Читать книгу Sands of Fortune - Alan Sullivan - Страница 5

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A SHORT time after the events already recorded, Mrs. Crewe turned over in bed and pressed a button. Ten minutes later a maid appeared with breakfast. The lady of the house—the new house in Sussex Place—sipped her coffee and read through the social column of a certain London daily. From her expression it did not seem that what she read gave her any satisfaction whatever. She laid aside the paper and yielded herself to thought.

It is no part of this record of the Crewe affair to say more about the period of transition from Acacia Villa to Sussex Place than to mention that it took effect with a sort of volcanic energy. The new house was available on long lease, and the Crewes lapped it up as a cat laps milk. Toward the expense they each contributed equally. Then, when they moved in, Mr. Crewe sprang one of his little surprises. He seemed full of them of late.

“My dear,” he said, “I have decided to gratify an ambition of many years. I have taken a small place in the country—Sussex—about forty miles from town. Its chief attraction is the study, an admirable room, oak-panelled and opening on to the lawn. It is exactly what I have often pictured to myself.”

It was at breakfast when he said this—he always chose breakfast for his announcements—and Mrs. Crewe felt rather a thrill. The wife with one establishment—the husband with another! It sounded like something out of a novel.

“But, James, I thought you——”

Mr. Crewe made a little gesture. “I cannot do my work in town—the kind I propose to do now—because it will be very different from my past output. I need solitude in which to arrange my thoughts. Just to think,” here he leaned forward, speaking very earnestly, “that my opportunity has come to be numbered amongst the elect.”

Joan was immensely intrigued. Queer that he should have done the sort of thing she contemplated herself after a fling.

“What are you going to write, Dad?”

He waved a small hand. “A classic-something that will live after me and be included in standard libraries.” His gentle eyes became moist at the prospect.

“Aren’t we going to see you till it’s done, James?” put in his wife.

“On the contrary, I hope you will drive down often to see me, especially for week-ends. I can put you all up. You see, I never had your—well—your social instinct. I like people, I think, but I like things and thoughts rather better, so when I am with others—especially women—I’m often at a loss. So my being out of London will not upset you.”

It was all quite true, and she knew it. He had shown signs of unrest for a month, then took his car—which he drove oblivious of all other traffic—and, alone, scoured about the southern counties till he found what he wanted. When he found he bought, not questioning the price.

Now, standing on the verge of this new, real life, he got his family in a different perspective. They were destined to travel their road, he his own. But he did not want to lose them. He actually did fear society because he was abnormally modest, but by himself and in his new surroundings he reckoned that he could develop a novel side of himself. Why else should one have the promptings and soaring ambition that stirred so restlessly in his heart?

“Can you put us all up, James?”

“Yes, my dear, easily; if you will be contented with the simple life.”

That conversation had taken place weeks previously, and now Mr. Crewe was installed. It was odd not to have him in Sussex Place, but Mrs. Crewe got more used to it every day, and life afforded many distractions. This morning, however, after reading the social column, it seemed that there was a long way still to go. She was steeped in reflection when Joan came in, perfectly shingled and looking very fresh and young.

“Morning, mother. See the paper?”

“Yes, we’re not mentioned.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t expect it for a subscription dance.”

“I don’t see why not. You looked awfully well, dear, and I wouldn’t have left early if I hadn’t been tired. Was Mr. Courtney nice?”

“He’s all right,” said Joan indifferently.

“Has he known Humphrey long?”

“Not very—and he didn’t introduce any other men. I say, mother.”

“Yes?”

“We’re in wrong; I mean we’re not in at all.”

Mrs. Crewe murmured something inaudible.

Joan indicated the paper. “Take those names—they’re of people who’ve either done something worth while, or know everybody, or are of good families. They’re in it. We come into some money, and that’s as far as we’ve got. There’s only one thing to do.”

“Well, child?”

“Buy friends. You’ve got to engage someone to launch us. It’s a waste of time and money till we do.”

