Chapter XVII

The interview with Mr. Hobson in New York passed off satisfactorily. He did not seem very enthusiastic about the play, Joan thought, but he was quite satisfied both with her reading and her grandmother’s, and the contracts were duly signed. The rehearsals did not start until September, so Mrs. Lennox and Joan were now free to seek a cooler place. This they found in Wood Haven, a little village on the coast of Maine, and here a blissful, quiet month was spent. Joan continued to work at her part, but in a more temperate manner. She soon regained her old colour and spirits, while Mrs. Lennox declared that she had not felt so well for twenty years.

They had not been at this ideal spot many days before Adam Fletcher suddenly appeared. A proposed camping party had fallen through, he explained. Besides he had made some small alterations in the play, and he thought it might be desirable to go through them together. Joan received him with an enthusiasm, chilling despite its warmth. There were several points in her part, it appeared, on which she had wished to consult the author. She had never been so glad to see anyone, she told him rapturously, but her pleasure took the form of retiring to her own room with the script directly he had given her the ‘pointers’ she required. Still she could not work the whole day long. The morning was devoted to study, but after that she idled. She and Mr. Fletcher joined the gay bathing parties on the shore, or went for boating picnics, or long tramps in the woods. At first Mrs. Lennox accompanied the two young people, but she had never been fond of exercise, and she found these expeditions tired her. A rocking chair on the piazza was infinitely more comfortable. Besides the young man would only be staying a few days. When the days prolonged themselves into weeks and finally his departure was postponed to correspond with theirs, Granny began to wonder!

But although Joan and Adam Fletcher became increasingly friendly, they did not become anything more. The girl, and perhaps Mr. Fletcher as well, seemed almost too much taken up with the play to be able to think of living people, even of themselves. Soon they were all three back in New York and in the thick of rehearsals. Joan was now absolutely absorbed. She had no eyes or ears or any sense for anything but ‘The Combine.’ With some trouble she found a working girls’ club and insinuated herself into it, not as a helper, but as an actual member. Her accent and her phraseology became so deplorable that her grandmother wondered whether they would ever recover. Had the daily rehearsals not precluded it, Mrs. Lennox felt sure that her granddaughter would have sought a job as a real garment worker in her desperate pursuit of perfection.

It was doubtless this same spasmodic capacity for taking infinite pains, that caused Joan to come to the first rehearsal letter perfect. Mr. Wright, the producer, nearly fainted away! The author was obviously pleased, but Mrs. Lennox betrayed some annoyance. “Who ever heard of a leading woman knowing her words?” she scolded Joan afterwards. “That’s not the way to reach stellar eminence!” A more sensible objection to the innovation was the certainty of cuts. “Besides, you want to get the words and action together,” the grandmother added.

“I didn’t think about cuts, but I have got the words and action together, Granny. I can see every movement right through the play.” The girl certainly seemed to be amazingly definite. She was so sure, that Mr. Wright largely followed her ideas. “She’s star material of the first rank,” he told his chief.

Perhaps it was on account of this report, that the great little manager came down to rehearsal the next day. Up till then Mr. Hobson had taken small interest in the play. As he frankly told the author, he did not think the piece would be a financial success. Indeed, it was probably only gratitude for the phenomenal takings of Adam Fletcher’s previous play that had made him stage it. The young man reminded him that ‘The Under Dog’ also had not at first been viewed with managerial optimism. Might not Mr. Hobson be equally mistaken with regard to ‘The Combine?’

“That’s so.” The fat little manager gave his comfortable laugh. “I don’t pretend to infallibility. You may be all right, Mr. Fletcher, and I may be all wrong. Still I can’t see the play somehow. But don’t let that worry you. Whatever my opinion may be, the play is going to be staged in a manner worthy of a Hobson production. And you’ve picked your own leading woman--you can’t want more. No, I don’t go back on my offer to buy all your time.”

An evident flutter went round the company when it was known that Mr. Hobson was in the parquet, witnessing the rehearsal. Even Joan was conscious of it, and it keyed her up to do even better than usual. The great manager sat in silence, and then bustled off directly the piece was over. “That’s always his way at the first rehearsal,” she was told.

