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Title: Set in Silver

Author: C. N. Williamson
A. M. Williamson

Release date: September 30, 2006 [eBook #19412]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19412

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SET IN SILVER
***

E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net/)

Audrie

SET IN SILVER
By

C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON

ILLUSTRATED

Garden City New York
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1913

All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian

Copyright, 1909, by
Doubleday, Page & Company

TO A GREAT MAN, AND A GREAT MOTORIST

With all admiration we dedicate our story
of a tour in the land he loves

"... this little world,
This precious stone, set in the silver sea
That serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."

SET IN SILVER

I

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
AT CHAMPEL-LES-BAINS, SWITZERLAND

Rue Chapeau de Marie
Antoinette,
Versailles,
July 4th

Darling Little French Mother: Things have happened. Fire-crackers!
Roman candles! rockets! But don't be frightened. They're all in my head.
Nevertheless I haven't had such a Fourth of July since I was a small girl in
America, and stood on a tin pail with a whole pack of fire-crackers popping
away underneath.

Isn't it funny, when you have a lot to tell, it's not half as easy to write a
letter as when you've nothing at all to say, and must make up for lack of
matter by weaving phrases? Now, when I'm suffering from a determination
of too many words to my pen, they all run together in a torrent, and I don't
know how to make them dribble singly to a beginning.

I think I'll talk about other things first. That's the way dear Dad used to
do when he had exciting news, and loved to dangle it over our heads,
"cherry ripe" fashion, harping on the weather or the state of the stock-
market until he had us almost dancing with impatience.

Yes, I'll dwell on other things first—but not irrelevant things, for I'll
dwell on You—with a capital Y, which is the only proper way to spell You
—and You are never irrelevant. You couldn't be, whatever was happening.
And just now you're particularly relevant, though you're far off in nice, cool
Switzerland; for presently, when I come to the Thing, I'm going to ask your
advice.

It's very convenient having a French mother, and I do appreciate dear
Dad's Yankee cleverness in securing you in the family. You say sometimes
that I seem all American, and that you're glad; which is pretty of you, and

loyal to father's country, but I'm not sure whether I shouldn't have preferred
to turn out more like my mamma. You're so complete, somehow—as
Frenchwomen are, at their best. I often think of you as a kind of pocket
combination of Somebody's Hundred Best Books: Romance, Practical
Common Sense, Poetry, Wit, Wisdom, Fancy Cookery, etc., etc.

Who but a Frenchwoman could combine all these qualities with the
latest thing in hair-dressing and the neatest thing in stays? By the way, can
one's stays be a quality? Yes, if one's French—even half French—I believe
they can.

If I hadn't just got your letter of day before yesterday, assuring me that
you feel strong and fresh—almost as if you'd never been ill—I shouldn't
worry you for advice. Only a few weeks ago, if suddenly called upon for it,
you'd have shown signs of nervous prostration. I shall never forget my
horror when you (quite uncontrollably) threw a spoon at Philomene who
came to ask whether we would have soup à croute or potage à la bonne
femme for dinner!

Switzerland was an inspiration; mine, I flatter myself. And if, in telling
me that you're in robust health again, you're hinting at an intention to sneak
back to blazing Paris before the middle of September, you don't know your
Spartan daughter. All that's American in me rises to shout "No!" And you
needn't think that your child is bored. She may be boiled, but never bored.
Far from it, as you shall hear.

School breaks up to-morrow—breaks into little blond and brunette bits,
which will blow or drift off to their respective homes; and I should by this
time be packing to visit the Despards, where I'm supposed to teach Mimi's
young voice to soar, as compensation for holiday hospitality; but—I'm not
packing, because Ellaline Lethbridge has had an attack of nerves.

You won't be surprised that I stopped two hours over-time to-day to hold
the hand and to stroke the hair of Ellaline. I've done that before, when she
had a pain in her finger, or a cold in her little nose, and sent you a petit bleu
to announce that I couldn't get home for dinner and our happy hour
together. No, you won't be surprised at my stopping—or that Ellaline

should have an attack of nerves. But the reason for the attack and the cure
she wants me to give her: these will surprise you.

Why, it's almost as hard to begin, after all, as if I hadn't been working
industriously up to it for three pages. But here goes!

Dearest, you've often said, and I've agreed with you (or else it was the
other way round), that nothing I could ever do for Ellaline Lethbridge
would be too much; that she couldn't ask any sacrifice of me which would
be too great. Of course, one does say these things until one is tested. But—I
wonder if there is a "but"?

Of course you believe that your one chick has a glorious voice, and that
it's a cruel shame she should be doing nothing better than teaching other
people's chicks to squall, whether their voices are worth squalling with or
not. Perhaps, though, mine mayn't be as remarkable an organ as we think;
and even if you hadn't made me give up trying for light opera, because I
received one Insult (with a capital I) while I was Madame Larese's favourite
pupil, I mightn't in any case have turned into a great prima donna. I was
rather excited and amused by the Insult myself—it made me feel so
interesting, and so like a heroine of romance; but you didn't approve of it;
and we had some hard times, hadn't we, after all our money was spent in
globe-trotting, and lessons for me from the immortal Larese?

If it hadn't been for meeting Ellaline, and Ellaline falling a victim to my
modest charms, and insisting upon Madame de Maluet's taking me as a
teacher of singing for her "celebrated finishing school for Young Ladies,"
what would have become of us, dearest, with you so delicate, me so young,
and both of us so poor and alone in a big world? I really don't know, and
you've often said you didn't.

Of course, if it hadn't been for Ellaline—Madame's richest and most
important girl—persisting as she did, in her imperious, spoiled-child way,
Madame wouldn't have dreamed of engaging a young girl like me, without
any experience as a teacher, no matter how much she liked my voice and
my (or rather Larese's) method. I suppose no one would else have risked
me; so I certainly do owe to Ellaline, and nobody but Ellaline, three happy
and (fairly) prosperous years. To be sure, because of my position at

Madame de Maluet's, I have got a few outside pupils; but that's indirectly
through Ellaline, too, isn't it?

I'm reminding you of all these things so that you may have it clearly
before your mind just how much we do owe Ellaline, and judge whether the
payment she now asks is too big or not.

That's the way she puts it, not coarsely or crudely; but I know how she
feels.

She sent me a little note yesterday, while I was giving a lesson, to say
she'd a horrid headache, had gone to bed, and would I come to her room as
soon as I could. Well, I went at lunch time, for I hated to keep her waiting,
and thought I could eat later. As it turned out, I didn't eat at all. But that's a
detail.

She had on a perfectly divine nighty, with low neck and short sleeves (no
girl would be allowed to wear such a thing in any but a French school, I'm
sure, even if she were a "parlour boarder") and her hair was in curly waves
over her shoulders. Altogether she looked adorable, and about fourteen
years old, instead of nearly nineteen, as she is.

"You don't show your headache a bit," said I.

"I haven't got one," said she.

Then she explained that she'd been dying for a chance to talk with me
alone, and the headache was the only thing that occurred to her in the
circumstances. She doesn't mind little fibs, you know. Indeed, I believe she
rather likes them, because any "intrigue," even the smallest, is exciting to
her.

You would never guess anything like what has happened.

That dragon of a guardian of hers is coming back at last from Bengal,
where he's been governor or something. Not that his coming would matter
particularly if it weren't for complications, but there are several, the most
formidable of which is a Young Man.

The Young Man is a French young man, and his name is Honoré du
Guesclin. He is a lieutenant in the army (Ellaline mentioned the regiment
with pride, but I've forgotten it already, there was so much else to
remember), and she says he is descended from the great Du Guesclin. She
met him at Madame de Blanchemain's—you remember the Madame de
Blanchemain who was Ellaline's dead mother's most intimate friend, and
who lives at St. Cloud? Ellaline has spent all her holidays there ever since
I've known her; but though I thought she told me everything (she always
vowed she did), not a word did she ever breathe about a young man having
risen over her horizon. She says she didn't dare, because I'm so "queer and
prim about some things." I'm not, am I? But now she's driven to confess, as
she's in the most awful scrape, and doesn't know what will become of her
and "darling Honoré," unless I'll consent to help them.

She met him only last Easter. He's a nephew of Madame de
Blanchemain's, it seems; and on coming back from foreign service in
Algeria, or somewhere, he dutifully paused to visit his relative. Of course it
occurs to me, did Madame de Blanchemain write and intimate that she
would have in the house a pretty little Anglo-French heiress, with no
inconvenient relatives, unless one counts the Dragon? But Ellaline says
Honoré's coming was quite a surprise to his aunt. Anyway, he proposed on
the third day, and Ellaline accepted him. It was by moonlight, in a garden,
so who can blame the poor child? I always thought if even a moderately
good-looking young man proposed to me by moonlight, in a garden, I
would say "Yes—yes!" at once, even if I changed my mind next day.

But Honoré is very good looking (she has his picture in a locket, with
such a turned-up moustache—I mean Honoré, not the locket), and so
Ellaline didn't change her mind next day.

Not a word was said to Madame de Blanchemain (as far as Ellaline
knows), for they decided that, considering everything, they must keep their
secret, and eventually run away to be married; because Honoré is poor, and
Ellaline's an heiress guarded by a Dragon.

Well, through letters which E. has been receiving at a teashop where she
and the other older girls go, rigorously chaperoned, twice a week, it was
arranged to do the deed as soon as school should close; and if they could

have carried out their plan, Ellaline would have been Madame du Guesclin
before the Dragon could have appeared on the scene, breathing fire and
rattling his scales. They were going to Scotland to be married (Honoré's
idea), as a man can't legally marry a girl under age in France without the
consent of everybody concerned. Once she'd got away with him, and had
had any kind of hole-in-the-corner wedding, Honoré was of opinion that
even the most abandoned Dragon would be thankful to sanction a marriage
according to French law; so it could all be done over again properly in
France.

I suppose this appealed immensely to Ellaline's love of intrigue and
kittenish tricksiness generally. Anyway, she agreed; but young officers
propose, and their superiors dispose. Honoré was ordered off for a month's
manœuvres before he could even ask for leave; and as he's known to be
destitute of near relatives, he couldn't rake up a perishing grandmother as an
excuse.

What he did try, I don't know; but anyhow, he failed, and the running
away had to be put off. That was blow number one, and could have been
borne, without blow number two, which fell in the shape of a letter. It said
that the wicked guardian was just about to start for home, and intended to
pick up Ellaline on his way to England, as if she were a parcel labelled "to
be kept till called for."

She's certain he won't let her marry Honoré if he has the chance to say
"no" beforehand, because he cares nothing about her happiness, or about
her, or anything else except his own selfish ambitions. Of course, Ellaline is
a girl who takes strong prejudices against people for no particular reason,
except that she has a "feeling they are horrid"; but she does appear to be
right about this man. He's English, and though Ellaline's mother was half
French, they were cousins, and I believe her dying request was that he
should take care of her daughter and her daughter's money. You would have
thought that that must have softened even a hard heart, wouldn't you? But
the Dragon's was evidently sentiment-proof, even so many years ago, when
he must have been comparatively young—if Dragons are ever young.

He accepted the charge (Ellaline thinks her money probably influenced
him to do that; and perhaps he was paid for his trouble); but, instead of

carrying out his engagements, like a faithful guardian, he packed the poor
four-year-old baby off to some pokey, prim people in the country, and
promptly went abroad to enjoy himself. There Ellaline would no doubt have
been left to this day, dreadfully unhappy and out of her element, for the
people were an English curate and his wife; but, luckily, her mother had
stipulated that she was to be sent to the same school in France where she
herself had been educated—Madame de Maluet's.

Never once has her guardian shown the slightest sign of interest in
Ellaline: hasn't asked for her photograph or written her any letters. They've
communicated with each other only through Madame de Maluet, four times
a year or so; and Ellaline doesn't feel sure that her fortune has been properly
administered, so she says she ought to marry young and have a husband to
look after her interests.

When I ventured to hope that the Dragon wasn't quite so scaly and taily
as she painted him, she proved her point by telling me that he'd been
censured lately in the English Radical papers for killing a lot of poor,
defenceless Bengalese in cold blood. Somebody must have sent her the
cuttings, for Ellaline hardly knows that newspapers exist. I dare say it was
Kathy Bennett, one of Madame's few English pupils. Ellaline has chummed
up with her lately. And that news does seem to settle the man's character,
doesn't it? He must be a perfect brute.

Ellaline says that she'd rather die than lose Honoré, also that he'll kill
himself if he loses her. And now, dearest—now for the Thunderbolt! She
vows that the only thing which can possibly save her is for me to take her
place for five or six weeks, until her soldier's manœuvres are over and he
can get leave to whisk her off to Scotland for the wedding.

You're the quickest-witted darling in the world, and you generally know
all that people mean even before they speak. Yet I can see you looking
puzzled as well as startled, and muttering to yourself: "Take Ellaline's
place? Where—how—when?"

I was like that myself while she was trying to explain. I stared with an
owlish stare for about five minutes, until her real idea in all its native
wildness, not to say enormity, burst upon me.

She wants to go day after to-morrow to Madame de Blanchemain's, as
she'd expected to do before she heard that the Dragon was coming to gobble
her up. She wants to stay there quietly until Honoré can take her, and she
wants me to pretend to be Ellaline Lethbridge!

I nearly fell off my chair at this point, but I hope you won't do anything
like that—which is the reason why I've been working up to the revelation
with such fiendish subtlety. Have you noticed it?

Ellaline has plotted the whole scheme out. I shouldn't have thought her
capable of it; but she says it's desperation.

She's certain she can persuade Madame de Maluet to let her leave
school, to go to the station and meet the Dragon (that's the course he
himself suggests: too much trouble even to run out to Versailles and fetch
her) with only me as chaperon. I dare say she's right about Madame, for all
the teachers will be gone day after to-morrow, and Madame herself
invariably collapses the moment school breaks up: she seems to break up
with it, and to have to lie in bed for at least half a week to be mended.

Madame has really quite a flattering opinion of my discretion. She's told
me so several times. I suppose it's the way I do my hair for school, which
does give me a look of incorruptible virtue, doesn't it? Fortunately she
doesn't know I always change it (if not too tired) ten minutes after I get
home to you.

Well, then, taking Madame's permission for granted, Ellaline points out
that all stumbling-blocks are removed, for she won't count moral ones, or
let me count them.

I'm to see her off for St. Cloud, and wait to receive the Dragon. "Sir,
behold the burnt-offering—I mean, behold your ward!"

And I'm to go on being a burnt-offering till it's convenient for the real
Ellaline to scrape my ashes off the smoking altar.

It's all very well to make fun of the thing like that. But to be serious—
and goodness knows it's serious enough—what's to be done, little mother?

Ellaline has (because I insisted) given me till to-morrow morning to answer.
I explained that my consent must depend on your consent. So that's why I
haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. I rushed home to write this
immense letter to you, and get it off to catch the post. It will arrive in the
morning with your coffee and petits pains—how I wish I were in its place!
You can take half an hour to make up your mind (I'm sure with your
lightning wits you wouldn't ask longer to decide the fate of the Great
Powers of Europe) and then telegraph me simply "Yes," or "No." I will
understand.

For my own sake, naturally, I should prefer "No." That goes unsaid,
doesn't it? I should then be relieved of responsibility; for even Ellaline,
knowing that you and I are all in all to each other, could hardly expect me to
fly in your face, just to please her. But, on the other hand, if you did think I
could do this dreadful thing without thereby becoming myself a Dreadful
Thing, it would be a glorious relief to pay my debt of gratitude to Ellaline,
yes, and even over-pay it, perhaps. One likes to over-pay a debt that's been
owing a long time, for it's like adding an accumulation of interest that one's
creditor never expected to get.

When, gasping after the first shock, I pleaded that I'd do anything else,
make any other sacrifice for Ellaline's sake, except this one, she flashed out
(with the odd shrewdness which lurks in her childishness like a bright little
garter-snake darting its head from a bed of violets), saying that was always
the way with people. They were invariably ready to do for their best friends,
to whom they were grateful, anything on earth except the only thing
wanted.

Well, I had no answer to make; for it's true, isn't it? And then Ellaline
sobbed dreadfully, clutching at me with little, hot, trembling hands, crying
that she'd counted on me, that she'd been sure, after all my promises, I
wouldn't fail her. She'd felt so safe with me! Are you surprised I hadn't the
heart to refuse? I confess, dear, that if I were quite alone in the world
(though the world wouldn't be a world without you) I should certainly have
grovelled and consented then and there.

She says she won't close her eyes to-night, and I dare say she won't, in
which case she'll be as pathetic as a broken flower to-morrow. I don't think I

shall sleep much either, wondering what your verdict will be.

I really haven't the remotest idea whether it will be Yes or No. Usually I
imagine that I can pretty well guess what your opinion is likely to be, but I
can't this time. The thing to decide upon is in itself so fantastic, so
monstrous, that one moment I tell myself you won't even consider it. The
next minute I remember what a dear little "crank" you are on the subject of
gratitude—your "favourite virtue," as you used to write in old-fashioned
"Confession Albums" of provincial American friends when I was a child.

If people do anything nice for you, you run your little high-heeled shoes
into holes to do something even nicer for them. If you're invited out to tea,
you ask your hostess to lunch or dinner, in return: that sort of thing
invariably; and you've brought me up with the same bee in my bonnet. So
what will your telegram be?

Whatever you say, you may count on a meek "Amen, so be it," from

Your most admiring subject,

Audrie.

P. S.—Of course, it isn't as if this man were an ordinary, nice,
inoffensive human man, is it? I do think that almost any treatment is too
good for such a cold-blooded, supercilious old Dragon. And you needn't
reprove me for "calling names." With singular justice Providence has
ticketed him as appropriately as his worst enemy would have dared to do.
They have such weird names in Cornwall, don't they?—and it seems he's a
Cornishman. Until lately he was plain Mister, now he's Sir Lionel
Pendragon. Somebody has been weak enough to die and leave him a title,
and also an estate (though not in Cornwall) which he's returning to England
in greedy haste to pounce upon. So characteristic, after living away all these
years; though Madame de Maluet has tried to make Ellaline believe he's
coming back to settle down because of a letter she wrote, reminding him
respectfully that after nineteen it's almost indecent for a girl to be kept at
school.

Don't fear, however, if your telegram casts me to the Dragon, that I shall
be in danger of getting eaten up. His Dragonship, among other stodgy
defects, has that of eminent, well-nigh repulsive, respectability. He is as
respectable as a ramrod or a poker, and very elderly, Ellaline says. From the
way she talks about him he must be getting on for a hundred, and he is
provided with a widowed sister, a Mrs. Norton, whom he has dug up from
some place in the country to act as chaperon for his ward. All other women
he is supposed to detest, and would, if necessary, beat them off with a stick.

II

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Rue Chapeau de Marie
Antoinette,
Versailles,
July 5th

My Spartan Angel: Now the telegram's come, I feel as if I'd known all
along what your decision would be.

I'm glad you were extravagant enough to add "Writing," for to-morrow
morning I shall know by exactly what mental processes you decided. Also,
I'm glad (I think I'm glad) that the word is "Yes."

It's afternoon now; just twenty-four hours since I sat here in the same
place (at your desk in the front window, of course), trying my best to put the
situation before you, as a plain, unvarnished tale.

I stuck the bit of blue paper under Ellaline's nose, and she almost had a
fit with joy. If she were bigger and more muscular, she'd have kissed and
squeezed the breath of life out of me, which would have been awkward for
her, as she'd then have been thrown back upon her own resources.

Oh, ma petite poupee de Mere, only think of it! I go to-morrow—into
space. I disappear. I cease to exist pro tem. There will be no me, no Audrie,
but, instead, two Ellalines. I've often told her, by the way, that I would make
two of her. Evidently I once had a prophetic soul. I only wish I had it still,
so I might see beforehand what will happen to the Me-ness of Ellaline in
the next few weeks. Anyhow, whatever comes, I expect to be supported by
the consciousness that I'm paying a debt of gratitude as perhaps such a debt
was never paid before.

Of course I shall have a perfectly horrid time. Not only shall I be
wincing under the degrading knowledge that I'm a base pretender, but I
shall be wretchedly homesick and bored within an inch of my life. I shall

be, in the sort of environment Ellaline describes, like a mouse in a vacuum
—a poor, frisky, happy, out-of-doors field-mouse, caught for an experiment.
When the experiment is finished I shall crawl away, a decrepit wreck. But,
thank heaven, I can crawl to You, and you will nurse me back to life. We'll
talk everything over, for hours on end, and I'll be able to abuse the Dragon
to my heart's content. I know you'll let me do that, provided I don't use
naughty words, or, if any, disguise them daintily in a whisper.

Ellaline and I have discussed plans and possibilities, and if all goes as
she expects (I don't see why it shouldn't), I ought to be freed from the
unpleasant rôle of understudy in five or six weeks. The instant my chains
are broken by a telegram from the bride saying, "Safely married," or words
to that effect, I shall do "all my possible" to fold, my tent like an Arab and
silently steal—not to say sneak—away from the lair of the Dragon, without
his opening a scaly red eye to the dreadful reality, until I'm beyond his
power.

It must be either that or the most awful scene with him—a Regular Row.
He, saying what he thinks of my deception; me, defending myself and the
real Ellaline by saying what I think of his general beastliness. If it came to
that, I might in my rage wax unladylike; so perhaps, of the two evils, the
lesser would be the sneak act—n'est ce pas? Well, I shall see when the time
comes.

In five or six weeks I had thought, in any case, of allowing you to leave
Champel-les-Bains, should you grow too restive lacking my society. I
thought of proposing by then, if you were sufficiently braced by Swiss air,
milk, and honey and Champel douches, that we should join forces at a
cheap but alluring farmhouse somewhere.

That idea may still fit in rather well, mayn't it? But if, for any unforeseen
reason, I should have to stay sizzling on the sacrificial altar longer than we
expect, you mustn't come home to hot Paris to economize and mope in the
flat. You must stop in Switzerland till I can meet you in some nice place in
the country. Promise that you won't add to my burdens by being refractory.

I'll wire you an address as soon as I am blessed—or cursed—with one.
And whatever you do, don't forget that I'm merged in Ellaline Lethbridge. If

her identity fits me as badly as her dresses would do it will come about
down to my knees and won't meet round the waist.

As soon as I have your letter to-morrow morning, dearest, I'll write
again, if only a few lines. Then, when I've seen the Dragon and have gained
a vague idea how and where he means to dispose of his prey, I'll scribble off
some sort of description of the man and the meeting, even if it's on board
the Channel boat, in the midst of a tossing.

Your

Iphegenia.

(Or would Jephtha's daughter be more appropriate? I'm not quite sure
how to spell either.)

III

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Rue Chapeau de Marie
Antoinette,
July 6th. Early Morning

Dearest Dame Wisdom: You ought to be Adviser-in-Chief to Crowned
Heads. You'd be invaluable; worth any salary. What a shame you aren't
widely known: a sort of public possession! But for my sake I'm glad you
aren't, because if you were discovered you'd never have a spare minute to
advise me.

Of course, dear, if you hadn't reached your conclusions just as you did
about this step you wouldn't have counselled, or even allowed, me to take it.
And I will remember every word you say. I'll do exactly as you tell me to
do. So now, don't worry, any more than you would if I were an experienced
and accomplished young parachutist about to make a descent from the top
of the Eiffel tower.

It's eight o'clock, and I've satisfied my soul with your letter and my body
with its morning roll and coffee. When I've finished scribbling this in pencil
to you, I shall pack, and be ready—for anything.

By the way, that reminds me. What a tangled web we weave when first
we practise to deceive, etc.

Won't the Dragon think it queer that his rich ward should make no better
toilettes than I shall be able to produce—after living at Versailles,
practically in Paris, with a huge amount of spending money—for a
schoolgirl?

I thought of that difficulty only last night for the first time, after I was in
bed, and was tempted to jump up and review my wardrobe. But it was
unnecessary. Not only could I call to mind in the most lively way every
dress I have, but, I do believe, every dress I ever did have since my frocks

were let down or done over from yours. I suppose that ought to make me
feel rather young, oughtn't it? To remember every dress I ever owned? But
it doesn't. I'll be twenty-one this month, you know—a year older than you
were when your ears were gladdened by my first howl. I'm sure it was
unearthly, yet that you said at once to Dad: "The dear child is going to be
musical!"

But to return to the wardrobe of the heiress's understudy. It consists of
my every-day tailor-made, two white linen coats and skirts, a darned
collection (I don't mean that profanely) of summer blouses, and the
everlasting, the immortal, black evening dress. Is it three or four years old?
I know it was my first black, and I did feel so proud and grown-up when
you said I might have it.

You'll be asking yourself: "Where is the blue alpaca she bought in the
Bon Marché sale, which was in the act of being made when I left for la
Suisse?" Up to now I've concealed from you the tragical fact that that horrid
little Mademoiselle Voisin completely spoiled it. I was so furious I could
have killed her if she'd been on the spot. There is no rage like the dress
rage, is there?

My one hope is that the Dragon may take as little interest in Ellaline's
clothes as he has taken in Ellaline's self, or that, being used to the costumes
of the Bengalese, which, perhaps, are somewhat sketchy, he may be
thankful that his ward has any at all.

You see, I can't tell Ellaline about this, because she couldn't help
thinking it a hint for her to supply the deficiency, and I wouldn't let her do
that, even for her own credit. Anyhow, there'd be no time to get things, so I
must just do the best I can, and carry off the old gray serge and sailor hat
with a stately air. Heaven gave me five foot seven and a half on purpose to
do it with.

Now I must pack like heat-lightning; and when I've finished I shall send
the brown box and the black Gladstone to the Gare de Lyon, where he will
arrive from Marseilles. That is rather complicated, as of course we must go
to the Gare du Nord for Calais or Boulogne; but he mayn't wish to start at
once for England, and in my new character, as his ward, I must be prepared

to obey his orders. I hope he won't treat me as he seems to have treated the
Bengalese! The luggage of Miss Ellaline Lethbridge obviously can't be
called for at the flat of Mrs. Brendon and her daughter Audrie, for there
would be questions—and no proper answers. Therefore, when I present
myself at the Gare de Lyon, I intend to be "self-contained." All my worldly
goods will be there, to be disposed of as the Grand Mogul pleases.

When I've packed I shall hie me to Madame de Maluet's, looking as
good and meek as a trained dove, to take charge of Ellaline—and to change
into Ellaline.

After that—the Deluge.

Good-bye, darling!

Me, to the Lions!

But I shall have your talisman-letter in my pocket, I can't be eaten,
though I do feel rather like

Your

Martyr Child

IV

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

On Board the Boat, half-Channel
over,
July 6th. Night

Mother Dear: The dragon-ness doesn't show at all on the outside.

I expected to meet a creature of almost heraldic grimness—rampant,
disregardant, gules. What I did meet—but I'm afraid that isn't the right way
to begin. Please consider that I haven't begun. I'll go back to the time when
Ellaline and her chaperon (me) started away from school together in a
discreet and very hot cab with her trunks.

She was jumpy and on edge with excitement, and got on my nerves so
that it was the greatest relief when I'd seen her off in her train for St. Cloud.
Just at this point I find another break in my narrative, made by a silly, not at
all interesting, adventure.

I'd been waving my hand for the twenty-fifth time to Ellaline, in
response to the same number of waves from her. When at last she drew in
her head, as the train steamed away, I turned round in a hurry lest she
should pop it out again, and bumped into a man, or what will be a man in a
few years if it lives. I said, "Pardon, monsieur," as gravely as if it were a
man already, and it said in French made in England that 'twas entirely its
fault. It was such a young youth, and looked so utterly English, that I smiled
a motherly smile, and breathed, "Not at all," as I passed on, fondly thinking
to pass forever out of its life at the same time. But, dearest, the absurd little
thing didn't recognize the smile as motherly. Perhaps it never had a mother.
I had hardly observed it as an individual, I assure you, except as one's sub-
conscious self takes notes without permission from headquarters. I was
vaguely aware that the creature with whom I had collided was quite nice-
looking, though bullet-headed, freckled, light-blue-eyed, crop-haired, and
possessing the shadow of a coming event in the shape (I can't call it more)
of a moustache. I had also an impression of a Panama hat, which came off

in compliment to me, a gray flannel suit, the latest kind of collar (you know
"Sissy Williams says, 'the feeling is for low ones this year'!") and mustard-
coloured boots. All that sounds hideous, I know, yet it wasn't. At first sight
it was rather attractive, but it lost its attractiveness in a flash when it
mistook the nature of my smile.

You wouldn't believe that a nice, clean little British face could change so
much for the worse in about the eighth part of a second! It couldn't have
taken longer, or I shouldn't have seen, because it happened between my
smile and my walking on. But I did see. A disagreeable kind of lighting up
in the eyes, which instantly made them look full of—consciousness of sex,
is the only way I can express it. And instead of being inoffensive, boyish,
blue beads, they were suddenly transformed into the sharp, whitey-gray sort
that the Neapolitans "make horns" at.

Well, all that was nothing to fuss about, for even I know that misguided
youths from Surbiton or Pawtucket, who are quite harmless at home, think
they owe it to themselves to be gay dogs when they run over to Paris,
otherwise they'll not get their money's worth. If it hadn't been for what came
afterward I wouldn't be wasting paper and ink on a silly young bounder. As
it is, I'll just tell you what happened and see if you think I was to blame, or
whether there's likely to be any bother.

At that change my look slid off the self-conceited face, like rain off a
particularly slippery duck's back. He ought to have known then, if he hadn't
before, that I considered him a mere It, but I can just imagine his saying to
himself: "This is Paris, and I've paid five pounds for a return ticket. Must
have something to tell the chaps. What's a girl doing out alone?"

He came after me and said I'd dropped something. So I had. It was a
rose. I was going to disclaim it, with all the haughty grace of a broomstick,
when suddenly I remembered that it was my carte d'identité, so to speak.
The Dragon had prescribed it in his last letter to Madame de Maluet about
meeting Ellaline. As there might be difficulty in recognition if she came to
the station with a chaperon as strange to him as herself, it would be well, he
suggested, that each pinned a red rose on her dress. Then he would look out
for two ladies with two roses.

I couldn't make myself into two ladies with two roses, but I must be one
lady with one rose, otherwise the Dragon and I might miss each other, and
he would go out to Versailles to see what the dickens was the matter. Then
the fat would be in the fire, with a vengeance!

You see, I had to say "Yes" to the rose, because there wasn't time to call
at a florist's and try to buy another red label before going on to the Gare de
Lyon. I put out my hand with a "thank you" that sounded as if it needed
oiling, but, as if on second thought the silly idiot asked if he might keep the
flower for himself. "It looks like an English rose," said he, with a glance
which transferred the compliment to me.

"Certainly not—sir," said I. "I need it myself."

"If that's all, you might let me give you a whole bunch to make up for
it," said he.

Then I said, "Go away," which mayn't have been elegant, but was to the
point. And I walked on with long steps toward the place where there were
cabs. But quite a short man is as tall as a tall girl, and his steps were as long
as mine.

"I say," said he, "you needn't be so cross. What's the harm, as long as
we're both English, and this is Paris?"

"I'm not English," I snapped. "If you don't go away I'll call a gendarme."

"You will look a fool if you do. A great tall girl like you," said he, trying
to be funny. And it did sound funny. I suppose I must have been pretty
nervous, after all I'd gone through with Ellaline, for I almost giggled, but I
didn't, quite. On the contrary, I marched on like a war-cloud about to burst,
and proved my non-British origin by addressing a cabman in the Parisian
French I've inherited from you. I hoped that the boy couldn't understand,
but he did.

"Mademoiselle, I have to go to the Gare de Lyon, too," he announced,
"and it would be a very friendly act, and show that you forgive me, if you'd

let me take you there in a taxi-motor, which you'll find much nicer than that
old Noah's ark you're engaging."

"I don't forgive you," I said, as I mounted into the alleged ark. "Your
only excuse is that you're not grown up yet."

With that Parthian shot I ordered my cocher, who was furtively grinning
by this time, to drive on as quickly as possible.

Of course the horrid child from Surbiton or somewhere didn't have to go
to the Gare de Lyon; but evidently he regarded me as his last hope of an
adventure before returning to his native heath or duckpond; so, naturally, he
followed in a taxi-motor, whose turbulent, goodness-knows-what-horse-
power had to be subdued to one-half-horse gait. I didn't look behind, but I
felt in my bones—my funny bones—that he was there. And when I arrived
at the Gare de Lyon so did he.

The train I'd come to meet was a P. and O. Special, or whatever you call
it, and it wasn't in yet, so I had to wait.

"Cats may look at kings," said my gay cavalier.

"Cads mayn't though," said I. Perhaps I ought to have maintained a
dignified silence, but that mot was irresistible.

"You are hard on a chap," said he. "I tell you what. I've been thinking a
lot about you, mademoiselle, and I believe you're up to some little game of
your own. When the cat's away the mice will play. You've got rid of your
friend, and you're out for a lark on your own. What?"

Oh, wouldn't I have loved to box his ears! But this time I was dignified
and turned my back on him. Luckily, the train came puffing into the station,
and he ceased to bother me actively, for the time; but the worst is to follow.

Now I think I've got to the part of my story where the Dragon ought to
appear.

Suddenly, as the train stopped, that platform of a Paris railway station
was turned into a thoroughly English scene. A wave from Great Britain
swept over it, a tall and tweedy wave, bearing with it golf clubs and kitbags
and every kind of English flotsam and jetsam. All the passengers had lately
landed from the foreignest of foreign parts, coral strands, and that sort of
remote thing, but they looked as incorruptibly, triumphantly British, every
man, woman, and child of them (except a fringe of black or brown
servants), as if they had strolled over from across Channel for a Saturday to
Monday in "gay Paree." One can't help admiring as well as wondering at
that sort of ineradicable, persistent Britishness, can one? I believe it's partly
the secret of Great Britain's success in colonizing. Her people are so calmly
sure of their superiority over all other races that the other races end by
believing it, and trying to imitate their ways, instead of fighting to maintain
the right to their own.

That feeling came over me as I, a mere French and American chit, stood
aside to let the wave flow on. Everyone looked so important, and unaware
of the existence of foreigners, except porters, that I was afraid my particular
drop of the wave might sail by on the crest, without noticing me or my red
rose. I tried to make myself little, and the rose big, as if it were in the
foreground and I in the perspective, but the procession moved on and
nobody who could possibly have been the Dragon wasted a glance on me.

Toward the tail end, however, I spied two men coming, followed by a
small bronze figure in "native" dress of some sort. One of the two was tall
and tanned, and thirty-five or so. The other—I had a bet with myself that he
was my Dragon. But it was like "betting on a certainty," which is one of the
few things that's dull and dishonest at the same time. Some men are born
dragons, while others only achieve dragonhood, or have it thrust upon them
by the gout. This one was born a dragon, and exactly what I'd imagined
him, or even worse, and I was glad that I could conscientiously hate him in
peace.

The other man had the walk so many Englishmen have, as if he were
tracking lions across a desert. I quite admire that gait, for it looks brave and
un-self-conscious; but the old thing labelled "Dragon" marched along as if
trampling on prostrate Bengalese. A red-hot Tory, of course—that went

without saying—of the type that thinks Radicals deserve hanging. In his
eyes that stony glare which English people have when they're afraid
someone may be wanting to know them; chicken-claws under his chin, like
you see in the necks of elderly bull dogs; a snobbish nose; a bad-tempered
mouth; age anywhere between sixty and a hundred. Altogether one of those
men who must write to the Times or go mad. Dost like the picture?

Both these men, who were walking together, looked at me rather hard;
and I attributed the Dragon's failure to stop at the Sign of the Rose to the
silly vanity which forbade his wearing "specs" like a sensible old
gentleman. Accordingly, with laudable presence of mind, I did what seemed
the only thing to do.

I stepped forward, and addressed him with the modest firmness Madame
de Maluet's pupils are taught in "deportment lessons." "I beg your pardon,
but aren't you Sir Lionel Pendragon?"

"I am Lionel Pendragon," said the other man—the quite young man.

Mother, you could have knocked me down with the shadow of a moth-
eaten feather!

They both took off their travelling caps. The real Dragon's was in decent
taste. The Mock Dragon's displayed an offensive chess-board check.

"Have you come to say—that Miss Lethbridge has been prevented from
meeting me?" asked the real one—the R. D., I'll call him for the moment.

"I am——" It stuck in my throat and wouldn't go up or down, so I
compromised—which was weak of me, as I always think on principle you'd
better lie all in all or not at all. "I suppose you don't recognize me?" I
mumbled fluffily.

"What—it's not possible that you're Ellaline Lethbridge!" the R. D.
exclaimed, in surprise, which might mean horror of my person or a
compliment.

I gasped like a fish out of water, and wriggled my neck in a silly way,
which a charitable man, unaccustomed to women, might take for schoolgirl
gawkishness in a spasm of acquiescence.

Instantly he put out his hand and wrung mine extremely hard. It would
have crunched the real Ellaline's rings into her poor little fingers.

"You must forgive me," he said. "I saw the rose"—and he smiled a
wonderfully agreeable, undragonlike smile, which put him back to thirty-
two—"but I was looking out for a very different sort of—er—young lady."

"Why?" I asked, losing my presence of mind.

"I—well, really, I don't know why," said he.

"And I was looking for a very different sort of man," I retorted, feeling
idiotically schoolgirlish, and sillier every minute.

He smiled again then, even more nicely than before, and followed the
example I had set. "Why?" he inquired.

Unlike him, I did know why only too well. But it was difficult to
explain. Still, I had to say something or make things worse. "When in doubt
play a trump, or tell the truth," I quoted to myself as a precept; and said out
aloud that, somehow or other, I'd thought he would be old.

"So I am old," he said, "old enough to be your father." When he added
that information, he looked as if he would have liked to take it back again,
and his face coloured up with a dull, painful red, as if he'd said something
attached to a disagreeable memory. That was what his expression suggested
to me; but as I know for a fact that he has not at all a nice, kind character, I
suppose in reality what he felt was only a stupid prick of vanity at having
inadvertently given his age away. I nearly blurted out the truth about mine,
which would have got me into hot water at once, as Ellaline's hardly
nineteen and I'm practically twenty-one—worse luck for you.

By this time the Mock Dragon had walked slowly on, but the brown
image in "native" dress had glued himself to the platform near by, too

respectful to be aware of my existence. While I was debating whether or no
the last speech called for an answer, the R. D. had a sudden thought which
gave him an excuse to change the subject.

"Where's your chaperon?" he snapped, with a flash of the eye, which
was his first betrayal of the hidden devil within him.

"She was called away to visit a relative," I answered, promptly; because
Ellaline and I had agreed I was to say that; and in a way it was true.

"You didn't come here alone?" said he.

"I had to," said I.

"Then it's a monstrous thing that Madame de Maluet should have let
you," he growled. "I shall write and tell her so."

"Oh, don't, please don't," I begged, you can guess how anxiously. "She
really couldn't help it, and I shall be so sorry to distress her." He was still
glaring, and desperation made me crafty. "You wouldn't refuse the first
thing I've asked you?" I tried to wheedle him.

I hoped—for Ellaline's sake, of course—that I should get another smile;
but instead, I got a frown.

"Now I begin to realize that you are—your mother's daughter," said he,
in a queer, hard tone. "No, I won't refuse the first thing you ask me. But
perhaps you'd better not consider that a precedent."

"I won't," said I. He'd been looking so pleased with me before, as if he'd
found me in a prize package, or won me in a lottery when he'd expected to
draw a blank; but though he gave in without a struggle to my wheedling, he
now looked as if he'd discovered that I was stuffed with sawdust. My quick,
"I won't," didn't seem to encourage him a bit.

"Well," he said, in a duller tone, "we'll get out of this. It was very kind of
you to come and meet me. I see now I oughtn't to have asked it; but to tell
the truth, the thought of going to a girls' school, and claiming you——"

"I quite understand," I nipped in. "This is much better. My luggage is all
here," I added. "I couldn't think where else to send it, as I didn't know what
your plans might be."

At that he looked annoyed again, but luckily, only with himself this time.
"I fear I am an ass where women's affairs are concerned," he said. "Of
course I ought to have thought about your luggage, and settled every detail
for you with Madame de Maluet, instead of trusting to her discretion. Still,
it does seem as if she——"

I wouldn't let him blame Madame; but I couldn't defend her without
risking danger for Ellaline and myself, because Madame's arrangements
were all perfect, if we hadn't secretly upset them. "I have so little luggage,"
I broke in, trying to make up with emphasis for irrelevancy. "And Madame
considers me quite a grown-up person, I assure you."

"I suppose you are," he admitted, observing my inches with a worried
air. "I ought to have realized; but somehow or other I expected to find a
child."

"I shall be less bother to you than if I were a child," I consoled him.

This did make him smile again, for some reason, as he replied that he
wasn't sure. And we were starting to hook ourselves on to the tail end of the
dwindling procession, quite on friendly terms, when to my horror that
young English cadlet—or boundling, which you will—strolled calmly out
in front of us, and said, "How do you do, Sir Lionel Pendragon? I'm afraid
you don't remember me. Dick Burden. Anyhow, you'll recollect my mother
and aunt."

I had forgotten all about the creature, dearest; but there he had been
lurking, ready to pounce. And what bad luck that he should know Ellaline's
guardian, wasn't it?

At first I thought maybe he really had had business at the Gare de Lyon,
and that I'd partly misjudged him. And then it flashed into my head that, on
the contrary, he didn't really know Sir Lionel, but had overheard the name,
and was doing a "bluff" to get introduced to me. Wasn't that a conceited

idea? But neither was true. At least the latter wasn't, I know, and I'm pretty
sure the first wasn't. What I think, is this: that he simply followed me to the
Gare de Lyon for the "deviltry" of the thing, and because he'd nothing better
to do. That he hung about in sheer curiosity, to see whom I was meeting;
and that he recognized the Dragon as an old acquaintance. I once fondly
supposed coincidences were remarkable and rare events, but I've known
ever since I've known the troubles of life that it's only agreeable ones which
are rare, such as coming across your long-lost millionaire-uncle who's
decided to leave you all his money, just as you'd made up your mind to
commit suicide or marry a Jewish diamond merchant. Disagreeable
coincidences sit about on damp clouds ready to fall on you the minute they
think you don't expect them, and they're more likely to occur than not.
That's my experience. Evidently the Dragon did remember Dick's mother
and aunt, for the first blankness of his expression brightened into
intelligence with the mention of the youth's female belongings. He held out
his hand cordially, and remarked that of course he remembered Mrs. Burden
and Mrs. Senter. As for Dick, he had grown out of all recollection.

"It was a good many years ago," returned the said Dick, hastening to
disprove the slur of youthfulness. "It was just before I went to Sandhurst.
But you haven't changed. I knew you at once."

"On leave, I suppose?" suggested Sir Lionel.

"No," said Dick, "I'm not in the army. Failed. Truth is, I didn't want to
get in. Wasn't cut out for it. There's only one profession I care for."

"What's that?" the Dragon was obliged to ask, out of politeness, though I
don't think he cared much.

"The fact is," returned Mr. Burden (a most appropriate name, according
to my point of view), "it's rather a queer one, or might seem so to you, and
I've promised the mater I won't talk of it unless I do adopt it. And I'm over
here qualifying, now."

It was easy to see that he hoped he'd excited our curiosity; and he must
have been disappointed in Sir Lionel's half-hearted "Indeed?" As for me, I
tried to make my eyes look like boiled gooseberries, an unenthusiastic fruit,

especially when cooked. I was delighted with the Dragon, though, for not
introducing him.

Having said "indeed," Sir Lionel added that we must be getting on—
luggage to see to; his valet a foreigner, and more bother than use. I took my
cue, and pattered along by my guardian's side, his tall form a narrow yet
impassable bulwark between me and Mr. Dick Burden. But Mr. D. B.
pattered too, refusing to be thrown off.

He asked Sir Lionel if he were staying on in Paris; and in the short
conversation that followed I picked up morsels of news which hadn't been
given me yet. It appeared that the Dragon's sister (who would suspect a
dragon of sisters?) had wired to Marseilles that she would meet him in
Paris, and he "expected to find her at an hotel." He didn't say what hotel, so
it was evident Mr. Dick Burden need not hope for an invitation to call.
Apparently our plans depended somewhat on her, but Sir Lionel "thought
we should get away next day at latest." There was nothing to keep him in
Paris, and he was in a hurry to reach England. I was glad to hear that, for
fear some more coincidences might happen, such as meeting Madame de
Maluet or one of the teachers holiday-making. Conscience does make you a
coward! I never noticed mine much before. I wish you could take anti-
conscience powders, as you do for neuralgia. Wouldn't they sell like hot
cakes?

At last Mr. Dick Burden had to go away without getting the introduction
he wanted, and Sir Lionel was either very absent-minded or else very
obstinate not to give it, I'm not sure which; but if I were a betting character I
should bet on the latter. I begin to see that his dragon-ness may be expected
to leak out in his attitude toward Woman as a Sex. Already I've detected the
most primitive, almost primæval, ideas in him, which probably he
contracted in Bengal. Would you believe it, he insisted on my putting on a
veil to travel with?—but I haven't come to that part yet.

As for Mr. Burden, as I said, he disappeared from our view; but I doubt
if we disappeared from his. You may think this is conceited in me, but, as he
took off his Panama in saying good-bye, he contrived to peer at me round
an unfortified corner of the Dragon, and the look he flung me said more

plainly than words: "This is all right, but I'm hanged if I don't see it
through," or something even more emphatic to that effect.