“I was thinking of the very same thing. There’s a place in South Molton Street where——”

Joan shook her head, picked up “The Times,” and read:

“Peer’s daughter, aged twenty-four, seeks position as social secretary and personal companion. Unquestionable references given and required. Box 19991.”

“That’s the sort of thing—you mentioned it yourself two months ago.”

“I wonder who that is,” said her mother vaguely.

“No one we know; I never met a peer’s daughter.”

“How much does one offer in such a case?”

Joan shrugged her shoulders. “Probably less than you imagine. That advertisement means that some girl is very hard up.”

“Did you speak to Humphrey about it?”

“No, it isn’t his affair.”

Mrs. Crewe reflected that if Humphrey fell in love with a peer’s daughter and married her it would solve everything. Perhaps that was what the P.D. was looking for.

“You might as well write,” she hazarded.

“I’ll ask her to call here, and we can have a look at each other.”

Joan went off, and Mrs. Crewe began to dress. She was really very lonely. As a trial trip she had subscribed to various charities, on the committees of which were well-known names, in the hope of being asked to serve herself. All she got was a series of letters beginning, “The Board directs me to express its grateful thanks for——” So that took her nowhere. Subscription dances—well—Humphrey went to one or two, then, being very busy himself and hard at work with Cassidy on most evenings, he introduced young Courtney—whose ticket was always bought for him. Courtney danced well, as he was expected to, but Joan found him getting rather too attentive. And he didn’t know many people either. Then there were concerts and theatres, with the big car—Mrs. Crewe’s own car—always in attendance, but that didn’t advance matters. They had the Morgans to dinner several times—old friends who lived near Acacia Villa—but the Morgans were too overwhelmed with servants and seven courses to dare to reciprocate. So what with one thing and another, with James buried in the country, with shopping losing its thrill, with the empty luxury of the big house, with what Mrs. Crewe took to be the condescending manner of the butler, life seemed to have become a sort of golden desert surrounded by a mirage of desirable people who evaporated every time she tried to approach.

Three days later, at tea time, the butler announced: “The Honourable Angela Veering, madam,” in a voice that carried rather a new tone.

Mrs. Crewe had just time to exchange a swift glance with Joan when a girl came in, tall, very fair, in a perfectly cut black tailor-made. Mrs. Crewe had an instant of uncertainty whether one should use “The Honourable” in speech or not, then held out her hand. The girl smiled at them both, accepted tea, and looked up with the frankest possible expression. Joan, who was studying her very hard, liked her at once. There ensued a little silence, slightly strained.

“You came about the—er—advertisement,” began Mrs. Crewe, conscious that this was the first time she had spoken to the nobility.

The visitor nodded and smiled again. “Yes, and I suppose we’ve each been wondering what the other would be like. I know I have.”

Mrs. Crewe felt more at home. “We have too. You see,” she went on, making up her mind to be as frank as the situation permitted, “my time is very much taken up and my daughter doesn’t know many people in London. So it’s rather lonely for her, and we thought from what you said that—well—it might be just the thing.”

Miss Veering seemed to understand perfectly, and Mrs. Crewe went on with gathering assurance.

“My husband is an author and lives in the country, where he has taken a place, and my son is a financial man and very occupied.”

“Thanks so much for telling me.” It would have surprised Mrs. Crewe to know that what interested the visitor most was the fact that Mr. Crewe was an author. “About myself; my father—he was Lord Veering—died last year, and things were left in such a mess that now I’ve got to do something. So here I am.”

“Of course you know London very well?” said Joan.

“One does—which is just the trouble and makes life too expensive.”

Mrs. Crewe felt a glow of satisfaction. “One does—too expensive.” Matters began to look extremely promising.

“Everything is very costly nowadays,” she murmured in a tone suggesting that she did not care in the least. “Had you thought of the—ah—salary you would ask?”