The next day he came again. This time directions came constantly from the dark auditorium. They were usually in so low a tone that they had to be repeated by Mr. Wright. At first Joan resented the deference that was being paid to this fat, Buddha-like little man sitting in his easy remoteness. She quickly realized, however, the ability of the criticism which pierced its jerky and illiterate delivery. Soon she found herself listening eagerly for Mr. Hobson’s suggestions, even when they did not concern herself. Though the great manager could not act at all, he seemed to have an uncanny instinct for dramatic errors in others. Once there was an argument between him and Joan over some proposed alteration. “Just try it my way,” he suggested pleasantly. She did, and had to confess it an improvement.

At last, after three weeks of strenuous work, the great first night arrived. Joan had never been so excited in her life. Not only did her own interest depend on the success of this evening’s performance, but the interest of her grandmother, of all the other actors, of Adam Fletcher, of the great Mr. Hobson himself, of the property boy, the supers, the scene shifters, the carpenter, the man who worked the spot light, even of the orchestra! The excitement felt by each of these individually, resulted in a huge, cumulative excitement unlike anything Joan had experienced before. Probably Mr. Fletcher’s socialist doctrines expressed in the play increased the girl’s consciousness of this community of feeling. Together with her artistic individualism was now mingled a wonderful sense of co-operative effort, which was probably her best preparation for the rôle she had to play. It was truly a ‘combine.’

And ‘The Combine’ succeeded; of that there seemed no doubt. Even the socialistic speeches, about which Joan had been a little dubious, called forth loud applause. The great scene with her grandmother received an ‘ovation.’ Again and again she and Mrs. Lennox came forward to bow. The third act went well, although perhaps not quite as well. Still there were loud and prolonged cries for the author at the end. When Adam Fletcher reluctantly came forward, leading Joan by the hand, they were greeted with a storm of clapping. In answer to the calls for a speech, he said a few words on his creed. “If this play should make the life of even one sweated garment worker more tolerable, I should feel it a success,” he told them with a rather noble simplicity. Again a thunder of cheers swept the house. Joan was transported with joy. “Isn’t it too lovely?” she cried as the curtain finally came down. “Granny, we’ve got a success, a real success!” She flung her arms around her grandmother’s neck, kissing her rapturously. Then she turned to Adam Fletcher, who was standing near, and put her hands in his. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I am so glad, so very, very glad.”

Mr. Hobson and Mr. Wright suddenly appeared on the stage. They were talking earnestly and with ill-omened seriousness. Mr. Hobson smiled, however, as he came near. “Fine,” he said to Joan in a kindly tone. “You never gave a better performance. Miss West, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house at the end of your big speech. Mr. Wright”--his voice changed suddenly--“please see that no one goes home without knowing that a rehearsal is called for to-morrow.”

“A rehearsal!” Joan exclaimed in surprise. “Are we going to have a rehearsal? Why, I thought it went so well.”

“Well is as well does--Mr. Fletcher, can you spare me a little time to-night? Unless we can find some way of cutting those socialistic disquisitions, the play won’t run a week.”

“Won’t run?” Adam Fletcher echoed in amazement, while Joan stood by too astounded to speak. “I suppose the audience applauded to show its disapproval then?” the young man enquired ironically.

“The audience applauded because, for the most part, they were your own socialist gang. Unfortunately they ain’t numerous enough to support my theatre. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Fletcher; wasn’t I up in the gallery? I tell you, apart from your cranks and highbrows, the audience found all that trade union talk downright tiresome. Of course they applauded you when you came on, if only to show they knew you’d written ‘The Under Dog.’ And Miss North too. I’m not denying that both of you scored a personal success. Your little speech was beautiful, just what was wanted, but that ain’t going to carry the play. You see what the box office says about it to-morrow night!”

“I am not going to hack about my work!” The sudden request, after the strain of the evening, was proving too much for the dramatist’s usually equable temper. “I didn’t write for the box office, and I don’t care a hang what it says.”

