I should think so, sir."

"You were always an optimist, Ropes," said Reggie.

At that moment a door on the farther side of the hall was thrown open and a voice—a peculiarly engaging, good-tempered sort of voice—inquired cheerfully:

"That you, Reggie?"

Reggie laid down his hat and stick on the settee.

"The answer," he said, "is in the affirmative."

"Well, come in," replied the voice, "and don't be an ass."

Accepting the first suggestion, Reggie walked across the hall.

The room which he entered was as comfortable as a man's bedroom has any right to be. A wood fire was crackling away pleasantly in the grate, and reflecting a comfortable glow on the two or three excellent specimens of Mr. Finch Stuart's talent which hung upon the walls.

On the bed sat Tony, tastefully draped in a white Turkish bath robe. He was smoking a cigarette and helping himself out of a bottle of champagne from the table beside him.

Reggie looked at him reprovingly.

"Tony," he said, "I thought you had long ago abandoned that disgusting English habit of eating breakfast."

Tony shook his head.

"You have always misjudged me," he said. "My real tastes are as simple as a schoolboy's. Have some?"

He poured out a glass and handed it to Reggie, at the same time casting a critical eye over the latter's clothes.

"My dear Reggie," he said, "you are very beautiful, but do you think that's the most suitable costume for motoring down to Newmarket in?"

"Quite," said Reggie contentedly, "if one goes inside."

"Oh," replied Tony, "you've arranged it, have you? May I hear the details?"

"Certainly," said Reggie, sipping gracefully from his glass. "You will perform your usual miracles with the steering-wheel, Musette will watch you with grave approval, and Gwendoline and I will sit behind and hold hands."

"And suppose Musette wants to go inside?"

Reggie smiled.

"I am not the least afraid of that," he said.

Tony got up from the bed and began to shed his bath robe.

"Well, you had better hold Gwendoline's hand as engagingly as you can," he said. "It will probably be your last chance, as far as I'm concerned."

Reggie looked at him with a faint wrinkle in his forehead.

"Is it a riddle, Tony?" he asked plaintively. "I am no good at riddles unless I'm slightly drunk."

"The answer," said Tony, selecting a shirt with some care, "is Little Eva. It's very painful, but the fact remains that if Little Eva doesn't win to-day there's an end of Antony Delmar."

Reggie paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

"You're not thinking of poisoning yourself, are you, Tony?" he asked, with interest. "Because, if so, a doctor chap once told me——"

Tony laughed.

"You're always very helpful, Reggie," he said; "but, as a matter of fact, I've not the least idea of doing anything so exciting. I only mean that unless Little Eva brings it off we've finished this particular chapter. I've no doubt Ropes will lend me a tenner, but, bar that, I shall be what Pat O'Donnell used to call 'bruk to the buff.'"

For the first time Reggie looked a little serious.

"Are things really as bad as that?" he asked.

"Worse," said Tony calmly. "Much worse. There are my unhappy tradesmen to be considered. That's the only point that worries me. I hate doing a tradesman, Reggie, but I'm afraid I shall have to."

"Of course you will," said Reggie hopefully. "We're always having to do unpleasant things in this life. It's what my uncle the bishop calls 'our duty,' You'll have to go bankrupt, Tony, and then borrow a few thousands and start over again."

Tony, who was adjusting his tie with some care, smiled.

"It's a good idea," he said, "but, unfortunately, I've rather forestalled it. The five thousand that I've got on Little Eva with Morris and Weaver was a sort of farewell testimonial from my friends. I think I touched everyone except you and Ropes, and Ropes has been paying the bills for at least a fortnight. I really can't go on any longer, or the poor fellow will have lost all he's robbed me of."

"Do you mean to say you've put the actual cash up?" demanded Reggie in horror.

"I had to, my dear Reggie. That little beast Murray, who runs the business, wouldn't take a 'pony' from me unless he saw the colour of it first."

"And what do you stand to win?"

Tony sighed.

