Newspaper Page Text
w
ADAM S CL AY
THE JTORY ©F A JPOTO&EJT COQUETTE
AMD> ■ THE HEAKT J" 5* HE
BYC
Synopsis of Preceding Chapters:
F -^ ROM babyhood John Ashley has known no
Ilf* except that of a lonely English farm,
no society except that of his morose
father and the farm laborers. At the age of
2. r . he learns the reason for this—his mother ran
away with his father's closest friend a year aftffr
her marria&t*. The elder Ashley has been deter,
mined that his son should be spared a fate like
his own. and has guarded him against the wiles
of worldly-wise women. Learning of the death
of his wife who forsook him and their child,
the elder Ashley kills himself. A few months
later Betty Biundell, a charming, but heartless
married coquette, visits at a neighboring farm,
Jearns John's history, and writes to her London
woman friend. Milly Cator, of her proposed
conquest.
Betty takes advantage of a severe thunder
storm to seek shelter at John’s farm. There
she comes in contact with her victim, and the
result of the Interview Is an appointment for
the following afternoon on a nearby hill.
John is on h«tnd promptly, trembling with an
ticipation of the appointed meeting.
(Continued from Last Sunday)
CHAPTER VII.
Love's Golden Key.
N OTHING of Importance existed In the
world except love. Not the love he had
given to his father; not the love he had
poured out upon hlB books. Nor the love he
felt for Nature. Those were mild, gentle kinds
of love more suited to women. He had sud
denly become awake. The only love thati mat
tered to him was the love that was alive. The
only thing worth living for was Just to hold her
—the woman—tight against his heart, to feel
her breath upon his lips, the rise and fall of her
bosom against his chest, the scent of her hair
In his brain, to watch her as she moved, to
touch her, to kiss her. to fall asleep In her arms,
languid, placid, content.
"I went to the hill—nowadays everything In
teresting happens on a hill—like a very girl,’
wrote Betty. “The sun was deliciously warm
after yesterday's storm, and all the leaves,
grasses, trees and hedges smelt sweet. One
felt that the wife of the clerk of the weather
had made an Inspection, found an accumulation
of dust and cobwebs about, and had ordered
her servants to turn the place out. The opera
tion was Inconvenient; the result refreshing.
"I danced out of the cottage In the best tem
pers with the world and myself. 1 had every
reason to be. I found that a frock I had In
tended to throw away came out looking pretty
nearly new. It’s a white muslin, with Insertions
of lace run through with Cambridge blue baby
ribbon. The sort of thing they always put the
young girl of the play Into. Whoever she may
be, whether a moneyed amateur, or a young
person from the provinces, she always looks
well In It, however badly she may act. And
how badly these people play as a rule. Is It
because they are never allowed to do what a
young girl off the etage would do under similar
circumstances, but are made to go through all
the impossible trieks the stage manager has
stored up In his head from the dark ages?
"However, all this has nothing to do with my
hill or my monster. When I arrived, the latter
was on the former, as they say In newspapers.
He was standing up with his hands in his
pockets, smiling. For a moment 1 hardly recog
nized him. He looked like the younger brother
of the John Ashley 1 had met the day before.
All the lines had gone out of his face, all the
sternness, the aloofness, the underlying discon
tent. He was a great boy.
“ ’So glad you’ve come,’ he said, turning to
me eagerly. 'I began to think you had been
carried Into the air on the breeze, and borne
away like a petal! Will you sit here, or here
with your hack to the tree? . , . No, don t
sit with your back to the tree, the moss will
stain your dress.’
“I sat down on the smooth, spongy turf, and
gave one of my best girlish laughs.
" ’You can’t have been waiting long,' I said.
" ‘Long?’ he cried, flinging himself at my feet.
•Don’t you call a thousand million years long?’
"He laughed as he said It, but I had a feeling
that a thousand million years couldn’t have
worked a greater change In his face and his
manner than twelve hours had done.
“With his elbows In the grass and his chin in
the palms of his brown hands, he lay, looking
up at me with his eyes full of a dancing light.