Sir Lionel was surprised when he saw my luggage, which we picked up
when he'd claimed his own.

"I thought young ladies never went anywhere without a dozen boxes,"
said he.

"Oh, mamma and I travelled half over Europe with only one trunk and
two bags between us," I blurted out, before I stopped to think. Then I
wished the floor would yawn and swallow me up.

He did stare!—and his eyes are dreadfully piercing when he stares. They
are very nice-looking gray ones; but I can tell you they felt like hatpins.

"I should have thought you were too young in those days to know
anything about luggage," said he.

That gave me a straw to clutch. "Madame de Maluet has told me a great
deal." (So she has, about one thing or another; mostly my own faults.)

"Oh, I see," he said. It must have seemed funny to him, my saying that
about the trunks, as Ellaline's mother died when E. was four.

He hadn't much luggage, either; no golf clubs, or battle-axes, or
whatever you play about with in Bengal when you aren't terrorizing the
natives. He sent the brown servant off in one cab with our things, and put
me in another, into which he also mounted. It did seem funny driving off
with him, for when I came to think of it, I was never alone with a man
before; but he was gawkier about it than I was. Not exactly shy; I hardly
know how to express it, but he couldn't help showing that he was out of his
element.

Oh, I forgot to tell you, he'd shaken hands with the Mock Dragon, and
shunted him off just as ruthlessly as he did the boy. "See you in London,
sooner or later," said he. As if anyone could want to see such a disagreeable
old thing! Yet, perhaps, if I but knew, the Mock Dragon's character may be

the nobler of the two. If I were to judge by appearances, I should have liked
the real Dragon's looks, and thought from first sight that he was rather a
brave, fine, high-principled person, even unselfish. Whereas I know from
all Ellaline has told me that his qualities are quite the reverse of these.

We were going to the Grand Hotel, and driving there he pumped up a
few perfunctory sort of questions about school, the way grown-up people
who don't understand children talk to little girls. You know: "Do you like
your lessons? What do you do on holidays? What is your middle name?"
sort of thing. I was afraid I should laugh, so I asked him questions instead;
and all the time he seemed to be studying me in a puzzled, surprised way, as
if I were a duck that had just stepped out of a chicken egg, or a goblin in a
Nonconformist home. (If he keeps on doing this, I shall have to find out
what he means by it, or burst.)

I asked him about his sister, as I thought Bengal might be a sore subject,
and he appeared to think that I already knew something of her. If Ellaline
does know, she forgot to tell me; and I hope other things like that won't be
continually cropping up, or my nerves won't stand it. I shall take to
throwing spoons and tea-cups.

He reminded me of her name being Mrs. Norton, and that she's a widow.
He hadn't expected her to come over, he said, and he was surprised to get
her telegram, but no doubt he'd find out that she'd a pretty good reason. And
it was nothing to be astonished at, her not meeting him at the Gare de Lyon,
for she invariably missed people when she went to railway stations. It had
been a characteristic of hers since youth. When they were both young they
were often in Paris together, for they had French cousins (Ellaline's mother's
people, I suppose), and then they stopped at the Grand Hotel. He hadn't
been there, though, he added, for nearly twenty years; and had been out of
England, without coming back, for fifteen. That made him seem old, talking
of what happened twenty years ago—almost my whole life. Yet he doesn't
look more than thirty-five at most. I wonder does the climate of Bengal
preserve people, like flies in amber? Perhaps he's really sixty, and has this
unnatural appearance of youth.

"Does Mrs. Norton know about—me?" I asked.

"Why; of course she does," said he. "I wrote her she must come and live
with me when I found I'd got to have——" He shut up like a clam, on that,
and looked so horribly ashamed of himself that I burst out laughing.

"Please don't mind," said I. "I know I'm an incubus, but I'll try to be as
little trouble as possible."

"You're not an incubus," he contradicted me, almost indignantly. "You're
entirely different from what I thought you would be."

"Oh, then you thought I would be an incubus?" I couldn't resist the
temptation of retorting. Maybe it was cruel, but there's no society for the
prevention of cruelty to dragons, so it can't be considered wrong in humane
circles.

"Not at all. But I—I don't know much about women, especially girls,"
said he. "And I told you I thought of you as a child."

"I hope you haven't gone to the trouble of engaging a nurse for me?" I
suggested. And if he were cross at being teased, he didn't show it. He said
he'd trusted all such arrangements to his sister. He hadn't seen her for many
years, but she was good-natured, and he hoped that we would get on. What
I principally hoped was that she wouldn't prove to be of a suspicious nature;
for a detective on the hearth would be inconvenient, and women can be so
sharp about each other! I've found that out at Madame de Maluet's; I never
would from you, dear. You weren't a cat in any of your previous
incarnations. I think you must have "evoluted" from that neat blending of
serpent and dove which eventually produces a perfect Parisienne.

We went into the big hall of the Grand Hotel, where Sir Lionel said in
"his day" carriages used to drive in; and suddenly, to my own surprise, I felt
gay and excited, as if this were life, and I had begun to live. I didn't regret
having to play Ellaline one bit. Everything seemed great fun. You know,
darling, I haven't had much "life," except in you and books, since I was
sixteen, and our pennies and jauntings finished up at the same time; though
I had plenty before that—all sorts of "samples," anyhow. I suppose it must
have been the bright, worldly look of the hotel which gave me that tingling
sensation, as if a little wild bird had burst into song in my heart.

Although it's out of season for Parisians, the hall was full of fashionable-
seeming people, mostly Americans and other foreigners. As we came in, a
lady rose from a seat near the door. She was small, and the least fashionable
or well-dressed person in the room, yet with the air of being satisfied with
herself morally. I saw at once she was of the type who considers her church
a "home from home"; who dresses her house as if it were a person, and
upholsters herself as if she were a sofa. Of course, I knew it was Mrs.
Norton, and I was disappointed. I would almost have preferred her to be
catty.

She and her brother hadn't seen each other for fifteen years, but they met
as calmly as if they had lunched together yesterday. I think, though, that
was more her fault than his, for when he held out his hand she lifted it up on
a level with her chin to shake; and of course that would have taken the "go"
out of a grasshopper. I suppose it wouldn't have been "good form" to kiss in
a hotel hall, but if I retrieved a long-lost brother in any sort of hall, I don't
believe I could resist.

Her hair was so plainly drawn back, it was like a moral influence, and
her toque sat up high on her head like a bun or a travelling pincushion. The
only trimming on her dress was buttons, but there were a large family of
them.

Sir Lionel introduced us, and she said she was pleased to meet me. Also,
that I was not at all like my mother or father. Then she asked if I had ever
been to England; but luckily, before I'd had a chance to compromise myself
by saying that I'd lived a few months in London, but had been nowhere else
(there's where our money began to give out), her brother reminded her that I
was only four when I left England.

"Of course, I had forgotten," said Mrs. Norton. "But don't they ever take
them over to see the British Museum or the National Gallery? I should have
thought it would be an education—with cheap returns."

"Probably French schoolmistresses believe that their pupils get their
money's worth on the French side of the Channel," replied Sir Lionel.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norton; and looked at me as if to see how the system
had answered. I'm sure she approved of the gray serge and the sailor hat
more than she approved of the girl in them. You see, I don't think she
sanctions hair that isn't dark brown.

We didn't sit down, but talked standing up. Sir Lionel and his sister
throwing me words out of politeness now and then. She has a nice voice,
though cold as iced water that has been filtered. Her name is Emily. It
would be!

He said he was surprised as well as pleased to get her telegram on
arriving at Marseilles, and it was very good of her to come to Paris and
meet him. She said not at all, it was no trouble, but a pleasure, or rather it
would be, if it weren't for the sad reason that brought her.

"Why, is anybody dead?" asked Sir Lionel, looking as if he were running
over a list in his head, but couldn't call up a name which concerned him
personally.

"There's been a thinning off among old friends lately, I'm sorry to say;
I've told you about most of them, I think, in postscripts," replied Mrs.
Norton. "But it wasn't their loss, poor dears, which brought me over. It was
the fire."

"What fire?" her brother wanted to know.

"Why, your fire. Surely you must have seen about it in to-day's London
papers?"

"To-day's London papers won't get to Marseilles till to-morrow, and I
haven't been long enough in Paris to see one yet," explained Sir Lionel.
"Have I had a serious fire, and what has been burnt?" He spoke as coolly as
if it were the question of a mutton chop.

"Part of the house," returned Mrs. Norton, not even trying to break it to
him.

"I hope not the old part," said he.

"No, it is the new wing. But that seemed to me such a pity. Such a
beautiful bathroom, hot and cold, spray and shower, quite destroyed; and a
noble linen closet, heated throughout with pipes, and fully stocked."

"The bathroom may have been early Pullman, and the linen closet late
German Lloyd, my dear Emily; but the rest of the house is Tudor, and can't
be replaced," said Sir Lionel; and I was sure, as he looked down at his
sister, of a thing I'd already suspected: that he has a sense of humour. That's
a modern improvement with which you wouldn't expect a dragon to be
fitted; but I begin to see that this is an elaborate and complicated Dragon.
Some people are Pharisees about their sense of humour, and keep harping
on it till you wish it were a live wire and would electrocute them. He would
rather be ashamed of his, I fancy, and yet it must have amused him, and
made him feel good chums with himself, away out in Bengal.

Mrs. Norton said that Warings had very handsome Tudor dining-rooms
in one or two of their model houses, so nothing was irrevocable nowadays;
but she was pleased, if he was, that only the modern wing was injured. It
had happened yesterday morning, just too late for the newspapers, which
must have annoyed the editors; and she had felt that it would be best to
undertake the journey to Paris, and consult about plans, as it might make a
difference (here she glanced at me); but she hadn't mentioned the fire when
wiring, because things seemed worse in telegrams, and besides, it would
have been a useless expense. No doubt it had been stupid of her, but she had
fancied he would certainly see it in the paper, with all details, and therefore
guess why she was meeting him.

"We have nowhere to take Miss Lethbridge," said she, "since Graylees
Castle will be overrun with workmen for some time to come. I didn't know
but you might feel it would be best, after all, for us to put her again in
charge of her old schoolmistress for a few weeks."

If hair could really rise, mine would have instantly cast out every
hairpin, as if they were so many evil spirits, and have stood out all around
my head like Strumpelpeter's. Yet there was nothing I could say. If I were
mistress of a dozen languages, I should have had to be speechless in every
one. But I saw Sir Lionel looking at me, and I hastily gave him a silent
treatment with my eyes. It had the most satisfactory effect.

"No, I don't think we will take her back to Madame de Maluet's," said
he. "Madame may have made other plans for the holiday season. Perhaps
she is going away."

"I'm sure she is," said I. "She is going to visit her mother-in-law's aunt."

Sir Lionel was still looking at me, lost in thought. (I forget if I
mentioned that he has nice eyes? I haven't time to look back and see if I did,
now. I'm scribbling as fast as I can. We shall soon land, and I want to post
this at Dover, if I can get an English stamp "off" someone, as "Sissy"
Williams, our only British neighbour, says.)

"How would you like a motor-car trip?" Sir Lionel asked abruptly.

The relief from suspense was almost too great, and I nearly jumped
down his throat, so, after all, it would have been my own fault if the Dragon
had eaten me. "I should adore it!" I said.

"My dear!" protested Mrs. Norton, indulgently. "One adores Heavenly
Beings."

"I'm not sure a motor-car isn't a heavenly being," said I, "though perhaps
without capitals."

The Dragon smiled, but she looked awfully shocked, and no doubt
blamed Madame de Maluet.

"I've a forty-horse Mercédès promised to be ready on my arrival," said
Sir Lionel, still reflective. "You know, Emily, the little twelve-horse-power
car I had sent out to East Bengal was a Mercédès. If I could drive her, I can
drive a bigger car. Everybody says it's easier. And young Nick has learned
to be a first-rate mechanic."

I suppose young Nick must be the Dragon's pet name for the bronze
image. What fun that he should be a chauffeur! Fancy an Indian Idol
squatted on the front seat of an up-to-date automobile. But when you come
to think of it, there have been other gods in cars. I only hope, if I'm to be

behind him, this one won't behave like Juggernaut. He wears almost too
many clothes, for he is the type that would look over-dressed in a bangle.

"We might have an eight or ten weeks' run about England," the Dragon
went on, "while things are being made straight at Graylees. It would be
good to see something of the blessed old island again before settling down."

"One would think you were quite pleased at the fire, Lionel," remarked
his sister, who evidently believes it wrong to look on the bright side of
things, and right to expect the worst—like an undertaker calling for a client
before he's dead.

"What is, is," returned he. "We may as well make the best of it. You
wouldn't mind a motor tour, would you, Emily?"

"I would go if it were my duty, and you desired it," she said, looking as
if she ought to be on stained glass, with half a halo, "only I am hardly
young enough to consider motoring as a pleasure."

"There aren't many years between us," replied her brother, too polite to
say whether he were in front or behind, "but I confess I do regard it as a
pleasure."

"A man is different," she admitted.

Thank goodness, he is!

Then they talked more about the fire, which, it seems, happened through
something being wrong with a flue, in a room where Mrs. N. had told a
servant to build a fire on account of dampness. It must be a wonderful old
place from what they both let drop. (I told you in another letter how Sir
Lionel had inherited it, about the same time as his title, or a little later. The
estate, though, comes from the mother's side, and her people were from
Warwickshire.) His cool British way of saying and taking things is a good
deal on the surface, I think. He would have hated us to see it, but I'm sure
he worked himself up to quite a pitch of joyful excitement over the idea of
the motor trip, as it developed in his mind. And it is splendid, isn't it,
darling?

You know how sorry you were we hadn't been more economical, and
made our money last long enough to travel in England, instead of having to
stop short after a splash in London. Now I'm going to see bits in spite of all,
until I'm "called away," and I'll try my best, in letters, to make you see what
I do. Ellaline wouldn't have enjoyed such a tour, for she hates the country,
or any place where it isn't suitable to wear high heels and picture hats. But I
—oh, I! Twenty dragons on the same seat of the car with me couldn't
prevent my revelling in it—though it may be cut short for me at any minute.
As for Mrs. Norton——

But the stewardess has just said we shall be in, in five minutes. I had to
come down to the ladies' cabin with Mrs. N. Now I haven't time to tell you
any more, except that they both (Sir L. and his sister, I mean) wanted to get
to England as soon as possible. I know she was disappointed not to fling her
brother's ward back to Madame de Maluet, and probably wouldn't have
come over to Paris if she hadn't hoped to bring it off; but she resigns herself
to things easily when a man says they're best. It was Sir Lionel who wanted
particularly to cross to-night, though he didn't urge it; but she said, "Very
well, dear. I think you're right."

So here we are. A large bell is ringing, and so is my heart. I mean it's
beating. Good-bye, dearest. I'll write again to-morrow—or rather to-day, for
it's a lovely sunrise, like a good omen—when we get settled somewhere. I
believe we're going to a London hotel. Yes, stewardess. Oh, I ought to have
said that to her, instead of writing it to you. She interrupted.

Love—love.

Your Audrie, Their Ellaline.

V

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Ritz Hotel, London,
July 8th

Angel: May your wings never moult! I hope you didn't think me
extravagant wiring yesterday, instead of writing. I was too busy baking the
yeasty dough of my impressions to write a letter worth reading; and when
one has practically no money, what's the good of being economical? You
know the sole point of sympathy I ever touched with "Sissy" Williams was
his famous speech: "If I can't earn five hundred a year, it's not worth while
worrying to earn anything"; which excused his settling down as a
"remittance man," in the top flat, at forty francs a month.

Dearest, the Dragon hasn't drag-ged once, yet! And, by the way, till he
does so, I think I won't call him Dragon again. It's rather gratuitous, as I'm
eating his bread—or rather, his perfectly gorgeous à la cartes, and am
literally smeared with luxury, from my rising up until my lying down, at his
expense.

I know, and you know, because I repeated it word for word, that Ellaline
said she thought he must have been well paid for undertaking to "guardian"
her, as his hard, selfish type does nothing for nothing; and she has always
seemed so very rich (quite the heiress of the school, envied for her dresses
and privileges) that there might be temptations for an unscrupulous man to
pick up a few plums here and there. But—well, of course Ellaline ought to
know, after being his ward ever since she was four, and hearing things on
the best authority about the horrid way he treated her mother, as well as
suffering from his cruel heartlessness all these years. Never a letter written
to herself; never the least little present; never a wish to hear from her, or see
her photograph; all business carried on between himself and Madame de
Maluet, who is too discreet to prejudice a ward against a guardian. And I—I
saw him only day before yesterday for the first time. What can I know
about him? I've no experience in reading characters of men. The dear old
Abbé and a few masters in the school are the only ones I have a bowing

acquaintance with—except "Sissy" Williams, who doesn't count. It's
dangerous to trust to one's instincts, no doubt, for it's so difficult to be sure a
wish isn't disguising itself as instinct, in rouge and a golden wig.

But then, there's the man's profile, which is of the knight-of-old,
Crusader pattern, a regular hook to hang respect upon, though I'd be doing it
injustice if I let you imagine it's shaped like a hook. It isn't; it's quite
beautiful; and you find yourself furtively, semi-consciously sketching it in
air with your forefinger as you look at it. It suggests race, and noblesse
oblige, and a long line of soldier ancestors, and that sort of thing, such as
you used to say survived visibly among the English aristocracy and English
peasantry (not in the mixed-up middle classes) more markedly than
anywhere else. That must mean some correspondence in character, mustn't
it? Or can it be a mask, handed down by noble ancestry to cover up moral
defects in a degenerate descendant?

Am I gabbling school-girl gush, or am I groping toward light? You know
what I want to say, anyhow. The impression Sir Lionel Pendragon makes on
me would be different if he hadn't been described by Ellaline. I should have
supposed him quite easy to read, if he'd happened upon me, unheralded—as
a big ship looms over a little bark, on the high sea. I'd have thought him a
simple enough, straightforward character in that case. I should have put him
in the class with his own Tudor castle—not that I've ever yet seen a Tudor
castle, except in photographs or on postcards. But I'd have said to myself: If
he'd been born a house instead of a man, he'd have been built centuries and
centuries ago, by strong barons who knew exactly what they wanted, and
grabbed it. He'd have been a castle, an early Tudor castle, battlemented and
surrounded by a moat, fortified, of course, and impregnable to the enemy,
unless they treacherously blew him up. He would have had several secret
rooms, but they would contain chests of treasure, not nasty skeletons.

Now you understand exactly what I'd be thinking of the alleged Dragon,
if it weren't for Ellaline. But as it is, I don't know what to think of him.
That's why I describe him as elaborate and complicated, because, I suppose,
he must be totally different inside from what he seems outside.

Anyhow, I don't care—it's lovely being at the Ritz. And we're in the
newspapers this morning, Emily and I shining by reflected light; mine

doubly reflected, like the earth's light shining on to the moon, and from that
being passed on to something else—some poor little chipped meteorite
strayed out of the Milky Way.

It was Mrs. Norton who discovered the article about Sir Lionel—half a
column—in the Morning Post and she sent out for lots of other papers
without saying anything to her brother, for—according to her—he "hates
that sort of thing."

I didn't have time to tell you in my last that she was sick crossing the
Channel (though it was as smooth as if it had been ironed, and only a few
wrinkles left in), but apparently she considers it good form for a female to
be slightly ill in a ladylike way on boats; so, of course, she is. And as I was
decent to her, she decided to like me better than she thought she would at
first. For some reason they both seemed prejudiced against me (I mean
against Ellaline) to begin with. I can't think why; and slowly, with
unconcealable surprise, they are changing their minds. Changing one's mind
keeps one's soul nice and clean and fresh; so theirs will be well aired, owing
to me.

Emily has become quite resigned to my existence, and doles me out
small confidences. She has not a rich nature, to begin with, and it has never
been fertilized much, so it's rather sterile; but no noxious weeds, anyhow, as
there may be in Sir Lionel's more generous and cultivated soil. I think I
shall get on with her pretty well after all, especially motoring, when I can
take her with plenty of ozone. She is a little afraid of her brother, though
he's five years younger than she (I've now learned), but extremely proud of
him; and it was quite pathetic, her cutting out the stuff about him in the
papers, this morning, and showing every bit to me, before pasting all in a
book she has been keeping for years, entirely concerned with Sir Lionel.
She says she will show that to me, too, some day, but I mustn't tell him. As
if I would!

But about the newspapers. She didn't order any Radical ones, because
she said they were always down on the aristocracy, and unjust as well as
stupid; but she got one by mistake, and you've no idea how delighted the
poor little woman was when it praised her brother up to the skies. Then she
said there were some decent Radicals, after all.

Of course, one knows the difference between "Mirabeau judged by his
friends and Mirabeau judged by the people," and can make allowances (if
one's digestion's good) for points of view. But there's one thing certain,
whether he's angel or devil, or something hybrid between the two, Sir
Lionel Pendragon is a man of importance in the Public Eye. I wonder if
Ellaline realizes his importance in that way? I can't think she does, or she
would have mentioned it, as it needn't have interfered with her opinion of
his private character.

It's a little through Emily, but mostly from the newspaper cuttings, that
I've got my knowledge of what he's done, and been, and is expected to be.

He's forty. I know that, because the Morning Post gave the date of his
birth, and he's rather a swell, although only a baronet, and not even that till
a short time ago. It appears that the family on both sides goes back into the
mists of antiquity, in the days when legend, handed down by word of mouth
(can you hand things out of your mouth? Sounds rude), was the forerunner
of history. His father's ancestors are supposed to be descended from King
Arthur; hence the "Pendragon"; though, I suppose, if it's true, King Arthur
must really have been married several times, as say the vulgar records of
which Tennyson very properly takes no notice. There have been dukes and
earls in the family, but they have somehow disappeared, perhaps because in
those benighted days there were no American heiresses to keep them up.

It seems that Sir Lionel was a soldier to begin with, and was dreadfully
wounded in some frontier fight in India when he was very young. He nearly
lost the use of his left arm, and gave up the army; but he got the Victoria
Cross. Ellaline didn't say a word about that. Maybe she doesn't know. After
I'd read his "dossier" in the paper, I couldn't resist asking him at lunch what
he had done to deserve the V. C.

"Nothing to deserve it," he answered, looking surprised.

"To get it, then?" I twisted my question round.

"Oh, I don't know—almost forget. Pulled some silly ass out of a hole, I
believe," said he.

That's what you get for asking this sort of Englishman questions about
his past. I thought it was only widows with auburn hair you mustn't talk to
about their pasts.

"A grateful Government" (according to the Morning Post) "sent young
Pendragon, at the age of twenty-five, to East Bengal, as private secretary to
Sir John Hurley, who was lieutenant-governor at that time"; and it's an ill
Governor, so to speak, who blows no one any good. Sir John's liver was so
tired of Bengal, that he had to take it away, and Lieutenant Pendragon (as
he was then) looked after things till another man could arrive. He looked
after them so brilliantly, that when the next lieutenant-governor did
something silly, and was asked to resign, our incipient Sir Lionel was
invited to take on the job. He was only thirty, and so he has been lieutenant-
governor for ten years. Now he's going to see whether he likes being a
baronet better, and having castles and motor-cars. All the papers I saw
praised him tremendously, and said that in a crisis which might have been
disastrous he had averted a catastrophe by his remarkable strength of
character and presence of mind. I suppose that was the time when the other
papers accused him of abominable cruelties. I wonder which was right?
Perhaps I shall be able to judge, sooner or later, if I watch at the loopholes
of his character like a cat watching for a mouse to come out for a walk.

As for money, if one can believe newspapers, he has plenty without
shaking pennies from the slot of Ellaline Lethbridge's bank, and was fairly
well off even before he came in for his title or his castle. However, as a very
young man, he may have been poor—about the time he went into
guardianship.

By the way, the left arm seems all right now. Anyhow, he uses it as arms
are meant to be used, so far as I can see, so evidently it improved with time.

The papers tell about his coming back to England, and his Warwickshire
castle, and the fire, and Mrs. Norton giving up her house in—some county
or other; I've already forgotten which—to live with her "distinguished
brother." Also, they say that he has a ward, whose mother was a relative of
the family, and whose father was the Honourable Frederic Lethbridge, so
well known and popular in society during the "late eighties." Ellaline was
born in 1891. What had become of him, I'd like to know? Perhaps he died

before she was born. She has told me that she can't remember him, but that's
about all she has ever said of her father.

We are to stay at the Ritz until we start off on the motor trip, which is
actually going to happen, though I was afraid it was too good to be true.
The new car won't be ready for a week, though. I am sorry, but Mrs. Norton
isn't. She is afraid she will be killed, and thinks it will be a messy sort of
death to die. Besides, she likes London. She says her brother will be
"overwhelmed with invitations"; but he hates society, and loathes being
lionized. Imagine the man smothered under stacks of perfumed notes, as
Tarpeia was under the shields and bracelets! Emily has not lived in London,
because she wanted to be in a place where she particularly valued the vicar
and the doctor; but she has given them up for her brother now, and is only
going to write her symptoms, spiritual and physical. She enjoys church
more than anything else, but thinks it will be her duty to take me about a
little while we're in town, as her brother is sure not to, because he spurns
women, and is not interested in anything they do.

I suppose she must know; and yet, at lunch yesterday, he asked if we
were too tired, or if we should like to "do a few theatres." I said—because I
simply had to spare them a shock later—that I was afraid I hadn't anything
nice to wear. I felt myself go red—for it was a sort of disgrace to Ellaline—
but he didn't seem as much surprised as Mrs. Norton did. Her eyebrows
went up; but he only said of course school girls never had smart frocks, and
I must buy a few dresses at once.

One evening gown would be enough for a young girl, Mrs. Norton said,
but he didn't agree with her. He said he hadn't thought about it, but now that
it occurred to him, he was of opinion that women should have plenty of nice
things. Then, when she told him, rather hurriedly, that she would choose me
something ready made at a good shop in Oxford Street, he remarked that
he'd always understood Bond Street was the place.

"Not for school girls," explained dear Emily, who is a canny person.

"She isn't a school girl now. That's finished," said Sir Lionel. And as she
thinks him a tin god on wheels, she ceased to argue.

By the by, he has the air of hating to call me by name. He says "Miss
Lethbridge," in a curious, stiff kind of way, when he's absolutely obliged to
give me a label; otherwise he compromises with "you," to which he
confines himself when possible. It's rather odd, and can't be an accident.
The only reason I can think of is that he may feel it is really his duty to call
me "Ellaline."

I promised to write to Ellaline, as soon as I'd anything to tell worth
telling; and I suppose I must do it to-day; yet I dread to, and can't make up
my mind to begin. I don't like to praise a person whom she regards as a
monster; still, I've nothing to say against him; and I'm sure she'll be cross if
I don't run him down. I think I shall state facts baldly. When I get
instalments of allowance—intended for Ellaline, of course—I am to send
the money to her, except just enough not to be noticeably penniless. I'm to
address her as Mademoiselle Leonie de Nesville, and send letters to Poste
Restante, because, while I'm known as Miss Lethbridge, it might seem
queer if I posted envelopes directed to a person of my own name. It was
Ellaline who suggested that, not I. She thought of everything. Though she's
such a child in some ways, she's marvellous at scheming.

I really can't think yet what I shall say to her. It's worrying me. I feel
guilty, somehow, I don't know why.

Mrs. Norton suggested taking me out shopping and sight-seeing this
afternoon. Sir Lionel proposed going with us. His sister was astonished, and
so was I, especially after what she had said about his not being interested in
women's affairs. "Just to make sure that you take my tip about Bond Street,"
he remarked. "And Bond Street used to amuse me—when I was twenty. I
think it will amuse me now—to see how it and I have changed."

So we are going, all three. Rather awful about the gray serge and sailor
hat, isn't it? I felt self-respecting in them at Versailles, and even in Paris,
because there I was a singing teacher; in other words, nobody. But in
London I'm supposed to be an heiress. And here, at the Ritz, such beautiful
beings come to lunch, in dresses which they have evidently been poured
into with consummate skill and incredible expense.

I tasted Pêche Melba to-day, for the first time. It made me wish for you.
But it didn't seem to go at all with gray serge and a cotton blouse. I ought to
have been a Gorgeous Being, with silk linings.

How am I to support the shopping ordeal? Supposing Mrs. Norton
chooses me things (oh horror!). They're sure to be hideous, but they may be
costly. As it says in an English society paper which Madame de Maluet
takes: "What should A. do?"

If only Telepathy were a going concern, you would answer that Hard
Case for

Your poor, puzzled

"A.," alias "E."

P. S. Nothing more heard or seen of the White Girl's Burden, Richard of
that ilk. I was afraid of his turning up at the Grand Hotel in Paris, or even at
the station to "see us off," but he didn't. He has disappeared into space, and
is welcome to the whole of it. I should nearly have forgotten him, if I didn't
wonder sometimes what his mysterious profession is.

VI

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL P. R. O'HAGAN,
AT DROITA, EAST BENGAL

Ritz Hotel, London,
July 8th

My Dear Pat: You were right, I was wrong. It is good to be in England
again. Your prophecy has come true. The dead past has pretty well buried its
dead. A few dry bones show under the surface here and there. I let them lie.
Is thy servant a dog, that he should dig up buried bones!

As you know, I was ass enough to dread arriving in Paris. I dreaded it
throughout the whole voyage. When I got to Marseilles, I found a wire from
Emily, saying she would meet me in Paris. Ass again! I had an idea she was
putting herself to that trouble with the kindly wish to "stand by," and take
my thoughts off old days. But I might have known better, knowing that
good, practical little soul. She had quite another object. Came to break the
news of a fire at Graylees; but it seems not to have done any serious
damage, except to have wiped out a few modern frills. They can easily be
tacked on again. I'm glad it was no worse, for I love Graylees. I might have
turned out a less decent sort of chap than I am if it hadn't been for the
prospect of inheriting it sooner or later. One has to live up to certain things,
and Graylees was an incentive.

You asked me to tell you if Emily had changed. Well, she has. It's
eighteen years since you saw her; fifteen since I did. I must tell you
honestly, you'd have no sentimental regrets if you could see her now. You
will remember, if you're not too gallant, that she was three years older than
you; the three seem to have stretched to a dozen. Luckily, you didn't let
Norton's snatching Emily from under your nose prey upon cheek or heart.
Nothing is damaged. You are sound and whole, and that is why your
friendship has been such a boon to me. You have saved me from tilting
against many windmills.

I suppose you'll think I'm "preambling" now, to put off the evil moment
of telling you about Ellaline de Nesville's girl. But no. For once you're
mistaken in me. After all, it isn't an evil moment. I'm surprised at myself,
doubly surprised at the girl; and both surprises are agreeable ones.

I don't ask you if you remember Ellaline; for nobody who ever saw her
could forget her; at least, so it seems to me, after all these years, and all the
changes in myself. As I am now, hers is the last type with which I should
fall in love, provided I were fool enough to lose my head for anyone. Yet I
can't wonder at the adoration I gave her. She was exactly the sort of girl to
call out a boy's love, and she had all mine, poor foolish wretch that I was.
There's nothing more pathetic, I think, at this distance, than a boy's
passionate purity in his first love—unless it's his disillusionment; for
disillusion does no nature good. It would have done mine great harm if I
hadn't had a friend like you to groan and grumble to.

You understand how I've always felt about this child she wished me to
care for. I was certain that Ellaline Number 2 would grow up as like Ellaline
Number 1 as this summer's rose is like last summer's, which bloomed on the
same bush.

At four years old the little thing undoubtedly had a dollish resemblance
to her mother. I thought I remembered that she had the first Ellaline's great
dark eyes, full of incipient coquetry, and curly black lashes, which the little
flirt already knew how to use, by instinct. The same sort of mouth, too,
which to look at makes a boy believe in a personal Cupid, and a man in a
personal devil. I had a dim recollection of chestnut-brown hair, falling
around a tiny face shaped like Ellaline's; "heart-shape" we used to call it,
Emily and I, when we were both under our little French cousin's thumb, in
the oldest days of all, before even Emily began to find her out.

I wonder if a child sheds its first hair, like its first teeth? I've never given
much thought to infantine phenomena of any kind; still, I'm inclined to
believe now that there must be such cases. Of course, we know a type of
blond, née brunette; for instance, Mrs. Senter, young Burden's fascinating
aunt, whom we suspected of having turned blond in a single night (by the
way, whom should I run across in Paris but Dicky, grown up more or less
since he chaperoned his female belongings in the Far East). But I'm not

talking of the Mrs. Senters of the world; I'm talking of Ellaline's unexpected
daughter. She has changed almost incredibly between the ages of four and
nineteen.

Before I knew Emily intended meeting me in Paris, I wrote the school-
ma'am asking that my ward might be sent, well chaperoned, to the Gare de
Lyon. It was bad enough to have to face a modern young female, adorned
with all the latest improvements and parlour tricks. It would have been
worse to face several dozens of these creatures in their lair; therefore, I
funked collecting my ward at Versailles. I was to know her by a rose pinned
on her frock in case she'd altered past recognition. It was well, as things
turned out, that I'd made the suggestion, otherwise the girl would have had
to go back to Versailles, like an unclaimed parcel; and that would have been
bad, as she had no chaperon. Something had happened to the lady, or to the
lady's relatives. I almost forget what, now.

Instead of the dainty little Tanagra figure in smart French frills, which I
expected, there was a tall, beautiful young person, with the bearing of an
Atalanta, and the clothes of a Quakeress. She tacked my name on to the
wrong man, or I should have let her go, in spite of the rose, so different was
she from what I expected. And you'll be amused to hear that her idea of
Lionel Pendragon was embodied by old "Hannibal" Jones, who got into my
train at Marseilles. He's taken to parting his name in the middle now, and is
General Wellington-Jones. She ought to have known my age approximately,
or could have learned it if she cared to bother; but I suppose to nineteen,
forty might as well be sixty. That's a thing to remember, if one feels the sap
pulsing in one's branches, just to remind one that after all it's not spring, but
autumn. And at the present moment, by the way, I'm not sure that I shan't
need this kind of taking down a peg, for I am feeling so young that I think I
must be growing old. I have begun to value what's left me of youth; to take
it out and look at it in all lights, like a fruit which must be gloated over
before it decays—and that's a fatal sign, eh? I have the most extraordinary
interest in life, which I attribute to the new motor-car which will be finished
and ready to use in a few days; also to the thought that Graylees is my own.

But I'm wandering away from the girl.

She is as unlike Ellaline de Nesville as one beautifully bound first
volume of a human document can be from another equally attractive. "First
volume of a human document" isn't inexpressive of a young girl, is it?
Heaven knows what this one may be by the time the second and third
volumes are ready for publication; but at present one turns over the leaves
with pleased surprise. There's something original and charming in each new
page.

Her first hair must have been shed, for the present lot—and there is a lot!
—is of a bright, yellowy brown; looks like a child's hair, somehow. There
are little rings and kinks about it which I take to have been put there by the
curling-tongs of nature, though I may be mistaken. And I suppose I must
have deceived myself about the child's eyes, for they are not black, but of a
grayish hazel, which can look brown or violet at night. She is a tall young
thing, slim and straight as a sapling, with frank, honest manners, which are
singularly engaging. I look at her in amazement and interest, and find her
looking at me with an expression which I am not able to make out. I hardly
dare let myself go in liking her, for fear of disappointment. She seems too
good to be true, too good to last. I keep wondering what ancestress of
Ellaline de Nesville's, or Fred Lethbridge's, is gazing out of those azure
windows which are this girl's eyes. If Fred's soul, or Ellaline's, peeps from
behind the clear, bright panes, it contrives to keep itself well hidden—so far.
But I expect anything.

I had no notion until now that a young woman could be a delightful
"pal" for a man, especially a man of my age. Perhaps this is my ignorance
of the sex (for I admit I locked up the book of Woman, and never opened it
again, since the chapter of Ellaline), or it may be that girls have changed
since the "brave days when we were twenty-one." At that remote epoch, as
far as I can discover by blowing off the dust from faded souvenirs, one
either made love to girls, or one didn't. They were there to dance with and
flirt with, and go on the river with, not to talk politics to, or exchange
opinions of the universe. They—the prettiest ones—would have thought
that valuable time was being wasted in such discussions. Yet here is this
girl, not twenty, a child fresh from school—a French school, at that—
radiant with the power of her youth, her beauty, her femininity; yet she
seems actually interested in problems of life unconnected with love affairs.

She appears to like talking sense, and she has humour, far more subtle than
the mere, kittenish sense of fun which belongs to her years—or lack of
them. I dreaded the responsibility of her, but I dreaded much more being
bored by her, flirted with by her. I'm hanged if I could have stood that from
the kind of girl I was prepared to see; but as I said, I've found a "pal"—if I
dared believe in her. Instead of avoiding my ward's society, and shoving it
on to Emily, as I intended, I excuse myself to myself for contriving pretexts
to bask in it.

To-day, for instance, what do you think I did? A shopping expedition
was in question. Emily, who never had much taste in dress, and now clothes
herself as if in punishment for sin, seems to know when other women are
badly turned out. She thinks it right that young girls should be simply
dressed, but considers that in the case of Ellaline simplicity has been carried
too far. You see, she doesn't know what you and I know about that wretched
fellow Lethbridge's end, and she believes his daughter has plenty of money,
or will have, on coming of age. Naturally, I don't undeceive her. Emily is a
good soul, but over-conscientious in questions of money, and if she knew
the truth she might be inclined to hold the purse-strings tight. She might
even be tempted to hint something distressing to this poor girl, if the child
vexed her by any thoughtless little extravagance; whereas I wouldn't for a
good deal have Ellaline's daughter guess she owes anything to me.

Emily offered to choose frocks for Miss Lethbridge; whereupon that
young lady cast such a comical glance of despair at me—a glance which I
think was involuntary—that it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. I
saw so well what was in her mind! And if you will believe me, O'Hagan, I
volunteered to go with them.

Having committed myself, I had all the sensations of a fly caught on a
sheet of "Tanglefoot," or a prisoner of war chained to a Roman chariot; but
in the end I enjoyed myself hugely. Nothing better has happened to me
since I used to be taken to look at the toyshops the day before Christmas.
No, not even my first pantomime could beat this as an experience!

Emily's economical soul clamoured for Oxford Street. I stood out for
Bond, and got my way. (You will grin here. You say I always do get my
way.) My idea was to make of myself a kind of Last Resort, or Court of

Appeal. I meant to let Emily advise, but to sweep her aside if she
perpetrated atrocities. The first shop, however, went to my head. It was one
of those where you walk into a kind of drawing-room with figurines, or
whatever you call them—slender, headless ladies in model dresses—
grouped about, and other equally slender, but long-headed ladies in black
satin trains, showing off their dummy sisters.

It was the figurines that intoxicated me. I saw Ellaline's head—in
imagination—coming out at the top of all the prettiest dresses. They were
wonderfully simple, too, the most attractive ones; seemed just the thing for
a young girl. Emily walked past them as if they were vulgar acquaintances
trying to catch her eye at a duchess's ball, but they trapped me. There was a
white thing for the street, that looked as if it had been made for Ellaline, and
a blue fluff, cut low in the neck, exactly the right colour to show up her hair.
Then there was a film of pink, with wreaths of little rosebuds dotted about
—made me think of spring. (I told you I'd lost my head, didn't I?)

I stopped my ward, pointed out these things to her, and asked her if she
liked them. She said she did, but they would be horribly expensive. She
wouldn't think of buying such dreams. With that, up swam one of the satin
ladies (whose back view was precisely like that of a wet, black codfish with
a long tail; I believe she was "Directoire"); and hovering near on a sea of
pale-green carpet she volunteered the information that these "little frocks"
were "poems," singularly suited to the style of—I expected her to say my
"daughter." Instead of which, however, she finished her sentence with a
"madam" that brought a blush to my weather-beaten face. I was the only
one concerned who did blush, however, I assure you! The girl smiled into
my eyes, with a mischievous twinkle, and minded not at all. A former
generation would have simpered, but this young person hasn't a simper in
her.

I said "Nonsense," she could well afford the dresses. She argued, and
Emily returned to help her form up a hollow square. They were both against
me, but I insisted, and the codfish was a powerful ally.

"Would they fit you?" I asked the girl.

"Yes, they would fit me, I dare say. But——"

That settled it.

"We'll take them," said I. And after that, being beside myself, I
reconnoitred the place, pointing my stick at other things which took my
fancy. The codfish backed me up at every step, and other codfishes swam
the green sea, with hats doubtless brought from unseen coral caves. Most of
them were enormous hats, but remarkably attractive, in one way or another,
with large drooping brims that dripped roses or frothed with ostrich plumes.
I made Ellaline take off a small, round butter plate she had on, which was
ugly in itself, though somehow it looked like a saint's halo on her; and
murmuring compliments on "madam's" hair, the siren codfishes tried on one
hat after another. I bought all, without asking the prices, because each one
was more becoming to the girl than its predecessor, and not to have all,
would have been like deliberately destroying so many original
Gainsboroughs or Sir Joshuas.

The child's hair, by the way, is extraordinarily vital. It spouts up in two
thick, bright billows over her white forehead, like the beginning of a strong
fountain—a very agreeable foundation for a hat.

Seeing that I had gone mad, the wily codfishes took advantage of my
state, and flourished things before my eyes, at which Emily instantly
forbade me to look. It is true that they were objects not often seen by
bachelor man, except in shop windows and on the advertising pages of
women's magazines; but silk petticoats and cobwebby lace frills have no
Gorgon qualities, and I was not turned to stone by the sight of them. I even
found courage to ask of the company at large if they were the sort of thing
that young ladies ought to have in their wardrobes. The answer was
emphatically in the affirmative.

"Have you already got all you want of them, or could you make use of
more?" I inquired of my ward.

"I shouldn't know myself in such miracles," said she, with a kind of
gasp, her eyes very bright, and her cheeks pinker than they had been when
she was suspected of bridehood. She was still suspected of it; indeed, I
think that in the minds of the black satin codfishes circumstantial evidence
had tinkered suspicion into certainty. But Ellaline was deaf to the "madam."

They might have turned her from wife into widow without her noticing. She
was burning with the desire to possess those embroidered cobwebs and
those frilled petticoats. I don't know why she should have been more
excited about garments which few, if any, save herself, would see after she'd
put them on, than she was about those on which cats and kings might gaze;
but so it was. I should like to ask an expert if this is the case with all
females, or if it is exceptional.

"Send the lot with the hats and dresses," said I. And when she widened
her eyes and gasped, I assured her that I knew her income better than she
did. Anything she cared to have in the way of pretty clothes she could
afford.

Strange to say, even then she didn't seem comfortable. She opened her
lips as if to speak; shut them hastily at the first word, swallowed it with
difficulty, sighed, and looked anxious. I should rather have liked to know
what was in her mind.

We ended up by the purchase of costumes suitable to the automobile,
both for Emily and Ellaline. I think women ought to be as "well found" for
motoring, as for yachting, don't you? And I am looking forward to the trip I
intend to take. It will be interesting to study the impressions made upon this
young girl by England, land of history and beauty——

... this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea—
... this England.

You will laugh at me, perhaps, for my long "harping" on my ward; but
anyhow, don't misunderstand. It's not because she is pretty and engaging
(one would say that of a kitten), but because of the startling contrast
between the real girl and the girl of my imagination. I can't help thinking
about her a good deal for this reason, and what I think of I have generally
talked of or written of fully to you, my best and oldest friend. It's a habit
nearly a quarter of a century old, and I don't mean to break it now,
particularly as you have made rather a point of my continuing it on my
return "home" after all these years.

London has got hold of me. I am fascinated by it. Either it has improved
as it has grown, or I am in a mood to be pleased with anything English. Do
you remember dear old Ennis's Rooms, which you and I used to think the
height of luxury and gaiety? I've promised myself to go there again, and I
mean to take Ellaline and Emily to supper after the theatre to-night. I think I
shall keep this letter open to tell you how the old place impresses me.

Midnight and a half.

I've had a shock. Ennis's is dead as a doornail. We entered, after the
theatre, and galvanized the Rooms into a kind of dreadful life. They "don't
serve many suppers now, sir," it seems. "It's mostly luncheons and dinners."

The waiters resented us as intruders. We were the only ones, too, which
made it worse, as all their rancour was visited on us; but we hadn't been for
many minutes at our old favourite table (the one thing unchanged), trying to
keep up a spurious gaiety, when another party of two ventured in.

They were young Dick Burden and his aunt, Mrs. Senter.

Now, you mayn't see it, but this was rather odd. It wouldn't have been
odd in the past, to meet your most intimate friend from round the corner,
and the Shah of Persia, at Ennis's. But evidently the "people who amuse
themselves" don't come now. It's not "the thing." Why, therefore, should this
couple choose Ennis's for supper? They haven't been out of England for
fifteen years, like me. If Mrs. Senter occasionally spends Saturday to
Monday in India, or visits the Sphinx when the Sphinx is in season, she
always returns to London when "everybody is in town," and there does as
everybody does.

I immediately suspected that Burden had brought her with an object: that
object, to gain an introduction to Ellaline. The suspicion may seem far-
fetched; but you wouldn't pronounce it so if you could have seen the young
man's face, in the railway station at Paris, the other day. I had that privilege;
and I observed at the time his wish to know my ward, without feeling a
responsive one to gratify it. I don't know why I didn't feel it, but I didn't,

though the desire was both pardonable and natural in the young fellow. He
has a determined jaw; therefore perhaps it's equally natural that, when
disappointed, he should persist—even follow, and adopt strong measures (in
other words, an aunt) to obtain his object. You see, Ellaline is an extremely
pretty girl, and I'm not alone in thinking so.

