CHAPTER I

I

Two young men stood on a country platform saying good-bye to each other. One was bound for Cambridge, the other for London. Two trunks were in charge of the porter, but neither of these belonged to the bronzed young fellow who took his seat in the train. For although London was his destination, he had as much foreknowledge of his actual resting place in that metropolis as had Mr. Richard Whittington many years before him. The latter was supposed to have brought a cat with him; the young man in the carriage had no cat. He had health and ambition, also one hundred and twenty pounds in the bank. He had been able to save the whole of his salary for the second and final term at Chawley School, which he had left at Easter, to the sorrow of the boys, who had marked their adoration with some tears, and a presentation set of "Shelley's Poems." He had taken a bold step, highly applauded by Mr. Gerald Woodman. He had sacrificed an income of sixty pounds a year, with board, lodging and washing, for the uncertainty of London.

But there was no regret in his heart on this lovely spring morning. The song of the lark mounting to a southern cloud, the sense of budding things in hedge and tree, the sharp air, and the exuberance of his friend, Bobbie Vernley, all augured well for the adventure.

"You have given me a great time, Bobbie," he said, looking on the good-natured face of his friend. "Don't forget to tell Marsh to write, and let me have all the news. I will write as soon as I get my rooms."

There was a slamming of doors, the screech of the engine whistle, a final handshake, a look in Vernley's eyes that told him much, and they were parted again.

John sat back in the seat and watched the familiar station glide away. Somehow this place always marked the beginning and end of things. When next he came how would he stand--a success or a failure? He had weighed anchor and was putting to sea. He had youth, one hundred and twenty pounds, and determination.

Opening a note book, he glanced through a list of addresses which gave him a little comfort. He knew a few persons in London. There was Mr. Steer, and a renewal of his acquaintance warmed him with joyous expectation. There was Mrs. Graham, to whom he was confidential, and who, looking in upon his dreams knew to what starry pinnacles he aspired. Muriel had insisted on an early call on Mr. Ribble, but John felt doubtful. A busy politician would find courtesy and kindliness heavily taxed if every stray youth seeing London rang his door bell. But he made one promise to call formally. There was a hope of companionship in the presence in town of Lindon, who had just left Balliol to study at the Royal Academy of Music, but a certain shyness still hung over his relations with that brilliant person. There was something he never quite understood, a reservation in manner, if not in speech, which told John theirs could never be an equal friendship. Somehow he always felt the debtor to Lindon, perhaps owing to his manner. Despite his cordiality, his obvious liking of John's company, the latter always felt diffident; perhaps now he would learn to know Lindon better, relieved of the halo of a schoolboy's worship.

Interleaving his note book was Miss Piggin's card, and on it, in a pointed Italian hand, the address of a boarding house she recommended. "Mrs. Perdie, 108, Mariton Street, S.W." In his pocket, John carried another specimen of Miss Piggin's handwriting, on the flyleaf of "The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft," calmly setting forth the inscription--"To John Narcissus Dean from Elsa Piggin, in memory of walks and talks." Some of the letters had run, Miss Piggin explained, owing to the dew dripping from some roses just gathered, on her writing desk. The warmth of her pillow overnight had somewhat crinkled the dried page, but this Miss Piggin did not attempt to explain. She carefully hid from all eyes that, with his departure, Romance died. Henceforth, she accepted Fate with gentle compliance. No more rebellions, never again the false hope of Springtime; even photographs were resolutely put away, John's included, but she permitted one small snapshot taken on the football field, to remain on her dressing table. He had such a handsome leg, and her soul craved beauty. For the rest she was unwearied in attention to her father. He found clean nibs in his pens, his note-books carefully dusted and replaced. She had a great scheme that afternoon for the Ladies' Sewing Meeting, which foretold long months of patient work--an altar cloth, embroidered with scenes from the life of St. John. Appropriately therefore, the opening lesson was read from the Gospel according to St. John. She began it with loving reverence. St. John was such a beautiful name, she thought.

And John? Alas! he too dreamed, of a fair face, the laughter of maidenhood, the sudden shaking of curls beautiful in their agitation. Those last moments in the hall, awaiting the arrival of Tod with his car, were painful almost. One by one they had said good-bye. Mr. Vernley, red-faced, cheerful, friendly; Mrs. Vernley, motherly to the last, then Kitty, off for her morning ride, and Alice about to retire to her voice production; and then they were alone for a few precious moments.