This afternoon, unlike yesterday afternoon, It
was he who did all the talking. 1 hardly Bald
e word for an hour.
"He babbled about every conceivable thing
nnder heaven, except the things of the moment. ,
It was all perfectly charming. Sometimes
humorous, sometimes fanciful, always whimsi
cal, because so utterly, almost Impossibly un
worldly. From the few questions 1 put to him,
I could see that he w as quite outside the move
ment of things. He didn’t even know whether
the Liberals or the Tories were in power, and
cared less. It was like the song of a thrush,
whose little life had been spent within a
whistle of Its nest. And all the time his eyes
were fixed on me with a look of such boyish
adoration that Instinctively, unconsciously, 1
slipped off my wedding ring and put It In my
pocket.
"I could see that my methods with him would
have to be most guarded and careful; that any
thing that wasn’t extremely subtle and cun
ning would tend to jar upon him. Like all men
who make the acquaintance of the little god
late in life, he Idealized. I wasn’t a woman:
1 was an angel. 1 didn’t stand on the rude
earth by his side. I sat upon a cloud all carved
and picked ont with gems.
“It was all very new, very fascinating. I
had ha.’ no experience quite like it All the
boys I had met in my earliest youth were boys
who were cramming for the Army. And you
know the kind of boys they are—editions des
luxes of worldliness, first states of knowledge.
] really w ished as 1 sat listening to him, watch
ing the entl: siasms pass over his face like
wav^s, that 1 could have begun all over again
from the beginning, and been something like
the kind of thing he had elevated me into.
"For three wonderful hours 1 was actually
alone with this boy monster, this baby giant,
behaving as any simple little girl would have
done. For three solid hours I was alone with
an untried man, without experimenting upon
him in the way that gives me such sheer de
light I made up my mind to try and refrain
from my usual practises; to abstain, to be Just
a sweet, laugnlng, happy little maiden. 1 made
up my mind to leave him with the remem
brance pf merely clean love in his eyes, the
de!:< wholesome love with which they
were SJed. But that imp inside me wiilee’
otherwise. Heavens! how deep-rooted one’s
habits become. ... I saw him glance
quickly at me. I saw the blood flood his face.
I saw a gleam come Into his eyes.
"I gained my momentary triumph. But I was
sorry Immediately. In his case, It seemed such
a pity.”
Young Ashley was singing as he came up the
road. His head was flung back and his arms
were swinging, and he walked on the tlpB of
his toes. He did not wait to open the gate.
Putting one hand on the top bar he vaulted it
and ran up the path to the house.
"Dinner as soon as you like, old man," he
sang out, and took the stairs to his bedroom
three at a time.
Before dinner was cleared young Ashley
caught up his cap and went quickly to the door.
“Be ye goln’ out again, master?” asked Sloke
anxiously.
"Yes," said Ashley.
"Don’t go, master. Don’t go!”
The strangeness and the earnestness of the
appeal twisted young Ashley round.
"Why not? he asked.
So agitated that he could barely frame his
sentences the old man stepped forward.
"Oh, Master John, this woman . . . with
the white flngerB ... as come so sudden
. . . don’t,, please don’t . . . for your
father’s sake, as Is gone to rest. . .
"Father knows,” cried young Ashley. "Sloke,
old man, I have told father. You won’t under
stand mo, but I fiave. He has let me off my
promise, because every woman isn’t alike.
And this one . . . this one . .
A gesture finished his sentence, a gesture
that conveyed love and admiration and rever
ence too Immense for mere words.
And then young Ashley caught up the hand
of the old man and laughed with a catch in his
voice as he shook It.
"Wish me luck," he said. “I am going to be
the happiest man on earth.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A Man ami Two Women.
E VELYN BLUNDELL was the kind of man
men call "a good chap," and women "a
dear."