My idea is that, having found us in the newspapers, staying at the Ritz,
the boy must have somehow informed himself as to our movements,
awaiting his opportunity—or his aunt. I bought my theatre tickets in the
hotel. He may have got his information from there; and the rest was easy—
as far as Ennis's. I'm afraid the rest was, too, because Mrs. Senter selected
the table nearest ours, and after we had exchanged greetings proposed that
we join parties. The tables were placed together, and introductions all round
were a matter of course. Young England expects that every aunt will do her
duty!

They still give you very good food at Ennis's, but it's rather like eating
"funeral baked meats."

Mrs. Senter is exactly what she was some years ago. Perhaps it would be
ungallant to recall to your memory just how many years ago. She is, if
anything, younger. I believe there's a maxim, "Once a duchess, always a
duchess." I think women of to-day have another: "Once thirty, always
thirty"; or, "Once thirty, always twenty-nine." But, joking apart, she is a
very agreeable and rather witty woman, sympathetic too, apparently, though
I believe you used to think, when she was out smiting hearts at our Back o'
Beyond, that in nature she somewhat resembled a certain animal
worshipped by the Egyptians and feared by mice. She seems very fond of
her nephew Dick, with whom she says she goes about a good deal. "We
chaperon each other," she expressed it. She pities me for my fire at
Graylees, but envies me my motoring trip.

We shall be off in a few days, now, I hope, as soon as Ellaline has been
shown a few "features" of London. I went to see the car to-day, and she is a
beauty. I shall try her for the first time to-morrow.

Ever Yours,

Pen.

VII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Ritz Hotel, London,
July 9th

One and Only Compleat Mother: Things have happened. I felt them
coming in my bones—not my funny-bones this time. For the things may
turn out to be not at all funny.

Mr. Richard Burden has been introduced to the alleged Miss Lethbridge.
I wonder if he can know she is merely "the alleged"? He is certainly
changed, somehow, both in his manner, and in his way of looking at one. I
thought in Paris he hadn't at all a bad face, though rather impudent—and
besides, even Man is a fellow being! But last night, for a minute, he really
had an incredibly wicked expression; or else he was suppressing a sneeze. I
couldn't be quite sure which—as you said about Aubrey Beardsley's weird
black-and-white women.

It was at a restaurant—a piteous restaurant, where the waiters looked
like enchanted waiters in the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. He—Mr. Dicky
Burden—came in, with an aunt. Such an aunt! I could never be at home
with her as an aunt if I were a grown-up man, though she might make a
bewitching cousin. She's quite beautiful, dear, and graceful; but I don't like
her at all. I think Sir Lionel does, though. They knew each other in Bengal,
and she kept saying to him in a cooing voice, "Do you remember?"

You can see she's too clever to be always clever, because that bores
people; but she says witty, sharp things which sound as if they came out of
plays, or books, and you think back to see whether she deliberately led up
to them. For instance, she asked Sir Lionel, apropos of woman's suffrage,
whether, on the whole, he preferred a man's woman, or a woman's woman?

"What's the difference?" he wanted to know.

"All the difference between a Gibson girl and an Ibsen girl," said she. I
wonder if she'd heard that, or made it up? Anyhow, when Sir Lionel threw
back his head and laughed, in an attractive way he has, which shows a dent
in his chin, I wished I'd said it. But the more she flashed out bright things,
the more of a lump I was. I do think the one unpardonable sin is dulness,
and I felt guilty of it. She simply vampired me. Sucked my wits dry. And,
do you know, I'm afraid she's going on the motor trip with us?

Sir Lionel doesn't dream of such a thing, but she does. And she's the sort
of person whose dreams, if they're about men, come true. Of course, I don't
know her well enough to hate her, but I feel it coming on.

In books, all villainesses who're worth their salt have little, sharp teeth
and pointed nails. Mrs. Senter's teeth and nails are just like other women's,
only better. Book villainesses' hair is either red or blue-black. Hers is pale
gold, though her eyes are brown, and very soft when they turn toward Sir
Lionel. Nevertheless, though I'm not cattish, except when absolutely
necessary, I know she's a pig, never happy unless she has the centre of the
stage, whether it's her part or not—wanting everyone to feel the curtain
rises when she comes on, and falls when she goes off. She looks twenty-
eight, so I suppose she's thirty-five; but really she's most graceful. Standing
up for Sir Lionel to take off her cloak, her trailing gray satin dress twisted
about her feet, as some charming, slender trees stand with their bark
spreading out round them on the ground, and folding in lovely lines like
drapery.

She managed to draw Mrs. Norton into conversation with her and Sir
Lionel, and to let Dick talk to me, so they must have arranged beforehand
what they would do. At first, when he had got his wish and been introduced,
he spoke of ordinary things, but presently he asked if I remembered his
saying that he wished to go into a certain profession. I answered "Yes,"
before I stopped to think, which I'm afraid flattered him, and then he wanted
me to guess what the profession was. When I wouldn't, he said it was that of
a detective. "If I succeed, my mother will give up her objections," he
explained. "And I think I shall succeed." It was when he said this, that he
looked so wicked—or else as if he wanted to sneeze—as I told you. What
can he mean? And what has he found out? Or is it only my bad conscience?

Oh, dear, I should like to give it a thorough spring cleaning, as one does in
Lent! I'm afraid that's what is needed. I've had plenty of blacks on it since
Ellaline made me consent to her plan, and I began to carry it out. But now I
have more. I have lots of dresses and hats on it, too—lovely ones. And
petticoats, and such things, etc., etc. Did Dragons of old insist on their fairy
princess-prisoners having exquisite clothes, and say "hang the expense"?
This Dragon has done so with his Princess, and I had to take the things,
because, you see, I have engaged to play the part, and this apparently is his
rich conception of it. He says that I—Ellaline—can afford to have
everything that's nice; so what can I do? The worst of it is, much of my new
finery is so delicate, it will be défraiche by the time the real Ellaline can
have it, even if it would fit or suit her, which it won't. But probably the man
was ashamed to be seen with a ward in gray serge and a sailor hat, so I
couldn't very well violate his feelings. Perhaps if I'd refused to do what he
wanted, all his hidden Dragon-ness would have rushed to the surface; but as
I was quite meek, he behaved more like an angel than a dragon.

It really was fun buying the things, in a fascinating shop where the
assistants were all more refined than duchesses, and so slender-waisted they
seemed to be held together only by their spines and a ladylike ligament or
two. But if Providence didn't wish women to lace, why weren't our ribs
made to go all the way down? The way we were created, it's an incentive to
pinch waists. It seems meant, doesn't it?

I was a dream to look at when we went to supper at that restaurant;
which was one comfort. Mrs. Senter's things were no nicer than mine, and
she was so interested in what I wore. Only she was a good deal more
interested in Sir Lionel.

"Everywhere I go, people are talking of you," she said. "You have given
them exciting things to talk about."

"Really, I wasn't aware of it," returned the poor Dragon, as
apologetically as if she'd waked him up to say he'd been snoring.

Since I wrote you, I've heard more things about his past from Mrs.
Norton, who is as proud of her brother, after a fashion, as a cat of its mouse,
and always wanting to show him off, in just the same way. (We all have our

"mouse," haven't we? I'm yours. Just now, the new hats are mine.) She has
told me a splendid story about a thing he did in Bengal: saved twelve
people's lives in a house that was on fire in the middle of the night—the
kind of house which blazes like a haystack. And, according to her, he thinks
no more of rescuing drowning persons who jump off ships in seas swarming
with sharks than we think of fishing a fly out of our bath. Now, is it possible
for a man like that to be treacherous to women, and to accept bribes for
being guardian to their children? I do wish I knew what to make of it all—
and of him.

He has taken the funny little Bengalese valet, who has been, and is to be,
his chauffeur, to try the new car this morning. He meant to have gone
before this to look at his partly burnt castle in Warwickshire, but he says
London has captivated him, and he can't tear himself away; that he will go
in a day or two, when he has trotted Mrs. Norton and me about to see a few
more sights. Of course, we could quite well see the sights by ourselves.
Mrs. Norton has seen them all, anyhow, and only revisits them for my sake;
while as for me, you and I "did" London thrillingly together in the last two
months of our glory. But Sir Lionel has an interesting way of telling things,
and he is as enthusiastic as a boy over his England. Not that he gushes; but
one knows, somehow, what he is feeling. I can't imagine his ever being
tired, but he is very considerate of us—seems to think women are frail as
glass. I suppose women are a sex by themselves, but we aren't as different
as all that.

Once in a while he threw a sideways glare at Dick Burden, when D. B.
was talking with a confidential air to me. I know from Ellaline and Mrs.
Norton that Sir Lionel dislikes women; but all the same I believe he thinks
we ought to be kept indoors unless veiled, and never allowed to talk to men,
except our relatives.

Mrs. Norton is so funny, without knowing it. She asked her brother as
gravely as possible at breakfast this morning: "Had you a harem in Bengal,
dear?"

"Good heavens, no!" he answered, turning red. "What put such a ghastly
idea into your head?"

"Oh, I only thought perhaps it was the thing, and you were obliged to, or
be talked about," she explained, calmly.

He went on to tell her that it was not at all necessary to have harems, and
she was quite surprised. You would think that she'd have taken pains to find
out every detail of her brother's life in a country where he was one of the
head men, wouldn't you? But she hardly feels that any country except her
own is worth serious inquiries. She has the impression that "heathen" are all
alike, and mostly naked, but not as embarrassing to meet as if they were
white.

Good-bye, dearest. I'm afraid I write very disconnected letters. But I feel
"disconnected" myself, somehow, like a telephone that's been "cut off."

Your loving and well-dressed

Deceiver.

P. S. It's to-morrow, for I forgot to post this, there were so many things
"doing." Please forgive me. The car's splendid, and I am to christen her.
We're going to have a kind of ceremony like a launching, and I have to
think of a name for her, and throw wine on her bonnet. Sir Lionel is longing
to get off on the tour, he says; and as he's to leave town for Warwickshire
to-morrow, turning me over temporarily to the tender mercies of the good—
(his sister)—I almost hope that after all Mrs. Senter mayn't have time to
"sweedle" him into taking her with us, as I know she hopes to do.

We, by the way, are not to see his place until the burnt bit is mended.
We're to avoid Warwickshire in starting out, go away up North as far as the
Roman Wall, visit Bamborough Castle, where he thinks friends of his, who
own it, will actually invite us to lunch, or something (it seems like a dream),
and then stop in Warwickshire at the end of the tour, when all the
dilapidations have been made good. The Dragon naturally expects me, not
only to finish the trip, but to take up my residence at Graylees until next
spring, when his plan is that his ward shall be presented. Oh, mice and men,
and dragons, how aft your plans gang agley! Of course, mine depend
altogether upon Ellaline. I hold myself ready for marching orders from her.

But I must confess to you that, whether right or wrong, I don't look forward
to the weeks of my duties as understudy with the same feelings I had when I
was engaged to perform them.

Little did Sir Lionel guess what was in my mind this morning, when I
asked if one could see most of England in a few weeks when motoring! But
I may have to take my flight from the car, so to speak, unless Ellaline be
detained for some reason. I'm expecting a letter from her any day now, and
there may be definite news.

Good-bye, again, dearest.

VIII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Royal Hotel, Chichester,
July 17th

Brightest and Best: La Donna é automobile. I am "la donna"; and the
most inward Me-ness of my Me é automobile.

Some people—Mrs. Norton, for instance—might say: "What on earth
does the silly thing mean?" But you always know what I mean. You and I
were born knowing quite a lot of nice little things like that, weren't we?
Things we picked up during our various incarnations; things new souls
haven't had time to collect, poor dears.

My automobiliness is the reason I've only sent you snippy "how-do-you-
do and good-bye" notes, interspersed with telegrams, for the last few days,
just thanking you for wise advice, and saying "Glad-you're-well; so-am-I."

You will guess from my very handwriting that I'm feeling more at home
in life than I did when I wrote you last. And I can't help being pleased that
Ellaline's adored one won't be able to leave his manœuvres, to make her his
own, till a fortnight or so later than she expected. That is, I can't help being
glad, as the doctor thinks you ought to stop at Champel-les-Bains till after
the first week of September, and we couldn't be together, even if I were
back in Paris. You swear you didn't hypnotize him to say that? I would
enjoy more peace of mind, while careering through England in Apollo, if I
were certain.

Oh, that reminds me, I forgot to tell you what fun it was christening
Apollo. I quite enjoyed it, and felt immensely important. Don't you think
"Apollo" an appropriate name for such a magnificent car as I've described
to you? The Sun God—Driver of the Chariot of the Sun? Sir Lionel likes it;
but he says he isn't sure "The Cloud" wouldn't be a more appropriate name,
because the car costs such a lot that "she" has a silver lining. I began by

calling her "it," but he won't let me do that. He doesn't much mind my being
amateurish, but he hates me to be disrespectful.

I am so dazzled by the motor and enchanted with the sport of motoring
—as well as seeing things even more lovely than I hoped for—that I'm not
worrying over Dick Burden and his mysterious hints about himself as a
detective. Besides, when he and his aunt came to tea (you'll remember I told
you in a scrap of a note that it was the day Sir Lionel went to Warwickshire,
and how vexed Mrs. Senter was to find him gone), Mr. Dick made himself
quite pleasant. He wasn't impertinent, or too admiring, or anything which a
well-brought-up young Englishman ought not to be. Indeed, I thought by
his manner that he wanted tacitly to apologize for his bad behaviour when
we first met; so probably, when I fancied he looked wicked that night at
Ennis's Rooms, it was because he wanted to sneeze. You have taught me to
give everybody, except young men, the benefit of the doubt; but I don't see
why one shouldn't give it to young men, too. I think they're rather easier to
forgive, somehow, than women. Is that why they're dangerous? But D. B.
could never be dangerous to me, in the sense of falling in love.

His aunt certainly wishes to throw us together; I suppose on account of
Ellaline's money. She doesn't like girls, I'm sure, but would always be ready,
on principle, to give first aid to heiresses. It is something to be thankful for
that she hasn't grafted herself on to our party, as I feared she might; and
though they're both going to stop at some country house near Southsea, and
they "hope we may meet," I dare say I shan't be bothered by them again
while I'm in England. I don't intend to worry. La donna é automobile!

I haven't properly described our start, or told you about the things I've
seen en route, and I promised to tell you everything; so I'll go back to the
beginning of the trip.

There was Apollo, throbbing with joy of life in front of the hotel door, at
nine o'clock of a perfect English morning. There were statuesque, Ritzy
footmen, gazing admiringly at the big golden-yellow car (that was one of
the reasons I thought she should be named after the Sun God, she is so
golden). There was Charu Chunder Bose, alias Young Nick, who would
think it a sin against all his gods to dress as a chauffeur, and who continues
to garb himself as a self-respecting Bengali—Young Nick, with his sleepy

eyes, and his Buddha-when-young smile, about as appropriate on a motor-
car as a baby crocodile. There was Sir Lionel waiting to tuck us in. There
were we two females in neat gray motor dust-cloaks, on which the Dragon
insisted; Mrs. Norton in a toque, which she wore as if it were a remote and
dreaded contingency; your Audrie in a duck of an early Victorian bonnet, in
which she liked herself better than in anything else she ever had on before.
There, too, was our luggage, made to fit the car, and looking like the very
last word of up-to-dateness—if you know what that look is.

Of course, it wasn't the first time I'd been out in the car, for I think I told
you, the day Apollo was christened I had a spin; but it rained, and we went
only through the Park. That was nothing. This morning we were bidding
good-bye to London, and our pulses were beating high for the Tour. Young
Nick drove on the christening day, but this time Sir Lionel took the driver's
seat, with the brown idol beside him; and I saw instantly, by the very way
he laid his hand on the steering-wheel, with a kind of caress—as a horse-
lover pats a beloved mare's neck—that he and the golden car were in perfect
sympathy.

We were starting early, because Sir Lionel had planned a good many
things for us to see before dark; but early as it was, Piccadilly and
Knightsbridge were seething with traffic. Motor-'buses like mad
hippopotamuses; taxi-cabs like fierce young lions; huge carts like elephants;
and other vehicles of all sorts to make up a confused medley of wild
animals escaped from the Zoo. It looked appalling to mingle with, but our
own private Dragon drove so skilfully, yet so carefully, that I never bit my
heart once. Always the car seemed sentient, steering its way like a long, thin
pike; then when the chance came, flashing ahead, dauntless and sure.

We went by a great domed palace—Harrod's Stores—and then over
Putney Bridge, passing Swinburne's house, whose outside is as deceiving as
an oyster-shell that hides a pearl; through Epsom, Charles the Second's
"Brighton" (which I've been reading about in a volume of Pepys Sir Lionel
has given me), to Leatherhead, along the Dorking Road, slowing up for a
glimpse of Juniper Hall, glowing red as a smouldering bonfire behind a
dark latticed screen of splendid Lebanon cedars. I dare say it's a good deal
changed since dear little Fanny Burney's day, for the house looks quite

modern; but then neither buildings nor the people who live in them show
their age early in England.

Close under Box Hill we glided; and Sir Lionel pointed out a little path
leading up on the left to George Meredith's cottage. Just a small house of
gray stone it is (for I would get out and walk up part way to see it from far
off, not to intrude or spy); and there that great genius shines out, a clear,
white light for the world, like a beacon or a star.

Evidently Surrey air suits geniuses. Do you remember reading about
Keats, that he wrote a lot of "Endymion" at Burford Bridge? It was only a
little after ten o'clock when we passed the quaint-looking hotel there, but
already at least a dozen motors were drawn up before it. I wanted to go in
and ask if they show the room Lord Nelson used; but we had too many
things to see.

Of course, I am always wishing for you, but I began to wish the hardest
just as we came into this green, brackeny, fairyland of Surrey. It's the kind
of country you love best; although I must say it was never planned for
motors. Winding through those green tunnels which are the Surrey lanes, I
felt as if, in some quaint dream, I were motoring on a tight-rope, expecting
another car to want to pass me on the same rope—which naturally it
couldn't!

It would have been much worse, though, if Young Nick had been
driving. That little, smooth brown face of his looks as if its idol-simper hid
no human emotions, and I believe if people and animals were perfectly flat,
like paper dolls, so that they would do no harm to his car, he wouldn't mind
how many he drove over. Luckily, however, they aren't flat, and the only
thing earthly he adores, after his master, is his motor; so he is nice and
cautious for its sake. But the Dragon thinks of everyone, and says there's no
pleasure for him in motoring if he leaves a trail of distress or even
annoyance along the road as he passes. He slows down at corners; he goes
carefully round them; he almost walks Apollo in places where creatures of
any kind may start out unexpectedly; and he blows our pleasant musical
horn as if by instinct, never forgetting, as I'm sure I should do.

As we twisted and turned through the Surrey lanes, between Dorking
and Shere, little children in red cloaks and tams appeared from behind
hedges, looking like blowing poppies as they ran. And blue-eyed, gold-
brown haired girls in cottage doorways, under hanging bowers of roses,
were as decorative as Old Chelsea china girls. The red tiles of their roofs, as
I turned back for one more glimpse, would already be half hidden in waves
of green, but would just show up like beds of scarlet geraniums buried in
leaves.

Shere was almost too beautiful to be real, with its rows of Elizabethan
cottages whose windows twinkled at us with their diamond-shaped,
diamond-bright panes, sparkling under their low, thatch-eyebrows, from
between black oak beams. The Tudor chimneys were as graceful as the
smoke wreaths that lazily spiraled above them, and the whole effect was—
was—well, inexpressibly Birket Foster. I used to think he idealized; but
then, I'd never seen anything of England but London, and didn't know how
all English trees, cottages, and even clouds, are trained to group themselves
to suit artists of different schools.

I kept wishing that you'd made me study architecture and botany, instead
of languages and music. In justice to oneself, one ought, when travelling in
England, to have at least a bowing acquaintance with every sort of
architecture, and all families of flowers, to say nothing of trees, so that one
might exclaim, as snobs do of royalties and celebrities: "Oh, she was the
great granddaughter of So-and-So." "He married Lady This-and-That."
Also, I find I need much more knowledge of literature than I have. This
country is divided off into a kind of glorious chessboard, each square being
sacred to some immortal author, playwright, or poet. The artists press them
close, without overcrowding; and history lies underneath—history for every
square inch.

"Twelve coffin deep," I quoted Kipling to myself, as my mind panted
along Roman roads, and the Pilgrim's Way.

"Why, was there a cemetery there?" asked Mrs. Norton, looking mildly
interested.

She, by the way, doesn't much care for ruins. She says they're so untidy.

You and I travelled till our money threatened to give out in the noble
cause of sight-seeing, but I never realized history quite so potently even in
Italy as I do in England. Yet that's not strange, when you think how tiny
England is, compared with other countries, and how things have gone on
happening there every minute since the Phœnicians found it a snug little
island. Its chapters of history have to be packed like sardines, beginning
down, down, far deeper than Kipling's "twelve coffins."

One Surrey village telleth another, just to slip through in a motor-car,
though none could ever be tiresome in the telling; but if one stopped to hear
the real story of each one, how different they would all be! There would be
grand chapters of fighting, and mysterious chapters of smuggling—oh, but
long ones about smuggling, since most of the manors and half the old
cottages have "smugglers' rooms," where the lace and spirits used to be
hidden, in their secret journey from Portsmouth to London. It's difficult to
believe in these thrilling chapters now, in the rich, placid county, where the
only mystery floats in the veil of blue mist that twists like a gauze scarf
around the tree trunks in the woods, and the only black spots are the dark
downs in the distance, with the sky pale gold behind them.

You would love motoring, not only for what you do see, but for what
you nearly see, and long to see, but can't—just as Dad used to say "Thank
God for all the blessings I've never had!" Why, every road you don't go
down looks fantastically alluring, just twice as alluring as the one you are
in. You grudge missing anything, and fear, greedily, that there may be better
villages with more history beyond the line of your route. It's no consolation
when Mrs. Norton says, "Well, you can't see everything!" You want to see
everything. And you wish you had eyes all the way round your head. It
would be inconvenient for hair and hats, but you could manage somehow.

We had to go through Petworth, a most feudal-looking old place, reeking
of history since the Confessor, and mentioned in the Domesday Book (I do
so respect towns or houses mentioned in the Domesday Book!), and if it
had been the right day we could have seen Lord Leconsfield's collection of
pictures, some of the best in England; but it was the wrong day, so we sailed
on out of Surrey into Sussex, and arrived at Bignor.

All I knew about Bignor was that I must expect something amazing
there. Sir Lionel asked me not to read about it in the books of which we
have a travelling library in the car—one at least for each county we shall
visit. He said he "wanted Bignor to be a surprise" for me; and it is odd the
way one finds oneself obeying that man! Not that one's afraid of him, but—
well, I don't know why exactly, but one just does it. We didn't stop in the
village, though there was the quaintest grocery shop there you can imagine,
perfectly mediæval; and in the churchyard yew trees grand enough to make
bows for half the archers of England—if there were any in these days. We
went on to quite a modern-looking farmhouse, and Sir Lionel said, "I am
going to ask Mrs. Tupper if she will give us a little lunch. If she says 'yes,'
it's sure to be good."

"I don't know any Tuppers, Lionel," objected Mrs. Norton. "Who are
they?"

"Relatives of Martin Tupper, if that name recalls anything to your mind,"
said he.

Mrs. Norton had a vague idea that she had been more or less brought up
on extracts from Martin Tupper, and seemed to associate him with Sundays,
when, as a child, she hadn't been allowed to play. But that didn't explain
how Lionel happened to know connections of his in a Sussex farmhouse.
Besides, he couldn't possibly have seen them for more than fifteen years.

"That is true, and I only saw them once, even then," he admitted. "But
Mrs. Tupper had been here for a good many years, engaged in the most
delightful work, which you will hear about by and by; and I'm sure she is
here still, and will be for many more years to come, because I don't want to
imagine the place without her."

Mrs. Norton said no more, and her brother knocked on the door of the
farmhouse, which stood hospitably open. In a minute, a dear old white-
haired lady appeared, and instantly her face lighted up.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Pendragon—I mean Sir Lionel—come back to see
us again!" said she.

Sir Lionel grew red with pleasure, at being remembered by her, for
apparently he hadn't at all expected it. He seems to forget that he is a
celebrity, and generally doesn't like being reminded of the fact, but he was
pleased that Mrs. Tupper had read about him in the papers from time to
time, and had never forgotten his face.

She said she would be delighted to provide us with lunch, if we didn't
mind a simple one; and then she would have gone on to say something
which would have given the "surprise" away, if Sir Lionel hadn't stopped
her.

We had delicious country things to eat, with real Surrey cream and apple
dumplings. They did taste good after the elaborate French cooking in
London, by way of contrast! Then, when we had finished, Sir Lionel said,
"Now, Mrs. Tupper, can you take us for a stroll round the farm?"

That didn't sound exciting, did it? We walked out, and it seemed a very
nice farm, but nothing remarkable. As we wandered toward some sheds, in
a field of mangolds, Sir Lionel made us look up at a big hill, and said,
"There was a Roman camp there. If you'd stood where you stand now, on a
quiet night in those times, you could have heard the clanking of armour or
the soldiers quarrelling over their dice. Here Roman Stane Street ran, and
chariots used to stop to bring the latest news from Rome to the owner of the
villa."

"Was there a villa?" asked Mrs. Norton, who thinks it polite to ask her
brother questions, whether she is interested or not.

"Let's take a look into this shed," said he, by way of answer. And, there,
protected by that rough roof, was a great stretch of splendid mosaic
pavement. It was done in circular compartments of ornamentation, and in
one was a beautiful head of Ganymede—in another, Winter. Alas, I
shouldn't have known what they were if I hadn't been told, but I would have
known that they were rare and wonderful.

This was the "surprise." This was the secret of Bignor; but it wasn't
nearly all. There were lovely broken pillars, and lots more pavements, acres
of mosaic, it seemed; for the villa had been large and important, and must

have been built by a rich man with cultivated taste. He knew how to make
exile endurable, did that Roman gentleman! Standing in his dining-hall, I
could imagine him and his fair lady-wife sitting at breakfast, looking out
from between white, glittering pillars at the Sussex downs, grander than
those of Surrey, reminding me of great, brave shoulders raised to protect
England. Now we knew what Mrs. Tupper's "delightful work" was! For
forty-nine years she has cleaned the mosaic pavement of the vanished
Roman villa, all of which were discovered by the grandfather of the present
owner of the farm. Never once has she tired of looking at the mosaics,
because, as she explained to us, "one doesn't tire of what is beautiful."
There speaks true appreciation, doesn't it? Only a born lover of the beautiful
could have said that so simply.

There was an Italian, a man from Venice, repairing the mosaic. He could
hardly speak a word of English, and beamed with a sudden smile when I
asked him some question in his native tongue. We talked awhile, and I
translated several things he said to Sir Lionel and his sister. I'm ashamed to
confess, dear, that I was pleased to show off my poor little accomplishment,
and proud because I knew one thing which our famous man didn't. Wasn't
that low of me?

"Well, you weren't disappointed in my surprise, I think?" said Sir Lionel,
when we were starting away at last.

I just gave him one look. It really wasn't necessary to answer.

As we flashed on, through country always exquisite, and over perfect
roads, I could think of nothing but Bignor, until suddenly, after passing
through a long aisle of great beeches, like an avenue in a private park, a
tremendous bulk of stone looming at me made me jump, and cry out, "Oh!"

Sir Lionel turned his head long enough for half a smile. "Arundel
Castle," he said.

It's lucky for me that Mrs. Norton doesn't know much about any part of
England except her own home, and the homes of her particular friends, or
else she would always be explaining things to me, and I should hate that. It
would be like having purple hot-house grapes handed out to one impaled on

the prongs of a plated silver fork. I should have wanted to slap her, if she
had told me I was looking at Arundel Castle, but I was grateful to her
brother for the information. This was a wickedness in me; but if you knew
how I felt, having started out from the Ritz expecting a quiet day's run
through one or two of the garden counties of England, to come like this,
bang into the midst of Roman villas, and under the shadow of a tenth-
century castle-keep, maybe you'd excuse my morals for being upset.

You can't have centuries roll away, like a mere cloud of dust raised by
your motor, and be perfectly normal, can you? I tried to seem calm, because
I hate to be gushing and school-girlish (for Ellaline's sake, I suppose, as it
can't make any difference what her Dragon thinks of me), but I'm pretty
sure he saw that I was rather "out of myself" over all his surprises.

He stopped the motor, and we sat for a long time gazing up at the towers
beyond the green and silver beeches—a pile of battlemented stone, looking
like the Middle Ages carved in granite, yet more habitable to-day than ever
before.

We had lunched early, and had plenty of time, so we walked through the
park, which made me feel that England must be rather big, after all, to have
room for thousands of such parks—even much larger ones—and all its great
cities—and miles and miles of farms and common land, and mere
"country."

When we lived in New York, you and Dad and I, we used to joke about
the way we should feel in England if we should ever go to visit Dad's
ancestral Devonshire. We used to pretend that, after being accustomed to
the vast distances of America, we should be afraid of tumbling off the edge
of England; but so far I find that I don't dread that imminent peril. Just now
England seems so vast that my only fear is I mayn't have time to reach the
Roman Wall.

The Duke's midges bit us a good deal, in the park, so we didn't linger,
but went back to Apollo, where Young Nick's remarkable appearance had
attracted a crowd of boys and girls from Arundel town. They stood in the
road gaping at him, with that steady, unblinking stare English children and

French grown-ups have, while the brown image sat motionless in the car, as
scornfully oblivious of his critics as if he'd been the idol he looked.

Poor Sir Lionel hates the attention his extraordinary little chauffeur
excites, for, in spite of his long expatriation, he loathes being conspicuous
in any way as heartily as other Englishmen do. But (Mrs. Norton has told
me) he saved Young Nick from being murdered by someone who was a
"family enemy." Since then—it was when Nick was scarcely more than a
child—the brown image has worshipped the Dragon, and refused to be
separated from him. When Sir Lionel proposed providing for him well, and
leaving him behind, Nick made no complaints, but began industriously to
starve himself to death. So, of course, he had to be brought to England, and
his master just makes the best of him, costume, features, broomstick legs,
and all.

We had tea in a picture of Turner's: for Littlehampton, with its tidal river,
its harbour and pier, its fishing boats and shining sails, its windmill, its
goldy-brown sands, and its banked violet clouds, was a genuine Turner. Of
course, he wouldn't have painted the Beach Hotel, in spite of its nice
balconies, but we were glad it was there, and it didn't spoil the picture.

By that time, it was nearly half-past five, but we had hours of daylight
before us, so we stopped for a look at Climping Church (don't you love the
"ing" that shows a place has kept its Saxon name?) with its splendid
Norman doorway and queer, long windows, shaped like open pods of peas
beautifully ornamented round their edges. Thank goodness, there was
nothing "perp" about it! I get so tired of "perp" things in guide books.

Slinden we glanced at, too, a most idyllic village, garrisoned with the
noblest beeches I ever saw. Hilaire Belloc, whose "Path to Rome" we liked
so much, stayed at Slinden, writing delightful things about Sussex. I mean
to get and read all I can, because, even in the glimpse I've had, I can see that
Sussex has a character, as well as a charm, individually its own. The Downs
give it, and make you feel that a true man of Sussex would be frank, warm-
hearted, simple and brave, with old-fashioned ways which, with a pleasant
obstinacy, he would be loath to change. I heard Mrs. Tupper quote two or
three quaint proverbs which were new to me, but Sir Lionel said they were
old, almost, as the Sussex downs, and as racy of the soil. I always

associated Brighton with Sussex, which made it seem a sophisticated
county: but you see, true Sussex—the Downs—stands all independent and
sturdy, between the pleasure-places by the sea and the snug Weald.

The faces we passed didn't look like faces descended from smugglers,
they seemed so kind and good; but then, of course, smuggling was quite a
respectable industry in Sussex, where the secretive formation of the coast
clearly showed that Providence had meant it to epict. I love the Sussex
downs, I like the Sussex faces, and I admire the Sussex church spires—tall
and pointed, covered with lichened shingles.

We stopped at Boxgrove, too, a church adored by architects; and as we
went our way to Goodwood the sea was a torn sheet of silver seen behind
great downs which the afternoon sun was gilding. Oh, the Lebanon cedars
and the views of Goodwood! If I were there for the races, I think not even
the finest horses, the most beautiful women, and the prettiest frocks in
England could hold my eyes long from that view. I can shut my eyes now—
the day after—and see those Lebanon cedars black against an opal sky.
Another picture I can see, too, is Bosham Church, standing up tall and pure
as a gray nun singing an Ave Maria beside the clear water. It comes back to
me from my studies of English history that Vespasian had a villa there, and
that Harold sailed from Bosham. Do you know, he's in the act of doing it on
the Bayeux tapestry? Once, the Danes stole the Bosham church bells, and
the dear things still ring at the bottom of the sea, because the robber ship
was wrecked, and went down with the chime, in mid channel. I like that
story. It matches the picture and the tapestry.

Our day stopped at Chichester, and my letter must stop, too, for all this I
tell you of was only yesterday. We arrived last evening, and now it's nearly
midnight of the next day. I began to write just after dinner, sitting in my
dear old-fashioned room, and if I don't soon say good-night I shan't get
much beauty sleep. To-morrow morning, at half-past nine, we're going on;
but before we start I'll scribble a Chichester postscript. So you see, I must
be up bright and early, especially as I mean to fly out for one more glimpse
of the cathedral—though I spent most of this afternoon in it.

I wonder if you are sparing a few minutes to-night to dream of

Your Audrie?

P. S.—Eight-twenty in the morning, and I've been up for two hours.

You'd like Chichester immensely. I don't say "love," for it hasn't engaged my
affections, somehow; but I do love the beautiful jewel of a market cross, and
some of the tombs in the cathedral. The cross is quite a baby compared with lots
of others, it seems, being only just born at the time Henry VIII. was cutting off
pretty ladies' heads when he had tired of their hearts. Several tombs are so
lovely, you almost want to be dead, and have one as like as possible; but,
though part of the cathedral is satisfyingly old (eleventh century), its new spire
reminds one of a badly chosen hat, and the whole building somehow looks cold
and dull, like a person with a magnificent profile who never says anything
illuminating.

"The jewel of a market cross"

As for Chichester itself, except the market cross, the only thing that has
touched my heart was St. Mary's Hospital, surely the quaintest old almshouse
on earth. The town has rather a self-conceited air to me, and unless one were
wise, one mightn't realize without being informed that it's immemorably old. Of
course, though, if one were wise, one would know the Romans had had a hand
in the making or re-making of it, because of the geometric, regular way in
which it's built. Sir Lionel Pendragon told me that. He seems to remember all he
ever learned, whereas ever so many little bundles are already knocking about in
dusty corners of my brain, with their labels lost.

There couldn't be a more thrilling road than the road along which we came
to Chichester, and by which we will leave it in a few minutes now. Think of
Roman Stane Street, and listen for the rumble of ghostly chariot wheels! Then
—if you've not come this way for Goodwood races—you can throw your mind
a little further ahead to the days of the crusaders and the pilgrims; and to kings'
processions glittering with gold and glossy with velvets; to armies on their way
to fight; and further ahead, to coaches plying along the Portsmouth road. I
wonder how many people in the hundreds of motors that flash back and forth
each day do think of it all? I pity those who don't, because they lose a thought
that might embroider their world with rich colours.

P.P.S.—I met Sir Lionel, accidentally, of course, in the cathedral this
morning, where he, too, was saying good-bye to the most fascinating of the old
tombs. And wasn't it odd, we had the same favourites? They looked even nicer
and queerer than yesterday, with no Mrs. Norton to spatter inappropriate
remarks about.

We walked back to the hotel together, and he asked me, just as we were
coming in, whether my allowance was enough, or would I like to have more?

I had burst out that it was heaps, before I stopped to realize that he was
asking that question really of Ellaline, not of me. Perhaps I ought to have
temporized, and said I would make up my mind in a few days—meanwhile
writing to her. I suppose she must be quite an heiress; but he can't be as
mercenary as she thinks, or he wouldn't have made such a suggestion.

I'm called! The motor's ready. I'll post this from the hotel.

IX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Southsea,
July 19th

Dearest: This address isn't part of our plan of campaign. We'd meant to pass
through, after pausing on the way just long enough to see Portsmouth Harbour,
and Dickens's birthplace; but we've stopped here on my account, and now I
wish we hadn't. I'll tell you why, in a minute; but if I don't mention a few other
things first, they'll be crowded out, and I shall forget them.

After we'd seen the birthplace, and were seeing the harbour, Sir Lionel asked
if I'd care to go on board a man-o'-war. Of course, my answer was "Yes"; and he
said there was an old friend of his whom he would like to see, Captain Starlin,
of the Thunderer, so he'd ask for an invitation.

He scribbled things in pencil on a visiting-card, and sent it on board the big
gray monster, by a nice low-necked sailor. Of course, the invitation which came
back was most cordial, and even Mrs. Norton appeared pleased with the idea of
going over the ship. We were received by the Captain himself—rather a young-
looking man, whose complexion seemed to have slipped down, like Sir
Lionel's, both their foreheads being quite white, and the rest of their faces
tanned brown. He took us everywhere, showing us interesting things, and
presently said that, not only must we dine with him that evening, but must stay
to a dance that was to be given on board afterward.

"Oh, many thanks, but we're only motoring through, and go on this
afternoon," began Sir Lionel. Then he stopped short, and looked at me. "Would
you like to dance?" he asked.

"She hasn't anything to wear, if she would," Mrs. Norton answered for me.
"You were so strict about luggage, we've only two evening dresses apiece, plain
things for hotel dinners, nothing at all suitable to a dance."

"Didn't you buy her anything good enough for dances that day in Bond
Street?" snapped the Dragon.

"You bought her several things almost too good for dances, at her age,"
retaliated the Dragon's sister, but only in a gentle coo. "They're left at the Ritz,
awaiting instructions to go on to Graylees, with most of our things, and will
probably be all beggars' creases before she has a chance to wear them."

"She shall have a chance to wear any or all of them to-night, if she wants to
dance," said Sir Lionel.

"Of course she wants to dance," chimed in Captain Starlin. "Did you ever
see a young lady who didn't want to dance, especially on a man-o'-war?"

"Do you want to?" repeated the Dragon.

Between them I was quite dashed, and murmured something non-committal
about its being very nice, if it had been convenient, but——

"There is no 'but,'" said Ellaline's guardian. "That settles it. We stop the night
in Southsea, where there's no doubt a good hotel; and I will send someone
immediately to the Ritz for your boxes, Emily—and yours." He never calls me
by name if he can help it.

Emily was inclined to object that it would be foolish to send, and we didn't
want all our things anyway, till her brother gave her a look—not cross, but—
well, just one of his looks that make you do things, or stop doing them,
whichever he pleases; and she didn't say any more.

I can't help rather liking his masterful ways, though they're old-fashioned
now that we're all supposed to think we need votes more than frocks; but this
time it really would have been ungrateful of me to disapprove, as the whole fuss
was being made for me. And I was dying to go to the dance!

We went quickly back to the motor, spun into Southsea, and before the
female contingent knew exactly what was happening to it, rooms were engaged
for the night, and a "responsible person" despatched by the first train to town,
with a letter demanding certain articles of our luggage.

I was quite excited about the evening, but outwardly was "more than usual
calm," as we wandered here and there, after luncheon, seeing Southsea—which
must, by the way, be a most convenient place for girls, as they can choose
between Navy and Army, or play with both if they are pretty enough. Just as we

were going to have a run out to Hayling Island in the car, whom should we meet
in the street, close to our hotel, but Mrs. Senter and Dick Burden.

She was looking very fetching and young, almost like a girl, certainly as
unlike an aunt as possible. And, mother, I know it wasn't an accident. I don't
mean about her being an aunt, of course, but being in Southsea and meeting us.

The day she called, in London, when Sir Lionel was in Warwickshire, I
heard her asking Mrs. Norton questions about our route; and when dear Emily
mentioned Winchester, she said, "Oh, won't you be passing through Southsea?"

Mrs. Norton answered in her vague little way that she was sure she didn't
know. Then Mrs. Senter went on to say that she and Dick were invited to stay at
a house near Southsea, and she thought they would probably accept. Perhaps, if
they did, we might meet. But, as I wrote you, I thought it more likely we
wouldn't, unless Sir Lionel should seem keen when he heard; and he didn't. He
apparently took no interest whatever when his sister repeated the conversation
to him next day.

Well, I'm sure Mrs. Senter made up her mind to accept her friend's invitation
(even if she didn't ask for one) the minute she found out that we were likely
soon to pass Southsea. She must have known we would be sure to stop for a
look round Portsmouth and the neighbourhood, and thought the chance worth
taking. If she hadn't, she would have stopped in London till the end of the
season, no doubt, for she's the kind of person who lives for Society, and only
cares for the country when it's the fashion to be in it.

I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she'd been patrolling the streets of Portsmouth
and Southsea for a day or two, in the hope of running across us sooner or later.
Or, as Dick Burden fancies himself in the part of a detective, perhaps he hit
upon some surer way of getting at us.

Those two, aunt and nephew, play into each other's hands beautifully.
Mamma, it seems, is visiting in Scotland at the moment, so they hunt in
couples. How long "Aunt Gwen" has been a widow the saints may know; I don't
—but anyway she has begun to "take notice," as people say about bright little
babies. She has looked up Sir Lionel in Debrett, and marked him with a red
cross for her own, I believe. Such impudence! A woman like that, to dare think
of trying to grab a man of his position and record! She ought to know how
unsuitable she would be for him.

As for Dick, of course he wants to flirt with me; but wait—wait till you hear
the latest developments.

Sir Lionel seemed neither pleased nor displeased at the meeting, but he
could not have suspected it was more than an accident, for he remarked that it
was odd we should run up against each other like this!

Mrs. Senter said yes, indeed, it was, she was never more surprised in her life,
though really it would have been odd, when one came to think of it, if we hadn't
met, since she and Dick were stopping with friends on Hayling Island, and were
constantly in Southsea.

"Do let me write a note to my friend Captain Starlin, and get you all
invitations to the Thunderer dance to-night," she tacked on to the tail of her
explanation.

"He's an old friend of mine, too," said Sir Lionel, "and we've not only
invitations already, but have accepted them, and sent for my sister's and Miss
Lethbridge's clothes."

Her face fell a little for an instant when she heard we'd sent for clothes, as
probably Emily and I would have suited her better in our worst things; but she
brightened up and said how pleased she was, because she and Dick were both
going, and now they would really look forward to the dance; Dick had been
bored with the idea before.

Well, the boxes came in good time, and the Bond Street darlings weren't
crushed in the least, because I had put them to bed so nicely with sheets and
pillows of tissue paper. I decided to wear a pink chiffon, with tiny button roses
laid like a dainty frame all round the low neck and where the sleeves ought to
have been but weren't. The chiffon's embroidered with roses to match. Can you
imagine me in such a dream? I can't. But it suits me, rather. I wore pink shoes
and stockings and gloves, all of the same shade, and poor Emily in gray silk,
with her hair done in an aggressively virtuous way, looked like a cross between
an Anglican nun and a tourist economizing luggage. Yet she wouldn't have been
shocked if her brother'd had a harem in Bengal, because it was "good form."
But of course, as she says, one is obliged to excuse things in men.

It was very amusing having dinner in the Captain's room, which was large
and quite charming, with curtains and frilly silk cushions, and heaps of framed,

signed photographs, and books, almost as if a woman had arranged it. But he
told us one felt the motion there, more than anywhere else, in a storm; which
must be some consolation to the "middies" who have to work for years before
they can ever hope for such luxurious quarters.

Mrs. Senter and Dick weren't at dinner, which was one comfort. Besides
ourselves, there were only the Captain's married sister, who had come from
town for the dance, and her husband. The husband's an earl—Lord
Knaresbrook; rather old; but Lady Knaresbrook is young, frightfully pretty, and
knows it. She flirted fascinatingly at dinner with Sir Lionel; not as Mrs. Senter
flirts, flickering her eyelashes, saying smart things as if to amuse him alone, and
hang everyone else!—but just looking at him, with gorgeous, starry eyes;
asking a question now and then, and listening with all her soul. I'm not sure it
isn't an equally effective way, especially when done in a diamond tiara by a
countess under twenty-five. I should quite have enjoyed watching it if Sir
Lionel had been a stranger, but knowing him somehow made me feel 'pon
honour not to look, and rather restless. I do believe that, compared with some of
these men, who've been at the other end of the world for years doing important
political things, Samson with his hair all cropped off was adamant to Lovely
Woman!

Naturally, I had to have something to look at, and I couldn't look at Lord
Knaresbrook because the shape of his nose worried me; and anyhow he wanted
to talk to Emily about people they both knew. Such exciting bits as this floated
to my ears: "Ah, yes, he was the great-grandson of Lord This. She married the
Duke of That's second cousin." So I looked a good deal at Captain Starlin, and
he looked at me and not at very much else, which was quite easy, the most
important lady being his own sister, who took the place of hostess; so Mrs.
Norton was on his right and I on his left. As he was our host, and evidently
wanted to flirt a little, I thought it my duty to gratify his wish, and played up to
him. That was quite right, wasn't it? I'm sure you'll say yes, as you are a
Parisienne, and have brought me up to do unto others as I would be done by.
But several times I happened to catch Sir Lionel's eyes, and they had a gloomy
glint in them; not angry, but as if he'd discovered a screw loose in me. I felt as
uncomfortable as you do with a smudge on your nose, which you see in shop-
window mirrors when you've forgotten your handkerchief; but it was too late to
change my behaviour suddenly, so I went on as I had begun.