"You will write?"

"Every day, darling," he vowed.

"I shall always think of you."

"Always?"

"Always!" she promised.

Their hands are locked--silence, and tears in Muriel's eyes.

"I shall soon be on my feet."

"I know."

"Muriel!"

"John, dearest!"

"London is nearer than Chawley."

"Yes, John, but--"

"But?"

"It is so new, such an adventure."

"That thrills me--our day draws nearer, our day, Muriel." There is another pause. Bobbie bangs the door open before approaching.

"Car's coming round, Scissors," he shouts. "Good-bye, Muriel, old thing! Remember me to the nuns!" He strides up and kisses her soundly on the cheek, sees tears in her eyes; she feels the reassuring pressure of her brother's hands upon her arms. And then they are gone.

As the train drew in through the panorama of chimney-pots, factory roofs and gasometers, it was her face John saw, over the wretchedness of the bewildering city. In the station he awoke to the reality of the things under the girders and glazed roofs. He carried only a bag; his trunk would be forwarded when he found rooms. He stood on the platform hesitating a moment. London frightened him. It was so vast and self-centred, so busy with people who had apparently solved the problem he had to solve. Where should he begin, and how would it all end? For the moment he had one rule, strict economy. He made his way slowly up the incline out of Liverpool Street Station, and asked a policeman the best means of reaching Mariton Street. "Where is it?" he asked the genial fellow whose robust countenance cheered him.

"Pimlico! No. 6 bus to Charing Cross, change to 24, that'll take you down to Mariton Street." John thanked him and clambered to the top of the bus. He watched the traffic, human and vehicular, streaming down Bishopsgate. At the Bank, he could not suppress a thrill as he looked on the restless tide surging into the vortex before the Mansion House. St. Paul's, lifting its sun-struck dome into the morning air, pigeon-haunted, floated away behind, and the short descent under the viaduct brought them to Ludgate Circus. There, narrow, mazed with telegraph wires, jammed with buses, cars, lorries, and hurrying humanity, rose Fleet Street. An incommunicable wonder stole in on the boy's heart. Here was the battle ground whereon he would throw down his gauge. The roar in his ears might have been applause, or was it the laughter of ridicule? The gold-lettered sign-boards announced the tributary channels on either hand. Names familiar on the breakfast table; names of power and wonder leapt forth from these insignificant buildings, behind those walls sat the men who held the world in leash. The fall of empires, the death of monarchs, the ruin of men, the fame that sprang upon them; all these things found their historians here. Man-made, this world was hedged round with the divinity of power. Within those drab buildings beat the pulse of Time. Mercury, wing-footed, swept down those narrow stairways, and leapt forth from fourth-storey dwellings of the Olympian "We."

It was soon passed. The roaring bus soared up the gradient towards the Griffin and Shield at the City entrance of Temple Bar. Beyond, a widening way diverged in two crescents around the pinnacled church. High up on the right, the solemn solidity of the Law Courts, its clock hung from the tower far over the narrow street; a swerve and a new vista. The Strand leading onwards past the wedge of the Australia House, the pillared colonnade of the Gaiety Theatre, and the narrows, with hotels and theatres on either hand. Then the railed front of Charing Cross, a brief right hand glimpse of St. Martin's Church, and John descended. Around the corner broke the wonder of the world, Trafalgar Square, flanked by the National Gallery, white against the blue sky, cumulus-banked with summits of sunlit snow. Aloft, Nelson, dark and solitary, looking riverwards far over the head of the unfortunate monarch, superbly seated and orientated; the four lions, symbols of British solidarity and regal magnificence, in whose ears the song of the nation's traffic sounded by day and by night, guardians of the hub of empire; and listeners, perforce, to the revolt of humanity.

Long stood the youth, gazing upon this scene, watching the brilliance of the fountains with their scintillating jets, about whose spray naked urchins as if strewn from a garland of Correggio, shouted and splashed. Into his heart stole the magic of the place. Here was the visible pulse of the nation, the England in which he lived, an Englishman. Here was the dream, tangible, carried in the hearts of a thousand pioneers across the wastes of far places, the music accompanying the hymn of duty, the thought that built the empire imperishable in the love of her children. He looked on the Roman magnificence of the Admiralty Arch, caught a swift translation of a Venetian moment when a cloudless azure dome encupped the towered church; and then, with a start, he returned to the business of the day. A few minutes later one view crowded out another, until amid ecstasy and wonder, he seemed to be riding through history. Whitehall, broad, official, stately; the sudden leap to sight of Westminster Hall; the familiar homeliness of the Abbey; the tracery of the Houses of Parliament; the clock tower and the bridge, and ere the tumult subsided in his heart, followed the long cathedral-greyness of Victoria Street, ending in the vulgar rout of traffic about the railed courtyard of Victoria Station. John laughed to himself, swaying on the bus. Was he seeking lodgings or El Dorado?