Miss Veering nodded. “I’ve thought a lot about it—that is if I find I can do just what you want done.” She hesitated a moment, then, very much liking the look in Joan’s face, decided not to be influenced by the evidences of sudden wealth all around her. Also she was thankful at not finding the purse-proud family she had dreaded. “I thought of two hundred and fifty pounds a year, found, if that was all right; and since you’ll want to know about me personally, you might write to some of my friends.” She mentioned a few names, most of which Mrs. Crewe remembered from the social columns. “You’d entertain, I suppose?”

Mrs. Crewe, trying to keep all eagerness out of her voice, assured her of this, also that the salary mentioned was quite reasonable, after which Joan joined in and the talk became general. Then Joan, with no further thought of references, took Miss Veering upstairs to see her proposed room. Once there she gave a little laugh, and spoke without any formality whatever.

“You see,” she said, looking the other girl straight in the face, “we’ve got money, but not much else. Father came into it—a lot of it—two months ago; and though you’ll think me an idiot, neither mother nor I know just what to do with it. Father is not interested in money, and has gone into the country to write a classic. Humphrey is going to be a financial man, and I believe he’ll make more money. There are a lot of things we want, but we don’t know the best way of getting them. That is why we answered your advertisement. I—I thought I’d better tell you this as soon as we were alone—I couldn’t expect mother to say it.”

“May I smoke?” queried Miss Veering.

“Of course.”

The visitor lit a cigarette and paused for a moment. She looked very thoughtful, and distinctly handsome with her delicate nose, small ears, faintly pencilled brows, and rather large mouth. Her eyes were grey, very frank, and expressive. To Joan she seemed to have lost a touch of coldness that characterised her at first.

“I’m awfully glad you said that, because it lets me know just where I stand if you really want me. We seem to fit, don’t we, for though I’ve only two hundred a year of my own I’ve heaps of friends. We had a house in London as well as Veering Hall before the smash came. I’ll tell you about that some day. But if your mother agrees, I don’t think we should decide on more than a six month engagement to begin with. If that’s all right we can carry on. I say, do you mind if I ask a beastly personal question?”

“No—what is it?”

“Are you engaged?”

Joan laughed. “I awfully nearly was, but kept out of it, thank Heaven.”

Miss Veering looked relieved. “I’m glad, and it makes everything much more simple. I was too, but—well—perhaps I’ll tell you some day.”

Almost at once on her arrival in Sussex Place Angela discovered that Mrs. Crewe hoped for a good deal more than she was able to provide. So far as concerned Joan, the same difficulty did not exist. It was one thing to introduce a girl of nearly one’s own age to one’s friends, but quite another to launch a middle-aged woman in the uncharted seas of London society. The thing weighed on her mind, and she decided to put it straight to Joan.

“I don’t see what I’m to do,” she said, “and before it goes any further I ought to tell you. It’s easy enough about you, because we can do things together. That dance to-night, for instance. I’ve got two men, you’ve got the car, and that’s all we need. But where does your mother come in?”

Joan, sitting on a table, swung her slim legs. “She is rather left out: but what do you mean by ‘before it goes any further?’ ”

“That perhaps, after all, it might be better for you to pay a fee to be introduced—it’s often done—quite a big fee. They ask you to their house—to stay, of course, for the season—and your mother could go too. On the face of it, you’re old friends of the family—though everyone knows you’re not. Then that person, whoever it is, entertains—and you’re it. Lady Pendringham got a thousand pounds and all exes for bringing out a girl last year; and, of course, she needed the money very much. Had you thought of this? I hope it doesn’t sound as though I don’t like my job, but I felt I ought to tell you. You see, I’d look like a fool going round to people twice my age and saying, ‘Please be nice to Mrs. Crewe who is paying me two hundred and fifty a year.’ ”

It seemed to Joan that her mother’s position in this undertaking was rather pathetic, and it was the daughter’s turn to feel a sense of responsibility. Her own way was clear enough, but what was one to do with one’s mother? Angela was secretly amused, and reflected that since these were the days of youth and not middle age it was up to middle age to look after itself. Queer to think of people being so anxious to get into society when it meant so little to those already there.