We mere females didn't leave the men at the table, perhaps because there
wasn't any place where it would have been proper for us to wander unmanned.
We sat for hours, and Lady Knaresbrook smoked, and wanted us to smoke,
though of course she must have known that no woman with her hair done like
Emily's would. Emily looked shocked, but just pressed in her lips, and didn't
disapprove out aloud, as she might if Lady Knaresbrook had been plain "Mrs."
But afterward she told me she was now ready to believe "all they say" about
Diana Knaresbrook. Just because she smoked! Mrs. Norton could find
immorality in a hard-boiled egg if she looked for it.

At last we went above, or whatever you call it on a ship, and everything had
been made beautiful with flags and bunting; but nothing was as beautiful as
those sailor men themselves, especially the middies. I felt like their mother (I
hope that's not unmaidenly?) and should have loved to smooth their hair and pat
them on the cheek—of which, by the way, they had plenty!

A good many were introduced to me; and Dick brought his aunt very early,
because, he said, he didn't want to find all my dances gone. You can believe I
hadn't saved any for him! But as a matter of fact, I had kept back two, thinking
Sir Lionel might ask me; for after his many kindnesses I shouldn't have liked to
seem not to want to dance with him, you see. When he didn't ask at first, I
supposed it might be because he wasn't a dancing man (horrid expression!—
sounds like a trained bear); but presently I saw him waltzing with Lady
Knaresbrook; and he danced beautifully, as if he'd done nothing else all those
years in Bengal. Then I said to myself: "He's vexed with me because he thinks I
behaved badly at dinner, and perhaps I did." And I almost hoped he would
suggest sitting out a dance, so that we could talk.

But then Dick came; and when he found I had two dances he wanted them
both. "There are things I must tell you," he said. And mother, it's easy to see that
the creature has some talent as a detective, because he guessed at once why I'd
been saving those dances.

"It's no good keeping anything up your sleeve for Pendragon," said he, in his
perky way, as if he were on an equality with the ex-Lieutenant-Governor of
East Bengal. "He won't ask you to dance. He thinks you're a little girl, and is
leaving you to little boys, like me, which is quite right. The only woman he's
ever taken any interest in for the last fifteen years is Aunt Gwen. And you can't
say he doesn't show good taste."

I couldn't, especially as Mrs. Senter was looking like the heroine of a novel
which you'd be sure to forbid my reading; so I gave him the dances, partly for
that reason and partly because I was cowardly enough to want to hear what he
had to tell. Just at the moment he couldn't say more, though, because a sweet
brown lamb of a middy came and whirled me away. So it went on for half the
evening, until it was nearly time for Dick Burden's first dance, and I was sitting
down to breathe (after a furious galop, which didn't go at all well with a
Directoire dress), beside Mrs. Norton, who had the air of thinking a ballroom a
sort of pound for lost souls.

Up came Sir Lionel as if to speak to her, and—I don't know what made me
do it—I said, "I saved a dance for you, but you never asked me for it, so I gave
it to someone else."

His face got red. Perhaps he thought I was lecturing him for being rude.

"Did you give it to Starlin?" he asked, bluntly.

"No. I've had mine with Captain Starlin. To Mr. Burden," said I.

"Do you want to dance it with him?"

"Not at all."

"Chuck him, then, and dance it with me. I should like to talk to you."

"That's what he said."

"Do you want to hear what he's got to say?"

(Well, you know, dear, I had wanted to; but suddenly I felt as if Dick didn't
matter more than a fly, nor did any one else except the person I was talking to.
You do feel like that with these quiet, masterful sort of people, whether you care
for them or not. It's just a kind of momentary hypnotism; or, at least, that's the
definition I've been giving myself.)

"I don't want to hear what he's got to say," my hypnotized Me answered, in
the queer, abrupt way in which we had begun snapping out little short sentences
to each other. "I'm sure he couldn't say anything really interesting."

"Don't you like Dick Burden?"

"Not much."

"Then the dance is mine. Which is it?"

"The next. Here he comes now. I see the top of his head, over the shoulder of
that youth with the collar of a curate and the face of a convict."

The Dragon smiled benevolently at my wicked description of a
comparatively inoffensive person, and whisked me off.

"Are you offended with me?" I asked, as we waltzed a weird but heavenly
Hungarian waltz (made in Germany).

"Why do you ask that?" he wanted to know.

"Because you looked offended at dinner. What had I done? Eaten something
with the wrong fork?"

"You had done nothing I oughtn't to have been prepared to see you do."

"What ought you to be prepared to see me do?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"It does. If you don't tell me, I shall scream 'Murder' at the top of my lungs,
and then you'll have to speak."

"I certainly wouldn't. I'd bundle you home at once."

"I haven't got any home."

"My home is yours, till you marry."

"Or you do."

"Don't talk nonsense." (He was probably going to say "Tommy-rot" but
considered such striking words unfit for the ear of a débutante. This was my
début, I suppose? My very first ball.)

"Then tell me what you were unprepared for in me."

"I was prepared for it at first, before I saw you. But——"

"What?"

"Well, if you will have it, for your flirting."

Suddenly I felt impish, and said, innocently, that I supposed it was what girls
came on board men-o'-war to do, so I had only done my best to please. By this
time we'd stopped dancing, and were sitting down. I'd forgotten Dick Burden.

"It all depends upon the point of view," he answered, with rather a disgusted
air.

"My point of view is," said I, gravely, "that soldiers as well as sailors should
approve of flirting, because flirtation is a warlike act; a short incursion into the
enemy's country, with the full intention of getting back untouched."

"Ah, but what of the enemy?" suggested the Dragon.

"He can always take care of himself on such incursions."

"So that's the theory? And at nineteen you have enlisted in that army?"

"What army?"

"The great army of flirts."

I couldn't keep it up any longer, for I had really started in to explain, not to
joke. And you know, dear, that flirting as a profession wouldn't be in my line at
all.

"Do I look like a flirt?" I asked.

"No. You don't," said he. "And I was beginning to hope——"

"Please go on hoping, then," I said. "Because I didn't want to behave badly.
If I did, it was because I don't quite know the game yet. And I wanted to tell you
that I didn't really mean to be silly and schoolgirlish, and disgrace you and Mrs.
Norton."

Then it was his turn to apologize, and he did it thoroughly. He said that I
hadn't been silly, and so far from disgracing him, he was proud of me—"proud
of his ward." It was only that I seemed so much more womanly and
companionable than he'd expected, that he couldn't bear to see in me, or think
he saw, any likeness whatever to inferior types of woman. Whereupon I had the
impertinence to ask why he'd expected me to be inferior; but the only
explanation I could get him to make was that he didn't know much about girls.
Which he had remarked before.

We'd sat out two dances before we—I mean I—knew it; and nobody had
dared to come near us, because a middy can't very well snatch a partner out of a
celebrity's pocket. And Dick, too, though he seems to have the courage of most
of his convictions, drew the line at that. But suddenly I did remember. I smiled
at a hovering laddie with the most smoothly polished hair you ever saw, just
like a black helmet; and when the laddie had swung me away in the Merry
Widow waltz Sir Lionel went back to Mrs. Senter. Rather an appropriate air for
her to dance to, I thought. I do pray I'm not getting kitten-catty? Anyhow, I'm
not in my second kittenhood!

You will be wondering by this time why I'm sorry we stayed at Southsea,
when it was all for me, and I seem to have been having the "time of my life."
But I'm coming to the part you want to know about.

I thought perhaps Dick Burden would be vexed at my going off with Sir
Lionel, under his nose, just as he was ready to say "my dance." However, he
walked up to me as if nothing had happened, when it was time for the second,
so I didn't apologize. I thought it best to let sleeping partners lie.

We danced a little, but Dick, who is one-and-twenty, doesn't waltz half as
well as Sir Lionel, who is forty; and he saw that I thought so. Presently he asked
if I'd rather sit out the rest, and I answered, yes; so he said he would tell me the
things he had to say. He found a quiet place, which must have looked as if
deliberately selected for a desperate flirtation; and then he didn't do much
beating about the bush. He just told me that he knew everything. He'd partly
"detected" it, and partly found out by chance; but of course he made the most of
the detecting bit.

Don't be frightened and get a palpitation at the news, dearest; it isn't worth it.
There's going to be no flare-up. Of course, if I were the heroine of a really nice
melodrama, in such a scene as Dick and I went through, I should have been

accompanied by slow music, with lime-light every time I turned my head,
which would have heartened me up very much; while Dick would have had
villain music—plink, plink, plunk! But I did as well as I could without an
accompaniment, and I think, on the whole, managed the business very well.

You see, I had to think of Ellaline. I dared not let her out of my mind for a
single instant, for if I should fail her now, at the crucial time, it would be my
fault if her love story burst and went up the spout. If I'd stopped thinking of her,
and saying in my mind while Dick talked, "I must save Ellaline, no matter what
happens to me!" I should certainly have boxed his ears and told him to go to
limbo.

He began by telling me that he'd met a friend of mine, a Miss Bennett—
Kathy Bennett. Oh, mother, just for a minute my heart beat under my pretty
frock like a bird caught in a child's hand! You remember my writing you what a
friendship Ellaline and Kathy struck up, before Kathy left school to go back to
England, and how she sent Ellaline cuttings from the London Radical papers
about Sir Lionel Pendragon in Bengal? I do think it's almost ungentlemanly of
so many coincidences to happen in connection with what I'm trying to do for
Ellaline. But Kathy's such a lump, it's too great a compliment to call her a
coincidence. Anyhow, Dick met her in town, at a tea party (a "bun worry," he
called it) where he went with his dear Aunt Gwen; and when Kathy mentioned
being at school at Madame de Maluet's, he asked if she knew Miss Lethbridge.
She said of course she did, and she thought Ellaline was a "very naughty little
thing" not to write or come and see her. She had read in the papers about the
arrival of Sir Lionel with his sister and ward, you see.

Dick remarked that he'd hardly call Miss Lethbridge a "little thing,"
whereupon Kathy defended her adjective by saying Ellaline was only about up
to her ear.

Of course that set Mr. Dick's detective bump to throbbing furiously. He
reassured me by announcing that he hadn't said any more to Kathy, but that he'd
thought a lot. In fact, he thought so much that he asked if she'd give him a line
of introduction to Madame, as he had a cousin who wanted to go to a French
school, and next time he "ran across to Paris," he might have a look at
Versailles. Kathy gave the note, and that same night, if you'll believe it, the
horrid little boy did "run across." At the earliest hour possible in the morning he
called at the school, only to find Madame already away for her holidays. But
you know she always leaves her sister, Mademoiselle Prado, to look after

things, and when Mademoiselle heard what Dick wanted, she showed him all
over the place. He said he would like to see photographs of the young ladies in
groups, if any such existed, because he could write his Australian cousin what
nice, happy-looking girls they were. Promptly that poor, unsuspecting female
produced the big picture Madame had done of the tea-party on the lawn, a year
ago in June, and there was I in it. But Dick was too foxy to begin by asking
questions about me. Kathy adorned the photograph also, with Ellaline on her
right and me in the perspective of her left ear, which must have seemed to point
at me accusingly. Dick could claim Kathy quite naturally, as he'd come with her
letter, and presently he led up to me, saying he seemed to have seen me
somewhere. Was I a great friend of Miss Bennett's, and was it probable that she
had my portrait?

Mademoiselle innocently said no, Miss Bennett was much more likely to
have Mees Lethbridge's portrait than Mees Brendon's, as Mees Brendon was not
a pupil of the school, only a teacher of singing, and Mees Kathy was not
musical. But Mees Lethbridge, la petite jeune fille on the right, was a friend of
Mees Bennett.

Now you'll admit that Dick was rather smart to have chopped all these
branches off the tree of knowledge with his little hatchet. I think his cleverness
worthy of a better cause.

The next thing he did was to ask, naïvely, if that Miss Lethbridge was the
Miss Lethbridge—the ward of Sir Lionel Pendragon, so much talked of in the
papers just now? Proud that her sister's school had moulded a celebrity,
Mademoiselle chatted away about Ellaline, saying what a dear child she was,
how sorry Madame was to part from her, and how Madame de Blanchemain,
Ellaline's chère marraine, at St. Cloud, must be missing her mignonne at this
very moment.

It goes without saying that Mr. Dick's next step took him at a single stride to
St. Cloud. He didn't call on Madame de Blanchemain, not wishing to stir up a
tempest in a teapot, but simply pryed and peered, and did all sorts of sneaky
things, only excusable in a professional detective, who must (or thinks he must)
live.

He found out about Madame de Blanchemain's nephew, Ellaline's Honoré,
and put this and that together, until he'd patched up the theory of a love affair.

But further he dared not go, on that track, so he pranced back to Versailles, and
found out things about Audrie Brendon.

The way he did that was through noticing the name of the Versailles
photographer who took the group in the garden. Dick called on him, and said he
wanted a copy of the picture, because his "cousin" was in it. The man had
several on hand, as parents occasionally wrote for them, and when Dick got his
he inquired who I was. The obliging photographer, perhaps scenting a romance,
told him I lived in the Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette with my mother. Then
the wretch actually had the impudence to describe to me a visit he paid our
apartment, ringing at the door, and asking dear Philomene for Madame
Brendon!

In five minutes, he had heard all our family affairs, as far as that dear,
simple, talkative soul could tell him. That you were in Switzerland, and I had
gone to England to visit a friend.

I sat and listened to the end of the story, saying never a word, though I was
in one of the moods which make me a person that nobody but myself could
stand for a moment. I should simply have smiled if wild horses had come along
to tear him in two.

"So you see," said he, at last, when I didn't speak, "I'm in the game with
you."

"It isn't my game," said I.

"You're playing it," said he.

"Because I have to," said I.

"Is it Sir Lionel who's making you play it?" he asked.

"Oh, dear, no," I broke out, before I stopped to think.

"Then, he isn't in it?"

I thought it looked more respectable to admit that, whatever the "game" was,
Sir Lionel and I were not playing it together.

"You're doing it for your friend," deduced our young detective.

I gently intimated that that was my business. But Mr. Burden advised me that
I would be wise to accept him as my partner if I didn't want the business to fail.

"What have I done to you, that you should interfere?" I wanted to know, only
I didn't dare—actually didn't dare, for Ellaline's sake, to speak angrily. Oh, I did
feel like a worm's paper doll!

"You've made me like you, awfully," he said.

"Then you shouldn't want to do me any harm," I suggested.

"I don't want to do you harm," he defended himself. "What I want is to see
as much of you as possible, and also I'd like to give Aunt Gwen a little pleasure,
thrown in with mine. I want you to ask Sir Lionel to invite us to join your party.
There's plenty of room for us in that big motor-car of his. I went to see it in the
garage to-day."

"You would!" I couldn't resist sputtering. But he took no notice.

"You needn't be afraid that Aunt Gwen's in this," he went on to assure me.
"I've kept mum as an oyster. All she knows is that I saw you—Miss Lethbridge
—in Paris, and haven't been the same man since. She helped me get to know
you, of course. She's a great chum of mine, and her being an old pal of Sir
Lionel's too, meant a lot for me in the beginning. She's a ripper, and stanch as
they make 'em—but they don't make 'em perfectly stanch where other women
are concerned. And as long as you and I hunt in couples she shan't have a
suspicion."

"You'd tell her, if I refused to hunt in that way?" I asked.

"I might think it my duty to let Sir Lionel know how he's being humbugged.
At present I'm shuttin' my eyes to duty, and lookin' at you. What?"

"Why does Mrs. Senter want to come with us?" I ventured to inquire.

"Because," explained her loyal nephew, "she's fed up with visiting, and she
loves motoring. So do I, with the right people. I'm sure it's not much to ask. We
won't sponge on Sir Lionel. We'll pay our own hotel bills; and I'm sure, even
though you are in a wax with me just now, you must admit Aunt Gwen and I
would wake things up a bit—what? All's fair in love and war, so you oughtn't to

blame me for anything I've done. You'd think it jolly well romantic if you read it
in a book."

I denied this, but said I would consider. He must give me till to-morrow
morning to make up my mind; which he flatly refused to do. To-morrow would
be too late. He saw in my eye that I hoped to slip off, but it was "no good my
being foxy." Things must be fixed up, or blown up, on board this ship to-night.

Whether or not he really meant to do his worst, if I wouldn't give in, I can't
be sure, but he looked as obstinate as six pigs, and I didn't dare risk Ellaline's
future. My own impression is that there's a big mistake somewhere, and that she
would be perfectly safe in Sir Lionel's hands if she would tell him frankly all
about Honoré du Guesclin—I, meanwhile, vanishing through a stage trap or
something. But she may be right. And I may be wrong. That's why I was forced
to promise Dick. And I kept my promise, as soon as we got home to our hotel—
Sir Lionel, Mrs. Norton, and I.

I knew it would be a most horrid thing to do, but it was even horrider than I
thought.

All the way going back I was planning what to say, and feeling damp on the
forehead, thinking how impudent it would seem in me, a young girl and a guest,
to make such a suggestion. But it had to be done, so I screwed up my courage,
swallowed half of it again, with a lump in my throat, and exclaimed in a gay,
spontaneous way, like the sweet, innocent angel I am: "Oh, Sir Lionel, wouldn't
it be fun if Mrs. Senter and—and her nephew were going with us for a little
way? They both love motoring."

He looked surprised and Emily pursed her lips.

"Do you want them to come?" he asked.

"Well, I just thought of it," I stammered.

"I thought you didn't like Burden," he said. No wonder, as I'd unfortunately
unbosomed myself of my real sentiments not three hours before!

"I think he's amusing enough," I tried to slide out of the difficulty. "And Mrs.
Senter probably wouldn't go without him."

"I somehow gathered an impression that you didn't admire her particularly,"
went on Sir Lionel, looking at me with a very straight look.

"Oh, I never said so!" I cried. "I admire her immensely."

"In that case, I'll ask them, with pleasure," said Sir Lionel. "The idea did
cross my mind in London, but I didn't think you'd care for it, somehow. Emily
will be pleased, I know. Won't you, Emily? And if Mrs. Senter will be as
reasonable as you two in the matter of luggage we shall have plenty of room."

"It is your car, and the idea of the tour is yours," said Mrs. Norton, very
feminine and resigned, also feeling that my "cheek" deserved a tiny scratch. "I
am pleased with whatever pleases you."

Next morning (or rather the same morning, and this morning) Sir Lionel got
his sister to write a note to Mrs. Senter, and he wrote one too, or added a P. S.
"Aunt Gwen's" reply was a ladylike warwhoop of joy; and we are now waiting
till the latest additions to our party have broken the news to their hostess at
Hayling Island, packed a few things to take, and sent the rest "home" (wherever
that may be) with Mrs. Senter's maid.

Good-bye, my Parisienne Angel.

Your broken and badly repaired

Audrie-Ellaline.

I long to hear whether you think I ought to have braved Dick.

X

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO
COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

Royal Hotel, Winchester,
July 21st. Night

My dear Pat: I thought of you on the Portsmouth Downs yesterday,
remembering a tramp you and I had together, "exploring wild England," as we
called it. We then had a pose that all England, except "town," was wild—save
only and always when there was any shooting of poor silly pheasants or hunting
of "that pleasant little gentleman," the fox.

After running out through Portsmouth, I suggested stopping the car and
mounting the downs above, on foot, for a look at the view. There are now five
in our party, instead of three—not counting Young Nick, who has no stomach
for views. At Ellaline's expressed wish, Mrs. Senter and Dick Burden have
come on with us from Hayling Island, where they were staying. We met them at
a dance on the Thunderer, which Starlin captains. They have been invited to be
of the party for a fortnight or so.

I should rather have liked to watch Ellaline's face as she climbed the hill, her
feet light on yielding grass, where the gold of buttercups and turquoise of
harebells lay scattered—as she climbed, and as she reached the top, to see
England spread under her eyes like a great ring. But that privilege was
Burden's. I hope he appreciated it. Mine was to escort Mrs. Senter. I was glad
she didn't chat. I hate women who chat, or spray adjectives over a view.

You remember it all, don't you? On one side, looking landward, we had a
Constable picture: a sky with tumbled clouds, shadowed downs, and forests
cleft by a golden mosaic of meadows. Seaward, an impressionist sketch of
Whistler's: Southampton Water and historic Portsmouth Harbour; stretches of
glittering sand with the sea lying in ragged patches on it here and there like
great pieces of broken glass. Over all, the English sunshine pale as an alloy of
gold and silver; not too dazzling, yet discreetly cheerful, like a Puritan maiden's
smile; but not like Ellaline's. Hers can be dazzling when she is surprised and
pleased.

I think I recall your talk with me on a height overlooking the harbour—
perhaps the same height. We painted a lurid picture, to harrow our young minds,
of the wreck of the Royal George. And we said, gazing across the Downs, that
England looked almost uninhabited. Well, it appears no more populous now,
luckily for the picture. I heard Ellaline saying to Dick Burden that the towns
and villages might be playing at hide and seek, they concealed themselves so
successfully. Also I heard her advise him to read "Puck of Pook's Hill," and was
somewhat disappointed that she'd already had it, as I bought it for her in
Southsea yesterday. Probably she won't care to read it again. Perhaps I had
better give the book to Mrs. Senter, who is a more intellectual woman than you
and I supposed when she was playing with us all in India. But one doesn't talk
books with pretty women in the East.

You remember the day you and I walked to Winchester from Portsmouth,
starting early in the morning, with our lunch in our pockets? Well, we came
along the same way, past old William of Wykeham's Wickham, the queer mill
built of the Chesapeake's timbers, and Bishops' Waltham, where the ruins of the
Episcopal palace struck me as being grander than I had realized. Ellaline was
astonished at coming upon such a splendid monument of the past by the
roadside, and was delighted to hear of the entertainment Cœur de Lion was
given in the palace after his return from the German captivity. Of course the
story of the famous "Waltham Blacks" pleased her too. Women can always
forgive thieves, provided they're young, gay, and well born.

When Mrs. Senter found that Ellaline and my sister were in the habit of
sitting in the tonneau, Young Nick beside me, she asked, after a little hesitation,
if she might take his place, leaving the chauffeur to curl himself up on the
emergency seat at my feet. She said that half the fun of motoring was to sit by
the man at the wheel and share his impressions, like being in the forefront of
battle, or going to the first performance of a play, or being in at the death with a
hunt. So now you can imagine me with an amusing neighbour, for naturally I
consented to the change. Neither Ellaline nor Emily had suggested
companioning me, and though I must say I had thought of proposing it to
Ellaline, I hadn't found the courage. She would no doubt have been too polite to
refuse, while perhaps disliking the plan heartily. Now, Burden has been allotted
a place with her and my sister, which is probably agreeable to Ellaline.

Curious! Even the frankest of girls—and I believe Ellaline to be as frank as
her sex allows—can be secretive in an apparently motiveless way. Why should

she tell me one moment that she didn't like Burden, and the next (practically)
ask me to invite him and his aunt to travel with us, because she "admires Mrs.
Senter immensely"? Or perhaps it is that the child doesn't know her own mind. I
am studying her with deepening interest, but am not likely to have as many
opportunities now there are more of us. She and Burden, being the young girl
and the young man of the party, will, of course, be much together, and Mrs.
Senter will fall to my lot for any excursions which may not interest, or be too
tiring for, Emily. This boy's presence makes me realize, as I didn't until I had a
young man of twenty-one constantly under my eyes, that the knocking of the
"younger generation" has already begun to sound on my door. I had better
hearken, I suppose, or some one else will kindly direct my attention to the
noise. I confess I don't like it, but it's best to know the worst, and keep the
knowledge in the heart, rather than read it in the mockery of some pretty girl's
eyes—a pretty girl to whom one is an "old boy," perhaps.

Jove, Pat, that sticks in my gorge! It's not a thought to take to bed and go to
sleep with if one wants pleasant dreams. I'm stronger than I ever was, my health
is perfect, I have few gray hairs, my back is straight. I feel as if the elixir of
youth ran hot in my veins. Yet one sees headlines in the papers, "Too Old at
Forty." And—one is forty. It didn't matter—that is, I didn't think of it, until the
coming of this boy.

His very ideas and manners are different from mine. No doubt they're the
approved ideas and manners of his generation, as we had ours at his age. I wear
my hair short, and think no more of its existence except to wash and brush it;
but this Dick parts his in the middle, and sleeks the long locks back, keeping
them smooth as a surface of yellowish satin, with bear's grease or lard, or some
appalling, perfumed compound. His look is a mixture of laziness and
impudence, and half his sentences he ends up with "What?" or even "What-
what?" His way with women is slightly condescending, and takes their approval
for granted. There's no youthful shyness about him, and what he wants he
expects to get; but with me he puts on an irritating, though, I fear, conscientious
air of deference that relegates me to the background of an older generation; sets
me on a pedestal there, perhaps; but I have no wish for a pedestal.

Still, to do him justice, the lad is neither ill-looking nor ill-mannered. Indeed,
women may consider him engaging. His aunt seems devoted to him, and says
he is irresistible to girls. I think if no "greenery yallery" haze floated before my
eyes, I might see that he is rather a decent boy, extremely well-groomed, alert,

with good, short features and bright eyes. When he walks with Ellaline he has
no more than an inch the advantage of her in height, but he has a well-knit
figure and a "Sandhurst bearing."

"Crabbed age and youth cannot live together."

Am I crabbed age?

Well, this long digression ought to bring me on as far as Winchester, where
we came yesterday afternoon, late. We should have been earlier (though our
start was delayed by our guests' preparations), but Ellaline was fascinated by
the pretty village of Twyford. You remember it? She'd been reading it up in a
guide-book, and would stop for a look at the place where the Fair Fitzherbert
was said to have been married to her handsome prince, later George IV. I can't
recall hearing that story, though certainly Mrs. Fitzherbert's relations lived near;
but I knew Pope was sent down from school there because of a satire he wrote
on the master, and that Franklin visited and wrote in Twyford.

It was after four when I turned the car round that sharp corner which swings
you into the Market Square of what is to me the grandest and most historic town
of England. Why, it is England! Didn't the Romans get their Venta Belgarum,
which finally developed into Winta-ceaster and Winchester, from the far older
Celtic name for an important citadel? Wasn't there a Christian church before the
days of Arthur, my alleged ancestor? Wasn't the cathedral begun by the father of
Ælfred on the foundations of that poor church as well as those of a Roman
temple? Wasn't it here that the name of Anglia—England—was bestowed on the
United Kingdoms, and wasn't it from Winchester that Ælfred sent out the laws
that made him and England "Great"?

Ellaline delights in the fact that the said Roman temple was Apollo's, as well
as Concord's, she having named my car Apollo, and the Sun God being her
favourite mythological deity at the moment. Apropos of mythology, by the way,
she was rather amusing this morning on the subject of Icarus, who, she
contends, was the pioneer of sporting travel. If he didn't have "tire trouble," said
she, he had the nearest equivalent when his wax wings melted.

I should have enjoyed playing cicerone in Winchester, knowing and loving
the place as I do, if it hadn't been for Dick Burden's air of thinking such
knowledge as mine quite the musty-fusty luggage of the old fogy. There's no
use pretending it didn't rub me up the wrong way!

Yesterday after arriving, Emily clamoured for tea, so we attempted no
further sightseeing, but drove straight to this delightful old hotel, which was
once a nunnery, and has still the nunnery garden, loved by the more enterprising
of cathedral rooks. Or are they the nuns come back in disguise? This, you'll
guess, is Ellaline's idea.

On the way here, however, there was the beautiful City Cross in the High
Street. It would have been a disgrace not to stop for a look at it, even though we
could return; and Ellaline was most enthusiastic. She doesn't know much about
these things (how could she)? but she feels by instinct the beauty of all that is
really fine; whereas Mrs. Senter, though maybe better instructed, is more
blasée. Indeed, though she admires the right things, she is essentially the
modern woman, whose interest is all in the present and future. I can't imagine
her reading history for the sheer joy of it, as the child would and evidently has.
Mrs. Senter would prefer a French novel; but it would have to be well written.
She would accept no trash. She has an elastic mind, I must say, and appeared
satisfactorily shocked when I told her how the Cross would have been chopped
up by Paving Commissioners in the eighteenth century if the people hadn't
howled for its salvation.

The same sort of fellows did dump Ælfred and his queen out of their
comfortable stone coffins, you know, to use the stone. Brutes! What was St.
Swithin thinking of to let them do it? A mercy it didn't occur to some
commission to take down Stonehenge. They could have made a lot of streets
with that.

In the Market Place, too, there was the ancient Fair of Winchester to think
of, the fair that had no rival except Beaucaire; and I had been telling them all,
on the way into the town, how the woods round the city used to swarm with
robbers, hoping to plunder the rich merchants from far countries. Altogether, I
fancy even Dick was somewhat impressed by the ancient as well as modern
importance of Winchester by the time we drove to the hotel.

By and by, when we had our rooms and were washed and refreshed, we
drank tea in the garden, where old-fashioned flowers were sweet; plenty of
roses, stocks, and pansies. (I had an old Scottish nurse when I was a foot or two
high, and I've never forgotten what she said about pansies. "They have aye the
face of a smacked cat!" It's true, isn't it? A cat glares and puts its ears back when
it's smacked. Not that I ever smacked one to see.)

Afterward, I was not of a mind to propose anything. I thought each had
better follow his or her inclination for what was left of the day; and mine was to
stroll out and review old memories. I should have liked to take Ellaline, but
fancied she might prefer society nearer her own age. However, I came across
her in the High Street, alone, gazing fascinated at the window of an antique
shop. There are some attractive ones in Winchester.

I wasn't sure if she weren't waiting for Dick, who might have strolled away
from her for a minute, so I would have passed on if she hadn't turned.

"Did you ever see anything so beautiful?" she asked me.

I had, but I didn't say so. I liked her to like everything in my Winchester, so I
inquired what she admired most in the shop window. She hardly knew. But
there was some wonderful old jewellery.

The girl was right. The antique jewellery was particularly good. There were
some admirable necklaces and rings, with fine stones.

"What's your birth month?" I asked, on a sudden thought.

"July," said she.

"What—this very month? I hope the birthday hasn't passed."

"No-o, not yet," she answered reluctantly. She saw by now what was in the
wind, and didn't want to seem greedy.

I persisted. "Tell me when."

"The twenty-fifth. But you are not to."

"Not to—what?"

"You know."

"Yes, I will. It's a guardian's duty to his ward, and in this case a pleasure."

"I'd much rather you didn't, really." And she looked as grave as a statue of
Justice. "Some day you'll know why."

I waived the subject at this point, for I felt obstinate, and wanted to give her
a present. There was, and is, no doubt in my mind that her reason is a schoolgirl
reason. Madame de Maluet has probably brought her up to believe it is not
comme il faut for a jeune fille to accept a present from a monsieur. Still, her
voice and expression were so serious, even worried, that I'm wondering if it
could be anything else. Anyhow, I have bought the present, and intend to give it
her on the 25th. It is a quaint old marquise ring, with a cabuchon ruby
surrounded by very good diamonds. I think she will like it, and I don't see why
she shouldn't have it—from me. I feel as if I would like to make up to her for
the injustice I've been doing her in my mind all these years since she was a little
child, left to me—poor, lonely baby. Only I don't quite know how to make up. I
don't even dare to confess myself, and say I am sorry I never seemed to take
any interest in her as she grew up. She must have wondered why I never asked
to have her picture sent me, or wanted her to write—or wrote; and she must
have felt the cold neglect of the only person (except an old French lady, her
godmother) who had any rights over her. Beast that I was! And I can't explain
why I was a beast. No doubt she adores the legend (it can't be a memory) of her
mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the truth,
though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man one or two
things, I suppose.

I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.

This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of Winchester,
and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till nearly two o'clock.

The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me; the
"Piazza"; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral Close with
its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide cathedral glories from
common eyes; its mellow Queen Anne and Georgian houses which group round
in a pleasant, self-satisfied way, as if they alone were worthy of standing-room
in that sacred precinct.

To me, there's no cathedral in England that means as much of the past as
Winchester. You know how, in the nave, you see so plainly the transition from
one architectural period to another? And then, there are those splendid Mortuary
Chests. Think of old Kynegils, and the other Saxon kings lying inside, little
heaps of haunted dust.

I was silly enough to be immensely pleased that the child picked out those
Mortuary Chests in their high resting place, and the gorgeous alleged tomb of
William Rufus, as the most unforgettable among the smaller interests of
Winchester Cathedral, for they are the same with me; and it's human to like our
tastes shared by (a few) others. She was so enchanted to hear how William the
Red was brought by a carter to be buried in Winchester, and about the great
turquoise and the broken shaft of wood found in the tomb, that I hadn't the heart
to tell her it probably wasn't his burial place, but that of Henri de Blois.

Of course she liked Bloody Mary's faldstool—the one Mary sat in for her
marriage with Philip of Spain; and the MSS. signed by Ælfred the Great as a
child, with his father.

Women are caught by the personal element, I think, more than we are. And
so interested was she in Jane Austen's memorial tablet, that she wouldn't be
satisfied without going to see the house where Jane died. There were so many
other things to see, that Emily and Mrs. Senter would have left that out, but I
wanted the girl to have her way.

Poor little, sweet-hearted Jane! She was only forty-one when she finished
with this world—a year older than I. But doubtless that was almost old for a
woman of her day, when girls married at sixteen, and took to middle-aged caps
at twenty-five. Now, I notice, half the mothers look younger than their
daughters—younger than any daughter would dare to look after she was "out."

A good many interesting persons seem to have died in Winchester, if they
weren't clever enough to be born in the town. Earl Godwin set an early example
in that respect. Died, eating with Edward the Confessor—probably too much, as
his death was caused by apoplexy, and might not have happened if Edward
hadn't been too polite to advise him not to stuff.

Of course, the cathedral is the great jewel; but for me the old city is an
ancient, kingly crown set full of jewels. There's the West Gate, for instance. You
know how we said it alone would be worth walking many miles to see. And the
old castle. I'm not sure that isn't one of the best sights of all. I took the party
there after luncheon, and the same delightful fellow showed us round. He hadn't
changed since our time, unless he is more mellow.

He was quite angry to-day with a German-American woman—the type, as
Ellaline murmured to me, that alone is capable of a plaid blouse. The lady

inquired nasally of our old friend, "Is this hall mod-ern; what you call mod-
ern?"

We were at the moment gazing up at King Arthur's Round Table, which
Henry VIII. hung on the wall to save it further vicissitudes, after Henry VII. had
it daubed with colours and Tudor roses, to furnish forth some silly feast.

The dear old chap raised his eyebrows at the question, and glanced round as
if apologizing to each massive pillar in turn. Well, he said, he would hardly call
the hall modern, as it had been built by William the Conqueror, but perhaps the
lady might be used to older things at home. With that, he turned on an indignant
heel, and led us out to the courtyard where wretched Edward II.'s brother, the
Duke of Kent, was executed. He has the same old trick of being "sorry to say"
whenever he has anything tragic or gruesome to relate, passing lightly over
details of oubliettes, and skeletons found without their heads—as so many were
on grim St. Giles's Hill.

Of course we went and had a look at St. Cross and Henri de Blois's old
hospital almshouse. We would have stopped there yesterday, if Emily hadn't so
ardently desired tea. But, if I'd thought to tell her about the Dole of bread and
beer, she might have been persuaded, though my description of the exquisite
windows in the courtyard, and the quaint houses of the black and white
brethren, left her cold. We all had some of the Dole to-day at the portal; and
Mrs. Senter took it as a compliment that each one was given so little. Tourists
get tiny bits, you know, and beggars big ones; so she thought it would have
been a sign that they disparaged the ladies' hats and frocks if they had been
more generous. It would be difficult to disapprove of hers. She understands the
art of dress to perfection.

A pity we couldn't have been here earlier in the year, isn't it? For among the
nicest new things in old Winchester are the Winchester schoolboys. How they
spurn the ordinary tourist they meet in the street, and how scornfully polite they
are to any unfortunate straying beast who asks them a question, making him
feel meaner than any worm! A foreigner must long to ask the consequential
youths to "kindly excuse him while he continues to breathe"; for few strangers
can sympathize with the contempt we English have, while still in callow youth,
for everyone we don't know. But, let a newcomer blossom into an acquaintance,
or mention a relative at Eton, and all is changed. The Winchester boys turn into
the most delightful chaps in the world.

I dare say I shall think Dick Burden a delightful chap when I know him
better. At present, it's all I can do to put up with him for the sake of his aunt.
And the fellow has such an ostentatiously frank way of looking one straight in
the eyes, that I'm hanged if I'd trust him to go as straight.

Talking of going straight, to-morrow morning early we leave for Salisbury,
and when we feel like moving shall pass on toward the New Forest.

Ever yours,

Pen.

XI

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

White Hart Hotel, Salisbury,
July 24th

Dearest: I am particularly homesick for you to-night, because it's my
birthday eve. Twenty-one to-morrow, but passing for nineteen. And isn't it
annoying, I went and blurted out in Winchester two days ago that I had a
birthday hanging over me. I'm awfully afraid Sir Lionel thinks himself bound to
give me a present. If he does, and I can't get out of taking it, I shall have to pass
it on to Ellaline, of course, when I'm passing everything else on—including
myself.

I know you're thinking of me to-night, as you walk after dinner under the
glorious chestnut trees you describe in the park at Champel-les-Bains. I wish
you had an astral body! It wouldn't take up any room, or have to pay railway
fares, or wait for invitations to visit, and it could easily be one of the party in Sir
Lionel's car. So nice to have it sitting between me and Dick Burden!

I wanted you dreadfully at Winchester, as I wrote you in the note I scribbled
after seeing the cathedral. I wish I'd told you more about Winchester then, for
now it's too late. All Stonehenge is lying on top of my Winchester impressions,
and it will take them a little time to squeeze from underneath. They will come
out, though, I know, none the worse for wear. And how I shall talk this trip over
with you, when we're together again, and I know the end that's hiding behind
the motor-veil of the future!

Mother, dear, when I shut my eyes to-night, I see Barrows, billowing
prehistorically along the horizon, and I see Stonehenge, black against a red
sunset, and silver in the moonlight. Also, I have begun to think architecturally, I
find, through seeing so much architecture, and trying to talk about it
intelligently, as Mrs. Senter contrives to do. (I believe she fags it up at night,
with a wet towel over her hair wavers!)

Do you know what it is to think architecturally? Well, for me (not apropos of
Mrs. S. at all), a made-up woman is "well restored," or "repaired." An
intellectual-looking man, with a fine head, has Norman bumps and Gothic ears.

A puppy with big feet is an early Perp., with Norman foundations, and so on. It
gives a new interest to life and the creatures we meet. Emily is late Georgian,
with Victorian elevations.

I hated leaving Winchester; but oh, those Barrows we saw, when we were
coming away! They made most antique things seem as new as a china cup with
"For a Good Girl" outlined on it in gold letters. So many stupendous events
have scattered themselves along this road of ours, as the centuries rolled, that it
makes the brain reel, trying to gather them up, and sort them into some kind of
sequence. Often I wish I could sit and admire calmly, as Mrs. Senter can, and
not get boiling with excitement over the past. But one is so uncomfortably
intelligent, one can't stop thinking, thinking every minute. Every tiny thing I see
has its little "thought sting," ready like a mosquito; and a fancy that has lately
stabbed me is the striking resemblance between English scenery, or its features,
and English character. The best bits in both are shy of showing themselves, and
never flaunt. They are so reserved that to find them out you must search. All the
loveliest nooks in English country and in English souls are hidden from
strangers. Why, the very cottages try to hide under veils of clematis and roses,
as the cottage children hide their thoughts behind long eyelashes.

We came to Salisbury by way of Romsey, and got out to see the splendid old
church which almost ranks with Winchester Cathedral as a monument of
England. And Romsey Abbey, too, very beautiful, even thrilling; still more
ancient Hursley, with its earthworks, about which, for once, Sir Lionel and Dick
Burden were congenial. Of course, men who have been soldiers like Sir Lionel,
or tried to be soldiers and couldn't, like Dick, must know something about the
formation of such things; but anyone may be interested—except a Mrs. Norton.

You and I had no motoring when we were travellers, so we didn't see Europe
as I am seeing England; still, I don't believe any other country has this
individuality of vast, billowing downs. As you bowl smoothly from one to
another, over perfect roads, you have a series of surprises, new beauties opening
suddenly to your eyes. It is exciting, yet soothing; and that mingling of
emotions is part of the joy of the car. For motorists, the downs of Hampshire
and Wiltshire are like a goddess's beautiful breasts; and Nature is a goddess,
isn't she?—the greatest of all, combining all their best qualities.

This White Hart is a nice hotel, but I rather resent the foreign waiters, as out
of the picture, in such an essentially old-fashioned, English place. I like the
animal names of the hotels in England. Already we have seen a lot; and they

form into a quaint, colourful, Noah's Ark and heraldic procession across the
country. The Black Bull; The Golden Unicorn; The Blue Boar; The Red Lion;
The Piebald Horse; The Green Dragon; The White Hart. I am still longing for a
Purple Bear.

The first thing we did after getting settled (which I always like, as I haven't
enough luggage to make much bother) was to walk out and see the town. I kept
Dick with me, not because I wanted him, you may be sure, but because I can
see he is a blot on the 'scutcheon for Sir Lionel, and I feel so guilty, having
forced him into the party, that I try to attract the Blot to myself. If I mention the
Blot in future, you'll know what it is. When I'm very desperate, I may just fling
a drop of ink on the paper to relieve my feelings, and that will mean the same
thing. The Blot puts on an air of the most exaggerated respect for Sir Lionel.
You'd fancy he was talking to a centenarian. Horrid, pert little pig! (I think pigs
run in their family.) I know he does it on purpose to be nasty, and make Sir
Lionel feel an old stager. Do you remember the pig-baby in "Alice's
Adventures"?

He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.

Not that it need, for Sir Lionel looks about thirty-four. Nobody would give
him forty unless they saw it in books; and he is like a knight of romance. There!
Now you have the opinion I have come to hold of Ellaline's dragon. For me, the
Dragon has turned into a Knight. But, of course, I may be mistaken. Mrs. Senter
says that no girl can ever possibly understand a man, and that a man is really
much more complicated than a woman, though the novelists tell you it's the
other way round.

We started out, all of us, except Emily, who lies down after tea, to walk to
John Halle's Hall, a most interesting banqueting room, which is now a china-
shop, but was built by a rich wool-stapler (such a nice word!) in 1470, as you
can see on the oak carvings. But there was so much to do on the way, that we
saw the Hall, and the old George Inn—where Pepys lay "in a silk bed and had
very good diet"—last of all.

The antique furniture shops were simply enthralling, and I wanted nearly
everything I saw. Travelling is good for the mind, but it develops one or two of
the worst passions, such as Greed of Possession. We went into several shops,
and I could have purred with joy when Sir Lionel asked me to help him choose

several things for Graylees, which he would have sent on there, direct. He
seemed to care more for my advice than for Mrs. Senter's, and I don't think she
quite liked that, for she really knows a good deal about old English furniture,
whereas I know nothing—only a little about French and Italian things.

The streets of Salisbury, with their mediæval houses, look exactly as if they
had been originally planned to give the most delightful effects possible when
their pictures were taken. Every corner is a gem; and Sir Lionel told us that the
old rectangular part of the town was planned more or less at one time. Of
course, the people who did the planning had plenty of time to think it all over,
before moving down from Old Sarum, which was so high and bleak they
couldn't hear the priest saying mass in the cathedral, because of the wind.
Fancy! Salisbury used to be called the "Venice of England"; but I must say, if
one can judge now, the simile was far-fetched.

Lots of martyrs were burnt in Salisbury, it seems, when that sort of thing was
in fashion, so no wonder they have to keep Bloody Queen Mary's chair in
Winchester instead of Salisbury, where they've a right to feel a grudge against
the wretched little, bilious bigot of a lovesick woman. Sir Lionel has several
well-known martyrs on his family tree, Mrs. Norton says; and she is as proud of
them as most people are of royal bar-sinisters. I never thought martyrs
particularly interesting myself, though perhaps that's an uneasy jealousy, as
we've none in our family that I know of—only a witch or so on father's side.
Poor dears, what a pity they couldn't have waited till now to be born, when,
instead of burning or drowning them, people would have paid them to tell nice
things about the past and predict lovers for the future!

Witches were fascinating; but many martyrs probably marted out of sheer
obstinacy, don't you think? Of course, it was different when they executed you
without giving you a chance to recant, as they did with political prisoners; and
do you know, they cut off poor witty Buckingham's head in Salisbury market-
place? "So much for Buckingham!" Where it came off, there's an inn, now,
called the Saracen's Head. I wonder if it was chopped off in the neighbourhood,
too, or if it's only a pleasant fancy, to cover up the Buckingham stain in the
yard? Anyhow, they tell you there that in 1838 Buckingham's skeleton was dug
up under the kitchen of what used to be the Blue Boar Inn. But even that isn't as
ghastly a tale as another one of Salisbury: how one of Jack Cade's "quarters"
was sent to the town when he'd been executed. I should have liked to know if
it's still to be seen, but I thought it would be hardly nice to ask.

