Chapter III: Part 3

Truly honestly, I think this stubborn opposition drove me perhaps farther than I had first intended to go. A day or two later I found myself in the same house as Sir Adolphus and I _spoke_ to him...

"You," I said, "do not know me; and I only know you by sight, though I have long been acquainted with your record of generous support to the cause of music. Will you allow a total stranger to tell you her disgust with the venomous attacks which have been made on you since the beginning of the war?"

Little enough, you may think; but I believe those were the first kind words that he had heard for three or four years. The man is _not_ prepossessing, but we formed quite a friendship...

"Will not you and Lady Erskine," I said, "come and dine with me some night? I am not in a position to _entertain_ in any sense of the word; my boy is at the front, my husband is away on business; but perhaps, if a family party would not bore you..."

Though I _called_ myself a total stranger, he knew very well who I was; indeed he told me that he had always wanted to meet Brackenbury and Spenworth (the Cheniston Romneys were, of course, his excuse)... We arranged a night ... though, when the time came, there was not more than the three of us. My relations with Spenworth are not so cordial that I derive the least pleasure from seeing him at my table; and one truly honestly _never_ knows how he is going to behave. Brackenbury... If you do not want to accept an invitation, it is surely possible to decline it _civilly_...

"_That_ fellow!," cried Brackenbury. "He ought to be interned."

"You really must not talk such nonsense," I said. "He is as loyal as you are."

"I wouldn't touch him with a pole _before_ the war," said Brackenbury with his wonted elegance. "But _now_, when even his best friends refuse to meet him--"

"Exactly," I interrupted. "You would like him to feel that that is our standard of sincerity and good-will."

"But how is it _your_ concern?," he asked. "You've kept clear of that gang in the past, so why dirty your hands with it now? If you fancy you're going to get money out of him, or a job for Will, I warn you that you're no match for him. He'll _use_ you readily enough, but he never does anything for anybody without looking for a return. We don't _want_ these gentry in England."

"I met him," I answered. "I liked him, I was _sorry_ for him. And, if I try to shew him a little kindness, I really cannot allow you, Brackenbury, to make yourself a ruler and a judge. Do I gather that you and Ruth would prefer _not_ to dine?"

"If it's money you want, I'd almost pay you not to meet him. _That's_ how I feel about it."

All this, you understand, about a man he hardly knew by sight! ... I found it in my heart to wish that Brackenbury _had_ been present when the Erskines dined. _Nothing_ could have been more charming. He talked too wonderfully about music; I asked him a little about himself, _he_ asked me about _my_self--that delightful first exchange when you are laying the foundations of friendship. Having no children himself, he was of course most anxious to hear about Will--what he had done before the war, where he was in France at present, what he proposed to do when the war was over... As _he_ had introduced the subject, I told him frankly that I found great difficulty in making up my mind and should be truly grateful if he would tell me, from his _very_ wide experience, what he considered most hopeful. He promised to let me know; and, a few days later, when I was dining with him, he asked whether I expected Will home any time soon on leave, as he always had a certain number of openings in his own various businesses. This from the man who never did anything for anybody unless he expected a rich return, the man who _used_ people but never allowed any one to use _him_... I had _asked_ for nothing; in my haste I had told Arthur that we could _look_ to him for nothing. And if you knew; the long agony of anxiety that I have endured... I may say, ever since we took Will away from Eton. I have seen my darling home in Mount Street threatened... The war was a god-send: _some_thing to keep him occupied, a _little_ pocket-money; and, so long as he was not in danger, I prayed for it to go on...

"My dear Sir Adolphus," I said, "the _first_ time he comes home you shall meet him."

That was in October. Suddenly, lo and behold! the armistice was upon us, and the whole _world_ was looking out for jobs. I laboured and _strove_ to bring Will home; and, the moment he arrived, I invited Sir Adolphus to dine. He telegraphed that he was at Rock Hill, but could we not spend a few days with him there? My maid was out. I began to pack with trembling fingers...

Is it not curious that difficulties always seem to come from the _least_ expected quarter? Here was Will's whole future secured; he had woken up, as it were, with a golden spoon in his mouth. My dear, I had the _utmost_ difficulty in persuading him to come at all. What he wanted was a holiday, he said; after all he had gone through, he was entitled to a good time. And, though he had never met the Erskines, he had formed an unreasoning prejudice against them which was incomprehensible in any one of his breadth of mind... I do assure you that we reached a deadlock.

"Will," I said very firmly, "I _ask_ you to come."

"And I refuse point-blank," he answered.

"You will be sorry for it later," I warned him, "when the opportunity has slipped beyond recall."

"Something will turn up," he predicted. Then, perhaps, he saw how his refusal was paining me, for he added: "I've fixed up with some fellows weeks ago that we'd all meet and see life." ...

I had already begun a letter to Lady Erskine, asking if we might postpone our visit for a day or two, when Will came in--very much upset--to say that his friends had broken faith with him; one had already gone to the country, the other two were busy presenting letters of introduction and arranging interviews... As if I had not known all along that, the moment war was over, the whole world would begin looking for jobs...