“I think your mother is doing the best thing now,” she hazarded.

“Subscribing to those charities?”

“Yes, and that’s the same old game very often. They get a marchioness or someone as patron because she’s a drawing card. The marchioness has her eyes open too. I think if your mother is just patient and keeps up her subscriptions the thing will work. And, after all, it’s a good cause.”

Joan laughed. “You ought to hear Humphrey on mother and me.”

Angela, feeling that the ice was rather thin, said nothing. Humphrey was to be at Sussex Place for dinner that night for the first time since she arrived, and she had given him more than a passing thought. Her experience had been that where both men and money were involved, the men were much the same. If they had it they overvalued themselves—if they wanted it they were unscrupulous. The effect, so far as Humphrey was concerned, was to make her feel rather stiff.

The feeling lasted through dinner, though there was nothing about Humphrey to object to. She quite liked his eyes, though she knew that she was being studied with a shrewdness much keener than she encountered on her first visit to the Crewe’s new house. It made her a little self-conscious. She noticed that Humphrey joked about the days in Acacia Villa, and that the jokes were not very welcome. But he seemed in earnest about life.

Had she known it, he found himself rather in earnest about her too. He was not impressionable, but remembered things about people, their gestures and mannerisms, and was rather susceptible to their atmosphere. As a result of his study of Angela he decided that someone or something had wounded her deeply. He was thinking about this, and watching the graceful way in which she used her hands, when Joan asked if he would not come to the dance with them.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to meet Cassidy later. We’re going to be partners,” he added, with a glance at Angela.

“Do financial men work all night?”

“I’m not one yet,” he laughed, “and you have your men, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I can easily find another girl.”

Mrs. Crewe was quite puzzled. Apparently young people went to people’s houses and brought whom they liked—uninvited.

“No thanks,” said Humphrey, “I can’t to-night.”

He had hoped she would say that she would dance with him and tell one of the men not to come. But there was no suggestion of this. It seemed that her face was definitely cold, though quite lovely. She wore black that night, and it made her skin like alabaster.

“When is the partnership coming off?” asked his mother.

“Next month: we got the office to-day.”

Mrs. Crewe looked quite proud, and from that her imagination moved on, bracketing Angela with Humphrey. “Mr. and the Hon. Mrs. Humphrey Crewe!” How well they’d go together.

“He’s so busy now that I see very little of him,” she remarked plaintively. “And when he takes up company promoting it will be worse than ever.”

“My father did that, and we lost everything,” said Angela in a strained tone.

Mrs. Crewe was quite shocked. “My dear, I’m so sorry.” She had a vague feeling that subjects like this were not ventilated at dinner.

“It was called the Colonial and Foreign Land Company,” went on the girl. “Did you ever hear of it?”

Humphrey shook his head and tucked away the name in a retentive memory.

“So be careful of foreign land.” Then, with a sudden wistfulness, “I wish you could have seen Veering Hall: it’s so lovely. Some people called Burdock bought it—Manchester people—I don’t know them. They got furniture and everything.”

Humphrey wanted to explain that he had no intention of speculating, but said nothing because now he saw what had hurt the girl. He compared her as she must have been in her father’s house to a social secretary at two hundred and fifty pounds a year.

He saw the two girls into the car, and went off, still thinking about Angela, very much attracted in spite of her distant manner, and in no way impressed by the fact that she was at home in those spheres to which his mother and sister so ardently aspired. His own ambitions ran in other directions. When he met Cassidy he told him about the new arrival in Sussex Place and asked about the Land Company. Cassidy remembered the details perfectly.