Justly so as men go. He lied as often but
not more often than any of us. He played an
excellent game of bridge, and parted with
money he couldn’t afford to lose with Invari
able cheerfulness. He took chaff quite as well
as he gave it, grumbled continually at his pro
fession, and when he mugged up his work he
did so secretly, and was entirely devoid of
buck. He had an Infinite capacity for martyr
dom, and could draw generously upon a Teserve
fund of sentimentality at any moment. To
look at, he was no different from ninety-nine
men out of a hundred—men, I mean, of some
breeding, decently educated. He had a fairly
steady, fairly clean eye, plenty of hair of a
reddish tinge, crisp, and inclined to kink; a
Btralght, thin nose, with well cut nostrils; a
short upper lip, a surly mouth, and a square-cut
chin, which showed some pigheadedness, but
very little strength.
Being thoroughly, soundly English—the
Blundells dwelt In Kent ages before the Can
terbury Pilgrims lowered the tone of the
county—he possessed a keen sense of the ridi
culous, but no sense of humor, and he was
lucky enough to be able to cod himself—to
use an excellent colloquialism—that whatever
he did, however low, foolish, or mean, was done
from motives in which neither of these three
things found a place. He was no more sensual
than any other healthy-minded man, and no
less. He was, at the same time, just as selfish
and there was no man on earth with whom he
got on better, or appreciated more, than Evelyn
Blundell.
His moral sense was sound. Not for a mo
ment, however keen the temptation, would he
have rendered any straight girl the worse for
knowing him. Not for a moment, however
strong the Invitation, would he have tampered
with the wife of a friend. With the wife of a
man with whom he was not on terms of friend
ship, It was, of course, a totally different mat
ter. In that he w'as a sailor, and consequently
away from his wife for long periods of time,
he regarded himself as exempted from a too
nice faithfulness.
He had his affairs of the heart In which the
heart was altogether on the other side. His
taste lay in the direction of barmaids and shop
girls, by whom he was regarded as “quite the
* gentleman,’’ and It was no extraordinary
thing for him, after he had been some time
In the Navy, to spend some portion of his leave
at a second-rate London hotel en famllle. He
did it as well as he could afford In the most
gentleman like, unostentatious manner, keep
ing well out of the radius of his own set. He
prided hlmaelf on always playing the game ac
cording to the rules of fashion at the time, and
he paid his way honestly to the best of his
ability.
He did not look upon hts having fallen In love
with and become engaged to Betty as a false
step likely to retard his advancement- After
all, she was an extremely beautiful girl, who
belonged to a highly respectable family. But
he did consider, In his most secret moments,
that he had allowed himself to be rushed into
marriage rather too early In his career. He
was, as a matter of fact, not quite sure that
the kudos of being engaged to a girl so re
markably pretty as Betty was not sufficient-
Nevertheless, having married her during the
one Impetuous and uncalculating moment of
his life, he had played the game. He had put
her Into a flat that was well within his means,
and made her a proper and adequate allowance
upon which to keep up appearances.
He had thoroughly enjoyed his honeymoon,
took great pleasure In introducing his wife to
his particular friends, and when he joined the
China squadron, left behind with his bankers
fu'l and complete instructions as to his wife’s
allowance, and much wisdom and common
sense with his wife. During his absence he
wrote to Mrs. Blundell once a week—every
Sunday afternoon. His letters were models of
domestic epistles. He gave a full and detailed
account of Just so much as he considered
necessary of the doings of the previous week,
and never failed to request his wife to live
well within the allowance he made her, and to
make nice friends only.
Naturally, being a thoroughly sound English
man. he never missed a safe opportunity of
errioving himself during his long absence from
his wife, and when, finally, the time came for
him to return home on leave, he did so with
the esteem of his chiefs, the sincere regard
of his brother officers, and the certain knowl
edge of promotion to a better station. It need
hardly be added that he had saved money, and
had the pleasure of seing quite a respectable
balance In his passbook. In short, It Is easy to
claim for him the right to be called “a good
chap,” by men, and a "dear” by women.