When the bell rang for the fifth time that morning, Mrs. Perdie let forth a protest.

"Sure there's no peace in a basement kitchen," she moaned, wiping her hands dry after peeling potatoes for the evening meal. It was no use expecting Annie to answer the bell; she was on the fourth floor making the young gentlemen's beds, and lost that moment in contemplation of a gaudy pair of pyjamas. So while Annie speculated on the cost of a blouse made out of the same silk, Mrs. Perdie climbed the stairs and opened the door to another exquisite young man. But she had a trained eye, and the first words of enquiry told her that this was the genuine article, the product which Mrs. Perdie, proud of being a connoisseur by virtue of seventeen years' service in the best families, reverenced and made adjustable terms for. The mention of Miss Piggin's name immediately confirmed her impression. Warmly she invited the young gentleman into the drawing room, hastening to draw up the Venetian blinds and apologising for her appearance.

"I'm not like this of a night-time. You see, when they are all out I give a hand to the maid." Then she was silent a space, while she absorbed the vision of the young man seated before her. A visit from Phoebus Apollo himself--the original of the plaster statue on the shelf over the aspidistra--would not have silenced her so effectively.

"I knew at once he was of quality," she confided to Annie later. "His hands, gloves and shoes--you can never go wrong there. You can't be sure of accent. Some people are regular parrots. And he was that shy I could have hugged him. Didn't like to ask how much, he didn't, or what it included. Different to that brazen pair on the fourth floor."

The interview was indeed somewhat painful to John. He had heard warning stories of the rapacity of landladies, of their dirty rooms, bad food and subtle extras. The most familiar jokes were based on the experiences of unfortunate lodgers. He had expected to find Mrs. Perdie rat-faced, with a withered neck and untidy wisps of hair. This round-faced woman with the pleasant smile and a straight-forward air was not the original of the caricatures; moreover he saw no cringing cat. There was not even a bunch of wax grapes under a glass dome, which Tod assured him monopolised the mantelpiece in all boarding houses.

At her invitation he made a tour of the bedrooms, and heard as he mounted the stairs, the separate histories of the occupants of each room. She halted on the third floor and led the way into a back bedroom. It was well-furnished as a bed-sitting room. A writing table stood under the window, which looked out on the wide expanse of a factory yard. The sky was cut by a huge chimney, belonging to the Army Clothing Factory, but this was not unpleasant, for it bore a slight resemblance to the Campanile of St. Mark's, Venice; at least with a blue sky an hour after sunset, the illusion was not impossible. There was a large mirrored wardrobe, a bed with a purple eiderdown, a boxed-in wash-stand, a small table, an easy chair and a gas stove.

"Gas is extra, sir, there's a shilling slot meter in the recess so that you only pay for what you burn. The bath room, with a geyser, is on the landing. This room and board, is two guineas a week, laundry and boot cleaning extra. There's breakfast and dinner in the evening, with midday dinner and tea on Sundays. All our guests have lunch out. I'm sure I could make you comfortable, sir."

Looking at the woman, John felt sure too. He was glad to have settled the problem so easily. Before he went, Mrs. Perdie gave him a latch key--a sign of confidence in view of the smallness of his bag, and in return he insisted on paying her a week in advance which caused her to say to Annie, "only a gentleman would think of that--handsome-like. There's nothing like the quality."

When she showed John out, he was reminded that dinner was at seven, and buses ran every ten minutes from the corner.

"I don't know your name, sir," said Mrs. Perdie finally, as the young man put on his hat.

"Dean--John Dean," replied John with a smile.

Mrs. Perdie smiled back as she closed the door, "Bless 'im," she said to the cat, which then appeared. "I wonder what he does--and such nice teeth and manners!"

When Annie descended from her dreams of glory, with a few loose feathers in her hair, Mrs. Perdie was rubbing a serviette ring.

