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“Let us now go out into London.”

H. V. Morton.

Worn out by nights of broken sleep and many emotions Beatrice slept like a tired child, and when she woke, could not for a moment imagine where she was. Her bed had got turned round, the window was in the wrong place—then she remembered. With a rush it all came over her, and she buried her face in the pillow.

Perhaps Higgins noticed the tear stains when she came in with the morning tea, for she announced with much emphasis that it looked to her like being a good day. “October’s been very fine,” she said, “and even in November I’ve seen some lovely days; and then December brings Christmas and that’s heartening. It’s wonderful the helps we get in this world—and we need ’em all, I’m sure. It’s eight o’clock, Miss. Breakfast’s at 8.30 for the Master, but the ladies don’t come down. You will have a tray up here, won’t you, Miss?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” said Beatrice. “I’ll have my bath now, if I may, and go down to breakfast. I’ve had such a good night. I think your tea was a sedative. How is Impudence this morning?”

Higgins paused, with the towel she was holding in her hand, and shook her head. “Well, if you’ll excuse the expression, he’s a regular child of Satan. He’s got at cook’s knitting and pulled it all down and dirtied it something horrid, and he went straight from the coal-cellar and walked on the clean breakfast cloth! Payne—the butler, Miss—he was in a way! Oh, he’s not popular downstairs this morning, is pussy. And he looks up into your face so innocent-like. . . . I’ll get your bath ready, Miss.”

“Cold, please, Higgins. I always have a cold bath in the morning.”

“Oh, but, Miss, should you? Not dead cold. Why, it’s enough to make your ’eart fail. I suppose it’s just as one’s accustomed, but the very thought makes me shudder—with a touch of frost in the air too!”

Whether it was the cold bath or the good night’s rest, certainly Beatrice looked a picture of freshness when she greeted her brother in the dining-room. That gentleman also wore a cheerful morning face and seemed well satisfied to begin another day. He was getting through a good breakfast, with The Times propped up before him.

“It is almost my only opportunity of seeing the papers,” he explained. “I’m hard at it all day—first in the office, and when Parliament’s sitting, at the House. Not that I’m complaining. My word, how I pity the retired men, lounging all day in their clubs. I enjoy every minute of my life, as much now at fifty-five as I did when I was a youngster beginning. Just now, I grant you, it’s anxious work, but I’d rather be anxious than live in a stagnant peace. Time enough for that when I’m not fit for anything else. . . . I must get them to bring you to dine with me at the House. It would amuse you to see how things are done, and look at the men whose names and faces are familiar to you in the papers!”

Sir Samuel finished his toast, drank up his tea, then threw down his napkin and prepared to rise, but the chances of an audience were too tempting, and he sat down again.

“Ah, yes, Beatrice,” he said impressively, “I can’t be sufficiently thankful that I struck out for myself. My father didn’t like it, you know. No. He wanted me to settle down in Glasgow and carry on his own business; didn’t care for risks. But I must say when he saw I’d made up my mind the old man was generous enough—gave me my portion, like the Prodigal Son, and wrote to all the people he knew in London to keep an eye on me! Most of them were canny Scots, pillars of the Presbyterian Church in London, supporters of vernacular circles and Burns’ Clubs—you know the kind, and they received me with great kindness and made me free of their houses. . . . Of course I began very quietly, but gradually I got on. And I was ambitious. Even as a youth I saw Parliament before me, and I made my first attempt at public speaking at the Church Debating Society in Clapham, where I had rooms. Then I took rooms in Kensington and joined a church there, and got to know more people, began tennis and golf, spent where spending paid, but lived carefully, you understand, for everything I could spare went to the enlarging of the business. And I was lucky, I acknowledge that, Things just seemed to fit in—with a well-directed push from me here and there!” He laughed gleefully and then sobered, as if he felt his theme too big for levity and continued:

