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A footman looked out of an attic in Eaton Square with his pen in his mouth. After a moment’s reflection he returned to his letter, added a sentence or two, and signed his name. Then he restored its cork to his bottle of ink, blotted the lines he had written, and, gathering the flimsy pages into his hand, leaned back in his loose-limbed chair with the consideration which that exacting skeleton required of its patrons, and proceeded to read.

This, then, is our chance; and, since Lyveden will be none the wiser, let us forget our manners and look over his shoulder.

DEAR TOBY,—

By extracting a promise that I would write to you you did me a good turn, for, while my first report was rendered, from a sense of duty, I am making this one with a sense of relief—a somewhat scandalous admission. Of course a really good footman would keep his mouth shut. But then I am but an indifferent lackey.

To say that I left my first place would be untrue. In fact, the place left me—rather tragically, as it happened: which reminds me that I must withdraw anything which I have written to you in disparagement of my late master. The poor man had worries I did not know of, and behaved to me very handsomely at the last, remembering that I might have troubles, when he could not think straight, so sore were his own.

For a week, then, I became a country gentleman, living with my dog at a little inn where no ways met. By the end of that time I had got me another place.

Yes, sir, I am in the service of the Marquess of Banff, sir. There are times when I go powdered. I have even hobnobbed with the scarlet livery of Royalty. I am, I assure you, a very deuce of a fellow.

With the Marquess, who resembles an irritable baboon, I have little to do. The marchioness—a strong woman is also, mercifully, too much engaged upon works of supererogation, which, in a rich bass, she styles “her manifold duties,” to observe my existence. Lord Pomfret Fresne, however, a gilded youth with three thousand a year, finds me extremely useful. I bet for him, I make appointments for him to have his hair trimmed, I retain stalls for him, and occasionally I admit him to the house at an unlawful hour. In fact, he is a confounded nuisance. He is impertinent, grossly ignorant, and a niggard. Moreover, Toby, he hath an eye whose like I have seen before—once. Then it was set in the head of a remount which, after it had broken a shoeing-smith’s leg, was cast for vice at Kantara in 1917.

“Lyveden,” says he one day, “you’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”

It seemed easiest to say “Yes.”

“Why?” says his lordship.

“It’s a family failing,” said I.

“How beastly! You mean, like drink?”

“Exactly, my lord. We never mention it.”

“No, don’t,” says he. “My mother’s very hot on that sort of thing. Hullo!” He peers into a gold cigarette-case. “I had four pounds in here. I’ll swear I had.”

Considering that I had found the case in the library, and had restored it to him five minutes before, his ejaculation was not in the best of taste. His lordship, however, must whet his point upon the grindstone of insult.

“You’re not hard up, are you?” says he.

“I can pay my way, my lord.”

“Well, I know there was four pounds there, because—— No. Wait a minute. It’s all right. I remember I put it in my coat. Which reminds me—I want a couple of stalls at Daly’s. You might ring up and get them. How much is the pit?”

“I’m not quite sure, my lord. It used to be half-a-crown.”

“Half-a-crown!” cries he. “I thought it was a shilling.”

“That’s the gallery, my lord.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I can’t afford the pit, Lyveden, but you can go to the gallery if you like,” and he produces a shilling.

I shake my head.

“I’m much obliged to your lordship, but I seldom go out.”

“Right-o,” he says, with ill-concealed relief. “Don’t forget those stalls.”

It is pathetic, Toby, but it is true. And when I was at Harrow, his eldest brother, who is one of the best, was my fag.

When I say that, compared with the butler, Respectability itself seems raffish, you will understand. He is a monument, massive, meaningless, and about as useful as a fan in a cyclone. Yet the household revolves about him. He came in, I fancy, with the spittoon....

And now I will show you that the cassock of the confessor has indeed fallen upon you.

Listen. I have been disdained—given the cold shoulder. Such a beautiful shoulder, Toby. Such a shoulder as Artemis presented to Actaeon. But there was good reason for that. It fell on this wise. I sat in a garden and mufti and looked at an aged doorway, thinking how fair a frame it would make. And when next I looked, lo! there was the picture, all warm and smiling, her little white hands about her dark, dark hair. I was overwhelmed. I would have slain dragons, levelled castles, broken the backs of knights for her sake. But before I was given the chance, I was given the shoulder. Now mark how a malicious Fate maketh a mock of me. But three days later I run full tilt into my lady, I, the same Anthony Lyveden—but with my livery on. In case that should not be enough, I presently return to the inn, to learn that I have missed her by forty-eight hours. Veux-tu m’en croire?

Beneath the unfair strain my poor vocabulary broke down. Indeed, I soon had no alternative but to repeat myself, thus violating what I know to be one of your most sacred rules.

Assez, j’en finis.

You are so distant and it will be so long before this letter reaches you, that it requires an effort steadily to regard you as a confidant. Already that impression of you is fainter than it was when I picked up my pen. A reply from you, Toby, would do much to revive it—would, in fact, turn into substance the shadow with which I am, rather desperately, cheating my common-sense.

A toi, mon beau,

ANTHONY LYVEDEN.

Having addressed this letter to Australia, Lyveden made the best of an enamelled basin and a mirror, which was not quite so good as one which, once upon a time, his servant had purchased in Port Said for five piastres. Then he put on his very expensive plum-coloured coat and descended twelve flights of stairs.

Five minutes later he opened the front door, confessed to an irreverent gentleman in blue and yellow that “Ole Flat-Feet” was at home, and, after conducting them to the first floor, ushered “The Honourable Mrs. George Wrangle, Miss Wrangle, Miss Sarah Wrangle” into the presence itself. With a contempt for tradition, the Marchioness not only extended to each of the ladies her large right hand, but withheld no one of its fingers.