As he neared the end of his homeward voy
age, and read the bright, loving, trusting, eager
letters of the little woman who was his wife,
written from the little village In which she was
counting the minutes that brought him nearer,
all the sentimentality, all the desire to make
a martyr of himself, bubbled up and stirred
what was best In his nature. He read the
artless, affectionate letters with tingling cheeks
and dim eyes, and, casting them back over the
three years' separation, called himself, without
really believing the things he said, blackguard
and beast, and other exaggerated terms of
abuse, because he thought it was the right
thing to do- Implicitly believing that every
word she wrote was true—was she not the
woman he had married?—he worked himself
into the not altogether unenjoyable belief that
be was unworthy to black the little shoes In
which she stood.
"Poor little girl,” he repeated to himself
over and over again, looking at his wife’s pho
tograph In the moonlight; "poor little girl, how
she loves me! What kind of man am I that
she should adore me as she does? The three
years I have been away must have appeared
six to her. Yet to me—It seems only yester
day—I’ve put In an excellent time, too, done
myself top-hole. What am I to say to her—a
little woman so white, so pure, so faithful?
It's all rot to suppose that because I’ve not
been particular she ought not to havo been. I
am only a man, whereas she’s my wife. But
I rather wish—Oh, Lord. That’s the worst of
this beastly service. What's a man to do?
Poor little girl, poor little girl! What a r,um
thing it all is. If she’d done an eighth part
of what I have, I should never live with her
again. It’s rough luck—btft there it Is.”
Two telegrams were handed to Blundell when
H. M. S. Gargantua put In. They ran as fol
lows:
"Welcome a thousand times. "BETTY.”
And,
“Welcome; come at once. “MILLY.”
The first, which he had expected, gave him
very little pleasure for that reason.
The second, totally unexpected, sent his heart
beating half a dozen strokes faster to the min
ute.
Before he got into the train for London, he
wired answers to them both. To the first;
“Safe and sound. Dying to see. Business
keeps me to-morrow London. With you day
after. "EVELYN.”
And to the second:
"Thousand thinks. With you to-morrow
lunch. "EVELYN- ’
"Come at once—Milly,” he said to himself,
as the train started. "What on earth”
Much against his will a smile crept over hts
face, and he fingered the telegram with a sense
of pleasurable excitement.
"Surely a little Indiscreet? Mlliy’s taken
the flat, by a deuced curious coincidence, and
I expect, knows that Betty is in the country
pining to see me. It must be something very
urgent to make her ask me to go at once when
ones wife—illness, I should think. Or else
something has leaked out—heavens, I hope
not. It.would never do just at this moment. ’
He said these things tragically enough, but
the smile remained.
“Of course, past or no past, I couldn’t pos
sibly refuse to lunch with her. In a sense—in
fact, of course—It’s business. I hate lying!
No dotfbt something’s gone wrong with the
flat, and I am wanted to see ubout it. My
own sweet little Betty. (Come at once—Milly.)
I wonder if she’s changed at all. She’s quite
a little woman now- What a heap we shall
have to talk about, eh? That’s It. And no sea
in sight. Beastly sea, how I loathe it! (Come
at once—Milly.) It makes me sick to think
that 1 shan’t be able to look her fair and
square In the eyes. I wonder if any of the
others would suffer as I do under these cir
cumstances. They’ve put in a jolly sight better
ti m e—I mean, been very much worse—than
1 have during these three years. . (Come at
once—Miliy.) I suppose I am a bit too sensi
tive I suppose there are not a dozen men in
the service who would understand the horrible
shame I feel. (Come at once—Milly.) Gad!
1 wish I’d run on the straight. She has all my
love though. No one has ever or can ever
share that with her. (Come at once—Milly.)
And I have been looking forward all these
years to seeing Betty directly l landed. I
wonder what’s goin’ .on in town? By Gad!
