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PR6023.U159G3 n,Ver8l,yL,brary 
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 3 1924 013 642 461 
 
 
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 rHINIED IN U.3 A. 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013642461 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
OTHER WORKS BY E. V, LUCAS 
 
 Rose and Rose 
 Verena in the Midst 
 The Vermilion Box 
 Landmarks 
 Listener's Lure 
 Mr. Ingleside 
 Over Bemerton's 
 London Lavender 
 Giving and Receiving. 
 Urbanities 
 Specially Selected 
 A Boswell of Baghdad 
 *Twixt Eagle and Dove 
 The Phantom Journal 
 Loiterer's Harvest 
 Cloud and Silver 
 One Day and Another 
 Fireside and Sunshine 
 Character and Comedy 
 Old Lamps for New 
 The Hambledon Men 
 The Open Road 
 The Friendly Town 
 
 Her Infinite Variety 
 
 Good Company 
 
 The Gentlest Art 
 
 The Second Post 
 
 Roving Eabt and Roving West 
 
 A Wanderer in Venice 
 
 A Wanderer in Paris 
 
 A Wanderer in London 
 
 London Revisited 
 
 A Wanderer in Holland 
 
 A Wanderer in Florence 
 
 The British School 
 
 Highways and Byways in Sussex 
 
 Anne's Terrible Good Nature 
 
 The Slowcoach 
 
 The Life of Charles Lamb 
 
 The Life and Work of E. A. Abbey 
 
 Vermeer of Delft 
 
 and 
 
 The Pocket Edition of the Works of Charles 
 Lamb : i. Miscellaneous Prose ; u. Elia ; 
 in. Children's Books ; iv. Poems and Plays ; 
 v. and vi. Letters. 
 
GENEVRA'S 
 MONEY 
 
 BY 
 
 E. V. LUCAS 
 
 METHUEN & GO. LTD. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.G. 
 
 LONDON 
 
First Published in ig22 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I In which we stand at a Grave-side . i 
 
 II In which Brothers Agree to Differ 
 
 III In which Luncheon is taken at Chisle- 
 hurst ..... 
 
 IV In which a World's Worker becomes 
 Philosophical .... 
 
 V In which Genevra's Brother stands on 
 the Brink .... 
 
 VI In which I set forth on The Chase 
 
 VII In which we hear of the Men of the 
 'Thirties 
 
 9 
 15 
 
 29 
 34 
 
 42 
 46 
 5i 
 
 VIII In which I rejoice by French Rivers 
 
 IX In which the Quarry is run to Earth 
 
 X In which we find Caprice in a Garage 60 
 
 XI In which a Parent and a Guardian are 
 
 Unshakeable ..... 67 
 
 XII In which an Epigrammatist gets Busy . 74 
 
 XIII In which I play the Machiavelli . . 79 
 
 XIV In which War again breaks out in the 
 
 Peninsula ..... 86 
 
 XV In which Two Gentlemen study Iberia 95 
 
 XVI In which we find a Declaration of 
 
 Independence ..... 106 
 
 vii 
 
viii GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 CHAP. PAG « 
 
 XVII In which a Young Man defies the Laws 114 
 
 XVIII In which the Wind blows on the Heath 123 
 
 XIX In which a Rubbish Fire is Active . 131 
 
 XX In which it is Darkest before the Dawn 136 
 
 XXI In which the Dawn breaks . . .143 
 
 XXII In which the Dinner Hymn is Sung . 146 
 
 XXIII In which a Railway-official becomes 
 
 Human ...... 152 
 
 XXIV In which we go behind the Scenes . 159 
 XXV In which the Plot thickens . . .166 
 
 XXVI In which Deeds prevail over Faith . 169 
 
 XXVII In which the Wood gives up its Secret 175 
 
 XXVIII In which a Good Samaritan gambles . 180 
 
 XXIX In which a Traveller is Baffled . . 188 
 
 XXX In which we meet with Solidarity . 194 
 
 XXXI In which a Stranger enters from the 
 
 New World ..... 203 
 
 XXXII In which Tss&a Ixcooxita becomes Known 209 
 
 XXXIII In which Festivity is Marred . .215 
 
 XXXIV In which the Quest ends very suddenly 220 
 
THE PEOPLE IN THIS BOOK 
 
 IN THE ORDER IN WHICH THEY APPEAR 
 
 Cavanagh Beckett — The narrator. 
 
 Giles Beckett — His brother. 
 
 Phoebe Muir — Genevra's niece. 
 
 Eliza Lush — A charwoman. 
 
 Lancelot (" Vaddy ") Thorold — Genevra's brother. 
 
 Marcel Aubry — Poste-Restante official at Fontainebleau. 
 
 Raoul Fabre — Artists' colourman at Fontainebleau. 
 
 Madame Marthe — Keeper of the Brigands' Cave in the 
 Forest. 
 
 Madame Schaller of Les Charmettes at Barbizon. 
 
 M. Pierre — A friend of artists. 
 
 Antoine — Waiter at the "Repos des Pecheurs" at Moret. 
 
 Alistair Muir — Genevra's nephew, an artist. 
 
 Rose Holt — An artist. 
 
 Nollie Lethbridge — Genevra's cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Holt — Rose's mother. 
 
 Dr. Greville — Guardian both to Rose and her mother. 
 
 Herbert Johnston — Giles's valet. 
 
 The Jefe de Stacione and other railway-officials at Irun. 
 
 Selwyn Grace — Genevra's nephew. 
 
 Veronica Grace — His sister. 
 
 Norah Grace — Their mother. 
 
 Tony Musters — A trainer. 
 
 Winifred Musters — His wife and Genevra's niece. 
 
 Deb and Dinkie — their daughters. 
 
 ix 
 
x GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Mrs. Hadley — Vaddy's housekeeper. 
 
 Jonathan Napper — A Rye Pensioner. 
 
 Belle Trevor — Cavanagh Beckett's sister. 
 
 " Goldie " Trevor \ 
 
 " Jane " Trevor J 
 
 " Eggles " Trevor > Her children. 
 
 " Cardie " Trevor I 
 
 " Bish " Trevor / 
 
 Roger Teasmith — A railway pundit. 
 
 Lady Judy Hill — A friend of Cavanagh. 
 
 Donald Stanton — Genevra's nephew, an actor. 
 
 Stephenson Watt — A young engineer. 
 
 Rev. Cyril Stanton — Genevra's nephew. 
 
 Sir Rendle Vaux — A friend of Genevra. 
 
 The Bishop of Dunchester — Cavanagh's uncle. 
 
 Ferguson — The Bishop's valet. 
 
 Rhoda Trim — Cavanagh's parlourmaid. 
 
 Jenny Thorold — Genevra's niece. 
 
 Alf Stentor — A newspaper boy. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 IN WHICH WE STAND AT A GRAVE-SIDE 
 
 GENEVRA had always refused to be cremated. 
 She had given no reasons : she had merely 
 said that the thought was distasteful. I 
 fancy that what she really could riot bear was the 
 finality of it, for, like most women, she had her literal 
 beliefs ; and how, I ask you, can a handful of ashes 
 ever rise up at the day of judgment ? Apparently 
 she had valued the idea of that ultimate reassembling. 
 Her will having contained the sentence, " I ex- 
 pressly desire not to be cremated," there was nothing 
 for it but to lay her white placid form — at once so 
 like her and so absolutely a, creature of another world 
 — in the unfriendly earth, in that dreadful city of 
 dissolution far up the Finchley Road. 
 
 " In the midst of life we are in death," says the 
 sage, but it is extraordinary, none the less, how little 
 the thought of death normally troubles us. It is 
 inevitable ; and yet how astonished and bewildered 
 we can be when any one near to us suddenly drops 
 off ! And how quickly afterwards the will-to-live 
 relegates to the background again all reminders 
 of mortality ! I had known that Genevra was 
 doomed, but that knowledge had made me no more 
 prepared for the loss of her. I may have contem- 
 
2 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 plated rearrangement, but one cannot rearrange until 
 the time comes. 
 
 I had taken my last farewell long before the funeral ; 
 or thought I had. I had paced the room where she 
 lay, like wax (it is the only simile, and how poor and 
 humiliating !) hour after hour, recalling, perhaps 
 aloud, so many old happinesses, trivial enough, very 
 often, but lovely too ; so many old misunderstandings 
 and, on my part, unfairnesses ; so many delicious 
 readjustments and reconciliations. Even when she 
 had been too much prejudiced I ought, I could see 
 so plainly now, to have given way. Who was I, to 
 be more right than she ? 
 
 And in her quiet way she had so enjoyed life that 
 it was monstrous that the gift of it should be thus 
 removed. Fine days would come, the herbaceous 
 borders would bloom and spread their perfume, the 
 thrushes would sing — and she would not be there to 
 see or hear. All gone ! The injustice of it dimmed 
 my eyes. 
 
 All our life together I had lived again. Bitter 
 self-reproach had been mine that night, and smarting 
 tears ; and the consciousness (with tears no les^ 
 smarting) of her complete forgiveness. Even be-\ 
 tween the most unselfish married people there must 
 be moments of imperfect sympathy, there must be 
 querulous or impatient words : one knows that. 
 Regret for lost opportunities of tenderness and 
 solicitude cannot be absent from the final parting 
 of any lifelong companions. We can never be kind 
 enough. 
 
 She had always been finer than I ; and I had always 
 known it. How illuminatingly I knew it now ! It 
 was not because she was dead and lost to me that 
 I knew it ; but because there was no doubt on the 
 matter and never had been. It would be the verdict 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 3 
 
 of our friends, of our neighbours, and particularly 
 of those clear-sighted observers, our relations. For 
 Genevra's relations to say that poor Jennie's husband 
 was unworthy of her may not be the best of evidence ; 
 but when my relations said that Cavanagh had a 
 better wife than he deserved you were bound to 
 believe. 
 
 I was not depreciating myself under the disturbance 
 of grief nor from any feelings of false modesty. I 
 know that I have more good in me than bad, more 
 desire to give pleasure than to withhold it, more 
 impulses towards humanity than cruelty. But one 
 may be constituted thus and yet make a very indiffer- 
 ent archangel in the house : that is all I mean. 
 
 For the ideal husband I nourished standards of 
 excellence in others that were too lofty and a too 
 ready vocabulary of criticism and censure. Genevra, 
 on the contrary, was smoother by nature : she had 
 none of my impatience, or, if she had, she had schooled 
 herself to repress it. While I damned the cook she 
 pointed out how much worse a one might have fallen 
 to us and re-enunciated our good fortune in possessing 
 any adherent so faithful and long-suffering as Rhoda. 
 When I was cross and peevish (too often, alas !) she 
 laughed. How I could resent that laughter then; 
 and what music it would be to my ears to-day ! 
 
 Strangely enough it was not of any of our bigger 
 differences that I thought most ; but of the little 
 disappointments that I had caused her, often all 
 unconsciously. There was one evening when I stayed 
 at the Club to dine with an old schoolfellow who 
 had suddenly turned up from Africa and whom I 
 should not see again for years. I had telephoned 
 and made everything all right, but Genevra, it seems, 
 had taken infinite pains to have a very special dinner 
 that evening, with two or three of the things that I most 
 
4 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 fancied, and she had had to eat it alone with all her 
 pretty intentions frustrated. " I had been so looking 
 forward to it," was all she said. The thought of 
 those words now filled my cup to running over. 
 
 There was the occasion when, just as we were 
 starting for Kew, where we went every spring to make 
 notes for our own garden, her fingers were jammed 
 in the door of the carriage; and the light of the 
 sun went out. She had a new dress for the day 
 and had been so radiantly happy. It was no fault 
 of mine, of course, but I found myself thinking of 
 it now in an agony of grief. She had long slender 
 hands, very white, and this injury had led to a ban- 
 dage for a month. And again she had been " so 
 looking forward to it." 
 
 And there was that year when I forgot her birth- 
 day. . . . 
 
 " Happy," said some foolish proverbialist, " are 
 the dead that the rain rains on." He had better 
 have remained within the region of the known and 
 made some reference to the luckless state of the 
 living who attend funerals in a downpour. February 
 was filling the dykes to the very margin, and it was in 
 a deluge that we surrounded the horrid chasm into 
 which Genevra was to be lowered. 
 
 I had seen some of the mourners. My sister Belle 
 had indeed come in the same carriage with me ; while 
 others had nodded to me in the church. But I now 
 observed various new faces, some of very distant 
 relations and some whom I did not recognize 
 at all. What a decent lot we are ! I thought. How 
 well the world can behave, now and then ! For 
 them to come at all was extraordinarily nice, for 
 they knew Genevra very little. To stand out here 
 in the cold and rain was more than nice, and nothing 
 very serious would happen if they were to slip away 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 5 
 
 now. But they wouldn't. They would see it through 
 even though they were soaked. Amazingly decent ! 
 
 I suppose that no funeral, with all the machinery 
 of grief and all the necessary hirelings, can be deemed 
 satisfactory ; but this method of disposing of the 
 mortal remains of so sweet and happy a creature as 
 Genevra, who was a kind of symbol of brightness and 
 suavity, seemed deplorably wrong. Because she had 
 ceased to be, why should everything be black and 
 horrible ? In life she wore gracious colours and 
 cheerful jewels. Because life had suddenly stopped 
 why should her personal tastes be forgotten ? It 
 is true that there were flowers ; but what flowers ! 
 Genevra's flowers were radiant and rich ; why should 
 these be cold and formal ? Why should our last 
 impressions of her — as of all our friends whose funerals 
 we attend — be associated with such mechanical gloom, 
 marred by such stifling morbid ceremonial and cir- 
 cumstance ? 
 
 When I said that I had completed my farewell I 
 was of course writing nonsense. No one ever com- 
 pletes a farewell. As I stood in the desolating down- 
 pour, all my regrets came back, and I knew that for 
 ever after, until my own turn came, I should see her 
 lying there all still and pitiful, deep down under 
 the earth. I don't pretend that I wanted to die too 
 and be buried with her ; but for what kind of a pur- 
 pose I should go on living I could not see. The future 
 loomed intolerable. 
 
 It was by catching sight of Giles under his umbrella 
 with his hat lifted two inches from his well-groomed 
 head that I shed some of my own trouble, for never 
 did I observe such discomfort on any face and I 
 realized what a concession it was for him to be there 
 at all. Funerals are not in the least in Giles's way. 
 Giles (who is my elder and only brother) will meet 
 
6 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 his own end with gentlemanly composure and very 
 likely a jest ; but other people's ailments and ends 
 are carefully excluded from his scheme of life, and he 
 was getting wet at this moment only because he 
 wished to do the right thing by me. In a way the 
 rain was a mitigation, for had the sun shone his 
 thoughts, I knew, would have been wistfully at San- 
 down Park. 
 
 His thoughts might be there, as it was. For who 
 can ever say where another's thoughts are ? It is that 
 ignorance of each other, I remember thinking — looking 
 round on all the faces there, outwardly so serious 
 — that makes the world an abode only of strangers 
 and foreigners. We never wholly meet. . . . Even 
 I, the chief mourner, had found myself remembering 
 what an architect friend of mine told the American 
 lady who consulted him about the design for a 
 suitable repository for the ashes of her late cremated 
 husband. At present they were in a casket ; but 
 where should be it's permanent home ? " Don't have 
 a repository at all," he had said. " Take a few of 
 them in an envelope to Westminster Abbey every 
 day and scatter them about, and then you can say 
 he is buried there." 
 
 Meanwhile the undertaker's men, directed by the 
 undertaker himself with such perfect professional 
 tact — half Master of Ceremonies and half the most 
 sensitively bereft survivor there — completed their 
 task and we all breathed again, for in such weather 
 their foothold seemed terrifyingly precarious ; the 
 clergyman, whom subsequently I was also to pay 
 for his gravity, pronounced the last irrevocable words ; 
 and after that last look down, we came away. . . 
 
 There was lunch ready at the house, but I felt that 
 I could not face the company. All those relatives 
 of Genevra's, from whom she was so curiously and 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 7 
 
 remarkably different (as only the wives that we love 
 can be) — how could I bear to eat among them ! My 
 duty was there, at the head of the table, yes ; but on 
 certain occasions duty can be honourably avoided, 
 and this surely was one of them. I had done suffici- 
 ent, I felt, in joining them at the funeral at all, in 
 letting them come there — for Genevra was mine, 
 not theirs, — and now I would please myself, or, more 
 accurately, refrain a little from displeasing myself. 
 The only companion I felt I could endure was Giles. ; 
 his hard materialism was what I required, his cheerful 
 acceptation of facts. 
 
 What were Giles's own ideas on the subject of 
 lunch I did not trouble to guess at ; but one thing I 
 knew with certitude, and that was that nothing 
 would have induced him to return to my house. He 
 should therefore sacrifice himself a little more and 
 look after me. 
 
 For a man whose suspicion of plans not made by 
 himself is normally acute, he fell in with my sug- 
 gestion with gratifying readiness, thus providing 
 yet another example of the unexpected kindliness that 
 grief can evoke. 
 
 " Of course," he said. " Must get away from 
 that horrible crowd. Some nasty fellers there. Did 
 you notice Hugo Muir ? " 
 
 To Giles the world is divided into a few units who 
 come under tlie group-heading of good sorts, and 
 millions and billions of nasty fellers. 
 
 We entered the first carriage and were driven 
 off, ostensibly towards home. 
 
 " We'll lunch at the Bourbon," said Giles. 
 
 " No, not a club," I replied. " Not to-day." 
 
 " Much better food there than anywhere else/' 
 Giles urged. 
 
 " No, not a club, if you don't mind," I repeated 
 
8 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " There'll be men I know. I don't think I could 
 stand that to-day." 
 
 " I thought perhaps you'd like distraction," said 
 Giles. 
 
 " Not that kind," I replied. " Anywhere but 
 the club." 
 
 A faint expression of irritation crossed Giles's 
 face — the mollifying influence of interment was begin- 
 ning to wear off — but he behaved wonderfully. " All 
 right," he said. " Then we'll go to Claridge's. I'll 
 stop the driver at a post-office and telephone for a 
 quiet table." 
 
 I agreed to this. " And while you're telephoning," 
 I said, " will you ring up my place and give a message 
 to Rhoda that I'm not coming, and say that, if Belle 
 won't, Hugo is to be asked to act as host." 
 
 " A nasty feller," said Giles. 
 
 " Never mind," I answered. " It must be done. 
 Somebody must be in charge. As the husband of 
 Genevra's oldest sister, it may as well be he. He'll 
 like it, too. He likes being important." 
 
 " A nasty feller," said Giles. " I never took to 
 him. I meet him at the club in the city ; has the 
 cheek to sit at my table sometimes. No notion 
 what to eat. Keeps on askin' me to dinner. And 
 quite time too, considerin' the time I spend in feedin' 
 other people. But do you think I'd dine with him ? 
 No. That kind of man doesn't know what to order." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 IN WHICH BROTHERS AGREE TO DIFFER 
 
 GILES is older than I by five or six years, and 
 older than Belle by ten or eleven : just enough 
 older than I, to have made him, when we were 
 boys, very emphatically my senior. And although 
 forty years have passed since those early days when I 
 was his slave, and although I can see his weaknesses, 
 I am still very much his younger brother and the hero- 
 worshipper that I used to be — even although resent- 
 ment can creep in. For me still, although, knowing 
 him as well as I do, I have no delusions whatever 
 concerning his selfishness and avoidance of human 
 responsibilities — for me he still has a glamour. He 
 still makes me laugh more than far richer or subtler 
 humorists, and the curious part of it is that when I 
 am in his company I feel myself still a boy. 
 
 We have been battered by life. I am a grizzled 
 widower, and both our dressing-rooms are full of 
 medicine bottles ; but when we meet he resumes 
 instantly his old role of dictator and I my old role of 
 listener. I don't wish to suggest that Giles is exactly 
 inhuman — for he can do kind things on occasion if his 
 sense of whimsicality is touched, — but he has made the 
 protection of self a fine art and is an Old Master at 
 it ; he has only himself to think of, and he never 
 forgets the obligation. 
 
 His business in the City, which is left largely to his 
 partners, and which he attends only on days on which 
 
 9 
 
io GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 there is no racing near London, brings him in a hand- 
 some income and enables him to live in his flat in 
 Half Moon Street in the completest comfort. There, 
 with Herbert, bis valet, slave, and butt, in attendance, 
 he retires from the fray, surveys his figure in the pier 
 glass as he wonders which of his many elegant suits 
 he will wear, and thanks his lucky stars he is not like 
 any one else. Not like a husband, because husbands 
 are bored by confounded wives ; not like a father, 
 because fathers are bored by confounded children ; 
 not a poor man, because the poor man has to eat in 
 cheap places and ride in horrible 'buses ; and, above 
 all, not the member of a large family with a lot of 
 relations, because relations are nasty fellers and you 
 never know when they'll be borrowin' money from 
 you — or tryin' to. 
 
 Our lunch was not convivial, and we said little ; 
 but there was a question that Giles, with his direct 
 practical nature and curiosity about other people's 
 finances, could not wholly refrain from asking, and he 
 asked it as we lit our cigars. 
 
 " I suppose Genevra's money goes back to her own 
 people ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Not necessarily," I said. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it," he exclaimed. " I don't like 
 'em. That Hugo in particular. And Mrs. Stukeley, 
 she's too fat. I hate fat women. But what do you 
 mean by ' not necessarily ' ? " 
 
 " Genevra has given it to me to do as I like 
 with," I said, " but her hope is that it may be used 
 to assist those of her nephews and nieces whom I think 
 worthy of it. I am the sole judge. If I don't approve 
 of any of them, then I must find another object." 
 
 " It's a big responsibility," Giles remarked. 
 
 " It is," I said. " I expect I shall ask you to advise 
 me. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY n 
 
 "That feller Hugo won't like it," said Giles, after 
 another silence. 
 
 "I don't expect he will," I saidi "But his 
 children might be in the running. He's got a boy and 
 a girl." 
 
 " Do they know about this ? " Giles asked. 
 
 " No, I haven't said a word," I replied. 
 
 " They'll all be infestin' Somerset House directly," 
 said Giles. " Any one with a bob can read any will 
 there is." 
 
 " The' will tells nothing," I said. " The money 
 apparently is left to me absolutely. There's a letter 
 with it, but no one knows that but you." 
 
 " Genevra was a good sort," said Giles — and if I 
 ever heard him praise her before, I have forgotten 
 it. His approval was normally silent ; he was voluble 
 only where he disliked. 
 
 " What is it in ? " Giles asked. 
 
 " It's just how her father left it," I said. " Some 
 old insurance company. As safe as a rock. The 
 City and Southern Counties. All the girls had the 
 same amount, but what the others have done with 
 theirs I haven't a notion. Genevra spent only half 
 the income, I know, but I never asked." 
 
 " I expect that Hugo feller collared his wife's 
 share all right," said Giles* " I never liked him," 
 he added. 
 
 " You have said that before/' I remarked. 
 
 " He's got a ginger moustache," said Giles. " I 
 hate red hair." 
 
 " My dear Giles," I ventured to say, " you are too 
 ready to indulge prejudice." 
 
 " In my case," he replied, " prejudice is the same 
 as instinct. I'm never wrong. He's a nasty feller. 
 What does he do with his money? Nothin'. A 
 rich man should own a few horses and support racin'. 
 
12 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 But is Mr. Hugo Muir among the patrons of the turf ? 
 No." 
 
 " Is that all youVe got against him," I asked, 
 " that he doesn't race and his hair is red ? " 
 
 "And quite enough, too," said Giles. "He's a 
 nasty feller." 
 
 " How much does it come to," he asked, a little 
 later. 
 
 " About two thousand a year," I said. 
 
 " Now ? " Giles inquired. " After the damned 
 Government's done its worst with it ? " 
 
 "Yes," I said. "That's what it came to last 
 year." 
 
 Giles smiled approbation of the amount : he likes 
 the thought of sums of money, even when they are 
 not his own ; but his face immediately resumed its 
 normal cynical expression. 
 
 " All the same," he said, " the whole business 
 of givin' money to people is wrong. Makin' your 
 own way is a test of efficiency and your fitness to live 
 at all. People who can't do it should go under." 
 
 " You say that's the test," I replied ; " but how 
 do we know ? This world may not have been made 
 for men at all. It may have been made for mice, or 
 ants, and we are only interlopers like the mastodon. 
 Who says it was made for man ? " 
 
 " It's generally believed so," said Giles. " We 
 get it from Genesis, I suppose." 
 
 " Which even the Deans have thrown overboard," 
 I replied. " It may be that everything that we 
 do is wrong. Putting it in the lowest way, you can 
 say that a crafty Jew goes up a mountain and returns 
 with a set of Commandments which, he claims, have 
 a divine origin ; and all our conduct is regulated 
 accordingly. But take away the divinity, and the 
 whole table is merely a piece of expediency. It is 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 13 
 
 certainly more convenient to others that we do not 
 steal or murder, but both actions are undoubtedly 
 very natural and human." 
 
 " What on earth has happened to you ? " Giles 
 asked. " That's not like you." 
 
 " I heard a fellow say it at the Marble Arch one 
 Sunday," I explained. " It may be true." 
 
 " It's very dangerous," said Giles. " Forget it. 
 And, I repeat, since we are here, and man apparently 
 is boss here, no matter what the mice may do, that 
 the test of fitness to live is the power to make enough 
 to live on ; and people who can't do so shouldn't be 
 helped but fired." 
 
 " Well," I said, " Genevra didnt think so. And 
 I'm not sure that I do. At any rate, I don't go so 
 far as you — in your speech at any rate. I've known 
 you to be very generous." 
 
 " One's weak sometimes," said Giles. " Lunch 
 is a great snare. Dinner too ; but after dinner one 
 is safer because one goes to bed, whereas after eatin' 
 a good lunch one knocks about and meets people 
 and does silly things. Goes shoppin' very often 
 — a fatal thing to do. That's the worst of drink, it 
 takes the edge off your wits. I don't say that it 
 doesn't put something there instead which may be 
 more amusin' and comfortable ; but drinkin' at 
 lunch is a mistake, anyway. It's one of the things 
 I'm always sayin' I'll never do again. With my 
 intellect at its coldest and best, I repeat that to help 
 people with money is all wrong. Wrong to them 
 and wrong to the community, because you merely 
 prolong their failure, whereas in an ideal State all 
 non self-supporters would be jolly well pole-axed." 
 
 " Giles," I said, rising to go, " you're talking bun- 
 kum." 
 
 " No," he said, " I'm talkin' sense ; but it's the 
 
14 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 kind of sense this world will never be ready for." 
 " Not until the majority is composed solely of 
 Nietzsches and Shaws," I said. 
 
 "I don't know anything about 'em," he replied; 
 "but probably they're nasty fellers. A man of 
 my age who has to read books in order to have 
 ideas about life deserves pole-axin' too." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH LUNCHEON IS TAKEN AT 
 CHISLEHURST 
 
 ONE of my early duties, then, was to make the 
 closer acquaintance of Genevra's nephews and 
 nieces, and I decided that, much as I disliked 
 visiting in other houses, it would be best to scrutinize 
 them in their own homes, because it is in their own 
 homes that people are most natural. 
 
 I -remember a man once saying that whenever a 
 youth confided to him that he was thinking of becom- 
 ing engaged, he warned him not to do so until he had 
 had the opportunity of seeing how the girl treated her 
 mother and the other members of her family. " If she's 
 all right with them," he said, "she'll be all right with 
 you. If she's a vinegar with them, take to your heels." 
 " But this," he added to me, " is not the kind of 
 advice that people take. Nature," he explained, " has 
 very carefully seen to it that young men who are 
 thinking of becoming engaged are at that moment 
 incapable of discretion." 
 
 How many youthful relations of Genevra there 
 were to inspect, I had to learn, and then where they 
 were placed. If I had not been such a coward about 
 the funeral lunch I might have saved myself much 
 tiresome inquiry, for it is on such occasions that infor- 
 mation as to all the other members of a family can 
 not only be obtained but is volunteered. But I had 
 run away and must suffer accordingly. 
 
 is 
 
16 GENEVRA'S MOJNKY 
 
 That there were several of these young people, I 
 knew, for Genevra had four sisters and all had married. 
 There were also two brothers : Vaddy, of whom I 
 shall have much to say, and Horace, who had dis- 
 appeared years ago, leaving not a wrack behind. 
 
 Genevra spoke seldom of Horace, and I was not 
 inquisitive, but piecing together her hints and Vaddy's, 
 I should say that Horace was weak rather than wicked. 
 He had done nothing seriously wrong : he had not 
 embezzled, forged or figured as a co-respondent ; he 
 had merely been addicted to drink and inferior com- 
 pany. 
 
 " We all," says a character in an American novel 
 that I was reading the other day, " have our pet 
 common people " ; and Horace's fault was that his 
 pet common people dominated him. Among them 
 was one of those ladies with a bust, a ready tongue 
 and straw-coloured hair, who used, when I was young, 
 to fill our glasses in the resorts of the thirsty. The 
 type to-day may be different ; I have given up bars 
 and so cannot say. This one held her court in a 
 famous West End saloon, to which Horace's wayward 
 feet too often — even if not too directly — carried him. 
 In that era the power of the barmaid was greater 
 than it is now, and it was assisted by a gospel of 
 excess preached by able advocates. Men about 
 Town who rejoiced in nicknames bearing upon their 
 power of absorption had retinues of youthful admirers 
 and imitators ; while one weekly paper, in particular, 
 devoted its genius to extolling the glory of frequent 
 if not constant inebriety and tke folly of going to bed 
 until the sun was high. 
 
 Horace, fresh from Oxford, joined the band of noc- 
 turnal revellers and for a while held his own among 
 the worshippers of false gods. But in these matters 
 age and training tell, and he had to give way before 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 17 
 
 their seasoned experience. During a resultant illness, 
 which he suffered in some unknown lodging, his only 
 friend was this Hebe, whose heart was of a purer gold 
 than her hair, and when he was sufficiently recovered 
 they vanished together to some other land, where she 
 might, I imagine she hoped, pull him round. 
 
 A rival theory held by many members of the family 
 was that she had been working to pull him down, her 
 idea being to unite herself to a gentleman ; but Genevra 
 did not accept that. It was too evident that the girl 
 was capable of devotion. Having been the bane, or 
 the bane's partner, she was now the antidote. 
 
 Whither Horace had gone, no one knew. Nor if 
 he had prospered or fallen by the way. His mother 
 having died when he was young, and his father having 
 little personal interest in the children, he had not 
 been very sedulously tracked. If he still survived it 
 was probably in one of those countries which offer 
 such a magnetic attraction to England's misfits : 
 Australia, New Zealand, South Africa. But nobody 
 knew. Genevra occasionally murmured " Poor Hor- 
 ace ! " with a sigh, when something called him to 
 mind : seed-cake, for example, of which as a child 
 he had been inordinately fond. But to all intents 
 and purposes he was dead. 
 
 It was a melancholy reflection that of the five 
 Thorold sisters only one was now alive. Genevra, who 
 was forty-nine when she died, was somewhere about 
 the middle of the family ; the youngest, had she lived, 
 would have been now about forty. Vaddy, the only 
 son left (if we exclude the unknown quantity, Horace) 
 was rising fifty, he and Genevra having been twins. 
 
 I would begin, I decided, with Hugo's brood, partly 
 because his wife was Genevra's oldest sister, partly 
 because I knew where he lived and could easily get 
 there, and not a little because his daughter Phoebe 
 
18 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 was just the kind of girl to be able to tell me about 
 her cousins. She had the genealogical instinct. 
 
 Hugo Muir was a leading light at Lloyds'. His 
 wife Margaret had died some few years ago, not long 
 after her eldest and favourite son was killed in the 
 war. Two children remained : Alistair and Phoebe. 
 They and their father lived at Chislehurst in a red 
 brick house which, when it comes into the market, 
 will be called a spacious and well-appointed resid- 
 ence, surrounded by its own well-wooded pleasure 
 grounds and with well-stocked kitchen gardens. 
 
 I was to have lunch with Hugo and Phoebe, but 
 . when I arrived I was told that Hugo had been detained 
 in town by a sudden business call, and Phoebe and I 
 therefore sat down alone. She was a quiet little 
 thing of about twenty-two, short and plump and full 
 of culture, energy and good works. There was no 
 charitable organization in or around Chislehurst that 
 she did not assist or even control, and a volume of 
 Symonds' " History of the Renaissance " was on her 
 occasional table, with her tortoiseshell spectacles in it 
 to mark the place. In the drive I had passed two 
 girl guides who, I have no doubt, were under her 
 orders and were leaving the house with despatches. 
 
 Phoebe looked to me like one who would fee wooed 
 only by lovers ardently aware of her father's financial 
 standing ; but you never know. Very certainly she 
 was not a candidate for any of my poor Genevra's 
 bequest. 
 
 At lunch we talked about books, plays and relations. 
 Relations most. The information that I was in need 
 of she gave me. She was not unduly malicious about 
 any of them, but neither was she genial. A little 
 malice seems to be inevitable in all such conversation. 
 The emerging fact was that they were all less the salt 
 of the earth than the Muirs were. I made notes as 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 19 
 
 to their present addresses and circumstances. She 
 was very kind and sympathetic about dear Aunt 
 Genevra. What a terrible day we had had for the 
 funeral ! She was so sorry for every one there in the 
 rain. Her father had been surprised and pained to 
 be placed in a position of such importance at lunch, 
 but he did it beautifully. 
 
 We had coffee in her own sitting-room, where, on 
 one of the walls, was a landscape that caught my eye 
 at once and held it. It represented a meadow with 
 the long shadows of trees cast by an afternoon sun 
 sprawling across it. The treatment was broad and 
 simple, the charm of the picture being in its light. 
 It is easy to find, even in National Galleries, so many 
 pictures without any light of their own that one is 
 the more impressed when a treasure of this kind con- 
 fronts one in a private house, and particularly in such 
 a room as this, the abode of a girl of quite ordinary 
 intelligence, whose taste ran naturally to achieve- 
 ments of colour processes. In fact everything else 
 there was from the Medici Society ; this alone was the 
 direct work of the human hand. 
 
 "Who did that?" I asked. 
 
 " Alistair," she said. " My brother." 
 
 " I didn't know he was an artist," I said, conscious 
 that I ought perhaps earlier to have displayed some 
 interest in him. " I thought he was in your father's 
 business." 
 
 " So he was till quite recently," Phoebe informed 
 me.. 
 
 She stopped and lifted- her cup. 
 
 " Nothing wrong, I hope ? " I .remarked. 
 
 "Not exactly," she said. "But he— well, I don't 
 see why you shouldn't know, as you're his uncle. 
 He broke away. He said he must paint." 
 
 I pricked up my ears. This sounded promising. 
 
20 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Dad was furious about it," Phoebe continued. 
 " He's stopped his allowance and vows he'll never 
 give him another halfpenny." 
 
 " He's not absolutely broke ? " I asked. 
 
 " So far as dad is concerned he would be," said 
 Phoebe. " But he has a little money of his own. 
 From mother, you know. It's very little, but it's 
 something." 
 
 " And where is he now ? " I asked. 
 
 " We don't know for certain," said Phoebe. " He 
 won't tell. But he gets any letters that are sent to 
 the posit restante at Fontainebleau. He's afraid of 
 being tracked, I think, and dragged back. You see, 
 he's set his whole being on becoming an artist and 
 he hates Lloyds' like poison. I'm sorry for dad too, 
 because he wanted Alistair to succeed him ; but if a 
 boy can paint it seems a sin to force him to spend 
 his time insuring ships, doesn't it ? " 
 
 *' Couldn't he do both ? " I asked. " Couldn't he 
 insure ships part of the time and paint the rest ? " 
 
 " That's what father said," Phoebe informed me. 
 " But Alistair doesn't hold with it. He says that art 
 cannot be served with a divided mind. And he says 
 also that we should do what we like doing. He had 
 some wonderful encouragement from real artists too. 
 Mr. Macphail, you know, the New English man, lives 
 near here, and he's frightfully keen on Alistair. He 
 told father that Alistair's sense of composition is 
 amazing." 
 
 " And what did your father say ? " 
 
 " Oh, he was just unsympathetic. He said that the 
 best thing for Alistair to compose was policies. They 
 couldn't hit it off at all, and so Alistair went. The 
 next thing that happened was a letter from France 
 saying he had decided to become a painter and earn 
 his own living at it." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 21 
 
 " And how dp you feel about it ? " I asked, 
 
 " Well," she replied, " I'm afraid I'm in both camps. 
 I see dad's point of view and I see Alistair's. Whether 
 Alistair is right in saying that we should do what we 
 like doing is another matter. I always feel that self- 
 indulgence is wrong." 
 
 " At any rate," I said, " this is a kind of self-indul- 
 gence that carries hard work and even a little martyr- 
 dom with it. I can't help admiring the boy for his 
 independence. To any one with real artistic ambi- 
 tion Lloyds' must be an awful place : just noisy men 
 getting rich. And it is quite clear from that little 
 landscape there, and from your painter friend's belief 
 in him, that Alistair has genuine talent. I should 
 like to think that we had an artist in the family." 
 
 " Then you don't take dad's side at all ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't say that. I'm sorry for his disappoint- 
 ment. But each generation must work out its own 
 salvation." 
 
 As I spoke I made up my mind to find Alistair 
 But I would do so all unbeknown to him. I would 
 descend on him from a blue sky and see what manner 
 of youth he was. A few days at Fontainebleau when 
 the weather was a little warmer would be a pleasant 
 change. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN WHICH A WORLD'S WORKER BECOMES 
 PHILOSOPHICAL 
 
 MRS. LUSH had long been our visiting char, 
 and since I was now getting into the habit 
 of asking almost every one for views as to 
 spending money wisely, I decided one morning, when 
 I found this trusty servitor just finishing the library 
 windows, to put the question to her. 
 
 But first I was careful to close the door, for Rhoda 
 does not approve of her employer conversing with 
 any servant but herself. Rhoda's disapprovals can 
 be very tiresome ; but there is something to pay for 
 everything, and they were the price of her fidelity. 
 
 Rhoda, I should say, was one of Genevra's legacies 
 to me : a parlourmaid : a formidable virgin of sixty- 
 five or even more, who, having been previously in 
 the service of Genevra's mother, had established a 
 powerful hold on the family. And Rhoda did not 
 hold with friendliness between masters and depen- 
 dents. 
 
 What her opinion of me was, I never knew ; she 
 may have despised me utterly — very likely did — and 
 again she may have looked upon me as a demi-god, or 
 even a deity complete. But no, on second thoughts, 
 not a deity complete, for deities have no faults and 
 I have several. For example, I smoke. I also have 
 the bad habit of making the whole world my ash- 
 tray. Rhoda's attitude, however, never varied ; she 
 
 22 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 23 
 
 was respectful and frigid. Also exceedingly efficient. 
 She knew where things were. She saw that the 
 supply was kept up — both of such momentary needs 
 as matches, and of such unusual requirements as 
 sealing wax and very large envelopes. She had brown 
 paper and string always at hand. She asked " Have 
 you got the theatre tickets ? " as you put on your 
 coat. She was never ruffled on the telephone. She 
 could say " Not at home," with finality. 
 
 Rhoda had seen all my wedded life and was now 
 ordering my affairs as a widower. I found her presence 
 irksome, too full of reminders ; but I had no power 
 to bid her go. 
 
 On Giles's advice I had made the effort. 
 
 " I should get rid of that woman," he said. " She'll 
 be a ghost. ' 
 
 " I don't feel I can," I replied. " I don't feel I 
 ought to. I'm not sure that Genevra would have 
 wished it." 
 
 " Of course she would," said Giles. " She was a 
 sensible woman. You can't have a ghost about the 
 place. Fix up an annuity for her and let her go. 
 Let's see — how old is she ? Sixty-five if she's a 
 minute, but she's the skinny kind that endures. These 
 gristly old birds live for ever. Put her death down 
 at eighty. Fifteen years at two pounds a week ; 
 that'll cost you a nice little sum, but it's worth it. 
 If you don't fire her she'll get on your nerves. And 
 then you can find some nice young girl with a smilin' 
 face. You should have young things about you — 
 keeps you young too. Or else get rid of the house 
 and go into rooms, with a good man to look after 
 you, as I do." 
 
 " No," I said, " I shall stick to the house — at present 
 at any rate." 
 
 I went into the question of an annuity with some 
 
24 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 insurance people, but when the proposal was put to 
 Rhoda she repulsed it. 
 
 Did I think she was past work ? she asked. 
 
 I said no ; certainly not ; of course not ; but — 
 
 Was I tired of her ? she inquired, rather acidly. 
 
 I said no again. No, no. 
 
 Very well then, she would stay with me as long as 
 she had strength. She called it "strenth." 
 
 And the interview closed, leaving me more in bon- 
 dage than before, and less amenable to it, because I 
 had enjoyed a glimpse of escape. 
 
 This was why I shut the door carefully before I 
 proceeded to interrogate Mrs. Lush. 
 