"_Now_," I said, "you can have no objection to accepting the Erskines' invitation."

"Barring that I don't want to go," Will rejoined. "I draw the line at Jews at all times and I don't in the least want to start work till I've had a holiday."

"But others are already in the field," I urged. Lady Maitland shewed the sublime assurance to reestablish communications and to ask Sir Adolphus, in the name of their _old friendship_, to find an opening for her second boy! "You can have all the holidays you want later."

To my delight I saw Will weakening.

"What's the management like?," he asked.

"Oh, my dear, everything is incredibly perfect. The house, the food, the music--"

"You may 'ave the music--fer me," said Will. (It was some allusion which I did not understand.) "Oh, all right! I'll come. But I intend to have my fun out of it."

You have stayed at Rock Hill? No? Well, I am not exaggerating when I use the word "perfection." A seventeenth-century Italian palace with gardens that put Cheniston and my brother-in-law Spenworth to _shame_; pictures that one somehow always thought were in the National Gallery... And, if you care for material comfort, as--I am not ashamed to say--I _do_, not having enjoyed enough of it to become _blasée_... "If you cannot be rich yourself, know plenty of rich people," as Will said the first night... In jest, of course...

If I wanted to make a criticism, I should say that Lady Erskine might have chosen her party on less catholic lines. As patron of the arts, Sir Adolphus is of course brought into contact with an entire world of artists, musicians, actors and the like which is outside my ken. He confessed that he liked "mixing people up" and trying to break down the very rigid barriers which separate the artistic people from the rest of us. I have not the slightest objection to that _on principle_, but, when it necessitates meeting a number of half-naked young actresses who truly honestly have no place in the artistic or any other world... And when they are allowed to set the tone of the house...

I reminded myself that, with the exception of Brackenbury Hall, I had not stayed in a country-house for I don't know how long. Nothing, I determined, should surprise me; in Rome... And so forth and so on. We arrived in time for dinner, and almost the first thing I knew was that Sir Adolphus was pressing upon me something which I think he called a "Maiden's Sigh", which of course I imagined was the well-known hock of that name. _Why_ hock before dinner? Sherry, if you like... But I had determined that nothing should surprise me. I drank it--what it contained, I do not know, but it was cold and, I suppose, very strong, for it went _straight_ to my head! I could drink _nothing_ at dinner until I had consumed an entire tumbler of cold water. Indeed, I hardly knew what I was saying, but Sir Adolphus was talking so interestingly about Rossini that I only wanted to listen... Later, when I had proved myself a good listener, it would be my turn to talk about Will...

Now, you dine out very much more than I do. On those _rare_ occasions when you meet somebody who _can_ talk, is it not heart-breaking to have the conversation interrupted before you have half finished it? In the old days, when one turned like an automaton to one's other-hand neighbour half-way through dinner, it was sufficiently exasperating; but one _did_ hope that, if one had not wearied one's companion too unwarrantably, he would come up in the drawing-room and resume what he had been saying. Nowadays dinner is little more than a bribe offered to so many women and men to induce them to play bridge with _you_ rather than with some one _else_. The tables were already set, when we left the dining-room; Lady Erskine's last words were: "You won't be long, will you?"

I do not play. Even in old days I never mastered whist. And I hope you will not cry "Sour grapes", if I say that I do not _wish_ to learn. I ask nothing better than a little music after dinner. If not too modern, it does not interfere with conversation, whereas the sight of a card-table freezes the most eloquent lips...

"What about a rubber before the others come up?," asked one of these young actresses. I had not caught her name and perhaps I am doing her a grave injustice; but, if I had not Lady Erskine's implied guarantee, I should have considered her... Well, let me say I should have been _very_ much surprised at being asked to meet her...

"I am afraid you must not count on me," I said.

The young woman reckoned up the numbers present and asked:

"What about poker, then?"

Here, I am thankful to say, Lady Erskine came to my rescue, and we contrived to exist with nothing more exciting than conversation until the men joined us. Then, I think, something must have been whispered to Sir Adolphus, for he said:

"I don't think we'll have any cards to-night; they're so unsociable."

Now, I wanted, above all things, to draw Will and Sir Adolphus together and allow them to become better acquainted. And Sir Adolphus, I knew, wished to talk to me, for he had begun to ask at dinner whether I thought it would interest Spenworth to see his pictures. I therefore suggested that, if _I_ might express a wish, it would be for a little music. Sir Adolphus assented at once and asked one of these rather ambiguous young women to play, while I made room for him on the sofa and beckoned to Will. The Maitland boy--it was _not_ very tactful of the Erskines--had been invited for the same week-end, but he was mooning about like a lost soul, looking at the pictures and talking to Lady Erskine...

"You asked me," I began, "to contrive a meeting--"

"Won't you wait until this is over?," suggested Sir Adolphus, with a nod towards the piano.

"I don't mind it," I said. "Now, Will has been away at the war since the beginning of 1916..." I won't weary _you_, but I gave him a little account of my boy's work on the staff, what were his tastes and ambitions ... and so on and so forth. I really don't know what this girl had begun to play, but she must have changed suddenly, for the noise became deafening... "I really can't talk against that," I protested.