We saved the cathedral for the last, and just as we were in the midst of sight-
seeing there, it was time for service, so we sat down and listened to music
which seemed to fall from heaven. There's nothing more glorious than music in
a cathedral, is there? Usually it makes me feel good; but this time it made me
feel so sinful, on account of Ellaline, and Sir Lionel and Dick, that I almost
cried. Do you think, dear, that if I were in a novel they would have me for a
heroine or a wicked adventuress? I hae me doots; but my one hope is, that you
can't be an adventuress if you really mean well at heart, and are under twenty-
two.

Maybe I'd expected too much of Salisbury Cathedral, because I'd always
heard more about it than others in England, but it wasn't quite so glorious to me
as Winchester. It's far more harmonious, because it was planned all at one time,
like the town, and there's singularly little foreign influence to be traced in the
architecture, which makes it different from most others, and extraordinarily
interesting in its way. It's very, very old, too, but it is so white and clean that it
looks new. And one great beauty it has: its whiteness seems always flooded
with moonlight, even when sunshine is streaming over the noble pillars and
lovely tombs.

This morning I went back, with Emily, to service, and wandered from chapel
to chapel, till nearly luncheon time. Then Sir Lionel came, and took me up
strange, hidden, winding stairs, to the den of the librarian. It was like stealing
into an enchanted castle, where all save the librarian slept, and had slept for
centuries. When it was time to go away, I was afraid that Sir Lionel might have
forgotten the magic spell which would open the door and let us escape. There
were interesting things there, but we weren't allowed to look at the ones we
wanted to see most, till we were too tired to enjoy them, after seeing the ones
we didn't want to see at all. But you know, in another enchanted castle, that of
the Sleeping Beauty, there was only one lovely princess, and goodness knows
how many snorey bores.

At three, we started to motor out to Stonehenge; and Sir Lionel chose to be
late, because he wanted to be there at sunset, which he knew—from memory—
to be the most thrilling picture for us to carry away in our heads.

Nobody ever told me what an imposing sight Old Sarum remains, to this
day, so I was surprised and impressed by the giant conical knoll standing up out
of the plain and its own intrenchments. I'd just been reading about it in the
guide-book, how important it used to be to England, when it was still a city, and

how it was a fortress of the Celts when the Romans came and snatched it from
them; but I had no idea of its appearance. I would have liked to go with Sir
Lionel to walk round the intrenchments, but he asked only Dick. However, Mrs.
Senter volunteered to go, at the last moment, just as they were starting, and
Emily and I were left, flotsam and jetsam, in the car, to wait till they came back.

I wasn't bored, however, because Emily read a religious novel by Marie
Corelli, and didn't worry to talk. So I could sit in peace, seeing with my mind's
eye the pageant of William the Conqueror reviewing his troops in the plain over
which Old Sarum gloomily towers. Such a lurid plain it is, this month of
poppies, red as if its arid slopes were stained with the blood of ghostly armies
slain in battle.

But it was going back further into history to come to Amesbury. You know,
dear, Queen Guinevere's Amesbury, where she repented in the nunnery she'd
founded, and the little novice sang to her "Too late! Too late!" When she was
buried, King Arthur had "a hundred torches ever burning about the corpse of the
queen." Can't you see the beautiful picture? And when her nunnery was gone in
980, another queen, far, far more wicked than Guinevere, built on the same spot
a convent to expiate the murder of her stepson at Corfe Castle. We are going to
Corfe, by and by, so I shall send my thoughts back to Amesbury from there, in
spite of the fact that Elfreda's nuns became so naughty they had to be banished.
Nor shall I forget a lover who loved at Amesbury—Sir George Rodney, who
adored the fascinating Countess of Hertford so desperately, that after her
marriage he composed some verses in her honour, and fell then upon his sword.
Why don't men do such things for us nowadays? Were the "dear, dead women"
so much more desirable than we?

Wasn't Amesbury a beautiful "leading up" to Stonehenge? It's quite near, you
know. It doesn't seem as if anything ought to be near, but a good many things
are—such as farms. Yet they don't spoil it. You never even think of them, or of
anything except Stonehenge itself, once you have seen the first great, dark
finger of stone, pointing mysteriously skyward out of the vast plain.

That is the way Stonehenge breaks on you, suddenly, startlingly, like a cry in
the night.

I was very glad we had the luck to arrive alone, for not long after we'd
entered the charmed, magic circle of the giant plinths, a procession of other
motor-cars poured up to the gates. Droves of chauffeurs, and bevies of pretty

ladies in motor hats swarmed like living anachronisms among the monuments
of the past. Of course, we didn't seem to ourselves to be anachronisms, because
what is horrid in other people is always quite different and excusable, or even
piquant, in oneself; and I hastily argued that our motor, Apollo, the Sun God,
was really appropriate in this place of fire worship. Even the Druids couldn't
have objected to him, although they would probably have sacrificed all of us in
a bunch, unless we could have hastily proved that we were a new kind of god
and goddess, driving chariots of fire. (Anyhow, motor-cars are making history
just as much as the Druids did, so they ought to be welcome anywhere, in any
scene, and they seem to have more right to be at Stonehenge than patronizing
little Pepys.)

You remember Rolde, in Holland, don't you, with its miniature Stonehenge?
Well, it might have been made for Druids' children to play dolls with, compared
to this.

If the Phœnicians raised Stonehenge in worship of their fiery god, they had
good reason to flatter themselves that it would attract his attention. And I do
think it was sensible to choose the sun for a god. Next to our own true religion,
that seems the most comforting. There was your deity, in full sight, looking
after one side or the other of his world, all through the twenty-four hours.

I never felt more awe-stricken than I did passing under the shadow of those
great sentinel plinths, guarding their sunken altar, hiding their own impenetrable
mysteries. The winds seemed to blow more chill, and to whisper strangely, as if
trying to tell secrets we could never understand. I love the legend of the Friar's
Heel, but, after all, it's only a mediæval legend, and it's more interesting to think
that, from the middle of the sacrificial altar, the priest could see the sun rise (at
the summer solstice) just above that stupendous stone. I stood there, imagining
a white-robed Druid looking up, his knife suspended over a fair girl victim,
waiting to strike until his eye should meet the red eye of the sun. Oh, I shall
have bad dreams about Stonehenge, I know! But I shan't mind, if I can dream
about the Duke of Buckingham digging for treasure there at midnight. And if I
were like Du Maurier's dear Peter Ibbetson, I could "dream back," and see at
what far distance the builders of Stonehenge got their mysterious syenite, and
that one black sandstone so different from the rest. I could dream who were the
builders; whether Phœnicians, or mourning Britons of Arthur's day—as
Geoffrey of Monmouth tells.

Sir Lionel and I like to think it was the Britons, for that gives him a family
feeling for the place, since he read out of a book Warton's sonnet:

"Thou noblest monument of Albion's Isle,
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giants' hands, the mighty pile
To entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile,
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught 'mid the massy maze their mystic lore."

Next time, I want to see Stonehenge from an airship, or, at a pinch, a
balloon, because I can judge better of the original form, the two circles and the
two ellipses, which the handsomest policeman I ever saw out of a Christmas
Annual explained to me, pacing the rough grass. He lives at Stonehenge all day,
with a dog, and they are both guardians. I asked him if he had not beautiful
thoughts, but he said, not in winter, Miss, it was too cold to think then, except
about hot soup. Stonehenge is very becoming to this young man, especially at
sunset. And, dearest, you can hardly imagine the glory of those piled stones as
you look back at them, going slowly, slowly away, and seeing them purple-
black against a crimson streak of sunset like a smoking torch.

"The policeman explained to me"

We got lost, trying to find the river road, going home, and had great fun,
straying into meadows, and onto ploughed ground, which poor Apollo resented.
The way was beautiful, past some lovely old houses and exquisite cottages; and
the Avon was idyllic in its pretty windings. But the villages of Wiltshire I don't
find as poetical as those in Surrey and Sussex or Hampshire.

You would never guess what I'm going to do to-morrow morning? I'm not
sure you'd let me, if you knew. But a ward doesn't need a chaperon with a
guardian. He plays both parts. I'm to get up early—before the sun is awake—
and Sir Lionel is to motor me out to Stonehenge, so that I can see it by sunrise
as well as sunset. It is a beautiful idea, and the handsome policeman has
promised to be there and let us in.

Seeing a sunrise is like a glorified Private View, I think. I expect to feel as
Louis of Bavaria must have felt when he had a Wagner opera all to himself.

Now I am going down to post this, so that it can leave for London by the last
train, and start for Switzerland in the morning—of my birthday. I shall count the
sunrise a birthday present from heaven if it's fine; and if it isn't I shall know,
what I suspect already, that I don't deserve one.

Your loving Changeling,

Audrie.

XII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Compton Arms, Stony Cross, New
Forest,
July 25th

Little Star-Mother: It's very late to-night, or early to-morrow, but I did
want to write you on my birthday; and besides, I am in a hurry to tell you about
the fairylike experience I have had. I am in fairyland even here and now; but I
have been to the heart of it. I shall never forget.

Oh, but first—the sunrise, my birthday sunrise. It was wonderful, and made
me think how much time I have wasted, hardly ever accepting its invitations. I
believe I will turn over a new leaf. I shall get up very, very early every day, and
go to bed very, very late, so as to squeeze all the juice out of the orange, and
wring every minute out of my youth. I feel so alive, I don't want to lose the
"morning glory." When I'm old I shall do differently. I'll go to bed directly after
dinner and sleep late, so that age may be short, following a long youth. Isn't that
a good plan to make on my twenty-first birthday?

Sir Lionel hadn't forgotten, and wished me many happy returns of the day;
but he didn't give me a present, so I hoped he had changed his mind. We got
back to Salisbury about the time Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Senter were having their
breakfasts in bed (they hadn't heard of our expedition, and the word had gone
out that we weren't to start for the New Forest till after luncheon, as it would be
a short run), and we had nearly finished our tea, toast, and eggs, when Dick
strolled into the coffee-room. He seemed decidedly intrigue at sight of us
together at a little table, talking cozily; and that detective look came into his
eyes which cats have when a mouse occurs to them. He laughed merrily,
though, and chaffed us on making "secret plans." Dick hasn't a very nice laugh.
It's too explosive and loud. (Don't you think other animals must consider the
laughter of humans an odd noise, without rhyme or reason?)

Also Dick has a nasty way of saying "thank you" to a waiter; with the rising
inflection, you know, which is nicely calculated to make the servant feel
himself the last of God's creatures.

By two o'clock we had said good-bye to Salisbury ("good-bye" for me, "au
revoir" for the others, perhaps), and were kinematographing in and out of
charming scenery, lovelier perhaps than any we'd seen yet. Under green gloom
of forests, where it seemed a prisoned dryad might be napping in each tree, and
where only a faun could have been a suitable chauffeur; past heatherland, just
lit to rosy fire by the sun's blaze; through billowy country where grain was gold
and silver, meadows were "flawed emeralds set in copper," and here and there a
huge dark blot meant a prehistoric barrow.

The car played us a trick for the first time, and Young Nick, looking more
like Buddha than ever, got down to have a heart-to-heart talk with the motor. I
think Apollo had swallowed a crumb, or something, for he coughed and
wheezed, and wouldn't move except with gasps, until he had been patted under
the bonnet, and tickled with all sorts of funny instruments, such as a giant's
dentist might use. It was fun, though, for us irresponsible ones, while Sir Lionel
and Nick tried different things to get the crumb out of Apollo's throat. Other
motorists flew by scornfully, like the Priest and the Levite, or slowed up to ask
if they could help, and looked with some interest at Mrs. Senter and me, sitting
there like mantelpiece ornaments. I didn't even want to slaughter them for the
dust they made, now that I'm a real motorist myself, for "dog cannot eat dog";
and even cyclists seemed like our poor relations.

One elderly woman bumped by, sitting in a kind of dreadful bath chair
fastened in front of a motor bicycle, spattering noise and petrol. You couldn't
see her features under her expression, which was agonized. The young man
who propelled her was smirking conceitedly, as if to say, "What a kind chap I
am, giving my maiden aunt a good time!"

Presently a small car came limping along that had "We Know It" printed in
large, rough letters on a card, tied to a broken wheel. Wasn't that a good idea,
when they'd got nervous prostration having everybody tell them?

Cows paused, gazed at us, and sneered; but at last Apollo's crumb was
extracted; Young Nick brushed the dust off his sleeves by rubbing his arms
together, the way flies clean their antennæ, and we were ready to go on. "It's a
wise car that knows its own chauffeur," said Mrs. Senter.

Just because this happened, and because a tire presently burst in sheer
sympathy, we travelled in the beginning of sunset, which was divine. The scene
swam in rose-coloured light, so pink it seemed as if you could bottle it, and it

would still be pink. The tree trunks were cased in ruddy gold, like the gold leaf
wrapped round royal mummies. Making up for lost time, the white road smoked
beneath our tires, and we were soon in the New Forest—the old, old New
Forest, perfumed like the fore-court of heaven.

We came to this pretty little hotel, in the midst of heathery spaces like a
cutting in the aromatic forest. I like my room, but I didn't want to stop in it and
begin dressing for dinner. Looking out of my window, I saw a little white moon,
curved like a baby's arm, cushioned among banks of sky azaleas, so I felt I must
go out and drink the sunset. I had left too much of that rose-red wine in the
bottom of the silver goblet. I must have the last drop!

So I ran downstairs; and I warn you, now comes the experience which I
liked so much, but of which you won't approve.

The landlord stood in the hall, and I asked him if there were anything
wonderful I could go and see in a few minutes. He smiled, and said it wouldn't
take me very long to find Rufus's Stone, but he would not advise me to do it. I
replied that I wouldn't ask him to advise, if he'd point out the road, and probably
I should only venture a little way. He was a nice man, so he went out in front of
the hotel to point, and lent me a puppy as a companion.

The puppy was no respecter of persons. All he cared for was a walk, so he
kindly consented to take me with him, gambolling ahead as if he knew where I
wanted to go. That tempted me on, and the way wasn't hard to find, for the
puppy or for me. We played into each other's paws, and when I was lost he
found me, or vice versa. The first thing I knew, there was the Stone. Nobody
could mistake it, even from a distance; and going down to it from the top of a
hill, it was still light enough to read the inscription.

This was my first entrance into the heart of fairyland.

William Rufus couldn't have chosen a more ideal spot to die in, if he'd
picked it out himself from a list of a hundred others; and the evening silence
under the great, gray beeches seemed as if it had lasted a thousand years,
always the same, old and wise as Mother Earth. Then, suddenly, it was broken
by the rustle and stir of a cock pheasant, which appeared from somewhere as if
by magic, and stood for an instant all kingly, his breast blazing with jewelled
orders in the sunset. Me he regarded with the haughty defiance of a Norman
prince, and screamed with rage at the puppy, all his theories upset, because he

had been so positive the world was entirely his. So it was, if he'd only stopped
to let me assure him that he owned all the best things in it; but he whirred and
soared; and thus I realized instantly that he was a fairy in disguise. How stupid
of me not to have guessed while he was there!

"William Rufus couldn't have chosen a more ideal spot to die in"

You know, the New Forest is haunted with fairies, good and bad. There are
the "malfays" that came because of William the Conqueror's cruelty in driving
away the peasants to make the great deer-forest for his hunting; and there are
the good fays that help the cottage housewives, and the "tricksies" that frighten
the wild ponies and pinch the cattle. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that
that pheasant was Puck himself, for no doubt Puck has a hunting-lodge
somewhere in the New Forest.

I meant to sit by the Stone only five minutes, but the fairies put a spell upon
my five minutes, and the first thing I knew, the sun was gone. So was the
puppy, which was even more serious, for I was handicapped by not knowing his
name, and no self-respecting canine thing would respond to shouts of "dog," or
"here, pup, pup, pup!"

However, I tried both, running about to look for him, here and there, among
the enchanted bracken that rustled with elf-life, while the shadows came alive,
and the rosy light died.

"Puppy, puppy!" I implored, helplessly drifting; and then, to my surprise—
can you "find" that you've lost a thing? Well, I don't know how else to express
it. I found that I'd lost the path. If I'd only been able to remember whether the
hotel were north or south, or east or west of Rufus's Stone, maybe it would have
been all right; but does any normal girl ever give thought to points of the
compass? I yelled a little more, hoping the puppy would be gentleman enough
to come back to a lady in distress, and luckily Sir Lionel heard my howls. He'd
come out to look for me, on learning from the landlord that I'd gone to Rufus's
Stone, with the puppy, and he had met it—not the stone, but the puppy—
looking sneaky and ashamed. Just then, my voice gave him an idea of my
whereabouts, otherwise we should probably have missed; and if we had, I don't
know what I should have done, so you mustn't scold at what happened next.
Remember the New Forest is not a French pension full of old maids, but
fairyland—fairyland.

He was in evening dress, without a hat, and I was pleased to see him,
because I was beginning to be the tiniest bit afraid; and he did look so nice; and
I was so glad he wasn't Dick Burden. But don't worry! I didn't tell him that.

It seems he came downstairs rather early for dinner, and the landlord
mentioned that I'd gone out, so he strolled along, thinking to meet me after
walking a few yards. When he didn't, he thought he'd better keep on, because it
was too late for me to be out of doors alone.

I was apologetic, and afraid it must be long past dinner-time; but he said I
needn't mind that, as he had left word for the others not to wait after eight-
fifteen.

Then in a few minutes I began to realize that we might have an adventure,
because when I called, and Sir Lionel hurried on in quest of me, he'd forgotten
to notice the landmarks. It did seem ridiculous to have trouble in finding the
way, so short a distance from the hotel; but you can't conceive how misleading
it is in the New Forest. It's like a part of the enchantment; and if we had been in
the maze of the Minotaur, without Ariadne's clue, we couldn't have been more
bewildered than we soon found ourselves, tangled in the veil of twilight.

"I wonder if birds will cover us with leaves?" I said, laughing, when we had
made up our minds that we were lost. But it seemed more likely that, if any
creature paid us this thoughtful attention, it would be bats. As night fell in the
Forest, they unhooked themselves from their mysterious trapezes, and whirred
past our faces with a soft flap, flap of velvet wings. I don't know what I should
have done if one had made a halfway-house of my hair!

"Are you hungry?" Sir Lionel wanted to know.

I said that I was, but wouldn't harrow him up by explaining that I was
ravenous.

He didn't appear even to want to scold, though it would have been easy to
hint politely that it would be my own fault if we didn't get any dinner that night
—or, perhaps, breakfast next morning. Instead of being cross with me, he
blamed himself for being stupid enough to lose me. I exonerated him, and we
were extremely nice to each other; but as we walked on and on, round and
round, seeing no lights anywhere, or hearing anything except that wonderful
sound of a great silence, I began to grow tired. I didn't mean, though, that he
should see it. I had enough to be ashamed of, without that, but he knew by
instinct, and took my hand to draw it through his arm, telling me to lean as
heavily as I liked. I held back at first, saying it wasn't necessary; and insisting,
as I pulled away, his hand closed down on mine tightly. It was only for a second
or two, because I gave up at once, and let him lay my hand on his arm as he
wished. But, do you know, mother, I think I ought to tell you it felt quite
differently from any other hand that ever touched mine.

Of course I haven't even shaken hands with many men since I've been grown
up, though if you'd let me be a singer I shouldn't have thought any more about it
than if I were President of the United States. One reads in novels of "the
electricity in a touch," and all that; but there it generally means that you're
falling in love. And I can't possibly be falling in love with Ellaline's Dragon,
can I? I don't suppose that can be. It would be too stupid, and forward, and
altogether unspeakable. But really, I do feel differently about him from any way
I ever felt before toward anybody. I have always said that I'd rather be alone
with myself than with anyone else except you, for any length of time, because
I'm such good chums with myself, and enjoy thinking my own thoughts. But I
do like being with Sir Lionel. I feel excited and eager at the thought of being
with him. And his fingers on mine—and my hand on his arm—and the touch of
his sleeve—and a faint little, almost imperceptible scent of Egyptian cigarettes

mixing with the woodsy smell of the night—oh, I don't know how to describe it
to myself. So now you know as much as I do. But wouldn't it be dreadful if I
should go and fall in love with Sir Lionel Pendragon of all other men in the
world? In a few more weeks I shall be slipping out of his life forever; and not
only that, but I shall be leaving a very evil memory behind. He will despise me.
I shall have proved myself exactly the sort of person he abominates.

I didn't think all that, however, as he put my hand on his arm. I just felt the
thrill of it; but instead of worrying, I was happy, and didn't care how tired and
hungry I was, or whether we ever got anywhere or not. As for him, he was too
polite to let me know he was bored, and all the time we were looking for the
hotel the night was so beautiful, so wonderful, that we couldn't help talking of
exquisite things, telling each other thoughts neither of us would have spoken
aloud in daylight. It was quite dark now, except for a kind of rosy quivering of
light along the horizon, and the stars that had come out like a bright army of
fairies, with millions of scintillating spears.

I knew then, dearest, that he was no dragon, no matter what circumstantial
evidence may have been handed down to Ellaline as a legacy from her dead
mother. That is something to have divined by the magic of the forest, isn't it,
after I've been puzzling so long? There is now not the least doubt in my mind.
So if I should be silly and sentimental enough to fancy myself in love, it can't
do any harm, except to make me a little sorry and sad after I've come home to
you. It won't be anything to be ashamed of, to have cared about a man like Sir
Lionel; because I assure you I shan't behave foolishly, no matter how I may
eventually feel. You can trust your Audrie for that.

It was too dark to tell the time by a watch, but we remarked to each other
that they must have finished dinner long ago; and Sir Lionel hoped this
wouldn't spoil the memory of my birthday for me.

"Oh, no," said I, before I thought, "it will make it better. I shall never, never
forget this."

"Nor I," said he, in a pleasant, quiet tone.

Then he went on to tell me that he had a little birthday remembrance which
all day he'd been wanting to give me. It was a ruby ring, because the ruby was
July's stone, but I needn't wear it unless I liked. He hoped I wouldn't mind his
having disobeyed me when I said I wanted nothing, because he wished very

much to give it to me. And having lived alone, and ordered his own and other
people's affairs for so long, had accustomed him to having his own way. Would
I be kind to him, and accept his present?

I couldn't say no, under those stars and in that enchantment. So I answered
that I would take the ring—knowing all the while I must soon hand it over to
Ellaline.

"Shall I give it to you now?" he asked, "or will you wait till to-morrow?"

I did want to see it, though it was to be only borrowed! "Now," said I. Then
he took a ring from some pocket, and tried to slip it over a finger of the hand on
his arm.

"Oh, but that's the engaged finger," I burst out.

Silly of me! I might have let him put it on, and changed it afterward.

"I beg your pardon," said he, almost as if he were startled. "That will be a
younger man's privilege some day, and then you will be taken away from me."

"You will be glad to get rid of me, I should think," I hurried to say, stretching
out my other hand, and letting him slip the ring on the third finger.

"Should you think so?" he echoed. "I suppose you have the right to feel that,
after the past. But don't feel it. Don't, child."

That was all, and I didn't answer. I couldn't; for what he had said was for
Ellaline, not for me. Yet it made my heart beat, his voice was so sincere, and
fuller of emotion than I'd ever heard it yet.

Just then, into our darkness a light seemed to flash. We both saw it together.
I thought it might be the hotel, but Sir Lionel said he feared it was more
probably the window of some remote cottage or charcoal-burner's hut.

We walked toward it, and that was what it was: a charcoal-burner's hut. Sir
Lionel must have been disappointed, because he wanted to get me home, but I
wasn't. I was in such a mood that I was not ready for the adventure to come to
an end.

The next bit of the adventure was exactly suited to the New Forest, and we
couldn't have experienced it anywhere else.

The hut was a tiny, wattled shed, and the light we'd seen came through the
low, open doorway. It was the light of a fire and a candle; and there was a
delicious aromatic smell of wood smoke in the air. Sir Lionel explained, as we
walked up to the place, that some of these huts were hundreds of years old,
remnants of the time when debtors and robbers and criminals of all sorts used to
hide in the forest under the protection of the malfays. As he spoke, we almost
stumbled over some obstacle in the dark, and he said that very likely it was the
hearth of a vanished cottage. People had the right to leave the hearth if their
house were torn down, to establish "cottage rights"; and there were a good
many such, still scattered through the forest, even in the gardens of modern
houses; for no one dared take them away.

The charcoal-burner was "at home," and receiving. He was engaged in
cooking eggs and bacon for his supper, and if you could only guess how good
they smelled! Nothing smells as nice as eggs and bacon when you are hungry,
and we were ravenous.

Most things as old as that charcoal-burner are in museums; and his eyes
were so close together it seemed as if they might run into one when he winked.
Also, he was deaf, so we had to roar to him, before he could understand what
had happened. When he did understand, though, he was a thorough trump, and
said we could have his supper if we "would be pleased to eat it." Bread and
cheese would do for him. And we might have tea, if we could take it without
milk.

But there were three eggs, and three strips of bacon, so we insisted that we
must share and share alike, or we would have nothing. I made the tea, in a
battered tin pot which looked like an heirloom, and we all sat at an uncovered
kitchen table together, though our host protested. It was fun; and the old thing
told us weird tales of the forest which made me conscious that I have a spine
and marrow, just as certain wild music does. His name is Purkess; he thinks he
is descended from Purkess, the charcoal-burner who found the body of William
Rufus; and his ancestors, some of whom were smugglers and poachers, have
lived in the forest for a thousand years. He was so old that he could remember
as a child hearing his old grandfather tell of the days of the wicked, illegal
timber-selling in the forest for the building of warships. Just think, grand oaks,
ash and thorn, trees stanch as English hearts, sold for the price of firewood!

I sat at the table, watching the firelight play on my ring, which I hadn't seen
till we got into the hut; and it is beautiful. I shall enjoy having it, though only
for a little while, and shall regard it as a trust for Ellaline.

The charcoal-burner assured us we needn't worry; he would put us on the
way home, and give us landmarks which, after he'd guided us a certain distance,
we couldn't miss even at night.

When we'd finished our eggs and bacon, our tea and chunks of dry bread, Sir
Lionel laid a gold piece on the table. Blind as he was, the old man wasn't too
blind to see that, and he simply beamed.

"Bless you all the days of your life, sir, and your good, pretty lady!" he
cackled.

That's the third time I've been taken for Sir Lionel's wife. The other times I
didn't care, but this time, though I laughed, it was a put on laugh, because of
those dim questionings about myself floating in the background of my mind.

The descendant of poachers knew the forest, as he said, "with his eyes shut."
He limped before us for nearly half a mile, along what he called a "walk"—a
New Forest word—and then abandoned us to our fate, after describing the
profile of each important tree which we must pass, and pointing out a few stars
as guides. Then we bade each other good-bye for ever. He went back to gloat
over his gold piece, and Sir Lionel and I went on together.

Somehow, we fell to talking of our favourite virtues, and without thinking, I
said, "My mother's is gratitude."

"Gratitude," he repeated, as if in surprise, but he didn't seem to notice that I'd
used the present tense. To make him forget my slip, I hurried on to say I thought
mine was courage, in a man, anyhow. What was his, in a woman?

"Truth," he answered, with an instant's hesitation.

Luckily he couldn't see me blush in the dark. But the real Audrie was always
decently truthful, wasn't she? It's only this Ellaline-Audrie that isn't free to be
true.

"Only in women?" I asked, uncomfortably.

"Truth goes without saying in men—the sort of men one knows," said he.

"Don't you think women love the truth as much as men?" I persisted.

"No, I don't," he answered abruptly. Then qualified his "no," as if he ought to
apologize for it. "But I haven't had much experience," he finished, a heavy, dull
sound coming into his voice.

Well, dearest, that's all I have to tell you on this, my birthday night, except
that we found our way back to the hotel safely, arriving about half-past ten, and
only Emily was anxious about us. The other two were inclined to be frivolous;
and Mrs. Senter noticed the new ring, which I had forgotten to take off my
finger. Nothing ever escapes her eyes! I saw them light, and linger, but of
course she didn't refer to the ring, and naturally I didn't.

I hadn't quite decided whether or not I should wear it "for every day," and
had been inclined to think it would be better not, even at the risk of
disappointing the giver. But I made up my mind, when Mrs. Senter looked so
peculiarly at it, that I would brazen the thing out, and so I will.

"I envy you your adventure," she said, in what I felt was a meaning voice,
though Sir Lionel didn't appear to read under the commonplace surface.

I don't care if she does choose to be horrid. I don't see how she can hurt me.
And as for Dick, he has done his worst. He has made me get them both asked
for the tour. I should think that's enough.

We are going to stop at the Compton Arms for two or three days, running
about in the car to see different parts of the forest, and coming "home" at night.
I love that way!

The only thing I don't like in going from one hotel to another, is having all
sorts of queer little birthmarks on my hankies and other things in the wash.
Good-bye, Angel Duck.

Your Grown-up

Daughter.

Only think, I am now of age!

By the way, Sir Lionel, who expected his ward to be a little girl (thoughtless
of him!), said to-night: "You're so old, I can't get used to you."

And I retorted, "You're so young, I can't get used to you."

I hope it didn't sound pert, to answer like that?

XIII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Lulworth Cove,
July 30th

Why aren't you with me, dearest, seeing what I am seeing?

It's all very well for you to write that my letters make a panorama pass
before your eyes, and I'm flattered, but I want you. Although I am enjoying life,
I'm more excited than happy, and I don't sleep well. I dream horrid dreams
about Mrs. Senter and Dick Burden, and about Ellaline, too, but I always laugh
when I wake up.

Thank you so much for telling me that you think I'm behaving pretty well,
considering. But I wonder what you'll say in your next, after my last?

Every day since then I've been meaning to write, if only a short note, but
we've had early starts and late stops; and then, from not sleeping at night, I'm
often so tired when the end of the day comes that I feel too stupid to try and
earn your compliments.

It is morning, and I'm writing out of doors, sitting on a rock, close by the
sea. But before I begin to describe Lulworth, I must tell you a little about the
glorious things of which I've had flying glimpses since the letter dated Compton
Arms. This is our first all-night stopping place since we left Stony Cross "for
good," but I've picked up many a marvellous memory by the way.

People who haven't seen the New Forest haven't seen England.

I had no idea what it was like till we stayed there. I knew from guide-books
that there were thousands of acres of woodland still, though much had been
"deforested"; but I didn't know it hid many beautiful villages, and even towns.
It's a heavenly place for motoring, but I'm not sure it wouldn't be even better to
walk, because you could eke out the joy of it longer. I should like a walking
honeymoon (a whole round moon) in the New Forest—if it were with just the
right man.

Oh, I mustn't forget to say I'm glad I didn't see Rufus's Stone by daylight.
Mrs. Senter and Dick went the morning after I wrote to you, but I wouldn't go
again, because I didn't want to lose the enchanted picture in my mind. She
laughed when I refused. I could have slapped her. But never mind.

When they came back they were disgusted, and said there was a ginger-beer
woman and a man with the game of "Aunt Sally," and a crowd of cockney
excursionists round them and the Stone. Talk of malfays!

Sir Lionel had made out an itinerary for the day, and we were to start for
Lyndhurst, Beaulieu Abbey, Lymington, Brockenhurst, and Mark Ash, all of
which we were to visit before evening, coming back by way of Lyndhurst again,
and stopping there for tea. But before we got off, such a comic thing happened.

I didn't think to mention it in a letter, but one day we passed a motor-car that
was having tire trouble by the side of the road. The chauffeur was rolling on a
new tire, with a curious-looking machine, in which Young Nick was
passionately interested, as he'd never seen one before. Sir Lionel explained that
it was an American tool, not very long invented, and said to be good. He added,
in an evil moment, that he wished he'd thought to buy one like it before leaving
London, as probably the thing couldn't be got in the Provinces.

Well, just as we were about to spin away in great style from the Compton
Arms, one of our tires sighed, and settled down for an unearned rest. But
instead of looking black-browed and murderous, as he did when the same thing
occurred before, Nick smiled gleefully. He jumped down, and without a word
produced a machine exactly like the one his master admired a few days ago.

"Where did you get that?" asked Sir Lionel.

"Last night, sahib," returned Nick, imperturbably. (He can speak quite good
English.)

"What! Since we had our trouble?"

"Yes, sahib." An odd expression now began to play among Nick's brown
features, like a breeze over a field of growing wheat.

"How's that? There's no shop."

"The sahib says true. I found this thing."

"Where?" sharply.

"But a little way from here. In the road."

"You rascal," exclaimed Sir Lionel. "You stole it."

Young Nick made Buddha eyebrows and a Buddha gesture. "The sahib
knows all. But if I did take it? Those men, they were going again to the big city.
We away. They never miss this. They buy another. It is better we have it."

Trying to look very angry, though I knew he was dying to laugh, Sir Lionel
reproached Nick for breaking a solemn promise. "You swore you'd never do
such a thing in England if I brought you with me. Now you've begun again, the
same old game. I shall have to send you back, that is all."

"Then I die, and that is all," replied Young Nick, calmly.

The end of the story is, that Sir Lionel found out the names of the men, who
had spent the night at the Compton Arms, and had written their address in the
visitors' book. He sent the tool to them, with an explanation which I should
have loved to read. And it appears that, though Nick is honest personally, he is a
thief for the car, and in Bengal took anything new and nice which other motors
had and his hadn't.

Now, Mrs. Norton is afraid that, if Sir Lionel scolds him much, he will
commit hari-kari on the threshold of the hotel, which would be embarrassing.
And it does no good to tell her that hari-kari is a Japanese or Chinese trick. She
says, if Nick would not do that he might do something worse.

Gliding over the perfect roads of the Forest, Apollo seemed actually to float.
I never felt anything so delicious, and so like being a goddess reclining on a
wind-blown cloud. No wonder motorists' faces, when you can see them, almost
always look madly happy. So different from "hay motorists," as The Blot says.
They generally look grumpy.

The little wild ponies were one of the Forest's surprises for me. We met lots
of them, mostly miniature mothers giving their innocent-faced, rough babies an
airing; delightful beastkins. And I almost liked Mrs. Senter for having a cousin

who owns one of these ponies as a pet, a dwarf one, no bigger than a St.
Bernard dog. It wears a collar with silver bells, follows her everywhere, thinks
nothing of curling up on a drawing-room sofa, and once was found on its
mistress's bed, asleep on a new Paris hat.

The enticing rose-bowered cottages we passed ought to have told me that we
were back in Hampshire again, if the New Forest hadn't seemed to a poor little
foreigner like a separate county all by itself. It would be no credit to a bride to
clamour for love in such a cottage, and turn up her nose at palaces. She might
be married at the beautiful church of Lyndhurst (a most immediate jewel of a
church, with an exquisite altar-piece by Lord Leighton, a Flaxman, and a
startlingly fine piece of sculpture by an artist named Cockerell), then, safely
wedded, plunge with her bridegroom into the Forest, and be perfectly happy
without ever coming out again. I wish I had had the "Forest Lovers" to re-read
while we were there. I think Maurice Hewlett must have got part of his
inspiration in those mysterious green "walks" which lead away into that land
where fairy lore and historic legend go hand in hand.

Lyndhurst, which King George III. loved, is pretty, but we didn't stop to look
at it, because we were coming back that way. After seeing the church which,
though modern, I wouldn't have missed for a great deal, we spun on to Beaulieu
Abbey, the home of a hero of motoring. There we saw a perfect house, rising
among trees, and sharing with the sky a clear sheet of water as a mirror. Once
this was a guest-house for the Abbey; now it's called the Palace House, and
deserves its name. Its looking-glass is really only a long creek, which spills out
of the Solent, but it seems like a lake; and you've only to walk along a meadow
path to the refectory of the old abbey. From there you go through a mysterious
door into the ruined cloisters, which used to belong to the Cistercians—the
"White Monks." King John provided money for the building; which proves that
it's an ill wind which blows no one any good, because the stingy, tyrannical old
king wouldn't have given a penny to the abbots if they hadn't scourged him in a
nightmare he had. I shan't soon forget the magnolia and the myrtle in the
quadrangle, and if I were one of the long-vanished monks, I should haunt the
place. There couldn't be a lovelier one.

From Beaulieu we went to Lymington, a quaint and ancient town, with a
picturesque port. Everything there looked happy and sleepy, except the
postillions on the Bournemouth coach, which was stopping at the hotel where

we had an early lunch. They were wide awake and jolly, under their old-
fashioned, broad-brimmed beaver hats.

After Lymington, we skimmed through the Forest, hardly knowing or caring
whither, though we did manage to find Brockenhurst, and Mark Ash, which was
almost the finest of all with its glorious trees. Our one wish was to avoid
highways, and Sir Lionel was clever about that. The sweetest bit was a mere by-
path, hardly to be called a road, though the surface was superb. Young Nick had
to get down and open a gate, which led into what seemed a private place, and
no one who hadn't been told to go that way would have thought of it. On the
other side of the gate it was just another part of forest fairyland, whose
inhabitants turned themselves into trees as we, in our motor-car, intruded on
them. I never saw such extraordinary imitations of the evergreen family as they
contrived on the spur of the moment. It was a glamorous wood, and throughout
the whole forest I had more and more the feeling that England isn't so small as
it's painted. There are such vast spaces not lived in at all, yet haunted with
legend and history. One place we passed—hardly a place, it was so small—was
called Tyrrel's Ford; and there Sir Walter Tyrrel is said to have stopped to have
his horse's shoes reversed by a blacksmith, on his flight to the sea, after killing
the Red King. Or no, now I remember, this was next day, between Ringwood
and Christchurch!

When we were having tea at Lyndhurst on our way back, at a hotel like a
country house in a great garden, we found out that it once had been the home of
your forty-second cousin, the Duc de Stacpoole, who came to England with
Louis Philippe. There's his beautiful tapestry, to this day, in the dining-room,
and his gorgeous magnolia tree looking wistfully into the window, as if asking
why he isn't there to admire its creamy flowers, big as fat snowballs.

On our way home the rabbits of the New Forest were having a party, and
were annoyed with us for coming to it without invitations. They kept "crossing
our path," as people in melodramas say, so that we had to go slowly, not to run
over them, and sometimes they galloped ahead, just in front of us, exactly in the
middle of the road, so that we couldn't pass them. Dick kept longing to "pot" at
the poor little pets, but Sir Lionel said he had lived out of England long enough
to find a good deal of pleasure in life without taking that of any other creature.
That isn't a very dragonish sentiment, is it?

Next day we had a delicious run (there's no other adjective which quite
expresses it) through Ringwood, which is a door of the Forest, to Christchurch,

another Abbey—(no, it's a Priory; but to me that's a detail) which stands looking
at its own beauty in a crystal mirror. It's Augustan, not Cistercian, like Beaulieu;
and it's august, as well; very noble; finer to see than many a cathedral. You and
I, in other lands, have industriously travelled many miles to visit churches
without half as many "features" as Christchurch. One of its quaintest is a leper's
window; and a few of the beauties are the north transept, with unique "hatchet"
ornamentation; a choir with wonderful old oak carvings—and the tomb of the
Countess of Salisbury, of whom you read aloud to me when I was small, in a
book called "Some Heroines of History." She came last in the volume because
she was only a countess, and not a queen, but I cried when she said she didn't
mind being killed, only being touched by a horrid, common axe, and wanted
them to cut off her head with a sword. There are lots of other beautiful things in
the church, too, and a nice legend about an oak beam which grew long in the
night, and building materials which came down from a hill of their own accord,
because one of the builders was Christ himself. That's why they named it
Christchurch, you see, instead of Twyneham, as it would otherwise have been.

We stopped only long enough, after we had seen the Priory, to pay our
respects to a splendid old Norman house near by, and then dashed away toward
Boscombe and Bournemouth, which reminded me a little of Baden-Baden, with
its gardens and fountains and running waters; its charming trees and exciting-
looking shops. Just because it's modern, we didn't pause, but swept on, through
scenery which suddenly degenerated. However, as I heard Sir Lionel say to
Mrs. Senter: "You can't go far in this country without finding beauty"; and
presently she was her own lovely self again, fair as Nature intended her to be. I
mean England, not Mrs. Senter, who is lovelier than Nature made her.

We ran through miles of dense pine forests, where rhododendrons grew wild;
where gulls spread silver wings and trailed coral feet a few yards above our
heads; and the tang of the sea mingled with pine-balsam in our nostrils.

Soon after dull, but historic Wareham we came quite into the heart of
Thomas Hardy's country. Scarcely had we turned our backs on Wareham (which
I wasn't sorry to do), when I cried out at something on a distant height—
something which was like a background in a mediæval picture. It was Corfe
Castle, of which I'd been thinking ever since Amesbury, because of the wicked
Elfrida; but the glimpse was delusive, for the dark shape hid in a moment, and
we didn't see it again for a long time—not until our curving road ran along
underneath the castle's towering hill. Then it soared up with imposing effect,

giving an impression of grisly strength which was heightened the nearer we
approached. Distance lends no enchantment to Corfe, for the castle dominates
the dour, gray town that huddles round it, and is never nobler than when you tap
for admittance at its gates.

I tried to think, as we waited to go in, how young Edward felt—Edward the
Martyr—when he stood at the gates, waiting to go in and visit his half-brother
whom he loved, and his step-mother Elfrida, whom he hated. He never left the
castle alive, poor boy! Afterward, in the ruins, I went to the window where
Elfrida was supposed to have watched the young king's coming, before she ran
down to the gates and directed the murder which was planned to give her own
son the kingdom. It made the story seem almost too realistic, because, as you
often tell me, my imagination carries me too fast and too far. There's nothing
easier than to send it back ten or twelve centuries in the same number of
minutes—and it's such a cheap way of travelling, too!

Corfe is in Dorset, you must know, a county as different from others as I am
different from the real Ellaline Lethbridge, and the castle is at the very centre of
the Isle of Purbeck, which makes it seem even more romantic than it would
otherwise. I'm afraid it wasn't really even begun in the days of Elfrida, or
"Ælfrith," who had only a hunting lodge there; but if people will point out her
window, am I to blame if I try to make firm belief attract shy facts? Besides,
facts are such dull dogs in the historical kennels until they've been taught a few
tricks.

Anyhow, Corfe is Norman, at worst, and not only did King John keep much
treasure there, but one supposes there's some hidden still. If I could only have
found it, I'd be buying a castle for you and me to live in. Sir Lionel thinks that I,
as his ward, will live in his castle; and he was telling me at Corfe about the
Norman tower at Graylees. But, alas, I knew better. Oh, I didn't mean that
"alas"! Consider it erased; and the other silly things I wrote you the other night,
please. They're all so useless.

There were loads of interesting prisoners in Corfe Castle, at one time or
another, knights from France, and fair ladies, the fairest of all, the beautiful
"Damsel of Brittany," who had claims to the English crown. And kings have
visited there; and in Cromwell's day a lady and her daughters successfully
defended it in a great siege. It was such a splendid and brave defence that it
seems sad, even to this day, to think how the castle fell after all, a year later, and
to see the great stones and masses of masonry lying, far below the height,

exactly where they rolled when Parliament ordered the conquered towers to be
blown up by gunpowder. The Bankes family, who still own Corfe, must be
proud of that Lady Bankes, their ancestress, who held the castle. And isn't it
nice, the Bankes still have the old keys, where they live, at Kingston Lacy?

You like Thomas Hardy's "Hand of Ethelberta" next to "Far from the
Madding Crowd." Well, Coomb Castle in that book is really Corfe Castle. I told
you we were in Hardy country. After Wareham, and not very far away, at Wool,
is an old, old manor-house of the Turbervilles, turned into a farmhouse now.
You don't need to be reminded of what Hardy made of that, I know.

We lunched at an interesting old inn, like all the rest of the ancient houses of
Corfe, slate-roofed, grim and gray. Then we coasted down the steep hill to the
plain again, making for Swanage. It was dusty, but we weren't sorry, because,
just when we were travelling rather fast, on a perfectly clear road, a policeman
popped out like a Jack-in-the-Box, apparently from nowhere. You could tell by
his face he was a "trappist," as Dick calls the motor-spies, and though Sir Lionel
wasn't really going beyond the legal limit, he glared at our number as if he
meant mischief. But that number-plate had thoughtfully masked itself in dust,
so with all the will in the world he could work us no harm after our backs were
turned. Once in a while it does seem as if Nature sympathized with the poor,
maligned motorist whom nobody loves, and is willing to throw her protection
over him. It would be like tempting Providence to polish off dust or mud, in
such circumstances, wouldn't it?

My face was a different matter, though, and I longed to polish it. Before we
got to Swanage, it felt—even under chiffon—just as an iced cake must feel.
Only the cake, fortunately for its contour, never needs to smile.

We were going to Swanage because of the caves—Tilly Whim Caves. Did
you ever hear of them, Parisienne mamma? Small blame to you, if not, because
one can't know everything; but they are worth seeing; and the Swanage harbour
is a little dream. The town is good, too. Old-world, and very, very respectable-
looking, as if it were full of long-established lawyers and clergymen, yet not
dull, like Wareham, which was important in Saxon days, long before Swanage
was born or thought of. It's "Knollsea" in the "Hand of Ethelberta." Do you
remember? And Alfred the Great had a victory close by—so close, that in a
storm the Danish ships blew into what is the town now, as if they had been
butterflies with their wings wet.