 " If you had some money to give away, how would 
 you deal with it ? "I asked her, after we had exchanged 
 the time of day and she had remarked that it was 
 heart-breaking, trying to keep windows clean in such 
 weather. 
 
 " I've often wondered," she replied. " It's a diffi- 
 cult question." 
 
 " Well, you'd look about for the poorest people, 
 I suppose," I said. 
 
 " I don't know that I should," she answered. " I 
 don't know that the poorest people are the most in 
 need of money, or, at any rate, that money would 
 be of greater use to them than to some others that 
 you'd never dream of." 
 
 She composed herself for oratory, and I filled a pipe. 
 
 " You've never done no charing yourself, sir, so 
 you don't know," she began. " Any one who works 
 at charing goes into a lot of houses and sees things. 
 Ladies are very often talkative to chars. Somebody 
 fresh, you know. They're tired of their own servants 
 and they talk to chars by way of a change — same as 
 you might be doing now, sir. But it isn't that you 
 have to listen to them in order to know things, for 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 35 
 
 one keeps one's eyes open too and often and often 
 one knows all they're going to say before they says 
 it. 
 
 " But what I was coming to, sir, is this, that there's 
 many a swell house I've worked in — and I could give 
 you names — where a little money would be more 
 useful than it would be even in the homes of the very 
 poor. 
 
 " The very poor get in the way of being poor, don't 
 you see. They almost get to like it, it saves so much 
 trouble. They needn't do lots of worriting things. 
 They needn't wash. They needn't mend their clothes. 
 But there are lots of houses in good streets where the 
 wives are kept so short you wouldn't believe. So 
 long as there's a good dinner in the evening and a 
 good breakfast in the morning, for himself, the master 
 doesn't care. It's nothing to him that his wife has 
 to eat toast and tea in the middle of the day if her 
 week's housekeeping money is to go round at all. 
 It's nothing to him if there's lots of little things she 
 can't do. And I'm not speaking of single cases. 
 
 " There's where money might be well spent — in 
 giving some of those wives a little secret fund, so to 
 speak. 
 
 " But," she added,, " it would be very hard to do. 
 And as likely as not the husband would find out and 
 take it away. They're so artful, husbands. 
 
 " I often think about what I'd do with money if 
 I had a lot,' she went on, for I had let loose a torrent. 
 " I suppose everybody does. One thing that I'd like 
 to do is to tip the real people." 
 
 " Who do you mean ? " I asked. 
 
 " Well, sir, I don't say exactly that the people you 
 tip now are the wrong ones, but there are others who 
 are much more deserving. When I was a girl I used 
 to help wash-up in one of the big hotels. Any one 
 
26 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 who had lunch or dinner in the grand restaurant up- 
 stairs^ — may be yourself, sir, and your good lady 
 who's no more, bless her heart ! — if they had nice 
 clean plates and shining knives and forks it was 
 very likely my doing. But did any one ever ask for 
 the kitchen maids to come up and have half a crown 
 pressed into their hands ? Never. All the tips 
 went to the waiters, most of them very well off. 
 But there, whatever else you find in this world, you 
 don't find justice. Things are very unequal." 
 
 " But there are compensations in every walk of 
 life ? " I suggested. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I think there are. If you're poor you 
 can thank your lucky stars that you don't have all 
 the worries of the rich. When I read the paper on 
 Sunday afternoon and see how the rich are always 
 being robbed and murdered and divorced, I'm glad 
 I was born to be poor. And they don't ever get to 
 bed, the rich. They're always having supper and 
 dancing. Now I like a good lay down — nine good 
 hours for me." 
 
 " Are you happy, Mrs. Lush ? " I asked her. 
 
 " Fairly," she said. " Since my husband died." 
 
 " You didn't get on with him ? " 
 
 " No. He was a hard, cruel man and we had 
 nothing in common." 
 
 " Why didn't you leave him ? " I foolishly asked. 
 
 " Poor people can't leave each other," she said 
 simply. " There's nowhere to go. They can't afford 
 to leave each other, you see. And there were the 
 children too. It's children that keep homes together. 
 Even when those homes are just little hells. I knew 
 I'd made a mistake before we were married, but I 
 couldn't get out of it. It was too late." 
 
 " Why did you ever become engaged ? " I asked. 
 
 " I wanted to get away from home. That's why 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 27 
 
 so many girls in our class marry. And if you're not 
 married you don't feel right either. You get chipped 
 for being an old maid and on the shelf." 
 
 " Are there many happily married people that you 
 know ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not many. Women in our class don't see much 
 of their husbands. It's their children they're inter- 
 ested in, and it's their children that keep them down 
 too. As a matter of fact," she said, " I did leave my 
 husband once, when most of the children were big 
 and there were only two little ones. I went right away 
 with those two, and got a place as cook. And what 
 do you think — the ladies who ran the Mothers' Society 
 and other friendly and Christian societies I belonged 
 to, took it for granted that I had gone off with another 
 man and struck me off the books. All my subscrip- 
 tion thrown away ! That's why I gave up religion. 
 ' Religion's a pastime,' I said, after that. No harm 
 in going to church if you want a rest, but it's not 
 real. I sent my children : it kept them out of 
 mischief : but it's only a pastime." 
 
 " And did your husband find you ? " 
 
 " After two years I heard he was ill and I went 
 back to nurse him. I saw him die." 
 
 " Did he say he was sorry ? " 
 
 " Yes, he said he was sorry for knocking me about. 
 But they all say that. They're afraid of going to the 
 other place if they don't. It was too late anyway ; 
 I was glad when he was dead and I could have all 
 my children with me again." 
 
 " Then you don't know how a little money would 
 be best given away ? " I asked finally, for we had 
 talked enough. 
 
 " Not a little," she said. " If it were a lot — millions, 
 say — you might do something. If every one in my 
 street were to have a bathroom and a gas cooker it 
 
28 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 would be all to the good. For look at it now — it's 
 the poor who want their meals quickly and cheaply, 
 and it's the poor who get dirtiest ; but the poor have 
 to buy coal in the dearest possible way, by the sack, 
 because they have no cellars, and then to waste it 
 because the fire goes on long after it's needed ; and 
 it's the poor who, if they want to wash, must do it 
 in a basin. It's the rich, with all the time there is 
 at their disposal, who have the time-saving appli- 
 ances ; it's the rich, who never soil their hands, who 
 have the baths. No, sir," said Mrs. Lush, " there's 
 no equality in things." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH GENEVRA'S BROTHER STANDS 
 ON THE BRINK 
 
 THE distribution of Genevra's money was 
 not my only concern at this time. Worries 
 — if that can be called a worry — have a way 
 of walking in one's direction arm in arm, and the 
 companion on this occasion was Vaddy, Genevra's 
 twin brother and her very special favourite. Twins, 
 I have observed, either love each other or resent 
 each other, and Genevra and Vaddy loved. 
 
 And now Vaddy was in a bad way, and if I did not 
 help him there was probably no one else to do so, 
 for his trouble was too intensely personal to interest 
 strangers or even acquaintances. Briefly, he was 
 taking to drink. 
 
 It was Giles who brought me to the realization 
 of this fact. You know how you can see a thing a 
 thousand times without seeing it ; your mind is not 
 With your eyes ; you have no reason to suspect, 
 and therefore don't suspect ; and then suddenly 
 revelation comes and at once you pass in review all 
 those t>ther occasions and they are sheer evidence. 
 
 It was so in the case of Vaddy. Directly Giles said, 
 in his blunt style, "That brother-in-law of yours 
 was very tight last night at the Bourbon," I knew 
 that Vaddy had been tending that way for a long while. 
 
 " I don't mind a feller bein' merry," said Giles. 
 " I'm often merry myself. I like a skinful of wine. 
 
 29 
 
3 o GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 But he mustn't get tight, especially when he's a guest 
 at a club. We drink a lot at the Bourbon, but we 
 don't get tight." 
 
 I was alarmed. I knew Vaddy's nature : his 
 amiable friendliness, his dislike of going to bed in his 
 lonely rooms, his want of occupation. And fifty 
 was a bad age to begin the easy descent of the hill. 
 
 " I'm sorry," I said. " Do you think I ought to 
 speak to him ? " 
 
 '* I don't say that," said Giles. " It's a ticklish 
 business, talkin' to a man about drinkin'. I should 
 knock down any feller who dared to try it on with 
 me. But then," he added, with a caress of his mous- 
 tache, " I'm not like that. I know when to stop." 
 
 " I must think about it," I said. 
 
 " Do," said Giles. " We can't have fellers tight 
 at the Bourbon. It's bad for the place. Why, he 
 actually put coal on the fire in the card room. A 
 guest, mark you. Things like that aren't done, you 
 know." 
 
 " No," I said, I hope with sufficient gravity. 
 
 Poor Genevra — how she would have grieved had 
 she known this ! I could almost feel relief that she 
 had died when she did. And yet, causes being so 
 mixed, her illness, in which anxiety played a part, 
 was, I guessed now, not wholly unconnected with 
 Vaddy's lapses. He and she had been very close 
 and he had no one else whom he knew so intimately. 
 
 Vaddy — his real name was Launcelot, but the 
 other pet name had supplanted it almost universally 
 — had been a tutor and army coach and had done 
 well at it. And then, his father, a few years since, 
 leaving him a competency, he had given up his work 
 and settled down into an easy-going, bridge-playing, 
 rather untidy clubman, a favourite everywhere. 
 
 Retirement is a mistake for most men. Much 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 31 
 
 work is better than a little, and a little is better than 
 none. In Vaddy's case retirement was a misfortune. 
 His share of his father's wealth put him out of any 
 financial worry far too soon and he substituted con- 
 viviality for toil. The eyes that once had studied 
 books were now engrossed in the search for trumps ; 
 the old frugal fare had given place to oysters and 
 champagne. 
 
 I remembered once chaffing him about his epicurean 
 development ; without, however, any fear that dis- 
 aster was to follow. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, " Why not ? ' Dulce 
 est,' you know, and ' Carpe diem.' God knows I 
 had little enough of life's good things once ! " 
 
 This was, of course, nonsense ; but Vaddy uncon- 
 sciously deceived himself into thinking that his early 
 days had been one long struggle for existence. Men 
 who have retired often nurture this delusion. As 
 a matter of fact he had never been even hard up : 
 on leaving Oxford he became at once bear-leader to 
 a peer's son, whom he accompanied round the world 
 and snatched from follies innumerable in every lati- 
 tude, and he then settled down to prepare expensive 
 young gentlemen for a military career, which, in those 
 distant, peaceful days, tended perhaps more to the 
 ornamental than the lethal. None the less, no evening 
 with Vaddy was complete until he had made some 
 bitter reference — his pleasant expression darkening 
 — to the old times when, by Jingo ! he had had to 
 rough it. 
 
 Calling on him in Jermyn Street on the day after 
 Giles had dropped his bombshell, I was shocked. He 
 was the same affectionate fellow as ever, but he looked 
 wrong. He was puffy and shaky and he avoided 
 my eyes. 
 
 He began by apologizing for his absence from the 
 
32 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 funeral ; which, as a matter of fact, but very oddly, 
 I hadn't noticed. 
 
 He couldn't face it, he said. It would have been 
 too much of an ordeal. For him, in particular. He 
 had been fonder of Genevra than anyone, and for 
 a twin to stand by and see his other half buried — no, 
 he couldn't do it. Twins were different from ordinary 
 people. Indeed, he hadn't been himself at all ever 
 since Genevra died. 
 
 He was getting rather maudlin, I thought. 
 
 "Good heavens!" I said at last. "We don't 
 measure affection by attendance at funerals. There 
 are several other motives that may take one to a 
 grave-side. If you weren't present I am sure there 
 were good enough reasons." 
 
 He began to tell me again what those reasons were. 
 
 What a much more agreeable world it would be 
 if we could eliminate repetition ! 
 
 " I'm not antipathetic to you, I trust," I said. 
 " It's perfectly natural to loathe one's sister's husband, 
 I know, and possibly more so after she dies ; but 
 you don't ? " 
 
 " No, no," he said, and I am sure he meant it. 
 " No, no ; I'm fond of you. But I've been a little 
 off sociable duties lately. I've been up too late at 
 night and not out early enough in the morning, and, 
 you know, I'm not as young as I was. I dare say 
 this lotus-eating doesn't suit me after such a strenuous 
 beginning as I had." 
 
 " Why not go back into harness ? " I asked. " I 
 don't mean drudgery, of course, but get something 
 to do." 
 
 " Jolly hard after you're fifty," said Vaddy. 
 
 " Yes, but not impossible," I said. " And go 
 a bit slow with food." (I simply daren't add, " and 
 drink.") " If you're not taking exercise you can 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 33 
 
 so easily eat too much. I hate to see you not your- 
 self." 
 
 " I shall be all right after lunch," he said. " The 
 older I get, the more I find lunch bucks me up." 
 
 I knew this confession to be a bad sign, but I made 
 no comment. 
 
 " Well, good-bye," I said. " Let's have an evening 
 soon, when you feel like it, and, meanwhile, don't 
 let the world beat you." 
 
 " Do you think it's beating me ? " he asked. 
 
 " A little," I said. 
 
 " Still, we're of the world, aren't we ? " he asked. 
 " Is going with it being beaten ? " 
 
 " I believe it is," I said. " Although I can't justify 
 that belief by logical argument. But I do honestly 
 believe that every one must put up some kind of a 
 fight." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 IN WHICH I SET FORTH ON THE CHASE 
 
 DIRECTLY the weather was warmer I left 
 for Fontainebleau, intent upon running Alis- 
 tair to earth. 
 
 It was June, when the forest should be at its brightest 
 and an artist at his busiest. Even if I didn't find 
 Alistair I should be enjoying the hunt. 
 
 The man behind the poste restante brass railings at 
 Fontainebleau knew nothing of Mr. Muir, except that 
 he called now and then for letters and was an Anglais. 
 There were no letters for him at the moment. 
 
 I asked if when he called he appeared to have come 
 from any distance. 
 
 The man said that those who stood in guichets had 
 limited opportunities of judging. They did not see 
 legs and boots ; only upper parts. Most Anglais 
 walked, any way. It was a peculiarity of the English 
 to walk, both men and women. 
 
 Could he say when Mr. Muir last called ? 
 
 No, he could not. He himself went off duty occa- 
 sionally, and then it would be a confrere who handed 
 out the letters. Why did I want to know ? 
 
 I said that I was anxious to find Mr. Muir. For 
 purely friendly reasons, I hastened to add, for I 
 discerned in the cynical French eye a suggestion of 
 broken laws, vigilant police or outraged husbands : 
 pursuit generally. 
 
 The man prepared to resume his ordinary work, 
 
 34 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 35 
 
 in which a new cigarette was deeply involved, and 
 uttered a grant of dismissal. The grunt said very 
 clearly, " May be." 
 
 All Fontainebleau and its dependencies were there- 
 fore to be explored. If Alistair was not in the town 
 itself I must extend operations to Barbizon and Mar- 
 lotte. Barbizon first, naturally, for that must be 
 the chief magnet to an enthusiastic youth with such 
 pleinairiste tendencies. But I would dally at Fontaine- 
 bleau a little. I left a note at the poste restante 
 telling Alistair where I was — at the Francois Premier, 
 feeling that I should be more peaceful there than in 
 the fashionable hotel facing the chateau,— and then 
 I began an inn-to-inn visitation inquiring for Mr. 
 Muir, 
 
 He had left no traces, but I think I got on his 
 track at a colour shop, although of course English 
 and American artists can be very much alike and 
 no name had passed. A young man — tall and fresh- 
 looking, in knickerbockers and a cap — had brought 
 some brushes and a tube or two not very long since. 
 
 Did I think he had come from any distance ? 
 
 Yes, because his large shoes were dusty. The 
 shopman had noticed them : the wide welts, so different 
 from anything that French people go in for, had caugh 
 his eye. " Ah, you Englishmen," he said, " your 
 clothes are so much better than ours ! Your cloth 
 is so strong and warm, and the tailors make the 
 waists of the trousers so much higher. And your 
 boots — an Englishman's boot is his castle ! The 
 flimsiness of ours ! " 
 
 The shopman had been in England, he told me. 
 It was an interesting country. 
 
 " You have no notion where the gentleman came 
 from ? " I asked. 
 
 He had none. The forest was full of such amateurs, 
 
36 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 tall, vigorous, untiring. It was extraordinary how 
 different people were ! Had I ever seen a young 
 Frenchman walking in Epping or Windsor or the 
 New Forest ? No ! Never. Nor should I, though 
 I lived to be a thousand. Yet the French were artists 
 too and England was very beautiful. How was it 
 that French artists never left France and the English 
 artists never stayed in England ? It must be, he 
 suggested, twinkling, that the English artists wanted 
 to eat, and they walked so much in France in their 
 big boots to get an even larger appetite for French 
 cooking. 
 
 In the intervals of my search I let the old town take 
 possession of me. It was lovely summer weather and 
 I drifted about in the park around the chateau, or in 
 the forest itself, with great contentment. After lunch 
 I carried two or three rolls down to the ornamental 
 water to feed the carp. But it was little of it that the 
 carp got, for while they wrangled amongst each other 
 for the unnegotiable crust, the resident swan, type of 
 the profiteer, advanced serenely and purposefully 
 and swallowed it. The ChantiUy carp are cleverer, 
 for they have learned to steer the morsel with their 
 blind mouths towards the wall and hold it there till 
 it is moist and absorbable. 
 
 As for the chateau, I had seen that before and I 
 did not want to be indoors in the company of sight- 
 seers under a guide's orders. If one might wander 
 in and out and stay long in certain rooms, I might 
 have done so ; but these formal hurried processions 
 are impossible. 
 
 Fontainebleau has but one blot and that is its 
 school of gunnery. All the morning, from some im- 
 possibly early hour till lunch, the cannon roared. I 
 know of no sound more disconcerting to the nerves 
 or destructive of the sylvan spirit. For the frugal 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 37 
 
 French it must be an even more vexatious infliction, 
 if they are aware of the cost to the national exchequer 
 of every explosion. And in what theatre of war is to 
 be played the drama of which this is the daily rehearsal ? 
 
 But for the soldiers, who have never done any 
 town any good and are even worse in villages, Fontaine- 
 bleau would be as serene and distinguished a place 
 to settle in and keep a house in as any that I know. 
 Its streets are clean and broad ; its shops are good, 
 and if you don't like them you are only an hour by 
 train from Paris ; its houses are comely and white ; 
 its air is sweet and tonic ; the forest is at your door, 
 and there are delightful woodland surroundings. 
 But its martial reminders are too constant. No 
 artist would choose to work amid such detonations. 
 
 I therefore, one morning, sent my luggage to Bar- 
 bizon by road and myself took one of the paths that 
 led that way. The many notice-boards and M. 
 Denecourt's map made the route simple. 
 
 Not long before this I had been with Genevra to 
 Marlborough, wandering about Savernake, and I 
 realized now how very different was the Wiltshire 
 forest from the French. In a way the differences 
 are those of England and France ; for Savernake is 
 rambling and without order outside its main avenue, 
 whereas Fontainebleau is under such perfect control 
 and has been furnished with such a wealth of exposi- 
 tory sign-boards that no one who can read can possibly 
 go astray. Even the main avenue of Savernake has 
 the hall-mark of English carelessness, for every tree 
 is hollow and the abode of jackdaws. So many jack- 
 daws I never saw : all noisy of voice and silent of 
 wing — leaving their homes like black spirits. In 
 Fontainebleau there is no wild life of any kind ; or 
 at any rate none have I ever seen there, in a series of 
 visits extending over twenty years. Savernake not 
 
38 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 only has its jackdaws and other birds, but its deer, 
 and once there, long ago, I came suddenly face to face 
 with a fox and I don't know which of us was the 
 more startled. In the forest of Fontainebleau no 
 birds sing. But what a strange wilderness it is, with 
 its vast, rocky gorges, its high, rocky deserts, its end- 
 less straight paths amid chestnut, birch and beech ! 
 I met not a soul. But for the almost constant clatter 
 and Klaxoning of motor-cars and lorries on the high- 
 roads that intersect it, there would have been no 
 sound but the humming of flies. 
 
 Not till, after fatiguing climbing and very intricate 
 windings and doublings among the rocks, I came to 
 the Brigands' Cave, did I see a human being, and that 
 was either the brigand's wife or widow : a buxom 
 French woman who provided biscuits and wine at 
 a ruinous figure. She lived at Barbizon, she said, 
 and climbed up to her cave every morning, to open 
 it like any other office. At evening she locked it 
 up and returned home with the proceeds of the day's 
 brigandage. 
 
 Having eaten a biscuit and smoked a pipe, I bade 
 her farewell and descended by soft sandy ways, amid 
 silver birches, to the famous village, with my thoughts 
 set on lunch at Les Charmettes. 
 
 Barbizon may have a railway all along its historic 
 street and be visited several times a day by heavy 
 trains, but it is still beautiful and serene. Between 
 the trains it possesses its soul completely. Nor 
 does the incessant automobile really harm it, for 
 nothing can impair the clearness of the atmosphere 
 or dim the radiance of its sun. And after dusk, 
 when both trains and cars have vanished till the 
 next day, it is almost as it was when the great Men 
 of the 'Thirties discovered it. As I walked along 
 the white street, with creepers hanging over the walls, 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 39 
 
 on my way to a haven and lunch, I passed Millet's 
 house, and the house of Diaz de la Pefia and the house 
 of Jacque, and I saw where Rousseau's steps turned 
 off towards his studio. Other dwellers now live 
 there, but the memorial tablets brought the past 
 very near. I was in a spiritual home. 
 
 When I first knew Les Charmettes it was simple 
 as a farmhouse. One sat in a large kitchen-like room, 
 ate at rough tables with coarse linen cloths on them, 
 and as likely as not a forest keeper would stray in 
 for a drink, and his dog — setter or pointer — would 
 nuzzle for tit-bits as one ate. To-day Les Char- 
 mettes is more than an inn : it is a hotel. Style has 
 come to it, but not so noticeably as to depress the 
 visitor. Since the motor-car brought Barbizon 
 within two hours of Paris, the village has blossomed 
 into a new prosperity, at any rate for caterers, and 
 on Sundays the restaurants are all crowded ; but 
 those who know seek Les Charmettes, where the cook- 
 ing is admirable and living trout swim in a tank 
 to be selected and caught under the gourmet's eyes. 
 When I first knew Les Charmettes there were deer 
 in an enclosure in the garden and we used to stroll 
 about after breakfast and feed them ; but the deer 
 have now gone. The only curiosity that I noticed 
 to take their place was an ingenious and highly 
 civilized machine, no longer in use, on one of the 
 mantelpieces, by which the connoisseur could scienti- 
 fically decant wine of such an age and preciousness 
 that it needed a steadiness beyond the attainment 
 of most butlers' hands. 
 
 Alistair had been to Barbizon : I discovered that 
 at once, for his name was honoured at the inn. But 
 he had left two or three weeks ago : not necessarily 
 the village but Les Charmettes ; he might be in 
 lodgings, about which he had made inquiries. Most 
 
40 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 probably, however, he had moved on, for gentlemen 
 in lodgings were in the habit of visiting the inn too, 
 and he had not been seen. 
 
 Lodgings, said the pleasant landlady, could be 
 very lonely in the evenings, and an artist's evenings 
 are so long. 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 Mr. Muir, she told me, was so full of energy. He 
 rose so soon and sometimes was out and at work at 
 sunrise. 
 
 There were other hotels where he might be known, 
 I ventured. 
 
 Truly — but no one who had stayed at Les Char- 
 mettes would be likely to visit another in the evenings. 
 Les Charmettes was too well-renowned. The cellar 
 and the cuisine both were famous. 
 
 Still, a poor artist ... I suggested. 
 
 Mr. Muir was not poor like that. Nor was the 
 difference in the cost of the hotels so great. He 
 would resort either to Les Charmettes or nowhere. 
 He had been so friendly with them there ! No, she 
 felt convinced that he had moved on. Perhaps to 
 Melun, where he could paint the river. Many artists 
 had felt the loss of a river at Barbizon. Or to Moret, 
 where there were two rivers, the Seine and the Loing : 
 he might have gone there. Trees and rocks were not 
 for every one ! 
 
 " Was I interested in the great Barbizon painters ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 Surely. 
 
 Then I must meet M. Pierre. M. Pierre came in 
 most evenings to smoke his pipe, and I must meet 
 him. He had known them all. He had met Mr. 
 Muir too and could perhaps tell me something about 
 him. 
 I had lunch in the garden, where were many other 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 41 
 
 guests — birds of passage for the most part, — and 
 afterwards I rambled about the confines of the village 
 looking for a young man at an easel and looking in 
 vain. Two or three older men I saw, all busy. I 
 found the memorial and immemorial rock with the 
 heads of Millet and Rousseau incised on it, and I was 
 conscious in every direction of scenes that Diaz might 
 have painted and perhaps did paint. Then I left 
 the forest and wandered among the fields in which 
 Millet's peasants used to toil. Of all the Barbizon 
 men these two are the truest to the neighbourhood : 
 Diaz amid the trees and Millet in the tillage. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN WHICH WE HEAR OF THE MEN OF THE 
 'THIRTIES 
 
 M PIERRE — I never heard his other name 
 — came in after dinner and talked till 
 # midnight. A little old man with the 
 whitest hair, moustache and imperial. He wore a 
 brown velveteen coat and cap and might have stepped 
 out of Murger ; but he had never been an artist : 
 his attire was donned by way of homage to his heroes. 
 His father had kept a Barbizon inn in the 'fifties and 
 'sixties, and the boy had been brought up there and 
 had spent his holidays there — he was in a Paris busi- 
 ness house — and now he had come back to die, and 
 before dying to enjoy enormously his prestige as 
 the one who knew. 
 
 I asked him about Corot. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, " every one wants to know about 
 Corot. But Corot was not a Barbizon man. Corot 
 was of Ville d'Avray. He came here long ago — 
 long before any of the others — he was much older, 
 you know — but only for a few days. In the 'twenties, 
 I believe. He never had a house here, never lived 
 here. I saw him only when he came to visit Millet. 
 Poor Millet, he was always the better for seeing Corot, 
 Corot was so gay and Millet so dejected. With 
 Millet nothing could go right, there was always a 
 new trouble ; but Corot was born jolly and forced 
 others to be jolly as well. Everybody was the happier 
 
 42 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 43 
 
 for seeing him. And better off too, for his purse was 
 yours. You see, he sold well and had no dependents. 
 He never married anyone but his Art. 
 
 " Not that a man is necessarily generous because 
 he sells well and has no dependents," M. Pierre went 
 on. "Far from it!" 
 
 " What was Corot like to look at ? " I asked. 
 
 " Corot — he was just a great jolly boy. A vieux 
 gargon literally. He was more or less clean-shaven, 
 with a great shock of hair, which grew to be quite 
 white. He was never without his pipe. Very bright 
 eyes and a ruddy complexion. He wore a cap, and 
 when he worked, I am told — but I never saw him at 
 work as I saw the others — a blue blouse like a peasant. 
 At heart he remained a peasant. 
 
 " He was happy because he painted beautiful 
 things, and he painted beautiful things because he 
 was happy. It was what you might call a virtuous 
 circle ! He couldn't endure unhappiness : he would 
 not think of it unless it was brought to his notice, 
 and then he put his hand in his pockets and bought 
 peace of mind for himself again by generosity. Per- 
 haps for the others too ; but it is not a certainty. 
 Money can do much but not all. And all the time 
 he used to refer to himself as a miser ! " 
 
 I said that I thought I admired his work more 
 — or at any rate that his work was more sympathetic 
 to me — than that of any of the Barbizon men. 
 
 " But he wasn't a Barbizon man," M. Pierre re- 
 peated excitedly. " In the sense of being the friend, 
 and perhaps inspirer, of Barbizon men, yes ; but not 
 otherwise. I must have a notice — an affiche — printed, 
 and hung round my neck, saying that Corot Was not 
 a Barbizon man and that he never lived here, and 
 that I did not really know him. It is the first question 
 they all ask." 
 
44 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " It is a very widely spread error," I said. 
 
 " But he was not a Barbizon man. He was a 
 plein airiste, yes ; he was a pioneer with great influence ; 
 but he was not a Barbizon man. He painted almost 
 nothing here. He painted at Ville d'Avray and out 
 of his kind old head. He dreamed landscapes too, 
 and hopped out of bed to get them down on canvas. 
 But at Barbizon — no." 
 
 " And Daubigny ? " I asked. 
 
 " There you go again ! " said M. Pierre. " Dau- 
 bigny was not a Barbizon man either. Daubigny 
 was a painter of water, and where is our water ? 
 Daubigny loved rivers and there is no river here 
 nearer than at Melun. He loved rivers so much that 
 he lived on a barge and it took him all over France. 
 He would have been stifled here. But the world 
 insists that he was a Barbizon man." 
 
 " Then who were the Barbizon men ? " I asked. 
 
 " Haven't you seen the rock over yonder ? " replied 
 M. Pierre. " With two heads cut on it ? Those were 
 the Barbizon men — Rousseau and Millet. They lived 
 here and worked here and died here. You may visit 
 their homes. Rousseau's studio is now a chapel ; 
 Millet's house has a new tenant. Their names are 
 on the walls. They were Barbizon men and they 
 were unhappy men. Both had to endure years of 
 neglect because the world was blind. Both were 
 sad. Their nature was sad and their lives were sad. 
 Millet was almost never out of debt for the sheer 
 necessities — bread and clothes for his children. Rous- 
 seau was a tragic man ; one of his friends committed 
 suicide in his house here, his mistress went out of her 
 mind. Tragedy pursued him; it does, some people. They 
 were very kind to me always, but they did not laugh. 
 
 " The laugher," he went on, " was Diaz, another 
 Barbizon man, whose house you may also see : Diaz 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 45 
 
 the Spaniard. In a way Diaz was the most essen- 
 tially a Barbizon man, for you cannot walk ten yards 
 in the forest in any direction without coming upon 
 one of his pictures. You know them — the silver birch 
 trunks, the foliage with the sun spattering through. 
 Well, they are everywhere. By looking at Diaz' 
 pictures you know the forest before you ever come to it. 
 
 " But Rousseau does not prepare you like that, 
 even though he painted here ; nor Millet. Rousseau 
 went to the edge of the forest for his scenes ; Millet 
 painted peasants in the fields. It was Diaz who 
 wasn't happy outside its boundaries. 
 
 " And how different he was from those others ! 
 For every sigh they uttered he had a laugh. He 
 was a bon gargon if you like. He sang and cracked 
 his jokes and told his naughty stories all the time. 
 I can see him now, stumping along on his wooden 
 leg, back from the forest to lunch, with his easel 
 and box, his great plain face all hot and gay. But 
 if he was angry, didn't he let you have it ! Those 
 were the Barbizon men." 
 
 " There were others too ? " I asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes. There were Troyon and Dupre" and Jacque, 
 but those were the three. They made the place." 
 
 I asked him if he remembered meeting a Mr. Muir 
 not long since. A young English artist. Fair hair. 
 Very much the enthusiast, I believed. 
 
 " Ah, yes. He was painting in the forest. But it 
 did not suit his style. He needs something more 
 open, more simple. I told him to go to Moret and 
 set up his easel on the banks of the Loing." 
 
 " And do you think he went there ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. I should guess so. He was in the im- 
 pressionable stage when one takes advice." 
 
 " How long ago was that ? " I asked. 
 
 " Some two months," said M. Pierre. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 IN WHICH I REJOICE BY FRENCH RIVERS 
 
 THE next day I was off early, by car, to Moret ; 
 which is a mediaeval town within its own 
 gates and possessed of every charm but a 
 good inn : good, that is, in comparison with Les 
 Charmettes or the princely hotels of Fontainebleau. 
 Having deposited my bag at the Cheval Noir outside 
 the town, I began my search. 
 
 You first pass through an imposing portal and then, 
 after threading a quarter of a mile of narrow main 
 street, with a few shops and a cafe or two, and passing 
 an ancient building where Napoleon slept on his 
 way from Elba to Fontainebleau (as a tablet records), 
 you leave the town again by a second portal and are 
 immediately on the bridge that crosses the Loing, 
 with a wide prospect of water, trees and hills before 
 you. 
 
 The city walls rise sheer from the river on this side, 
 with odd little houses built on them, one of which 
 offers for sale every article that the angler can require, 
 except perhaps patience. 
 
 I leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge 
 — to do which is one of the purest of human pleasures 
 — and looked down the river and up. It was a cloud- 
 less day and in the distance the water was silver and 
 blue. Close at hand it was dark and green, and 
 immediately below me was a little company of washer- 
 women on their knees, scrubbing away at their linen 
 
 46 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 47 
 
 and chattering without ceasing, except to laugh. 
 To what extent I was the cause of their laughter I 
 could only guess, but they all had an eye on me. 
 
 I moved on across the long bridge that carries you, 
 past two enisled water-mills, to the farther bank. 
 There, looking back, you see how nobly the middle 
 ages have been respected. All towns built beside 
 a river have a certain romantic quality, but when 
 they are entered by a venerable gate in a wall this 
 quality is enormously heightened. 
 
 Moret rises towards the south, and half-way up 
 the hill is the church, with long plain windows letting 
 the light right through, and above it, on the top 
 of the hill, the ancient castle. 
 
 Just below the country end of the bridge the road 
 turns to the left, and here I strayed down an alley 
 to the edge of the Loing to let the scene sink in. The 
 noise of the water through the weir filled the air; 
 now and then a car or wagon rumbled across the 
 bridge ; the swallows darted back and forth ; and 
 as I stood ( there, placidly smoking, a man in a blue 
 jacket, with his trousers rolled up over naked legs, 
 came down the alley with a couple of horses, riding 
 one and leading the other, and taking them into the 
 water farther and farther until he was submerged to 
 his knees. 
 
 A man in a blue jacket on a white horse up to its 
 middle in a French river is a very attractive sight, 
 and there is something very soothing in the spectacle 
 and in the sound of the splashing as the creatures 
 move. It was all very foreign and delightful. 
 
 Then I left the alley, and walking a little way along 
 the road came to a river-side meadow, with seats and 
 trees ; and there, a hundred yards away, sketching, 
 were a man and a girl. 
 
 Had the man been alone I should have reconnoitred, 
 
48 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 and if he were young enough for Alistair I should 
 perhaps have addressed him ; but I could not en- 
 croach on a party of two. The girl wore a light blue 
 overall and her fair hair was bobbed ; the man was 
 in tweeds. They were close together and seemed 
 to be painting the same subject : Moret's massed bulk 
 and the Loing catching its reflections. 
 
 Having learned that there was a restaurant a little 
 farther along, I moved away and came soon to a 
 shabby river-side place. At the moment — about half- 
 past eleven — I was its sole support, and my hopes of 
 a tolerable meal would have fallen low indeed if I 
 had not in my time been much in France and learned 
 that appearances have no value there. In England 
 a decayed inn means inferior food or no food at all, 
 long waits, slovenliness, squalor. In France there 
 is no relation whatever between the facade and the 
 kitchen. 
 
 If I would take a table under the trees, I was assured 
 by the waiter, who was completing his toilet as he 
 spoke, an excellent dejeuner should be spread before 
 me. He finished buttoning his sorry waistcoat and 
 vanished, and I walked through the garden, which 
 was gravelled and much given up to swings and 
 games, to the edge of the stream, where I found a 
 table all ready laid, with a clean cloth and a clean 
 napkin. Seating myself I lighted another pipe and 
 prepared to be deliriously contented. 
 
 I don't want to add another stone to the vast pile 
 of missiles that have been flung at my poor old coun- 
 try ; but one of the questions which must be asked 
 on that Day of Days when all information is given, 
 will bear upon England's incapacity to serve food 
 in the open air. 
 
 I was musing idly upon this strange difference 
 between two neighbouring nations, when a little dish 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 49 
 
 of fresh radishes arrived, with rolls and butter The 
 next dish was a friture of fish from the Loing, several 
 varieties of which had, largely for my benefit, ex- 
 changed the river for the frying-pan. Then a plump 
 cube of rumpsteak with watercress and a little dab 
 of maitre d'hdtel butter on it, accompanied by a salad. 
 I had been offered white wine or red, but I chose 
 a light beer brewed a few miles away, at Melun. To 
 crown all came some of the best cheese in the world, 
 the cheese of Brie. 
 
 It was a perfect meal, eaten under perfect con- 
 ditions, and I was more than ever grateful to Alistair 
 Muir for quarrelling with his father, taking up paint- 
 ing and concealing himself in the Forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau. 
 
 Meanwhile the Loing was regaling me with its 
 symphony : the quiet lapping of its little waves 
 against the bank, the gentle rustle of leaves, the 
 sounds carried across the surface from a boat-builder's 
 yard, cries of children, notes of birds and the occa- 
 sional hoot of a steamer from the not very distant 
 Seine, where the barges congregate. Above all, the 
 hot sun and that murmur in the air which a hot sun 
 engenders. 
 
 Now and then other customers arrived — cyclists 
 chiefly, and motorists, and one party in a boat, rowing 
 abominably and dressed as if for comic opera — and 
 the neighbouring tables began to fill up. They were 
 all jolly and in holiday mood, and all either very hungry 
 or very greedy, for I heard them giving terrific orders. 
 My discreet meal would have been nothing but hors 
 d'ceuvre to theirs. 
 
 Whenever he could spare a minute I talked with 
 the waiter. 
 
 " Do many artists come here ? " I asked. 
 
 " Numbers," he said. " All the time, in the summer." 
 4 
 
50 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " There are some here now ? " 
 
 " Not staying in the hotel, but we have them to 
 lunch and sometimes dinner." 
 
 '* French ? " 
 
 " Yes, mostly. But English too and American." 
 
 I asked him how he knew the difference between 
 English and Americans. 
 
 The Americans talked more, he said. And they 
 were particular in ordering their food and before 
 they ate it. The English were more particular during 
 their food. 
 
 I asked which gave the larger tips. 
 
 " The Americans used to," he said, " but they don't 
 any more " 
 
 Was there a young English artist frequenting 
 the place at the present time ? I asked. 
 
 Yes. One. With a lady. The table over there 
 was reserved for them every day. They lunched late. 
 
 He looked at his watch. If they were coming 
 they were almost due, he said. 
 
 " The lady is in blue and has short light hair ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " The same. She is very gentitte." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 IN WHICH THE QUARRY IS RUN TO EARTH 
 
 WHEN, in a few minutes, they arrived, I 
 saw at once that the man was young enough 
 to be Alistair and that even though to be 
 gentille is the destiny of too many of us (with money 
 in our pockets) in France, the girl justified the 
 encomium of the waiter, who, however, probably 
 referred rather to character than looks. Of that 
 I should be able in time to judge ; meanwhile, I could 
 see that she was attractive. She was not pretty in 
 the musical-comedy way, with regular little features. 
 Feature by feature she might indeed have been called 
 plain ; but all were agreeably blunted or softened, 
 and through them shone a radiance. Her face emitted 
 light. 
 
 She talked with animation and expression, whereas 
 her companion said little, and seemed to have his 
 thoughts elsewhere. He could not, however, be 
 called rude. 
 
 He was a good-looking typical young Englishman 
 and might very easily have been Genevra's nephew. 
 But since he might just as easily have been some one 
 else, I made no overtures. 
 
 When, however, the girl suddenly exclaimed, draw- 
 ing his attention to a heron sailing over us, "Oh, 
 Alistair, look ! " I felt that this was my man. 
 
 But the girl — who was the girl ? Was she perhaps 
 the real goddess and Art only the counterfeit ? Did 
 
 51 
 
52 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Chislehurst know about her ? Hugo, I am sure, did 
 not, but Phoebe, Alistair's mousy little sister, did she 
 know? 
 
 Yet he did not seem to be in love. His mind was 
 evidently occupied with other things ; and if the girl 
 looked at him with any special tenderness he did not 
 notice it. I could have thought of them as chance 
 painting acquaintances if it hadn't been for that " Oh, 
 Alistair ! " 
 
 Alistairs not being very numerous, I decided to 
 risk it. 
 
 I wrote on a visiting-card : " May your uncle intro- 
 duce himself ? " and sent it over by the waiter. 
 
 Alistair read it, flushed, said something to the girl 
 and came to my table. 
 
 He began with something formal about Genevra's 
 death, and asked how I came to be there. 
 
 I told him I had heard from his sister that he was 
 somewhere in the forest, and, being in the forest too, 
 I had been on the look-out for him. 
 
 He invited me to join him and his companion and 
 I did so. He introduced her as Miss Holt and said 
 they were studying at the same school in' Paris. It 
 did not seem to occur to him that it was not a quite 
 sufficient explanation. 
 
 " You are going to be an artist ? " I asked her. 
 
 " I hope so. I long to be," she said. " But it's 
 awfully difficult. And Mr. Muir fills me with mis- 
 givings, he's so good." 
 
 Alistair denied this. He wished to Heaven he 
 was good, he said. 
 