“Well, I got to be noticed and talked about as a man who’d get on; my opinions were known to be sound and moderate and I was asked to stand for Parliament. I had plenty of confidence so I accepted. I didn’t get in, but I put up a jolly good fight and learned a lot. So when the next Election came, I got a constituency with a good sporting chance. I worked like a nigger and made every one work with me—result, a thumping majority. And I’ve sat for it ever since. I’ve always had a knack of managing people without letting them know they were being managed, and down at Lettington they eat out of my hand. I’m popular with all parties. They like my Scots decency and trust me, and yet I’m not too much a Scot, if you know what I mean. I’m not always flinging myself about over the rights of Scotland. I don’t blench when people talk about England when they mean Britain. I’m very well satisfied with what I’ve got out of England, and then, I suppose, having an English wife makes a difference—Well, well, I must go, I’m chattering. . . . I hope, my dear, that you’ll be happy here. Elaine must take you about a bit. . . . Both she and Betha are always up to the ears in engagements. Indeed, I seldom see them; they go their way and I go mine. Times have changed since my father’s day when a married couple were like the Siamese twins. But perhaps we go too far the other way. The swing of the pendulum, you know, the swing of the pendulum.”

He stood up, threw out his chest, brushed a crumb from his waistcoat; passed his hand over his carefully brushed hair and with a “Good morning, Beatrice,” left the room.

The girl went to the window to see him step into the car and was impressed by the important-looking leather case with “Sir Samuel Dobie” blazoned on it, that Payne handed in after him. Then she returned to the table to begin her delayed breakfast, for it had hardly seemed the proper thing to be calmly helping herself to eggs and bacon when Samuel was reciting for her benefit the tale of his life.

There was plenty to choose from; three hot dishes, a large ham, and both tea and coffee. Beatrice, who always liked her breakfast, sat down contentedly to enjoy it. It was rather nice, she told herself, to have a hostess who remained upstairs in the morning. But why did Elaine not come down to keep her father company? It seemed odd, but perhaps Samuel preferred it so. Probably he would not have appreciated the bright young daughter of Victorian novels, who was always at the breakfast table, fresh as the morning, to make Papa’s coffee as he liked it, and cheer him on his way with a daughterly embrace. The old ideal still reigned, more or less, in Glasgow. She remembered how Peggy Lithgow had, with much chaffing, accompanied her father along the terrace, advised him to be good, and had then returned, springing up the steps, as her mother told her, like a wild goat on the mountains.

Well, it was wonderful to be here, in Portland Place, in the middle of everything. To outward appearance it was not unlike Glasgow or any other large city: the same dignified houses, maids doing front doors, message boys whistling, motor-van drivers exchanging badinage with servants, girls on their way to work, walking past with very neat legs and feet. An Indian with a dirty white turban and a bulging cheap suitcase was going down area steps to try to tempt people with his wares. . . .

Nine-thirty! Evidently no one else was coming for breakfast, and the maids would want to clear away. Her own room would be in process of getting tidied. Should she go to the drawing-room? As she went through the hall she saw through a half-open door the glow of a fire, and went into the door. Here was a refuge, a comfortable room, with bookcases and a large writing table; probably Samuel’s own room, where she might sit and disturb no one. There were papers here too, picture papers as well as the more solid dailies, so she sat down by the fire and enjoyed them for half-an-hour. Then she remembered that Mrs. Lithgow would be eagerly looking for a letter and went over to the writing table, where she found an imposing blotter, an array of pens, and a well-filled case of note-paper.

“Dear Mrs. Lithgow.” No, “dearest,” the other looked cold and formal. Then Beatrice stopped. What had she to tell her? She would have to make a story about the journey and about her arrival and what the house was like and her relations. . . . And above everything she must try and thank, however inadequately, the Lithgow family for their great kindness to her. She did her best, but was far from pleased with the result; it was a wooden letter. Perhaps if she waited till the afternoon she might have more to say; the post didn’t go till after six, so she took up a book.

