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Saturday, November 14th

Mr. Du Pine was quite right. Wherever Ballantine was, he was not with Mrs. Eales. In fact, while Mr. Robinson and Mr. Prufrock were making their enquiries in the City, that lady, sitting up in her bedroom in Mount Street over the remains of a very late breakfast, was wondering earnestly why he was not. A pile of letters lay beside her. They were, and were likely to remain, unopened. Every envelope, she knew, contained a bill, and at the moment she had not the strength of mind that would bear ascertaining how much she owed. In her mind’s eye, however, she could not but see some of the items in those bills, and they made her shiver. Her extravagance had in the past been the cause of endless quarrels with her protector, and now, as she glanced at the ominous heap, she automatically reflected: “There’ll be a first-class row when he sees that lot.” Then, with the dismal realization of how much better was an angry man than no man at all, she felt near to tears.

There was a knock at the door, and before she could answer it, her maid came into the room.

“What is it, Florence?” asked Mrs. Eales, with a smile more charming than is usually accorded to their servants by securely placed women.

Florence did not return the smile. Her manner was abrupt—almost insolent.

“Will Mr. Ballantine be coming in today?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Florence, I’m sure. Why do you ask?” Then receiving no answer, she went on hastily: “You can have this afternoon off if you want it. I shall be able to manage quite well, even if he does come.”

“Thank you, m’m,” said Florence, ungraciously. “And can I have my wages for last week, please?”

“Oh, yes, of course, how stupid of me!” cried Mrs. Eales, a thought shrilly. “Fetch my purse from the dressing-table, will you? Now let me see.... Oh, dear! I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, fumbling in the purse, “but I seem to have run terribly short. Will it do if I give you ten shillings on account and the rest on Monday?”

Florence took the proffered note without comment, but her eyes rested for a moment on the unopened letters before she went on: “Mr. Du Pine was on the telephone just now.”

“Mr. Du Pine!” said Mrs. Eales quickly. “I can’t speak to him.”

“He didn’t want to speak to you. He was just enquiring after Mr. Ballantine. I told him he wasn’t here and then he rang off.”

“I see. Did he say—did he tell you anything about Mr. Ballantine?”

“No. He just rang up to make sure he wasn’t here, he said. He didn’t sound as if he thought he would be, somehow.”

“That will do, Florence,” said her mistress coldly. “Will you take the breakfast things, please?”

Florence sulkily removed the tray. At the door she turned, and said over her shoulder:

“If the Captain calls, am I to let him in?”

“Oh, go away, go away!” cried Mrs. Eales, at the end of her patience. The last man in the world of whom she wished to be reminded at that moment was Captain Eales.