 But the problems ! He had hardly said a word 
 at lunch, he continued, because he was trying to work 
 out the colour for a certain shadow. Everything 
 had a different-coloured shadow. There were problems 
 all the time, and they absolutely filled one's thoughts. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 53 
 
 I told him I had heard of him at Barbizon. From 
 Monsieur Pierre. 
 
 " Oh, that old boy ! " he said. " I couldn't under- 
 stand half of what he said, but I owe him something 
 for sending me to Moret." 
 
 " And I also," I said. 
 
 I asked where they were staying, adding that I 
 didn't think much of my inn. 
 
 " We've got rooms in the same house," Miss Holt 
 hastened to say. 
 
 " It was all I could get for her," Alistair explained. 
 
 "They're quite good/' said Miss Holt. "Don't 
 you love France ? " she went on. " I do. They 
 make it so easy to be simple. The little portions of 
 food you can buy ! No waste. And the clever things 
 the people in the shops all say. Every one seems 
 to me to be witty and friendly," 
 
 " ' It's your money they want,' " quoted Alistair 
 grimly. 
 
 "I don't mind if it is," said Miss Holt. "But 
 as a maffact " — (she had an amusing way of compress- 
 ing the three words " matter of fact " into one)—" I 
 don't believe it is, always, either. I think they really 
 like us, sometimes." 
 
 " Girls — yes," Alistair admitted, again rather grimly. 
 
 " What do you think ? " Miss Holt asked me. 
 " Alistair's always so grudging about French things 
 — excepting their pictures." 
 
 " Some of them," Alistair put in. 
 
 " I," I said. " Oh, I think the French are a very 
 clever people. And I agree with you about their 
 conversation. Style is in the blood. Scotch peasants 
 haven't got more — and that's saying a good deal. 
 But they always frighten me a little, too : they're so 
 logical, so intent on their purposes, so hard." 
 
 " I haven't been here long enough to see all that," 
 
54 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 said Miss Holt. " I like almost everything I've seen 
 of them." 
 
 " And I hope you always will," I said. 
 
 " Except their clothes," she added. " The rich 
 are so elaborate and the others are so stuffy. For 
 the nation that sets the fashion it's extraordinary 
 how dull and dreary the clothes as a whole are. Eng- 
 lish middle-class women are like birds of paradise 
 compared with the French." 
 
 " They're rather fond of mourning over here," I 
 remarked. 
 
 " Yes — but it's not that. It's their downright 
 commonplaceness in dress that I mean. Dingy, 
 dingy!" 
 
 I told Alistair of the picture I had seen in his sister's 
 room. " Are you sticking to that broad simplicity ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 Yes, he said. He would as soon paint like Corot 
 as anyone. The straightforward representation, with 
 a broad brush. Light and air were the crux. And 
 there must be beauty and repose. Pictures should 
 soothe. He had no patience with the latest experi- 
 mentalists and the effort to get restlessness into 
 paint. 
 
 As he talked I saw a beam of something very like 
 adoration in his companion's eyes. So there might 
 be something there, after all. . . . I asked him if 
 Moret was a favourite spot for artists. 
 
 He had seen a few, he said. But the great name 
 there, of course, was Sisley. Surely I knew of him ? 
 
 Very little, I said, but his work had always left 
 me happier. 
 
 He lived at Moret, it seems : there was a tablet on 
 his house. He died in 1899 : Alfred Sisley, the most 
 radiant of the Impressionists, the colleague of Claude 
 Monet and Pissarro. Wonderful men, said Alis- 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 55 
 
 tair, growing eloquent, devoted to Nature and Art, 
 who painted with what might be called double vision. 
 They could see the effect of every touch as they 
 painted ; whereas to the onlooker it was nothing 
 until he retreated several feet. No one got so much 
 of the freshness of the sky, the gaiety of trees and the 
 life of the stream into a picture as Sisley did. But 
 such painting was not to be learned : it was peculiar 
 to the artist and the secret perished with him, being 
 so largely personality. To his own — Alistair's — mind 
 the method of Corot was the sounder and the more 
 enduring. He would show me Sisley's house. 
 
 I asked them to dine with me that evening. " Where 
 would you like ? " I went on. " Here, or shall we get 
 a car and go to Fontainebleau ? " 
 
 " Fontainebleau would be very jolly," said the 
 girl ; but I saw Alistair frown. 
 
 " I think it would be better here," he said. " If 
 you don't mind, I'm rather off cars and that kind 
 of luxury." 
 
 I asked Miss Holt to get the waiter and order every- 
 thing she liked best, because that would be our choice 
 too ; and then they went back to their meadow to 
 continue their work, while I walked towards the 
 meeting-place of the Seine and the Loing, where I 
 set up the acutest suspicion in the minds of all the 
 noisy loyal little watch-dogs on the barges, and talked 
 here and there with the wives of the bargees as they 
 sat knitting or sewing in the sun outside their abodes, 
 near the rudder. 
 
 Barge life has always had an attraction for me : 
 the leisureliness of it and the peace ; and I wondered 
 if Alistair knew about Daubigny's boat and if it 
 would interest him to follow that great painter's 
 example. 
 
 I wondered other things about him too, and even 
 
56 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 more about that very candid crystal-honest girl with 
 him ; and I wished, for her sake, that he was less moody 
 and introspective. 
 
 It had been arranged that I should call for Alistair 
 and Rose at their lodgings, which were in the street 
 where the church is, a few yards from the office which 
 the nuns who make the sucre d'orge of Moret have 
 had to open, in response to the demand for that con- 
 secrated sweetmeat. 
 
 When I arrived, Alistair had spread out a number 
 of his sketches and I was again struck by the skill 
 with which he painted light or suggested light. 
 But to what extent these canvases would be popular 
 I could not guess. Taste has latterly departed so 
 far from sheer beauty, and Alistair had none of the 
 modern tricks. He cubed nothing. That the pen- 
 dulum would one day swing back I felt sure, but 
 could Alistair's proud spirit hold out ? 
 
 " It's a heart-breaking prospect," he said, " earn- 
 ing one's living as an artist. Do you know, I've been 
 counting the professional artists in the directory at 
 the end of ' The Year's Art,' and how many do you 
 think there are ? And they aren't all, by any means. 
 How many ? " 
 
 I had no notion, but to please him I guessed. " Two 
 thousand ? " I suggested. 
 
 " Two thousand ! Do you know," he said impres- 
 sively, " there are between eight thousand and nine 
 thousand. And now here am I, preparing to join 
 in the struggle too. All the same," he went on, 
 " I mean to go on." 
 
 Some of Miss Holt's sketches were spread out too, 
 but Alistair was restless and we started off for dinner 
 before I was able to examine them properly. They 
 struck me as being rather loose, but they had breadth 
 and freshness. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 57 
 
 " I'll never be much good," she said. " But how 
 I love it ! " 
 
 We had a quiet dinner under the trees, with more 
 picture talk, and, after pausing outside Sisley's house, 
 I said good-bye to them at their door. 
 • " What do you usually do in the evenings ? " I 
 asked as I was leaving. 
 
 They worked at their French. Rose, like all girls 
 of her class, had far more than he ; and she helped 
 him. They were reading a novel together. 
 
 More danger, I thought, until Rose explained that 
 it was " Les Trois Mousquetaires." 
 
 And so I left them and walked down their steep 
 hill, past the sacred barley-sugar shop, and through 
 the river gate, and stood for a while listening to the 
 rushing water and thinking about la vie in general 
 and the special manifestation of it up there, on the 
 hill, between the church and the castle. 
 
 That Alistair was seriously compromising his young 
 ardent friend, I am sure never occurred to him, and 
 she, did she think of it, would have laughed it away. 
 But I didn't like it. 
 
 And so I sought my pillow at the Cheval Noir, 
 and the next morning, early, I left for home. 
 
 But even amid the distractions of London I did 
 not forget the young couple. In fact, as I walked 
 about the streets and saw all the expensive foolishness 
 going on, the cars and cabs whirling gilded lads and 
 lasses to costly hotel thes dansants, to dinners, heated 
 playhouses and night clubs, my thoughts wandered 
 to the little walled town in France, where a resolute 
 youthful artist in old tweeds, and shoes with welts that 
 were the bewilderment of the peasantry, sallied forth 
 every morning with his paint-box and easel, bent 
 upon catching before evening as much of the beauty 
 of the world as might be, and imprisoning it on canvas. 
 
58 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 I was conscious of the fresh air all about him, and the 
 trees rustling and the river murmuring, and the com- 
 fortable barges floating by with little green villas 
 at the stern. 
 
 And I pictured him sharing his lunch in the shade 
 by the stream with a bobbed-haired girl as keen as 
 himself. 
 
 It is more than likely that at this point I sighed. 
 I had never quite got over my jealousy of these young 
 people, flourishing in these unconventional times and 
 following a calling where there is more living-and- 
 ietting-live than in any other except the stage ; but 
 the stage does not bear dragging into the comparison, 
 because the artist is of the day and the actor of the 
 night. 
 
 When, thirty and more years ago, I was their age, 
 there was no bobbed hair, and if a girl left home and 
 joined an art student in his French lodging she was 
 lost. 
 
 That Rose loved Alistair I was now quite convinced. 
 But what his feelings were towards her I could not 
 say. Confound these fellows (I thought) with some 
 talent or other, who can get devoted adherents by 
 sheer aloofness. The more they disregard their adorers 
 the more they are adored. No wonder he left Lloyds'. 
 Sheer instinct. The Roses of the world don't care 
 twopence for underwriters, but let them get only a 
 glimpse of a paint-brush or a pen and they're on fire 
 to serve. 
 
 Abra was there before he called her name, 
 And when he called another, Abra came. 
 
 Where did I learn those lines ? I hadn't a notion. 
 
 But they occurred to me at that moment and fitted 
 
 into the thought like the last piece in a jig-saw puzzle. 
 
 In spite of any resentment I might entertain towards 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 59 
 
 Alistair, when next I saw Giles I told him that I was 
 considering that young man as a possible candidate 
 for preferment. 
 
 " I shouldn't touch artists myself," he said. " I 
 don't care for 'em. Nasty fellers with long hair and 
 velveteen jackets who don't dress for dinner." 
 
 " But you like pictures when you like them," I 
 objected. 
 
 " Very few," he said. " Huntin' and racin' prints, 
 yes. But the things I see in the Bond Street Galleries 
 — they're horrible. It seems to me that the whole 
 business of modern paintin' is not to see straight. 
 What kind of things does young Muir turn out ? " 
 
 I said that Alistair was a landscape man. 
 
 " Poplars, I suppose," said Giles. " I hate the 
 tree." 
 
 I was going to explain that Alistair was under 
 the influence of the Barbizon School, but I realized 
 that that would be futile. So far as Giles was con- 
 cerned, Corot, Rousseau, Millet, Daubigny, and Diaz 
 had come into the world, lived, suffered, toiled and 
 triumphed all in vain. By not one stroke of their 
 brushes was he the happier, the better, the more 
 sensitive to the visible world ! It was a depressing 
 thought. 
 
 For the moment, as he stood there complacently 
 surveying his handsome head and long, lean figure 
 in the glass, I felt that I hated him. 
 
 But only for the moment. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 IN WHICH WE FIND CAPRICE IN A GARAGE 
 
 IT was without any spasm of surprise that one 
 morning, on opening a letter in a strange hand, I 
 found an appeal for financial help from a girl, the 
 daughter of Genevra's cousin, Henry Stuart-Crane. 
 She was convinced, she said, that Genevra would 
 have expressed the wish that her money might go 
 to the benefit of her relations. Being, at the moment, 
 in rather acute need of a temporary loan of twenty- 
 five pounds, she was applying to me. Would I call 
 and have tea ? 
 
 No letter could have been expressed with less 
 ambiguity ; and that I liked. Candour is so rare. 
 
 She lived, she went on to say, over a garage in 
 Mayfair Mews. The letter was signed Nollie Leth- 
 bridge. 
 
 I had a faint recollection of this Nollie as a reclusive 
 graceful child of uncompromising sincerity, with 
 very long legs in black stockings; and I thought I 
 would go. Also I wanted to see what these new 
 fashionable garage-homes were like. 
 
 Threading my way between car-cleaners and over 
 puddles of oil and water, where the rattle of machinery 
 took the place of the old hissing of grooms and stamp- 
 ing of horses, and the odour of petrol had for ever 
 superseded the warm friendly aroma of the stables, 
 I found No. 14a and ascended a narrow staircase, 
 at the top of which was a door painted in bright green, 
 
 60 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 61 
 
 with a bronze knocker fashioned in the form of a 
 languorous woman with nothing on. 
 
 After I had put this voluptuous instrument of 
 communication into action, the door mysteriously 
 opened an inch or two by means of what I afterwards 
 discovered to be a released spring. I hesitated for 
 a moment or so, in expectation of a human appearance, 
 and then, hearing a voice bidding me shut the door 
 again and come into the sitting-room, I entered. 
 
 There, on a Cubist sofa with Vorticist pillows, reclined 
 a slender black-eyed creature in a charming Bakst 
 neglige. 
 
 " You must forgive me for not getting up," she 
 said, " but I've sprained my ankle. I haven't got 
 a maid and my old woman's never here in the after^ 
 noons." 
 
 After looking in vain for a chair and not finding 
 one, I subsided upon a black satin divan with a pattern 
 of vermilion triangles on it and cushions to match, 
 fringed with highly-coloured fruit. 
 
 " I'm rather done for with this foot," said my 
 hostess, in her soft yet decisive voice, " but I took 
 a chance it was you and opened the door. Lucky 
 it wasn't a thief. You see, as I live here all alone 
 and am no earthly use at anything, the place is full 
 of labour-saving devices. If you're ready for tea 
 I'll switch the kettle on." 
 
 " You must excuse me if I seem inquisitive," I 
 said, "but I don't know why you should be alone. 
 I hope Lethbridge isn't dead." 
 
 She laughed, frankly and joyously. 
 
 " Pobble dead!" she exclaimed. "Rather not. 
 Pobble will live for ever. No, he's in Africa some- 
 where. You see we got fed up with each other and 
 decided to be independent again. But the bore is 
 he hasn't sent me my allowance for quite a long time 
 
62 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 and I wondered if you would lend me something to 
 go on with. Only a loan, really. I always pay back. 
 But don't if you don't want to," she hastily added. 
 " I shall muddle through all right ; I always have 
 done. But you'll get it back all right. Pobble's 
 rolling in money and it only means that the bank 
 hasn't been properly instructed. I've sent him a 
 cable." 
 
 I must not give the impression that Cousin Nollie 
 suggested impropriety. Her environment may have 
 been exotic, but her personality was sweet and whole- 
 some. Her unconventionality — and even that would 
 soon be conventionality in this imitative city — was 
 merely a veneer. What was wrong with her, as 
 she said, was inability to do anything. She possessed 
 neither arts nor crafts. Even if she were of a more 
 vigorous body and more ambitious soul she would 
 have been hard put to it to earn a living. Brought 
 up in comfort, if not luxury, she had learnt nothing 
 but the way to be indolent and happy. She did not 
 even dance ; the theatre was a bore ; dining out 
 was a bore. Among her hectic cushions she was 
 content, with cigarettes handy and a batch of the latest 
 novels, English and French. Nothing troubled her 
 but want of pence. 
 
 She was so frank that she made me frank too, and 
 I asked many questions. 
 
 She told me that she was twenty-two. She had 
 married Archie Lethbridge four years ago. He was 
 the kindest thing on earth, but she was bored by him. 
 Why shouldn't she be ? And if she was bored, why 
 shouldn't she admit it ? 
 
 I said that marriage meant compromise. Had she 
 tried to accommodate herself to him ? I asked, 
 to make allowances ? to make, in short, the best 
 of it? 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 63 
 
 She said that to separate was to make the best of 
 it. 
 
 I asked about loving, honouring and obeying, and 
 she said that that was rubbish. Who could carry 
 out such promises as that ? We never ought to be 
 asked to make them. 
 
 In answer to another question she said that she 
 thought Pobble was as fond of her as he could be. 
 But he had no masterfulness, no magnetism. He was 
 just nice and amenable. 
 
 I asked her if there was anyone else that she loved. 
 
 She said no. 
 
 I asked her if she wanted to love anyone else or 
 be loved. 
 
 She said it was rather fun to be loved and watch 
 men losing their heads. But it was a bore too. She 
 herself had no real desire for a lover, and probably 
 never would find the ideal man because she was not 
 the kind of girl that the kind of man she most wanted 
 would want. 
 
 I was immensely struck by that. Surely such pitiless 
 self-examination is very unusual? Her knowledge 
 of herself was minute, and she had no delusions. 
 
 " I don't attract the best kind of man," she said. 
 " As a rule I attract wrong 'uns. They think I'm 
 their sort because I dress smartly and walk slowly. 
 I'm always being followed, sometimes to the very 
 door. I can't blame them, and I don't know that 
 I despise them, because life's such a muddle. And 
 it's natural too : males want females all through 
 nature. And I know I'm more striking looking than I 
 ought to be. I hear the chauffeurs whistling after 
 I've passed. But nothing of that kind interests 
 me." 
 
 I asked her if her husband wrote. 
 
 " Oh, yes : the sweetest letters. I wish he wouldn't." 
 
64 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " And wouldn't he like to meet with a woman 
 who really loved him ? " 
 
 She doubted it. He was the kind who liked loving 
 better than being loved. He was incapable of any 
 grande passion. He was just a nice, jolly, good-at- 
 games, good-form young man. 
 
 " I feel for him," I said. " I suppose it's true 
 that what so many of you women want is a rotter. 
 We do our best to be chivalrous and solicitous, and 
 it's all waste of time. A nice man's no good ; a rich 
 man — just as a rich man— is no good ; an honest 
 man is no good : what you want is a rotter, and the 
 more he bleeds you and bruises you the more you 
 like him." 
 
 " I don't think that applies to me," she said. " But 
 I used to think I should like to be taken off my feet. 
 Probably it would be a bore, though." 
 
 " Well," I said, " you beat me. But I'm always 
 being beaten. I was brought up to believe that men 
 wanted women and women wanted men, and every- 
 thing used to be done to get them together and fix 
 them up for life. But that seems to be all over Every- 
 thing is changing. Why, if you had lived alone like 
 this when I was your age, over a stable, with your 
 husband big-game hunting in Africa, you would have 
 been cut dead. Your reputation would have been 
 the worst possible and no one would receive you. 
 But now I suppose you know hundreds of the best 
 people, or could if you wished, and no one cares a 
 hang where you live, or how. What does your mother 
 say?" 
 
 " She thinks I'm a crank," said Nollie, " and wishes 
 I wasn't. But she's jealous of my independence 
 too. You see, she's fed up with father." 
 
 " And what does your father think about you ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's a dear. He comes and has tea whenever 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 65 
 
 he's in town. But just now he's in Ceylon. Other- 
 wise I shouldn't have worried you about the money. 
 May I have it ? " 
 
 I gave it to her, of course. But not out of Genevra's 
 purse. It was my own affair and she paid it back 
 almost at once, the bank having received its new 
 instructions. 
 
 I told Giles about my visit to Nollie. 
 
 " What a silly feller you are," he said, " playin' 
 with fire like that. You're askin' for trouble." 
 
 " Oh, well," I said, '* I couldn't sleep at night if I 
 disregarded appeals — at any rate those that seem 
 genuine. It's self-protection on my part." 
 
 " I shouldn't sleep if I did," Giles replied. 
 
 "Well, we differ," I said. "The Haves, I feel, 
 must do something for the Have-nots- You don't 
 agree." 
 
 " Most assuredly not," he replied. " The Have-nots 
 have jolly well got to learn that not havin' is a crime. 
 People who do their duty, have. If I'm not exactly 
 a poor man myself, why is it ? " He fixed me with 
 his confident, self-satisfied eye. " Why is it ? Tell 
 me. 
 
 " A good deal," I said, " because the Old Man 
 left us each a decent sum of money." 
 
 " Not at all," said Giles, " not at all. The money 
 the Old Man left me is nothin' compared with what 
 I've got ; and why ? Because I've worked, sir ; 
 because I've done my duty, sir. Because I haven't 
 been a waster. Not that I haven't done things for 
 other people. Oh, no. They live on me. But I'm 
 not a fool, sir." 
 
 "All right," I said. "But about this girl— I 
 
 rather thought you met her some years ago when we 
 
 had that house at Lymington : she and her father 
 
 were there, with you : a very striking girl of about 
 
 5 
 
66 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 fourteen. You were rather kind to her, I recollect." 
 
 " I can't remember all the people I have been kind 
 to," said Giles pompously. " Well, what about her ? 
 Where does she live ? " 
 
 I told him. 
 
 " I've heard of those converted garages," he said ; 
 " but they sound disgustin' to me. The idea of bein' 
 surrounded by chauffeurs is revoltin'. Horrible fellers 
 who never know the way and are too obstinate to ask. 
 And how can you sleep, with the cars comin' in at all 
 hours in the night ? Where's her husband ? " he asked. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 " I don't know what's comin' to the world," he 
 said. " One hears of nothin' but husbands and 
 wives leavin' each other. Nothin' would induce me 
 to marry, but if I did, by George, sir, I'd marry some 
 one I was goin' to stick to. Marriage used to mean 
 cleavin' to each other. Cleavin', sir. Now it's just 
 a trick to make sure that there shall be at any rate 
 two persons in the world who will never meet again." 
 
 He turned to go. 
 
 " What garage is she in ? " he asked. 
 
 " Mayf air Mews," I said. 
 
 " Revoltin' places," he replied. " What number ? " 
 
 " 14a," I said. 
 
 " I'll pass through there one fine afternoon," he 
 said, " and have a look at that knocker." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN WHICH A PARENT AND A GUARDIAN 
 ARE UNSHAKEABLE 
 
 ROSE HOLT had told me that her mother 
 was living at Rye, and a few weeks after my 
 return to England I called on her. 
 
 I felt that I wanted to know more about Rose 
 and what were her mother's plans for her. I was not 
 proposing to play the eavesdropper and give the girl 
 away ; but she should not squander herself on my 
 nephew without a protest from me, especially if 
 he was to become one of Genevra's protigds. 
 
 Mrs. Holt's home was one of the old houses in this 
 curiously foreign ancient town, with a sloping garden 
 and the Channel quivering and shimmering a mile 
 or so away. Mrs. Holt was in the garden, as I could 
 see from the pleasant sitting-room window. I thought 
 her a very comely and attractive figure as she stood 
 by a rose bush, secateur in hand. I watched the 
 pretty little maid trip out to tell her of my presence 
 and turned to the room itself. Most of it was hung 
 with Piranesi engravings in very fine condition. Over 
 the mantelpiece were two or three Rembrandt etchings, 
 also perfect impressions. 
 
 It was a hot still day, and I tried to reconstruct 
 the times, not so far distant, when the sea made 
 Rye one of the Cinque Ports in verity. 
 
 Mrs. Holt came in, holding her gardening-gloves 
 in her left hand and offering me the other. I saw 
 
 67 
 
68 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 that she was a sweet, serene woman, probably in 
 the middle forties. She had a very musical voice. 
 
 " I am a busybody," I said. " That is my only 
 introduction." 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied. " Your introduction came 
 some time ago, in a letter from Rose. But even if 
 you are a busybody, you are not, I am sure, a very 
 offensive example. The bad ones always are so 
 eloquent in disclaiming any right to the title. 
 
 " Any friend of Rose's is a friend of ours," she 
 went on. " I am not alone here, perhaps you know. 
 My guardian — and Rose's guardian too, as it happens 
 — Dr. Greville, shares the house. I'll call him." 
 
 " Before I explain ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I should like him to hear too." 
 
 She rang the bell and bade the pretty little maid 
 tell Dr. Greville that Mr. Beckett was here. 
 
 " You know where I met your daughter, of course ? " 
 I said. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "The letter told me. At 
 Moret." 
 
 I sighed with relief. I had had a horrid fear that 
 Rose had not told. I was expecting Mrs. Holt to 
 say Paris. 
 
 " You met her," Mrs. Holt continued, " with her 
 friend, Mr. Muir, another artist, didn't you ? They're 
 working together." 
 
 Of course ? How contemptible of me ever to have 
 indulged the faintest suspicion that Rose would 
 conceal anything ! Concealment was not in her 
 nature. 
 
 " Yes," I said. " I knew they were, but I didn't 
 know for how long. Mr. Muir is my nephew." 
 
 " How very interesting ! " Mrs. Holt exclaimed. 
 " Dombeen," she cried, as a brisk white-haired pro- 
 fessional-looking man entered the room, " Mr. Beckett 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 69 
 
 is Mr. Muir's uncle. Isn't that interesting ? You 
 know who I mean — Alistair Muir, Rose's artist 
 friend." 
 
 Dr. Greville greeted me warmly. " Rose thinks 
 the world of him," he said, " judging by her letters. 
 They seem to be having a great time together." 
 
 I must say that they were making it very difficult 
 for me, these two. If they, to whom she belonged, 
 saw nothing unwise in such close association with 
 Alistair, why should I ? 
 
 " You don't think there is any danger ? " I inquired, 
 at last. 
 
 " Danger of what ? " Mrs. Holt asked. 
 
 " Well, you don't fear scandal ? " 
 
 " No one can prevent scandal," she said. " Scan- 
 dal is so largely the affair of other people that it 
 can hardly be guarded against. But Rose would 
 do nothing wrong. She might be too impulsive, 
 she might from the world's point of view be unwise, 
 but she wouldn't do anything wrong." 
 
 " No, I don't think she would. Nothing at any 
 rate that she thought was wrong," I said. " But 
 every one is not as sensible and understanding as 
 you. The knowledge of this very unconventional 
 companionship might one day be injurious to her. You 
 see, they were in the same house. They were under 
 the same roof, night and day. You sanction that ? " 
 
 " We are not exactly in a position to stop it," 
 said her mother. " I personally should prefer her 
 to be here. I want her and miss her. But Rose 
 is her own mistress : she is of age and has her own 
 money. We do the next best thing to having her with 
 us — we trust her." 
 
 "Very well," I said. "That is all I wanted." 
 
 I felt rather foolish. " In a kind of way," I said, 
 " I am being a sneak. But I am interested in my 
 
70 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 nephew and I am interested in Rose, and I don't 
 want her to be made unhappy by him. That is 
 really the purpose of this visit — to ascertain her 
 position. My wife would have been distressed if 
 any of her flesh and blood took advantage of an 
 impressionable girl's loyalties." 
 
 If they had any other idea for Rose's happiness, 
 the sooner they withdrew her from France the better. 
 She might marry Alistair against his will : win him 
 through his sense of honour — but that is one of the 
 least desirable stepping-stones to bliss and in this 
 case should not be allowed. Such, vaguely, had 
 been the thoughts behind my visit to Rye. 
 
 " You don't mind if she marries him ? " I asked. 
 
 "We haven't seen him," said Mrs. Holt. "But 
 Rose will do as she wishes. I can only repeat that 
 we trust her." 
 
 " No one can be trusted not to make an indis- 
 creet marriage," I said. 
 
 " Of course not," Mrs. Holt replied, flushing a 
 little, I thought. " Marriages are made in Heaven. 
 But she has hinted nothing in the nature of any 
 emotional attachment to Mr. Muir. The alliance 
 seems to be for work only." 
 
 " What would her friends say if they knew the 
 conditions under which she was living at Moret ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Her friends," Dr. Greville replied, " would still 
 be her friends ; being her friends they know her 
 and would understand." 
 
 " Then her enemies ? " I suggested. 
 
 " What one's enemies say, can't matter. Being 
 enemies they would never be fair, and what they 
 said would never be evidence. Let us talk very 
 plainly, Mr. Beckett. Rose, according to you, is 
 compromising herself, whether she is purely and 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 71 
 
 simply your nephew's fellow-painter, his mistress 
 or his betrothed — that is so, isn't it ? " 
 
 I admitted it. 
 
 "Well, our point is, that if she is his fellow- 
 painter and comrade pure and simple, as I believe,, 
 there is no harm done. Not when we remember 
 that both are artists and both are in France. Artists 
 can do these things and live. Thank God for it ! 
 say I. Artists are not like you and me. I, as a 
 general practitioner in an English country district, 
 would have been made to starve if I had so behaved. 
 You — I don't know what your business is, Mr. Beckett, 
 but you have all the appearance of respectability — 
 you also would have been in danger. But if either 
 of us had the genius to lure sunshine on to canvas 
 — to put oil, so to speak, on nature's tail and capture 
 her — as these young people have, we could have 
 done what we liked, just as they are doing. We 
 shouldn't have cared twopence what the big world 
 said, because the only world that concerned us would 
 be a little congenial, kindly, careless world, peopled 
 by other artists with similar gifts and ambitions. 
 Therefore, be easy in your mind about Rose, at any 
 rate, even if you are worried about your nephew. 
 If Rose is merely his fellow-painter and comrade, 
 she may be indiscreet, but nothing more. Hypotheses 
 two and three can go absolutely, because Rose would 
 neither live with a man nor become engaged to a man, 
 without first informing her mother or me of her inten- 
 tion." 
 
 I stared. 
 
 " It is true," said the doctor. " I know. Only 
 one thing," he continued, " could keep Rose from 
 telling one of us." 
 
 " Yes ? " I said. " And that is ? " 
 
 " If she were in love with your nephew and he 
 
72 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 asked her to let it be a secret, she might not be frank 
 about it. A woman would nearly always put her 
 lover first. Is he that kind of man, do you think ? " 
 
 "I know him very little," I replied. "But I 
 should guess not. He seemed to me to have thoughts 
 only for his work." 
 
 " But there are the evenings," said Dr. Greville, 
 who seemed suddenly to have become the devil's 
 advocate. " What is there to do, then ? Evenings 
 must be very long to artists." 
 
 " They are so keen," I said, " I think they hurry 
 to sleep so as to be up the earlier." 
 
 " Well, if they are to marry," said the doctor, 
 " it's a better preparation than most young people 
 have, who usually see each other only under unnatural 
 conditions." 
 
 " I hope you will be more easy in your mind now," 
 said Mrs. Holt. 
 
 " I intend to be no less fatalistic than you and 
 Dr. Greville," I said. 
 
 " And you will dine with us ? " she asked. " We 
 dine at eight. You are staying in Rye, of course." 
 
 I said I was at the George, and I would dine with 
 them with pleasure. 
 
 And I did so, with pleasure. 
 
 They were a very understanding couple, and a 
 deep affection seemed to subsist between them. 
 The doctor must have been thirty years older than 
 his ward, of whose position I longed to know more 
 but obtained no inkling. She was placid, but her 
 face denoted experience ; a suggestion of wistful- 
 ness, as though past happiness still dominated her 
 thoughts, was always present, even in laughter. 
 I assumed her to be a widow. 
 
 It was very pretty to watch her solicitude for her 
 old friend. Whether she welcomed a third person 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 73 
 
 I cannot say, but he, I am certain, would have been 
 as pleased had they been alone. 
 
 I learned that Rose had been in the doctor's charge 
 since she was seven, but how that can have hap- 
 pened — why the mother was not there too — was 
 not explained. Their educational system was the 
 same : to take all the precautions during the depen- 
 dent years and then to trust to Fate. It sounds 
 very simple, but there must be the right material. 
 
 In Rose, however, they had absolute faith. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 IN WHICH AN EPIGRAMMATIST GETS BUSY 
 
 ON the evening of my return from Rye, a tele- 
 phone message was awaiting me, asking me 
 to go round and see Mr. Giles, who was not 
 well. 
 
 Herbert opened the door. 
 
 " He's not seriously ill ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Oh no, sir. Just a touch of the old enemy, 
 that's all. Gout, sir." 
 
 " Does it improve his temper ? " I asked. 
 
 Herbert cast his eyes towards Heaven. 
 
 A bell suddenly started to ring and continued 
 pitilessly. 
 
 " That's him," said Herbert. " I'll just see what 
 he wants." 
 
 Through the door I could hear Giles's voice. 
 
 " What are you doin', sir ? " he thundered. " Do 
 you know, sir " (he always called Herbert " sir " 
 when he was displeased with him. In fact, when 
 on his high horse, he called every one sir. Waiters 
 in particular.) " I've been ringin' for ten minutes. 
 Where's the evenin' paper ? " 
 
 " I put it beside you the last time I came in," 
 Herbert replied meekly. 
 
 " You did nothin' of the kind, sir," Giles roared. 
 " Go and get me another, and be quick about it." 
 
 " Isn't that the paper between you and the chair, 
 sir ? " I heard Herbert inquire. 
 
 74 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 75 
 
 " By Jove, so it is," I heard Giles reply, with less 
 acerbity. " But goodness knows how it got there. 
 Why didn't you give it to me properly ? Very well, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Please, sir," said Herbert, " Mr. Cavanagh is 
 here." 
 
 " Mr. Cavanagh ! Then why the devil didn't 
 you say so ? " 
 
 " I thought " Herbert began. 
 
 " Thought ! You've got no right to think. How 
 dare you think, sir ? I don't pay you to think. I 
 pay you to do what I want, though Heaven knows 
 you don't do it. Ask Mr. Beckett in at once." 
 
 Giles was seated before the fire, with one foot 
 swaddled in flannel, on the opposite chair. Beside 
 him was " Ruff's Guide " and he had the evening paper 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Look at this," he said. " If that isn't the limit ? 
 Frankenstein — 1. Now I've been followin' that 
 pestilential animal all the season every time it was 
 out until to-day. And it's done nothin'. Crawled 
 in. This mornin' I vowed I'd drop it. And look 
 at it, it comes in first at 100 to 8. If that isn't rotten 
 luck I never heard of any." 
 
 " You told me you were giving up betting," I 
 said. 
 
 "So I did— for a while," Giles replied. "But 
 one must do somethin*. You wouldn't have me 
 idle, would you ? Any way I can afford it." 
 
 I said I was sorry he was seedy. " What does 
 your doctor say ? " I asked. 
 
 "Doctors," he growled. "What's the use of 
 doctors ? Revoltin' fellers. When you're my age 
 you're your own doctor. What's the good of payin' 
 a man three guineas to be told to give up somethin' 
 you like. My idea of a doctor is a man you can 
 
76 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 go to and say ' Look here, I want some medicine 
 that will enable me to go on bein' just as self- 
 indulgent as I am now, but will cure me.' That's 
 what we all want and that's what medicine and 
 doctors ought to be for. Givin' up things ! I can do 
 that myself, if I want to." 
 
 " Well," I said, " I can't stay now, because I'm 
 dining out. But is there anything I can do ? You 
 don't seem to have any books. Let me send you 
 some." 
 
 " No, thanks," said Giles. " I'm not a readin' 
 man ; and I've got 'Ruff' here." 
 
 " You'd better have a novel or two," I said. " I'll 
 send some round. I couldn't live without some- 
 thing to read at night." 
 
 " At night," said Giles pompously, " I sleep. 
 
 " All the same," he continued, producing a slender 
 paper-covered volume, "I've got a book here I don't 
 suppose even you have seen, with all your subscriptions 
 to the libraries. A feller at the club wrote it and 
 gave me one. I never thought he had it in him. 
 It's called ' Man's Oldest Foe,' and what do you 
 think it's about ? " 
 
 " Drink," I suggested. 
 
 " Don't be foolish," said Giles. " It's serious, 
 not a joke." 
 
 *' Well ? " I asked. 
 
 " Woman," he said, with a ghastly laugh. " Lis- 
 ten to this : 
 
 *' ' Man is an inexperienced motorist in the Alps, and women 
 are his hairpin turns.' 
 
 That's not bad, is it ? I can't think how the 
 feller thought of it. He's a dull dog when you meet 
 him." 
 
 " Most writers of aphorisms are either thieves," 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 77 
 
 I said, " or paraphrasers — which is the same thing." 
 " Here's another," said Giles : 
 
 *' ' What a man means by getting his freedom, is merely 
 liberty to entangle himself with another woman.' 
 
 That's damned true. Here's another : 
 
 " * One of the complications of life comes from the fact that 
 whereas all girls are women, boys remain boys.' 
 
 Isn't that so ? " 
 
 " You're not much of a boy," I remarked. 
 
 " I'm an exception," said Giles proudly. " This 
 kind of book always deals with generalities. But it's 
 not entirely about women," he went on. " Here 
 are some mixed ones : 
 
 " ' Having decided what our own virtues are, we are severe 
 on all people who have not the same.' 
 
 " * Life would be intolerable if we couldn't discuss our friends 
 behind their backs.' 
 
 " * A peer, no matter how he may be despised by his family, 
 derided at his club and disregarded in the House of Lords, 
 can always find company in which to recover his complacency.' 
 
 " This is one I like," said Giles with a chuckle : 
 
 " 'Some men earn their living and some are racing -tipsters 
 on the press.' 
 
 " And what about these ? — 
 
 " ' We are all, even the most scrupulously just, not quite fair 
 to some one.' 
 
 " ' There are two or three individuals with whom even the 
 worst-tempered man is never cross.' 
 
 ' ' * Loss of self-respect is a great simplification of life — except 
 when one wakes in the small hours.' 
 
 •"The vice or foible that we least like in others (except 
 perhaps our wives) is a want of generosity.' 
 
78 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 "'Women should never be funny. Witty, maybe, but 
 there is no necessity for it.' 
 
 ** * Champagne evaporates, but claret stands by.' 
 
 That's true," said Giles. " But one must give cham- 
 pagne her due. She starts one's guests talking." 
 
 He read on, with the laboriousness of a man unused 
 to books : 
 
 " ' It requires a very large-minded wife to understand a 
 husband's admiration of his sisters.' 
 
 " ' The perfect woman is she in whose presence you can think 
 aloud and who will never quote any of those thoughts against 
 you.' 
 
 "'After you have been married five years, there should 
 always be some one to dinner.'" 
 
 Giles laughed at that. " I'll bet that's right," 
 he said : " I've been the some one so often." 
 I got up to go. 
 " No, not yet, listen to this," he said : 
 
 " 'The unsuspected are not suspected, but once they are 
 suspected they are never unsuspected again.' 
 
 I expect there's something in that," Giles said medi- 
 tatively. " But how did he know ? He's a deceivin' 
 feller, I'm afraid. Leads the double life. That's 
 double life stuff, if you like." 
 
 " I really must go," I urged. 
 
 " I insist on your hearing one more," said Giles. 
 " It's above my head, but I have the feeling it's 
 good : 
 
 " ' Self-complacency is the supreme failure. Call no man 
 dead till he is happy.'" 
 
 — " Extraordinary," I heard him muttering as I 
 walked away, " how he could have thought of those 
 things ! Damned secretive feller ! " 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 IN WHICH I PLAY THE MACHIAVELLI 
 
 I WAS intending to stay in England for the rest 
 of the year, but bad news of Vaddy made a change 
 of plan imperative. 
 
 He was ill in his chambers. Nothing organically 
 wrong, but generally run down. His blood was out 01 
 order, he said. 
 
 I asked him what he thought was the cause, know- 
 ing only too well that it was drink. 
 
 Vaddy suggested everything else, even speculating 
 on the probability of its resulting from all those 
 years of overwork when he was a young man. 
 
 I said he must come to my house and be properly 
 looked after there. 
 
 No, no, he liked his own place the best. 
 
 Then a Nursing Home ? 
 
 No, no. 
 
 I saw his doctor and learned that alcoholism was 
 the trouble. Too much whisky and too much tobacco 
 combined. No exercise. Too little sleep. If he 
 could be removed from his club habits he would 
 have a chance. 
 
 And thus it came about that I went abroad, Vaddy 
 having reluctantly promised to go with me. To 
 Spain. It was the only country he wanted to see. 
 
 I should have chosen Italy myself, but it was 
 Vaddy's affair, and the doctor approved, on the 
 ground that Spanish wines were very wholesome. 
 
 79 
 
80 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Also rather nasty," he added, " and that is a good 
 thing, for he may come to prefer water. Spain has 
 wonderful natural waters. Be sure to ask for 
 * Bonnes.* " 
 
 The idea of more foreign travel had not entered 
 into my head ; but since it had to be, I was not sorry, 
 for I should have a chance of seeing Alistair and 
 Rose in Paris on the way. , 
 
 I called on them after lunch on the morning after 
 our arrival, the train for Irun not leaving till the 
 evening. 
 
 Alistair was living in a set of three rooms on the 
 second floor of an old house in the Rue Jacob — a 
 house that now comprised a dozen menages and three 
 or four business offices too, but which a hundred 
 and fifty years ago was a French aristocrat's town 
 mansion. 
 
 Rose was his neighbour, sharing rooms with some 
 girl students near by. I found her in his studio arranging 
 flowers. 
 
 Alistair's bonne left every day after lunch. He 
 dined in a restaurant and then went either to the 
 Cafe Harcourt or the Cafe du Pantheon for coffee 
 and picture talk. His slender means, still rigorously 
 unreinforced by his father, just permitted this, with 
 a margin for materials. 
 