"Twenty-seven thousand pounds," he said. "It's a beautiful sum, isn't it? I could pay my bills and live for nearly three years on it."

Reggie poured himself out the remainder of the champagne.

"You make me feel quite faint, Tony," he said, "you're so spacious." Then he took a long drink.

"And what do you propose doing," he added, "if Little Eva's beaten?"

"I shall have to work," said Tony.

Reggie stared at him in unaffected amazement.

"Have to what?" he repeated.

"Work," repeated Tony. "I believe it's very difficult and unpleasant, but I don't see any other prospect."

A mingled look of horror and admiration crept across Reggie's face.

"What could you do?" he asked breathlessly.

"I might drive a car," answered Tony hopefully. "I can't think of anything else at the moment."

Reggie took a deep breath,

"You're splendid, Tony," he said. "You remind me of Roosevelt. But of course it's absurd. You must marry some woman with money. There are plenty of them who'd jump at you."

Tony shivered.

"Fancy being jumped at by a woman!" he said plaintively. "It makes me feel like a new hat."

"Well, you're a bad hat," retorted Reggie, laughing; "that's quite near enough. Seriously, though, my dear Tony, you can't possibly be allowed to go under. London would never be the same again. It would be as bad as Romano's being burnt down. You must marry, of course. What's the use of being the most popular man in London if you can't marry a rich woman when you want to?"

"Well, suggest somebody."

Reggie pondered for a moment.

"Why not Mrs. Rosenbaum?"

Tony picked an errant thread off his perfectly cut blue suit. "In order to be facetious, Reggie," he said, "it is not necessary to be disgusting."

Reggie sighed.

"I am doing my best," he declared. "What about Musette? She obviously has the good taste to appreciate you, and she seems to have plenty of money. By the way, Tony, who is she really? Cohen asked me about her after he met her with you at Kempton, and when I said I didn't know, the swine grinned. If I hadn't had a pair of Gordon's boots on I should have kicked him."

Tony shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear Reggie," he said, "I know very little more about Musette than you do. I met her exactly two months ago in the Bois, when, in her extremely sensible way, she stopped and asked me to get rid of some futile Frenchman who had been following her round for the best part of an hour."

"How charming!" said Reggie. "That sort of thing never happens to me. Did you hurt him?"

"I think he shuddered a little at my accent," replied Tony. "Anyhow, he cleared out, and I took Musette back to the Hotel de Paris, where she was staying. There I met Mrs. Watson, and they asked me to call on them in London."

"It sounds like Phillips Oppenheim at his best," said Reggie. "But surely you must have found out something more since then. What relation is she to the old lady, and where does the girl get her money from?"

Tony shook his head.

"I've no idea," he said. "She has never offered to tell me anything, and so, of course, I've never asked her. We've just been pals—that's all."

Reggie helped himself to a cigarette.

"Well, you can't live in Curzon Street on nothing," he said. "I've tried it. They must have at least five thousand a year. I think you will have to marry her, Tony, and trust to luck."

Tony laughed a little uneasily.

"Perhaps she wouldn't marry me," he said.

"Any woman would marry you if you asked her nicely. You have got such an alluring voice."

Tony suddenly straightened himself.

"Well, I'm not going to marry Musette," he said. "It would be a damned shame." Then he walked across the room and rang the bell.

Reggie said nothing. With his head on one side he smoked away thoughtfully at his cigarette.

The silence was broken by the entrance of Ropes.

"Is the car round?" inquired Tony.

"It has been outside exactly twenty minutes, sir," replied Ropes equably. "I have put in the luncheon basket and three bottles of champagne. Everything is quite ready, sir."

"Good," said Tony, picking up two or three stray sovereigns from the dressing-table. "I will now put on my coat, Ropes."

The impassive man-servant stepped out into the hall, reappearing a moment later with a magnificent astrachan-lined garment, in which Tony proceeded to envelop himself.

"If any one should call, sir?" asked Ropes interrogatively.

Tony picked up his cap.

"Tell them," he said, "that it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Yes, sir," replied Ropes gravely.