“Well, _I_ do then!” Mr. Hobson gave his genial laugh and laid his hand soothingly on Mr. Fletcher’s arm. He was unexpectedly fond of this young visionary, who was so unlike most of the men he came across. “My dear fellow, no one wants you to hack about your work, but if you could pull it together a trifle here and there--you’ll know how. Otherwise, I tell you, even Miss North’s acting isn’t going to save us. I wish you could have seen your way to making Sue a wee bit more sympathetic,” he went on regretfully. “A line or two would do it, just to show she really did feel for that old worker, don’t you know? The audience want a woman with red blood in her veins, not a Statue of Liberty exuding noble principles. And the ending--it wants uplifting. I’ve always mistrusted a falling curtain.” The two men went off together, the unfortunate author still protesting that he would rather have a failure than mutilate his play.

The next morning’s papers proved the sagacity of Mr. Hobson’s insight. For the piece was universally condemned, the “New York Journal” even coming out with a bold headline, “Fletcher’s New Play a Frost.” Perhaps, indeed, the critics would have run down any play by this author in their reaction from the adulation lavished on ‘The Under Dog.’ They had also clearly been annoyed at having had to listen to nearly three hours of a thinly-veiled socialist tract. As regards Joan the notices were far more laudatory. As one critic wrote, “Miss North has evidently been caught up in the Hobson star machine, and she will deserve her success. For quiet, reserved strength we hardly know her equal.” Another wished the heroine “better luck in the next starring vehicle,” for they all agreed that the character of Sue was unsympathetic. It was probably on this account that the highest encomiums were reserved for Miss West. Joan was delighted at her grandmother’s success, even while she was naïvely surprised. “What do you think of this, Granny?” she asked, and read triumphantly: “Miss Frances West’s touching representation of the old garment worker will awaken a responsive echo in every heart. Why has this talented actress not been seen before on Broadway?”

But in spite of the sympathy aroused by Miss West, in spite of Joan’s steady brilliance, in spite of Mr. Hobson’s rigorous cutting--or perhaps because of it, as Adam Fletcher maintained--the play was a failure. The public was evidently puzzled and uneasy at this new type of heroine who put a cause before human affection, and, as Mr. Hobson had said, they found the sermonizing an unmitigated bore. For in this play there was little of the heart interest and none of the dramatic thrill that had successfully formed the jam to render ‘The Under Dog’ powder palatable. Here Fletcher had offered his medicine openly--and the public refused to take it. The box office receipts fell lower and lower. After two weeks the theatre closed suddenly and the piece was sent on tour.

It now did a good deal better. For once in his life Mr. Hobson ‘featured’ the author, the play being everywhere billed as the successor to ‘The Under Dog.’ This at least ensured a good opening in each town. Moreover some weeks ‘The Combine’ achieved a certain success on its own account. In Pittsburg they had rising receipts, and on the Saturday night played to capacity. Cleveland was satisfactory. Then followed a dreary succession of poor houses and indifferent audiences. But Denver, for some unknown reason, violently espoused the production. The week’s takings ran into eight thousand dollars. It proved a ‘life saver,’ causing Mr. Hobson to alter his previous intention of cancelling the tour.

But the hope that the play would raise Joan to the ‘stars’ was doomed by the New York failure. Had it been another ‘Under Dog,’ she might have had her name up in that Broadway heaven of electric lights before the season was over. Now her stellar début appeared indefinitely postponed. Even if Mr. Hobson gave her another New York appearance, the best she could hope for was to be put opposite some male star, and even this was improbable. She would more likely have an ingénue part.

But Joan did not worry very much about the future. She had thought that the initial failure meant the end of the play, and her relief when she found that this was not so, quite eclipsed all other feeling. For despite the public’s disapproval, the girl herself liked her part; she wanted to go on playing it. Her rendering could still be improved, she felt. To abandon it before she had reached her highest level would be maddening. The touring made her anxious with regard to her grandmother’s health, but apart from this, she was not sure that she did not prefer it. To have a different audience every week, that took up different points for applause, or laughter, or disapproval was supremely interesting. It gave a certain solidity to her performance, she felt.