The identity of the guests was then communicated to the butler, whose supervision of the service of tea depended upon the visitor’s position in the table of precedence. That of Mrs. Wrangle, apparently, fell dismally short of the standard which the great man imposed, for, upon hearing her name, he stared indignantly upon a cat which was cleaning itself upon the hearth of his parlour, and then resumed the perusal of the Morning Advertiser in contemptuous silence.

Without more ado, Anthony repaired to the pantry. Five minutes later he and the second footman took up the tea.

“Is Lord Pomfret in?” said the Marchioness.

“I will see, my lady,” said Lyveden.

“Desire him to come in to tea.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Lord Pomfret had just returned from a luncheon-party, and was preparing to attend a the dansant. His mother’s command was abusively received. At length—

“Tell her I’m out, Lyveden.”

Anthony hesitated.

“Her ladyship was very definite, my lord.”

“D’you hear what I say?”

“Very good, my lord.”

The scepticism with which his mistress received Anthony’s report was distressingly obvious. Also the faces of Mrs. and Miss Wrangle fell noticeably. Indeed, the bell which summoned Lyveden to speed their departure rang but a few minutes later.

As they descended the stairs, Lord Pomfret emerged from the library, cramming cigarettes into his case with the dishevelling manipulation of the belated swain.

The encounter was not a success.

Reason suggested to Mrs. Wrangle that the episode could be far more effectively dealt with if and when the offender became her son-in-law. Impulse, however, clamoured for immediate and appropriate action. Between the two stools her display of emotion fell flat. As for Pomfret, the knowledge that he had just induced the lady’s footman to go for a taxi did not contribute to his peace of mind, and his manners became conspicuously devoid of that easy grace which should have gone with his title.

After the mechanical issue and acknowledgment of a few ghastly pleasantries, Lord Pomfret muttered something about “hearing his mother calling” and fled with precipitate irrelevance in the direction of the back stairs, leaving Mrs. Wrangle speechless with indignation and bitterly repenting her recent indecision. She swept past Anthony as if she were leaving a charnel-house. Her daughters, who took after their father, walked as though they were being expelled....

When their mother found herself confronted with the choice of leaving without her footman or awaiting that gentleman’s successful return from the mission upon which he had been dispatched, it required their united diplomacy to deter her from there and then returning to lay the outrageous facts before Lady Banff.

Mrs. Wrangle’s complaint, however, was posted that evening.

By the time it arrived, Lord Pomfret had prepared his defence. This he conducted so skilfully that the Marchioness, who believed in red justice, sent for Lyveden and told him two things. The first was that in future, when she sent him for anyone, he would be good enough to look for them before returning to say they were out. The second was that when he was told to fetch a cab, he would be good enough to do so, instead of persuading other people’s servants to do his work. Lord Pomfret, who was present at the arraignment, supported his mother dutifully. Anthony said nothing at all. Four and a half years in the Army had left their mark.

If Lyveden was a Conservative, so was his dog. For the two there was only one walk in all Hertfordshire, and that, after six fair miles, brought them thirsty or wet, as the weather might order, to the shade or shelter of The Leather Bottel. This was, in fact, Anthony’s country house. Here for one glorious week the two had shared the same bed. Heaven only knew when such a prolonged visit would be repeated. It had cost two whole pounds, and, do what he would, Anthony could save very little out of his wages. Of his six pounds a month the Dogs’ Home took four precious guineas. Then there were railway fares at three shillings a time—twelve shillings a month. Teas, clothes, and a little—a very little—tobacco had to be paid for. It was a tight fit.

With his back to a beech tree, Lyveden thought upon these things. The weather, perhaps, invited Melancholy.

Without the wood a sudden shower was falling down from heaven, drenching anew wet pastures, thinning the mud upon brown lanes, poppling upon the washed highway. Dainty scale-armour of a million leaves protected Anthony. Ere this was penetrated, the fusillade would have stopped.

It was more than a month now since he had seen the lady. At the moment he supposed gloomily that she had gone out of his life. Considering what his life was, it was just as well. (Melancholy smiled to herself, sighed sympathetically, and laid her dark head upon Anthony’s shoulder.) His thoughts flew over the blowing country to Eaton Square. The squalor of his bedroom rose up before him. The walls were peeling, and upon one there was a vast brown stain. The floor was bare. The cracked American cloth upon the chest of drawers made this a washstand. The fact that the ensemble had lost a foot made it unsteady. True, some one had placed a Bradshaw under the bereaved corner, but the piece listed heavily. The Bradshaw, by the way, was out of date. In fact, its value as a guide to intending passengers had expired on the thirty-first of October, 1902. That looked as if the chest were an antique. Three of the china knobs, however, which served as handles were unhappily missing. Then there was a flap beneath the window which, when raised, arrested the progress of such smuts as failed to clear it in their descent to the boards. (Melancholy smothered a laugh and laid a wet cheek against her victim’s.) The smuts were devilish—the terror by night, the arrow that flieth by day. Anthony believed in fresh air. Also he believed in cleanliness. His twofold faith cost his convenience dear. He had begged a dust-sheet from the housekeeper with which to cover his bed during the day, and regularly, before retiring, shook an ounce of soot out of his window. The bed, by the way, was overhung by the wall, which, for some reason best known to those who built it, deserted the perpendicular for an angle of forty-five, three inches from Anthony’s nose. The candlestick had seen merrier days: that there might be no doubt about the matter, it said as much, announcing in so many words that it was “A Present from Margate.” ...

Scaramouche Melancholy fairly squirmed with delight. Then she turned upon Anthony eyes swimming with tenderness, put up consoling lips.... The entrance of Polichinelle, however, cudgel and all, in the shape of a little white dog, dragging a bough with him, spoiled her game. Harlequin Sun, too, flashed out of hiding—before his cue, really, for the shower was not spent.

Scaramouche fled with a snarl.