Three minutes afterwards, with Tony at the wheel and Reggie reclining luxuriously in the beautiful limousine body, the big Rolls-Royce drew noiselessly away down Piccadilly. Whatever Tony's shortcomings might be, he could certainly drive a car. Threading his way through the traffic with a very poetry of judgment, he glided round the corner of Park Lane, and, cutting across the bows of an onrushing motor omnibus, disappeared in the direction of Curzon Street before the indignant brake-grabbing driver of the latter could recall a single adequate word.

In front of a small, recently painted house he brought the big six-cylinder to a standstill. Then he turned round.

"I'll ring," he said. "Don't you trouble to get out."

"I wasn't going to," replied Reggie pleasantly.

As a matter of fact, there was no necessity for the exertion, for just as Tony was preparing to disembark, the door of the house opened, and a tall, pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in blue serge, stepped out on to the pavement.

Tony jumped down and took off his cap, while Reggie gracefully rose and imitated his example.

The girl smiled gravely.

"I am afraid you must have had a bad night," she said; "you are only twenty minutes late."

"Mine is the hand that dragged him from his lair, Miss Gilbert," said Reggie languidly. "But for me he would still be in his bath."

The girl looked at him.

"That was very kind of you, Mr. Seton," she said gently. "I have heard you are rather an expert at getting out of hot water yourself."

Tony chuckled.

"Bravo, Musette!" he said. "Right on the point. If you want to follow it up, say you are going to ride inside."

Musette's eyes twinkled.

"Why, of course!" she said. "Where else should I sit?"

Reggie, who was still standing, looked at her appealingly.

"You have driven with Tony before," he said, "and you know the risks you are running. Death is much easier on the box-seat. Besides, I want to hold Gwendoline's hand."

"I am not at all sure that it is respectable," said Musette severely.

"It will only be her left hand," pleaded Reggie.

"Oh, well, in that case," said Musette; and, without further objection, she seated herself alongside of Tony.

Five minutes' flirtation with death brought the car to Portman Mansions, where Gwendoline, a charming blend of Dresden china and Paquin, floated delicately into the limousine.

Then away past Euston and King's Cross, up through the sordid dreariness of Pentonville and so out on to the far-flung Broxbourne road.

Once clear of the general traffic, Tony began to enjoy himself. Over the first ten police-ridden miles the big car glided along at a steady twenty-five, and then, as the houses became fewer, and the green fields began to appear on either side of the road, the index finger on the speedometer crept encouragingly up.

Musette, who seemed to be blessed with delightfully steady nerves, watched him with frank interest. She made no attempt to talk, such conversation as there was being almost wholly confined to spirited comments from Tony on the extraordinary prevalence of deaf and lame pedestrians. Indeed, his only departure from this interesting monologue was an occasional hurried request to Musette to "Give 'em the Gabriel," a presentation which she effected with promptness and efficiency.

From the tonneau behind, Reggie, who was softly stroking Gwendoline's hand, surveyed them with languid approval. "I don't suppose," he said contentedly, "that there are four such charming people as ourselves in the whole of England."

Gwendoline looked a little doubtful.

"I think Musette is very nice," she said, "but I don't quite understand her."

"You should never understand any one," replied Reggie. "It's like knowing the answer to a riddle."

"Does Tony love her?" asked Gwendoline.

Reggie thought for a moment,

"I'm inclined to think it's more serious than that," he said. "I have an idea that he likes her."

Gwendoline wrinkled up her forehead.

"I can't love any one I don't like," she said decisively. "I've tried several times, and it's always been a failure."

"I can," observed Reggie frankly. "I love lots of people, but I don't think I like any one very much except you and Tony, and Martin, my valet. If you all died, I should become what my uncle calls 'a slave to passion.'"

"It sounds rather nice," said Gwendoline.

Reggie sighed. "It's dreadfully expensive," he observed.