Despite Joan’s fears, Mrs. Lennox did not seem to find the travelling too tiring. The fact was, touring on a joint salary of a hundred and seventy-five dollars a week was a very different matter to touring on twelve. They could now afford to pay for the cushioning of life. Moreover the tour was a transcontinental one. Christmas would find them in California, which, from Mrs. Lennox’s point of view, seemed ideal. But, probably, the chief factor in the grandmother’s well-being was her continuous success. For in whatever else the audiences differed, they were all alike in their appreciation of the pathetic figure of the elderly garment worker. Each night a tearful audience frantically applauded Miss West at the end of her big scene, calling her again and again before the curtain. It almost seemed, as Joan suggested, that the public had an unconscious feeling of wanting to make up to the old needlewoman for her life of toil and self-sacrifice, and of mitigating by their affection the cold severity of Sue’s decree. “I don’t believe they appreciate your acting one bit, Granny,” the girl laughed; “they just think it’s you.” However this might be, Mrs. Lennox pursued a shining, watery way across the continent.

If uneasiness about her grandmother was the one thorn in Joan’s present life, uneasiness, not about her granddaughter, but about her daughter, was the one thorn in Mrs. Lennox’s. It was not hard for Joan to forget an indifferent mother for whom she cared so little, but it was not easy for Mrs. Lennox to forget her only child. For although they had grown estranged of late years, Imogen was, after all, the little baby who had come to her in a time of black distress; she was the exquisite fairy child who had danced like a sunbeam through those strenuous years of touring life; she was the beautiful girl-bride who had clung to ‘Mother’ in an agony of apprehension during the months before her baby’s birth. What was Imogen doing now? came ceaselessly to Mrs. Lennox’s mind. Did she miss them? Was she well? Although in the past, Mrs. Lennox had rightly felt that her daughter’s invalidism was largely a pose, she now reminded herself that, eleven years ago, it had started in a real and painful trouble, which had been courageously concealed. Had she throughout judged Imogen too harshly? Mrs. Lennox wondered. Perhaps the growing alienation had been her fault. But though she had her daughter so much in her thoughts, practically there seemed nothing to be done. For she felt in honour bound not to communicate; that had been in spirit the original pact with John Vandeleur. Only why did not Imogen write to her, Mrs. Lennox asked herself, or had she too made some promise? Her daughter must have known of their appearance in New York. Even if she did not recognize Joan under her stage name, the many notices of ‘Frances West’ could hardly have escaped her attention. Surely she might have found some means of getting into touch.

The truth was that Mrs. Vandeleur had not written, simply because she had not the faintest desire to do so. From the first, the theatrical adventure had struck Imogen as a blessed relief. The early distaste she had felt for her daughter had grown with years, and a crowning touch had been put to it by Joan’s triumph on the night of the dance. A little more, Imogen felt, and she would hate this tall, dark girl who was called her daughter, but who had always seemed to her a contemptuous and hostile stranger. Her affection, too, for her mother, which had once been quite genuine, had since evaporated. Here again Joan was largely responsible, for Imogen had always been desperately jealous of her mother’s love for the child. Indeed the contrast between Mrs. Lennox’s admiring devotion towards Joan, and the humorous and rather scornful tolerance that she accorded to the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur, was patent to all, and, perhaps, would have awakened resentment even in a more generous nature. Nor could John Vandeleur’s attitude afford his wife much rehabilitating satisfaction. He was by nature rigidly honest, and when he had once discovered the artificiality of Imogen’s character, he despised her for it far more than her mother ever could or did.

Probably nothing could have been much worse for Imogen’s spiritual development than this attitude of contemptuous indifference on the part of those nearest her. After all, she had only been seventeen when she married. Had her husband and her mother guided her more cleverly, had they tried to take her at her own valuation, they might have brought out her finer qualities and produced a less ignoble woman. Instead, Mrs. Lennox concentrated her love upon little Joan, and John Vandeleur, in his disappointment, grew not only bitter towards his wife, but unfair. He told himself that she had never cared for him, that she had had no thought but for his money; he failed to realize that her craving for the money had been so intense as genuinely to glorify in her eyes the elderly husband who brought it. During that first year of marriage Imogen had been really attached to ‘old John Van,’ as well as deeply grateful to him for being so rich. Her baby’s birth had then come, with the pain and subsequent ill-health, and had set up a repulsion towards the man who had occasioned it. Probably if John Vandeleur had taken as much trouble over his wife’s fluctuations as over those of the copper market, he could have overcome the feeling. He did not try, and the breach between them widened.