At Polichinelle’s obvious request, Anthony seized the spare end of the bough, and the two tugged with a will—an agreeable tourney, which was always eventually settled in the lists of Frolic itself. And, whiles they strove, Harlequin danced in and out the trees, with magic touch of bat making the mizzle shimmer and the meadows gleam, and finally, with rare exuberance, breaking his precious colours overhead, to say the masque was over and bid the racing winds hustle away the fretful scenery and clear the stage of sky for his possession.

Master and dog made their way to the inn jubilantly enough.

As he devoured his tea, Lyveden thought again of the girl—more cheerfully. Indeed, he made bold to decide that she was interested in him. That such interest sprang from the loins of Curiosity he admitted readily. Its origin did not matter; the trouble was to keep it alive.

It is obvious that he himself was more than interested. He was, I suppose, in love. At the moment when he had looked upon her for the first time his heart had leaped. Instantly the man knew that he had seen his maid. He had no doubt of it at all, but was quite positive. If a million Archangels had appeared and with one voice told him that he was wrong, he would have shaken his head with a smile. His heart had leaped, and there was an end of it. He just knew. In view of the prospective failure of so many Archangels, it is not surprising that my lady herself, whatever she did, would not be able to erase this impression. Consequently though she had behaved to his face with a manner which it was a Quixotic courtesy to style “disdain,” Anthony never wavered. For a second of time he had seen beyond the veil—at least, his heart had—and, now that he knew what it hid, all reinforcement of that veil was out of date. My lady might line it with oak, with brass, with masonry miles thick—and all her labour would be in vain. All the same, Anthony hoped devoutly that she would do nothing of the kind....

With a sigh he drank to their next meeting.

Then he called the terrier and set him upon his knee.

“My fellow,” said he, “listen. In these very precincts you committed an aggravated assault upon an Irish terrier. I don’t blame you. He probably deserved it. But—he belongs to the lady—my lady, Patch, the only lady in the world. And she didn’t like it, my boy. She didn’t like it at all. So remember, if ever we meet her again, you mustn’t fight. I don’t want to be hard on you, but you mustn’t. Of course, if you could show him a little courtesy—indicate a scent which will repay investigation, or something—I should be exalted. But I don’t press that. A strictly non-committal attitude will serve. But aggression—no. Patch, I trust you. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but you’ll be a good dog and try, won’t you? For my sake, Patch?”

Whether the Sealyham in fact appreciated the nature and gravity of the request is a matter which cannot be decided upon this side of the grave. The fact remains that when, upon entering the grounds of the Dogs’ Home some thirty-five minutes later, he encountered that very Irish terrier, looking rather sorry for himself and attached to the end of a long lead, he walked straight up to him and bestowed upon him as generous a greeting as his nostrils and tail could convey.

Anthony could hardly believe his eyes....

At the other end of the lead was a kennelman, who spoke quickly and to the point.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I wouldn’t let ’im talk to ’im. ’E’s not very grand—this little dog ain’t. I think it’s only a chill, but we’ve hisolated ’im, in case...”

Patch was summoned peremptorily, to come running wide-eyed. Happily in his sight his master could do no wrong; otherwise it is possible that he might have thought himself hardly used and love’s labour lost indeed.

Anthony passed into the hall, thinking furiously. With Patch under his arm, he spoke to the fair-haired girl in charge of the office.

“I’ve seen a dog out there that I recognize—an Irish terrier. He’s not very well, your man said. May I know whose he is?”

“Oh, yes. He belongs to Miss French—Miss Valerie French. He’s a nice little dog, isn’t he?”

If Anthony Lyveden had reflected, it would have occurred to him that his informant had been, as they say, “very quick in the uptake.” The truth was that less than a week ago Miss Valerie French had recognized Patch and had asked the same girl for the name of his owner.

“He’s a beauty,” said Anthony. “Does she keep him here all the time?”

“When she’s in London,” said the girl. “I expect you’ve seen her. She’s very often down.”

Anthony nodded.

“I think I must have,” he said.

Then he made much of Patch and handed him over.

“See you next week, little Patch. Next Saturday. Only a week from to-day. Good-bye, little fellow.”

He ruffled the tousled head with a last caress, smiled at the puzzled brown eyes, and turned away....

There was no sweet sorrow about these partings. They were purely abominable.

At the very hour that Lyveden walked heavily down the wet lanes on his way to the station, Valerie French, who was to dine early and go to the play, was sitting before her dressing-table in an apricot kimono.

The evening sun stared into her bedroom mercilessly and found no fault in it. It was a broad low room, full of soft colours and the warm glow of highly polished wood. Walls, curtains, and carpet were all of powder-blue; an old rose fabric covered what seats there were; an apple-green coverlet filled up the symphony. That taper elegance which modern craftsmanship can give mahogany was most apparent, lending the usual suite unusual comeliness. A great pier-glass flashed in a corner, upon a little table beside a deep chair a bowl of roses sweetened the London air, above the well-found bed dangled an ivory switch.

If the chamber was fair, so was my lady.

Looking upon her beauty, as she sat at the glass, Valerie French might have felt very proud. But, if we pry into her mind, it will be seen that her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Indeed, the fixing of her hair—usually so simple a matter—was making her knit her brow. The fact that the soft dark tresses had been washed that morning made them unruly. In vain the pointed fingers strove to secure and order them to their mistress’s liking....

At length, with a sigh, she brought her hands to her lap.

Then she made a mouth at the reflection of her labours.

“I look like his Sealyham,” she said.

It was on Monday morning that Lord Pomfret suggested to Lyveden the propriety of putting a pound each way on Slip Along.

“I don’t suppose the swine’s any good,” said his lordship moodily. “But he’ll probably start at twenty, so I may as well have a dart. I forget who told me about him.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Anthony.

To receive this commission, he had been summoned from the drawing-room, whose floor he was engaged in leathering to the requisite degree of lustre. He had had to remove an apron, turn down his sleeves, and put on his plum-coloured coat. So soon as his lordship, who was yet at breakfast, released him, he would reverse the procedure and return to his floor.