About eleven o’clock Betha appeared dressed for out-of-doors.

“Here you are!” she cried, sitting down and stretching out her feet to the fire. “You early bird! I feel I should scold you for not lying still and having a nice rest, but I believe in letting every one go their own way. Yes, it is a nice day, so far as a day can be nice at this time of year in England. I am a sun worshipper, I admit it. Yes. But now that we are alone together, I want you to tell me all about your dear mother’s illness. I do hope she didn’t suffer, and that it wasn’t too terribly trying for you.”

There was a pause, then Beatrice said: “She didn’t allow it to be terrible. She managed to make it almost a happy time, at least one to remember with—pride.”

“How marvellous! But she was such a fine type. I do wish I had known her better, but really, as I often say to Elaine, the world is too much with us. One hasn’t time for the quiet friendships and intimate talks one would so enjoy. Instead, one rushes here and there. Just take to-day. I have three appointments before one o’clock. I’m lunching with a most amusing woman, an American. In the afternoon I’ve a committee meeting about a Charity Ball, a tea, and a cocktail party—I wonder what Elaine is doing. I do hope she’ll be able to go out with you. . . . Oh, here she is! Good morning, darling.”

Elaine, looking very modish in a small hat that appeared to be glued to her head, wandered in in an absent-minded way.

“Oh, Beatrice, good morning. Good morning, Mother. I don’t suppose anyone saw an engagement book.” She pushed the things about on the writing-table. “I’m always losing it, but some one generally finds it and puts it here.”

“Is this it?” Beatrice produced a small blue book that she had noticed lurking beneath a picture paper.

“Oh, bless you, darling. Now I shall see what I am doing to-day. It’s my life’s comfort this book. You see it’s got a space for every hour of the day, and it begins at 8.30 which gives me such a delicious feeling of possessing all the time there is!”

“I hoped you’d be able to take Beatrice out,” said her mother.

Elaine considered the page before her. “I could cut the lunch,” she said; “and make my hair do another day, and—yes, we could have the morning together, Beatrice, if you would care to. After lunch I’m afraid I’m hopelessly entangled.”

“But, please,” said Beatrice, “I’d hate you to alter plans for me. I’ll be perfectly happy, I assure you, reading a book here, or going out by myself.”

“You can have the car all afternoon,” Betha told her. “I shan’t be using it and Elaine has her own.”

“But I don’t need a car, thank you. It isn’t as if I were going anywhere in particular. I enjoy shop windows and I’d like a walk in the Park—but what I can’t bear is to be a nuisance.”

“You could never be that,” Betha assured her. “Well, I must fly. You won’t forget, Elaine, we’re dining with the Staceys to-night. Good-bye, darlings.”

Beatrice put on her fur coat and a small black hat and went out with Elaine. She told her she wanted some new clothes, and asked for advice on where to go.

“Now I wonder,” said Elaine. “It’s not much good taking you to my woman, or to mother’s; they’d make you look all wrong. I know. Bunsens—you’re their style exactly. D’you mind paying a good deal?”

“Not too much,” said Beatrice cautiously. “One wears things such a short time that it doesn’t seem to me worth it, but I would like something really nice.”

It was easy and pleasant, Beatrice found, to go with a clever young woman who knew exactly what was wanted, and see sylph-like creatures parade in lovely frocks in a restful room, while an older woman with white hair and a sympathetic voice cooed in the background.

It was after one o’clock when they came out, and Elaine, whose breakfast consisted generally of a cup of coffee, announced that she was starving.

“Luncheon’s my meal,” she said, “and I know where we’ll get a good one. Come along to the Black Cat,” and while they ate what, to Beatrice, were new and delicious dishes, Elaine pointed out well-known actors and actresses, and constantly leapt up to greet some acquaintance.

“You don’t smoke?” said Elaine, over their coffee. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like it,” said Beatrice; then she flushed and finished, “and because my mother didn’t care to see women smoke.”