 The studio was in the usual muddled state that 
 one expects from artists — at any rate from those 
 who are not R.A.s and fashionable. I love these 
 litters ; the old sofas, the old hats, fellow artists' 
 votive sketches hanging all crooked on the walls or 
 propped up on the piano and mantelpiece ; the can- 
 vases with their backs to you, which you so long 
 to investigate ; the empty frames ; the picture half 
 done on the easel ; the picture three quarters done 
 in the fireplace ; the old piece of porcelain that holds 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 81 
 
 the flowers ; the artist's working coat of many colours, 
 some of which you find on your own superior gar- 
 ments when you get home. 
 
 And then there is the readiness of the artist to 
 stop work and light another cigarette and fetch the 
 bottle and the glasses— or, more often, to say, " Excuse 
 me while I go and get something to drink ; I believe 
 I'm out of it " — which gives you a chance to turn 
 those canvases round ! 
 
 This alacrity in breaking off their toil (which really 
 is, of course, only play — for who can call setting 
 delicious hues one against the other, re-creating 
 blue skies and purple seas, work ?) is such a relief 
 after one's ordinarily busy friends, who say, " Just 
 a minute while I finish this letter," or " Do you mind 
 waiting while I telephone ? " or " There's The Times : 
 I shan't be more than twenty minutes. I'm sorry 
 smoking isn't permitted here ! " 
 
 I don't say that Alistair was quite the perfect 
 artist host, because he was worried and obviously 
 tired and over-serious. But the litter was there and 
 the place was full of his recent efforts, some of which 
 struck me as being very beautiful. 
 
 I asked him if he had sold much. 
 
 " No," he said. " There's no call for anything so 
 simple as I am. They want freak stuff just now. 
 Anything with violent discords and no drawing in it, 
 they're mad about. It beats me. But I'll do some 
 of the painters the justice to say that they are honest. 
 They are experimenting with definite ideas, feeling 
 their way. But why their experiments should be 
 shown and bought, I can't see. They ought to wait 
 till they're ready before they exhibit. At least 
 that's how I feel. I never offer anything to a dealer 
 unless I have really worked at it and am satisfied 
 with it. 
 6 
 
82 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Of course I don't mean " satisfied ' : that would 
 be impossible," he added. " But unless I feel that 
 it is done. But the fashion over here is for every 
 sketch that can be found in a studio to be hung or 
 put on the market." 
 
 " Muir will never get on," said a fellow artist, 
 who dropped in at this moment and drew me aside. 
 " He's out of date. And so young too, for it ! Fancy 
 being only twenty-three and deliberately painting 
 like a back-number. The Barbizon men don't count 
 for anything now. They had no imagination. What's 
 the good of painting things as you see them ? You 
 might as well get a photograph. The new way is to 
 paint their souls ; and everything has a soul, even a 
 brick wall. That's what Cezanne knew, and Van 
 Gogh. They wore themselves out getting behind the 
 scenes." 
 
 " Well," I said, " I'm not in a position to argue. 
 I don't know. But after walking through a vast 
 number of rooms at the Grand Palais this morning 
 and looking in art dealers' windows in the Rue Boetie 
 and elsewhere, I should have said that the new way 
 of painting is not to care a hang for either drawing 
 or beauty. If that is extracting the soul, well and 
 good. But I am still for Corot." 
 
 Rose looked rather subdued, and I was glad when 
 she suggested that she and I should walk down to the 
 river to see Notre Dame from the garden of the little 
 church of St. Julien Le Pauvre where she had been 
 painting all the morning. 
 
 I said good-bye to AUstair and we descended the 
 hill together. 
 
 " Well ? " I asked, when we were established under 
 St. Julien's ancient wall, with the cathedral rising 
 before us, in the little plot of land that the priest 
 tills 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 83 
 
 " So you went to Rye," she said. " I heard about 
 you. And how did they look ? " 
 
 I said that Dr. Greville struck me as being rather 
 frail. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " The dear. I'm afraid he is. 
 I dread the winter for him." 
 
 " And when are you going back ? " I asked. 
 
 " I don't know," she replied, rather sadly. " It 
 depends . . ." 
 
 " On ? " 
 
 " I can't say," she said. " As. a maffact every- 
 thing seems so uncertain . . ." 
 
 " May I talk to you like a father ? " I asked. 
 
 " Like somebody else's father — yes. Please do," 
 she said. " I'm not very fond of my own." 
 
 The present tense ! So Mrs. Holt was not a widow ! 
 The thought surprised and vexed me ; but why it 
 should vex me, I can't say. Anyhow, my present 
 concern was with Rose. 
 
 " Well," I said. " Lookers-on, you know, see 
 most of the game." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " You're very fond of Alistair, aren't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am," she said. 
 
 " More than fond ? " I asked. " Forgive me, 
 but I'm being paternal. You love him ? " 
 
 She admitted it. 
 
 " But you're not engaged ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " And you don't know how he feels about you ? " 
 
 " No. Except that I'm afraid he doesn't feel 
 anything. If only he did ! How I wish it, some- 
 times ! He finds me useful, of course. He'd be 
 disappointed if I didn't come in and be free to go 
 out with him. I've become a sort of habit with 
 him. But that isn't love, is it ? " 
 
84 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Love has declined upon that kind of thing," I 
 said, " rather easily. It oughtn't to begin in that way.'* 
 
 "That's what I was thinking," she said. "But 
 the fact that he doesn't seem to love me doesn't 
 make it any more difficult for me to love him. I 
 suppose it ought to. I suppose it's dreadful for me 
 to love any one who doesn't love back. It ought to 
 be humiliating to be just a companion, like a dog that's 
 whistled to, but as a maffact I don't mind. I don't 
 mind in the least." 
 
 " You could not, however, go on for ever like 
 this," I said. " And suppose some other girl attracted 
 him, what then ? " 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't bear it," she said. " I'm horribly 
 jealous. I used to think I had no jealousy in me ; 
 but now I suffer tortures from it." 
 
 " We never know anything about jealousy until 
 we love," I said. " It's a measure of our devotion." 
 
 We sat silent for a while. My eyes were on the 
 angels of Notre Dame ascending to the fl&che, but I 
 did not see them. I saw this girl slaving for a cold 
 preoccupied husband : giving so much and receiving 
 so little. She should have fallen to a more generous 
 captor. 
 
 One thing was clear : he must be tested. 
 
 I took her hand. 
 
 " Look at me," I said. " You're not a coward, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " I hope not," she replied. " But probably I am." 
 
 " You could face facts, if they had to be ? Even 
 horrid ones ? " I asked. 
 
 " I think I should try," she replied. " If they had 
 to be." 
 
 " Well," I said, " if I were giving you my advice 
 — which is useless, of course, because advice is never 
 taken." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 85 
 
 " Tell me," she said, her sweet face all earnestness 
 and distress. 
 
 " Well, if I were giving you advice, it would be 
 this. I should say, go away and leave Alistair to 
 himself. Go back to your mother and that nice 
 old doctor. And then see what happened. Could 
 you ? " 
 
 " But my work ? " she exclaimed. " It's the middle 
 of a session. Couldn't I stay here and not see him ? " 
 
 " Could you ? " I asked. 
 
 " No," she confessed. 
 
 " No," I said. " The only way is to go right off. 
 But do it quickly. Can you? " 
 
 "I don't know,"^ she said. "I'll see. I'll try. 
 I will if I can. But, as a maffact, I don't see why I 
 should." 
 
 " You needn't see," I said. " That's my affair. 
 I'm giving advice, not reasons. But I said you 
 wouldn't take it." 
 
 " It's such a wrench," she said. " And I don't 
 know what they'll think of me at home. I don't 
 give up things, you know. If I go I shall go back 
 to Chelsea." 
 
 " And not weaken ? " I asked. 
 
 " I can't promise anything," she said. " I may 
 not go at all. I may go and stay. I may go and 
 weaken. How can I tell ? " 
 
 " But one thing you must say for certain," I insisted. 
 " You must say that you believe my advice is meant 
 for the best ; for your truest happiness." 
 
 " Yes, I believe that," she said. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH WAR AGAIN BREAKS OUT IN 
 THE PENINSULA 
 
 GLANCING at Vaddy from time to time as we 
 approached the frontier the next morning, 
 I was conscious that he was not happy. He 
 was thinking, I surmised, of his plight ; failure (it 
 cannot be called by a milder term) to keep his end 
 up. The world had not beaten him ; it would be 
 too much to say that, for he had a clear head and 
 a fit body when he gave them a chance ; but unless 
 he quickly did something strong-minded, beat him 
 it would. And, without sufficient incentive, why 
 should he do anything strong-minded ? Why should 
 he not amiably drift and be pitied and popular ? 
 
 My reading of his thoughts was proved to be accurate 
 by Vaddy suddenly asking me a question. 
 
 " Why should other fellows," he asked querulously, 
 " be able to take every liberty with their health 
 and never turn a hair, while I am shaky and depressed ? 
 It's a damned shame. Most unfair. But I sup- 
 pose," he went on, "it's because I worked so hard 
 when I was young. Look at old Fellingham — he hasn't 
 been really sober for years and he's as fit as a fiddle. 
 Why ? Most unfair." 
 
 " We're all different," was the only reply that 
 I could think of. I suppose I have said it several 
 thousands of times before. 
 
 When we reached Iran about nine in the morning. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 87 
 
 we found ourselves in a difficulty. The next train for 
 Madrid was full. That is to say, every seat in it was 
 already engaged, although actually it was empty. The 
 seats, we were told, were to be occupied by passengers 
 getting in at San Sebastian, half an hour distant, the 
 season there being near its end and all the butterflies 
 flying south. 
 
 I had endeavoured to book places right through, but 
 the ticket agents said that it was impossible. Why, 
 I cannot imagine, except as a manifestation of the 
 principle " Spain for the Spanish." 
 
 Vaddy was almost maniacal, but I did my best to 
 quieten him. I told him of a remark of the clerk in 
 London, that on a Spanish railway anything can 
 be done by bribery. " Even the directors," he had 
 said, " are susceptible " ; but I can assure you either 
 that Irun is an exceptional spot or the statement is a 
 calumny. 
 
 I passed from official to official, from the Jefe de 
 Stacione downwards, with my pocket-book in hand ; 
 but in vain. The answer was always the same : 
 there was no place ! 
 
 I tried both cajolery and reason. In England, I 
 said, another carriage would be attached. Was that 
 not possible here ? 
 
 No suggestion more laughably impracticable could 
 ever have been made. 
 
 Then what must we do ? 
 
 Wait for the next train. 
 
 To an Englishman, accustomed to the sympathetic 
 laxity of railway servants and the courtesy and 
 resourcefulness of guards with concave palms hol- 
 lowed by God for the reception of half-crowns, a train 
 full of vacant seats — and not only vacant but without 
 any visible indication that they have been reserved 
 — which, although he has a first-class through ticket, 
 
88 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 he may not sit in, is one of the most infuriating spec- 
 tacles in life. All the blood rushes to his head ; all 
 his reserves of indignation and scorn are loosened ; 
 every write-to-The-Times impulse in his system surges 
 to the top. No wonder that Vaddy, who was in a 
 nervous condition any way, began to be very English 
 indeed ! 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," he shouted, in boiling 
 French, to one of the attendants, " that there is 
 not a single unreserved seat in this immense train ? " 
 
 The man stated that that was the case. 
 
 " Then show me the reserved labels," said Vaddy, 
 as though he were a Commander-in-Chief. 
 
 The man offered no explanation. The train, he 
 said, was lord. If we^wanted to know more we 
 must inquire at the guichet. 
 
 " Guichet be damned ! " said Vaddy. " If I settle 
 myself here, in this seat, what then ? " he demanded 
 Rule-Britannically. 
 
 " At San Sebastian," said the man, " you will 
 be ejected in favour of the gentleman who has reserved 
 it." 
 
 "Come away," I said. " It's an infernal nuisance : 
 but it's perfectly logical. They are idiots not to try 
 to help us at all, as they would at Euston or St. 
 Pancras, but if the train's full, it's full. We can hang 
 about Irun till the next one starts." 
 
 " My dear Cavanagh," Vaddy replied, full of dignity 
 and firmness, " that's absurd. We are due in Madrid 
 this evening. We have our hotel waiting for us. We 
 are English and we have an Ambassador over here. 
 The whole thing is a swindle and it should be resisted." 
 
 He marched up to the Jefe de Stacione and pro- 
 duced his ticket and his passport. 
 
 " We are due in Madrid to-night," he said. " You 
 must find us seats." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 89 
 
 The Jefe, who was one of those terrifying foreign 
 officials — a man in an iron mask — shrugged his shoulders 
 fyad, saying that it was impossible, walked away. 
 I " Very well," said Vaddy, " we will get into a 
 second-class carriage. They are not engaged." 
 
 And he led the way to a second. It was very 
 uncomfortable, with hard wooden seats and no room 
 for the legs, but he established himself in it and I 
 meekly followed. 
 
 V But, my dear fellow," I said, " we can't spend 
 twelve hours in a chicken coop like this. We shall 
 be worn out." 
 
 " It's all right," he said. " A day soon goes. 
 We'll look out of the window at the scenery, all 
 new and strange ; read ; have lunch. These beggars 
 must be beaten." 
 
 At that moment an official came up and asked 
 to see our tickets. He looked at them and returned 
 them, saying " These are first-class tickets. It is 
 forbidden to travel second-class with first-class tickets. 
 Besides, the places are reserved." 
 
 Another blow to an Englishman, in whose land the 
 practice of travelling first with a third-class ticket 
 is almost the only industry left. 
 
 " The gentlemen will please alight." The official 
 was the soul of courtesy, but beneath the velvet glove 
 I was conscious of a glint of steel. 
 
 No, said Vaddy, we would not alight. It was 
 obvious that the whole thing was a conspiracy against 
 us. Seats that were reserved had labels to that 
 effect, and here there were none. To travel second 
 with a first-class ticket was to confer a favour on 
 the railway company. We should remain. 
 
 " My dear Vaddy," I said again, " don't be an ass. 
 They're bound to win, and then what shall we look 
 like ? " 
 
go GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " I don't think so," he said. " They daren't touch 
 us. All we've got to do is to refuse to move, and 
 they're done. They daren't touch Englishmen. Why, 
 their Queen's English. They love us." 
 
 If ever an Englishman looked difficult to love, 
 it was Vaddy at that moment. 
 
 " They love us," he repeated. " Spain is the 
 one country — with the possible exception of Italy 
 — where we are really loved." 
 
 At this moment a formidable array of men entered 
 the corridor and clustered in the doorway of the 
 compartment. First, the ticket collector, then the 
 Jefe and sub-Jefe, then a man in plain clothes with 
 a long lean face, and then two soldiers. 
 
 I held my peace, but the thought that we were 
 about to learn how love can be dissembled crossed 
 my mind. 
 
 " Whatever you do," said Vaddy to me, " don't 
 move." 
 
 As Vaddy was between me and a doorway filled with 
 officialdom, I could hardly abandon him now ; but 
 I wished we were well out of it. 
 
 " May I see your tickets," said the sub-Jefe, 
 sweetly. 
 
 " That official had just seen them," said Vaddy, 
 pointing to the collector, and adding to me, " Don't 
 show yours whatever you do. It's a trick to get 
 them away from us, and then, of course, we're done." 
 
 " May / see your tickets ? " said the sub-Jefe 
 again. 
 
 Vaddy repeated his first remark. 
 
 " Very well then, show me your tickets," said the 
 man in plain clothes, thrusting a long lean face, 
 distorted with passion, into Vaddy's. 
 
 " What's it got to do with you ? " said Vaddy, in 
 a state of fury. " Certainly not." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 91 
 
 At this, the man in plain clothes became livid and 
 flung open his coat, revealing a badge inside, as in 
 American crook plays on the film. 
 
 He shook his lapel and repeated his demand to see 
 the tickets. 
 
 " Show him," I said. " He's a policeman. What- 
 ever you do, don't defy the police. That is always 
 a mistake." 
 
 But Vaddy was beyond sense. 
 
 " We have shown them already," he repeated, in the 
 same class-room French, but molten, " to the proper 
 person. That fellow there ! We're British subjects 
 and don't you forget it ! " And again he brandished 
 his passport. " I will report this to our Ambassador 
 in Madrid." 
 
 A terrific argument between the officials then set 
 in, in Spanish. The station officials, I fancy, were for 
 diplomacy, but the policeman, who was stung by 
 resistance, for revenge. The policeman won. 
 
 " Take out their luggage," said the sub-Jefe to 
 our porter, who had been hanging about behind, 
 and the poor fellow (whose sympathies, I believe, 
 were entirely with us) stepped forward to do so ; 
 when Vaddy pushed him violently away. 
 
 This foolish gesture was the signal for action. 
 
 The man in plain clothes, now beside himself with 
 rage, gave an order to the two soldiers, and in a 
 moment Vaddy had their hands on his shoulders 
 and was being forcibly removed to the platform. 
 
 I was terrified for the result : but from this point 
 he behaved admirably. His anger suddenly gave way 
 to a calm contempt. He knew that he was beaten, 
 and he intended to fight no more. I must say I 
 admired him very much, although at the same time 
 I was vexed enough with him for dragging me into 
 this ridiculous position, for I was now one of a pro- 
 
92 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 cession, the delight of every person on the platform 
 or in the train, marching solemnly towards the police 
 station on the other side. 
 
 Along the platform we went, Vaddy and his captors 
 in the van and I in the rear, down the stairs, under the 
 line, up again, with all the passengers hastening over 
 to the near windows, and so to the room where the 
 head police official sat in state. 
 
 What would have happened to us, I cannot think, 
 had it not been for the arrival of a new man in plain 
 clothes, who asked what had occurred. A heated 
 conversation between him and the others followed, 
 in which the word prison was far too prominent, but 
 in which the new arrival obviously was acting as a 
 peacemaker. And then the fateful inspector at the 
 desk delivered a lecture in French, in which the 
 enormity of defying the police was continually men- 
 tioned. For that was our worst offence. It was 
 not for laying hands on the porter ; it was not even 
 for being in a second-class carriage with a first-class 
 ticket ; it was for refusing to obey a police order. 
 
 And so, with a warning, we were allowed to depart. 
 
 Meanwhile, the train had departed too, and there, 
 all forlorn, on the deserted platform opposite, was such 
 of our luggage as was not registered through — and 
 fortunately it was enough for a few days' comfort. 
 
 An inauspicious beginning of the Spanish adventure, 
 indeed ! To be arrested before we had been an 
 hour on the soil of the land where " the point was 
 first set upon honour," the land of that noble gentle- 
 man who rode from La Mancha to redress abuses ! 
 
 But it was both our first and last calamity, and, 
 like so many a faux pas, it led to benefits. But for it, 
 for example, we should never have seen San Sebastian ; 
 but for it, we should never have known how charming 
 a Spanish railway official can be immediately after 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 93 
 
 he has been offensive. For, now that the incident 
 was closed, the Jefe, and the sub- Jefe, and the ticket 
 collector (all, in fact, but the police officer) gathered 
 round us smilingly to know how they could be of 
 service. And it was by the advice of the Jefe, his 
 iron mask now laid aside, that, after breakfast in the 
 station restaurant, we went off to San Sebastian and 
 were idle and frivolous during three days of delicious 
 warmth — no doubt (if there is any symmetry in 
 Heaven) occupying the very rooms that had been 
 vacated by the two persons whose reserved seats for 
 Madrid we had so coveted. 
 
 Such is life ! 
 
 San Sebastian, as a matter of fact, did more to 
 restore Vaddy to health than any place we could 
 have found ; for it gave him the sea to swim in, 
 and music in the Casino to soothe him, and, for amuse- 
 ment, we watched all the gay Spanish throng, from 
 the officers with their shameless ogling of the fair 
 (who are really dark), to the magnificent no unices 
 in full sail, with their big pearl earrings, who nurse 
 their olive-skinned charges with such publicity and 
 pride in the avenue of tamarisks. 
 
 Such unimaginative treatment as we received at 
 Irun — and I heard afterwards that the spectacle of 
 foreigners stamping and ramping up and down the 
 platform there, because they cannot find seats in the 
 Madrid express, is an almost diurnal joy — is not the 
 rule in Spain. In fact we never met with it again ; 
 but none the less the Englishman does not have to 
 be in the country very long before realizing that it 
 can get on very well without him. In France we 
 are not deeply popular, but the French can, if they 
 will, put forward a very fair imitation of true hos- 
 pitality. But in Spain there is no interest in pretence : 
 the Spaniard is too lethargic and careless to go to the 
 
94 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 trouble of being insincere. There is no more ambition 
 in Spain than in Southern Ireland ; but it amuses 
 the Irish people to flatter the stranger, whereas the 
 Spaniard wouldn't be bothered even to try. 
 
 One moves about, a tolerated alien. All that 
 one has to do is to be scrupulous not to get between 
 the Spaniard and the sun. That he would not 
 forgive 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 IN WHICH TWO GENTLEMEN STUDY IBERIA 
 
 VADDY'S promise of rich and beguiling scenery 
 on the way to Madrid was not fulfilled. For a 
 long while the train winds between mountains, 
 with here and there a village or town clinging to the 
 sides, here and there a river half full of stones. And 
 then comes the desert — leagues of arid earth and grey 
 rock and few signs of life. Some goats here ; a 
 mule and its rider — often a mule and its two riders — 
 there. One is perplexed as to how the people live 
 at all. Farther south there are pastures ; but one 
 has to travel hundreds of miles to find them Even 
 Madrid is surrounded by sandy plains. 
 
 Madrid is the noisiest city I have been in. All 
 Latin people seem to be indifferent to noise, but the 
 Spaniards are less disturbed by it than any. Their 
 tram wheels scream in a way that none others can 
 accomplish. Their horses' hoofs emit a more shatter- 
 ing din. One sees in Spain no gentle sights, one hears 
 no half tones. 
 
 One result of Madrid's cacophonies was to send me 
 more and more to the Prado. And here I may say 
 that Madrid is an excellent place in which to be a 
 tripper, because it is not hot and no one lunches till 
 two. Between breakfast and two one can see so 
 much, and I was in the Prado every morning when 
 the light was at its best. I was alone, because Vaddy 
 does not care for pictures ; but he was happy enough 
 
 95 
 
96 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 among a number of open-air old books stalls that had 
 caught his eye as we came from the station and in 
 which, after he had succeeded in finding them, he 
 spent hours. 
 
 I don't think I have ever enjoyed any picture gallery 
 so much as the Prado. Its opulence is so striking. 
 Where other collections have two or three Titians, 
 the Prado has a score. And then a score of Tintor- 
 ettos and Veroneses ; Rubens and Van Dycks uncount- 
 able ; a whole vast room of Murillos ; several rooms 
 devoted to Goya ; a little room wholly Raphael's ; 
 Rembrandt's magnificent " Queen Artemisia " ; and 
 thousands of other works upstairs, downstairs and on 
 the ground floor — enough to make the reputation of a 
 hundred provincial museums. 
 
 My feeling in Madrid was that I would rather sit 
 before Velasquez' " Las Meninas " than read any page 
 ever written. And when I wanted a change I moved 
 to another seat opposite the " Surrender of Breda," 
 or to another opposite " The Tapestry Weavers," or 
 to another opposite " Los Borrachos," that glorious 
 group of wayfarers at rest. 
 
 Madrid, to me, will always mean, first and last, 
 Velasquez. Two other Spanish artists does one find 
 in the Prado at their best — Murillo and Goya — but 
 if the question were asked; " Would you keep all that 
 Murillo and Goya ever did and lose the ' Meninas ' ? " 
 my answer would be that I would keep the " Meninas." 
 This does not disparage the Sevillian's sweet Madonnas 
 or the sophistications and grotesqueries of that subtle 
 manipulator of brushes who once challenged the Duke 
 of Wellington to a duel : it merely enunciates the 
 superlative aristocracy of the art of Don Diego Velas- 
 quez. 
 
 Spain is not only very foreign, but a land of the past, 
 and therefore doubly strange. In Provence, in Italy 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 97 
 
 and in Germany you find medievalism in full flower, 
 but there is always modernity round the comer. 
 Rothenburg, for example, that flower of the middle 
 ages, is lighted wholly by electricity. But in Spain 
 the sense of the past can be complete. Madrid is, 
 of course, modern enough, but then Madrid is the 
 capital, flaunting its borrowed plumes. It has boule- 
 vards, trams, cinemas, vast hotels, all the outward 
 signs of civilization. Yet in ten minutes from Madrid 
 you can be among mules and muleteers, strings of 
 donkeys carrying merchandise, peasants sleeping in 
 the shade of ancient houses crumbling in the sun. 
 
 This antiquity is not Spain's only surprise. For 
 a country with such a reputation for privileged nobility, 
 its democratic character is remarkable. One of the 
 first things to be noticed in Spain is that, for all its 
 royal glories, it is republican. Hidalgos may lay claim 
 to streams of blue blood coursing through their families' 
 veins for centuries, but they appear to receive no 
 preferential treatment. One man is as good as another 
 and every man insists on his rights. Even the poorest 
 will tell you to take it or leave it. 
 
 Yet, though all Spaniards are, so to speak, on their 
 dignity, one is struck by their want of style. The 
 standard of dress is low ; one discerns no interest in 
 others, no imagination, and the people's manners are 
 bad. Like all Latins they stare intolerably. Sloth 
 and apathy are evident everywhere. 
 
 None the less, Spain has its lessons for England. 
 It knows what to do with vegetables ; it knows how 
 to cook ; its oil is delicious. Its use of pack animals 
 is very sensible, and it is the only country where I 
 have seen the problem of passenger traffic in the rush 
 hours properly handled. Every one knows what our 
 London tube stations are like, with people getting 
 into a train and out of it at the same time. At a 
 
98 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 little steam tram station in Spain I found the platform 
 divided into two halves by a barrier. The tram 
 remained on one side of this barrier until all its pas- 
 sengers who wished to alight had done so ; it then 
 moved on a few yards and let the new ones in. It 
 seemed odd to find so simple a solution practised in 
 this land of ancient customs, and not even considered 
 in London, where we are notoriously so civilized. 
 
 Spain is a land of rivers, rocks and bridges, and 
 the best bridge that we saw was at Toledo, that city 
 on a hill, with the Tagus at its base and the narrowest 
 streets in the whole country. Never shall I forget 
 the persistency of the youth of Toledo, whose prin- 
 cipal occupation seems to be to waylay the tourist 
 and exhibit the sights to him. We were followed by 
 some thirty or forty of these boys, each more persistent 
 than the other and each armed with better credentials. 
 To see a cathedral in the company of a professional 
 guide, even when he is a grown man with something 
 authoritative to say, is distasteful ; but to be led 
 round by a guttersnipe is absurdly impossible. It 
 would, however, appear to be a Toledo custom, or 
 these little ruffians would not exist. Most of them in 
 time gave up the struggle, but two pests continued 
 at our side until, in spite of the sanctity of the build- 
 ing, Vaddy took his stick to them and they fled. (Not 
 however, that sanctity is unduly noticeable in a Spanish 
 cathedral. There was more laxity and skylarking 
 among the acolytes during a high ceremonial in Seville 
 than I should have thought even the tolerant Catholic 
 church in that most tolerant and easy-going city would 
 permit.) 
 
 Toledo cathedral may deserve its epithet " rich " — 
 from the old saying, " Toledo the rich, Salamanca the 
 strong, Leon the lovely, Oviedo the holy, and Seville 
 the great " — but it is too confused a building to be 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 99 
 
 beautiful. Interesting, impressive and unforgettable, 
 but not beautiful, and hemmed in by surrounding 
 houses, almost as though imprisoned. What one 
 remembers best of Toledo, is Toledo itself massed on 
 its rock, and the famous bridge. I think this is the 
 most exciting and romantic bridge that I have seen; 
 and bridges are a particular delight to me. 
 
 Toledo is famous also for the house of El Greco, 
 but this Vaddy flatly refused to enter. One should 
 not, he held, encourage the distorted melodramatic 
 art of Domenico Theotocopuli. 
 
 It is one of the drawbacks of travelling with a 
 companion (that is to say, after the honeymoon, with 
 which most people's foreign wanderings begin and many 
 people's end) that there is bound to be a divergence of 
 opinion. In Madrid, for example, Vaddy could not 
 bear that odd little restaurant, the Antigua Casa de 
 Botin, where roast sucking pig (cochinillo) is a daily dish, 
 and a popular speciality is a wonderful Spanish fish 
 called Besugo al homo, a terrifying creature until you 
 taste it ; but I would rather have eaten there, in ancient 
 Spain, than anywhere. And again, in Seville he wanted 
 to be at the Opera all the time, while I preferred the 
 more primitive and indigenous entertainment at the 
 Novedades, the music hall, where the Quadro Flamenco 
 is at its most riotous. 
 
 As we moved about, we learned again that one of 
 the most important things to discard at the frontier, 
 if one is to be happy in Spain, is our national tendency 
 to impatience. Impatience and Spain have nothing 
 in common. That perhaps is why it would be so 
 -good for many English people, to travel there : it 
 would be salutary to their characters and it would 
 make them value their own privileged country the more. 
 
 Spain is also a salutary country for any one too 
 much given to fleshpots, for the food is simple and not 
 
ioo GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 too plentiful and there is nothing very strong to drink. 
 I could see Vaddy improving day by day. Nor was 
 he harmed by developing a passion for little green 
 figs. Whenever I suddenly missed him in the street 
 I knew that he had stepped into a fruiterer's for a 
 bag of them. 
 
 As you travel from Madrid to Seville, you pass 
 through outposts of the East : Moorish villages where 
 the roofs are flat, palm trees and cactuses beside the 
 line. You now see real vegetation too, Andalusia 
 being rich and fruitful, and you have the thrill of 
 crossing and re-crossing that river of dreams begotten 
 of geography books — the Guadalquiver. Somehow I 
 haa never thought to see the Guadalquiver in reality, 
 yet here it was, not so different from any other stream, 
 and it accompanied us for miles to Seville, where it 
 becomes more than a river-^a haven — with big sea- 
 going vessels on its tide. 
 
 The train passes also a most romantic isolated 
 fortress castle, high on a solitary peak, and soon after 
 this a great farm where young bulls destined for the 
 arena looked at us across the fence and shook their 
 great shaggy horned heads. 
 
 It may have been one of these identical creatures 
 that I saw pierced by the toreador's rapier in the vast 
 ring at Seville a few days later. One only, for I could 
 not endure any more. But Vaddy, who is made of 
 sterner stuff or has a more scientific attitude, watched 
 no fewer than eighteen fall — six each afternoon for 
 three days. 
 
 " I'm sorry," I said, at the end of the first fight, 
 " but I must go. This is too degrading." 
 
 " All right," he said. " I shall sit on. I find it 
 thrilling." 
 
 " But the way those wretched horses were gored to 
 death," I said. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 101 
 
 " Yes, that's not playing the game," he admitted ; 
 "but one can cover one's eyes. The tactics of the 
 men are most interesting." 
 
 I said I couldn't agree ; nor can I now, after hearing 
 quite a number of eloquent upholders of Spain's national 
 sport. 
 
 I cannot agree that any contest is good to see when 
 the animal has no chance. Cock-fighting is condemned 
 as cruel and is no longer permitted in England ; but 
 I consider cock-fighting a gentlemanly entertainment 
 compared with bull-fighting. The cocks are spoiling 
 to get at each other and they die like heroes in the 
 ecstasy of combat. But bull-fighting is one-sided : 
 the odds are all on the men ; while the treatment 
 of the horses is so despicable as to be beyond argument. 
 Indeed the only defence I have heard of it, even from 
 the most energetic friends of the ring, is that the 
 animals are so old that they would have to die almost 
 directly, anyway. But that hardly exonerates the 
 spectators, and even a very old horse might be allowed 
 to retain its bowels. 
 
 No, I saw no skill on the part of matador, capeador 
 or toreador to set against the vile horror of the tortured 
 horses. 
 
 Vaddy, however, while deploring this feature, dif- 
 fered. He thought that the agility and address of 
 the performance were remarkable enough to justify 
 the whole spectacle, and as his opinion was shared 
 each day by fourteen thousand persons it certainly 
 had weight. 
 
 An Englishman whom I met in a cafe* in the Sierpes, 
 went so far as to say that the blood-lust grows on one. 
 
 " I felt as you did when I saw my first bull-fight," 
 he said. " But afterwards I became as keen as any- 
 one to see the horses gored." 
 
 " Good God ! " I exclaimed. 
 
102 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " It's true," he said. " And I'm a humane enough 
 fellow. I daresay you would find it so too." 
 
 " I'll not take the chance," I replied. " But even 
 if I did, and succumbed to the fascination, and found 
 it defensible, I hope I should be in doubt then about 
 myself." 
 
 " Well," he said, " don't condemn Spain as a nation 
 just because of that." 
 
 " I won't," I said. " I'm condemning nobody. 
 But I can't forget that a merciful man is merciful to 
 his beast, and it causes a little disquietude to see 
 fourteen thousand people — men, women and children 
 — exulting in mercilessness and making a holiday of it." 
 
 And there we left it. 
 
 Seville is a city apart, and it is the nearest place 
 to London where you meet the Orient. Madrid is 
 cosmopolitan and modern : Seville, a night's journey 
 away, is eastern. Oranges grow in the squares, and 
 the heat of summer and early autumn is intense ; even 
 in October every house is shuttered for three or four 
 hours during the siesta. It is thus a perfect abode 
 for any one needing repose and willing to acquiesce. 
 You must not carry thither any rigid purpose, any 
 definite plan ; you must make your mind a blank and 
 let the city control you. 
 
 To go to Seville and propose to live as you live at 
 home is folly. To go there bent upon sight-seeing is 
 folly. Sights you will see, but they must occur ; you 
 must not seek them with a guide-book, partly because 
 that is not the way, and partly because there is so 
 little opportunity : the sun is against you. By the 
 time it is cool enough it will be dark. 
 
 If the Prado were in Seville nobody would ever 
 visit it. The conditions are all against picture-lovers 
 there, although, as a matter of fact, there is an old 
 monastery turned into a museum where there are a 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 103 
 
 number of beautiful Murillos, including the picture of 
 St. Thomas distributing alms, which he called his 
 masterpiece. 
 
 \ Seville is itself a gallery. You drift about the 
 streets, in the shade, looking at the sun on the wall, 
 making way for mules with their loaded panniers, peer- 
 ing into gay little patios behind their iron grills, smil- 
 ing at women, all a little too billowy, at the windows. 
 Or you sit in a cafe in the Sierpes, or street of the 
 Serpents, where no vehicles are permitted, and watch 
 the endless crowd. 
 
 Many of" the men, save for their dark skin, might 
 be mixed in a London crowd and escape notice, but 
 now and then will come a Sevillian of the Sevillians, 
 full of Flamenco defiance, whose black hat has a brim 
 like a cycle track. But perhaps the most noticeable 
 passers-by are the young girls with their mothers. 
 These couples are a constant sight — the girl so youthful 
 and pretty, the mother so shrivelled and careworn. 
 Another sign of the East, this premature ageing. 
 
 Perhaps you gather enough strength to walk as far 
 as the cathedral, knowing that once there it will be 
 dark and cool : a cathedral that is also a thoroughfare. 
 Gautier in his famous notes on Spain compared it to a 
 mammoth elephant dominating the city, but since 
 Gautier's time the dome has fallen in and it is now 
 lower, the lovely minaret, the Giralda with her musical 
 bells, being to-day the principal landmark from a dis- 
 tance. The cathedral is vast and emptier than any 
 that I can recall, for there are seats only in the choir, 
 in the centre. All else is open, so that nothing inter- 
 feres with the rich coloured light which the sunbeams 
 carry from the stained-glass windows to spread fan- 
 tastically on the pavement. 
 
 As a whole Seville cathedral is also darker than 
 any I can recall— Westminster Abbey, for example, 
 
104 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 being like day itself compared with it. One would 
 not have it lighter, were it anywhere ; but in Seville, 
 with the sun so fierce, it is indeed a sanctuary. 
 
 Late in the afternoon we used to wander into the 
 gardens of the Alcazar, that delicious Moorish palace 
 close to the cathedral, and here we would watch the 
 children at play, and listen to the birds preparing for 
 the night, in the midst of perfume and colour. Here 
 are nothing but formal walks and flowers ; no lawns. 
 Oranges by the million, and heavily scented tuberoses 
 and jasmine. Over the high wall a purple bougain- 
 vilia sprawled. 
 
 The Sevillians do not come this way at all. At 
 this hour they are busy, the principal shopping being 
 done between five and seven ; and we had the groves 
 and terraces and fish-ponds almost to ourselves. But 
 try as we might (each longing to see the other fall a 
 victim) we never came upon any of the giocchi which 
 Baedeker mentions : practical jokes such as Win- 
 stanley, the builder of one of the Eddystone light- 
 houses, devised in his Essex home to perplex his guests 
 and amuse himself. Approaching a fountain you 
 stepped inadvertently on a certain spot and released 
 a spring which propelled you into the basin. Leaning 
 on a railing you set in motion a jet of water, which 
 drenched you. Innocent-looking seats collapsed and 
 let you heavily down. Such pranks once were a 
 feature of the gardens of the Alcazar, but either they 
 have been suppressed or Vaddy was fortunate enough 
 never to alight upon the machinery. 
 
 Seville, some one had said to me, is a place where 
 you stay either a fortnight or for ever, and since I 
 had no wish to stay there for ever, I dragged Vaddy 
 away, and we came north again, with just one more 
 day for the Prado en route. And so homewards, 
 changing at Hendaye into a Paris express. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 105 
 
 We slept till eight and then sat in the breakfast 
 car looking at the fair land of France, so different in 
 its trim prosperity and flatness from the mountains 
 and desert through which we had been travelling all 
 the day before. 
 
 A party of English children who had been summering 
 at San Sebastian were on the train, and their delight 
 in exploring it from end to end was intense. 
 
 " What a jolly present for a family one of these 
 wagon-lits would make ! " I said to Vaddy. " A com- 
 partment for every child, to live in and decorate just 
 as he liked. I can think of nothing more exciting." 
 
 And Vaddy agreed. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN WHICH WE FIND A DECLARATION OF 
 
 INDEPENDENCE 
 
 I DON'T pretend that I had moved about in 
 Spain or indulged in the endless siestas that the 
 heat forced upon us without thinking a good 
 deal of home affairs, and perhaps most of all of 
 Rose. 
 
 What, I wondered, had she done. 
 
 That I had been right in counselling her to put the 
 salt leagues of the Channel between herself and her 
 self-centred idol, I was convinced. Right, that is, if 
 the dignity of a girl in love matters. But if her dignity 
 was nothing to her compared with happiness (as is 
 possible), why then I had interfered crassly. Prob- 
 ably she had never thanked me for considering it. 
 She would rather stay and be humbled than go away 
 and be deprived of her humbler's society. 
 
 I might also have been wrong about Alistair. There 
 is no doubt that many artists are made no happier 
 by marriage. The way for women to make them 
 happy is to let them know they exist and have no 
 other purpose in life than, when they are wanted, 
 to be on hand, in a good temper, looking pretty and 
 unoccupied, and full of sympathy and praise. The 
 trouble with artists' wives is that they can't always 
 be in a good temper, can't always look pretty, can't 
 always be free, often don't feel the least inclination 
 to praise or comfort, have to be supported, and — and 
 
 106 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 107 
 
 this is their crowning disability — are there when they're 
 not wanted, too. Artists hate that. 
 
 But was Alistair quite such an artist ? His willing- 
 ness to give up comforts ; his dogged determination 
 to succeed ; his fidelity to what so many of his con- 
 temporaries thought a lost cause — all this suggested 
 a depth of character not always conspicuous in mem- 
 bers of his craft. His preoccupation with beauty was 
 also deep. He could not be more widely removed 
 from those painters whose principal interest in Art 
 is the charter it gives them to engage models. 
 
 If Rose were to lose Alistair through my interven- 
 tion — my astuteness over-reaching itself — a calamity 
 might result, and Heaven knows I did not want that. 
 
 It might be that, once his present mental absorption 
 was finished with, Alistair would develop into the 
 perfect lover. Pigment's problems must some day 
 give way to those of sex. . . . 
 
 I had asked Rose to write to me in Spain saying 
 what had happened. But no letter had come. This 
 might be due to the laxity of the Spanish postal 
 arrangements ; it might be due to Rose's unwilling- 
 ness to admit that she had failed. She might have 
 found it impossible to leave Paris ; she might have 
 left and returned again. Or Alistair, suddenly awaken- 
 ing to his glorious good fortune, may have placed him- 
 self at her feet. . . . 
 
 No wonder then that my first step on reaching Paris 
 was to take a taxi to the Rue Jacob, leaving Vaddy 
 to convey our things to the hotel. The Rue Jacob 
 is not far from the Quai d'Orsay and the cabman took 
 the journey as only a Paris chauffeur can ; he hooted, 
 he swerved, he avoided our own death and other people's 
 a dozen times, he bounded and he leapt ; but none 
 the less, and as usual, although every nerve of me was 
 stretched and most of my body bruised, he deposited 
 
108 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 me safely at the journey's end. It was noon and 
 Alistair was on the point of going out. The room was 
 in disorder, with half-packed bags scattered about, 
 and I noticed no new pictures. I thought that Alistair 
 looked worn and thin. 
 