Loneliness, boredom, and perhaps resentment had subsequently caused Imogen to take up Society, and she had become conscious of the charm of masculine society. “My family does not care for me,” she used at that time to lament to successive admirers with a certain truth. Thus, shadowed by domestic disapproval, the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur felt herself forced along a path that constantly deepened it. If her own family did not appreciate her, then she would fall back on others who did, she told herself angrily. The worshipping young artists were first called in, more as a salve for her wounded self-esteem than from a desire for sex excitement.

Lately, however, this new and far more dangerous element had come into Imogen’s life in the shape of Senator Lee-Baxter. That the Senator should be attracted, was not surprising, for Mrs. Vandeleur was still beautiful despite her thirty-eight years, but that Imogen should be attracted by the Senator, a gross, middle-aged, business man, was more remarkable. It may, indeed, have been his very grossness that appealed to her. For Imogen was growing tired of her artists, tired of all their posing and pretences, and incidentally of her own. After a life of make-believe, her whole being clamoured for something real. She was sick to death of always attitudinizing, although she did not know it. The admiration of her usual adorers was of a vapid, reverential character. Before she grew too old, she wanted to provoke a dominant, elemental passion. At times she had been afraid that she was too old already. In the morning, prior to her maid’s magic ministrations, she often looked quite elderly and faded. But the Senator had dispelled her doubts. Unlike her young artists, he saw through her pretences, he gauged the value of her sham delicacy, her pretended reticence; unlike her own family, he could penetrate without despising. On the contrary, he laughed and kissed her with a still rougher passion, calling her a damned clever little fraud. For Mr. Lee-Baxter did not worry about his lady-love’s soul; it was frankly her body that he desired. Sometimes Imogen felt it an unspeakable relief to be with someone who was no better than she was herself--who was, indeed, a good deal worse. The man’s masterful bearing fascinated, even while it frightened her. She was more in love with him than she had imagined she could ever be with anyone. Where would it end, she wondered, with a half-delighted terror.

For with a man of Senator Lee-Baxter’s temperament an end of some sort could not be long postponed. So far, Imogen had been able to avert a climax, though discretion was the better part of her virtue. The same prudence had made her absolutely refuse to run away with her lover, as the Senator continually urged. For Imogen’s new passion had not so clouded her native shrewdness as to make her trust the man to this extent. No, any happening of that sort must be prefixed by a legal marriage. With this end in view, she toyed with the idea of taking steps to get a divorce from John. In Kentucky, the Senator’s own State, she learnt that six months’ habitual behaviour by a husband indicating aversion to his wife and causing her unhappiness was a sufficient ground for divorce. “For me there have been sixteen years of such suffering, not a mere six months,” Imogen was beginning with a sigh of pensive sadness, when Lee-Baxter engulfed her. “Why should a lovely woman like you to be tied up to a parchment-faced Methuselah? That’s grounds enough,” he said hoarsely.

It was just at this time that ‘The Combine’ opened in New York. Imogen did notice that her mother was to appear in it, and, she supposed, with an acute jealousy, that the heroine must be Joan. Indeed, she could not repress a certain pleasure at the run of the play being cut short. It would do her daughter good, she felt spitefully; Joan had always been conceited. But, anyway, she could not trouble about other people’s affairs, when her own were so critical. Did she, or did she not, want this divorce? She really did not know. That is, she did not know in her calmer moments when she was alone and unswayed by the Senator’s almost brutal love-making. Although Imogen did not respect her husband--indeed, she considered him an exceedingly tiresome old man, who would grow still more tiresome with advancing years--she had retained the very greatest respect for his apparently limitless wealth. Mr. Lee-Baxter was wealthy too, of course, but not at all to a comparable extent. Oh dear, what was she to do? Was ever poor woman so tried in the struggle between love and duty?--for that was how she phrased it.