Except for a slight misunderstanding with a farm cart on the borders of Cambridgeshire, which Tony patched up with a charming apology and a sovereign, no untoward incident marred the remainder of the drive. Half-past one was just striking as the car entered the outskirts of Newmarket. Through the broad, grey main street, with its stray race-horses and its lounging throng of gaitered, clean-shaven men, Tony steered a sober and considerate course. The town was full of visitors, and almost every other man who passed either touched his cap or waved a cheery greeting.

Musette smiled.

"You seem to be the best-known person in London, Tony," she said.

"To the police," said Tony modestly, "I believe I am."

A swift run up the hill, a sharp turn to the right, and the Heath, fresh and green in the crisp October air, stretched out gloriously before them. Tony brought the car to a standstill just beyond the enclosure, and then, leaning over, affectionately patted the dashboard.

"Good girl!" he said.

Musette nodded.

"She has done splendidly. You must give her a nice helping of oil while I get lunch ready."

The latter operation did not take long. A well-meant offer of assistance from Reggie and Gwendoline was firmly, if politely, declined, and by the time Tony had attended to the car's requirements, a pleasing medley of champagne, lobster mayonnaise, cold tongue, and Madeira jelly was set out invitingly on the portable table inside the body.

"Here," said Reggie, raising his glass and leaning back luxuriously, "is the health of the gentleman who invented that charming phrase, 'the idle rich.'"

"You might have drunk mine first," protested Gwendoline, "after holding my hand the whole way down."

"Reggie," said Tony, "has the most perfect manner and the most imperfect manners of anybody I know. Musette, your health!"

Musette bowed gravely.

"My toast," she said, "is that you may all back the winner."

"Tony," said Reggie, "has backed Little Eva. I think I shall do the same. The liftman told me that she was 'very 'ot.'"

"Is that what they call 'a tip?'" asked Gwendoline, wrinkling her forehead.

"Hush, child," said Reggie, patting her hand. "Such expressions are not seemly for a young girl to use."

"I am sorry, dear," said Gwendoline, "but you might put ten bob on for me. I want some new gloves badly. You have nearly worn out this pair."

"I can't be left out," said Musette, producing her purse. "Tony, you look honest. Here's a sovereign for Little Eva."

Tony took the coin.

"I'll hedge against you all," he said. "It may bring me luck."

"Well, here goes my last fiver," said Reggie, with a sigh. "If Little Eva's beaten I shall dine with you all in turn next week."

"Have we time for a quarter of a cigarette?" asked Gwendoline. "I feel the gambler's tremors coming on. Look at my hand. It's shaking like a leaf."

"A white rose petal," said Reggie gallantly, "would be a more accurate simile. Have one of mine. They're Russian, and not paid for."

Gwendoline helped herself delicately.

"Reggie," she said, "never pays for anything; he thinks it's vulgar."

"It certainly isn't common," observed Tony. "Reggie carries it to extremes, however. I remember his tailor once saying to him with tears in his voice, 'Ah, Mr. Seton, I shall either have to give you up or else take my lad away from Harrow. I can't afford the two.'"

"And which did he do?" asked Gwendoline puffing out a little cloud of smoke.

Tony waved his hand towards Reggie's perfect frock-coat.

"There," he said, "is the answer."

Gwendoline shook her head sadly.

"I have always thought," she said, "that there was some dark secret in Reggie's life. Hallo, there's a bell. Let's put away these things and go and see what's happening."

Between them, Tony and Musette quickly packed up the débris of luncheon, and then, leaving the car in charge of a courteous, if somewhat heavily suborned, policeman, they all four made their way into the enclosure.

As is usually the case on Cambridgeshire day, the Heath was packed in a manner which must have been highly gratifying to the directors of the race-course. On the further side of the track the spectators stretched away down to the bushes in a long continuous line, while both the stands and the enclosure were as full of people as such superior and expensive places could rightly expect to be.

As soon as the first two races were over, there came a rush for the paddock, where the Cambridgeshire horses were being saddled.

"I vote we stop where we are," said Tony, turning to the others. "What does any one say?"

"Just as you please, as far as I'm concerned," said Reggie. "I like to have a look at the runners, but I'm always ready to be unselfish."