 He expressed his readiness to eat with me and we 
 descended the hill to the restaurant Laperouse, on the 
 river, where we could be both quiet and gluttonous. 
 
 It was lucky I had come to-day, he said. He was 
 leaving to-night on a sketching tour in Provence. He 
 was unsettled and wanted to get away among new 
 surroundings. He might go to Aix and see what the 
 Cezanne country was like. 
 
 I asked after Miss Holt. 
 
 She had gone back to England, he said. 
 
 I conjectured that he must miss her. 
 
 He said he did and changed the subject. 
 
 How did the case stand ? I wondered. Certainly 
 he was a very good-looking fellow : I was not sur- 
 prised that Rose should want him. Was my scheme 
 a good one ? A little isolation could do neither of 
 them any harm. There was no doubt that he looked 
 unhappy. 
 
 What would he think if he knew the part I was 
 playing as a match-maker ? Or was I a match- 
 marrer ? . . . 
 
 We parted after lunch, and as I walked to the hotel, 
 over the little footbridge opposite the Institut, I 
 decided to do something which had long been in my 
 mind. I would definitely award a little of Genevra's 
 money to Alistair. In his present lonely state it might 
 be of critical help to him. Genevra had been devoted 
 to pictures, although her taste might very likely have 
 provoked Alistair, and even Rose, to derision, or at 
 any rate disapproval. I felt that the encouragement 
 of an honest young painter, even though he was not 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 109 
 
 quite of the Landseer school, would not be against 
 her conscience. Also, she had been very fond of 
 Alistair's mother, whatever her feelings may have been 
 towards Hugo. She had stood in the relation of a 
 good aunt to the children all their life. 
 
 If she had not been too accessible to them — if the 
 post-office had been their principal medium of com- 
 munication — that was certainly less her fault than 
 mine, for I had probably been the kind of husband 
 who, having secured preferential treatment, never lets 
 it go ; and, to be fair to myself, I must add that Genevra 
 was the kind of childless wife who is happier in devot- 
 ing herself to her husband than in any other way. 
 And (as a rule) to what a husband ! 
 
 The result was that we had gradually come to wonder 
 if youthful visitors might not give more trouble than 
 pleasure. People are not unapt to let that sort of 
 selfishness grow on them. 
 
 Here, however, was a means of making up for it. 
 I had the power now of giving Alistair something sub- 
 stantial in his aunt's name. Posthumous reparation. 
 
 In spite of Giles's cold water, I wrote to Alistair — 
 he had given me a poste restante — in these terms : 
 
 Dear Alistair, — 
 I am glad I have seen you at work. I like your 
 style of painting immensely and believe in it. It 
 seems to me that you have a real future. You are 
 sincere in your desire to master your art, you are 
 frugal in habits and are prepared to be even uncom- 
 fortable if need be. 
 
 But I do not wish that for you, and I am in a position 
 to help you to avoid it. Your aunt Genevra left a 
 sum of money which she wished me to apply to the 
 advancement of those of her nephews and nieces who 
 seemed to me, on personal investigation, to deserve 
 
no GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 it. I have come to the conclusion that you are emin- 
 ently qualified to be one of the recipients, and I am 
 therefore asking you to accept for the next five years 
 an annual sum of two hundred and eight pounds. If 
 you will let me have a reply to this I will make the 
 necessary arrangements with the bank. 
 I am, 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Cavanagh Beckett 
 
 I had to wait for a few days for the reply and when 
 it came I was amazed. 
 
 Dear Uncle Cav, — 
 
 I have to thank you for a very kind letter, and to 
 express my gratitude to Aunt Genevra. But I can- 
 not accept. I should not dare to. I believe so strongly 
 that money must be earned, and that money that is 
 not earned is a danger. I have set my heart on living 
 by my painting ; and to take Aunt Genevra's money 
 would not only spoil that dream now, but deprive me 
 of any satisfaction if, and when, I make a position. 
 Forgive me, but that's that. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Alistair Muir. 
 
 I forget if I answered the letter. I hope I did. I 
 know I admired it, marvelling at such independence 
 and envying the young gladiator too. 
 
 I told Giles of Alistair's refusal. 
 
 " He's a silly ass," said Giles. " No one should 
 refuse money. Money is power. And what is your 
 next step in this wild-goose chase ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I said. " There's a poet in the 
 family that I ought to see. Alistair asked me to look 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY in 
 
 Kim up. You would be equally against the encourage- 
 ment of him, I suppose ? " 
 
 " More so," he said, " unless he did something respec- 
 table after his poetizin' was done. What do you think 
 I did this afternoon ? " he asked. 
 
 " Backed a winner," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but what else ? " 
 
 " Had a Turkish bath," I suggested. 
 
 " No," he said. " certainly not. They don't suit 
 me. No, I called on a lady." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it," I said. " A little more 
 feminine society would be good for you." 
 
 " Maybe," said Giles. " But feminine society is 
 a dangerous matter. Sometimes you can't keep it to 
 a little. Don't you want to know who it was ? A 
 friend of yours." 
 
 "Not Judy Hill?" 
 
 " No, I haven't seen her for years." 
 
 " Well, tell me." 
 
 " That little Mrs. Lethbridge," said Giles. 
 
 I laughed. " Was my account of her so attrac- 
 tive ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I thought I'd like to see one of these new garage 
 apartments," he replied. " So many people have them 
 now. Besides, she was a nice child. I remembered 
 all about her at Lymington after you told me." 
 
 " Well ? " I asked. 
 
 " Now what I want to know is," said Giles, in his 
 most exacting tones, " what is the matter with the 
 world ? What kind of a man is this husband of hers, 
 that he can go off shootin' wild beasts in Africa 
 when he's got a wife like that waitin' for him ? " 
 
 " But she's not waiting for him," I said. " The 
 whole point of it is that she is bored by him." 
 
 " Well, then," said Giles, " put it the other way. 
 What kind of a man is he to let her be bored by him ? 
 
112 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 What's the matter with young men that they should 
 be bores ? I'm not a bore ; why should they be ? 
 I very much doubt if you're a bore : at any rate not a 
 deadly one. I don't believe girls talked about their 
 husbands bein' bores when I was a two-year-old. They 
 married 'em and stuck to 'em. What does it all 
 mean ? 
 
 ' ' And husbands too," he continued. ' ' They married 
 the girls and stuck to 'em and didn't go off to shoot 
 hartebeests and hoppopotamuses. I can't make it 
 out. Now, there's that girl — she's as pretty as paint. 
 If I were the kind of feller that does these things I 
 could make a fool of myself over her. Luckily per- 
 haps, I'm not. But I could. What kind of a life 
 does she lead, do you suppose ? " 
 
 " From what she told me," I said, " she just vege- 
 tates. She doesn't want men. You ought to be able 
 to understand it, because you don't want women, or 
 say you don't." 
 
 " No, but then I've come through all that. There 
 was a time. . . . Not that I couldn't marry to-day if 
 I wanted to. Just by holdin' up my finger, too. 
 You see, she's so young. Not that I look upon myself 
 as old. Fifty-five is the prime of life : one's just 
 beginnin'. But my theory is that every woman 
 wants a man, really. If they say they don't, it's 
 pretence. Or they've been readin' so many novels 
 about themselves and their emotions that they're 
 muddled. Herbert packed three or four novels in my 
 bag when I went to Monte Carlo last January and I 
 tell you I was shocked by 'em. Shocked. Nothin' 
 but analysin' sex. They made me blush. No fun, 
 no jokes, no excitement ; just the natural history of 
 adultery. Good Lord, what are we comin' to ? 
 
 " That feller at the club whose book I was showin' 
 you — nasty cynical stuff — he tells me it's the War that's 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 113 
 
 done it. The War, he says, made people, and especially 
 young people, self-conscious. They used to do more 
 or less What was expected of them ; but the War made 
 'em ask ' Why should we do what is expected of us ? 
 Why shouldn't we do what we like?' And now 
 they're all doin' what they like. It's appallin'." 
 
 He was silent for a while. 
 
 " If you take my advice," he went on, " you'll 
 either sell your house or many again. You can't 
 have it both ways ; you can't go on livin' in a big 
 house and bein' alone. All men in big houses marry 
 again. Besides, why not ? You're quite young, you're 
 only just over fifty." 
 
 " You seem to forget," I said, " that Genevra died 
 less than eight months ago, and I happen to have been 
 rather fond of her." 
 
 "I don't forget it," Giles said. "But it's got 
 nothin' to do with the case. It's the men who were 
 fond of their wives who do re-marry. Those who 
 hated their wives don't dare to try again ; they've 
 had some." 
 
 " My dear Giles," I said, "for a bachelor, and an 
 anti-social one at that, you know too much." 
 
 He smiled his self-satisfied smile. 
 
 " But what you don't sufficiently appreciate," I 
 went on, " are the exceptions." 
 
 " Exceptions," he said. " Pooh ! Exceptions don't 
 count." 
 
 " Nevertheless," I replied emphatically, " they 
 exist " ; and I hurried away, piqued by the turn that 
 the conversation had taken, and immediately, for no 
 reason that I could understand and much against my 
 will, began to think about Mrs. Holt. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN DEFIES THE LAWS 
 
 THE poet whom I was so foolish as to mention 
 to Giles was the son of Genevra's sister Norah, 
 who had married a doctor in the Midlands. 
 The doctor was now dead, and mother, son and a 
 daughter lived in a Suffolk village only a few miles 
 from Newmarket. 
 
 When I heard from Norah saying that I should he 
 more than welcome, she mentioned that her son would 
 be on the platform to meet me ; but when I alighted 
 from the train I looked about in vain for any welcom- 
 ing face. Beyond the station-master and one porter 
 there were only two living creatures to be seen : a 
 ram, with its wool very heavily yellow-ochred, teth- 
 ered to a post, and a young man sitting on a truck 
 with a pencil and paper in hand. He was in a tweed 
 knickerbocker suit with a green flannel shirt and collar 
 and a salmon-pink tie ; and on his long uncombed hair 
 was a very large soft hat. 
 
 I passed him once or twice as I tarried there in 
 the hope that some friendly greeting might materialize ; 
 but he never looked at me. He often looked up, 
 although at nothing but space, and his lips moved. 
 Obviously he was composing, and not too easily. It 
 was then that I remembered the poetical stigma : 
 this young visionary in travail on the truck was 
 Genevra's nephew ! 
 
 After waiting a little longer, I had the satisfaction 
 
 114 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 115 
 
 of seeing him pocket his pencil and return to earth 
 again, and I then asked him if he were Selwyn Grace. 
 
 He said he was, a rather attractive smile crossing 
 his impatient disdainful face. He added that he had 
 come to meet me. 
 
 " Well, here I am," I said. 
 
 " There's a pony-cart Outside," he told me, and 
 led the way, leaving me to carry my own bag. 
 
 That is the worst of these followers of the arts : 
 they are so unpractical. During the twenty-four hours 
 I was in his mother's house I never saw this boy do 
 one single thing for anybody ; and Alistair, at Moret, 
 had always to be asked for the mustard. The Muses 
 must have had very uncomfortable homes. 
 
 In the pony-cart, however, was a pretty child of 
 thirteen or fourteen, whom I knew to be Veronica. 
 About her there was no poetical abstraction whatever. 
 
 She greeted me warmly. 
 
 " I couldn't think what had happened," she then 
 said to her brother, a little sharply. " And I didn't 
 dare to leave Toby. Why have you been so long ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it was my fault," said Selwyn. " I 
 didn't notice the train come in." 
 
 *' Didn't notice it ! " she said. " Oh, poor Uncle 
 Cavanagh ! What a shame ! You see," she explained 
 to me, " he calls himself a poet, and poets think it's 
 clever not to hear trains come in. Toby heard it and 
 jumped all over the road, but then Toby's not a poet, 
 he's only a perfect pet who tries to do his duty." 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said Selwyn to me. " I was 
 trying to finish something." 
 
 " I thought you were," I said, " so I didn't interrupt 
 you." 
 
 At this, Veronica, who was driving, looked at me 
 with wide blue eyes that said, as plainly as speech, 
 " Are you an idiot too ? Funny humouring him like 
 
n6 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 that ! " and I could see that I had sunk in her estima- 
 tion. 
 
 " And did you finish it ? " I asked. 
 
 " I think so," he said. " The first draft. But I 
 shall have to go over it again. That's the worst of 
 vers libre, you never quite know when you've finished." 
 
 " So you write vers libre ? " I asked. 
 
 " Of course," he said. " That's the only way to 
 keep any control of the sense ; the only way to be 
 responsible for your words." 
 
 I said I was afraid I didn't quite understand. 
 
 " Why," he explained, " if you write in rhyme, you 
 are in the power of the machinery. The words are not 
 the best words, but the words that rhyme. Again, if 
 you write in blank verse, you are in the power of the 
 machinery again. Each line must have ten syllables 
 and a definite stress and the words must therefore be 
 chosen to be arranged accordingly. Not the best 
 words, but the convenient words. The result is that 
 you are made to say things that were not in your 
 mind at all." 
 
 " That may be true," I said, " but some pretty 
 good things have been said both in rhyme and blank 
 verse, notwithstanding." 
 
 " Oh, I grant that," he replied. " But you can't 
 produce a single example of either in which I couldn't 
 show you where the words could be improved — of 
 course at the sacrifice of rhyme and scansion." 
 
 I groaned. " Then I've got to give up Keats and 
 Milton too ! " I said. " To say nothing of the ' Bab 
 Ballads.' The young artists want me to scrap 
 Leonardo and Raphael and Ingres and substitute what 
 they call rhythm for accuracy and recognizable form, 
 and now you would topple down my poetical gods. 
 Don't you get any pleasure from Tennyson at all.? " 
 
 He laughed a scornful laugh, which caused Toby to 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 117 
 
 break into a gallop and called down another rebuke 
 from Veronica. 
 
 " Shakespeare, then ? " I asked. 
 
 " From his drama, yes. But not from his technique. 
 He'd have been much finer if he had written in prqse." 
 
 " Well," I said, " it's all very strange and upsetting. 
 You give me too much to think about." And again 
 Veronica looked at me with wonderment that silently 
 said, " How on earth can you, a grown man, old 
 enough to be his grandfather, give him the faintest 
 encouragement ? If you lived in the house with him, 
 as I do, you jolly well Wouldn't." 
 
 After lunch my sister-in-law took me into the garden 
 and we sat there in the shade. 
 
 " What do you think of Selwyn ? " she asked me. 
 
 " He seems a nice boy who would be better if he 
 were jostled a little by the world," I said. " I found 
 his views on poetry very rebellious and advanced. 
 The old days when we used to rhyme ' love ' and 
 ' dove ' are a long way behind." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " I don't know what to do with him," she said. 
 " He's Very self-willed. He won't think seriously of 
 the future at all. He doesn't seem to have made 
 friends at school, either. I wanted him to be a doctor, 
 like his father, but he won't hear of it. Couldn't you 
 advise him ? " 
 
 " Not on such short acquaintance," I said. " I 
 should probably put my foot in it at once. For one 
 thing, I should have to say something about being a 
 little more careful of his appearance. He wasn't very 
 soignd at lunch, was he ? " 
 
 "No, isn't it dreadful?" she said. "But that 
 goes with his poetry. Poets should be superior to 
 dress, he says. And of course they often have been." 
 
 " And often haven't, too," I replied. " Browning 
 
n8 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 wasn't a bad poet, but I'm told he was quite a dandy. 
 Personally I prefer clean hands to grubby ones." 
 
 " And I too," she said. " But what is one to do ? 
 He doesn't seem to think of such things, poor boy. 
 And he seems to have nothing but contempt for my 
 opinions. If his father had lived it might be different. 
 Boys often respect their fathers, or at any rate obey 
 them. But he doesn't pay any attention to me, except 
 to question all I say, and to laugh at my views. Can't 
 you advise me?" 
 
 I must confess to an intense dislike of this attitude 
 of derision towards their mothers which I have seen 
 in two or three modern sons, but how to deal with it is 
 a problem. That it is possible at all argues a fault in 
 bringing up for which the mothers are perhaps to 
 blame ; but it was too late to suggest that. Besides, 
 I think that Norah suspected it. 
 
 I said that, in default of a medical training, the 
 only remedy I could suggest was for Selwyn to be put 
 to work in a distant spot and given the smallest possible 
 allowance. He would then have to obey orders, to 
 toil, to rough it a little, and, by meeting other youths 
 and men, to find his level. The result, unless he were 
 to quit, could not but be good discipline and might 
 make him value his home the more. 
 
 " What kind of employment ? " she asked faintly. 
 
 I said I would make some inquiries, but I had, as a 
 matter of fact, very little hope, because boys without 
 ambition have no chance in the competition that is 
 now raging, and boys Who despised business were no 
 use in it. All the same, I promised to ask Giles if 
 there was a vacancy in his office. 
 
 " Do, please, do," she said ; but I had the impression 
 very strongly that no matter how Selwyn behaved 
 she would be wretched if he left home. 
 
 I was glad when Veronica ran up and asked me*to 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 119 
 
 go for a walk with her. She was one of those slender, 
 straight little girls, like a sapling; without shyness 
 but also without boldness. She talked freely and put 
 her hand in mine quite naturally when we started off. 
 
 I like this kind of child. There is something very 
 disheartening in the children — and they are too com- 
 mon — who can merely stammer yes and no, and who 
 are always either in full retreat or are obviously 
 meditating upon how to escape. Their opposites, 
 the little effronterers, are worse, I admit, but I have 
 met but few of them and then have escaped myself. 
 
 Veronica was natural and a welcome relief from her 
 arrogant brother and my poor weak sister-in-law. 
 Besides, I had not been in the company of a child for 
 months. 
 
 " Which way shall we go ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, along the road," she said 
 
 " But if we could find a field-path it would be more 
 pleasant, wouldn't it ? " I suggested. " It's very 
 dusty to-day." 
 
 " Of course, if you would rather," she said. " But 
 the road's more fun." 
 
 Naturally, I gave way. As Giles's epigrammatist 
 friend wrote, " Every girl is also a woman," or some- 
 thing like that. 
 
 Veronica and I began with the ordinary ice picks, 
 such as books and pastimes ; but with the sound of the 
 first motor horn on the road she asserted herself as an 
 independent conversationalist and a modern far beyond 
 me in knowledge of what was moving in the world. 
 The car passed us in a cloud of dust that put my own 
 dim eyes out of action. Not so Veronica's orbs of 
 blue. 
 
 " An Austin," she said. 
 
 I was still half-blinded when another car rushed by. 
 
 " Armstrong-Siddeley," she said. 
 
120 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Good heavens ! " I exclaimed. " How can you 
 tell ? " 
 
 " Easily," she said. " They're so different. I know 
 most of them." 
 
 This struck me as marvellous, for to my confused 
 vision all cars are practically the same. 
 
 It was a high-road and a very busy one. The pro- 
 cession of machines was constant ; fat men all the 
 while, sitting more or less on their shoulders, with saucy 
 ladies beside them ; stately chauffeurs driving limou- 
 sines ; and now and then a bareheaded youth on a 
 clattering, shattering machine which Veronica called 
 a mo'-bike, with a devoted dust-eating girl perched 
 perilously behind him, clinging to his waist. 
 
 I remembered a time when, as a boy, I noted in a 
 little book the name of every railway engine that I 
 saw ; but how tame a pastime was that and how devoid 
 of true knowledge ! 
 
 She could even drive a car, it seems, this child, the 
 doctor who succeeded to her father's practice having 
 made a companion of her and allowing her, in a by- 
 road, to take the wheel. 
 
 " Directly I'm old enough I'm going to have a two- 
 seater," she said. " I cleaned Dr. Froster's car all 
 the time his chauffeur had influenza." 
 
 No matter in what family I find myself I always 
 reflect on the extraordinary difference between the 
 status of childhood to-day and in my own nursery 
 period. But that, I take it, is perennial wonderment : 
 it always has existed and always will. 
 
 " What about Selwyn's poetry ? " I asked Veronica 
 on our way back. " Do you like it ? " 
 
 "He never shows me any," she said. " But I 
 don't think I should like it, because it doesn't rhyme. 
 I like things that rhyme." 
 
 " How do you feel about him ? " I asked. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 121 
 
 " I think," she said, " that he'd be much nicer if 
 he went away. He doesn't do anything but loaf and 
 write. He can't even drive a car." Her scorn was 
 evident. 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't either," I confessed with shame. 
 
 " Oh, well, that's different," she said. '* Selwyn's 
 young enough to learn." 
 
 I contrived to get some talk with Selwyn after 
 dinner, when we were left alone. For that meal he 
 had made some concessions and wore a dinner jacket 
 and a soft collar ; but his hair was as rumpled as ever. 
 
 " What are you proposing to do with yourself ? " I 
 asked him. 
 
 " I want to go to America," he said. " They're 
 keener on poetry there than people over here are." 
 
 " Your mother doesn't need you ? " I asked. 
 
 " She's got Veronica," he said. 
 
 " Daughters and sons are different," I reminded 
 him. 
 
 " I know," he said. " But one must live one's own 
 life. We're only here once." 
 
 So that was it ! They all say that now, and really 
 it is not too easy to confute. I am no preacher any- 
 way ; but if I were, I should be only too conscious 
 that the gospel of duty to others rather than ourselves 
 has become the least simple to spread, even if one 
 thinks that every one but oneself should practise it. 
 
 " You would want money if you went to America," 
 I said. 
 
 " I should have to earn enough to get there," he 
 agreed. " But once there I hope I could make a 
 living. They like my kind of work." 
 
 " And how would you earn your passage ? " I asked. 
 
 " Anyhow," he said. " I don't mind." 
 
 He gave me some MS. books, which I took to bed with 
 me and examined. Most of his work was incoherently 
 
122 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 ecstatic ; some was coarse and cynical ; now and then 
 there was an idea with fancy in it and even poignancy. 
 This was one that struck me as being pretty, but the 
 inspiration probably was derived. It sounded Chinese. 
 
 APPRENTICESHIP 
 
 God first made the starry heavens. 
 
 Then, having learnt the way, 
 
 He made a hawthorn in full blossom. 
 
 That seemed to me ingenious, and I found myself, 
 like Giles with the epigrammatist, wondering how he 
 could have thought of it. But most authors whom 
 we have met in person set up such problems. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE WIND BLOWS ON THE 
 HEATH 
 
 THE next day I took a ticket only as far as 
 Newmarket, not with any view of witnessing a 
 race, for the season was just over, but in order 
 to carry out yet one more errand of avuncular investi- 
 gation. 
 
 For there dwelt on the borders of that abode of 
 perfect horses and imperfect men one of Genevra's 
 nieces, Winifred Musters (nee Tracy), who some few 
 years ago had at once thrilled and outraged her family 
 by falling in love with the son of a Newmarket trainer 
 and subsequently marrying him. 
 
 The thrill which ran through the Thorold clan was 
 due to the circumstance that Winnie's marriage was 
 to bring her into association with the fascinating and 
 capricious creatures that set half the country in a 
 fever of expectancy on every racing morning. For 
 no matter how reprehensible racing may be, it has its 
 glamour too, even for the uncommon good. The 
 family's shocked feelings were due to the same cause. 
 
 Winnie had taken her bold and revolutionary step 
 some eight years earlier, and her husband, after an 
 honourable absence in the War, was now established 
 at Newmarket in his late father's shoes. 
 
 I have never been a racing-man ; a ticket for the 
 Derby in the sweep at the club is the extent of my 
 annual ventures in the whirlpool of wagering ; but I 
 
 123 
 
124 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 have always been fond of horses for their own sake, and 
 I looked forward as much to seeing a few of the best 
 at close quarters as to meeting another member of the 
 family. Having taken a room at the Rutland, I 
 walked over to the Musters' place after lunch. 
 
 What a curious town it is, this capital of an industry 
 that probably never should have come into existence, 
 and the total elimination of which would certainly 
 be a national blessing ! Few English towns are so 
 healthy. The wind from the Heath touches every 
 cheek with bloom. But salubrity is not the only 
 interest of the community ; betting is in the air too, 
 and I wondered, as I walked up the clean, broad street, 
 with its shops and cinemas and (I should guess) heavily 
 overworked post-office, how the populace's accounts 
 balance at the end of each season. For where every 
 other inhabitant is a little wizened man in riding- 
 breeches there must be an embarrassment of " inform- 
 ation." 
 
 My acquaintance with trainers began and ended 
 with Tony Musters, so I am unable to say whether he 
 was typical or not ; but I guess not. The ordinary 
 trainer's son, I take it, is educated in the stable rather 
 than at Harrow, where this young man had been ; and 
 his saddle is, as a rule, more than lexicons. Possibly, 
 had Tony been a midget, he might have been brought 
 up differently ; but being a big, heavy fellow, he was 
 obviously not predestined to ride professionally, and 
 therefore his father, who, I understand, was one of the 
 finer, more independent, men in his strange calling, 
 decided to make a gentleman of him instead. He had 
 not anticipated that Tony would in time become a 
 trainer too : it was another and smaller son to whom 
 he looked to succeed him ; but the smaller son had been 
 thrown and fatally injured, and Tony had given up 
 other plans and stepped into the place with deter- 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 125 
 
 mination and was well known as one of the ablest and 
 straightest of the younger school. It is humiliating 
 to have to use the word " straightest," for it carries 
 with it an implication ; but that is no fault of mine. 
 If I had my way, there should be no race that did not 
 go to the swiftest ; no race in which every jockey 
 was not trying his best to win. But it is probably a 
 very fortunate thing for the world that its control 
 does not rest with me. 
 
 Of Tony I found myself, as an uncle, feeling rather 
 proud — with a regret that Genevra had never per- 
 mitted me to meet him before. Perhaps " never 
 permitted " is a little too strong, but any husband 
 who may chance to read these lines will know what I 
 mean when I amend it to " had never encouraged a 
 meeting." Compromise is the breath of married life ; 
 and it is almost more important for a man to learn 
 what his wife deprecates than what she applauds. 
 The temperature of the hot water into which he is 
 predestined periodically to plunge, will be lower if he 
 disregards her enthusiasms than if he fails to share 
 her antipathies. 
 
 Be that as it may — and I am not thinking any 
 disloyalty to Genevra, whose most illogical whim I 
 wish I still had the opportunity to respect and obey— 
 I had never seen either Winnie or Tony until now ; 
 and I liked them both. They began by reproaching 
 me for staying at the Rutland instead of under their 
 roof ; and they did it so heartily that I could not be 
 anything but flattered, and flattery is an excellent 
 introduction. 
 
 It was a very pleasant house too, with sunny rooms, 
 and spaniels about one's feet. If I have to stumble 
 over any living creature may it always be a spaniel, 
 because spaniels are so divine in their forgiveness. 
 Very few books did I see, but very many pictures — 
 
126 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 all of horses that had been trained by one or other 
 Musters and were qualified to sit for their portraits 
 by having done the most gratifying thing that a horse 
 can do — come in first. Beautiful slender creatures 
 with famous names. 
 
 " You'd like to see the stables ? " asked Mrs. 
 Musters. 
 
 I said I would. Indeed, I almost added it was what 
 I had come for, but checked myself in time. 
 
 " But he must see our own fillies first," said her 
 husband ; and he went to the door and emitted a loud 
 hunting cry which was answered shrilly from some- 
 where above, and then sounded a rush of pattering feet 
 on the stairs and in burst two little girls, both woolly 
 as Eskimos, with a mass of fight curls under their 
 caps. 
 
 On catching sight of me they turned to stone and 
 their eyes became grave and questioning instead of 
 merry and anticipatory. 
 
 " This is your great uncle," said their mother. 
 
 They examined me curiously, their expressions 
 indicating disappointment with so poor a stature : 
 some inches less, all over, than their father's. 
 
 " Say ' How do you do,' " their mother bade them ; 
 and they advanced solemnly and laid a tiny hand in 
 mine and put the time-worn question ; and once 
 again I felt shame at the power of a stranger to freeze 
 so much liveliness and fun. 
 
 However, we soon got on to friendlier terms, for I 
 had been careful in Newmarket's broad high street 
 to step into a sweet shop. Phoebe Muir had fore- 
 warned me. 
 
 They told me that their names were Deb and Dinky, 
 and one was six — Deb — and the other — Dinky — was 
 five. 
 
 If they had been boys they would have been jockeys ; 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 127 
 
 even as it was, I was told, they intended to spend most 
 of their lives on horseback. 
 
 They each had a Shetland pony to show me. Also 
 they each had a racehorse. I must come and see them 
 at once; and so we all started for the stables, an 
 Eskimo hauling at either of my hands. 
 
 The minuteness of the great uncle was already for- 
 given. 
 
 My nephew had some dozen horses in active pre- 
 paration and a few yearlings. The horses belonged 
 to various owners ; the yearlings were the property 
 of himself, his wife and his daughters. We passed 
 from box to box in this most admirable establishment 
 and the favourites of fortune were displayed to us. 
 With every horse was a lad — it is a privileged word, 
 for some of them were older than I — ^brushing, or 
 combing, and all making that soothing, hissing 
 immemorial sound which no clay-souled chauffeur has 
 ever learned. Odd little creatures, these lads, with 
 their bent legs and tight breeches and unmistakable 
 equine-imity. Go where they would for the rest of 
 their lives, dress as they would, not one of them, from 
 the youngest to the oldest, could ever disguise his 
 ancient calling or efface the stable mark. No brand 
 is so indelible. 
 
 Tony exhibited the special points of his charges. 
 " Look at those shoulders ! " he said. 
 
 " Look at that coat. You could see to shave in it." 
 
 " That's a son of Polymelus. He won at Doncaster 
 last year. We're preparing him for the Lincoln. 
 
 " That's a filly by Charles O'Malley. She's in the 
 Oaks. She's the prettiest thing ever. Aren't you, 
 my beauty ? " and he held her startled quiet head 
 against his cheek. 
 
 " Look at those hind legs — There's speed for you ! 
 Feel her withers." And he caressed her again. 
 
128 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Aren't you sometimes jealous ? " I asked Winnie. 
 
 " Almost," she said. 
 
 The children knew all the horses' names and the 
 names of the lads too — Jim and Ted and George and 
 Bert. Nothing but my nervous grasp kept them from 
 dashing in among the hoofs. 
 
 " This is mine," said Deb (or was it Dinky ?) when 
 we came to the yearlings. " I named it myself." 
 
 " What is its name ? " I asked. 
 
 " Velvety," she said. 
 
 " And this is mine," said Dinky (or was it Deb ?). 
 " Mine is called Peter Rabbit. It's going to win the 
 Derby. Daddy says so." 
 
 I came away from Heath Edge with the conviction 
 that there at any rate Genevra's money was not 
 needed, and that there, at any rate for the time being, 
 was marital affection and trust. 
 
 Giles was buried in an evening paper when I looked 
 in on him the next evening. 
 
 " Damn these rags ! " he said, emerging very testily. 
 " Why don't they have an index ? Or put the 
 number of the page on the poster ? I saw a poster 
 which said ' Death of Big Game Hunter,' but I can't 
 find it anywhere. All I can find is politics and 
 cocaine." 
 
 " Let me look," I said. " Here it is. Some one 
 named Mackintosh." 
 
 " Oh, Mackintosh," said Giles. " That's not inter- 
 estin'. I was hopin' it was Lethbridge." 
 
 " Giles," I said, " you're getting too much interested 
 in Nollie." 
 
 " No, I'm not," he replied sharply. " Don't be 
 ridiculous. But it is permitted, I take it, to wish 
 that she was free. This feller Lethbridge is no use to 
 any one, and might as well be dead. I'm against 
 shootin' big game, anyway ; it's time some of the 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 129 
 
 big game got a hunter or two. I should like to read 
 that he'd been eaten by a giraffe." 
 
 I reminded Giles that giraffes are strict vegetarians. 
 
 " Well, then, a lion. Or was trampled by an 
 elephant. The feller's a nuisance while he's alive. 
 Dead, he'd be very useful." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that if Nollie were a widow 
 you would think seriously about marriage ? " I asked. 
 " Knowing what you do of her views on men ? " 
 
 " I say nothing of the kind," he replied, with heat. 
 " But she's a nice girl and she ought to be free. Don't 
 you give me credit for any form of disinterestedness ? " 
 
 " No," I said. 
 
 " Well, I am at liberty to believe that if she were 
 free she would probably be different in her ideas." 
 He drew himself up. 
 
 " Do you know," he went on, impressively, " that 
 in the small hours this very mornin' a man died in the 
 flat above mine. It gave me a nasty jar, I don't mind 
 admittin'. But — with this other feller in the evenin' 
 paper — it shows that there's a good deal of death 
 knockin' about. Nollie may be all right yet." 
 
 " What sort of a trainer is Musters ? " I asked. 
 
 "• The young one ? Oh, he's not bad. I preferred 
 the old one myself. These young fellers who have 
 been to a public school don't seem like the real thing. 
 I like the old ones with weather-beaten faces and a 
 straw in their mouth and a white hat. But he finds 
 some winners, the new one." 
 
 " I hear he's as straight as a die," I said. 
 
 " You can't train in kid gloves," was Giles's reply. 
 " And there's always some one to do your crookedness 
 for you. You've got to be artful on the Turf. It 
 demands it. No, if you're lookin' for a Bayard I 
 shouldn't search racin' stables." 
 
 " Where would you look for one ? " I retorted, for 
 9 
 
130 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 I didn't like aspersions on Deb and Dinky's father. 
 " In the City ? " 
 
 " No," said Giles, " in Colney Hatch." 
 
 " I suppose you haven't got a vacancy for a young 
 man in your office ? " I went on. 
 
 " No," said Giles promptly. " What kind of a 
 young man ? " 
 
 " He's about nineteen : a son of one of Genevra's 
 sisters," I said. 
 
 " Not the poet you were mentionin' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " No, I haven't," said Giles. 
 
 " Couldn't you stretch a point ? " I asked. 
 
 "I'll see," said Giles "But I should say not. 
 Don't build on it." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 IN WHICH A RUBBISH FIRE IS ACTIVE 
 
 ONE of my first duties on settling in London 
 again was to see Vaddy. In such a condition as 
 his, he ought to be kept in touch. But he was 
 out of town, his housekeeper told me. He was staying 
 with Sir Rendle Vaux. 
 
 "lam very glad," I said. " That will be good for 
 him," and she agreed. 
 
 There are usually men whom our wives would have 
 married if they hadn't married us, and Rendle Vaux, 
 I fancy, would have been Genevra's choice. I know 
 that he was in love with her, and I know that she had 
 a very tender spot in her heart for him. As it hap- 
 pened, I became her husband and Rendle found a wife 
 elsewhere. But he and Genevra often met and we 
 were a friendly trio ; while Vaddy often joined us. 
 Lady Vaux could have completed the quintette had 
 she been so minded, but she was one of those women 
 who make of their domestic duties a constant tether. 
 There was always something to keep her at home. 
 
 At the Vaux's place in Wiltshire Vaddy should be 
 fairly safe. 
 
 I walked back through the Park. It was one of 
 those still November days when the earth seems to be 
 holding its breath. The trees were getting bare ; the 
 ground was soft ; the sky was misty, a sinking sun 
 faintly diffusing gold. 
 
 Suddenly a whiff of burning leaves mixed with the 
 
 131 
 
132 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 keen air, and in a moment I was a child again, so 
 curiously can a scent restore the past. No, not restore 
 it — no such happy fortune as that ! — but recall it. 
 
 In a corner of our old home garden there was a 
 continuous rubbish fire — and about it was our favourite 
 gathering place, our refuge from elders and visitors, 
 our senate, and our restaurant, for we ate there too, 
 chiefly potatoes cooked under the ashes. Food for the 
 gods ; — there is nothing with such flavour to-day : 
 cordons Ileus wear out their lives in vain. We talked 
 there, plotted there, hid there, sulked there, cried 
 there, railed there against fate and the conspiracy to 
 misunderstand the young, and there in penitential 
 mood promised ourselves we would be better. 
 
 The pungent aromatic odours of burning vegetation 
 have never failed to bring back the old impressions, 
 not only of the garden corner and the actual triumphs 
 and tribulations that it witnessed, but of the house 
 too, the family, the neighbourhood. One whiff is 
 the " Open Sesame " to so many of the doors of the 
 brain. 
 
 This afternoon it was almost more than I could 
 bear. . . . 
 
 I saw my father on the lawn patiently playing him- 
 self at croquet, as he did on every fine day, and some- 
 times, in big goloshes and a mackintosh, in a deluge, 
 for the balls, he said, ran truer when it was wet. I 
 saw my mother standing beside the aviary calling the 
 birds by name and feeding them one by one — little 
 foreign birds for the most part, avadavats, Java 
 sparrows, budgerigars. 
 
 A strange part of it is that this scent revives other 
 scents. The billiard-room with its Russia leather 
 atmosphere drawn from the bookshelves mingling with 
 last night's cigars ; the gun-room with its smell of oil ; 
 the cellar with its smell of mouidiness and beer ; the 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 133 
 
 drawing-room, faintly musty, with a white covering 
 to the carpet and potpourri in great coloured bowls. 
 
 I saw Giles, tall and thin and masterful, selecting 
 the best potato and sending me to the kitchen for salt 
 and pepper and, if it could be managed, butter. If it 
 could be managed (there was no such word as wangle 
 in those distant peaceable days) — for Martha, although 
 she would dole out the condiments freely enough, was 
 a miser when it came to dairy produce. 
 
 I saw Belle trotting about the house ; but Belle 
 was a less familiar figure than Giles, for she was so 
 much younger and we were at school for most of each 
 year. 
 
 Those were all of us — Giles, Belle and myself. But 
 two others, Vincent and Eunice, had died at an early 
 age, and their portraits in coloured chalks on the walls 
 used to fascinate us, for they were, according to our 
 mother, so definitely in Heaven. 
 
 I used to wonder what those others now in the 
 churchyard would have been like had they not died, 
 so perfect were their characters. They were very 
 pretty in their pictures : a fair little boy and a fair 
 little girl, and I was never quite sure whether they 
 were more beloved by our mother for having gone 
 before and become angels, than we for living on with 
 all our faults. Death was a complete canonization. 
 There was a kind of feeling that had they lived they 
 would have been perfect. " Little Vincent would 
 never have done that ! " Even the nurse had this 
 useful comparison at her tongue's end. " Little 
 Eunice would have washed her hands without being 
 told." Every Sunday after church we visited their 
 headstones and it was impossible not to think of them 
 lying below. 
 
 Rubbish fires are not good for the lonely, and this 
 one filled me with depression and discontent. 
 
134 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 What had I done with my life ? I asked myself. I 
 had idled most of it away : very happily, it is true, 
 with Genevra, but I had done nothing. Beyond 
 sitting on committees, nothing. The Old Man's 
 money had come just at the right time — or wrong time 
 — to keep me out of work. While Genevra was there 
 to stimulate me in my hobbies and share them, I had 
 the feeling that they were enough. But this afternoon, 
 with the blue smoke of retrospect floating about the 
 sky, I was only too conscious of time mis-spent and a 
 dreary, lonely future. 
 
 And Giles, what of him ? If I had been unpro- 
 ductive, he had been more so. I at any rate had 
 fulfilled part of nature's law by marrying. He had 
 not even done that. 
 
 What, I wondered, did those two, our mother and 
 father, think of us, if they were able to survey their 
 children from the loopholes of their everlasting 
 retreat. 
 
 And Belle — how long it was since I had seen her ! 
 Not since the funeral, and then only for a few minutes. 
 I would pay her a visit, I decided. Soon. And be 
 jolly with her children. It would be splendid to be 
 among children again. Perhaps she would let me 
 come for Christmas ? Christmas is a season of increas- 
 ing gloom as one grows older. One may have the best 
 will in the world to add to its brightness and put on 
 the garb of merriment, but the fact remains that, for 
 the ageing, at Christmas the ghosts congregate, and 
 every year there are more of them. I shouldn't mind 
 it so much at Belle's. 
 
 This promised to be a very bad time for me, but 
 among children I thought I could weather it credit- 
 ably ; and so, with memories of Veronica, who, for all 
 her cool maturity, was a very delightful child to watch, 
 and those little woolly pets, Deb and Dinky, strongly 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 135 
 
 in my mind, I wrote to Belle directly I got in, to ask 
 if she would allow me to come. 
 
 " I shall probably be a wet blanket," I said, " but 
 I'll do my best to be cheerful." 
 
 That evening, as I was reading after dinner, Giles 
 himself walked in. He had come from the Bourbon 
 and was mellow. 
 
 After refusing a cigar, saying that he preferred one 
 of his own, if I didn't mind, he stretched himself in a 
 deep chair and became talkative. 
 
 " I saw Nollie this afternoon," he said. " She's 
 goin' to apply for a restitution order. Quite right too. 
 That feller goin' off to Africa like that ! " 
 
 " She wants a divorce then ? " I said. 
 