Sir Adolphus went to the piano and whispered something, but the noise only increased.

"And she can't play against your talking," shouted Will. "That's Elsie Creyne, in case you don't know, and I'll bet she doesn't much care about people talking when she's playing. I've been watching her to see what would happen."

"Then I think, in ordinary kindness, you might have warned me," I said. "_I_ have no wish to hurt the young woman's feelings."

"I thought it might be rather a rag," was all Will would say. "I'm rather bored with this place. I kept going at dinner because there was plenty of champagne; but, if somebody doesn't do something, I shall have to brighten things up by pulling old Herr von Erckmann's leg. He had the cheek to criticize the staff at the end of dinner; I switched the conversation on to repatriation of aliens, but I haven't done with him yet."

It is this boyish irresponsibility that may be Will's undoing! _Mere_ high spirits... Before I could utter a word of warning, the music had changed again, every one was dancing and Will had jumped up to join them. I looked on--and marvelled; I had not seen any of these modern dances. And, when I could bear it no longer, I turned my back and began reading a paper...

That did in _time_ have an effect; or perhaps they merely tired of their revels. But truly honestly, if _I_ had not made a protest, _no_ one would. Nothing was said, but there was what I can only call an atmosphere of guilt. Then Sir Adolphus discovered that dancing, too, was "unsociable" and enquired whether there was not something that we could _all_ do...

Goodness me, are we so bankrupt in intelligence that we need to be given childish games to help us kill time? Has conversation died out in England? And you will remember that I was being invited to meet "artists" of every shape and size, who are never so happy as when they are sneering at the uncultured Philistines. These "artists", apparently, unless you encouraged them to dance or gave them rattles, would have sat down and cried. The others--including, I am sorry to say, Will, who was quite carried away by them--walked about saying very loudly "What I want is a drink." ...

And I had not had a word alone with Sir Adolphus...

"What about Consequences?," asked some one.

We live and learn, as they say. I have discovered from my experience that week-end that a certain class cannot make a suggestion or ask a question without introducing it with the words "What about." ... They put me on my guard now; I feel, when I hear them, that I know where I am... But can you imagine a greater confession of failure than to propose such a game to fifteen or twenty grown men and women, all--presumably--in possession of their faculties?

"What about Characters?," asked some one else. "That knocks spots off Consequences."

I give you their _argot_ in all its native elegance. You surely would not have me paint the lily...

Before one had time to enquire or protest, one had been set at a table and furnished with a pencil while the rules were explained. A list of qualities, characteristics, whatever you like to call them, was written down; a name was chosen, and we had each of us to award marks. Thus: you might choose the Prime Minister and set out your qualities--statesmanship, force, honesty, courage, eloquence, amiability, good looks, personal charm and so on and so forth; each of us had ten marks for each quality, and, if you liked, you might give two for statesmanship and four for eloquence and ten for courage; then, when we had all expressed our opinion--it was in secret, and no one saw what marks any one else was allotting--the totals were added and read out. That was the man's "character." ...

An absurd game! But, as they were too unintelligent to talk and too disobliging to play or sing... Will was writing down the questions, and there seems no limit to the number that may be asked.

"And what is to be the first name?" I enquired.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," he said. "You must take the whole lot in turn. Begin with me, if you like."

Then indeed I _had_ to make a protest. I had never imagined that we were to play with the names of the people actually in the room at that moment! More _execrable_ taste... I was only thankful that Will had not proposed so detestable a game and was sorry to see him taking such a lead in it. Personalities of all kinds I abominate; there is a new school of humour which fancies that it has been very clever when people of better breeding would only say that it had been unpardonably rude. Spenworth? Exactly! You could not have chosen a better example. And games of this kind always end in one way...

"Surely," I pleaded, "we need not run the risk of hurting any one's feelings. If you take people who are known to us all by _reputation_..."

"Oh, it's much more fun this way," I was assured by Will. "And there's no need for any one to be offended; all the questions are about _good_ qualities--charm and eloquence and so forth. If you think I have no charm, shove down a nought; that's much better than having 'Bad temper' and being given ten marks for it by everybody. I'll start, anyway, to give you all confidence."

I _ought_ to have resisted more strongly, but I could not let them feel that I was what Will calls a "wet blanket" to everything they proposed. Already they had abandoned cards and interrupted their dancing out of deference to me... We began to play, and I confess that I found the game _mercilessly_ tiresome. Imagine! A list of thirty or forty questions, which you had to answer fourteen or fifteen times over! Then a pause, while the papers were collected and the marks added; then the totals and a great deal of discussion and laughter and sometimes rather ill-natured facetiousness. And then the whole thing over again!