Lord Pomfret peered muttering into his cigarette case. Then he plucked out a ten-shilling note and flicked it across the tablecloth.

“That’s all I appear to have,” he said sulkily. “I’ll have to owe you the thirty shillings.”

Anthony braced himself.

“I’m afraid I haven’t any money at all, my lord.”

The other looked up sharply.

“What? ... Oh, nonsense, Lyveden.”

Anthony said nothing. He was not anxious to repeat the lie, but he was determined not to lend to Lord Pomfret. That the loan would lose itself was much too probable, and the construction of his slender resources would not stand such a strain.

“Of course you’ve got thirty shillings. But you don’t like parting.” Lord Pomfret laughed rather nastily. “I’ll pay you back, man, if that’s your trouble.”

“I haven’t the money, my lord.”

The youth stared at Anthony furiously. Then—

“Oh, go to hell!” he said thickly.

Anthony picked up the note and placed it beside his lordship. Then he left the room and returned to his work.

Lord Pomfret was exceedingly wrath. In fact, he brooded over the incident. This augured ill for Anthony. The cold fact that in due season—to be precise, at eleven minutes to four that same afternoon—Slip Along won his race easily did not improve matters. That he started at thirty-three to one was still less digestible....

When his lordship read the news at half-past five, he broke into a cold sweat. Then he bit savagely at the nail of his favourite thumb. Considering that, so recently as that morning, he had reluctantly decided that that toothsome entremet must be allowed to go unmolested for at least a week, his action was indicative of an emotion which knew no rules. That he made no mention of the matter to Anthony, was the ugliest omen of all.

Two days later the second footman called Anthony, who was crossing the hall.

It was a fine July morning, and the famous square was full of sunlight and clear-cut shadows and the soft swish of leaves. All this could be marked from the hall, for the front door stood wide open, and a fresh cool breeze came floating into the mansion, to flirt with the high and mighty curtains upon the landing, jostle the stately palms, and ruffle up the pompous atmosphere with gay irreverence. The air itself would have told you the hour. The intermittent knocks of a retreating postman declared the time even more accurately.

“ ’Ere’s a letter fer you, mate,” said the second footman. “ ‘A. Lyveden, Esquire,’ it says, all bald-like. No C.M.G., no B.F., no nothin’. I should ’ave a raow abaout this.”

Anthony came grinning.

“P’r’aps their Who’s Who’s out of date,” he said.

The other shook his head.

“It’s the deecay of menners, mate,” he said sorrowfully, turning to resume the sorting operation upon which he was engaged.

The letter bore the postmark of a village in Hertfordshire, and proved to be a communication from the Dogs’ Home at which Patch was lodged.

DEAR SIR,

I am sorry to inform you that your Sealyham has contracted distemper. There is at present no reason to think that he will be seriously ill, and, the veterinary surgeon is quite satisfied with his condition.

Yours faithfully,

N. DAWES,

Supt.

Anthony stared at the sheet as it had been a death-warrant. It must be remembered that Patch was all that he had in the world.

The second footman, who had been perusing a postcard addressed to the Marchioness, placed the missive upon the top of his mistress’s letters and fell to whistling softly between his teeth. When he glanced round to see Anthony so still, he stopped his fluting in the midst of a bar.

“Wot’s up, mate?” he said eagerly. “ ’Ad some bad noos?”

Anthony folded the sheet and put a hand to his head.

“My little dog’s ill,” he said. “He’s down in the country, and—it’s rather worrying.”

The other looked at him curiously. Then—

“That’s the worst o’ dawgs,” he said sagely. “Yer goes an’ gets fon’ of ’em, an’ then they gets run over, or dies, or somethin’. Cats is the same. My sister’s little gurl ’ad a kitten with one eye. Thort the world o’ that cat, she did. ’Adn’t got no use fer dolls nor nothin’. ‘Moses,’ she called it. One day a bull-terrier does it in.” He paused dramatically, raising his eyes to heaven with an air of reminiscent resignation which spoke volumes. “Me sister thort the kid’d go aout of ’er mine. In the en’ they ’ad to send ’er away.”

Anthony listened to the anecdote with what politeness he could, hoping desperately that time would prove its irrelevance.

“Poor little girl,” he said quietly.

“But she got over it orright, mate. Same as wot you will. You see. ’Sides,” he added, with the gesture of one who adduces a still stronger argument, “ ’e ain’t dead yet. Don’t you meet trouble ’alf-way, mate. It ain’t good enough.”

For this philosophy there was much to be said, and Anthony did his best to practise it. When he had sent a telegram, asking to be informed daily of his dog’s progress, and advised by wire or telephone if there was any danger, he felt more comfortable. The day, however, dragged heavily....

Happily Lord Pomfret made few demands upon his patience. For all that, his lordship had formed a new habit, which Anthony—partly because he was preoccupied, partly because he had but two eyes—failed to observe. This was a pity, for while it was not a pretty habit, it happened to concern Anthony pretty closely. The trick was this. So often as he and Lyveden were in the same room, his lordship’s watery eyes would follow the footman wheresoever he moved.

It may be urged that a cat may look at a king. True.

But if a cat were detected in the act of looking at a king as Lord Pomfret Fresne had come to look at Anthony Lyveden, it is safe to predict not only that the animal would be afforded no further opportunity of inspecting his majesty, but that in about two minutes he would, like poor Moses, be put to sleep with his fathers.

By the same post which so discomfited Anthony, came to Miss Valerie French two letters, one at least of which must be set out.

c/o Joseph Bumble, Esq.,

The Shrubbery,

Hawthorne.

DEAR VAL,

Send your pal along. The Bumbles will jump at him. As for us, if our present colleague wasn’t under notice to leave, we should be. Of course he can have his dog here. Haven’t I got Jose? And if a parlour-maid can keep one, d’autant plus a footman. Pending the dismissal of the colleague referred to, Anne and I have to do more than we should, and are a little bored with Life. George has the best time with the car, but we make him help in the house. When are you coming to Bell Hammer? George and I were there on Sunday, and it looks topping.