 " She wants to be free at any rate," said Giles. 
 " And I don't blame her. As a matter of fact I'm 
 helpin' her." 
 
 Giles, with all his self-protectiveness and caution, 
 helping her ! Things had come to a strange pass. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IN WHICH IT IS DARKEST BEFORE THE 
 DAWN 
 
 O 
 
 N my return home, I found this letter, from 
 Rose Holt : 
 
 Dear Mr. Beckett, — 
 I am sorry to have to tell you that my mother's 
 old friend and mine, Dr. Greville, died last week. 
 Mother and I would much appreciate a call from you 
 when you are in the neighbourhood again. I am now 
 living here permanently. There is no other news. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Rose. 
 
 I went down to Rye a few days later. 
 
 Mrs. Holt, looking very distinguished and sweet in 
 black, was alone in the drawing-room. 
 
 " I have been on the point of writing to you more 
 than once," she said, " but I didn't." 
 
 " I wish you had," I said. 
 
 " I am not a good letter-writer," she explained. 
 " I would always rather say it ; and so let me say it 
 now. I wanted to thank you for helping Rose. I 
 don't know Mr. Muir and so I can say nothing as to 
 his suitability or unsuitability, but I am sure that 
 Rose was not being too wise. And you saved her." 
 
 " ' Saved ' is rather a strong word," I remarked. 
 
 " Perhaps it is — and I was forgetting that he is 
 
 136 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 137 
 
 your nephew." She laughed. " But obviously Rose 
 was more in love than he, or he would have written. 
 And he hasn't done so." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " I asked. 
 
 " Rose would have told me," she said. 
 
 I must have smiled sceptically, for she was at me 
 in a flash. 
 
 '* You doubt that ? " 
 
 " No, not doubt," I said. " I could doubt nothing 
 you told me. But I've always thought it rather 
 strange, your absolute conviction — and Dr. Greville's 
 too — that Rose had no secrets from you." 
 
 " I am sure of it," said her mother. " We're odd 
 people, Rose and I, and one of our oddities is candour. 
 Perhaps it's because we're lazy, or is it tidy ? At any 
 rate we can't be bothered with lies. I am so very 
 anxious," she went on, " that Rose shouldn't make 
 the mistake that I did. Not that we can prevent folly 
 in others," she added, " but it is rather nice to try. 
 
 My marriage turned out badly and then " She 
 
 paused. " I wonder," she said, " what you would 
 say about my- case." 
 
 " Won't you tell me ? " 
 
 " Briefly, I went away with another man when Rose 
 was quite a big child." 
 
 " Yes ? " I said. 
 
 " I had long ceased to care for my husband," she 
 went on ; " love him I know now I never did, nor 
 would he have known what to do with real love ; and 
 I am sure he never really loved me." 
 
 " But you were sufficiently in love with him," I 
 remarked, " to be able to marry him, and you didn't 
 go until Rose was six or seven ? " 
 
 " That is true. But he stood still and I — I developed. 
 Or merely changed, if you like. ?At any rate we did 
 not move in one line or even on parallel lines ; and I 
 
138 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 grew to — if not hate him, find him so impossible that 
 to remain under any circumstances would have been 
 a treachery to both our lives, and, as it happened, 
 considering everything, would have been a sin. Or so 
 I held then and hold still." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " And so — well, some one having come into my 
 life — an old friend — broken and in need of care and 
 love and particularly of me — not capriciously either — 
 real need — I joined him." She smiled wanly. 
 
 " Yes ? " I said again. 
 
 " We lived abroad and Dr. Greville brought up Rose 
 as he had earlier brought up me. Her father — oddly 
 enough — wished it." She paused. " We may, 
 between us," she continued, " have spoiled his life." 
 
 " Or made it ? " I suggested. 
 
 " He was not unhappy as a guardian," she said, 
 " I am sure of that ; sure. But you never know what 
 he might have done. After all, to be a foster-father 
 is not Nature's idea for a man." 
 
 " There are born celibates," I remarked. " In any 
 case, I am going to think of Dr. Greville as happy : 
 indeed, one of the happiest of all men. The ' saddest 
 words,' " I added, " can sometimes be ' It might not 
 have been ' too." 
 
 " You are very consoling," she said. 
 
 " And after you went away ? " I asked. 
 
 " There is little more to tell. We were deliciously 
 happy. For twelve years. Then Ronnie died ; and 
 here I am." 
 
 " And your husband ? " I asked. 
 
 " My husband — as you rightly call him, but it is not 
 a word I ever care to use except in the past tense — is 
 alive. I hear from him occasionally. Rose sees him, 
 but as seldom as possible because she doesn't like 
 him." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 139 
 
 " You don't mind not being free ? " I asked, after 
 a while. 
 
 " It doesn't affect me," she said. " I should never 
 marry again. But Eustace shrank from divorcing 
 me when he could have done so, and I can hardly 
 take any step. Fortunately there is enough money 
 for both Rose and myself, without any of his. And 
 she and I get on together almost as though we were 
 contemporaries." 
 
 " Rose has so much before her," I said. 
 
 " That is true," said her mother. " But we must 
 live day by day. As I said, we are odd people, she and 
 I, and we take short views. Meanwhile we are a united 
 couple and that surely is no little thing." She smiled 
 her adorable smile. 
 
 " The fact that Rose took your advice suggests," 
 she resumed, " that there may possibly be a little 
 progress in the world after all. Surely for a child to 
 be wiser than its parent is progress ? " 
 
 " I never heard that Judith Shakespeare surpassed 
 her father as a dramatist," I replied. 
 
 " But I'm not sure that Rose, if she persevered, 
 might not paint quite as well as her grandfather," 
 said Mrs. Holt. " Let's go and find her." 
 
 We found her in a room that had been converted 
 into a studio, working away in a blue smock covered 
 with splashes of colour. 
 
 I thought she looked thinner and rather unhappy ; 
 but she seemed delighted to see me, which I thought 
 magnanimous. She might so easily have considered 
 me the cause of all her woes. 
 
 She was painting a portrait of an old weather- 
 beaten man, who had lived at Rye for years and years 
 and now sunned himself in the little battery garden 
 on a pension. 
 
 " We'll stop now," Rose said, and the old fellow 
 
140 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 got up stiffly from his chair and prepared to leave. 
 
 " I wonder if you knew Mr. Henry James ? " I asked 
 him. 
 
 " The gentleman who used to live in Lamb House ? 
 Of course I did. I knew him well. He used to pull 
 my leg. Out-and-out jokey sort of gentleman he was. 
 I don't say I could understand all he said, but he was 
 out-and-out jokey. He was nearly as old as me, but 
 he always talked as if I was hundreds of years old. 
 He's dead now, poor gentleman. He often sat on the 
 bench beside me at the Wipers. He used to pretend 
 to believe that I lived here when the sea came right 
 up to the walls. Asked me how high the waves were 
 and that sort of thing. Supposed we alj fished from 
 our windows ! A nice gentleman though. We were 
 all sorry when he left." 
 
 " I wish you'd let me paint you," Rose said, when 
 the Oldest Inhabitant had gone. 
 
 " For your gallery of Nestors ? " I suggested. 
 
 " Not a bit," she replied. " You're not in the 
 least a Nestor. But I should like to. I should hang 
 it as a pendant to the head of dear old Dombeen--Dr. 
 Greville, I mean — that I did. Do you know, you're 
 rather like him. Isn't he, mother ? And it would 
 keep you in the neighbourhood. We could go some 
 lovely walks too. Try and persuade him, mother." 
 
 " I don't need persuading," I said. " It's merely a 
 question of time and arrangement. If you'll repeat the 
 invitation a little later, perhaps I will. Indeed, if you 
 found me a little house here, I think I would take it." 
 
 Rose accompanied me to the hotel. 
 
 " So you have heard nothing ? " I said. 
 
 " Not directly," she replied. " I have had letters 
 from my friends in Paris, saying that he has been 
 away. He is not working very hard, they say. Don't 
 you think I ought to go back ? " 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 141 
 
 " Certainly not," I said. 
 
 She looked very wistful. "I can't work here," 
 she said. " I'm just muddling on, but it is all drud- 
 gery. There's no fun in it. Mayn't I go back ? " 
 
 " It's not in my power to stop you," I said. " But 
 I hope you'll wait a little longer. If Alistair doesn't 
 give any sign of life before— before say the end of 
 January " 
 
 "Why, that's nearly six weeks," she objected 
 
 " Yes — and a very fair period of time. If Alistair 
 doesn't give any sign of life before then you will know 
 that you and he are not for one another. Won't 
 you ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," she said. 
 
 " But you wouldn't surely go on thinking of him 
 after that ? If he lets you go so easily as he seems to 
 be doing ? That wouldn't be what they used to call 
 maidenly." 
 
 " I don't care tuppence about being maidenly," 
 said Rose. " Times have changed and women must 
 look after themselves. But — Oh, how I wonder," 
 she murmured, with a puzzled far-away look. " He's 
 so very honest, you know. He's the most honest 
 person I ever met. He can't bear any kind of self- 
 deception, or to be under even the suspicion of false 
 colours. What I believe is that he has begun lots of 
 letters to me and torn them up, trying to express just 
 how he feels and then becoming sensitive and mistrust- 
 ing his own powers of expression. He's the kind of 
 man who would be unfair to himself. What you called 
 selfishness was really his terrific earnestness. I know 
 it. I know it." - 
 
 " The fact remains," I had to say, " that he let you 
 go and has done nothing since to get you back." 
 
 " But oh, suppose that he cared for me," she cried, 
 " and he thinks that I went off because I couldn't 
 
142 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 bear him ! That would be terrible. How can we 
 know why people avoid us unless they tell ? We 
 wonder and wonder and then poison creeps in. Oh, 
 I wish you'd let me go back. Not to pester him, but 
 just to find out how he thinks of me. He may have 
 it all so woefully wrong." 
 
 How to comfort her I did not, know, and we parted 
 at the door of the " George " mutually depressed. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 IN WHICH THE DAWN BREAKS 
 
 THE arrangement was for me to go round to 
 Mrs. Holt's for luncheon the next day, but at 
 ten o'clock I was told that Miss Holt was 
 downstairs and would like to see me. 
 
 Her face was bright and smiling : its radiance was 
 almost dazzling. 
 
 " I've had a letter ! " she said. 
 
 " So I can see," was my reply. 
 
 She couldn't show it to me — this with an uncon- 
 scious quitik gesture that told me where its repository 
 was : very near her heart — it would be too embarrass- 
 ing to her for another to read the absurd things he said 
 about her — but she would tell me what she could. 
 
 " No, don't," I said. " Let me tell you instead. 
 I'll try and see it." 
 
 I placed my hand over my eyes as though I were 
 performing a clairvoyant feat of desperate difficulty 
 and momentousness. 
 
 " He says," I began, " that he has treated you badly, 
 without consideration, without realizing that it was he 
 who should have ministered to you and not you to 
 him?" 
 
 " Something like that," she said. " But how 
 could you know ? And of course it isn't true : he 
 couldn't behave badly." 
 
 " Then he apologizes for using you as an audience, 
 as a chorus, and taking advantage of your willingness 
 
 143 
 
144 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 to help; presuming, in short, on your unselfishness 
 in every way." 
 
 Her eyes became wider as she listened. " Yes," 
 she said. "But it's absurd to call me unselfish. 
 Just as if I didn't love it and was doing it all to 
 please myself ! " 
 
 " Then he says," I went on, " that now he is no 
 longer blind, he can see what an angel you are. Does 
 he say that ? " 
 
 " How on earth could you know he calls me an 
 angel ? " she asked almost in fear, as though the Black 
 Arts were really in being. 
 
 " But he does ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. He does." She thrilled. 
 
 " And then he says you are the only thing he wants, 
 doesn't he ? " 
 
 "Yes. He does." 
 
 " And he goes on — as for painting, he doesn't 
 mind if he never paints again. As a matter of fact, 
 without you he can't paint, he has done nothing worth 
 looking at for weeks and weeks. All his old confidence 
 has gone. It came from you and it went with you. 
 Doesn't he say that ? " 
 
 " But how can you know ? " she gasped again. 
 " It's amazing, it's uncanny. Have you heard from 
 him yourself ? " 
 
 " Not a word," I said. " And lastly — he says he 
 adores you, and wants you to marry him : at once, 
 to-morrow. He'll fly over if you give the word. 
 Isn't that so ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," she cried. 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. It's too wonderful. Suppose 
 he didn't really mean it ? He hasn't seen me for so 
 long. Suppose it's just loneliness makes him think 
 like this and write like this ? " 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 145 
 
 " I won't suppose it," I said. " I'd sooner suppose 
 that Rose Holt is a vain little goose, fishing for com- 
 pliments. Only geese don't fish. And what does 
 your mother say ? " 
 
 " She says I'm to do just as I wish." 
 
 "Which is," I stated firmly, "to go straight to 
 the post-office and send a telegram bidding Afistair 
 to come at once to see you." 
 
 " Will you come down while he's here ? " she asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I fear I must," I said. " Having become a meddler 
 in this matter I must see it through. I shouldn't 
 be surprised if I gave you away." 
 
 "You are a great darling," she said, and I shall 
 never hear sweeter words. 
 
 " And now for the post-office ! " I cried. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " And I'll give the Oldest Inhabit- 
 ant a miss this morning and you and I will walk to 
 Winchelsea and back." 
 
 " And whenever we tire of the scenery," I put in, 
 " I shouldn't be surprised if there were occasional 
 references to the surpassing merits of one Alistair 
 Muir." 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 IN WHICH THE DINNER HYMN IS SUNG 
 
 BELLE had replied, imploring me to come, and 
 when the time was ripe, two or three days before 
 Christmas, I went off. 
 
 I provided myself first with gifts suitable for every 
 kind of child — for I had forgotten exactly how the 
 family was composed : all I knew was that there were 
 several, and that Belle's husband, Colonel Trevor, 
 had been killed in the War. After adding some boxes 
 of the best crackers with caps, because no Christmas 
 is complete without fantastic head-gear, I was ready for 
 anything. 
 
 Berkshire on a wet December day has nothing to 
 recommend it, and my spirits sank low indeed on the 
 journey to my sister's place ; but directly I entered 
 the house I felt serene. It was a spacious Georgian 
 house, in its own grounds, with white wainscoting 
 and huge fireplaces. There was holly everywhere, and 
 warmth and welcome. 
 
 Moreover, the air was full of that feeling of excite- 
 ment that pervades the home of large families just 
 before Christmas. Secrets were being guarded, if 
 not kept. Doors were opened to admit a peering 
 face and then closed again, with a giggle. Feet 
 scampered on stairs. Shouts were heard in the 
 distance. Piteous appeals for brown paper and 
 string, scissors and sealing wax, sounded on all sides. 
 
 You know the kind of things that one overhears. 
 
 146 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 147 
 
 " Of course the mistletoe must go in the middle, 
 fathead. What's the use of mistletoe on a wall? 
 You've got to be able to get under it ! " 
 
 " Don't squeal like that ! It's lucky to be pricked 
 by holly." 
 
 " Some one come and hold this step ladder." 
 
 "Why is Christmas 'merry' and New Year only 
 ' happy ' ? I shall put ' a merry Christmas ' and 
 ' a merry New Year ' too." 
 
 " Shut your eyes, all of you. No one must see 
 what I'm carrying." 
 
 But let me describe the family. 
 
 First there was Belle, a placid widow, the slave of 
 her children but not ill-treated by them. They 
 were naturally affectionate, and Colonel Trevor had 
 lived long enough to discipline them in courtesy. 
 
 There were five in all : three girls and two boys. 
 The girls were Avril, January and June, and perhaps 
 you can guess in what month they had their birthdays ; 
 the boys were Noel and Valentine, and perhaps you 
 can guess at their birthdays too. 
 
 The first idea of every family in England being to 
 substitute a nickname for the name which father 
 and mother took so much trouble to find and the 
 clergyman pronounced with such care while the baby 
 was screaming at the font, all five children were 
 known otherwise. Instead of being called Avril, 
 Avril was called either Goldfish or Goldie — the fish 
 part of the nickname coming from the Poissons 
 d' Avril which the French exchange on All Fools' 
 Day and the " gold " from the colour of her 
 hair. 
 
 Noel, who was about twelve, with spectacles, was 
 called Card or Cardie, because he was born on the day 
 when Christmas cards arrive. 
 
 January was known as Jane, and the girl about 
 
148 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 nine with the long lashes and blue eyes (June at the 
 font) as Eggles. Valentine, a little busy boy about 
 seven, was Bish. Eggles came from Mrs. Trevor's 
 own special name for June, which was Eglantine, 
 the pretty wild rose that makes the hedges sweet and 
 gay at midsummer, and Bish was an abbreviation 
 of Bishop Valentine, the saint, whose day is 
 February 14. 
 
 The children called their mother " Mother " simply, 
 except on very special occasions, when January, 
 who was inclined to be rather managing, addressed her 
 very seriously as Belle Beckett — her name before 
 Captain Trevor fell in love with her arid made her his ; 
 or June, who was clingingly affectionate, slipped a 
 finger into her mother's hand and whispered " Darling 
 Heart." 
 
 They admitted me at once into the family and I 
 was made useful. 
 
 I held paper festoons at the feet of ladders. I 
 pinned up mottoes with borders of holly. I fixed 
 candles to the Christmas tree, being very careful to 
 arrange them so that the flame would ignite a branch 
 immediately above, the scent of a burning Christmas 
 tree being among the best of all. 
 
 " Uncle Cavanagh, will you hold this nail while 
 I hammer it ? " 
 
 (Pull yourself together. No flinching !) 
 
 " Uncle Cavanagh, do you know any conjuring 
 tricks?" 
 
 (Not one. A wasted life.) 
 
 " Uncle Cavanagh, will you go to Reading with 
 us to-morrow? We've got to get a few more 
 things." 
 
 I must confess to being not a little flattered by these 
 evidences of trust and camaraderie. 
 
 It is extraordinary, I thought, as I dressed for dinner 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 149 
 
 before a roaring fire, what nice children dull parents 
 can have ! It is not unfraternal to say that my sister 
 Belle is just a very ordinary pleasant kind of woman 
 unburdened by brains, and I should be a traitor to 
 veracity if I called her husband anything but a very 
 ordinary type of soldier; but their children are 
 delightful creatures, every one, each in its own way. 
 I reproached myself for letting so long a period elapse 
 without seeing them. 
 
 And then I thought again of what an odd and 
 perilous undertaking is marriage, with its consequent 
 foundation of a family^ Take our own case — the 
 Becketts. For millions of years we were not. The 
 universe was taking shape ; the moon died ; proto- 
 plasm became apes ; apes became men ; history set 
 in ; and still there were no Becketts. Then a male 
 child is born — my father. Twenty-four years or so 
 later, he meets a girl at a Hunt Ball; they dance, 
 sit out, talk, are mutually attracted, cultivate each 
 other's acquaintance, are engaged and married. In 
 due course are added to the world the personalities 
 of Giles, myself and Belle, each a new being, in certain 
 respects unlike anything ever born before or ever to 
 be born after, each having some influence, making 
 something, marring something : Giles manipulating 
 money in the city; Belle marrying and bringing a 
 lot of new and very agreeable and amusing children 
 into the world ; and I moving about in the hope of 
 finding some one worthy to share my poor Genevra's 
 inheritance, and interfering with young people's attach- 
 ments ! Our existence depends wholly on chance. 
 Here we are ; we are solid facts ; framed photographs 
 of us stand on pianos ; we like being alive ; we enjoy 
 our individuality ; we eat, drink, are fairly merry ; 
 but had my father not gone to that Hunt Ball we 
 shouldn't be here at all. We should not be at all ! 
 
150 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 This jolly great house would be empty— at any rate 
 so far as its present occupants were concerned. 
 
 I was interrupted by a knock at the door and the 
 entrance of Bish. 
 
 He told me he was staying up to dinner that evening, 
 because of me. There would be two ducks, with 
 stuffing, and apple dumplings. 
 
 He examined my dressing bag and its silver-topped 
 fittings with an interest that is never lacking in the 
 young. 
 
 He expressed satisfaction with the aroma of my 
 cigar box. 
 
 And then the gong sounded. " I'm waiting to take 
 you down," he said. " We want you to march with 
 us." 
 
 " March ? " 
 
 " Yes. On special occasions we always march. 
 And sing. They're all waiting." 
 
 True enough, the other four were waiting outside 
 and we descended the old oak staircase, with its easy 
 wide steps, singing the family chant ; which, I learned, 
 was based on a saying of a former ancient gardener 
 and had been arranged metrically by their father. 
 
 Plato no doubt was a corker, but this is our phil-os-o-fee : 
 We've got to be ready for dinner when dinner is ready for we. 
 
 I woke in the middle of the night with the battle 
 hymn in my head. 
 
 We've got to be ready for dinner when dinner is ready for we. 
 
 The fire was dying, and as its last flicker faded 
 away I found myself, by some odd transition, mur- 
 muring, 
 
 We've got to be ready for churchyard when churchyard is 
 ready for we. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 151 
 
 Not a bad philosophy either ! 
 
 " But I mustn't be morbid," I said to myself. 
 
 Not in such a house as this ! " 
 
 And with that resolve I fell asleep again. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IN WHICH A RAILWAY-OFFICIAL BECOMES 
 HUMAN 
 
 I STAYED at Belle's for ten days and was happy. 
 It was on New Year's Eve, I think, that I was 
 sitting in a corner of the big library, in a kind of 
 bay, examining a book, when I overheard a scrap of 
 conversation not intended for me. Avril and June 
 came in for a moment and Avril said : 
 
 " Uncle Cavanagh's much nicer than he used to 
 be, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes," said June. " How silly of us to think 
 he was going to be a stodge ! " 
 
 And then they wandered out again without seeing 
 me. 
 
 I thought about this criticism for a long while. 
 I was not conscious of any change and therefore 
 assumed that it was due to the fact that on my previous 
 visits I had been accompanied by Genevra, and from 
 the children's point of view was rather too much 
 with her. Children like either complete devotion 
 to their interests or complete disregard. I was now 
 free to give them all my attention and very glad to 
 be amused by doing so. But there seemed to be 
 an injustice to Genevra somewhere, and that I re- 
 sented. 
 
 It was too much to say that she wasn't fond of 
 children ; but she had not a very easy way with them. 
 Her own childlessness may have had something to 
 
 152 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 153 
 
 do with this. Anyway, although I liked being a 
 favourite, I felt very strongly that their aunt ought 
 not to be under even the suspicion of a cloud, and 
 there and then I resolved to put this right. They 
 should have a memorial of Genevra which they should 
 value more than anything ever given to them. 
 
 And I knew what it should be, too. I remembered 
 the wagon-lit between Hendaye and Paris. 
 
 No sooner did I reach Paddington than I put my 
 things in the cloak-room and made inquiries about 
 seeing a pundit. 
 
 What sort of a pundit ? 
 
 I wouldn't say. I knew that to tell them my busi- 
 ness was to be discouraged. 
 
 Couldn't I be more explicit ? 
 
 No. It was important, I said, and that was all. 
 It must be some one in authority. 
 
 After a while and much circumlocution I was — 
 having a good coat on and no suggestion of humility 
 — shown into an office where a benevolent looking 
 gentleman sat at a desk. He had all the surrounding 
 paraphernalia of the business magnates on the films, 
 and while I was with him he was rung up five times 
 and carried on five conversations. The only differ- 
 ence between him and a cinema actor was that I 
 could hear what he said, instead of reading it after- 
 wards, and I never saw the people at the other end 
 of the wire with lips writhing too. 
 
 " And what can I do for you ? " he asked. 
 
 " It's rather an odd request," I said. " But can 
 you tell me what you do with your sleeping cars when 
 they are too old ? " 
 
 "We scrap them," he said. "Why do you 
 ask ? " 
 
 "Because I want to buy one," I replied "Is 
 that possible ? " 
 
i 5 4 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Here his telephone bell rang. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said, and for two minutes I sat 
 still. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said, when he had finished. 
 " What were you asking ? " 
 
 " I want to know," I said, " if I can buy an old 
 sleeping car." 
 
 " I couldn't say off-hand," he said. " It's a new 
 idea and new ideas must be considered very care- 
 fully." 
 
 " Or, not at all," I suggested. 
 
 "Oh no ! " he said reproachfully. " We should 
 look into it ; but railway companies have to be delib- 
 erate." 
 
 At this moment he was rung up again, and again 
 he apologized, before and after. 
 
 " About that sleeping car," he said. " I'll make 
 inquiries and let you know. As a matter of fact, a 
 new model has come in with only ten compartments, 
 to supersede the old, which had eleven, and I'll find 
 out if any of the old ones remain. Do you mind 
 saying what you want it for ? " 
 
 " I want it," I said, " as a present." 
 
 " For children ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, a family. I want it as a toy for them. To 
 set up in the wood near the house." 
 
 " And each to have one of the compartments for 
 itself ? " he inquired eagerly. 
 
 " Exactly," I said. 
 
 " And have tea in, and perhaps sleep as a great 
 treat ? " he went on, with renewed eagerness. 
 
 " Precisely," I said. 
 
 " It's a magnificent idea," he remarked. " I 
 wish I had thought of it." 
 
 Here he was again rung up. " You see what a 
 fife I lead ! " he said, as he prepared ior business 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 155 
 
 " And perhaps give parties in ? " he suggested, 
 when the call was over. 
 
 " Yes," I replied. 
 _ " Splendid ! " he said. " Well, if it's for children, 
 I'll do everything in my power to help you and quickly 
 too. Such a father as you must have preferential 
 treatment." 
 
 Here the telephone bell rang again and the same 
 performance was enacted. 
 
 " What was I saying ? " he asked as he hung up 
 the receiver. 
 
 " You were saying that fathers must have pre- 
 ferential treatment," I said. " But it is my luck 
 to be only an uncle." 
 
 " That's better still," he said. " Uncles can so 
 often do what fathers only wish to do and can't afford. 
 And where would you want the wagon-lit to be sent ? 
 Always provided there is one." 
 
 "They live on your line," I said. "That's why 
 I came to you. Near Newbury. I should have to 
 get you to deliver it there, and I would arrange for it 
 to be hauled out to their home." 
 
 " You'll want a brick foundation," he said. " I'll 
 let you have exact measurements and then the build- 
 ers can be getting on with it. Always provided," he 
 added again, " that there is a sleeping car available." 
 
 " I have very little doubt as to that," I said. 
 
 " And how much would you be prepared to pay ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Whatever is just," I said. 
 
 " He's not an uncle," he confided to the room at 
 large : " he's a fairy godfather." 
 
 It Was the prettiest compliment I ever received. 
 But as I have never seen any fun in wearing borrowed 
 plumes, I explained that the present wasn't from me 
 but from Genevra. 
 
i 5 6 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " That makes me the more interested," he replied. 
 
 " I suppose all those telephone rings were genuine ? " 
 I asked, as I rose to go. 
 
 "Surely," he said. "Didn't you hear the con- 
 versations ? " 
 
 " But it wouldn't be a bad way to get rid of a bore : 
 to be rung up by arrangement from your clerk's 
 room ? " I remarked. 
 
 He smiled. "It is the best way," he said, with 
 a wink. 
 
 " And when am I likely to hear about the wagon- 
 lit ? " I asked. 
 
 " I am going into the matter at once," he said. 
 " There is no time like the present — and," he added, 
 " no present to compare with a wagon-lit for a family 
 of children." 
 
 A wit as well as a pundit ! 
 
 That evening I looked in on Giles and told him 
 how I had been spending Christmas. " You ought 
 to have been with me," I said. 
 
 " Most certainly not," he replied. " Too many 
 kids. They make such a row." 
 
 " That's chiefly why I went," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but you're a freak. I'm a sensible feller." 
 
 " How are the horses running ? " I asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't follow jumpin'," he said. "Flat 
 racin' is all I care about. I haven't looked at a 
 horse's name for months. By the way," he said, 
 " how are you gettin' on with your search for a deservin' 
 nephew ? Have you found one ? " 
 
 " Not yet," I said. " Not since the artist refused." 
 
 " Well, if they're no better than the poet you stuck 
 me with, you never will." 
 
 " Then you took him into the office ? " I exclaimed. 
 It was like Giles not to tell me sooner. " That was 
 very decent of you." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 157 
 
 "I wish I hadn't," said Giles. "He's a dud 
 Relations always are. He's a dud poet too. My 
 head clerk showed me some of his effusions. Don't 
 even rhyme. Just prose, chopped up. I sent for 
 him. ' Look here, young feller,' I said. ' This is a 
 business house, not a philanthropic institution. It's true 
 I took you on to please your uncle, but if you don't 
 work you go. I hear very poor reports of you. You're 
 scribblin' when you ought to be addin' up. You come 
 late and you'd go early if you had the chance. You 
 behave, in short, as though you were at the other 
 end of a city career instead of just beginnin'. 
 
 " ' Let me tell you somethin',' I said (Giles continued). 
 ' You profess to despise commerce because you're a 
 poet. But it's a very good thing for a poet to have 
 a nest-egg to sing over. You'll want to see the 
 East — well, you must have money first. You'll pro- 
 bably fall in love— you can't be happily married without 
 money. Money is power. In your case, money is 
 liberty.'" 
 
 " My dear Giles," I said. " I didn't know you had 
 it in you." 
 
 He compressed his lips complacently and stood a 
 little higher. 
 
 " I don't like the feller," he said ; " but since I 
 had taken him on I felt it was up to me to try and 
 make a man of him." 
 
 " I'm most awfully obliged to you," I said. " And 
 so will Norah be." 
 
 " For God's sake don't mix me up with any woman," 
 he exclaimed. " No grateful mothers, if you please. 
 You give me the cold shudders. 
 
 " But let me tell you how I finished with the poet," 
 he resumed. " ' Now listen to me,' I said— and I 
 swear to you, Cav., I've never talked to a clerk like 
 this in my life, and never shall again—' I'm goin' 
 
158 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 to give you another chance. If there are any com- 
 plaints of lateness or neglect of work, during the 
 next month, out you go ; and it will count against 
 you to have left Beckett and Frith, I can tell you. 
 But if you come punctually, and never do any of 
 your own scribblin' in my time and on my writin' 
 paper, I'll not only keep you but give you a rise. Not 
 that you're worth it, but to encourage you to be 
 worth it.' " 
 
 It was on my tongue to say that Selwyn's only 
 idea of being with Giles at all was to make some money 
 quickly and then leave him in order to get to America ; 
 but I refrained. It would only have infuriated Giles, 
 and there was no harm in his showing a little interest 
 in some one besides himself. And there was always 
 the chance that the boy might be stirred to play 
 the game. 
 
 I must admit that I was tickled at the idea of Giles 
 being let down. So all I said was, " I think that's 
 splendid ! " 
 
 " There are only two more on my list," I added, 
 " and I'm seeing one of them on Friday : Donald 
 Stanton. He's become an actor. Will you go with 
 me?" 
 
 *' Not I," he said. '* I hate the theatre. It ruins 
 your dinner. If I dine before eight I'm not hungry, 
 and then I don't digest. I like to eat my dinner 
 slowly, with a bottle of wine and a cigar after it, and 
 by the time I've finished, the play's half over. This 
 country isn't civilized. Theatres should never begin 
 before nine." 
 
 " I should have liked your opinion of young Stan- 
 ton," I said. 
 
 "You can have it now," he replied. "He's a 
 rotter. Bein' an actor he must be." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 IN WHICH WE GO BEHIND THE SCENES 
 
 I OUGHT to say that Donald Stanton was one 
 of the two sons of Genevra's sister Anne. As 
 boys, when they were at Eton, they had often 
 spent Long Leave with us, as their home was in York- 
 shire. They were nice jolly boys. Cyril, I think, 
 was the elder, Donald the younger. 
 
 After the death of Genevra's sister we had lost 
 sight of the father for some while. None of the 
 family were at Genevra's funeral. 
 
 Phoebe Muir had told me that Cyril was a curate 
 in the East End, while Donald was the promising 
 young actor whom I probably had seen under the 
 name of Roland Murchison. He was now, I ascer- 
 tained from one of those offices where they have 
 the best seats, in The Balkan Princess at the 
 Fatuity. 
 
 I remembered his name, but whether because I 
 had witnessed one of his performances or because 
 I had seen it in theatrical advertisements, I could 
 not say: one reads so many names — when waiting, 
 for example, for Tube trains — that one acquires a 
 spurious familiarity with them. All I knew for cer- 
 tain was that I had no notion that the family com- 
 prised anyone so Bohemian, and that it was my 
 duty to see him now, even though the title of the 
 piece was calculated to excite one's worst forebodings. 
 The stage has never had a very powerful lure for me, 
 
 159 
 
160 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 but that lure is at its weakest when musical comedy 
 with Near East accessories is in the bill. 
 
 Giles being useless as a companion, I called on 
 Vaddy, hoping to get him : but he too declined. He 
 had bridge to play : couldn't get out of it. I had 
 not seen him for a long while, and I was shocked 
 by his appearance. The fitness that Spain had 
 given him was lost, and he seemed to be shakier and 
 more nervous than before. 
 
 " Where have you been all this time ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I know I ought to have called. 
 But to tell the truth, I couldn't. I couldn't bear the 
 idea of the house without Jennie." 
 
 " I don't believe that's the real reason," I said. 
 " I believe you thought I was going to be a nuisance 
 by asking you questions and criticizing you." 
 
 He denied this, but without conviction, and I came 
 away depressed. 
 
 In default of Giles and Vaddy I asked Judy Hill 
 to dine early and go with me to the play. 
 
 Judy— when she was Lady Judy Flight — had been 
 one of Giles' old flames, years ago, before he crystal- 
 lized into the celibate and censor that he had since 
 become. They were on the point of an engagement 
 again and again, and then suddenly she married an 
 American millionaire, and Giles disappeared saying 
 that his heart was broken. He was next heard of 
 at Monte Carlo trying to reduce the bank to the same 
 condition. 
 
 I had not seen Judy, who did not allow her marriage 
 to eliminate old friends, for some long time, but 
 catching sight of her name in the report of a social 
 function I rang her up at once, looking upon the 
 chance as one of Fortune's happy thoughts. 
 
 " How is Giles ? " was her first question. " I haven't 
 seen him for an age. Is he still good-looking ? " 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 161 
 
 " The same as ever," I said. And I gave her an 
 account of him. 
 
 " Not bald ? " 
 
 " Thinning, but still more or less thatched," I said. 
 " And he still has Herbert." 
 
 " Isn't he priceless ? " was her comment. " It's 
 a lucky thing for us both that we didn't marry. He'd 
 have been so tired of me and I should have been so 
 tired of him. He never had any patience, even 
 when he thought he was in love. But I should like 
 to see him again : he's too good to lose. And he 
 would do Van good. Van dresses so badly; Giles 
 might stimulate him." 
 
 I told her about the reason for going to the theatre 
 to see such a deplorable play. 
 
 " That's fun ! " she said. " But don't apologize 
 for the play. I love musical comedy. I love every- 
 thing in a theatre." 
 
 And she did. She was one of those women who 
 laugh at everything that comes across the footlights 
 and, in a theatre, have no critical faculty whatever. 
 There were coarse jokes, there were stolen jokes, 
 there were jokes that had no fun in them whatever ; 
 and Judy rewarded each with the same facile, placid, 
 punctual cachinnation. Even the male chorus, that 
 set me groaning, failed to offend her. Her lazy 
 contentment helped to explain the amazing success 
 of these entertainments. She took it like a drug : 
 all her native cleverness and discrimination were 
 converted to an unquestioning receptivity. 
 
 I don't know what private problems might vex 
 her, what domestic difficulties she might have to 
 return to, what her relations were with her not too 
 tractable American husband; but at the moment 
 she was having an evening off. And that of course 
 is the theatre's strength— that it offers evenings off 
 ii 
 
i6z GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 to tired and harassed people: an anodyne. I was 
 very foolish, I realized, not to be able to be as easily 
 pleased. 
 
 Donald, who played one of the two lovers in the 
 piece, appeared to be a good-looking fellow, and his 
 agility was remarkable; but there is something to 
 me antipathetic in the sight of a presentable and 
 presumably vigorous young man, covered with paint, 
 capering about the stage, in the company of scores 
 of decolletee girls; and the spectacle is the less 
 agreeable when the caperer is one's nephew, although 
 only by marriage. 
 
 That girls should be painted and should caper 
 seems (oddly enough and wrongly enough !) reason- 
 able ; but stalwart young men, no. However, caper 
 they do, more and more, and caper they will ; so 
 there it is. The general play-going public sees noth- 
 ing anomalous ; and long ago I came to the con- 
 clusion that I was too particular to count. 
 
 Lady Judy, at any rate, saw nothing amiss. She 
 thought Donald delightful and said so repeatedly. 
 
 " You must bring him to lunch," she said. " Actors 
 never dine, but one can catch them at lunch now 
 and then. What a fascinating boy ! " 
 
 It was the usual kind of play, with the usual kind 
 of vulgarity and rather embarrassing intimacies. 
 Again I must do the rest of the audience the justice 
 of exempting them from any of the hyper-delicate 
 distaste that I experienced. The mass of play-goers 
 apparently are never so happy as when they are spec- 
 tators of public amours. They like to see young 
 men kissing and embracing strange women in a spot 
 light, and singing passionate songs into each other's 
 mouths. To me it is all repellent : it makes me 
 hot and nervous. 
 
 The principal lover, to whom belonged the inevit- 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 163 
 
 able waltz tune continually breaking out all through — 
 the foundation-stone of the play, in fact — was a robust 
 tenor ; Donald was a light baritone with just enough 
 voice for the purpose. The tenor indeed might get 
 an engagement at Queen's Hall or the Albert Hall on 
 any Sunday afternoon ; but Donald never. While 
 the tenor was singing " O Star of Eve," Donald would 
 be playing golf at Walton Heath. 
 
 At the end of the performance Lady Judy went 
 off alone, and I sent my card to Mr. Murchison and 
 soon after was led to his dressing-room, where he 
 greeted me with effusion. The last time I had been 
 in his company was at a cricket match on the Fourth 
 of June, when he was still at school, and he had made 
 a score. The contrast between the freshness of his 
 flushed and excited face then and these features- 
 plastered with grease paint and powder, and with 
 darkened eyes, was almost like a blow. But I could 
 see that underneath he had altered very little : he 
 was still gay and, impulsive. 
 
 I said that I had heard who Roland Murchison 
 really was and thought I should like to meet him 
 again. 
 
 He thanked me very heartily. Then he expressed 
 the hope that his aunt Genevra was going strong. 
 
 I told him that she had died ten months ago. 
 
 *' I'm sorry," he said. " Rough luck ! I suppose 
 I ought to have known ; but one gets out of touch 
 with family affairs. I've been on tour till quite 
 recently. How do you like the show ? " 
 
 I said that it wasn't much in my line, but it 
 was lively and every one seemed to be pleased with 
 
 " Have a spot," he said. He. turned to his dresser. 
 "William," he said, "give Mr. Beckett a whisky 
 and soda." 
 
164 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Poor Aunt Genevra ! " he said, as he attacked 
 his glass. "That's hard lines. She was always 
 jolly nice to me." He sighed. " Life's a mystery," 
 he said and finished the drink. 
 
 The dressing-room was small and hot and too 
 brightly lighted, and the walls and table were covered 
 with framed photographs; while more, unframed, 
 were stuck into the edges of the mirror. Some of 
 them represented Mr. Roland Murchison in various 
 parts, but more were of fellow actors and actresses, 
 all inscribed with messages of affection, while a 
 number of telegrams pinned to a screen wished 
 dear old Roland the best on his recent opening 
 night. 
 
 It was all very friendly and I could see how attract^ 
 ive this easy camaraderie of the theatre must be 
 and what pleasant times one can have if one is wholly 
 of it. To be an actor and have no other ambition 
 must, unless one is a dismal failure, make for almost 
 continual beguilement : one becomes a straw on the 
 tide ; time does not exist, except the hour of the 
 rehearsal or the performance ; letters do not exist ; 
 responsibilities (I almost wrote) do not exist, and 
 one need never be lonely. And then the recom- 
 pense ! Applause and laughter for two to three 
 hours every day and more at matinees ; the electric 
 invigorating atmosphere of the playhouse. 
 
 The actor and the singer and the orator — these alone 
 get their reward as they work. The rest of the world 
 must wait for it or go without. 
 
 The other side of the medal is less bright. The 
 actor, by reason of his employment, gradually ceases 
 to be himself at all : he is continually somebody 
 else; he makes a business of cheeriness and good 
 fellowship ; gregariousness becomes a dominating 
 necessity, so that he is restless everywhere but among 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 165 
 
 his stage companions talking shop. " Actors," some- 
 body once said to me, " are always pleased to see you, 
 but they sink no roots." And that, I think, is their 
 tragedy. They sink no roots. Their homes are 
 places to leave. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS 
 
 MY Great Western friend was as good as his 
 word, and in the course of three weeks I 
 had an official communication stating • that 
 an obsolete sleeping-car, 57 feet long, was at my 
 disposal and I could see it by appointment. 
 