"Annie--there's a new gentleman comin' in to-night; set a clean napkin and this ring between Miss Simpson and Captain Fisher, and get the back bedroom ready. Take the best towel up."

II

When John returned to Mariton Street that evening, the beauty of London burned in his blood. He had given himself up to pleasant vagabondage all that day, abandoning the quest of livelihood. On the morrow he would begin that grim task. So after sending the address for his luggage to be forwarded, noon found him walking along the road by the garden wall of Buckingham Palace, towards Hyde Park. It was sunny, and the pleasant hum of traffic, the bright-faced messenger boys, the nurse girls with their well-dressed children, the crescendo of an approaching bus, the lovely elegance of the lady whose car went parkwards for an airing, the stately fronts of the houses, the sun-gleamed masses of clouds that backed the dark figure of the charioteer on the quadriga near Green Park--all these things were part of this wonderful song of life. It was almost incredible that he should seek a niche in all this splendour. Those people around him seemed so well established; had they ever begun, or had they been mere victims of circumstances?

He watched a couple of riders turn in at Hyde Park Corner; a fresh-faced young man, stolid with good food and no worry, accompanied a fragile girl, whose well-tailored riding habit for a moment called up another figure he knew well in similar attire. He followed in at the gates and turned to the left, wondering if ever he and Muriel would ride together down that glorious stretch. He sat down on one of the chairs and watched the riders. Children accompanied by grooms, elderly army officers, a very stout lady who appeared to break down the fetlocks of her mount, a tall girl in black top-boots, who galloped, with splendid hands, and laughed back at two young men who made desperate efforts to keep with her.

Then his attention was attracted by an elegant apparition, which alighted like a bird of paradise from a car on the edge of the curb. It was a boy-officer in the Scots Guards. He was very tall and languid, but held himself stiffly erect as though there was a cavity between his shoulder blades which he wished to keep closed. It was difficult to know how he ever washed his face, so rigid were the arms. His hat which had a brass peak and a red and white diced band, half buried his face, the chin receding underneath a hairless upper lip, delicate and curved. His painfully erect carriage seemed derived more from mechanism within than from the operation of will. His tunic suggested a theatrical tailor, so flawlessly did it fit, with an exaggerated waist-line that made an hour-glass of a human trunk. And as if in fear that it was just possible some one might mistake the young elegant for an ordinary officer in an ordinary regiment, the tailor had descended from fashion to eccentricity in the cut of the trousers, which, receiving inspiration from golfing breeches, bulged below the knees, where they were caught up by puttees that wound about two stick-like legs ending in enormous booted feet. The young man was evidently delighted with himself. He turned round three times in the sunshine, like a parrot on a perch. Then it happened that a square-shouldered country youth, in a coarse copy of the same uniform, but with ruder brass embellishments, saluted and passed. The immediate effect was wonderful, if startling; a swift spasm, as of a Titan struggling with tetanus, galvanised the young officer into movement. By a terrific jerk, he succeeded in bringing his out-turned palm behind his right ear where it locked for a moment before being hurled downwards to its former rigidity, the disturbed flesh subsiding again into calm dignity. A few minutes later he was joined by a brother officer, an even more splendid figure wrapped in a long greatcoat of gorgeous blue, double-breasted and broad lapelled, with two vertical rows of buttons and a glimpse of scarlet lining within, where it gaped about his knees. The waist line was identical, a similar hat hid a similar face. One felt there might be a thousand of these in a box somewhere.

The Comédie Humaine continued. Two seats away from him a rather stout lady, accompanied by three Pomeranian dogs, seated herself. She was half-buried in furs above the waist, and half-naked below, but apparently suffered no discomfort. John could not help looking at her ankles, which were shapely, a diamond watch-bangle encircling the right. The lady noticed John's gaze and did not seem to mind, for she smiled. Slightly embarrassed, he thought it right to smile back, transferring his gaze to the Pomeranians, in suggestion that they were amusing. The exchange of smiles, however, made him aware that the lady was of indeterminable age, but had a very fresh complexion. The wind also told him that she liked expensive perfume. He continued to watch the horses and the people, and caught whiffs of conversation. He heard, from the young men, that certain things, he could not hear what, were "rather priceless" and "topping." One voice was ecstatic over Pavlova, "but Novikoff!" exclaimed an adoring feminine voice, "you've seen the Bacchanale?" Presently a long purple limousine drew up to the edge of the curb. The lady with the dogs rose and went towards it, the chauffeur opening the door. She was just entering the car when one of the leashes dropped from her hands. The dog immediately ran off in the direction of John.