It would have been wearisome enough if they had played conscientiously; but, when the game was treated as a joke or a means of being malicious in secret, it was sheer waste of time. When my turn came, I was let off with quite a good character; but I am not vain enough to attribute this to anything more than luck or carelessness. I was not one of the _intimates_; they were in a hurry to put down any marks anywhere and move on to their next victim. At the same time I found it _exceedingly_ unpleasant when the totals were read out--or, let me say, it _would_ have been unpleasant if the whole game had not been so ridiculous. A hundred and fifty marks was the maximum; and, when "Love of Music" was given, I found that I had been accorded--twenty! I, who had been clamouring for music when every one else wanted to gamble or indulge in negro dances... And I have no doubt that I am indebted for the _princely_ total of twenty to the chivalry of my host and hostess, who could not very well criticize a guest--at least on that score... Will? You think that Will came to my support? I do not know what had overtaken him that night; his surroundings reacted on him until he was unrecognizable. When we reached "Sense of Humour", he called out:

"Oh, I say, here's a lark! 'Sense of Humour; grand total, nought.'"

All I can say is, I was glad to have enough humour to see the absurdity and to join in the general laugh. But I was furious with Will...

You might have thought that, after I had been pilloried and held up to the scorn of young women whom I would not allow to enter my back-door, artists or no artists, I might have been suffered to go to bed. But no! That would upset the totals! I must stay to the bitter end, though my head was aching with fatigue and I could see that the game was growing more and more ill-natured...

I heaved a sigh when we reached Sir Adolf, for his name completed the circle. I don't know whether the others were even trying to give an honest opinion, but I did my best according to my lights. "Good looks"? I really think he would be the first to admit that he is not prepossessing. "Moral character"? I'm not a scandal-monger, I hope, but he _has_ been twice divorced. "Loyalty"? I gave him full marks for that; otherwise I should not have been staying in his house. "Hospitality"? He meant well, but a _guest_ has _certain_ moral claims; I could only give him two for hospitality. "Love of Music"? Five for that, so far as I remember. "Sense of Humour"? _Nought_! I _couldn't_ give him any marks for humour. "Amiability"? ... But I cannot recall the questions; there were nearly forty of them.

I sighed again when Will collected the papers and added the totals. Then came the reading. My dear, I had been led to suppose that what we had written was all in secret, but I _felt_ that Sir Adolphus was guessing how we had marked him. "Good looks"? He received nothing for that, not a single mark from the fifteen of us who were eating his food and drinking his wine. "Amiability"? About twenty, obviously given him by his wife and the Maitland boy, who was _very_ busy ingratiating himself; or perhaps by one of those ambiguous young women who seemed to be on terms of such extraordinary _freedom_ with him... "Humour"? Four or five. "Honesty"? Not more than fifteen or twenty. It was too terrible! He tried to laugh it off; but, when he got _no_ marks, we were _all_ exposed, and I saw him glaring at one after another. And there was one question--"Personal Charm", I think--when Will read out "_Minus ten_." ...

I _knew_ it would happen. There always is some kind of unpleasantness when you begin playing with personalities and taking risks with other people's feelings. I don't think I have ever spent a more _distressing_ quarter of an hour. Oh, I was thankful when he said:

"Well, so that's what you all think of me, hein? We-ell, what about a drink, what?"

I felt--we _all_ felt--that he was really taking it in very good part... The men trooped off to a side-table. I made my way to Will in the hope of whispering just a word... He _had_ rather taken the lead in this ridiculous game, and I wished him to be _extra_ sweet to the Erskines for the rest of our visit...

"Well, _I_ call it rather a frost," I heard him say, as I drew near. "I'd back 'Characters' to break up any house-party in England, but everybody's taken it lying down to-night..."

I was _distressed_, for I really thought we had narrowly escaped some great unpleasantness. And then I found that we had not escaped it after all. Sir Adolphus came up to see that the others were looking after me properly and asked if he might have back the pencil that he had lent me. I surrendered it, he looked at it, pocketed it--and passed on. The others surrendered theirs, he looked at them... Then he came to Will...

"I was just wondering," I heard him say.

"Wondering what?," asked Will.

"Who gave me _minus_ ten for--'Personal Charm', wasn't it? And nought for 'Loyalty', nought for 'Honesty', nought even for 'Hospitality' ... Just wondering."

"It's a secret ballot," said Will.

"Some one gave me nought for everything except 'Personal Charm', and there I received _minus_ ten... I was wondering who it was."

"D'you suggest I did it?," asked Will.

"Oh, I respect the secrecy of the ballot," answered Sir Adolf. "But I noticed that you were using an indelible-ink pencil and I was clumsy enough to spill some soda-water over some of the papers, including the only one written with an indelible-ink pencil... But it is all a game, is it not?"

I have never felt so uncomfortable. Sir Adolphus said nothing more; he and Lady Erskine were _too_ sweet for the rest of the time we were at Rock Hill. But I felt--perhaps quite wrongly--that I _could_ not place myself under an obligation to him, I could not _invite_ a rebuff...

Will was in no sense of the word to blame. It was entirely my fault for not protesting more vigorously against a game in which there would inevitably be _some_ unpleasantness, _some_ one's feelings hurt. If we had been treated as rational beings and allowed to talk... Or music. I am easily satisfied, I ask for nothing better than a little music... If only the rising generation were _rather_ less self-conscious...