“It was a queer thing—about two years ago—deuce of a smash, and the only smash I know of that left a good taste behind it. Lord Veering wasn’t a business man at any time, but one of those high-principled, soul-of-honour, old chaps who are best out of business. They put him into the chair on account of his title, where he was naturally the drawing card to a lot of small investors, and took other people’s word for what was being done. When the crash came the shares dropped from thirty shillings to two bob in a week. The old boy sat up, took notice, and decided that he was personally responsible. You may remember that when the printing business in which Sir Walter Scott was interested failed, he came to the same conclusion and wrote the Waverley novels to pay the creditors. Well, old Veering couldn’t do that, but, since he felt there was a stain on his name, he sold all he had, lock, stock, and barrel, and made good the losses as far as he could. He died soon afterwards, and his daughter is paying the shot to-day. The thing is still in the liquidator’s hands, I believe, but nothing more will ever come out of it except his expenses.”

“He ruined his daughter to save his own name,” said Humphrey thoughtfully.

“You can put it that way. I fancy there are others of his sort who would do the same thing. Sounds foolish to me, but perhaps it’s a sort of leaven in the national character. Veering Hall wasn’t long in the market.”

“Bought by a man called Burdock?”

“How do you know?”

“Miss Veering told me.”

Cassidy nodded. “He’s in a big way in the Midlands. Used to do business with us—good client, and I’d like to get him again for ourselves. I’ve an idea he won’t fit in very well down there. Not enough ‘county’ about him.”

Humphrey asked nothing more on that subject. Quite clear what had hurt the girl, and he wondered that she displayed no resentment. If this thing had not happened she would probably have been married by now and he would never have seen her; and if his own father had not told Ralph Simonds that advice was not wanted he would never have seen her either. How tangled were the threads of life. Then he had one of those glimpses of something wild and fantastic that only come to the eyes of youth. It was distinctly alluring, but, putting it away for the future, he suggested to Cassidy that they now go on with their study of foreign exchange. It was one of Humphrey’s strong points that he could keep his secret thoughts to himself.

Joan, who was revolving round the ballroom of the Hyde Park Hotel in the arms of Mr. Frederick Foster and enjoying herself exceedingly, felt a little surprised when that young gentleman regarded the gathering with a cynical air and hazarded the opinion that they were wasting a perfectly good evening.

“Fed up with this,” he announced. “How about you?”

“I thought it was rather nice, but perhaps I’m not blase yet.”

“Ever try the Pork Pie?”

“I’ve tried a pork pie, and found it rather heavy.”

“Nothing heavy about the one I mean. Are you on?”

He looked so devilish that she hesitated. “Why not ask Angela?”

“You’re a sort of fledgling under her wing, aren’t you?”

She laughed. “Am I too young to have any feathers at all?”

“Youth is a good asset nowadays, so hang on to it. There’s Angela. Bobby is wondering if he’s making an impression—but he isn’t. I say, let’s foregather a minute.”

Angela steered her partner back to the wall, and Freddy unfolded himself. “This is a bit sticky, so Bobby and I would like to show you life as they lead it in Soho. We click, don’t we, Bobby?”

Mr. Robert Blackwood, a languid youth to whom the byways of Soho were as a well-lighted highway, signified his agreement.

“Respectability is the curse of modern existence. Let us go hence.”

In the big car they glided up Shaftesbury Avenue against the packed stream from emptying theatres. Joan, leaning back, looked out on this hour of London’s night with a sense of bliss. Men with girls in brilliant opera cloaks—silk hats in a vista—other cars, large and shining, with impeccable chauffeurs of lordly manner—the maze of lights—the imperturbable policemen—the polite scrimmage for taxis—the look in the girls’ eyes—the gaiety—the assurance—the resolve for enjoyment—all these came to her in a rising flood, deepened by the knowledge that it was for her to take as much of them as she wanted.

“More promising than Knightsbridge, what!” said Freddy, who missed nothing of it. “There’s Clive Oakley with that Durnford woman. She ought to be clubbed. See him, Angela?”

“Yes.”

Something in the voice made Joan look out quickly. She saw a tall boy, very fair, with a long jaw, yellow moustache, and very blue eyes: with him a woman, also tall, hatless, her shingled hair a blue-black, wearing a black cloak through which gleamed a frock of vivid red. They were lost in a surge of the crowd.