"Naughty Topsie!" she called. "Come here!"

But Topsie welcomed liberty and sped on, John in pursuit. He soon retrieved the runaway and towed it back.

"Thank you so much," said the lady sweetly. "Topsie is such a rebel--I love dogs, don't you?"

"Yes," said John. He thought she looked critically at him.

"Have you got one?" she asked.

"No--I have just left school--it is difficult there."

"Oh--and are you starting business; I suppose you're quite thrilled!" She laughed again and John responded.

"I have not started yet--I have just come to London to-day."

"All alone?" asked the lady, arching her eyebrows.

"Yes."

"But how romantic! You sound like Dick Whittington, without a cat or a dog!" She laughed again at her joke. He noticed she had beautiful small teeth; a rope of pearls lay on her throat.

"Do you know London?" she asked again.

"No--I have never stayed here for any time," he answered. The chauffeur still waited with his hand on the door.

"This park is very lovely," she said, gathering her furs about her. "You should see it--will you drive through it with me?"

The invitation was so gracious and alluring John could not refuse; he followed the lady into the car, and with the dogs in their laps, they glided forward. It was a luxuriously appointed car. Three silver sconces held flowers whose perfume competed with that of the lady. The chauffeur in front wore a cerise uniform, with a broad green collar. Inside they were quite silent for a few minutes. John's shyness overcame him, while the lady, reclining on an air cushion, arranged her furs and played with the collars of the dogs on her lap. John knew that he was being closely scrutinised, and he resolved not to reveal any more of his personal history. This close contact showed that his companion's age was about thirty-five, and the fresh complexion had not been acquired in the open air. She made no secret of this, for she lifted her half veil, opened a vanity bag, took out what appeared to be a silver pencil, and raising a small mirror, carefully attended to her lips, which reddened in the process. John wondered who she was. There was a little pile of visiting cards in the wallet under the motor watch but they were upside down so he could not read them. She was evidently a wealthy woman, and in some respects reminded him of Mrs. Graham, who also had a green jade vanity bag. Mrs. Graham, however, on the one occasion when she used its contents, told him to turn his head away. The lady in the car, having completed her toilet, raised a lorgnette, looked out of the window for a few moments, dropped it, and addressed John.

"London can be a very lonely place," she said. "I know, because my husband is in India with his regiment."

John hesitated in reply. He could not just say, "Oh," and if he said "I'm sorry," it would be stupid. So he simply said, "Yes."

"Have you many friends here?" she asked. The question was kindly. He chatted brightly. Her first impression was correct, she thought, looking at him. He was a very handsome youth. When he looked down she saw how the long lashes swept his cheek, and when looking at her his eyes had wonderful depth. She liked the fine line of his profile, and the well-shaped, sloping ear; his hands too were fascinating, being strong and veinless. And in every movement and line, there was the symmetry of thoughtless youth, which was delightful. After a short time he, too, was admiring her intensely. She had an alluring voice--and he could not help noticing the ankles and small feet, so beautifully shod.

They turned and twisted, caught a glimpse of a sheet of water, an ornamental garden and bridge, then turned again, running parallel with a main road, whose roar could be heard behind the screen of trees. The watch hands pointed to ten minutes to one.

"I am lunching in Cumberland Place at one," she said. "Can I drop you on your way?"

He had no way, but did not care to confess it.

"At the gates will do, thank you."

When the car drew up near Marble Arch, she took a card from the wallet.

"This is my name and address. Since you are new to London, let me offer you hospitality. Will you not dine with me one evening at my house?"

He thanked her.

"Shall we say Thursday at seven? It will be quite _en famille_. You will be the only guest." She showed her beautiful teeth when he assented, and held out a diminutive gloved hand as he stepped out of the car.

"Good-bye," she smiled, as he raised his hat, a glance taking in the sweep of his brow with its clustered hair. The door closed, she leaned back with a parting glance, and as the car lurched forward, he replaced his hat. He looked calm enough, but there was tumult within. For a few moments he gave no thought to lunch. What a wonderful place London was! Then he became conscious of the large, neat-lettered card in his hand. "Lady Evelyn Warsett, 607, Queen Anne's Gate, S.W.," he read. Also he remembered he had not told her his name.