V

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFUSES TO BECOME A MATCH-MAKER

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): If you will give me a moment to set my thoughts in order, I think I can furnish the whole story. Indeed, if you are to skate in safety this week-end at Brackenbury, it is well to know where the ice will bear... Goodness me, I don't suggest for a moment that there is anything to _conceal_--I can assure you I should have had something to say before ever receiving the girl or allowing my nephew Culroyd to meet her--my boy Will can take care of himself--; I meant that there is so little to tell. Surdan the name is; Hilda Surdan--and no relation to our dear old admiral, nor to the Lacey-Surdans, nor to that wild, eccentric tribe of Surdans who have spread over so much of Mayo... If I may give you a hint, that is just the sort of question that you have so particularly to avoid. I've no doubt that in a few years they will have concocted a most convincing pedigree, linking themselves to all and sundry, but the idea has not occurred to them yet...

Homely, unspoiled people I thought them... The mother _very_ capable, but endearing... Immensely rich--I believe it is shipping, but the history books are silent... Have you observed a significant change in the biographies of the present day? We are always plunged into the heart of things, as it were: "_called to the bar in seventy-something, under-secretary for this or that, entered the cabinet as secretary for the other and, on retiring, was raised to the peerage with the title of_"--something _rather_ far-fetched and pretentious, as a rule. After that it's plain sailing. But, if one suggests that even a successful barrister must have had some kind of father and mother, one is considered to have been _tactless_... I _believe_ it was shipping... They talked a great deal about "yards", which one always associates with that sort of thing.

I met Mrs. Surdan on one of my committees during the war. When my niece Phyllida was working at that hospital, she befriended the girl--Hilda--; and Mrs. Surdan made this an excuse for introducing herself. I recognized her at once as one of the nameless, efficient women who impose their wills on a committee; earnest and hard-working, but occasionally rather difficult, with their assurance and massed information. One feels that there is no subject on which they will not put one right if one has the temerity to open one's mouth. Judge of my surprise when Mrs. Surdan wrote that she would like to come and ask my advice. _My_ advice!

"This is your lucky day," said Will, when I shewed him the letter. "Perhaps they want a house in London for the season."

Until that moment I had thought of telling this Mrs. Surdan I was so busy that we must really postpone our meeting. Will's quick brain warned me to do nothing hasty. I don't know, whether you _remember_ the condition of Mount Street; we had not touched the house, inside or out, since the beginning of the war; and, whenever I spoke to my husband, he put his hands in his pockets and said: "Will you please tell me where the money's coming from?" I'm not going to burden you with my own sordid cares; but we are _not_ well-off, and, what with taxation and the rise in prices, Mount Street is rather a responsibility. I retain it because it is my frame and setting; any little _niche_ that I may occupy is in Mount Street; and, when I part with the house, you may feel that I have indeed abdicated. This morning my tea was brought me on the tray that the princess gave me as a wedding-present. But you know: the house is a museum of memories... But it is a responsibility. Arthur's directorships are good so far as they go, but he says there is a reaction against what he calls "figure-head directors". Will is not yet earning anything; and I was cruelly disappointed by Sir Adolphus Erskine when I approached him for an appointment... So our income is _not_ increasing, and the cost of living _is_...

I told Mrs. Surdan that I should be delighted to see her at any time. Arthur saw at _once_ the desirability of considering a good offer...

"She can have this place for the season," he said, "or for eternity. _With_ the plate and linen. _And_ the servants. And _Will_, if she'll take him."

When Arthur speaks like that, I never argue with him. It is curious--one has seen the same thing a thousand times between mothers and daughters, but men always pride themselves on being _un_petty--; Arthur is _really_ jealous of his own son. If Will and he are left together for any time, Arthur becomes a different man, querulous, impossible to please. With his directorships and his clubs and his journeys to and fro, my husband--as you must have seen--does not give me very much of his society; I am left to support the burden of domestic empire single-handed, but, when Will is at home, I am _glad_ for Arthur to be away. When our boy applied for a commission, all that Arthur would say was, why hadn't he applied for it before? When he joined the staff, why hadn't he _refused_ to join the staff? When he left it, why hadn't he _stayed_ there? _Picking_ a quarrel... If only I could find him some suitable employment! But when a man like Erskine or Erckmann or whatever his name is... A broken reed, a mere "climber" who hoped to _use_ me for securing an invitation to Cheniston and the delectable friendship of my brother-in-law Spenworth... I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes! For all its shabbiness, the dear old house looked more than attractive when Mrs. Surdan arrived for dinner. Just the two of us... I always think tea is such an inhospitable meal, and luncheon is hardly practicable when every gleam of sunlight shews you something more to be patched and painted... As a matter of fact I might have spared my pains, for she was not interested in the house.

"Now, Lady Ann," she said, with the brisk, efficient manner which always rather puts me on my guard. "Let's come to business. I want your advice. My husband has closed down his department and is going north immediately. I shall go with him, of course, and I want to know what you would advise me to do with Hilda. After all the work she's done in hospital I should like her to have a few months' complete holiday and to enjoy herself, but obviously I want to entrust her to some one who _will_ look after her. Hilda is a thoroughly sensible girl, but London is a big place, and I suppose there is no harm in saying that she _is_ very attractive and will have a good deal of money later on. You know far better than I do the importance of her meeting the _right_ people. What do you suggest?"

