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That was the first blow dealt by youth to Scarsdale in the days after the war.

It astonished him; it left him doubled in undignified helplessness over the iron railing of the flight of steps. His new bowler hat had fallen off into the privet hedge, but for the moment he was beyond preserving either his hat or his dignity. Young Marwood had retreated to the gate. His heavy, stocky figure swaggered; he had the greasy, sallow skin of his father.

“You can chuck my hat out.”

His sister cast it out, a soft green felt hat with a floppy brim. She turned her attention to Scarsdale.

“You shouldn’t have hit him like that.”

“The old fool should have kept his hands off me.”

Scarsdale’s head and shoulders raised themselves, and young Marwood picked up his hat and moved off along the railings. Discretion and insolence retreated advisedly with an upward grin at the sister.

“Ta-ta, Sis.”

She ignored him; she was standing on the upper step and looking at the rather grey face of the unfortunate knight-errant who had been put out of action most ungloriously by a boy’s fist. Scarsdale had heard youth’s judgment passed upon him—“the old fool”. He was feeling abominably and absurdly sick.

A voice said—“I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’re hurt. He shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

He realized that his hat was lying on the top of the hedge, and he recovered it. The voice had administered another blow, for he had divined in it a concern that conveyed to him a suggestion of kindness tinged with contempt,—or was it patronage? He had the feeling that it was the way in which she would have spoken to an elderly man who had slipped on a piece of orange peel. The casual, bright, cold kindness of youth.

He put on his hat.

“O,—that’s all right. He knocked the wind out of me. I suppose I—”

He was aware of her regarding him intently.

“Haven’t we—?”

“Yes, my name’s Scarsdale. Perhaps you remember.”

She did remember. Her eyes grew friendly, for she had every reason for feeling friendly toward him, seeing that he had been the messenger who had brought her the letter which had disclosed the whereabouts of her father’s will.

“You had better come in and sit down a moment.”

Scarsdale managed to smile at her, and the smile was part of his effort to recover the situation, and to remove the creases from a tumbled virility. There was something in her youth that provoked him.

“Thanks. May I? Really rather funny, isn’t it? Should never have thought a youngster’s fist could have hit me so hard. Caught me unawares—you know.”

She drew back into the passage.

“O, the young beast is always fighting. One of my brothers.”

“Your brother!”

But she was not an explanatory person. She showed him the sitting-room, and the obvious chair.

“I had just come back from the office to get my lunch. Would you like anything to drink?”

“A glass of water, may I?”

She went for the glass of water, and in handing it to him their fingers touched. Scarsdale looked up at her. His colour had come back.

“I’m afraid he must have hurt you. I was shocked.”

She gave a toss of the head.

“O, nothing to speak of. It’s not the first time I have had to throw him out. I think it will be the last. Do you mind if I go and get my lunch. I have to be back at the office at two.”

Scarsdale stood up.

“O, please go. I don’t want to interfere.”

She went, and he sat down again and sipped his water, and tried to rid himself of a feeling of resentment against young Marwood. He was surprised to find how much of the swaggering, sensational boy remained in him. Obviously, he should have taken the young lout easily by the collar and removed him to the pavement, and without even the unseemliness of a scuffle. But the upward, jabbing fist of youth had found his solar plexus, and he had lost his hat and his dignity.

He sipped his water, and when the tumbler was half empty, he placed it on the lower shelf of the stand that sustained the aspidistra. Rather an extraordinary house this, and rather an extraordinary young woman! And what was the present position of the Marwood family, and how much of the family was there? He sat stiffly and self-consciously in the chair in a house that remained wilfully silent. He began to feel a little uncomfortable. He was becoming more and more aware of the unexpectedness of that handsome, dark, young creature. How surprisingly strong she was! He felt a little afraid of her.

He sat and waited, and presently he heard a movement in the passage, and she reappeared. She was smoking a cigarette. She had a gunmetal cigarette case in her hand, and she offered it to Scarsdale. The case had belonged to her father, and had been returned with his effects from France.

“Feeling better?”

“Oh,—I’m all right.”

He took a cigarette, and handed the case back to her, and she stood leaning against a mantelpiece which had been cleared of all useless ornaments. She was very much at her ease, and observing him. She offered no explanations while conveying to him the impression that it was his affair to explain how he came to be in the neighborhood.

He fumbled at the situation just as he had groped tentatively at Marwood’s door.

“Sure you are not hurt?”

Her very black eyebrows seemed to emphasize her stare.

“Please don’t worry. I was just calling the child’s bluff.”

“Does he live here?”

“He did.”

She flicked ash from her cigarette, and observed his clothes, and the grizzled hair above his ears. She waited.

“I happened to be in Chelsea.”

“Oh. Then you don’t live here?”

“No. Canonbury. I have only been back a few days, and I have been reviewing London. That’s one of my jobs.”

She did not understand him.

“Not musical comedy?”

He forced a little, self-conscious laugh.

“No,—books.”

“O,—books.”

He seemed to detect a tinge of contempt in her voice, and he became possessed by a desire to swagger. He wanted to impress her. She appeared so confoundedly cool and sure.

“Yes, you see I’m in the literary world. I write for the Scrutator and the Sunday Standard, and I help to edit a magazine.”

He did not tell her the name of the magazine, for he did not think that she would be impressed by the reputation of the Sabbath. Obviously the new world had not much use for the Sabbath.

She crossed the room and deposited the end of her cigarette in the brass pot belonging to the aspidistra. He had impressed her, but not in the way that he would have wished. She supposed that he had literary or artistic friends in Chelsea, and that his presence in Chelsea was natural.

“So, you’re a sort of celebrity.”

“O, not quite that.”

But he was pleased. He glanced at his wrist watch, and she, observing his glance, made her own movement.

“Sorry—but I shall have to be going. I have got my father’s job in an estate office here.”

“Why,—that’s splendid.”

She looked at him half-questioningly, but the inwardness of her glance was veiled. He seemed quite a nice old thing, for he looked older than his age, and to Marwood’s daughter anything over forty was final. But she was thinking of her younger brother, Harry of the bright buttons and the bright eyes. She wanted a career for Harry.

She said—“Sorry to have to turn you out. But perhaps you would like to sit here for a while.”

He rose instantly.

“O, no. I’m quite a tough person—really.”

He crossed to the fireplace, carefully extinguished the stump of his cigarette, and dropped it in the grate.

“Thanks for being so kind.”

Suddenly she smiled at him.

“O, not very much so. Thanks for your help. If you are ever round this way—”

He held out a hand.

“May I? Thanks—awfully.”

She grasped his hand firmly.

“You met my younger brother. He’s not like that other one. We’re great pals.”

“I’m sure you are.”

She shepherded him to the door, and smiled him out, and Scarsdale walked on towards Spellthorn Square with her smile pervading his consciousness.