But while Imogen was thus dallying with the situation, events shaped themselves. There had already, indeed, been some minor accidents. On two occasions, the inopportune entrance of a servant had broken short a compromising embrace. But although the domestics had no doubt gossiped among themselves, the incident evidently did not come to her husband’s ears. Indeed, why should it? Mr. Vandeleur was not particularly popular with his entourage, while the Senator scattered largesse freely. Moreover the servants realized that the certain result of any disclosure would mean, from one cause or another, the loss of a good situation. With regard to visitors, Imogen was safe, for she had given the strictest orders that no one was to be admitted while the Senator was there. So only John remained, and from him, Imogen felt, there was no danger. Unless her husband was out of New York, Mr. Lee-Baxter only called in the daytime, and, from the Fifth Avenue point of view, John Vandeleur was then non-existent. Only two or three times during their whole married life had he come back in office hours.

But one afternoon the unexpected happened. It was about half-past three when Mr. Vandeleur let himself in at the front door to the scarcely-concealed astonishment of the footman in the hall. “Is Mrs. Vandeleur in her boudoir?” he asked.

The man hesitated. “I am not sure, Sir. I will see.” He started to go upstairs.

The curious expression on the man’s face had not been lost on his master. “It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Vandeleur said sharply. “I am going up in any case.” He did not consciously tread more softly than usual, but he was a light weight and the thick pile of the stair-carpet dulled his steps. He reached the first landing and gently pulled aside the portière.

Imogen was lying on her usual couch, her head turned away. On a low chair beside her sat Lee-Baxter. His thick arms sprawled across her recumbent form, while his face was buried in the curve of her neck. She was wearing a ‘rest gown’ cut low.

John Vandeleur gave a slight exclamation of disgust. It seemed inadequate to the situation, but disgust was his only sensation. He felt as though he had accidentally stepped on something dirty. He walked across the room and pressed the bell. Presumably his ejaculation had been heard by the affectionate couple, for when he looked round, the Senator was standing in a normal attitude at some distance from the couch. Imogen’s face was still invisible, for she was holding up a fan ostensibly to screen her eyes.

The man servant, impelled by curiosity, had followed his master almost to the top of the stairs. So, directly the bell rang, he came in eagerly. “Senator Lee-Baxter’s hat and coat,” John Vandeleur commanded. “If Senator Lee-Baxter calls again Mrs. Vandeleur is not at home.”

The Senator had been red before, now he grew almost purple. He had been prepared to have a scene with the husband, but to be thus humiliated before a flunkey made him feel that the reparation was due to himself. He was a powerful man and physically courageous; and it was with difficulty that he contained himself. He would indeed have made short work of John Vandeleur, who had never been athletic and whose seventy years had changed his former spareness almost to emaciation. The young footman also would probably have been easily mastered. But, as Lee-Baxter knew, there were two or three other men-servants within call. Although, at that moment, he would have given his entire fortune to wring John Vandeleur’s wizened neck, he managed to control his rage. “I’ll be even with you for this,” he shouted, and marched downstairs.

As soon as they were alone Imogen began to weep. “Oh, my poor heart,” she moaned; it was indeed beating tumultuously; the shock, for once, had been real. As her husband did not speak, she went on whimperingly: “You must not draw false conclusions. Senator Lee-Baxter came to-day to tell me about a bill that he is going to introduce. Although you think me so brainless, he considers me very clever. He says my opinion is extremely valuable to him.”

“Please spare me these imbecilities.” John Vandeleur could hardly trust himself to speak. “For the future you will dispense with Mr. Lee-Baxter’s acquaintance or discontinue residing in my house.”

“But I tell you there has been nothing really wrong between us,” Imogen began indignantly.

He waved her down. “I am absolutely indifferent as to whether there has been anything really wrong, as you call it, or not.”

Imogen stared in genuine surprise. “John, how can you be so immoral?” she said indignantly. “You don’t deserve to have a good woman for your wife.” Probably Mr. Vandeleur himself at another time would have deprecated his speech. The fact was, the whole incident had given him such a feeling of nausea, that the difference between the more or less really became immaterial. “Of course you can prevent Mr. Lee-Baxter coming here,” his wife went on spitefully, “but I fail to see how you can prevent us meeting elsewhere.”

“You overlook the existence of our justly celebrated detective force.” Mr. Vandeleur was trembling with anger. “I merely repeat that if you meet that man you will find this house closed to you on your return.” He abruptly left the room.