“Heading Pork-Piewards, I’ll bet,” murmured Bobby. “There, little Joan, is a striking example of the predatory woman who is old enough to know better. Got a son my own age—a complaisant husband who makes twenty thousand a year and only wishes to be let alone—and the figure of a debutanting vamp. Result—the Durnford spends her life on the warpath devastating peaceful homes where there are too many latchkeys, and scalping innocent youths like—well—Clive isn’t exactly innocent—but like Freddy and me. You see her at everything—in fact you see far too much of her. Yes, she certainly ought to be clubbed.” He frowned judicially, then grinned at Blackwood. “I take it that my learned friend agrees with me?”

“The court is of your opinion, Robert, and I smell pork. Ladies, we are arrived; and if that old villain Coutour hasn’t a corner table I’ll brain him.”

The Pork Pie was under a theatre. One descended. One’s wraps were seized and disappeared automatically. One entered a sort of subterranean pavilion surrounded by a balcony where one could imbibe nourishment, mostly liquid, if one did not happen to be attired in evening clothes. This was the outer inferno. The main floor was surrounded with the usual small tables. The glass was crystal, the china almost porcelain, and the service was the kind that whisks out a fresh damask napkin if one’s own happens to slip to the spotless floor. At the far end was a slightly raised platform, where were seated five negroes, their expansive white-shirted bosoms inflated with their own importance, emissaries whose parents inhabited the banks of the Congo, and who now condescended to contribute their primordial strain to heighten the enjoyments of London nights. Their eyes rolled. Their teeth shone in anticipation. The brass of their formidable instruments had been polished till it glittered like gold.

Came a strident bray from a saxophone, a shriek from a tuba, and the negroes began to sway in primitive ecstasy. Their souls were transported back to the banks of the Congo. It seemed that a good many other souls went with them, for the place was instantly in motion. Bobby got up with a galvanic jerk and whirled Joan away. She had often heard jazz before, but none like this—which seemed to pick her feet from the floor and divest her body of weight. Her eyes sparkled. Bobby held her a good deal tighter than she had ever been held before, but perhaps that was necessary. Anyway, she rather liked it. Then she found herself close to Mrs. Durnford and Oakley.

The scarlet frock was cut lower than anything Joan had ever seen. Her eyes were violet, half-closed, and holding a sort of langour that was faintly insolent. The carmine lips exactly matched her frock and there was a dusky warmth in the blue-black hair, where a jewelled circlet added a touch of flame-like colour. Her body was lissom as a girl’s, her skin a marble-white, her brows the thinnest dark line imaginable. She nodded to Bobby, took a hard look at Joan, and said something under her breath to Oakley. Then his eyes met Joan’s and fascinated her.

The impression lasted, being in an odd way a part of everything else here. The music grew wilder, developing into a rude cacophony through which marched the same irresistible beat of time. It was registered in the expressions of those around. Joan saw elderly men assume an infantile glee and cut capers that would have astonished their grandchildren—and themselves some twelve hours later. Angela took it all rather calmly, and presently gave Joan a quizzical look. Blackwood and Foster were deep in an argument about a girl on the other side of the room.

“You’re doing rather well, you know. Two conquests in a night.”

Joan shook her head. “Fairy tales.”

“No, really, and Bobby is one. He’s quite a dear, works very hard and only takes an occasional fling like this. Don’t judge him by his conversation. That is only camouflage for what’s inside.”

“And the other?”

“Clive Oakley is pretending to talk to the Durnford, but has been watching you for the last half-hour. There—he’s just got rid of her. Prepare to receive cavalry!”

Joan saw him steering toward them. “It’s you,” she said.

“I happen to know it isn’t.” Angela’s voice was cool, but the smile did not leave her lips. Oakley came up, and she gave him a half-nod.

“Laying up trouble for the morrow, aren’t you, Clive?” It sounded a little mocking.

He glanced over his shoulder. “That’s all right for half an hour. May I please be introduced?”

“Joan, this is Clive Oakley—and be careful.”