Tony laughed.

"Why, Reggie," he said, "if it wasn't for the tail you wouldn't know one end of a horse from the other."

"Of course not," admitted Reggie calmly; "but I like to walk round and say that so-and-so looks a bit fine-drawn, and thingumybob a bit tucked up. It's wonderful how people always agree with you."

"I shouldn't," said Gwendoline, with decision. "I never agree with you, Reggie, except when you tell me I'm beautiful."

Tony raised his hand.

"Don't quarrel, children," he said, "until after the race is over. I shall break down if you do."

"Here they come!" cried Reggie, as the small group of men clustered round the entrance to the paddock suddenly scattered to right and left. "Look out for Little Eva."

A handsome chestnut, his coat gleaming like new bronze in the mellow afternoon sunlight, was the first to appear. He came out sideways, prancing and shaking his head, and then, twisting round, galloped up past the stands, sending the earth flying beneath his heels.

"That's Colchester, number twelve on the menu," said Tony. "He's the only one I'm afraid of."

"Let's hope he'll break his neck," said Reggie piously. "Here are the others."

One after another the fifteen runners cantered down the course, being greeted with successive cheers that swelled or sunk according to their position in the betting. The loudest welcome of all was reserved for the last, a beautiful, shapely black, carrying the famous Rothschild colours.

Tony moistened his lips. "There she goes," he said quietly. "Pretty mare, isn't she?"

No one answered; only Musette was looking at him. The others were gazing down the course after the horses.

From the stands the start was plainly visible. One could see the tall posts of the gate, and the various runners fidgeting about like small black dots. For about five minutes the movement continued, while a silent tension gradually spread throughout the thousands of watching figures.

The sharp ting of a bell, a sudden gasping cry, "They're off!" and everyone was leaning forward, staring eagerly towards the broken line that rolled unsteadily up the course.

On they came, while louder and ever louder the vast volume of voices swelled into a frenzied roar of excitement.

"The Dryad wins!" "Colchester! Colchester!" "Little Eva for a hundred!" "The Dryad! The Dryad!"

Neck and neck in the centre of the course three horses were sweeping along, clear by a couple of lengths from the parti-coloured medley behind. A hundred yards from home and they were still level, the gap behind them widening at every stride. Suddenly one of them faltered. A sudden shout, "The Dryad's beat!" burst from a thousand throats, and the next moment, locked in an apparently inseparable stride, Colchester and Little Eva came thundering past the post.

The wild cheering died down into a brief spell of almost intolerable silence. Every eye was glued to the tall frame, waiting the fateful decision.

With a perfectly steady hand Tony lit a cigarette. "Colchester's won," he said quietly. "A short head, I should think."

The words had hardly left his lips when a hoarse roar proclaimed the hoisting of the numbers.

12
 6
 9

Tony laughed lightly. "I thought so," he said. "Reggie, you've lost your fiver. Let us hope it will teach you not to gamble."

But for once in a way Reggie had no answer. He was staring down the course, biting jerkingly at an unlit cigarette.

It was Gwendoline who broke the silence. "Poor Reggie," she said. "I can't let you starve. You must come and dine with us."

Tony thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Reggie's five-pound note.

"Musette," he observed, "there is still corn in Egypt. What about the Savoy?"

Musette, who had been looking at him with rather troubled eyes, shook her head and smiled.

"No, Tony," she said; "I should be haunted by Mr. Seton's ghost. You must dine with me at Curzon Street."

"Perhaps it would be more decent," said Tony. "After all, Reggie was a friend of mine before he went under. I'll send the fiver to the Anti-Socialist fund."

Reggie, who seemed to have recovered himself, turned round with a laugh.

"Yours is a callous heart, Tony," he said. "Suppose we leave this scene of vice and get back to town. There's sure to be a poisonous crush after the last race."

"I'm ready," replied Musette.

"So am I," added Gwendoline, "unless Tony wants to stay."

Tony buttoned his coat.

"Mr. Delmar's interest in racing," he observed, "is temporarily suspended."