The conversation was not re-opened. Two days later, while Imogen was still debating as to what she should do and lamenting the difficulty caused by the possession of extraordinary beauty--“like poor Helen of Troy,”--she happened to see in an evening paper the sale announced of a large house at Long Branch. Curious to know whether it belonged to any of her friends, she began to read the advertisement. The description struck her as familiar. Suddenly she came to the name--Beau Site.

A perfect fury seized her. So this was how John was trying to pay her out! He was probably in the library. She rushed downstairs. “How dare you sell Firenze! How dare you!” she cried. “I suppose this is your revenge because another man admires me.”

“Kindly do not indulge in histrionics. Do you suppose I care enough about you to have any desire for revenge?” John Vandeleur carefully blotted the letter he was writing. “As it happens I had come home on purpose to discuss this subject with you the day before yesterday, when I so inopportunely interrupted your tête-à-tête. I am selling Firenze because I cannot afford to keep it.”

“What? You cannot afford it?” Imogen thought that she could not have heard aright. Surprise quite obliterated her previous rage. In their twenty years of married life, it was the first time the word had ever crossed her husband’s lips. She had always thought of his wealth as a boundless, inexhaustible sea of gold into which she could dip and dip without leaving any impression. “Not afford it?” she repeated incredulously. “What do you mean?”

“Surely the words are simple. Firenze is too expensive. It costs too much. I have not sufficient money.--Probably even you are aware of there having been a great financial crisis last year. I lost incredibly. Since then I have formed the Vandeleur Syndicate, as you may possibly have heard. Although I hold the majority of the shares, my profits will not be as great as in the past.”

Imogen had turned pale. “Not afford Firenze?” she murmured as though dazed. “But perhaps then you won’t be able to go on affording even this house?”

“At present I can do so. I will let you know if such a time occurs.” Mr. Vandeleur took up his pen again. “You need not fear real poverty, Imogen,” he added in a more kindly tone. “You will always be what most people would consider well-to-do. I have made that secure. And possibly I shall be able to retrieve the disaster. This largely depends on my being able to keep it from becoming known. At present no one suspects--or rather they do not suspect the magnitude of the loss. I must ask you therefore to treat the matter as absolutely confidential.”

This revelation was the last straw, Imogen felt. John spoke of retrieving his loss, but she felt certain he would not be able to do so. The fact was, he was growing too old, she reflected contemptuously. She herself had noticed of late a distinct decrease in his former vigour and decision. Instead of weakness appealing to Imogen’s protective instinct, as it would with most women, it merely aroused her antipathy. John could no longer compete with virile men in the prime of life--such as Mr. Lee-Baxter. Well, if she must consider expense, if she would only be ‘well to do’--an odious phrase--it should not be in the company of a doddering septuagenarian.

Although this was the decision Mrs. Vandeleur reached, she did not word it in this crude fashion, even to herself. A mist of noble sentiments transfigured her selfish plan almost into a renunciation. Great mental play was made of finding herself indispensable to the happiness of a distinguished man, of aiding him in his life’s work. Had John needed her, of course, she would never, never have left him. But doubtless, with his crabbed and fidgety ways, he would actually prefer to live alone. At this point a tiny tear rolled down Imogen’s cheek. How pitiful it was to be so forlorn, so unappreciated, when she had always tried so hard to do her duty. First her mother and her only child had abandoned her, and now her husband. Regardless of herself she had ever striven for the good of others--why, even now she would be condemned to pass long, dreary months of solitude in some barbarous Kentucky town in order to fulfil her mission. Afterwards, indeed, a happier prospect might open before her, but no one could imagine it was her own happiness that she was seeking. No, she only wished to devote her life to a great man’s welfare, to taste with him the divine communion of spiritual love. All this, and much more, she poured out in a scented epistle to the Senator--she had already informed him fully of her husband’s financial troubles--and she concluded by remarking that John would be away the following week, so if her ‘Beloved’ came to New York, they could together make the necessary plans for her departure.

The Senator laughed as he read the letter over his breakfast table in his Washington apartment. “She’s a devilish lovely woman,” he murmured, “but what a lot of words she takes to say that she wants a good hug!”