Love from us all,

BETTY.

The other dispatch was from Printing House Square. Its envelope, being opened, was found to contain three other envelopes, each bearing the same superscription, viz., “Box Y779, c/o The Times.”

Valerie opened them eagerly.

They were, all three, applications for the post of a gentleman-footman.

After satisfying herself that no one of these was signed by Lyveden, Valerie tossed them aside unread. Then she propped herself on her elbow and poured out a cup of tea.

That Fate buffets her favourites is sometimes true. Here we catch the baggage red-handed. With one cold relentless palm she threatens to take from Anthony, who hath not, even that which he hath: with the other she is strewing blossoms upon what is to be his path. With her right hand she robs the beggar, with the left she prepares for him a bed of roses.

The lady of Anthony’s heart loved him. It is no good beating about the bush. Pity may be akin to Love, but Interest is the boy’s first cousin. Whether her heart had leaped, when she saw him, is not for me to say. She looked upon him, saw that he was good, made up her mind—and that was settled. The fact that she immediately turned her back upon him has nothing to do with the question, but may, if you please, be construed as confirming her plight.

Had the round world been ten thousand years younger, when she and Anthony looked the one upon the other in the garden of The Leather Bottel, he would have put his arms about her, and she would have suffered him, and there in the shadow of the little inn this tale would have come to an end. That it did not so end then and there is the fault partly of a crop of conventions, which have in so many years increased out of all belief and now stand bristling between Impulse and Action, and partly of the contrariness of women, which is, we know, very ancient, but not so old as all that. It is these two marplots, which you must bless or curse, gentlemen, as the fancy takes you.

Valerie French, then, was trying to bring Lyveden into smooth water. She had already earmarked a congenial billet at The Shrubbery, Hawthorne. The difficulty was to make Anthony apply for the post. Since Mrs. Bumble could hardly be advised to ask a footman to quit the service of the Marquess of Banff, Valerie, who was determined to remain incognito, had recourse to the Press. Her advertisement for a gentleman-footman appeared daily.

When my lady had drunk her tea, she turned to the telephone. After a little delay, she was connected to the Dogs’ Home in Hertfordshire. Presently the superintendent spoke....

‘Miss French’s Irish terrier was not too grand. He was coughing a little. There was no real cause for anxiety, but he was not out of the wood.’

“I’ll be down this afternoon,” said Valerie.

She was as good as her word.

And since, to her grief, the little brown dog was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse, she visited him the next day also and the day after that.

And so it happened that she was at the Home on Friday, when Patch’s condition gave rise to such uneasiness as presently decided the superintendent to telephone to his master. Indeed, the fair-haired girl had discussed with Valerie the advisability of so doing.

“Mr. Lyveden’s a busy man, I fancy, and we hate worrying people. But he’s simply devoted to the dog, and he’s pretty bad.”

“I think,” said Valerie slowly, “I think he ought to be told.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss French,” said the girl. “I’ll go and ring up.”

She slipped out of the hospital, through the garden, and presently into her office.

It was perhaps ten minutes before she could speak with London. Then—

“Is that Lord Banff’s house?” she inquired.

“Yes. Who are you?” said an unpleasant voice.

“Oh, can I speak to Mr. Lyveden?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Lyveden.”

An exclamation of surprise came to her ears.... Then an oath.... Then a smothered laugh....

The girl frowned with impatience. At length—

“Hullo,” said the voice.

“Can I speak to Mr. Lyveden?” she repeated.

“No, you can’t. He’s—he’s out.”

“Oh! Well, it’s rather important. Could you give him a message?”

“Try me,” said the voice.

“Will you tell him that his dog is not so well?”

“What dog?”

“His dog. His Sealyham. Mr. Lyveden will understand.”

“Oh, will he?” said the voice. “And where do I come in, Mabel?”

For a moment the fair-haired girl stared at the instrument. Then she flushed angrily and rang off....

At the other end of the line Lord Pomfret replaced his receiver with a hideous leer.

The superintendent returned to the hospital.

“Did you speak to him?” said Valerie.

“No, Miss French. He was out. I had to leave a message.”

Valerie rose to her feet.

Observing her movement, the Irish terrier rose also and got shakily upon his legs. The effort set him coughing again, poor fellow, and he had to submit to the paroxysm before he could wag his tail. How stiffly this moved, his mistress, whose eyes were full of tears, did not remark. Nor did she notice the suggestion of impotence about his hindquarters. With her practised eye, the fair-haired girl noticed both symptoms and bit her lip.

Valerie caressed her favourite and turned to a grey-headed kennel-man who had just entered the room.

“Are you going to wash his face?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Irish terrier was plainly pleased to see his old nurse.

“How is the little Sealyham?”

“ ’Tis a sick dog, ma’am.”

Valerie turned away.

The superintendent escorted her back to the house.

“I’ll be down to-morrow morning,” she said.

“Very well, Miss French.”

As she walked down the drive, Valerie wondered miserably whether she was treading it for almost the last time.

When upon Saturday morning Anthony received no bulletin from Hertfordshire, he did not know what to think. In the ordinary way he would have telegraphed, but telegrams cost money, which he really could not afford, and he was, in any event, to visit the Dogs’ Home that afternoon.... He decided to do nothing. All the same, he was far from easy, for Friday morning’s report had said that his terrier was not so well.

He went about his work abstractedly, glancing at the faces of the clocks times without number.

At five-and-twenty minutes past two, just as he was going to change, Lord Pomfret sent for him. Anthony ground his teeth. The man was his evil genius.

Mercifully the interview was a short one.

His lordship produced two pounds and curtly instructed the footman to expend the money upon the purchase of roses.