I'll give myself a ripping little dinner—change
of diet will do me good—and do a theatre or
a music hall. Something bright with some
good swinging songs will help to drive away the
fearful hump staying away from Betty will
give me. (Come at once—Milly.) 1 don’t
think I’ve ever (been so down on my luck In
my life. A music hall. I think, and I’ll see If
I can’t find a pal. Might possibly drop into
supper at the Continental afterward. Must
do something to buck myself up. After all,
what have 1 done that everyone else doesn’t
do. (Come at once—Milly.) Dearest little
wife! (Come at once—Milly.) What a funny
thing it was—Cator dying two weeks after
Betty and I were married. I wonder if I
should have married Milly If I hadn’t met
Betty? She got all poor old Cator’s money
Not enough to roll in, but a jolly useful bit. I
don’t suppose 1 should, though. Men never
marry the women they—and yet, she's a good
sort. It was wrong, o? course, hut at least
it gave her an interest In life—and nobody
ever found out. How hard the world is on a
woman who goes a bit off the straight. Brutes'.
But I’m glad 1 was safely married." (Come
at once—Milly.) •
Blundell took his wife's photograph out ot
his breast pocket, and sat looking at it in a
wistful way for a long time.
CHAPTER IX.
How She Loves Him!
A S his hansom cleared the station yard
and made its way into the street Blun
dell forgot both women—his wife and
the other. London leapt up In front of him.
London, with Its peculiar smell, its peculiar
noises, buildings and traffic, its peculiar same
ness—the ugliest, worse-kept, worse swept nar
rowest, most Interesting city In the world.
With his ante-breakfast cup of tea Blundell
found a letter from his wife.
“Darling Old Boy,” it read, “Welcome, a
thousand welcomes. I have no words to tell
you how disappointed I was to get your tele
gram. I’m afraid I shall be ebliged to cry
myself tc sleep to-night But. of course, busl-
‘I wore a soft, white, clinging thing—a cross between a tea gown and a night dress, cut low at the neck, with short sleeve*. I
was discovered lying on the sofa under the window.”
ness must be attended to, mustn’t it? Bother
business! I want you to find this little note
when you wake, so if I wish to catch the early
post I must fly with it to the post office. But 1
have just time to say what you already Enow—
that I love you more than ever, and just long
to see you with all my might. Your own
“BETTY.”
"Wire your train in any case, sweetheart.”
Blundell kissed the little note several times,
and repeated to himself, a pleasant warmth
pervading him; “Dear little Betty, how she
loves me, how she loves me! I'll get a red tie,,
I think. Milly likes me in a red tie. Those
were jolly days, by Gad! What an unholy cad
Cator was! I suppose if I hadn’t sympathized
somebody else would have done so. What a
near thing it was that night at the Grosvenor.
She w’as always dashed punctual, and as usual,
I hadn’t arrived. And w’hen she asked for me
the Gov’nor came down! By Jove, how we
scuttled! Good old Milly! She’s got that in
cident stuffed away in her box, I’ll bet a pony.
Why the dickens does she want to see me? I
suppose I ought to catch the train down to
Betty to-night? Otherwise I’d suggest taking
Milly to a theatre. I’d like to do a theatre
with her again—just for auld lang syne. Oh,
well, I must do my hair again, I suppose.”
Blundell walked as far as Hyde Park Corner.
London was wearing its usual midsummer ap
pearance.
At Hyde Park Corner Blundell got into a
cab and drove to his flat in Addison Road. A
few actors ambled about the Row on safe
hacks, uneasily, and the dried grass in Ken
sington Gardens was spotted with the white
frocks of nurse-maids and children.
The flat w-as on the third floor. There was
a new’ porter In the old porter’s clothes. He
knew this by the sacK under his arms, and
by the trousers, which, although they were
turned up, were still too long by a couple of
inches.
He instinctively felt for his latchkey. It
seemed absurd to ring the bell of his own place
like any stranger.
He asked for Mrs. Cator, and was shown into
the little drawing room In which he had taken
such a pride. He stood on the rug In front of
the fireplace—it was a bargain from one of
Hampton’s sales—and surveyed the room. His
thoughts flew back to the morning, several
days before his marriage, when, with dear old
Fawcett, he had hung the, pictures, pipe in
mouth, coat off, sleeves rolled up, and had
arranged the furniture—which Betty had after
ward rearranged in the usual woman’s way.