He laughed at them both. “A stab in the back to begin with. Will you dance—please do?”

Joan nodded, and they drifted off. Instantly she knew that never before had she had a partner like this. He was motion—grace—strength—ease—all in one. She yielded to it with delight, and was at once aware that she had never danced so well.

“Jove!” he whispered, his lips close to her hair. “I believe we were meant to dance together. Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” she breathed, “but it’s just right. Don’t stop.”

“Perish the thought.” His arm tightened round her, and she knew that his lips were very near. She had seen girls kissed already that evening. They had only laughed, and seemed to think nothing of it. Perhaps it was part of her education. Then his mouth just brushed her cheek.

“You’re a wonder—let’s have a lot of this.”

She tried to be vexed, and failed completely. It seemed that she too must appear not to notice a touch that probably meant nothing. How blue his eyes were. She got a vision of herself three months ago—and Stephen—and Acacia Villa—and, contrasting it with to-night, laughed outright.

“I say, does the idea seem so absurd?”

“I wasn’t laughing at a polite invitation.”

“Then tell me.”

“Not yet—I don’t know you well enough.”

“Some day soon?”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“That depends.”

“Angela’s with you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Heard it last week. When can I see you again?”

“Come to tea with us to-morrow.”

“I hate tea, and it’s you I want to see. You come with me.”

She was still in his arms, revolving slowly to a diminishing air, and thought as she looked up into his face that never had she liked a man so much at first sight. His cheeks were rather thin, he was not less than six feet and the electrics lit small golden fires in his tawny hair. She put his age at twenty-five, and wondered how he bridged the gap between that and Mrs. Durnford’s forty. Then she frowned a little.

“I think you’re far too interested elsewhere really to want me to come to tea,” she said daringly.

He put back his head and laughed. “Ah, the Durnford! I suppose Freddy put you up to that?”

“I have eyes of my own.”

“Nice eyes, too,” he assured her. “Never saw a better pair—but they misled you this time. I’ve never asked her to tea or anything else in my life. She wanted to play about to-night, so asked me.”

“She’s rather a lovely person,” said Joan dubiously.

“H’m—yes—I suppose she’d be called that. Now will you come to tea?”

“Where?”

“Rumpelmayers—to-morrow—four-thirty—perfectly respectable—like myself.”

“I don’t know—perhaps—yes, I might.”

“Noble and trusting child, your confidence is not misplaced. Now I see Freddy making unmistakable signs of anger.” He guided her to the others. “Freddy, don’t look so murderous. Dance, Angela?”

“No, thanks.”

“Clear out, Clive,” put in Freddy, “and go back to your siren. I propose to unfold your past history to this select group in which you have no place. Didn’t know you were so fond of red. Run along.”

Oakley laughed, waved a hand, and went off. Talk proceeded, and Joan found herself more and more intrigued. This was to her a new type of youth that discussed everything with utter freedom and no reservations whatever. It sounded cynical at times, but was certainly amusing. They touched on subjects which, in the region of Acacia Villa, girls might sometimes speak of to their mothers—but then only occasionally—shooting off at tangents to plays, actors, actresses, the latest books, Chelsea studios and the like. Joan felt rather out of it, and quite uneducated, when the mention of Chelsea prompted her to join in.

“That’s what I want—a studio.”

“In which case the child will undoubtedly have it,” murmured Bobby. Then, regarding her with a bright and curious eye, “You one of the arty lot?”

“I want to paint,” she said.

“H’m—hope springs eternal in the feminine breast. Do you really and actually paint or merely swing a gleeful brush?”

“A little. I believe I could if I had a studio of my own. It’s the”—she hesitated a little—“the atmosphere one has to get first.”

Bobby nodded. “Good sound word that—atmosphere. I was down in Church Street last week, and the place was crawling with it. Divans all round the room piled with Chelsea soul-mates. The girls looked underfed, and as if they’d shingled each other—that wild, arty effect, you know. More soul-mates on the floor—everyone smoking gaspers—things they called pictures strewn about—lot of chatter on ‘motifs,’ whatever they are. I don’t imagine you could sell the pictures to a shooting gallery, but everyone seemed happy.”