* * * * * * *

It was just six o'clock when the big dust-stained car pulled up outside Portman Mansions. Reggie opened the door, and Gwendoline, after collecting her various possessions, rustled daintily out.

"Eight o'clock, Reggie," she said, "and there's a woodcock for dinner. Don't be late. Good-bye, Miss Gilbert. Good-bye, Tony; I'm frightfully sorry Little Eva lost."

"Your griefs are mine, Gwendoline," observed Tony gravely. "Where do you want to get out, Reggie?"

"Oh, drop Miss Gilbert next," said Reggie. "I'll come along with you to Hyde Court."

A few minutes brought them to Curzon Street, where Musette alighted.

"Eight o'clock also, Tony," she said; "but I'm afraid there's no woodcock. It will be an impromptu feast."

"I'm not greedy," said Tony. "It is one of my few good points."

Reggie climbed into the vacant seat alongside of him, and, waving farewell to Musette, they slid off noiselessly round the corner. Neither of them spoke until the car drew up outside Tony's flat. Then Reggie laid his hand on his friend's arm.

"Don't be stupid, Tony," he said. "Marry Musette. You'll make her very happy."

Tony remained silent.

"Very well," said Reggie, with a sigh; "it's not my business. There is only one other thing I want to say. As far as it goes, Tony, you know that what's mine is yours. You'll let me do what I can?"

"My dear Reggie," said Tony, "there's only one luxury I can afford to carry away from this absurd city, and that's the thought that there was one person I never borrowed any money from. Still, it's quite charming of you, Reggie. Come and have breakfast with me in the morning."

Reggie nodded.

Leaving the car in charge of the porter on duty, Tony climbed a little wearily up the stairs that led to his flat. As he opened the door he was met in the hall by the impassive Ropes. Tony looked at him with a smile.

"I see from your expression, Ropes," he said, "that you have been reading the evening paper."

Ropes inclined his head.

"If you will pardon me, sir," he observed, "I was deeply distressed to see that Little Eva had lost, very deeply distressed."

Tony took off his coat and hat, and handed them over to his sorrowing retainer.

"Ah well, Ropes," he remarked, "we've had a pleasant time while it lasted. You must go to Lord North; he's been pestering me to give you up for years. You'll have a bigger scope there for your peculiar abilities."

Ropes shook his head.

"I shall be sorry to disappoint his lordship, sir, but it would be impossible for me to accept another place. If you can no longer retain my services, I shall retire."

"I suppose you are very rich, Ropes?" said Tony sadly.

Ropes bowed. "Quite comfortably off, thank you, sir. I trust, sir, that, if you will excuse my mentioning such a matter, the question of wages will not lead you to dismiss me before it is quite convenient. I should be deeply distressed if you allowed such a consideration to influence you, sir."

"You shall at least have the felicity of helping me dress for dinner, Ropes," said Tony gravely. "We will discuss these unpleasantly sordid topics to-morrow morning."

Half an hour later a taxi pulled up outside Musette's house in Curzon Street, and Tony, faultlessly accoutred, stepped out. He was shown into a room on the left of the hall, where Musette, gracefully slender in a dark blue evening frock, was sitting back in an easy chair, turning over the pages of a novel.

"It will be a duet," she said, holding out her hand, which Tony kissed; "poor Aunt Jemima is in bed with a headache."

"A day of disasters," observed Tony. "I felt it when I got up this morning."

The door opened, and a neatly dressed parlour-maid announced dinner.

Musette laid down her novel and, rising from her chair, accepted his arm.

"We'll hope, at all events," she said, "that the food will be an exception."

They crossed the hall to the dining-room, where a small round table, bright with silver and glasses, stood out attractively against the black oak panelling of the walls. The only light came from four red-shaded candles in the centre.