One of the pictures w’as crooked. With a
lump of sentimentality in his tnroat, he crossed
the room and put It straight with the tip ot
his finger. The thin-legged writing desk that
he had given to Betty on her birthday—the
first birthday, so far as he was concerned—
w^s open. Many of Mrs. Cator’s letters were
lying upon it. In a pigeonhole he saw a
number of letters In his wife's handw’riting.
He took them up and kissed them. Hearing
a step in the passage, he slipped them with a
smile into his pocket and turned expectantly
toward the door.
Milly Cator came forward w’ith outstretched
hand.
“Evelyn,” she said, with a ring of pleasure
in her honest vole#, "how nice to see you
again.”
Slightly chilled at the almost sisterly greet
ing, Blundell took her hand. "Thanks," he
said- “It is good to be home.”
He had rehearsed a very different scene. He
q-Re expected that she would have flung her
arms round his neck with tears and he had
Intended to kiss her on her cheek and pat
her shoulder and talk in a fatherly way of
what might have been.
As it was, Milly stood before him beaming
with health and cheerfulness. Almost ag
gressively sane. He felt aggrieved. He felt
as most of us feel when upon opening a
smartly got up parcel, tied carefully, sealed
here and there and marked “Fragile,” “With
care,” a sample of patent medicine is dis
covered.
“How well and brown you are looking, dear
old boy,” said Milly, sitting down. “You’ve
evidently had a very good time.”
Blundell assumed a woebegone expression.
“Does a man usually have a good time when
he Is away from the woman he loves better
than his life for three years—only three
months married? I’ve had a beastly time,
thanks."
Mrs. Cator’s face flushed slightly and her
thoughts flew uneasily to the pigeon hole of
the writing desk.
“I have never forgotten Betty for an in
stant,” said Blundell. “When a man marries
for love, you know, penal servitude is not
worse than separation ”
There was a slight pause. Mrs. Cator, un
able to clear her mind of some gladness that
the man whom she had expected to wait for
her freedom should have married a woman so
unworthy as Betty, wondered what he would
say if he could see the bundle of letters.
Blundell not altogether with intention began
to frame sentences likely to give pain to the
woman who seemed to have forgotten that he
had behaved badly to her.
The temptation to put the letters in Blun
dell’s hands and so while killing his love for
his wife very possibly regain some of it her
self, was very strong. Being the man for
whom she had sacrificed something, more than
her self-respect, Mrs. Cator still loved Blun
dell. It is the way of women.
“You’ll stay to lunch, of course," she said
brightly.
“I can’t, thanks, very much,” said Blundell,
who had made arrangements to do so. “I waint
to catch the afternoon train into the country.
You see if I hadn’t ... if you hadn’t . . .
I should have gone down last night, only that
I wanted to be of use to you.”
.it’s Cator fidgeted with her fingers.
“It was kind of you to wait,” she -aid. “The
fact is Betty wanted me to see you to get you
to take down a parcel—quite a small one—of
things I have been getting for her In town.
As you are in such a hurry, perhaps I had
better get it for you at once.”
“Thanks," said Blundell, rising and opening
the door.
Again Mrs. Cator’s thoughts traveled in the
direction of the pigeon hole- After a brief,
sharp struggle the best that was in her won
—there was very little that was not best—
and she rose with a smile and went to the
door.
"How glad she will be to get you back again."
she said, as she went out.
In the little dtnlng-room of the flat, Mrs.
Cator, with the tears streaming down her
cheeks, spread out a telegram that she had
received the previous morning. It was from
Betty.
“Wire to Evelyn and ask him to see you to
morrow urgently. I do not want him down to
night or to-morrow. Keep him. Very impor
tant. Be sure you wire me the train he de
cides to come by.”
With a bitter exclamation Mrs. Cator opened
the Railway Guide and then drew a telegraph
form from its case.