When John returned that evening to Mariton Street the dinner gong was creating pandemonium in the hall below, and there followed an opening of doors, a creaking of stairs and a babble of voices. He halted on the threshold of the dining room, dreading his entry into this strange circle. But Mrs. Perdie was waiting for him and piloted him to his place at the table, where she introduced him to Miss Simpson on his right, and Capt. Fisher on his left. The captain was very curt and ignored him throughout dinner. Miss Simpson was assiduous in polite attentions and small talk. When she discovered he had been in Asia Minor, life suddenly brightened for her. She had lived a year at Samsoon, with her brother, then the Consul, now a Governor in India. The Captain sniffed and fidgeted. He hated all his talk about Asia and India. He had spent most of his life on the Gold Coast, and knew it was not so fashionable.

When dinner was over the young men lingered behind.

"Perhaps you would like to have a smoke?" suggested Mrs. Perdie, going out and leaving John with the other boarders. He now looked more particularly at his companions. They had crossed to one of the windows where they began to bewilder the parrot by blowing smoke into its face. Presently one of them seemed aware that John was in the room. Pulling out a silver cigarette case he opened it and held it towards him.

"Have a gasper?" he drawled genially.

John presumed he meant a cigarette, and took one. The donor extended an elegantly ringed hand to light his own. There was an excessive length of cuff. John's eye moved along the arm, and noted the carefully knotted tie. The clothes were ultra-fashionable, the cut of the waist being much exaggerated. The trousers had a razor-edge crease and the patent boots, narrow and pointed, were topped by brown canvas spats. But despite the elegance there was something too pronounced in everything. The cloth was just too light in colour, too loud in check, the cameo ring too large, the pearl pin too pearly to be genuine. Even the hair was curled until it suggested a wig rather than a natural covering, and the skin had a curious poreless texture. But all these might have passed unnoticed by a less critical eye than John's, fresh to impressions after the plain severity of schooldays, had not the voice, and accent deliberately assumed, been so truly remarkable. It was a high-pitched voice, that rather sang than spoke. He turned from time to time to his companion, to whom, to John's amazement, he alluded as "my dear"--John wondering if that was the fashionable pet name in London. The friend was of similar type, but he talked less and giggled more. The teeth were profusely stopped with gold, and while they talked, he extracted a piece of washleather from his yellow waistcoat pocket and polished his nails. He was the younger by about two years.

"Mrs. Perdie didn't introduce us," said the elder--"my card."

John took the piece of pasteboard and read it. In Roman printed type it ran "Reginald de Courtrai. Greenroom Club, W.C."

"You are French?" asked John.

"By descent--my grandfather was a Courtrai de Courtrai."

"Oh--I'm afraid I haven't a card yet--my name's Dean."

"Have you come to business?"

"No--I have not long left Sedley."

The companion also held out a card. John accepted it and read, "Vernon Wellington, Greenroom Club, W.C."

"I bet Reggie at dinner you were a public school boy," said the donor. "Good old public schools we always say! Glad you've come. We are trying to put some tone into this house. Lord, it needs it, look at this!" He waved his hand derisively towards a red-blue-and-gold china shepherdess on the mantelpiece.

"Fine place, Sedley," commented Mr. de Courtrai, puffing out smoke, one leg crossed in the arm chair. "Eton,--Harrow,--Sedley--I think I should have chosen Sedley had I not been educated on the continent. There's a fine tone about Sedley, what do you say, old dear?"

The old dear agreed. "My people insisted on me going to a private school. Thought me too delicate. Always regretted it." He adjusted his tie carefully, glanced at himself in the mirror and smoothed his hair with a thin white hand. "You're new to London I suppose?"

"Yes--I arrived to-day--but I shall like it."

De Courtrai blew more smoke into the air.

"You must get some cards--really, my dear."

"And a club," added Wellington. "Every fellah must have a club. We'd put you up, but ours is for the profession."

"Profession?" asked John. He was eager to know what they were. He had never met any one quite like this.

"We're on the stage," replied Wellington.

"Oh--it must be very interesting work, acting."

"We aren't actors; we're in the ballet--the Empire. We're opening next Monday--'Scheherezade.'" De Courtrai stroked his ankle. "A superb spectacle, you must come."