“They’ve got to be good ones, and you ought to be able to get stacks for two quid. I shan’t want them till to-morrow morning, so they’ve got to be fresh. You’d better get them as late as you can, and put them in water directly you get in. That’s all.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Lord Pomfret returned to the perusal of La Vie, and Anthony stepped to the door. As he was passing out—

“Lyveden,” said his lordship sharply.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I shall want to see the bill.”

Anthony hesitated, inwardly raging. Then—

“Very good, my lord,” he said huskily.

Ten minutes later he was out of the house.

Along the road of Life goes bowling the coach of Destiny, and we poor passengers inside know neither whither we are being borne nor how long shall be our journey. Now and again the horses are pulled up, the door is opened, that grim guard Fate calls out a name, and one of us climbs pitifully forth, to pass with faltering steps into a sable hostelry. We that are left behind peer after him curiously.... Then the door is slammed, with a lurch the coach is off again on its eternal wayfaring, and we poor passengers inside sit betwixt hope and fear, wondering vainly what the next mile of road will bring to each of us.

Climb up upon the box-seat, gentlemen, if you will see what is to become of Anthony: so I am with you, you will not be sent packing.

Look how he is being borne unwitting over the Bridge of Care, into the Valley of Love, by Thicket Perilous, clean through the Waters of Anger to where the white road curls over that grey upland, and we can see it no more. As well for Anthony that he has not our knowledge. The next league or so will play the deuce with his emotions....

One last look, gentlemen. Can you see that cypress there, tall by the wayside, down in the Valley of Love? We will descend there, by your leave, for the driver will pull up his horses and the coach will stop. A dog has to be set down—a little dog, gentlemen, with rough hair and as soft brown eyes as ever you saw....

Anthony covered the distance between the station and the Dogs’ Home at a good round pace. In fact, he was somewhat out of breath when a maid admitted him to the house and, leaving him in the hall, went in search of the superintendent.

As the fair-haired girl made her appearance, his heart began to beat furiously.

“How’s my little dog?” he said jerkily.

The girl looked grave.

“I’m afraid he’s pretty bad, Mr. Lyveden. He’s naturally very strong, and we hope that’ll pull him through. We ought to know one way or the other within twelve hours.”

“I see,” said Anthony dully. “When I didn’t hear, I hoped——”

“Didn’t you get my telephone message?”

Anthony shook his head.

“When did you ring up?”

“Yesterday. I spoke to somebody—a man, and asked him to tell you. I don’t know who it was.”

Anthony went very white.

“I fancy I do,” he said grimly, and drew in a quick breath. “And now may I see my dog?”

The fair-haired girl led the way to the hospital.

The building, which stood by itself, was as fresh and cool as a dairy, and a faint clean smell of sanitary fluid rose from its tiled floor. In the hall were a table and a watchman’s chair. Half a dozen rooms led out of the hall. The girl went straight to the door of one of these, turned the handle gently, and the next moment they were in the little chamber. This was full of light and air, for the French windows, which gave on to a broad veranda, were wide open. Upon the garden beyond the sun was shining gloriously.

By the side of the great square basket set in a corner Anthony fell on his knees.

“Why, Patch ...”

The little scrap tried gamely to leap for his master, but his strength failed him, and he fell sideways on to the pine shavings. Lyveden gathered him gently into his arms and let him lick his face.

“Did you think I was never coming, Patch? Did you think I’d forgotten my little dog? My poor little fellow ... my little boy....”

The laboured breathing slipped into a cough, and Lyveden laid the terrier back on the shavings. There he got to his feet and coughed desperately. The exertion seemed to exhaust him, for, when the fit was over, he lay down where he stood, keeping his eyes upon Anthony and now and again moving his little tail.

The fair-haired girl, who had gone, reappeared, followed by the grey-headed kennel-man bearing a deck-chair.

“I expect you’ll like to stay with him for a bit,” she said pleasantly.

Anthony thanked her, and she left him alone.

For Patch’s sake, Anthony sat very still.

Considering that he had been afoot since half-past five, it is not surprising that after a little space he fell asleep.

Queer idiotic fancies bestrode his dreams: what was impossible came naturally to pass: earth became wonderland, and no one wondered. Patch and Miss French lay in sick beds upon respective mantelpieces: Lord Pomfret had come to mend the telephone, and his tool-bag was full of roses—the scent of them filled the room. Anthony himself was forging a two-pound note upon a page of Bradshaw, and was terribly afraid that it would not pass muster: something weighty depended on this, and all the time the scent of the roses was hindering his efforts: it came between him and the paper, so that he could not see: he brushed it away angrily, but it came back....

He awoke suddenly, for no reason.

Patch was lying very still, breathing more easily. His eye met Anthony’s, and the tip of a red tongue came into view.

The faintest suggestion of perfume was in the air. This was so slight and fleeting that Anthony, after a little, charged it to his imagination and thought no more of it.

Presently he rose and, setting his hat on the chair, where Patch could see it and so expect his return, strolled out on to the veranda.

From the depths of an easy-chair Valerie French lifted her eyes from The Times and smiled very charmingly.

“I’m glad you’ve come out,” she said. “I think it’s a mistake to sit there too long at a time.”

That Lyveden felt perfectly at ease with her, and neither started nor spoke constrainedly, is worthy of note. It is, in fact, the best possible evidence that his belief in their affinity was well founded.

“You’re quite right,” he said. “After all, the great thing is to be on the spot. I’m afraid this means that your dog is ill.”

Valerie looked away.

“He’s worse than Patch,” she said slowly.

“I’m awfully sorry.”

As he spoke, Anthony remembered how the dogs had met in the drive a week ago. That, then, was how Patch had come by the sickness. Her dog had infected him.

Valerie looked up suddenly.

“I’m afraid I was awfully rude at the inn that day,” she said quietly. “It was rotten of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Lyveden quickly. “You were startled and upset and——”

“I’ve said all that to myself—several times. But it won’t wash. It was just rotten, and I’m very sorry.”

Had she been other than my lady, Anthony would have felt like a beggar whose feet a queen was washing. As it was, he felt like a king.