Now, do you know, I felt so certain what she _wanted_ me to suggest that it was on the tip of my tongue to read her one of those abominable advertisements in the morning papers: "_A Lady of Title is willing to chaperon a young girl; introductions..._" and so forth and so on. People putting any position they may have up to _auction_! Are you surprised that London is _what_ it is? I have always wondered, when I see the really and truly _inexplicable_ young women with whom Connie Maitland is _liée_ from time to time, whether _she_ augments her income in this way. Otherwise I fail to understand how she keeps on that great house in Eaton Place and entertains as she does. But that is _her_ business... If Mrs. Surdan had dared to propose such a thing, I really think I should have asked her to leave the house...

"Surely," I said, "_you_ are the best person to look after Hilda. I go out very little; but, so far as I can judge, there is never any difficulty about getting to know people in London. If you were to take a house in some good neighbourhood and entertain a certain amount--"

"I should only be a handicap to Hilda," she interrupted.

Do you know, I thought that _dear_ of her... It is the Lancashire "burr", is it not? She had that--not disagreeably, but it was there. And her directness, never rounding the edge of anything she said... The girl, you will find, has been polished without being made genteel. If you catch them young, a good school ... or a governess whose ear has been trained to detect and suppress those tell-tale oddities of speech... But you don't often find a mother with the wisdom to recognize that and keep herself out of sight...

"I don't know _what_ to recommend," I said. "It would be no kindness to ask her to stay here. I am a dull old woman; there are no girls to keep her company; and my husband and I have long found that, in entertaining, it is useless to compete with those who think in pounds when we are forced to think in pennies."

"I should like Hilda to enjoy herself," said Mrs. Surdan. "If some one entertained on her behalf... I should like her to be given a ball, for instance... But, of course, it wouldn't be fair to ask _you_."

"It wouldn't be fair on Hilda," I said.

"May Hilda's parents not judge of that?," she asked.

A woman with a quite _conquering_ smile... I wish you had met her.

It was really like a struggle not to be first through the door...

"If Hilda would _care_ to come," I said at length, "as my _guest_..."

"I can never thank you enough," said Mrs. Surdan. "She is very tractable. Young, of course... And inexperienced about money..."

The best method of control, she thought, would be for me to suggest a sum which would cover all her expenses of every kind and for her husband to pay that into my account... "Hilda's pocket-money," we agreed to call it...

It seemed an admirable arrangement, but then Mrs. Surdan has the _practical_ brain of a man in some ways...

I took Arthur completely into my confidence...

Will...

I had great difficulty in deciding on the right method of approach with Will. State the bald fact that the girl was coming--irrevocably and without appeal; Will might have taken a dislike to her and made my already difficult task harder. Make any mystery about it, and she might have become the fruit of the one forbidden tree, as it were, a sort of morbid craving. And that was the last thing I wanted... In the end I told him frankly: she was young, pretty and the only child of very rich parents who wanted to launch her on "the great world", as the literary people call it...

"And I expect you to help me," I told Will. "I don't _know_ the young men of the present day."

"I must have a look at her before I wish her on to any of my friends," said Will, not very encouragingly.

You know, there are some people who feel they owe themselves a grumble... As soon as Hilda arrived, Will behaved charmingly. You have seen her about in London, I expect? Oh, well, she is _really_ pretty: small, exquisitely finished, with that "look-you-straight-in-the-eyes" air which so many girls seem to have acquired during the war. I felt--_pace_ her mother--that she was thoroughly well able to take care of herself. Except, perhaps, in dress. The first night she came down in a frock which hardly reached her knees and seemed to stop short at the waist--bare arms, bare shoulders, bare back; I was quite shocked for a moment when Will came into the drawing-room without knocking... However, so long as it did not set him against her... You see, I was simply not equal to taking her out to daily luncheons, dinners, plays, dances; inevitably a good deal devolved on Will, but he was truly sweet about it... Seeing how _répandu_ he is...

At the same time, I was in a difficult position, for, while I never _dreamed_ he would look at her as a wife, I should have liked him to establish some sort of claim on the girl's father; and, if Will did not marry her, I was not doing much to help the Surdan fortunes. You know what men are! So long as Will was considered her natural protector, the others kept away for fear of "poaching", as it were. I felt it was a pity for them to be about together so much. I'm not ashamed to call myself old-fashioned... And these garish new restaurants and poor Hilda's "uniform undress", as Will rather wittily expressed it, made them very conspicuous...

The girl felt it, too. One day, when he'd devoted half the night to looking after her at a ball, she came to me--in real trouble, I thought--, and we had a serious talk. I told her that, if _she_ had not spoken, I _should_ have; Will was devoting himself to her so good-naturedly that he was neglecting his own prospects and doing nothing to secure an appointment.