John had never seen a ballet and he could not imagine the parts played by these young exquisites. He remembered two pictures by an artist called Degas, on which Mr. Vernley set great value. They were of ladies in short fluffy skirts with stumpy legs, on one of which they stood, stork-like. Bobbie said they were ballet-girls, and that Tod had once run one, whereupon John naïvely asked "Which won?" causing Vernley to collapse in shrieks of merriment. He had never heard of men doing ballet dancing. Perhaps they had something to do with the scenery. He did not care to hint at this, however, and said how much he would like to see the ballet.

"He'd better come on Wednesday, my dear," said de Courtrai, addressing Wellington, "when we're doing 'Carnival.' He'll fall in love with Harlequin, won't he?"

Mr. Wellington giggled and exclaimed--

"S'nice!"

"Is she very beautiful?" asked John.

They opened their eyes wide. Mr. Wellington again giggled, put his hand delicately on his hips, shook himself and exclaimed, "Chase me!"

"My dear!" exclaimed de Courtrai, dabbing his nose with a highly-scented handkerchief, "It isn't a she, it's a he!" They laughed again, in a high-pitched key which jarred on the young man, and they saw that he resented their mirth.

"You mustn't mind, old thing," de Courtrai exclaimed apologetically, touching John's arm. "You're really rather sweet."

John got up.

"I'm afraid I must go and unpack now."

"Can we help?" volunteered Wellington.

"No, thanks, I haven't much," he replied and went out. He could hear them giggling as he went upstairs to his room, and felt furious with them for making such a fool of him. How was he to know that Harlequin wasn't a ballet-girl? He would talk less in future, and not ask so many questions. But he disliked their manner although they had been very friendly.

Half an hour later there was a tap on his door. With his head deep in the almost empty trunk, John paused. The tap was repeated. In reply to his call Wellington and de Courtrai entered, the latter carrying a cup.

"We've brought you some coffee we've made in our room. Ma Perdie won't make it without a shilling extra."

"Oh, thank you," said John taking the cup. They paused.

"Won't you sit down?--at least, there's only two chairs; I'll sit on the bed."

They sat down and John sipped the coffee. It was made from essence and sickly sweet, but he had to drink it.

"You're very jolly in here," said de Courtrai thrusting his feet out towards the gas fire. "A nice warm room--we're at the top. You're getting your knick-knacks about, I see."

"Yes--just a few I've brought."

Suddenly from the other side of the room came a loud "Ooh!" It was from Wellington who had been walking round on a tour of inspection. He had halted at John's ivory brushes, with his father's monogram and crest.

"What charming brushes!" he sang. "Look, my dear, aren't they just too lovely!" He carried the tray to de Courtrai.

The latter looked.

"Yes, I believe they're heavier than mine. But Welly, you mustn't be so rude."

"Oh, it's all right," said John weakly. The next exclamation came from de Courtrai, who suddenly saw the portraits on the dressing table.

"Who's this?" he asked picking up Vernley's portrait.

"My friend."

"What a sweet face!"

John could hardly agree, and he thought with a smile, what Vernley would have said if he had heard himself called "sweet."

"And this?" Wellington picked up Marsh's photograph.

"Another friend," replied John briefly. Next to it stood a portrait of Muriel. He didn't want them to probe all his secrets. He was a fool for putting it out.

But de Courtrai's eyes travelled over it without notice, to a Sedley group.

"Who's this with the ball?"

"Oh--that's Lindon, the Captain."

"What a wonderful figure!"

"Yes--he weighed twelve-stone-four. He was stroke in the first eight too," said John, "and he's a fine pianist."

"You can tell he's an artist by his eyes," exclaimed Wellington. "I never make a mistake that way; do I, my dear!" He giggled and sat down.

"Never, Welly--you've a gift for the s'nice and s'naughty."

"Go h'on!" giggled Wellington, dabbing his face. John stared, de Courtrai saw the wonder in his eyes.

"We must hobble off--we're in the way--well see you again."

"Don't forget Wednesday," cried Wellington in the doorway.

"Ta-ta!" called de Courtrai. The door closed.

What a pair! John didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. They were very vulgar and inquisitive, but also very friendly. He would not encourage them, however. He resumed his unpacking. An hour later he had finished, and was preparing for bed, when there was another tap on the door. This time he pretended not to hear; he did not want them in again. But when the tap was repeated, he went to the door and opened it. In the darkness of the landing, he could not see who it was.