“I knew you never meant it,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t like you.”

“How could you know that?” said Valerie.

“I don’t know. I suppose I guessed. I suppose...” Anthony hesitated, and the colour came into his cheeks. “I think I know you too well.”

Valerie French nodded, as if she had received a reply which she knew to be correct.

“You’re very fond of your dog,” she said.

“He’s all I’ve got.”

“All? Haven’t you a single friend?”

“Not one,” said Anthony.

A little cough came to her vigilant ears, and Valerie rose to her feet. As she came to the window, she stopped and looked at Anthony with a quiet smile.

“I don’t think you ought to say that,” she said gently. “Not since you know me so well.”

Long after she had passed in, Lyveden stood gazing at the threshold from which she had spoken....

The veterinary surgeon was with Patch.

After a tender examination, he rose to his feet, and Anthony introduced himself.

“He’s a fine little dog,” said the other. “And he makes a good patient, but I’m afraid he’s in for a bad time.” He turned to the kennel-man. “Have you warned Williams and Minter?”

“I have, sir.”

“That’s right. From now on, he mustn’t be left.”

“Will he have some brandy, sir?”

“Not yet.”

In answer to Anthony’s questions, the surgeon spoke plainly.

“He’s getting steadily worse. That will go on for anything from six to twelve hours. Then one of two things will become apparent—either that he will recover, or that he can’t.”

“What about my being with him?”

“If you like to be near, sir, yes. As to being in the room—he’s a highly-strung little fellow, and in the circumstances I don’t advise it. Of course, if there was any sudden change ...”

“I’m in your hands,” said Anthony. “I’ll leave my hat here. Then he’ll know that I’m at hand.”

“You couldn’t do better, sir.”

The surgeon was patently glad of an owner who would do as he said.

Anthony stooped to touch the damp muzzle....

Then he stole gently away.

Out on the verandah he made his plans. Not for fifty Marquesses would he leave ere the change had come. He decided to telegraph to the butler. Perhaps they would understand. Any way, it could not be helped. If he were to be dismissed, he would try again. Only the fear of unemployment had kept him in Eaton Square. The very thought of Lord Pomfret made his blood boil. Perhaps, even if they said nothing, it would be better to leave.

He picked up my lady’s Times....

The trouble was that the demand for men-servants seemed rather small. Married couples, apparently, were all the rage. Of course he was getting good wages. The substance might not be toothsome, but it was better than shadow. At least, you could get your teeth into it.

WANTED.—A gentleman-footman: country: good wages: would be allowed to keep dog. BOX Y779, c/o The Times, E.C.4.

Anthony stared at the lines as if they were unreal....

Then came the flutter of a frock and herself stepped on to the veranda. Mechanically Anthony set down the paper as if it had been contagious.

Valerie did not speak of her terrier, nor did she ask after Patch. Instead—

“If we went up to the house,” she said gravely, “I think they would give us some tea.” Together they left the veranda and passed through the pleasant grounds. “I’ve got a room in the village,” she added, “and I’ve sent for some things for the night. Will—will you have to go?”

“No. I shall stay. I can make shift.” He smiled. “The Army’s a good school.”

“Do you wish you were back?” said Valerie.

“I don’t think so. A school has its drawbacks. If I were back in the Army, I couldn’t be staying tonight.”

Without thinking—

“You like to be your own master?” said the girl, and could have bitten her tongue in sunder.

Anthony winced. Then—

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I do.”

Valerie thought frantically. Then—

“That’s the best of being a man,” she said. “Take our two cases. You have your own establishment—at least, I suppose you have—your own chambers, your own servant. I live with an aunt. If I broke away and set up a separate menage, I should be talked about. To be her own mistress and excite no remark, a girl must be in penury.”

Anthony’s heart seemed to have stopped beating. The murder was out. From my lady’s words it was plain that she did not know his calling. She had not recognized him, then, that night with his livery on. Fool! He might have known that she would not—could not hobnob with a lackey.

Instead of combating her statement, he made some knock-kneed reply....

For setting wheels within wheels, you cannot match Fortune. After all, she has made trochilics her hobby through all the ages. Look at her handiwork here. Jill knows Jack for a flunkey and seeks to dissemble her knowledge, for fear of bruising his heart. As for Jack, when Jill stumbles upon his secret, he curses his luck: now that he believes it inviolate, he is in despair.

Tea was served to them in a quiet parlour. It being their first meal together, their friendship should have grown fat. Instead, it lost weight steadily. They were ill at ease—both of them. To make things worse, Anthony began to feel that he was an impostor.

He walked with her to the village and sent his telegram. Later they dined together. They dared not go far away, and the landlord of a neighbouring inn was persuaded to serve eggs and bacon. This he did with an ill grace, and, that there might be no mistake about his annoyance, charged for it in the bill. Anthony paid the amount as if it were nothing, and Valerie French writhed....

Afterwards they strolled in the garden and sat upon the veranda. The hours which should have been so wonderful went by lack-lustre. Between the two a phantom barrier had been set up.

As ten o’clock was striking, Valerie was fetched.

When the summons came, they were in the garden, and she left Anthony without a word. Desperately sorry for her, miserably fearful for himself, he followed as far as the steps of the veranda....

Twenty-five minutes passed, perhaps half an hour. Then there was movement in the chamber. A door was opened. The lights, which had been low, were turned up.

A moment later Valerie appeared at the window, putting on her gloves.

As she came to the steps, Anthony rose out of the shadows.

“May I see you back to the village?” he said.

She just inclined her head.

They passed in silence out of the starlit garden on to a pale grey road. The hedgerows on either side loomed up out of the darkness, blacker than night. A lane led down to the village, leaving the road on the left. It was the shortest path. As Lyveden started to turn, Valerie laid a hand on his arm.

“Not that way,” she said unsteadily. “It was our last walk together—Joe’s and mine.”

Then she burst into tears.