"As his mother," I said, "I cannot bear to see his abilities wasting... He needs a _good_ appointment; and I don't even know where to _begin_ looking for one. But _you_ are not to bother your head about _my_ affairs. Tell me, dear child, what is troubling _you_."

So far as I could make out--she spoke very simply and nicely--, she was afraid of getting into a false position with Will if she went about with him so much. _Affichée_... At this ball--I had handed on her mother's request that we should be _most_ careful whom we introduced--Will had very unselfishly played cavalier the whole evening; and, as she put on her cloak, some girl had asked one of those silly, impertinent questions which do such incalculable harm...

"My dear, you must not distress yourself," I said. "You know the old saying--'There is safety in numbers'--; for the future..."

It was quite evident to me _now _that Will did not intend to marry her. He was furious when I even _hinted_ at such a thing... And I will tell _you_ that I was glad. She would not have made a suitable wife, and no amount of money will overcome those little hardly perceptible angularities of breeding which make the difference between a happy and an unhappy marriage. While there was any possibility of such a thing, I _had_ to hold my peace...

That night I improvized quite a big party for her. Will was not able to be present, as he had a long-standing engagement to dine with a man at his club. We had encroached on his time so much that for the first week of the new _régime_ I hardly saw him; he was simply making up arrears with his other friends. I was lucky enough to get hold of Culroyd, however; and, though he was hardly a substitute for Will--I hate to say this about my own nephew, but I always feel that my poor sister-in-law Ruth imported a bucolic strain into the blood--, he did his best and made quite an impression on Hilda...

Indeed, I think you may say that it all started from that night... I _never_ imagined that Culroyd would fall a victim. Hilda is undeniably pretty and, of course, she is an heiress; but, beyond that, she brings nothing. Culroyd _is_ heir to an earldom, and one would have thought he might have done rather better... It's not as if he _needed_ money. When my brother Brackenbury sacrificed himself for the good of the family, he did it on such a scale that there was no need for any one to follow in his footsteps for several generations. Culroyd and Phyllida, for their age, are very well provided for; and, of course, there is a great deal more to come. No! I could not help feeling that he must have inherited a taste for money with his mother's blood. It is extraordinary how rich people seem to attract rich people. The Jews, for example... And _vice versa_. I am sometimes so much afraid that Will may throw himself away on some one whom he'll simply have to support all his life. And, short of selling the roof from over my head and the clothes from off my back, I have done all that I _can_ do... I have lost the thread....

Ah, yes! Culroyd! I fancy I told you that for a few months my niece Phyllida chose to fancy that she had a grievance against me. A young war-soldier tried to trap her into marriage, glamoured no doubt by the title and a fair presumption of money. If I could feel that I had done _anything_ to check a most imprudent alliance, I should be proud of the achievement; I know, however, that I have no right to throw myself bouquets. The young man did not acquit himself well under cross-examination, and you may judge of this "life's passion", as poor Phyllida would like to consider it, by the fact that from that day to this she has never heard from him. The entire family held _me_ responsible! Hitherto, I had been on the best possible terms with my relations--except, of course, my brother-in-law Spenworth, and that is an honour which I would sooner be spared--; now I was the universal scapegoat. Without yielding in _any_ way to cynicism, let me say that I was _amused_, after my Lord Culroyd's first meeting with Hilda Surdan, to find that he did me the honour to make my house his own.

"Let me know some night when he and Hilda are _not_ dining here," said Will, when I reproached him for always now deserting us for his club.

For some reason there has never been any great cordiality between the cousins. Perhaps Culroyd is a _little_ bit consequential in the way that he insists on his own dignity--a sort of instinctive attitude of self-preservation, as though he realized that he owes everything to an accident of sex and that, if Brackenbury and I changed places, he would have to change places with Will... And Will may very well have been galled by the light-hearted way in which Hilda could not get on without him one day and got on quite comfortably without him the next. No one likes ingratitude, though it was on the tip of my tongue to say that he need not grudge his leavings to poor Culroyd.

It was not so easy to find a free night, as the young people seemed to have made arrangements for days ahead, and in the end I told Will to leave them to their whispering and silliness and talk to _me_.

"Why you ever invited her I don't know," he grumbled; and I could see that the strain of playing cavalier for so long was telling on him.

"It was an opportunity for doing her a little kindness," I said.

"And is she going to marry Culroyd?," he asked, "or is she simply playing with him until she finds something _better_ worth her while?"

"Isn't it rather a question whether Culroyd will marry _her_?," I suggested. "After all, she doesn't _bring_ very much... They seem to get on quite well together."

"I haven't seen them," said Will. "It would be amusing to watch..."

When they all met, I can't say that it was very amusing for _me_. Will can be rather a tease when he likes, but I think it a pity to go on with that sort of thing if other people haven't enough humour to take it in good part. Culroyd and Hilda were so tremendously in earnest that they couldn't bear to be chaffed; and, the stiffer they became, the more irresistible they were to Will. I intervened once or twice, when I thought Culroyd was losing his temper, but the situation seemed to get suddenly out of hand; there was something _very_ like a scene.