We climbed up, up above the village, in the motor-car, on the steepest,
twistingest road I've seen yet in England, though Sir Lionel says I'll think
nothing of it when we get into Devonshire; up, up to a high place where they've
built a restaurant. Near by we left the motor (and Emily, who never walks for
pleasure), and ho, for the caves! It was a scramble among dark cliffs of Purbeck
limestone. The caves are delightfully weird, and of course there are smuggling
stories about them. A strange wind blew through their labyrinths, ceaselessly,
like the breathings of a hidden giant, betrayed by sleep. It was heavenly cool in
that dim twilight that never knew sun, but oh, it was hot coming out into the
afternoon glare, and climbing the steep path to where the motor waited! I think
Mrs. Senter was sorry she hadn't stopped with Emily. She got a horrid
headache, and felt so ill that Sir Lionel asked if she would care to stop all night
at Swanage, and she said she would.

Fortunately, it turned out that there were good hotels, and Sir Lionel took
rooms at the one we liked the best—old-fashioned in an agreeable way. Mrs.
Senter went to bed, but the rest of us strolled out after dinner; and Mrs. Norton
began talking to Dick about his mother, which threw Sir Lionel and me
together.

We sat on the pier, where the moon turned bright pink as she dipped down
into a bank of clouds like a rose-garden growing out of the sea. And even when
it was dark, the sea kept its colour, the deep blue of sapphires, where, at a
distance, little white yachts and sailboats looked like a company of crescent
moons floating in an azure sky. I felt in the sweetest mood, kind toward all the
world, and particularly to Sir Lionel. I couldn't bear to remember that I'd ever
had bad thoughts, and doubts, so I was half sub-consciously nicer to him than I
ever was before. Dick kept glaring at me, from his seat beside Mrs. Norton, and
drawing his eyebrows together when he thought Sir Lionel wasn't looking.
Going home, he got a chance for a few words, when Emily was speaking to her
brother about Mrs. Senter's headache. He said that there was something he must
say to me, alone, and he wanted me to come out into the garden behind the
hotel, to talk to him when the others had gone to bed, but of course I refused.
Then he said, would I manage to give him a few minutes next day, and
intimated, gently, that I'd be sorry if I didn't. I told him that "I'd see"; which is
always a safe answer; but I haven't "managed" yet.

When I got back to my room at the hotel I noticed that some of my things
weren't in the places where I'd left them; and the writing portfolio in a dressing-

case which Sir Lionel thinks is mine, but is really Ellaline's (one of the Bond
Street purchases), had my papers changed about in it. The servants in the house
seemed so respectable and nice, I can't think that one of them would have pried.
And yet—well, the truth is, I'm afraid of being catty, but I can't help putting
Mrs. Senter's headache and my disturbed papers together in my mind. Two and
two when put together, make four, you know. And her room in the Swanage
hotel was next to mine. She might have been sure that we'd all go out after
dinner on such a perfect night. But why should she bother? Unless Dick has told
her something, after all? I suppose I shall never know whether it was she or
someone else who meddled. I looked through all the papers and other things,
but could find nothing "compromising," as the adventuresses say. However, I
can't quite remember what I had. Some letter may have been taken. I have been
a tiny bit worried since, for you know Ellaline would never forgive me if
anything should go wrong now. And I've been thinking that, though Sir Lionel
is no dragon, there may be something about Honoré du Guesclin which he
wouldn't approve. Ellaline may even have her own reasons for thinking he
wouldn't approve, dragon or no dragon. Very likely she didn't tell me everything
—she was so anxious to have her own way.

But to go back to the journey here. Almost each mile we travelled gave us
some thought of Hardy, and acquainted me with the character of Dorset, which
is just what I expected from his books: giant trees; tall, secretive hedges; high
brick walls, mellow with age and curtained with ivy; stone cottages, solid and
prosperous and old, with queer little bay-windows, diamond-paned; Purbeck
granite bursting through the grass of meadows, and making a grave background
for brilliant flowers; heaths that Hardy wrote about in the "Return of the
Native"—heaths, heaths, and rolling downs.

We took the way from Swanage to West Lulworth, and had an adventure on
a hill. Sir Lionel is very strict with his little Buddha about examining everything
that could possibly go wrong with the motor, and just before we started, I heard
him ask Young Nick if he had looked at the brakes after our descent from Tilly
Whim. "Oh, yes, sahib," said the brown image. "Oh, no!" said the brakes
themselves, on a big hill, as far from the madding crowd as "Gabriel" and
"Bathsheba" ever lived. We'd got lost, and that was the way the car punished us.
First of all, the motor refused to work. That made Apollo feel faint, so that he
began to run backward down the hill instead of going up; and when Sir Lionel
put on the brakes, they wouldn't act.

It was the first time anything really bad had happened, and my heart gave a
jump, but somehow I wasn't frightened. With Sir Lionel driving, it seemed as if
no harm could come; and it didn't, for he steered to the side of the road, and
brought the car up short against a great hummock of grass. All the same, we
nearly tipped over, and Sir Lionel told us to jump. I shouldn't have stirred if he
hadn't spoken. I should have awaited orders; but the others were moving before
we stopped, and Mrs. Senter fell down and bumped her knee. That made her
hair come partly undone, and, to my horror, a bunch of the dearest little curls,
which I always thought lived there, were loosened. There was a great wind
blowing, and in a second more the curls would have been on the horizon, if I
hadn't seized them just as they were about to take flight. If they'd gone, they
must have passed almost in front of Sir Lionel's nose, on their way. Wouldn't
that have been dreadful? I should think she could never have looked him in the
face again, for her hair's her greatest beauty, and she's continually saying things
about its being all her own, and having more than she knows what to do with.

But luckily his back was turned when I caught the curls, and stuffed them
hastily into her hand before she was on her feet, nobody seeing except Dick. I
suppose a nephew doesn't count! But do you know, dear, if they'd been my
curls, I believe she'd have loved Sir Lionel to see them. I don't like her a bit, but
all the more I couldn't be mean. I reserve all my cattyness toward her for my
letters to you, when I let myself go, and stretch my little nails in my velvet paw.

I was sorry for Young Nick! He was miserably sheepish, and vowed that he
really had examined the brakes. Sir Lionel just looked at him, and raised his
eyebrows; that was all, because he wouldn't scold the poor little wretch before
us.

It was as much as the three men could do to get Apollo down on his four
tires again, for, though he seemed as lightly balanced as an eccentric dancer
trying to touch one eyelid to the floor, he was partly embedded in the bank by
the roadside. Then we all sat gracefully about, while Sir Lionel and the
chauffeur worked—Young Nick under the car, looking sometimes like a
contortionist tying himself into lover's knots, sometimes like a miniature
Michelangelo lying on his back to paint a fresco. I hope, though, that Michael
never had half the trouble finding his paints and brushes that Nick had to get at
his tommies and jemmies, and dozens of strange little instruments. He lay with
his mouth bristling with giant pins, and had the air of a conscientious dentist
filling a difficult tooth.

It was a long time before the brakes were properly tightened up and the four
cylinders breathing freely again; but it would have been ungracious to be bored
in such a glorious wild place, in such glorious weather. There was a kind of
Walt Whitman feeling in the air that made me want to sing; and finally I could
resist no longer. I burst out with those verses of his which you set to music for
me. At least, I sang a few bars; and you ought to have seen Sir Lionel wheel
round and look at me when he heard my voice. I never said anything to him
about knowing how to sing, so he was surprised.

"Why, you have quite a pretty voice, Ellaline!" said Mrs. Norton.

"'Quite a pretty voice!' I should say she had!" remarked Sir Lionel. He didn't
say any more. But I never had a compliment I liked better; and I didn't mind a
bit when Mrs. Senter remarked that anyone would fancy I was a professional.

I was almost sorry to go on at last, though Emily was worrying lest we
should get no lunch. But we saw beautiful things as we spun toward Lulworth,
rushing so swiftly along an empty road that the hedges roared past us like dark
cataracts. It was thrilling, and showed what Apollo could do when he chose. If
there had been a soul on the road, of course we wouldn't have done such deeds;
though I must say, from what I've seen, if you creep along so as not to kick up a
dust and annoy people, they aren't at all grateful, but only scorn instead of
hating you, and think you can't go faster, or you would. Still, you have the
consciousness of innocence. One thing we saw was a delightful Tudor house,
called Creech Grange; and the ancestor of the man who owns it built Bond
Street. I'm sure I don't know why, but I'm glad he did. We took the valley way
on purpose to see the Grange, instead of going over Ring Hill and other windy
heights, but it was worth the sacrifice.

Lulworth Castle, which we passed, is rather like Graylees, Sir Lionel said; so
now I wish more than ever that I could see Graylees, for Lulworth is fine and
feudal. But I shall have burst like a bubble before the time comes for Graylees.

There! I have brought you with us to Lulworth Cove, at last—the adorable
little place where, at this moment, as I told you at the beginning of my letter,
I'm sitting on the beach among red and green fishing boats.

You wouldn't dream of Lulworth's existence until it suddenly breaks on you,
and you see the blue bay lying asleep in the arms of giant rocks, which appear
to have had a violent convulsion without disturbing the baby sheet of water. I

suppose they were angry with the world for finding out their secret; for it has
found out, and loves to come to Lulworth Cove. However, the place contrives to
look as unknown as ever, as if only some lazy gulls and a few fishermen
mending lobster-pots had ever heard a hint of it. There's a narrow street; a few
pretty old cottages; a comfortable hotel where we had crabs, divine though
devilled, and omelette au rhum floating in flames of the blue I should like my
eyes to be when angry; there's a post-office, and—nothing else that I can think
of, except circling hills, a golden sweep of beach, and sea of ethereal azure
creaming against contorted rocks. That's all; but it's a little Paradise, and——

Night, of the same day.

Just there I was interrupted. Dick Burden came, and I had to listen to
him, unless I wanted a scene. I couldn't appeal to any nice brown fisherman
to please feed him to the lobsters, so I sat still and let him talk. He said that
he was awfully in love with me. A charming fashion he's taken to show it,
hasn't he? As I remarked to him.

He replied in the old, old way, about all being fair, etc., etc. I asked him
which it was, love or war, and he said it was both. He knew I wasn't in love
(I should think not, indeed!), but he wanted me to promise to be engaged to
him from now on.

"I won't," said I—short and sudden, like that.

"You'll jolly well have to," said he. Then he proceeded to warn me that if
I didn't, my friend Miss Ellaline Lethbridge must look out for herself,
because I would no longer be in a position to guard her interests.

I mentioned that he was a perfect beast, and he said it might be true, but
I was a deceiver, and it was not good taste for the pot to call the kettle
black.

"I'd rather go into the kind of convent where one's not allowed to speak a
word all one's life, except 'Memento mori,' than marry you," said I, politely.

But it seemed that he wasn't thinking so much about being married, as
just being engaged. As to marrying, we were both very young, and he
would wait for me till we could afford to marry, which mightn't be for some
time yet, he explained. What he was keen on beginning at once, was being
engaged.

"Why?" I asked, savagely.

"Because I don't want anyone else to think he has a chance. That's the
plain truth," said Dick, in the most brazen way.

That staggered me; for he was glaring straight into my eyes in such a
meaning way I couldn't help understanding who was in his mind. So utterly
ridiculous! As if the person he meant would ever think of me! And Dick
used to say himself that Sir Lionel Pendragon took no interest in girls, or
any women except Mrs. Senter. I'd have liked to remind him of this, only I
wouldn't let him see that I read his thoughts.

"I believe you must be mad," said I.

"I shouldn't wonder," said he. "Anyhow, I'm mad enough to go straight
to Sir Lionel with the whole story the minute he comes back from his walk
with his sister and my aunt, unless you do what I want."

"That won't be very nice for Mrs. Senter," I temporized, "if she's
enjoying this trip she was so anxious to take; for if Sir Lionel knows about
Ellaline the tour will probably break up, and he'll rush over to France."

"On the contrary, it will be nice for her," Dick returned, "because many a
heart is caught in the rebound."

I said that this argument was too intricate for me, but it wasn't really. I
knew quite well what he meant, though of course he is absolutely mistaken,
as far as Sir Lionel's feelings toward me are concerned. But I had to think
quickly, and I thought maybe he was right about his aunt. She would be a
woman who would make any use of an emergency. And once she had
compromised poor Sir Lionel, it would be too late, for I have an idea he'd
be exaggeratedly honourable.

You may smile at my saying she'd compromise him. But you know what
I mean. I'm not sure I do—but anyhow, I couldn't bear to have her do it,
especially if it could be prevented by me. I sat still a minute, reflecting, and
then asked Dick what he meant by "being engaged."

He replied that he meant the usual thing; and I replied to this that
nothing could tempt me. He saw I wouldn't go back from my word, so he
promised, if I would be engaged, that he'd not try even to hold my hand
until I should be willing. All he would ask was, that he might tell his aunt
we had a "kind of a, sort of an understanding," which might develop into an

engagement, and let her tell Sir Lionel. Nothing more than that; and why
should I mind, when in any case there could never have been a question of
my marrying Sir L.?

I said I did mind horribly, but not on that account, and I should never
marry anyone. I was almost ready to cry, I felt so wretched. I don't think I
was ever as miserable in my life, dear; though, when I come to argue it out
with myself, I've pretended so much to please Ellaline, it oughtn't to matter,
pretending a little more.

Just then all three of the others came along, and seeing us on the beach,
joined us. Dick put on a familiar air with me, as if he had rights, and I saw
Sir Lionel glance from me to him, and draw his eyebrows together.

I came indoors then, to my room, and didn't go out again till dinner time.
I was half afraid Mrs. Senter might already have got in her deadly work, but
if she had, Sir Lionel didn't say anything to me. Only it was a horrid dinner,
in spite of nice, seaside things to eat. Nobody spoke much, and I felt so
choked I could hardly swallow.

Oh, I am homesick for you, dear. I hurried upstairs, as soon as dinner
was over, saying I had letters to write. To-morrow, early, we start for
Sidmouth, in Devonshire, going by way of Weymouth and Dorchester. As I
write, looking from my window, across which I haven't drawn the curtains,
I can see Sir Lionel and Mrs. Senter strolling out of the hotel, toward the
beach. There's a lovely blue dusk, which the sunset struck into a million
glorious sparks, and then let fade again into a dull glow, like ashes of roses.
They look a romantic couple walking together. I wonder if they are talking
about each other, to each other, or—about Dick and me? I feel as if I should
have to scream—"Sir Lionel, don't believe it. It isn't true!" But of course, I
can't. I think I shall go to bed, and then I won't be tempted to look out of the
window.

Always your own loving

Audrie.

Please write at once, and address Poste Restante, Torquay.

XIV

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO
COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

Knoll Park Hotel, Sidmouth,
Devon,
August 2nd. Evening

My Dear Pat: I am a fool. By this time you will soon be receiving my
first letter, and saying to yourself, "He is on the way to being a fool." Well, I
am already that fool. I didn't see where I was drifting, but I see now that it
had begun then; and of course you, a spectator, won't be dense as I was at
first. You will know.

I didn't suppose this thing could happen to me again. I thought I was
safe. But at forty, it's worse with me than when I was twenty-one.

I don't need to explain. Yet I will say in self-defence that, fool as I am, I
am not going to let anyone but you know that I'm a fool. Especially the girl.
She would be thunderstruck. Not that girls of nineteen haven't married men
of forty, and perhaps cared for them. But this girl has been brought up since
her babyhood to think of me as her guardian, and an elderly person beyond
the pale where love or even flirtation is concerned. Imagine a daughter and
namesake of Ellaline de Nesville being in the society of a man, and not
trying to flirt with him! It's almost inconceivable. But Ellaline the second
shows not the slightest inclination to flirt with me. She is gentle, sweet,
charming, even obedient; perhaps I might say daughterly, if I were willing
to hurt my own feelings. Therefore, even without Mr. Dick Burden's
oppressive respect for me, I must suppose that I am regarded as a
generation behind.

By the way, that young beast made me a present of a cane the other day.
Not an ordinary stick, but an old gentleman's cane, with a gold head on it.
He said he saw it in a shop at Weymouth, where we stopped for lunch, and
thought it so handsome, he begged that I would accept it. His aunt laughed,
called him a ridiculous little boy, and advised me to have "Thou shalt not

steal" engraved on a gold band, with my name and address. This was to
soothe my amour propre; but, while I wonder whether the thing really is a
gift suitable to my years, I long to lay it across the giver's back. He gave it
to me before Ellaline, too. What an idiot I am to care! I can laugh, for my
sense of humour hasn't yet jilted me, if my good sense has. But the laugh is
on the wrong side of my mouth.

I feel somewhat better, having confessed my foolishness—which you
would have divined without the confession. The girl doesn't suspect. I enact
the "heavy father" even more ostentatiously than if I weren't ass enough to
prefer a rôle for which time and our relationship have unfitted me. But it's
rather curious, isn't it, what power one little woman can wield over a man's
life, even the life of a man who is as far as possible from being a "woman's
man"? Ellaline de Nesville pretty well spoiled my early youth, or would if I
hadn't freed myself to take up other interests. She burdens the remainder of
my young years by making me, willy nilly, the guardian of her child. And,
not content with that, she (indirectly) destroys what might have been the
comfortable contentment of my middle age.

Women are the devil. All but this one—and she isn't a woman yet.

The dangerous part is that I am not as grimly unhappy as I ought to be.
There are moments, hours, when I forget that there's any obstacle dividing
Ellaline's future from mine. I think of her as belonging to me. I feel that she
is to be a part of my life always, as she is now. And until I have again
drummed it into my rebellious head that she is not for me, that my business
with her is to see that she gets a rich, well-born, and well-looking young
husband, not more than two-thirds of my age, I enjoy myself hugely in her
nearness.

But, why not, after all? Just for the length of this tour in the motor-car,
which throws us so constantly together? As long as I don't betray myself,
why not? Why not revel in borrowed sunshine? At Graylees, I can turn over
a new leaf; I need see very little of her there. She and Emily will have
plenty to do, with their social duties, and I shall have my own. Let me be a
fool in peace till Graylees, then. If I can be a fool in peace!

Talking of borrowed sunshine, England seems to have borrowed an
inexhaustible supply from some more "favoured clime" this summer. I dare
say we shall have to pay for it later. I shall have to pay for my private
supply, too—but no matter.

Next to my native Cornwall, I think I prefer Devonshire; and Devonshire
is being particularly kind and hospitable, offering us her choicest gifts.

It's said that the Earth is a host who murders all his guests. But he
certainly gives some of us, for some of the time, glorious innings during our
visit to him. I don't complain, though my stay so far has been accompanied
by a good deal of stormy weather.

I remember your once remarking that Weymouth would be a good place
to hide in, if you wanted to grow a beard or anything lingering and
unbecoming; but you wouldn't make that remark now: there are too many
pretty women in the nice, tranquil old town. Just at this season it's far from
dull, and walking along the Esplanade, while young Nick mended a tire, I
understood something of George the Third's fondness for the place.
Certainly vanity wouldn't permit you to show your nose on parade or beach,
in these times, during the beard-growing process, for there's apparently no
hour of the day when a lively scene isn't being enacted on both: the sands
thickly dotted with tents; charming girls bathing, chubby children playing,
pretty women reading novels under red parasols, fishermen selling silver-
scaled fish, boatmen soliciting custom; the parade crowded with "trippers,"
soldiers and sailors; the wide road noisy with motor-cars and motor-'buses;
even the sea gay with boats of all descriptions, and at least one big war
vessel hovering in the distance. Besides, there is the clock-tower. I don't
know why I like it so much, but I do. I have a feeling that Weymouth would
be worth a visit for the sake of that clock alone; and then there's the
extraordinary historical and geological interest, which no other watering-
place has.

Burden was anxious to go over to Portland, lured there, no doubt, by the
incipient detective talent of which he boasts; but the ladies voted it too sad a
place to see, on an excursion of pleasure, and perhaps they were right. The
sort of woman who would like to go and spend a happy afternoon staring at
a lot of unfortunate wretches dressed in a pattern of broad arrows, would go

"slumming" out of idle curiosity; and I have always thought I could not love
a woman who amused herself by slumming, any more than I could love one
who eagerly patronized bull-fights.

Thomas Hardy's work is too near Nature's heart to appeal to Mrs. Senter,
and too clever for my good sister Emily, who will read no author, willingly,
unless he calls a spade a pearl-headed hatpin. But Ellaline, strange to say,
has been allowed to read him. Evidently French schools are not what they
once were; and she and I particularly wanted to go through Dorchester (his
Casterbridge) even though we could see nothing of Hardy's place, Max
Gate, except its tree-tops. A pity more English towns haven't made
boulevards of their earthworks (since there are plenty that have earthworks),
planting them with chestnuts and sycamores, as Dorchester has cleverly
done. It was an idea worthy of a "Mayor of Casterbridge." We lingered a
bit, in the car, picking out "landmarks" of resemblance to the book, and
there were plenty. You know, there's a magnificent Roman amphitheatre
near by; but did we stay to look at it? My friend, we are motorists! And it
happened to be a grand day with the car, which, though still very new, has
"found" itself. "Apollo" seemed a steed of "pure air and fire; and the dull
elements of earth and water never appear in him." He chafed against
stopping, and I humoured him gladly.

"Strange," said Ellaline, yesterday, "how a person will pay lots of money
to buy a motor-car, and go tearing about the world at great expense, to
gratify two little black or blue holes in his face; and then, instead of letting
the holes thoroughly absorb his money's worth, he will rush past some of
the best things on earth rather than 'spoil a run.'" But she doesn't take the
intoxication of ozone into consideration in this indictment.

Our road was of the best, and always interesting, with some fine distant
views, and here and there an avenue of trees like a vast Gothic aisle in a
cathedral. "We could see things so nicely if it weren't for the mists!" sighed
Emily, who, if her wish had been a broom, would have ruthlessly swept
away those lacy cobwebs clinging to the hill-sides. "Why," replied Ellaline,
"you could see a bride's face more clearly if you took away her veil, but it's
the prettiest thing about her." That put my feelings in a nutshell. England
would be no bride for me if she threw away her veil; and nowhere did it

become her more than in Dorset, Somerset, and Devon, where it is threaded
with gold and embroidered with jewels toward the edge of sunset.

Of course, there's only the most fanciful dividing line between Somerset
and Devon, yet I imagine the two counties different in their attributes, as
well as in their graces. Surely in Somerset the Downs are on a grander
scale. Between two of them you are in a valley, and think that you see
mountains. In Devonshire you have wider horizons, save for the lanes and
hedges, which do their best to keep straying eyes fastened on their own
beauty.

I suppose men who never have left England take such beauty for
granted, but to me, after the flaunting luxuriance of the East, it is
enchanting. I notice everything. I want someone, who cares for it as I do, to
admire it with me. If it weren't for Dick Burden this England would be
making me twenty-one again.

You should see, to understand me, all the lovely things fighting
sportively for supremacy in these Devonshire hedges; the convolvulus
pretending to throttle the honeysuckle; the honeysuckle shaking creamy
fists in the faces of roses that push out, blushing in the starlight of wild
clematis, white and purple. Such gentle souls, these Devonshire roses! Kind
and innocent, like the sweet, sentimental "Evelinas" of old-fashioned
stories, yet full of health, and tingling with buds, as a young girl with
fancies.

Devonshire seems to express herself in flowers, as sterner counties do in
trees and rocks. Even the children one meets playing in the road are
flowers. They are to the pretty cottages what the sweetbriar is to the hedges;
and no background could be daintier for the little human blossoms than
those same thatched cottages with open, welcoming doors.

Ellaline, fascinated by glimpses through open doors—(old oak dressers
set with blue and white china; ancient clocks with peering moon-faces;
high-backed chairs; bright flowers in gilt vases on gate-legged tables, all
obscurely seen through rich brown shadows)—says she would like to live in
such a cottage with somebody she loved. Who will that somebody be? I

constantly wonder. I should think less of her if it could be Dick Burden, or
one of his type, yet Mrs. Senter hints that the girl likes his society. Can she?

We had a picnic luncheon on our way to Sidmouth, lingering rather long
(once you have stopped your motor, nothing matters. If you're happy, you
are as reluctant to go on as you are to stop when going). Then, as they all
wished to travel by moonlight, I suggested that dinner also should be a
picnic. We bought food and drink at Honiton, and the country being
exquisite between there and Sidmouth, we soon found a moss-carpeted,
tree-roofed dining-room, fit for an emperor. Nearby glimmered a sheet of
blue-bells, like a blue underground lake that had broken through and
flooded the meadow. Ellaline said she would like to wash her face in it, as if
in a fairy cosmetic, to make her "beautiful forever." I really don't believe
she knows that would be superfluous trouble! And a fairy godmother has
given her the gift of song. I wish you could hear her sing, Pat. I have heard
her only once; but if I hadn't been a fool already, I'd have become one then,
beyond recall.

So we sat there, on the still, blue brink of twilight, till the moon rose red
as a molten helmet, and cooled to a silver bowl as she sailed higher,
dripping light. But tell me this: Would I think of such similes if I weren't
like a man who has eaten hasheesh and filled his brain with a fantastic
tumult—a magical vision of romance, such as his heart never knew in its
youth, never can know except in visions, now that youth has passed?
There's joy as well as pain in the vision, though, I can tell you, as there must
be in any mirage. And it was in a mirage of moonlight and mystery that we
took up our journey again, after that second picnic, swooping bird-like,
from hill to valley, on our way to the Knoll Park Hotel.

It's an historic place, by the way, with an interesting past—once it was a
country house belonging to an eccentric gentleman—and at present it is
extremely ornamental among its lawns and Lebanon cedars.

As for Sidmouth the town, you have but to enter it to feel that you are
walking in a quaint old coloured lithograph—one of the eighteenth-century
sort, you know, that the artist invariably dedicated, with extravagant
humility, to a marquis, if he didn't know a duke!

There's no architecture whatever. As far as that is concerned, children
might have built the original village of Sidmouth as they sat playing on the
beach; but the queer cottages, with their low brows of mouse-coloured
thatch, protruding amid absurd battlements, have a fantastic charm. They
are most engaging, with their rustic-framed bow-windows, like surprised-
looking eyes in spectacles; their green veranda-eyebrows, and their smiling,
yellow-stucco faces, with low foreheads. The house where Queen Victoria
stopped as a little girl is a great show place, of course, and is like a toy
flung down against a cushiony hillside, a battlemented doll's house,
forgotten by the child who let it fall, while big trees grew up and tried to
hide it.

Two cliffs has Sidmouth, and an innocent esplanade, and—that is about
all, except the toy town itself. But it's a place to stay in. A happy man would
never tire of it, I think. An unhappy one might prefer Brighton—or Monte
Carlo. I am neither one nor the other. So I prefer a motor-car. We are on the
wing again to-morrow.

I must now go to our sitting-room, which looks over the sea, and play a
rubber of bridge with Mrs. Senter, Emily, and Burden. Ellaline doesn't play.

Hope I haven't bored you with my Burden, and other complaints.

Yours ever,

Pen.

Later, August 2nd, Night

I have opened my letter again, to tell you what came of that rubber of
bridge.

I've lost—all the glamour. The reaction after the hasheesh has set in.

We didn't play long. Just that one rubber, and before we finished Ellaline
had taken her copy of "Lorna Doone" upstairs to her own room, without
interrupting our game for a good-night. She didn't think we saw her go; but
there were two of us who did. Burden was one of the two. I don't need to
tell you who the other fool was.

Mrs. Senter and I were partners, as we generally are, if there's any bridge
going in the evening. She's devoted to the game, and it's always she who
proposes it. I would generally prefer to fag up our route for next day with
guide-books and road-maps. But hosts, like beggars, can't be "choosers."

Well, to-night Emily and Burden had all the cards, and Burden wanted a
second rubber, but his aunt doesn't like losing her money to her nephew,
even though we play for childishly low stakes. She said she "knew that Mrs.
Norton was tired," and Emily didn't deny the soft impeachment, as she
plays bridge in the same way she would do district visiting during an
epidemic of measles—because it is her duty.

Dick had the latest French imitation of Sherlock Holmes to read, and a
box of Egyptian cigarettes to smoke (mine), which he evidently thinks too
young for me. Emily had some embroidery, which I seem to remember that
she began when I was a boy, and kept religiously to do in hotels. (But what
is there that my good sister does, which she does not do religiously?) Mrs.
Senter had nothing to amuse or occupy her—except your humble servant—
consequently she suggested a stroll in the garden before bedtime.

She was almost beautiful in the moonlight, quite ethereal-looking, and
her hair a nimbus for that small white face of hers; just as small, just as
white, and just as smooth as when those big eyes used to look up into our
eyes under an Indian moon. And she is always agreeable, always witty, or at
least "smart." Still, I must confess that I was ungallantly absent-minded
until something she said waked me up from a brown study.

"He really is a nice boy," she was saying, "and after all, it's a tribute to
your distinguished qualities that he should be afraid to speak to you."

I guessed at once that she must have been talking of her nephew.

"What is he afraid to say to me?" I enquired.

"Afraid to ask you for Miss Lethbridge," she explained.

I think just about that time an ugly black eyelid shut down over the
moon. Anyhow, the world darkened for me.

"Isn't it rather old-fashioned, in these rapid days, for a young man to ask
a guardian's permission to make love to his ward?" said I, savage as a
chained dog.

She laughed. "Oh, he hasn't waited for that to make love, I'm afraid," she
returned. "But he's afraid she won't accept him without your consent."

"He seems to be afraid of several things," I growled. "Afraid to speak to
me—afraid to speak to her."

"He is young, and love has made him modest," Mrs. Senter excused her
favourite. "He knows he isn't a grand parti. But if they care for each other?"

"I have seen no reason to believe that she cares for him," said I, thinking
myself (more or less) safe in the recollection of Ellaline's words at
Winchester. I told you about them, I think.

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Senter, "she cares enough, anyhow, to have entered
into a pact of some sort with the poor boy—a kind of understanding that, if
you approve, she may at least think of being engaged to him in the future."

"You are sure she has done that?" I asked, staggered by this statement,
which I was far from expecting.

"Quite sure, unless love (in the form of Dick) is deaf as well as blind. He
certainly flatters himself that they are on these terms."

"Since when?" I persisted. (By the by, I wonder if the inquisitors ever hit
on the ingenious plan of making prisoners torture themselves? Nothing
hurts worse than self-torture.)

"Only since Lulworth Cove, or you would have heard of it before. You
know when we came back from our walk, and saw them sitting on the
beach together, I said what a pretty picture they made?"

Naturally, I remembered extremely well.

"That was when they had their great scene. Dick begged me, as an old
friend of yours, to say a word when I found the chance. And I confess, I've
made the chance to-night. I do hope you won't think me impertinent and
interfering? I'm fond of Dick. He's about all I have to be fond of in the
world. And besides—just because I've never been happy myself, I want
others to be, while they're young, not to waste time."

I muttered something, I hardly know what, and she went on to talk to me
of her past, for the first time. Said she had married when little more than a
child, and had made the mistake of marrying a man she thought she could
manage to live happily with, instead of one she couldn't manage to live
happily without. That was all; but it had made all the difference—and if
Miss Lethbridge had given her first love to Dick——

I nearly said, "Hang first love!" but I held my tongue, fortunately, for of
course she meant well, and was only doing her best for her nephew. But
how anyone could love that fellow passes my understanding! Why, it seems
to me the creature's parents could hardly have loved him, unless he had had
something of the monstrous hypnotism, as well as the selfishness, of a
young cuckoo in its stolen nest. Yet the same hypnotism may influence
birds outside the nest, I suppose. That's the only way to account for an
infatuation on the part of Ellaline.

"If you are angry, Dick and I must go away," Mrs. Senter went on. "But
he couldn't help falling in love, and to me they seem made for each other."

I had to answer that of course I wasn't angry, but I thought any talk of
love premature, to say the least.

"You won't actually refuse your consent, then?" asked she.

"Much good my refusing would do, if the girl really cares!" said I. "I
shan't disinherit her, whatever she does."

Mrs. Senter laughed at that. "Why, even if you did," said she, "it
wouldn't matter greatly to them, because Dick has something of his own,
and she is an heiress, isn't she?"

Then—I don't know whether I was wrong or not—but I swear I made the
answer I did without any mean or selfish motives—if I can read my own
soul. If Burden were a fortune-hunter, I wanted to save her from him, that's
all. I told Mrs. Senter that Ellaline had very little money of her own. "I shall
look after her, of course," I said. "But the amount of the dot I may give will
be determined by circumstances."

I don't know that I mayn't have put this in a tactless way. Anyhow, Mrs.
Senter looked rather odd—hurt, or distressed, or something queer—I
couldn't make quite out. She said, nevertheless, that Dick did not care for
Miss Lethbridge's money. He had fallen in love with her the first time they
met. Nothing else mattered, as they would have enough to live on. But she
had supposed the girl almost too rich for Dick. Wasn't Ellaline a relation of
the millionaire family of Lethbridges? She had heard so.

I answered that the relationship was distant. That Ellaline's father had
once been a friend of mine, and that her mother had been my cousin, though
a French girl.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Senter, as if suddenly enlightened. "Is she—by any
chance—the daughter of a Frederic Lethbridge?"

What she recalled about Fred Lethbridge, I can't guess. She isn't old
enough to have known him, unless as a child or a very young girl. But she
certainly had some thought in connection with him which made her silent
and reflective. I hope I have done Ellaline no harm—in case the girl really
does care for Burden. I never had the intention of keeping her parentage
secret, though at the same time it would pain me to have any gossip reach
her. However, to do Mrs. Senter justice, I don't think she is a gossip. She
likes to say "smart" things, but so far as I have heard, she is never smart at

other people's expense. And since her confidences to me concerning her
past, I am sorry for the poor little woman.

Not much more passed between us on the subject of Ellaline and Dick,
except that I refused to recommend the young man to the girl's good graces.
I had to tell Mrs. Senter that, not even for the pleasure of pleasing her, could
I consent to do what she asked. But I did finally promise to let Ellaline
know that personally I had no objection to the alleged "understanding," if it
were for her happiness. Nevertheless, I would advise her that she must do
nothing rash. Mrs. Senter not only permitted, but actually suggested, this
extra clause; and our séance ended.

Some things are too strange not to be true; and I suppose this infatuation
of Ellaline's, if it exists, is one of them. And it must exist. There can be no
doubt of it, since Mrs. Senter has it from the boy—who apparently has it
from the girl.

What to make of it, however, that she told me only about ten days ago,
she didn't like him? Yet I am forgetting. We have it on good authority that
"'tis best to begin with a little aversion."

I ought to have known that a daughter of Ellaline de Nesville and
Frederic Lethbridge couldn't develop into the star-high being this girl has
seemed to me; and I must make the best of it that she's something less in
soul than, in my first burst of astonished admiration, I was inclined to
appraise her. After all, why feel bitter against people because they have
disappointing shortcomings, if not defects, instead of the dazzling virtues
that glittered in your imagination? Cream always rises to the top, yet we
don't think less of it because there's nothing but milk underneath.

Yes, if I find out that she likes this hypnotic cuckoo I mustn't despise her
for it. But I must find out as soon as I can. Suspense is the one unbearable
pain. And you are at liberty to laugh at me as I hope I shall soon be
laughing at myself.

L. P.

XV

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Osborne Hotel, Torquay,
August 6th

Ma Petite Minerve-de-Mere: A hundred and six and a half thanks for
your counsels and consolations. I needed both, and not a bit the less because
I'm not unhappy now. I'm violently happy. It won't last, but I love it—this
happiness. I keep it sitting on my shoulder and stroking its wings, so it
mayn't remember when it's time to fly away.

That letter I wrote you was silly. I was a regular cry-baby to write it. But
I'm so glad you answered quickly. I don't know how I should have borne it
if the man at the Poste Restante window had said: "Nothing for you, miss."
I might have responded with blows.

There was a letter from Ellaline, too. I'd sent her the "itinerary" as far as
I knew it, and Torquay was the last place on the list. I was wondering if
anything were the matter, but there isn't—though there is news. She waited
to write, she says, so that her plans might be decided and she could tell
them to me.

The military manœuvres go on; and the news has nothing directly to do
with the adored Honoré. But Ellaline has made a confidante—a Scotch girl
she has met. I don't mean she's told everything; far from that, apparently.
She has kept the fraudulent part, about me, secret, and only confided the
romantic part, about herself. What she says she has told is, that she's run
away from cruel persons who want to have all her money, and to prevent
her from having any happiness. That she's hiding till the man she's engaged
to can take her to Scotland and have a Scotch marriage—at Gretna Green, if
possible, because it would be romantic, and her mother was married there.
The Scotch girl, with northern coldness of reason, has pointed out that
Gretna Green is nowadays like any other place, but Ellaline is not weaned
from the idea. She appears to have fascinated her new friend (as she did her

old ones), in spite of the northern coldness, and has received a pressing
invitation to visit at the girl's house in Scotland until Honoré can claim her.

There is a mother, as well as a girl, but only a stepmother, and apparently
a detail; for the girl has the money and the strength of will. The two are
stopping in a pension near Madame de Blanchemain's house. The girl is a
Miss McNamarra, with freckles and no figure, but engaged to an officer,
and consequently sympathetic. She has advised Ellaline that, if she travels
from France to Scotland with Honoré, on the way to be married, he mayn't
respect her as much as if she had friends and chaperons, and a nice place to
wait for him. Ellaline is too French at heart not to feel that this advice is
good—though she adds in her letter that she, of course, trusts darling
Honoré completely;—so she has accepted the invitation.

The only trouble is, she wants more money at once. She must let golden
louis run through her fingers like water, for I sent her nearly all Sir Lionel
handed me before we started on the trip. I shall have to ask him for more,
and I'll hate doing that, because, though I shall be gone out of his life so
soon, I'm too vain and self-conscious (it must be that!) to like making a bad
impression on his mind while we're together.

I shan't hate it as much, however, as I should, supposing that something
which happened last night hadn't happened. I'm coming to that part
presently. It's the thing that's made me happy—the thing that won't last
long.

We left adorable little Sidmouth days ago—I almost forget how many,
coming as far as Exeter along a lovely road. But then, everything is lovely
in Devonshire. It is almost more beautiful than the New Forest, only so
different that, thank goodness, it isn't necessary to compare the two kinds of
scenery.

Perhaps Devonshire, stripped of its bold, red rocks, drained of its
brilliant blue sea, and despoiled of its dark moors, might be too sugary
sweet with its flower-draped cottages, and lanes like green-walled
conservatories; but it is so well balanced, with its intimate sweetnesses, and
its noble outlines. I think you are rather like Devonshire, you're so perfect,
and you are the most well-balanced person I was ever introduced to—

except Dad. I'm proud that his ancestors were Devonshire men. And oh, the
junket and Devonshire cream are even better than he used to tell me! I
haven't tasted the cider yet, because I can't bear to miss the cream at any
meal; and the chambermaid at Sidmouth warned me that they "didn't mix."

Bits of Devonshire are like Italy, I find. Not only is the earth deep red in
the meadows, where the farmers have torn open its green coat, and many of
the roads a pale rose-pink—dust and all—but lots of houses and cottages
are pink, a real Italian pink, so that whole villages blush as you look them in
the face. Sometimes, too, there's a blue or a green, or a golden-ochre house;
here and there a high, broken wall of rose or faded yellow, with torrential
geraniums boiling over the top. And the effect of this riot of colour, in
contrast with the silver gray of the velvety thatch, or lichen-jewelled slate
roofs, under great, cool trees, is even more beautiful than Italy. If all
England is a park, Devonshire is a queen's garden.

From Sidmouth we went to Budleigh Salterton (why either, but
especially both?), quaintly pretty, and rather Holland-like with its miniature
bridges and canal. Then to Exmouth, with its flowering "front," its tiny
"Maison Carrée" (which would remind one more of Nîmes if it had no bay
windows), and its exquisite view across silver river, and purple hills that
ripple away into faint lilac shadows in the distance. Then we struck inland,
to Exeter, and at Exeter we stopped two days, in the very oldest and
queerest but nicest hotel imaginable.

I wasn't so very happy there, because the Thing I'm going to tell you
about in good time hadn't happened yet. But I'm not sure that I wasn't more
in tune with Exeter than if I had been as happy as I am now. The scenery
here suits my joyous mood; and the grave tranquillity of the beautiful old
cathedral town calmed my spirit when I needed calm.

I've given up expecting to love any other cathedral as I loved
Winchester. Chichester I've half forgotten already—except some of the
tombs. Salisbury was far more beautiful, far more impressive in its
proportions than Winchester, yet to me not so impressive in other ways; and
Exeter Cathedral struck me at first sight as curiously low, almost squat. But
as soon as I lived down the first surprise of that effect I began to love it. The
stone of which the Cathedral is built may be cold and gray; but time and

carvings have made it solemn, not depressing. I stood a long time looking
up at the west front, not saying a word; but something in me was singing a
Te Deum. And how you would love the windows! You used always to say,
when we were in Italy and France, that it was beautiful windows which
made you love a cathedral or church, as beautiful eyes make one love a
face.

This Cathedral has unforgettable eyes, and a tremendously long history,
beginning as far back as nine hundred and something, when Athelstan came
to Exeter and drove out the poor British who thought it was theirs. He built
towns, founded a monastery in honour of Saint Mary and Saint Peter, not
having time, I suppose, to do one for each. And afterward the monastery
decided that it would be a cathedral instead. But two hundred and more
years earlier, that disagreeable St. Boniface, who disliked the Celts so
much, went to a Saxon school in Exeter! I wonder what going to school was
like when all the world was young?

I wandered into the Cathedral both mornings to hear the music; and
something about the dim, moonlit look of the interior made me feel good.
You will say that's rather a change for me, perhaps, because you tell me
reproachfully, sometimes, after I've thought about the people's hats and the
backs of their blouses in church, that I have only a bowing acquaintance
with religion. I don't know whether I mayn't be doing the most dreadful
wrong every minute by pretending to be Ellaline; but it was begun for a
good purpose, as you know, and you yourself consented. And though I have
twinges sometimes, I did feel good at Exeter. Oh, it did me heaps of good to
feel good! You have to live up to your feelings, if you feel like that. And I
prayed in the Cathedral. I prayed to be happy. Is that a wrong note for a
prayer? I don't believe it is, if it rings true. Anyway, it makes me feel young
and strong to pray, like Achilles, after he'd rolled on the earth. And I do feel
so young and strong just now, dear! I have to sing in my bath, and when I
look out of the window—also sometimes when I look in the glass, for it
seems to me that I am growing brighter and prettier.

I love to be pretty, because it's such a beautiful world, and to be pretty is
to be in the harmony of it. Though, perhaps—only perhaps, mind!—I'm
glad I'm not a regular beauty. It would be such a responsibility in the matter

of wearing one's clothes, and doing one's hair, and never getting tanned or
chapped.

And I love to be thin, and alive—alive, with my soul in proportion to my
body, like a hand in a glove, not like a seed in a big apple. But isn't this
funny talk, in the midst of describing Exeter? It's because of the reaction
from misery to ecstasy that I'm so bubbly. I can't stop; but luckily it didn't
come on in Exeter, because the delightful, queer old streets aren't at all
suitable to bubble in. It's impertinent to be excessively young there,
especially in the beautiful cathedral close, where it is so calm and dignified,
and the rooks, who are very, very old, do nothing but caw about their
ancestors. I think some curates ought to turn into rooks when they die. They
would be quite happy.

Our hotel, as I said, was fascinating, though Mrs. Norton fell once or
twice, as there were steps up and down everywhere, and Dick bumped his
forehead on a door. (I wasn't at all sorry for him.) Mrs. Senter said, if we'd
stopped long she would have got "cottage walk," and as she already had
motor-car face and bridge eye, she thought the combination would be trop
fort. If she weren't Dick's aunt, and if she weren't so determined to flirt with
Sir Lionel without his knowing what she's at, and if she didn't make little
cutting speeches to me when he isn't listening, I think I should find her
amusing.

The only things I didn't like at the hotel were the eggs; which looked so
nice, quite brown, and dated the morning you had them, on their shells, but
tasting mediæval. I wonder if eggs can be post-dated, like cheques? As for
the other eatables, there was very little taste in them, mediæval or
otherwise. I do think ice-cream, for instance, ought to taste like something,
if it's only hair oil. And the head waiter had such mournful-looking hair!

I never got a talk alone with Sir Lionel in Exeter, because though he
tried once or twice, with the air of having a painful duty to accomplish, I
was afraid he was going to ask me about Dick, and I just felt I couldn't bear
it, so avoided him, or instantly tacked myself on to Emily or someone. I
think Emily approves of my running to her, whenever threatened by man's
society, because she thinks the instinctive desire to be protected from
anything male is pretty and maidenly. She certainly belongs to the Stone

Age in some of her ideas; though her maxims are of a later period. Many of
them she draws (and quarters) from the Scriptures; at least, she attributes
them to the Scriptures, but I know some of them to be in Shakespeare. Lots
of people seem to make that mistake!

Of course, in the car I never talk to Sir Lionel, except a word flung over
shoulders now and then, for Mrs. Senter sits by him. She asked to. Did I tell
you that before? So the day we left Exeter things were just the same
between us; not trustful and silently happy, as at the time of the ring, but
rather strained, and vaguely official.