Musette's "impromptu feast" turned out to be a dainty little dinner which would have won the approval of Colonel Newnham Davis. Some excellent soup was followed by grilled sole, sweetbreads, and a partridge, the whole concluding with an alluring symphony on toast in which eggs and old Madeira supplied the leading motif. Assisted by a bottle of Lafitte, and a couple of glasses of "Bristol cream," Tony's immediate troubles faded luxuriously from his memory. He possessed to a supreme degree that enviable gift of living in the present, and as he chatted away cheerfully to Musette, the thought that on the morrow he would be facing an unsympathetic world without a penny in his pocket never once intruded its unpleasant image.

It was only in the small room afterwards, when he was sitting over the fire smoking a cigar and watching the light flickering softly on Musette's white arms, that the sudden realization of his position gripped him. With a horrible abruptness it occurred to him that this was probably the last time he would see her. Up till that moment he had never thought about his relations with Musette. Without making love to her he had drifted into a kind of charming intimacy, quite different from anything he had previously known in a fairly extensive experience. Now the thought that he was going to lose her appeared to him suddenly in all its naked simplicity. He stared into the fire, trying to grasp the unpleasant revelation.

Musette leaned forward, looking up at him.

"What's the matter, Tony?" she asked.

Her hand was on the arm of the chair, and Tony, almost unconsciously, laid his own on it. Her soft and cool clasp answered him with a little affectionate pressure.

"My poor Tony," she said, "you look as worried as Saul. What is it?"

The devil, or whoever is responsible for our temptations, suddenly brought up in Tony's mind the recollection of Reggie's parting words. He looked down longingly into Musette's upturned face. Here in this strange gracious girl lay a wonderful escape from the black morass into which he had stumbled. She met his gaze with steady, wide-opened eyes and a rather troubled smile.

"What is it, Tony dear?" she repeated. "Tell me."

He slowly moved his hand until it imprisoned her arm, and then bent down towards her.

"Musette," he whispered, "Musette."

Her breast rose and fell like some beautiful white flower, but she remained silent and motionless. Tony was so near now that he could feel the warm breath from her parted lips, and for a moment he forgot everything in the supreme hunger to kiss her. It was as he did so that his conscience suddenly broke through the habits of a lifetime.

He stood up quietly in front of her and put his hands behind his back.

"I was going to ask you to marry me, Musette," he said.

Musette nodded.

"But now," said Tony, after a short pause, "I am going to tell you the truth instead." He sat down and stared into the fire. "I'm ruined, Musette. I owe about ten thousand pounds, and I haven't a penny in the world. I've spent and gambled away every shilling my father left me. I had the last five thousand I can possibly raise on Little Eva."

Musette, who had been listening to him with the same half-grave, half-smiling expression on her face, got up from her chair and crossed the room to a small satin-wood writing-table in the corner. She opened the drawer and took out something.

"Is this your cheque, Tony?" she asked, handing him a small slip of pink paper.

Tony looked at it in bewilderment.

"I don't understand," he said.

Musette sat down and folded her hands.

"Murray brought it to me, instead of paying it into the bank. I thought if you asked me to marry you I'd give it you back as a good-bye present." She paused. "As you haven't done so, Tony," she added, "I think I shall have to cash it."

Tony dropped the cheque on the table.

"I don't understand," he repeated helplessly.

"My father's real name," said Musette, "was Morris."

Tony stared at her.

"Morris," he repeated mechanically.

Musette smiled.

"Well, he liked to think it was Morris," she added. "I believe, as a strict matter of fact, that it was originally Moses. At least, mother always said so. Anyhow, he was a very good father. He left me his business, Tony, and Murray to help me look after it."

Tony jumped up from his chair.

"Great Scot!" he cried.

Musette shook her head.

"No, Tony," she said. "He's a Jew, too, only, like father, he's ashamed of it. I'm the only one in the firm with any honest British blood. At least, I believe mother came from Dublin. She was never quite sure about it."

Tony said nothing; he only stared at her.

"It brings me in about nine thousand a year," added Musette, with reflective inconsequence; "so it would be a pity to drop it, wouldn't it?"

There was a silence, lasting for about a minute. Then Tony came over to Musette, and stood looking down into her eyes.