In a flash the barrier that had stood between them was done away.

Anthony put his arm about her instinctively. She caught at his shabby lapel and clung to it, sobbing piteously. They must have stood so for five minutes or more.

When she was better, they walked on slowly, Anthony talking as naturally as if she had been his sister. All his constraint was gone.

“Don’t I know how you feel? Oh, my dear, I’m so grieved for you. I know, I know.... Everything you do, every way you turn, calls up some piteous memory. But it’ll pass, dear, very soon.... Time’s very merciful....”

They came to the sleeping village and the door of the house where she was to pass the night.

“Sleep well,” said Anthony, and put her hand to his lips.

Valerie dared not speak. For a second she hesitated, inarticulate. Then she leaned over and set her cheek against his.

The next instant she was gone.

Patch turned the corner of danger just before cock crow.

With his heart singing, Lyveden went for a walk. He chose the old way—the way he had trod so often with Patch by his side and Valerie in his heart. My lady had filled his cup. The knowledge that Patch would live had set it brimming. He saw the dawn up and felt jubilant. He found new beauties of Nature at every step. His sympathy with my lady was a thing detached. It could not cloud his happiness. Eaton Square was forgotten. There were only she and he and Patch in all the world....

He came to The Leather Bottel, borrowed a razor of an old groom, and presently took a bath under a pump. Later he sat long over a joyous breakfast.

When he came back to the Home, there was Valerie. She just ran to meet him.

“I’m so glad, I’m so glad,” she said. Then her lip quivered, and she turned away.

Anthony’s heart smote him for his late selfishness. For as good cause to congratulate her, he would have given anything.

They went up to Town together by the same train.

The feverish haste with which she climbed into “a third” was almost comical.

Arrived at the terminus, Lyveden handed her out. Since it was Sunday morning, the station was quiet. Indeed, except for a crowd of “theatricals”——

Anthony remembered the roses which Lord Pomfret had told him to purchase with an unpleasant shock.

As if a switch had been turned, all the uncertainty of his future rose up in a cold black wave. The hopelessness of their friendship stood out brutally. The thought that he was an impostor came pelting back, to set his ears burning and—the barrier that had stood between them crashed again into place.

Mechanically he saw her into a cab and told the driver to go to a house in Mayfair. Then he took off his hat.

“I hope,” he said lamely, “I hope you’ll get home all right.”

Valerie looked at him curiously. Then she put out her hand.

“I shall never forget your kindness,” she said gently.

When Anthony, some fifty minutes later, opened the front door to admit Lord Pomfret into his father’s house, he saw that his hour was come.

For a moment the youth glared at him with the eyes of a snake. Then—

“Oh, you’re back, are you?” he snarled.

He entered the house, and Anthony closed the door.

“I’m very sorry, my lord, about the roses.” He held out the two pound notes. “I entirely forgot them.”

Lord Pomfret snatched the notes out of his hand.

Anthony turned to go.

“Here!” Anthony stopped in his stride, hesitated, and then turned back. “What d’you mean, ‘you forgot’? It’s a lie. This is the second time you’ve let me down, you wash-out. And if you think——”

“My lord, I tell you——”

“Don’t dare to answer me,” raved the other. “I won’t have it. Listen to me. My mother doesn’t approve of servants who stay out all night—even if they are gentlemen. I’ll bet you’re ready to pitch a hell of a tale, but it’s no good, Lyveden. D’you hear? It’s no good. You see, I answered the telephone on Friday, when your lady-friend rang up about the dog.... I know that dog, Lyveden, I’ve had one myself. And, what’s more, I happened to be at Marylebone this morning.... Yes. That was a bit of bad luck, wasn’t it? So next time you want a week-end——”

Anthony hit him full on the mouth.

The other reeled backward, tripped over a rug, and fell heavily. He was up in an instant, and came at Anthony, bellowing like a madman.

Anthony, who was now quite cool, hit him between the eyes.

For the second time Lord Pomfret went down.

Again he got up, to hurl himself at his assailant, mouthing obscenity.

Anthony side-stepped and hit him under the jaw as hard as he could.

Lord Pomfret fell flat on his back and lay perfectly still....

The silence was broken by the sound of a dry laugh.

Anthony swung on his heel, to see the Marquess of Banff in the library doorway.

“He’s got a lot to learn yet,” observed that nobleman, glancing at his recumbent offspring. “A deuce of a lot.” He put up his eyeglasses and stared at Anthony. “If I’d known you could box, you should have given him a hour a day. Too late now. You’ll have to go, of course. What are your wages?”

“Six pounds a month, my lord,” stammered Anthony.

The Marquess took out a note-case and extracted six notes.

“Does he owe you anything?” he said, peering.

“No, my lord.”

In silence the money passed.

“Better get out at once,” said the Marquess shortly.

“I’m—I’m very sorry, my lord, that this should have happened.”

“Tck! I heard what he said. I don’t blame you. If you want a reference, you can give my name. That’ll do.”

Anthony bowed and left him. The sprawling figure was showing signs of life. He passed through the hall quickly.

Half an hour later, his baggage in hand, he descended the kitchen stairs.

At the foot of these he encountered the second footman.

“ ’Elp!” said the latter. “Don’ say you’ve got the bird, mate?”

“Got it in one,” said Anthony.

“But ’oo——”

“The Marquess.”

The fellow exploded.

“It’s a perishin’ shame!” he cried. “It’s a——”

Anthony stopped him.

“No. He treated me handsomely. I—I bought it.”

“You didn’t never sauce ’im, mate?”—incredulously.

“Not exactly. You’ll see.” He put out his hand. “So long.”

The other stared at the fingers before accepting them. Then—

“So long, mate,” he said dazedly.

Anthony let himself out.

The second footman’s inability to comprehend the matter continued until a quarter-past one. It was at that hour that he did as he had been told, and carried Lord Pomfret’s luncheon up to his room....

The condition of his lordship’s countenance was most illuminating.