“I see. I rather think you’re right; it wouldn’t suit your style, and you can’t be too careful to be all of a piece. . . . Now, shall I drop you at Portland Place? Or is there anywhere else I can take you? I must be getting on.”

“No, no. I’ll find my way back. I’ll have a look at the shop windows and there are one or two things I’d like to get. Thank you so much for your help . . . .”

Beatrice walked along Oxford Street, enjoying the life and bustle, shopped a little, had tea, and went back to Portland Place in time to finish her letter to Mrs. Lithgow.

“Elaine and I have been shopping and I’ve spent a great deal of money on clothes! Two evening dresses—a black velvet one, a beauty, and an embroidered net one, also a day dress and coat. After the buying was finished we lunched at a place called the Black Cat, a very smart place, to judge from the numbers of actors and actresses that seemed to frequent it, and most expensive. Later, walking in Oxford Street, I met so many poor men selling things, I felt guilty about spending so much, and so had to give each one a shilling! London looks very prosperous, there are crowds everywhere, but, I notice, not many buyers in the shops. The evening dress you got from Petrie and Pollock is the very last word in fashion. I am sure Glasgow gets the very best models. Elaine has a car of her own and drives very cleverly through the traffic. She is a pretty girl, and clever. She works beautifully, and seems to read pretty well everything that comes out. Her friends seem to be mostly writers and artists and actors. Betha doesn’t appear to be much older than her daughter, and has the air of enjoying life to the full. It is a very large house. I don’t know if you would care much for the way it is furnished. The drawing-room has very little furniture and only one picture! But the library is a comfortable room with a coal fire. I miss you all and think about you much. How can I thank you for your great kindness to me? I shall never forget it. You were all so good to me, and patient with me, you and Peggy and Mr. Lithgow. I felt quite home-sick when I left you yesterday morning.

“Your loving and grateful

“Beatrice.”

When the letter was finished, she looked at the evening papers and then went up to her room, where Higgins, assisted by the kitten, was laying out her things for the evening.

“You’re not going out to-night, are you, Miss? No? I daresay you’ll be quite glad to have dinner by yourself and get to bed reasonable like. I can feel for you, Miss, if you won’t think it a liberty on my part to say so. I lost my father only a year ago. Of course it was different, I had been away since I was fifteen, still it was always home so long as my father was there, but now—well, I have my sisters, but they’re both married and have their own interests. Sometimes when I get low, I feel like a knotless thread.”

“A knotless thread,” thought Beatrice, “that’s what I am.” Aloud she said: “You need never feel that, Higgins. You are so useful. You’ve made a niche for yourself.”

Higgins was deftly laying out the lace dress on the bed, the black satin slippers, the underwear, and she gave a small sigh as she said:

“I don’t know about an ’iche, Miss, but I do try to be of some use in the world. You see, I belong to the chapel close by here, and they give me work to do. I can generally have my evenings after eight o’clock, so I can attend the meetings, which is a great privilege. And I’ve got some of the other maids in the houses round to go with me and they’re interested too, and help a bit. . . . You’d be surprised, Miss, what a difference it makes to have something outside the daily round. Every Wednesday there’s a work party to make things for a missionary sale, and we’re all as keen as can be to raise a lot. It sort of widens out your life thinking on big things like Foreign Missions and such like. Of course you understand, Miss, it’s only a few that go with me. I don’t blame them. Girls get a better time than they did when I was a young thing. . . . Come along now, Impudence, that’s not for you to sharpen your claws on.”

At eight-thirty Beatrice went down to the dining-room and to a solitary dinner, waited on by Payne and the footman. She had never noticed the presence of servants at the table before, but eating in solemn silence made her nervous and self-conscious. She was glad to escape to the drawing-room, where she sat in lonely state beside an electric fire, and tried to interest herself in a book. At ten o’clock she turned off the lights in the drawing-room and went slowly upstairs to bed.