“He's leaving by the 2:55—Milly,” she wrote.
This she gave to her maid with the request
that it might be sent at once. She then went
to her bedroom, made a parcel of the hair
nets for which Betty had written, carefully
bathed her eyes with a sponge and returned,
studiously cheerful, to the drawing room.
“Here It Is.” she said, holding out the par
cel. "Are you sure you haven’t time to stay
to lunch?”
"Quite sure, thanks.” said Blundell. "I
must get back to the Metropole and put my
things together. Glad to see you looking so
well and happy."
"Oh,” said Mrs. Cator, “I never was hap
pier in my life, or so well. Perhaps I shall
see something of you both before your leave
Is up.”
’’Thanks. I hope so. ... . Well . . .
good-bye.”
"Well, good-bye."
As the outer door closed upon him Mrs. Cator
slipped Into a chai(r with her hands over her
eyes. “He’s forgotten,” she cried.
' \
(*.
Blundell put up his stick to a cab, flung the
little parcel upon the seat, got in after it, and
slammed the doors together angrily.
“She’s forgotton,” he thought.
CHAPTER X.
Only a Witness, But—
I T was half-past one when Blundell got back
to the Metropole. He made out that he
had three-quarters of an hour In which to .
get packed and pay his bill, and make some
kind of a lunch. Lunch was the most Impor
tant He could pack and settle up In a quar-
ter of an hour. So, not caring to face Bir
mingham, Manchester and Chicago, he es
chewed the dining room and went down to the
bar, which was In an angle of the smoking-
room.
By this time, by the careful application of
make-believe upon the sore part, the sting of
disappointment caused by Mrs. Cator’s normal
reception had been replaced by a glow of
virtue. He had argued himself without much
trouble into the belief that he had let Milly
see pretty plainly that he at any rate had com
pletely wiped the past out of his mind for
Betty's sake.
“X did It rather well," he said to himself as
he washed his hands. "If I had let myself go
the -slightest bit or sentimentalized even for
a minute there might have been complications
It was only by preserving a strenuously com
monplace and ordinary manner and expression
that I saved the situation. Poor, dear old
Milly, how obviously she was suffering. It
was dashed cruel, but being married and
frightfully in love with my wife, what else as
a man of honor could I do possibly? I might
perhaps have been a trifle kinder. It was rub
bing It in rather. But after all it was best
for her, poor dear. There she is Jogging along
fairly w’ell, trying to live it down and all that.
I should hate to have opened up the old
wound."
With a head as shiny and flat as the back
of a seal Blundell left the wash and brush
up place and passed into the bar.
A very smart young person wearing a blouse
transparent at the neck, with sleeves cut
short above the elbow was sitting behind the
counter reading a novel. She glanced haugh
tily and with a touch of insolence at Blundell,
without, as a matter of fact, wishing to con
vey either the one or the other. She had been
told by one of her regular customers that she
was exactly like Zoe Dane, who always played
duchesses in musical pieces, and she religious
ly copied that young woman’s expression.
Blundell felt mildly amused. He hatted the
bar maid in his best manner.
“May I venture to ask you to be so kind as
to provide me with some of your excellent
shrimp sandwiches and a brandy and soda?”
he asked-
She rose languidly from her chair.
“Certainly,” she replied. “But do you think
you’re old enough for a brandy and soda?"
Blundell laughed. "Ah, ha! a wit, a wit,”
he said.
With a natural playfulness that occasionally
got the better of her pose, she fired the soda
water cork at him.
“An outer,” said Blundell, rubbing his ear.
"You didn’t allow for the wind kicked up by
that electric fan. Have another shot."
She put his glass' on the marble-topped
counter and expertly caught up three sand
wiches with a silver instrument. These she
placed upon a plate stamped with the crest ol
the hotel—It did not belong to the Gordor
family—and dropped a piece of parsley by the
side of them. She then returned to her chaii
and her novel.
To Be Continued Wext Sunday.
Copyright by Ess Ess Publishing Co., and
Brentano’s,
—
MB