Captain Fisher paused on the threshold. He had come out of the darkness and stood blinking in the light. John waited, for he seemed about to say something. There was a long pause, a clearing of the throat, then--

"Permit me to introduce myself, sir, I am Captain Fisher, Fisher of the 3rd Foot, sir. Twelve years China Station, twelve Malta, six Gold Coast--damn it. Glad to know you, sir!" he stammered, then bowed low.

Embarrassed, John bowed also.

"Those were days, sir,--days--days of--" he put a hand on the lintel as though the memory was too much for him. "Egad, sir, they _were_ days. Fisher was a boy, sir, Lavington will tell you, sir--General Lavington, God bless him--ninety-two to-day, sir--we've drunk his health at the 'Rag' to-night. A great Speeeech ... a wunnerful man ... ninety-two, not much longer, sir, any of us. An' here we are, in a Perdiferous house--pardon me, it's a great night--with foreign meat, cats, parrots and a shilling in the slot. If any had a' known on China station that Charlie Fisher would have been living in this manag--menag--caravanserai, as Omar would say--You've seen 'em, sir,--the blighted blossom of India! Ha! Ha! An' the eunuchs--yes, sir, that's what they are! Pouff!" Here Captain Fisher steadied himself from a fitful gust of indignation. "Now there's a gel out to-night--

_Take a pair of sparklin' eyes an' a--_"

hummed the Captain. "You'll see her, sir, what a glorious vision! Wants breaking, sir! A high stepper like her father's fillies, but what a head--what a--I'm a connoisseur too, in my day, Dandy Fisher they call me. China Station twelve years, twelve years Malta, Gold Coast--"

"So you said, sir," interrupted John, breaking the circle.

"You're a fine lad," exclaimed the Captain, looking at him keenly. "Just such a lad as mine, God bless 'im. What's y'name?"

"Dean, sir--John Dean."

"John--ha! so's mine--God bless him--dear ol' John--dear ol' John." He swayed a little, as he surveyed his waistcoat. "He was your age too, and his hair too--just such hair--the gels loved him--dear ol' John."

"Is he--is he dead, sir?" asked John.

The old man straightened himself proudly.

"For his King and Country, sir--in the Boer War--an' a V.C., sir,--a V.C.--God bless 'im." A tear trickled down his nose. "The last to leave me--the last. General Lavington said to-night--ninety-two, sir, he is, he referred to John, he knew 'im--signed his first papers, sir--dear ol' John. Come and have a drink, me lad." Captain Fisher turned and put a shaking hand on the banisters.

"Not to-night, sir, thank you, it's late."

"So 'tis--so 'tis. Good night, my lad. God bless you!"

"Good night, sir!" John waited until the broken old man reached his room, and then closed his door.

With a last look round his little room, John swiftly undressed, stood pyjama clad and barefooted a moment after brushing his hair, looking out on the bright moonlight night, and the quaint caricature of the Campanile. Then he turned off the light and leapt into bed. But not to sleep. This was his first day, and he now slept for the first night in the city he had come to conquer; so far he had done little conquering, he thought, as he reviewed the events of this day. The moonlight flooded his room, making it still more unfamiliar. He watched the swiftly fading glow of the gas fire, and his eye caught the portrait of Muriel, illuminated in a direct beam of moonlight on the mantelpiece. Mastered by an impulse, he threw back the clothes and put a foot on the cold floor, then sprang out and took the portrait from its place. For a long moment he looked at it in the dimness, then pressed his lips to the cold glass, and was about to get into bed, when he did what he had not done for a long time. He had never given any serious thought to religion; perhaps he was instinctively rather than formally religious. The times when he had sat in school chapel had been irksome, though occasionally a hymn, and the high fresh voices of the choir had stirred him, aesthetically, not spiritually. But to-night he felt very lonely, and just a little afraid. Moreover there was a new faith in his fervent love for Muriel, which somehow required expression. So quietly he slipped down to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and prayed in a somewhat disordered fashion for something which he could hardly define. Then standing up again, he looked at the photograph, wondering whether the head he saw, in reality lying on a pillow in a quiet country room, flooded with light from this same moon, would realise anything of what he had just done and said. He turned to replace the frame, then, on a thought, put it under his pillow and got into bed. Two minutes later, quiet breathing in a silent room told of a dreaming head, smiling for some reason, buried deep in the pillow. He was oblivious even of Capt. Fisher's deep bassoon in a room above.