 I saw it in the company of a young engineer. It 
 may have been only 57 feet long, which is shorter 
 than the present model, but it looked like Pall 
 Mall. I was appalled. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that this can be transported 
 from Newbury station to a distance of five miles ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 "Easily," said the young engineer. "All you 
 want is a timbei wagon." 
 
 I breathed again ; the task had appeared quite 
 impossible to me. And then we explored it and I 
 was enchanted. It had eleven little rooms with sleep- 
 ing berths, and an attendant's room at the end. Each 
 berth had a washing basin and numberless little dodgy 
 contrivances and a sliding door. The whole was 
 lighted by gas, and the young engineer told me it would 
 be easy to put gas into the attendant's room if the 
 pipes were adjacent. In the modern cars there was, 
 of course, electric light. In the attendant's room 
 was a device for simple cooking 
 
 It was now the end of January. The next thing 
 to do was to take Belle into the secret and arrange 
 
 166 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 167 
 
 for the brick foundation to be built in the wood, 
 some plausible explanation of which could be given 
 to the children. Then during the Easter holidays, 
 when they were all away at their paternal grand- 
 mother's at Tunbridge Wells, the sleeping car could 
 be set in position, ready to bowl them out on their 
 return. 
 
 The young engineer threw himself into the pro- 
 ject with all the keenness of a boy, and he promised 
 me so exact a specification for the builder that no 
 error could creep in, with drawings of the stone steps 
 needed at each end — for there were only the two 
 doors. Once in, you found your room by walking 
 along the corridor. 
 
 Everything was very compact, naturally : this 
 corridor was only 2 feet ij inches wide, while the 
 compartments were 4 feet 5 inches one way and 
 6 feet 2J inches the other, and 7 feet high. But 
 limited space is no drawback to -children. Indeed, 
 it is because their toys are in miniature that they 
 like them so. 
 
 " How many children are there ? " the young 
 engineer asked. 
 
 I told him there were five. 
 
 " That will leave six rooms over," he said. " But 
 it will be easy to turn two into one in case they wanted 
 a common-room or a sitting-room for their mother." 
 
 " A very good idea," I said. 
 
 " And a spare room for you," he added. 
 
 " Not so good," I said. " I like a big bed." 
 
 '* Well, for a cousin who is not so particular," he 
 suggested. 
 
 I must admit that the presence of two or three 
 builders' men in the wood, first making immensely 
 long trenches and filling them with concrete, and 
 then laying immensely long lines of bricks on the 
 
168 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 concrete, needed a good deal of glossing over on the 
 part of my sister, who is not naturally a very gifted 
 liar. The head builder too, on his occasional visits, 
 had to exercise all his wits to resist the cross-examina- 
 tion to which the family subjected him. 
 
 Old Peters, the gardener, was in a more difficult 
 position, being so constantly accessible. But he took 
 refuge in laughter ; which is not a bad protection. 
 No matter what he was asked about it, he laughed. 
 
 The result was successful, for whatever else they 
 might suspect, no one had the faintest idea that a 
 section of the Cornish Riviera Express was proposing 
 to spend the rest of its days in the seclusion of the 
 Trevor property. 
 
 The notion of a lifle range for the nearest village, 
 somehow getting about, was very useful. Rifle 
 ranges were not uncommon, and the village had none. 
 I rather fancy that it was the young engineer, riding 
 down on his motor bicycle one Sunday to look at 
 the work, who started the rumour. Anyway, it held 
 the field — and not unreasonably ; for the propor- 
 tions of the proposed structure favoured it, while 
 what could be more natural than that Mrs. Trevor, 
 wishing to commemorate her husband the Colonel, 
 should resort to a military form of memorial ? 
 
 " But, Mother, if it's going to be a rifle saloon, 
 Avril asked, " won't it be horrid hearing the guns 
 going off ? " 
 
 " May I shoot in it ? " Noel wished to know ; 
 nothing else. 
 
 " Will they have a running man ? " Bish was very 
 anxious on this point, possibly scenting danger for a 
 small boy only too much accustomed to doing the 
 family's odd jobs and errands. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 IN WHICH DEEDS PREVAIL OVER FAITH 
 
 HAVING seen Donald, I thought that I could 
 not do better than quickly see his brother. 
 Donald obviously was no claimant for 
 Genevra's money. She would not wish it to go to an 
 actor, I felt sure ; should such a candidate prove 
 his case it could only be a tragedian in distress. I 
 could hear Genevra murmuring, " If only Donald 
 didn't have to dance with those girls ! " 
 
 I don't think she was narrow. She merely had 
 the old-fashioned view that actors ought to spring 
 from other people : not from one's own. Until I 
 met Donald — or Roland — I shared it ; but there was 
 something very attractive about the young man, some- 
 thing very bright and insouciant, something of that 
 other strange land to which he belonged both by 
 nature and by choice — Bohemia. I found myself 
 envying him not a little — both his youth and his 
 careless grace, although, one felt, that might so easily 
 turn to careless disgrace. 
 
 The same family has before now, I am sure, pro- 
 duced both an actor and a clerk in holy orders, but it 
 cannot be a common occurrence ; and I was interested 
 to discover how like these boys still were. 
 
 The farther I proceeded towards Hoxton the more 
 I was predisposed in the Reverend Cyril's favour, for, 
 I thought, surely there must be the real stuff in any 
 young man who can live among these mean streets. 
 
 169 
 
170 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Being myself peculiarly susceptible to surroundings 
 and liable to the profoundest depression when amidst 
 any kind of squalor, I have the tendency to assume 
 that others are the same. But of course — and we 
 ought to learn it sooner than we do : it ought to be 
 written up on the blackboard every morning in schools 
 — no people are the same. As I am sure has been 
 said, one man's poison is another man's meat almost 
 as often as one man's meat is another man's poison. 
 
 When at last I found Cyril in what he called his 
 digs — in a long street in which every house on both 
 sides was precisely like its neighbour and its vis d vis 
 — I realized that he was the possessor of a complete 
 and useful insensitiveness to environment. He car- 
 ried his own atmosphere. 
 
 His sitting-room was almost as full of photographs 
 as his brother's dressing-room, but these photographs 
 were of athletes : cricketers, footballers, pugilists. 
 I looked in vain for a feminine face. 
 
 Cyril was a handsome, hearty young fellow, well 
 set up, springy, the picture of health and condition. 
 " Mens sana in corpore sano," he said later in the 
 day : " that's the best motto in the world," and there 
 was every indication that he lived up to it. 
 
 He asked me if I objected to bis pipe ; and on 
 my saying no he lit it and made himself comfortable 
 very much as he must have done when he was at 
 Brasenose. Indeed, but for the scene outside the 
 windows, we might have been in his college rooms. 
 He did not seem to have expanded much mentally 
 either. Some men go through life as undergraduates 
 and Cyril looked like being among them. 
 
 We talked about many things and he was brisk and 
 hearty all the time. His voice rarely became pro- 
 fessional, although I caught the inflexion when he 
 referred to his aunt Genevra's death. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 171 
 
 " You are happy here ? " I asked. 
 
 " It's all right," he said. *' I'm frightfully busy, 
 and that keeps you fit and shuts out dreary thoughts. 
 And then it's so easy to get to the West End and 
 see what's going on." 
 
 I asked him if he had seen Donald in The Balkan 
 Princess. 
 
 He said he hadn't. He preferred a straight play. 
 He rather thought it was a mistake for Donald to be in 
 that thing at all ; he ought to stick to the legitimate 
 drama. " But you see," he added, " Donald likes 
 the fun of it. Singing and dancing are probably 
 more amusing than just speaking, and he was always 
 out for amusement." 
 
 " Do you regret his choice of a career ? " I asked. 
 
 " I do rather," he said. " It's a great loss too, 
 because he's such a good cricketer. He ought to be 
 playing for his county. Somehow I always feel that 
 it's a mistake when an actor is an athlete too. One 
 feels that the physically unfit could be doing all that 
 for us. The whole business — stuffy theatres, late 
 hours, make-up, — is against the idea of fitness. But 
 there, it has a terrible fascination and Donald has 
 succumbed to it." 
 
 " On the other hand," I said, " actors are the 
 fittest people going. They don't look strong, but they 
 must be. They may not be equal to any sudden 
 physical effort, but their average of health is amazing. 
 They're never ill. They turn night into day and 
 day into night ; they are notably convivial ; but 
 they're never ill. Wonderful fellows ! " 
 
 "It's true," he said. "The stage," he added, 
 " never had any appeal for me." 
 
 " What does appeal to you ? " I asked. 
 
 "Oh, I shall stick to the Church," he said. "I 
 am hoping for some kind of preferment any day. 
 
172 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 I'll get a living somewhere, for certain, even if I 
 have to be a curate again first. I have very good 
 friends." 
 
 I asked him if he deliberately chose the Church. 
 
 " No," he said. " I was put there. It was 
 arranged. Mother wanted it." 
 
 " And you believe ? " I asked. " You must forgive 
 such a question," I added, " but you are so frank 
 that I am sure you would say what you felt ; and I 
 am interested. Think of me as your mother's brother- 
 in-law, with the horrible licence that relations con- 
 sider their right." 
 
 " I believe that a parson can be a very useful mem- 
 ber of the community," he said. " To tell you the 
 truth, I think as little as I can about beliefs. I'm 
 out for conduct and, through it, happiness. The 
 practical side — that's what I rely on, you see. I 
 was a padre in the War and loved the work. It was 
 all practical there : no room for theology ; visiting, 
 reading aloud, joking as much as possible, burying. 
 Plenty of burying. One couldn't enlarge much on 
 the New Testament with shells bursting all round. 
 At least, I couldn't." 
 
 " But now," I asked, " in a parish, among women ? " 
 
 " It's very different," he said. " Difficult too. 
 I try to keep to the boys and young men as much as 
 I can. I try to be practical again. I run the club, 
 you know. Boxing, football, cricket, all kinds of 
 outdoor things, and beyond that I can't look." It 
 was then that he made the remark about Mens sana. 
 
 " But your sermons ? " I asked. " Isn't that 
 difficult ? " 
 
 " Yes, they're a problem," he said. " But I don't 
 preach much. The vicar likes to do it himself. When 
 I have to, I manage to dodge the snags. I enlarge on 
 the cheerful life : give and take, kindliness, decency." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 173 
 
 "I think that's wise," I said. "But you could 
 do all that without being in orders, without having 
 subscribed to so many beliefs you don't hold." 
 
 " Hardly," he said. " They are two very different 
 things, speaking with the authority of the Church 
 behind you, and speaking without it. The people 
 wouldn't pay half the attention if I were in mufti ; 
 in fact they wouldn't come to hear me at all," 
 
 " You don't feel, yourself to be a humbug ? " I 
 asked. "Mind," I added, "I'm not criticizing: I 
 merely want to know. It's all very interesting. And 
 I have a reason." 
 
 " If I wasn't so busy, I might," he said. " But 
 I'm always at it. My time's filled. To-day, for 
 example, I've had a wedding and two funerals. Peo- 
 ple needn't perhaps be married ; but you'll agree 
 that they must be buried. That's necessary work 
 and a large part of a parson's duty is to do it decently. 
 If every parson were debarred from burying people 
 because he had doubts about the first chapter of 
 Genesis, or the story of the Flood, or the Immaculate 
 Conception, what would become of dead bodies ? 
 
 " No one," he went on, " hates hypocrisy more 
 than I do, but there has to be compromise. And 
 there's the other side too. Too much belief would 
 be crippling. For instance, if I thought that every 
 word that our Lord said should be taken literally, 
 I couldn't have been a padre at all. Many and many 
 a young man have I helped to overcome his cowardice 
 and fight the foe — and how could a true disciple 
 of Christ bring himself to do that ? I've even argued 
 with Conscientious Objectors ! That's a bit thick, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 "All the same," he continued, "if any one like 
 you were to say to me that you thought 1 was doing 
 more harm than good by affecting to believe what 
 
174 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 I didn't believe and wearing the livery of religion 
 while not subscribing to it, I should go into the matter 
 very carefully. But no one ever asked me about 
 it before. It has been my own secret. All the 
 same," he said, " I know that I have been useful. 
 I don't want to boast, but I know that I have some 
 influence for good here, especially among the boys. 
 But I wonder what Aunt Genevra would have 
 thought." 
 
 " Yes, that's what I have been wondering," I 
 said. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 IN WHICH THE WOOD GIVES UP ITS SECRET 
 
 IN response to Belle's urgent request, I met the 
 party at Victoria on their return from Tunbridge 
 Wells and after giving them, at the Grosvenor 
 Hotel, all the lunch they could consume — or, at any 
 rate, had time to consume — I accompanied them to 
 Newbury. I must be there, Belle had insisted, when 
 the discovery was made. 
 
 Among the great moments of life must be counted 
 that one when five excitable children see for the first 
 time a wagon-lit, fifty-seven feet long and all their 
 own, to. play in, and even live their own lives in 
 remote from grown-up influence, securely established 
 in their own wood only a few yards from their real 
 home. Any reader of these lines who has had a 
 similar experience will probably corroborate the 
 statement that the feeling of exaltation, supremacy 
 and success, is something terrific. 
 
 The unveiling — so to speak— was very well stage- 
 managed. We reached my sister's house somewhere 
 about five-thirty, approaching by a circuitous route, 
 so as to avoid passing the wood and catching any 
 too-previous glimpse through the trees. Such a 
 deviation from the normal way xould hardly escape 
 the notice of so many alert intelligences, and it was 
 left to me to supply a conjecture as to the main road 
 being under repair — an invention for which I hope 
 
 175 
 
176 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 for forgiveness from the Recording Angel. None 
 could be whiter, anyway. 
 
 The servants had been warned by letter to divulge 
 nothing, but if ever faces told a tale of suppressed 
 secrecy, theirs did. 
 
 We had a hasty tea, every care being taken to 
 shepherd the flock well within the dining-room fold, 
 and then Belle suggested a walk in the wood to see if 
 there were any bluebells yet. 
 
 Fortunately, at the entrance to the enclosure where 
 the wagon-lit had been placed, there is a shrubbery 
 of evergreens, dating from the eighteenth century, 
 through which nothing can be seen ; so that on round- 
 ing it we had the coup d'ceil in all its suddenness and 
 glory. 
 
 For a few seconds the children were dumb. Their 
 mouths were open, but no sound escaped. 
 
 Then Bish cried, " It's a train ! Mother, what 
 train can it be ? " 
 
 "I think it's your train," said Belle. "It's a 
 present from Uncle Cavanagh." 
 
 And at these words they fell on it, rushed into the 
 door at one end, leaned out of the corridor windows 
 shouting unintelligible encomiums, examined every 
 room, appropriated every room, dragged us to see 
 what room they had appropriated, and generally 
 went mad. 
 
 I took very little part in the discussion on the name 
 of the new house, which set in directly we had returned 
 from the tour of inspection ; but it was fun to listen 
 to it. 
 
 That it must have a name and have it at once was 
 essential. 
 
 " What do you suggest, Uncle Cav. ? " Avril asked. 
 
 "I'll tell you later," I said. "I want to hear 
 all the suggestions first." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY i 77 
 
 Noel thought that Sleeping-Car Terrace would be 
 a good name ; but Avril was against that. 
 
 " You can't have a terrace in a wood," she said. 
 
 " But if there is a terrace in a wood, what then ? " 
 Noel inquired in a cold voice. He was nd fonder of 
 contradiction than you are. 
 
 " Yes," said Avril, who could stick to her guns 
 too, " but even if there is a terrace in a wood it doesn't 
 follow that we ought to say so. Directly you say 
 terrace you spoil the wood." Avril was something 
 of a poet. 
 
 " Could you call it the Alms Houses ? " asked 
 Eggles. " It would be just like a row of alms houses 
 except that instead of old, old men and women we 
 should all be young." 
 
 " That's rather a, mouldy idea," said Noel. " This 
 ought to be such a jolly place and you want to mix 
 it up with beef tea and rheumatism." 
 
 " I think so too," said Avril. " Holiday House 
 is much more the name we want ; but that isn't quite 
 right, because it's not one house but a lot." 
 
 " What about Holiday Row," Noel asked. " I'm 
 very careful not to say terrace again, I hope you 
 notice." 
 
 " Don't you think Open House would be rather 
 nice ? " Jane suggested. " Then people would know 
 that we should be glad if they called. It would be nice 
 to have tea or ginger beer always ready in case anyone 
 dropped in." 
 
 " Oh, Jane, how clever of you ! " Avril exclaimed. 
 " Of course that's the idea — Open House." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll tell me," Noel inquired, again 
 in his cold voice, " where the money is coming from 
 to provide for this constant entertainment. Jane 
 may have hidden treasure, but as for me, I get four- 
 pence a week, and you can't keep Open House on that." 
 
 12 
 
178 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 "Mother would let us have cakes and things," 
 said Avril. ' 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mother. " In reason, yes. But not 
 for every passer-by." 
 
 "Well," said Noel, "I hope I'm not mean, but 
 we must be practical. It would be much more fun 
 if the people paid us for their food." 
 
 " Like an inn," said Avril. 
 
 " Yes — why," Noel went on excitedly, " we might 
 call it an inn. What are inns called? — The King's 
 Head, The White Hart, The. Angel, The Red Lion." 
 
 " Do let's call it The George and Dragon," said 
 Bish, " and have a picture of it, like the one at 
 'Rappenham." 
 
 " No," said Avril, " we ought to have a name all 
 our own." 
 
 " What about The Cavanagh's Head ? " said Noel. 
 
 " Certainly not," I insisted. 
 
 " If you don't have George and Dragon," said Bish 
 appealingly, " do have something that would make 
 a picture. I love pictures on sign-boards. There's 
 a topping Swan with Two Necks at Larbridge." 
 
 " But who would paint it ? " Jane inquired. 
 
 " I think I could get it painted," I said, thinking 
 of Alistair and Rose. 
 
 " Or we might call it A Home from Home," said 
 Jane. " I've seen hotels with that after them." 
 
 " That's silly," said Noel. " The idea of a hotel 
 being a home is rot. You go to it because you're 
 tired of home. Homes don't have lifts." 
 
 " Or grill rooms," said Bish. " What is a grill 
 room ? " he asked plaintively. 
 
 " We might call it The Cavanagh Arms," said Eggles. 
 
 " Eggles has got arms on the brain," said Bish. 
 
 " Only this time," said Eggles, " they're not spelt 
 with an L. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 179 
 
 " The Cavanagh Arms is great," said Noel. " Don't 
 you think so, Uncle Cav. ? You gave it to us and 
 it would be just right to call it after you." 
 
 "No," I said. "Not The Cavanagh Arms. It's 
 your Aunt Jennie's gift, not mine. If you decide 
 to call it arms at all — and I don't think it's a bad 
 idea — I think I should like you to call it The Thorold 
 Arms, after her." 
 
 " And over the door," said Bish, " it will have our 
 names and say ' Licensed to be drunk on the premises,' 
 like it does at The Blue Boar." 
 
 " If anyone comes, we must look after them," said 
 Jane. " And give them beer." 
 
 " If you keep beer there," said Noel, " old Peters 
 will never do another stroke of work." 
 
 " But we can't give them beer," said Avril, in a 
 shocked voice. " We can give them coffee, though. 
 All good inns have rooms called Coffee Rooms. I've 
 seen them." 
 
 " I wish there was a bar," said Bish. " Goldie 
 would make a beautiful barmaid, with her red hair." 
 
 " I rather fancy Bish as a pot-boy myself," said 
 Noel. " With a green baize apron." 
 
 " Being an inn won't stop us from having rooms 
 all to ourselves, will it, Uncle Cav. ? " asked Jane 
 apprehensively. 
 
 "I don't think it should," I said. "You only 
 call it an inn. You can keep one room for visitors 
 if you like. There, are enough. I might like to stay 
 there myself when I want a home from home." 
 
 And so the meeting broke up. 
 
 As we were going out, Avril put her arm through 
 mine. " Do you mind telling me," she asked, " what 
 your own original idea for a name was ? " 
 
 " The Thorold Arms," I said. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 IN WHICH A GOOD SAMARITAN GAMBLES 
 
 I THOUGHT much of Vaddy's relapse, not a little 
 blaming myself for seeing so little of him since 
 we came back from Spain. 
 
 After failing to find any other way out, I consulted 
 Rendle Vaux. 
 
 Rendle had known Genevra's family long enough 
 for the frankest talk to be possible. 
 
 " I'm worried," I said. " Vaddy." 
 
 " Ah yes, Vaddy," said Rendle. " He was with us 
 in November. He's not too happy a man. Is there 
 anything serious ? " 
 
 " How did he strike you when he was staying with 
 you ? " I asked. 
 
 " He seemed fairly fit. A little abstracted now and 
 then, perhaps." 
 
 " You didn't think he was drinking too much ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 " Well, he is," I said, and I told what I knew. 
 
 " That's bad," he said. " But something might 
 be possible. Poor Genevra, how miserable it would 
 have made her ! Something must be done. Let me 
 think about it, will you ? I'll ask him to lunch any- 
 way." 
 
 Sir Rendle was famous for his cellar, as for his 
 walls. He had a few of the choicest pictures and 
 much of the choicest wine. 
 
 180 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 181 
 
 " Well, go slow with those famous vintages of yours," 
 I said. " Don't do him too well." 
 
 "Hang it all!" he replied. "What is one to 
 do ? I can't invite a man to my house and not give 
 him the best. I couldn't do such a thing." He 
 laughed. " I tried to do it once," he explained, 
 " but I failed. It was at my place on the river, years 
 ago, and I had asked a lot of city men who were mixed 
 up with me, to come down in the afternoon and go 
 out in a launch and then dine. I knew them only 
 in business and didn't care much for any of them ; 
 and when I left for town in the morning I gave instruc- 
 tions for certain wines, not the very best, to be got 
 out. Well, all the way to town I found myself worry- 
 ing about this, and directly I reached Paddington I 
 sent a wire to the butler telling him he must produce 
 the best only. Pride, of course — no virtue; but I 
 had to do it." 
 
 " Vaddy wants some protection," I said. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Vaux, " but again I ask, What is 
 one to do ? You can't ask me to insult him by saying 
 ' I've ordered Vichy for you.' Men aren't children." 
 
 " Oh, aren't they ? " I said. " But the tragedy 
 is that they can't be treated as such. Our whole 
 social system conspires against a teetotaller. No 
 one does anything to help him, even when he has 
 always been one ; but the new zealot, converted yes- 
 terday, has the deuce of a time. Apart from the 
 increduhty and ,the ridicule with which his old associ- 
 ates greet his protestations, he has to face the actual 
 difficulty of getting anything else to drink. The 
 insipidity of ordinary English household water is 
 abominable, while in a restaurant the charge for a 
 small bottle of any mineral is too monstrous to 
 encourage." 
 
 " Vaddy will be with friends, anyway," said Vaux. 
 
182 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Afterwards lie gave me a fairly good idea of what had 
 happened. 
 
 Vaddy arrived, red about the eyes and a little shaky 
 about the hand and terribly in need of the physical 
 as well as moral support that convivialists can derive 
 from lunch. It was after lunch that he began to 
 live again ; the world to him was new not every 
 morning but every afternoon. In the morning it 
 was a grey and hopeless place made for the despondent 
 to endure in. But after lunch, when the roseate hues 
 touched the mountain peaks once more, it was fit for 
 heroes, like himself, to live in : broad-minded, tolerant, 
 generous men, with souls above trifles and a great 
 contempt for craven-hearted, whey-faced pessimists. 
 
 " Look here, Vaddy," said Vaux. " I want to 
 have a talk with you. Lunch won't be for a quarter 
 of an hour yet : I asked you too early on purpose." 
 
 Vaddy groaned. 
 
 " Do you mind," Vaux went on, " if we talk now ? 
 It's more or less business." 
 
 " Business ? " Vaddy echoed blankly. He had 
 no use for business, and enormous need of drink and 
 food. 
 
 " In a way, yes," said Vaux. 
 
 " But I'm not a business man," said Vaddy. " I've 
 retired. I know nothing of money." 
 
 " All the same," said Vaux, " I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 " Then do you mind if I have a whisky and soda 
 first ? " 
 
 " My dear Vaddy," said Vaux, "oi course you can. 
 I'll ring for it. But just a minute. You know I 
 was very fond of your sister." 
 
 " Of course," said Vaddy. 
 
 " Your twin," said Vaux. 
 
 " My twin/' said Vaddy. 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 183 
 
 " And you and I have always been good friends ? " 
 said Vaux. 
 
 "Always," said Vaddy. 
 
 " Then you won't mind if I'm a little frank ? " said 
 Vauk. 
 
 " I don't mind anything," said Vaddy, " if you'll 
 give me that whisky and soda." 
 
 " He's bringing it," said Vaux. " It's ordered. 
 But before you have it do you mind if I say a word 
 or two about it ? " 
 
 Vaddy passed his hand over his eyes in perplexity 
 eomplete. The whole thing was getting to be too 
 much for him. Lunch not ready. Business conversa- 
 tion. Whisky and soda, in such a house as that, 
 famous for its hospitality, made not only a matter of 
 postponement but a subject of discussion. He was lost. 
 
 " WeU ? " Vaddy asked. 
 
 " I want to say a friendly word about whiskys 
 and sodas before lunch," said Vaux. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Vaddy. " I see. This is a temper- 
 ance meeting. You're going to convert me. Wounded 
 in the house of one's friends, by George ! " He rose 
 and moved towards the door. 
 
 Sir Rendle detained him. 
 
 " No, my dear man, nothing of the sort." He laid 
 his hand on Vaddy's shoulder. " Nothing of the 
 sort. There is no teetotalism here, and I trust there 
 never will be. I don't want to convert you, I only 
 want to help you. Because, you know — and you 
 promised not to be offended with me if I talked plainly, 
 and I assure you I'm just as vulnerable myself in other 
 ways : our temptations are different, that's all. I 
 happen to hate the taste of whisky, too. Now you 
 mustn't be offended, but you must know you are a 
 little in need of help. You have let "this thing get 
 a little too far. May I go on ? " 
 
184 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Yes," said Vaddy, sinking into his chair, " do. 
 I know all about it. It's no news to me. You don't 
 suppose I'm such a fool as that. What kind of awaken- 
 ings do you think I have ? Jolly ones ? Merry ones ? 
 Springing like a lark out of bed and all the rest of it ? 
 My God, no ! But what is one to do ? There's the 
 stuff and one drinks it. 
 
 " And it's probable," he continued, and Vaux 
 laughed when he told me this, " that I like it more 
 than others do, because it is such a change to me 
 after the Spartan life I led when I was younger. You, 
 Rendle, never had to rough it ; but I can assure you 
 I knew years when nothing but beer ever passed my 
 lips. I couldn't afford anything else. 
 
 " Anyhow," he said, " I have grown to be very 
 fond of it now, I admit. I like the after effects. I 
 like the mellow feeling. I like the benevolence that 
 creeps over me, the tolerance, the sympathetic under- 
 standing. Probably it's none of these things : the 
 benevolence is sentiment, the tolerance is blunted 
 perception, the sympathetic understanding is a con- 
 tented muzziness ; but at the time it all seems perfect 
 and oneself a god. Up there, you know. Above 
 all the littleness, the pettiness, the squalor of life. 
 
 " That's why one drinks, especially when one has 
 no one at home to return to. Not that I'm unhappy 
 because I'm alone ; don't think that. Loneliness 
 suits me part of the day ; after that I want society, 
 and the society I have fallen among is composed of 
 men who put it away like blazes." 
 
 '* That's all right," said Vaux. " Let them. And 
 perhaps they can stand it better than you. We're 
 all different. But the thing is, don't let yourself 
 be dragged down by it. Don't lose your self-respect." 
 
 " I hope I haven't done that," said Vaddy. • 
 
 " No, I'm sure you haven't. But you've thrown 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 185 
 
 up a sponge or two, haven't you ? You are not using 
 your, head as you ought. You're only fifty. You're 
 not using your personality as you ought. You're 
 sacrificing everything to club talk, club cards and 
 club drink." 
 
 " I believe you're right," said Vaddy. '* But I 
 can't stand another niinute of this unless you give 
 me something to buck me up." 
 
 Sir Rendle rang the bell again. He had arranged 
 With his butler not to answer it before. 
 
 " That's better," said Vaddy, as he drained the 
 glass. " By George, if you knew how I wanted that ! 
 Now I shall be all right." 
 
 " Yes," said Vaux, " but that isn't the way. I 
 want you — all your real friends want you — to take 
 up some work again, something that will interest 
 you so much that you will want to keep your brain 
 keen and your health sound." 
 
 " Too late," said Vaddy. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Vaux. " You're gloomy 
 about yourself now because you've been overdoing 
 it with late nights and mixing things. Give yourself 
 a chance to rally ; go out of London for a bit and take 
 some exercise. I'm going to Hunstanton next week to 
 play golf. Come too. After a fortnight of that you'll 
 be as fit as a fiddle and ready for anything. But now 
 we'll have lunch." 
 
 Vaddy, Rendle told me, was very silent at lunch 
 and very temperate. He was occupied with his 
 own thoughts, as his host had hoped he would be. 
 And as Lady Vaux was not present — they were quite 
 alone — it did not matter. 
 
 The only thing that cheered him up was when 
 Vaux talked about Vaddy's tour with a pupil years 
 before. Where did he take the boy? he asked. 
 
 Vaddy gave the route. 
 
186 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 "Was it fun?" 
 
 " Yes. But we didn't do the best things ; I can 
 see that now. We never went to Burmah, for example. 
 And we ought to have allowed time for going up-country 
 in China — to Canton, at any rate. Just messing 
 about at Hong-Kong and Shanghai, which are hardly 
 more Chinese than San Francisco, was absurd." 
 
 When lunch was over and they had their cigars, 
 Vaux returned to the theme. 
 
 " Would you care to travel again ? " he asked. 
 
 " Too late," said Vaddy. " I couldn't go alone, 
 and no one would entrust a boy to me now. I've done 
 for myself there." 
 
 " I don't agree," said Vaux. " As a matter of fact 
 I know some one who has a boy of seventeen for 
 whom he wishes a year's travel and who would be 
 delighted if you would take him." 
 
 " If I would ? " said Vaddy, lighting up. But 
 immediately he darkened again. " No, too late, too 
 late," he said. " Directly he heard about me he would 
 withdraw." 
 
 " But he has heard about you," said Vaux. " He 
 knows it all and he wants you to take the boy in your 
 charge." 
 
 " Who on earth is it ? " Vaddy asked in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Asa matter of fact it's myself," said Vaux. " I 
 invited you here to-day to ask you to do me the great 
 kindness of travelling for a year with my boy." 
 
 Vaddy was overcome. 
 
 " You want me," he said at last, " to take charge 
 of your son ? Knowing all about me as you do, you 
 would still entrust him to me ? But you can't mean 
 it." 
 
 " Yes, I do," said Vaux. " I mean it absolutely. 
 I have thought about it for a long time." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 187 
 
 " I see," said Vaddy. " It's a trick. The result 
 of a conspiracy of kindness. But I won't let you 
 run such risks. I might go from bad to worse, what 
 then ? " 
 
 " But you won't," said Vaux. " Anyway, I am 
 prepared to take the chance. There is no one in the 
 World whom I could trust, as I trust you, as a com- 
 panion for him, wise and understanding and gentle." 
 
 " Wise ?'" exclaimed Vaddy. " My God ! Wise?" 
 
 " Yes, wise for others, and, with a responsibility such 
 as this, wise for yourself. Will you do it for me ? 
 I want you to take him about the world just where 
 you think he ought to go, and train his mind and his 
 observation. For a year, say. You did it before 
 and you know the ropes. Will you do this for me ? " 
 
 " Only if you assure me that you ask it with your 
 eyes wide open." 
 
 " Wide open. Alive to every risk. Yes," said 
 Vaux. 
 
 *' I'll do it," said Vaddy. " And you shan't repent 
 it." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 IN WHICH A TRAVELLER IS BAFFLED 
 
 I NEVER saw Giles so happily and innocently 
 pleased as when I told him about The Thorold 
 Arms. 
 
 " That's what I call a present worth havin'," he 
 said. " I wish I'd thought of it. I've never given 
 Belle's children anything that I can remember. Shock- 
 in'. I'll run down and see 'em one day. It's shame- 
 ful how London gets hold of you and keeps you from 
 doin' the right things by your relations. Now that 
 her husband's dead I don't mind goin'. I never 
 liked the feller." 
 
 The next time I was at Belle's I heard about Giles's 
 visit ; but first I ought to say something about the 
 Historic Customer. For in spite of what I had called 
 a most unlikely occurrence, a bona fide traveller did 
 actually arrive at the inn. 
 
 It was Bish who discovered him. And as it was on 
 the morning of the races, and they were always warned 
 to be especially careful at race times, he was terrified. 
 
 He had been wandering in the wood in his usual 
 absent-minded way when he heard a noise that sounded 
 like knocking. Then there were shouts of " Hullo, 
 hullo ! Open the door ! Open the door ! " 
 
 Creeping towards The Thorold Arms, he saw a man 
 outside, hammering with his fist. He was a tall man 
 with a big beard, black spectacles and a slouch hat> 
 and he had a heavy stick. 
 
 188 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 189 
 
 Bish ran to the house for help, shaking with fright. 
 
 Avril was sewing in the garden. ' ' Goldie, do come ! ' ' 
 he gasped. " There's a man trying to get into The 
 Thorold Arms." 
 
 " Where's Cardie ? " said Avril. " He must come 
 too. I wish Mother wasn't away. Go and find him." 
 
 Noel was soon found — he was washing Binks in 
 one of the loose boxes. Never was a dog so pleased 
 with an interruption. 
 
 When they reached the wood the stranger was 
 still there ; but he was sitting on the steps leaning 
 against the wall, smoking a big pipe. 
 
 He looked up and growled. " Which of you is 
 de landlord ? " he asked in a gruff foreign voice. 
 
 The children looked at each other blankly. " The 
 landlord ? " Noel repeated. 
 
 " Yes, de landlord of dis inn." The man pointed 
 to the sign-board. " The Thorold Arms," he said : 
 " doesn't that mean it's an inn ? " 
 
 " Ye-e-es, in a way," said Noel. 
 
 " What do you mean, ' in a way ' ? " the man 
 asked. " An inn is either an inn or is nod an inn. If 
 this is nod an inn you have no right to put up a sign- 
 board and deceive beeble, especially when they 
 have been a long dime on de road and are dired and 
 hungry. Is id an inn ? " he demanded sharply. 
 
 "Yes," said Avril, "it is." She couldn't bear, 
 she said afterwards, to think that the first time a 
 traveller came to The Thorold Arms its innishness 
 should be denied. 
 
 But she was aghast when he said, " Very well then, 
 I want some dinner and a bed." 
 
 Avril looked at Noel in dismay. 
 
 " Oh, but — — " Noel began. " You see, just at the 
 moment the inn is closed." 
 
 " For repairs," Avril added, by a brilliant inspira- 
 
i 9 o GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 tion. And then, remembering a phrase she had seen 
 pasted across windows, she added, " Under entirely 
 new management." 
 
 Noel looked at her with admiration and alarm. 
 
 " Yes," he repeated, fascinated, " ' Under entirely 
 new management.' " 
 
 " What is wrong ? " the stranger inquired. 
 
 " The — the drains," said Avril, 
 
 " Drains — nothing," said the man, who was now 
 getting angry. " Inns gannot be glosed. It is gon- 
 trary to law. A landlord has got to provide rest and 
 refreshment for travellers or be loses his licence." 
 
 " But we haven't got a licence," said Noel, thinking 
 that this would settle the matter. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the man, " you geep an inn withoud a 
 licence ! Oh, you do, do you ? " He took out a 
 note-book and began to write. " Do you know dat is 
 a very serious matter. Do you know dat dere is a 
 very heavy fine and punishment for dat offence. 
 The bolice are very strict about it." 
 
 Avril seized Noel's hand, which trembled a little 
 too, and Bish looked at the stranger in awe. 
 
 " Very serious," the man went on, in his deep foreign 
 voice. Even without the black spectacles he would 
 have been a terrifying object. " Virst you revuse 
 vood and lodging to a bona vide traveller. What's 
 bona vide mean ? " he asked suddenly, of Valentine, 
 thrusting his beard into the poor little frightened 
 boy's face. 
 
 " I don't know," said the Bishop. 
 
 " Vorse and vorse," the man growled. " Here's 
 a bublican who doesn't know the meaning of bona vide." 
 
 " But I'm not a publican," said Bish, although he 
 was flattered to be called one. 
 
 " Yes you are," said the stranger. " You are 
 one of the owners of dis inn, are you not ? " 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 191 
 
 Bish admitted it. " That's my compartment," 
 he said. "No. 5, with the pink curtain ribbon." 
 
 " Very well, then," said the man. " Then you are a 
 bublican. You're a sinner too, because you denied it." 
 
 At this Bish broke down. He knew what was the 
 fate of sinners and he couldn't bear it. 
 
 " It's no use crying," said the man. " You're 
 a bublican and a sinner. And you're all sinners," 
 he went on, " because you are breaking the law, 
 virst revusing vood and lodging and then admitting 
 that you geep and inn withoiid a licence. I must 
 rebort about this to the bolice." 
 
 Avril, who had been comforting Bish, here drew 
 Noel aside and talked to him earnestly. 
 
 " If we open the inn for you," said Noel to the 
 stranger, " and make you as comfortable as we can 
 — in — in spite of the drains — " 
 
 "And without charging you anything," Avril 
 threw in — 
 
 " Will you forget all about what we have done 
 and haven't done, that is wrong, because really we 
 aren't publicans at all. This is a kind of game, you 
 know. An uncle of ours gave us a sleeping-car to 
 play with." 
 
 " Yes, but we should be only too glad if you would 
 use it as a real inn to-night," Avril added. 
 
 " Is the beer good ? " the man asked. 
 
 "We— we haven't any beer," said Avril. "I'm 
 very sorry, but we haven't any beer." 
 
 "We have ginger beer," said Bish. "Jolly fine 
 stuff, too." 
 
 " Is there a joint of roast beef, underdone, with 
 walnut pickles ? " the man asked. He pronounced 
 pickles biggies. 
 
 " If you'll give us half an hour," said Avril, we 11 
 get it all ready for you." 
 
192 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Very well," said the man. " I will redurn then. 
 The sheets must be well aired," he called back. 
 
 " Yes," said Avril. 
 
 " And don't forget the biggies." 
 
 " We'll do our best," said Avril. 
 
 And so he disappeared among the trees towards the 
 road. 
 
 They went back to the house in consternation and 
 put the case before the cook, and it was decided that 
 the man should be asked to eat in the housekeeper's 
 room. And the meal was got ready. 
 
 But he never came. 
 
 They waited and waited, but he never came. 
 
 The day's excitements were, however, not over. 
 First there was their mother's return from Reading, 
 where she had been with Jane and Eggles to see the 
 dentist, and of course they had to hear the whole 
 story. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor was grave. " Why didn't you fetch 
 Peters ? " she asked. 
 
 " We wanted to do it all, alone," said Noel. 
 
 " You were very wrong," she told them. " Promise 
 me always to get Peters if anything like this happens 
 again. That is what Peters is for." 
 
 And then, about an hour after their mother's return, 
 who should arrive, in a motor-car, with a wonderful 
 bag, but Uncle Giles ! 
 
 They had not seen him for years and they all looked 
 with awe at this tall elegant man, with field glasses 
 hanging over his shoulder, straight from the races, 
 where the wicked people, against whom they had to 
 guard the house, congregated twice every year. 
 
 But Uncle Giles did not look wicked; merely 
 very grand, and smiling his odd smile. 
 
 They did not dare to go into his room when he was 
 dressing or wait for him on the landing and make 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 193 
 
 him join in the Dinner Hymn. Not that they were 
 exactly afraid of him, but he wasn't quite that sort. 
 But at dinner itself something happened which estab- 
 lished him, if not precisely as a favourite, as a possible 
 playmate. For suddenly, turning to Bish, who was 
 sitting just opposite, and scowling terribly, Uncle 
 Giles said, in a deep foreign voice, " Where are dose 
 biggies ? " 
 
 A silence fell on the room. Then " Oh ! " cried 
 Avril, with a. despairing gasp, " it was Uncle Giles 
 all the time ! " 
 
 " Uncle Giles ! " exclaimed Noel. " How ripping 
 to be so clever ! " 
 
 "And then the whole story was told again and every 
 one laughed ; and a few days later Giles told it to 
 me, purring with pleasure and pride as he did so. 
 
 " I didn't know you had so much fun in you," 
 I said, when he had finished 
 
 He smiled his complacent smile. 
 
 " I'm very fond of a little bit of actin' now and 
 then," he said. " I didn't frighten them too much, 
 I hope. That little boy they call Bish seemed a bit 
 scared when I called him a sinner. But I slipped him. 
 a Bradbury to make up for it, before I left. They're 
 nice kids. I shall see them again." 
 