Joan laughed. “That’s not quite what I want. Aren’t you interested in art?”

Mr. Robert Blackwood shook his sleek head. “Know what attracts me?”

“No.”

“Electric vacuum cleaners—their insides are simply fascinating and fascinatingly simple. I’m in the business, and am better posted on them than half the long-haired Chelsea tribe are on art. I can sell ’em too; and that’s more than you can do with most pictures.” He gave a little laugh. “Like to know what you were thinking a few minutes ago?”

She made a face at him. “You can’t tell me.”

“Bet you a dinner two weeks from to-day for all of us. I can’t afford it before then.”

“Taken.”

“Well,” he said, with a sort of mock gravity, “you were thinking of Freddy and me as decadent persons who whiled away their youth in festive scenes like this without any serious mission in life. Freddy, as it happens, is in the accounting department of a big shop in spite of the fact that he’s suspected of having fairly blue blood. Now, be honest.”

“It’s my dinner,” admitted Joan, turning pink.

Angela was rather quiet on the way back, while Joan was thinking too hard to want to talk. When they said good night, Angela gave the younger girl an odd look as though about to speak, then went off with the word unsaid. Perhaps she decided that it was part of Joan’s education to discover certain things for herself. After a restless night in which Joan dreamed that she was buying vacuum cleaners from a tall fair youth with very blue eyes, she woke to find her mother in her room. Mrs. Crewe’s expression was more contented than for some time past.

“Was it a nice evening, dear?”

“Yes, awfully jolly. What did you do?”

“I wrote some letters and telephoned to your father.”

“How is he?”

“Well—apparently very happy and busy on his book—the book.”

“How’s he getting on?”

“He hasn’t actually started yet—says there’s more preliminary work than he expected, but the atmosphere of the place is just right.”

Joan smiled a little. “What are you going to do to-day?”

“I had a note last night from Lady Rockwood—Angela’s aunt—asking us all to lunch with her informally.” Mrs. Crewe tried to be casual, but did not quite succeed.

“On one of those committees, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if Angela arranged it.”

“Perhaps—it would be quite natural if she did. Have you anything special to-day?”

“I won’t be at home for tea.”

Mrs. Crewe felt curious, but perhaps she should not ask too much of a daughter as financially independent as herself.

“Oh, by the by, Stephen called up soon after you went out.”

Stephen seemed to belong to a vanished period, and Joan was only faintly interested. “What did he want?”

“Asked if you were at home. I told him you’d gone to a dance, but thought you’d be in this afternoon. Shouldn’t you let him know?”

Joan, for some unexplained reason, funked that. Stephen had really no place in the new setting of life. It had been a near thing. She was rather amused now by the fact that she had once let him make love to her. He suggested a sort of crude strength, the kind that to-day made no appeal to her imagination, therefore she was not sorry for him. And he understood so little about the things that touched her most nearly.

“Don’t you think that if I just let him come, and left a message that I was sorry I couldn’t be at home, and not say anything about his coming again, it would—well—finish it?”

Mrs. Crewe did not answer at once. In the back of her head she liked Stephen. So did her husband. So did Humphrey. But Joan’s present prospects, she considered, discounted Stephen—and he might have seen that for himself.

“Well, my dear, it’s one of those things you’ll have to settle now without me, and there may be a good many others in the future. I certainly don’t want you to throw yourself away.”

Curious how circumstances alter cases. If three months ago Joan had married Stephen, there would have been no suggestion of throwing herself away. And Stephen had not changed one whit since then. Also it began to seem that in this new phase of existence love was not so necessary to a successful marriage. Attraction—yes; position—certainly; good tone—absolutely essential; the right circle—of course; but the old-fashioned, everyday, and perhaps stick-in-the-mud or stick-in-Acacia-Villa kind of love—well—that hardly suited a girl like her Joan with ten thousand a year.