It had rained a little in Exeter, but the sky and landscape were clean-
washed and sparkling as we sailed over the pink road, past charming little
Starcross, with its big swan-boat and baby swan-boat; past Dawlish of the
crimson cliffs and deep, deep blue sea (if I were a Bluer—just as good a
word as Brewer!—I would buy Dawlish as an advertisement for my blue. It
seems made for that by Nature, and is so brilliant you'd never believe it was
true, on a poster); down a toboggan slide of a hill into Teignmouth, another
garden-town by the sea, and through one of England's many Newtons—
Newton Abbot, this time—to Torquay.

As we hadn't left Exeter until after luncheon, it was evening when we
arrived; but that, Sir Lionel said, was what he wanted, on account of the
lights in and on and above the water, which he wanted us to see as we came
to the town. He has been here before, long ago, as he has been at most of
the places; but he says that he enjoys and appreciates everything more now
than he did the first time.

It was like a dream!—a dream all the way from Newton Abbot, where
sunset began to turn the silver streak of river in the valley red as wine.
There was just one ugly interval: the long, dull street by which we entered
Torquay, with its tearing trams and common shops; but out of it we came
suddenly into a scene of enchantment. That really isn't too enthusiastic a
description, for in front of us lay the harbour; the water violet, flecked with
gold, the sky blazing still, coral-red to the zenith, where the moon drenched
the fire with a silver flood. The hills were deeper violet than the sea,
sparkling with lights that sprang out of the twilight; and on the smooth
water a hundred little white boats danced over their own reflections.

We begged Sir Lionel not to let Young Nick light our lamps, for they are
so fierce and powerful, they swallow up the beauty of the evening. But I do
think, where there are lots of motors about, it would be nice if people had to
be lighted at night, and especially dogs.

Now, at last, I have come to the Thing—the thing that makes me happy,
with a happiness all the more vivid because it can't last. But even if I fall to
the depths of misery once more, I shan't be a coward, and moan to you. It
must be horrid to get letter after letter, full of wails! I don't see how
Mademoiselle Julie de Lespinasse could write the letters she did; and I can't
much blame Monsieur de Guibert for dreading to read them, always in the
same key, and on the same note: "I suffer, I suffer. I want to die."

Well, I've kept you waiting long enough, or have you, perhaps, read
ahead? I should, in your place, though I hope you haven't.

We came to the Osborne because Sir Lionel knew and liked it, though
there's another hotel grander, and we usually go to the grandest (so odd, that
feels, after our travels, yours and mine, when our first thought was to search
out the cheapest place in any town!), and the Osborne has a terraced garden,
which runs down and down the cliffs, toward the sea, with a most alluring
view.

Mrs. Senter had luggage come to meet her here, and she appeared at
dinner in our private sitting-room looking quite startlingly handsome, in a
black chiffon dress embroidered in pale gold, exactly the colour of her hair.
The weather had turned rather cold, however, since the rain at Exeter, so,
gorgeous as the moonlight was, she wanted to stop indoors after dinner, and
proposed bridge, as usual.

That was the signal for me to slip away. I'd finished "Lorna Doone,"
which is the loveliest love story in the English language (except part of
"Richard Feverel"), so I thought I would go into the garden. I felt
moderately secure from Dick, because, even if he really is in love with me,
he is as much in love with bridge, and besides, he's afraid of his aunt, for
some reason or other. As for Sir Lionel, it didn't occur to me that he might
even want to come.

I strolled about at first, not far from the hotel. Then I was tempted farther
and farther down the cliff path, until I found a thatched summer-house,
where I sat and thought what a splendid, ornamental world it would be to
live in if one were quite happy.

By this time the sky and sea were bathed in moonlight, the stone pines—
so like Italian pines—black against a silver haze. In the dark water the path
of the moon lay, very broad and long, all made of great flakes of thick, deep
gold, as if the sea were paved with golden scales.

It was so lovely it saddened me, but I didn't want to go indoors; and
presently I heard footsteps on the path. I was afraid it was Dick, after all, as
he is horribly clever about finding out where one has gone—so detectivey
of him!—but in another second I smelt Sir Lionel's kind of cigarette smoke.
It would make me think of him if it were a hundred years from now! Still,
Dick borrows his cigarettes often, as he says they're too expensive to buy,
so I wasn't safe. Indeed, which ever it turned out to be, I wasn't safe,
because one might be silly, and the other might scold.

But it was Sir Lionel, and he saw me, although I made myself little and
stood in the shadow, not daring to sit down again, because the seat
squeaked.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked.

I answered that I was quite warm.

Then he said that it was a nice night, and we talked about the weather,
and all that idiotic sort of thing, which means empty brains or hearts too
full.

By and by, when I was beginning to feel as though I should scream if it
went on much longer, he stopped suddenly, in a conversation about fresh
fish, and said: "Ellaline, I think I must speak of something that's been on my
mind for some days."

He'd never called me "Ellaline" before, but only "you," and this gave me
rather a start, to begin with, so I said nothing. And, as it turned out, that was

probably the best thing I could have done. If I'd said anything, it would
have been the wrong thing, and then, perhaps, we should have started off
with a misunderstanding.

"I should hate to have you think me unsympathetic," he went on. "I'm
not. But—do you want to marry Dick Burden, some day?"

If he'd put it differently I might have hesitated what to answer, for I am
afraid of Dick, there's no use denying it—of course, mostly on Ellaline's
account, but a little on my own too, because I'm a coward, and don't want to
be disgraced. As it was, I couldn't hesitate, for the thought of marrying Dick
Burden would have been insupportable if it hadn't been ridiculous. So you
see, I forgot to dread what Dick might do if he heard, and just blurted out
the truth.

"I'd sooner go into a convent," said I.

"You mean that?" Sir Lionel pinned me down.

"I do," I repeated. "Could you imagine a girl wanting to marry Dick
Burden?"

"No, I couldn't," said Sir Lionel. And then he laughed—such a nice,
happy laugh, like a boy's, quite different from the way I have heard him
laugh lately—though at first, in London, he seemed young and light-
hearted. "But I'm no judge of the men—or boys—a girl might want to
marry. Dick's good-looking, or near it."

"Yes," I admitted. "So is your little chauffeur. But I don't want to marry
it."

"Are you flirting with Dick, then?" Sir Lionel asked, not sharply, but
almost wistfully.

I couldn't stand that. I had to tell the truth, no matter for to-morrow!

"I'm not flirting with him, either," I said.

"What then?"

"Nothing."

"But he seems to think there is something—something to hope."

"Did he tell you so?"

"No. He sent me word."

"Oh! Words get mixed, when they're sent. He knows I'm not flirting with
him."

"Does he know—forgive me—does he know that you don't love him—a
little?"

"He knows I don't love him at all."

"Then I—can't understand," said Sir Lionel.

"Would you like me to love him?" I couldn't help asking.

"No," he began, and stopped. "I should like you to be happy, in your own
way," he went on more slowly. "I've been at a loss, because a little while
ago you said you didn't like Burden, and then you seemed to change your
mind——"

"It was only seeming," I continued on my reckless course. "My mind
toward him stands where it did."

"If that is so, what have you done to him, to give him hope?"

"Nothing I could help," I said.

"There's a strange misunderstanding somewhere, apparently," Sir Lionel
reflected aloud.

"Oh, don't let there be one between us!" I begged, looking up at him
suddenly.

He put his hand out as suddenly, and grabbed—literally grabbed—mine.
I was so happy! Isn't it nice that men are so much stronger than women, and
that we're meant to like them to be? It can make life so interesting.

As his fingers pressed mine, I let mine press his too, and felt we were
friends. "By Jove, no, we won't," he said. And though it wasn't much to say,
nothing could have pleased me better. The words and the tone seemed to
match the close clasp of our hands.

"Would you be willing to trust me?" I asked.

"Of course. But in what way do you mean?"

"About Dick Burden. He doesn't think I'm flirting, and he doesn't think I
care for him. Yet I want you to trust me, and not say anything to him or to
his aunt. Let Dick and me fight it out between us."

He laughed again. "With all my heart, if you want to fight. But I won't
have you annoyed. If he annoys you he must go. I will get rid of him."

"Dick can't annoy me if he doesn't make trouble for me with you, Sir
Lionel," I said. (And that was the truth.) "Only, if you'll just trust me to
manage him?"

"You're very young to undertake the management of a man."

"Dick isn't a man. He's a boy."

"And you—are a child."

"I may seem a child to you," I said, "but I'm not. I'll be so happy, and I'll
thank you so much, if you'll just let things go on as they are for a little
while. You'll be glad afterward if you do."

And he will, when I've gone and Ellaline has come. He will be glad he
didn't give himself too much trouble on my account. But I'm not going to
think now of what his opinion of me may be then. At present he has a very
good, kind opinion. Even though I am a child in his eyes, I am a dear child;

and though it can't last, it does make me happy to be dear to him, in any
way at all—this terrible Dragon of Ellaline's.

But that isn't the end of our conversation. The real end was an anti-
climax, perhaps, but I liked it. For that matter, the tail of a comet's an anti-
climax.

It was only that, when we'd talked on, and he'd promised to trust me, and
leave the reins in my hands, while he attended solely to the steering of his
motor-car, I said: "Now we must go in. Mrs. Senter will be wanting to
finish her rubber." (I forgot to tell you that he explained she'd had a
telegram, and had been obliged to hurry and write a letter, to catch the last
post. That had stopped a game in the middle.)

"Oh, hang it all, I suppose she will!" he grumbled, more to himself than
to me, because, if he'd paused to think, he would have been too polite to
express himself so about a guest, whatever his feelings were. But that's why
I was pleased. He spoke impulsively, without thinking. Wasn't it a triumph,
that he would rather have stayed there in the garden, even with a "child,"
than hurry back to that radiant white-and-gold (and black) vision?

Now you know why I am so pleased with life.

All that happened last night, and to-day we have had "excursions," but
no "alarums." We (every one, not just he and I) have been to Kent's Cavern,
where prehistoric tigers' teeth grinned at us from the walls, and have taken a
walk to Babbicombe Bay, where we had tea. I think it was the loveliest path
I ever saw, that cliff way, with the gray rocks, and the blue sea into which
the sky had emptied itself, like a cup with a silver rim. And the wild flowers
—the little, dainty, pink-tipped daisies, which I couldn't bear to crush—and
the larks that sprang out of the grass! There are things that make you feel so
at home in England, dear. I think it is like no other country for that.

To-morrow we are to motor to Princetown, on Dartmoor—Eden
Phillpotts land—and are coming back to Torquay at night. If I have time I'll
write you a special Dartmoor letter, for I have an idea that I shall find the
moor wonderfully impressive. But we mayn't get back till late; and the day
after we are to start early in the morning for Sir Lionel's county, Cornwall.

Afterward we shall come back into another part of Devonshire, and see
Bideford and Exmoor. That's why I've been able to forget some of my
worries in "Westward Ho!" and "Lorna Doone" lately. But Sir Lionel can't
wait longer for Cornwall, and, so day-after-to-morrow night my eyes shall
look upon—only think of it—"dark Tintagel by the Cornish sea." That is,
we shall see it, Apollo permitting, for motors and men gang aft aglee.

This isn't apropos of Apollo's usual behaviour, but of the stories we've
been told concerning Dartmoor roads. They say—well, there's nothing to
worry about with Sir Lionel at the helm; but I shouldn't wonder if to-
morrow will be an adventure.

There, now, I'm sorry I said that. You may be anxious; but I can't scratch
it out, and it's nearly at the bottom of such a big sheet. So I'll wire to-
morrow night, when we get back, and you'll have the telegram before you
have this letter.

Your how-to-be-happy-though-undeserving,

But ever loving,

Audrie.

XVI

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Still Torquay, Ten Thirty,
August 7th

Dearest: I thought the moor would be impressive. It is overwhelming.
Oh, this Devonshire of my father's people is far from being all a land of
cream and roses!

Dartmoor has given me so many emotions that I am tired, but I must tell
you about it and them. When I shut my eyes, I see tors, like ruined watch-
towers, against the sky. And I see Princetown, grim and terrible.

No country can look its best on a map, no matter what colour be chosen
to express it; but I did like Dartmoor's rich brown, which set it apart from
the green parts of Devonshire. It took some time, though, even in a motor,
to come to the brown; for our road was fairy-like as far as Holne, Charles
Kingsley's birthplace. We got out there, of course, and looked at his
memorial window in the charming village church. At Holne Bridge I
thought of the beautiful way to the Grande Chartreuse; so you can imagine
it was far from sterile, although we were on the fringe of the moor. And ah,
what a lovely green fringe the brown moor wears! It is all trimmed round
the edge with woods, and glens, where the baby River Dart goes laughing
by. And there's a most romantic Lover's Leap, of course. Strange how so
many lovers, though of different countries, have all that same wild desire to
jump off something! If I were a lover I should much rather die a flat, neat
death.

We saw this Lover's Leap only at a distance when going toward the
moor, but coming back—however, I will tell you about it afterward, when I
come to Buckland Chase, on the way home.

It was at Holne that the big hills, of which we'd been warned, began; but
Apollo merely sniffs at gradients that make smaller, meaner motors grunt
with rage. We had a car behind us (which had started ahead), but it was

rather an ominous sign to see no "pneu" tracks in the white dust of the road
as we travelled. Other days, we have always had them to follow; and it
makes a motor feel at home to know that his brethren have come and gone
that way. This must have seemed to Apollo like isolation; and as if to
emphasize the sensation which we all shared, suddenly we began to smell
the moor.

I can't describe to you exactly what that smell was like, but we knew it
was the moor. The air became alive and life-giving. It tingled with a cold
breath of the north, and one thought of granite with the sun on it, and broom
in blossom, and coarse grass such as mountain-sheep love, though one saw
none of those things yet. The scenery was still gentle and friendly, and the
baby Dart was singing at the top of its voice. Really, it was almost a tune. I
felt, as I listened, that it would be easy to set it to music. The moss-covered
stones round which purled the clear water looked like the whole notes and
half notes, all ready to be pushed into place, so that the tune might "arrange
itself." And the amber brown of the stream was mottled with gold under the
surface, as if a sack full of sovereigns had been emptied into the river.

The first tor on our horizon was Sharp Tor, which the Dart evidently
feared. The poor little river disappeared at sight of it, hurrying away from
its frown, and as the stream vanished all the dainty charm of the landscape
fled, too. We saw the moor towering toward us, stern and barren, with that
great watch-tower of Nature's pinning it to the sky.

Moorland ponies raced to and fro, mad with the joy of some game they
were playing, and they were not afraid of us. I should think the live things
of the moor were afraid of nothing that could come to them out of the world
beyond, for that pungent air breathes "courage," and the gray granite,
breaking through the poor coat of grass, dares the eyes that look at it not to
be brave.

Near the moorland ponies—on Holne Moor—we came to the strangest
reservoir you could dream of. It was vast, and blue as a block fallen out of
the sky; and once, Sir Lionel said, it had been a lake, though now it gives
water to the prison town. An old road used to run through it; and to this day
you can see the bridge under water. The story is that strange forms cross
that bridge at night. I'm sure it's true, for anything could happen on the

moor, and of course it swarms with pixies. You believe that, don't you?
Well, anyway, you would if you saw the moor.

The next tor was nameless for us, but it was even finer than Sharp Tor.
After seeing Stonehenge I felt so certain it must be Druidical that it was
disappointing to hear it wasn't—that all such theories about the tors had
"exploded." Afterward there were lots of tors; and there were tin mines, too,
not far from our wild, desolate road—tin mines that have always been
worked, they say, since the days of the Phœnicians. I should have been
more interested in thinking about them, however, if we hadn't just then
begun gliding down a hill which, from the top, looked as if it might go
straight through to China. My toes felt as if they'd been done up in curl-
papers for years. But there was a savage joy in the creepiness of it, and
Apollo "chunk-chunked" sturdily down, in a nice, dependable way, toward
a lonely village, which I felt sure was entirely populated by Eden Phillpotts
people. He, and the other authors who write about the moor, invariably
make their leading characters have "primitive passions," so I thought
perhaps the faces of the moor folk would be wilder and stranger, and have
more meaning than other civilized faces. But all those I saw looked just like
everybody else, and I was so disappointed! They even dropped their "h's";
and once, when we stopped a moment at a place where Sir Lionel wasn't
sure of the way, I asked a boy on a rough pony the names of some trees we
had passed. "H'ash and green h'elm, miss," said he. It was a blow!

Toward eleven, the sun had drunk up the cold mist, and the moor basked
in heat. We were in an empty world, save for a cottage now and then, and a
Cyclopean wall of stones loosely piled one upon another. Yet this was the
main road from Ashburton to Princetown! Apollo glided along a desolate
white way between creamy and silver grasses artistically intermingled, and
burning, golden gorse, which caught the sun. The splendid, dignified
loneliness of the moor was like the retreat chosen by a hermit god! There
may be only twenty square miles of moor, but it feels like a hundred.

Hexworthy and the Forest Inn, which we came to in a valley, were
curiously Swiss, all but the ancient cross which made me think of Eden
Phillpotts's "American Prisoner." How can I say an "ancient" cross, though,
when the really old things on the moor began not only before Christ, but

before history—the stone circles, the cairns and the cromlechs, the kistvaen
and the barrows! The hut circles, where a forgotten people used to live, are
strewn in thousands over the moor, and cooking utensils are sometimes dug
up, even now; so you see, everything isn't discovered yet. The people hadn't
any metal to work with, poor creatures, until the Bronze Age, and they
clothed themselves in skins, which I suppose their dressmakers and tailors
made when the sheep and cows that wore them first had been cut up and
eaten. I wonder if girls were pretty in those days, or men handsome, and if
anyone cared? But I suppose knowing the difference between ugliness and
beauty is as old as Adam and Eve. If Eve hadn't been pretty, Adam wouldn't
have looked at her, but would have waited in the hope of something better.

The first sight of Princetown only intensified the loneliness of the moor,
somehow, partly because it loomed so gray and grim, partly, perhaps,
because we knew it to be a prison town. The dark buildings looked as much
a natural growth of the moor as those ruined temples on the horizon, which
were tors. It was almost impossible to believe that Plymouth was only
fifteen miles away. And the sombreness and gloom of the melancholy place
increased instead of diminished as we drew nearer to it, after leaving behind
us the pleasant oasis of Tor Bridge and its little hotel that anglers and
walkers love.

The prison settlement was stuck like a black vice-spot in the midst of
wide purity. Gloom hung over it in a pall, and stole the warmth from the
sunshine. What a town to name after a Prince Regent! and what a town to
have lunch in! Yet it was a singularly good lunch.

We ate it in a hotel built of gray stone, with gray stone colonnades,
which looked like an annex to the prison. There was meat pie, which one
expected to find smoking hot, and it gave quite a shock to find it not only
cold, but iced. There was a big, cool dining-room, all mysterious, creeping
shadows, and queer echoes when one dared to speak. And unless one did
speak the silence sent a chill through one's body, but it was an interesting
chill. Certainly the hotel was the strangest I ever saw; and the hotel dog was
like no other animal on land or sea. He appeared to be a mixture of brindled
bull and Irish terrier, with long side-whiskers on a bull-dog face. He was a

nightmare, but he loved Devonshire cream and junket, and ate them as if he
were a lamb.

We stayed a long time in Princetown, and then started to go home by a
different way. Out of a vast moorland tract we descended to Dartmoor
Bridge, the prettiest oasis in the wild desert of moor which we had seen yet.
But soon we were back in moorland again, with tors rising up to snatch at
heaven with their dark claws. Each one seemed different from all the rest,
just as people's faces are different in crowds. Some were like crests of
waves, petrified as they were ready to break; but the weirdest of all were
exactly like ruined forts of dwarfs. And presently the scenery changed again
in a kaleidoscopic way. We came to lovely Houndsgate, with a great, deep
wonder-valley far below us, only to return to a region of tors and bracken,
and to plunge down the most tremendous hill of all—a hill which was like
gliding down the glassy side of an ocean wave.

I had just exclaimed, "See, there's a motor ahead of us!" when an
extraordinary thing happened. The car going before us, very fast, suddenly
ran to the side of the steep road, stopped, some people jumped out, and at
the same instant a great flame spouted straight up toward the sky.

Not one of us said one word, except Emily, who squeaked, and cried,
"Oh, Lionel! we shall all be killed and burned up!"

Of course, Sir Lionel didn't answer. I would have given anything to be in
Mrs. Senter's place, sitting beside him, so that I could see his face, and
guess what he meant to do. But it was decided and done in a few seconds.
He took Apollo on a little farther, and then stopped as near the burning
motor as he dared, so that there might be no danger of our catching fire.
Before we could have counted "one, two," he had sprung from the car and
was running toward the fiery chariot, with Young Nick flying after him.
Dick Burden got down, too, and sauntered in their wake, but he didn't go
very fast.

It was so exciting and confusing that I scarcely understood at first what
was happening, but Sir Lionel tore off his coat as he ran, and flung it round
the woman from the other car. She had not been on fire when she jumped
out, but the grass and bushes close by the road had already begun to blaze,

and her dress had caught in the flame. She was tall and big, but Sir Lionel
lifted her up as if she'd been a child, and, wrapped in his coat, laid her down
at a little distance on the grass, where he rolled her over, and put out the
fire. Then, when she was on her feet again, panting and sobbing a little, he
and the other men began stamping out the flames playing among the low
bushes, lest they spread along the moor. As for the car, Sir Lionel said
afterward it was hopeless trying to save her, as there were gallons and
gallons of petrol to burn (it was her brakes that had got on fire, and ignited
the rest), and no sand or anything of that sort to throw on. But while we
were staring at the strange scene, the flames died down, having drunk up all
the petrol; and whether some part of the mechanism which held the red-hot
brakes in place gave way suddenly, I don't know. All I do know is, that the
car quivered, moved forward, began running down the tremendous hill,
faster and faster, until, with a wild bound, she disappeared from our sight
over a precipice.

By this time we were all out, except Emily, hurrying down the hill, to
talk to the people who had lost their car; but would you believe it, they
hardly cared for their loss, now they were out of danger? It was a bride and
groom, with their chauffeur, and they were Americans, staying at the
Imperial, in Torquay. The bridegroom was elderly but humorous, and told
us he used to hate motors and kept tortoises for pets, because he liked
everything that moved slowly, all his ancestors having come from
Philadelphia. But the girl he loved wouldn't marry him unless he promised
to take her to England on an automobile trip. Now he hoped she had had
enough, and would let him go back to tortoises again.

He said he had never enjoyed anything so much as seeing the car's red-
hot skeleton jump over the precipice, where it could not hurt anyone, but
would just fall quietly to pieces on the rocks.

The bride was great fun, too, and as she comes from St. Louis, it is not
likely she will cultivate tortoises. When we took them all three back to
Torquay with us, squashed in anyhow, she talked about running over to
Paris and buying a balloon or an aeroplane! We came by way of the
Buckland Chase, as it is called—private property; and an elfin glen of
beauty, for mile after mile, with the Dart singing below, and the Lover's

Leap so close that it seemed painfully realistic—especially after the
adventure of the car which leaped into space.

Sir Lionel got his coat burnt, and his hands a little, too; but he would
drive, though Young Nick might have done so as well as not.

After all we shan't get to Cornwall to-morrow! Sir Lionel says it would
be a crime to leave this part of the world without going up the Dart (the
"Rhine of England") in a boat, and seeing the beautiful old Butter Market at
Dartmouth.

I shall send you postcards from there, if I have the chance, for it's very
historic. It will be Cornwall the day after, but I shall have to wire my next
address.

With all the love of

Your Moorland Princess.

P. S. You ought to have seen Emily and Mrs. Senter fussing over Sir
Lionel when he burnt his hands! He hates being fussed over, and was
almost cross, until our eyes happened to meet, and then we both smiled.
That seemed to make him good-natured again. And he is wonderfully
patient with his sister, really.

XVII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN,
AT GLEN LACHLAN, N. B.

White Hart Hotel, Launceston,
Cornwall,
Aug. 10th

My Dear Sis: It came off all right. My things usually do, don't they?
With some women, it is only their lip-salve and face powder that come off.
With me, it is plans. Luckily I inherited mamma's genius for high
diplomacy, while you, alas, only came in for her rheumatism. And by the
way, how are your poor dear bones? Not devilled, I hope? Do forgive the
cheap wit. I am obliged to save my best things for Sir Lionel. He
appreciates them highly, which is one comfort; but it is rather a strain living
up to him (though I do think it will pay in the end), and in intercourse with
my family I must be allowed to rest my brain. When everything is settled,
one way or the other, my features, also, shall have repose. To keep young,
every woman ought to go into retirement for at least one month out of the
twelve, a fortnight at a time, perhaps, and do nothing but eat and sleep, see
nobody, talk to nobody, think of nothing, and especially not smile. If one
followed that regime religiously, with or without prayer and fasting, one
need never have crow's-feet.

Of course, with you it is different. You have now decided to live for
Dick, and let your waist measure look after itself; but I have larger aims and
fewer years than you, dearest. My conception of self-respecting widowhood
is to be as young as possible, as attractive as possible, as rich as possible,
and eventually to read my title clear to (at least) a baronet, and have a castle
in a good hunting county. There are difficulties in my upward way, yet I feel
strongly I shall overcome them. Let my motto be, "The battle to the smart,
and the situation to the pretty." Why shouldn't I triumph on both counts?
The ward, to be sure, is pretty, and is in the situation; but she doesn't know
her own advantages, and I'm not sure she would marry Sir Lionel if he
asked her; which at present he apparently has no intention of doing,

although he admires her more warmly than either Dick or I think advisable
in a guardian.

Since I wrote you last, just before starting on this motor match-making
venture of ours, there have been several new developments. I don't know
whether you are any deeper in Dick's confidence, in this affair, than I am
(though I fancy not), but I scent a mystery. Dick really has detective talent,
dear Sis, and if I were you, I shouldn't oppose his setting up as a sort of art
nouveau Sherlock Holmes. Whether he has found out about some schoolgirl
peccadillo of Miss Lethbridge's, and is dangling it over her head, Damocles
sword fashion, I can't tell, because he won't tell; though he looks
offensively wise when I tease him, and I have tried in vain, on my own
account, to discover. But certain it is that he is either blackmailing her in a
milk-and-water way, or hypnotizing her to obey his orders.

He hinted, you know, that he could get the girl to make Sir Lionel invite
us to join the motoring party; but I supposed then that she had a weakness
of the heart where my dear nephew was concerned. Now, my opinion is that
she dislikes, yet fears him. Not very complimentary to Dick, but he doesn't
seem to mind, and is enjoying himself immensely in his own deliciously,
impertinently, perky way. Somehow or other he has induced her to be more
or less engaged to him, a temporary arrangement, I understand, but pleasing
to him and convenient to me. What Dick gets out of it, I don't know, and
don't enquire; but I get out of it the satisfaction of "shelving" the girl as a
possible rival.

Sir Lionel, who (it's useless to spare your motherly vanity!) has no very
warm appreciation of Dick's qualities, is disgusted with his ward for
encouraging D.'s advances, and is inclined to turn to me for sympathy. In
that branch I am a great success, and altogether am getting on like a house
afire. What if I do have to pump up an intelligent interest in politics in
general, and affairs in the Far East in particular? I am fortunately so
constituted that fifteen minutes' study of the Times, washed down by early
tea (taken strong), enables me to discourse brilliantly on the deepest
subjects during the day; and, thank goodness, virtue is rewarded in the
evening with a little bridge. If I am ever Lady Pendragon (sounds well,
doesn't it?) it shall be all bridge and skittles, for me—and devil take politics,

military science, history, the classics, Herbert Spencer, Robert Browning,
Shakespeare, and all other boring or out-of-date things and writers (if he
hasn't already taken them) on which I am now obliged to keep up a sort of
Maxim-fire of conversation.

As to Dick's affairs, however, if the girl really is the heiress we thought
her, I shall be only too glad to use my influence in every direction at once,
to make the temporary arrangement a permanent one. But the worst of it is,
I'm not at all sure that she is any sort of an heiress.

Sir Lionel intimated to me the other night, when I was tactfully tickling
him with hints, that she has little except what he may choose to give her. If
that be true, I fear as Mrs. Dick her dot will not be large; but it strikes me as
very probable that he was only trying to put me off—or rather, to put Dick
off, if Dick were fortune-hunting. I don't know whether to believe his
version or not, therefore; but I did get at one fact which may help us to find
out for ourselves. Dear Ellaline is a daughter of Frederic Lethbridge. It was
rather a shock to hear this, for I have a vague impression that there was
once a scandal, quite a ripe, juicy scandal, about a Frederic Lethbridge. Can
it have been this Frederic Lethbridge, and if so, had it anything to do with
money matters?

I haven't mentioned my doubts to Dick, because he really is idiotically in
love with the girl, and is capable of foolishness. I intend to let him go on as
he is going for the present, as he can do himself no harm, and can do me a
great deal of good, by keeping his darling out of my way and Sir Lionel's
thoughts. But of course, he mustn't be allowed to marry her if she has
nothing of her own. Sir Lionel is rich, but not rich enough to make his ward
rich enough for Dick, and keep plenty for his wife—when he gets one—if
she be anything like me.

Your dear hostess, who would by this time be my hostess if I weren't
otherwise engaged, knows everything and everybody. Not only that, she has
done both for a considerable term of years. You remember the joke about
her being torn between the desire not to exceed the age of forty-five and yet
to boast a friendship with Lord Beaconsfield? Well, she can have known
Frederic Lethbridge, and all about him, without being a day over forty, as
that is Sir Lionel's age, and Mrs. Lethbridge was a distant relative of his.

Tell Lady MacRae that. Say that the Frederic Lethbridge you are
inquiring about married a Miss de Nesville, and that there is a daughter in
existence, a girl of nineteen. If Lady Mac doesn't know anything, get her to
ask her friends; but do hurry up for Dick's sake, there's a dear, otherwise I
shan't be able to pull the strings as you would like me to; and already my
sweet nerves are jangled, out of tune. Dear Lady Mac is so adorably frank,
when she has something disagreeable to say, that you'll have no difficulty in
ferreting out the truth—if it's anything nasty. For most reasons I hope it
isn't, as a rich girl would be a valuable bird in the hand for Dick; and I am
on the spot to see his affairs as well as my own through, whatever happens.

For my part, if Sir Lionel weren't up to such a fatiguingly high level of
intelligence, I believe I could fall in love with him. He may be descended
from King Arthur, but he looks more like Lancelot, and I fancy might make
love rather nicely, once he let himself go. Although it's long since he did
any soldiering, he shows that he was a soldier, born, not made. He has
improved, if anything, since we knew him in India, but I remember you
used to be quite afraid of having to talk to him then, and preferred Colonel
O'Hagan, whom you thought jolly and good-natured, though, somehow, I
never got on with him very well. I always had the feeling he was trying to
read me, and I do dislike that sort of thing in a man. It ruins human
intercourse, and takes away all natural desire to flirt.

You ask me how I endure Emily Norton. Well, as I sit beside Sir Lionel
in the car, I don't need to bother with her much in the daytime. She hates
bridge, and thinks playing for money wrong in most circumstances, but
considers it her duty to please her brother's guests; and as she never wins,
anyhow, it needn't affect her conscience. I tell her that I always give my
winnings to charity, and didn't think it necessary to add that, to my idea,
charity should not only begin at home, but end there, unless its resources
were unlimited. The poor, dull thing has that kind of self-conscious religion
that sends her soul trotting every other minute to look in the glass, and see
that it hasn't smudged itself. So trying! Once she asked me what I did for
my soul? I longed to tell her I took cod-liver oil, or Somebody's Fruit Salt,
but didn't dare, on account of Sir Lionel. And she has such a conceited way
of saying, when speaking of the future: "If the Lord spares me till next year,

I will do so and so." As if He were in immediate need of her, but might be
induced to get on without her for a short time!

One would know, by the way she screws up her hair, that she could
never have felt a temptation. But I shall not let myself be troubled much
with her if I marry Sir Lionel. She can go back to her doctor and her
curates, and be invited for Christmas to Graylees, which, by the way, I hope
to inspect when we have finished this tour.

I am looking quite lovely in my motoring things, and enjoying myself
very much, on the whole.

Devonshire I found too hot for this time of the year, but the scenery is
pretty. I had no idea what a jolly little river the Dart is; and Dartmouth is
rather quaint. For those who are keen on old things, I suppose the Butter
Market would be interesting; but I can't really see why, because things
happened in certain places hundreds of years ago, one should stand and
stare at walls or windows, or fireplaces. The things must have happened
somewhere! Although Charles the Second, for instance, may have been
great fun to know, and one would have enjoyed flirting with him, now that
he's been dead and out of reach for ages, he's of no importance to me.

We left Torquay yesterday, and arrived here in the evening, after a hilly
but nice run, and lunching at Plymouth. Of course, a lot of nonsense was
talked about Sir Francis Drake. One almost forgets what the old boy did,
except to play bowls or something; but I have a way of seeming to know
things, for which I deserve more credit than anyone (save you) would
guess. When they were not jabbering about him at lunch, it was about the
Mayflower, which apparently sailed from Plymouth for the purpose of
supplying Americans with ancestors. I never met any Americans yet, except
the kind who boast of having begun as shoeblacks, whose great-great-
grand-parents didn't cross in the Mayflower. It must have been a huge ship,
or else a lot of the ancestors went in the steerage, or were stewards or
stowaways.

There was a ferry, getting from Devonshire into Cornwall, so of course
we just missed a boat and had to wait half an hour. I was dying to go to
sleep, but the others were as chirpy as possible, gabbling Cornish legends.

When I say the "others," I mean Sir Lionel and Ellaline Lethbridge. I didn't
know any legends, but I made up several on the spur of the moment, much
more exciting than theirs, and that pleased Sir Lionel, as he is a
Cornishman. Heavens, how I did take it out of myself admiring his native
land when we'd got across that ferry! Said the scenery was quite different
from that of Devonshire, at the first go off; and I'm not sure there weren't
differences. The road coming toward Launceston really was romantic; rock-
walled part of the way, with a lot of pink and yellow lichen; and again, fine
open spaces with distant blue downs against a sky which looked, as I
remarked to Sir Lionel, as if the gods had poured a libation of golden wine
over it. Not bad, that, was it? I believe we passed an Arthurian battle-field,
which naturally interested him immensely, therefore had to interest poor
me! He seems to think there actually was an Arthur, and was quite pleased
with me for saying that all the Cornish names of places rang with romance
like fairy bells sounding from under the sea—perhaps from Atlantis.
Anyhow, they're a relief after such Devonshire horrors as Meavy and Hoo
Meavy, which are like the lisping of babies. Sir Lionel thought the
"derivations" of such names an absorbing subject! But living in the East so
long has made him quixotically patriotic.

Here and there we passed a whole villageful of white-washed cottages,
with purplish-brown moss covering their roofs—rather picturesque; and
some of the slate-roofed, stone houses are nice in their way, too; I suppose
distinctively Cornish. Not that I care! I'm glad Graylees Castle isn't in
Cornwall, which is much too far from town.

There were some mine-shafts about, to mar the scenery, toward the end
of the journey, and the road surface was bad compared to what we've had. If
the car weren't a very good one, we should have suffered from the bumps.
Ellaline Lethbridge, by the way, said something about Cornwall which
puzzled me. Suddenly she exclaimed: "Why, the atmosphere here is like
Spain! Everything swims in a sea of coloured lights!" I thought she'd spent
all her life at school in France, and I mentioned the impression, upon which
she replied, with an air of being taken aback: "I mean, from what I have
heard of Spain." Can she have had an escapade, I wonder? But that is
Dick's business, not mine—at present.

There's a castle in Launceston, which has kept us over to-day, as Sir
Lionel has been in these parts before, and can't rest unless we see
everything he admired in his youth. I wish he hadn't seen so much, there'd
be less for us to do. I hate pottering about, seeing sights in the rain, and it
has been trying to rain all day. It's well enough to say that the rain rains
alike on the just and the unjust, but that is not true, as some women's hair
curls naturally. Ellaline's does, and mine doesn't—except the part I owe for
at Truefitt's.

It's an old hotel that we're in, quite pleased to show its age; and I have
made rather a beast of myself with some sort of Cornish pasty, which, it
seems, is a local favourite, and spoils the peasants' teeth. Cornish cream is
good, and, I understand from Sir Lionel, was invented by the Phœnicians. I
suppose they drowned their sorrows in it while working in the tin mines one
always associates with them.

We go to Tintagel to-morrow, and do some other Cornish things, I don't
know what. But write to me at Bideford, as we shall be back in Devonshire
in a few days on our way—I fancy—toward Wales. I long to hear what you
or Lady Mac may have up your sleeves about the dear Ellaline's papa.

Ever your affectionate

Gwen.

Dick sends his love, and will write.

XVIII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN

King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel,
Aug. 12th

My Dear Sis: I'm sorry I told you to write to Bideford, as we're stopping
at this place several days, and I might have had your answer here. However,
it's too late now, as by this time your letter is in the post, perhaps, and we
may or may not leave to-morrow. I think I can be pretty sure your wire to
Dick means that you'd heard from me, and that the news for him is not
favourable. If he guessed that I'd been questioning you about the eligibility
of his girl, frankly I doubt if he'd have swallowed the bait of your telegram.
Even as it was he seemed restive, and didn't yearn to be packed off to
Scotland, even for a few days. However, he'd committed himself by reading
your message aloud, before he stopped to think; and when Sir Lionel and
Ellaline had learned that you were ill, and wanted him, they would have
been shocked if he'd refused to go. I comforted him by promising to sow
strife between ward and guardian, as often and diligently as possible, until
he can get back to look after his own interests, and I shall do my best to
keep the promise—not for Dick's sake alone.

He was off within an hour after the telegram, a little sulky, but not too
worried, as he has the faith engendered by experience in your recuperative
powers. I, naturally, worry still less, as I have a clue to the mystery of your
attack which Dick doesn't possess. I quite believe that by the time he
reaches your side it will no longer be a bedside, but a sofaside; that you'll be
able to smile, hold Dick's hand, and replace Benger's Food with slices of
partridge and sips of champagne. By the way, this is the glorious Twelfth. It
does seem odd and frumpish not to be in Scotland, but motoring covers a
multitude of social sins. Not a word has been said about birds. Our sporting
talk is of mufflers, pinions, water-cooled brakes, and chainless drives.

The Tyndals have turned up at this hotel, more gorgeous and more bored
than ever, but they have taken a fancy to Ellaline Lethbridge, and I am
playing it for all it's worth. It comes in handy at the moment, and I have no

conscientious scruples against using millionaires for pawns. They have an
impossibly luxurious motorcar. Sir Lionel thinks it vulgar, but they are
pleased with it, as it's still a new toy. I have been making a nice little plan
for them, which concerns Ellaline. None of them know it yet, but they will
soon, and if it had been invented to please Dick (which it wasn't entirely) it
couldn't suit him better. You may tell him that, if by any chance he's with
you still when you get this.

My mind is busy working the plan out, so that there may be no hitch, but
a few unoccupied corners of my brain are wondering what you have
discovered about Miss Lethbridge's prospects and antecedents; how, if both
are very undesirable, you intend to persuade Dick to let her drop. If I were
you I wouldn't waste arguments. Retain him a few days if you can, though I
fear the only way to do so is to have a fit. I believe that can be arranged by
eating soap and frothing at the mouth, which produces a striking effect, and,
though slightly disagreeable, isn't dangerous. But seriously, if he refuses to
hear reason, don't worry. I am on the spot to snatch him at the last moment
from the mouth of the lionness, provided she opens it wide enough to
swallow him.

Your ever useful and affectionate
sister,

Gwen.

P. S. The Tyndals have got a cousin of George's with them, a budding
millionaire from Eton, who has fallen in love at sight with the Lethbridge.
But even Dick can't be jealous of childhood, and it may be helpful.

Taking everything together, I am enjoying myself here, though I'm
impatient to get your letter. Cornwall agrees with Sir Lionel's disposition,
and he is being delightful to everyone. I think while he is in the right mood
I shall repeat to him what a sad failure my marriage was, and how little I
really care for gaiety; "Society my lover, solitude my husband," sort of
thing. He is the kind of man to like that, and the sweet, soft air of Cornwall
is conducive to credulity.

XIX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel,
August 12th

Most Dear and Sovran Lady: I call you that because I've just been
reading Sir Thomas Malory's "Le Morte d'Arthur" (is that Old French
spelling?), and because the style of address seems suitable to King Arthur's
Castle—which isn't really his castle, you know, but an hotel. I thought it
was the castle, though, when I first saw it standing up gray and massive on
an imposing hill. I supposed it had been restored, and was rather
disappointed to find it an hotel—though it's very jolly to live in, with all the
latest feudal improvements and fittings, and King Arthur's Round Table in
the enormous entrance-hall.

Sir Lionel wouldn't let Mrs. Senter laugh at me for thinking it the real
castle, but said it was a natural mistake for a girl who had spent all her life
in a French school—and how should I know the difference? I was grateful
to him, for though I love to have some people laugh at me she isn't one of
those people. She laughs in that sniffy way cats have.

The real castle I can see from my own feudal, castellated balcony. It is
beautifully ruined; but you can go into it, and I have been. Only I want to
tell you about other things first.

In my short note from Launceston, did I mention the old Norman house
which belongs to cousins of Sir Lionel's? He used to visit there, and poke
about in the castle, which was Godwin's and Harold's before the Conquest.
But the nicest cousins are dead and the rest are away, so we could only see
the outside of the house. However, we went to call at an ancient stone
cottage of the colour of petrified wallflowers, to see a servant who took care
of Sir Lionel when he was a child. A wonderful old wisp of a thing, with the
reputation of being a witch, which wins her great respect; and she used
quaint Cornish words that have come down from generation to generation,
ever since the early Celts, without changing. When Sir Lionel sympathized

with her about her husband's death, she said it was a grief, but he'd been a
sad invalid, and a "good bit in the way of the oven" for several years.

In Sir Lionel's county, Cornwall

On the way to Tintagel from Launceston we passed Slaughter Bridge,
one of the many places where legend says King Arthur fought his last
battle. So that was a good entrance to Arthurian country, wasn't it? Our road
cut huge, rolling downs in two, and they surged up on either side, so it was
rather like the passage through the Red Sea. And under a sky that hung over
us like an illimitable bluebell, we saw our first Cornish mountains, Rough
Tor and Brown Willy. Names of that sort make you feel at home with
mountains at once, as if you'd known them all your life, and might lead
them about with a string. But they are only corruptions of old Celtic names
that nobody could possibly pronounce; and nearly everything seems more
or less Celtic in Cornwall, especially eyes. They are beautiful gray-blue,
with their black lashes as long on the lower as on the upper lid, and look as
if they had been "rubbed in with a dirty finger." Now I see that Sir Lionel's
eyes are Celtic. I didn't know quite how to account for them at first. He has
a temper, I think, and could be severe; but he says the Cornish people are so
good-hearted that if you ask them the way anywhere, they tell you the one
they think you would prefer to take, whether it's really right or not. But I'm
glad he is not so easy going as that.

It was exciting to wheel into a little road like a lane, marked "Tintagel"!
I felt my copy of "Le Morte d'Arthur" turning in my hand, like a water-
diviner's rod. We took the lane to avoid a tremendous hill, because hills give
Mrs. Norton the "creeps" in her feet and back hair, and she never recovers
until she has had tea. But it was a charming lane, with views by and by of
wide, purple moorland, sunset-red with new heather; and the sky had turned
from bluebell azure to green and rose, in a wonderful, chameleon way,
which it seems that the sky has in Cornwall. I suppose it was a Celtic habit!
All about us billowed a profusion of wild beauty; and though for a long
time there was nothing alive in sight except a flock of bright pink sheep, my
stage-managing fancy called up knights of the round table, "pricking" o'er
the downs on their panoplied steeds to the rescue of fair, distressed damsels.
And the bright mirrors which the fleeting rain had dropped along the road
were the knights' polished shields, laid down to save the ladies from wetting
the points of their jewelled slippers.

Then came my first sight of the Cornish sea, deep hyacinth, with golden
sails scattered upon it, and Arthur's cliffs rising dark out of its satin sheen.

Beyond, in the background, gray houses and cottages grouped together, the
stone and slates worn shiny with age, like very old marble, so that they
reflected glints of colour from the rose and violet sky.

By the time I was dressed for dinner it was sunset, and I went to sit on
the terrace and watch the splendid cloud pageant. I seemed to be the only
one of our party who had come down yet, though, to tell the whole, whole
truth, I had had a sneaking idea Sir Lionel would perhaps be strolling about
with a cigarette, looking nice and slim, and young, and soldierly in his
dinner jacket. He is nicer to look at in that than in almost anything else, I
think, as most Englishmen are.

He wasn't there, however, so I had to admire his Cornish sunset without
him. And I had such fine thoughts about it, too!—at least they seemed fine
to me; and if I weren't quite a congenial friend of my own it would have
seemed a waste of good material to lavish them on myself alone.

I saw through the open door of the sunset, into Arthur's kingdom, where
he still rules, you know, and is lord of all. The whole west was a Field-of-
the-Cloth-of-Gold, and across the blaze of golden glory rode dark shapes of
cloud, purple and crimson, violet and black. They were Arthur's knights
tilting in tournament, while the Queen of Beauty and her attendant ladies
looked on. Now and then, as I watched, a knight fell, and a horse tore away
riderless, his gold-'broidered trappings floating on the wind. When this
happened, out of the illumined sea would writhe a glittering dragon, or
scaly heraldic beast, to prance or fly along the horizon after the vanishing
charger of the fallen knight. Sometimes the rushing steed would swim to a
fairy island or siren-rock that floated silver-pale on the shining water, or
jutted dark out of a creamy line of breakers; and though I knew that the
knights and ladies and wondrous animals were but inhabitants of Sunset
Kingdom, Limited, and that the glimmering islands and jagged rocks would
dissolve by and by into cloud-wreaths, they all looked as real as the long
tongue of land beyond which North Devon crouched hiding. And the colour
flamed so fiercely in the sky that I was half afraid the sun must be on fire.