"If you don't know how to behave," said Culroyd--very rudely, I thought, "do hire some one to teach you. Your manners would disgrace a privates' canteen."

"Would they? I'm afraid I'm not a good judge," said Will.

It was neat; but, though I'm his mother, I feel he ought not to have said it. I expect you know that Culroyd was still at Eton when the war broke out. Brackenbury positively forbade him to take a commission before he was eighteen, so Culroyd ran away and enlisted. It was in the regular army, you understand, and they had every kind of difficulty in getting him out. He joined the Coldstream afterwards, but for a time he _was_ a private...

"A better judge of draft-dodgers, perhaps," said Culroyd.

The word was new to me, and I had to ask for enlightenment. When it came, I was _beside_ myself with anger. The term is American and applies to a man who "dodges" the "draft", which is their word for conscription. A wickeder or more reckless charge could not be made. Will applied for a commission within the first year and a half of the war. "You can try," I said, "but I _don't_ think the doctor will pass you." He did, however, and Will served for three years with great distinction and was quite invaluable to his general. It was the fashion at one time to sneer at the staff, but I have yet to learn that war can be carried on without one; and I sometimes wonder whether the sneers were not mingled with a little _envy_ on the part of men who were not efficient enough to be selected.

"Culroyd, you have no business to say that," I told him.

"Will doesn't deny it," he said.

And then I thought my boy shewed both wit and dignity.

"If any one thought it worth while to call me a homicidal maniac," he said, "I doubt if I should bother to deny it."

"They'll never accuse you of even a tendency to homicide--even in war," muttered Culroyd, but he shewed that he had got the worst of it.

I did not like to take Hilda upstairs and leave them a chance of reopening the wrangle; but, when I suggested that we should all go up together, Will remembered that he had promised to meet a man at his club.

"I'm sorry," said Hilda very nicely, though I felt that I really ought to apologize to her for the little scene. "I wanted to talk to you and him privately... There's no harm in speaking before you, Lord Culroyd, because you're one of the family. My father wrote to ask if I knew of any one suitable for a position which is being created in one of his yards--rather a good appointment. He would like to give it to a man who has been in the army, he says. I have the letter upstairs and I remember that the starting salary would be a thousand a year. I think it is the Morecambe yards." ...

My dear! ... I said to myself, "Ann Spenworth, you must keep your head." For a dozen reasons I wanted to get Will out of London. If Culroyd continued to _haunt_ my house, I was thankful to get Will out of the way, though I cannot imagine that this ever entered Hilda's little love-lorn head. And an _appointment_, when we had waited so long! Besides, London is _not_ good for Will's health. He wakes up _with_ a head-ache and _without_ an appetite--as a matter of course....

I telegraphed as soon as the office opened. Mr. Surdan is a man of business, and the appointment was settled before night. Next day I went up to help find the boy a comfortable home. Don't be shocked now! I am simply echoing Will when I say: "Morecambe is a _God-forsaken_ place." _Rooms_ were out of the question, because he must have _some_ one to look after him. I was recommended to a worthy old clergyman, when everything else failed; and, though Will protested beforehand, he resigned himself when we reached the house. Just the father, the mother and two daughters, who seemed quite fluttered on meeting Will and hearing who he was. _Quite_ pretty girls in a "left-to-run-wild" way... Which I, personally, did not mind. After a month of dear Hilda's nakedness it was a comfort to drop into a world where you saw more clothes than _jeune fille_... Oh, I don't think Will runs any risk from _them_; he _does_ realize that love--in the homely old phrase--doesn't pay the butcher's book; and, after that, one has only to school oneself not to fall in love carelessly. But they will give him pleasant, bright companionship in the long evenings...

When I returned to London, Hilda was in bed. An internal chill... She wouldn't see a doctor, she said, as a few days' rest and warmth were all that she needed. _I_ was not sorry to have a few days' rest too. First Will and then Culroyd... I found my little visitor a greater strain than I had anticipated... My "rest" was "nothing to write home about", as Will used to say, for I found myself required to cope with a lioness which had been robbed of its cub--Culroyd, I mean. He came as usual expecting to see Hilda--and pretending he _only_ wanted to see his poor old aunt! _And_ left the moment he had swallowed his coffee! It's a good thing I'm not vain, isn't it? Next day he came again... At first it was habit, I think; he had got into the way of meeting this child every day. Then it became more serious. If we are going to bless this union, I think we must also bless Hilda's influenza. (It developed into that. And a nice time I had! Responsible to her mother--and day after day the girl _refused_ to see a doctor.) These boys and girls go about together so freely that there is little inducement to bring things to a head, as it were. Goodness me, when I first met Arthur, he would have _liked_ to go about with me everywhere, but my dear mother put her foot down very firmly on _that_. And, when he found that it was almost impossible for us to meet, Arthur suddenly discovered that I meant more to him than he had suspected... So with Culroyd; history repeating itself, so to say... Hilda was a _habit_; and, when the habit was broken by influenza, she developed into a _need_. Culroyd had never taken much trouble before, but now he called every afternoon with flowers and wrote to her morning and evening. She was quite bewildered. A very simple child...