 13 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 IN WHICH WE MEET WITH SOLIDARITY 
 
 OF all Genevra's nephews and nieces to whom a 
 little money might be of real assistance, Cyril 
 Stanton, working away so gaily in the East 
 End, seemed to me the most deserving — now that 
 Alistair was out of it. But the looseness with which 
 he viewed his declaration of belief was an obstacle 
 that had to be considered. Genevra had the deepest 
 reverence for the Church, and a very sensitive con- 
 science, and Cyril would need some very strong sup- 
 port if he were to overcome her natural repugnance 
 to his cheerful disregard of the mystical element in 
 his office. Hence I hesitated. 
 
 While hesitating I thought suddenly of my uncle, 
 the Bishop of Dunchester. Of course ! I would put 
 the case to him. He should decide. 
 
 If the Bishop could accept Cyril as an ally and be 
 a little blind to his want of orthodoxy, why, then 
 Genevra, I was sure, would too ; for my uncle had 
 always been one of her heroes. 
 
 Bishops are of two varieties : the shrewd and 
 masterful, and the shrewd and saintly. My uncle 
 belonged to the second division. 
 
 I reached Dunchester at about half-past three, 
 and learning that the Bishop would not be back 
 till dinner time, I wandered about the quiet 
 close, with its bland Georgian facades, and in the 
 cathedral. 
 
 194 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 195 
 
 But the cathedral, for all its majesty, seemed 
 so dead, so remote from life. Some one was always 
 locking something up. My idea of a church is a place 
 to enter when you will and drift about in ; but at 
 Dunchester there were fixed times for such eccentric 
 proceedings, and watchful suspicious vergers every- 
 where. I could no doubt have got a key from Fer- 
 guson, my uncle's butler, and been made free of every 
 nook ; but I resented that idea. I wanted it to be 
 free to all. 
 
 I asked one of the less forbidding-looking vergers 
 why it was ever closed. 
 
 " It's open for services," he said. 
 
 " Yes. But one can't walk about then. These 
 cathedrals are national possessions. They are master- 
 pieces of architectural art as well as conventicles, 
 and people have the right to study them and loiter 
 in them." 
 
 Loiter was a bad word to have employed. 
 
 " That's just it," he said. " We don't hold with 
 loitering. You should see the damage the people do 
 too if they're not watched. They're not to be 
 trusted." 
 
 " But surely you must run the risk ? " I said. 
 " It's God's house. He can protect it." 
 
 This struck him as such a revolutionary idea that 
 he was dumb. 
 
 "Besides," I said, "the damage that twenty 
 persons might do would be as nothing if one poor 
 soul in need of comfort found it here." 
 
 " We don't look at it like that," he said ; and I 
 believed him. 
 
 Dunchester is a beautiful cathedral, but it is cold. 
 It spreads no arms. The Church, often a mother, 
 is no mother there. And this is odd, considering how 
 humane and understanding is my uncle the Bishop. 
 
196 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 All his thoughts are towards kindliness, sympathy, 
 solace. 
 
 It comes to this, I suspect, that vergers are stronger 
 than prelates. 
 
 " Is the rule against smoking in the bedrooms 
 still enforced ? " I asked Ferguson,- while I was pre- 
 paring for dinner. 
 
 " His Lordship would much prefer that you didn't," 
 said Ferguson. 
 
 " I'm over fifty," I reminded him. " What would 
 be the penalty ? " 
 
 " It would distress his Lordship," said Ferguson. 
 
 " Would it distress his Lordship," I inquired, " if 
 I had a whisky and soda ? I am very tired." 
 
 " It would distress his Lordship less if you allowed 
 me to bring you a glass of his special sherry," said 
 Ferguson ; and he departed on this Christian errand, 
 while I began to dress. 
 
 I found the Bishop, who was looking very old and 
 frail — he was over eighty — waiting for me in his 
 study. 
 
 " There is no hostess for you to-night," he ex- 
 plained. " Honora is away." 
 
 I was glad. Honora was a stately assertive lady, 
 a niece of the Bishop's late wife. 
 
 " She expressed her regret at missing you," my 
 uncle resumed, " and asked me particularly to get 
 your opinion of the new wall-paper and curtains in 
 the morning-room. She is spending a few days at 
 Lambeth Palace." 
 
 Dinner was now announced and a very excellent 
 episcopal meal it was. 
 
 " Now, my boy, tell me what you have been doing/' 
 said my uncle, when we were left alone with the 
 polished mahogany and the decanters. 
 
 I like being called my boy, even though I know 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 197 
 
 how far from boyhood I have strayed. No one calls 
 me a boy but this gentle white-haired old man. 
 
 I told him about Genevra's money and my adven- 
 tures in search of a fitting beneficiary. 
 
 He seemed to be deeply interested. 
 
 I went into each case in turn, beginning with 
 Alistair. 
 
 " It is questionable," he said, " if a man should 
 be an artist only ; but I can understand the fascin- 
 ation. And for mastery of such a difficult elusive 
 medium, life is so short." 
 
 " If we are to have the best pictures, the painter 
 must never relax," I said. 
 
 " No, I suppose not," he replied. " But the question 
 is, would not the second best do ? So many people 
 seem to prefer them. And then the artist would be 
 able to do other things as well. Saint Luke, who 
 was an artist, found time also to be an Evangelist. 
 
 " You say that young Muir refused to take any 
 money," he continued. " I like that. If he carries 
 that independence through life he will perhaps be 
 doing enough in the way of subsidiary tasks." 
 
 " There obviously must be portrait painters," I 
 said, indicating the row of bishops of Dunchester on 
 the walls of the room. " I see that your own picture 
 is now among them." 
 
 " Ah yes," he said. " But it is not too cheerful 
 to be one of an unending line. There are too many 
 reminders of mortality as it is. That is the worst of 
 living in a dynastic dwelling : you know you are 
 only a temporary occupant and another is waiting 
 to succeed you. A man who builds himself a new 
 house has no such feeling : he has had no predecessors. 
 Ordinary tenants of houses spend no time in thinking 
 of those other tenants who came before and are to 
 come after. But here it is different. And all my 
 
198 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 life I have lived in dynastic dwellings. First at 
 school, then at Oxford, then as a vicar, then as a 
 rector, then as a canon, then as a dean, and now in this 
 Palace here. I have been moving on continually 
 and every abode was a memento mori. But go on 
 with your candidates for annuities," he urged. 
 
 I told him about Phoebe. 
 
 " I seem to know her personally," he said. " Dun- 
 chester has many Phoebes. All cathedrals are sur- 
 rounded by them." 
 
 I told him about Donald, the actor. 
 
 " Yes, actors," he said. " They are a strange race. 
 King James the First called them rogues and vagabonds 
 and not altogether without reason. Rogues — I don't 
 know. But vagabonds certainly, using the word in 
 its true sense of wanderer. And yet there is a won- 
 derful fascination about the theatre. As a youth 
 I was mad to go on the stage myself. When I was at 
 Oxford I was taken behind the scenes at the Hay- 
 market to see Buckstone. That must have been in 
 1863 or thereabouts : a most amusing choleric fellow. 
 When Sir Squire Bancroft was at Dunchester to read 
 the ' Christmas Carol ' he stayed here, and we had a 
 long sitting together talking about* the stage. We 
 are the same age, he and I, and I wish I had half 
 his good looks. A good vintage year he calls ours 
 — 1841 — for in addition to ourselves, King Edward 
 VII was born in it, and 'Mr. Punch'." 
 
 " You would hardly call Sir Squire Bancroft a rogue 
 and vagabond ? " I said. 
 
 " Least of all men ! " he replied. 
 
 It was a natural transition from Donald to Cyril, 
 the curate, and I began on his case. 
 
 " Donald," I said, " has a brother who is a curate 
 — they illustrate the alliance of Church- and Stage 
 of which we so often hear. He is perhaps the most 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 199 
 
 interesting of all these young people to you," I said ; 
 and I rapidly sketched Cyril's position and waited 
 for his reply. 
 
 " Tell me about Giles," he said. " Poor Giles ! " 
 
 " Poor Giles ? " I had a mental picture of Giles 
 hearing the adjective ! Whatever else he may have 
 thought of himself it could never have been as an 
 object of pity. 
 
 " Why ' poor ' ? " I asked. 
 
 " I call all men poor who live only for themselves," 
 said the Bishop. " No matter what other riches 
 they may possess, they miss the true ones. Giles 
 should have married." 
 
 " Apropos of marriage," I said, " do you think 
 that all clergymen should marry ? " 
 
 " I do," said the Bishop. 
 
 This seemed to give me another opening. ' ' Genevra's 
 nephew the curate " I began. 
 
 " Had your wife no niece but Phoebe ? " he asked. 
 
 I told him about Winnie Musters. 
 
 " A trainer's wife ! " he exclaimed. " What worlds 
 within worlds there are ! And how you are to be 
 envied this curious search of yours, that takes you 
 into such odd avenues. Do you know, I have never 
 seen a horse-race ? But I can remember distinctly 
 the excitement at home when Voltigeur won the 
 Derby. That was in 1850, when I was a child of 
 nine. My father, although he was not a betting 
 man, won quite a lot of money in a sweepstake and 
 he gave us each five golden sovereigns. I have never 
 felt so rich since. 
 
 " And those little children of your niece's," he 
 continued, " do you think they go to church ? " 
 
 " They were perfectly mannered," I said. " Their 
 mother is delightful and they had a very superior 
 nurse." 
 
200 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " It is all so strange, so strange," he muttered. 
 " Worlds within worlds." 
 
 " The question of conduct without theology ? " I 
 began. 
 
 " Did you say that young Muir was married ? " 
 the Bishop asked. / 
 
 " No," I said. " Not yet. But he is going/ to 
 be. Directly, almost. I am, as a matter of fact, 
 giving her away." And I told him about Rose and 
 about her mother and their home at Rye. 
 
 " Cyril Stanton," I resumed. 
 
 " Rye ? " he repeated. " How well I remember 
 Rye ! I was staying at Winchelsea one long vacation 
 and we used to walk over to Rye every evening to 
 the George — I think it was — yes, the George — to 
 play billiards. It was a long walk to take for 
 a game of billiards. It is probably all different 
 now. 
 
 " I remember Camber Castle as it rose from the 
 mist," he said. " And the sheep. Tremendous sheep 
 they used to seem — we would stumble on them some- 
 times in the dark." He laughed. 
 
 " Am I to put the worst construction on that 
 stumbling ? " I asked. 
 
 "We were very young." he said. "And so this 
 lady and her daughter live at Rye. I should like to 
 see that country again, but it's too late. There was 
 an old fellow at Winchelsea," he hurried on, " who 
 had the most marvellous museum. He collected 
 everything. Among other things I remember he had 
 one of those mermaids that they show you at Aden. 
 A huge fish, horribly human. How odd that I should 
 recall that ! Do you know I don't believe I have 
 thought of that monstrous thing for nearly sixty 
 years : more than your whole lifetime ? How strange 
 the memory is ! I often wonder where it can store 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 201 
 
 all its wares. As old Jeremy Taylor says, "What 
 a piece of mystery is man ! ' 
 
 " Tell me," he said, after a pause, " about the 
 others." 
 
 I told him about Selwyn. 
 
 " I wonder," he said, " why he was called Selwyn. 
 Could it have been after the Bishop ? " 
 
 " He shows no signs of it," I replied. " But he 
 doesn't interest me very much. There is something 
 hard about him and very assertive, and I didn't 
 care for his attitude to his mother. The nephew 
 who really seemed to me worth helping is the 
 curate." 
 
 " Are there no more girls ? " the Bishop asked. 
 
 I told him about Nollie. 
 
 He was thoughtful. 
 
 " And this child," he inquired after a while, " you 
 say she is getting rid of her husband. No chance of 
 reconciliation ? " 
 
 " They don't seem to require each other," I said. 
 " They go their own way." 
 
 " It is all very strange," he remarked. " The 
 world is in an odd state. But I am old enough to know 
 that rhythm is a governing factor. There will be a 
 swing back. What England seems most in need of 
 is some powerful quickening spirit, some magnetic 
 idealist with a passionate faith in purity and truth. 
 We have become materialistic* sceptical, pleasure- 
 loving. Above all, too tolerant ana. cynical." He 
 sighed. 
 
 "Well, my boy," he resumed in brighter tones, 
 " you and I at any rate were happy in our marriages. 
 I miss my dear wife more every day." 
 
 He became pensive ; but I determined to make one 
 more effort for Cyril. 
 
 " This young East End curate "—I began brightly. 
 
202 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " We mustn't talk any more now," he said firmly, 
 looking at the clock. "It is later than I usually 
 am and to-morrow will be a heavy day. There is 
 an important meeting. Good night, my boy." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 IN WHICH A STRANGER ENTERS FROM 
 THE NEW WORLD 
 
 " t ■ A HERE'S a lady waiting to see you," said 
 
 I Rhoda, in her least human manner, on the 
 
 M. afternoon of my return from Dunchester. 
 
 Rhoda is never wholly human, but in certain moods 
 of disapproval she becomes an inhabitant of the 
 moon. She particularly objects to callers of her own 
 sex. 
 
 " Do I know her ? " I asked. 
 
 " I don't think so," she replied. 
 
 " Then why on earth did you let her in ? " 
 
 " I thought perhaps you would be vexed if I didn't," 
 said Rhoda, " after she gave her name." 
 
 " What is it ? " I asked. 
 
 " Miss Thorold," said Rhoda. 
 
 " Miss Thorold ? " I searched my memory for 
 Genevra's cousins. There were some distant male 
 Thorolds, but I had no personal knowledge of 
 them. 
 
 " What is she like ? " I asked. 
 
 " She sounded like an American," said Rhoda. 
 
 Well, I must see her, I supposed : Genevra would 
 have wished me to. 
 
 " Where is she ? " I asked. 
 
 " In the library," said Rhoda. " I thought it was 
 safer than the dining-room." 
 
 That was our prudent Rhoda through and through. 
 
 .203 
 
204 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 In the library there are only books, but in the dining- 
 room is the table silver. First editions are nothing to 
 her. 
 
 I advanced to the library and entered. 
 
 A pretty girl was looking out of the window. Medium 
 height, nice colour, very stylishly dressed. 
 
 " You are Mr. Cavanagh Beckett ? " she said 
 inquiringly, in a marked American voice, but a very 
 musical one 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 " Then will you please read this," she said, handing 
 me a letter. " It tells all about me. It was meant 
 for Mr. Lancelot Thorold, but he's gone abroad. 
 His housekeeper advised me to bring it on here." 
 
 Opening other people's letters is not much in my 
 line, and Heaven knew what kind of a secret con- 
 cerning Vaddy this might reveal. Vaddy and wild 
 oats had been by no means strangers to each other. 
 
 " Do you think I ought to read it ? " I asked. 
 
 " Sure," she said. " It's only to explain who I 
 am. Didn't Mr. Thorold have a brother named 
 Horace ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said. 
 
 " Well, the letter is from Horace's wife," she said. 
 " My mother." 
 
 " You are Horace's daughter ! " I exclaimed. " How 
 very interesting ! And what is your name ? " 
 
 " Jenny," she said. " I was named after my aunt " 
 (she called it ant) " Genevra." 
 
 " That was my wife," I said. " My dear girl, I 
 am delighted to see you. How I wish that your 
 aunt could have lived to know this. She died last 
 year — almost a year ago." 
 
 She looked genuinely shocked. " That's bad," 
 she said " I'm sorry — I truly am. She's the one I 
 wanted to meet most. So you're my uncle," she 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 205 
 
 continued. " Uncle what ? I shall have to call you 
 uncle, shan't I ? " 
 
 I told her that Cavanagh was my only name. 
 
 " Cavanagh ? " she said. " It's on the hefty side, 
 but I dare say I can manage it. K or C ? " 
 
 I told her. " Some of my nephews and nieces 
 call me Uncle Cav.," I added. " Perhaps you would, 
 too." 
 
 " I surely will," she said. " And now please read 
 what Momma says." 
 
 I opened the letter and read as follows : 
 
 Dear Mr. Thorold, — 
 
 The bearer of this is your niece Jenny, the 
 daughter of your brother Horace. Her father died 
 last year and we are visiting the old country. I 
 want Jenny to get to know it and to meet any of her 
 relations who want to meet her. I am not well 
 enough to go out myself. We are staying at the 
 Ritz — (" So they've got money, then," was, I fear, 
 the sordid thought that flashed through my mind 
 here) — and expect to be in London for about a month 
 before going on to Paris. 
 
 I am, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Lily Thorold. 
 
 " I'm sorry your mother's ill," I said. 
 
 " Poor Momma ! Yes, she's a good deal of an 
 invalid. Stomach trouble. She lies up most days." 
 
 I rang the bell and told Rhoda we would have 
 tea at once. 
 
 " Now," I said, when we were comfortable, " tell 
 me all about it. Tell me about your father. I never 
 knew him, but your Aunt Genevra told me a little. 
 He completely disappeared." 
 
2 o6 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 She was natural and easy, with all her country's 
 assurance. 
 
 " Poppa wouldn't ever write," she said, " or let 
 Momma. He had the feeling that so far as his family 
 was concerned he was dead. It was very wrong, but 
 we had to humour him. We both had to. He was a 
 very difficult proposition, but the sweetest thing on 
 earth. He died last year. He was a long time sick." 
 
 She told me everything that she knew. Her father 
 had had a hard time at first, in California, where he 
 went for his health. Gradually, however, he had 
 made good. He had recovered his strength and his 
 looks, with a new purposefulness added ; and a local 
 magnate had been glad to have him act as secretary, 
 an educated Oxford man being a rarity out there. 
 From secretary he had passed to higher positions 
 and then to partner, and when the magnate died 
 Horace became a magnate in his stead. He had then 
 moved east and had taken up other schemes, and 
 when he died last year he was a rich man. 
 
 There had been other children, but Jenny was the 
 only one to survive and she was just twenty. 
 
 Momma had long been bent on a visit to England. 
 They were at the Ritz, where they had gotten a 
 dandy suite, and it tickled them to death to find how 
 cheap everything was after New York. 
 
 " And what are you proposing to do with your- 
 self now you are here ? " I asked. 
 
 She smiled questioningly. She was really very 
 pretty. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I was rather banking on Uncle 
 Lancelot showing me the sights. But I don't know 
 what I'll do now he's quitted." 
 
 " Should I do instead ? " I asked. " I'm not a 
 real uncle, but I was the husband of your real aunt, 
 after whom you were named." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 207 
 
 " Would you ? " she said. " That would be bully. 
 I'd like nothing' so much. Oh," she added, " I was 
 forgetting — here's another letter for you." 
 
 " Why didn't you give it me with the first ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Momma told me not to." She smiled a little rue- 
 fully. " Momma told me not to give it unless you 
 — I mean Uncle Lancelot — were nice. She thought 
 perhaps you'd give me the frozen mit. But I think 
 you're real nice." 
 
 I opened the envelope and found not a letter but 
 her mother's marriage lines. A registrar's certificate, 
 recording the nuptials, strictly within the law although 
 not ecclesiastically blessed, of Horace Lingard Thorold, 
 aged twenty-three, and Lily Bates, aged twenty- 
 five, thirty and more years ago. 
 
 The fact that she had given her age as two years 
 more than Horace's struck me very forcibly, and I 
 was conscious of some little emotion, which I hope 
 I did not display, when I handed the envelope back. 
 I felt ashamed that this paper should be needed ; 
 that it should have to be shown to any of us — or 
 that the poor woman should think it necessary — 
 before we could behave decently. 
 
 " You will give your mother my kind regards," 
 I said, " and say that if she would like to see me I 
 will call." 
 
 " I don't think Momma is receiving much," said 
 Jenny. " Social duties are not her strong suit. If 
 you could name a good doctor she'd be obliged." 
 
 I took Jenny back to the Ritz in a taxi and arranged 
 to call for her the next morning ; and then I stopped 
 at Giles's in Half Moon Street and told him about 
 her and asked him if he would like to meet her. 
 
 " No, thanks," said Giles. " I hate 'em all. They 
 talk through their horrible noses." 
 
2 o8 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 " Her nose is a very charming one," I said. 
 
 " But she talks through it," he asserted. " You're 
 not denyin' that." 
 
 " Her voice is attractive," I said. 
 
 " You were always so lenient," was his reply. 
 " Watch out that they don't bite your ear. I know 
 these wives and daughters of long lost brothers. 
 They'll bleed you white." 
 
 " On the contrary," I said, " they're rolling. 
 They're staying at the Ritz." 
 
 " Rollin', are they ? " exclaimed Giles, with the 
 amiability that the mention of wealth always bred 
 in him. " Oh well, you're lucky. By the way," 
 he said, " what have you been doin' ? I rang you 
 up last evenin' and you were out of town." 
 
 I told him I had been to see Uncle James. 
 
 " And how is the old bird ? " he inquired. " He 
 must be gettin' on for a hundred. Good long-lived 
 stock, ours." 
 
 He smiled indulgently. He liked the thought of 
 remaining on earth when others were under it. But 
 that, as I was to discover, was not the only reason 
 for the complacency which the idea of the Beckett 
 longevity caused him. 
 
 " By the way," he said, as I rose to go — " Nollie's 
 got her divorce." 
 
 I left him surveying himself in the mirror with 
 every sign of approval. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN WHICH TERRA INCOGNITA BECOMES 
 KNOWN 
 
 FOR a girl coming from a country where the 
 flattery of her sex is a national industry, Jenny 
 was singularly objective. It is the tendency of 
 American women to be each the axis on which the world 
 revolves, but Jenny was unique in being far more 
 interested in what was going forward than in her own 
 personality, mentality or subliminal self. This was due 
 to her English blood, I suppose, for she was American 
 enough in most ways ; and as I watched her and 
 listened to her I marvelled again at the rapidity with 
 which Americans can be made. 
 
 Although she was staunchly loyal to her country, 
 the land of her forbears called to her, and her desire 
 for sight-seeing was almost morbid. The consequence 
 was that, in default of any other cicerone, I took her 
 to all the places to which we Londoners go only when 
 strangers are in our charge. And I am grateful to 
 her for enlarging my knowledge of our city. But for 
 Jenny I should never have seen the wax effigies in 
 Westminster Abbey nor have known that they were 
 cute ; I should never have visited the Temple courts 
 and found that they were cunning. But for her I 
 should never have gone again to the Tower, which I 
 last saw when I was ten, and which seems, save for a 
 contiguous bridge of noble design, not to have under- 
 gone any change since that distant day. She called 
 14 209 
 
2io GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 it a chunk of history. We made a tour of Wren's 
 churches ; we traced a portion of London Wall ; we 
 crossed London Bridge to find the Tabard Inn and 
 satisfy her interest — purely Platonic — in Chaucer. 
 We saw half-crowns being made at the Mint. We 
 penetrated the sanctuaries of the Charterhouse and 
 the Foundling Hospital. And everything that she 
 saw she approved of with ecstasy. " This little old 
 burg," she said, " is some museum, sure." 
 
 Climb the Monument I would not, but waited below 
 for ages until she reappeared, utterly unexhausted, 
 but full of bewilderment that there was no elevator, 
 as in the Woolworth Building in New York. This 
 absence of elevators constantly perplexed her ; and 
 she deplored also, and continually, our ice shortage 
 and the scarcity of sundaes. I am making no reference 
 to the day that comes betwixt the Saturday and Mon- 
 day, but to a saccharine refreshment popular in God's 
 own country and almost unknown in ours. 
 
 The oddest things delighted her. " Say, your buses 
 are fine. I've been all the way from Victoria Station 
 to Saint Albans and back on the front seat. There 
 are a million buses in London to every one in New 
 York. 
 
 " And your red letter-boxes. Aren't they just too 
 sweet for anything! Ours are green." I advised her 
 to enjoy them to the full, while she could, for when 
 she got to Paris she would find none at all and have 
 to confide her correspondence to furtive and obviously 
 untrustworthy receptacles secreted beneath tobaccon- 
 ists' windows. 
 
 Our policemen entranced her by their courtesy and 
 bewildered her by their apparent lack of any lethal 
 outfit. " Why don't they have clubs ? " she asked. 
 " Doesn't anybody ever have to be hit ? But aren't 
 they peaches too ? I spend half my time pretending 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 211 
 
 I don't know the way just to have them talk to me. 
 They behave to me as if the only cure for sore eyes 
 was an American girl." 
 
 " Tell me some of the differences between English 
 people and Americans that have struck you," I once 
 said. 
 
 She thought for a while. "Well, one thing I've 
 noticed," she said; " is that in England you talk more 
 about the folks you don't like, and in America we talk 
 more about those we do." 
 
 " That's all in your favour," I said. " What else ? " 
 
 " Well, in England," she said, " you seem to be 
 able to speak about your great men, the King and the 
 Premier, for instance, without tears." 
 
 " Perhaps that's in our favour," I said. 
 
 " I like your young men better than ours," she said : 
 " those I've had the chance to meet. They've got 
 more to say. I don't mean they talk more," she added 
 hastily. 
 
 We partook of a formidable pudding in Fleet Street 
 as a preparation to visiting Dr. Johnson's house in 
 Gough Square. Not that she was of literary tastes, 
 but she had a friend in Younkers who had made her 
 promise to go there. Indeed, her knowledge of the 
 Great Lexicographer was limited to the fact that he 
 was the guy who refused to swallow the too hot 
 mouthful. Under the same friend's instructions we 
 walked through the Temple to see the grave of 
 Goldsmith. " Was this the churchyard," she asked, 
 " where he wrote the Elegy ? " 
 
 Being in the City one afternoon — we had been eat- 
 ing turtle soup at Birch's — I did a desperate thing and 
 took Jenny to see Giles, whose office is quite close to 
 that honourable pastry-cook's. 
 
 It is true that Giles had expressed an unwillingness 
 to meet her, but I knew that in her presence he would 
 
212 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 be polite and he might quite easily be captured by her 
 charm and her directness and be really kind and 
 amusing. 
 
 Giles's firm rather prides itself on being old-fashioned 
 and Jenny's surprise was intense at the leisureliness 
 of the messenger who carried our names to high places, 
 and the faded furniture of the little ante-room where 
 we waited. 
 
 " Gee ! " she said. " That calendar's a month out. 
 And look at the clock — it's stopped." 
 
 Giles, who was enveloped in the grey mist of his 
 after-lunch cigar, received us with stately punctilious- 
 ness. 
 
 " Pleased to meet you, Mr. Beckett," said Jenny, 
 taking his hand. 
 
 " And how do you like London ? " Giles asked, 
 rather tamely, his eyes appraising her with, I could 
 see, no little satisfaction. 
 
 Jenny told him, with ease and frankness, what she 
 thought about it all. 
 
 " And how does this compare with Wall Street ? " 
 Giles asked her. 
 
 " This is about as much like Wall Street as those 
 house-boats at Hampton Court are like the Maure- 
 tania," she said. " But it's kind of soothing to be 
 here after all that noise and hustle — and it's a rest 
 not to hear so much talk about money. At home a 
 man tells the world about every dollar he makes. 
 Here you're almost ashamed of it. At any rate it's a 
 secret. No one, for example, would guess that any 
 money was ever made in this office." 
 
 She could not have paid Giles a more subtle com- 
 pliment. That is the end he has been trying for all 
 his lif e : to have commercial success without any visible 
 suggestion of vulgar competition or effort. He beamed. 
 
 " At home," Jenny went on, " every one is a busi- 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 213 
 
 ness man, and talks like it, after hours too ; but here 
 business men want to be taken for something else even 
 while they are working, and when they leave their 
 offices they might be dukes. They call the ball-game 
 our national pastime, but really our national pastime 
 is talking about dollars. I can see it now, but I never 
 thought of it till I'd been sea-sick three or four times 
 and knew I was out of the country. My, I was sick ; 
 but it was nothing to poor Momma ! " 
 
 " And how do you find your Uncle Cavanagh as a 
 guide, philosopher and friend ? " Giles asked. " A 
 bit on the slow side, I'm afraid." 
 
 " No, he's great," Jenny affirmed stoutly. " And 
 by the time I've done with him he'll begin to know 
 something about his own London. Do you know, he'd 
 never been in the crypt of Saint Paul's till this morn- 
 ing. Isn't that just scandalous ? " 
 
 With the most offensive hypocrisy Giles agreed with 
 her — Giles, who probably had never been even in St. 
 Paul's nave ! 
 
 " There's one place I'll bet he hasn't taken you to," 
 he said, " and that's the garden of the Bank of Eng- 
 land. You can see that only with influence. If you 
 like, we'll go now." 
 
 This was a conquest indeed, and I was so delighted 
 that I made an excuse and left them to carry out 
 the project alone, arranging to return in half an 
 hour. 
 
 " How did you find Giles ? " I asked her on our way 
 back to the Ritz. 
 
 " He's a peach," she said. " He reminded me of 
 Genesis." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 "Where it says that God saw that it was good. 
 Mr. Beckett looked at the Bank of England garden, 
 which is the cutest place to find in the middle of the 
 
214 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 City, as though he had created it. He's going to take 
 me to the theatre one night soon." 
 
 Giles was equally approving of Jenny. 
 
 " I'm sorry I inflicted her on you," I said, not with- 
 out malice. " I had forgotten for the moment how 
 you hate them and their horrible voices." 
 
 " She's a nice girl," he replied. " She's simple and 
 refined and you needn't apologize." 
 
 I felt that Giles had scored, and he looked as if he 
 knew it too. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 IN WHICH FESTIVITY IS MARRED 
 
 JENNY'S very natural desire to see some of her 
 cousins led me to arrange a party, and when I told 
 Giles that I was asking Nollie too, he expressed 
 his willingness to smile upon the gathering. He went 
 on to ask a question or two about the menu, for he 
 never had trusted me as a caterer. The older bro.her 
 again ! 
 
 " I'm not drinkin' champagne myself just now," he 
 volunteered; "but don't let that keep you from 
 havin' some. The others might like it. A little claret 
 for me, but get the chill taken off, won't you ? " 
 
 As it happened, the party was a failure — a result 
 due entirely to Giles's presence — or possibly to Nollie's. 
 But it is certain that to have both of them there 
 was a blunder. 
 
 If Giles had stayed away, Nollie could have sat in a 
 corner all the evening with Donald and no one would 
 have minded ; but the spectacle of that " damned 
 mummer," as Giles called him, monopolizing his young 
 friend enraged Giles to such an extent that he was 
 not fit company for any one. Nor would Nollie take 
 any hints. Most women — especially those in the pre- 
 chattel stage — have considerable stores of perversity 
 to draw upon, and Nollie drew great drafts on hers. 
 What serious hopes of having made an impression 
 by his good looks, his personal fascination, his bachelor- 
 hood, his wealth, or the assistance he had given her 
 
 215 
 
216 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 in obtaining her freedom, Giles might have enter- 
 tained, he lost that evening. It was twenty-five versus 
 fifty-five, and twenty-five was winning. Nollie, after 
 cutting herself off for so long from admiration and 
 flirtation, was enjoying, in Donald's hands, both to 
 the full. 
 
 If Giles had been absent this would not have mat- 
 tered : one wants one's guests to be amused. But 
 being there, and a piqued witness, he could not conceal 
 his feelings, and he is the kind of man who expects 
 others to pipe to his tune. When he is merry, the 
 world must laugh ; when he is depressed, there must 
 be a corresponding gloom : the result of a lifetime 
 spent in having his own way. 
 
 Jenny, who might have helped, was so happy with 
 the Reverend Cyril, in another corner, that I had not 
 the heart to separate them and get her to make a 
 little fuss of the injured man. In short, the evening 
 was marred, or made, by the brothers Stanton. 
 
 Phoebe's sympathetic efforts were of no avail, for 
 she could bring no mischief to the attack. Giles has 
 no use for any woman who is without either audacity 
 or style, and Phoebe possesses only good works. 
 
 There remained the poet, whom I had placed next 
 to Jenny at dinner, on account of his interest in America, 
 but he naturally was worse than no one, for Giles 
 declined to slough the skin of the employer, as of 
 course he ought to have done, and put the youth at 
 his ease. Giles, in fact, was as difficult as he could 
 be, and had he been fifty years younger he would 
 have been soundly slapped and sent to bed. 
 
 When Jenny came round to see me the next morning 
 I asked for her views on her kith and kin. 
 
 " I didn't have any crush on Donald," she 
 said. " He was too fresh. But the sin-buster's a 
 peach." 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 217 
 
 By sin-buster, I gathered, she meant the Reverend 
 Cyril Stanton. 
 
 " Fancy those two being brothers ! " she exclaimed. 
 " Cyril saw me home," she went on, " and on Satur- 
 day he's taking me to the Zoo, and on Sunday I'm 
 going to have tea in his rooms." 
 
 " And how did you find Selwyn ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, Selwyn ! " she said. " Well, I guess I was a 
 disappointment. He kept on asking me about Ameri- 
 can poets that I'd never heard of. And it's so tiring 
 having to say no again and again. I wish people 
 wouldn't ask me if I'd read this and that. Every 
 one in England does. Wherever I go they say, ' Oh, 
 Miss Thorold, have you read so and so ? ' ' Gee ! I'm 
 not over here to read,' I say : ' I'm over here to look 
 around and enjoy myself.' 
 
 " All through the soup and the fish and the entree 
 your nephew was asking me about American poets. 
 Every kind of poet in the chipmunk magazines, but 
 chiefly Amy Lowell. His thirst for information about 
 Amy Lowell was something fierce. And I don't know 
 Amy Lowell from Eve. The only American poets I 
 know are Longfellow and Walt Mason. He'd never 
 heard of Walt, and when I mentioned Longfellow I 
 thought he'd die. I'm going to meet Cousin Alistair 
 after all," she went on. " Phoebe gave me his address 
 in Paris and I'm going to see his pictures. I love 
 pictures. I'm just crazy to get to the Louvre to see 
 ' Monna Lisa '. Gee, that smile ! And I've promised 
 to do all I can to be at his wedding in April. I long 
 to see an English wedding." 
 
 " I wish you could have paid a little more atten- 
 tion to Giles, my brother," I said. " He was rather 
 out in the cold." 
 
 " I did make an effort," she replied, " but all the 
 time I was talking to him he was looking at Mrs. Leth- 
 
2i8 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 bridge and that got my goat. A girl hates a man's 
 eyes to stray." 
 
 The next time I saw Giles I said I was afraid he 
 had been bored at the party, 
 
 " I hope I didn't show it," he replied. " The fact 
 is I had a head. I'd had a very tirin' afternoon. By 
 the way, how did that actor feller get there ? Why 
 isn't he appearin' somewhere ? " 
 
 I said that Donald was rehearsing a new play. 
 
 " I didn't like the feller," Giles said. " I didn't 
 care for the devil-dodger either. He was makin' some 
 rather heavy runnin' with the American girl. Odd 
 how women take to the cloth. I hope," he continued, 
 " that none of Genevra's money is goin' to either of 
 those brothers ? " 
 
 I said I thought not. 
 
 " Or to the poet ? " he asked. " I'm firin' him. 
 He's no good. From what my head clerk tells me, 
 he only came to us to make enough to get to America 
 with. Just think of it ! Usin' me as a means to cross 
 the Atlantic ! I should take it very hard if you were 
 to encourage him after behavin' to the firm of Beckett 
 and Frith like that ! " 
 
 I said that I shouldn't. As a matter of fact, I 
 thought that he ought to go into some business or 
 profession seriously and stay near his mother. But 
 he was headstrong and must learn his own lesson. 
 No doubt he would learn it in America, if his only 
 means of subsistence was free verse. 
 
 " By the way, what are you doin' with that money ? " 
 Giles asked. " Nothin'. And that's all you can do 
 with it. Nothin' — or worse. Money you give people 
 is their ruin, as I told you on the day I caught such 
 a cold at poor Genevra's funeral. It's no good to 
 'em except as a makeshift, and in ninety-nine cases 
 out of a hundred it's only given as a sop to your own 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 219 
 
 conscience, to flatter yourself and make you feel good. 
 
 " I'm not talkin'," he went on, " about the money 
 one gets from one's father. Inherited money. I don't 
 mean that." He smiled his pleased smile. " I'm 
 talkin' about what's called doles, grants, benefactions. 
 They're all wrong, because the people who get 'em 
 are wrong. They don't deserve 'em. They only get 
 'em because they've failed." 
 
 " Genevra thought differently," I said. And with 
 that I came away. 
 

 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 IN WHICH THE QUEST ENDS VERY 
 SUDDENLY 
 
 (INCE every event has its sequel, my poor little 
 k party could not escape, and at this moment Cyril 
 'Stanton is in Paris with Jenny and her mother, 
 as Jenny's fiance, and rumour is busy with the 
 names of Roland Murchison, the actor, and Mrs. 
 Lethbridge. It is a good match for Cyril, for Jenny's 
 dot will be considerable and incidentally it sets my 
 mind at ease regarding his claim on Genevra's 
 bounty. 
 
 What kind of a sin-buster's wife Jenny will make, 
 we shall see. That she will entertain the parish is 
 certain : and that is not nothing. As for Nollie, I 
 confess to being surprised : for I had never thought 
 she would come out into the open in that way, after 
 the views she had expressed to me. But one must 
 expect inconsistency. Every moment conditions are 
 different, and therefore we are ; every moment we 
 are older, and there is less of life to live, and 
 the thought can lead to odd impulses. So long as 
 love lasts I don't see why she should not be happy, 
 for Donald is amusing and comely. And they might 
 be the one exceptional couple. Miracles have 
 happened. 
 
 There is not much more to relate. In fact, just 
 one little incident. 
 Stories and life have as a rule so little to do with 
 
 220 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 221 
 
 one another that it is exciting suddenly to come to a 
 point where they meet. The novelist has to select 
 the mountain tops, so to speak ; whereas life is spent 
 almost wholly on the plain or in the valleys. His 
 peaks may be genuine enough, but their apparent 
 frequency gives them an air of falseness. 
 
 Anyway, I emerged from my club one afternoon 
 just in time to be cannoned into by a newspaper boy 
 in a condition of hectic and vociferous haste. For 
 once, his feverishness had nothing to do with the 
 activities of the Friend of Man. It was not a 
 racing result that the voice proclaimed, but a sen- 
 sational commercial collapse. And the intelligent 
 reader who has done me the honour to persevere with 
 this narrative from the beginning will probably guess 
 what. 
 
 If I had no suspicion myself it is because I have 
 not accustomed myself to think in terms of romance. 
 Indeed, so little fiction do I peruse that the odds are 
 heavy against my ever opening the present book should 
 it have been written by any one else. 
 
 The consequence was that I bought the paper merely 
 out of ordinary curiosity, untinged by foreboding ; 
 and the shock was therefore the greater when I found 
 that the defaulting concern was the City and Southern 
 Counties Insurance Company, in which all Genevra's 
 money for so long had been invested. 
 
 Such disasters are a commonplace of city life. The 
 only novel feature of this crash was that the managing 
 director had not fled to some land where there is 
 no extradition, but was remaining to face the 
 music. 
 
 My feelings were mixed. As my own income pro- 
 ceeded from different sources, I had none of the ordinary 
 personal panic that these failures bring with them ; 
 but I was conscious of a great disappointment for 
 
222 GENEVRA'S MONEY 
 
 Genevra's sake, in the breakdown of all her kindly 
 benefactory purposes. I also realized that my occupa- 
 tion was gone ; my almoning was over, and though, 
 it is true, this almoning had consisted almost wholly 
 in preparing to begin, in various fastidious hesitancies, 
 and in one or two frustrations, yet it was none the 
 less done, finished. 
 
 While I was dressing for dinner I was rung up. 
 It was, as I expected, Giles, and I could see his 
 superior omniscience lighting up his features as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Well ? " he said. 
 
 " Well," I replied. 
 
 " A pity you didn't sell out, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," I replied. 
 
 " What do you mean — suppose so ? " he asked 
 testily. " How can there be any doubt ? " 
 
 " Some misfortunes happen for the best," I said. 
 " Perhaps this is one." 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Giles. " I never heard such 
 rubbish. Money's money, and the loss of it is a 
 crime." 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 " Are you there ? " he asked sharply. 
 
 " Yes," I said. 
 
 " Then why don't you say something ? The tele- 
 phone service is difficult enough without us addin' 
 to it." 
 
 I apologized meekly. " I was thinking," I said. 
 
 " What are you goin* to do now after wastin' so 
 much time ? " he asked. 
 
 " I don't know," I said, " and I don't agree that 
 I have wasted any time. I have had a very amusing 
 year, which I never expected to have. And I've met 
 a lot of new people, which I had lost the knack of 
 doing. And several children. And, by the way," 
 
GENEVRA'S MONEY 223 
 
 I added, " you met the children too and liked 
 them." 
 
 " Well," he said. " What if I did ? What has all 
 this to do with the fact that the money's gone ? That's 
 the serious thing. Gone." 
 
 " It served a purpose," I replied. 
 
 THE END 
 
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