As I sat there watching the last of the knights ride away, three people
came out of the hotel and stood on the terrace. I just gave them one glance,

and went back to the sunset, but somehow I got the feeling that they were
looking at me, and talking about me.

Presently they began to walk up and down, and as they passed in front of
my seat, they turned an interested gaze upon me. All I had known about
them until then was that they were a trio: a man, a woman, and a boy, with
conventional backs; but as they turned, I recognized the man and the
woman.

You would never guess who they were, so I'll tell you. Do you remember
the people for whom you talked Italian at Venice four years and a half ago,
the day we arrived, and there was a strike, and no porters to carry anybody's
luggage? Well, here they were at Tintagel! I was perfectly certain of this in
an instant, and I realized why they were so interested in me. They thought
they had seen me before, but perhaps were not sure.

Anyway, they walked on, and only the boy looked back. He was dressed
in Eton clothes, and was exactly like all other boys, except that he had
mischievous eyes and a bored mouth—almost as dangerous a combination
in a boy, I should think, as a box of matches and a barrel of gunpowder.

I thought that he was probably their son, and that, as he had nothing
better to do, he was wondering about me. I would have given a lot to know
what they were saying, and whether Venice was in their minds or not, but I
could do nothing except hope they might not place me mentally. I wouldn't
get up and go in, because that would have been too cowardly; and besides,
if they were staying in the hotel, I should certainly run up against them
afterward.

I had just decided to face it out, and had put on a forbidding expression,
when along came Sir Lionel, so I had to take off the expression and fold it
away for future emergencies. He was smoking one of those cigarettes which
go so well with sunsets, and he had seen the King Arthur sky-tournament
from the other side of the house. He said he had not supposed I should be
down so soon, but was hoping that I hadn't missed the show, wherever I
was. He threw away his cigarette—which is one of his old-fashioned tricks
if he sees a woman, never even waiting to know if she minds—and asked if
he might sit on the seat by me. That was old-fashioned, too, wasn't it? The

Dick Burdens of the world plump themselves down by girls without
worrying to get permission. They think female things will be too flattered
for words, by a condescending male desire to be near them.

I told you how nice Sir Lionel looks in evening clothes, didn't I? You've
no idea what a perfect shape his head is; and a large lake of white shirt
under a little black silk bow is particularly becoming to a clean-shaven man
with a very tanned skin—though I don't know why. One would think it
might have the opposite effect. And Sir Lionel does tie his necktie so nicely,
with a kind of careless precision which comes right of itself, like everything
he does. (You will think all this is silly, and it is; but I keep noticing things
about him, and liking them, so I tell you, because I may have prejudiced
you against him at first, as Ellaline prejudiced me.)

We were beginning to have a good talk about Cornwall, and quaint
Cornish ways and superstitions, when out of the house came Mrs. Senter.
The Venice people had just passed again, and were near the hotel door as
she appeared.

"Why, Sallie and George!" she exclaimed.

And "Why, Gwen!" the Venice lady answered.

They shook hands, the boy and all, and though Sir Lionel didn't pay
much attention to what was going on, I couldn't keep up our conversation.
"Suppose they tell Mrs. Senter they met me in Venice!" I said to myself.
"What shall I do?"

Out of one corner of my eye I saw that they did speak of me, and she
threw a quick, eager glance in my direction. A minute or two later they all
strolled on together, until they had come in front of our seat. There Mrs.
Senter paused, and said, "Sir Lionel, these are my friends, Mr. and Mrs.
Tyndal, of whom I think I must have spoken to you, and this is their cousin,
Mr. Tom Tyndal. They are touring in their motor, and arrived here this
afternoon, a little before us. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?" And then, as if on
second thoughts, she added me to the introduction.

"Quite a coincidence," indeed! It never rains, but it pours coincidences,
on any head that is developing a criminal record.

The Tyndals paid Sir Lionel compliments, and seemed to be delighted to
meet him, evidently regarding him as a great celebrity, which, I suppose, he
really is. Then, when they had made him sufficiently uncomfortable
(compliments are to him what a sudden plague of locusts would be to most
men), they turned to me.

"Surely we have met before, Miss Lethbridge?" remarked Mrs. Tyndal.
And you ought to have seen how Mrs. Senter's features sharpened, as she
waited for me to stammer or blush.

As far as the blush was concerned, she had her money's worth; and I
only didn't stammer because I was obliged to stop and think before
replying. I almost worshipped Sir Lionel when he answered for me, in a
quick, positive way he has, which there seems no gainsaying. I suppose
men who live in the East cultivate that, as it keeps natives from arguing and
answering back.

"Impossible," said he, "unless it was at Versailles, where my ward has
been at school since she was a very small child, with no holidays except at
St. Cloud."

"Mightn't it have been at Paris?" obligingly suggested Mrs. Senter,
determined I shouldn't be let off, if conviction of any sort were possible.

"No, I don't think it was at Paris," murmured Mrs. Tyndal, reflectively,
eyeing me in the sunset light, which was turning to pure amethyst. "Now,
where could it have been? I seem to associate your face with—with Italy."

Oh, my goodness! She was getting "warm" in our game of "hide the
handkerchief."

"She has never been to Italy," said Sir Lionel, beginning to look rather
cross, as if Mrs. Tyndal were taking liberties with his belongings—of
which, you see, he thinks me one.

"Not even—Venice?" she persisted. "Oh, yes, that is it! Now I know
where I seem to have seen you—at Venice. You remember, don't you,
George?"

By this time sparks had lighted up in Sir Lionel's eyes, as if he were a
Turk, and one of the ladies of his harem were unjustly suspected.

"It is impossible for Mr. Tyndal to remember what didn't happen," he
said, dropping a lump of ice into his voice. "You saw someone who looked
like her in Venice, perhaps, but not my ward."

I was almost sorry for the poor Tyndals, who meant no harm, though
they had the air of being so frightfully rich and prosperous that it seemed
ridiculous to pity them.

"Of course, it could only have been a resemblance," said Mr. Tyndal,
with that snubby glare at Mrs. Tyndal which husbands and wives keep for
each other.

"It must have been," she responded, taking up her cue; for naturally they
didn't want to begin their acquaintance with a distinguished person by
offending him.

These signs of docility caused Sir Lionel to relent and come down off his
high horse. Whenever he has been at all haughty or impatient with his sister
(whose denseness would sometimes try a saint) he is sorry in a minute, and
tries to be extra nice. It was the same now in the case of the poor Tyndals,
whose Etonian cousin had all the time been gazing up at him with awed
adoration, as of a hero on a pedestal; and suddenly a quaint thought struck
me. I remembered about the Bengalese Sir Lionel was supposed to have
executed for some offence or other, and I could see him being sorry
immediately afterward, tearing around trying to stick their heads on again,
and saying pleasant words.

Well, he stuck the Tyndals' heads on very kindly, so that they almost
forgot they'd ever been slashed off; and when Mrs. Norton came out, which
she did in a few minutes, looking as if she'd washed the dust off her face

with kitchen soap, we all strolled up and down together, till it was time for
dinner.

Mrs. Tyndal walked with me, but not a word did she say about Venice.
That subject was to be tabooed, but I'm far from sure she was convinced of
her mistake, and she couldn't overcome her intense interest in my features.
However, she seems good-natured, as if even to please Mrs. Senter she
wouldn't care to do me a bad turn. Only, I don't think people do things from
motives as a rule, do you? They just suddenly find they want to do them,
and presto, the things are done! That's why the world's so exciting.

We chatted non-committally of cabbages and kings and automobiles; and
I recalled tracing pneu-tracks like illusive lights and shadows before us on
the damp road, as we spun into Tintagel. No doubt they were the pneus of
the Tyndals.

Their table was next ours in the dining room, so close that motor-chat
was tossed back and forth, and it appeared that Mr. Tyndal was as proud of
his car as a cat of its mouse. Mrs. Tyndal's mice are her jewels, and she has
droves of them, which she displayed at dinner. Afterward she did lace-work,
which made her rings gleam beautifully, and she said she didn't particularly
like doing it, but it was something to "kill time." How awful! But I suppose
frightfully rich people are like that. They sometimes get fatty degeneration
of the soul.

Well, nothing more happened that evening, except that the Tyndal boy
and I made great friends—quite a nice boy, pining for some mischief that
idle hands might do; and his cousins said that, as we were going to stop
several days at Tintagel, "making it a centre," they would stop, too. Sir
Lionel didn't appear overjoyed at the decision, but Mrs. Senter seemed glad.
She and her sister, Mrs. Burden, have known the Tyndals for years, and are
by way of being friends, yet she works off her little firework epigrams
against them when their backs are turned, as she does on everybody.
According to her, their principal charm for society in London is their cook;
and she says the art treasures in their house are all illegitimate; near-
Gobelin, not-quite-Raphaels, and so on. She makes Sir Lionel smile; but I
wonder if she'd adopt this cheap method if he'd ever mentioned to her (as he
has to me) that of all meannesses he despises disloyalty?

The Tyndal boy went up to bed before the rest of us, and when Sir
Lionel and Mrs. Norton had been forced to play bridge with Mrs. Senter
and Mr. Tyndal, I slipped away, too.

We'd lived in the hotel such a short time, and it's so big, that I counted on
recognizing my room by the boots which I put outside the door when I went
down to sunset and dinner. Of course, I'd forgotten my number, as I always
do. I wouldn't consider myself a normal girl if I didn't.

There were the boots, not taken away yet—looking abject, as boots do in
such situations—but I was pleased to see that they compared favourably in
size with the gray alligator-skin and patent leather eccentricities of Mrs.
Senter, reposing on an adjacent doormat. With this frivolous reflection in
my mind, it didn't occur to me, as I turned the handle of the door marked by
my brown footgear, that the room now appeared farther to the left, along the
passage, than I had the impression of its being. I opened the door, which
was not locked, walked in, felt about for the electric light, switched it on,
and had sauntered over to a table in the centre of the room before I noticed
anything strange. Then, to my startled vision appeared unfamiliar brushes
and combs on a chest of drawers; beautiful, but manly looking silver-
backed ones; and along the wall was a row of flat tweed legs, on stretchers.

For an instant I stood still, bewildered, as if I'd walked into a dream,
beguiled by a false clue of boots; and during my few seconds of temporary
aberration my dazed eyes fell upon a book which lay on the table. It was Sir
Lionel's "Morte d'Arthur" (second volume; he's lent me the first), and in it
for a marker was a glove of mine. I'd lost it at Torquay, after we had our
dear, good talk, and he knew I was looking for it, all about the sitting room
we had at the hotel there, yet he never said a word.

Oh, dear little French mother, you can't think what an odd feeling it gave
me to see he had kept my glove, and had put it in his book! Yes, I believe
you can think, too, because probably you've felt just like that yourself when
you were a girl, only you never thought it convenable to describe your
symptoms for your daughter's benefit. I know it was perfectly schoolgirlish
of me, and I ought to have outgrown such sentimentality with my teens; but
if you could see Sir Lionel, and understand the sort of man he is, you
wouldn't think me so outrageous. That he—he, of all men—should care to

keep anything which would remind him of an insignificant child like me!
I'm afraid there came a prickly feeling in my eyelids, and I had the most
idiotic desire to kiss the book, which I knew would have a nice smell of his
cigarettes, because my borrowed volume has. Of course, I wouldn't have
done it for anything, though, so don't think I'm worse than I am. And really,
really, I don't believe I'm exactly in love. I hope I'm not so foolish. It's just a
kind of infatuated fascination of a moth—not for a candle, but for a great,
brilliant motor lamp. I've seen them at night dashing themselves against the
glass of our Bleriots once or twice when we've been out late, and I know
how hopelessly they smash their soft, silly wings. I should have been like
them if I'd kissed the book; but instead, after that one look which told me
the glove really was my glove, I bounced out of the room, snatching my
boots up as I dashed across the threshold.

Bump! as I did so I almost telescoped with Sir Lionel who had retrieved
his boots, probably from my doormat. And at the same moment came a
boyish yelp from somewhere, followed by the smart slap of a door shutting.
I wished it had been a smart slap of my hand on the Tyndal boy's ear, for of
course the boot-changing was that little fiend's work, I guessed in a second.

So did Sir Lionel, and we both laughed—at ourselves, at each other, and
everything. It seems that the Youthful Horror had changed every pair of
boots along the corridor, and made the most weird combinations. I don't
suppose Sir Lionel thought about the glove in the book, anyway at the time,
and luckily there was nothing tell-tale in my room, in case he strayed in,
except your photograph in the silver frame you gave me on my last
birthday. And of course he could make nothing of that.

He had got out of playing bridge, because when Mrs. Tyndal saw he
wasn't keen, she offered to take a hand, and he said he did want to write to a
man in Bengal, his best friend.

We talked to each other only a few minutes, after the boot-puzzle had
been put right; but would you believe it, up came Mrs. Senter, while Sir
Lionel and I were bidding each other good night in front of my door? She
looked as stiff and wicked as a frozen snake for an instant; then she smiled
too sweetly, and said she'd come for her Spanish lace mantilla. But I almost

know she had fancied that Sir Lionel might have made an excuse to get a
word with me, and had flown up to find out for herself.

You can imagine, dear, that I didn't feel much like going to bed when I'd
finished saying good-night, and shut my door upon the world. It seemed to
me that this birthplace of Sir Lionel's ancestor, King Arthur Pendragon, was
too romantic and wonderful to go tamely to sleep in. And what was my
covered balcony for, if not to dream dreams and think thoughts, by
moonlight?

So I switched off the electricity in my room, and went out to find that the
moon (which is big and grand now) had come out, too, tearing apart a great
black cloud in order to look down on Arthur-land, and see if she had any
adorers. Anyway, she must have seen me, for she turned the night into silver
dawn, so clear and bright that she couldn't have missed me if she tried.

I did wish for you to be with me then, and I'm ashamed to confess I
wouldn't have minded Sir Lionel as a companion, because Tintagel seems
so much more his than mine.

Never did I hear the sea talk poetry and legend as it does round those
dark rocks of old "Dundagel." I thought as I leaned out from my balcony, a
lonely, unappreciated Juliet—that the sound was like the chanting voice of
an ancient bard, telling stories of the golden days to himself or to all who
might care to listen. I fancied I could hear the words:

They found a naked child upon the sands
Of dark Dundagel by the Cornish sea.

I could see the ruined castle, on its twin cliffs, below the hotel-castle
cliff and between me and the sea; and the very meagreness of what remains
seemed to increase the interest and mystery by stimulating the imagination,
forcing it to create its own pictures. I "reconstructed" the castle, building it
of the same stone they use now at Tintagel, and have used for the last
thousand years or so; a dark stone, singularly rich with colour—pansy and
wallflower colour, with splashes of green flung on to dead gray, like bright
autumn leaves stirred into a heap of other leaves dim and dead. And the

mortar for my masonry was the moonlight which flooded the sea and those
wide downs whose divisions into fields turned them into enormous maps.

I worked myself up into such a romantic mood that I almost cried in the
joy and pain of living, and expected to look back upon myself with the
"utmost spurn" when I should come back to real life after a good sleep in
the morning. But I didn't,—perhaps because, instead of encouraging the
good sleep, I lay and listened to the wild song of the Cornish wind.

I waked early, feeling exactly the same, if not more so, and could hardly
wait to get down into the ruins of the old castle. I splashed about in a cold
bath, dressed as quickly as a well-groomed girl can, and then—I committed
what might seem an indiscreet act if the last of the Pendragons and I did not
stand toward each other in the place of guardian and ward. "Nothing is, but
thinking makes it so." And Sir Lionel certainly does think we're in those
positions; therefore it was all right for me to knock at his door, and ask
through the keyhole if he would very, very much mind taking me to the
castle?

He was dressed, and opened the door instantly. It was the one thing he
would have liked to propose, said he, only he had been afraid of disturbing
me so early. Wasn't that kind of him? I remembered the glove, and the
thought of it was more delicious than a breakfast of Cornish cream and
honey; although, of course, lurking in the background of my mind was the
horrid idea that he might have accidentally picked the thing up to use as a
bookmark. And another idea, gloomier even, though not so horrid, was that,
even if he does like me well enough to keep things of mine, he must soon
grow to hate me when he knows who I am.

He suggested coffee, but I wouldn't have it, because I was afraid Mrs.
Senter might appear and want to go to the castle too. I had visions of her,
hearing our voices in the corridor, and dashing out of bed to fling on her
clothes; but even if she did overhear the whole conversation, I don't think
she's the kind who looks her best before breakfast, if she has dressed in a
hurry; and anyway, we were spared the apparition.

It was a fine scramble getting to the ruins, and when Sir Lionel had
opened a door (with a key you get from a cottage close by the sea) it was

quite as if he were my host, entertaining me in his ancestral home. I told
him that it felt twice as interesting to be there with a true Pendragon, than
with a mere king or anybody like that, and he seemed pleased.

"I hope I am a 'true' Pendragon," he said, rather thoughtfully. "One must
try to be—always." He looked at me very, very kindly, as if he would have
liked to say something more; but he didn't speak, and turned away his eyes
to look far over the sea. It was only for a little while, though, that he was
absent-minded. Sitting there on the rough, wind-blown grass which is the
floor of the castle now, he told me things about the place and its history.
How Dundagel meant the "Safe Castle," and how the "Arthurian believers"
say it was built by the Britons in earliest Roman days; how David Bruce of
Wales was entertained by the Earl of Cornwall on the very spot where we
were sitting, and how the great hall, once famous, was destroyed as long
ago as when Chaucer was a baby. And as he talked, the rising wind wailed
and sobbed like old, old witches crying over the evil fallen on Arthur and
his castle. Such an old, wise-sounding wind it was, old enough to have been
blowing when Arthur was a baby, drowning the lullabies sung by his mother
Igerna, "that greatest beauty in Britain."

We forgot breakfast, and stopped in the ruins a long time, until suddenly
we both realized that we were desperately hungry. But instead of going up
to our own hotel, we walked into the quaint village (whose real name is
Trevena, though nobody calls it that) and had something to eat at a hotel
where Sir Lionel used to stop occasionally when he was a boy. Afterward,
we went to see the village schoolmaster, whom he knew; such a nice man,
who paints pictures as well as teaches the children—and I felt guilty at
being introduced as Sir Lionel's "ward." I think my conscience is like a
bruised peach, pinched by many fingers to see if it's ripe, I have that guilty
feeling so often! When we spoke of the schoolmaster's versatility, he
laughed and said it was "nothing to his predecessor's," who used to cut the
children's hair, clip horses, measure land, act as parish clerk as well as
teacher, pull teeth, and beat such transgressors as had to be punished in a
way less serious than prison. Doesn't that take one back to long ago? But so
does everything in Tintagel—and all over Cornwall, Sir Lionel says. They
have such nice old-fashioned words here! Isn't "jingle" good? It's some kind
of a conveyance, exactly the opposite of a motor-car, I fancy, from the

description. And I like the word "huer," too. It means a man who gives the
hue and cry when the pilchards are coming in, and all the fishermen must
run to the sea.

I should like to know everything about Cornwall, from the smugglers,
and the famous wrestlers, to the witches—the last of whom lives near
Boscastle still. But the little that travellers in motors can learn about places
steeped in history, is like trying to know all about a beautiful great tree by
one leaf of flying gold which falls into the automobile as it sweeps by,
along the road. Still, the little one does learn is unforgettable, impressed
upon the mind in a different way from the mere learning. And I suppose
few people know everything about every place, even in their own countries.
If they did, I'm sure they'd be prigs, and no one would want to know them!

When we got back to our hotel castle on the cliff, the Tyndals' motor was
at the door, a huge, gorgeous chariot, and nothing would do but we must
"try the car." Mrs. Senter had promised to go, and was putting on her hat.

The Tyndals are difficult people to resist, because if you try to make
excuses they pin you down in one way or another, so that you must either
do what they want or hurt their feelings; and though Sir Lionel is supposed
to have been so strict in Bengal, he is quite soft-hearted in England. I think
he hates going about in motors that aren't his, because he enjoys being the
man at the helm, which is perhaps characteristic of him; however, the
Tyndals swept all of us, except Mrs. Norton, away to Delabole to see the
slate quarries, and to have the adventure of sliding down a fearfully steep
incline in a tiny trolley-car—if that's the right word for it. I half expected
Charon to meet me with his ferry-boat at the bottom. It wouldn't have
seemed much stranger than other things in Cornwall.

All that happened yesterday. To-day we have been to Trebarwith Strand
and Port Isaac, and have walked to the loneliest church I ever saw, with the
gravestones in the burying ground propped by buttresses, that the wind
mayn't throw them down. It is Tintagel church, though it's a good long way
from the village, and the vicarage is of the fourteenth century.

Oh, and I heard a splendid legend about the ruined castle from the vicar,
who is its warden! It seems, when it was built by the old princes of West

Wales—very beautiful as well as strong, with walls "painted of many
colours," it was placed under a powerful spell by Merlin, that it might
become invisible twice in every year. How I should like to be at Tintagel at
the right time, and see if the ruins would disappear from before my eyes. I
believe they would; and the enchantment would take the form of a sea mist.

To-morrow we are to leave Cornwall for Bideford.

I had got as far as that, when Mrs. Senter knocked at my door, and asked
if she might come in for a few minutes; so I had to say yes, and "smile full
well in counterfeited glee." But I hated to be interrupted, as there was just
time before dressing for dinner to finish my letter to you. Now it is after
dinner, and before I go to bed, I'll tell you what has happened.

How conceited I was to suppose it possible that Sir Lionel thought me an
important person! I am sure the glove episode must have been a mere
accident. Serves me right!

Mrs. Senter came to tell me that they'd all been talking about the way to
Bideford, and Sir Lionel said the road was so hilly, he wished we hadn't
quite as many passengers in the car. Then the Tyndals asked if they might
take me, because they'd made up their minds to go to Bideford too, and Sir
Lionel answered that it would be a splendid way out of the difficulty if I
were willing. The only trouble was, he didn't like to propose such a thing
for fear of hurting my feelings; and the conversation ended, according to
Mrs. Senter, by the Tyndals planning to suggest the idea to me as if it were
their own, then letting the matter rest on my decision.

Mrs. Senter went on to explain that Sir Lionel didn't know she was
repeating to me what had passed, but that she thought I would prefer to
know. "I'm sure I should if I were in your place," she purred sweetly. "When
the Tyndals invite you, of course you must do exactly as you please; but
don't you think for Mrs. Norton's sake, as she's such a coward, it would be
best to keep the car as light as possible, since Sir Lionel fears the roads are
really bad?"

"Oh, certainly," said I, trying so hard not to blush that I must have been
purple. "I shall be delighted to go with Mr. and Mrs. Tyndal, in their lovely

car, and it's very nice of them to ask me."

"You won't tell Sir Lionel I interfered, will you?" she begged. "I should
be quite afraid of him if he were angry."

"You needn't worry. He shan't hear anything from me," said I.

"And you do think I was right to let you know?" she implored.

"Of course," I assured her. But I was feeling hurt all the way up to my
topmost hair and down to my tipmost toe. Not that I mind going with the
Tyndals, but that Sir Lionel should pick me out as the bit of superfluous
ballast to cast to the winds! That was what made me feel cold and old, and
alone in the world. I conscientiously told myself that I was the youngest of
the party, and the right one to sacrifice; but nothing was much comfort until
the thought jumped into my head that maybe Mrs. Senter had fibbed. I went
to dinner buoyed up by that hope, but it died young; for the Tyndals did
invite me, in Sir Lionel's hearing; and when I said that I should be charmed
—he smiled calmly. So far from making objections, I thought he looked
quite pleased.

Poor me! I fancied in the castle ruins that he actually liked my society.
But I forgot that I'd invited him to go with me. I shan't forget again. And
hang the glove!

Your poor, foolish, conceited,
humiliated

Audrie.

XX

TELEGRAM FROM DICK BURDEN TO HIS AUNT

Glen Lachlan, August 13th,
8 o'clock A.M.

Senter, King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel, Cornwall:

Returning to-day. Hope find you still at Tintagel. Try and make
Pendragon stay if he plans to leave. Find some excuse.

Dick.

XXI

TELEGRAM FROM MRS. SENTER TO HER NEPHEW

Tintagel, August 13th,
9.20 A.M.

R. Burden, Glen Lachlan, N. B.

Just starting for Bideford. Can make no excuse to delay, but have done
better. If you arrive Tintagel to-night will find member of party most
important to you still there. Better hurry. Will leave letter explaining all.

Senter.

XXII

LETTER LEFT BY MRS. SENTER
AT KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE HOTEL,
FOR HER NEPHEW DICK BURDEN

August 13th

Dear Dick: Your wire has just come as we are starting. I've telegraphed,
and will leave a few words for you in pencil. Lucky you have a resourceful
relative, and that Mrs. Norton's washing didn't come till late this morning!
My resourcefulness enables me to change my plans for your benefit, or
rather, to make them work together for your good, in the time most women
take to change their minds; while the lateness of Mrs. N.'s washing and her
mild obstinacy in determining to wait for it, against her brother's wishes,
provide us with a few extra minutes.

Now it suddenly appears that Young Nick hasn't enough petrol to get on
as far as—anywhere. That will give us more minutes. Brown Buddha, as
your adored one calls him, has crawled humbly but swiftly off to obtain a
new supply. Sir Lionel, already in a vile temper for reasons which I may
have time to explain, is bursting with rage to which he is too proud to give a
natural outlet. He looks ready to explode, not with bombs, but with dambs. I
have never heard him say a single one, during the whole of our
acquaintance, but his eyes are sending out a fiery cataract of them this
minute. A good thing for me he doesn't know what I know, or the fire would
be turned upon me, and I should wither like "She" in her second bath.

Quickly I'll tell you what I've done, and why Sir Lionel is wild; also how
I've rearranged everything and everybody at the last minute, in order to
satisfy you. What a precious darling aunt you have got, to be sure, and what
a lot you do owe her!

For motives of my own, I planned to transplant your sweet Ellaline from
our motor-car to the motor-car of others for the day. The "others" are
George and Sallie Tyndal, about whose sudden, apropos appearance I wrote
your mother only yesterday; but, of course, as you're leaving to-day you'll

miss the news in that letter. I thought your anxiety for your parent's health
would hardly be poignant enough to keep you in Scotland long, but I didn't
suppose you'd be able to tear yourself away quite so soon.

I don't doubt you wonder how it can be possible for me to have too much
of dear E.'s society, but strange as that may seem, it can; and worse than
that, I dislike Sir Lionel getting too much of it. I don't think it is good for
him; and he's had enough of the commodity since we've been in Tintagel to
produce, according to my point of view and yours, disastrous effects. I
decided that drastic measures were necessary for both our sakes, and with
me to decide is to act—when anything really important is at stake.

First I persuaded the Tyndals that it would be kindly to invite Miss
Lethbridge to travel in their motor to Bideford, whither they also are bound.
I said that Sir Lionel feared we would be rather a crowd for his car, as the
roads are supposed to be bad. This flattered them, for their motor, which is
somewhat more powerful than ours, is the one object for which they live at
present. Besides, they were delighted at the chance of getting the girl to
themselves, as they think they met her years ago in Italy, where it is alleged
she has never been. Some school girl escapade, perhaps. You had better do a
little catechising, later on. Meanwhile, the Tyndals yearn for the opportunity
of pumping. Sir Lionel has quite fiercely prevented them from doing so, up
to date. He looked ready to challenge poor George to a duel the other
evening for merely suggesting that they might have met Miss Lethbridge in
Venice.

To Sir L. I hinted that Ellaline was bored, now that you were gone, and
that she would enjoy the change of travelling for a day with new people;
that she had taken a fancy to the Tyndal boy; and I added that she had asked
me privately whether I thought that Sir Lionel would object to her
accepting, provided the Tyndals wanted her to go to Bideford. Naturally,
when the invitation came, he did not object. You'd have laughed if you
could have seen her face when he smiled with apparent benevolent delight
upon the suggestion. The sight would have repaid you for many a snub, my
poor love-sick swain!

That was where matters stood till your telegram came, a few minutes
ago. All I hoped for was, to get rid of the dear child for one long, happy day,

and to estrange her a little (partly for your sake) from her solicitous
guardian. But your wire set another bee humming in my motor-bonnet. I
determined to do you a good turn if I could; so I flew up, before answering
you, to have a talk with the Tyndals. They were starting a few minutes after
us, by my advice, and hadn't come downstairs yet. Ellaline, too, was still in
her room, sulking, no doubt, and hadn't said good-bye to Sir Lionel or any
of us. I know that, because my room at this hotel has been close to hers—
and to his, too; so whenever a word is murmured on a doorstep I hear. No
word has been murmured this morning; and E. has had her breakfast sent
into her bedroom.

To the Tyndals I said that word had arrived from you, and that in
confidence I would tell them that you and Miss Lethbridge are as good as
engaged. At least, that you had a private understanding which would be an
engagement if Sir Lionel weren't a dog in the manger. He didn't want the
girl himself, I explained, yet he didn't want to give her to anyone else—
short of a millionaire. You, I went on to say, had wired that you would be
back this evening, and Ellaline was dying to stay and see you. Sir Lionel
didn't know you were coming, I confessed, and would be angry if he did;
but if they—the Tyndals—could somehow misunderstand the arrangements
made overnight, and in the confusion of their minds leave Miss Lethbridge
behind, it would be a great favour to everyone concerned—except Sir
Lionel.

The Tyndals, who think a lot of themselves because they have more
money than brains, are annoyed with Sir L. because he snapped at them
about Venice; so they were rather pleased at the idea of doing him a bad
turn and at the same time advancing Love's Young Dream. When I assured
them it would be easy to say that they understood Ellaline had changed her
mind and was going with Sir Lionel, they agreed to slip off without her
about half an hour after the flight of Apollo. That is the plan, as it stands, up
to date. Sir Lionel and Mrs. Norton won't know till this evening at Bideford
that E. isn't with the Tyndals; and then of course I shall get George and
Sallie out of his bad graces as well as I can. Meanwhile you will find her at
Tintagel, and can bring her on by rail. That will be delightful for you; and as
Sir Lionel is old-fashioned in some of his notions, he may be more inclined

to consent to an engagement between you after the sort of journey you and
she will have together. So I think all interests will have been served.

I am writing in the big hall of the hotel, and Sir Lionel is walking up and
down, glaring first out of one window, and then out of another, at the rain,
which is beginning to come down in drops as large as half-crowns. I only
wish my half crowns, or even my shillings, were as plentiful! But perhaps
they will be, some day before long—who knows? I do hope Ellaline won't
take it into her head to appear at the last minute before we get off, and
complicate things. Not that I won't be equal to disposing of her if she does!
But no! here is Young Nick, very meek and soapy. He has got his petrol.
Emily Norton reluctantly puts down a twenty-year-old volume of
Blackwood which she has found in the hotel library. We are off. Good-bye
—and good luck.

Gwen.

XXIII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Tintagel,
August 13th

Dearest Lodestar: I can feel you drawing me across miles of land and sea,
and if only I could travel on a telepathic pass I would start this minute, Ellaline
or no Ellaline. Toward her and Sir Lionel I feel as Mercutio felt toward the
Montagus and Capulets: "A plague on both your houses!" Nobody seems to
care what becomes of me. Why should I care what becomes of them?

Everything is too horrid and too extraordinary to-day. I got into the wrong
side of bed last night, and got out again on the wrong side this morning. It
happened to be the only side there was, as the bed stands against the wall in an
alcove, where it can't be pulled out; and nobody could expect me to bound like
a kangaroo over the foot, could they? But there are times in life when every side
of everything is wrong; and this is one of those times with me—has been since
dinner last night, when Sir Lionel grinned with joy at the prospect of shunting
me upon the Tyndal family for a day. (When you are friends with people they
smile; when you are out with them, they grin.)

Well, this morning I thought I wouldn't hurry to get down. I felt, if Mrs.
Senter beamed at me from under her becoming motor-hat at starting, I should
do her a mischief, and if Emily smirked inoffensively I should throw Murray in
her face. As for Sir Lionel—words fail to express what I believed myself
capable of doing to him. I could have stolen his car, in which he appeared to
grudge me a seat, and have gone off with it into space to be a motor pirate.
Whence can I have inherited these vicious tendencies? Truly, I never supposed I
had them before; but you don't know yourself until people have practically
accused you of taking up too much room in their old automobiles, although
you're perfectly aware that you are less than eighteen inches wide at your
broadest part in your thickest frock, and you thought they liked your society and
kept your gloves. In that mood I wouldn't have condescended to see Apollo off
if he'd been twice a god, armed with an invitation for me from Juno to a house-
party on Olympus.

No sooner, however, did I hear his dear familiar purr as he swept away from
the door of the hotel (my balcony is a corner one, and I could just catch the
well-known c-r-r-r) when I regretted intensely that I hadn't been en evidence,
looking indifferent. Suddenly, I suffered pangs of apprehension lest my
stopping in my room had seemed like (what it really was) a fit of the sulks; but
it was past repentance-time. Apollo was gone, Mrs. Senter doubtless sitting by
Sir Lionel's side as usual, and probably commenting wittily on my silly
conduct.

The Tyndals told me last night that they meant to start at ten, so I went
downstairs five minutes before, too late to have to wait about, too early to be
called. I expected to find them in the hall, and when they weren't there, I
strolled out to see if the motor had come to the door, thinking they might be
watching the loading up of their luggage. As for mine, Apollo had taken it as
usual, except a pretty little fitted handbag, small and wonderfully convenient,
which Sir Lionel came across in a shop and bought for me (I mean for Ellaline)
at Torquay. But there wasn't a Tyndal in sight, and not so much as the smell of a
motor-car, so I wandered inside and asked the handsome landlady, whom I met
near King Arthur's Round Table, whether she had seen the Tyndal automobile or
its owners.

"Why," said she, "they went off about ten minutes ago."

"Went off—where?" I asked blankly.

"To Bideford, I think they were going," she replied.

"That can't be, for I was to have gone with them," said I.

"Indeed?" exclaimed the landlady, polite but puzzled. "I didn't know. I
thought you had gone with your own party. I was surprised to meet you here
just now. I'm afraid there must have been some misunderstanding, for certainly
Mr. and Mrs. Tyndal and their young cousin have really gone, because they
bade me good-bye here in the hall, and said they hoped to come back some
day."

She looked at me pityingly, and I felt exactly like Robinson Crusoe before he
knew there was going to be a Friday; but, like him, I kept a stiff upper lip. I am
happy to say I even laughed. "Well, that's very funny," said I, as if being
pigeon-holed by Sir Lionel and marooned by the Tyndals was the most amusing

experience in the world, and I simply delighted in it. "Of course, somebody or
other will count noses and miss me after a while. Then they'll have to come
back and fetch me, I suppose."

"You could go on to Bideford by rail, if you liked," the landlady informed
me gratuitously. "There is a train early this afternoon, and——"

"Oh, I think I'd better wait here," I said. "If they came back and found me
gone, it would be too complicated."

She agreed; but she little guessed how much more complicated it would be
to take a train for anywhere without any pennies. If I had money, I would go to
you, and not to Bideford. At least, that is the way I feel now; but I suppose I
wouldn't, for my obligations to Ellaline haven't snapped with the strain of the
situation, although just at this moment they don't seem to matter. It's only deep
down in my heart that I know they do matter.

There is my scrape, dearest of women, and mamma whom I would select if I
were able to choose among all eligible mothers since Eve, up to date. The
situation hasn't changed in the least, to the time of writing, except that it has
lasted longer, and got frayed round the edges.

I was paid for, including food and lodging, until after breakfast. It is now
half-past five o'clock P.M., pouring with rain, howling with wind, and not only
has nobody come back to collect me, but nobody has telephoned or telegraphed.
I have eaten, or pretended to eat, a luncheon, for which I have no money to pay.
I refused tea, but was so kindly urged that I had to reconsider; and the buttered
toast of servitude is at this moment sticking in my throat, lodged on the sharp
edge of an unuttered sob. Your poor, forlorn little daughter! What is to become
of her? Will she have to go to the place of unclaimed parcels? Or will she be
sold as bankrupt stock? Or will she become a kitchen-maid or "tweeny" in King
Arthur's Castle? But don't worry, darling. I won't be such a beast as to post this
letter till something is settled, somehow, even if I have to rob the hotel till.

There is nothing to do except write, for I can't compose my mind to read; so
I will continue recording my emotions, as French criminals do when
condemned to death, or lovesick ladies when they have swallowed slow poison.

5.50.—Rain worse. Wind yelling imprecations. I sit in the hall, as I can't call
my room my own. New people are arriving. They look Cook-ey, but are

probably Countesses. I gaze at them haughtily, and try to appear prosperous. I
hope they think my mother, the Duchess, is taking a nap in our magnificent
suite upstairs, while I write a letter to my godfather, the Prince, to thank him for
his birthday gift of a rope of pearls which reaches to my knees.

6.15.—The landlady has just been sympathizing with me. She says there is a
night train to Bideford. I have poured cold water upon the night train to
Bideford, and came near pouring some hot tears on the timetable she kindly
brought me.

6.25.—People are going up to dress for dinner. They are God's creatures, but
I do not love them.

6.40.—The head-waiter has just fluttered up to ask if I would like a smaller
table for dinner. No table would be too small for my appetite. I said——

7.10.—Darling, Sir Lionel has come back for me, alone, dripping wet, and it
was all a mistake, and he did want me, and he's furious with everybody in the
world except me, to whom he is perfectly adorable. And I'm afraid I adore him.
And we're starting at once, when we've had a sandwich and coffee—can't wait
for dinner. Everything is too nice. I'll explain as soon as I've time to write.

Your Radiant Transformation
Scene,

A. B.

XXIV

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

The Luttrell Arms, Dunster,
Aug. 18th

Duck of the Universe: Five days since I wrote, and it seems five minutes.
But I did telegraph—with my last shilling; and even that would be rightfully
Ellaline's, if the labourer weren't worthy of his hire.

You see, after the letter I had from her in Torquay, when she wanted money
to go to Scotland with her new friends, the McNamaras, I very reluctantly
screwed my courage to the asking point, and got more out of Sir Lionel. If he
weren't the most generous man in the world he would have privately dubbed me
"Oliver Twist" by this time. Perhaps he has! But I trust not. Anyhow, I shall get
on without more requests, I hope, until the next "allowance" day comes round;
or until every pin is lost and every hairpin has dropped out.

Because in the telegram I was forced to be economical, and ran only to "All
well. Love" ("much" scratched out as an extravagance), I must now go back to
the moment of Sir Lionel's unexpected, almost miraculous, appearance at
Tintagel.

There I was in the hall, scribbling dolefully about my symptoms. "Teuf, teuf,
teuf!" heard outside, between screeches of wind. In bounces Sir Lionel, wet as a
merman, dripping rivulets at every step, splashing, swashing in his boots, drops
dripping from his eyelashes; glares around, looking ready to bite someone's
head off without salt or sauce; sees me; brightens with a watery gleam; comes
toward me, rather shy and stiff, yet evidently under the influence of—emotion
of some sort. I didn't know whether to expect a scolding or a blessing, so waited
speechless.

"What a brute you must think me," was his first remark. I drank it as a thirsty
traveller lost on the Sahara would bolt a pint of dew.

"I didn't know what to think," I replied conservatively. "But you are wet,
aren't you?"

"Am I?" he asked, mildly surprised. "I hadn't noticed. I suppose I am. It's
raining."

"I should think it was," said I. And then we both laughed. It is the nicest
thing, to laugh with Sir Lionel! Whatever he might have done against me, I
forgave him all instantly.

"Never mind whether I'm wet or dry," he went on. "Whichever I am, it won't
hurt me. The only thing that has hurt was thinking of you being here—
abandoned. By Jove!—I've been in a murderous mood!"

"A good thing you weren't back in Bengal," said I, mildly.

He looked at me with a sharp look. "Who has been telling you tales about
me in Bengal?"

"I sometimes read newspapers," I explained.

"Schoolgirls have no business with newspapers. But hang Bengal! I want to
come to an understanding with you. Is it true or is it not that you wanted to go
with the Tyndals in their motor to-day?"

"I wanted to, if you wanted me to."

"I didn't. I hated the idea. But, of course, if you——"

"I didn't. I hated the idea. But I thought your motor was too full for such
hilly country."

(Dearest, I longed to tell him who had said that he had said, etc., etc.; but I'd
promised; and one must keep one's promises even to Cats.)

"My dear child," Sir Lionel burst out, "little girls shouldn't do too much
independent thinking. It's bad for their health and their guardians' tempers. If
my motor had been too full for hilly country, you wouldn't have been the Jonah
to cast into the sea. Nick would have been fed to the whales. But the idea was
ridiculous—ridiculous!"

I was so happy, I didn't even want to defend myself. I understood most of the
mystery now. I suppose it's a compliment to a girl if a woman of the world

wants to get rid of her. Anyhow, I consoled myself for hours of misery by laying
that flattering unction to my soul.

If I had liked, I could have unravelled the whole tangle for Sir Lionel's still
puzzled mind; but if I had done so, I should have been returning cat-claw for
cat-claw; so I pretended to be "lost in it, my lord"; and, indeed, it was true that I
couldn't understand why the Tyndals had failed me.

Sir Lionel explained that, just before reaching Bideford the silencer worked
loose, and so got upon Mrs. Norton's nerves that Apollo was stopped in the
pouring rain for Young Nick to right the wrong. As if to prove the truth of the
proverb, "the more haste the less speed," in his hurry poor Buddha burnt his
hand. While he was wringing it like a distracted goblin, along came the Tyndal
car, which had left Tintagel about half an hour after Apollo. To Sir Lionel's
amazement, no me! Questions on his part; according to him, idiotic answers on
the part of the Tyndals. He had thought, of course, I was going with them. They
had thought that I'd changed my mind, and gone earlier with him. Everybody
confused, apologetic, repeating the same silly excuses over and over, three or
four times. Nobody showing the slightest sign of having a remnant of common
sense.

"By Jove! I could have cheerfully executed the lot of them—all but the boy,
who seemed to have some glimmerings of sanity," grumbled Sir Lionel. "He
had wanted to run up and knock at your door, to make sure you really had gone;
but somebody—he began to say who, when Mrs. Tyndal stepped on his foot—
forbade him to do it."

I think I can guess who the somebody was, can't you? Though I don't see
what arguments she can have used to persuade the really good-natured Tyndals
to abandon me.

The rest of the story is, that when Sir Lionel found I had been left behind, he
said he would at once turn back and fetch me. Judging from one or two things
he let slip inadvertently, I fancy he wanted Emily to come with him, but she
drew the line at chaperoning in wet weather, and missing her tea. She proposed
telegraphing for me to come on by rail. Sir Lionel wouldn't hear of my making
such a journey unaccompanied—me, a simple little French schoolgirl who had
never travelled alone in her life! Then Mrs. Senter, kind creature, volunteered to
be his companion, if he must return; but Sir Lionel firmly refused the unselfish
offer, saying he wouldn't for the world put her to so much unnecessary trouble.

Nick he would have brought, but the unfortunate brown image was suffering so
much pain from his burnt hand, that the only humane thing to do was to drive
him to a doctor's—which was exactly what Sir Lionel did. Rooms were already
engaged at the Royal Hotel; he dumped out Emily, Mrs. Senter, and the luggage
there; left Young Nick having his hand treated; and without so much as crossing
the threshold of the hotel, turned Apollo's bright bonnet toward Tintagel and
me. Rain was coming down in floods. He said nothing about that, but I knew.
The storm drew down twilight like the lid of a box; the road was deep in mud;
everything that could happen to delay the car did happen; once Sir Lionel had to
mend a tire himself, and almost wished he hadn't made Young Nick disgorge the
stolen tool; he ought to have arrived at Tintagel an hour before he did; but here
he was at last. And would I have a sandwich, and then start, or would I prefer to
wait for dinner?

I snatched at the sandwich idea, and his eye brightened. He said he only
looked wet, for everything was waterproof, and he was "right as rain"—which
sounded too appropriate to be comfortable.

We ate as the Israelites of old in Passover days, figuratively with our staves
in our hands; at least, I had a bag in mine, and Sir Lionel a road book, because
he'd lost his way once in his haste, and didn't want to make further mistakes.

By the time we were ready to start, it was as if Merlin had woven an
enchantment of invisibility, not only over the castle ruins, but over the whole
landscape, which was blotted out behind a white avalanche of rain. The wind
howled, mingling with the boom of the sea; and altogether it was such a
bewitched, Walpurgis world that I tingled with excitement.

Sir Lionel wanted to put me inside the car, but I pleaded that I had been so
lonely and sad all day, I must be close to someone now. This plea instantly
broke down his determination, which had been very square-chinned and firm
till I happened to think of that argument.

He knew my coat to be waterproof, because he chose it himself in London,
and I tied on a perfectly sweet rain-hood, which I'd never needed before,
because this was the only real storm we'd had. It is a crimson hood, and I knew
I was nice in it, from the look of Sir Lionel's eyes.

This was my first night run in the car, and the first time since starting on the
tour that I'd sat on the front seat by his side. Early as it was, it "made night," and